My 2010

To many, it is no secret that 2008 (and a good part of 2007 and 2009, for that matter) was undoubtedly the most trying and challenging years of my life. Maybe someday you’ll get to read about those years in detail it in my memoir. Or, you could just get me drunk enough at the next party we're at together. All that is in the past and today, I am stronger for it. But in July, 2009, something happened that ensured 2010 was going to be, unequivocally, my greatest year.

This year was the year that saved me. The year that I remembered what it felt like to be truly happy. The year that made me feel like “me” again. I plan to continue this trend in 2011. Until then, here is my 2010:

Our 2010, in photos from Grant Shellen on Vimeo.

Happy New Year.

Row, Row, Row Your Boat....

When I was 16 I ran a red light during my drivers test. But I didn't run just any red light. No, I ran the FIRST red light out of the parking lot. In fact, this intersection was so close to the DMV, I am 98% sure you can actually see it from the parking lot.

When it happened, the instructor in my car said, "Oh, you just ran that red light."

Honestly, I had no idea it happened, even after it happened. I think it was pretty obvious that I just failed, miserably. So I said, the only thing could think of.

"Ok. So what do I do now?"

The instructors answer to that question was something like, "Make a u-turn back into the DMV, you blind ding-dong."

Running a red light during your driving test is the dumbest of dumb moves; I am fully aware of this. However, if you saw this intersection, especially as an inexperienced driver, you might understand how my very naive self made the mistake. I am convinced that the DMV (aka: Satan's Dungeon) chose this location for their office just because they are jerks who like to make other people suffer. Because you see, this is no ordinary intersection. It looks like the city planners drew up the blueprints for the intersection at Dusterberry and Peralta Blvd by giving a pen to a baby. A "left" turn is kinda straight. Straight through the intersection veers off to the left a little. And if you make a right turn when Venus us aligned with Mars you are teleported to the magical land of Narnia. The thing is a wonky mess. They knew this would screw up hopeful teens and that's why they built it there! At least that is what I tell myself.

I remember my Dad. Anxiously waiting for me in the parking lot and the expression on his face when I pulled back in 2 minutes after I left, changed quickly from elated anticipation to "Oh shit, this can't be good."

More than anything, I was embarrassed. Everyone knew I was taking the test and the thought of having to tell friends not just that I failed but how I failed was chilling to say the least. But I moved on from it and two weeks later took the test again and passed with a 95%. And now I can get a good laugh out of my story.

However, recently I was reminded of the day I ran that red light. But this time, I did not think of it in a "funny ha-ha" way. More like a "funny-ha-ha-my-palms-are-sweaty-and-I-can't-feel-my-legs" kinda way. As I previously mentioned here, I joined a rowing team. Every member of the team is required to be the coxswain in the boat at least once every couple of months. The coxswain is the driver and it is pronounced like "cox-sin" and yes, if you are a boy it is ok to giggle when you say it aloud.

A few weeks before it was my turn the coach gave us newbies a quick lesson in being the coxswain.

"Being the cox is not that hard. Your job is to steer and keep the boat safe. You are the eyes of the boat. Now, if you run into any trouble all you have to do is remember the two most important commands. Way enough (Stop what you are doing) and All Hold (Put the "breaks" on, basically)."

Ok, so it's easy he says. I like easy.

"But I mean, it can be scary because if something happens to the boat...well, it's your fault."

Awesome. My days of avoiding this terrifying duty had come to an end the other night. I was very nervous. We row at night and it is very dark and very hard to see the other skinny boats on the lake. Also steering was weird and took me almost the entire practice to get right. But the worst part of all is that most actual coxswains are tiny little people with tiny little rear ends. This is not me. I was not sitting the seat as much as I was wedged in the seat. Half way through the row both my legs were completely asleep. However as awesome a picture I have painted here about my experience, it was really not all that bad. I may go as far as to describe it as being even a little bit fun. But I am very glad my obligation is fulfilled for at least the next two months. I row because I like the exercise and being made to feel like a sausage squeezed into a casing is not my idea of a workout.

Eh, whatever! My bruised ass and sore legs were able to talk me into a few cookies after practice anyway!

Mother of the Year

Let me start by saying the food tonight was really amazing. Really, it was. And the service was great and my family was treated with respect. That said, we never should have gone to this restaurant tonight.

Why?

BECAUSE IT IS INAPPROPRIATE TO TAKE YOUR BABY TO DINNER AT A BAR!!!

In our defense, everything leading up to our choice to go to Sweet Fingers in San Leandro tonight made us believe that we were going nowhere other than a restaurant that also served alcoholic beverages. Their website, the fact that we bought a gift certificate from Restaurant.com, and the Yelp reviews I scanned all seemed to scream "Yes! You can enjoy all our Caribbean classics with the entire family!"

However, as we walked up to the door, my inner self started to panic and something was telling me, "You are about to make a horrible mistake." This was further confirmed when we walked in and smelled something that, how shall I say, immediately gave me the munchies.

We were greeted by a "hostess" who was, not surprisingly, confused as to why we were even there. And over the course of the next 2.5 seconds, Grant and I had this entire conversation using only our eyes as communication:

Me: Um, this is a bar.
Him: I know.
Me: We are the only people here!
Him: I know.
Me: We are the only white people here!
Him: I know.
Me: And it smells like pot in here!
Him: I know.
Me: What do we do?
Him: I don't know.
Me: Do we bail? We can't bail. Oh my God, everyone is staring at us.
Him: I know.
Me: We are terrible parents.
Him: I know.

So I said the only logical thing I could think of.

"Do you guys have high chairs?"

They did. One. It was broken.

But we stayed. Me in my cowl neck sweater, Grant in his western shirt and Converse sneakers and my very blond, very blue-eyed, VERY vocal 7-month-old baby boy. In retrospect, we probably should have left. But if we had left, we never would have gotten that amazing jerk chicken. Or the brown stew with lamb. Or a rum, sorrel & ginger beer cocktail.

