Still on the post Christmas exhalation

I had an idea last night for a post that I'm sure was absolutely brilliant. Unfortunately, it's evaporated. This happens to me a lot, though less so lately; the less so having more to do with the lifting of depression than some inspired move towards organization in my life. I'm working on the latter. Getting ready--or, more accurately, fearing getting ready--for the big move has pushed me to begin packing (my kitchen was dismembered anyway, so why not put the things we rarely use into boxes instead of putting them away?) and to begin doing my own personal deaccessioning. (Look it up. It's a word I learned my junior or senior year of college, when I took one of my favorite courses of all time, museum curatorship. The teacher, Susan Casteras (you will have to scroll down in the link to get to her) was fabulous, and I got in touch with her a couple of years ago via email to tell her how much her course changed my life. Didn't create a purpose for my existence or anything, but forever changed the way I experience art in museums, the way it's organized, explained and hung. As usual, I digress.)

Anyway, as part of the pre-move get rid of stuff I don't use, need or want project, I bought more clutter, namely, this, which I spied on the shelf of a dear friend who, while not, I suppose, impeccably organized, manages to gracefully keep multiple family, career and friend balls floating in mid-air. And her husband, like mine, prefers a clutter-free, minimal-possession world. It's well-written, somewhat to my surprise, as I had never jumped onto the Idiot's Guide juggernaut before now.

more to come...

Late, just like my Christmas cards

If you're thinking, hey, we got a card last year, where's our card from the O family this year, rest assured, you probably haven't been cut from the list (or, the loose amalgamation of thoughts kept only in my head about who to send cards to. There was a list once, but it disappeared along with most of my other organizational capability when my second kid was born. Sorry...) but rather, will be receiving your card, with any luck, in time for the new year's eve traditional disappointment. I do my best, which is often not quite good enough. What can I say. In the meantime (imagine me singing here:)

Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.

Lurky friends, please say hello

So, one of the things about having a site meter is that when I check my stats, even if there's no referral for a visitor (that is, they didn't click through to me from another site that the meter captured) I can often see where they are located. So, for example, I know a couple of people very dear to me in spite of not much regular contact over the last few years have been reading. If you live in an unusual place, I know who you are. So say hello. I miss you, and would love to hear your news, or your comments on mine.

xo

Just to clarify...

The previous post was from Friday night, but didn't post until just now. So I am not sitting at home in a darkened room with my kids, getting sloshed on eggnog, in the middle of the day. No. I save that for the end of the day, of course. (And, truthfully, I didn't get sloshed. Just a little more relaxed than I was previously. Later, I'll post the pictures of my house in its current state, and you will understand.)

Is it drinking alone if my children are here?

Happy holidays, I say, in spite of the chaos that reigns like mean old King Herod in my happy house. That's eggnog in the picture to your left, healthily spiked with Knob Creek Bourbon and Myers Dark Rum. You need both; trust me on this. Bourbon alone tastes too mean; rum too tropical, but together, they are, like Little Bear's porridge to Goldilocks, just right. And you can use supermarket eggnog with no ill effect (and no risk of salmonella)--in our neck of the woods, that mean's the good stuff from Broguiere's Dairy, in lovely old-fashioned glass bottles.

Be afraid.

Every once in a great while, like bloggers everywhere, I check my stats. They're not that impressive, frankly; my readership is small (but loyal, it seems--thank you!) and has grown a bit lately, thanks to NaBloPoMo and my program of self-outing. (Apparently I'm becoming more of an exhibitionist in my advancing years. You'd think the H would like that, but not so much. That's not one of his fetishes--when it comes to being watched, he's a bit of a prude. But I digress.)

Anyway, procrastinating today (I need to get to work on my paying job, not to mention my current career in home remodeling--remember, we list in less than three weeks!) I went to my little site meter. It turns out that more than one person in the last two days found me by googling "Lindsay Lohan." Now, that's sad on a couple of counts. First, who actually needs to Google L.Lo. to find her? She's as ubiquitous as dust in my kitchen. (It's being painted, which means first, it's being sanded, which means first, everything had to come out of the cabinets and be piled hither and thither on kitchen table, dining room table, dining room floor--you get the idea. It's so sad you have to laugh, and I have pictures to prove it.) Second, if you google her, and get to me--well, that's just wrong. I am the least celeb-focused internet presence I can think of, except maybe Mieke and Alyssa. So for those of you who've come looking for Lindsay's manifesto, or Brit-Brits hootchie, I am sorry to disappoint. Well, the hootchie-hunters, anyway.

