The Samoan Kitchen Table Adventures

(Our Home in Amouli. Baby brother with Masina the cat and Axle the dog - they came with the house).

Traditionally Samoans don't have kitchen tables.  They eat their meals sitting cross-legged on the floor on a mat.  But, we were a palagi (white) family living in a concrete block structure commonly referred to as a hurricane house in the village of Amouli on the Island of Tutuila (American Samoa).  How we came to live in American Samoa in 1992 when I was still a teenager is another story. 

We didn't use our kitchen table to eat at. We ate in the living room - where it was brighter and cleaner (the kitchen was scary).  Our kitchen table was large and rectangular that had huge gouges in it, as if the previous tenants enjoyed stabbing it with their bush knives or carving vague words into it.  The only time I used it was to make cinnamon rolls to sell in local bush stores to earn enough money to attend school in Hawaii.

I would get up at 4:00 in the morning to make the cinnamon rolls.  Using the oven was kind of tricky as it was a little tempremental.  When we first moved into the house, we had to clean the wood ash out of the oven before I could use it (the previous tenants were obviously technologically challenged). One morning my mother had turned on the range and set an iron skillet on it to warm up.  After a few minutes the range started making popping noises and I turned just in time to see a bright blue arc of light launch the skillet two feet into the air as sparks shot everywhere.  We learned quickly that in order to avoid been electrocuted when we cooked our meals, we needed to wear our rubber sandals. 

If Samoa had a health department (maybe it did, I don't know as the thought never crossed my mind to even check), I'm sure my little business would have been shut down in a heartbeat.  The place crawled at night with roaches, hermit crabs, frogs, centipedes and the occasionaly bat and chicken.

By 6:00 am I had three dozen cinnamon rolls that I delivered to three different bush stores; one in Tula, and two in Amouli.  They sold for 50 cents each, of which I got 25 cents.  They were very good - better than Cinnabon I would wager since I used New Zealand Butter and Milk which was the sweetest I had ever tasted. One bush store owner, apparently not familiar with the concept of cinnamon rolls, complained that the rolls were "too sweet and sticky".  Hers was the only store that didn't sell out of the rolls, so I quit stocking with her. 

I spent many mornings rolling out the dough on that table while dreaming of attending college in Hawaii - but that is another story. 

Until then, Eat Well, Be Well, and Be Happy.

Oatmeal, Captain Underpants, and Tailgate Parties

It’s nearly 9:00 am and we just finished a breakfast of hot oatmeal cereal.  I can’t stand oatmeal, but that’s only a recent development.  Since overcoming severe anemia, I have lost the desire to eat the mushy, paste colored, barn lofty smell of oats.  No matter how I dress it up with raisins and cinnamon, it still gets stuck in my throat and I have to gag it down.  Two of my boys love it, one doesn’t (my SPD child) he can’t stand the texture.

As my three darling boys are careening through the house in only their underwear and red capes, playing “Captain Underpants (I’m still annoyed at my good friend who introduced the despicable books to my children) I am readying myself for my very first tailgate party for the University of Utah Football game this afternoon.  I’m not a football fan.  I don’t watch football.  I’m going because a local radio station hired me to paint the U of U drum and feathers logo on people’s faces.  It was only recently that I was informed that there would be drunken people there.  Great. I’ll be getting a good whiff of beer breath and will have to deal with the idiotic antics of said persons.

A cousin of mine from Samoa, didn’t know what a tailgate party was, so I defined it for her (after consulting those who have attended such events). 

The term “Tailgate Party” refers to an event where white people park their trucks together in the parking lot of a stadium and sit on their truck tailgates as they drink beer and eat nachos, passing foul gas and burping loudly while they get stupid drunk just before the big football game.  Apparently this kind of activity is considered a party.

They do it so they can get “excited” for the game – but by the time the game is over, they’re usually passed out or close to it, or they have annoyed other sober fans to the point that they are in danger of getting their lights knocked out.  By the following morning these “tailgaters” have no recollection as to who even won the game.

