Banker Barbie Chronicles: Snippets Edition

Banker Barbie Chronicles: Snippets Edition

-- It's hard being a blonde.  My hair has been a dry tangle.  Because it's gray.  And I'm getting older.  Screaming red highlights cover the blonde today.  Lilly ruffled my hair and giggled.  She's never seen me as a redhead.

-- My girlfriend laughed at my desk.  I cook for her occasionally, because she works hard.  If we lived together, we'd be on TLC's My 600-pound Life, she says.  We laughed.  They'd have to call it Two Tons of Fun, I say.

I started a new diet program.  I lost 30 pounds last year, but I'm stuck.  Not stuck enough that I can't laugh at myself.  Diabetes sucks.

-- A client and his husband talked about their adopted son, and distills middle-class privilege into access.  Not straight, gay, black or white.  Access is socioeconomic, and is learned.  He's teaching his teenager how to check into a hotel, how to balance a checkbook, how to sit at a restaurant and use the right utensils.  Travel, education, art and literature.

His son is from rural Guatemala.

David Brooks wrote an opinion piece about socioeconomic access, transversing classes, and navigating an Italian deli, that was panned by critics because it seemed to miss the mark about elitism.  But he exposes a hidden truth.  Informal social codes exist in all classes to attract, embrace, and exclude.  We lived during a time that encouraged kids to rise above their upbringing.  Doing better than your parents was expected.  Maybe that's not so true today.

-- Edhfwgrg💁🏻‍♂️, Lilly typed while I put down the tablet to pick up her toys.

The Promise



A Christmas Funk has settled upon the land.  The Funk I imagine has a heavy bass line and lots of gospel harmonies.  But this Christmas funk is a little more personal, and it hit close to home while I was at the bank.  In hard times, it seems natural we focus upon our families and the things that bring us joy.  We simplify.  We edit.  But this year the tone is more political -- people are making statements, posturing, shifting their weight to prove their point.  It's curious to me.  It seems counterintuitive. 

     Growing up with my mom was not easy.  That's not to say my childhood was unhappy or abnormal.  Mom went to nursing school during the day.  She worked as a student nurse at night.  She had three children at home.  She paid for groceries with Food Stamps.  There were times she worried she couldn't make the rent.  She'd drive home groggy, full of coffee, in her tiny green Datsun, and run through her chemistry flashcards with me before I went to school. 

     "Sodium diiiiiii chloride," her professor's voice drawled from the cassette player.  His Southern accent made me giggle.  Was the man talking about bleach?  Did he mean chlorine?  "Sodiiiiuuuuum chloriiiide"  NaCl.  Salt.  "Man-gan-eeeese."  Mn.  "Eye-ron"  Iron.  Ferrous Sulfate.  Fe. 

     "Mom, how can you listen to this guy and not giggle?", I'd ask every time she put on the tape and drug out her flashcards.  My mom was working hard.  I learned early to be the comic relief.  It was my job to care for the house, clear the table for homework, ensure everyone had a shower, and a full tummy at night while Mom was working.  We could swim in the apartment complex pool, play tennis, monkey around on the playground.  But she set clear expectations about school, and housework. 

     She wanted more for her life.  For our life.  For me.  She was working hard to get it.  She took government assistance.  She wasn't proud of it.  And she made sure we all understood it would be our jobs, at some point, to be good citizens.  Good providers for our families.  Good friends.  Good people.  Caring husbands and wives.  Strong parents.  There were times the cupboards were bare.  I'd carefully empty the boxes, wash the cans, and place them back in the cupboard until we shopped again.  Psychologically, it made me feel like the cupboards were full.  My mom never mentioned it.  But there were days I didn't have anything to cook for dinner.  I'd call Grandma, in Arizona.  Not to complain, but to ask for directions.

     "Gramma, I have cottage cheese, milk, Jell-O, potatoes.  What do I make for dinner?"

     "Make potato salad.  Slice tomatoes and cucumbers.  Salt them.  Make the Jell-O.  Do you have bread and butter?"

     "Yep."

