Category: food

The sweetest moments

First off, thank you. It can be scary to put yourself out there, even if only to friends and loved ones. I am working on being more vulnerable, more courageous, more open, and sharing my writing was a big step for me. Having you dear people respond to my efforts with love and kindness is a gift. So thank you, again and again.

I have come to deeply appreciate the notion of change, the promise that nothing we experience or feel is permanent. There is peace in realizing and accepting this truth. It is reassuring to know that the bad will pass, and it is comforting to know that the good will come again. This idea may be cliche–you know, nothing lasts forever–but the clarity of the concept is new to me and has brought about a much-needed sense of well-being.

I have always found the period of change from one season to the next to be particularly magical. I guess that’s because it’s easy to see the transformation during the in-between times, before the freshness wears off and we become accustomed to the feel of the days. There is new energy, shifting light, a difference in the way the air feels and smells. Now that it’s spring, Lucy and I go out into the yard every day to see what’s changing. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so giddy over each new sprout, bud, and bloom, so mesmerized by the movements of birds and snails and ladybugs.

I savor the change in my own awareness, too. The simplest experiences have become the sweetest moments. During treatment, I hated the sensation of the shower on my bald head; now, I love washing my hair, feeling it grow longer every week. During treatment, I was sensitive to the sun and could barely go outside without covering up in hats, sunglasses, long sleeves and SPF 50; now, I rejoice in the warm touch of sunshine on my skin. During treatment, I was restless at night and woke each morning thinking, “I have cancer. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit;” now, I sleep soundly. And I wake up to snuggles with Lucy and excitement for each new day. I love feeling healthy and strong, free of pain and nausea, calm and content. I realize that I wouldn’t know how good all this feels if I didn’t have the darker days of treatment for reference–and I find myself thankful for everything I have been through.

Often, when people hear my cancer story, they tell me, “But you’re so young!” Too young for serious illness, too young to be thinking about mortality. But we all know this disease doesn’t discriminate. And really, there is an upside to being diagnosed at a relatively early age: I get to move forward in life with a changed perspective, with gratitude for every single today and the small beauties each one brings. I like myself better than I did before cancer. I have more patience. I judge less. I don’t worry about much anymore. I am happier. How strange that something life-threatening should give me such freedom to live.

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In celebration of change, here are two recipes that transform vegetables I consider rather dull–radishes and beets–into something I am excited to eat. Roasting the radishes mellows out their spiciness, and pickling the beets cuts through some of their earthy sweetness. These are very loose recipes, which is how I like best to cook. You can adjust the quantities of the ingredients to your liking.

 

Roasted Radishes
adapted from thekitchn.com

Ingredients:

Radishes, trimmed and washed
Olive oil or avocado oil
Sea salt
Lime wedges and chopped cilantro for garnish (optional)

Directions:

Preheat oven to 425°. Cut radishes in half crosswise. Toss radishes with oil and salt to taste. Place radishes cut-side down in a cast-iron skillet or other heavy baking sheet or pan. Roast for 10-15 minutes, until the white parts of the radishes start to turn brown and the skins begin to wrinkle. Toss with a little more salt, a squeeze of lime juice, and a sprinkle of chopped cilantro.

Pickled Beets
inspired by my dad, who has always been a big fan of beets

Ingredients:

Cooked beets, peeled and sliced into 1/4-inch rounds
Vinegar (I like white, red wine, or apple cider vinegar)
Water
Garlic gloves, crushed
Herbs and spices to taste (I like dill weed and mustard seed)
Salt to taste

Directions:

Mix together equal parts vinegar and water, enough to cover your beets, in a bowl or large, wide-mouthed canning jar. Add a couple of cloves of crushed garlic, along with whatever herbs and spices you like and a couple of pinches of salt. Stir well to dissolve the salt. Add the sliced beets to this mixture, cover tightly, and store in the refrigerator.

Signs of life

I have never wanted anything so badly.

The days leading up to the meeting with my oncologist, to the appointment where I would find out whether or not all of my treatments had worked, were fraught with a weirdly anxious excitement. I was hopeful. I expected to hear good news. But I was afraid, too. My husband was nervous. Our families and friends were encouraging and optimistic, but I know they were worried. So much hinging on this brief visit.

