Learning fun with Norman the Goldfish from Toni Buzzeo!

Not Norman, A Goldfish Story is highlighted in author, Library Media Specialist, Toni Buzzeo’s ABC Read to Me!: Teaching Letter of the Week in the Library & Classroom. Along with a synopsis of the story, Toni has created groovy curriculum activities for Pre-K and Kindergarten.

Fish Out of Water

Went out to feed the fish this morning. Tossed in a handful of food. Waited and watched. And watched. And took a closer look. And another... 90% of the plants that were there last I checked aren't there now, so I can see clearly now...

All the sapu-sapu, algae eaters, save one lone shy guy, gone...

All the ikan lele...gone.

I watch the food pellets swirl aimlessly.

"When?"

"Where?"

Not a word to me....

And why my sapu-sapu? Those were my sapu sapu...

Pickled, Again

Not that kind of pickled—although it’s been known to happen. I’m making pickles. Although Jakarta doesn’t have a designated “summer,” as the temperatures are pretty much the same year round, between 78 and 90, night and day, and there aren’t really "longer days" as this close to the equator night and day are pretty evenly divided into 12 hour periods with sunrise around 6 am and sunset around 6 pm, it feels like summertime: school vacations are on, most of the Expats are off on holidays,  everyone “back home” is hot and getting hotter, and so my internal clock is calling “canning season.”

We made pickles last fall, too. “We” being Rusnati and I.  While we had made mango chutney together, before, it was our first pickling season. Rusnati bought about 30 kilos of cucumbers, onions, peppers and we diced and sliced and marinated and cooked for days. We made Bread and Butter Pickles (Curtis’s favorites), Sweet Lime Pickles, Hot Pepper Relish, Corn Relish, Sweet Relish, and Fennel-Garlic Spears (which Curtis hates).

It did not turn out to be a “fun” little project for Aan, who traipsed all over buying up canning jars two or three at a time rather than buy the box, and mustard seeds late at night, and dill, which turned out to be fennel (hence the “fennel-garlic” spears instead of “dill spears”), or for Rusnati, who chopped onions

and deseeded peppers until her eyes ran and fingers burned, and washed sink loads of pots and pans and bowls, strainers and spatulas and jars and more, or for Curtis, who not only paid for all the pickling supplies and fuel, but also paid dearly in time spent listening to me fret and plan and calculate. It was an event worth writing about. Maybe reading, if so, click back on the Oct. 2009 posting titled “Pickled”

Canning—really “bottling,” as we preserve the food in glass bottles and jars, brings me close to my grandmother, Nanny.

The first batch of jam I remember us making wasn’t strawberry, though. It was plum. Made from plums plucked from the next door neighbor, Emily’s, tree. Emily and her husband, Jerry, were gone and we were minding their house, which included plum picking privileges.

Plum jam is easier that other types because you don’t peel the plums first as the peeling adds color and flavor to the jam. All we had to do was wash, pick, halve and deseed the plums—eating as many as we liked in the process. Side by side, Nanny and I leaned over the kitchen sink to sample the ripest, softest plums—too ripe for jam. So sweet and succulent the juices rolled down our chins, plopping like purple rain into the sink.

Nanny always made her jam in the turkey roaster as a larger surface air dispersed the juices over a larger area, giving us more control over the jam’s quality. My first "important job" as I recall was "keeping it from burning." I'd stand on a footstool beside the stove stirring the juice, pectin and sugar mixture, watching and waiting as it heated and bubbled, turning from murky to clear, glossy, thick syrup, while Nanny supervised. After the jam was jarred, a layer of hot wax was poured over the top and the jars were set aside to cool. Then came the fun part—the part my brother, Joe (then Joey) always showed up for. (Although now that I think of it, I bet Joey would have liked to have been invited to make jam with us. But jam making was “woman’s work” in Nanny’s eyes, and I liked keeping it that way!) Joey was invited to the “tasting” part, as was my grandfather, Poppy, who’d always bring home fresh, crusty French bread to serve as spoons. That first batch of plum jam was puckery tart and runny. Not exactly “Blue Ribbon,” but pure gold.

Nanny was the 3rd of 9 children raised in Gustine, a town in California’s Central Valley, “God’s Garden” as Nanny called it (when she wasn’t calling it “hotter than hell”). Back then, in the icebox days, “canning season” began when the early peas came in and continued through the fall into butchering time.

