hungry thoughts

Today is the 9th of Av, a day of fasting and mourning for the lost centers of Jewish holiness. There's a whole constellation of concepts that go with that, but I'm going to point you to Eicha and leave it there. I'm too hungry to do the subject justice. Instead, all I can think about (4.08 pm, fast ends and 8.56? 8.57 pm? so that's what, 4 hours and 49 minutes to go - unless it's 46 minutes and I should really look that up which means that if I can get through feeding the kids dinner then it ice cream a couple of hours later and damn, my stomach is gnawing on my  collarbones) is food.

We've been eating peanut butter around here, every since the Eldest was veeerrrry carefully fed pb in a hospital setting, surrounded by a group of people who were only the teeniest bit disappointed when nothing happened. As it happens, when you don't grow up with peanut butter, it's a tough sell. Sticky on the roof of the mouth, a sort of strong taste that you've already been taught is dangerous, and now? now you should forget that and fall in love? Instantly? Um. Guesses as to how this goes?

It might help if one's mother lit up more at the idea of pb&j. But I'm frankly a little ooked by the idea, and me, I'm holding out for the barley allergy to go. I want my Vegemite. Peanut butter + toasted sesame oil, soy sauce, a leetle vinegar and a bunch of garlic, maybe some pepper and water and stir...now, you are talking. So, talk to me about peanut butter when the sesame allergy goes.

Clearly, now that we've kicked a couple of allergies, I'm turning into the demanding type. Either that, or peanut butter has simply never been all that central to my world. Until we discovered PB&J cookies. Gluten free, egg free, and nut free (if you can find a safely nut free peanut butter), these are delish. And pretty darned quick, too.

Our Imperfect thanks to rae1954 and eHow for the (slightly adapted) recipe:

PB& J cookies

1 cup peanut butter (smooth)
1 cup sugar
1 Tb soy flour (or other high protein flour)
2 Tb water, plus more as needed to get a workable consistency.
Jam of choice

Preheat oven to 350F. Dump all ingredients (except jam) in a mixing bowl. Mix, adding water until the result will form a ball when rolled between your palms. Cover a cookie sheet with baking parchment, or spray with cooking spray.

Drop balls of dough (roughly 1 coffee scoop, or 1/4th cup) onto cookies sheet. Use your thumb to make an indentation in each. Invite the kids to drip a wee bit of jam into each thumbprint, and take photos.

Bake 16-18 minutes, until slightly browned. Cool on cookie sheet for 5 minutes before transferring to a cooling rack. Consider the possibility that PB goes with a slightly caramelized J, and that other versions of this lovely combination are worth tolerating - conceptually, if not in practice. They are, after all, not that far from a fairly delicious truth.

did someone say go?

Somehow, speed and this oh my gawd, it be hot doesn't seem to go together in my eyes - but the boys seem to operate according to an entirely different set of specs. Which would explain, come to think of it, oh so much.

A couple of months ago, we were given a hand-me-down bike. Gig fell in love with it, mourned when it was too big, and reluctantly allowed the Eldest to sit on it. Briefly. When removed from the bike, the Eldest screeched bloody murder - the bike was too tall for him, also.

The Man shook his head. Maybe if we took it to a bike shop? 


Upstairs, the boys squabbled over the blue bike - no, the purple! - the one with the bell! - but can't Mum move the bell? - oh, yeah, but I want the one without the training wheels - oh, me too! said his sibling, gloriously indifferent to his lack of two-wheeled experience. Me, too, he repeated. Firmly.

1.2 inches of seat adjustment later, and we had ourselves some speed. Irregular and slightly scraped at first, but then? Then we had this:

And, to be fair, they did slow down so that my poor wee camera could capture them.

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Feeding the speed demons requires an equally speedy dinner, because while they might be fast on the road, the lads flag quickly when its time to come inside. But this salmon and salad meal gets thrown together in about 20 minutes, with a little advance prep.

garlic, with a little yogurt & dill sauce:

adapted from (no joke) Garlic, Garlic, Garlic - credit for the adaptation goes to one of our favorite children's librarians. 

1 1/2 cups plain yogurt

1/3 cup fresh lemon juice

2 fat cloves garlic, pressed or minced

freshly ground pepper

1 tsp dried oregano, or 1/2 tsp fresh

1 big handful chopped dill

optional: a sprinkle of mint

Mix thoroughly, and set aside. Covered, the sauce should keep in the refrigerator for a week.

Meanwhile....take a slab of salmon, drizzle with olive oil, salt, freshly ground black pepper. Drizzle a bit of maple syrup on top. Grill or broil until it flakes gently in the middle.

Into a bowl, toss a whatever is in the fridge salad. Yesterday, this salad looked like this:

1/2 of a small Napa cabbage, thinly sliced

a shred of a radiccio

a handful of lettuce from our garden

thin strips of apples

2 scallions, sliced

a big spoonful of green olives

1 underripe mango, sliced into strips

Toss in the bowl, along with a dressing. Yesterday, our dressing was: olive oil (drizzle on salad, toss until salad is coated), salt, pepper, garlic powder (toss again, until spices are distributed). A spritz or two of Bragg's (a recommendation from a wise friend, whose children eat kale - think of it, kale! - with Bragg's sprayed on top), a drizzle of honey (1 Tb?) and a tablespoon or so of vinegar.

Serve with a bowl of leftover rice, or some boiled potatoes - preferably the wonderfully lumpy ones that Gig picked out at the market, and then was only reluctantly persuaded to share. The slightly charred, caramelized flavors of the fish match up nicely with the slightly sweet salad. There might be more subtle ways to balance this gentle, summery sweetness, but I'm not a subtle person. I like the coolness and the garlicky bite of the yogurt sauce, and I know that tomorrow, it'll be lovely with just the boiled potatoes, a pickle or two, and a peach. The day after, I'll probably use the sauce as a salad dressing...but I'll wait a couple of days after that, before I use it as a dipping sauce for some pan-fried tilapia. 

And then? peas.

Passed over. Next? (with menu)

So, Pesach. was. awesome.

The Man worked insanely hard at work and at home, and began moving the laundry along and forgetting to press START. The kids learned that, temporarily (the adults told them, earnestly) the playroom was being remade into the Place to Store Jillions of Dishes. Also Pots. And they dealt with that, wisely taking over the long, open floor of the living/dining room.

You can wage some serious epic battles between droid-dominoes and Jedi-dominoes in that space. Also, a modified, refrigerator magnet form of Rogue. Maybe even teach it to some friends. Except when you are carefully checking the rice and beans - three times - for stray grains o' barley and such. (Also? finding them. Kosher for Pesach, my allergy mama ass.)

