Caveat Emptor

Inspired by Searching for our Silver Lining's post about putting her home on the market.

~~~~

Caveat emptor:

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.

with love,
Justine

The In Between: Kale with Chard, and Day of the Dead

Our last CSA pickup for the season was last Friday, and so this week was the first in many months that I had to plan a menu that didn't involve kale, chard, or tomatoes.  I don't tend to can or freeze our share, so there was something wistful about eating the last local-farm-sourced meal of the season, as much as it's freeing to have the entire supermarket open to me again.  Watching the fields turn brown and white is like watching a loved one die, and yet, after eating so much green for so many months, I start to crave things that are brown and white, the root vegetables of winter.

I've always loved this time of year, though, this in-between when it feels like the door to another world is open, when death and life collide.  We more or less suck at dealing with death in this country, in my experience; death is something we don't like to talk about, something we distance from our own lives, something to be feared.  These silences make grieving more difficult, not to mention significantly limiting our experience of being human.  Other cultures cope with death and dying much more effectively by making it part of life, particularly during this season of the year: the Celtic holiday of Samhain both celebrates the end of the harvest season and welcomes the souls of the dead, who were beckoned to attend feasts where a place was set at the table for them. The three-day long celebration of El Día de los Muertos, likewise, sets aside a specific day at the end of the traditional harvest period to remember lost friends and loved ones.  The only thing we have that comes even close to honoring this liminality is Halloween, and we're too busy gorging ourselves on candy to really appreciate it.

My daughter asked me what I was going to be for Halloween this year, and--not wanting to do one of the usual ghost/zombie/vampire affairs--after giving it a lot of thought (not to mention spending a lot of time admiring the creative costume ideas at Take Back Halloween), I decided that if I needed to dress up, I would be Frida Kahlo, the feminist Mexican artist famous for her self-portraits.

Kahlo lived on the boundaries.  A victim of childhood polio that left her with legs two different lengths, and a bus accident during her teenage years that resulted in life long pain, multiple operations on an injured pelvis, and multiple miscarriages, she also pushed the limits of traditional gender norms, smoking, drinking, and having bisexual extramarital affairs. After several years living in what she referred to as "Gringoland" with her husband Diego Rivera, with whom her relationship was complicated at best, she painted a self-portrait in which she stands between Mexico and the United States, herself a physical boundary (or bridge) between indigenous culture and technology, natural resources and industrialization.

While I don't identify with Kahlo as I did once long ago with Jane Eyre, I appreciate her embrace of the space between, her strength and resilience, her joie d'vivre, even given her difficult life.  A few days before her death, she wrote in her diary: "I hope the exit is joyful — and I hope never to return — Frida".   Kahlo accept and embraced her fragility, and still did her best to live a life and produce art that suggested her power and serenity as a woman in the world, living courageously into a future that is unknown. And perhaps, at this time of year, that's the most we can hope for.

Do you celebrate a holiday that remembers lost loved ones?  What's your experience of this particular kind of in-between-ness?

Spiced Squash and Chard with Walnuts
This was I did with the last of our CSA produce of the year.  Not quite salad, 

not quite side dish, not quite root vegetable or leafy green, it lives somewhere in the in-between, too.

1 medium acorn squash
1 bunch of swiss chard, ribs removed and chopped, leaves chopped separately
2 T. olive oil
1/2 t. salt
1/2 t. pepper
2 t. cardamom
3/4 c. chopped toasted walnuts

2 T. orange juice (preferably fresh squeezed)
3 T. local honey
2 T. apple cider vinegar
1/4 c. oil grapeseed oil
1/2 t. apple pie spice
1/8 t. ginger
1/4 t. salt

Preheat oven to 450 degrees

Slice, peel, and cube the acorn squash. Toss with olive oil, salt, pepper, and cardamom. Roast in a single layer for 30-35 minutes, flipping once half-way through.

While your squash is roasting, shake together the orange juice, vinegar, oil, apple pie spice, ginger, honey, and salt in a jar.

When the squash is done, move to a skillet  over medium heat and add the the chard, continuing to stir until wilted. Chop and toast the walnuts; you can toss them into the same roasting pan you've just emptied, and put them back in the oven for just a few minutes (check every two minutes or so to make sure they're not burning).

Add your walnuts after 3-4 minutes.

