A Suburban Thanksgiving

It's raining outside, which isn't at all unusual for this part of the country.  The yard, despite Brother-in-law's diligent efforts, is covered with fallen oak leaves.  Mother and Sister are conversating in the kitchen about this house Sister and co. just bought and the weird things the previous homeowners did to it, the dinner we're having today, the preparations for the new baby that's on the way.  Dad, in fixing the garbage disposal in the sink, has pulled his expected prank: 'Okay, go ahead and turn it on.  Aaaaaahhhhh! hahaha!' NOT FUNNY DAD!  Even though everyone is stress-laughing at this point.

Dad and Brother-in-law have since retreated to the TV setup in the basement that was cobbled together yesterday in order to watch the football game.  Little Sister is possibly still sleeping, as neither hide nor hair of her has yet to be seen this morning (and my family always teases me for being the late riser!)

Prep work is done, the turkey is in the oven and now is the waiting time until the feast.  Sister and I went over the schedule multiple times yesterday, ensuring that everything that could be done beforehand was done and that everything left to do today would be done in the right order.  

This year it is just the six of us, which is a small number to me.  No grandparents.  No extraneous uncles.  No random cousins.  Just us.  The fam-fam.  It's kind of weird.  As a single person who isn't the most of avid of chefs and finds creating meals for just myself to be a waste of effort, all this work for just a family meal seems kind of incongruous to me.  We're just going to eat it anyway.

Still, the house is starting to smell really good, and I'm debating over whether or not I should eat breakfast in anticipation of such a large meal.  Little Sister has just emerged and now I'm wondering whether or not a grocery run is going to be necessary.

Back from the grocery store with twice as much stuff as we went to get in tow, nibbles are set out and the eating begins: goat cheese and crackers, onion dip and chips, asiago-artichoke dip with so much garlic it actually makes your mouth feel hot.  Now the question is whether or not a beer is an appropriate beverage choice before noon.  

The wind is blowing more leaves onto the lawn.  Mother and Sister partake in more kitchen chatting; this time about natural cleaning products.  Dad and Brother-in-law are back in the basement with the TV -- this time with snacks, and Little Sister and I are laptop-ing in the living room.  For some reason, Little Sister has just started singing Jimmy Durante...  And here comes Brother-in-law in singing a song about his slippers.  

Feasting is now imminent, but snacking persists.  Later there will probably board game playing, nostalgic story-telling and some vague Christmas planning.  Sister will mother us more than Mom will.  Dad will tell his usual groan-worthy jokes that we used to find hilarious fifty or so tellings ago.  Little Sister will be, at-turns, adorably snuggly and bitingly caustic (but only briefly.)  Brother-in-law will laugh along at the jokes and look a  little bored and uncomfortable if the childhood reminiscing goes on too long.  

And throughout it all will be that loving sense of camaraderie, that familiar allowable frustration, that easy forgiveness and constant shifting of alliances in joke-making that characterizes my family.  And despite the inevitable snark that will come out from time to time, at the end of the day, these are my favorite people.  The people who know me so well, not only do I not want to try and pretend around them, but I can't.  A day in the presence of love itself.  And for that, I am truly, utterly, overwhelmingly thankful.

And now the question is how much pop culture quoting we can fit in during dinner...

First World Thanks

A recent trend I've been noticing has been "First World Problems". Well, in honor of Thanksgiving, here are my top ten "First World Thanks". So its a bunch of problems that are supposed to turn around when you start with this: "I'm thankful that...

10. My leftovers didn't fit in my fridge because it was too full."

9. My baby was healthy so I didn't get to take a sick day."

8. I didn't call into work because I get two paid holi-days off this week and wouldn't have time to get everything done."

7. We have too much stuff to fit into our storage areas. So our house is messy, with all the crap we could afford to buy."

6. I only get to see my family on skype." (Editor's note: "The point being I have skype to use, not that I don't have to be near them...sort of...")

5. I only had enough money for 7 courses instead of 15 this year." (Editor's note: "Actually, my diet is thankful for this one.")


4. My car works but makes this whurrrrring gunshot bang.

3. I had to buy four diet coke packs to get my $5 coupon.

2. I had to buy a 14 pound turkey in order to get the $7.66 price tag.

1. My baby is teething so I have to drag her into bed to cuddle with my husband and I.

What are your first world Thanks?