Or a contact high.

My Little Parsnip

I think I finally found one. Parsnips. Yes, I am pretty positive that my son doesn't like parsnips. Because up until this point he eats anything that I put in his mouth. I mean, it is no surprise that he likes bananas, sweet potatoes, apple and pear sauce (with and without cinnamon) and carrots. But he also likes peas, spinach, avocado and broccoli. Broccoli which smelled like farts while I was making it and while he was eating it. Farts. F-A-R-T-S. Stinky, broccoli farts.

Yes, most of Charlie's food I make at home but when we are on the go, I opt for the jarred stuff. But have you ever tried some of that stuff? I remember the day I was feeding him "Winter Squash" and after I tried it and literally looked at him and said, "Really Charlie? Because this is gross." And Charlie just looked up at me as if to say, "Right, and your point, Mom?" I am not trying to say that I drizzle curry oil over his strained carrots or make him "minted pea" mash but the jar stuff doesn't even taste fresh.

When I say he "likes" everything, I should probably clarify. He displays two different emotions when it comes to his food. There is the stuff he really likes, like apples, pears, carrots and bananas. I know this because with each bite he makes long, convincing "Mmmmmmmmmm" noises. In general he is fairly content during most of the meal. Pretty much everything else, he seems indifferent to, as far as taste is concerned. However, at some point in nearly all his meals, he turns into a child that I swear I did not give birth to. I try to imagine the thoughts he is having inside his tiny, little brain as the meal progresses. It probably goes something like, "Hmmm, this tastes strange/good/awesome/weird/whatever. But mom, that doesn't mean stop. Mom! Why are you stopping! MOM! FOOD! WAAAAAAA!"

That's right. If you are not shoving the food into his mouth at a continuous pace, Charlie becomes very, VERY upset. Even if after a pause, the rate at which I'm feeding him returns to an acceptable, lightning-speed pace, if he so much as remembers those few moments when I had to stop for whatever reason, the cycle starts all over again. He starts screaming, his face turns the color of marinara sauce and he begins slamming his head and body against the back of his highchair in anger. I don't get it.

"What are you upset about, Son? I am feeding you! Not shoving hot pokers in your eyes, which, based on the shrillness of your screams is what the neighbors think I am doing!!"

The only explanation I can come up with is this: demonic possession.

But despite the tears, the anguish, the moments when his head spins around 360 degrees and he sprout fangs, he will eat it all and then some. And I can only assume that he likes it because it all goes in with not so much as a crumb left on his face.

But then I made him parsnips.

Nope, those didn't go over well. He kept screaming for more bites but after about five or six spoonfuls I realized that he was not swallowing any of it and instead was storing the mush on either side of his cheeks. It was like he was hoping that the next bite would be something delicious but, nope...still parsnips.

Well, that's ok with me. I couldn't really ask for a less picky child and parsnips are a little weird. And so long as I am mixing them with carrots, sweet potatoes or applesauce he is eating them. Reluctantly, but he is eating them. And I'm not going to tell him this but I'm sure it won't be the last time I will hide veggies in his food.

Biscuits and Donuts

My middle name is "Marie." My parents chose this name not because it is the most popular middle name in the world but after my great-grandma Marie. She is not my biological great-grandma—my grandpa was only three when his mother died from consumption (seriously, I'm not just saying that because it is an old-timey disease) and he married Marie shortly after. My dad has countless stories about this crazy Danish lady.

My dad is the second oldest of four boys. First there is Steve, then my dad, Roger, then Chris, and finally Clint. Yes, Marie was from Denmark and had a substantial accent but could speak English well enough. Even still, she never pronounced my father's name correctly, and referred to him only as "Rotney." My dad recalls birthdays and Christmas when Grandma Marie would send the boys a check as a gift. Four separate checks for $2.00: one for Steve, one for Chris, one for Clint, and one for Rotney.

One of my favorite stories was the time when my Dad was about 13 and Grandma was visiting from Wisconsin. "Rotney! Rotney! Come help your Grandma! Rotney!" she yelled with urgency from down the hall.

"What, Grandma?" Dad said as he rounded the corner into the room she was staying in. There she was, in all her octogenarian glory, naked as the day she was born.

"Ahhh, Grandma!" he yelled as he shielded his eyes.

"Get me my robe, Rotney." He did has he was told, but I don't think he has ever recovered from the visual.

Despite the fact that every time she saw my Dad she would tell him, "Rotney, you too fat!!" she was famous for her donuts and she happily made them for the boys during her visits. Of course she made the dough from scratch, fried them to perfection and doused them in sugar. Growing up, my dad made us a bastardized version of these donuts and instead of making his own dough he used Pillsbury Grands biscuits with the center punched out of them (still fried to perfection). I admit that there have been times when I've created a dinner menu based on these biscuits, not just because I want to eat them with dinner, but also because I want to make donuts out of the leftovers.

So, in the spirit of fall, I recently cooked a big pot of beef stew in the crock pot and at the suggestion of my mother made these biscuits. They were amazingly delicious and unbelievably easy to make. So easy in fact, that it seems I don't need to buy the ready-made kind anymore.

Of course, the downside of this realization is that now there are no longer any leftovers for donuts. So, I am not cutting Grands Biscuits off the shopping list for good. But maybe in the spirit of my great-grandma, who I never had the pleasure of meeting, I can try to make donuts from scratch as well.

The last time that my dad spoke to her on the phone as they were hanging up he said, "Jeg elsker dem, Grandma" which is "I love you" in Danish.

And her response, "Jeg elsker dem, Roger." She passed a away a few days later.

My Dad loved to tell stories about her. She seemed like a pretty neat lady and I am proud to share her name. I hope that maybe someday I can be a grandma like her...well, maybe without the flashing my grandkids part.

(Update: Apparently I had some of my facts wrong. My Dad has set me straight. Read on.)

Heather,
Thanks for the sweet story about my Grandma Marie. It brings back many memories.

