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When I got home from book club, not quite three weeks ago, there was a card sitting on my pillow. From the other jason johnson.
Mr. Johnson is quite a card maker when he has the time and inclination, and this was certainly one of his finer ones. As I started reading the words on the page, arranged in his signature style – meaning you have to read it twice in order to understand it – I was surprised. Very surprised.
Apparently, my darling husband had hacked into my email account and stolen the email address of a friend from London. The same friend who was getting married in late-February; who had sent us an invitation to attend her wedding. In London. An invitation I declined as graciously as possible because our pesky house in Indiana still hasn’t sold, and it would be rather difficult to leave town for an extended period of time.
But Mr. Johnson, for better and for worse, doesn’t view situations the way I do. Instead of turning down an invitation to a wedding for financial reasons, or scheduling difficulties, or because it’s crazy; he solicits donations from my closest family members and spends hours on the internet looking for an affordable flight. And buys the plane ticket, before I can tell him that it is a very bad idea, and doesn’t make any amount of sense.
So this week, thanks to my very sneaky, and equally bullheaded husband, I will be flying on a plane to London. Alone. To see a dear friend get married, and visit friends and places I haven’t seen in nearly five years.
Honestly, if I had the opportunity to go to a wedding in Iowa, by myself, I might be just as excited. But, even better that it’s London.
In order to soften the blow of my departure, I bought an enormous container of Golden Grahams. So at least breakfasts will be fun while I’m gone. I tried to talk to Mr. G about my upcoming absence the other day: ‘did you remember that I’m going to go to London next week?’ I asked. ‘Is that when we get to eat the fun cereal,’ he replied. Make no mistake, he’s been eyeing that box every morning for the past week. I also left a tub full of chili in the freezer, and five boxes of Annie’s Mac & Cheese in the pantry. That should sustain them, at least for a couple of days.
I’ve also suggested Jason buy an enormous container of moonsand and set up the sandbox in the kitchen, so the boys can just play in there all day long. He could even allow them to play in diaper and underwear only – minimizing dirty laundry at the same time. A kitchen filled with moonsand, and baths lasting from 6-8pm, should fill up at least half of the day. Easily.
I told Jason if he wanted to sleep in a bit, he could set out bowls of dry cereal the night before and put a teapot of milk in the fridge. G should be able to retrieve the teapot and pour milk over the cereal. The kid is practically five, after all. The Hen can’t yet climb into his booster seat without some assistance, but maybe it’s time he just started sitting in a regular seat. He’s almost eighteen months old. Harvard is looking for exemplary students, not run of the mill ones.
I can only imagine the excellent blog posts Professor Hotness will write as he takes over the blog in my absence. I expect our reunion will go something like this: he’ll drop me and the kids off at the house, and I’ll just hear tires squealing as he drives off.
But that’s okay. Because I’m going to London. By myself. For five days.
There was a time in my life – probably high school – when I actually got excited about Valentine’s Day. Wondering if I’d get a card or chocolates or one of those weird pink carnations that ‘Student Council’ used to sell to make money. (Mainly bought by girls, for girls, if memory serves.)
Nearly twenty years later, Valentine’s Day barely registers on my radar screen. And only because I now have to (help) make valentines for G’s (pre)school friends. If it weren’t for that, I probably wouldn’t even remember there was such a celebration.
Sometimes I do feel guilty about the lack of effort around our house on this (admittedly contrived) occasion. I mean, I just don’t think it’s particularly romantic, or even fun, to spend Valentine’s Day….taking your kid to the doctor because he’s been coughing for over a month, or traipsing behind your nearly eighteen month old in a bookstore trying to while away the hour plus wait at the doctor’s office. Or, after yet another diagnosis-free visit to the doctor, taking two little people to Petland to look at fish, and rodents and birds and puppies.
By the end of the night, as I was making crepes for dinner, I was feeling kind of bummed that our Valentine’s Day had been a tad lame. But then G decided – as though he knew it was time to step up – to make me a valentine. He found a little flower hole punch gadget and proceeded to make about a hundred tiny flowers. Which his dad helped him affix to a heart-shaped piece of construction paper.
