Sunday shadows

It's breezy, and I've set up camp in the back yard with a glass of iced peach tea and the laptop. It feels good to be out here, sitting in the shade, slightly chilly from the wind, and hearing the sounds of Matt working in the yard. He's laying down more pavers for the walkway on the side. It's amazing how many pavers he has unearthed over the last few months. We've found them strewn about, inches under the soil's surface, often in very random places. Quite like an archeological dig, we find remnants of past home dwellers and their curious preference for placing cement borders in the yard. Our love and appreciation for the home and grounds we tend is growing. It's nice to have a home. Really nice.

It also feels good to do some writing. Nice to recap a long week. Long, I tell you. The sickness has been very slow to depart. Truth be told, none of us are back to our normal selves quite yet. I went to the doctor again this week only to find out my ear infection had moved into a sinus infection. Another dose of antibiotics and I'm feeling nearly tip top shape. Sickness, parenting, and general life-living don't agree well with me...at least not when occurring all at the same time.

I have had a lot of thoughts brewing in my head lately. Thoughts regarding my love for chocolate, my approaching 30th birthday, social justice, and the love of my new haircut. Yeah. So rest assured, though I lay quiet on the blog for 8 days, I haven't stopped thinking and processing. It just so happens that thinking on these topics doesn't always equate into me sitting down and working them out on the computer. Hopefully you'll see these posts soon. They are, after all, nearly half-written in my mind already.

I can't recap without sharing a little about Karis. I don't read updates on child development in books and parenting websites often enough. My practice, intentional or not, is to experience Karis' changes and growth without too much research on the subject. (Laziness, perhaps). So every so often I am blown away by the surge of new growth and changes in Karis' development.

First off there is the speech explosion. She's experimenting with sounds, words, and sentences. Two-word sentences like: Hi, Mom. Bye, Dad. Hello, shoes. And a kiss and hug for each of these things. She's outrageously affectionate...towards family, friends, complete strangers, and inanimate objects. The other day she blew a kiss to a puddle that had collected after recent rainfall. Yes, she teaches me a thing or two about love and life. I'm grateful for the lessons.

Secondly, Karis' "play" is looking a lot like Mom's "work". By that I mean, she takes her baby on walks in the stroller, sings to baby, sets the table for baby complete with plate/spoon/cup/play food, and she even gives baby a bath. She loves to help with the laundry loading and unloading and is eager to watch my activities in kitchen. I would love her the same if she was a tomboy. Turns out, she's all "girl."

I'm headed on the road tomorrow to visit my parents for a week and spend time with my soon-to-be-bride sister. I'll be taking the laptop in the hopes that I can work out some of those previously mentioned thoughts floating around in my head. Until then, I'm going to turn off the computer, drink some more tea, and enjoy the rest of the weekend.

Pot o' love

Not wanting to leave them out of the fun, I have graciously passed the sickness down to my husband and daughter. I'm generous like that. Fortunately, I am feeling quite a bit better. Being the strongest one of the family, I am playing nurse and cook and medicine dispenser.

First order of business of the day: a big pot of chicken soup. You see, chicken soup, sickness, and I go way back. Whenever my siblings and I were sick as children, my mother's attention flooded singularly on the ailing child. And we knew within a few hours we would have a bowl of steaming hot, homemade chicken soup sitting before us. It was full of garlic, lemon, and love. I'll admit, I grew a little fond of sick times, if only for the extra attention and delicious soup.

College introduced me to a cruel reality: no mom around equals no chicken soup when sick. I remember that first time I rolled over in the top bunk one morning as I heard my freshman roommate getting ready. In my most pathetic sick voice, I revealed the crushing news that I was sick. Expecting the announcement to send her into immediate soup-making action, I was greeted with the response, "Oh, I'm sorry. Well, I'm off to class." And with that the door shut behind her taking all my hopes for soup and special attention with her.

A friend recently told me she was sick. Being a single mom herself, she reminded me of my freshman college experience. I couldn't conceive of my friend being sick, having to take care of her child, and no(!) chicken(!) soup(!). The horrors, truly. I speedily offered to make her some soup, and in a short while, she came by to pick up a thermos full. She expressed gratitude, but I'm sure there was a part of her that wondered about the insistence of my offer. Truth is, I made it for her, and maybe, in part, for the memory of that 19-year-old girl, laying in bed like a weenie, facing reality for the first time.

