Jennifer has come and gone. The discussion and reading went very well, with a well-informed and inquisitive audience each evening. Jennifer taught Jack and Will how to play "Speed" and Jack taught her a new card trick. We all ate cherries fresh from the farm and spit the seeds out. Now Jennifer is on her train. And I'm tired.
Next adventure? Vermont. Tomorrow. To celebrate John's and my tenth wedding anniversary. . . .Talk to you in July, dear readers.
Jun 21, 2007
Jun 11, 2007
Brain, Child Editor Jennifer is Coming Next Week!
I couldn't think of a more ingenious title than that, so I thought I'd throw in a exclamation mark just for the fun of it. Exclamation marks have no calories or fat! And they're free!
No, really, if you are in the Philadelphia area, please do attend the following events:
"An Evening with Jennifer Niesslein." Jennifer is a founding co-editor of Brain, Child, and writer of the newly published book Practically Perfect in Every Way: My Misadventures Through the World of Self-Help--and Back. We'll chat about her book, the magazine, her next project, motherhood, who knows.
It's at 7:30 on Wed., June 20, at Makin' Music, 5561 Pennell Rd., Media, PA. This event is sponsored by the Delaware County chapter of Mothers & More. Copies of the books are available at both events.
Also Jennifer will do a reading at Borders in Springfield at 7:00 PM, Thurs., June 21. The address is 1001 Baltimore Pike, Springfield, PA.
Brain, Child is a refreshing read, sharp and incisive and always relevant. And I'm about 2/3 of the way through the book. She maintains a delicate balance between hope and skepticism that I find engaging. You just want to sit down and have a cup of tea with her . . . no, make that an $8.00 cocktail.
No, really, if you are in the Philadelphia area, please do attend the following events:
"An Evening with Jennifer Niesslein." Jennifer is a founding co-editor of Brain, Child, and writer of the newly published book Practically Perfect in Every Way: My Misadventures Through the World of Self-Help--and Back. We'll chat about her book, the magazine, her next project, motherhood, who knows.
It's at 7:30 on Wed., June 20, at Makin' Music, 5561 Pennell Rd., Media, PA. This event is sponsored by the Delaware County chapter of Mothers & More. Copies of the books are available at both events.
Also Jennifer will do a reading at Borders in Springfield at 7:00 PM, Thurs., June 21. The address is 1001 Baltimore Pike, Springfield, PA.
Brain, Child is a refreshing read, sharp and incisive and always relevant. And I'm about 2/3 of the way through the book. She maintains a delicate balance between hope and skepticism that I find engaging. You just want to sit down and have a cup of tea with her . . . no, make that an $8.00 cocktail.
May 23, 2007
Lofty Thoughts
The boys are sitting quietly in the kitchen, reading and drawing.
Will: You know what my destiny is? Dunkin' Donuts.
Jack: Oh. . . . Well, my destiny is to save people from cancer.
Will: You know what my destiny is? Dunkin' Donuts.
Jack: Oh. . . . Well, my destiny is to save people from cancer.
Every Girl Remembers Her First Meme
As you've noticed, I haven't been blogging much. Ever since I got the MFA acceptance letter, I've been hoarding my thoughts for some future time when I will be forced to turn in reams of manuscript about . . . something.
Anyway, in trying to catch up with blog reading, I see I've been tagged for two memes, which is a shocking coincidence, since I thought everyone had forgotten about me. So shucks, SugarMama and Anjali, I can't refuse.
First, Anjali's is easy, just five things about me. You know, things.
1. I have been legally blind in my right eye since birth. For me, the biggest E on the vision chart is blurry. But I know it's always an E. You'd think they'd change the letter occasionally.
2. I am an Army brat, and attended ten different schools, not counting college. Public, private religious, private secular, schools for army kids, been there. I've received grade averages ranging from straight A (6th) to C/D (4th and 5th).
3. I was mugged in 1985. Even after the guy whopped me one on the side of my hard head, we played tug of war with my purse because I refused to give it to him. Then my neighbors came out with baseball bats and he ran away.
4. In eighth grade I had a very short male piano teacher who had body odor and wore pink shirts and lederhosen. We lived in Germany, but still.
5. In tenth grade, I was new, as usual, and two girls in my class asked me "Who are you writing your paper on?" and I said, "Sylvia Plath. She killed herself." So they said, "Ewww!" One of the shortest literary discussions, ever.
Anyway, in trying to catch up with blog reading, I see I've been tagged for two memes, which is a shocking coincidence, since I thought everyone had forgotten about me. So shucks, SugarMama and Anjali, I can't refuse.
First, Anjali's is easy, just five things about me. You know, things.
1. I have been legally blind in my right eye since birth. For me, the biggest E on the vision chart is blurry. But I know it's always an E. You'd think they'd change the letter occasionally.
2. I am an Army brat, and attended ten different schools, not counting college. Public, private religious, private secular, schools for army kids, been there. I've received grade averages ranging from straight A (6th) to C/D (4th and 5th).
3. I was mugged in 1985. Even after the guy whopped me one on the side of my hard head, we played tug of war with my purse because I refused to give it to him. Then my neighbors came out with baseball bats and he ran away.
4. In eighth grade I had a very short male piano teacher who had body odor and wore pink shirts and lederhosen. We lived in Germany, but still.
5. In tenth grade, I was new, as usual, and two girls in my class asked me "Who are you writing your paper on?" and I said, "Sylvia Plath. She killed herself." So they said, "Ewww!" One of the shortest literary discussions, ever.
May 7, 2007
Thoughts While Mulching
Jack helped me mulch for a while Saturday and Sunday, and we had lots of opportunity for conversation.
L: Jack, some day you'll be stronger than me.
J: And taller!
L: And I'll say "Jack, could you lift this for me?" "Jack could you please open this for me?"
J: And I'll say yes, because I could never say no to that!
I'm going to hold him to that one.
A few minutes later:
J: Mommy, you know what Luke said?
L: What?
J: He said that Joe said that he learned on the Discovery Channel that the ocean isn't made of water, it's made of horseshoe crab blood.
L: Really. Does Joe believe that?
J: Yes.
L: Do you and Luke believe that?
J: No.
L: Do you know what I think happened? I think he misheard, or heard part of an explanation and didn't hear the rest, or something.
J: I think their blood is blue, so maybe that's how he got confused.
I now wish I had said, "Tell Joe that the horseshoe crab's blood contains a unique clotting agent that the pharmaceutical industry uses to test intravenous drugs for bacteria. No IV drug reaches your hospital pharmacy without its horseshoe crab test. So if you or someone you love has ever been hospitalized, you owe a lot to the horseshoe crab." Since the internet hasn't been installed in my brain quite yet, I didn't say that. But I had no idea horseshoe crab blood was so valuable. Thank you, University of Delaware Sea Grant College Program.
L: Jack, some day you'll be stronger than me.
J: And taller!
L: And I'll say "Jack, could you lift this for me?" "Jack could you please open this for me?"
