Playdate Cards

Is this beyond queer? My five year old has business cards - she calls them her "playdate" cards. Back before she started kindergarten last fall, I ordered them for "free" from VistaPrint (I had to pay about $5 for shipping). They've got her name and our home phone number at the top, and my name/cell/email, and Daddy's name/cell/email. I figured they'd be useful because she hadn't learned our phone number back then, and still hasn't. Furthermore, they kind of act like a family calling card, and it's the only business card I have that has my home phone number on it (my blog card doesn't have a phone number at all, and my office card has my office number).

There Are No Words But I Can't Be Wordless For Wednesday

I got home at almost 8 last night, and within a half hour I was upstairs reading Desperaux to the child (we've been doing two or three chapters a night). I then tucked her in, and left her contemplating what was going to happen next - "is Mig going to cut open the Princess?" she asked as I escaped down the stairs.

All was quiet as we ate our farfalle with homemade red sauce. All was quiet as I puttered around on the computer. All was quiet when I went upstairs to put myself to bed, whereupon I found that the quiet had been deceptive.

She'd constructed a fort for some of the dolls and animals, tucked others in on their throw pillow beds, dumped all of the animals out of the storage box, squished her bed pillow into the box, and curled herself up into the storage box.  See her there, between the chair and its cushion?

It's one of those situations where you just don't know whether to laugh or to cry, so you take a picture.

And then you scoop her up and put her back in her bed.

Rainbows and Polar Bears

I don't pretend to be much of a photographer, at all. I take pictures, when I remember. I use either the camera in my cellphone, or a little Elph, and I just point and shoot and hope for the best. I do crop from time to time - in Preview if I'm lazy, in Photoshop if I can wait for it to load. But that's it - I can't be bothered to futz with color or exposure or Gaussian blur.

Last month, on a school break, we went to the Bronx Zoo. And the polar bear wandered around his enclosure, and I took this weird picture with my phone. And I can't say why, but I kind of love it. I liked it on the phone, and I liked it still when I finally downloaded in to the computer. There's a rainbow effect lighting the polar bear from the upper left and it just seems painterly and unreal to me.

Polar bear. Uncropped, unretouched.

Eco-Monograms in the Lunchbox

Everything has a story.

Years ago, my sister-in-law was working for the company that was assembling the land to build what's now a fancy hotel in New York. One of the properties that got bought and demolished was an old, funky hotel. In the brief moment between the last paying guests and the wrecking ball, we got access to the hotel and swooped through - acquiring leaded glass windows, kitchen ladles, #10 envelopes, oval platters, champagne buckets, a ceramic table lamp, a mess of stainless steel flatware, and a couple of bricks of plain white cotton dinner napkins, still wrapped in plastic fresh from the cleaners.

They're nothing special, the napkins. They'd look fine starched and pressed in a dimly lit dining room, but in the bright lights of my kitchen, lo these many years later, they're showing their liver spots, yellowy stains of indeterminate origin, resistant to bleach. I don't really care - I have so many that we can use freshly laundered cloth napkins with every meal and not run out before laundry day rolls round again. And given the amount of ketchup that gets blotted up on a regular basis, no napkin would emerge unscathed.

Back in September, when I was agonizing over what to do about lunch for the newly minted kindergartner, I assembled a bunch of plastic containers of various sizes, and some plastic utensils, and a little thermos - that is, lots of things to send back and forth to school. And I decided that, as long as the lunch box and all the bits and pieces were going back and forth, I'd send her to school with a cloth napkin.

I pulled out five of the hotel napkins, got some fabric paint and a stencil kit, painted her initials onto one corner of each napkin, and doodled on the other three corners with colored Sharpie. [Word of advice: Sharpie doesn't come out when you want it to come out, but it doesn't hold up terribly well in the way that I used it here - it bled a little and the color faded.]

You know what? It's March, and those five cloth napkins are still in circulation - which means that we've not used more than 100 paper napkins. Score!

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These cloth napkins are brought to you by Nature's Source and the Parent Bloggers Network, and I approved this message.

Wardrobe Wednesday

Last weekend, we went on a museum expedition - to a museum that had a dinosaur exhibit within, and a few large cast dinosaurs on the lawn. The child's outfit for the day: a lavender long-sleeved t-shirt under a demure, Easter-dinner-worthy, smocked dress of pink flowered cotton voile, with eccentric Hanna Anderson tights that are striped at the top and flowered at the bottom.

If I tried, I don't think I could put these outfits together.

As American as Apple 3.14159

For some reason, driving around this afternoon I was thinking about pie - specifically whether a particular lemon tart could be halved to go in a seven inch tart pan, or whether it would just make sense to make two seven inch tarts, because the recipe calls for one whole lemon, or whether I should just go for the whole thing. And I remembered that once upon a time, I actually made (and saved) a little spreadsheet of the areas of round pans, because I am some kind of closet geek who scales recipes up and down using actual math.

Then I got home and puttered around the intertubes for a bit, and discovered that, according to Niobe and Nora anyway, today is π-day, as in "pi", as in 3.14159..., as in what kind of a weird coincidence is it that I was both thinking about pie, and thinking about the formula to determine the area of a circle which of course involves π?

And I never did make the lemon tart, which probably would have overflowed into the bottom of the oven if I'd done it in seven inch pans, but a recipe for a ten inch tart would halve nicely into a seven inch pan, in case you were wondering.

What's In Your Freezer?

If you go back and read the comments to my post on the Kenneth Maue book, and further back to my post on the 14 year old grapes that I baked into a pie, you'll find that the same person twice confessed to having a bat in her freezer.  

I have a pig tail in my freezer.  It's not the kind of pig tail that you see on cute little girls.

A couple of years ago, we bought a whole pig. The whole thing - snout to trotters. We got the pig from someone we know, and visited it while it was still standing. He had it slaughtered for us, we had a butcher cut it up, and some of it got smoked. It was a bargain, and it kept us in pig for a good while.

All of the porky goodness is long gone, save the tail. The tail is still in the freezer, nicely vacuum sealed into sturdy plastic, looking for all the world like a pig's tail.  I'm kind of loathe to part with it, but what the hell do you do with one pig tail?

