No It All

A few weekends ago I was talking about the rise of cologne and my friend had a story of her own. Apparently one weekend, two of our buddies rode their bikes to Dave’s Hot Chicken, followed by a trip to Ulta Beauty for cologne testing. Eighth grade boys living their best lives.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when the youngest member of our household told me he also needed cologne. Scratch that… colognes. He tells me, “Yeah, I need two. You need one for summer that’s like fresh, beachy, and tropicaly. And then one for winter that’s vanilla-y, cozy, and warm.”

Every day after school my cologne tutorial continues. Turns out there are boys at school with “collections.” Sometimes they bring the bottles to school so they can all test them out. One day he tells me about atomizers. And then notes. He’s rattling off brands. I think he said Jean Paul Gaultier with a French accent. I ask how he seems to know so much on this topic and come to find out there are dudes on YouTube making videos about various signature scents. I learn he consumed several hours of said videos over spring break. This deep dive into a particular interest is VERY James.

He narrows it down to two brands he has to try: Afnan 9pm and Rasasi Hawas. I love messing with him as I mispronounce these UAE brands. The sportswashing is totally working.

We then find a second layer of this manly ecosystem that buys full bottles of cologne, transfers them to little sample sizes, and sells them on Etsy for a reasonable price. We check the mailbox every day for two weeks we’re so excited for them to arrive.

I go to Atlanta and FaceTime him and the first thing he shows me? His little bottles of Hawasi Rasas have finally arrived. It was agony.

Tomorrow I’ve promised a special late afternoon trip to Pismo. He literally just asked, “Mom, when are we going to Perfumania?”

I am not making this up. Cross my Rasasi and hope to Hawasi.

As I take a moment to reflect on the past fifteen years, the boys have gone through several distinct phases. Eras really. So let’s take an Eras Tour, if you will. Oh how they’ll hate that reference if they ever read this. One particular truth of being a teenage boy in 2024 is your vocal and utter disdain for the Swifties. This is why everyone I know with daughters took expensive and epic trips to see concerts in far off places, and I didn’t even know that was a thing.

Our earliest era is what I call “Choo Choo Explosion.” Fairly self-explanatory. We then passed through a series of childhood seasons: Animals, Supahman, Dragons, Pokémon, Legos, and Nerf Guns. Followed by Fortnite. These eras have had a natural and somewhat predictable progression. Little American boys everywhere can likely relate.

They grow-up too fast. So cliché. So true.

For Jacob’s fifteenth birthday I ask him what he wants and he tells me “cologne.” <Record scratch.>

Now we live in a place without department stores. And gone are the days where you had to weave and dodge through the first floor of Macy’s, avoiding ladies that would spray you. So I go on the internet looking for a sampler. I really want it to include Safari and Acqua di Gio as these were my favorite when I was in high school. Karen also reminds me we like Obsession. Turns out at some point in the past, Macy’s sold a holiday sampler of 20 small vials of their best-selling fragrances, now available in a beat-up box on Ebay. It has Acqua di Gio, but doesn’t appear to contain the top of the ’90’s charts.

Jacob opens it on his birthday and we’ve hit Billboard’s #1. The box also comes with a bunch of those magazine inserts where you peel up the edge and rub the paper on your wrists so you can smell it. The look on his face when I explain this concept… He throws them in the trash.

As JJ’s unwrapping his presents, I impart a bit of dad wisdom. In college, James told me you always put one spray right in the middle of your chest… because that’s where a girls’ face hits when she hugs you.

So our morning car rides have taken on a new scent. This week I asked him how many sprays he’s been using and he told me two. I recommend cutting back to one. And the clichés just keep on coming.

The Zoom life, my gig driving Juber, and moonlighting as a construction manager and short order cook have left little room for creative writing. A few weeks into my new job I realized if I didn’t block my calendar, I’d never get to eat.

That said, my lunchtimes are too quiet. I’ve always called James at lunchtime. Every day. Or, over the last handful of years, gotten to eat lunch with him. I always appreciated that midday check-in and knew how precious it was. This is a friendly public service announcement to take this midday moment, every day, with your significant other. Soak it up. Call them to ask how their day is going. Or eat your lunch together at the kitchen table. A lifetime of lunch chats and yet what I wouldn’t give for just one more.

So this week I was driving along the interstate of San Luis Obispo that we call Broad. When we first moved here, everybody referred to everything as “off Broad.” I’m driving along when I pass San Luis Kitchen and am hit with a memory.

Just after we’d moved to SLO, James and I were out and about looking for lunch. “Why don’t we try that place near Black Horse Coffee?”

“Off Broad?”

“Of course.”

We park the car and head for the glass front door. I swing it open and am instantly greeted by a middle-aged blond woman. I immediately realize we’ve made a mistake. We’re surrounded by show kitchen vignettes. The place is empty. The blond lady is working the floor. This isn’t a lunch place, it’s a kitchen showroom.

