Today was my last day of school -- I'm done for the year! I could not be happier about it, because this means no driving back and forth and back and forth, or, as I've been doing lately, spending the whole day an hour from home. We've been bouncing between school and church and the library and the park, but naptime has been an issue and it's just so tiring for me to be away from home. I wish John were done with having to deal with it too.
The next book I read this past week was In Defense of Food: An Eater's Manifesto, by Michael Pollan. The book is a critique of a notion called "nutritionism," the idea that food is simply the sum of its nutritional parts. Nutritionism is the philosophy behind fortified foods, "healthy" versions of food, and artificial food. The prime example is margarine. It's supposed to be healthier because it uses vegetable oils which are lower in saturated fat ... only it has "trans fats" which are incredibly bad for you! Every time we try to improve on food, it ends up backfiring.
Pollan's answer is, "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants." Eat food means, only eat actual foods in their more-or-less natural state -- no processed stuff. I can totally sign on for that one. "Not too much" means, as he explains it, that we should eat the way other cultures do, for enjoyment, in company of others, and slowly. Americans tend to see food as a fuel to keep our bodies going, and we scarf it down in front of the TV, at our desks, or in the car. That's hardly a recipe for health -- or happiness. And "mostly plants" means that we should eat less meat ... which was something I actually didn't agree with.
After all, Pollan spends a lot of time debunking traditional nutrition. He argues that fat is not bad for you after all (and the scientific community knows it!) and talks about traditional cultures that eat high-fat, high-meat diets. There are even cultures that hardly ever eat plants at all, and they're known for their vibrant health. But after telling us all this, he turns around and says, "But Americans eat too much meat." His defense? "Everyone in the medical community agrees on that." Yes, but everyone in the medical community thought 20 years ago that low-fat diets would save us all. Pollan even suggests the danger of meat is all that saturated fat ... but I thought we weren't supposed to be demonizing particular nutrients!
Now, I agree that conventionally-raised meat isn't the best for you, and so we shouldn't overindulge in it -- or anything else, for that matter. But I think part of other cultures' secret that keeps them from overeating is that they eat plenty of fat. Take the French. French food is swimming in butter (i.e. saturated fat) and they are extraordinarily healthy. He talks a bit about the "French paradox" but mostly says it's due to their cultural eating habits (eating slowly, having small portions, etc.). It seems to me, when you've been eating shellfish drenched in garlic butter, you won't want seconds. Trying a bunch of psychological tricks to make yourself stop eating when you've still got the munchies seems a little ... self-depriving. Possibly unnecessarily.
I also didn't like how Pollan went on and on against choosing foods based on the nutrients inside them, saying we shouldn't be counting grams of fat or carbs (which I agree with) but also saying we shouldn't keep track of what vitamins we're getting or labeling some real foods as "healthy" and others as "less healthy." For one thing, some real foods really are healthier than others. Some things, like liver, are really rich in nutrients, and others, like rice, aren't so much. Then, of course, Pollan goes off about omega-6's and omega-3's, showing that maybe talking about nutrients isn't so bad after all. Except that it is. Except that it isn't. The whole book was a little too fluffy and poetic for me to quite get a handle on actual, hard-and-fast ideas.
Overall, I did like the book, and I agreed with most of it. I agree that the industrial food system and the nutritional establishment have some serious problems. But I'm not sure I like his solutions. The real-food movement (say, the Weston A. Price Foundation) tends to treat Pollan like an ally, because he does believe in real food. However, his odd idea that we should eat less meat doesn't really jive with what the WAPF says -- even though he was happy to quote Price when he agreed with him.
Personally, I don't see anything wrong with analyzing the nutrition in the food we eat. I actually love doing it, and sort of wish I had a lab so I could compare the nutrients in plants grown on different soils and so forth. I don't think we need to be counting and tallying and worrying, but I'm a believer in science and tradition working side by side. Is X a traditional food? How healthy is the culture that eats X? Can we replicate the health benefits of X in people not of the same culture? Okay, then, let's eat more X. Bonus points if you can quantify what X is and how it works.
Still, I found the book an enjoyable (one-day) read. It was short and sweet and poetically written. I liked the stories of Aborigines curing themselves of heart disease and diabetes by returning to a hunter-gatherer lifestyle, and things like that. And it exposed a lot of issues with processed food, a few of which I hadn't known about. So, definitely a good book -- but I wish that it, like a blog, had a comments section for me to argue with the author. I think the internet has spoiled me.
Note: It is no longer May 26th. But I'm leaving the old date because this post begins "It's the last day of school!" Oops. Somebody didn't have any blogging time over the weekend, and I think it was me.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
The fallacy of results
I've been meaning to write a post about this ever since I read this article: "Twin Lessons: Have More Kids, Pay Less Attention to Them." I was putting it off a little, and then I read Free-Range Parenting (which I'll review soon), and found the same fallacy there. So I think it's time to address it.
The point of the article is this: Research shows that twins grow up pretty similar even if they were raised separately. Therefore, genetics is more important than upbringing. Therefore, upbringing makes no difference. Therefore, we shouldn't bother trying to give our kids the best upbringing.
In some aspects, I agree with the article. Our kids will be as intelligent as they're going to be, whether we let them watch Baby Einstein and enrolled them in Mandarin lessons or not. The more upper-middle-class obsession with giving your kids all the optimal experiences in life (or else they'll turn out slow or behind their peers) is pretty pointless. There's never been any evidence that most "educational" things make the slightest difference. Studies do show that kids turn out better when they have two involved parents. But whether those parents sign them up for baby yoga doesn't seem very relevant.
On the other hand, the fact that a pair of twins both wore horn-rimmed spectacles and named their sons Alan doesn't really prove to me that nothing I do as a parent makes any difference. Sure, kids have a lot that is inborn. But a child raised in poverty with no father and only an eighth-grade education, looking up to gang members as his heroes, is pretty much bound to turn out a little different from a child raised in affluence and a loving home. Studies show this, as well. That's part of why parents get so uptight -- they hear a study showing that kids who own books are better readers than kids who don't own books, and so they go out and buy a ton of books. This may or may not make any difference.
Though it is quite possible that my kid's intelligence and temperament already determined and unalterable by me, I don't believe his values and behavior are. I'm not going to try to turn him into a quiet snuggler (I've tried and failed already), but I am going to try to teach him to treat others with respect and to go to church. Of course, he has free will and may decide to do the opposite of everything I teach him when he gets older. But most kids do echo their rearing to some extent.
I've taught a lot of kids. There was one thing I found a better determining factor in the sort of kids they were than anything else: what the parents themselves were like. If the parents loved to read, the kid loved to read. If the parents valued sports more, the kid valued sports more. This was also true for adopted children. It doesn't predict what kids will be like 100% of the time, but it seemed a better indicator than, for instance, whether their parents were strict or laid-back or whether they forced their kids to do homework or not. Those things mattered too, but less.
Of course, this is a big challenge to deal with. We have to actually set a good example, reading books and eating vegetables. But if we do it, generally our kids will grow up doing it too. They may later choose not to. But people grow up like their parents a lot more than they're willing to recognize.