J: And I'll say yes, because I could never say no to that!
I'm going to hold him to that one.
A few minutes later:
J: Mommy, you know what Luke said?
L: What?
J: He said that Joe said that he learned on the Discovery Channel that the ocean isn't made of water, it's made of horseshoe crab blood.
L: Really. Does Joe believe that?
J: Yes.
L: Do you and Luke believe that?
J: No.
L: Do you know what I think happened? I think he misheard, or heard part of an explanation and didn't hear the rest, or something.
J: I think their blood is blue, so maybe that's how he got confused.
I now wish I had said, "Tell Joe that the horseshoe crab's blood contains a unique clotting agent that the pharmaceutical industry uses to test intravenous drugs for bacteria. No IV drug reaches your hospital pharmacy without its horseshoe crab test. So if you or someone you love has ever been hospitalized, you owe a lot to the horseshoe crab." Since the internet hasn't been installed in my brain quite yet, I didn't say that. But I had no idea horseshoe crab blood was so valuable. Thank you, University of Delaware Sea Grant College Program.
May 4, 2007
A Big Pizza Pie
Tonight we celebrated John's return from a business trip to San Francisco. Well, actually to San Leandro, but they did go in to San Francisco once. Or Berkeley anyway, good enough. As I was saying, tonight the boys picked a special drink from Mollie Katzen's Pretend Soup. It was delicious! And Mommy and Daddy each spiked their own with a jigger of rum, even better. Here is the recipe. I changed the name from the earnest "Homemade Lemon-Lime Soda Pop Recipe," multiplied Mollie Katzen's amounts by four, and included the rum option for grownups:
Fizzy Citrus Cooler
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
1/4 cup fresh lime juice
1 1/2 cups apple juice concentrate (thawed), a whole can
ice cubes
1 quart seltzer or soda water
Mix in a pitcher. Adults may each add a jigger of rum to their glass if it isn't against their religion. Cheers!
We also had pizza, which we have every Friday. I have used the following pizza dough recipe since the early nineties. This makes a big hearty pizza that covers a whole big pizza stone. Or split it in half to make two small pizzas.
Lauren's TGIF Pizza Dough
Scant two tablespoons yeast
1 1/4 cups water
3 cups flour
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 teaspoons salt
Special equipment: Mixer with dough hook, pizza stone. Or knead with your hands and cook it on a cookie sheet. Whatever.
Warm 1 1/4 cups water in a microwave for 30 seconds, until lukewarm. Sprinkle yeast over top, mix gently until it all gets wet, and let proof for 4 or 5 minutes until foamy.
While you're waiting, put the flour, olive oil, and salt in the mixer. When the yeast and water are ready, add them after you've mixed them a little. Turn the mixer on the lowest speed. In a couple of minutes, add more flour slowly if the dough isn't pulling away from the sides of the bowl. You may need to add up to 1/4 cup; do not fear. When it's looking truly doughlike, take it out and knead it a little yourself until it feels elastic, resilient and smooth. (If your mixer starts to smoke or you smell something burning, stop the thing, for gosh sakes.) When you press your finger it, the dough should puff back up a little.
Put a little bit of olive oil in a large bowl and roll the dough around in it. Cover the dough with a wet dishtowel and let sit for two or three hours.
After two or three hours, punch down the dough and roll it out on a pizza stone or whatever you have. I brush it with a thin layer of olive oil, minced garlic, and sometimes pepper if I'm feeling feisty. Then put a bunch of stuff on it, but don't overload it with a lot of wet veggies and sauce because it will be soggy. Going the simple, tasteful route usually pays off. If I do this as one pizza, I bake it at 475 for 16 mins. on the center rack. Watch it carefully through your oven window the first time. Prepare to have to turn off your smoke alarm if you use pepperoni, or if your oven happens to be crusty and filthy.
Remember, pizza dough is very forgiving, don't fret too much about it. Everyone likes pizza, and they'll especially like yours.
Fizzy Citrus Cooler
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
1/4 cup fresh lime juice
1 1/2 cups apple juice concentrate (thawed), a whole can
ice cubes
1 quart seltzer or soda water
Mix in a pitcher. Adults may each add a jigger of rum to their glass if it isn't against their religion. Cheers!
We also had pizza, which we have every Friday. I have used the following pizza dough recipe since the early nineties. This makes a big hearty pizza that covers a whole big pizza stone. Or split it in half to make two small pizzas.
Lauren's TGIF Pizza Dough
Scant two tablespoons yeast
1 1/4 cups water
3 cups flour
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 teaspoons salt
Special equipment: Mixer with dough hook, pizza stone. Or knead with your hands and cook it on a cookie sheet. Whatever.
Warm 1 1/4 cups water in a microwave for 30 seconds, until lukewarm. Sprinkle yeast over top, mix gently until it all gets wet, and let proof for 4 or 5 minutes until foamy.
While you're waiting, put the flour, olive oil, and salt in the mixer. When the yeast and water are ready, add them after you've mixed them a little. Turn the mixer on the lowest speed. In a couple of minutes, add more flour slowly if the dough isn't pulling away from the sides of the bowl. You may need to add up to 1/4 cup; do not fear. When it's looking truly doughlike, take it out and knead it a little yourself until it feels elastic, resilient and smooth. (If your mixer starts to smoke or you smell something burning, stop the thing, for gosh sakes.) When you press your finger it, the dough should puff back up a little.
Put a little bit of olive oil in a large bowl and roll the dough around in it. Cover the dough with a wet dishtowel and let sit for two or three hours.
After two or three hours, punch down the dough and roll it out on a pizza stone or whatever you have. I brush it with a thin layer of olive oil, minced garlic, and sometimes pepper if I'm feeling feisty. Then put a bunch of stuff on it, but don't overload it with a lot of wet veggies and sauce because it will be soggy. Going the simple, tasteful route usually pays off. If I do this as one pizza, I bake it at 475 for 16 mins. on the center rack. Watch it carefully through your oven window the first time. Prepare to have to turn off your smoke alarm if you use pepperoni, or if your oven happens to be crusty and filthy.
Remember, pizza dough is very forgiving, don't fret too much about it. Everyone likes pizza, and they'll especially like yours.
May 3, 2007
Questions for the Internet
1. My husband pays $12.00 for his haircuts. Does that mean he should run for president?
2. What happens if you call that "How's my driving" number on commercial trucks? And what if you say "Your driver is doing great. You hired a winner!"
3. How many dozens of books will Rachael Ray write? And (bonus question), is it really necessary to display all of them at once, each one with her face on it, at a fabulous independent bookstore like The Cookbook Stall at The Reading Terminal?
4. Why do cheap toasters work so much better than expensive toasters?
5. Is it ethical for me to be explaining New Yorker cartoons to my seven-year-old?
6. What kind of a world is it where you can buy "meatless meatballs" and not think twice?
That is all.
2. What happens if you call that "How's my driving" number on commercial trucks? And what if you say "Your driver is doing great. You hired a winner!"
