Driving around town over the weekend, I noticed all the cars with trees strapped to their roofs, which I find really heartwarming—especially after being bombarded by the commercial crap of the holidays, starting the day before Halloween. A decorated tree is one of the best things about the season. I love driving down Summit Avenue on my way home from work, where evergreens strung with golden lights fill corner windows in nearly every house.
Since we're traveling to Princeton this Christmas, John and I agreed we would forgo a Christmas tree. Instead, I bought a wreath from the neighbor kid selling them as a band fundraiser. Sure the wreath is fragrant with pine—and looks stunning hanging on our massive stucco fireplace. But somehow neither the wreath nor the bowl of red glass ornaments on the dining-room table provide adequate holiday spirit. I'm just not feeling it.
So, on our way home from the library on Sunday, Simon and I stopped at Nativity, a neighborhood church, to see if we could find a little tree. Some boys were dragging around a three-foot tree—much to their mother's annoyance (mine, too)—that looked perfect. But, it was likely the only one as we were unable to find another. After poking around a bit, a six-foot balsam beauty caught our eye. And in the split second it took to pay for the tree, someone had bundled it up and secured it to the roof of my station wagon. How Norman Rockwell is that?
Lucky for me, John arrived home from running his errands just a moment before I did. And boy was he ever surprised to see us inching down the alley with a tree on top of the car!
Last night the boys helped me trim the tree. Simon has the eye of a decorator and very carefully and thoughtfully hung some of the most delicate ornaments, while Winston hung all the unbreakables on the bottom branches. And, with only two small exceptions*, the tree is perfect.
*In replacing a bulb on the string of lights, somehow a whole section has gone rogue, blinking as if the strand was meant to do that. Fortunately, it's the middle section and is providing a nifty effect. The other is actually a larger issue: the stand has a leak. Not only did I had a small lake to clean up while avoid electrocution, but the tree hasn't had a drink in a few days. And, I had to find a replacement stand. We've tried metal and plastic, but every stand we've purchased has had just one use before it has broken. I've just picked up a cast-iron stand and will hope for the best.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Monday, December 04, 2006
Snow is falling
and sticking to the ground. The temperature here in Minnesota is cold enough for the teeny, tiny, itty, bitty snowflakes that are falling, very slowly, to pile up. While the amount of snow on the ground is trace, when combined with the bitter cold wind, it serves to remind that winter is fast upon us. The boys were so excited this morning. When they heard we had some snow, they imagined fluffy piles for sledding. Not so fast lil rangers!
The Shepards had a lovely, relaxing weekend mostly because the parent-Shepards were nursing hangovers from the Spanish-wine tasting they hosted on Friday evening. We were joined by the Ws, M/Cs, and H/Js, none of whom seemed to suffer much the next day. Sarah W. and I provided the food, which was mostly tapas—cocktail mix (pistachios, almonds, and fried favas, fried chickpeas, and cornnuts), marinated olives, warm paprika-spiked marcona almonds, caperberries, spicy garlic shrimp, a traditional tortilla (where the potatoes and onions were cooked in olive oil, then added to beaten eggs before cooked together), and a hot spinach dip. The Ws also brought the piece de resistance—chili-pesto oysters. The oysters, which had been shucked just before arriving, were a nice mix of kumamoto and bluepoint, topped with a chili-spiked pesto and breadcrumbs, then blasted at 475 degrees. I'm confident I ate more than my fair share, but I couldn't stop eating them.
The wines were fine. Lisa brought a random selection of riojas and snuck in an Argentinean malbec, for some reason unbeknowst to anyone. Interestingly, a very developed rioja reserva that stood out noticeably from the others had us all fooled into thinking it was the malbec. Not because any of us knew better, but because it was different from the rest.
On Saturday, the boys attended Sydney and Georgia's joint birthday party at the Children's Museum, which is still a dreadful place, especially as our children are outgrowing the joint. Then, Winston and John spent the afternoon napping while Simon gorged himself on TV and I read the February 2006 issue of Travel and Leisure—catching up on tall piles of back issues. Later that evening, after the long winter naps, we all went over to my friend Suzanne's house. She and her husband host an annual book party, whereby Suzanne, a publisher's rep, sells her samples for cheap (twenty cents on the dollar) and donates the money to a local food shelf. This year's event was more relaxed than usual, and we had a chance to chat with Suzanne and B. and another guest (E.). And, we picked up some great books, including Brad Melzer's The Book of Fate, the latest Michael Connelly, and a cookbook.
The weekend was deliciously relaxing. I wish I had done more reading—books with obligations are piling up (Pride and Prejudice, which I'm reading with Caryl; Girl in Landscape, which seems short, like I might be able to finish it before the end of the year). And, I wish I had done some knitting and some organizing. Alas...
Watching: Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
Reading: Chicken with Plums and the New York Times Book Review "Best Books of the Year" issue
Cooking: croque monsieur (from Barefoot Contessa in Paris) and spaghetti carbonara (from Cooks Illustrated)
The Shepards had a lovely, relaxing weekend mostly because the parent-Shepards were nursing hangovers from the Spanish-wine tasting they hosted on Friday evening. We were joined by the Ws, M/Cs, and H/Js, none of whom seemed to suffer much the next day. Sarah W. and I provided the food, which was mostly tapas—cocktail mix (pistachios, almonds, and fried favas, fried chickpeas, and cornnuts), marinated olives, warm paprika-spiked marcona almonds, caperberries, spicy garlic shrimp, a traditional tortilla (where the potatoes and onions were cooked in olive oil, then added to beaten eggs before cooked together), and a hot spinach dip. The Ws also brought the piece de resistance—chili-pesto oysters. The oysters, which had been shucked just before arriving, were a nice mix of kumamoto and bluepoint, topped with a chili-spiked pesto and breadcrumbs, then blasted at 475 degrees. I'm confident I ate more than my fair share, but I couldn't stop eating them.