     "Put them out.  Do you have fruit?  Put it in the Jell-O."

     "Gramma, I have no meat."

     "No one will die.  You have cottage cheese and milk.  I love you."

     It wasn't until college that I learned Grandma Lillian was dead on.  Incomplete proteins found in plants can be combined to complete the amino acid chain.  They also can be combined with complete proteins in animal foods.  Macaroni and cheese.  Wheat bread with peanut butter.  Beans and rice. 

     In agrarian societies and in the Mediterranean, people learn to eat pretty dang well.  Naomi still asks for "the Syrian dinner": Pita, meatballs, spinach, boiled eggs.  Falafel.  Rice.  Hummus, Tahini, tzatziki sauce.  Greek garlic potatoes -- Skordalia.  Grandma talked about living on the farm, the Depression, food rationing during The Great Wars. 

     We made do with what we had.  Mom worked magic.  She thickened the juice in a can of peaches with tapioca, and still rolls a perfect pie crust.  Grandma could make a head of lettuce sing with olive oil, lemon juice and salt.  Mom made the best chicken and dumplings on the planet -- not the puffy Bisquick plops, but fat, savory, homemade noodles.  Grandma could fry a chicken like nobody's business on a wood-fired stove.  Her white bean soup was chunky, and full of ham.  She could feed the Navy. 
    
     We'd pick corn.  I can still find a perfect ear just by feeling it.  We'd pick strawberries.  We'd preserve.  We'd grow tomatoes.  We'd can.  We'd shell peas and snap beans while we sat on the front stoop.  We also gleaned the Dumpsters at night for imperfect shampoo samples, cast offs by a manufacturing plant in Largo. 

     A girlfriend ratted me out to her mom.  Her folks showed up with brown paper grocery bags, each one filled to the top.  And of the handful of times I've seen my mom cry, this was one I won't forget.  It dawned on me, finally.  We didn't have a lot.  In fact, we lived below the poverty level. 

     My mom taught me to sew.  To knit.  To embroider.  She taught me to paint and to draw.  She taught me to reason.  To be calm in a storm.  She encouraged scholarship.  She encouraged good housekeeping.  And one day in high school when I wasn't acceptable to the "in" crowd, she encouraged.  We didn't have enough, and there were lots of people who'd look at us to say we were "trash," but in our hearts we knew we were rich:  "It will be okay.  It always is.  I promise." 

     "Those people who are looking for labels, they will always look for labels.  They will look in your clothes.  They will look at where you live.  They will look at you.  But only 'you' can label yourself."

     Grandma Lillian taught me how to shop a flea market for embroidered linens with handmade lace; for beaded sweaters, for evening gloves, for gaudy costume jewelry -- which grew into a college wardrobe filled with treasures, political campaign buttons, and notes from Grandma about Madonna's latest perm or my asymmetrical haircut.  Grandma, the 1930s hairdresser.  And her daughter the RN.  And her granddaughter was in college.  There was no finer moment. 

     At Christmas, one year, I asked for Saucony running shoes.  I ran five miles daily with my boyfriend, the high school cross-country star.  I ran alone.  I ran in the rain.  I ran in college to work out problems.  I played softball with my sorority sisters on an Intramural league.  "I can't," she said.  I think about that Christmas and what my ego wanted that year.  Yeah, I was disappointed.  She bought me a glove and a ball.  Boyfriends come and go, but the love of baseball endures.  I've been ashamed to ask her for another -- or better -- gift at Christmas. 

     Because I don't want anything.  I have what I need.  A promise.  Hope.  Faith.  A new day.  Promise for tomorrow. 

     This year, at Christmas, the leaders of our bank decided to decorate with fresh poinsettia.  They are beautiful.  A local florist supplies the plants.  The pots are wrapped with foil and sort of wear a skirt made of tulle.  With the economy being the way it is, I liked the idea of spreading around a little money instead of putting up a fake tree and dusty ornaments from Christmases past. 

