Cake Boss of Geneva

      It all began with reality TV. Luc had opened a link to the TV show Cake Boss, posted over spring break by a school friend. On the show, a baker from Hoboken creates amazing cakes -- things like a life-sized NASCAR race car, a roulette table, or a replica of the jet d'eau (I made the last one up, but it's not so far-fetched). Inspired by the undeniable coolness of these cakes and spurred on by a French baking class in which I had enrolled him and Johanna over break, Luc decided he wanted to bake cakes. This seemed like a constructive use of free time to me, so I agreed to bankroll the investment in sugar, butter, eggs, decorations, and other necessities to make the baking run smoothly. I even invested in an electric hand mixer to ease the creation of frosting. (I needed one of those anyway, having been whipping cream in the blender since we moved here.)
       Luc's first cake (red velvet, though we were a bit short on food coloring, so it was kind of lavender) was delicious, if not quite professional in appearance. He second (sponge cake) never made it to the decorating stage. We were having company for dinner, and I asked if I could cut it up and use it in the trifle. At this point, Johanna decided to join the fun. We were unable to find a fondant supplier (fondant, if you are like me and didn't know, is that beautiful smooth icing that makes cakes look so professional), so she looked up a recipe and used about a kilo of powdered sugar to coat the kitchen with a sticky glaze. It only took a week or so of washings for the tiles to stop feeling like the floor of a cheap movie theater, and her second attempt was far more successful.
      The real fun began when Johanna decided to have some friends over for a sleepover. At first, Lucas offered to bake a cake for the party, but perhaps a bit daunted by his early attempts at splendor, he was happy when she decided that the girls would have a cake-decorating competition instead. Lucas agreed to be the judge. I offered to buy cake mixes to ease the process, but the kids decided that there was going to be a prize for taste as well as looks, and each team would have to make its own cake from scratch. So I  bought more butter, eggs, flour, milk, and sugar and cleared out of the kitchen. School-issued iPads were employed to search recipes for white cake, yellow cake, glaze, and buttercream frosting. My new mixer gained a month's worth of use in one evening. I ran to the store for more eggs, milk, and sugar. When the baking and mixing was finished, the decorating began. Plainly, these girls had been watching their Cake Boss -- and taking notes.

Julia is holding a tub of Betty Crocker frosting, which no one ended up using. Behind her, Johanna has set up a screen to keep members of each team from seeing what the other is up to. Lucas, as judge, was entirely banished from the main floor.

The marzipan flower created by Team One to adorn their cake. Below, Team One with their finished cake.
Keep in mind that, though I supplied the ingredients, the mixer was the only tool I had purchased. I'm not sure how the girls made those little swirls around the edge of the cake.

      While Team One went for simplicity and elegance, Team Two spent a great deal of time on the cake itself, creating a pure-white meringue cake with chocolate buttercream icing. Their  decorating scheme was ambitious as well. 

That's Hansel, Gretel, the Witch (her head kept falling off), and the collapsing candy house, all out of marzipan.

      Ultimately, simplicity triumphed. Luc, as judge, gave the win for appearance to Team One. 

The teams await the results.

      But all was not lost for team two -- the chocolate buttercream frosting completely justified the purchase of the mixer (and all the butter and sugar) -- and won them the prize for taste.

The judge declares his ruling.

           Though Lucas enjoyed being the contest judge, his enthusiasm for baking and decorating cakes himself has not diminished. He has taken orders for all of our birthday cakes for the next year (Drew wants a football field -- we are unsure if he means American football or soccer/football. Eric wants a University of Michigan cake). Sunday afternoon Luc asked permission to bake again (as if I would say no to more desserts). A few hours later, a beautifully decorated marble cake was the result.

The beauty of simplicity is a lesson he's beginning to learn.

      Okay, so the Aliens may not be ready for our own show yet, but I see a definite improvement. Cake decorating, like everything else, requires practice. The beauty of baking practice, unlike, for example, lacrosse practice, is that the results are often both aromatic and delicious for the rest of the family.

