August 23, 2020
(For Petey)
I watched the clouds all day
That day
The day you died
I sat outside
While
Lucy, just five, scootered in the driveway,
And Mike, he mourned with music
That poured from open windows
I gazed, craned my neck
Upward
Onward
Witnessing the clouds
Seeking…
They shift like grief does
And the other shapes of love
Ebb and flow, transform and reform;
Heavy sometimes, or feather-light
Ominously present, or barely there
But there
Always.
And never
the same.
Remember when she was small?
You rocked her to sleep in the quiet heavy dark
You stayed there longer, lingering
Later, you wrote to remind yourself: I sit in these moments. Do my best to, anyway.
Remember
Sit in these moments
Even as they speed up and splinter off and spill over
I can’t keep them
But I can stay there a little while
Linger
And taste know (sigh) every ounce — every ounce! — of love
Remember.
Each time it feels eternal, essential: singular
Because it is
And it isn’t
And that is the good
that is God.
Remember
I’m in the kitchen and I’ve burned the bacon for our sandwiches.
You’re in the next room on your iPad, doing I don’t know what.
Silently, automatically, almost subconsciously, I sink,
repeating the mantra of a programmed white woman:
I’m a bad mom.
Fucked up again.
Not good enough, never good enough.
Must try harder.
Confess, as if they were sins:
I smoke weed
I drink, maybe too much
I get lost in the suffering of this world
I’m distracted
But it’s a lie.
I’m not a bad mom.
And if you ask me (which you won’t),
Why is this bacon burned?
I will tell you the truth: because I care, my love.
I am paying attention.
I am seeing people erased in real time
And I care
And I’m scared
And I love you
And I love them
And I love all of us
And it’s not that hard to do why can’t we just Love?
Stop
Stop killing
Cease
Fire
I’ve burned the bacon
—as if it makes one goddamn bit of difference!
We still will eat tonight.
I’ll take the most charred pieces,
Trying to shield you from life’s disappointments
In this and a thousand other absurdly tiny ways.
Knowing that I can’t protect you
But trying
Because I’m ashamed to face the weight of your pain.
I must face it! and that of all children everywhere
—which is all of us, actually,
in order to stay human.
To transform.
To get free.
The truth is, even if we didn’t eat tonight,
Even if we lost everything,
Even if we lost each other,
I wouldn’t be a bad mom.
There’s no such thing.
There are only bad systems
Promising power
Dishing out poison
And telling us to like it.
Well. Hello, there. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? It feels a little awkward, coming back to this space, but good. It’s like getting back in touch with an old friend, someone you haven’t spoken to in forever, someone you’ve been meaning to text but haven’t, someone you miss but whom the effort it takes to contact is more than you can muster. But then, when you finally do reach out, and you talk or get together, it’s like no time has passed and you leave each other saying, “We should do this more often!” and meaning it. And you really want to, but life gets in the way.
An awful lot of life has happened for my little family in the last year. I say that not to make excuses, but just so you know why I’ve been gone so long. I’ll tell about it, as best I can; not today, but soon, and I hope you’ll understand.
Until then, thanks for sticking around. I’m going to share a recipe for turkey soup as a feeble attempt to make up for my long absence. My dad went rogue this Thanksgiving and cooked a small, organic, free-range turkey. And though there was a modicum left over (as compared to the heaping remains of 25-pound Butterballs of the past), it was more than enough for soup, and I was inspired by such a fine specimen of poultry. I don’t usually get too excited about turkey soup (or turkey anything), but this one turned out good enough for seconds.
Take care of your beautiful self (as my mom always says), and I’ll see you soon.
Turkey Soup
adapted from The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen by Rebecca Katz
Ingredients:
2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
1 small (or half of a large) onion, diced
2 carrots, peeled and diced
2 ribs celery, diced
1 small parsnip, peeled and diced
1 tbsp (or more to taste) minced garlic
1/4 tsp dried oregano
4 sprigs fresh thyme, or 1/4 tsp dried thyme
1/4 tsp ground caraway (a really nice addition if you have it, but optional)
1/2 cup pearl barley, rinsed and drained
8 cups chicken stock
2 cups chopped or shredded cooked turkey
Juice of half a lemon (about 1 1/2 tablespoons)
Salt and freshly ground pepper
Instructions:
Heat the olive oil over medium heat in a large stock pot. Add the onion, sprinkle with salt, and saute until soft and golden, about three minutes. Add the carrots, celery, and parsnip, and continue to saute for another three minutes. Add the garlic, oregano, thyme, caraway, and barley, and saute for another minute or so. Pour in the stock, raise the heat and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat so the soup simmers gently. Add the turkey and simmer for 20 minutes, or until the barley is tender. Turn off the heat, stir in the lemon juice, and taste and adjust for seasoning. Serve with good bread. Makes 4-6 servings, depending on whether or not you go back for seconds.