But I can't help it. Sick = chicken soup = love. Plain and simple.

Goodbye, dream

Every so often I have a reoccurring bad dream. I wouldn't call it a nightmare. There's no running or falling or knives involved. No, just a lot of anxiety and confusion. My dream goes a little something like this: I am in high school or college, and it is towards the end of the semester. As I am preparing for finals I realize that I had enrolled in a class at the beginning of the semester and then completely forgot about it. Of course it is too late to drop out, and since I have been to zero classes, I am doomed to fail unless I can read the entire textbook in just a few days. Usually the dreams also consist of some project I need to complete. Sometimes it is a long research paper (I hate research papers...they seriously taunted me in high school and college) and sometimes it is a project. Oh, and one more thing, the class is always science, a subject which I found particularly challenging in my school days.

Last night's project "du jour" was indeed a science project. (She shudders as she remembers the crazy deadlines and those large, three-sided cardboard displays which were way more fun to decorate than anything else remotely scientific).

I remember freaking out in the dream. There it was again, those familiar feelings and that crazy awareness in your sleep that feels oh-so-real. What was I going to do? How could I let this happen? Why did I not see this class on my schedule until now?

Somewhere in the midst of my slumbering panic, I struck a genius idea. After wracking my brain trying to think through my options, I decided I would do an experiment involving food. I knew I liked cooking, and so why not do an experiment in an area I found interesting? "Genius," I told my sleeping self. And right then and there I decided my project would be to test out the different leavening agents, namely yeast, baking soda, and baking powder. My plan was to bake three batches of cookies, using one of those ingredients in each batch to compare the results in the baking process. Pretty clever, right?

I remember the feeling of pride swelling in me and the total sense of victory for finding a great project to do. Never had I reached such success in this dream before now. For once I had hope and confidence that I would finish the project, ace the test, and pass the class.

Well, in that unexplainable way that dreams drift off without endings, mine dissipated without me ever making the cookies or finishing the project. All I knew was I had figured out a way to pass the class.

I woke up refreshed and proud of myself. I laid there so content, a silly little grin on my face...until it hit me: I wasn't really in school, I hadn't actually accomplished anything, and I had stolen the idea for the science project from one of the eighth grade girls in my small group from church. (A few weeks ago she told us what she did for her science project, and apparently my brain was so impressed it stole the idea to work into the plot of my bad dream rerun).

I'll be honest, I'm glad my brain did that. Smart little plagiarist. And I hope it tells whoever is in charge of the dream department that we're through failing classes in our sleep. Take that, you menacing little dream.

It takes

::a morning ritual to invigorate me.
These days every morning starts the same. Wake up, say goodbye to Matt, drink coffee, and head outside to water the plants. Four flower beds, numerous flower pots, and one lovely herb garden are in need of regular care. At first I wasn't sure how taking on another responsibility would impact my day (or my attitude). Turns out, the ritual of getting up and walking through the garden in the cool morning before Karis wakes up is quite satisfying. I wear my quick-drying shorts, long sleeve t-shirt, and crocs in anticipation of getting water sprayed on me by the leaky hose. And I don't even mind when the water inevitably mixes with the dirt and splatters mud on my feet and legs. It makes me feel like I'm 12 and having fun at summer camp. And I welcome "summer camp" moments in my life (the carefree ones, not the painfully awkward ones).

::a trip to Epcot to realize I'm getting older.
Matt and I ventured off by ourselves to Orlando for some theme park revelry. First "older person" indicator--We chose to go to Epcot. Enough said, I think. Second indicator--I loved how slow the rides were. No seat belts. No heart in your throat feelings. Just some learning about science and cultures (allbeit Epcot's version of learning, animatronics and all).

::a sick body to realize the beauty of a healthy one.
I don't know if it's the flu, a cold, or nasty allergies, but I do know I'm an achy, sneezy, teary-eyed, nauseous, exhausted mess today. It's no fun feeling like this, much less parenting in this condition. Karis went down for an early nap, and I squeezed out enough energy to straighten up the house. Nothing makes me feel worse when I'm sick than living in squalor. Unfortunately, the squalor builds up so easily when mom is out of commission.

a simple equation

More fruit + More spontaneous photography = More crying (by one very grapefruit-thirsty little girl).

