Our boys are now very interested in the Regional Rail timetables and stops. They have now memorized the stops on the R3, the Media-Elwyn line, and are learning the R2 stops. Every day or so the Train Schedule Fairy leaves a new schedule lying about the house somewhere. Yesterday it was the R5.
Oh, and I'm pulling together an application for a low-residency creative nonfiction MFA program . . . . That is partly why I haven't been hanging around the blog that much lately. Also I have two deadlines on Monday, a review of Nora Ephron's I Feel Bad About My Neck, for my friend Robin's online magazine, and an article for Will's Montessori's parents newsletter. I actually get paid for the latter. If my review of Ephron book is decent, then I'll post it here. dear friends.
Oh. Here's a scene from Macy's this morning: I was in the shoe department, looking for some flat black shoes. And for some flat black boots. Will was with me, and he picked up every glittery pair of high-heeled strap shoes for me to try on. And he would shout over to me, "Wear these! You won't look like my mom!"
Jan 20, 2007
Jan 9, 2007
Inchworm in the Winter Sun
On Saturday we had unusually warm weather. I let Will wear a T-shirt and shorts for our walk to the bank and grocery store. We had a lovely time, as the sun radiated good cheer. Will found a gumball from the sweetgum tree in our neighbor's yard, and put it in his pocket.
One of the tellers at the bank asked the lady in front of me if the little boy wanted a lollipop. She looked puzzled and said, "Oh, he isn't MINE!" We all laughed at the confusion and the teller asked me the same question, and I said, "No thanks." Will missed the exchange because he was too busy snapping those rope things that keep the the patrons in an orderly line. The last time I did my banking with Will there was a box of doughnut holes just sitting out for anyone to take. Will immediately availed himself of several before I even had a chance to notice. (His Grammy was supposed to be watching, but I think she snaffled down a couple, too.) You have to watch these branch banks and their attempts to foist sugar on you.
On the way to the grocery store, we stopped in a shop called "The Head Nut," which, because of the name, I had never even been tempted to enter. I had always thought of the store as "The Head Nut," when it's actually "The Head Nut." Because the store sells a lotta nuts, is why, not because it's a head shop, which I really didn't think it was, but in the back of my mind I guess I had felt obscurely confused. We didn't buy any nuts, but I did buy one ounce of ground coriander for 29 cents and a tube of tomato paste. A tube is what tomato paste should always be sold in, not a can. You never use the whole can, so you freeze the rest of it in a little bag, and in two years you throw it out because you don't know what is. O, but the life of most canned tomato paste is a long cold waste indeed.
We then proceeded to the grocery store, where we bought two cartons of milk We rested at a table outside the grocery store before walking back, this time lugging milk in a brown paper bag. This was actually enjoyable, walking a distance and carrying things. We need to do this more often. Shifting the weight now and then, I thought of my carless pre-internet days in the city, when what I bought was limited to what I could carry, a time when weather and the fit of my shoes were paramount to everyday life.
Will exclaimed, "A worm! Look!", but it was a twig. In the next block we did get to see our worm, its shiny gray body contracting and expanding in waves as it progressed purposefully across the sunny sidewalk. For a worm, it was rushing. I set the groceries down and we watched it. Finally it stopped and rested when it reached the end, no doubt relieved to be near grass and farther from the specter of frying in the sun.
Will found another gumball by the same tree on the way back, and he put it in his other pocket. And so, satisfied with the fruits of our walk and warmed by the sun, we arrived home. But this doesn't mean Will accepts this weather. No. He has had me read The Snowglobe Family to him a half dozen times. He wore his snowboots down to breakfast on Sunday. He! Wants! Snow!
One of the tellers at the bank asked the lady in front of me if the little boy wanted a lollipop. She looked puzzled and said, "Oh, he isn't MINE!" We all laughed at the confusion and the teller asked me the same question, and I said, "No thanks." Will missed the exchange because he was too busy snapping those rope things that keep the the patrons in an orderly line. The last time I did my banking with Will there was a box of doughnut holes just sitting out for anyone to take. Will immediately availed himself of several before I even had a chance to notice. (His Grammy was supposed to be watching, but I think she snaffled down a couple, too.) You have to watch these branch banks and their attempts to foist sugar on you.
On the way to the grocery store, we stopped in a shop called "The Head Nut," which, because of the name, I had never even been tempted to enter. I had always thought of the store as "The Head Nut," when it's actually "The Head Nut." Because the store sells a lotta nuts, is why, not because it's a head shop, which I really didn't think it was, but in the back of my mind I guess I had felt obscurely confused. We didn't buy any nuts, but I did buy one ounce of ground coriander for 29 cents and a tube of tomato paste. A tube is what tomato paste should always be sold in, not a can. You never use the whole can, so you freeze the rest of it in a little bag, and in two years you throw it out because you don't know what is. O, but the life of most canned tomato paste is a long cold waste indeed.
We then proceeded to the grocery store, where we bought two cartons of milk We rested at a table outside the grocery store before walking back, this time lugging milk in a brown paper bag. This was actually enjoyable, walking a distance and carrying things. We need to do this more often. Shifting the weight now and then, I thought of my carless pre-internet days in the city, when what I bought was limited to what I could carry, a time when weather and the fit of my shoes were paramount to everyday life.
Will exclaimed, "A worm! Look!", but it was a twig. In the next block we did get to see our worm, its shiny gray body contracting and expanding in waves as it progressed purposefully across the sunny sidewalk. For a worm, it was rushing. I set the groceries down and we watched it. Finally it stopped and rested when it reached the end, no doubt relieved to be near grass and farther from the specter of frying in the sun.
Will found another gumball by the same tree on the way back, and he put it in his other pocket. And so, satisfied with the fruits of our walk and warmed by the sun, we arrived home. But this doesn't mean Will accepts this weather. No. He has had me read The Snowglobe Family to him a half dozen times. He wore his snowboots down to breakfast on Sunday. He! Wants! Snow!
Jan 3, 2007
A Thingue about Meringue
You have to admire egg whites. I mean there they are, looking like snot run amok, until you beat them mercilessly and they attain their full glossy glory. If you add sugar, cocoa powder, and yes, a teaspoon of red wine vinegar, you've got Nigella Lawson's recipe for "Gooey Chocolate Stack" well under way, my friend. The egg whites will transform into three lovely meringues (or orangutans, as Will called them).
As for the six yolks that have been divorced from their whites, you beat those (with less dramatic results) with cream, sugar, and milk, and add melted bittersweet chocolate and vanilla and you've begun creating the chocolate creme de patissiere to dollop over the big flat meringues. Like Nigella says, chocolate heaven. I brought this to a New Year's brunch and it was devoured. Even though Jack and Will say they like Hershey's chocolate better than the Scharffenberger's I used, they had no objections to eating this rather adult confection. I found a copy of the recipe here, with no attribution. It's from How To Be A Domestic Goddess, p. 185. I couldn't find pistachios so I sprinkled slivers of honey roasted almonds over the top. If I ever find candied violets, I'd like to use those. I am in love with just the idea of candied violets.
