strategic summer snarling

My goal for this month is to wear a mildly humorous, distinctly wry face when asked, so, how's the summer going? Last month, I managed a less than slightly desperate look, and when asked, offered practical demonstrations. Or loan of small children. Over the course of the month, the Giggles learned what his older brother already knew: when the mama has that wild look in the maternal eye, it's a really bad time for small Lego to be underfoot. So tidy up. Tidy it all up.

It is actually possible that the best parenting that I did all month involved time-ins. The Eldest was fined with three days of time-in (a.k.a. helping the mama), and learned to stack dishwashers. His mama-placating strategies took a big jump forward when he shared notes with his fellow inmate, and learned that the Giggles had been instructed in the art of cleaning the dryer's lint filter.

Together, they made a potent team. 

The lads still failed to understand the whole morning, get up and brush teeth and put on clothes business, but hey, they can splash in every single puddle in our perma-construction site of a block. Because they can do the laundry. And they can now eat their weight in fruit, if they like, with a solid 42% childsworth of cheese and corn thins. Because they can wash up.

Well, they can. And will, if there's sufficiently terrifying maternal incentive in front of them. 

i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. starting right after dinner.

c'est ci n'est pas une post - nor is it a recipe

Dear brain,

would you please shut up about the To Do list? Some of us would like to stop staring at the unscalable mountain, and get some frickin' sleep, Sir Hillary.

sincerely, body

------------------------
Dear body,

sucks for you, don't it? Just complete one more item on the List, and then - maybe - you can sleep. It'll just get longer if you don't, you know.

-brain
----------------------

Brain, go re-read your How to Get Things Done books. Don't you know that if I don't get sleep, then you don't get to be effective in accomplishing your goals? And how much do you think you can get done, anyway, with me chanting, tiiiiired, tiiiiiiiired, tiiiiired, tiraliralay in your ear, hmm?
-b
------------------------
just one more thing? Come on, you know you can.
-b
-----------------------
NO.
-----------------------
[points]
-----------------------
[looks]

Note to self: post the tomato-and-black-bean soup recipe, before my mother drives over here, to wrest the thing from my shaking hands.

-----------------------
oh, cripey. She's already called twice this afternoon. Oh - augh - okay.
-b
-----------------------
[points]
-----------------------
[looks]

Further note to self: how the hell did I make that soup, anyway? There was a recipe, but it had little impact on the outcome. My failure to repeat the miracle is not heartening.

---------------------

oh, you bastard.
-b
P.S. I accept chocolate as a bribe. So, I suspect, do you.
*************************************************

Despite my mother's very reasonable request, what follows is a recipe in narrative form. With apologies to the grandmaternal.

For nearly 14 years, the Man has accused me of hidden mathematical talents. Now, while I have a number of remedial math teachers who still insist on hiding under their beds, I'm fairly certain that I could assemble a rebuttal. And he would reply with one, inarguable fact: I have a bad habit, when under pressure, of forgetting that my brain should probably be allowed to operate my mouth. And that at times like that, I do tend to come out with surprisingly accurate calculations.

Or, to put it differently, I fail to think in grand style. I may even be good at it.

I would not be so petty as to describe a visit from my parents as a pressurizing experience, but I will admit to a bad habit of over-hostessing. I get into the groove, cook too much food, and fail to use my leftovers until after they leave, at which point we [sic] joyously laze my way through days worth of not-having-to-cook dinners. Lego with the boys, endless and minute Star Wars narratives, yarn and oh, storytimes both on paper and on limited engagement, This Night Only! Which is only encouragement to keep it up, printing reams of recipes I might cook before they come, testing one, two, and then oh, the pleasure of watching the fresh, ooo-yum produce come in, and the steaming/tossed/mmm/crunch/smell-that food go out. Can't beat it, from any angle.

But it is a bustle. So, I prep: beans to soak, things to defrost, sous chef work that the Man can do? mixes of dry ingredients that we can have ready? Always, there is more to prep than we could possibly manage - therefore, regardless, the bustle.

And there you go, background aplenty. And here it is:

A Bustled Black Bean-Tomato Soup
serves 6, unless you can manage otherwise.

I based the recipe on Martha Rose Shulman's Black Bean and Cumin soup, from the NY Times Recipes for Health. So,
2 tb olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped - oh, heck, 2? 3? onions, and finely chopped
4 large garlic cloves, halved - or, hey, just smashed with the side of the knife, and then peeled
1 dry cup of black beans, unless you've forgotten to soak and boil and ooops, so 1 big can of ready to roll black beans and thank you, Goya, for that nice ring pull lid because where on earth did the can opener go? I'm going to need it for the - oh -
14 oz can of tomatoes, and there's no ring pull on that one. Fine, then 2 cups of fresh tomatoes (so there!), chopped with love and a bah, who needs that canned stuff.
6 cups water, except that I am so very, very awesome and have finally learned that awesomeness is based on listening to my friends who tell me things about how easy it is to keep the ends of my carrots and the limp stalk of celery and the clean peels of my onions and turn them into broth. See? I listened. And while you might cavil at my awesomeness, I now have 6 cups of veggie stock, simmered slowly for 2.5 hrs. So neener, neener, neener, I'm using stock instead of water.

No, I'm not sneering.

Oh. I'm especially not sneering - toasted cumin seeds? ground? Um. Oh. [casts about kitchen]

Note to the reader: from here, there are one of two choices. Either, my previous, slightly self-mocking note about mathematical genius (did I say genius? okay, functionality. happy now?) is correct, and what I cast, I will reap with gustatory pleasure. Or not. And we send out for pizza. Or possibly, send my parents out for pizza, none of which comes in a suitably supervised kosher, Imperfect-able format.

I cast about, and find Chloe Coscarelli. Her vegan panini had won a contest in March, beating out any number of very very non-vegan contestants. And I had a recipe for this panini, including a spiced chickpea masala - and oh. A jar of turmeric, cumin, cinnamon, cloves - oh, no, I skipped the cloves, and used allspice - and cayenne - no, wait, I used chili powder. Right.

[thank you, Chloe]

Except that, oh, hm. I add a bit of cinnamon, and another bit of cumin. Sniff. Yes, that's better. I need the equivalent of 2 tsp of the I'm-not-gonna-do-that toasted cumin seeds, except how much is that when ground? No clue. Okay, let's go for 1 Tb of spice mix. But first, saute the onions, let them brown - add spices, yes! now! garlic? in it goes - and sniff the pot.

[sniff]

Oh, yes.

[sniff]

Hm.

