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More Happy Mail Days

2012-01-23T12:24:00.000-08:00

Anna let me post on her blog here. Check it out!

My Happy Mailbox: Starting the New Year off with A Guest Post--Meet Camille!

2012-01-07T08:47:00.001-08:00

http://myhappymailbox.blogspot.com/2012/01/starting-new-year-off-with-guest-post.html?m=1

As a part of the Blog Swap, here is my post on the excellent My Happy Mailbox blog! Thanks, Secret Squirrel!

2012-01-05T12:44:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers,

I have the pleasure of introducing Anna, my partner from the Swap-Bot Guest Blog Post swap. I can hardly wait to try this!

::

Hello everyone! My name is Anna, 19 and I am from Poland. I like to eat and cook (not much but it’s also fun!) and I go to gastronomy high school. Today I’m the one who gives you something to read about and since this blog has some recipes I decided to write about Polish traditional food. So let’s start! But first some informations.

After the end of World War II, Poland fell under Communist occupation. Restaurants were at first nationalized and then mostly closed down by the authorities. Instead, the communists envisioned a net of lunch rooms for the workers at various companies, and milk bars. The very few restaurants that survived the 1940s and 1950s were state-owned and were mostly unavailable to common people due to high prices. The lunch rooms promoted mostly inexpensive meals, including soups of all kinds and staples such as pierogi. A typical second course consisted of some sort of a ground meat cutlet served with potatoes. The kotlet schabowy is similar to the Austrian Wiener schnitzel.
We can still find some milk bars in Poland.

Bigos, originally uploaded by UnorthodoxY.

Today’s recipes: BIGOS aka Hunter’s Stew

• 1 cup pitted prunes
• 1/2 ounce dried Polish or porcini mushrooms
• 2 cups boiling water
• 1 tablespoon bacon drippings or vegetable oil
• 1 medium onion, chopped
• 1 small head fresh cabbage, chopped
• 1 pound sauerkraut, rinsed well and drained
• 1/2 pound smoked Polish sausage ("kielbasa"), cut into 1-inch pieces
• 1/2 pound cooked fresh Polish sausage ("kielbasa"), cut into 1-inch pieces
• 1 pound leftover meat, cut into 1-inch pieces
• 3 large tomatoes, peeled and chopped
• 1 cup dry red wine, preferably Madeira
• 1 bay leaf
• Salt and black pepper to taste

1. Place prunes and dried mushrooms in a medium bowl. Pour over boiling water and let steep for 30 minutes or until mushrooms have softened. You may chop the mushrooms and prunes, but leaving them whole makes for a chunkier dish. Set aside with soaking liquid.

2. Meanwhile, in a Dutch oven or large pot with a lid, saute onion and fresh cabbage in bacon drippings or vegetable oil. When cabbage has collapsed by half, add sauerkraut, meats, tomatoes, wine, bay leaf and reserved mushrooms and prunes and their soaking liquid, being careful not to pour off the sediment in the bottom of the bowl.

3. Mix well and bring to a boil over medium heat. Lower heat to low and simmer covered for 1 1/2 hours, stirring occasionally and adding liquid as needed to prevent burning.

4. The longer this cooks the better it tastes, and it's even better served the next day. It's a natural for outdoors cooking in a cast-iron kettle winter or summer. The dish lends itself well to potlucks and tailgate parties, slow cookers and freezes well.

The recipe is from this website http://easteuropeanfood.about.com/od/maincourses/r/bigos.htm

That’s how my mother does it too. It tastes very good and we usually eat it with bread.

The most typical ingredients used in Polish cuisine are sauerkraut, beetroot, cucumbers (gherkins), sour cream, kohlrabi, mushrooms, sausages and smoked sausage. A meal owes it taste to the herbs and spices used; such as marjoram, dill, caraway seeds, parsley, or pepper. The most popular desserts are cakes and pastries. A shot of vodka is an appropriate addition to festive meals and help you to digest the food.

Every state (województwo) has its typical recipes.

If you want to know more about traditional Polish recipes as for example pierogi go to google. That’s all I wanted to write.
I hope you enjoyed reading this post and that you learned something.
THank you all for reading!

-Anna apanko.blogspot.com

Bigos

2012-01-05T12:37:00.001-08:00

Bigos, originally uploaded by UnorthodoxY.

Holidays

2011-12-29T11:51:00.000-08:00

Here is the uncle scene-- He's asking for... well, you can figure it out.

I ran across the immortal Sereghina from 8 1/2. This woman is so amazingly kick-ass, she makes living in a bunker at the beach look glamorous.

Dreams

2011-12-24T07:35:00.001-08:00

I dreamed I was at an artist's house, hanging out with Gracie Lu and his six kids. He was selling some etchings for $6.75 so I sstarted to go through the pile. They were magical. At first they were simple, semi-abstract designs, but as I got deeper they got more and more elaborate. Intricate architectural scenes with insane levels of detail, all in soft corals and teals. The last one was amazing, a group of women in huge colorful dresses dove into a perfect blue pool and bobbed like sea anemones into the depths and doors opened up in the bottom and they all disappeared inside. When I decided I was going to buy a bunch, I started looking in the piles for the magical ones, and I couldn't find them. I pulled everything off the table and sorted them and I still couldn't find them.

The Insomnia Cake

2011-12-15T11:01:00.000-08:00

Guest Blog Swap

It is free to sign up for Swap-Bot, and so much fun! Especially if you like getting mail, and dealing with the occasional crazy Swap-bitch. Oops, did I say that?

What did I do while I couldn't sleep? Well, I spent way too much time tweeking my Swap-bot profile. It is SO amazing!

Camille's Horrible Day, part 2

2011-12-08T20:44:00.001-08:00

Camille's Horrible Day, and other things Quiche

2011-12-07T21:26:00.001-08:00

I just inadvertently erased the first "page" of this blog entry. I thought I knew how to save a file. Doggone it! I teach this sort of thing. To wit, I went on at length about this new great Macaroon recipe I fell in love with. Check it out, its very delicious. Then I jabbered at length about the disasterious quiche I was making at the time, but since then we ate most of it, so it couldn't have been that bad. I was using the 9" spring pan recipe in Michael Ruhlman's Ratio. I found out you absolutely must read all of the fine print before proceeding. I lamented losing Slug Monitor's Mom's infallible and foolproof version. If I humble myself enough to ask for it again, I'll put it here. After the Ruhlman-Quiche disaster, well, I want to go back!

A Long Night

2011-11-22T07:37:00.000-08:00

On Saturday, LuLu, Spike and I came down to stay with my in-laws on the Central Coast for Thanksgiving. Dutch has to work a few days this week, so he will join us Wednesday. So this is our third morning without him. I miss him so much. The Saturday night was rocky because Spike was fussy and I caught what sleep I could in 45 minute intervals. LuLu slept in her Packn'Play, but she was unhappy. On Sunday night, LuLu flatly refused to stay in the Pack n' Play, so I let her stay up and eat pie with the cousins. She slept with Spike and I. On Monday night she refused to eat dinner or take any liquid. She was so tired that I put her down a little earlier and she went right to sleep. When I came to bed, I noticed a "sick" smell and as I lay down, I put my hand in something cold and wet. When I turned on the light, I saw vomit on the bed. My heroic sister-in-law and mother-in-law came to my rescue with a set of clean sheets and all their experience with sick kids. On fresh sheets, we spent a relatively quiet night. I could not have survived this without their help, holding Spike so I could shower, watching LuLu so I could nurse Spike. I don't know how single moms do it!
The days have been full of fun- playing with the cousins, eating ice cream and watching lots of TV. Dutch, don't tarry!

Catching up on Correspondence

2011-11-16T18:44:00.001-08:00

links pinworms

To Pou/et Surprise

2011-11-15T14:39:00.001-08:00

Christmas

2011-11-11T09:08:00.001-08:00

Good morning

2011-11-11T06:58:00.001-08:00

Good morning, originally uploaded by camille94019.

Good morning

Newborns

2011-11-10T16:40:00.001-08:00

links Swap-Bot the Letter Exchange

Making Wolverine

2011-10-07T13:23:00.000-07:00

Proof of the Existence of the rare Burp-a-licious Green Orangutan

This post is dedicated to the many wonderful people who have given us a certain piece of common advice regarding inducing labor at home. And because I strive to keep this blog as general-audience friendly as possible, I am going to have to resort to some possibly ridiculous euphemisms, so beaver with me. Or not, and stop reading right now!

First of all, being pregnant is like having a 30 pound aquarium strapped to your middle. Feeling a bit off-balance is just the start. Or perhaps, the image of having a cranky elephant strapped to your middle is even more apt. Not only is this large, unwieldy thing a part of you, but it has nerves, and a few opinions of its own that it isn't shy about sharing with you. It also pushes up into your lungs, so taking that "deep cleansing breath" is merely a fantasy of your midwife, birth doula or your hippy grandmother's. And many preggy ladies suffer from a quaintly-named issue called "Rhinitis of Pregnancy" which translates to a perpetually stuffy nose. It also pushes on your stomach and esophagus. So you feel full when you actually aren't, and when you are full, you feel as if you had just won a hotdog eating contest. Or worse, you have a "bubble"-- a burp that won't ever come up, regardless of how hard you try to make yourself gag.

As it turns out, having massive quantities of fresh air is vital to my having a good orangutan. Maybe it is just a personal kangaroo of mine. Also, between the rhinos and the elephants, and the other savanna creatures roaming the bed, I'd like to see a few kitties. Yes, you read that right, kitties. Kitties require a clear rhino to breath while your mole is busy with... well, yes, the other person's mole. Needless to say, there have been no kitty sightings recently. I am not sure the extremely short, teacup variety count. Those are just half-kitties. They don't count, I have decided. Those are the kind of kitties you share with your toddler, or your mother-in-law.

To really get a good workout with your jungle creatures, you need a jungle gym. But we skipped that option when we ordered our bed. We never thought that the pillows needed handlebars, or that the walls would be complete with a few climbing rocks. I could have used some support, or an engine hoist. Or maybe my arms are just congenitally short.

Alright, Dr Reich, let's talk about that orangutan in the room. I believed, up until now, that orangutans needed, er, certain conditions (like adequate ventilation). They are elusive and mysterious denizens of the deep jungle. But I am finding they have a better sense of humor than I ever gave them credit for. They come in different colors than plain old Fed-Ex orange. In fact, I may have sighted a Burp-a-licious green one and even a Tickle-me-in-a-not-interesting-place-at-all olive drab one. Like the Abominable Snowman or the Loch Ness Monster, all the proof I have are some grainy, hard-to-see pictures that have been altered by poorly paid Stalinist henchmen.

I am coming to the conclusion that this advice is

1) A joke. On us. Ha Ha.
2) Only for people with long arms.
3) Evidence of how totally gullible Dutch and I are.
4) Or to prepare us for the completely unglamorous job of caring for a newborn, while keeping our sense of humor and the ridiculous intact.

periscope

2011-09-30T19:11:00.001-07:00

periscope, originally uploaded by camille94019.

I wanted to play with the Wacom tablet some more, but I couldn't think of anything to draw. Then I remembered, submarines, of course. So I googled a picture (that looks nothing like this, btw) and I created the closest thing to the Conte Rouge Medici, and washed it through a lot of "noise." My fingers are still clean, and there isn't a pile of eraser shavings on my lap. Maybe that is a good thing.

first wacom tablet sketch

2011-09-29T14:50:00.001-07:00

glass_edited-1, originally uploaded by camille94019.

I used to draw all the time. From life, from nakey people, from my imagination. If you knew me, say 5 or 10 years ago, you would be shocked to know I haven't drawn in years! That fact kinda makes me sad, mostly because as the years went by I got better and better, and now, I am more rusty than anything. (I can still teach a damn good drawing lesson-- to drunk people, even). Since LuLu has come into my life, drawing has become even more unfeasible. She grabs everything I pick up (a bottle of ink and a dippy pen would be a disaster) and loves to wad paper up. As much as I find digital drawingobnoxious, the thing that is working for me is the fact it is not messy. Lulu can grab the pen and not leave any marks on her face or the furniture. I can work in a small corner of the kitchen table while she plays with her toys in the living room. Today I have had a chance to play with drawing for the first time in a long time. I had played with mobile apps-but drawing with my finger gets old. Hopefully, I can get some drawing time in before Spike comes.

2011-09-29T11:58:00.002-07:00

Nap, originally uploaded by camille94019.

LuLu is down for her morning nap. I finally got back into clothes (my first set was ruined when I vomited all over myself. I love being pregnant) and now I am sitting here, having read of my oh so important Facebook updates and looked at my work email (nothing!). Now I am free, free free for the next ten minutes! This is my first day of Spike Maternity Leave. I never had this down time with LuLu, since I basically left work to go directly to the ER.

