The Parsnip Has Been Vanquished; Or What We Do for Love.

Back in "The Beet Goes On" I said that the next root vegetable to conquer would be the parsnip as big as my arm lurking in the basement. Its size and viciousness posed a threat to the cats, and one cat has already died so I thought, better cook this thing up.

My father has fond memories of my mother cooking parsnips in a most tasty way that he can't exactly remember. My father isn't one of your more observant people, and his memories of my mother and my memories of her can diverge significantly, shall we say. So we cling to any shared recollections. And I do heartily concur that my mother did cook up parsnips one Thanksgiving, and that they were quite good.

So, for my Dad's 76th birthday (Feb. 14, celebrated Feb. 15), I made Parsnip Cake. I found it to be insanely delicious, but wait, I did change a couple of things. Emeril says to slice the two 9-inch layers in half. I didn't do that because I didn't feel like it. Also, I did not use all the simple syrup he used. Remember the man is Southern and those folks subsist on sugar and put it in every possible dish. Sugar makes sense in a cake, especially a parsnip cake, but I used only about 2/3 of the syrup. I also used black walnuts, which added more bitterness than regular walnuts would have, but I toasted them first. What with a cup of black walnuts in the cake and another cup in the frosting, and the parsnips, and the cinnamon, this cake had so much depth and interest that it was completely satisfying. Plus I served it with coffee ice cream, which was perfect. (We must have Breyer's ice cream with cake at every birthday party in our household, even if it's overkill.)

The other large hunk of food that I vanquished with great success was a 4 1/2 lb. eye round cut of beef. I'm not vegetarian but not excited by indecent slabs of beef, but my father does love his sauerbraten, and who else is going to cook the guy sauerbraten. It was a bit labor-intensive but totally worth it because I confess it was a lovely way to do up a hunk of cow flesh. It calls for gingersnaps, and even though I had just made them for church fellowship hour, I forgot about the sauerbraten and ate them. Oops! Anyway, Dan made egg noodles. We feasted, except for Will, who kvetched about shapes, textures, and presentation. Nothing new there.

Another Reason to Love Anna Quindlen

I sweat bullets when I think about sitting it out at endless baseball and soccer games, ever since that fateful ultrasound when we learned our first was a boy. And now there are two! Anna Quinlen has opened a window to my soul.

I passed on the weekend roundelay of kiddie-league sports so our three could hang out with one another. I told people I hoped it would cement a bond among them, and it did. But I really wanted to be reading rather than standing on the sidelines pretending my kids were soccer prodigies. Maybe I had three children in the first place so I wouldn't ever have to play board games. In my religion, martyrs die.

"The Good Enough Mother," February 21 Newsweek

On Dreaming

I used to have better dreams. In late winter I would dream about flying (not in a plane) over verdant valleys, running and somersaulting through fields of daisies, etc. Well, maybe once or twice I dreamed that, but I think I'm due for another spring dream. I'm tired of dreaming that I'm looking for an apartment, trying to find the room where I'm supposed to give a presentation at a conference, trying to find one of my sons who I've left at a day care center whose location I can't remember, or trying to take a train home only I don't know where home is.

Did you know that you can sometimes create your own dreams by thinking about them right before bed? So I talked to John about the spring dream I want to have. Then I did indeed dream that I was outside. I think it was spring, at least some kind of plant life seems to have been growing. But I was running away from someone. I need more practice.

My Hairdresser, My Extortionist. First in a Series

Five weeks ago, as my hairdresser poured my customized mix of dark brown and auburn over my hair, she murmured, "Next time I'd like to do some highlights." Getting into the spirit I said, "I guess there's a certain point where dark hair doesn't look that great on women?" "It just needs a little brightening," she clarified ominously. This will probably be $60 over the $45 I pay every five weeks for the color alone, the cut itself being $40. "Okay!" I said in a cheery, dimwitted way.

A few days later, though, as I looked at my 46-year-old face in the mirror, the truth came to me in an epiphany. I am a slave to my hairdresser. "This will not stand," I declared to myself. "I do not exist to pay for my hairdresser's swimming pool maintenance." That remark about my needing highlights was the tipping point. Coloring my hair is no longer worth it. Am I part of a trend?

