I realized I was a grown-up

When I was six.

Overheard in the Cafe

That's right. Tall is the new short!

All Hail the Tyranny of the Box

Can I tell you about the soup I made last night? It was the most awesome soup ever. I thought I'd made some pretty good soups in the past, but this one has raised the bar. It is the soup of all soups.

To be honest I had my doubts when I first set out to make it. Namely because of the main ingredient: Celery root. I subscribe to a local CSA and two of these honkin' big tubers came in my share this week. I've committed myself to the tyranny of the box - ie. you get what you get and you don't get upset. If life hands you celery root, you make celery root bisque or whatever. When we get our shares each week we also get a newsletter that includes recipes to kind of give us an idea of what to do with some of the vegies. I used that recipe as a foundation and then freely adapted it to make use of other vegies that came with the box.

And it is amazing. So flavorful and creamy. Best soup ever. Believe me. I ate two bowls of it. I couldn't stop!

Mostly Celery Root Bisque
1/2 stick of butter (you could use olive oil too)
1 1/2 pounds of celery root peeled and cut into 1/2 inch cubes (4 cups)
6 stalks of celery chopped into 1/2 inch - 1/4 inch slices (optional)
1 turnip chopped into 1/2 inch cubes (optional)
2 cups of leftover cauliflower (optional)
1/2 lb of shallots, thinly sliced
1 1/2 teaspoons of salt
Freshly ground black pepper
4 cups of chicken or vegetable stock

Melt the butter in a heavy soup pot over medium to medium high heat. Add shallots and a bit of salt to start them sweating and cook, stirring occasionally until they are soft. I didn't allow them to caramelize too much, but it's your call how brown you want to let them get (12 minutes). I also chopped up about six stalks of celery and let the flavor mingle with the shallots until the celery was soft. I put the cover on the pot and let the vegetables kind of steam in there for about ten minutes or so. Next, add the celery root and turnip, a bit more salt to keep the vegies sweating, put the lid back on and let it steam, stirring occasionally for about 15 - 20 minutes. You kind of have to use your judgment on how long you think it needs to go. Add 4 cups of stock, cover pot and bring it to a simmer, this is when I added the leftover cauliflower. Simmer for 15-20 minutes more, again it's your call how long you want to let it go. Turn off the burner and let it cool.

Puree in batches in a blender, food processor, or use an immersion blender until creamy smooth and then return back to the pot. Season with salt if needed and add pepper. You can also whisk in a little cream or yogurt if you like, but I found it didn't really need it (I guess technically it's not a bisque without the milk, but it already tasted like it had cream in it).

If you try it, let me know how it turns out.

Tip Toland: Melt, The Figure in Clay

Thank you, Dorothy, for introducing me to this artist. More info here and here.

A Brief Lesson In Girls Marrying Girls

I had the following conversation with Olivia this morning. She'll be five next month so I can't get too detailed in answers about how reality works.

O: Do you know where I want to live when I grow up?
E: No where?
O: China. And I'm going to marry Nhya. Can girls marry girls?
E: Yes.
O: And boys?
E: If they want.
O: You don't go to jail for marrying a girl?
E: No. At least they don't do that.
O: If I went to jail for marrying a girl what would you do?
E: I'd be very angry and I would work to get you out of jail. And let everyone know how wrong it was that you were in jail for marrying a girl.
O: Do they throw kids in jail?
E: It all depends on what they do.
O: If I went to jail what would you do?
E: I'd hope you were visiting someone else.

Birthday Party for A Princess

We're at the Defcon 2 level of birthday party planning. Short of sending out invitations, we're deciding theme and decorations and debating whether it's going to be cupcakes or cake and then of course, what flavor - chocolate with chocolate icing and dried blueberries? Strawberry? I definitely want to make these and perhaps this.

The guest list is being negotiated. The rule at our house is one kid guest per birthday year of the child which I'm sure we'll want to amend somewhere in the teens. We've also completely eliminated parties for the smalls (ie. babies, toddlers, etc). This works well.