It figures that Jason would come up with a simpler, far cuter valentine than the watercolor ones we made earlier in the week. Next year he’s on valentine duty.
The Hen also made me a card – but not by choice. I’m guessing his dad handed him the same pink heart and a purple marker and urged him to make a few marks. As good dads do. Not to be outdone by his sons, and succumbing to the unsubtle hints being dropped in his direction, Jason also went to work making a card for me.
I mean, I had put forth a teensy amount of effort for him. I’d made his favorite macaroni and cheese for dinner the previous night. And I’d even done (half of) the dishes the next day. That is nothing if not complete love and devotion.
The story behind the macaroni and cheese recipe is actually pseudo romantic, and is directly linked to the day of Cupid.
When we lived in Minneapolis – more than seven years ago now – Jason and I would frequent a restaurant called Cafe Barbette…frequently. This was in the days before we had children, when we didn’t have to think twice about going out to eat on a Friday or Saturday night.
The restaurant served the best macaroni and cheese and pommes frites with saffron aioli. I don’t even want to know the amount of calories and fat grams present in those two dishes combined, because I don’t think it’s possible to do retroactive sit-ups at this point.
When we moved to London, there was no more Cafe Barbette. And Jason would mope about this fact sometimes, making sad remarks about how he wished he could just have some of that mac ‘n cheese. So I got a very bright idea. In October of 2002, I sent a letter to the esteemed restaurant and its then chef Lisa Carlson. I explained how we had visited Cafe Barbette all the time but were now unable to on account of the whole London business. I practically begged for the recipe, telling her it would make my husband so happy if I could make him his most favorite dish on Valentine’s Day. As in, the following February – 2003 – four months away.
I really thought my poignant letter would get a response. I thought she would take pity on this pathetic woman who wrote her all the way from the UK for a lousy recipe.
But as usually happens when I think something will go a certain way, it didn’t. I got absolutely no response. Valentine’s Day arrived, and I ended up having to make do with a Martha Stewart recipe. Which was good enough to lessen my sadness that my story hadn’t had a happy ending.
Fast forward to about a YEAR later. One day, out of the blue, I received an email at work. From esteemed chef Lisa Carlson. If I remember correctly, she explained she was traveling. No longer working at Cafe Barbette. She promised to send me the recipe as soon as possible.
I didn’t hear from her again.
Until two months or so later, when I was on maternity leave with my firstborn. She’d sent me the recipe all the way from Thailand.
I’ve been making it ever since, though only for Jason’s birthday and Valentine’s Day. And preferably when other people can help eat it.
Macaroni and Cheese
(Recipe by Chef Lisa Carlson, formerly from Café Barbette)
16 oz Sharp white cheddar cheese
1 qt heavy cream
1 tsp cayenne pepper
¼ lb butter
½ cup flour
½ cup parmesan
¼ cup white onion
5 dashes Tabasco sauce
16 oz cooked pasta
Saute onion in a few tablespoons of butter until translucent. Add remaining butter and melt slowly. Add flour gradually to make a roux; whisking continuously. Add cream slowly to flour paste. Season to taste with Tabasco (probably more than 5 dashes), cayenne, salt, and pepper. Add cheeses. Add pasta and bake at 350 degrees until bubbly. Serve with more Tabasco sauce and eat right away, so you don’t see the pools of grease on top 
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true loves gave to me…..eleven fairtrade beads, ten minutes walking, nine minutes sledding, eight pieces pizza, seven inches snow, six chocolatechip cookies, five hours alone……four people dressed, three frozen fruit treats, two burning snowmen and a queasy feeling in my tummy
I’m not what one might call a mushy kind of person. You wouldn’t catch me wearing a sweatshirt that said ‘I love Jason’ or ‘I love my kids’. Well, you wouldn’t catch me wearing a sweatshirt – but that’s another story.
The closest I probably ever came to mushy was practicing my ‘married’ signature during astronomy class. But that probably had more to do with my utter disinterest in the course, than anything else. It was, after all, the only class I ever ran out of when the professor turned his head for a minute. Unfortunately he turned around a little faster than I’d bargained for and saw me and my partner in crime exit, yelling ‘hey’ as we bolted. Needless to say I didn’t bother contesting my appalling grade – a girl has to have some dignity.
