I know it was no small thing for him to ask. He talked about it while he was still here. I had mentioned the idea, but I think he was nervous about asking his dad, about imposing, and presuming.

But today for the first time outside of his grandparent’s church, my boy sat with his FATHER at church. At our old church. In a pew next to our dearest friends.

And while I wish I could have been there, while I wish I could have hugged Myra and Ken and while I miss having my boy next to me in church, I can recognize this as a wonderful event just as it is. A big moment. A brave moment for my boy. And a generous one by his dad.

Thank you, Myra and Ken for your warmth. Jacob would not have gone there if you hadn’t been there.

And thank you to J, for taking our boy and sitting beside him in a pew. I hope it was no small thing to you, either.

She wasn’t there this time. She wasn’t among those precious little ones dressed in leotards and ballet shoes. She wasn’t there to dance and perhaps it was easier this way.

A year ago I sat with a boy in church and watched his daughter dance. It was the start of a new relationship and it was one of the first times I had been around his children. I was honored to be there. I was delighted to see her dance. And I was deeply touched by the opportunity (at last!) to sit beside a boy in a pew. It was no small thing. But it was not meant to be a lengthy thing.

This weekend, she was not there to dance. At her mother’s for most of the week, she missed out on our church’s dance camp. He was not there either. It’s his 41st birthday and he was off to celebrate with his new girlfriend – as it should be. It’s all good.

But I couldn’t help but think this morning, sitting in a pew alone, of my thoughts from a year ago. My hope. My joy. The thrill of having a little boy wrap himself up in me, a little girl who waved from the stage when she saw her dad. Of a man, who put his arm around me and prayed with me at his side.

He wasn’t meant to be mine, nor I his. We disagree – a lot. We are better apart than ever could be together. And I think we’ve both reached a point of understanding and accepting that.

But I still hope that I will get such an opportunity again. A chance to love little ones as if they were my own. A chance for the joy that comes from praying together.

I wish TB a very happy birthday today. I pray that The Rentals are safe and loved and cherished. And I pray that his new relationship might be a real blessing from above – full of joy and laughter.

It started when I flipped through a book I bought as a Christmas present for my second mom. The book was titled, “100 Things To Do Before Heaven” or some such ambitious thing, and one of the items was “have a signature dish”. Have a signature dish? I don’t even have a dish for company. When company comes over, I often ask my second mom for advice on what to fix, as I’m lacking anything that seems fancy enough for guests. But somehow this attracted my attention and I began thinking from time to time about my favorite foods and wondering why all of them are things I eat at restaurants and not things I ever cook at home.

The first problem is, that despite what Flash might tell you, I’m not much of a cook. I can put a meal together, sure, but it’s probably meat grilled on the George Foreman, veggies steamed right in the bag and maybe rice or a salad to boot. And while I can more than 50 jars of applesauce and a dozen or more jars of jam each year, there’s nothing fancy about my cooking. There’s nothing that takes much more than a half an hour to any of my dishes. So, I started looking through my recipe books to find some ideas on my “signature dish”.

In my cabinet are 3 cookbooks. Better Homes and Gardens, which J bought me years and years and a lifetime ago when we were married. I use it when I make banana bread. Seriously, that’s it. I used to use it for things like pancakes, waffles, cakes and brownies and such, but I’ve learned the prepared mixes are so much better than my from-scratch versions so those pages have been untouched for a long time now. I also have a recipe book that Stacy sent to me of recipes from the church we used to attend together. I cherish that one for more sentimental than culinary reasons. And then we have MY recipe book. Nothing more than an old small binder, white at one point in its life, now yellowed and covered with various crusted ingredients. It was thick with pages. Some written on fancy recipe pages, some hand written, others ambitiously typed.

For the most part, the recipes I used most from that book were now loosely tucked in the front pocket- having ripped out long ago from frequent use. There you would find my mom’s recipe for French Cookies, my grandma’s recipe for Jumbo Raisin Cookies, Judy’s recipe for lasagna, my own notes on strawberry jam and applesauce.

Within the thick, tabbed pages I held a sundry of recipes. Many torn from magazines with pictures included. Some in the signature of friends. A few printed from an online source. My book included ideas on how to make a dessert more presentable as well as edible. I had recipes for modeling clay and homemade cleansers.

For the most part, my recipe book was a young bride’s relic. An optimistic resource created so that I might one day be the perfect wife, the perfect hostess. And then, like the Luvs diaper ads used to proclaim, “Reality hit.”

I spent a portion of the other day sorting through the book, tearing out most, keeping little. I held onto my grandmother’s recipe for homemade noodles and pie crusts, even though I never imagine making either. I kept recipes for my dad’s “college cookies” that my mom used to make when he would come to visit. I even kept a recipe for my ex’s favorite birthday cake, hoping that maybe one day my son would make it for his dad.

So now, my poor decrepit, stained, flour-covered binder is all but empty. And while this certainly won’t upset my usual cooking routine (while Flash is away, “cooking” is a very relative term to begin with), it would be nice to restock my recipe book, but this time with a more realistic set of pages. While I am still searching for (and once I have a second-eater and opinion-maker in the house, testing out) the perfect signature dish recipe, I really want the casserole you put together last Tuesday night, the one that only needs six ingredients and ten minutes to throw together. I want the soup recipe that you concocted last winter that your daughter said was better than Campbell’s. I want that funny little thing you do with green beans written down and shared. Or maybe it’s that sangria recipe that you made for company last week. Or the potluck dish you had at the church retreat. And the cake your grandmother made when you came to visit? I want that one, too. What do you make when you have guests? What do you take when you need a dish to pass? What do you put together when you’re four days from payday and the fridge seems empty? Tell me your signature dish, or just the one that you make most often. Doesn’t have to be fancy at all, probably better if it’s not.

