Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. The music was particularly good with the BoDeans on the playlist. Oh, gosh, I love that song they sing called, "Good Things." I was singing it on the way out to the bus stop Monday morning. "Sunlight fall down on the fields / Sunlight fall down over me / Work all day, be all that I can be..." I guess I was singing a bit loud and maybe even dancing along the way because the kids shushed me. "Mom, the bus is coming. Knock it off."

Well, how do you like those beans. Sunday was Mother's Day and they were all lovey and "You're the Best Mom" and they helped with some housework and made a fine strawberry cake for me, with sour cream frosting and a big ol' heart made with those little red-hots. They made cards, too, and gave me a pile of gifts — chocolates, a bottle of wine, some handmade almond soap, and a set of three fancy knives for cutting meat. (Still no bubble machine, but there's always my birthday.) It was all so wonderful and I felt a bit of that mother-guilt when I took off to indulge myself in a few hours at the bookstore before we all went out for pizza and cheesecake and drove home as the sun set behind us and the frogs came out to sing. Such a perfect day.

So on Monday morning at the bus stop I was a bit surprised when they asked me to go back into the house before the bus came. "We're big enough to wait by ourselves...and sometimes you embarrass us." Well, how do you like that. I've nearly spent myself some mornings entertaining those kids at the bus stop. Re-enacting the first Olympics using sticks for javelins and showing them cheers from my days as captain of the cheerleading squad. Singing "Yes, Sir, That's My Baby" (choreography included) which won my high school show choir a first at state. Then there were the days I did jumping jacks until the bus showed up, and sometimes cartwheels as they climbed on. Doing the Moonwalk as the bus pulled away last Thursday was probably the last straw, and now that I think about it I suppose I did get a bit carried away on occasion, pretending I was Daniel Boone hiding in the bushes then coming out in my coonskin cap, waving a white surrender flag before the bus. Though I think bringing hot cinnamon rolls to everyone on the bus was a nice thing because not everyone has time for a warm breakfast. And bringing coffee to the busdriver? Maybe I didn't need to go all out with the stewardess uniform, and the sparklers on the final day of school last year were probably a bit much. So, to everything a season. It's been fun, but I suppose it's time the kids waited for the bus on their own.

I'll walk them out one last time tomorrow. I'll be good. I'll stand there and we'll talk about their day, and I'll make my way back to the house once the bus comes into sight. And when I do sing, I'll sing quietly. "Oh, my sweet darling someones, whom I do adore, / It's early morning, the bus is coming, who could ask for more? Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa..."

Made a friend on a cruise a while back. Her name is Judy and she lives in Missouri, and she wrote to me recently, and included this very special recipe which has been a favorite of hers for more than fifty years. It's one of those hot summer day desserts that cools from the inside out. She first tried it way back in high school when the man who won her heart took her home to meet his parents. Her future mother-in-law served this refreshing treat, and it was so good, Judy had a second helping. And the rest is history.

Buttermilk Ice Cream

1/2 gallon buttermilk

1 cup sugar (can substitute Equal or Splenda)

1 20 oz. can crushed pineapple in juice (not syrup)

1 jar maraschino cherries and juice

In a large plastic container (a 9 x 13 carrier works well), mix buttermilk, sugar, crushed pineapple and juice. Halve the cherries and add them and juice to the mixture. Mix well, dissolving the sugar. Put in the freezer for about 5 hours. Take it out and mix it up. Continue freezing awhile and then mixing until you have an icy slush.

If this freezes overnight, it will be hard as cement. In that case, leave it on the counter at room temperature for 20 minutes or so and bash it all up with a spoon until it softens enough to eat. Microwaving briefly is an option.

Enjoy!

Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. The show was out in Maine and I felt a bit of envy this time around. There are a lot of places I'd like to visit in my one short life, and Maine is right up there near the top of the list. Everything about it seems rugged and lovely, and I'll get there one of these days, but until then I'll have to contend with little bouts of envy when someone I know visits Maine.

I don't harbor ill feelings about it, though. There's really no point. My turn will come around one of these days, and my biggest problem will be having to choose where to go. Maine? Banff, Canada? Ireland? Who knows. But lamentation in the meantime is a waste of energy, and there's too much of it in the world, anyway. I'd rather focus my energy on something else, something we need more of. Like tenderness. And I'm not alone. Elvis was all for tenderness, and Mr. Keillor himself sang about it during Saturday's show, how he'll take a little tenderness over a long list of things. Which got me thinking.

