Today was Valentine's Day. I generally like Valentine's Day as a holiday, despite the social pressure to be in love and do something incredibly romantic with your sweetie (or, better yet, have your sweetie do something incredibly romantic FOR you). Anyway, I'm all about the cookies and the Valentines and the chocolates, and telling people that you love them. All good stuff.
But today was a rough day. It started at about 1:00am, with Martin's phone ringing very loudly (wrong number). Phone rang loudly again at 5:00am (Martin's alarm clock), followed by my phone ringing two hours later at 7:00am (my alarm clock). Peter, who crept into our bed some time before the first wake-up call, slept through all of this, thank god. But I, sandwiched between a snoring, wriggling child and a fat, hot, furry cat, did not.
Thankfully, I managed to get Peter to pre-school at a respectable time for once, although I was unable to persuade him to eat any breakfast besides the candy stick and candy bug I had gotten him for Valentine's Day. He was a little keyed up when we arrived. Sorry, pre-school. I showed up again an hour after I had dropped him off, just in time for the Valentine's Day party. It took me about an hour and a half of waiting for the other parents to arrive to realize that the party was for kids only. Well, at least I got to meet some of Peter's little buddies, and help the teachers out with some of the party games. Yes, I was embarrassed.
In the afternoon, my thoughts turned to how I might make this evening special for Peter and me. My dear husband is away in San Francisco tonight, so champagne followed by a wild night in downtown Nevada City was out of the question. For me, special equals fabulous dessert, but Peter had already ingested WAY more sugar than he was used to, so I crossed that idea off as an invitation to disaster. Going with the food as love theme, I did, however, make the effort to prepare a delicious dinner for the two of us, from a favorite recipe that I found on a fellow mama's blog: Teriyaki salmon with vegetables and brown/wild rice, topped with a spicy yogurt sauce and Asian slaw. Mmmmmm. Lots of garlic.
Later in the afternoon, I checked the mail box, in hopes of finding a cheery red envelope from someone who loves me, or at least loves Peter, but all I found was a package for Martin (no doubt containing some sort of airplane part) and a letter from our insurance company. Not very romantic.
Just before leaving to pick up Peter, my day started to look up. A very sweet woman dropped off a lovely bunch of flowers from my dear husband. Awwww. Sadly, the warm fuzzy feeling didn't last.
We arrived home from pre-school and brought Valentines and cookies to our neighbors. The husband was preparing oysters Rockefeller and steak for his beautiful wife. That sounded pretty good to me. Back at our house, Peter wanted attention: "Mom, play with me!" So we sat, and opened Valentines from pre-school, for about a minute and a half, when his mood shifted: "Mom, go make dinner." Gee, thanks.
Peter is in a new stage, in which he offers a running commentary (almost always negative) on whatever it is he is doing. The commentary is interspersed with demands that range in tone from matter of fact to operatic. For instance, on the topic of our carefully and lovingly prepared dinner:
Peter: What this, mom?
Me: It's YUMMY salmon with delicious vegetables and rice! You love salmon.
Peter: I don't like this. I don't like salmon. I want milk. I want treat.
Me: You've had lots of treats already today, Peter. Try some salmon!
Peter: I don't like salmon. I don't like this. I don't like this, mom (dropping pieces of the $16.00/lb wild-caught salmon off the edge of his tray). I want milk.
Me: Please don't drop food on the floor. If you don't like it, just put it on your tray.
[Peter continues to drop pieces of salmon onto the floor.]
Me: Try some cauliflower -- it's like broccoli, but white.
Peter: I don't like cauliflower. I want all done, mom. I don't like this. I don't like salmon.
Me: [sigh of exasperation]
At this point I need to take a break and think of the things I am thankful for today:
1) Pre-school. Thank goodness for the competent, warm, loving group of women who take care of my son three days a week. It makes me a better mother.
2) A phone call from my parents. They still love me!
3) Flowers from my dear husband -- awww, he made an effort!
4) A text message from my friend Chris that came at just the right time. Yay!
5) And lastly, the e-cards that we received from Kristina, Dave and Beth, and Uncle Bill. It's the thought that counts -- thank you!
And now I hear noises coming from the refrigerator, which carry potential for much destruction and a very large mess. At least I get to spend the evening with someone I love more than anything. And a large glass of red wine.
Happy Valentine's Day everyone!
Monday, February 14, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Guest Post from Erika: Things that Start with a"B"
So it's been a while since I posted to this Blog. Call it holiday Busyness. Call it a Burst of inspiration to work on other things. Procrastination doesn't start with a "B", so it couldn't be that.
Peter is getting Bigger every day. Either that or his pants are really shrinking in the wash. Also pickier, more demanding. He may grow up to be Master of the Universe, he's getting some really good practice.
I've been on a "Save the Planet" kick lately. Between Bill McKibben's book "Eaarth" (not a typo) and the Wild and Scenic Film Festival, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to live in a post-petroleum world. The excellent film, "Bag It", really gave me pause about how many single-use disposables I throw into the landfill every day. See it -- you'll never look at a plastic bag the same way again. My unofficial New Year's Resolution to help the planet in my own tiny way: bring my own mug when I go to the coffee shop. And plant a vegetable garden. I haven't had a real garden in years. Chickens can't be too far behind, along with BEES. More research is necessary.
And speaking of research, I'm about to start my first Batch of sauerkraut, which does not start with a "B", but should be interesting anyway. I'll keep you posted.
What else starts with "B"? Breakfast! Peter has been eating nothing but yogurt, yogurt, and more yogurt for Breakfast lately. He calls it "wogurt". I've been reading about Bento Box lunches and making food attractive to toddlers, and today I cut a kiwi up and carefully placed it on the Bowl of yogurt in the shape of a smiley face. He picked off each piece and placed them on the side of his trays. "Don't like kiwi on wogurt." Thanks, kid. Last week I got a similar response to cute little gingerbread man-shaped almond butter and jam sandwiches. Maybe I'll go back to feeding him that grey,lumpy Super Porridge stuff. At least he got most of his nutrition for the day in that one Bowl.