On election night, I struggled to sleep. I tossed and turned in bed and was thankful when Lucy awoke at her customary 3 a.m. I changed her and nursed her and sat with her as she drifted off on my lap, cozy in a blanket and secure in my arms. I fell asleep like that, in the yellow armchair with my feet propped on a stool and my nose in her hair. I slept there, holding her, until Mike came in sometime after six, already showered and dressed, to get a sweater from the closet in her room. I didn’t want to let her go.
I had been having nightmares about Trump winning the presidency in the weeks before the election. So I wasn’t altogether surprised when it happened, but, boy, was I sad. I had hoped hard that the bad dreams wouldn’t come true, that my fears would be allayed with a sweeping victory for Hillary Clinton, a victory that would not only give us our first female president but also reassure us, resoundingly, that our country is not lost to hate, ignorance, racism, sexism, and xenophobia. I hoped hard as I waited in line to drop off our ballots. I hoped hard as I played with Lucy at the park under the warm, blue sky. I hoped hard as the results rolled in and the night stretched out, looking bleaker and bleaker. I was ready to celebrate on November 9, to be proud, as a woman with progressive ideals, as a mother to a strong-willed daughter. “That could be you, someday, my love!” is what I wanted to say to her. I wanted to be excited for the future, not scared of it.
But now I am finding it hard to look at her without feeling like I failed her by somehow allowing this ridiculous, terrifying outcome to transpire. I do not want my child to grow up in a country where hate is legitimized and bullies win, a place that is isolated from the world, a place where liberty and freedom and equality are empty promises for most, truly only intended for a privileged few. I don’t know what the next four years will hold, but I am worried. Not just because of the man in office, but because of the ugly truths of this nation that his campaign uncovered. I am worried that people will not be good to one another.
I didn’t want to leave the house yesterday. I had to, though, because we were out of diapers. At the store, I felt distant and floaty, as if I were underwater or had taken a sleeping pill. I pushed the cart slowly, feeling disconnected and yet wondering how many others around me were experiencing the same sadness, the same sense of muted rage. Back home, we went about our day. I stayed away from the news and social media.
After dinner and washing and pajamas, we went outside to say goodnight to the moon. We’ve missed it lately, either because of its newness or the weather or some unnecessary urgency. But last night the moon shone through the window and Lucy beckoned me to the front door to take her outside, into the darkness. I held her up, and she craned and reached toward that glowing rock, joyful and amazed. The world is so magical in her eyes. I need to keep that wonder alive for her as long as I can, to glow for her, reflecting her glory like the moon shines by the sun. She is my sun.
I am uncertain of the future, but what I know is that right now I need to be strong and hopeful–for my sake and for Lucy’s. I need to love her and teach her to love–and to care. We have entered into a strange time, and it is hard not to feel alone and angry and impotent. It doesn’t help, though, feeling like that. It doesn’t make it better.
So her daddy and I will teach her to love. We will teach her to be proud and to believe in herself. We will teach her to look out for those who need help. We will teach her that the world is much bigger than herself.
We will also teach her hard truths, about injustice and prejudice and power. Not to scare or embitter her, but because she needs to know. I don’t want her to be knocked down by somebody else’s blindness or bigotry; knowledge is the best armor we can give her.
Most importantly, we will teach her to see goodness in the world. In people, in nature, in art and music, in experiences: see the good. Reflect it–glow from it–so that others notice, too. Use it as a shield when the world feels menacing.
I hope that this election, which stunned so many, will ignite conversations, actions, and movements that bring healing to communities across the country. I hope that instead of further distancing and alienating ourselves from our neighbors, we seek ways to connect and to fight back, peacefully, for the good we believe in. Perhaps these connections and conversations and actions and movements and fights will be the good that comes out of this mess. We will have to wait and see.
