I really wish I liked cheese.
I feel like there is an entire gastronomic universe out there that I am unable to reach, constrained by the persnickety-ness of my own taste buds.
If anything, I’m a finicky cheese eater. I’ll eat lasagna and pizza, but wrinkle my nose in distaste at the thought of a cheeseburger (What? Sully the taste of hormone enhanced ground beef?!). A grilled cheese sandwich? No, thanks. A cheddar topped Triscuit? Pass. And to all the holiday hostesses out there, I’m truly sorry that I can’t get behind the softened cream cheese with the red pepper jelly.
I can only barely trick myself into slathering a cracker with some pecan and Kahlua topped brie.
I doubt that Robert Frost and his “should I” or “shouldn’t I” food choices were the source of inspiration when he wrote “The Road Not Taken,” but I see myself as that traveler, standing at the fork in the road, deciding, deciding, deciding. Ultimately, I take the non cheese path and indeed, that has made all the difference.
One of my dreams is to live abroad. While I have had the chance to visit several foreign countries, I’d really like the opportunity to make some European city or town my home address. And yet, who can truly live in Europe and not eat cheese? It’s everywhere! In France, I was forever ordering things sans fromage or pas du fromage. The waiter’s looked at me like, “Mon Dieu! Zut Alors! Nous sommes en France! Il ya un millier de types du fromage ici!“
Anyway, the point is I love food. I enjoy cooking, I enjoy baking. I like the satisfaction that comes with a well executed recipe and the thrill that follows a well consumed meal. I made that pesto and spinach stuffed flank steak for DH a few weeks ago and seeing his surprise at a new dish, the pleasure of his first bite — it was like getting the high score in skee-ball.
I’ve been keeping up with a former college pal who is now a sous chef in DC. His posts are like transcripts from Top Chef, without Padma Lakshmi and her inanity. He was talking about a birthday dinner he treated himself to at the Ritz. His description of Humboldt fog goat cheese and its subsequent photo has me wiping drool from the corners of my mouth. See for yourself here. Yet and still, for as luscious as that cheese looks, for all of his exquisite descriptions, I just can’t do it.
I keep egging myself on, encouraging myself to be brave and slide a piece of cheese into my omelet. What’s a few grates of Parmesan atop some spaghetti? Some blue cheese crumbles holding hands with pecans and craisins in a salad? Ugh. I just can’t.
Oh, cheese, how I’d love to love you.
But alas, I cannot.
So, since I’ve hung up my P90X bands, I’ve started running in the mornings. My running partner and I have yet to work out a system beyond late night texting to let one another know whether or not it’ll be pairs or singles. Unfortunately, this particular morning, I missed the text and waited like a weirdo in front of her house for 10 minutes before setting off on my own. When the newspaper delivery person rode through and chucked the paper at the house, she gave me a wide walk before hustling double time back to her car. What can I say? I’m a menace in my Nikes and my head scarf.
Of course, I know that a single female running in the dark is a bad idea. I’m by no means invincible, but seriously? It’s 5:50 in the morning. I strongly doubt that any ne’er do wells have set their alarm clocks to leap out of the bushes at me as I trot through a residential neighborhood. Besides, I’m really stubborn and if I’ve gotten up, gotten dressed, and gone outside, I’m going running.
So, I start my route, sticking to well lit streets and pretty even terrain. There was a little haze burning off from the streets since the air was warm and the ground was cool from the previous nights rain. The sky was dark, tinged with pink around the edges and the autumn were leaves sticking to the ground like post-its reminding me that fall is indeed here (you like the image I’m setting up here, don’t you?).
I like to run in the middle of the street so that I can keep an eye out for people, dogs, and other neighborhood flotsam and jetsam. Even in daylight hours, I play this game with myself where I mentally call out the make and model of the car I’m approaching so that if, God forbid, someone throws open a car door and makes a grab at me, I’ll at least know what kind of trunk I’m being stuffed into.