So. I'm doing it. I'm going gray. I haven't seen my hair color in five years, so this could be a revelation. So stay tuned, Internet.

Glamour Princess, R.I.P

Our beautiful kitty died of cancer yesterday. My husband, who is answering my blog with a blog of his own, has some great pictures and comments here.

I thought that when I quit my job to be a "stay-at-home" mother (HA!) that I would have time. But I stupidly filled up my time with too many commitments, including three committees (church, moms'group, Jack's Montessori). What was I thinking? Now all three committees are simultaneoulsy clamoring for my attention like one-year-old triplets awakening from their nap.

Must go placate them now.

Warning: This Post Contains Ambivalence Towards the Super Bowl

In about 25 minutes we're going to watch the Super Bowl. I guess. Until we get bored half an hour later. I broke down a few weeks ago and bought Jack a gray Eagles shirt, not the zillion-dollar jersey, which the woman in front of me was buying three of. Even Jack's Montessori, that bastion of high-mindedness, has Eagles Day every other week or so this year.If you read the Philadelphia Inquirer today you will note that absolutely nothing else is going on in the world, other than the Super Bowl.

Our house does not abound with Eagles pep, however. Jack and Will and I got an Eagles sweatshirt for John on his birthday, and he refuses to wear it out of the house. He says they don't have Eagles Day at Villanova University's Master's in Technology Program. Geeks. Maybe because he is from Steeler country and considers Philadelphia to be "New Jersey"? Grrrr.

Last year Jack started out at a fake Montessori (any preschool can hang out a Montessori sign, beware) whose cutesy holiday pageant ended with the little tykes singing the Eagles anthem. Just in case you needed any more proof that football is a religion. Transferred the kid out right away, phew.

But, still . . . go, Eagles.

Jack's First Recipe. I'm So Proud.

"Cakimischres" (Cake Mysteries)

1/2 cup baken sodue (baking soda)
1/9 cup makoronee (macaroni)
1/3 teaspoon bakenpoawtr (baking powder)
2/3 cup flawr (flour)
6/1 can tonufish (tunafish)
2/3 cup honee (honey)

"You cook it. And eat it. It's delicious. What if I said "'suspicious?'" --Jack

"Oh, oh, oh," said Sally.

Lately Will has been wanting us to read him a Dick and Jane book he got for Christmas. Actually, it's three Dick and Jane books that were reprinted recently. Obscurity was a better place for them, I thought.

My question is, how do you read "Oh, oh, oh" out loud? Who the hell ever says that, anyway? Does it register surprise, dismay, shock, amusement? Or what? And what about "Oh,oh?" In one place it can be read as "uh, oh" but not the others. And what is the difference between "oh, oh" and "oh, oh, oh"? So far I have been using that sardonic bland Dick and Jane voice (you know the one I mean) that does not seem appropriate for reading to young children. It's too arch and knowing. Help me, Internet.

P.S. How do you read the pages in Where The Wild Things Are where Max and the beasts engage in their wild rumpus, and there are no words? I sing "Rumpus, rumpus, rumpus" two times and jiggle the book from side to side in an annoying manner.

Mothers Who Blog, and the Major Newspapers Who Spell Their Names Wrong

We pretended we were snowed in today, because being snowed in on a Sunday is fun, as we learned last Sunday, when we were really snowed in. Today there was a pesky one inch of snow on the driveway, so . . . . Watercolors! Waffles! "Helping" Daddy shovel! Reading the New York Times and seeing this, which featured some of my favorite Mommy blogs.

OK, so two of the bloggers' names were misspelled . . . and all right, the writer criticizes blogging as a product of self-absorbed, anxiety-ridden parents. Bloggers get the last word, ha, ha, such as here and here. The writer, David Hochman, is oblivious to the high spirits, ascerbic wit, vulnerability and honesty of the particular bloggers he mentions. If the mainstream media loves to criticize mothers, and and if they feel threatened by blogging, then I guess it'll be a while before they cover blogging mothers with any depth.

