Almost perfect

Summer has finally arrived, and I mean really arrived. We're not talking "technically, but we still have stuff to finish up". We're in full-blown summer mode. The kids are in camp, I'm done with my job until September, life is almost perfect.

The school year ended with a series of bangs - like Fourth of July with the noise and the oohs and aahs, but smaller crowds.

My husband breezed through final exams with confidence, and I cruised through Shavuot and Field Day with grace and ease (cough, cough, sputter).

Our children, however, made us look like a couple of amateurs. They lit up their respective stages in their end-of-year programs like a pair of seasoned pros. My eldest nailed his piano recital. He tickled those ivories like a proverbial Prokofiev, a regular Rachmaninoff, a charming Chopin. He looked good and sounded phenomenal. He played two challenging solos and a beautiful, romantic duet with his school friend and carpool buddy.

His piano teacher was grinning proudly when all was said and done. And the oreos on our young friend's teeth couldn't dim her smile.

After the concert, we took a leisurely stroll through the Lincoln Park Zoo looking for Polar Bears. We never found them, but we did find three adorable cuddle-bears instead.

My big girl also finished the year with a show stopping performance at her ballet recital. Once again, I volunteered to be the backstage mom, and enjoyed unparalleled access to the stars of the stage:

my daughter and her adorable classmates who mugged,

smiled,
vogued, and hammed it up for the camera.

You should have seen what they did on stage.

Four cuter, sweeter, brighter, and more vivacious little dancers couldn't be found.

But here's the kicker: my diva wants to quit. For most of the year she's been telling me she's had enough and hates dancing, and wants to put it all behind her.

She can't possibly mean it, can she?

After the performance, we decided to go on a mini-adventure walking to a playground by the lake, a good two or three miles a way. The kids were up for some excitement, so we pulled out the stroller, smeared on the sunscreen, and donned the hats for sun protection.

We needn't have bothered.

About a mile into our walk it began to drizzle, but we were buoyed by the excitement of the dance behind us and the journey ahead. We ducked into a doorway, and waited for the rain to pass.

Five or six blocks from the lake we were caught in something more menacing: a nasty hail storm. We pressed ourselves into another doorway, but it provided little protection from the ice pellets pelting us. I sheltered my children the best I could and we waited for an eternity for the storm to pass.

A kind stranger saw us huddled in the doorway of the church across the street and came to our rescue with an umbrella. We took a potty break in her home, and headed home tired, battered and disappointed.

I felt horrible exposing my children to such frightening elements, but I'll be darned; for all of the complaining I heard on our walk home, they lit up with excitement describing the frightening scene in vivid detail to their daddy. To hear them tell it, it was the coolest thing they had ever experienced. They had survived a veritable monsoon-blizzard-hurricane rolled into one, on wits and bravery alone.

We survived it, all right. We survived a tough school year, a couple of rigorous performances, and much more. And finally, summer has arrived.

Sunshine, warmth, low expectations, and fun are the only things on our minds these days. We're squeezing every bit of enjoyment out of each day, going for walks, going to the mall, visiting playgrounds.

And me? Well, I'm on summer break, too. Everyday I drop the kiddos off at camp and then I grab my Skokie Sistah to walk off the winter insulation and the spring stress. We embrace the freedom that only happens on those warm, sunny days when the kids are in camp, school's out, and life is almost perfect.

Picture perfect

I am through with overambitious projects.

I made it through cooking a Shavuot dinner for fifty that was okay, but not great. The Tex-Mex theme was wonderful in theory, but not spectacular in practice. Nobody said anything negative to me, but neither would they. I just had the feeling that it was too different, exotic, or even weird for this particular crowd. I walked home that night in the pouring rain, exhausted, disappointed, and relieved it was over. The best thing, however, was that I got the itch to cook for dozens out of my system. It will be a long, long time before I take on that kind of challenge again.

But don't hold me to it.

On the other hand, my other overambitious endeavor was a spectacular success. Yesterday was field day at my elementary school. I planned a three-hour extravaganza of activities for my 400 girls, and most everyone went home happy. For once I could go home, not with a tepid sense of relief, but with a smile of satisfaction.

Field day is an American elementary school tradition. A few hours, half a day, or a full day are dedicated to fun and games. Field day is almost always planned by the physical education teacher, and is indubitably the bane of all teachers who are forced to trudge around in the hot sun keeping their kids from going completely bonkers. That's half the fun for us P.E. teachers.