The other day, I checked my many cookbooks. I was sorely disappointed that the 1953 Joy of Cooking doesn't even mention pig tails (especially since it does tell you how to skin a squirrel), and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall just glosses over them in The River Cottage Meat Book.

But, as one might expect from a book subtitled "Nose to Tail Eating", I hit the jackpot with a recipe for Crispy Pig's Tails in Fergus Henderson's The Whole Beast.  He waxes rhapsodic about the tail of the pig:

On other pages I have sung the praises of how the pig's snout and belly both have that special lip-sticking quality of fat and flesh merging, but this occurs in no part of the animal as wonderfully as on the tail. Like an ice cream on a stick, a pig's tail offers up all the above on a well-behaved set of bones.  By the by, dealing with any slightly hairy extremities of pig, I recommend a throwaway Bic razor (hot towels and shaving cream not required). You must ask your butcher for long tails.

The problem is, the recipe calls for "8 long pig's tails" to serve four people. To get eight tails, we'll need to buy seven more pigs.  We haven't got enough freezer space.

Wardrobe Wednesday

Bottom to top:
Brown cotton tights.
Pink striped shorts.
Black camisole pulled way down.
Pale blue embellished cardigan.

She wore this to school with black patent leather maryjanes.

She is nothing if not idiosyncratic.

(Wardrobe Wednesday filched from Heathen Family Revival.)

Working Class Hero

Last spring, when Hillary was still actively running for President, the Times ran an article headlined With Right Props and Stops, Clinton Transforms Into Working-Class Hero.

What is a working class hero, anyway? If the definition of a hero is one who is "distinguished by exceptional courage and nobility and strength", is not a working class hero a blue collar person evidencing those traits?

On my commuter line, some of the older train cars have names. They’re named after historical figures, like Eleanor Roosevelt and Commodore Vanderbilt, or named for places like Peekskill and Putnam. They’re named for cultural figures like John Cheever and Thelonius Monk. And one of them is called “Working Class Hero”.

Each time I see it, I think of the Lennon song - more specifically, the Marianne Faithfull cover of the Lennon song, but that's just because it's the version I know best.

And I wonder - do the powers that be who name the trains realize that Lennon's lyrics are tacitly fomenting revolution?  Or did they just think that they were saluting the engineers and conductors and repairmen by calling the car the Working Class Hero?

Grace #6 = Tea and Cubans

There's a tiny coffee stand in the train station in my town. It's tucked into what was the luggage room back in the day (the station was built in 1902), and it's run by an ebullient bald Israeli man, who has catholic tastes in music. I don't stop in often, maybe once every couple of weeks, but I always walk out with a smile. This morning I picked up a cup of tea, and a "roll with Israeli butter", chatted with him about the Buena Vista Social Club record he was blasting, and got the day started off just right.

Sometimes You Have to Pee In the Woods

I realized recently - upon reading Redneck Mommy's post about peeing by the side of the road - that I never shared my best Christmas present with you.

The wrapped box was handed to me with much hilarity by my sister and sister-in-law - they went in on the gift together, because it was apparently too much for one person to be responsible for. There was also a feeble attempt to get the small children out of the room, but as you can see, said attempt was unsuccessful. The child eyeing the gift, however, is fondling a Whoopie Cushion of his own - we do Christmas right.

I haven't yet tried it - though I probably should have broken it out during one of this winter's nice snowstorms - you know, to see if I could write my name in the snow - but I look forward to taking it on a fishing trip or something - though it's kind of large and might be hard to carry around - though maybe I could attach a carabiner to it and dangle it from my creel - I dare say it would amuse the hell out of my father and uncles.

It's gold plastic. It's longer than my forearm. It's the Shenis. What more could a girl want?

Snarky Dissection

I don't know why, but a full page ad in today's Times jumped out at me and slayed me with its inanity. Visa is flogging a "Black Card".

First, they claim that it's "not just another piece of plastic", it's "made with carbon". Well, credit cards are generally made out of polyvinyl chloride acetate, which in turn is made of vinyl chloride and vinyl acetate, and guess what? There's carbon in both vinyl chloride and in vinyl acetate, and therefore there's carbon in every damned credit card out there!

Second, they claim that it's "not for everyone. In fact, it is limited to only 1% of U.S. residents to ensure the highest caliber of personal service is provided to every Cardmember." Um, when I checked earlier, the population of the United States was over 300 million people. One percent of 300 million is three million people! A tiny, little, exclusive club of only three million of your dearest friends!

And, to add insult to injury, it costs $495 a year!

Who are they kidding?

At least they're buying newspaper ads and keeping the good grey lady afloat.

* * * * * * * * *

Edited to add: Colbert skewered the black card recently - the clip is here - thanks Julia!

wrinkled up scraps of paper

Somehow it became March. Somehow it's a sixth of the way through the year. Somehow, I have nothing at all and everything to write. There are blog posts in my head, to do lists everywhere, piles of paper crying out for attention. I have thing to scan, things to sew, things to sell on eBay. I have to finish the taxes.

This morning, Laurie Anderson wormed herself into my head:

I don't know about your brain, but mine is really bossy.
I come home from a day on the golf course
and I find all these messages scribbled on wrinkled up scraps of paper.*

I don't play golf, but my head is full of wrinkled up scraps of paper.  Full, I tell you.

What's your earworm today?



*from Laurie Anderson's song Baby Doll

Whimsy to Cure the Soul

I don't know where to begin. Not so long ago, I wrote a post about letterboxing, where you go out in the woods on a sort of treasure hunt. But there's not any real treasure at the end, just sort of virtual treasure in that you found the hidden thing and put it back where you found it, but since you know you found it that's your reward.

In response, YourFireAnt commented that "There's a book, filled with lots of things like this, published in '79, called 'Water In The Lake' by Kenneth Maue". So, because I always check out suggestions, I looked it up, and was intrigued enough to buy one from Alibris, because it's out of print.

And it is one of the most peculiarly wonderful things I've encountered in a long time. I read a good chunk of it the other afternoon, curled up in the living room with a glass of wine. Then I wandered into the kitchen and read bits aloud to my husband. I thought about buying a copy for countless different friends.

