Wordless Wednesday: Yum Thumb

Taste This!

I have been a cooking fiend the last few days. I serendipitously received a new cookbook on my doorstep last Friday. I generally read cookbooks like they're novels. I pore over them in the bookstore, thumb through dogeared pages among the racks at used bookstores, and spend hours gazing at recipes online. On rainy days I curl up with a cup of Tension Tamer tea and browse through a stack of cookbooks. I clip recipes from the likes of Cooking Light , Food & Wine , Cookie , Bon Appetit , and Southern Living, all of which arrive in my mailbox monthly. You know what? I never make a single recipe.

I use cookbooks, recipes in general really, as inspiration. I don't measure a thing and am fond of substitutions when the recipe calls for something I don't have on hand and can't manage a trip to Harris Teeter. I joke that I am the queen of "kitchen sink cooking;" I can muster up a great meal with a dash of this and a dollop of that, whatever lurks in the back of the pantry or in the bowels of the freezer are fair game. I consult a recipe just to get ideas for spice blends, cooking times, food pairings, or menu options. It is rare that I cook with a book propped open.

Until I discovered Taste This! by Gina Von Esmarch.

I was immediately drawn to the photographs. I hate when cookbooks don't have pictures. It must be a Pavlovian thing. I made three things out of Gina's cookbook over the weekend, improvising just a tish, as any creative cook is wont to do. Let me tell you, this is the first time in my life that what I cooked turned out exactly like it looked in the picture. I'm telling you, her photos could have very well been from my own little kitchen.

Here's what I cooked up:
Chicken Jerusalem, delectable shredded chicken and artichoke hearts in a wine and cream sauce served over rice. I added garlic and used gewurtraminner since I was plum out of sherry. In a rare twist, we didn't have leftovers. Deal even asked for some the next day for lunch. It's been only three days, and Mac Daddy is asking for this dish again. Sure signs of a family keeper, no?

Parmesan Crisps, sourdough bread coated in finely grated, you guessed it Sherlock, Parmesan. Butter, bread, cheese. How could one go wrong?! We could barely stop nibbling on these while I was dishing up dinner. D.I.V.I.N.E. Gina has these babies in the appetizer section, but they are so good that you'll want to serve them with the main course too. I put them in a cool glass bowl on the table so we could help ourselves as we enjoyed our meal. I stopped counting at five. Like I said, butter, bread, cheese. Can you blame a girl?

Needle in a Haystack, chocolate candy, 'nuff said. Pretty much the only dessert I can make without screwing up is instant pudding. But I mastered these on the first try. Who knew chow mein noodles and chocolate are long lost soul mates? We devoured these. The best part? So easy and fun to make with the kids! I used half chocolate, half butterscotch chips. I added unsalted peanuts, mini marshmallows, and shredded coconut. The recipe recommends raisins too, but you know how I feel about those wrinkled has-been grapes. This treat is going to be my go-to recipe for school room mom duties, holiday gifts, block parties, you name it. Delish.

Think I'm gushing? Here are some family testimonials:

"This is the BEST haystack I've ever had!" exclaimed Deal, age 3.

Commenting on said treats, "I know a way to get rich, Mommy. Let's make and sell these!" remarked my entrepreneurial, if not somewhat cheeky, Bird, age 5.

What's so great about Taste This! is that there is nothing chi-chi about it, no trips to the fancy food show to track down obscure ingredients. Easy, family friendly, fast cooking. No chicken nuggets or other such crap posing as healthy kid fare. These recipes are family fare. You know me, no cooking two separate meals for parents and children. The whole family eats the same meal; I am not a short order cook (no short jokes, please). This cookbook is great for a seasoned cook and a kitchen greenie alike. The Finger Lickin' Chicken is next on my list.

Oh, want to get your hands on this too? Check it out .

I can't wait to try more from this cookbook. I have a feeling it's going to be dogeared and sauce splattered very soon.

Am I Less of a Mother?

I am a 40 year old woman. I have two sons, ages five and three. I spend my days between my office and my sons' schools. I cook three squares a day. I mend the occasional seam and fix buttons when I can find a match. I make homemade Valentines and sew super hero capes for my sons' stuffed animals. I, with my husband, raise our children with no family network to support us. I work part time. I mother full time. Yet some women claim that I am not really a mother. Apparently this has something to do with not paying my proverbial dues to earn the badge of Motherhood. Perhaps some context will help you track with me.

• I got pregnant on the first try, one month after going off the pill. Same story the second time. I kid you not.
• My pregnancies were easy peasy. Sure, I gained 45 pounds, half my body weight, but most of it melted away eventually (not without a struggle, mind you).
• Bunion surgery was worse than childbirth. From the first pang of labor pain to a swaddled baby in my arms was all of three hours. I even fell asleep during labor the second time, and the nurse woke me up to push. Three pushes, 20 minutes, done.
• I had an epidural for both births. I was dilated eight centimeters before I lugged my ass to hospital. I almost missed my epidural window and am grateful to those anesthesiologists who boogied to get me drugs in time.
• My babies were champion eaters and sleepers. Still are.
• My babies were bottle fed.
  