My field day was a half-day affair consisting of 17 different events ranging from the traditional tug-of-war, sack races, three-legged races, egg and spoon relays, and bean tosses to some more unusual events like a chopstick and bean race, a relay race in matronly outfits, and a race to remove marbles with one's toes from a baby pool full of water. There were some cooperative games like a race to build a tower of painted cardboard boxes and a relay race where girls paired up to hold a tennis ball between two racquets while running around a cone.

We had scooter board races, hula hoops contests, jumping rope contests, beach ball volleyball, and a race to pop balloons by sitting on them. In addition, my principal brought a couple of moon bounces to give the girls an opportunity to literally bounce off the walls.

We finished off with frozen treats and a good old-fashioned water balloon toss for the seventh grade girls who set up and ran the event. Everyone went home wet, exhausted, and smiling. I couldn't ask for more. Even the weather was cooperative with a perfect, sunny 75 degrees smiling down on us all.

Yay me!

It helped, immeasurably, that expectations were really low. My girls had never had a field day, and had no idea what to expect. My principal was nervous enough to request I not ask parents to help, lest they witness pure chaos.

It felt so good to finish my first year on a high note. The girls cheered for me and sang my praises, and little third graders timidly asked, "are you coming back next year?" and smiled broadly when I said yes.

Now all that's left is to wrap up the semester. I get to clean up my equipment, order my new supplies for next year, and maybe sit through a meeting or two.

But then it's summer! I haven't looked so forward to summer break since I was a college kid anticipating a wild road trip. My kids will all be in camp, my husband will be working, and I will be relaxing, exercising, writing, sleeping, shopping, dreaming, swimming, reading, sunbathing, and absolutely, completely, and utterly refusing to stress out about ANYTHING.

My son enjoyed a tremendous taste of his own success this past week when he performed in his second piano recital. He looked so handsome in his blue button down shirt and khaki pants, and he played beautifully. We were all beaming at the end of the day, but none greater than my son.

I took the day off today to spend a little time with my kids before they start camp. We picked up a dear young friend from San Antonio who is one of our beloved babysitters and not-frequent-enough guests at our Shabbat table and dragged her along on what we billed as a "family adventure". We started off at the kid's favorite restaurant, and then headed straight downtown to the law school parking lot. We walked the Michigan Mile to Millennium Park, stopping to touch a stone from the Alamo cemented into the Tribune Tower as an homage to our home. Our adventure continued at the Target Family Pavilion at Millennium Park where my daughters made art projects, including works inspired by Alexander Calder. We then went to the play area where I was challenged to a hula hoop contest by a seven year old boy. I won.

Meanwhile, my son skulked in the corner, not wanting to waste his time at this "baby place". He didn't lose the frown when we took our friend to see the bean for her first time. The girls, however, where thrilled to give her the tour.

My son finally pulled out of his blue funk at the Crown Fountain. It's hard to stay miserable when you have the perfect troika of sun, water, and art. My children were soaked from splashing around the water, but we didn't care. The sun would dry out their attire in no time. Our friend got a kick out of the spitting faces of the fountains and the smiling faces of my kids who kept running back to her to show her how wet they were, before dashing back into the fray.

From there we debated whether to walk or take a trolley to Navy Pier. We ended up walking past Buckingham Fountain, along a couple of yacht clubs, over the Wacker bridge, to the river walk by Navy Pier. I tried desperately not to be a nervous wreck watching my toddler running on her chubby little legs precariously close to the waterfront. I occasionally called out, I don't want to jump in after you! But I needn't have been such a worry wart. She was surrounded by loved ones watching her like a hawk, including her big brother. We arrived at Navy Pier safely, and I treated the kids to some ice cream and myself to a coffee before heading off to our next adventure.

At this point we split up. The girls and I went up on the giant ferris wheel, while my son and our friend played miniature golf down below. The girls enjoyed the gentle, slow ride up into the cloudless blue sky to see the city spread out below us. My son loved playing putt-putt with his babysitter. Everyone had a huge smile on his or her face.

We topped off the adventure with a water taxi ride back to Michigan Avenue and our car. We dropped off our young friend, headed home, ate a quick and easy supper, and the kids went to bed without too much of a fight.

Our friend seemed to marvel at our scoffing at plans, schedules, or maps. We winged it from the moment we picked her up. It was a bit more spontaneity than she was used to, but for us it was a typical family adventure. How adventurous is a mapped out, minute-by-minute schedule? It was exhilarating and draining, but we survived it. More than that, we thoroughly, completely, and entirely enjoyed a wonderful day together.

If only I had remembered the camera...