The story is actually a bit more comical that you suggested. You are correct that she always called me Rotney (Which is Rodney with her extremely heavy Danish accent), however, every $2.00 check that she sent me for Christmas was made out to Robert Andersen.

It never bothered me that she called me Rotney and sent checks to Robert. As a matter of fact it provoked many laughs for my entire family. I was thrilled by the realization that the only time she ever called me Roger, was the last time she talked to any of us before she died. I wonder if she was just messing with me before that last call.

Chris and Clint (Clint particularly) still call me Rotney.

Rotney

Way Enough.

A few weeks ago I took a sweep rowing class. It was something that I always wanted to try it but never did, probably out of fear that I would fail. But then six months ago I pushed a nine pound kid out of me, unmedicated, and I unleashed some confidence that had been hiding in me for most of my life, so I signed up.

I started with 6 sessions in the novice class and recently graduated to the intermediate level despite the fact that I often feel like I have no business being in a boat on the water. I already have enough trouble keeping my lefts and rights straight and now "port" and "starboard" have been thrown into the mix. There is a term in rowing called "catching a crab" (tee-hee, I said crab). It is not nearly as gross as it sounds but about as embarrassing when you are the newbie on the intermediate team. It basically means you get out of sync with the other rowers in the boat and get your oar stuck in a way that, in the worse case scenario, can throw you out of the boat. Although I have yet to be launched out of the boat into the scummy water that is Lake Merritt, I did catch two crabs today. It was not easy for my stroke or my pride to recover.

But, I'm not giving up yet. So far it is an excellent workout and I love the idea of being on a team. And on Saturdays after practice, the team goes out to breakfast. In fact, the coach of the novice class said during practice one day that the great thing about being a rower is that you can eat whatever you want. This pleases me.

Life List of Food

While I was pregnant with Charlie, I was inspired by Maggie Mason and her Mighty Life List to write a little life list of my own. Number one on my list? Become a mom. BAM, done! (Yes, I realize this is cheating.) My current list only has 11 items on it. Ok, 12 now as I just added "Put more things on your life list." Some of these things include: getting published somewhere, taking a voice lesson again, singing in a choir, making a blanket out of Charlie's pajamas as well as various trips around the globe.

So, today, I decided I should make a life list that I want to eat.

1. Try foie gras

I know, I know. The poor defenseless geese and I am horrible person for even being interested in such a thing. But when Grant came home to tell me about how AMAZING it was at his lunch at Bouchon in Yountville, CA, I decided that I get to try it too. I should also point out that after lunch he had a one hour deep tissue massage at a fancy-pants spa in Napa. This was on the same day that I had whatever leftovers I could find in our fridge and then after that took our baby to Costco to by diapers. So, it was almost the same. Except it wasn't. Open wide goosey-goosey.

2. Try chicken-fried steak and biscuits

There is something so American about this, in a sad, salty, over-sized, monochromatic kind of way. But come on! It's deep-fried steak!

I don't know, apparently I have a death wish.

3. Make Thanksgiving dinner

Those who know me well know that I make my pumpkin pies from scratch. Like, from a an actual pumpkin and no can opener. (I also make my crust from scratch using an awesome recipe that I link to here.) Sure, it is a bit more time-consuming but the difference in taste makes it all worth it. But, I have never hosted Thanksgiving, or cooked a turkey on my own for that matter. It is incredibly intimidating but I feel it must me done even though I wouldn't be surprised if the meal ended much like that scene in "A Christmas Story." Fa-rah-rah-rah-rah, rah-rah, rah-rah...

In theory, I will add to this list and revisit each one as I complete it. But honestly, I have a 6 month old baby who is about 4 seconds away from crawling so let's be real people!

Post Baby Body

Roughly once a month I go on a diet/cleanse of sorts. Basically, for one week I commit myself to eating healthy and by this I mean, high protein, lots of veggies, low carb and no sweets. I eat three decent meals a day and a snack between each meal. This coupled with the fact that I try to exercise at least four times a week, it works and I have lost the baby weight easily. The thing is, when I was pregnant, I gained a lot of weight. Now, I had a big boy. But you can't blame nearly 50 pounds of weight gain on a 9 pound 3 ounce baby. What you can blame it on are the cookies, ice cream, endless bags of salty snacks and the gallons of milk I could consume in a single sitting. I was nervous as I neared the end of my pregnancy that 1. I would break the scale and 2. The weight would never come off.

As a stay at home mom now, I decided very soon after he was born that I would not let the aforementioned "number 2" happen. I had no excuse to not get up off my ass and do something physical during the day. Even if it just meant a walk around the block with my baby in tow. Admittedly, I do have my days where I just can't seem to peel my eyes away from bad daytime TV while my son sleeps, especially if there is a Real Housewives of New Jersey Marathon on or something. (I loves me some Manzos.) But seriously, I didn't let it number 2 happen.

There are parts of my body that are not the same as they used to be and quite frankly did not change for the better. For example, my muscle tone is basically non existent these days and my tummy has been replaced with a bowl of gelatin that is covered in fading stretchmarks. However, there are parts of my body that, dare I say it, I might even like better post pregnancy. For one, I weigh less today than I did before I got pregnant and this pleases me. And it seems the unbelievable widening of my stomach, ass and thighs may have actually put some things back in a better place than they were in before. I actually have some curves now. This makes me and the jeans I wear very happy as well.

In the past, my attempts to diet always failed because I liked food too much. Food makes me genuinely happy and not in a "food is not love" kind of way, okay? But, food excites me and I want to try it all. And sometimes that means things that are unhealthy. But I don't want to worry about eating that kind of stuff sometimes, because I truly believe in the very clique phrase, "everything in moderation." In fact, I think stressing yourself out about what you eat is likely more detrimental to your health than just eating a freaking piece of flourless chocolate cake or fried chicken once and a while.

