With a full week of school under our belts, we’re beginning to get our sea legs. The subject “we” is very much appropriate here, because despite the fact that only Zoe is attending school, it’s clearly the case that everyone in the family is affected by her newest milestone. There are changes in the morning routine, requiring a far-more efficient use of time than here-to-fore. There are papers to be signed, and car-pools to coordinate, and lunches to pack, and money to send, and, and, and. All of it, affecting our lives as much as (more than!?!) hers. And most, I must admit at this stage, are stressful changes. Most.

But there’s been one very pleasant surprise in all of this chaos. And, all of the pleasure is mine.

Each afternoon, just after two thirty, I head out the door. I drop Evan off at a neighbor’s house, and I drive to the school to pick Zoe and our neighbor’s other son up in the carpool lane. As I approach the school, cars are lined up around the block. I take one look at the line careening down the block and out of sight, and I smile. I smile because lying next to me in the seat is a book or a magazine — one destined to be my companion during the wait. It’s not a long wait. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes on a bad day. But a bad day in the carpool line is a good day, indeed. A few extra minutes in line is a few extra minutes in words and dreams and tears and shock and everything else bundled between the covers of a good read. A few moments to read, undisturbed, in silence, in the middle of the day. Nothing, nothing can beat that pleasant surprise.

It used to be, when I was nursing my children, I found a selfish indulgence in the ritual of providing food and love for my children. Sure, there was the time spent close and intimate with my child. Time spent snuggling and laughing and in awe at the wonder that was my child. But, Oh! The Reading! I devoured books while I was nursing. Devoured them, as if their intake was a crucial part of the extra nutrition required by the very task of nursing a child. A few minutes here, a few minutes there — each time my child paused his busy life of exploration to quietly drink in his love, I paused, too, to drink in a page or two or three of a book.

I certainly wasn’t expecting to re-discover that kind of personal joy in the sterility and mechanicalness of the suburban carpool line. No, not at all. But, I have. In the last week, there’s been the most recent issue of Brain, Child, devoured lovingly, article by article. And then, there were the last few pages of a clever, imaginative and surprising book of Faeries. Next week, Elephants, and then ugly Americans. After that? Who knows! It doesn’t matter, really. Representing a few moments of quiet, a few moments of serenity — right smack in the middle of the chaos that is the day — whatever text it is that sits next to me on the ride to the school occupies a sacred space. For, directly behind the mini-van with the mom droning on her cell phone and in front of the Volvo with its driver blankly enduring the interminable wait is a quiet little spot where words float from a page and get caught — every last delicious one of ‘em — by a most adoring and appreciative mom.
Yep, ten minutes, maybe fifteen on a “bad” day.

Welcome to Kindergarten, Zoe. I’m thrilled to be along for the ride.

I think, perhaps, it holds my fondest memories. Danny, the Champion of the World. Between its cover and its back, lies a charming story of a young boy and his father, suspended in a world of their own. Gypsy wagons, fire balloons, tickled — yes, tickled — trout, and drunken pheasants, this is the stuff of their magical existence. But, it is an unspoken, unmentioned thread woven throughout the story that binds it so close to my heart. That unspoken thread is of a very special bond between a father and his child.

I can remember devouring this book as a child. Of course the fantastic adventures drew me in, but it was the special kinship between father and child that kept me coming back, warming my heart and making me smile from within. The father’s playfulness, imagination, sense of honor, sense of right — was all too familiar to me. Unfolding in the pages before me was my relationship with my very own father.

I wonder if Zoe felt the same way as we read this book aloud over the past few weeks. I know she loved it. She asked for it almost every day. It was our story to read together. Day by day, the gypsy wagon warmed us, the fire balloon amazed us, the trout tickled us, and the pheasants doped us into delirium. Her, for the first time; me, all over again.

I wonder if Zoe saw her father in the story. I know I do. This time around I saw my relationship with my father, but I also saw my kids’ relationship with their father. The playfulness, imagination, sense of honor, sense of right — they’re so inherent in my husband as well. My kids? They’re lucky to have the father that they do.

Today, we finished the book. The closing words wrapped around me in an all-too-familiar hug:

What I’ve been trying so hard to tell you all along is simply that my father, without the slightest doubt, was the most marvelous and exciting father any boy ever had.

