The Jokuns

The Goat Whisperer

2012-02-09T11:10:00.001-06:00

On Tuesday Owen took his family to the zoo, and finally, after 15 months of frustrating attempts to communicate with other humans, met someone who spoke his language.

(We're Back) Bean Burger with Tofu Fries

2012-01-28T22:11:00.000-06:00

ingredients:

1 can chili beans

1/2 cup corn (fresh or frozen)

3 scallions

2 cloves garlic

2 slices wheat bread

firm tofu

1/2 cup safflower oil or canola oil

wheat buns

baby spinach

red onions

salt, pepper

sriracha sauce (for the fries or burger, instead of ketchup)

goldfish crackers

Clos du Bois Pinot Noir

directions:

1. Because on any given day at exactly this time there may be a child-size monster clinging to your leg or prying open a locked door with the bristle end of a broom, you haven't posted a recipe to your blog in almost a year and a half. Because today there is not only one monster screaming at your feet, and another prying open the pantry, but also a canine-shaped monster performing some nonlethal version of a choke hold on your family's geriatric cat, you open a bottle of wine and begin heating the oil in a large skillet (or dutch oven) over medium high. You calmly slice the tofu into six slabs and arrange them in two rows on a paper towel. Cover slabs with another paper towel, baking sheet, and every heavy pan you own (in that order).* If necessary, use the pans to defend yourself when the monsters try to tie you up and throw you in the closet.

2. Meanwhile, in a food processor, pulse two slices of wheat bread until fine crumbs form, and pour these into a medium-sized bowl. To give yourself a few minutes of scream-free cooking time, place goldfish crackers in a trail leading far out of the kitchen and into any room on the other side of the house with a latchable door. All of the monsters will fall for it, and you will pulse scallions and garlic and corn in the food processor until minced. Add beans and process until baby-poop-smooth. Scrape this poop-like mixture into the bowl before the monsters figure out how to use doorknobs, and stir to combine.

3. Slice tofu into fry-size sticks. Add to oil. Do this carefully, because the oil will pop and splash, and very possibly burn your tits off.

4. While tofu sizzles, heat one tablespoon of oil in another skillet over medium. Form bean/poop-mixture into four equalish size patties. Recall that, though your monsters may be hungry enough to chew the legs of the furniture, they may not want to eat the actual food you have lovingly made them for dinner. Reform the patties into two generous-sized patties and two small, ungrateful-sized patties. Flop these into the skillet just as the monsters begin building a human-canine pyramid to reach a single grape on the top shelf of the fridge.

5. You see that the tofu is browned on one side just as your husband walks in the door. The monsters suddenly become children again and also perfectly behaved. You turn the tofu and burgers while toasting buns in the oven under the broiler (1 or 2 minutes), all the while marveling at this miraculous change. Your ex-monster daughter sets the table while you slice the onion. Your ex-monster son plays the harmonica while you refill your wine and pour milk into two child-sized cups.

6. When the tofu fries look almost like regular fries, pull them from the oil and drain on a paper towel. Season liberally with salt and pepper before arranging with buns, spinach, onions and burgers on plates in the conservative sandwich way. Because your family is smiling from their places at the dining table, you leave your monster defense kit in the kitchen and cautiously sit down to

7. Eat.

*The purpose of this bizarre ritual is to "drain" the tofu. I can't claim it as my own idea. Martha told me to do it once for another recipe, and I've learned to never question the Martha. I mean, there's a reason she has like a billion dollars even after spending time in the clink. Also, for this particular recipe it helps to make the tofu really crispy.

week without (the mom gene)

2011-08-31T22:01:00.001-05:00

Because the new preschool decided it was probably a good idea for the teachers to clean the chalkboards, disinfect every corner of the ceiling and the floor, make photocopies of every lesson plan and extra copies in case she decides those also actually belong to her, hide the scissors, the confetti and the streamers, label the chair she will sit in, the toilet she will poop in, the cubby where she will leave her lunchbox, the box where she will find a princess dress, a crown, a fireman's uniform, a policeman's uniform, a man's suit (what poor unsuspecting children will have to fill these roles each day?), restock the drawer with the helmets and goldfish and vodka (but not label that)--which took a whole week, I am told--H spent last week at home. Meanwhile, I tried really very hard to neither sell her nor throw her out the window of a moving vehicle.

How did it come back to this? Somewhere between the move, and the book, and the baby, and (how many other things have I needed at that very moment to do?) a full day of solo care for my daughter has again become something of a chore. So much so that I dreaded spending a week of daytimes alone with her. There. I said it. And I'll say it again: Yes, there is a limit to the amount of time I want to spend with my child.

Maybe it's because I lack "the mom gene," which is, according to one young woman the hubs and I interviewed for the position of O's first nanny, some sort of genetic code that predisposes some women for motherhood--those who love kids, are good with kids. And predisposes others...well, let's just say some women shouldn't have children. (She means me.) At the time I felt offended and defensive. (She didn't get the job). Because even though I've never felt like a natural mom, have never considered myself "maternal," I still love my children. And I try hard every day (as long as there's coffee in the morning) to be a good mother to them.

And to me, that means knowing them well: what they like, what makes them laugh, what threat will earn their attention. As it happens, I know my oldest child well enough to realize that she is less likely to act out and I am less likely to want to sell her if she is making something with her hands (sounds familiar) and I am giving her my full attention.

So last week we got crafty:

Monday: Hipposhirt for O and Unlivable Birdhouse

Tuesday: Selfportrait Bags

Wednesday: Fat Chance Fall Vegetables (from seeds)

Thursday: Improvisational Tantrum Theatre
[during which H and I take turns throwing fits; baby O looks on in horror]

My original plan had been to take the kids to the MFAH (free on Thursdays), draw some pictures in our journals, then go home and paint the pictures. Unfortunately, we never made it to the museum. We took TagtheDog for a walk in the morning and H fell in a hole and skinned her leg. Although she was fine, she never fully recovered (emotionally), and by lunchtime I had hit my limit. She threw a foot-stomping, fist-thrashing fit in the bathroom about not needing to go potty, and I smacked her butt, (which won me that day's award for Most Childish Behavior). We went back to the house instead of going to the MFAH and fought for the rest of the day. By the time the hubs got home to take over before I left for the August Poison Pen Reading, I realized that if we had stuck with the plan, we could have salvaged the whole day.

On Friday I had to attend an afternoon-long meeting, and was grateful for another opportunity to get out of the house and away from the kids. Another kind of mother (one with the mom gene) might have spent the whole afternoon missing her children. Not me. I thought about them only at naptime, and only then because of a Pavlovian response (3:00: time to get horizontal). I yawned. Refilled my coffee. If anything I had an especially good time precisely because I had spent the entire week in isolation with two people under four feet tall. Which made me realize two things: 1) I really need to talk to other adult humans every day; and 2) that loving my children--regardless of whether or not I have the mom gene--is not just a matter of giving them what they like and need, but also doing the same thing for myself.

When I got home Friday night, we ordered pizza and watched a movie in the living room. On Saturday morning, the whole family piled into our bed, and stayed there long after what might have been a normal breakfast time. I let H paint the fingers (not just the nails) of my right hand blue, and my left hand purple. We put on lipstick and left kiss marks all over the hub's forehead. And then we all played dress-up with my scarves and jewelry.

On Monday H returned to school. I made her breakfast, packed her lunch, brushed her hair, found her socks, stretched them over her giant feet, buckled her seatbelt, kissed her forehead, drove the car without speeding, winking at her in the rearview mirror at least once along the way, dropped her off at the classroom door, kissed her cheek and hugged her goodbye. Back at the house, I put O down for his midmorning nap, then poured myself a second cup of coffee. I was almost tempted to sit in silence at my desk and stare out the window. I almost started to miss her.

(Even though I don't have the mom gene and am therefore under no obligation to do that.)

Dinnertime Shenanigans

2011-08-01T22:31:00.003-05:00

Owen's Salvage Co.

2011-07-27T22:31:00.003-05:00

so much

2011-07-11T12:17:00.002-05:00

Has happened since I last posted on this blog. (Sorry about that.) Let's recap:

1) Our son, Owen William, was born on November 10, 2010, weighing 8 lbs, 6 oz. He's now eight months old, weighing roughly 23 lbs. He's almost crawling, almost talking, almost walking. He takes great naps and has two teeth. He is a very happy (and hungry) baby.

2) I finished my book. It's called Trespasses (right now, anyway) and will be published by University of Iowa Press some time next year. It's both satisfying and upsetting to have finished it. On the one hand, I don't have to work on it anymore and so will have time to work on other things--like this blog, or a book for Hazel, or another book of nonfiction. On the other hand, I don't get to work on it anymore. It's done. Now I have to work on other things--like...

3) Josh (occasionally known on this blog as "hubs") got a job in Houston. He started commuting in January, flying down for anywhere from three to six days at a time, every other week, sometimes every week. Commuting was hard on all of us. In April we put our house on the market, and had an offer by May. On May 31 we moved from our two-story, two-bedroom Colonial in Overland Park, Kansas, to a two-bedroom, two-study bungalow just northwest of downtown Houston (a neighborhood called the Old Sixth Ward). I resigned my job as Assistant Director of the Graduate Writing Program at the University of Kansas, and now I'm a full-time writer/stay-at-home mom. It's a big change. Sometimes I handle it well.

4) Hazel (occasionally known on this blog as "chubs") is no longer a chubby toddler, but a lanky, precocious preschooler. She knocked out one of her front teeth shortly after her fourth birthday, and got glasses the same week. (She never wears them.) She's learning to read and write. She takes great pictures and draws and paints like nobody's business. She's a great big sister to Owen, and an all-around cool kid.

My goal for this blog is to pick up where we left off. I'll post recipes, funny stories, pictures, bits of projects I'm working on, mostly for the folks back home. I can't promise that I'll post every day, or even every other day. I can't promise I won't sell or beat either or both of my children and run off and join the circus. (It's coming to town.) I won't always be at my best.

But I'll try. More than I did yesterday.

Seriously?

2010-09-06T22:26:00.005-05:00

Three inches in a year. An inch in two months. Roughly a third of an inch in two weeks. This can't be normal.

Hash Salad with Grapes and Toast

2010-08-16T20:52:00.009-05:00

ingredients:
1 head butter lettuce
2 roma tomatoes
6 oz turkey bacon
1/4 cup red onion
1 braeburn apple
1 avocado
3 hard-boiled eggs
feta cheese
honey mustard dressing
three slices italian bread
red grapes

lemon raspberry sparkling water

Personally, you prefer large chunks of ingredients in your salad. However, when the hubs gets to chopping he tends to continue chopping until the tomatoes you grew in your garden, for example, more closely resemble tomato pulp than tomato wedges. Same with the onion, the bacon, the apple, and the lettuce. It just so happens that the hubs does not like avocado, so you are able to chop it yourself and do not have to scrap your whole dinner plan and instead make guacamole. While he is pulverizing the hard boiled eggs and mixing them into the hash salad with his bare hands (clean, you hope?), the chubs is preparing an alternate dinner out of very tiny pieces of colored paper at the nearby desk, yelling at both of you to keep it down. How am I supposed to cook with all this noise? How indeed. You mind your own business by buttering three thick slices of italian bread; bake them at 400 for five minutes. You do not let the hubs chop them into croutons.

All Clear

2010-07-12T21:07:00.004-05:00

About two and a half weeks ago, we went back to the doctor for another checkup. This time the news was good: no more previa, which means I can pick up my kid, carry laundry baskets, juggle cats, take the dog for a walk, start running again. In other words, I can resume normal life as a superwoman. At that same office visit, they took a close look at Lenny2.0's anatomy--two legs, two arms, ten toes, ten fingers, brain, spine, bones, organs, etc.--and everything checks out just fine. As far as the sonographer could tell, Lenny2.0 looks perfectly and wonderfully healthy. The only thing she commented on with even the smallest suggestion of surprise or concern was the size of his enormous feet.

But, like I said, that was two and a half weeks ago. Since then, the baby has grown to over a pound, and measures over a foot in length, head to toe. He's gotten so strong that we can not only feel, but also see his movements, which have become increasingly predictable: judo practice occurs regularly after meals, before bed, and anytime I eat a popsicle (which is surprisingly often). In the ultrasound above, you can see him sucking his thumb.

In those two and a half weeks, we also left for and returned from a road trip vacation to Texas, where we visited our dear friends in Austin and Houston, and played on the beach for a few days in Galveston. Some might balk at the idea of a ten-day road trip with a 3 1/2 year old, but Hazel traveled like a champ, melting down only once during the entire time we were gone. (This is a better average than our normal life at home.) In many ways, the trip was intended as a sort of babymoon for our family, since it was the last time we would be able to travel together, just the three of us. And in that regard, it felt a little bittersweet.

There was one afternoon when we were all sleeping in the enormous king-sized bed in our hotel in Galveston that it all sort of hit me at once: when this baby comes, our whole life is going to change. That seems like an obvious statement, I know. And it's hard for me to convey exactly what I mean: yes, it's exciting, but also very sad. Of course I'm excited to be having another baby. But when he's born, Hazel won't be my baby any more. She won't be our only one. She'll be a sister, and that means I won't be able to give her my full and undivided attention. Of course I understand I don't actually have to divide my love between my children--it will grow and multiply--but will she understand that? At her age, she still equates attention with love, and gets upset if I'm distracted by something so simple as a phone call or an errand around the house. How will her heart break to see me loving another child as I love her?

Now that I'm allowed to move again, and I don't have the previa to worry about, these have become the issues I struggle with, that I'm sure I'll continue to struggle with even after Lenny2.0 is born. I'm not nervous about the basics: getting him to sleep--he couldn't possibly be a worse sleeper than Hazel was--or getting him to eat, or any of the keeping-him-alive tasks we'll need to do as parents. We're seasoned vets in that regard, since Hazel put us through the ringer several times over. And over. And over. What make me nervous are the problems that haven't even fully occurred to me yet, problems which will no doubt be complicated by the fact that we are already parents to another child, who is herself very complicated. And then again, sometimes she's entirely uncomplicated. On the one hand, for example, she's decided we should name her baby brother "Shock." On the other, she reminds me daily, she already loves him very much.

It's a Boy!

2010-05-26T11:32:00.008-05:00

Last week I had another ultrasound. Unexpectedly, the technician asked if I wanted to know the gender. I wasn't prepared for this, since I was only 16 weeks pregnant and they usually aren't able to tell the gender until closer to 20 weeks. We had another ultrasound scheduled for 20 weeks, and I'd planned to bring Josh and Hazel along so we'd all find out together. Quickly, I texted Josh to see if he wanted me to find out. Wish I could be there with you, he responded, but yes I would like to know. It's up to you.

I did find out, of course, and was a little surprised. Josh and Hazel have been saying all along that Lenny2.0 is a boy, but I wasn't so sure. Honestly, I think I was hoping for another girl. I had a sort of fantasy of a house full of women. With Josh, of course. I've even saved nearly all of Hazel's clothes. Problem is, I can't really picture myself raising a boy: I've never really spent any time around little boys, have no idea what they're like. They're aliens, as far as I'm concerned. I'm sure I'll grow to love this kid as much as I do Hazel--I'm not worried about that. But it's weird enough to have a tiny person growing inside me--whom I can occasionally feel squirming and shifting--but to know that tiny person has a tiny penis? That's like something from The Twilight Zone.

Meanwhile, I also learned that this particular kiddo comes with a few complications. Without getting too technical, there's a bit of a problem with the placenta, in that it's positioned a little low in the womb, and is slightly covering the opening of the cervix. My doctor thinks this problem will correct itself as the uterus expands, pulling the placenta upward and out of the way. Unfortunately, until it does, I'm on strict orders to "take it easy," which means: no running, no walking (except very short, slow walks), no situps, no pushups, no lifting much of anything heavier than our largest cat (including, but not limited to: our daughter, grocery bags, laundry baskets, the vacuum cleaner, furniture, bags of cat litter, cat food, dog food, etc.), no yoga, no swimming, no yard work, no building of playhouses, no walking of dogs, no operating heavy machinery (well, maybe if I'm sitting), no flexing or straining of the pelvic muscles whatsoever. Which means: sit on your (rapidly expanding) ass and don't move. The risk is that I'll start bleeding, something will rupture, and I'll miscarry. In extreme circumstances, some women can bleed to death. I don't think mine is an extreme circumstance, but I'm not taking any chances either. It's no secret to anyone who knows me that I fancy myself a superwoman, so it's disappointing to not be able to do these things for myself. I love running, digging in the garden, working my muscles to the point of exhaustion. I hate asking for help. But the hardest part of this restriction is that I can't pick up or carry my daughter, which I'm used to doing several times a day. She's old enough to rationalize, I think, that I can't because it might hurt the baby. But try rationalizing with a three-year-old who's bawling because she's hurt or tired or scared and wants her mommy to hold her in that special mommy way. Sure, she gets it at her best, calmest, self: she already loves her little brother and doesn't want anything bad to happen to him or me. Unfortunately, she's her best, calmest self about five percent of the day.

