Baby bear

When your kid is sick, the mama bear instinct kicks in. You know, the one where the mother bear rears up to protect her cub against perceived danger? Or in my case, makes me want to make them comfortable, so they have fond memories of getting to stay home with Mommy, even if they feel lousy.

Little One spiked a fever last night, like so many of his classmates this time of year. We had anticipated it, as he had been a bit grumpy (or whiny when my sugar level dropped) these past few days. Still, my Mama bear instinct revved up.

I am a firm believer in the wisdom of the fever: it is there for a purpose, the body's way of fighting the pathogen. I want to support the child, and let his body do the work intended. I work to make him more comfortable: Cuddling, reading, singing, rubbing his feet (he really likes that). Encouraging sleep. The box of only-when-you're-sick toys comes out, but he's too tired even for that. After one particularly good nap--punctuated by sitting up and asking a nonsense question, then flopping back to deep sleep again--he's actually hungry.

Every year, our venerable apple tree produces bushels of big, juicy Gravensteins. I use oodles to gel my jams, but the long September days are used to fill any remaining jars with applesauce. My mother used to call it "happysauce." This jar, labeled September 6, 2006, lives up to this moniker. Half a jar later, my little one is smiling and ready to play. For a bit, that is. A scant fifteen minutes later, he curls up to sleep some more.

The fever will break eventually, and I know he'll be fine, probably more grown-up afterwards. But for today, I give him the best a mama bear can: love and happysauce.

Blissful convergence

Sunday was a wide-open day with great plans, none of which actually were completed, but it managed to turn out to be a great day nonetheless. We did get the vacuuming done, but the other tasks were overshadowed as we took advantage of the mild weather (sorry, New York), and went for a long hike through an ancient forest overlooking the lake. Feeling virtuous, we had no problem curling up with books for the remainder of the afternoon. At least, that’s what I did, but my Dear Husband took the boys off, all hush-hush, something about the hardware store (quite suspect, since he’s not that kind of husband).

I skimmed an issue of Food & Wine magazine from this summer, where they compact pithy sound bites about eco-epicureanism into a six page spread—including pictures. All the names are there, Pollan, Lappé, McGee, Planck, and Chef Anthony Bourdain, who notes that though he supports the movement, “…my only real concern is ‘is it good?’” I also moved forward a few pages of Lappé’s Grub: it’s so rich that I can only consume a few pages in one sitting, needing time to digest things before nibbling more.

Anyhow, upon Dear Husband’s return, he laid out his cunning plan: He had wanted to surprise me with it Wednesday evening, Valentine’s Day, but I was slated to teach (thanks to snow days). Adaptable fellow that he was, he had confided with British Neighbor’s husband, who was in a similar bind, with in-laws arriving midweek. The men folk agreed that they would indulge their wives Sunday evening, with an after-the-kids-are-in-bed chocolate and wine tasting. However, the poor gent forgot he wasn’t twenty anymore, and a full day of skiing left him completely knackered. We were on our own, it seemed.

I was summoned to a candlelit spread of seven wine bottles and an obscene assortment of chocolate. I knew that even I couldn’t possibly manage that much, so we pared it down, opening two bottles, a 2004 Pine & Post Washington State Merlot and a 2004 Laforet Pinot Noir (from Burgundy, and near Beaune, one of the places we liked to stop for our breakfast on the road trips of our early years together. He is incurably romantic.) Then we got down to some serious chocolate tasting. The star of the evening was chocolate from Theo, a Fremont-based bean-to-bar operation that uses only organic and fair-trade cacao beans. I know their 3400 Phinney bars from the co-op, and have to admit, this is serious stuff.

I am reminded of Chef Bourdain above: not only was it local and organic, it was beyond good. The aftertaste of just one bite of the cardamom caramel with smoked almonds (they couldn’t fit the sprinkle of sea salt in the name) carried me through drafting the last two paragraphs.

Have you ever taken the leaf off a mint plant and put it in your mouth? That’s what their mint ganache was like. Intense, surprising, furtive, nothing like the cloying sweetness of a Campfire mint. The only downside was that it didn’t work well with the Merlot. The sweet Pinot Noir, however, fit the bill nicely. The fig, fennel and Merlot confection was complex, the Scotch smooth, the Earl Grey too subtle for our taste. The single-source bars reminded me of different bottles of wine, each reflecting the life of the vine, the weather, soil, and neighboring plant life. Venezuela’s 91% was almost powdery, its ingredient list the epitome of simplicity: cocoa beans (Venezuela) + sugar. We both agreed on the pleasing properties of the 75% from Ivory Coast.

When we first met, our courtship included many candlelit evenings that lasted into the wee hours of the morning. I remember one evening when we watched a candle extinguish itself, as spent as we were. And late last night, as I slid the last bite of cardamom caramel into my mouth, the candle went out on its own.

I also recall how decadent I found my new European love, who treated this straight-laced American to chocolate for breakfast, in the form of a croissant slathered with Nutella. And now, twenty Valentine’s Day later, he continues to fill the corners of my life with chocolate.