Gender doesn’t really matter here. Any boy. Any girl. It’s the father that’s marvelous and exciting, and the child that’s lucky enough to have him. That love, that bond inspired a beautiful book. It also inspired me — twice. Dad, Tim: what I’ve been trying so hard to tell you all along…

[Ms. Pea, if you read all of this — even the not-so-nice details — just remember: it tasted good!]

Mmmm. Coconut Cake.

A recent read featured a coconut cake so enticing it single-handedly whisked a character away to her knight in shining armor and brought this reader all the way back to her childhood. Memories of my grandmother serving the sweet concoction — every bit of it home-made and always with only fresh coconut — became, as I read, entangled with the grand cast of characters in the book.

Food has always been an evocative force in my life. The tastes and smells of particular foods hurl me involuntarily into another time and place. Even the preparation of certain foods — shelling peas into a deep pot, cutting biscuit dough with the rim of a glass — can whisk me back into my grandmother’s kitchen with me scarcely able to recognize my trip as a break from reality. All of my senses can be brought to life with just one bite or just one slice of the knife.

It was this heightened state of conscisousness, this pleasant trip, that I eagerly looked forward to when I decided to make a coconut cake for a special gathering of my book club this week. [The book’s author, Julia Glass, happens to be a dear friend of one our book club members. The author was in town for a reading, and graciously agreed to attend our book club, as she had done several years ago with her first book.] Surely the tasks of mixing and grating and pouring for this particular cake would bring on a far more intense experience than merely reading about it.

Intense, it was. Pleasurable? Not so much.

First, there was setting. I’d been up thirty six hours. Thirty six hours. (The reason for this is another story, and it will be forthcoming.) I was near comatose, ready for bed at last, and suddenly I realized I had to make this cake. Had to. I’d committed to doing so, and right then was the only time I had remaining to complete the bulk of the task.

Next, there was the coconut.

The instructions, in my mother’s hand, begin:

Strike a nail — or otherwise bore a hole — through the brown spot on the coconut and allow the milk to drain.

I should have been wary of any food recipe that required I get out a power tool.

The instructions continue:

Bake the drained coconut at a high temperature for as long as it takes for the coconut to crack. Break the coconut into small pieces with a hammer, removing the hard shell and the additional layer underneath. You’ll need a knife and a strong hand. And you will get cut.

I did not disappoint. Hands battered, I seriously began to reconsider my love for this particular food. But still, I persevered. After grating the coconut (Be careful not to grate your fingers!) and finding myself with an abysmally small pile of fresh coconut — all that work for so little reward — I repeated the process once again. My small little pile of coconut was declared “enough.”

Next, the cake. In all honesty, it was a piece of cake, the cake-baking portion of this task. A few moments at the mixer with a few basic ingredients — with one egg to spare! — and the cake batter was in the oven. In my sleep deprived state, the twenty-five minute wait was nearly torturous, but, in the end, each layer came out of the oven beautifully, and I declared my evening a success. The icing? Could wait until the next day. And surely, the icing would be, indeed, just icing on the cake. Sleep at last.

The next day, recharged with a good night’s sleep, I planned to tackle the icing in the afternoon while my children napped and rested. When the time came, I somehow forgot — both about the icing and an afternoon appointment which would, when I remembered it as my babysitter approached my driveway, consume the better part of the afternoon and leave me with a mere hour to make the icing and decorate the cake.

Boil three cups of sugar and a cup of water until thick — when a teaspoon of the mixture dropped into cold water “threads,” it is thick enough.

Threads? Threads? Oh dear God in heaven, what have I gotten myself into? Yeah, this looks like it’s threading.

Take two egg whites and --

TWO egg whites? TWO? Remember that “egg to spare”? That would be one egg to spare. ONE. Not two.

My dear friend from across the street rescued me with an egg. An egg well past its expiration date, but an egg, that, when cracked open, appeared to be perfectly fine nonetheless. It would do, dammit. [Sorry, Ms. Pea]

Add four chopped marshmallows to the egg whites.

