I asked for a Dutch oven for Hanukkah last year.

My mother bought me two.

I laughed — and wondered where the heck I would put them — but I wasn’t entirely surprised. Not only is my mother an over-the-top gift giver in the very best way, she knew this was a meaningful gift. And so (because there’s nowhere else to put them) my stove now holds a big, red Dutch oven from Costco and a smaller green number from Le Creuset.

Tonight, they are both full of meat, potatoes and onions. I finally dusted them off a few days ago, in preparation for Passover. I’ve hosted three or four seders over the years, but this is the first one that counts.

This is the first time I’ve made brisket.

My mother emailed me the family recipe, then I called to question her on details. My grandmother’s recipe is too easy, I thought to myself. Something’s missing.

I come by my skepticism honestly. To understand why, you must know the story of The Pot.

I tried telling Ray the story the other day, and he rolled his eyes and said, “OK, Grandpa Keegan,” a not-so-subtle reference to his own grandfather, who back in the day was known to tell the same story again and again and again….

I’m not 100 percent sure, come to think of it, that I haven’t already told you story about The Pot, dear blog reader, but I’m going to go ahead and tell it anyhow.

My maternal grandmother, known as Nanny, was a master cook. Her secret wasn’t so well kept — she used a lot of butter. My mother (who spent most of the 1970s downing huge spoonsful of sawdust-like bran flakes to counteract the butter of her childhood) followed her mother’s recipes (only on very special occasions), and got the same delicious results, but there was one recipe she couldn’t get right.

The brisket — or, as my father calls it, the pot roast. The centerpiece of every good Jewish meal. A real accomplishment — if done right — and a real disappointment if not. Every time my mother made it, it just wasn’t quite as good as Nanny’s. She’d call her mother, double check the ingredients, the temperature, the cooking time. Never right. My mother decided that certainly, her mother was withholding valuable brisket information.

And then Nanny died. Among her possessions was a giant white, oval-shaped, incredibly heavy Dutch oven that looks like it came over from the Old Country. My mother took it home and made a brisket.

Just like Nanny’s.

“It was the pot!” she announced. Nanny hadn’t been holding back after all.

And my mother’s brisket was perfect from then on. (Even, oddly, after she lost Nanny’s Dutch oven when she and my dad moved several years ago. I think she was using a flimsy pot during the 70s and 80s. Or Nanny has blessed it from above — but I think it’s the former, as my grandmother wasn’t that nice.)

Tonight I sliced my Passover brisket and took a small bite. It tasted exactly like my mother’s.

Well, maybe not exactly. We’ll see what the crowd thinks tomorrow night. We’re having so many people that I actually bought three briskets. One for each of my Dutch ovens, and one for my mother. She offered to make it, and I figured it can’t hurt — the first year, anyway — to have some training wheels.

“We can mix all three up in the pot so no one even knows whose is whose,” she’s offered graciously.

Now that’s a good mom.

***

Here is our family recipe:

Go to Costco or a good butcher. Buy a brisket. Bring it home and heat a small amount of olive oil in the Dutch oven, along with three diced garlic cloves. When the oil is very hot, sear the brisket on both sides. Lower the heat and add two onions, sliced thick. Sprinkle with Lawry’s seasoning salt and paprika. Put the lid on the Dutch oven and do not open it, not even once, for three hours. Make sure the heat is high enough that you can hear the brisket bubbling inside. Cool and refrigerate overnight. Remove brisket, slice, and return to pot along with thinly sliced potatoes. Cook another 45 minutes or so, and serve. Or refrigerate again and heat to serve the next day.

One more thing: Make sure you have a really good Dutch oven.

…ended much better than the first day of Sophie’s new IEP.

After a note from the lawyer and a reminder of promises made (promises that are now legally binding) the classroom aide began Wednesday. I met her; she has a good vibe. But don’t tell Sophie — she’s not supposed to know this is “her” aide. I think that’s a good idea.

“Hey, is there anyone new in your classroom?” I asked Thursday night.

“Yes,” Sophie told me. “I don’t remember her name.”

“Do you like her?”

Vigorous nodding. “She’s good.”

