The Delicious—and Dangerous—Treat That is Figgy Pudding

12/18/2009

"Oh bring us some figgy pudding," the kids have been singing on the walk home from school this week, which got me to thinking—what the heck is figgy pudding anyway?

I looked it up and realized that, as a kid, I used to eat it every Christmas. Because in South Africa, the former British colony where I grew up, figgy pudding is still a strong holiday tradition. More commonly known as Christmas pudding, it was one of the solstice highlights for me.

(Strange, but by solstice, I mean Summer Solstice, given that we're talking Southern Hemisphere here. Yes, we had fake Christmas trees with fake snow, roast turkey and warm figgy pudding, smack in the middle of summer and often at the beach.)

In any case, for me, the excitement of figgy pudding ranked right up there with presents.

Why? Because it was dangerous.

Here's how the Christmas pudding ritual went down: My granny would emerge from the kitchen wielding the pudding like a prize ham. My grandfather would promptly douse it in what must have been 100-proof brandy. Then he'd set that thing on fire.

Spiky purple-blue flames would shoot up as my granny waved the whole shebang thrillingly close to the grandkids' hair. And things kept getting better as we kids dove into our pieces of boozy cake because my granny had buried loads of silver charms and coins in it.

One bite you'd get a horseshoe, the next you'd get a thimble, and the next you'd get a nickel. And each time you found one, you had to shout, wave it in the air, then proudly display it on your plate.

Best of all was when you swallowed one because then everyone could make lots of jokes about what would happen to it.

And here's the other thing that made figgy pudding fabulously dangerous: We didn't actually like it. It was, well, edible if you immersed each bite in custard or ice cream. But really, it was just glorified, steamed fruitcake. And what kid likes fruitcake?

Even among adults, fruitcake fans are numbered. But for those that like it, warm figgy pudding, soaked in brandy and paired with ice cream, is a real treat—if you want to try it, here's a recipe from NPR.

Just don't forget the brandy, fire, charms, and coins. Oh, and the figs.

My Kid is Talking to a Tree, But He Ain’t Got Nothin’ on Me

10/01/2009

Muns. Case. Corny. And She.

These were the names of my imaginary friends. At least that's what my mother claims. I'm not certain where I got the names from, but I suspect it had something to do with my father complaining that people were nutcases or songs were corny.
 

Not sure about She but, given that I am one, that's probably its origin.

But don't worry. I'm not still hanging with my four made-up pals (at least not in public). We were tight, carrying on long conversations back when I was three, four, five years old. Whenever someone knocked on the door, I'd announce that it was one of these four characters, and my mother would play along and answer the door.

 
My aunt had similar delusions. When she was a kid, she used to play with pretend buddies Panicen and Pee. Panicen even used to get her own placemat, knife, and fork at the dinner table. Poor Pee didn't because she was only a baby.

Given this odd family history, I shouldn't have been surprised when my three- (almost four-) year-old son Punk recently claimed that the wall stole his cookie—or when this past weekend he struck up a conversation with a tree.

Yes. A tree.

It was pretty basic, as conversations go.

"Hi tree. How are you?"

According to Punk, the tree said it was fine, and, in turn, asked after Punk's health.

So while my younger twin, T-Rex, is asking endless questions of me, my older one is interrogating a tree.

Now, I am all for the boys getting in touch with nature, which is challenge enough in our asphalt 'hood. But chatting with inanimate objects? I'm just not sure. I mean, if an adult was seen yakking with a shrub, there would likely be some speculation that they're a couple tacos short of a combination platter.

(Plant freaks who name their houseplants and talk to them to coax growth get a free pass. And you know who you are.)

But, being Punk's mother, I, of course know that he has no shortage of tacos; heck, he's got extras. I should be more worried about me and my aunt—we actually talked to stuff that doesn’t exist. So, time to do some investigating.

According to old-school thinking among psychologists and psychiatrists, imaginary friends are rare and could be cause for concern, possibly indicating problems like insecurity, timidity, and withdrawal. Even the famous Dr. Spock advised seeking help from mental health professionals if a child was too immersed in pretend friends.

Popular movies have stoked this sort of thinking. First there was Drop Dead Fred, who haunts a troubled girl into adulthood. Then came Don't Look Under the Bed, where the imaginary friend turns into the Boogey Man. And then followed Hide and Seek, in which an evil figment of a girl's imagination goads her into bloody violence.

But in the world of child development, scientists' thinking has done a 180. Imaginary friends are common—about 30 to 60 percent of people report having had them between ages three and nine—and they also benefit kids, find psychologists like Marjorie Taylor and Stephanie M. Carlson. Among other things, pretend buddies can:

• Fuel kids' creativity and imagination.
• Help kids become better conversationalists and more empathetic and emotionally responsive.
• Foster narrative skills that aid kids' reading later on.

That said, we parents shouldn't be duped by imaginary friends either. I know how much T-Rex likes to blame his various messes on Punk; just imagine how handy an imaginary friend could be for that sort of scapegoating.

