Nigella Express U.S. premier

Finally, this morning, I got to see "Nigella Express," Nigella's show in support of her new cookbook.
My thoughts on the first show:
-Those were some big Cornish hens!
-Nigella was so cute and cheerful.
-I thought the family dinner with Nigella's father was quite sweet. Lord Lawson is a man after my own heart, opening the red wine and offering a generous pour. I loved how complimentary he was toward his lovely daughter.
-Good to know you can get cleaned squid frozen in a bag. There are certain things I don't want to prep.
-I like the Wonkiwear. Nice shapes.
-Nigella knows her bourbon: Maker's Mark, made in Kentucky, is the finest! Look for the signature red-wax-sealed bottle top.
-Somehow, I missed seeing the 6-inch heels during the caramel croissant pudding section. Must rewind.
I'm so happy to see Nigella again, it feels like getting a visit from a favorite friend.

Field Trip to Mote Marine

Today, I chaperoned on a Kindergarten field trip to Mote Marine Laboratory, which is an aquarium of sorts in Sarasota. I say "of sorts" because it's a significant research facility and also houses various sea creatures that get into trouble in the real world. They stay at Mote to rehabilitate. Additionally, I learned today that this is the leading shark research lab in the nation, where immunologists study the resistance to tumors and cancer inherent in sharks, skates, and rays.
This is a shot looking down into the big shark pool.

Here is an ancient moray eel who has been at Mote for ages. I felt so bad for accidentally having my flash on when I took this picture!
Isn't she gross, though? Man, I would freak if I ran into her under the sea. I think someone once told me that she's blind.
(She kind of looks like how I felt this morning when the alarm clock went off.)

Ah, there, that's better. Here she is in the dark.

Inside in the cool, dark aquarium, I was fascinated by the jellyfish, particularly the Comb Jellyfish, which have lights running through their somethingsomethings.

Here the Comb Jellyfish almost looks like a space creature!

More jellyfish...


The seahorses really captured my heart. Look at these creatures, they're amazing. They curl their tails around the sea plants and also hook tails with one another.

There is a raised pool full of shells and what I'll call "sea odds & ends" that you can pick up and touch as long as you keep them under the surface of the water. This is a horseshoe crab. It's got 10 eyes, and can fold it's body along a 90-degree flap. The brave volunteer lady flipped it over to show us it's spidery legs, which were thrashing. No way I was touching that.
We get a lot of them behind our house, but this is the first I've heard about the 10 eyes and undercoating.

Here's the big shark pool. This gal is feeding them. You can view the sharks from up top, or from the ground level. There are other interesting fish in the tank, too, like Grouper and Tarpon. The Tarpon is a pretty fish; it's big and looks like it's made of silver.


I can't remember what kind of shark this is, but I thought this was a good action shot of him sweeping by.

Finally, there is a little tiki hut covering a pool full of stingrays (stingers removed) that swim 'round and 'round and you can reach out and touch.

This evening, I asked Griffin, "What was your favorite part of the trip?"
"Snack!"
Nut-job.
Oh well, I'm glad I'm getting to re-live Kindergarten.

My Pagliacci

The boys and I have been discussing potential Halloween costumes ad nauseum. What exactly does ad nauseaum mean? That you're feeling so sick of the topic you feel nauseated?
Well, I do.
Three of them have changed their minds every day, sometimes multiple changes per day. I feel like I need to follow them around with a pen and notepad.
"What's that, sir? Scratch Spiderman? You want to be The Flash now? Okay."
The fourth individual, Cooper, refuses to wear clothes, period, so I'm not going to focus too much on persuading him to wear some sort of enveloping costume, or he'll freak. He can go as A Baby.
Last night, during our bedtime confab, I held them in conference and was like Henry Kissinger, working toward a final agreement. Although Halloween is not until the 31st, time is running out because the boys have a big school production next week, and they have to wear their costumes. Well, except for Wyatt, who has been cast as a giant squirrel. Harry's teachers asked that we parents steer the children toward circus-like costumes, or cute classic animals, so that everything looks congruous for their big number. Therefore, since Harry announced he wanted to be a Werewolf for Halloween, I figured I would have to buy him an additional costume for the musical.
Today, I took Harry and Cooper to Target, and found one clown costume, one Obi-Wan, and one Anakin Skywalker. Perfect! I was relieved and happy, that is until we got in the car and started to drive home, and Harry started badgering me about the Werewolf costume. Harry is a child, but he is also a professional badgerer. When he grows up, he should consider a career in law enforcement or government torture; he'll be able to crack the most hardened criminals. He gets an idea into his head and then won't let it go. To say it's "challenging" would be a lie; it is annoying as hell. After 20 minutes of being harassed, I thought my head was going to explode, which would have been a spooky pre-Halloween experience.
I tried to stay positive. I just kept driving, and thinking, "Looks like I picked the wrong week to detox."
We made it home intact, and Harry put on his clown costume. He has been wearing it all afternoon, and it's really hard to get upset with him when he's yelling at you with that pointy hat on. He looks funny!