It's underrated, tenderness is, and it's pushed to the side and forgotten. Mainly because it requires a few things we're either hesitant to give or just plain incapable of mustering up. To be tender, you need to pay attention, you ought to have patience, and you really must be diligent because tenderness isn't always well-received. (It's a quiet thing, and sometimes people don't recognize it so you have to give it another go.) The thing is, being treated with tenderness makes a person feel less lonely, AND it makes you feel like you've got something worth some attention. And sometimes it can calm a person. Which is why children are good candidates. You can simply read them a story, or wash their hair for them, or give a little backrub and they get this look on their faces and sometimes they hum or sigh. Same with the love of your life. I recall a rainy day in the not-too-distant past when I wasn't feeling too well and lay down for a while and Mr. Sundberg covered me with blankets straight out of the dryer and then gave me the longest foot massage ever. I haven't been that relaxed in years. I thought I might die from joy. And remember, strangers can use a bit of tenderness, too. There's always that element of surprise when someone you don't know gives you a bit of positive energy.

If I were Teacher of the World, this week's assignment would be just that: find someone who could use it and share a little tenderness, whomever and however it may be. You just never know.

This is a wonderful recipe for a rainy day, particularly a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Don't let its length scare you off. It's fairly simple, and once you make it, you'll have it in your head so next time around will be a breeze. Plus, it's absolutely delightful and easily doubled for a small dinner party.

Sweet and Sour Pork

1 lb pork loin, trimmed and cut into 1" x 1/2 1/4 cup cornstarch
1 bell pepper, green or red or 1/2 of each is nice, cut into 1" squares
1 20 oz can of chunk pineapple (save juice for sauce)
1 medium carrot, julienned to 1/4 " thickness
4 oz fresh mushrooms, halved
1 medium onion, quartered and separated
Marinade:
2 T soy sauce
1 egg white
1 clove garlic, minced
Sweet and Sour Sauce:
1 1/2 T cornstarch
1/2 cup cider vinegar3/4 cup pineapple juice
3 T catsup
1 T soy sauce3/4 cup brown sugar

Prepare marinade and mix with cut up pork in Ziploc bag. Marinade in fridge for an hour or overnight. Mix occasionally by kneading Combine all ingredients for sauce in 1 qt saucepan. Bring to gentle boil, stirring constantly, then simmer until thickened and clear. Keep warm.
Dredge pork chunks in bowl with about a cup of cornstarch in it. Deep fry in hot oil (375 degrees or so) until done through, about 5 minutes. Drain on paper towels and set aside. Deep frying may be done in a wok or in a separate deep fryer.
Heat wok (or large skillet) and add 2 T oil. Stir fry onion, carrot and pepper for a minute, then add mushroom and stir fry 1-2 minutes.
Add drained pineapple chunks and sweet and sour sauce. Heat through, stirring occasionally.
Add meat, stir, and cook over low heat until warm. Serve over steamed or fried rice. Serves 4.
Enjoy!

Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. The fact that there was snow on the ground Saturday morning had put us all in a bit of a funk, so the show was something to look forward to on a day when our hopes for a walk in the sun had been thwarted. Of course, what you want and what you get aren't always in sync and we all know this, so our weather-related GrumpFest was short-lived and we had some fun anyway and made eggrolls and cream cheese wontons and watched a movie or two. Deep fried food is a sure remedy for crabbiness, and it was.

While we ate, the kids asked what I want for Mother's Day, which is a short two weeks off. I haven't made a list, I told them, and I don't think I will this year. Of course there's The Big List, the one I've kept in my head for years. It's fairly long, and changes regularly, and contains items like "a porch swing" and "a year of yoga" and "subscription to The Chocolate of the Month Club" and "a new car with AC and tinted windows and a way back area where I can take a nap." Things somewhat difficult or expensive, and perhaps a bit self-indulgent. Things I could live without, and may or may not be worth the money or effort. You know? Like a hot air balloon flight or a weekend in Washington, D.C. Could live without it but it would be nice. (And of course there's the Secret List, the one I keep to myself. We all have them. We just don't say much about 'em.)