I’m moving right along, not quite race pace, but steady just the same. I don’t have my iPod with me, I’m just listening to my own breath and the throbbing of my blood in my veins. As I’m going, I keep hearing this “thwup, thwup, thwup,” behind me. I slow up a bit looking behind me, immediately thinking, “No, dummy! Turning around slows you down. Didn’t you see ‘Scream’?” I cast a quick, furtive glance over my shoulder. Nothing. My heart starts pumping a little faster, my strides become a little quicker, and my brain calls roll for all the whack-a-doos it can name — Michael Meyers, Freddie Kruger, Chuckie. . .
But the thing is, no one was there.
I think all the Halloween paraphernalia placed on neighborhood lawns is getting to me. I keep moving, but again, I hear, “thwup, thwup, thwup.” It’s coming at some odd intervals and now, I’m really starting to freak out. Maybe I should pick up the pace a bit. I could see one of the ROTC units from ODU up a head doing their 5 miles. If I hurry, I can catch up with the stragglers and use them for cover. Maybe trip one of them, sacrifice the youth for my own survival. I kick it up a bit.
Thwup, thwup, thwup.
Short of stopping dead in my tracks and turning in a circle à la Jennifer Love Hewitt in “I Know What You Did Last Summer”, I pump my legs a little harder, mentally recalculate the shortest distance between where I am and the house. I bee-line it for the front door.
Thwup, thwup thwup.
I’m headed home, all but in a dead sprint when I realize that yes, I’m being followed, but not by someone. It’s something. It’s something far more scary than a man with a hook for a hand or a hockey mask over his face.
It was my own backside.
A sweat-induced booty clapping chasing me down the street.
I’m still having nightmares.
Recently, I’ve been complimented on being an outstanding mom, and I really appreciate that. We all know it ain’t easy, but I’m doing the best I can, the best way I know how. I was talking with another mom about how women are in constant “mom-petition” with one another. Always trying to one-up one another over things that really have no bearing on whether or not the world is going to keep turning. The recent rash of articles on mean girls and bullying made me realize that our kids will stop pushing eachother around when we stop pushing eachother around. So, I thought I’d help out my fellow moms (or more appropriately, fellow care givers) on what it is that makes things go a bit smoother for me on a day to day.
1. I keep a stack of the girls artwork on my desk. I love to look at the wonderful crayon and pencil renderings of our family. But guess what? All of the art, all of the pieces of paper with but one swipe of magenta or one scribble of robin’s egg blue make for handy scrap paper. Need a paper for a grocery list? Bingo! Need a sheet to write yet another to-do list? Shazam! And my all time favorite? Have to dash off a note to a teacher but can’t find that Vera Wang stationery your scored from Tuesday Morning a few weeks ago? Grab that watercolor Princess and the Frog reproduction and away you go.
2. Getting the kids in their clothes before they outgrow them. My girls are fortunate enough to have a nicely stocked wardrobe. The thing is, often times, they don’t get into all of the clothes they have because they like to keep the same couple of outfits in rotation week after week. We’ve had several instances where I pull out an outfit, only to find it doesn’t fit because it hasn’t been seen since we bought it! The consignment shops were getting several sizeable bags of stuff that we’d forgotten we had. But, no more. Now, I’ve got a new plan. The girls wear their clothes. When the hamper is full, I wash the clothes and I fold them, but I DON’T put them away. You heard me right. I leave them all nicely folded in the bucket until the girls have used up (worn) the remaining clothes in their dresser and closet. When the hangers start clacking when we open the closet door and when the dresser drawer flies open because there’s nothing in it to weight it down, then I replenish. I’ve saved on time — less washing, less time spent putting stuff away, and all the outfits get worn before they’re outgrown.
3. The wardrobe struggle, part II. *Le sigh* My girls like to wear dresses. EVERY. DAY. That’s just not possible. And the thing is, even though they have lots of dresses, they want to wear the same two or three dresses over and over (see above). I’ve tried various systems — mandatory pants, pants days twice a week, alternating dress days. Nothing worked; it’s was a constant struggle. But then I was talking to a friend who has a little girl and she has a genius idea. She and her daughter pick out 5 outfits for the week, which the mom irons (um, no), and the child sets up in a visible spot her room. Every morning, the kid knows what she can wear based on the 5 pre-determined outfits. No more struggles. No more mandatory pants days! Though, I do say you have to have 2 pairs of pants on gym days. But she picks the pants, she picks the tops, and the other three outfits. When breakfast is over and I send her up to get dressed, it’s all up to her as to what she’s going to wear. No mess, no fuss.
