Unsolicited Parenting Advice #3

Several months ago, Charlie and I were enjoying a quiet evening at home listening to the rocking tunes of "The Terrible Twos." During the song, "If You Ever See An Owl," an owl hoots in the back ground. When the owl hooted, I reacted in a way that I thought was a jovial look of surprise. Turns out, it had the opposite effect and Charlie looked out the window in fright and burst into tears. For weeks he talked about that damn owl that his imagination decided lived in the tree outside and was going to peck his eyes out in his sleep or something.

More recently, Charlie is hyper-focused on things that are scary. He got scared of a dinosaur he saw on a show. At a farm, he was scared of a rooster crowing. They were justifiable reactions at the time but he talks about them nearly every day. It has been a learning process for us dealing with his knew found fear of things. I have no idea if we are handling it correctly but I am pretty confident I know what not to do if your child find themselves fearful of something:

1. Don't tell them things like, "You better behave or the owl will become very angry with you!!!"

2. Don't hide under his bed at night and growl like a dinosaur as he is falling asleep.

3. Don't purchase a rooster to use in lieu of an alarm clock.

What I have been trying to do is down play his comments about the "scary (fill in the blank)." Obviously, if he is visibly upset he gets as many snuggles as he needs. But, if he just mentions something being scary unprovoked, if appropriate I ignore it and change the subject or simply say, "No honey, it's not scary. I think roosters/dinosaurs/owls are nice." I only hope that I am minimizing instilling any unnecessary fear in him. Besides, if I am going to make him fearful of anything, it is going to over things that are worth it. Like large bodies of water, windowless vans and Fox news.

Unsolicited Parenting Advice #2

As if I didn't need another time suck in my life, I have now discovered Pinterest. It is a social networking site where you can create and share pin boards of basically anything you want. For example, crafts you will likely never do, clothes you can't afford and food you will probably never make. So it's like Facebook, but more depressing.

It is an amazing reference for ideas for the kiddos and even though I will never be the type of person who will make felted wine coasters or crochet my own jeggings, for Charlie, I am willing to do just about anything. Since you can never have too many fine motor activities for the the little ones (and it is always so lovely when they stand still) I had to try this:


Plastic strainer, pipe cleaners and a willing child. Done.


Please note: Make sure you stay close by during this activity. It doesn't take long for them to realize that these pipe cleaners will fit in other holes like, say, their ears.

And this will probably happen:



And then this:



And you know what I say to that? Quit crying to me kid, with your little hands and underdeveloped dexterity. Just figure it out. After all, those diamonds ain't gonna mine themselves. AMIRIGHT?

(Disclaimer: Child labor is not funny. Not now, not ever. However, having children to someday do chores for you while you sit on the couch and eat bon bons? HILARIOUS.)

My very selfish attempt at time travel

I while back I wrote a letter to my teenage self that was featured on this awesome site. My letter was well received by my friends and family and even brought some of them to tears (or so I am told). For that, I am humbled.

But now I want a do-over. I would like to write a new letter to myself that says this and only this:

"Get off your lazy ass and listen to the doctors when they tell you to take care of your back."

My back problems started at the ripe old age of 13. I think I was in Junior High the first time I threw it out from tying my shoe, sneezing or something else equally as embarrassing. My back went into spasms, my pelvis tilted to the side like a teeter-toter and I was out of commission for several days. It was painful but I did get to miss school and I recovered within a few days so I went on with my junior high life of bad fashion choices and hormonal cry-fests. But that first time was all it took; it was the proverbial straw that broke, well, my back. About once or twice a year, from that point on, I suffered from one of these episodes. I remember one time it happened while on vacation at our family cabin in Washington state. It was probably around '96 or '97. Those little butterfly clips were all the rage which meant my sister had roughly 37,000 of them in all the shades of an iridescent rainbow. She would twist and twirl her hair and attach about half of them to various places on her head every morning, the colors always corresponding to the "outfit" she had chosen for the day. The clips, colorful eye shadow combinations and silver, platform clown shoes were just her version of a giant neon sign with arrows pointing to her head and flashing "Look at me! Look at me!"

But I digress...

In a simultaneous effort to embarrass and make us laugh, my father thought it would be funny to attach the little clips to various parts of his face and body. When the clip he placed on his eyebrow proved to be a bit to painful and he yelped like a four-year-old girl, everyone at the table started to howl in laughter. I just started howl. Apparently laughing was just enough to send my back into those painful spasms I had grown all too accustomed to. I was so twisted and in so much pain that I couldn't put any weight on my feet so my family dragged a mattress from the bedroom into the kitchen so I could sleep right there on the floor. It took me nearly a half an hour to get from the chair down to the mattress. Once I finally made it down there I said, "And now I have to pee."

My aunt, who is an occupational therapist, said to me, "You know what honey, I deal with this all the time. If you want, I can go find and empty jar and we can do this right here."

"I'M UP!" It's amazing what a little motivation can do for you, especially if that motivation is to avoid showing your lady bits to your family members. Somehow I found the strength to crawl on my hands and knees to the bathroom and drag my body up onto the toilet. The next day I was still pretty uncomfortable but my dad located a back brace and some pain killers at a local drug store and after a day or two I was enjoying my vacation again.

We tried to figure out why I had a back that appeared to be made out of construction paper and macaroni noodles. I had xrays, MRIs, was taken out of PE classes, and sent to Physical Therapy. My diagnosis was basically that I was very tall for my age and had weak core and back muscles. I needed to exercise in general but more specifically, I needed to work those areas of my body to prevent this from happening in the future. However, the problem was that I stood in the choir and looked pretty. Exercise was bothersome, sweaty and made my make-up run. Basically, I didn't do it and now, at 30, I would do just about anything to go back in time, shake some sense into myself and do few crunches here and there. Because chronic back pain with a 20-month-old is no joke. Try doing crunches now with a kid who thinks by being on the floor, you want to wrestle and so he throws his body on top of yours and says, "Sit on Mommy!"

So I was at physical therapy the other day (which is now a normal part of my life, at thirty) and I told my therapist that the pain seemed to be moving into my mid back and sometimes I feel numbness. I am no doctor but I am pretty sure this is not a good thing. He felt around and told me I was quite tight in that area and he wanted to try a technique on me that will "probably bruise" but should help. At this point I am willing to be stabbed repeatedly with knives if someone promises me it will help so bruise away! He had me lie face down and with some kind of poking device, which in retrospect is probably better that I didn't see, started massaging. It literally sounded like he was crushing Cheetos on my back.

"Yeah, do you hear that?" He asked.

"Um, yes."

"This is not a new problem. You have years of damage in there which has basically caused scar tissue to form on your muscles. That is the crunching sound you hear." Oh thank God! Because I thought that sound was because my back was actually made of a gravel driveway. But it's not that! It is just YEARS AND YEARS of damage! Hooray!