But, I am getting older and things are quite bouncing back like they used to. Things are starting to "go out" on me, for example my back, my knees, my brain. And because I am aware of this, I exercise regularly and roughly once monthly, I diet/exercise/detox/get-really-sick-of-salad to stay on track and stay happy. Call it what you will, it works for me. I feel good about myself and I can eat the things I want once in a while without feeling guilty. Most importantly, when I do it this way, I am way less likely to cheat because I can do anything for 6 days. Right?

Well, accept this last go around but come on now, look at these things!



Trader Joe's is the devil. One giant, delicious devil.

More Rice

Like most babies, I'm sure my first words were simple ones. "Mama" and "Dada," probably. Well, those and for some reason, "Motorcycle," pronounced "Mo-cycle." My parents said it just came out of me one day for no reason at all. These single words were quickly replaced with two word phrases which brings me to the story my Dad could tell over and over again. (And he does.) When I was a baby, my favorite food was rice. My parents would give me a little pile on the tray of my high chair and like a ravenous animal, I would attack the pile as though I hadn't eaten in weeks. Due to my lack of fine motor skills and poor hand/eye coordination, most of the rice ended up on the floor, in my lap, in my hair and in my eyes. My parents remember laughing hysterically as I would slam my flat palm, speckled with rice kernels, against my mouth in the hopes that a few would make it onto my tongue. And, as soon as I would look down at my empty tray I would look up at my parents and say, "More rice!" And if more rice was not in front of me the moment I demanded it I would ask for it again, louder and with more conviction.

"Moooorrre riiiiice!"

"MOOOOOORRRRRE RIIIIIIIICE!!!!!!!!"

So, I few days ago, we gave Charlie his first sampling of solid food. And naturally, we chose rice. Brown rice cereal to be exact.

He was a bit hesitant at first.



Then he decided he wanted to hold the spoon. Shortly after this, he proceeded to gag himself with it.



All in all, I think he enjoyed himself.



That's my boy.

S is for Squash

It goes without saying that your life changes drastically when you become a homeowner. In one sense, it is exciting to walk around your new home, touching your walls, banisters, fixtures and baseboards all the while thinking to yourself, "Damn, I own this!" But then, your baseboards fall off or the banister starts coming loose, AGAIN. The toilets keep clogging and the lights won't stop flickering and once again, you think to yourself, "DAMN! I own this!" And then you jokingly say to your husband, "Can't we just call our landlord to come fix this?" Ha ha NOPE.

And then you start to cry.

It is crazy and super scary to think about barely having enough money to take care of all the basic stuff, not to mention any emergencies that should come up. But somehow, you figure it out and make it work. You just have to cut some corners and get creative. This came into play last month when I had three close friends with birthdays in July.

It all started with a garden my mom planted in her backyard. She planted the garden with the intention of it being hers and Charlie's garden. Which makes perfect sense that she did it now. I mean, he is unable to sit upright unassisted but you should see that boy wield a trowel. AMAZING! So, in Gammy's and Charlie's garden, she planted summer squash. With the proper conditions, squash plants can grow like weeds. If you don't pick them fast enough, pretty soon you will be left with giant, dinosaur squash that will leave much to be desired in the area of flavor. This was exactly what happened over a weekend my parents were out of town: they returned home to gigantic gourds taking over the yard.



I asked my mom if she was planning on using any of the squash for anything and she said I was welcome to them. I took one and figured since it was in the same family, yellow squash would have the same effect on bread that zucchini does. And the squash was surely big enough for three loaves of bread—one for each of my friends.

The recipe is one that my family has been using for years. Growing up, my mom watched a show called "People Are Talking." On one episode, they featured a recipe for "A to Z Bread." In essence, it is a basic bread recipe to which you can add an "A to Z" ingredient of your choosing. And for each letter of the alphabet, there is a suggested ingredient. It's the only recipe my family ever used for banana, pumpkin or zucchini bread. (I don't remember what the suggestion for "X" was and quite frankly, I would like to keep it that way.) The recipe still folds along the original creases my mom made in it. Today, those folds are barely hanging on by what's left of the remaining fibers of paper. Oil stains and dried bits of bread batter cover the page. It's gross, but one of my favorite things at my parents' house.

A to Z Bread

3 cups flour
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
3 tsp cinnamon (The recipe says it is optional but in my opinion, absolutely not. Love the stuff. I'd take a bath in it if I could.)
½ tsp baking powder
3 eggs
1 cup vegetable oil
2 cups sugar
2 cups A to Z
3 tsp vanilla

Sift the dry ingredients together and set aside. In a separate bowl add sugar, eggs and oil and cream together well. Add "A to Z" ingredient of your choice and vanilla to sugar mixture and mix. Add the dry ingredients slowly until everything is incorporated.

Grease and flour two loaf pans and pour half of the batter into each pan. Bake the bread at 325 degrees for one hour.

I promise you it will be worth it, and your whole house will smell like my childhood.

Shameless Plug!!!

My dear friends, Melia and Darren enjoy so many of my favorite things. To name a few, they appreciate pop culture trends of the 90's, participate fully in costume and theme parties but most importantly, they eat, they drink and they are about to be married. And they have decided to celebrate that by writing about it here:

http://www.eatdrinkandbemarried.com/

Take a peek when you get a chance.

School Lunch

I have been known to be fairly competitive, especially in the area of academics. In college, Grant and I took three sections of English together. This means we wrote our own versions of the exact same assignments over the course of three semesters. I could hold my own but my husband was and still is generally a better writer than me and he always scored just a little bit higher than me on each of our papers. It fried me every time. I remember one assignment in particular. It was a research paper which I worked my ass off to complete. Long hours were spent in the library going over and over the material until finally I was satisfied. Grant, who went on to get his degree in journalism, always worked better under pressure and likely busted his paper out in a day or two.

When our papers were graded and returned I cautiously looked at my score. 98 percent. O to the M to the G! Eat that, Grant Shellen! Victory is MINE!!!

"What did you get?" I asked him.

