planting a foot on it (a Wish - part 5)

We began at the various visitor buildings, where the Eldest was ceremoniously given a small bag of informative gifts. And the loan of Ranger Rob, a twinkling gentleman with an excellent understanding of that which is small and male.

Hi, said the boys, and gazed adoringly at Rob, his uniform, his walkie-talkie and his generally obvious belonging-hereness. Hi, said Rob. And twinkled.

I explained the Eldest's Wish to climb a volcano, and Ranger Rob and I considered the challenge. To arrive at the Volcanoes National Park, we had driven, well, up. A whole lot of up, more than you'd have thought, given the effectiveness of the doowwwwwwn. Erm. You are already at the summit, another ranger pointed out. (Sans twinkle.) But Rob was unconcerned. I'll take you to what I consider the real summit, he declared. Are you ready? By now, I was pretty sure that I knew the answer.

Yes.

And off we went, up a dusty trail to the (ahem) summit of Kilauea - a summit not appreciated by the tourists, who hang around the nicely paved semicircle with the pay-per-view lookout glasses. The US Geological Survey likes it just fine, and even stuck a literal pin in the map on that very spot, noting the volcano's highest point. They also built a tidy concrete housing over their pin, and we plopped ourselves on top, the better to consider the view.

It is a view that takes some considering.


Kilauea is an uneven sort of place, with steam rising in a great gush from the caldera, and then in little dribbles scattered through the landscape. Clouds hung low, promising damp, then drizzle, before blowing away to let in a blazing sunshine. Greenery would explode upwards, before stopping abruptly on the edge of lava. Even the bare rock left the sense of someone opposed to housekeeping - a handy geologist (drawn in by the twinkle, no doubt) pointed out the caldera's bathtub ring, a ridge showing the lava lake's level, before the most recent eruption. And who would dare scrub at that?

Untidy - and uncertain. Rob's walkie-talkie crackled often, chattering about emerging or possible alarms, and next door, a lab bristled with measurements and instruments eyeing the volcano's every twitch and wriggle. A place to be, but not to settle in, I thought - but possibly that had somewhat to do with the rock digging into my bum. Or possibly with that threatening gush of steam.



It was odd beyond odd to watch a jogger go by, pony tail bouncing.

The geologist, Kelly, offered to take the Eldest to the Jagger volcano lab and observatory, where she showed us boxes of ash and lava samples. The geologists examine the samples for mineral content, among other things. Different minerals are present at different depths, and a new mineral can mean that lava - or ash - is coming from a different chamber, below the surface. They track an amazing amount of information here, Rob told me, quietly. The computers help assemble the information, and can even help us try to figure out what is happening, during a crisis. And yet, looking around at the piled-up boxes of samples and reams of data, I had the feeling that a crucial degree of volcanology was instinct; a half conscious assessment of information, experience and a coalescing judgement, trailing explanations in its wake.

Reliable science would be nice, but hey, instinct works for me, too.


These are Pele's hair - and tears - said Kelly, and the boys listened with their mouths open as she talked about the way that volcanic glass is spun as thin as a human hair. She held up a bag of what truly looked like hair, and picked out a tear. I found this in the parking lot, a few days ago, she said. (I considered moving the car) Oooo, said the boys, but the Eldest hunched his shoulders, worried by the idea of that much volcanic activity.

Is it safe?

Kelly smiled at him. We watch the volcano, she told them, and study everything we can. The Eldest's shoulders relaxed slightly, finding this comforting. And then forgot everything but awe when Kelly explained how they took the lava samples. Ash daily and lava weekly, she told them, and grinned when I asked why her shoes don't melt. Later, she pointed out some Army green flight helmets and bits of gear. For when we go to get the lava, she said, calmly. Rob nodded gravely, and I caught the whisper's edge of a twinkle in Kelly's eye.

Oh, I said, lamely. Oh, boy.

Kelly flickered another micro-twinkle at me, and led us out to a little gallery of stuff thought cool by the geologists. We gaped at these for a while, remembering the difference between stalagmites and stalactites. Geologists really do get to collect the very bestest rocks. But Rob wandered over to what ought to be the Man's favorite map ever; a geological map, showing the dates and topographical details of the various lava flows. Here is where people were evacuated in such a such a year, Rob pointed, and there is where the lava did this, crossed that town, that road. You could see why Rob was still a Ranger - he looked at that map and saw events, people and needs, where numbers and notations about who knows what were written.

People? rocks? I don't think you can really separate the two around here. But you can pick a focus as a lens for reading a given moment.

We walked past a bunch of bemused geologists (children? in the lab?) and wound up some stairs. Thanks for letting us break chunks off the olivine, said a poster, signed, Ms X's class. I grinned, and kept climbing. We emerged into a glass-walled Situation Room on top of the Jagger lab, complete with webcams and fantastic views. And maps of Kilauea, Mauna Loa, Mauna Kea and goodness knows what else, from umpteen angles, dates and with an infinite number of teeny notations.

There is Mauna Kea, Rob waved. I peered at the omnipresent clouds. An eruption would show browns, and a glow. We'd see it, or an eruption around here, or there... He trailed off. And then, we'd respond, he said, simply.

Looking at the massive landscape, I didn't ask how, but suspected that the answer would depend on your lens.



We headed for the car, an annotated map in hand, slipping from specialness into anonymity. Waving goodbye to Rob and the tourist-aesthetic spaces, we looked for somewhere to get dirty.

It was time for a hike.

enacting a metaphor (a Wish - part 4)

Are we ready? Well, yes. But facing the prospect of actually managing the hike, I admit to being a little intimidated. So we started small.

Steam vents, said the sign, and oh, maybe we could picnic there? said the mama. Well, no. The steam was oh-oooo-eep! hot, and the wind was happily sending the stuff around unexpected corners. It was rather like playing peekaboo with the volcano, and we ditched lunch long enough to tromp around from vent to vent.


When they ran out of steam to squeal at, or vents to nearly-but-not-quite fall into, the boys invented their own.


That's my boys, kicking a little ash, the Man muttered, recovering from a fateful of the stuff. Grinned. And informed me that the above should be the caption for the relevant photo.

Suddenly, it seemed, momentum gathered. Lunch in the parking lot, loin girding, map checking - and with a speed and dispatch unusual for Imperfects, we were off. A brisk tromp from the Kilauea Iki overlook towards the Thurston Lava tube. Which, with great restraint (and a lack of flashlight) we passed by. Instead, we headed for the caldera floor.


Nature's blacktop, the Man joked. But a distant blacktop - it was way far down. I peeked over the edge. Whoa.

Look what you did, I told the Eldest. You got us here - and now we're going to go there. He grinned. I tried to look plaintive. Yes, we are, he told me. And bounded off down the path.


A switchback trail leads down to the caldera, overflowing with opportunistic greenery, loving the volcano's warmth at this cool, misty height. Alongside the trail were even more holes in the ground for the boys to admire. Ooooo, we said, and peered at stubborn bits of green growing out of the sides of the gaps, as far down as light would reach. Cracks in the ground do not exactly inspire confidence in the trail, but small boys bounding around close to the edge of oh, many things, doesn't bring much zen, either.

The kids took endless enthusiastic photos, determined to get the best angles and views while the Man tried not to start shrieking. Too far, too fast, too oh dear - gahrgh - you are about to fall in/over/throughohcripesohhelloh oh oh who left the bungie cords at home? We counted to parental ten (today's ten clocked in at 63, hooray!) and tried again.

Let's buddy up, kids, said the mama, and the Toddles jumped at me. Um, being a buddy means not knocking the other person off the trail, hey? Helping each other, instead? Sticking together?

The Toddles thought it over. Okay, buddy, he said, cheerily. Let's run! No? Oh, buddy, said the Toddles sadly, and patted my arm. Shall we walk briskly, then?

We shall, indeed. And we did, to the Toddles' cheery exhortations (and occasional, breathtaking bounce), all the way down. Whew, said the Man, but we were all too busy staring to respond. The Toddles pushed back his hood and considered.



The caldera floor is an oddly alien landscape. Crisp horizons of pahoehoe (pronounced poh-way-way) stretched before us, dusty and clean of plant life. Here and there, a pile of stones, or amu, marked the path. In some places, a parallel set of amu defined it rather precisely, and with cause. Walking, we passed places where the pahoehoe crusts had collapsed, a silent admonishment to keep to the path. Do not, said the guide, build your own amu. I helped the Toddles jump a foot-wide collapse, and jumped myself. Not a place to go awry, this.


