My oldest brother, aged 5, was playing with a friend when the friend declared, “Let’s be superheroes!” My brother, living as he did in a 1970s American home without a television, wasn’t sure.

“What’s a superhero?”

“It’s someone with a special power,” his friend responded.

“Oh,” said my brother after contemplation. “I’ll be Betty Crocker.”

By the time I could remember, there was a television in our home, and I don’t recall the power of Betty Crocker dominating my mother’s cooking. But then, despite my mother’s best intentions, I left home without ever learning how to cook. I survived college eating Rice-a-Roni and Life cereal. Somehow, despite my lack of culinary skills, I got incredibly lucky: I married a man who loves to cook.

We got by for a while on my husband’s weekend masterpieces, leftovers, and my mediocre Rice-a-Roni dishes. Then I got pregnant just as we were moving, so I quit my job. In our new home, I suddenly had a lot of time on my hands. A baby was coming, but what do I do in the mean time?

Swallowing my pride, I decided that my role as a wife and mother-to-be was to cook dinner – a “real” dinner – for my family. I collected my husband’s recipes and I started searching the web for cooking tips. And then I tried to cook.

With each meal, I dreaded the next 60 years of nightly cooking. I placed the dishes in front of my husband with an apology on my lips. My cooking was pretty bad. But my husband always thanked me and told me I was a great cook. I didn’t believe him. Sometimes he suggested salt or spices or herbs or “something in the soup other than leeks and potatoes.” But he said it with love, and I knew he made suggestions because, to him, cooking was a riddle to be solved.

My son joined our family. I was a bit distracted and I didn’t cook. My husband was home for a week and he may have cooked, but I honestly don’t know what we ate for the four weeks after he returned to work.

One afternoon, in the midst of baby cuddles with my newborn, I had a weird desire: I wanted to cook.

I found a recipe, and I cooked dinner. I don’t recall what I made, but I cooked, and the end result was satisfying. I knew it could use more salt or spices or herbs or something, but for that night, it was fine. I’d figure it out next time. I had cooked dinner for my husband, and I didn’t apologize for it either.

Somehow, in the months that followed, I found the riddle my husband had found: cooking is a problem to solve. For each problem, there is a solution: I just needed to learn the tools of the trade.

• It’s still bland: how much salt?
• The sauce is too thin: what did I forget?
• The sauce is too acidic: what can I add to balance the flavor?

Now it’s just a few more months down the line. Chicken piccatta, chicken parmesan, steak gorgonzola, fettuccini alfredo, risotto: I can make the dishes I want to eat. They aren’t fancy, but I like them. And, to be honest, home-made anything tastes better than a restaurant. I can make it how I like it. And if it’s not good, I’ll do it better next time.

My husband’s praise hasn’t stopped. Every night after dinner, he tells me I’m the best cook he knows. I tell him he’s the best cook I know. Regardless, I feel confident that when I make him a meal, I don’t need to put an apology on the table with it. It’s okay, and most days it’s pretty darn good.

I can be a “Betty Crocker” Wonder Woman for my husband, one dinner at a time.

Oh, and one other thing: my son is growing up in a home without a television. I hope he doesn’t mind the “Betty Crocker” variety of superhero for now.

To my husband, my culinary inspiration

True response for the July Write-Away contest at Scribbit

I’d thought I needed the motivation of a blog to write, respond to prompts, etc. But there are so many prompts out there, and they don’t inspire me so much. Much of what I want to write is intensely personal; how do I find it within me?

Recently, I decided to follow the example of other writing bloggers and read an inspiring writing book. That would be a good way to get a “jump start” into my writing, right?

I decided to start with a book most writers quote, Stephen King’s On Writing.

So I read it.

I hated it so much I couldn’t come back to this blog for a week. I couldn’t bring myself to even think about writing. Read my review on my book blog to read my thoughts on it.

How did I get the desire to come back to writing, to this site? Well, I’m still pretty disgusted, but I’m healing. The healing process continued as I read again.

I was reading Never Give In: The Best Winston Churchill’s Speeches. These are political speeches, written by the Nobel Prize in Literature winner, Sir Winston Churchill. And as I read these political speeches, I came across the most beautiful explanation of why I want to write. I posted it on this site.

