I think they grow weary of my art

Somehow, the "Oh, great," Sean muttered under his breath when I announced I was making homemade sausage for tomorrow's Oktoberfest seemed a little less than sincere.

It could happen

Our writer's group hasn't met since early last spring, so at our reunion meeting this morning I am hoping my last 20,000 words will magically appear in the foam of my skinny vanilla latte.

P.S.

Here's that link to my Kouzzina by Cat Cora post on Whoa Momma.

Whatever it's called is not helping

Well, that actually lasted much longer than I thought.

The first day of fall coincidentally marks our first Sick Day.

I might have thought A-Dog was faking it, but I, too, woke up feeling like I’d swallowed a sea urchin during the night, so I let her go back to bed.

Sean keeps pushing the Eukanaba (or whatever it’s called) on me saying it boosts the immune system or something.

It is now Day 2 of this horrendous head cold lodged where my tonsils used to be, and I feel worse than ever.

I think this Euthanasia (or whatever it’s called) is just Spanish Fly for Strep.

Me and my friend Cat were doing shots of ouzo together...

I wrote about the actual restaurant, "Kouzzina by Cat Cora" over on Whoa Momma, but for my friends, I wanted to tell you about the experience of meeting her yesterday.

First off, you know how much I love food. Eating it, making it, watching it, talking about it. So when I got the invitation for this about a month ago, there was absolutely no way I was going to miss it. No. Way.

But I had absolutely no idea what to expect. The restaurant soft-opened in August, but this was a special Grand Opening event. All the invitation gave was a date and time and that a special "tasting menu" would be served. In my head, I set the bar for "tasting" to mean either supermarket samples in paper cups or if I really reached, waiters walking around with small portions of miscellaneous food to serve the perhaps thousands in attendence.

Oh no, my friends. Oh no.

There were 8 tables of 8, with one of those reserved for Cora and her immediate family. So by my twisted math, I figured I was one of Cat's 64 best friends. And please don't correct me because it's better if you leave me to my delusions.

There was assigned seating, and the tables were set beautifully with 3 glasses of wine, a shot of ouzo and Pellegrino in front of every chair. There were about 3 waitstaff per diner, and the same for chefs in the kitchen.


We sat down and were greeted by the President of Disney--ah hello--who introduced Cat Cora who might be the only adult woman under the age of 109 shorter than me. (She stood on a box to address us.) There are cameras set up along the entire perimeter, and I just know I'm going to be re-living this moment on a Food Network special soon. She gave her very nice opening remarks, juggling her son on her hip like every other mother I know, then instructed the guests to share a shot of ouzo with her, as she likes to do. It is also her custom to do this after an Iron Chef battle, so then my delusion builds, and I think this must make me an honorary Iron Chef. Or not.

And then they start bringing out the food. Either Cat,(cause BFF's call each other by their first names) her head chef, or her mother, each introduce a dish and give the history behind it. And they are not miniscule portions in sample cups. Nope, 12 courses of the most delicious and full, Mediterranean-inspired plates of flavor you've ever seen, paired with wines from her own winery label, "Coronation."



Cat starts making the rounds and personally speaks to every single person in the restaurant. Graciously posing for pictures, answering questions, smiling...and then her mother comes around and does the same. When Cat comes to me, I think I just sputtered out some unintelligible garlic-scented drivel since I had just tried the Chilled Salt-roasted Beets with Skordalia which I think translates to "big pillow o' yummy garlic." I am a little star-struck. I admit this freely. I kick myself for not asking for a photo.

So we proceed like this for a couple of hours, dish after dish, until our limbs have petrifield into bubbling souflee cups. But I seriously don't want to leave. I feel like I should help with the dishes or something.

Because it really was that intimate. It shouldn't have been--who am I to be treated to something the exectuive chef of Bon Appetit is preparing? (Did I mention I have every single issue of that magazine since 1994? Seriously, ask Lisa.)