Toss the warm chardwith 1/4 c. of the vinaigrette. Enjoy immediately or at room temperature.

Thirty Spot Guest Post!

So, how does it feel to be 39?  Erin's "Love for 30" project over at My Thirty Spot features posts from women who are reflecting on the experience of their 30s, and my 39th birthday seemed like the perfect time to offer up some thoughts on the subject.  Please click over to My Thirty Spot today to read my guest post on the gifts I've received through the journey of my 30s; I'll look forward to seeing you there!

My son baked my birthday cake.  My husband helped
him to reach the writing icing ... only it wasn't
writing icing.  It was food coloring.   :)

Letting Go, Again

So much of living is letting go.

I have read some remarkable, brave, heartbreaking posts today for National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, and this year, I seem to have few words of my own.

But this is enough: to know that letting go is not the same as forgetting, and that letting go does not happen only once, but over and over again. 

My thoughts are with all of those women--the 1 in 4--who, like me, have lit candles tonight, whether openly, or in the privacy of our hearts.  May you find comfort knowing that there are others remembering with you, today, and every day.

The Road Diverged

I am standing in the corner of the bar at a farewell party in a local gun and hunting club, Diet Coke in my hand, surrounded by staff from the Y who have clearly been here drinking--and not just Diet Coke--for a while.  I don't like guns, I don't really drink, and I hate parties that require me to mingle with a drink in my hand.  I look around, and there aren't many other members here, anyway, just staffers.  They're dressed for a party, and I'm dressed to go grocery shopping, in my yoga woman T shirt and brown cargo capris.  I'm having a moment.  Maybe you've had these moments, too.  These "how the hell did I get here" moments.


It's been over a year now since I've been gainfully employed.  I've certainly been busy, because taking care of an infant who becomes a toddler is a full time job.  But I haven't seen a regular paycheck in 14 months.

And it's a strange place for me, as strange as the gun and hunting club.  I've written before about how I never intended to be a SAHM.  Yes, I made the decision that set this chapter of my life in motion.  But there were many chapters that came before it, and many of them were written by other people, or by the universe itself.  If I hadn't lost pregnancies, if I hadn't been diagnosed with secondary infertility, and since we weren't planning to have more than two children, maybe my daughter (or not-my-daughter) would have been born earlier, instead of being born at the same time as I got a new boss at work.  If I hadn't been on maternity leave during said new boss's early tenure in his position, he may not have been able to get away with some of the things he did while I wasn't there.  Maybe I would have had more support.  Maybe I would have felt differently about the relationship.  Maybe I could have fought back better.  Maybe I wouldn't have resigned.  Maybe I wouldn't have found myself still unemployed when my daughter reached the age of 18 months.  I wouldn't have taken the Y up on the three month free membership that I won in a raffle, to give myself an excuse to get out of the house on a regular basis and exercise while someone watched my daughter.  I wouldn't have met my instructors.  And so I wouldn't be saying goodbye to this particular one, who is moving to another state; I don't know where I would be, but I can say with a pretty high degree of certainty that I wouldn't be standing in the bar at the gun club with a Diet Coke in my hand.

On the other hand, I might not have met you.

When I was a child, I loved those Choose Your Own Adventure books.  I loved the fact that you could request a do-over, start from a place where you were happier, or more confident, or had a sword, and find a better ending, or even a better, or more interesting, middle. I used to back up through them, as if they were mazes: if you didn't like where the story was going, you backtrack and make it right by simply choosing the opposite direction.  Back then, I think I believed that you could make more choices, that life didn't happen to you, that you made life happen.

Now I think there's some combination of destiny and choice at work, and it's a mixed blessing.

Because I love my beautiful, feisty, happy, smart, amazing daughter.  I feel lucky to have her.  And when you add a child to your life, you have to expect that your life is going to turn upside down.

It's just that some days I wonder about the parallel universes.  The ones that didn't lead to the gun club.  The ones in which I had a sword.

Mother, the Verb

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.

 

Don't Ignore: the Space Between

a post in honor of National Infertility Week

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.

Still Flying the Flag: Tortilla Bandera

"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).

Serve warm or at room temperature.

February is the C(r)oolest Month: A First Birthday Cake

(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.

