Roses, Rainbows and Recipes

I think I am the only freak of nature who is soooo over new things. 2013 is the "Year of New" and I am ready for the Era of "Been There Done That".

I cannot tell you how many times a lovesick fifteen year old took over my mind and body as I found myself, at 30, doodling my name over and over again...before we got married...

Monique Danye` Hoskins...Monique Danye`Criddell Hoskins...Monique Hoskins...Mr. &Mrs. James Hoskins...Mrs. Monique Criddell Hoskins

and I smiled and roses and rainbows appeared and a robin perched on my windowsill and tweeted a tune.

Yeah, the process of inaugurating the "new" was not that lovely and sweet. 

Ladies, changing your name is 1. annoying and complicated and 2. quite traumatizing. 

The social security lines are just long. 

There is nothing romantic about waiting for your number to appear on a scrolling marquee in a room full of strangers...Which is why I have yet to get a new license. Don't tell James. 

Although, I don't know if I haven't visited the DMV because of inconvenience or because that 2x3 inch piece of plastic is the last shred of my former identity; plus my picture looks great...This made the blog so I am guessing it is probably the latter. I love discovering things as I type. 

I can't help but to feel that changing my name is some sort of betrayal to my family of Criddell's. My poor dad, who adores James, "forgets" my last name each time we talk. 

"Hello, Mrs. Crid errrr uhhhh, Hopps...Husk...Hoskins...yeah that's it, Hoskins."

I have a new name attached to a man other than my father who has loved, supported and cared for me for 31 years. I have a new "home" because wherever James is that is home and it actually feels like it. I have a new job that James knows more about from day to day than my family. I have a new church and new friends. I have an entirely new family...I even have a new mac and cheese casserole recipe...You don't understand just how deep things just got. This may be more crucial than my name.

This dish is more important than Thanksgiving turkey and Christmas ham. 

It is a legendary Criddell recipe.

Angels take pause to sing when the oven opens. 

And yesterday I changed the recipe to something brand new....Don't tell mom. 

 I LITERALLY had to talk myself into it. . I changed my mind a few times.

Sundays are our clean eating days because we until the plate is clean. I'm talking about the most fatty, carb-infused meals I can think to make. It's a Hoskins' House Rule. On Sundays calories don't count unless you count them. So I turned on some gospel music, took out a few sticks of butter and got to cooking. James and I melted into OUR newness. This is what Sundays would smell like for us and our future family...reeeallll buttery and warm. 

As good as the new felt and always feels, at least momentarily, I could hear my old name calling out in desperation. 

She is afraid of  being forgotten.

She is just going to have to learn that she is not being left behind. 

She can come along with all of her old recipes and family traditions.  

The old has been so good to me but I still get butterflies when I write my new name. Roses bloom on Sundays at the Hoskins' house and the robins are warming up. Rainbows appear when we kayak. And I'm pretty sure that the angels gave a celestial, slow-clap standing ovation when I opened the oven to the new mac and cheese...because it.was.good.

Gold Nugget Bride

August, something, 1999, my parents were held up at pen-point by Xavier University of Louisiana. They emptied out their bank account and left me waving them goodbye as I forced and faked wanning confidence. I was now a XULA Gold Nugget (really, why did that name get all the votes?)...and I had no idea, whatsoever, how to be a gold nugget, because, what does that even mean, first of all, and second, all I knew about college was dating (which I had yet to experience), parties (which just was not my scene) and staying up to study (ok I can do that one). Was I just supposed to become a shiny, priceless metal destined for academic success overnight or would I morph overtime somehow melding my identity into that of my new future alma mater? Fear? I didn't even know what to be afraid of. I just knew if I was going to survive I had to become a nugget and quick.

August, something (the 8th I think), 2008 I dumped my savings into first month's rent, deposits, U-haul fees and first installments at Truett Seminary. I moved into a cavernous, snow white apartment furnished by A couch, A TV and A kitchen table...I had no need for the table. I dropped every dime I earned to pick a new identity. I went from being nugget (to a Lumberjack at SFA...you get the rhythm I'm beating out) now to a Baylor Bear. Bears are awesome! Right? I mean, we are both brown so that's a start. No one told me how to be a bear but I spent some time as a nugget and a Lumberjack so I could fake it til I made it. Baylor Bears study a lot while wearing nike shorts and drinking coffee. Since I was too old to fully conform I settled for hot cocoa and Adidas. No one questions a 28 year old black woman with a faux latte.