In the meantime, I will watch the moon with Lucy.
My baby turned ONE!
It happened so fast, just like that man at the grocery store warned us it would. The last three months have felt like someone pushed fast forward and sped us up, so that now, at this pause, we are breathless, tired, and exhilarated. We made it.
I’ll get to her day in a minute, but first I need some space to stash a few milestones and memories, so that when it’s my turn to give condescending advice to young mothers, I can say smugly and with confidence, “Well, my daughter didn’t crawl until she was almost 11 months, but then she she started walking less than a month later!” while they nod kindly, and murmur, “Mm-hmm,” just like I do now. I understand why they say things like that, in those tones, the veteran mothers. It’s pride and love and enthusiasm for their children, so I don’t mind. But I am always surprised that they remember so clearly. I worry that I won’t. I can’t remember who won the Super Bowl or the World Series from year to year, so maybe I’ll forget Lucy’s stats, too. And really, it doesn’t matter, but I’d like to try to hold on to them–for her, at least, if nothing else, because I’m sure she’ll want to know.
So. She started crawling shortly before the 11-month mark. My sister Maddy was enticing her with a dog-gnawed, slobber-damp tennis ball on the floor at my parents’ house, and Lucy was pretty keen on getting her hands and/or mouth on it. Scooting and army-crawls ensued. A few days later, she started crawling at home, beelining for cords, outlets, sharp corners, and choking hazards, and getting faster by the minute.
She started pulling herself up on the furniture next, first on the couch and in her crib, then on low tables and windowsills.
(If you are the Mommy Police, please forgive the mobile in that first picture. I didn’t realize she could pull it down on her head, until she did, and then I saw that it was intended “FOR BIRTH TO FIVE MONTHS ONLY.” Oops.)
Cruising came next, slowly at first as she gingerly moved from chair to ottoman, then faster as she became more sure of herself, and finally flying around the perimeter of the living room, coasting smoothly from one handhold to the next. And then, all of a sudden, she let go! She stood there, balancing, clapping, waiting. Mike and I watched, frozen, as she took one step and then a couple more before falling back onto to the carpet with a bump and a giggle. These miraculous steps happened on Tuesday, four days before her birthday on Saturday. Wednesday was my last day of school, for the summer and for the next year because I am taking leave to be just a mama for a while. We made it.
Now it is summer, warm and easy. I’ve been waiting for this time, waiting for the stress and work and worry of teaching to release me so that I can turn my whole focus on home and family. Waiting for Lucy to be one, so we can get on with the business of toddling. I am so happy. She is happy. Mike is happy. It feels as though our whole house has taken a giant sigh of relief. We made it.
We had tickets to the Mariners game on Lucy’s birthday, June 25, but as we got closer to the day, that seemed like the wrong activity for a baby’s first birthday. So we gave them away and went to the zoo instead. Lucy loved it, as we knew she would. She smiled at the gorillas, howled with the lemurs, and crooned at the giraffes. The rainbow-colored tropical birds delighted her, and the wiggly brown otters made her laugh. We bought her a stuffed tiger at the gift shop, and she hugged and kissed it until she fell asleep on the way home.
For dinner, we had salmon and lentils with roasted cauliflower (one of her faves), followed by vanilla cupcakes. She ate it up, proudly using a small fork and spoon that belonged to my sister; my mom had pulled them out of the curio chest last time we visited her. She was too tired to open her presents that night, so she went to bed and slept like an angel.
She opened gifts the next day, some from us and some from her grandparents and aunties. She loved them all: the baby doll, the blocks, the toy lawnmower, the mini trike, the zoo puzzle that makes sounds, the dump truck with drivers, the stuffed narwhal. Each morning now, when I bring her out of her room to greet the day, she giggles and points and wriggles toward her birthday loot.
So it was a great success, birthday number one. Lucy is not a baby anymore. I didn’t cry, like I thought I might, at such an important and bittersweet transition. She is such a bright and cheery light, one that is much too strong to let sadness linger very long. And now we will move on, into the summer, with walks and talks and trike rides ahead. Days at the beach and baseball games and popsicles and sprinklers. We made it.
