Okay, boys, I’m going to let you in on a little secret of relationships. And it revolves around food. If we are smart, we understand that food can speak for us, especially to those we love.

It’s a pretty simple rule to remember: entrees are for romance, but dessert is for love. That is something to take with you forever. I hope that when you are 80 year-old men you’re still firing up the brulee torch for the love of your life.

Your mother has, on occasion, made me crème brulee. She does it, even though she is horrifically lactose intolerant.

If you want to show your mother how much you love her, make her Apple Crisp. She would eat it until her stomach explodes. She loves it that much.

There is a bit of psychology to it, which is really where dessert lays in the whole thing. Dessert usually sends ups back to childhood, which, hopefully, is a comfortable, nostalgic, warming place.

Apple crisp is her youth. But it’s also yours. You make her apple crisp and she will remember the happiness of us on one of our fall apple picking excursions. Of you picking your first apples and eating the red balls with the blinding white flesh in the sunlight of a crisp autumn breeze. And she will be overcome with her love for you. For her, Apple Crisp is a beautiful thing, like her boys.

Your Mama’s Apple Crisp Love

Ingredients

Topping

3/4 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup chopped pecans
3/4 cup rolled oats
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 stick melted unsalted butter

Filling

3 lbs. apples (about 7 medium), peeled, cored, halved, and cut into 1/2-inch-thick wedges *
1/4 cup sugar **
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 cup applejack/apple liqueur or apple cider
2 teaspoons lemon juice
2 tablespoons unsalted butter

Directions

FOR THE TOPPING

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Combine everything but flour in a bowl. Stir in the melted butter until mixture is thoroughly moistened and crumbly.

FOR THE FILLING

Stir the apples, vanilla sugar, and cinnamon together in a bowl.

Simmer applejack/liqueur or cider in a 12-inch iron skillet over medium heat. Cook it until it’s reduced to about ½ cup. Pour the reduced liquid into a bowl. Stir in the lemon juice.

Using the now empty iron skillet, eat butter over medium heat. When it stops foaming add the apple mixture and cook, stirring frequently, until the apples begin to just soften and become. You can’t cook them all the way here, because you’re gong to toss them in the oven, too. Remove the skillet from the heat and stir in the liquid.

Sprinkle the crumble topping over the apples. Place the iron skillet on the center rack and bake until the topping is golden brown and delicious, about 20 minutes.

Let it cool a little. Serve to the one you love.

*I like to use a variety of apples, some sour like Granny Smith, and some sweet like Braeburns.

**For this I like to use vanilla sugar because your mother likes it.•

•Vanilla Sugar: Two cups white sugar. One vanilla bean. Put the sugar in an airtight container. Split the bean lengthwise. Scrape out the seeds and put those in with the sugar. Cut the split beans in half widthwise and throw those into the sugar too. Toss everything around. Use after two weeks. Taste nirvana.

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SPT’s The Writers’ Room

Season 4

BEGINS!

And we are starting this season off with a great show. Our special guest is local actor/folk hero Scott Humeston. We are at our new digs at the refurbished CSPS.  And I get to play the cow bell! How much better can it get?

Our first episode is entitled “Twister.” This is not just the essence of life, but certainly what we feel at the beginning. We are all Twisted around, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Sometimes people get in the way of that, sometimes they help, sometimes we all crash down together trying to figure things out

So click the image above to get your tickets online. If you are in the area, this will be a must see. A night of fun, music, humor and thoughtful prose. It’ll twist you up.

Hope to see you there!

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I don’t know how parents do it. And by that, I mean that I am not…doing it. Doing it well at least.

I thought that after the first kid I would have a handle on it. Or at least a flexible grip.

It didn’t take too long for Bart and I to get into a pleasant groove. I would get two to three hours of writing time in the morning while he slept. Hell, I finished a 95,000 word novel with him on the time clock.

But today I nearly had a nervous breakdown.

Both kids awoke around 7:30 this morning. Both kids cranky and needing attention. Both kids hungry but not wanting to eat. By nine Bart had garnered himself two time-outs—something I absolutely hate to do, but it allows me to reset. I like to think it allows him to reset too. But I hate how it initially makes us both feel.

But I took this early wake-up as a chance. I thought that today would be the beginning of a new chapter in the day-to-day at our house. Usually Chang, the youngest, doesn’t wake up until Bart needs to head out the door to his preschool. But today he was up well before.

Here was the plan: Feed both the kids. Get Bart to school. Chang would fall asleep in the car from the school. We would be able to stop by a café. I would get at least an hour or two of unfettered sleeping-child-time to write.

There have been a couple of times that Chang has eaten before we took Bart to school, rather than afterward. And every time he falls asleep in the car. As he did here.

So it was with great jubilation that I walked into the café with my computer and his car seat. I got twenty minutes before he was up and angry. Barely enough time to get my email cleared out.

And the day descended from there. Not only did Chang afford no more than another ten minute nap during the morning, he was in constant need of holding or eating. And, as my wife Xena knows, I am not a multi-tasker. I don’t even pretend anymore. When he needs held, that’s all I can do. Xena can hold the baby, talk on the phone and grade papers at the same time. I am not that nimble of body or mind.

