Words to Live By

It's December, and Jack Frosting is nipping at my nose.

Who is Jack Frosting? Oh, come on, you know. He's that guy who makes it cold outside, who puts the winter chill in the air. He's been only slightly re-named by my three-year-old, Tucker.

Now, let me make myself clear: I have never been one of those mothers who talks baby-talk to her kidlets. I never called a bottle a "ba-ba", nor did I ever say "binky", "wee-wee", or even "potty".

But my kids have introduced some tasty words to our vocabulary just the same... words I will probably never say correctly again. These are not words they were unable to articulate. These are words their ears simply heard in a slightly new way. And  may I say, it is my opinion they have improved upon the original.

When I was a kid, my mother made me swear never to correct my younger brother Kendall when he said the word "amblee-ance" instead of "ambulance".  As year by year his mispronunciations corrected themselves, it was the one word that remained, the last holdover from his little-boy-hood. I understood my mom's need to keep that one word sacred and safe; I never corrected him. He said "amblee-ance" until he was about 23, I think.

Addie was extremely verbal at a very young age, and continues to take great pride in expressing himself. When Tucker annoys him, he isn't merely "mad". "Mama," he says, "Tucker is antagonizing me, and it's making me apoplectic." Yep, that's my seven-year-old.

But he also still calls the center of an egg "the olk."

Somehow, he never got the memo that there was a Y in there. And I love it so much that now, I call it an olk too. I also have been to the Natural History "Musa'am", seen "The Umpire Strikes Back", and sometimes a gray day can make me feel "bloomy". These are the only words I have left from the plethora of mispronounced words in my almost-eight-year-old's past. I cling to them. I don't want to let them go. Because you see, the day when he stopped asking for "nuck" and said, "milk", my heart broke a tiny little bit. When we no longer grabbed a cheeseburger at "Old McDonald's", when his special flashlight no longer shone a "laser bean". With every word that corrects itself, a child loosens his grip around his mother's hand. He grows up, and away. Just a tiny little bit, each time. I want to take those words, cradle them in my hand, put them in a bottle, so when I twist it open I can hear the sweet, raspy sound of my sons' perfect little voices just as they are now. In the utterance of those words is a bliss so sweet it aches. And with such profound happiness comes that tightness in my chest, the knowledge that as surely as the sun will rise, I will have to say goodbye to these words, one by one. And someday, goodbye to my boys. And someday... goodbye to every sweet beautiful lovely thing.

I hate goodbyes.

Tucker is nearly four now, also extremely expressive, and thankfully he has added his own flavorful interpretations to the mix. We no longer "cut" anything around here. We "snizz" it. Why? Because Tucker calls those funny cutting contraptions "snizzors", and the first time he asked me to "snizz" something, I almost keeled over with joy. As Christmas approaches, he sings "I'm Mr. Heat Visor!" at the top of his lungs. And as I mentioned, Tucker happily announced on a recent chilly morning that Jack Frosting had come to visit us.

I glanced at Addie, who was clearly poised to correct his brother. "Addie," I whispered. "Don't tell him what it really is, okay?" Addie looked at me, and smiled knowingly. He understands too. He'll be me, someday. Grabbing onto words, silencing older siblings, holding on. Just a little longer.

But I don't mean to be bloomy.

Sandwich Sitch

Things have been mighty busy in this household... not much time to try new restaurants. Our Freedom Fridays have gone on temporary hiatus, while three different musicals swirl in my head and I try to keep them straight. I don't want to end up throwing cheesy 80's choreography into "Little Women", period promenading into "Tommy", or traumatic druggie twitching into "The Wedding Singer". So far, so good.

Stan and I did have the opportunity to try a brand new sandwich place recently, aptly named "Which Wich?" This adorable little factory replaced our local La Salsa, so that was okay. I mean, with Loteria right around the corner, who needs fast-food Mexican? I also happen to be a sandwich devotee, so I'm all for a new sandwich place. I crossed my fingers and hoped Which Wich was going to be not only tasty, but popular... as even good places tend to disappear quickly in Studio City if they don't catch on.

After having one of Which Wich's wiches, I will never go to Subway again.

Not that I ever really went to Subway. I'd say the only time it would happen was when the family found itself in a state of emergency. Kids starving. Blood-sugar levels plummeting. Need food STAT. Subway nearby; only eatery within a three-mile radius. Call it. Going to Subway always felt like a resignation. Am I really going to waste a lunch on this crap? I was always disappointed with it. The meat was rubbery, the mayo tasteless, and I sort of dreaded the whole assembly-line thing, where customers are forced to dictate their sandwich needs to three different sandwich makers as their creation makes its way down the line to the cash register. "White bread. No wait... what's the three-cheese artisan Italian bread? Never mind. Wheat. Yeah, I guess, bell peppers. No, not that many. Um... mustard. Wait. Could you put a little more on there? Not... that much." I swear I saw judgment if I ordered too many onions. And God help me if I had multiple orders.

At Which Wich?, customers grab a long brown paper bag and mark their desires on the outside of it. There are different brown bags for every make of wich. I grabbed the turkey bag, and ordered my wich on toasted white bread with cheddar, lettuce, red onion and mayo. I handed them my bag, paid for it, and then they hooked it up on a sort of factory clothesline and slid it down to the wichmakers. The only criticism I had was the Waiting of the Wich, which takes longer than it probably should... but the Wich Wait was worth it. What emerged from the counter was the melt-in-your-mouthiest concoction I've had in a long time. The key is the bread. Crusty on the outside, chewy on the inside. The turkey is thin-sliced and stuffed heartily, the produce fresh, the cheese melty... heaven.

Stan ordered "The Wicked", which basically means they take everything they have back there and throw it on the bread. A meat-lovers paradise. We went back a week later, and this time I had a breakfast-wich (served all day!)... scrambled eggs, cheddar, bell peppers, onions and bacon on the same toasty bread. Dee-lish.

I anticipate that Which Wich will become a weekly thing for The Chandlers Four. And apparently there is no danger of it closing... at lunchtime, the line is out the door, every day. Whee!