But I was, and that's how it felt--being treated like I was a guest in her home--a great big, well-staffed home--but a home nonetheless. And as I looked around the room, I realize I'm glad that I am star-struck. I am glad that I eat everything placed in front of me--not that anything is a stretch except for the Brussel Sprouts because I really, really, really hate Brussel Sprouts--and allow myself to enjoy the gift I was given as my hostess intended. I am glad that I can be appreciative of every single bite whether it was something I was familiar with or not.

On the way out, I get up the nerve to say "Thank you," to her as she's cutting up dessert for one of her four sons. She smiles, I know she's got hours of interviews ahead of her, and thanks ME for coming which I almost have to laugh out loud at the lop-sided absurdity of it.

But I don't.



Instead, we pose for a picture together and I try to absorb all of the sights, sounds, tastes and scents of a memorable afternoon.

Even the Brussel Sprouts.





We start with Greek salad but it's made with arugula--a much better choice for a Mediterrean salad than wet iceberg lettuce if you ask me. It had a lovely oregano vinegarette, and tomatoes that are actually grown on property.



Spanakopita. Deliriously good Spanakopita.



Pastitsio, a Greek lasagna, but this one has this cinnamon-stewed meat sauce, Bucatini pasta and a Bechamel. I am still full.




these are the salt-roasted beets. I didn't even know I liked beets, but hello? Seriously good stuff, and so pretty...



Traditional Gigantes beans--Cat's mom taught us how to pronounce it, but I can't remember.



Here's the Fisherman's Stew--scallops, red snapper, mussels, fennel, sea goodness.



This is the oak-grilled Lamb burger. If there was anything on the menu that I couldn't finish, it was unfortuantely this because it was just too spicy for me. Which made me really sad, because I love lamb, and the homemade roll and tsizki sauce were lucious.



And finally, dessert. Or should I say, desserts? Chocolate Budino cake (molten), Baklava, and Greek-style yogurt sorbet with fresh berries in that little jar in simple syrup. We were also served a Frappe that was a deleicious ending.

Maybe they should issue a membership card like Costco

The only analogy I can come up with is that guy at the grocery store.

Now before my husband busts me for making such a sweeping generalization--he who buys 2 oz bottles of Coca-Cola in collector miniature bottles for $27 per 4-pack--not all men, just the one with that deer in the headlights look that accompanies a trip to Publix on Saturday afternoon when he's caught in the headlights of oncoming grocery carts filled with BOGO's driven by professional shoppers with photographic memories of Sunday circulars and unexpired coupons while all he wanted to pick up was a case of Miller Lite and toilet paper.

Dude, I've been there.

Today, at Michael's.

I know, I don't belong there, and I apologize right now for attempting to crash the club at 10 am on a Tuesday morning when that time slot is clearly reserved for the professional crafters among us--of which, I am not.

I think they set up that store to purposely confuse the uninvited. I don't understand the subtleties of paint--why can't all of the paint be in one aisle instead of divided into fabric paint, wood paint, craft paint, spray paint, kid paint, floral paint and really expensive, If-You-Have-To-Ask-What's-It-For-you- shouldn't-be-using-it-paint. I need to paint a pumpkin but I see no aisle designating that. Oh, and by the way, I need 23 more of those pumpkins in the exact same size and I can only fit 1 and half in this miniature cart you've supplied.

I manage to get 20 of the pumpkins in three carts, and a smattering of other supplies when I go to check out. The looks from the line--which is inexplicably long for a Tuesday morning--were sinister. Hatred spewing from their eyes as I wheeled my Jack o' lantern caravan through. The cashier has me bagging the pumpkins, which doesn't make it easier because less pumpkins can fit into the cheap plastic bags than the cart designed for hobbits.

But no one will help you.

And it's not like it's even the service hell that is Joanne's because at least they sell fabric that needs to be cut and so the bolts of seersucker and gingham get the lion's share of personnel.