The wines were fine. Lisa brought a random selection of riojas and snuck in an Argentinean malbec, for some reason unbeknowst to anyone. Interestingly, a very developed rioja reserva that stood out noticeably from the others had us all fooled into thinking it was the malbec. Not because any of us knew better, but because it was different from the rest.
On Saturday, the boys attended Sydney and Georgia's joint birthday party at the Children's Museum, which is still a dreadful place, especially as our children are outgrowing the joint. Then, Winston and John spent the afternoon napping while Simon gorged himself on TV and I read the February 2006 issue of Travel and Leisure—catching up on tall piles of back issues. Later that evening, after the long winter naps, we all went over to my friend Suzanne's house. She and her husband host an annual book party, whereby Suzanne, a publisher's rep, sells her samples for cheap (twenty cents on the dollar) and donates the money to a local food shelf. This year's event was more relaxed than usual, and we had a chance to chat with Suzanne and B. and another guest (E.). And, we picked up some great books, including Brad Melzer's The Book of Fate, the latest Michael Connelly, and a cookbook.
The weekend was deliciously relaxing. I wish I had done more reading—books with obligations are piling up (Pride and Prejudice, which I'm reading with Caryl; Girl in Landscape, which seems short, like I might be able to finish it before the end of the year). And, I wish I had done some knitting and some organizing. Alas...
Watching: Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
Reading: Chicken with Plums and the New York Times Book Review "Best Books of the Year" issue
Cooking: croque monsieur (from Barefoot Contessa in Paris) and spaghetti carbonara (from Cooks Illustrated)
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Awesome weekend
The Shepard family just had another awesome weekend. After reluctance in the early morning, Simon acquiesced to attend his first futsal session. Futsal is a type of indoor soccer, played with a low-pressure soccer ball, and it's kind of chaotic. I noticed a number of kids getting knocked down and run over, but having fun running around a gym, kicking a ball. Simon knew no other kids there, and I felt really sad as he circled the gym before soccer started, trying to figure out where he fit in. One quick hour later, Simon announced he'd had a good time. The coaches are really cool and empowering without being too feel-good.
Winston had his hair cut, at his request. Over dinner on Friday evening, John asked Win what sort of a haircut he'd like. Winston answered matter-of-factly, "A mohawk." We were stunned—didn't know whether to laugh or cry—and decided to wait until after the holidays as I'm not sure this is how we want him to appear in the Christmas photos. I'm also not sure if we're prepared to see his scars and cradle cap. My surfer boy still has longish hair but it is now cut around the ears, which are in serious need of cleaning. I've spent a lot of the weekend trying to remember what he looked like pre-haircut.
On Saturday, John and I finally threw a birthday party for Simon—nine guests for bowling at Ran-Ham Bowl, the foulest smelling, dirtiest place in this quadrant of St. Paul. Needless to say, the kids had a good time bowling. Simon's friends are super—just one incredibly obnoxious kid in the whole bunch. In the evening, we had dinner at the H's house (beef goulash, tossed green salad, fruit tart) and played card games. Today, we're recovering from drinking too much after-dinner Knob Creek.
Cooking: lamb biryani from Suvir Saran's Indian Home Cooking
Baking: banana bread from Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything
Reading: Jennifer Egan's new novel, The Keep
Winston had his hair cut, at his request. Over dinner on Friday evening, John asked Win what sort of a haircut he'd like. Winston answered matter-of-factly, "A mohawk." We were stunned—didn't know whether to laugh or cry—and decided to wait until after the holidays as I'm not sure this is how we want him to appear in the Christmas photos. I'm also not sure if we're prepared to see his scars and cradle cap. My surfer boy still has longish hair but it is now cut around the ears, which are in serious need of cleaning. I've spent a lot of the weekend trying to remember what he looked like pre-haircut.
On Saturday, John and I finally threw a birthday party for Simon—nine guests for bowling at Ran-Ham Bowl, the foulest smelling, dirtiest place in this quadrant of St. Paul. Needless to say, the kids had a good time bowling. Simon's friends are super—just one incredibly obnoxious kid in the whole bunch. In the evening, we had dinner at the H's house (beef goulash, tossed green salad, fruit tart) and played card games. Today, we're recovering from drinking too much after-dinner Knob Creek.
Cooking: lamb biryani from Suvir Saran's Indian Home Cooking
Baking: banana bread from Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything
Reading: Jennifer Egan's new novel, The Keep
I think I'm getting dumber
Is it possible to lose intelligence? I don't feel dumber, but I'm having increasing moments of extreme embarrassment over something deeply stupid I have said or done. For example, last night, after dinner with friends, we played cards. For the record, I DO NOT play cards. I find it boring beyond compare. Aside from solitaire, I do not know how to play a single card game. But, last night, I found myself playing hearts with John and two other couples, and I DID NOT GET HOW TO PLAY THE GAME. How is it that I have absolutely no aptitude for card games? Perhaps I should just admit it up front so not to appear so stupid among intelligent people who are no more intelligent than I am. What do I need to do?