Gung hoy

For as long as we can remember, we have made a date near Chinese New Year with old friends to eat Chinese food. Before kids, it meant going out to our current favorite restaurant, eating and catching up. Over the years, we have evolved through early parenthood (though they remain child-free, as they term it) through years of takeout. Now we've taken to cooking it ourselves together in our homes.

Last night was that night. We split up the menu: I chose to make Dear Husband's perennial favorite of cashew chicken, along with BBQ pork, which I could make ahead. I also wanted to try one of our friend's favorites, Mu Shu Pork, that yummy mix of slivers of cabbage and pork and bean sprouts, all wrapped up with hoisin sauce in a delicate pancake. I really didn't feel like spending hours making ultra-thin pancakes, and I didn't see them at the supermarket. I admit, I didn't try the Asian market, since I still wanted to avoid wheat. I was intrigued by a package of spring roll wrappers at the co-op, so I thought I'd give them a try. I recall spring rolls as having a tender outside, and the label told me they were made with tapioca flour. Sounded perfect.

I roasted the BBQ pork the night before, opting to omit the bright red food coloring. In the morning, I cut it up into thin slices and tucked those in the fridge. Then I spent some quality time with my knife turning a second pork loin into matchstick meat for the Mu Shu, plopping it in a Tupperware with the marinade. I packed two bags of groceries, and tucked in my favorite knife. Off to dirty someone else's kitchen!

They were already frying up some rice and gyoza when we got there, and there was a gigantic mound of vegetables (I adore baby bok choy) waiting its turn. My darling husband poured me a glass of cider, and I set to work, chopping up the celery, carrots and chicken. Once I got that going in the wok, I moved onto chopping up the chanterelles and cabbage for the Mu Shu. The veggies were nearing completion, so Music Man tackled the 'pancakes.' Getting the package open too two adults and a pair of scissors, and once open, we discovered the pancakes were as stiff as cardboard--they were even imprinted like the industrially-textured metal found in truck beds. We conferred, and agreed that maybe a quick jaunt in the microwave with a moist towel would soften it up. Thirty seconds later, our two test victims were even stiffer and curled under around the edges, exactly the opposite of the desired effect. Hmm. More water, perhaps? Music Man tried a quick dunk in water, at which point, they softened up, but became translucent and so sticky and limp as to be terribly unappetizing. We both tore off a bit and tasted it. As we were making faces at each other, Music Man's wife kept offering more upbeat suggestions, sure we could salvage the situation. We tore off a bit and popped it in her mouth. Silence, then, "well, it has no flavor, at least." "Yes, but the texture is like a rubber glove." More silence. And then, "Y'know, I think Mu Shu pork tastes great just on rice." Heads nodded all around, and we quickly moved ourselves to the table, where we lingered for several hours, only rising to fetch more stuff from the kitchen.

We always regret not doing it more often, but at least we do it once a year, and it's so much more personal than a Christmas card!

Eat a rainbow

Little One and I zipped over to the co-op after school today, to grab food for the weekend. He looks forward to it, since he knows that every single employee will ask if he got his free fruit. (In an effort to encourage good eating habits and help moms by entertaining kids, they give each kid a serving of the fruit of their choice. By the time your kid has reduced an apple to brown mush, you're more than halfway done with your shopping. Brilliant. And it sure beats sampling Cheetos at Costco.)

He also knows that I'm game for new foods, especially in the produce section. While I'm debating which kind of mushroom to bag, he's tugging at my sleeve, asking if we can have the rainbow stuff. I look over to where he's pointing. Believe it or not, he's clamoring for greens! Rainbow chard, to be exact.

I usually cut the stems off greens, but these were so pretty--red, pink, yellow and white--I couldn't bring myself to discard them. So I chopped them up and sauteed them with some garlic until they were tender, adding the leaves later to wilt them. A drizzle of balsamic vinegar, and they're done, and absolutely gorgeous.

They say that kids are more likely to eat vegetables if they are involved in growing them. I think that must hold true to gathering them (even at the market). You see, there were no leftovers.

One store, one season

I was driving to school yesterday, and a cheerful announcer with the weekly specials from Albertson's came on. I wasn't really paying attention until I mulled over what she was saying: Grapes, melons and strawberries were all on sale. Fresh Atlantic salmon and your choice of blueberries or blackberries round out their "seasonal" offerings.

But wait, it's February! Anybody who's ever grown anything knows that these crops are associated with a long sunny season, like summer. While the co-op offers up local kale and potatoes and leeks, mainstream America, it seems, is pretending the sun is shining. And I'm still trying to figure out why anyone who lives in the Pacific Northwest would buy farmed salmon from 2000 miles away.

OK, I thought, I'll give them a chance, and I pulled up their advertising circular for this week. At least oranges feature prominently, but grapes and melons are still on sale, and the fresh (Mexican?) strawberries are chocolate-dipped for Valentine's Day. But what's this? "10 for 10 sale!" screams the header. That's right, the really special savings are reserved for Oreo 'go-paks', bottled flavored water, canned tuna, jet-puffed marshmallows (strawberry or regular), Barnum animal crackers, canned oranges, canned bean sprouts, Lite Smoothie drinkable yogurt (artificially sweetened), heavy duty sponges, ketchup, paper napkins, coffee filters and canned diced tomatoes. With the exception of canned tomatoes and ketchup (which I buy organic versions of), none of these "foods" live on my larder shelves.

