FOOD ON THE FOOD

The Life Cycle of Flowers

It’s hard to talk about the idea of death with your kids, but lately it seems to come up all the time.  Like when we went to visit the 4YO’s chick and one of the others had recently expired and was lying conspicuously in the wood shavings.  Dinner always has the potential to trigger a morbid line of questioning.  So does absent-mindedly smacking at fruit flies. 

The kids don’t have a lot of personal experience with death, thank goodness, although they do ask about the cats from time to time, wondering if their absence really is a permanent condition. But I feel a responsibility to try to help them understand that death is a natural part of life, even if I barely have a true understanding of that myself. 

Recently, the 4YO was brooding over a flower he had picked that was wilting.  I explained that, although it was dying, it would drop its seeds to make more flowers as a way of living on.  I gathered from the expression on his face that this concept was way too abstract.  Then I told him we would bring the flower outside and lay it in the flowerbed and the stem and the leaves and the petals would turn back into dirt, which would help make a good spot for the new flowers to grow.  Nice try, Tammy, but nope, still not getting through.  He needed more concrete, practical answers.

Him: But…at the end of the world, it will die.

Me: Well, yes.  It will die.

Him: So what will we do?

Me: We will love it very much before it dies.

Him: And then, when it dies, we won’t love it anymore?

Me: No, no.  We will still love it.  We will definitely still love it.

Being a parent is hard.

Eggsistential Lunch

Here’s what the 4YO and I discussed over our egg salad today:

Him: Mommy, are you a grown-up?

Me: That’s a good question!!

Him: … (still waiting for the answer)

Me: Yes, I’m a grown-up.

Him: … (pondering this)

Me: Did you think I was a child?

Him: No.  I thought you were a teenager.

Hmmmmm.  I’m either very insulted or totally psyched!

Serving 1 to Life

I know I pissed some of you off with the tomato theft story.  With so many garden-oriented readers, I can’t help but think I half-hoped to stir up a little controversy with my presentation.  And you have a valid point.  Stealing is wrong, regardless of the scale, regardless of the circumstance. But let me give you the rest of the story, not to excuse it, but to put it in a larger context. 

The garden in question turned out to be in back of my older son’s elementary school.  That there was a garden back there was news to me.  No one had ever mentioned anything about a school garden before.  My son had never laid eyes on it.  The woman who had told me about the tomatoes was affiliated with the community farm through which we have a CSA share, but I didn’t know much more than that.  All I knew was there were unblighted tomatoes behind the school, possibly the only local tomatoes I would see all year, and I needed to figure out a way to get some.  And, yes, I realize that stealing from children only worsens my case for clemency, but let me finish.  Sheesh!

When I showed up at the building, boldly holding two pint containers in my hands, it was a week or so before school was starting.  Teachers were preparing for the new school year and so there was some activity inside the building.  I headed for the office to ask the school secretary about the garden.  She said, what garden?  I said, the garden in back of the school.  She said, we have a garden in back of the school?  I said, don’t you?  Nobody else in the office seemed to know.  This is when I started to doubt the veracity of the woman at the farm.  Where did she get this information?  I asked if I could go out back and look.  The secretary said, go ahead.  I asked if she wanted me to pick her a pint of tomatoes while I was back there.  She didn’t seem to care.

If you missed the tomato story, what happened next is here.  The plants were big and beautiful and yielded tons of ripe little sungolds.  Tons.  I took two pints and change, and barely made a dent.  It was clear that somebody was taking good care of that garden, but who?  Then, when the janitors started banging trashcans against the windows, I figured it was probably them.  I resolved to get to the bottom of this mystery as soon as possible.  As soon as possible after I got those tomatoes into a salad.

Once school began, I started volunteering at the school library.  The library has a long bank of sunny windows in the back that happen to overlook the garden and its woody surroundings.  I asked the librarian about the garden and, as it happened, she knew the e-mail addresses of the two people who planted it.  I contacted them and one of them wrote back to say that the garden was part of a pilot program at the public schools designed to teach kids about where their food comes from and the growing cycle.  One of the grades had planted pumpkin seeds before summer vacation and would be harvesting them that fall.  She said they were looking to expand the garden and get more kids, and perhaps the parents, involved.  Can you guess who the person in charge of the garden was? 

The woman who told me about the tomatoes in the first place! 

Damnit!  I hadn’t been stealing after all!  She had practically given me her blessing. (sigh)

Well, that garden left such an indelible impression on me that I immediately volunteered to be the parent liaison.  Now I help Healthy Waltham, a city-run organization that aims to improve health and quality of life, in organizing parent volunteers to help maintain the garden over the summer (weeding, watering, and, yes, harvesting) so it’s in good shape for lessons in the fall.  They’re hoping that, with more parent involvement, the garden can grow, become more integrated in the curriculum, and serve as an example for other schools around the country. 

Nine families signed up to take care of the garden for a week this summer.  During our week, the kids and I watered the plants, weeded, and mulched the pumpkin patch with straw.  And by “the kids and I,” I mean me.  They sat under a shady tree and read books.  That’s fine, too.

I’m not sure the end always justifies the means, but, in this case, it didn’t turn out too badly.

Cute Chicks

The 4YO’s preschool class recently raised some chicks!  One of his teachers obtained some fertilized eggs from Codman Farm in Lincoln and kept them in an incubator in the classroom.  On each egg she penciled an X on one side and an O on the other.  The eggs needed to be rotated several times per day (including nights and weekends), and the markings helped ensure that none of them got missed.  The class kept a calendar and the children counted down the days until they hatched. 

Several weeks later, two little chicks emerged.  (There were more than two eggs, but it’s true what they say about not counting your chickens before they hatch.)  Still, they had each other, and the smaller, balder one cuddled up underneath the bigger, fluffier one for warmth.  All the kids were crazy about the chicks, but especially the 4YO (I may have mentioned his bird fixation).  He staked out a special spot next to the cage during his afternoon rest time, often falling asleep from the warmth of the heat lamp and their soft peeping.  I tried not to be too disgusted when I found wood shavings from the cage all over his naptime blankets.  (How soon I forget about animal-induced filth now that we’ve been a cat-free household for a year.)

Needless to say, the 4YO got pretty attached to the chicks, especially the fluffy one, which he declared to be his favorite.  I tried to make an argument against favoring the pretty ones over the runty, less attractive ones, but I gave up.  Let’s face it, you like who you like.  (Whom you like?  Grammar, sometimes you cramp my style.) 