It's not just food that he is picky about lately -- I am starting to see a glimmer of "fashionista" in the little guy. He prefer shirts with pictures of dinosaurs, helicopters, and hot dogs with mustard. He soundly rejects wide stripes, flannel, or anything with Buttons (narrow stripes are ok, so far). Will only wear a hat under duress. He prefers one pair of brown velcro-closure sneakers unless mommy lets him wear rain Boots, which are popular in all sorts of weather. And much to mommy's horror, he also prefers his Crocs in all sorts of weather, so maybe fashionista was the wrong word. At least he can put them on and take them off by himself -- they have that going for them.
He is also picky ("picky" might be the theme for this year!) about where and how fast he walks. We decided to go for a family jaunt in the woods yesterday. It started with questions: "Where we going?" Then, perhaps 100 feet into the walk, he decided he was done, turned around, and started walking back to the car. Martin retrieved him, and was rewarded with the latest tantrum pose: curled up on the ground, like an abandoned newborn kitten. I can't remember how Martin got him back on his feet, but moments later he was running full speed with a stick in his hand, terrorizing dogs and mountain bikers alike. That only lasted for a few minutes, and for the rest of the slog, he remained focused on Beating inanimate objects with sticks until one of us managed to cajole him another ten feet down the path. I think it took us an hour to go to the half-mile marker and back. So much for exercise.
There was one moment of cuteness that almost redeemed the rest of the walk -- something he learned from his new friend, Lindy. He spotted a "dancing stump" and immediately took the stage, dancing his little heart out on top of it. No music necessary. He even got dad to bust a few moves, much to the amusement of the other hikers. Bravo!
But I digress. This post was supposed to be about things that start with the letter "B" and "Peter" starts with a "P".
Bread. Did I mention that I can no longer get Acme Bread in Nevada City? I am very sad about this, because I have not found an acceptable alternative. I might even have to go back to Baking it myself, especially since I have just read about the proper way to bake with a clay cloche pot. (If you can get your hands on any book from the out of print "The Good Cook" cookbook series, buy it -- they are worth their weight in gold.) Luckily, dear friends Will and Cindy brought me a loaf of Acme Levain this weekend. It's in the freezer, awaiting a special occasion, along with the remaining Oatmeal Ginger Chocolate Dipped Christmas cookies.
Beep! The sound of the alarm telling me it's time to go pick up my Beloved Baby. Home-made spaghetti sauce for dinner tonight -- how could he turn up his nose at THAT?
Peter is getting Bigger every day. Either that or his pants are really shrinking in the wash. Also pickier, more demanding. He may grow up to be Master of the Universe, he's getting some really good practice.
I've been on a "Save the Planet" kick lately. Between Bill McKibben's book "Eaarth" (not a typo) and the Wild and Scenic Film Festival, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to live in a post-petroleum world. The excellent film, "Bag It", really gave me pause about how many single-use disposables I throw into the landfill every day. See it -- you'll never look at a plastic bag the same way again. My unofficial New Year's Resolution to help the planet in my own tiny way: bring my own mug when I go to the coffee shop. And plant a vegetable garden. I haven't had a real garden in years. Chickens can't be too far behind, along with BEES. More research is necessary.
And speaking of research, I'm about to start my first Batch of sauerkraut, which does not start with a "B", but should be interesting anyway. I'll keep you posted.
What else starts with "B"? Breakfast! Peter has been eating nothing but yogurt, yogurt, and more yogurt for Breakfast lately. He calls it "wogurt". I've been reading about Bento Box lunches and making food attractive to toddlers, and today I cut a kiwi up and carefully placed it on the Bowl of yogurt in the shape of a smiley face. He picked off each piece and placed them on the side of his trays. "Don't like kiwi on wogurt." Thanks, kid. Last week I got a similar response to cute little gingerbread man-shaped almond butter and jam sandwiches. Maybe I'll go back to feeding him that grey,lumpy Super Porridge stuff. At least he got most of his nutrition for the day in that one Bowl.
It's not just food that he is picky about lately -- I am starting to see a glimmer of "fashionista" in the little guy. He prefer shirts with pictures of dinosaurs, helicopters, and hot dogs with mustard. He soundly rejects wide stripes, flannel, or anything with Buttons (narrow stripes are ok, so far). Will only wear a hat under duress. He prefers one pair of brown velcro-closure sneakers unless mommy lets him wear rain Boots, which are popular in all sorts of weather. And much to mommy's horror, he also prefers his Crocs in all sorts of weather, so maybe fashionista was the wrong word. At least he can put them on and take them off by himself -- they have that going for them.
He is also picky ("picky" might be the theme for this year!) about where and how fast he walks. We decided to go for a family jaunt in the woods yesterday. It started with questions: "Where we going?" Then, perhaps 100 feet into the walk, he decided he was done, turned around, and started walking back to the car. Martin retrieved him, and was rewarded with the latest tantrum pose: curled up on the ground, like an abandoned newborn kitten. I can't remember how Martin got him back on his feet, but moments later he was running full speed with a stick in his hand, terrorizing dogs and mountain bikers alike. That only lasted for a few minutes, and for the rest of the slog, he remained focused on Beating inanimate objects with sticks until one of us managed to cajole him another ten feet down the path. I think it took us an hour to go to the half-mile marker and back. So much for exercise.
There was one moment of cuteness that almost redeemed the rest of the walk -- something he learned from his new friend, Lindy. He spotted a "dancing stump" and immediately took the stage, dancing his little heart out on top of it. No music necessary. He even got dad to bust a few moves, much to the amusement of the other hikers. Bravo!