So all this time I was thinking, I could be writing right now. I could be writing. I finally want to be writing. I am ready to get back on a writing schedule. Come on! Sleep so I can write, damn it!

Which is not what I want to be thinking when holding my child. I want to present in the holding, not ticking off the work I could be doing. Not pissed at lost ideas because I couldn’t write them down because  my sweet, big-eyed, smiling baby boy was bellowing about something I couldn’t understand.

That’s simply a poor parent moment. And it kills me.

And yet. I need to write. And my best writing time is by far in the morning. At night, like now, I am tired and just want to zone out. Not good for writing.

But back to the day and the slow realization of a forming understanding. We have had good days, the two boys and I. Great days. But they are always days, usually after a project is finished, when I don’t have any work weighing too heavily on me. When, as it turns out, I have no expectation of work time during the day. The great days are when I awake having given up on getting any work done. Those are the smooth days, the fun days.

But I don’t know that I can live every day like that. When I’m in rehearsals, like now, I simply can’t write every night. I should be in bed right now. And if I have the expectation of writing during the day, the stress mounts when it doesn’t happen.

I’m also not one of those people who can write in ten and twenty-minute segments. I just don’t have the intellectual facility to do that. I always need time to reread and slide into the process.

And my desire to write has been growing. My desire to get back into the final drafting of my novel, Darnan, is a big pull right now. I was just asked to write another play. And I might have to turn that down because I simply don’t have the time. I keep looking at the writing gigs available online and thinking, I can’t commit to that because I can’t guarantee I will have the time to finish by the deadline.

Today was a total loss in writing. A total loss in parenting. A day I will never recover. A day my kids will never recover.

I honestly don’t know where that sweet spot is between the present parent and working writer. I don’t even know if that spot exists. Or maybe it exists next year or the year after.

Is the stress of the deadline worth the periodic absence? I don’t know.

What a day.

What a day.

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Okay, I know it doesn’t help that I was tired, but come on kid. Seriously?

I know that you see me everyday and clearly get tired of me, but come on kid. Really?

I know that Mommy is your favorite right now and that, in theory, the tide will change and I will become the fave for a bit, but come on kid. When?

I came home from rehearsal today and Xena (wife) was feeding Chang (baby boy). I heard Bart (two year-old) awake in his room calling to come out. So I went in to get him out.

He refused.

That’s right. My son refused to come out and play.

Why?

Because he wanted Mommy to come and get him.

So I said, “Okay,” and left to talk to start up dinner. Then he started carping louder. I went in again.

I am not making this up.

He said, “No, no. Not you. I want Mommy.” Then he actually pushed me away and pointed toward the door saying,” You go to kitchen!”

Seriously.

Seriously?

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Some of you who are regular readers may remember the dark nether-lands of my mime past. It is an embarrassing past life, but one I occasionally work to make friends with. I must thank South America for my most recent mime breakthrough.

Here is the headline that worked to release me: Caracas Uses Mimes to Control Traffic.

That’s right: the city of Caracas, Venezuela—a city of nearly 5 million people—has instituted a traffic-mime program. About 120 mimes have taken to the city streets, at the behest of the government, dressed in bright “clown-like” costumes, to help curb (if I may say) the pedestrian/car traffic problems of this megalopolis. They have been dispatched to the Sucre district, which is inexplicably French for “sugar!”

The mayor “turned to the mimes to encourage civility among reckless drivers and careless pedestrians.” Because if there is anything that a mime does, it is encourage civility in a swirling world of chaos.

Seriously? I don’t know that I have seen a mime that hasn’t daily been pelted with half-eaten nacho cheese chalupas. And, on a comparative basis, I have not heard that the South American temperament is in any way calmer than, say, a New Yorkers.

But here is the kicker. Caracas got this idea…from Bogota, Columbia.

Bo-go-ta! Columbia. That city has 400 traffic mimes who shadow reckless pedestrians and shame them into lawful action.

And, for me, the best part: the mayor of Bogota who instituted this program is named Antanas Mockus. I shit you not. I could make this stuff up, but the fact that it’s reality makes it so much better.

So, in the certain event that I again enter the work force, I can rest assured that, by tapping my dark past of mime, I can find work mocking the scofflaw pedestrians of South America.

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Sorry. No writing today. But I did finish the first draft of my adaptation of Alice in Wonderland!

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I’m pretty good organizing my business life, such as it is. My paid writing schedule, when I have one, is pretty clear. My rehearsal schedules, when I’m directing, are clear and relatively focused. But my family life…the organization is a bit wanting. I guess.

So, I’m going to try and get a little organization going in the dinner department.

Now, generally, I like to shop in what I call “the continental style.” That is, I like to go shopping nearly every single day and let what is out there inspire me. Or I like to sort of feel my way into what I want to fix for that evening. But, it’s not working out too well. I guess.

So I’m going to start working up a weekly menu for the family. I will try not to let it smother the creativity, just the spontaneity.