Upon lopping off the top of the grapefruit, I got up and merely started to walk in the direction of my camera when Karis began the uproar. She knows me too well. I fear she is going to develop a habit of eating only ugly fruits in my presence, saving the pretty ones to be eaten in the safety of a dark closet, hidden from mom's peering lens.

Apparently I have a fruit "thing". Call it an obsession. If you are polite, you might call it a passion. Remember the strawberries? Or those tangerines? Pears, perhaps? And deep in my blog's archives, the fruit salad? Whatever you call it, I like fruit. To eat and to photograph, though rarely in that order.

Hubert

In the front yard there is a large patch of clover. Boasting three leaves each and a vibrant green hue, these little plants make me wish I was a kid again and could roll through the leaves without worrying about how I looked. It happens to be a favorite spot for Karis, too. There are clover flowers scattered about intermittently, and she loves to pick them and offer them to me. Last week Karis and I had been out in the clover patch, and when we came inside I found she had been chewing on one of the stems. While I always assumed they were clover plants, I also knew I wasn't sure. I called poison control to be sure. They suggested I head to Lowe's to find someone to identify the plant, just to be on the safe side. And as annoying as the whole scenario was, I knew I liked living "on the safe side" of things.

With dinner roasting away in the oven, Karis and I piled in the car and headed to Lowe's. With clover in hand as evidence, I first asked the cashier in the garden section to identify it. She was young and foreign and didn't know (or seem to care). She pointed me to customer service inside. There I met a man who insisted on telling me over and over that the mold on the clover was something called "brown spots." I politely repeated multiple times that I wasn't there to find out how to get rid of the mold on the clover, I was there to identify the clover. Still, after three attempts, he led me to the pesticide aisle. I clearly stated my intention one.more.time.

"Oh, you want to talk to Hubert!"

Yes. For the love of all things good and pure, PLEASE take me to Hubert.

Back out to the garden section we headed, Karis giggling in my arms showing no sign of ill effect for eating the mystery plant. The worker led me to the very back corner where it was dark and spooky. I imagine the worst of Lowe's crimes happen back there. Plant abuses and interrogations of all sorts. (Shudder) I waited at the end of the aisle where it was well-lit as the young employee disappeared into the darkness.

"Hubert?" he called. I heard low voices and a brief explanation.

Then...out of the dark shadows emerged my hero, Hubert.

Gray hair and a deep tan, he looked promising. He was a man in his 50's who looked like he knew a thing or two about the outdoors. The lines on his face and swiftness of his gait spoke of no nonsense authority, which is just what I was looking for.

Hubert took one look at the plant in my hand and proclaimed it clover. He removed his glasses and looked at me with a suspicious look when I explained I needed to know for certain since my daughter chewed and perhaps ate some of it. He glanced at Karis in my arms, and I saw the grandfatherly look come over his face. He smiled and said, "Well, let's just be sure it's clover." Hubert then led me to a large manual, a virtual Lowe's garden bible. And off he went searching through the big book to allay the fears of the young mom standing before him.

Clover it was. And thankful I was...for Hubert, and for his big "bible," and that our dinner (and our house) weren't burned when we returned home.

bean count

I fear I've lost an important battle in the last few months. Sure I won a few, but in all, beans have gotten the best of me lately.

I know what you're thinking: "they are so good for you," or "beans are so economical," or the best yet, "they're good for the heart (and some other bodily functions rhyming with said organ)." Well, I've made my peace with those tiny little nutrient rich legumes. I celebrate my few victories, and I humbly give beans their proper respect as the most difficult thing I have tried to cook thus far. I never saw it coming, but it is true. I cannot crack the code to successfully cooking dried beans.

I consider myself a decent cook. I'm lucky to like being in the kitchen. I like watching the raw ingredients transform from something inedible or unpalatable into something soft, pleasing, and loaded with flavor. Science experiments made me nervous in high school, but watching the chemical transformation taking place in a frying pan fascinates me. My success rate for unlocking the delicious flavor and texture of foods is pretty good, and when I fail, I will try again until I get it right. But try and try as I may, I've not gotten it right with beans. I'd like to take inventory of my recent attempts. Let's call it a "bean count," shall we?