He also told me that another side effect of this technique was addiction and many of his patients want him to do it every visit. "Ha ha. That is funny. I wonder why?" I said as innocently as I could, and then decided it was probably best to refrain from asking him to come home with me, live in my bedroom and do that to me everyday. Because whatever he did helped tremendously and if I am being totally honest, I have not felt this good in months.

But don't tell my teen self this. No, no, no. Because this does not mean I am "fixed." The truth is, I am finally (begrudgingly) starting to accept the fact that this is more than just a tweaked muscle. This is going to be a lifelong battle I will have to fight. So I am telling you, teenage me, find something active that you like to do and freaking do it. Stretch and do some crunches every day. Trust me, your post-baby abs will thank you for it anyway. And maybe, if you do all of this, you won't be in pain all the time. Maybe you won't be scared every time you bend down to tie your shoe or pick up something you drop on the floor. Maybe you won't feel like you can't do your fair share of the housework. Maybe you won't have to quit doing things that you used to really enjoy. Maybe you won't worry every time you reach down to pick up your son. Also, if you don't listen to me now, you will have zits all over your face on your wedding day.

Ok, that last part might not be true.

Big Ole' Bowl of Thanksgiving Goodness

A few weeks ago I made this soup. I actually instructed you, once you you finished reading the post, to stop what you were doing and go and make the soup. If you are sitting here reading this now and have yet to make the Butternut Squash and Bacon soup I have a question for you:

"Why do you hate yourself?"

Not to fear; I have another option. Some of my fellow foodie friends put me up to the challenge make a pureed butternut squash soup. There was mention incorporating candied pecans and cranberries. Also, bacon. Always bacon.

Here is roughly what I did. (I never measure and often drink wine when I cook so, yeah.)


Half, seed, season and roast the butternut squash in a 375 degree oven until tender.


Melt about a tablespoon of butter, two tablespoons of brown sugar and a sprinkle of cinnamon in a pan. Throw the nuts in. Toss and cook for a few minutes until they start to caramelize. Pour them out onto a nonstick surface to cool.


This next part will BLOW YOUR MIND. My dear friend Toni is wonderful for a countless list of reasons but one of my favorite things about her is the girl will put sugar on anything she can get away with. This includes bacon.

Mix approximately 1/4 cup of brown sugar and about 1/2 teaspoon of chili powder (more or less to taste of course). I happened to use chipotle powder. Dredge the bacon in the sugar and chili mixture on both sides and roast in a 400 degree oven for about 20-25 minutes. You will never look at bacon the same again.


Dried cranberries, chopped candied pecans and spicy candied bacon. This is the garnish for your soup. If you want to skip the soup part and just mix the contents of these bowls together to form THE BEST TRAIL MIX EVER I will not judge you.

To make the soup, saute a chopped onion in butter (or bacon fat...whatever) until translucent in a large stockpot. Dig out the butternut squash from its shell and add to the cooked onions. Sprinkle with a bit more chipotle powder and cook until the squash is heated through and starts to break down.

Honestly, I have no idea how much chicken broth to add. A box? Two cans? Enough? A wine glass full? Bring to a boil. After it boils, you can either transfer it to a food processor or blender, but that sounds like a second degree burn waiting to happen. Might I suggest investing in one of these handy things for all your pureeing needs? Hit it with some half and half at the end for richness.


This is the end result. It tastes like freaking Thanksgiving in a bowl. The only person in my house who didn't like it was Charlie. But I wouldn't trust the opinion of someone who will eat cheerios that have been in the bottom of his car seat for two weeks.

Charlie Chicken

Because there soon will come a day when he insists on being a ninja and only a ninja every freaking year.

Soup Weather

I am very much aware that The Onion is a jokey-jokey-fun-time news site where things are parodied, the stories are fake and hilarity ensues. However, last February, I read this article about soup and thought to myself, "What is so funny about this? This is some solid news reporting going on here!"

There is nothing I love more about fall than soup and it is my absolute favorite thing to make in the kitchen. I like it so much in fact, that I will find any excuse to make it. For example, here, when I logically went with beef stew because it was easy and would feed a lot of people. I forgot the fact that it was June and about 47 gabillion degrees outside. So, when it actually becomes fall and the leaves begin to turn on the tree outside my window and the evenings start to feel just slightly cooler than they were the week before, IT'S SOUP TIME!

The other night, I made a soup so amazing I am almost willing to lie and say that I made it up because I am just that awesome. Because only someone awesome would put these ingredients in a soup:



You can find the full recipe here. (It's the second soup recipe down on the page. I have yet to try the first one.)

How do you think I did compared to the picture on the website?


If the picture is not enough to convince you to make this soup right now let me tell you this: The broth tastes like bacon. BACON! Seriously, go now.

Obviously, my first soup of the season was a huge success and I am so excited for more. Broccoli Chedder, I'm coming for you next, bitch.

Unsolicited Parenting Advice #1

I got a bachelors degree in Child Development because I thought I wanted to be a teacher. A preschool teacher, to be exact. So right out of college, that was my first job. Now, I don't know if you know this but kids are really annoying. Especially 24 of them, all in the same room together, high on juice and play dough fumes, and only 21 of them are truly "potty trained." But, I loved children so the fact that I wanted to lock half of them in the bathroom everyday was shocking to me. Since I wanted to continue to love children, I decided it best I get a new profession. So I did, and I loved it. While I didn't work with them directly, it still involved helping kids just with a lot less boogers and tempura paint on my jeans.

Even though I couldn't cut it as a preschool teacher, I am super thankful for my child development background now that I am mom. I am no expert and would never claim to be one. I am very aware of the fact that I am making mistakes (probably daily). I even do things I swore I would never, ever do. In college, I would be willing to bet I uttered the phrase, "What kind of mother would allow her child to watch television under the age of two??"

Well, who has two thumbs and needs a GODDAMN MINUTE TO COOK DINNER???

This mom. (Gasp! She what?? What a hypocrite!)

Okay, OKAY!!! I get it and it honestly goes against a lot of what I believe in but since my child insists on standing under my legs while I am at the stove cooking, (food that is meant to keep him ALIVE, mind you) it becomes a matter of safety. Twenty minutes of "Dinosaur Train" is a hell of a lot better than an irreparable face burn. At least that is how I talk myself out of feeling guilty.

Television is not the only activity I do with my son, of course. For the love of God, I was Child Development major. Which is why I know how important it is to develop fine motor skills. What I have for you, my mom and dad friends out there, is a step by step guide for a DIY fine motor skills activity.

Step 1.

Obtain an empty bottle. Might I suggest a handle of Segram's or perhaps a jug of Carlo Rossi merlot? Oh who am I kidding! Those are made of glass! How inappropriate of me to suggest such a thing. An empty water bottle like this will do just fine.

Step 2.

Drink a lot of wine. Save the corks.

Step 3.

Look at the magic of coordination happen right before your eyes!


Never has a child been happier to be playing with something that was intended for the trash.

You bleed on it, you buy it.

You know, all I needed was some pajamas for Charlie. But there I go, insisting on browsing the clearance rack.