But I digress. This post was supposed to be about things that start with the letter "B" and "Peter" starts with a "P".
Bread. Did I mention that I can no longer get Acme Bread in Nevada City? I am very sad about this, because I have not found an acceptable alternative. I might even have to go back to Baking it myself, especially since I have just read about the proper way to bake with a clay cloche pot. (If you can get your hands on any book from the out of print "The Good Cook" cookbook series, buy it -- they are worth their weight in gold.) Luckily, dear friends Will and Cindy brought me a loaf of Acme Levain this weekend. It's in the freezer, awaiting a special occasion, along with the remaining Oatmeal Ginger Chocolate Dipped Christmas cookies.
Beep! The sound of the alarm telling me it's time to go pick up my Beloved Baby. Home-made spaghetti sauce for dinner tonight -- how could he turn up his nose at THAT?
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Guest Post from Erika: I Love Living in a Small Town
We are having a holiday party on Sunday, and in preparing for it I have been frequenting the same stores two and sometimes three times in the same week (yes, yes, I am very organized in some ways, hopeless in others). There are very few "box stores" or chains in our little town, and so the stores I have been visiting are small and locally owned, and you can tell that they appreciate the business from the excellent customer service I have been experiencing, even at this crazy busy short-tempered time of year.
Here are some examples of my shopping experiences that I just can't picture happening in the big city or at a chain store. Ok, maybe they would at some place like Bi-Rite Market, but Bi-Rite is the exception to the rule in many ways.
Case Number One: Wreath purchase at Ben Franklin
As you may have read in my previous post, I am trying to exorcise my inner Martha Stewart, and decided recently to *purchase* a wreath (the horror!) instead of lovingly crafting one by hand from the cedars in our fire road (cedars were donated today to a Women's Shelter -- thanks Martin and Neil, for doing the heavy lifting). My, but I do digress. Back to my stellar purchasing experience. It was a small thing, but so appreciated.
Now that you know that I am the type of person not only to purchase a wreath, but to purchase a fake plastic wreath, I might as well admit that I got the kind with the pre-installed LED lights. This is our nod to Christmas lights on the house this year, as we are unable to find the ones we purchased six houses ago in Portland.
Time-crunched, I pleaded with the cashier at the wreath store (Ben Franklin) for batteries to power the lights on the wreath. In order to figure out what size I needed, she attempted to pry open the battery case on the wreath, to no avail. Another cashier came to assist and after considerable effort, she succeeded. Unfortunately they did not carry the correct size battery, but the sweet cashier offered to tape the battery case loosely back together so that I did not have to ruin my nails going through the same effort she did to pry the thing open. How thoughtful!
Case Number Two: Above and Beyond Copying Service at Country Copy
Country Copy knows me well. They did my holiday party invites (and even came up with cute red envelopes instead of the boring white ones I had found). They did my soap labels (and cut them to size, saving me a bunch of work). And now I was asking them to do my song books. Basically, I threw a bunch of song sheets at them and told them I wanted copies, kind of like a little book.
When I came to pick up the copies (a full day early), not only had they folded them into nice little booklets, they found the perfect cover art and text and created little covers for them (no extra charge). I love these people!!! I'm sorry, but this really would NEVER happen at Kinko's.
Case Number Three: The Hunt for Star Anise at SPD Market
I saved the best for last. In another time-saving effort, I was trying to purchase all of the party supplies at one market. Ok, two markets, but only one *grocery store* (the ham is coming from the German deli). I found everything I needed at trusty SPD (and ran into the one requisite acquaintance while I was at it -- you can't shop at SPD without seeing someone you know). Everything that is, except star anise. A little-used spice, but an essential one for my favorite mulled wine as well as my Christmas morning citrus salad in star anise simple syrup.
I asked the nice ladies in the deli, and they didn't think SPD had it, but told me to look in the spice section (which I had just torn apart) and the bulk section (which I was 99% sure did not have it since they don't carry any spices beyond chili powder in bulk). I thanked them and moved on to the refrigerated section, planning to circle back to bulk on my way to the cashier.
Probably five minutes later, a green apron-wearing young man approached me in the household cleaners aisle. "Are you the lady that was looking for the star anise?" I answered hesitantly: "Yes?". "Oh, Ma'am, we don't have any." This clerk hunted me down on the opposite end of the store during their busiest time of the year to let me know that I didn't need to keep searching. Now that is customer service. The best part? The customer next to me told me that she had plenty of the stuff at home that she was never going to use, and I was welcome to it if I happened to be going through her part of town. !!!
I love living in a small town.
postscript: Don't worry, I found the star anise in bulk at the hippie grocery store. There will be mulled wine on Sunday.
Here are some examples of my shopping experiences that I just can't picture happening in the big city or at a chain store. Ok, maybe they would at some place like Bi-Rite Market, but Bi-Rite is the exception to the rule in many ways.
Case Number One: Wreath purchase at Ben Franklin
As you may have read in my previous post, I am trying to exorcise my inner Martha Stewart, and decided recently to *purchase* a wreath (the horror!) instead of lovingly crafting one by hand from the cedars in our fire road (cedars were donated today to a Women's Shelter -- thanks Martin and Neil, for doing the heavy lifting). My, but I do digress. Back to my stellar purchasing experience. It was a small thing, but so appreciated.
Now that you know that I am the type of person not only to purchase a wreath, but to purchase a fake plastic wreath, I might as well admit that I got the kind with the pre-installed LED lights. This is our nod to Christmas lights on the house this year, as we are unable to find the ones we purchased six houses ago in Portland.
