Scary Times

He's crazy about hockey, so I was kind of leaning toward Alex Ovechkin. We have a jersey and a stick making it a convenient choice. "Why not a rock star?" I asked, since it was just last summer that he was asking me to take pictures of him with sunglasses and an electric guitar. But he was pushing for something scary this year. It is Halloween, after all.

Our neighbors have had their pumpkins for a few weeks now. Each time I look across the street, actually, there's a new addition to display of happy holiday enthusiasm. First it was a skeleton flag flapping in the breeze, and yesterday it was spiderwebs connecting the porch to the bushes. Today, it's a glowing cauldron, impossible to miss as we drive up after dark.

Standing between two crowded aisles in the dark, unglamorous Halloween shop, open only one month a year, he debated between the Scream and Lord Voldemort. Both were equally menacing, and I couldn't imagine him wearing either one to his elementary school Halloween parade. "Aren't you worried about scaring the first graders?"

"Mom," he insisted, "there are going to be some scary kindergartners." I had a tough time believing him, but I gave in when he finally chose Lord Voldemort. At least he chose a literary character, I thought in attempts to console myself.

Instead of going for the pre-packaged costumes, he pieced together a black cloak, rubber snakes (the largest one named Nagini), a twig from the yard for a wand, and a photo of the Dark Lord/Tom Riddle on opposite sides of a piece of cardboard to hold in front of his hooded face. When I went in to school today to help the kids pull on their costumes (the mayhem and excitement required a number of adults to supervise), he posed for a picture next to the Joker. His hair-sprayed green hair, chalky face paint, and a gash of red across his mouth made this young boy as creepy as Heath Ledger in the Dark Knight. No one around them appeared afraid.

This evening, we all pulled up after dark to our unadorned house. Instead of unpacking I put the car in reverse for one more errand. On our way to the lot doing a nice business up the road, I spotted hay bails in a church parking lot. Not a soul in sight, a sign indicated that they had closed shop for the season, but that they'd take donations in the metal box. With only a ten dollar bill, we loaded up the car with four extra-large pumpkins, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his big brother positioned them nicely on our front steps.

Happy Halloween.

St(e)aking a Claim

At first, I felt like a 16th century explorer, sailing into culinary territory with the wind in my sails. I stood at the wheel with a grand sense of entitlement, a flag in hand, ready to sink into soil and claim it as my own. No, I was not so ruthless that I intended to annihilate innocents who got in my way--in fact, I shared the fruits of my journey with them at the dinner table each night--but I knew I wouldn't conquer if I didn't assert my control of the kitchen. For he who already occupied this land before me knows it well. Not only can he move with swift grace from stove to sink, wok to grill, he can ably reach into his quiver for weapons, his hands and his knives move like one at the butcher block. I couldn't compete with his homeland advantage without careful planning, and cookbooks laid open on my counters as maps to guide me through rough waters.

About a year ago, I enjoyed a piece called, "The Rise of the Kitchen Bitch" by Hanna Rosin, wherein she detailed her insistence in taking back the kitchen. This resonated with me at the time, especially her assertion that "male cooking is turning out to be one of those feminist-friendly changes that come with an unexpected, bitter aftertaste," because my husband, whose own interest and experience with cooking far outweighs mine, could also be accused of being overly fussy and controlling when it comes to preparing dinner.

In the early years of our marriage, our lives revolved around eating. We both loved to eat, he loved to cook. I was enamored with the way food occupied his thoughts, and it wasn't unusual for us to start the day with a romantic chat about what we would have for dinner. But as our number of children grew from one to three, our lives have become less conducive to weekday feasts, and too often we have been hungry hostages while he happily seared, deglazed, reduced, and plated it up restaurant-style at 8 o'clock. The problem was that I had no interest in taking over. This was his talent and source of pleasure, not mine, and I wasn't like Hanna Rosin with memories of sharing space before the stove.