I made a bold choice and walked into Old Navy with Charlie not in his stroller. When we walked in his facial expression seemed to say something like, "Those neatly folded sweaters have no idea what they are in for." We headed to the back of the store to pick out a few pairs of ridiculously cute jammies and on the floor in the kids section was a bucket of brightly colored balls. Charlie proceeded to take all of them out. It was clearly time to go and the pajamas in my hands were just going to have to do. (I happened to be holding dinosaurs and monkeys driving cars so he's lucky I wasn't holding the cupcakes or "Daddy's Little Princess.")

But there I go, walking past the clearance rack and a shirt caught my eye. I grabbed a couple sizes and said in an overly excited tone, "Charlie, want to go to the dressing room?!?!"

"Dessing roon?" He repeated.

"Yes, the dressing room. It is going to be so fun in there!" I know, I know, I am horrid. But, come on, it's not like I said, "and there will be puppies, too!"

In the dressing room there were only two things that Charlie wanted to do: bang on the walls and roll around on the floor, neither of which are annoying or unsanitary at all.

And then it happens. Charlie trips and first his mouth and then his forehead hit the bench that's inside of the dressing room. I, of course, already have on the shirt I was trying on.

I picked his little body up and said, "Oh honey, that hurt didn't it." When I turned him around to face me and he was doing that thing where his mouth is wide open but no sound was coming out. About 30 seconds go by and then comes the scream. But it actually wasn't as loud as you would imagine because it was being muffled by his mouth pressing into my shoulder that is covered in a shirt that I don't even own yet.

I knew what I would see when I peeled his little face off of my shoulder. Yup, a blood stain.

He calmed down and I said, "Well, mommy is going to go ahead and get changed and were are going to buy these pajamas and apparently, this shirt!" which fits ok and is only sort of cute. Let me put it this way on a scale of 1 to 10, it gets a solid 6 (with a blood stain on it.) But I could not, in good conscience, put it back on the rack. Maybe if I decide I really don't like it when I get home I can just wad it up and keep it in my diaper bag to use as a rag the next time this inevitably happens again.

"Did you find everything you were looking for today ma'am."



"Yes! And then some!"



And look how nicely I match the pumpkin patch?

Wherein I risk losing at least three loved ones from my life thanks to what I'm about to say.

I like mayonnaise.

To clarify, this is shocking because if you know me, I have lead you to believe I did not like mayonnaise.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't like I was trying to mislead you. But the truth is my hatred of mayonnaise was not an inborn trait that I inherited from my parents and there was a time when I did like it. While I don't think it was a necessity on my sandwiches like syrup is on my pancakes, or a six pack of Smirnoff Ice on my Friday nights in college, it wasn't like I refused or asked for my burgers without it.

But then came the day that mayo turned on me. There I was sitting in the beach, trying to enjoy my Togos sandwich to the sound of the crashing waves and something about it didn't taste right. There was a pungent and almost "stingy" quality to the sandwich that reminded me of blue cheese. I know I didn't order blue cheese on my sandwich so I figured the only explanation was bad mayonnaise. Not willing to risk food poisoning, I opted to throw the sandwich away and from that day forward, I had no interest in eating mayo on anything.

I began to rekindle my relationship with mayo while I was pregnant. I found myself craving it. Really, I was craving sandwiches in general which apparently you are not supposed to eat because of the nitrates that can be found in lunch meat. Actually, you can eat lunch meat as long as you heat it in the microwave until it is steaming. Mmmmmm, hot, steamy lunch meat. I wasn't about microwave my cold cuts and since my brain is convinced that mayo is "gross" the baby must be wrong; I couldn't possibly want to eat a sandwich. Then one day at a birthday party, hugely pregnant and ravenous, I was presented with two choices: pre-made deli sandwiches and some kind of Thai peanut chicken satay. Normally I'm a fan of chicken satay but turns out the baby was not and suddenly I was very much aware that there was a peanut dish being served and not in a good way. So I said screw it and took a sandwich, baby poisoning nitrates and all. (Gasp! She what?? I know, I'm very irresponsible. But as far as I can tell he seems fine without any sort of noticeable twitches.)

The sandwich? DELICIOUS. But it was probably just a pregnancy thing, right? Turns out, not so much. There is an adorable little market down the street from our house that makes sandwiches so amazing that it makes me want to cry. But there's was something about the first sandwich I had from this place that was different and was even better than any of the sandwiches I had enjoyed before. Then I realized what I had done: I forgot to ask for no mayo.

So there you have it people! I LIKE MAYONNAISE!!! And I am not afraid to admit it anymore. Really, I am not all that surprised. Could I really blame the mayo for my bad sandwich? No. And how could I when it was my fault that I chose to purchase food from from a restaurant that I have actually used to describe how gross something else is that is not that restaurant (i.e. "Ugh. Nasty. It smells like a Togo's in here.")

Do I wish that it wasn't mayo that I started to like again and something slightly more healthy like say raw fennel or wheat grass smoothies? Sure. And you know, maybe I will come around on those things too someday. I wonder what they would taste like with mayo on them?

(Stay tuned for my next post which I shall call, "Why Heather is Sad and Needs to Exercise More.")

Watch and Laugh

In addition to being excellent musicians, my husband and his band mates are hilarious! They made "thank you" videos for some of their most loyal fans who donated to the completion of their latest album, "Buttons and Bows." You can see them all here.

This is one of my favorites that was made for guitar and keyboard player Audie's wife, Cheryl.



After you watch the videos you should go here and buy a CD because it is awesome and you will LOVE it.

Leverpostej-Off 2011, Part Two

There was only way to properly judge the liverpostej, and that was through a blind taste test. Jess, my dad and I went into the kitchen and to prepare two equal plates to share. Theoretically, no one would know which one belonged to who. But as we began to prepare the plates it became clear right away that this would not be the case, as well as who had won the battle. It was Grandpa, without a doubt.

"You know, I don't even think we should serve this."

"No!" My dad said. And then he tried ours. "Yeah...Grandpa's is way better."

My uncle came in to find out what the holdup was and we told him that we were thinking of throwing in the towel; our liver was not up to snuff. He picked up our plate of leverpostej, its color and consistency clearly not right. He brought the plate up to his nose and took a sniff.

"It smells like Friskies!" he said. That was less than comforting.

I was ready to just dump all of it and anything resembling my Danish ancestry in the trash since we had so clearly failed. But Grandpa was really looking forward to trying it so instead "quitting" we surrendered.


With our white flags made out of chopsticks and napkins, we humbly accepted our loss.


Grandpa's is the one on the left and ours is on the right. Not that you know what leverpostej should look like, but ours is not right. The color is wrong and the consistency is wrong. I realize that both look equally unappetizing.


The most important judge.

My Grandpa is a fairly quiet guy in general. At 91 years old, he is in great shape but sometimes even the simplest tasks can be a bit tiresome for him. These days, our visits usually consist of him sitting quietly and taking it all in. He tells the occasional story that I just love and wish I could bottle up and keep in my pocket to listen to anytime I need a smile. But for the most part, he just sits back and enjoys his family enjoying themselves; he doesn't have to say much for us to know what he is really feeling.