And I ran around, making lists, reworking last year's lists, realizing that the lists were multiple pages long, hyperventilating and explaining to paper bags that I just did not have the time to do all of this, and if i could please just get a wee bit more oxygen, I'm sure that I could do some prioritizing.

The kids brought home wonderful bits of art, a ceramic object designed to distribute grape juice to four cups, and the sweetest seder plate, made by a sweetly earnest small person.

Like that one.

And that one.

The Man and I raced around, trying to actually enjoy - and encourage? - the kids' enthusiasm without actually having to stand still long enough to do so. Until it was time to light a candle, get out a carefully cut paper feather, and unleash the kids with flashlights, to hunt for the chametz. Because we have some, you know - oats rock my world, even when they force me to clean it, too.  The boys raced through the house, shrieking with glee. I got it! I found it! and hey! that's great - I didn't think of looking under there! and the adult how on earth did you GET under there? And (thoughtfully) how are you getting back out? and the inevitable, Noooooo! I was going to find that one! and, then the hiccupping, damp wail of bu-bu-but he found two-thirds, at least, and I wanted to find half. And now I caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan't! Followed by a quiet slipping out the door by one parent, three very subtle thuds and a thumbs up.

Equity more or less restored, we were on to the seders. And the fingerpuppets. The plagues, as brought to you by the dollar store (jumping plastic frogs, red paper confetti, etc), the four questions as brought to you by Vanna Toddles - complete with glamorous waving motions - and the best Red Sea enactment ev-ah. (Note: I love teenagers. They give a whole new height? depth? to the concept of parting the waters.)

We missed some of our dear and insufficiently near ones, welcomed friends, and discovered that the formula of two preschool (current and former) teachers, plus one librarian plus the rest of us = a bouncing, question-prodding, puppet-waving seder with a fair dose of speed and giggles. And oh yes, who bring friends with their own set of hand puppets. And kids who walk into the kitchen and say things like, hi! how can I help?


It was undeservedly good. And at the end of it, when the last guests had left and we were merely elbow-deep in dishes, the Eldest rounded up his brother and father, and the three of them stood in the kitchen and applauded.

I am so doing this again next year.
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Pesach/Passover 2011 - as planned, and occasionally as delivered to the table.
note: we follow Sephardic rules for Pesach, and eat rice and beans.

1st seder
* carpas:  parsley, tiny red an' yellow an' purple potatoes, broccoli, carrots, potato chips. Salt water.
(add in: chimichurri, guacamole or gremolata, grapes)
* charoset:

• apples, raisins, lemon juice, cinnamon & sweet red wine. Add ginger juice to taste.
• fresh cranberry-orange relish
• orange confit, if I can find the time to make it. (I didn't.)

dinner:

green salad

sweet potato fries/rice

some sort of meat (!!!)

mint sauce

-----

lemon sorbet

blood orange sorbet

Tuesday: lunch

make your own sushi with lox, cukes, avo, scallion, mango, lettuce, sushi rice - and, regrettably, with some faux, Passover-friendly non-soy sauce. The sushi was a hit - the non soy sauce was not.

2nd seder

*carpas: see 1st seder. Add in: melon, strawberries, etc to sustain the smalls until dinner. Even though they were fed a pre-seder meal. Also? dips.

*charoset: see 1st seder. And don't slow down on the magid, because we're going to lose a third of the shorties by the end of dinner... But at least they'll last long enough for:

dinner:

green salad

Karina's crustless vegan pumpkin pie, heavily reworked into a sweet potato deliciousness. 

maple syrup salmon

baked chickpea salad

-----------

orange sherbet (oh, Alton - you marvel!)

sorbet, sorbet and more sorbet.

Also? fruit.  Apple crisp if I have time.

Wednesday:

leftovers. Also? dishwashing. 

dinner: okay, here we might manage something like a shepherd's pie using the leftover meal/poultry from the 1st seder. Bulking that up with hot dogs. Unless, of course, there are mere shreds left over from the 1st seder, in  which case it's a good thing that I bought those boneless chicken thighs. 

Leftover rice, plus add some of the citrus surplus to sliced red onion, cracked green olives, a handful of red grapes and the leftover romaine leaves from the seder for a green salad. And oh, by now, those plantains should be beautifully black. Whip out the wok, honey, and get a-frying.

Thursday:

make your own cheese matza deliciousness. We supply the best GF oat matza that Lakewood can make, umpteen cheeses and heck, dips and veggies. Extra points for the unexpected and yummy.

dinner: um. Who can remember?

Friday:

dinner:  rice, leftover salmon, salad. Dips. Sorbet! Wow, this meal thing practically runs itself, given enough momentum. How many times can I say 'leftovers' this week, and in how many different ways? Tonight's phrasing: wrap it, baby. 

Shabbat:

breaded (oat matza meal!) chicken and hot dogs

Dougie's buffalo wings sauce

condiments & cranberry relish

salad with extra crunch, to balance the mush/squish of the really moist, super-marinated chicken.

rice with fennel & herbs

dinner: basil pesto pasta, salad, tuna. Pickles!

Sunday: dinner

leftover milchigs/dairy, reinvented in fill-your-own baked potatoes.

Yeah, kind of like that. (Note: the green stuff under the carefully mashed and re-filled potato is avocado. Also, an olive. History is politely mute as to whether the potato was consumed, but contemporary journals suggest that at least 2-3 purposeful bites were taken.)

Monday:

dinner: crepes! Time to go light and sweet, so whip up some cream (oy, me achin' arm), slice that dripping-sweet melon, sprinkle some of the last of the mint, chop up the sad strawberries and douse them in sugar and lemon juice, and heck, put some lemon juice into a tiny bowl, and some sugar into another. Crepes. 

This is the bestest Pesach food ever, Mum. Why haven't you made this before?

I surveyed the sweet-fest in front of me, and considered.

Actually, I have. It's just been a while.
The Toddles looked up, chewed, swallowed, and put a slightly greasy hand on my shoulder. I love you, Mummy. But I like your food better.
I nodded. All things considered, I was fine with that.

Crepes provided breakfast and midnight snack for the next three days. and by the time we ate our way through another three or four meals, crepes were also providing school lunches. And it was time to dig out the kitchen, update the Pesach inventory and find just enough non-Passover dishes to be able to cook for shabbat.

Which, by tomorrow evening, we will have done. I think. 

brace yourselves: the Passover prep post

The challenges are few, but comprehensive:

* organize and plan resources:

* menus & recipes (vegetarians! non-vegetarians! carnivores who also eat PB&waffle!)