Musings on the International School Experience

       Experienced Genevans kept warning us about April. Lulled into complacency by the sweet balm of March, however, we gazed at the greening Salève and took our rental skis back to Migros LocaSki. I virtuously washed all the ski gear, packed it away, and (with Luc’s help), cleaned the basement. Then, of course, the temperatures turned cold, the Salève turned white, and friends invited us to ski in Chamonix. To all of which, what can I say but here is yet another proof of the wisdom of experience. We do seem to have brought some of the London rain and wind back to Geneva with us, and April is shaping up to feel rather like November, with the welcome addition of still-blooming trees and flowers.

The flower beds in front of the Lancy Mairie. Tulip time in Geneva.

After a wonderful break, the kids are all back in school. Lucas came home Monday to announce that his English teacher, whom we’ll call Mrs. J, was absent. This news made me rather nervous, because Mrs. J is year 7 English teacher number 3. She was preceded by Mr. W, who mysteriously disappeared one day, with no explanation given to students or teachers other than that he wouldn’t be returning. Mrs. A followed, taking the reins just before parent-teacher conferences and performing admirably, considering how little she could have known about the students. She really seemed to know what she was doing, so I was disappointed when Luc informed us, not long afterwards, that she would be returning to England. So then came Mrs. J, and while she did not immediately endear herself to the students (apparently she’s a little grouchy), she did seem to be teaching English, which has to count for something. Perhaps she’s just taking an extended Easter break. Luc said that, in her absence, the class was supposed to work on reading comprehension or something, intermittently supervised by a surveillant, who, like all but a few surveillants at IIL, spoke only French. The report was that most students did none of the 12 assigned questions, while our son -- the author of the report -- virtuously reached Question 8. 

That whole situation neatly illustrates some of the differences we’ve found with the school here. While the English teacher situation is extreme, turnover does seem to be high. Drew lost his form teacher at the beginning of the year to another job, and Johanna is losing her math teacher in a few weeks to maternity leave. Not only do teachers seem to leave in the middle of the year quite frequently, but they also miss days without warning (at least any warning given to the students or parents). When it snowed in January, school wasn’t cancelled, but only a few teachers showed up. When a teacher is absent, a surveillant may or may not be sent to cover all or part of the class, and work may or may not be left for the students to do. One of Drew’s teachers was absent for an entire week on a class trip with another year, leaving absolutely nothing for the class to do. I’d like to think that the administration is aware when a teacher is missing, but I am by no means convinced. The students handle these absences variously. Luc’s class (which is, after all, made up of 11- and 12-year-olds) rarely seems to accomplish much beyond chaos. Drew’s class, perhaps more mature, or perhaps just differently constituted, will usually pull out homework, or, failing that, play at who can name the most world capitols (an interesting game in an international school -- you think you’ve come up with a completely obscure country, and then someone has lived there). At any rate, the idea of supervision seems a bit on the relaxed side.

Then there is the issue of grades, which I think I’ve mentioned before. At IIL, grades are given not as a percentage, but as a number out of 20. Furthermore, a 15 out of 20 is considered a solid score, 12 or 13 is very acceptable, and a 17 or 18 quite remarkable (an 18 is what is called an “A-star,” which sounds good to me). Accustomed to percentages and the American system of inflation in which anything below an 80 is dangerously close to failing, the first few papers and tests that came home left me with palpitations. Now I’m just happy if everyone is passing (which is, as one might predict, a score of 10). The assumptions behind this system, which I think is British in origin, seem to be the following: 1. No one is going to master all the material; 2. A mastery of 50 - 75 percent of the material is adequate for most people because, 3. Not everyone is good at everything. This last assumption, in particular, I appreciate for its honesty. It goes along with the European idea that not everyone is even very good at academics, and that’s okay. Some kids are great writers and bad at math. While they should have a basic competency with math, they don’t need to understand trigonometry in order to succeed in their chosen profession. Some students are great at sciences, so who cares if they struggle with French. And some are just going to survive school, and then go on to be chefs or construction workers or TPG bus drivers (who are all quite sharp-looking in Geneva, incidentally, and I am guessing quite well paid). Though this attitude took some getting used to and does have its drawbacks (sometimes its hard to tell what a 12-year-old is going to be good at in 8 years), I still find it refreshing. In the British system of A-levels, a student doesn’t even have to take math or history or a language after year 11 (10th grade). I’m trying to keep this fact from my children, who are going to need to pursue an educational path that includes the wider variety of classes acceptable to the American university.