The exercise titled "Remedies for Minor Nonspecific Ailments of the Soul" was where he got his hooks into me. One frequently needs to remedy a minor nonspecific ailment of the soul; here are some of Maue's suggestions:

• Go to a department store and buy the smallest item they sell.
• Find out how blimps got to be called blimps.
• Make a list of every vegetable you can think of. Tear the paper into tiny shreds. Put the shreds in a pan of water and boil for ten minutes.
• Play the piano with the back of your head only.
• Tie together two parked cars with some thread.
• Read a weekly news magazine. When you finish, cut out one article that especially interests you and tape it to the backside of a picture hanging on your wall.
• Put a book in your freezer and leave it there.

Some of the book is "exercises" meant for an individual; some of it is odd and ephemeral things to do as a group; and most of it is whimsy made tangible, if impractical.

6. Music
Buy a share of stock on the New York Stock Exchange. ON the days when the price goes up, eat beets, radishes, and turnips. On the days when the price goes down, eat toast, rolls, and marmalade. Continue for three months. Then go to a laboratory and have your blood tested. Send the results to the president of the company in which you own stock.

All in all, it's kind of mind-opening in an offbeat, acid-casualty way. Continue until you are finished, then end.

Wordless Wednesday: New into Old

(Thanks to DaysGoBy for the link to the photo transformer.)

Graces #4 & 5 = Warmth

#4: A very warm coat on a very cold day (thanks Lands' End, for my olive drab "commuter" coat, which fits perfectly, has great pockets, and looks like East German army surplus).

#5: An unasked for ride to the train from a heretofore unknown neighbor (thanks Barbara, for going out of your way after getting stuck behind the school bus I was putting my child on).

It is a Small World

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a book review, of The School of Essential Ingredients.

Because I'm that way, I read the Acknowledgements at the back of the book. To my surprise, one name jumped out at me - probably since it's an unusual spelling of a reasonably common last name. So I wrote to Erica Bauermeister, the author, and asked if he was who I thought he might be.

Yup. I've never met him, but he was married to a woman I went to college with, a woman who died of ovarian cancer a few years ago, leaving two year old twins. What's more, the book was dedicated to Heidi. When Bauermeister wrote back she said "I'm glad you wrote. It's often felt, in the past three years, as if Heidi's fingerprints have been all over this project. And here you are."

If that's not evidence that the world is a really tiny place, I don't know what is.

An Eye for An Eye

Because Niobe asked because I asked, I have blue eyes. Sometimes dark, verging towards purple. Sometimes a clear medium blue. But always blue.

Apparently this means that I'm distantly related to every single other person with blue eyes.

How about you?

My Little Fundraiser

It's been school break this week, and as par for the course for working parents, I've cobbled together a schedule to accomodate the child's need to not be left home alone, and my need to be in the office at least some of the time.  Wednesday, that meant a half day in the office for both of us.  She watched a movie, and worked the calculator, spinning off yards of adding machine tape, adding up huge numbers.  She dubbed the result "money" and handed it 'round the office.  My boss got some, my assistant got some, and my Director of Development got a whole lot.

This morning, I came into the office and found the following email from the Director of Development:

From: XXXXXXXXX  
Sent: Wednesday, February 18, 2009 4:02 PM
To: XXXXXXXXX  
Subject: money raised by miranda

With great appreciation to Miranda, I’m delighted to report that using the “money maker,” she generated $54Billion for (organization) today.  That should be enough to carry us through the next 13 recessions.

In case you have doubts, I have the receipts which she assured me are legal tender and “you can show a policeman.”

Five years old and she's printing money.

Honestly

Within a few days of one another last month, two people (Candy & Ilina) gave me the same award, one of those awards that requires disclosure of things about oneself, not to mention the tagging of others:

When accepting this auspicious award, you must write a post bragging about it, including the name of the misguided soul who thinks you deserve such acclaim, and link back to said person so everyone knows he or she is real. Choose a minimum of 7 blogs that you find brilliant in content or design. Show the 7 victims’ names and links and leave a harassing comment informing them that they were prized with “Honest Weblog.” Well, there’s no prize, but they can keep the nifty icon. List at least ten honest things about yourself. Then, pass it on!

I'm plum out of things to reveal - but here's my one thoroughly idiosyncratic fast-food confession:

When on a road trip, one sometimes must stop for fast food. On those occasions, I invariably order two hamburgers. I never ever get anything fancy or complicated, no Big Macs or Whoppers or cheeseburgers. I carefully remove the bottom half of each bun, the bottom because the pickles and ketchup are always between the burger and the top of the bun, and reassemble the two hamburgers into one double. Top bun, pickle, burger, burger, pickle, top bun. I get a double hamburger for less money, with more pickles. Fast food heaven. Then, because I'm looking out for the seagulls and bunny rabbits, I fling the greasy bottom buns out the window of the moving car. I never consider it to be littering, because I know that some small creature is going to delight in my rejected bottom buns. It does, however, infuriate my husband. (And I stopped doing it when the child became aware, lest she start flinging inanimate objects out the car windows.)

As to tagging? I can't. It's too cold and I have to go to bed now.

Octo-Mom

Plenty of other people have said plenty of things about that woman who had octoplets a few weeks ago. Batshit crazy, she is. I don't really need to add anything.

But every time I read about it, or talk about it, the thing that makes me the saddest - and the angriest - is that she gives IVF a really bad name. And I worry that this event, her litter, is going to cause a backlash against IVF, with the powers that be imposing more regulations and more requirements on the procedure. And the problem with that is that more regulation could backfire on those of us that need(ed) it.

I got pregnant at 42 with my own eggs. It was our third cycle of IVF; there were twelve eggs retrieved, and there were 10 embryos available for transfer three days later. The embryologist chose the best five, and those five were transferred to my uterus. One took, implanted if you will, and now, the one child that resulted is a feisty kindergartner.

There's no question in my mind that transferring five embryos was appropriate - considering my age, our prior cycles, the quality of the embryos. There is also - but maybe it's just me - no question that had I turned up pregnant with quints, a selective reduction would have been in order.

The press hoopla surrounding the octo-mom puts a spotlight on an isolated case - and I sorely hope that it's recognized as an aberration. Take that doctor's license away, but don't take away the ability of good ethical doctors to treat patients in the most appropriate way.

Hiking The Appalachian Trail

I'm way too much of a wuss to do something like through hike the Appalachian trail. Hell, I've never even gone camping, except for camping for sissies, where someone else sets up your tent and erects your cot and cooks your food. But I've always wanted to to walk over the Bear Mountain Bridge - and it's the spot where the Appalachian Trail crosses the mighty Hudson River.