On to more important things, like me and and my anxiety and self-absorption. The boys and I did some watercolor painting this morning. Will's paintings feature much black, puddles of water, and idiosyncratic brush strokes (applied with much pressure, creating multidirectional bristles). Jack's paintings actually include distinct fields of color. I bought extra brushes the other day so I could paint while they do. With the same paint. The palette is limited. And the yellow is adulterated with dark colors beyond any reasonable hope.

Our snow day good will is about to start to unravel; whenever the boys begin laughing a certain kind of laugh, and putting baskets over their heads, and throwing things, then someone is going to start crying or yelling very, very soon. Listen. Can you hear me?

Zoo Story

Yesterday we went to the zoo. We had special passes to go behind the scenes. First we looked at baby terrapin turtles who had hatched at the zoo after their mother's eggs were taken out posthumously by a wildlife expert of some sort. She had been run over by a car somewhere in New Jersey.

We also got to look at some zebras up close, but zebras get frightened by looking at "two-headed" people (John carrying Will) so John had to whiz past the zebras hoping they wouldn't see him/Will. The one "dominant female" zebra always has to nurture all the other zebras, making sure everything is safe for them, no predators around, and so forth. Why don't dominant males do that? Another thing, if the typical zebra herd has one male and six females, what are all the other males doing?

It was frightfully cold, and Will, who weights 38 lbs., insisted on being carried the whole time, so things were not always as enjoyable as one might have wished. But Will did greatly enjoy seeing the huge silverback gorilla pee in the cage and then step in it. The gorilla didn't actually didn't step in his pee, but he walked so nonchalantly close to it that Will thought he did. And what with Will being in the mood he was in, we were not about to correct him.

Last time we went to the zoo, the hippo pooped, and we were appropriately placed to have an excellent view. This time the hippo plunged into his pool, causing huge waves, I was going to say a tsunami, but I think not.

Jack didn't want to leave and pouted quite dramatically. His pace going back to the car was erratic, because he couldn't decide whether to run ahead and annoy us or lag behind and annoy us, so he did some of both. The combination was not in the end as annoying as either one would have been if practiced consistently, which annoyed him.

Sometimes I really don't feel like going to the zoo, but I'm always amazed every time I go. This time I noticed that anteaters just have necks and snouts, with no perceivable heads. Most animals are highly improbable, including us. We set up zoos! How weird is that? Nature is so amazing. Oh, we also got to see a small cart filled with zebra poop.

Questions to Ask the Internet

1. I got a Ph.D. in English in 1995, for which I had to wade through much contemporary literary theory. I have since been informed that theory is dead. Can I get a tuition refund?

2. How many banana bread recipes does the world need, anyway?

3. Has anyone actually called that 800 number on the back of trucks to answer the question "How's my driving?"

4. How did The Five People You Meet in Heaven ever get to be such a bestseller? It would save time and money to just buy a Hallmark card and read it five times.

5. Will "left-wing" and "right wing" Christians share the same afterlife? If so, who will make the best banana bread at the potlucks?

Oh, Internet, please respond not in a still, small voice, but in my "comments" section. That means you, dear reader. The Internet lives within all of us. Blessings and peace to you. You may go now. And please have some beet cake on your way out.

The Beet Goes On

I'm still here.

Here's something. Beet Cake. I suddenly have developed an obsession with making cakes that call for obscure, disagreeable, or old-fashioned fruits and vegetables. Yesterday I made Beet Cake, or, more exotically, Gateau aux Betteraves. I beg you, make this in a tube pan and not the shrimpy 9-inch cake pan it calls for, unless you love cleaning ovens. It was quite good, although it's one of those things that are Better the Second Day. The children didn't touch it, so my plan to give them vegetables unawares failed. The churchgoers will eat it at church fellowship hour. They eat anything there.

(I decorated the beet cake with crystallized ginger bits from Trader Joe's. They could be baked into the cake too.)