Write on Wednesday asks: Do you ever feel the need to jump start your writing? What drains the energy from your “writing mind”? What do you do when your creative battery dies?

What drains the energy from my writing mind is poor writing. I’ve decided that when I need a jump start on my writing, it won’t be by reading other writing blogs. It won’t be reading the memoirs of “best-selling” authors. It will be by reading inspiring, well-written words of good writers. Quality, not quantity.

I’ll still read blogs; I’ll still read “best-sellers” (sometimes). But I won’t find the inspiration I need from those sources.

That leads me to the question, “Why do I have this writing blog, a collection of mediocrity?” I don’t know anymore. I may be back and write something here again. But it’s not really what I need.

Whether a man writes well or ill, has much to say or little, if he cares about writing at all, he will appreciate the pleasures of composition. To sit at one’s table on a sunny morning, with four clear hours of uninterruptible security, plenty of white paper, and a Squeezer pen – that is true happiness. The complete absorption of the mind upon an agreeable occupation – what more is there than that to desire? What does it matter what happens outside? … Never mind, for four hours, at any rate, we will withdraw ourselves from a common, ill-governed and disorderly world, and with the key of fancy unlock that cupboard where all the good things of the infinite are put away.

Sir Winston Churchill, from speech entitled “The Pen: Liberator of Man and of Nations” given 17 February 1908, Author’s Club, London (quoted in Never Give In: The Best of Winston Churchill’s Speeches, selected and edited by Winston S. Churchill, page 29-30)

When I was seven or eight years old, my mother gave me a cloth-and-porcelain doll she’d loved as a girl. I loved that doll, despite the arm falling off at the seam. My mother sewed a new arm on her.

My doll was my baby. I put her in a doll crib at the foot of my bed. I changed her clothes. I rocked her to “sleep.” She “napped.”

At some point, I moved on and left her in my closet. She’s still there somewhere.

Almost nine months ago, my firstborn son was born. I admit that I did try every single newborn outfit on him within the first days, just because he was the most adorable baby I’d ever seen, better than any doll. But I love him. I rocked him to sleep, day and night.

Now that he’s squirming and crawling, he’s less doll-like. But he’s perfect, and caring for him is my life every day, 24 hours a day. Even when I get a break, I am thinking about him, worrying about him, loving him. I’m constantly writing things to him and about him, in my mind.

At some point in my life, I’ll probably go back to work. I may write a book: fiction, nonfiction, who knows at this point. When you turn to the About the Author page, you’ll probably see my picture with a description like this:

Rebecca Reid is the proud mother of — and the wife of —. She loves her family with all her life.

It won’t be unusual, though, because everything in the book, fiction or nonfiction, will relate to motherhood, family relationships, and the love of a mother for her child. That is my line now, but it is also my imagined happy ending.

True response to Write on Wednesdays: What is Your Line?, Write Anything: About the Author page, and Sunday Scribblings: Endings.

It is so winter right now. And it’s so cold. And all the leaves are brown and the sky is gray, as usual. And I’m sick of it.

I wanted to go with him, I really did. But one thing led to another, as usual, and I was left behind in Gray Sky Chicago. Dred went to L.A. without me, I’m sure.

Maybe I should explain.

I am the most unlucky girl in the world. I mean, ever. And it’s partially my mother’s fault and partially my father’s fault.

Long story short: I was born on Friday the Thirteenth. You may think that’s not my mother’s fault, but she was induced, so yes, she chose my birthday. Then, it was raining on Sunday when we went home from the hospital, and my father wanted to keep me dry. So even though my mom tried to stop him, he opened the umbrella inside. I’d so rather have gotten wet.

I could tell you my unlucky sob story, with all the significant and insignificant details, like how I broke my leg while sleeping when I was 8 months old, how I broke every single plate in my mother’s china just by eating on it, how my folks died in a plane crash when I was twelve (yeah, how often does that happen?), how I went to live with my Wicked Step-Aunt, how my Wicked Step-Aunt kicked me out last year, how I lived with three different friends, and how they all turned out to be losers.

But I won’t; that’s just my luck. Bad things frequently happen to me. I’ll just try to explain why I didn’t go to L.A. with Dred.