Unnerving as it was to see, these collapses allowed plant life to enter the landscape. Twisty little trees - the kind that is adored by the honeycreeper - grew in the gaps, promising a gentle, vegetative revolution. But there were no birds, nor insects. Clearly, they were waiting, patiently, for the trees and ferns to do their work. This made for a quiet space, nearly barren, in which our voices were the only noise, and the little trees provided a slight break from the lava's grey-back.


The caldera floor glimmered with heat, but the boys clung to their sweatshirts, maybe anticipating their return to the chilly, misty crater's rim. Or maybe, appreciating the deep pockets in their sweatshirts, which they filled with rocks.

Here, said the Eldest, oh, Mum, look here! You can see how the lava cooled.

Spiky rocks, rippled rocks, crushed rock dust all told stories as we tromped along. The boys loved every fragment, and filled pockets with beloved specimens. By the end of the hike, most of these would have crumbled into a rather coarse - but beloved - sand.

And onwards we went.

Almost suddenly, it seemed, the pahoehoe was replaced by a spikier spatter (not a'a) and rocks from the caldera wall's collapse, and we were climbing - just as the Toddles began weaving on his feet. We slowed, sacrificing momentum for a mellow, subtly careful walk. I'm not tired, the Toddles told me thoughtfully. But bits of me are very near to exhausted. Over his head, the Eldest shot me a meaningful look. I nodded.

Step by step by step by step, that's how we make the mountain small, we chanted. I slipped my arm under the Toddles' armpit, and we began to climb. The stairs were steep, and some had long since crumbled, making narrow perches for our feet. Step by step by step by step, said the Toddles, cheerfully. That's how we make ourselfs so tall!

And then we were at the top. Tired, triumphant and with the odd muscle jumping from weariness, we circled the last two miles of the crater's rim. We'd hiked a challenging 4-5 miles, and oh, we felt it.

Look what you did, I told the kid. He grinned.


Look what we did, I whispered to the Man. He glowed.

And kindly drove us the long way home, following the curving, lush edges of a (flatter) coastline.

clinging invaders

Driving home from the great Father's Day round-up (six fathers appreciated, no waiting!), we drove through the NY/CT corridor. It's usually a lovely drive, with banks of trees lining the road, green or red-and-gold-and-orange or starkly, elegantly bare. Today, the green nearly glowed, a wall of vibrancy that, as I admired it, slowly admitted to being a mass of vine.

The trees were enrobed in the stuff, and the odd bare branch attesting to the cost. So much for enjoying the scenery - this is frankly depressing.

The vine, by the way, is kudzu, and it's the best example of an invasive species going, called by this website, the plant that ate the south. Coming soon to a northern scene near you....


N.B. Wondering what's being done about the stuff? Take a look at this, from the Army Corps of Engineers. They estimate roughly ten years of intensive effort ought to bring the kudzu under control. Bloody unlikely to happen, outside of military bases, I suspect. Sigh.

ode to a wrap

This is my wrap.

It is a 4.6 meter long piece of fabric, bought used on thebabywearer.com's For Sale or Trade forums. I use it, origami style, to create Toddle-carrying structures. And it was my lifeline on the way home from Australia.

I've written before about babywearing (here and here and elsewhere), doubtless with enthusiasm enough to make people inch away from the computer. Come away from the fanatic, honey. Just step backwards. That's it, yes, now another step...there you go.
Babywearing is something that I fell into out of a combination of necessity (pickup at preschool with a wheat-allergic kid? with pretzels lying in corners? ai yai yai) and convenience (two hands free = one hand holding a latte). Because of their width and lack of design, wraps distribute the child's weight beautifully, customizing to the person wearing them, the layers that person has on that day, etc, etc, etc. The comfort of the width has actually made them into the next new thing in diaper bags, and I'm surprised it's taken this long. I carry my wrap with me on trips, to doctors' visits and especially on airplanes, where I most often to use it as a blanket, but occasionally...well.

When we left Melbourne, we somehow managed to forget the stroller. No worries, you'd think, we're about to sit on airplanes. Lots and lots of airplanes. But first we had to check in, and then stand patiently on more lines to go through passport control, then customs, then security. Then, in LA, we had to do it all over again. And did I mention the six hour layover? Oh, yes. The layover.

In between, the Toddles fell asleep, ran for doors with exciting vehicles behind them, giggled at the idea of standing on a line and whisked behind desks brimming with fascinating equipment. When we arrived at the Melbourne airport to begin this process, QG and I unloaded duffel bags, four big carry on bags (diaper, fun, food and medical), and watched the Toddles try and escape into a carelessly unguarded taxicab. Clearly, we told each other silently, some sort of child containment device was in order.

With the stroller 45 minutes away and the airplane waiting impatiently, I whipped out the wrap. I looped it into a slipknot, and slid the loop under the Toddles' arms. Let's go, little puppy, I told him. He grinned, barked cheerfully, and pattered on all fours to the check-in counter.

He was a puppy for check-in, a tree frog during passport control, and a kitten during security. I'm not sure what he was for customs, but he did growl a lot and the official let us by pretty quickly.

When he fell asleep shortly before landing, he was a bundle on my front, legs dangling comfortably while I hoisted bags and chivvied the Eldest. He stayed a bundle as we went through US passport control, and the passport guy was surprised to realize that the tuft of red curls under my chin belonged to a person. When he finally woke up after baggage retrieval and customs, he stayed happily snuggled against me while American Airlines cancelled flights and rebooked angry passengers. It took us two hours to check in for our LAX-Boston flight, and the wrap held a pleasant, musical toddler. We sang our silliest songs with enthusiasm, and our fellow travellers were not entirely unamused.

Asleep again shortly before landing, the Toddles was a content lump under the wrap as we hauled ourselves, finally, off the airplane. He woke up in time to see the Man, and I coiled away my wrap while the boys got reacquainted. 4.6 meters of sanity and invention - don't leave the country without it, eh?

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The fruits of almost-spring (and their sad cousins): compote

What's in my pot tonight?
3 stalks of rhubarb, cut into chunks
5 slightly abused pears, cut into big chunks
3 apples that banged around in my diaper bag, also chunked
2 plums that cannot possibly live up to their name
6 or 7 frozen strawberries, exiled from the nearly kosher for passover freezer
.5 cups sugar
1.75 cups water

The proportions change, but I generally toss in anything that will turn soupy. Apples, pears, peaches, berries - even cranberries - will all melt into a sweet-tangy yumminess. I never peel them, I just wash the skins with a teensy bit of dishsoap* and chop them into a few pieces. Some folks would add a couple of cloves, a slice of ginger, maybe a cardamom pod or two, maybe a star anise or hunk of cinnamon. I never bother - the changing flavors of what's sad in my fruit drawer is usually enough to keep me interested.

Let simmer until it cooks down (about 20-30 minutes, depending on your fruit:liquid ratio), stirring occasionally. You can taste and decide if you want to add extra sugar - I never do, but I like tartness in my life.

You shouldn't need to puree. Serve warm, cold or room temperature with yogurt, granola, plain or with a really splendid vanilla ice cream. The boys, I should add, like theirs warm with cookies to dip into it, and I think that a nice, zinging ginger cookie would work well here.

* I knew an environmental scientist once, years ago. He and his wife had a pair of twins, and I watched him one day swiping his finger over the dishsoap bottle, collecting a smear of soap that he then used to wash the twins' apples. He caught me looking and explained, 'If you knew the chemicals that get used on produce, you'd do the same...' I don't know, but I do regardless.

Australia Eight: checking in

It’s time to check the Grump-O-Meter.

Our last trip to Australia rated high on the G.O.M., between financial worries and general stress. This time, while I'll admit to some financial concern (all of those spiffed up places here on Phillip Island are much more expensive than the makeshift joys of my childhood), I had preemptively removed Super Mama some time ago, and banished her for the duration of the trip. Super Mama does not bring QG, she can levitate all four carry ons (food, diapers, medical and entertainment bags) while delighting two small children during long layovers. She can go without sleep for hours during amazingly long flights and in the wee a.m.s when small jetlagged people want to play. And she smiles the whole time, bless her. I leave all of that for her to manage – I have QG as backup, instead.