Kicking Ass and Taking Names: Cancer, Loss, and Oat Fudge Minis

So it turns out that my college roommate has lymphoma.  She's in her late 30s, has a kid in elementary school, skateboards for fun, wears pigtails and badass shoes.  Not the sort of chick you'd imagine would wake up some day and find out she has cancer.

She made a FB announcement about this the other day, asking us all to put our "grown up pants on," assuring us that her GI said it was "very treatable with chemo," and her wall was immediately filled with people posting support and love and offering to bake brownies (not exactly the kind of brownie I bake here at aHBL.)

I am confident that my friend will kick cancer's ass.  Because that's just the kind of person she is.  She is one amazing, resilient, determined woman ... and that doesn't even begin to describe her.  I'm going to think positive thoughts, send her all of my good energy, and cheer her on through the suck that is going to be chemo.

My friend's announcement was yet another reminder of how vulnerable we are, how everything we know can turn on a dime, how precious this gift called life really is.  I've had a lot of reminders lately, it seems: my friend my age who needed a heart transplant, friends with sick kids, and now this.  Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something?

Yesterday was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, a day that thousands of people all over the world light candles in remembrance of lives that never had the chance to be lived, and in solidarity with people who never imagined they would lose a child.  I've written about my own losses here, but yesterday I was thinking about so many other women and men I've met who felt alone, adrift, silenced.  Unlike cancer, pregnancy and infant loss tends to be invisible, or at the very least taboo.  But it needs to be something we can talk about, not so that we can "get over" it, but so that we can learn to live with it.  To support each other, to be there, to bear witness.

No matter whether you're pro-life or pro-choice, no matter when you think life begins, no matter whether you know someone with cancer or have been lucky enough to avoid that happening to your loved ones, I ask you to take one moment today and marvel at the fact that You. Are. Alive.  To realize that the odds against you, specifically you, being born, are actually pretty friggin' incredible.  To give thanks for that gift, and to decide that you're going to do something with it.  And to ask that one of the things you do with that gift is offer compassion to families and individuals who grieve and struggle and hope.

I made these the other day as a healthier-than-usual treat.  They're full of fiber and protein, are a little lower on the glycemic index than your standard cookie, contain antioxidants and other immunity-boosters, and give you energy.  They're the kind of thing my college roommate made in our makeshift kitchen; she's probably long since forgotten, but I remember her experimental "healthy" cookies fondly.  Here's to kicking ass and taking names, my friend.

Oat Fudge Minis

1 medium banana
2 T. coconut oil (you could use canola or an oil of choice…but this stuff is more buttery)
1/4 c. egg whites (or 1 egg, or applesauce)
4 T. agave (more if you like it sweeter)
1/4 t. salt (salt joins the liquids because it dissolves)
1 1/2 c. rolled oats
1/2 c. spelt flour
1/2 c. oat bran
1/4 c. ground flax seeds
1/3 c. mini dark chocolate chips (or more)

Preheat oven to 350.

Mash banana and add other liquid ingredients into banana mixture. Add dry ingredients, one quarter cup at a time, mixing until well blended. Line mini muffin pan with liners (or grease it) and spoon 1 tablespoon into each cup. Press chocolate chips into each mini and cover each mini with remaining oat mixture. Press a few more chocolate chips into each one and bake for approximately 15 minutes.

The coconut oil is good for you. They're sweetened naturally. They have lots of antioxidants, if you’re using dark chocolate, and lots of fiber. Spelt and oats contain protein.  All excellent for ass-kicking.

Bust a Myth: Loss and IF Aren't As Bad for People With Children

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.



See RESOLVE for a basic understanding of infertility: http://www.resolve.org/infertility101 and for more information about National Infertility Awareness Week® (NIAW): http://www.resolve.org/takecharge.

Speechless (Almost): Blondies for the Guests at my Virtual Shower

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.

The Importance of Believing (and Sweet Potato Shepherd's Pie)

Today, a fellow blogger (You Found What In There), who has experienced both complications and loss in pregnancy, delivered her daughter at 30 weeks, weighing 3 pounds 7 oz., and measuring 16" long.  The ALI blogging community has been sending all kinds of positive energy her way through this difficult pregnancy, which has included everything from blood transfusions in utero to preterm labor, and I know that she has been grateful for that continued support.  Thankfully, Mom and baby are doing well, all things considered, but she could use your continued good thoughts.  (Please go visit her!)