I don't share The Big List much, unless I'm wishing out loud, mainly because those are things I can take care of along the way. If I'm going to give the kids a challenge, I'd rather it not involve money or travel agents. I don't want to give them a guilt complex, and I don't want to foster the misperception that I love them because of what they buy me. Nope. Real gifts come from the heart, like favorite flowers, or original art, or handmade coupons for housework. And they're often the kind of gifts people don't know they're giving. Like a hike in the woods or a good long listen or a hand massage during the sermon.

After all that fried food, we managed to have a bit of room so I scooped up some rainbow sherbet and we listened to the end of the show, during which I had an idea. I know what I want for Mother's Day, I told them. I want each of you to find a poem you like and memorize it. On Mother's Day you can recite it and that will be my gift.

They smiled, to my surprise, and within minutes were in the study paging through stacks of books. "How about 'The Raven'?" I heard one of them ask. "What are you, nuts?" someone replied. "She doesn't care how long they are or who wrote them. We just pick one we like. How about that 'Nature's first green is gold' one you studied in school? That one's cool."

And sometimes what you want and what you get are in perfect sync. It's true.

Taco Bake

1 lb ground beef, browned and drained
1 envelope taco seasoning
1 15 oz can tomato sauce
1 can corn, drained
3 cups shredded cheddar cheese
2 cups baking mix (I lean toward Bisquik)
1 cup milk
2 eggs
Cornmeal

Mix the hamburger with the taco seasoning,
corn and tomato sauce. Spread into a 9x13 pan.
Sprinkle cheese evenly over.

Stir baking mix, milk and eggs together until
well-blended. Pour/spread over cheese layer.
Dust with cornmeal.

Bake at 350 uncovered for about 35 minutes.
(Poke a hole in the middle to make sure.)
Serve with beans, salsa, sour cream and tortilla chips.

Mmm! Enjoy.

Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. It's nice to have a two-hour stretch where I can let go of everything and simply tune in. There's so much happening lately. Mr. Sundberg's calendar is packed for the next few weeks so he's been in and out, and Spring showed up and—BOOM—there's baseball and softball and the spring play and practices for the kids, then concerts and games and a woman needs to find a bit of peace. Just a stretch of calm. Some days I simply want to stay home and just be.

I've been thinking about home lately, and how I've heard it said that home is the imaginary place we spend our lives longing to return to. That may be, but I have to believe home is inside of me—the feeling that I belong here where I am, that I'm supposed to be here, and the people around me are my people. I feel it when I'm at the grocery store where Lori in the deli says "Hello!" and the yogurt display is something both Andy Warhol and Vincent Van Gogh would admire, and Derek the check-out guy is waiting to give me the latest update on The Adventures of Derek. I feel at home in my car, of course, because it's simply an extension of my house and it's clean and I could live in it for quite a stretch of days if I found myself in the middle of nowhere. I feel home when I'm with my parents and my brothers, and a bit of it at the café, and on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair.

Truth is, though, like childbirth or adolescence or escalator rides, feeling at home is a fleeting thing. You want to hold on to it when you have it, because it's dear life itself, and Dorothy was right on when she said there's no place like it. Let me tell you, it filled my kitchen on Saturday night when Mr. Keillor sang at the end of his monologue the song about Lake Wobegon, a song with longing for cows and meadows and the sweetness of a time and place. It filled my kitchen and it filled me, and I ended up calling people I love long into the night, with nothing much at all to say but "Hello", wanting to hear their voices talking, telling what's been going on and who's doing what and when. And while they talked, I heard in the background train whistles and crying children, dogs barking and cupboards shutting, and chickens. I slept well that night, and dreamed about blueberries and how we used to pick 'em, squatting among the flat bushes, filling empty ice cream pails long into hot afternoons. And when we finished, we loaded up the truck and drove home, stopping for vanilla ice cream on the way for the pie mom would make, we hoped, for dessert.

This recipe comes to me from a woman who meditates, a strong woman who knows there's a time for emptiness and a time for attachment, and a time for chocolate cake. It's a lovely cake—perfect for tea with silver and plates, and just as luscious wrapped in a napkin on the way to the bus.

