Ready, get set,

mini vacation!

So this long weekend trip outta town really snuck up on me. I was cruising through the work week and didn't really give it much thought that Monday is a holiday.  

Now it's Friday night and the Bee is sleeping, dinner dishes are everywhere, and David and I are avoiding working and eating ice cream instead.  Not good.  I need to motivate with a capital M. 

Max is getting picked up for the kennel in 45 minutes. I need to start packing the 18,000 things that a toddler needs (I never knew a person so small could have so much stuff) and maybe some clothes for me as well. 

So I'm off, let's go, let's mini vacation!

A favorite ingredient: cornmeal

There is something so comforting about cornmeal.  I love it in everything, from simple polenta with butter to blue corn blueberry pancakes.  It's classic in quick breads, cornmeal loaf and cornmeal muffins.  You can mix it up with a spoon and a bowl--no fuss. 

I love eating my father-in-law's Texas style corn bread, served in thick sweet squares. Weirdly, I even like the grit-in-your-teeth texture.  

Cornmeal has a quality that makes it substantial and homey.   It evokes family dinners, picnics, and cool autumn nights.  You can add it to almost anything.  Jeanne Lemlin has a fantastic carmelized apple cake that calls for cornmeal in the batter.  Every time I make it for company my guests ask me, "What is the secret ingredient?"

We are going out of the city and into the mountains this weekend, where polenta is a traditional staple. Along with the fresh air and sunshine, I will be soaking up as much cornmeal as I can.

Guilty pleasure

Frozen peanut butter M&Ms. Because they're peanut butter and frozen and really, really, tasty that way.

Tempest in a tea pot

I have such a way of getting all stressed out and upset about things that are ridiculously far off in the future. The rational part of my brain is screaming at the emotional part to "Get a grip!" Despite my best efforts, around and around I go.

This generally starts to happen when I don't have enough to do at work. My job is structured so that I am very busy all morning, right up until lunch. After lunch is another story. It is a wasteland of staring at my computer screen and watching the minutes slowly pass by, trying desperately to find something useful to do.  That is when my mind starts wandering and I start thinking about preschool for Bee.

Why preschool?  I have no idea. I guess it is because Bee has a decent child care arrangement here.  She has a daily caregiver, a routine, friends in the park, and I am able to be home before 5:30 every day. Moving back to the US in a few years is the great unknown. I know where my job will be but I don't know where we will be living. I don't know whether I will have a job that will require me to work long hours.  I just don't know.  

I want Bee to have the kind of childhood that I had. I went to preschool.  My Mom worked part time. We had family outings to the pool, to museums, to story hour at the library. As a working mom, I feel like a failure in that regard. 

I want to be one of those moms driving an SUV, taking their baby to "Mommy and Me" yoga, with a planner full of play dates. I want to be busy being a Mom to my daughter.  On the other hand, I don't want to give up my career.  Life on one income, where we would live, with my husband's current job, would be, quite simply, impossible.  I am a working Mom.  I have my dream job that I worked so hard to obtain.  I fear that giving it up would make me bitter.

I try to straddle the middle line.  I work all day, but come home and try to make the most of my time with my daughter. We read books, we cook together, we play play-doh.  I am focused on her, (that is, unless I send her with her father to pick up a pizza because he came home too late to cook dinner.) I am certain that my Bee knows who her parents are. She puts her trust and love in us, and sees her caregiver as a good pal.  

I don't want Bee to be in an unimaginative day care, that stifles her creativity and intelligence. I know we'll work it out, in two years time. For me, though, the Great Unknown hides more dragons than butterflies.  

Family circle

Our evenings follow the same rhythm. After dinner David or I give Bee her bath (David on weekends, me on weeknights), dress her in her pjs, comb hair, brush teeth and read bedtime stories.  

For the evening story, we all sit together on the small couch in Bee's room and she picks out the story that she wants to read with minimal interference from us. One exception, "Going on a Bear Hunt" or "HUNT!" as Bee calls it, is strictly a day time only story. It's too exhausting to read after 7 pm. Some of her evening favorites are, "Big Red Barn," "Goodnight Gorilla," and "The Very Lonely Firefly."  We have a whole bedtime board book repertoire.  

