Remembering the Unforgettable

From the book: The Toilet's Overflowing and the Dog is Wearing My Underwear As an adolescent, I believed parenting would be a breeze. If I had known motherhood entailed fishing cell phones from toilets and pulling cocoa puffs out of noses, I’d have become a nun.  I would’ve evicted baby chicks from my playhouse, swaddled dolls, and listened to every conversation about hemorrhoids, infant bowel movements, and coupons my mother’s quilting group had. Instead, television characters were my role

“Mom, I really gotta talk to you.”      I sighed and leaned against the shelving in the hallway. With my children, that phrase took on different meanings depending on the kid. ​     If uttered by younger son Joseph (and used in high-pitched whining tones), it meant that either the popsicle supply was depleted and the world would surely end, or the family dog was running down the drive wearing my underwear and Joseph would be blamed.      For my older boy Jonathan, it meant that either his

From the book The Toilet's Overflowing and the Dog is Wearing my Underwear  by Debbie Roppolo           I don’t know how it happened. Perhaps it was the pleading look in my husband John’s eyes. Maybe it was because I’ll do anything for a worthy cause. Whatever the reason, one Saturday morning, two weeks before Christmas, I stood in our kitchen, rubbing salt on breasts and shoving my hand up rear ends. At this point, I should mention we were cooking turkeys for a benefit. The proceeds would be

Friday nights are special in my house. For a brief period my family and I can toss schedules aside, forget about looming deadlines, and enjoy each other's company. Last night, in honor of the fall season, we opted for old movies and munchies. I've found (through trial and error) that you don't have to break the bank to have a small party for your spouse and kids. A veggie or fruit tray is always a great choice, and a bag of unpopped popcorn is almost always available for  under a dollar. But

Beauty and grace are everywhere. Whether it's an Olympic figure skater or a street dancer, gifts of poise and balance are obvious. The latter is a gift I wasn't blessed with. A tad over 5'5," I could be a twin for a newborn foal, and wearing heels, I have all the grace of a drunken ostrich on ice skates.      Misfortune declared itself my best friend beginning when I was very young. Through my youth I've been knocked unconscious by the family German Shepherd and hooked in the butt with my

I've always been one of those kind of girls--rough and tumble, a dirt-beneath-the-fingernails gal that wasn't afraid of anything and willng to take risks. Always to my father's delight (and my friends' revulsion), I impaled my own worms and grasshoppers on hooks during fishing trips, and was the first to plunge feet-first into the pond and chase bullfrogs through the tall grasses. The end result was my being transformed into an eight year-old, hazel-eyed mud ball, and Mama rinsing me off with

Whether it's lightly sauteed, put in a frittata, roasted, or cooked in homemade spaghetti sauce, zucchini has perpetually proven it versatility.  And of course we can't forget the sweeter side of this yummy fruit in the forms of cookies and bread. Yep, you read it correctly, and I assure you I didn't write this post while caffeine-deprived. Even though zucchini is usually served savory (that's how my grandmother prepared it) and as a side, it's botanically classified as a fruit.

I love bananas, but I'm a bit strange. For me, the best time to enjoy the fruit is a little after it's past the green stage. The texture is perfect, and I love topping an open-faced peanut butter sandwich with thin slices of the fruit, drizzling it with organic honey, and toasting it in the oven. Each delicious bite takes me back to my youth and afternoon snacks at my nana's house.      The darker the skin on the banana, the more I'm repulsed. I don't like the smell, and I certainly don't

The air in my mother’s attic smelled of mothballs and dusty clothing.  Boxes decorated the floors like forgotten building blocks, while spiders’ webbing, substituting for lace, hanged above dingy windows. It was a far cry from the airy wonderland where I spent rainy afternoons during my childhood. The visit wasn’t planned, not really. Mama’s health was declining. On a whim, she invited me one weekend to take what I wanted of my childhood memories before the remaining loot was donated