3. How many dozens of books will Rachael Ray write? And (bonus question), is it really necessary to display all of them at once, each one with her face on it, at a fabulous independent bookstore like The Cookbook Stall at The Reading Terminal?
4. Why do cheap toasters work so much better than expensive toasters?
5. Is it ethical for me to be explaining New Yorker cartoons to my seven-year-old?
6. What kind of a world is it where you can buy "meatless meatballs" and not think twice?
That is all.
May 2, 2007
My World, Your World. It's a Deal.
This is the way it works. I spend a little time in their world, then they spend some time in my world.
OK, so you want to go to Jumpers to jump on huge moon bounces, where grownups can't talk because of the loud rushing sound and the incessant radio? And where the grownups' energy is slowly but consistently being sucked right out of them? Fine. But then we go to my world, a coffee shop where I can reboot with a brownie and a cup of black coffee. You can sip your frozen bubblegum-flavored what-exactly-is-that-anyway while I recuperate.
So you want to go to the Wilmington Blue Rocks game when Daddy is out of town? OK, no problem. You want to sit there through nine interminable innings, whine for three of them about how you want a hot dog, and then whine for three more about where is your friend's Dad who got the hotdogs and did he get kidnapped? OK. But then we go to Iron Hill, and have the whole upstairs to ourselves, so Mommy can have her 10-oz. Ironbound and a salad, and you can have your mac and cheese and ice cream. But it's mainly for Mommy. Because it's only fair.
OK, so you want to go to Jumpers to jump on huge moon bounces, where grownups can't talk because of the loud rushing sound and the incessant radio? And where the grownups' energy is slowly but consistently being sucked right out of them? Fine. But then we go to my world, a coffee shop where I can reboot with a brownie and a cup of black coffee. You can sip your frozen bubblegum-flavored what-exactly-is-that-anyway while I recuperate.
So you want to go to the Wilmington Blue Rocks game when Daddy is out of town? OK, no problem. You want to sit there through nine interminable innings, whine for three of them about how you want a hot dog, and then whine for three more about where is your friend's Dad who got the hotdogs and did he get kidnapped? OK. But then we go to Iron Hill, and have the whole upstairs to ourselves, so Mommy can have her 10-oz. Ironbound and a salad, and you can have your mac and cheese and ice cream. But it's mainly for Mommy. Because it's only fair.
Apr 16, 2007
Two Trolley Geeks Ride the Rails
When I hear about other families traveling to Puerto Rico, Disney World, or the Rockies, I think "We don't get out much." As a family we have travelled to Indiana and Maine, and we've lived in Virginia and visited all the Mid-Atlantic states. Oh, and we're going to Vermont in June.
But let it not be said that we aren't a venturesome bunch. In our first two weeks living here, John and I took the 109 bus to the 69th St. Terminal. We were the only white folks on it, and the quietest ones. It was like a party. Laughter and gossip encircled us. For a whole hour. Yes, that's how long it takes to get to 69th St. from our house on the 109. The only socially acceptable form of public transportation for us white middle-class people to take is the Regional Rail. There's also the Route 101 Trolley, which is more multicolored than the bus, but decidedly lower class than Regional Rail. And cheaper than the train. Many of its passengers are people who can't afford cars, people who are weary, dusty, and hardened by life. When we looked at houses our realtor said we wouldn't want to take the trolley because it "travels through rough neighborhoods."
She has no idea what a rough neighborhood really is. I guess she never rode her bike through the Richard Allen Homes in North Philadelphia on her way to class at Temple University. (Yes, I know that was dumb, and after a rock and then a full soda bottle were thrown at my head, I went back to the good old safe subway. My head is fine; they missed.) What I'm trying to say is I'm not a public transportation snob.
Anyway, Will and Jack, as I've mentioned, are train buffs. Trolley geeks. Bus schedule savants. Will had been begging to ride not just the 101 all the way to the 69th St. Terminal, but also the creme de la creme, the Route 100 Norristown High Speed Line. So I promised him we would do this on Saturday. And lo, that is what we did. We rode the 101 all the way from Media to the Terminal, then got on the 100 and rode it all the way to Norristown. Except for a dissipated old guy in the back, we were the only white folks, again.
More than twenty years ago I had a job in Bryn Mawr and lived in Center City, and rode on the 100 every day. Riding the rails with Will reminded me of those days. Everything looked almost exactly the same, which was oddly reassuring. Will pointed out all the Market St. El cars resting in the sheds. (The line is being renovated.) Fleets of idled buses waited for repairs. As we moved farther from the Terminal, swim clubs, golf courses, Main Line mansions, ancient tiny rowhouses, the Villanova University Stadium, all passed by us. We saw a large quarry near Norristown, shortly before crossing over the Schuylkill River on a high trestle. At the Norristown Transportation Center we even got to see the R6 train at its station, and then rode on a really long escalator.
Then, back to the very same trolley to ride back. The driver had moved to what was now the front of the car, which had been the back. I love the compactness and efficiency of trolleys. They can stop on a dime. Half the seats face forward, half the seats face back, no matter which direction you're travelling. Then at the Terminal we got back on the 101 for another ride. (Each leg of our ride took about 30 minutes.) Will began to flag a little, and started sitting on my lap. Still, he was observant all the way. We drove past Monsignor Bonner High School and its sister school Archbishop Prendergast, and the huge dirt swath promising a new building. We hurtled past Drexelbrook Apartments, where Will's "girlfriend" from school lives, and stopped at the all-important Drexel Hill Junction. That's where you can take the 102 to Sharon Hill.
Finally we stopped at the Springfield Mall before hurtling under the Blue Route and through the woods of Pine Ridge, and then into Media, passing only a few yards in back of the Acme. Then we were at our stop. We got off, my back a little stiff from all the sitting. "Maybe he's gotten that out of his system," I thought. But the next thing I heard, as Will clutched my hand and jumped up and down, was "When can we ride the 102?"
But let it not be said that we aren't a venturesome bunch. In our first two weeks living here, John and I took the 109 bus to the 69th St. Terminal. We were the only white folks on it, and the quietest ones. It was like a party. Laughter and gossip encircled us. For a whole hour. Yes, that's how long it takes to get to 69th St. from our house on the 109. The only socially acceptable form of public transportation for us white middle-class people to take is the Regional Rail. There's also the Route 101 Trolley, which is more multicolored than the bus, but decidedly lower class than Regional Rail. And cheaper than the train. Many of its passengers are people who can't afford cars, people who are weary, dusty, and hardened by life. When we looked at houses our realtor said we wouldn't want to take the trolley because it "travels through rough neighborhoods."
She has no idea what a rough neighborhood really is. I guess she never rode her bike through the Richard Allen Homes in North Philadelphia on her way to class at Temple University. (Yes, I know that was dumb, and after a rock and then a full soda bottle were thrown at my head, I went back to the good old safe subway. My head is fine; they missed.) What I'm trying to say is I'm not a public transportation snob.