This post, and the story I promised to tell in my last post, is strangely related to her news today.

Every year, sometime near Christmas, Santa drives up our street in a fire truck, sirens blazing.  I'm not sure why, but it used to happen in the town where I grew up, too, so I sort of take it for granted.  Tonight was the night of choice for 2010, and my son was out front, waving his little hand, eyes shining.  Every year, it makes me think about the things we believe in, and the power of believing.

As a first year student in college, I lived with some pretty interesting and creative people; one of them claimed he was a wizard.  He also, we suspected, had a little crush on me, and as my birthday approached in early December, he asked me what I'd like.  I, being the obnoxious little college first year student, told him that since he was a wizard, he should make it snow.

"Hm," said he, pulling thoughtfully at his nonexistent Gandalf-beard, "snow is hard, but I'll see what I can do."

I thought little more of the conversation until the morning of my birthday dawned: it was a beautiful blue-sky day, not a cloud in sight.  I caught said wizard on his way out the door for our second period class, and said, perhaps a little insensitively, "nice snow, G."  He scowled.  "Just you wait," he said, shaking his finger at me.  "Just you wait."

And I'll be a monkey's uncle if by the time I came home that afternoon from class, there wasn't two inches of snow on the ground.  Moreover, every year since then, it has snowed on my birthday ... from a token few flurries to a full blown blizzard.  When I lived in California while I was going to graduate school, it was too warm for snow ... but it rained.  (If you want proof of this strange phenomenon, here's someone who has actually kept track.)  My birthday is coming up on Sunday, and I'm watching the forecast.

The moral of the story, for me, is that you never know when you might run into a real wizard.  Or, perhaps a little less bizarrely put, it's important to allow yourself to believe, even in the things that seem impossible.  The birth of little Kiari today, and the fact that her little body fought so hard to come into this world, even as early as she did, and that she is alive, is proof positive to me that we have to believe.  I'm not saying that we can change reality: infertility and loss still suck, and there is no magic wand to make it any easier; difficult work situations still exist; people are out of jobs; families fall apart; and we are in many ways a broken, searching world.  But really believing that something good is possible--as tiring as it can be to believe in the face of persistent loss and disappointment--can change us, even if it doesn't change the facts.  And that, my friends, is perhaps even more powerful.

This recipe really has nothing to do with believing, but it's good vegan or non-vegan hearty (and healthy) winter food, and just the sort of thing you might take to a family who has just welcomed a tiny new addition to their home.  I think that parents of newborns need meal delivery, and if I lived near Melissa, I might bring one of these over.  Happy birthday to her little girl; Kiari, I believe in you.

Sweet Potato Shepherd's Pie

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

For the topping:

3 medium sweet potatoes, peeled and diced
Sea salt and ground pepper, to taste
A dash of nutmeg
A drizzle of fruity olive oil, to taste
milk (of whatever sort you like), as needed

For the filling:

1.5 pounds ground beef (or another can of black beans, see below)
1 onion, diced
4 cloves of garlic, chopped
2 small to medium zucchini, trimmed, cut into pieces
1 cup artichoke hearts, cut up
1 15 oz. can black beans

1 14 oz. can Muir Glen fire roasted tomatoes
some frozen corn, if you like

2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 teaspoon dried basil
1 teaspoon dried parsley or cilantro
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
Sea salt and ground pepper, to taste

Place the sweet potatoes in a pot of fresh salted water and bring to a boil. Cook until under fork tender and mashable.

If using beef, saute it in a large hot skillet till lightly browned; pour off the fat; return the skillet to the stove. If not, just start by sauteeing the onions and garlic; stir and cook for five minutes or until the onions are soft (just add these to the beef if you're not going veg.)

Add in the zucchini; stir and cook for a couple of minutes. Add in the artichokes, tomatoes, and black beans. Stir in the balsamic vinegar, agave, dried herbs and cinnamon. Season to taste with sea salt and pepper. Cover and bring to a simmer. Cook until the liquid is reduced a bit. Remove from heat.

Back to the sweet potatoes:

Drain the cooked sweet potatoes and mash them lightly. Season with sea salt, ground pepper and nutmeg. Drizzle with a little fruity olive oil. Add a couple of tablespoons of milk (soy or regular) and stir until smooth and fluffy.