Okay, how about a dash of the barbecue spice mix from my wonderful Nicole Routhier? I just rediscovered her Fruit Cookbook on my shelf, and I made some fish on Friday - oh, okay, here we go. Her barbecue spice mix is definitely going to be a happy camper at this singalong, um, okay, here it is:
1 Tb cumin seeds, 1 tsp coriander seeds, 1 Tb brown sugar - o, was I supposed to pack that? bah - 1 tsp ground cinnamon, 1 tsp grated orange peel (yeah, because who has tangerines lying around, I asks youse), .5 tsp salt and .5 tsp fresh black pepper.

I close my eyes and reach for what might possibly be the tablespoon measure. Toss. Add the beans, tomatoes, broth - ha, ha! - and

[sniff]

yes.

6 bowls, 6 people herded to the table, 1 smaller one re-herded, then lifted and plonked down in front of salad and yesssssss, say the people. We all stare sadly at the empty pot. How unfair of the pot to be empty, and whose idea was that, I want to know. What's in it?

Oh, cripes, say I, and realize. I have no idea. Later that week, sniffing, I will still have no idea. And my mother, considering her options, will realize that her best chances of another bowl do not lie in letting me off the hook. 

-----------------------------------------
Dear brain,
well, there you go. I still think you are going to be in the crapper for this one. Did you really call this a recipe?
-body
-------------------------------
body,
thanks for your concern, but I have already taken steps to alleviate the situation. Do note the slightly erudite
(yet informative) post title, which should offer fair warning as to the limitations of that which is being offered here.
-brain
----------------------------
Oh, sure. But she's still going to kick your medulla, dude.

But what do I care? I'm going to sleep.
----------------------------
Dear limbic and frontal lobes,
please, please, please be gentle. Also, do accept this nice basket of fruit.
-brain

between the bookends

Today was the day when the traffic gods looked down and said, whoops. Missed a spot. Adjusted, and smiled. There. That's better.

(on the highway, I hit 62 mph, I blinked and wondered if I was speeding too egregiously.)

At the moment, however, I'm sitting in a very untrafficked chair at the table - and contemplating the Headache That Swallowed New England. It began modestly, by sneering at a couple of extra-strength, fast-release acetaminophen. An hour later, it was sending me fun auras* to entertain and enliven my day, and chortling at the migraine stuff that I tossed at it. The Eldest was rescued, and brought home to a limp mama, who winced when he explained that feeding was in order.

TROMP, TROMP, TROMP, said the headache, and the mama considered hiding under the table. Feed us, said the children, and the mama considered turning green.

But in between these two ostentatious bookends, there was something completely different. It began with a triple handful of salted, roasted nuts at a picnic bench, overlooking a pond, with two kinds of ducks, geese and a dive-bombing blue jay.

Moving past the duck pond, we headed for the dam, and a ruthless rushing of sound and momentum that I can hardly do justice here:
The water poured heavily through the dam, garnished by the millstone that was once strategically placed, and now? is aesthetically, possibly nostalgically sited.

Unless you ask the lichen.

I ran my finger in the swirled grooves of the millstone, listening to the falling water's white roar. The noise seemed to wrap itself around me, ruthlessly carrying away something that I'd been holding on to.

We climbed the rocks, she looking upstream, I looking downstream. Quieter now, the water whisked past iron-rich rocks, veins of quartz and mica, through clumps of swamp cabbages, wild onions, and sprouting lily-ish bulbs that looked awfully promising. We'd lost - no, scorned - the path. Climbing the banks, raspberry canes tried to delay us, but we ducked and kept wandering.

It was an order held/ in constant change: a congregation/ rich with entropy, indeed, Mr Ammons.

Eventually, reluctantly, we walked back towards the roar of the dam, the brisk pace of the day, watching bacteria exhale a shimmering metal, the fiddleheads uncoil and a snail, tiny, considering the sun. Leaving behind us a pool of quiet and ruthless growth. Later, I'd hand three wild onions and a tiny violet, bulb and all, to a preschool teacher. She'd grin at me over her armful of sticks, collected on a walk with the children. We'll build the alphabet with these, she told me.

I nodded. An eddy of meaning, I nearly said. Instead, I offered the Toddles a wet stone from the water, and watched him trace veins of quartz in it, turning it over and over. Over his head, the teacher smiled.

To the lady who wisely brought the maps, and then surpassed her own wisdom in ignoring them: my thanks.

name that day

oh, no - I'm not doing drop-off at school today, I'm having a mental health day. I'm also not doing drop-off at preschool, nor am I baking at preschool, nor am I (for a range of reasons) reading megilla at preschool, picking up at preschool, persuading the Toddles that yes, he *must* pee and then shuttling him home, feeding and persuading him that yes, his eyes are drooping because he must! nap while I shove breakfast dishes around, argue with the idiots who didn't send us a bill for medical services but passed us to collections regardless, eat lunch (breathe) and pack a snack (breathe), then carrying a sleeping-not-quite-sleeping Toddles out the door for pickup at school.

Nope. Not me: the Man. Because, bless him, I'm finally having that mental health day. And, now that more than half of it has slid by, I'm taking stock.

What are you going to do? a friend asked. I think you should curl up with a gigantic cup of tea, and do some non-useful writing. She grinned, knowing that I would smile back. I did.

And yes, I'm doing some of that. But first, I hung hooks in the closet, organized the shelves, and did some sorting of old papers. I learned how to take apart the drain in my dishwasher, thanks to Mike, and discussed shut-off valve options with him. Preferably, non-leaking ones. Muttered while hunting for things in my tool box - okay, bag - and spent some time sorting out plumbing things that I may learn what to do with someday, and wondering what on earth this or that tool-like object actually does. For such mysteries happen when you inherit your husband's grandfather's tools. On the mental list: fix hole in wall, rehang towel bar, ask J if she knows about the oddments.

They are old, darkened wood and metal, and I wonder what the Man's grandfather used them for. He died before I met the Man, and there's a quiet blank where I'd otherwise picture him holding an odd or ment, and doing something. Calmly, relaxed and focused in ways that I think he ought to be, as the owner of these certain, poised objects. I packed them away, tetrising them back into the never big enough, locked window-seat.

It was a good morning. And now I'm tapping away, chatting with you.

As I type, one of the kids' Purim costumes (Pokemon! pirate! feathery, curling crochet!) is sitting next to me, the crochet hook stuck through. On the floor is a putty knife and some foam tube stuff that should help with the ginormous, uncaulkable cracks in the bathroom tiles, and I'll be stuffing and caulking soon. Really? the preschool director said. That's not precisely - restful - she mused, and paused. But the guy in the hardware store understood perfectly. Just got to get that done, right? He mused, and I nodded. Yep. I'll feel better for it.