Max has recently taken to joining us at story time.  He curls his furry self at our feet and listens intently.  I guess an almost two-year-old's bed time story is right on par with the understanding of an almost five year old Labrador retriever.  Or maybe he's just bored.

Regardless of Max's feelings on the matter, I will read a book, David will read a book, then we say prayers and its goodnight. ("Shhhhhhh! Go to sleep Bee!")

A few of my favorite things. . .

for parents and parents-to-be.  In my tenure as a mother, which is such a short time in the grand scheme of things, yet feels like forever to me, a number of items we have purchased or received stand out.  

In chronological order, they are:

Infant:

Quinny stroller, bassinet, and Maxi Cosi carseat combo.  The best 600 dollars I have ever spent on anything. Really.

Even nursing mamas need a break.  A breast pump--I still remember David trying to say this casually, while we both looked at each other and inwardly shuddered--is indispensable.  The Medela Pump in Style allowed me to nurse Bee until she was almost 18 months old, while working full time.  Even better, it allowed me to take a few hours and do something by myself when Bee was still a little Bean.

Ergo baby carrier.  It's 1,000 times better than the Baby Bjorn.  I can still use it with my almost two year old.

Bumbo seat.  Silly name, yet indispensable when you want to put baby down for a few minutes. Baby is sitting upright and can watch you.  

Toddler:

Bee walked a lot of miles in the apartment with her Haba walker.  It is well made, sturdy, and is destined to be a family heirloom.

Finally, a strange piece of furniture that has completely changed our family.  The Learning Tower allows Bee to help at the kitchen counter while we prepare meals.  No more crying and pulling on our legs to be picked up. She's part of the action while in her "tower" and while she's entertained, we can actually cook.  

A sweet indulgence

Weekend mornings are Starbucks mornings.  Last Sunday and this morning, David has been taking Bee and me to Starbucks.  

In the United  States, Starbucks can be found in every strip mall and airport in the country.  Here in the wilds of eastern Europe, there are only three (at least three that I know of) Starbucks in the entire country.  All are in shopping malls.  

A brief word about shopping malls in Eastern Europe, as I have been to quite a few:  They are varying degrees of smokiness and 1980s decor. Their stores are full of overpriced merchandise I would never want to buy, with few exceptions.  

However, there is one mall here, located on the outskirts of the city, that just opened its doors a few months ago.  It is clean, non-smoking, and blindingly new.  Their anchor store, right next to the entrance, is none other than a plushy Starbucks.  It's funny that I am waxing poetic about Starbucks when I actually don't drink coffee at all. It's more like a panacea. There is something comfortingly familiar about the chain that eases my homesickness while I am there.

David used to scorn Starbucks in the US, preferring crunchy independent coffee houses with sticky floors and bad poetry.  But then he started ordering Starbucks coffee while we were overseas, and realized that it wasn't half bad.  

While we were back in the US for language training, Starbucks was conveniently located on our commute home. It was fun to stop in and grab a drink, chai latte being my drug of choice, as it was the perfect amount of time for Bee's attention span in a public space: get in, get coffee, drink up, get out before a dirty diaper or meltdown occurs.

So, this morning Bee and I woke up at the leisurely hour of 6:45 am. David had already been running and walked the dog. I went for a run while David and Bee made whole wheat pancakes. I cleaned up and showered while David took Bee with him to the barbershop (and no they didn't cut my little dandelion's hair).  

By 10:00 am we were among the first shoppers at the mall--which is the only way to go. Late in the afternoon, city traffic is so excruciating that it takes a hour, literally a bumper-to-bumper horns blaring hour, to drive the five miles out of the city to the mall.  Any later and the mall parking lot is filled, there is a half an hour wait to even order coffee at the Starbucks (it's very popular), and the whole trip becomes a misery.  However, early in the morning it is relaxed. 

After sitting and drinking our coffee for a wonderful half hour, we walked through the mall and I discovered a Marks and Spencer store, newly opened, where I bought Bee some stretchy socks and two shirts.  