Next: Parsnip Cake. We have a gargantuan parsnip as big as my arm in the cellar that must be wrestled onto the kitchen counter and mutilated in the food processor soon, or it will eat the cats, who spend every night in the same room as the parsnip. That must be why the cats have been thin and nervous lately.

Tchaikovsky's Head

Montessori is so great! The children learn about environmentalism. Monet. And Tchaikovsky. Which makes me feel a lot better about letting Jack check out an Early Reader book about the X-Men, which features superheroes with unnaturally muscular frames, and superheroines with Barbie-esque proportions. Oh yeah, and guns. Guns. I looked at the cover again, yep, it said "Early Reader," clear as day. It is "disappearing" from the house today. You can't let your guard down anywhere, even in the "Early Reader" section of your local library. Oh, and isn't it strange that unnaturally large boobs and guns are always in the same story?

But thank goodness for Montessori. In the car yesterday, Jack burst out with "Do you know what Peter Tchaikovsky did when he was a boy? In school one day, his teacher told him the top button on his shirt was unbuttoned, and he fell on the floor and screamed, "It's all my fault." In the next breath Jack asked, "Do you know who his favorite composer was?" "No, who?" (I really did not know.) "Mozart." "Wow. Really?" I looked it up and he was right!!! The Mozart part, anyway. Although Tchaikovsky was a bit foggy on his Beethoven.

The unbuttoned shirt incident is more elusive. I do notice in every photograph of Tchaikovsky that his shirt is fastidiously buttoned indeed. In a Tchaikovsky admirer's website it claimed, referring to T's wife, that "Antonina Ivanovana Milyukoff hurled herself at his head, declaring in a letter her love for him." Ouch. She was quite the multitasker. I assume she missed his head, unless she was airborne. Or maybe he was lying on the floor, having noticed his shirt was unbuttoned. Or maybe his hair was uncombed. That must be it.

High, Higher, Highest Education

"Are there any good museums in New York?" You would say that's a good question coming from a five-year-old. When you hear it was from an eighteen-year-old, then you would say, "Kids are so ignorant these days." Then when you hear it came from an art student, you . . . don't know what to say. (I work at an art college.) No, she wasn't being ironic. Trust me.

I know. I know. It's incredible. In the past, with fellow graduate students and then other faculty, I have made many a joke about student gaffes, errors, and bizarre (to us) gaps in knowledge. My first year as a teaching assistant at Temple I made a list of amusingly (to me, at the time) error-ridden sentences. No doubt I could have sold the list to Reader's Digest for an easy hundred bucks.

No more. Not that I don't still laugh--I photocopied a whole essay the other week for John to see--it's just that I could make one of those lists every month. Which would be very weird, verging on cruel. Now that I work in academic support and am not teaching in the classroom, the thing is this: I know the backstory.

This young woman of the art museum question, I'll call her Sarah, was on the upswing from a depressive episode at the time, voluble, chatty, and ready for anything, this after holing up at home for a few days, AWOL from classes and ashamed of her absence. Given the circumstances, I was heartened by her question, because it showed that she was looking forward to the next day's class trip to New York, ready to welcome the chaos and beauty of the world.

A few weeks ago, a student told me what she thought about the other women on her floor in the dorm: "They're all cretins." This from a girl with spikes sticking out of her nostrils? Ha ha ha. But I know more about this girl, whom I'll call Annie. Annie has two brothers, one dead and one disabled. She is not on speaking terms with her mother. And her father can't afford the $2700 to get her tested for the learning differences that she most surely has. If she could get her ADD documented, then our college is legally required to give her extensions on assignments.

So . . . Annie stays up all night working up to 14 hours on projects that "should" take only three hours. Well, I'd be bitchy too, wouldn't you?

Turkey Lurkey

We knew a farmer in Virginia who tried to raise free-range turkeys, but they just ran away. Da dum. No, it's true.

Our organic turkey, brined by John and Jack, turned out great! And it's still going, of course. . . . a lot more slowly now, though. The simple, dramatic turkey-as-turkey, on a platter, limbs intact, sprigs of rosemary and sage on the side, has given way to turkey chopped up, mixed with stuff (including the herbs), and baked.