February 16, 2013 James and I (and our parents) spun around Waco flinging checks in every direction so that James could become a husband and I could become a wife. Ok, at this point I learned my lesson. Having successfully matriculating through adolescence and dizzying individuation I knew that preparation and research were key. So after 6 months of premarital counseling and great accountability from friends we pretty much gathered the gravity of 2 becoming 1. We did the "I do, You do", danced a jig and flew to Denver.

We returned a week later to begin work on one of life's most complicated equations...1+1=1.

I was comfortable with becoming one. And as of tomorrow we have been "becoming" for 6 months.

James is a good person to become one with. He is super loving and other mushy blog stuff you've read.

We have laughed at our collection of inside jokes and kitchen-danced a whole lot.

We have argued well and grown from dissent.

The only problem is I'm still one person. I made a mistake in my days as a Gold LumberBear. Growing each year, I still lost myself a little in the collegiate song and dance.

However, I haven't lost myself in this marriage. I don't think I am supposed to, either.  I just don't know what the heck to do with myself.

So this is one of the things that I have learned (I could have done six but that is uber predictable).

I am still me, one, and that is O.K.

James and I are two, different people who compliment each other like crazy and can't get enough of each other but God still calls us by name...Our own names...Not some odd Hollywood nickname mashup like JaNique or Momes (our names clearly do not mash well). God still calls me Monique. He is still transforming Monique to be a good woman not just a good wife. He still has work for his daughter to do on her own even though James and I may partner up from time to time. We don't have to always hike together, eat at a great restaurant together or shop together. That's not what gives the marital math problem weight and meaning...we aren't disconnected and doomed for divorce if we pray separately or pour ourselves into different ministries. These TWO become ONE because these ones are becoming like Christ. That is the strange math and He is the ONE we become even while we remain TWO and I'm so glad we have a lifetime to solve this equation.

Pillow Talk~Static Cling Edition

Just for future reference it is much easier to have hard conversations on soft pillows. Defenses are down in this neutral zone.

Last Thursday...
Surrounded by cotton, down and the Bounce-aroma of static-free sheets, James and I finished a conversation on race that began earlier that afternoon. Like I have said before, some of these conversations are avoidable and most are not. We have become quite shrewd at determining which is which. I am grateful for James who will diffuse what could be a heated discourse by reminding me that in OUR house we love each other in spite of skin color and we also love & honor each other because what our skin color means.

These are the Hoskins' House~House Rules

I do not think it is necessary to offer the world a verbatim because honestly I do not want to build divided platform and stir up the temptation to take a side...Know this...I will always take James' side even if I, wholeheartedly (my stake is firmly in the ground) disagree with him. You'll get it when you get home.

I will, however, offer you the take-away. They are the kind that can be read in any color. Trust me.

Marriage doesn't mean agreement...it may rarely mean seeing eye to eye...

A lack of agreement DOES NOT mean a lack of love or respect. I repeat, a lack of agreement DOES NOT mean a lack of love and respect.

Outwardly, James and I are as different as different can get...(hello Capt. Obvious). Of all of the places in the world our home must be a safe place to disagree, to process, to be right, to be wrong and to learn. It just has to be. We cannot berate, demean and bully the other into submission because there are a line of people waiting outside our door to do so.

James is not a black woman and I am not a white man. We never will be and that is OKAY.

This is not as easy to remember as you may think but whatever your differences are you must accept them while becoming a student of them and the black community has met no better pupil than Mr. James Hoskins....ha! Lemme teeelllllll you! My color represents my culture. It is more than just a conversation piece in the month of February. I love my blackness. I love to talk about it. I love to study it. I love to boast about it. I'm so glad James does too. But it ain't all about me so I listen to my man and hear what it's like for him to be a white man from Texas...and my eyes are opening up to something brand new that I thought I already knew. What a gift. You want to know how to "do" race relations in an edifying way?...come sup with the Hoskins' one evening. 

James' heart for me is LOVE and he is a GOOD man who fears God.

During our talk my emotions ebbed and flowed. I would like to say that I controlled them but I was lazy so I found myself just riding the wave in danger, at times, of getting swept away...until I heard the voice of God (which sounds a lot like Mattie) saying, "Remember his heart for you...remember his heart for me...remember his heart." The hair that had bristled up on the back of my neck would soften and smooth out as I relaxed and unclenched my jaw saying, "Help me remember...Thank you, Lord, for his heart." Conversation continued and the process would start all over again. 