Last year we celebrated Olivia's birthday by going out for dinner on what turned out to be Mardi Gras. We went to Chenery Park, one of our favorite restaurants in San Francisco. Favorite because of its Tuesday Kids nights and the way they have with mac-n-cheese. Olivia ended up gracing the cover of the Chronicle Food Section and as even her friend Jake, knows, she's dressed as Tinkerbell.

Talk Dirty to the Animals

Like, kiss off Mr. Fox, go check this out.

Sparkler Breast

You know how it is when you're driving in your car and your breast starts feeling like a sparkler is going off inside it? It's not as romantic a feeling as you might imagine. In fact, the pain is so exquisite that you wish you could stop and bang your head against the road just to take your mind off things a bit. Or maybe while you're down there someone will run you over and make things more interesting. Character building. Hellatastic.

Sparkler Breast (aka plugged milk duct) is almost as fun as sleeping in two hour cycles for over a year or a week of excruciating headaches. I didn't experience this with the first two kids, but with little Marshall it is a regular occurrence.

It is also true that Sparkler Breast will ignite when you're trying to get your kids to pick out a birthday gift for their buddy. Or when you don't drink enough water or when it damn well feels like it for no apparent reason at all. But especially in public because when Sparkler Breast strikes your first reaction will be to grab your breast and twist and turn and try to expel the dreaded fire. Kind of like Aunt Ada when she's speaking in tongues. And surely not the best choice in the children's toy section.

Sparkler Breast? Oh Sparkler Breast. The only way out is through.

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas

Because it's like a week away people. And it's cold. And there is snow about 500 feet above my house. No lie. I saw it driving home this afternoon.

And because today was the annual Christmas Party at my husband's office. The hit toy of the evening was this wind-up Penguin that shoots candy out of its ass.

But for me, it just isn't Christmas without the Aluminum Tree. For the first four years of my life, that's the kind of tree we had and frankly, I loved it. The color wheel is why and because Aluminum is the substance most suited to conveying the magic of Christmas. I say that with complete sincerity.

Burning Bridges

I've burned many a bridge in my brief but exciting life, but never did I expect that one day I would blow it all at our local grocery store. We just needed to pick up a couple of things - yogurt tubes, bread, and eggs. A quick in and out even with three kids in tow, right? My god, we were there for about an hour and everyone in the store came to know us by the loud, piercing screams that emanated from the dairy section where we were lodged in a death dance while Olivia tried to decide whether she wanted blueberry or orange cream yogurt. "There's too many choices!" she screamed.

Since When Do You Have to Make An Appointment with the Balloon Person At Chevy's?

That's the burning question of the day. 'Cuz after waiting for 40 minutes for the balloon lady to make her way over to our side of the restaurant, she is finally within range. And Olivia is standing at the end of our table watching her make a kitty cat, a turkey, and a butterfly balloon animal for the kids only a table away from ours. She has been so patient. When we came back from the restroom, she wanted to go over to the balloon lady right then, but I said, no - she'll be over. Roger and I ate our overcooked sampler platter and drank our pre-made mix margaritas and Carter and Olivia accepted Chevy's burnt chicken nugget offering because we came there to ride the entire ride. And that includes watching them make the tortillas and getting a balloon from the balloon man - it's usually a man.

Tonight is different. Tonight there is a balloon lady and she makes the best balloons. And there she is, she's right there right next to us and Olivia is dancing and shuddering and her face is red and the balloon lady is so much better than the balloon man, so much more precise and careful and there - she's giving a last little twist to the butterfly's antennae and pulling out her Sharpie to give it a face and handing it to the little girl and then there are the hugs and the oh, that's what I live fors and the release and the look at Olivia standing, waiting and knowing with absolute certainty that It Is Now Her Turn and what? What?

There is the scream and the devastation as the balloon lady turns and walks away from us. And all the waiting and the patience and the hoping and the almost having and it being right there her turn is crashing into her and she falls into my arms sobbing and the balloon lady looks back and sees this and still - still - she walks away.

