The Concept of Free Time/ Ode to a Young Family

My husband and I had some neighbors over the other day, both retired, and at one point they asked me- “You’re so busy! When do you get free time?”

Now, we were cooking and doing some minor kitchen cleaning afterwards, juggling a mildly fussy baby (we would find out less than eight hours and a fairly sleepless night later that she had an ear infection) and 2 well behaved but energetic older girls… music on, dog wandering around, etc. The question took me aback a bit- I didn’t even know how to answer! Is there an answer? Because this life- I don’t see any of that as not free time! It’s busy but not exhausting. Full but not taxing. Requires pretty constant effort, but not draining. And yet it was so foreign to them they were close to being shocked by the noise and pace of it. (and we’re not a pot banging, child screeching crew, mind you.)

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I don’t know. I guess it’s because I work in an empty house all day by myself and travel and have all the free time I could want in the hotel rooms in the evenings… and I hate it. All I want is to get back to the bustle here. Free time isn’t exactly fun time- give me my four favorite people in the world all in one spot, existing together- I’d never want for more.

Sure. I don’t paint much these days, but I could if I wanted to without causing hard feelings. Or write. I conveniently use the general humm and cadence of the household to complain I can’t exercise… but I could if I wanted to. (Do. Not.)

And I guess, there are definitely days where I’m not keeping up. (Is running behind considered exercise?) The laundry never seems like I get in front of it. And the floor, well I think I wrote a blog post about it the last time the floor was mopped (before Christmas 2016, if memory serves).

And while I certainly don’t need their sympathy for the busy young (ha!) couple down the street… the husband and I will take our kind neighbors up on it; because they’re offering to let us step out for a date night soon. And if memory serves the last one of those we had was around my birthday in August. Unless you count the other ones, that is. The date nights that were every  other night after that. And mornings. And afternoons… and I wouldn’t trade a one of them for all the open hours in the day.

The Best Italian Wedding Soup Recipe Ever

You know, the only soup I’ve ever had at a wedding has been Menudo, but I dig the concept. And I forget exactly where I first read about Italian Wedding Soup, but I do remember why it piqued my interest. The article I was reading was written by some mother who mentioned this soup was her daughter’s favorite and the prepackaged brand she bought was discontinued and she didn’t know what she was going to do. DIDN’T KNOW WHAT SHE WAS GOING TO DO. Sheesh. That reminds me of stories about people getting trapped on escalators because they stop moving or people who are locked out of their car because their key fob batteries died. Are we that helpless, humanity? Make the soup yourself, that’s what you’re going to do.

The mix of beef and chicken broth adds depth to the soup and means you’re getting beef, pork, and chicken in this meal. Making it like a Turduckin… in no way whatsoever. And maybe double the meatballs and freeze them after you brown them- that’d be a nice jump on the next batch of soup or you could finish cooking them and toss them in pasta for a quickie meal down the road. Also? Some people drizzle beaten egg in this for egg streamers like in Egg Drop Soup. I like my eggs in birthday cake, so I don’t do that.

Prep Time: 45 minutes
Refrigerate meatballs for 1 hour prior to cooking
Cooking Tine: 45 minutes

For Meatballs:
Not exact science here- mix ratios till the meatballs stick together. For this soup the smaller you can get the meatballs the better; I aim for large blueberry sized, myself but usually end up at gumball sized.