Some women have told me, uttered behind my back and boldly to my face, that I am less of a mother than they are.

• Am I less of a mother because I did not struggle to get pregnant? Does that mean I don't cherish my children and the miracle of life? Of course not! As a new mother on the cusp of 35, I was and am eternally grateful for bearing two healthy children. I am astounded by the cliched miracle of life every. single. day.
• Am I less of a mother because I don't have pregnancy war stories to share? I did faint in the cereal aisle of Lowes Foods once. Luckily my husband was there to pad my fall before I lost my battle with the linoleum.
• Am I less of a mother because I did not toil through an excruciating labor? My babies did all the work. I watched my children being born in the mirror and I swear they swam out.
• Am I less of a mother because I made use of the medical advancements available to me? The way I see it, I don't get my cavities filled without Novocaine so why labor through excruciating pain without the benefit of drugs? The epidural made my experience pleasant and pain free. I was admittedly lucky to experience no complications. I labored to eight centimeters on my own so perhaps I could have finished the job too. I didn't want to find out what I was made of; I had nothing to prove. At the end of the day, it's a personal choice.
• Am I less of a mother because my children eat a varied and healthy bounty of food? Am I less of a mother because my children relish their sleep? My boys, since they were itty bitty, ate like champs. To this day they probably eat better than any adult I know. My first son, Bird, slept through the night at 12 weeks old. My second child, Deal, beat his older brother by two weeks. Bird napped until he was 4 1/2. Deal is 3 1/2 and stills naps regularly. And they both go to bed at 7:15 and sleep until 7:30. I realize I am lucky. Developing healthy sleep habits for our kids did not come without some tears and threats and tantrums. But bed time is generally a perfectly pleasant time at our house.
• Am I less of a mother because I didn't nurse my babies? Oh, this is a touchy subject. Let's just say that I tried. Hard. My baby failed to thrive. He rapidly lost weight. My physical issues prevented him from getting nourishment (details to come in another post, another day). My team of doctors and lactation consultants ordered the baby on formula. You might say I went through heroic feats to try to nurse, even using a contraption that fed my baby formula through a tube that was attached to my breast to simulate nursing. I toiled so hard, yet my efforts were futile. The second time around the hospital lactation nurse, upon reviewing my file, advised me against breast feeding. To this day I see a nursing mother and child and feel pangs of regret. But in the end, my babies were nourished. And the best part was that my husband could cradle his infant sons and feed them too.
  

Motherhood is a patchwork of experiences. There is no handbook telling us what to do. There are no rules, no maps, no guidelines. Yet there are many, many tests. We all became mothers in different ways, none better or worse than the other. The women who took in foster children. The women who cared for a sister's daughter and raised her as her own. The women who adopted children who would otherwise face a bleak future. The women who rode the in vitro roller coaster. All are mothers. All see the magnificence and magic of motherhood. All feel our children's pain tenfold worse and rejoice in their glories tenfold more. All see the simple breathtaking beauty in her slumbering child. In the end, motherhood is a sisterhood.



Reposted from an original Deep South Moms Blog post.

5:00 Fridays

I am a huge fan of all things chai. My whole being clamors for it come fall. I sip it indulgently by the fire on Sunday mornings while I read the paper in winter. Come spring I add some ice and savor the spicy tea into the warm months. The stuff just doesn't get old.

Oh, the hints of vanilla, cardamom, clove, cinnamon, fennel, ginger! An olfactory sensation indeed.

And so you can imagine my sheer delight at this Internet discovery, chai liqueur! Oh, Internet, I love you so. Yes, I hit upon a beverage custom made just for Dirt & Noise's 5:00 Fridays! Well, not really, but let's pretend, mkay?

Leave it to the Dutch to create this masterpiece: Voyant Chai Cream Liqueur. I guess those crazy Dutch learned a thing or two from the Dutch East India Company. Tea and spices were a huge part of that spice island monopoly after all. Why the heck did this creation take 300 years is the question?!

So when I manage to get my hands on this delectable ambrosia, I'm going to simply pour it over ice and sip. Maybe I'll add a shot or two of milk, you know, for the calcium.

There's a reason that the word "chai" means both "tea" and "want" in my native language.

Wordless Wednesday: Warning, Hearts Melting Ahead

Time Travel

When my babies were tiny, I used to spend hours gazing at their slumbering faces. Little nostrils flaring, breath setting a hypnotic beat, eyes twitching in dreamland, itty bitty fingers swatting away invisible itches on a scrunched up nose. Their little faces contorted this way and that. Their gaze so fixed on me upon waking. In their faces I would imagine them as toddlers, boys, grown men. It was an involuntary slideshow running before my eyes.