While we hulled berries or stirred our fruity brews, Nanny would share childhood canning stories. Some funny, some gross, all mentioning the words “hot” and “sweaty” and “miserable heat” many, many, many times, and one that I’ve repeated and will again. It begins with a plum tree. The biggest plum tree, upon which grew the darkest, richest, biggest plums in town. (Maybe Gustine, maybe Watsonville, I won’t say.) Big and sweet and luscious as those plums looked no one dared to go near that tree. Not because anyone warned them to stay away. Not because they were hard to reach—the fruit hung so heavy on the branches they sometimes brushed the ground. But because, the tree stood in the middle of a field beside the town mortuary and, as everyone knew, as part of preparing the bodies, the undertaker drained all the blood from the bodies. And, while no one had ever seen the hose, it was a well known fact that he drained the blood into that field. That blood is what made that tree grow so large, and that fruit grow so big and ripe and dark, dark, blood red. Vampire plums...

I put up my first preserves when I was 13, living with my mom and brother on Warner Avenue in Huntington Beach. For some reason, we had a bushel of ripe tomatoes and I decided to preserve them—even though I hated stewed tomatoes with a gut wrenching  passion. I found a recipe in the Betty Crocker Cookbook, rode my bike to the store to buy supplies and jars and spent the better part of a day and night stirring  up a few batches of sauce. (Sauce that looked so pretty in jars lined up on the shelf that I wouldn't let anyone use it.)  Nanny wasn’t there to help me, but I told her about it and made darn sure she saw them on her next visit.

This year, making pickles was an aside that came from Rusnati and my discussion about “Mister’s Lunches." Mister, Curtis, loves his pickles and we'd run out. Rusnati does not--never ever--like to run out of anything Mister likes. Be that as it may, I have a feeling that “pickling” hadn’t been as much fun as expected. Usually, when I’m in the kitchen cooking, Rusnati likes to be right there with me, cutting (sometimes taking my knife), stirring, (whatever I have the spoon), putting a hand into kneed (even when I’m elbow deep in flour), crimp the edge of the pie (my favorite part) and, if nothing else, washing everything (which I love!). This pickle session, Rusnati dutifully washed the cucumbers (only 15 kilos this time), placed them on the counter beside the five bottles of vinegar and 5 bags of sugar, said “sampai jumpa, selamat ahir mingu, see you later, have a nice weekend,”  and left.

So Rusnati wasn’t with me to make pickles this year. But Nanny was. Just like she is every “canning season,” standing beside me as I stirred the bowling brew, spooned hot pickles into jars, capped and sealed each jar in the boiling water bath. Right there as I sampled the first of this year’s sweet lime pickles on a slice of fresh, crusty buttered French bread.

Ah, Summer Time! Sweet, Summer Time, Summer Time!

Pond-ering

I'm not talking to Rohemon, our resident gardener and pond thief! I might not speak to Rusnati either--they must be in cahoots. Prior to leaving Jakarta last month, I had a nice friendly chat about the pond with Rusnati, who assured me that Rohemon was well aware of my hatred of the sly, ugly, mottled, bewhiskered goldfish gobbling ikan lele he has been growing in the pond. We had an understanding--at least I thought we did. The ikan lele were big, almost big enough to eat, then. By the time I returned home, those lele would have been dinner, and I'd have my pond back to grow whatever fish I wanted--cute, bubbly goldfish at least;  dead skin gobbling spa fish at best.

It was dark and I was tired when I arrived home Wednesday evening, and frankly, I've been so befuddled since that I haven't wanted to face anyone, so I've stayed inside the last couple of days. But today is an Indonesian holiday so the house is mine! Early this morning, I wandered outside to inspect the pond. My heart rhythm began skipping to a happy beat when I saw it. Sweet Rohemon had culled the water  hyacinth so now, it barely covered a third of the water surface. The waterfall was in full operation, splashing gaily into the cool, clear, apparently monster ikan lele-free water! Yippee!

Just to be sure I watched and waited, taking care not to cast a shadow over the water. (Those ikan lele are sneaky buggers.) A trio of sapu-sapu, algae eaters, lazily fanned their tails as they sucked the rocks, that was all. The only sign of fish life. I stood, conjuring an image of  the happy fish I'd stock my pond with, the bright cushions I'd buy to line the edges, the way my feet would soon be tickle-tingling as I sat sipping wine while tiny fish nibbled my toes...what joy!

What fodder! The murderous monster ikan lele aren't gone!  They were hiding. Lurking in the shadows. As the first kernel of fish food hit the water, one darted out, then another. At least three of them. Longer, fatter and more sinister looking than when I left.

A Bad Case of Spots

I have good news and bad news: Good news is my ears are not so red or swollen. Not to say they are back to normal. They are still flaming red, but at least small enough to tuck under a hat, or hide under hair--if I had long hair.

The bad news is that this dreaded "red ear" condition has morphed into a body rash. A blotchy, itchy, red rash. I am reminded of David Shannon's A Bad Case of Stripes. Heroine, Camilla Cream loves lima beans, but gave them up because her friends hated them and she wanted to fit in.