     "Where's the manager?  I want to express my frustration about this no-Christmas tree policy," said the large man, with the large belly, in a large red shirt, and large denims.  He was a red-faced pusher.  Looking for a button.  Leading with his belly, and his booze-nose.  He wanted to boss around someone.  I still haven't figured out how banking has anything to do with religion, outside of Jesus' kick-ass sermon about usury.  I stepped forward in my blue suit, heels, crazy silver jewelry and crazy red hair.  It'd been a day already. 

     "You are going to explain to me why your bank has not put up a Christmas tree.  I saw it on the news."

     "Okay."

     "Look young lady, it's bullshit."

     I'm on the downward slide to 50.  I'm menopausal.  Young lady?  Really?  Banker Barbie.  Bank manager.  But young lady?

     "Okay."

    "I am going to close my accounts.  YOU have to change this.  I want to see a Christmas tree in here.  NOW."

     "Sir, there is no bank policy against Christmas trees.  There is no policy against saying 'Merry Christmas'."

      "You shut up.  I saw it on the news."

     "Okay.  If you want to talk over me, you can.  Or you can wait for an explanation.  Which do you prefer?"

     "You better start talking."

      "Sir, don't you think that with the economy being the way it is that it's better to stimulate local growers and local florists?  Wouldn't you agree that it's better this year not to put up a commercial Christmas tree.  And aren't poinsettia more meaningful than a Christmas tree?"

      He eyed me.  He was going to eat me.  I didn't get into diversity.  I wanted to keep it focused on money.  I waited.  "Because it seems to me that there is more about the spirit of Christmas than a tree.  Charity and goodwill come to mind.  You have a great day."  I walked away.

     He did his business.  "I'm not buying it young lady."

     "Sir, you have a good day.  Thank you for the feedback."

     "You're missing the point, young lady."

     "Merry Christmas, Sir."

     Apparently, I am missing the point.  My manager said that the entire month of December is Christian.  I stared at her, in disbelief.  There are plenty of winter celebrations in all cultures -- the Solstice, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Chinese New Year, Epiphany, Muhurram.  How does one represent them all at a bank? 
     Chanukah is the Jewish July 4th.  It's about independence.  Not following the crowd.  Speaking your mind.  Standing up for what is right.  It's the epic battle: man's inhumanity to man.  I'm not offended when people don't say "Happy Chanukah" or display a menorah.  It's about good vs. evil.  It's a human promise to do what is right when things are going wrong. 

     But Christmas?  Christmas is a promise in a much deeper way.  It's not about the presents.  It's not about the tree.  It's not about the crappy commercialism.  It's a gift to believers.  An affirmation of faith in something larger.  It's about families, memories, sharing, providing food, extending goodwill, expanding the heart.  It's about a pair of running shoes that a hardworking mom can't provide.  It's about getting what you need, at the expense of what you want.  A Christmas tree is a great childhood memory.  But the tin toys, antique-tin ice cream spoons, alphabet cards, tiny pepperberry wreaths, silver-plated bells, and fake red cardinals I put in my own tree don't represent Christmas. 

     Maybe I do "get it," just not the way some people who want to prove a point do. 

    

     I won't ask Mom for anything this year, like in years past.  I'll bake.  I'll give food gifts.  I'll take a bag of groceries to a family who needs it.  Recounting the bank story to my mom, she said what I expected.  "It'll be okay.  It always is."  My Jewish mom taught me the most-enduring lesson about Christmas.  And, like mothers everywhere, including Mother Mary, she has never failed to keep her promise. 

 









Jambalaya

Crawfish pie, file gumbo.




File powder. Creole-style is my brother's signature. I get it because it mixes traditional French and European techniques with low-country down-home goodness. It's like the difference between chunky and smooth peanut butter. I like chunky. I like handmade things, I like hunks of vegetables. Billy talks about origins, and knife skills and flavor all the way through a dish. I'm more like "Oooh, this is a pretty ceramic pot to cook in," and Billy's taking me to the restaurant supply, chiding me that Williams Sonoma is overrated. It is, but you didn't hear that from me :-D

http://www.zatarains.com/  Zatarains' products are good!

