It's hard to believe that baseball season is about to begin again. I
see bits and pieces on the news about players reporting to Spring
training. I see photos of fathers and sons dressed up in their player's
favorite jersey, watching an early practice, hoping to get an
autograph. The excitement is building of those summer nights at the
ballpark; that all-American warm, fuzzy feeling most folks associate
with baseball.
My thoughts are far from warm and fuzzy, more like torture and terror.
On October 30, 2007 at 2:30 am, my phone rings. I struggle to find the
phone, wondering who died. I hear a voice "Hello, this is Scheduling,
can I speak to Laura." All I can say is "yes?" "Laura, we have a trip
for you. You are going to fly to Denver and then to Boston and back to
Atlanta today." Excuse me, it's 2:30 am, is this a joke? When did we
start flying to these destinations in the middle of the night? I'm not
sure what I said but I get an answer.
"The Boston Red Sox won the World Series a few hours ago and by the
way, you are the Flight Attendant in charge." (I’ve since learned that
no team would jinx their chances of winning by booking the plane home
before they actual clinch the trophy.)
Sandwiches
The Perfect Sandwich
A Breakfast Recipe
My mother stayed with us during her recent visit from back east. She
emerged early each day from the back bedroom in need of coffee. In the
kitchen she would find me up to my elbows in three-grain biscuit dough
or in the midst of mixing a large oven baked pancake, or perhaps
dropping oatmeal scones onto a cookie sheet. I was always in the midst
of something made from scratch, time consuming and terrifically messy.
A ritual that was met with a quizzical look and her quiet reproach, as if I couldn’t hear her say, “Nu? Whats wrong with frozen waffles?” My childhood breakfasts came straight out of a box from the freezer in the cold mid-western kitchen where I grew up. My mother taught in downtown Detroit, and early morning school days were mostly about getting up and getting out. Yet, somewhere in between the up and out part, I remember a breakfast ritual that my mother and I shared, just her and I, before she left for work.
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