Birthday Dinner (Pan-seared Salmon with Braised Lentils)
adapted from Cooks Illustrated – serves 4; or 2 adults and a toddler, with leftovers
2 tbsp butter, divided
1/2 bunch Swiss, red, or rainbow chard – stems and leaves separated, stems chopped and leaves cut into 1/2-inch ribbons
1/4 cup finely chopped onion
1 clove garlic, minced
1 big pinch dried thyme
2 cups chicken stock or water
1/2 cup lentils
1/2 tsp lemon juice
salt and pepper
4 salmon fillets, skinned
1 tsp oil
This is a one-pan recipe, so choose a wide-bottomed, heavy skillet that is big enough to fit all of your salmon fillets.
Melt 1 tbsp butter over medium heat. Sauté the chard stems and onion until soft, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and thyme and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add 1-3/4 cup broth, lentils, and lemon juice. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, cover, and simmer until the lentils are tender to your liking, 30-45 minutes. Taste and season with salt and pepper. Transfer the lentils to a bowl and cover to keep warm.
Wipe the pan clean. Pat salmon dry and season with salt and pepper. Heat oil over medium-high heat. Add salmon, skinned side up, and cook until browned and fillet releases easily from the pan. This takes five minutes or so. The flesh should be opaque to a point about halfway up the fillet. Carefully flip the fillets and continue cooking on the other side for 3-5 minutes. Transfer to a plate and tent with foil to keep warm.
Finish the lentils by transferring them back to the pan. Add remaining 1/4 cup of broth and cook until hot. Add the chard leaves and remaining butter. Stir until chard is wilted, about 3 minutes. Taste, season, and serve topped with salmon fillets.
As I sit down to write this post, having finished brushing my teeth, washing dishes, contemplating dinner, doing laundry, stewing prunes, remembering to refill my water glass, remembering to actually drink my water, remembering to pee, roasting cauliflower, and taking the trash out, I know Lucy will wake from her nap at any moment. It’s just how it goes–there is never enough time.*
When Lucy is awake, I want to play with her. Sometimes she amuses herself on the floor while I work or cook or clean, but mostly we read or dance or practice crawling or go on outings. And so I pick and choose how to spend her napping hours and try not to worry about what doesn’t get done. I know I need a certain level of cleanliness (it’s not high) before I can focus on writing or school, so I always do the dishes and try to keep the laundry moving. And preparing finger food for her is fun for me, so I usually do that, too. By the time I am done it’s time for her to be up again.
As much as I had hoped to have this blog be a weekly activity, it’s not turning out to be. There’s so much to do! I hope I remember the feel of these days–the soothing routine, the fullness–when I reread these entries at some hazy point in the future, when Lucy is grown and independent and I am starving for memories of her baby days. I hope I don’t wish I’d written more. I hope I can remind myself that the reason I didn’t is that we were too busy getting to know each other and learning to navigate the curves and the corners of our new life. These things take time, and we’ve already noted how little of that there is.
Lucy is 10 months old now. She is a riot. She points to what she wants. She loves animals, especially dogs. She waves. She dances anytime she hears music. She makes ridiculous faces (gets that from me). She carries on conversations of grunts, snorts, whispers, and giggles. She scoots on her bottom and gets herself up on all fours. Sometimes she lunges forward from hands and knees and face-plants on the carpet. She walks so confidently when we hold her hands.
She squeezes and pats when she hugs, and she draws up her legs to curl against me as hard as she can. I find her sitting in her crib when she wakes at night, calling for, “Nah nah, nah nah.” It’s not quite mama, but it’s close enough and that’s what I hear.
She is so full of joy and light and love. I want so badly to nurture those qualities, to keep my worrying nature out of the way of her growth and happiness. Out of the way of my happiness, too, and Mike’s. Worry is my devil. If I’m not worried about something, my overactive mind will find a reason to be. I go around all clenched up and intense, wanting to control what I can’t. It’s always been like that for me, and now, with a baby…yikes. It’s a whole new level. And it makes me mad, actually, because I know how lucky I am to live the life I do. I don’t suffer real worries, so I make them up because I feel I don’t deserve all the goodness I have. UGH. I am rolling my eyes at myself as I type.
Slowly, though, I think, I am starting to let go and believe that things will be okay. I mean, I still spend far too much time googling things like “solid food baby poop consistency” (and clicking on images, ew). But I also have many moments of calm assuredness that all is well. It’s okay that the house is a mess most of the time. It’s okay that I spend hours doing nothing more productive then staring at my kid in awe. It’s okay that Lucy doesn’t always get as much sleep as she should. It’s okay that she loves to watch TV. It’s okay for her to eat real food.