On the upside, all this sitting leaves more time for writing. Right?

When I return for another checkup in a month, we'll do another ultrasound to see if the placenta has "migrated" north. If so, the doctor will remove all the restrictions. If not...well, I guess that's news I'll take sitting down.

Why I Will Never Win Any Parenting Awards...Ever

2010-05-09T19:44:00.007-05:00

This morning, as we were driving to Mother's Day Brunch, Hazel sat in her carseat picking her nose (a favorite pastime lately). I asked her not to pick her nose without a tissue, but she kept at it. I told her how yucky it was, but she still kept digging. Finally, remembering the Shel Silverstein poem, "Warning," I told her that there was a sharp-toothed snail in her nose, and that if she took all his food (her boogers) away, he'd bite her finger off and eat it. She stopped picking her nose immediately.

Later, as Josh and I enjoyed our brunch, I looked over to see Hazel stuffing bread crumbs up her right nostril. "What on earth are you doing?" I asked.

"Feeding the snail," she said.

Housing and Suburban Developments

2010-04-26T21:15:00.006-05:00

Several of you may remember our container gardening experiment last year, which was (I felt) an overwhelming success, since I was expecting a slow execution of all things botanic and instead got edible food. This year, emboldened by that success, we decided to take it up a notch. So, two weekends ago we built a raised bed a few steps from our deck, which has had two immediate positive effects: 1) it has provided a larger area for vegetable experimentation, 2) it has forced us to take an important first step toward cultivating our enormous dauntingly blank slate of a yard. Check it out:

For the bed itself, we bought three eight-foot 2" x 8"s from the hardware store, cut one in half, and made a basic 4' x 8' frame, which we secured to the ground with wooden stakes. We filled the bed with a mixture of top soil, garden soil and mushroom compost. That's all you really need to make a raised-bed garden, but since we wanted to ward off the potentially devastating curiosity of canine and offspring intrusions, we built a fence around the bed. The cool thing about the fence is that the long panels are removable, so that we can pull them off to harvest our bountiful crops or (more likely) dig weeds and cat poop out of the bed. We made the fence panels by constructing a basic 2' x 8' frame out of 1" x 1"s, then stapling chicken wire to the back of the frame. The long panels hang from the top of the vertical supports by an L-shaped hook, and are secured to the bottom of the supports by a hook and eye at either end. The short panels are screwed permanently (we hope) in place by galvanized deck screws.

After we finished construction we planted a few seedlings--broccoli, yellow peppers and roma tomatoes (see broccoli below). We had planned to plant more, but mid-April is apparently still a little early in the season for seedlings. This coming weekend, the rain might stop long enough for us to venture out to the farmer's market again and hunt down the rest of our crops. We'd like to do some carrots, jalapenos, cucumbers, leafy greans, onions, and herbs.

Cross your fingers for us. If all goes well, we'll retire early and become farmers full time.

Guess What

2010-04-12T20:49:00.010-05:00

That's right: "Lenny" 2.0, due the first week of November. You'll see from the date stamp that this sonogram was taken a couple of weeks ago, so it's safe to assume that what appears to be a bean has evolved into something closer to the size of a fig. At the bottom of the image you'll see its heart beat. (Yes, it has one.) It also has arms and legs, all its vital organs, as well as fingernails and teeth. We've told Hazel already, and though at first she sort of pretended not to hear us, over the last week or so she's grown increasingly excited about the prospect of having a sibling to feed, diaper, sing to sleep, and undoubtedly torment. For me and Josh, it's still a little unreal, though becoming increasingly real as my clothes become increasingly tight. They're both convinced it's a boy. I'm not certain just yet. I'm too tired to be certain of much of anything beyond the color of my pillowcase. Which is, by the way, maybe one excuse for not posting here in the past few weeks. (The tiredness that is, not the pillowcase.)

Interestingly enough, according to our calculations, this particular offspring was probably conceived the weekend I didn't get to go to the conference in Albuquerque because of snow in Dallas.

Ha!

Your house has been cold all winter

2010-03-20T22:27:00.009-05:00

so your mom books a flight to LA, where the flowers have been blooming for months already and the sun maybe shines every day, and where it is possible (and even necessary) to take naps when you feel like you should be eating dinner, or to eat dinner when you feel like you should be in bed, and where it is possible (and even necessary) to drive and drive and drive through several ecosystems to go just about anywhere, and where there seem to be no children your own age, but only adults who do nothing but talk and talk and talk, and after several days of this you finally put your foot down in the sand, which is the warmest thing you've felt in months and the joy of this washes over you as you run toward the ocean, which is impossibly large and freezing, but you wade waist-high into it anyway, and nearly forget your dad is clutching your hand the whole time, pulling you up for air, anchoring you to the shore, where you will find no towels or sunscreen or dry change of clothes, but a bright sun to warm your arms and the back of your neck and enough sand to keep you digging for a lifetime.

Gumbo

2010-02-28T21:40:00.012-06:00

ingredients:

1 lb smoked sausage, diced
1 lb shrimp
1 lb fresh or frozen okra
1 medium onion, chopped
4 ribs of celery, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/4 cup parsley, chopped
1 green pepper, chopped
3 green onions, chopped
1 can diced tomatoes
2 tsp dry thyme
2 bay leaves
1/2 cup flour
1/4 cup olive oil
salt and red pepper to taste

directions:

1. It's been a long couple of very cold and snowy weeks and you want nothing more than to overfill your belly with a warm bowl of spicy goodness and snuggle on the couch with a couple of winter-plump bodies--the chubs and the hubs, preferably, but even the cats or the dog would do. This, you fantasize, would lead to blissful and irresistible family-wide sleep. Since that's not happening (ever), you instead make yourself a cup of chamomile tea (not the same) while sauteing diced sausage in a large skillet over medium until brown.

2. Although the hubs has worked hard to make your kitchen functional, a persistent draft has continued to chill your feet and ankles all winter long. Partly, it's just the house you live in--the doors don't seal completely; you doubt the existence of attic insulation; there's a hole in the floor under the bathroom--the chill creeps in from everywhere. Remove the sausage from the skillet and scrape into your largest soup pot. To the now empty but still greasy skillet, add onions, celery, garlic, parsley and green pepper. Saute until soft. Maybe you should put on socks. (Indoors? Ew.) Maybe invest in a space heater. (How do you spell disaster?) Add tomatoes, thyme and bay leaves, salt and red pepper to taste.

3. The chubs comes into the room to show you a card she's made. For me? I love it! No, it's not for you, silly mama, it's for Juli. (Nevermind that she sees this friend for nine hours every day. Things come up, urgent things, that must be recorded in several colors of crayon. What things, you ask? This particular correspondence is illegible, full of deep, three-year old mysteries.) You promise to deliver it immediately, and then pour skilletized vegetable mash medley over sausage into soup pot and add 6 cups water. Bring to a boil; reduce heat and cook one hour.

4. One hour? That's right: one hour. (And that's just the first leg. There's another 30-minute chunk later!) Which means dinner won't be done until well after her bedtime. Which means you need to cook her something else to eat. Silly woman, didn't you read the directions before you started cooking? Let's see what you have in the fridge: tortillas, cheese, baby spinach, cooked rice. Frozen corn in the freezer. Refried beans in the pantry.

4. Voila! Quesadillas. (Except the chubs doesn't want quesadillas. She wants tacos.) Fine, then. Tacos (...dillas).

5. Once her royal chubness has situated herself at the table and begun gobbling her tacodillas, place flour and oil in the (now pretty gross-looking) skillet, cook over medium-low until browned. When brown, add 1 cup of water gradually and whisk until combined. Add this paste to gumbo and let simmer, covered.

6. Meanwhile, give the chubster a bath and shimmy her squirmy little body into her jammies. Brush her teeth and comb her hair. (Your favorite smell ever.) The hubs comes up to read and the three of you snuggle in her tiny little bed. The buzzer sounds downstairs. Nothing could matter less.

7. After the chubs has started drifting off to sleep, and you have kissed her cheeks three times each, add shrimp and okra to the nearly brimming soup pot. Simmer, covered, 30 minutes. This give you just enough time to check your email, remember your now-lukewarm tea, curl up next to your husband on the couch, leaning into the warm nook reserved just for you between his arm and chest.

8. Ladle gumbo into two bowls over rice and top with chopped green onions and chopped celery. Curl back in the nook and

9. Eat.

Busy busy busy

2010-02-09T21:00:00.007-06:00

Sorry, folks, that I haven't posted in a week. I had good intentions of cooking and writing up a recipe last week, over the weekend, today. Unfortunately, it's nearly bedtime already and I still have tons of work to do. So no recipe for you. All this business is partially because I'm heading to Albuquerque on Thursday to deliver a paper at the Pop Culture conference, which means I have to cram a week's worth of work into three days. (It requires elastic.) My paper, which I'm actually really pleased with, is called "Creative Writing in the Contact Zone." What on earth does that mean? you ask. Here's the abstract:

Creative Writing in the Contact Zone
Lacy M. Johnson
Graduate Writing Program
University of Kansas

Perhaps one of the most pervasive (and justified) criticisms of creative writing classrooms today is that they are too divorced from the diversity of “real life”: not only does the workshop model (at its worst) function as a normalizing force on student writing, workshop practices may ignore social differences and turn diversity into homogenized academic exercises. The problem with this approach is most apparent in classrooms with English-language learners, whose processes of writing in English differ greatly from native students, and whose life experiences may not fit neatly into received generic forms. It’s not enough to respond by deploying rhetorics of diversity and multiculturalism, because what students want is not to feel that they “belong” in the institution, as Mary Louise Pratt suggests in “Arts of the Contact Zone,” but to feel that the institution “belongs” to its students. This paper will suggest lessons and practices for instructors who are interested in recreating their creative writing classrooms as contact zones—safe intellectual spaces where diverse groups of students and faculty can reconstitute themselves along horizontal axes of mutual admiration and respect.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Cheddar Broccoli Soup with Grilled Ham and Cheese Sandwiches

2010-02-02T21:13:00.004-06:00

ingredients:

soup:

5 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 cup yellow onions, chopped
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
1/4 tsp nutmeg
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 tsp dried thyme
3 tbs all-purpose flour
3 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 16-oz package frozen broccoli pieces
1/2 cup half and half
1 1/4 cup shredded sharp cheddar

sandwiches:

5 slices sourdough bread
unsalted butter, softened
5 slices deli ham
5 slices medium cheddar
Dijon Mustard

directions:

1. There isn't a single beer or glass of wine in your house. How could you let this happen? Maybe it's the frantic race that has been your life for the past few weeks. When you're not teaching or preparing to teach, you're working on a book manuscript or writing the conference paper you'll deliver next week. When you're not working, you're chasing the puppy or picking up the chubs from school, collecting the laundry or fishing a whole roll of toilet paper out of the drain. Just now, the puppy (who has recently discovered a peculiar new stink) is chasing the chubs (who has recently discovered a shrill new octave) through the kitchen, both with tongues wagging behind them, and the hubs is trying to convince them both to sit; stay. Make a mental note to head to the liquor store at your earliest convenience while you melt 3 tablespoons of butter in a medium pot over medium heat. Add the onions, salt, pepper, and nutmeg and cook, stirring, until soft, 3 minutes. This gives the hubs just enough time to recruit the screaming demon as his assistant while he gives the stinking demon a bath. Add the garlic and thyme; cook, stirring, until fragrant, for 20 seconds. Add the flour one tablespoonful at a time, stirring until the mixture is well blended and smells fragrant, 2 minutes.

2. By now the house is quiet-ish--you can just make out the sound of a solid, smallish body tumbling in the tub upstairs, and know it could be mean one of many things: 1) the hubs and the chubs have succeeded in getting the puppy in the tub; 2) the chubs has succeeded in getting in the tub and the puppy is peeing on the bed; 3) the puppy is peeing on the bed and your husband has fallen in the tub. While you listen for distress calls, slowly add the chicken stock, whisking constantly, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer until thickened, about 5 minutes.

3. Within that time, the puppy (now wet, not stinky), the hubs (also wet, also not stinky) and the chubs (not wet, a little stinky), return to the kitchen to sniff out what you're doing. They see you've buttered one side of each piece of bread and take turns trying to swipe samples. None succeed, though the puppy manages to bolt from the room with half a stick of butter hanging by its wrapper from his teeth while the chubs nabs an unbuttered piece from the remaining loaf. Is this a team effort? Add the broccoli to the pot and guard, stirring, for 10 minutes.

5. When the broccoli is tender, remove the pot from the heat and puree in batches in a food processor. You manage to overfill the first batch, which sends lava-hot broccoli soup flying through your kitchen, a calamity which does not escape the attention of the puppy, who arrives just in time to offer his post-disaster services. Return soup to the pot while the puppy licks the fleshy scallop between your toes. This is not endearing.

7. Add the cream and bring to bare simmer to heat through. The chubs returns to try to sneak another piece of bread. Shoo her out while grilling the sandwiches on medium-low heat, 2 minutes per side. The puppy returns to lick your elbows. Fend him off with your foot while adding the cheese to the soup and cook over low heat, stirring, until melted. Add the remaining 2 tablespoons cold butter, stirring to blend, as the whole demon family converges on the kitchen.

8. With a large knife cut sandwiches. Karate chop the nose or fingers of any canine or preschool-aged investigators. Ladle the soup into bowls. Sprinkle cheese over the top of the soup and gather everyone around the table to

9. Eat.

Dancing Queen

2010-01-25T21:03:00.005-06:00

When Hazel got a pair of ballet shoes for Christmas, she was thrilled. She wore them to bed that night. And at Meemaw's house the next day. She even wore them to take a nap. In fact, I think she took them off only when it was time to take a bath, and even then only after much parental pressure. She wore them every day the next week. Everywhere she went throughout the house it was on her tippy-toes. And her tutu came too.

It was both hilarious and a little unnerving to watch her mock-graceful movements--the straight line of her back, the curve of her neck. We'd watched several ballets over the break, our favorites being The Nutcracker, Swan Lake, and anything with Polina Seminova. Hazel can't, of course, sit through the whole ballet--she breaks out into her own dance long before that--but we'll watch short clips on youtube.com, which, if nothing else, is good for entertaining (at least briefly) a tirelessly curious three-year-old.

The ballet shoes, a gift from us, also came with a one-month registration to "Ballet, Tap, Jazz and Tumbling," the first of a series of beginners courses offered during the winter months at one of our local community centers. Her first class was this past Saturday. The instructor had called me the day before to let me know it wasn't necessary to get her a tutu (athletic wear would be just fine), but tap shoes and ballet shoes were recommended if we thought she might continue past the first one-month class. Are you kidding? I thought. Hazel is a freak for this. That evening I picked Hazel up from daycare and we stopped by Payless to stock up on tap shoes.

That may have been my first mistake. Because a noisy three-year-old plus shiny, noisy shoes roughly equals a percussion section on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She can't tie her own shoes, for example, and yet the shoe laces keep coming untied. TAKE US TO DEFCON 4. AGAIN.

And did I mention tap shoes are slippery? We walked into class the first day, took off Hazel's coat, her winter boots, put the tap shoes on. Hazel stood, fluffed her hair, took two steps--SPLAT, right on her face. Not once, not twice, but three times. If there's anything that would have put me over the edge, it's falling on my face three times in front of total strangers. But not Hazel. She stood, laughed, walked slowly over to the mat, where she had better traction for pirouetting.

And it was closer to the mirror anyway.

On Our Fourth Anniversary

2010-01-14T13:14:00.003-06:00

Colors passing through us
by Marge Piercy

Purple as tulips in May, mauve

into lush velvet, purple

as the stain blackberries leave

on the lips, on the hands,

the purple of ripe grapes

sunlit and warm as flesh.

Every day I will give you a color,

like a new flower in a bud vase

on your desk. Every day

I will paint you, as women

color each other with henna

on hands and on feet.

Red as henna, as cinnamon,

as coals after the fire is banked,

the cardinal in the feeder,

the roses tumbling on the arbor

their weight bending the wood

the red of the syrup I make from petals.

Orange as the perfumed fruit

hanging their globes on the glossy tree,

orange as pumpkins in the field,

orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs

who come to eat it, orange as my

cat running lithe through the high grass.