4. Bribery. I guess this isn’t a trick, more like a tip. I got tired of making the girls beds in addition to the other slew of things that I took care of during the morning routine. And I was tired of the incessant whining that burbled out of them when I asked them to use the toilet before they came down for breakfast. Pausing in the middle of my shredded wheat to wipe some buns was getting really old. Something had to be done and here’s what went down: bribery. Plain and simple, I got a jar of change and every time they 1) use the toilet and 2) make their bed (i.e. pull up the blankets; I’m not looking for hospital corners), they get a nickel. And it’s not like they’re saving up for something. They just like idea of having some kind of currency to stick in a piggy bank. Beds are made, bladders are empty, breakfast is consumed and all is right with the world.
5. It’s okay to turn on the TV. Man, this is a big one for me. You know what an anti-tv advocate I am (well, at least for the kids). But sometimes, when I need to catch my breath or do something without a running commentary from a 5 year old, it’s okay to turn it on. Sure, turning it off my bring some tears (theirs, not mine), but Moose E. Moose and Zee can babysit my kids for 30 minutes every now and then.
So, like a said, just a few things that keep the wheels turning and the children alive over here. It’s not much, but hopefully one of these little nuggets will help your days move along a little easier. The thing is, you’re already a Superwoman.
So, the girls and I are eating breakfast this morning. I’ve got my egg beater omelet, turkey bacon and glass of V8. I had pulled a cup of Weight Watchers yogurt form the fridge to finish off this little meal because I’ve got an insatiable sweet tooth and figured scarfing Golden Oreos 7:45 in the morning probably wouldn’t be setting a good example for the girls. In truth, I’ve pulled out my fall clothes and in an attempt to make sure they fit throughout the entire fall season, I’m working on eating a little bit better.
The girls have a similar breakfast to mine: toast, bacon, and some yogurt. We’re all happily munching when Morgan asks for more yogurt. I go to the fridge, pull out the remainder of the yogurt cup she had been working from and bring it to the table.
“Activia. ” she says, looking at the container. Morgan looks at my place. “When I grow up, I hope I can eat Weight Watchers yogurt like you, Mommy.”
Oy. My thoughts are fumbling all over each other as I try to construct a positive response without opening a floodgate of eating, body issue and self esteem queries. “Oh, I don’t think you’re going to eat Weight Watchers yogurt when you grow up, ” I tentatively begin. “Mommy is eating it right now because I didn’t make a good food choice over the week-end and my tummy hurts. This will help me feel better.” Hmm, not a bad response. A little evasive, but not entirely false. Focused on the positive.
“Well,” says Morgan, fishing out some Activia, “You shouldn’t have eaten all of those potato chips for lunch every day when I was four years old.”
Waiiiiiiit a minute. How do you even remember — never mind. “Yes, Morgan, you’re probably right.” Note to self: do not pack your lunch in front of Morgan.
“Yep, shouldn’t have eaten all. those.chips.” She takes a dainty slurp of yogurt. “That’ll make your tummy hurt.”
More often than not, I’m reminded of how much of what I say and do is absorbed by the girls. At the risk of sounding totally Pollyanna, I continually have to make smart choices because they are always listening, always watching and always quick to tell me when I’m doing something wrong (i.e. “Mommy, we don’t say ‘crap’! Mommy, we don’t leave the toilet lid up! Mommy, we always try something before we say we don’t like it!).
Clearly, the student has become the teacher.
So word of my photography skills has gotten out. I was recently tapped to shoot a wedding for a lovely young couple. Their officiant of the ceremony is a friend of mine, so I was happy to do it. Given the word choice of the officiant, I’m thinking it was her first wedding, too.
And the lady crying throughout? They said she’s a flower girl, but I’m thinking that’s an ex-girlfriend or something.