But back to IIL, where one’s grades may be 10’s, 12’s, or 18’s, where academic progress is reported to parents a scant one time a year (so far -- I am holding out hope for final grades), and where teachers seem to come and go at random. The school has a reputation in Geneva as being the most academic and most strict of the International Academies. Our children find it extreme in neither instance. Perhaps the reputation for strictness comes from the fact that children below year 9 wear uniforms (of a very loosely defined sort consisting of dark bottoms and a white top). Perhaps, hearing horror stories from other international schools, it comes from the fact that most teachers (when they are present) seem to have enough control over their classrooms to keep paper-airplane throwing, chit-chatting, and rioting to a minimum at most times. Our kids do say that while some of the teachers are excellent, overall the staff is grumpier than they are accustomed to. Students, however, are friendly, and though the classes are challenging, pressure is fairly low (probably due to the assumption that not everyone will excel). More important that academic pressure, though, is peer pressure, which also seems surprisingly low for my kids. One of the best things about an international school is that everyone is different to begin with: Kids look different, talk differently, come from different academic, cultural, and family backgrounds. That means that there is less emphasis on trying to be like everyone else. You can’t. The differences are, for the most part, accepted with good humor. That’s a relaxing place for a teenager to be and something for which I'm thankful right now.

This building is where the little Aliens -- and all the English-speaking students -- have classes.

This is the oldest part of the school (which used to be a Catholic girl's boarding school). It houses the administration and maybe some French classes. It's the building I'd use in promotional materials if I were the PR person for IIL.

Burritos and donuts and detectives . . . Oh my!

      Because the weather in Geneva was so perfect, we decided to head somewhere where we could experience a different kind of spring. And what could be more different from perfect (weather-wise) than London in the spring? Actually, we were blessed with more decent than usual weather . . . the sun shone a bit and when it rained, it was more of a drizzle than a downpour. We bundled up and walked our usual distances, logging at least 20 miles (not kilometers in England!) and taking in nearly every park London offered.

Probably Kensington Park

Hyde Park? Maybe still Kensington

Regents Park (after the Sherlock Homes Museum, as you can deduce from the pipe)

James? Green? All the parks run together in my mind. They were all beautiful, though!

      To make sure we didn't become too fit after all that walking, we also enjoyed some of our favorite junk-food restaurants.

Johanna and the Alien at Krispy Kreme

Lucas really is happy about the donuts; he's just too cool to smile . . .

. . . and Drew is too busy eating.

We had not eaten good old American-Mexican for seven months! Drew was in burrito heaven.

      The language helped, for sure. When our flight from Geneva was delayed two and a half hours, that meant we'd also miss our reservations for the EasyBus at Gatwick Airport. I spent a good five minutes trying to figure out how to explain this to the EasyBus people in French before I realized that I would be able to speak English to them. The relief at not having to plan out every sentence and possible response was nearly overwhelming. Of course, British English is not American English. Interestingly, London English is not really British English. We were looking forward to some great accents -- and we got them -- but most of the people we met didn't talk any more like James Bond than we did. We talked to people from all over the world at restaurants, in trains, and in parks. Our first "English" accent, however, didn't come until we arrived in Weybridge, where we stayed for two days with friends from Cincinnati just finishing their stint with P&G in the U.K.

After waking up at 4:30 and rushing to the airport, we had to wait two and a half hours for our flight, which was delayed because the French air traffic controllers were (surprise) on strike. Lucas used his time wisely.