This morning I got this note from the teacher (to explain — it was AIMS week, a time extra help was needed more than ever, but not a typical week):

Hey Amy-
I just wanted to give you a quick update about the IA in our room. It has been a very different week but Sophie transitioned with it well. Her IA, NAME, is truly building a relationship with her. Sophie has tested her and she has been very patient and consistent with her. Sophie has responded well to her even through her testing. We made it through a full comprehension test yesterday and she really worked hard on it. We have had many activities this week that Sophie has been participating fully and totally because she has had NAME with her. I am looking forward to seeing how everything goes with a “normal” week next week.
I hope you have a great weekend!

Now I will.

Wye Oak – Fish from Merge Records on Vimeo.

Everyone in Phoenix has a John McCain story, it seems, but not many have Jon Kyl stories.

I do.

It was 1982 or so, and I was sitting in Mr. Kyl’s kitchen.

You know how growing up, you had two kinds of friends — the friends whose parents let you call them by their first name, and the latter? The Kyls were the latter.

Their daughter Kristy was a year ahead of me in high school, and we were both (nerd alert) on the debate team — our file cards, articles and legal pads spread out across the kitchen table. We were hotly arguing some topic, in preparation for a tournament. I don’t recall the exact subject (it could have been abortion, come to think of it), but I can assure you that I was taking the “liberal” position and Kristy the “conservative.”

(I was probably the one and only Democrat at Arcadia High School in the early 1980s, raised by a mother with socialist roots who volunteered for Common Cause. This was many years before he’d announce his candidacy for the House, but it was already clear that Kyl and his family were perched on the far end of the right wing.)

Kristy and I were going at it when I felt eyeballs on me, and turned to realize Mr. Kyl had entered the room and was standing there, listening. This part I’ll never forget — he was visibly shaking, clearly trying to control his anger. And then he spoke.

“I’d like to debate you sometime, Amy,” he practically spit, in a tone more appropriate for a colleague on the floor of the United States Senate than a kid sitting in his kitchen.

For the record, that story is entirely factual — to the best of my ability to remember something that happened nearly 30 years ago. In fact, I remember it like it was yesterday.

In honor of the approaching heat, Annabelle got out the duct tape and made shoes for herself and Sophie. She says dresses are next.

Email written this evening, names deleted:

hey TEACHER and SPECIAL ED TEACHER — i have to admit i’m concerned and disappointed because sophie came home today without her red folder.

that means she didn’t have her homework. she also did not have the weekly notes from you, SPECIAL ED TEACHER, that you sent home one week and promised to send home every monday.

i realize now that we might not have incorporated that (the weekly notes) into the IEP, and i’m sorry we didn’t do that. i am also hoping that you will send me a final copy of the IEP when it’s finished. if it’s not too late, could we please incorporate the weekly update?

i am particularly concerned that the red folder did not come home because a. that is a recurring problem and b. today was supposed to be the day that sophie’s classroom aide began, per her IEP. i did not receive word that it did or didn’t happen — only an empty backpack.

i am also not certain as to whom i should be addressing concerns like these. THE PRINCIPAL? that seems a little extreme, frankly. but in any case, i’ll wait to hear back from one of you with instructions about how to proceed.

thanks!

amy

I was about to post this video last night — but it seemed too sappy, even for cornball me. Then I woke up and one of my best friends had posted the exact sentiment (to the words) on Facebook. So I figured what the heck.

And it’s true. Lawyers are great and all, but there’s no way I could navigate the hallways of Sophie’s school without all of you by my side — whispering encouragement, calling me on my shit, offering sage advice. Thank you.

Have you ever had your own lawyer?

Before we hired one to advocate at Sophie’s IEP meeting, I never had. I’ve written about lawyers, I’m related to lawyers, I contemplated becoming a lawyer. Some of my best friends are lawyers.

But until today, I really had no idea what it felt like to have a lawyer. I like it. I like it a lot.

I like it so much, in fact, that for the last couple hours — since I walked out of the meeting — I’ve been contemplating hiring a lawyer who can follow me around 24/7 and make my arguments way better than I can make them. Not to mention scare the crap out of people with her mere presence.

Debates over parking spots, negotiations over bedtime, employees who don’t make deadlines? This could all be handled by the lawyer.

Of course, today’s luck could have been beginner’s. I hope not, because I fully intend to bring Sophie’s lawyer to every school meeting from now on.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as we walked out of the meeting. I made it out the door before my eyes welled up. I could barely get the words out.

“This is what I’ve been trying to do for three  years,” I choked.

