You will need to check the raspberries in early July. I know the bushes are prickly, but please pick them daily; don't let the birds get those two quarts. I worked too hard for that, pruning the canes each year, the tiny thorns stuck in my skin. I have a recipe for fresh raspberry pie if you need it.
About the hydrangeas. I know they look dead right now. They've come and gone these ten years (we coaxed them to bloom the first year we moved in); perhaps they're in mourning for us. They came too early this year, with the warm spring, and were taken by surprise by the cold snap in March. You might want to leave them be, in case they come around in the end.
I know that you're planning to live mostly on one floor, but I hope you'll take a shower upstairs every once in a while, where you can look out the window and see the barn bathed in early morning sunlight. I'll make sure it sparkles for you before we leave.
I hope you don't mind my forwardness, but the best place for your couch is near the window in the living room. The breezes are calming at night, and you'll be able to look outside, sitting sideways, and hear the sounds of people enjoying summer at the pool. If you're not feeling well, the sounds will lull you to sleep.
Are you bringing some chairs for the front porch? It's the best place to watch thunderstorms and the 5K races on Thanksgiving and in June. I recommend a rocking chair. It's an old porch.
While we're on the subject of porches: please plan to buy at least ten bags of candy for Halloween. There will be about 300 children who come to your door, and I don't want to disappoint them.
I hope you like the neighbors. Feel free to ask to borrow an egg or some aluminum foil, like we did on the day we moved in. Maybe they'll tell you about the time I won an ice cream block party from Edy's for an essay I wrote about my community, and we all sat out under the tree between your driveway and your neighbors' driveway, with tubs and tubs of ice cream they shipped to us in styrofoam containers with dry ice.
And one last thing: there may be ghosts. They're quiet, mostly, but you may hear them at night, unfulfilled dreams, children that never saw this world. Be kind to them. Speak softly to them. They shouldn't trouble you; they're looking for me. You can tell them where we've gone.
Take care of this home, with its patches in the drywall, with its spiders in the basement, with its letters scratched in the concrete foundation. It's been here a long time. I promise it will take care of you.
My father played Powerball. But not until the jackpot was, in his estimation, worth the drive over the border to New York State (because Jersey didn't sell Powerball tickets then), where he would also visit the Rockland Bakery, coming home with a half-eaten loaf of fresh Italian or challah or raisin bread, danish, and if I was lucky, a scone. This motivating figure was something over $50 million, so it wasn't often that he went to buy tickets. Still, he had his red-ink pencil-bubbled-in card--a study in numerology, some combination of birthdays and anniversaries and other dates whose importance we would never know--which he brought with him on each trip, as if he were a professional gambler.
I often wondered why he would drive the 20 minutes to New York to buy a lottery ticket for a jackpot that was $50 million when it wasn't worth driving there for, say, five million. But my father was not a man you could cross-examine.
We never did win the lottery.
My colleagues all bought a ticket today, and assumed I'd had, too. I hadn't.
"But when you start thinking about all of the things you'd do with a billion dollars," they reasoned, "you feel happy."
And maybe that's exactly why I didn't buy a ticket.
Not because I don't want to be happy, but because I don't need to buy disappointment.
Sure, it's entirely possible that I'd win. But if I don't?
Maybe I've spent one too many hours of my life dreaming and even planning about the probable futures that become impossible after all. I don't know if that makes me a pessimist, a realist, or a curmudgeon. But one thing is certain: it will never make me a lottery winner.
A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about what we do with the remnants of our past lives, and about some things my mother had saved from my childhood and deposited at my house just recently, which are now living on the top shelf of my bedroom closet. It was interesting timing, because just a few weeks later, I found myself faced with the same question, this time from a much different perspective.
Generally, I'm pretty good at purging. I hate all kinds of clutter. (Originally I saved clothes from our son to prepare for another child, and more than once, teetering on the edge of madness during those years of pregnancy loss, I almost threw them all in the clothing donation bin, thinking that all hope was lost, that we'd never be able to use them after all.) Now that I know we're done having children, for the most part, I give away the kids' clothes to other families who have younger children. I've held on to one or two hand-made sweaters, for nostalgia, but the rest are gone. The same thing with the baby gear. Boppies, pillows, baby monitors, store-bought blankets (I can't bring myself to give away the ones that were handmade), even the crib: all of those things have been Freecycled or given to friends.
As N. has gotten older, the toys have started to go away, too ... some of them to other children, some of them to garage sales, some of them in the trash.
We have a few toys from my husband's childhood: a plastic phone (the kind with the red handle and the dial ... you know, the kind that children will never recognize these days anyway as a phone), and a small music box radio that plays "My Name Is Michael" when you turn the knob. When I asked him about these things, since N. no longer really wants to play with them, he mentioned that he wanted to save them. I was surprised, since he's not a hoarder, either, but I figured I'd find storage for them. And suddenly there were some things I wanted to save, too. Because I love well-made wooden toys. And besides, durable toys
that won't rot in the basement are good to have around if someone with a smaller child comes to
visit.
But that's not why I was saving them, really. I think I was saving them for my grandchildren.
Of course, it's not that simple, is it.
When
I found myself in the basement crawlspace the other day, putting toys in big Rubbermaid tub -- for the future, of course -- it seemed, on the one hand, like the most natural thing to do. But on the other hand, it was completely awkward and unnerving. I was pretending not to know that I could not take that future for granted. I was pretending that my daughter and son would have children of their own, that they would grow up, get married, start families. My heart knew differently. My heart knew that it is entirely possible that my daughter, or my son, might have to go through what we went through, or worse. My heart knew that lives take unpredictable paths. That terrible things happen, and that, at the other extreme, people also make not-at-all-terrible-but-entirely-sensible decisions.
As I closed the lid on the tub, knowing I would reopen it again to squirrel more things away for this fairy tale future, I decided that it was OK to live "as if." Because even despite what Buddhists teach about not being attached in this world, I think that it's only human to project ourselves into the future. It's like the crawlspace of our minds. We squirrel things away there, just in case. As long as that projection doesn't consume us or hinder our ability to live mindfully in the present; as long as we have the stability of spirit to adapt when things don't turn out as we had imagined they might, knowing that ultimately nothing belongs to us; as long as cultivating compassion is our most important work -- imagining the future isn't inherently a bad thing. In fact, it gives us hope. Which I think is probably one of the best things the human race has going for it.
In the meantime, my daughter continues to consume great quantities of black beans. Which, if you believe in practitioners of Chinese medicine, is probably as good an omen as any.
Practitioners of Eastern medicine, among others, have long associated black beans with fertility. Pumpkin seeds are also supposed to increase fertility. And even if you're not tryingto have children, they're still just plain good for you.
1 T. olive oil
2 medium red bell peppers, seeded and roughly chopped
1 small onion, diced
3 garlic cloves, minced
2 t. cumin
1 t. salt
15 oz. can black beans, drained and rinsed
1 1/4 c. pumpkin (not pumpkin pie filling)
olive oil
5 c. water
2 T. tomato paste
1 t. garam masala
2 T. raw honey or agave
pepitas for serving
In a medium pot, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add peppers and onions, and saute until the onions are just beginning to become translucent, about 5 minutes. Add garlic and
saute for an additional 8 minutes or until the onions are beginning to caramelize.
Add cumin and salt, and stir for one minute. Add black beans, pumpkin, tomato paste and water; bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for 20 minutes.
Stir in garam masala and honey, remove from heat. Blend in batches until smooth (or use your fabulous immersion blender). Garnish with pepitas for an added crunch.