Layer the filling in a casserole or baking dish, and top with the mashed sweet potatoes.

Bake in the center of a preheated oven until bubbling and hot, about 25 minutes.

Fruits of Labor: Fruit-filled Pinwheel cookies

Last night I had one of my m/c nightmares.  I hate these nightmares.  They remind me that even if everything is going wonderfully, there's always the chance that it won't.  And the nightmares are always so real that I wake up in a sweat, screaming "nooooooo" silently, convinced I've lost this pregnancy.  Luckily, there is plenty of kicking around in there to prove me wrong, but it doesn't make the feeling of complete panic and despair dissipate much faster.  And of course, fellow bloggers have been on my mind ... Melissa over at You Found What In There has just been put on bedrest, and they've been giving her little girl blood transfusions at 26 weeks (go give her support and a hug, OK? and if you live near her--she's getting treatments in Akron--go bring her and her family a casserole).

Last night's dream may also have been related to the fact that S. put up the crib on Sunday ("no reason not to," he said, in his assured-engineer-matter-of-fact kind of way), and my friend T. delivered over an exersaucer, high chair, bumbo, and bassinet.  Put that together with the stroller I won this weekend in a local giveaway, and the car seat and bouncer we borrowed from T. earlier this month, I think we're pretty well outfitted, at least for the big stuff.  There has been some hushed talk at work about the folks in my building (none of whom I work with directly or report to, so the relationship is purely spatial) throwing me a baby shower, but part of me hopes they don't; while I'd still like a baby carrier and some new towels, and I wouldn't mind a nursing pillow to replace the one I lent out (and maybe some clothes, but I haven't gone through the stuff in the basement yet to see what we can use), I don't want to be treated like a "happy go lucky" new mom-to-be ... not everyone here knows the back story, and with the spate of recent pregnancies and births in the office, not to mention December just weeks away, people have had their hands full keeping up with gift-giving, anyway.

Ian and I continue to churn out cookies for the upcoming holidays, though, because our kitchen oven is a reliable thing, and these whimsical ones were next in line after the sugar cookies, because they keep well in the freezer, too, and you can make about 75 of them at one fell swoop (the original recipe says 100; I say, yeah, whatever).  You can't help but feel cheerier, looking at them, and I won't say how eating them feels, because that implies I was eating them.  (Which I would never do, of course, considering that I'm baking for completely altruistic reasons, right?  Don't answer that.)

I like the little bit of whole grain in them, which gives them a slightly nutty flavor, even without nuts.  You can also skip the first part (making cranberry apple butter), and just use blackberry jam (all-fruit, please! the kind sweetened only with fruit juice) or apple butter (watch the sugar here, too ... you can get perfectly good natural apple butter without corn syrup in your natural foods section), or Nutella (the sugar rule no longer applies here, of course), or whatever strikes your fancy.  Unfortunately, I don't have a vegan option this time; I'm just not sure how to replace an egg yolk (though you could try the 1 T. ground flax plus 3 T. water, mixed, for every egg, and just see how it goes).  Coconut cream/milk would be fine for the heavy cream, and vegan margarine for the butter.  Agave for the honey.

And when you're done, make sure that you fully appreciate the fruits of your own labor.


Fruit-filled Pinwheel Cookies

1/2 c. fresh cranberries, (2 ounces)
2 Red Delicious apples, peeled, cored and diced
3 T. honey, to taste
1/2 vanilla bean, slit lengthwise
1/4 c. water
1 egg
1 egg yolk
1 c. sugar
1/2 t. almond extract
1/2 t. pure vanilla extract
1 c.unsalted butter, at room temperature
4 c.all-purpose flour
1/2 c. whole wheat flour
1/4 t. baking soda
1/4 t. salt
3 T. heavy cream
1/2 c. shortening

For the cranberry apple butter: Using a paring knife, scrape and gather all the grains of the vanilla bean.

Wash the cranberries. Pick out and discard any bad ones (discolored, shriveled or bruised). Place the cranberries, apples, honey, grains of vanilla bean, 1/8 teaspoon of salt and 1/4 cup of water in a non-stick saucepan. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat to a gentle simmer. Skim off any foam that develops on the top. Cover and cook for about 25 minutes, until the cranberries have burst. Using a wooden spoon, stir frequently to prevent the cranberries and apples from sticking to the bottom of the pan. Allow to cool, then blend the mixture in a mini-blender (or a regular blender if you don't have a mini).

