a picture of someone...getting the point

oh, the blogosphere - she do fascinate.

Here's a quasi-blog, quasi-advert for a book about to come out, which posted the cover art - and got slapped in the comments section. Is the cover art offensive? Or is it funny? You decide. Polls are open for the next 6? days, and the best image of the cover is here (the 4/13 entry).

Personally, I find it funny.  A kid with fine print giving out a healthy dose of snark? Works for me.

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?

Calvin and his bat barf

The Eldest is now a delighted reader. Okay, so he got stuck on 'discrimination' last Sunday, but he nailed something equally tricky today. He's just exploding into the world of books. Which is good, because when the teachers warned us parents at the start of the year that not every kid would be reading by the end, we were all sure that OUR kid wasn't going to be the one. I do so love to be right. (Of course, he's three years behind me, so still. I get to be right and have angst. Perfection!)

He'll read shorter and longer paper books to the Toddles, to himself, and now...comics. Yep, the Eldest has discovered Calvin and Hobbes, and he's riveted. Delighted as I am to see him reading, I noted that he was also considering the use value of the comics.

I regretted deeply to inform him that, while Calvin can do or say any number of things (such as calling his dinner 'bat barf'), these were unlikely to be well recieved at Chez Imperfect. The Eldest considered, and solemnly agreed.

Still, I suspect it's a matter of time before we are calvined. After all, the other day I came upon the Toddles, and I'm nearly certain that the child was taking notes.

Oh, and what am I reading? Beyond mountains of research for an upcoming article, I'm deep into Taleb's The Black Swan, to the Man's surprise and delight. It's surprisingly fun, mostly because Taleb is cheating wildly - having insisted that we use narrative to create a recognizeable, soothing pattern to our world (thereby allowing us to ignore the chance of the improbable - a.k.a. a black swan - happening), he's using narrative to prove that we shouldn't. Heh.

Besides, as a native (tho' transplanted) Aussie, I always knew that black swans existed, even before the somewhat improbable Eldest turned up to nudge my memory.

conversations with the short

But first, a quick nod to my new persona as book critic: this one was a good read, I thought, with an absolutely delightful authorial voice, and blogospheric-worthy sense of self. I could have done without the chookhouse, but the tale of two mariners had me frozen in my seat. I absolutely had to know what happened next...

Yup, worth reading. But you decide for yourself - wiser heads might point out a certain bias on my part.
************
[During lunch, at which point the Toddles reminds us all that he really does have a bit of a lisp]

small person: I hear a duck
Adult: my ears hear a truck, too.
[truck rumbles down the street]
small person, scornfully: noooo, the other duck.
Adult: my ears do not hear another truck.
small person, mouth slightly full: it is the backoe.
Adult: oh, the back-hoe was by the river before
small person, now liberally daubed with tomato sauce, singing: I fink the backoe should wive [live] down-a, down-a
Adult: live down where?
small person, undaunted, still saucy and still singing: Oh, I fink the backoe should wive down-a, down-a, Sanniego [San Diego]
Adult, sensing a narrative to which she is not - quite - a party: oh. Right then.
****************

Scene: at the table, the Eldest is carefully, patiently, folding an origami compsygnathus. The Man is with him, watching this latest generation of passionate hobbyists at work.

Man: You know, when you were about a month old, I had a dream that someday you would have an activity that you loved, and we would support you in it.
Eldest stirs briefly in response, then returns to his work.
Man, meditatively: you know, I think we’re living that dream.
Eldest, looking up, his attention caught: I think we ARE living that dream, Daddy!
Yes, said the dreamer, smiling gently. But not during dinner.

*****************
The Toddles is on my back, sitting happily in the Ergo carrier while leafing through a copy of Where the Wild Things Are.

How are you doing back there?
Oh, good.
And how are the wild things?
Oh, um, good. And also Max.
Excellent. And where are Max and the wild things now?
Oh, um, in my mouth.

