MINNESOTA Moments

Plump tomatoes and gooey marshmallows

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

A strong wind nipped at the flames of the tiki torches ringing the patio. The steady, rhythmic beat of chirping crickets resonated in the night air. And at the grill, where I stood toasting strawberry-flavored marshmallows as a late after-supper snack, ash-gray coals sputtered and glowed red hot.

It was the perfect evening on the last weekend in August. We had dined earlier on grilled Greek pork kabobs; seasoned baby red potatoes, sliced in their skins, drizzled with butter; fresh corn-on-the-cob rolled in butter; and my homemade banana-pumpkin bread.

That's the thing about this time of year. The food speaks to the land, to all things good and homegrown.

No where is that connection to the earth more evident than at the farmers' market or at a local vegetable farm. We shopped both this past weekend, picking from plentiful produce sun-ripened to perfection. The choices were endless. Plump red tomatoes. Hefty, oblong watermelons. Purple eggplant. Thick-skinned onions. Freshly-dug potatoes. And more.

Besides vegetables, homemade baked goods lined vendors' tables. Mounds of buns. Oatmeal raisin cookies. Peach cobbler. Cherry pie.

Then the flowers, freshly-cut from the garden. Bundles of stately gladiolus. Bunches of colorful zinnias.

I love this time of year. This end-of-summer, beginning-of-autumn season captivates the senses.

I love the sunny days that still cling to the warm breezes of summer. But the evenings, oh, the evenings, crisp and cool. These nights are made for tiki torches and crickets and gooey, toasted marshmallows. 
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Parenting blues

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

As little as I slept last night, you would think I was the one starting school today. I simply couldn't shut out the jumble of thoughts mixing in my mind. Usually those have more to do with a story idea brewing in my brain. But last night, the sleeplessness was due to the "letting go" process.

Yesterday we moved our oldest daughter into a different south Minneapolis apartment. Today our youngest starts high school. Mix in the middle child, who is currently studying at a university in Argentina, and you have all the ingredients for feeling blue.

I surprised even myself with my feelings. After all, my oldest, a spring college graduate, has been living in Minneapolis since June. But she was subleasing a furnished apartment, so she hadn't really moved much out of our house. Monday that all changed as we crammed our van with a bed, boxes of kitchenware, an end table, lamps and all the basics for apartment living.

It was the bed that put me in a funk. There's a certain finality to loading up your child's bed. It makes for a much emptier bedroom, which so clearly highlights the absence of the one who slept there.

The remaining twin bed then reminded me of my other daughter. I've pretty well adjusted to the fact that she is living 6,000 miles away in Argentina and won't be home until mid-January. But occasionally that fact hits me like a punch in the stomach.

My son didn't help matters either yesterday by repeatedly stating, "Mom, I'm starting high school tomorrow. High school. Only four more years."

He actually seemed more worried about the "four more years" part than the first day of school. I suspect that his sister's move might have heightened his awareness of the fleeting years. Though he won't openly admit it, I know my son misses his sisters.

I miss them too. That's the tough part about parenting. It's not the potty training, the childhood illnesses or the teen issues that are the most difficult. It's the letting-go. I've always allowed my kids to be independent, to stretch their wings and fly. I've tried hard not to be a hovering or interfering. I've tried to let them make their own decisions as they've grown. That said, I find myself wondering where the years have gone and why they are already leaving home for good. And on occasion, I find myself feeling blue. I figure after more than 22 years of child-rearing, I'm entitled.

Spider-Man gets ready for school

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

This past weekend marked the unofficial end of summer in Minnesota. Look almost anywhere and your senses embrace the seasonal transition. And those changes aren't just outdoors.

Indoors, in the school supply aisle of any retail store, parents and kids swarm, lists in hand, snapping up notebooks, crayons, folders, three-ring binders, number two pencils and more. I tried to avoid those aisles while shopping this weekend. But I was caught in the traffic jam of shopping carts because I needed a notebook. I planned to park my cart near an end cap, grab the writing pad, and get out of there. But, alas, those notebooks had been moved. So I had to fight the crowds until I found that coveted tablet.