I just got a Wacom tablet. This is the first time have been able to hand write my blog. I have to say this is very cool.

The next technological step is speech recognition software (that will have to wait until I go back to work).

I have had this urge lately to write letters with the real actual post. So, to that end, I have signed up for Postcrossing.com and have subscribed to the Letter Exchange. Not only am I having the yen to pour out my soul to strangers, but I have been looking forward to exotic mail. I used to mail the most ridiculous love letters to men I had crushes on. And then I wondered why they thought I was nuts. Happily I those days are over. I have Dutch now and interestingly enough, I never wrote him a handwritten letter. We texted a few times, never emailed. Single girls, let that be a lesson to you! I never had a chance! Everything happened so fast with that man! Non-romantic letters to strange middle aged ladies who write "tea" down as a hobby should be safe, right? Maybe there is something about being in the Hamlet on an overcast Autumn day that whispers "epistolarity."

So shoot me an email if you would like a scattered, newsy, non-romantic letter from me.

Uh, oh, I hear Lulu crying. Time to say good-bye.

Equipment challenges

2011-09-05T17:03:00.001-07:00

Cell phone picture of the old lens on the new body. I used the vignette app, set to "holga"-- which is so much easier than actually taking a picture with a Holga.

I have been struggling for the past few years to find ways to make yummy digital images-- after years and years of bending a motley collection of film cameras to my will. Last year Dutch bought me a nice entry-level Nikon that I have been fairly pleased with, although the learning curve was longer than I expected. I was a bit disappointed with the lens that came with it. I value speed* over anything else (mostly because I don't like the look of flash photography) and the kit lens was slow, and would go even slower if the zoom was used. On the plus side, the auto-settings made the point and shoot mode foolproof. This morning I finally got around to putting Grandpa E's vintage 1982 50mm Nikkormat lens on the digital body. I had to consult my D3000 for Dummies book for all the details. LuLu really wanted to help and to stick her fingers in everything. I had to bounce her off the bed. Miraculously, I got it on without breaking anything (I had a vivid nightmare recently about switching these very lenses-- when I tried to do it all the pieces fell out!). And while the old lens takes the whole camera back to another era of technology (no auto focus, a very crude light sensor, manual aperture and shutter settings) it brings back a pre-digital feature I love-- instant shutter button to shutter curtain action. I have missed so many beautiful shots because of the digital delay (when I press the shutter button, the camera has to make adjustments, and think about things, perhaps it needs to go potty, or change the oil, and when it's ready, it opens the shutter, all the while the light has changed, the expression on the baby's face is different, perhaps the child is even in a different state by then, and voila, a different photo is taken than the one I had originally envisioned). Now, it will take me five minutes to set up the shot but I get to make the adjustments, I go potty, I change the damn oil and I decide when the shutter fires.

*speed, in regards to lenses, is how quickly light gets through them. The faster the lens, the less light that is required for a good shot. Zooming-in cuts down on the light going through a lens.

Some nice pictures taken with the D3000 kit lens.

I like both of these pics, I used the widest angle setting (no zoom), and the point-and-shoot mode. I had to take a lot of pictures to get these, because I couldn't quite get the shutter to open at the exact right moment. Looking at the upper picture I am shocked by how much lens distortion there is.

I took these two photos yesterday while I was playing with the 50 mm lens. I took a lot of photos I liked. I especially like the shallow depth of field with the top one. I can tell precisely where I focused the lens (note to self, wear your glasses, otherwise every photo will be blurry). I had the aperture opened to the biggest hole-size (smallest number, go figure). I still need to get a bit better at picking the correct exposure, but small tweaks like that are easily done with software. I adjusted the curves on the top one to make it a bit lighter.

If my explanations made no sense, check out this page here for a nice explanation of "depth of field" and here for an explanation about lenses and apertures.

LuLogic

2011-08-28T14:17:00.000-07:00

I am watching LuLu right now. She just set down my dad's cell phone next to the kitchen garbage and is completely enthralled by some lint. I can't see her now, but I hear her whimpering and some loud crashes. The whimpering has stopped. I wonder where she is? Dutch is feeling under the weather today, so we skipped church and have been taking turns watching LuLu. There is more than enough LuLu to wear us both out, well or not. I am starting to wonder why we thought two would be a good idea. Maybe I can blame the hormones. But I know, with all this baby anxiety, it will all pass soon enough and we'll be wondering where these two drooling teens came from and how we are going to pay for college. The teeth I wrote about in the last entry are still large, swollen lumps in her gums. I had no idea she could work on teeth for such a long time. Fortunately, she has been sleeping through the night, much to everyone's joy.

She has come back to the cell phone, and now she is leaving it. I have been wondering if there is a pattern to her wanderings. It seems sometimes that she is doing rounds. Visiting grandma, then coming over to give my knees a hug, and then back to grandma, and to me, again and again. Right now she is dividing her time between the KB's room, the KB (who is writing her American Girls blog-- kids these days) and her toys in the living room. I am glad she is not emulating me, since every day I get bigger, the less I want to stand up. It seems like I am turning into my grandma. I tried to do my pregnant pilates DVD earlier and I couldn't even muster the energy for half of it. I was hoping it would get my energy going but afterwards all I wanted to do was cry.

Teething

2011-08-09T11:24:00.000-07:00

The complicated existence of a 17 month old baby.

Things were going very nicely recently. LuLu had been sleeping through the night for the past month. Dutch and I were finally feeling caught up on sleep. She had been trying almost every food we gave her. In between naps she was social and engaging.

Yesterday it all changed. We came home from visiting friends and she was very cranky. I thought she was tired. So I fed her a little snack, changed her diapers, and put her down for a nap. I was fully confident the child I would greet at the end of the nap would be my wonderful little LuLu. It was not to be. She cranked and cranked. I tried to console her, I visited her in her room a few times and she never stopped crying. So I pulled her out and she still continued to cry. I nursed her. As soon as I pulled her off, she started crying again. This went on all evening and night. We gave her baby painkillers. We rubbed her gums. We double checked her diaper. I am trying not to panic, since I have to wake up early tomorrow morning and start work. We had a rough morning and I gave her some ice to chew on, and that seemed to help. She finally went down for a nap this morning. I hope she feels better.

I keep wondering what the Lesson To Be Learned here is. I keep telling myself it will pass. That LuLu isn't being cranky just to irritate me, that she is in pain and she doesn't have any words for what she is going through. I know every baby goes through this. I know she will start sleeping again. That soon, another couple teeth will be poking their way out of her little pink gums. She will be that much closer to having a full mouth. Closer to eating tortilla chips and beef jerky. And in the meantime we'll keep the ice on hand, and the baby Tylenol, and we'll keep visiting her crib at 1 AM, and 2 AM, and 4 AM.

Code Name "Spike"

2011-08-06T17:07:00.000-07:00

Once we saw El Dos on the screen, we decided that he wasn't just a number anymore, he needed something more... he became Spike (thanks, Dad).

We know, of course, that once he exits the womb, he can't remain "Spike." And, naturally, we have found scads of awful names.

On the top of our hate list are Whiskey Names.
Jack Daniel (or any variation of John/Jack/Jax/Jon/Jaxson/Jackson/Jacques)
Jameson
Jim Beam
Knob Creek
Southern Comfort
Wild Turkey

Many of are Most Hated categories from the first baby name post

City/County/Country/State Names
London
Paris
Copenhagen
Amsterdam
Dakota
Cologne
Beijing
Kern
Imperial
Kings
Ur

Food Names
Cheddar
Monterey Jack
Fondue
Camembert
Camarón

Names referring to size
Magnus/ Magnum
Tiny
Shrimp Boy
Gigantor
King Kong

Last Names as First Names
Tyler
Taylor
Arden
Dikshit (for real! Sheila Dikshit is an Indian Parliamentarian!)
Ogden
Connor
Grayson
Landon
Hudson
Cooper
Cole
Colton
Dalton
Logan
Ashton
Carter
Brody
Carson
Parker
Peyton
Volta
Marconi

Occupations
Hunter
Rider
Trucker
Proctologist
Doctor
Killer
Porter
Painter
Manslut
Gigolo

Nahuatl
Calixto
Montezuma
Quetzlquatl
Aztlan
Avocatl
Chocolatl
Tomatl (these last ones could double as food names too)

Names That Replace a Vowel with Y
(or have a gratuitous X)
Londyn
Parys
Aryn
Camryn
Jalyn
Ryder
Ryker
Jasyn
Josyf
Xander

Dog Names
Bruno
Indiana
Fido
Spike Brindle
Agnew
Rover
Spot

Architectural Terms
Narthex
Transept
Lintel
Arris
Ashlar
Buttress
Chandrashala
Gambrel

Historical Figures
Attila
Tamerlane
Edward Longshanks
Genghis
Adenoid Hynkel
Uther
Arthur
Voldegorn
Constantine

Philosophers who had their bodies stuffed and
their heads preserved
Jeremy Bentham

Names that are Too Saxon
Ethelredge
Etheldore
Alfred
Ethelfred
Eadweard

Names that Alliterate Too Much
Dudley Duncan
Charles Cheddar
Ernest Eames

Penitentiaries
Riker
Quentin
Folsom
Sing Sing
Pelican Bay
Penal Colony
Gulag
Bastille
Australia

Christian singers
Carman

Yiddish curses
Schlongo
Schmuckster
Schleppi

So after eliminating winners like "Schleppi" we are leaning toward naming Spike "Daniel". Just one name, like "Madonna" or "Cher".

Hello Joy

2011-08-05T07:49:00.000-07:00

I have been mildly insomniac lately-- mostly my mind has been racing about things that are bothering me. So I finally wrote them all down in my journal under the heading of "closet of anxieties". Once the list is written down it always seems less intimidating. Some of the entries seem down right silly. As I was looking at my list, I realized some things were missing. None of them had anything to do Lulu. I felt a twinge of guilt. Aren't parents supposed to be anxious about their kids? Was there something wrong with me? And while I don't know who exactly is going to be taking care of her during the first week of school, and I know I will miss her terribly when I return to work, somehow I know I am not alone. She is in God's hands and she is a beloved member of her terrestrial family. Plus, she has a deep well of her own, personal spunk. I am not her sole source of life, and I certainly am not her only source of comfort and protection. From every angle I look at her, Lulu is a source of unadulterated joy. She reminds me I am a part of something bigger than myself, of something eternal and cosmic and loving. She puts my current troubles with the DMV and the school district in perspective-- tiny, temporal things, easily resolved with a stamp, a check or a phone call.

PS. My layoff was rescinded exactly a week before my report date. Another (now) silly anxiety put to rest. Jesus is right, anxiety is silly.

Fish and Chips

2011-07-27T09:19:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, my family used to go to a fish joint on the harbor we called "Biggies" because that is what it said on the sign. They only took cash. And they didn't have a toilet (desperate patrons had to use the lavatory across the street) because during some storm in the even more distant past, it fell off. The door remained, but it was nailed shut. They had a very sticky, one page menu with general entries like "calamari" and "fish and chips". We loved ordering the fish 'n chips. They made gigantic steak fries and the fish was always fresh, flaky, perfectly battered and wonderful. Big clouds of fish flesh encased in crunchy, light, almost tempura batter. The helpings were so generous that the puny plastic baskets could barely contain the bounty. When it arrived at the table, it was always too hot to handle. We'd never wait for it to cool off, burnt fingers and tongues were simply a part of the experience. There was one cook and one waitress. The meal always began with a pile of sourdough bread and soft, individually wrapped pats of butter that melted with the heat of your hand. My father once asked the cook when the fish was caught, "this morning" was the terse reply. The cook was a birdwatcher. He had a huge torso and matching, gigantic arms. His fore arms were always wrapped with ace bandages, which gave him a slightly menacing air. I don't know why he wore them, perhaps to protect his tats from grease spatters. I ate calamari there for the first time. I was initially put off by the tentacles, but my resistance didn't last long. The crunchy tentacles, the succulent rings of flesh quickly won me over. The big windows were almost always open, except when the sun went down and the waitress pulled down the blue, transparent plastic shades. The view of the harbor and Pillar Point was the stuff to inspire even the crankiest landscape dabbler.

One time, after a long haitus, we arrived to find a line out the door. When we were seated, the new waitress gave us glossy menus with full color pictures, and correspondingly generous prices. I needed to use the bathroom, and was preparing to trek across the street, when she pointed me towards their bathrooms, tucked into an addition behind the kitchen. They were wheel chair accessible and there was one for each gender. We stayed only for the nostalgia, and to give it one more chance to woo and astound us. Our plates arrived with small tidy piles of fries and fish. The bread was gone, we asked about it and the waitress pointed to the appetizer menu, we had to order it separately now. Honestly I don't remember the food that day. Maybe it was okay by normal standards. The place was certainly popular now. Just last month I saw their lines snaking out the door on a sunny Saturday. I am not tempted. Some memories are sacred.

