Castaway
My dearest Nate,
It’s time for your annual birthday letter… nine months late but who’s keeping score? Well, you probably. You’re very good with points. But it’s my blog. I’m the head ref. And you know better than to argue with the ref.
Your twelfth year is a bit of a blur. Possibly because you were flying past me on your knee scooter at breakneck speed. Last Wednesday evening, we sped to Pismo to have your cast cut off. The cast cutter then used his saw to make you a festive red cast star for our Christmas tree. The next evening we drove back for an x-ray, and Friday we got the all clear that you could start “walking” in your boot. You asked if you could take Dad’s phone to school so I could text you after my call with Raquel the physician’s assistant. It was a disorienting jolt when the response text came in from James Fucillo. It read “Let’s go.” I sure miss texts from Dad.
This weekend you thump dragged your way across the Hayward soccer fields to support your team in the last tournament of the year. I’d call this phase Robot Scarecrow. I’ve been coaching you on a more natural gait. It’s getting slightly better each day. You’re allowed to walk without your boot at home and this morning you’re like, “Look Mom, I can walk again!” It was better, but still reminiscent of your very first steps. Like your knees don’t bend. Sunday, we took home first place, and while you missed playing through the end of the season, you still managed to score the most goals.
In addition to mobility, you’ve taken on some big challenges as a seventh grader. You’re powering through advanced math, advanced English, and taking both history and science in Spanish. Your natural studying instincts are spot on. And while I’m not sure you’ve internalized the stretch goal I set for proper paper management, you’ve gained a strong sense of points, percentages, and proportions. You’re mathematically talented at knowing how your latest scores will affect your grades. I’m not sure why your friends have given you the passwords to their grades, but it has created ample opportunity for conversations on security and benchmarking your performance to yourself, not your buddies.
Speaking of your buddies… you’re blessed to have an entire team of friends. And they’re almost all eighth graders. I’ll never forget Halloween morning at school drop-off. The second I pull up, Alexis, our team captain, is there to greet you. You’re dressed as the rapper, Nate Dogg, with a gold hat and plenty of bling, though your grillz and Invisalign aren’t exactly compatible. Apparently some people thought your knee scooter was part of your costume. Alexis takes your hundred pound backpack and promises me he’ll take good care of you. I know he will.
You’re currently selling tickets for our annual team “Booze Wagon” raffle to raise funds for next year’s tournaments. While I wouldn’t say you’re drawn to sales, your pitch skills are improving. Your teammates are whispering that you’re playing the injured striker card and that’s why you’re exceeding your sales targets. I can confidently refute this rumor as regrettably, you haven’t used it to your advantage at all. My coaching has been squarely focused on more eye contact and less “likes.” Verbal crutches are outpacing physical crutches. I’m proud of you rising to the challenge of your first Zoom sales call to Alesia. It boosted both your confidence and your interest in sales.
In May, Alesia generously gifted us a fancy lunch outing for Bell’s in Los Alamos. Prior to your injury, we experienced a new personality in our midst: Hungry Nate. I mean, you’ve always been a good eater. But this year, You. Are. Hungry. We finally had a free weekend and drove down on a rainy Saturday afternoon. You openly laughed when the waiter asked if we wanted the kids menu. You took one look at that Michelin starred menu and confidently declared your vote for wild Burgundy snails and moules frites. It was a memorable lunch of chatting and eating and trying new things. We especially enjoyed the cheesy Gruyere brioche and vanilla ice cream with olive oil and sea salt. Who knew? You are a fun lunch companion that holds-up your third of the conversation. This can’t be said about most tweenage boys. And as Arlene points out, most men well into their forties….
Your newfound hunger has also paired with your newfound interest in fashion. Dad’s so proud. I could hardly comprehend your graduation present request for Nike Air Jordans and a red Nike Tech sweatshirt. You were very drippy in your new fit with a fresh cut. Cringe, Mom… At least I didn’t say “Skibidi toilet Sigma Ohio Rizz.” A few weeks ago, at your request, we actually went shopping for corduroy Empyre pants at a place called Zumiez. They’re like today’s Z Cavaricci’s, only more skatery. At one point I was afraid I might have to cut them off you when they got stuck on your cast in the dressing room. Fortunately, we made it out with two pairs of pants without any rips or tears.
