The pizza remains the same

Many moons ago, when I had no husband, no children, no pets, and not much, I left home to fend for myself. However different things may have been back then, I was already an Italophile. All these years later, my feelings of affection for the country remain, and I still cherish one of the very first cookbooks I was ever given: Italy: The Beautiful Cookbook.
Their were two printings of this book, one a glorious oversized coffee-table book, and the version I received, which was in the form of a small datebook. It was a Christmas present to me from a family friend, who'd pulled my name out of a hat after Thanksgiving dinner in 1990. We "kids" used to arrange a gift swap every Christmas, and Italy the Beautiful was chosen for me based on a rather obvious hint I'd supplied: "I really want this!" I'd been ogling it for months at Border's during my after-work forays.

I spent a lot of time gazing at the beautiful photographs and reading the explanations of the food traditions in the various regions of Italy. And, over the course of years, I spent many evenings attempting to make the dishes pictured in the book, learning how to make Beet Greens with Anchovies, Spaghetti alla Carbonara, Zuppa Pavese, Gnocchi alla Romana, Beet Ravioli, and Radicchio with Bacon. But my favorite, by far, was the simple Pizza Margherita. Even though the book is ring-bound, with no spine, it still generally falls open to this page because I made this pizza so often. It was my favorite. Yesterday I made it for the first time in a while, and it is just as good as ever, and still one of my favorite foods.

Pizza Margherita/Traditional Pizza
1 oz. (30 g.) fresh yeast or 1 envelope dry yeast (2 tsp.)
4 cups (1 lb./500 g) all-purpose (plain) flour
1 lb. (500 g) plum (egg) tomatoes, peeled and cut into thin wedges
10 oz. (315 g) mozzarella, sliced
1 tablespoon chopped fresh oregano or 1 1/2 teaspoons dried oregano
1/3 cup (2 fl oz/60 ml) extra virgin olive oil

Dissolve the yeast in 1/2 cup (4 fl oz/125 ml) warm water. Heap the flour in a mound on a board, make a well in the center and pour in the dissolved yeast. Add enough extra water to form a soft dough. Knead until smooth and elastic. Cover with a towel and let rise in a large bowl until doubled in volume.
Press and stretch dough out in a circle 3/8 in (1 cm) thick on a floured board with the fingertips; do not use a rolling pin.
Flour a baking sheet and place the dough onto it.
Cover the pizza base with the mozzarella slices, top with tomato, sprinkle with oregano and drizzle the oil over. Bake in a 450F (230 C) oven until the crust is lightly browned. Serve hot. Serves 4-6 [not really].

Sometimes I make the dough, sometimes I buy it. Sometimes I have sliced mozzarella, sometimes shredded. Sometimes I have plum tomatoes, sometimes diced, or sauce from a jar, even. You make do with what you have. Over time, the only lasting tweak I can recommend is a sprinkling of salt added to the tomatoes. When I was in Venice last winter, I carefully watched a pizza maker using the same simple ingredients, and noticed that he added salt directly to the can of tomatoes, which he then gave a stir. Seems like a good idea, for evenness.
It feels sweet to see my husband and sons enjoy this now, because this pizza is a part of my history, a part of me; and I wonder now if perhaps I felt lonely eating it alone! It's so nice to share it with people I love.


While the 1991 datebook is no longer available, you can still get a copy of the cookbook Italy: The Beautiful Cookbook by Lorenza De Medici

Express, and yet...not.

