To Test Drive- Or Not!

"Waiting for marriage!" People snort derisively, "Wouldn't buy a car without test driving it first, would ya?!?"

I have heard this often over the years, and never really had an answer ready. I would merely shrug, happy in my own choices and standards.

I waited until marriage, and so did my husband, Michael. We are the blessed in the fact that we have a wonderful marriage, love life, and ongoing relationship. We didn't have a 'test drive' first in the sense of sleeping together- a few kisses were enough to let us know that we were passionately compatible!

And this morning, after ten and one half glorious years of marriage, the answer came to me in the shadows of pre-dawn- we didn't even need a test drive.

Sure, if you're going to the car lot to buy a used Saturn station wagon you may want to find out what you are getting. But if you have a Father, a really cool dad for whom money is not an object, you may have a different situation.

Imagine waking up one morning and looking out your bedroom window. Sitting in the driveway is a neon blue Ferrari Tessarosa. With your name on it. All yours, free and clear.

Are you going to whine about a test drive?? No! You're going to run out the door, barely remembering to thank your Dad, grab the keys, and start that baby up! It's been lovingly custom made, months of work and engineering and painting and tiny details, all for you. It's been handpicked by Someone who knows you the best, and although it will require maintenance, it is free. And yours. Forever.

When I bought my first car, I saved and worked and saved and worked. I walked into Weidner Motors one cloudy afternoon and plunked down $3,500 of my own sweat-stained money for a Ford Taurus station wagon. It was a great car, but within a few years I had outgrown my need for it. I sold it to a lovely Mexican lady in Tucson, and moments later had to chase her through the mall parking lot when I remembered my U2 tape was still in the deck! I have a few photos of that car, and some fond memories, but it was just a phase in my life.

When Michael entered my life, it was like finding that perfect match. His ragged edges fit my ragged edges and we completed each other. We didn't need to experiment to know that we were right for each other- we knew that we had been hand-picked by Someone who loved and knew us more than we ourselves knew us!

Our marriage has required maintenance- regular fill-ups of encouragement, costly date nights, inexpensive date nights, teary 'discussions' about everything from finances to why he can't seem to remember that I hate yellow roses, and the occasional spontaneous burst of love in a letter or song.

Unlike that Taurus wagon, I haven't outgrown my need for Michael. I still curl to his back at night, until my body heat spikes and the comforter becomes a raging inferno (anybody else have this problem? I need an ice-pack nightgown). Somehow, in the early morning gloaming, when the house is cooler and the blankets have made their way almost to the bathroom, our hands find each others and, mid-sleep, we once again snuggle together as tightly as we can fit. I have my heavenly Father to thank for the perfect match, the ultimate, custom-made mate that I will never need to upgrade or replace.

And I don't think he'll depreciate, either.

Turnips & Cinnamon

Kid #1 is, like many other young girls, enamored of the American Girls books. In one book, some WWII kid doesn't want to eat her mashed turnips (who would?). Someone- obviously desperate or evil- dresses them up with cinnamon and sugar, and the kid is transported to happy eating once again.

This uncanny combination struck my oldest child as so completely novel that she had to try it. She would no relent until we had some cinnamoned-and-sugared mashed turnips ourselves. Having only eaten turnips in things such as stews and pasties, Kid #1 really had no idea how they tasted on their own.

Being the control freak that I am, I tried explaining to her that turnips are bitter, cabbagey, and not conducive to sweet. She was undeterred. So we traipsed out to Meijer tonight and purchased some turnips. Kid #1 was enthralled at the lovely purple gradient on the side, the interesting scales where the leaves had been trimmed, and the perfect firmness of the tuber.

"Do you have cinnamon and sugar at home, mom, or do we need to buy it?" Kid asked.

"Oh, I always have cinnamon and sugar in my house." I replied flippantly, "It makes everything better."

"Which is why it will be perfect on mashed turnips!!" Kid crowed, actually clasping her hands in glee. That's what I get for my flippancy.

We straggled home after leaving a pretty sum of money at the grocery store, and Kid #1 immediately began searching for a peeler. We boiled water, chopped the blarmy rigid things without incident, and tossed them in, excitement building among the little ones. Michael and I looked over their heads at one another, shrugged, and hoped for the best.

Twenty minutes later, we were far from the best. Mashed turnips look bad and taste awful, even with butter and milk. Add something that normally belongs on yummy toast, and you have a complete assualt on your senses. I made faces, but Kid #1 was crowing,

"Isn't it wonderful, mom? It's such a different taste!"

For all of my doubts, all of my silly groundless worries, it didn't even matter. She loved them, although I noticed a mostly-uneaten bowl sitting on the counter just now. Turnips are ridiculously cheap, I had maybe two dollars invested into the entire project- less than I would have spent on a movie. We got to learn about various root plants, and she got to actually try something that she had read about.

At the age of nine, she is going to be wanting to do a lot more of these things. I have always thought that I would have an easy time letting go of them, but I find it to not be so now. The maturity is fine- but worrying about burns and cuts and kitchen messes and wasted food gets to me. Most of all, I worry that they will be disappointed with the things they want to try.

These are needless worries! Of course all three kids will recieve burns and cuts and stitches! And I think that they will survive these things.
There will be messes and disasters and the occasional wasted food or destroyed pan- but they will leave my house knowing how to fend for themselves!

And disappointment- the only disappointment they will know is not having been allowed in the kitchen, if I keep up my current pace. But I will not. I know that it is time to start slowly letting go, gradually releasing my iron grip on these children and their minds and wills and imaginations.

There came a time when my own mom had to let me in the kitchen- and she grimly withstood burned hamburgers, clumpy rice, spicy potatoes, and watery eggs. I am ready to soldier up now and withstand my share of these, all the while teaching my children the science of cooking, the value of a dollar, and the importance of a happy kitchen. I hope I'm up for the task.

And I hope I don't run out of cinnamon.


We might try it on rutabegas next.