But soon the chicks had to be returned to the farm where they would live out their chicken lives as egg-layers.  We presume.  The chickens at Codman have a pretty sweet life with their mobile coops and grassy pasture.  Still, I knew it would be a bittersweet goodbye.   The 4YO seemed okay at separation time, but then he was quieter than usual on the ride back home.  While we were sitting at a traffic light, I heard a soft voice from the back:

Him: Mommy, I love that chick.

Me: I know, honey. 

He didn’t say anything else the whole way home. 

The next week, I brought him to Codman to check up on his chick.  At least I think it was his chick.  Who can tell?  I just picked the fluffiest, yellowest puffball and declared it a reunion!  The chick was now fully immersed with dozens of other preschool-aged chicks in their own little pen right next to the pen with the emo teenaged chicks and some crossover ducklings.  It was pretty loud in there.  The 4YO joined the ruckus, squawking away happily in the hen house.

Phew.  His first chick-related heartbreak averted!  But it surely won’t be his last.

The Easter Bunny Returns

I proclaimed today to be Mulberry-Picking Day.  Ready or not, here we come! 

I grabbed the 4YO, the now-traditional Easter basket, and some raincoats, and we headed back to the Charles River.  Some of the mulberries were nice and ripe, and those we picked.  Unfortunately, most of the best ones were out of arm's reach.  It seems I’m not the only one who knows about these berries (and, from what I can tell, they all have a good six inches on me).  I pulled the branches down as low as they would go, but the birds only mocked me more.  The berry-laden upper two-thirds of the trees are their domain, you see, and as much as I’d love to, I can’t be climbing trees.  I’ve spent enough time in hospitals.

Luckily, on our walk, we found the perfect grabber stick.  It was about 6 feet long, light but sturdy, with three short branch stumps sticking out like stick-figure fingers.   With that, I was able to make contact with high branches and shake them until the berries fell to the ground.  The 4YO thought that was the funniest thing—having berries rain down over our heads and shoulders.  The trick was then to try to tell which berries just fell and which ones had been down there for a while.  Most of what we collected got eaten.  The rest will be scattered over tonight’s salad.

On the walk back, we saw all kinds of different birds and a pair of turtles. 

A far-sighted great blue heron nearly knocked me over as we crossed a footbridge.  I didn’t even see him coming until we were face to face.  I could have touched him.  The 4YO, being 10 paces ahead, didn’t get to see him, which is too bad because he’s crazy about birds.  He practically has the Peterson guide memorized.  As for me, I know the obvious birds.  The ones with the most blatant colors and markings, like cardinals and goldfinches and Baltimore orioles.  I can identify the shit out of a red-winged blackbird.  It’s all the other brownish-grayish birds that are a little murky. 

We noticed a cute gray bird swooping down and catching insects in midair over the lily pads.  It was really fun to watch and the 4YO was giggling.  Then he yelled out, Eastern kingbird!  I thought he meant kingfisher, which it clearly wasn’t since I know those are blue and most likely eat fish, but I was encouraging anyway.  When we got home, we looked up the bird in the guidebook and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t an eastern kingbird! 

As Long As I Get a Cut of the Profits

The First Grader is quite an artist. Lately, he’s been coming up with cartoon characters and writing stories to go along with them. I was putting away some of his drawings when I came across this:

And this:

Hmmmm. I don’t want to read too much into this, but is it possible that I’m not as charming as I think I am?

A Lesson in Dinosaur Social Dynamics

While playing dinosaurs the other morning, the Preschooler was orchestrating a conversation between a triceratops and a stegosaurus in which they compared their various types of armor and the plants they liked to eat. When they ran out of things to talk about, he decided to introduce a T-Rex to the mix.

Me: Uh-oh. A Tyrannosaurus? Is he going to play nice?

Him: Yes.

Me: But what if he’s hungry? Won’t he eat the stegosaurus or the triceratops?

Him: No. He’ll eat a different dinosaur.

Me: Oh, yeah?

Him: He’ll eat a parasaurolophus instead.

Of course. Fill up on parasaurolophus, the chips and salsa of the dinosaur world. A main course of stegosaurus asado or triceratops rellenos would never cross his mind. Looks like the beginning of a beautiful, albeit short-lived, friendship.

Scenes from Christmas

Christmas went without a hitch this year. No disasters to speak of, I’m sorry to report. St. Nick managed to cram himself down our tiny chimney right on schedule to deliver the goods to the children. He took some liberties with the fudge, I noticed, making short work of what we left for him on the mantle and then dipping into my secret stash in the refrigerator (he really is always watching, isn’t he?). You can imagine my reaction when I found the empty pans strewn about in the snow, reindeer footprints all around. I’m willing to let it slide, however, in the spirit of Christmas.

Husband and I kept our gifts to each other to a minimum. We didn’t want to end up in a Gift of the Magi-type situation wherein I relinquish my most precious asset, my gorgeous, flowing hair, only to find out that the measly ¾-inch growth I've accumulated will barely get you enough loose change to buy one and a half fishing lures to replace the dozens that have gotten caught in various trees over the years, not by Husband. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, he would have pawned off his fishing pole to buy me a truckload of barrettes or whatever you call those things that keep your hair out of your eyes. To which I would respond, in language befitting an O. Henry character, “WTF? You know I’m physically incapable of accessorizing.”

My in-laws came over Christmas morning bearing Hole-in-One doughnuts and other goodies. I didn’t knock myself out too much with the meal this year. Just a laid-back brunch with bacon from Chestnut Farms, fresh fruit, and a goat cheese-artichoke strata. Oh, and grapefruit mimosas, but that’s for another post. No spiral hams taking forever to cook or ducks to be trussed or husbands to make vomit. Nope, just a casserole made the night before and shoved into the oven amidst a flurry of wrapping paper (made only slightly more challenging by hastily deployed Lego minefields everywhere). Later on, once food coma set in and everyone cleared out, I took a three-and-a-half-hour nap. That was my Christmas present to myself. I thought baby Jesus would approve.

And that, my friends, was Christmas. How about you?

Goat Cheese-Artichoke Strata
This one’s for my mother-in-law. It’s a good use of leftover cheese from the cheese plate you might have served on Christmas Eve.

1 1-lb. loaf sourdough bread, crusts removed if thick
3 garlic cloves, unpeeled
18 oz. marinated artichoke hearts, drained, 3 Tbsp. or marinade reserved
2 tsp. minced fresh thyme
¾ lb. goat cheese, crumbled
¾ lb. freshly grated Parmesan cheese
8 large eggs
2½ cups half-and-half or milk
1 tsp. salt
¾ tsp. black pepper
3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil

Preheat oven to 400°F. Butter a deep 9- to 10-inch baking dish.