Oh, if you make this? Please be advised that Nigella may be a relaxed cook but when she says to make the meringues eight inches across, she means eight inches. So don't make them nine. Because then the meringues will be too thin and the chocolate creme will absorb them. And also? Please do assemble this layered creation just a few minutes before eating, because, again, the absorption situation. The meringues must be crisply separate and distinct from the creme for maximal mouth feel. (Why am I talking like this?)
We don't eat meringues so much in the U.S. and I don't know why. They are often called pavlovas in Britain and Australia and have a fruit sauce. Nigella's word for the meringues in this recipe is "gungy," British slang for, well, pretty much exactly what the inside of a meringue is like. On this side of the pond we have no slingue to describe meringue. Our loss.
As for the six yolks that have been divorced from their whites, you beat those (with less dramatic results) with cream, sugar, and milk, and add melted bittersweet chocolate and vanilla and you've begun creating the chocolate creme de patissiere to dollop over the big flat meringues. Like Nigella says, chocolate heaven. I brought this to a New Year's brunch and it was devoured. Even though Jack and Will say they like Hershey's chocolate better than the Scharffenberger's I used, they had no objections to eating this rather adult confection. I found a copy of the recipe here, with no attribution. It's from How To Be A Domestic Goddess, p. 185. I couldn't find pistachios so I sprinkled slivers of honey roasted almonds over the top. If I ever find candied violets, I'd like to use those. I am in love with just the idea of candied violets.
Oh, if you make this? Please be advised that Nigella may be a relaxed cook but when she says to make the meringues eight inches across, she means eight inches. So don't make them nine. Because then the meringues will be too thin and the chocolate creme will absorb them. And also? Please do assemble this layered creation just a few minutes before eating, because, again, the absorption situation. The meringues must be crisply separate and distinct from the creme for maximal mouth feel. (Why am I talking like this?)
We don't eat meringues so much in the U.S. and I don't know why. They are often called pavlovas in Britain and Australia and have a fruit sauce. Nigella's word for the meringues in this recipe is "gungy," British slang for, well, pretty much exactly what the inside of a meringue is like. On this side of the pond we have no slingue to describe meringue. Our loss.
Dec 31, 2006
Between the Years
Between Christmas and New Year's is a magically suspended week. We celebrate with our children and remember our own childhoods. Yet while we revel in the present in light of the past, we also think about the future in a way only possible during this week. There is a spentness to this season; the Christmas tree is getting dryer, wrapping paper and ribbons can be found behind the sofa, and where is that gift certificate, anyway? Our waists are a tad wider. And we think, "Is this all?"
I met with two old friends near the MLA convention this past week. One of them, G., I have always envied. She has children and tenure at a decent school, a published book and another on the way. But. Her marriage is unraveling, destructively. viciously, and it is causing her to despair. And I am afraid for her. Please send your thoughts and prayers out to her . . . . My other friend who I met, H., is still single at 50, and has recently won a coveted short story prize, but is still waiting for her "break." She just learned that she has arthritis in her hips, and that her ex-fiance is married, with a child. Pray and think about her, too.
There is a point, somewhere in midlife, when you can run aground. Your mistakes catch up with you, the narrative of your life is stalled, you dread exposing your fears to anyone. At a certain point the seams in your soul start to show you that things aren't getting better and better, an endless spiral of success and happiness. Then, what do you? You've lost track of your oldest and best friends, or don't forgive them for something you no longer remember. You can't be as vulnerable to new friends as you would have been, because you don't want to appear needy.
Our culture doesn't give us a clear way to transcend our bodies or our fears, or any legitimate way to smash the success myth. We have to claw our way out of this one, full of grit and cussedness. We need to start praying, make art, teach someone to read, write a book, learn to give back, forgive those who have wronged us. We need to seek community, whether it's a church or synogogue or not. We cannot do this on our own.
In less than two years I will be 50. I know that raising children is extremely valuable, but I need something else that adds up to more than carpools, loaves of bread, and a blog. I know that I need to dedicate myself to writing, and I am working on some specific solutions that are too tentative to mention now. (Don't worry, this does not involve running away from home.) Dear readers, help me have the boldness to do this.
And may you face the challenges of the New Year with grit and cussedness.
I met with two old friends near the MLA convention this past week. One of them, G., I have always envied. She has children and tenure at a decent school, a published book and another on the way. But. Her marriage is unraveling, destructively. viciously, and it is causing her to despair. And I am afraid for her. Please send your thoughts and prayers out to her . . . . My other friend who I met, H., is still single at 50, and has recently won a coveted short story prize, but is still waiting for her "break." She just learned that she has arthritis in her hips, and that her ex-fiance is married, with a child. Pray and think about her, too.
There is a point, somewhere in midlife, when you can run aground. Your mistakes catch up with you, the narrative of your life is stalled, you dread exposing your fears to anyone. At a certain point the seams in your soul start to show you that things aren't getting better and better, an endless spiral of success and happiness. Then, what do you? You've lost track of your oldest and best friends, or don't forgive them for something you no longer remember. You can't be as vulnerable to new friends as you would have been, because you don't want to appear needy.
Our culture doesn't give us a clear way to transcend our bodies or our fears, or any legitimate way to smash the success myth. We have to claw our way out of this one, full of grit and cussedness. We need to start praying, make art, teach someone to read, write a book, learn to give back, forgive those who have wronged us. We need to seek community, whether it's a church or synogogue or not. We cannot do this on our own.
In less than two years I will be 50. I know that raising children is extremely valuable, but I need something else that adds up to more than carpools, loaves of bread, and a blog. I know that I need to dedicate myself to writing, and I am working on some specific solutions that are too tentative to mention now. (Don't worry, this does not involve running away from home.) Dear readers, help me have the boldness to do this.
And may you face the challenges of the New Year with grit and cussedness.
Dec 18, 2006
Bicycles, Blintzes and Beeswax
Have you ever entered a place where you thought, "This is it. The center of the universe"? One of the first times I ever had this feeling was when I walked into Via Bicycle Shop, in Philly, back when it was on Pine St. To say that they sold used bicycles is to do the place a disservice. They sold magic vintage bicycles, from every decade of the 20th century. The proprietor, Mike, sported a handlebar mustache, and in every conceivable Center City parade rode a turn-of-20th-century bike with huge metals wheels. Naturally, he wore knickers.
Whenever I was in that shop, buying my red Schwinn from the late 1960s, or getting it fixed, I felt like I was part of something great. I was living in the center of my life, and the people who worked there were where they were meant to be. I soaked in the atmosphere, that smell of old metal and bike grease, and admired the elegant forms of the bicycles hanging from the ceiling and parked in rows. Thick fenders, fancy lights, unwieldy baskets, bikes with sidecars or three or four wheels, tandems, styles of all eras in one place-- a monument to innovation, creativity, and sometimes folly.