* haggadas, various seder materials for adults, children

* guest head-count + places for guests to stay

* scheduling for tasks/goals

* shop for non-perishables & perishables

* turn chametz kitchen into Pesachdik (Passover-oriented) kitchen

* clean and transform the apartment

* clean and transform the car

* various sundries, all astonishingly time-consuming.

Of these, the quest for affordable, gluten-free matza reigns supreme. Where? How? Last year, I ordered my matzot from these lovely people, and the year before we bought our first and slightly crumpled box of oat matza from this company. This year, I will be appreciating but avoiding these matzot, which do not (say the company FAQ) meet the requirements for Passover, though they do meet the requirements for gluten-freeness.

Where my recipes are concerned, I do have a binder with last year's recipes, menus and inventory of my pots, pans, plates, etc - it's a glorious, shedding mass of paper. Tonight, promises the Man, he'll tackle it while I wade through my scraps of recipes. This year, we simplify last year, which had me firmly tethered to the kitchen. Because what's the point of a burble of cousins, if you can't burble along with them?

Until the wading begins, it's electronics all the way, baby - and the annual hunt for the thing that didn't work. Three years down the road from my first seder, that's charoset. Last year, we used this - and the children informed us that it was not banana-riffic. I offered a fresh cranberry-orange relish, and was informed that while fun, it was not charoset. So.

Here's what I've found: dried fruit charoset, non-sponsored dried fruit charoset, or choose one from this list. But I'm most certainly taking suggestions...

Pre-seder mini-dinner, seder 1's dinner and carpas/charoset/z'roa/maror/washed romaine, day 1 lunch, pre-seder dinner, seder 2 dinner, carpas/charoset/z'roa/maror/washed romaine, 2nd day lunch, dinner, 3rd day lunch....breakfast????? yikes??

Oh, me, oh my - how the shopping list does grow. Mine is mostly produce, fish and a bit of (eep) meat. And a headache's worth of fruit, to pacify the children in search of a nice cookie. Which we haven't got. *sigh* Most of our year-round desserts are Passover-friendly, but their ingredients aren't cleared for use by the rabbis. Usually, this is simply a matter of rabbi-power: they don't tend to check the niche market foods, because they're short on time. And rabbis. But we persevere....and make lots of phone calls to the Sephardi rabbinate.

Fluffing my bits of paper, I begin to think that the standard Pesach and allergy mistake is the same. If you lack a central ingredient for a recipe, don't fake it - find another recipe. Sorbet has served us well in the past, and I'm eyeing a variety of the ice creams and sorbets over here. Solid sweet-yumminess? On shabbat, we tested this vegan coconut macaroon recipe, and woot! Yumilicious. Apparently, macaroons are like meatballs: the eggs and flour appear to be crucial, but are, in fact, not. Whew. But I'm still stumped on breakfast. Matza and jam? Listening to me mutter, the Man winced.

The list grows, and my paper-ruffling continues: it's easy to turn out an elaborate, tether-iffic menu, and harder to turn out a simpler one, with built-in breaks between meal preps. Oh, for the luxury of being able to cook in advance of the holiday.... Oh, well. Until that glorious day, I'm eyeing leftovers, and hoping to turn up some good non-lentil, vegetarian bean crockpot recipes. Because we can used dried, inspected beans, but not canned. Any suggestions?

erm. well, then.

My apologies for the quiet, while armies of viruses held delighted, ancient victory dances on my bones.

ow.

They appear to be done now. But it was still radio silence today, while we disconnected all electronics, allowing the Window Guys to replace the window that has been broken for lo, these many frigid, blanket-wrapped winters. I used to shove towels in front of the study (a.k.a The Room In Which Children Do Not Go, Hey You - Get Out Of There) door, and no longer shall we do so. Heck, we shall now revel in the window-ness of the study, examining this new brave new world, in which windows keep out rain, cold, and even tilt - the better to be washed, my pretty.

Which may have a drawback, but I'm too giddy and unvirally-danced-upon to think of it.

But, returning to the viruses: it is possible, based on unverified rumors and highly reliable seventh-hand sources, that the flu has arrived. Again. Or possibly for the first time - I'm unclear. Not having had the energy to call my doctor, or even finish sentences for a couple of days, I really couldn't tell you exactly what walloped me, but I will say this: the next time that I mock the Man for being highly incompetent at being sick, laugh at me. Because on the day that I finally realized that I was running 101F, I then prudently decided to finish the filing, wrap some overdue baby gifts, and work on the next (and last!?) OT post for this blog. And pay some medical bills (hence, the filing). And send a couple of ridiculously overdue emails - and oh, I'm sure there was something else, but then I fell over.

Surprised. While on the phone, and trying to think about something involving a calendar.

This morning, I came to myself, skull splintering with a migraine, but nonetheless more mentally coherent than I'd been for much of the week. And was seriously tempted to roar. Somewhere in that week, the Eldest had swung on a towel bar (not built to hold your weight, buddy - whoops!) and we were now sans bar but plus bruised kid, I'd missed a chavruta, a playdate for the Eldest, a night out with a friend, getting the car inspected and....my MENTAL HEALTH DAY. Which the Man and I had scheduled (!) last week, and now poof! gone in a cloud of virus.

sighhhhhhh. But hey, at least I can now wash the study window, right?

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The question of feeding Imperfects, when mama Imperfect is non compos mentis, is hardly difficult. The Man makes pasta, cuts up cucumbers, tofu, and salad dressing features in there somewhere. The boys love it, but personally, I rather prefer the Man's crockpots.

Honestly? I have no idea what the Man made, but I can tell you that something smelled absolutely, unfairly delicious at one point. I fell asleep while trying to persuade myself to go and eat some, and woke up to find that someone had scraped the pot clean. Nonetheless, at some point it occurred to me that I ought to be making food, so I staggered out of bed and made this:

Comfort Food Soup:

adapted from Jeannette Seaver's Soups, this serves roughly 4-6 people

3 Tb oil

2 tsp caraway seeds (yes, yes, I know: caraway. But hang in there with me, people, somehow this actually works)

6 cups water

2 potatoes, cut small. Wash the taters first, if you like - I don't bother peeling them. But do cut them up small, because that helps.

1 onions, also cut up small (okay, diced)

1 package hot dogs, cut up small (because if you don't, the kids will pick out the hot dog bits. The goal is to make it sneakily tricky for them to just eat the 'dogs)

2 bay leaves

salt and pepper to taste

In a large pot, heat the oil. Add the caraway seeds, and when they begin to pop, toss in and saute the hot dogs and onion. When the onions are really nicely browned, add the rest of the ingredients. Stir, scraping the bottom of the pot to get all of the best bits off. Bring to a boil, then pop a lid on top - at an angle that will allow some steam to escape. Simmer happily for 25 minutes, then serve.