I could no longer stand the suspense, waiting for the U.S. publication of Nigella Express on November 1st, so I ordered a copy from amazon.co.uk. In recent weeks, I've been like a horse wearing blinders, trying not to read about the recipes and look at pictures and especially Kelly-Jane's blog, so that I would be opening the book with as few preconceived thoughts as possible on the content. It's been killing me, though, so I broke down. The book should arrive next week.
Meanwhile, I was thinking about how Nigella often says she has friends dropping by during the week, and seems to have many opportunities to throw together a meal for pals popping in for dinner. I thought, "Really?!" I never have people over during the week. I'm too frazzled! The boys get home from school, they're starving, so I start throwing food at them the minute they walk in the door. Then they do homework and run around, and it's the craziest time of the day. Plus, my friends seem to all be doing the same thing at their houses, so they don't think to drop in. Nevermind the additional fact that we live in the middle of nowhere, so the act of dropping in practically requires a map, compass, and helicopter cable with a hook.
And then, miraculously, it happened. I had a school-night dinner party! And it was impromptu! I felt almost as crazy-cool as Nigella.
Thursday morning we were devoid of all food and drink. There was hardly a crust of bread in the house, and so I did a big grocery shop and came home with a chicken for roasting, the makings of lasagne, and ground beef for Sloppy Joes or something. I also had fruit, a couple huge bottles of juice, some fresh vegetables, and chicken broth.
In my ongoing campaign to Force Autumn, I also bought cranberry sauce, thinking that we could have the chicken, some green beans, potatoes, cranberries, and get into a pre-Thanksgiving mode. And as I put away groceries, I thought, All this food, I should invite the neighbors over for dinner. [Beat.] Nah.I'm beginning to think my default is laziness.
After school, our charming little neighbor, Nina, came over to play. Nina is loved by the boys, and was ever-the-more welcome, this week, since they've been bellowing about needing a Princess Leia, and I said "no" to the request for a sister. So Nina came over, along with Leslie, her mother. Leslie stayed and we talked and talked, and then Mark, Nina's father/Leslie's husband, rang the doorbell and joined us. Things were getting exciting when Troy offered Mark a rum drink and Mark accepted. I had a bubbling feeling that Something New was happening here, and though nothing was said, I threw the chicken into the oven and set the timer.
Finally, after another hour, I set about trimming green beans and peeling potatoes, and insisted that everyone stay for dinner. There! I'd done it! And we all went into action, setting the table, refreshing drinks, lighting candles, and, eh, changing a diaper (Cooper's impeccable timing). This week-night, impromptu dinner felt like a fête. I was very impressed with Mark's chicken carving skills.

Now, normally, if I'd had another family over for dinner, I would have prepared twice as much food as what I had. Yet the last-minute element imbued me with a feeling of "make-do" resourcefulness, and removed all concerns about having enough food. I felt that we'd make do, and if people were still hungry after eating what was set out on the table, we'd simply take it from there.
And here's where the "express" part ends. Once we started eating, there was no rush whatsoever. We sat at the table and continued talking and talking until it became so late, we knew we had to get the children to bed or we'd all suffer horribly in the morning when the alarm went off for school.

Everyone packed it in, I left the dishes on the counter, and went up to bed.
I just wish I'd taken a picture of someone texting over the boiling pot of potatoes!

Being Dead is No Excuse

Imagine my delight when I found this wonderfully funny book combining three of my obsessions: death, food, and The South.
Being Dead is No Excuse, written by Gayden Metcalfe and Charlotte Hayes, is subtitled The Official Southern Ladies Guide to Hosting the Perfect Funeral.

Listen, I know it might seem a bit morbid, but I can't help it: death informs my life. The losses I've experienced have left their mark on my personality and I don't mind discussing it. Death is a part of life -- later than sooner, if we're lucky -- and yet I can't help feeling like it's often hovering about. What that means, for me, is that I try to communicate as best as I can to the people I know and love. I am never afraid to say "I love you," and I am happy to acknowledge good times while they're around, because, as we well know, they don't last forever.
One of the things I love about the South is the sense of community. For good or bad, there are towns with a tight-knit sense of belonging and roots, and that's something I don't really have, and probably wouldn't even do well with -- but I like my ideal version of it. The idea that you can live somewhere your whole life, and the old woman who lives down the street has known you since you were a baby, and knows your entire family. I'm sure that in reality I would find it oppressive, but there's some good to it, too. And the good aspects are covered in this book with grace and humor, talking about exactly how death is -- and has always been -- handled in the Mississippi Delta town of Greenville.
The ladies begin by saying that a death in the family is one of three opportunities in life for a Southerner to bring out all the good china and silver, and many a Southern lady has used silver polishing as a form of grief therapy while preparing to accomodate all of the family, friends, and neighbors who descend upon the deceased's house after the funeral. Now this is a big deal. And well it should be!
The traditions of Greenville are respectful to the dead and living, with the kind of humor that makes these times more bearable, like when the ladies discuss how they invariably get lost when trying to exit the cemetary after visiting a grave. They chortle, "This is a hard place to get out of."
On belonging to St. James' church in Greenville:
"In addition to the dignified ambience and many other attractive features, St. James' is right across the street from the old Greenville cemetery. Talk about location, location, location."
One Lola Belle Crittenden ("bless her heart") planted a huge hedge around her ancestral plot at the cemetary. Why? The neighbors. "They're so tacky," Lola Belle huffed.
Now that is funny.
If only we all had the support of such people in the worst times of need.
The boys and I recently went to visit my Mom's grave, and I'll be damned if it wasn't the hottest day of the summer, and we got lost in the cemetary because I could not find the grave. There we were, wandering around, sweating like you wouldn't believe, the boys all red-faced, and then they said they had to go pee. I still hadn't found Oma's grave, so I wasn't leaving, so I let them discreetly water a clump of trees -- no headstones within spraying vicinity! So, please don't think I'm disrespectful, and don't tell anyone in Greenville ("Yankees!").