You have to discover these places by accident. That's one of the criteria. And they are rarely located in suburbs. One day years ago I was waiting for the clothes to dry at the laundromat six blocks from my apartment. (I only did my laundry every three weeks.) Bored and hungry, I wandered next door into what looked like a sandwich shop. It was no sandwich shop. It was the Jewish deli to end all your searching. A Jewish deli bursting with personality and the aroma of pastrami baking. Penn students, faculty and locals would wait in line for up to one hour for a heaping, juicy sandwich from this place. The two brothers who ran it, who have both since died, told creaky old jokes that started with "Did you hear the one about . . ." and passed out free slices of meat and cheese to their willingly captive audience.
This serendipity happens less to me now, maybe because I don't live in the city, which means I'm not wandering around on foot, not vulnerable to miracles. So once in a while I take the train to the city to "do some shopping." My current center of the universe is Reading Terminal Market. I went there last week on the train, and really did do Christmas shopping. I got a funky piece of kitchenware that I can't describe here because of Christmas secrecy, beeswax candles from the Amish beeswax shop, five lbs. of turkey thighs for a batch of chili ($2.59 a lb.!), ancho chili powder, and coffee from Old City Coffee (Balzac Blend, my favorite). And I met my hubby for lunch at 12th St. Cantina.
Above and beyond all that good stuff, I experienced the buzz of the place, where white, black, young, old, wealthy and not, all come together to shop, meet, and to absorb the sights and sounds. It's a place to come in from the cold, or to have your shoes shined. You can buy a fresh goose or a bag of pig's knuckles. You can find African jewelry and almost any cookbook in print. Not to mention the truest of Italian cannoli or the freshest, most buttery hot pretzels ever. Or, of course, the cheap, abundant, fresh flowers/fish/produce of every description.
Most of all, when you're at the Reading Terminal Market, you know that you are present in your own life, all your senses alive. And here you celebrate the richness of the world with perfect strangers. It's a distilled version of the city itself, the essence of its life, hope, and energy.
May you find your center of the universe this season.
Whenever I was in that shop, buying my red Schwinn from the late 1960s, or getting it fixed, I felt like I was part of something great. I was living in the center of my life, and the people who worked there were where they were meant to be. I soaked in the atmosphere, that smell of old metal and bike grease, and admired the elegant forms of the bicycles hanging from the ceiling and parked in rows. Thick fenders, fancy lights, unwieldy baskets, bikes with sidecars or three or four wheels, tandems, styles of all eras in one place-- a monument to innovation, creativity, and sometimes folly.
You have to discover these places by accident. That's one of the criteria. And they are rarely located in suburbs. One day years ago I was waiting for the clothes to dry at the laundromat six blocks from my apartment. (I only did my laundry every three weeks.) Bored and hungry, I wandered next door into what looked like a sandwich shop. It was no sandwich shop. It was the Jewish deli to end all your searching. A Jewish deli bursting with personality and the aroma of pastrami baking. Penn students, faculty and locals would wait in line for up to one hour for a heaping, juicy sandwich from this place. The two brothers who ran it, who have both since died, told creaky old jokes that started with "Did you hear the one about . . ." and passed out free slices of meat and cheese to their willingly captive audience.
This serendipity happens less to me now, maybe because I don't live in the city, which means I'm not wandering around on foot, not vulnerable to miracles. So once in a while I take the train to the city to "do some shopping." My current center of the universe is Reading Terminal Market. I went there last week on the train, and really did do Christmas shopping. I got a funky piece of kitchenware that I can't describe here because of Christmas secrecy, beeswax candles from the Amish beeswax shop, five lbs. of turkey thighs for a batch of chili ($2.59 a lb.!), ancho chili powder, and coffee from Old City Coffee (Balzac Blend, my favorite). And I met my hubby for lunch at 12th St. Cantina.
Above and beyond all that good stuff, I experienced the buzz of the place, where white, black, young, old, wealthy and not, all come together to shop, meet, and to absorb the sights and sounds. It's a place to come in from the cold, or to have your shoes shined. You can buy a fresh goose or a bag of pig's knuckles. You can find African jewelry and almost any cookbook in print. Not to mention the truest of Italian cannoli or the freshest, most buttery hot pretzels ever. Or, of course, the cheap, abundant, fresh flowers/fish/produce of every description.
Most of all, when you're at the Reading Terminal Market, you know that you are present in your own life, all your senses alive. And here you celebrate the richness of the world with perfect strangers. It's a distilled version of the city itself, the essence of its life, hope, and energy.
May you find your center of the universe this season.
Dec 13, 2006
The Dream Kitchen Google Search Award Ceremony
All in yesterday's and today's Google searches:
The Split Personality/Comma Splice Award goes to: "My Greek husband was nice, now he is horrible."
The Same Wavelength as Lauren Award: "scholastic 'book fair' junk."
The Kinky Award: "I put nail polish on him."
And finally, the Who Would Have Thought to Ask Award: "President Millard Fillmore favorite dishes."
The Split Personality/Comma Splice Award goes to: "My Greek husband was nice, now he is horrible."
The Same Wavelength as Lauren Award: "scholastic 'book fair' junk."
The Kinky Award: "I put nail polish on him."
And finally, the Who Would Have Thought to Ask Award: "President Millard Fillmore favorite dishes."
Dec 12, 2006
The Newest New Math. Does Not Compute.
When I was a kid we had "New Math." Every September we learned about sets, from elementary up through high school, it seems. Jack's school has started a new curriculum, Everyday Mathematics. The whole school is doing it. The main idea seems to be that they keep spiraling back around to repeat concepts or teach them in a new way, the idea being that if the children don't get it the first time around they may the next time, etc. Jack's teacher, like all of the teachers, is learning the system just a few steps ahead of the kids.
Now Jack loves math. He begs to learn more. John has taught him to carry, but we learned at the teacher conference that in the Everyday Math curriculum the kids don't learn to carry. "They have a new algorithm for that," says the teacher. "I don't know what it is yet, but don't teach Jack to carry. He may get confused." Oops, too late.
Now we are trying to hammer out a Gifted IEP for Jack, and his teacher is too busy learning the new curriculum and making sure most kids get it to meet Jack's needs. At least she was honest, and I really can't blame her. So it looks like we'll be leaning on the Gifted Coordinator to pull him out and give him extra instruction? His teacher doesn't like the idea of Jack missing "the games" and not knowing how to play them in future years. (So what will they do with the new kids?) The Gifted Coordinator told me at our GIEP meeting yesterday that most gifted enrichment is "in the classroom." So--now what?
In my web trolling I found the Education Program for Gifted Youth out of Stanford that kids can do at their schools. His school has a computer lab and he's good at computers, so what's not to like? My plan is to suggest he do that two class periods a week during his regular math class, so he is challenged. I'll volunteer to help monitor. And there must be other gifted kids in 1st or 2nd grades (before the pullout begins) who could use something like this. But how to get in touch with the other parents? The Gifted Coordinator isn't allowed to give me those names, of course. As Pooh says, "Think, think, think."
In my casual conversations with parents, I'm surprised at how little people know about Gifted IEPs. They think have to wait until the end of 2nd grade for testing. Not so! It's your right to have your child tested in any grade, even kindergarten, at least in Pennsylvania. And the school is required to meet the educational needs of your child. The thing is that the school will try to fit the child into the existing curriculum and it's really up to the parent to come up with other ideas/force them to go out of their way for your child. Or take it to mediation. That's just the way it is. I'm memorizing the email and phone number of the Gifted Coordinator, practicing my pushiness, and hardening my soul.