Whether we’re talking tears, or tears, you are the most intuitive person I know. I can be upstairs in my room with the door closed and you can be playing Fortnite with your headset on and somehow you know I’m sad. You’ve always known how to be with big emotions. You’re my weighted baby blanket. No words. Just love.
Lightning McQueen’s mom recently texted me that she often uses you as an example of field etiquette and presence. “He carries himself with such grace and quiet confidence.” And while twelve-year-old you probably can’t appreciate this compliment, it captures everything I want for you. You are a gift, Nate. A precious gift. I love you. Dad loves you. Jacob loves you. Stay true to yourself. Like Ben says, “Just do your thing, Nate.” There is only one you and I love you so much my heart bursts.
Love,
m.
Pro
On November third, Nate had his third x-ray. After several ambiguous days filled with mysterious computer imaging problems and consecutive telehealth appointments with nothing to report, I demanded a disk, picked it up, and FedEx’d it overnight to Santa Barbara. Our PA, Raquel, calls me on Thursday and cheerfully reports that Nate doesn’t need surgery, and the gap she’s been concerned about is at least 75% better than when she’d x-rayed it. She starts talking dates and they’re better than originally anticipated. To say I felt immense relief would be an understatement.
Meanwhile, Nate’s figured out how to navigate our visually impressive yet dangerous staircase. He hot dogs it on his knee scooter, despite my warnings. After school I see him flying down the sidewalk as he makes it to the golf course parking lot in record time. Fortunately, our new rules and routine are working. Tonight I noticed him dancing on his one good leg after dinner. Normal Nate.
The other day I’m asking him how he gets around class, particularly when he has to present and he says, “Mom, I’m a professional hopper.” I’m not sure where he received accreditation, but he does hop a lot. We all know when he’s awake as he stomp-stomp-stomps his way to the bathroom.
Everyone keeps asking about Nate’s spirits and whether he’s down in the dumps. When I ask him how he’s doing and whether he feels sad, he just laughs. He has no idea why the situation would make him feel sad or cry. With a mirthful spark in his eye, all he says is, “I wish I’d broken my left arm.”
As Granddad pointed out, spoken like a true footballer.
Would You Rather
Every night around the dinner table, the boys engage me in some sort of intellectual question along the lines of “Would you rather…?” Apparently this never-ending stream of brain teasers originates in Jacob’s noggin. I’ve always thought there was no “right answer,” but lately it’s clear there is some sort of pass/fail system, and more often than not, I’m failing.
For example, the other night I was challenged to choose whether I’d push a button that shrinks me to 4′ 5″ tall, aaaaand, I’ll never have to worry about money again. When I couldn’t negotiate my height beyond the average second grader, I decided I couldn’t push the button. The boys seemed to delight in the idea of mini me.
The question we debated the most was whether I’d rather be able to run 30MPH but only in short stints (for reference, I requested data on Usain Bolt’s top speed. It’s 27.78MPH), OR have infinite stamina. We’ll come back to this.
So I was going to wrap-up the skunk saga and then we had A WEEK.
Sunday: Nate and I drive 2 hours to Ventura for our second to last game of the season. Part way through the first half, Nate has a breakaway and is one on one with the goalie. He takes the shot and falls down in a heap with the opposing goalie. And this isn’t your average goalie. He’s a big boy. Like maybe more than 200 pounds. Nate doesn’t get up. Nate never doesn’t get up. You may recall, he has a Purnell-pain-tolerance genetic mutation.
Coach carries him off the field. Nate’s shaking. After we get his sock off and complete an assessment by our resident parent/ER doctor, I take him straight to urgent care. Coach’s wife, Karen, flags down a landscaping vehicle and carries our little fallen striker across two fields to deliver him safely into my emergency Volvo. An x-ray shows both his fibula and tibia are broken. They doctor him up in a temporary cast while Coach distracts him with stories of his many trips to whatever they call Australian urgent care.
Monday: Nate “slept” on the couch but tells me he didn’t sleep the whole night. He was googling how to make his temporary cast hurt less. I start dialing for doctors. I finally get through to the only pediatric orthopedists within a hundred miles. They can get him in today… in Santa Barbara. We pile back into the car and make our way 2 hours south for the second time in less than 12 hours. We arrive with a few minutes to spare. Nate eats it on his crutches in the parking garage. Fortunately he doesn’t break something else. He gets a new red cast and a new blue knee scooter. The physician’s assistant leads us to believe surgery is likely in our future. We eat McConnell’s ice cream for lunch and drive home.