I don't know what the birdwatcher put in his batter, and I am too lazy to wait at the pier at 5 AM to greet the returning fishermen, but here is my humble, low fat, done-in-30-minutes variation of "fish and chips".

Arrange your oven racks so there is one in "broiler" position and another one close to the middle.
Turn on the broiler to "hi"

Sweet potatoes, peeled and sliced into 1/4 inch thick fry shapes.
olive oil
seasonings, your choice
fresh or frozen fish fillet
lime or lemon or ginger or soy sauce to season the fish

In a large bowl toss the sweet potatoes with the olive oil and seasonings so they are all covered.
layer carefully (no overlapping) on cookie sheets. Put in the broiler and set the timer to 10 minutes. (check frequently, all broilers are different). When the edges are black, pull them out and with a spatula, carefully flip them over and stick them in for about 5-8 more minutes, depending on the thickness.

As soon as you can, put the fish in a dish, add your fish seasonings and pop it in with the sweet potatoes. When you check the potatoes, check the fish, too. Depending on the state of freeze and the thickness, if all goes well, they will both be done about the same time.

Eat immediately.

Advice-- this is one of those meals where the level of attention you pay to the process will make or break the meal, so don't EVER leave the kitchen while the broiler is on.

2011-07-25T17:46:00.000-07:00

LuLu, what is she thinking about?

In other News...

I seem to have developed a pregnancy obsession with foods steamed in tin cans. It started with Boston Brown Bread. My mom used to make it in canning jars when I was a kid. I loved the dense, dark, velvety texture. The molasses flavor and pockets of moist raisins sent my mouth watering. Plus the fact that we rarely even bothered to get it out of the jars-- we usually just ate it with spoons. She hadn't made it in years, so I was basically on my own. It was a challenge because we hardly ever eat canned food, so I had to dig through the recycling to find the perfect cans. Then it turns out that my mom hasn't had a stock pot in a long time. She had to go into the basement to resurrect an old, rusty pasta cooking set she bought ten years ago. It was perfect. It had a deep steaming basket that was large enough to accommodate the Pirouette can I found. I made a batch. It was so good, I made double batch the next day. I learned that you don't need to put rubber bands on the foil to shut the cans with (it makes the whole kitchen smell like burning rubber). Plus, adding circles of wax paper to the bottom before you pour in the batter means that you can pop them out rather easily. The texture and flavor was just like I remembered. The mystical thing about it, is that the recipe doesn't call for rich ingredients like butter or oil, or even a lot of white sugar, but the end result is what you'd expect from a really good brownie recipe. In fact, for something that has rye and cornmeal, and lacks chocolate, it tastes better than a brownie. Naturally, we smothered ours with butter, but it wasn't really necessary. It would have been fine perfectly unadorned. I linked to the Epicurious.com recipe, which is almost like the one I used from Father Dominic. He called for (and I heartily agree) replacing the milk with buttermilk and adding a smidgen of brown sugar.

And then, Spotted Dick (because we think the name is funny)

We found a recipe in The Unofficial Harry Potter Cookbook (thanks, KB!). Her recipe is a bit more elaborate than the others I found on the web, and she uses butter instead of suet. I don't have anything against suet, but we didn't have it in fridge, so the butter won. The recipe calls for a small amount of milk, and that is the only liquid and the whole thing. I was a little worried when the batter was less like a batter and more like a dry powder, but 2 hours of steaming produced a dense, moist, sweet wonderful product that looked exactly like the Heinz Spotted Dick cans.

In spite (or despite) of the funny name, we loved the flavor and texture of Spotted Dick.

2011-07-08T10:13:00.000-07:00

LuLu just turned 16 months. Just yesterday she started eating her morning yogurt with a spoon and a bowl. Previously I had just dumped a few scoops on her tray and she would jam her fingers in it and lick it off. Effective, but very messy. Before that we spoon fed her, but that gets old very quickly, for both parties. She had been walking since June 11th (our wedding anniversary). I used to hear the adults say how fast time flies and how quickly the children grow. It is so true. In the space of a few months, she has gone from an infant who stays where you put her, and needed help getting food into her mouth, into a curious toddler, who pulls the books off the shelves, walks on two feet, and eats with her own spoon. What is next? Driver's license? College? It boggles the mind. It seemed like I was pregnant with her forever, and that I waited to get pregnant for forever (I am rolling my eyes like a spoiled teen). Now that I am pregnant again, it seems, at least for the new baby's timeline (a boy is due Oct 23), I have been pregnant forever. I was laying in bed last night reading and I kept feeling "poke, tickle, poke" in my liver, in my kidneys, in my abdomen. It was reassuring. Just like after a long quiet night (LuLu's other olympian accomplishment is sleeping through the night, again) I am happy to hear her crying, because it means she is alive. Not that I really think anything had happened in the middle of the night, it is just nice to know nothing did.
We have gotten into a nice summer rhythm, I am no longer worried about work, I will accept what comes and in the meantime unemployment insurance is nice. I had a moment of panic the other day when I letter arrived from my old employer and the opening line was "Welcome back..." After reading it, I realized it was sent in error. It surprised me how much I didn't want to return and what a strange feeling that was. I was feeling so unproductive this morning, but then LuLu came over and gave my leg a hug and she looked up at me so piercingly that I almost wept. No, I am not wasting any time at all.

Looking for work

2011-06-16T18:02:00.000-07:00

This is week three in my "job search". I haven't had to look for a job for three years. That has been nice. For three years I didn't have to wonder (too much) about summer work, or health coverage, or what my schedule would be like in the fall. But now, I have a baby boy due in October, and I will want to take some time off (like at least 5 months) to get to know him, and of course, the time with LuLu will be wonderful, too. I have sent off a few applications on the internet. Tho' in the past I have gotten more jobs from the old fashioned classifieds and Craigslist. I see there is even more required paperwork for teachers. In the last three moves I have been less than diligent about keeping my teaching/credential file up-to-date. Some papers my be in the black holes of institutional archives. I am trying not to hyperventilate when I see things like "NCLB certification" (that is, No Child Left Behind, and I *think* I got a xeroxed yellow sheet a few years ago with mine, but it looked so unoffical I am not sure I saved it) and "three typed letters of recommendation" and a copy of credential (which is particularly worrisome, since the Department of Ed phased those out a few years ago-- the paper ones, that is. Anyone with my social security number on hand should be able to look up all my state credentials. Doesn't the job poster know this?) I wonder if I can get my old file from San Francisco, they owe me something at least, for all of this.

So I am sitting here, on our family computer, listening to Verdi's Aida, letting LuLu slowly disassemble the living room and looking at the lists of job openings, trying to imagine an imaginary self in settings that are only barely sketched out in the posts ("urban environment," "Reggio Emilia-type," "bilingual-required," "Hillsborough," "Ravenswood," "own curriculum," "motivated self-starter," ""bathrooming and daipering duties"). Usually the images that come up are very negative, based on my own worst experiences with plenty of embellishment. I can see how people past a certain age could take years to recover from a lay-off. I have enough crummy job experience where just a few phrases will send me clicking out of a post, even though the reality may be very different. I am not a particularly depressive person, but the most negative inner voices seem to be the only ones who pipe up and it is hard to ignore them. When I had my final conversation with my last principal, he tried to console me by saying that he wrote the job description for my position with the narrowest requirements possible, in the hopes that no one would want to apply for it, and it would stay open for me. Looking at the postings to the jobs I am probably the most qualified for and the most attractive, it feels like the job posters are saving those openings up for other, specific people. I know so many people who wanted my old job (including myself!). So far I have only applied to jobs I am horribly overqualified for. I need to get some new inner voices.

Part Time Inner Voice (Pacifica, Montara, Moss Beach)

Date: 2011-06-14, 10:25PM PDT
Reply to:

Unemployed Art Teacher is looking for a new inner voice with a BFA degree in Pep Talking and Career Coaching.

You must be able to work 2 or more afternoons per week and possibly Saturdays, and anytime the Art Teacher is doing her futile job searches.

The work environment is laid back, home-based, and duties may include light housekeeping and childcare for a darling toddler.

Each session is 1.5 hours.

If you have a passion for art and enjoy working with children we would love hear from you. Please e-mail resume with 10-15 copies of artwork.

Requirements:
- BFA in Studio Art (or equivalent drawing and painting skills)
- Experience in teaching art to small groups of children (up to 8 students) a PLUS
- College coursework in Early Childhood Education and/or Art Education a PLUS
- Responsible individual who always comes to class on time and prepared
- Dependable, professional, positive attitude, flexible, and patient

Compensation: Starting at $15/hr (depending on experience).
This is a part-time job.
Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
Please, no phone calls about this job!
Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.

The Dark Side of Credit Rehabilitation

2011-06-06T13:14:00.000-07:00

Dutch and I recently got a "final notice" from the IRS for a $500 bill. We were both shocked. As we read the reams of documentation they sent, a few things came to light.

1). We made an extra $4K we had no idea about. Normally this would be great news. The sad thing was we didn't remember either getting it or spending it. Or even earning it. We are scrupulous about declaring our income. We save every W-2, and we carefully send them in. Plus we are too retarded to figure out how to make money under the table. I sometimes wish we weren't such law-abiding citizens, especially when we get treated like tax evaders. If only!

2). After sending in many correct "address change" forms, the IRS still doesn't know where we live. Hence the "final notice" was sent certified mail, the only mail smart enough to overcome their postal ineptitude.

3). After a lot of digging (I couldn't look at it anymore-- I had hit my paperwork saturation point hours earlier after trying to make sense of my official lay-off papers) Dutch divined that the total corresponded eerily with an amount we were forgiven for a defaulted credit card we had paid off in return for having the principle reduced. At the time we thought it was a great thing to get those creditors off our backs, to clear that account. Paying off debts is good-- so we thought. No where in our wildest dreams did it occur to us that that money was income. We never saw it, or even spent it. The vast majority of it was bank fees, collection fees, and exhorbitant credit card interest. Besides, it wasn't free. We paid thousands of dollars for the privilege.

Our minds were boggled. Did we have to pay taxes on our Costco refund check from AMEX? What about coupons and two-for-one deals-- is that income, too? What about sales? What about my mom's free babysitting? What about other debts we pay off early-- is that taxable savings, too? Every day I am healthy and I don't go to the hospital, I am saving money (and so is my insurance), too. We are "cheating" the IRS from hundreds of untapped resources.

Why doesn't the IRS go after GM, or drug traffickers, or prostitution rings? I hear on the radio that GM simply doesn't pay taxes-- they have an army of lobbyists and legislators busily creating tax loop holes especially for them. The oil industry and Hollywood still don't pay taxes. Our tax system is horribly unfair. Clearly working as a teacher does not pay, and neither does being honest.

Post Script

I can quit my whining. It turns out we don't have to pay it because we were insolvent at the time (our debts out-value our assets). I have never been so grateful for being broke. Thanks Papa D.

And thank you MLB, for the empowering comment!

Talks with Momma

2011-05-26T07:31:00.000-07:00

I am grateful to my parents for giving me a good sense of moral/spiritual and ethical values I generally treasure. On the other hand I also got a load of questionable values that has taken me decades to sort through. I had a conversation with my mom that reminded me just how far I have drifted from some of her values and how much I want LuLu not to learn many of the lessons she instilled in me (which, I have had to unlearn again and again and again).

Leaving home (circa 1993) to go to college (which they paid for, thanks! mom and dad) I had the following assumptions.

1) Anger is bad. Nice people don't get angry. You are a nice person. If you do get angry, eat a cookie.

2) Arguments are bad, and must be avoided at all costs. There is probably something wrong with you, and it is best not to mention it. If in doubt, eat a cookie.

3) Disagreements are bad. Have a cookie.

4) People who disagree hate each other.

5) Don't ever ask for what you need-- it gives the other person the power to withhold it from you.

6) If you need something important, the best course is stealth. The CIA has it all right.

7) All the important things don't need to be spoken out loud. Everyone already knows them, and if they pretend like they don't, they are doing it on purpose because they hate you.

8) Don't say anything.

9) Conflicts happen because one party is bad. There is a deep moral and spiritual element to everything. If you disagree with me, and I am right, it means you are bad. If I am wrong, then it means I am bad. Every banality has a spiritual aspect.

10) Rules are for people who hate each other.

Tags-- Elliptical, indirect, reverse psychology, complete insanity.

If there is an imbalance of power in your favor (and you are the parent) things can go rather swimmingly. Shame is a great tool. Stink-eye is also a great communicator. And if you like to bake as well, then you are set.

