*****

I will be “Mom” or “Mama” but I really don’t like being called “Mommy.” Even by Squish. Even when he is tired and sick and plaintively insistent that he needs me.

*****

Yesterday’s post reminded me of one of the biggest fears of my childhood: earthquakes. I distinctly remember, at age 6, standing on a stool to get some cereal out of the cupboard and thinking that “The Big One” was due to hit Utah any minute and if I didn’t get down from that stool that instant, I was a goner.

*****

Sometimes when Facebook comes up with people I may know and want to befriend, I become very grateful that I didn’t marry “that guy” from high school. And that my husband has a full head of hair.

*****

This blog post about motherhood being something you take on after you “grow up” or something you take on that helps you grow up. I was 23, married, and college educated when I had my first child, and had earned a Master’s degree before I had my second, so I don’t really fit into either category — the young, unwed, uneducated mother, or the older, educated, “grown up” mother.

I didn’t have a baby because I thought it would turn me into a grown up, or because I had nothing else I could have done with my twenties. In some ways I think that having kids so young has kept me “young.” After all, I’ve hardly had a “real” job and my career goals are nearly as vague as they were when I was 18. I don’t necessarily feel comfortable, or at ease, or like I belong, with those mothers who got all their ducks in a row before having kids. Nor do I feel like I am qualified to take on a lot of  “adult” responsibilities, like pestering insurance people about bills and the like. But I do feel committed to being a strong, steady, and loving influence in my children’s lives; to teaching them to be respectful, responsible, and disciplined; and to helping them become independent, thoughtful, contributing members of society. And that feels very grown up.

There are a few other things that provoke such a response in the boy. He had the same reaction on Halloween as we rode the train to meet some friends for trick-or-treating. The masks and costumes, which had escaped my attention, were suddenly not only blatantly obvious, but understandably terrifying. No wonder little Squish was trying to climb onto my head. Snow shovels, at least briefly, held the same terror. An unintentional comment led the child to believe that these noisy tools scraping snow off the sidewalk were monsters. And, once again, the boy tried to climb out of reach at the sight of one.

This evening I read the boys There’s a Nightmare in My Closet as they were finishing their dinners. By the end of the story I could see the worry in Squish’s eyes as he looked from me to the book and back again. Was this real? Were there nightmares in the closet? So we started again from the beginning. And we saw how scared the nightmare was of the little boy. We noticed that the boy wasn’t very nice to him. Did you see how sad the nightmare was when the boy was mean to him? Oh, and look, it turns out there wasn’t a nightmare in the closet at all. It was a friend! He seemed calmed, reassured. And he asked to have the book read to him two more times before bed.

Fear turns to intrigue, intrigue to interest, interest to understanding and understanding, I hope, to integration. May a dog soon be just another thing we see when we are out and about. (Although I’m not banking on it. After all, I still want to climb on somebody’s head at the sight of a rat scurrying across the sidewalk in front of me.)

But I digress. It’s still February (obviously, because everyone I know is either sick or cleaning up for someone who is sick), and we’re still in the midst of the RSBC Challenge. On the one hand, I feel really good about my results for this week’s cooking challenge. Christy had me scared when she told me to put peppers in my dessert, but then I remembered that chili peppers and chocolate are practically best friends and that made me feel better.

On the other hand, I had planned to workout with The Baron twice this week, one of those times being today. But since I, instead, spent the day on barf-bucket duty, I’m still at one workout for the week. Which means I need to do three workouts between now and next Wednesday. Not impossible, but considering the amount of time I have needed to recover from each workout, not ideal. Of course, the sick boy is sleeping peacefully right now, so maybe I can squeeze it in tonight before bed. Doing the workout tonight versus tomorrow morning may only make a difference in my head, but it’s a difference nonetheless.

Week 3 is at an end, which means there is only one week left, and that means only one more cooking challenge. This week we’ll be making something with barley. I don’t have a specific course or guidance for you, just barley. In something. I look forward to adding some more barley dishes to my repertoire.

And now the recipe you are surely all dying to get your hands on.

Boca Negra Chocolate Chipotle Cake adapted from Gourmet via Epicurious

I had a little bit of trouble with my chilies. I followed the directions given, but I didn’t exactly get a paste out of it. So I just added some of the soaking water and the some of the “chili solids” to the batter. I was nervous it would be too hot for the boys, but they didn’t notice it. Micah and I could taste the small kick, but if I were to make it again, I would either 1. buy chili paste if it exists or 2. add more of the chili solids so that the kick would be a little less subtle, but still not burning.