The moment I collapse on the couch, Jacob texts me and says the hill behind his school is on fire. Then my wildfire app starts blowing up as the fire goes from 5 acres to “potential for 200” in a matter of minutes. Jacob leaves his math class before they’ve started evacuating the school. Later that night, this leads to a productive parenting conversation reinforcing his decision to leave a situation where he didn’t feel safe.
As I’m feeding the chickens, waiting for our neighbor to bring Jake home from school, Dr. Maguire calls with his interpretation of the x-ray. He’s optimistic Nate won’t need surgery, as long as he doesn’t bust his leg in the coming days. Jacob arrives home safely and the day finally starts looking up.
Tuesday: It’s Halloween. That evening, Nate has pizza with his teammates before they run off on inflatable dinosaurs to trick-or-treat amongst steep hills and precarious curbs. I take Nate Dogg home, after first dropping Ja-cob the giant corn cob at his first well-chaperoned high school party. Juber the Jaimie Uber goes back out for Ja-cob and retrieves the biggest bag of candy Nate Dogg’s ever gotten. Our buddy Cruz really outdid himself.
Wednesday and Thursday: Hours of Zoom interviews span Tuesday through Friday– a dramatic improvement from the resume black hole. I have a vague inkling of an impending planned PG&E outage. Finally the reminder text comes through. No power tomorrow. Oh, and no school tomorrow.
Friday: I complete my last interviews of the week using my hot spot, battery power, and daylight, hoping my shadowy background communicates “energy conscious” not “witness protection.” The boys sleep in and spend the day lamenting their lack of WiFi. Nate and I go out for a second x-ray and lunch. I coast into the evening on fumes and find myself back at the dinner table…
… and our latest “Would you rather…” question. Originally I thought being the fastest person in the world would be better. Think of all the competitions I can win! And the brand deals! I’ve always wanted to be an Olympian. But the boys debate me until I finally acquiesce. And after this week, I have to agree… I’d rather have infinite stamina.
Legend
The first weekend in October, Grandma and Granddad came to visit. They had just read my latest Elon post and Granddad was itching to bring his trap– literally a cage to my figurative cage match.
Now it must be noted, Granddad has a long and illustrious career battling skunks. Over the years we’ve lost a few details of his most epic skunk story, but we’ll improvise…
Years ago, his boss of many years had a skunk problem under his home in the hills of Los Gatos. There was some story about his sons eating in their rooms and leaving food around, but this point is fuzzy. Personally, skunks just love a good crawl space.
So Granddad, or maybe just Dad at that point, offers to take care of this skunk issue. What a loyal and resourceful employee. At some stage during this situation it escalates, until he finds himself in the crawl space, wearing his Australian duster coat– yes, think Crocodile Dundee. So he’s in this cramped space and the skunks are scurrying to escape and he shoots one, but the second one is about to get away. He aims back behind him, through his own legs, and shoots a hole through the tails of his favorite coat, killing the skunk dead. Yes, for the record, Granddad is the only known witness to this story.
He then needs to bag up the skunks and dispose of them. Believe me, I’m sure his nose hairs are singed and the stench is unbearable. He must have trash bags, but he is also given a fancy shopping bag with handles by the grateful homeowners. For the sake of the story, we’re going with Neiman Marcus. So he bags these skunks up, places them in the Neiman Marcus bag, and then securely hangs the bag from his side mirror so he doesn’t have to put it in the car.
He then makes his way to downtown Los Gatos. We’ll assume he’s searching for a suitable dumpster when he gets the idea to leave the shopping bag on a bench by a bus stop. He sets his trap and then heads back to his car to watch. A few minutes later, a white-haired resident drives along in her convertible, spots the bag, jumps out, looks around, tosses it in the backseat of her car and takes off.
And a legend is born.
Round 2
Here I was, victorious in Round 1 of the cage match that was Jaimie versus the skunk. From what I’ve heard about the social media publicity stunt that is Elon versus Zuckerberg, I was definitely Zuck. Clearly favored and ready to display my victory in my trophy room… also known as egg cartons in the fridge.