I have a board. It’s a little dry-erase thing that I have stuck to the fridge and marked it up with days and dinners. I’m going to set it up like this at first: Sunday and Monday dinners will go up on the board during the previous weekend. Tuesday and Thursday will be Left-Over Nights. Thursday is an early Writers’ Room night, so I need that night free-ish. Wednesday will be Veggie-Only Night. Friday, I’m thinking Pizza night. Saturday will be Open Night. I will do whatever the hell I want for Saturday night.

I am all for trying new things. And this new dinner planning thing may, in fact, inspire me. I guess.

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My oldest son has expressed his first fear. And it’s a doozy. And it’s totally beyond me.

He has, of late, not been getting to sleep easily. My wife is usually the bed-time wrangler. And she is really good and really patient at it.

But starting at the end of last week she has been in his room an hour getting him down. She’ll come back into the family room and say, I can’t be in there anymore. She’ll plunk herself down and in a few minutes we’ll hear his door open. And his sweet little voice with quietly say, “Mommy. Daddy.”

One of us will say, “You need to go bed, buddy.”

He’ll say, “Okay.”

Then it will be quiet for a while.

Then again, we’ll hear down the hall, his quiet little voice: “Mommy. Daddy.”

I’ll get up and go into his room, get him in bed. I’ll turn his star light back on and start rubbing his back. Then I’ll leave the room and close the door.

Five minutes later he has it open again. This can go on for two and a half hours or more until he finally falls asleep.

It took me five days to ask him, “Are you scared of something in here?” It makes me ashamed that it took me that long. I couldn’t even imagine him being afraid.

“Yes,” he said.

“What are you scared of, Honey?”

“The dragons.”

Honestly, this blew my mind. There are no dragons in his room, at least none that I can see.

Above his old crib we have a Balinese dragon that is said to protect children in their dreams. He loves that thing and used to want to touch it. He has never expressed a fear of it.

But, according to him, there are four red dragons that scare him when he closes his eyes. This kid is two. How can that be?

I held him and we looked around the room for the dragons and where they might live.

“They can’t live in your closets. Dragons have sensitive hearing and they don’t like the squeaking.”

“They can’t live under the bed. That’s where your doggy likes to go, and dragons are scared of doggies.”

It was actually kind of heart breaking.

I reminded him of his baby-dragon in the nursery, and how it was a good dragon that loved him.

I told him that dragons wouldn’t come back tonight —which, in retrospect was kind of a risk. I stayed with him for a bit and thin left again, this time leaving the door open.

Since then, we have left the door open at bed time, and that seems to have helped.

I have always been concerned about my kid breaking a bone or bashing his head. He’s all boy and likes to jump off everything. But this was really the first time that I understood how vulnerable he could be to things that are not only invisible to me, but things I don’t even know about.

And when I realized that, I’m pretty sure I got a glimpse of a dragon, too.

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Boy, yesterday kicked my ass. It absolutely sucker punched me, too. And the days that nail me, but also come out of nowhere really do some damage.

I knew that Monday was going to be tough one. Xena had conferences, so I wasn’t going to get any kid relief until late evening. But it was a pretty good day. I went into that tough day with eyes open and expecting a tough one. It was cake.

But yesterday…. I was expecting an easy day. So easy, in fact, that I had decided to build a composting bin while Bart was at his morning play session. But little Chang got it into his mind to have a particularly rough night for me. So that sort of set me up to begin with.

Then Bart has been having problems getting to sleep, which is a total post—perhaps my Friday post. And he has gotten into the habit of waking up an hour earlier than normal. I don’t do well without sleep.

Look, I’m going to stop cataloguing my day. I’m tired of thinking about. I am, in fact, simply tired.

And when I’m tired I end up feeling like a shitty parent. Then that sort of builds upon itself and creates a self-devouring ego. Yea!

But Wednesday is a new day with new possibilities. So…

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Some of you may know that I am lucky enough to be a member of SPT’s Writers’ Room. It’s a stable of five writers — four of whom perform as well —who write sketches and monologues for five or six shows a year. The shows are all themed and involve sketches, monologues and music, all wrapped together thematically.  We bring in local guest actors and musicians for each show. We get a bout six weeks to write each show and about a week of rehearsal before we do two nights of shows. It’s a blast, and it pays some bills.

Well, my shtick is usually the goof or the idiot, sometimes the guy with the accent, and I usually do some “thoughtful” personal monologue.

It is a rare occasion that I actually get to sing. And it creates in me a terrifying joy. I am not a singer. I am an actor who occasionally sings.

So when I hear that I am to sing in one of our shows I am simultaneously thrilled and nauseated.

Now, I usually get nervous before any show. That’s normal. But for shows that I sing in, vomiting before the show is not beyond the question. No joke.

I’m not sure why I love doing something that makes me so nervous and terrified that I could vomit. I hate haunted houses, most amusement park rides and riding while my wife is driving. But none of those make me as nervous as singing in a show.

Well, let the vomiting begin, for I am to sing in the next show. Yea! Brachagumbaphhhhhhsplat!

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