[choked gargle from the sherpa, a distinctly pleased silence from her baggage]

*********************
Mama at the sink, washing dishes. A small figure trots by.

I’m going to work wif dis, drifts back to the maternal ear.
Oh, okay hon, she says, unthinking. But then, snikt –

[running feet]

What on earth?

how one discovers that the two year old can open the child-locked cabinets and drawers.
*****************
a quiet, pre-bedtime moment. The Mama is leisurely inspecting the child's head for, alas, lice.

Mum, hemophilia is when you are missing factor eight and factor nine. But who is missing factor nine?
I blink, and reel off a couple of names.
Oh. But what about ----, or --------, or ---------?
Oh, they are missing factor eight, hon. Like you.
Ah.
And so is [list deleted]. They were with us at camp , d’you remember?
Thoughtfully, Yes. Those guys are all my buddies.
Yes. And I’m glad.

The gift of camp was a weekend of joy without the mention of hemophilia, thus quietly linking hemophilia with a sense of opportunity and delight. Brilliantly done. The less subtle goal, though, was building community - and with it a sense of shared experience, normalcy, blahditty blah blah. All good stuff, no?

This past week was the National Hemophilia Foundation’s big annual meeting. Someday, I’ll take the Eldest, and he can look at rooms and rooms of people, all reluctant clotters like him, like us. Until then, I'll just bask quietly in the knowledge that for a kid with a rare thingummijiggy, he's got quite a few thingumijiggy-type friends.

Which reminds me - a (belated) good luck to you, exblick! I hope you had a great session.
*****************
The Rower’s Tapenade

a dip enjoyed by Head of the Charles competitors everywhere, but especially by one member of the Watertown Master’s team…makes one soup bowl-ful.

1 can of tasteless black olives. No, not kalamata, not green, the cheap-o, plastic-textured can of olives that should be offensive to all sane palates. Drained.
1 tsp salt
juice of 1 lemon
1 large clove garlic, peeled
handful of parsley (try to avoid the stems)

Toss garlic and salt into a food processor, and whirl until pretty finely minced. Add everything else. Whirl until olives are in small pieces. Keeps in refrigerator for up to a week, though the liquid may separate. If it does, just stir it back in.

Note: this is not quite the tapenade that the MIL makes – I am given to understand that she’s made some adjustments. However you make it, please remember to include the following PSA: the following dip is an olive dip made for non-olive eaters. Please do not lick the bowl without offering first swipe to the cook.

Gluten-Free book review

It’s time to indulge in a little lit crit, my friends. Specifically, a book review.

I’ve held off on doing these because, well, it’s just too easy to be snarky about them. D’you see me writing a book? Certainly not. And yet, the magpie pleasures of the literary critic is to dip into texts and pick out their favorite, glittering moments, and to speculate not-too gleefully on the shortfalls. Still.

Recently, I picked up Gluten-Free Girl’s book. She was given the book contract based on her blog, but only partly – she’s no fresh off the boat writer, but has taught writing and been writing for years. Even without knowing that, I can see the strong style and structure shaping her blog posts. I rather like her blog, and she’s got a sweet story…so I bought the book.

I’m now in the slightly awkward position of trying to review the thing without having it in front of me. It’s the cardinal lit crit sin (can’t quote revealingly from the book? tsk, tsk), but I’ve lent it out. Yup, I read it, I lent it, I made a mental list of people who would enjoy it. Must’ve been a real stinker of a book for me to do that, yes? No. 'course not.

The focus of the book is simple: listen to your body. If something is wrong, figure it out – even if it means a major lifestyle change like going gluten-free. Far too many people with celiac (like people with von Willebrands disease) go undiagnosed. Don’t be one of them. And then, once you are trying to live this new life, ignore what you can’t have, and explore the wonderfully tasty world of what you can have. Buy produce from the farmers who grow it (it really does taste better that way, and not just because you are feeling morally superior), invest in some good cookery equipment, some excellent ingredients. Oh, and if you fall in love on the way, well, check your karma for fine print about package deals. (Note: the GF-G’s love story is a really darling one.)