The check's in the mail

We did it. Signed the contract, paid our deposit. Escrow begins any minute. [deep breath in. hold. breathe out.]

Maybe I need a paper bag.

Mostly, I feel excited. Occasionally, I feel adrift. The H's moods are up and down (this is not new, nor is it caused solely by cross country relocation. He's an...emotional...guy.) The friends are either laughing or shaking their heads.

I am going to sleep.

BTW, early next month, the site I'm writing for will go public. You might think I'm more interesting when you read what I'm publishing over there. (Or not.)

xx

With the illusion of readership comes the illusion of responsibility

I have been bad, bad, bad about posting, and yet, having outed this blog quite a bit over the last few weeks, occasionally intentionally and then often not so intentionally, I do feel some responsiblity (what? to my public? please....) to post. Anyway. I do want to get in the habit of posting because I think after we move this will be a good way for me to keep in touch with friends in L.A., and give them a window into our wacky new life. (Please chime in if you think that's completey obnoxious. It's my week for hard criticism from people I love, so jump right on in--the water's been a little acid, but it hasn't burned my skin off, yet....and that's enough on THAT subject.)

Our house (in L.A.) is mired in the death rattle of polish up brush up prior to being listed for sale in January. At the moment, my kitchen is completely disassembled, as we are having the cabinets (and walls) repainted, inside and out. Have you ever done this? It's SO MUCH FUN. You have to try it. No,really. There's nothing like seeing your children crawling around the kitchen floor with their heads under plastic sheeting covering the piles of food removed from the pantry, looking for snacks. If that's not a holiday moment, I don 't know what is.

As to the farm which might as well be in Africa--we sign and send the contracts and final installment of our deposit TODAY. Did I mention, TODAY? To make me feel better about this, tell me what you think of the picture.

BTW, has anyone been following the Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, Nicole Richie cultural multi-train collision/derailment/massive explosion? Who are these girls? And when, oh when, will we stop caring?

Where the hell I've been

So, not only did I not finish NaBloPoMo thanks to my netless adventure to upstate NY at the end of the cursed month o' posting, I've also disappeared from here since my return, just at the point when I finally outed myself to a bunch of friends (hi, friends!) as a blogger. (Good tactic, no? Reveal the existence of the blog, but then fail to post, so they turn away, bored.)

Actually, I've been busy writing elsewhere. I've been hired as a writer and editor for a soon-to-launch website , and it's been sucking up what little free/writing (sadly, for me, they tend to be the same thing) time I can find. As soon as the site goes public, meaning, loses its password protection and eliminates the few remaing bugs, I'll have a link up here. It's a pretty innovative approach to social networking, and I'm enjoying my work there. Mostly, I'm writing about food (and you know I love that) but also about literature, parenting, and whatever else strikes me.

But it does kill the blog energy a bit. So here's the update. We are buying the farm (see picture at the bottom of the site.) These are the things that scare me about it: debt (for a month or two, hopefully not more, we're going to own two houses. This is not something I have ever aspired to, my preppy education notwithstanding.) Small town personal politics. Everyone, where we're going, seems to know and have an opinion about, everyone else. It's a little bit like high school, but with tractors. I find that a bit intimidating. Tractors. Mowing. Land to be maintained, cajoled, probably not tamed. Moving. I hate packing, and unpacking is almost as bad. Leaving my dear, dear friends, who better keep reading this blog so they have some faint idea of where and who I am when I leave behind the life I know and mostly love.

Day 28 --Wherefore art thou, Fiammo?

Or, Bad Mommy. You see, while nursing a martini tonight to dull the pain and anxiety of the possibly protracted unpleasantness we may soon endure, and that I cannot write about, I inadvertently ignored the fact that half our doors and windows are propped open due to the repainting of the outside of our house now suffocating all of us with oil-based fumes. And the cat, the joy of our family, seized the opportunity for adventure (poor thing, he's been trying for months and months.)