But anyway, the old ladies behind me are guffawing, which flusters me to no end. Guffaws are my Achilles' heels. I don't know why, it's stupid and rather immature, but I really can't take guffaws from old women. Combine that horrendous chin music with the ridiculous awkwardness of 10 inch craft pumpkins precariously balanced and Jessie grabbing chocolate from the cash wrap, that needless to say, I forgot the tax exempt number I was supposed to use as well as the two coupons that I had managed to garner the foresight to cut on Sunday.

I'm sure you can't tell, but the whole experience--which isn't even over yet because in addition to having to get 4 more pumpkins, you know that the paint I bought is probably Vaseline-based and is going to right slide off of those suckers into a pool of black and orange despair--has me once again wondering why I do these things to myself.

And really, the paint will be the least of my problems because you know this pumpkin is never going to look as cute and clever as the one I've designed in my mind.

No, it's going to look like that guy at the grocery store tried to use a glue gun and popcicle sticks after that case of Miller Lite.

Guffaw.

Did I mention I love stuffed grape leaves?

Either the culinary gods are applauding my efforts of late, or they are completely disgusted and want to show me how real chefs cook.

I'm okay with either one of those reasons.

Because on Thursday, I get to meet Cat Cora of Iron Chef and general culinary brilliance fame.

I get to meet her, and taste some of her new dishes she's whipping up for a new restaurant in Disney, "Kouzzima." And I am so excited I've started fasting right now.

So fellow foodies, don't hate me because I'm about to eat beautifully. I will check on doggie bags...

Friday goodness

I think I may just have turned down some alternate path in the universe--I am actually looking forward to going to the gym this morning because it makes me feel good. That's equivalent to saying I prefer a bowl of some foreign-sounding cereal in an unbleached cardboard box to eating Trix by the handful.

Anyway, here is all the Friday news that's worth mentioning before I continue acting like a grown-up.

The Walt Disney World Moms Panel is selecting its 2010 panelists. Please enter here if you are interested.


I put a new column up at Suburbandiva.com.Are you a subscriber? You are missing out on all of my giveaways and new content if not.

Have a nice weekend.

I'll spare you the trouble of sending me hate mail

I've been around long enough to know that the below blog that was posted this morning on Whoa Momma will elicit hateful comments from one of the following themes from anonymous posters all of which have absolutely nothing to do with what I wrote, but via bad spelling and grammar I will be yelled at for one or more of the following:

a)How could I dress my child in such clothing. (I didn't and would never)

b)How dare I bash strippers.

c)Michelle Obama.

d)Remonstration from the Women's Movement.

e)Remonstration from the pedophiles.

f)Remonstration from the art community.

g)Remonstration from Great Britain.

Should be a fun day.




We must put an end to sexy clothes for children! Sing it, Sister!

Young girls are constantly inundated with social messages that concentrate too much on their looks! Preach on!

Let’s combat this social injustice by putting our infants in nipple-tasseled onesies! Ame--WTH?

Clothing designer Suzi Warren said in a recent Aol Parent Dish article that her nipple-tassel shirts and "C is for Condom" tees are actually a protest against sexually inappropriate clothing for children. "There is nothing very sexy about a baggy, lap neck, long sleeved t- shirt for a 6-month-old. So by embellishing this style of garment with printed nipple tassels, the result is not that the baby becomes sexualized by the tassels, but that the tassels are made benign and silly by the baby. In fact the more inert, innocent and unaware the infant is, the more ludicrous the contrast becomes."

Um, ok?

"The trap set to ensnare girls into a life-time of preoccupation with their looks is a subtle one. My garments are not part of this trap because they are about a subtle as a blinking brick and are aimed at parents of children too young to read or speak.”

I am all for a revolt on the short shorts and tube tops for preschoolers, but I’m not quite sure if putting my infant in nipple tassels is the most effective way to show my support for this particular protest. I realize real change has to start somewhere, but I’m not sure birth is the place to announce, "I’ve Done F**k All Day." While I’m irony’s biggest fan, there’s just too many w’s in the Ewww factor of this fashion statement.