Where are we now? I have more time and my husband has less, so I'm working on shifting our "European" dining schedule closer to 7 o'clock or earlier. The challenge is that our family is accustomed to yummy food. I can't simply shove my spouse aside and serve up chicken nuggets and oven fries. If I did, our boys would run to the fridge for the Sriracha sauce to spice things up. I'm a few weeks into this transition, and I haven't given up yet. A new Martha Stewart cookbook (I'm not ashamed to write) has provided much guidance; I'm growing confident to make adaptations to suit everyone's fervor for flavor. However, as time goes on, I'm trying not to see my spouse as my opposition. He's not lurking behind the trees with knives in hand, trying to keep me off of his land, and my favorite meals have been collaborations. Frankly, my three-month-old sous-chef can be a little unreliable, so while Martha Stewart has plenty of advice, it's also nice to just walk into the home office or make a quick phone call for the best approach to broiling pork tenderloin. And hey, it takes a lot of work. By Friday, I'm more than ready to cede control for the weekend and watch my happy husband groove to his music and cook the night away.

This doesn't mean I'm not subjected to the occasional schooling from the all-knowing kitchen guru (my jaw clenches as I type), but while some women work hard to take back the kitchen, I'm doing my best to just get to know it. I'll put my flag down for now and listen to what the natives have to share.

Practice Makes Proficient

I admire people who cook well. In my attempts to go beyond mere proficiency in the kitchen, I realize that a simple desire to cook well is not enough. Not too long ago, I proclaimed my success at making chocolate ganache. "It's just so easy!" I said of combining chocolate and heavy cream for heavenly results. A friend remarked that much of cooking is easy, and I believed her for about three minutes. She happens to be a former chef and spends her free time reading about, shopping for, and preparing delicious food. For people like me, people who lack not just experience, but good instincts about cooking, easy it is not.

It's all about timing. I can follow a recipe, and I'm even comfortable making adaptations as I see fit, but when it comes to the multiple parts of a meal, I start to fall apart. One pot meals have always been appealing to me for this reason. I can brown it up in a pan, pour in some sauce, and let it simmer like nobody's business. Stick it in the oven and forget about it until the bell rings? That's me. Or should I say, that was me. Now that I'm trying to branch out from my standard repertoire of enchiladas, chili, spaghetti and meatballs (all quite tasty, but who wants heavy foods like that all week long?) I see a need for understanding the pace of a meal. Take for example, a meal of chicken Milanese that I attempted last week. The chicken recipe was no problem (pound, season, dip, bake), but when it came to steaming asparagus, boiling pasta and adding pesto, it was a three-ring circus. By the time I plated, the asparagus was too cool and the pasta was too hot. And did you know that adding pesto to hot pasta makes it turn brown? I do now.

As for brown pesto and other minor missteps, no one around here seems to mind. In fact, I'm not sure they notice. Hungry boys and a husband who appreciates the extra time to work equals empty plates. But like we say about teaching, reflection is necessary for growth. Do students always notice when a lesson is off? Do we ditch every lesson plan that doesn't go as well as we'd like? Nope. Cooking takes practice and reflection, and it won't be until I have enough of both that I'll think of it as easy.

Turning the Table

Speaking of majestic domestics, I'm in the midst of an important transformation.

Then: After a tough day at work, I lounged on the couch reading cooking magazines with a glass of wine (brought to me) and a piece of toast with cheese or olive oil and salt, or some sample of dinner in progress (also brought to me) while my husband did the cooking and bringing.

Now: Instead of sitting on my butt, I'm wrapping my own hands around the gastronomic world and taking pride in providing delicious food for my family. 

My epicurean spouse has become increasingly busy with work, and seeing as I'm currently unemployed, it makes sense for me to get the grub on the table. Plus, caring for a baby makes putting my feet up with a glass of wine kind of impractical and a bit inappropriate. Thankfully, the babe's a sweet and content young thing, and as long as he can see and hear me, we make a pretty good team in the kitchen.

To be honest, I've been interested in shifting roles for some time. While my "then" scenario may sound lovely, that life of leisure wasn't always marshmallow creamy, especially if you're a prickly pear like myself. There were some definite disadvantages that I feel warrant some explanation, and some excellent reasons for why I enjoy this side of the table so very much. But since today's culinary escapades took a lot out of me, from the batch of muffins this morning (yogurt, cranberry, oats) to the double recipe of butternut squash and leek soup (fresh thyme, grated Gruyere, bacon crumbles) for dinner, I simply can't unpack it all tonight. Stay tuned for more to follow.