And then after many victorious weeks, I find another cracked egg.
I search the perimeter and what I thought was a chicken-dug dirt hot tub hole turns out to be much more sinister. I find myself inspecting the dark corner of a cell in Alcatraz… and realizing a prisoner has escaped by digging a hole with his spork. Only in reverse. And there are two sporks known as little skunk claws. Stay with me…
I fill in the tunnel and hoist some big flagstones over the top. Take that Musk.
The next day I return from my workout and inspect the situation. My barriers remain intact. You’re no match for me Mr. I-don’t-work-out-except-for-my-thumbs-as-I-tweet-I-mean-X-conspiracy-theories-to-the-masses.
But then I find another egg shell. I move the flagstone and there it is, a new secret tunnel, derivatively disguised under my defense. Very meta.
Just when you think the cage match is over, it’s back on.
Many Hats
When I’m not taxiing around teenagers and hurling my resume into the job black hole they call LinkedIn, I’m still building a house. We’re making progress and as you might imagine, I learn something new most days. For example, when it seems like you’re a million months from needing a painter, I found out you have to have the fascia boards painted before they install the roof. Or at least before they install a standing-seam metal roof. For those readers wondering what I just said, the fascia boards are basically the trim along the roof line. Nice of the roofer to point this out the day he was supposed to start installing… instead of during the countless months we’d been texting and quoting and installing the underlayment.
Coincidentally, my best high school girlfriends are currently in the thick of a text thread discussing paint, prompted by my friend Sarah. Sarah is famous for giving herself numerous choices. I am famous for asking her why on earth she’d bring five hats to a weekend getaway. We make a great team that laughs a lot. And so in an effort to save Sarah’s sanity, I thought I’d share some considerations on choosing exterior paint colors.
DARK vs LIGHT
Your first consideration is whether you’re planning to paint the body of your house a dark color or a light color. I’m sure both have objective pros and cons but I’ll share this– dark houses are like dark cars. They show more dirt. And white bird poop. The color also fades faster. Side note– spring for high quality, name brand paint like Benjamin Moore, Sherwin Williams, Kelly-Moore, etc. The contractors who painted our barn a charcoal gray cheaped-out and color matched to an off brand. We had to paint the whole thing again way sooner than we should have.
DIRT
Now here’s a tip you won’t see on all those fancy shmancy design blogs– look at your dirt. Or soil for you ag teachers. The dirt surrounding our home is chalky and white thanks to the Carmel stone that makes up this mountain. It leaves a fine white dust all over the dark, moody barn. Our new house paint color will be a close match to our dirt. But obviously way prettier.
TRIM
James taught me that old houses almost always have a three-color paint scheme. The body is one color, the window trim is a second color, and the window frames are a third color. Drive through some old neighborhoods and you’ll see what he’s talking about. Of course it all depends on the age and architecture of your home. Look around your neighborhood to get a feel for how your house fits in.
COLOR
Consider the colors of your neighbors’ houses. Consider the color of your roof. And consider your landscaping. This should hopefully get you into the color family you’re leaning toward. Now here’s where we get down to a simple process for choosing a paint color from thousands so you can get back to that weekend getaway featuring multiple hat wardrobe changes.
Step 1: Search “best <insert color> exterior paint colors” on Pinterest.
It helps if you kind of know which way you’re headed– white, green, gray, etc. This will help you narrow your choices down to a handful of paint brands and names. I generally use this method to find two to three designers’ pins and their go-to colors. They all have posts like “our most used exterior paint colors” or “the 10 best exterior paint colors.” This dramatically narrows your choices and you can usually find pictures of homes painted in that color in their portfolios.
Step 2: Spend a little bit of time on a paint comparison blog or YouTube.
Yes, there are people in this world waxing poetic on the LRV (Light Reflective Value) and undertones of various paint colors in relation to each other. I kid you not. For example, I was trying to choose a white for those pesky fascia boards. I had a handful of paint names from Step 1, and then my friend recommended the color of her house. That’s when I found Kylie M. Interiors. This lady literally compares all the whites I’d been looking at, explains their undertones, includes the history of their popularity, and then lands on which one is better. Second side note– I’m generally looking for neutral or minimal undertones. I can usually live with it having some gray or beige undertones, but if it’s leaning purple, pink, yellow, or green, it’s going to make me feel weird. These detailed sites are a bit much for one-hat me, but boy am I glad someone likes doing this. Get in, get out, move on to step three.