Of course, there were positive things I never doubted, and these are big. I never, ever doubted my parents loved me. I never doubted that they were "doing their best". I knew they were giving my sisters and I the loving house they never had (and were doing their best to approximate with the imperfect tools they inherited).

If you have ever lived with me, now perhaps you'll understand the complete terror I had of conflict, the insane lengths I went to to avoid (deny, stuff, cover) it, the look of abject terror I probably gave you when you needed to confront me about something. The way it appeared that our conflict was shredding the very fabric of my universe (because it was). The bizarre assumptions I carried about how your behavior should be. Or the moral condemnation I meted out. (sorry!).

When Dutch, LuLu and I arrived home around 8 PM exhausted from a work party my mom greeted me with this:

"I found my wet laundry on the dryer." (see #7)

I immediately was defensive (#9) (I was not going to be the "bad party")

"I needed to use the dryer and I didn't have much time"

Mom wasn't going to take that-- she breaks out a level 9 Stink Eye. "That is no reason to leave my laundry wet"

Sorry I say.

"But I love you" she says (#4)

"People who love each other can still disagree" I say.

She continues explaining how put out she was. She accuses me of "drama." I ask her why she keeps harping on it. The Knee-Biter is sinking further and further under her blanket and Dutch suddenly leaves the room.

I continue to defend my rude and thoughtless behavior. I am not a kid anymore and her stink eye is more amusing than devastating. I eventually concede with a sarcastic tone (which I do actually regret, sarcasm is never justified) that I am a thoughtless and rude person.

She tells me that if the Knee-Biter had used that tone with her she would be in trouble. I say, "then send me to my room" as I grab the baby out of her arms and stomp to my room. Dutch is already in bed. "Your mom is crazy" he tells me. "You should really smooth things over". I return to the living room and give my mom a hug and tell her I am sorry and hopefully assure her that I have heard her (but you never know).

The last time I had an overt disagreement with her was December of '09. We were discussing what to do with Dutch's liquer collection before we moved into their house (#9, corollary-- alcohol is always bad). She threatened to "make a house rule." (oh no! anything but a house rule!!)(#10)

Things I want to teach LuLu (and possibly the Knee-Biter, if it is not too late)
1) Rules and boundaries are okay and healthy.
2) There are plenty of things in life that don't have spiritual or moral implications.
3) It is necessary to talk about important things with important people in your life.
4) Loving communication is always good.

The 1946 Joy of Cooking Hollandaise Recipe

2011-05-20T13:35:00.001-07:00

I made a couple factual errors in my previous post.

1). I was not using the '75 edition, I was using the '46 one.

2). I wrongly assumed my recipe would be easy to find on the Joy of Cooking website.

I found a modified version of Irma's "Never Fail" on the JoC website, but no mention of the "easy" one. So here it is, tapped into my phone for your gastronimic delight.

1 1/2 cup

Soften:
1 T butter
Add and beat well:
3 egg yolks
Add:
1 t cornstarch
1.5 t lemon juice
Just before serving, add slowly:
1 c boiling water
Hold pan over boiling water or high over a low flame and stir until thick. Add:
. 5 t salt
1/8 t paprika
This sauce may be placed over (not in) hot water until ready for use. It may be reheated over very slow heat. Stir it constantly.

I used a double boiler. I stirred but it never got thick.

The website and the "never fail" recipes call for 1/2 c of butter and 1 T of cream. I love butter, but I love the light texture of the Easy version better. I would not have assumed that the '46 version would have been the lighter recipe.

Where I discover the joys of Hollandaise and Meringue

2011-05-20T10:07:00.000-07:00

I had a rare afternoon of feeling good and no laundry (why does it seem like I am doing laundry every afternoon?-- oh, wait, I am a Mom now).

I had been craving Egg McMuffins or Eggs Benedict-- either way, all I could think about on my way home was English muffins, poached eggs, ham products all slathered over with Hollandaise sauce. I would have even settled for the terrible version they serve at the school's cafeteria-- complete in its own microwavable bag. I stopped off at the grocery store and picked up eggs, English muffins and ham. I was wary of the store-bought Hollandaise sauce, I intended to have a confab with Mark Bittman or Irma Rombauer for workable recipe. I wasn't even sure what Hollandaise sauce was. Mom thought it was a reux with extra egg yolks.

I found Irma (1975 ed) first. She had a "no fail" recipe and an "easy" one. I picked the "easy" one, since it had fewer ingredients. "No Fail" had a very long write up-- a bit out of character for Irma's usually terse recipes. Even more scary, I thought. Hollandaise sauce is basically egg yolks, lemon juice, boiling water, a dash of cornstarch (for thickening) and paprika (for flavor) (don't use this sentence as a recipe-- do read a real recipe). My sauce didn't thicken dramatically, but the muffins soaked it up in a very satisfactory manner and the lemon made it sparkle more than any restaurant version. I liked the lightness of it. I could see it going very well on a white fish, or shell fish.

I was left with a bowl full of egg whites. Bittman has a delectable-sounding section in his "How to Cook Everything" about fun things to do with meringue. The Knee-Biter (who is getting tall-- I should upgrade her to Shoulder Biter) is a great kitchen helper and loves chocolate. So we picked the Chocolate Meringue recipe (almost identical to Irma's-- the only diff was the order of adding the ingredients). Again, we were treated to a recipe with a short ingredient list (egg whites, coco powder, vinegar and sugar). The hardest thing was waiting for them to cool. We ate them hot. The outsides had a crunchy skin and the insides were nice a chewy. Between the whole family, only a few survived to be consumed the next day.

I hate the idea of throwing things away, and if I must divorce egg-parts in the future, I have some nice uses for the leftover bits.

ballerina comic

2011-04-29T15:36:00.001-07:00

I found myself on Friday teaching a mandatory comics lesson. The kids had to illustrate a "Hero Ally" stopping a bully incident. They had to conceive and execute it all in under an hour. I wanted them to do it digitally, so I showed them how to be really lazy comic artists, by using the cut-and-paste function. Did they do it? Nope. But their comics turned out much prettier than mine. I'll try posting some as soon as they are done. Speaking of lazy artists, I really wanted to show them Dinosaur Comics, but alas, I realized T-Rex is hardly middle school appropriate.

Hearts on my mind

2011-04-19T14:11:00.000-07:00

We took Dutch to the ER on Sunday (before last), his heart was racing, he was feeling weak. We spent the subsequent 6 hours staring at his monitors. Fortunately, things started improving almost as soon as we got there (and they pumped him full of magnesium sulfate, sadly he didn't get enough to become a "funny limp noodle" as my sister-in-law says). At first, I really didn't think that Dutch was having a real "emergency". When he passed out two years ago, I dragged him to the ER and after an obnoxious amount of testing they said he was "dehydrated" and his sodium was low. That was when he started taking salt pills, and we hadn't had another incident. Until now, that is. I thought we'd go there and they would say, "dude, you just need to lay down and have a glass of water".

Today I went to a prenatal and I got to hear Dos's heartbeat and it was the same bpm as Dutch's -- 150-- a great heart rate for a foetus, but a perfectly awful heart rate for an adult man.

We stared at Dutch's heart lines for 6 hours.

At the beginning they looked like this. They didn't even look like a heart thingy at all. The doctor gave him some serious "chemical difibrillator" (ha ha look at my spelling!). It took a while, and then it looked like this...

This was after the chemical difibrillator. The rate jumped from 150, to 110, 125, all over the place. But it did start looking like a heart thingy. I am sure there is a name for that typical heart line. Dutch's never looked like it. Notice it is not regular at all.

After hours of staring at the monitor, it started to look like this. Less noisy, fewer bad words. But then it would revert. The doctor came in and out, and offered suggestions and hypothesis. Maybe we started hallucinating. Long story short, Dutch is OK, but we got to meet the funniest cardiologist. I had never met a cardiologist before. He addressed all the important things to me. Next week "we'll" be getting together to discuss Dutch's medications. Bwaah Ha Ha Ha!

LuLu @ Night

2011-02-10T06:33:00.001-08:00

LuLu is conked out beside me this morning. She just finished Breakfast 1. Her hand rests protectively on my left breast. She is almost sleeping through the night. Dutch and I still get up once or twice to comfort her. It goes like this-- we are both soundly asleep, one or both hears a few pitiful cries. We lay in bed waiting for the other spouse to get up or for LuLu to fall back asleep (wishful thinking). One of us caves to reality and gets up. We stumble to her crib, pop her pacifier back in, tuck her covers around her face, and usually, she is back in Dreamland. Unless its 5AM, then its Breakfast 1 time. We pick her up and she is jubilant, thrilled, radiant. Her face cracks into a giant grin. She wiggles with delight. She makes happy sounds. I carry her straight to bed, her head held high. She gets down to business with gusto. Once sated, she slips back to sleep, just as a swimmer falls back into the water after taking a quick breather at the side of the pool.

I usually take this routine for granted. It was born as a compromise between the adult need for a few hours uninterrupted sleep and LuLu's baby needs for comfort and community. I soon discovered if I put off Breakfast 1, I wouldn't have enough time to get ready for work and it coincides perfectly with Dutch's morning schedule. So, in spite of his early morning, we all get to steal a little family time together.

My alarm just went off, so its time for me to sign off.

Where I get preachy

2011-02-03T08:02:00.001-08:00

There are a few things I hate more than internet-bible-blog-scripture-flinging discussions. In fact, I avoid them like the plague. I have enough problems (in my own, passive, private way) with a lot of Christian authority (I know there special ring of hell for Pat Robertson) that my general rule, especially for this blog, is no scripure, no telling people stuff (mostly because I have such a wise, kick-ass readership that I fear "opening my mouth too wide that my tiny brain falls out"), no getting on my Jesus soapbox.

But what are self-imposed rules for? If not to be broken?

I was reading this blog post from "ristowswife". Here is the link. The rest of this entry is a response to that post, so read it first.

http://ristowswife.wordpress.com/2011/01/22/the-area-god-roped-off/

I like this blog a lot, the writer is spunky, a Christian and very talented. But after reading her post, I was mad. It took me a long time to untangle the faceless wad of irritation, betrayal, shame, righteous indignation that I found myself in. It took me a whole hour-and-a-half. Aided and abetted by the fact LuLu decided to sleep in. I didn't want to rant on Ristowswife, so I am getting it over right now.

Open rant
I do not love Jesus because he makes the best rules.
(The Sikhs have the best rules)
I do not love The Church because it has the best logic.
(I leave logic to the Nazis)
I am not a Christian because it is right.
(I more obnoxious group of deviants I have never sat down with)
I love Jesus because he has love and a place at the table for everyone, the master, the slave, the Republican, the Democrat, the tranny, the woman, the pimply adolescent, the murderer, the victim, the post-colonialists, the hacks, the malcontents, the idiots, even Peter Singer. All we have to do is just sit down and break bread with Him. Our transformation is his wild, crazy, illigitimate miracle.

Close rant

So, that said, here is the ürtext version, complete with my own (case in point) ridiculous opening typo. Ristowswife has comment moderation, so in case my lil' gem gets round-filed, it is here for your edification.

W, and whathat a fantastic blog! I have been lurking for a while this post is inspiring me to come out of the shadows. A couple of things in your post struck me;

First off I had no idea those reservoir drains were called "glory holes". I am familiar with the one in Whiskeytown Lake, and it is terrifying. Even from the road, I can feel the pull, the weight of all that water.

Secondly, as a dilettante ocean swimmer I love buoys. They represent safety and and a goal. When I swim with friends, we are always trying to "touch the bouy" as it represents an accomplishment. Of course, we have no desire to go beyond the buoy, as that would place us in the shipping lane.

Thirdly, I am familiar with the story of Ruth and this is the first time I have heard it interpreted as a cautionary tale regarding border-crossing. You are right, Ruth was not an Isrealite, she was in fact a Moabite. Ruth was breaking no laws by living in her own ancestral land, and I am not sure that Naomi was, either. Famines are wretched (which is why we build reservoirs) and I don't sense that the writer of Ruth was condemning them for leaving, nor that the death of the husbands was a punishment. So much suffering in life happens through no one's fault. God took these awful events, the famine, the deaths and made something beautiful from them. If Ruth had done what Naomi told her, she would have stayed in Moab with her sister-in-law Orpah. A legitimate (but silly) arguement could be made for doing the opposite of what your in-laws say. By returning to the promised land with Naomi, she entered God's covenant, that is the miracle, she didn't have to be an Isrealite, she didn't even have to be married to one. She had no credentials, no pedigree. In fact, not only was her pedigree lacking, it was wrong-- the Moabites were the descendants of the incestuous relationship between Lot and his daughters. She entered as a bastard-widow-beggar, just like we do. And God's love and blessing is bigger than borders, and natural disasters, and sin, and death. So yes, you are right, Ruth is a tale about border-crossings, across the great divide of history, of generations, and time and culture, Ruth is saying, come to the table, there is enough for you, and your messed up life, and your kids, your disasters and heartbreak.

