No It All

After every trip, I’m possessed by the greatest of ambitions to capture the stories before they evaporate into the routine of our daily lives. And then the unpacking and Laundry Mountain and the groceries and the Zoom Life overtake me. When I collapse into my favorite corner of the couch after dinner, I just can’t resist the new season of Emily in Paris.

But in all things, sometimes a little is just enough. And when I reflect on our time in Amsterdam this summer, it’s a bunch of little moments. Little stories.

There’s our first walk to the local Voorburg Hoogvliet grocery store for provisions and to see what interesting foods we’ll find. And the lady conversationally rattling off a string of Dutch to Jacob. The only clue she’s talking to us is the repeated use of what sounds like “boys.” We look around us. Behind us. I mistakenly think our meer presence emanates American, but apparently not when you’re in a local village. We enjoy a mutual laugh as she switches into English and explains she has a bad back and needs help lifting a big bottle from a lower shelf.

There’s the walk back to Majelleke’s house where we pass a group of school children playing on the playground. Amidst another flurry of Dutch, I distinctly hear “skibidi” and laugh out loud. Prompting Nate to declare “brain rot.” He should know.

There’s our first train ride to the city where we never see a ticketing machine or counter. The trams have on-train ticket machines. Apparently, the trains do not. I talk my way out of a fine while the conductor teaches me to use the train app. The next day, we lug our suitcases back to the station, hot and sweaty, only to find no sign of the same train from the day before. Jacob luh-uh-uhves to say, “Mom, remember that time when you stood at the train station and just stared at the schedules screen with your mouth open. For so long. With your mouth open.”

Then there’s our arrival at our hotel room in Amsterdam and the unexpected surprise of big beautiful doors opening onto a terrace overlooking the canals. It’s our spot for all manner of outdoor picnics. Nate’s research uncovers a takeaway pizza place within walking distance. He still remembers it’s called nNea. We eat life-changing croissants filled with vanilla custard from Salvo. One evening, I relax in my bare feet with a fancy cocktail and the sunset.

There’s the history talk at the Ann Frank Museum prior to our tour. The young docent explains how the people of Germany were suffering. Standing in food lines for hours. Little kids playing with piles of worthless money. And how a politician rose to power with a simple narrative, “You are suffering. I know you’re suffering, but it’s not your fault. These other people are to blame. Minorities, the disabled, the gay community, and the Jews. Just get rid of them and all our problems will be solved.” Later on, we talk about this timeworn story and how politicians use it to divide people, foment distrust, and increase their own power. Where are we hearing this story now? The story Hitler and countless others have used to demonize people that are different? We talk about not only being alert and skeptical of this story, but also why it is imperative to speak out against it.

Then there’s the afternoon I sip a cappuccino on a bench along my favorite canal, Bloemgracht. The entire street taking pride in its name. Planters and sidewalks spilling over with flowers. My favorite are the hollyhocks planted in the cracks of the pavement. I find a dutch cheese slicer at the antique store across from my bench. And as the boats pass, the helmsmen wave at me and smile.

There’s our trip to the botanical garden, where we fall in love with the butterfly house, visiting it twice. The boys show me how to get carnivorous plants to close. We stop for drinks and snacks.

There’s the afternoon, after hours of walking, when we collapse into the first open chairs we see at a sidewalk cafe. Jacob’s rapidly deteriorating into hanger until presented with the most fantastic spread of Spanish pinxtos outside of Spain.

There’s our second to last night, when we take an Uber to a little village on the outskirts of the city for an Indonesian rice table experience. Best satay ever. Fifteen different little dishes to try. An idyllic outdoor location along a river. The boys love when a server cautions us on what’s “spicy” and they deem it almost imperceptible. We all order our own desserts.

And there are the teachable moments about the differences between coffee shops and cafes. Stumbling upon women in their sixties sitting in the windows of the red light district, chain smoking in their lingerie. Nate and I visiting the dutch version of a Sephora, twice, for cologne testing. And our serendipitous overlap with the gay pride parade on the canals, and the colorful, festive party that envelops the entire city.

Little moments. Little conversations. Little stories. That all add up to big memories.

Three short weeks ago, we arrived home from our latest adventure to the Netherlands. I soaked up the architecture, canals, imperfection, and flowers. The boys soaked up fragrances, football, history, and pastries.

One of the best parts of our trip was visiting Majella in Voorburg and hearing the story about how she became one of our dearest family friends. Now to hear my dad tell it, he met her on the beach in Holland while he was backpacking in college.

To hear Majella tell it… is so much better.

It’s 1969 and Majella is on her honeymoon with her new husband, Barry. They’ve gone to the shore, not far from where she lives now. I think it’s called Scheveningen. Majella and Barry are sitting on the sand with her brother, chatting, when she notices a foreigner just down the beach.