Yellow as a goat’s wise and wicked eyes,

yellow as a hill of daffodils,

yellow as dandelions by the highway,

yellow as butter and egg yolks,

yellow as a school bus stopping you,

yellow as a slicker in a downpour.

Here is my bouquet, here is a sing

song of all the things you make

me think of, here is oblique

praise for the height and depth

of you and the width too.

Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.

Green as mint jelly, green

as a frog on a lily pad twanging,

the green of cos lettuce upright

about to bolt into opulent towers,

green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear

glass, green as wine bottles.

Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,

bachelors’ buttons. Blue as Roquefort,

blue as Saga. Blue as still water.

Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.

Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring

azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.

Cobalt as the midnight sky

when day has gone without a trace

and we lie in each other’s arms

eyes shut and fingers open

and all the colors of the world

pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

Loving this sweet little song...

2010-01-08T10:33:00.001-06:00

Like I said, Rock Star.

2010-01-06T17:06:00.011-06:00

The husband returns from the hardware store with a blowtorch and a fire extinguisher. "Please don't set the kitchen on fire," his wife says, following him into the kitchen. He promises to be careful. "Give me a little credit," he says. She reads the extinguisher instructions while microwaving a cup of water for tea: Pull ring. Point at fire. Spray. Hopefully it won't come to that. Behind her, he places the torch next to the paper towels on the kitchen island and lights it, adjusts the flame. Rush. This sound makes apparent that he's just crossed an invisible line and now there are no options beyond starting this and finishing it himself. The wife finds a comfortable spot on the couch. He won't let her help. She can't watch. He hasn't read an instruction manual. He hasn't even Googled anything. Upstairs, their daughter is napping with her mouth and one eye open. She's drooling, dreaming of a monster whose teeth are made of candy. When she wakes she'll ask for a blue umbrella. This is what it means to be just over three.

* * *

The faucet in the kitchen has been leaking for months. Since summer at the very least. The wife remembers telling her mother, here for a rare visit, how they turn the hot water off under the sink, except when they run the dishwasher, and even then only briefly. By the rinse cycle the leak has filled their largest pan. In the summer months, she used it to water the plants in her container garden. It's winter now, a long time since any plants needed watering. She's come to accept the leak, to become its disinterested observer. The leak is just a fact of their domestic situation, like cracks in the foundation. Like fleas. Or dandruff. Each day she reaches under the sink to turn on the hot water in order to run the dishwater, shimmies the faucet handle a little up and to the left, which makes the leak a persistent drip rather than a steady stream. This wastes less water, which alleviates her conscience. In two hours she'll turn it off. At least she's doing her part for the environment.

* * *

The blowtorch is lit for only a few minutes before it's put away. By the time she's staring into the last dregs at the bottom of her teacup, the husband has the whole thing fixed. He struts into the room, nonchalantly, pretends to need something off the mantle. He asks if she wants to come see. She speaks this language. Translation: please come see. Voila: new faucet, new handle, and now a sprayer, even a nifty soap dispenser. She pats his shoulder, tenderly (not condescendingly), "A huge improvement. I'm impressed." Under the sink, the hot water pipe, dirty culprit, has been heat-hacked and repaired and soldered back together. The pipe looks shiny and clean and new. "I hope this makes your kitchen experience a little more pleasurable," he says, smiling (not sarcastically). She speaks this language, too. Outside, the snow is falling. The flakes grow so large and feathery it's easy to forget how long and cold the winter is.

Cookie Joy

2009-12-22T21:37:00.008-06:00

Last year, we shopped. And shopped and shopped and shopped, and despite all the shopping, despite all the money we dropped on gifts, I wasn't particularly thrilled with anything we gave to anyone. The whole holiday-gift experience felt a little empty and materialistic. So, this year, we decided to hand-make all of our gifts. I don't think I'm ruining any surprises by saying that one of the things we made was food. Over two days, I spent fourteen hours in our kitchen making seven different varieties of cookies from scratch, or mostly from scratch anyway. Josh and Hazel popped in to "help" from time to time, but because I am not only a perfectionist, but also a control freak, baking is something I prefer to do by myself. The cookies are as follows (clockwise from top): pecan snowballs, vanilla santa's sandwiches, raspberry pinwheels, white-chocolate-covered Oreos, chocolate-raspberry tassies, glazed lemon cookies, white-chocolate-dipped pretzels.

The whole time I was baking the cookies, I kept thinking about the people who would eat them: my husband and child, my parents, their spouses, my sisters, their significant others, my grandparents, and so on. I wondered which cookie each would pick first, imagined each first bite: gentle, tentative. Then the sound: Mmmm--not forced, not polite, but the expression of genuine sensory pleasure. Maybe it's because I, myself, can't eat sugar (long story), but I can't help watching them eat. Or maybe it's because I want to make sure they get the message: I. Love. You. In which case, watching is the whole point--seeing the face light up with sweetness. What else comes so close to joy?

Hazel Said She Wanted a Red Party

2009-12-06T20:40:00.024-06:00

So I took her seriously. The night before the party I started baking. And I baked. And baked. And baked. And then I frosted. And then there were these:

(recipe here)

I also ruined two perfectly good bags of white chocolate chips and two perfectly good tubes of red food coloring trying to make red chocolate-covered pretzels. (Who knew that if you get the chocolate too hot it turns hard again?) Finally, I turned down the heat and gave up trying to turn the white chocolate red and just made white chocolate-covered pretzels with red sprinkles. Hazel got very sticky trying to "help" (if by "help" we mean alternately throwing pretzels into the bowl and snatching a fingerful of chocolate to "check it.")

After Hazel went to bed (very late, unbathed, still sticky), Josh and I got to decorating. He did a fantastic job hanging streamers (perfectly twisted!) while I finished up in the kitchen. Then we worked together on the red pom-poms. The effect was great:

(instructions here)

We also pre-assembled the party favors: little cellophane bags of variously flavored red jelly beans, and red paper bags for a craft project we'd planned for the party. Each red paper bag contained at least a red foam crown (we bought sheets of red foam from the craft store and cut each one out with a pair of scissors, securing them in back with a short length of elastic knotted at each end), a handful of red feathers, some fluffy red pom-poms, a handful of red sequins, a glue stick, and a few red pipe cleaners. During craft time, Josh channeled his past-life experience as a camp counselor and led the kids in what appeared to be a very successful (orderly/fun) crown-making activity.

It was almost relaxing to behold. Up to that point, Josh and I had been moving frantically. Earlier that morning, Josh had been on cleanup duty as I was making a mess in the kitchen. (A cycle that might have gone on indefinitely had my mom not arrived.) Since it was a RED, lunch-time party, I tried to put mostly red foods on our menu, but I had to make a few exceptions. (I couldn't, for example, think of many red vegetables kids might actually eat!) So we served turkey sandwiches with cream cheese and red currant "sauce" (if by "sauce" we mean jelly. But if you tell people you put jelly on a turkey sandwich, they put it back on the plate. If you tell them it's red currant sauce, they say "oh, how interesting" and at least take a bite), red grapes, grape tomatoes, baby carrots, raspberries, cheese and crackers with dried cherries, chocolate covered pretzels with red sprinkles, Twizzlers, and raspberry-lemonade punch.

Oh, and the amazing, fantastic, made-from-scratch cupcakes, which everyone (thankfully) enjoyed.

Especially the person who matters most--that crazy/special/infuriating/brilliant little goblin of a child who's spent all three years of her life making me alternately angrier and happier and more tired and fulfilled than I ever thought humanly possible (sometimes in the course of a single day). She gobbled her first cupcake and asked for a second.

And you better believe we gave it to her.

12.3 Chicken and Dumplings

2009-12-03T23:33:00.005-06:00

Adapted from this recipe

ingredients

3 tablespoons butter
1 medium onion, cut into one-inch pieces
5 medium carrots, cut into one-inch pieces
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1 cup all-purpose flour
14.5 oz low-sodium chicken broth
1 1/2 lbs chicken thighs, bones removed, cut into two-inch pieces
1 teaspoon dried dill weed
1 3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 cup milk
3/4 cup frozen peas

directions:

1. Oh Lord, what a day. It's cold. Very cold. It's the end of the semester, so you're stressed. And today you cleaned poop off the floor. (Not human, thankfully.) Then there were the tantrums. (Small human.) Then the poop also hit the fan. Thankfully there are still two glasses of wine left in a bottle from the weekend. Pour yourself the larger one. Don't apologize.

2. Heat butter in a large pot over medium. (The one you use for chili will suffice.) Add onion, carrots, and thyme. Upstairs, the chubs is screaming. Again. Cover the pot and cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion is soft. Meanwhile, tear the bones out of and the skin off of the chicken thighs with your bare hands. (A knife might also work, but this is messier and oddly therapeutic.) Add 1/4 cup flour to the pot and cook, stirring constantly with one hand (still screaming), while you pour and add the broth with the other. (Don't listen.) Bring to a boil. Season with salt and pepper. Scoot the ravaged chicken flesh into the pot; reduce heat to medium-low. (Still not listening.) Cover and cook, stirring occasionally, 20 minutes.

3. Close your eyes for a moment and breathe. Breathe again. Have a jelly bean (luckily you bought some for her birthday party) while whisking together the remaining 3/4 cup flour, dill, baking powder, and 1/2 teaspoon salt in a medium bowl. (Which is dirty. Make that a large bowl.) With a fork, stir in 1/2 cup milk to form dumpling batter. (A little thicker than pancake batter; add additional milk if too doughy.) Set aside. Still breathing?

4. Upstairs, the chubs is laughing. (?) The first time all day. Maybe that's because you're not funny. Or maybe it's just that the hubs is very funny. Either way, stir peas into the pot. (I thought you weren't listening.) Return to breathing/simmering before you drop batter in 10 heaping tablespoonfuls, allowing them room to swell as they cook. Maybe you're too stressed. Cover, and continue to breathe/simmer until chicken is tender and dumplings are firm, 20 minutes. Maybe you're just too serious. The hubs and chubs come downstairs, both happy, leaving you to be the only one still a little sad and cold and grumpy when everyone sits down to

5. Eat.

Baking Day (Thanksgiving Part 1)

2009-12-01T22:30:00.013-06:00

First, I made an apple pie. Yes, from scratch. (It was delicious.)

Then we celebrated. (Also delicious.)

Sarah made a beautiful cake for her boy. (Not for us.)

Hazel and Ada ate enough sugar to keep them giggling for hours.

You're It

2009-11-21T19:26:00.008-06:00

Meet the newest member of our family. We've been talking about a dog for a while. That is, Josh has been trying to talk me into it. I've been trying to talk him out of it. Today he convinced me to go to Wayside Waifs, just to see whether Hazel would even like interacting with a dog. Then we met this guy.

He's a Catahoula Leopard Dog Mix. Which means he has energy (like Hazel), needs a job (like Hazel), is too smart for his own good (like Hazel), and owns his family (rather than the other way around). We're thinking of calling him Tag. I think he and Hazel might be soul mates.

Chicken Noodle Soup

2009-11-16T21:14:00.005-06:00

Last week it was 70 and sunny. Earlier today it was sleeting. The chubs has a bad case of the sniffles. The hubs is hiding in his hoodie, pretending to be awake. You've got just the thing they need:

ingredients:

1 rotisserie chicken, meat removed
1 yellow onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 large carrot, thinly sliced
1 box of chicken broth
3 stalks celery, sliced
1 cup frozen corn
1 cup frozen peas
1 16 oz bag frozen egg noodles
1 teaspoon thyme
1 teaspoon tarragon
1 tablespoon butter

directions:

1. Sweet. You have beer. Open one for yourself and one for the hubs while you melt the butter in a large pot. This might be your only chance to talk. His days at the office always sound far-off and interesting. Your day, though productive, was spent in isolation. (Except, of course, for the cat, who is not particularly good at holding up his end of any conversation.) Add onions, garlic and carrot, thyme and tarragon, cooking until fragrant, about 1 minute. It can't be any other way. You need the quiet to think. No music. No dripping water. No one to bring you their wet hands or ask for another cup of juice. Add broth and chicken. Bring to a simmer. Cover and cook for 15 minutes, or until carrots are tender, stirring frequently.

2. This gives you time for the following: an intervention with your daughter, whose inexplicable anger has lately manifested in violent ways (a small sneaker across your knuckles, a punch to your wrist), her temper tantrum and subsequent apology (a dinosaur hug, a slobbery kiss), half a beer, the latest J. Crew catalog.

3. Add corn, peas and celery. The chubs sniffles and offers any marker you like: a treaty. You choose the purple one. The hubs chooses the green. She wants you to color all together. That sounds nice, but you've been in the alone zone all day. It's easy to get stuck there: a perpetual observer. She sits on his lap. He tickles. She giggles. What fun. Add one cup of water and egg noodles, stir. This is your side effect; this is your rut. Cover and cook for 20 minutes, or until noodles are tender.

4. This gives you time for the following: emptying the dishwasher, which may or may not have begun leaking (an occasional puddle of water on the floor, a drawing's blue lines bleeding across the linoleum), loading it with your day's dishes (the single plate from breakfast, the single bowl from lunch, a teacup, a spoon, a fork), staring off into space with your arms folded across your chest. The sleet flutters against the window. The hubs and chubs chase each other from room to room to room while you're tucked into the nook of your kitchen, stirring and stirring and stirring. It feels good, the stirring: the warmth coming into your bones just as you sit down to

5. Eat.

What I Know About MRSA

2009-11-09T13:22:00.008-06:00

One afternoon, when she was nearly ten months old, Hazel had a fever. That evening, a deep, purple pimple on her butt. During the night, ablaze. In the morning, one doctor said Cellulitis and sent us home with a prescription. The next afternoon, another checked us into the hospital and hooked Hazel to an IV for five days.

On the third day they took her to a locked room labeled “Minor Surgery” and gave her one syringe full of a drug that induced amnesia, another with something that made her sleepy. They drained more than three ounces of fluid from an abscess in her right buttock. One nurse said she dozed off each time they stopped squeezing. Waiting down the hall in her hospital room, I heard the screaming, her terror not yet like words.

* * *

There are two kinds of MRSA. One lives primarily in hospitals. Doctors and nurses carry it, unintentionally (regrettably) infecting their patients—the elderly, the post-surgical—resulting in bloodstream infections, infections at the site of recent surgeries, and pneumonia. This is healthcare-associated MRSA (HA-MRSA). The other type lives in communities—in daycares, locker rooms, schools, prisons, nursing homes, military installations, and regular households. These infections usually manifest as skin (soft tissue) infections, though increasingly as pneumonia and sepsis. This is community-associated MRSA (CA-MRSA).

HA-MRSA can kill you. CA-MRSA can also kill you.

Lots of people carry it. I’ve heard different statistics from different sources. Our pediatrician suggests that as much as 60% of the general population, and 75% of healthcare workers carry a strain of staphylococcus on their skin, in their armpits, around their anuses, and/or in their noses. Scholarly estimates are more conservative; one study in Pediatric Nursing suggests that only 50% of healthy people carry any strand of staph at a given time. The CDC estimates that only 2.3 million people living in the United States carry MRSA, whether or not they show symptoms.

People who carry any strand of staphylococcus are said to be “colonized.” Know this: once you are colonized, it is very difficult to be decolonized.

* * *

The second time Hazel developed an abscess, the doctor drained it in the clinic. I held Hazel on my lap and forced her body to fold against me, her feet flailing in the air.

The third time, I drained it at home. I wrestled her naked body to the ground and pinned her torso between my hip and elbow, squeezing the purple mound with an unfamiliar strength. Peanut-butter-colored pus rose thickly to the surface.

The fifth time. The sixth.

Now she’s old enough to remember. Each time she screams. Each time she begs me to stop. I don’t stop. I don’t release her until the blood seeping from her body is bright and red. Each time she climbs shakily onto my lap, lodging quiet sobs against my chest. I dress her and lay next to her in bed. She continues to cry tearlessly, to plead with me, even as she sleeps.

* * *

The body behaves differently when it defends itself against MRSA than it does when defending against other strands of staphylococcus. For one thing, it creates a hard barrier of tissue around the MRSA infection. It is difficult for MRSA to penetrate this wall. It is at least as difficult for antibiotics to penetrate this wall and kill the MRSA infection. Studies now show that antibiotics are often unnecessary, and their continued overuse could have the potentially catastrophic side effect of making this “superbug” bacteria resistant to even the new, "last resort" antibiotics doctors have only just begun to prescribe. The current best treatment is to incise the infected area and drain the infection out completely. Practitioners recommend that antibiotics be prescribed for abscesses over five centimeters in diameter, for infections that begin spreading, for the very old and very young, and for those with compromised immune systems.