Our life, on the whole, is rather boring, but with a toddler, it is easier to take joy in something simple, like a latte, than struggle to continue to live the more adventurous pre-parenthood life.

Dinner at/in Beirut

We went out for Lebanese food tonight, to a restaurant rather unimaginatively named "Beirut." It was our first visit, and were were pleasantly surprised with no-fuss traditional meze.

We ordered Lebanese bread, puffed up from the oven and steaming when we ripped into it, baba ganoush, tabbouleh, little sausages (Bee's choice, not ours), and fried pastries filled with spinach. Our waiter also brought us a platter of cucumber, tomatoes, pickles and olives.  

We were pleased with the service and the bill--our meal came to less than 25 dollars, but the best part was coming home to a clean kitchen.

Sneering at perfection

Out walking this evening, I saw the Perfect Family.  

He was tall with tousled blond hair and chiseled Ken doll features. He was wearing a loose blue button-down shirt and perfectly pressed khakis.  He was carrying an equally adorable child on his shoulders, a miniature Ken doll.  

She was wearing a crisp shirt tucked into a khaki skirt.  She matched her husband, except for a stylish silver belt that accentuated her tiny waist.  And her hair--her hair!  It was in ringlets, the kind you see young girls wear in movies.  Perfect smooth ringlets. 

They were smiling and laughing and walking briskly despite the summer heat. They looked like they had never sweated a single drop, been awakened by a colicky baby in the night, or lost something they loved.  

In the five seconds that this family passed through my field of vision I stared at them with hateful fascination, mixed with longing.  I was a sparrow in comparison to this family of peacocks, wearing the same pair of shorts I have worn every night this week and a wrinkled tank top.  

Tomorrow I will wear a button down shirt from my closet.  It will not stay perfectly pressed.  Bee will probably spill something on it. However, I will come home from work and eat dinner with David and my daughter, and we will sit around the table and talk--or watch Bee throw a fit like she did tonight--but we will be together as a family.  Imperfect, but with perfect love for each other.   

Daily time warp

Every morning when I step into the shower I tell myself that I am going to hurry.  I will not dawdle.  I will wash, condition, soap, and shave and have enough time afterward to actually comb my hair (as opposed to scraping it back into a messy ponytail/bun) and maybe even put on makeup.  

But somehow, lost in the rush of water, minute after minute after minute floats down the drain.  I start thinking about stupid things like, "How will I provide childcare for Bee when we have moved back to the United States and she is in elementary school?"  That is indeed a very important question--but one I need to consider TWO YEARS from now.  It's like this every morning.  I think it's because I am so rarely alone that when I finally am my brain kicks into overdrive.  

David knows only to bother me in the shower if something has gone seriously wrong--and we're talking flames or blood.  Occasionally Bee will burst into the bathroom, startling me out of my reverie, but for the most part, it's my 15 minutes of the day.  

When Bee was a baby, the shower was practically the only time I was away from her.  I adored my baby, but those first few weeks after she was born were difficult. I used to hand the baby to her father, and go in the bathroom and turn on the exhaust fan and water. The white noise drowned out her mewling cries and I could relax.  As a new mom with racing hormones and leaking breasts, my baby's cries were like a hot wire running through my body. If she was sleeping, I was waiting for her to wake up. The tension was constant, the shower my solace.

Nowadays, my baby is a little girl who sleeps through the night and wakes me with her sweet voice.  Despite this, I still become so lost in thought in the shower that I will wash my hair twice, forget to shave some part of my legs, or just find myself standing motionless under the shower head--dreaming and soaking and steaming.  

A million little pieces

I have just spent the better part of an hour organizing Bee's toys. It has become a nightly ritual: after Bee has had her bath, and story, and last drink of water, and requests for specific stuffed animals (she has been sleeping with an entire zoo recently) she quiets down and I set about putting everything to rights.  

We have a spacious apartment, but it is filled to capacity. Every drawer, cabinet, shelf, nook and cranny is filled with stuff.  Consequently, things don't just get messy around our apartment--left unchecked, they explode onto any available surface.  