Cut bread into 1-inch cubes. Transfer cubes to a baking sheet, along with cloves of garlic, and toast for about 25 minutes, stirring once or twice, until bread is golden brown and lightly crisp. (Or you could use stale bread and toast the garlic separately.) Peel the garlic, smash the cloves, and add to a medium bowl. Slice the artichoke hearts about ½-inch thick and add to the bowl. Mix in the thyme.

In the baking dish, arrange half of the bread, artichoke mixture, and cheeses, then finish with another layer of each. Whisk the eggs with the half-and-half, salt, pepper, and reserved artichoke marinade. Pour custard over the strata. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours or overnight. In my case, I did this Christmas Eve so I could just pop it in the oven Christmas morning.

Remove the strata from the fridge a half hour before you plan to bake it. Preheat oven to 350°F. Drizzle olive oil over strata and bake for 50-55 minutes, until golden brown, puffed, and lightly set in the center. Serve hot.

Source: Adapted from A Real American Breakfast by the Jamisons.

Blizzard Boy Strikes Again

The First Grader turns 7 this week, but we had his party over the weekend. Naturally, a big snowstorm came through that day. Husband was busy finishing up the birthday cake, so I went outside to shovel out some parking spaces. I’m glad I can just copy and paste this same blog entry year after year after year.

Luckily, our friends have caught on and started making secret reservations at their local ski lodge for whatever day the party invitation says. Then they call us up that morning to say they’re totally snowed in, won’t be leaving anytime soon, that’s for sure, barely hanging up before the ski lift deposits them at the top of the powdery slopes.

It may not snow all year, but it always snows on the day we celebrate the birth of our eldest son. He even made the front page of the Boston Herald on Christmas Day 2002 for being born while a sizable nor’easter was bearing down upon us.

(He's the one in the middle. Don't be fooled: he's not sleeping, he's concentrating intently on mobilizing giant weather systems.)

I just assumed kids were born during snowstorms all the time. I didn’t realize this was a sneak preview of his unique superpower. Over the years, Blizzard Boy would prove to have uncanny control over the weather, able to whip the winter winds into a frenzy, dump massive amounts of precipitation onto the surrounding areas, and, perhaps more importantly, enjoy mixing crushed-up candy bars into softened vanilla ice cream anytime of year, even when Dairy Queen isn’t open. (Fear not, Public at Large, he only uses his powers for good, not evil.)

We always manage to have a respectable turnout despite the weather. The parking spaces I clear on the street, while never big enough for actual cars once the plows are through with them, are usually big enough for sled-only parking for the locals. But you know the only reason I bring up these parties is an excuse to show you Husband’s latest cake. This year’s theme was Bakugan. You know, those little plastic balls that get rolled onto magnetic cards that then trigger all these little spring-loaded arms, legs, and horns to explode out of them.

This is Spin Dragonoid all folded up. But Husband designed it so that when you blow out the candles, color-coordinated marzipan appendages shoot out of the cake in three dimensions like a pop-up book. Unfortunately, my camera ran out of charge right at that moment, so you’ll have to take my word for it.

Take that, Neighborhood Dads!

Perfect Pumpkin Pie

We had three Thanksgiving dinners this year. One with Nonni on the day, one with my Mom the day after, and then I cooked one for us at home on Sunday. I’ve never cooked a whole Thanksgiving dinner in my life because we’re always away. It occurred to me that this is one of the things I want to do before I die, and that maybe I should start working on that list sooner rather than later.

So, I roasted a giant turkey leg that I had procured the week before from Diemand Farm in Wendell, MA with Annabelle of Calamity Shazaam in the Kitchen and her lovely family. Alongside the turkey leg were roasted carrots from Waltham Fields and potatoes from Picadilly Farm. Then I made oyster and chestnut dressing with Wellfleet oysters (courtesy of Grandpa P), as well as the stale, half-eaten baguettes I’ve been collecting from Russo’s. Finally, I made roasted Eastham turnip with local shallots and apples. Husband followed everything up with a homemade pumpkin pie.

One of the great things about this dinner was that the kids actually ate it. Not only ate it, but liked it. I was definitely not expecting that. The dressing alone was “food on the food” at its worst: many of the ingredients were green (leeks, celery, thyme, sage, parsley), several were gross-looking (chestnuts, oysters), and they were all mixed up with stale bread doused in the drippings of a dead bird. I did not explain it to them in this way, however. Maybe that’s the secret.

After they had eaten every bit off their plate, and my dad had eaten every bit off his plate (yes, including the turnips), they had pumpkin pie and ate every smear of filling right out of the crust. Since when is pumpkin pie popular with kids? Now they suddenly adore it, which means Husband will be even more inclined to sneak downstairs in the middle of the night for secret pie.

Husband’s recipe is as simple as, well…pie. It’s the simplest pie you’ll ever make, put it that way. He makes it with canned pumpkin and a Pillsbury crust, so it’s super-quick to put together. If you don’t already have a standard pumpkin pie in rotation, I’d suggest starting with this one and building off it.

Now, all we have to do is marry his pumpkin pie technique with my homemade lard crust, possibly also real CSA pumpkin or squash, and then there will be world peace.

Someday.

Husband’s Pumpkin Pie

His secret is to mix fresh, grated nutmeg along with the powdered stuff, half and half.

3 eggs
½ cup sugar
½ cup brown sugar, lumps sifted down
1 can pumpkin pie filling (or 1½ cups cooked and puréed fresh pumpkin)
1 Tbsp. flour
½ tsp. nutmeg
½ tsp. allspice
½ tsp. salt
1¼ cups low-fat milk, heated (not boiled)

Preheat oven to 450°F. Let pre-made dough come to room temperature for 15 minutes to unstiffen. Grease the pie plate, line with dough, and crimp.

In a large bowl, whisk the eggs with the sugars. Mix in the pumpkin, flour, spices, and salt. Slowly add the heated milk, whisking all the while, over the course of a minute or so. If you like your pies creamier, you can use whole milk instead or go up an extra ¼ cup on the low-fat milk. However, Husband likes his dark and firm. His words. Hmmmmm…

Bake pie for 10 minutes at 450°F, then lower heat to 350°F and bake 55-60 minutes longer. Let cool, then refrigerate until chilled. Serve with whipped cream or, as Husband prefers it, plain.

Is Anyone Hiring a Dictionary Editor?

Sometimes kids can boil things down to their best, most essential parts. Take the other night. Husband made his garlicky chicken and broccoli pasta dish. The 4YO, pleased with the dinner offerings that evening, sat down and said he was going to “enjoy” it. Not simply “like” it, but “enjoy” it. He said he hoped that we would enjoy it, too. He was very proud of his new vocabulary. Then he followed it up with, “Enjoy means you have a family, and you like the pasta. That’s what enjoy means.”

Couldn’t have said it any better myself.