Last winter I heard of a strain of superbug ear infections. There’s the superbug flu. Hazel’s doctor also told me of a study in which 100% of the samples of foamates from the cushions of city buses tested positive for MRSA. In 2005 alone, MRSA caused more than 94,000 life-threatening infections and 18,650 deaths. And it’s not as if MRSA is going away. According to the CDC, although MRSA infections accounted for only 22% of the total number of staph infections in 1995, in 2004 that number had risen to 63%.

Hazel’s doctor also tells me that part of the problem is overuse of antibiotics and consumer-grade antibacterial products. Look around you, she says, everything is antibacterial: soap, bandaids, kitchen wipes, bathroom wipes. Doctors tend to overprescribe. Patients tend to overrequest. Experts believe that what would help—for CA-MRSA and HA-MRSA alike—is people washing their hands regularly with plain old soap and water. Some bacteria is good, as it turns out, and those good bacteria help to kill that .01% of bad bacteria that consumer products leave behind. It’s that .01% we should worry about.

* * *

The drill goes something like this: I find a deep, dense bump. The infection can’t be drained until it has collected and formed a "head," so Hazel sits on hot compress after hot compress, watching videos, eating snacks. She naps. She gets up to look out the window or follow the cat. Days pass. Sometimes the infection is small and we don’t bother calling the doctor. Sometimes it is big and the doctor writes out the prescription on her little white pad.

The results are the same: we squeeze out the infection. We watch. We wait.

Each time the doctor reassures us. Gives us concrete and practical advice. Yes, we wash our hands. Yes, I keep her cool and dry. Yes, I scrub the bathtub with bleach every Sunday night. The fumes bring tears to my eyes. I wash her clothes in hot water every Tuesday and Saturday. Yes, I cook her healthful meals and brush her hair after each night’s bath. I keep her fingernails short and her hands clean. I rub her back while she is drifting off to sleep and promise to keep her safe. It's gone now. No more squeezing. Yes, I am vigilant. I am also lying.

There is nothing else I can do.

11.2 Grilled Cheese Plus and Tomato Soup

2009-11-02T21:33:00.007-06:00

ingredients:

4 slices wheat bread
4 slices melting cheese (Gruyere is good, but cheddar works just fine)
2 thick slices deli ham
1/2 apple, thinly sliced
1 can tomato soup
1 can vegetable broth
1 tablespoon diced onion
butter
pinch thyme, salt, pepper

directions:

1. It's cold outside and you're home alone with a not-yet-three-year-old grump and that means it's time for comfort food. Put on a movie (any of the several she's seen no less than thirty-seven times) before you pour yourself the last glass of wine and melt 1 tablespoon butter in small saucepan. Add onion and thyme, stirring until onions begin to soften. Add soup and broth. Cook until just beginning to boil.

2. Meanwhile, daydream about vacationing to a tropical island. Maybe she can come. Heat skillet over medium. Butter one side of each slice of bread. As you imagine sipping drinks with little umbrellas while your daughter plays safely at the surf's edge layer cheese, ham, apples, another slice of cheese, and other slice of bread. Cook until browned on each side.

3. Back in your real house, take the chubs to the potty, wash her hands, your hands. Shuttle your plates and drinks to the table. It's warmer if you sit beside her while you

4. Eat.

Hazelsaurus Rex

2009-11-01T09:19:00.008-06:00

This year we opted to make Hazel's Halloween costume. It made for a full day of family fun, and the memory of transforming H into a sponge-spiked dinosaur will last way longer than any store-bought costume.

ingredients:

1 Navy Blue Hoodie
2 pair navy blue sweatpants
1 pair navy blue houseslippers
1 pack blue sponges
poly-fil (fluffy polyester stuffing)
needle & thread

directions:

1. Cut one of the legs off one pair of sweatpants, leaving the waistband intact. Sew ankle elastic closed (try cinching it). This makes the tail.
2. Cut sponges in half diagonally. Hand-sew them to the hoodie and the tail in a straightish line, spacing the sponges about 2 1/2 inches apart.
3. Stuff tail with poly-fil.
4. Slide a pair of real shoes (sandals in this case) inside the too-big slippers before you
5. Get dressed.

I'll Eat What I'm Saying

2009-10-18T15:25:00.011-05:00

It's no secret to anyone who knows me as a parent that I can't stand princesses. I hate how popular culture (Disney in particular) portrays women to young girls only as beautiful, pampered creatures caught in some dastardly trap, waiting helplessly for a strong, handsome knight to arrive and rescue them. There are, of course, some princesses who don't fit this mold. But they are, without a doubt, the exception to the rule. For this reason, I don't let Hazel watch princess movies, or read princess stories, and in the past, when Hazel has told me that she wants to be a princess I firmly assert that she is NOT a princess but a BIG STRONG GIRL. In my opinion, princesses (on the whole) don't do anything to cultivate the image of strong, resourceful women that I want my daughter to grow up seeing. The bottom line is that we, as a culture, can do better to teach our girls how to be young women.

But somehow princesses have seeped in. I know I'm partly to blame. We let Hazel watch Shrek, for example, which is one of those movies that works at least a little to disturb the princess image, though probably not enough. She also gets to watch The Tale of Desperaux (her favorite movie lately), which focuses on the courage and honor of an especially small mouse; the albeit-typical princess in this movie is a minor character. And I'm sure other princesses have seeped in, too (I have no doubt that Hazel's grandparents play a major part in this), because when we were in Michael's on Thursday looking for Shrinky-Dinks, Hazel found her crown. What made me give in? Maybe because we'd had a terrible day and I didn't want to fight with her any more. Maybe because it was only $1 and just gaudy enough to be benign.

But oh, that crown made her happy. Strangely enough, it made me a little happy, too. Because when we finally got down to business with the crown, I realized that Hazel's version of a princess is totally different from the Disney version I grew up with.

Hazel's princess is more like She-Ra than Cinderella: not just a princess, but a "Super-Princess-to-the-Rescue," who arrives from the wings just in the nick of time to help her mom through all manner of domestic trials and tribulations: getting dressed, making the bed, cleaning spilled coffee, folding laundry, extracting fossilized grapes from under the fridge. Right now, she's outside helping her dad build a table for our living room. She hammers a block, adjusts her crown, and returns to her toolbox for her one and only screwdriver. It seems to me that this at least matches my early expectations for my only daughter.

Best of all, on some days she gets to save the world in a hot-pink, diamond-spangled leotard. Maybe she'll grow to love it even better than the crown (not shown).

This Morning

2009-10-16T20:55:00.005-05:00

Hazel came into our room (as usual) and took the following pictures:

Perhaps not entirely flattering (what photograph in the morning could be), but still a little beautiful.

Open: On Love

2009-10-09T11:08:00.010-05:00

I know, I know. It's been forever since I posted. I'll explain later. But right I've got more pressing things to attend to.

For one, I'm flying to Albany tonight because my best friend, Kelly, is marrying her long-time boyfriend. They've been together as long as I've known either of them, though they broke up for nearly a year. She first told me that she was considering a break-up shortly after Hazel was born. It wasn't a secret in their relationship. Somehow he and I managed to talk her out of it at the time, but what was at the heart of that potential split continued to loom large in their relationship. Because it wasn't about anger or bad circumstances but fear. A year later they broke up anyway, lived apart, dated other people. They both attended therapy. Somehow they remained friends. One day, nearly a year after their split, Kelly called me and told me she had come to an amazing conclusion. She had realized that her relationship to her own fear would never be perfect, and she'd be trying to figure it out for the rest of her life. "And why," she asked me, crying, "would I want to do that with anyone BUT Tony?" I had to sit down.

I cautioned her, of course: "if you try to get him back, you can't break up with him again. You can NOT do that to him. I forbid you." She assured me, this was the real deal. Emboldened by her realization, she offered to take Tony out to dinner for his birthday. They went to the coffee shop (or was it a restaurant?) where he first confessed his love for her. And there, on his birthday, Kelly told him the long story of her realization and asked him to marry her. Those of us who know them well, I think, always knew it would probably have to happen this way.

But he didn't say yes. He didn't say no either. He said he needed to think about it. His birthday is in early March. When she left the country in June for a summer research fellowship to Africa, he hadn't given her an answer. Even when she returned to the States in late summer, he was still thinking. And good for him. I don't remember exactly when he said yes--probably because I always knew he would--but I know that it must have required a great leap of faith on his part. Committing to Kelly after she'd broken his heart meant Tony had to overcome a lot of fear.

It's something we all deal with, I think. With tremendous joy comes the threat of even larger pain. Those of us who have suffered our share of grief learn early and well how to erect defenses. We build white-walled rooms into which we can retreat. We shut and lock the doors.

I have come to call this a "closed" state of emotional being. I've gotten pretty good at it over the years, but didn't realize how good until one day last spring. I was taking Hazel to my mom's house for a visit. We were having a terrible day. She was being a demon. I was being pissed. The whole way we fought and yelled and cried. I dropped her off at my mom's house, ate lunch, and turned around to come home. I tried to enjoy the silence of my car, but as usually happens, couldn't escape the guilt and shame of how I'd treated my only child. I tried listening to music, specifically, a song called "Gobbledygook," by Sigur Ros. The song is chaotic and racing and unintelligible and somehow made me realize that my heart had always been closed to her. And to Josh, too. And everyone I knew. And the pain of that isolation nearly crushed me. So I just started screaming. At the top of my lungs, tears streaming down my face. I was trying to open. Trying to flip the switch.

And it worked.

Sometimes I have to remind myself--Lacy, Open--or really focus to do it again. But once I was able to open, and to stay open, I realized that it had been a long time since I'd allowed myself to be truly happy, because I'd been so "closed," so focused on protecting myself from getting hurt or surprised, or...whatever. Because happiness can't penetrate those defenses either.

Recently, I told this story to one of my girlfriends, who is right now in San Francisco, trying to open. Trying to make happiness--a future even?--with another dear friend to whom she has maybe been so far closed. In June, as they were just beginning to explore a relationship together, I painted our hallway bright yellow for them, the happiest color I could think of--a hallway that forms a bridge from our home to the outside world. I don't know if they can make it work, or if they will decide to stay together. But I know you can't really love, or enjoy being loved by another person from the solitude of your heart's closed doors.

Kelly and Tony are getting married tomorrow because they learned (each in their own time) how to be open to one another. Their love is beautiful in its reciprocity. And I, for one, could not be happier.

Big Clean Final Update

2009-09-22T14:35:00.005-05:00

I gotta make this quick, since I have loads to do and very little time in which to do it.

1) We finished the diet. (Hallelujah!) In three weeks, Josh lost 8 lbs and all his clothes became too big. I lost 3 lbs and all my clothes became too big. We went shopping and realized that we'd both shrunk at least two sizes. For us both that means less flab, more muscle. Hooray! Meanwhile, Hazel grew a quarter of an inch. I'm not kidding.

2) More importantly, we both feel really "clean." And healthy. Which is good. I'm up to running 4 miles now each go. We've gone back to eating gluten, and drinking coffee (I couldn't really quit), but the diet helped us to understand that maybe our bodies didn't REALLY need a lot of what we had been eating, and maybe it was food we didn't really even want. I, for example, have not resumed eating meat. I'm sure I will, eventually (I love burgers), but for now, meat doesn't even sound appetizing. Actually, it sounds pretty gross.

3) Wine, on the other hand, sounds delicious.

Big Clean Update: 8-14/21

2009-09-13T20:57:00.004-05:00

I tried to quit coffee, honest I did. But on the sixth day without caffeine, I decided that a mommy who's toxic with caffeine is better than her merciless three-headed decaffeinated alter ego, so I resumed spiking a cup of decaf with a little caffeinated grounds and suddenly all was right in the world.

This week's "clean" highlights:
tofu, gluten-free pasta, sushi, sushi and more sushi, stir-fry, shrimp summer rolls, black bean burgers (except the patties disintegrated and turned into bean piles--at least they tasted good), salad, salad and more salad.

This week's "dirty" highlights:
a (large) mouthful of homemade mac&cheese I'd made for Hazel's lunch, pizza and (lots of) beer for my birthday, bbq sandwiches (bread AND meat) for Lisa's birthday, the resulting tummy ache, and coffee, coffee, oh delicious coffee.

Starting tomorrow: the final seven days.

Big Clean 5-7/21

2009-09-06T21:46:00.009-05:00

At first I thought Josh was pulling my leg when he said we get to cheat one day a week. His cleanse diet guru told him it was allowed. Surprisingly, my cleanse diet guru later confirmed it: "Yes, you always get a cheat day on cleanse diet." (Doesn't that seem to defeat the purpose?) No matter: no one had to twist my arm to cheat on this sadistic diet on Friday night at Lidia's in the Crossroads Arts District. Josh's cheat: Pollo Cacciatore con Melanzana ("chicken braised with bacon, San Marzano tomatoes, meaty eggplant and white wine. Served with panelle and crispy fried chickpea fritters") + a glass of nice red wine. I traded my meat cheat for extra wine (I'm now on the kinder, gentler "barter diet"), so I had Spaghetti al Trapanese ("spaghetti tossed with a Sicilian pesto of almonds, tomatoes, garlic and basil, topped with crispy calamari and shrimps") + many glasses of nice red wine. And it was good.

Saturday (my second day without caffeine) we were back on the wagon:
breakfast: eggs + fresh fruit
lunch: sushi @ Whole Foods
dinner: nachos (possibly the most satisfying cleanse meal yet: corn chips + refried beans + corn + onion + scallions + jalapenos + cheese + cheese + cheese + fresh tomatoes + olives + sour cream + salsa + avocado = yum)

Sunday (my third day without caffeine):
breakfast: traded a decent meal for an extra hour of sleep and trail mix on the way to pick up Hazel from Meemaw's
lunch: salad (lettuce + tomatoes + cucumbers + green beans + kidney beans + carrots + hard-boiled eggs + cheese + sunflower seeds + ranch dressing)
dinner: cornmeal-crusted tilapia + rice + black beans + fried plantains

At the end of this first week, we're feeling less hungry and generally less grumpy (though I'm still popping ibuprofen regularly to fight the caffeine headaches). I don't think we're feeling great yet, but there's a lot of diet still ahead of us. This morning we both noted slightly more svelte reflections in the mirror. We'll weigh in tomorrow morning and see if there's any evidence to back up this illusion of physical change.

Big Clean 4/21

2009-09-03T21:11:00.007-05:00

It's a good thing I drove Hazel to my mom's house today. Poor kid: how could she possibly understand why her mother (a mostly sane person) would deprive herself of her favorite things (i.e., hot dogs, coffee, a glass of wine in the evenings) just for the sake of...of what? (Why are we doing this again?) It's one thing to deprive oneself of yummy things. It is, of course, quite another to do it and be pissed about doing it. At everyone. (Even you.) Josh tells me the exhausted, grumpy, headache-y, impatient, and incapable-of-handling-frustration-or-anger-or-even-the-slightest-disappointment phase will pass. He also tells me he's perfect.

Josh ate chicken today, by the way. "By accident," he tells me. Hmph. Yea, well, on the way to Meemaw's house, Hazel slipped me a Cheerio. At lunch, I thought briefly about stealing her plate of fish sticks and mac & cheese and pouring them swiftly down my gullet. It's not like she was eating them.

Instead I ate:

breakfast: yogurt + decaf coffee (with only a skosh of caffeinated grounds)
snack: twigs and berries, a couple blades of grass
lunch: salad (spring mix, cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, hard-boiled eggs, sunflower seeds, almonds, raspberry vinaigrette) + green beans (thanks, Mom!)
snack: almonds + green tea + corn nuts (was falling asleep on the road)
dinner: salmon + garlic whipped potatoes + asparagus

Big Clean 3/21

2009-09-02T21:25:00.010-05:00

It's official: this diet is making me bitchy(-er?). I spent most of the afternoon furious with Hazel. For nothing really. Then Josh came home and was totally kind and understanding. (What a jerk.) Then we ate dinner and I felt less angry, though suddenly totally guilty for having been angry. Then angry with myself for feeling guilty. And so on and so forth. (Such are the symptoms of withdrawal.) We've now begun proposing to renegotiate our terms. For example, when I realized that we'd still be on the diet when I celebrate my birthday next week, Josh suggested that maybe the alcohol ban would only last two weeks of the three. Tonight on our evening walk: maybe we just do no bread for one week, then phase it back in. At this rate, we'll be lunching at Oklahoma Joe's (the best KC BBQ!) by week's end.