For some fortuitous reason, I am often in Singapore when health issues strike: last time it was an eye infection; the time before that an appendix attack. This time, because my flight arrived in Singapore at 1:00 am and the next flight out wasn't until morning, I'd booked a room for the night and scheduled an eye exam in the morning, with a flight out that afternoon.

In the same way damp hair drips down your back and spreads, I could feel the rash spreading during the long, long, 20 hours it took to fly from Los Angeles to Singapore via Tokyo. I'm thinking the girls seated next to me wondered about all that scratching and wiggling that went on under my blanket during lights out. Periodically, I'd slink off to the restroom to cool the rash with water and reapply Cortaid, which helped some. But by the time we landed in Singapore, I was determined to add one more doctor check to my list.

Ah, we love Singapore doctors. While waiting for my eye check, I called my regular doctor's office and was told they'd fit me in as soon as my eye check was finished. Dr. Lim, took one look at my rash, talked me through the ususal rash causing suspects--alergies, insect bites, "no" "no" "no"--then called a dermatologist who fit me right in.

Turns out my rash isn't of the normal, ate something strange or tangled with the wrong plant variety. It's a "bull's eye or target rash" meaning the red splotches are more like rings with white centers. Thus indicating that the rash is systemic. A virus perhaps contracted from someone with cold or fluish symtoms. The Dermatologist asked if I had been in contact with anyone coughing or sneezing. I laughed and told him that could be any of hundreds of people as in the past week I had been on 2 trains and 4 planes and at a 4th of July Spectacular.....

Still, as I scratch and itch, duly take the medicines the doctor ordered, which include topical cream, an antihistamine and steroids to bring down the rash, I keep returning to my friend Sydnie's theory of dis-ease as related to my swollen ears: what was I not wanting to hear? And of Camilla Cream in Bad Case of Stripes: what am I doing, not doing,  or suppressing?

What's odder, the rash didn't spread from my ears down as one might expect. Instead, it skipped my neck, chest, shoulders and lower half of my legs and is instead concentrated on my underarms, hips, thighs and legs--all the fatty bits. So, does this mean in an effort to "fit in" or not...I've been eating too much and my body is rebelling? Or are my body parts rebelling because I haven't been exercising? Or??????  Help Camilla! Help David Shannon! Help Sydnie! Help me unravel the meaning behind this bull's eye rash before I scratch myself into oblivion.

Nothing Means Nothing

It's the Monday after 4th of July. I'm in LAX, waiting for the flight that will wing me back to Jakarta after a month away. Too long to be gone from Curtis and home. As a fitting end to a whirlwind trip, I'm in Reno visiting my  mom and my brother, Joe and his family, Joanne his wife, Devin and Grace their as Garrison puts it "handsome and above average" children.

Getting here Friday was no easy feat. My flight overflowed with disgruntled families--iincluding a 5some which had been separated due to a plane switch (a major problem because their youngest child had cerebral palsy and was wheelchair bound). The mother , fuming and shooting sparks, blocked the check-in counter so no one else could be served because the United Airline desk folks wouldn't/couldn't rearrange seats so they could be together; and a family of seven, including 3 children under 8, who had also been separated as a result of the plane switch. While the first mom ranted, the 6 year old from the second group disolved in tears after discovering hers was a lone middle seat several rows in front of her parents, and refused to budge from the aisle. Add to this, a young family with 2 toddlers seated behind a blousy bleached blonde middle-age crazy who turned and screamed several times for the tots  to "shut up, I'm trying to sleep." A rant to which the tots mother responded by calling the flight attendance and complaining (while the 1st and 2nd mother shouted out supporting "crazy lady" theory evidence.)   From my cozy window seat, I watched, as one does a reality show, glad their drama wasn't my drama.

My second flight, from Denver to Reno, saw a completely different cast of characters--down right boring in comparison. Anticipating a restful flight,  I was alternately dozing and reading when the pilot turned the fasten seatbelt sign back on and announced the generator had failed, as had the restart attempt and 1st back up, so we were RETURNING TO DENVER!!!!! We were almost, but not quite, at the half-way mark...if we had been there, or past it, we would have flown on to Reno. Electricity, pashaw! I thought, Chicken Shit! Don't turn back--get me to Reno!!!

5 hours later than original scheduled, I collected my way too heavy bags (60 & 58 pounds--do we really need 1 pound jars of peanut and almond butter and 3 bottles of Anne's Goddess Dressing?) and staggered out to the rental car shuttle stop. The sky was bright, the sun hot, and I sweated and waited...and waited...and waited...