Now Jack loves math. He begs to learn more. John has taught him to carry, but we learned at the teacher conference that in the Everyday Math curriculum the kids don't learn to carry. "They have a new algorithm for that," says the teacher. "I don't know what it is yet, but don't teach Jack to carry. He may get confused." Oops, too late.
Now we are trying to hammer out a Gifted IEP for Jack, and his teacher is too busy learning the new curriculum and making sure most kids get it to meet Jack's needs. At least she was honest, and I really can't blame her. So it looks like we'll be leaning on the Gifted Coordinator to pull him out and give him extra instruction? His teacher doesn't like the idea of Jack missing "the games" and not knowing how to play them in future years. (So what will they do with the new kids?) The Gifted Coordinator told me at our GIEP meeting yesterday that most gifted enrichment is "in the classroom." So--now what?
In my web trolling I found the Education Program for Gifted Youth out of Stanford that kids can do at their schools. His school has a computer lab and he's good at computers, so what's not to like? My plan is to suggest he do that two class periods a week during his regular math class, so he is challenged. I'll volunteer to help monitor. And there must be other gifted kids in 1st or 2nd grades (before the pullout begins) who could use something like this. But how to get in touch with the other parents? The Gifted Coordinator isn't allowed to give me those names, of course. As Pooh says, "Think, think, think."
In my casual conversations with parents, I'm surprised at how little people know about Gifted IEPs. They think have to wait until the end of 2nd grade for testing. Not so! It's your right to have your child tested in any grade, even kindergarten, at least in Pennsylvania. And the school is required to meet the educational needs of your child. The thing is that the school will try to fit the child into the existing curriculum and it's really up to the parent to come up with other ideas/force them to go out of their way for your child. Or take it to mediation. That's just the way it is. I'm memorizing the email and phone number of the Gifted Coordinator, practicing my pushiness, and hardening my soul.
Dec 9, 2006
Armenian Cholesterol Bombs Found in Delaware County
BROOMALL, PA: By the busy intersection of Rte.3 and Rte. 320, in the small suburb of Broomall, a store ironically called "Armenian Delight" (cash only, not enough parking) is quietly producing cheese boureg, tray by tray. Although cheese boureg may be found at various Armenian festivals throughout the country, Armenian Delight's cheese boureg is especially insidious because, says our tipster, "You can get them all year. They're always in the frozen food case, by the kafta and spanikopita. . ." she trailed off, rolling on her kitchen floor and groaning, holding her tummy with her greasy hands, flecks of phyllo around her mouth.
What makes this boureg so dangerous is that each layer of phyllo pastry is brushed with butter, and in the middle lies a generous layer of mozzarella and cheddar, with a little parsley for color. This glistening, melty bomb provided all too tempting for our tipster, who "really wants to lose 14 lbs," but "couldn't stop eating these things." Her five year-old ate several, which won't hurt him as he will burn it off just jumping up and down while brushing his teeth. The seven-year-old prefers Trader Joe's veggie corn dogs. (Go figure!)
It is believed this cholesterol invasion will only hurt residents of Delaware County, PA, mostly the quiet little community of Armenians in Broomall, who comprise most of the store's customer base. Our tipster drives out there for the salads (artichoke, bean, roasted vegetable) if she is having her book group over. She claims. Also, the hummus. The bhaba ghanoush. The "Armenian pizza" which is oddly without cheese. Not to mention the fresh halvah with pistachios, and, of course, all the nut-honey-phyllo bombs.
One solution to this problem would be to have more ethnic restaurants and take-out joints in Delaware County, to make it less likely for people to find the cheese boureg. Our reporters are tracking the rumor that there is a county-wide ban on Indian restaurants, but generous subsidies for hoagie shops.
What makes this boureg so dangerous is that each layer of phyllo pastry is brushed with butter, and in the middle lies a generous layer of mozzarella and cheddar, with a little parsley for color. This glistening, melty bomb provided all too tempting for our tipster, who "really wants to lose 14 lbs," but "couldn't stop eating these things." Her five year-old ate several, which won't hurt him as he will burn it off just jumping up and down while brushing his teeth. The seven-year-old prefers Trader Joe's veggie corn dogs. (Go figure!)
It is believed this cholesterol invasion will only hurt residents of Delaware County, PA, mostly the quiet little community of Armenians in Broomall, who comprise most of the store's customer base. Our tipster drives out there for the salads (artichoke, bean, roasted vegetable) if she is having her book group over. She claims. Also, the hummus. The bhaba ghanoush. The "Armenian pizza" which is oddly without cheese. Not to mention the fresh halvah with pistachios, and, of course, all the nut-honey-phyllo bombs.
One solution to this problem would be to have more ethnic restaurants and take-out joints in Delaware County, to make it less likely for people to find the cheese boureg. Our reporters are tracking the rumor that there is a county-wide ban on Indian restaurants, but generous subsidies for hoagie shops.
Dec 7, 2006
Only if You're Southern Baptist
Will is all about winter now. If it's cold and someone says, "Winter has finally started," in that conventional conversation-making way, he will retort with "No it hasn't! It starts December 22!" When his teacher complimented him on his haircut, he clarified "This is my winter haircut." Yesterday I was driving him to school and he asked, "Do we go to church in the winter?" I said yes, and he followed up with "Does church go on forever?"
Dec 6, 2006
In Which I Accidentally Buy Steel Cut Oats
I don't know about you, but I'm unwilling to wait 30 minutes for a bowl of oatmeal. Many years ago I decided that five minutes was just right, and "quick" oatmeal is cheating. We all walk that fine line between perfection and pragmatism, right? So now I'm stuck with this cannister of teensy tough oatmeal pellets. I put some in the bread, which is now cooling. So we'll see whether we chip our teeth on these tough little Irish nuggets. The recipe for cooked oatmeal on the box is for four servings, because it really isn't worth the cooking time for any fewer. However, in our house we do not have four people willing to eat oatmeal for breakfast, alas. And the box admonishes us, "Steel cut oats are best prepared on the stovetop." And they know what we're thinking, and so they add, "Microwaving steel cut oats is not recommended." You just have to cook a mess o' these suckers, for a long time, no way around it.
Let me slice a piece of this bread. Wait right there. -Brief musical interlude- OK, I've had a few bites of steaming, crusty bread. It's chewy, and a little nutty and crunchy--it's a thumbs-up. It's going to be a good day.
Let me slice a piece of this bread. Wait right there. -Brief musical interlude- OK, I've had a few bites of steaming, crusty bread. It's chewy, and a little nutty and crunchy--it's a thumbs-up. It's going to be a good day.