So, with QG behind me, I can shrug off the endless cooking (Super Mama also doesn’t have sausages and rice twice a week), the housework, the grandmaternal caregivers who understand nothing (NOTHING) about food allergies and who leave crumbs, milky coffee and sesame seeds everywhere (insert shriek here), and wave pumpkin seeds (of all things!) over my food (OVER MY FOOD) when I’m cooking it. Or, let’s kick this down a notch and consider my silly insistence on mishloach manot (we’re here, and it’s such an opportunity…to fiddle with something extra on a Friday). Yep, the million of mosquito bites are fine, the Eldest’s small wrist bleed was laughable. I can deal with it all, oddly enough.

I can deal with the planning, the getting out the door late every day, the endless packing and repacking of clothes, snacks and diaper bags and the thirtieth reiteration of Muuu-um, I’m hungry in a single day. I can deal with small, Man-less children who miss their father amazingly. Although I admit to not quite being able to manage the Toddles’ current habit of running away from me, as fast as his little legs can carry him.

Last night, he nearly made it into traffic. Scared to the point of incoherence (translation: shitless), I applied a furious maternal hand to his bum. To, let me clarify, a soggily diapered bum. The Toddles noted my fury and barely noted the hand, while I started self-flagellating on the spot. Bad, bad mama for bopping the kid’s tush. Immediate expulsion from the attachment parenting club for you. Nope, can’t deal with that. Especially when he tries an encore and nearly tosses himself off a boardwalk and onto a Nobbie. Nope. But I have the Ergo carrier, and an elegant wrap-shawl thing that I found at the Nobbie-shop, of all places, and the Toddles and I are getting reaquainted with babywearing. So maybe we can deal with this, too.

I am, however, just hanging in there where the dust mites are concerned. With skin testing on the 2nd of April, the boys had to stop taking Zyrtec on the 18th of March. From that point on, sleep began to fade as the Toddles’ nightly congestion resumed, and the Eldest started waking up to scratch again. I’d hear him scratching, his skin so eczema-ed that it sounded like he was scraping rough paper. Scraaaape. Scraaaape. Scraaaape scraaaape scraaape. He'd sit up and arrange himself for best scraping potential. Go to sleep, said the mama. Whaa? said the Eldest, not fully awake. Aargh, suggested the mama. And so it would go. Just got to make it for three more days, when we return to a beautifully noncarpeted house, now featuring brand new wooden floors in the boys’ bedroom, not to mention other grandparentally funded antidustmitings (or is it anti-dustmite smitings?). Huzzah!

And honey, if you read this, good luck with the child lock for the windows. I’m sure the giant Babies R Us out on Rt 16 has one, and the boys are excited to have extra playing space in their room. Me, I’m just excited to see you at the airport. And don’t forget the food…the tired travelers will probably want some fresh fruit! Oh, and hugs. Lots and lots of oh but I missed you so hugs.

Because we really did miss you, love. Oh, but we missed you.

Note to the Reader: haven't forgotten why we came. I'm just refusing to think about it. My grandmother is a touchstone to my extended family, whose connection to me is so strong that for years I wandered around the US, uncertain if I actually belonged there. She represents that bond, and I simply cannot imagine a life without her.

And, being an ocean away is unlikely to discourage my denial. I haven't fully accepted my grandfather's death - and we named the Toddles for him - and I'm still uncertain about my uncle's death. Although that one's taking a beating, as I've got his old cell phone for use on this trip, and there's some text messages to him, wishing him a speedy recovery. And oh, but that hurts.
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We are home. Dang, but it's cold! I looked at my previous post and I'm laughing. High summer? Heh. It'll be a long, long wait here in New England for that salad. Still, I've come home with an armful of gluten-free recipes (Australia beats the pants off the US for gluten-free living), and have already set up a week's menu full of new ideas.

Australia Seven: of Nobbies and penguins

There are some places that make me intensely happy inside (see above for what they do for the Eldest). Wilson’s Promontory, with it’s wonderful trees, wildlife, birdsong and blue, blue waters does that. Phillip Island, born of the same flora and fauna, the same wonderful blue waters and rocky coasts, does it too, if on a smaller (and more shiny touristy) scale. This is eco-tourism, proclaims the P.I. brochures, and I, on a reminiscient visit, am surprised. But if this is eco-tourism, it sure is purty.

As a child, we’d come here for a holiday, and I have a distinct memory of climbing over rocks to reach a Nobbie, a tall outpost of rock, a sort of knob sticking up out of the water. We could reach the Nobbie (there are three of them) during low tide, when there were enough exposed rocks to climb on. We hopped from rock to rock until we reached the Nobbie, at which point my dad noticed that the tide had turned. We scrambled for shore, and I remember being really alarmed at the idea of getting stuck for the night.

Today, we left a swooping, techno-elegant vistor’s center and walked along an extravagant length of boardwalk, admiring the various views of the Nobbies. Big signs forbade the scramble of my childhood – which is just as well, really. We took photos, oohed over every crash of the waves (the surf is so white! the rocks are so black! the lichen the seals the oooh ooh oooh Mu-um, I’m hungry).

The Blow-Hole, a 13 meter? deep hole carved by the water into the cliff, was less thrilling than I remember. As a kid, I watched the waves crash into the Blow-Hole, the water quieting and then whooosh! out came white spray. It was like having rock spit furiously at the ocean – I loved it. Now, the spit and spray is quieter, less intense. Or maybe that’s just me?

One lunch and a dripping refrigerator later, we’re off to see the famous Phillip Island fairy penguins. We sat on concrete blocks while the sun set behind us, the moon rose over the ocean in front of us and lightning flashed above us. Meanwhile, concerned mostly by a poor arrangement in camouflage - apparently, penguins are well adapted for water, but exactly wrong for crossing sand - a few hundred or so fairy penguins waddled past us. We watched penguins chasing each other (slow down, dude – I’ve got a bellyful of fish here) and peeping to each other (hi, honey, I’m home!), and standing in apparently random spots to groom themselves (he hates it when I come home smelling like sardines, you know). They were so tiny that we estimated about 3.5 penguins per Toddle height, but they were superbly cute.

It was only by sheer force of personality that I prevented QG from taking a few home. But then, I had to exert that same dictatorial mama tone on her about the wallabies. And the kangaroos. And the platypus. And, come to think on it, the pigeons for sale at Victoria Market. For heavens sake, someone get this woman a pet already, hey?

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In case you were worried about what we are eating Down in the Under, here is this - a smoked trout salad, courtesy of my uncle, a man with a genius for salads. I added kalamata olives and was very happy. Just make sure your nectarines and cherry tomatoes actually smell like something other than the refrigerator...or wait until high summer.

Australia Six: same continent, different island

We’re here. We’ve packed enough food for seventeen allergic people, hugged my grandmother, and driven out to Phillip Island, home to the fairy penguins.

Last night, I told a story of two boys who were too excited to sleep, and consequently slept through most of the day. The Eldest was so horrified by this that he wailed, stopping only when he was assured that his story might have a different ending.

And so it shall.

A side note which should really be a central one: the boys began the trip a little afraid of my grandmother, whose slurred, post-stroke speech wasn’t in their dialect, and whose slow movements didn’t inspire delight in the pair of jackrabbits that are my children. I’m not useful, explained my grandmother (a.k.a. Bom, for mysterious grandchildish reasons), and they expect grownups to do things with them, or for them. I just sit here.

A mother to four, she knows such things. And she waited, patiently, until the Eldest hugged her, and the Toddles kissed her, and generally chatted with her. By shabbat, the Toddles had realized the joys of the patient, stationary adult and was bringing her a ball to toss. He’d praise the toss, and run after the ball. Then, puppylike, he’d bring it back to her for another throw. Good job, Bom, he’d tell her. Good frow!

The useless adult smiled at him, and tossed it again.

Australia Five: I don’t care if he’s nocturnal, I’m here now

On Wednesday, after a deliciously damp start to the week, we laced up our sneakers and headed off on the trail of tradition.

Every time my family (grandparental or nuclear) goes to Melbourne, we happily ignore the other zoos in favor of Healesville Sanctuary. With the Sanctuary a couple of hours outside of Melbourne it’s a real schlep to get there, but we go anyway. I like it because the sanctuary doesn’t trigger any of my anti-zoo issues. Yep. Anti-zoo. And pro-kid. It’s a tough one, but I look at my kids happily romping, and I remember the sad animals of the Bronx Zoo of my childhood, and I don’t care how nice the zoo is now, I still think of those silent, still animals in the too-tiny compound, all prettily painted with the animal’s habitat. Oh, zoos make me sad. But what’s a trip to Oz without a kangaroo? or a koala?