Today I ate:

breakfast: strawberry yogurt + decaf coffee (one teeny teaspoonful of caffeinated coffee mixed with the decaf grounds, just to take the edge off)
lunch: salad from the Union (spinach, tuna salad, cottage cheese, cucumbers, tomatoes, hard-boiled egg, carrots, kidney beans, vinegar and oil dressing)
afternoon snack: nuts and dried fruit (it's a big bag)
dinner: rice + green stiry fry with tofu and ginger vinaigrette (see above).
pre-blogging snack: tangelo. Yum.

Big Clean 2/21

2009-09-01T22:07:00.006-05:00

Tuesdays are always weird. I'm home with Hazel all day, then I leave by 5:30 PM to go teach. Today, though, Hazel's grandma (who loves us also for our weirdness) treated us to a trip to the toy store and a nice lunch. Having not yet thoroughly studied our diet rules, I wasn't really prepared for an out-of-the-house lunch. So far, I have to say: this diet isn't really doing it for me. I'm hungry and tired. Which means I'm also grumpy and a little stupid.

Today I ate:

breakfast: Greek yogurt (not so yummy) with blueberries and strawberries (and one cup of 1/2 caffeinated coffee)
lunch: Caesar salad, baked potato with cheddar and sour cream, water
snack: mixed nuts and dried fruit
dinner snack part 1 (before teaching): leftover vegan taco filling with corn tortilla and cheese
dinner snack part 2 (after teaching): leftover shrimp stir fry and dumplings (from Josh and Hazel's date night at Blue Koi)

Big Clean 1/21

2009-08-31T21:43:00.000-05:00

Here's where we were on the first day of this whole cleanse fiasco:

Lacy:
weight: 127.4 lbs
height: 5'6"
exercise: 3.25 miles/ 3 x week, chasing after an unruly toddler, schlepping her around on my shoulders or back over unreasonable distances, hiking up Mount Oread twice a week

Josh:
weight: 185 lbs
height: 6'
exercise: opening lids on tight-screwed jars, lifting heavy things, using power tools or confusing socket sets to fix stuff, mowing the 1/2 acre yard with a pushmower (not an electric or gas-powered one, but an actual pushmower)

Hazel:
weight: somewhere in the neighborhood of 35 lbs
height: 3'3"
exercise: running, skipping, jumping, throwing public and private tantrums, general shenanigans

Day 1/21 I ate:
breakfast: nada (I don't usually skip breakfast, but forgot to buy anything appropriate) + coffee
lunch: sushi (spicy shrimp rolls from Whole Foods)
dinner: vegan taco filling + tomatoes + lettuce + shredded cheddar + corn tortillas = still hungry

The Big Clean

2009-08-31T12:47:00.004-05:00

These days, it seems that "cleanse" diets are all the rage, especially among our artsy-farty, healthy-foodie friends. Partially inspired by their dedication to clean living, I tried my own version of a cleanse diet in June (see "A Week of Rabbit Food"). Between meatlessness and a renewed commitment to exercise (I'm now running a little over 3 miles, three times a week), I finished that week feeling great--better than I've ever felt, really. Unfortunately, I also craved a cheeseburger, so I fell off the meatless wagon directly. Two months later, I've lost that great feeling.

Maybe it's a matter of needing to lose a little weight, maybe it's a matter of wanting to get really really healthy, maybe it's an urge to fit in--who knows--but this time, it's Josh who's steering the hardcore diet boat. And he's not messing around. Here's the plan:

For three weeks (21 days, starting today) we will consume:

no meat (though we will eat fish and eggs)
no gluten (that means bread, flour, muffins, cereal)
no alcohol
no caffeine
very limited dairy
no high fructose corn syrup

I'm not sure how this one is going to go over. Only about an hour into the diet this morning I nearly bit my husband's head off for reminding me about the coffee restriction. An hour later, I was drinking coffee. It's very possible we may all kill each other. What else is there to eat?

Stay tuned.

It was gorgeous

2009-08-24T21:08:00.006-05:00

so we went camping at the lake, where the water was warmish and perfect for splashing and learning to swim and also to run through water and to dig deep holes in the sand, which stuck to our fingers and legs all the way up the hill and into the car because, well, we forgot towels and a change of shorts but remembered to bring salt and pepper and our dinner tasted better for it, that and because we ate it next to the woods on a dirty picnic table, just the three of us, with no television or toys but a warm fire and a bag of marshmallows and a flock of geese easily provoked into flight by a girl who wanted nothing more than to change into her pjs and read books in a tent, but we kept her awake and instead of crying she played the blues on her harmonica and discovered a sky full of stars.

Little Sock, Big Bed

2009-08-17T20:50:00.011-05:00

Sorry for the long silence, but we've been busy: working in the yard again, painting our bedroom (finally!), bringing our work home with us, using the leftovers for QT. I've been busying myself with this book-in-progress, and keeping our meals healthful (if somewhat unimaginative). Josh busies himself working late, and finding as-yet unimagined purposes for glitter. (Don't ask.) Hazel's been the busiest of all, having nearly outgrown yet another wardrobe and shoe size. (I've taken to rolling up her pants and pretending they're capris.) She's 39 inches tall now. Which means she's grown at least an inch since her check up in June. It seems impossible, I know. Sometimes she wakes up in the morning and I swear she's gotten taller over night. If she would hold still long enough, maybe I could actually watch her growing.

Meanwhile, she's also started asking loads of questions. Lots of kids go through this phase in their preschool years and pester their parents with incessant choruses of "why?". Hazel doesn't ask "why?" She asks, "How does it work?" Which at first caught me off-guard. Because it is, in my opinion, a way smarter question than "why?" For example: standing in the doorway to her bathroom, she points to the hinge:

"What's that, Mama?"
"A hinge, sweetpea. Can you say 'hinge'?"
"'Hinge.' How's it work?"

This question, its various renderings, has led to the best conversations I've ever had with a person under five feet tall, covering everything from religion to aristocracy, from democracy to occupation, from astronomy to the difference between cars and planes and space ships. And it's not just her asking and me answering, but an actual two-way conversation. Hoo-ah!

The most notable development of all in the Republic of Hazel is that she's graduated from her crib. As you know, we've been trying to potty train her for centuries. The most recent deal has been: if you learn to use the potty (and can tell us when you need to go) with no more accidents, we will buy you a BIG GIRL BED. (Imagine jazz hands here.) It's been nearly a month since she's had an accident, she's staying dry during nap time (nearly every time) and sometimes at night, too. But what sealed the deal was this: on Friday night we were taking a walk through the neighborhood after dinner. (Like we do.) Josh and I were talking to one another about our next landscaping project, probably, and suddenly Hazel interrupted: "I need to go potty NOW!" Like dutiful subjects, we rushed her royal highness to the nearest throne, which was in the park, and which was an auto-flusher. Unfortunately, the dreaded auto-flushing throne is Hazel's latest cryptonite, so she refused to go, but managed to hold it all the way back to our house, where she happily hopped onto our familiar, manually-flushing potty and fully unleashed her bladder's fury.

The next day, we found a hip and groovy consignment store in a nearby burb, where we let her pick out a BIG GIRL BED frame and headboard. (Smaller jazz hands.) At Target she picked out her sheets and comforter. During nap time, I rushed out and found the nearest mattress sale. Josh is still in the process of painting the headboard (I'll post pictures a little later), but we set the frame and mattress up without it. In the first hour, she'd made and unmade her BIG GIRL BED no less than seventeen times.

The whole weekend, Josh kept looking to me for an emotional breakdown: our little baby, out of her crib, out of her toddler bed, growing up so fast, etc. Surprisingly, I kept it together. (Ha! I'll show you.) Even the next day, when I caught her talking to herself (bragging, really), I stayed strong: no tears.

But by some freak accident of Sunday domestic coincidence, one of her newborn socks made its way into the laundry. I was folding her t-shirts and panties and then there it was: impossibly small and clean.

And suddenly it was all rushing by so fast.

self-portrait with transatlantic flight: May, 1999

2009-08-06T15:14:00.004-05:00

Meanwhile water droplets form in the seams of aircraft wings, collect and drip onto the tarmac: a scorched field of parallel lines afloat on the surrounding marshland. And there are clouds in the memory of that disappearing sky, a flock of them nearly obscure the pair boarding a plane at nightfall—delayed, several times delayed—though she holds his hand and leans into his shoulder as the plane accelerates down the runway, tires spinning at last across the level earth, lurching into the curved space between longitudes, where bodies at first do not sleep but turn and rock and slouch across the aisle, heads bent together or apart, and of the voices droning on across the ocean his grows the most low and cruel. And there are clouds in the memory of that, too: a blanket, a swirling indigo scarf, somewhere a typhoon. Seven hours staring into his sleeping face do not make him handsome, though if someone would lean over the seatback and whisper the question like an aunt in her ear she could admit to nothing but being an odd pair.

8.1 Blueberry Cobbler (in a round pan)

2009-08-01T20:55:00.009-05:00

(adapted from this recipe.)

ingredients:

for filling:
2 1/2 cups fresh blueberries
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 lemon, juiced
1 cup white sugar
1/2 teaspoon all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon butter, melted

for crust:
1 3/4 cup all-purpose flour
4 teaspoons baking powder
6 tablespoons white sugar
5 tablespoons butter (room temperature)
1 cup milk
2 teaspoons sugar
pinch cinnamon

directions:

1. A sane person realizes that a sweltering August afternoon is the worst possible time to be baking in the kitchen. You, however, are not sane. This morning you discovered that a quart of blueberries is on sale for $3 at Price Chopper and you haven't been the same since. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

2. If you have an 8 inch square baking dish, butter it. Cobbler--as your grandmother will so sagely point out--goes in a square pan. But if, like me, your collection of geometrical baking gear is a bit wanting, butter a round one instead. Place the blueberries into your perfectly acceptable, entirely functional ROUND cake pan and mix with vanilla and lemon juice. Pick the lemon seeds out of the pan and make a four-lettered note to self to juice the lemon into a bowl in the future. Sprinkle berries with 1 cup sugar (yes, the whole cup) and 1/2 teaspoon flour, then stir in the tablespoon of melted butter. Set aside.

3. In a medium bowl, stir together 1 3/4 cups of flour, 4 teaspoons baking powder and 6 tablespoons of sugar. Sensing it's about to get very sticky, you push your hair out of your eyes and hike up your jean shorts. Rub the 5 tablespoons of butter into the mixture using your fingers until contents are a crumbly, buttery, but somehow mouth-watering mess. Dig a hole in the center of the mixture and pour in milk. Mix (with a spoon or similar stirring utensil) just until moistened. This will make a very thick batter. Cover and let batter rest for 10 minutes.

4. It will take roughly this long to wash your hands, be tempted to eat one of the sugary, vanilla-y, lemony blueberries, triumph over said temptation while young and impressionable husband pokes his nose and fingers toward your ROUND blueberry-filled not-cobbler pan, shoo him toward some manly and long-procrastinated chore, and finally succumb to aforementioned temptation to eat said unhealthy blueberry. (It is delicious.)

5. Spoon the batter over the blueberries, not too perfectly. Mix together the cinnamon and 2 teaspoons sugar in the palm of your hand; sprinkle over blueberried, imperfectly batter-smeared, not-quite cobblerish ROUND cake pan.

6. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, or until a knife inserted into the batter comes out clean. Let cool until just warm before serving. Or, refrigerate overnight and schlep to the following day's family reunion, where you warm it in the oven while the kinfolks eat their lunch. When they push their plates to the center of the table and look back toward the house, offer to bring them some desert. Spoon into a bowl and serve with whipped cream. (Your hands still smell like butter.) Even your grandmother admits it is very good.

[the body lying on its side in a tent on an island in the Ijmeer]

2009-07-31T14:09:00.003-05:00

does not know with precision in which direction or at what point, if any, in the future it will rise and go. Or even if it is physically possible, the pebbled earth maybe having splintered mandible and maxilla into a thousand wet-shining shards. Underneath: eluviation, regolith, bedrock unbuckled by the thrust of vast tectonic plates: Cocos, Nazcua, Juan de Fuca, skidding even at this very moment over an ocean of white-hot magma in the body’s every orifice. The mind wanders. The mind wanders away from the body, which does not move a muscle, does not move an inch from the spot in which it is lying, will be lying, has been lying since.

It was raining

2009-07-21T23:31:00.005-05:00

so we went to Michael's (their first customers of the day) and collected more ribbon and feathers and bells than we will probably use in a lifetime but somehow forgot toddler-safe glue and so I had to bust the hot glue gun out of my craft kit and what would have been a thoroughly sticky collaboration became a yet another trial of her (dis)proportionately small patience and during the many breaks we took to test the magical properties of this particular wand we considered building a fort but instead jumped on the bed and sang a song with no words very loudly.

The more things change

2009-07-21T11:17:00.003-05:00

the more they...well, you know.

Just because

2009-07-20T23:22:00.004-05:00

it's Monday and that means last night was hairwashing night and tonight she got tickled before and after the toothbrushing and before and after the putting-on of her sweet little pjs (a too-small rainbow striped tank top and flannely bright-flowered pants, which she'll continue wearing well into the Sesame-street, coffee-scented, rain-thick morning) and because tonight when she got kissed good night he blew a spit-fat zerbert into her mouth and she laughed and laughed and laughed.

These are the Ones

2009-07-17T15:04:00.009-05:00

Frye Ada Pleats Peep
Only $160 at Zappos.com

(Keep dreaming, lady.)

procrastination

2009-07-16T10:29:00.016-05:00

It's Thursday: Josh left for Vegas (again) on a 7:00 AM flight yesterday morning and won't be back until tomorrow afternoon. I sent Hazel to daycare this morning (Thursday is not one of her usual days), hoping to take care of some of the real work beginning to collect in imaginary piles on my mental desk. But now that the house is empty and I'm all alone with the impending productivity, I'm looking for a little escape.

I promised myself earlier this year that I would create something every day, after a realization that my creativity and sanity and happiness go hand in hand in hand. But it's been a long time since I've written. I haven't even cooked in over a week. Now that I'm starting to feel the effects, I've realized that this is the beginning of the same old, boring story in which I play a superwoman martyr who takes care of everybody's needs but her own. The ending is always the same: there's me, utterly spent, a sad unshowered slob of a woman, weeping over cheap beer and eating Doritos and Cheese Whiz in bed.

But today, it's just me and the cats. I can put off what I should be doing for as long as I want. They don't know the difference.

Silly Mama

2009-07-14T22:02:00.007-05:00

During our road trip, Hazel and I ate a lot of food we don't normally eat. About half-way through day two, Hazel's bowel movements took on an unfamiliar blue-green hue. I puzzled over this while wiping her bottom, eventually concluding (aloud, to myself), "Of course. It must be the blueberries."

"No, Mom," she corrected me. "It's poop."

At Last

2009-07-04T22:52:00.008-05:00

Today, we got to eat it. The very first one: sliced, with salt. Also: on a sandwich with lettuce, bacon and mayo. Among the top most delicious tomatoes ever.

Yes, ever.

Week Without Meat [7//7: Warm Spinach Salad with Fried Egg]

2009-06-30T21:08:00.004-05:00

(adapted from this recipe at Everyday Food)

ingredients:

2 tbs olive oil
2 small golden yukon potatoes, scrubbed and cut into 1/2 inch cubes
1/2 shallot, minced
2 handfuls fresh baby spinach
2 oz freshly grated parmesan
2 eggs
1 tbs red wine vinegar
2 tsp dijon mustard
coarse salt and ground pepper

directions:

1. Your husband is still in Vegas. You're still under the weather, and your child is, well, you know. Just now she's asking to help. There's very little stirring involved in this meal (her specialty), but a sinkful of dirty dishes. It's about time she earns her keep.

2. As she scrubs and pours and splashes and spills, you heat 1 tbs oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium. Add cubed potates; season with salt and pepper. Cook potatoes (splish), tossing occasionally (splash), until tender and browned, 12 to 14 minutes.

3. Predictably, the chubs grows bored of housework, but all the water has given her an idea. Where's my water can? It's outside, you think. You give her permission to go out on the deck and bring it right back. This gives you just enough time to combine remaining 2 tbs oil with vinegar, mustard and minced shallot in a large bowl. She returns with the watering can, which you fill with water. She returns to the deck. Water the plants only. Season dressing with salt and pepper (drip drip drip) and whisk to combine. Add spinach and parmesan (do not toss); set aside.

4. The chubs returns for more water as you transfer cooked potatoes to the spinach bowl, just in time: now's her big stirring chance. With your help, she tosses and stirs and fluffs until the spinach is slightly wilted. Refill her water can. She pours it on the floor on her way out the door.

