bambino cascarino

Nobody tackles the role of “Mr. Mom” with greater aplomb than my dad.  

I’m not referring to fatherhood.  That, he handles masterfully despite the doubting masses who felt that our branch of the family tree should have been pruned back to discourage further growth.  No, I’m talking about when the man assumes the responsibility of both parents for an extended period of time.  Specifically, this weekend when Mrs. Cascarino was dismissed from our home to indulge in some well-deserved pampering in a part of the Twin Cities completely insulated from my desperate cries for attention.

Whenever the husband does something thoughtful for his spouse, the term “brownie points” is often bandied about.  Probably for good reason since men are often portrayed as slack-jawed halfwits unable to perform simple tasks like placing a lid on the blender prior to operation, or removing their muddy shoes before walking across a pristine white carpet — tragic missteps that result in the need to redeem a certain number of previously banked, imaginary points to avoid further shame.  Less fortunate are those afflicted with erectile dysfunction for which there is currently no viable brownie point equivalent.  While I know that mom appreciates the gesture, I can assure you that Mr. Cascarino doesn’t do it for the glory or as a means to avoid future scorn.  He simply enjoys the nesting.  In fact, he would probably welcome the opportunity to do it more often if it weren’t for our basic requirements of nutrition and shelter.

So how did we occupy our time together for two whole days?  Since Cascarinos are not permitted to have any fun until the house is in order, we spent Saturday morning Swiffering the wood floors.  This was followed by ironing the new bed skirt and tending to the orchids.  Once we retrieved our testicles from the jar on the freshly Magic Erasered kitchen counter, we were out the door!

You know how guys take their dog to the dog park to meet women?  Well it works the same way with a small child, but instead of a dog park, it’s the entire world.  Apparently the baggage that comes with another man’s offspring and active marital status is a box that many single ladies are willing to tick.  We didn’t get any action, but I blame dad’s hideous visage more than my leering at every woman in my sight line.  Have you witnessed the devastation under this man’s eyes?  If he and my great-grandfather were both wearing burqas, you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.  My father was once described in this ad agency’s blog as “30ish and hip,” although he’s actually 40ish, and “hip” is what he’s likely to break when taking the stairs.  Despite our repellent qualities, I do cherish our time strolling the avenue and sharing a few laughs at the expense of the ladies forced to look away in disgust.

Of course it’s not all fun and games.  I require twice daily naps which can often be a source of discord between me and mom, however I find the arrangement to be much more agreeable when dad puts me down.  It’s not about a difference in my state of fatigue as much as their individual approaches toward nap time.  With my mother, it’s quite clear that she needs a break from the all-consuming nature of our relationship.  I imagine that during this time, she’s taking a shower, having a snack or perhaps dressing a wound.  My father, by contrast, indicates that I’m the one that needs to rest up in order to be fully energized for our next adventure.  It’s this sense of anticipation that urges me toward slumber, as opposed to me watching the clock and sounding the alarm once I can hear that mom’s hyperventilating is under control.  The right choice of song is also a factor in my willingness to unwind.  Mom serenades me with the following:

What can I say?  It’s brilliant and has all the classic elements of a good lullaby: clear direction coupled with the repeated use of the listener’s name, the promise of sheep, and it’s easy to rock to.  Solid work indeed, but the fatal flaw is that she never varies it up.  Once the verse begins, I know I’ve been duped.  Then I’m just pissed off and nobody likes going to bed angry.  Dad, on the other hand, combines his talents as a gifted singer/songwriter and dark humorist by singing whatever inappropriate lyrics come to mind.  Yesterday I was ushered into dreamland with this nontraditional verse:

On the surface, totally appalling and a priceless soundbite for a custody hearing.  But it’s no secret that my buoyant demeanor and social graces make me so adorably and utterly abductable.  Putting it to music is not only entertaining, but also worthy of a good 90-minute nap given the high marks for originality.

On Sunday afternoon, I awoke to find that my real mother had returned and I immediately assumed my regular post at her feet, clutching her legs as if I were in danger of being swept away by a twister.  Mr. Cascarino relinquished his apron in favor of a cocktail shaker and in minutes everything was back to normal.  However when I looked up, I saw that the woman in my arms was not the mother I knew, but a damn good cover version being performed by a much younger band.  The batteries had been recharged, the cracks paved over, the luster somehow restored by the activities of the previous two days.  Instead of recoiling, I just settled in allowing her these final moments of calm and weightlessness.  In a few hours, just like the weekend, it would all be a memory.

My knee high death grip,

The Chinese say that one must endure great pain in order to experience true pleasure.  Actually, it was just our waiter at Szechuan Garden, but I tend to paint with a broad brush.

Happy Mother’s Day to my mama and all the fearless moms who find their way through the dark times by the light of our tiny smiles — or by any means necessary.

Love, Wylie

To those who hope that we eventually move back east, this Saint Paul watering hole makes a compelling case for sticking around.

You tell anybody I shop at Baby Gap and we’re gonna have a serious problem.

Go shorty, it’s your birthday

Today is my first birthday.  And while I won’t be sipping any Bacardi as Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson suggests in his 2003 hip-hop single “In Da Club,” I can assure you that we are indeed gonna party.  Say what you want about Raffi and the Wiggles, nobody sounds a call for celebration quite like a young, black gentleman who has his neighbors in historic Farmington, Connecticut living in fear.