I’ve dabbled in mush over the years. I sent Jason flowers at work once during our newly married days. I believe his response was ‘why did you send me flowers?’ When I suggested he seemed ungrateful, he claimed he’d just been ’surprised’.
Today I decided to dip my toes in the waters of mush again, this time trying something I KNEW he’d appreciate: I baked muffins using muffin liners.
I have a few quirky habits that drive my other half insane. Like not cleaning up the kitchen after I cook or bake; hanging wet clothes to dry over doors (we don’t have an indoor clothesline or one of those drying racks); leaving drawers open, after I retrieve something. And the worst offender of all – or the one he complains about the most – I bake muffins without using muffin liners.
I’m not entirely evil, I just tend to forget to use them or don’t have them on hand. Also, I find it sort of cumbersome to peel muffin liner off a baked muffin. And I don’t like those little indentations on the side. Plus, I figure with a little bit of soaking, it should come clean easily enough. But, usually, three days of soaking in water later……those dark three dimensional marks are still there.
So today, as I baked carrot muffins, I decided to show my husband that I am sympathetic to his plight. That I’ve heard his cries over the last 12 years. I found the liners. Inserted them in the muffin tin. And filled them with batter. I even washed a few dishes and stacked the rest of the dirty ones.
Just call me wife of the year.
Well, one of the Johnsons has officially hit the ‘mid-thirties’ mark. It’s all downhill from here, I suppose. We were talking last night and J said, ‘we’re Mike and Carrie’s age, when we first met them.’ It’s true. When we met our friends who were then in their mid-thirties, we were just young pups in our ‘mid-twenties.’ And now WE’RE the ‘old’ people who have friends still in their twenties.
Unfortunately I don’t have any of the classic Jason Johnson photos available digitally. Like the one of him climbing up a pole in high school, wearing a mullet and a midriff-baring shirt. Or his senior photo with the same mullet, wearing a pink (err, red) shirt, earnestly resting his face upon his fist – displaying that blue and gold class ring ‘just so.’
And I didn’t have a camera ready when he showed up for our first date wearing forest green pants, blue Nike high tops and a paisley shirt. And I failed to capture those infamous mustard colored pants which were pegged with great care.
Though his tastes and style of dress have changed over the years that I’ve known him, the five cornerstones of Jason Johnson-ness have remained intact:
Humor: Whether Far Side or Jack Handy, Seinfeld or Arrested Development, (or The Big Lebowski), the man loves a laugh and loves to quote a laugh. Always has, always will.
Shoes: Whether weird blue Nike high tops or forest green Pumas with red trim, he loves sneakers. We have polar opposite taste in shoes and it’s the one thing I don’t even try to buy for him.
T-shirts: When our courtship started he was wearing ’This Man is Dead’ and ‘Green Eggs and Ham’ t-shirts. Over the years the shirts, proclaiming ‘Undiscovered Superstar’ or bearing the likeness of B.A. from the A-team, have gotten more sophisticated. I try to throw them out, but he cries ‘Golden Boy’ and I lose the battle every time.
Hair: Mullet (luckily I didn’t know him then); Frat boy/Soccer player hair; Buzz cut; Shaved head and Faux-hawk/Gentleman’s Mohawk. He’s strangely particular about his hair. Rumor has it he used to blow-dry it in high school. Well, that makes one of us.
Spanish Music: Gipsy Kings, Los Fabulosos Cadillacs, Vilma Palma E Vampiros Luis Perales. He has Latin tastes, even if he can’t bust a Latin move. [Be sure to watch the youtube video at least to the chorus; those girls on stage dancing their little hearts out deserve it. Plus, it's a song about t-r-a-n-s-v-e-s-t-i-t-e-s, how could you not?]
He’s also amazing with our babies. Not many men would survive being a stay at home dad (for ten weeks) to a newborn. Of course, not many newborns would be subjected to televised soccer matches while a fan’s blowing on them, either.