Dec 4, 2006
Notes from the Overly Analytical Parenting Department
We sometimes read too much into what our children say. We analyze their words, turn them over, scrutinize their intentions. At least I think I hope that's what I'm doing when I contemplate what Will said to me at the playground a couple of weeks ago. Will had been balking at one of those poles you slide down from the top of the play apparatus, and I said "That Mommy over there said her daughter also has trouble sliding down the pole." Whereupon Will said, "Don't listen to what brown people say." I closed in on him in panic, "What do you mean? Why did you say that?" "They're from another country," he explained, and added "Let's go on the swings!" I persisted with "That lady is American, and even if she wasn't, we listen to everyone. No matter where they are from or what color they are. Because we're all in this together. Okay?" "Okay. Let's go on that thing that makes us dizzy."
I doubt he has ever heard anyone say anything like that, and I finally came to the conclusion that his comment was more related to his own insecurity about sliding down the pole. But isn't insecurity is where much racism comes from?
Yesterday the boys and I were taking our coats off in a little coatroom at church. The choir started to file by in their red robes (including John), and Will asked, in a loud voice,to everyone within earshot, "Where's the black guy?" Argh. I pulled him over. "Please don't refer to people that way." "Why not?" he asked. I really couldn't think of a reason, as it's a simple descriptive phrase. He clarified, "You know, the guy who wears black." He meant the choir director.
I'm tired.
I doubt he has ever heard anyone say anything like that, and I finally came to the conclusion that his comment was more related to his own insecurity about sliding down the pole. But isn't insecurity is where much racism comes from?
Yesterday the boys and I were taking our coats off in a little coatroom at church. The choir started to file by in their red robes (including John), and Will asked, in a loud voice,to everyone within earshot, "Where's the black guy?" Argh. I pulled him over. "Please don't refer to people that way." "Why not?" he asked. I really couldn't think of a reason, as it's a simple descriptive phrase. He clarified, "You know, the guy who wears black." He meant the choir director.
I'm tired.
Dec 1, 2006
The Scrap
Since my last post, our boys have turned five and seven. We've feasted and partied. The boys have spread their Hotwheels and Zoobs and Legos and new puzzles about the living room. Which, as you can tell, we actually live in. No wasted space around here.
For months I have had a scrap of paper stuck to the magnet board above my desk. It's a corner off an old typed letter, a thin gray clue to the past. I had found it last year among my grandmother's photographs, and thought it compelling enough to keep near me. I will copy each line here, exactly as it reads.
n had a
still bandaged.
because it was haeling
she has grown terribly
's a teaful bon voyage.
ve to all,
Grandmother.
I left the two typos in. It was hard to make corrections on manual typewriters, and it seems that the writer was upset herself. I believe this letter was from my mother's grandmother, who died in 1956. I don't know who she can be writing about--a child? After her husband died, she lived with my grandmother's brother Fred and his wife in Seattle until her own death,so it's likely she would have written letters to my mother, in Pennsylvania. Now why did my Nana have this scrap, though? My mother lived with Nana and Papa for a few years in the 1950s before meeting my father, so maybe the letter just stayed with the house. Was it torn by accident? My instinct is that it wasn't, because it's a nicely rectangular shape for a tear. It looks like it was torn in half, the halves torn in half, the quarters torn in half, with this being one quarter of a quarter, or 1/16 of the original letter. But why? Were the words hurtful, accusing, or damaging in any way? Was the recipient(my mother?) ashamed by what she read?
I will never know, and now no one will know, because I'm the only person left with these dusty things and and half-memories and conjectures. I return the scrap to the bulletin board, which it shares with pictures of our friends' three adopted Asian daughters, a leaf print made by one of the boys, a sign that says "If I were the Mom I would wear blue-green nail polish.--Will," and a picture of Jack and Will at Dutch Wonderland riding a little yellow car.
For months I have had a scrap of paper stuck to the magnet board above my desk. It's a corner off an old typed letter, a thin gray clue to the past. I had found it last year among my grandmother's photographs, and thought it compelling enough to keep near me. I will copy each line here, exactly as it reads.
n had a
still bandaged.
because it was haeling
she has grown terribly
's a teaful bon voyage.
ve to all,
Grandmother.
I left the two typos in. It was hard to make corrections on manual typewriters, and it seems that the writer was upset herself. I believe this letter was from my mother's grandmother, who died in 1956. I don't know who she can be writing about--a child? After her husband died, she lived with my grandmother's brother Fred and his wife in Seattle until her own death,so it's likely she would have written letters to my mother, in Pennsylvania. Now why did my Nana have this scrap, though? My mother lived with Nana and Papa for a few years in the 1950s before meeting my father, so maybe the letter just stayed with the house. Was it torn by accident? My instinct is that it wasn't, because it's a nicely rectangular shape for a tear. It looks like it was torn in half, the halves torn in half, the quarters torn in half, with this being one quarter of a quarter, or 1/16 of the original letter. But why? Were the words hurtful, accusing, or damaging in any way? Was the recipient(my mother?) ashamed by what she read?
I will never know, and now no one will know, because I'm the only person left with these dusty things and and half-memories and conjectures. I return the scrap to the bulletin board, which it shares with pictures of our friends' three adopted Asian daughters, a leaf print made by one of the boys, a sign that says "If I were the Mom I would wear blue-green nail polish.--Will," and a picture of Jack and Will at Dutch Wonderland riding a little yellow car.
Nov 21, 2006
Thanksgiving: What We're Having
Contributed by my brother:
Turkey (organic, brined by him)
Chestnut Stuffing--yes, he will score and peel the chestnuts, boil them and all that, because he is a little crazed, but in the nicest possible way
Gravy, in the insulated gravy boat I gave him last year (I'm so prescient!)
Contributed by my Dad, but he's not allowed to have any:
One bottle of white Burgundy and one bottle of red Burgundy (a pleasantly parallel coupling suggested by the wine guru at Epicurious)
And provided by yours truly:
Cranberry Sauce
This is my latest recipe, and the best, because it's simple and delicious. You just can't argue with that. I have discovered that leftover homemade cranberry sauce is wonderful heated up and served over vanilla ice cream. Try it.
Buttermilk Mashed Potatoes
I don't really use a recipe, but here is one I roughly follow.
Green Salad with Apples and Cider Dressing
Hubby loves blue cheese so that gets sprinkled on top. Dang, I forgot to buy it, though.
Daikon Radish Salad
Remember how our CSA went tragically bankrupt? They have rallied enough to make a delivery! The arugula got lost in the fruit drawer and is now unsalvageable, but I now have responsibility for two hairy mammoth Daikons. Based on a comment someone made on Epicurious (can you tell I use Epicurious?), I'm going to grate these suckers, after peeling the heck out of them, and mix them with Kosher salt, fresh ground pepper, olive oil, and a little lime juice.
Pumpkin Spice Pie
I have made this every year. It's super.
Sweet Potato Pecan Pie, Only with Walnuts Because I Have Tons of Them and No Pecans
This recipe (with pecans) is from my wonderful late friend Richard Sax. I never met him but I love him. It's from the FIRST edition of Classic Home Desserts. They came up with a posthumous second edition, but I have the FIRST, thank you very much. I'm making this because we also got a load of sweet potatoes from the tragically bankrupt CSA. I picture Scarlet holding up the dirt of Tara in her hand and saying "As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again."
Speaking of which,I'm asking our guests to donate food which we will take to the local food bank after the holiday. Oh, and my brother is also bringing his girlfriend and her three children. But we won't eat them until they've fattened up a bit.
Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, dear readers.
Turkey (organic, brined by him)
Chestnut Stuffing--yes, he will score and peel the chestnuts, boil them and all that, because he is a little crazed, but in the nicest possible way
Gravy, in the insulated gravy boat I gave him last year (I'm so prescient!)
Contributed by my Dad, but he's not allowed to have any:
One bottle of white Burgundy and one bottle of red Burgundy (a pleasantly parallel coupling suggested by the wine guru at Epicurious)
And provided by yours truly:
Cranberry Sauce
This is my latest recipe, and the best, because it's simple and delicious. You just can't argue with that. I have discovered that leftover homemade cranberry sauce is wonderful heated up and served over vanilla ice cream. Try it.
Buttermilk Mashed Potatoes
I don't really use a recipe, but here is one I roughly follow.
Green Salad with Apples and Cider Dressing
Hubby loves blue cheese so that gets sprinkled on top. Dang, I forgot to buy it, though.
Daikon Radish Salad
Remember how our CSA went tragically bankrupt? They have rallied enough to make a delivery! The arugula got lost in the fruit drawer and is now unsalvageable, but I now have responsibility for two hairy mammoth Daikons. Based on a comment someone made on Epicurious (can you tell I use Epicurious?), I'm going to grate these suckers, after peeling the heck out of them, and mix them with Kosher salt, fresh ground pepper, olive oil, and a little lime juice.
Pumpkin Spice Pie
I have made this every year. It's super.
Sweet Potato Pecan Pie, Only with Walnuts Because I Have Tons of Them and No Pecans
This recipe (with pecans) is from my wonderful late friend Richard Sax. I never met him but I love him. It's from the FIRST edition of Classic Home Desserts. They came up with a posthumous second edition, but I have the FIRST, thank you very much. I'm making this because we also got a load of sweet potatoes from the tragically bankrupt CSA. I picture Scarlet holding up the dirt of Tara in her hand and saying "As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again."
Speaking of which,I'm asking our guests to donate food which we will take to the local food bank after the holiday. Oh, and my brother is also bringing his girlfriend and her three children. But we won't eat them until they've fattened up a bit.
Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, dear readers.
Nov 20, 2006
Suburban Family Hosts Sucessful Capt. Underpants Birthday Party
Swarthmore, PA: Jack and Will, two brothers about to turn seven and five, reported that their parents gave a Capt. Underpants birthday party on Saturday. "It was great!" they shouted, chocolate cake crumbs on their faces, a trail of popcorn indicating their recent whereabouts. "Everyone we invited came!" reported the dazed mother. There were unconfirmed reports that one attendee out of eleven (including Jack and Will) was a girl. Whatever she was, her basketball and football skills were noteworthy, as was her ability to join in a pickup soccer game with seven-year-olds. Mr. S, the father of Jack and Will, said that his wife forgot whether Talking Toilets were evil or not, leading to confusion regarding the Talking Toilets game. "How could you forget they're evil?" he asked rhetorically. "But 70 percent of U.S. residents think there were weapons of mass destruction, so I guess it's no wonder."
"Thank goodness the weather was fine and they could send them outside to play in the leaves," murmured one mother who stayed to help. "It was getting very loud in their house." One child, reportedly named Fluffy Diaperbrain, hadn't been feeling well and came just in time to eat the cake. He didn't want any, moped around and would not wear his extremely fun nametag or prance about wearing personalized underpants on his head. He said nobody would play with him. The other four-year-old, Slimy Picklebuns, was also out of sorts once the crowd had been banished to the backyard wilderness, but after his mother gave him a pep talk by the shed, where he was hiding, he was decidedly more cheerful. He and Fluffy were completely recovered by the time they received their party favors.
All departed at the prescribed 4:00 ending time, after which point there was rumored to be a late fee of a dollar per minute. No damage worse than cake and popcorn on the floor has been reported as of this time. The Sea Monkeys(TM), a birthday gift from the young Slimy Picklebuns, have yet to hatch.
"Thank goodness the weather was fine and they could send them outside to play in the leaves," murmured one mother who stayed to help. "It was getting very loud in their house." One child, reportedly named Fluffy Diaperbrain, hadn't been feeling well and came just in time to eat the cake. He didn't want any, moped around and would not wear his extremely fun nametag or prance about wearing personalized underpants on his head. He said nobody would play with him. The other four-year-old, Slimy Picklebuns, was also out of sorts once the crowd had been banished to the backyard wilderness, but after his mother gave him a pep talk by the shed, where he was hiding, he was decidedly more cheerful. He and Fluffy were completely recovered by the time they received their party favors.
All departed at the prescribed 4:00 ending time, after which point there was rumored to be a late fee of a dollar per minute. No damage worse than cake and popcorn on the floor has been reported as of this time. The Sea Monkeys(TM), a birthday gift from the young Slimy Picklebuns, have yet to hatch.
Nov 14, 2006
Unusual Etiquette Dilemma. Please Do Help.
Thanks to Amishlaw for the no-knead bread link. They are taking Brother Peter's slow rise method about as far as it can go. Sounds great if you want a big round loaf.
Anyway, the other things that have been happening around here, in addition to a spate of weekend guests (which was lovely), is that Will is finishing up, today, his last "loop" of Tomatis therapy, which is intense sensory integration work. From what I hear from the therapists it has made a huge difference in his motor planning and coordination. I don't want to explain it all here, but if you Google "A Total Approach" you will learn about it. Will's teacher thought he had a few "sensory issues," so they directed us to A Total Approach. Some of the kids who do it have pretty significant autism, and one girl I think has a brain injury. That makes me wonder if Will really needed it. But it's good to catch this stuff early I guess.
Instead of waiting in the cramped windowless waiting room with the other parents, which makes me feel claustrophobic, I dash off to Borders and come back just in time to chat with the therapist about how it went. This enforced reading/coffee drinking time is really nice but I can't really afford it, as laundry piles up and dinner is cobbled together from food that's a day away from becoming garbage. But give me credit for not getting take-out from Foodsource, a very pricy store in the shopping center next to A Total Approach.
Now for the birthday party situation, ta-da. Because I know you all have been waiting to hear! Jack and Will want to share a party. Again! Still! And the theme is, I think you know, Captain Underpants. So I'll make some kind of semblance of C.U. on the cake. And the plan is to buy about ten cheap pairs of boys' underpants at Target, write the kids' names in them, and their C.U. names as per this website. With said garments we will have underpants-slinging contests, and kids will wear said underpants on their head during the whole cake-eating stage. And I really hope the other parents won't hate us forever.
Now here's the awkward part: I, of course, thought it would be an all-boy party, but a couple of days ago Will said he really wants Lydia to come. Lydia's parents are very religious, and out of the pop culture loop so much so that the mother never heard of Captain Underpants and got him mixed up with Sponge Bob. Please! Actually, she has no boys, so I guess she gets off the hook. Question for y'all: It seems weird to give Lydia boy's underpants for the games, but then giving her girl's underpants calls attention to anatomical differences, which seems awkward. My thought is to just pretend she's an honorary boy, and the less said the better. Her mom wants to know what Captain Underpants is. I'm supposed to call her. So I have to figure out a way to describe it honestly without using the word "irreverent," although C. U. is not irreverent toward God, it's irreverent towards authority. I should just stop thinking of this as a big dilemma. I'll just use as much Wedgie Woman Power as I can summon, and go forth boldly with no apologies. Unless I hear otherwise from my dear readers.