5. Return skillet to medium heat, and gently crack eggs into skillet. Season with salt and pepper. Cook until whites are almost set, about 1 minute. When you tell her to come in and clean her mess, she refuses: No! Cover, turn off heat, and let stand until whites are set but yolks are still soft, about 2 minutes more. It's not really a battle you feel up to fighting today, so instead you tell her to come in and wash her hands. Okay! Top each salad with a fried egg and collect dishes in the sink while she's occupied. (Splash! Splash! Splash!) You go in to check on her: the sink is overflowing, she's sopping wet, water pooling everywhere. How long was she in there? Your food is cold before you get to

6. Eat.

Week Without Meat [6//7: Quesadillas]

2009-06-29T21:01:00.003-05:00

ingredients:

1 (15 oz) can of black beans, rinsed and drained
1 cup corn kernels (we cut the kernels from a couple of leftover grilled ears)
1 cup baby spinach
1 cup shredded cheese
olive oil
guacamole
sour cream
salsa

directions:

1. After working all weekend, the hubs is currently en route to Vegas to present the fruit of his company's labors to a major potential client. You're excited for him and a little nervous and feeling more than a little sick. The petrie dish has struck again: this time setting up a sturdy mucous camp in the back of your throat. You need to whip up something easy and fast.

2. Heat 1 tsp oil to medium low in nonstick skillet. Add tortilla, a layer of cheese, beans, corn, spinach, cheese, and top with another tortilla. Cook until browned on one side. Flip. Cook until browned. Repeat. Cut into slices. Slop some guac, sour cream and salsa into two small bowls. Ferry both plates out to the picnic area, where the chubs is cheerfully engaged in a movie and a lemonade drinking contest against herself.

3. Eat.

Week Without Meat [4-5//7]: Meatless Weekend

2009-06-28T22:26:00.010-05:00

Saturday

Breakfast: Apple and Cheddar Frittata, Blueberry Muffins (from scratch: hoo-ah!), Cantaloupe, Coffee

(Lunch: Leftover Summer Veggie Succotash)

(Dinner: Tapas at Extra Virgin with Josh and Scott: Marcona Almonds, Mixed Marinated Olives, Spring Asparagus Salad, Black Bean and Cheese Empanadas, Spanish Manchego, Malbec [but I don't remember the vinyard]: thanks for babysitting, Sarah!).

Sunday

(breakfast: strawberry crepes and hashbrowns at the Village Inn with Josh, Sarah and Hazel)

(lunch: toddler fare: morningstar "chik'n" nuggets, baby carrots, grapes)

(dinner: homemade veggielover pizza: mushroom, spinach, onion, olive, tomato, green pepper, broccoli, pineapple: yum.)

Week Without Meat [3//7 Veggie Burgers with Carrot Salad and Grilled Corn]

2009-06-26T21:16:00.006-05:00

Problem: three people take refuge in a house, which grows increasingly warm in the sweltering summer sun, forming small pockets of flaming irritability. One of the people is a hungry toddler. Now, write an equation that represents how to get through the evening without an explosion of one or both parents:

Solution:

dinner

(veggie burgers adapted from this recipe at marthastewart.com/everyday)

plus

dessert

(one scoop of chocolate from sheridan's custard @ 75th & Metcalf)

equals

(survival, barely)

SILENT AUCTION OF UNRULY TODDLER

2009-06-26T09:47:00.003-05:00

2pm [naptime, she'll never know it's happening] this Saturday
Our driveway
Overland Park, KS

Emotionally unstable!
Borderline psychotic!
Attention starved!
Shockingly destructive!

Semi-toilet trained 2 1/2 year old with supersonic vocal capabilities. Lot includes all material possessions, including innumerable plush toys, a large collection of partially destroyed books, a complete wardrobe of irrevocably stained clothing, several partial pairs of surprisingly malodorous shoes. Lot does not include any item properly belonging to her parents that toddler may have hoarded under her bed.

All bids accepted.

Terms: cash or certified check, Visa, Mastercard, Discover, American Express accepted with 25% service charge, airline miles for two to or timeshare on an adults-only tropical island.

Toddler and all incurred expenses (including emotional damages) must be paid for in full at end of auction.

NO EXCEPTIONS!

Seller offers no guarantee that toddler can be taken out in public or will at any point in the future become a disciplined and productive member of society.

Toddler must be removed at end of auction to avoid a $125 storage charge and the spectacle of nervous breakdown performed by her mother, who is (after yesterday) really, truly on the verge of complete mental failure.

No children under 21 years allowed in auction lot. Period.

Toddler will not be woken until settled for. You wake her, you take her.

Seller is not responsible for accidents, theft, spills, stains (especially those resulting from human waste), damage to property, social life, body image, work habits, sanity, career or ego.

Week Without Meat [2//7 Linguine with Summer Succotash]

2009-06-25T21:01:00.005-05:00

(adapted from this recipe at bonappetit.com)

ingredients:

8 oz linguine (or fettucine if, like me, you can't read while your child is screaming in the grocery store and strangers are tsking your tattoos and bad parenting and you happen to pull the wrong damn box off the shelf)
2 1/2 cups corn kernels (frozen or fresh, whatever you can find under the circumstances)
3 tbs olive oil
1 3/4 cup stringless sugar snap peas
6 oz assorted baby tomatoes, halved
3/4 cup thinly sliced fresh basil
3/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese plus more for serving

directions:

1. Now's your chance to get away. The hubs is working late again, and in his absence you're considering giving away the demon you had previously come to know as your child. Turn on the television and walk slowly, backwards (no sudden movements!) into the kitchen. If you're lucky, it will be time for Dora and she might not even notice her only minion is gone.

2. Set a large pot of salted water to boil. It takes an eternity, but gives you just enough time to check your email, play a word in Scrabble on Facebook and read the headlines. Michael Jackson? Really? Cook pasta according to package directions until al dente. Drain, reserving one cup pasta water. Pour 1/2 cup reserved water into food processor. Add 1/2 cup corn. Brace yourself. Blend until smooth.

3. O! The noise! Here she comes: the bionic octopus. Hands and fingers wreaking havoc everywhere. A crayon whizzes past your head as you're scrambling to pour her a bowl of nuts. Get out. Shoo.

4. Heat oil in large skillet over medium heat. I said Shoo! Add snap peas and remaining two cups corn. Season with salt and pepper. Cover and cook until vegetables are crisp-tender, stirring occasionally, about 5 minutes. (Why is the toilet still running? Oh. There's a whole roll of toilet paper jammed in the drain.) To the skillet add pasta, tomatoes, basil, 3/4 cup cheese, and corn puree. The demon rides a broom through the kitchen, knocking cups and bowls off the countertop. Yeehaw! Yeehaw! Quickly now! Toss pasta with vegetables until heated through and sauce coats pasta, about two minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Wrangle the demon into her seat. Strap her in if necessary. She wails: the last straw. You seriously consider falling apart before her eyes: look at what you've done to me! Instead, you

5. Eat.

Week Without Meat [1//7: Bean Tacos]

2009-06-24T20:51:00.015-05:00

ingredients:

for vegan filling (modified from this one at allrecipes.com):
1 (14.5 oz) can black beans, rinsed, drained and mashed
1/2 cup sweet corn kernels (frozen or cut from a cooked cob)
1/2 onion, diced
1 garlic clove, minced
1/2 bell pepper, chopped
1/2 cup salsa
1 tsp olive oil
1 tbs yellow cornmeal
2 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp paprika
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
1/2 tsp chili powder

for not-vegan tacos:
tortillas
shredded cheese
sour cream
avocado
baby spinach
sliced radishes
sliced Roma tomatoes

directions:

1. Tonight the hubs is working unexpectedly late. Under normal late-working circumstances, you cook very little, opting instead for take out or heavy munching on the living room floor (see 3.24). Tonight, however, you had no advance notice and have no picnic to prepare. But, you have beans and you have beer. Sip the latter while you drain, rinse, and mash the former.

2. While you heat one teaspoon of olive oil in a medium skillet over medium heat, chop, mince, and dice the pepper, garlic and onion, respectively. Chubs is thoroughly occupied by Dora the Explorer, occasionally shouting at the television. Add pepper, garlic and onion to skillet and cook until tender. Swiper, no swiping! Stir in mashed beans. Add the cornmeal. Chubs comes wandering into the kitchen, her grubby hands searching the island overhead for snacks. Instead she finds a radish slice, takes a bite (her face turns inside out) and returns the radish slice and the slobbery bite back to the bowl. She goes back to Dora. Mix in cumin, paprika, cayenne, chili powder, and salsa, wishing all the while there were something you could find for her to do. More and more lately, you actually enjoy her company (as a person, not just as your offspring). She's funny, for one thing. Stir in corn. Cover, and cook 5 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, prepare the remaining taco toppings: shred the cheese, peel, seed and cube the avocado, tear the spinach, slice the tomatoes. On normal taco nights, you arrange the food on her plate in relatively organized (but separate) piles. Tonight, you admit to yourself she's getting to be a very big girl. So, she gets a real taco: filled with taco-y goodness and rolled for her messy eating pleasure. Send her to wash hands while you ferry the plates to the table. Fill a sippy cup with milk. Oh, remember your beer? She wipes her hands on your skirt as you help her into her chair. Tonight, sit across from your daughter. You can almost see her growing.

4. Eat.

A Week of Rabbit Food

2009-06-23T22:19:00.011-05:00

Starting first thing tomorrow, the Jokuns will be going vegetarian for a whole week. This choice is partly due to: 1) economics (have you seen how much meat costs lately?), 2) the availability of excellent summer produce, 3) a desire to be more generally healthy, 4) Josh's suggestion last week that we no longer eat food with bones in it, 5) Hazel telling me today that eating the cute animals she knows as cows, pigs, and chickens is "gross", and 6) curiosity.

This won't be an entirely new experiment. I have, after all, been vaguely vegetarian before. There was a three-year period when I didn't eat red meat or pork. I eventually swore off poultry as well, but only for about a month. I wish I could say that I felt really healthy during that period. Unfortunately, I was also smoking over a pack of cigarettes a day, binge drinking (it was college), and the only exercise I got was pushing my pen around on a sheet of paper, washing my hair in the shower, and getting in and out of bed. In the end, it was KC BBQ that ended my quasi-vegetarian stint. I sure do love those ribs.

But now, it's been over three years since I've had a cigarette. I run as many as 5 days a week. (I'm up to 2.5 miles at a go.) I feel great. So, a couple of days ago, when I saw that chicken has reached nearly $7 a pound at the supermarket (the regular supermarket, not even Whole Foods!), I thought we might just try to go meatless a couple nights a week to save money AND be a little healthier. Then I started tracking down recipes and found loads I wanted to try. (I've always wondered what the "main course" is in a vegetarian dinner. Now I know: not meat.) If you know me at all you know I can never do anything just a little bit. So: here's me committing to a meatless diet for a week. Josh and Hazel will probably continue carnivorating for lunch while they're away from home and I can't control them. (BLAST!) Dinners for sure will be vegetarian if I have anything to do with the cooking, though I can't begin to pretend we'll be vegan. (I like cheese way way too much.)

Will we wither away? Will Hazel go feral and eat both her parents in their sleep? Will we swear off meat forever? Stay tuned for answers to these and other important questions....

6.19 [the flaying of sisamnes, groeninge museum, bruges]

2009-06-19T15:38:00.008-05:00

(the flaying of sisamnes, Gerard David, 1498, Groeninge Museum, Bruges, Belgium)

Let the barrel of your chest, its planks of salt-cured bone, spill open; let your elbows loose from their alabaster casing (the steaming color run off to where?), your heel unstirrupped, unslung from the shock-numbed sleeve, too far gone to feel everything and nothing at all. Let yourself retreat, not to the stone-dry sockets—trust me, you don’t want to see this—not to the prepositional everlasting lobe (if one hand cuts you then everyone is looking; if one hand ties you down then they speak a little after you’re gone). Let your tongue soften. Let your mouth stay closed. If blood floods the hollow then you plead guilty; if breath then drown.

6.11 Spaghetti and Meatballs

2009-06-18T22:42:00.005-05:00

ingredients:

1 cup finely chopped onion
4 teaspoons Italian seasoning
1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/3 cup plain dried breadcrumbs
1 large egg
1 lb ground beef sirloin
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 medium carrot, grated
1 (28 oz) can crushed tomatoes
1 (15 oz) can tomato sauce
12 ounces spaghetti
coarse salt and ground pepper

directions:

1. It's two days until the troops converge on your house, which is mostly (though not entirely) clean. At this point, you're no longer productive, just wandering around touching things, the chubs hovering at the hem of your skirt. You both need a major distraction.

2. Heat the broiler and place rack in the middle of the oven. Put her in an apron and give her a medium bowl. Combining 2 teaspoons Italian seasoning, the Parmesan, breadcrumbs, 1 teaspoon coarse salt, and 1/2 teaspoon pepper keeps her busy while you chop the onion, adding 1/4 cup and the egg to her bowl. Yes, it's messy, but you've made her week. Ask her to drag a rimmed baking sheet out of the cabinet while you add beef to the bowl and mix gently until thoroughly combined. Explain very slowly and clearly that she is not to put anything in her mouth before showing the chubs how to form meatballs. Halfway through, she starts singing to herself (and you). What's gonna work? Teamwork! What's gonna work? Teamwork! This makes your week. A tightness you didn't realize you were carrying slides away.

2. Broil meatballs until lightly browned, 10 to 12 minutes. Wash the chubs' hands and lead her to some crayons and a coloring book. Set your second largest pot of salted water to boil. (Either your stove or your pans are crap because this always takes forever.) Heat oil in your largest saucepan over medium. Add carrot, the rest of the onion, and 2 teaspoons Italian seasoning; season with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring, until vegetables are tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Hubs comes home with a bottle of mystery wine just as you're adding the crushed tomatoes and tomato sauce to the pot. He's throwing your daughter into the air as you take the meatballs out of the oven. She's giggling and hanging upside down as you drop each one into the pot. He pours two glasses of wine and the three of you retreat to the deck, where you survey the yard, your growing (though still unripe) tomatoes, and each cat evading your child's chubby choke hold. Cheers.

3. When sauce has thickened (20-25 minutes), add pasta to boiling water; cook until al dente. The hubs and chubs set the table, each laughing at the other's bodily humor, while you drain the pasta and and return it to the pot. Take the past and the sauce to the table just like this. Sit. Smile.

4. Eat.

Feelin' the Love

2009-06-16T08:31:00.010-05:00

This morning, as we're finishing our breakfast, Hazel asks, "where is everybody?" She has always loved a party, but it was clear (to me, at least) that she was particularly taken with this particular celebration. For one thing, these girls have good accessories, which they let her wear and partially destroy. They have funny names. These boys push her on the swing and chase her in the park. There are few people she knows who give her this kind of loving attention.

"Well, honey, they've all gone home," I say.

"On the airplane?" she asks.

"Yes, on the airplane. They live far away."

She looks troubled and pushes her eggs a couple of laps around her plate. "But they're our family," she says.

"And we love them very much. And they love us." I add.

She smiles, and seems satisfied with that.

It must be ladybugs. (A one-minute play)

2009-06-12T22:07:00.007-05:00

MAMA makes the bed. HAZEL busies herself in her room. DADA, bored and starved for attention, throws himself on the bed, distracting MAMA from her crucial task. MAMA responds with a firm jab to the butthole.

DADA cries out: AGH! Hazel, help me! There's something in my butt!

HAZEL storms into the room, places her hands on her hips, clearly frustrated by this rude interruption. (Suspicious, Reproachful): Is it yogurt?

MAMA and DADA explode with laughter.

DADA: No, of course not!

HAZEL (still straight-faced; confidently): It's worms.

MAMA continues laughing (harder than she has in a long, long time).

What I had on my sixty-third day in NYC (revised)

2009-06-10T12:55:00.002-05:00

(post removed for submission to New South)

Housing and Suburban Developments: Update

2009-06-07T21:34:00.008-05:00

Deck complete:

(Painting was a huge mess and a huge pain in our collective arse. We looked into renting a paint sprayer from Home Depot, but it was going to cost $75 for 4 hours, and they would charge us $100 if we got it dirty. At the time, I thought it wasn't worth the money. Once i'd spent several hours in the sun and thoroughly covered myself in deck paint, however, I realized my mistake.)

Patio in progress:

(Note the hammock!)

Patio complete:

(In no universe is this patio remotely level. I make no excuses. It was my first try and we were finished.)

Until:

(Josh has been wanting to do this since we moved into the house. In this fantasy he had a sledgehamer. That would have probably worked better and more efficiently than the regular old hammer we had handy. Nevertheless, the fireplace is open now and we can burn stuff. I'll dedicate another post to the random trash we found inside it.)