Last night it devolved to the next lower level, which I call "re-presenting." Along the lines of "re-gifting" (giving people gifts that you received as gifts but don't want) and "re-designing" (moving your currently owned furnishings to new places in your house), "re-presenting" is a thrifty way to deal constructively with what you seem to be stuck with.

In this case, we had already had turkey casserole (brown rice, red peppers, edamame, carrots, lowfat faux white sauce, curry powder). But very small amounts of this tasty dish were consumed due to various people not liking various ingredients. Hmmm . . . what to do? Too much to throw out. Don't have a dog. Kato the cat would eat it and then vomit. Not good. So here's what I did.

Re-Presented Casserole McKinney

Half or more of a previous meal's casserole
4 to 6 slices of cheddar cheese
1/2 to 1 cup fresh breadcrumbs
Paprika

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Put casserole in a casserole dish that is a different shape than the one used on the previous night. Cover the casserole with slices of cheese. Sprinkle breadcrumbs over cheese. Sprinkle paprika over breadcrumbs. Bake approximately 20 minutes covered with foil and 10 minutes uncovered. Voila!

If anyone asks "What is it?" in that suspicious way they have, call it cheese casserole and stick to your story.

Virulent Contagious Disease Still Rampant on Playgrounds

Last night John and I learned that five-year-old boys still , after all these years, get cooties from girls who kiss them. Jack asked me how long cooties stay on someone, and I didn't really know, so I told him "less than a second." I can find no information about cooties from the Centers for Disease Control. What have those people been doing?

So, left to our own folk remedies, I suppose we must continue to contain the menace with those low-tech devices made out of notebook paper, folded in such a way that the forefingers and thumbs can be inserted and moved inside the device to "catch" the vermin without having to touch them. Generally, I believe children in the upper elementary grades are proficient in making these and passing the knowledge down, usually during math class.

Firehouse Rock

On Nov. 20, we all spent some time at the Swarthmore Firehouse. For a three-year-old boy and a five-year-old boy, a birthday party in the firehouse is nirvana. As the mother of one of the guests said, "It doesn't get any better than that, does it? " The table was in the bay where the ambulance truck normally sits, between the vintage firetrucks (1923 and 1928) and the new $800,000 ladder truck. No party decorations necessary.

Swarthmore has volunteer firefighters, and three of them were on hand. One put on his whole outfit in front of the kids, so they would know not to be afraid if they ever need to be rescued from a burning house. Lessons in survival skills at a birthday party. "It doesn't get any better than that."--me.

The chief took them on a tour of the firehouse. ("They have a television upstairs. Cool.") Then they rode in the truck, in two batches. Very bumpy, and they got to ride backwards. Will, Jack, and their friends Christopher and Alex spent most of the time arguing about what state the firetruck was driving to, New Jersey, Texas, or New Mexico.

Although I do love to bake birthday cakes and make primitive-looking smudged pictorial representations of fierce creatures and powerful vehicles on the top, this year's cake was from Terstappen's, with a beautiful firetruck picture, no visible crumbs, and a highly legible "Happy Birthday Will and Jack."

Anyway. (That word, serving as one sentence, reminds me of a great Roddy Doyle story in the Nov. 29 New Yorker, of the I-really-hope-this-doesn't-happen-to-our-marriage-but-oh-god-it-just-might sort.) There we all were, a small bunch of parents who (wonderful people!) decided to stay with their children instead of hurriedly dumping them off and then returning to collect them one minute shy of the official end time. And eight wired little boys and two very civilized little girls.

"I'm ready for pizza!!!" announced Christopher in a very loud voice. "We don't have pizza, but we have some yummy snacks!" I chirped gamely. "Is apple cider all there is to drink?" he bellowed. No wonder his father had left to "run some errands." Christopher proceeded to dislike the ice cream (Jack's choice, cherry chocolate chip) and his favor, a kazoo. "You can't win them all," as my mother in law said. I think he had a good time anyway, not that I care, the ungrateful little wretch. He did give Will and Jack really loud plastic toys that they love, and that Will sleeps with, so it's a wash.