Along with values and behavior, there's another thing I can teach my child: whether his mother loves him. If he grows up knowing just one thing, I want it to be that. So I try to foster a close attachment to him, to pay attention to the jabbers he has to say, to play with him from time to time. I don't do this to make him smarter. I do this because I want him to remember that I was there for him when he was a kid.
Because here's the deal: there is more that matters besides how a child will "turn out." The author of the article says it doesn't matter that he taught his babies to cry themselves to sleep, because it won't scar them for life. Okay, fine. But I could poke my kid with pins, too, and the mark would heal very quickly. If he was young enough at the time, he probably wouldn't remember it. But I'm not just raising the adult he will someday become. I'm raising the child I actually have. I believe that I should love and respect him, not because twenty years down the road it may have good results, but because he is a person worthy of love and respect now.
It's a very freeing thought. If the twin research is right, I don't have to worry that he'll have terrible sleep habits because he still doesn't usually sleep through the night or that I'm emotionally crippling him by still nursing him (ha!) or that he'll never be independent because I haven't put him in daycare. It's just as likely that he'll turn out better because of my choices, but if this fellow is right, then it makes no difference what I do. In that case, why don't I do what is loving and respectful, what feels right and what my son likes, now? It might not make him better-adjusted. But I do think it will make him happier now, and it will make him look back on his childhood and smile because it was a nice time. It might make him want to come home for Christmases because his childhood was so great. Even if it doesn't, I like to know that I have a happy, contented little boy who gets plenty of love.
So, do I believe in being more relaxed, signing up for less stuff, and letting my kid do more things independently? Yes. But that doesn't mean I don't think what I do matters. The fallacy of results leads people to either obsessively plan every moment of their child's life, because it all matters, or to adopt a cavalier attitude toward the choices that they make, because none of it matters. My point of view is that what I do matters, but the determining factor isn't the results I get in 20 years, but whether what I do shows love and respect to the child I have now. The adult he will become is largely out of my control, but the child he is now is the one I have been given.
The point of the article is this: Research shows that twins grow up pretty similar even if they were raised separately. Therefore, genetics is more important than upbringing. Therefore, upbringing makes no difference. Therefore, we shouldn't bother trying to give our kids the best upbringing.
In some aspects, I agree with the article. Our kids will be as intelligent as they're going to be, whether we let them watch Baby Einstein and enrolled them in Mandarin lessons or not. The more upper-middle-class obsession with giving your kids all the optimal experiences in life (or else they'll turn out slow or behind their peers) is pretty pointless. There's never been any evidence that most "educational" things make the slightest difference. Studies do show that kids turn out better when they have two involved parents. But whether those parents sign them up for baby yoga doesn't seem very relevant.
On the other hand, the fact that a pair of twins both wore horn-rimmed spectacles and named their sons Alan doesn't really prove to me that nothing I do as a parent makes any difference. Sure, kids have a lot that is inborn. But a child raised in poverty with no father and only an eighth-grade education, looking up to gang members as his heroes, is pretty much bound to turn out a little different from a child raised in affluence and a loving home. Studies show this, as well. That's part of why parents get so uptight -- they hear a study showing that kids who own books are better readers than kids who don't own books, and so they go out and buy a ton of books. This may or may not make any difference.
Though it is quite possible that my kid's intelligence and temperament already determined and unalterable by me, I don't believe his values and behavior are. I'm not going to try to turn him into a quiet snuggler (I've tried and failed already), but I am going to try to teach him to treat others with respect and to go to church. Of course, he has free will and may decide to do the opposite of everything I teach him when he gets older. But most kids do echo their rearing to some extent.
I've taught a lot of kids. There was one thing I found a better determining factor in the sort of kids they were than anything else: what the parents themselves were like. If the parents loved to read, the kid loved to read. If the parents valued sports more, the kid valued sports more. This was also true for adopted children. It doesn't predict what kids will be like 100% of the time, but it seemed a better indicator than, for instance, whether their parents were strict or laid-back or whether they forced their kids to do homework or not. Those things mattered too, but less.
Of course, this is a big challenge to deal with. We have to actually set a good example, reading books and eating vegetables. But if we do it, generally our kids will grow up doing it too. They may later choose not to. But people grow up like their parents a lot more than they're willing to recognize.
Along with values and behavior, there's another thing I can teach my child: whether his mother loves him. If he grows up knowing just one thing, I want it to be that. So I try to foster a close attachment to him, to pay attention to the jabbers he has to say, to play with him from time to time. I don't do this to make him smarter. I do this because I want him to remember that I was there for him when he was a kid.
Because here's the deal: there is more that matters besides how a child will "turn out." The author of the article says it doesn't matter that he taught his babies to cry themselves to sleep, because it won't scar them for life. Okay, fine. But I could poke my kid with pins, too, and the mark would heal very quickly. If he was young enough at the time, he probably wouldn't remember it. But I'm not just raising the adult he will someday become. I'm raising the child I actually have. I believe that I should love and respect him, not because twenty years down the road it may have good results, but because he is a person worthy of love and respect now.
It's a very freeing thought. If the twin research is right, I don't have to worry that he'll have terrible sleep habits because he still doesn't usually sleep through the night or that I'm emotionally crippling him by still nursing him (ha!) or that he'll never be independent because I haven't put him in daycare. It's just as likely that he'll turn out better because of my choices, but if this fellow is right, then it makes no difference what I do. In that case, why don't I do what is loving and respectful, what feels right and what my son likes, now? It might not make him better-adjusted. But I do think it will make him happier now, and it will make him look back on his childhood and smile because it was a nice time. It might make him want to come home for Christmases because his childhood was so great. Even if it doesn't, I like to know that I have a happy, contented little boy who gets plenty of love.
So, do I believe in being more relaxed, signing up for less stuff, and letting my kid do more things independently? Yes. But that doesn't mean I don't think what I do matters. The fallacy of results leads people to either obsessively plan every moment of their child's life, because it all matters, or to adopt a cavalier attitude toward the choices that they make, because none of it matters. My point of view is that what I do matters, but the determining factor isn't the results I get in 20 years, but whether what I do shows love and respect to the child I have now. The adult he will become is largely out of my control, but the child he is now is the one I have been given.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Book review: The Happiest Toddler on the Block
Lately I've been reading a lot of library books. And I mean a lot. I love to read, and until recently spent all that time on Google Reader, but having a toddler draws me away from the glowing screen and forces me to ... connect with my environment? Well, just read paper books. It's a step, right?
On Friday I plowed through The Happiest Toddler on the Block, by Dr. Harvey Karp. (I'm kind of a speed reader ... John is always commenting on how fast my eyes go back and forth on the page. But it is a pretty quick read.) I've already read his previous book, which is about comforting colicky babies.
This book uses evolution to explain why toddlers are the way they are. Karp believes that "ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny," which means, "human development mimics human evolution." Personally, I thought that theory was debunked years ago, but it is a kind of clever way to describe things anyway. Basically, he says that 12-18 months is the "charming chimp-child" stage, during which toddlers are a lot like chimps because their brains and knowledge haven't developed complex language or fine motor skills yet. From 18 to 24 months, they are "Knee-High Neanderthals," then "Clever Cave-Kids" at two and "Versatile Villagers" at three.
