Funny (?) story: I was at the public school administration building earlier this week, having discovered that I was supposed to have registered him for public high school before we applied for the various magnet programs. Who knew? (Everyone knew except me!)  Anyway, I was talking to a wonderful woman who was really, really helpful and reassuring. She looked at my son’s application and said “Oh, yes, he already has an ID. Just give me a minute and I’ll look him up for you.” 

First, how in the world does she remember this stuff? There are thousands of students in our school district. The high school alone has more than 3,000 kids. She was confident though and went right over to her computer. “Hold on,” she said, and she typed for a few minutes, the keys making that familiar clacking sound. 

“I’ve got it,” she said. “But this is weird. Your husband has an ID but you aren’t on the profile.” She looked up at me expectantly and I had to say, for the first time in awhile, that thing that I’ve said many times. “My husband passed away, so….”

She interrupted me with a gasp. “OH NO,” she said really loudly. “I’m SO SORRY.” I can’t even explain the level of distress that she expressed immediately. It’s hard to convey. It was so real and so heartfelt that I immediately burst into tears. Yep, right there. In the administrative office. In front of two other parents and several administrators. No warning. No Kleenex. No trap door to drop through. 

Of course, she was horrified but it’s not her fault. Grief, as I’ve said before and you all probably know, isn’t convenient or predictable. It turned out fine. I did some calming yoga breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth — and pulled myself together. And when I got home, I told my daughter and we laughed about it. Because it was funny.

Earlier this week, when I got done working for the day, I tested a new recipe for the treat boxes we give every year to the teachers at my son’s school. This is our last year after 19 straight years there and I’m going big (and then going home). This week’s recipe was eggnog cake — crumbly cake, spiced with ginger and nutmeg, covered with a slightly sweet rum-flavored drizzle. 

Nothing brings my mom back to me more than holiday baking. The sound of the mixer, the oven timer pinging, the cookie discussions and batter tasting. She’s been gone for more than 20 years but I can still picture her, cheeks flushed from the heat, muttering over some perceived problem with the recipe of the moment and laughing with me and my sister.

ANYWAY, my 90 year old next door neighbors were quick to offer assistance when the Subaru went rogue; so yesterday morning, on my way out, I packaged up some of the eggnog cake and left it at their door with a little thank you note. She texted me later and … let’s just say, flattery may not get you everywhere but it will, in fact, get you some cookies. They’ll be ready and at your front door next week, neighbor. 

If you need the recipe, just hit me up!