...and finally dug out my Thrifty Blue Chip card and called the number on back to ask about the tardy shuttle. Fancy this: Blue Chip info keeps banker's hours. Now that's what I call service: a "preferred customer" number that is closed when the supposed "preferred customer" needs them! After unearthing my reservation from my wad of receipts and reservations and dialed Thrifty Reno's direct number, a cheery someone informed me:  "There aren't shuttles anymore as we are now on sight" and all I have to do is come back inside---me and my4 bags and purse--did I forget to mention my 3rd and 4th bags, a carry on rollerboard and overstuffed purse?--trudged back inside to the desk, finished the reservations, retreived the keys and walk across to the parking garage. What joy! Was this roased turkey supposed to be happy?

My friend, Beverly, is fond of saying "a bad beginning makes a good ending." That being the case, we'd have to pretend that the ending happened 4th of July midnight--after 2 days with family. Mom and I shopped and ate and drove and laughed, and spent lots of joyful time--taco night on the patio with Joanne and kids, Sunday picnic with the whole family; and the fireworks spectacular in Sparks! The 4th of July celebration was such fun that even the hour wait in a fume-filled garage afterwards, couldn't mar it. However....

I awoke this morning at 2:51 am! (9 minutes early as my 1st flight departed at 5:30. )--scratching the top of my foot and what look like bug bites all over my thighs.  Worse, were my ears--my dainty, shell-like ears, my grandmother's favorite ears, the very same delicate ears which prompted her to tell me to "pull your hear back so your ears show" more times that I can count--were bright red, swollen, itchy and sticking out from my head like those of Snow White's 4th dwarf, Dopey.

Now, several hours, ice water and aloe vera dressings later, I'm  worse. The "bug bites" have spread from the back of my thights to the fronts,  my arms and chest. And despite repeated applications of Cortaid and several Benadryl tablets, my ears have passed through "Dopey" to "Dumbo" as in,  the flying elephant (no comments, please, I am well aware of the implied implications of that comparison...)

While laminting my swollen ears and reliving the last couple of days to uncover something I may have eaten or used which could have caused such a reaction, I'm recalling a bout of larangytis.  My friend, Sydnie, a Christian Scientist, told me then that she believes disease is actually "dis-ease." That when a person is ill, which ever part of the body is ailing  is reacting to repressed feelings. In the case of my sore throat, Sydnie suggested it meant I was "not saying something I should be," that I was holding back, staying silent rather than addressing an issue.

I wonder what Sydnie would have to say about my ears????

Play Me I'm Yours-Pure Magic!

Occasionally, often at inconvenient, unexpected or irksome times, we happen upon magic. It happened again Tuesday night. I was in New York City to visit my daughter, Lexi. It was late for a weeknight dinner—close to 9.  Lexi, her beau, Ryan,  and I were hungry, tired, and wanting dinner. It was one of those evenings after a long day for all of us: I had just ridden in on the train from Baltimore, after spending a delightful few days with my writer bud, Barb Crispin, racing through the ALA Convention in Washington, DC; Lexi had put in a hard day at the office; as had Ryan, who’d been up and at it since 5: 30. If we were smart, we would have ordered in. But it was a spring on the brink of summer eve where everyone on the streets seemed joyful. Pretty girls in short, flirty skirts and tall shoes pranced; suited men with ties fluttering had bounce in their step--a night begging to be enjoyed--a "Puck" night.

We chose Italian, because there are several al fresco cafes on 6^th Ave between Bleeker and Spring,  and agreed to meet there. Unfortuanately for us, everyone else was similarly possessed. Every café with open air seating was packed with waiting lines, more aptly,  rings of anxious diners hovering, willing those at tables to “shut up, eat up and leave so we can have your spot.”  Ryan and Lexi arrived before me. They were sitting on a bench, motioning at me with their cell phones and eyebrows raised in that “we’ve been calling you, why didn’t you pick up” way. I was rushing toward them when it happened.

The piano caught my attention immediately. Angled jauntily, splashed with Technicolor  it beckoned “Play Me I’m Yours!” and they did! Everyone who had ever taken a piano lesson, or banged out Chopsticks, stopped to tickle the ivories—Magic!

The piano is one of 60 mysteriously deposited all over New York City by Sing For Hope, “an ‘artists’ peace corps’ that mobilizes more than 600 professional artists in our volunteer service programs that benefit schools, hospitals and communities.”  From 9am-10pm each day, June 21-July 5, 60 pianos are/were scattered throughout NYC, inviting passersby to play a ditty.

“Play Me, I’m Yours” is an artwork by British artist Luke Jerram who has been touring the project globally since 2008. (He’s posted a street piano webcam viewed through his website: http://www.lukejerram.com/ site.)

If you’re in NYC, you have one more day to experience this musical magic in person. And, thanks to that tech magic called Internet, Play Me I’m Yours videos, stories and photos can enthrall us all. Click on: http://www.streetpianos.com/nyc2010/

This musical magic continues! 20 pianos strong, Play Me I’m Yours hits Grand Rapids on September 22^nd—where else?????

Magic Happens…. Keep your eyes and ears open!