When I went to BlogHer'12, the thing that most moved me was meeting the women that I'd gotten to know online over the past two and a half years. For all of my commitment to social media, because of its ability to connect people from across the globe around common passion and purpose, there's something about making a face-to-face connection with that somehow solidifies those connections, and makes you feel a bit less like you're alone behind your computer screen (not to mention that the women I finally met up with there are just as amazing in person, if not more so, as they are online). I firmly believe that there are some times when there is no substitute for being there in person, for being present together even in silence; being online doesn't allow for that presence, because when you're silent online, you are invisible.
I've made a habit of connecting people. You might call it an obsession. When I worked at the university, I connected students with students like them through peer mentoring programs that I created. I connected faculty with students through faculty mentoring programs. At home, I connected working moms with one another through a working moms' group, the only one like it in my county, which, unlike so many moms' groups I encountered, appreciates the different balance of a 9 to 5 commitment outside the home with all of the other things that need to get done when you have a family to manage, too. So it seemed only natural that the wheels started spinning when I couldn't find a generic organization of bloggers in my state. I
started to become curious about other bloggers out there who lived near
me, especially those in the ALI blogosphere.
So much of what many of us publish online, especially if we blog anonymously, erases our geographic uniqueness, sometimes with good reason. I wanted to see if, given this erasure, I could still identify and gather together a group of women bloggers from my area, and see what might happen. I decided to host an ice cream social.
As luck would have it, Mel was happy to help by publishing a blurb in the LFCA, and six women responded: Emily from A Blanket 2 Keep, the anonymous blogger who writes With Just A Little Help, S. (who has taken a break from blogging to focus on her own family), Lauren from What's In Lauren's Tummy (formerly also from What's In Lauren's Uterus), and Lisa from the Mommy Gauntlet--three of whom I'd never read before. I went to work making honey lavender ice cream, oatmeal cookie ice cream, and my own version of Chubby Hubby (a special request from Emily, the secrets for which I will never reveal here). Though Lauren couldn't make it at the last minute due to a minor catastrophe, and Lisa had an unfortunate significant family emergency, the other four of us spent two hours talking as if we'd mostly known each other for years.
It made me think a lot about something I have posted a lot about here before, about women supporting each other, taking care of each other, looking out for each other, even if we can't assume that we know what every woman needs simply because we share elements of our anatomy. (I'm well aware that Feminism has become feminisms--heck, that was already true back when I was in grad school and reading the anthology du jour--and that women are not a monolith but a diaspora, thank you very much.) We were all very different women, coming from different stages in our lives. But there in my living room, we talked about the things that connected us, even despite our differences. We talked a little bit about whether there might be a way to make bloggers who wanted to be resources more visible to other women in their own region, without compromising anonymity. Sometimes we didn't talk at all. And as everyone was getting ready to leave, we talked about getting together again.
Things We Don't Talk About: Women's Voices from the Red Tent had its world premiere on September 15th. There are a host of upcoming screenings around the country. The film summary says: "Spontaneous
and organic, a Red Tent is a red textile space where women gather to
rest, renew, and often share deep and powerful stories about their
lives. The Red Tent movement is changing the way that women interact and
support each other by providing a place that honors and celebrates
women, and by enabling open conversations about the things that women
don’t want to talk about in other venues. Things We Don’t Talk About
weaves together healing narratives from inside the Red Tent to shine a
spotlight on this vital, emergent women’s tradition. The film provides
us an opportunity to remember, to listen, to know, and to find what it
is we need to bring back to our communities to help awaken the voices of
women."
Yes, there are places we do this all online now, too. BlogHer, for example. But sometimes we need to just be there.
Most of you know that it's National Breast Cancer Awareness Month here in the U.S. I'll talk about that in a later post. But it's also Domestic Violence Awareness Month. And Pregnancy and Infant Loss Rememberance Month. And while none of these things affect only women, they, along with the fact that the election that is practically upon us, are reason enough for us to talk about about ways we might be able to better have each others' backs, not just on the internet, but in the "real" world, too.
Oatmeal Cookie Ice Cream with thanks to Jeni Britton's practically foolproof ice cream base, which I have altered a bit here
1 T. plus 1 t. corn starch
2 c. milk
1 c. heavy cream
1/3 c. brown sugar
1/3 c. sugar
1 T. corn syrup (optional, really)
1 stick cinnamon
3 T. cream cheese (or goat cheese)
1/4 t. salt
1/2 t. ground cinnamon
1/8 t. nutmeg
3 oatmeal cookies, crumbled
1/2 c. raisins
dash of vanilla
Mix about 2 T. of the milk with the cornstarch in a small
bowl to make a smooth slurry. Whisk the cream (or goat) cheese and salt in a medium
bowl until smooth. In a third bowl, soak the raisins in about 2/3 c. water and a dash of vanilla. Fill a large bowl with ice and water.
Combine
the remaining milk, cream, sugars and cinnamon stick in a 4-quart saucepan,
bring to a rolling boil over medium-high heat, and boil for 4 minutes,
Remove from the heat and gradually whisk in the cornstarch slurry. Bring
the mixture back to a boil over medium-high heat and cook, stirring
until slightly thickened, about 1 minute.
Remove from the heat and remove the cinnamon stick, but don't discard it yet.
Gradually whisk the hot milk into the cream (or goat)
cheese until smooth. Add the ground cinnamon and nutmeg and return the cinnamon stick to the mixture. Submerge the mixture partway in the ice bath. Let
stand, adding more ice as necessary, until cold, about 30 minutes. Drain the raisins.
Remove the cinnamon stick again and pour the ice cream base into the frozen canister
and spin until thick and creamy. During the last five minutes, add the raisins and crumbled cookies. Pack the ice cream into a storage
container. Press a
sheet of parchment directly against the surface and seal with an
airtight lid. Freeze in the coldest part of your freezer until firm, at
least 4 hours.
I lace up my sneakers, open the door, and step out. It's only been three days since I've gone running, but it feels like an eternity: my limbs feel like stone. I have already decided that I'm going farther today. I reach the street, lean forward, take a breath, take a few steps, quicken my pace, and begin.
***
Before I got pregnant with my daughter, I had a dream that is still vivid in my mind. I am walking down the sidewalk, perhaps towards downtown, perhaps towards the farmer's market up the street; the sun is warm and the light is dappled on the pavement. Ahead of me, my son walks with my husband, holding his hand, sometimes skipping away, then running back to him, like a boomerang. Sometimes he climbs up onto my husband's shoulders, ruffling the leaves playfully when his head nears the branches. I am walking a good distance behind them, more slowly, carrying a child in my arms. A daughter. She is heavy, thoughtful, watching the world go by with solemnity. I want to hold my boomerang child, too, but I know I must carry this one right now. I feel like I'm being left behind, even though I'm not alone. I feel my throat tighten, watching them head into the light without me. Without us.
***
Yesterday I went to yoga class for the first time in weeks. It's been too easy to miss class lately, with my husband's business trips, and our (too short) vacation, and the loss of momentum. I dragged myself out, knowing that there would probably be a sub because my teacher goes to India every year at this time, also knowing that I need ... something. Recentering?
The sub was someone I know fairly well, a woman who is in the 500 hour training this year. My teacher had given me her name as a reference when I was exploring doing teacher training, when I had given up on getting pregnant after years of loss after loss and had just been handed a diagnosis of unexplained secondary infertility. I had decided I was going to give myself a different goal, just a week before discovering I was pregnant with my daughter. Seeing her always reminds me of one of the alternate universes where I didn't end up, the one in which I become a wildly successful certified yoga instructor, but have only one child.