      Weybridge (as it took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out) is home to the River Wey, featured in the MHA fourth-grade read-aloud, Adam of the Road (a chapter is entitled "Adam Swims the Wey"). Other literary highlights of the trip included tours of Shakespeare's Globe Theater (not the original -- which burned down in Shakespeare's own time -- but enough like it to make me happy), the Sherlock Holmes Museum at 221B Baker Street, and muttered renditions of the A.A. Milne poem "They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace . . . . " and Lewis Carroll's, "The Lion and the Unicorn." We didn't make it to the Charles Dickens House or even to Chancery Lane of Bleak House fame, but did see Piccadilly, the address of fictional detective Lord Peter Wimsey. We also went to a performance of Wicked in the West End. This was a pleasant surprise for Drew, especially. He had been unaccountably grouchy about going to the theater -- unaccountably because he, like the rest of us, usually loves a good play. The gloom lasted until we exited the Victoria Underground and came within sight of the theater marquis. Drew turned to me in astonishment: "We're seeing Wicked? All this time, I thought you were taking me to some stupid play called Wicket." Presumably the latter is about the thrills and romance surrounding the world of professional croquet. The World of Oz was far preferable.

Watson and Holmes

The museum proved inspirational to many family members.

The new Globe Theater

      As a contrast to the laissez-faire French, the Londoners seemed very concerned for our safety while we visited their town.  At each street crossing, helpful signs painted on the road reminded us to "Look Left!" or "Look Right!" to avoid being crushed by oncoming traffic coming on from a direction not imprinted in our street-crossing instincts. On the train, both signs and frequent verbal reminders cautioned us to "mind the gap" when debarking. Swimming in the Thames was discouraged as dangerous, and the doors on the London Eye bore a sign telling us not to push against them while our pod was in motion (I confess that the thought that the warning might be necessary made me a bit nervous).  

     As a contrast to the verbally efficient Americans, the Londoners seemed (on notices, anyway) extra polite and formal. Rather than "pick up after your dog" a sign took great pains to inform us that people who allow their pets to soil public property are inconsiderate, unsanitary, in violation of specific public statutes, and liable to prosecution. A sign on a riverside construction project loquaciously apologized for the inconvenience and noise, explaining in detail the need for the disturbance. Are Brits more literate than Americans -- or just more verbose? Do people (besides me) really stop to read all those words? We also enjoyed such proper-sounding phrases as "Do not alight here" near the train tracks and "Please keep seat belt fastened whilst seated" on the airplane. 

      Despite minor differences of locution, our overwhelming impression of London was one of familiarity. It's not an American city, but it's not any more different from Cincinnati than, say, Los Angeles, Charleston, or Boston might be. After seven months of the delightful but exhausting experience of being foreigners, I'd like to say "Cheers" to London for making us feel at home.

      

It's Spring . . . and Who Needs Paris?

      I know Paris in the Spring is iconic, but Geneva has really been lovely. We've had day after day of temperatures in the 60s, bright blue skies, and flowers bursting from the ground and the trees. Here are some of my favorites.

Grape hyacinths in our yard.

Our flower bed in the back yard, It's so fun to see what comes up. You can see that the ground is really dry; we haven't had rain in weeks. This is our excuse for not weeding as well.

Cute little purple flowers (this is their scientific name) by the driveway.

The view down our street.

Forsythia in the neighbor's yard.

Wildflowers in Park Brot, a short walk from our house. Below as well.

I love this yard -- and the house. It looks like an old barn, which is probably what it is.

An old cemetery near our house.

Primroses are my favorite find of the spring. I never knew what they looked like before!

Climbing vines in Old Onex.

The bottom vent is where a bird has built a nest in the vent for our stovetop fan. We hear her pecking away at all hours.

A closer shot of the primroses. Sorry it's a little blurry.

We're headed off to London on Tuesday morning. It's supposed to be cool and wet there, and we're wondering why we chose that for Easter break.  But we are looking forward to Sherlock Holmes, Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare, and seeing our third major European river.

Happy Easter!

Proud to Be an American?

      When Eric and I came to Geneva last summer to house hunt, I asked our relocation expert if the Swiss disliked Americans. She said something along the lines of, "No more than they dislike anyone else." Which was marginally reassuring. As it turns out, I haven't felt a whisper of prejudice from a single Swiss person I have met. Some of them even tell me that my accent is "jolie" -- and I don't think they are completely making fun.
      What I neglected to ask the relo lady was how the rest of the international community feels about Americans.
      A quote from the year 9 geography text used at the kids' British school:

     "Hannah lives in the U.S.A. She likes science and plays the trumpet. She has just been to Mexico on a school trip. She gets $30 a week pocket money. Sometimes, she wants to be an engineer and sometimes, a writer."