There's a jar of file powder sitting in my pantry. Billy made a fabulous non-seafood gumbo. We have shellfish allergies that didn't hit us until our late 30s -- his probably because of overexposure in the kitchen, mine probably because there's some sort of genetic predisposition. But we live in the South and grew up with all the tender goodness the sea has to offer -- smoked mullet, shrimp, lobster, scallops, flounder and grouper, crawfish, Stone crabs. You name it. So, it always makes me cranky to consider taking the Epi-kit to dinner. Just kidding.

Back to the file. There was frozen okra in a bag. Some frozen corn, some forlorn green beans, carrots and celery approaching the age of Methuselah. A few chicken thighs. Some leftover andouille. Enough softball-size onions to outfit a Little League team. "We're doin' a cooler cleanin', Ton. Go to the store, get me some heavy cream, and some file powder." Yes, Chef. My freaking younger brother is telling me what to do in my own house and, yep, I'm going. I didn't know what I was supposed to find at Sweetbay. But that's where he said to go. And 15 minutes later I came home with a small glass tube, filled with a yellow powder. I didn't even know if I got the right stuff. Because we lived in the Islands, I knew File is serious juju. I didn't want to hold it for too long. He laughed.

"Good job on your chicken stock." He pulled Zip-Loc bags of chicken stock out of my freezer, each measured in 2-, 4- and 8-cup increments, labeled and dated. My brother lived with me while he was being treated for a broken leg, and diagnosed with bone cancer. We spent a lot of time in the kitchen and said nothing to one another outside of "behind you," "I need your onions now", "Ton, what the hell are you doing" -- to which I'd shrug and laugh, just to watch him smile. He is meticulous. There's a science to onion cutting. Knives have a soul. Respect your pans. Chicken bones and old vegetables are salvaged for stock. It's all used. Nothing is wasted. So, the chicken stock was a labor of love. It simmers for two days. It's skimmed. It's measured carefully into bags. He lays the bags carefully into the freezer so they become flat slabs. The bags are cut open, and the rectangle goes frozen into the pot. Ingenious, really. He fried off the chicken thighs in the bacon hissing in the pan, reserved the grease in the little metal pot he made me buy at Wal-Mart, started the mirepoix. He made the roux. He added the big chicken ice cube. Vegetables, a little red bell pepper for color, shredded chicken, sausage, the clump of ice-encrusted peas.

"Isn't it supposed to be red? Isn't gumbo red?" I always get points for asking the stupid questions. Which usually get answered with another question. "Ton, do you want it red? We can make it red. But this is white. You'll like it." He finished it with a lot less cream than I thought it would need to be creamy and delicious. "When you make large amounts of cream sauce, you need chicken stock for the base. It's not all cream. Try this when you make Alfredo next time." Of course he was right. And it turns out file gumbo, is a thickening agent, made from sassafras, and often used when okra is not available as a thickener. "It's the same stuff in root beer." Okay, not the same stuff, but I got the lesson. File has a distinctive flavor and like all roots, serves a purpose in cooking.

The cancer was worse than either one of us wanted to admit. We argued about treatment options. He was ready to die in my living room, and I was pushing for Moffitt Cancer Center. I didn't pay attention enough during the gumbo lesson. The file calls to me in the pantry from time to time, I pull it out and think. When I think of my brother, I make Jambalaya. It's a happy dish. I'll master the gumbo one day.

Jambalaya

3 pounds chicken thighs (bone is okay if you have them, just roast them, or find boneless chicken breasts, or boneless thighs)

2 t salt
2 t vegetable oil
1/2 t pepper (I add cayenne too, but it depends upon who is eating)
1 pound pork sausage (I use andouille, cut in 1/4 inch pieces after it's cooked)
2 c yellow onions

1 c green peppper

1 c celery
4 Bay leaves
1 T minced garlic
1/3 t thyme
1 cup chopped tomatoes (I buy a can of DelMonte diced tomatoes, onions and peppers)
3 cups long grain rice
3 1/2 cups of water (I use the liquid from the tomatoes, and water, or all chicken stock)
2 cups low-sodium chicken broth

I use a tall pot with a lid instead of a saute pan. Brown chicken, cook sausage in oil. Add vegetables and seasonings. Let cook. Add tomatoes. Stir in rice. Add water and stock. Simmer 30 minutes, covered. Let stand 10 minutes.