"No mommy, that wasn't me who pressed the alarm button on your key-ring and called the cops. That was the Bellycoaster [a T-Rex invention who surfaces when tackling his parents]."

Uh. No. Imaginary friends may great for stimulating the imagination, but they won't be taking the fall in our house. I'll be happy to open the door for them, though, or set out an extra plate at the table.

My biggest reservation: If either of my kids gets into imaginary friends as much as I did, to the point of giving four different ones goofy names, they might be at risk for turning into as big a whack-job as their mother. God forbid, they might even try to make a living as a writer. My one comfort is that at least neither one is left-handed.

First Recollections: Spinning Stories into Memories

08/06/2009

It's a muggy Friday afternoon, and we're crossing the I-395 bridge in Washington, DC—in hot pursuit of a duck. Not the feathered kind. I'm talking about that giant duck-boat thing with wheels that takes people on tours. My three-year-old boys are bananas about it. I’d sort of been hoping they might miss it because once they see it, they're obsessed. Like right now, Punk is quacking and instructing me to go catch it.

"Oh no. He's getting away. After him!” he squeaks. “Fast-aw mommeee, fast-aw!"

Of course, my pursuit fails miserably because, well, this is DC, and traffic is always at a standstill. Nevertheless, I'm trying to get a GPS on the duck, some coordinates, anything, when I notice the black cloud billowing across the GW Parkway. "Looks like a storm ahead," I comment, absently, then immediately regret it because the boys start panicking.

"Oh, it'll just be a few drops of rain—nothing to worry about," I tell them.

Boy am I wrong.

About a half hour later, on I-270 approaching Frederick, we get hit by a borderline tornado. Womp, womp, womp. Sheets of rain smack the windshield, and our visibility goes poof. The only thing we can see—and hear—are branches pelting us from all sides. Somehow, Punk, having given up on the duck, is sleeping soundly through all this commotion, but not T-Rex. He's terrified, screaming, "I'm scared! I'm scared! What’s happening mommy?"

What’s happening? Mommy is white-knuckling the steering wheel, watching stones spin next to the driver’s-side window and something approximating a log whiz past the windshield.

But, somehow, I practically sing my response: "Oh, now, nothing to worry about honey." {Crack!} "It's just a little storm." {Crash!} "Just relax and enjoy the rain."{Thud!}

Clearly skeptical, T-Rex starts whacking Punk, trying to wake him up—to…share his discomfort, I guess. I quickly put a stop to that. But I do feel bad that T-Rex is so scared. And when we finally drive out of what felt like a bad acid trip, it occurs to me that this could be one of T-Rex's first memories. Maybe even his very first recollection.

I'm pretty sure I was around his age when I started my own mental record. Some of it is hazy, pleasant impressions from the farm we lived on. A cow licking my hand. Picking apples from the orchard. Swimming in the dam. But the clearest memories are of less-than-sunny events.

I don't mean anything seriously traumatic. Just regular-life unpleasantness that, as a kid, you're not expecting: getting a bee-sting on the eyelid that made my face swell up like a blowfish, for example. Sitting on my dad’s shoulders, projectile-vomiting into a trashcan after having tubes put in my ears. Or watching my favorite toy truck get run over by an octogenarian.

To see if others remember similar experiences, I did a highly unscientific, informal survey on Twitter. Tiny sample. Very qualitative.

Most respondents, in line with behavioral science research, recalled their first experiences from age two or three. Also squaring with research and with my first memories, they recalled standout happenings, departures from the daily routine: meeting a new sibling in the hospital, falling down the stairs, hiding in the depths of a closet when company arrived.

Why the amnesia before age two? Scientists explain that, during the first years of life, children learn language and recognition skills that lay the foundation for what we commonly know as memory, and what psychologists call "long-term memory." This is how we describe our personal conscious experiences.

Researchers also find that:

• We form our first significant memories when our sense of self begins to take shape.

• These first autobiographical memories are our own interpretations of what happened and may not reflect the actual events. Really, our long-term memory is part of how we define ourselves and make meaning of life.

• Culture plays a large role in our first memories. Research by University of New Hampshire psychologist Michelle Leichtman finds that in more individualist societies, like ours, recall starts earlier than in more collectivist Asian societies. Her explanation: Because personal stories are so important in our culture, adults feed children’s memory formation, discussing events with them in ways that build and reinforce their autobiographical memories.

 

On one level the adult reinforcement bit makes sense to me. But on another, I think we most vividly remember our pure emotional response, and by age three or four, we have the words to describe that response.

And on yet another level, some of us are the kid who was awake during the near-tornado. And some of us are the kid who slept through it.

But if adults have as much to do with shaping kids’ memories as scientists say we do, I’ll have to stop myself from mentioning that Friday-afternoon monsoon to T-Rex. Instead, I’ll try to bring it back to that dern duck—how next time we’re going to catch it, no matter what.