      "Joe lives in Ghana. He is the top of his class at Maths. He plays a lot of football with his friends. He'd like to run a business and buy a nice house for his mum, but he hopes to begin with an office job. 50 pounds a month would be great."

      "Julien lives in Bolivia. He's a shoeshine boy. He earns about 6 pence a customer. He lives in the family shack with no running water, but he studies every evening at a special center. He's learning to read and write and use computers."

     "Misha lives in Nepal. She has never been to school. She helps on a farm and collects firewood for the cooking and looks after her brothers and sisters. She has not seen herself in the mirror for years. They once had one, but it got broken." (Geography for Key Stage 3, Oxford University Press, 2009)

     Why, we wonder, is it the Americans who are pulled out as the oblivious, spoiled elite? Where are the equally blessed Brits, French, or Germans?

     In the mock Treaty of Versailles activity in year 9 and 10 history, the deck is stacked so that those on the American team cannot possibly win. In fact, the teacher told the class that the Americans rarely score more than a point or two out of a possible 30.

       And those of you who have Facebook might have already heard the one about how Drew's American football was confiscated at recess because the surveillants (monitors) were afraid that someone would be hurt by the pointy ends. (Okay, that's probabaly not really anti-American sentiment as much as it is just plain silliness.)

       My husband points out that much of this distaste is really the fault of the American media, which often disseminate the worst of American foolishness while overwhelming the indigenous entertainment industry of the countries into which they flow. When all the kids hang out at McDonald's after school, when words like "week end," "super cool," and "snack" are part of every francophone's vocabulary, and when every store one enters is blaring the music of Snoop Dogg and Bruno Mars, it is easy to see how the locals might start to feel a bit threatened. As a monolith of culture, we are perhaps not putting our best foot forward.

           In a display of the best and worst of human nature, the prejudice against Americans in general does not extend to specific Americans with whom one is actually acquainted (that would be us). My lovely friend from Sri Lanka brought us some wine several weeks ago. She mentioned that she had asked the merchant for advice, and told him she was buying it for her American friends. He expressed horror, I'm not sure whether at the fact that she had friends who were American or that she was going to throw his pearls of wine before swine, so to speak. She told me that she had hurriedly assured him: "Oh, they aren't THAT kind of Americans." Similarly, a friend of Luc's told him that he doesn't like American boys, "but you are the exception." Lucas wisely pointed out to the friend that if he knew another American boy, he would probably be an exception, too.
      It is instructively broadening to be on the wrong side of a cultural stereotype. I find the comments people make funny, rather than offensive. This is, first of all, because they often do have a ring of truth and secondly, because I know that I have my parallel prejudices about other countries. In fact, I would say that the only group around here who is more maligned than the Americans is the Swiss. In both cases, some of the vitriol may be fueled by the sense that we just have it too good and someone needs to take us down a peg or two.
       Not everyone has negative impressions of Americans. I asked one friend what she thought of us, and she said, "Oh, they're always so friendly and enthusiastic" (kind of like an overgrown puppy?).

       The one universal truth of international diplomacy that I have discovered is that no matter how much people may dislike our food, our politics, our gas-guzzling cars, or our clothing, one export that I have never yet seen fail to melt a tough international crowd is the all-American homemade chocolate chip cookie.

When the Clock Strikes Murder

Johanna, aka Jamie Bond, is ready for the party

       We have now survived our second birthday party in Geneva, and are home free until September (I guess unless Eric or I decide we want a party). This one was relatively easy, because early-teen girls are really pretty cooperative. It was also quite fun, even for me as a spectator. I had suggested to Johanna that she might consider a murder mystery party, and she jumped on the idea. For the uninitiated, one can purchase kits for these parties online and they include characters (usually with goofy names like Yuna Vers -- the astronaut -- and Cheque Penne -- the banker), clues, and directions for hosting a party. While setting up such a party (particularly a dinner party, as we had) requires some effort, it is nowhere near as challenging as, say, coming up with a complex treasure hunt. Johanna liked this particular kit because it required the guests to come dressed for a masquerade ball.