Her style is a little different from my regular teacher, but you can also tell that she was my teacher's student. She does more than just talk about asanas; she talks about philosophy. And last night she talked about stillness, that we need to find that place in us that doesn't move, the center around which chaos swirls. My teacher calls this sattva.
I find some irony in this. On the one hand, I have a hard time not getting swept up in the chaos. Chaos has defined my life for the past 38 years. But on the other hand, I am the center now. I'm the one who isn't changing, who is just watching the world dance around me. And I don't always find it a welcome place to be.
***
I am running through the better part of town now, through the Mc Mansions. I hate these houses, this sprawling treeless suburbia, and yet, I want them. Or more correctly, I want the ability to have them if I wanted them. There are other things like that, too.
***
You should know this about me: I was a valedictorian. I was the one who was always ahead. I was the smart one, the one in the gifted and talented classes. The first one in my class to take my exams in graduate school. The one who won the fellowship. The one who started new programs at my former place of employment, turning them into some of the most highly visible features of the university before I left my job, unable to turn a blind eye to culture that openly permitted sexism.
Now I applaud with humility and jealousy when the accolades get handed out. I'm no longer the best in show. I watch others walk into the light, and wonder if I'm not running fast enough to keep up with the chaos.
***
My son starts first grade in two weeks, riding the bus for the first time. My daughter is beginning to put words together to form stories: "Eat. Elmo. Eyeball. Nomnomnomnom. bwahahahaaaaa!" (in reference to consuming an Elmo cupcake last week.) My husband orbits us, coming and going on business trips and busy with work. My former colleagues' lives march onward in Facebook, with posts about new student orientations and other harbingers of the new academic year. My non-work friends have their own chaos, some of it not good at all. My blogging colleagues and friends have theirs, some of it very good chaos, indeed.
And I sit here in the middle of it, just watching. Feeling jealous of the movement and strangely disappointed by the stillness that this teacher says I should cultivate.
***
I am three miles out from home, feet falling rhythmically on the pavement, my mind spinning, the air thick with jasmine, gardenia, lavender, and I realize I am gasping for breath. I stop, resting my hand on the splintered wooden fencepost, and am surprised to find that I am shaking, dry-heaving. It comes, like a tidal wave. My face is wet. I brush the sweat away, but it's not sweat.
I am tired of death. I am tired of giving up, of renouncing. I am tired of the lives that didn't make it to term, the dreams I had to leave behind, the losses I had to cut. And I am tired of the stillness that invades even the motion of running.
I am shaking my fist ungratefully at the sky, at the miraculously blue sky. An older couple drives by in a beat up green pickup truck, waving, thinking I am waving at them. I wave, take a deep breath, curse everyone, and pick up my feet, half skipping to start myself moving forward again.
***
When I first got our ice cream maker, I was surprised to see that the paddle stayed still in the middle while the bowl turned around it. It makes perfect sense, of course, given that you want to continually give the ingredients new contact with the coldest surface in order to convince them to freeze evenly; it had just never occurred to me that it would work that way.
Maybe it's a useful metaphor. Maybe I am running to stand still. The flower around which the bees work, collecting nectar to bring back to the hive. Honey. Lavender.
***
I crest the hill, and turn down, towards home.
Honey Lavender Ice Cream
2 c. milk
1 c. heavy cream
1 T. + 1 t. corn starch
1 t. lavender
2/3 c. honey
3 T. cream cheese (or goat cheese, thank you Healthy Foodie!)
Mix about 2 T. of the milk with the cornstarch in a small
bowl to make a smooth slurry.Whisk the cream (or goat) cheese and salt in a medium
bowl until smooth. Fill a large bowl with ice and water.
Combine
the remaining milk, cream, lavender, and honey in a 4-quart saucepan,
bring to a rolling boil over medium-high heat, and boil for 4 minutes,
Remove from the heat and gradually whisk in the cornstarch slurry. Bring
the mixture back to a boil over medium-high heat and cook, stirring
with a heatproof spatula, until slightly thickened, about 1 minute.
Remove from the heat.
Gradually whisk the hot milk into the cream (or goat)
cheese until smooth. Submerge the mixture partway in the ice bath. Let
stand, adding more ice as necessary, until cold, about 30 minutes.
Strain out the lavender as you pour the ice cream base into the frozen canister
and spin until thick and creamy. Pack the ice cream into a storage
container. Press a
sheet of parchment directly against the surface and seal with an
airtight lid. Freeze in the coldest part of your freezer until firm, at
least 4 hours.
Serve sprinkled with a few lavender buds, toasted almonds, or a square of good bittersweet chocolate.
It's been a while since I got my act together and put myself on the ICLW list. But I'm glad to be back! Thanks for visiting here. A bit of housekeeping:
If you want some background about why I'm on the ALI blogroll, you can read my post for the 2011 Resolve Bust A Myth challenge. It's not for the faint of heart.
You could also start with the Things I'm Afraid To Tell You, which will give you insider information about my laundry habits. Or you could just salivate over my cupcakes.
I'm doing NaBloPoMo this month. Because I need more acronyms in my life.
Even before I had a blog, I wanted to go to BlogHer. I wanted to meet the amazing writers I found online. And this year, I'm going!
Which brings me to the meat of today's post.
~~~~~~~~~~~
From an early age, I thought of myself as a writer. I spent hours in the ditto room during lunch in the fifth grade, with my best friend, inhaling purple ink fumes and co-writing an adolescent romance complete with hand-drawn illustrations which we actually--this is completely laughable now--sent off to a publishing agency. In the seventh grade I authored a short science fiction story that my teachers swooned over, and which I was sure would sell hundreds of copies. In eighth grade and in high school, I dominated the literary magazine with my poetry. I majored in English in college, and even won a poetry award one year.
Like most of my fellow English
majors, I tired of people asking me what I was going to do with my
major. How many times did I have to hear "do you want fries with that?" Why yes, yes, I was preparing myself for a career in the food service industry! How did you know?
Somewhere along the way, my passion for writing got swallowed up by term papers, and then a thesis, and then my dissertation: the ultimate writing killjoy.
Years passed.
Then, two and a half years ago, I started this blog. I don't know when I started reading blogs, but something about the genre appealed to me. Since its birth, it's been quite the wanderer, venturing into pregnancy loss, food porn, yoga, infertility, career uncertainty, parenting, mindfulness, even--though less frequently--politics. I've often found myself wondering, sometimes aloud, where it's going. And whether that matters. Whether my meandering might lose me readership.
Last week, Jjiraffe posted something that rocked my world a little bit. She suggested that maybe, just maybe, good writing wasn't about finding a niche, but about finding--and using--your voice.
The weird thing is that despite the fact that I write here, I often don't think of myself as a writer. Which is sort of silly, right? Every once in a while, someone like Mel waves a magic wand and BAM. I'm a writer ... but then something happens, I lose my glass slipper, and I'm back doing laundry again.
The funny thing is that in my own way, during these past few years, I've made myself a career in the food service industry, just as those jokers predicted long ago. I feed my readership, one post at a time. (My new business card says "food for the palate. food for thought." Congratulate me on my cleverness.) But in the process, I think I've also started to find my voice. Here's what NaBloPoMo is reminding me: if I just write (*thanks, again jjiraffe), I'm a writer. The paralysis that comes from some overblown idea of what my writing should be, or consistency of topic, or impressing readers? I never had that problem when I was in the fifth grade. Because I wrote. I was a writer. And that was enough.