A couple of days ago, I began collecting things to do on post-its. One idea was to collect and prioritize old things to do. So that they might actually get done, rather than vanishing into old day-planner pages, and resurrecting themselves at 12.30 am, when whatever it is just ain't getting done. The list stretched on and on, with things like:

* go through two boxes of memorabilia from my childhood room. Okay, one box

* finish old files in wooden box

* finish sewing a gift for a child - now well over a year past due

* finish a necklace that the Toddles designed, began, and asked me to complete.

* finish the necklace that I began and almost - almost - completed two weeks ago

* make mishloach manot food

* take measurements for work that needs doing

* hang blinds in study (note: blinds are sitting in study, waiting)

* scrub mildew in bathroom

* hang ketuba

* prep 4 things for post office run

* write 7 - no, 8? 9? - overdue emails

* call back and pester Sprint, for allowing someone to foist additional charges on our account, which we didn't ask for. wtf???

* deal with medical bills, match to EOB (explanation of benefits) and prep for MSA reimbursement

* inbox is over 1000 emails again. DO SOMETHING.

* blog. Please?

* etc

But looking at my lists, I begin to wonder. Is there a difference between a mental health day, and a clearing out of things that need to be done, but haven't yet been done day? A household maintenance day, versus a rest and think day?

What do you think?

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?

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

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.

enter: the dress

Well, the Toddles had classic, bacteria gonna getcha conjunctivitis. Whee! and where's the Purell?

He was deeply irked by the news, but mollified by not having to go to the pediatrician (who diagnosed him over the phone) and was willing to consider the possibility of eye drops. He's still willing to consider them, albeit with less enthusiasm as each dose goes by.

But there went Thursday. And Friday.

Blessed be, the Eldest came home from a playdate on Friday with a squashed ball of a dress in a paper bag, courtesy of one of those moms who always look wonderful. Dunno how she does it, but she always looks great, with a flavor of quirky humor, playful style that flares or settles as needed. She'd sent along her dullest dress, and I felt alarmingly unlike myself in it.

Hello, said the dress, politely stretching across my (larger) torso. You don't happen to own a pair of kicky boots, do you? I had to admit that no, I did not. The dress considered this, swishing gently, and decided to forgive me.

It might have reconsidered when I discovered that I had tossed most of my makeup, but if so, I appreciate the tactful silence. Goodness knows I was grumbling loud enough for the two of us.

The wedding behind me, I've been considering the phenomenon of the well-dressed woman. I dunno how it's done, no, not even after years at Loehmann's and the group dressing rooms populated by lots of helpfully opinionated strangers. Getting dressed ought to be a simple process, I know this:

1. consider the message you want to send (put together, casual, educated, harmless),

2. consider your audience

3. given 1 + 2, make choices.

And that's where I crawl back into bed, overwhelmed. For years, I'd happily stay home on Sabbaths, if only I could avoid getting dressed. So the idea of someone who can do that, day after day, well. I wonder if she'll do tutorials for friends? Teach me how to assemble things? As much as I love color, texture, and happily admire fun, funky style - I'm still the mom who looks faintly rumpled, whose bra strap is perennially peeking out from that ancient shirt, and yes, wears the same three sweaters because I understand what they do and how they read in the language of clothing.

Perhaps my mental audiences are too loud. Perhaps they are fashionistas, claws extended. Perhaps not. Either way, the dress wasn't afraid of them, and I was happy to lead where it followed.

But I'll say one thing: pearls go with everything.

splatters and portents

okay, so there was a post here. Better yet, there was a story, about how a friend offered me one of those generously open, raw moments, a sliver of her life: my world is exploding, she said. And I opened my mouth, shuffling through answers ranging from I (for idiotic) to I (for inane) and blinked, realizing that I was late for picking up the Eldest.

and said nothing, really.

Later that night, my pancake batter flung itself around the kitchen, through the pass-through, splattering the dining corner (area?), the ceilings, the cabinets, my beloved $19.99 wool jacket with the Pockets, and oh yes, me. Damn thing just exploded, I said, and then wondered why I suddenly felt like a bloody idiot.

oh. That's why.

And yes, there's more, but it's mostly variation on the me-as-idiot thing, which you've probably got by now. And yes, there was a post on this, but somehow it slid and wiggled itself into something too complex about whether I believe in signs and portents, clockmakers, and hey, a little Spinoza never hurt anybody. Except possibly a post.

All I have to say in my defense is that, if I were thorough enough to go back and check Anne Lamott, I'd probably be able to find that she was the one who warned me that being published is a nasty experience. It's given me one hell of a case of writer's block, and I firmly blame it for the theologic blather that had derailed this post. And the lecture on gender which derailed three or four posts earlier this summer. And the one on economics that solidly knocked a rather wry Eldest story on its narrative ass.

(alotted moment for self-pity happening.....here)

right, then: moving on. Oh, and before I forget -

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

To the unknown person on the street:

Thank you for waving to the excited small boy sitting in the window seat, next to the "ART FOR SALE!!" sign. He was thrilled to be noticed.

Thank you also for not choosing to ring our doorbell, despite his enthusiastic encouragement, gesticulation and apparently ample signage.

Oh, and child o' mine? Thank you for not running to open the door, and chase that doubtless lovely person down the street. And thank you for explaining the plan to me. It's really great that you want to start earning money now, so that you can help pay for things. But maybe - just maybe - we can find a different way for you to help?

(but: I love you for trying)

and it did, too

In case you were wondering, I have found the perfect place to spend a birthday. Particularly one of those pesky, divisible-by-five types.

This past weekend, someone else cooked. Someone else cleaned. And someone played endless games of ski-ball and basketball and almost-air hockey. Someone laughed an awful lot, drank hot cocoa, got rained on, warmed toes at a fire and yes, the fun really did start there. Right before we crossed the dam at Pearson's Pond. Shortly before the big wheeled chair with the Happy Birthday sign, the stuffed giant hand and the musical accompaniment as I was pushed around and around the room of singing people.

By, among other people, the Eldest. Wearing a grin so ridiculously big, that you'd think it was his birthday, rather than mine.

a sign and a bowl of leaves

At some point, autumn arrived. Which frankly, is kind of rubbing my nose in the absence of summer. The disappearance of August, the blur that was September.

Really, any number of things appear to have vanished on me. The summer, bursting at the seams with discoveries, such as this local resource, which allowed slightly grubby, map-wielding boys to practice the fine art of hiking, getting lost, unlost and peeing into local waterways.