She tells me he’s very good looking and she thinks he’s American. They need a reason to talk to him. Her brother needs a light for his cigarette and decides this will be a good way to engage this lone foreigner. Majella is convinced this guy is not a smoker, but her brother goes over and strikes up a conversation.

Before you know it, she’s invited George home for dinner and over fifty five years later, my boys are sitting at her dinner table. Jacob and Nate appreciatively wolf down chicken, potatoes and garlic aioli (they’re still talking about), and currant parfaits for dessert. Over dinner we learn about all of the friends Majella has made from all over the world. She brings out letters I wrote her from Spain and the “Dammit Doll” my grandmother made. Majella is outgoing and joyful and full of laughter. Her hospitality unmatched. And what I love most is her curiosity. She notices foreigners. She sees people who are different. Newcomers. Strangers. And what she sees, is a future friend.

An entire world full of friends.

Thursday night we went to see Cake in Paso. It was the boys’ first concert, and while they didn’t know any of the songs, even though I’ve been playing them for months, they enjoyed their meatball subs with their buddies on a picnic blanket by the light of the moon. We got home really late. After a full workday on Friday immersed in Powerpoint and Excel, I was done.

Friday evening, I drop the boys downtown for some more music and a sleepover and head home for a glass of wine, Netflix, and an early bedtime.

About an hour later, I’m startled awake by the incessant sound of a helicopter and spotlights in my bedroom. Somehow lights are shining into the second story french doors. I jump out of my bed, terrified and disoriented and look out the doors. There are two people walking around the back of my house with flashlights. I watch as they look at the chicken coop and then make their way toward the new house.

As I watch them take the back path, I see multiple flashlights inside the upstairs of the new house. There are two cars at the entrance of my driveway, shining their headlights toward the barn so I can’t see what kind of cars they are. I realize the front door of the main house is still unlocked because I’d left it open for the hardwood floor contractor.

Once they’re at a safe distance, I go out on the second story deck. Because of the helicopter, I’m thinking there’s a wildfire and I need to evacuate immediately. The coastal fog is thick and visibility is low. I have a vague plan that I’m going to confront these trespassers and run back inside, lock the door, and call the police. I’m also going to hide in the upstairs bathroom and use my legs to brace the door shut. I know this is fool proof against an intruder after years of practicing it against my brother. Yes, I was totally disoriented and panicked and not thinking straight. From the deck outside, I see two people standing in front of the main house and I yell something to the effect of “Who are you and what are you doing?”

They call me ma’am and say they’re sheriffs. 

“Is there a fire? Do I need to leave? My kids aren’t here.” No. They want to come talk to me.

In my pajamas and my most assertive voice I tell them, “I cannot tell that you are sheriffs.” I’m blinded by their headlights and flashlights and as my friend later points out, they could’ve ordered those uniforms off Amazon.

One of the officers comes back across the yard, shines his flashlight on his uniform, and insists on coming up to the second story deck to talk to me.  He’s respectful and friendly, but I’m panicky, disoriented, and wondering why they’re searching my home without my consent.

The sheriff explains they’re looking for a man experiencing a mental health crisis. I breathe a sigh of relief.  Which in hindsight makes me realize I’m clearly more worried about wildfires than prowlers or manhunts. The officer tells me he’s 6 feet tall and heavyset and they think he’s taken a trail up the hill to my house. Uh, unless he’s being chased by vicious dogs, no one is climbing up this particular hill to my house.

Multiple officers come out of the new house after their self-guided tour. I lock all the front doors and get back in my bed, hopped up on fight and flight. I’m not really sure how to end this story, but keep coming back to these Cake lyrics…

It’s 3 o’clock in the morning
Or maybe it’s 4
I’m thinking of you
Wondering what I should do
But I’m finally cutting
Through this haze

Two weekends ago, the weather was beautiful. The fog retreated and the sky was a deep blue. On Sunday, we made lunch plans to meet Roger and Diane on the Avila pier. It was a bit windy, but we scored a perfect set of outdoor tables and had a big seafood lunch. We enjoyed musing about the sea lions and how they ended up so high above the water on their little wooden nap shelves. We explored the new seafood market and reminisced about previous outings. That afternoon, we said our farewells and headed home, a box of SloDoCo donuts waiting on the kitchen table. Jacob had been gripped with the urge for donuts after earning some money on Saturday afternoon.

A Fucillo Family group text came through and it hit me. When I left my last job, I lost access to my calendar, and the all-important time marker of when we lost Papa. June 2nd. And yet, today, of all days, we had the quintessential Papa day. The only thing that would have made it more perfect is if we’d come across wet concrete and remembered to score our lunch on a scale of 1-10.