Freeway sign

2011-01-23T15:10:00.001-08:00

View from hw 99

2011-01-23T14:54:00.001-08:00

Going home from another Dutch family reunion.

iPad lemons

2011-01-23T10:05:00.001-08:00

We are spending the weekend with my in-laws, and their technology. My bro-in-law dug up the "brushes" app, the same one Hockney uses and I fell in love with it.

About the lemon

Reason 189 of Why I Love the Central Valley.
Citrus trees are everywhere. Even in the backyards of empty houses, where we found this lemon.

Why sew?

2010-12-31T09:13:00.001-08:00

I just spent the last 3 days holed up in my mother's bedroom. I started 2 adult dresses and a baby dress. I finished 1 of the big dresses and I finished the baby outfit. The days went by very quickly. Lulu hung out with me the whole time. Time was when I was a baby on the floor, playing with my mother's scraps. Lulu was excellent company, keeping the conversation going, always a word of encouragement or a well considered a critique. She made sure we didn't forget meal times. She even helped me a little with the ironing and sewing. Until I realized just how dangerous those activities are. But mostly I had time to think; about equity and fairness, about the cost of my time, about the millions of people around the world working in garment factories, about the amount of a effort that goes into a single garment. About what it would be like working on an assembly line, sewing the same garment over and over. I wondered what I was doing. fabric isn't cheap and I could spend the same amount of money and get a better product. I sent hours on the orange dress, getting it fit right and anyone who knows what to look for will know it was home made. I suppose that is the charm.

Sewing projects

2010-12-28T11:49:00.001-08:00

The internet is a dangerous place. Case in point, I was up late the other night, looking at sewing patterns online. I found a lot of beautiful dress patterns. I spend a lot of time looking at Betsey Johnson's website. I looked at patterns specifically for fat women. I looked for dresses I could nurse in. One of the best sources were Amish clothing websites. Unfortunately, those dresses were really ugly. Useful but ugly. Why doesn't Betsey Johnson make "gracious" dresses (as they call nursey dresses in Amish country). I know I am not the only nursing mother out there. The upshot is, I bought lots of patterns and enough fabric for two dresses and now I hope I can get them made before I return to work.

LuLu's profile

2010-12-10T17:48:00.001-08:00

I never thought I'd be gung ho about drawing on my phone. I stopped drawing daily when I left Flip Flop and moved to the city, that was three years ago. Working full time, and now having a family has taken its toll on my discretionary time. But now, I can draw anywhere I want, even while nursing-- a feat nearly impossible with a pen and paper. While I miss the physical act of putting pen to paper, I would much rather draw, with an audience, no less, than not. It is fun to dust off old skills and pick up new ones. The millions of colors available, and the many digital brush tools are a bit overwhelming. I find myself defaulting to the tools and techniques I was trained for. The tan Canson paper with Conté pastels in white and red medici. The yellow Ticonderoga HB pencils on typing paper. A dirty finger rubbed on a pink pastel. The physical world gave us so many delightful restraints that I took for granted. Now there are new restraints-- a paintbox that only has colors of light. If I want Burnt Sienna or Parma Violet, I have to adjust the sliders of red, green and blue to approximate them. I have to imagine what the colors would look like on the colored background. Looking at the lists of colors in my head, I hadn't realized before now how terrestrial they are, how rooted in culture and history and far away places. I think of Prussian Blue, or Sienna, of Parma. The digital paintbox exists no place and no where. It has no history, and no baggage. A white illusion entirely lacking lead oxide. After seeing the paintings from the Paris Commune @ the De Young, and Gustav Dore's painting of the causualties of the Prussian siege, done, ironically in a Prussian blue grisaile. Did he do that on purpose?

All the colors can be summoned and sent away at will. I remember spening $20 on a tube of oil paint, a particular shade of luminous sky blue that I couldn't mix. How the pigment was coursely ground to preserve the facets of the mineral. This is a sideways step for me. Drawing with my finger means I don't have an instrument to control, the instrument is now the screen. The screen artefacts are funny. Every once in a while, a stray horizontal line appears. But I don't have to carry pencils rattling in a tin box. I also don't need a scanner. You, dear readers get to see it with a well-placed fingertap

Dutch's knuckles illuminated by the glow of his device

2010-12-10T16:45:00.001-08:00

Nana's Cookies

2010-12-09T16:23:00.001-08:00

#blog 12/9

As I pulled the baking dish from the oven, a rich, heady shockwave of aroma hit my face. Ahh, I thought, so this is the Smell of the Holidays. Nothing says "December at The Manse" quite like the intoxicating aroma of coconut and evaporated milk-- two humble ingredients that come together for an experience that is more than the sum of its parts (like the fabled nitro and glycerin, says my snarky inner voice). Its been years since my mother made them. She probably stopped because they have such little nutritional redemption, and because they are expensive to make (depending on where you shop, plan to spend about $20 on them).

Growing up, my mother only made Nana's Cookies once a year. According to her, Nana, my mother's maternal grandmother, invented them, but you will find this recipe on the back of any can of sweetened condensed milk, bag of butterscotch chips, or do an internet search of "7 layer cookies," even Max's Opera Cafe has a version (Bob Lane's Ex-wife's Cookies). They are not even really cookies, fat bombs or artery-stopping pellets would be a more apt description. They are really bars, a conglomeration of fat and sugar that coagulates at high temperature in the oven, that is cooked in the old Pyrex lasagna pan, and when cooled (always a maddeningly long wait) can be carefully cut apart. Wise people cut them very small, knowing that only fakirs with superhuman restraint can stop at one, but deep regrets, and painful internal foment await the person stupid enough to overindulge. Better have a few small ones and live rather than a few large ones and wish you were dead.

Nana was a legendary sweets cook. Our family's women pass around an ancient mimeographed copy of her culinary school sweets textbook, filled with intimidating recipes calling for "invert" sugar and a glassware setup that would rival a chem lab. I only remember her as a fragil, delicate old woman with billowy white hair piled on her head. She was never fat, though. Which surpises me, because me, my mother and her mother all have legendary sweet teeth and the corresponding generous girth. She was a stylish, beautiful woman, looking out confidently from her photographs. I wonder what went wrong. How did Nana maintain her trim figure and her culinary prowess through world wars, Depressions, 2 daughters, losing a farm and a husband (ironically, only a few miles from where Dutch was born), Alzheimers, being married to an artist and having my grandad as a son-in-law (story goes that every time she saw him, she yelled at him, smart woman)? All I can say is they don't grow women like that anymore.

It took me a while to warm up to Nana's cookies as a child. The first flavor the sticks a loaded gun in the face of your tastebuds and throws them violently against the roof of your mouth is butterscotch. I really don't even know what butterscotch is made of. I was reading the ingredients of the butterscotch chips and all I could discern was vanilla and natural and artificial flavors. Which means it is a product of some clever chemists. Be that as it may, their cloying, dayglo flavor is a part of their appeal. After the butterscotch goes whimpering down your gullet its followed by a crowd of wonder- butter-toasted graham crackers, enveloped in little crunchies of caramelized milk sugar, followed by glorious coconut, smacking of warm tropical afternoons and swaying palm trees. Finally, like guests who don't know the party is over, the semi sweet chocolate morsels leave a pleasantly bitter theobromo gift on the back your tongue. As you exhale, a few little stragglers reignite the glory of the memory of that little cube of heaven.

Nana's Choco-Sooth Cookies

1 cube melted butter
1 c Graham cracker crumbs or 8 crushed G crackers
1 pckg choc chips
1 pckg butterscotch chips
1 c crushed walnuts
1 c ground coconut
1 can sweetened condensed milk

Put ingred in 9x13 baking dish in same order listed above. Bake @ 350 for 30 min.

Montara cypress in the fog

2010-12-09T11:36:00.001-08:00

Foggy cypresses from our front window

LuLu's Toes

2010-12-09T08:49:00.001-08:00

I found another drawing app on the droid market, autodesk sketchpad. I spent 2 bucks on it. I love it. The interface is a bit clunky, but it is better than draw and share.

Dutch's Nose

2010-12-08T17:18:00.002-08:00

Must be viewed from the side.

Lulu's ear

2010-12-08T14:21:00.001-08:00

Beans

2010-12-08T14:03:00.001-08:00

The armoire

2010-12-07T14:51:00.001-08:00

Via the camera app

The armoire

2010-12-07T14:49:00.001-08:00

I was drawing the armoire while LuLu nursed

Phone sketch book

2010-12-07T14:33:00.001-08:00

David Hockney was on the radio this morning. He was talking about his show in Paris. He had drawn pictures on his iphone and emailed them to his gallery. when I looked them up online I was blown away. His flowers were beautiful. The colors were rich and the shape in line for sensitive. I realized just how talented he is when I tried to draw a picture of LuLu just now. I can't get his app because I use a droid. I found an workable one on the droid market. But it doesn't have a palette where I can attend to get my fingers in paint. I have tried some drawing applications when I first got my phone. But I was disappointed by how crude they were. Hockney is such a genius, he inspired me yet again. I am going to keep trying, this is certainly easier than carrying a Sketchbook around.

Parenting Challenge #1

2010-12-06T06:30:00.001-08:00

I already miss LuLu's rubbery gums. I am at a loss. She has had sharp little tooth nubs for a week and a half now. Immediately, she bit my nipple. I was prepared, I screamed, shoved her face into my breast (just until she let go). She looked surprised and then she resumed nursing. She has bit me every day since then. My poor nips are bruised, and yesterday, she actually broke the skin. I continue to scream, yell an I even tried giving her a little flick on the cheek.

Up until last week, nursing was one of my favorite things to do. I looked forward to the excuse to sit down and spend uninterrupted time with her. To cuddle and hold her in my arms. To look at her, to be with her, with no other demands on my time and attention. But now it is different. It hurts. I am a little anxious. I was never anxious before. Her choices had never caused me pain before. I doubt she is doing it on purpose. She is just now learning about object permanence, of simple cause and effect. She may not connect my screams and yells to the contraction of her jaw muscles. I know she needs to gnaw on things right now, and we have been giving her plenty of teething objects. Our relationship had been so straightforward. I miss those innocent days. I had hoped a behaviorist model of no-bite nursing would help. BF Skinner, you let me down.

Dutch suggested that I simply stop nursing her, but I am not ready to switch her to formula now. Besides, I have a jury summons right after Christmas, and my excuse hinges on nursing her, plus it is flu season, and I want her to continue having the support of my immune system. She is not ready for weaning, and neither am I.

I have to laugh at myself. I am sure this little drama is nothing compared to the complexity that will come as she grows and her world expands. Soon, I am sure I'll be hearking back to these uncomplicated days.

Done with Nanowrimo!

2010-12-02T08:45:00.001-08:00

I finished my 50k rough draft. Now it is sitting on Dutch's harddrive like a snoring Grendel. I am now officially afraid of it. The working title, again, thank you Dutch, is "Monkeys Aren't the Only Ones Who Throw Their Poo, or The Record of My Calamity". I am not sure I could wade through 90+ pages of my turgid purple prose, much less revise it. I downloaded the beta version of Scrivener for windows, to finish the clunky metaphore I started, I will think of it as my Boethius. Argh! What a funny typo! I meant to say "the name of that guy, that starts with a "b", who kills Grendel" not the name of the guy who wrote The Consolation of Philosophy. Moving on...

Waking up to Gratitude

2010-11-27T09:00:00.001-08:00

I love this holiday. I woke up this morning after the 5 AM feed and teething event to find everything calm again. For the first time in a long time I wished I had a sketch pad so I could draw it. LuLu's first tooth-nub erupted on Thanksgiving. While new teeth are an exciting development, they are causing her a lot of pain. Additionally, we are away from home, so our little routines are all disturbed. At 5 this morning, LuLu woke up for her Fivesy, and I fed her, per habit, and then she finished, and usually the itinerary states that "baby will go back to sleep" but LuLu didn't. She cried and fussed and the snuggling and pacifier didn't work at all. We gave her some Baby Orajel, and discovered a second toothy nub! While we lament the end of her days as a gummy "toothless wonder" and welcome her new chompers and the beginning The Dental Phase, the transition is not without pain. She eventually went back to sleep, and so did Dutch. The little storm has passed, and looking at them asleep and peaceful, makes my heart burst with love and gratitude. I am thankful for LuLu, who deigned to leave God's embrace to come to Earth and bless us with her presence. I am grateful to Dutch for all of his sterling qualities; his patience, wisdom and his ability to lighten any situation with a monkey reference. I am grateful for my in-laws who invited us to spend the holiday in their beautiful vacation house by the beach, and for the decades of careful saving and planning that made it possible today. I am thankful for all the doctors and nurses who worked so hard with LuLu, helping her cope with all the lumps of being out of the womb too early. I am grateful to my family for making our present lifestyle possible, without them I couldn't afford to work or, paradoxically, not to work at the same time. Their generosity allowed me to find a balance between time at home and work.