(and no, I won't show you a picture)

The school prep arrived, mid-summer, hoisting a mammoth set of lists (school A, preschool B, to do for meeting 1, for meeting 2, for meeting 3, for follow-ups until late into many wee a.m.s), hollered continuously in my ear from oh, June onwards, and then suddenly, fell silent. School! School! School! School! rushed in to fill the space, with a small dash of ohmygoodbritchesandstiches - a carpool? Appallingly, we found ourselves inadvertently early to school, and then to preschool. For three weeks straight. Who can keep that up?

(When we pulled in 2.5 minutes late today, I offered up a quiet sigh - of relief.)

And then, the chagim were upon us.

If I stop being chipper for a moment, I'll admit that the second half of summer was an ordeal. Not the parenting part, that was tough in spots in an entirely (okay, almost entirely) standard-issue fashion. But the school prep was enormous, and worse, it was shared. The Man and I worked together on it for the first time evah to assemble resources for the teachers, to write explanations of how to handle allergens in the classroom, what Good Manufacturing Practices actually means - and why it's not even close to reliable as a way of saying "safe." And recipes, and lunch ideas, and snack ideas, birthday party ideas, and develop a gluten-free, vegan, kid-friendly *and* easy challah recipe, and, and, and, ack.

Let me put this simply: some things, it's easier to do myself. Some things, it's easier to do with someone - okay,anyone -besides the person I love, cherish and really hope to spend as many years with as possible. Some things, I should be smart enough to do with a girlfriend, or maybe a minion. (note to self: get minion) And, if I have to do it with my loved, I've got to remember to brush up on the diplomacy, and brace for long conversations about how the process is going, when I'm really just twitching to stop talking and get back to getting the job done.

Ah, meta-conversations. So almost-nearly-useful. Except when they are.

And a word of advice? If you do end up in this loving but rushed, ginormous To Do list of kid-with-thing school prep, buy a rope. And a shovel. Take up meditation. And when your partner suggests that maybe it's not worth doing something that you are certain is critical to helping walk that fine line between the child's needs and the school's needs, well, breathe. Put the stapler down, hon - it's really not going to make you feel better. Not in the long run, anyway.

Just breathe. (FYI, gritted teeth are acceptable)

And then blink, realize that the summer ended shortly before the kids hoisted their backpacks and bounced down the stairs, oh, a good four minutes before I managed to follow. Oh, and that so far, so good. And then, hello, it's Rosh Hashana, and there's the Eldest, unsubtly holding this:

Because if you are going to begin a new year, well, Nahman of Breslav might've had something there. Take another deep breath, hon, and find a way to greet each man with a pleasing face. The gargoyle thing does not seem to suit me, saith the Toddles, and he informed me that I was the grumpy parent, while the Man is definitively the fun parent.

Oh, ouch.

I walked around, smarting, and occasionally ranting about working parents vs home-working parents. And then apologizing to my offspring, when my rants became audible. Don't worry, Mum, I'm used to it, the Eldest soothed.

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow bloody ow.

Some years, Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are a necessity. A chance to back up and rethink, after a time of change and grumps. Happily for me, neither of our boys are subtle. Panim yafot it is, then. And a healthy bowl of these:

We sat on the bed, the boys and I, with Yom Kippurd daylight fading outside our window. A bowl of autumn, of color and leaves fading from bend to crackle, between us. We looked at the bowl.

Every year, I told my unexpectedly solemn audience, leaves grow. Leaves fall. And then, they grow again. And every year, we make mistakes, realize our mistakes, and try to do better.

Every day, the Eldest corrected me. And I grinned. Yes.

These leaves are falling, and we can let them take some of our mistakes with them. What kind of mistake, or "I'm sorry" do you want them to be?*

I'm sorry for hitting my brother.

I'm sorry for not cooperating

I'm sorry for taking his Pokemon card

I'm sorry, said the mama, for not taking good enough care of myself, so that I can take better care of you.

two pairs of small boy eyes swivelled towards me. One set of eyebrows arched.

Because, said the mama, when I'm tired or I have too much to do, then I'm grumpy. And then I'm not having fun with you, am I?

two heads nodded solemnly. So, then. I'm sorry. And I'll try to do better, to find boy time in each day. Because boy time is part of taking care of me, you know. Boy time is good.

two grins quirked. They already knew that, but were too nice to say so, I suspect. And so we sat, a bowl of sorry leaves by our legs, our hands and arms wound around each other. And we watched as the sky striped with pink, shading grey and blues at the fading of the day.

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

*this was a type of Tashlich , in which we cast away the burdens and sins of the past year, by throwing bits of bread or cracker into a body of water. The Eldest's class, however, raised the problem of throwing stuff into the waterways, and they chose to do a class tashlich with peat moss. Give nature to Nature, the Eldest intoned. And glared when I suggested a family tashlich with Imperfect-friendly bread. So, leaves.

and there it went

Did you drive past Battle Green today? I was one of the slightly melted looking figures, sitting in the grass, and blinking.

*blink*

and there went two hours of quiet chat, a very respectable pair of blushes and a rather nice peach Greek yogurt. (Thanks, L) And grass, and a guy in Revolutionary garb, and oh, was that a mom from the Eldest's school, wearing a bonnet and - no - hoop skirts? Funky.

Did I mention that there were trees? Grass?

*blink*

And I'm driving home with the Toddles, who is opening his car-friendly lunch. He sees the note I've tucked inside, and puzzles out the words. I help: Toddles, I love you! - Mummy

Oh, says the Toddles, thoughtfully. That makes sense. (I cock an eyebrow at him from the front seat.) Sense, clarifies the Toddles, like it's possible. (I wait, stifling giggles. He re-reads the note.) Yes. That makes sense.

I love you too, Mummy.

*blink*

and the boys are splashing in the BigFamousClever University's pool near our home, somehow having managed to collect the Eldest and leave the school parking lot in under 10 minutes. How? I have no idea. Possibly by using the same pixie dust that now has the Eldest zooming across the pool. Long, straight strokes of the arm - then a few slightly panicky short ones - and the kid pops up to breathe, gifting me with a lovely, gaptoothed grin. Look, Mom! What did you think of that?

As it happens, I think a great deal of that. And I tell him so, delightedly, while fishing the Toddles out of deepish water.

*blink*

and the boys are asleep after a hilarious Tanith Lee short story, the dishes are mostly in the dishwasher and the Man walks in the door. A wee trigger in my brain responds: exhale now?

But at some point in the day, I realize, I'd already done so.

internal chatter, the night before

okay, the stash of emergency bribes? (Pokemon cards - yes, they've crashlanded chez nous and damn, they work)              ---- got 'em.

playing cards?            ----- yep.

that funny tell-me-a-story  card game?          ------ check.

the Dilbert book that the kids are suddenly, inexplicably in love with?