Waiting for the doctor was torture. My pulse and blood pressure were wildly elevated. I stared at the scuffed tile floor, hands clasped, tapping the toes of my boots back and forth. I had received a lot of bad news in rooms like that over the past fourteen months. Mike rubbed my back with one hand, pulled at his hair with the other. As the minutes ticked by, I started to really worry. Surely, if everything were fine, he’d be in here by now? And then, footsteps, a knock, and it was time.

A curt greeting, a half smile, then,”Your blood pressure spiked. What’s going on?” A joke. Was that a joke? Ohmygodohmygod please just tell me I’m okay. “Your CT scan, it looks okay.” I didn’t say anything. My expression must have been disbelieving. He handed me the report. “Look at it. It’s okay.”

Sheer relief, a flood of it. Tears. Laughter. “Really? It’s okay? Really?” I took the report, read the words: no convincing pulmonary metastases, no abdominal or pelvic metastases. Just some radiation-related inflammatory changes in my lungs and a hairline fracture in my hip bone. No cancer. No cancer. Stage 4, no evidence of disease. The best we could have hoped for.

I hugged my doctor, kissed Mike, sent the text to my family: “ALL CLEAR!!!!” We discussed next steps. I will finish my year of Herceptin infusions (only two more to go!) I will stay on the estrogen-blocking pill, Tamoxifen, indefinitely. I will get my port removed. I will have reconstructive surgery. I will have another scan in six months. I will be vigilant of symptoms of recurrence. I will look after my whole self, body, mind, and spirit.

I floated out of the room, feeling released and rinsed clean. For the first time in over a year, I could breathe, fully and deeply, without feeling the constriction of anxiety across my chest. I was euphoric. And very tired.

I know there is a chance my cancer will return some day. But there is also a chance it won’t. Having this opportunity to reset has given me a tremendous boost of hope, confidence, and purpose. I am eager to move forward, to live with awareness and courage and gratitude. Spring is here. The garden is waking up. Signs of life are everywhere, within and around me. I can think and act with new clarity. I can remember life before cancer without regret. I dare to be excited to see my baby girl grow up. I have been so afraid of missing that.

I am also yearning to tell my story. This experience is life-changing, and it can feel very lonely. I am luckier than many; I have support, insurance, education, and privilege. But I am no more deserving of health, happiness, and well-being than anyone else. If I can offer hope and encouragement to someone who needs it, that would well be worth the discomfort of vulnerability that comes from sharing something so personal.

Life is funny; I am frequently tickled by its uncanny quirks and coincidences. Cancer was certainly not on my radar when I came up with the title for this blog. I chose it because I liked the ring it had and because prunes and pears were two of of my daughter’s favorite foods. I still like the sound of the alliteration, and Lucy still likes prunes and pears, but now I also connect those words to growth and healing. Pruning a rosebush of diseased or unproductive branches redirects energy towards buds and new growth. Paring a vegetable removes the dull, tough outer skin, revealing something vibrant, tender, and full of vitality. I feel as though I have been pruned and pared, my sickness and fear cut away, my energy redirected toward something much more positive. I can feel it happening, in a tingly, magical way. I am ready to heal, from the inside out. I am ready to grow and bloom and shine.

Celebration Supper: Tandoori Chicken with Saffron Rice and Lentil Salad

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Ever since finishing chemo, I have been enjoying cooking and eating with new intention. I will admit to a victory martini following my happy results. (I mean, come on. A girl has to celebrate.) But then I got back to work and cooked the kind of meal I have come to crave, one full of international flavors and rich in cancer-fighting ingredients. Interestingly, though not surprisingly, cancer rates are lower in countries like India and Japan and Greece, places where people are more likely to be eating traditional dishes instead of the highly processed foods that makes up much of the American diet. It makes sense to model our eating habits after those of some of the healthier parts of the world if we want to live healthier lives. Eating this way happens to taste really good, too.

Broiled Tandoori Chicken
adapted from How to Cook Everything, by Mark Bittman
serves 3-6, depending on how hungry the people you are feeding might be

I have used this marinade on various cuts of chicken, as well as on tofu. It is bright and flavorful and full of anti-inflammatory goodness. It comes together fast in a food processor or blender, but you could also mince or grate the onion, garlic, and ginger and then stir everything together by hand. You could probably substitute coconut milk for the yogurt, too, if you wanted to avoid dairy.