I’d previously bought tons of marshmallows for a project that never actually happened and had intentionally planned on them when I’d made my grocery list for the cake. I opened the pantry door and reached for the marshmallows — that weren’t there.

Sweet memories of my grandmother were rapidly fading from my consciousness.

I did the only thing I could. I sent my husband to the grocery store to get marshmallows. The time? Twenty minutes before I had to be leaving.

Add the sugar mixture to the egg mixture. Beat until it forms the consistency of icing.

Two minutes, five minutes, ten minutes of beating later, I had the consistency of, well, not icing. This would take some improvising. As it was, the icing was far too runny to spread thickly on the cake, but it was just thick enough to provide a sticky layer upon which I could cast my emergency stash of (Nannie, please forgive me) prepared coconut. A nice layer of coconut would camouflage just about anything. It would have to do. I was nearing the end of this fiasco, and I dearly needed to be done with the nightmare.

Oh, but the nightmare was not done with me.

As I reached to one counter for a utensil with which to spread my runny icing, I heard a shuffle behind me. I knew in an instant what it meant. I slowly — the damage was already done — turned around with a sick feeling in my stomach. I surveyed the damage.

Things My Dog Has Eaten: One Layer of Coconut Cake. And A Nibble of Another.

My three layer cake had just become a two layer cake. And yes, the frosting was thick enough to hide the dog’s damage to the second layer. [Sorry, again, Ms. Pea.]

Without a minute to spare, I headed out the door, carrying a coconut cake that appeared to hiss at me in spite. Evocative, all right. I shall never wish to taste, see, smell or touch a piece of coconut cake again.

A piece of cake. This one gives the phrase a whole new meaning.

Packages are always a delightful presence at the door. Whether you’re expecting a parcel to be delivered, or what’s presenting itself at your door is a complete surprise, there’s something about a brown package that delights the soul. A package is like an unexpected kiss — a peck, if you will — surprising you into a moment of stillness and consideration, savoring the moment of delivery as much as what unfolds immediately following.

Yesterday was a particularly good day, then. Not once, but twice the mailman rapped on my door to announce the delivery of a bundle from the heavens of wired commerce. The first package teased my sense of smell and all the thoughts and memories inexorably tied therein. Coffee, that wonderful elixir of morning consciousness, promised adventures in taste and delight.

But it was the second package that swept me away for the rest of the day. Delivered several hours after the first, I held the package for a moment, and then let the kiss unfold. In it lay two books, one for me and one for my two children.

I picked up my book, fresh off the press and newly released, and pawed its cover. I thought about the first book from the author, its richness and beauty and achingly real characters, how it made me breathe and feel. I hesitated a moment. Would this one disappoint? Such expectations I held in my hand. I set it aside. I wasn’t ready.

Next, then, I picked up the book intended for my children. True to form, its cover beckoned with whimsical and fantastic images. I fell prey to its allure and opened the cover. Abracadabra!

Poems. Silly ones. Serious ones. Nonsense ones. Fantastic and far-fetched, real and tactile — they all leapt off page after page after page. Knitting witches, and blue donkeys, and trees that don’t know how to grow themselves right, and brown skin, and reading wolves: these were my companions for the afternoon. I found myself reading aloud, for that’s what poetry wants you to do — compels you to do — and delighting over the taste of the curious words tickling my tongue. I mourned the ten-year-old’s old age. I fell asleep with the wolf, sated with story. I drew pictures and sang songs and swam in words like brillig and frood. I ached in jealousy over the simplicity and complexity and completeness of every idea and emotion. Awestruck, I was, awash in the aftermath of that kiss. Each page, each poem was a new delight. For an hour or more, I lived alone in the joy of those poems.

And then I discovered the ecstasy of sharing them.

“Mom? Is quiet time over?” My daughter called from the bottom of the stairs. I didn’t even look at the clock. I was ready for quiet time to be over. I wanted to share my joy with her.

“Yes, Zoe. And look! I have something for you. Do you know what a poem is, Zoe?”

She looked at me, perplexed.

I started to explain. “A poem is…Well, you put words together. And, they may or may not make any sense. But they do. And they sing a song, but there’s not really any music — but there is music, it’s just the words making the music. And…” I stopped, defeated.