We found Oma's resting place shortly after. By that time, there weren't many emotions left in me, so I nodded, said a little something in my mind, and we all piled back into the air-conditioned car and headed to our favorite Greek restaurant to get cold drinks and some food.

Food, food, food. In life and in death, it's got a central role. After my Mom's funeral, we all went to the church's community center and were fed the best fish I've ever eaten, along with skordalia and I-don't-remember-what-else. And it was the first meal I'd had in days -- I needed it.
The Greenville ladies talk about food and kindly supply all the recipes for everything you need to provide comfort to the living.

The Top Ten Funeral Foods
Tomato Aspic with Homemade Mayonnaise
Fried Chicken
Stuffed Eggs
Virginia's Butter Beans
Can't-die-without-it Caramel Cake
Homemade Rolls
Banana Nut Bread
Aunt Hebe's Coconut Cake
Methodist Party Potatoes
Tenderloin

The ladies supply details and recipes for these foods and many others, like Cheese Grits, Pickled Shrimp, and a Hot Mustard to go with the platter of deli ham that someone will bring.

Hot Mustard
1 cup dried mustard (Colman's preferred)
1 cup tarragon vinegar
1 cup sugar
3 eggs
Combine the mustard and vinegar, and soak overnight. Add the sugar. Beat the eggs and add them to the mixture. Cook in a double boiler over medium heat, stirring constantly until thick.
Keeps in the icebox for a long time...up to three months.
Makes about two cups.

And these dishes are made in the old-school tradition, but they're not complicated. The Homemade Mayonnaise makes use of a food processor. Each one sounds delicious. You know, if you're going to have to suffer, you may as well be surrounded by damned good food.
Finally, and most importantly, there's one particular line in the book that sums up its appeal to me, and that is, "If you can't find something to laugh about, you will end up crying."

Back with a four-year-old!

I guess it's time to get back here! I didn't do any of the things I'd planned on doing when I took a break, but I did manage to get the boys back to school (filled out a million forms), and am getting organized (more on that later).
I did not fish. But I did see "Star Wars" for the first time.
The big event, however, was this past weekend: Harry turned four!


We had a nice party for him, with family & friends, and it was an excellent day. I told the guests that the party would start at 2:00. My usual drill is that I get everything ready but myself, and then I scramble to get ready and the doorbell is ringing while I'm still putting on make-up. This time, I was dressed and sitting in a chair quietly at 2:00. By 2:12 I was muttering, "Where the hell is everyone?" and then I theorized (based on nothing) that the crowd that arrives late will be ready to party. This proved true.
We had Champagne, wine, chicken salad, roast beef, and turkey wraps. A huge salad with lettuces, Brie, rolled-up strips of ham, grapes, apples, walnuts, & edamame. Chips, Fritos, pita triangles with hummous. And cake! Harry had requested a blue cake, and so that is what he got. It was really good.

After eight years of birthday parties, I've finally figured out that there are really only two key things you need for a good party: cake and balloons.


That's it. Everything else is a bonus. Well, maybe wine for the grown-ups is a necessity.

Look at Lucky mingling with the guests; it looks like someone told a good joke.
We said our final good-byes at 8:30, and then dropped off, one by one.
Since Harry's actual birthday was on Sunday, I made him another cake, which was disappointingly filled with fresh apples and (more importantly) not blue. The boys weren't impressed. The entire time I was making the cake, Harry was harassing me from underneath the kitchen table, repeating, "Mom, make another blue cake. Mom, make another blue cake. Mom, are you making another blue cake?" It made Troy and me wonder if maybe we should administer birthday spankings with a wooden spoon.
When it came time to blow out the candles, Harry was taking forever and threatening to spray spit all over the cake,

so Troy jumped in and blew out the candles in what I can only guess was a fit of OCD spontaneity.