Fucking balloon lady.

I wish I had gone with my gut and followed her. Gone right over to the other side of the room with my unraveling daughter and cornered the balloon lady and made her make my girl a turkey. But it seemed slightly irrational at the time, no matter how justified. I wish I had. Because then there wouldn't have been the ride home in the van in the dark and the sobbing and the trying to come to terms with being ditched by the balloon lady.

O: Why, Mommie, why? Why did the balloon lady not come to our table?
E: I don't know Olivia. I'm so sorry.
O: The balloon man never leaves.
E: The balloon lady was very mean.
O: Maybe she doesn't come over when little kids are crying.
E: But you weren't crying Olivia. You were waiting. You were so patient.
O: Why did she do that Mommie?
E: I don't know, honey. I'm really sorry she did that to you. That wasn't right.

And when I see the balloon lady again, and I'm going to make a point to see the balloon lady again, even if it means choking down another bad meal and possibly waiting in an incredibly long line, because she owes my girl a balloon animal and an apology. Nothing less will do. There must be a rule? A clown school rule? Oh sure. I know there is disappointment and Olivia's better off getting used to that, huh? But there's another valuable lessen here and the balloon lady needs to learn it - I will teach her - she will learn: no one has to take shit from clowns.

Cuppa cuppa hot hot hot

While I was spooning out cough medicine (homeopathic) for Olivia this morning we had the following exchange:

O: What if they had a medicine to take for work?
E: They do. It's called coffee.

NAPLWRIMO: 30 Days to a New Play

By Thanksgiving you'll have most of it done and think how much juicer turkey will taste, how much more pumpy umpy umpy pumpkin pie will taste, how much stuffier wuffy wuffy stuffing will taste, how much cranberry airy airier cranberries will taste, and so on.

Sign up here.

It won't take seventeen years. I promise.



There will be some days when it feels like it's taking seventeen years. But it's only 30 days I promise and you can write a play in 30 days, you can.

Oozy and Crunchy Eyeballs

I will be making these for my son's 3rd grade Halloween Party on Friday. Will he eat any of them? No. He will not.

Ground Control

Do you sometimes forget that you are living on a planet? That, you know, a big, spherical object with you on it is hurtling through space?

I do.

Some days it might just as well be flat.

But then there are days like today when I'm driving along 280 and can see the clouds spiral and stretch across the sky like long whispy strands of cotton candy that I'm reminded that ah, yes, we are moving.

If you need some perspective you can check out these photos. (h/t our may in berlin)

Fried Chicken

I love roasted chicken. My husband is not so fond of it. Last night when he asked what was for dinner and I said chicken, he looked kind of beaten down when he asked "roasted chicken?" "Well. I have to cook the chicken," was all I could think to say because I have been awakened by little Marshall every hour on the hour past midnight for the past two weeks and my snappy comebacks are more snappy that comeback-y I guess you could say.

But I thought about it. I flipped through my big notebook of recipes. When it fell open to the page with the fried chicken recipe I thought to myself I just can't go there. I can't go to the dark side. You know the greasy, fat-fried dark side. The reason being that I love fried chicken and I will not stop eating it once I start. This could go wrong in any number of ways that mostly will affect my health, but anyway. I grew up eating fried chicken every Sunday with mashed potatoes and gravy and salty over-cooked green beans or salty-overcooked southern greens or salty over-cooked canned corn or salty-over cooked slightly peppered canned peas (except in summer when food was fresh from the garden), and combination salad. Combination salad deserves its own post, but for those of you who aren't familiar with it - combination salad is chopped up iceberg lettuce, shredded carrots, cucumber or a few tomatoes maybe but not always, sluiced in salad dressing made from two primary ingredients - Kraft salad dressing (not mayonnaise, rather a mayonnaise-like substance) and sugar. Sugar. Oh, and iced tea - Nestea and lemon and Sugar. Sugar. God I miss my grandmother's iced tea.