I think people who drink to get drunk enjoy playing the guessing game “Don’t know what the heck I did last night – do you?”

If they only knew that they could achieve the same level of stupidity and obnoxiousness by staying awake for 24 to 48 hours straight.  They’d save their livers and other vital organs from ravages of alcohol consumption.

Hope your day is good. I'm off to gather my paints and brushes and my sense of humor.

until next time, Eat Well, Be Well and Be Happy.

Smoke, Stress and Stories

Smoky skies yesterday turned out to be a fire out of control that originated on Camp Williams machine gun firing field.  Thousands of people and hundreds of animals evacuated.  Incredibly, only 4 homes out of thousands in harms way, burned to the ground.

Our house sits above the valley of Salt Lake and we watched as dirty brown smoke filled the valley, polluting the air and making our throats itchy and noses tingle.   It is not going to be a good day for asthmatics and those who have allergies.  I feel bad for their suffering as well as for those who have been directly affected by the fire.  Lives have been changed.

Stories are filling the air about the fire, stories of heroics, of suffering, of stress and worry, of future plans, of long nights tending to frightened children and animals.  Stories are what we listen to that feed our imaginations and influence our deciscions.  I love stories.  I love the power they have to move people to laughter or tears, anger or forgiveness.  

Jesus Christ used stories to illustrate gospel principles.  He is the Master Teacher and his stories or parables, have lasted for generations upon generations of humankind.  Truth endures.  Take a moment to think of one of His parables.  I'd love to hear comments next week on which story you chose to think about this week and how it may or may not have affected your actions this week.

Superheroes and Mushrooms; a Metaphor for SPD and Food Allergies.

This morning while my family and I were enjoying a breakfast of garden skillet (fried zucchini, onions, mushrooms, garlic, and potatoes with scrambled eggs on the side) and a cool glass of banana, apple, mango smoothies, our kitchen table conversations covered why mushrooms are disgusting and why superheroes should NOT wear underwear.

I learned that my 3 year old thinks mushrooms are disgusting.  I failed miserably in trying to tempt him into eating them when I suggested that they were special because Fairies used them as chairs because Dad then quipped, “Well that mushroom must have been a casualty of a flatulent fairy.” 

Which brought to my mind an image of a very gaseous fairy expelling foul, and dangerous clouds of sickly green gas that would render creatures unconscious and the germ of a story was planted in my imagination.   By the time the vision of the new story idea passed, my children and husband were discussing my youngest son’s proclamation that superheroes don’t wear underwear.  This stemmed from an incident the night before when my three year old galloped into the kitchen, as bare as the day he was born, clutching his Spider Man costume and asking Dad to help put it on him.  Dad asked him to go put underwear on at which my three year old protested that superheroes didn’t wear underwear.

“Why don’t superheroes wear underwear?” Dad asked, perplexed.

“Because then the bad guys can give them wedgies!” John stated as if that should have been obvious.

Which brings me to the main topic of this post; what do superheroes and mushrooms have to do with SPD (Sensory Processing Disorder) and Food Allergies?  Well, the later is fairly obvious, but what is SPD?

SPD (www.sensory-processing-disorder.com) is the inability to correctly process the information the five senses sends to the brain.  Two of my sons were diagnosed with this disorder.  Let me illustrate what this disorder is about.  Things such as clothing tags and seams that you or I wouldn’t notice, can really bother some kids with SPD to the point where they become miserable and refuse to wear certain clothing.  Superheroes who have SPD don’t wear underwear because the waistband is bothersome.

Some kids with SPD also have a hard time with certain foods.  I have one son who craves hot, spicy foods in order to satisfy his need for oral stimulation, while my other son avoids it.  He’d rather chew on non-food items to get the joint compression he needs in his jaw.  One son cannot stand the texture of oatmeal, and prefers the creamy consistency of creamed wheat (which unfortunately we learned he has an allergy to).  It’s not that they are just being picky eaters, it’s a serious problem.  But there are strategies to employ to overcome this.

