Category: nonfiction

I have to question whether I am becoming my father.

Okay. To make that make sense I have to explain that on one occasion my father locked my mother-in-law out of his kitchen, because nothing else would stop her from helping. Dad was hosting a holiday dinner for… 20 people, maybe, including my family, my husband’s family, and several of his own sisters. As always with productions like this he had the whole thing planned like a military operation. And my utterly wonderful mother-in-law kept helping, often assuming that she knew what needed to be done, without asking. Which lead to plans and procedures being gummed up, and my father’s increasing exasperation. She was deaf to my father’s pleas that she go enjoy herself and (unspoken) not get in his goddamned way. Finally he blocked access to the kitchen to everyone but me (who was trained in his ways).

I am sympathetic to both parties: I was raised to believe that a good guest offers more than once to help (and I share some of my M-I-L’s “I help therefore I am” impulses).  On the other hand, if you’ve planned a big dinner down to the last gherkin, having to repeatedly stop your flow to explain what you need, or how what seems to be a great way to help is actually going to gum up the works, can be…exasperating.

Christmas dinner is looming. 11 people (plus a visiting dog), all beloved family. Because there are various dietary issues (two people are gluten-intolerant, three people have serious tree-nut allergies, one requires a lower-fat diet, one doesn’t eat red meat) and preferences (my own sainted husband doesn’t like chocolate or coconut)  I thought carefully about what the menu was going to be. And then my younger daughter attempted, in the nicest possible way, to drive a truck through my plans. Because she likes to cook (and her kitchen is tiny and not fun to work in), and because she wants to help. And I had to come down heavily on my impulse to snarl “back off!” I took a step back and let her propose things, knowing that several of her ideas would run up against the dietary needs of some of the other guests. It’s a negotiation, ongoing

And then I talked to my sister-in-law, who wanted to bring many things. We walked about what would fit with what I had planned, and settled on several of her favorite things to make. It is safe to say that no one will go home hungry (and as I pointed out, no one ever complains that there are too many different desserts at Christmas). I appreciate her willingness to advocate for herself and those she loves.

Look: no one wants to go to a meal where the only thing they can eat is crackers and peanut butter–the culinary equivalent of being wheelchair-bound and invited to a party in a non-accessible building. But there is nothing to say that you can’t have stairs and a ramp, or prime rib and tofu. (I dislike tofu, but will struggle it down if that’s the only thing on offer–but I don’t want anyone to feel like their only choice is to close their eyes and think of Julia Child.) And at some point I think it is permissible to say “I take everyone’s preferences and needs into account, but I AM HOSTING THIS DAMNED MEAL”. I  plan to have enough different foods that someone can say “no thanks” to one thing without fearing they will waste away from inanition.

But that’s just the preliminaries. The day comes (the house is prepped, presents will have been opened, and I will have scheduled oven-space and timing). I have learned that it is useful to have half a dozen satellite tasks I can assign–from “could you light the candles” to “the serving utensils are over there, can you put those out?” Things that are small enough that I can do them if I need to, but that can be done by someone else without gumming up the works in my not-overly large kitchen. Ways to let people help without slowing me down.

I will not lock anyone out (in fact, it’s not physically possible unless I get a 4×8 sheet of plywood and prop it across the doorway) but I might have to occasionally point out that space in the kitchen is tight and people need to be somewhere else. And I am making a public vow, right here, that I will hold on to my faith that help is kindly meant (and not a criticism) no matter how distracting it is, and I will appreciate that help.

But you can see why I think I’m becoming my father. Just a little.

For a couple of decades (since the early 1990s) we held an annual holiday open house. When we were still living in NYC this started out as a party for my husband’s recording studio–but me being me and Danny being the boss, I did almost all the cooking, made the invitations, etc–and it was left up to the guys at This Way Productions to buy the drinks, make up the invite list, and ferry all the mountains of food down to Soho where the studio was. When Danny and his partners closed down the studio we had gotten into the habit of a holiday party. In 2002, we had our last NYC-based party–and Danny flew out to San Francisco the next day to start his new job, with me and the girls following two weeks later when school let out. A year later, when December rolled around it seemed entirely natural to have the open house again: the Robins-Caccavo Annual Holiday Party became a thing we did. Since Danny and I comprise two very different parts of the creative world (he’s the Sound guy; I’m the Words person) and two different work communities, it was always fun to see those worlds collide. New friendships form. Vast quantities of food disappear.