Anyway, Will and Jack, as I've mentioned, are train buffs. Trolley geeks. Bus schedule savants. Will had been begging to ride not just the 101 all the way to the 69th St. Terminal, but also the creme de la creme, the Route 100 Norristown High Speed Line. So I promised him we would do this on Saturday. And lo, that is what we did. We rode the 101 all the way from Media to the Terminal, then got on the 100 and rode it all the way to Norristown. Except for a dissipated old guy in the back, we were the only white folks, again.
More than twenty years ago I had a job in Bryn Mawr and lived in Center City, and rode on the 100 every day. Riding the rails with Will reminded me of those days. Everything looked almost exactly the same, which was oddly reassuring. Will pointed out all the Market St. El cars resting in the sheds. (The line is being renovated.) Fleets of idled buses waited for repairs. As we moved farther from the Terminal, swim clubs, golf courses, Main Line mansions, ancient tiny rowhouses, the Villanova University Stadium, all passed by us. We saw a large quarry near Norristown, shortly before crossing over the Schuylkill River on a high trestle. At the Norristown Transportation Center we even got to see the R6 train at its station, and then rode on a really long escalator.
Then, back to the very same trolley to ride back. The driver had moved to what was now the front of the car, which had been the back. I love the compactness and efficiency of trolleys. They can stop on a dime. Half the seats face forward, half the seats face back, no matter which direction you're travelling. Then at the Terminal we got back on the 101 for another ride. (Each leg of our ride took about 30 minutes.) Will began to flag a little, and started sitting on my lap. Still, he was observant all the way. We drove past Monsignor Bonner High School and its sister school Archbishop Prendergast, and the huge dirt swath promising a new building. We hurtled past Drexelbrook Apartments, where Will's "girlfriend" from school lives, and stopped at the all-important Drexel Hill Junction. That's where you can take the 102 to Sharon Hill.
Finally we stopped at the Springfield Mall before hurtling under the Blue Route and through the woods of Pine Ridge, and then into Media, passing only a few yards in back of the Acme. Then we were at our stop. We got off, my back a little stiff from all the sitting. "Maybe he's gotten that out of his system," I thought. But the next thing I heard, as Will clutched my hand and jumped up and down, was "When can we ride the 102?"
Apr 9, 2007
Easter Postmortem (So to Speak)
I always mean for Easter week to be more spiritual than it ends up being. I only read a handful of my Lenten readings. Could never decide what to "give up for Lent," or to do for Lent. Easter egg hunts don't help. The boys and I went to one at my Dad's retirement community. Let's just say my Dad and I differ as to whether one should give hints about egg location to crying five-year-olds. One of us believes that children should learn self-reliance, and should receive no help. The other of us believes self-reliance is grand, to a point, but that perhaps at Easter time we can teach cooperation and even a little compassion, eh? At the end we had to sit through a drawing for prizes, in which 28 children won giant scary chocolate bunnies. But we didn't win anything. The whole endeavor was decidedly unfun, I thought, although Will and Jack said it was fun later. Children can wrest fun out of almost anything.
Passover is such a coherent tradition, so unsullied by commercialism, whereas Easter has been taken over by that sinister bunny, littering the place with chocolate eggs and pastel-colored tschochkes (Did I spell that right?). We don't do Easter baskets at our house. Someone asked me if the Easter bunny visited our house and I said something like "No, but we went to church." Quite the conversation-killer.
Of course we also had a lovely meal, and here it was, served up for the usual suspects: the four of us, my Dad, my brother, his girlfriend, and two of her three children. Oh, and sometimes I just pick one cookbook to get all my recipes from, you can tell.
Shrimp and cocktail sauce, provided by Dad
Watercress Apple Salad with Peanut Dressing (Gourmet Cookbook)
Cheddar Grits Casserole (Gourmet Cookbook)
Fruit salad (provided by my brother)
Bread (ditto)
Pecan Spice Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting (April Gourmet)
John cut each of the two cake layers in two to form four layers, because he did it once before and so now it's his job forever. I decorated the cake with edible orchids, and the visiting children were shocked that they were REAL FLOWERS, not made of frosting or candy. My brother ate a whole orchid. He eats anything. Jack had one petal. The rest of the flowers were only admired from outside our bodies.
So there you have it, a typical Easter at the Dream Kitchen, served up with hope and love, and a sprinkling of guilt and skepticism thrown in. And not a little Passover Envy.
Passover is such a coherent tradition, so unsullied by commercialism, whereas Easter has been taken over by that sinister bunny, littering the place with chocolate eggs and pastel-colored tschochkes (Did I spell that right?). We don't do Easter baskets at our house. Someone asked me if the Easter bunny visited our house and I said something like "No, but we went to church." Quite the conversation-killer.
Of course we also had a lovely meal, and here it was, served up for the usual suspects: the four of us, my Dad, my brother, his girlfriend, and two of her three children. Oh, and sometimes I just pick one cookbook to get all my recipes from, you can tell.
Shrimp and cocktail sauce, provided by Dad
Watercress Apple Salad with Peanut Dressing (Gourmet Cookbook)
Cheddar Grits Casserole (Gourmet Cookbook)
Fruit salad (provided by my brother)
Bread (ditto)
Pecan Spice Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting (April Gourmet)
John cut each of the two cake layers in two to form four layers, because he did it once before and so now it's his job forever. I decorated the cake with edible orchids, and the visiting children were shocked that they were REAL FLOWERS, not made of frosting or candy. My brother ate a whole orchid. He eats anything. Jack had one petal. The rest of the flowers were only admired from outside our bodies.
So there you have it, a typical Easter at the Dream Kitchen, served up with hope and love, and a sprinkling of guilt and skepticism thrown in. And not a little Passover Envy.
Mar 29, 2007
Mar 24, 2007
Sweet Translations
Today a bunch of us from my mom's group went out the new Indian restaurant in Media, Shere- e-Punjab. I guess someone must have read my November blog post complaining of the dearth of Indian restaurants in Delaware County, and decided to take action. I am so powerful. Anyway, really good food, and they vary the buffet dishes enough to keep you from getting bored. For the desserts today, they didn't have my beloved golub jamun, fried milk balls soaking in syrup (!). Instead they had "Indian cheesecake." I wish they had left it at that and not included the Indian name, barfi. Quite the unfortunate nomenclature.
I thought it tasted odd; it just seems that desserts don't translate as well across cultures as savory dishes. Except for golub jamun, which must have a special drug in them. Chinese red bean desserts are unpalatable, to me, as is anything with rosewater, common to middle Eastern sweets. But baklava and halvah work for me, come to think of it, only too well. Maybe my hypothesis should be limited to Asian and East Asian desserts (not golub jamun, of course). I bought some little pig-shaped cakes at an Asian supermarket recently that no one in my family could stomach. They had lotus paste in them, which I have actually liked in certainly very freshly made dim sum (lotus rolls or balls or something). And yet, so many traditional American desserts have survived for decades and sometimes centuries, with only some adjustments in the sugar and fat levels. Indian pudding, apple pie, brownies, etc. I guess that might really be part of the same phenomenon; that homey desserts speak to our ancestral memories, and that's why they don't cross the East-West divide so well.