And please do share your Captain Underpants name if you bothered to look up the link, which I totally know you did.
Anyway, the other things that have been happening around here, in addition to a spate of weekend guests (which was lovely), is that Will is finishing up, today, his last "loop" of Tomatis therapy, which is intense sensory integration work. From what I hear from the therapists it has made a huge difference in his motor planning and coordination. I don't want to explain it all here, but if you Google "A Total Approach" you will learn about it. Will's teacher thought he had a few "sensory issues," so they directed us to A Total Approach. Some of the kids who do it have pretty significant autism, and one girl I think has a brain injury. That makes me wonder if Will really needed it. But it's good to catch this stuff early I guess.
Instead of waiting in the cramped windowless waiting room with the other parents, which makes me feel claustrophobic, I dash off to Borders and come back just in time to chat with the therapist about how it went. This enforced reading/coffee drinking time is really nice but I can't really afford it, as laundry piles up and dinner is cobbled together from food that's a day away from becoming garbage. But give me credit for not getting take-out from Foodsource, a very pricy store in the shopping center next to A Total Approach.
Now for the birthday party situation, ta-da. Because I know you all have been waiting to hear! Jack and Will want to share a party. Again! Still! And the theme is, I think you know, Captain Underpants. So I'll make some kind of semblance of C.U. on the cake. And the plan is to buy about ten cheap pairs of boys' underpants at Target, write the kids' names in them, and their C.U. names as per this website. With said garments we will have underpants-slinging contests, and kids will wear said underpants on their head during the whole cake-eating stage. And I really hope the other parents won't hate us forever.
Now here's the awkward part: I, of course, thought it would be an all-boy party, but a couple of days ago Will said he really wants Lydia to come. Lydia's parents are very religious, and out of the pop culture loop so much so that the mother never heard of Captain Underpants and got him mixed up with Sponge Bob. Please! Actually, she has no boys, so I guess she gets off the hook. Question for y'all: It seems weird to give Lydia boy's underpants for the games, but then giving her girl's underpants calls attention to anatomical differences, which seems awkward. My thought is to just pretend she's an honorary boy, and the less said the better. Her mom wants to know what Captain Underpants is. I'm supposed to call her. So I have to figure out a way to describe it honestly without using the word "irreverent," although C. U. is not irreverent toward God, it's irreverent towards authority. I should just stop thinking of this as a big dilemma. I'll just use as much Wedgie Woman Power as I can summon, and go forth boldly with no apologies. Unless I hear otherwise from my dear readers.
And please do share your Captain Underpants name if you bothered to look up the link, which I totally know you did.
Nov 12, 2006
Birthday Time Yet Again!
Oh, poor dear blog. It's your birthday. Today. And I've neglected you most sadly for two weeks. That's what comes of having two weekends in a row with house guests. I worked my b*** off cleaning out the guest room, let me tell you. Now I'm going to start some bread, and watch Desparate Housewives (eight minutes after it starts so I can TiVo through the commercials), but here's one for the readers. If there is anyone still out there.
Question from Jack: "Why do they call it an iPod if it's on your ears?"
Question from Jack: "Why do they call it an iPod if it's on your ears?"
Oct 30, 2006
The Invasion of the Bank Mystery, by Will
Will dictated this to me a couple weeks ago. I love the irrepressible optimism of these two guys. Possibly at the beginning/end of Ch. 2 they are are a bit discouraged, but they'll rally. You can tell how Will feels about the possibilities presented by commuter trains
Once upon a time, there were two mysterious kids named Afeymus and Sam. And they were looking for this weird guy who was pretending to be Ron Roy. The boys went to him and said,"I think there's someone who's pretending to be you. Let's tell the police that."
"OK," said Sam and Afeymus.
They went to the Swarthmore Police Station. The police said, "That's easy. Check Room 305 at the Media Inn."
The Media lobby owner said, "Check Room 6010. He's eating lunch right now."
"That's easy," said Sam and Afeymus. They went to the lunchroom, but when they went there, there were no people there.
"Let's go back to the lobby to see if this is the right inn," said Sam.
"Great idea," said Afeymus.
When they went there, they looked at the sign that said what inn it was. It said "Elwyn Inn."
"Oh, no! We're at the wrong inn! Let's dash on the train to go to Media."
"What train?" said Afeymus.
"The R3 train," said Sam.
"You mean the one that goes all the way to New Jersey?" said Afeymus.
"Yes," said Sam.
"That's easy to get on the R3 train. We can just go all the way to New Jersey," said Afeymus.
"Actually, we have to go to Media," said Sam.
Afeymus said, "Actually, we could go to Wallingford."
"Good plan," said Sam.
"Let's grab the R3 train, quick," said Afeymus.
"Zoom to the Elwyn stop in your fire car," said Sam.
"OK," said Afeymus.
They zoomed in the fire car all the way to New Jersey. They went to the New Jersey stop. When they got off they said,"Hey! This looks familiar. Oh, no, we're in Swarthmore."
Chapter Two
"We've got to go back on the R3 train to go to Wallingford."
"That takes a long time," said Afeymus.
Once upon a time, there were two mysterious kids named Afeymus and Sam. And they were looking for this weird guy who was pretending to be Ron Roy. The boys went to him and said,"I think there's someone who's pretending to be you. Let's tell the police that."
"OK," said Sam and Afeymus.
They went to the Swarthmore Police Station. The police said, "That's easy. Check Room 305 at the Media Inn."
The Media lobby owner said, "Check Room 6010. He's eating lunch right now."
"That's easy," said Sam and Afeymus. They went to the lunchroom, but when they went there, there were no people there.
"Let's go back to the lobby to see if this is the right inn," said Sam.
"Great idea," said Afeymus.
When they went there, they looked at the sign that said what inn it was. It said "Elwyn Inn."
"Oh, no! We're at the wrong inn! Let's dash on the train to go to Media."
"What train?" said Afeymus.
"The R3 train," said Sam.
"You mean the one that goes all the way to New Jersey?" said Afeymus.
"Yes," said Sam.
"That's easy to get on the R3 train. We can just go all the way to New Jersey," said Afeymus.
"Actually, we have to go to Media," said Sam.
Afeymus said, "Actually, we could go to Wallingford."
"Good plan," said Sam.
"Let's grab the R3 train, quick," said Afeymus.
"Zoom to the Elwyn stop in your fire car," said Sam.
"OK," said Afeymus.
They zoomed in the fire car all the way to New Jersey. They went to the New Jersey stop. When they got off they said,"Hey! This looks familiar. Oh, no, we're in Swarthmore."
Chapter Two
"We've got to go back on the R3 train to go to Wallingford."
"That takes a long time," said Afeymus.