I really don't think we know as much about the Neanderthals and cavemen as he thinks we do, and I sure can see a lot of differences between toddlers and early humans. But, on the other hand, it is a nice gimmick to frame his book, and it does help you understand toddlers a little better. For instance, Marko's not a chimp. But I do better if I don't expect him to be a rational, communicative child, but rather more like a chimp would be -- friendly, interested, but not able to understand most of what I say or communicate what's going on in that head of his.
I certainly agreed when Karp criticized the way we try big-kid tactics on toddlers. For instance, saying, "Gee, I know how you feel, but cheer up, we will be going home soon." That's all wasted breath when talking to a screaming toddler. In fact, most things that would work on a four-year-old just don't work on a one-year-old.
I haven't yet tried Karp's method, though. He says that when a toddler flips out, we should get down on their level and empathize with them in "toddlerese." For instance, when the toddler is banging on the door, screaming, we should first imitate their feelings by saying, "You want OUT! Out! Out! Out!" Then, after the baby has miraculously calmed down (does this really work?), we should communicate what we want through simple words and gestures. ("Stay in! Have cookie!" Or whatever.)
Like I said, I haven't tried it, and I'm a tad skeptical. But I plan to give it a shot and see how it does. Marko doesn't throw many fits, and if he does, it means he's tired and cranky and nothing will work but a nap. But, according to Karp, things will get a lot worse when he's a "Knee-High Neanderthal" in a few months, so I'd best be on the lookout.
I did disagree with a few things Karp said. For instance, he claims that the caveman was the first stage that had "indoor bathrooms," and therefore potty training should be done at two. Maybe that's the first indoor bathrooms that have been discovered, but I bet Neanderthals weren't wearing diapers either. I mean, hamsters have toilet corners in their cages. Animals of almost any age and stage of development prefer not to sit in their own waste (of course there are exceptions, like pigeons and poo-flinging monkeys) and babies can learn to use the potty from birth, if the parents are so inclined. A lot of people do it around the world, so there's no need to claim kids are incapable of this.
On the other hand, I loved learning about the development of toddlers. Apparently the reason Marko can't use a spoon yet is that his cerebellum isn't developed enough yet to allow his wrist to swivel. In a couple of months, it will be and he will finally be able to eat his own yogurt without help! (Yogurt is his current favorite food. If I give it to him in a bowl, he drinks it ... pouring half of it down his shirt in the process.) It's so neat seeing how babies unfold and develop on their own ... so much of what they learn, we don't have to teach them at all.
I'd recommend the book, if you have the time and can get it from the library. It's not a "parenting library essential," though. The only books (so far) that I would count in mine are Pregnancy, Childbirth, and the Newborn, by Penny Simkin, and The Baby Book, by Dr. Sears. I'm still looking for other good ones, though. Once I find a must-have book, I get a copy and then lend it out to people forever. Call me the evangelist of good parenting books.
(Oh, P.S. The No-Cry Sleep Solution is good too. And the No-Cry Naptime Solution is probably even better. They're both by Elizabeth Pantley. I don't own either, though.)
On Friday I plowed through The Happiest Toddler on the Block, by Dr. Harvey Karp. (I'm kind of a speed reader ... John is always commenting on how fast my eyes go back and forth on the page. But it is a pretty quick read.) I've already read his previous book, which is about comforting colicky babies.
This book uses evolution to explain why toddlers are the way they are. Karp believes that "ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny," which means, "human development mimics human evolution." Personally, I thought that theory was debunked years ago, but it is a kind of clever way to describe things anyway. Basically, he says that 12-18 months is the "charming chimp-child" stage, during which toddlers are a lot like chimps because their brains and knowledge haven't developed complex language or fine motor skills yet. From 18 to 24 months, they are "Knee-High Neanderthals," then "Clever Cave-Kids" at two and "Versatile Villagers" at three.
I really don't think we know as much about the Neanderthals and cavemen as he thinks we do, and I sure can see a lot of differences between toddlers and early humans. But, on the other hand, it is a nice gimmick to frame his book, and it does help you understand toddlers a little better. For instance, Marko's not a chimp. But I do better if I don't expect him to be a rational, communicative child, but rather more like a chimp would be -- friendly, interested, but not able to understand most of what I say or communicate what's going on in that head of his.
I certainly agreed when Karp criticized the way we try big-kid tactics on toddlers. For instance, saying, "Gee, I know how you feel, but cheer up, we will be going home soon." That's all wasted breath when talking to a screaming toddler. In fact, most things that would work on a four-year-old just don't work on a one-year-old.
I haven't yet tried Karp's method, though. He says that when a toddler flips out, we should get down on their level and empathize with them in "toddlerese." For instance, when the toddler is banging on the door, screaming, we should first imitate their feelings by saying, "You want OUT! Out! Out! Out!" Then, after the baby has miraculously calmed down (does this really work?), we should communicate what we want through simple words and gestures. ("Stay in! Have cookie!" Or whatever.)
Like I said, I haven't tried it, and I'm a tad skeptical. But I plan to give it a shot and see how it does. Marko doesn't throw many fits, and if he does, it means he's tired and cranky and nothing will work but a nap. But, according to Karp, things will get a lot worse when he's a "Knee-High Neanderthal" in a few months, so I'd best be on the lookout.
I did disagree with a few things Karp said. For instance, he claims that the caveman was the first stage that had "indoor bathrooms," and therefore potty training should be done at two. Maybe that's the first indoor bathrooms that have been discovered, but I bet Neanderthals weren't wearing diapers either. I mean, hamsters have toilet corners in their cages. Animals of almost any age and stage of development prefer not to sit in their own waste (of course there are exceptions, like pigeons and poo-flinging monkeys) and babies can learn to use the potty from birth, if the parents are so inclined. A lot of people do it around the world, so there's no need to claim kids are incapable of this.
On the other hand, I loved learning about the development of toddlers. Apparently the reason Marko can't use a spoon yet is that his cerebellum isn't developed enough yet to allow his wrist to swivel. In a couple of months, it will be and he will finally be able to eat his own yogurt without help! (Yogurt is his current favorite food. If I give it to him in a bowl, he drinks it ... pouring half of it down his shirt in the process.) It's so neat seeing how babies unfold and develop on their own ... so much of what they learn, we don't have to teach them at all.
I'd recommend the book, if you have the time and can get it from the library. It's not a "parenting library essential," though. The only books (so far) that I would count in mine are Pregnancy, Childbirth, and the Newborn, by Penny Simkin, and The Baby Book, by Dr. Sears. I'm still looking for other good ones, though. Once I find a must-have book, I get a copy and then lend it out to people forever. Call me the evangelist of good parenting books.
(Oh, P.S. The No-Cry Sleep Solution is good too. And the No-Cry Naptime Solution is probably even better. They're both by Elizabeth Pantley. I don't own either, though.)
Friday, May 20, 2011
How to roast a chicken
Lately I keep giving people the impression that I know how to cook. Okay, I kind of do, but I don't do anything hard. All my cooking is extremely simple and only uses common ingredients. So I really don't get it when people say, "Oh wow, you roasted a chicken!" or, "You made macaroni and cheese from scratch?" Seriously, these things are way easier than they look (or taste).
