Date Night In: Renewal

Once upon a time, an increasingly long time ago, two young persons sat down to Valentine’s Day dinner. It was served on the floor of an attic studio on a slab of wood. The two individuals made cautious conversation as they dined on tinned chicken and dumplings, Swiss Miss hot cocoa, and peanut butter cookies made from an envelope. They were obviously smitten with each other, but the newness of their relationship and the outer pressures of The Most Romantic Holiday kept everything at arm’s length. The smell of old books mingled with the food and conversation.

Last night two persons celebrated their thirteenth Valentine’s Day dinner on the floor and ate off of a slab of wood. So many things the same, but so much changed. The couple was now in the living room of their own house, with two little boys asleep upstairs. There was absolutely nothing on the slab of wood that came from a can or envelope. There was hot cocoa, yes, but it was called chocolat chaud and only the finest Ghirardelli chocolate, whole milk, pure vanilla, and carefully whisked and strained cocoa powder and sugar contributed to its rich finish. The two were obviously smitten with each other, and thirteen years had softened the pressures of having to force romance. The conversation flowed easily. (And the smell of old books was relegated to the back room.)

Roy and I reminisced over a baker's dozen February 14ths over the makeshift wooden table. We couldn’t remember a single night where we had actually ventured out to a restaurant. We almost always shelve our celebration for another evening when reservations aren’t mandatory and there is the possibility of a bit of space. After a year plus of Date Nights In, our choice was easy this year. We will stay in and cook a remarkable dinner for ourselves, trusting Ashley to have created a menu that equaled or bettered anything we could find in the wider world. (For our budget anyway.)

This Date Night In was extremely sensory. You could hear the loaf of artisan bread crackling within itself as it cooled on the countertop. The cheese sizzled in the cast iron skillet as we dipped in meat, vegetables, fruit, and the most incredible tiny French pickles I’ve ever tasted over and over. The purple potatoes were as surprisingly royal on the inside as their skins and the red salami met the bright green of a Granny Smith apple. The flavor combinations were seemingly endless and we were granted enough food and time to try them all. We ate with forks and with fingers. Despite the best preventative measures there were little chocolate moustaches to wipe away. It was wonderful.

Here are some pictures.

 

This is Walnut Bread. But in reality it is a no-knead loaf that tastes more like bread from a real bakery than anything I've ever made. The secret is to bake it in a cast iron Dutch oven with the lid on to trap the steam and create a crackly, chewy crust. We borrowed a Dutch oven for the occasion but were so won over that I ordered our own this morning.

Salade Verte with Hazelnut Vinaigrette. Basically butter lettuce with a homemade dressing.

A fine red wine salami.

Grainy mustard and chunks of walnut bread.

Butter and Shallot Poached Potatoes.

Cornichons. Tastes a bit like a cross between a pickle and an olive. A staple on any pickle tray under my purview from now now.

Apple, cornichons, potatoes. It's worth noting that we were so hungry and distracted by the skillet of melted Raclette that we forgot entirely to take a picture of it. Rest assured, it was beautiful at every level. 

Chocolat chaud. Like our cutesy little V Day mugs? Roy threatened to throw these out a couple of weeks ago and I'm glad we held out. Not the best picture, but it was, most definitely, the best hot chocolate.

I will never stop dating you. There may not always be a fried chicken sandwich, beef tenderloin cooked to a pink perfection, creamy panna cotta topped with tangy roasted fruit or even a homemade soda spiked with bourbon, but there will always be me, you, and time without distraction.

                The main message remains the same: for as long as I’m alive, I will wake up every morning and say yes to you. Sometimes I will do it with a great joy pounding in my heart, ad other times I will do it because of the promise we made so long ago. Regardless, I will continue to choose you over and over again.

                -Ashley Rodriguez, DNI p. 269

Pictorial update

The “special snack” James chose for his recent sleepover with best friend Alexa. They had both been religiously eating their vegetables without complaining in order to earn this special occasion. The sleepover was not at our house, but from all accounts went swimmingly. They did: sleep in a tent in the basement, play with Legos, run around uproariously, stay up until 10PM talking, eat “peanut butter puffs” for breakfast. They did not: watch the movie we sent along, eat pizza for supper (at least James didn’t), or have any tantrums due to exhaustion. Well, not during the sleepover anyway…

The boys reading the latest stack of library books. Owen looks like a tropical bird with his hair sticking up like this. I was unable to get a blur-free picture due to the excited turning of pages.

The book that made me cry three times in Barnes and Noble just skimming through it. Was promptly purchased via Amazon for $10 cheaper and I’m positively engrossed. So many doubts and frustrations lately regarding the church and how it relates to the world at large. Rachel Held Evans freely admits that she hasn’t figured it all out, but she gives voice to the questions I’m asking and is exploring them boldly and without fear. I’m happily tagging along for the ride.

Now that the first trimester is a thing of the past I want desserts again. These brownies are my strongest argument against boxed brownies, which I freely admit are almost always better than the average baker’s homemade version. Add a perfectly creamy, barely sweetened, salted peanut butter frosting and WELL.

