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.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
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...
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