So I made the fried chicken using this recipe. It was the first time the kids ever had southern fried chicken and they were skeptical. I told them: "It's like katsu chicken. Really. Sort of. Except for the bones and the lack of flatness and the light panko breading." Olivia picked the breading off. Carter ate a little of both. Then they both devoured an entire breast. Because the secret is that the inside is oh so moist and tender from all that flash fat frying, eh? And not so greasy.

Note: I did not season the flour with paprika or thyme or dried mustard like the recipe called for. I did, however, use the full 1 tablespoon of salt and pepper and a sprinkling of cayenne (the kids don't do spicy so well). It was flavorful, but a little too hard-shell. I prefer the coating to be delicately crispy and light which may be as much about my technique as about the recipe itself . The thing I like about it is that you finish it in the oven, which also helps keep it tender and moist. I also liked frying it in my big iron skillet just like grandma used to.

Now I've crossed the threshold. Fried chicken is back on the menu chez nous. I'll be experimenting with various techniques and ingredients - namely butter milk marinades and such. It's all in the name of expanding the kids' food horizons. Sure.

Apparently It's Not Terrorism If You Agree with Their Agenda

There's no question that Bill Ayers by his own admittance was one who sought to destroy our US Capitol and our Pentagon. That is a domestic terrorist," Palin said, referring to a 1960s leftist who founded a radical violent gang dubbed the "Weathermen" -- and who years later supported Obama's first run for public office in the state of Illinois.

"Now, others who would want to engage in harming innocent Americans or facilities that it would be unacceptable to... I don't know if you're gonna use the word 'terrorist' there," the ardently pro-life running mate of John McCain said.

No. Wait. You've got to hear her say it.


Check out the Huffpost.

The Words German Engineering and Babies Should Not Appear Anywhere in the Same Sentence.

Not even in reference to Routan babies.

Have you seen that freaky ad with Brooke Shields and the babies and the VW van? I get that it's supposed to be "hilarious," that it's a mockumentary. But I don't know, it's a little - oh - tasteless.

I see the print ads in Parent and Cookie Magazines and I ask myself:
Why is it that such a carefully assembled multicultural mix of babies is not smiling? Hmm?

Don't they appreciate German Engineering?

Or it is because they just instinctively know that the words German engineering should not appear in a sentence with any word that is remotely human-related. 'Cuz remember the time when the German engineering thing got out of hand? With the people and the ovens? And the death camps? Hmm? Did the ad firm you hired collectively fail world history or is VW (Excuse me, Das Auto?) all about embracing its roots these days? Hmm?

Nice car
Ah, I love those Bavarians
so meticulous - Don Henley, The Garden of Allah

Unrelenting Optimism

On the ride back from getting take-out tonight Olivia was showing me pages from her Bb book that she made in preschool today.

O: Look Mom! What's this?
E: I can't tell you. I'm driving.
O: Look in the mirror! See!
E: Olivia, it's not safe to distract the driver.
O: What?
E: It's not safe to ask Mommy to look at pictures while she's driving.
O: Oh.

Then Carter chimes in:
C: Right, Olivia. Because Mom could crash the car into something, it could explode and catch on fire.
O: And then we'd have to walk home?

Denial Is A Sign of A Deep-Seated Issue

We are working strange, wiggy magic around here. Yep. We're cleaning house. Left to our own devices we'd bury ourselves in old magazines, broken toys, and cereal boxes. But everyone has their limit and I've reached mine - I tried to put down a glass of water on my desk yesterday and there was absolutely no space for it.

We went walking (although the kids felt it was a forced march) with a friend recently. As we were walking by a particularly cluttered looking yard. "You should have seen it last week. You couldn't see the yard," my friend pointed out, wondering if maybe the elderly woman who lived there had compulsive hoarding disease.

Then I watched this documentary:


POSSESSED from Martin Hampton on Vimeo.

Read more about his film project here.

Okay. We're not into that territory - yet. But I do kind of fall into the book hoarding category - I even have piles of library books. Of course, some are for my thesis, but others are not. The key phrase here is that hoarding interrupts social interaction and affects health. I mean my kids already do that.