Healesville has a lovely balance between animal and person, with walkways for the people and hiding spots for the animals. Occasionally, an emu or kangaroo will choose to intersect with you, but usually it’s because you are with a park ranger who is about to offer treats to the animals. Unless, of course, you are talking about the koalas.

Koalas are an inevitable disappointment to the tourist, as are wombats. Both are nocturnal, and no matter how hard the boys tried, they just couldn’t get the wombat to wake up and come out of its burrow. And, considering the baking heat, I rather envied the little gal – I wanted a burrow, too. The koalas majestically ignored us, although we certainly made a lot of noise, trying to figure out how they could manage to not fall out of the trees.

So, we admired the kangaroos, and the Eldest actually fed one while the Toddles watched, grumpily (the kangaroos were eating Toddles-unfriendly corn). We exclaimed over the echidna and emu, and adored the platypus. Ibis birds tried to eat our lunch, but I used my sternest mom voice (said the boys) and ordered the pests to shoo. They did.

I would have thought that the highlight of the day would be the wallaby who wandered up to be petted and admired. But in fact, it was the lyre bird. The lyre bird, a mimic whose call includes power tools and extinct birds, happens to be a fascination for QG, and her enthusiasm yanked us all in. We stared at the bird’s tail feathers, we photographed it, we ooohed and ahhed. And then we got back into the baking hot car for a three hour drive home.

Damn that Google Maps. How could they not know about the evils of Hoddle Street?

Australia Four: watering the boys

We’ve had a watery few days over here, which seems sensible in the extraordinary heat (up to 100 F!!). The past few liquid days seem luxurious in Australia’s long drought, and rather improbable given my firm position on bathing suits. I’m agin ‘em. Firmly. Resolutely.

But dammit, it was hot.

On Sunday, one of my cousins (the sweet, lovely one, I told QG. I thought they were all sweet and lovely? she asked. They are, I said smugly) came with wife and children and swept us off to a pool. Except, of course, that there were four pools, two specifically designed for small, and not-quite-swimming children. The boys had a wonderful time, going on water slides, having water poured on them by oddly rounded fish shapes and bobbing in the water with floating tubes and kickboards. I can swim! said the previously hydro-anxious Eldest. Although, he conceded, he still couldn’t float. But who could reflect on the oddities of life, when the Toddles is streaking, fully dressed, for the water? While the Eldest went home pleased and proud, the Toddles grumped over the loss of the wonderful water.

Delighted with ourselves, we went home and collected QG, informing her that the trend must continue. Tomorrow: the Melbourne Aquarium.

The Melbourne Aquarium is amazingly expensive, and quite small. It makes up for this with an astonishing giant tank, with thick, thick plexiglass making a tunnel through which you can walk. We walked it twice, looking at the huge sharks and stingrays swimming over our heads. A helpful sign explained how the curvature of the tunnel’s walls can make the sea-creatures seem up to a third smaller than they really are. I considered the big white shark over my head, and shuddered.

Our heads full of flat fish, big sharky teeth and Japanese spider crabs, we held a family meeting. One by one we all voted: to go back to the pool. And back we went, and the Eldest wrapped himself and the Toddles in a pair of floating tubes, and towed them both around. QG and I pretended to be fishermen and sharks, and chased the laughing kids. I swim like a fish! said the Toddles. And everyone else swim like a shark. It was easy. It was absolutely splendid, and nobody missed lunch as it slid past us. We stopped at a health food store on the way home (Macro, on High Street), and munched our way through fruit and soy-mung bean chips. No, really. Soybean and mung bean chips.

Later, I collected a pair of elderly ladies and an assistant, and swished off to a concert. The Estonian Youth String Orchestras, product of a pair of musical schools, were in town. They’d joined forces with the Melbourne String Ensemble to produce entertainment guaranteed to delight the old and overtired.

I am, as it happens, terrible at concerts of classical music. My brain likes different sorts of interactions, and amuses itself by making up personal histories for the musicians. That one, over there – she’s very heavy, but is wearing skin tight clothes. And if you look at her hair, it’s beautifully cut and streaked in a happy, funky way. I bet she loves her body, and is dressing herself based on what makes her happy, rather than the current skinny aesthetic. Oh, and that one, with the oh-so demure haircut and serious face. She never looks away from the conductor, and nods to herself every time she takes direction from him. Hm. And look at the wee little blond lad there. He can’t be more than eight. Wonder how he got here? What is his relationship like withhis parents? Do they pressure him or is he truly happy? Blah, blah not-shut-upable blah.

Eventually, I realized that the waves of lovely music had actually silenced me. Vaughn Williams, Tchaikovsky, Estonian folk music, and even a little Mozart. I did rebel when presented with something by a Jaan Raats, in which the music tried to lull me while making no sense I could see. Irritated, I made to do lists until the orchestra offered some ragtime to make me smile.

I kept the to-do lists, though. After all, the next day we were off to see kangaroos. I needed to be prepared.
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This looks good, not to mention appropriate. We're having some version of it for dinner. With fried tofu and leftover wine and raisins and oooh, yep. There it went, right down a pair of young gullets.

Tomorrow night, herbed burgers. I'll take the wonderful mild ground beef, toss in all available herbs (and my aunt and uncle cherish a small series of herb-containing pots) and broil the dickens out of them. Heh. Down the gullet:the rerun. Or did I just jinx myself with overconfidence?

Australia Three: of brothers and earthquakes

Thursday morning was overfull even before it began. We woke up to astonishing heat, and immediately wilted. The Eldest, a happy trotting, jogging walker, went for a walk and decided that he’d been hit with a plague of bugs and I went on a strike from bugs, Mum, he told me, folding his arms decisively. I tried not to sigh and hoped like hell we'd be bugless for a while.

When the Toddles had a severe attack of twoness at lunch (noooo! I not want olives! Nooo! I want one olive for me and one for my bruvver!!), we decided that perhaps the boys could all three stay home and relax, while QG and I reveled in the markets. And off we went.

We explored the Allergy Block, a lovely store full of things my children can actually eat. After wandering around open mouthed, I got down to some serious shopping. It was so marvellous that I had to haul QG out of there. I extracted her, protesting, from deep in the absurdly cheap sales bins (where, incidentally, she found some wonderful sunflower butter. We took that with us, too).

We escaped from downtown Melbourne and raced over to Prahran Market, a favorite of mine. We didn't have time to really luxuriate in the market, to price compare the fragrant custard apples here with the just-as-fragrant ones there, to taste and reshape menus and generally feel delighted with a world that has such markets in such a metropolis. Nope, we had a list, a time limit and off we went. Along the way we did stumble over a couple of stalls with gluten-free deliciousness, one of which says it's a carbon neutral business. If you find yourself in the vicinity of the folks at http://www.theorganicfix.com/, I suggest you inquire. But definitely buy their produce - they did, indeed, have splendid custard apples.

Laden and overheated, QG and I returned to the boys. But I never got a chance to chatter on about our afternoon, to tell the Man about how I felt that QG and I had really relaxed into each other's company that day, how I felt that Melbourne is such an easy city for the gluten-free and allergic. Because it might be, but that day it wasn't - for the Toddles.


While I was gone, the Man tried to get the boys to rest and failed. He then tried feeding them, and offered a summertime snack of grapefruit, lychees and kiwifruit. The boys, fruitbats as always, descended on the fruit so fast that the Man was left with empty plates and rinds. He settled to the job of cleaning up, and offered the tired - if replete - children a DVD.

Shortly afterwards, the Toddles vomited. The Man sighed, and stopped washing dishes to do laundry. Passing the Toddles shortly afterwards, he noticed to his surprise that the child was drooling. What's that all about? he asked, noticing only then that the Toddles' face seemed somehow distorted. The little fellow tried to answer, but his speech was slurred.


Mental puzzle bits snapped into place.

Vomiting = body trying to get rid of an offending food.
Hives = allergic reaction. Hives spreading from face to trunk = allergic reaction worthy of respect.
Distorted face, slurred speech, drool = swelling of face and mouth and possibly tongue.
A + B with dash of C= anaphylaxis, and anaphylaxis at a time when the Man was alone, in a foreign city, with no car and no phone. What now?