Friday, October 27, 2006
quick check in
Yes, I'm still alive. And, I fully intend to write more about the mundane in my life. So, here goes.
I'm fine. For the past few days, however, I have felt a little under the weather. Perhaps it's just the power of suggestion as I've been caring for a sick four-year-old who has pink eye (he calls it "grits"), a sinus infection, and the early signs of an ear infection.
Work is piling up with an issue SLAP, a blues check for the issue I SLAPped last week, articles to write for an issue that SLAPs in two weeks (as well as a nasty pile of PIPs), four paginations (soon to be five) to do, and another issue to plan. It's just a little insane.
John is on a business trip, making me a little lonely at home. But, I'm relieved that the trip is just for one night, which is so much easier to handle that when he worked as a consultant, with six-week engagements that had him home only on the weekend. Actually, I'm more than a little jealous of this trip, which takes him to NYC on some business for NBC Sports (meetings at 30 Rock).
So, despite my seething envy, I managed nicely this evening with a few bottles of Shiner bock, Food Network shows on the DVR (including one filmed at Izzy's), a new knitting project, and back issues of Saveur. It's all good, but the bed will be big and cold tonight, and it will be nearly impossible to haul myself out of it manana.
Not to mention that the babies and I had a Davanni's picnic in front of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, starring Johnny Depp. While the boys thought the movie was fun (with an occasional moment of skepticism from Simon, thank goodness he found part weird), I mostly thought it was horrible. The musical numbers were gratuitous; Johnny Depp disturbingly resembled Michael Jackson; Wonka's flashbacks and Daddy/candy issues were absurd and unnecessary; I could go on. Some of the signature Tim Burton stuff—mostly sets (especially the Gothic chocolate factory that resembled a cathedral; squirrels cracking nuts standing in for the geese that laid golden eggs)—were the only saving grace for a seriously botched remake. Granted Gene Wilder came across as off-his-meds in the original, but he wasn't creepy in the same way as Depp.
This weekend, John and I have our eight-week standing date at 112 Eatery, and I'm pretty excited about that. And, I'm going to have coffee and book conversation (Memento Mori by Muriel Spark, among others we've mutually read in the past month or so and those we plan to read in the next month or so) with my college friend Caryl, and I'm equally excited about that. I'd also like to try my hand at making gnocchi, and I have a rotisserie-roasted beast in the refrigerator that wants to have a second life in chicken-corn chowder.
To bed for a bit of The Big Oyster and The Whole World Over.
I'm fine. For the past few days, however, I have felt a little under the weather. Perhaps it's just the power of suggestion as I've been caring for a sick four-year-old who has pink eye (he calls it "grits"), a sinus infection, and the early signs of an ear infection.
Work is piling up with an issue SLAP, a blues check for the issue I SLAPped last week, articles to write for an issue that SLAPs in two weeks (as well as a nasty pile of PIPs), four paginations (soon to be five) to do, and another issue to plan. It's just a little insane.
John is on a business trip, making me a little lonely at home. But, I'm relieved that the trip is just for one night, which is so much easier to handle that when he worked as a consultant, with six-week engagements that had him home only on the weekend. Actually, I'm more than a little jealous of this trip, which takes him to NYC on some business for NBC Sports (meetings at 30 Rock).
So, despite my seething envy, I managed nicely this evening with a few bottles of Shiner bock, Food Network shows on the DVR (including one filmed at Izzy's), a new knitting project, and back issues of Saveur. It's all good, but the bed will be big and cold tonight, and it will be nearly impossible to haul myself out of it manana.
Not to mention that the babies and I had a Davanni's picnic in front of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, starring Johnny Depp. While the boys thought the movie was fun (with an occasional moment of skepticism from Simon, thank goodness he found part weird), I mostly thought it was horrible. The musical numbers were gratuitous; Johnny Depp disturbingly resembled Michael Jackson; Wonka's flashbacks and Daddy/candy issues were absurd and unnecessary; I could go on. Some of the signature Tim Burton stuff—mostly sets (especially the Gothic chocolate factory that resembled a cathedral; squirrels cracking nuts standing in for the geese that laid golden eggs)—were the only saving grace for a seriously botched remake. Granted Gene Wilder came across as off-his-meds in the original, but he wasn't creepy in the same way as Depp.
This weekend, John and I have our eight-week standing date at 112 Eatery, and I'm pretty excited about that. And, I'm going to have coffee and book conversation (Memento Mori by Muriel Spark, among others we've mutually read in the past month or so and those we plan to read in the next month or so) with my college friend Caryl, and I'm equally excited about that. I'd also like to try my hand at making gnocchi, and I have a rotisserie-roasted beast in the refrigerator that wants to have a second life in chicken-corn chowder.
To bed for a bit of The Big Oyster and The Whole World Over.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Auspicious day
My birth day rocks.