I guess I’ll start at the beginning, as usual. Read the rest of this entry »

Right now I sit on the couch with my laptop on my lap. I’m downstairs, beside the playpen full of toys, in our living room. The playpen is empty, the baby that usually occupies it asleep upstairs for his morning nap.

I see the dusty hardwood floor that needs to be swept. I see the dishes in the sink that need to be loaded in to the dishwasher. I see the basket of clean clothes that need to be folded and carefully returned to the dresser.

I have no comfortable chair in a private office with “Do Not Disturb” the door. I have no quiet peaceful retreat on the porch in the early morning hours. I have nowhere beside the couch downstairs or the office chair at my lopsided desk upstairs in the loft.

Instead of doing my chores, I sit here on the couch, my feet on the coffee table, and face the empty page. The cursor blinks.

Response to Write on Wednesday question.

True response to Sunday Scribblings prompt: Guide

I grasped the robe. The volunteer secured the blindfold and nudged me forward.

I stepped tentatively in the dark. Then I heard the voice.

“Let go of the rope!”

I knew the voice: a teenager a few years older than me. He was supposed to make this harder. Another voice joined his.

“Come here! What’re you doing? Where do you think you’re going?”

I’d known they’d try to distract me, and yet I felt disoriented hearing them while blindfolded.

“Let go of the rope and come here!”

“This is where you want to be!”

I held on and stepped forward, ducking beneath a branch and nearly stumbling on a log.

Then I heard another voice: “Rose.”

Rose, my middle name. Only one person called me Rose: my bishop. My heart calmed.

“There’s another log; step more to the left.”

I felt it and stepped around it. The other voices still called, but I didn’t hear them.

“Don’t let go of the rope.”

I held on and walked forward. Then the rope led to two new ropes: one going one way, one the other.

“Choose the rope on the right.”

I followed the rope on the right.

Soon it was over. Taking off the blindfold, I turned to where the voice had been, but my bishop had gone to help the next person.

As my bishop was my guide on the obstacle course, so God provides me a guide on my daily course: His Holy Ghost, a quiet but sturdy, familiar voice amidst the chaos.

When I first heard the prompt “Guide” I tried to think of something more “secular,” but this experience and sentiment kept returning. It reinforces what I said in the About page to this website: my religion is an incredibly important part of my life, and as such, I can’t separate it from my writing.

True response to prompt from Writer’s Island: Unexpected

My family at a restaurant: a rarity. A waiter bribed me with a lollipop. My response was unexpected: I cried for a red one.

(Again, a story in 140 characters, including spaces)

True response to 3WW: Change, Dizzy, Key

We’d been awake since 4 repacking the bags and fitting them in the trunk. It was 9 a.m., and my friend had just arrived to drive us to the airport. My growing headache at the thought of the next 24 hours of travel was already starting to make me dizzy and the baby was calling for attention, but he was buckled in the car seat and we were almost ready to go.

I was impressed. We were physically ready but the flight was not going to leave for four hours yet. With one hour to drive to the airport, we were doing well. This was a change: a year earlier, pre-baby, we’d be rushing out the door at the last possible minute, arriving at the airport just barely in time to get through security.

“Okay,” I said to my husband. “Are we ready?”

He pushed the inside door lock and let the door swing shut.

“Yeah, just about.”

“Did you turn off the kitchen light?”

“I think I forgot,” he turned to re-enter the house. The door was locked. “Oops.”

He went to the trunk and started rummaging around, moving the carefully arranged duffle bags.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said a moment later, “as long as the house is locked, we’re okay. We can leave the light on. Let’s just get to the airport now.”

He kept searching in the trunk.

“I could come and turn it off for you later, if you want,” my friend offered.

“No, it’s not that,” he said, standing up again with a sheepish grin. “It’s my carry-on bag. It’s in the house with the key.”

Fictional response loosely based on [Fiction] Friday prompt: Tell about someone who is obsessed.

We moved next door to the Bismarks two weeks before I began my sophomore year. Mom and I had been through a painful year since Dad had left her, and we really felt a move was necessary: A new beginning without the painful place memories. I don’t know if I preferred the fact that Dad was now a state away or if I missed him too much. I was mad at him, but I still loved him, of course.