Yankee Etiquette and a Latin Thanksgiving

I knew from the get-go, marrying into a Latino family was going to be fascinating.  And frightening.  And funny.  And frustrating.   And 3+ years have only served to confirm my suspicions.  If any of you have seen the movie Spanglish, then you understand Jim-dear's up-bringing.  Not in the only-child/single-mother sense, but in the child-communicating-for-the-parent/constant culture-barrier sense.  Jim-dear is the 4th of 5 children born to Mr. and Mrs. Dear, and the youngest of the four boys.  He grew up with both his parents working long hard hours to provide for him and his siblings in this new country they moved to and he and I are incredibly grateful to them.  Yet, despite their having been in this country for 35 years now, and all the children raised here, there are some things that just aren't the same. So, when I offered to host Thanksgiving and spend it with his family for the first time last year, I knew I was probably in for…something.

Now, to give you a quick back-ground for me: My family hails from New England.
For those of you Non-Yankees, I am first and foremost sorry that you don't have the blessing and privilege to be from New England.  I have been to the south, I have been to the west, I have been to the southwest and the northwest, I have lived in the Mid-Atlantic States and I have lived in Europe...and I love New England best.  The ocean, the mountains, the forests, the wicked awesome lobsta and Bean town are some of the most beautiful and unique parts of this epic world God created.  Unfortunately, New England is just too dang cold Nov-April, so while I love visiting and playing in the snow while I'm there...I doubt I will ever move home again. 

Another thing I love about my home is the way you can count on people.  I know, I know, everyone says "New Englanders are cold."  Well, yes and no.  We don't love strangers, and we don't consider "friendliness" to be synonymous with "polite."  We don’t bend, break or change.  However, we always call and make a plan before we come over to visit.  We ask what we can bring before we come, we show up on time and we leave early if we think that would make you more comfortable.  We help a stranger when asked, would do absolutely anything for friends or family, and do our darnedest not to be an inconvenience whenever possible.  We worry about offending and while we speak with a thick accent on occasion, social etiquette is not lost upon us.  And though little if anything can make us change, you can absolutely count on that.

Now, back to last Thanksgiving - having received my mother-in-law’s blessing, I gleefully proceeded to plan the menu: sweet potato crust-less pie, broccoli-cheddar-mushroom crumble, cranberry-grand-marnier relish, sausage stuffing, creamy mashed potatoes, sweet maple squash and balsamic-vidalia onion gravy were a few of the sides and of course turkey, brined and then basted in an herb-butter blend and slow roasted for hours was my center piece.  Apple pie, pumpkin pie and pecan pie with ice cream and coffee were my natural dessert choices, and with that decided I sent out an email to all of Jim-dear’s siblings, parents and cousins in the area, giving them the start time and general plan for the day, and asking for RSVPs.  And then, I waited.  And, might I add, I waited patiently. Quite patiently.  For quite some time.  And, received nothing.  No offers to help cook, or questions on what to bring, let alone confirmations of attendance!  But, fearing this might happen, I had planned on cooking it all, and asked Jim-dear to text everyone and at least force a yea or nay out of them.  This produce at least minimal results (I should add that all of Jim-dear’s brothers were bachelors at the time), and I went forward with my plans as though all would come.

The week arrived and I contentedly and slavish cleaned and baked Mon-Wed.  The day arrived and I woke far before the dawn even considered cracking and continued to cook and bake and decorate.  And at 1:50pm, ten whole minutes before our dinner was to begin, I was actually ready.  And I was grateful no one had arrived early.  But then, 30 minutes went by and gratitude changed to confusion.  I went back and checked the email…it still read 2pm like I thought.  I returned items to their various sauce pans and pots and put them back on the stove and stayed calm.  20 more minutes went by; I checked my hair about 17 times and began to have mild panic-attacks about my turkey getting cold.  30 more minutes went by, and I bit back tears as I went to ask Jim-dear, “If his family had always secretly hated me, why didn’t they just tell me instead of standing me up after all my hard work and preparation?”

And then the door bell rang.  And over the next hour, family poured in.  And family members I didn’t know we had. And friends of the family I didn’t know and hadn’t invited but someone else in the family had.  And with the family, came dish after dish of absolutely beautiful food I had neither asked for, nor expected.  Rice and beans, flan con queso, conquito, an entire roasted shoulder of pork and accompanying gravy, cheese cakes and salads and beef and lentil soup and more rice with different kinds of beans began flooding my neatly prepared table with their riot of colors and scents.  Home-made sangrias, and breads and candies and fried plantains filled my counter-tops, and suddenly loud Spanish dance music flooded my home.  And my dinner for 18 turned into a feast that could have fed 40 but was actually for 25.  And I was so over-whelmed, I debated crying.  And then, Jim-dear came up behind me and said, “It’s perfect. How did you do it?”