John was laughing at me the other night because I was talking about how simple it was to cook something. "You women are all alike," he said. "One of you says, 'This tastes good,' and the other has to say, 'Oh, but I only cooked a simple reduction sauce with an Italian white wine and then braised a single peacock's feather along with the unicorn steak.' It's like you think taste and effort are supposed to correlate in any way. How it tastes has nothing to do with how much work it took."
Anyway, so I've decided to share a few of my simplest dishes. Rather than impress with the originality of what I'm making (which I hardly ever can), I just want to be really specific so that anyone who does not yet know how to do these easy things, can do them tonight for dinner in 20 minutes. I'm starting with roasting a chicken, because it is a delicious company meal and takes barely any effort at all. Honestly, the hardest part is taking the chicken out of the freezer.
Step One: Take the chicken out of the freezer. Ideally you'd do this about two days before you need it so that it's completely thawed. If you miss this timeframe, you can thaw it in one day in a bowl of lukewarm water on the counter, or (like me) hasten it along still further by holding it under a warm tap. Yes, that's me, always holding a slippery, cold raw chicken under the tap and sloshing warm water around in the cavity. I like to be glamorous when I cook.
Step Two: Decide when you want it on the table. Do you want dinner at six? Then a five-pound chicken should go in the oven around four. The rule is 20 minutes per pound (more if it isn't completely thawed), plus 20 minutes for resting and carving. 10 minutes before oven time is when you need to get started.
Step Three: Prepare the chicken. Before you start, take a moment to think about cross-contamination. Anything that raw chicken touches will have to be washed. So a good place to unwrap it is in your sink or on an easy-to-clean surface. Sometimes I put it on some kind of tray so that I can just wash that instead of trying to disinfect the counter. During the process, you'll probably have to wash your hands several times, so make sure your soap is handy and everything else you need is ready to hand (your dish, seasonings, scissors).
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Or 375. Either's fine.
Unwrap the chicken from its packaging. You'll probably need scissors for that. Once it's out you can just dump the scissors in the sink to wash later; you won't need them again. Go ahead and dump any juices that come out with your chicken; it's usually just added "broth" or water. Reach up that poor chicken's behind and see if there's a bag of giblets inside. Take it out. If you want the giblets (I do; such a waste to toss them!), open the bag and see what you've got. You probably have the neck, some big blobs that are heart and gizzard (sometimes more than one of each; the manufacturers just throw 'em in at random) and a floppy, dark-colored liver. Cook the liver separately or it will share its taste with the chicken. I just tip it into a saucepan to cook on the stove. The other giblets can roast in the pan along with your chicken.
Some people say to rinse the chicken inside and out and then pat it dry. I don't, because I figure someone had to do that already when they took the feathers off. And anyway, I'm going to cook it.
Plop the chicken in your cooking dish. Here are my two extra-special super secrets that make my chicken the best I've ever had: I don't use a roasting pan, and I don't put it breast-up like everyone tells you to. I put it in a Pyrex dish. Any casserole will do. An 8x8 Pyrex will hold a 5 lb. chicken if you put it in diagonally. For a bigger bird, like a turkey, those big 9x13 pans are good. And, for the special C. family touch, put it upside-down. Or rather, the way the chicken would sit if alive, breast-down. The breast is the squishier side, and the wings will look like they're nicely folded.
There are two reasons you're supposed to put it breast-up: it's easier to carve that way, and you get crispy breast skin. But I've never had any trouble carving it breast-down (and if you do, you can always flip it over once it's cooked), and I don't care if the breast skin is crispy. (If you do, you can pull off the back skin and drape a bit over each piece of breast you serve. No one will mind, or likely even notice.) The reason I cook it breast-down is because the breast is much moister. The breast cooks faster and is drier than the rest of the chicken, so when you put it facing up, it can cook too fast and dry out. When it's facing down, it cooks more slowly and sort of braises in the juices. The white meat ends up deliciously moist and not at all overcooked. No basting or shielding or tinfoil or paper bags necessary.
Once you've got it in your pan (which probably took you about five minutes) you can season it if you want. I often dump a little olive oil on it and then sprinkle on some seasonings: salt, pepper, sage, garlic, and rosemary. Whatever seasonings you like are good. Just salt and pepper is fine -- or nothing, if you're short on time. I generally wash my hands, and then use my clean left hand for dumping stuff on and my right hand for rubbing stuff into the chicken. You can just spread your seasonings over the back, legs, and wings. It takes two minutes but does make the skin super-delicious.
Step Three: Put the chicken in the oven. Then immediately turn the oven down to 350. The extra heat will help crisp the skin a bit, and then the lower heat will do the actual cooking. At least, that's what the Joy of Cooking told me. If you're concerned about the time, you can use a higher heat, but you'll have to look elsewhere for a chart that will tell you how long you need. I only know 20 minutes per pound at 350. If I use a higher heat, I generally just have to poke at it a bit to know when it's done. Also, if your chicken's still a little frozen, you will need more time or a higher temperature.
Step Four: Take the chicken out of the oven when the cooking time is up. To know if it's done, cut into the thigh (which takes the longest to cook). If it bleeds and the meat looks raw or pinkish, it isn't done. If clear oil comes out and everything looks white, it's done. (Sometimes there's a slight reddish tint on parts of the meat that touch the bone. This may be just a stain from the bone marrow. If you're unsure, just cook it longer. It's hard to overcook a chicken.)
Or, you know, you could use a meat thermometer. I don't have one.
Let the chicken rest for 15 minutes or so (this helps it absorb its juices and be moister) and then carve it up. A serrated knife seems to work best. I generally cut it into drumsticks, thighs, wings (these are usually quite small, for a kid perhaps) and two or four breast pieces. The delicious marbles of meat on the back are the cook's treat to eat in the kitchen.
And then you eat it! There are usually a ton of drippings in the pan afterward. Pour them into a jar or measuring cup and put them in the fridge. When they separate out, scoop off the fat (schmaltz) to cook your eggs or onions in, and save the broth for soup. Have everyone save their bones, and after dinner you can start some chicken stock going to be ready by tomorrow's dinner.
To make this a full meal, you can start some rice or potatoes and a vegetable a few minutes before the chicken comes out of the oven, and they should all be ready at the same time.
Preparation time: about half an hour. Total time: two hours and change. If you make it for company, you can pop it in the oven before they come, spend a couple hours eating hors d'oevres and chatting, and then when the house begins to smell delicious, you bring out this fantastic chicken and impress everyone.
At which point, I guess, you tell them, "It's so simple; I simply caught a phoenix on my way to the grocery store and then braised it in the milk of a minor goddess." Something like that.
John was laughing at me the other night because I was talking about how simple it was to cook something. "You women are all alike," he said. "One of you says, 'This tastes good,' and the other has to say, 'Oh, but I only cooked a simple reduction sauce with an Italian white wine and then braised a single peacock's feather along with the unicorn steak.' It's like you think taste and effort are supposed to correlate in any way. How it tastes has nothing to do with how much work it took."