Because I became a lifetime member of Weight Watchers this morning ( six weeks at my goal weight), I thought I'd celebrate by eating barfi and blogging about desserts. Really, what better way to celebrate? To top it all off, I baked a mango upside down cake tonight and ate two pieces. My stomach protesteth. Here's hoping there shall be no barfi tonight.
I thought it tasted odd; it just seems that desserts don't translate as well across cultures as savory dishes. Except for golub jamun, which must have a special drug in them. Chinese red bean desserts are unpalatable, to me, as is anything with rosewater, common to middle Eastern sweets. But baklava and halvah work for me, come to think of it, only too well. Maybe my hypothesis should be limited to Asian and East Asian desserts (not golub jamun, of course). I bought some little pig-shaped cakes at an Asian supermarket recently that no one in my family could stomach. They had lotus paste in them, which I have actually liked in certainly very freshly made dim sum (lotus rolls or balls or something). And yet, so many traditional American desserts have survived for decades and sometimes centuries, with only some adjustments in the sugar and fat levels. Indian pudding, apple pie, brownies, etc. I guess that might really be part of the same phenomenon; that homey desserts speak to our ancestral memories, and that's why they don't cross the East-West divide so well.
Because I became a lifetime member of Weight Watchers this morning ( six weeks at my goal weight), I thought I'd celebrate by eating barfi and blogging about desserts. Really, what better way to celebrate? To top it all off, I baked a mango upside down cake tonight and ate two pieces. My stomach protesteth. Here's hoping there shall be no barfi tonight.
Mar 21, 2007
I'm Enjoying My Lobotomy, Thanks for Asking
For Christmas my father gave me a $100 gift certificate to N**dstr*m's, a department store at the King of Prussia mall. "Dad!" I had said, "Thank you so much! But I never go to the mall!" "Guess you'll have to now."
Almost three months later I did go to the mall. I met my friend Bev there yesterday, "at the piano," which is where one meets one's friends at this particular store. At first I was intimidated by the fashionable shoes that were almost all over $200, so we moved to purses. Also very expensive, but I love to touch good leather. I did find a really nice little black and red holder for cards. You know, all those annoying cards for coffee clubs, car wash certificates, charge cards that you technically never planned to apply for but you did because you couldn't resist the discount offered at the time. In short, I bought one more thing to hold all the other dumb things I shouldn't have gotten in the first place. Still and all, it cheered me up for reasons I don't want to think about, and the sales clerk was all, like, "It's so handy! It matches your purse, too."
Next I picked out a funky scarf with different gorgeous fabrics, mostly silk, sewn together in large patches. It was on sale, so I was beginning to feel slightly virtuous again. Then I bought some beautiful drop earrings with pink stones that reflect light in a shimmery, quiet way. Then, I . . . wait. No more money! It's amazing, how quickly you can drop $100 in this store.
I hadn't been to this mall since I was pregnant with Will, so it was almost six years ago. At the time, with my big belly and Jack a toddler, it wasn't especially enjoyable, although I remember loving the "mothers' room" part of the ladies' restroom. I wanted to lie down and sleep on the velour couches. I think my friends and I stayed in that room for more than half an hour. The time before that, I had shopped for bridesmaid's dresses with my two best friends. That was exciting, but we were on a mission, and so "relaxing" is not the word for how that felt.
But yesterday? That was different. We moseyed. We chatted. It felt like we had all the time in the world. We ambled into a Cr*ne's Stationery store, which I never even knew existed. I like 100% rag paper stationery at least as much as I like soft leather. And the beautiful pens! I don't get out much. I bought some lovely robin's egg blue notecards. Someday maybe I'll actually send them. Then Bev and I had lunch at N*rdstr*m's Cafe. So elegant for ladies who lunch. We caught up on some gossip and flattered each other, as one does in these situations. Finally, we strolled one more time through the sunlit, immaculate mall, lined with high-end boutiques and peopled by slim well-groomed smiling humans. And I, I, a self-professed hater of malls, thought, "I love this."
Almost three months later I did go to the mall. I met my friend Bev there yesterday, "at the piano," which is where one meets one's friends at this particular store. At first I was intimidated by the fashionable shoes that were almost all over $200, so we moved to purses. Also very expensive, but I love to touch good leather. I did find a really nice little black and red holder for cards. You know, all those annoying cards for coffee clubs, car wash certificates, charge cards that you technically never planned to apply for but you did because you couldn't resist the discount offered at the time. In short, I bought one more thing to hold all the other dumb things I shouldn't have gotten in the first place. Still and all, it cheered me up for reasons I don't want to think about, and the sales clerk was all, like, "It's so handy! It matches your purse, too."
Next I picked out a funky scarf with different gorgeous fabrics, mostly silk, sewn together in large patches. It was on sale, so I was beginning to feel slightly virtuous again. Then I bought some beautiful drop earrings with pink stones that reflect light in a shimmery, quiet way. Then, I . . . wait. No more money! It's amazing, how quickly you can drop $100 in this store.
I hadn't been to this mall since I was pregnant with Will, so it was almost six years ago. At the time, with my big belly and Jack a toddler, it wasn't especially enjoyable, although I remember loving the "mothers' room" part of the ladies' restroom. I wanted to lie down and sleep on the velour couches. I think my friends and I stayed in that room for more than half an hour. The time before that, I had shopped for bridesmaid's dresses with my two best friends. That was exciting, but we were on a mission, and so "relaxing" is not the word for how that felt.
But yesterday? That was different. We moseyed. We chatted. It felt like we had all the time in the world. We ambled into a Cr*ne's Stationery store, which I never even knew existed. I like 100% rag paper stationery at least as much as I like soft leather. And the beautiful pens! I don't get out much. I bought some lovely robin's egg blue notecards. Someday maybe I'll actually send them. Then Bev and I had lunch at N*rdstr*m's Cafe. So elegant for ladies who lunch. We caught up on some gossip and flattered each other, as one does in these situations. Finally, we strolled one more time through the sunlit, immaculate mall, lined with high-end boutiques and peopled by slim well-groomed smiling humans. And I, I, a self-professed hater of malls, thought, "I love this."
Mar 18, 2007
Only Shamrocks, No Snakes
Yes, I did wear ugly green beer mug earrings. I think I'll donote them to Goodwill, since they do nothing for my skin tone.
It was a lovely party! Lilian and Anjali were both there with their families (Lilian's one son was at home with her parents). I had never met Lilian, and Lilian had never met Anjali. Also attending the party were a few other sad, misdirected people who don't even write any blogs.