Housing and Suburban Developments

2009-06-01T21:35:00.011-05:00

(rhododendron in bloom)

Every weekend since March that it hasn't rained or snowed we've been out in the yard, whipping this house (and ourselves) into shape. At first we were just doing a little landscaping, but April was very rainy this year, and much of that rainfall ended up in our basement. (Unfortunately, our basement isn't zoned for commercial use, or I would have had the developers and the department of tourism on the horn immediately.) We had a couple contractors come in to talk to us about the problem; estimates ranged from $1800 to jackhammer a new sump pump pit to $5000 to jackhammer a new sump pit, install a new sump pump, and dig and tile a new sump trench. We, however, wanted to see if it would help to build up the berm around the house. So, what began as a little puttering around in the garden became a serious project. We had two tons of dirt brought in from...well, wherever it is they keep the dirt in huge piles, which the driver was kind enough to dump on our driveway. Josh and I spent one whole day shoveling, wheel-barrowing, reshovelling, and grading it around the house. The next day we planted. We haven't had a drop of water in the basement since.

Front before (March 2009):

Front after (May 2009):

We spent this past weekend working in the backyard. We've got friends coming to visit in a couple of weeks, so we're deep in preparation mode. Josh's weekend project was to install lattice under the deck, not only to beautify the whole area, but also to keep pesky toddlers out of dangerous under-deck areas. My projects were to 1) find a hammock and 2) start digging out the area for the patio. We haven't finished either of these projects, but Josh is close. I have photos of Josh's before and after, but not my own. (I'll upload those tomorrow.)

Deck before (Aug 2008):

Deck in-progress (May 2009):

Oh, and let's not forget the container garden! It appears I may not have a black thumb after all. We've thoroughly harvested the lettuce (only one plant remains), and my tomato plants elicited the admiration of my Mom (no small feat). Over the weekend, I moved them out of their terra cotta pots and into much larger plastic ones. This made room for the strawberries, which had been drowning in the planter box. I also moved the jalapenos away from the lettuce. They had been plagued with aphids (until I treated them with a solution of peppermint extract and water) and I didn't want them infecting the other inhabitants. All the plants seem to be much happier now. In my fantasy the tomatoes are ripe and ready for the grill feast we're planning for our friends.

Container Garden (May 2009):

(clockwise from left: strawberries in the two terra cotta pots, cherry tomatoes [blooming], lettuce in the ammunition case, beefsteak tomatoes [blooming], jalapenos in the planter box below, and a succulent from the house we've thoroughly killed).

(beautiful beefsteak to-be.)

Nevermind

2009-05-26T16:36:00.007-05:00

Here's me in the surgery center: IV freshly installed, the machine monitoring my pulse sounding like a sonar over increasingly shallow waters. I'm skimming the surface of panic mode. Any moment now.

The nurse brings Josh to my bedside just as the surgeon arrives to color a sort of bullseye on my breast: X marks the lump. The thing is: it's shrunk since I saw her two weeks ago. To her, this is a positive indication of fibrocystic breast changes (rather than something more serious) and she calls the surgery off. Jean, we've got a cancel! Instead, we'll take the watch-and-wait approach. We'll reevaluate in a month.

At the time, I found this to be both excellent and strangely not reassuring news. I'm happy to have escaped surgery, but still don't feel like I have many answers about any problems lurking darkly in my body. Additionally, my surgeon seemed a little confused, which is never a good sign in one's doctor.

However, in the hours that have passed, I've grown increasingly grateful for this free pass. Tonight, Hazel has come down with a nasty fever. Who knows what other symptoms will develop out of this particular illness of hers (or what version of it I will also get), but it comforts me to be able to care for her, to be home and awake, clear headed and able bodied. For now, I'll enjoy this good feeling while it lasts.

Stocking Up

2009-05-25T23:00:00.007-05:00

Over the last few days, I've been stock-piling our reheatable foods; last night I made a huge batch of lasagna with a salad (lettuce from our container garden!) and garlic bread. Tonight I made chicken enchiladas with fried plantains and black beans. There's enough food in our fridge to feed Josh and Hazel for the week. What a small comfort to know that my little family will have good dinner to eat, even if I don't feel well enough for a few nights to cook it for them.

Except for the supersurplus dinners, our other meals have been superdeluxe: blueberry pancakes with bacon, eggs, OJ, and fresh fruit for breakfast; roasted pork club sandwiches with watermelon and (leftover) homemade mac & cheese for lunch; cheese, crackers, grapes for snacks. (Yes, I am intentionally fattening them up.) I have no pictures to prove this.

Trust me when I say I've also been scouring our home, not completely unlike the obsessive scouring that occurred before Hazel's birth. Except, it's not quite like nesting this time. It's like busy work. I don't want to have time to think beyond the next task. Or, I want to think far into the future: to returning to work after the break, to our friends coming for Josh's birthday, to planning for our second baby or visiting Josh's family in L.A. But tomorrow, or four, or five, or six days from now: I just don't know what that might hold.

The cooking, I know, recalls an old anxiety, a biological need to keep food in my daughter's belly. It's not something I can fully explain. Suffice it to say that I used to break down in tears if she refused to nurse (which was often, since she had reflux as an infant). To this day, I feel a similar (though diminished) pang of something like shame or guilt or angry fear (who can name it?) if she doesn't want to eat my cooking. Tonight, she ate every scrap of enchilada, bean and plantain on her plate like a trooper. So I also gave her ice cream. And some watermelon (when no one else was looking).

After dinner, Josh, my mom (who's here to help with Hazel during and after the surgery) and I relaxed on the couch, waiting for Hazel to finally settle down to sleep. On the television: Planet Earth: the Tibetan plateau: an unattractive wolf snatches a pica from its burrow and shifts the squirming prize between hungry jaws. My mom turns to me and says, I would take it from you if I could. It used to be that I might wave away this kind of comment like a polite apology. But now that I'm a mother myself, I've learned what it means to accept it and be grateful. It is important, and a rare and precious gift to know she really would.

5.21 Summer Comfort Food

2009-05-21T21:35:00.009-05:00

ingredients:
6 smoked bratwurst
6 hot dog buns
ketchup, mustard, relish, etc.
3 ears corn on the cob (or, Roastin'ears, as Grandma Laura calls them)

mac & cheese:
1/2 lb elbow macaroni
3 tbs butter
2 cups milk
2 tbs flour
2 cups shredded sharp cheddar
1 tbs dijon mustard
dash salt, pepper, cayenne pepper

Boulevard Wheat
Lemonade

1. About the time the hubs moseys out to the deck with his can of lighter fluid, make a mental note to purchase a fire extinguisher and set two pots of salted water to boil on the stove. Snap ears (of corn) in half, and toss all six pieces into one of the pots of cold water.

2. Open two beers and join your family on the deck. This particular meal requires very little effort on your part; best to take a break and salvage what's left of the day. Cheers. Chubs has been in a particularly terrorizing mood lately; at the moment she's happy to scrub the siding with a muddy paper towel. It's true, she's making a terrible mess of herself, but at least she isn't screaming, puking, or spitting in your face. Your patience with her has been regrettably thin over the last few days. Could it be you're edgy about Tuesday's biopsy? Probably, but that's a cheap excuse. She needs you now as much as you need her. Pull together all your Zen Mama resources: resolve to be more thoughtful and kind.

3. Check the water in the non-corn pot: when it starts to boil, add pasta and set timer for 10 minutes. In a large skillet, melt butter over medium. When melted butter begins to bubble and froth, add flour and whisk until combined, 1 minute. Add milk slowly, whisking constantly; cook until bubbly and thick, about 5 minutes. Remove sauce from heat; season with salt, pepper and dash of cayenne; stir in mustard. Add cheese and stir until melted. Drain pasta. (Try not to burn the piss out of your palm. The handle is say-the-f-word-out-loud hot.) Hope no one heard you say the f-word out loud as you add sauce.

4. Ask the hubs and chubs to set the table; drain the corn, collect and table the condiments. Take a deep breath. The day is almost done.

5. Eat.

5.19 Grilled Spice-rubbed chicken with Corn Fritters and Cantaloupe Salad

2009-05-19T21:12:00.008-05:00

ingredients:
Grilled Spice-rubbed Chicken

Fritters:
1/2 bag frozen sweet corn
1/2 cup milk
1 large egg
1 tsp sugar
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/3 cup cornmeal
1/3 cup flour
vegetable oil
sour cream (for serving)

Cantaloupe salad:
1/2 medium ripe cantaloupe
1/2 cup each of fresh strawberries and grape tomatoes
1 tbs chopped fresh mint
1/2 tsp olive oil
1/2 tsp white wine vinegar
Coarse Salt
Ground Pepper

Lemonade
Boulevard Wheat

directions:
1. Before the hubs starts grilling a batch and a half of spice-rubbed chicken, he opens a brewsky for you and one for himself. Tonight, you don't clink the glass necks together. Instead, you each take a sip of your respective bottles. He wraps his arms around you and assures you everything will be okay. You're not so optimistic. You'll believe it when you see it.

2. While he's on grill duty, you go to work on the fritters. As long as your hands and mind are occupied, you tend not to worry. Preheat oven to 200 and line a rimmed baking sheet with paper towels. Mix the first seven ingredients (leaving out only the oil and sour cream). If the batter seems too thin, add corn meal by tablespoonfuls. If batter seems too thick, add milk. When it's about the consistency of pancake batter with corn kernels in it, heat 2 tbs oil over medium in a large skillet. Drop batter by heaping tablespoonfuls into oil. Fry until brown, 2 minutes per side. Transfer to prepared baking sheet, sprinkle with salt, repeat.

3. Between batches, you overhear the chubs speaking Spanish to the television: Arriba! Abajo! She's so smart, that kid of yours. You're tempted to peek in on her, but doing so would make you weepy, and once you start down that mooshy sentimental path, it's hard to salvage the day. Keep it together, you're making fritters for Christ's sake.

3. Just as you've added the last batch to the skillet, the hubs comes in to check the chicken. Piercing the meat close to the bone, he releases blood from a last uncooked vein. Maybe Anthony Bourdain can stomach raw chicken, but this leg is a little pink for your taste. (The irony isn't lost, though: next week, it's you under the knife.) Hubs carries the plate back out to the grill.

4. Meanwhile, prepare the salad: slice grape tomatoes in half, cube cantaloupe, chop mint, slice strawberries. Arriba, Boots! Arriba! Mix in a medium bowl with oil and vinegar. Season lightly with salt and pepper.

5. And suddenly you have nothing to do: clean dishes line the sagging cabinets; dirty dishes rest in the washer's ordered rows; the table is set. Your mind wanders through the increasingly panicked renditions of what-ifs. Just as you verge on the unthinkable, chubs wanders into the kitchen and takes your hand. Mama, I'm hungry, she says. Hubs bursts in with the fully-cooked chicken, and your family sits down to

6. Eat.

April 30//30 [so wrong about everything]

2009-05-12T00:14:00.003-05:00

including the pink I painted your toenails, entirely (even the largests’ peculiar asymmetry) like my own, though each coat a lighter shade: somehow warmer, softer, a more certain and minable oath. Suddenly unspoken. Including the sequence of prime perfect syllables broadcast at unpredictable intervals (forearm planted in the one stitched furrow of a book; elbow propped akimbo on the mantel; shoulder anchoring a scalene triangle: costae, humerus, ultrasonic waves) I’ve never told the truth. Suddenly irradiated. Suddenly stuttering. Ask my name and I’ll spit out a broken sparrow. Including the speckled feathers, this is my body: the brittle nest I caught you with. Inside, cells divide rapidly. Clusters collect and redisperse. Including the knotted cord I've strung across the distance widening between myself and you.

April 29//30 [self-portrait as_____]

2009-05-05T22:09:00.001-05:00

because when the bell sounds it means you’d better have your ass flat in the seat, missy, a clean sheet of paper spread out before you and a shank-sharp pencil poised to take down every damn word I say and it’s going to be good, missy, because I don’t get to turn my back and put my hands over my eyes and speak in a voice only my little elbows could hear; I’ll tell it to you straight: that shit won’t fly here in the last of the broad fucking daylight because there’s a tender bomb in your blue-veined chest, and if there’s one damn thing I want you to learn before it blows you to bits, missy, it’s that you have something important to say.

Hazel's Second Joke

2009-04-30T17:14:00.001-05:00

Knock knock.
(Who's there?)
Orange.
(Orange who?)
Dada!

Hazel's First Joke

2009-04-29T13:16:00.002-05:00

Knock Knock.
(Who's there?)
Orange.

April 28//30 [sparrow paradox]

2009-04-29T00:56:00.002-05:00

(I've removed this poem so I could submit it to Best New Poets 2009 and Indiana Review's 2009 1/2 K Prize.)

Mud, Parts 1 & 2

2009-04-27T22:42:00.005-05:00

I.
Eliza closed the door to the baby’s room for the third time that morning, careful to pull it quiet against the jamb, careful to silence the latch. She stood, breathing shallowly, her hand on the knob, afraid to let it catch. The click of the mechanism would rattle the silence of that house, reverberate along the floors, over the ceiling, and issue as a wail from his milk-soured mouth. Sleep while the baby sleeps, that’s what everyone had told her. But William had never been a good sleeper, and today he was at his worst. Sleep was what she needed more than anything, but if she dared to move he’d wake and hours would pass before he slept again. For a moment she fantasized of sleeping standing this way: frozen for a long, long time.

Hunched in that dark hallway, she let go of the knob and felt white hot sparks shoot down her spine—contracting each exhausted limb, clenching her loose hand into a fist—before she registered the infant howl. In the fury of her first disbelief, she considered leaving him there. Taking the keys and trudging through the snow to sleep in the car at the end of the driveway, far from the reach of sound or care. Climbing to the roof’s edge and falling headfirst into an infinite night. The ladder hung from the far wall of the garage.

She lifted his shrieking body from the crib and laid him down on the terry cloth pad. Steadying his rigid torso with one hand, she removed his heavy diaper with the other, wiped him with a cold, wet rag. She watched her actions from a distance: Eliza wrestling a naked child back into his clothes. Eliza brushing a slice of greasy hair out of her face. Eliza’s sweat-soiled pajamas hanging dankly from her shoulders and hips. She propped the baby up against her chest, his head lolling forward against her neck. He bawled into that protected nook as she shuffled toward the window.

Outside, the snow continued to blanket the full reach of each tree’s branches, the minivan parked in the neighbor’s driveway, each blade of frozen grass, the shut mouths of black iron mailboxes, the gutterless street. A single brown bird shot from the hedge. With her free hand, Eliza opened the window. William’s cries multiplied; she pretended not to hear. His face purpled, ajar. The velvet crown slid easily into the crook of her elbow, rooting for the cracked nipple under her bra. He bit once, hard, as she leaned into the rocking chair’s curve, wedged between this instinct and another.

II.
Nema placed the telephone on the receiver and studied its spiral cord for a long time. The pattern nearly dizzied: the occasional chaos of a kink or knot, twisting and untwisting around and down on itself, wrapping and tangling in its upward-bound half. At random intervals an ancient fingerprint steadied her gaze. She tried to recall each time she had been away, had phoned him and he had answered. Always briefly, always with some mundane purpose.

She scanned the linoleum under her feet, hunting for a single strand of copper hair. To the East: three pale feet propped her easel lankily in the corner. Weeks had passed since she had put brush to canvas, and with each passing day it became harder to think of lifting even the slightest brush. To the West: the fringe of the bedroom rug, a chest of drawers, the sheen on each pair of dark socks, each dull gray undershirt, the well-worn ditch where he had lain on his left side, facing her, breathing each of her warm breaths for the past twenty-five years.

She let the cord slip from her fingers and walked straight North out the door, the screen slapping to behind her. Three squirrels bolted from the lawn. Even fully shaded from the bleaching rays of the mid-day sun, the porch had faded; the long planks wanted a fresh stain. One baluster bowed with rot.

Nema leaned against the railing and rubbed her hands together. Tufts of pollen danced on a cool breeze off the pasture. One caught the slightest splinter in the woodgrain and stuck. An abandoned sparrow nest rustled in the rafter overhead. Damn rheumatoid. Her eyes met the tree line, the long-vacant silo, the algae-slick pond. The driveway would have to be regraveled, the grass mown, the truck sold. Her house would continue facing North. The deep lines in her palms growing deeper.

April 23-26//30 [haiku cheat 1-4]

2009-04-26T23:46:00.002-05:00

1.

thunder rends the calm
spring night into a thousand
small wondering cries.