I then sliced the cake and re-lit the four candles on Harry's piece so he could try again to make a wish. And he did.
Probably: I wish I don't have to go to school in the morning.

Cappuccino Art VIII

Squirrel in a Storm.

Progressing forward

"Things are gonna change, I can feel it." - Beck

After more than a week of being in a pretty foul mood, today I turned a corner.
I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that I have been injured and, as a result, as cranky as a feral cat.
Meanwhile, Martin, the painter, has been here for a while, painting the walls "Shaker Beige," as recommended by Nate Berkus; and "Straw" as recommended by Madame X. The house has been in a state of disarray, which, is fine -- you must destroy to rebuild. But it's really been a non-stop-go tour here in the past few weeks.
When we were in Venice, I bought these sconces for our hallway, and finally they've been hung, and look glorious to me.

I think this is the first time, since we lived in San Jose, that I've started to feel "at home." It feels good for a change! I pound a nail in the wall and think maybe I"m going to stay here for a while.
The books were all taken down off the bookshelves in our bedroom so that the walls could be painted,

and when Martin was finished painting, I was left (to my delight) with a new shelving system to ponder. Previously, I had all the fiction in alphabetical order, and all but a Dewey Decimal card catalogue, but now I thought it might be a good idea to add a "to read" shelf made up from the growing stack of books on my nightstand. I like it.

It rained hard today, all day long, which was perfect weather for the tasks at hand. I made the "Tunisian" meatball & veggie stew from Feast (using ground beef instead of lamb).

As I was stirring the pot, I remarked how much I enjoy making soups and stews, leading Troy to suggest that perhaps I was a witch, with a cauldron, in a previous life. I agreed.
In my next life, I can vow I'll use half as much cinnamon and allspice in these meatballs, because the overall effect was overpowering, and I prefer Greek-stylee subtlety.

I've been reading Anderson Cooper's book, "Dispatches from the Edge," which was sent to me by Jody, simply because I expressed an interest in the book and said "who doesn't love Anderson?"
Little did Jody know how precise and profound her timing was for this particular book. I really appreciate how this happens in life: the serendipity of books and stories. This book has a lot to do with how we deal with loss and grief, and how the world continues to revolve, even when we can't. Cooper openly writes about the loss of his father and brother, framing his personal tragedies with the intense tales of life in the world's hottest and hardest-hit war and disaster zones, including Somalia, Sri Lanka, and Sarajevo. And lastly, he talks at length about Hurricane Katrina.
I can relate to being haunted by death and propelled to keep moving forward in a sort of escape from "everyday life" or ordinariness, because the thoughts going on in your head are so removed from daily concerns that they -- the concerns -- almost seem trivial, regardless of whether they are or not.
Katrina hit the Gulf Coast a few days after my mom died, and impacted me personally in ways that I have harbored internally ever since. The mention of Katrina causes my face to tense up in bitterness, and it was good for me to read Anderson Cooper's frontline account of the devastation and his thoughts on the whole event, as well as his interactions with affected residents since then. It's perfect timing, as the anniversary is soon upon us. I have a lot more things I need to do as I move forward, and it's nice to know I'm not alone in thinking these thoughts about life and death, family and home. I leave you with a quote from a book by Anderson Cooper's dad.
"We must go rejoicing in the blessings of this world, chief of which is the mystery, the magic, the majesty, and the miracle that is life."
-Wyatt Cooper, "Families: A Memoir and a Celebration"

Creative Interiors

Our walls have been painted, and during the process, everything hanging up has been taken down and sometimes moved to a new spot to try out a different location. I hung a blue Delft plate up on an existing wall just to see what it might look like, and Troy later walked into the room and stopped in his tracks to say, "Lisa? There's a plate on the wall!"
Apparently that struck him as very odd.
This morning, I noticed a small change.

I think that is really funny, and this is why I love my husband even more than Z.
The boys were crazy about this new installation. Cooper kept pointing at the wall, shouting, "Waffle! Waffle!" and Wyatt asked a few times if he could eat it. I think I'll leave it up there for a little while.

Clarification on Z

I feel really bad -- I wrote the Ode to Z(zz) in my head as I was stuck awake one night, trying to get back to sleep. It literally is an Ode to Sleep, which I have not really had a relationship with in eight years, since my first son was born.
I feel bad now because it seems that some people have read it as an ode to a person, and maybe other people are wondering why I would post about my "great love" and risk hurting the feelings of my wonderful husband, my true love.
I do want to get back together with Zzz/Sleep, though, and retain my happy marriage, too. Z is Sleep.
The one that got away.
Just kidding.