Maybe it’s because there’s no time to waste on worry (what with the dishes and the playing and all), or maybe it’s a lack of sleep dulling my imagination. Maybe it’s Lucy and her joy and new tricks. Maybe it’s Mike and his patience and love. Whatever it is, I’ll try to let it carry me for awhile. She is okay. We are okay. Better than okay, truthfully…just as we should be.
*For the record, this post was written over three nap times and two days.
Lucy’s Lasagne
This lasagne was the first unadulterated grown-up food that we offered to Lucy. She has had plenty of plain bits of whatever we are eating (and maybe the occasional french fry or bite of wedding cake slipped to her by her father), but this was the first real meal that I simply mushed up and plopped down in front of her–cheese, salt, and all. She loved it. And I didn’t worry.
Ingredients
4 cups tomato or marinara sauce. (I used this lovely, simple recipe from the wonderful blog, Orangette. It made about 2 cups. Next time I will double it.)
1 tbsp olive oil
1 lb ground beef, pork, sausage, or a combination. (I used 1/2 pound ground beef and 1/2 pound mild Italian sausage)
15 oz ricotta cheese
1 lb spinach, cooked, chopped, and drained
16 oz ball of mozzarella cheese, shredded and divided
1/2 cup shredded parmesan cheese, plus extra for topping
1 lb package of oven-ready lasagne noodles (the dry kind that you don’t have to cook first)
Salt and pepper
Directions
Prepare tomato sauce if making from scratch. The recipe I used took about an hour.
Preheat oven to 375º. Heat oil in a skillet over medium heat. Brown the meat. Taste and season with salt and pepper if needed. Set aside.
In a large bowl, combine the ricotta cheese, half of the shredded mozzarella, 1/2 cup of parmesan cheese, and the chopped spinach. Mix well and adjust for seasoning. Set aside.
Butter or oil a large 9×13 baking pan. Reserve a cup of tomato sauce and set aside. Spread 3/4 cup tomato sauce over the bottom of the pan. Add a layer of lasagne noodles. Three noodles laid across the pan fit perfectly for me; they expand in the oven as they soak up moisture from the sauce. Layer 3/4 cup tomato sauce over the noodles. Spread 1/4 (not 1/4 cup, but 1/4 of the whole bowl) of the ricotta mixture over the sauce, followed by a sprinkle of mozzarella cheese and a 1/3 of the browned meat. Repeat noodle, sauce, ricotta, mozzarella, and meat layers two more times. For the final layer, arrange noodles across the top of the last meat addition. Top with reserved sauce, remaining ricotta mixture, any remaining mozzarella, and extra grated parmesan.
Cover with foil and bake at 375º for 30 minutes. Remove foil and bake for 5 more minutes to brown the top. You can also assemble the lasagne ahead of time and keep it refrigerated for up to a day before baking it. It will take about twice as long to cook.
I have come to that place in motherhood where it is all starting to go so fast. Lucy and I were at the grocery store (our second home), and the nice grandpa at the fish counter asked how old she was and then warned me, twinkling as he skinned our piece of ling cod, “Oho…things are going to start happening.” I know what he means. I feel like we are in the eye of a storm, waiting and holding our breath for the torrent of walking, talking, climbing, fit-throwing, head-bumping, hand-waving, and kiss-blowing that is coming. There are signs it has already begun. Lucy claps with open hands now, and laughs with joy when we follow suit. She spots funny-looking faces of characters, animals, and people wherever we go. She stares and giggles, waiting for us to notice what she sees and then wriggles her whole body with pride when we acknowledge whatever it is. That clever trick landed us with WAY too many toys for a 9-month-old’s Easter basket.
She has also learned to give voice to her opinions, and sometimes her vehemence shocks me. She locks up her knees when I try to sit her on the carpet because she’d rather stand. She writhes and twists on the changing table and would simply prefer to be naked all the time. She expresses dislike for Brussels sprouts by carefully pincering individual bits and dropping them onto the floor. She is a force.