Back in the store parking lot, I watched as a young boy strapped on his new backpack while grandma loaded bags into the rear of a van. Oh, to have such enthusiasm for the start of school.

Later that evening, while I was watering my backyard plants, my 6-year-old neighbor boy poked his head through an opening below the fence. He does this often and I always worry that one of these times he'll get his head stuck.

"Hi, Riley," I said. "Are you ready for school?" His face broadened into a wide smile.

I asked the usual questions. "Did you get a new backpack? Spider-Man?" Riley has this thing for Spider-Man. He runs around in a Spider-Man costume, calls himself Spider-Man and, he's told me, IS Spider-Man.

"No, the Minnesota Vikings!" Riley shouted.

"Oh, you don't like the Vikings," I teased. "You like the Green Bay Packers."

This soon-to-be-kindergartner shook his head defiantly. We talked for awhile then about his teacher, his folders, the number of days left until school starts. I erred on that one.

"Four more days until school," Riley said.

"No, only one day," I corrected.

He shook his head.

Then I remembered. Kindergarten classes start later in the week. Riley was right. Sometimes kids, especially those who are super heroes, really are smarter than adults.

High school orienteering

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

You would think by the time my third child started high school, I would know my way around the building. Not so. Earlier this week, my husband, son and I attended an open house in this sprawling 300,000 square foot facility.

Every time I try to weave my way through hallways, up and down staircases and into pods of classrooms, I get lost. The thought of dropping a trail of bread crumbs, like the fairytale character Gretel, has crossed my mind more than a few times through the years.

Instead, we picked up a map and tried to navigate our way. I glanced briefly at the barely discernible small print and decided to simply follow the leader. That would be my 14-year-old freshman son. I figured he's the one who has to get to class, not me.

Eventually we found all of the classrooms, picked up lists of class syllabuses and supplies, met teachers, checked out the locker combination, paid for lunches and listened to a spiel from the principal before leaving more than two hours later.

Back at home the next day, I suggested that my son go through his school supplies and make a list of items we still need to buy. I had stocked up on notebooks and folders earlier this summer. I left my son alone, determined to let him handle the whole process and be responsible. I checked on his progress a short while later. He had devised an interesting system to remember which notebook and which folder went with which class. His favorite classes, math and science, got the "warm colors," red and orange. His least favorite, English and history, got the "cooler colors," green and blue.

Then he showed me that notorious school map. He had boxed in all of his classrooms with different colored pencils and numbered the rooms according to his schedule. "First I'll go here," he said, flipping to the second page. "Then I'll run here," he said, flipping to the third page. "Then I'll run here," he said, flipping back to the first page.

"Whoa," I said. "You better not be running anywhere."

He continued: "Then I'll go here." He pointed to B116, his math classroom. "Then here. Is the Student Center the lunch room?"

"I think so," I replied.

"Then I'll go back here," he said, pointing again to the boxed math room. "That's prime time."

He flipped to the second page. "Then here."

Then he turned back to the first page and his final class in C109. "Then here, then down this hallway and out the building."

He made me tired just listening. "With all the running around and exercise you're going to get going from class to class, maybe you can get credit for gym class this semester," I suggested. I was only half kidding.

Searching for "real" peanut butter in Argentina, Part II

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

I should have checked my Argentinean daughter's blog before I wrote about her search for peanut butter in Buenos Aires. She emailed this morning instructing me to read her blog, "n the hunt for 'real' peanut butter," posted on Aug. 26, a day before my blog, "Craving peanut butter."

My blog stands corrected. Miranda found peanut butter, but not "real" peanut butter.

I’ll explain by lifting quotes from my daughter's writing: "I have yet to encounter a jar of 'real' peanut butter. My search began about 2 weeks ago when I went to a supermercado, asked if they sold it there, and was immediately pegged as a gringa. (Since then, I've been more covert in my search.)"