Anyway, so I've decided to share a few of my simplest dishes. Rather than impress with the originality of what I'm making (which I hardly ever can), I just want to be really specific so that anyone who does not yet know how to do these easy things, can do them tonight for dinner in 20 minutes. I'm starting with roasting a chicken, because it is a delicious company meal and takes barely any effort at all. Honestly, the hardest part is taking the chicken out of the freezer.
Step One: Take the chicken out of the freezer. Ideally you'd do this about two days before you need it so that it's completely thawed. If you miss this timeframe, you can thaw it in one day in a bowl of lukewarm water on the counter, or (like me) hasten it along still further by holding it under a warm tap. Yes, that's me, always holding a slippery, cold raw chicken under the tap and sloshing warm water around in the cavity. I like to be glamorous when I cook.
Step Two: Decide when you want it on the table. Do you want dinner at six? Then a five-pound chicken should go in the oven around four. The rule is 20 minutes per pound (more if it isn't completely thawed), plus 20 minutes for resting and carving. 10 minutes before oven time is when you need to get started.
Step Three: Prepare the chicken. Before you start, take a moment to think about cross-contamination. Anything that raw chicken touches will have to be washed. So a good place to unwrap it is in your sink or on an easy-to-clean surface. Sometimes I put it on some kind of tray so that I can just wash that instead of trying to disinfect the counter. During the process, you'll probably have to wash your hands several times, so make sure your soap is handy and everything else you need is ready to hand (your dish, seasonings, scissors).
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Or 375. Either's fine.
Unwrap the chicken from its packaging. You'll probably need scissors for that. Once it's out you can just dump the scissors in the sink to wash later; you won't need them again. Go ahead and dump any juices that come out with your chicken; it's usually just added "broth" or water. Reach up that poor chicken's behind and see if there's a bag of giblets inside. Take it out. If you want the giblets (I do; such a waste to toss them!), open the bag and see what you've got. You probably have the neck, some big blobs that are heart and gizzard (sometimes more than one of each; the manufacturers just throw 'em in at random) and a floppy, dark-colored liver. Cook the liver separately or it will share its taste with the chicken. I just tip it into a saucepan to cook on the stove. The other giblets can roast in the pan along with your chicken.
Some people say to rinse the chicken inside and out and then pat it dry. I don't, because I figure someone had to do that already when they took the feathers off. And anyway, I'm going to cook it.
Plop the chicken in your cooking dish. Here are my two extra-special super secrets that make my chicken the best I've ever had: I don't use a roasting pan, and I don't put it breast-up like everyone tells you to. I put it in a Pyrex dish. Any casserole will do. An 8x8 Pyrex will hold a 5 lb. chicken if you put it in diagonally. For a bigger bird, like a turkey, those big 9x13 pans are good. And, for the special C. family touch, put it upside-down. Or rather, the way the chicken would sit if alive, breast-down. The breast is the squishier side, and the wings will look like they're nicely folded.
There are two reasons you're supposed to put it breast-up: it's easier to carve that way, and you get crispy breast skin. But I've never had any trouble carving it breast-down (and if you do, you can always flip it over once it's cooked), and I don't care if the breast skin is crispy. (If you do, you can pull off the back skin and drape a bit over each piece of breast you serve. No one will mind, or likely even notice.) The reason I cook it breast-down is because the breast is much moister. The breast cooks faster and is drier than the rest of the chicken, so when you put it facing up, it can cook too fast and dry out. When it's facing down, it cooks more slowly and sort of braises in the juices. The white meat ends up deliciously moist and not at all overcooked. No basting or shielding or tinfoil or paper bags necessary.
Once you've got it in your pan (which probably took you about five minutes) you can season it if you want. I often dump a little olive oil on it and then sprinkle on some seasonings: salt, pepper, sage, garlic, and rosemary. Whatever seasonings you like are good. Just salt and pepper is fine -- or nothing, if you're short on time. I generally wash my hands, and then use my clean left hand for dumping stuff on and my right hand for rubbing stuff into the chicken. You can just spread your seasonings over the back, legs, and wings. It takes two minutes but does make the skin super-delicious.
Step Three: Put the chicken in the oven. Then immediately turn the oven down to 350. The extra heat will help crisp the skin a bit, and then the lower heat will do the actual cooking. At least, that's what the Joy of Cooking told me. If you're concerned about the time, you can use a higher heat, but you'll have to look elsewhere for a chart that will tell you how long you need. I only know 20 minutes per pound at 350. If I use a higher heat, I generally just have to poke at it a bit to know when it's done. Also, if your chicken's still a little frozen, you will need more time or a higher temperature.
Step Four: Take the chicken out of the oven when the cooking time is up. To know if it's done, cut into the thigh (which takes the longest to cook). If it bleeds and the meat looks raw or pinkish, it isn't done. If clear oil comes out and everything looks white, it's done. (Sometimes there's a slight reddish tint on parts of the meat that touch the bone. This may be just a stain from the bone marrow. If you're unsure, just cook it longer. It's hard to overcook a chicken.)
Or, you know, you could use a meat thermometer. I don't have one.
Let the chicken rest for 15 minutes or so (this helps it absorb its juices and be moister) and then carve it up. A serrated knife seems to work best. I generally cut it into drumsticks, thighs, wings (these are usually quite small, for a kid perhaps) and two or four breast pieces. The delicious marbles of meat on the back are the cook's treat to eat in the kitchen.
And then you eat it! There are usually a ton of drippings in the pan afterward. Pour them into a jar or measuring cup and put them in the fridge. When they separate out, scoop off the fat (schmaltz) to cook your eggs or onions in, and save the broth for soup. Have everyone save their bones, and after dinner you can start some chicken stock going to be ready by tomorrow's dinner.
To make this a full meal, you can start some rice or potatoes and a vegetable a few minutes before the chicken comes out of the oven, and they should all be ready at the same time.
Preparation time: about half an hour. Total time: two hours and change. If you make it for company, you can pop it in the oven before they come, spend a couple hours eating hors d'oevres and chatting, and then when the house begins to smell delicious, you bring out this fantastic chicken and impress everyone.
At which point, I guess, you tell them, "It's so simple; I simply caught a phoenix on my way to the grocery store and then braised it in the milk of a minor goddess." Something like that.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Birth scars
Birth is a funny thing. It can be a rite of passage, but it's also the source of a lot of horror stories. Women LOVE to get together and compare how awful their births were. I personally don't think it's just a spirit of competition. It's the desire to work through the emotional scars their births have left them with.
I don't think birth has to be traumatic, in most cases. But it so often is. Last century, women gave birth in "twilight sleep," strapped down, or unconscious for just the moment of birth. Now things are better, as hospitals discover methods of pain relief that allow the mother to stay aware, and women discover natural birth methods.
My mother's birth stories were always so inspiring, and she enjoyed telling them. She used to tell me about this or that child's birth, how she thought she couldn't do it and did it anyway. She seemed so empowered ... except for my own birth. My birth sounds pretty awful. It was quick and not too terrible physically, but I was separated from my mom as soon as I was born. Though she liked to tell me about the things she did while she was in labor with me, the songs she sang, and all that, she just never could forget how she felt when I was whisked away before she got a good look at me. She tells me she could hear a baby crying far away and wondered if it was me. And that once she got me, she was afraid to really look at me, to count my fingers and toes as she did with the others.
