Here’s another video I like.

I think the only scenario I’m uncomfortable being alone is in settings when you’re supposed to mingle and be social with strangers or acquaintances. People ask about work and your summer plans without really caring about your response. They’re pretending to listen to your response, but their eyes are darting around as their lips say “uh huh.” I would much rather be squeezed in the corner between the potted plant and the bookshelf. That’s why I simply try to avoid these scenarios, but sometimes it’s inevitable.

Flights can be tense, and passengers can be cranky, which is why this video makes me happy.

Today our small group* held its second annual block party for the New Holly neighborhood where one of our families lives. We met up at 9 to get everything ready. The kids were occupied with a DVD of Chinese songs and dances for children (which surprisingly held their attention), so the adults were free to prepare the food. On the menu were pancakes, Belgian waffles, scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns, and fruit.

Two other women and I got to work in the kitchen, while Matt and another guy manned the pancake and waffle griddles. Fast forward two hours…Matt was finishing up the last few scoops of pancake batter, and the husbands and kids were already waiting at the park where all our food was set up. Two other women and I were gathering up the last few things to bring over.

“Hey, Lima,” I heard Matt say. “What’s up with these staples in your bowl?? I found one earlier when I made the first batch of pancakes. I bit into the pancake and found the staple! Now I found another one in the batter!”

Lima studied the staple, puzzled that Matt would find it in her kitchenware. Suddenly, she got a look of horror and realization on her face. She rushed to the kitchen and returned with a small mason jar. “I had taken out all the staples from my dining table chairs and put them in this mason jar – and Andy** used this jar to measure the milk for the batter!! I told him where the measuring cups were, but he insisted on using this jar!”

We didn’t know what to say. Our mouths dropped open. Matt asked how many staples were in the jar. Lima turned over one of the chairs and counted. “12 per chair, with four chairs…”

“48 staples!!!” we said in unison.

This was not good. We were trying to do something fun for the community, but instead, we could possibly seriously injure the neighbors. Our friends would be “the couple who put staples in the pancakes,” and they’d be forced to move out of their community. The staples in the pancakes would go down in history with the Halloween candy with the needles in them. We couldn’t just serve eggs, fruit and sausage (which most people wouldn’t even eat, since I had mistakenly purchased pork sausage patties for a predominantly Muslim community). And we couldn’t play it off as if it were a Willy Wonka and the Golden Ticket type of deal (“Find the staple in the pancake, and win a balloon!”). We thought about our other options – call off the block party or run out to the store to buy more food.

Instead, we opted for a third option – do a thorough search of the pancakes and waffles for the staples. Lima jokingly suggested getting a strong magnet and scanning the plate of food. But since we didn’t have a strong magnet, we had to use our fingers. We knew that the first batch of pancakes had at least the staple that Matt had bitten. Perhaps the staples were still near the surface of the bowl during the first batch, but then had sunk to the bottom and were now most likely to be found in the last batch.

I found about six staples in the first few pancakes that I searched. The ones with blueberries were the hardest to detect the staples in, and it required even squeezing the blueberries to feel around them. The plain pancakes were a lot easier to feel through, and we quickly found more staples. The majority of them were in the last batch and in the bowl of batter, as we suspected. We were confident that all the plain and chocolate-chip ones were staple-free, so we decided to still serve them. The waffles were all staple-free, although Lima found a solid dime-sized ball of flour in one.

By the end of our search, we had 40 staples. We figured that the eight missing staples were in the blueberry pancakes, so we left those in the house. (I ate a blueberry pancake later, and sure enough, I bit into a staple.)

Last year, we probably had about 40-50 people show up, even during Ramadan, when Muslims fast until sundown. However, today, we only had about 15-20 people come through. Even though most of them were kids, we still made a dent in our food supply. Some of the boys came back for seconds and thirds, ladeling fruit onto their waffles and then practically covering the entire waffle with a mountain of whipped cream. One boy asked for more whip cream, so Matt told him to open his mouth. Matt squirted a pile of whipped cream right into the boy’s open mouth. He kept his mouth open and ran off to show his friends.

Another boy wanted to squeeze the whipped cream onto his waffle himself, so I showed him how the can and nozzle worked. A younger boy in line behind him said he wanted to do it, too. He couldn’t figure it out right away, so he held the can upright, pointing at me. “I can’t figure it out,” he said, as he pushed the nozzle down with his finger. A puff of whipped cream shot out at me. “Oh, now I get it,” he said.

Toward the end, a teenage boy came by and asked for two Belgian waffles. He asked for a heap of whipped cream on top of one waffle, topped that with fruit, and sandwiched it all with the second waffle. Without even walking away from the food table, he picked up his creation and bit into it, whipped cream getting on both sides of his mouth. “MMMm….this is so good.” He walked over to a picnic table where his friends sat.

“Aren’t you fasting?” one kid asked.

“I was, but not anymore. Don’t tell my mom!” the teen replied. Matt walked over to the boy who was hunched over his food, trying not to let the filling of his waffle sandwich ooze out.