To summarize:
Historical events
Gregorian calendar is implemented (I know this is why John Shepard married me)
First run of the Orient Express
Gutzom Borglund began carving Mt. Rushmore
Launch of Sputnik 1
Debut of Leave It to Beaver
Birthdays
Richard Cromwell (1626), Frederic Remington (1861), Charlton Heston (1921), Alvin Toffler (1928), Susan Sarandon (1946—rock on), Liev Schrieber (my favorite indie actor, 1967), Alicia Silverstone (1976)
Deaths
Rembrandt (1669), Janis Joplin (1970), Anne Sexton (1974), Secretariat (1989), R. W. Apple (2006)
To summarize:
Historical events
Gregorian calendar is implemented (I know this is why John Shepard married me)
First run of the Orient Express
Gutzom Borglund began carving Mt. Rushmore
Launch of Sputnik 1
Debut of Leave It to Beaver
Birthdays
Richard Cromwell (1626), Frederic Remington (1861), Charlton Heston (1921), Alvin Toffler (1928), Susan Sarandon (1946—rock on), Liev Schrieber (my favorite indie actor, 1967), Alicia Silverstone (1976)
Deaths
Rembrandt (1669), Janis Joplin (1970), Anne Sexton (1974), Secretariat (1989), R. W. Apple (2006)
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
It's my birthday and I'll eat pastries if I want to
Yes, happy birthday to me! To ameliorate the dread of being another year closer to turning 40, I did dose myself with a mini chocolate babka roll this morning. Is that so wrong?
My day started beautifully with handsome husband singing "Happy Birthday." And, Simon entered our room, fully dressed for the day, to say good morning.
As with every birthday since becoming an adult, I told myself that today is the first day of the rest of my life. It's true. My birthday symbolizes a new year, and like many do for the New Year, I make resolutions.
But before I get into that, allow me to list my accomplishments from the past year:
This is my last year before turning 40, and I feel like I have a lot to accomplish. I'm tired of being fat. In the past year, I have gained at least 20 pounds, largely through beer consumption and by eating a few Bread and Chocolate pastries a week. Oh, and not exercising. Nada, nothing since RAGBRAI—last July. Pathetic. Last September I was only 20 pounds from my pre-Simon pregnancy weight—not that I was entirely happy with that weight, but I felt sexier and more fit than I did before Simon was born. To reward myself, I bought some deliciously curvy clothes from Boden. Then, satisfied with my success (over summer 2005, I lost 15 pounds and toned), closer to my goal, I blew it. A sadly familiar predicament (happened in 1995, after I got down to a size 10, then ballooned up to a size 14 in record time). My weight is now closer to where I was just after Winston was born, which was an utterly horrifying time to me.
As long as I exercise, I lose weight. I am happiest when I exercise. Finally, at 39 I get endorphins. I hate getting myself to the gym. My free time is so fucking precious (with a job, husband, and small children, I don't have much free time) that I never choose going to the gym. I'd rather come home after a day at the office, fix a lovely dinner for my family, have time to clean up, then cuddle with my kids before sending them off to bed.
But, I am in training for turning 40, so that I may be at the peak of physical and intellectual health. Herewith, a few resolutions for the new year:
It's going to be a great year!
Yogi Tea nugget: Wisdom, character, and consciousness conquer everything.
My day started beautifully with handsome husband singing "Happy Birthday." And, Simon entered our room, fully dressed for the day, to say good morning.
As with every birthday since becoming an adult, I told myself that today is the first day of the rest of my life. It's true. My birthday symbolizes a new year, and like many do for the New Year, I make resolutions.
But before I get into that, allow me to list my accomplishments from the past year:
- Celebrated my first Christmas—with my little family—in our own home
- Started and maintained three blogs—Hambone and Spice (food), Bibliotonic (books) and this one
- Traveled to Costa Rica (for John's 40th birthday) and to France (Paris for sights/culture/food and Reims for champagne/James & Ulrika's wedding)
- Appeared on newsstands as the editor of 12 magazines
- Celebrated my first anniversary at Homestore/Homeplans, part of Move
- Crossed some restaurants off my list: Grand Cafe (the reincarnation of Bakery on Grand), Nami, Auriga (twice), a Rebours, 112 Eatery (thrice). Revisited restaurants: Alma, Vincent
- Took cooking classes at Cooks, something I have always wanted to do: Japanese grilling and sushi basics
- Made/cooked gnocchi (failure), osso bucco (success), Italian fig Christmas cookies (success), sushi (not a complete failure), a really large octopus (gross, but a success), croquetas (my first foray into deep-frying, a total success), empanadas, margaritas from scratch
- Read some classics (Edith Wharton, Muriel Spark)
- Collected wine
- Threw a summer solstice/tapas party and a surprise birthday party for John
- Maintained friendships (Tracy A., Caryl T., brother Nik)
This is my last year before turning 40, and I feel like I have a lot to accomplish. I'm tired of being fat. In the past year, I have gained at least 20 pounds, largely through beer consumption and by eating a few Bread and Chocolate pastries a week. Oh, and not exercising. Nada, nothing since RAGBRAI—last July. Pathetic. Last September I was only 20 pounds from my pre-Simon pregnancy weight—not that I was entirely happy with that weight, but I felt sexier and more fit than I did before Simon was born. To reward myself, I bought some deliciously curvy clothes from Boden. Then, satisfied with my success (over summer 2005, I lost 15 pounds and toned), closer to my goal, I blew it. A sadly familiar predicament (happened in 1995, after I got down to a size 10, then ballooned up to a size 14 in record time). My weight is now closer to where I was just after Winston was born, which was an utterly horrifying time to me.
As long as I exercise, I lose weight. I am happiest when I exercise. Finally, at 39 I get endorphins. I hate getting myself to the gym. My free time is so fucking precious (with a job, husband, and small children, I don't have much free time) that I never choose going to the gym. I'd rather come home after a day at the office, fix a lovely dinner for my family, have time to clean up, then cuddle with my kids before sending them off to bed.