I am constantly battling against the surge of Abigail's "kitchen center" play area into the rest of the living room.  She has enough wooden fruits and vegetables to feed an army of dolls, a herd of stuffed animals that I am certain breed in captivity, and so many books, well, I will make no excuses for her board book collection--there is no English language library for several hundred miles, so I had to bring my own with me.  

I love Bee's toys. She has the exalted status of being the first grandchild and great grandchild on both sides of our family.  She is spoiled rotten, but fortunately, most people buy her the kinds of presents that promote imagination and learning, as opposed to "made in China" whiz-bang electronic crap.  

Her birthday present from me arrived today. She doesn't turn two until the fall, but I wanted to get her this particular doll.  She is absolutely perfect, and I hid her away for the time being.  It's one more thing to add to the treasure trove of toys that dominates our apartment, but I just couldn't help myself.  

A few thoughts.

It is really heartwarming when your daughter points to the Stations of the Cross at church and says "Jesus."  It is less so when she shouts, "Goat!"

It is good to hide the banana bread you baked when a guest brings you their banana bread as a hostess gift.  "Banana bread?  What a perfect addition to our afternoon tea!"  

Almost two year olds should have play dates in a neutral territory.  

It is possible for a labrador retriever to look exasperated.  

Like the tide going out

It's hard to believe I am writing this, as it is 9:30 at night at the temperature outside is still close to 90 degrees, but summer is coming to its inevitable end.

It struck me today while I was at the market, that summer's bounty of peaches, plums, and blackberries has all but run out. The few vendors who still have them have doubled their prices. They have been replaced by early apples: small, crisp and green.  

I am feeling the changing of the seasons keenly this year.  I know that in winter, fresh produce will be hard to find, imported, and expensive.  American grocery stores exist in a state of perpetual summer.  Here, it is a shock to learn how quickly fruits and vegetables come in and out of season.  It makes me want to savor them more.  

At the market, the lady I usually buy my vegetables from had two giant butternut squash for sale. They were incredible, easily 10 pounds and as long as my arm. I almost bought one, but I only know how to use butternut squash in soup and this heat wave is not exactly conducive to a hot vegetable broth.  In October, however, I will fill my pantry with them.

I bought the apples instead of the squash, and used them to make Jeanne Lemlin's carmelized apple cake.  They were the perfect combination between sweet and tart.  

Outdoors, a few leaves have begun to fall from the trees, perhaps dead from heat, perhaps the beginning of fall.  I was walking Max at 9pm tonight and it was full dark.  Summer is letting out a long sigh.  Autumn is on the way.  

Hot and Cold

The city is hot. Stinking hot.  Garbage rotting on sidewalks, exhaust fumes stalled mid air, body sweat hot. So hot you could bake a whole cake on the sidewalk.  

Despite the heat, David and I went out to lunch today, to a wonderful French Asian fusion restaurant.  We ate outside, because the alternative was a smoky interior, but it was tolerable in the shade. It was the kind of restaurant where my water glass never became empty but I never noticed it being refilled.  Understated service.  

We commute home on the metro. During the 15 minute walk from our stop to the apartment we struggled to decide what to make for dinner.  We usually plan our meals for the entire week but I unfortunately didn't make it to Friday.  Plus, we go to the market on Saturday morning so our fridge consisted of a lot of onions and some stale Lebanese bread.  Which is not something Bee would relish eating.  

Fortunately, David loves freezing leftovers. I would prefer to stick whatever we don't eat in the fridge and see how it goes. He knows that I won't get around to eating it and it'll have to be thrown out.  Wasting food is anathema to him so everything gets divided up and packaged in the freezer. The man will freeze anything.  Luckily for us, he had frozen waffles and frozen egg fritatta.  Breakfast for dinner, courtesy of the microwave.  No dishes, no hot stove, just a wonderful lazy start to our weekend.

Beware of Darlicks

A fast snack: popcorn on the stove, (pop with a few tablespoons of grape seed oil) sprinkled with smoky chipotle popcorn seasoning.  I like chipotle because it's spicy yet sweet at the same time.  It's perfect for the evening munchies.  

