Most Awesome Pancakes — Ever!

Carrot Cake Pancake bounty!

This morning’s “shop my pantry” meal — Carrot Cake Pancakes – was an insane winner, so I thought I’d share the ever-so-awesome results:

Carrot Cake Pancakes – Yield: about 12 Pancakes

Ingredients:

1 1/4 c. flour – Any type you like (gluten-free, barley, whole wheat, etc.) — I used King Arthur unbleached all-purpose (btw, King Arthur is a fantastic, employee-owned, conscious company, with a drool-worthy catalog)

1/4 c. chopped walnuts, toasted – Toasting nuts usually takes about 8 minutes @ 350 degrees (toaster ovens are a wonderful energy-efficient solution for when you only want to do small quantities) – just wait for the tell-tale toasty smell and you’re done… and any (unsalted) nut substitution will work just as well, if you prefer chopped almonds (nice calcium bonus!), pecans or whatever you have on hand

2 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. ground cinnamon – We’re big fans of cinnamon (a nice blood sugar stabilizer), in general, so I went a little heavier than this meager teaspoon

1/4 tsp. salt

1/8 tsp. ground nutmeg

dash of cloves – I only have whole cloves and wasn’t in the mood to bust out my coffee grinder, an easy substitute for a spice grinder, so I skipped this ingredient

dash of ground ginger

1/4 c. brown sugar – Always remember to press it into your measuring cup, so you get the right amount

3/4 c. lowfat buttermilk – I have fat-free buttermilk, which works just as well.  And if you don’t have buttermilk on hand (most people don’t), you can make it quickly, by combining milk & white vinegar or lemon juice (1 c. milk : 1 Tbl. vinegar/lemon juice > let stand 5 minutes)

1 Tbl. canola oil

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract – There’s a big qualitative difference between real vanilla extract and imitation vanilla, so I’d always recommend getting the real stuff

2 lg. eggs, lightly beaten – If you’d prefer egg whites (more protein, less cholesterol), it’s 3 egg whites per each egg… so you’ll need 6 egg whites — unless you just buy whites, in which case it’s usually 1/4 c. per egg

2 c. finely grated carrots – this is a fantastic way to get some bonus veggies into your diet (especially great if you’re making these for kids, who can almost always use the bonus nutrition).  And, DO be sure to use a fine grater setting, as it’ll ensure your pancakes cook evenly without underdone carrots

Cooking Spray

Step 1: Mix the dry ingredients

Lightly spoon flour intro measuring cups and level with a knife (this will make sure you haven’t used too much flour, making your pancakes more dense than you’d like).  In a large bowl, combine the flour with nuts, baking powder, cinnamon, salt, nutmeg, cloves & ginger, mixing it all together with a wisk.

Step 2: Mix the wet ingredients

In a smaller bowl, combine your brown sugar, buttermilk, canola oil, vanilla & eggs.

Step 3: Add your wet mixture to your dry mixture

Stir just until moist, then fold in your grated carrots.

Step 4: Heat pan/griddle & cook

Heat a nonstick griddle or pan to medium heat (I recommend anodized metal pans like Calphalon, Anolon and the like… Teflon can be easy, but it can also leach some nasty stuff into your food, if you’ve been using it longer than its intended lifespan). Coat pan with cooking spray.  Spoon batter onto your surface, spreading with a spatula (this stuff is pretty thick, so spreading it a little will help it to cook evenly).  Flip when you see the edges get all bubbly and cook to your desired done-ness.

I like to double recipes like these and then freeze the extras.  Then they can just be popped into the toaster oven and toasted within minutes — great for mornings when you’re in a rush.

ENJOY!

Carrot Cake Pancake recipe found here -- based on a dish at a restaurant called Snooze, in Denver.

What’s So Great About Babies, Anyway?

Yes, it’s been a while.  Okay, so I’ve been busy… baking a new baby girl, after all.  Today makes 31 weeks, 3 days.

Given the new landscape, the expansion of Jake’s Diner is not an inexpensive one, and we’re not exactly “small business loan” material.  Yeah, there’s breastfeeding, which saves on formula… clothing that we’ll recycle from Jake’s wardrobe (despite the glut of light blue, footballs, baseballs and the like… for goodness sake, why do they do that?!?)… car seats that used to be Jake’s, etc.  Unfortunately, that little cost of daycare nut is no small financial committment.

Don’t get me wrong.  The cost of daycare for our spawn is still less than my monthly earnings, so the fiscally responsible choice is for me to work.  Fortunately, it’s also my preferred choice.  I love my Jakie, but that whole baby period is pretty overrated.  They might smell intoxicating (that whole “scent of life” thang, goin’ on), and be these yummy little bundles of chubby flesh… but all communication takes the form of crying and they can’t do much more than eat, sleep, poop, puke, drool, and, as mentioned, cry.  And, all this while you’re more sleep deprived than a college student cramming for finals.  I continuously find my son more interesting, multi-dimensional, engaging, enjoyable and lovable, as he grows and develops.  So, I’m not going to apologize for thinking that the baby stage kinda sucks.  Plus, I happen to really like my work and the people I have the pleasure to work with.