Breaking news....he's back. Crisis averted, at least for now. I am off to read Katherine White, on gardening in New England.

Day 27 -- Dear G*d, the end is nigh

Even not blogging every day, this blogging every day is killing me. Everything I want to say has already been said.

Have I mentioned, however, that I get to take a flight, by myself, on Wednesday night? And spend the following day more or less by myself? I love my family, but to be alone? Oh bliss.

Do you think that's odd?

Day 25 -- Beaten by a smokin' turkey

Best intentions aside, the last two days have kicked my not-insubstantial behind. Two days in a row, we've had large family gatherings at our house, first my husband's family on his mom's side, and last night, his family on his step mother's side. Never the twain shall meet (hey, it's only been 38 years since his mom and dad divorced, and his dad is dead, but why let a little time, distance or death stand in the way of dislike, disdain or dysfunction?) Actually, the most ironic thing is that his stepmother no longer speaks to most of the family members who joined us last night (I believe her youngest brother is still in her good graces, but none of her other siblings, their children, etc.) so probably, my mother in law's sisters, who celebrated the actual holiday with us on Thursday, would have been just fine. In any case, for us this year, Thanksgiving was the holiday so nice we ate it twice, and I, unlike my turkey(s), am fried.

Since I never got around to posting the menu, you can view it here; it's essentially the same, though since I didn't make roast turkey this year, and my aunt-in-law was bringing a (delicious) mushroom bread pudding, I bailed on making stuffing. I always insist that stuffing is my favorite part of the Thanksgiving carb & tryptophan orgy, but I didn't miss it. It's an awful lot of work (all prep, but still) so it may disappear for a while. I also added the miraculous no-knead bread, which is like kitchen alchemy. My sister-in-law pronounced it as good as the bread in Italy, and she should know, as she's there for work all the time. The H's uncle made fun of me until he tried it, and shockingly, his wife emailed for the recipe first thing Friday morning. So do yourself and your loved ones a favor, and make it. It's ungodly good, and so easy as to be embarrassing.

Thanks to all the partying, my house is full of half eaten pies and dirty champagne glasses, and I feel like I may never get all the cleaning up done...but it was worth it. Dido loved re-meeting his five year old cousin (they met when they were three, but didn't remember) and the Babe was entranced with her fifteen year old cousin, who gamely toted her around all evening long. The H has been semi-estranged from this step family, who were a hugely important part of his childhood, for nearly a decade now, so the reconnect, especially as we contemplate leaving town, was both joyful and poignant. Hopefully, the doors will stay open for years to come, and maybe, someday, even his step mother will be able to join in the festivities.

Day 23 -- Oops. So much for that menu

I got so consumed last night with the pureeing and the mixing and the steeping and the stirring that I fell into bed without so much as a flicker of a NaBloPoMo thought.

I'll write about the food another time; it was good, not my best, but good. But the day was one of the lesser Thanksgivings in my life, with lots of anxiety, mine and others', and a wee bit of drama I could have easily lived without. By the end, my feet hurt, my eyes were tired, and I just wanted to lay on the couch and cover my face with my hands. But baby girl was having none of it, and she crawled right up on top of me, her face still smeared with chocolate from the chocolate pecan pie.

"More pie?" she asked brightly. It wasn't so bad after all.

Day 21 -- I almost forgot

Curse wicked Mrs. K and her nefarious NaBloPoMo. I must interrupt my internet Christmas shopping for my short people to say...nothing. At the end of a shockingly productive day, I have nothing for you, oh people of the 'sphere. Tomorrow, I will put up my Thanksgiving menu, which promises to be delectable. In the meantime, enjoy the picture of Dido at his first ever horseback riding lesson, aboard the lovely Caspian horse Jafar, and g'nite.

Day 20 -- The work of being

My shrink told me today that I resist "doing the work" (her words) and "the process" of my analysis because I want her to play the role of my mother and provide me with all the answers. (My mother has an annoying habit which I have inherited: she has a compulsion to have the last, and definitive, word. If she doesn't know something, it cannot be true. This ranges from secrets of the universe to whether or not cabs in Los Angeles accept credit cards for payment. I'm serious.)