And serve again. And possibly, depending on the populace at your dinner table, stick an elbow in the spot best suited to letting you serve yourself fourths. Assuming, that is, that the viruses have stopped parading and are too busy doing something cirque du soleil-ish to stop you.

the uneven days of winter vacation

where one boy gets dressed, and the other - well. Our daily rhythms have vanished in a startled, grinning burst of winter break.

We've had playmates, the Eldest's first and eminently survivable sleepover, houseguests and important self-discoveries, such as my discovery that, if I must have reading glasses, then by golly: purple.

And houseguests (hat-making, farm-building, kid-loving guests) and chatter and amazing sushi and ooooh-warm soups and holy-freakin-moly cold, and - yes - talk. The Man and I had a series of those spiraling, serious conversations about how we parent, and how we want to parent. We believe strongly in explaining our parental lines in the sand, but that's developed into a compound 'do X, because otherwise there's natural consequence/irate parent consequence Y' approach. Which does not work so very well.

When you do that, the Eldest informed me, I can choose between the consequence and what you want me to do. He raised his eyebrows, waiting while I winced. Tucked under his covers, the Toddles looked up, clear-eyed and thoughtful. Good to know, I admitted. I'll have to think about it. I certainly don't like being the kind of parent who threatens. The Toddles shook his head. Me, neither, he told me.

Wincing, laughing, the Man and I began hammering out a new plan. Possibly involving a lot of hugs. Certainly requiring us to be honest about what we are capable of. Which one of us is more likely to be set off by a recalcitrant, naked person at 38 minutes past bedtime? Which parent can best manage a shrieking, you're so unfair rant over toothbrushing? A shoeless, shirtless small child whose backpack and lunch are still politely at the top of the stairs, while parental teeth grind, trying to herd the kids to the car - and the morning commute? We sat and talked on the futon, on the kitchen floor, curled up in bed, talking about the boys, about who we were, the parents we want to be, the people that we are - and could be. It was necessary, cathartic, and brutally honest. A good way to end the year, we told each other, and talked until a small boy arrived to insist that someone curl up with him.

And then it was quiet.

But in the quiet, gears turned,

How does it work? the Eldest mused, and ran for paper and pencil. He drew carefully, copying sculpture titles, the artist's name, and the details he could find. Oh, said a venerable gentleman observing one sculpture. It's using gears. He looked at the Eldest, to see if the child appreciated this bit of wisdom. Having just fought a round of the duh* wars, I held my breath. But the Eldest merely looked patient. Yes, he said. And there is the motor. And do you see the two springs?

...eyes looked,

taking notes on the wonders of rocks. The Eldest spent a full hour, drawing, wandering, exclaiming. My favorite is the aquamarine from Brazil, he told me. I rather liked some of the lapis lazuli, myself, but was struck by some of the more bulbous rocks. The Toddles, drawn to the meteors, stroked them comfortably. He showed me their inclusions, but discovered the joys of grin-and-duck when I aimed the camera at him. Urgh.

....hands worked,

[this photo blocked until Gamma has received her birthday gift]

And, alas, worked some more. This project took over three weeks, as the Eldest designed, budgeted, and redesigned once his materials arrived. And then, ack! had to re-engineer his work on the spot, as we learned some rather basic lessons about wire. But, said the Eldest, I wonder if we can do things with wire like Arthur Ganson does?

When we took Gamma's birthday gift to the experts (help!), we picked up some supplies. Maybe. Not, I suspect, as effectively as Ganson, but let's try and see, I said. Doubtfully.

...and oh yes, snow fell.

It's been a snowy pair of weeks, with bone-chilling winds. But snow somehow transforms teeth rattling cold into fun. So, the boys happily shoveled the walk on Thursday, stopping periodically to fling snowballs. It's not the best snow for snowballs, I was informed. It's too fluffy! But they cleared the sidewalk and stairs regardless.

Cheeks glowing, the snow critics headed inside for hot soup (see below) and onion tart. And a sense of deep satisfaction - right until the moment when the smaller critic was informed that he was overdue for a nap. [insert wail, whisk and roar here]

Folks, I'll be back with Part Two of the OT/sensory integration story, but for now, I'm off to help the Eldest sort recycled (okay, rescued) glass beads. He's singing quietly to himself at the table as he works, and his peaceful pleasure, the quiet, satisfied vibration of his work ripple outwards. In the kitchen, washing lettuce, I find myself smiling.

And then, he looks up. I love you, Mum.

My throat tightens, thickening. I love you, too, kiddo.

It's been a thoughtful, honest, loving - and as always, slightly cranky- end to the year at Chez Imperfect. With any luck, we'll begin the new year as we've ended the old one, ripe with the awareness of our gifts, and ruthless in considering our needs. But before I head over to join my order-from-chaos kidlet, I did want to say:

from all of the Chez Imperfect denizens, we wish you all a happy new year, rich with ripples of love, satisfaction and the work that makes us sing. And, of course, the imperfections that make us shine.

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A Wintry Day's Soup:

3 medium potatoes, washed and chopped roughly

2 large onions, or 1 large onion and 1 (washed) leek, chopped roughly

7-8 Jerusalem artichokes, a.k.a. sunchokes, washed and chopped roughly

1/2 inch ginger root, peeled and sliced into thin strips, or 1 tsp ground ginger

1 can of white beans of your choice: navy beans, chickpeas, butter beans, even Roman beans are good here. Drain and rinse.

salt and pepper to taste

3 bay leaves

6-8 cups water, or vegetable broth

1/3rd cup leftover white wine (or cooking wine, if you are so equipped)

4 Tb olive oil

optional: a sliced carrot

Saute fresh ginger and onions/leeks in oil until browned. (if using ground ginger, add when adding the rest of the spices) Add potatoes and Jerusalem artichokes, beans, spices, wine and enough water to cover the veggies by 1 inch. Let simmer for roughly 20 minutes, or until the potatoes are quite cooked.

Puree. Return to the stovetop and simmer for perhaps 5 minutes, adjusting seasonings. Serve hot, wishing you hadn't eaten all the garlic croutons yesterday. I like sprinkling them on top, said the Toddles, wistfully. Can you make some really, really quickly? And be done making them already?

Um, no.