Ingredients:

1 cup organic yogurt, preferably grass-fed
1 small onion, peeled and cut into chunks
2 cloves garlic, peeled
1 inch-long piece of fresh ginger, peeled
2 tsp maple syrup
2 Tbsp lemon or lime juice
1 Tbsp ground cumin
1 tsp ground coriander
1 tsp ground turmeric
1/4 tsp cayenne
1 tsp sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
6 organic bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs
Lime wedges and chopped cilantro for garnish

Add yogurt, onion, garlic, maple syrup, lemon or lime juice, cumin, coriander, turmeric, cayenne, salt, and a grind or two of black pepper to a food processor or blender. Process until smooth. Give it a taste adjust the seasoning. Put chicken in a shallow pan or a large plastic freezer bag and pour the marinade over it to coat evenly. Let the chicken marinate in the refrigerator for as long as possible, ideally for several hours or even overnight.

Set an oven rack about 6 inches from the broiler. Preheat the broiler on low (or medium if you have that setting; my oven has only high and low). Remove the chicken from the pan or bag and wipe most of the marinade off so it doesn’t burn. Place the chicken skin-side down in a cast-iron or other heavy, broiler-safe pan. When the broiler is hot, pop the chicken in the oven and broil it for 20 minutes. After 20 minutes, flip the thighs over and continue cooking until the skin is golden-brown and crispy and the juices run clear, about 12 minutes more–but keep an eye on it so it doesn’t blacken. Serve over rice, garnished with lime wedges and chopped cilantro. I especially like this over saffron rice.

Note: Like I said, you can do this with other cuts of chicken or even tofu. You will just need to adjust the cooking time. If you use a boneless cut of chicken, gently pound the meat  to uniform thickness before marinating it. With boneless pieces–or with tofu–you will also be able to shorten the marinade time to as little as 30 minutes.

 

Mediterranean Lentil Salad
adapted from The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen, by Rebecca Katz (Seriously…just buy this cookbook. It’s wonderful.)

I love Greek salad. This dish has all those flavors plus the protein boost from lentils. The original recipe calls for cucumber; I didn’t have one, so I used a small zucchini instead, and it worked great. You could add some diced tomato, too.

Ingredients:

1 cup dried lentils, rinsed and drained
1 clove garlic, smashed and peeled
1/2 tsp dried oregano
Sea salt
2 bay leaves
1 cinnamon stick
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Zest and juice of 1 lemon
1 tsp minced garlic
1/2 tsp ground cumin
Freshly ground pepper
1 red bell pepper, diced
1 small cucumber or zucchini, diced
1/4 cup pitted Kalamata olives, sliced
3 Tbsp chopped fresh mint
3 Tbsp chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
Crumbled feta cheese, organic if possible, for garnish

Combine the lentils, smashed garlic, oregano, 1/2 tsp of salt, bay leaves, and cinnamon stick in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to medium-low, cover, and simmer for 20 minutes. Taste the lentils; if they are too al dente, simmer for an additional 5 minutes or until tender. Drain the lentils and discard the cinnamon stick and bay leaves.

In a medium bowl, make the dressing: whisk together the olive oil, lemon zest and juice, minced garlic, cumin, 1/2 tsp of salt, and a few grinds of pepper (you can do this while the lentils are cooking). Taste and adjust seasoning. Add the warm lentils to the dressing, toss to combine, and refrigerate for 20 minutes.

Take the lentils out of the refrigerator and stir in the red pepper, cucumber (or zucchini), olives, mint, and parsley. Taste and adjust seasoning. Sprinkle with crumbled feta. This salad is even better the next day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There will be rainbows

I have been thinking a lot about hope. Hope is where I live right now, but my shelter is fragile. Fear comes calling often, and so do doubt and grief and worry and anger and pain. And there are cracks in the walls and leaks in the ceiling that I must constantly mend. Some days they are easy to patch and others, not so much. With an important post-treatment CT scan looming on my horizon, my battle between hope and fear is raging.

I have a tendency to expect the worst–or at least, to not expect the best. It is one of my most trusted defensive plays; by expecting the worst, maybe the disappointment will sting less. The problem is that I sacrifice opportunities for joy, surprise, and delight. I fail to see the power I have as the author of my own life. I get too caught up in grim possibilities to recognize what is good and wonderful right now. I am working on that.

A few weeks ago, Lucy and I were on the road to my mom’s, heading down the freeway on a typically gray February day. Eyes straight ahead, I drove on, aware of the cars around me but pretty much on autopilot, having made that same trip countless times. I was jolted out of reverie by a sudden exclamation from Lucy in the backseat.