I wanted to shout at him, but instead, I closed my eyes for a moment.  When I opened them again, I didn't stop seeing all of the changes and interruptions and unexpected differences that were spoiling my “perfect day,” but I also suddenly noticed that absolutely everyone was smiling, and relaxing and laughing.  I saw that the feast truly was so much better with the myriad of additions, that the music was leading to dancing (and I love dancing) and that the people I hadn’t invited were thrilled to be there, and adding to laughter and enjoyment of all.  I looked up at Jim-dear and he must have seen the remains of the “deer-in-the-head-lights” look in my eyes because he said, “Don’t worry.  You did great.  They only act like this when it’s just family.”  And I while a part of me still desperately wanted things to go my way, the rest of me won out and I just felt incredibly loved instead.  This late, loud, lavish group of people had welcomed me as family, and I decided to just be thankful for the compliment.

It was literally the most delicious and fun Thanksgiving of my life. J

Broccoli, Cheddar and Cremini Mushroom Crumble

To me, this is the ideal, quintessential Thankgiving dish.  As has been previously established, I have a potentially out-of-control obsession with cheese, and the rich creaminess of the Old English Cheddar laced through-out this veggie-filled, crumb-topped delight just about takes me over the edge.  Not to mention, despite growing up in more than 14 homes and on multiple continents, no matter where my family celebrated Thanksgiving, my mummy would make me this dish (in the recipe-book my mum gave me as a wedding present, this recipe is decorated with a hand drawn heart that says "I love you always darling!" - Mum).
This is not a "meat and potatoes" style side, nor is it likely to be served at the latest trendy tapas type of restaurant.  No, it lies somewhere contentedly in between - unpretentious, yet independently capable of exciting and satisfying the taste buds. A year or so ago, this dish may have even carried that southern staple term "casserole" in it's description, but 2011 has been good for this ol' standby.  I've improved a few ingredients, now "dress it up" in a rustic yet lovely stoneware dish and have knighted my childhood favorite with the far more socially acceptable title of "crumble" to help draw the potentially leery general public close.  One bite of this buttery, crumbly, creamy and crunchy dish and it won't matter what I call it...you'll be hooked!

Ingredients:

2 Bundles Fresh Broccolli
3-3 1/2 cups Crushed Whole Wheat RITZ Crackers (whole wheat is optional, as is the brand of cracker, but personally I think the above is the best option with this dish)
10oz Old English Cheddar Cheese (This is a soft cheese that comes in a glass or plastic container.  I find my favorite at Whole Foods, but Kraft makes one as well that many main-stream grocery stores carry. If you buy the Kraft brand like my mum does, then you need two glass containers for this recipe).
3/4 cup Melted Butter
1/2lb sliced cremini or "baby bella" mushrooms
1 small pkg sliver Almonds (2.25oz)

White Sauce Ingredients:
6tbsp Butter
6tbsp Flour
3cups Milk (2% or whole)

Directions:
1.) Make white sauce - melt butter in a sauce pan, add flour.  Stir and cook over medium heat for 2 minutes, making a thick paste slightly browning in color.  Add milk, turn heat to low and stir until thickened and creamy.
2.) Stir in Cheddar and leave on lowest heat. Stir often. 
3.) Pre-heat oven at 350
4.) Par-boil or partially steam Broccoli (should be cooked but still firm)
5.) Crush crackers and mix with melted butter. 
6.) Grease 9x12 pan
7.) Layer half the cracker mix on bottom of the pan.  Add the broccoli, then almonds and then mushrooms. Pour sauce over the top. Crumble the other half of the crackers on top.
8.) Bake for 30 min
9.) Please enjoy!!

Polenta Bites topped with Goat Cheese and Roasted Peppers

These days it seems more and more of my friends and family are finding out they have gluten or lactose allergies, and it never fails that right after I've invited someone over for dinner they announce they are on a diet. So, serving pigs in a blanket or bread and brie as an appetizer isn't always an option anymore. However, I refuse to start serving only baked chicken and kale. Therefore, my creative cooking capabilities fired-up and I am happy to announce that this Thanksgiving I've come up with at least one gluten-free, vegetarian and dairy free appetizer I am thrilled to serve and eat myself!

Did you know polenta is gluten-free and fat-free naturally, and that people with dairy allergies can eat goat cheese with no issues?  Did you know both of those items are also delicious, and even more so when topped with smokey, sweet roasted peppers?  Well, they are and here is a recipe that takes full advantage of all of the above (not to mention being easy and beautiful when fully prepped on a festive holiday tray). Enjoy!