Time-crunched, I pleaded with the cashier at the wreath store (Ben Franklin) for batteries to power the lights on the wreath. In order to figure out what size I needed, she attempted to pry open the battery case on the wreath, to no avail. Another cashier came to assist and after considerable effort, she succeeded. Unfortunately they did not carry the correct size battery, but the sweet cashier offered to tape the battery case loosely back together so that I did not have to ruin my nails going through the same effort she did to pry the thing open. How thoughtful!
Case Number Two: Above and Beyond Copying Service at Country Copy
Country Copy knows me well. They did my holiday party invites (and even came up with cute red envelopes instead of the boring white ones I had found). They did my soap labels (and cut them to size, saving me a bunch of work). And now I was asking them to do my song books. Basically, I threw a bunch of song sheets at them and told them I wanted copies, kind of like a little book.
When I came to pick up the copies (a full day early), not only had they folded them into nice little booklets, they found the perfect cover art and text and created little covers for them (no extra charge). I love these people!!! I'm sorry, but this really would NEVER happen at Kinko's.
Case Number Three: The Hunt for Star Anise at SPD Market
I saved the best for last. In another time-saving effort, I was trying to purchase all of the party supplies at one market. Ok, two markets, but only one *grocery store* (the ham is coming from the German deli). I found everything I needed at trusty SPD (and ran into the one requisite acquaintance while I was at it -- you can't shop at SPD without seeing someone you know). Everything that is, except star anise. A little-used spice, but an essential one for my favorite mulled wine as well as my Christmas morning citrus salad in star anise simple syrup.
I asked the nice ladies in the deli, and they didn't think SPD had it, but told me to look in the spice section (which I had just torn apart) and the bulk section (which I was 99% sure did not have it since they don't carry any spices beyond chili powder in bulk). I thanked them and moved on to the refrigerated section, planning to circle back to bulk on my way to the cashier.
Probably five minutes later, a green apron-wearing young man approached me in the household cleaners aisle. "Are you the lady that was looking for the star anise?" I answered hesitantly: "Yes?". "Oh, Ma'am, we don't have any." This clerk hunted me down on the opposite end of the store during their busiest time of the year to let me know that I didn't need to keep searching. Now that is customer service. The best part? The customer next to me told me that she had plenty of the stuff at home that she was never going to use, and I was welcome to it if I happened to be going through her part of town. !!!
I love living in a small town.
postscript: Don't worry, I found the star anise in bulk at the hippie grocery store. There will be mulled wine on Sunday.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Guest Post from Erika: On Being in Control
Here's one that Pawlene could teach me a lot about. Pawlene has very little control over her life. She chooses where she sleeps, and that's about it. She depends on us (me) to feed her, give her water, protect her from danger (Peter), and clean out her litter box (We tried to get her to "go" outside and the poor thing actually held it until we let her back in, at which point she RAN to her cat box to relieve herself. Sigh.) So she has no control over anything, and yet she seems perfectly content. Ok, we take pretty good care of her, but STILL.
I, on the other hand, wrestle daily with the issue of being in control of anything, most of all my happiness, which should be under my control, RIGHT??? Here is an example: I read an article about "creating happiness" that suggested that small things make a big difference. For instance, making your bed will give you a little burst of seratonin or whatever those happy-making chemicals are in our brains. You make the bed and then each time you walk by your neatly made bed, you sigh with happiness. All is right in the world. I figured I would give it a try. I made our bed. I made Peter's bed. I smiled and felt content. Less than 10 minutes later, Peter had pulled all the covers off of his bed. The author of that article clearly does not have a two and a half year old.
The holidays are a particularly trying time for control freaks like me. I actually felt like I had everything under control with our holiday preparations until Peter was hit by a double ear infection (no pre-school for him!) and I was flattened by a strange flu-like illness, despite the fact that I got my flu shot early in the season in order to be in control of my health come flu season. Sigh.
My low point might have been today, as I prepared to cross "Make holiday peanut brittle" off my list. First, I put my favorite Christmas CDs on the stereo to create the appropriate festive atmosphere. I quickly discovered that one of our speakers (which had mysteriously "fixed itself" while Martin was home) has blown out again. Not to worry! I figured out how to make all of the sound come out of the remaining functional speaker and cranked it. Didn't sound half bad.
Back in the kitchen, I gazed out of our picture window at the new squirrel feeder that I installed this afternoon in an effort to distract the squirrels from our BIRD feeder. Yes, I know. I was always one of those people who scoffed at feeding squirrels, but the birds have all but abandoned their feeder and I have grown attached to the furry little rodents (see previous post), so just preventing them from eating the bird food was not an option.
The squirrels are ignoring their new feeder. Instead, the new juvenile squirrel I've been watching was hanging upside down, just like mama taught him, and scarfing the bird seed out of the bird feeder, right next to the darned squirrel feeder. Ok, well I can't control squirrels. I turned to the task at hand: peanut brittle.
For my 40th birthday celebration, I made the peanut brittle recipe from the Tartine cookbook and it turned out beautifully. Froze perfectly as well (I just found some leftover in the freezer and it was still tasty!). It was also easy to make, as I remembered.
The trouble started when the sugar didn't seem to be dissolving on schedule. Impatient, I assumed that the concoction's cloudy appearance had to do with the dark corn syrup and not the un-melted sugar. Wrong. Step two is to heat the stuff up to 264 degrees. It started smoking by 220. By the time it got to 240 I had to throw the kitchen alarm in the mud room and turn the stove top fan up to high. I'm not sure the temperature ever got to 264, because I literally could not see the thermometer through the smoke.
Picture all of this happening with Bing Cosby crooning in the background and squirrels thumbing their noses at me through the picture window.
At any rate, I'm throwing out this batch of brittle as soon as it gets cool enough to handle (I tasted it, and even Julia Child would have trouble selling this as "blackened brittle").