For the cookie dough:

Preheat the oven to 375°F.

In a mixing bowl, beat the egg and egg yolk with 1/2 cup of sugar for about 5-6 minutes. You'll get a pale, yellow foam and the texture of the eggs will be thicker. Add the vanilla and almond extracts.

In a bowl, combine the flours, salt and baking soda. Sift all the dry ingredients.

Cream the butter with 1/2 cup of sugar (whisk using a stand-mixer to get as much air as possible in the butter). Add the egg mixture, the dry ingredients and the heavy cream. Finish with shortening. Mix well. Divide the dough and roll into 3 (16 x 6-inch) rectangles.

For each rectangle of cookie dough, spread about 1-1/2 tablespoons of cranberry apple butter stopping 2 inches before the end of the rectangle (the cranberry apple butter will spread eventually until the end). The layer should be very thin so it doesn't burst on the side when rolled. Roll the dough the long way so that it forms a 16-inch log.  Repeat for the next 2 logs of cookie dough and wrap them in plastic wrap. Chill them in the freezer until firm. It'll take at least 30 minutes to harden. Slice the logs into ½-inch thick discs. Place the cookies on a baking sheet previously lined with parchment paper. Make sure they are spaced out so they don't touch each other when they expand.

Bake for about 5 minutes at 375°F, then lower the heat to 350°F for another 8-10 minutes. Allow to cool completely.

One Day At A Time: Butternut Squash and Apple Soup

It was a beautiful day here on Friday, after a doubtful-looking morning.  Ian's class was scheduled for a field trip to a farm for apple picking and a "tour," and he had pleaded with me to come, so I took the day off from work to spend with him.  It had been a while since I'd done that.

After I spent half an hour in Ian's classroom, letting him show me his "work," we headed out to the farm.  The "tour" took all of about 20 minutes, and involved naming the vegetables grown on the farm, and a quick lesson in bee spit and honeycomb, and the "picking" took all of about five minutes, with a free-for-all of preschoolers descending upon the unsuspecting trees (thankfully, the ones they had left were Winesap apples, YUM).  The rest of the morning there was spent in and on a hay maze, which Ian and his classmates clambered over, leaped about, and tumbled from with the grace and boldness of little people with low centers of gravity.  Watching them, as the sun came out and clouds opened into blue sky, I wished I could bottle days like this.

In the afternoon, we delivered a meal to a friend down the block who just had a new baby, her fourth child.  She's one of those women who makes being a mom look easy, despite the chaos that swirls around her whenever I see her, and I'm always surprised when she confesses doubt or frustration (how could a woman with three--now four--kids and two dogs be unsure of herself?).  She had miscarried during the summer last year, not too long after my second loss, and we bonded over tea and my home made biscotti one night, talking about our hopes and fears and indecisions about the future.

I got confirmation about our enrollment in a Hypnobirthing class, which made me suck in my breath a little bit ... the reminders that life really is going to change remarkably in January are becoming more frequent, and more visible.  Though I've been through birth once before, I wanted a class that might help me to be less anxious about this event, and might empower me this time: last time, I wound up on a pitocin IV, unable to move, with my nose stuck in an oxygen mask, watching with my heart in my throat as Ian's heart rate dropped.  Knowing now how quickly life can be taken from us, even though that time I wound up with a live baby, I'm going into this with an additional set of apprehensions.  In some ways, I envy women who are blissfully ignorant of loss and complications in pregnancy and birth.

One day at a time, I keep telling myself.

This is the soup I made for my friend (and then again for a group of friends when we had lunch together recently).  It's hearty, healthy, and should be served up with a salad and a crusty loaf of bread (which we did, though cheating, in the breadmaker).  It tastes like fall, and makes for good comfort food.  I was half sorry to give it away, and am holding on to the hope that our CSA will send us more squash this week so that I can make more to freeze, for the darker days of winter, and the long nights of early parenthood, when one day at a time is all that makes sense.

Butternut Squash and Apple Soup

8  c. (1-inch) cubed peeled butternut squash (~2 medium ...or use the pre-cut, pre-peeled squash in your produce aisle)
3  T. light olive or canola oil, divided
2  T. maple syrup
1 1/4  t. garam masala (you can also use a combination of cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice: 3/4, 1/4, 1/4)
1  t. kosher salt
1/8  t. freshly ground black pepper
Cooking spray
1/4  c. finely chopped shallots
4  c. chopped Winesap, Braeburn or other sweet-tart apple (about 1 lb.)