              -------  ack! can't do it. How about a nice Cam Jansen, instead?

squishy licorice treats?         --------- no worries.

math game?        ------------ because my kids are really cut from their father's cloth and holy moly yep, I got math game. Heaven help my a-numerical self if I have to use it, but maybe a nice hapless intern will wander by. Prey! Must find prey! With calculator!

emergency crayons, for decorating the paper on the exam table?      ----------- can't think of a better use for the paper, frankly. Wonder what we'll draw, this year? Hard to beat the universe from two years ago, complete with closeup of Earth. At two different levels of detail! Although this year, I might just settle for crayon kept on the paper, rather than on the walls.  On the floors. On my shoes? Yes, paper would be fine. Whatever actually ends up on it, well, might be bonus. (mental image of purple gluestick stuff on the wall, suppressed. Flashback to parenting resolution, shelved)

sheaves of clinic notes and lab results from previous visits?         ------------ got 'em. Reviewed 'em. Analysed them with the Man and planned further actions, prioritized lists of questions.

Sleep, possibly allowing mental function? For a post-viral mama?     ------------- oh, well, harrumph. Fine. But you needn't be pushy about it, you know.

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.

a time of rest (and food)

this is the view through the hole in the wall.
And this is on the other side: unfurling growth,

 a place of testing and trust,

a breath of peace,
and a pause for memory.
And always, but always, a spot of vibrancy and joy

 not to mention play! Much of which happened on shabbat, when I could not take photos. 

What photos I do have, I'm saving for spousal blackmail. But do imagine the Man on a child's pink tricycle, knees up by his ears and careening around corners. Me, screeching with laughter, while a crowd of sane adults cheer for him, or for the equally scrunched up athlete behind him.

With the children delightedly in grandparental arms,  the Man and I flung ourselves into the car. For a weekend, we lived in a fantasy in which we slept, ate and walked around the lake. I was persuaded to try acupressure, courtesy of a group of volunteers. I then managed to be persuaded to try massage, then reiki, then any number of excellent slices of angelfood cake with oooh, lemon-orange sauce. (Eight parts confectioner's sugar to one part lemon juice, said the chef, plus orange zest. Because you know, I really had to ask.) And endless cups of tea. And popcorn. And how-to insurance tips. And yes, you've got me, there were sketches of our ideal home. Mine was not, by the way, the only one with solar panels and a veggie garden. And I was totally out-greened by the person with the imaginary goat. And in-house claims manager. 

Damn.

Oh, but we talked. And talked. And laughed immoderately. And, while I was relaxing in a haze of not-my-allergens and people who know how to find the knots in my back and persuade them to relax a bit, the Man was reaching. 

He made it to one handhold and paused. Then he reached for another. And another. Until, blinking and alarmed, he was at the top. (need a visual? Scroll back up. Yep, that's it.) Roughly 35 feet off the ground, the Man sat down and laughed. The guy hates stepladders, you know. Made no difference.

Those Holes in Walls can hold the damndest things. Reliably, I fail to describe the place, let alone explain it. And I'm not even going to try now. Suffice to say that oh, it brings laughter and joy.

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

No KoolAid so far from the HitWGC folks, although there were many carbs rich with dairy and gluten. I tried hard to eat my weight in allergens, and I think I nearly succeeded...

We staggered to the car and drove home - where most of our GF, allergy-friendly fridge had been emptied. The grandparents nearly trampled us when we walked into the door, fleeing, perhaps, to more culinarily friendly climes? Well, maybe not. Taped to the countertop was a list of requests for recipes...one of which is below.

Curried Chickpea Polenta

(adapted from the Voluptuous Vegan, serves 4-6, can be made 1-2 days in advance)

2 onions, somewhat finely chopped

4-6 Tb olive oil

1-2 Tb curry powder, depending on your tastes (and the heat of your curry!)

2 tsp salt

1 c. chickpea flour

.5 c medium ground cornmeal/polenta

4.75 c water

In a cake mixer or food processor, blend the chickpea, cornmeal, water and salt. The stuff will clump, so a fast whipping is helpful. You can try mixing the water and salt while slowly adding the cornmeal and chickpea flour - sometimes that helps avoid lumps. Personally, I embrace my lumpiness (to a degree), and just move on.

In a pasta-sized pot/medium pot, saute the onion in the oil until deeply browned. Add curry powder, and stir for a couple of minutes, until the curry powder is warmed and smells wonderful. Pour in the batter, and stir to mix. Heat uncovered over medium heat, stirring occasionally until it comes to a boil. 

warning: this stuff will splatter a bit, so take me seriously when I suggest that...

Once the mixture begins to boil, turn the heat down to med-low and stir constantly. The mixture will start to thicken, but keep stirring for another 20 minutes or so (almost constantly, slightly less so if you have a really kickass nonstick pot). The chickpea flour can have a beany flavor, but heating it steadily like this will mellow that flavor wonderfully. At this point, you can add optional yumminess, like fresh corn kernels, freshly ground black pepper or a sprinkle of minced fresh herbs, or whatever else makes your mouth happy. 

Spray a springform pan (or other pan, I like the springform because it's easy to uncrate the thing after baking). Pour the batter in, and let the pan sit on the counter for a 30-45 minutes. Then, bake at 350F for roughly 30 minutes.

The top will be golden and somewhat cracked - and entirely delicious. Serve it warm! 

note: for the non-vegan/dairy consumers, a grating of Parmesan might just be perfect here. If it is, for heaven's sake don't tell me, okay? I think I might just be dairied out for now.

construction and deconstruction

in case you were wondering, this is what the inside of my dryer looks like. The big shiny thing is the drum, and it rotates, pulled by the black strap (belt). The motor is on the bottom left, and it's attached to a blower (one of three) that vents out the bottom left corner. A smaller belt, tucked in at the bottom, center, was the cause of the whole mess - some of the gripping ridges on it had ripped off, and the belt was not grasping as it should. Thus the quiet-bam!-quiet-bam! sound I heard, as the belt grasped, then lost hold on the machine. At something like 12oo rpms.  (bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! sizzzzzzzle.)  

Neat, eh? Below is the dryer's motor, in case you are curious, which was replaced by the Mikes  from company A (or F), and removed by the Mikes from company B, in order to replace the smaller belt:

...and it has a nice layer of shmutz on it. How odd, that a brand new motor should have so much lint - especially considering that the dryer was unusable for most of the time after the motor was installed.