I don’t know how you do it in your hometown, but here in the Twin Cities festive occasions aren’t marked by grand displays of showy indulgence.  They involve a humble spread of homemade casseroles and locally smoked fish, discussion of the previous week’s weather, and speculation of the upcoming week’s forecast.  That’s only if you provide your guests with a full month’s notice of the function.  Otherwise, they simply can’t commit.

Despite repeated warnings from the Town Elders, my party will be professionally catered because in Mr. Cascarino’s words, he doesn’t “want to spend the whole goddamned day in the kitchen.”  An unusual strategy from a man who addresses Midwesterners by assuming a haughty carriage in social situations, although relinquishing the cooking duties will now free him up to parade the grounds with a clipboard barking orders at the help.  Mrs. Cascarino once had her own cookie business so she’ll be overseeing the desserts.  Among her usual desperate mutterings, I overheard her mention that she was treating us all to one of her favorites.  I’m not sure how you get a candle in handful of Valium, but if anyone can figure it out, it’s mom.

In addition to the other attendees, Nana and her husband were nice enough to make the trip up from Pennsylvania.  We were informed ahead of time that unlike their previous two visits, they would be bringing their cat along for the ride.  At least what’s left of him after his recent cremation.  While most children in my position typically stare in bewildered awe at a colorful mountain of brightly wrapped books, puzzles and playthings, I was presented with a contained biohazard suitable for our curio cabinet which currently holds the charred remains of Nana’s previous two cats.  It’s a darker theme than I was hoping for, but I suppose that it’s never too early to learn that as one’s life blissfully advances, it can all be reduced to ash in a 1,600 degree oven just like that.  At least now we’ll have something to include in the favor bags.

We have a friend who judges people based on the number of different cheeses they have at any given time.  While the rest of us look to a host’s medicine cabinet for evidence of mood stabilizers or treatment for a regrettable sexual encounter, this one heads straight for the fridge.

Normally one might find the establishment of a fromage-based caste system abhorrent or at the very least unfair to the vegan community.  However upon further questioning our friend revealed that she had graduated from the University of Pennsylvania, so it made perfect sense that a woman who had been socially repressed through her early twenties would attach such importance to something else that had been cave aged.

The minimum number of cheeses you must possess to earn entry-level status is four.  Prohibited varieties include cream, whiz, string, Boursin®, WisPride®, and anything associated with a ‘laughing cow.’  Oddly enough American is allowed, but it’s frowned upon.  We had learned all this over a cheese plate consisting of acceptable sheep’s, cow’s and goat’s milk selections that the Cascarinos had assembled earlier in the evening.  If it weren’t for the pathetic knob of Pecorino Romano we had in the dairy drawer, the night surely would have come to an abrupt end.

Many of you may find this quattro formaggi position a bit rigid; but for those who wish to avoid the embarrassment of falling short in front of guests whose culinary curiosities lean toward the abnormally pretentious, I’ve listed four of our house favorites to keep you compliant with standards and practices.

1. Parmigiano-Reggiano — The undisputed king of cheeses, parm-reg is best known for finishing pastas and soups.  The pre-shredded stuff is garbage so spring for a hunk of the real thing.  You’ll still have just enough cash left over for some fresh pasta, good olive oil, and a loaf of crusty bread which is all you’ll need in case a tour bus of Italian grandmothers headed to the casinos breaks down in front of your house.
2.  Raclette — Remember the scene in Silence of the Lambs when the coroner unzips a body bag and immediately fouls the room with the stench of a young girl that had been found in a river well past her sell-by date?  Raclette smells just like that.  However if you can get past the initial stink, you’ll delight in a cheese that’s mild, creamy, slightly nutty, and is in no way reminiscent of human decomposition.
3. Feta — The top three contributions to civilization credited to the Greeks are democracy, homosexuality, and feta cheese.  Feta is an aged crumbly cheese that adds a tangy, salty bite to salads, omelets, and many traditional Greek dishes.  Make sure you buy it as a block still packed in its brine to prevent it from drying out.  Then break off a piece whenever you’re inspired to throw a toga party, open a diner, or start a government debt crisis.
4. Gruyère — Just a short Eurail ride from its French cousins, Comté and Beaufort, Gruyère is of Swiss origin and everything a French cheese aspires to be, but much less snooty and dismissive.  That’s why you’ll often find it making an appearance in French bistro staples like French onion soup and croque monsieur.  Earthy and complex, Gruyère can also stand on its own without foreign accoutrements encroaching on its inherent greatness.  Very Swiss indeed.

Of course it would be easier to keep the company of those whose inquisitory behavior reflects a simpler time rather than endure such tedious posturing.  But eventually when you’ve seen one VALTREX® prescription, you’ve seen ‘em all.

I don’t care if it’s Easter…either you get me out of these clothes, or I take the lethal dosage!!

You’re witnessing the exact moment between when a child feels the comfort of a warm embrace and the abrupt realization that he’s being abducted.

The moon says goodnight to him.

Elmo tickles a doll created in his likeness.

His security blanket is monitored by ADT.

He is…The Most Interesting Baby in the World.

I learned it by watching you.