A week ago today, we celebrated my beautiful sister Maddy’s bachelorette party. (She married dear Rick, her second-grade crush, this past Saturday in the sweetest and most genuine ceremony one could hope for.) We started the bachelorette day with brunch at my mom’s house. I had taken the day before off work to shop for ingredients, cut up fruit, and bake quiches, bread puddings, and muffins. I love a day like that, full of preparation, although I had never done it with a baby in tow. No matter, I figured. Lucy is so agreeable that it will be totally fine. And it was fine, with a few adjustments:
She let me know, in no uncertain fashion, that she was too interested in the goings-on to play or nap. So she helped instead.
Quiche for a Lady Party
adapted from allrecipes.com
I make this quiche for dinner often. The leftovers are good for lunch. The basic recipe works with whatever fillings you have on hand: cooked ham or bacon, leek, mushroom, asparagus, and chard are some of my favorites (though probably not all mixed together). For the bachelorette’s brunch, I did one with ham and cheddar and the other with gruyere and artichoke hearts.
You will need:
One unbaked 9″ pie crust (I use this recipe.)
5 eggs
1 cup milk
1 cup cream
Pinch salt
Several grinds of black pepper
Dash nutmeg
3/4 cup grated cheese
Additional fillings of your choice
Prepare pie crust. After it has had some time to chill in the refrigerator, preheat oven to 425º. Roll out pie crust and place in pie pan. Lightly beat together eggs, milk, cream, salt, pepper, and nutmeg. Sprinkle cheese and any other fillings on the bottom of your crust. Carefully pour the egg mixture over the filling.
Bake for 15 minutes, then reduce the temperature to 350º and bake for an additional 25 minutes or more until the crust and top of the quiche are golden and the filling is set. I usually let mine go for at least 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. It will take a bit longer to cook if you have added lots of fillings. Allow to sit for 5-10 minutes before serving.
Sometime in the last few weeks, my baby turned into a kid. She’s a week shy of eight months old and is looking forward to getting her driver’s license, voting, and enjoying a cold beer. Last night I wrestled her into her jammies as she thrashed like a hooked salmon, and I was amazed at the change in her. Gone, it seems, is the serene little dove who laid about patiently, content to gaze at faces and light and shadows. She is ready to move, to go, to explore, to run and jump and dance and fly. Lucy is a raptor now, screeching and flapping and clawing. My god, the clawing! My poor chest is a connect-the-dots puzzle of red welts and scratches left where she has dug in her talons while she nurses. I think she’s trying to make the milk come faster so she can get on with more important things.
My sweet baby has changed, but I am not sad. This girl who’s here with us now is fabulously strong. She is curious and confident and cool. She likes to make us laugh. She gives fierce hugs and open-mouthed kisses. I loved who she was the day she was born, and I love who she is now. I will love who she is tomorrow and next year and in 20 years. I love that I must adapt and be agile to keep up with her. She makes me want to go, to explore, to run and jump and dance and fly.
She doesn’t want to miss a thing.
Along with her blossoming verve, she has developed a keen awareness of and interest in whatever Mike and I (and anyone else around) are up to. She sometimes cries when we leave, knowing now that we exist beyond her sight. She is probably irate at the thought that we are doing something fun without her. For the last several nights she has woken up just as dinner is ready and we are settling down to eat, no matter if she had been asleep for an hour or three. So I leave my plate on the table and go to her, receive those miracles of hugs and kisses, rock her and rub her back. I weather the weakening salmon flails and the rakish clawing that becomes soft pat-pats as she drifts back to sleep. Then I go eat my dinner with dear Mike, who has been waiting for me.
Last night I cooked risotto with mushrooms, to go with pork chops and salad. I was a symphony in the kitchen. I managed multiple meal components and timed everything just right so that it all finished at the same time. I am becoming a more efficient cook. I anticipated Lucy’s awakening as I took the pork chops out of the oven, wincing as I clanked the pan on the countertop. I mentally prepared for cold, gluey risotto. And you know what? She slept through dinner.
She keeps me on my toes, that one.
Risotto with mushrooms, thyme, and garlic
I have made this risotto with different types of mushrooms, depending on what’s in season. It’s a treat with chanterelles but also very good with sliced crimini or button mushrooms. This time I used some baby shiitakes that came in my produce box. They were small enough that I could sauté them whole and toss them into the risotto when it finished cooking.