After I got over a great deal of annoyed harrumphing (and I still am kind of annoyed, but that's another subject) I got to thinking about what she might really mean. Is it the hallmark of maturity? wholeness? good sense? to realize that the only way to answer questions in your life is to find the answers yourself, rather than asking someone else to offer advice? Or is that a load of bunk designed to keep me in her very expensive clutches?

On some level, I think to know one's own mind is a sign of being a fully realized (eek, that sounds so ridiculous new agey) person. On the other hand--is it wrong to ask for answers from others? Is it wrong to ask how to handle a situation in your life? You have to go on living in the real world, not isolated inside your own thoughts and feelings. This whole line of thought, quite frankly, used to give me a headache. Now, I'm not sure. I'm not sure she's wrong, exactly, but nor am I sure that she's not full of it.

Day 19 - Perfect weekend

It has been a long, long time since I've felt, on a Sunday night, that I had a perfect weekend. Yesterday, I took the kids all morning so the H could continue to plug away at the never ending script. Someday, it will be finished, and we will all rejoice. In the meantime, I took Dido and the Babe to his last soccer game of the season (8:30 a.m., thank you very much) and then the three of us went to the Elves' Faire (yes, you read that right) an annual fundraiser for a local Waldorf school. I had never been before, and didn't know really what to expect, but wanted to go because a) other parents (not parents at the school) had told me how fun it was and b) I was doing reconnaissance to see just how far down the Scientology cultometer scale the place felt to me, since one of our private school options in our new home town will be a Waldorf school. I didn't gather much intelligence, since the one person I grilled was someone I already know a bit, and who seems entirely normal and thoughtful and seems to parent in a slightly more progressive but ultimately kind of similar way to me. (Or maybe, I did gather intelligence, and that's what it is.) Dido liked it because in one of the areas set up around the (beautiful) campus was an enormous assortment of wooden toy weapons (shields, swords, daggers, slingshots and the like--no guns) for sale. Weapons? He's in. Ah. As I told the H when we got home, apparently Waldorf (which has a pretty strict ban on TV and other electronic media) is a-okay with weaponry as long as it's wood, not plastic. Anyway...afterwards, we hit the Pie N Burger (a must-visit if you're ever in Pasadena; it's divine) for lunch, and then headed home for a brief rest before going en famille to our horseback riding lessons (again, getting ready for the big adventure.) Nothing could have been sweeter than the sight of my big boy sitting tall on a beautiful (albeit tiny) horse. We all (except the Babe, who watched) rode, groomed the horses, had a ball. We hit one of our favorite Mexican places for an early family dinner and then came home to get ready for the party-that-stole-my-ability-to-post (see yesterday's entry.)

Today--morning with the kids, at the Hollywood Farmers' Market, then visiting dear friends, then a birthday party, and then home to clean up and go to bed. I'm not sure whether it was the weekend that was so great or the lifting of the cloud over my head, but either way, I'm counting my blessings.

And I know, no one cares what I had for lunch or the minutiae of my family weekend events...but I want to remember, so here it is.

Day 18 -- Haiku

Birthday party for
Hilary by Jonathan
Champagne, and good night.

Day 17 -- Saved by insomnia and delusions of grandeur

I was lying in bed just now, trying to sleep, when it occurred to me (and feel free to ridicule me for the arrogance implicit in this train of thought) that I will leave California, and my experience here and look back on it from another life in New York, and it will be part of a personal history...and I won't have done nearly as much with it as, say, Joan Didion. Well, duh. The only good thing about that no-win sequence of scintillating nonsense is that it made me remember that, contrary to my NaBloPoMo commitment, I had failed to post today. So here I am.

I said to the H the other day that when I moved to California over fifteen years ago (it was Friday, September 13 , 1991) I never thought I'd stay here forever. And in some version of the truth, that's accurate. When I came here, to go to graduate school and pursue a now-abandoned (or at least interrupted) career, I promised myself I'd stick for five years. I had moved around a lot, both as a kid and as an adult, and I feared that my answer to malaise was simply to pack my boxes and call UPS (which, in fact, was how I often moved in those days. Not so cost effective, but hey, if most of what you own is books and kitchen paraphenalia, it can work.) But I'm not sure I thought I wouldn't stay here, either. I'm not sure I had any real ability to imagine much of a future then, and I fear that whatever imagining I did was so fantastic that even I knew, somehow, that it was unlikely to transpire.