Help me fill up my recipe book (after it gets a thorough cleaning) with new delectables. Will you share your favorites with me?

Feel free to post here for all to enjoy or email recipes straight to me at bluered28@yahoo.com.

One man.

Needs to have: a passion for Christ, a stable home, a love for children, a great sense of humor, an ability to laugh at himself, a spontaneous side, and a few things he is passionate about (even if they are football, perfecting BBQ chicken and Monty Python movies).

Should be: responsible, financially secure, and able to act his age (most of the time). A great listener, laid-back and able to decipher which secret statement at a party means, “Can we please leave now?”

Might: wish he still owned a motorcycle, be planning a vacation to Maine or Ireland, think the 42″ plasma is inadequate for Monday Night Football, have regrets but he’s forgiven himself and has moved on.

Doesn’t want: me to be his savior, his mother, his housekeeper or his conscience. Prefers not to go shopping at the mall, to endure two chick-flicks in a row, and hates high-maintenance women.

Desires: to keep growing – in faith, in experience, in maturity – and a partner to enjoy the journey. (Secretly wishes to get a 12-point this Thanksgiving.)

Offers: more than just companionship. He wants a relationship that helps us both realize and accomplish our purposes for being here, and the desire to let God lead the way. (Note: might also come with a nice couch and big dog!)

Thinks: that true love is not old-fashioned, a Hollywood myth or something to be taken lightly. He understands it takes hard work, tenacity, courage, and a well-developed sense of humor. Also firmly believes the DH is a cop-out.

Is willing to: Cheer for the Red Sox (and against the Yankees), sit in silence at the lake, handle all things electronic, mechanical or related to plumbing, endure my singing in the car, be vulnerable, make mistakes, risk looking like a fool, and love completely and unconditionally.

Applications are currently being accepted.

Flash hasn’t been to the doctor for a physical since we moved to MI. Since his docs in PA were the last to see him, I had his dad schedule an appointment while he was out there this summer. Today is apparently the day.

Text message from Flash: “today is doc day. ew.”

Mom: “hang in there, you’ve had much worse things to deal with than simple silly shots.” (7 teeth extracted, a frenectomy, laser treatments to his face…)

Mom: “Flash? While you’re there, take advantage of the doc and ask any questions you have!”

Flash: “Questions? What questions would I have? You mean like, ‘is there a cure for crazy’?”

I call them questions about puberty, you call them questions about insanity. It’s all the same thing really, isn’t it?

on blue corn tortilla chips. That what goes in blue will come out blue.

That’s just a fright no one needs at 6am.

An old man is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy. “It is a terrible fight, and it is between two wolves. One wolf is evil. He is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego. The other wolf is good. He is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. This same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”

The old man replied simply, “The one you feed.”

At the restaurant – “Hey, Aunt Fred, look over there at that thing on the wall. It looks like a rabbit with horns on it’s head!!!” (Do we tell him now that a jackalope really exists or just let him think the restaurant is trying to be funny? On second thought, why are we eating at a restaurant that has a jackalope on the wall to begin with?)

At home, watching a reality TV show – George: “This dude is a Canadian.” Mom: “No, George, he’s a comedian.” George: “What’s the difference?” (Yeah, come to think of it, what is the difference, eh?)

It really wasn’t a huge shocker, considering my child, but still, it’s not exactly what you expect your teenager to say.

“Mom? I’m really glad we don’t have or watch TV. It’s all just junk.”

I’d sure love to be playing Yahtzee or Rummykub with that boy tonight.

I have been blogging for what, five years now? And in that time, I’ve been fairly careful about not using my real name, not giving my exact location, not identifying my son, or the relatives in my life. While I realize it wouldn’t take an expert detective to figure out who I am, I at least wanted to give some impression that personal security mattered and if, by chance, someone ever took great offense to my review of a book, works for DirectTV, doesn’t appreciate my comments about t-shirt slogans on kids or just thought maggots had more rights than my sister demonstrated, I didn’t really want to be an easy target to find.

I’ve used pseudonyms for all of us. I’ve mentioned my general location but not the specific town, I’ve never mentioned where I work by name.

For all any of you know, I’m really a 73 year old Asian man, living in Spain, working for a local Italian restaurant. I’m just sayin’.

And then along comes Dad. Dad, who originally refused to read my blog, I think more because he was afraid of the sexual material, parental rage, secret life I lead, personal things he might learn about his daughter than anything else, but has become a follower to the point that there is no need to actually have a phone conversation with him any longer as his replies to my comments about the happenings in my life is, “I know, I read it on the blog.” Dad, who has commented twice maybe thrice after he finally came around to reading regularly. Dad. Who, since I changed the comments to require a registered name, had to register yesterday in order to leave his remarkably witty retort about trash in the freezer.

And knowing that blogging is a security risk, knowing what a protector of sacred information he is, knowing how careful he is with his own identity information, my father comes up with the registrated name of “Roger Wilson” and follows up his note by signing it “Dad”.

Yep, that’ll fool ’em, Dad. I mean Roger, Mr. Wilson, Trash Cryogenics Expert, Protector of the Innocent Bloggers. Sigh.

And they say I have the least of the common sense in the family!!

(By the way, once you make my blog an icon on your iTouch, you’re just fair game for blog material. Be forewarned, Jules, Sis, daughter of Roger, Mrs. Jane Doe, you’re next.)