Ode to Z(zz)

It's been eight years
Since we went our separate ways
Leaving me with only
Glimpses of you in the night.

I miss you
And remember you
Always

Had I only known then
How life without you would be
I would have
Cherished you more.

Sleep, O Sleep!
My great love
Come back to me
Life
Is not the same
Without you.

The Misplaced Scandinavians

A lot of the books I read my sons are favorites from my childhood, but some are discoveries from adulthood, like Roald Dahl, Enid Blyton, and Elsa Beskow.
I adore the Elsa Beskow books, full of enchanting forest creatures and tiny people who wear little hats that look like spotted mushroom caps or pointy pine cones. Her world is full of friendly rabbits, fairies, playful squirrels, wise birds, and the people are so small that it takes them two full hands to hold a mere berry. The mother knits the children pure white sweaters that they wear in the cold wintertime with their pretty little green mittens, as they gather firewood and talk to the rabbit, whom they notice has a white winter coat, too. They gather mushrooms and slice them and string them up to dry. Just a delight!
The stories also feed my fantasies about how Scandinavians must have the most fantastic, and perfect summers! I'm convinced that if I spent summers in Sweden, Finland, Denmark, or Norway I would love summertime, and maybe even come to enjoy salmon. I would stroll through wispy fields and eat mouthfuls of fresh herbs like Andreas Viestad in Lom. I'd wear a bucket hat and pick mushrooms under the strict supervision of Anli.
Incidentally, Roald Dahl summered in Norway and shares his fond memories in Boy.
I went on an Elsa Beskow book binge a couple years ago, and bought The Children of the Forest, Peter in Blueberry Land, Woody, Hazel, and Little Pip, and Around the Year. I was so excited to present them to the boys, but, sadly, no one was quite as interested as I was. So, after several forced attempts, I shelved my enthusiasm along with the books (in the boys' room, of course). I would read them once in a while, but still, the boys seemed more interested in...dinosaurs.
Today, I saw Children of the Forest in a stack that had been brought down to form a "force field," which is what the boys do with their books lately. They prop up the books and form a fence, and then sit and play in the middle of the force field. On a whim, I grabbed the Forest book and sat down to read it to Cooper.
He loved it!

I don't know who was more excited -- Cooper about the frogs and owls and little forest people; or me about Cooper liking the book! He was enrapt to the final word!

I'm so happy and have been sitting here staring at Cooper as he's playing on the floor. I can't help envisioning this little towhead wearing a puffy round red cap with white polka dots. Maybe this Halloween. In the meantime, we still have The Sun Egg to look forward to.

Feed your Scandi-love -- watch New Scandinavian Cooking

Super fly

My superfoods eating plan didn't exactly come to a screeching halt this weekend, with the arrival of our friends from Colorado. Rather, it was the equivalent of the freeway SUV rollover, veering off into a spectacular bounce of a landing. It started with the pasta al forno I made using Nigella's recipe from Feast, utilizing bacon, beef, and rigatoni that didn't contain a speck of whole grain in it.
But damn it was good.
By Saturday night I was throwing whatever I could grab from the kitchen onto the table. We grilled hamburgers, a steak, made nachos. The boys were grabbing bananas, apples, strawberries, orange juice, cheese sticks, watermelon. Ham and salami sandwiches were made at breakneck speed, and today Gail made chocolate chip cookies -- the secret recipe containing Crisco.
I give.
Gail and I have managed to split a Greek salad between us, but I'm still on deck to make a rum cake and also bought Champagne to toast our last night together. Troy wants to make his waffles tomorrow, and asked me to pick up strawberries and whipped cream for a festive topping. We have been having so much fun and if only all the swimming the boys have been doing would burn off the calories I've consumed, the weekend would be perfect!
Troy and Tori met when they worked as valet parkers at the Brown Palace hotel in Denver, a luxurious grande dame where they were relegated to the entrance and garage. They talked about philosophy late into the night between bursts of scrambling for tips and sliding the hotel guests' cars sideways into spaces using the emergency hand break technique. The beginning of a strong friendship was forged that would see them through their salad days and the big and small events in life to come.