Veggie wars

The temperatures finally climbed into the 80s and 90s. As I breathed a sigh of relief, the Chicago natives around me, and my husband along with them, began to whine about the heat and mugginess. We completely skipped spring, and went directly from the most miserable, bitter winter on record to Houston-like humidity.

But I'm not complaining.

If I were to complain, it would be about not having enough time to enjoy actual sunlight and balminess. The end of the school year isn't winding down to a gentle finish but careening out of control at breakneck speed. It's unbelievably stressful, and the thirty-year nail biting habit I broke almost a decade ago has returned as I try to juggle social obligations, work obligations, and self-imposed obligations in a short span of time.

But I'm not complaining.

I'm actually enjoying the insanity for once. Part of it is the nature of the commitments. Twice this week I was wined and dined at my husband's law firm's expense. First came the Adviser's Dinner for all of the summer associates and their advisers. Neither of my husband's advisers could make it but we went anyway. The event was a catered affair at the River East Art Center in downtown Chicago. The venue was a long, industrial low rise a few blocks from the lake filled with many art galleries and a large space for social gatherings.

In order to make it to this event, I had to carefully orchestrate a complex dance that day. As soon as I finished teaching, I had to pick up my children and my babysitter. En route, I phoned in a dinner order for all four, which I picked up on the way home. I left the babysitter to feed my kids while I quickly dressed myself and drove to meet my husband downtown. I parked by the law school and waited for my husband to arrive by taxi. We walked together to the event a few blocks away, arriving just on time.

The event was a meet and greet affair for the summer associates and their advisers, with an open bar and dinner. The dinner featured non-kosher cuisine high on presentation, and as one colleague of my husband put it, "low on volume". A salad consisting of stacked slices of cucumber, watermelon and feta cheese preceded the candelabras of gazpacho, summer carrot soup, and squash soups served in votive candle holders. The main course was a beautiful presentation of sea bass wrapped in banana leaves, a terrine of lamb and portobello mushrooms, and a vegetable pave of some sort. I say "of some sort" because I have no clue what a pave is.

My husband and I got a dish of roast, potatoes, and, much to my surprise as will become abundantly clear later, rapini wrapped in plastic wrap. Along side our hearty, but simple fare was a stack of silverware wrapped so enthusiastically in plastic, we were forced to wrestle with it for five minutes before we could eat. Due to my status as a nutritionally challenged individual, I ate my and my husband's rapini and potatoes, my husband ate our roast. We both more or less enjoyed the anemic strawberry shortcake that hardly rivaled the trays of fancy, whimsical desserts that delighted our non-kosher counterparts.

The following day I went through a similar routine, leaving work, picking up kids, the babysitter, and a phoned-in pizza, and dashing off to meet my husband, but not before overwhelming the poor 13 year-old with instructions to bathe the kids, supervise their clean-up, and do my neglected laundry (for additional payment, of course). This time we went to the JUF lawyer's division dinner. My husband's firm sponsored a table to hear the annual fundraising appeal, and a humorous, anecdotal speech by Bob Costas. This time, the dinner was kosher. A non-Jewish summer associate tagged along for some reason, and as dinner was being served he asked, "Am I going to get a plate of bacon sealed in plastic wrap?"

Fancy dinners aren't the only thing that's kept us running around like lunatics.

But I'm not complaining.

The events that have us going insane have been wonderful, meaningful, and even fun. Sunday was one such day. My daughter graduated from kindergarten with much fanfare and music. She had been treating us to previews of her performance all week at full volume.

I was surprised to see her singing so shyly, but she knew every word of every song.

We were beaming with pride. Her little sister enjoyed the music, but enjoyed the desserts more.

The graduation was followed by my son's piano lesson, and the final soccer games of the season.

My children played their hearts out, and my daughter even scored the last two goals of the game! She has come along tremendously, and was rightfully proud of herself that day.

Big brother also played his last game of the season.

And finished off the day with a barbecue at his coach's house. Both kids came home with small trophies and big smiles.

Normally, I derive my greatest pride from my children's accomplishments, but I must admit to one of own this week.

Every week, my Skokie Sistah and I take a class on keeping kosher with the Sephardic rabbi. We nod our heads, and jot our notes, and ask our questions, but rarely have we ever challenged the esteemed rabbi on Jewish law.

That changed a few weeks ago when the rabbi addressed the question of bugs in vegetables. According to the rabbis, eating a bug is a far greater sin than eating a piece of non-kosher meat; therefore, rabbis require strict cleaning and checking of vegetables, especially those that are highly likely to have a lot of bugs, or those where bugs can easily hide.

