Datebook: June 16, 2008

For many of us, the heralding of summer is designated by several events:

* The deadline for the Lake Placid Competition.

* The payment for the summer ice session of our rink du jour.

* The concept of seeing lycra not only on the frozen water but also in the melted version, as in beach and pool.

For me, I have added:

* Horn blowing when the last school bus pulls out of the lot.

This momentous event occurred in my home club area on Friday. Although it was a joyous occasion, it was marred by the fact that two of my friends are leaving to go to another school -- together. I know, that is so “leave one standing while the pair go off to dance” that I throw up a little bit in my mouth as I wish them good luck for the coming year. So I am imagining them having fun and shooting paper planes to each other with little secret messages next year while I am left to sigh and wander the speckled glossy linoleum halls alone. It is going to be quite an adjustment, as Alissa and I formed a kind of Nancy Drew/Lois Lane operation that kept the school in a Level Five clearance for information. Now I fear my intelligence gathering will be much like getting an overseas call from some remote island in the Philippines -- there will be way too much delay and every other word will be muted. And it will be hard as she was my Go-to-Girl. You know what I mean, at meetings and such, when someone said or did something funny, or that we could make funny with a little improv, we could catch each other’s eye and relay a quick “Oh, no she did not just say that.”

Skaters encounter this loss and regrouping all during their careers, as friends and training partners move to various skating camps due to changes in coaching or partnerships. I still remember the reaction several years ago when Adrienne Koob-Doddy and Rob Antonelli changed coaches and training rinks. The twelve kids left behind were like from a bad musical called “Zombies on Ice.” Even today, they all get a little pale when they think of those first few weeks without the duo. Even though skating is an individual sport, or a partnership, there is still a “group” mentality of sorts to all that train together. They are like pearls on a strand if you will, that have their own glow and luster, but who complement the others so beautifully when together.

This year, more than any non-Olympic year of recent memory, we have seen the most changes across the board in ice dancing. There is a grieving time as we are forced to say good-bye to many teams and then try to get used to putting one name with another when we have been so attuned to having it paired another way. There is also an adjustment to having teams or skaters move from one region to another and it’s not just calling them in a new time zone.

Sometimes age old customs change as a result of skater relocation.

For Father’s Day, we had the unusual occurrence of having all children in the compound at the same time and seemingly being cordial to each other. (This usually centers on no jibes about skaters or no rants about the lack of motivation by non-skaters.) Everything was running smoothly even though the propane tank ran out of gas halfway through the marinated chicken, and the soup went through the Goldilocks syndrome of being “too bland” to “too spicy.”

I had planned to make S’mores in our new, elevated fire pit and brought out all the classic ingredients for making the age-old recipe.

Then my daughter said, “Mom, Ben Agosto had a cook-out last week and we used Ghirardelli chocolates with caramel in the middle, and they were the best S’mores in the world.”



I looked at my small bag of Hershey’s chocolates and then at her.

“That’s interesting. It sounds good, but I don’t think you can call them S’mores.”

She looked at me incredulously. “What are you talking about? Of course they’re S’mores! It’s just an improvement on the recipe. It’s better. And you love caramel.”

“I love lots of things. I love Antonio Bandares and Johnny Depp, but I don’t want to see them in a movie together.”

“You are talking, but you aren’t making sense.” She says while eating a marshmallow.

“I’m making perfect sense. The Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts of America founded S’mores, I think, or else it was the settlers going to the Gold Rush. It doesn’t really matter. The ingredients are clearly defined—graham cracker, marshmallow, Hershey chocolate. That is a S’more. I’m not saying you can’t improve on the recipe, but you have to call it something else. If you’re using Ghirardelli caramel chocolates then maybe it’s a Ca’more or a Ghi’more.”

They’re all looking at me as if I am askew. I check my lycra bathing suit straps and see it is doing its job so I don’t know what their problem is.

“It’s not about the chocolate is it?” my daughter asks.

I want to tell her it is about how too many things change, but I feel like I have a marshmallow stuck in my throat so I say instead, “Don’t be ridiculous. You know chocolate is pivotal to most of problems in life.”

I look at my gathered crew and smile. I hand my son the skewer and say, “Make me a S’more, I’m going to go change.”

Mombo