So that's what we did today. We drove up to the western side of the bridge, parked and walked to mid-span and back. It was glorious - a chilly but perfectly gorgeous day.

Afterwards, we clambered down a trail, over a mini-suspension bridge over the Popolopen Creek and back up the other side to the remains of Fort Montgomery.

But hiking the Appalachian Trail? That was the high point for me.

How to Turn A Bad Day Around

I got out of bed this morning in a thoroughly foul mood, angry, sad, pissed off, weepy.

Last week, the kindergarten teacher had sent a note home about Valentine's Day saying "you may send in 18 cards...". You MAY? It sure sounded like a command to me. So, because I'm cheap and the kid was disinterested, we used the free cards that came in the back of the High Five magazine, and it was like pulling teeth to get her to write her name on them. So part of the morning's malaise was feeling like a cross between a slacker mom and a curmudgeon.

But I got to the office and got a link for a free Marvin Gaye song from Amazon, and it perked me the fuck up.

Here's Let's Get It On - download it and maybe it'll perk you up too. The link is only free until the end of the day tomorrow - you know, Valentine's Day.

Flirting

The getting-the-child-to-school schedule is complicated. Three days a week, I drive her to school. Ideally, I drop her off at 7:30 and get on a train before 8, but ideally doesn't happen very often. Whatever.

The other two days a week, she takes the bus and I take the 9:09 train. And invariably, on those two days a week, because my schedule is predictable thanks to the promptness of the bus, I walk by a couple flirting by the overpass to the tracks.

She stands two or three steps up to give the appearance of "I'm running for the train". He, more snappily dressed than one might expect of a taxi-dispatcher, looks up to her, taking a break from putting the babysitters into their car service cars. They flirt, he smiles, she smiles.

I arrived one morning just behind her, and watched as she peeked into the taxi shack, "I'm here". She went to stand in her spot on the steps, he followed a moment later, and they assumed the position.

I never see them part. I'm always up and over before the train pulls in, waiting at just the right door.

But I wonder as I pass them on the stairs. Does she have a boyfriend, a husband, a partner? Does he? Is it just flirting? Have they ever gone out for a beer? Or more? Will they? And I wonder if the same little scene plays out five days a week, or just on the two that I take the 9:09 train.

Grace #3 = The windows are open!

It's 61° in NYC right now, and it is a distinct pleasure to sit in my office, with the window open not six feet away, especially because it was in the teens but a week ago.

The School of Essential Ingredients

I like books.  I like food.  So when Mother Talk put out a call for reviewers for a book called The School of Essential Ingredients, and described it as being about a cooking class, I had to sign up, because, well, it's a fiction book about food...
(read more)

Letterboxing in Sunshine

You’ve maybe heard of geocaching, where you use a GPS device to plunge into the woods and find things.

Letterboxing is the low tech equivalent; instead of entering coordinates into your GPS unit, you follow written instructions (walk .1 mile with the lake on your left, turn right at the huge boulder, count 90 steps from the park bench) until you find your “treasure”. Hidden will be a watertight container with a notebook, rubber stamp, stamp pad and pen. You carry your own rubber stamp and notebook. When you find the spot, you use the hidden stamp to mark your notebook, and your stamp to mark the cached log.

I read about letterboxing ages ago on Scribbletown, and filed it away as a potentially fun outdoor activity. So yesterday, when the sun came out and the temperature climbed up above freezing, the girlie and I headed out.

There were two letterboxes stashed in a local park; we tried the first, but it began with a trek up a steep icy hill, so we backtracked. The second was easy walking, but I did all the clue finding as Mir was more interested in picking up sticks and talking to the non-scary dogs. She did like stamping the book and signing her name, but I think the charm of the enterprise was a little lost on her – it’ll be more fun when she’s a bit older.

Still, it was nice to get out into the sunshine and remember that spring really is going to be here one day.

Butter, Revisited

"What do you blog about?" is a question I got asked a few times the other night. Well, um, stuff - life, food, parents, parenting, work, books - you know, stuff. And while food is in there, and is something I like to write about and think about, it's by no means the focal point of this here blog.

So, it was kind of a mystery to me to get an invitation a couple of weeks ago to attend a cooking class/cocktail party with Cat Cora - who I'd never before heard of. [I've heard of the Iron Chef program, but I've never watched it, so I don't know the participants.] But it was at a swank location, and they were offering car service, and I figured what the hell, it might be an amusing night out. I roped a friend into being my walker, and told them I'd be there.

Before I accepted the invitation, I tried googling to figure out what this might be about - the invitation called it "The BIG FAT Truth"chef dinner and made reference to a "secret ingredient".

Not until the day of the event did I figure out what the secret ingredient was, and what the party was likely to be about - it turns out that Cat Cora is shilling for Unilever's soft spreads, and the event was a kick-off for a new marketing campaign propping up the "right kind of fats".

It seems to me that the people in charge of the invitations didn't do much in the way of due diligence. If they had, they might have noticed that the very first post I ever wrote was about butter.

Whatever.

Peter and I swanned into a drop-dead beautiful loft-like duplex apartment, complete with two fireplaces, enormous kitchen, floor to ceiling bookshelves and a huge wrap-around terrace. The place was beautifully lit, the drinks were terrific, and the gorgeous flower arrangements were in plastic spread tubs.

Cat Cora did a brief demonstration - making vegetable dumplings by sauteing some broccoli slaw in melted soft spread, folding that into wonton skins, and basting them with more melted soft spread before it went into the oven. On the counter in front of her, there were cheese straws in a plastic spread tub.

The dumplings later appeared on trays as passed hors d'oeuvres - with their dipping sauce in plastic spread tubs.

At the end of the evening, they sent us home with a copy of Cat Cora's Cooking From the Hip - which looks like a perfectly nice cookbook, full of olive oil and butter, and not a trace of soft spread - as well as a card file containing lots of "myths" and "truths" and "lies" about butter and soft spreads, as well as recipes for all of the foods served at the party.

I'm sorry, but I don't buy it.

First of all, I'm thoroughly in the Michael Pollan camp - in this case, hewing to the avoid foods with unfamiliar, unpronounceable ingredients edict. Secondly, I like my food to taste good, and that stuff not only doesn't taste good, it leaves a weird coating in your mouth.