1 1/2 sticks (3/4 cup) unsalted butter, cut into small piece (plus some for greasing the baking dish)

1 cup sugar (plus some for dusting the baking dish)

6 medium dried chipotle chiles (1 ounce)

6 tablespoons fresh orange juice

10 oz semisweet or bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

4 large eggs

4 teaspoons all-purpose flour

1/8 teaspoon salt

Butter a 10-inch tart dish or 8 4-ounce ramekins, dust them with sugar and set aside. Preheat the oven to 325.

Remove the tops, seeds, and ribs from the chilies. Then soak the chilies in hot water until soft, about 30 minutes. Drain, reserving the soaking liquid. Puree the chilies in a food processor or blender, adding some of the soaking liquid until it forms a paste. Force the paste through a fine mesh sieve and discard the solids.

Put the chopped chocolate in a large bowl. Bring the orange juice and sugar to a boil in a small sauce pan until sugar is dissolved, then pour the hot syrup over the chocolate and stir to melt the chocolate. Add the butter and stir until melted. Add the eggs one at a time, mixing well after each addition. Then stir in the flour, salt, and 1 1/2 tablespoons of the chili paste (if you have any leftover, you can toss it or freeze it for something else). Scrape the batter into the prepared dish(es) and place the dish on a rimmed baking pan. Add hot water to the baking pan until it comes half way up the sides of the dish(es). (This is a hot water bath, if you didn’t know.) Slide the pan into the preheated oven (it may be easier to fill the pan with water after you have put it in the oven) and bake until the top is firm and starting to form a crust — about 50 minutes for the 4-ounce ramekins, 1 hour 10 minutes for a 10-inch tart pan. Serve warm or at room temperature.

I served mine with frozen vanilla custard, adapted from Epicurious as well:

1 tsp. vanilla extract

2 cups half-and-half

2 large eggs

1/2 cup sugar

Pour half-and-half and vanilla extract into a 2-quart sauce pan. Heat until almost boiling and remove from heat. Whisk sugar and eggs in a medium bowl, then add hot half-and-half mixture in a slow, steady stream, whisking constantly. Transfer custard to saucepan and cook over moderately low heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until thickened and custard registers 175°F on thermometer, 5 to 10 minutes (do not let boil). Pour custard through a fine-mesh sieve into a metal bowl, discarding solids. Set bowl in a larger bowl of ice and cold water and stir custard until cool. Churn in your ice cream maker, according to manufacturer’s instructions, until thick like ice cream. (It took mine about 35 minutes.)

This is roughly the first third of the essay. I have a middle and an ending in mind as well, but I won’t be able to finish it until after the Utah Valley Marathon and Half this summer. Once again, much of my family will be participating, and depending on how it goes it will provide the perfect ending to this essay.

As always, comments, criticisms and suggestions are welcome.

lizzie.

The smell of my dad’s sweat is one of the sweetest smells I know. Some of my first, fondest memories are tied to that smell. Standing in the kitchen, taking a bite of his post-run toast as he held it for my 3-year-old mouth to reach. His gray sweatpants and matching sweatshirt carried the scent so strongly that, years later, even the sight of his jogging clothes, which he still wore religiously on his Saturday jogs, would conjure up memories of breakfasting next to him at the table, him reading the paper and eating his cinnamon raisin toast, me with my bowl of cold cereal.

It never really occurred to me where the smell came from, that he actually ran through the streets of our neighborhood, up and down hills (although he would never say that he “ran” – it was always a “jog” to him), for a few miles, and that such an activity could produce sweat. In fact, I don’t remember him ever leaving to go for a run. It was only when he came back, stretched on the front porch, and then put the toast in the toaster, that I even realized he’d been gone.

Dad was a weekend warrior for ages. It wasn’t something he talked about, or something me, or any of his 12 children, thought much about, at least as far as I know. He would take us out on bike rides, the younger kids taking turns in the seat behind his bike while the older ones pedaled along beside. He would play baseball and kickball and teach us to ride the little black bike that each of us took our turn on at the elementary school across the street, but his Saturday jogs were his and his alone. He never entered any races, never talked about going faster, or aching joints, or that guy that tried to pass him on the hill.

And so it never occurred to me to join him, or to ask if I could. It certainly didn’t cross my mind to run myself. Not until years later, when high school friends invited me to join the cross-country team (an offer I flatly refused – the prospect of running two miles on a regular basis being more than I could handle), did it ever occur to me to consider the hobby as one I might take up.

