If sleeping were an Olympic sport, I’d be Dara Torres.  (Sans the abs, of course.)  I’m not kidding when I tell you that I could have slept through the Opening Ceremonies in Beijing.  Not that I’d have wanted to, or would have, but I could have.

Cooking is an artform that, God willing, I will pursue until the day I die.  Sleeping, however, is a skill – and trust me, I’ve got it down.

All the roommates I’ve ever had are going to come out of the woodwork with their testimony, so I’ll beat them to the punch:  they all have remarkably similar stories that involve me sleeping soundly with an alarm clock going off six inches from my head – and not just any alarm, mind you, but one that could wake the dead.  What can I say?

As with cooking, Mom was my sensei in the sleep department.  She and I both slept through Hurricane Alicia in 1983, and again through Ike in 2008.  (Well, I mostly slept through Ike.  I got up around 3:00 am to look out the window, out of sheer curiosity, and saw trees doing things trees shouldn’t do.  When I remembered that I was six months pregnant, I decided that the smart money was on stepping away from our one unboarded glass window and going back to bed.)

As a kid, I remember Mom enforcing an 8:30 bedtime on weeknights, with rare exception.  And no fussy, lingering, nighty-night rituals, either – I needed to learn to fall asleep on my own.  Sometimes there was a tuck-in, but usually just a hug and a kiss in the living room with a cheerful “good night!” to follow me down the hallway.

Dad was different.  If he was in charge, I got a full tuck-in, complete with a story about how his childhood partner in crime was a stuffed elephant named Ephelant.  (If you know my dad, you know that intentional Spoonerisms are a part of his charm.)  When he left, I always got to to “blow out the light” from bed, which is exactly like blowing out a candle, with Dad flipping the light switch at the exact right moment.

If I wandered back out of my room, complaining of insomnia, Mom would tell me that the cure was to turn and sleep on my side.  I don’t know if it was the power of suggestion or what, but it worked like a champ.

When I was sick or in a lot of pain, I would usually tense up so much that my teeth chattered.  In those times, she’d sit on the edge of my bed, stroke my hair, and soothingly tell me to “Relax…. just relax.  We both know you’re going to be juuuuust fine.”  She said it so matter-of-factly that I couldn’t help but believe her, which of course was relaxing, which of course led to slumber.  Looking back now, as a mother, I’ve decided that she was reassuring both of us. 

I still use all those techniques to this day, but the best one has to do with road trips, and since today, Memorial Day, is the official unofficial start to the summer driving season, I’ll share it with you. 

I remember a journey to Hot Springs, Arkansas, when my brother and I had played all the tic-tac-toe and roadkill bingo we could handle.  Inevitably, the Question came up (“Are we there yet?”), complete with the annoying Whine, and I remember Mom turning from the front passenger seat and telling us, “If you fall asleep, we’ll get there quicker.  Try it.  You’ll see.”  I did, and we did.  Apparently hopping along the space-time continuum requires only closed eyes and regulated breathing.

You do realize, of course, that Memorial Day is about much more than just being a summer bookend with Labor Day.  If you don’t, there’s some history here.  And if you really want some thought-provoking material, look here. 

Hopefully you’ve done your patriotic duty this weekend, which is two-fold: 1) stop and reflect on the ultimate price that many brave men and women have paid for our freedom, and 2) let your hair down and really, really enjoy that freedom.  Happy Memorial Day!

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We didn’t travel much when I was a kid, but when we did, Mom would make sausage kolaches for the trip.  And although I knew that she sometimes used Pillsbury Hot Roll Mix to save time (“most people can’t tell the difference”, she’d say), I didn’t realize until very recently that Grandma did the same thing!  Maybe they used the time saved to get more sleep.

I was recently talking to Dad and Matt about the virtues of sausage kolaches, and they both had stories of tucking a couple of cold kolaches into their pockets before setting out for the day (hunting for Matt, working in the fields for Dad) and having a warm kolache by the time their stomach growled.

Poach a link of your favorite sausage (I use a venison-pork blend) in simmering water for about five minutes, then flip and poach five minutes longer, until the casing is puffy and the sausage is heated through.  Cut into one-inch pieces, then halve each piece vertically.  Place on paper towels briefly, to absorb any poaching water and excess juices (which will make the kolaches too soggy). 

Prepare the hot roll mix per the package directions, but when you’re shaping the rolls, shape each one around a piece of sausage, encasing it completely.  Bake as directed.