Butter tastes great. It has nice mouth feel. It's all natural - if you had a cow, you could make it yourself. Butter's been around for a really long time. Soft spread is a factory invention. Why would you want to ingest that? If you want to cut back on the fat in your diet, use less. If you want to lower your cholesterol and saturated fat intake, use olive oil.

I could go on and on, nitpicking through the press release and the recipe cards, poking holes in this and that. But I'm starting to feel churlish and, to be fair, the evening was fun in more than one respect: I got to hang with Peter, I met a couple of interesting, like-minded bloggers, and they were pouring a lovely crisp fat-free white wine.

Pink Dress

My mother's brother got married, for the first time, when I was just six. I was the flower girl - in a pink dress that my mother made, and a pair of the red Moroccan leather shoes that she bought in series (every size, for party shoes, and they got handed down). The expression on my face slays me - clearly, the wedding will fall to pieces if I fail at walking down the aisle.


Later, that marriage did fail - probably because he is a despicable beast. But, as my mother kept everything, I still have the pink dress, and after the photo resurfaced the other night, I figured I'd better get a picture of the girlie in the dress, before she outgrows it and it's too late.


Please excuse the scab on her forehead; she fell down go boom the other night, smack dab on her forehead and one hip and both knees. She's fine but her father may be scarred for life - he tripped her accidentally and caused the fall.

The dress fits perfectly. Too bad no one we know is getting married.

Fourth

Kelly tagged me to post the fourth picture from the fourth folder. I don't know if I actually found the "right" photo - but here's the girlie. She and I had accompanied my mother to a doctor's appointment, and we were waiting in the hospital lobby. She's wearing a tie-dyed dress that I (badly) tie-dyed in a fit of hippy craftiness, and she's four years old.

The best part of this is that Kelly DIDN'T ask me to show you my legs - which I actually have been shaving, lord knows why, it being the winter and all.

Aimless Archeology

Someday, I'll organize my photos, the old ones, the pre-digital ones (not that the digital ones are in much order). Right now, some of them are sort of sorted, but most of them are just randomly tossed in a big plastic storage box.

In some fit of madness this afternoon, I rummaged around in that box. I found a vast, odd range: baby pictures of me, stuff from college, old boyfriends at the beach, the dear departed cats on vacation in Maine, wallet sized school photos of me and my siblings.

My mother always had a good eye. She dabbled in photography, her father was a commercial artist with a dark room in the cellar, and she had a pretty good Leica camera. One day, when I wasn't yet a year old, she tied me to the high chair and took a series of arty black and white photos of me in an antique baby dress. Eventually I got bored; this is the last in the series.

That high chair is still at my mother's house. Her little grandchildren have all used it; Tiny still does from time to time.

But I wonder where the dress is.

Separation of Church and State, and Why I Would Like a Fortuny Gown

Maira Kalman did a whimsical and moving essay on the inauguration, on-line on the Times site.

In it, she draws a picture of the Lincoln bible that Obama used (and which she got to hold). But she also says this:

And a woman named Renata asked:

"Why on the bible? Why not on

the constitution?" And I think

that is a VERY Good Question.

I too think that is a Very Good Question. If one of the general principles of our country is the separation of church and state, why then is religion so much a part of of the inauguration of the president of the "state"? There was an invocation and a benediction, with a bible in between for an oath that ended with "so help me god".

In the constitution, the oath/affirmation for the President is set forth as follows:

"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."

No "so help me god".  Please tell me why our politicians feel the need to add "so help me god" and "god bless America" at every turn?  Why do they swear on a bible?

I always say that I'm going to use a dictionary when I get sworn in.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Another panel in Kalman's essay is a drawing of a red Fortuny dress. When I win the lottery, I want one. I've wanted one ever since the first time I ever saw one, a long long time ago. Sigh. Something about the pleats makes the dresses flattering no matter what the body shape. The colors are always fabulous. The simple little details. Sigh. I could wear it to my inaugural ball.

And More I Want To Read

An embarrassingly long time ago, someone contacted me and asked if I wanted to review some kid's books - a series called The Fairy Chronicles. I said "sure" and two books arrived in my mailbox.

I read the two books (Marigold and the Feather of Hope, Dragonfly and the Web of Dreams) and thought they were sweet, if somewhat pedantic and rather earnest. I loved the vaguely Victorian illustrations, which remind me a little of Arthur Rackham. And both books ended with an activity at the end - a recipe in one, directions for a woven bracelet in the other.

But I felt ill-equipped to "review" the books. At the time, my child was about three and a half, and they were way beyond her comprehendibility. So I shipped them off to my then five year old niece, who was just beginning to read, and asked her to review them for me.

The books were a little advanced for her, but with the help of her mother, she managed to read them. Eventually, she even wrote the book review I requested, but then the piece of paper disappeared - and didn't reappear until last week. By now, my niece is almost seven, and told her mother "I write so much better now!".

When all is said and done though, I think her "reviw" demonstrates that this series of books (there are about 14 books so far) is very appealing to the fairy-besotted elementary school girl.

Grace #2 = Flowers on a Snow Day

I almost never buy flowers. I'm generally too abstemious to spend money on that kind of frivolity. But a couple of weeks ago, in the supermarket, at the urging of the girlie, I bought a $5.99 pot of daffodils, sprouted but barely even in bud. They've sat on the kitchen table since then, and we've watched them grow, seen the buds develop, guessed which one was going to open first.

Mad's in the throes of renovating her kitchen and today queried as to decorating tastes. My house is your basic eclectic mix, but I find the kitchen eating area very pleasing. It wasn't planned, it just fell into place. There are lots of casement windows with white painted wood work, green paint on what little wall there is, an old dark wood table, green chairs from Ikea, blue/green tapestry placemats, and a green pot holding the afore-mentioned pot of daffodils, now on their last legs.

I highly recommend potted bulbs in the mid-winter - it brings grace indoors, even on a snow day.

Five Words, Redux

There were only six entries in my five words contest - the one where I asked for a paragraph using chthonic, liminal, punctilious, quincunx and usufruct. And they were all good!

Two of them, from Heidi and Vodka Mom, were cleverly subversive by making the words themselves the subject of the sentence.