Sugar Mama

We’re still working our way through the Halloween candy, if you can believe it. We (the kids, I mean) got an unbelievable amount this year, probably because it was so warm outside that everyone was in a good mood, raining entire bags of candy in the vicinity of outstretched plastic pumpkin buckets.

We’ve been rationing out the loot to the kids if they eat a good dinner: two pieces for them, two pieces for mommy. That means they each get to pick out one for me—their choice—although I have absolute veto power over Smarties, Tootsie Rolls, NECCO wafers, or basically anything that’s not a Snickers, Milky Way, Kit Kat, Twix, Butterfinger, you get the idea. Husband gets an automatic Almond Joy.

As the First Grader was agonizing over what he could possibly spare from his dwindling reserves, the 4YO, who is still unclear on the concept of consequences, handed me a two-pack of peanut butter cups with a smile. Score! Husband looked on in disgust:

Him: (to the First Grader) Watch out. She’ll trick you out of your best candy.

Me: (chewing) ...

Him: Notice that she doesn’t deny it.

Me: (chewing) ...

Him: She’s got guilt written all over her chocolate-smeared face.

Me: (still chewing) ...

He can say whatever he wants. I know my Miranda rights.

Maybe He’ll Get Free French Fries

Over breakfast the other morning, I was explaining to the kids why we would be seeing a lot more of daddy around the house. I said there wasn’t any more work for him to do at his old job, so he would be looking for a new job. That seemed perfectly logical to the First Grader:

Him: What kind of a job is daddy going to get?

Me: I don’t know. Maybe something the same as what he had before.

(Earnest thinking from the First Grader)

Him: I know what he should be.

Me: What?

Him: A clown.

Now, why didn’t I think of that?

Pilgrim’s Progress

We took the kids to Plimoth Plantation over the weekend during that wonderful spell of Indian summer we just had. (By the way, I don’t think the word “Indian” is offensive in the context of summer, do you? There were signs posted up all over the trails suggesting the use of the term “Native Peoples,” but “Native People summer” gives the impression of overwhelming numbers of native people being around during the actual summertime and so it’s confusing not to mention unwieldy, not unlike this tangent.)

If you’re not from around here and/or live under a rock that’s not Plymouth Rock, Plimoth Plantation is one of the biggest tourist attractions outside of Boston, with a full-scale replica of Plimoth colony circa 1627 complete with walking historians who act out the roles of the actual settlers, as well as a reproduction of a Wampanoag village. Maybe it’s uncool to admit it, but I was kind of excited to go back after all these years. I loved Plimoth Plantation as a kid, sneaking into other people’s homes and snooping through all their stuff. Later, as a teenager, I engaged in the fine art of Pilgrim-baiting (trying to trick the role-players into admitting knowledge of the modern world, as if no one’s ever tried that one before). Now that I’m older and oh-so-very-much-wiser, I couldn’t wait for my kids to have the same peek into 17th century life. And to tell the Pilgrims all about the Internet!

It’s a little bit awkward, though, to interact with the staff at period museums like this (Old Sturbridge Village included). You don’t want the actors to think you yourself are actually fooled by their phony accents and thatched roofs and very convincing daily chores going on around you. You know they’re just acting, and you know they know you know they’re just acting (you hope). But it’s also important to keep the magic alive for the children. What kind of a loser goes to a place like this and then refuses to participate (loud throat-clearing directed at Husband). In this vein, I was happy to aid the First Grader in his earnest quest to locate a young Pilgrim boy named Samuel Eaton he’d read about in a library book. But then maybe you might find yourself getting way too wrapped up in conversation with a possible distant relative of young Samuel to the point of cracking the eggs for her pain perdu while your children wander away.

After a while, Husband had to intervene because the other 21st century folk jammed into the one-room dwelling couldn’t get a word in edgewise:

Me: (to Pilgrim lady) So tell me again what you like to do with all these squashes.

Husband silently leads me out the door by the elbow.

Me: What?

Him: You do know they’re not real Pilgrims, right?

Me: Duh. I know that. I was just playing along.

Him: …

Me: But I was a little offended that she didn’t ask us to stay for lunch. She had three golden opportunities but kept changing the subject to the news from England. I didn’t make all those sausage patties for nothing.

That’s okay. There's always next time. I wonder what my new friends are doing two Thursdays from now?

On Track

The 3YO completed his transformation into a 4YO over the weekend, right on schedule. If you’re imagining a change of Incredible Hulk-type proportions, you’re not that far off. It’s hard to grow up. There’s a lot of roaring and vein-bulging and turning strange colors. A good deal of throwing things that you thought were pretty well anchored-down, not to mention clothes fitting one minute and falling off in shreds the next. The 4YO’s growing pains are legendary, causing him to wake up in the middle of the night yowling, “My bones are breaking.” The kid is growing like a tenacious weed (but a weed that’s finally out of diapers, praise Jesus).

Another year means another birthday party, so Husband got to flex his cake- decorating muscles once again. This year, the theme was trains. Not trains with faces, though. Don’t be silly. The 4YO is WAY beyond Thomas the Tank Engine, he’ll have you know, even though I still catch him playing with them once in a while. No, non-anthropomorphized trains were the order of the day, and Husband (an engineer in his own right) delivered:

You have to admit it’s pretty cute. Each boxcar is a double-layered cake with Life-Savers for wheels. I was initially turned off by the thought of a wintergreen/ chocolate frosting combination, but Husband got the orange-flavored ones and the combo wasn’t half bad.

Husband’s creations seem to have sparked a vicious game of one-upmanship among the dads in the neighborhood (if, by vicious, I mean delicious). Tractors and treasure maps have recently been rendered out of cake and icing to the delight of children and wives alike. I wonder what feats of engineering are in store for us next year?

Thank heaven for little boys!

A New Twist on Apple Butter

(Cut the First Grader some slack with the apostrophe.  Maybe he wasn’t done with the sentence.)

My strawberry-black raspberry jam is long gone, so I staked out some time yesterday to make apple butter.  I thought it would be fun to try it the old- fashioned way my great-grandmother described, with the big copper kettle over an open fire and young crushes trying not to bang the stirrer against the pot under penalty of a kiss.  But the local teenagers I polled didn’t seem to share in my enthusiasm for the project, possibly seeing through my ploy for free manual labor, even though I did mention the kissing part.  Not me, I clarified.  Each other.  Okay, old lady, they said in between sexting.  As soon as we finish smoking our corncob pipes. 

No one has any respect for the elderly anymore.