I was a bit disappointed, though hardly surprised to find that there’s a rather large number of recipes that just don’t fit us. When you are focussed on excellent flavors and tastes, the blend of flavors is more precise, making it harder to eliminate one flavor (butter? nuts?) and still have a good, strong whole. But I’ll be playing with her recipes regardless, and I’ll report in if anything really mouth-opening pops up. And if you are just avoiding gluten, I heartily recommend trying her recipes, not to mention her blog. Let me know what happens!

Stylistically, the book is a bathroom read, a new parent read, something you put down and pick up again. It’s just not built to be read cover-to-cover, which is just fine by me. In fact, it’s built a lot like a blog that grew into a book…funny, that. It’s constructed of shortish pieces, some discussions and some narrative, and tends to reiterate its philosophy a lot. I tried to read it straight through, and it just didn't work. When I went back and tried to read just bits, I was happier.

This is by no means a criticism of Shauna, mind you. Having just finished my first really serious writing experience, I’m now a bit shocked at how easily the editing process can pull apart the fine strands that bind a text together. (Article by committee, anyone?) It’s hard, hard, hard to knit a text seamlessly together afterwards, and frankly the process can do worse than letting the text be episodic. Shauna maintains the spirit of her blog, has some useful interludes (and I'm with her on the olive oil, if anyone is wondering), and has certainly proven why her blog's so popular. Yay for the Girl!

Finally, a small grump. This is a book written by a person without children. Shauna’s focus and attention to food is remarkable, and her joy in it is palpable. But could she keep it up, between diapers and runs to the playground? I’m very, very curious to find out.

demented rabbits and contented toddlers

Well, more bleeding and more cautery. This time, with the Eldest watching curiously. So, when the ENT asked me, worriedly, 'Are you okay?' The correct answer was a cheery, 'yup!' Ignoring, of course, the feeling like the inside of my nose was on fire.

The lidocaine, it seems, had not quite worked. Quite.

Again, with an eye towards snuggling platelets, the ENT shoved a bit of something up my nose. Placed somewhat differently than the first bit of platelet snuggling, this bit of whateveritis itches. I find myself twitching my nose, and looking a bit like a demented rabbit. Yay, me. I had dinner tonight with a superb listener, who not only let me rattle on for hours, but didn't laugh at my ridiculous nose-dance. A lady with a certain amount of aplomb, that one.

My Samantha-esque twitching gives me a slightly vague, distracted look that contrasts nicely with the Toddles' latest behavior patterns: from a vague, guess-what's-irking-the-child, we know have the Definitive Communicator. He is clear as to his wishes, tidies up after himself, and brooks no fluthering about by his parents. (This is the place where people remind me that the second one is easier. This is also the place where I laugh at them. What is this 'easy' to be -er of?)

Tonight, for example, he woke up and wailed at about 11.30pm. Mind you, he didn't even open his eyes - typically, he sits up and wails, eyes still closed, certain that the grownup of choice will appear. The Man went in and soothed him back to sleep - tried, anyway - but the Toddles shoved the soothing hand away and pointed, clearly, forcefully, down the hall, where I was working. The Man tried again, but again found the paternal hand shoved away as the Toddles began crawling off the bed to go and fetch me.

Accepting defeat, he called me. I went in to the room, lay down and nursed the wee tyrant. Once he was done nursing on one side, he tidily pulled my shirt down, patted me, and pointed. Other side, Mum. I popped him over, he nursed on the other side, and again covered me up when he was done. Tidy little soul, that one. Clear in his needs, focussed, but tidy when done.

