Good dinner, early bedtime, hilarious story

By the time I tucked the kids in bed and T got home last night, I was 90% catatonic. Nevertheless, I knew that take-out would bring me down more so I whipped up a quick and hearty dinner that was both beautiful and good: pan-seared steaks; caramelized fennel, leek and orange salad; and gratineed cipollini onions. We enjoyed some red wine, watched Homeland, and then T prescribed basement-sleeping for moi. I did not argue. Our meal really did make me feel better though; it is never the wrong thing to do to take care of yourself in the most basic of ways. Doing so can seem impossible at times -you try catching up on sleep when your child is sick, for ex- and so taking advantage of the times you can tend to you becomes even more critical and wise.

This salad is really divine. It just feels good: the bright flavors enliven you from inside out, the fruits and veggies help you easily and deliciously consume at least two of their suggested daily servings, and it pairs well with pretty much everything from steaks and fish to risotto or a cheese plate. Foodie friend C has been making this lately and agrees that it's marvelous. Try it soon!

And if you can bear to peel cipollinis, those darling flattened-orb alliums that you can find fresh in the market right now, do cook with them. They are sweet and mild onions that can be prepared in so many ways: confited; browned and added to a beef stew; fried (with Meyer lemon rings, please!); pickled (bet this is great)... Last night I asked dear hubs to peel them (poor guy didn't know what he agreed to), and then I placed them in a Pyrex bowl, whisked together some cream and crème fraîche, poured that over the onions, sprinkled things generously with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper and then grated some fresh breadcrumbs on top. I covered the dish with foil, cooked for 15 minutes or so at 385 and then upped the oven to a hi broil to finish them off. Spectacular. Comfort food at its best! ~~~~ T scored even more points by keeping the boys and cat (this is truly a feat as he usually throws himself against the guest room door, caterwauling like a lovestruck loon until I give in and let him in!) from waking me up this morning. I rolled out of bed at 7:45, just in time to help them pack their veggies (each Wednesday the children at school bring a veggie; then a giant soup is made for a local shelter), kiss them goodbye and shut the door.

I made a coffee, sat down to catch up on the always-snowballing mound of emails and was reminded -by friend, E, whose tree keeled over the other day- of a ex-boyfriend from college. E had written to tell me that she thinks I am an excellent writer (I'm blushing as I type and am SO flattered) and did I remember the history class in college which said boyfriend and I took together. I was not the finest history student -SO much to aggregate in my mind at once!- and went to visit my TA after a disappointing result on an exam. From his briefcase, he drew a blue book and held it before me as the shining example of a successful exam. Lo and effing behold, this was my damn boyfriend's blue book. It wasn't a great moment. In any case, E was like, "where is that guy (the TA) now, huh?!" I don't know, but I appreciate her having my back after all these years. She always has.

I then asked her if she remembered that during this very same history class, the boyfriend got a Code Red sinus infection because he refused to blow his nose. Because of the backlog up there in the cavities, he ended up in the local hospital. His mother had to come out. I spent Valentine's Day in that damn hospital room and knew the whole time that this relationship was DONE. Finito. Irreparable. For several weeks, I'd known the end was nigh but we'd been together a long time, and I was vexed. Then he ends up in the hospital, and I couldn't very well break up with him while he was pale and wan in a flimsy gown. Then V-Day came, and I couldn't very well do it then either. And then he gave me a gift his mother had bought, and she was in the room, and I am still cringing to this day.

After he was released, we broke up. And that was in 1997. Funny how time flies. I'm in fuzzy socks, PJ pants, and a Turkey Trot shirt right now. My house looks like hoarders live here even though I just cleaned yesterday. Before the boys left, I helped each of them blow his nose, and then did my little roto-rooter trick with a twisted Kleenex just to make sure things were extra clear. Ain't life something!

Thanksgiving 2013

As this Turkey Thursday draws to a close, I tip my hat to what writing so often does for me: get things out. I vent, wonder, share, laugh, process, and understand. I mourn, appreciate, enshrine and challenge. The powerful difference, for me, between keeping a diary and blogging is the element of connection with others: you. I cannot tell you how many earnestly begun journals I have let wither away over the past twenty-five years. Those with stoic leather covers and others with bright shiny ones, a few with lock and key, one or two in electronic form. I bought them on trips, moved by the destination or the person with whom I adventured. I bought them during low points and high, often at the turn of a new year or similarly nostalgic point in time. I meant to write often, or at least regularly, and a few of my efforts seemed valiant.