1/4  c. dry white wine
3  c. water
1  (14-ounce) can fat-free, less-sodium chicken broth
2  T. half-and-half, soymilk, almond milk or something along those lines (optional)

Preheat oven to 400°.  Combine squash, 2 T. oil, syrup, garam masala, salt, and pepper. Arrange squash mixture in a single layer on a jelly-roll pan coated with cooking spray. Bake at 400° for 45 minutes or until squash is tender.

Heat remaining 1 T. oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add shallots to pan; sauté 2 minutes or until tender. Stir in apple; sauté 4 minutes or until tender. Stir in wine; cook 1 minute. Stir in squash mixture, 3 cups water, and broth. Bring to a simmer; cook 3 minutes. Place half of squash mixture in a blender. Remove center piece of blender lid (to allow steam to escape); secure blender lid on blender. Place a clean towel over opening in blender lid (to avoid splatters). Blend until smooth. Strain squash mixture through a sieve into a bowl; discard solids. Repeat procedure with remaining squash mixture. Stir in half-and-half or milk of your choice.

How To React When Your Daughter Tells You She's Pregnant

(with apologies to my faithful followers who enjoy the recipes, because I have none today ...)

This is what I would send to my mother, if I had the guts to do so.  But it's probably not advisable, anyway.

Dear Mom,

When your daughter calls you on her way home from a great appointment at the Ob/gyn office, and you ask her what's new, and she says she's pregnant, don't just say, "I'm very happy for you" in a flat tone of voice that sounds like you're talking with a complete stranger.  She is, after all, your daughter.

Don't say "I guess your body was ready this time," as if there was something she could have done about her body the last times.  Same with "good luck" at the end and "I hope it all goes well."  Yes, we know that not every birth is a guarantee.  Thank you, we know that quite well.  But in this case, right now, during this phone call, you're supposed to feel and respond in joy.

Don't say, "I guess you haven't had an ultrasound yet," as if you know.  You didn't ask how far along she is.  Instead, ask, so she doesn't have to volunteer that she's 16 weeks along halfway through the conversation, making her feel as if she's forcing this information on you. 

Don't ask her if she's happy.  Tell her how happy you are, not just for her, but for you, too.  After all, you're going to be a grandparent again.  This should make you feel excited.

Don't tell her that she should be taking prenatal vitamins.  First, she is on her way home from the ob/gyn, who probably prescribed whatever she needed.  Second, she has been taking prenatal vitamins for the past three years in an effort to make her body hospitable, should it see fit to conceive and keep an embryo.

Sound excited.  Sound even more excited than her friends, whom she hardly ever sees, and who noticed the baby bump during her trip to California, sounded.

Act interested.  You could ask about the due date, or the sex, and you could ask how she's feeling.  You could ask if she needs anything.  You could ask her when you can celebrate with her by meeting for lunch.

After all, she is calling you first.  Before her boss, her other in-laws, before most of her friends (except the ones who happen to live in the blogging world.).  Treasure that gift.  Don't minimize it by saying that you figured it's none of your business.

Love,
Your Daughter

Fear

I hate this place.

While I was running today, I tripped and fell.  I panicked, breathed deeply as much as possible trying to calm myself down.  I told my abdomen it was fine, and walked as calmly as I could (which was not really calmly at all) back to the office.

I'd fallen on my side, not on my stomach or back ... and I know that falling doesn't necessarily cause miscarriage, but tonight I'm feeling achy in my lower back, and I can't help but worry ... I have felt that achy feeling before.  S. is away on business, and I am alone.

What has loss done to me, to my sense of confidence in my own body?

I hate this place.