But, I am in training for turning 40, so that I may be at the peak of physical and intellectual health. Herewith, a few resolutions for the new year:
- Exercise every day: stretching or yoga in the morning, walks at noon, ride my bike everywhere, and spinning whenever I can. Something, anything. Groove my body however I am able.
- Lose weight: by exercising every day, eating well, cutting down alcohol and pastry consumption
- Meditate
- Read 50 books (reading list to follow)
- Conquer clutter in every room of the house
- Maintain house-proud status, inside (decorate) and out (landscape)
- Clean up messy relationships (mostly my mom)
- Travel (Chicago, No Cal, Jazzfest in New Orleans, and [possibly] Barcelona)
- Dine (La Belle Vie, The French Laundry, Zuni Cafe, Chez Panisse, Alinea)
It's going to be a great year!
Yogi Tea nugget: Wisdom, character, and consciousness conquer everything.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
I'm raising a male Martha Stewart
The other day, when I was grocery shopping with the kids, I spotted the October issue of Martha Stewart Living on the newsstand. And even though I had every intention of purchasing the magazine, I still asked the boys if I should buy the “Halloween magazine.” Simon (age 6.75) thought it was a fantastic idea. He also noticed that this wasn’t the only Halloween-themed magazine on the rack and started scooping up issues from Better Homes and Gardens and other women’s magazines.
He is so excited about Halloween, planning the decorations, costumes, and food. I love that he's into holidays! It's not surprising, since he's demonstrated an ease for party planning and always knows just how to accessorize an event. And, he can navigate the Party Warehouse like no one I know.
Simon is also comfortable in the kitchen. Last weekend he learned how to use the KitchenAid stand mixer, testing all the speeds and working the tilt head. He can make pancakes (and, he can tell you the ingredients and steps involved if you ask) and muffins.
But, his signature dish is scrambled eggs. He carefully breaks the eggs into a bowl and whisks them until they are blended. Then, he adds salt and pepper, and grates cheese into the bowl. After he gives the beaten eggs another stir, he asks me or John to light the stove. Simon adds butter to the pan, which we've placed on the flame; then he stirs and fusses the eggs into a soft, wet, lemony-yellow curd. Perfection. He's far more patient with the eggs than I could ever hope to be. Julia Child would be so proud.
Needless to say, cooking calms Simon, especially when he is in the throes of despair. Yes, I know he's only almost-seven years old, but he does suffer a younger brother. Sigh.
Not long ago, I asked Simon what he wanted to learn to cook next. I'm happy to report that the kid has goals. He’d like to learn how to cook all the kinds of eggs. Since he has mastered scrambled eggs, he'd like to move on to hard-boiled. Then, he said he'd like to learn how to make "all the cookies." Sure, I can help him with that—no problem.
He is so excited about Halloween, planning the decorations, costumes, and food. I love that he's into holidays! It's not surprising, since he's demonstrated an ease for party planning and always knows just how to accessorize an event. And, he can navigate the Party Warehouse like no one I know.
Simon is also comfortable in the kitchen. Last weekend he learned how to use the KitchenAid stand mixer, testing all the speeds and working the tilt head. He can make pancakes (and, he can tell you the ingredients and steps involved if you ask) and muffins.
But, his signature dish is scrambled eggs. He carefully breaks the eggs into a bowl and whisks them until they are blended. Then, he adds salt and pepper, and grates cheese into the bowl. After he gives the beaten eggs another stir, he asks me or John to light the stove. Simon adds butter to the pan, which we've placed on the flame; then he stirs and fusses the eggs into a soft, wet, lemony-yellow curd. Perfection. He's far more patient with the eggs than I could ever hope to be. Julia Child would be so proud.
Needless to say, cooking calms Simon, especially when he is in the throes of despair. Yes, I know he's only almost-seven years old, but he does suffer a younger brother. Sigh.
Not long ago, I asked Simon what he wanted to learn to cook next. I'm happy to report that the kid has goals. He’d like to learn how to cook all the kinds of eggs. Since he has mastered scrambled eggs, he'd like to move on to hard-boiled. Then, he said he'd like to learn how to make "all the cookies." Sure, I can help him with that—no problem.
Friday, September 15, 2006
What is that smell?
When John came home from work last night, around 9, he adopted a seriously puzzled look and asked, “What is that smell?”
Me: I have no idea. I can’t smell it.
John: “What do you mean? It smells strongly of turpentine in here.”
Me: Nope, not getting the faintest whiff.
With great determination to find the source of the chemical smell permeating the middle section of our home, John came up empty-handed.
Me: Maybe the neighbor is doing some work on his house.
John goes outside, is gone a while, and returns with a verdict: "You can't smell the odor outside."
The time to participate had arrived, so I hauled myself off the couch, went outside, and took a deep breath. Not surprisingly, the outdoors smelled as it should. But, upon re-entering our home, I could smell an unmistakable, must-be-toxic, chemical odor. Great, now if we all wake up, we'll wake up brain damaged. My hero says, "I won't stop until I find the source of the odor." He searched high (the garage) and low (the mechanical room on the lower level) to no avail. So we called our local gas company, and the emergency operator offered to send someone out.
An hour later, a gas-company technician rang our bell, and before he even stepped foot in our home, caught a whiff and announced, "That's the sewer. They're cleaning it in your neighborhood." Ah, so that's what the men and trucks are doing up at St. Clair and Fairview—12 blocks away. Yowza. We can sleep easier knowing the source of the odor. The NSP guy checked our gas lines nonetheless, as long as he was at the house. Guess what? We had a small gas leak, which the dude fixed by tightening a screw. But, again, yowza, we had a gas leak. When do you think we would have found out about it? Would the carbon monoxide detector have gone off? Does the carbon monoxide detector even work?