“Let me show you.”

I led her back to her room, climbed on to the bed with her, opened the book once again, and began to read aloud.

Go on. Open it.

Open it, indeed. A package of poetry. A kiss of words. Delivered to our doorstep, and delivering the two of us from everything else. It was hours before we returned.

What do you do when you have a thousand things to say, but no time to say it well? Hop on a meme, of course. One for which I was extra special tagged, I might add. Damn, once you allow it to happen, it really doesn’t feel all that icky. Isn’t that how really bad habits happen? I got me a meme habit, then.

1. Name five of your favorite books.

• The Bird Artist, by Howard Norman. I wrote about my passion for the book once upon a time. It might not be the most triumphant book ever written, but I’m so very thankful I read it.
• The Known World, by Edward P. Jones. Like Ms. Pea’s list, mine, too, is heavily weighted on recent reads. This one is no exception. Its exploration of moral ambiguities was riveting.
• James and the Giant Peach, and Danny, Champion of the World, both by Roald Dahl. If The Bird Artist re-kindled my love of books as an adult, these two books sparked the original fire. The man’s a genius.
• All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy. This one is remotely in the same category as The Bird Artist in terms of why I look fondly upon it. Additionally, the scenery is beautiful.
• Three Junes, by Julia Glass. First. Novel. First! Unbelievable.

2. What was the last book you bought (or brought home from the library)?

• Birth as an American Right of Passage, by Robbie Davis-Floyd. This one isn’t even a read for my Doula training. You want to hear that list?

3. What was the last book you read?

• I’ll spare you the doula reading (although I’d urge anyone to check them out). Outside of doula reading, I just read Kafka on the Shore, by Haruki Murakami. Ms Pea has a better policy on books she doesn’t like: she puts them down. Me? I read it and then say, “Well, I’m glad I read it in a nice-to-have-made-your-acquaintance kind of way.” I’ll be steering very, very clear of Murakami in the future. Not my cup of green tea.

4. List 5 books that have been particularly meaningful to you.

Wait?! Aren’t those my favorite books?! Ok, in addition to my favorites:

• The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down, by Anne Fadiman. A really interesting read about a cultural clash in a medical setting. This one touched me way before the events in my life that induced (Ha! The irony!) my medical skepticism took place.
• Thinking Woman’s Guide to a Better Birth, by Henci Goer. Absurdly provocative title aside, it really did make for some interesting, informative reading.
• Encounters with the Archdruid, by John McPhee. Hey, think a little about what part you play in this world.
• Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The language! And it’s a translation!
• Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. Hey, it was the only book assigned to me in High School that I actually read!

5. Name three books you’ve been dying to read but just haven’t gotten around to it.

• 1491: New Revelations of the Americas before Columbus, by Charles C. Mann. What can I say? It’s piqued my interest.
• Atonement, by Ian McEwan. It has come highly recommended by some highly regarded friends.
• The Quiet American, by Graham Greene. Because, well, I want to read it.

I always regret that I don’t remember the books that I read as well as I should. I enjoy them immensely, then put them on the shelf (or return them to the library), and then they fade away from my memory. Lost.

Another thing I’ve regretted — up until now — about my reading habits? I’m too often too lazy to look up words with which I’m unfamiliar, or whose meaning on which I hold a tenuous, at best, grip. But no more.

Tucked inside the last two books I’ve read? A piece of paper and a pen. Perfect for jotting down words I don’t know entirely, to be looked up later.

And, at the risk of uncovering my ignorance to all, I’m going to list those words here. No Longer Lost.

I hope you enjoy as much as I did.