“Hey, isn’t that your mom?” Matt asked. The boy shot up straight, eyes wide, his head whipping around. Matt laughed, and the boy sighed. “You scared me!!” he said before immediately taking a bite of his waffle.

Two hours later, everyone had stuffed themselves and had wandered off to other parts of the neighborhood. The kids in our small group were getting restless, and the adults had already experienced what felt like a long morning. Crisis averted…but just barely.

_____________________________

* A small group usually consists of several families from the same church who regularly meet together. Our group, however, is made up of four families from three different churches.

** Name has been changed to protect the individual’s identity.

On an uncharacteristically hot Seattle day, we celebrated the marriage of Jeff and Tara. The ceremony was at Gasworks Park, followed by a parade (led by a New Orleans-style brass band) down the street to the Skansonia, a docked boat on Lake Union. Mel and I, along with our husbands, were on board the Skansonia before the reception started, setting out centerpieces, arranging placecards, and positioning frames with photos of Tara’s and Jeff’s relatives. Before we could see them, we heard the lively tunes of the band, making its way toward the boat. The marriage was official, and now, everyone was ready to party.

I know a lot of couples that work well together, but I rarely ever say that two individuals are perfect for each other. But Jeff and Tara are probably one of the few couples I know who truly seem made for each other without being disgustingly and uncomfortably lovey-dovey about it. They are both kind-hearted, warm, sensitive, humorous, amazingly intelligent and talented, humble, athletic, creative, silly, and confident. I’ve known them for about four years now through capoeira, and I believe that who they are plays a huge part in attracting people to our group. Jeff teaches our class, but I think of Tara as his unofficial co-teacher. The toasts given at the reception, given by people who’ve known Jeff and Tara much longer than I have, affirmed that what I know about them is who they have been all their lives. They are the real thing.

Toward the end of the night, we took a group capoeira photo on the deck of the boat. After one “serious” shot, someone said, “Now a capoeira pose!” Right away, Tara – still in her wedding gown – knelt into a capoeira move that required her to balance her body weight on one arm, with her legs up in the air. Jeff jumped in front of her, executing a low kick. Everyone cheered.

One of the band members appeared with a tambourine, tapping out a samba beat. Without much prompting, Tara and Jeff started a samba de roda (samba dance circle), which evolved into a capoeira roda. “Wedding roda!” we shouted. (If it’s your birthday, we have a birthday roda, which means you have to play every single person around the circle. So we figured a wedding roda wouldn’t be much different.) Are we actually going to play capoeira in our dresses, I wondered. Sure enough, the capoeira girls in the crowd kicked off their shoes and jumped in, keeping their kicks low so the guests wouldn’t get flashed. As the roda progressed, Tara grew more and more comfortable playing in her gown. She did movements on the floor, not letting her wedding gown slow her down one bit. And Jeff, our resident sweat machine, didn’t hold back his kicks. By the end of the roda, he was asking for another shirt.

Matt and I left after the wedding roda, but it was a great way to end the night. How many grooms and, especially, brides would be willing to get sweaty or do cartwheels in their wedding attire? Not many, but it simply affirmed what I already knew – that Jeff and Tara are incredible people. But more importantly, they inspire people around them to be incredible, too.

Every time we go back to Cali, Matt gets an In-N-Out burger, and I get Rite Aid ice cream. I love Rite Aid’s (formerly known as Thrifty) mint chip ice cream, which is a less expensive version of Baskin Robbins’ mint chip. I have fond memories of growing up on this stuff, and I remember when it cost 35 cents a scoop. We used to get it when we visited ma-ma and yeh-yeh, since there was a Thrifty nearby. When I tutored a girl named Melody at Excel Computers, we’d walk over to get ice cream. I’d eat it on a cone, and she would sandwich her ice cream between two slices of bread. When I worked on Van Ness in SF, I became very familiar with the Rite Aid directly outside of the MUNI station. One time after buying ice cream, I took one lick and the scoop fell to the ground. I turned around, went back inside, and bought another scoop. When I went back outside, my original scoop had disappeared from the sidewalk! Weird.

So I wanted to literally scream for ice cream when Matt showed me what Costco was offering. In a rare romantic gesture, Matt had hoped to surprise me with it…until he realized that a $20 surcharge would be added to purchases under $25. With tax and shipping, it’d probably be more than $40…for 3 gallons of ice cream. He even tried to find people to split it with us, but no one wanted Thrifty ice cream that desperately. Bummer.

Still – it was a nice thought…I love that Matt knows what speaks to my heart. Forget diamond rings and trendy shoes – gimme my ice cream!!

Carolyn forwarded me an email about the Harry Potter Exhibition, coming to Seattle in October. I am SO THERE!!! Even simply hearing a clip of the theme song on the website makes me giddy.

I must admit that when I found out about Harry Potter Land three years ago, I wondered if we all would manage to make the trip out to Orlando together. People get busy, interests change…but three years later, we are still as crazy as ever. I’m so glad we made it happen.