What do they know, that we don't?

But there’s that pesky question of how we’re going to manage our dramatically more expensive lives.  I look around at families with 2… 3… 4 kids and am in perpetual wonderment of how everyone else manages it.  Do they just know the golden key to time and financial managment?  Or, are they in debt up to their eyeballs?  Or… is there a door #3?  We’ve handled the refi, negotiated lower rates with our cable company, entertain ourselves very modestly (no more than once a week for dinner out), limit & consider our purchases.  We’re not accumulators of “stuff,” nor are we “sport shoppers.”  We vacation on the cheap, taking advantage of airline miles, hotel points, and groceries we bring along.

I figure the next place to look for add’l savings is our grocery bill.  I stumbled upon a blog post today that suggested shopping from your very own pantry (and freezer), before spending on groceries beyond the perishables.  I loved the idea, and since I’m a bit of a stockpiler, taking advantage of sales when they occur, I figure we should still eat pretty well… at least for a while.

Tonight’s dinner for Jake & myself?

- Frozen ravioli

- A garlicky (still able to use fresh, for now) sautee of leftover broccoli, what I call “white trash veggies” (peas, carrots, corn, green beans) and the last of a tub of organic spinach (bought in bulk at Costco)

So far, so good.

Plus, while I was at it, I prepped and/or cooked up the fixin’s for my next day’s breakfast/lunch/snacks & Jake’s dinner:

- Roast potatoes & mushrooms (also bought in bulk at Costco) w/a dill seasoning blend

- The remainders of that garlicky veggie sautee

- Soy sausage patties for some bonus protein

- Hard boiled egg

- The last of some mini Kosher dill pickles (thank you, pregnancy!)

And, I gave myself a headstart by moving a pound of organic, grass-fed ground beef from freezer to fridge. 

After winding my way thru this little pantry experiment, we’ll have to find new places to squeeze out those extra shekels.  Could it be that Jake’s Diner’s only hope is new management?

The Fonz Was a Toddler Once, Too

Not One of "The Biters," but a Delightful Approximation

I think my son, Jake, is a toddler version of “popular.”

My husband and I marvel at this apparent state of affairs.  Initially, when he was born, he was largely unaware of any actual playmates.  Then, like most other kids, he became a participant in “parallel play” — where he would sit side-by-side with another person, playing.  Now, he’s actually making friends.  He has kids he refers to as “best friends”… ones he calls “biters” (these are, indeed, the ones who try to bite him, or his classmates)… even ones he simply doesn’t like, though these kids are few and far between, as he even likes the biters.

Jake was born with a pretty pleasant disposition.  We got lucky, I think.  His demeanor has always made him well received among his teachers.  He was never a whiner… a crier… nor a biter, thankfully.  They seemed to enjoy telling us stories about the laughable, remarkable and cute things he did on any given day.  And, even though we know we found ourselves a phenomenal daycare center, which could lead me to believe my son simply isn’t that special — and this is how they are with all the children — I’ve had the experience of being within earshot of their conversations about other, more challenging, less seemingly likable children.  I’ve been intensely uncomfortable with those moments… but, selfishly, have always been grateful Jake was never the target of their complaints.

So, we marvel at the way the world greets him, in general.  Aside from smiling teachers, there are parents who chuckle at his antics and revel in his mop of curly, sandy-colored hair.  And now that he’s a little older, there are classmates who think highly of him.  They surround him during drop-off, in the mornings, regardless of whatever activities engaged them until he walked in.  They shout his name… touch his cheek… offer hugs… and kisses.  Frankly, I wish all humans were greeted this way each morning — I’m sure we’d all start our days far more grounded. 

The Fonz, As it Were

He’s even been invited to 2 birthday parties that came as a complete surprise to us.  In both cases, these invitations came from younger hildren who weren’t even in Jake’s class, yet, but were transitioning in to the 2-year-old room, from the 1-year-old room.  As one parent gushed, “Jake’s been so helpful during this transition.”  When kids graduate from one age-based room to the next, there’s a period where they spend part of the day in one room and part in the next.  It would seem that my son (apparently, with the chrisma of The Fonz), has enough empathy to act as a mentor or emissary, joining the newbies for snack time and other activities, making them feel safer and less alone during this period.