But slowly, whatever running genes Dad may have passed on to me awoke. It started with hot, humid, painful jaunts around the indoor track a few blocks away from my first college apartment. Seven laps to a mile, but I could never keep track of the laps. Then, after I married and moved to Hawaii, my husband and I took up running through our hilly neighborhood to rid ourselves of the “newlywed 19” that had latched onto us as we sauntered sleepily, dazedly around the island.

See more here and here.

And have a lovely weekend.

Squish and I had a little chat today. About the proper use of scissors. Using them to cut scabs off your face was eliminated as a “proper use,” but I kind of think that Squish wasn’t entirely persuaded by my arguments.

(This particular scab is of unknown origin but is entirely unrelated to the lip incident. The lip is healing just fine and looks to be on track to be nearly invisible by next week.)

*****

Good news for those of you who only manage to squeeze in a couple of one-minute sprinting sessions a week — when chasing after a runaway child: it still helps you stay healthy.

*****

Squish is presenting me with a little bit of a quandary. He suddenly won’t nap unless I lie down with him. I’m torn between wanting him to keep being the awesome, independent napper he’s always been and wanting to make sure he still gets a nap in — because I need that nap as much as he does. Of course, it only takes a few minutes for him to fall asleep when I lie down with him and he doesn’t wake up when I leave, so I should probably count it 5 minutes well spent and move on.

*****

I found out this week that my grandmother’s name, Bernice, is related to the name Nike, the Greek goddess of victory (which is, of course, where the athletic apparel company got its name). Bernice means “bringing victory” — it is the English version of the ancient Greek “Pherenike.” I had no idea. Suddenly I have a whole new perspective on the name.

*****

Yesterday I read Pierre by Maurice Sendak to the boys. On the last page, I accidentally misread a word, but it made sense so I kept reading. Manchild, who wasn’t even sitting next to me, corrected me with the right word. It got me wondering if he could learn the whole book. After all, it is just one long poem. So I asked him. His response: “With the prologue, or without it?”

“With,” I said.

And he proceeded to recite the entire thing, nearly word-for-word, from beginning to end.

Of course he’d already memorized it. I mean, he’s read it at least five times since we got it for Squish’s birthday 4 months ago.

This sort of thing should no longer surprise me, but it does.

*****

As far as children’s television programming goes (which we watch either through YouTube or on DVDs from the library): I fully support Charlie and Lola. I can get behind Thomas and His Friends. VeggieTales are on my “okay” list as well. I tolerate Dinosaur Train. But The Cat and the Hat grates on me a bit. I refuse to bring Barney into my home. I am grateful my children do not know that Maisy has her own tv show (the books are almost more than I can handle). I prefer Sesame Street in small, YouTube doses (especially the Elmo portions). Super Y and Word Word get a stamp of approval, however.

What about you? Where do you stand? Or what can you not stand?

Image found here.

Brown. Light brown linoleum. Brown faux-wood-paneling. Brown water spots on ceiling tiles. Brown faces that look old, tired, as aged as the building. Even the young people look like they’ve been there forever, like they’ve been forgotten, left in a place that was built 50 years ago and never thought of again. I’ll be forgotten, too. I’ll be here forever.

Down the hall, a yellow light bathes the blue-green walls in dinginess. Gray streaks where carts have rubbed, white chips and gouges, cracks break the curse of the too-strong wall color. People work here. Things are done here. I wouldn’t have guessed it from the way the receptionist is sitting at the desk, by the postures of the people in the waiting area. Slumped shoulders, bowed heads, folded arms, closed eyes.

I take my own seat. Look around. Watch the 7-year-old hide under her pink blanket, pull it off with a smile. Her brother is not amused. But I am. There’s no other life in this place. Just terse voices, clipped sentences, impatience on the other side of the waiting area doors. Impatience. Irritability. Frustration. With being forgotten? With the somber palette? With me? I don’t belong here. It’s not my place or time. I’m the wrong color, the wrong age. I can’t slump. Or bow my head. I can’t fold my arms. And I certainly can’t close my eyes. I watch. I scan the room. I try to see beyond the closed doors and gruff voices and tired faces. I see every second the clock ticks.

It ticks and ticks and ticks. Nothing changes. Nothing ever has. And if I don’t change something, I really will be there forever. I stand up and approach the desk.