"You know, Grandpa," I said, "Dad says your pickles won too."

"Well, yes," he said. "I suspected as much." And he smiled a big proud smile.

I've never been happier to lose something in my life.

Leverpostej-Off 2011, Part One

Let me start by saying that I have no idea how I got roped into this, or why I agreed at all. I must have been intoxicated. Or maybe it's because when your 91-year-old grandfather asks you to do something, even if it is cooking Danish leverpostej (liver paste), you do it. Also, I think I was a little drunk.

No, really. Here is how it actually went down:

This all began years ago when my mom decided she wanted to get pet chickens. Finally, this spring, my Dad begrudgingly agreed. So my mom did her research, got the proper permits and placed her order for six baby chicks to be mailed to her. Yes, mailed. That is actually a thing.

The chickens were not going to be arriving for several weeks and even when they did arrive, they could not go in a coop right away because they would be babies that would need to be kept in a brooding box under warm lights. So, my Dad had plenty of time to draw up some plans and build a coop himself. Sure you can buy a perfectly good ready-made chicken coop, but where is the fun in that? Plus, this is only going to take "a few weekends."

A few weekends.

Those words made me shudder. Why? Because about 10 years ago when I was still living at home my Dad thought it would be fun to remodel both bathrooms at the same time. But not to worry. This was only going to take (everyone say it with me):

A few weekends.

While we always had a working toilet in the house, both showers had to be removed. My dad came up with the ingenious idea to jury rig a shower in our garage. My sister, mother and I were not thrilled. But remember this was only going to take:

A FEW WEEKENDS.

Nine months later, four of which were THE COLDEST MONTHS OF THE YEAR, my sister and I were willing to sell our souls for the use of anyone's indoor shower, and my mother was ready to leave my father. We stuck it out, though, until eventually the bathrooms were done and we stopped living our lives like barbarians.

When my dad busted out the plans for the chicken coop for all of us all to see, Grant took one look at them and said, "These chickens are going to be showering in the garage for the next nine months, aren't they?"

Truer words may never have been spoken by him. Needless to say, my mom got the chickens in April and the coop is still not done. Almost done, but not done. How could it have possibly taken so long, you ask? It's just a chicken coop, so four boards, some chicken wire, a door, some hay and boom! You got yourself a coop, right?

Behold.


This is "Cluckinghen Palace" for my mom's chickens (Edna, Marie, Eva B, Miss Pete, Millie and Diane Von Furstenberg) and it is nicer than my first dorm room in college. What can I say? The Andersens go big or go home.

You can imagine that all our extended family and friends are now invested in the coop and everyone wants to see it in all its glory. My grandparents, of course, were among the interested. Since Labor Day weekend also happens to be the weekend of my grandpa's birthday he wanted to come down for the day and check it out. Two of my uncles and their wives would be coming along as well.

As mentioned here, my grandpa is Danish. Since it was his birthday, my sister and I thought it would be fun to try to make him leverpostej and homemade pickled cucumbers as a surprise. Grandpa caught wind of our little plan and decided to make some of his own and up the stakes a bit. He wanted to turn it into a friendly competition. And thus began the Leverpostej-Off of 2011!


Armed with our Danish cookbook, Jessie and I got some aprons and the proper tools.


If I have to touch organ meat, there ain't just gonna be one of these consumed tonight.


I'm smiling but in my head I am thinking, "I'm holding a bag of liver. I'm holding a bag of liver."


"Don't worry Mommy! Me and my band of trained chihuahuas will save you from the liver!"


Oooo, anchovies.


Onions.


Bacon. So much bacon.


I decided to spare you any photos of the leverpostej in its precooked state and for that you are welcome. As you can see, we made six loaves of it. They were mini loaves but still: we made six of them. And yes, I see the irony here. (See aforementioned chicken coop palace.)

When it came out of the oven it smelled like the leverpostej I remembered so we figured we must have done something right. However, right away we knew there was a problem with consistency. For true leverpostej, you need a meat grinder in order to achieve that paste-like quality. We used a food processor, and while we let it run for a really long time, there were obvious chunks remaining in our mixture.

"I have a bad feeling about this." I said.

"No, I think this is what Grandpa's looked like," my dad said.

"You're just saying that. I don't think we did this right."

To which my sister replied, "Well, at least we made six of them."

This may turn out to be an epic failure but only time will tell.

San Diego: The Final Chapter

And now, my fans, the moment you have all been waiting for. The end of our coastal journey to San Diego and back. (And by "fans" I am referring to my mom, a handful of friends and my husband, sometimes. He is a very busy man.)

In a nutshell, THE DRIVE HOME SUCKED!!!

We left San Diego at around 10:30 in the morning for what should have been about a 4 hour drive to the Danish town of Solvang, CA. However, we did not arrive at our destination until 6:30 that evening. This is thanks in part to Southern California traffic, a bathroom break and a lunch stop at a Chili's in Carson, CA where, based on the service, was clearly run by drunk, blind, monkeys.

Despite the fact that it was late and we were starving, we insisted on doing the one thing we wanted to do when we left San Diego: get to our hotel, unpack the car and take a dip in the pool. A pool that, turns out, was not as family friendly as our experience at the Madonna Inn. The pool was in the center of the hotel and surrounded by outdoor patios that hotel guests could sit on and enjoy a glass of wine. I'm referring specifically to one young couple in particular. I remember looking up at them and thinking, "They have the right idea. Cool evening. A nice bottle of Pinot." And then my thought was interrupted by the sound of the rest of our troop heading out the the pool. There was splashing, and yelling, playing and general disturbing the peace.

It was so romantic.

And then, Madison took a pretty good fall, bumping her head with a loud "THWACK" on the tiled ground surrounding the pool and thus began a fit of screaming that lasted several migraine-inducing minutes. Poor little thing. This was about the time the couple retreated inside and I thought to myself, "It appears we have become one of those families." And I am also guessing ensured that they would be using a second method of birth control that evening. You're welcome.

Now, my Grandpa, Frank Andersen (with an S-E-N), is Danish. While he was born here, his parents were from Denmark. He grew up in Wisconsin in a Danish community but lived here during a time where it was more important to assimilate to American culture so he never really spoke Danish. He then moved to California and married my Grandma whose ethnic background consists of about 14 billion different European counties. Since my Grandpa is 100% Danish, my dad is half making me one quarter. Although it is just one quarter, it is the most I am of anything. Growing up, my only real experience with the culture was through a few dishes he would make. One was Liverpaste that I thought smelled (and was) cat food so as a kid I refused to touch it. My Grandpa hasn't made it in years and I would die to try some now as an adult.

At thanksgiving (or anytime the whole family was together) he would make us Danish Pancakes which are thin crepe-like pancakes filled with jams and sweetened cream cheese. Or plain with butter and syrup, like I liked them. And every Christmas he makes a huge batch of fried Kleiner cookies. He packages them up in holiday tins and sends them off to all 4 of his sons. They last about 20 minutes in the house when them arrive. They are just that good.