So I am here, now, supported in a great web of love and joy, none of it is my doing, like a beggar in a palace, and all I can say is "hallelujah."

Thanksgiving meltdown

2010-11-25T19:50:00.001-08:00

peaceful parenting: Lactation Cookies: Increasing Milk Supply

2010-11-11T16:23:00.001-08:00

http://www.drmomma.org/2010/08/lactation-cookies-recipe-increasing.html

This is the mother of all milk producing recipes. The second one is my favorite

Galactogogue Peanut Butter Cookies

2010-11-11T16:20:00.001-08:00

Galactogogue means "milk producing" and while I am not sure that you will get a white issue from your nipples from eating these, they contain some nice nutrition for lactating moms. Etymological aside, does "galaxy" refer to the Milky Way?

Inspired by the old red and white checkered Better Homes cookbook

1/2 c butter
1 c chunky peanut butter
1/2 c blackstrap molasses (for iron)
1/2 c brown sugar
2 eggs
1/2 t vanilla
1 1/2 c whole wheat flour
1/4 t salt
4 heaping T of Brewer's Yeast (for the B vitamins)
1/2 c flax meal (omega 3)
Enough water to mix with the flax meal so it turns to mush

Preheat oven to 350•

Cream egg, fats, sugars and vanilla in one bowl

Mix remaining dry ingredients in another bowl

Mix the bowls together and the flax mush, spoon dough on cookie sheets, press with a fork. Cookie scoops are the best! Makes 30 cookies. Cook for 11 minutes @ 350

The next time I make these I am going to add frozon coconut meat. I also want to try it with other nut butters like almond or cashew. Enjoy and may the The Milk Flow from your Starry Breasts!

LuLu's First Love

2010-11-08T16:09:00.001-08:00

I don't pretend to understand all the subtleties that happen in LuLu's mind, in her interior life. But one thing I have noticed is that she is gung ho about nursing. She has grown so much in the past month its hard to keep up with her development. Her babbling sounds more and more like English, plus I can have pretend conversations with her.

DIY Kombucha SCOBY

2010-11-04T14:38:00.001-07:00

For the truly kombuacha-desperate

Go buy a bottle of unflavored, unpasteurized, unfiltered commercial kombucha. Pour it into a sterilized jar, rubberband a napkin on top and set it in a quiet place for a few weeks, or until it grows its own SCOBY, or rots or spills or your spouse gets sick of looking at it. Proceed as usual.

Nanowrimo

2010-11-01T15:00:00.000-07:00

I know you have been dying to read an excerpt of my up and coming novel. Please be aware of the rules for works in progress. 1) No criticism before the first draft is done. 2) No mockery, belittling, no negative self talk 3) Affirmations every day! (I am a terrific writer! I am creative! Golden words flow from my fingers!)

Emeline tried to focus on what the teacher was saying. Slow slow quick quick. Should she go right, should she go left? Her partner this evening was Patel. Patel loved his mother. He had a little Hitler moustache that he thought was dashing and on his brown face looked more grasping hipster than anything. He stared vacantly over her right sholder. In ballroom dance you are supposed to make eye contact, but Patel never did. He said looking into her eyes forced him to break his concentration and he was afraid he’d run into another couple. She forgot to be flattered by his backhanded compliment to the power of her eyes.

Check me out at www.nanowrimo.org Camille!

NaNoWriMo

2010-10-30T15:13:00.001-07:00

Or something. Me, who hardly has the time to shower, yet alone blog, has signed up for the NaNoWriMo.org challenge. I have always wanted to write a novel-- tho' I am not at all sure what about. Want to check out my profile? Anybody have any ideas?

http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/716749

The Pleasure of the Opera

2010-10-16T08:52:00.001-07:00

Last night Dutch and I left LuLu in the tender care of the KB while we went to the city to enjoy the opera. Opera evenings tend to be frought with drama, and not just the action on the stage. We are almost always late, even when we are on time. Last night I decided I had had it with trying to arrive early enough to get dinner. The opera happens to be in one of the few sections of the city that doesn't have a good restaurant on every corner, so travel time is yet another factor, and eating dinner at five makes for a very long evening. So I decided to pack a picnic. The opera is very picnic friendly-- no bag check, and plenty of tables in the mezzanine. We left with enough time to enjoy our picnic and then when we were half way there I remembered that I had forgotten the tickets! So we arrived minutes before curtain, when the opera train leaves...
We ended up enjoying our picnic during the intermission. The show was gorgeous, we saw Madama Butterfly. It was operatically painful to watch Butterfly waiting for the bastard sailor for three hours, it reminded me of times I have waited for the phone to ring. I can imagine a libretto for a modern version-- "ring little cell phone, ring!"

2010-10-03T07:46:00.001-07:00

2010-10-03T07:33:00.001-07:00

LuLu is passed out on my chest right now. Dutch is passed out beside me. The rain is twinkling on the eaves and the highway 1 traffic is zooming through puddles. I am afraid they are going to knock down Lena's cottage across the street. Years of neglect, falling trees and unfinished remodelling projects have taken their toll on one of the cutest buildings in the Hamlet. I had chilldhood fantasy of living in a house like that. But I digress.

LuLu was super fussy yesterday. I plied the breast, gripe water, cuddling to no avail. It wasn't until we bundled up oursleves and went to one of my favorite beaches that she calmed down. I have written about Sweetwater before. It was overcast but not cold. The bluffs were dominated by the mildewed skeletons of last spring's milk thistle, Queen Anne's Lace and the black, rotting detritus of other plants. It was a cross between the Dead Swamps of Mordor and Miss Haversham's wedding. The only sign of life were the wild rabbits and the bright yellow school busses (from Modesto-- I wonder what they thought of our grey beach?). In spite of the vegetable gloom, the oval path through the trees was enchanting. LuLu's eyes brightened as soon as we entered the vault. Even the hum of the road takes on a magical quality under the trees. Did the gothic architects try to recreate the feeling of walking through a glade with their churches? We may as well have been walking through a nave. The ivy-covered stumps, our fellow worshippers. As we returned to the car, the sky lit up a subtle pink, before the light began to fade. Sunsets on overcast evenings are nearly imperceptible.

Autumn Uneasiness

2010-10-02T09:18:00.001-07:00

Autumn has hit us on the coast like a boot in the solar plexus. Between the sweltering afternoons and peasoup morning fog, its abundantly clear that summer is dead. I am rather glad summer of '10 is over. The school calendar robbed us of two weeks of freedom and the sun hardly even made an appearance. Tho' I will miss the lazy mornings with LuLu.

The transition from summer to fall has always been the hardest to make. From the vague scratchiness in my throat, perpetually swollen glands and the dank spectre of the flu, its the time of year when good health seems the most precarious. It makes me wish I had a traditional Chinese doctor I could call. I can't imagine calling up my GP and saying, hey, I feel that drop in temperature, that autumn malaise coming on , what should I do? I want a liver tonic. I want to eat strange fungis whose names I can't pronounce. I want to prepare elaborate broths that will simmer for days and nights, filling the air with exotic smells. I want to crawl into a dark warm place to hibernate. I want to sit in a sauna. I want to start ambitious felting projects, I want to over-winter in Berlin, I want to see the aurora borealis. I want to take a trip on the Trans-Siberian railroad. I want to take a short fast, I want to live in my own yurt and drink yak butter tea, I want to dig up roots and eat them, I want to bundle up the LuLu and take her a hilltop where we can fall asleep under the stars, I want it to be so dark and quiet that we can hear the planets move, I want to learn to appreciate home prepared snails in the south of France, I want moule. I want moule in garlic and wine sauce. I want to sip hot Fernet while I get my feet rubbed.

Six Days of Work Make One Weak

2010-09-29T15:16:00.000-07:00

I have found lately, as the weekly routines are getting cemented into rituals of drudgery that more and more I am simply looking forward to the weekends. This drives me nuts because 1) its a bad attitude and 2) the weekends are over all too quickly and the cycle repeats itself again and again. So I have decided to start a partial list of weekday things that I can look forward to.

Please feel free to add any, or create your won pleasure of the Mid Week to link here.

Monday
Monday is my mom's house-cleaning day. She gets up very early to get a head start on the weekly cleaning tasks. She is busy most of the day and by the time I arrive home, she is taking a well-deserved nap. That means I get the job of making dinner. I love making dinner, and since I share the dinner job with my mom, that means we both get a break, so that we can enjoy someone else's cooking once in a while. Last night I roasted a chicken I found in the fridge and accompanied it with bulgar pilaf and an arugula salad. I have been challenging myself to make cheeseless meals (since cheese is my mom's go to food) as a culinary version of the game Taboo.

Tuesday
Tuesday is laundry day here at Chez Dutch. While doing laundry is a lot of work, it is not without its rewards. It is a task, but it isn't rocket science. It is something that if I start reasonably early, I can get done before bed, additionally, Dutch is a wonderful Laundry Partner, so that while I am feeding the baby, he can be folding and transferring the clothes between the washer and the dryer. Between him and I and the wonderfully automated appliances the job becomes more about vigilance than watts expended. Of course, the piece d' resistance, the crowning glory is taking a much deserved shower and putting one's clean self in between delectably warm, clean sheets. I truly believe heaven will have lots of clean sheets and that they one of the greatest animal pleasures here on earth. So thank you, cotton farmers, textile mills, Sears, the water company, the electric company, and the legions of people and resources who deliver the goods and services so that I can celebrate clean sheets.

Wednesday
Wednesday is a bit hard. At work, its the day I realize that I am so hopelessly behind I'll never catch up, harboring the hope that on Monday I'll be able to take care of it. Maybe Wednesday will become sacred to blogging, or pickling, bread-baking or some other homey and quiet activity. Speaking of pickling, I finally tried the simple cucumbers-in-salt-water-left-out-on-the-counter-for-three-days variety. Only the last time I used green beans. They were so salty (I'll use less next time) that they became the poor man's version of capers. Dinner becomes a challenge to use all of the week's vegetables because Thursday is...

Thursday
Thursday may be the easiest mid-week day to laud. When I was a kid, it was Piano Day-- a wonderful combination of music, good conversation and showing off. Now it is Farm Box Day-- a wonderful combination of seasonal veggies, fruits and herbs.

Every Evening of the Week Pleasures

Coming home to LuLu. If she is awake, she always has a huge smile for me. Babies have the amazing ability to emote with their entire bodies. Her smiles involve her toes. I don't know how she does it, but they look happy when she smiles. I don't know when adults loose the ability to emote with their toes, but it truly is a tragedy.

Hanging out with Family I realize, of course, that family can try the patience of the most long-suffering people. Like everything else, they come, they go and I'd much rather enjoy their presence, as fleeting as it may be, than not-- especially the children. The Knee-Biter is on the freeway on ramp of becoming a young lady-- her days of playing with dolls and making things are quickly coming to an end. LuLu grows an inch and learns a new trick every day. And for at least a few minutes I can pretend I don't need to ask Dutch for money, or that he is a big shot paterfamilias now and enjoy his humor and whatever silent Japanese film he brought home from the library just like I did when we were still dating.

Dream journal

2010-09-15T16:36:00.001-07:00

I had another dream. A reocurring dream. I was in large warehouse space at my elementary school. it may have been the library or maybe it was an art room. I may have been a student or a teacher. there were big cabinets full of children's clay projects. They were organized by color. Hundreds of little green bowls. Hundreds of little blue bowls. They were so fragile i was afraid they would break. The floors were polished concrete. the rafters were exposed in the ceilings. the atmosphere was cold. There were hundreds of flat files full of children's paintings. I was afraid i would never be able to find what i was looking for. But there was a small warm room with orange light, floor to ceiling with books. A group of children arise and i realized i had taught them when they were much smaller. I asked them if they remembered me. No, They said, they didn't. Their answer made me very sad.

Looking @ paintings

2010-09-03T06:32:00.001-07:00

We went to the de Young museum last night to catch the tail end of the impressionist show. I'm always pleasantly surprised by the pleasures of looking at paintings. It was our second visit to the show. Many of the paintings I'd seen as a child the last time the impressionist show came to san francisco. The portrait of alfred sisley with the cigar and the woman in the bath-- small paintings, like dumplings containing a rich little world. I enjoyed seeing Gustav Moreau's Beauty and the Beast. In reproduction his paintings always appear complicated and detailed but in person its fun to see how he pulls off his illusions. (Looks like he builds up transparent washes and then tops it of with embroidery -like details). A good show always makes me want to run to my non-existant studio and paint something

More on the happy conjunction of lactobacillus and yeast

2010-08-28T19:03:00.001-07:00

The final sourdough loaf. Moist, chewy and oh so sour.