Troy has never, ever forgotten how Tori would make pasta with Italian sausage, and automatically split it onto two plates when they were roommates. I don't know if Tori ever realized just how broke and hungry Troy was back then, but I can tell that as long as Troy lives, it will give him great pleasure to spend time with Tori and his family, and give back in any way that he can. There's a great respect and loyalty between these two friends that does my heart good to see. And I suppose that's a different kind of super food.

Cappuccino art VII and more.

The other morning, Troy and I were discussing how the only thing we ever see in our cappuccinos these days are ghosts.
It's no longer shocking. It's like: oh look, another ghost.
This one is straight out of the Casper the Friendly Ghost tales.

Look at that smile.

Imagine our delight, then, when Troy sliced an onion, and saw a face in the onion. (Only portobello mushrooms were involved in this dinner.)

Just in case you need a little push for visualization:

The red onion is a super food. And entertaining, as well.
After another slice, we saw a more feminine, petite onion face.
So we decided to make an onion family.

They lived happily ever after in a robust pasta sauce.
The End.

Mud-lucious and puddle-wonderful

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high
-George Gershwin


There are times here when we sit outside and see a great show of nature. I don't know where you grew up, but I've never seen some of the things that I see down here. Turtles crossing the road (to get to the other side); alligators sunning themselves. At times, it seems downright prehistoric. The pelicans resemble pterodactyls, and the bugs are enormous. Yesterday, the fish were jumpin' and I managed to catch some shots. There was also a giant, red dragonfly whirring around.

And after a number of fish jumped, a hawk appeared overhead to survey the action. He was distracted by something apparently more tempting in a nearby field, but for a moment I thought we might see him divebomb and clutch a fish. Maybe he'd already had a big breakfast.


In The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy learns that she need never look any farther than her own backyard for her heart's desire. Because, she is told, if she can't find it there, then she never really lost it to begin with.
A few nights ago, I sat watching the sun set, and could smell the heady fragrance of the Casablanca lilies in full bloom. It's taken me a while, I thought, but I may have finally succumbed to Florida.

Eat your heart out.

Dieting talk amongst friends has got me sitting here thinking of my own profound relationship with food over the course of my lifetime. I can say that from the time I was a child to now, I have experienced so many complex phases related to food and life that it really boggles my mind to fathom it all.
From sustenance to happiness, and pleasure brought from eating, to self-induced deprivation and control and discipline, it's as though an entire "secret" language has been expressed through my eating habits. There have been times in my life when I didn't think about food, didn't care about it; and other times when food was all I could think of. As a child, I happily ran around and meals were on the periphery of my focus. As a teen, I struggled throughout my formative years to be heard, and have my ideas and intellect taken seriously, rather than garnering attention for my figure -- always the breasts! So I didn't eat for a while. Adulthood and more confidence came, and then the years saw me bouncing back and forth, discovering food, needing to lose weight to fit into a dress or combat weekends of indulgence in Napa Valley and a thousand other places in the foodie heaven that is California. Yet I still remember feeling genuinely panicky a couple times when I lost enough weight to feel tiny, and physically insignificant. That is indeed a crazy, mixed-up predicament.
Panic and fear have, at times, been palpably driven home as I dieted and then would suddenly think back to two people I loved who wasted away from cancer. Their bodies failed them. My step-dad, a Greek-American so full of life, reduced to a skinny man having Ensure poured into his stomach through a tube. Not being able to taste wine because his tastebuds had been radiated off. It was a tragedy to behold. Our friend, Debbi was always a big girl. Overweight. Then she started working out, and lost about 50 lbs., and she looked great! But then she kept losing weight, and discovered she had cancer. Eventually, she could only manage to eat tiny mouthfuls of food, and when she died she was little more than a skeleton.
That connection of food to life and death feels like it's imprinted upon my cells. It's no secret to those who know me that death has been a major preoccupation to me for years, and so why should it be any surprise that I might feel like banking pounds as insurance against some possible future catastrophe? And yet, ironically, you bank too much weight, and you're risking your life! Especially with my family history of heart disease and diabetes.
I never had glamorous pregnancies, and the weight gained has stuck to me like glue. I have absolutely no regrets about the way my body has changed from having children. I have not worked hard to become Skinny Mom, the fashionable thing to do, but rather, have tried to focus upon nourishing myself. And that is what food is about to me now: nourishing my body and soul. If that means eating for comfort sometimes, I accept that. I'm slowly working towards being able to strike that elusive balance, and feel more understanding of myself.
Be kind to yourselves, and good luck to us all, towards health and feeling good despite the reading on the scale.