He displays an unusual amount of empathy, for such an early age.  At least, this is what we’re told.  I remember some time around the age of 1, my sister and I were playing with him and I started crying, pretending to be hurt.  He immediately came to my aid, to make sure I was okay.  My sister noticed this response before I did, so I tested it a 2nd time… and same thing happened.  Recently, his teachers told me that a classmate was bitten.  And, when this happened, he went to the biter, saying to them “You know that you hurt her, don’t you?”  And, in recent days, hearing of the loss of two people, dear to people we love, he thought enough to say, “I’m sorry about your [fill in name of individual who's passed away],” to those two suffering their losses.  I dearly hope that his sense of empathy (or justice?) never dissipates, as I know it will make him a more enriched human — especially as a male (but that’s a whole ‘nother, future blog post)

Certainly, we’d love to take credit for creating such a great kid.  And, of course, there are things we do to instill these perspectives in him — staying pointed at him having a sense of putting himself in another person’s shoes.  But, I suspect he just entered the world this way, and it’s simply been our job to nurture it.

I’m just counting on the fact that some ass-kicking, in later school years, doesn’t squash his sensitive little soul.

Did I Birth a Future Deadhead?

I am very much not a Deadhead.

My husband, on the other hand, is very passionate about his band and their myriad offshoot projects: Phil Lesh & Friends, Ratdog, etc.  His iPod shuffle is filled with their songs… we have a closet cluttered with audiocassettes of hundreds and hundreds of live shows (which in our new digital era never get played)… he has an impressive collection of souvenir concert t-shirts — one of which our son Jake particularly adores, because he thinks it has a choo-choo train on the front (perhaps the psychelic imagery never really needed any drugs to be appreciated?)… we have DVR space being held by “Grateful Dawg,” which he excitedly recorded one day… he web surfs to read about them on a regular basis… and there seems to exist an imaginary budget line for all things Grateful Dead, as he periodically acquires new music/DVDs and whathaveyou.  Fortunately, I love my husband, so I find these things (mostly) lovable.

Getting Nauseous Just Staring, Aren't You?

Apologies to you Deadheads out there (get ready for the blasphemy), but it’s music that simply doesn’t speak to me in any sort of heart-soul way.  The band feels disengaged from their audience, almost never actually talking to the thousands in attendance… the music largely feels meandering… the stage is never very interesting to me… the drugs/drinking have no sex appeal for me… and there’s way too much tie-dye in one space for my particular… um… aesthetic.

All that said, I do have an intellectual appreciation for these men, their music, their history and the fans that follow them.  And, I always appreciate the sociological study of said sub-culture, as I can enjoy studying any culture (or sub-culture) from within its community — my husband being “exhibit A,” sort of.  Perhaps that sounds detached, but I do find it all quite fascinating as it is so very foreign to me.  It may be a little bit like the experience of attending Blue Man Group’s “How to Be a Rock Star,” where you practice rock concert moves like the “fist pump” and “head nod,” with both irony and a feeling of knowingness for having done exactly those things at concerts you’ve attended.  And, no matter what, you feel connected to the collective (the hive?), even if you’re just going through the motions of letting out a “Whoooooooooo!” or a “Bobbbbbbaaaay!” to give some extra lovin’ to Bob Weir.

So, there I was, at the Dead show recently — at the very first stop on their ”this-is-probably-the-last-time-we’ll-tour-as-the-Dead” — right here in Greensboro, NC, if you can believe it.  I, myself, have no idea why they’d kick off their possibly last US tour as The Dead in the Piedmont Triad, but g’bless, I don’t claim to understand such things.  Needless to say, despite my underappreciation for this band, I found the experience to be deeply engaging.  And for reasons other than the music.

Jerry Garcia Tribute Bracelet found on Etsy

I love the parking lot vending that travels with this band — part tailgate party and part craft show, to which no one had to pay rent for a booth.  People are simply out there, being creative in the unique ways that only they can.  I see extraordinary batik work on silk, adorable hand-crafted children’s clothing, beautiful wirework jewelry, expressive oil paintings and so much more.  I always see things I’d love to buy when wandering through the rows and rows of Deadhead artisans.  And now, in a world with e-commerce sites like Etsy, any Dead fan can truly tour with the band, and still generate an income to survive (and thrive?) on.  Somehow, this thought makes me feel even better about the folks hawking their wares, because I know there could be a vibrant future for them, that long outlives their time on the road with The Dead.  Perhaps their touring simply helped them discover that?

Grateful Deadrolls

There’s also the incredible food — better than anything you’d find at a major venue (though I’m hearing great things about the food you can score at the new Mets stadium, Citi Field), from stir-fries to the best old skool grilled cheese sandwiches (done up in cast iron skillets, thankyouverymuch), to shish kabob and almost any comfort street food under the sun (roti, pita with hummus, etc.).  There are always loads of vegetarian options and the BEST burritoes I’ve ever had were acquired in the parking lots of the Dead shows I’ve attended.  And, I’ve eaten a lot of burritoes in my day.