Abjure
Bowdlerize
Elision
Frisson
Pollard
Chthonic
Vicissitude
Fecklessness
Putative
Blinkered
Crenellations
Suppurated
Prescience
Insouciant
Indolent
Moil
Quotidian
Inhere
Hillock
Tumulus
Parsimonious
Slake
Elegiac
Parturition
Attenuate
Diaspora
Propitiate
Simulacra
Miscible
Incipient
Cloyed
Noisome
Reliquary
Fallow
Invidious
Avidity
Predation
Blandishment
Voluble
Unctuous
Chary

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.Our first attempt, Charlotte’s Web, was met with a modicum of success. In fits and starts, we muddled through, introducing the concept of a “pictureless” book gently. This book, you see, kindly, but simply, illustrated a page every once in a while. We never completely finished it, actually, and it ended up serving merely as an introduction to the video. But, a fantastic introduction it was. She knew all of the characters from “reading” the book as they appeared on screen, and anticipated the coming events with excitement. Ultimately, though, her enthusiasm for the screen version trumped that of the written word.Our second attempt, Stewart Little, was a complete failure. It was probably more because her mother couldn’t stand the book. Her mother got a snappy little blog entry title out of the book, and she got little, if anything, out of it at all. The library due date simply couldn’t come soon enough.But on that return trip to the library, there it was. The coveted book I’d sought out from day one, when I first decided to try the “chapter book” reading with my daughter. Alas, with the summer movie season premiere of one of the author’s other books, this book had become a scarcity on the shelves as well. Somehow, we’d lucked out this time. Sitting there, slightly mis-shelved, was the juicy, tantalizing book I couldn’t wait to get my hands on: Roald Dahl’s James and the Giant Peach. I snapped it up quickly, and, in doing so, brought back a host of memories of scoring the best book at the library as a kid. God, this was going to be good.I knew we had a hit on our hands the moment we got home and cracked open the first pages. Chapter One. Chapter Two. Chapter Three. “More, Mommy! More!” Her eyes were bright. My heart was leaping, as much, if not more, for myself than for her. I’d recalled this book with fondness, but forgotten the wicked humor and the delicious characters in Dahl’s writing. With each chapter I read to her, I found myself as entranced as she was. I giggled one day as I caught myself reading to myself the chapters I’d missed the night her father put her to sleep. I didn’t want to miss a page!And the joy of reading this book aloud! My goodness! The voices! I laughed, once again, as I found voice after voice within me entertaining my daughter as well as myself. Who would’ve thunk it?(That I had my first opportunity to censor my daughter’s reading with this book is fine with me; the appearance of “ass” — not once, not twice, but three times — only solidifies my esteem for Dahl’s uncanny ability to appeal to a young audience. Positively tantalizing. Or, should I say, titillating?) True, there were some illustrations to help her along. But, I dare say, she didn’t need them. Each time I came to a stopping point, she’d always ask for more. I have to admit, I found myself resisting the urge to fulfill her request, and more than once I was utterly unable to resist at all.And so, we’ve zoomed through this book. It’s due at the library tomorrow, and we’ve one chapter to go. Sadly, that chapter will be read this afternoon. I’m sad to finish it up. I’m sad to see it end. Oh, I know there will be more. I plan on checking out Danny, Champion of the World tomorrow and hope to embark on another ride. This time, one with plump raisins and drunken pheasants, if my memory serves me correctly. At the very least, I’ll read it and enjoy it myself. I don’t buy books much these days. A luxury given up long ago. But I’ll be heading to the bookstore very soon to pick up a copy of this peach of a book. When Zoe wants to read it again, it will be on her bookshelf waiting for her. And when Evan’s ready for this adventure, it can be his, too. Don’t be fooled; I suspect I’ll help myself to a serving every once in a while, too. Delicious.

The other day, as I was walking up the park path, I spotted the most gorgeous blood-red mushrooms in a unique, billowy shape at the base of a tree. “Look at these mushrooms!” I exclaimed, genuinely excited. The mothers I was with shot me a look as if I’d asked them to eat their first born. In their lowest muttered voices they replied, “That’s how they get E-A-T-E-N.”I’d gotten a similar response when I’d told them about one of my favorite spots. “It has a great creek, with a flat, rocky approach. The kids have a great time plunking rocks into it and wading in the shallows. If we’re lucky, they’ll find a salamander or two in the water.”"YOU LET THEM GET IN THE CREEK?”Yeah, and I let them dive head first off the bridge into unknown waters, cross the interstate blindfolded, and seek out rides with strangers on a daily basis.It’s not so fine, that line between respect for danger and a fear so paralyzing you’re unable to enjoy life. There’s room in there to tread. Have some fun. Enjoy some things that might be dangerous, if you’re not careful. But careful is what Moms are for. At least, that’s my opinion. Sorry, Mr. White, even when you’re a mouse, you needn’t fear dogs. Respect ‘em? Yes. But fear them? That can only serve to spoil an otherwise delightful trip down Fifth Avenue. Now as for cats, that’s an entirely different story.