Juxtaposed: Ripe Fruit and the Miscarriage Diaries

Today I had a visitor from New York, a photographer named Megan Joplin working on a project called The Miscarriage Diaries (I hope she doesn't mind me linking to it here, since it's already been posted elsewhere on the internet).  She hopes, through the project, to make miscarriage something more public, something we can talk about out loud, by someday having a gallery show, but also to help women to commemorate their losses.  She lost four pregnancies before having her own son, so it is something she understands all too well.  I found out about her project through a link on a website one day, and emailed her to tell her how much I admired her for doing this important work; somehow, we decided that I would participate, and we'd been trying to find a date to get together ever since.  It was amazing to finally meet her, and she was everything I'd suspected her to be: smart, funny, warm, thoughtful, compassionate.  We spent the morning walking to the farmers' market and talking.  I confessed to her that I am pregnant, and she understood immediately how that felt; how it was both happy but not entirely real, how it might not even really be real until I held a live baby in my hands.  I told her about being in the ob/gyn office, and we wondered together why health professionals don't seem to be trained to talk about pregnancy loss.

She took some pictures of me alone and with Ian (a few even with a Polariod camera) by our barn and our garden, and at the farmer's market.  I held my son, a tomato, and a colander of just-picked raspberries.  It was funny, thinking about myself this way, with the barns in the pictures behind me: how I've become part of the landscape of Hunterdon County, and how growing things and appreciating growing things now defines me, and in some ways defines my relationship to pregnancy, almost chronicles my own journey.  She's clearly a talented photographer; the Polariods were really lovely, I felt completely at ease, and I felt like doing this really meant something.  Like I was bearing witness, and asking the world to bear witness with me.

We made her stay for lunch (I couldn't send her back to Manhattan without feeding her, especially since she made a pilgrimage to Butterlane for me), and threw together a salad with roasted beets that we'd gotten in our CSA box this morning (thank you, Megan, for helping us with our little leafy greens problem).  For dessert, of course, there was fresh raspberry pie.

I've now made three raspberry pies, we've eaten countless berries for breakfasts and snacks and desserts, and given away a few pints, and still the bushes are producing.  I'm no longer picking two quarts per night, but there's enough to do something more with than simply eating.  I'm almost out of muffins for my grab-and-go sort-of-queasy breakfasts, so I made some raspberry muffins that I could freeze (unfortunately, the picture doesn't do them justice like my photographs usually do). Though I didn't force muffins on Megan as she made her way out the door (I'd already given her lettuce and a small container of berries), I hope that her project, too, bears fruit in the way that our bushes have this year: that her photographs are on the minds and lips of many people, long after the growing season is over.

Raspberry Muffins

1 c. all-purpose flour
1 c. whole wheat pastry flour
3 tsp. baking powder 1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. grated lemon zest
1/2 tsp. nutmeg or mace
2 cups fresh raspberries
1/3 c. agave nectar
3/4 cup milk (minus 2 T. or so to account for the agave)
1/3 cup oil
1 tsp. vanilla
1 egg
Top with sugar (optional; I didn't do this)

Heat oven to 375 F. Grease bottoms only of 12 muffins cups or line with paper baking cups. In medium bowl combine flour, baking powder, salt and lemon peel; mix well. Add raspberries - mix gently with a fork. In a small bowl, combine agave nectar, milk, oil, vanilla and egg; blend well. Add to dry ingredients; stir gently just until dry ingredients are moistened.

Fill greased muffins cups 2/3 full.  Sprinkle with a little bit of extra sugar if you're going to do so.  Bake for 15-17 minutes or until light golden brown. Cool 1 minute; remove from muffin cups. Serve warm.

IComLeaveWe: A Word About This Blog

Welcome ICLW bloggers! For those of you are unfamiliar with ICLW, here is a little background…today begins the monthly commenting week where bloggers in the IF blogosphere visit each other’s blogs to offer support, encouragement, and maybe even make some new friends in the process. For more info on how to get involved if you’ve never participated and for the list of participating bloggers see:
http://www.stirrup-queens.com/2010/02/icomleavwe-march-2010/ .

So what am I doing on the list?  I had a picture perfect first pregnancy, but other losses since then, and was recently diagnosed IF by my OB/GYN.  We haven't yet decided what road we will travel next ... and so this blog is a mix of recipes, musings about working momhood and my son (whom I call "my best gift"), coping with the baby boomlet happening around me, and my own decisions about the future.  Some days I'm not sure which "blogosphere" I belong in ... but here's a good post to start with, if you're trying to figure out what this blog is anyway: http://ahalfbakedlife.blogspot.com/2010/01/for-health-healing-and-hope-carrot.html. 

Of course, if you just feel like reading about cupcakes, you can start with the next post.  *grin*

Thanks for visiting!