Our CSA has had a particularly successful potato harvest this year. So like a good food services employee, I'm offering you some fries. I hope you don't mind; I'll be serving them up with a side of prose.
Perfect Oven Roasted Fries I don't usually even like fries. But these? Damn.
3 russet potatoes (about 24 oz. total), peeled and cut lengthwise into even sized wedges
5 T. vegetable, canola or peanut oil, divided
kosher salt to taste
freshly ground black pepper to taste
Preheat the oven to 475F. Place the potato wedges in a large mixing bowl. Cover with hot water; soak for 20 minutes. Put 4 tablespoons of the oil onto a heavy, rimmed baking sheet or a heavy baking pan. Tilt the sheet side to side to evenly coat the pan with oil. Sprinkle the pan evenly with salt and pepper. Set aside.
Drain the potatoes. Spread the wedges out on layers of paper towels or on clean kitchen towels. Pat dry with additional towels. Wipe out the now empty bowl so it is dry. Return the potatoes to the bowl and toss with the remaining 1 tablespoon of oil. Arrange the potato wedges on the prepared baking sheet in a single layer. Cover tightly with foil and bake for 5 minutes. Remove the foil and continue to bake until the bottoms of the potatoes are spotty golden brown, 15-20 minutes, rotating the baking sheet after 10 minutes. Flip each potato wedge keeping them in a single layer. Continue baking until the fries are golden and crisp, 5 -15 minutes. Rotate the pan as needed to ensure even browning, and feel free to flip them again.
When the fries are finished baking, transfer to a paper-towel lined plate to drain some of the grease. Season with additional salt and pepper to taste. Serve warm.
For about ten years while I was employed at my last job, I spent Mother's Day poring over the transcripts of about 2,000 seniors with eight other colleagues, locked in our office building together, deciding which ones of them would be able to graduate and which ones weren't. It was a job that my husband would say, year after year, ought to be done by a computer, but somehow, never was; there were simply too many variables for a computer to understand, even if a student had been cleared to graduate pending successful completion of their spring term courses, and too many ways to make it either work or not work by changing majors to minors, or requesting transcripts from other schools, or any number of other things. We would start the day with coffee (lots, and LOTS of coffee) and donuts, break it midway with a catered lunch, and stave off insanity during the late afternoon and evening with cookies, brownies, and any other form of sugar we could get our hands on. We would work in pairs for most of the day, joking with our partners as we flipped through the pages again and again, pulling files, cutting ourselves on the paper. It was a day when despite our differences, we valued each other, and we took care of thousands of students ... some of whom we would push out of the nest into the world in just four days, some of which we would spend hours trying to console, strategizing with them about what came next, trying to help them see the obstacle of not-graduating as just that: an obstacle, surmountable. It was an intense day, followed by an intense week of both jubilation and many tears (and curses, and violent outbursts) in our office. One of my colleagues likened it to being in a lifeboat, out on the ocean in a storm.
In a way, it was a relief to me to spend Mother's Day that way every year, because my relationship with my own mother was such a complicated one (yes, I love her, but no, she does not occupy a place on a pedestal for me), and then during the years of our pregnancy losses and my own infertility diagnosis, when I did it not because my job required it but because I was helping out former colleagues, it was another way to contain the day, not letting it take over. And working gave me an excuse not to celebrate what I felt was an arbitrary day, like Valentine's Day was arbitrary ... when if what we felt was genuine, we should be celebrating motherhood every day, shouldn't we?
During the last two years, thanks first to a new computer system (which turned that day into a week) and second to my maternity leave, I no longer had the excuse of reviewing transcripts. In 2010, I celebrated Mother Earth with photos of a walk along the canal towpath not far from our house. Last year, in 2011, I was on the verge of resigning from my current position, and celebrated the mother within, and reminded myself that we should allow ourselves to be mothered by our innermost selves in that way.
This year, when my mother called me to ask me what we were doing, I
confess I felt annoyed. I have two beautiful children, and we are done
family-building. But honestly? I didn't want to go out to dinner. I
didn't want to have to find a gift. I wanted to tell her we were doing
nothing, but how does one say that to one's own mother in this country,
and not be accused of treason?
But perhaps that's precisely the problem. Motherhood, as it's celebrated on Mother's Day, is bizarrely perfect--bizarrely, because we can't even agree on a single definition of what that perfection would entail. Women are judged for having no children ("how selfish" or "just adopt!"), for having too many children ("oh, those welfare mothers!"), for breastfeeding ("those attachment parenting fools!"), for not breastfeeding ("they're poisoning their children!"), for sending kids to school ("those high-stakes dupes!"), for keeping them home ("those hippies!"), for going to work ("those cold bitches!"), for staying home ... especially with an advanced degree ("what a waste!"). I don't want to celebrate a holiday that pretends we don't make these judgements. And maybe that's why I liked the Mother's Day at work so much; because we were all doing the best we could, together.
So what to do?
I'm going to remind myself that mother is a verb.
This year, I'm going to celebrate the imperfect mothers in my life, the women who do the work of mothering, which is not an achievement but a lifelong journey, even if we never have biological children of our own.I'm tired of the judgment; part of not judging is
accepting that we're all doing the best that we can, for our families, whatever they may look like, and for ourselves. The imperfect mothers include my friends who are struggling to balance life with children (whether they work outside the home or stay at home), the women who are deep in the trenches of loss and infertility, the grieving childless not-by-choice who have mothered more people than they probably know, those who look like they're holding it together but are really just one second away from unraveling, and so many others. And me. I'm a work in progress, too.
For Mother's Day, I'm going to ask you to do something, too. Write a letter to an imperfect mother. Maybe it's your own mother. Maybe it's not. Tell her how she has touched your life, and the lives of other people. And tell her that it's OK to be figuring this whole thing out as she goes. Because there's no such thing as a single perfect apple pie, either.
I don't write a lot specifically about infertility here any more. Part of me feels like that silence, or that lack, is a betrayal, because it was such a significant part of the forward-movement of this blog for such a long time, and because the community that supported and continues to support me on this journey deserves a better advocate. Part of me feels like that is the natural evolution of this space. Part of me worries that people who come here for cupcakes or soup won't want to read about pregnancy loss. Part of me thinks that maybe cupcakes and soup are excellent ploys to raise awareness for a disease that affects one in eight women. Part of me knows that infertility is one of many subtexts for everything I write.
A few weeks ago, a friend of mine posted an April Fool's pregnancy announcement on Facebook. After he revealed the truth, most people thought the joke was funny, but it took him a long time to untangle the rumors that had spread. He's a nice guy, and I was surprised that he would have done something so cavalier, but I felt that I needed to say something. So I wrote him a private Facebook message, telling him that I didn't want to speak on behalf of the entire ALI community, but that a post like that might be hurtful to people in ways that he didn't intend.
To my surprise, he wrote back that his wife had also experienced recurrent pregnancy loss, fibroids, and other complications with her reproductive system. They were no longer able to have children, and the two they had were hard-won, like ours. He should have known better, he said, given their own experiences with grief and loss.
It was yet another one of the instances of my making assumptions about my own friends, wherein I was acting the part we usually assign to the unaware "Fertile."
In a conversation months ago with another friend whose first child was stillborn, she said that she often felt unwelcome in the ALI community, in the blogs that seemed to make assumptions about women who had children. She reminded me that women on the playground, watching their children ... women in church ... women who are friends, neighbors, relatives ... may also have walked on this path. I think about her words often when I catch myself making assumptions about the women I meet, reminding myself that the assumptions I make could stand in the way of deeper friendship, trust, understanding, and support.