*in which one side offers various sarcastic, oh jeez that's so OBVIOUS sorts of comments, while the other side suggests that perhaps those are, um, obnoxious. If not also disrespectful and somewhat indicative of the opinion that He Who is Dismissing is far superior than the Dismissed.

dribbles of competencies

In case you were wondering, while I can get blood out of just about anything, I'm a little stumped about the black greasy stuff on my hands. But in a non-neatfreaky shift, I'm loving the black goo.

Last night, my car declined to start. I sat on a random street, betwixt and between errands. And stared. The lights on the dash flared, then faded. The radio went silent. I turned the key, suggested politely, then firmly, finally used the evil mom growl. The car was unimpressed. This, I knew, was many many miles outside of my range of experience.

The lights were on, I said out loud, then they were off. And the NPR - where did it go?

Alas, said the AAA emergency roadside kit booklet, it went with the battery.

Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick, said the engine, agreeing. This, I thought, is why I hid a chocolate and peanut bar in my bag for tonight's outing. I'd known that tonight was going to need it.

The chocolate was silky and the peanuts crunched, and mollified, I merely grinned when the booklet informed me that my troubles would be solved if I signed up with AAA. Failing that, said the booklet, find someone to jump-start the battery. I called a friend, it's going to take me a while to get to you, to drop your things off. I sadly looked at the empty bar wrapper, contemplated the lack of chocolate and peanuts. Would tea fill the void? But perhaps we can help, replied the friend. I'll send competent male out to jump-start your car.

Competent male turned up, and was indeed competent.* We compared AAA kits and happily, he knew how to use his. Except that, to his chagrin, there was his car, running - and the keys locked in it. Spare set of keys, he told me, and ran home to fetch them. Spare battery? Not so much.

We finally unlocked his car, untangled the jumper cables and compared identical AAA booklets on What To Do. We were attaching the jumped cables when roadside assistance turned up, and gasped with horror.

Don't do that! exclaimed the RA guy. You'll fry your computers.

Competent male and I looked at each other. We will? Competent male shrugged, and left me in clearly professional - and non cable-using - hands. Battery jumped, I drove home, weaving around and through my route in an effort to charge the battery. But don't expect the car to start again tomorrow, warned the professional. That battery is done.

But the next morning, it did. And when it started, I was prepared: had driving directions in hand, apples in bag and Eldest in the backseat, and we drove straight to AutoZone. Bought a battery. Watched the store's guy try and fail to unscrew the strap holding the old battery in place. Watched the car try and fail to turn on. The hours, which had been sliding away, giggled and picked up speed. Lunchtime came, and the Eldest finished his apple, two bags of potato chips and a pair of cookies. I'm still hungry, he told my rumbling stomach, having eaten my share of the snacks along with his own. I clamped my jaws shut, and worked to preserve any illusions of loving motherhood that he might have left.

Ah, but this time: spare battery.

One Roadside Assistance call later, the troublesome nut had spun off, we had a new battery in place, and I had been talked through hubcap replacement by the RA guy. I drove home considering this - the Home Depot guys are of the opinion that I can do nearly anything myself, including cutting tile. Is the RA guy of this ilk? I'd be disappointed in you if you couldn't, said a friend. I eyed the tires dubiously. Where I grew up, you called a guy. Competent, RA, handy or otherwise. Or caught a bus.

Sure enough, my first efforts popped off. The next round looked oddly askew - I'd covered the air thingie. Bloody car. Need a pack mule. Telecommuting, mutter mutter mutter something about a bicycle. Four new hubcaps and black goo later, I'm of the opinion that competency is a slippery, fluid concept. But I might - possibly - perhaps have dribbles of it.

perhaps. occasionally, I mused, spreading putty over the rusting holes in my paint. But, from the look of the swirling, delightedly unsmooth putty, not terribly often.

*please note that I say this with all sincerity: comparatively and otherwise, he was competent.

*********************************************************************

on an un-lunched day like this, when I'd rather have been doing any number of things other than considering my own dubious compentencies - and not so dubious ignorance of things vehicular, a serious pick-me-up is crucial. Mine? Steaming wedges of plain potato, coconut curried chickpeas from this wonderful cookbook, and unMarthaed green sauce.

unMarthaed green sauce

based on a recipe for green sauce, from a Martha magazine, picked up and carried reasonably far in a slightly chimicurried direction.

1/2 of a red onion

3 cloves garlic, peeled

1/3rd tsp red pepper flakes

most of a bunch of parsley, including stalks (if your food processor is up to the challenge, that is)

3-4 stalks fresh oregano, leaves stripped off (even if your food processor can handle it, the stalks are woody in flavor. I'd pass.)

1/3rd cup stuffed green olives (plain green are fine, too)

juice of 3 lemons

1/4 c rice vinegar, unless you have red wine vinegar (I didn't)

1/3rd to 1/2 cup olive oil

salt, pepper and ground coriander to taste

Add ingredients to the food processor: heavier ingredients first, then leafy and spices. Keep the liquids in reserve as encouragement to the machine when it falters, or has trouble chopping the elusive leaves. A nice, percussive pulse should do the trick: you want your sauce to be finely chopped, and not pureed. Mine was puree, however, and I managed to love it regardless.

Adjust your flavors to suit you - add olive oil if you need the sauce to have less zing, and more smoothness of flavor. Add lemon juice if you need more zing, salt if the flavor feels wimpy, extra onion for more pungency, capers and cornichons if you are having a Marthaesque moment of piquancy, anchovies if you are feeling traditional (but for heavens sake, add the anchovies early on in the percussion, 'k?). In short, have fun.

And when you are done, consider the simple, wonderfully neutral steamed potato as a backdrop to all that flavor, hmmm?

dinner? anyone?

Note to self: anyone making a highly aromatic soup on a fast day, gets what she deserves.

(siiiighhh)

*******************************

Badly Timed, Deliciously Smelled Tomato Soup

(serves 4)

6 cloves of garlic, smashed and peeled

2 tsp cumin seeds

1 stick cinnamon

3 slices of ginger root, matchsticked (note: smaller or larger slices as per your ginger-lovin' preferences)

2 cardamom seeds

1/3rd tsp coriander seeds

3 bay leaves

3-4 Tb olive oil

4 nearly overripe tomatoes (or canned equivalent), plus 28 oz diced tomatoes

salt and black pepper to taste

4 cups water/broth

toss spices and oil into a large pot, and let them heat - and start sizzling while you finish smashing and peeling the garlic. Fling the garlic in as you go along, because surely dinner should have been on the table 20 minutes ago? And hey, isn't anyone setting the table?