Kicked-Up Paprika

This makes Billy crazy when I mix seasonings ahead of time, or when I buy those containers of What-Ever-Chef-Is-On-Food-TV. "Ton, you can do this yourself. You can season it yourself. You know how. Stop buying this crap." He's right. So, there are things I won't live without -- Good Seasons Italian Dressing dry mix, for one. He agrees. That stuff is good. And I make a killer balsamic marinade for steaks and a great salad dressing out of it. He agrees.

Anyway, this is great for grilled hamburgers, sprinkling over Jambalaya, dusting deviled-eggs, putting on parsley-and-butter soaked red potatoes.

3 T paprika
2 T salt
2 T dried parsley (If you have fresh parsley on its way out, dry it in the oven)
1 t dried oregano
1 t dried basil
1 t dried thyme
1/2 t celery salt (optional)
2 t onion powder
2 t garlic powder
1 t black pepper (sometimes I use cayenne too, it just depends upon who is eating)

Mix it up. Put it in a mason jar, or an old salt shaker. Yep.

Avocado and Tomatoes with Balsamic

Avocado (peeled and diced)
Grape or Campari tomatoes, cut in half or in quarters (depending upon size)

Pour the dressing on, and mix with your hands.

Same thing for the Greek cucumber, pepper, tomatoes, onion and feta cheese salad. I use the same dressing. Although, Mom says I am the only person in the family who can do grandma's olive oil and lemon dressing -- that's really just pouring the oil and squeezing the lemons, but I don't tell Mom that, salt and pepper. Vinaigrette is a 1:1/2 ratio.

Rice Pudding

On his Food Network show, Alton Brown says single-use appliances are evil. That's "EEEE-vil", if you need a pronunciation guide. Evil.

Among Alton's cardinal sins is the ricemaker. He barely tolerates waffle irons. A trowel from Home Depot makes a better pie server. You get the idea. Now, I'm not entirely convinced Alton is an engineer, or a scientist, or a chef. He has a strong group of writers and food folks behind him. But he does have this Bill Nye-meets-MacGyver sort of wackiness that I find appealing. A geek. I like it.

It seems to me that the Japanese-engineered simplicity that is the ricemaker would appeal to Alton too. It's a great gadget. An electrified metal sleeve, surrounding a metal liner with a lid. Measure the rice, pour in the rice, measure the water, pour in the water, plug it in, cover it, push the on-button. The Ron-Popeil Fix-It-And-Forget-It school of cooking. It even turns itself off. My ricemaker is small. It's older than Naomi, and I bought it for less than $20 at the PX. It's done yeoman's service. And it's never seemed to fail. Sushi rice is perfect, Basmati rice is perfect, Uncle Ben's is perfect.

The Greek recipe for Rizogalo -- Rice Pudding -- is straightforward. Rice, milk, vanilla, cinnamon, sugar, eggs. Bring the rice and the milk to a boil in a three-quart saucepan.

Oh, the ricemaker. Perfect.

Add the rice, add the milk. The little Devil on my shoulder whispered into my ear: Put the sugar in.

Okay, how easy is this? Cool!

Plug it in, push the button. Oh, hell, yes. The lid was slowly shifting, the liquid was softly simmering. Normal. Before long, the ricemaker started to sound like the washing machine with an unbalanced load. Hmm. If my ricemaker had robot arms and a voice, it would have flailed its limbs and shouted "Danger, Will Robinson!". But I stood there, and watched. It didn't hit me until it started spitting caramel at me. Dulce de leche. Cooking Napalm.

Hot milk + sugar + butter = caramel. Every insurance agent's nightmare. So, I did what any self-respecting cook would do. I lifted the lid to stir the rice. Okay, hot milk and sugar under pressure. The caramel bubbled over the sides of the cooker and onto the counter, onto the floor, onto my shirt, onto my arms. Holy Mother, I have angered the cooking gods. The rice was glued to the bottom of the pan and it was burning.