In honor of National Infertility Awareness Week, my request is this: don't ignore the assumptions we make about each other. Those assumptions support the wall of silence that surrounds infertility, that makes it so taboo. Don't ignore the silences, the things that go unsaid because there is no safe space to say them. Don't ignore the subtexts of strained or happy conversations.
Because ignoring these things promotes ignorance, and more ignorance is the last thing we need.
Thanks for reading, for listening, and for witnessing, both with me, and with so many others.
"I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail." -Adrienne Rich, "Diving into the Wreck"
In the wee hours of the morning today, my minister and his wife welcomed a healthy little girl into the world, their second child. It was a pretty uneventful pregnancy, as far as I can tell. The mom is healthy, by any standards: I think she competed in a triathlon in her late first trimester. I suspect that she'll be back on her feet in no time, gracefully chasing around their preschooler while she wears her newborn daughter.
My relationship to these children is complicated. While I'm celebrating just like everyone else, I see the event through a different lens. The couple's first child was born when I would have been due, too, and it was during her pregnancy that I was diagnosed (if you can even call it that, because really, it was more like a non-diagnosis) with secondary infertility. I spent her first pregnancy watching her belly swell and her skin glow, feeling like I'd been robbed of my own child, but also like I had a constant reminder in her of what never came to be for me. And though I've long since dealt with those feelings, and though we are done building our family, I find myself strangely envious of the ease with which this second pregnancy and birth transpired. It's not a very graceful feeling, but I can't ignore it.
It's not, as my husband might say, that misery loves company. It's more that I just wish more people fully understood what they seem to take for granted.
The "after" in "parenting after infertility and loss" is a tricky word. Because there really is no "after." It's not like something you can leave behind. There is only "with." And "through." When you lose someone else you love, like I lost my father to cancer, people expect you to remember them, to be sensitive on certain anniversaries, though your experience of that loss changes with time. Why should this be any different?
I've referenced my father here before. I've been thinking about him a lot lately; something about Easter coming soon and putting in the garden has stirred memories of him in me again that make me smile, and that make me a little sad he never got the chance to meet his grandchildren. Much as our relationship was a difficult one, sometimes I wish he was here to offer some of his officious (!) advice. So I spent a week eating his kind of food (more to come in the next posts), appreciating the daffodil blooms with my daughter, and honoring him the best way I know how.
(I will add here that my husband is the one who performed the architectural feat that is this dish. There was swearing in the kitchen, but I think it turned out great. The colors are meant to symbolize the Mexican flag, hence the name.)
And to my minister's daughter: welcome to the world, little one. May you know joy, and beauty, and the love of a community who will teach you to live a life full of grace. Perhaps a little more gracefully than I do it.
Tortilla Bandera
3 small heads broccoli
1/2 large head cauliflower
olive oil
2-3 large peppers, stemmed, seeded, and cut into 1" squares
salt and pepper
12 eggs
Separate broccoli and cauliflower into florets and cook separately in lightly salted boiling water until just tender. Drain and keep separate.
Heat 1 T. oil in a skillet. Cook peppers until soft, lightly sprinkling with salt and pepper to taste as they cook.
Heat 1 T. oil in a 10 inch heavy skillet (preferably cast iron) over medium-low heat.
Beat 4 eggs with salt and pepper to taste. Combine peppers with eggs and pour into the hot oil. Cook until set on the bottom. Put a plate over the top of the skillet and invert the omelet onto the plate; slide it back into the skillet and tuck the edges under with a spatula. Cook until set.
Beat 4 more of the eggs and combine with the broccoli. It will seem that there aren't enough eggs, but don't worry. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Arrange egg-coated broccoli on top of the red pepper omelet, leveling it with the back of the spatula. Cook for about 8 minutes. Turn the whole omelet over again, using the plate as you did before.
Combine the cauliflower the the remaining 4 eggs, adding salt and pepper to taste. Don't worry that there doesn't seem to be enough eggs. Pour the cauliflower mixture over the omelet and flatten with the back of the spatula. Cook for about 10 minutes, occasionally running the spatula around the edge. Turn the whole tortilla over one last time using the pate, and cook until firm (you may need to turn it again so it becomes golden).
(First: Thanks, all, for your recent comments on my little mini-series. I try to leave replies for every comment, so please don't forget to subscribe to follow ups! I'm giving Blogger's new threaded comments feature a run for its money. *grin*)
February is a month fraught with mixed emotions for me, which may be one reason I've been feeling so existential lately (hence the "why are we here" posts).
One week ago, my daughter turned one. We had a small family celebration with just my mother and brother and the four of us. There was pizza for lunch, which made I. and S. happy. It was amazing to think about where I was just a year ago, and where I am now. It's definitely a happier place.
Three years ago, I was in the bathroom of the public library, at the worst point of my last miscarriage, watching my son reading a Dora Valentine book on the floor, barely able to swallow and breathe, trying to hold myself together. It would be another week before I found myself at the OB, being handed a piece of paper with INFERTILITY printed in big bold handwritten letters across the top. A referral to other doctors, because they were done dealing with me and my unexplained losses.
Four years ago, I was dealing with the emotional blow of my first pregnancy loss.
Nine years ago, I was visiting my father in the nursing home where he was supposed to be staying temporarily, watching the strongest, stubbornest man I had known succumb to stomach cancer.
And eleven years ago, I was sitting in a Korean restaurant with my future husband, getting up the nerve to declare my love for him in the most backwards, understated way I knew how.
Back in November, I posted about a visit from Buddhist monks, who talked about how life is like an ocean, how what feels like a tsunami at one time ends up being a ripple when you look at the thing in its entirety, and that you feel the most suffering when you spend the most time thinking about yourself and your inappropriate attachment to things that change anyway. In the past few posts, I've been exploring change and community, and one of the thoughts I'm coming away with is that genuine community withstands change. As I think about all of these milestones of Februaries past and present, it occurs to me that they're all crests of the tsunamis in my life, the moments of greatest flux, greatest transition and uncertainty. And that perhaps blogging can help us to feel less suffering (or, to put it another way, to feel more joy) because it helps us to share with others what we sometimes inaccurately see as just our own. I look back at where I was two years ago in February, at the beginning of this blog's life, and it's remarkable to me how my perspective, my orientation, has changed.
(And: I think about the work that Jjiraffe is doing right now with her Faces of ALI series: that, friends, is an awesome example of how the lines we draw around ourselves are imaginary, at best. Go read her series, right now.)
So ... in the spirit of community, of losing ourselves in a good way, and of celebrating a life rich with change and challenge: here's a piece of N's first birthday cake for you. Because it's as much yours as it is ours. Happy February ... thanks for being here on the journey.
Baby's First Birthday Cake
(adapted from What To Expect The First Year*) *which I don't think is gospel, but has some useful recipes
2 1/2 c. thinly sliced carrots
2 1/2 c. white grape juice concentrate (you will use slightly less than this)
1 1/2 c. raisins
Vegetable cooking spray
2 c. whole-wheat flour
1/2 c. wheat germ
2 T. low-sodium baking powder
1 T. ground cinnamon
1/4 c. vegetable oil
2 whole eggs
4 egg whites
1 T. vanilla extract
3/4 c. unsweetened applesauce
Combine the carrots with 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons of the juice concentrate in a medium-size saucepan. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer, covered, until carrots are tender, 15 to 20 minutes. Puree in a blender or food processor until smooth. Add the raisins and process until finely chopped. Let mixture cool.