Yep, folks. We were took. To the tune of oh, summer camp for the Eldest. Time to start planning Mom Camp and calling Company F. Although I will find that the manager there is out, on vacation, just left to pick his daughter up from school, is helping out in the field, and is sick.

But I have taken notes. And I have receipts. And I have Angie's List...

In the meantime, a change of mechanical pace: 

and steam rises...from my ears

I am actively jealous: http://www.basilandtime.com/  (whine) I wanna be able to use dairy and eggs. But if you can, her recipes look oooh, yum. But I'll admit to be basing my opinion largely on the photos...  And I'm laughing over this one, but also taking notes: http://cooktobang.com/

(sorry about the links, folks - I haven't quite figured out how a mac pastes links into blogger. Yes, laugh ye mac users. Laugh at the PC-user with the borrowed macbook. Now, come on over and show me how, okay?)

Hat tip to Zina (http://zinababies.livejournal.com/) for having the energy to find the site, read, enjoy and oh yes, pop out a wee baby person. And did she mention something about someone passing a dairy food challenge? Yee-haw!

My thanks to the brave lenders of laptops, especially to the one who finally just shoved a laptop into my arms. The Mike virus is not to be taken lightly, and ours is still rampaging. The repaired washing machine began pouring water on Monday, the dryer is still banging and leaking water, and Saturday night I was audible up and down the Charles River, when the laptop grunted, sizzled and gasped "systems error" before expiring.

So:

• the Mike came back and told me that they'd forgotten to hit the reset switch on the dryer. Sorry, lady, that's why it wasn't working. Oh. So why is it still banging? (shrug) Who knows. Something loose? He then reattached the hoses to the washing machine, this time connecting the hot and cold hoses to the hot and cold spots. No more hot laundry, after being washed on 'cold,' fewer pink undershirts for the Man. After they left, I found a loose screw on the floor.
  
• the dryer continued to bang and leak. I requested alternate Mikes, and two came: Oh, the condenser hose was kinked. That's why it's leaking. Ah. And the banging, which began right before the dryer's motor died? Hmm. Looks like a loose belt, lady. Gonna have to replace it. That will mean taking the motor out - going to be a big job. (inhale, exhale, dig fingernails into wooden chair) But you guys just replaced the motor. Yep. Guess we missed seeing the loose belt. Ah. And do you need this screw? Oh, hey! Lookit that. We were just wondering if we'd lost one. Right. I watched the Mike slip  behind the re-assembled and re-stacked washer/dryer, and pop the screw into place
  
• Brand new Mikes! Turns out, the old Mikes come from a company with an F rating on Angie's List. We'd used the company for over four years without realizing, and hoo boy, do I feel like a ripe idiot. The company rates an F on the BBB, too. Caveat homeowner. The new Mikes were polite, patient with the unmechanically minded me, and passed muster (I think) with a friend who can install her own washer/dryer - and shrug. Yes, the belt is loose on the dryer, and it's probably what did the motor in. We'll need to replace it, along with some mated parts. And the new Mikes think it's unlikely that the old Mikes did all that we paid them to do. We shall see when the new parts go in, but for now the washer is back in gear! The new Mikes have come just in time, because...
• the tenants downstairs (aka people who are very patient with lots of small running feet and who pay a crucial hunk of our mortgage) called: their dishwasher is making a grumbling growling screechy sound. Of course it is. Can we get a repairman in?
• or, as the screener of Mikes friend pointed out, a Jesuit. For an exorcism. Her dishwasher is rumbling as well, making the
• loan of a laptop an especially brave move. But thank you, thank you to those who offered and to the slightly risk-oriented friends who pushed one into my arms. My editor is unimpressed by our Mikes, and demands that I keep my deadline regardless. She suggests typewriters, as requiring fewer Mikes. Persevere, saith she.

Which I will. Somehow. Possibly by using alarming quantities of No-Doz.

Blog posts are piling up here, on rheumatologist Mikes, on allergy statistics, on Purim, and on adventures in cloth. And if I don't get some of them out, my brain will begin leaking - and I will not have another Mike in my life, no matter how unnerving it is to watch steam gently sifting out of my ears.

ummm

it is just possible that the resurrection of the washer/dryer has been exaggerated.

Zombie-like, they are up and running, albeit with a couple of quirks: the washer seems to run hot water when asked to use cold. (guess how I figured that one out, hey?) By contrast, the dryer tosses the clothes around nicely, but doesn't deliver any heat.

It is perhaps unfortunate that the first thing I tossed into the wash was the boys' winter jackets...they are now clean, warm and slowly drip-drip-dripping over the tub. Oh, dear. Those are sort of useful around here.

On the other hand, my sense of status quo is now restored as the Mike virus rolls on. May I suggest thinking hard before offering to let us use your machines?

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

Like any sane woman, when this sort of thing goes on around me, I start searching for chocolate. Having inexplicably failed to find some in the house (that is, find any palatable stuff), I tried making blueberry jam instead.

Yes, yes, I know, blueberry jam is not theobromos, but picture this: to make the stuff, you rinse blueberries, pour them into a big pot, grab your potato masher and squash the hell out of the things. Believe me when I say that this is extremely therapeutic. And the outcome is a low-sugar jam, which I'm hoping to use in a barter for sewing expertise. 

So, no. Not chocolate. But the small accomplishment suited me fine, and the process definitely met a need or two...

take that, blueberry. Mess with my machines, will you? I. Think. Not. Heeee-yah!

Note: the recipe linked to above is the one I used, with the natural (sugar-free) pectin. In the end, I added a 1/4 c of sugar to the 8 cups of fresh blueberries, plus 3 cups of juice. So much for sugar-free, eh? More to the point, the recipe I used was hard to follow - great photos, but the layout makes it tricky to read. But the results taste pretty darned good...

return of the Mike

Oh, said the Mike as the door swung open. Wasn't I just here?

Yep, I nodded. This time, you're here for the washing machine.

***********************************
It's with a sense of deja vu and a strong urge to buy some sage to smudge the place - or possibly hold an exorcism - that I must report that our washing machine has chosen to follow its sister into oblivion. Oh, dear.

It is mere coincidence that I am a full. two. freakaaarghing. months. behind. in my commitments, but it's an unhappy one: I am hauling loads to friends' homes, spending time at the laundromat, and watching impossibly precious time slip farther through my fingertips as I drop writing and editing in favor of enough underwear to go around. Got to have priorities. And, apparently, friends with laundry facilities.

And so we trudge along, using a verb that's pretty accurate right now. It's hard to stride boldly, calmly or otherwise with a ginormous sack of laundry on my back, let alone a value-sized bottle of Not Gonna Give You Grief dye-free, stink-free laundry detergent. But you can imagine the trudge as determined and strong, if you like.