What I love most of all, about this show (and all Dead shows) is the eccentric array of humanity.  From waifish hippie chicks to zaftig mother earth goddesses (always dressed in the same array of crocheted halter tops and patchwork skirts, mind you)… and from clean-cut college guys in white baseball caps to long, grey bearded hippie elders.  While I always lament the lack of people of color at these shows (what’s up with that?), I am perpetually impressed by, among other things, the multi-generationality in tow.  There are grandparents with their grandkids… fathers with sons.  The sharing of the music over the decades is quite the legacy.

While I was pregnant with Jake, we crossed over a Father’s day.  Considering our impending parenthood, I gifted my dear husband a grateful dad t-shirt that continues to be one of his favorites.  And now that Jake’s here, he has already begun to expose (indoctrinate?) him to this favorite music of his during their alone time in the car (as previously stated, I don’t love the music), or via jog stroller sessions.  Jake seems to enjoy it, doing his mini rockin’ out, left-right bobbing from his car seat.  This does freak me out a little, for what it’s worth, but doesn’t seem to have hampered his appreciation for other things like The Rolling Stones (especially) and John Lennon (strangely, particularly), as well as all those “For The Kids” CDs (there are parts II & III, as well)  we enjoy playing for him (among our favorite baby shower gifts — thank you Mark & Amy!).

I am sure that my husband is hoping that the band can stay together long enough for him to share this live concert experience with his own son.  I suppose I am, too… as long as they’re happy to attend without me (well, maybe after the first time).

My Son: The 2nd Coming of Ice Cube?

Ice Cube, In Case You Didn't Know

My son is the new toddler Ice Cube.  No, not the millenial Ice Cube — the one of vanilla family film fare like “Are We Done Yet?” – but the hardened 90s gangsta version of “It Was A Good Day” fame.

As I do at the end of every day, I was asking him about how his day was today.  Initially, he regaled me with a tale of woe and adventure with his father, where he and said father got locked inside a public tennis court with an extremely high fence.  Initially panicking that he was going to be locked inside… possibly forever… he explained how he got scared, started crying and proceeded to poop himself.  I am, of course, sure that these actions will not follow in quick succession at any future time in his life (or, at least he won’t admit as much), so I particularly appreciate his unfiltered toddler honesty.  Of course, at the end of it all, daddy found a piece of fencing that had been rolled back, so the two of them could shimmy out, enabling this episode in terror to end up as nothing more than an exciting exploration.

Here’s where the Ice Cube part comes in, however.  After sharing his most recently burned in highlight of the day, I asked him about the best part of his day at school, to which he replied “No one tried to bite me today.”  For me, that incredibly low bar of joy rooted in not being bitten, ranked up there with Ice Cube’s statement that “Today I didn’t even have to use my A.K., I gotta say it was a good day.”

If you have never had a youngin’ you may be unfamiliar with the biting issue among them.  I remember the day before Jake moved from the classroom of 1-year-olds to the one filled with 2-year-olds.  The director of the program informed me of the possibility that Jake would get bit.  It sounded completely bizarre to me at the time, but as I now understand it children without full verbal skills will often bite, because they can’t express with words, things like “you’re standing too close to me,” “I don’t like that,” “I had that toy first,” or “you look delicious, I think I shall bite you” (okay, I made that last one up).

As it turned out, on Jake’s very first day in his new classroom, he got bit.  When I received the call, I had to laugh… again, it was all so bizarre.  I soon discovered that such violence was accompanied by a ritualistic “bite note” indicating the time of incident & treatment for it.  In true CYA liability style, the perpetrator (or “perp” as they say on all those tv crime shows) is never named.  Perhaps they are concerned about retribution or vengeance?

At the time, we were sure this wouldn’t happen with any frequency… but then it did… and often in more invasive places/ways than a nibble on Jake’s chubby little wrist.  Once, it was a deep bite, right in the center of his chest… another was right on his nose.  We were perplexed by Jake’s seemingly welcome victimhood — why would he stand still long enough for a child to gnash into his nose?  Since Jake, too, has his own evolving language skills, we knew that teaching him to say “hey, get offa me,” or some such, wasn’t likely to scare off a potential perp.  So, we worked with him to shout “HiYah!”, all faux Karate style, in the event that he was targeted for a chomping.

The Best Smelling Stuff in the World

I am convinced that he was chosen by his attackers more frequently than the other kids in his class.  Surely it was that intoxicatingly yummy smell of the Baby Bee bath products he enjoys during & after bathtime.  Or, perhaps others find him as downright yummy as we do.  We actually had to curb our own natural urges to nibble on him, in an effort to help underscore how wrong biting is.  It was downright unfair.

For the longest time, we couldn’t get a clear answer from him as to that day’s particular biter’s identity.  Periodically, I found myself lingering in the mornings, during drop-off, in the hopes the biters would reveal their proclivities while I was watching from the other side of the 2-way mirrored observation room (Jake’s daycare is on a college campus with an early childhood development program, so as a learning/teaching facility they have such (non-new-) fangled things).  It’s not like I was going to trip the child when they weren’t looking… but I just had to know if my suspicions about which sugared-up-freak-child was noshing on my son were correct.  And one day, I did see something.  A biter started moving in on Jake’s arm, at which time he rapidly snatched it away.  I was both proud of Jake’s quick response, and disturbed by the casualness of the freak-child’s move on Jake.

