The Goddess by Lisa Maxwell.

      "Come on Lizzy, let's go for a walk!"

      "Okay mom."

      I brushed the sand off my sticky arms and legs and jumped up out of my post swim stupor, leaving my damp towel askew in the sand. My siblings, Anne, Linda and Gray were all lost in their own worlds in half-sleep states, oblivious. Everyone's hair was still wet and tangled from our salty swim.

     The breeze danced around over my skin as sand continued to fall off the parts of my body I hadn't swiped. Mom was wearing the same faded one-piece bathing suit she had worn the summer before and the summer before that.

     The straps fell loose around her brown shoulders and she was carrying a small plastic beach bag. I trotted beside her, my eyes squinting from the sun, riveted to the sand, sidestepping baby conch shell pods and fly-covered seaweed piles, scanning every inch of

beach.

     The sky was neutral in color, and the seagulls swooped in my peripheral vision. The smell of decaying sea matter wafted in the air. We were on our quest for the most perfect shells and pieces of sea glass, heading west into the sun down our beach, not a soul in sight.

     "Look Little Bits!" her pet name for me, "Over there!" I studied the sand in the direction that her finger pointed and finally saw the beautiful bottle green gem poking out of the beach debris, ran over and scooped it up.

     "Thanks Mom. Ooohhh, it's beautiful!" I rubbed my fingers over the sea-smoothed edges, marveling at how much they had been worn over an unimaginable length of time.

I held it up for her to see, and even though her Venus body was back lit her smile beamed. I dropped it with pride in to her bag. We would walk about half an hour one way, and half an hour back. Just the two of us, not talking much, delighting in the prizes we would find to add to our collection. Our standards were equally high, not accepting anything the beach yielded that wasn't perfect.

     It was our time alone together, and she was my goddess.

Lisa also sings beautifully.  Check out her Return to Jazz Standards on CD Baby.

LIVER AND ONIONS

     I was raised by a totally devoted yet diverse cultural entity named Fran and Carol. Fran was a decedent of Italian and French Canadian (very stubborn and sometimes a little wicked). Carol was German and Irish (also stubborn, and mostly just stubborn)
     Our family was a group of huge eaters and Carol was going through a period of self-exploration by renovating a Colonial home (by herself) and baking fresh bread every day. We ate like Kings and of course it was mostly – Italian. Pasta with everything! Tomato Sauce for all!!
     Occasionally however, Carol would wake up completely Irish and resent her three children’s Italian identity. (We were all quite dark).On those occasions she would decide to cook authentic Irish (whatever that is). She would never tell us, just surprise us as we sat for dinner.
     Imagine getting to your favorite part of the day and being told we were having Corned Beef? Irish Soda Bread? (yuck pass the butter). But the worst of the worst was liver and onions. We would all complain and finally she would arrive at the table with a heaping plate of dried and curled liver with slimy onion s all over the top.
     We would immediately gather condiments and proceed to disguise this unbelievable turnabout in dining. How could she make us eat this? We were not allowed substitutions.
     “Pass the salt” Steven would say. “Pass the catsup” another would yell. “How about Peanut butter”?
Carol was getting angry. How dare we begrudge her a single meal of “Irishness”. Why were we so selfish and rude?
      “Hey look at how high mine bounces” I yelled. Now she was mad.
And today I think how really badly I behaved that one particular Irish day. Why did I hurt her feelings just in an effort to make the others laugh?
       I think I will make it a goal this year to learn how to cook liver and onions and surprise her on her birthday. I wonder if she will remember? I hope she doesn’t get the catsup out of the fridge.

--Debbie Russo is the owner of both A Royal Flush, a portable toilet company that serves Massachusetts to Delaware, and Bridgeport Bio Diesel, a new CT based company that converts kitchen grease into renewable fuel

Diet #1789 by Alexandra Townsend

This was the 1,789th time my parents were going to lose weight. Which meant no carbs that week. No delicious bread or yummy pasta. The Italian in me started to wither. Can one survive without bread? Or maybe that month was no sugar. Damn, no candy or cake.

Either way, it meant dinner would be questionable. It would be something that I didn’t like. That, I could guarantee.

I came downstairs with dread. I looked at my mom and with a big, giant, shiny used car salesman’s smile she says, “Its Meatloaf” What? No pasta or buttered noodles. (Standard Russo fare in the 80’s)

I hate meat. It always makes me gag (insert gag face here) I have never had meatloaf and I know my life was better without it.
She says, “It is this great new recipe. Weight Watchers. It has apples in it.” Yeah, like that is going to seal the deal …

I love apples. They are my favorite food. I had apple buttons on my sweaters as a kid. Do you see where this is going?? I wasn’t fooled. This meal was going to suck.

She slices up this gray, yucky meat and there are all these colorful specks inside. Christ, this is really going to suck. Apples couldn’t save this. Chocolate and gummy bears couldn’t save this.

I take my first bite and I can’t control it. My mouth starts to water and my throat closes up. I am definitely going to puke. All of the sudden my mom looks at me. “You are ridiculous. It isn’t that bad.” My dad’s face starts to turn red and that vein in his forehead pulses. I know this isn’t going to end well. He is getting pissed!

He starts to yell and I don’t really remember what happens next. I probably blanked in fear! But I am pretty sure it was ugly. I am sure that, like a brat, I gagged and cried until I was sent to my room. This would, of course, get me out of eating the meatloaf.

All that matters is that to this day my mom still defends hat horrible meatloaf and I still stand by my gag face. It was awful.

Alexandra Townsend- I am not a writer, I just play one on TV. Not really, but I do love writing on my blog. I have been blogging for a couple of years now and I am officially hooked. Enjoy the ramblings of a slightly unstable person (I kid, I kid) by visiting http://runningjustasfast.blogspot.com.