I can live with that.
************************

The Eldest had his interview at the school of choice, and looking him with an eye to what a stranger would see, I could see just how far he's regressed, post-bleed. He hid behind me, thumb so far into his mouth that it tickled his tonsils. When invited to go into the kindergarten classroom, he declined, but agreed to peek in through the door. (sound familiar? Yup.)

When asked questions, he declined to respond - insofar as I could see, while I was still in the room. Now, as my friend the rabbi says, is where I start to over-interpret. What did the Director of Admissions see? In his focus on the Lego, to the extent that he didn't respond to her, did she see a child avoiding social interaction? Or does she see a child with tremendous powers of concentration? At one point, she asked him to write his name. I couldn't stop myself - here was a child who can log the date and the names of the veins that are used for his infusions. I jumped in and told her so, and then worried that I seemed like I was bragging.

I was. But what did she see? Did she see the hiding child, or the external view? Can she sift through the anxious child behaviors to see him? I have to trust that she did. I hate having to do that. In fact, i'm thinking of ruthlessly using the medical pow-wow to do a little PR, a little spin...I just can't stop myself.

But still, how many kids can draw you a picture of a fibrin net? Or name the veins in their arm and hand? Or backseat poke? The kid likes to give advice to people doing the vein poke, it's hilarious. (I think you are to the left of the vein. Did you advance the needle? try wiggling it a bit. Maybe it's positional?) The kid's just that cool, and I think the Director of Admissions should know that. Hell, I think there should be billboards on the Mass Pike letting folks know that, but that might be one of those maternal bias things I keep hearing about.

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

Finally, I got to meet one of my favorite authors, Guy Gavriel Kay, tonight at the Vericon. I never go to fantasy/scifi conventions (or 'cons,' as they are apparently called), but magid wisely hauled me to this one. Magid found the listing for the talk, bought my badge, acquired the as-yet not released book by Kay, and managed to maneuver all three (badge, book and me) to Harvard campus. She even showed up Saturday afternoon, before the talk, to make sure I wasn't trying to hide in my burrow.

And I didn't. Kay talked about the role of fantasy, as he sees it, and it was clear that he's a bit of a crusader. Disturbed by the lack of awareness that we have of our own history, Kay uses history as a base for his fantasy. Through the lens of fantasy, historical moments are universalized, he points out, making them more accessible to we modern, era-centric types. And thereby more easily used as a tool to analyze the present.

This smacks strongly of an argument that I've made to my own students, when teaching medieval literature. I tell them to treat it like a kind of fantasy, to picture an era that's different from ours, different enough that we create our own fantasies trying to imagine it, because we can't possibly get it exactly right. Can you imagine believing that an old fingerbone in a cathedral could cure you? Or, if you were a cynic, knowing that the majority of people believed that? I can tell them that there was an amazing paucity of objects, by our modern standards, but they don't understand it, they merely accept the words as something to parrot back on essays and exams. Invite them to imagine a room without the easy clutter of a machine-made material culture, with one cup per person, and they start to get it. Imagination, and specifically fantasy is a wonderful tool to get a person to accept difference, to loosen up and look calmly outside of their network, or pattern of known definitions and understandings. And my vague invitation to my students, trying to shake up their faith in academic teachings, their ethnocentricity, pales in comparison to Kay's precise, detail-careful narrative.

Fun, above all, to actually meet the man! And I am looking forward to settling down with Ysabel, his latest book, and a good cup of tea. Until 3 a.m., of course...
***************************

The SIL has issued a challenge: can I come up with a good birthday cake for the Niece's party? Here's my first attempt, an adaptation of an adaptation. I just hope the Niece likes blueberries! (Note to self: test the recipe sans fruit)