I never really understood that until I had my own. See, birth is an awfully emotional experience. It's supposed to be. The hormone that produces labor contractions, oxytocin, has an odd side effect of enhancing memory. That's for bonding -- so that you will remember that baby is yours and never forget your first meeting. But for so many women, the memories imprinted on their minds at their babies' births is quite different. They remember in detail who was there, what they were thinking, what the doctor said. More than anything, they remember how they felt, and they won't ever forget. That's why it's so ridiculous when the Bible says, "though a mother forget her child." No mother would forget her child. Ever. It simply does not happen.
What I remember best from Marko's birth is this.
I remember seeing, for an instant, a wiggling, crying mass of gray quickly turning to pink before the doctor wrapped a blanket around him and handed him to someone else. She told me, "He's okay, but we will suction his lungs anyway, just in case." I wanted very badly to tell her, "No, if he is fine, just give him to me," but I couldn't seem to speak.
I remember hearing him cry on the warming table across the room and wanting to send John over to be with him, but I was beginning to fall apart and couldn't make myself let go of his hand.
I remember the doctor leaning hard on my belly in what is understatedly called "uterine massage" as she yanked the placenta out and said, "Come on, this isn't so bad, you just went through labor."
I remember a hand appearing with a needle that jabbed into my leg, and asking what it was. "Pitocin," said the nurse. I was angry that they hadn't asked me first. I wondered if they gave it to me because it was procedure, or was I actually hemorrhaging. I wondered if they would tell me if I was. And I was angry that no one was telling me anything, especially as I began to grasp that there was nothing the matter, everyone was calm but they just didn't think it was important to tell me what was going on.
I remember asking over and over again, "Where's my baby? Aren't you done yet? Can't you give him to me?" I watched the clock and thought, "How long does it take to suction a baby's lungs? I can hear that he is fine, why don't they give him to me?" It took them around 45 minutes, every minute of which I was in great distress. I had had my baby for nine months and now he was gone.
After that, the hormones let up and I don't remember so much. When they gave me my baby, he was just a little face up above a burrito of swaddling and didn't look like much. I was happy to have him, or rather relieved, but I still felt a little wrong. Like I shouldn't actually have a baby. It was the middle of the night and I felt really out of it. I tried to nurse him but I didn't know what to do, and eventually I handed him back and was allowed at last to have something to eat.
And, despite my resolve to count those fingers and toes right away, I didn't. I didn't want to take off the swaddle because I didn't think I could rewrap it. I figured the nurses knew better than I what to do with this confusing bundle. I got other people to change his diaper for me; it was John who discovered the birthmark on his tiny leg. I liked him a lot, didn't want to let him out of my sight, but I felt unsure of what to do, so I left him in his plastic bassinet most of the time. Besides, I was too sore to get out of bed and pick him up. No one would either let me sleep or let me hold him ... it was just an endless procession of people coming in to say things to me or take my blood pressure.
Of course I did eventually get past this. My second night in the hospital, I was up with the baby most of the night (I was so tired I was dreaming with my eyes open) and I actually got to take care of him myself. I studied his Yoda eyes in the darkness and called him, "little stranger." Having him rely on me like that made me feel much more like his mother. And after a week, when John left for work and his family went home, I had him all to myself and began to really bond with him. I ditched all the swaddling blankets and took him into the tub with me, where I finally got a good long look at those toes and those skinny newborn arms and legs. I fell in love with the fuzz on the top of his head and the funny faces he made. I began to feel competent, first to the point that I was willing to do everything myself, and later to the point that I refused to let anyone else do anything. My baby didn't care who held him, but I was so attached that it had to be me.
It's been over a year, and I don't feel so broken up about it the way I used to. But still, I do regret it. It was a silly hospital policy of playing it safe, even though they knew my baby was all right, and they took away our first moment together. And I'll always remember that, even if I don't let it upset me (much) anymore.
The next time you hear a woman complain about her labors, don't tell her to get over herself, to be thankful she had a healthy baby (if she did), or to stop talking about it. The trauma of unwanted events at the time of birth is real, and she could probably use a listening ear. Even if you're not a mother, your mother went through it for you.
I don't think birth has to be traumatic, in most cases. But it so often is. Last century, women gave birth in "twilight sleep," strapped down, or unconscious for just the moment of birth. Now things are better, as hospitals discover methods of pain relief that allow the mother to stay aware, and women discover natural birth methods.
My mother's birth stories were always so inspiring, and she enjoyed telling them. She used to tell me about this or that child's birth, how she thought she couldn't do it and did it anyway. She seemed so empowered ... except for my own birth. My birth sounds pretty awful. It was quick and not too terrible physically, but I was separated from my mom as soon as I was born. Though she liked to tell me about the things she did while she was in labor with me, the songs she sang, and all that, she just never could forget how she felt when I was whisked away before she got a good look at me. She tells me she could hear a baby crying far away and wondered if it was me. And that once she got me, she was afraid to really look at me, to count my fingers and toes as she did with the others.
I never really understood that until I had my own. See, birth is an awfully emotional experience. It's supposed to be. The hormone that produces labor contractions, oxytocin, has an odd side effect of enhancing memory. That's for bonding -- so that you will remember that baby is yours and never forget your first meeting. But for so many women, the memories imprinted on their minds at their babies' births is quite different. They remember in detail who was there, what they were thinking, what the doctor said. More than anything, they remember how they felt, and they won't ever forget. That's why it's so ridiculous when the Bible says, "though a mother forget her child." No mother would forget her child. Ever. It simply does not happen.
What I remember best from Marko's birth is this.
I remember seeing, for an instant, a wiggling, crying mass of gray quickly turning to pink before the doctor wrapped a blanket around him and handed him to someone else. She told me, "He's okay, but we will suction his lungs anyway, just in case." I wanted very badly to tell her, "No, if he is fine, just give him to me," but I couldn't seem to speak.
I remember hearing him cry on the warming table across the room and wanting to send John over to be with him, but I was beginning to fall apart and couldn't make myself let go of his hand.
I remember the doctor leaning hard on my belly in what is understatedly called "uterine massage" as she yanked the placenta out and said, "Come on, this isn't so bad, you just went through labor."
I remember a hand appearing with a needle that jabbed into my leg, and asking what it was. "Pitocin," said the nurse. I was angry that they hadn't asked me first. I wondered if they gave it to me because it was procedure, or was I actually hemorrhaging. I wondered if they would tell me if I was. And I was angry that no one was telling me anything, especially as I began to grasp that there was nothing the matter, everyone was calm but they just didn't think it was important to tell me what was going on.
I remember asking over and over again, "Where's my baby? Aren't you done yet? Can't you give him to me?" I watched the clock and thought, "How long does it take to suction a baby's lungs? I can hear that he is fine, why don't they give him to me?" It took them around 45 minutes, every minute of which I was in great distress. I had had my baby for nine months and now he was gone.