Ingredients:
2 18oz Polenta Chubs (Chubs are pre-cooked polenta shaped in round tubes, similar to a breakfast sausage and can be found in the pasta section at Trader Joes and other grocery stores)
12oz Goat Cheese
3 Sweet Peppers (I like using one red, one orange and one yellow, but it's totally up to you)

Directions:
Brush the peppers in vegatable oil and roast under your broiler until all the skins are blackened and bubblly.  Immediately place peppers in a pot with a sealed tight lid and leave for about 15 min.  Remove peppers and skins should easily peel off.  Remove skins and scrape out seeds and slice peppers into squares, diamonds or triangles about 1/2in by 1/2in in size. Set aside.
Slice each chub into 12 round pieces and sautee in butter until they are crisy and browning around the edges. Spread a generous portion of goat cheese and top with a roasted pepper piece.  If you are unable to serve immediately, place slices side by side on a cookie sheet, cover with foil and reheat in the oven, until warm.  Serve and enjoy!!

Sweet (Potato) Excitement

I know it may be wrong. I know Thanksgiving is mostly about Turkey. And Pie. And Cranberries. Maybe not always in that order. But for me, the first thing I think of when I think of Thanksgiving is Sweet Potatoes. They are incredibly delicious, incredibly good for you, and incredibly, one of the few orange foods I eat without raising my eyebrows in protest. There are so many fantastic ways to eat sweet potatoes, in fact, that I find it difficult to believe that there are people out there who don't like them. Sweet potato fries for the junkies, sweet potato pies for the sweet-toothers, baked or mashed sweet potatoes for the simple souls, and sweet potato bake casserole for the betty crockers.

My first recipe comes from almost three decades of Thanksgiving tradition, and may be the most popular way to serve sweet potato on this very thankful day.

Marshmallowed Sweet Potatoes

1 sweet potato per person
1 bag of mini marshmallows
1/2 cup brown sugar
3 tbs. butter
a splash of water

Remove peel and cut potato into slices - I leave them round and about 1-1.5 inches thick. Put into baking pan or casserole dish. Put pats of butter around the dish for flavor. Sprinkle brown sugar over potatoes, a bit of water in the pan to keep the potatoes plump, and top it off with as much marshmallows as you can stomach. Bake in the oven at 350 covered for 40 minutes or until your fork goes cleanly through a potato, uncover to golden the marshmallows. Yum...


My newest secret recipe is less sweet, a bit plainer, and maybe my favorite addition to ANY dish I've ever made.

Sweet Potato & Apples

1/2 apple per person
1/2 sweet potato per person
1 tbs. butter
Any spice you like, salt for flavor

You can cut them up how you like- skin or none, slices to arrange them prettily, or like me, cube them up for a homey-type pile on the plate. If you are a hard core Thanksgiving foodie, really think about the best way this food will get consolidated on your plate. Use the butter to grease the bottom of a baking dish or casserole dish, add the potatoes and apples, and season as you like. This is a great dish because it starts of with a blank palette - both are fairly unobtrusive flavors that can be used to compliment any meat and side dish(es). Use the same herbs as your turkey, use brown sugar to sweeten, or just add a bit of butter and a TINY shake of salt to let the flavors shine on their own. Top with the pat of butter and let it bake uncovered for 35-40 minutes at 350.

Cranberry Grand Marnier Relish

Along with (I would assume) most Americans, when I envision a delicious slice or three of steaming, succulent turkey breast, it is smothered in a savory, creamy gravy.  And while I think it's a perfectly wonderful way to serve your Thanksgiving bird, last year my mother and I were longing for something more...and something less.  Something more unique, more flavorful, more complex...and something less heavy and creamy.  So we hunted on-line for ideas and found a few recipes for cranberry sauces and relishes.  Making a few key adjustment of our own, we concocted our Cranberry Grand Marnier Relish.  It's a tart, fresh and "grown-up" alternative to gravy...but it honestly makes a great side on it's own (and that way you can have delicious gravy as well!). 

This is a very simple dish, so if you are looking for something oh so easy, but oh so pretty to impress the in-laws with, I'd highly recommend it!

Ingredients:
1 3/4 cups fresh cranberries
1 small Valencia orange (seeded and quartered - but leave the peel on)
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup white sugar
4 tbsp walnuts
2 tbsp Grand Marnier


Directions:
Combine cranberries and orange segments in food processor.  Pulse about 4 times.  Add sugar and nuts, and pulse 1-2 more times.  The relish should be roughly the same texture as a regular pickle relish.  Add the Grand Marnier and taste.  Sometimes more sugar or more orange liquor may be desirable.  Chill and enjoy!