First things first, he whacked an EpiPen Jr into the child's leg. The Toddles fought him, and yanked the injector out. Then with the Eldest in one hand, the Toddles in the other hand, and the medical bag in a third hand, I went and banged on doors with I don't know what hand until a neighbor answered. And I called for help.

He got help. And the Toddles was fine. By Thursday night, the Toddles would talk to the Man again, and by Friday afternoon had decided to forgive his father for the Epi.

And the other hero of the hour? The Eldest. With the Toddles furious at his father, and generally furious and recalcitrant (no! I'm NOT going to the doctor! NO! I'm NOT going in a car! No! No buckles! Nonononononono!), the Eldest sat down and made the Toddles a book. He wrote Chapter 1 across the top of one page, and wavy lines (I'm not putting words because I don't know what it's about, Mummy, but he'll tell us when he reads it). Then Chapter 2 on another page, and Chapter 3 on another. And Toddles' Book on the cover.

This is for you, he told his brother. It's your story, and you can tell us what it's about.

The Toddles didn't miss a beat. It's about how much you love me and how much I love you, he informed his older sibling.

Clutching his book, the Toddles happily popped into the car. Half an hour later, he hid behind me when the pediatrician walked in. He emerged only when reminded about the book, and then chattered happily about his book and his brother until he was pronounced a lucky boy, and given lots of antihistiamine.

Melbourne is a great place for food allergies and intolerances. But it helps to know what those are. Failing complete knowledge, a loving older brother does come in handy. Not to mention those expandable, innumerable paternal hands.

Australia Two: going green in a drought

There’s something about a good garden.

When I walk into my grandmother’s house, I pass the garden that my grandfather planted. I see his patterns, his aesthetic and his love of things that grow. My uncle and aunt live in my mother’s childhood home, and I remember visiting my grandparents, and playing in that garden, too. It had wonderfully varied bits – the sandy soil here, the mossy bits there, and the camellias as tall as trees. They still are.

Gardens fill so many needs in me, with their fragrant, textured selves inviting you to step outside of the rushed, concrete life and to pause in a place that is quieter, cyclical, instinctive. Growing up in the suburbs of New York, the only park near us was a colossus of concrete. I’d heard rumours about Central Park, but dismissed them as myth – surely green lushness was something found only in manicured lawns, bordered always with azeleas and rhododendrons? Surely.

Now, our home has a garden with no sun in it at all, and I’m happily shaping it into a space of cool stones and surprising greenness. Each year the garden is greener and more textured (this feathery fern, that sturdy hosta, the lichen on this flagstone) than the year before. It’s luxuriously slow, this greening, and the slowness of it would have astonished my grandfather. He never had to wait for his garden to become patterned and complex enough to suit him – he could put in a plant, wait a couple of months to see how it grew and suited its neighbors, then still have enough warm weather to do something else. Many somethings else.

The Royal Botanic Gardens are a marvel to me, especially surrounded by a city with crunchy, dry grass. (The Gardens have been so exemplary in water conservation that apparently, they are excused from the draconian water limitations imposed on everyone else.) Faded and browned only slightly, they are still wonderful. I kept stopping and smelling something delicious. The sun was shining, and the kids loved the new Children’s Garden, exploring tiny paths and splashing in the little stream. We never made it out of the Children’s Garden, and weren’t sorry for it. By the end of the morning, we were wide awake and hungry – and certainly more in tune with the Australian circadian rhythm than we’d been the day before.

Green is good. Color, texture and happy green gardens are better. And happy greens with cool water on a hot day? The best of all.
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Green is Good Salad

it’s summer here in Australia, which means bursting-ripe fruit. So, after a happy wander around Prahran Market, I found I had the different pieces of this salad in my bag. Produce - and greenery - is a little expensive here just now, as Australia works through year 38 of drought, and there's sweet stickers of 'save our farmers: buy during the drought!' on cars. So we did.

1 bunch watercress
2 ripe, sweet peaches
1 medium, very flavorful tomato
a judicious amount of sliced red onion
lettuce to taste
Optional: blue cheese, toasted almonds, Belgian endive (more sharp!), garlicky croutons

Slice up your peaches and tomato, and toss with the onion and watercress. Add lettuce until the sharpness of the watercress has been sufficiently diluted to suit you (lettuce=bland, watercress=sharp). Then, sprinkle salad with salt, pepper and toss. Toss again with a good, fruity olive oil. Toss a third time with a wee bit of the vinegar of your choice (I’d use white vinegar or balsamic, or rice vinegar – all three suit me fine).

Tip: this is an awful thing to say to folks from our hemisphere, I know, but the key to this salad working is flavor. So find a farmer and buy your peaches and tomatoes from them. I suspect that your purchases will taste as if they'd never even met the versions of themselves sold in supermarkets. They've probably never even passed them in a bar. While drunk. On your birthday.

Australia One: swish, swoop, settle

After fizzing over the preparations for, oh, long enough to set the Man’s teeth on edge, the flight itself was nothing. Security blinked a bit over our medications, our needles and our food, and once again they tried to confiscate our ice packs. Silly people. I smiled our way through, and there we were on another plane.

There were really only about three interminable hours in the whole trip, when we sat and stared at the clock while the kids wriggled and fussed. Otherwise, the kids smiled at their fellow passengers, thanked the airline attendants politely (including the one who worries over her tree-nut allergic nephew, and explained that nut and peanut allergies are the really life-threatening ones), and made friends with the cute kids in the row in front of us.

And then we were here. How could it be Tuesday already? More to the point, how could it have been so easy? We went straight to my grandmother’s home, where she cried a bit to see us, and then cried again whenever I said how happy we are to be here. The kids watched her warily, before deciding the crying wasn’t catching, and that this lovely old lady might just, possibly, be alright. Tomorrow, I’ll show them her cache of games for the great-grandkidlets, and they’ll promptly fall in love with her, all over again.

Melbourne is a treasure trove of health food stores, rich with gluten-free options. We’re breakfasting on an odd loaf of bread, toasted, spread with honeycomb or a buttery avocado. Our apartment offers marvels like an espresso machine, and its friend the milk-foamer. Two espressos later, I can face the children, now cheerfully awake at 4 am.

A creature of my comforts, travel tends to make me think about the array of pleasures that I have set up at home. When I think about my favorite face wash (pineapple scented) and moisturizer (lavender), my beloved teas, the chair I snuggle into to read my books – the list of my comforts makes me feel very pampered. When I travel, I look for ways to recreate my comforts, to to invent new ones. The Man is patient with me, the children amused. But to quote Elizabeth Gilbert, in Eat, Pray, Love (which I hauled onto the airplane, planning to abandon it to the next passenger – but couldn’t), “the appreciation of pleasure can be an anchor of one’s humanity. … You were given life; it is your duty (and also your entitlement..) to find something beautiful within life, no matter how slight.” Gilbert is certain that part of providing yourself with pleasure is respecting yourself and feeling that you deserve pleasure.

Given this, bring on the foamy, fresh espresso. But first, we’re off to Melbourne’s Royal Botanic Gardens.
********************
Note to the reader: while my brain knows that we're here to see my too-fragile grandmother, my heart is in absolute denial. Expect a lot of frothy wordiness on this blog while my brain and heart battle it out. She can't be this fragile. She just can't. But since when did that make a difference?

bunting

It's a touch blustery today, but this nice man didn't mind.



Me, I trudged through the snow to WFM, which carries flash frozen fish at decent prices. My bag stuffed with fish, rice and a brown rice pizza (supervised kosher and safe for all Imperfects!), I trudged home. As I walked, I thought about warmer climes...

My grandmother is starting to fade. And, she's bethought herself of her more and less imperfect American grandchildren, great-grandchildren and various onlookers. She's offering to send airplane tickets, so that we can come for what is most likely a final visit.

Now, with the Man in a new job (no saved up vacation days) and with short notice (no saved vacation days/vacation funds), this becomes tricky. I can haul the Man along for about 7 days (7 days = 5 days work time + 2 days weekend - 3 days travel time = 4 very jet lagged days) and return with him when his time's up, or I can find a way to stretch the time out. (5 Man days, incl. airplane time + 7-8 days with ??? helping person = approx 2 weeks of children in Australia time) My family will be inevitably caught up with their own offspring/aged parents/agendas, and that is as it oughter be. So, how?