Being that Solvang is a replica of a little Danish town I couldn't help feel like I was getting back to my roots. You know! A chance to be with my people! Who are, apparently, a lot of Asian tourists.

One of Denmark's more famous dishes is the aebleskiver. Little round balls of pancakey goodness. The first time I ever had on of these things was in Solvang a few years ago. I guess my Grandpa used to make these little treats for my dad and his brothers growing up but my dad never seemed to want to carry on the tradition with my sister and I. My dad is a more savory breakfast fan and doesn't "like" pancakes or some crap like that. I don't get it either. But in his defense, the man can make a mean over-easy egg. Well, I am glad I discovered them in adulthood because they are divine.

Aside from being a Danish village, another little piece of my heart will always belong to Solvang. You see, in high school, I was in show choir. Yes, that's right, I was basically in the late nineties version of Glee. Grant was in it too. And while I never got a slushy to the face or faked being pregnant with his baby, we did go on tour. One of our stops was always Solvang where we would go into the candy and fudge shop and sing for free samples. Interestingly enough, after breakfast, we actually ran into someone who happened to be in town for a wedding who used to sing in show choir with us. Coincidence? Or perhaps it was fate telling us to sing for the fudge once again!!! Since I preferred to not get arrested that day, we bought the fudge like normal human beings.

And then we headed home and left vacation behind us. I think I was most impressed with my son. Charlie was a trooper and despite being taken in and out of the car every day, sometimes several time a day, and never being in the same place to sleep for more than three nights, he slept and ate like a champ. Upon our return home, we even found a couple new teeth in there. A teething baby and an enjoyable vacation? That's really all this mom could have asked for.

San Diego: Part Three

I didn't used to hate the beach. Quite the contrary, actually. As a teen I spent many summer days there, tanning (burning) in the sun and playing in the ocean. But then my innocence began to dwindle away and I became an adult who started to view the beach as messy, cumbersome and just so...so...sandy. I no longer found it fun or endearing to have sand in my hot dogs or all my crevices. Perhaps if there was a way to remove the sand and grow grass? Or better yet, pave it! And now with Charlie in the picture, I am convinced that the beach is a even more evil place full of sand tunnels that will collapse and suffocate my baby and an undertow that will suck my boy out to sea.

Nevertheless, we were going to San Diego and I was feeling a pull toward the beach that I just couldn't seem to fight. While I believe it is okay for Charlie to have a healthy fear of the ocean (and water in general) I want it to be more like a "respect" for the water kind of fear and not "the-monsters-under-your-bed-are-going-to-eat-your-feet-at-night" kind of fear.

So we put on our swimsuits, grabbed our beach towels and headed down to the beach. The kids had fun, digging for sand crabs and getting pummeled by the crashing waves. I even ventured into the water up to my knees and I can honestly say that I did not have a terrible time. This is progress. Charlie loved the water as well and would point to it and say, "Watey?" He even got mad when we tried to take him back up to the blankets to warm up when we noticed his lips we turning blue. He lasted a few minutes more until a particularly strong wave knocked him right down despite the fact that Grant was hanging on to his hands. Grant stood him up and Charlie reached up for him and said through his sniffles, "Daddy? Night-Night." Translation: "Get me the hell out of this water."

The next day was the world famous San Diego Zoo and do you know who was the most excited to go?

ME!!!

Do you know why? Because there are pandas at this zoo! PANDAS!! I loved pandas as a kid and I collected them. I had glass, ceramic, porcelain, plush, you name it. I remember the one Christmas my parents got me a stuffed, life-size panda. That was a good Christmas.

The San Diego zoo is roughly the size of Rhode Island so a plan of attack is a must upon entering the park. We were going to start with a bus ride around the zoo and then lunch where they...wait for it...served booze!

Zoo: 1, Legoland: 0.

Margaritas and beer to be exact. We opted for Margaritas. Did you know that Margaritas come in a can? Because they do. And they are carbonated and they taste just about as good as you would expect them too. Hmmmmm....

Zoo: 0, Legoland: 1

The San Diego Zoo is beautiful. Charlie was in love with any of the animals that could be seen swimming in the water through the glass like the hippos and the turtles. In fact, when it was time to leave the turtles he threw a fit that was so aggressive it almost made me say to the other parents admiring the turtles, "I know that blond little boy who is screaming and kicking looks nothing like the man who is picking him up and dragging him out of here, but I swear he is not being kidnapped. He is just really into turtles." It was clear that Charlie was truly enjoying the zoo and this was better than any park out there, free or otherwise.

Zoo: 1, Legoland: 0

By this time of the day, I have said this about 14,000 times: "So, seriously guys, when are we going to see the pandas?" And the time had come. I was so excited for this moment. San Diego is one of the two places in the country that you can see pandas. It was a childhood dream finally coming true. There was a line to get into the panda enclosure. As we approached the entrance we could hear a zookeeper telling guests fun facts about the pandas using a microphone. We walked into the enclosure and the zookeeper says, "Again, I need to ask that you please be QUIET. If you don't Gao Gao will go back inside and you will not be able to see him AT ALL!"

Be quiet? Says the woman over the PA system. And there was the panda, curled up in a ball in the corner. I am also 99% sure that he had his paws in his ears, what with all the yelling at zoo guests that was going on. His face was completely hidden and his black and white fur barely peaking out from behind the bush he was cowering behind. Next to the series finale of "Six Feet Under" it was probably the most anti-climactic moment of my life. I'm still not totally convinced that it was not a stuffed one from the gift shop.

Zoo: 0, Legoland: 1

To ease the pain from the lame panda viewing, there was only one option. Ice-cream for all! I think based on the following picture Charlie would agree, the Zoo won.


Nom Nom Nom


Turtles


Koala, or as Charlie called it "Wall-ah!" I wanted to take him home so I could use him as a pillow every night. Grant said no.


Two of the cutest little monkeys I saw that day.

Oh, where is the picture of the panda you ask? We didn't get one because instead of coming out to play Gao Gao decided to CRUSH MY CHILDHOOD DREAM!

I blame Legoland.

Dear Teen Me

I wrote a letter to my teenage self and it was featured here on the blog "Dear Teen Me."

I think the only thing I left out was to tell myself to enjoy wearing leggings while you can because although the trend comes back around, your legs are in no position to be wearing them ever again.

San Diego: Part Two

After an over-priced breakfast and a painful goodbye to The Madonna Inn, we continued our journey south. Later today we would be in San Diego. Well, almost San Diego. We were actually going to be staying with some very generous friends, Katie, Tim and their 2 year old daughter, Isabel. They live just outside of San Diego. And, I am not even remotely exaggerating when I say VERY generous friends. Friends who had recently returned from a trip that took them to Alaska and then Hawaii. So, the seven of us show up with bags, strollers, children, a pack-n-play, our dirty laundry (literally, not figuratively) and what has our host done?