The Chicago Rabbinical Council has taken a more stringent view of the bug issue. To sum up their rulings, certain vegetables, like broccoli, cauliflower, brussel sprouts, and artichokes, are too buggy and too difficult to clean thoroughly. Therefore, in their eagerness to guard our souls, they have placed them on the "Not Recommended" list of foods, "Not Recommended" being their subtle way of saying forbidden.

As the rabbi read off the list, our jaws dropped lower and lower, and our blood boiled hotter and hotter. I looked in utter disbelief as this esteemed and seemingly rational man told me, a vegetarian and physical education instructor, that I could no longer eat fresh cruciferous vegetables (like the rapini I had just enjoyed the previous night). I was livid.

One look at my friend and the steam coming out of her ears, and I could tell she felt the same way. We both loudly protested at once. Obesity rates! Cancer! I sputtered. "It doesn't make any sense! Where in the Torah does it say I can't eat broccoli?!" Demanded my feisty friend. The rabbi had a mutiny on his hands.

I'm not sure how it got to this point, but my friend finally threw down the gauntlet, and offered a challenge to the rabbi, whose eyes had gone from confident and kindly, to slightly worried, if not fearing for his life. "I will bring you my cauliflower and broccoli!" She declared, jabbing her finger in the air to punctuate her point. "I will clean and check them like I always do, and I dare you," she demanded, "I dare you to find a single bug!"

And with that, the great veggie duel was proposed. I offered myself and my cauliflower as her second, and the rabbi called in for his own support. He immediately picked up his cell phone and called the CRC, and asked to speak to their "bug specialist", a rabbi well known for his in depth scholarship and knowledge of produce, and his keen eye for bugs.

The challenge was accepted, the time and date set for a rabbinical smack down. The housewives armed with their asparagus versus the rabbis with their Torah and light boxes.

The night before the event, I slept restlessly, dreaming of buggy broccoli.

But I'm not complaining.

This was a challenge greater than myself. The morning came, and I set to soaking, scrubbing, and searching my head of cauliflower like my life, and the lives of my obesity- and cancer-prone people depended on it. After 45 minutes I was satisfied, and I bagged the blemish-free produce and headed for my class. My friend arrived five minutes later with her broccoli. A crowd of almost a dozen men and women came, circling the table like a boxing ring, ready for a good fight, and they got it.

The great rabbi of the esteemed CRC began with his introductory statements, reminding us that eating one bug, just one bug, was committing five separate transgressions! He reiterated what our Sephardic rabbi had told us: some vegetables were just too hard to clean, therefore should only be purchased frozen from a reputable brand that has thoroughly washed, checked, and been granted kosher certification, for only $7 a bag.

I thrust my bag of florets into his hands, and dared him to find a bug. With all due respect, Rabbi, I've thoroughly cleaned and checked this cauliflower. You won't find bugs here. I said through the clenched teeth of a warrior.

He searched and searched for ten minutes while we argued back and forth.

"Frozen is almost as healthy as fresh." He peered in a bowl of cauliflower and soapy water.

It loses 50% of its nutritional value!

"Checking it like this takes too long!" He stared intently at my florets.

It's worth it to feed my family healthy foods.

"People are too busy, if we don't forbid them from eating fresh broccoli they'll just rinse it off and not check it thoroughly. They can't be trusted!" He checked the water at the bottom of the bowl.

I check it like this each and every time! I don't want people to not trust my kashrut because I eat fresh cauliflower!

He raised his eyebrow, and declared the cauliflower to be clean. A cheer rose from the small crowd.

In the end, not a single bug was found in my cauliflower or my friend's broccoli. The rabbi gave our vegetables his seal of approval. But, rabbi, we pressed, you have to change the website and explain to people that these vegetables are okay to eat if they're checked properly.

We pleaded our case, and provided our best arguments and our cleanest produce, and in the end, the rabbi agreed. "You're right." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'll speak to the committee and we'll see if we can change that policy."

With our veggies held high, we cheered our victory and celebrated over a Dunkin' Donuts iced latte, before rushing off to teach.

Shavuot is right around the corner. I spent five hours on Friday in the synagogue kitchen making salsa, enchiladas, and marinating chicken in cumin, chili powder and beer. I'll be there all day tomorrow baking and chopping some more as I prepare a meal for the congregation.

But I can't complain.

I volunteered to make this meal, and truthfully, it's a lot of fun. The rabbi may actually enjoy the fresh cauliflower salad for once.

En garde!