Which is considerably better than too many X’s, because X is for X-rated.

An album

I have to admit that sometimes I forget.

I don't know why I do, it makes perfect sense, but it still knocks me over every single time it happens anyway.

I forget that all photographic record of my mother doesn't start and end with the few photos that we have in our possession. There are others out there--other friends and family have pictures of her throughout the years that I've never seen before, and they surface like lost treasure upon a shore. I open them up and I am once again floored by her brief presence here, and I just want more.

Tonight, my Uncle shared some photo scans from 1963-75.



This one is probably 1971 and it's my Mom, my Grandmother, Aunt Edna, Aunt Marge and Aunt Karen. Beautiful, smart and very funny women all getting their Juleps on in the backyard.



That's Mom and Edna and Grandmother. They have all passed in the last ten years and that makes me so sad.



And this one just makes me ache.

Sundays are more delicious than Mondays

On this week's episode of Sunday Dinners Gone Wild, I prepared the traditional Labor Day weekend fare: Beef Wellington Aux Duxelles with Bordelaise sauce. Which translated means Beef Wellington with Mushrooms instead of duck pate so you don't gross out your guests, potatoes with creme fraiche, green beans with caramelized shallots (or shallots sauteed really, really long instead "caramelized"), homemade pickled vegetables, salad, bread, birthday cake and panna cotta with sweetened strawberries.

A serious improvement over hamburgers.

I'd be lying if I said I couldn't get used to this type of dining: cooking for two days so as to linger over multiple courses, friends and bottles of wine for three hours. It beats wolfing down a meatloaf in front of the tv. But in addition to raising the bar a bit high so that on a Tuesday night after baseball and homework you can't throw that meatloaf at your gourmands-in-training, my menus do have one serious drawback.

Dishes.

I use every single one when I cook. Ever. Single. One. Even when I run the dishwasher six times before the actual meal to cut down on this droll post-meal chore, I still end up with sinks, counters, floors, tables and couches filled with souffle cups and pickle forks. I cannot seem to streamline the number of last minute serving dishes before serving.

And so Sunday Dinners have now lead to Monday Dishes. Which is not nearly as much fun, but since eating Beef Wellington on paper plates would be a crime against humanity, I guess you know where to find me on Mondays.

(And since I made twelve servings of panna cotta, Tuesdays as well.)


Speaking of food, here's a link to a food-related post in Whoa Momma! today.)

My love/hate/hate relationship with routines

We have just completed our second week of school, and my jury is still out on whether this whole education thing is really working for me.

Kidding. The kids absolutely love it, which is already worth the early days. We're still working out those new routines though, and that's where the transition still has some kinks. There are some new things that are great, but there are some that might drive me to gouge out someone's eyes with a number 2 pencil.

New Routine I Like: Going to the gym in the mornings with Jessie. For one hour, she loves to play with some other precocious 2 year olds and I get to scowl at their thinner, younger mothers on the treadmill.

New Routine I Hate: Jessie waking up at three a.m. asking for popcorn and Yo Gabba Gabba. I dream that Luno is chasing me on Jack Black's talking motorcycle.

NRIL: Having the kids sit down and do their homework at the kitchen table while I cook dinner.

NRIH: The homework part of the above equation.

NRIL: Watching Amy stand and walk a little taller everyday.

NRIH: The fact that Stevie is taller, growing 2 inches last year.

NRIL: Forward momentum on the novel. I see light.

NRIH: Putting some other reading and writing on the back burner for a while until I finish.

NRIL: Picking them up in the afternoon.

NRIH: Dropping them off in the morning.

Once I find the balance between all of those activities, I should be all set.

I figure that should be around April.

Beef Bourguignon. It's what's for dinner.