“There’s a RAINBOW, Mommy!”

I glanced over, expecting a faint swath of color or some reflection in the window. (She has no difficulty finding wonder in the most ordinary things. She makes friends out of scraps of paper. She thinks dust motes are beautiful.) Instead, I was startled and amazed to see a perfect, full arc stretching across the sky. It was complete, vibrant from end to end, each color equally strong. It was the most beautiful rainbow I have ever seen, and I almost missed it. I’m so thankful for the eyes and heart of my brilliant daughter. I am grateful for the way she sees the world and shares the magic she finds. She teaches me to notice and appreciate life and to be excited about it. What a remarkable gift at a time like this.

I hold on to these moments, these sparks, with more care and tenderness than I used to. I am learning I can change, that maybe those fatalistic tendencies are not my true nature. I am finding that I believe in magic and miracles and signs and meaning. This cancer journey has released my spiritual world, a world that has always lived in my heart but which my rational mind has been shy, ashamed even, to embrace.

I am learning to change my perspective, to soften and bend and be vulnerable. To give way to hope, to let it fill me with light and comfort and ease. To forgive. To really love, unconditionally, and without expectation. To let go of guilt and resentment and bitterness towards myself and others. It feels good. And though I struggle every day to keep the fire going, to strengthen it, to believe in it, I am shifting toward a truer peace and happiness than I have ever felt before. The battle is raging, but hope is winning. She is stronger than fear. She can outlast.

My scan will come and go. It will be good to have it over with, no matter the results. I have found it is better to know than to sit with uncertainty in these situations. And there will be more scans and tests and anxious moments in my future. There will also be plenty of other worries and fears that are not related to my own personal health. But there will be rainbows, too, lots of them. I just need to notice.

Rainbow Soup, aka minestrone
adapted from The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen by Rebecca Katz

I acknowledge that I have been a big ball of emotions in my last few posts, but I do intend to continue sharing recipes on this blog. I have learned a lot about the power of nutrition in strengthening the immune system and supporting the body’s ability to fight cancer and recover from treatment. Rebecca Katz’s fabulous cookbook has been life changing. I hope that some of the ideas I share here will inspire or help someone else who might be going through cancer treatment–or who just wants to cook and eat healthy, delicious food.

It has been very chilly in our neck of the woods lately, and I have been eating a lot of soup. This one is hearty, colorful, and full of flavor, especially when topped with basil-lemon pesto.

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Serves 4-6

Ingredients:

1/2 bunch Swiss or red chard, stems and leaves separated
2 tbsp olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
Sea salt
3 carrots, peeled and diced
2 stalks celery, diced
2 small or 1 medium zucchini, diced
1 tsp (or more!) minced garlic
1/2 tsp dried oregano
1/4 tsp dried thyme
1/4 tsp fennel seeds, crushed (Use a mortar and pestle or a rolling pin.)
Pinch red pepper flakes
8 cups vegetable or chicken stock
1 14-oz can tomatoes (Use tomatoes that are already crushed or diced, or get whole tomatoes and crush or roughly chop them.)
1 15-oz can red kidney beans, drained, rinsed and tossed with a little lemon juice and sea salt
1 cup shredded purple cabbage (about 1/4 of a small head)
4 oz short pasta (elbows, ditalini, rotini, etc), cooked and drained
1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley

Instructions:

Finely chop the chard leaves AND the stems. Set each aside separately. Heat the olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add onions and a pinch of salt and saute, stirring occasionally, until soft and slightly golden, about 5 minutes. Add the chopped chard stems, along with the carrots, celery, and zucchini. Saute for an additional 3 minutes. Add the garlic, oregano, thyme, fennel seeds, red pepper flakes, and a large pinch of salt, and saute until fragrant, about 30 seconds to 1 minute more. Add 1/2 cup of stock and deglaze the pan, scraping up any brown bits and letting the liquid reduce by half.

Add the remaining 7 1/2 cups of stock, along with the tomatoes, beans, and cabbage. Bring the soup to a boil, then reduce the heat so it simmers gently and cook, uncovered, for 20 minutes.

Stir in the chopped chard leaves, along with another big pinch of salt. Cook for 3 minutes more or so, until the chard is slightly wilted. Add the pasta and parsley and stir. Taste, and adjust seasoning as needed.