This past Sunday, Nate comes down early in his green pajama pants and makes himself comfortable on the couch. He’s super excited because today’s the day I’m taking him to the airport to go to the Barca Academy camp in Arizona. I ask him if he remembers what day it is. He pauses and says, “Father’s Day.” I ask him if he can guess what I’m making for dinner…

“Tacos? Tacos de canasta, tacooo-O-ooos.” (We’ve been repeating this Netflix Taco episode refrain for years now. It’s addictive.)
“Nate, I made tacos last night!”
“Oh yeah. Ribs.”

And he’s guessed exactly right. I literally planned ribs for dinner, forgetting it was Father’s Day, and didn’t realize it until I’m checking my meal plan and pulling them out to defrost.

We don’t always have to try. We don’t even have to consciously remember. They just come through.

I long for James stories. Looooong. Crave them really. They’re a non-renewable resource I stuff into my pockets. The keeper of the stories. Of his spirit. Sometimes I remember them in a rush. And other times it feels like I just can’t grasp exactly what happened. Today I’m sharing one of my favorite stories from our baseball coach.

If you think of James or have a story or a memory, no matter how small, please, tell it to us. Text me. Share it with the boys. They are air.

Happy Father’s Day Jame. You’ll always be our dad. We love you and miss you forever.

January, 2023

Jacob and Nate,

I first met your dad on the baseball field. It was 4 or 5 years ago when I was coaching your team, Nate, and your dad was doing something I came to really admire, he was observing. He was observing all the crazy Pacheco kids running around. He was observing me trying to figure out what to do. He was taking it all in. I was beginning to wonder why this guy was just watching me struggle. Did he not understand I was failing?

Quite the opposite. He was waiting for his moment, as I often observed him do. When I looked at your dad and it was clear to him I was ready for some help, he simply said “I got you man.”

When I think of your dad, I think of an incredible man. A man who observed. Someone who did not overstep. A person that was always ready to help, but patient enought to wait for you to be ready to receive that help. Your dad was that “I’ve got you man” type of friend. I am going to miss him like crazy, just like so many will.

I know that “I’ve got you” spirit lives on in each of you and especially your mom. Your dad left a legacy and a lasting impression on everyone he met. He changed me for the better. He changed everyone for the better. I know that you dudes are going to absolutely rock this world. So many people around you and especially our family are rooting for you and carrying Dad’s spirit of “I’ve got you man.” I’m excited to see the amazing men you become, as I know your dad would be, and is, wildly proud of his family.

Sending love,
Coach

My mom taught me how to do laundry. She taught me the first principle of laundry is strong sorting. By color. I discovered my college roommate was sorting by weight, which explained the denim-tinged tees. My mom’s system involves five key categories: darks, lights, whites, hand wash, and dry cleaning. According to her, she’d been doing laundry since like the first grade. Further proof that I should be doing laundry instead of her. Plus the one time where I allegedly left a pack of Big Red in the pocket of something white and therefore rendered an entire load pink-spotted trash. She’s big on checking pockets. Me? Not so much.

So when James and I were divvying up chores, I was more than happy to let him have laundry. At the start, he wasn’t the pro-launderer he became. You can always count on James to develop profound expertise on any particular topic, and laundry was no different. I can trust him with my clothes. He reads labels, and instructions. He buys special soap from the Laundress. His record is spotless; not one single Big Red incident. The only wrinkle? As a leftie, he folds everything backwards.

It still gets me when I go through James’ stacks of t-shirts and they’re all folded in the opposite direction. You think it’ll be the big anniversaries and holidays, and don’t get me wrong, they’re rough. But more often than not, it’s the little daily, domestic details like folded shirts that leave you in a puddle.

Now, I confess that taking back all the chores I strategically negotiated long, long ago sometimes feels particularly, cosmically unfair. He took trash, weed eating, grilling, cars, and laundry. I took meal planning, grocery shopping, dishwasher emptying, and maintaining relationships with Santa, the Book Elf, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter bunny. Oh and dentist appointments. Clearly my negotiating skills back then weren’t what they are today.

And so it’s only fair, in the eyes of said cosmos, that Jake and Nate add new housekeeping tasks to their domestic resumes. They’re resisting Jamie A’s idea of making dinner once a week. Nate and I just can’t agree to weekly spaghetti. And so the negotiation began today with Jacob’s first folding lesson.

Well, maybe not his first. I’ve taught him how to fold before. Many times, actually, not including when he was four and obsessed with “folding” laundry. In any case, it went well.

And as a leftie, he folded all the shirts backwards. Just like his dad.

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.