A Girl's Gotta Have...Cake
serves 6-8 happy cake eaters

1 stick (1/2 cup) butter or margarine
1 cup sugar
4 eggs or 4 Tb ground flaxseed (flaxmeal) + 1/2 c water, zapped in microwave and let cool. should be thick, plus 1 tsp baking soda
2 tsp baking powder (gluten free folks, check for corn!)
1 cup white rice flour
2/3 cup sour cream or 2/3 cup Tofutti cream cheese (contains corn) or 2/3 cup plain soy yogurt (some contain corn, be careful - currently, Silk yogurt seems not to trouble either of my boys). If you use the dairy free options, add 1/2 tsp vanilla powder
4 TB lemon juice (in a pinch, it's okay to mix lemon and orange juice)
zest of 1 lemon. Oranges work fine, too
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 cup blueberries (frozen are fine)

Blend margarine/butter and sugar. Add eggs/egg sub.s, and blend. Add remaining ingredients and mix well. Whip with cake mixer for 2 minutes.

Preheat oven to 350 F. Grease or spray with cooking spray a 8 by 8 baking pan. Note: this recipe might also work with a bundt pan, I simply have bad luck with those - my cakes crumble when I try to remove them, proving that I am more cook than baker. Also, beware! This cake will rise, unlike lots of gluten free baked goods. It'll fall a bit, too, but make sure the pan can hold it while it rises.

Pour batter into prepared pan. bake 50-60 minutes. Middle will fall, don't worry about it. Test carefully with toothpick, baking times will vary depending on oven.

Options: these would probably work beautifully as muffins, with about a 20 minute bake time.

picking it up

6.20 am: the Toddles, nursing, bites me. Crap. Are we doing that again?

8 am: the Toddles flings a toy at my head, shrieking with joy.

6.35pm: running out the door, I lift a bulk package of toilet paper, which rips, sending rolls bouncing across the floor.

I tell The Man: today, if I picked it up, I dropped it. If I dropped it, it had liquid in it. If it had liquid, it spilled on me.
pause
Man, carefully, Then don't pick it up.

Resisting an urge to throttle him, I ran out the door to the umpteenth meeting about kindergartens. (I am now having dreams about talking to admissions directors. They are more interesting when my subconcious produces them, I think.) And promptly got lost at the intersection of Rts 2, 3, 16 and Concord Ave. Some days are like that. Luckily, someone had thoughtfully built a Starbucks at this intersection, so I was able to find solace.

But no driving directions.
********************************

On a different note, the gDiapers are back! The Toddles got that irritated skin thing under his diaper (I admit it, I second guessed myself and used the last of the cheapo diapers with maybe, maybe not corn from the company who never called me back), so I went out and bought some more flushable inserts.

Last night: no leaks! And his skin looks much happier...

****************************
The Eldest has a book by Stephen Johnston, called My Little Blue Robot, which has all the necessary bits to build a robot-ish figure. The robot talks when you press on his chest, to the Eldest's concern (it makes me jump, Mummy). He figured out how to disconnect the circuit, and feels better having that degree of control.

The robot, when toggled appropriately, says Hello! I'm your friend! Let's play. Having built the thing and connected the circuit, the Eldest listened to this for a bit. Thoughtfully, he said, We should put Pedro (the robot) away on Shabbat, so that the Toddles won't accidentally make him talk. (We don't use electricity on the sabbath.) Then he thought some more. But if the robot does talk on shabbat, he'll say, 'Hello, God! I'm your friend! Let's play....'

what the Eldest is thinking about

I do ask your indulgence as I take some time to gather corn allergy materials together - I'm working on a post that has my various resources and responses from companies. In the meantime, a warning: Pampers apparently has a new formulation for one kind of diaper wipe, and this includes DAIRY. Caveat emptor, folks.

Now, then, the Eldest. I spend much time rhapsodizing about the wee toddles, that the Eldest tends to get short shrift in this blog. And a bit in real life, which is one of my chief regrets right now. He's a fascinating, loving little fellow, and I wish I were better able to celebrate that in him these days. Thus, we've been reading together. Thus also my attempt at reviving the 5 minute dinner (see below for a recipe), so that I can spend some time focusing on him after school. My thanks to Auntie A, whose birthday gift gave us some good cafe-mommying time, otherwise known as Love in the Time of the Scarlet Fever. (Hey, it's a good book, thus I can plunder the title for my entertainment. Move on.)