At least I checked off (most) of the rest of my list today. Checked off or otherwise eliminated. "Make wreath" was downgraded to "Buy wreath" and then I had to move that one to another day because I was overwhelmed by the selection at the craft store. I know, I know. The holidays are not about how beautiful your house looks (thank goodness!) or how delicious your treats are. I just want to make a nice space for my family and friends to gather, and I want to feed them special treats. It's how I show love and appreciation. So my peanut brittle may not be perfect. Tomorrow I'm going to try toffee instead. And let the squirrels eat whatever they want.
I, on the other hand, wrestle daily with the issue of being in control of anything, most of all my happiness, which should be under my control, RIGHT??? Here is an example: I read an article about "creating happiness" that suggested that small things make a big difference. For instance, making your bed will give you a little burst of seratonin or whatever those happy-making chemicals are in our brains. You make the bed and then each time you walk by your neatly made bed, you sigh with happiness. All is right in the world. I figured I would give it a try. I made our bed. I made Peter's bed. I smiled and felt content. Less than 10 minutes later, Peter had pulled all the covers off of his bed. The author of that article clearly does not have a two and a half year old.
The holidays are a particularly trying time for control freaks like me. I actually felt like I had everything under control with our holiday preparations until Peter was hit by a double ear infection (no pre-school for him!) and I was flattened by a strange flu-like illness, despite the fact that I got my flu shot early in the season in order to be in control of my health come flu season. Sigh.
My low point might have been today, as I prepared to cross "Make holiday peanut brittle" off my list. First, I put my favorite Christmas CDs on the stereo to create the appropriate festive atmosphere. I quickly discovered that one of our speakers (which had mysteriously "fixed itself" while Martin was home) has blown out again. Not to worry! I figured out how to make all of the sound come out of the remaining functional speaker and cranked it. Didn't sound half bad.
Back in the kitchen, I gazed out of our picture window at the new squirrel feeder that I installed this afternoon in an effort to distract the squirrels from our BIRD feeder. Yes, I know. I was always one of those people who scoffed at feeding squirrels, but the birds have all but abandoned their feeder and I have grown attached to the furry little rodents (see previous post), so just preventing them from eating the bird food was not an option.
The squirrels are ignoring their new feeder. Instead, the new juvenile squirrel I've been watching was hanging upside down, just like mama taught him, and scarfing the bird seed out of the bird feeder, right next to the darned squirrel feeder. Ok, well I can't control squirrels. I turned to the task at hand: peanut brittle.
For my 40th birthday celebration, I made the peanut brittle recipe from the Tartine cookbook and it turned out beautifully. Froze perfectly as well (I just found some leftover in the freezer and it was still tasty!). It was also easy to make, as I remembered.
The trouble started when the sugar didn't seem to be dissolving on schedule. Impatient, I assumed that the concoction's cloudy appearance had to do with the dark corn syrup and not the un-melted sugar. Wrong. Step two is to heat the stuff up to 264 degrees. It started smoking by 220. By the time it got to 240 I had to throw the kitchen alarm in the mud room and turn the stove top fan up to high. I'm not sure the temperature ever got to 264, because I literally could not see the thermometer through the smoke.
Picture all of this happening with Bing Cosby crooning in the background and squirrels thumbing their noses at me through the picture window.
At any rate, I'm throwing out this batch of brittle as soon as it gets cool enough to handle (I tasted it, and even Julia Child would have trouble selling this as "blackened brittle").
At least I checked off (most) of the rest of my list today. Checked off or otherwise eliminated. "Make wreath" was downgraded to "Buy wreath" and then I had to move that one to another day because I was overwhelmed by the selection at the craft store. I know, I know. The holidays are not about how beautiful your house looks (thank goodness!) or how delicious your treats are. I just want to make a nice space for my family and friends to gather, and I want to feed them special treats. It's how I show love and appreciation. So my peanut brittle may not be perfect. Tomorrow I'm going to try toffee instead. And let the squirrels eat whatever they want.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Squirrel Acrobatics
Many of you (well, a few of you anyway) might be waiting for a new post from Erika that shines a weak beam of light onto the tangled knot of emotions that is motherhood. Or perhaps an update on our current living situation -- are they staying in Nevada City or what?
Well, Erika is currently concentrating on her writing for children (more on that at a later date), and so I give you:
Squirrel Acrobatics! Before you write us off as country hicks with WAY too much time on our hands, mind you a certain Michael Ward who reviews jazz and cabaret shows in San Francisco and recently interviewed John Waters was *riveted* by this phenomenon, which has become increasingly daring and complex in the last few days:
Ok, back to holiday madness.
Well, Erika is currently concentrating on her writing for children (more on that at a later date), and so I give you:
Squirrel Acrobatics! Before you write us off as country hicks with WAY too much time on our hands, mind you a certain Michael Ward who reviews jazz and cabaret shows in San Francisco and recently interviewed John Waters was *riveted* by this phenomenon, which has become increasingly daring and complex in the last few days:
Ok, back to holiday madness.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Guest Post from Erika: Our Epic Weekend
While Pawlene dealt with her own drama this weekend, I am choosing to tell this tale from our perspective. Some background: Last November, I ran a half marathon in Monterey with dear friends Lynne and Simon. It was a blast. So much so, that I decided to do it again this November. Only by myself. And in Nevada. NOT Nevada City, for those of you who are still confused about where we live. This race took place in the Valley of Fire, which is about 45 miles northeast of Las Vegas, Nevada.
I decided it would be fun to make it a family affair, and so, way back in August when the average temperature in Nevada City was hovering around 85 degrees, I asked Martin if he thought it would be fun to fly the plane to Nevada for a race. He mumbled something about unpredictable weather but the answer I heard was "Sure! It should only take 2 and a half hours." (as opposed to a 10-hour drive). Cue the Gilligan's Island theme song.