Fortunately, after all that, we all woke up this morning. Overheard at work: "So, I have this friend who is staying at a hotel this week because the sewer lines on his block are being cleaned . . ."
Wow, me too, except the city never informed me or offered to put me up. Even though we weren't within the radius, a few blocks "downstream" still gets the odor.
". . . and the city's note advised taping down the toilet seats so the sewer rats that are flushed out don't come up your toilet, which is often what happens."
Well, that's a bit of information I didn't need to know.
[*In January 2003, when we were still at the Niles house, the city cleaned the sewer lines with chemicals. We received a letter from the city informing us of the dates and that we could call an office if we'd like hotel accommodations during this time. Naturally, I thought, how bad could it be? Well, plenty bad. The odor in the house within the first hour of work was like some fresh hell. Fortunately, we were still able to get a "smoke-free" room in a fleabag Days Inn on University, which is where the construction company was putting us up. We checked out early and decided to risk any brain damage coming our way. Let's just say that it's an experience I don't hope to repeat any time soon. ]
Weekend plans: housework (paint blackboard, install new outlet in staging area), yardwork (seal up mouse holes, apply Round Up to weeds in sidewalk and steps), entertain (the Patels are coming for Sunday brunch), spend quality family time (kids have soccer on Saturday morning)
Eating: stone fruit while it lasts (nectarines are my favorite) and homemade soup (Tuscan kale and farro soup—minus the kale—from Lunds’s Real Food magazine)
Reading: Ward Just’s latest, Forgetfulness
Listening: Beck’s remixed Guero, Guerolito (not such a huge fan, but this is the only way you can currently find the album)
Me: I have no idea. I can’t smell it.
John: “What do you mean? It smells strongly of turpentine in here.”
Me: Nope, not getting the faintest whiff.
With great determination to find the source of the chemical smell permeating the middle section of our home, John came up empty-handed.
Me: Maybe the neighbor is doing some work on his house.
John goes outside, is gone a while, and returns with a verdict: "You can't smell the odor outside."
The time to participate had arrived, so I hauled myself off the couch, went outside, and took a deep breath. Not surprisingly, the outdoors smelled as it should. But, upon re-entering our home, I could smell an unmistakable, must-be-toxic, chemical odor. Great, now if we all wake up, we'll wake up brain damaged. My hero says, "I won't stop until I find the source of the odor." He searched high (the garage) and low (the mechanical room on the lower level) to no avail. So we called our local gas company, and the emergency operator offered to send someone out.
An hour later, a gas-company technician rang our bell, and before he even stepped foot in our home, caught a whiff and announced, "That's the sewer. They're cleaning it in your neighborhood." Ah, so that's what the men and trucks are doing up at St. Clair and Fairview—12 blocks away. Yowza. We can sleep easier knowing the source of the odor. The NSP guy checked our gas lines nonetheless, as long as he was at the house. Guess what? We had a small gas leak, which the dude fixed by tightening a screw. But, again, yowza, we had a gas leak. When do you think we would have found out about it? Would the carbon monoxide detector have gone off? Does the carbon monoxide detector even work?
Fortunately, after all that, we all woke up this morning. Overheard at work: "So, I have this friend who is staying at a hotel this week because the sewer lines on his block are being cleaned . . ."
Wow, me too, except the city never informed me or offered to put me up. Even though we weren't within the radius, a few blocks "downstream" still gets the odor.
". . . and the city's note advised taping down the toilet seats so the sewer rats that are flushed out don't come up your toilet, which is often what happens."
Well, that's a bit of information I didn't need to know.
[*In January 2003, when we were still at the Niles house, the city cleaned the sewer lines with chemicals. We received a letter from the city informing us of the dates and that we could call an office if we'd like hotel accommodations during this time. Naturally, I thought, how bad could it be? Well, plenty bad. The odor in the house within the first hour of work was like some fresh hell. Fortunately, we were still able to get a "smoke-free" room in a fleabag Days Inn on University, which is where the construction company was putting us up. We checked out early and decided to risk any brain damage coming our way. Let's just say that it's an experience I don't hope to repeat any time soon. ]
Weekend plans: housework (paint blackboard, install new outlet in staging area), yardwork (seal up mouse holes, apply Round Up to weeds in sidewalk and steps), entertain (the Patels are coming for Sunday brunch), spend quality family time (kids have soccer on Saturday morning)
Eating: stone fruit while it lasts (nectarines are my favorite) and homemade soup (Tuscan kale and farro soup—minus the kale—from Lunds’s Real Food magazine)
Reading: Ward Just’s latest, Forgetfulness
Listening: Beck’s remixed Guero, Guerolito (not such a huge fan, but this is the only way you can currently find the album)
Monday, September 11, 2006
I Don't Like Mondays
Nobody in my household seems to like Mondays.
When the alarm clock went off at 6:20 this morning, I had a bed bug (the blonde one) who was so toasty and warm and who made it physically impossible to get to the alarm by blocking my access. I also couldn't help but notice that it wasn't very light outside. When did that happen?
Finally, John, Winston, and I pried ourselves out of bed at 7:00 to an overcast, cold day. Winston cried in protest. I know how you feel, dude. We'd had such a good weekend, it really seemed a shame to disrupt our lovely leisure.
The boys each had their first soccer game on Saturday.