"I don't want to say," he said.

Do you want to know why? Because Grant got 100 percent. ONE. HUNDRED. PERCENT. That means that there was nothing, NOTHING, about his paper that could be improved upon.

Ass.

Anyway, I have grown as an adult (clearly) and I am not as competitive with my husband as I used to be and really it does help being married to someone who gets 100 percent on research papers, for editing purposes. Grant tells me he thinks I'm a pretty good writer. He even thinks I could write a book someday. So I'll let you in on a little secret: I think I might actually try. But my worry is that I will never be able to put something out there that is a "100 percent" which is also known as "perfection."

So I threw my back out today and my absolutely perfect husband came home early to help take care of our boy, cook dinner and assist me with general movement. While laying on an ice pack in bed, I picked up Anne Lamott's book on writing, "Bird by Bird," and happened to start reading the chapter on "perfection." In it she says

"perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die."

She then reminds her readers that the reality is that our death is inevitable and that "people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you." Amazing advice.

But, Heather, you have a food blog? What the hell is the point of all of this?

I know, I know, I'm getting there. Just bear with me.

Lamott also talks about the importance of having a "shitty first draft." It is the catalyst to your second and third and so on. The need to constantly produce perfection does not allow for the very important shitty first draft to be written. One exercise she often does with her students is to write about school lunch. That's right, for 30 minutes, just write anything you want about brown bagging it to school. According to her, you can learn a lot about your family and where you came from with this topic. So I present to you my version of "School Lunch." I cannot guarantee 100% but I can guarantee it is absolutely my shitty first draft.

School Lunch

I never thought that that as an adult I would thank my mom for the kind of lunches she packed for my sister and I while growing up. For one, we were the only kids at school whose sandwiches were made on wheat bread. Being as young as I was, I was unaware of the the importance of whole grain in your diet. I was, however, aware of the importance of being cool and more often than not, cool equated to bread that was white in color, not brown. Then there was the beverages she packed for us. It was always all natural, 100 percent fruit juice. Apple, pineapple or orange.

What the hell was that about? Where was all the red dye number 3? How about the high-fructose corn syrup? The stuff that is so far from juice, it can't even be called juice but "fruit drink," rather? I remember the one time we begged and begged my mother to buy us the ever popular 1980s beverage, "Squeeze-its." These are the drinks that Grant has, I believe, correctly renamed "Sting-its" because of the lasting sting the drink would leave in your throat. I imagine that sting is due to the crack cocaine the drinks are clearly laced with. She finally caved into our incessant nagging and bought us some. I think she bought us strawberry or purple or unicorn farts and gumdrop flavor, I can't remember. What I do remember is that they were completely disgusting. We never admitted it to Mom, of course. I was never so happy to see apple juice in all my life after we choked those down.

We also rarely found desserts in our sacks at lunch. As a kid, I did not see why lunch should be made up of anything else but pie and gummy bears. My mom thought otherwise. I suppose it is because she thought dessert should be saved for a special occasion and not something that was to be expected. I remember one particular time in kindergarten when my mom packed me two whole marshmallows as a treat. I could not wait for lunch; they were all I could think about. I remember thinking about how I was going to eat them. There were two so I could eat one at the beginning of lunch and one at the end. Or, I could save them both for last. That was probably what I decided on. I knew that things like marshmallows in my lunch box were a rare occurrence and I wanted to savor every minute of them.

However, being the very complacent and quite child that I was, I was easily coerced by my classmates. Before I knew it, two kids had convinced me to give them my marshmallows. I remember they asked me if I would "share." Oh, how they manipulated me with their words! Share! Share my ass! Those little punks just stole my pillowy treats right out from under my nose! I went home that night in tears and told my mom what happened. I was convinced that I had missed out and feared their would not be another treat in my near future. The next day before school, my mom told me she packed me two more marshmallows and this time, I was not "share" them with anyone. In fact, if I was feeling threatened in anyway or if I feared for the life of my marshmallows, I was to go to the back of the playground and eat them first before anyone saw if I had to because they were MY marshmallows. And that was exactly what I did. I stuffed both marshmallows in my mouth and chewed like hell to get them down before anyone even noticed me. They were awesome and so is my mom.

Last Supper

I fear I may have eaten my last meal. I know this because after this meal, I am sure to perish. I think it would be hard not to after consuming a meal that starts with a pound of bacon. And the part of the bacon that is used is not the meat, but the fat that is rendered from it. They say that everything is better with bacon, and my friends: this includes fried chicken.

Let me back up for a minute. This meal begins 24 hours before cook time as the chicken is soaked in a briny bath of buttermilk, an onion and salt. The breading is a simple mix of flour, old bay seasoning, poultry seasoning, black pepper, Nature's Seasons, one or two teaspoons of sugar to help the coating stick to the chicken, and of course the experienced and loving hands of a mom who has spent years perfecting the recipe (thank you Carolyn Poppe!)






Now onto the part about the bacon—the part we would rather not think about. Once brined and breaded, the perfectly moist chicken is fried in a sinful combination of 1/4 cup of vegetable oil, a stick of butter and the bacon fat. But now you are presented with a problem: an entire plate of bacon, crisped to perfection. A plate of bacon that has served its purpose but now has no place in the meal. It is a problem with a simple solution, which is to consume the bacon as a pre—fried chicken snack, naturally. Judge all you want, but we ate it not because we wanted to but because there are starving children in Africa or China or some crap like that and it is just not responsible to waste. So yes, I ate the bacon (for the kids.)



When the chicken is nice and golden brown on both sides, place the pieces on a paper bag on a cookie sheet and place the oven to cook the chicken through.



By the way, you will notice I did not include a picture of what the paper bag looked like after the chicken was finished off in the oven because, well, what you don't know can't hurt you. Well, in this case it can in the form of clogging your arteries but that is neither here nor there. Anyway, here is what it looks like when you are done. Please resist licking your monitor:



And to go along with this this amazing dish, we made mac and cheese, homemade biscuits, pan gravy and cole slaw. Because, you know what? I say go big or go home. As I said, this was clearly my last meal. So my friends, I bid you farewell. Dear Lord, it was worth it, though.