So I kicked everyone out of the kitchen and researched a more modern method.  A family recipe up on Simply Recipes had me intrigued with its use of apple cider vinegar instead of apple cider.  Vinegar?  I’d never heard of that.  Nevertheless, as I had some vinegar but no cider, I forged ahead, skeptical but always willing to overlook these things when measured against the prospect of a trip to Russo’s during peak shopping hours.

That wasn’t the only twist, though.

I added some husk cherries to the apples in the pot.  Why not?  My mom’s delicious tomato jam uses the same spices as apple butter.  Husk cherries are tomato-like.  If anything, I figured they would add complexity and depth to the apple flavor, and maybe some extra pectin to boot.

You’re expecting this to end badly, aren’t you?  But the end result was, in a word, delightful.  Warmly spiced but slightly tart with a luscious, velvety texture, it’s worthy of several kisses, at least.  So take that, horny teenagers!

Husk Cherry-Apple Butter

You can make this without the husk cherries (also known as ground cherries); just reduce the amount of sugar to 1 cup.  Recipe can be doubled.

4 apples

Pint of husk cherries, papery husks removed (about 1/2 cup of fruit)

½ cup apple cider vinegar

1 cup water

1½ cups sugar

½ tsp. cinnamon

½ tsp. allspice

Pinch of cloves

Pinch of salt

Cut apples in half, then into thick wedges (keep peels on and cores intact as they add flavor and pectin).  Add apples, husk cherries, cider vinegar, and water to the pot.  Bring to boil and simmer, covered, until soft (about 20 minutes).  Mash up the mixture and process it through a food mill set over a bowl (or you can press it through a sieve with a wooden spoon).  Add sugar, spices, and salt to the apple butter, and cook over medium-low heat, uncovered, for about an hour until thick and darkened.  Makes enough to fill 3 small jelly jars.

Recipe Source: Adapted from Simply Recipes.

Local Ingredient Sources:

Apples: Autumn Hills Orchard, Groton, MA

Husk cherries: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA

Apple cider vinegar: Carlson Orchards, Harvard, MA

I’m Baaa-aaaaack

We really were on vacation, by the way.  That wasn’t just code for chemo.  Chemo starts tomorrow.  Hip hip horraaaaaaaayyhackhackhhhhuuuuurrrrllll.  I hope you liked the guest posters because there may be a few more of those coming up (if anyone would like to write something, just let me know).

Our trip, during which we rent a cottage on Cape Cod for a week each summer, had been planned since February and there was no way I was going to let cancer fuck it up.  Because I think you can guess when chemo was scheduled to start.  Vacation week.  Of course it was.  Until I told them I’d rather die of cancer than spoil our family vacation with chemo.  They didn’t find that as funny as I thought they would, but they did agree to change it, so that’s what counts. 

Last week was a much-needed eye in the proverbial storm.  The weather, in case you didn’t notice, was amazing.  Could it have been more perfect? No, I think not.  We waded in tidal pools and built sandcastles and fished. 

We collected and freed polliwogs. 

We saw seals in the waters off beautiful Nauset, where it pours bean green over blue.  (Which Husband refused to harpoon.) 

We mini-golfed and majorly gorged on ice cream.  We barbecued and went out to eat at the Brewster Fish House and got fried fish at Arnold’s and lobster rolls from Maurice’s. 

I took 45 outdoor showers.  I read books and decoded many a quote from Einstein and Descartes out of the cryptogram book Husband gave me.  Because I’m a cryptogram addict.  Forget sudoku.  Sure, there’s logic to sudoku, but there’s no art.  If Scrabble is the apple pie of word games then cryptograms are pot brownie sundaes with hot heroin sauce, whipped amphetamines, sprinkled with crack-nuts, and topped with a bourbon-soaked cherry.  I love them so.  Decode this: DYV UEDIORYP PDQQRGO UD RYWDYV ZED CGAYLO HV UEAO OIYPRV PIGAYL MEVHD.

One of the days during vacation, I managed to work bacon into every meal.  Bacon and eggs for breakfast, BLTs for lunch, grilled bluefish for dinner with a tomato and bacon vinaigrette as seen in the Boston Globe Sunday Magazine.  Yes, that’s right, we even bought a newspaper.  There was no Internet connection, you see.  Not that I didn’t try to hijack one, as I wandered around the perimeter of the yard with my laptop, holding it over the fence into the surrounding properties.  Whatever.  The point is: it was a fabulous vacation.  I forgot my troubles and my troubles forgot me.  Now I feel as though I’m ready for absolutely anything, though I would never dare say such a thing.  That would be stupid.

In Which I Lose My Already Tenuous Credibility

Yesterday, we took advantage of the rain to go blackberry-picking among the canes growing wild at a nearby park.  The bees, I had heard, have been particularly agitated lately, sending several neighborhood children home in tears on one of the few sunny afternoons we’ve had.  I attributed this to the bees’ formidable to do list combined with a weather-restricted work schedule.  Don’t we all get that way from time to time?

I figured that the pouring rain might work in our favor.  With the bees on siesta, maybe our non-stealthy approach to foraging might go unnoticed.  And it did, allowing us (me, mostly) to pick a scant pint.  The rain did not, however, save me from being stung by angry three-year-olds.  Soggy, angry three-year-olds:

Him: Mommy, I want a raspberry.

Me: These are blackberries.  Here, have one.

Him: No, I want a raspberry.

Me: There aren’t any raspberries here.  Only blackberries.

Him: But Mommy, I see a raspberry RIGHT THERE.

Me: Ohhhh.   Those red berries aren’t raspberries, they’re unripe blackberries.

Him: Yes, they ARE raspberries.  I see them RIGHT THERE.

Sheesh, the kid grows up in a CSA and suddenly he’s a berry expert.  (To be fair, they do look exactly like raspberries.)

Me: No, those don’t taste good.  Try one of these.

Him: Nooooooo, Mommy, nooooo…RASPBERRIIIIIEEEEESSSSS…

Me: Okay, fine.  Here.  (handing him a red one)

He tastes it, shivers.  I go back to picking.

Him: …Can I have a blackberry, please?

Me: Exactly.

Meanwhile, the angry six-year-old stayed behind in the car.  Something about it raining really hard.  Yeah, kid, what else is new?  Mommy needs to get the hell outside before she hangs herself with her computer cord.

Author's Note: What makes this post hilarious is that, come to find out, those berries aren’t blackberries at all, but black raspberries.  Because I can never pass up an opportunity to be a moron.  You can read all about the berry differences in the comment section, but how I found out was at dinner tonight when we had some friends over and I threw the remaining “blackberries” into a blueberry cobbler I was making and my friend said, those aren’t blackberries, they’re black raspberries, and I had to smile about what I wrote, knowing how smug I was to think I could win a battle of wits with a preschooler.  WRONG.  So, yes, the 3YO was right about the plant classification.  As for me, well, at least I know my colors!