Somehow, it had not occurred to me that we might be hauling our karma along with our fershtunken socks. Or perhaps I've been too wise to be that self-centered. The world doesn't revolve around us, right? Events do not spiral outwards from us, right? Right. But today's laundry locale of choice (yes, but if we have the playdate at your place, I could - perhaps, if it's not an imposition - do some laundry?) was unexpectedly zapped, mid-Imperfect load. The clever eco-friendly washer failed to spin, the clothes needed to be bailed out with measuring cups and saucepans and buckets, and we trudged off with damp (but clean) clothes, wondering if maybe we should get extra bundles of sage?

Just in case it's catching? (Still not the Center of All Things. Nope. No way. Just oddly close to it, maybe?)

One friend's home had been pre-zapped, and I folded laundry while he disassembled his dishwasher. (been there, I murmured. But not really - we had had a Mike disassemble and haul ours away.) And another had been preemptively zinged: sitting in my now dusty inbox is an email from another friend, surprised to find that her washing machine is broken. And we hadn't even called them yet, laundry bag in hand. Damn, but that karma thing is zipping right along there, isn't it?

Because it's definitely not trudging...
*****************************
This is the week of fix, QG announced two weeks ago, and I'm sorry to say that she might have understated the case. This is the month of fix, and this is the week of cancel. And the weeks of facing up to reality, nostril to nostril. Toenail to uncut toenail. After months of watching the treadmill speed up, I realize now that in fact, the damn thing has been moving at the same speed, all along. It's not me, it's you, hissed the machine, and yep. Okay.

I've been whizzing through the house for a while now, pausing to shriek about not being able to keep up, to explode about whatever effort du jour isn't sustainable, and finally settling down long enough to really inject the delight into a rare dinner with the Man, by steering us to a discussion about our choices. Our priorities. Our relationship. Our habits of getting roughly 4-5 hrs of sleep a night.

And then looking astonished, when we realize that we're tired.

I'd love to say that stances were taken, and dramatic changes are underway. Remember the bedtime pledge? We both failed absurdly: I managed two nights of bed-by-midnight, mostly because I was smacked down with a stomach nasty on those nights. The Man ducked the virus, and managed none.

Let me be clear: this is not a whine. I'm too tired to offer up a good whine, anyway. It's also not a rant, for the same reason. Instead, this is a standing in my tracks, swiping aside cobwebs to have a clearer look at our realities. Time to look a few in the hairy eyeball. See if they blink.

(damn. They didn't.)

reality: our family is not low-maintenance, between the food and the variable approaches to clotting.
reality: the Man's workload is not likely to lighten up in any forseeable future (nor is anyone hiring). He earns a paycheck and is our source for health insurance - his work is a priority. This is inarguable, however irritating it might be for those of us doing the relationship thing.
reality: the writing I do is fundamentally important to me. It's therapy and a stepping stone to? well, something. It is necessary.
reality: my writing time is extracted from household/family/mothering time. It is a privilege.
reality: a preschooler without a preschool, is a child being homeschooled. They are also a child without a school for next year. Finding such a school takes a surprising amount of time, now that we've missed any number of autumn registration/application dates.
reality: staying up late at night to work will not let us scrape up extra time. Nor will it allow us to produce stellar results. It will just make us tired, and our work slightly cracked. As we go on, the cracking becomes positively baroque. Oh, dear. Is this why I just lost a feature article to another staff writer? aaaaargh.
reality: the kids do not give a flying crap about any of this. Their needs will not change according to their parents' convenience, and I watch the Man soak the boys in nightly, finding love and comfort and a quiet grounding in the small, flying bodies. Oh - perhaps that's necessary, too?
reality: we are blessed with friendships, with people who would probably (and have poked me, to remind me so) be happy to pitch in from time to time, offering their own precious time and resources and caring. So stubbornly in the habit of self-sufficiency, we've got out of the habit of leaning on others.
(unfortunate) reality: tired people are not patient. Tired people are not as gentle, or loving, or even just plain happy as people with a basic allotment of sleep. And tired people who are stressed with drop their bi-annual dates down the toilet of oh, shit, how did we end up here?

Caught between these realities, we're hunting around. We can't throw money at this problem, as much as we wish we could. Even before the Mikes turned up, one of my challenges has been to try and reduce our monthly costs. It's still, alas, one of my challenges. So, there's no money trapdoor here. But somewhere, there must be possibilities to soften these realities, right?

possibility: food could be canned. (but not frozen - the freezer is tiny and full) Meals could be simplified, time could be saved.
possibility: we could - we should - well, now, and here I'm a little stumped.

I'm not asking for sympathy here, because there's nothing tragic here. Nor is there anything sad. Ours is a wonderful and extraordinarily complicated life, and hey, a good one. Not simple, not easy, always made from scratch and ultimately yummy. And for however many months going back, and however many months going forwards, it's going to be a little tough.

Nor am I hoping for suggestions or solutions here, because how could I? There's a thousand pieces of this puzzle, like the lack of jobs in our area (the Man must keep his), my sense of urgency about going to grad school....someday (and the need to feel like I'm preparing for that, somehow), some medical whatnot (private and otherwise - but no, none of them involving my ovaries), the budgetary and practical and psychological specifics of seventeen hundred and three things that serve to shape this cumulative reality, right down to the freakin' tiny freezer. So. Delicate moving parts, stubborn people, good love, lots of dents, and maybe the odd straw on the back already.

Oh yes, and did I mention the Mikes? (hi, guys)

As we wrestle, cancel meetings, visits and yes, I call to do some painful resigning from writing/editing, there must be a bright spot. And indeed there is.

(You didn't think I would leave you hanging, did you?)

Last Friday, I took my third shot at jam. The first try, a marmelade, was sunshiny-sweet. Too sweet, judged a friend, and suggested minced crystallized ginger. The second batch followed her advice, while the third batch changed gears and went raspberry.

Raspberry jam glows in the sunlight, did you know? It warms the hand and the eye, and it mattered remarkably little that novice that I am, I had boiled the jam until it cooled into a raspberry toffee. It's still deep and warm and lovely, and the Man and the boys and I spooned it onto homemade scones with pleasure.

**********************
hmmm. There's a metaphor up there somewhere. Nah, there's just another -yawn- instance in the Imperfect trend. Effort, challenge, food, pleasure. So what else is new?