What ever happened to predictability?

I never believed it until now but there really is no harder job than being a mom. Of course it is fun and one of the most rewarding things you will ever do but most day you are just trying to get through it and it is so often about survival. People ask me how I do it. And I think my best friend, Brittaney, said it best: We do it as best we can. We go until we can't go anymore and we love it. But at any point, anywhere at any time, we could close our eyes and fall asleep.

I would be lying if I said I never miss the life that I had before I was a mom. And some days I feel it more than others. Like today for example. Since most of my days, food is no longer about enjoyment for me but rather, how fast can I shove this food into the hole in my head before another meltdown, I was just a little bitter when I heard what Grant had for lunch. While he was enjoying pulled pork hash, fried eggs and mimosas, I was inhaling a salad with dry chicken chunks on top, while watching Full House. Seriously, Full House, as in the Tanners.

Was I jealous of his meal? Of course! However, later that day, my baby fell asleep on my chest, reminding me that what I do all day is worth it. And I am positive that his head smelled a hell of a lot better than anyone's slow roasted pulled pork.

Hot Summer Nights

This weekend was Charlie's first trip to the zoo. I think he enjoyed it but I imagine he would have enjoyed it more if he had, say, the ability to sit or control of his neck and appendages. Furthermore, aside from his hands, my son has all of my physical features. This includes his very fair, almost translucent, skin. Since you really shouldn't put sunscreen on a baby because infants are not able to say, "Mother, I fear I might be getting a bit dehydrated," it is just best to keep them out of the sun. Although, the family did get a chance to observe, "The Charlie" in his natural habitat.



"The Charlie" spends much of his day pooping, sleeping and chewing on his hands. He is quite possibly one of the cutest animals at the zoo but be forewarned. If you anger him, he will barf on you.

This day was particularly sunny and quite frankly, it is about time, considering it is June. Since I was on the hook for dinner for my family that night and it was the first real "hot" day of the year I was not really interested in turning on the oven. So my logical self thought: slow cooker. A nice warm meal without generating nearly as much heat as the oven and, I could start something in the morning before the guests arrive and it will be done when we got back from the zoo. I am a freaking genius.

So I made beef stew. Yup, stew. And there is nothing like a piping hot bowl of beef stew on a hot summer evening.

I don't know what I was thinking either. One would think that I would learn from my mistake but rather than do that, I did the same exact thing the next night. This time it was not stew, it was soup. When I told Grant what we were having for dinner, he said, "OK. You do know that it is almost summer now, right?" as he was standing in front of our make-shift air conditioner aka standing shirtless in front of a fan that is positioned next to an open window.

Yes. I know that it is almost summer. I don't know why I continue to make hot bowls of liquid for dinner when it is 82 degrees in the house. Whatever the reason, here is what I made:

Asparagus Soup with Toasted Garlic Croutons and Goat Cheese

1 onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 small Yukon gold potatoes, diced
1 large can chicken broth
approx 2 cups asparagus, chopped (I used frozen and it worked great)
approx 1 cup half & half
Few tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
salt and pepper to taste

Croutons

3 or 4 slices of Ciabatta bread, cubed
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
1 clove garlic, minced

Saute the onion and garlic in oil and butter until onion is translucent. Add the potatoes and continue to saute a few minutes more. Add salt and pepper to taste. Add the chicken broth and bring to a boil. Add the asparagus. (Note: I also happened to have some broccoli stalks left over that I chopped up and added with the asparagus. It was quite good to have that layer of flavor in the soup but very much optional). Reduce the soup to a simmer and cook until potatoes and asparagus are fork tender. With an emulsion blender (or a food processor) blend the soup until smooth. Add the half & half after blended.

For the croutons, saute the butter and oil and garlic for a few minutes. Pour over the cubed bread and spread on a cookie sheet. Bake the croutons in a 350 degree oven for 5-7 minutes or until crisp. Sprinkle a few croutons and some goat cheese on top of the hot soup.

So why did I do it? Who knows. I really do love making soup. But perhaps the real reason is that my subconscious mind is rebelling against the change in the weather. Because if one thing is for sure, these post-baby thighs of mine are no where close to being shorts ready. In fact, my entire post-baby body is not looking forward to any summertime attire. So maybe if I just keep making soups, the universe will think it is fall and I can keep my legs nice and covered until, well, stretch marks become fashionable. I realize this is unlikely to work. I guess I will just have to switch to gazpacho for a while.

Chili

I swore that I would not be one of those moms that would forget to do the simple things required to take care of myself like brush my teeth, use the restroom or put on deodorant. Well, I have yet to pee since Grant has left the house this morning and I would highly recommend staying away from my armpits if I were you. Basic hygiene is one thing, and I have come to learn that my son loves me whether or not I have showered. However, I never thought I would forget to eat. I remember several nights in the first few weeks we had Charlie home and Grant and I would turn to each other with bloodshot, tired eyes and with all the energy we had left in us say, "It's 10pm. I suppose we should eat dinner or something." The or something was "go to bed" if you were wondering. Bed usually won over food.

That being said, I have a suggestion for you. If you really want to do something nice for a new mom and dad, bring them food. Better yet, do like my best friend Brittaney did and bring food and cleaning supplies. (Side bar here: Also, bring burp cloths. Especially if you give birth to a child like my son. I am going to buy stock in the things because, so help me God, more food comes out of that kid than goes in.)

All she said when she walked in the door with a bucket full of solvents, sponges and rags was, "I do bathrooms" and I swear the heavens opened up and all the angels and archangels began to sing their songs of cleaning glory. In our master bath, Brittaney said when she was done, "I don't know if I arranged all the stuff that was on your counter right. Sorry if I put any of it in the wrong place."