For three years, I’ve been trying to get Sophie some help in the classroom. Not even a full time, one on one aide —  just some help. As third grade approaches, it gets more vital each day. And today was the day to ask one more time.

The IEP meeting lasted two hours. The topic didn’t come up til an hour and 45 minutes in. By then I was a complete wreck — and I have the cuticles to prove it. Finally, every other goal had been discussed, every i dotted and t crossed and the lawyer announced that there was just one more thing.

Sophie needs some help in the general education classroom, she said. Not in the resource room or with her therapies, but in the classroom — where it’s typically 25 kids and one teacher.

The principal interrupted — that’s exactly what she’s been planning for months! she announced cheerfully.

If they lawyer hadn’t been there, that would have been the point where I would have dragged my hard-bitten nails down the principal’s face. But instead I was almost respectful. Okay, at least I kept my mouth shut. Mostly.

In the end, they actually wrote into the IEP that Sophie gets this extra help. If you’ve ever been around the IEP process, you know that’s huge. At least, at our school it is.

So will this help start this school year or next? Sophie’s current teacher asked. Someone looked at a calendar and realized the new IEP takes effect Friday.

Can you wait til Monday? someone asked.

Yes, we can wait til Monday. After three years, we can wait til Monday.

The lawyer and I walked outside. A cool rain was falling. I wanted to hug her, but we both had our hands full, and it seemed sort of weird. Instead I thanked her about a million times and we both got in our cars.

I texted Ray.

We won!

I hit send, then I thought about that exclamation point. It was too much. We won. We did. But there are no guarantees. As I drove, I remembered the quiet caveat from the district’s special education coordinator, about how third grade would be really big — they want to keep their eye on Sophie. They want to make sure she does well, or it will be time to look into “other options”. The other options aren’t good.

I started to get upset. And then I remembered the lawyer. Phew.

It’s not fair, the whole lawyer thing. It’s the definition of unfair. Some families can’t afford to do it, or don’t know they can. Sophie will get advantages from this that other kids won’t get. Besides that, someone somewhere will lose out on something because of the money the district will spend on that parttime classroom aide.

And you know what? I’m just going to have to get over that. We won.

Sophie won.

This afternoon is the dreaded IEP meeting, the day (finally) when we will (probably) discuss what sort of help (if any) Sophie is going to be offered in the classroom.

She might be offered a one-way ticket out of the mainstream classroom at our neighborhood school. It’s happened before. It’s been years, but it still feels like yesterday when I remember that principal wincing (visibly), sucking wind (audibly), sighing (dramatically) and announcing, “If Sophie needs to be treated differently than a typical kid in the classroom, you’re going to have to explore other options in the district.”

As if that was written on a script, which I’m pretty sure it is/was, somewhere. To be fair, over the years Sophie has received services — resource room time, small (in some cases the maximum allowed, though still small) amounts of physical, speech and occupational therapy. Even someone to watch her at lunch, though only after she was bullied in the cafeteria by older kids.

But never any extra help in the classroom. That discussion will come (finally, maybe) today.

Under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t be looking forward to this meeting by any means, but after what happened at the last meeting — the one where test results were presented and the school psychologist announced that Sophie “has the cognitive abilities of a three year old” — I’m downright dreading it.

“Are you feeling better?” a couple friends have asked in recent days.

“No, not really,” is the honest answer.

I’ll never look at Sophie the same. (My love is not affected, by the way.) At least, it feels that way right now. And maybe — true or not — those comments from that psychologist are exactly what I deserve.

Here’s why.

About a week into my pity party over this whole Sophie has the cognitive abilities of a three year old thing, I remembered something that made it even worse. I remembered Jamie.

I have been working for newspapers for 20 years. For years, as a reporter, I told other people’s horror stories — in the name of both bringing change and truth-telling. Sometimes I told stories that involved children. I’d like to think I was always okay at it, but looking back I believe that being a parent has made me a better, deeper, more sensitive storyteller.

Except for the first story I told as a parent.

Annabelle was born in the summer of 2001. Five days before she was born, I finished a big project about juvenile justice. Baby or not, I was on a roll and determined to keep going. And so even before my maternity leave was up, I was out of the house, driving to the western outskirts of town to interview a mom with a horror story and a lawsuit (the two usually go hand in hand).