Step 3: Buy peel-and-stick samples on Samplize.
These are computer paper-sized swatches painted with the actual paint. They’re less messy and infinitely more portable than little sample pots of paint. Plus they fit in your mailbox. Put them up and then stroll by them at different times of day as the light changes. You can peel them off and move them around. I also like to write on them when I realize what’s wrong with the color such as, too brown, or looks green, or just yuck. I’d recommend buying no more than seven choices of one shade. So like 5-7 whites, or 5-7 grays. They’re about $6 each so that keeps you under a $50 budget for this decision.
Step 4: Choose a color and then stop looking.
This part is especially important for those of you in the pack-five-hats club. Debate. Decide. Commit. Your house is going to be beautiful!
Rogue Territory
Folly. Food. Football. Fathers.
The final installment of our England trip rehash wouldn’t be finished without a story or two about fathers. Or as he’d most certainly say, “Dear ol’ Dad.” This was, of course, our first big trip with dad in spirit.
Just a few hours in, I realize I’m experiencing quite a bit of travel anxiety in the form of: It’s all on me to get us safely and economically to this particular spot by this particular time with all the stuff and when I reverse engineer the timing back to when we need to leave, we should wake-up at 1PM California time.
Then the travel director in me is like: These kids speak English. At least one is bigger than me. They love kiosks and escalators and map apps. And are certainly better at military time. Less on me. More on them.
Jacob was especially confident on the London Underground. Nate bought tube tickets like a pro. They learned train time tables and platforms. They double checked Uber license plates. They wielded key cards and navigated queues and guarded luggage like bouncers. Of course there were mistakes. Jake took us off course while following some walking directions. We talked about how I feel when we’re going off course and how to become aware of our inner compass. Nate formulated a tailgating workaround when his tube ticket demagnetized. My anxiety decreased. Their confidence increased.
The first morning Jacob and I went exploring in Manchester, we ventured to the artsy part of town called the North Quarter. It was filled with murals and graffiti. All my pictures were just more artistic that day. As we’re wandering, I see James’ jacket in a window. Like I’d know that jacket anywhere. If tested, I think I can even name the LA brand, Rogue Territory. Jacob and I go through the front door and walk right into Office Hours Manchester. All the same brands James carried. Stacks of Japanese denim. Gold lettering on the window advertising their chain-stitch hemming. I can just picture him striking up a conversation with these two British blokes and leaving him here for hours. Hey Jame, Jake and I are going to go find a place for lunch. We’ll swing back and get you this afternoon.
Later that day, Jacob and I visit the National Football Museum (thumbs down) and the Manchester Cathedral (thumbs up). During lunch, I realize I cannot go to the bathroom without bringing my phone camera. The British pubs, eateries, and cafes have the most stylish loos. Beautiful tile. Brass taps. Molton Brown hand soap. I begin capturing inspiration for my future high gloss coffee table book: The Loos of London. It will be far superior to the one currently on Amazon written by I.P. Freely.
We stop for an afternoon snack and there on the menu it says “Baby Chino.” I’ve never seen this on a menu. It’s what James calls the little espresso cups of steamed milk he makes the boys when he’s making us cappuccinos. We see various versions of Baby Ccinos in cafes all around Manchester. It makes me smile.
During the final days of our stay, I say something to Jacob about how many things remind me of dad when we’re out and about. In his precocious way he replies, “Of course Mom… his name is on every faucet!”
This is true. Every tap we touch says St. James. Also perfect for my coffee table book.
Football
Folly. Food. Football.
As I was wading through the never-ending internet versions of “24 Hours in Manchester” and “11 Instagram-worthy Spots” (for the record, you will not find me clicking on the latter), I came across a blog by a local Mancunian I can no longer find. In any event, she said something to the effect of, when you’re little your dad picks your football club for you. The end. I read it and snickered out loud.