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Trace the bottom of two 9-inch pans on waxed paper and cut out circles. Spray pans with cooking spray, place waxed paper in the bottom, and spray the waxed paper again with cooking spray.
Combine flour, wheat germ, baking powder, and cinnamon in a large mixing bowl. Add 1 1/4 c. juice concentrate, oil, eggs, egg whites, and vanilla; beat just until well mixed. Fold in the carrot puree and applesauce. Pour the batter into the prepared cake pans (you may also need to make a muffin or two).
Bake 35-40 minutes, until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool 5 minutes in the pans, then turn out onto wire racks to cool completely. Frost with cream cheese frosting.
Cream Cheese Frosting
(Frosts one two-layer cake)
1/2 c. white grape juice concentrate
1 lb light cream cheese
2 t. vanilla
1/2 c. finely chopped raisins
1 1/2 t. unflavored gelatin
Set aside 2 T. of the juice concentrate.
Blend the remaining juice concentrate, the cream cheese, vanilla, and raisins in a blender or food processor until smooth. Transfer to a mixing bowl.
Stir the gelatin into the remaining juice concentrate in a small saucepan; let stand 1 minute to soften. Heat to boiling and stir to dissolve gelatin.
Beat the gelatin mixture into the cream cheese mixture until well blended. Refrigerate just until the frosting begins to set, about 30 to 60 minutes.
Warning: graphic post about infertility and loss. No food this time. Read at the risk of being a little shocked; this is not for the faint of heart. This post is in honor of National Infertility Awareness Week, as part of its Bust a Myth campaign.
It seems to be an unwritten rule. You don't talk about the bad things that can happen during pregnancy, and you especially don't talk about them to pregnant women. Sure, you can share stories or morning sickness and cramps and aches and cravings, but the really awful things are taboo. Pregnancy always ends in live, healthy birth in our happy little world. And you particularly shouldn't be complaining if you already have a child; you've got no right to demand another.
I was 32 when I had our son. It was a picture perfect pregnancy. I didn't even experience morning sickness. I was on top of the world with my pregnancy glow. Though the birth wasn't easy, I got a healthy baby. I knew that things could go wrong; one of my friends' children was stillborn. But I thought somehow that I was safe ... after all, I'd given birth. Other children would come, too, if I wanted them.
And then, loss. The first was early, just six weeks. My son was two. I'd made an appointment for my first prenatal visit, and the day before I was supposed to go, I saw pink in the bathroom. No, I said to myself. Shit, no. I tried to believe that it wasn't happening. They took my blood, and confirmed that my hCG levels were dropping. I bled, and I mourned the loss of that baby, its potential. I knew when I'd passed the clot that had contained that small life, and I felt sick; I could no longer trust my body to carry a child to term.
A year later, again. This time, much later; I was just about to begin my second trimester. I had passed the six week mark, and thought, again, that perhaps this time I would be safe. I was developing a baby bump already.
And then, I saw the blood. A light pink stain as I cleaned up in the bathroom at work. Oh, shit, I said, under my breath. No, no. Not again. Oh, god, please. No. I talked myself into believing that it was nothing. That I would check again later. That I was imagining things. But I knew I wasn’t imagining things the next time. I called the doctor, and they said I should come in that day, even though I had a scheduled appointment on Monday, to see the baby, to see that everything was all right. They seemed so confident, that I believed them. I didn’t call my husband. It wasn’t necessary.
Until I saw the monitor, and the technician, searching. Measuring. Quietly. Looking for something that she wasn’t finding. I’m sorry, she said, I’m just not finding a heartbeat. Oh, god, I said. Oh, no. I covered my mouth, open, like an o. They took me to another room, said some things about what I should expect next, let me go. I cried a little. I hugged the midwife as she went to close the door and leave me to collect myself. I thanked her. I dried my tears and opened the door to the waiting room, walking through a sea of pregnant bellies. I saw a woman I knew in the parking lot, with her sick son. I sympathized, told her I would check on them this week. She didn’t ask why I was there. I drove home.
I became methodical: I emailed the people I knew who had known about it. I called the woman who had offered me her maternity clothes to tell her to give them to someone else. I went through the house, throwing away the prenatal paperwork that I was supposed to return on Monday. I threw away the container they’d given me for my first morning urine specimen. I threw away the pamphlets on prenatal nutrition. I threw away the paperwork to register for maternity stay. I told my husband. I cooked dinner, I bathed and put my son to bed, I checked work email, I went to bed.
On Friday, my car battery was dead. I was tired of death. My husband jumped my car. I went to work. I went for a run, not sure if I could, not sure if I should. My body protested. I could feel the blood coming. I walked back. I went to a lunch meeting of mothers, sympathizing with people’s day care stories, feeling like I was talking in a tunnel, listening to myself in some other body. I bled more, and now even more. I excused myself, staggered to the bathroom, hoping that I was not leaving a bloody trail on the historic carpet. In the bathroom, I began to feel as if my body was emptying in great waves of blood and islands of slippery tissue. Would the bleeding never stop? I returned to my office and finished the work day. I drove home. I fed my family, I bathed and put my son to bed. I went to the grocery store to do my Friday night shopping, walking slowly. I came home, put away the groceries. Checked email. Went to bed. Lay awake, listening to nothing.
On Saturday, I baked banana bread while I made breakfast for my son. I walked with him to the library, promising him a trip to the store for a treat. I went to the bathroom in the library. I knew something was coming, and I had to push, but it came — whatever it was, a mass of blood and cells and tissue — it looked like a human heart. It was my heart. I looked into the toilet, trying to see the baby I knew must have been in there, as my son sat reading Dora’s Valentine on the bathroom floor. I knew I couldn’t look much longer before my son would come over, and I didn’t want him to see what I saw. It was surreal. I flushed it away, feeling sick, knowing what I had just done, washed my hands, ushered out my son, closed the door. The pain was unbearable. I walked home, every step a torture. I made my son lunch, put him in the car. I drove the hour to my mother’s house to get her settled after her return from the knee surgery rehab. I ordered her dinner. I entertained my son while feeding him dinner. I drove home, made lemon poppy cake, checked work email, prepped my Sunday RE class. I went to bed, listening to the roaring of my heart and blood in my ears. I lay awake for hours, shifting to make the pain subside. It would not.
On Sunday, I made breakfast, collected our things, drove to church, set out the cakes and fruit for coffee hour. I washed dishes and made polite conversation about the minister’s pregnant wife, due a week before I would have given birth. I drove home, made lunch, returned to church. I taught a sex ed class, beginning with a memorial service for the co-teacher who had died this week of a sudden heart attack in traffic. I drove home, went to the park, watched my son play in the puddles in his rain boots. I came back home, I made dinner, I put my son to bed. I baked a red velvet cake. I took hours to frost it. I roamed aimlessly; I lay awake for hours.
I felt hollow. Empty. A shell full of nothing. I was just tired; not sad, not angry. I was just nothing.
I thought about the minister’s wife, how she would have a baby in August. I thought about my friend, who would have her baby even earlier, in May. Another friend, in May. Another, in June. I wondered how that would feel to me. I would have no baby. I would have no reason to post “pregnant” as my Facebook status. I would have no maternity leave in the fall. I would do the same things I do every day. Nothing would change. My changed plans had changed back to unchanged plans. I felt cheated, maybe even jealous.