The others - from Jenn, Liz, YourFireAnt, and Kelly - were great and varied attempts at making sense of nonsense, with wit and style.

So I resorted to the old random number picker.

Number 4! And the book goes to Liz!

I have to start making a new list...

Tickled Pink

I would just like to go on record as stating that I am not a lady. Or a Lady. I'm far too foul-mouthed for that - in the flesh anyway, though rarely on "paper". And I don't own any white shoes. And, while I do own a string of pearls, I can't remember the last time I wore them.

That said, I'm still tickled pink to get a little award of appreciation from Kyddryn, notwithstanding the fact that its qualifications could really be extended to just about every single blogger about there:

The Dardos Award is in appreciation of the merits - cultural, literary and individual - of every blogger who expresses him/herself on his/her blog.

The conditions are to:
Be tickled pink,
Copy and paste the award picture to your blog,
Include the rules,
Link the blog who bestowed you the award, and finally
Nominate 15 blogs for the award.

And you know what? I may not be a lady, but today I'm going to play by the rules, sort of. I hereby nominate 15 blogs from my reader, all of which begin with the letter M.

1. Magneto Bold Too
   
2. Marmite Breath Slept Here
   
3. Mayberry Mom
   
4. Meno's blog
   
5. Mental Pause Mama
   
6. Merlot Mom
   
7. Midlife Mama
   
8. Mom, Ma'am, Me
   
9. Mom-101
   
10. Moments of Perfect Clarity
    
11. Mommy Wants Vodka
    
12. Mothergoosemouse
    
13. Motherhood in NYC
    
14. My Level of Awareness
    
15. Mystery Mommy

What can I say?  I have a fondness for the letter M.  Mwah!

Grace #1 = Hand-Me-Downs

I love hand-me-downs. I love that clothes get used to the best of their ability, that many children wear a given item, that things stay out of the landfill for a while.

Last week, we got a box in mail from my cousin, with a bunch of dresses and shirts and leotards and tights, all outgrown by her little girl. I know that the hand-me-downs went back and forth among my cousins when I was a kid; now they're migrating among the second cousins.

And recently, though coincidentally, I shipped off some of Mir's old clothes to a neighbor, to a blog friend, and to an old friend (who reminded me that she grew up wearing my hand-me-downs). Another batch was delivered to some people who were collecting kid's clothes for a nearby maximum security women's prison, under the aegis of the pre-inauguration Day of Service.

Hand-me-downs come with love, and serendipity, and grace.

Five words that I've had to look up recently

Quincunx

Chthonic

Usufruct

Liminal

Punctilious

It's not that I didn't know "punctilious", it's that some news commenter made a comment yesterday about Obama's parade running late, and said he wasn't as punctilious as Bush. I looked it up to confirm that, in fact, punctilious is NOT a synonym for punctual. Damn newscasters, using four syllable words incorrectly, when three syllables will do.

Anyway, here's a contest. Best paragraph, of less than 50 words, to use all five of the above words, gets a copy of The Mammoth Cheese. Have at it!

1.20.09

At last, change is moving to the White House.



(New Yorker cover, issue date 1.19.09)

Porcupines at 3:15 a.m.

I couldn't sleep last night. I'd woken up around 12:30 with an attack of heartburn that ended with vomiting, and then I couldn't get back to sleep. I lay there, under the duvet, listening to the gentle snoring from beside me, thinking about babies and baby showers, and wondering why there was no Tums in the house.

Suddenly, I heard little feet running across the hall. Without a word, she climbed up, kneed me in the chest as she scrambled over, and burrowed under the covers between us.

This morning, the first words out of her mouth were "do porcupines run?"

I don't know. Was one chasing you last night?

Snow

Multiple choice:

Snow falls in winter. How does snow feel? Circle the two words.

Cold     Dry    Wet     Hot

Blonde. No question about it. Though, when I asked her later, she gave me the same answer: Wet and Hot. I'm sure she's just yanking my chain.

However, the query "how does snow feel?" could be part of the problem. The question ought to be "what does snow feel like?" because the way it was phrased on the Weekly Reader handout, it sounds like it's looking into the psychology of snow. Let's try this again:

Snow falls in winter. How does snow feel? Circle the two words.

Angry     Playful     Happy     Vengeful

How do you think the snow feels?

A Paean To Porridge

Porridge, by Spike Milligan

Why is there no monument
To Porridge in our land?
If it's good enough to eat,
It's good enough to stand!

On a plinth in London
A statue we should see
Of Porridge made in Scotland
Signed, "Oatmeal, O.B.E."

I never used to like oatmeal. It was served periodically when I was a kid, and I remember it as mucilaginous.  I far preferred Cream of Wheat and even Wheatena.

A couple of years ago, I discovered that my favorite sandwich shop served divine oatmeal - steel cut oatmeal, topped with cinnamon brown sugar butter, toasted nuts and/or dried fruit - I get everything, and it doesn't even need milk. And then the cook at the girlie's (former) daycare began serving oatmeal to the kidlets every morning, and Mir started asking for it in the morning.

So I started trying to make oatmeal at home. I tried a bunch of brands, trying to avoid the mucilaginousness I grew up with. The Silver Palate oatmeal cooks up nice and toothy, but it's hard to find. The McCann's steel cut is awesome, but spendy, and it takes a half an hour to make.  Good old Quaker Oats is fine if you use the old-fashioned variety and cook off all the water.  And hallelujah, I've just discovered that Quaker is now selling steel cut oats in the supermarket, for half the price of the McCann's.  

Now, on the two days a week that she takes the bus (and that we therefore have more time in the morning), I make a bowl of 5 minute oatmeal for the girl, and on Saturday or Sunday morning, we make a batch of the 30 minute steel cut for the whole family. It's a nice warm way to start the day in the midwinter.

* * * * * * * * * * *

This post was written for the Parent Bloggers Network as part of a sweepstakes sponsored by The Quaker Oats Company. Quaker is being a good corporate citizen: from now until February 28, for every UPC from a Quaker Oatmeal hot cereal product that you enter at Start With Substance , Quaker will donate one bowl of oatmeal to Share Our Strength, a childhood hunger organization. One hitch is that you need to be a Facebook member to participate. I didn't really follow the rules (so what else is new), because I was supposed to tell you all how I help other people, but I've been down that road recently, so today you just get to hear about oatmeal. Okay by you? Don't forget that nice poem I found you. Does anyone read the fine print? 