Back in 2018, James came across the sports documentary series All or Nothing on Amazon Prime. We loved it. We watched Juventus, Tottenham Hotspur, Arsenal, and the Brazilian National Team. But our favorite season was Man City. Dad chose our football club, and we’ve been loyal Premier league fans ever since.
Around January 2021 is when I wondered aloud if Man City has a soccer camp. My friend Emily trained me to begin planning summer in January and she’s always been right… except for that one time when I planned the whole summer and then a pandemic destroyed me in a penalty shootout.
So I’m wondering about overseas soccer camps… I do a little research. How did we live without Google? My children will never know. “Hey James, what if one day we take Nate to England, drop him off at soccer camp, and then we all go do stuff?”
“Yeah, let’s do it.” James was always down for just about anything I proposed.
Pure decision-making chemistry. I’m still working on this with his children.
Then it’s January 2023. Our entire game plan has changed. What are we waiting for? England in July probably isn’t sweltering hot. I’ve been saving airline miles for my entire adult life. Yeah, let’s do it.
First, I ask Nate if he wants to go.
He hesitates, “I wouldn’t know anyone would I? I don’t know.”
Then I show him a couple of pictures from the online brochure.
“Yeah, I’ll go.”
Brilliant. Fast break to our first night in Manchester, after leaving Nate at the University of Salford. I facetime him on his iPad. Normally he wouldn’t have a screen at camp, but during the check-in process, they were gobsmacked that my 12-year-old son didn’t have a cell phone. #Winning. They expected all kids to have a phone so they could download the CityPlay app to analyze their cleat tracking data.
He didn’t have a cell phone, but he did get his own room. Every dorm room was a single with its own bathroom. Having always shared a room with his brother, Nate might rate this the #1 reason to attend this camp.
Then he makes at least six friends from all over the world in one day. There was a player from Saudi Arabia. An American who was currently living in India. A kid from Texas. Some Brit-ish lads. These boys loved football as much as Nate.
Every morning they’d get onto a British double decker bus and ride it over to the Etihad training facilities. They’d train, eat lunch there, train again, and then get bussed back to the dorms. Nate was up at 6am and in bed at 10pm and when I’d facetime him at night, I’ve never seen him so happy. He was walking on air. I’m sure the cleat tracking data would back me up.
It took courage for him to go to camp alone in a foreign country. To put himself out there. To walk onto the field not knowing where he’d stack up (according to him there were two kids his age that were better than him… but the number mysteriously dropped to one by the time the week ended. Hmmm). They got a backstage tour of the Etihad stadium. They sat in Pep’s chair on the sideline. They took pictures with Kevin De Bruyne’s locker. And they enjoyed a closing ceremony at the stadium with their academy coaches.
During that ceremony, I especially enjoyed learning more about the language camp, drawing players from all over the world to improve their English and their football. No boring “Dónde está la biblioteca” language lessons here. These kids learned English via “player interviews, commentary and punditry, telling their personal biography, and press conferences.”
Toward the end of camp, Nate’s group scrimmaged some boys from the language program. There were four or five players that had all come together from the same club in Argentina. It was a tough game. Nate’s team lost.
When I asked him about it he shook his head and said matter-of-factly, “They had chemistry Mom. Chemistry.“
Fourteen
Yes, I started writing this on June 7th, the day you graduated from eighth grade. And yes, today’s August 17th, your first day of high school. *Uh, what??* You showed up with parent homework for ME. Good thing I love high school. So here I am, finishing my self-assigned homework two months late. But when I turn it in tonight, your teacher’s gonna give me an A for sure.
My dearest Jacob,
Today’s the day you’re graduating from eighth grade. It feels like perfect timing for your annual birthday letter. I like to let you sink into your new age a bit before trying to capture the essence of you in my digital blog bottle.
Of course I know your fourteenth birthday was in March. It was your golden birthday– 14 on the 14th. Pi day. But you like cake. School was canceled due to torrential downpours and flooding. This year has given you and Nate a warped sense of rain and school closures. You love it when it’s cold and foggy. School being canceled on your birthday was your all-time fave… till the power went out.
Today is graduation. I mean “promotion.” And it’s the first time Laguna Middle School has ever celebrated its eighth graders. You dressed-up this morning in your jeans from Dad’s shop, a Laguna hoodie under your Office Hours flannel, and Dad’s Air Jordans. For graduation you asked for a pair of Air Pod Pros… and a side of a million dollars. Ha ha. You gave me graduation cheering instructions specifically for “the Boomers”: 1. No yelling your name. 2. Don’t cheer too loud.