While you holler for the kids to come and bring plates, forks, knives and spoons to the table, roughly chop the fresh tomatoes, if you are using any, and toss those in. Remind the boys to bring glasses, also, while you open the canned tomatoes. Stir the pot, toss in anything remaining, cover and abandon to simmer while you go and chivvy the troops.

And dig up the napkins - how on earth did they end up down there? Hmmm. Resist the urge to go and find the guilty party (and congratulate him on his creativity), because at this point the soup's been simmering nicely for about 20 minutes, and you need to find a stick blender.

Use the stick blender.

Remind the children that dinner is traditionally eaten at the table. Remind them again. Disentangle the younger one from his Lego, and airlift him to his seat. Pour soup, and pass bowls of toppings, like cubed avocado, the slightly crushed tortilla chips from the bottom of the bag, bits of cucumber, and consider the days when you might've plopped sour cream on top.

Note: if you have, for some unimaginable reason, just discovered that your defrosted salmon went into the oven with a lovely pomegranate sauce (open bottle, pour) with a hint of plastic (take scissors, release salmon, release plastic), then possibly you are 1. overtired and 2. could happily dump a can of small white beans, great Northern beans or another mild white bean into this soup. Cook briefly, puree and serve with salad and maybe some of Gamma's improbably good croutons. Or, consider some leftover chicken, shredded and added post-puree, or possibly as a topping.

Note the second: this would never happen to me. Nope. Nuh uh. And especially not after a long, thoughtful conversation with the Man whilst returning home from Rosh Hashana, in which we identified a prompt 6 pm dinner as being the key to many happy widgets. Like timely bedtimes, less tired children and smoother evenings and mornings. Nope. I'd pick that plastic out before it melted into an alarmingly viscous sauce and swirled into the lovely pomegranate stuff. Yep. That's what I'd do.

on the care and management of husbands

I feel dizzy, the Man commented. 

Four feet ahead of him, pushing a sandy, exhausted Toddles in the stroller, I nodded, noted and filed the remark. We'd spent hours at the park that day, relaxing in the shade while the boys played, picnicking on a patchwork of towels: luxurious. Walking home, it occurred to me that dizzy wasn't  the word I'd expected the Man to use on this day, at this time. Tired, sure.  Sleepy, oh I'm right there with ya. Relaxed, absolutely. I tucked away dizzy, sure that I'd understand it eventually, too busy floating on the pleasures of the afternoon to muster a proper worry. 

And oh, that afternoon.

The Toddles had stood under the jets of water, soaked and fascinated, his mouth open with pleasure - when it wasn't netting water. I'd filled my mouth instead with the tastes of summer shabbat: this week, it was Thai basil, grilled chicken, scallions and roasted plums. Ooooh. The Eldest, bolted barely enough to score dessert, then vanished to experiment with hydrodynamics. Dripping and banned from the sand until he dried (somewhat), he then found that the snazzy brushed metal of the park's slide and climbing structure made wonderful, resonant sounds. Boom, bim, bim boom, said the structure, as the Eldest swing his arms, concentrating. Nearby, the Toddles spluttered and laughed at his faceful of water while I grinned at the Man, who excused himself to help the percussionist. 

(and was promptly sent away, percussion being a solo affair, it seems)

So, I feel dizzy, the Man commented, and I barely blinked. Walking along, ripe with relaxation and smiles, I suggested that perhaps skipping his morning coffee did not help. It hadn't, as it happens, but that was merely ancillary.

Days before, the Man had felt dizzy - a moment here, a moment there, but nothing worth mentioning. He's made of stern stuff, our Man, and will lower his forehead and keep on keepin' on even when he's sick. I've yelled at him for it, and accidentally exploited him when he's done it. Sometimes, irritably, not so accidentally. The Man's lack of care for himself is legendary among the adults in the family, and hopefully not as well known to the children... Although today, the Eldest asked why the Man doesn't carry his own EpiPen - he carries one of mine. Um.

Over the week, our stubborn, determined guy felt his world teeter, then twirl around him.  Thursday was a fast day, and the Man felt - like the rest of us - lousy. And dizzy. He racked up some dehydration and didn't do much about it, hovering on the edge of slightly desiccated until Sunday. When the boys and I came home from a play&celebrate to find our guy in bed.

He had not eaten. (oh, wait, said he, a piece of toast. And, um, some jelly beans) He had not drunk. (well, perhaps some coffee) My raised eyebrows aside, it was clear that he could do neither now. And oh, he felt sick. I cultivated an air of mild irritation and pleasant care, and offered him some apple juice before going off to find out why Shaymin Level X was crucial enough for fratricide.

No apple juice.

No water.

Lemon slices? no, not helping the nausea. And urgk, the spinning room. 

There he lay, his eyes shut. I considered worrying.

The Man admitted at this point that no, he did not have a primary care doctor for me to call. I tamped down on a lecture that I'd given cyclically over the past couple of years - clearly, it hadn't been effective. Right, then. The ER it would be.

Dizziness is, apparently, a fairly common cause for a run to the ER. It can be triggered by stroke, by blockage in a major vessel leading to the brain, by dehydration, by something upsetting the inner ear - or even a canal of the outer ear. There could be a tumor in the brain, a viral infection, or a funny, spasmodic twitch of the eyes that fools the brain into seeing motion in a still, placid world. The eyes move, the world does not.

If I'm being fair, it sounds amazingly uncomfortable. My poor guy, staggering from the car and acting like he had the world's nastiest case of car sickness. He had an unstable, twirling world, and a zip through the potholed streets in our neighborhood had managed to give his internal twirl a nice high-kick and bounce.  

splaaaat.

So he won the door prize: IV fluids, dramamine, and a rookie doctor digging a ginormous chunk of eeewwwww, funky wax out of one ear. Whoa, said the doc, and carefully saved it. Ah, said the doc's boss, respectfully. That should do it, they chorused. And sent us home, where in fact, that did not do it. And so back we went the next day, this time to a different ER where the Man was again hydrated, prodded and invited to follow my finger with your eyes. The doc grinned, and showed me the slight twitch that was spinning the Man's world round, round, round. But, he pointed out, this muscular fillip should have responded to the dramamine. He offered some IV valium to the Man, and while our lad snoozed, the doc and I considered cheery things like tumors.

One MRI later, the boys were asleep in the Man's hospital bed, and I'd abandoned Cosmo (the Obama's sex life! your g spot!) for Good Housekeeping (spice rubs! pantry soups! remodel on the cheap!).  Muttering, I'd sewn together a felt fish that the Toddles had traced, ordered to be cut and designed. The boys had been admired, and shifts had changed. The Man had been lectured on the usefulness of primary care doctors while I made quiet-ish choking sounds, and had slept through the news that, in fact, he did not have a tumor. Nor a blockage of a useful vessel to the brain.