Serve topped with Basil-Lemon Pesto (recipe follows) and grated Parmesan cheese.

Basil-Lemon Pesto
adapted from The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen by Rebecca Katz

1 cup loosely packed basil leaves
2 tbsp freshly-squeezed lemon juice
1 tsp lemon zest
1 clove garlic, crushed and peeled
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 cup walnuts
1/2 tsp sea salt

Place all ingredients in a food processor and process until the walnuts are very finely chopped and everything is blended well together. Taste and add salt or lemon juice if needed.

Life gets in the way

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.

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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.

We made it

My baby turned ONE!

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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.

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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.

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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.

Let it carry me

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.

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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.

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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.

She is a force

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.IMG_2863.jpg

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:

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Baby-wearing quiche-making mama

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.

Adapt and be agile

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.

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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.

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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.

 

Magic of the mundane

Having a baby around lets you see the world as a brand-new place. It is the coolest. Ordinary objects and events become utterly fascinating because I get to watch Lucy notice them for the first time. A candle’s flame shape-shifting in the quiet house, leaves fluttering in the breeze, hail tap-dancing against the car window, sunlight patterns glowing through the shutters, the snap-pop of a flag in a windstorm; these phenomena elicit the most wonderful reactions. Sometimes she gets very quiet and stares. Sometimes she laughs—a chuckle, a giggle, a chortle. Sometimes she turns her head back and looks at me with her bright eyes and delighted smile: “Do you see that? Please tell me you see that.” She makes magic of the mundane.

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Thanks to Lucy, I have found myself experiencing a joy that I had almost forgotten. I have been uncovering memories bit-by-bit, like peeling wallpaper. Suddenly, I feel more alive, more hopeful, and my heart beats in anticipation like it used to when I would turn over beach rocks at low tide to discover tiny tidal worlds of sand crabs and snails. I realize that I pushed away the child I was, reinventing myself, as we do, trying to be Somebody but not finding the satisfaction that I so desperately sought. It is refreshing, cleansing, and freeing to remember the things I used to love so much and to feel so completely unashamed in reclaiming them as mine. Books and stories, songs, hobbies (I used to sew! I used to paint! I used to make collages and paper flowers!). I feel as if I have been born anew alongside Lucy, given new innocence, or at least a reprieve from concern over the judgments of others—and this feeling is an unexpected and welcome gift. I feel light. I feel happy.

My 36th birthday was a couple of weeks ago. It was a Tuesday, and I had to work. Mike had a late-night poetry class and a lot on his mind. He forgot to tell me happy birthday. I got a text from my mom that made me cry. I got a headache from my students. It was kind of a shitty day. I felt sorry for myself for a while, and then I got home, and Lucy laughed and pretty soon Mike came home and gave me a hug and everything was mostly okay again. Except that no one made me a cake. I was about to forgo the festivity, to wallow in just a little more self-pity, but then I decided: no. I wanted a birthday cake. I wanted carrot cake. So I made it myself! What a delicious relief to do as I pleased.

Darling Carrot Cake
adapted from The Joy of Eating, by Renny Darling

This cake is one of those sense-memories. I forgot about it, until I remembered it. And then no other recipe would do. Its secret weapon is cream cheese not only in the frosting, but in the cake itself. This touch makes the cake dense and moist in the best way possible.

For the cake:
2 cups flour
2 cups sugar
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg (freshly grated is best)
4 eggs
1 1/2 cups canola oil
1/2 lb cream cheese, softened
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 cup chopped walnuts
3 cups shredded carrots

Preheat oven to 350º. Butter and flour two 9-inch round cake pans. Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg in a bowl and set aside. Beat together eggs, oil, cream cheese, and vanilla in a large mixing bowl. Gradually add the dry mixture, beating after each addition, until batter is smooth. Stir in walnuts and carrots. Pour into cake pans. Bake for 40-45 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool the cakes in the pan for 10 minutes, and then remove them to a wire rack to cool completely. Frost with cream cheese frosting.

For the frosting:
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, softened
1/2 lb cream cheese, softened
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 lb sifted powdered sugar

Beat together butter, cream cheese, and vanilla. Add the sugar gradually (so that it doesn’t puff up in a huge sugar cloud all over your kitchen), and beat frosting until smooth and creamy.

 

The spring that follows

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.

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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.