Um, hi. I don't care if you punch me in the face and steal my jewelry when you are done. YOU JUST CLEANED MY BATHROOM!!

But more importantly, back to the food. My Brittaney is amazing. She is the mother of twin 3-year-olds, has two dogs, a full time job, gets up at dark-o-clock to train with her rowing team and still found time to make three, count them, THREE meals for us. She made us a tray of enchiladas with rice and beans, two servings of marinara sauce and she provided pasta and finally, chili.

Ahhhhh, the chili. Everything was amazing but the chili was superb and I needed to know how she made it. Now, I typically am one to scoff at canned food. I also make it very clear that there is no reason to eat soup from a can because soup is so easy to make. This is when my husband gently reminds me that I may think that it is easy but most normal people think that getting a can opener and a pot is actually easier than cooking anything from scratch. So based on that, this chili is everything I am against. However, sometimes that is what comfort food is all about. Everyone loves a homemade, fancy mac-n-cheese made with aged cheddar and a nutty Gruyere but sometimes "The Cheesiest" is the only thing that will hit the spot. Aside from the ground turkey and grated pepper jack cheese, this is what this chili is made up of:



This is seriously the easiest chili out there.

1 package ground turkey
2 cans white beans
1 can corn
1 package taco seasoning
1 jar of salsa
grated pepper jack cheese

Brown the meat in a pot. Add the 2 cans of beans and 1 can of corn (including all the liquid in the can), taco seasoning and the salsa and heat threw. Once heated, stir in the grated cheese and serve.

Is this how I would usually make chili? No. But sometimes it is okay to cut corners if it end result is just as delicious. Plus, it leaves much more time for this, which is the most important part of it all. Right?

Ode to my "Bah"

My Great Grandma, a.k.a. "Bah," (pronounced like what a sheep would say – you know, "Baaaa." I don't know, ask my mom. She tried to say Grandma and it came out "Bah." Think that's weird? Grandpa came out "Daddal." Your guess is as good as mine.) loved chocolate covered orange rinds. I can still hear her saying it now in her West Virginia drawl, "But I don't want none of that 'light' chocolate. Only dark chocolate." The last time I saw my Bah was on her 95th birthday when the whole family went back east to surprise her. I bought her a bag of dark chocolate covered orange rinds from a fancy chocolate shop in Los Gatos. I handed her the bag and told her what it was. She was sharp as a tack until the day she died but her eyesight had seen better days. She took the bag from my hand and promptly put it in the top drawer of the side table to her left and said, "I'm gonna put them right in here so I have them all to myself. Because I am not going to share them with no one!" And I hope she didn't.

While my mom was growing up, Bah was her best bud and she spent countless weekends at her apartment. She grew up adopting many of Bah's habits and behaviors, especially food preferences. Bah had a blood pressure issue so she ate nearly no salt. So, neither did Mom. It was not until just recently that Mom even started incorporating salt into her diet and growing up we would wait for Mom’s famous “too salty” cough as she would take her first bite of a meal while eating out. My mom also prefers dark chocolate much like Bah, and you would be hard pressed to find her eating any of that “light” stuff. However, the addition of orange, or any kind of fruit for that matter is where my mother draws the line. In her opinion, which she makes very apparent by a snarled nose and look of disgust when fruit and chocolate are even mentioned in the same sentence, is why would anyone ruin perfectly good chocolate with all that pesky fruit?

I don’t understand it. This coming from a woman who actually started to like sugar on her tomatoes because she copied her Grandmother who substituted it for salt. But dip a raspberry in chocolate? DISGUSTING!

Which brings me to tonight. I am home by myself this evening and my son is sleeping soundly upstairs. Since this sleeping on his own thing is relatively new for me, I have to find something to do with my time otherwise I will check on him every 10 minutes. Literally. I do it so much I wonder why I don’t just lay on the floor by his crib but then I think to myself, “Now Heather, that would be insane.” So I started rifling through the cupboard looking for something to bake and I came across a bag of dried cherries that I think I was planning on adding to homemade trail mix. But why would I want to do that when I could add them to cookies?? So with the handful of cherries, a half a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips and the little gem I found hiding in the back of my cupboard, Hershey’s “Special Dark” Cocoa Powder, I made these:



Based on the color of dough alone, I knew they were going to be rich and delicious and I owe it all to the dark chocolate cocoa. The light stuff just wouldn’t have cut it. And I am sure if my mom knew I put cherries in them she would make some kind of gagging sound and wonder how I could have added “landmines” to what had the potential to be the perfect cookie. And to that I say, well, maybe I just want to put them right here in this drawer to my left and keep them all to myself. Not share them with no one!

Reward

I have recently discovered this great new diet. First, all you have to do is get pregnant. Grow the child inside of your body for approximately 40 weeks (give or take). During this time eat whatever you want and watch as, not only your stomach, but your hips, thighs and ass expand at an extremely rapid rate. This is mainly caused by all the cookies you will need to consume and the fact that pretty much all physical activity becomes nearly impossible. (This is including but not limited to: jogging, walking, climbing stairs, standing, breathing, motion in general etc.) And try to retain a lot of water if you can. Bags of potato chips in a single sitting help with this. Then give birth. The weight loss is incredible!! Oh, and also you have the pesky responsibility of now raising a child but, whatever. Minor detail.

Anyway, I kid you not, with the regiment I just described coupled with breastfeeding day in and day out, I lost 37 pounds in 6 weeks. But all joking aside, I did not expect to drop that much, that quickly and I am very happy with this change. However, my starting weight when I found out I was pregnant was not what I would call ideal. That coupled with the fact that when I did find out I was expecting I was too scared to sneeze too hard for fear I might dislodge the little noodle in there, I gained a teensy bit more weight (cough) 45 lbs (cough) than I wanted too.