After that, the hormones let up and I don't remember so much. When they gave me my baby, he was just a little face up above a burrito of swaddling and didn't look like much. I was happy to have him, or rather relieved, but I still felt a little wrong. Like I shouldn't actually have a baby. It was the middle of the night and I felt really out of it. I tried to nurse him but I didn't know what to do, and eventually I handed him back and was allowed at last to have something to eat.
And, despite my resolve to count those fingers and toes right away, I didn't. I didn't want to take off the swaddle because I didn't think I could rewrap it. I figured the nurses knew better than I what to do with this confusing bundle. I got other people to change his diaper for me; it was John who discovered the birthmark on his tiny leg. I liked him a lot, didn't want to let him out of my sight, but I felt unsure of what to do, so I left him in his plastic bassinet most of the time. Besides, I was too sore to get out of bed and pick him up. No one would either let me sleep or let me hold him ... it was just an endless procession of people coming in to say things to me or take my blood pressure.
Of course I did eventually get past this. My second night in the hospital, I was up with the baby most of the night (I was so tired I was dreaming with my eyes open) and I actually got to take care of him myself. I studied his Yoda eyes in the darkness and called him, "little stranger." Having him rely on me like that made me feel much more like his mother. And after a week, when John left for work and his family went home, I had him all to myself and began to really bond with him. I ditched all the swaddling blankets and took him into the tub with me, where I finally got a good long look at those toes and those skinny newborn arms and legs. I fell in love with the fuzz on the top of his head and the funny faces he made. I began to feel competent, first to the point that I was willing to do everything myself, and later to the point that I refused to let anyone else do anything. My baby didn't care who held him, but I was so attached that it had to be me.
It's been over a year, and I don't feel so broken up about it the way I used to. But still, I do regret it. It was a silly hospital policy of playing it safe, even though they knew my baby was all right, and they took away our first moment together. And I'll always remember that, even if I don't let it upset me (much) anymore.
The next time you hear a woman complain about her labors, don't tell her to get over herself, to be thankful she had a healthy baby (if she did), or to stop talking about it. The trauma of unwanted events at the time of birth is real, and she could probably use a listening ear. Even if you're not a mother, your mother went through it for you.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
A bunch of quick takes
Isn't there some blog thing where you do a lot of "quick takes"? And there's some particular number you have, and someone you link back to? Well, I don't know who or how many, but I have a lot of little short things to say, so that's what I'm going to do.
⅜: The baby has been really cranky lately. I actually think it's due to too much sleep. Is that possible? See, he always crashes out in the carseat, and we're spending four hours in the car every day. But he still takes his normal nap, and gets a reasonable amount of sleep at night. Yesterday I managed everything so that he only got one big nap and a catnap on one of the car rides, and he was MUCH better. Go figure.
‰: The other issue is his stuffy nose. He often can't breathe out of it at all. Which means nursing is basically impossible. We were getting to the point where I could get him to sleep by just lying down next to him, but lately that hasn't worked, so getting him to bed at night is quite a trial. Stroller walks are the last-ditch effort that nearly always works.
√2: Speaking of walks, this is a really nice neighborhood to walk in. Very quiet and hardly any traffic. Except ... there are a lot of barky dogs. And when they see a sleeping baby passing in a stroller, they yap to wake the dead. Sigh.
6+2i: We got some rain yesterday and it is cloudy and damp today. After a hot, dry week, this is just what I was hoping for. The soil has this hard crust nothing can sprout through, and the lawn has many bare patches. Now that it's damp, things are sprouting through all over the place! This means my green beans, oregano, coriander, and thyme, and it also means all kinds of weeds. On the lawn, I don't care -- I don't think there's a rule that it all HAS to be grass, and I'd certainly prefer dandelions and clover to bare ground. But in the pots where I'm growing herbs, it confuses me. I don't know what my seedlings are supposed to look like, so I can't pull anything till I figure that out. Hopefully I will figure it out in time to NOT season my spaghetti with grass or something. I am not very good at plant identification: I know what maybe five of the plants in my yard are, and there are dozens of mystery plants.
Ï€: Does anyone know how to transplant tulips? All my tulips are in the wrong places ... like in the middle of the lawn.
2log10: I planted some mint yesterday. It's Corsican mint, which is really tiny and smells delicious. I saw it at the farmers' market and couldn't help myself. Seriously, I should have someone go with me next time, to stop me from impulse buying. I was in a bad mood at the time and getting some retail therapy ... at least my retail therapy is delicious and sustainable, right? Ummmm well, I still shouldn't go again for awhile ... all of our money needs to go to gas for the next week.
e^2: Ugh, gas prices. Luckily here in the boonies it's only $3.79. But that's still not much of an "only," and a full tank doesn't even last us two days, with amount we're driving and the gas-guzzling giant maroon van we own. I believe we are paying more for gas right now than we are for our mortgage. That's a testament to the cheapness of our house as well as the expensiveness of our gas. BUT, in two more weeks, I won't have to work anymore and we'll only be logging half the miles! Or rather, John will ... while I stay at home and don't have to set foot in the car all day. I feel a little guilty, but it is easier for him than for the baby.
42: The baby, I mean the toddler, I mean Marko, has a little problem with sign language. He picks up signs very fast and then uses them all the time, with no notion of what they mean. For instance his new one, potty. He thinks it means, "Please take off my diaper, Mama, so I can sit on the potty and play with a book for awhile, and then get up and pee on the floor." Thank goodness for hardwood! I don't think we'll make much more progress on potty training until we're done spending so much time in the car.
∞: Our housewarming in two weeks -- we'd better get serious about hanging pictures and (perhaps) making curtains. I want our house to look its best. Also, not a mess would be nice. It looked great when we moved in, and now there are toys everywhere. Sigh.
⅜: The baby has been really cranky lately. I actually think it's due to too much sleep. Is that possible? See, he always crashes out in the carseat, and we're spending four hours in the car every day. But he still takes his normal nap, and gets a reasonable amount of sleep at night. Yesterday I managed everything so that he only got one big nap and a catnap on one of the car rides, and he was MUCH better. Go figure.
‰: The other issue is his stuffy nose. He often can't breathe out of it at all. Which means nursing is basically impossible. We were getting to the point where I could get him to sleep by just lying down next to him, but lately that hasn't worked, so getting him to bed at night is quite a trial. Stroller walks are the last-ditch effort that nearly always works.
√2: Speaking of walks, this is a really nice neighborhood to walk in. Very quiet and hardly any traffic. Except ... there are a lot of barky dogs. And when they see a sleeping baby passing in a stroller, they yap to wake the dead. Sigh.
6+2i: We got some rain yesterday and it is cloudy and damp today. After a hot, dry week, this is just what I was hoping for. The soil has this hard crust nothing can sprout through, and the lawn has many bare patches. Now that it's damp, things are sprouting through all over the place! This means my green beans, oregano, coriander, and thyme, and it also means all kinds of weeds. On the lawn, I don't care -- I don't think there's a rule that it all HAS to be grass, and I'd certainly prefer dandelions and clover to bare ground. But in the pots where I'm growing herbs, it confuses me. I don't know what my seedlings are supposed to look like, so I can't pull anything till I figure that out. Hopefully I will figure it out in time to NOT season my spaghetti with grass or something. I am not very good at plant identification: I know what maybe five of the plants in my yard are, and there are dozens of mystery plants.