The next wish, because there’s always a next wish. Doesn’t have to be Le Creuset because, well, that would destroy our Parisian adventure budget for the foreseeable future. Doesn’t have to be (probably shouldn’t be) white. But a cast-iron, enameled Dutch oven that I can stew, braise, and bake in. Consider it an investment. Please and thanks. 

The other book that I read in Barnes and Noble and bought on Amazon for half price. A textbook for bakers, which is thrilling for somebody who still doesn’t understand thoroughly why batches of bread vary from bake to bake. Currently testing a cookie recipe…I’ll keep you posted.

Like his mother, Owen is recently showing a propensity for needing WEIGHT on him. Being tucked down by cushions, pillows, and blankets has been his preferred hideaway all morning. It’s certainly been a quiet, peaceful morning at that.

Loves

James, I love when we read books together. Your favorite activity from infancy, you sit, barely moving or blinking, absorbing every word and picture. You always ask to read another book or chapter and shelve any other activity of great importance for the sake of a story. Your focus and concentration is commendable. That being said, I love it best when books make you laugh. Today we read A Birthday for Francis for the first time and you literally screamed with laughter. I fly inside when I see you understand the sarcasm and jealousy of Francis, and her wild attempts to defend the injustices against her. Keep reading little boy. It will give you all the hooks you need to hold onto in this big scary world.

Owen, I love your irresistible insistence…

“Look at the goose Owen!”

“Nooo. Not’a goose. A GUK.”

“Actually, it’s a goose.”

“No! No goose! GUK! KACK!”

“Daddy, I wan’ muhk!”

“There’s a sippy in your bed Owen. You can go get it.”
“Daddy, I wan’ muhk pease. Pease go get muhk.”

“You can go get it yourself Owen.”

“No WAY.”

“Yes way.”

“No WAAY.”

“Yes way.”
“No, I nee’ he’p. Hol’ joo Daddy. Hol’ joo.”

“I’m not going to hold you. You can go up the stairs yourself.”

“Daddy, pease I wan’ muhk…I know! DAIMSH! I wan’ muuuuhhhhhk!”

“James is in his room Owen. He can’t hear you.”

“DAAAAAAAMMMMMSH! I WAN MUUUHK! PEASE BING ME MUHK!”

…

“Sorry O Bear, James can’t hear you.”

“…Mommy bing me muhk?”

5 minutes later.

Daddy, “Well, kiddos it’s time to go upstairs and brush teeth.”

“NOW Daddy go bing me muhk! Yay!!!!”

Roy, I love that being married to you means that special treats from the grocery store include the fanciest of cheeses and also gummy vitamins.

Quickish Hitters

Book Update

Book 3/50: Just Mercy. Wow. What a book. Read it in chunks, but do read it. I gave it to Roy as soon as I was done and he suffered through as well. A brave, wide window into the judicial system and the racial/gender/age inequalities that pervade our nation’s courts and jails. We both commented, “You know there’s always another side to all of these stories. But the sheer volume of these stories and data sure presents an incredibly compelling argument for major changes.” Also, do we even have a clue as relatively privileged, white Americans, what goes on in our country every day?

Book 4/50: Calming Your Anxious Child. Good news, I don’t think our child is clinically anxious. Bad news, this book wasn’t especially helpful. If anything, I resonated more strongly with some of the scenarios and issues, and I’m supposed to be the calm, wise parent. Score! <chagrined smile>

I’m currently reading Present Over Perfect, one of those NYT Bestsellers that’s popping up on all my friends’ blogs and FB pages as the “it” book. Our Morning Mom’s group has decided to use it in the spring term for a book study and I’m halfway through. I think I like the title better than the book so far, although there are definitely passages that have slapped me across the face. It has caused me to re-reexamine my current slate of commitments and tasks to see which are worth continuing and which aren’t.

The thing that is probably most borderline is my weekly night of teaching at our city’s local community music school. I spend two hours (plus travel) directing a couple of flute choirs, which is fun once I’m there, but hard to conjure up the energy to leave after supper when I know I won’t be back until bedtime. We usually have to pay a babysitter for three hours of time so I can be there, which, coupled with the not-for-profit organization’s pay scale, means I clear about $10 a week for my time and efforts. Is it enjoyable enough/beneficial enough to keep doing this? I don’t know. It’s obviously not about the money, as I am the world’s worst employee when it comes to submitting my biweekly timesheets. I justify this by telling myself that it looks a little better to get a big fat paycheck once every couple months instead of a measly one more often…

MMs

I started attending our church’s mom’s group on Friday mornings this school year. Part of this was because I am woefully uninvolved in the life of my church beyond what they pay me to do. Part of this is because I don’t know anybody outside of the music ministry. Part of this is because a morning of free childcare sounds appealing. Part of this is because I really wanted Kylie to come with me.

My experience has been mixed. I always think to myself, “Wow! This will be great! Other moms in the same season of life as me. Great food and a leisurely cup of coffee. Prayer and study.” And there are aspects that I do find very refreshing (like seeing Kylie every Friday morning). But I also walk away every week with a bit of confusion.