Perhaps it's telling that Prilosec OTC acid reducer and SlimFast shake mix are on sale too.

Underfoot

For years, we have worked to make our home more environmentally friendly, both in terms of materials used and the spaces we create. We've raised the 70's dropped ceiling in the kitchen, removed roomfuls of filthy wall-to-wall carpeting, and retrofitted radiant floor heat to this end. As I write, I sit in a used office chair on a true linoleum floor, chosen for its beauty along with its natural anti-static properties.

As our boys grow up, we are finding they need a bit of privacy, but we don't want to interrupt the flow of their play by separating them and their toys. We hit upon the idea of a large doorway between the two rooms that now serve as shared playroom and bedroom. A pocket door that closes for privacy and opens for play. Ah, but rien n'est simple. If we remove a piece of wall, there's a piece of floor exposed. The while-we're-at-it syndrome kicks in: now is the perfect time to replace that icky synthetic carpet with something more healthy and beautiful.

We know we want wool, and there's a carpet I met years ago in Europe, called Tretford. It's 80% goat hair, 20% wool, with a jute and PVC (non-off-gassing) backing. It comes in a gazillion colors, doesn't need a pad (no dust trap), resists staining naturally, and is easily patched, since the edges don't fray. Warm underfoot but solid enough to form a firm foundation for a tower of blocks. This is what we want. Thus begins my quest.

Google is my friend, and I locate the manufacturer quickly--in Ireland. (A brief visual flashes through my mind of us going through customs with a roll of carpet. I quickly dismiss the idea.) Yes, there is an American distributor, in Pennsylvania. A call to them takes a humorous twist, as the person on the other end can't quite grasp that I would want to put a commercial carpet in a home (never mind the picture of a family room on their website). She finally relents and provides me with the name of the Seattle distributor. A call to them yields the information that they only "sell to the trades," and translator isn't one of them. Still, I persist and they agree to sell to me; I can even bring my kids with me to pick up the sample card (but I'll have to use the side door).

My resolve to Do The Right Thing is being sorely tested. I mean, it's the perfect carpet for us, it's what we want, but it's coming all the way from Ireland! I make a few calls to see if I can find something similar closer to home, but come away empty-handed: they either aren't wool, or they're bound with latex, which I am allergic to.

Remember those maps of the United States that we had in fifth grade, with little symbols representing the different products associated with different regions? There were apples and trees in Washington, wheat in the Midwest, and a roll of textiles in the south. Turns out all the carpet made in the US is made in Georgia. There's just no such thing as buying local carpet. I talk to a sales representative at the Environmental Home Center, and she verifies that even they order their stuff from all over the world--and most of the wool is from New Zealand. She tells me not to worry about the distance, since one trip from Ireland for a sturdy wool carpet is better than twice from Georgia for an inferior synthetic product, since the wool will last (much) longer than the synthetic, and is much friendlier to the Earth to produce.

Now all we have to do is choose a color.

Be nice

It has been a long weekend. Dear Husband and I attended a Gottman Relationship workshop, farming the kids out to various people to whom we are now eternally indebted. This morning, as I cleaned up the kitchen, which was a repository for stuff rather than a center of food preparation this weekend, I reflected on just what and how we had eaten.

Breakfasts were fairly normal, like a regular weekday; Sunday pancakes were replaced by blueberry muffins baked the day before and brought to family #2 in a wicker basket as both fodder for our boys and an attempt to show appreciation. (I also popped a couple into my bag: the ample workshop refreshments were all predictably wheat-based.)

Dinner was a guilt trip for me: poor planning on my part meant that the first night, Ersatz Mom had to come up with something from my nearly-empty fridge. She did amazingly well, throwing together some red sauce and spaghetti. My boys were fed and happy, as were we. Sunday evening, our kids were delivered to us in Seattle, so we walked over to a pub on Queen Anne, and stuffed our faces with insanely huge portions of fried foods.

Lunch, however, was something else. The Gottman folks gave us 1 1/2 hour breaks for lunch on both days, and since we were in Seattle, we were surrounded by all sorts of possibilities, from the Space Needle to a myriad of Thai restaurants. You would think that catching a bite on a deadline wouldn't nourish the soul much, but the opposite was true. Both days we headed to an upscale supermarket, where my better half could indulge his love of chili and I could nibble on salady things. We also picked up some fine wine and chocolate (we nibbled on one but refrained from sipping the other for the afternoon sessions), and had time to chat, browse the record store and just stroll. For us, it was rare luxury to spend unstructured time together. It's something we make far too little of in the hustle of parenting.

The workshop taught some powerful lessons, not the least of which is to be nice to each other. Not coincidentally, that was the sole advice offered by my usually reticent father-in-law on our wedding day. Being nice to each other, lots of small things everyday, add up to a happy life. The everyday is more important than the occasional. We talk, we eat, we kiss everyday. So talk nice to your someone today, and by all means, eat with them.