Sitting in the dark room, the sleepers piled on the beds we'd cadged, I began to breathe again. I'm often the only one awake at such times, it seems, standing guard over my family in the dark. Waiting for news to emerge quietly from corners. At some point in the long, well-trodden hours of that day, my carefully cultivated loving, mild irritation had faded. And I'd begun to worry. Just a little. By midnight, the worry had folded itself, origami-like, into a complex, fragile structure as I waited for the MRI's results. And then I set it aside, collected the sleepers and went home.

Why did you bring the boys? a friend would ask the next day, and I didn't have a good answer. They'd been left with friends on Sunday, but were very clear on Monday that they wanted to be with their dad. So I brought them. Because they wanted to go, and I suspect, needed to. 

Look! I'm learning so much! the Eldest exclaimed, maneuvering cannily.  I knew what he was learning, and thanked the friend who offered to help relocate the boys. The boys would stay, and watch their father take a rare turn at being not-quite-right. And yes, I knew that this trip would probably bolster our family myth that the ER is where you go to be bored and ultimately, fine.  Still, I brought them partly to share the vigil, partly to distract us, partly because we have no fear of emergency rooms, and know that we can ask the nurses for an extra blanket, a couple of pillows, and we can make sock puppets from the silly, thick hospital socks. We can laugh. 

The laughter is part of the mythos, of course.

And sometimes, we do all of that almost incidentally, focusing instead on the serious business of being together, loving and a family in a place that would otherwise leave you feeling silenced and alone.

***********************

The next day, I had a check-up. Women, mused my doctor, come in to the office for a range of reasons. Men, however, typically come because their wives make them. The doctor paused. Maybe that's why married men live longer?

I went home, and tossed my ideas of respectful partnership out the window. Flipped open the laptop and found the Man an insurance-approved doctor of 20+ yrs experience, evening hours, working in a practice at a major medical center, checked a couple of patient reviews - and signed our lad up.  You've got a check-up in August, I informed my love. You'll be seeing Dr. Z. 

He nodded, and humbly thanked me. I patted him on the shoulder and went to try a spice rub.

*******************************************************

I'm doing a lot of cooking with the boys this summer, and they're happily recording their favorite recipes in their very own cookbooks. It's a mixed experience, especially when we're getting close to dinner time...but this spice rub was a lot of fun to put together with the Toddles. We smelled and touched everything, and grinding the spices was tops on the Toddles-O-Meter. Eating it did pretty well on mine.

The Tilt-A-Whirl spice rub

1.5 tsp black peppercorns

2 tsp fennel seeds

1 tsp coriander seeds

1.5 tsp cumin seeds

.5 tsp coarse salt

grind in a coffee grinder, or mortar & pestle, if you have a strong arm. Very strong arm. 

I dredged some tuna steaks in it, courtesy of a friend with good taste in fish, heated olive oil in a pan, and seared them for perhaps 3 minutes per side. I'll happily try this again for chicken, and definitely for tofu.

oooh, yum, said the Eldest. That's the most yummiest I've ever had! the Toddles trilled, and briefly set aside his current dislike of edibles to eat most of a slab. With ketchup. (sigh) And our current favorite salad!

Summer's Just Peachy Salad:

Like all my salads, this is more narrative than prescriptive. Or, as the Eldest likes to say, it's a matter of food math. You have your basic elements: green + something onion-y, x something crisp + something soft/mellow divided by something(s) sweet, salty, sour. Got that? Right.

For the specifics-lovers, try the following: 

a bowlful of greens, preferably one of those ridiculously soft, melting farm-fresh red leaf lettuces. Or romaine, if that's what's surviving in your fridge. Or a mix of anything - but go easy on the arugula, watercress and other tangy greens. 

2 scallions, chopped

a handful of pitted kalamata olives (I like Trader Joe's), or some other mild olive - pimiento stuffed olives are probably fine, too

2 rather crisp, underripe peaches

....and anything else you like. Can't imagine a salad that would go badly with toasted, slivered almonds, and this one is certainly happy with avocado, garlic croutons, and many other somewhat improbable things, including (no, really) a scant handful of blueberries.

 

Fill the bowl, then dress the salad. How? Well, try tossing with olive oil, sprinkle with chili powder (or cumin), garlic powder (fresh garlic will come in with big, heavy combat boots and stomp on everything in this salad, so don't use it - and did you ever think I'd say that?), salt and pepper, toss again. Drizzle slightly with a mild vinegar, and toss a third time. Woot!

and to all, a belated wish

Happy Mother's Day. 

For the mothers who are made, shaped and discovered: thank you. There are many mothers in our Imperfect world, and I am grateful to all of you for your support. 

*********************

8am, Sunday morning: roll over and crack an eye at the clock. Close eyelid.

8:20 am: crack the other eye. Review the various things that need to happen before it's time to leave the house. Compare that list to the noises from downstairs: are those getting dressed sounds? breakfast sounds? Mmm - breakfast. Stomach rumbles, slam eyelid shut and require both to be patient.

8:35 am: okay, patience sucks. Did breakfast/clothes/making snacks/pouring water/finding the hats/finding the soccer ball (soccer today!) happen? And speaking of breakfast, am I getting my own? Roll over and grump quietly into the pillow

8:40 am: stop grumping. Follow the sound of keys tapping down the hall, and gently ask the Man if I can get up now? He stares at me. Get up? I blink. Get out of bed, I clarify. He stares some more. Get out of - OH. Uh, um - OH. No. You can't get out of bed! I try not to grin wickedly, and offer some highlights from the list of Things To Do in the next 30 minutes. He hyperventilates, and I suggest that perhaps I'll take a shower now, while he regroups. I escape down the hall while he splutters.

8:49 am: Mid-rinse, the bathroom door opens and the Eldest pops in. You have mail! he sings. I spit out some bubbles and say something coherent like, what? hello? But he has gone. When I get out of the shower, I squint nearsightedly at something that might be a card. Sitting on the toilet seat. I resolve to be nearsighted, and squelch down the hall.

9:10 am: Mouth full of toothpaste. The Man whisks in, did you get the card? can you get the kids dressed? can you make snacks for them? can you fill their waterbottles? I have to take a shower and get ready to go. I am faster on the draw this time, and spit out the bubbles before he vanishes - but only just. Sure, and I did get the card. Kid left it on the TOI-let. I crack a significantly arched eyebrow at the Man. I'm going to open it in the car, to make it a family moment. He huffs and races down the hall, trailing his towel.

(I do the petty thing oh, so very well, eh?)