Things I Do Not Understand

I am a smart person.

That's not a maxim I tell myself to feel good; it's a fact.

Could I be smarter? Of course. Have I forgotten many of the things I've learned? I have been remiss in keeping up with my calculus. Do I still have problems with the proper application of a comma from time to time? Naturally, but who doesn't, really? Yet none of those things change the fact that literally fives of Internet IQ tests put me into the 'Genius' range for brain-power (and since it happened on the Internet, you know it's true.)

Still, in spite of my above average mental-wattage, there are many things that I do not understand. The Platonic model for rhetorical criticism. Computer software coding languages. The precise optimal ratio of watering vs. not watering houseplants. How to do that fold-a-shirt-with-one-movement-of-the-wrist thing. People who like Justin Bieber (sorry beliebers...I just don't get you.)

Another thing that I just can't make sense of is circular beds. Who decided that would be a good idea? Who said to themselves, 'This bed is too rectangular! I can't sleep in this bed! I need something that does not approximate my body's general shape in any way to achieve maximum comfort!' Did they try other shapes first? Was there a failed triangular bed experiment before the success of the circular bed came through?

Plus, how are you supposed to make the bed? It's hard enough to get a fitted sheet onto a bed with corners! And can you imagine trying to fold such a monstrosity? What about the flat sheet, where do you tuck it in? Should one simply designate an arc which shall be considered the 'end' of the bed, or must the bed-maker forgo the sheet-tucking in naïve hope that the sheets will just magically stay on the bed by themselves? Because that's bound to happen on a bed that doesn't even have perceivable sides. Don't even get me started on pillow placement.

A circular bed is also widely impractical in that most rooms tend to be some form of rectangular-based shaped. Are you supposed to snug it into a corner and just give up the extra bit as wasted space? Is it supposed to sit along one wall like the wall is a tangent? Should the round bed be placed in the middle of the room for circumnavigational purposes? Supposing the last is true (as seems to me the case in any round-bed setup I've ever seen,) what is the optimal nightstand position? The side nearest a wall for electrical plugin availability? The side farthest from the wall for increased circumnavigational spacial relations? Against the nearest wall and not next to the bed at all?

I think part of the problem for me as well is that when I think about a circular bed I can't help but think about that scene in Mars Attacks! where Martin Short's character is trying to coerce the tall, scary alien lady onto his round, rotating bed; and then he tries to take out her gum, and she bites his his finger off and spits it into the fish tank, because she's really not a tall, pretty lady with a beehive but a big-headed alien chewing CO₂ gum with plans for world domination. That or shag carpet, cheap satin sheets, and bow-chicka-wow-wow. You know what I'm talking about.

I actually just bought new sheets for my bed recently and I thought about getting some black satin sheets, because, strangely, they were among the cheapest available. But I thought to myself, 'Black satin sheets: secret delight in the luxury of it all or secret shame in that you have the sheets described in a song about a prostitute?' I decided since they were so cheap, it would probably be the latter. And since I almost never make my bed (seriously, I'm just going to sleep in it again later anyway) I thought it best not to have sheets that would make me suspiciously nervous about letting people in my bedroom (Kenneth from 30 Rock, anyone?)

Even worse! Satin sheets on a round bed! Combine the sheet-tucking difficulties of a round bed with the nightmare nightstand placement conundrum, and the inevitable revolving effect that a round-bed owner would surely deem necessary, and I can just hear the 911 call now.

"911, what is your emergency?”
"Please, send help! My satin sheets came all untucked from my round-bed, and got stuck in the revolving platform. I got all tangled up in them when I slid off the other side of the bed and I've been revolving around the bed for two days! I couldn't reach my phone until now when my cat knocked it off the nightstand because its against the wall over there. I think I've got a concussion from hitting the floor, some serious rug burn from being dragged around on the carpet, and an alarming number of scratches from my cat batting at my head as I revolved past him. Oh, and severe blood-loss from the finger that alien-lady bit off my hand!”

Confessions of an Over-Committed House-wife

With a word like “confessions” in the title, I can’t very well start with small talk; I may as well get straight to the heart of the matter:

I am addicted to cheese. 