1.5 lbs. ground pork
1 egg
2 tbsp. milk
4 Tbsp. grated Parmesan cheese
1 clove garlic, pressed through garlic press
½ tsp. salt
Pepper to taste (around 1/3 tsp.)
¼ finely chopped onion

For Soup:
2 Tbsp. olive oil
4 cups chicken broth
2 cups beef broth
2 cups thinly sliced kale
1 cup cooked Israeli couscous (orzo or other small pasta as a sub)
2/3 cup finely chopped carrot

Garnish with grated Parmesan

Mix ground pork, egg, milk, grated Parmesan, onion, garlic, salt and pepper together well in a large bowl until evenly mixed. Form into small meatballs, place on a cookie sheet and refrigerate for an hour. (This keeps them from falling apart when you brown them)

Heat olive oil over medium high heat in large pot. Add meatballs in batches (don’t crowd the pot or else they steam and don’t brown) turning regularly to brown all sides. Remove to a clean bowl or platter. Or plate. Just not the contaminated with raw pork bowl you used earlier is what I’m saying. Once all meatballs are browned and removed from pot add chopped carrots and cook for 3-4 minutes. Add broth, scraping the bottom to loosen the browned bits (they add mucho flavor) and add kale. Simmer for 30 minutes

In a separate pot cook the Israeli couscous or small pasta. Set aside (Yes. I know. Israeli couscous in Italian soup? That’s the Diaspora for you.) Tradition calls for a small, round pasta I’ve never ever found in stores anywhere, but Israeli couscous looks awfully similar to my eye, and was conveniently in my pantry already. Any small pasta will do though, orzo, stars, etc. Just cook it separately or it will suck up too much of the broth as it cooks. Also store it separately or it’ll get mushy and ruin any leftovers.

For the last 15 minutes of cooking add the browned meatballs back to the soup and continue to simmer.

Fluff the Israeli couscous or drain the pasta then add desired amount to individual bowls. Ladle in soup and top with more grated Parmesan cheese. Enjoy!

Recipe Post: Penne Pasta with Wine Sauce and Sun-dried Tomatoes

And… another recipe post. These will automatically tell you that the paralysis of going too long without a post has set in and so I trot out the already created content as a way of knocking myself out of it. It’s like my L Dopa. (Oliver Sacks reference there. Drink up.)

And , as I’ve mentioned before, I am working on a LONG running project of trying to finish a cookbook which is why I have so many recipes as existing content to use. This is ongoing from 2011 and it’s about damn time to not have hanging over my head anymore. Write a cookbook, I said. It’ll be fun, I said…

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You’ll need a couple of these. Image by Andrzej Jakubczyk

 

Penne Pasta with Wine Sauce and Sun-dried Tomatoes

I would recommend memorizing at least one recipe- it impresses the hell outta your friends if you bust it out of thin air at their house. Also it’ll mean you are pretty guaranteed* to not forget ingredients while grocery shopping. This is the one I always can pull out of the ether,  hippocampus, or wherever memories are actually stored. Typing sounds. Google tells me memories are stored in the limbic system of which the hippocampus is a part. Jesus. Did my hippocampus actually just remember that the hippocampus is where memories are stored?! It’s too damn early for this.

Oh. Does that literally tell you NOTHING about this recipe? Okay, well let’s see, This is universally loved by everyone from the 1 year-old through inlaws and all kids/ teens/ adults in between and that’s great considering the amount of onion it has in it. Ummm… it doesn’t need a side dish- like what a huge plus that is, right? Reheats well for next day lunches (woot, woot- right teachers?), and… ah! Is vegetarian! But not vegan- because of the cheese. And seriously vegans- if you are against cheese then you have NEVER felt the relief of being a breastfeeding mother and being able to nurse after a delay in your normal schedule. Ugh… look. I don’t know where this is going either, honestly. Back to the pasta.

1 8oz. package of Penne pasta

3 Tbsp. olive oil

4 cloves garlic, minced

10-12 Cremini mushrooms, sliced

1/2 yellow onion, diced

8 sundried tomatoes, reconstituted in water, drained, and sliced lengthwise

1 small jar marinated artichoke hearts, drained and cut into thirds

1 can black olives

1 ½ cup white wine, dry

Juice of half a lemon

1 cup of Parmesan cheese

Salt and pepper to taste

Handful of fresh parsley, chopped

Cook pasta, drain, return to pot and put lid back on to maintain temperature. In a large skillet or sauté pan heat olive oil over medium high heat. Add onion, garlic, and mushrooms. Season with salt and pepper and cook for 3-5 minutes until mushrooms have reduced in size and released their juices. Add sundried tomatoes and continue to cook for 2 minutes. Add wine and lemon juice as well as artichoke hearts and olives. Continue cooking until sauce is reduced by half. Pour sauce over pasta, add Parmesan cheese, and mix to combine. Top with fresh chopped parsley.