Roxy Rich (5 times a widow -- her wealthy husbands all died in mysterious circumstances), Mag Niffie (thinks she's the greatest), and Jacky T. Pressen (dry cleaner) en masque

Yuna Vers

Pepper Keegrip (TV producer) with Jamie Bond. Jamie/Johanna is eating a deviled egg, which I learned how to make  especially for the party. Johanna loves deviled eggs. I do not. At least they are pretty simple to make.

      We opened with appetizers and punch in the carnotzet. I was delighted to be able to use the room as it is intended. We even had the guests enter thorough the carnotzet door, and Eric played bartender. They opened their first clues, chatted, and played human bingo, rewarded by the Migros version of Starburst. Then came what was, for me, the highlight of the evening -- the dance competition. The kit suggested this game; we never would have thought of it, since, except for Luc, we're not big into dancing. It was hilarious, though. I put the guests into four groups and gave each group a style of dance (they drew country, 80s, and ballet). They then had 10 minutes to prepare a routine to Taylor Swift's, "Tell Me Why." Everyone was focused, competitive, and sporting about the whole thing.

The Ballet Team

The Country Dance Team

The 80s Dance Team

       I think Eric declared the 80s team the winner  (rewarded by sour gummies). We then moved to the dining table, where guests were served salad, bread, spaetzle, and their next clues. Drew (having -- characteristically -- opted to attend the party in a more casual and behind-the-scenes fashion than his brother and sister) had made a movie quotes quiz to amuse the party goers between discussion of clues and bites of spaetzle. Again, the winners received gummy candy. It's a good thing they weren't a few years younger, or they would have been growing rambunctious from sugar consumption by this point. Halfway through dinner, Lucas (Sherlock Tracy) left the room, as instructed on his clue. He came back, his face white with paint, a paper sparking cider bottle (complete with bloodstain) taped to his head and a sign that read, "Someone at this party is wretched and killed me!" That's when the fun really started. Armed with another round of clues and "fingerprint results" the guests tried to figure out who was the culprit.

Everyone is growing suspicious. The one on the right is Cha Cha Merengue (dance teacher, of course).

The guests study their clues. That's Bameril Lacrosse (chef), Dolly Dee Seiner (doll designer), Cheque Penne, and Yuna Vers.

Lucas (Sherlock Tracy) in his "victim" attire. The detective turned out to be the victim!

      In the end, over bowls of trifle, the murderer finally confessed. DO NOT READ ON IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW THE END! Bameril Lacrosse, the famous chef, had killed Sherlock to stop him from telling about Bameril's early disastrous attempts at cooking and his neglect of his pet hamster. Roxy Rich told everyone that, while she hadn't hit Sherlock with the cider bottle, she had accidentally spilled the fast-acting poison from the secret compartment in her ring into the ice drawer, so she hoped that no one had ice in their drink. We rewarded those who had guessed correctly with -- that's right -- more gummy candy. After all, how often does one's daughter celebrate her 14th birthday?
      The party was a success and I think everyone had fun. After a weekend of cooking, cleaning, decorating, cleaning, and entertaining, however,  I was really ready for a break. I miss many things about the U.S. (mostly people, actually), but what I really missed by the end of the weekend was Penn Station Subs -- a place to eat out with casual food that tastes good and doesn't set us back more than 100 chf an outing. It was, however, not to be. Maybe this summer.

EuroSMAC or the 5:30 Rabbit

     The still-unfolding Tale of the 5:30 Rabbit happens at the intersection of several strands of life in the Admiraal/Alien household, so bear with me as I weave the story.
     Strand One: I wrote a while back about Johanna joining a local running team. Unfortunately, due to some health issues, she had to quit (it was hard to explain all the throwing up in French). Recently, she has begun to run with a girl in Luc's class at school. Johanna has been teaching Ariana all the cheers, rituals, and stretches from her beloved Ohio team, SMAC. They girls have been running a few times a week, and are calling themselves "EuroSMAC." I even asked the coach of the original SMAC team to order some t-shirts for them.
      Our funniest EuroSMAC story yet happened two weeks ago. I had been running with the girls after school, but wasn't sure I could make it that day, so I emailed Ariana's dad to ask if it was okay if they ran alone. He wrote back, saying it was fine, as long as the area where they were running (a park near the school) was safe. I responded that I thought it was perfectly safe, and said something clever like, "I've never seen anything scarier than a big dog on a leash." I should know better. As it turned out, I decided to run with the girls, and it was a good thing I did. They were ahead of me and I saw them run up a hill and immediately back down. Then I saw a large number of policemen running through the park. Turned out, a policeman had told the girls to go back downthat  the hill so that they wouldn't interfere with an arrest, which was actually in progress, right that minute, at the top. We watched it all from a safe distance, and I would say that, overall, it was slightly more disturbing than a large dog on a leash. On second thought, perhaps the presence of so many policemen actually proves my point.