Every year we’d have about 70 people showing up somewhere between 2pm and 7pm. Spread out through the house and over five hours this was manageable–and permitted me to deal with my social anxiety by scurrying around refilling bowls and checking ice levels when I couldn’t handle small talk for a few minutes. Those five hours meant a week of planning, buying, and cooking. We might have just ordered pizza, but where would be the fun in that? Every year I made a turkey, a ham, an immense pot of chili (and latterly, a somewhat smaller pot of vegetarian chili). Plus cookies, sweet breads, and occasionally a birthday cake (for myself, since my birthday often fell on or around the Sunday of the party). Bread and cheese, bagels and lox, chips and salsa… I did all this cooking mostly in the evenings, around child-care and work responsibilities. I look back it all now in awe, particularly since the party was usually 1-2 weeks after Thanksgiving, and 2-3 weeks before Christmas: the season of kitchen time. Still, there was something wonderful about seeing this vast mix of people we liked getting to know each other. And no one left hungry.

At the end of the day the turkey carcass went in a pot for stock; the ham bone in the freezer to be deployed later for pea soup. I would then wind up with my feet up while Danny bundled up the leftovers and did the lion’s share of the cleaning. I married a very good man. And round about November of the next year people would start asking “are you going to have your party again this year?” And the answer, until 2020, was always “of course.”

Covid changed a lot of things. We haven’t had a party since 2019 (oh, those days of innocence). Would we like to do it again? Yes. But I’m not sure how many people want to attend closely packed social events with people they don’t know well (I mean, I am pretty certain that everyone on our guest list would be fully vaccinated and smart enough to stay home if they were sick, but can I promise that?). We could invite fewer people, but part of the joy, to me, was inviting everyone we knew and seeing them interact. It’s the social scientist in me.

Then there’s the… well, to be frank, the age thing. I consider throwing the party and part of me notes, in the immortal words of Danny Glover, that I might be “too old for this shit.” I’m pretty active, and I take joy in getting things done, but… turkey, ham, chili, baking, cleaning, organizing… It’s a lot. Do I actually want to be doing all that?

At the moment the answer is still yes.

And some things might even make it better. For one thing, we now have a relatively huge back yard that is civilized and attractive, where people who are not comfortable gathering inside the house could hang out. This might mean it’s a better idea to have the party in July than in December–summer in San Francisco can be chilly and foggy, but it’s less of a gamble than relying on a December day to be sunny and not prohibitively cold.

The window for this year’s party has closed (you can’t just gin something like this up in a week). But maybe next year we can try again. Maybe I’d better start planning now.

Right now, I’m dreaming of my childhood. At an unholy hour tomorrow morning (6 hours from now, in fact) I will take a bus to Melbourne and … that’s where I will be on Monday, when you read this. I could finish packing, or I could tell you all about my childhood. I choose to finish packing. This is because my mother will give me a Look if I appear without clothes.

Why have I not finished everything at this hour on this day? Because I was very silly and fell over and damaged myself. Not badly, but sufficiently so that everything has been slow this week.

What will I be doing right now, on Monday US time? Some research at the State Library of Victoria. I have a list of books and every one I read is a tremendous help. Dinner will be with a group of old school friends I’ve not seen in forever.  Melbourne is the most European of Australian cities and I have the tough choice of eating well or eating very well. I will pack very loose clothes. My excuse will be that it’s summer.

Now you know where I’ll be and what I’m doing… I’d better go prepare.

Watch any medical drama (of which there are many–and I admit I’m a sucker for them) and you will doubtless come upon the one where the next of kin struggles to make a decision for the patient who cannot speak for their/him/herself. Should the patient be resucitated? Given a potentially lifesaving treatment despite their prior expressed disinterest in said treatment? Should the patient be taken off life support? High stakes, high drama.

But sometimes the stakes are high but the drama is a little less so.