"Did the boys buy this shared birthday party idea?" you ask. I don't know yet. I thought we had explained the concept in excruciating detail many times. But yesterday, when I was explaining to Will that his actual birthday is November 30, he said "That's when I have my police party!"

Liberal Mennonites Feed Raw Eggs to Children

It was Jay's turn to do children's time at church today, and he was in overachiever mode. He wasn't going to be one of those slackers who mumble a story from a book and hurriedly say "OK, you can go back to your seats now!" before the children can ask any questions.

No. He carried a large plastic tub and wore a white jacket that he appeared to have wrested from a petite woman. The children gathered around and he took bowls of baking powder, flour, chocolate chips, and sugar out of the tub. He started giving out cookie ingredients to the children so they could dump them in a big mixing bowl. Jack and Will got sticks of butter, and Lucas got flour, which he was fine with until Jay started to "help" him stir it. Destiny got to break eggs into the bowl all by herself.

Around this time, I began pretending really hard that this wasn't happening. Had no idea I was going to have to worry about greasy little hands and floury clothes at church. Jay's hands were now covered in flour, butter, and sugar up past his wrists because he realized that stirring cookie dough with a spoon takes too long, and children's time is supposed to take about five minutes. Pastor was waiting to preach. Had been waiting a while. "I washed my hands," Jay assured us unconvincingly.

The point of children's time seems to have been something about cooperating, I was gathering through my dissassociation haze, as Jay cheerfully assigned another person with dirty hands to pass out large lumps of raw cookie dough directly into the hands of the children. The small, trusting souls crammed the blobs into their mouths with delight.

"Thanks, Jay! That was fun!" I lied wildly. Praise should be heaped upon anyone making an effort to be creative with children's time, short of using matches and lighter fluid to demonstrate a burning bush. The cookies got baked during church and we all had some. They were delicious, and no one is sick yet. God is good.

Good Conductor, Bad Conductor

We train commuters are creatures of habit, taking the same train every morning, and some of us the same train every afternoon, even the same car. When conductors are reassigned, which is every few months, the chemistry changes.

Until about two weeks ago, we on the 4:06 train from Suburban Station enjoyed a conductor who watched us getting off the train without fail, cheerfully admonishing us "All three steps! No skipping steps!" He was always close enough to catch us if we fell. The new conductor stands back far enough to avoid having to help anyone who falls, and maintains a stony silence.

The old conductor teased people who didn't have their Trailpasses out on time, roared goodnaturedly at passengers standing in the middle of the aisle, remembered the "regulars" and knew who could take some ribbing on a Friday, knew how to make an official announcement with just the right undertone of irony and topnote of optimism. The new one doesn't talk except to utter a gloomy "All passes and tickets out at all times," which he told me when I had been busy talking to a friend. It was the first day I had ever forgotten; don't I get ANY CREDIT? It figures that he is also one of those people who frowns momentarily whenever he sniffs.

Small slips of paper left on the seats yesterday informed us that the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority (SEPTA) is running out of money, again, and the state says they're not going to make up for the shortfall. SEPTA is threatening to cut out all weekend routes and trim back on weekday schedules.

On second thought, give me a grumpy conductor any day.

Ronald Reagan was right.

Ketchup IS a vegetable. Ketchup IS a vegetable. Ketchup IS a vegetable. Or so I keep telling myself. My almost-three-year-old son Will had four helpings of the stuff last night. He "dipped" his chicken in it, but the chicken was merely a vehicle for the ketchup. Meanwhile, his Democrat vegetables, sauteed spinach with red peppers, garlic, and ginger, lay untouched on his plate, pure and untouched as his small pile of brown basmati rice.



Every night I give him small helpings of healthy vegetables, which go untouched so often that I feel like I'm offering them to the gods. Occasionally, this little god will touch a vegetable and say "sgust" in the most venomous tone of voice. (Only the most forceful sounds in the word "disgusting" will do--never mind the weak prefix and suffix.)

We are joining "Winter Harvest," a winter version of a CSA, in a couple weeks, which promises many more piles of untouched vegetables and "sgust" proclamations.