Johanna, Ariana, and the Alien (no, Johanna doesn't have anything in her eye -- she's just being goofy)

     Policemen and large dogs aside, EuroSMAC introduced Ariana to intervals last Thursday. For those who may not know, intervals (a.k.a. repeats) involve running a set distance, at a high rate of speed, and doing it several times in a row with rests between. As the default coach of this startup team, I was very impressed with our foray into intervals. We may be small, but we are potentially fleet ("we" being, of course, the under-15 section of the team, which does not include me). Johanna was excited, too, first about Ariana's potential to run a 6-minute mile by the end of our track season, and secondly, about her own potential to break 5:30 and set the SMAC record (whether an unofficial time on a Swiss track would count is another matter). I was also happy. I have been praying for the past two years that Johanna could use her running talent to bless others in some way, and her "coaching" Ariana seems like an answer to that prayer. At the same time, my heart has been a little bit broken over the loss of what might have been a quite successful season in Cincinnati. As much as I pray that winning will not be an idol, I have to admit that it is fun to see my child win. This seemed like a good compromise -- a goal for Johanna and an opportunity to help a friend reach a goal, with no real winning or outside glory involved. So pause this story for a moment and proceed to . . .

     Strand Two: Johanna looked like a skinny, featherless baby bird when she was born. Nevertheless, she continues to grow and has somehow gotten to the point that tomorrow, she is going to be 14 years old. This is disconcerting for her dad and me, but not nearly so disconcerting as the fact that, for her birthday, what she wants MOST IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD is a pet rabbit. This rabbit, she says, would somehow make up for the fact that she doesn't have any friends in the neighborhood while simultaneously providing a valuable witnessing tool (?). Probably it would also improve her French, teach her to cook, and give her hair a healthy sheen. We are not really a pet family, the extent of our experience with indoor fauna being several fish and a hamster (now all deceased). Johanna diligently researched the costs associated with a rabbit, including the price and feasibility of moving the creature back to the U.S. when the time comes. Her friends were all set to buy her the rabbit, cage, food, and accessories as birthday gifts. The huge snag in this near-perfect plan was Dad, who said absolutely no pets of any kind. No. We had weeping, wailing, and yes, gnashing of teeth. Johanna is nothing if not determined (which is a nice way to say stubborn as a mule). This brings us to . . .

     Strand Three: Fathers and daughters. French kids call the teacher's pet "le chouchou," which pretty much sums it up. The picture of a father wrapped around his daughter's little finger is a truism for a reason. But Daddy seemed pretty firmly entrenched in his refusal to allow rodents to join the family.

      Can anyone see where this story is going?

      Another truism is that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. This may be true for some men, but food isn't really Eric's weakness. Nor is it cars, books, shoes, or even collegiate sports. Johanna, however, knows exactly what makes her dad tick. So when she came home, flushed with excitement over her speedy intervals, the first words out of her mouth were:

      "Dad, if I run a 5:30 mile, can I have rabbit?"

      And we all know what the answer was.

     * * *
 
      Much to my (possibly temporary) relief, this whole rabbit thing is not a done deal. A 5:30 mile is pretty zippy for a 14-year-old. I think Johanna could have done it with the support of her team in the U.S., with the incentive of racing competitors, and with the expertise of her coaches. Right now, she has EuroSMAC, an empty track in Bernex, Switzerland, and Mom. But Robert Browing wrote: "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, else what's a heaven for." Surely that applies to 14-year-old girls as well.