About fifteen years ago my aunt made me her medical power of attorney. At that time she was a spry young thing of 85, still traveling with her husband, meeting weekly with her French conversation group, cooking in her beautiful small kitchen, reading voraciously, holding ferocious opinions about the world and politics (she would not have been pleased with the outcome of the most recent election). So when she asked, I said “of course.” My brother and I are her closest living relatives, I live nearer than he does–and it’s my aunt. Of course I would do anything she asked, because I adore her.

In the abstract I knew what the job entailed (after all, I have watched a lot of medical dramas). We had a discussion about what amount of medical interference she wanted should she become incapacitated. And then we went back to talking about all the other things in the world, as we always had done.

In the 15 years since then, her husband died after a long and miserable illness, and without that tether–being the organized one who took care of him and saw that everything–appointments, home-care attendants, bills and arrangements and repairs to their home–was organized, she has drifted into dementia, a little like a boat drifting slowly out to sea. The day-to-day business and organization of her medical care is handled by a trust. My responsibility is to visit, to love her… and when the time comes, to make decisions about just how much care is enough.

Last week, just after the election, I flew down to LA for an emergency visit. My aunt had a sudden cascade of health problems. Chest pains proved to be pneumonia, which was leapt on with the power of modern medicine (which is to say, antibiotics–totally permissible under the letter of the power of attorney). The next day her Nurse Practitioner got results for a blood test which said that my aunt’s potassium was low. The level wasn’t critically low yet, but decreasing potassium can be an end-of-life sign, because significantly low potassium can trigger cardiac arrest. I was told to come down from San Francisco ASAP; it was implied that I might be coming to say goodbye. Continue reading “A Small Responsibility”…

I’m late with everything this week. Part of this is because the year is always crazy busy when the last term of everything educational in Australia collides with Jewish holidays. This year is worse because most people are ignoring the Jewish side of things or make snide remarks about Jews. I’m lucky that so far it’s only been snide remarks and veiled bigotry. These remarks become time consuming. They may be harmless, but given the current environment they could also be hiding dangerous bigotry. it’s not entirely safe to be Jewish most places right now. I need to check those remarks out. It’s the sensible thing to do. Earlier this year they led me to a bunch of evidence that one of our major political parties is strongly antisemitic. I keep checking this out, because I really don’t want to believe it and this week I discovered again, that not only am I right, they’re putting forward candidates who don’t hide these views. My local elections (the equivalent of state and council combined) are this Saturday, and I have factored this into how I vote. The party have gone, over the last few years, from having candidates near or at the top of my ballot to being buried deep inside the “Please don’t elect this person” part of it.
Also, I tested my capacity to dance yesterday. I did better than I expected, but I’ve been paying for it ever since. I go back to folk dancing next year, all going well. My teacher wanted me to go back properly now, but there will be issues with joints if I do that. Also, I would be dancing on the Jewish anniversary of the day of the Nova massacre, in a class that has put Israeli folk dances on hold. That would be a lot to handle, I think.
Add all this to work stuff and health stuff and I’m in Red Queen month and running very hard to just keep up.

I hope these are sufficient reasons for being a day and a half late!

Note: This was published here about three years ago. I’m reposting it because we cannot underestimate the stakes in the election that is coming up. Not just the Presidential election, but everything up and down the ballot.

There are, I suppose, as many different stories about why and how a woman gets an abortion as there are women.

Here’s one: In the bad old days before Roe, my mother once drove a friend from New York City to a parking lot in New Jersey, where her friend got into a waiting car. Five hours later the car returned, her friend got out (sheet white and trembling, but okay), got in my mother’s car, and they drove back to the city. She went on with her life, with what residual emotion from the experience I don’t know; I do know my mother was deeply shaken by her small part in it.

And another: I remember several girls in college who got pregnant, before and after Roe. After Roe some things were the same: the secrecy, the collections taken up to help defray the cost, the sympathetic pampering when the girl returned to the dorm. But some things were very different: before Roe there was a well of secret knowledge–all I knew was that someone knew someone who knew a real doctor… and the rest of the process was shrouded in mystery, not as dire or scary as my mother’s friend’s experience, but sufficiently clandestine. After Roe, if memory serves, you had to cross the state line to reach a state where the procedure was legal. But there were official resources on campus which could explain and expedite the process. Still expensive, still vaguely clandestine, but without the gloss of criminality which made a bad situation terrifying.

And one more: mine. Continue reading “Three Stories”…