QG, who trudged determinedly to rescue me from my offspring (snow day!!) this morning, joked that she'd come for the price of airfare. I, thoughtful, was not laughing. Hmmm.

All in all, it made for a nice walk today. There's something to be said for snow days, after all. Especially the ones with ideas in them.

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

Quoted from the local babywearing group:

For those who are thinking about coming to the meeting on Wednesday, please note:
We are asking that ONLY FRUIT be brought to this meeting. Milk, water and juice are okay for drinks.
We are restricting snacks for this meeting in order to accommodate a member whose son is highly allergic to gluten-containing grains, plus corn, soy, eggs and some fish.
Although she is a longtime member of the group, she has been unable to attend our regular meetings because of her son's allergies, so I hope everyone will be understanding as we work to make the environment safe for her and her family.

Oh, the size of the smile on my face...

Coming soon (with apologies to AA Milne), the Eldest has a birthday.

no fire, no smoke

Okay, so I'm back and I'm sure nobody is shocked that everything is fine.

The house is still standing, the Y-chromosomes still numbering three, the kitchen has a notable lack of big black scorch marks, so okay, apparently I can leave them. Oh, and the Toddles has resumed his nursling habits, which unclenches something deep inside me.

Footsore, slightly sweaty and still marvelling at the hybrid that is the ROM , I persuaded Auntie A that pedicures were in order. My feet soaking in a hot tub of - water? - I called the Man. I'm relaxed and having a wonderful time, I told him. Please kiss the kidlings on each elbow, and on their left eyebrows, I said.

There was a long pause on the other side of the phone. Um, honey? I don't know how to tell you this, but we're in the ER. My voice was preternaturally calm as I replied. Of course you are.

Even so. I came home to find that the Toddles is sleeping in the boys' room, hitherto known as MY room, MINE! as per the Eldest. He's sleeping better than ever, too - and so am I. The Eldest is adjusting.

So, then. The world has not ended, the Eldest is going to recover nicely, and I got a couple of nights' good sleep (plus a fun wedding, kindly hosted by the stubborn Canadian - who took a couple of hours and dressed me for it, then happily complimented me on her work). Oddly enough, I'm almost disappointed: don't they need me around here?

Happily, the answer seems to be something on the order of: mostly.

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

It's Too Pretty for Leftovers Salad
serves 4 happy 'but I don't eat that' eaters

2-3 salmon steaks, left over and cold (poached, grilled or broiled, baked)
1 avocado, cut into chunks
3 Tb red onion, sliced thinly
1/4-1/3rd cup salad dressing (consider option #1, or option #2. If you use bottled, I don't want know about it.)
two generous handfuls arugula (or baby spinach, or redleaf lettuce)
1 cucumber, cubed
1/2 cup terra chips (or 1/3rd cup terra sticks)

Break salmon into pieces (I used my fingers), toss all together and serve.

We ate ours with sauteed collards (heat olive oil, toss in a chopped onion and saute until brown. Add washed, roughly chopped collards and coarse salt. Saute, then pull off heat and squeeze half of a lemon over it. Ahhh) and a version of the crisp made with blueberries and plums. Mm!

Disclaimer: everybody, and I do mean everybody, ate so much salad that we were too full for crisp. Can you imagine that? I can't.
*******************

The Toddles is growing out of his size medium gDiaper pants! His latest weight at the allergy clinic shows him hovering around 26 lb, a.k.a 11+ kilo. No wonder the straps on his gPants were a little hard to close.

(Note: see here, here and here for the diapering issue. It's a funny mix of allergies meets mama's crazy eco-sensibilities, but we're really, really happy and our mix of cloth and flushables is financially stable and honestly easy. Then again, I cook gluten-free/vegan/nut-free/sesame/poppy - yeah, okay, my idea of 'easy' might not be yours. But it is, anyway.)

Oh, the agony. Oh, the horror. Oh, oh, oh, mama's going shopping! No worries, I'd already laid in a supply of 4 size large gPants so I shan't wholly trash the budget. Clearly, though, we'll need more than 4 - with the 12 I have now, I have minimal upkeep (diaper construction once per week, takes 10 minutes). 12 would be good, 8 will be manageable for a month. And then back for me!

Oh, but it grieves me to see the brand new colors (ooh) available. gDipe founder Jason had this to say on his blog about the new colors. Heh. It's potty humour, but then...consider the source. Funny, funny guy.

Y-chromosomes and take-off

Oh, my God, I'm leaving them.

I'm packing, I'm baking bread at a tremendous rate (FYI, best version of the Minion Bread yet! I updated the recipe here), I'm picking out non-modestly lactating clothes, I'm trying to remember if I've ever owned foundation (or base? is there a difference?), and do I have nice heels that go with the $27 dress that the bride thoughtfully helped me find?

Dear God, I'm leaving them behind. All of them. If they have a Y-chromosome, they're not getting on the plane with me, they will not pass security, they will not collect $200. I want to cry. I want to dance. I want to go nurse the Toddles. What if he weans while I'm gone? I'm not ready, I'm not I'm not I'm not. I have never done this before.

Too boost my spirits, the Man is sending me helpfully upbeat emails, such as the following:

I'm going to have my [insert corporate-speak for meeting here] on the Monday that you return (presumably, if the boys have me tied down and revolving over a spit, I will be allowed to push this off).

and clarifying matters for a friend here:

The Wife is heading out of town this weekend, leaving me and the boys. My plan was to allow the Eldest to roast me, slowly, on a spit, while the Toddles says things like "Daddy! Hot! Wshhhhht!" If I haven't gone mental by Sunday morning...well.

and finally breaking into song here:
(to the tune of O Come All Ye Faithful)

Enjoy Y-chromesomes
Boist'rous and exub'rant
Oh trash ye, oh trash ye the
Fam'ly room

Don't wreck my study
Or there will be heck to pay
And don't truss up your daddy
Oh don't truss up your daddy
Please don't truss up your daddy
E'en if your bored.

Yup. Feeling secure, confident and reassurred. But gonna trust the Man and leave anyway. With, mind you, lots of cooked food and bread...

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Mama's Outta Town Shawarma

1 roasted turkey breast, leftover, sliced into strips
1/4 cup oil
1/2 to 1 tsp ground cumin
1/2 to 1 tsp ground coriander
salt
pepper

Heat oil, add turkey. Sautee briefly, then add spices. Serve hot, with a cold salad (I like an Israeli-style salad of chunked tomatoes, cucumbers, scallions/red onion with a lemon juice/oil/salt/pepper dressing. Add crisp apples to dress it up, if you like, a few sprigs of mint). Couscous would be great if you do gluten, otherwise rice.

For the traditionalists: consider a large lettuce leaf. Use it for making shawarma rolls!

refusing to argue

Overheard today:

Nice one!
pause, then a small voice says, nice two!

In case anyone was wondering, the electricians are here. After two years of debating, changing our minds and scraping together yet more funds, changing the plan again and putting needed funds elsewhere, we are finally getting overhead lighting. No, really.

Buh-bye Mister Halogen. The boys were getting pretty good at the Bang the Halogen Into the Wall percussion bit, and I'm sure they're going to miss you. But I won't.
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En route home from San Diego , we were stopped by TSA. Now, mind you we'd come and gone through various airports to and from Australia, we've flown within and without the US of A, and each time, this is how it goes.

Excuse me, sir/ma'am, but you should know that this bag has needles and medication, and that bag has food for medical purposes. I have documentation for all of it.

TSA person looks up from the scanner. Okay, they say, and wave us on through.
I'm almost disappointed, the Man muttered as we sailed past one especially aggressive checkpoint. Shhh, I said. You'll wake up Murphy.

And so he did.

Excuse me, sir, you should know that I have needles, medication in that bag, and food for medical purposes in the other bag. I have documentation for all of it.

The TSA person looks up. Okay, he says absently. But at the other end of the belt...