This woman was suing the adoption agency that promised her that the newborn baby she was adopting from Korea was healthy. He was not, as it turned out, and there was plenty of evidence to suggest that to the adoption agency — evidence they ignored. And so this woman was raising a little boy whose condition (water on the brain) gave him cerebal palsy-like physical symptoms, and severe developmental delays.

Long story (and I do mean long, the final story was probably about 6000 words) short, I did my best to capture what this mother was going through, including a divorce – again a far-too-common byproduct in such a situation — and her deteriorated relationship with her older children. The one thing I had trouble understanding, I’ll admit, was the unabiding love she felt for this little boy, Jamie. But it was there, most certainly. She was (I’m guessing still is, I haven’t been in touch) a truly remarkable person.

In my zeal to capture the story — to put the reader there with this woman, raising this 5-year-old boy — I put in her description of what happened whenever she drove past a McDonald’s. The boy was able to recognize the Golden Arches, and demand his favorite meal through grunts and signs.

“See?” the mom announced to me at her kitchen table one afternoon, as Jamie watched Barney. “They say he’ll never be more than a 2-year-old! But a 2-year-old wouldn’t be able to do that.”

Yes, I thought to myself, a 2-year-old would. And I put that in the story.

I didn’t have to. I could have left well enough alone. It didn’t add anything — I was just being an asshole.

I’ve thought of that moment from time to time, since Sophie was born. And particularly in the last week or so.

I asked Sophie’s lawyer to ask the school to tell that psychologist not to come to the meeting this afternoon. The lawyer did it, but warned that the psychologist might show up anyhow.

I doubt she will. But if she does, I suppose I’ll be getting what I deserve.

Don’t see the movie Hop.

That may be the single most valuable thing I’ve said in nearly three years of blogging. A terrible excuse for a movie. For a while, today, my sister tried to argue that actually Sex and the City 2 is the worst movie ever made, but I’m not sure. (Hop, by the way, is a children’s movie with a lot of candy in it, so you can be sure that not only will you be forced to see it, you’ll later be compelled to purchase a copy on DVD.)

Other than that, Saturday night was delightful — still-bearable temperatures and a post-movie dinner with good friends. Some of us wanted salads, others Mongolian BBQ, still others pizza, so there was a flurry of ordering and table arranging at the crowded outdoor shopping mall, the kind of place that becomes home away from home if you live in these parts.

I walked over to the patio by the Paradise Bakery to grab one last chair when I noticed them through the window. They were seated inside at a table for two, their heads bent over a drink with two straws, their faces goofy with love and eyes only for each other — which is good, since I’m embarrassed to admit that I stared a little, then dragged Annabelle over and made her look, too. As discretely as possible. But still.

“Hey, Gilda, you’ve got to see something,” I said to my friend as I set the chair down.

“I know,” she said, her eyes glistening. “I saw.”

I know the young man from the check-out aisle at our Safeway; he was the prom king at a nearby high school several years ago, just after Sophie was born. Someone clipped the article for us from the local paper. I didn’t recognize her, tiny with long dark hair. Funny, I didn’t realize til I saw them that this is not something I’ve ever seen in person — two people with Down syndrome, obviously in love. Sure, there are documentaries and magazine stories and segments on 20/20. This was different. This was right in front of me.

“I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to point them out to you,” my sweet friend Gilda said.

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “After the last couple of weeks, this is the BEST.”

I kept stealing glances at them, waiting for Ray to get back with the pizza so I could grab some stir fry. It was dark outside where I was, and bright inside where they sat, and in my mind’s eye, there was a big pink heart drawn around the two of them. I wanted to clap my hands; you couldn’t wipe the smile from my face.

Just as Ray showed up, the couple walked out of the bakery and right past us. And then — you know that sound when the needle gets dragged across the record album, signaling the abrupt end to the happy tune, then there’s silence? That’s what I heard as I realized the couple was really a threesome. An older, tired looking woman shadowed them. I realized she’d been sitting at the next table the whole time. One of their moms, no doubt.

I’m not sure what I expected — that these two had driven here alone together? No, of course not. Maybe that they’d been dropped off for a movie and dinner, the way my  mom used to drop my friends and me off, even when we were (relatively) little kids. It doesn’t matter, I scolded myself. They are in love, they are happy. I backed up the movie in my head to the part where they were framed in that big, pink heart, sipping through their straws, lost in each other.

And then I got up and ordered my stir fry.