Another take-away...if you are doing it right you become a prayerful schizophrenic. There was a lot going on in my head. I'm talking to him and talking to the Lord all at the same time. Giving up my need for control. Stripping off my desire to not only be understood but be right. Realizing that I don't need these things, I need Jesus. 

I NEED JESUS.

Pillow talk is precious to me. I believe it to be vital for a marriage to survive, wherever your pillow may be. Soooo many dreams are formulated there. Soooo many things are discovered and worked out. When hard conversations hit soft pillows I find myself clinging to Jesus desperately because he is the ONLY one who can change me....make me over...soothe me...truly understand me...He is the only one who can bring understanding to us newlyweds. He is the one who gives me kind words to say. He is the one who urges James to speak up and speak truth. He is the one we follow together. Hand in hand. Life happens everyday. We cannot run from the stresses of the world even in the safety of our home so we cling to Christ like static on sheets and Bounce doesn't stand a chance. 

Oh yeah...and...

We have miles to go before we sleep.

(no, I'm not trying to cop and twist the rhythmic words of Robert Frost)

For the love!...we are still learning. It took me four years to earn my MDiv and I am no where near being a Master of all things Divine. So,why in the world should we know how to do marriage by now? I simply mean we made vows for the LONG haul so if things don't get fully unfurled on some random Thursday in the 5th month of our marriage...psssst...it's ok...we have a long way to go and a lot of time to figure things out. 

Repeat After Me...

I talk to mom a lot these days and her pain is definitely my gain...My dad is an angel, but let's be real. They both did their fair share or pouting and growing up over the past 43+ years. When people notice the glimmer in my dad's eye and the pep in mom's step when she is with her man they nudge their spouse for some reciprocity and tell mom she's got it easy and couldn't possibly understand....Her response: "I have the marriage I have because of prayer. And I prayed because I HAD too." Guess who is not about to just figure things out on my own...This chick here. There is no shame in my game so I ask questions and sunbath in wisdom.

Here is what I love about Mattie Criddell:
1. She is completely disarming because of her honesty and transparency.
2. She honors my father by not sharing it all for the sake of bonding with her newlywed babygirl.
3. She TELLS me NOT to tell her everything because our business is not her business and she will always be inclined to take my side.
4. She doesn't always take my side. (That makes James a happy hubby.)

It's funny, a part of me doesn't want to continue to nitty-gritty of this post because it will reveal some of my mess. After all, you clean up before you invite company over, right? We, married and single alike, are under this ridiculous delusion that if every day isn't smiles, smooches and sweet-nothings then we are doing something terribly wrong. So we hide, pretend and make sure our blogs are Disney approved. We gossip about those we have vowed our lives to in some kind of passive-aggressive attempt at a plea for help or just advice. The truth of the matter is this relationship is a full-speed-ahead transformational journey where we find ourselves shredded of self-aggrandizement and righteousness and looking, acting and talking like Christ...our core, our rock, our true essence.

That is NOT a clean process, there may be wreckage and there SHOULD be carnage as we die to self...and self won't go down without a fight.

Walk into any marital living room and you will find stains of offense on the carpet under the rug, the dust of selfishness that has settled on everything, and a looming stench of pride, thick in the air, because someone forgot to take out old trash.

Thank God for Jesus and His place in marriage....He holds alllllllllll things together....He redeems the mess....He speaks through really good moms who care enough to tell it like it T. I. tis!

I talked to mom about an argument one of my friends had with her husband....small, laughable and resolved but an argument nonetheless (and it's the small ones that catch you off-guard)...and it really was a friend.

On not letting the sun go down on your anger, mom said this in her black-mama, "honey chile" voice,
and I quote,

"The wedding is so nice because someone gives you the words to say and you repeat it and then you smile and say, 'Oh, look what we just did!' But in the marriage no one is around to say, Repeat after me except for Jesus and if you don't say what he tells you to say you'll be in biiiiiig trouble."

I love that woman.

I'm sorry...I love you (feeling pissy)...I was wrong...You were right...Let's start over...

Not as fun to say as, "I, ___________ take thee, __________to be my lawfully wedded...." but they sure do clean up the mess. Like bleach and apple cider, Like a Brillo pad on old grease.