Ï€: Does anyone know how to transplant tulips? All my tulips are in the wrong places ... like in the middle of the lawn.
2log10: I planted some mint yesterday. It's Corsican mint, which is really tiny and smells delicious. I saw it at the farmers' market and couldn't help myself. Seriously, I should have someone go with me next time, to stop me from impulse buying. I was in a bad mood at the time and getting some retail therapy ... at least my retail therapy is delicious and sustainable, right? Ummmm well, I still shouldn't go again for awhile ... all of our money needs to go to gas for the next week.
e^2: Ugh, gas prices. Luckily here in the boonies it's only $3.79. But that's still not much of an "only," and a full tank doesn't even last us two days, with amount we're driving and the gas-guzzling giant maroon van we own. I believe we are paying more for gas right now than we are for our mortgage. That's a testament to the cheapness of our house as well as the expensiveness of our gas. BUT, in two more weeks, I won't have to work anymore and we'll only be logging half the miles! Or rather, John will ... while I stay at home and don't have to set foot in the car all day. I feel a little guilty, but it is easier for him than for the baby.
42: The baby, I mean the toddler, I mean Marko, has a little problem with sign language. He picks up signs very fast and then uses them all the time, with no notion of what they mean. For instance his new one, potty. He thinks it means, "Please take off my diaper, Mama, so I can sit on the potty and play with a book for awhile, and then get up and pee on the floor." Thank goodness for hardwood! I don't think we'll make much more progress on potty training until we're done spending so much time in the car.
∞: Our housewarming in two weeks -- we'd better get serious about hanging pictures and (perhaps) making curtains. I want our house to look its best. Also, not a mess would be nice. It looked great when we moved in, and now there are toys everywhere. Sigh.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
For all the mothers
(a second post for Mother's Day week)
For all the mothers, everywhere in the world,
For the mother of twelve and the mother of one,
For the mother up to her ears in preschoolers and the mother waiting for a call from her grown children,
For the girl seeing the second line appear on the pregnancy test and wondering how her life will change,
For the woman alone in a nursing home wishing for a chance to see her grandchildren,
For the mother treasuring the memory of a few precious days of pregnancy before her miscarriage,
For the mother realizing her disabled child will never live on his own,
For the mother pacing the floor with a newborn in the middle of the night, wishing for sleep or a little company,
For the infertile woman who weeps at the picture of a newborn, but opens her motherly heart to nieces, nephews, and neighbor children,
For the mother superior of a monastery who lies awake at night worrying about her spiritual daughters,
For the mother of a priest, who lives in awe of her son's vocation, but wishes he would come home more often,
For the single woman who becomes a teacher, a nurse, or a social worker to share her motherly love with those in need,
For the mother who homeschools her six children without a complaint, but secretly wishes someone would offer to lend a hand,
For the single mother who faces each day knowing her children have no one to rely on for food or clothing or shelter or love but her,
For the adoptive mother who opens her arms to a child she doesn't know, and in a heartbeat becomes his mother,
For the mother raising her children on her own while her husband lives far away,
For the mother facing a second deployment away from her toddler, fearing he will not remember her when she comes home,
For the mother waiting up nights in the ICU, praying for good news and fearing the worst,
For the mother who has had to bury her only child, and still can't answer the question "Do you have any children?"
For my mother, and your mother, and Hitler's mother, and Jesus' mother,
All of my thanks, my love, my prayers.
Mothers make the world go round. They wipe noses, listen to heartbreaks, check breathing, kiss wounds. They make sure the homework has been done and that the teenager is eating enough. They are privy to a kind of love that doesn't happen to anyone else, a love that makes you cry and gives you the strength to do a million tiny things, or a single big thing. Even when they are discouraged, complaining, overwhelmed, slacking, daydreaming of something different, they are loving with all their hearts. When the job is easy and pure joy, they are there; but when it's day after day of grinding difficulty, without a sick day or a day off, they are there too.
All of us exist because of a mother bore us; all of us are whole because a mother (biological or otherwise) raised us and taught us how to be alive.
Thank you, every mother who has raised me. My mom, my grandmas, my aunts, my friends' mothers, the women who ministered to me at boarding school, my godmother, my choir friends who took me into their homes, the parents of my students who brought me cookies and listened to me, the office ladies at work, the nurses at the hospital, the nuns at the monastery, my teachers, my babysitters, my friends.
The love of mothers, that love which sacrifices itself and knows no bounds, allows us to live, and to find life worth living. God bless you, mothers everywhere.
For all the mothers, everywhere in the world,
For the mother of twelve and the mother of one,
For the mother up to her ears in preschoolers and the mother waiting for a call from her grown children,
For the girl seeing the second line appear on the pregnancy test and wondering how her life will change,
For the woman alone in a nursing home wishing for a chance to see her grandchildren,
For the mother treasuring the memory of a few precious days of pregnancy before her miscarriage,
For the mother realizing her disabled child will never live on his own,
For the mother pacing the floor with a newborn in the middle of the night, wishing for sleep or a little company,
For the infertile woman who weeps at the picture of a newborn, but opens her motherly heart to nieces, nephews, and neighbor children,
For the mother superior of a monastery who lies awake at night worrying about her spiritual daughters,
For the mother of a priest, who lives in awe of her son's vocation, but wishes he would come home more often,
For the single woman who becomes a teacher, a nurse, or a social worker to share her motherly love with those in need,
For the mother who homeschools her six children without a complaint, but secretly wishes someone would offer to lend a hand,
For the single mother who faces each day knowing her children have no one to rely on for food or clothing or shelter or love but her,
For the adoptive mother who opens her arms to a child she doesn't know, and in a heartbeat becomes his mother,
For the mother raising her children on her own while her husband lives far away,
For the mother facing a second deployment away from her toddler, fearing he will not remember her when she comes home,
For the mother waiting up nights in the ICU, praying for good news and fearing the worst,
For the mother who has had to bury her only child, and still can't answer the question "Do you have any children?"
For my mother, and your mother, and Hitler's mother, and Jesus' mother,
All of my thanks, my love, my prayers.
Mothers make the world go round. They wipe noses, listen to heartbreaks, check breathing, kiss wounds. They make sure the homework has been done and that the teenager is eating enough. They are privy to a kind of love that doesn't happen to anyone else, a love that makes you cry and gives you the strength to do a million tiny things, or a single big thing. Even when they are discouraged, complaining, overwhelmed, slacking, daydreaming of something different, they are loving with all their hearts. When the job is easy and pure joy, they are there; but when it's day after day of grinding difficulty, without a sick day or a day off, they are there too.
All of us exist because of a mother bore us; all of us are whole because a mother (biological or otherwise) raised us and taught us how to be alive.
Thank you, every mother who has raised me. My mom, my grandmas, my aunts, my friends' mothers, the women who ministered to me at boarding school, my godmother, my choir friends who took me into their homes, the parents of my students who brought me cookies and listened to me, the office ladies at work, the nurses at the hospital, the nuns at the monastery, my teachers, my babysitters, my friends.
The love of mothers, that love which sacrifices itself and knows no bounds, allows us to live, and to find life worth living. God bless you, mothers everywhere.
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