So, about two weeks ago, Grant and I did a 6 day metabolism boosting diet. In a nutshell, it consisted of a low carb, high protein diet with 3 meals a day, 2 snacks and lots of lean protein, veggies and the occasional fruit smoothie. It really is the easiest thing to do and a common sense approach to a diet but you get mighty tired of salad by the end, to say the least. But it worked and thanks to the diet and my daily walks with my son, I lost 8 additional lbs. Woot! And as hard as it was, honestly it felt really good to eat completely healthy for a week. I suppose these so called "nutritionists" may be onto something.

But tonight I decided we deserved to treat ourselves. And the fresh scallops at Farmer Joe's Market in Oakland were begging for me to buy them. I basically tweaked this risotto recipe. I opted for no fennel because I find it offensive and I added red onion and sauteed oyster mushrooms that also looked AMAZING that day at the market. I then topped it off with three beautiful seared scallops. It was well worth 6 days of salads and grilled chicken. But, the weight loss was also worth it and I plan on doing the diet again on a more regular basis in an effort to lose more, and cleanse my body a bit. Now, if I can only find a diet that will do something about this gelatinous tire where my abs once were. One of the many other gifts my beautiful son has left me with.


(Photo by Grant Shellen)

Carrot Soup

Two weeks ago, I did something amazing. I made carrot soup from scratch and without a recipe. That's right, I made it up right there on the spot. But wait, that is not even the amazing part yet. I did all of this with my 4-week-old son strapped to the front of me. Amazing, right?

Oh, I'm sorry, have I not mentioned that yet? Oh yeah, I had a kid.

Maybe I should back up a little bit. So roughly 9 months and 6 weeks ago I got pregnant. Overall, I had a fairly easy pregnancy with a few of the typical symptoms that come along with growing another human in your body scattered throughout. For me, the first trimester was really not all that bad in retrospect. Yes, there were days when I felt a little woozy and had a bit of a sour stomach but thankfully that wooziness never turned into full-fledged vomiting. But, what it did mean was that food and I had a very interesting relationship during those first few months. I don't know if I would say that I craved any foods but I did know what I DID NOT want. Garlic was first on that list.

This is an ingredient that is usually in nearly everything I cook but even the mere thought of it made me feel ill. But more than not wanting specific items, I did not want anything that required too much work to eat. Essentially, I didn't want to chew. This meant I ate a lot of hummus and cream cheese. One morning I remember that someone brought bagels and cream cheese to work and as I took a bite of my first one I had already forgiven myself for the second bagel that I was inevitably going to be making upon finishing the first. (Pregnancy makes you really hungry, or at least gives you an excuse to eat as much as you want.) Because of these new food issues, dinner consisted mainly of whatever mama wanted that day. I remember calling my husband one evening on my way home from work. I told him that all day I had been thinking about making white rice in the rice cooker and instead of water, I wanted to make it with chicken broth and when it was done I wanted to put butter and salt on it. He chuckled and said, "That's funny." So what are we having for dinner?"

"Um, did you hear what I said? You can have whatever you want, but I am having white rice, made with chicken broth and when it is done I am going to put butter and salt on it."

I don't remember what he ended up making for dinner that night, but I sure as hell know what I had.

The second trimester was basically "everything goes." I was no longer opposed to chewing, and aside from wanting to eat all the things I could not have due to safety concerns for the baby, (e.g. sushi, blue cheese and lunch meat) food and I were friends again. The best of friends, really. And often times it seemed that food was less about enjoyment and more about how fast I could shove something with nutritional value into the hole in the center of my face.

In my third trimester, I got hit with a food craving the size of a train. A giant, dairy-filled train. For whatever reason, I needed milk to be accessible to me at all times. I could drink it by the gallon. I have always enjoyed milk but I was not really my beverage of choice. This was more than just an enjoyment of milk: this was an extreme need for it. I feel like I can now relate to how that smoker must feel in the morning before their first cigarette. My "cigarette" just happened to be a tall, cold, glass of A & D fortified goodness.

I don't know if it was the milk or just my luck but I did something right because at 5 days overdue I gave birth to a 9 lbs 3 oz baby boy who we named Charlie with NO EPIDURAL. And no, I am not one of those women who thinks they are superior to any woman to uses pain medication during child birth because believe me, child birth hurts. A LOT. But I am one of those women who thinks she has now earned the right to use all caps when the words "no" and "epidural" appear in order and I am referencing birth of my son. Did I mention his head was 14 3/4 inches in circumference? Because it was. So like I said, NO EPIDURAL!!!

Anyway, where was I? Right, soup! After you have a baby, people love to bring you food. This is a fabulous benefit to having a baby because the last thing you will be doing is cooking with a newborn in the mix. It was a good day when I remembered to put on deodorant, let alone make a meal. But the foodie in me was dying to cook again and was just not satisfied by reheating things in the microwave, as appreciated as the meals were. So a few weeks ago, I strapped my son to me in the Moby wrap and I decided to make soup. I made it up on the fly so here is my best guess at what I did:

7-9 medium carrots, peeled and diced
1 medium onion, diced
3-4 cloves of garlic, minced
1 large can of chicken broth (more maybe needed depending on how you like the consistency of your soup)
1 tsp of grated, fresh ginger (more or less to taste)
zest of half an orange
salt and pepper to taste

Saute the diced onion and garlic for a few minutes until the onions become translucent and tender. Add the carrots and continue to cook for a few minutes more. Add the chicken broth, ginger and zest and bring to a boil. Once the soup is boiling reduce the heat to a simmer and cook until the carrots are fork tender. Ladle the soup in parts into a food processor or blender and process until smooth. This is when you may need to add more broth if the soup is too thick. You could also add water, or even cream for a richer soup.

As far as I know, Charlie liked the soup. While I was preparing it I was thinking about how much fun it will be for me to cook for Charlie when he can actually eat the food as opposed to getting the milk version of it a few hours later. I really do hope me son is not a picky eater and will enjoy this carrot soup and many of my other creations someday. And if he doesn't like something or tries to give me grief, I will just have to gently remind him that I gave birth to him with NO EPIDURAL!!!