Fast forward to last week. On Monday I got an e-mail from Martin with the subject line: "weather outlook not good so far". Ever optimistic, I pushed him to explore variations on the theme of flying directly from Nevada City to Las Vegas (the closest airport with car rental service). The weather predictions became increasingly dire as our departure date approached. I packed extra clothes and plenty of snacks, and left Pawlene a little extra food and water, just in case.
And then, Friday morning, at 7:35AM, Martin said: "We have to leave right now." Luckily, I had baked highly portable breakfast muffins and mostly packed the night before, so I only forgot a few critical items (poopy diaper bags/barf bags - oh dear). We were out of the house by 8:05 (those of you with toddlers can appreciate how miraculous this was) and at the airport shortly thereafter.
The plan was to head towards Truckee/Reno (the closest mountain pass) and cross over to the good weather on the East side of the Sierras as soon as possible. But the closer we got to Reno, the thicker the clouds became, until the clouds got just a little too close to those big mountains for our comfort. Martin made a U-turn and we headed south, where we were able to find clear passage to the East just a short while later. Crisis averted, or so I thought.
The rest of the trip to Overton was uneventful, and we even had time to explore the Valley of Fire on Friday, previewing the stunningly beautiful race course. Perhaps due to the fact that several million years ago the Valley of Fire was underwater, the entire park looks like the landscape of a dry, oversized goldfish bowl, with wild shapes and holes and colors. Peter had a grand time.
He poked his head through holes.
He went on a hike.
He climbed BIG rocks.
He learned that it is ok to draw on things other than paper (something we have been discouraging at home), but only if paper has not been invented yet.
He got really dirty and ate potato chips (HEY! That must have been while I was running the race.)
Ah yes, the race. Here is the deceptively un-hilly road that served as both the start and the finish. The rest of the route was extremely hilly, windy, and beautiful. Unfortunately the uphill portion of the race coincided with the head wind part of the race. Ouch! I did finish all 13.1 miles, and survived, but it wasn't pretty. Here is me, looking happy because: a) I am on the downhill, b) I am on the last tenth of a mile, c) I am getting a big smile from my favorite little guy.
By now, my dear readers, I am sure that you are thinking "What a whiner! This journey was hardly epic!" Just wait.
After the race I caught my breath, corrected my official time (2:15:56, don't laugh), and drank chocolate milk. Mmmmm, chocolate milk. We sped back to the hotel, checked out only a half hour late, and drove to Las Vegas, where the Apache was waiting for us. After checking and re-checking the (very bad) weather reports, Martin decided that our best bet would be to fly to Reno (only an hour and a half drive from Nevada City) and check in with Grass Valley weather along the way to see if it was clearing up. We took off just as it was starting to rain in Las Vegas.
The flight to Reno was quite smooth, and the scenery was magical. We got to see a beautiful rainbow and a full moon in the same flight. Unfortunately Martin could not reach the Grass Valley weather line (we later found out this was because the power was out due to a ferocious snowstorm) and so we decided to land in Reno, where it was just starting to snow.
An attempt to reach my dear Aunt Brooke, who lives in Reno, was unsuccessful because she was dining with her daughter in Minnesota (darned Thanksgiving holiday). But her husband Tony suggested (in jest?) the Peppermill for a good night's sleep. And so we found ourselves, just hours after leaving the stark, outrageous beauty of a rocky desert, in the middle of the kind of sensory overload that only a high-end casino can provide. I have no pictures of this portion of our trip because I was completely overwhelmed by the noises, lights, and WAY over-the-top decor of this place. But the price sure was right for a room for the night (half of what we paid in Overton) and I got to satisfy every single possible post-race craving at the basketball court-sized buffet. Chinese? Sure! Mexican? Right over there. Prime Rib? But of course. And don't forget the Wall of Desserts. They aren't kidding. Did I mention the fake rain forest that we were sitting in, complete with waterfall, thunderstorms, and MOVING larger than life-sized tree branches? Ok, maybe I need to get out more.
Sadly, the three of us were in bed and asleep by 9:00pm, which means we missed out on the dance club (open til 4am), the gambling, the 17 other restaurant options, and whatever other vices the Peppermill had to offer. We did have breakfast in the Italianate "Biscotti's" restaurant in the morning though. Fake charming leaded glass windows! Real blown-glass light fixtures! But I digress.
A call to Grass Valley Airport revealed that either 8 or 18 inches of snow had fallen on the runway overnight, either way making it impossible for us to land a plane there. Another call let us know that our neighbors (and everyone else on our street) had lost power the night before. Oh dear. Poor Pawlene. A third call: highway 20, aka the fastest way home, was closed, and chains were required on the rest of the (longer) route.
So we tucked the Apache into bed at the Reno airport, bought some chains for our rental car, and started the journey home by car, 24 hours after we left the hotel in Overton. It was slow going, but we made it back to Grass Valley in just under 3 and a half hours. Next challenge: digging the Subaru out from where we parked it at the airport.
Since I was the one wearing Goretex hiking shoes and not beautiful, brand-new, as-yet-un-water-proofed, black leather cowboy boots, I volunteered to trek through the virgin snow out to where the Subaru was parked and try to get her up the ramp and out to the gate. Have I mentioned how much I love my Subaru? She started right up and I let her warm up as I cleared the mounds of snow from off of the front and back windshields. I had to clear the hood too, because the snow was piled so high that I couldn't see over it.
Cursing my lack of foresight in purchasing "performance" tires instead of snow tires, I crossed my fingers and gunned it. We made it all the way to mid-way up the second hill before we got stuck. And stuck we were. Martin put Peter on his shoulders and hiked out to help me, boots be darned. After strategizing with his big engineer brain, he figured out a way to get the car out of the ditch (gee, I didn't know there was a ditch there under all that snow!) that I had slid into. A few lurches, a few turns, and a few more massive revs of the engine, and I was out. The rest of the drive home was uneventful, and we even made it up the driveway without incident.