Made us all dinner. Amazing.

Now, nearly every dish is dirty in their house thanks to us and I am having to ask Katie, who is still trying to do laundry catch up from her world tour, "Could I maybe do some laundry of my own? I mean, I realize you are up to your eyes in it, but like, I am almost out of underwear."

Don't worry, we brought them several bottles of alcohol for their trouble.

The next morning started with breakfast at Tip Top Meats.

"Going here is kind of a family tradition." Katie told us. "And for eight bucks you can get a breakfast plate with unlimited meat."

As a strong supporter of tradition (and meat) I was excited to try this place.

Katie was absolutely correct. For $7.98 you could get the "Big John Breakfast." This includes, "three eggs any style, home fried potatoes, toast and ALL* of our own delicious smokehouse bacon, pork link sausage, or polish sausage, bratwurst or ham you can eat."

You will notice the asterisk next to the word "ALL." This is indicating a footnote for what will forever be remembered as my favorite thing on a menu EVER. At the bottom of the "Big John" description is states: Sorry ALL not valid on TO GO orders (two meats).

Can you imagine the conversation that lead to that footnote?

"Thanks for calling Tip Top Meats can I take your order?"

"Yes, I will have a Big John Breakfast. Three eggs, over easy, sourdough toast, hash browns and, all the bacon in your freezer."

Although some in our party were brave enough to Big John it up, I opted for a smaller breakfast but did get one of their homemade bratwurst that was just delicious.

After breakfast was Legoland. I have been to Legoland before. It was just over 5 years ago that I went and then swore I would never return as long as I lived. It was well over 100 degrees on that godforsaken day when I asked myself on many occasions, "Why have a willingly entered Hell?" But never say never I guess, because here we are, yet again.

I have to say, this time was much more enjoyable. It was not so hot that I felt like I couldn't breathe. And I did have a child of my own this go around who I got to watch enjoy all there was to see at this wonderland of Legos. His favorite part was "Duplo Land" which is an area of the park that is designed specifically for younger kids. There were slides and climbing structures and places for parents to sit and watch their children play.

"You know, we could have just taken him to a park...for free." Grant said. He was right. I mean really, we could have taken him to an abandoned water treatment plant and called it a park and he would have had a grand ole time. But at least by paying for him to come here at just 15 months old, he won't have any fond memories or recollection of it happening at all, right??

Remind me, why did I agree to this again? Also, does Legoland serve booze?

Turns out, no. But Grant and I pretended and had our own fun.



All joking aside, anything that makes my boy and my nieces happy, makes me happy. And had we not gone, we would have missed out on this very realistic rendition of the Three Little Pigs. So there was that.


Love. The. Shades.


Right now, Charlie is thinking, "You know you could have just taken me to the park, Mom."


Look at this happy little girl. Makes it hard to stay mad at Legoland, doesn't it?


Well, if you must know, I quite enjoyed myself here today at Legoland. But then again, give me a box of raisins and a clean diaper and I can be happy pretty much anywhere.

San Diego: Part One

If you were wondering what it is like to go on a road trip to San Diego with 4 adults, 2 twin 4-year-olds and a 15 month old it falls somewhere between this:



and this:



Yes, that is a pull-up diaper on his head.

This was our first real family vacation and since driving straight through to San Diego from the Bay Area with three children under five sounds about as fun as an unmedicated appendectomy, we split the drive up into two parts.

Our first stop landed us in San Luis Obispo, Grant's college stomping ground and a destination favorite of ours. In the past, we have always done San Luis Obispo on a budget. In college we had no choice and after college we figured it was just good sense. After all, we spent the least amount of time in the room so who cares if it was a two star hotel with a questionable housekeeping policy. But this was vacation and we would be staying with friends once we arrived in San Diego (aka: for free) so it was very easy to justify a two night stay at The Madonna Inn. Known for it's kitschy charm, our room was fairly tame, what with the over-sized, mahogany furniture, horse print curtains and two, giant oil painting of horses grazing the fields. Brittaney and Ryan's room, on the other hand was painted with purple, metallic paint and the wall paper in the bathroom was purple sequin. It is what I believe the "kids" these days refer to as "P-I-M-P."

What the Madonna Inn is also known for is the color pink. To best describe the amount of pink that could be found in the Gold Rush Steakhouse we ate at our first night there, just try to imagine what it might look like if Valentine's Day barfed. The food was really wonderful though. I had the filet that was about the circumference of my son's "95 percentile" head. But even better than our meals was the cake.

Mmmmmm. The cake. I don't really like cake but this is more than just cake. This is cake that is surely crafted by the angels from the fluffy clouds of heaven. It was the only explanation. The kids enjoyed the cake too. I know this because I think it was laced with uppers since shortly after dinner the girls went CRAZY. They were back flipping between beds, wrestling on the floor, ripping light fixtures out of the walls, biting the heads off of chickens. It was sugar INSANITY in "Purple Sparkle Time" room.

And that is when I was reminded of my childhood. A time when I couldn't understand why my parents wouldn't let me have unlimited amounts of sweets all throughout the day. I remember my Aunt Bunky who had an incurable sweet tooth. One Christmas I saw her take a piece of See's Candy from the "Nuts and Chews" box well before dinner and I said, "Why do you get to eat candy before dinner?"

"Because I am a grown-up and when you are a grown-up you can eat whatever you want too." Unlimited candy? Adulthood was sure to be awesome with the promise of an all day candy fest. Of course, she failed to mention the part about bills, a mortgage and body parts starting to "give out."

But fearing a repeat of the night before and knowing it would be our last chance to indulge in a piece of this amazing confection, we did the only logical thing there was to do. Put the kids to bed, send a "grown-up" on a mission for cake and secretly eat it outside the hotel room door in the cold. Because doing things despite your children is the point of parenthood, right?

Brittaney came back from the restaurant and we were giddy as little school girls as we dove into the cake. I didn't think we were being that loud, but apparently they heard us. Ryan went into the room to do damage control.

Madison asked, "Where did you get the coffee?"

"Mommy got it for me from the restaurant."

"The restaurant where we got the cake?"

"Well, yes."

"Well, did you get any cake?"

"No, we just have tea and coffee."

Ella chimed in,"You guys are eating something out there. We can hear it."

Oopps. I felt bad for about 3.6 seconds and then I turned my body to face the closed hotel room door the kids were sleeping in, took a huge forkful of cake and shoved it in my mouth. Why? Because I'm a grown-up who has a mortgage, a bad back and bills to pay but right now, I'm on vacation and I've waited my whole damn life for this. The ability to eat secret, late-night cake, straight out of the to-go box with plastic forks, shivering in the cold, anytime I FREAKING WANT TO!