So now, not getting bit is a highlight of Jake’s day.  Glass-half-empty me says, “wow, that is a pathetically low barometer for the day’s events.”  Glass-half-full me says “wow, it really is the little things, isn’t it?”

Car and Driver? No, Thank You.

I am not a great driver.

I Always Wished Fuzzy Dice Were More "Me"

I only learned to drive, somewhere in my late 20s — because I absolutely had to – for a TV gig in L.A.  Having grown up in NYC, I had no real car consciousness… no outraged Mothers Against Drunk Driving events to attend… no desire to deal with the hassle of trying to find a spot to park.  I happily took buses, cabs and — fastest of all (usually) — my beloved subway, which I’d been taking all my life with family, and unchaperoned from the age of 12.  In fact, I have a great passion for public transportation and anytime I’ve ever traveled, one of the things I have always done is take some other city’s subway, metro, light rail, el, etc.  You can learn a lot about a culture this way.

"Passing Through" by Al Held @ 51st/53rd & Lex

I’ve seen twitching crack addicts asleep on subway benches, people commit suicide by jumping in front of an oncoming subway car, show up dead in my rail car, have their earlobes split by a passing mugger swiping their gold earrings, expose and/or fondle themselves (mind you, for the subway pervert in his natural habitat, these things do not always go together) and the gory like… and it has never made me love the NYC subway system any less.  Especially because I’ve also seen extraordinary folk art in the form of subway graffiti (including early Keith Haring) – most notably on the 7 line, spectacular mosiacs, stunning architectural details that can only be seen underground, an alivening blend of the masses of humanity in all their shapes/sizes/colors/ages, people connecting over the foibles of the system (those old SNL sketches where the subway announcements are entirely unintelligible were indeed a reality for a great period of time), the views from midtown Manhattan crossing the river, brilliant musicians performing live for tips, people falling in love, and random acts of kindness to name a few.  Plus, it is THE fastest way to get anywhere in NYC — no small statement.

Kickin' It Old Skool

As a driver I am tentative, cautious, randomly aggressive, nervous at night, get lost a lot… and have an innately bad sense of spatial relations, as evidenced by the number of dings on my car, though to be fair, many were landed by jerks who knocked me while parked and never bothered to ‘fess up.  I have no great love of being the driver on long road trips and actually had to abdicate my driving role once during that coastal PCH drive between LA & The Bay, because, somewhere in the vicinity of Big Sur, the edges of the road met my fear of heights in such a way that I became… well… let’s just say tense.

As a traveler on public transportation, I am confident, curious, engaged, enjoy “me” time in the form of a book or magazine and am an intensely avid people watcher who knows how to look without getting caught.

I remember the first time I was in the car with Jake, alone.  We had just closed on the sale of our house in NY, only days after his birth, and had packed up everything most precious to us (Jake included, of course) into our two cars.  We needed to drive about 20 minutes to the home of my best friend and his partner, who had very generously offered to host us for the week or two before we were ready to start the lengthy drive down to NC, to take up residence at my sister’s house.  We were incredibly lucky to have so much help — especially at this time.  I was soooo nervous driving the car.  My visibility wasn’t ideal, because of how much stuff we had packed into it, but the added distress caused by having to drive with this helpless little creature didn’t boost my confidence.  I followed my husband in our mini caravan of sorts… and it must’ve taken us closer to an hour to make this 20ish minute drive, because I was driving like a grandma… super-slow, in the slow lane.  Thank god my best friend agreed to drive down to NC in my car with me, because I think the 11ish hour drive would have taken me closer to 20, going my preferred speed.  We were supposed to “share” the driving, but I think, in truth, maybe I did the last hour and a half of it, when he was too fried to continue.

Where I live now, in the Piedmont Triad, is hardly famous for its vast transportation network.  I applaud them for what exists.  In cities like this, the people who use it, reeeeaaally need it, so it performs an invaluable service.  Recently, I learned that the region was holding their 3rd Annual Triad Commute Challenge, in an effort to encourage more riders to take advantage of the area’s public transportation and be part of the “clean air solution.”  Unfortunately, what’s available is really only good if you’re staying within one of the Triad’s cities and/or going in a straight line.  Among other things, each city (High Point, Greensboro & Winston-Salem) has their own bus system, which complicates matters.  These issues were further underlined to me the other day, when I ran into our marketing analytics Intern, attending college here from Europe.  He has no car.  He lives in Greensboro, and needed to make a 25 minute trip (by car) to our offices in High Point.  How long did it take him to make that 25 minute trip?  Two and a half hours.