Mushroom Madness

So, while all of this medical shit was going down, there were mushrooms.  There was the first flush of oyster mushrooms back in May, as you might recall.  Then, there was a second flush.  And then a third.  But, as always, things didn’t quite go according to plan.

The plan, of course, was to eat the mushrooms.  But when the second flush appeared, as discovered by the 3YO, who seems to be developing a greenish- brown tinge to his thumbs, we were in the middle of making our getaway to the Cape for Memorial Day weekend and mushrooms were the furthest thing from our minds.  Still, I was delighted to note that there were four times as many mushrooms as before. 

A long weekend, however, was too long.  Upon our return, all of these mushrooms had curled up into sad little husks.  Damnit!  I went off and sulked.  The mushroom instructions mentioned nothing of a third flush, so I reluctantly moved on to other distractions.  A few days later, I noticed that these disgusting little wormy things were crawling all over the mushroom remains.  Whatever.  I figured they’d compost themselves and we’d try again next year.

Then came June and the rain.  And the rain and the rain and the rain.  The sun may have come out once in three weeks and, on that day, the 3YO checked on what he was now referring to as “his” mushrooms since he was doing all the work.  Look what he found among the shriveled remains of the last crop:

Whoa!  “His” mushrooms were HUGE, and instead of presenting as little individual umbrellas, as mine had, they were stacked and layered, seemingly clinging to the side of the bucket for dear life as the floods subsided.  Maybe two or three pounds worth, they were exactly what oyster mushrooms should look like (except for maybe the ass-shaped one). 

Wow, I thought to myself, this is my kind of crop!  The more you ignore it, the better the yields.  My mouth was watering.  I conjured up a mushroom risotto in my mind, something with brandy, beef stock, and thyme.  It would be the last meal I would prepare before my surgery, and it would be spectacular.

I could hardly wait to harvest them.  I got a paring knife and a paper bag at the ready and cut the top one off at its stem.  Right away, something didn’t look right.  Instead of the smooth, ivory texture I associate with mushrooms, the stem where I had cut it looked spongy inside, like bread.  I waved away a small cloud of bugs in annoyance.  And then some more bugs.  God, what’s with all the little flies, I thought?  Slowly, I turned the palm-sized mushroom cap over in my hand and saw it.  Every single one of the ribs housed at least one adult fly and large cluster of eggs.  On closer inspection, tiny mushroom-colored larvae were crawling out of every orifice.  What I held in my hand, I realized, wasn’t actually a mushroom at all but a mushroom-shaped conglomeration of squirming, miniature maggot-like worms.  I flung it to the ground.  It crawled away.  I passed out.

That picture doesn’t even do it justice.  In my semi-conscious state, I dreamt I got Monsanto corporate headquarters on the line: “Hello, Monsanto?  I take back what I said.  I need a case of Roundup, stat.”

At some point, Husband came around with the watering can to revive me.  Then, I faced the bucket once again, hand clamped over my mouth to contain the vomit.  I harvested the rest, one by one, to see if anything could be salvaged.  Not a single thing.  Total infestation.

God, this kind of thing can break your heart.  I wonder how farmers deal with the emotional effects of crop loss on a large scale?

The Eating Habits of Ospreys

On the way to the bus stop, the Kindergartener was telling me about birds of prey.  Specifically, ospreys.  How they dive down and snatch fish right out of the water, and did I know that?  I said that I did.  (That may have been a lie.)  They eat other things, too, he told me, like dead birds.  Oh, I said.  And sometimes live birds.  Like ducklings.  My instinct was to make sympathetic noises on the ducklings’ behalf.  Who doesn’t love ducklings?  The Kindergartener tried to soften the blow: Well, not a lot of ducklings—just one duckling per day.

May in Verse

In case you were wondering who the real writer is in this family, I give you a poem that the Kindergartener wrote at school.  Except he got mad when I called it a poem.  It’s an “acrostic.”  Sorry.

Here it is.  Spring by the Kindergartener:

All rights belong to the kid.

P is for…

For the past several weeks, the Kindergartener’s teacher has introduced a new letter of the alphabet to the class.  Friday’s letter was P.  P as in pickle, pie, pear, pomegranate.  The kids are then asked to draw something that begins with the letter P.  Here was the Kindergartener’s contribution:

Me: (uncomfortable throat clearing followed by raspy wheezing) …

Him: See, Mommy?  It’s a pan.

Oh.  Pan.  Phew.

Meatloaf is the New Hot Dog

On the second day of the Eat Local Challenge, the Kindergartener came down with a stomach bug and had to stay home from school.  Of course.  It’s not a week in my household unless somebody’s vomiting.  It really doesn’t reflect well on my cooking.

I managed to get some soup made in time for lunch so that the kids could turn their noses up at it.  Then the Kindergartener announced, “Do you know what my favorite foods are?  Hot dogs, macaroni and cheese, and French fries.”  Great.  Just what Mommy wants to hear. 

It was clear I’d have to step up my game for dinnertime.

Everyone keeps telling me that I should make my own local hot dogs, but guess what, I’m not doing it.  I’m not making hot dogs.  Not ever.  Hot dogs are meant to be made by someone else.  Their mystery is part of their appeal. 

I will, however, make meatloaf.  Same concept, easier execution.  My eat local version used ground beef and eggs from Codman Farm, previously roasted sungold tomatoes and shallots from Drumlin that I defrosted and pulsed in the food processor until chunky, bread crumbs, garlic, rosemary, basil, salt and pepper.  The kids scarfed it.  For the French fries, I did my usual thing: roasting potato wedges in olive oil.  And for the macaroni and cheese portion of the meal, I made an arugula salad with turnips.  Because I aim to please.

Anyway, the kids ate every last bite (minus the turnips), which is more than I can say for the squash ravioli the night before.  I had made and frozen a whole bunch of ravioli filled with roasted winter squash and grated Gouda, which I cooked quickly and smothered in a tomato-sage cream sauce.  The kids hated it.  The adults, on the other hand, found something else to like in squash.

***
ELC Recap: 10/1-10/3

Wednesday, Oct. 1
Breakfast: Yogurt, scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast with honey, apple cider

Lunch: Grilled apple and cheddar cheese sandwich, green salad.  Kids brought jelly sandwiches to school with carrot sticks, cheese, and apple wedges.