Ma'am, is this yours?
Surprised, I look up. I'm almost excited to get the chance to use my documents, my notes from conversations with TSA showing that we have permission from this exalted group to do as we have done.
Yes. Can I help you with something?
(pointing at the bag labeled 'Medical Supplies') Ma'am, do you have liquids in here? They'll need to go into ziploc bags.
Well, now, yes we have liquids. (thinking of the Benadryl, the Tylenol)
The TSA guy points to the boxes of factor, in which the nifty scanner thing found vials of diluent, used to mix the factor for use. Would you remove those, please, ma'am?
(pause, while adrenaline makes the back of my neck prickle) Those vials are part of medication. They are currently sterile. Before I change that, we need to be very, very sure that this is necessary.
The TSA dude takes a step backwards. I'll go get my supervisor, then.

Two supervisors later, it becomes clear that the problem is not the diluent for the kid's clotting factor, nor is it the food we're carrying, the empty sippy cups or fruit salad - it's the icepacks keeping it all cold.
Icepacks are only for medical purposes, ma'am, I'm told as the supervisor's supervisor leafs through my documentation, but I'll make an exception for you. This time. (stern look from on high)

I swallow the explanations: I'd specifically discussed food and icepacks with TSA, a conversation with TSA on this subject is documented among the papers she's shuffling, she's mistaking food for food, and not recognizing its role in this circumstance, oh what the hell let's go.

And we do.
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Ducking arguments is high on my priority list right now. The Eldest is a match lit, looking for tinder, and I spend as much time as I can with alternately bland and loving expressions plastered on my face. It takes astonishing amounts of energy to make the expressions seem more than paper-thin. The rest of the time I spend with my eyes closed, breathing carefully, letting tension drop out of my shoulders, my face, my hands.

There's factor still on the sill - did you give him different factor?
The Man, midstride, stops. He's racing out the door, the Eldest in tow.
No. He said he got factor yesterday.
I pause. Yesterday, the Man was in Maine, the Grandmere was helping me juggle kids and school events, and there was absolutely, definitely no factor.
Every so slightly nastily, I ask the Eldest: When did you get factor?
yesterday, he hollers up the stairs. He's putting his shoes on, ready to sprint out the door.
Before or after Grandmere left?
After, floats back the reply, not a whit of hesitation in it.

The Man and I look at each other. We will spend the rest of the day debating what we should have done, how we feel about what we did do, and worry about implications. The one thing we did do is avoid the argument, refusing to be drawn into what all too easily could become a power struggle made nasty by chronological urgencies.
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The Cat's Away Pineapple Salsa
Dad's going away, I said, so let's have a chocolate fest! (The Man is allergic to chocolate.) We did, and yet this was the favorite new recipe of the weekend...go figure.

Most of 1 pineapple, diced
1 diced apple, very crisp and sour
2 Tb cilantro, finely chopped
2 Tb mint, finely chopped
1 cucumber, diced
2 limes, squeezed
salt

combine and serve. Excellent with this supremely easy, make it with a spoon Olive Bread recipe, courtesy of Gluten A Go Go. My suggestion: make the bread with good kalamata olives. Oh, and thanks to Karina for the GF blog logo! Fun.

Australia (Part Seven): of beaks and fins

Wednesday, June 7th: where the emu lurks

Home the triumphant sleeper. The Eldest had had his first sleepover , courtesy of the Grandmere, who established her cred as potential sleepdate during her daylong grandmaternal time. A child who'd always refused to spend time in another's bed (saving my own), the Eldest returned delighted and determined to do it again. He did, too, the night after my grandmother's 90th birthday bash, and he professed himself extremely satisfied with the results.

We collected the Pater from the airport, and whisked him and the Grandmere (at a fairly sedate pace, as whisking goes) off to Healesville Sanctuary, a nice zoo alternative about 1.5 hours away. I remembered there being only a token bit of wood, at about shin height between me and the various kangaroos and emus, but clearly things have changed. Now there was a waist height bit of fencing, and tall fenced-in enclosures (with doors for us to enter by). The Pater grumbled about going so far for the sanctuary and I quietly echoed him, but the Eldest, running back and forth between exhibits, silenced us all.

Mouth open around his thumb, the Eldest stared at goannas, koalas, platypuses, a shrieking wedge-tailed eagle defending her turf, a swooping owl, emus horking deep in their long, long throats and an extremely shy lyre bird, whose mate was crankily pacing high on the fence above. She's nesting, the keeper told me. I considered any number of other feminine options for her behaviour and wisely kept my mouth shut.

The Toddles lacked his brother's sense of awe, or possibly just his quiet, and was bubbling over with opinions. Pah-push! Pah-Push! he shrieked at the platypuses, entirely unmoved by the sign that said, 'Please be Quiet. Do Not Startle the Animals.' Startled by the firm little voice coming from about knee-height, we all looked down. The Toddles ignored us, tracing with his arms the diving and swimming of the platypuses. Swoop, across, up, turn. Swoop, across, up, turn. The wild birds of prey merited an equally strong response: No! Go! Now! he instructed us, and helpfully pointed to the (locked) exit. And of course there was, 'kowwas,' offered in hushed tones as we watched a sleepy koala dangle himself, stretch, twist and slowly reach for a particularly yummy leaf.

We drove home as the sun set, oh so romantically over acres of vineyards, some with rosebushes dotting the edges of the grapevines. Home, home, home - except for the Eldest, eyeing the calendar for his next nocturnal adventure.

Thursday, June 8th: liquid entertainment

This would be one of our last free days in Oz, with sabbath prep looming and then the blur of my grandmother's birthday bash, the Unc's big book launch and departure. Accordingly, we headed off to the Aquarium.

First time to the Aquarium, is it? asked the helpful person accepting the (rather large) entry fees. Yes, we told him. And are you Canadian? he asked. Um, no - we're from the US. From Boston. He thought this over. D'you have aquariums in America, then? We stared at him. Boston's Aquarium is a big, lovely beastie of a thing, and the Eldest and the Man have spent any number of happy hours there. Um, yes. We have one not far from us. The young man considered the possible merits of our local aquarium and confidently said, Well, I think you'll like this one. We were certainly willing to try.

The Melbourne Aquarium is quite nice, if a bit small. We circled through it twice, then tripled back for a better look at a few feeding sessions. The Man glared at me when I made my habitual dash for the gift shop (I adore gift shops, and always feel - naively - that they have the potential to hold wonderful, glorious things. They usually don't.), and we emerged into the balmy Melbourne day shortly before lunch. I maintain, however, that the whole thing was worth the effort and the cost purely on the strength of the Aquarium's big tank, with a glass roofed tunnel snaking its way through. Over our heads, giant rays lazily flapped along, while sharks moved with purpose. We lose about 20 or so fish a month, a diver told us, despite doing our best to keep the sharks fed. I could believe it.

The Eldest stared at the various divers, picking up empty shells, waste, feeding the fish. I want to learn to do that, he said, thoughtfully. Luckily for the kidlet, Mary Jr stands ready to teach him to swim this June, but I suspect it'll be a while before his hematologists let him play with sharks and other toothy creatures. Assuming he asks them instead of ME.

Back at home, the Toddles snuggled up for a post-prandial sip. He'd been doing a pretty good imitation of a barnacle on the trip, assuming a barnacle could howl every time its father picked him up or its mother moved outside of the Approved Six Inch Radius. Sigh. Quietly, the Eldest reversed his parental preferences to come and lean against my side. He grinned at his brother. Mouth full of maternal bits, the Toddles grinned back.

Whisper, whisper, whisper said the Eldest. Whisper, whisper, whisper said the Toddles, grinning even more widely. The Eldest looked up at me. We're twins, he said. I raised my best maternal eyebrow at him. Ah. And you are telling each other your boy-secrets, then, are you? The Eldest thought this over. Yes.

That night, a mystery: on the tram tracks we saw three cars rolling by. Restaurant 1 read the first. Restaurant 2, Restaurant 3 - we counted them as they passed us. Wonder what they were?

collapse

We're home. We're tired, filthy and I'm wearing a silly too-small t-shirt that I bought in LA when I could not take it anymore after 18 hours in a white shirt that showed the signs of every meal the boys ate and we're home.

The remaining factor is in the fridge, Mary Jr met us at the door with a smiling face and hugs (the best part of the trip, I thought), the boys are washed and fed and the Man is reading them stories and please please please please they will sleep a little.

We haven't seen a bed in 30 hours - time to clean up, rest and recover. Until the kids wake up, jet lagged, of course!

Australia (Part Six): the purpose of grandparents

Not the last post, but nearly so, I think. It damned better be, anyway - I'm ready to go back to blogging as per desire, as opposed to blogging as per diem.