Anyway, Lilian made an astonishing oblong pastry that contained heart of palm, a Brazilian staple. It was as delicious as it was beautiful, with a shamrock cutout on the side. Certainly better than the Irish stew I made. The meat was tough and it really needed salt. (The leftovers were much better today, after cooking longer throughout the party, with added salt and, I know this sounds weird, but I dunked my friend O.'s Irish soda bread in it.) Anyway, two families who attended are vegetarian, and after tasting the Rollo de Palmito I was thinking "WHY do we eat dead animal flesh, again?" Fortunately, I also provided a cheese bourek, a dish from Armenian Delight I had mentioned in an earlier post. You can't go wrong with layers of phyllo, cheese, and butter. Lilian also made a delectable chocolate flan with raspberry sauce. By the way, her family all wore a tasteful shade of green, so they have now been dubbed The Very Irishest Family from Brazil, Ever.
Before the guests arrived, Jack and Will were bugging me saying "We don't have anything to DO!" (Helping set up had been deemed "boring.") So I suggested that they plan a play to perform for the guests, about how St. Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland. They were totally up for that, but then they kept asking John and me for props, items not easily findable or nonexistent, or large, awkward, or breakable. So we had to stipulate that they only use props they could retrieve themselves.
After dinner they enlisted Mira, Anjali's older daughter, to be a snake. Only she didn't seem thrilled to be driven out, with many minutes of the play left over. So she kept standing there and the boys would loudly explain she had been driven OUT. Then Will was a leprechaun who pretended that green Legos were more snakes, and, well, he threw them or something and then the play seemed to be over. Mira came back for the bow and it was quite the success, with much more action and narrative direction than in previous plays, and also less arguing about what the players should say and do. I had to say "Is it over yet?" only once.
Then to prevent complete mayhem we let the kids watch The Three Stooges, which is all my boys watch these days. I'll write a post on that obsession soon. Captain Underpants is so 2006. Then my friend O. came with her husband and kids, to recuperate from attending two obligatory family birthday parties, believe it or not, which we found extremely flattering. Everyone left by shortly before 9:00. So in other words, a late evening for us.
Maybe we'll have another one of these shindigs, where I give everyone a little more notice, and wear better earrings. And no one will have to wear green.
It was a lovely party! Lilian and Anjali were both there with their families (Lilian's one son was at home with her parents). I had never met Lilian, and Lilian had never met Anjali. Also attending the party were a few other sad, misdirected people who don't even write any blogs.
Anyway, Lilian made an astonishing oblong pastry that contained heart of palm, a Brazilian staple. It was as delicious as it was beautiful, with a shamrock cutout on the side. Certainly better than the Irish stew I made. The meat was tough and it really needed salt. (The leftovers were much better today, after cooking longer throughout the party, with added salt and, I know this sounds weird, but I dunked my friend O.'s Irish soda bread in it.) Anyway, two families who attended are vegetarian, and after tasting the Rollo de Palmito I was thinking "WHY do we eat dead animal flesh, again?" Fortunately, I also provided a cheese bourek, a dish from Armenian Delight I had mentioned in an earlier post. You can't go wrong with layers of phyllo, cheese, and butter. Lilian also made a delectable chocolate flan with raspberry sauce. By the way, her family all wore a tasteful shade of green, so they have now been dubbed The Very Irishest Family from Brazil, Ever.
Before the guests arrived, Jack and Will were bugging me saying "We don't have anything to DO!" (Helping set up had been deemed "boring.") So I suggested that they plan a play to perform for the guests, about how St. Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland. They were totally up for that, but then they kept asking John and me for props, items not easily findable or nonexistent, or large, awkward, or breakable. So we had to stipulate that they only use props they could retrieve themselves.
After dinner they enlisted Mira, Anjali's older daughter, to be a snake. Only she didn't seem thrilled to be driven out, with many minutes of the play left over. So she kept standing there and the boys would loudly explain she had been driven OUT. Then Will was a leprechaun who pretended that green Legos were more snakes, and, well, he threw them or something and then the play seemed to be over. Mira came back for the bow and it was quite the success, with much more action and narrative direction than in previous plays, and also less arguing about what the players should say and do. I had to say "Is it over yet?" only once.
Then to prevent complete mayhem we let the kids watch The Three Stooges, which is all my boys watch these days. I'll write a post on that obsession soon. Captain Underpants is so 2006. Then my friend O. came with her husband and kids, to recuperate from attending two obligatory family birthday parties, believe it or not, which we found extremely flattering. Everyone left by shortly before 9:00. So in other words, a late evening for us.
Maybe we'll have another one of these shindigs, where I give everyone a little more notice, and wear better earrings. And no one will have to wear green.
Mar 16, 2007
Uranus and You
Uranus is a tricky word. Suffice it to say that, on Uranus' very own website we are cautioned, "Careful pronunciation may be necessary to avoid embarrassment; say "YOOR-anus, not "your anus" or "urine us." I ask you, how can we possibly avoid saying one or the other? I'm going to avoid all embarrassment and just call it "Saturn." Jack knows there's supposed to be something funny about the name, but he doesn't know what. He'll say "Pee comes out of Uranus," and giggle uncertainly.
Now that he's seven, he occasionally asks questions like "Where do babies come from?" Only it's never exactly that question; it's always something more oblique. And he always asks these questions when I'm trying to negotiate a tricky left turn, or I'm about to answer the phone, or when I'm trying to get him to look for his shoes because the bus is coming in ten seconds. Clearly, we needed some kind of asynchronous communication. So I got him a book called It's NOT the Stork:A Book about Girls, Boys, Babies, Bodies, Families, and Friends, by Robie H. Harris. The boys and I were at Borders and I stashed it with the other books I was buying, with the idea that John should approve it first. But Jack asked to see it, and proceeded to sit down on the floor and read the whole thing from cover to cover. (We weren't in a hurry, obviously.) When he was finished, he silently handed it back to me. No questions whatsoever. Yep, I could cross "Tell Jack about the birds and bees" off my to-do list.
A week and a half later, the boys and I were at a local pizza place while John had class. It was quiet in there when Jack handed me the lid to his strawberry milk, and loudly chirped, "Here. Hang onto this for when you want to play sex." "What?" I asked, stalling. He repeated the same thing and my face must have looked blank because he went on, "You know--when a man and woman love each other so much the man puts his penis in the woman's uterus!" (Ouch.) I said, "Oh, yeah. That. I'd love to chat with you about that, but not right now . . . Look, our pizza's here!" So we ate for a couple of minutes, when Will, who had been mulling over Jack's anatomically inaccurate revelation, announced in his querulous high voice, "I don't get it. How can you put your penis in someone's body? That's silly!" Snort. Guffaw.
And no, don't ask me what the lid had to do with anything. In fact, don't ask me any questions at all about this. Not right now. Can't you see I'm busy?