However, with less than 30 minutes to go before dark, we had to figure out how to light and heat our snow-covered, powerless house. The good news was that everything in the refrigerator and freezer was still good because the temperature in the house never rose above 40 degrees. Poor Pawlene! (She was fine, curled up in the comforter when I found her).
We hauled some (thankfully dry) fire wood onto the porch and I searched for candles and flashlights while Martin went to the store to get supplies (I had "storm supplies" on my shopping list for next weekend, heh). We decided to go out for Mexican food because a warm, dry restaurant was better than the alternative (eating nothing, without a working stove, or barbequeing in the snow, and then not washing the dishes for who knows how many days). When we came home, Martin tested out the old wood stove in the living room. After a few smoky tries, he got it cranking with the flue OPEN and we warmed the place right up. Well, we warmed that one room up anyway. At bedtime I piled on the quilts (two down comforters and a thick hand-sewn quilt, pulled on some long underwear, and the four of us (Pawlene was SO happy that we were home) snuggled into bed. The power came back on around 10pm (Yay!). Lots of people are still without. It started raining this morning, and I imagine all that snow will be washed away with this new storm, unless the temperature drops again. For those of you who have visited and enjoyed the view out of our kitchen window, here is what it looked like this morning. Our resident squirrel was certainly happy that I replenished the bird feeder last night.
Now I am off to collect our Thanksgiving turkey, who met his demise just a few hours ago, a short distance up the road from us. Hopefully the power will stay on through Thanksgiving dinner, or I'll have to dig a hole in a snowbank to keep the big guy fresh until cooking time. Nothing like country living!
Editor's Note #1: I know you Minnesotans are laughing at what I am calling a snowstorm, but remember, I'm a wimpy Californian!
Editor's Note #2: If any of you New Yorkers are laughing, think again. YOU live in a city where the roads are instantly cleared and the power NEVER goes out. Well there was that one time, but still.
I decided it would be fun to make it a family affair, and so, way back in August when the average temperature in Nevada City was hovering around 85 degrees, I asked Martin if he thought it would be fun to fly the plane to Nevada for a race. He mumbled something about unpredictable weather but the answer I heard was "Sure! It should only take 2 and a half hours." (as opposed to a 10-hour drive). Cue the Gilligan's Island theme song.
Fast forward to last week. On Monday I got an e-mail from Martin with the subject line: "weather outlook not good so far". Ever optimistic, I pushed him to explore variations on the theme of flying directly from Nevada City to Las Vegas (the closest airport with car rental service). The weather predictions became increasingly dire as our departure date approached. I packed extra clothes and plenty of snacks, and left Pawlene a little extra food and water, just in case.
And then, Friday morning, at 7:35AM, Martin said: "We have to leave right now." Luckily, I had baked highly portable breakfast muffins and mostly packed the night before, so I only forgot a few critical items (poopy diaper bags/barf bags - oh dear). We were out of the house by 8:05 (those of you with toddlers can appreciate how miraculous this was) and at the airport shortly thereafter.
The plan was to head towards Truckee/Reno (the closest mountain pass) and cross over to the good weather on the East side of the Sierras as soon as possible. But the closer we got to Reno, the thicker the clouds became, until the clouds got just a little too close to those big mountains for our comfort. Martin made a U-turn and we headed south, where we were able to find clear passage to the East just a short while later. Crisis averted, or so I thought.
The rest of the trip to Overton was uneventful, and we even had time to explore the Valley of Fire on Friday, previewing the stunningly beautiful race course. Perhaps due to the fact that several million years ago the Valley of Fire was underwater, the entire park looks like the landscape of a dry, oversized goldfish bowl, with wild shapes and holes and colors. Peter had a grand time.
He poked his head through holes.
He went on a hike.
He climbed BIG rocks.
He learned that it is ok to draw on things other than paper (something we have been discouraging at home), but only if paper has not been invented yet.
He got really dirty and ate potato chips (HEY! That must have been while I was running the race.)
Ah yes, the race. Here is the deceptively un-hilly road that served as both the start and the finish. The rest of the route was extremely hilly, windy, and beautiful. Unfortunately the uphill portion of the race coincided with the head wind part of the race. Ouch! I did finish all 13.1 miles, and survived, but it wasn't pretty. Here is me, looking happy because: a) I am on the downhill, b) I am on the last tenth of a mile, c) I am getting a big smile from my favorite little guy.
By now, my dear readers, I am sure that you are thinking "What a whiner! This journey was hardly epic!" Just wait.
After the race I caught my breath, corrected my official time (2:15:56, don't laugh), and drank chocolate milk. Mmmmm, chocolate milk. We sped back to the hotel, checked out only a half hour late, and drove to Las Vegas, where the Apache was waiting for us. After checking and re-checking the (very bad) weather reports, Martin decided that our best bet would be to fly to Reno (only an hour and a half drive from Nevada City) and check in with Grass Valley weather along the way to see if it was clearing up. We took off just as it was starting to rain in Las Vegas.
The flight to Reno was quite smooth, and the scenery was magical. We got to see a beautiful rainbow and a full moon in the same flight. Unfortunately Martin could not reach the Grass Valley weather line (we later found out this was because the power was out due to a ferocious snowstorm) and so we decided to land in Reno, where it was just starting to snow.