Wordless Wednesday: (Dress-Up) Shoe Maven

Purple skirt, orange tights and fuchsia peau de soie spike-heeled pumps, with silver lame pumps in one hand and a snow leopard in the other. Fierce, no?

She Didn't Just Say That, Did She?

O The Joys isn't the only one with a child who says awesomely inappropriate things.

The other night, we went out to dinner, to a Japanese restaurant in town. Whenever we go to a "fancy" restaurant, the girlie orders a Shirley Temple.

We had a chatty, solicitous waitress, who - without being asked - brought a little dish of extra cherries along with the Shirley Temple.

The girlie spent some time dropping the cherries into her drink and trying to fish them out with her chopsticks, until she gave up and asked Daddy to help. Daddy took the chopstick and prepared to spear a cherry, at which point she cried out "Daddy, don't pop my cherry!"

Her mortified parents wanted to slide under the table.

Pre-Sleep and Dream Sleep

Before bed:
I don't wanna go to sleep, it's so boring. I'm bored, bored, bored. Sleeping is so boring.

Talking in her sleep:
I really need help. I want to make it.

What goes on in there?

Fierce

A couple of months ago, I signed the girlie up for an after-school cooking class - something sponsored by the school's PTA, to occur on-site, geared to kindergarteners and first graders. It starts today.

This morning, I reminded her that she'd be going to it this afternoon. She burst into tears, wailed, rent her garments, kicked me, complained that she wouldn't know anyone, and insisted that she didn't want to learn to cook.

I changed the subject, and eventually we got out of the house, reasonably well fed and clothed.

As I pulled into the school parking lot, she said "it's okay, Mommy, I'll try the cooking class". Without prompting. Without me having brought it up again.

She is going to be a fierce teenager.

* * * * * * * *

On a vaguely related note, Tracee Sioux has relaunched her site - it's now The Girl Revolution, and it's all about empowering girls and bashing sexism over the head. You have a girl? Go check it out.

Whee!

So we finally (a month late!) got the Wii and Wii Fit hooked up. And, we seem to be hooked. The first words out of the girl's mouth this morning were "can we go exercise?"

She generally prefers to sit on the couch and watch me, because she's too uncoordinated to do anything right, but she did run around the house several times, running running running, carrying the little remote.

We all went through the Wii Fit calculations. Husband isn't going anywhere near it ever again, because it told him he was 57. I was tickled to be thought 36; and hysterical when the 5 year old was deemed to be 30. Because, you know, it's entirely possibly that I had her when I was six, right?

It's altogether amusing.

A Just Post Call For Help

Those fine Just Post women are hanging up their hats this week. For the final Roundtable, they put out this query:

Dear Readers, What say you? Are you a pragmatist or a Heart of Gold? Or are you some other kind of hybrid altogether? Will you join us in becoming an ongoing financial supporter of a cause you believe in? Will you write about it on your blogs or in your tweets? Will you help to raise money AND the profile of organizations that desperately need aid?

And that's what we are asking for as our farewell gift. Send us your link by the 8th and we'll include it in our last Just Post Roundtable on the 12th.

I've always worked for non-profits. Always. Except for stints at Publisher's Clearing House during summers in college, or part-time at a law firm while in graduate school, all of my employers have been non-profit arts organizations in New York City. All four of them (yes, four jobs in 22 years, I put down roots) have depended on the kindness of individuals (and corporations and foundations and government) for on-going support - because even though there's always a bit of earned income, it's never enough.

Can I tell you how much we appreciate that help? We really really do. Even a check for $5 means something - because that person took the time to sit down and write a check for $5, and put a stamp on the envelope, and dropped the contribution in the mailbox. And that $5 is going to be good for something - it'll buy some socks or a ream of paper. And if 13 people give us $5 each, we can buy a pair of pointe shoes for a twelve year old girl, who would never otherwise have the chance to dance. And 100 gifts of $5 - hey, that's $500 - pretty soon you're talking real money.

Opening up the return envelopes from our end of year campaign is one of the high points of my job, and it's not even my job. I just pitch in and help because I really like opening envelopes with checks in them, especially the ones from people just like you and me. Sure, a big check from a swank foundation is fun too, especially when it's for five or six figures, but the little ones really tug at the heartstrings.

As a result, I take my own personal charitable giving seriously. It's certainly not a lot of money - I haven't got a lot of money - but I try and spread it around to places where it seems like it'll do the most good, and that mean something to me.

In 2008, I made cash contributions to 34 different organizations (and dropped some stuff at the local thrift shop which benefits the American Cancer Society). One organization got three separate gifts, but that's because I'm on the board and there were several campaigns and an event. A few gifts were made because of specific requests by friends or acquaintances (like walk-a-thons, or the $50 gift to Rockefeller University requested in lieu of a present by a friend who turned 50). Others were completely local (the volunteer fire department, the library, the volunteer ambulance corp, the nearby hospital).

Some gifts were made as a result of news items. After the Hurricane Ike, I sent a bit to the Austin Food Bank. The Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen was profiled in the New Yorker; they got a gift. Planned Parenthood got a contribution in memory of Sarah Palin. And I sent a bit to CIMIT after reading an article in the Times about their project to build incubators out of car parts.

Of the 34 organizations, 16 were repeat gifts - I've given to them one or more times in the past five years. I give to my college every year. On my birthday - which is just before the end of the calendar (tax) year, I send the New York Times Neediest Cases Fund my age in dollars. This year, they got $48. Next year, it'll be $49.

Oh, and I have rules. I always slip a note in the envelope asking that they not add me to their list, and that they don't solicit me more than once a year. If they fail to respect that, or if they don't send me a thank you note, I blacklist them.

I'm not telling you this to toot my own horn. I'm telling you this because a little here and a little there adds up, and giving becomes part of your life.

The Just Posts have been a wonderful spotlight on causes that move people, on issues of justice across the board, from access to health care to poverty to volunteering. And so in honor of one of the women who founded the Just Posts Roundtable, my first contribution in 2009 was a modest gift to an organization that helps the homeless.

You can help too. $5 really can make a difference.

What A Day This Has Been...