Butter Croissants

Ingredients:

1 recipe croissant dough(2 3/4 lb), chilled


Special equipment: a ruler, a pastry brush, parchment paper, 2 or 3 garbage bags (unscented), a spray bottle with water


I would add "courtesy of Epicurious.com," but when the only ingredient listed for butter croissants is "1 recipe croissant dough," well, I don't think that's very courteous.

But if you do take yet another click on Epicurious, you will find the actual recipe for croissant dough, and then spend the next 18 hours rolling, buttering, folding, chilling and repeating until the angels come down from heaven and share their lunch with you in the form of the perfect pastry.

The croissant project was part of a larger gourmet dinner menu which featured Julia Child's Beef Bourguignon which I have been craving since reading the book, Julie and Julia. So I whipped up the croissants, beef, noodles, farm salad with goat cheese, baked tomatoes with blue cheese, creme brulee and chocolate souffles.

Of course it was absolutely delicious--if not incredibly time-consuming--but it was also healthy.

But wait, you say. How could anything with that much butter, bacon and wine possibly be healthy?

According to my completely unscientific research and biased opinion, I think there is more to heath food than the Acai berry. For quite some time now, I've been craving food that actually tastes like food, and I think that's where the secret lies. The less processing and more cooking, the better. Less factory machinery, and more kitchen stand mixers. Less cardboard and more Calphalon.

Now granted, I don't think there will be many Tuesday nights in between baseball and homework that I'll be able to prepare recipes that call for use of a ruler and the simmering of lardons, but I will be making more of a concentrated effort of the actual cooking of food.

Or die of heart disease and gout trying.

I don't think it was because I leaned against that flagpole with the wet paint

We may be moving somewhat slower today than previous mornings of this first week of school, but I am high-tailing it to the salon shortly after Pepe le Pew just tried to seduce me with a full dip and something about the Casbah at the French perfume counter.

Let the messy truth be told

After three full days of having no older siblings around to take the rap, I realize now that it is, in fact, all Jessie's fault.

Tears of awe

I present to you the mother cliche of motherhood cliches: I am having a tough time getting through Amy's first day of Kindergarten.

I know, I know. You're thinking as you roll your eyes across the mommy blogoverse, Of course you are--you and everyone else with a URL and an offspring are lamenting over babies growing up so fast...yada, yada, dabba dabba do. What makes you so different?

Nothing, really, but while I of course share that nostalgic element that this historic moment dictates, I don't think that's exactly what has me so melancholy today.

After we dropped A-Dog off wearing her new uniform and a smile, Jess and I headed out to try out some things to add to our own new routine. We went to the gym where I read worked out unenthusistically and J played in the playroom with a couple of other younger siblings. Afterward, we headed over to Fresh Market for some caper berries and fresh fruit for the kids' snacks tomorrow because that seemed like a good thing to do. But as we loaded up the bags of over-priced guilt organics the tears began to come in earnest, and I realized maybe it wasn't sadness or nostalgia or anything like that. It was something different, something familar like when the boys were having their first Kindergarten days, but I couldn't quite name it back then.

I can now.

It's awe.

Pure, quiet awe.

Perhaps it's because of her special childhood and all of the unique obstacles she's overcome so beautifully. Maybe it's because we arrived at this place by such a different path that it feels so strange. Maybe it's because she's my little girl. Or it could be that motherhood feels differently as we age. (I really hope not.)

Maybe all or none of those, but that's kind of the cool thing about awe as opposed to just wonder or amazement.

Awe isn't everyday (or then it would be clueless bewilderment) so when you do feel it, no explanation is needed. You simply drop to your knees by the sheer beauty of it, and accept it as is--no conditions.

I'm not going to overanalyze this moment, feel silly or mislabel it. I am in constant awe of these gifts that I'm lucky to unwrap a little more everyday, and if some moments are more transparent than others to appreciate them, so be it.

Those were not sad tears nor joyful ones.

They were awe-inspired.

