- Food: thick pureed hot soups, slow cooker goodness, stews, hot apple cider, leftover Thanksgiving turkey, roasted root vegetables, pears cooked in butter and brown sugar, and pumpkin rocks
- Clothes: sweaters and boots. jeans tucked into boots. long sleeves. layers. scarfs.
- Flannel sheets
- More opportunities to swathe oneself in blankets
- And while swathed in blankets, reading
- Kids getting all excited about Halloween
- Eating the kids' Halloween candy. (don't judge. you do it too)
- How good cold air smells and feels
- Hot chocolate, which technically goes under food but really deserves a special spot on the list
- Leaves changing colors
Saturday, September 18, 2010
fall, glorious fall
September 23rd is 2010's first day of fall. It's my favorite season hands down. Why? Well, I'm glad you asked. Because now I can present the list of good better best things about fall.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
off kilter
I'd been out of sorts today and couldn't pinpoint what threw me off. It may very well be the confluence of random things that are generally mild irritants but have reached critical mass. And it feels as though the best method to deal with this...blah-ness...is to empty my mind. Too much clutter, too much overthinking, too much.
One way I cleared the detritus was by cooking. I roasted a chicken and sauteed some green beans for dinner, with carrot fennel soup to start and some good bread. Fennel is becoming a favorite soup additive. Its raw flavor is too intense for me; it mellows out considerably in a soup context, and adds a little bulk to a puree.
Tomorrow we'll have a warm chicken salad with tomatoes and greens from the csa box. I've used up the last of the frozen chicken stock so the carcass from this particular bird comes at an opportune time. Maybe I'll make a chicken salad sandwich for lunch tomorrow. I've got some avocados that need eating, and they'd be swell in said sandwich.
Even writing about cooking is having a cleansing effect. I'm starting to feel better already. Not to mention a little peckish.
One way I cleared the detritus was by cooking. I roasted a chicken and sauteed some green beans for dinner, with carrot fennel soup to start and some good bread. Fennel is becoming a favorite soup additive. Its raw flavor is too intense for me; it mellows out considerably in a soup context, and adds a little bulk to a puree.
Tomorrow we'll have a warm chicken salad with tomatoes and greens from the csa box. I've used up the last of the frozen chicken stock so the carcass from this particular bird comes at an opportune time. Maybe I'll make a chicken salad sandwich for lunch tomorrow. I've got some avocados that need eating, and they'd be swell in said sandwich.
Even writing about cooking is having a cleansing effect. I'm starting to feel better already. Not to mention a little peckish.
Friday, June 25, 2010
dear iPod
you and I have been friends for many years. you have provided me endless comfort and meditative moments, and I have provided an eclectic, varied musical palette for your hard drive. your case has seen the scratches and scars of heavy, nearly daily use. you have traveled with me across the country and back. in the past year, you have been a stalwart companion in my car as we went on road trips.
lately, I've noticed a slowing down in your performance. the battery gauge isn't providing an accurate read on the actual life left. you suddenly shut down in a huff for no reason and grudgingly reboot. I fear that our relationship is nearing an end, my dear.
I have treated you with nothing but loving kindness, save the odd drop onto hardwood or sidewalk. (I swear those were pure accidents) But you are a fragile fleur, aren't you?
When the time comes for your demise - the prevailing opinion of your life expectancy is four years, and you've got one to go - I will observe a moment of silence. I'll responsibly recycle you. And then I'll head over to the Apple Store and get myself a Touch. Love you too.
lately, I've noticed a slowing down in your performance. the battery gauge isn't providing an accurate read on the actual life left. you suddenly shut down in a huff for no reason and grudgingly reboot. I fear that our relationship is nearing an end, my dear.
I have treated you with nothing but loving kindness, save the odd drop onto hardwood or sidewalk. (I swear those were pure accidents) But you are a fragile fleur, aren't you?
When the time comes for your demise - the prevailing opinion of your life expectancy is four years, and you've got one to go - I will observe a moment of silence. I'll responsibly recycle you. And then I'll head over to the Apple Store and get myself a Touch. Love you too.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
father's day without the father
Father's Day is inevitably bittersweet because my dad is no longer with us. My kids have no memory of him. He would've really enjoyed them. Gently teasing Z and irritating her on purpose. Joking with O. Showing them his birds. Telling them stories. Watching Giants' games on tv with them. And World Cup.
As much as I'm a logical, thoughtful person, this continues to haunt me.