Christy of Balance, our fearless sponsor and cook extraordinaire, took on the French street food scene with a drool-worthy crepe filled with eggs, cheese, and arugula. Sign me up! We’ll probably have it for dinner in the near future, to be honest because, well, sometimes the boys get picky about what they’ll eat for breakfast and crepes are squarely in their dinner/dessert sphere. But I would eat it for breakfast any day of the week.

Kara from What’s Up With the Wheelers made an audaciously simple spinach quiche. And she’s not kidding when she says its audacious. And simple. No crust. No cheese. No cream. But lots of eggs and spinach. Sounds like Ironman food to me! And also a good antidote to anyone who is feeling a little overwhelmed by the sugary sweetness of Valentine’s Day, as Kara so rightly pointed out. Her quiche appears to be more child friendly than my frittata was, so she wins.

And Erin of Small and Simple Things seems to have my number. Sundried tomatoes. Mushrooms. Basil. Spinach. Bread. Pudding. She didn’t know this, but it was actually a savory bread pudding with kale that 1. got me started on the kale kick I’ve been going through this month and 2. inspired me to choose greens for breakfast. I don’t think I can award points, so I’ll just give her a gold start for being on the same page as me.

Great work, ladies. I will be taste testing your recipes for myself soon!

Finally, Christy also announced the cooking challenge for Week 3: peppers (any kind) paired with something sweet. Something dessert-ish. I have no idea where to even begin, but I am looking forward to figuring something out. Christy will post the results on her blog next Wednesday (and, of course, I’ll post my contribution here on Tuesday).

On to our weekly Run, Swim, Bike, Cook Challenge update! Well, I haven’t fallen off the bike yet, so to speak. Not that I’m riding a bike this year, because I have neither a bike nor a gym membership. But that is beside the point. I haven’t fallen off the bike, nor did I give up on the other challenges. Although I do feel a little bit like I’m hanging on by the skin on my teeth on the “swimming”(/yoga with Baron Baptiste). I meant to get two sessions with the Baron in this week, but only managed one, which my sister and I completed just a couple of hours ago. This means I have four more yoga sessions in the next two weeks if I’m going to get a point for “swimming.” Yikes.

And will you hold it against me if I actually made my “leafy-green breakfast” for lunch today? Yeah, I got a little behind. But I did it. And it was good. How can you wrong with five slices of bacon? (You can’t.) Also, I’ve discovered an unknown love for kale this month, so adding handfuls of kale to it was pretty awesome, too. (Unfortunately, my little sidekicks were less impressed with it than I was . . . .) I’ll share the recipe in a moment, but before I do I would just like to say that even if I’m cutting it close on everything else, at least I’m killing it on the running. I managed 15 miles last week, which puts me at 31.5 total for the month, meaning I’m 5 over for the challenge. Hooray.

Okay, enough about that. On to the recipe.

Kale and Bacon Frittata adapted from Bon Appetit via Epicurious

Just a note: my frittata ended up being mostly kale. This did not bother me. But if you prefer your ratio of eggs to greens to be more like 1:1 than, say, 1:3, you might want to cut the kale in half-ish.

6 large eggs

3 T. freshly grated Romano or Parmesan cheese, divided

5 bacon slices

1 medium onion, thinly sliced

1 bunch of kale, stems and center ribs cut away, washed and coarsely chopped

1 garlic clove, minced or pressed in a garlic press

salt and pepper to taste

Preheat broiler. Whisk eggs, 1 1/2 tablespoons of the cheese, and salt and pepper to taste in a bowl. Set aside. Heat a medium skillet over medium heat. Add the bacon and when it is done to your liking, remove it to a paper-towel lined plate. Scoop out some of the bacon grease from the skillet, leaving about 3 tablespoons left in the skillet. The oil will already be hot, of course, but keep the heat at medium and add the onions. Let cook until soft and translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the kale in batches, waiting until the kale has wilted before adding the next batch. Add the garlic, bacon and salt and pepper to taste (I didn’t use any additional salt because I thought the bacon did a nice job on its own), and cook, stirring, until the garlic is cooked, about 1 minute.

Pour in the egg mixture, then stir so the eggs are relatively evenly distributed. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover the skillet, and let cook until the eggs are almost set, but still a little moist, about 4 minutes. Sprinkle the remaining cheese over the top, then transfer the skillet to the broiler and cook until the eggs are set, about 1 minute. Serve warm or at room temperature.