*the scone recipe is here. Of course, we tweaked it: I added a half tsp of nutmeg, and possibly a dash of vanilla. And nope, I don't cut mine up - can't be bothered. I smoosh them into a cooking-sprayed pie plate, and try to artistically scatter demerara sugar on top. Takes perhaps 25+ minutes to bake.

a spot of quiet to go with that tea, love?

and then it was quiet. The sun made a warm spot on the futon, and I curled up with my tea, and a copy of my latest book. The book, a long-delayed read, had some suggestions.* The tea did, too.

*The Blessing of a Skinned Knee, by Wendy Mogel. It's currently being read by the parenting group at the Eldest's school, a group which isn't attended by parents of kids-in-tow. (um)

reading materials

I just read a new book, I told my mum. Oh? she said, politely. And then considered.

Is it anything like that Pollan book you gave me? I haven't been able to think about my meat the same ever since, she said accusingly. Is this new book anything like that? I blinked. My mum, the warrior for the neglected (and occasionally lactating) woman, has been regaling me with green tips for a few months now. Pollan seemed right up her alley.

So, wherefore the oh-so casual (telephonic) inching towards the safety of the other room? The hiding behind old Save Darfur signs?

Um, no, I said. It's different. This one's about the cosmetics industry. On the other end of the line, mum started to relax. Really? she said, trying for mild encouragement. Yep, I said - and launched.

It's about the regulation of the chemicals used in the cosmetics industry, and how America and Europe regulate them differently. Mum made a noncommittal sound. Europe, I explained, makes companies prove that a chemical is safe before use. America, allows companies to use whatever they like until it's proven to be unsafe.

Ah. said the slightly worried voice on the phone.

I grinned. And of course, the industry is largely self-regulated, doing their own research, and the inevitable outcome for such a situation. I could feel the phone's shoulders tensing up. Which is how you end up with two different formulations for products, one that's deemed safe in Europe, and one that's accepted in the USA. Endocrine disruptors and all.

Um, said my mother. I have to go now.

In truth, I think she got off lightly. Tonight, a solid three weeks after finishing the book, I finally muttered, grabbed an armful of our household health and beauty items and looked them up. The database run by the EWG ranks individual products on a scale of 1-10, where 10 is the most toxic, or damaging. The information for these chemicals comes from lists made by the FDA, the EPA, National Toxicology Program, European Chemical Bureau, the US health and beauty industry's own standards for use, and peer-reviewed academic journals. No crazy blog ranting or rumormongering allowed.

The database shows you the rank of individual chemicals, and explains why they are a problem. It is, explained Stacey Malkan, the only one of its kind outside of the industry. And the folks who run it, says Malkan, really think someone, um, official should be taking charge. You know, someone who can actually do something about the problems that the database highlights? Yeh. Them.

The boys' food allergies have made me a skeptic in the face of apparent corporate good will and transparency. And if the food industry is hard to get information from, try the health and beauty folks, who have no obligations to tell me diddly about what's in their products, whether it's giving my kid hives or not. So our soaps have had steadily shorter ingredient lists, as have the boys' moisturizers and toothpastes. Shorter = interpretable, I figured. Interpretable = safe.

Shorter, plus avoiding chemicals that I can't pronounce (hey, everyone has a line, and this is where I've drawn it), with a dash of innate crunchiness would combine with poor reading skills...and get us a good score. But, points out Stacey Malkan, the health and beauty industry is not required to give a full listing of ingredients. Oh.

Here's how we did:
kids' toothpaste: 4
kids' shampoo/soap: 2 (and a shout-out to the allergy team, here, for recommending it..)
kids' moisturizer: 4

the Man's shampoo: 5 (so much for the 'pure and natural' bit on the label)
the Man's deoderant: 5 (this was fun: they rank the items against each other, and his was 525th. Yeesh)
the Man's toothpaste: 6 (oh, dear. He's not going to like this one.)

my shampoo: 5 (and another lousy ranking, sigh)
my face washes: 2 (yay!) and 4 (huh?)
my lovely mineral moisturizer: 5 (so much for natural Dead Sea whatevers)
my deoderant: 4 (but, said the database, did I know that it has wheat protein? crud.)
my hydrating toner spray (and my daily burst of ooh la la): 6 (holy fucking hell)

oh, dear.

I've filled a few post-its with scribbles, noting the evils of parabens, biotin, BHT, triclosan, coumarin and more. And used the rankings on the database to find safer toothpastes, shampoo and deoderant options. But can this database come up with the little zing of glamour that is my hydrating spray?

I now understand my mum's tone a bit better. Given the grumpy numbers I'm looking at, the damned thing had better come through. Because mama wants her oooh, la la, and she wants it first thing in the morning when everything else looks like sludge.

Shortly after she apologizes to her mum for the terrible things that this Pollan guy did.
***************************

Note: As part of the newly neural hurrah, the Man and I watched the VP debate the other night. Well, okay, so we don't have a working TV. But there were lots of nice live clips online, and we gritted our bandwidth and went for it. Intriguing - and worrying. Biden just didn't have Palin's down home tone, and he was less appealing (less smiling and mugging for the viewer, less inviting the viewer to nod and feel like he got the average Joe. Also bigger words - a double-edged tactic). It worries me.

What fascinated me, though, was the clip on gay rights. Palin said a lot of "tolerant"s in her response to the question of gay marriage. Or, rather, single-sex partnerships. (ahem) Oh, dearie me. Okay, so can we run through this? If you are "tolerant," then you are a bridge-building moment or thirty-seven away from "supportive." I'm not comforted by "tolerant," because it usually comes with a hefty list of exceptions and loopholes. To me, a tolerant person is the same person who parks in the handicapped spots, on those days when she's (um) late getting her kid to school. The parking lot's full, and so, oh, well, just this once. Exceptions and loopholes. And matters of convenience.

(Explanatory Note: yes, I am always late getting the kids to school. But no, unless the Eldest has a bleed, we do the walk of shame, from the not-quite-legal parking spots outside of the school parking lot, all the slow, long way to the office for our ritual pink slip. And, no it's not that I'm that virtuous, it's that someday, I could legitimately need that spot, and I'd hate me if I was one of the people blocking it off for momentary convenience. Sort of preemptive guilt, but it works.)

It's a slippery, worrying word, is "tolerance," for all that it wears a boy scout-ish earnestness. But then again, as before Palin wasn't actually talking to me, as one of those deviants who'd happily call a marriage between two individuals a marriage, regardless of gender. Or sex, for that matter.

(again, noting the distinction)

But what else would you expect from a gimp mama, on the hunt for insincerities? Oh, no - hang on there - she is cultivating my group. How silly of me to forget: she's going to support us, and let the others dangle. Well, phew.

I'll just go grab that nice parking spot, then, shall I?