My family circled the kitchen like buzzards. "Whatcha makin', Ton?"

Oh crap. This is like Ricky asking Lucy what scheme is cooking. They knew something was dying in the kitchen, and it was me. "Uh."

At this point, caramel-coated, all I could do was laugh. Spoons flew out of the drawer. I figured they were going for the eyes. The rice was not cooked. At all. The glop in the pan was sweet, sticky, smoky and crunchy. Good maybe for peanut butter. Not so good for rice pudding. They ate it. And laughed. It's become the family legend. The thing was, they ate it right out of the pan, and blocked my run for the garbage can. Said it was terrible and, like a car wreck you can't stop watching, they kept eating. I suppose it was so they could tell the story at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the next 40 years of my life. Because it's trotted out for the telling any time rice pudding is mentioned: "Ma, remember ... heh!" Like the time I made Flan. Didn't have enough caramel, so I made more. Had too much. I made more Flan. Didn't have enough caramel ... before long, every dish, cup, bowl in my small Panamanian kitchen was filled with Flan. Yeah. I should have learned to make this stuff when no one was home, and no one would be the wiser. Because even my mom tells the story, third-hand.

Eventually the floor was cleaned. The washer took care of my T-shirt. They snickered about my burns. Rightly so. Tiny little blisters and red marks, sticky with caramelized milk and sugar. Someone dialed my brother.

"Ton, did you cook the rice?"

"Well ... yeah, sorta." I told him the story. I didn't need a video phone to see his face.

"Ton, cook the rice first."

"You mean leftover rice?"

"Yeah. Don't cook it in the milk. Use the rice you have, or make it fresh."

"Oh."

"Ton?"

"Yeah."

"That's damn funny."

Rizogalo -- Greek Rice Pudding

1 quart milk
1/3 cup rice
1/4 cup sugar
2 large eggs
1 tsp vanilla
cinnamon
raisins -- optional

In a three-quart saucepan, bring the milk and rice slowly to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer, stirring until rice is soft (cook the rice in the milk. Okay, I don't do this. I measure a cup of cooked rice and heat it in the milk. Heat the raisins with the milk, at this point.)

Beat eggs, add sugar and beat well. Slowly add the hot milk to the eggs (temper the eggs), stirring. Gradually return the heated eggs to rice mixture in the pot and continue cooking until the mixture coats the back of a spoon. Pour into dessert dishes. Sprinkle with cinnamon. Serves 6.

Panettone Bread Pudding -- Williams Sonoma

1 lb Panettone, cut into 1-inch cubes
5 eggs
3/4 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
2 tsp vanilla extract
1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
2 cups milk

2 cups heavy cream

6 tsp granulated sugar

Caramel sauce for serving

Preheat an oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9-by-13-inch baking dish.  Spread the cubes onto a large baking sheet and toast in the oven until golden, about 10 to 15 minutes.  In a large bowl, whisk together eggs, brown sugar, vanilla and cinnamon. Slowly whisk in cream and milk. Stir in the bread cubes and let stand until they soak up most of the liquid, about 10 minutes. Bake until set (the knife comes out clean), about 45 to 50 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack and let sit for 5 minutes.

Just before serving, sprinkle the granulated sugar evenly over the bread pudding. Use a kitchen torch to melt the sugar to a golden caramel color. Serve immediately with caramel sauce. Serves 8 to 10.

A caveat: Me and a blow torch, in the kitchen. Uh, no. I've ignited liquor in a pan. I've deep-fried stuff. That's about as much fire as I can handle. To caramelize sugar for Creme Brulee, I put it under the broiler. Much safer for me. ;-)

Everyone Needs a Little Space



     Kids can be mean.  Adults can be mean in more subtle ways. 