But not a one stuck until I figured out that I needed to be writing to someone. Even if I didn't know him or her or them or you. This has stuck, has expanded and fulfilled me in many ways, and I am thankful. Thank you for reading. And for reaching back out to me.

That I had a lovely Thanksgiving with none of the attendant blues I worried might cloud it (there is tomorrow, but I'm trying to stay optimistic) could be attributed to a whole host of inputs: a beautiful day with no gray in sight; a joyous run with my family and thousands of others; the wonderful family I married into; the knowledge and confidence to draw my line in the sand of cooking yesterday, doing what I could while enjoying it rather than pushing myself to do more than that and feel burdened; subdued hormones rather than their horribly mischievous kin.

Certainly all those things would boost anyone but I simply must acknowledge too the power of getting it out. When I wrote a few days back about my ambivalence towards Thanksgiving, I felt as if I'd broken up with those sentiments. Or at least owned and made peace with them. And that's a significant change. A positive one too.

As I head off to sleep, full but not too full, happy to have leftover pie, I again give thanks for all the incredible people and love in my life; for you, the individuals who read what I have to say and who, sometimes, write me to let me know what you think; for my boys and my little cat; even for my dog; and for the love of writing that makes all of it better, or at least better understood.

Aah...

After a whirlwind morning that included cheering Jack on as Third Ant in his class play (he faux-fainted so well I felt certain he'd broken himself), I am ensconced in my quiet, albeit incredibly messy, home. A pumpkin cheesecake is cooling in the oven, door cracked to release the hot air slowly. The spiced pumpkin scent is intoxicating. Though I mean to be typing, I find myself stopping periodically to close my eyes and inhale deeply. This is kitchen comfort at its best, and I am grateful for it. We are heading to Philadelphia later, happy wedding spectating in our future tomorrow, and I haven't packed. Y'all might know how I feel about packing. It's right up there with ironing and annual exams with the lady doctor. Long story short, I'm procrastinating and am more than ok with that.

It is the worst to worry about your children. Even tougher is that such worry can take many forms, like a multiplying shape-shifter of the worst kind. If you child is so feverish you're certain he's aboil, you worry about his physical state: he's in pain, and I can't do enough. If your child is the object of taunt or ridicule, your stomach aches on behalf of his: you want to wring the neck of the child(ren) who would challenge your baby's sense of self and stasis. When your child does something for the first time, be it school or a drop-off birthday party, you can think of nothing other than what he's experiencing until he's in your sights again: is he happy? was it fun? did he share? did he interact with others?

And when you see in your child, a behavior or a struggle or a trait that you know will challenge him mightily in the immediate, and perhaps long-term, future, you hurt. This kind of worry can't be ameliorated by teaspoons of Motrin, by discussions of the fact that not everyone else is as nice as we'd wish them to be, by hearing from him how fabulously great school and the birthday party were. No, this kind of worry is like a shitty weed in your garden; no matter how much you till and tend, that bugger will keep growing back until one day you decide to just live with it or find the magic bullet that will finally eradicate its insidious roots from your flowerbed.

Now that my darling firstborn has left toddlerhood firmly in his past, I see even more clearly the incredible gifts and talents he possesses. Really, you should have seen him on stage this morning; his fainting was Oscar-worthy. Or at the party after the last baseball game where he grabbed a chocolate cookie from the snack mom and without even thinking about it, broke it in half and passed an equal share to Oliver. I almost thought I'd never be more proud.

But I also see aspects of his being that are going to trip him up. And though I wish I could be the padding that makes every fall nothing more than child's play, I can't. Not least because ultimately, that would be a disservice to him. How will he know what he's capable of without the growth that struggle offers (forces)?

All I can do is hold his hand, offer the advice I have, be a shoulder to cry on and an open-24-hours-ear to listen. I can seek resources and advice, I can make star charts til the cows come home. But I can't learn lessons for him, and that just sucks.