I love public transportation, but who’s got that kind of time?  I’m just going to wait ’til we finish the transporter room in my house.  Beam me up, Scotty.

Oh Yes, You WILL Be Creative

I grew up in an incredibly creative household.

My parents, both Pratt graduates, were trained in “practical” disciplines, like package design  (my mother) and architecture (my father).  In truth, I believe those were intended to be fall-back design jobs, for when being an actual artist might not pay the bills.  Both were successful working designers, but I think their preferred creative outlets were quite a bit more freeing… pen & ink drawings… silkscreen… abstract mixed media paintings… etc.

Macrame Was Never Quite My Cup of Tea

I have intensely fond memories of being on the road, with my parents and sister, traveling from art show to art show in our old woodie station wagon — 8-track included — that must’ve gotten 8 mpg.  And, despite the periodic semi-sourness of the experience for my parents, having to amicably listen to their buyers special requests (“I really like such-and-such a painting… but could you do it in a green to match a new sofa/carpet/paint job?”), it was pretty heavenly for my sister and I.  We got to run around these events, basking in each artist’s unique self-expression… in wire scultpture… macrame’… collage… pastels… string art… creating from found objects… and we never questioned the extraordinarily vast range of creativity.  For us, it was simply normal.

This Eames Lounge Chair Was the Comfiest Spot in the House

 

And, even outside of attending art shows to sell their own work, our extracurricular world was filled with art appreciation.  We went to galleries and art museums — with no lack of wondrous choices, as I was lucky enough to grow up in NYC.  Even our home reflected these artistic values.  Come every holiday season, my dad would start silkscreening his handmade holiday cards — in particular, I remember this simple, high impact visual of a single, very architectural snowflake.  Iterations included varying colors, but in my memory it was always printed onto silver paper.  For weeks, our home smelled distinctly of turpentine and every chair, table and stair-step was covered with these drying prints, shortly to be turned into the surface for my parents’ surface for appreciations, directed at all the people they valued.  My parents also filled our home with classic furniture design pieces — things I never consciously appreciated until I was older – pieces by Eames, Marcel Breuer, Saarinen, Mies van der Rohe.  All this gave me an appreciation for color, shape, form, design and, of course, creativity across a vast spectrum.

My life continues to be a quest for opportunities to be creative, as well as ways to make myself continuously available so that I can appreciate the creativity of others.  I don’t draw, or paint, like my parents, but I have dabbled in myriad other ways… photography, cooking, humor, copywriting, marketing, tv production, jewelry design, paper making, parenting, etc..  And, like the family I come from, I also place a high value on creativity in my own little family.

Buy Art @ Artmongerz 610 S Elm St, Greensboro, NC

 

This past Friday night, we took Jake to our local “First Friday” event — a crawl with gallery shows, quirky antique shops, music and the like.  While he loved Artmongerz, a shared gallery space displaying a wide variety of media — including spectacular pieces created by a work friend, I suspect it was the unusually good snacks and the artist playing live music that put him over the top.  But it was a place, a couple of doors over — an interactive art museum — that really captured his imagination.  We walked in and one man came over to invite him to throw marbles at a drum.  Instantly, he was hooked.

At the end of each day, in a decompressing ritual, we ask Jake about his day.  And, he’s learned to ask about ours.  Though he rarely listens to the answer to his “How was your day?” inquiry, we’re always curious about what he’s going to say was the best part of his day.  Often he’s excited about foods he ate, playtime — especially if taken outside — and semi-unusual happenings like getting bitten by a classmate. On this particular drive home, he said “Seeing the art.”  How glorious, this response.  Mission accomplished.

Can’t I Just Meet a Nice Gay Couple?

Motherhood, at least as I know it, is pretty isolating.

Initially, you bring home this helpless, fleshy thing, that smells intoxicatingly sweet — sort of like life itself.  You’re clueless and can hardly believe that they let you take him home.  After all, what the heck do you know about raising a child when you’ve never been able to keep a plant alive?  If you’re me, you’re nursing… and completely sleep-deprived… barely able to eek out a handful of minutes for a shower in the morning.  This, combined with the apparent fragility and rubberyness of your brand spankin’ new baby makes leaving the house feel completely daunting (and fuhgeddabout those freaky fontanelles).  Plus, you’re home, and not working like a maniac, for one of the first times in your life.

And, despite the fact that my husband, son and I were generously hosted by my sister and brother-in-law — my family living out of their family’s guest room, I don’t know if I have ever felt that alone before, in my life.  I didn’t know anything about what I was doing, though I am a supreme consumer of information, and had read tons of books and articles on the subject of new motherhood, care & feeding of your baby, attachment parenting, etc.  I was totally unprepared for how much that early period could totally suck.