This is also good topped with grilled chicken or shrimp, but I prefer it just like it is, honestly.

*Nope. I usually forget the olives, myself. It’d be nice if it worked that way in real life though, wouldn’t it?

Business Travel: Occasional Distractions from Melancholy

It sounds cool: traveling for work. I promise I am WELL aware of that. And that the following will sound so entitled- but traveling the country for work sucks. Big ones. I travel to Portland. Indianapolis. Denver. Salt Lake City. Dallas. Pittsburg. I have to travel to Canada regularly too. Know what I get to see more than anything? The inside of Marriot hotels. Airports. Conference rooms at engineering firms, which all seem to have the same tables and chairs. And it’s just excruciating to be away from my family. All I ever want to do is get back to them.

But every once in a while… I can carve out just a tiny bit of time and literally force myself to look up and enjoy the places I visit. So occasionally I can eat lunch and walk in an old growth forest in Washington (honestly? I felt like bear bait on that one.) I get to go to an awesome bookstore in Portland. Once I stayed in an AMAZING Bed and Breakfast in Seattle because the entire city’s hotel rooms were sold out. And this last trip… I got to carve an hour and a half from the afternoon and went to the Carnegie Museum in Pittsburgh. It’s an Art Museum! It’s a Natural History Museum! Here are some pics.

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Van Goghe

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Another Van Goghe

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From the Colonial Era Room…

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Cezanne (my favorite painting from the entire museum)

 

…And then there is the Modern Art Wing

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“Art”

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*Eyeroll* Heavy Sigh…”Art”

But my FAVORITE part of the museum was the Natural History Museum. I took more videos in that wing, so I don’t have pictures of the T-Rexs or Brachiosaurs, but here are a few of the pics.

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IT’S A TWELVE FOOT TURTLE! Dude!

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And my favorite thing in the ENTIRE place- a two foot fossil of a prehistoric flower. Amazing! And that’s more art than a tire in pantyhose- Fo’ SHO’.

 

 

Insufferable Parenting #489- Of Wood and Plastic

Plastic is scary stuff, what with all it’s mimicry of estrogen in the human body. And in fish. And in animals. And… yeah. So I actually think this latest generation will be similar to the last generation that grew up with lead paint and leaded gas- we are very close to a full realization as to how dangerous this stuff is and our behavior as a society and products WILL change to reflect that very soon- of this I believe. *Hand on heart while staring knowingly into the distance. Sunset behind me. Eagle cries ringing overhead.*

BUT- I sure as hell wasn’t going to wait for Johnson and Johnson to make the change for me. So with all the girls- we used glass jar baby food as much as we could. Glass storage containers. Few plastics in the girls eating utensils- no melamine plates, ever, but there were some plastic cups for a short period of time. Those have long been replaced with small glass jelly jars. I buy olive oil in glass jars. I’m… yeah. It’s important to me.

I have gone off the deep end, a BIT, with it with our latest daughter. Metal baby spoons (turns out Oneida makes some still). Organic blankets. Organic crib mattress and mattress pad. I tried glass bottles, but she wouldn’t go for it- but we use the only organic, American made formula once we started supplementing at 7 months when I was just DONE pumping at work 3 times a day. Morning and night we still breast feed though. And yeah, we can’t help but use the plastic baby food pouches, but they’re organic at least- scout’s honor. Wooden toys and teether (she uses the teether to hit the wooden drum and has never once put it in her mouth. But then, she hasn’t been teething yet either, so I’ll hold off saying that $17 was wasted yet. Who am I kidding. Totally was.) Did I order wooden baby bowls and plates? Maybe.