Everyday I am learning to pause, pray and repeat what the Lord says to say (or do). I'm new to this so my first reaction is usually visceral and very wrong. Mom also reminded me that marriage is spiritual warfare...Lemme break it on down. Satan, the enemy, attacks marriages. He wants us to take a stance in our right to be offended. He wants us to wake up with calloused hearts because anger was our bedfellow. But God is in our marriage and on our side.

Whatever YOU want to do, don't. Whatever YOU want to say, wait....How are you to humble yourself, stay in your lane and look like Him? What is Christ asking of you?

He is speaking...

Repeat after Him...

How Does Saturday Smell?

Pancake Syrup, burnt cooking oil, hot blow dryer, fresh laundry and Comet Cleaner.

When I was little deep cleaning our house was reserved for Saturday mornings. The day flowed something like this...I was the first up to take in a few private, meditative, reflective hours of Saturday morning cartoons (ahem, still do). It was my elementary quiet time (if you will). During this time I also made myself pancakes just like my mom taught me. Although, mine looked more like greasy splatter art. I used way too much cooking oil and milk. The fire was always turned up too hot...they were good nonetheless and I was fed while the parentals got some rest.

Mom  or my sister, Mardi, would blow dry my freshly washed hair, think Rudy Huxatable circa 1989.

Dad hand-washed the car in the driveway (wax on wax off), and ran errands to the store and dry cleaners.

Mom and dad's room was downstairs and mom sang old school and contemporary gospel while cleaning her bathroom.

Our upstair rooms were filled with the newest R&B hits 97.9 The BOX had to offer. We wopped it out while mopping it out.

Then after the house was spit-shine clean off to the movies we went. Parents would turn on jazz or classical music while the three of us sat shoulder to shoulder in the backseat of our Plymouth Acclaim guessing which instruments were playing.

Lunch at Marco's Mexican Restaurant...I got an authentic cheeseburger kid's meal. Then back to home central.

My Saturdays have changed a bit but the new Hoskins home is developing a smell all its own.

Saturdays begin with a little pillow-talk.

James goes into his room to pray for a while.

I listen to him play the guitar and sing while I sing to various songs on my Pandora stations. I fluff my curls and do the bathroom boogie to the R&B of my youth...not quite as holy as my hubby.

He offers to make breakfast...I offer to make breakfast...I cook breakfast tacos. I win? (wait a minute).


We promised that we would "do" marriage by attempting to out-serve one another. So far so good. We serve each other with creativity and gladness, really, don't gag at my newly-wedness...We are loving this season cuz it's just us and being a grown up on a Saturday is a lot of fun...New recipes, new back rub techniques, new adventures in kayaking.

Now Saturdays smell like eggs and olive oil, Lake Waco, fresh laundry and Shipley's...sometimes we both win.

I'm Milk Chocolate

My two childhood best friends are bi-lingual Spanish and English. They took it all through high school and college. They both have taught it in school at one point or another. It's hard not to pick up a little Spanish if you live in Houston for any length of time. I've picked up enough to impress people who don't know any. My dad tells people I am fluent but the only sentence that flows, is..."Yo se muy pocito pero todavia estoy apprendiendo." This means, "I know a little but I am still learning." Yeah, I have been riding that lame train for a decade now. I really need to buy Rosetta Stone and soon. 

James is bilingual too. He is fluent in Country and Modern-Jive. The sing-songy 'tude in his voice and his impressions of my dad soon morphed into a language all his own. If you close your eyes and listen closely you might think I'm talking to my sister...because my husband talks like a black woman...yes, it is weird. It's weird because he isn't mocking me; (most times) his cadence and phraseology is on point and relevant. 

The other day James tells me about a conversation he and his co-workers were having about a young black woman. During this conversation James asked his white counterparts a very common and appropriate question concerning the exact shade of her blackness.

 "What kind of chocolate is she?...like candy"

Ha!

Sweet bi-lingual James...they don't understand you.

He continues...

"You know...Hershey's, caramel, special dark...?"

So here is a language lesson for all. We black folks refer to our own color and the colors of our brethren in colorful, confectionery ways. It's a Willy Wonka (I've got the golden ticket) type of nomenclature. Easy to remember, up-for-debate and sensible. 