And not just in a passing crush kind of way, nor in a monogamous commitment to your more stable Cheddar, or Swiss.  Nope, I’m more situated in a riot of the heart, come ruin or rapture love affair with almost every form of frommage one can find at their local Trader Joe’s. Sweet and tangy cranberry goat cheese, creamy Havarti dill and dry and elegant Parmesans – I buy and consume them at an alarming rate.  And you may wonder at the cause for concern; isn’t it just a chunk of cheese after all?  Just a chunk?!  Have you seen the calories a “chunk” of cheese contains?  Of course you have. Because likely, you are one of those controlled and capable women who allots themselves only a reasonable portion of such fatty treats and can be content with that.  But I’ve never been good at allotting, reasonable, portions or contentment, and on the off chance that you aren’t either, perhaps the rest of this rambling little essay will apply to you as well.

            You see, that same lack of self control has now crept far beyond my refrigerator door (where I thought I kept it at least satiated with copious quantities of cheese) and into the majority of my new life as stay-at-home mama.  In fact, giving birth to my son a few months ago and choosing to plunge head-long into the world of house-wifery opened up my eyes to a great deal of things I never expected to excel at/ am not that good at.  I feel like I have failed and flourished, succeeded and sucked pretty much every day by at least 9am. And I know by that time if it’s going to be a good day, because by then I either am or am not ready to rush out the door to do the many things I’ve committed to.

            It is this constant state of rushing, combined with that little knot in my stomach telling me I’m not quite fulfilling all of the needs and roles I should, that brings me to  my current life question; how do we achieve balance ladies?  How do we walk that razor-fine line between boredom and epic, over-commitment melt-down? How do we truly invest, without getting overwhelmed?  How do we learn to let our yes be yes and our no be no? And how do we balance spending time with the people we love and loving the people who need our time? I was sort of prepared for the sleepless nights, changing my daily routine and the mountains of laundry (though honestly, nothing can really ready you for That Much Laundry!), but I had no clue about all the other options moms and women in general have to weigh and consider.

            There are just too many things I
feel I must do, and on top of that, there are the many things I want to do.  Ideally, I would spend my days with my three closest friends, drinking wine or coffee, passing around our babies and concocting kitchen confections or playing outside and occasionally shopping.  The evenings would alternate between quiet family affairs with Jim-Dear, Noodle and I and going out with/having friends over. And to be honest, some of my days look exactly like that. But then there’s the moms group my dear friend helps run that I couldn’t not join, the Bible-study I enjoy but eats up half my day once a week, the book club run by wives of Jim-Dear’s closest friends (who I feel obligated to try and enjoy), the random play-dates with women who want to connect and who, if I had the time, I’m sure I would like and don’t even get me started with the in-laws and all the obligatory events that having all of them live near by entails.

            While the chaos of over-commitment  has just recently come crashing down on my head, I don’t believe this solely a challenge for moms or closet introverts who would secretly prefer to spend their days reading a book on the beach.  No, the more I talk with various friends and acquaintances, the more I find the “schedule-full-to-the-breaking-point-and-no-longer-any-fun” seems to be an almost universal feminine dilemma.  Something about our relational hearts, our empathetic inability to say no, our debilitating self-imposed perfectionism that makes us feel “we should be able to do it all,” means we commit and commit and commit until we are simply a jack-of-all-trades and a master of none.  We run late and leave early and are constantly apologizing for never accomplishing all we say we will or think we should. For moms we feel alternating guilt for either not spending enough one-on-one time with our babies or for not exposing them to enough new stimuli. For those who haven’t found a man worth settling down for yet, replace “play-dates” with “first-dates” and worries about your baby getting out with worries about you getting out and it’s the same problem.

            Unfortunately, I only know how much I don’t know when it comes to answering this question. I don’t know how to judge what I need to do and what I can refuse or ignore.  I haven’t learned how to guard free-time when faced with an onslaught of well-meaning invitations.  As of yet, I really don’t have any clue how to balance out this chaotic life of mine.  But my desire is that by admitting out loud that I am a bit of a mess, and I cannot do it all, I am perhaps helping you to do the same.  I am hoping that recognizing the impossible standard I’ve placed on my shoulders of “doing everything I’m asked to” will help me eventually lay that standard down.  And more than anything I’m hoping that reading about my own admission of inadequacies will free a few of you to recognize you also are not required to “do it all,” that perfection is not attained through a maximized planner and if you feel over-whelmed, you are neither a failure nor alone.  In fact, it's our desire to support one another that has landed us in this whole conundrum in the first place!  I’m awfully grateful to my other ladies who lunch, and you girls who have stopped by and lent a sympathetic ear to my self-imposed woes; I cling to the fact that we may be a hot mess, but at least we are in it together. 

And thankfully at the end of each over-full day, waiting patiently in my refrigerator, is a creamy little chunk of cheese, willing to satisfy both my hunger and my desire to once again be unreasonable and completely outside of appropriate portions but very very happy.