Now I find myself on the brink of the biggest move (geographically, physically speaking, anyway) I've made in many years, and I don't have much of a fantasy about it at all. Granted, the whole thing derives from a sort of fantasy, but it's an idealizing, and opposed to a conjuring up from smoke and spells. I don't see myself becoming something new in a new place; I just see the place. I suppose I am waiting to see what I look like, once my piece of the puzzle is fitted in.

Day 16 --And so it goes

I think blogging malaise may have, indeed, set in. Contemplate this, which I began as a late afternoon project today with the short people. If mine look as pretty as the Wednesday Chef's, maybe I'll post pictures, too.

G'nite.

Day 15 -- Back to the world of the eating

Life, at least digestively, is returning to normal here Chez O, which is relief to us all. To celebrate, I decided to cook a proper meal for the first time in almost a week, but the pickings in the pantry and refrigerator were slim. This is what I came up with, adapted from a Martha Stewart recipe, with inspiration from one by Mark Bittman (sorry, Louisa, if you're reading this, but I like him) and a couple of touches all mine. The H pronounced it delicious, about sixteen times, but that might just be because he's been eating take out for too long.

Penne with Swiss Chard and Walnuts

1 lb. dried penne
3-4 T EV olive oil
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 yellow onion (medium), cut in half and thinly sliced
2 bunches swiss chard (I used one each red and gold), ends trimmed, leaves cut from stems and sliced crosswise into 1/2 inch wide ribbons; stems chopped into 1/2 inch long pieces.
1/3 c. dry white wine (I am sad to say I used Cinzano vermouth, because nothing else was open)
1 t Maldon salt
1/2 t dried hot pepper flakes
1/4 t lemon oil
1/2 c walnuts, coarsely chopped and toasted in a saucepan over medium-high heat until fragrant--maybe five minutes?
3/4 c panko bread crumbs
freshly grated parmesan
high quality EV olive oil

Cook the pasta according to package directions, but be prepared to undercook it slightly--no more than two minutes under the recommended time (it will finish cooking in the sauce.)

While the pasta is cooking, heat 1-2 T olive oil in a small saute pan. When it's hot but not smoking, add the panko and stir to brown over medium high heat. You want the crumbs toasted to a nice brown, and if the oil's hot, it happens fast, so watch them and stir frequently. Remove from heat and keep them in reserve.

Heat another 2 T olive oil in a large dutch oven for a minute or two. Add the garlic and onion, and saute over medium-high heat (you want it sizzling but not browning) until the onion begins to go clear. Add the swiss chard, the salt, the dried peppers, the lemon oil and the white wine, and cook until the chard gets tender, around five more minutes.

By this point, your pasta is likely done. If not, pull the chard off the heat and wait for the pasta. If the pasta finished early, you can just leave it in the colander--don't overcook it because the chard's not ready, but reserve a cup or so of the cooking water. When the chard is tender and the pasta is just undercooked, put the chard mixture back onto medium heat and add the pasta along with a half cup or so of pasta cooking water--enough so there's liquid in the pan to help form a sauce--just enough to make everything moist, but not soupy.

Cook together for 2-3 more minutes until the chard is tender but still bright and the pasta is heated through. Toss gently with the walnuts and breadcrumbs. Serve with freshly grated parmesan cheese and a drizzle of best quality olive oil.

I served a salad of radishes, cut into batons and dressed with lemon juice, aforementioned extremely good olive oil, a grind of grains de paradis and a sprinkle of fleur de sel. Pretentious, but yummy.

This was a fast, super elegant dinner. You could add some bacon with no doubt sensational result--you could cook it first, after the walnuts and before the panko, or cheat, and do it in the microwave, like Hugh over at GastroKid taught me (how did I not know this trick before? How?) And a word about the lemon oil--this stuff is your best friend. It saves having to grate lemon zest (a task I loathe beyond any common sense) and makes things taste better, and special. It's the secret ingredient in my vinaigrette, which drives people to distraction (both my mother and mother in law ask me to make them jars of it, and trust me, every other ingredient is cheapo from Trader Joe's. It's the lemon oil. Do yourself a favor.)