Okay, a quick whiz through a bit of the past week:
Monday, June 4th - we had two, back to back playdates, with two of my cousins and their cousinly offspring. I really like these women of my generation, they're down to earth and funny. And their kids are pretty classic G-fam kids, sweet and exuberant, smart and silly.

Tuesday, June 5th: Children? What Children?
I’d love to tell you what my kids did today, but I barely know myself.

Today, the Man and I left the children in the arms of a delighted Grandmere, who promised parrots and parks to my wee boys. The wee boys parrotted, parked and slept, and when we turned up (an hour early) to fetch them, barely even noted our presence. Hm.

And, of course, tonight the Eldest is sleeping at his Grandmere’s place, a milestone that he’s previously declined. At the top of his lungs. After deciding that yes, he’d rather like to. Hmm again.

In case you were wondering, the Man went off and had pastry while I did a little shopping and found a soft, fuzzy sweater in Spring’s beloved burnt orange. So strong is the association with Spring that I nearly didn’t buy it, but then I laughed at myself and the mystified saleslady rang me up. Done.

We wandered in and out of art galleries, obviously too poor to buy anything there, but having a glorious time. And, following a cousinly tip, we went to Sozai, a sushi joint on High St in Armadale. It’s a tiny place, and serves a limited range of sushi (nothing like the almost overwhelming range on offer at FuGaKyu back in Boston), but offers a phenomenal salad of daikon radish, shredded into an angel-hair pasta-like form, topped with semi circles of thin, thin lemon and a mound of salmon roe. Drizzled on top is warm olive oil – a simple and potent combination.

As a cook who likes her flavors pungent and complex, this was almost too simple for me. But the pop of the ikura, the quiet crunch of the daikon met the richness of the oil and the sparkle of the lemon and oh my god I sound like a food writer in some magazine. Okay, okay, it was good. I nearly licked the plate.

And two hours later I was starving again. Thank gunnies there was pasta for dinner!
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Tomorrow we leave for home. Already, I've begun stripping the place of the bits and pieces that made it ours. The last load of laundry is spinning in the machine, the fridge is cleared of the bit of paper and the calendar that the Eldest and I taped up, and the pantry is emptying out.

Last night, I dreamed of airplanes. Maybe it's time. Besides, I hear that there's 20 tomato plants in our community garden plot (twenty!!!), and I really, really want to see that for myself. Damn me - twenty.

Anyone want some salsa? Or how about some Mystery Salad?

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A recipe we found in a magazine (delicious.) and tweaked to fit our pantry, budget and...food thingies. Y'know, them.

Broiled Nameless Fish with Mystery Salad
Note: this dinner is very, very quick to toss together. Took me about fifteen minutes.

salad:
4 small tomatoes, cut into chunks
1 avocado, cut up
1 block feta, cubed and spritzed with half of a lemon's juice (optional - we didn't have any) or feta (a moist feta is better than a dry one - look for a feta with white liquid sloshing around in the packaging, this one will have better flavor)
1 cucumber, cubed (optional - we didn't have one)
1 scallion, chopped
2 handfuls baby arugula, or rocket
1-2 Tb fresh mint
1/2 cup pitted kalamata olives
1 Tb chopped fresh parsley

dressing:
squeeze a lemon. Add slightly more olive oil than you have lemon juice. Mash and chop a clove of garlic, add salt and pepper to taste. Whisk together, pour over salad right before serving.

fish:
buy 4 white-fleshed fish fillets, whatever's cheap. Skinless is fine, flash frozen is fine, fresh is best - just work with your budget. About 20-30 minutes before cooking (if possible, it's okay to skip this but then your fish will be super mild in flavor), squeeze half or a whole lemon over the fish. Grind some fresh pepper on top, too.

Heat grill/broiler. Brush a bit of olive oil over the fish, lightly score (cut very lightly) in 2-3 spots. Sprinkle with salt, pepper. Broil/grill 2-3 minutes, flip and do the other side. Fish is done when it's just white (not translucent) in the middle.

Toss salad and serve together. Invite your eaters to figure out what the mystery flavor is (it's the mint). My guys had thirds of the salad in their efforts to figure it out...heh.

Australia (Part Five): of carnivores and barbarians

All I'm going to say about last Shabbat (June 2nd) is that we learned that the Toddles likes meat.

We figured this out when he grabbed a hunk of roasted lamb off my plate, shrieking, meat! meat! After some experimentation, we realized that, while the child was willing to extend his affections to poultry, he was quite serious about the high cholesterol, Mary's little sweetmeat thing, and we just fed him until he stopped shrieking.

He looked greasy and happy. My kind of kid.

Sunday, June 3rd:

This morning was a leisurely one, to the Man’s delight. I spent a good chunk of it sleeping, recovering from a night with a stuff-nosed Toddles. Gathering ourselves up, we meandered over to the home of my aged grandmother, where we collected her and my mum. Mum swooped up the Eldest, and they went off for a Tram Adventure, which he described as follows:

The tram was a fun tram ride. Once we’re on the tram, I sit down and Savta takes our tickets. She got them on the tram. The tram went zoom.

We went to Allumen Park (Luna Park), there was almost everything was electric. And we went on the Elephant Zoom – it was an elephant ride, you’d go up, down, up, down, up, down, and the white one [rollercoaster] went up the hill slowly and down very fast. And one ride you get flipped upside down. And another ride but we didn’t go on it – it was a very scary ride, it was a dragon. You swing up and down, up and down, up and down – but very high – and you almost get tipped over and you fall out of your seat. And there was some things that went sideways up and down, it was a merry go round but it was skinny and flat and people went on it and went round and around very fast (zooming noises). And the dragon thing (zooming noises and gestures) and soon it came to a stop and there were people in the dragon zoomer, and once it stopped everybody got out.

The golden statue man was sitting in the corner. At lunch time, he wanted to look like a statue, so he didn’t say anything. He gave me his sword and I holded it up. And while I was holding it up, he gave me a balloon. I gave the sword back, and I kept the balloon. It is light blue!

When we went on the tram, yeah yeah yeah, it was really fun, boom boom boom badoom (singing and beating time on the balloon) boom badoom. (Dances around the room)

Clearly, a successful adventure.

St Kilda Beach hosts a craft fair on the Esplenade every Sunday, from 10 am onwards. I remember this craft fair from trips past – the trip I made with the Man, when we were engaged. We bought a huge, striped cutting board made of strips of different Australian woods. It’s still as lovely as ever, with a shallow curve worn into it from years of my chopping knives. The trip we made after getting married, when we bought a huge redgum salad bowl, now almost maroon in colour from years of oily dressings and careful cleanings. The camphor wood cutting boards, mine now split along a weak point in the grain, thanks to a couple of years of careless hot water washes. Whoops. And the puppet lady, the odd plastic mod chotchke guy, the Aboriginal stall (now under new and slightly fashionable management), the potters and a Mr. Jackson who makes clocks out of abandoned, battered bits of red gum, which look worn and aged until you open them, and the deep red wood shines out at you.

It’s a treasure trove of crafts, and I’ve happily cherrypicked there, over the years. I far prefer the Esplenade crafts to the slightly chintzy chaos of offering at Victoria Market. It’s more craft and less (okay, none) cheap plastic toy – precisely to my taste. And it was lovely today, the sun shone, the Toddles babbled happily around a sunbutter sandwich, my grandmother helped me choose a gift for Mary Jr (a nice handbag? that pretty necklace? Um.), and the Eldest tried to climb the enormous, ancient palm trees lining the sidewalk. No new treasures, but much quiet pleasure.

We swooped by the book launch event where my uncle was reading and signing books (magid, I have yours!). My uncle, the published author. What a thought. He sat calmly behind a little table, books piled around him, signing and chatting with people who came by. My uncle, the author.

He’s pretty good, too.

Quick kid story: tonight, the Eldest comes to me and says, Mummy, do you want to see my school? I have a school for barbarians.
Ah, I say. Really?
He takes me to the living room, and shows me: this chair is the library corner, where you can read. Over there is the paper airplane area, where you can throw airplanes. The airplanes go here, in this box, when you’re done. There you can rest and take naps, and here [the couch], well, we have to decide what that’s for.
I looked around. It’s a wonderful school, I told him. If I were a barbarian, I think I would enjoy it a lot.
He nodded, satisfied and unsurprised.