The BF'er and Her Foe

I’ll be the first to admit that the word “breastfeeding” makes me want to gag (even "nursing" makes me cringe). The idea of a human being A) coming into close contact with my sexy bits in a non-sexual way is appalling and B) using me as a sort of milk vending machine is bad enough without having to say “breast” or hearing other people say “breast” and know that it applies to you. Beyond all of that nonsense it sounded uncomfortable, embarrassing, and let’s face it, just plain gross. I blush every time. For the sake of my sanity and yours, dear readers (are there more than one of you?) I’ll stick to initials.

I’d like to say that it was but for the love of my daughter that I plunged into the BF cult club, but really there was strictly one point that drew me to it. Nothing touted post-apocalyptic  weight loss more than BF'ing. Being the shallow bodyimage obsessed freak caring mother that I was, I chose the way of the boob. That and it's free and formula is most definitely not free. In fact, formula costs more than feeding me and The Brain combined. And I’m a big eater. Anyways... Now that I’m a part of the club, I found myself on the inside of the goldfish bowl, if you will, staring back at all the Foes of BF’ing (myself and my old opinions included) and let me tell you, it’s almost harder to deal with that than it is to stinking get the kid to latch on.

The Personal Foe of PAIN

Once you get past the discomfort of the knowledge that you have a little milk vampire running rampant down your blouse, there’s a whole hoard of personal issues that need to be dealt with. First being, it hurts like a Bitter Itchy Troubled Cat Hoopla. Seriously. They don’t stress that enough. Nor do the words, “slight pain for a little while” lead you to the truth that it’s going to continue to hurt like a mother for the next two months minimum. Your lower half has a good chance of recovering faster than your top. Sadly, a lot of women assume it’s their fault or that it will hurt forever and give up. Believe me, was my weight our finances Shiny’s health not weighing in the balance, I’d have thrown the towel in.

The Personal Foe of TIME

I could go into a LARGE amount of detail here. When you join the BF club, you’ll never be the same. By that I mean, every second you have awake and at least half you have asleep will be dedicated to your little sucker. I BF’ed more than I drank, ate, peed, watched tv, thought, slept, and breathed. Does it get better? No. You will always have to BF right as you find yourself needing to pee, right after you make dinner or were about to eat, just as you are drifting off to sleep, and MOST inevitably as you are stepping out the door to a very important appointment to which you are already five minutes late. Then you get to choose between letting the kid scream the whole way or being thirty minutes late.

The Personal Foe of JUDGEY JUDGERS

“Ewwwww, in public????” Believe me, I fought this for a long time. I refused to BF in public. I loathed public BFers, especially the ones that found it inconvenient to cover up the goodies. Even now I try to plan around time out so that I can PLEASE GO ONE DAY WITHOUT EXPOSING MYSELF ACCIDENTALLY provide a nutritious meal for Shiny while maintaining the proper outside etiquette. But honestly, when the kid starts crying, all sad and hungry, there’s nothing else to be done but to pop in the milk maker. Public audience or no. That’s why God invented MooMaskers Nursing Covers. So please don’t stare at me like I’ve just curdled your lunch. You eat yours, let my kid eat mine.

The Personal Foe of WORKING

Technically now work places are required to allow you to pump or breastfeed and to provide a quiet, private space for you to do so. This was how I found myself sneaking into a hiddenish women’s bathroom to do my dirty deed in shame. If you think BF’ing is bad, try pumping. Nothing makes you feel like more of a moo-cow than plugging plastic suckers on and going to town, watching those little bottles fill up. Heck, 60 years ago I could have dumped it into a glass bottle and gone door to door selling it fresh. Ew, sorry, that was gross. But it’s a bit of a defeated feeling, sitting there letting machines do the work while you sit awkwardly. The only good part of BF’ing is watching your little nommer, who will occasionally glance up with adoring eyes, caress you with little hands, and acknowledge for a brief moment that you are the caretaker and love of their tiny life. The machine takes that bit of heaven away and leaves me with a snorting milky machine that makes me feel like I ought to be chewing cud and standing in a line with 20 other mothers all wearing black and white. 

But I guess, for all of that, it can’t be that bad, because five months later I’m still going strong. They tell me one day I’ll miss it. I look at Shiny and I can believe it. Then she makes a grab at my shirt and my five minute break is done and it's back to business as usual, and I stare longingly at my cross stitch and my dinner and my husband stares longingly at my chest and I think, “How am I supposed to make it a full year???”