Multi-tasking Domestic Goddess

A couple of years ago, I took to audio books. It began during a bout of insomnia, in what was a particularly stress-filled school year. In the dark of night as I listened to the calm breathing of my husband next to me, I remembered an ad I had heard for Audible.com. Basking in the glow of my laptop, I downloaded my first pick. It turned out to be as good as a sleeping pill--I appreciated the sound of well-composed and revised thoughts instead of my scrambled ones. Fortunately, sleep-filled nights returned, but when the lovely symptoms of pregnancy kicked in and I found myself awake in the wee hours, the calm droning of a story helped me back to sleep on many occasions.

I always feel good when I have a book going, but I hate to admit how many times I've left great books lie idle in the stacks. For all three of my boys, I devoured real, paper books in their first few weeks of life as I found myself sitting a lot with cuties in my arms. I enjoyed the forced relaxation that nursing allowed, but tiny ones grow quickly and a little squirmy. Now big eyes look up at me, and I like to look back. Holding a book over him is a lot less practical, and frankly, it feels kind of rude, so I'm back to listening with one earphone, hands free, and a smiling face when needed. This past-time comes in handy during nap time, when I stick my iPod into my back pocket as I move about the house getting stuff done, hence the title of this post.

What are some of the titles I've enjoyed?
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Good Book by David Plotz
The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman
Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan
Nineteen and a Half Minutes and House Rules by Jodi Picoult
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Girl who Played with Fire by Steig Larsson
My all-time favorite: A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini

It's not just a substitute for Ambien; these books have been with me through the loads of laundry and the closets I seem to be endlessly cleaning out. How's that for my reading log? Clearly, it's making this stay-at-home mom pretty happy.

Off and Running

I woke up cranky yesterday. It was a gorgeous day, sparkling sunlight and crisp air coming in through our open windows, but I had to wake up with feelings of annoyance. Why are there shoes in the middle of the floor? How did all of these swords get up here? Is this a week's supply of towels on the hook in the bathroom? Am I the only one around here who cares about laundry? Looking back, I see it was a waste of a lovely morning. 

Today is different. I headed out, every boy in my house still asleep, to meet a friend down on the corner for a run. Sure, my post-pregnant body still lacks the range of motion it once had, but it felt so good to push up hills, feel my heart rate rise, and forty uninterrupted minutes of talk therapy doesn't hurt either. It looks like it will be another beautiful day. This time, I can enjoy it.

School Daze

My exposure to school is limited these days. While I can't complain--I really love this time at home with my little cutie--each time I get close to it again, whether it be a visit from teacher friends at my house or a phone call or e-mail with someone from the inside, I feel that powerful pull back to that life again that's so hard to resist. It's conference season around here, so my kids were off school at the end of last week. While some viewed this as an important time with their kids' teachers, I welcomed the chance to get back into the building.

First things first,  I enjoyed my visits with teachers to talk about my sons. But really, as a teacher, I recognize their style as students between homework support and multiple conferences over the years. At this point of parenting, we just feel less needy for classroom feedback. What I really crave is time to talk about school news like curriculum changes, class sizes, and meeting vibes.

I went in for my eighth grader's conference times, run arena style, toward the end of the window, so the lines had already dwindled. I got to hear about the new professional development for the year, staff changes, and former students. One teacher I'm particularly fond of showed me his class lists because I knew most of his new caseload. We dished about their group dynamics, personal strengths, and the transformation they've made from sixth to eighth grade. Another teacher, newly appointed Instructional Lead Teacher, asked me to join a planning committee for block scheduling. She said that the idea has been met with some resistance, and she thinks I could help smooth things over. I can't help but feel flattered to know that someone's looking for me even when I'm away. "You could bring the baby," she pleaded, which isn't exactly true. I can't bring the baby.

This leads me to the question of the hour: Will I go back to work? This little son, this perfect bundle of love and sweetness that I longed for, we hoped and planned years and years and now he's here and ours. Most moments of my day, I can't imagine leaving him in the care of anyone else. And then there are the moments when I can't imagine leaving school either. For now, I enjoy, reflect, and seek some clarity.