The biggest one- which I could CARE LESS at the expense of- was a 100% wood high chair from Great Britain. Yes- I had a damn high chair shipped from Europe- but the only one I could find in the US was plywood- and hell, that might be worse than plastic. I just plan to turn it into a heirloom. And I figured we saved so much by borrowing baby stuff and not going overboard on swings or other baby gear that we still came out on top. And it may sound like it, but I am not justifying the expense- I’ve never once felt guilty about it- it was totally worth it for my plastic fearing self.

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Wooden high chair, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways…

How self righteous does this post sound? Oh god. So very. Here’s my point though. What’s the WORST plastic in the house? The cheap bath toys- can’t seem to find a good alternate to those. What are Mary’s favorite toys? Take a guess. Does she crawl around the house with one in her mouth, INTENT on torturing me? You bet your ass she does.

 

Random Thoughts

I HATE that I can’t spell champagne without sounding out CHAM-PAG-KNEE in my head. Just did it again.

Going out to eat ALWAYS takes more energy than just sucking it up and sautéing some chicken and tossing a salad together. Sheesh when am I going to learn that one.

I love wet weather- nothing will make you feel more alive than a light mist coming down at night. Cool on the face and forming haloes on street lamps… love it.

The fact that the words fluid and liquid don’t mean the same things annoys me. Fluids shouldn’t also encompass gasses- I’m just going to come out on that side of the heated debate not at all raging over this one.

Chikungunya. One: it’s a disease that is spelled like that. Two: it’s a disease that has nothing to do with chickens. And three: I’m an idiot.

On Champagne and Standing and a View of Construction Equipment

I’d LIKE to think sharing this article is not like drinking spoiled milk and going “oh my God- taste this!”

It was hard to read. Read it!

This article

It’s an article by a favorite writer of mine about mothering her dying friend through Hospice care. And the whole article is lovely and haunting, what with it’s ripping the curtain back from the Wizard of Oz- only it’s Death, always Death behind the curtain. (Jesuschrist, woman. Downer much on a Sunday?) So yes- the whole article is hard to read- but important. The thought that gets me is that her friend asked for champagne, right before she died. She was told, “No, it’s 6am we don’t have any champagne.” God help me- god help me to give someone champagne. Please – please let someone give me champagne before I die if that’s what I want. Agh. It’s the detail that gets me on that. For some reason that’s the thing that haunts me.

I think it haunts me because I can draw correlations to my grandfather’s last day.  He was very antsy. Plucking at the arms of his wheel chair. Agitated. He wanted to stand repeatedly. In the middle of a small concert of hymns. In his room. In the hallway. I called an orderly over each time. We heaved him up by his belt and under his arms. He stood for as long as he could each time. It was important to him. I hope it was his champagne.

On that afternoon I got him a new tank of oxygen. Wheeled him around the facility. Here’s the garden. Here’s your room. Here’s the other hallway. He fell asleep looking out a window in the main living space as I rubbed his shoulders and hummed Silent Night- just like I hummed to my children. The window was overlooking a large red oak tree. The tree was pretty but I picked that one because it also overlooked Dean Word Construction Company’s back property. You could see all sorts of loaders, and backhoes, and heavy equipment. I thought he’d like that.

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I sat with him as he slept. And when my Aunt and Uncle got there I left for home. It was just hours later my brother called me to say he died in his sleep as my Dad and my aunt sang and played piano for him. He won his long fight.

Anyway. I don’t know what my point on this one was. I saw some correlations between that article and past experience and it’s opened the wound that is everyone’s mortality for me a bit. It’s… all okay though. Because it has to be- because it’s always been the truth here- the price we pay for being here is to eventually leave and I get that. And that’s okay too. Not easy in the slightest, I’ll sure as hell tack that on though.