2.

rain puddles under
certain Southern overpasses
deep enough to drown.

3.

you can breathe even
the saltiest unlit water
then you’re born.

4.

empty clouds sail east-
ward the sky gaping open
offers only stars.

Missed Connections 4 (a found poem...sort of)

2009-04-25T16:43:00.004-05:00

[Dancing shoes: m4w, 67]

Two weeks ago at the Phoenix, you sat at at the bar stirring an amaretto sour with a striped plastic straw, your black dress partially frog-buttoned up the front, a red brassiere strap drooping from your shoulder. My shinbone caught the outer edge of your leopard print heels (approximately size 9), and I nearly tumbled into your lap. Heaven help me: I’ve forgotten my address, where Martha (God rest her soul) kept the spare gingham sheets. I know only this: I want to take you dancing: Waltz, Swing, Cha-Cha, Bachata. I want to sing you the blues. I want to come to your house and smell your cooking. I bet it’s spicier than anything I’ve ever tasted.

Two Nights of Missing Texas

2009-04-24T20:51:00.003-05:00

It's the end of the semester, which means I don't have a lot of time for much of anything beyond grading. I've committed to this poem-a-day thing, and would hate to back out with less than a week to go. But once April is over, full-fledged dinner with the Jokuns will resume. In the meantime, suffice it to say I'm missing the South: the food, our people.

Thursday: Josh's Spicy Burgers with Herbed Potato Salad and Corn on the Cob

(and Shiner Blonde, for the H-town gals)

Friday: Rosemary Fried Chicken with Pasta Salad and Corn on the Cob (again)
(And Gnarlier Head Old Vine Zin)

Missed Connections 3 (a found poem...sort of)

2009-04-23T22:14:00.010-05:00

[Cubs Game at the 5 Star: w4m, 23]

Last night as you man-wolfed down two dozen “burn your face off” wings and shook your fists at the TV, I shuddered up and asked for a light. You wiped your sauce-slick hands on your jeans and said, “Hey. Move.” Your table buddy, the big-headed frat brute, asked for my little sister. I don't have one. After the loss, I sneaked back over, but you were already thirteen MGDs deep. You puked a little in your mouth.

Was there something between us?

Prayer for a Container Garden

2009-04-23T21:04:00.010-05:00

Oh, dear Lord. Please look after my lettuce.
I know I have a black and unforgiving thumb, Lord.
Give my lettuce strength to survive the days or weeks
when I completely forget to water it. You know I will, Lord.
We all have faults. I planted the lettuce near the jalapenos.
Maybe that was a bad idea. Neither has much nutritional value,
Lord, but I really need this. And a pair of yellow shoes. Amen.

Missed Connections 2 (a found poem...sort of)

2009-04-22T23:02:00.005-05:00

[Cougar Across the Street: m4w, 24]

You: always kiss your stuffy hubby goodbye at 7:30 (Him: a duffle bag, a coffee cup, two trips back to the house every time for what?), shuffle two kids on the bus in your blue satin robe, wave goodbye and dig a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of the geranium planter (I won’t tell), lean against the unlocked door and blow smoke rings toward the tulip bed, toss your smoldering butt over the white picket fence.

Me: just moved in across the street, wonder what you do all day with the bamboo blinds drawn: Do you like strawberries? Do you ever wake from a nap and say “milk”? Let me be your cocoa butter, mama. Let me mow your lawn.

Missed Connections 1 (a found poem...sort of)

2009-04-22T21:49:00.006-05:00

[Jack & Coke: w4m, 38]

I been boozing you for months, sweet country boy. It ain’t too often, but when you swagger up to my bar, I quit thinking straight and my knees get all soggy and I say okayyoubetcha instead of yes, baby, whateveryoulike. Your dirt-rimmed fingernails worry the ditches of the woodgrain and you fold your dollar bills in the crookedest way. One night, you grabbed my hand and I almost told you then smelled something fierce and rugged and it struck the little words right out of my throat. You drive a Ford F-150. I got nothing but time to lose.

April 17//30 [sleepless]

2009-04-21T23:45:00.006-05:00

Nights the house hollows and ungrooves, floorboards buckle and swell without the anchor of your occasional weight padding darkly toward the kitchen (the last nocturnal gesture, locking and relocking, looking once into the dark wake of each drawn curtain), water rushes toward some stagnant basin, doorjambs pop at each slouching seam. Tonight, I do not sleep, but skirt the wakeful edge of would-be dreams: I’m drowning, each breath crashes through the window of the one before (A chain link gate creaks to. She coughs, resettles. Your face slackens against the shuffle of a pillow), the nape of a stutter uncocooning; a small, live thing taking form.

April 16//30 [the wedding at cana, musée du louvre, paris]

2009-04-20T22:54:00.005-05:00

Afterwards, a vacant terrace maybe, the checkerboard tile thoroughly scoured of every crumb and dribble (what the servants left, the dogs and birds would riddle back to savor in a private hovel), but a vacancy no less opulent for that, no less pompous for the absence of red-stockinged footfalls, the fresh linens folded neatly in the perfect circle of a tidy plate, the brimming terra cotta pots (though even now no tilted wine glass overspilling, each face closed tight—impenetrable, entirely impenetrable—bizarrely unspeaking). Afterwards, how long before leaves reform the staircases' twin groves? How long will marble return the echo of a cleaver hewn through bone?

(see the painting here.)

Temporary Hiatus

2009-04-19T13:26:00.002-05:00

I'm on a temporary posting hiatus while I finish a book review article (due tomorrow) and convalesce (Hazel blew her nose in my mouth on Friday).

15//30 [driving East in 1989]

2009-04-16T23:27:00.003-05:00

(this post has been removed so that I might submit it to the 2009 MAR Fineline Competition.)

14//30 [welcome]

2009-04-15T22:09:00.005-05:00

4.14 Taco Tuesday

2009-04-14T22:00:00.003-05:00

Taxes are due tomorrow. Tacos are cheap and easy.
Need I say more?

13//30 [ch 2 tog]

2009-04-14T14:33:00.002-05:00

Seven aluminum crochet hooks, one for each dazzling hue of the visible spectrum, selected at length from the cluttered aisle of novice arts in the florescent-lit crafting store. It was nearly winter; Mom wore a brown suede coat, kept putting packages in my arms: Wrights Aluminum Crochet Hook Set Sizes DEFGHIJ & K, three skeins of Red Heart Super Saver Jumbo Worsted Weight in 378 Claret, a copy of Teach Yourself to Crochet in Just One Day. She paid, smiled, and touched my arm (just once, gently) as she handed me the crisp plastic bag. We walked in silence to the car. The eighth hook is now missing, long since misplaced among the heaps of unusable colors, half- or quarter-skeins too short or too garish to be an integral part any beautiful whole. I can’t bring myself to throw them away. Also: pounds of brittle glass beads, a knotted web of fishing twine, two spools of gold-colored wire, twelve untouched glue sticks, seventeen shades of all-purpose thread, twenty-two needles and a pair of scissors equal parts steel and joy.

4.13 Do-It-Yourself Pizza

2009-04-13T20:58:00.010-05:00

ingredients:

2 boxes Jiffy Pizza Dough
1 small jar pizza sauce
1 bag shredded mozzarella cheese
pepperoni
1 can sliced black olives
1 small can pineapple tidbits ("in its own juice")
sliced roma tomatoes
chopped fresh broccoli
sliced red onion
sliced green pepper

El Burro Kickass Garnacha 2007

directions:

1. Tonight there was good news of some kind somewhere. Maybe you got a minor promotion or a compliment on your shoes. Maybe your husband came home early and your toddler hasn't thrown a tantrum in days and you've been more productive in these last two weeks than in the last two years. Best to celebrate these small achievements lest they disappear. Uncork the wine. Pour two glasses; drink. Cheers!

2. Heat oven to 425. Mix two boxes of dough and 1 1/4 cup of warm tap water in a medium bowl. (Don't freak out. It will be absurdly lumpy.) Let it set on the oven or in another warm place for 10-15 minutes. Since the hubs and the chubs are engrossed in Twittering and Dora the Explorer, respectively, feel free to stand in the kitchen with your eyes closed in relative silence. (Do not fall asleep and crack your noggin on every drawer and cabinet pull on your way to the cold hard floor. You haven't mopped.) This morning you had the opportunity to read a close friend's story*** and it's got you thinking. More accurately, it's made you uneasy and you're trying to put your finger on why, trying to pin the uneasy thing down. For some reason, it's related to a TED talk on creativity by Amy Tan (see it again here). Specifically, it's related to her discussion of the untimely deaths of her father and brother when she was a young girl, how her mother began searching for the reason for/meaning of this loss, unable to accept the tragedy as randomness/unfortunate coincidence.

2. Knead dough on floured surface. It's ridiculously sticky, so flour your hands, too. And take off your wedding ring. Better yet, Saran Wrap the kitchen. (You're going to demolish it soon anyway.) When readers meet the narrator of your friend's story (nicknamed "Bobby Bubbles"), he has found himself swept up in a series of unfortunate events: his mother has passed, the pizzeria he bought with the insurance money has burned down, his father has also passed, and he has fallen behind on his credit card and mortgage payments just as his girlfriend, Karen, has become pregnant. Bobby does not search for the reason for/meaning of these events (nor his responsibility for any of them), but continues to do what he can to get by: delivering pizzas, selling stolen cigarettes and liquor on the side. "It's all part of the plan," he tells Karen. Readers, however, much like Karen, understand very deeply that Bobby's plan simply does not exist.

3. Oil a baking sheet. Spread dough onto the sheet. Bake for 7 minutes. Meanwhile, chop veggies and prepare ingredients. In her TED talk, Amy Tan says that, unlike her mother, who searched for the reasons for/meaning of her loss, she now believes that the deaths of her father and brother were the source of her lifelong interest in certain questions: "Why do things happen? How do things happen? How do I make things happen?" Because Bobby Bubbles does not ask these questions in your friend's story, its readers are compelled to. This points to a masterfully crafted tension in this work: on the one hand: the fiction of cause and effect ("There was something bigger than me at work," Bobby tells himself); on the other hand: the hard truth of random coincidence. When, by the end of the story, Bobby finds himself in ever more devastating circumstances, readers want to know the reason for / meaning of his misfortune. We are caught between our desire to know, to be comforted by an ultimate plan stretching into the bright, unknowable future, and the deeply disappointing truth that a plan of this nature simply does not exist.

3. Gather hubs and chubs for the do-it-yourself portion of the evening's dinner program: she shovels fistfuls of each ingredient down her teeny little tantrum-hatch, while your handsome husband pixelates his pepperoni across the visible spectrum of his portion of the pizza pan.

4. Cook pizza at 425 for 22 minutes. But neither is your friend a nihilist. There is tremendous beauty in this story: Karen's sad and tired loveliness, the picturesque spoil of Crossbay Boulevard. Each landscape is strikingly precise; so striking, in fact, that within paragraphs, a reader finds him or herself swept, like Bobby, along the rushing tide of a palpable (though inscrutible) reality in this immensely pleasurable work.

5. Set table. Cool pizza for 5 minutes before you pour another glass of wine and

6. Eat.

***"Crossbay Boulevard" by Giuseppe Taurino is forthcoming from New South.

April 12//30 [so we decided to cohabitate]

2009-04-13T11:35:00.003-05:00

It never actually came up in conversation. That first night we didn’t have an actual conversation. In the morning I woke to a plate of crumbs beside the bed; he walked to the office and sat in an ergonomic chair. The sun came up; the walls were glistening. I perched in an open window and chirped at bricks in the opposite wall. (He didn’t hear me.) In the afternoon, I peered down the alleyway and watched a narrow shaft of light lean in from the street. His key turned in the lock earlier than I expected, arms weighed with grass stems, pine needles, scraps of paper, strips of brightly-colored cloth. Fresh mint grew from his shirt pocket. We plucked our feathers and wove them together with string.

April 11//30 [still life with downed bird]

2009-04-13T11:28:00.003-05:00

(inspired by Josh's "Downtown and Around" Photoset on Flickr.)

Meanwhile the city sharpens its shadows on the sunshine, removes its two-button blazer and walks briskly in gray-striped shirtsleeves. Perhaps it’s smiling. Yes, the city smiles and walks briskly, unbothered by the exhaust of buses, taxi cabs, delivery trucks. Perhaps the city overate its corporate-sponsored lunch and now feels overcrowded in its wool-blend pinstripe trousers. (Except the city does not wear wool-blend pinstripe trousers with gray-striped shirtsleeves.) Yes, the city is fat and happy. A single tuft of grass grows in the unclaimed space between the sidewalk and a parking lot. A water mane seeps rust-blue stains down the brick and mortar corner of an historic building, through winter’s late-piled leaves, and into the gray-bright street. The city does not get its shoes wet. Perhaps the city makes a mental note. Yes, the city makes a mental note, taps the crystal face of its watch and continues walking briskly by.

Good Weekend (during which I did very little cooking)

2009-04-13T11:08:00.005-05:00

Friday: Passover Seder with the Zavelo Family

Saturday: Grilled Brats with French Fries and Sugar Snap Peas with Mint

Sunday: Roast Salmon with Mashed Potatoes and Garlic Wilted Spinach

April 10/30 [on Fridays I return to the fresh-water lake]

2009-04-11T00:41:00.006-05:00

(this post has been removed so that I might submit it to the 2009 MAR Fineline Competition.)

April 9//30 [what I had on my sixty-third day in New York City]

2009-04-10T00:15:00.004-05:00

(this post has been removed so that I might submit it to the 2009 MAR Fineline Competition.)

4.9 Chicken Basil Stir-Fry

2009-04-09T20:42:00.011-05:00

Another quick and easy recipe adapted from Everyday Food:

ingredients:

1 pound chicken tenders
1 tablespoon cornstarch
Coarse salt and ground pepper
4 tsp vegetable oil
1 small onion, halved and cut into 1/4-inch-thick wedges
2 bell peppers (any color, ribs and seeds removed), cut into 1/4-inch-wide strips
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1/2 cup fresh basil leaves, roughly sliced
Cooked white rice, for serving (optional)

Plungerhead Zinfandel

directions:

1. Don't pinch yourself, it's true: you have a free, nearly full bottle of wine (thanks, Sarah!) and because your daughter is engaged in the miracle of entertaining herself, you have a rare opportunity to have an actual conversation with your husband that doesn't involve household chores, balancing the checkbook, or synchronizing potty training philosophies. Now is the time to multitask: talk as you toss the chicken with cornstarch, listen as you season it generously with salt and pepper, smile at your handsome husband while he pours the wine. Cheers!

2. While you heat 2 tsp of oil over medium-high, he chops the garlic. Chopping is his thing, and he seems pleased to have been recruited for the job. His hand brushes yours somewhere left of the cutting board. Cook the chicken until browned on both sides, but not completely cooked through, 5-7 minutes total. (Do not splatter the oil on his arm. That would send him running.) Transfer chicken gently and gracefully to a clean plate. Wipe out skillet with a paper towel. (Do not wink while you do this. You are a huge dork for even thinking it.)

3. Suddenly the house seems too quiet. He goes to investigate. Be right back. To skillet, add remaining oil, onion and bell peppers; cook over medium-high, tossing often, until beginning to brown, about 3 minutes. Two sets of footsteps shuffle up the stairs, through the second floor bedrooms, down the stairs. You tuck a lank piece of hair behind your ears. Add garlic; cook until fragrant, about 1 minute.

4. Thankfully, nothing's irrevocably broken. Just a little accident. But chubs is no longer content to entertain herself, which means she's stolen your chopper. The nerve. Dump 1/4 cup water, vinegar, soy sauce, and chicken in the stupid skillet; cook, jabbing and/or occasionally flogging until chicken is cooked through and sauce moderately coagulates, about 3 minutes. Remove from heat. Chuck in basil leaves while they set the table. Together. Slop stir-fry over white rice.

5. Eat.

Serves 2 adults and a cunning toddler who has her chubby little sights set on your man.

8//30 [Sabbath Cycle]

2009-04-08T23:23:00.003-05:00

and then the time comes when you observe only and are mostly emptied. You do not drag your pencil across. No lovely words form in your mouth. Even the thinnest graphite line would dig too deep a trench. (Deep enough to.) Instead, port wine stains the table, needs refilling. Needs the rough side of a sponge. Familiar voices speak in complete sentences; you remember nothing they say. (Slippery tongues. Gobbledygook.) You remember standing before the mirror and watching shadows form. You do not think it. The faucet drips and the basement fills with water. (Just as you were about to. Like silk billowing.) A drowned wind bubbles up from. Just as you remember already having surfaced from the froth and spume.