Snack: More apples

Dinner: Squash ravioli, broccoli, Wachusett Octoberfest, raspberries

Thursday, Oct. 2
Breakfast: Yogurt, whole wheat toast with butter and grape jam, apple cider

Lunch: Minestrone soup, baguette with butter, pear

Snack: Raspberries and Gouda cheese

Dinner: Meatloaf, roasted potatoes, arugula salad with turnips

Friday, Oct. 3
Breakfast: Same as Wednesday

Lunch: Same as Thursday, with the kids bringing PB&J, pepper slices, cheese, and apples.

Snack: Pita chips

Dinner: Leftover meatloaf, roasted potatoes, and garlicky broccoli rabe

Sources:
Drumlin Farm CSA, Lincoln, MA: Lettuce, carrots, squash, sage, broccoli, raspberries, potatoes, leeks, kale, onions, bok choy, garlic, arugula, turnips, peppers, broccoli rabe

Milk: Our Family Farms of Western Massachusetts, Bernardston, MA (Russo’s)
Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT
Eggs: Chip-In Farm, Bedford, MA (Russo’s)
Cheese: Smith’s Farmstead, Winchendon, MA (Waltham Farmer’s Market)
Apple cider: Box Mill Farms, Carver Hill Orchard, Stow, MA (Russo's)
Honey: Boston Honey Company, Holliston, MA (Russo's)
Apples: Autumn Hills Orchard, Groton, MA
Jam: Trappist, Saint Joseph’s Abbey, Spencer, MA; The Salted Cod, Concord, MA
Pita bread: Bay State Bakery, Worcester, MA (Russo's)
Peanut butter: Teddie, Everett, MA
Pears: Dick’s Market Garden, Lunenburg, MA (Waltham Farmer’s Market)
Baguette: Russo’s, Watertown, MA
Beans: Baer’s Best, Moraine Farm, Beverly, MA (Russo’s)
Ground beef: Codman Farm, Lincoln, MA
Beer: Wachusett Brewing Company, Westminster, MA

Talking To Your Kids About the Eat Local Challenge

Last year, we didn’t talk about the Eat Local Challenge.  I made an executive decision.  In one short year, though, the Kindergartener has doubled his awareness, and so I thought a conversation was in order this time. 

I sat him down in front of a bowl full of Goldfish crackers and explained that for one month, we would eat only the things grown by the farms we know.  He was all, yeah I know, that’s what we always do.  And I was all, oh yeah?  Who’s the Cheerios farmer then?  What’s his name?  Does he live anywhere near the Frozen French Fry farmer who, rumor has it, has been known to hop the fence now and then for the Heinz Ketchup farmer? 

To give him an idea of what he’d be up against, I ran through a short list of the things we’d be going without.  Bananas.  Orange juice.  Chex.  Hot dogs.  The latter really made an impression:

Him: You mean, we’re not eating hot dogs ever again?

Me: Good Lord, no!  Just in October.  Then we’ll return to our weekly hot dog schedule.

Him: Oh.  But I like juice.

Me: You can have apple cider for breakfast instead.

Him: Apple cider?  I like apple cider.

Me: I know.

Him: …But, what about Halloween?

Uh-oh.  The kid brings up a good point.  Halloween is in October.

Me: Don’t worry, child of mine, there’s no way in hell we’re giving that up.  Not on my watch.

I mean, everybody has their limits.

Ah, Public School

The Kindergartener has been adjusting very well to his new school environment.  I was worried he would be completely overwhelmed.  There’s a big difference between two days of preschool per week and five days in a row of full-day kindergarten, but he’s handling it like a champ.  He loves riding the school bus and seeing his friends, four of which ended up in his class.  He loves art and music and recess.  No word yet on how freaked out the teacher is about his college-level reading skills, but with 23 kids to one teacher, she probably won’t notice until February.

Still, the Kindergartener’s happy when the weekend arrives.  Everything returns to normal.  The bickering between the children resumes.  I return to my cranky self.  Husband antagonizes me.  It’s a familiar and comforting routine.  Like this past Saturday when the kids were eating their lunch and I was standing by the refrigerator filling my cup with filtered water, which drips out at a rate of approximately one molecule per second.  Husband snuck up behind me and licked the whole side of my face.  (Normally, I keep these kinds of things to myself, but it’s important to the story.)

I was about to punch him in his tender man-parts but the kids were sitting right there.  Instead, I shrieked, shoved him ineffectively, and muttered a bunch of stuff, careful to keep everything PG-rated and within the boundaries of the behavior I’m supposed to be modeling 24 hours a day. 

But the Kindergartener didn’t miss a beat, and proclaimed, “Daddy’s a cock!!!”

When it comes to profanity, all the modern parenting books say the same thing.  Just ignore it.  Go with the flow as if he had just said “apple tree.”  They’re just experimenting with language and gauging the reaction.  But the Kindergartener could not have expressed more concisely exactly what was going through my mind at that very moment, and so, of course, I did the exact opposite thing you’re supposed to do, which was burst out into a constant stream of laughter until I got a cramp.

Since I had already ruined the moment and all the parenting experts were shaking their heads in unison, I dedicated myself to figuring out what he had meant to say.  Believe it or not, “cock” isn’t in our everyday profanity repertoire, so I doubted he was parroting us.  I wanted to blame it on public school, but I went to public school and I didn’t start saying things like that until third grade (okay, maybe the summer before). 

My mind ran through all the potential meanings of cock.  A male rooster?  The stuff you pipe into cracks in the walls?  No, it turned out that he had extrapolated it from the word “cocky.”  He had deduced that someone who’s cocky must be a cock, and I think we can all agree that you’d have to be pretttty cocky to go up to somebody and lick her face like that.  Therefore, I deem it to be proper and appropriate usage.  Give the kid a diploma.

How the Kids Really Eat: Part 1

Sally over at Tip of the Iceberg recently asked if the kids really eat what I make.  As I started responding to her comment, I realized that it was long enough to be a post and so maybe I should do that instead.  And that’s when the trouble began. 

After writing about 10 pages on the subject, I started to wonder what happened to my ability to summarize things.  It’s a yes or no question, Tammy.  Do the kids eat your food or not?  Well….um…you see…HOLY CRAP, what’s that thing over there?  That thing that flew behind the other thing?

It’s been three weeks and I have yet to write a coherent post about it, and certainly not an entertaining one.  But the subject of feeding young children keeps coming up, so I might as well come clean lest you think that the kids, in their freshly pressed knickers, arrive in the kitchen proclaiming, “Eggplant again, Mother?  Why, I’d be delighted!”

My mealtime philosophy is a mix of tough love, common sense, bribery, and, most importantly, stubbornness.  My own.  For if you have stubborn children, there’s a 50% chance they got it from you, and now’s your chance to show them how it’s really done.