Will Yum's Cupcakes

My eight-year-old and I have taken to baking cupcakes since my third son was born. Some batches of chocolate, some vanilla and one mocha, topped with vanilla butter cream, caramel, limelight, and chocolate ganache. One particularly good batch was filled with raspberry cream. We make two dozen at a time--too many for our family of four--but our typically shy son has taken pride in passing the extras around to lucky neighborhood kids when he spots them riding tricycles and two-wheelers in front of our house. Between batches, we browse the internet for recipes. He tells me his ideas for future recipes before we turn the lights out for the night. With a new baby who is in my arms and has my gaze more often than not, I feel glad to have this new hobby with my middle child.

Today on a day off from school, we all headed to Georgetown Cupcake, the sight of a reality television show we've enjoyed, to taste their treats. He clicked around their website and made a list of flavors he planned to take home. We stood in line along with many other fans of the shop, but once the boys had Lava Fudge and Chocolate PB Chip in front of them, they were certain it was worth the wait.  I, myself, was skeptical, but had to admit once I sampled theirs and enjoyed my own Red Velvet, that they deserved the hype.

Sophie and Katherine are the store's founders and have celebrity status due to their show, so I thought it was pretty cool to see them come outside for a photo-op with a group of kids on a field trip. "Look, Will! It's them." We were sitting at one of the few tables alongside the open kitchen where the staff decorated countless trays with speed. He humored me a moment and craned his neck to get a view of the them, but after a brief smile of recognition, turned around again toward the kitchen to watch the expert use of the piping tube. On our way out, he let me know what supplies we'd need to achieve this level of cupcake greatness. Call it mother's pride, if you will, I think he's already reached it.

Where does the day go?

My thirteen-year-old son, who joined me in my walk to middle school each morning for the last two years, asked me how I spend my days now that I'm at home with the baby. His inexperience with newborns has left him with the distorted view that perhaps I waste the day away on Hulu. "No," I replied, "I'm not caught up on Office episodes, but thanks for asking." As it turns out, despite the fact that my baby is sweetness personified, it's just not all that often that I find myself with two hands free. By the way, my young adolescent was treated to a short lecture on the realities of parenting, lest he think it's a free-ticket to vacation land. Dear God. 

I had Teacher Town open on my computer screen for a couple of hours yesterday with my best intentions to post early. But nap-time turned out to be a hands-on event, as little cutie was not as delighted by his crib as he was in the first two months. Fill in the empty spaces with diaper changing, bath, laundry, cleaning the kitchen, etc. Older kids came home and I kicked in homework support (interrogative vs. imperative sentences), kept an eye on outdoor play (scooter hockey), dinner (spaghetti and meatballs), bedtime (a chapter of Goblet of Fire). My day was done. Later, I sat in front of the screen with only one hand free and found that I could either hunt and peck with one hand to compose a short piece or browse Facebook and GOOP with ease. Obviously, I chose the latter. (Note that I passed up my chance at Hulu.)

And maybe it was the pressure to view the world as David Sedaris does that still left me with nothing. How can I write anything if I can't even manage to leave the house? Well, I have lofty goals today: I have errands to run. Perhaps I'll even witness something interesting.

Don't Pity Me

David Sedaris, as quoted in the Washington Post this morning, said, "I always feel so bad for people who don't write." Well, I don't need pity, so I've decided to take this statement as inspiration to begin posting again. I'll consider it as a challenge worth taking in my new (albeit temporary) role as a stay-at-home mom. Both brain-cell-sucking lactation and limited exposure to my colleagues have left me wondering if my mind is indeed going soft. Since I'm not entirely convinced of the benefits of Gingko biloba and fish oil supplements, I'll try some daily writing instead.

I thought of my favorite daily bloggers, Tracey and Mary, when I read that Sedaris thinks of the unusual occurrences in his life as someone handing him a check. After reading countless posts of theirs, I imagine them collecting checks wherever they go in hopes that it will inspire a post. But my bank balance is low, as it's been six months (six months?!) since I finished the March SOLC. Since then, I've been blessed by the arrival of my baby boy, and now I'm on leave from my teaching job. And what a civilized existence this is at home all day without the blood-pressure-rising moments of work. What will I write about, however, without such stimulating events? I'm not sure yet, but I'm sure I'll think of something.