I began to wonder if I didn’t want this one, or the last one, for that matter, badly enough. If they knew this, and left my inhospitable body. I began to think about all of the things I might have done: not enough thyroid hormone. A mistake at Starbucks, when a barista might have given me caffeinated coffee. A piece of chocolate cake. Too much exercise. Overheating. A hot shower. Stress. Negativity. I knew, intellectually, that it was not my fault. That didn’t seem to matter to my superego.
And it didn't matter that I already had a child.
No one tells you that you are going to experience something like labor and lose the baby that could have been in the toilet of the public library. They just give you a slip of paper to get your blood drawn when you stop bleeding, to make sure your levels are at zero. You are done bleeding, and they take blood. The irony of this was not lost on me.
Another year, another loss, and then it seemed I couldn't even get pregnant. I went to my ob/gyn, and they told me that I was now officially high risk, that my losses and my age and the length of time it was taking us to conceive meant that I was infertile. I couldn't understand; how was this possible, when I'd given birth to a healthy child? They handed me a slip of paper with "INFERTILITY" written in big block letters across the top, with the names of several clinics, and suggested that I call to make an appointment. There was no explanation for my loss, for my empty body. I felt marked. I felt like a failed woman. I was unable to do the one thing my body was supposedly built to do. I could not create or support life. And the fact that I had a beautiful son whom I loved didn't change how that label, and those losses, made me feel.
Though I did, just this past February, successfully carry a second child to term--thanks, I believe, to an endocrinologist who was willing to listen and who believed that there was something he could do--that pregnancy was full of anxiety. I hold tightly to the children I have been gifted, knowing just how precious life really is, but their presence does not erase the losses that came before. I also know that it would have been good to know more people like me, to know that I was not alone, to know that others had stories, too. To know that one successful pregnancy doesn't equal fertility, and that to have difficulty carrying a child to term after a successful first pregnancy was also normal. And I wish that the stories of loss and infertility were less taboo, so that we could perhaps help other women to be less alone. We should not assume that the woman in our playgroup is fertile. We should not assume that the childless woman doesn't want children.
The other day, one of the bloggers I follow posted a link to a video from a Japanese classroom, as a way of illustrating the Buddhist principle of transforming suffering into happiness. I was struck by the students' display of empathy, and it got me thinking about blogging, about how being able to share a story with an empathetic community can both tap the silent suffering of others and make us stronger people, offering us a new perspective on our own stories. Healing would happen so much more often if we just stopped making assumptions about each other and started listening deeply, instead. I thought that I would share the video here, as a way of ending this post, and as a way of encouraging others to write their own "letters," too. It's about time your voice was heard.
The other day, I was whining about never being thrown a shower by friends, about feeling less than enthusiastic about a well-intentioned work shower that was going to be thrown for me in the middle of a politically messy leave-taking. JeCaThRe, who is one of my few IRL friends who reads my blog, decided to throw me a virtual shower at her own blog (Bread, Wine, Salt), and invite all of the people who read and comment here (or simply who lurk here) to offer their gifts and best wishes for the anticipated arrival of our little one.
JeCaThRe tells the story of our friendship a little bit differently than I do, of course: we agree that I was originally college friends with her husband, but we part ways on the point where she talks about how she admired me and friended me on my blog ... I had, longer than she had known, admired her blog, her smart and honest and unapologetic writing, her faith, her strength through her own perinatal loss, her leadership, her compassion, her wide ranging knowledge about so many things (and eagerness to learn about three times that much; I feel sometimes like I read her Cliff notes so that my brain doesn't leak out my ear). We agree again, though, that over the past five years, the friendship has become ours as our sons, born around the same time, have also gotten to know each other, and as much as I am still her husband's friend, too, she's right; in the unlikely event of divorce, she'd get custody of me. ;)
Honestly, this virtual event has left me speechless (not easy to do for a former graduate student in English literature, even if I am sort of people-shy in real life). Everyone offered their best wishes for a safe delivery, and said some incredibly supportive things about their confidence in my ability to handle the transition to a two-child household, about what they admire about me ... honestly, it left me glowing. And there were gifts of the best kind: Melissa from You Found What in There, heroic BLM to a recently-arrived preemie, posted a virtual gift that moved me to tears: her girls will be offering up three acts of service in thanksgiving for the safe arrival of this baby. Serenity, who is a mother and runner and amazing secondary IF survivor, offered up her recipe for penne in vodka sauce, to re-empower me in the kitchen when I come home: to bring me back to the place where I feel like I'm in control, even when everything feels like it's spiraling out of control (I so often feel much more Zen online, S., than I do IRL!). InBetween, a university professor and IF/loss survivor now pregnant with her little girl, is going to deliver red velvet cupcakes made from my recipe to a woman down the street who is due just a few weeks after she is, to try to make friends, or at least to test the waters to begin finding her community of moms. Rebecca, from The road less traveled, who is 9 weeks pregnant with a donor embryo after losing her own little miracle at 22 weeks this year, gave her recipe for chicken shawarma and blessings for the safe arrival of my little one. Athena, from A Field of Dreams, left a post for Greek Honey Cookies, traditionally served to visitors to the newborn. K. from Pull Up Your Potty Seat, who is 7.5 months pregnant with twins and still chasing a two year old little girl, left me an 8x10, that I'm uploading here for you all to admire. TasIVFer, also now pregnant after a loss, and bravely taking her pregnancy one day and one breath at a time, came all the way from Tasmania with a table full of party food that she compares to me as she's gotten to know me online. N brought a pea pesto and a wonderful link to a website for creative food ideas. I can't even describe how amazing reading these posts has felt for me, and I hope that every one of these bloggers (and those of you who have attended my virtual shower in anonymity for so many reasons) knows how much they are loved, no matter how long they've been reading here, and how much I appreciate these incredible gifts. I have never felt more celebrated and supported; sitting here, I'm somewhere between tears and a broad grin. JeCaThRe, this is the best shower I could imagine having.
I didn't participate in ICLW this month, because I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to be responsible about commenting: I didn't know if I'd have a newborn in my arms, or what I'd be doing this week. But this virtual shower has reminded me, yet again, about the incredibly powerful effect of online community; many of these women have been with me from early on in this pregnancy, cheering me on and comforting me when I felt like no one else would understand. They know that the answer to the question "So, are you excited?" is fraught with complication for me. They get why I still have a hard time washing a Boppy cover, for example, and throwing away the gift receipt. And from all over the world, they will be with me in spirit through these last days, through my labor, through tenuous days of new motherhood (provided that all goes well), and I hope long after that, as I look forward to celebrating their milestones, and I continue to navigate the role of parent, trying to figure out, each day, what I will do with my "one wild and precious life."
Thank you so much, to all of you, for being here, and being where you are, for all of us.
I baked a treat for the party, too: not cupcakes, as I'd originally promised, but buttery, nutty, chocolate-filled blondies. As much as I love brownies, sometimes they're just too dark -- you're craving something brighter, lighter, with more variation in texture, sweet but complex: something the blogging world -- and this community in particular -- offers beautifully.
Blondies
1 c. pecans or walnuts (4 ounces)
1 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1 t. baking powder
1/2 t. salt
12 T. unsalted butter, melted/cooled
1 1/2 c. packed light brown sugar
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
4 t. vanilla extract
1 c. chopped white chocolate, or 3 oz. each white chocolate and semisweet chocolate chips
Adjust oven rack to middle position; heat oven to 350 degrees. Spread nuts on large rimmed baking sheet and bake until deep golden brown, 10 to 15 minutes. Transfer nuts to cutting board to cool; chop coarsely and set aside.
