Consider this:

Walk Like A Teenager

Last weekend, my husband and I set out for a walk with our dog and our almost-fourteen-year-old son (the almost-twelve-year-old had escaped – I use that word deliberately – to meet a friend just moments before). It was a warm sunny Sunday, the perfect opportunity for some F.F.F.: Forced Family Fun.

If you live with a teen, I bet you’re familiar with Forced Family Fun. It’s a concept rooted in parents’ intellectual understanding that time is fleeting (and flying) and our emotional need to make happy memories, build familial bonds, offer sage advice (subtly, of course) and parent as perfectly as possible. For teens participating in mandatory F.F.F., it’s your basic W.I.E.: Worst Idea Ever.

In our household, F.F.F. involves

1. A “Fun Family Activity!” (biking! hiking! miniature golf! the beach!)
2. Complaints and protests (from the boys)
3. Threats and bribes (from us)

Unfortunately, the number of times my husband and I have suggested an excursion that our two lads instantly and unanimously agree to is exactly zero. These days, even picking a movie leads to so much debate that show time’s come and gone before we reach a compromise.

On the Sunday in question, here’s what our F.F.F. looks like: I march along at a heart rate boosting, fat-burning clip, with the dog happily trotting beside me. My husband tries to match my pace, scurrying a foot or two behind. Ten feet behind him, my strong, fit, athletic teen, who’s now as tall as me, drags himself along like an uncoordinated Lurch, scuffing his Nikes with every step, barely able to lift his suddenly dead-weight feet.

“Can’t we all walk together?” I mutter to my husband. “Is that too much to ask?”

“I can hear you,” snarls my son from half a block away. “Say whatever you want.”

“I just want to have a pleasant conversation,” I hiss. “Will everyone Please. Keep. Up.” Suddenly my blood pressure is climbing a whole lot faster than my heart rate.

My husband gently suggests I slow down a tad. No way, I tell him. I want F.F.F. and a decent work out, dammit. “Your son can keep up with me just fine,” I tell him. “Your son is doing this to bug me.” Now I’m officially speed walking.

That’s when we meet a neighbor coming out of her house with a spray bottle of household cleaner and a rag. “Go on ahead,” I tell the guys. “I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” My previously enervated boy suddenly grabs the dog’s leash, and together they sprint toward the trailhead, my husband bringing up the rear.

My neighbor – let’s call her Michelle, because that’s not her name – climbs into the front seat of her minivan and starts spraying and wiping down the steering wheel. Correction: Michelle is furiously, aggressively and bitterly cleaning the shit out of said steering wheel. I ask if everything is okay.

“It’s my high schooler,” she says, eyes welling with tears. “I can’t leave him unsupervised for ten minutes. And I can’t get him out of the house, either. He’s driving me crazy. I thought I’d be back at work at this point,” Michelle continues, rubbing the leather wheel so vigorously I hope a genie will appear and grant her a much-needed wish. “That was my plan. Now I’m stuck.”

I give Michelle a tight hug, share some heartfelt words and then confess my own teen-inspired frustrations. She blinks back tears and looks me right in the eye. “Willow, just slow down.” Michelle grabs my wrist to make sure I’m paying attention. “This hike is not about your heart rate. It’s not about exercise. It’s about spending time with your son. That’s all.”

Ah, perspective. How nice of you to show up, just in time to salvage someone’s Forced Family Fun.

Another hug, and now I’m the one running toward the trail. How my huffing husband and sluggish son managed to get so far ahead so fast is a mystery, but I ignore the blood pounding in my ears (hey, I was the one who wanted a workout) and keep moving. I leap over the low fence to the trail. Up ahead, I spot a familiar yellow Golden State Warriors t-shirt, bobbing and weaving through the trees.

“Wait up!” I yell, the steep trail checking my pace but not my resolve. I reach my posse right where the single track opens up and forms a wide, weaving path through towering redwoods, fragrant pines and prickly blackberry.

“I was starting to think I was too late,” I say, panting. I drape an arm around my son as my tired legs quiver. “For a minute,” I tell him, leaning hard against a shoulder that is, at least for today, exactly the same height as my own, “for a minute, I thought I might have lost you.”

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Cook this:

Crockpot Chicken Green Chili Verde

A couple friends and I have started a “crockpot club,” where we take turns hosting slow-cooked dinners for our families. It was my turn last week, and I tried my hand at Chicken Green Chili Verde. I culled together a few different recipes and came up with the version below. Since I’ve made some shoe-leather-like chicken dishes in my crockpot before, I’m thrilled to report it was a hit!

Crockpot Chicken Green Chili Verde

2 ½ lbs organic chicken, bone-in, skin-on

1 cup onion, diced

½ cup celery, diced

4-5 cloves garlic, minced

2 Tbs chili powder (or more to taste)

2 tsp cumin powder (or more to taste)

½ tsp salt (or more to taste)

1 cup chicken stock

¼ cup white wine

2 cans green chilies (I buy the small cans from Trader Joe’s)

6 tomatillos, roasted and chopped*

Add all ingredients to the crockpot in the order listed. Cook on low for 8+ hours (and switch to “warm” if you’re still not ready to eat). An hour or two before the cooking time is up, take out the chicken breasts, remove all skin and bones and shred with a fork. Mix shredded chicken back in with the yummy sauce and finish cooking. This is a good time to have a taste and season with more spices if needed.

Serve with tortillas, cheese, rice, beans, salsa or your other favorite fixings.

* Simply husk the tomatillos and rinse off the sticky stuff. Halve the fruit and toss in olive oil with a little salt. Bake at 350 degrees on a baking sheet for about 20 minutes. When cool, chop ‘em up for the crockpot.

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Read this:

The Bone People by Keri Hulme (1986 Man Booker Prize)

Another book review inspired by the 2016 Mill Valley Library Reading Challenge: to read 24 award-winning books (across all genres and award categories) and decide if they were, in fact, award worthy.

I first read The Bone People in the late 80s, when I was living in Vermont having recently left my homeland of New Zealand. Then, as now, I loved the way Keri Hulme creates and shares an intimate, complicated view of Maori culture, a world filled with mythology, spirituality and countless spirits — both the other worldly and the alcoholic kind. But I’d forgotten how incredibly tough The Bone People is. More than tough, in fact: Unrelenting. Depressing. Grim. Filled with abuse of almost every kind. Yet then, as now, this is a book I slightly dreaded picking up each night but just couldn’t put down because of its incredibly open, vulnerable and expansive heart. If you’re up for you, pick up The Bone People. You’ll never read anything else like it, guaranteed.

Award worthy: Ae. (That’s “yes” in Maori.)