Sure, recovering from a relatively violent emergency c-section didn’t help (I still can’t watch the DVD shot by my best friend).  And, not having any consistent exposure to close friends with children didn’t help.  And having just moved to North Carolina, from New York, within days of Jake’s birth and having family, but no friends nearby didn’t help.  And having a husband who travels for work didn’t help.  I certainly tried to grow my support system and make local friends… I attended new mom meetings, I joined a local online community for new moms, etc.  And people always told me that as Jake got older, I would find it so much easier to make friends, because his attendance at daycare and various other kid activities would naturally bring us together with people with whom we were sure to have some common ground.  But, it hasn’t quite worked out, yet, and Jake’s already 2 1/2.

Before Haircut

I just can’t seem to find my tribe that easily.  In fact, I find it to be quite a bit like dating.  You start to chat… feeling another parent out… and then you start to learn things about their values, parenting style, etc.  I am sure that we are something of a strange anomaly at my son’s daycare, despite how lovely and accomodating everyone is.  We’re raising him vegetarian… we don’t vaccinate (gasp!)… we let his beautiful hair grow to insane lengths out of some vague Jewish superstition (tho’ I think it was really more about our love of his curly, silken, hair)  until his very first haircut but a few weeks ago.

He has a best friend (or as much of a best friend one can have as a toddler) named Graciepoo and her parents are very sweet.  They’ve had us over for her 2nd birthday, a family event, and we’ve asked Gracie for playdates on many occasions.  We even share our babysitter with them (not that it matters, but we did find her first) and have shared babysitting sessions.  But I just don’t know that we have very much in common.  When they were suffering through a string of ear infections (Jake’s had all of 2 in his 2 1/2 yrs), we offered some alternative treatment suggestions (nothing much more radical than switching from cow’s milk to goat milk, which is more easily assimilable), to which we got a bit of an exasperated response, as if it was too much hassle.  Maybe it’s just me, but I’ll take a healthy child over any hassle of mixing and measuring powdered goat’s milk into bottles… lots of mixing… lots of bottles… oh, yeah, I did it and it is a hassle, but totally worth the well being of my little guy.

Then, of course, there are other possible wrinkles

• What if you like the mom, but not the dad?
• What if you like the dad, but not the mom?
• What if they’re all bible-thumpy (not always easy to sniff out at first blush, I’ll have you know) and look at you like you have 2 heads (or possibly horns) when they discover you’re Jewish?
• What if their children subsist on junk food and they think nothing of offering same to your child?
• What if they pencil you in for a future child protective services call when they discover you don’t vax?

Not to be all Kathy Griffin here, but where are my gays?  Can’t I just meet a nice gay couple who are raising a sweet toddler for my son?

Family Communication Goes Radical

I’ve been finding myself quite tickled by a new Showtime series: The UnitedStates of Tara.  While it is well-acted and interestingly-written, filled with multi-dimensional characters — all good reasons to tune in or rent the DVDs of the series once they become available — what really gets me is what I think of as “the family culture.”

The hook of the show is about a woman with dissociative identity disorder (the mental illness formerly known as multiple personality disorder)… her search for integration of her alter-egos — getting to the bottom of her trauma, so she can stop shifting across her personalities and become whole/present for her life… and how her family deals with her many shifts across those alter-egos.  But the real hook, for me, is just how functional this family is — possibly one of the healthiest representations I’ve seen on TV.  My husband and I have debated this subject, as he’s convinced they’re completely dysfunctional (which is even fodder for the characters themselves, including one of whom declared that his aunt must be damaged to think he’s normal), while I am equally convinced of the opposite.

When I was young and single, I was fascinated by what my sister coined “couple culture”: the way in which couples seem to have a sort of shorthand, or private language… something that connects them across a crowded space when one gives the other a particular look, or causes them to laugh at something strange to others (declarations to waitstaff of “we’re sauce people” by one couple I know come to mind), or makes certain choices obvious (“of course we’ll prank call so-and-so, pretending to be from a local radio station!”), when this seems strange to someone else.  In my journey towards partnership, I always wondered what my couple culture would ultimately look like.

Now that I’m both wife and mom, I love to observe “family culture,” surfing for what is completely unique to each family… around their values, humor, shared experiences, shared expectations.  For me, the family in United States of Tara is most appealing for their unremarkable honesty.  I look forward to a relationship with Jake, where we get to simply say what’s on our minds without subterfuge,  fear of punishment, or judgement.

One recent morning, I was in the shower with Jake and we’d previously run out of soap.  In the goody bags, given at my best friend’s wedding — probably my favorite wedding (except for my own, of course) – we received bars of glycerin soap with two plastic grooms inside (in case you are confused, my best friend is gay).  Eventually, when you use up all the soap, the plastic men are freed from their glycerin, um, bondage.  Well, here we were at this day, the grooms separated from the soap.  Jake looks up at me and says “who’s that?”  Since he’s only 2 1/2 and won’t likely understand differences on the spectrum of sexuality, I sort of took a pause and just said, “That’s Uncle Eddie and Uncle Matty.  They’re married to each other,” to which he replied “Okay,” and just carried on with his shower.  There was no need for some after-school-special moment… some prolonged “well, honey… sometimes heather has two daddies…” and so on.  It was a complete non-event.  Frankly, as it always should be, in my opinion.