We have learned this past year that our family has definite allergies to wheat and dairy.  I suspect other allergies and am in the process of discovering for sure, but until then, I concentrate on providing meals for my family without the aforementioned foods.  Challenging?  Not really.  There is a wealth of information on the internet about food allergies.  I have done some research in which I will share what I have found and the recipes I use for my family.  Until next time.  Eat Well, Be Well, and Be Happy.

Morning Rituals

The plan was to get up at 5:30 am in order to have some time for myself to plan my day, meditate and pray for the Lord’s help. It didn’t happen. I drag my sorry self out of bed at 6:20, berating myself for staying up until 11:30 reading Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins.

I stumble to my children’s rooms, flip on the light and urge them to get up in my most happiest voice. I believe a cheerful mother in the morning sets the tone for the day for them. I can be grumpy after they have been dropped off at school.

Into the kitchen I stagger, staring at the pile of homework on the kitchen table, knowing that my oldest son, who is nine, won’t have time to finish it. I remember the ultimatum I gave him the previous night. Finish your homework or you can’t go to scouts. He donned his uniform and dashed out the door and was on his bike before I could protest, but by then I was sitting on the couch reading Mockingjay and was too distracted. Darn book.

I pull out the pans, dice potatoes, onions and zucchini from my garden and start frying them in olive oil. I want my boys to have a hot, healthy breakfast because I believe it helps them stay focused, calm and attentive in school. I scramble eggs on the side and by then my three year old, John, is upstairs and smiles at me, greeting me cheerfully. He wants to help make the grape juice. He does a good job, no spills this time.

My other two boys stumble upstairs, rubbing their eyes. My six year old is grumpy. He takes after me. My nine year old, Michael, is smiling as usual and heads for the shower. I can’t get my six year old, Bruce, to even get off the couch and get dressed. He gets on his knees, with his chin on the cushion and his head craned back, mouth hanging open and eyes closed. He mumbles something about his tummy hurting again.

I get breakfast on the table. All three boys are dressed (after much coercion, bribes, and finally threats). In order to remedy the constant bickering over who gets to say the meal time prayers, I assign them turns. It’s Bruce's turn to say breakfast prayers for the month of September. He asks for blessings on the food and everyone in the family except John, my three year old. This does not escape John's attention and when “amen” is said, he wails that Bruce didn’t ask for a blessing for him. I glare at Bruce. Bruce says the prayer again, “please bless John, but not really.” And then grins mischievously at me. Again, John begins to cry. I end up having to say the breakfast prayer once more, asking for a blessing for John before everyone is happy and we can eat.

Dad had stayed up late working on a project for his employers and I realize that I’m going to have to drop the kids off at school. I briefly consider driving there in my pajamas, but then the thought occurs to me that if I get into a car accident, I’m going to feel awfully silly in my pjs.

So off to school we go. Because I overslept, we don’t have time for devotional, which includes singing a hymn, reading from the scriptures and saying family prayer. In the car, we say a quick prayer and I turn on Scripture Scouts. I believe sending my boys out into the world with some form of the Lord’s words in their minds will help them. I don’t know how much, but hopefully some of it will stick and make them good, contributing members of society.

Back home again, I fight the urge to lie down on the couch and take a nap. I lose. I sleep while my three old builds rocket ships next to my face, carrying on a one sided conversation. An hour later, I’m still groggy, but at least I feel a bit more energized. Because I didn’t plan my day out ahead of time, I have to make decisions as I go. Should I do laundry, clean bathrooms, make healthy snacks for when the kids get home, grocery shop, or start this blog?

Well, here I am blogging away and this has been such fun. Of course, my day isn’t over yet, and there is so much more to share of my adventures around my kitchen table. In just a few hours I’ll have bags of groceries to put away and between now and then, something interesting is bound to happen.

Until then, eat well, be well, and be happy.

Jennifer