It started with a 5:17am email from the school district: Schools CLOSED today. The girlie wanted to get up at six, and there was no cajoling her back to sleep, so there we were, up and at 'em. Once it was light outside, I ventured out to peer at the driveway, lusting for the New York Times which never did come. I made my way up our steeply sloped driveway only by climbing in the dirt along the edge; the driveway itself was a slick of ice. I determined the road to be treacherous, so I slid back into the house and emailed the office. I tried this again a couple of hours later - same result. I resigned myself to the fact that we weren't going anywhere beyond the painting easel in the cellar.

Then the phone rang. "Nothing's wrong" said Robin. Beginning a conversation with "nothing's wrong" always means that something isn't right.

Robin lives up the street from my mother and had been driving by, only to find my mother bundled up on her front porch, surrounded by firemen and EMTs and police. It turns out that there'd been a tiny fire caused by a clogged nozzle on the furnace. The aide called the fire department, who came and did what they do. And because there was carbon monoxide registered in the house, and my mother's blood oxygen levels were low, they ferried her off to the ER.

I hauled the girl out of the house, icy roads be damned, dropped her at her grandparent's house, and drove down to join my mother in the ER. I found her, still wrapped in six blankets from her own house, and we sat around for awhile - the lack of urgency in the emergency room is always stunning - eventually they did some bloodwork, gave her some albuterol, and sent us home.

Meanwhile, my brother called the oil company and met the repairman at the house.

In many ways, it was hugely anticlimactic - nothing was really wrong, nothing more wrong than is always wrong. The EMTs were right in sending her to the ER - she couldn't stay at the house until it had been aired out and the furnace repaired. The most bewildering part was that Moky was so out of it at the hospital - it's like she just tuned out as a coping mechanism. I think she knows where we were, but I'm not all that sure. She did perk up when we got home - it must have felt like a huge relief, even though the house was still cold, and smelled of fuel oil.

It was an awful lot of drama for a snow day.

Groucho Moky

Last fall, I couldn't find my passport. And it was really eating at me, because it was expired and I wanted to get a new one, and get one for the girlie. You know, just in case we need to flee the country or something. Eventually it turned up, but then I started wondering where my social security card was, since those kinds of documents usually stick together. I knew I had one - the original one that I'd gotten in high school - but it was nowhere to be found.

I've spent most of the past two weeks away from home, mostly at my mother's house. In between bouts of incompetent nursing, my sister and I engaged in some aimless archeology (and surreptitious updating of one another's Facebook statuses).

Lo and behold, in a box of random treasures, I found my social security card. It was in one of those plastic card/photo holders that slips into a wallet, though the wallet is no longer around. The only other thing in the photo holder was the only picture of a family member that I can ever remember having carried around with me. These days, I've a handful of pictures of the girlie on my phone, and a couple tacked up around my desk, but I've never been the sentimental type that carries photos.

I have no idea when this picture was taken, or where. I don't recognize the house. But it's my mother. I love the ginchy hands, and the way she looks so happy under her Groucho glasses and the family wig.

When I slipped the picture out of its sleeve, it delaminated. It's an old Polaroid, and it had been cut to fit in the sleeve.  I quickly (and crookedly) scanned it and stuck it back in the sleeve.  You can see how the surface layer is cracked - from age, from being sat upon.  

It's a thoroughly goofy photo, and it was good to find it. Because the woman in the photo is now but a shell of herself - her fingers are gnarled, her smile is rare, her plastic nose has been replaced by an oxygen tube. But she once was.

The Twelve Months That Were

I have been thoroughly betwixt and between for the past 10 days - a couple of days here, a night there - hither and yon from home to my mother's house, to my in-law's house, to my father's house - with stops at various and sundry holiday parties and dinners at friends. The Christmas presents received are piled up in the living room, as yet to be absorbed into their proper spots in the house. Don't ask me where the clean laundry is.

So, Slouchy's post today, in which she rounded up the year just ended by quoting from the first lines of each of the first posts of the twelve months of 2008, seemed perfect fodder for filching.

January

In November, the subway posters from Poetry in Motion were running a poem by Vera Pavlova, one that had been published in the New Yorker last summer.

The poem, about desire and regret, was completely apropos for each and every marking of the new year.

February

Remember part one, about the pile of books that I'm currently reading? I've finished Decca and Organic Housekeeping (and, I dare say, Decca never cleaned a house in her life).

Frightening. This was a post about a pile of books waiting to be read. Of the nineteen listed in that post, I've read five and I'm in the middle of two. So twelve of those books are untouched. Mind you, I've read plenty of other books that weren't in that pile, but still. First in, first out is apparently not the operating concept for my library management.

March

When I was raising my kids, I used to say that work was therapy for home and home was therapy for work. (Eleanor Clift in an interview with Deborah Solomon in yesterday's Times)

Way to go - this post started with a quote. So here, I'm quoting a quote of a quote?

April

Every year, the pre-school class at Miss M.'s daycare hatches eggs into chicks.

And, yes, the eggs hatched. So what else would be new?

May

After some trial and error, we've found some good aides to help our mother.

Despite its quotidian beginning, this was a funny post - mostly acerbic anecdotes about the care of our ill mother.

June

Herewith let it be known that, if a four and half year old child eats Carvel ice in a not-found-in-nature shade of intense turquoise blue, it will stain her face and hands and legs, and, on the following day, it will cause her poop to be blue.

A two sentence post, the above being the first sentence.

July

Ooh, a pink popsicle from the queen of pink!

That queen of pink would be the inimitable Niobe, but that was probably supposed to be a secret.

August

I tend towards the stoic, I tend to hide my emotions.

Um, yes.

September

The first house that I remember living in was one of four nearly identical little houses in a row.

Gum. If you don't know what to bring to a potluck, bring gum.

October

Her: Mommy, why do you have hair on your parts?

Okay, I cheated. The first line of the post was actually a stage direction of sorts. But this is the first line of content.

November

Here’s the thing about meatloaf – it doesn’t need a recipe, it needs an attitude.

I could say that about a lot of things. I could also, and may, make some more exhortations about food.

December

Every year, I make the same three new year's resolutions:

Eat less
Exercise more
Dress better

And here we are again: New Year's Day.

I wish you all a lovely 2009, full of joy and peace and luck and love.