Chomp

It is no secret that my boy likes to eat. In the beginning of this adventure into solid foods, there was little Charlie wouldn't eat. Although the kid can still put back broccoli like it is dipped in caramel sauce, he has gotten a bit more picky. With the addition of some teeth his food options have expanded from "strictly mush" to "safely chewable." The introduction of these new textures means Charlie is starting to display a finickiness that never existed before. For example, Charlie doesn't seem to like meat in actual "meat" form. He will eat a salty, processed, cut up hot dog which he calls "dog-dogs." Excellent. Rice is still good. Mexican rice is WAY better. He starts screaming and shaking like an alcoholic with the DTs if Mexican rice is not being constantly provided.



Turns out, Charlie has also developed a taste for human flesh. I know this because he bites. He got Grant once on the shoulder and me once on the stomach. He has also made several attempts to try and bite me but since I am an adult who is way smarter than him, I pull my hand away and he then proceeds to bite his own hand. Of course I don't like to see this either, so I tried to pull his hand out of his mouth and I said, "Oh no, honey, that will hurt you. Mommy doesn't want you to get...ok, wow, you really got a good grip there, son." I am not a member of the "bite back" club but I would be lying if I said I didn't look down at him chomping down on his own hand and think to myself, "Well, it's not like I was the one biting him back." Let me be very clear: his biting is not funny and I am not trying to make light of the situation at all. In fact, it is very troubling to me. Totally developmentally normal, but very troubling. That said, let me tell you why this whole thing is actually kinda funny.

Charlie has seven teeth, three on the bottom and four on top. My son is without a doubt the most perfect little boy in every way (in my unbiased opinion). Now, I am not trying to say that there is anything wrong with his teeth, but for whatever reason the teeth that flank his two front teeth hang down just a touch bit lower than the two in the middle. Sometimes, it looks a bit like he has fangs. It's freaking adorable but now you see why the biting thing is just a tiny bit comical. Although, he has yet to go in for my neck.

Vampire jokes aside, I started doing a little research on how to deal with a 15 month old who bites. I sought out the advice of friends and did a quick search on the internet only to find an article on www.babyzone.com called "Month 15 Worry: Is My Biting Toddler Normal?" How fitting for my son who turned 15 months old just a few days ago. I am still not done with my research and I am not quite sure exactly how our family is going to deal with this new development. One thing that I probably have been doing wrong though is drawing too much attention to it by yelping from the pain and surprise of the bite and raising my voice in anger. (But I'm sorry, did you not hear me? My son has fangs!) The article was helpful though and reassured me that there is nothing wrong with my boy. And then I read this particular quote and nearly fell out of my chair:

"Knowing that your child is not biting simply because he loves the taste of blood may be reassuring."

Well....I wouldn't be so sure about that. Have you seen my kid?

B of C

We had plans to go on a date that night. We had a sitter lined up. We were going to get dressed up, have some cocktails and some adult conversation which means sentences that were longer than 3 words and don't involve poop or boogers. We had just finished breakfast and I put a very content and full Charlie into his play area while I started in on the dishes. And just as the garage door shut and Grant pulled the car out of the driveway, I heard a sound come out of my son that I have never heard before. It was not a good sound.

I rounded the corner to find my sweet baby boy covered in his own vomit. It was the first time this had happened and he had no idea what was going on. I didn't have any idea what to do. He was crying and I imagine if he had the ability to vocalize his thoughts he would have said something like, "Hey crazy lady in the pajamas, quit running around and pick my up out of my own vomit!" Of course, that is what I did, in addition to wiping him down, giving him a bath and then dousing his clothes in rubbing alcohol and lighting a match.

He only threw up once that day but it turns out, that is the exact amount of times it takes to ruin a date night. And thus began the downward spiral that has been the past month (roughly.) Charlie's shared his little bug with us and it made its way through our bodies fairly quickly, which was good since we were to be headed down to Southern California for my sister Jessie's graduation the following week. A few days before we left, I developed a wretched head cold that plugged up all the holes in my face and I'm pretty sure was trying to push my eyeballs out of their sockets. It was very uncomfortable and terribly annoying but we managed to have a good time. This had less to do with how proud of I was of my little sis and more to do with the amount of margaritas we consumed over the course of 4 days.


Here we all are after watching my sister be presented with her honors medal you see that she is wearing around her neck. I am very proud, even though this basically meant sitting through two very long ceremonies. She now owes me a day of babysitting, on a day Charlie hasn't napped and has the flu.


This was the day of the actual graduation. We were either a little drunk or one of us made a fart joke. Possibly both.

We returned home from LA and the cold was behind me and I was ready to be healthy again. Then, out of nowhere, I swallowed and thought, "Hmmm, my ear hurts and so does my throat." Thinking I had an ear infection, I went to the doctor with fingers crossed that with some antibiotics and approximately 24 hours I would be good as new. I was told by the doctor that I might be developing an ear infection and to only fill the prescription if I got worse. So I didn't fill it. By that night, after the pharmacy was closed of course, I had a fever, the chills, body aches and my entire throat was on fire. It was a sore throat unlike anything I have ever experienced. It felt like someone poured acid down my throat and then was making me swallow knives. Nothing took the pain away. That night I was up at least every hour because the simple act of swallowing awoke me. I finally figured out that if I just laid on my back and turned my head to the side and opened my mouth, I would drool out any accumulated spit and I wouldn't have to swallow it. It really is a wonder my husband still finds me even remotely attractive.

By the next day, my prescription was filled but the throat pain was relentless. I was literally delirious from pain. At one point I thought that laying down on the tile bathroom floor would make me feel better. After being down there for what could have been 5 minutes or 5 days, I have no clue, I looked up at my bathroom ceiling and thought, "What the hell am I doing on the floor?" If it is not obvious now, my little ear infection turned out to be strep. The ladies out there might disagree with me but this pain comes second to childbirth. Seriously.

But the worst part was I couldn't go near Charlie. I was petrified that he would get it; I mean, I am 30 years old and obviously not handling this well (See: bathroom floor mentioned above). How is my 14 month old going to be able to handle that kind of pain? So for three days Grant did everything. Which means for three days I would hear my baby wake up, Grant would go into his room to get him and I would hear, "Mama? Mama? Mama?" Each one becoming more panicked and desperate than the next. It was awful.

Even though I would not have believed you on day two of the ordeal, I did survive strep and ready to return to rowing and begin the summer. But it was on my first day back to rowing that we were putting the boat back on the rack and I felt that all too familiar electric twinge in my low back. As the day progressed it got tighter and tighter and I got twistier and twistier. (Is "twistier" even a word? Well, it is now. Especially when your spine is in the shape of an "S.")

But this has to be the end right? Because it can't possibly get worse than right now. I mean, it's not like I'm going to break out in hives or anything. Wait, why are my legs itchy? Turns out, I'm having a reaction to the antibiotic. Glorious. I'll spare you any pictures of that.