This one’s for J, who thinks delayed flights with gassy passengers, ugly hotel wallpaper and another Sunday night dinner at Chipotle constitute a rough day.
Let’s say, hypothetically, that one of the toilets in my house had been clogged all day. And let’s say, hypothetically, that I didn’t really want to deal with this issue. I’m aware there is this thing called a plunger that many people use in similar situations, but I’ve never in my life used a plunger.
It’s one of the (admittedly minor) reasons I’m married: so that I don’t have to figure out how to unclog a toilet (or wash dishes and cars, or catch the mice the cat drags in to play with, or clean out the paint tray and paint brush after I’m done painting).
But perhaps, hypothetically, it became apparent as the day wore on that my strategy of ignoring the problematic toilet and possibly occasionally trying to flush it was not going to cut it. Much like ’soaking’ a muffin pan doesn’t really clean it (another one of my special strategies).
So a more mature approach was required. A double-flush. Not sure if there is such a hand in poker, or if it’s successful, but I’ve learned, hypothetically, that it doesn’t solve a toilet problem. Unless you consider an overflowing toilet bowl a success. Which I don’t.
Someone (was it Caesar) once said: ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’ Well, a lesser known anonymous woman was recently heard saying: ‘I’ve plunged, I’ve mopped, I’ve unclogged.’
Hurry back J…I don’t feel the need to become more familiar with the plunger.
Sometimes you hear about these amazing love stories, eyes meet across a room, being in the beatles not enough to prevent the hookup, $80,000 in 3 star call girls not enough to break us apart type stories and you just stop and think wow, that’s amazing (or maybe absurd). But it all pales to the lady you have before you. The one who has moved across oceans, pulled all nighters building models, listened to copius quantities of absurdist conversations. She has lived in collapsing houses, driven collapsing cars, and always (well ok mostly) kept about her a certain calmness and perspective that never ceases to inspire me. Of course we can all assume its because of the fat paycheck and easygoing nature of yours truly. We can assume the lavish gifts and hopeless romanticism I dispense daily is the basis for this wonder of wifedom.
We could assume this of course if we assumed a lot of other things, like cheesecake is a health food, that guy interviewing you really DOES want to be your new best friend, boys are low maintenence, George Bush is really very smart and articulate, Dick Cheney shot that guy accidentally, Dentists aren’t sadists, and Hillary has forgiven Bill.
Absent these truths I have to say that I am the undeserved recipient of a pretty amazing wife, who tracked me down in the hospital of a foreign country, arranged for the only person I know there to come find me in the hospital and then drove 9 hours with a messed up foot to come get me from the airport and take care of me. I love this woman and continue to be amazed by her ability to handle the barrage of “situations” I throw her way.
I recently switched the boys’ bedtime CD, which makes for quieter nights now that we’re not listening to ‘You are my Sunshine’ in stereo.
As I was listening to it last night, I remembered it was during the movie, ‘So I Married an Axe Murderer’ that I decided I would marry J. He certainly hadn’t asked – we hadn’t even been on a date unless you counted this movie (I had tagged along with two of his roommates). We were watching the preview when his roommate Jake complained about J’s constant listening to ‘Spanish’ music. My ears perked up. Why would a regular ‘American’ kid listen to Spanish music?
And so I learned that he’d spent most of his youth in South America with his missionary parents. Bilingual and good looking. So I decided I would marry him.
Luckily I liked the ‘Spanish’ music, too.
So J, crazy/fabulous man that he is, spent what little free time he had Saturday night, Sunday and Monday trying to get this bathroom into use-able shape. The man singlehandedly installed the floor, the toilet (which came with a broken tank, thank you Lowe’s!), a sink/cabinet and the faucet for the tub. He also put insulation between the tub walls – apparently there was none – and installed new (read, not rotten) tub walls for lack of the correct technical term.
My favorite witticisms were:
‘huh, I guess that’s why there are always ants coming through the faucet when we start the boys’ bath!’ (Upon discovery of some kind of ants’ nest in the walls).
‘wow, no wonder there was practically no water flow when you took a shower.’ (Apparently the pipe leading to the showerhead was suffering from some serious atherosclerosis….75% of the pipe was blocked.)