Do we turn around and bolt back to the car? Of course not. We pretend this is exactly what we had in mind. As luck would have it, I find myself in the market for a new kitchen almost every other year of my life. It’s a thing. So I immediately kick into Kitchen Cabinetry Me. A half hour later we escape amidst conspiratorial giggles… a cabinetry quote on its way to my inbox.

I don’t even know where we ended up for lunch that day. But my guess is somewhere off Broad.

I have this memory of sitting across the table from James at Cindy’s Backstreet Kitchen in Saint Helena. And he’s about to take his first bite of this mile high piece of s’mores pie. Some google sleuthing has uncovered that despite having eaten this pie more than fifteen years ago, and without the other half of my brain I call James… I’ve still got it. Cindy Pawlcyn’s Campfire Pie is what after dinner Napa Valley dessert dreams are made of.

So James takes one bite of this pie and then tells me we could have weekends like this at least twice a month… for the price of daycare.

I’m fairly sure I was already very pregnant, so this was kind of just mean.

Needless to say, James appreciates the finer things in life. Particularly food. And so do our boys.

They’re adventurous eaters. Generally up for trying anything. Nate is especially interested in exotic cuisine. The crazier the better. Especially if it’s spicy. Jacob’s two favorite things are eating and sleeping. So I spend the majority of my free time bonding with Nate over soccer, and bonding with Jake over food.

As a solo working parent, I’m developing a new habit of meal planning Saturday mornings while watching the Premier League. There is absolutely zero time to swing by the store anymore. This newfound habit has resulted in me acing dinnertime. Fire. 9+ ratings from Jacob. He’s picked-up right where Papa left off. He literally just called down from upstairs to find out what’s on tonight’s menu because it smells so good. One night Jacob told me my dinner had just propelled me from “mom cook” to “chef.” But of course creative risk taking is not without its pitfalls.

And so, while the boys have generally applauded my culinary pursuits, one recent meal created a new framework for family feedback. One evening I made zucchini noodles, or as Jacob calls ’em, “noods.” Inspired by a recent Colorado lunch with Alesia and our two middle schoolers. It was delicious. The boys did not agree. And so, you get five food vetoes. That’s it. If you’re adding zucchini noods to your list, you’ve gotta put something back into rotation.

Farewell zucchini noods. Until we meet again.

When we were in college, I gave James a lot of grief about his pillow. It was so bad. I called it his Sock Pillow.

Imagine a pillowcase with a sock in it. Flat. Kind of lumpy. Perfectly sized if you’re a Barbie. He’d ball up that bag of parakeet feathers, rest his head, and declare it perfect. We spent our entire relationship debating the merits of his Sock Pillow, even bringing little Jacob into it.

Earlier this week, I’m putting the new flannel sheets on the boys’ beds that Nonna gave them for Christmas. The sheets are unbelievably soft and cozy and appear to be keeping the boys asleep until noon. As I’m doing the pillowcases on Nate’s bed, I come across a sad excuse for a pillow. A Sock Pillow that has mysteriously escaped my notice.

I hold it up to Jacob, “Whatdoyouthink? Time for this one to go in the trash, yeah?”

“What? No! Yellow pillows are the best.”

I’m gagging as I write those words. Why do pillows turn yellow? Don’t answer that.

I swear I can hear James enjoying the win.

Pajama pants are all the rage. And white Crocs. Half the kids at our schools look like Papa Smurf after a long winter’s nap…

The boys have always shunned “Pajama Day.” Until this year. The last day of school before break was crowned “Pajama Day,” or just Normal Day for most. Jacob decided to try it it out. He wore his black and white plaid flannels, Vans, and a hoodie.

As we’re headed out the front door to school, Nate throws out a, “You definitely want to wear underwear under those… you could really get pantsed.”

Solid advice, Nate. Spoken like someone with genuine expertise.

On Saturday, the boys and I went downtown for a little wandering. And tacos.

We brought a small glass milk bottle, signed and tied a special little note to it, and piled into my car. For a few minutes we were afraid our downtown flower shop had gone under. Fortunately, it just moved to the corner. A lady and her baby showed us the small selection of roses. We found one stem with three red blooms… one for each of us.

We walked the back way to the shop. Through the Christmas crowds and past the carousel. The creek was clean and clear. We made our way down the corridor where we’d spent countless afternoons, pausing in front of the shop. We left our token in the little tiled angle to the right of the front door. Just under where James keeps the letter board in the window. Dad, We love and miss you forever.

I remember last December visiting the new store that had just gone in. James had been coaching his buddy on the pros and cons of the space. His friend had just opened Larder Market, a bricks-and-mortar version of their local meat subscription service. I was so grateful to see this beautiful retail space. The cabinetry had been painted a mossy green. And the shelves were filled with all manner of culinary indulgences.