That said, I now completely understand why so many people think clowns are scary.
I'm probably going to have nightmares tonight.

Baby knows best.

Some crazy cliff

"Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be." ~Holden Caulfield, The Catcher in the Rye.






My dog rescue pursuit may have started out on a spur-of-the-moment click, but it's turned into a real journey.
The adoption process to rescue a terrier through this one particular (and well-organized) group is a lengthy process. It's not like adopting a baby, but it's more involved than buying a puppy. This weekend we had a home inspection, and I think I was more anxious about being judged than I realized. I was nervous leading up to the visit, and feeling like I hoped everything would go well, and hoping the kids -- whom I can only control up to a point -- would be on their best behavior.
They were, and everything went well, and the woman who visited us couldn't have been nicer. I received word that she filed her report about us, and felt even more relief that we were getting through what I believed to be a very important step in the process.
And then, this morning, I went to look at the picture of the dog I really had my heart set on, and saw the words: ADOPTION PENDNG. I unexpectedly started to cry.
I've been feeling really emotional all day, and I keep asking myself why. Why? I mean, I know everything will work out one way or another. Digging a little deeper, I have to admit that the whole experience of seeing all these dogs in need of homes has been really sad. There are a lot of stories about mistreatment and neglect, and you look at some of the pictures of the dogs arriving at the rescue, and they're all matted and sickly. Then you see pictures of them after they've had some love and care for a few weeks, and they look practically brand new. The process has touched a nerve in me and reminded me of the disparity between how things are and how they should be in so many areas.
There are so many situations in the world that are unfair -- and a little group of terriers represents just the tip of the iceberg of everything that needs fixing..all the innocents we'd like to save.

Alright, enough already.

I don't think personally I will be able to keep up with any kind of "Express" lifestyle. We had friends drop in today, and I started off gamely enough, but lost steam midway through the afternoon when my junior visitors kept pelting me with requests for juice and milk and cake and peanut butter. They were like locusts, descending upon my kitchen, grabbing an orange here, an apple there. Swiping graham crackers and guzzling water from the fridge dispenser.
At one point, I was trying to cut up a slice of watermelon for myself before I might keel over from a precipitous drop in blood sugar. Three different children managed to steal my food. I'd cut up a slice into a bowl, and another child would wander up and look at me like little Oliver Twist. I'd hand over the bowl, and then start over again for myself.
The gathering started off swell with me offering a thirst-quenching pitcher of water with slices of oranges & cucumbers. So refreshing! Try it! It's what they serve in Calistoga, where people go to relax and rejuvenate themselves in the hot spring waters.
I then made a very easy dish which most people love, but some snooty people have said it makes them want to gag just at the thought of it. It's an old party dish I garnered in Grosse Pointe, where not only are the residents generally cheap, but they also generally don't cook or eat very much (they prefer to drink).

-Chicken
-Can of whole cranberry sauce
-Packet of dry onion soup mix
-Half bottle of creamy French salad dressing

You combine the above ingredients in a pot and let everything simmer until the chicken is cooked through.
Next, I made rice with chicken broth, and green bean casserole with Cream of Mushroom soup.
Granted, this is not Larousse Gastronomique, but it's good food and it seemed befitting of a breezy, cool fall day here.
The children were sugared-out from having earlier raided my supply of jelly bellies (left over from Harry's birthday party) and a giant chocolate chip cookie that Harry won at school Friday during his school carnival cake walk.
So, once the food was ready, I bossily sat them all down at the table and placed bowls of hot food in front of them.
Oh, the faces! Sulky and brooding, noses crinkled. I could see my popularity plummeting with each passing second as the steam rose from their little dishes.
And that's when I began to lose all graciousness as a hostess.
"Can I have a peanut butter sandwich?" asked one of my sons.
"No!" I answered sternly.
"What is this?" asked someone else's son.
"It's chicken!" And rice! And green bean casserole!" I shouted. "It's GOOD!" This last statement was issued more in the tone of a challenge.
"Can I have some cake?" begged a young voice.
"No!" I barked.
The table fell silent and I could feel their death rays shooting at me from across the room.
I knew what they were thinking.
This sucks. We're never coming back here again.
Babies.
I felt smugly triumphant for about 15 minutes, sort of like an old orphanage matron who would teach her charges to be accepting and grateful for their hot gruel. And then I begrudgingly admitted that I really didn't want them to go hungry, even if they were slightly spoiled as a generation and making me feel like a short-order cook. My concession was to dole out cheese sticks, crackers, and apple slices.
The adults were happy with the food and wine, and probably happy to have a brief respite from the food-battle frontline. I say brief because you know they're at home right now making plain pasta for their hungry children. I can feel my ears burning.
Maybe I can only do express-like entertaining if I pace myself. Maybe people popping in left and right is just too much for me, even with food made largely from canned goods.
I tried, but frankly, I am wondering if I have the constitution for this. I'm off to read my book now. And I really don't want to see anyone until, say, Thanksgiving.

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.