I’ll do my best, but I’m not making any promises. No one controls the Boomers.
You are permanently hungry. And tired. I’ve successfully transitioned you from Bundabergs to Waterloo, but Tate chocolate chip cookies are on the endangered snacks list. Nate thinks cold turkey is the only way. He wants me to eliminate all treats given there is no way to protect them without a locked cupboard. He may have a point. But I’m sure he’d concede if you reminded him you made Texas Sheet Cake for his birthday.
Your favorite dinners are composed dishes– mostly bowls. Unlike your brother, you don’t enjoy meals where there is a protein, a starch, and a vegetable all separately plated. You love just about everything I make and tell me it’s bussin’. Or fire. You especially appreciate my Thai bowls with Grama’s Sweet Chilli Sauce. You’re into all the Asian Grandma sauces. Bachan’s Japanese Barbecue Sauce is your favorite. You miss Dad’s spaghetti. And ribs. All this eating and sleeping has resulted in your continued upward rise. You passed me in December. You’re now a reliable reacher of high places and lifter of heavy things.
You’ve been crushing eighth grade. I get your grades via text every Monday morning and they’re excellent. You manage your work. You take responsibility for yourself. You’ve picked-up the basics of studying and time management and my Nike rule of extra credit (just do it). And you’ve internalized my casual advice to make yourself real, known, and memorable to your teachers. Professors and bosses are more empathetic when they know you. Just ask your Advanced English teacher, Mrs. Friend. You like watching my YouTube house building videos with your school counselor, Miss Allwein. You loved spending the year in Yearbook with Miss Mooney. You’re especially proud of your pet page layouts. You were quick to volunteer to take pictures of the 3-mile run fundraising event last week. Not so much for your love of photography, but perhaps for your love of not running.
Unfortunately, the Laguna soccer program was a real bust. Terribly organized. Understaffed. Rained out. I’m proud of you for powering through. We watched the whole Ted Lasso series together. You wanted me to read the Scythe series so bad that we’re back to a chapter or two a night. It’s one of my most favorite times of the day.
Your entrepreneurial brain is always on. You talk a lot about your “toast” restaurant concept. This year, a couple of teachers got you thinking beyond a future in computer science. You started asking about studying architecture, and business. You’re creative, artistic, and curiously wise. We’ve had some of the hardest conversations this year. And I walk away confident in who you are, and better because of you.
Like all the teenagers, you love playing video games on your PC. You’re back on Minecraft. You play with Nate’s friends and are really good at managing your language– unlike your buddies. There’s a lot of laughing, and whooping, and hollering. Though sometimes I have to forcefully remind you to be nicer to Lightning McQueen and SilverWolf.
Since Dad passed away in December, one of the questions I get the most is “How are the boys?” And I can sincerely say, really good. You and Nate are always singing and dancing. You miss your dad. You religiously water his bonsai. We talk about him every night at the dinner table. You tell me stories I didn’t even know. But as you’d say, you’re not Depresso Espresso. You’re more caring and kind and strong than you know.
I love you Jacob James. Dad loves you. Your brother loves you. I am so unbelievably lucky to be spending this day with you. I can’t wait to eat Bee Stang pizza with hot honey, and to pick you up from the dance tonight, and to explore England with you this summer. Keep being yourself. There is only one you and I love you so much my heart bursts.
Love,
M.
Young Man City
Our trip to England began with folly and fell face first into food. Jacob’s fourteen and his interests are eating and sleeping. And eating. So, I embarked on the spontaneous planning of a Man City Mother Son Food Tour.
Now it’s important to note the following Eighthgradeish ranking scale:
- Fire: This is the best. Can be used for all things, not just food.
- Bussin’: A term only used for food… also means really good.
- Mid: Despite your intuition, this means bad where we’re from. It may mean average in other regions according to one data point out of Redwood City.
Before we left for England, all the boys could talk about was beans on toast. Beans on toast is gross. How can they eat beans on toast?? I heard they have beans on toast for breakfast. YouTube must have a glitch in their algorithm, reducing British cuisine to this one dish and serving it up to American teens for breakfast, lunch, and tea.