A few months ago, I found myself in the same corridor on a particularly emotional morning. The space was empty, filled with the dribs and drabs of a fallen business. Open and shut in less than a year. And while I’m sad to see it abandoned, it made me proud. Proud of James and his vision. Proud of the friends he made and the impact he has. Proud of the beautiful business he ran for four years.

On the last day of November, Andre texted me. Some may remember that Andre took James to the beach during his last week, and sent him his last text message. Andre was asking if he could name his new business Office Hours.

How fast can I type ‘yes’ through tears?

On December first I found myself at a coffee shop on the same street and asked if I could stop by for a tour. It’s a beautiful new co-working space, filled with local businesses. There is coffee in the entry and plants on the wall. The open areas are filled with big wooden tables and sunshine. And in the center of the building, Andre is building out his dream cafe. The glass door already has Office Hours in new gold lettering.

Years ago we coined the term: A James Day. For a hot second I lobbied for A Jaimie Day, but it never caught on. What constitutes a James Day you ask? It’s a bit loosey goosey. Maybe that’s the point.

It usually involves a drive somewhere. Combined with a lot of walking and exploring. Ideally it has both cappuccinos with latte art and a tasty lunch. It might include a salvage yard or an antique faire, and most certainly a bookshop. Recently it’s included a garden and a nursery.

I’ve noticed friends and family perplexed by our mastery of places and spaces in Los Gatos, Saratoga, Campbell, downtown San Jose, Santa Clara, Mountain View, Los Altos, Palo Alto, Menlo Park, Redwood City, San Carlos, Burlingame, Half Moon Bay, and Pescadero. And that’s just when we headed north. All James Days.

So yesterday, the boys and I had ourselves a James Day.

It started with Daddy Brekkie Sammies. James invented these back when Jacob was about seven and careening his way in and out of extreme hanger à la NASCAR. Every day we stretched our culinary talents in an effort to pump that kid full of protein. And so, Daddy Brekkie Sammies were born. After eating my version yesterday, which included a fried egg and cheese, the boys confirmed authentic Daddy Brekkie Sammies are on brioche with a sausage patty. No egg. “The whole reason he made it was because we were sick of eggs, Mom.” Like duh, rolling eye emoji.

Bruh.

It rains all morning. I find poor Chicken Perfect lying in the rain and move her to the comfort of a warm, dry nesting box. Post breakfast, I announce the tree planting ceremony will take place at 1:30pm, rain or shine.

Fortunately, the rain stops just before and a bit of sun breaks through. Jacob and I look out the window and a baby deer is nibbling right where I’ve started digging the hole– a well-timed reminder our tree requires protection. The deer has two little horns and is joined by his two mommies. I’ve noticed all mama deer are single moms. They make it work.

Last year James planted two trees between the house and the barn– one was a Chinese pistache and the other, a Japanese maple. Unfortunately, the maple was hammered by atmospheric rivers last winter and never came back. Jacob and I have decided Japanese maples don’t like it at our house. Or they only like James. In any case, we had a pre-dug hole with irrigation ready and waiting.

So the boys and I plant a second Chinese pistache. Jacob is in charge of watering and somehow gets both me and his brother wet. Nate’s wearing two shoes for the first time in awhile. We share some heartfelt thoughts and a hawk declares the ceremony complete from the oak above our heads.

Then we pile into Dad’s car for Jacob’s haircut at Colin’s, James’ barber. Unfortunately, the cut isn’t as good as last time. Every boy we know hates their haircuts. It’s a thing.

We end the evening at the Cambria Christmas Market. We time it perfectly, discovering a mountainside staircase that allows us to cut our shuttle ride down to one-way. The grilled onions and french fries carry dinner. The brats and cocoa are mid. As we make our way through the lights, we remember the year Nate slipped in the mud and walked the entire light show with a racing stripe. We look for my favorite booth selling hand-carved driftwood Santas to no avail. The boys remember a previous magic show and sitting with their dad, listening to a guitarist under the night sky. Jacob’s not up for our Airstream photo booth tradition. I understand.

The lights are magical. And a special ending to a special James Day.

Moonshiner Collective

Forever floating
Around a distant sun
This old circle holds the dreams
Of the fortunate ones

And some say life
Is where it begins
And straight to the stars is where it ends
Only to start again
To start again

Consciousness lifted
When we gather around
It’s got us flying with the birds
To never return to ground

And some say life
Is where it begins
And straght to the stars is where it ends
Only to start again
To start again

Different dimensions
Dance the same old song
Interconnected
Is just what we are

And some say life
Is where it begins
And straight to the stars is where it ends
Only to start again
To start again

We all come from the same damn thing
Whether the big bang or Adam and Eve
Like stars paint the sky for as long as they shine
We’re floating together
And this is our time
When we can start again
Let’s start again

Cause some say life
Is where it begins
And straight to the stars is where it ends
Only to start again
To start again
Yeah some say life
Is just where it begins
And straight to the stars is where it ends
Only to start again
Let’s start again
We’ll start again
Let’s start again