An attempt to reach my dear Aunt Brooke, who lives in Reno, was unsuccessful because she was dining with her daughter in Minnesota (darned Thanksgiving holiday). But her husband Tony suggested (in jest?) the Peppermill for a good night's sleep. And so we found ourselves, just hours after leaving the stark, outrageous beauty of a rocky desert, in the middle of the kind of sensory overload that only a high-end casino can provide. I have no pictures of this portion of our trip because I was completely overwhelmed by the noises, lights, and WAY over-the-top decor of this place. But the price sure was right for a room for the night (half of what we paid in Overton) and I got to satisfy every single possible post-race craving at the basketball court-sized buffet. Chinese? Sure! Mexican? Right over there. Prime Rib? But of course. And don't forget the Wall of Desserts. They aren't kidding. Did I mention the fake rain forest that we were sitting in, complete with waterfall, thunderstorms, and MOVING larger than life-sized tree branches? Ok, maybe I need to get out more.
Sadly, the three of us were in bed and asleep by 9:00pm, which means we missed out on the dance club (open til 4am), the gambling, the 17 other restaurant options, and whatever other vices the Peppermill had to offer. We did have breakfast in the Italianate "Biscotti's" restaurant in the morning though. Fake charming leaded glass windows! Real blown-glass light fixtures! But I digress.
A call to Grass Valley Airport revealed that either 8 or 18 inches of snow had fallen on the runway overnight, either way making it impossible for us to land a plane there. Another call let us know that our neighbors (and everyone else on our street) had lost power the night before. Oh dear. Poor Pawlene. A third call: highway 20, aka the fastest way home, was closed, and chains were required on the rest of the (longer) route.
So we tucked the Apache into bed at the Reno airport, bought some chains for our rental car, and started the journey home by car, 24 hours after we left the hotel in Overton. It was slow going, but we made it back to Grass Valley in just under 3 and a half hours. Next challenge: digging the Subaru out from where we parked it at the airport.
Since I was the one wearing Goretex hiking shoes and not beautiful, brand-new, as-yet-un-water-proofed, black leather cowboy boots, I volunteered to trek through the virgin snow out to where the Subaru was parked and try to get her up the ramp and out to the gate. Have I mentioned how much I love my Subaru? She started right up and I let her warm up as I cleared the mounds of snow from off of the front and back windshields. I had to clear the hood too, because the snow was piled so high that I couldn't see over it.
Cursing my lack of foresight in purchasing "performance" tires instead of snow tires, I crossed my fingers and gunned it. We made it all the way to mid-way up the second hill before we got stuck. And stuck we were. Martin put Peter on his shoulders and hiked out to help me, boots be darned. After strategizing with his big engineer brain, he figured out a way to get the car out of the ditch (gee, I didn't know there was a ditch there under all that snow!) that I had slid into. A few lurches, a few turns, and a few more massive revs of the engine, and I was out. The rest of the drive home was uneventful, and we even made it up the driveway without incident.
However, with less than 30 minutes to go before dark, we had to figure out how to light and heat our snow-covered, powerless house. The good news was that everything in the refrigerator and freezer was still good because the temperature in the house never rose above 40 degrees. Poor Pawlene! (She was fine, curled up in the comforter when I found her).
We hauled some (thankfully dry) fire wood onto the porch and I searched for candles and flashlights while Martin went to the store to get supplies (I had "storm supplies" on my shopping list for next weekend, heh). We decided to go out for Mexican food because a warm, dry restaurant was better than the alternative (eating nothing, without a working stove, or barbequeing in the snow, and then not washing the dishes for who knows how many days). When we came home, Martin tested out the old wood stove in the living room. After a few smoky tries, he got it cranking with the flue OPEN and we warmed the place right up. Well, we warmed that one room up anyway. At bedtime I piled on the quilts (two down comforters and a thick hand-sewn quilt, pulled on some long underwear, and the four of us (Pawlene was SO happy that we were home) snuggled into bed. The power came back on around 10pm (Yay!). Lots of people are still without. It started raining this morning, and I imagine all that snow will be washed away with this new storm, unless the temperature drops again. For those of you who have visited and enjoyed the view out of our kitchen window, here is what it looked like this morning. Our resident squirrel was certainly happy that I replenished the bird feeder last night.
Now I am off to collect our Thanksgiving turkey, who met his demise just a few hours ago, a short distance up the road from us. Hopefully the power will stay on through Thanksgiving dinner, or I'll have to dig a hole in a snowbank to keep the big guy fresh until cooking time. Nothing like country living!
Editor's Note #1: I know you Minnesotans are laughing at what I am calling a snowstorm, but remember, I'm a wimpy Californian!
Editor's Note #2: If any of you New Yorkers are laughing, think again. YOU live in a city where the roads are instantly cleared and the power NEVER goes out. Well there was that one time, but still.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
White Stuff
We woke up to this today:
Thought it was snow, but upon closer sniff (yes, I DID actually venture outside this morning), it's actually hail. Sure feels like snow, although the temperature has risen to a balmy 44 degrees. Poor kid needs mittens and some warmer boots. I plan on just staying next to the heating vent for the next few months.
Martin re-filled the bird feeder this morning and the nuthatches simply couldn't wait until he stepped away to get at those black sunflower seeds (thanks for the tip, Alan). It's nice of them to keep the bird feeder filled so that I can watch birdie television whenever I feel like it. Only problem is that I can't see out of the window from my favorite location atop the heating vent. That old oil-fueled furnace is working like a charm and keeping the house toasty, downstairs at least. I think we'll make it through the winter.
Thought it was snow, but upon closer sniff (yes, I DID actually venture outside this morning), it's actually hail. Sure feels like snow, although the temperature has risen to a balmy 44 degrees. Poor kid needs mittens and some warmer boots. I plan on just staying next to the heating vent for the next few months.
Martin re-filled the bird feeder this morning and the nuthatches simply couldn't wait until he stepped away to get at those black sunflower seeds (thanks for the tip, Alan). It's nice of them to keep the bird feeder filled so that I can watch birdie television whenever I feel like it. Only problem is that I can't see out of the window from my favorite location atop the heating vent. That old oil-fueled furnace is working like a charm and keeping the house toasty, downstairs at least. I think we'll make it through the winter.
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