Miranda went on to write that her host mom later directed her to a store several blocks from their apartment that sold peanut butter. But, alas, my peanut butter-craving daughter did not find the 'real' peanut butter she was seeking.

After paying $8.40 pesos (about $2.80 in U.S. dollars) for a jar of peanut butter and buying some bread, she went home and made a sandwich. Here's her recounting: "I opened the jar and on top of the peanut butter was a layer of oil, which I had to pour out. The peanut butter, instead of being thick and creamy, had the consistency of soup. I prayed it would taste better than it looked. I added strawberry jelly and headed off to the university."

But when she bit into the sandwich after tango class, Miranda found the peanut butter "way too runny, with not a very strong flavor."

So her search continues for the genuine product. "Supposedly the Disco (a grocery store chain) in Belgrano sells peanut butter, but a jar of it costs about $27 pesos ($9 UDS)! Rumor has it that there's some in Chinatown as well."

In the meantime, Miranda, you might try heating the peanut butter for a meal of peanut butter soup.

Craving peanut butter

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

When I spoke with my daughter Miranda last week, the one currently studying abroad in Buenos Aires, Argentina, I asked if she missed anything.

Her answer came quickly: "Peanut butter." To make it clear, I thought I posed that as a general question, not specifically directed toward food. Or did I? No matter, this strongly independent second-born offspring of mine does just fine without mom and dad. And that's a good thing.

But life without peanut butter might be a different matter, especially, well, when you crave peanut butter.

Miranda related that a classmate found peanut butter at some obscure location in this city of 13 million. Because peanut butter must be imported into this beef-producing stronghold, the American favorite is a precious, and expensive, commodity. Her friend paid $9 for peanut butter.

My gut reaction was to be the nice mom and offer to mail peanut butter to my daughter. But I quickly ditched the idea when I realized that name-brand peanut butter isn't exactly inexpensive here either. I priced a 40-ounce jar at $5.35. Factor in shipping costs, and that $9 jar doesn't sound so over-priced.

My daughter further squelched my idea by telling me that shipping anything via United Parcel Service would require pick-up at a distant airport. And upon arrival, she might find the package missing. Miranda knows of what she speaks. That's exactly what happened to a friend. As for the postal service, I will simply say that a letter from me took more than two weeks to reach my daughter's Argentina apartment.

So for now, Miranda will need to live without peanut butter, unless she ventures to that single store her American friend discovered as a source.

In the meantime, my pantry shelves are currently stocked with five 18-ounce jars of creamy peanut butter and three 40-ounce jars of crunchy. I can explain. I inadvertently bought crunchy peanut butter on a shopping trip when I really needed creamy. Then when I was at the grocery store the other day, I found 18-ounce jars of store brand peanut butter on sale for 99 cents. With that $9 peanut butter still fresh in my mind, I checked the expiration dates (June 09) and snapped up the bargain jars.

If my daughter really wants peanut butter, she'll find plenty upon her arrival home in mid-January.

Summer thoughts

By Mike Nistler

Just got back from the mailbox. The breeze is steady and the green leaves are doing a wind dance, a cross between a hula and a polka (hulka?) It won't be long, I realize, when those winds will stiffen, the leaves will turn glorious colors and then fall to the ground, leaving behind only bare reminders of what once was. Believe me, the trip to the mailbox won't be quite so delightful to make in five months.

Brrrr. What an awful thought on such a pleasant day.

School has started for some, while others are counting down the last few days of "freedom."

I remember as a kid complaining about having to go back to school but really looking forward to those first days in September. Everything was new, clothes, books, notebooks, pencils, hopes and aspirations. Just like on the athletic field, everyone started out with a clean slate. Everyone was tied for that top grade, a big, fat sparking A.

Of course, I wasn't the best student in the world (it had something to do with wanting to make my fellow classmates laugh), so I eventually got a B here and a C there and heaven forbid, a D from time to time. Yes, it's true, I got an occasional D, including one in college when I took an art class for an easy A only to find out that the instructor had other ideas and he actually expected me to do some art work. Imagine his nerve!