Oct 27, 2006
Rules to Live By
We have been having "Family Meetings" the last two Sundays, and we hope to make this a routine. The kids get to request some meals and activities, and everyone suggests new habits to get into, or old habits to break.
This past week have been working on a habit from last week which has not seen much improvement:
Don't put it down, put it away.
This week the emphasis is on:
When Mommy or Daddy tells you to do something, do it the FIRST time they say it. So now instead of repeating it, we say "I'm not going to repeat that" over and over.
And from Will, derived from recent experience:
Ask permission before doing experiments.
Don't lick syrup off the plate.
This past week have been working on a habit from last week which has not seen much improvement:
Don't put it down, put it away.
This week the emphasis is on:
When Mommy or Daddy tells you to do something, do it the FIRST time they say it. So now instead of repeating it, we say "I'm not going to repeat that" over and over.
And from Will, derived from recent experience:
Ask permission before doing experiments.
Don't lick syrup off the plate.
Oct 25, 2006
The Story of the First Thanksgiving, and a Few Others
I just wrote this for the Delaware County Mothers & More newsletter.
Thanksgiving is a big holiday in our family. This year, Jack’s birthday falls on it, and Will’s a week later. After Jack’s birth, Thanksgiving dinner was the first solid meal I had after my C-section. And, in case you had any doubt, a holiday dinner in the hospital is about as solid as it gets. That gluey stuffing made almost made me yearn again for broth and Jell-O.
For our family, Thanksgiving and birthdays are the same extended holiday, a festival of thanks. So far the boys have always agreed to share a birthday celebration, to consolidate the party spirit and save Mommy and Daddy’s wits. One year my brother Dan cooked and brought the turkey, and will do it again this year. Dan and I are both control freaks in the kitchen so I have learned to delegate a dish completely to him and have him cook it at his own house.
We pull out all the stops and polish my grandmother’s silver and rinse off my mother’s china. I get out a delicate ivory linen tablecloth that my grandmother used. Instead of ironing the tablecloth like Nana did, I spritz it all over with water and put it in the dryer for ten minutes. This was my own idea and I’m sure it’s heresy, but only Martha Stewart’s staff would ever iron a large linen tablecloth these days.
One year, I made up a binder and labeled it “Holidays.” I felt sort of silly doing it, but I was tired of reinventing the wheel every year. I save my to-do lists from the previous year and the notes I have added, as well as recipes that have been successful and new ones I want to try. Breaking open that binder in November every year is strangely rewarding. It makes it so much easier to get started. Last year my in-laws were here and they love to be put to work, so together we washed china and linens, polished silver, vacuumed, and shopped. The hum of activity was somehow rejuvenating, as was the scent of cranberry sauce cooking and pumpkin pie baking. I leave you with the recipe for my family’s favorite cranberry sauce, simple and delicious. Let us give thanks.
Cranberry Sauce
1 cup water
1 cup sugar
12-oz bag fresh or frozen cranberries (3 cups)
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated orange zest
Bring water and sugar to a boil, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Add cranberries and simmer, stirring occasionally, until berries just pop, 10 to 12 minutes. Stir in zest, then cool.
Cooks’ note:
• Cranberry sauce may be made 3 days ahead and chilled, covered.
Makes about 2 1/2 cups.
Thanksgiving is a big holiday in our family. This year, Jack’s birthday falls on it, and Will’s a week later. After Jack’s birth, Thanksgiving dinner was the first solid meal I had after my C-section. And, in case you had any doubt, a holiday dinner in the hospital is about as solid as it gets. That gluey stuffing made almost made me yearn again for broth and Jell-O.
For our family, Thanksgiving and birthdays are the same extended holiday, a festival of thanks. So far the boys have always agreed to share a birthday celebration, to consolidate the party spirit and save Mommy and Daddy’s wits. One year my brother Dan cooked and brought the turkey, and will do it again this year. Dan and I are both control freaks in the kitchen so I have learned to delegate a dish completely to him and have him cook it at his own house.
We pull out all the stops and polish my grandmother’s silver and rinse off my mother’s china. I get out a delicate ivory linen tablecloth that my grandmother used. Instead of ironing the tablecloth like Nana did, I spritz it all over with water and put it in the dryer for ten minutes. This was my own idea and I’m sure it’s heresy, but only Martha Stewart’s staff would ever iron a large linen tablecloth these days.
One year, I made up a binder and labeled it “Holidays.” I felt sort of silly doing it, but I was tired of reinventing the wheel every year. I save my to-do lists from the previous year and the notes I have added, as well as recipes that have been successful and new ones I want to try. Breaking open that binder in November every year is strangely rewarding. It makes it so much easier to get started. Last year my in-laws were here and they love to be put to work, so together we washed china and linens, polished silver, vacuumed, and shopped. The hum of activity was somehow rejuvenating, as was the scent of cranberry sauce cooking and pumpkin pie baking. I leave you with the recipe for my family’s favorite cranberry sauce, simple and delicious. Let us give thanks.
Cranberry Sauce
1 cup water
1 cup sugar
12-oz bag fresh or frozen cranberries (3 cups)
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated orange zest
Bring water and sugar to a boil, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Add cranberries and simmer, stirring occasionally, until berries just pop, 10 to 12 minutes. Stir in zest, then cool.
Cooks’ note:
• Cranberry sauce may be made 3 days ahead and chilled, covered.
Makes about 2 1/2 cups.
Oct 24, 2006
Where Does a Blog Go When It is Deleted?
Such was the metaphysical question I was asking myself yesterday when I realized that, instead of deleting a test blog that I decided not to use, I had deleted Dream Kitchen, my baby. Since I had always heard that deleting computer files doesn't really delete them,I figured there was some way the Blogger Powers That Be could help me. And they did, or in this case someone named Danish (DA-nish? Da-NISH?) from "The Blogger Team." Thank you Danish! And within an hour, too.
Apparently while my blog was . . . wherever blogs go when they are deleted. . . the URL was redirecting readers to some p*rn site. Some of my friends were amused. Guess these dastardly denizens of the internet squat in newly abandoned URLs, rubbing their hands with glee and beckoning to the innocent. Another strange thing is that Sitemeter was reporting, during this same span of time, that several people found my blog, or I guess the p*rn site, through a Google search for "Lauren Dream Kitchen," or "Dream Kitchen Lauren," etc. I ask you, what does it mean?
Anyway, whatever it means, three cheers for Danish, my new friend, and the resurrection of Dream Kitchen from . . . limbo? Death? A black hole?
Apparently while my blog was . . . wherever blogs go when they are deleted. . . the URL was redirecting readers to some p*rn site. Some of my friends were amused. Guess these dastardly denizens of the internet squat in newly abandoned URLs, rubbing their hands with glee and beckoning to the innocent. Another strange thing is that Sitemeter was reporting, during this same span of time, that several people found my blog, or I guess the p*rn site, through a Google search for "Lauren Dream Kitchen," or "Dream Kitchen Lauren," etc. I ask you, what does it mean?
Anyway, whatever it means, three cheers for Danish, my new friend, and the resurrection of Dream Kitchen from . . . limbo? Death? A black hole?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