The Connection, an NPR radio broadcast, is running a series this week entitled “The Book That Changed My Life.” In it, authors are discussing other authors’ works that had a profound influence on their own lives in some way. The influences are powerful, helping to re-shape each author-reader’s vision of their own work, their own lives, and the world in which they live. I’ve enjoyed listening to the series, and it’s made me think about books that have had an influence on my own life.Although there are many books on that list, I find myself coming back, again and again, to one particular book: Howard Norman’s The Bird Artist. And I smile when I think of how it’s changed my life. Its influence is not the earth-shattering effect that the series title would proclaim; I didn’t alter my life’s direction, re-define my values, or re-shape my self-image after reading it. Rather, its influence is subtle, but profound none-the-less.I read The Bird Artist in my early twenties. I was a recent graduate, spending my first year outside the protective environment of college or home. I picked up the book at the bookstore with little self-determination, its probable face-forward position on the display shelf having more influence on my decision to buy it than any other factor. That was to be the last ambivalent association I had with the book. As soon as I read the first page, I was entranced.It’s been well over ten years since I first read the book, and time has played its usual trick of depriving me of the details of the book. But time’s trick is not cruel, as I’m still left with the feelings the book evoked from me, as intense and fresh as if I were reading it today. I recall being mesmerized — by the story, the characters, the writing, the place. Everything about the book took me in, captivating me while I read it, and for years and years since. It’s precisely the spellbinding power of the book, for me, that makes me mark it as one that’s changed my life.I read The Bird Artist at a time when I’d fallen out of love with reading, and was wondering whether I’d ever loved it to begin with. I’d been through years of force-fed book selections, rarely giving the books more than a cursory skim. Books that were supposed to be “classics” or esteemed writing weighed me down; books that were characterized as light “beach reading” left me feeling cheap and dirty. For me, there was no passion associated with curling up with a good book; it was either a burden or a waste. The Bird Artist changed all of that for me.My captivation with The Bird Artist transformed into a compulsion, wanting more of the same. I returned to the bookstore and library, again and again, seeking another book that could pull me in as entirely as The Bird Artist had. Reading that book re-ignited, or perhaps truly started, a passion for reading that has brought hundreds of books into my life in the years since. In those hundreds of books, there are many books that did not match The Bird Artist’s allure. But there are many, many more that have matched it and gone beyond, allowing me to journey through worlds and minds both very different from and very similar to my own. The Bird Artist is the first book in that journey. My first love.I recently pulled The Bird Artist from my bookshelf to lend it to a family member. Before I did so, I considered cracking it open again for myself. But I hesitated, and eventually decided against it. My grandfather always warned against examining your history too closely. “You’ll be sure to find a skeleton in your closet,” he’d say. I feel similarly about re-reading this book. I’ve such a passionate bond with it — a profound attraction to it — I’d hate to re-read it and find its allure diminished. Instead, I’ll go right on remembering it for what it has meant to me for so many years: a book that I loved; a book that brought reading to my life; a book that changed my life.

It’s been a long time since I actually bought a book (budget woes, alas), and I generally don’t miss the treat, as the library serves me well, but today I was gifted the task of looking through my books for suggestions for summer reading for my cousin. Ah! What a treat! So, just because, here’s my summer reading list for my cousin (in no particular order):

West with the Night, Markham

Three Junes, Glass

All the Pretty Horses, McCarthy

Seabiscuit, Hillenbrand

Peace like a River, Enger

Shipping News, Proulx

Into Thin Air, Krakauer

The Bird Artist, Norman

A Walk in the Woods, Bryson

Middlesex, Eugenides

The Bone People, Hulme

Love in the Time of Cholera, Marquez

Island of Lost Maps, Harvey

The Risk Pool, Russo

In the Heart of the Sea, Philbrick

The Stone Diaries, Shields

Geek Love, Dunn

The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down, Fadiman

The English Patient, Ondatje

Enjoy.