First there were the kidney beans. I found this recipe by the popular food blogger Elise. The recipe looked easy enough, and when Elise started off the post by admitting that beans weren't all that exciting but this recipe was, I felt I could trust her. So I dove in and made the recipe that night. Verdict: Ate it for dinner, tossed the leftovers. Although I got the texture right, the taste was bland. Perhaps using the pork kielbasa instead of smoked shanks was where I went wrong. 1 point for beans, 0 points for me.

Black beans are a story unto themselves. Now let me tell you, if anyone wants black beans to turn out delicious it is me. They were a favorite treat of my childhood. My family and I would visit Miami a few times a year and stay with our Cuban relatives. As sure as I could breathe, I could count on walking into my abuela's apartment with her shiny white tiled floors and find two things going on. One was the television blaring in the corner with big breasted Latin women "acting" on a cheesy, melodramatic novela (soap opera). The other thing I could count on was a big pot of black beans gently simmering on the stove. The delicious, dark elixer of my childhood, these beans were smooth, creamy, and perfectly flavored every time. I have been able to incorporate a lot of Cuban dishes into my own repertoire, but black beans from scratch? That has remained outside of my grasp.

The first attempt at dried black beans was a few months ago. I followed the directions on the bag. I simmered, seasoned, and cradled the pot with love. They turned out overly firm with far too much water, and, therefore, zero flavor. 2 points for beans, 0 points for me.

A few weeks later I went to a friend's house, and she pulled out a container of leftover bean soup to feed her daughter. I sat there and asked her questions about how she cooked it, all the while trying to control my envy at her nonchalant responses. She made it sound so easy. Riding off of her confidence, I went home and put some beans in a pot to soak overnight. The next day I found a similar recipe to my friend's, put the pot on the burner, and left the water and heat to do it's thing. I taste tested a few times and each time felt the beans were still too hard. Finally, around midnight (I started it around 7pm!), I took the pot off the burner. Way, way too much water. Beans were tough. It tasted oh-so-tragically bland. Without a second thought, I flipped over the pot into the sink. And there I stood...at midnight...with my sink clogged by mediocre beans in steaming hot water...and the rest of the house blissfully asleep. Black bean, dirty sink water, anyone? I didn't think so. 3 points for beans, 0 points for me.

You'd think burning my hands at midnight would be enough to convince me to call it quits, but an affection for black beans wasn't the only thing I inherited from my Cuban ancestors. I also inherited a healthy dose of stubbornness. So for my third and final attempt, I set out a few weeks later to finally crack the code. Armed with bacon, onions, garlic, green peppers, and a slew of spices, I stirred that pot vigorously. I'll admit, when I put the lid on and walked away, I smiled sheepishly. It smelled so damn good. There was no way these suckers wouldn't turn out.

They didn't turn out. Hard. Too much water, again. Maybe I should have left the lid off so the water would reduce as it cooked. I felt incredibly dejected. How could I call myself Cuban? 4 points for beans, 0 points for me.

Alas, I must shed some positive light on the whole affair. I have had a few successes with beans as of late. The miso paste I bought from Whole Foods is wonderful. Simply mix in two teaspoons of the organic soy paste with a cup of steaming hot water and you have instant miso soup. Perfect for cool evenings or an afternoon snack with some slices of cheddar cheese and whole grain crackers. It's all the goodness of that cup of miso soup you always get at the sushi restaurant but in the convenience of your home. Love it. That's 1 point for me.

And you can also give me a point for buying frozen edamame. When defrosted and tossed with soy sauce, they are a delicious salty snack, despite what Karis thinks. I liken them to the boiled peanut of the Asian world.

This is clearly not a food blog. If it was, I'd have a recipe to share. This is simply a tragic story of me giving up. No more dried beans. My family and I stand up proudly for the variety packed in a can, birthed somewhere in a factory by a faceless machine. Sure, my pride is hurting. Afterall, beans still remain a mystery. I'll accept your condolences in the comments section below. But whatever you do, please do not tell me about your successful bean adventures. My envy just might turn into optimism, and I just don't think I can handle that.

If you are so inclined, you can read a little bit more about the value and history of beans here and here.