His is red. But it's so much more.

There's a mystery I've been trying to uncover for most of my life: what is it with dogs and their collars??

Nothing makes Lucky spaz out as much as someone messing with his collar. The act of taking off his collar, or putting it back on him, makes him crazy. You can barely get it fastened because he is trying to grab it, and he jumps up and down, and to the side, like Muhammad Ali in the ring. If you give it to him, he will prance and run around like a super-charged flying reindeer, snorting and throwing his head up and around.
Is it because it's the one thing he feels belongs exclusively to him?
Does a collar make a dog feel secure?
Or is it the association with going places?
Is it because they like jewelry?
The Great Sphinx of Giza, Atlantis, Stonehenge, and Dogs' Collars. We may never really know.

The Scary Fairy

Last night as the boys and I talked at bedtime, lights out, nestled up in down comforters, they asked me about some of the German fairytales I grew up hearing.
The scary ones.
Even more frightening than the Grimm Brothers' tales, were the stories I read from a big yellow book I had that contained graphic illustrations of children who were not mindful...oh, what became of them!
There was the story of the boy who wouldn't eat his supper and so he danced and dwindled away to nothing, and died. His bowl of food was placed upon his grave.
There was a story about the little thumbsucker whose mother left him for the afternoon, and warned him, before she left, not to suck his thumb -- or else a man with giant scissors would come and cut off his thumbs. As soon as the mother walked out the front door, the little boy stuck his thumb in his mouth, and OUT jumped a man with enormous scissors, and he did cut off the boy's thumbs!
One boy was always looking up at the sky when he walked and so he fell into a canal and drowned.
Yikes! These tales were a not-so-subtle means of scaring us into submission to pay attention, eat our food, keep up with our grooming, and watch where we were going!
So when the boys asked me if I knew of any other scary stories, I really couldn't think of any more, and I made one up.
There is a big monster who comes into children's rooms at night, and he will chase you into a corner and sniff you, and he can detect whether or not you've eaten any fruit or vegetables that day. He hates fruit and vegetables, and so if he sniffs you and you've eaten them, he will pass on by, but if you have not eaten any, he gobbles you up, and crunches your bones.
This monster proved to be the most terrifying of the night, as my children eat fewer vegetables than they should, but none of them are thumbsuckers.
I don't mean to scare them, or maybe I do. There is a part of me that knows my German ancestors would approve, if not some parenting agencies. No doubt the boys will be eating some fruit and vegetables today, especially before bedtime.

Fly zone!

There's a man in a flying machine around these parts!


His contraption appears to be built of a giant fan -- like on the airboats you see cutting through the Everglades; a seat; and a parachute. He can adjust his altitude quickly and easily, and I can't see close enough, but would like to think he's wearing an old pilot's cap, like Snoopy when he flies his doghouse.
The man in his flying machine appears overhead every once in a while. You can hear the buzz of his motor from inside the house, and we all excitedly rush outside, squinting up at the sky to watch him whirring around! And then he slowly disappears, heading out over the water and becoming a tiny speck on the horizon...going wherever he goes...until next time.

No-fly zone

Today was an official Haz-Mat day chez moi. Beginning early in the morning with (newly potty-trained) Harry accidentally peeing the bed. Then, one of the cats threw up. Then, Harry was climbing a wall and fell off and bashed his head, so there was a bloody scene and we had to rush to get stitches.
Here's where I realized the benefits of Tabby's Fly-girl advice, where you're supposed to get dressed head-to-toe the minute you wake up. Because before we could get into the car to take Harry to the doctor, I had to:
-hold a towel to Harry's head and stabilize him.
-butterfly bandage his forehead.
-find pants for Harry.
-find shoes for Harry.
Meanwhile, I'm shouting at everyone to remain calm, a bit like Edina Monsoon. We were not in a 9-1-1 situation, so it was time to:
-find pants and a shirt for Cooper
-find pants for Griffin
-trade a shirt Griffin was wearing for one that matched his shorts, lest the doctor's office think I'm a disorganized mother.
-grab my wallet and car keys.
-find the car.
It was then that I realized Troy had taken the big car. I was left with the little car. That's okay, I could have made that work. If only I could have found the car key! I called Troy and he told me it was in "my drawer." I have one drawer in the kitchen that is supposed to be all mine, but it keeps getting corrupted. So the key was not in my drawer.
With no keys/car, I had to shuffle everyone over to the neighbor's. No one was home. So we shuffled over to the next neighbor. Mark works at home -- poor him -- so I asked to borrow his car and then hoisted Cooper over to him, since his car only had one car seat, and we set off.
Harry was so brave. He got five stitches -- and a frosted cookie for his trouble.
We returned Mark's car, went home and Cooper smiled and said he had "fun uh Mark!" He got to watch "Winnie the Pooh!"
Thirty minutes later, we were all settling down when suddenly the boys started screaming and running downstairs to announce that Cooper had barfed.
But he's fine. And we're all still dressed, so I think I'll sleep in my clothes in case I need to be organized tomorrow.