David and I have been watching the BBC remake of Dr. Who and just finished Season 1 tonight.  It was fantastic--laugh out loud funny with smart dialogue and even the odd scary moment.  Why don't they make more programs like that these days?

Fast Food

A great use for leftover eggplant parmesan:  Stack slices of eggplant on fresh ciabatta bread (we used olive ciabatta), add a little extra tomato sauce, toast the sandwich in the the broiler, and voila! Leftover eggplant sandwiches beat meatball subs any day.  We had a fresh green salad on the side, nothing fancy, just some tomatoes and black olives.  

Holding on. . .

I was taking Max for his evening walk when a girl riding a red bicycle wooshed by us.  She was pedaling quickly, but grasping the handlebars with only one hand.  With her other hand, she held a small dog firmly in her lap. The dog's paws were braced on the girl's legs and he moved with the girl as she rode.  His face was contorted into a kind of doggie panic.  He was holding on, but just barely.  That pretty much sums up my whole day.

Apple peaches pumpkin pie-ah-ay

Well I didn't quite make it to the pumpkin pie this weekend but I do have a peach cake baking in the oven right now.

It was a weekend of going to people's parties, a sharp departure from our usual quiet market going-grocery shopping-toddler playing-latte sipping laziness.  

Saturday evening we went to a friend's house for awesome margaritas and Mexican.  His secret ingredient was cream and coconut milk.  Then this morning we hosted a brunch for some friends in the parents set.  Six adults, five kids, blueberry cornmeal pancakes, and lots of play-doh and Miss Bee was in heaven. Finally, this afternoon we went a happy hour.  That felt like overkill.

We were all tired so we put Bee to bed early now we're just waiting on the cake in all its peachy glory.

Girls Like Us

I was sad to finish "Girls Like Us" last night.  It was a delicious biography of Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon, and Carole King.  Although those three singers belong to my parent's generation, as a teenager I adopted their music as my own.  

When I was twelve or thirteen my sister and I would turn the lights down low in her room, burn candles, and play Carly Simon's album "Anticipation". While listening to the album, we would talk in the way that only sisters can, our own private language of family and shared experience.

Joni Mitchell's "Come in From the Cold" was the anthem of my teen years. I would put the CD in my boom box (such a giant in comparison to my iPod shuffle) and push the repeat button, listening until my sister (she wasn't such a fan of Joni) would pound on her wall to get me to stop.  I still know all the words to "Court and Spark."  

Reading "Girls Like Us" was slightly traumatic in that it ripped away the gauzy layers of possibility from the music.  The author tells her readers who "Blue" and "You're so Vain" were written for.  It's hard to superimpose your own musical fantasy on someone else's reality.  I think, given the choice, I'd rather not know.

What I liked about the book, however, was that it brought these incredible women to life in my living room, revealed their imperfections and artistic genius, and made me feel as though I lived a little bit of their lives.

Pizza Pizza!

Usually we plan out our meals for the week every Saturday and try to stick to a menu. It saves us daily trips to the grocery store and the market. This week, however, I didn't manage to organize very well and we seem to have run out of meal plans.  

I was begging David to get carry out pizza for dinner and he wanted to make pad thai. We settled for making our own pizza at home and I'm glad we did.  

Homemade pizza is a family staple.  Usually we make it from scratch on Saturday nights, when we have the afternoon to set the dough to rise.  Short on time tonight, we made beer crust--which is a quick rising dough involving salt, flour, baking powder and a bottle of beer.  It turns into a yeasty flavorful crust, the perfect base to top with vegetables and fresh mozzarella.  

Bee was parading around the apartment singing "Pizza, pizza!"  At the end of the meal, we all had tomato sauce smeared on our chins and smiles on our faces.  

Promenade

It's hot in the city--hot like the inside of a toaster oven.  During the day, there is a hot wind that stirs up the dust and car exhaust into a noxious soup.  Shade is found underneath a few struggling trees; the rest of the city roasts in the stark sunlight.  Communist architecture featured block-like buildings and a lot of vast open squares with assorted statues.  It looks good in photographs, but is less enjoyable in real life.