When O was born in early October 2005, my dad went into his final coma, never really waking up again save for a few feeble gestures. I found out the second day I was in the hospital, recuperating after the birth. My sister called; my mother did not want to tell me. I was such a morass of emotions and hormones at that point that it didn't register. I don't remember feeling anything save for a hollowness that was soon filled with brain-obliterating exhaustion.
He died over Thanksgiving weekend that same year. He knew of O, I was told, and the few photos I had brought to him of O were taped on his last bed in the hospital.
As O is growing up - and turns five this year - I can see my dad in him. The love of life and small pleasures. The genuine care he shows to people in distress. The flashes of temper. Without sounding too new age-y, I'd like to think that the best parts of my dad's spirit have come to reside in O during the birth and death cycle. And maybe that's how we perpetuate our legacies.
As much as I'm a logical, thoughtful person, this continues to haunt me.
When O was born in early October 2005, my dad went into his final coma, never really waking up again save for a few feeble gestures. I found out the second day I was in the hospital, recuperating after the birth. My sister called; my mother did not want to tell me. I was such a morass of emotions and hormones at that point that it didn't register. I don't remember feeling anything save for a hollowness that was soon filled with brain-obliterating exhaustion.
He died over Thanksgiving weekend that same year. He knew of O, I was told, and the few photos I had brought to him of O were taped on his last bed in the hospital.
As O is growing up - and turns five this year - I can see my dad in him. The love of life and small pleasures. The genuine care he shows to people in distress. The flashes of temper. Without sounding too new age-y, I'd like to think that the best parts of my dad's spirit have come to reside in O during the birth and death cycle. And maybe that's how we perpetuate our legacies.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
still mucking around with templates
and will be seeing how long I can tolerate this one. the dandelion theme was not rocking my world.
decompressing
by doing laundry, listening to Jack Johnson's live album, wondering if I should clean up the piles of paper on my desk, centering myself in the here and now.
Most people fantasize about traveling or doing exciting, adventuresome activities. I dream about being alone in a quiet house and puttering around. A lot of mending would get done. I still have boxes to unpack; we moved in April, for crying out loud. I need to spend a couple of hours sorting out the kitchen without interruption, really loud music blaring in the background. Something along the lines of LCD Soundsystem or early Green Day or The Clash. And the continual process of purging unneeded items, like the broken crib and the Graco travel system (for those of you unschooled in the parenting arts, that's the infant car seat/strolller/carseat base combo. and I'm sure you still don't know what that means).
Tending to the house is a reflection of my desire to have an orderly life. I've been moving so fast that I haven't caught my breath for days. It's time to stop and observe. Listen.
I realized my need to slow down on a walk back to work after a very good lunch. My body was literally refusing to move at typical city pace. It was a sunny, warm, beautiful day, and I was happy on top of it. Everything was magnified: the sky was bluer, the trees a deeper emerald green, the sun and breeze pushing past skin to get to my core.
Lots of random thoughts today. All part of the decompression process.
Most people fantasize about traveling or doing exciting, adventuresome activities. I dream about being alone in a quiet house and puttering around. A lot of mending would get done. I still have boxes to unpack; we moved in April, for crying out loud. I need to spend a couple of hours sorting out the kitchen without interruption, really loud music blaring in the background. Something along the lines of LCD Soundsystem or early Green Day or The Clash. And the continual process of purging unneeded items, like the broken crib and the Graco travel system (for those of you unschooled in the parenting arts, that's the infant car seat/strolller/carseat base combo. and I'm sure you still don't know what that means).
Tending to the house is a reflection of my desire to have an orderly life. I've been moving so fast that I haven't caught my breath for days. It's time to stop and observe. Listen.
I realized my need to slow down on a walk back to work after a very good lunch. My body was literally refusing to move at typical city pace. It was a sunny, warm, beautiful day, and I was happy on top of it. Everything was magnified: the sky was bluer, the trees a deeper emerald green, the sun and breeze pushing past skin to get to my core.
Lots of random thoughts today. All part of the decompression process.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
what's for dinner?
I've been a little slack in the cooking arena over the past few weeks. Lots of takeout and lunches out were all I could manage while work life was ramped up. Now that I've moved toward the eye of the hurricane, I had the inspiration to make dinner.
It was unseasonably warm. I thought a salad would be appropriate, but a salad with warm components. I had taken out chicken parts to defrost in the morning, including wings for Z so I could make her absolute favorite, soyaki* chicken wings.