For the basic risotto:
1 tbsp olive oil
1/2 of a large onion, diced
1 cup arborio rice
1/2 cup white wine
4-5 cups chicken stock, simmering in a pot on the stove
1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese
Salt to taste
For the mushrooms:
2 tbsp butter
1 lb mushrooms
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 sprigs fresh thyme
Salt to taste
Heat the oil in a large, heavy-bottomed skillet over medium heat. Sauté the onions until they are soft. Add the arborio rice and cook for a couple of minutes, until the rice is coated with oil and the individual grains are translucent at the ends. Add in the wine and cook, stirring, until all the liquid has been absorbed. Add 1 cup of stock and stir. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the liquid has been almost completely absorbed. Continue to add stock one cup at a time, stirring and cooking after each addition. This process of adding stock and cooking the rice takes about 30 minutes.
While you are working on the rice, start the mushrooms. Heat butter in a pan over medium heat. Add the mushrooms and sauté them until they are brown and soft. Add the garlic and thyme and cook about 30 seconds more. Taste and season with salt if need be. Set aside.
Taste the rice and see if the texture is to your liking. If it has too much bite, add a little more stock and continue to cook it. The risotto should be very loose and relaxed when it is done; it should sort of spread out languidly when you drag a spoon through the pan.
Take the risotto off the heat and stir in the parmesan cheese. Fold in the mushrooms, taste, season, and serve immediately.
The new year brings a strange mix of feelings. There is hope in the freshness, excitement in the not-knowing, and–for for me, always–melancholy in the ending. December closes out warm and cozy and full, and then January comes along feeling underfed and austere. The Christmas lights that glowed cheerily a few weeks ago are left up too long and now look cheap, tacky and forlorn. It rains. You can’t seem to get warm. If you’re like me, your eczema flares up and your hands crack and itch and bleed. We go back to school, to work, to reality, where we are supposed to set goals and get serious. January is not much fun.
There is, however, the whisper of renewal. It sneaks in with a subtlety that makes you wonder if you are imagining it. Each day starts to last just a little bit longer, and the sun feels a touch warmer when it shines. You notice a few more birds in the yard and buds on the lilacs and, in the nick of time, you remember that spring is coming. Spring, with its technicolor yards and cotton-ball clouds. All is not lost!
Each time Lucy does something new I feel the same happy-sadness I do with the coming of a new year. Happy because she is happy. And because she is healthy. Happy because I am so very proud of her. I am hopeful for her future. I am excited to get to know the person she will grow into. Sad, of course, because her babyness is fading. She is growing up so fast and I don’t want to let go or forget.
Mostly happy, though. Really, mostly happy.
Take, for instance, our recent forays into solid foods. As much as I love food and am looking forward to cooking and eating with Lucy, I was a little sad to offer her those first bites of bland rice cereal because they meant she was moving swiftly toward toddlerhood. But she has to grow up. And I was feeling guilty because she would watch Mike and I eat with such obvious interest. So, a few days shy of her half-birthday, we snapped a bib on her, and I mixed up a teensy amount of cereal in a little yellow bowl. She grabbed the spoon, licked it clean, and we were off on a new adventure. One more step forward for her and another small hurdle over for me.
And now we are having some fun. The sad, gruel-like rice cereal didn’t last long; she was not a fan, no matter which delicious puree of fruit or vegetable we added to it. So we have switched to oatmeal, and she laps it up. She loves squash, peas, pears, and prunes. She hasn’t made up her mind about green beans yet–she eats them but always looks unpleasantly surprised when she gets a mouthful. She likes to take a sloppy sip of water from her lion cup in between bites.
I have been using frozen produce for variety, but the most fun is making what I can for her out of the box of produce we get from Klesick Farms every week. So far, I have done roasted squash and steamed pears, each blended and strained after cooking. They come out silky-smooth, with intense color and flavor. I love that my baby will learn to eat what’s in season. I now find it hard to be patient as we introduce foods one at a time and wait the obligatory three days to check for allergic reaction. We have beets, parsnips, and sweet potatoes waiting to be tried. Soon it will be spring and then summer, and she’ll have peaches and spinach and berries and all sorts of good things.
Babies have to grow up. And January has to come. It is okay (I tell myself) to grieve the ending–just don’t get stuck there. Remember and rejoice in the promise of the spring that follows.
pruneandpear 