Winston's team of four-year-olds was even more disorganized than you might imagine. While Win and his teammates were all rolling around the field like puppies at play, the maroon team on the adjacent field was doing jumping jacks and listening raptly to their coach's instructions. Winston spent most of the hour in a state of sheer excitement, doing his "skateboard moves" on or near the soccer ball, but never actually kicking the ball.
Simon's team has a couple of great coaches—each of which has a child on the team. Both coaches have a keen sense of humor. While the team lost 4-1, the kids seemed to have had fun. Simon played defense—not a very cool position, I know. But, he played it like a pro, making at least one significant save.
In the afternoon, John mowed the lawn for the first and only time this year. The lawn is plush-looking, just as he likes it. And, I organized the children's toys (many of which were filed directly into the trash). You could say the afternoon was a success, so it was only appropriate that we celebrate with a wonderful meal at 112 Eatery with Steve and Lisa.
The food was impeccible, the wine was very good (especially the syrah), and the company appreciated. Except for the previous weekend when we had brunch with them, we have seen remarkably little of Steve and Lisa this year, and I consider it unfortunate. Steve is the culprit, busy as he is with CFO responsibilities and frequent travel to India and Jersey. We talked about possibly taking our little families to Chicago for MEA weekend, so we could go to the King Tut exhibit at the Field Museum and to the Shedd Aquarium by day. Then, get a kidsitter so the adults could partake of molecular gastronomy at Alinea and so on by night.
On Sunday, John and I took the boys to the Renaissance Festival, where we had a fantastic time eating fair food (enormous turkey legs, corn on the cob, popovers, kettle corn), cheering for the evil team during the joust, playing Renaissance-themed arcade games (using mini trebuchet to lob a ball into a goal), attempting Jacob's ladder, and shopping (wooden daggers, a shield for Winston, and felt knight "helmets" for each of the boys).
One of the day's high points was watching Winston scale the castle-keep climbing wall. He was eager to climb, and the wall had no height requirement so we indulged his desire. If Win were only an inch or two taller, he would have had no difficulty ringing the bell at the top of the wall. But, at the half-way point, he was unable to grab the next hand-hold. He persisted trying, then, without making a scene (uncharacteristically mature, I might add), he belayed down. It was thrilling to watch, and I look forward to giving him another opportunity to climb. I also look forward to the day when Simon—who is a climber, instincively—will harness up.
We only left the Ren Fest when the rain started coming down. By the time we reached our car, we were all soaked and cold, but agreed it was worth it. Back in St. Paul, I fixed a batch of homemade macaroni and cheese and a dose of fresh corn and zucchini for dinner. We skipped the Alley Cat party—our one chance at organized socializing with our neighbors for the year—and I have no regrets for the extra family time it gave us. After the boys fell asleep, I made my first batch of soup for the fall—a Tuscan kale and farro soup, which is incredibly earthy with Italian sausage and pinto beans. I forgot to buy the kale so didn't add it. While I think the soup would be nice with the kale, it certainly isn't missing.
Bring on the week...
When the alarm clock went off at 6:20 this morning, I had a bed bug (the blonde one) who was so toasty and warm and who made it physically impossible to get to the alarm by blocking my access. I also couldn't help but notice that it wasn't very light outside. When did that happen?
Finally, John, Winston, and I pried ourselves out of bed at 7:00 to an overcast, cold day. Winston cried in protest. I know how you feel, dude. We'd had such a good weekend, it really seemed a shame to disrupt our lovely leisure.
The boys each had their first soccer game on Saturday.
Winston's team of four-year-olds was even more disorganized than you might imagine. While Win and his teammates were all rolling around the field like puppies at play, the maroon team on the adjacent field was doing jumping jacks and listening raptly to their coach's instructions. Winston spent most of the hour in a state of sheer excitement, doing his "skateboard moves" on or near the soccer ball, but never actually kicking the ball.
Simon's team has a couple of great coaches—each of which has a child on the team. Both coaches have a keen sense of humor. While the team lost 4-1, the kids seemed to have had fun. Simon played defense—not a very cool position, I know. But, he played it like a pro, making at least one significant save.
In the afternoon, John mowed the lawn for the first and only time this year. The lawn is plush-looking, just as he likes it. And, I organized the children's toys (many of which were filed directly into the trash). You could say the afternoon was a success, so it was only appropriate that we celebrate with a wonderful meal at 112 Eatery with Steve and Lisa.
The food was impeccible, the wine was very good (especially the syrah), and the company appreciated. Except for the previous weekend when we had brunch with them, we have seen remarkably little of Steve and Lisa this year, and I consider it unfortunate. Steve is the culprit, busy as he is with CFO responsibilities and frequent travel to India and Jersey. We talked about possibly taking our little families to Chicago for MEA weekend, so we could go to the King Tut exhibit at the Field Museum and to the Shedd Aquarium by day. Then, get a kidsitter so the adults could partake of molecular gastronomy at Alinea and so on by night.
On Sunday, John and I took the boys to the Renaissance Festival, where we had a fantastic time eating fair food (enormous turkey legs, corn on the cob, popovers, kettle corn), cheering for the evil team during the joust, playing Renaissance-themed arcade games (using mini trebuchet to lob a ball into a goal), attempting Jacob's ladder, and shopping (wooden daggers, a shield for Winston, and felt knight "helmets" for each of the boys).