I started the other chicken parts in the skillet with a bit of olive oil and salt and pepper, browning them enough so that the fat from the skin was rendered. A fried chicken salad started forming in my mind. Ideally, the fried chicken should be the good stuff: buttermilk marinade and deep frying. It was too late, though, so I kept the heat on medium and continued browning until everything was brown and crispy. Lemon juice was added to the pan for flavor depth. I shook some Old Bay over the adult share; I knew better than to season O's share. Meanwhile, Z's wings were baking in the oven at 400 degrees, 425 degrees during the last few minutes to add some color.
The salad was a mix of red leaf lettuce, baby heirloom tomatoes (not dissimilar to cherry tomatoes and with the same squirtability factor), and avocado. I had some Trader Joe's goddess dressing - avocado is best with a creamy dressing. I am too lazy to make creamy dressings. The chicken was sliced on top. We ate. And all was well in the world.
*Trader Joe's Soyaki sauce. It works miracles on chicken. Seek it out.
It was unseasonably warm. I thought a salad would be appropriate, but a salad with warm components. I had taken out chicken parts to defrost in the morning, including wings for Z so I could make her absolute favorite, soyaki* chicken wings.
I started the other chicken parts in the skillet with a bit of olive oil and salt and pepper, browning them enough so that the fat from the skin was rendered. A fried chicken salad started forming in my mind. Ideally, the fried chicken should be the good stuff: buttermilk marinade and deep frying. It was too late, though, so I kept the heat on medium and continued browning until everything was brown and crispy. Lemon juice was added to the pan for flavor depth. I shook some Old Bay over the adult share; I knew better than to season O's share. Meanwhile, Z's wings were baking in the oven at 400 degrees, 425 degrees during the last few minutes to add some color.
The salad was a mix of red leaf lettuce, baby heirloom tomatoes (not dissimilar to cherry tomatoes and with the same squirtability factor), and avocado. I had some Trader Joe's goddess dressing - avocado is best with a creamy dressing. I am too lazy to make creamy dressings. The chicken was sliced on top. We ate. And all was well in the world.
*Trader Joe's Soyaki sauce. It works miracles on chicken. Seek it out.
Friday, June 11, 2010
a day to play
My previous 'time for mom' plans for today fell by the wayside when O spent the better part of last night crying from pain because his hip was hurting him. Off to the doctor's we went first thing. We came away with an order for bloodwork and an xray of said hip.
I am not a fan of bloodwork. I'm not a fan of needles anywhere in close proximity to my body. O put me to shame with his fascination as the needle went in and the tube filled with blood. "That's cool," he said. I was looking pointedly in the other direction.
Next stop was the xray. He actually giggled as the tech moved him into position; he is unbelievably ticklish. My whirling dervish son was remarkably still for the whole procedure. Again, very impressive.
We thought about eating at UCSF. In the end, blueberry muffins in the comfort of home won out. We played Wii games. We hugged. We watched old school Scooby Doo (there can be no other) off On Demand. I managed a conference call in between. It was beautiful out, and I opened windows to let the late spring air filter in. We laughed a lot, especially while playing a port of Super Mario Bros. 3. Clearly the reflexes have diminished greatly since 1988.
On the face of it, there was nothing memorable about today. No epoch-making moments. No revelations. But I'd like to think that our slower pace aggregates into a single memory of what our relationship was at this specific time.
footnote: all is well. a mild inflammation of the joint from a leftover viral infection that will go away in about a week. motrin at night and rest will cure. I am grateful. health is something we do not take for granted.
I am not a fan of bloodwork. I'm not a fan of needles anywhere in close proximity to my body. O put me to shame with his fascination as the needle went in and the tube filled with blood. "That's cool," he said. I was looking pointedly in the other direction.
Next stop was the xray. He actually giggled as the tech moved him into position; he is unbelievably ticklish. My whirling dervish son was remarkably still for the whole procedure. Again, very impressive.
We thought about eating at UCSF. In the end, blueberry muffins in the comfort of home won out. We played Wii games. We hugged. We watched old school Scooby Doo (there can be no other) off On Demand. I managed a conference call in between. It was beautiful out, and I opened windows to let the late spring air filter in. We laughed a lot, especially while playing a port of Super Mario Bros. 3. Clearly the reflexes have diminished greatly since 1988.
On the face of it, there was nothing memorable about today. No epoch-making moments. No revelations. But I'd like to think that our slower pace aggregates into a single memory of what our relationship was at this specific time.
footnote: all is well. a mild inflammation of the joint from a leftover viral infection that will go away in about a week. motrin at night and rest will cure. I am grateful. health is something we do not take for granted.
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