While nuts toast, cut 18-inch length foil and fold lengthwise to 8-inch width. Fit foil into length of 13 by 9-inch baking pan, pushing it into corners and up sides of pan; allow excess to overhang pan edges. Cut 14-inch length foil and fit into width of baking pan in same manner, perpendicular to first sheet (if using extra-wide foil, fold second sheet lengthwise to 12-inch width). Spray foil-lined pan with nonstick cooking spray.
Whisk flour, baking powder, and salt together in medium bowl; set aside.
Whisk melted butter and brown sugar together in medium bowl until combined. Add eggs and vanilla and mix well. Using rubber spatula, fold dry ingredients into egg mixture until just combined; do not overmix. Fold in chocolate and nuts and turn batter into prepared pan, smoothing top with rubber spatula.
Bake until top is shiny, cracked, and light golden brown, 22 to 25 minutes; do not overbake. Cool on wire rack to room temperature. Remove bars from pan by lifting foil overhang and transfer to cutting board. Cut into 2-inch squares and serve.
(Welcome ICLW visitors! If you want a brief back story, click here: the short version is that I am chronicling a journey through life and pregnancy after RPL and a diagnosis of secondary IF; I'm just about to round the corner into week 34. I make, talk about and take pictures of food, because doing so makes me happy and keeps me mostly out of trouble.)
Since many of us are careening full tilt into the holidays, even though it might be more attractive to hide under a table or in a dark room, I thought I'd do something a little different for this ICLW. About two weeks ago, I joined an online blogger cookie exchange. The way it was going to work was this: each of us would bake 1-2 dozen cookies, and send them off to a partner (blogger we've never met) that the organizer would assign to us. It sounded like a neat idea, and I sent my cookies off to my partner Emily from Life On Food last week, with some trepidation, afraid that she would not like my cookies, or think them too plain, or that they'd be stale or crushed upon arrival (I packed them tightly together, thinking maybe that would help). But she said that they enjoyed them, and that my box is on its way!
I love cookie exchanges, for the same reason I like ICLW: you get introduced to a bunch of new cookies (blogs), get to talk with the bakers (comment), and make new friends over shared recipes (stories). So here's my invitation to you: sort of like Mel's Virtual Lushary, I'd like to host a virtual cookie exchange. Post your favorite cookie below, and if you like, include a link to the recipe (or post the whole recipe, or just send it to me). If it's a special recipe (handed down through the generations, or if there's a good story behind it), include that, too.
Here's what's on the cookie menu at my house (click for links to previous posts and recipes):
And if anyone wants to do a real cookie exchange, just drop me a line ... I'm all for sending baked goods where they're needed.
Apricot Filled Oatmeal Bars
1 c. flour (regular)
1 c. quick-cooking oats (regular oats work OK)
2/3 c. packed brown sugar
1/4 t. baking soda
1/2 c. (1 stick) butter, very soft
1 c. apricot preserves (I use Polaner All Fruit, no sugar added)
Stir together flour, oats, brown sugar and baking soda. Cut in butter until mixture is crumbly. (I've also melted the butter once before and that worked OK, too, if you don't have a pastry blender. You might need just a little bit more flour in that case.) Pat 2/3 of the crumbs into the bottom of a 13 x 9" baking pan; spread with preserves. Bake for 25-30 minutes. Cool and cut into bars, as big or as small as you like them!
Well, it's flurrying here again ... as it did yesterday, and on Saturday. Those of you who were patiently waiting for an update on snow: the flurries seemed to happen around my birthday this year rather than on it. I'm not sure if that counts for the record books or not, but it's immaterial to me ... I still enjoyed the little taste of winter, which changed the way that the world looks for a little while.
Despite the chill in the air, I got a warm hug from msfitzitain the form of the Cherry On Top award! Thank so much, msfitzita, for including me on your list of "five wonderful women who always manage to say something that makes me smile, cry, nod or laugh - sometimes all in the same post"! This was sweet of you.
We all know how these work: I have to link back to the person who awarded me (do go read her blog), and then pick five blogs to pass the award along to. Make sure to comment on the awarded blogs so they know they’ve been picked.
Just a handful of amazing women I know, whose stories have moved me, and who inspire me to be a better human being (and please don't take offense if you're not on the list ... when I get an award I try to share the wealth so that all of the wonderful bloggers I read feel the love ... see the Versatile Blogger award post for some other blogs worthy of your reading time):
So all in all, it was a good birthday: the 4-year old party in the morning was as sane as those kinds of parties at indoor play-places get, I got to go to the indoor market and visit my friend the artisan chocolate truffle maker (who, to my surprise, took my advice for adding more spices to his pumpkin caramel truffles seriously enough to change his recipe!), took a nap in the afternoon while I. was napping, went to dinner at a new restaurant where the food was both delicious and reasonably priced, and then bundled up to watch our town's holiday parade, full of floats and fire trucks and Girl Scouts dressed like presents and penguins. My father-in-law sent me desperately needed new socks, my mother-in-law sent me note cards, my husband gave me gorgeous new pottery (I am such a sucker for pottery) and an extension tube for my food photo hobby, my brother gave me new running shoes, and my amazing creative sister in law made me a tote bag with fabric she bought in Paris. I didn't have to eat any chard or clean up any pee on the floor.
It's funny, though ... I was looking in the mirror yesterday, thinking to myself that I really am older. Not that I've turned all that much older overnight, of course, but 37 feels different than my early 30s. I'm a little wizened, a little more tired, a little more jaded, perhaps. But my world is much more expansive, too. Even the bloggers I've met through this community have changed my perspective; I've had few female role models in my life, and honestly, so many of the women whose blogs I read inspire me to be a better person.
I don't typically make birthday or new years' resolutions, because I feel like they're artificial, and I have a hard time keeping them. But last year when I "didn't-resolve" to blog and to "join a community of people who would help me finish the baking," I found this space and all of you. I wrote a while ago about wanting a new gig ... that still applies, and perhaps this is the year that I will find clarity about my next calling.
You all know, of course, the rhyme about beans. "Beans, beans, good for the heart, the more you eat, the more you ..." well, I promised not to be obscene here, and there is the other version about "the musical fruit" and "the more you toot." But I thought I'd post this recipe today, because I'm hoping for a new year in my life that is good for the heart: a new child to learn about who will teach me to parent and to love all over again, purpose and direction in my life's work, more writing and creating, friendships on and offline that continue to grow and develop, wishes and hopes and dreams of all of my friends and loved ones fulfilled. Here's to 37; I'm raising my bowl of beans to you--may you be good for the heart.
Moroccan Bean Soup
1 T. olive oil.
2 chopped onions
2 garlic cloves minced
1 t. peeled and grated ginger
6 c. water
1 c. lentils
1 (15oz) can garbanzos, rinsed/drained
1 (19oz) can cannellini beans
1 (14.5 oz ) can diced tomatoes (I used fire roasted)
1/2 c. diced carrots
1/2 c. celery
1 t. garam masala
1/2 t. ground cardamon
1/2 t. ground cayenne pepper
1/2 t. ground cumin
Saute onions, garlic and ginger in 1 tbs olive oil for about 5 min or until translucent. To the sauteed onion add lentils, carrots, celery, tomatoes, garbanzos, cannellini beans. Cover with 6 cups of water, and add the spices. Bring to boil for a few minutes, lower the heat and simmer until the lentils are soft. Puree half the soup in the food processor (or whole soup if you want it smooth), return to the pot, stir and enjoy.