We're reading Mr. Popper's Penguins together, and I'm sad to say that the book is interchangeable in his heart with any number of Mr. Men books. Alas, Roger Hargreaves, you have done us wrong. Sort of. I did have a brief affection for Mr. Bump and Little Miss Busy, but I think I'm over it now. Still, the Eldest persists in his affection for the little books, and Mr. Popper and I will simply wait it out.

But as for visual media, well, our free cable disappeared some months ago. Since, we've consulted our budget, which politely declined to support proper cable, and furthermore suggested that we might want to cancel TiVO, as well. We did so, and the pain has since lessened.

Recently, someone sent this link to a Boston working mothers group that I belong to. The Eldest saw me watching it and was fascinated. This is Dove's latest PSA, folks, and it's wonderful. Coincidentally, it comes just as the Eldest is in love with Five Guys Named Moe's song, I Like 'Em Fat Like That (listen to it here). Courtesy of the SIL-ly, you know. The idea of real beauty, in all of its shapes and sizes being played out before the kiddo is immensely pleasing to me.

Especially, of course, as I'm a fan of this blog, a community written affair celebrating the wrinkles and sags of the mama body. Wouldn't show it to the boy, but happy to lay a bit of groundwork....

So, does the one-on-one thing work? I think it does. So does the more relaxed one-on-two thing, where I'm just occasionally doing dinner things, rather than spending an hour grumping about people needing me for silly things while dinner burns. Relaxed me is good. Relaxed me with just him is also good. But he's still a bit fragile around me, so while I treasure the successes, I know that they don't magically undo a year's worth of snappishness on my part. Still, on Saturday, when I blew a nice vein in his hand, he took it in stride as he used to, working with me, rather than dissolving into tears. The old relationship is there, lurking, evolving.

*****************************recipe time!
Fish Curry (serves 4-6)
adapted from Almost Vegetarian Entertaining, by Diana Shaw
I prepped for this the night before, pre-cutting the potatoes, measuring the spices and it was very fast and very very delicious. The Eldest had seconds, and I had lunch. And I'm making it again tomorrow!

2-3 Tb veg oil
2 large onions, chopped
1 leek (if you have it), chopped and rinsed well
4 garlic cloves, crushed
1 tb peeled sliced fresh ginger (will mellow in the curry)
2 hot peppers, seeded and sliced (I skipped this)
1 Tb ground cumin
2 tsp ground coriander
2 whole cloves
1 cinnamon stick
1/2 tsp turmeric
1/2 tsp cumin seeds (whole)
1 tsp mustard seeds
1 large potato, cubed
1 large/2 small sweet potatoes, cubed
1 can diced/crushed tomatoes or 2 fresh, chopped
1.5 cups/1 can light coconut milk
2 Tb fresh lime juice
salt, pepper

1 lb white, firm fleshed fish (I used cheap frozen tilapia, which is mild tasting - worked beautifully)

Heat oil and add onions, leek (if using), garlic, ginger and hot peppers (if using). Saute until onion starts to brown (5 min?), then add spices, excepting salt and pepper. Saute some more, perhaps 8 minutes total. Add potatoes, stirring to coat with spices. Add tomatoes and cook, stirring until they start to turn into sauce - maybe 3 minutes).
(Note: if you use crushed canned tomatoes, this is roughly the same amount of time as if you use diced - the consistency is different in the end result, is all.)
Add coconut milk, lime juice, salt and pepper. Stir. Then add fish. Simmer over med-low heat, perhaps 8 minutes until fish is flaky.

Serve over cooked rice. Note: fish can be replaced with chicken, preferably cut up. Try it and let me know if it works!