Emergency Chocolate Cake
(Makes one 8-inch square cake)

Ingredients :
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup sugar
1/4 cup Dutch-processed cocoa powder
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 cup mayonnaise
1 cup water
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Confectioners' sugar (optional)

Adjust oven rack to the middle position and heat oven to 350.
Lightly coat an 8-inch square cake pan with vegetable oil spray.

Whisk the flour, sugar, cocoa, and baking soda together in a large bowl.
In a separate bowl, combine mayonnaise, water and vanilla.
Stir the mayonnaise mixture into the flour mixture and mix until combined.

Scrape batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top. Bake until a
wooden skewer inserted into the center of the cake comes out with a few
crumbs attached, 35 to 40 minutes or so.

Let the cake cool in the pan on a wire rack for an hour or so. Cut into
squares and serve straight from the pan or turn the cake out onto a
serving platter and dust with the confectioners' sugar.

To make ahead:
After the cake has cooled, it can be wrapped tightly in plastic wrap
and kept at room temperature for up to 3 days.

Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. I was busy wrapping gifts for my mother as her birthday is this week and I'd made plans to have lunch with her Sunday. The kids were outside playing Kick the Can while the snowstorm snow melted away and Mr. Sundberg was out on the deck setting up the telescope he ordered from his nature magazine. He says it's for the kids but he's been talking about it nonstop since he placed the order.

I've been in the habit in recent years of buying use-uppable gifts for my parents—things like books and wine and cheese and maple syrup. Nothing that will pile up. Books are borderline, but when you finish a good book it seems natural to pass it along. Of course, every now and then the occasion calls for something special. Last year it was a diamond necklace for my mother, something her children have never given her, something to honor her lifework as Mother of us. And this year, given all the talk she's been doing lately about what she wants in life, I bought her a banjo.

Banjos aren't easy to wrap. "Looks like a giant slice of Swiss cheese," Carl Sagan said when he came in from the deck. He was wearing a hard hat and carrying a clipboard with Orion's Belt sketched out on it. I didn't bother to ask. I didn't have to. "Telescope is ready to go," he said. "Bring on the comets." Seems he's entered a second or third childhood lately. He's been watching the Muppet version of "Danny Boy" on YouTube and talking about tubing down the river this summer. When he suggested planting a salsa garden out back, I had to holler, Whoa. I'm not a green thumb person, and I don't need another opportunity to prove it to the world. Go right on ahead, I said, as long as you remember it's your garden. I'll take care of the salsa end of things. Just don't expect me to hover over those peppers.

I met Mom at a little restaurant down by the river just after church on Sunday. She arrived a bit late, with pink cheeks and a smile on her face. There were new leopard print car seat covers in her car (a birthday gift from her best friend) and she wore her glasses on a chain of shiny red beads. "Let's have a fancy drink," she said, and hers was blue with a purple umbrella in it. "I don't know what it is," she said, "but something's come over me lately. I feel so good when I get up in the morning. I don't want the day to end. Not like the past few months when all I wanted to do was sleep. But I'm not going to question it. Nope, I'm simply going to enjoy it." She enjoyed lunch, anyway, right down to the frozen chocolate cheesecake on a stick. And when we got to my car and I pulled out the giant wedge that was her banjo, she clapped her hands giggled. Within minutes she had it open. "Oh, I love it," she said. "My own banjo. I've wanted one ever since I was a little girl." She picked it up and, right there in the parking lot, began strumming, and, as cars pulled in to park and people passed by, she sang, "I just want to be me…"

Seems spring came just in time this year and brought us all back from whom we were becoming to whom we really are. And thank goodness for that.

These cookies are best eaten the day they're baked. I underbake 'em a bit and they're like little fudge bombs and the kids eat 'em up.

White Chocolate Chippers

1 cup (2 sticks) butter or margarine, softened

3/4 cup granulated sugar

2/3 cup packed brown sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

2 eggs

2 1/4 cups flour

2/3 cup baking cocoa

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 1/2 cups white chocolate chips

Cream butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar and vanilla extract in large mixer bowl. Add eggs and beat further. Mix in flour, cocoa, baking soda and salt. Stir in morsels. Drop by teaspoonsful onto ungreased baking sheets.

Bake at 350 for 9 to 11 minutes.

Enjoy!