Now that he's seven, he occasionally asks questions like "Where do babies come from?" Only it's never exactly that question; it's always something more oblique. And he always asks these questions when I'm trying to negotiate a tricky left turn, or I'm about to answer the phone, or when I'm trying to get him to look for his shoes because the bus is coming in ten seconds. Clearly, we needed some kind of asynchronous communication. So I got him a book called It's NOT the Stork:A Book about Girls, Boys, Babies, Bodies, Families, and Friends, by Robie H. Harris. The boys and I were at Borders and I stashed it with the other books I was buying, with the idea that John should approve it first. But Jack asked to see it, and proceeded to sit down on the floor and read the whole thing from cover to cover. (We weren't in a hurry, obviously.) When he was finished, he silently handed it back to me. No questions whatsoever. Yep, I could cross "Tell Jack about the birds and bees" off my to-do list.
A week and a half later, the boys and I were at a local pizza place while John had class. It was quiet in there when Jack handed me the lid to his strawberry milk, and loudly chirped, "Here. Hang onto this for when you want to play sex." "What?" I asked, stalling. He repeated the same thing and my face must have looked blank because he went on, "You know--when a man and woman love each other so much the man puts his penis in the woman's uterus!" (Ouch.) I said, "Oh, yeah. That. I'd love to chat with you about that, but not right now . . . Look, our pizza's here!" So we ate for a couple of minutes, when Will, who had been mulling over Jack's anatomically inaccurate revelation, announced in his querulous high voice, "I don't get it. How can you put your penis in someone's body? That's silly!" Snort. Guffaw.
And no, don't ask me what the lid had to do with anything. In fact, don't ask me any questions at all about this. Not right now. Can't you see I'm busy?
Mar 13, 2007
Meet Jennifer
Eight years ago, John and I moved to an old house in a small provincial city in the Shenandoah Valley. A neighbor of mine told me that a young woman named Jennifer, just up the street, was starting a magazine with a friend, sort of a "New Yorker for mothers." Yeah, right, I thought to myself, knowing the low rate at which new magazines succeed. I soon got to know Jennifer, as she and I both wrote for a local monthly alternative newspaper. I would often see her catching a smoke on her back porch, and we would occasionally walk our babies in strollers together.
Fast forward to today, and Brain, Child has won Utne Reader's Best New Magazine award and has a great circulation AND a great reputation. Dads have been known to devour it cover to cover. It's an eclectic collection of original writing about all kinds of underreported aspects of motherhood. It can be funny, poignant, startling, achingly sad. You just never know.
Now Jennifer has written a book that will be published in May. Please go over to and say hi on her new blog and read about it. She will do a book signing near here on June 21, so mark that on your calendars! (Don't worry, I will remind you later.) She is also on my blogroll.
And, please, I don't want to be the only person commenting on her blog.
Fast forward to today, and Brain, Child has won Utne Reader's Best New Magazine award and has a great circulation AND a great reputation. Dads have been known to devour it cover to cover. It's an eclectic collection of original writing about all kinds of underreported aspects of motherhood. It can be funny, poignant, startling, achingly sad. You just never know.
Now Jennifer has written a book that will be published in May. Please go over to and say hi on her new blog and read about it. She will do a book signing near here on June 21, so mark that on your calendars! (Don't worry, I will remind you later.) She is also on my blogroll.
And, please, I don't want to be the only person commenting on her blog.
Mar 12, 2007
St. Patty's Day Potluck at the Dream Kitchen: A Reader Appreciation Event
Dear Readers,
May I interrogate you for a moment? Thank you kindly.
1. Do you read this blog regularly?
2. Have I ever met you in person?
3. Have you ever posted a comment on my blog?
If at least two of the answers are "yes," then you are eligible to be invited to the Dream Kitchen Reader Appreciation St. Patty's Day Potluck, or DKRASPDP for short. Oh, it helps if you will be in the Philadelphia area on March 17 in the early evening. A pot o' Irish stew, a few of John's "interesting" beers, whatever goodies you can coax out of the Dream Reader Kitchens, and some good crack will make a fine party. ("Crack" means "conversation" in Ireland, just so you know.)
Can't wait to wear my green plastic foaming-beer-mug earrings. All tacky St. Patty's Day getup welcome!
May I interrogate you for a moment? Thank you kindly.
1. Do you read this blog regularly?
2. Have I ever met you in person?
3. Have you ever posted a comment on my blog?
If at least two of the answers are "yes," then you are eligible to be invited to the Dream Kitchen Reader Appreciation St. Patty's Day Potluck, or DKRASPDP for short. Oh, it helps if you will be in the Philadelphia area on March 17 in the early evening. A pot o' Irish stew, a few of John's "interesting" beers, whatever goodies you can coax out of the Dream Reader Kitchens, and some good crack will make a fine party. ("Crack" means "conversation" in Ireland, just so you know.)
Can't wait to wear my green plastic foaming-beer-mug earrings. All tacky St. Patty's Day getup welcome!
Mar 8, 2007
Sleep Happens
Right now, as I type this, I'm sleepy. Reading to the boys, ostensibly to help them get to sleep, has great sedative power. There I am, misreading the words, mumbling and trailing off during Grandpa Joe's narration of how Willie Wonka had to fire everyone at the chocolate factory for spying. "READ!" begs Jack. Later he says, "Give me the book! I'll read." I know better than to do the latter because he'll be reading aloud, avidly, becoming more and more alert, as I tilt over on the chair, snoring and drooling. Instead, I beg Jack to have mercy on me and stop yelling "READ" louder and louder. Will is usually already asleep, especially tonight since I gave him Benadryl for his congestion.
This is what will happen. At around 4 AM I'll wake up worrying about some minor housekeeping issue that I don't give a rat's ass about during the day. Like "I must sharpen those hedge trimmers before spring!" Or it might be "I must unpack those boxes in the garage!" Once it was, really, "That basket of raspberries in the fridge! We forgot to eat them! And they're moldy!" The sad part is we didn't even have any raspberries. Then after these faux anxiety attacks I'm completely alert, my heart practically pounding. Sometimes I drink a huge glass of water, because that actually seems to have a calming effect after a few minutes. The water in my stomach gives me ballast and I sleep eventually.
During the day, my body waits to snag some sleep here and there. If you ever want to tell me something important in the afternoon that may take a while, pleas punctuate your conversation with staccato laughs or curse words. Or punch me in the arm every so often. And of course, I never ever close my eyes waiting for a traffic light.
Yawn. Good night and sleep well.
This is what will happen. At around 4 AM I'll wake up worrying about some minor housekeeping issue that I don't give a rat's ass about during the day. Like "I must sharpen those hedge trimmers before spring!" Or it might be "I must unpack those boxes in the garage!" Once it was, really, "That basket of raspberries in the fridge! We forgot to eat them! And they're moldy!" The sad part is we didn't even have any raspberries. Then after these faux anxiety attacks I'm completely alert, my heart practically pounding. Sometimes I drink a huge glass of water, because that actually seems to have a calming effect after a few minutes. The water in my stomach gives me ballast and I sleep eventually.
During the day, my body waits to snag some sleep here and there. If you ever want to tell me something important in the afternoon that may take a while, pleas punctuate your conversation with staccato laughs or curse words. Or punch me in the arm every so often. And of course, I never ever close my eyes waiting for a traffic light.
Yawn. Good night and sleep well.