I knew something was odd about the neighbors from the beginning. On moving day, I was carrying a box of my mother’s books (one of the 15 boxes) out the car when I noticed the tinted windows. When I did a double take, I noticed the heavy blinds and curtains. I saw one blind flutter, but only slightly.

“What do you know about the neighbors?” I asked my mom when I entered the kitchen. I’d taken the box of books upstairs to her library, wishing with each step that we had purchased a ranch house like the neighbors’. Mom was trying, unsuccessfully, to open a box labeled “KITC MISC” with her fingernails. I tossed our car keys to her.

I watched as she slid the key through the tape and popped the box open. For some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about the odd, tinted windows.

“Ah ha!” she said proudly as she extricated an egg beater from the box and held it up to show me. “Finally!”

“So, the neighbors…” I started again.

“Oh, the realtor said the Bismarks are a little odd but good neighbors,” she said off handedly, pulling out more kitchen utensils. “And they have a little girl.” She smiled and nodded to me.

I’d spent nearly every afternoon freshman year watching five-year-old Lizzy Johnson; a good gig, but a bit exhausting by the end of the year.

“I think I saw her watching,” I said, nodding. I wasn’t sure I wanted another regular babysitting job. It was fine for a freshman, but for sophomore year I was hoping for more of a social life than five-year-old Lizzy Johnson.

“I’ll bake something for you to take over,” Mom said, unpacking the measuring spoons.

I rolled my eyes. My mom is a compulsive baker and the fact that we were surrounded by unpacked boxes in a still-partially furnished home didn’t stop her, it only encouraged her. She had to have her home-cooked goodness for the neighbors!

When Mom handed me a carefully covered plate of cookies a few days later, I was glad. I’d spent so much time inside unpacking and setting up the house that I was eager to get out. Besides, I didn’t know anyone, so I was on my own until school began.

The door only opened a crack when I knocked. Beverly Bismark peered out, just barely. There were bags under her bright green eyes, and her smile looked uncomfortable. I don’t think she was more than 35, but the wrinkles on her forehead and the graying hair made her look ten years older. I could barely see beyond her into the darkness of her home.

“I brought you these cookies,” I began. “We just moved in next door.”

She nodded and eyed the cookies.

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I’m afraid there may be traces of nuts.”

“Well, actually, they are chocolate chip,” I said, extending the plate toward her. I was glad my mom hadn’t made banana nut, which were my personal favorite.

“Well, you see, I have a little girl,” she said in a matter-of-fact way, as if that explained it. She motioned the plate away.

She didn’t expound further. I apologized that we hadn’t known her girl was allergic to nuts.

She looked surprised as she explained that no, Elsa wasn’t allergic as far as she knew, but they weren’t taking any chances until she was a bit older: “The longer you wait, the less risk of a nut allergy developing. Obviously, nut allergies can be quite serious. I’m not taking any chances with my little girl’s life.”

Turns out Elsa was 7. I’d heard of paranoid parents, but that was a bit much for me.

I finally met Elsa a few weeks later. The semester had started and I’d finally met some people. But when Mom told me she’d bragged to Mrs. Bismark about my babysitting abilities and Mrs. Bismark had mentioned babysitting that Saturday night, I was eager for the spending money.

Mom had given her the names and numbers of the Johnsons and about four other families I’d babysat in Springvale. Mrs. Bismark had called them all. Apparently, none of them revealed any of my babysitting mistakes, because Saturday night at 6, I was ringing the Bismark’s bell.

Even though I spent just a few minutes (okay, more like 15 minutes) with Beverly Bismark, I could tell she was a bit uptight. She had a fifteen-page printed booklet with information and emergency phone numbers about Elsa’s care. She walked me through the entire house showing me the fire extinguishers, fire blankets, and the first aid kits in each room (yes, each room).

I confess now, I didn’t read the booklet.

Mr. Bismark (I never did learn his first name), on the other hand, stood patiently by the front door, his wife’s coat in hand, waiting for her to finish her routine. I could sense he was eager to leave.