Paper, pens, and BLT-Rexes

As reported earlier, we bagged the early Back To School prep and headed over to Orlando instead. Although there is no official commandment regarding coveting thy neighbor's vacation, we were guilty nonetheless when we heard that some friends were staying at the J.W. Marriott. We decided to join them uninvited, because it is the greatest hotel ever.

It was a good call.

We had fun lazing along the lazy river, and then we ate one of the best (and most expensive) dinners I've ever had. It was absolutely divine, and had me Googling "caper berries" this morning as the taste lingered on my tongue. So. Good.

On Sunday, we made our way back home by way of Downtown Disney which is our way of appeasing the kids when we come within 50 yards of the entrance to Magic Kingdom but never make it inside of a park. So they got a souvenir to a place we didn't go, and then we sat down to eat at the T-Rex Cafe or something. It's similar to the Rain Forest Cafe in size, scope and robotic giant things, but the theme is prehistoric. You and your party of seven get to journey back to a simpler time when man and dinosaur could share a quesadilla in peace before the next meteor crashed into the planet.

Jessie was not at all impressed by the entire display. It was the first time I've ever witnessed that child intimidated by anything, and I'm tempted to install a rbo-tronic woolly mammoth in front of the pantry if it will keep her from dumping boxes of rice onto the carpet every freaking day. But she still managed to wolf down some macaroni-saurus before we got back into the car.

Today I've paid for our a weekend with some last minute scrambling, but that's just okay. They've all got a clean uniform or two and 2 out of the three new backpacks arrived, so we'll be set tomorrow.

The weekend also provided me a 48-hour reprieve from thinking about Amy going to Kindergarten, so that was a bonus, too.

(How on earth is Amy going to Kindergarten tomorrow?)

We should be, but we're not

On the eve of this last weekend before school starts, we should be doing a lot of things.

We should be cleaning something.

We should be washing uniforms.

We should be labeling school supplies and new backpacks.

We should be stocking the pantry with healthy snacks in lunchbox sizes.

We should be going to bed early to get used to the new schedule.

We should be doing a lot of things.

But this is also the last weekend that we don't have any have-to's. And I have a feeling that it will be a quite while before we can declare that again.

So we're bagging all of the shoulds and spending the poolside relaxing together just because we can.

Can I have some lingonberries with that rug?

Tonight I shed a little of my sub- and got urban when I visted IKEA for the first time.

It was so...so...unassembled.

Which is cool, and fun, and so very eat your chinese straight out of a box with chopsticks-esque. I bought a little couch thing for Stevie's room and some colored pencils, a cutting board and Swedish meatballs. I probably could have picked up a lot more, but it was so overwhelming and I felt so naively unprepared for the experience that is IKEA..

And I realized as I was going up and down the eleventy hundred aisles of mattresses 3centimeters (remember, it's a European store) from the floor, that I like box springs and prefer my egg foo young on a plate with matching flatware.

The beginning of the end

Well that was fun. Celebrated a friend's birthday last night by mopping up the dance floor with some little 20-somethings' bad hair extensions. Apparently, this particular group of shebeasts were as immature as their livers and credit scores and thought they could take over our parquet. Ha! Don't mess with us on a milestone birthday celebration in which babysitters are being paid and there is cake involved. We will eat you alive, beyotches.

*I needed to get that lame attempt at being a hipster out of the way, because this is the week I fall back into full-throttle Mommy mode as the last full week before school starts. There are supplies and uniforms to procure. There are lunchboxes to get. There are doctors and dentists and shoes. Lots and lots of shoes. We haven't worn shoes or socks since May.

And it is also the week that I turn into the raving Nighttime witch as I try and fail to get them all regulated on some sort of bedtime/wake up ritual which is just so hard to do in the middle of August when it's 96 degrees outside and all summer long I've allowed them to go to sleep when it's dark and wake up when it's light.

How are we doing so far? It's 11:40 and we're having a sleepover and everyone is still awake. I'd better go cackle them a lullaby.