Halle Berry and Beyonce: Caramel~prounounced "Care-uh-mel"

Phylicia Rashad and my hot mama: Cafe Mocha (it's a smoother milk chocolate)

Djimon Hounsou (Blood Diamond)  and Seal: Special Dark or just Dark Chocolate

Tisha Campbell-Martin and Sade: Bright or Light skinned...there is a distinction, however, that only a trained eye may notice

                                                     Jasmine Guy: definitely Light Skinned

                                                     

Cree Summer and Tamia: Red or Red Bone...these individuals will often have a natural reddish tint to their hair. 

And I, my friends, am Milk Chocolate.

Before we were together my baby was living in a black and white, rabbit-eared world and now the hubs is seeing it all live in HD technicolor, asking questions about candy and making eyebrows raise in confusion. I am so proud. This kid gets an  "A".

"Mo" names than I can count

My mom says, that she named me Monique because it sounded "sophisticated"

Monique. Danye. Criddell..."it rings with professionalism", she says. 

When I told my parents that I wanted to be a neurosurgeon my name took on its own impetus. My initials were MDC, for crying out loud, MD Criddell...Medical Doctor Criddell=way to go, mom! Nailed it!

With this name I was destined to be a medical maven. It was kismet.

My mom held me in her arms and branded me with sophistication and purpose. She just knew that family, teachers, friends and strangers would learn of my name and utter it with the sincerest of respect and awe.

That dream faded to black shortly after I started private school at two. Much to my mother's dismay I was given a nickname. "Mo". Mom tried to stop it but it was too late. I don't think folks called me "Mo" because it was easier, either. This is just who I am to the world...not some stuffy uber professional physician but that down to earth, round the way girl that you feel like you have known for decades...(I'm postulating here but it sounds good to me)

I have acquired many a moniker in my short life. Here are a few of my favorite handles...

Moneca (pronounced Mo-knee-kah)

Mom is the only one who calls me this. She says it when she is being loving. It just sounds the same way a warm blanket feels. I just wanna wrap myself up in it. I also think she may be attempting to redeem "Mo" by adding an exotic suffix. Mom is pretty persistent. 

Scooter

This alias is the brainchild of the one and only Mike Criddell...my daddy, ya'll. He said that when I was little I scooted around a lot...always on the move. Hence the most logical nickname ever.

KeKe

Alright, I have a love/hate relationship with this name. I love the people who gave it to me. I hate the reason. I was ALWAYS the only black student in my class from the age of 2 to 18...there may have been one more but we were usually scattered. (Only blacks in the joint, stand up!). The sweet reasoning of my high school classmates went something like this: you are black and KeKe is a "ghetto" name so we will call you KeKe...That only stuck for one semester.

Moqui (pronounced Mo-Key)
My best friend and I used to work in the nursery at church together every Sunday when we were in high school. She gave me one of her wallet pics and signed it "I love you, Moqui." My best friend...spelled my name all kinds of wrong. We read it and laughed. it stuck. A week later everyone else and their mama (literally) was calling me Moqui. This ticked her off because it was her special name birthed from a typo and not theirs...15 years later and she stills hates it when others call me that.

Moie (pronounced Mo-E)
 My crew in college predominantly consisted of Indians from India. Most of their names ended in some "E"sound. Tigi, Romy, Letty and Angie (still counts). The natural thing to do was assimilate at least by name. To this day, Tigi and Angie still call me Moie. 

MoMo

This is my favorite. My nephews call me this...just "MoMo". And for some strange and yet perfect reason all children that I meet find their way to this nickname sans suggestion. It amazes me every time. I feel like I am knighted with a Nerf rubber sword into some secret toddler society where there are "No Adults Allowed" signs tacked up everywhere.

"I shall dub thee, MoMo."

It has taken a lifetime to acquire these names and more. New friendships mean new names because nicknames usually mean, "I love you". And when I met James I came full circle... and heard my name as if for the first time. 

Eight hours into our second date I noticed that he kept calling me Monique. I redirected him towards Mo-ville letting him know that my friends call me Mo and he was welcome to do the same. 

He said...

"No offense but Mo sounds like a guy's name to me. Monique is the name of a beautiful, intelligent woman and that is what I think you are...but if you prefer for me to call you Mo, I will."
(= way to go, James! Nailed it!)

Starry-eyed and swooning, I said...

"You can call me whatever you want."

It's been Monique ever since. He cut right to my mother's heart for me....He cut right to my heart and I love to hear him say my name.