In a flash I would catch a glimpse of them as their older selves.

Now that my boys, my babies, are teetering on the cusp of six and four, I see time reeling backwards and forwards in a cruel teasing tango. In a random giggle I see them as their infant selves. Perhaps it’s in a pensive moment while chilling out in the back seat. Perhaps it’s while they rest their heads upon each other, a scrambled mess tucked onto the beanbag chair.

At other times, I see my boys as men. When Bird glances at me sideways and snickers in jest at some silliness, I see him as a high schooler, rolling his eyes at my latest faux pas. When Deal perches on the couch with a toy catalog in hand, knees crossed, fist tucked beneath his chin, I see him as a contemplative adult. His gestures already too grown up for his three years.

Time is at once a thief and a jester. We want more of it, we want it to clip along at a faster pace, we want to switch it to slow motion, we want to hit the pause button, and sometimes we want to rewind. Yet Time controls us. We simply live to its ticking. It’s infinite and eternal beat.

And so, at night when I am restless, I slip out of the comfort of my quilt, kneel beside my sleeping boys, and watch them sleep. Inhale, exhale, twitch, rub, toss, flutter, turn, sigh. And I watch Time travel before my very eyes.

Race Relations & Gender Equality, as Explained to a 5 and 3 Year Old

I have been having some heavy conversations with my sons lately. Racism. Race relations. Sexism. Gender equality. Heavy stuff for any age, but even more so with a five and three year old. Admittedly not the typical fare for car pool lines and kitchen conversations everywhere. But my sons sit perched at the breakfast bar while I cook dinner, and we talk. Mostly they ask questions, and I wrack my brain coming up with an honest yet meaningful answer that will make sense to their innocent blank slates. I tread lightly, knowing this will likely be the beginning of their developing self awareness. So what's the catalyst for such heady talk at our house?

Barack Obama.

You see, my children are mixed race first generation Americans.

My husband is a born and bred Midwesterner from a town of 500 people. I am an Indian girl who was born in Calcutta, a city of 16 million people. I say it's kismet that brought us together 31 years after our birth.

My sons are starting to recognize that we look different from each other, and that I look different from other moms. The beauty of childhood is that they view these differences with no judgment, no preconception, no expectations, no bigotry. Some call it naivete. I call it bliss.

I spent the better part of 2008 campaigning for Barack Obama in my home state of North Carolina. Political chatter surrounded us, and we tuned in the children when we felt it was appropriate. Granted, they were Obama walking billboards sporting their "Yes We Can" T-shirts. My husband and I told them about this historic election, and pointed out the significance of the Clinton vs. Obama primaries.

I brought my boys to the voting booth with me. Bird, my kindergartener, even filled out the ballot for me, proudly marking Barack Obama's name. It's no surprise that "Obama" was one of the first words he could read on his own. On November 5 I showed a picture of the past 43 presidents to my sons and asked what they noticed about the people. First they said, "There are no girls, Mommy." Home run! Then Bird said, they all look like Daddy. They are pink." I explained that the terms we use are white, black/African American, to which he animatedly replied, "But we are brown, Mommy. And no one is white. They are pink!" How could I argue with such logic?

And then came Lily Ledbetter .

I happened to flip on the TV during Obama's press conference about signing the Lily Ledbetter Fair Pay Act . The boys shouted for me to move so they too could see the TV. Obama! Obama! We all sat mesmerized as he spoke, with a tenacious and victorious Lily Ledbetter at his side. They were particularly excited when Obama mentioned his daughters in his speech. They love to hear about kids in the White House (which we just visited recently). I explained that when Mommy and Daddy met, we both had the exact same jobs (Yes, an office romance!), but Daddy got paid more money than I did. I told them that I had actually been in the job longer, but Daddy earned more money. "No fair!" they shouted in unison. I regaled them with the tale about me marching into our manager's office demanding an explanation...and a raise. My next pay stub reflected a significant bump in pay that equaled my husband's. Whether it was my gumption or my boss' fear I'll never know. I explained to my sons how many, many women earn less money than men doing the same things. I told them that that lady standing next to Obama got fed up, and America finally listened.

As the mother of boys, I hope to raise them in a manner that debunks gender biases. My three year old's favorite color is pink . My five year old loves to draw and paint. My husband often cooks spectacular dinners, and he has breakfast duty on weekends, for which he spoils us with creme brulee french toast and the like. We share duties as primary care givers. My goal is to raise my sons as open minded citizens who see the worth in all people, regardless of race, gender, or anything else that adults deem worthy of judgment. And I hope, as their mother, that the world grants them the same respect.

This original post is cross posted to Deep South Moms Blog.