Mar 7, 2007
Flotsam, and Some Jetsam for Good Measure
Argh. The longer I go without blogging the harder it is to start up again. As it is with so many things. For inspiration, I'll look out the window. It's snowing. It's also 17 degrees. Maybe school will let out early today? I'm supposed to teach my middle schoolers today at 12:50, so that means I'm squarely in the middle of an Ambiguous Snow Situation. Alright, not so much inspiration there. I'll look at my desk. Oh, here's a tidbit. It's a note the babysitter had written the the other night:
Dear Mr. Jack,
We regret to inform you that today at 7:00 PM you will be arrested. Sorry again.
Sincerely,
The Police
P.S. You will get a cookie when you are in jail.
Now I'll take a look in my blog drafts. Oh, here's a new list of search terms that get folks over here to Dream Kitchen (the usual terms are: steel cut oats, Fine Old Dixie Recipes, dream kitchens, and quadrameter)
every pool boys's dream
children's haircuts of the 1940s
dancing "wet dress"
barefoot amish children
A typical mid-1940s kitchen
pictures of girls wearing saddle shoes and white socks
"still wears a diaper"
princess diana lady diana pictures photos
essay my grandmother's kitchen
parsnip cake
armenian boureg
My husband has an intestinal bug. Will has a cold. At least Jack FINALLY has a loose tooth, which he wiggles constantly and is very proud of. I have one of those annoying dry patches on the corner of my mouth.
Note to Jack Frost: Feel free to visit the Southern Hemisphere a little early this year, dude.
Dear Mr. Jack,
We regret to inform you that today at 7:00 PM you will be arrested. Sorry again.
Sincerely,
The Police
P.S. You will get a cookie when you are in jail.
Now I'll take a look in my blog drafts. Oh, here's a new list of search terms that get folks over here to Dream Kitchen (the usual terms are: steel cut oats, Fine Old Dixie Recipes, dream kitchens, and quadrameter)
every pool boys's dream
children's haircuts of the 1940s
dancing "wet dress"
barefoot amish children
A typical mid-1940s kitchen
pictures of girls wearing saddle shoes and white socks
"still wears a diaper"
princess diana lady diana pictures photos
essay my grandmother's kitchen
parsnip cake
armenian boureg
My husband has an intestinal bug. Will has a cold. At least Jack FINALLY has a loose tooth, which he wiggles constantly and is very proud of. I have one of those annoying dry patches on the corner of my mouth.
Note to Jack Frost: Feel free to visit the Southern Hemisphere a little early this year, dude.
Feb 26, 2007
Ms. Hitachi B. Machine, 1995-2007
I got her in 1995, the summer I moved to Virginia to start a teaching job. A bread machine was perhaps a strange thing for a single woman to buy, and I'm not sure what I was thinking, but . . . whatever. She made good bread every so often. When I got married to John in 1997 I took her with me, but she did not get used for a whole year. Just as I was contemplating giving her away, I used her again and didn't really ever stop. We took her with us when we moved to our second house and used her every day, almost, after Jack was born and then Will. Having babies makes you hungry for carbs. And every time my Indiana In-laws came to help, of course they needed to eat bread.
Life was good for Ms. Hitachi B. Machine for many years. She had a position of honor in our household and didn't mind making the same oat bread forever, and the same pizza dough, and never any quickbreads. (You might as well make quickbreads the normal way.) Her glory years were the Swarthmore years, making sandwich bread for Will and Jack's lunches, and pizza dough for the Friday night pizza ritual.
But one day I was browsing at the upscale kitchen store, W-S, and a shiny new stainless steel bread machine caught my eye. She had a convection oven, many more settings, including "artisan," and this one called my name, almost audibly. "Lauren. I'm Q. Z. Nart. Take me home!" Looking back, my big mistake was talking about this machine in front of Ms. H. B and saying things like "Our bread machine doesn't have near that number of settings." Or, in a moment of desparation, "Don't you think our bread machine has gotten noisier?" John was the one to actually say out loud what I was thinking: "We've had this bread machine a very long time. If you find one that you'd really like, why not get a new one?" And I'd murmur, "Oh, no, I'd wait until this one dies."
One night shortly after that, at 2:10 AM, I heard the crash. I knew it was Ms. H. B. Machine right away, even in my grogginess. I took my time walking downstairs, getting slippers and turning the hall light on. Because I knew. That it would be too late.
There she was, lying on her side, door akimbo, a blob of dough flung two feet away from her, just under the range. I picked her up gently. Her door wouldn't close and a plastic corner had sheared off. I sighed. I brushed off the blob of dough and put it in a plastic container, to deal with the morning. I had heard dark rumors of such things, of bread machines moving around the counter during the kneading stage, and actually flinging themselves off the edge. However, this had never happened in 12 years. How strange that it should happen now. Or perhaps I had "accidentally" left her too close to the edge? My sadness is tinged with guilt. A little.
To prove how totally heartless I am, we already have a new Ms. Q.Z. Nart. She is shiny and beautiful, and makes delicious bread. All's fair in love, war, and kitchen gadgets.
Life was good for Ms. Hitachi B. Machine for many years. She had a position of honor in our household and didn't mind making the same oat bread forever, and the same pizza dough, and never any quickbreads. (You might as well make quickbreads the normal way.) Her glory years were the Swarthmore years, making sandwich bread for Will and Jack's lunches, and pizza dough for the Friday night pizza ritual.
But one day I was browsing at the upscale kitchen store, W-S, and a shiny new stainless steel bread machine caught my eye. She had a convection oven, many more settings, including "artisan," and this one called my name, almost audibly. "Lauren. I'm Q. Z. Nart. Take me home!" Looking back, my big mistake was talking about this machine in front of Ms. H. B and saying things like "Our bread machine doesn't have near that number of settings." Or, in a moment of desparation, "Don't you think our bread machine has gotten noisier?" John was the one to actually say out loud what I was thinking: "We've had this bread machine a very long time. If you find one that you'd really like, why not get a new one?" And I'd murmur, "Oh, no, I'd wait until this one dies."
One night shortly after that, at 2:10 AM, I heard the crash. I knew it was Ms. H. B. Machine right away, even in my grogginess. I took my time walking downstairs, getting slippers and turning the hall light on. Because I knew. That it would be too late.
There she was, lying on her side, door akimbo, a blob of dough flung two feet away from her, just under the range. I picked her up gently. Her door wouldn't close and a plastic corner had sheared off. I sighed. I brushed off the blob of dough and put it in a plastic container, to deal with the morning. I had heard dark rumors of such things, of bread machines moving around the counter during the kneading stage, and actually flinging themselves off the edge. However, this had never happened in 12 years. How strange that it should happen now. Or perhaps I had "accidentally" left her too close to the edge? My sadness is tinged with guilt. A little.
To prove how totally heartless I am, we already have a new Ms. Q.Z. Nart. She is shiny and beautiful, and makes delicious bread. All's fair in love, war, and kitchen gadgets.
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