Anecdote of the Day: Open Mic Night

It's open mic night at our friendly neighborhood coffee shop, and the hubby and I have settled in for an evening of blogging (me) and studying the complex relationship between windowpanes and dovetail joints (him). It's a terrific place. It's an old renovated barn, all whitewashed and echo-y, and they knocked out a few walls to put in these big picture windows. Which was a good idea in theory, but the big picture windows look right out at the county jail, complete with the barbed wire and tiny windows and chain-link fences.

But the coffee is good and not too expensive, and they have big tables and comfy chairs, and they make a mean soy chai latte and you don't walk out smelling like stale coffee. So we come here a lot. We especially like open mic night, which is a showcase of the weirdest talent ever to crawl out from its mother's basement (where, I presume, it's been holed up for the past three years, writing bad poetry and strumming tuneless chords on a crappy guitar).

So far we've been graced by the following performances:

• A very old man with long purple hair and a beard down to there got up with a banjo and started singing "When I'm Sixty-Four." Except, since sixty-four had evidently come and gone long ago, our fearless performer changed the lyrics to "When I'm Eighty-Four." I liked this guy a lot.
• A much younger man with dyed black hair and way-too-tight black jeans stood up with a guitar and strummed at random for a while. The hubby, who knows a thing or two about guitars, tried in vain to figure out what key he was attempting and gave up. And then the guy started singing a song that went on for six entire minutes. The song went like this: Marijuana doesn't kill you / So why is it illegal / Cigarettes kill you / So they should be illegal / Why is it illeeeeeeeegal? He just kept repeating this over and over and over. He finished to thunderous applause. I suspect that most of the people were clapping because he'd finally stopped. I know that's why I was clapping, at least.
• The emcee is young and pretty and evidently unable to pronounce the name of the coffee shop. She keeps saying it wrong and then tittering as she corrects it. The baristas are muttering amongst themselves and shooting her dark looks.
• An Irish cover band composed of angry teenagers is playing "Johnny Tar" and "Other Songs That Sound Like 'Johnny Tar' in a Different Key." They're not half bad, actually. I've seen Gaelic Storm perform this song twice, and both times they played it like they were half-asleep. That's the problem with popular songs, I guess. Around the ten-thousandth time you play it you start to go on autopilot.
• A woman with tight curly hair got up to sing, but first she had to tell us all about the guy who broke her heart and inspired her to write the song. It was a long, painful story. It was a long, painful song. 

It's been a good showing tonight, at least. And I can't help but admire the guts these people have to sing in public. I, naturally, have the guts to sing in public, but my repertoire consists of "Colors of the Wind" and "Part of Your World" and the first verse of "A Whole New World," and I think this crowd wants something a little more angsty and emo. If only Disney had some angsty emo songs. Dude, I could be the queen of open mic night.

Wednesday Funnies

For lack of some hilarious pictures for you all to chortle at, this Wednesday post features some hilarious snippets we took from a "Parents" magazine. Circa early 1900s, this proves that since the beginning of time, kids have always made us wonder whether they are actually smarter than we are.

1933
I had gone out one afternoon and when I returned I could hear Dorothy scolding at the top of her voice. I went into the room where she and her brother were, and there was Jimmy, sitting still. I said, "Why can't you be like Jimmy? He isn't saying a word." She responded, "Of course not. He's Papa coming home late, and I'm you." (Editor's note: "Ouch..." - E,J,K,J)

1934
Paula was telling her playmates about a grown-up who was a vegetarian. "But she's only an inside vegetarian, not an outside one, 'cause she wears a fur coat."




1953
After Mary had a tonsillectomy, she was heard to remark, "Of the two times I've been in the hospital, I like being born best."


1958
At Sunday School, little Bobby was inspired by the story of Eve's creation from one of Adam's ribs. later in the day, Bobby felt a pain in his side. "Oh, Mother," he cried. "I think I'm going to have a wife!"
(Editor's note: "This one made us chuckle. Loudly." - E,J,K,J)


1963
Miss Watson, the teacher, assigned the second grade to illustrate the song "America the Beautiful". When 7-year-old Michael handed in his paper, Miss Watson recognized the flag, the map, the mountains, even the artist's idea of "from sea to shining sea". But she didn't recognize the airplane, covered with red and yellow balls. "That" explained Michael, "is the fruited plane".

1971
We were on our way to the doctor's office when my 3-year-old asked if she and I could exchange doctors. Puzzled, I asked her why? "Because," she explained, "my doctor only gives me lollipops and bubble gum. Yours gives out babies!"

Happy Wednesday!