More on Even Slower

2010-08-28T17:20:00.001-07:00

I finally pulled the bread out of the oven late last night. I cooked it "jim lehey" style in a crueset. The crust was chewy, the interior was moist. It was a lovely loaf.

Adventures in Sourdough

2010-08-28T17:01:00.001-07:00

Since my kombucha scoby died, i have been looking for a bacterial pet to replace it with. Sourdough seems like the perfect alternative. I was intimidated by the thoughtof the creating my own starter. Just leaving out a bowl of flour and water seems too risky. What if i started cultivating a flesh eating bacteria on accident? I read about a grape starter in julia child's "cooking with the masters."

The really slow food movement

I started in july with a bag of unwashed grape and some flour and water. I tore up a pillow case , and put the grapes in a bowl along with flour and water. I let it sit for six days. Since we were having a cold snap, i set the bowl on a heating pad, set to the lowest setting. I wasn't able to get to the starter immediately so it languished in the fridge for a week. Needless to say, the odor was strange -- a combination of fart gas and fruitful. And it was a deep mauve color. The original recipe called for feeding the starter for 3 days and then making a dough with yeast. Adding yeast seems counter intuitive. I was attracted sourdough because it meant i didn't have to use commercially prepared yeast. It's also called for using a large food processor. I didn't have one so i chose instead to use my mom's standing mixer. The resulting dough was stiff, barely mixed, lumpy and nearly unworkable. I added more water and kneaded it for a long time and finally produced a workable dough. Although the recipe stated the dough would be wet, my ball was on the dry side. The resulting bread was sour yet dense. Not quite hockey puck, but heavier than I wanted.

Even Slower

I found another recipe on the nets for a 100% sourdough bread. It called for not one, but two sponges, for a total of three more days of fermentation. I finally

The End of the Chicken

2010-08-22T09:08:00.001-07:00

NB see the previous post for the beginning of this one.

It was past bedtime when I started spreading the hummus over the still warm bread and laying the tender, warm breast over it. I made 6 sandwiches, enough to get us through Wednesday. After all the time and money I had invested they had to be the greatest sandies ever.

They were.

There was enough leftover chicken that it turned up in numerous soups, a pilaf, a casserole and a noodle dish. Thank you Hen Spirit for providing sustenance to me and my family.

The Elusive Chicken Sandwich

2010-08-22T08:56:00.001-07:00

I had a crisis last weekend when I contemplated the 5 lunches I would have to eat away from home. Then I thought about Dutch, not having had a homemade lunch in almost a year. That is 10 lunches. It didn't matter that I hadn't written single lesson plan for the coming week. Sustenance was my main concern. I fed lulu and bolted for the grocery store with only the vague intention of shopping for sandwich fixings. Once at Safeway I was overwhelmed with the sheer size of the place and at the same time the crummy ingredients of the food I was interested in.

HUMMUS

I have been on the hummus kick lately. I was craving the russian grocery canned hummus mix. It is a mixture of tahini and garbanzo beans and it is up to the consumer to dress it up. Naturally, I couldn't find it. I found an expensive jar of tahini and had to settle for a few cans of garbanzo beans. The runny, bland grocery store variety was out of the question.

Chicken

I was looking at the meat section and getting more and depressed by the numbing rows of bloodless, plastic wrapped packages. I wanted a dead animal. I missed the honest Chinese grocery butchers, where there are rows of identifiable body parts. I finally settled for a headless Foster farms chicken.

Bread

I glanced over the sad bakery aisle, now picked over. Finding no inspiration, I decided I would come home and bake.

I picked up a few other sundries like fruit and sardines (I had to give up canned tuna while I was pregnant and have since discovered the omega 3 rich joys of tinned sardines and herring) and headed home.

I spent the next six hours of my rapidly disappearing Sunday afternoon baking, processing a whole chicken and grinding canned garbanzo beans in a food mill to make hummus.

I had to enlist my mother's help with the chicken. I had planned on boiling it-- not only do the French have a great term for it-- pot au fou, but the meat is always moist and you get a mess of chicken stock. A few hours later, I was carving up the breast and putting a good quart of stock in the fridge.

BLACK BREAD

I got the bread started as soon as I could. I had good luck in the past with Laurel's Kitchen pumpernickel. I had a terrible time with the dough, it was way too watery. Eventually I got the consistency right and got it rising. Next time I'll try another recipe. It turned out moist, dark and dense-- just like the Georgian bakery on Geary. Cut thin, it would be perfect for the sandies.

HUMMUS

I had never used a food mill and I didn't want to mess with the food processor, with all its hard to clean plastic parts. I found out the hard way which size hole to use (the biggest) but not before I got little bits of garbanzo on the walls, floor and counter (sorry Mom). The resulting hummus was the best I had ever tasted. I added only salt, pepper, fresh lemon juice and olive oil. It had a full, thick texture and the lemon gave a nice tangy bite.

Zuppa Il Poppa

2010-07-22T08:11:00.001-07:00

I keep meaning to ask the M*ster what she put in her delicious Zuppa Il Poppa soup she made for the H and I years ago. She explained that she got the recipe when she was studying in Italy and that the name means "Pope's Soup". Her version was a deep red color and had a thick, hearty consistency.

Since then I have been looking in Italian cookbooks for it. I tried a version (from Italianissimo, McRae Books) last year that called for soaking the bread and it produced a glutenous, pink glop. I used burnt sourdough bread and anemic, out of season tomatoes. Maybe those tomatoes were the problem. I was also too lazy to deseed and peel the tomatoes

This time I made a version from Zuppa, Risotto, Polenta! Also from McRae books. I had two bags of ripe heirlooms from our farm box that were begging to be eaten. Last year I missed tomato season because of morning sickness and I have been waiting all year for them to return. I also went to the trouble of actually peeling and deseeding the tomatoes-- which was messy, but judging by the results well worth it. I had a handful of sorry shitakes I bought at the white people grocery store for an obscene amount of money and a few slices of dark rye bread I made the day before.

Preheat oven to 325. Cube a couple slices of bread. Spread on baking sheet and put in oven for at least 10 minutes. Or more. They should be very dry, but not toasted.

Meanwhile, boil a pot of water, and set up a bowl of ice water. The recipe called for 8 oz of bread and a mere 14 oz of tomatoes. I weighed out the specified amount of bread and used nearly 2 lbs of tomatoes. Tomatoes are mostly liquid and 14 oz is hardly anything. I wanted a tomato orgy, a tomato glut. Plunge the tomatoes in the boiling water for ten seconds, then the ice water. The peels will come off easily. Cut out the stem part, cut in half and squeeze out the seeds. Save the liquid. The recipe calls for water later and it seemed a pity to get rid of all that tomatoey goodness. Use a strainer. Dice the tomato meat.

Pour about a quarter cup of olive oil into your soup pot. Heat it to the not quite smoking point. Add garlic and bay leaves and shitakes. Stir. When the croutons are done, add them. Let this mixture bubble a while. Now the bread can get brown. Do some dishes. Clean up the tomato mess. Add your seasonings. Finally, add the tomato meat, liquid and enough water to give it the consistency you want. Let it simmer just long enough to heat through and combine, but not so long the bread breaks down.

Garnish with a slice of blue cheese.

Mange!

Next time I'd replace the water with wine or stock. I probably could have saved a lot of time by just using a food mill on the tomatoes.

Frustrated (or I probably shouldn't bother posting this)

2010-07-14T23:00:00.001-07:00

I used to wonder why the artistically talented mothers I have known didn't do much art. Now I know. I tried to download some photos this evening and not a one is on my computer, or flickr, or any where. Right when I was about to plug in the camera, LuLu started screaming. I ignored her and her frantic father a whole five minutes as I tried to find the battery charger because I realized too late the thing was about to die. The baby cried as we started tearing the room apart looking for the stupid thing. It wasn't in any of the half dozen places it was known to lurk. Finally, I could stand it no longer and abandoned the search, the camera, the photos and the computer. A half hour later, the baby sated, I simply didn't care anymore and lost myself to the Woody Allen flick Dutch put on the TV. The family is asleep, so I can't turn on the loud computer and finish. Tomorrow isn't even an option because, as soon as I get up, I have to call the Volvo mechanic, and finish the laundry, and... and... and... I still haven't written thank you notes. I keep waiting for the epiphany to come, the flash of inspiration that will inspire me out of this funk, the pithy line where I realize this is deep and all for a good reason. Its not coming and now that I am deep into a pity party, I realize I was much more contented playing video games on my phone. Maybe I'll just go back to that.

Feet

2010-07-11T09:54:00.001-07:00

2010-07-06T13:37:00.001-07:00

Colors of my baby

2010-07-06T13:34:00.001-07:00

Having spent too much time In my youth Mixing colors , and looking at (holler talk talk talk oh) Color , naturally i look for it all the time. Now that i'm spending all my time with Baby LuLu, Color is still an important part of my awareness . Zinc oxide, Which i'd previously known as a white pigment, having a translucent quality I prized, is now something I routinely paint on Lulu's rear end To prevent diaper rash . Cod liver oil and zinc oxide Are the main ingredients in Desitin, a diaper rash ointment. Ferrous sulfate, the main ingredient in her polyvitamin , also makes it a very dark green color. Iron compounds are in many browns and rusty red colored paints. After the iron does its duties as hemoglobin in her blood , making her blood red , her skin pink , and her lips red, it gets recycled and comes out in the form of bilirubin, a yellow pigment that lends its color to her stool and urine. The build up of bilirubin in her system also made her skin yellow when she had jaundice as a newborn. My milk is white because of the calcium and I know she is getting enough, in fact she has grown 6 inches.

Woolly Underwear

2010-07-02T10:14:00.001-07:00

I like cast iron. You have to season it. You have to clean it carefully. But in the end it is less work and your food tastes better. People used to use it all the time but it got replaced over the years by marerials that require less investment, like Teflon and stainless steel.

Wool underwear sounds about as comfortable as a wicker corset and as about au courant. But when I read that it is as water proof as rubber pants and has the added benefit of breathing it started sounding much more attractive. Especially since yeast thrives in damp environments. While disposables stay dry, I don't like the chemical dessicants touching her private parts. So I bought a wool cover (from Green Mountain diapers ). It was as fussy as seasoning new cast iron. I had to wash it by hand and lanolize (imagine conditioning your hair ) it a couple of times before it stopped leaking like a sieve. But it is by far the softest, kindest diapering object I could put on Lulu's heiny (short of training her to go diaperless).
I am finding that my grandmother was right, wool is dandy (we have a wool soaker of my father's that my grand mother knit him when he was a baby ).

LuLu's Rubber Pants

2010-07-02T09:38:00.001-07:00

Diapering controversy

2010-07-02T09:36:00.001-07:00

Going paperless. We had known for a long time that we wanted to use
cloth diapers. They cost about the same as disposable diapers, but
create less garbage. The most appealing aspect is that cloth diapered
babies tend to potty train faster. Thanks to our friends we have
months of diaper service. The trickiest thing has been finding good
diaper covers. Right now LuLu is wearing rubber pants. I like that
they are not bulky and don't leek.

Good morning LuLu

2010-07-02T09:21:00.001-07:00

LuLu in the morning

1 handed blogging

2010-07-02T08:39:00.000-07:00

I used to being able to write every day. It is no longer convenient to sit down in a computer for any length of time. Suddenly my time is not my own. This morning I am trying the verbal dictation option on my phone. It doesn't always work well. I press the little microphone button and then I speak. But the words don't always come out right. I am nursing Lulu Right now. We spent the morning singing itsy bitsy spider. While she naps, i read about baby sign language on the internet. During the last few weeks, she started laughing , cooing, and being awake for longer periods of time. Last week she just started noticing her toys. She is so incredible to watch. All I want to do is to spend time with her. These lazy summer mornings are so special. I am so happy no one expects me to do much. The things we are accomplishing are not easily checked off a list. We look at each other. She seduces me. We observe each other. We hold hands. I tickle her feet. She runs in place and flaps her arms. She poops and farts. She says ooo and aaah . We have conversations. She tells me stories. We play charades. I try to guess her narrative. I say, "did the baby go to the store?" She will say, "goop" and flap her arms.

Car Time!

2010-06-12T09:26:00.001-07:00

Oh Ingrid

Oh Ingrid
You are sitting in Larry's shop this weekend
When you could be sitting in your cozy
Garage at home

But

Your check engine light came

Just as we were about to have you smogged
You naughty girl

Your black heart
Is sludgy
Your oil pump is clogged
You ungrateful thing

Your sticker says Little Rock
But I know you dream of the icy streets of Stockholm

Your papers are a mess
Your license plate says Cayucos
But your Viking prow is thinking about those fat rosy cheeked English housewives waiting for your camshafts.