It’s true, I lie to accomplish certain things — perhaps I should just say that I exaggerate.  When Jake doesn’t feel like brushing his teeth, I explain that he’s free to make that choice… but his teeth will rot and fall out if he chooses to do so. 

The Cheese That Kills

When he’s got a little cold brewing and I want to cut back on dairy to help it clear up, I tell him that next piece of cheese is going to make him sick.  We tell him that good boys who use their “listening ears” (as if there’s really another kind of ears?) get to do fun things… tho’ we’d do those fun things anyway, if for no other reason than it’s fun for us, too.  For now, I figure the ends justify the means, but it’s not my long-term plan to fib my way into getting him to make wise decisions.  Certainly, my intention is for us to just tell it like it is and invite him to do the same.

I know this show that’s captured my thoughts is a work of fiction… but I’ve always believed that great art makes you think and teaches you something about your world.  In it, I see a way to communicate that’s compassionate, real, loving and honest… just what I’d hope to create and nurture in our “family culture.”

Be. Here. Now.

Hey You!  Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you…

You – the dad at my son’s swim lesson this morning, who spent the class surfing the web on his phone, rather than watching his 3 year old filled with excitement over learning to swim.  (Disclaimer: this man is not my husband… something he was greatly concerned people would think, when I wrote this)

You — the boyfriend at Ikea tonight, too busy texting to participate in co-creating a shared aesthetic for his newly shared home.

You — the Senators tweeting throughout the President’s speeches, who couldn’t possibly have heard what he even said (it’s hard to listen, when you’re concentrating on your next thought).

You — the teenager we saw hiking with her family, while we were doing same at Pilot Mountain, who missed the extraordinary views, natural beauty and quality time with people who love her, because she never stopped texting (tho’ kudos for being able to manage that hike without looking where you were going — I can barely do it while I’m paying attention).

You — the vendor who took me to a business lunch, and in an attempt to be responsive to a particular issue, started emailing to light a fire under some butts… and was no longer really at our meeting.

As I’ve been dipping my toe further and further into the waters of social media and the ways in which technology can make life better in so many ways, I’m finding myself at my own crossroads, wondering, (if I may be so… so Carrie Bradshaw)… Do we really know when technology is a connector, and when it’s a disconnector?

Even my old friend (but new-again, thank you Facebook), Leigh, whom I’ve always admired as the picture of tech/zen balance has been given pause by the moment she noticed herself thinking about life as it was happening and how that would translate into blog fodder… rather than simply living it.  Fortunately, she was self-aware enough to recover quickly… and then also blog about it.  ; )

I remember seeing Leigh, shortly after giving birth.  She was my first friend with a baby.  I was incredibly curious about how life worked, with this new creature, as I was also considering my own path towards motherhood.  One of the biggest things I walked away with was that she felt that motherhood brought her acutely into the present.  As a relatively high-strung New Yorker, this sounded like great news to me.  I know that I could easily spend all my time analyzing past choices… or planning for life in the future (“it’ll be so much better when…”), and not really living in the present all that much.  Perhaps it’s a luxury of the overly self-involved to do so?  You know, after all, if you’re spending all your time in the before and after, it’s probably because the here and now kinda sucks.

I’ve done a lot of work trying to figure out how to be in the present, so I can enjoy what really is unfolding… and how to make a present that’s worth delighting in.  I backslide, of course, and forget myself.  But I would be broken-hearted if I spent time with my son, not being here now, but texting, emailing, blogging, web surfing, or tweeting when I could have been hanging out with him.  Fortunately, my sister reminder me of this the other day, as I was having a “woe is me moment” (not to say there isn’t some legitimacy to my own personal challenges… but ya’ gotta put it all in perspective, right… I’m not dying, homeless, destitute, etc… so it could aaaalways be worse) and she said that I will never regret this time I get to spend with Jake.  Eventually, if we’ve done our jobs right, he will grow up and no longer want or need us to play with him, teach him, snuggle with him, or smother him with kisses & hugs (which we do often).  And, we get to revel in his awe at all things exciting and new, things that would otherwise feel far less than that to us.  What a gift.

While it doesn’t help that I’m turning 40 this year (or perhaps I should start being coy and say 39 + 1?) and have not exactly manifested everything I set out to do at this point, I have manifested some of the biggies that mattered to me… including a great life partner and unbelieveable kid — both of which I marvel at daily — along with work that invites and demands my creativity on a daily basis.  So, I’m happy to be here now, a fair amount.

And I would love it if you would be… here… now… with me, too.