Starting summer

Most Americans kick off summer during the extended Memorial Day weekend. Boats are launched, summer houses opened (I hear), grills fired up, and you're allowed to wear white again after a dark fashion winter.
In Florida, it's easy to get lulled into a state of endless summer, because it rarely gets cold enough to wear a jacket, and so there's usually not such a delineation felt. Rather, everything changes in subtle shifts. However, with Emily visiting from a cold climate and being psyched about everything jump-starting her summer, this past week really has felt more like the launch of a season to me.
Lucky went to the groomer and got his summertime clip. Emily & I got pedicures.

[Emily defends her toe ring as her "one act of rebellion," which tells you a lot about her. She sometimes says, "Oh my goodness!" in situations that have me dropping the F-bomb. And she says, "H-E-double toothpicks."]

We all went to the beach, which has the softest, whitest sand you've ever seen. On Saturday it was all misty and windy due to the tropical storm, but on Sunday it was packed with happy people. There was a great range of people there -- babies, surfers, seniors, and everyone in between -- all cheerful and relaxed.


Back at home, Troy chopped down some basil for pesto, and we grilled lamb chops & ate ice cream. Very summery.

The lamb chops and potatoes were cooked on high heat & with a lot of olive oil. Next time I'll turn up the heat even more on the chops to get more of a char, Greek-stylee. We drizzled olive oil on them while they were on the grill to get the flames to shoot up. Everything got a spritz of lemon juice once it was moved to the platter.

I made a salted butter caramel sauce for the vanilla ice cream.

And here is a lemon cake made in a bundt mould Emily gave us. Perfect! One turret for each child. I did notice some marauders stormed the castle and attacked the base while I was out.

It's early June and the strawberries are perfect. We've been eating them by the bushel. I was going to top the turrets with a strawberry, but the boys could hardly wait for their plates, so I had to hurry up. Wyatt's turret resembles the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Last but not least, we may finally have found some good tomatoes. They smell like tomatoes -- a small miracle!

The livin' is definitely going to be easy today because I have nothing planned except to catch up with friends & laundry. As Baz Luhrmann says: don't forget your sunscreen.

Chacun prépare sa propre mort

Ti'Punch
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Ti'Punch (or Créole Ti Punch) is a rum-based mixed drink that is especially popular in Martinique, Guadeloupe, French Guyana, and other French-speaking Caribbean states. It is usually served as an apéritif before starting a meal, both as a matter of tradition and because the drink itself is strongly alcoholic. A popular tradition is that of chacun prépare sa propre mort (roughly, each prepares his own death), where instead of serving the mixed drink, the bartender or host will simply place out the ingredients, and everyone will prepare the drink according to his or her own taste. Opinions differ as to whether it should be served with or without ice, but most agree that the "real" ti'punch should be served without ice. However, adding a small amount of ice allows the flavours of the ingredients to blossom.

I'm going to end up rooming with Lindsay Lohan at Promises if I don't soon quit my job as guinea pig for Troy's rum experiments. As we've been discussing the finalists for the rum company name, Troy has also been doing all sorts of rum research, and recently spent an afternoon with a rum expert, a dude who lives on his sailboat and travels around the islands, sampling rum and writing about it. Said dude taught Troy how to make a proper Ti' Punch.
So Emily arrived yesterday for her weekend visit, and while we were all catching up, Troy was making us ti' punches. They ought to call this drink The Little Lobotomy, as I killed many brain cells. I have zero'd in on Pyrat rum as a favorite, and can vouch for its smoothness.

Today, June 1st, marks the official beginning of the Atlantic hurricane season, and not only did it rain most of the day, but a tropical storm (Barry) has formed in the Gulf to mark the occasion.

Perfect conditions for soaking one's head, lounging, drinking restorative cups of strong tea, and staring blankly at falling raindrops.