But this time you are the hostage
Will we ransom you this time?
I wanted to drive you off the cliff
But bluer heads prevailed

And your ever open sunroof?
You sunworshipping trollop
You are just giving me a headache

Oh Fava Beans

2010-05-21T16:48:00.001-07:00

I have always been intimidated by fava beans. Any bean that you have to peel, let alone pod, just seemed like way too much work. And for what!? Just a bean. Beans are great, but they aren't that great. And that is if they are fresh. Our farmer friends have been singing the praises of the fava for more years than I can count, but when they arrived in the box last week, circumstances conspired in favor of the fava.
Cheap Labor
Yup, the kneebiter's enthusiastic participation in the shuck-boil-peel job was indespensible. (I can hardly wait til LuLu has enough dexterity).
Time on my hands
Even with help, I needed a good hour to kill.
Ooooh so good.
Once we were finally at the peeling stage, we tried them and wowee! A wonderful cross between edamame, artichokes and with a hint of asparugus. Even the green hating KB couldn't get enough. She requested them for her special recital dinner. I am already looking forward to next Spring and another crop of fresh fava beans.

Things I know about LuLu

2010-05-20T09:07:00.001-07:00

It strikes me as odd to find myself devoting my life to a person I hardly know. Parents do it all the time, but that still doesn't take from the mmiraculous aspect of it. So I have decided to list what I know about LuLu.

Official, Department of Records sorts of things. Not that revealing, unless I wanted to steal her identity (why?) or write her biography. <i>Born to a middle class couple, in 2010, in North America...</i>

I know her parents really well. Too well. Those nosepickers...

She flaps her arms when startled.

She sleeps a lot.

She has a 100% human milk diet.

Her poop is well documented (I'll spare you the details).

She does not like "tummy time."

She likes napping with Dutch. Dutch's napping prowess is legendary.

She is on track with all her immunizations.

She likes her pacifier.

She doesn't walk. She is incontinent.

She doesn't talk. Normally, when I meet new people, we talk and that is how we get aquainted. I don't know if she likes Nick Cave, or if she is a fan of sushi. I can't check her out on facebook. I can't secretly look at her friends list. All the normal routes are closed. Now I am starting to wonder if I know anyone as well as I know LuLu.

Thursday Weigh-In

2010-05-14T21:36:00.001-07:00

LuLu gets weighed

Mom's Soup (continued from the previous post)

2010-05-05T06:16:00.001-07:00

Oh, and it has to be low salt, for all of us hypertensives. And tasty, because we have to eat it for a week.

Mom usually makes it on the stovetop, but I opted for the crockpot because I am lazy.

4 c brewed lapsang souchong tea
Chopped onions
Green garlic
1 c french lentils
1 c barley
Cinnamon leaf
Kombu
Enough hot water to fill crockpot
Can of chopped tomatoes n chiles

Brew tea and strain out leaves, add to crock

Saute chopped onions and green garlic with olive oil, add

Put the rest of the ingredients in.

Crank it to "high" and give it at least three hours.

Before you eat, add the can of tomatoes, and voila!

Sleeping Babies and More Soup

2010-05-05T05:59:00.001-07:00

Dutch just left for work and I just finished pumping and massaging a sore milk duct. I wasn't sleepy a second ago, but now I am. LuLu is asleep, and one arm is raised in a salute above her head. Its been a strange night, where dreams of spilling coffee on carpets blended seamlessly with 2 AM feedings. She is finally a normal baby size, so yesterday I had the pleasure of digging out piles of dresses (yay girls!), sleepers and gowns. I envy babies. They get to wear ultracomfortable pajama-like clothes all the time. Even the dresses come with cute diaper covers and are made of cozy fabrics. It is so much fun to be a girl.

Yesterday my mom was feeling a little under the weather, so I got to make the weekly Vegetable Soup. She makes a vegan soup every week for easy lunches and general healthy snacking. And vegan so it can sit around at room temperature without going bad fast.

Parenting feels like _________________________

2010-04-26T22:04:00.001-07:00

I was going to call this post "parenting" but I can't because I don't feel like a parent yet. Actually, I am not sure what parents feel like. But it doesn't matter what I feel (since LuLu is nursing, I feel a gentle tickle...) regardless, I am a parent. Or maybe I can say that "Parenting, right now, feels like a gentle tickle-tug."

Or, "Parenting tastes like licorice and fennel (the main ingredients of lactation tea)."

"Parenting smells like Desitin and Dreft Spray On Deodorizer (a combination of codliver oil, talc and a cloying floral perfume)"

"Parenting sounds like the rapid, shallow breathing of a small person napping on my lap"

Parenting means I have to stop writing to burp my child.

Parenting means I haven't slept for more than four hours at a time since early March.

Parenting means I can't think of a single aspect of my life that has remained unchanged, from my secret fears (can a child hiccup to death?), to the contents of my garbage, to the items in my checkbook, the temperature of the bathroom, to the shirts I can wear, to my zip code.

Suckling

2010-04-16T13:54:00.001-07:00

All the articles I read about lactation never prepared me for the reality of it. Nor do I think I can adequetely describe how the pups went from simply hanging out on my chest prepregnancy, to becoming angry, inflamed and purply (or was that me?) during pregnancy to now adapting to the birth, the pump, and finally, after six weeks of trying, achieving a shocking 1 lb per week weight gain for LuLu. Its miraculous.
Last week I was wondering why LuLu suddenly ramped up her easy one-midnight feed to three-per-night. At first we thought she was simply bored with the night programme we had of movie-feed-sleep-feed-sleep-wake up with poppa-feed-sleep schedule. But when we took her to the clinic for her weekly weigh in, and she had put on a whole 15 oz, we realized it wasn't some perverse agenda to rob of us sleep. She had finally taken control of milk production. She had sucked almost an entire pound of flesh out of my system into hers, at the same time beating out our mother/daughter candida infection for all those calories. I am so proud of her.
Additionally, last Monday, the 12th, was her official due date. She is on her was to bona fide infanthood. We can put away all those preemie clothes. Maybe now she can fit her sock collection.

Breathe

2010-04-16T01:29:00.001-07:00

I should be asleep right now. LuLu is sleeping on my chest. I just fed her, and tried to put her down, but she was crying from an endless bout of gas. So after listening to her grunt, struggle and cry alone for too long I picked her up. Dutch is breathing at my side and I can hear my mom sawing logs in the other room. Its magical. Listening to my mom's familiar breathing takes me back to when I was little, seeking solace in her bosom, and now here we are, the next generation, breathing together. LuLu's upset has ebbed away. I should probably return her to her baby house. Her little fuzzy head under my chin makes me so happy. Her body rises and falls with my breath. I am so big compared to her, I could be a small hill the she napping on.

When she was at the ICN, her breathing rate noticably slowed when I held her. Even when she was breathing impossibly fast because of her heart murmur. The nurse said she instinctively tried to match her breathing with mine. I remember cuddling with mom and doing the same thing. My mom's chest seemed to contain a cavernous space, strong and sure. Her deep slow rhythm seemed impossible to match.

Breathing was such a big part of my childbirth preparation. I spent a lot of time practicing my labor breathing and visualizations. Now its hard to think of one without the other. I inhale and imagine the love filling both our bodies. I exhale the fear and sadness. When I was in labor, I had a blood pressure cuff on my arm and it would automatically take my pressure every ten minutes. It sounded like it was breathing, and if I could concentrate on my own, the numbers were always lower. It was the tangible evidence of my own power.

I breathed for the both of us for such a long time. Because LuLu stopped breathing moments after she was born, she was whisked away from me. When things are quiet I listen for the sound of her breath. Now we are breathing together. My breath reassures her and hers comforts me.

Beautiful Baby

2010-04-14T09:24:00.001-07:00

LuLu has been home for almost four weeks. We have settled into routines and we have created new ones. She finally started gaining weight (after not gaining any weight for a long time) and is looking less like a Jesus from a medieval painting and more Gerber. Dutch and I are adjusting (there really isn't a choice, we can either adjust gracefully or awkwardly). Communication has become that much more critical and proportionately harder. We used to be able to do laundry. I would generally start it and he would finish it, but yesterday I came home from a routine doctor's appointment to find the laundry exactly as I left it. Why couldn't he read my mind? Why didn't LuLu chip in with the folding? Heck, why couldn't the washer machine put it in the drier itself? So now in retrospect I feel rather silly (what! My mental telepathy still doesn't work!)

Babies is good company

2010-03-29T07:28:00.001-07:00

LuLu has been home for 9 days now. We've had a chance to get a little routine going. We have entertained visitors, gone shopping (boy, does Dutch love antique stores), and been back to the clinic twice. And while she hasn't been gaining weight as fast as her doctors would like, she hasn't been losing it, either. We have a hot date with the Lactation Specialist this week.

Our first batch of cotton diapers arrived (thank you donors!) this morning and I put one on her. None too soon because the combination of the diaper genie and the disposables are giving me a headache (that super absorbant acrylic gel in the diapers, the yucky perfume and the obnoxious amount of waste on the genie offend my inner hippie).

All that to say, after Dutch went to work today, I changed and fed the papoose. Now I am laying in bed, listing to LuLu breath next to me and the birds and the heater and the highway and everything is peaceful.

More on the ICN

2010-03-28T12:30:00.001-07:00

The intensive care nursery is a surreal place. It is a series of
small rooms with berths for the isolettes and cribs. Each berth has
monitors, stomach pumping vacuum pump hookups, hooks for IV bags, and
lots of electrical plugs. Inbetween the berths, the nurse's computer
stations were set up. And the people! Nurses everywhere (one nurse
for 2 babies), serious looking doctors consulting important looking
papers. And the parents-- wandering around in various states of
exhaustion, despair, denial, illness, and pain. ICN policy is
supportive of parents-- breastfeeding mothers get free meals,
unlimited parental visiting hours, breast pumping rooms and supplies,
open doctors rounds, overnight accomodations (on a pull out sofabed,
in the ICN's pump room, but at least the sheets are clean). Oh, the
babies! Most of them cloistered in their isolettes (one of the nurses
called them "baby houses"), but a few loud ones on plexiglass cribs.
LuLu spent most of her time in an isolette-- first because she was too
little to keep warm, and as she outgrew that, she had to stay in for
the jaundice lights. And the noise! Insistent, beeping alarms from
the baby monitors, hospital announcements (code blue, emergency
c-section, room 8...), crying babies (my milk came down almost
constantly) lots of talking (mostly loud parents). The nurses were
consistently patient, kind and helpful.
After I was discharged on March 8, we spent two more nights in the
pump room because we just couldn't stand the thought of staying home
without her. After a while the nurses told us to go home and sleep.
At this point I was a wreck-- crying all the time, pumping like a mad
woman, trying desperately to get her to nurse. She was still on the
IV and nasogastric tube. As the days wore on we got into a routine of
sleeping (and pumping) at home, and spending the days at the hospital.
She developed a heart murmur. After 6 days of treatment it finally
went away (which involved returning to the IV, and not eating while
the medicine did its thing). Everyday we asked the doctors when we
could go home, the answer was always the same-- when LuLu was ready.
She had to gain weight, she had to breath reliably on her own, she had
to kick the jaundice, she had to keep warm on her own, she had to
nurse well... the list seemed impossibly long but as the weeks dragged
on, she slowly ticked the items off her list.
At some point I stopped asking the doctors when we could leave, which
made the announcement that we could take her home all the more
surprising.

testing

2010-03-23T10:20:00.001-07:00

testing testing

15 Days in the ICN (march 5 - 20)

2010-03-22T20:37:00.001-07:00

I finally got to see LuLu the day after she was born. The nurse helped me wheel my IV into the nursery. I had to hold her elbow, and I had a hard time standing. Because of the medication, I could barely open more than one eye at a time. I hardly recognized the little person in my arms. I remembered a perfect pink lady with a flapper's brilliantined waves covering her head (who was doing her hair in my womb?) and a rosebud mouth. She now had a nose feeding tube glued to one cheek. She had a tangle of wires and the most disurbing-- a giant IV in one hand that covered her whole fore arm with tape. I couldn't even see her fingers. Her foot was covered with tape to hold a lighted red LED. I could watch her heart beating, her respiration, and her oxygen saturation on the monitor. The nurse put her in my arms. She was so tiny. She just slept. I was sleepy too. One of the nurses caught me nodding off and suggested I go back to my room. They had to call for help to get me back.

Installed in BigRed

2010-03-21T08:26:00.001-07:00

Commencing her first road trip home

Car seat test

2010-03-21T08:25:00.001-07:00