I’m happy to report England has upped her food game. Like, Napa better-watch-its-back good. We had delicious, fresh, creative food we’ll be talking about for years. And let’s just say my restaurant research involved speed and decisiveness. I like spontaneity and surprise in my European wander holidays. A recap of our calories:
Harrods Food Hall | London: Imagine a department store filled with just the glass cases at Whole Paycheck. A place where everything has gold leaf on top to delight tourists and twelve-year-olds. We had a 20-layer smoked salmon gateau, a beautifully composed salad Nicoise, a beet salad I don’t remember because Jacob inhaled it, and an array of desserts including the aforementioned Eton Mess. Jake can’t stand how many times I’ve repeated the words Eton Mess which, of course, just makes me say it more.
Dishoom | London: This place is all the rage in America. Or at least with recommenders out of Santa Cruz. Both Angela and I got multiple endorsements to visit this trendy joint. They have nine locations. While I loved my India Gimlet cocktail, Geoff, Nate and I enjoyed dessert the most. If mid meant mid, that’s what I’d rate it.
The Wolseley | London: If you can get through the nightclubesque crowds outside, this architectural gem is an oasis. We enjoyed a high tea spread higher than our faces. And while we’ve had better high teas across the colonies, it’s still one of the boys’ favorite pastimes. This was the only preplanned stop on the food tour, and was the opposite of the Barbie pink granny chic options splashed all over the Gram. A stylishly smart choice for a table of boys.
TNQ | Manchester: Jacob and I sat down for our first solo lunch and had the entire place to ourselves on a Monday in The North Quarter (TNQ). He had a beautiful plate of seafood spaghetti. The sherry-marinated figs with whipped goats cheese was bussin’.
The Refuge | Manchester: Said quick-and-dirty researcher noticed this restaurant made all of the Pinterest lists. And wouldn’t you know… as we exited our Uber, there it was, connected to our hotel lobby. This might be when I converted the entire tour to shared plates. Jacob declared the gochujang-glazed pork belly fire. Ask about the prix fixe. Get the Pollen Bakery sourdough with black garlic butter, and the sticky toffee pudding. Skip the corn ribs and the lamb flatbread. Mid. The space was spectacular. Open Table reservation recommended.
Mackie Mayor | Manchester: The most photogenic food court you’ll ever find. Pick a spot to sit, memorize the number, and leave your traveling companion or a possession you can live without to guard your spot. The pizza was delicious. I regret not getting one of the donuts at the coffee counter. Manchester’s Mackie Mayor’s closed Mondays. Say that three times fast…
Cafe 1881 | Manchester: I once had the best hot chocolate of my life in Oxford. At a Starbucks. Sad but true. Jacob had the best hot chocolate of his life outside the Manchester Cathedral at this place. Full cup of miniature marshmallows included.
Skosh | York: We took a day trip to York and walked much of the medieval wall surrounding the town. Netflix has covered centuries of terror as the Vikings frequented this English enclave. Skosh is special. Open Table reservation recommended. The food is the opposite of Vikings Valhalla… delicate and fresh.
Tahi | Manchester: We ate our final Mancunian brunch here, though it claims to be a New Zealand Eatery. Everything was impressive, but their pastries were fussin’. (Fire plus bussin’, yeah? My boys love when I use their lingo and then make it my own….) Jacob ate something called a Vanilla Suisse and then placed a second order to go. Nate was so happy. Apparently they weren’t serving exquisite pastries at football camp.
El Gato Negro | Manchester: Man City had an unbelievable wealth of Spanish restaurants. And after convincing Jacob we should only tapear, I realized he’d never had Spanish food in his entire life. Which is 10% my fault and 90% San Luis Obispo’s fault. Tapearing is the Spanglish verb for eating tapas… little small plates of food invented by Spaniards to keep the bar patrons soberish. My love for all things small is well-documented. I’d only eat apps if that was an option, so it was inevitable the Foodcillo Family Food Tour would morph into tapearing around England. We had croquetas, tortilla española, and octopus. But the star was the wild mushrooms on toast.
For a kid constantly working on his toast restaurant concept, this was it. Pure fire. It’s too bad there weren’t any beans…