In the evening, the city lets out its hot breath with a woooosh and everything cools down.  The city slows down.  People come out of their apartments and houses to promenade. It's too hot to sit inside.  The parks, which are quite lovely, fill up with parents pushing babies in prams, toddlers riding trikes, kids on roller blades and bikes, and teenagers getting horizontal on park benches.   

Out for a stroll with everyone else, I feel like I belong.  

Points for showing up

I don't like my church very much.  However, it's a non-negotiable.  I am a Catholic, baptized, raised, and married in the faith.  When I say I don't like my church, I don't mean Church with a capital "C" but rather our local parish.  It just doesn't feel like a home for my heart just yet.

Here in the wilds of Eastern Europe, most people are of the Orthodox faith.  Roman Catholics are in the minority.  Our church is connected to the French Embassy, and it's a beautiful little building. There is even an English-language mass, if we so chose to attend, except that it is at 6 pm on Saturdays, which is difficult to manage given Bee's early bedtime.  Bee wakes up early every morning, around 5:30, so we usually have plenty of time to go for a run, make breakfast, shower, and walk over to 8:30 Sunday mass.  

It's just that we don't belong to this church.  Last week, David and Bee and I were literally the only people, aside from the earnest priest, under the age of 65. An entire generation of believers was lost during the long dark communist years.  The church itself was shuttered except for visiting foreign delegations, when it was opened in a show of tolerance.  The gray haired grandparents at church now are the children of devout Roman Catholics long dead. There are no young people. We are a minority religion, a dwindling faith.  

However, the elderly people at mass are so excited to see Bee. They want to kiss her hands and tell her how well behaved she is, or isn't.  How do you keep a toddler silent and still for 45 minutes?  It's a trick I haven't figured out. Bee usually causes at least one drama each Sunday.  

A few weeks ago, Bee snatched the pamphlet with the weekly liturgy and took a bite out of it before I could stop her. I assumed that she either ate the paper or dropped it somewhere. However, throughout the service she was surreptitiously chewing.  When we stood up to get in line for communion, I asked her whether she had something in her mouth and if she would like to spit it out.  She looked at me very seriously and then delicately spit (spat?) a spitball into my hand. Now, I was wearing a dress with no pockets.  I wasn't about the drop the spitball on the floor, as it was sizable. I took the only course of action I could think of. I leaned up close against David and slipped it into the pocket of his khakis.  Problem solved, off to communion we went. It was only later that afternoon when I was recounting this story to him that I realized that I had forgotten to tell him to take the spitball out of his pocket!  It was still there.

The week before that Bee decided to pretend to be a snake and was imitating a snake with her tongue.  (The girl is an animal lover.)  She looked so possessed that I almost had to excuse myself to avoid having a fit of hysterical laughter.  Then she tried to lick the pew.  Heaven help us.

We go, yet we don't belong, we're chastised (and encouraged) by the grannies there, we don't understand the homily, we sit and struggle to keep Bee from causing a ruckus, we pray for it to be over.  But we are there.  We show up.  I hope, for now, that's enough.

To Market to market

. . . to buy a lot of vegetables.

In the city, the freshest produce is found at the numerous city markets.  

In the US, farmers markets are chic--hordes of fortysomething year old women clad in designer tracksuits shopping for heirloom apples and expensive lettuce.  Here in the wilds of Eastern Europe, they are a necessity.  Everyone goes.  

In the height of summer, the markets are an explosion of color, smelling of earth, packed with vendors from the surrounding countryside.  There are some imported items--piles of watermelons from Turkey, early apples from Greece, and lemons from Spain.  The majority of produce, however, arrives stuffed in the backseats of cars.  

There are peaches and plums and berries from the forest; potatoes and onions and carrots from small farms and gardens; tomatoes and more tomatoes; lettuce and green onions; eggplant and squash; eggs collected just the day before; homemade sheep, cow, and goat milk cheeses, the vendors wildly proffering samples on huge knives.

My favorite lunchtime sandwich is fresh bread topped with thick slices of tomato and sheep cheese, garnished with basil, and covered with black pepper and balsamic vinegar--summer in every bite.