Elsa’s green eyes peered from behind the door to her bedroom, just as her mother had out of the front door. When she emerged completely, all elbows and stringy red hair, I sensed her reluctance to let me stay with her. Mrs. Bismark could hardly stand to leave us. With Elsa quietly avoiding me and Mrs. Bismark sturdily repeating “I trust you, I trust you,” I wasn’t sure what to expect from the evening.

When the Bismarks finally left, Beverly shouting out last minute instructions even as the car drove away, I turned to Elsa, who was watching me.

Here goes! I thought to myself.

I don’t know how to explain the rest of the evening. Elsa loosened up rather well, but I felt like I just kept having the most bizarre conversations. For example, we went to the kitchen to make Elsa’s dinner. A leftover organic pasta dish of some sort was labeled in the fridge. When I headed for the microwave, Elsa stopped me.

“No!” she nearly shouted. “You can’t microwave that!”

I must have looked confused. When I stopped and looked at her, she clarified.

“Obviously, you can’t microwave things for children,” she explained as if I knew nothing. “The waves in a microwave are very bad.”

I think I must have nodded. Regardless, I reheated the food on the stove.

Mrs. Bismark called the first time while we were eating dinner. She’d forgotten to tell me not to use the microwave and she wanted to make sure I’d seen it in the booklet. I assured her all was well, and encouraged her to enjoy their business dinner.

Elsa piled her food in her mouth, almost inhaling it. It was amazing to watch. I think she must have been eager to eat without her mother correcting her manners.

I asked her about school, since the year had just begun.

“My mom’s my teacher,” she replied with a full mouth. “I can’t go school.”

“Why?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t realized she was home schooled as well. Did she ever leave the tinted-window house?

“Well, for one, the playground is not safe. She thinks I’m going to fall and die.” Now Elsa glared at me, as if daring me to agree. “I won’t, you know. I don’t like heights. I’d stay on the ground.”

I nodded and assured her I knew that.

“Let’s go outside,” I suggested when she finished eating. The Bismarks had a long but shallow backyard. It was fenced. Surely there was nothing forbidden about that. She nodded and stood up.

“Just a minute,” she said. She rushed to her room, while I put the dishes in the sink. When she returned, she had on a hat and sunglasses. Apparently, her mother was concerned that she’d get sunburned. Even when I pointed out that the sun was in the process of setting, she wouldn’t take them off.

“You’re not a redhead; you don’t understand,” she said stubbornly. “I could get really sick if I get too much sun.”

We played catch for a while with an inflatable globe I found in Elsa’s room. It didn’t work too well, but at least I got Elsa laughing. When the sun had mostly gone down, Elsa insisted we return inside. (”Mosquitoes can make you really sick, you know.”)

Later, Elsa explained that she couldn’t take a bath, only a shower, because there was a chance she’d drown in a bath, even in just a few inches. She couldn’t read in her bedroom because the lights were bad and she’d go blind. Her lists of forbidden activities just grew longer. Mrs. Bismark called twice more to check in.

Eventually, Elsa was asleep. And at 9:30, the Bismarks returned home. I thanked them and tried to give Mrs. Bismark the minute-by-minute rundown of our evening that she wanted. She didn’t seem happy that we’d gone outside, but I assured her that Elsa had worn her hat and glasses. Finally, I escaped the Bismarks’ clutches.

I never babysat Elsa again. The next few times they called, I had other plans; I’d just gotten my driver’s license after all. And by the next spring, they had their house with the tinted windows up for sale. Mom told me that the Bismarks were divorcing.

I thought of my dad, who I was still mad at but who I missed so much. And I felt the deep ache in my heart when I thought of skinny little Elsa Bismark trying to explain to herself why she can’t see her parents together anymore.

Apparently, Mrs. Bismark’s obsession with keeping Elsa safe couldn’t stop pain and reality from entering Elsa’s life.

There is always a shadow of truth in fiction. Lately, I’ve found I’ve been “obsessed” with ways my eight-month-old could die: drown in the bathtub, choke on his dinner, fall down the stairs. This story is my reminder to lighten up! I can never completely protect him: here’s a deep thought from Finding Nemo.

Marlin: I promised I’d never let anything happen to him.
Dory: Hmm. That’s a funny thing to promise.
Marlin: What?
Dory: Well, you can’t never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him. Not much fun for little Harpo.