Paczkis and Goose Poop.

If you do not know that Paczkis are, they are Polish donuts. As donut’s go, they are possibly the best thing ever invented by God. I think it is the filling to donut ratio that makes them so good, but honestly, I don’t really care about the why…I just know that they are the best!

Every year around this time, my husband’s grocery store brings them in for one week. Why just one week? I have no idea, but I anticipate it like other people do Christmas or their vacation. When they are there, I buy a box of six raspberry filled and eat them over a couple of days and then I am good until the following year.

I was thinking the other day that it was about time for them to be in, so I asked my husband.

“Oh, they were in about three weeks ago”, he said nonchalantly, as if it didn’t matter.

What?

Are you kidding me?

“How come you didn’t bring some home?” I asked as I my mind reeled from the shock of it all.

“Well, I thought we were both watching what we eat so……”.

“But…Paczkis don’t count”. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I felt…bereft!

I thought about those damn donuts for the last three weeks. I couldn’t believe he did that to me. The other night he was wandering around in the kitchen looking for a snack when I snidely said, “You won’t find anything good. It’s not like we have Paczkis or anything. “

“Oh my God. Are you still on about that? Just go to the bakery on Facer St. They have them all the time!”

What? And you’re just telling me this now?

Saturday morning I woke my daughter up at 9am…almost the break of dawn as far as she was concerned.

“Come on, we have to go out!”

“Where?” she grumbled, trying to pull the covers back over her head.

“To get Paczkis”, I replied, yanking the covers back down.

“We will get them, and then take Rascal to the park and eat them as we walk”. It was brilliant!

Eventually she got moving and off we went. Rascal was just excited to be in the car. We bought four Paczkis. One each, and one to share, and even one for my husband, although he really didn’t deserve it. And we got a plain cookie for Rascal to share with the geese at the park.

When we got to the park, we walked down towards the pond, Rascal pulling like mad because he could see the geese in the distance. Kate and I ate our Paczkis. They were heavenly. By the time I finished mine, my fingers were numb with cold but I didn’t care.

Rascal was deliriously happy barking at anything that quaked or honked on the water. He got right down to the edge of the pond and was slipping and sliding all over the place in what I at first thought to be mud. No. As I got closer I realized it was a giant pile of goose poop! I yelled at him to get out, but even as I did I realized my mistake as he came bounding towards me….and jumped up with his paws all over the front of my wool coat.

Kate just about fell over laughing at me. I guess she felt vindicated for my making her get out of bed.

My coat stank! Rascal stank! I didn’t even want to get back in the car, but it was too far to walk home.

Needless to say, Rascal had a bath as soon as we got home, and I hung my coat in the garage until I could take it to the cleaners.

The moral of the story? There is no such thing as a free Paczki.

What's In A Name?

I've never understood parents letting their children call them by their first names.  I've known a few over the years, but I've always been of the opinion that it was a little disrespectful.  My kids have always called me Mom, or on occasion Mama.  When my son was little and I helped out with his hockey team, all the kids addressed me as "Joseph's Mom". 

I recently reconnected with one of my former high school teachers via social media.  We sent a couple of emails back and forth discussing what we'd been up to for the past.....gasp.... 30 years, and he finally wrote and said "You know, you don't have to call me Mr..... anymore.  It's John.  Just call me John".
I promptly wrote back and said "I don't think I can do that".  It was just much too weird to me to call my grade 12 history teacher "John".  Of course, I've been making the effort, but it has not come easily.  And I realize I still address most of my parent's friends as Mr. or Mrs. So and So.  That's just the way it is. 

My daughter recently decided she might want to switch her major to Marketing so in an effort to help her decide, I arranged for her to become an unpaid intern at my office, helping out the marketing team.   She's had part time jobs since she was 14 but she's never worked in an office before so naturally I coached her a little bit on dress code and basic protocols.   

On her first day I brought her a plant for her desk as she was settling in.  "Thanks, Mom".    I thought for a second and then replied, "I'm not 'Mom' here".   

"Okay, thanks Nancy" she said with a smirk as I was walking away. 

"That's Mrs. Raimondo to you" I answered.

As I continued walking away I heard the young man at the desk next to hers laugh and say to her, "Ha.  I get to call her Nancy!"