One of the day's high points was watching Winston scale the castle-keep climbing wall. He was eager to climb, and the wall had no height requirement so we indulged his desire. If Win were only an inch or two taller, he would have had no difficulty ringing the bell at the top of the wall. But, at the half-way point, he was unable to grab the next hand-hold. He persisted trying, then, without making a scene (uncharacteristically mature, I might add), he belayed down. It was thrilling to watch, and I look forward to giving him another opportunity to climb. I also look forward to the day when Simon—who is a climber, instincively—will harness up.
We only left the Ren Fest when the rain started coming down. By the time we reached our car, we were all soaked and cold, but agreed it was worth it. Back in St. Paul, I fixed a batch of homemade macaroni and cheese and a dose of fresh corn and zucchini for dinner. We skipped the Alley Cat party—our one chance at organized socializing with our neighbors for the year—and I have no regrets for the extra family time it gave us. After the boys fell asleep, I made my first batch of soup for the fall—a Tuscan kale and farro soup, which is incredibly earthy with Italian sausage and pinto beans. I forgot to buy the kale so didn't add it. While I think the soup would be nice with the kale, it certainly isn't missing.
Bring on the week...
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Soccer Night
The boys had their first soccer meeting tonight. Winston is in the 4/5 group, and we know no other families although we did meet one mom (Carole) and briefly espied her child (Charlie). Simon is in the 6/7 group where we do know a few families, one of which has a kid on his team. Much easier to be a soccer parent when you don't have to introduce yourself to parents you've never met before and likely will never see again.
Upon checking in with the coach, the boys were each issued a “jersey” (a long-sleeved T-shirt in their team color—W: forest green, S: black—and a number—W: 5, S: 1), which they promptly donned. They’re pretty excited to kick the ball around with some other kids. It’s clean living for Saturday mornings. This week, both of their games are at 11 a.m. so we have plenty of time to go to the Farmer’s Market beforehand.
Between the two “team meetings,” John and I took the boys to Snuffy’s Malt Shop for dinner: Snuffy burgers for the parents (w/ cheese, tomato, bacon, lettuce) and cheeseburgers for the biddle boys, a chocolate shake split between the boys and the dregs for their parents, and fries for all my friends. The boys love Snuffy's, mostly because it has a crappy, candy-filled arcade game filled that always offers a prize so everyone's a winner. The parents hate this place because they make the hamburgers on a par with fast-food restaurants, and you pay extra for sides, which always amounts to an enormous bill.
Simon and I are on a mission to identify the best fries in the Twin Cities, starting in St. Paul. So far, we’ve tried one restaurant—Snuffy’s—and I put it at the bottom of my list. The fries were flabby and pale, slightly pathetic. Simon, however, thought they were good. Bless him.
Reading: At lunch: Kristin Landsrup’s The Book of Story Beginnings; in the den: Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s The Shadow of the Wind; from the library: Mark Kurlansky’s The Big Oyster
Eating: tomatoes, corn, zucchini
Watching: anything in the dvr queue (Gilmore Girls, House, Bones, The Closer, Molto Mario, No Reservations)
Upon checking in with the coach, the boys were each issued a “jersey” (a long-sleeved T-shirt in their team color—W: forest green, S: black—and a number—W: 5, S: 1), which they promptly donned. They’re pretty excited to kick the ball around with some other kids. It’s clean living for Saturday mornings. This week, both of their games are at 11 a.m. so we have plenty of time to go to the Farmer’s Market beforehand.
Between the two “team meetings,” John and I took the boys to Snuffy’s Malt Shop for dinner: Snuffy burgers for the parents (w/ cheese, tomato, bacon, lettuce) and cheeseburgers for the biddle boys, a chocolate shake split between the boys and the dregs for their parents, and fries for all my friends. The boys love Snuffy's, mostly because it has a crappy, candy-filled arcade game filled that always offers a prize so everyone's a winner. The parents hate this place because they make the hamburgers on a par with fast-food restaurants, and you pay extra for sides, which always amounts to an enormous bill.
Simon and I are on a mission to identify the best fries in the Twin Cities, starting in St. Paul. So far, we’ve tried one restaurant—Snuffy’s—and I put it at the bottom of my list. The fries were flabby and pale, slightly pathetic. Simon, however, thought they were good. Bless him.
Reading: At lunch: Kristin Landsrup’s The Book of Story Beginnings; in the den: Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s The Shadow of the Wind; from the library: Mark Kurlansky’s The Big Oyster
Eating: tomatoes, corn, zucchini
Watching: anything in the dvr queue (Gilmore Girls, House, Bones, The Closer, Molto Mario, No Reservations)
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Mission Statement
To provide a healthy outlet for the creative release of pent-up gas, mental flotsam, and the truly trivial aspects of my existence.
I am a bit of an overwhelmed working mommy, but I am a little trooper. Sometimes I need a place—outside of my car—to scream or cry, as the mood strikes. And, since I already have a book blog and a food blog, and since my mother, mother-in-law, husband, and many of my friends and coworkers know the URLs to both blogs, the only logical place to turn was yet another blog. A super-secret blog where I can blog as often or as little as I like, about everything and nothing at all.
Let's go then...
I am a bit of an overwhelmed working mommy, but I am a little trooper. Sometimes I need a place—outside of my car—to scream or cry, as the mood strikes. And, since I already have a book blog and a food blog, and since my mother, mother-in-law, husband, and many of my friends and coworkers know the URLs to both blogs, the only logical place to turn was yet another blog. A super-secret blog where I can blog as often or as little as I like, about everything and nothing at all.
Let's go then...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)