9:35 am: we're in the car, and I make a production out of opening the car. It is wonderful, all snarks aside - the Man got the boys to make handprints, slipped a really terrible pun, and all three of them signed their names. The Man, in unreadable swirls; the Eldest, in tidy cursive; and the Toddles in oh my goodness readable printed lettering. Which, the Eldest delightedly points out, the Toddles did all by himself. With no-one holding his hand! I melt ever so slightly. No, a whole lot. I admire everybody's signature lavishly, and decide to hold off on explaining to the Man exactly how lame he is. (the toilet? a card-and-run? hello?) Oh, I am not going to get teary over the Toddles' writing his name. No. Not at all. Just a little damply proud.

10:05 am: I am climbing out of the car, and we're stuffing an extra kid into it. The car pulls away, leaving me and a bag of ripped clothes behind - I'll have a sewing mama-date with another soccer mom, a semi-regular Sunday arrangement.

10:06 am: there is coffee, there is a fabulously cute baby (oh yes, and his mom), and look! I'm going to sew that damned button on the skirt that has been waiting for the past seven weeks for me to get to it. Ha. I am alarmingly pleased with myself, and breakfast? Sure. Let me just grab a pan and scramble some EGGS. Yep: eggs, baby. Scrambled. With butter. Heh.

10:40 am: and there goes the ripped sweats, now reincarnated as shorts. I forget that I'm insisting on the righteous indignation thing and grin. Whee! I reach for the Eldest's unraveling kipa and hm -whazzat? 

10:42 am: ballet? what? WHEN - wait, ballet? Quick inhale. Quick jog down the memory, small grin. Bigger grin.

10:43 am: honey? honey? what do you think about me skipping out for a matinee? There's a last minute ticket - yes, I know. Oh, you didn't have anything planned for the afternoon? Really? Great!

12:57 pm: I have not a single fucking thing to wear. Pants are falling off my bony butt, and when on earth did that happen? Clothing is flying in my neat-freaky room, piles of things that used to fit are looming, and oh cripes, what is left? I swear quietly and creatively, trying not to wake up the Toddles, who is sleeping in my bed. 

1:03 pm: the Eldest pops his head in and cheerily informs me that my cab will be here soon. I remind myself not to snarl at the kid, and settle instead for informing him that I'm having a somewhat difficult time, and perhaps now isn't a great time to be here? He settles on the bed, and happily offers to help. Teeth clenched, I propel him out the door. I hate getting dressed. It's like playing Old Maid with a stacked deck: the pairs I want vanish, and giggle. What on earth did I use to wear with this shirt? Surely not that - why would I do that? Ack.

1:12 pm: I'm dressed. I'm also mocking myself in the mirror, but who cares? Cab should be here momentarily and oh, need to change the ratty burlap bag, okay, can do that, and hell. That was a ripping sound, wasn't it. Oh, bugger. 

1:20 pm: cab's here, I've found some things that kind of work, the hair is, well, it's pinned firmly on the back of my head, so I can't see it, and ignorance is probably bliss. Bag's changed, got a warm layer - right! Time to go.

1:20:56 pm: my dad? calling from Kosovo? Aaaahgrlfk - hi, Dad. 

1:22 pm: cab's gone. Call cab back. Chew nails. Curtain is at 2pm, furiously calculate just how late I'm going to be.

2:11 pm: standing in the dark theatre, waiting the usher to seat me in the second row from the freakin' holy hell front, I'm entranced. It's Eifman's Onegin, and it is wonderful. For the next two hours, the snarks and petty grumps will drop away. The muscles will relax. The jaw will drop, the vocabulary will be temporarily silenced. Instead, I'll watch elegant, brutal, thoughtful dancing, set against a backdrop of a carefully designed set, with a brilliant mix of classical and modern music, classical and modern dance.  The patterns of the ballet - a color theme here, a trail of prop there, an echoed dance step, bend of an elbow - piece themselves together in my head, and I stare at structures forming in my brain, intricate and deliberate. I remember those structures, remember building them inside my skull, lo these many post-grad years ago. And then onstage, a dancer will move and -

oh. 

OH. 

For two hours, I'll sit in  another world. When I step out of it and on to the train home, I'll carry wisps of it with me...and I will smile. And yes, no problem, love - I'd be happy to go online and order myself a gift. From the bit of paper I'd posted on the fridge a few weeks ago?The Man eyes me suspiciously, waiting for the petty, the snip or snark. Instead, I smile. I'm brimful of the oh.

OH. 

I drift off happily, completely forgetting about the thingamibob that we've budgeted for. I have, after all, been well celebrated today. At bedtime, I'll reopen the card and admit that yes, I am after all sniffling a bit over the handprints and the carefully - laboriously - written names. And the guy who had the foresight to make it.

***********************************

A Mother's Day lunch: for a fast lunch, I had a bowlful of this, happily reworking the sabbath's leftover brown rice.  I suspect it would make an excellent meal for a new mum, baby in one arm, spoon in another...got to remember that. If only to bring it along to a virtual baby shower sometime.

B'sha'a tova*, Seamaiden.

Far From Leftover: Sweet Gingered Brown Rice Salad 

(based on "warm brown rice salad," Boston Globe 4/22/2009, G25)

serves 4.

salad:

3 cups cooked brown rice

1 small crown broccoli, cut into small pieces (stems and florets)

2-3 scallions, sliced somewhat finely

1/3rd c toasted sunflower seeds (or slivered almonds, pine nuts, or some other mild crunch.)

1 punnet cherry tomatoes, rinsed

1 can chickpeas, drained

optional: add more! I considered craisins and thinly sliced carrots, but you could replace the chickpeas with cubes of leftover chicken. Have fun.

Pour brown rice and broccoli into a oven-friendly casserole. Pop into a 300 F oven while you assemble, chop and mince everything else. 

dressing: 

1/8 c. maple syrup

1/8 c. tamari soy sauce (regular soy sauce has wheat)

1/3 c. olive oil

1 clove garlic, smashed and chopped rather finely

1/2 inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and minced. Yes, minced. Just do it.

1.5 Tb maple syrup

Whisk the dressing together while the rice and broccoli are warming up. Pull rice and broccoli out of the oven - the broccoli is now that bright green color that shows that it's barely begun to be cooked. Add the rest of the ingredients to the salad, and toss gently with the dressing.

Serve, having reserved a bowl for yourself. Eat that for thirds - it's only the fast and the cleverly prepared who are going to get that much. Fair warning, people.

* in a good hour. Meaning, may what happens come in the right time, and the right way - however that way, and whenever that time may be.