Baby Gap



     Big surprise.  When people are a little bit different, they get called out.  Some become withdrawn because of the relentless taunting.  And others become highly adaptable.  Often they'll turn what others perceive to be a weakness into a strength.  Growing up, for me, there was more than one obstacle to overcome.  The biggest was being a brainy girl with glasses.  Then came acne.  And curves.  Oh yeah, and the space between my two front teeth. 

     As an adult, I've embraced my inner geek.  I like the library, I like politics, I like esoteric concepts, I like museums, I like baseball.  I've wrestled with contacts and I accept glasses.  Acne -- yeah, a constant battle.  Curves?  I'm curvy.  I can lose weight, but I'm still curvy.  I accept it.  Gap in my teeth?  Get back to you on that one. 

     My folks are handsome people.  My brothers are gorgeous men.  My stepsister was a model at one point in her life.  Tall, lanky, Cher-haired.  With bucked teeth.  Karen sucked her thumb long into her teens and she needed braces.  She got the I-can't-drink-from-a-water-fountain headgear.  So did my brother.  Temporary and cosmetic.  I've often laughed that I got all the recessive genes in the family.  Tall, beautiful, naturally thin, athletic, graceful.  Nope.  I'm stumpy, busty, clumsy, asthmatic, myopic, and I like to read.   Pretty seemed to pass over me, and went right to my daughter.  But probably I am the funniest one in our family, and I'm often the listener / relationship fixer.  And I do have the trait that seems to bind us -- Good teeth and beautiful smiles seem to run in our family. 

     For me, my smile is my best asset.  Except, I have a gap in my front teeth the size of Texas.  Of course, this was a strength.  I was the water-spittin' champeen.  I could force water between the space in my teeth clear across the pool.  No one could beat me.  Not even on a bad day.  But, water-spittin' champs are not exactly date-night material.  I didn't wear my crown too long into high school.  One thing I figured I couldn't change was the gap in my front teeth. Yeah, it might make me look like a hick, and yeah, I'm the only one in the family who has it.  Like a lot of things we can't change, there comes a graceful acceptance.   Our family dentist never recommended braces for me. In fact, closing the gap was never discussed as an option.  Move on. 

     Brainy with glasses was a little harder to overcome.  Brainy with glasses and acne was harder still.  The year I turned age 13, I broke out.  Not the kind of acne one sees on ProActiv ads.  It was the kind that makes people go "Eww."  So bad it hurt to wear a T-shirt.  Neck, back, arms, face, groin, legs.  I called my mom that summer from Michigan.  My dad said he wouldn't date me if he were a boy.  To which I said: Gah!  Yeah, Dad.  Hullo.  My dad laughed.  My mom somehow knew it was worse than my dad was letting on by phone and she made a dermatology appointment before I flew back to Florida. 

    
     "Tonya, it's the worst case of acne I've ever seen," said the dermo.  Which wouldn't have been so bad if he were a shriveled up old prune, but he was a young doctor, tall and hunky.  Mom smiled, asked for the prescriptions and made the return appointments.  Over time, I've developed a love-hate relationship with my doctors.  If I have to go, I know it's going to be bad.  It's never been an immediate cure. 

     It took months to clear.  And he was the same doctor who suggested birth-control pills in my early 20s to keep it at bay.  He was right.  But our bodies change, and into my 40s the acne's returned.  That's another story.  Back to the brainy girl with glasses and gapped teeth. 

 As if there aren't enough changes at age 13, I had a butt and boobs.  And a tiny waist.   My Island and African-American friends say people with split teeth wear their clothes well. They always are attractive. And I learned early what well-fitting clothes can do.  I wasn't at all built like the stick-straight girls of my youth.  And I was teased.   My God-fearing Baptist boyfriend's mother couldn't wait to see me in a swimsuit when I was in high school.  She thought I cast a magical spell on her son and she wanted to see if I could work the same juju on her.  Could I possibly be the same girl who played tag football in her backyard?  Of course, I knew my assets by age 17 and showed up in a French-cut burgundy maillot with underwires.  The same boy talks this day about the fishnets and seamed stockings, and a pencil skirt, I wore in college.  All with glasses, a gap in my teeth, and enough brains to get into an honors program. 