Our Dinnertime Rules are as follows:

1. We all sit down together and eat the same thing.*
2. If you eat all your dinner, you get to have dessert.**
3. You don’t have to eat all your dinner, but you’re not getting anything else until breakfast.***
4. You do have to eat one bite of everything on your plate to be excused.****

*If you think I’ve never broken down and thrown frozen French fries and Gorton's delicious fish tenders (regular batter) into the toaster oven, then you’re crazy.  I have.  More than once.  I’m not a robot.  But by and large, we eat the same stuff.

**“All your dinner” sometimes morphs into “most of your dinner” which then seems to morph into “only two bites” after a while.  I don’t know how this happens, but I suspect Husband is involved.

***Seriously, though, why would you eat your squash if you know you can have a bowl of your favorite cereal right before bed instead?  (Mmmmm, GoLean Crunch!!!)

**** Ask yourself what your threshold is for torture before you attempt this.  Your kids will make you pay.  Luckily, I’m a glutton for punishment.

Did you notice how I didn’t answer the original question?  I’ll be writing several more exciting posts on the topic this month, plus an honest update on how it’s all been working out.  If you have any specific questions, leave them in the comment section and I’ll try to address them.  Please keep in mind that I’m not a nutritionist or any kind of expert on anything really.  This all falls under the realm of “opinion.”  Still, I have some pretty strong opinions about it because I love food and I want my kids to love food, too.  YOU WILL LOVE FOOD, DAMNIT.

More soon.

All I Really Need to Know I Learned From Spanish Movies

Did I mention that a certain someone starts school this week?  Free school.  FREE.  All day, five days a week. 

Yes, this is the time when the Preschooler becomes a kindergartener, the Toddler becomes a preschooler, and I curse myself for thinking up names for the kids that would change every goddamned year.  (To be fair, I thought I’d quit blogging after two weeks, but haven’t I caught on by now that nothing happens like you plan?)

I was thinking of just calling the Preschooler the Kindergartener, and the Toddler the Preschooler.  Creativity isn’t my strong suit, as you well know.  But that nomenclature is likely to be confusing.  Like, how did the Preschooler go from being a sweet and gentle boy to a noisy brute practically overnight?  (Public school, that’s how.  We must all lose our innocence someday.)  So, if anyone has a better idea, let’s hear it.

Anyway, given the new, freeing kindergarten schedule, you may be wondering how I plan to spend my time?  Rather than doing the work needed to sustain a freelance career, I think I’ll start by acting out scenes from Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown instead. 

Yes, that is a fantastic idea.  I’ll start with gazpacho.  Lots of gazpacho.  Then I’ll mope around as if I’m despondent about the recent turn of events.  Why does he have to go to kindergarten?  Why, why, WHY?  There will be much pacing and hand-wringing, not to mention checking voicemail every two minutes.  Oh, and throwing things just to be dramatic.  I really don’t do enough of that.  I don’t want to die having never thrown anything through a plate glass window in a fit of rage.  That would be a waste.

I just hope that after all of the lighting things on fire, high-speed scooter chases, gazpacho at gunpoint, and dancing half-naked in windows play out, Husband doesn’t make me go out and get a real job.

Gazpacho

This recipe is straight from Spain and is my absolute favorite.  You can thicken it up with bread soaked in water if you like.  Adding garlic is also fair game.  Sleeping pills are optional.

4 large tomatoes
1 cucumber
1 bell pepper (green is traditional, but I prefer red)
¼ medium onion
6 Tbsp. olive oil
2 Tbsp. red wine vinegar
1 tsp. salt
Black pepper
Cayenne pepper to taste

In a large pot of boiling water, dunk tomatoes for 20 seconds or so, then submerge in ice water until cool.  The skins should slip right off.  Core tomatoes, then cut in half across the equator and squeeze out the seeds.  Cut into quarters and place tomatoes in blender.

Peel cucumber and cut in half lengthwise.  Holding a spoon upside-down by the handle, dig a trough along the length of the cut side of the cucumber to remove the seeds.  Cut into pieces and put into blender, reserving one piece to chop for garnish.  Core and remove seeds from pepper.  Reserve one piece to chop for garnish and add the rest to the blender.  Add onion (chop some extra for garnish), olive oil, red wine vinegar, salt, pepper, and cayenne.  Purée until smooth.  Taste and adjust seasonings if necessary.  Refrigerate.  Serve chilled topped with chopped red pepper, cucumber, and onion.

Jolly Good Broccoli

The Toddler needed a little extra incentive to eat his broccoli last night.  Husband, trying to improve upon his usual dinosaur analogy, encouraged him to pretend he was a giant eating his way through the forest.  The Preschooler, ever the helpful assistant, objected. 

“Giants don’t eat trees," he corrected.  "They eat Englishmen.”

Excuses, Excuses

The Preschooler has a funny way of coming up with excuses that make no sense when he doesn’t want to do something.  Husband would say he gets this from me, but that’s because Husband is a big liar who’s always spreading lies about me. 

Here’s a conversation I had with the Preschooler just 10 seconds ago:

Him: Can I have a snack?

Me: Sure.  I’ll get that while you get yourself some water.  Here’s a cup.

Him: But…

Me: But what?

Him: I have no pants on.

Me: You don’t need pants to get yourself some water.

Him: (reluctantly) Oh…okay.

The first in a long list of things one can someday hope to accomplish without pants.

It’s Electric

Today, at Codman Farm, I had the intense displeasure of seeing the beef freezer completely empty.  WTF?  Why is everyone so interested in local beef all of a sudden?  (P.S. This is the last time I’m sharing my local sources on the interweb.)

My consolation prize was to stock up on bacon and eggs, which, I’ll admit, did console me.  Temporarily.  Until I was jolted back to discomfort by the realization that, in my dreamy state, I had just allowed the Toddler to be shocked by the electric fence surrounding the goats. 

Oh, shit!

Did you know that goat kids and human kids respond similarly to electric shocks?  They respond quickly and without objection.  And the remorse is sincere. 

Parents respond, too:

Me: What kind of a mother are you?

Me: There’s no sign.  Oh look, now I can see where it’s hooked up to the electricity.  Wow, I bet that really…hurt.

Me: Go touch the fence.

Me: Why?

Me: To find out how bad it was.

Me: I’m scared.

Me: Have you no maternal instinct?

Me: Look, I would gladly touch the fence if it was going to spare him pain, but I don’t really think me touching the fence after the fact is going to help anyone. 

Anyway, I didn’t touch the fence.  The Toddler, with the extra sympathy he received, was back to a somewhat subdued version of his normal self in under 60 seconds.  So now I’m wondering if it would be wrong to employ electric fence technology in our own home?  Like encasing the Preschooler in a cage of low voltage to keep the Toddler from beating the crap out of him every minute of every day?  Any thoughts?