Thankfully, I had left over muscle relaxers and Vicodin from the last time I did this WHICH WAS ONLY SIX FREAKING MONTHS AGO. But whose counting? I also went to the chiropractor for the first time. That may have been a new experience but this back issue is not. I've been doing this to myself since I was about 13. Every once and awhile so I would have an episode that put me out for a day or two. As I've gotten older that's turned into a few days or in this case, almost a week. I went to various doctors when I was growing up and tried some physical therapy and had an MRI to rule out cancer, tumors or any back-muscle-eating gremlin that might be living in there but basically, my prescription was to strengthen my core. But as an adolescent who sang in the choir and found running or breaking a sweat to be bothersome, I never really followed through. After all, it didn't really effect anyone else but me.

Until now.

After Charlie was born taking care of myself became drastically more important. I began exercising and joined a rowing team. I thought I was doing everything right. But now, twice since he has been born I have hurt my back. When I'm like this, I can do almost nothing for him. I feel like a useless lump of flesh. (and I look like one too since I can't properly do my make or blow dry my hair.) Grant keeps reminding me that I'm going to get better but on the heels of all my other illnesses I've just about had it. Of course I'll get better but right now I can't do my job. I can't play with my boy, change his diaper or put him down for a nap. I can't pick him up if he falls or take him for a walk. And while I'm not doing these things, I'm not getting paid. I realize my payment doesn't come in the form of money direct deposited into my bank account but payment from Charlie fills my heart and soul. A heart and soul that's feeling terribly depleted. I'm not going to lie, Vicodin is fun. But I could sure use a paycheck from the BofC right now. (Bank of Charlie)

School Lunches, a Decade or Two Later

By Melia Dicker

A couple of years ago, my dear friend Melia made the amazing and brave decision to go back to school. As in start over from kindergarten. I'm sure your initial reaction is "Well that sounds easy!" but you and I both know that you would be out of the game at 3rd-grade Geometry and you are absolutely not smarter than a 5th grader. But her ambition and dedication to this project are not the only reasons I love Melia. This is a woman who never turns down a costume party or an SF Mission taco crawl. She can also school anyone in a game of early 90s trivia. I asked her to share some of her experiences with school lunch here, and she graciously obliged.

With all the national attention that healthy school lunches are getting these days, you might wonder how the lunches at your own schools have changed since you were a student. I wondered the same thing, and a couple of years ago I happened to have a chance to find out.

I committed the fall of 2008 to a “do-over” of my schooling, like Billy Madison but for real. I got permission to spend a week in each of my old school classrooms in the San Francisco Bay Area: kindergarten, first grade, and so on, all the way through college. The project was called Reschool Yourself, and its goal was for me to make peace with 17 years of school that I had found did not prepare me for life. (You can read more about the project here.)

Along the way, I dedicated myself to “method lunching,” eating cafeteria food with my fellow students. If there were options that had been on the menu when I was enrolled the first time around, I ordered those and assessed how they stacked up. Here are some highlights from my school lunch adventures.

1. Elementary School: Hot Dogs
El Verano Elementary School, Sonoma, CA



When I was a kid, the only day that I’d buy lunch instead of brown bagging it was Friday, because it was Pizza Day. Miraculously, 23 years later, Friday was still Pizza Day, so I planned to buy “hot lunch” from the school cafeteria on that day of the week.

Imagine my disappointment when I saw hot dogs instead. “We barbecue the first and last weeks of school,” said the lunch lady. “It’s a special occasion.”

At least they were chicken dogs. Here’s what I wrote about my lunch that day (read the full post):

The principal, who was graciously helping serve lunch that day, gave me an extra helping of peppered macaroni salad, a slice of watermelon, and a chocolate chip cookie. At the end of the counter there were bowls of fresh fruit, mini bags of carrots, and boxes of raisins, all for the taking; I was happy to see a broader, healthier selection than we’d had in the 80s…

I (was) surprised that the food tasted so good, the buttery cookie in particular. The hot dog wasn’t half bad, especially with relish and ketchup, and the pepper in the macaroni salad gave it an original flavor. The flailing arms of the (kindergarteners) had slid my watermelon wedge onto the table, and I left it untouched, following one of the cardinal rules in education: No matter how hungry you are, never eat anything that has touched kids’ fingers or their tabletops.

The best part of the meal was the chocolate milk, that thick, rich chocolatey goodness packed into a tiny carton. Turns out that the secret to the thickness is….corn starch. Yum. I drank half, enjoying it thoroughly, and pitched the rest.

2. Middle School: Turkey Sandwich
Altimira Middle School, Sonoma, CA



The deli turkey sandwich on a French roll came in a plastic bag with a white tie, the kind that’s sealed flat and forces you to rip the whole bag open. The sandwich was as gloppy and delicious as I had remembered it having been a decade and a half before. It contained thin slices of textured turkey, not the slimy processed and packaged mystery meat. Here’s an excerpt from the blog about it (read the full post):

I think those sandwiches are responsible for my little sister’s passionate hatred of mayonnaise, given the globs laden on the sandwiches that used to squirt out of the sides of the bread. My sandwich last week actually tasted great, its bread and turkey fresh, and its mayo now in proportion.

Disappointingly, the cafeteria had run out of burritos from La Casa, a local Mexican restaurant, which I remember as being delicious. I hope to get one tomorrow. I’m stunned at how inexpensive the food is — $0.75 for half a cream cheese bagel, $2.50 for the most quality sandwiches and burritos. I’m used to paying three times as much for similar items in San Francisco cafes and airports.

3. High School: Cheese Pizza
St. Vincent de Paul High School, Petaluma, CA



I didn’t document my high school lunch on the blog, probably because it was tasty but unremarkable. I ordered lunches from the “snack shack” a couple of times during my return to high school and remember them being fairly healthy, reasonably cheap, and satisfying. I think it may have come from a pizzeria chain, maybe Domino’s. The slice of cheese pizza was triangular, unlike the thick, square slices that some school cafeterias serve. The cheese, sauce, and crust were all just fine – not great enough or bad enough to leave a lasting memory.

4. College: Veggie Sandwich
Santa Clara University, Santa Clara, CA



When I was a student, Aramark ran Santa Clara University’s dining services, but Bon Appetit has since replaced them. The dining commons have been updated and now (unfortunately) have flat-screen TVs mounted above some of the tables. Oddly enough, the woman who rang up my meal had worked there when I was a student, and she remembered me. The veggie deli sandwich I ordered during my reschooling was nothing to write home about, but it I enjoyed the fresh bread, honey mustard, and pickles (read the full post).

At lunchtime on Saturday, I (ate) during peak hours. Actually, on weekends Benson (the student center) seems to be bustling all day, as students roll out of bed and into the dining commons in sweats. I had hoped to order a burrito, which used to be my favorite lunchtime option. Sadly, the burrito bar was closed by the time I got there, so I settled for a deli sandwich. … I reminded myself to get a vegetarian option, since I didn’t eat meat from the ages of 13 to 23. (Traveling in Germany after college broke me of the habit.) I’ve always found the good selection of food at Santa Clara to be fresh and of high quality, and this hasn’t changed.

All in all, during my visits I found the food at my old schools to be good for my health, my palate, and my wallet. A decade or two after I’d graduated, I enjoyed my cafeteria lunches as much as, if not more than, when I ate them the first time around.