     So, my gap-tooth smile never bothered me.  Until I decided to get one of those Glamour Shot photos.  I was in my 30s, thinner than I had ever been.  My daughter was nearing school age.  My hair was dark, glossy, stick straight and perfectly cut.  My skin was flawless.  The photographer retouched my teeth.  What the hell?

    Madonna, Lauren Hutton, David Letterman, Condoleezza Rice, Mike Strahan, Mike Tyson -- okay, maybe not Mike Tyson -- there are a lot of famous people who have space between their teeth.  And they do all right.  But here I was, insecure about the one thing I get complimented on daily: My smile. 

    Not long after, my dentist suggested braces to close the gap.  To be fair, I've had four oral surgeries because of the gap.  My senior year of high school, I entered the first day with my teeth wrapped in foil after a surgery a week or so beforehand.  I've had my lip cut and sewn twice.  But this was the family dentist of my childhood.  Could he not suggest braces when my dad had the Cadillac of insurance plans through General Motors?  Could he maybe have suggested it when I was a kid and everyone had braces?  Why now as an adult?  I've lived with what most people consider to be an ugly feature for 46 years. 

     "Tonya, we're gonna have to do surgery again.  We can close it so you don't have to deal with it, or you can come back for surgery," was my dentist's pitch in recommending his partner, the orthodontist.  The orthodontist was honest enough to say that he couldn't close it.  I'd need a bar inset behind the front teeth after the braces came off, and even that wasn't a guarantee that the gap would stay closed.  Given a choice between digging the equivalent of the Panama Canal behind my front teeth and inserting a piece of steel or a few weeks with a fat lip, I opted for surgery. 

http://www.northriverdental.com/gallery.asp
http://www.gap-toothed.com/

"Cool, Ton, I can teabag you.  It says so right here."  My then-husband held up the recovery instructions.  Apparently, there are enough tannins in a standard tea "sachet" to speed healing, and a steeped tea bag was recommended.  Sitting in the chair, juiced up on Novocain, cotton sticking out of my mouth, and the surgeon ready, all I could do was laugh.  "Right here?  I think the chair is too high."  The surgeon pulled down his mask and we spent the next 15 minutes composing ourselves. 

Fast forward six years.  During a routine cleaning, I asked the dentist about a small chip on my front tooth.  Hardly noticeable, but it catches on my lip.  So today when he asked if I considered closing the gap -- because of a chipped front tooth -- I rolled my eyes.  I told him the story, succinctly: Surgery, braces, a metal bar, not being able to floss.  He suggested resin composite veneers. 

"You mean Bondo." 


He laughed.  "Yes.  No.  Yes.  It's like this."  The tooth is chipped because my bite is changing, the front tooth hits the bottom tooth, and the gap is spreading.  It happens as we age.  Oy.  Braces would bring the teeth together and make the front teeth look too big.  By fixing the chip, at the same time the resin can be used to narrow the gap.  Treatment plan.  Done.  And it's covered by insurance.  The appointment is Oct. 19. 

In the Beginning

God created Heaven and Earth ... and Facebook.

There are lots of ways this story can start. My dad died. As much as I wish it was a "Tuesdays With Morrie" story, it didn't end that way. There's divorce and alcoholism. There's abandonment. There's teenage struggle. There's a will contest and a very real lawyer bill to contend with. My brother lost a leg to bone cancer.  I got divorced.  My daughter graduated high school, moved out, moved home, finished college and moved out again.  The story could start at any of those places.

But, it begins with Facebook.

I sort of liked those little status updates.  The note feature was cool. 

Tonya, why aren't you writing?  Friends have a right to know.  My journalism career ended abruptly.  Banking never was a career choice, but I found myself several years into it.  I gave myself an alter-ego: Banker Barbie.  Writing was painful.  But, I started doing a little of it while I recovered after knee surgery.  After the divorce, I decided it was time to explore some of those hidden places.  I joined a community band to play flute, and a marching band to reinforce the whole walking-after-knee-surgery thing.  Several friends suggested a blog.