First off, I am not quick to make friendships. And making them in the context of a group setting is almost impossible. If I was hoping to make friends then MMs is a way to stand back and observe the pool of possibilities. Then I have to be brave and attempt to connect outside of the group with possible kindred spirits. This, quite honestly, is a lot of emotional work that usually just seems too hard.

Additionally, I wrestle with the worldview/mindset that seems pervasive in the group. Prayer requests center on marital issues, children in school, finding balance and cleanliness in the home. These are all legitimate, so legitimate, and in some ways I deeply resonate. But I also find myself inevitably drifting away to thoughts of the weekend services at church, of what repertoire would be best for my ensemble’s next performance, of what media sources to trust and why, of what does the Bible really have to say about the political discourse of our day, of whether a chocolate frosting with sour cream would be worth attempting next time I bake a cake.

I’ve witnessed a few brave women who shared prayer requests centered on a controversial topic (such as homosexuality or abortion within their families) and the responses included those who just can’t help themselves and offer their politically-charged, graceless opinions. And it just reeks of the same old same old mess. So I leave partially connected, partially more distant. I don’t know how much more I can stretch both ways before something has to change. Either my mindset or my attendance. Or something.

Worlds Collide

So at MMs last Friday I sat down at a table full of women whose names I knew. All of them. <major high five to me> Except one, but I was pretty sure she was new and nobody knew her. She stared at me curiously as I settled in at the table and reached for my smiling, gurgling nephew.

“Do you still work at *local city community music school*?”

“I do!” I smiled in surprise. “How did you know that…?”

“Oh,” she said, “I’m the payroll specialist there. I know exactly who you are. We joke in payroll that you should donate your money since you never submit your hours.”

I made some kind of jovial, half-hearted attempt to laugh my way out of it, but really I was mentally crawling under the table to die. I texted Roy that of all the women in the world, I sat down at the table with the one who probably hates me most. His grace-filled response? #besureyoursinswillfindyouout

January DNI: A Winter BBQ

If I could speak to myself on the day of my wedding, this is what I would say…

I understand you’re a bit scared. You’re young and you are about to make a decision that will affect the rest of your life. You think it’s the right choice; you think you love him. But what really is love? I know that is what you are thinking because I am you.

                -Ashley Rodriguez, DNI p. 217

Ashley and I are soulmates. She is just far better at expressing ourselves in words than I am. I am thankful to have someone, albeit someone I have never met personally, a few years down the road in marriage and parenting who can express so vividly and poignantly the journey. Her words are reassuring and challenging. And her food is unbelievable. (We are not soulmates in this area…I’m just a copycat.)

Roy and I picked this DNI for a couple of reasons. It has a cocktail, but we don’t have to hide the fact anymore that I’m not drinking cocktails, so those DNIs are back on the table. It also has a BBQ pulled pork sandwich that looked out of this world incredible. We did NOT pick this DNI for baked beans, because neither of us care for baked beans. They are too sweet and syrupy and mushy and overpowering. This should indicate to you how badly we wanted the pulled pork.

Menu:

-BBQ Pulled Pork Sandwiches with Apple and Radicchio Slaw

-Baked Beans

-Oranges with Avocado, Olives, and Mint

-Milk Punch

-Ritz Cracker Mendiants

This was a time-intensive DNI. There were marinades and sauces to make, salads to assemble and bread to bake. Crackers to dip in melted chocolate and lots of and lots of garlic and salt. We got the whole family involved.

Owen helped me smell the Tangy Muscovado Barbeque Sauce as it simmered on the stove. I wish I could replicate his face—normally he’s up for tasting/trying any new adventure. He stuck his nose over the pot and his eyes shot up to the sky as he coughed out, “SPAH-CY!!” I couldn’t get him to taste it. (It was pretty spahcy.)

James is a pro at making the mendiants by now. He was eager to help decorate the dipped crackers with dried cherries, cashews, and flake salt. We made a couple cashew-less for Owen to enjoy as well.

Roy and I worked pretty much all day Tuesday to get everything finished and ready. I rubbed the pork down on Monday night and made dough for the rolls. Tuesday was go day. We stayed at home ALL DAY. Seriously, didn’t leave the house (I think I might have stuck my head out the door to check the mailbox but that was IT). The boys ran around and we read books and drank coffee and had Sabbath. And after the boys were happily bedded we sat down to feast.

I should preface our feast with Roy burning the baked beans, which we weren’t excited about anyway. They definitely stuck to the bottom of the pan “because Ashley didn’t say anything about stirring them.” My response, “So you probably stirred the burned part all through the rest huh?” “…Yeah…”

We weren’t expecting much there.

But. BUT. GUESS WHAT?

The baked beans were UNBELIEVABLE. Like, how fast can we make these again unbelievable. They reminded me a little bit of the pumpkin gratin dish withshallot crumbs we had last year. They were baconey and a little sweet, but not wet or sickly overwhelming. The “burned” bits added a nice caramelization without tasting burnt. I don’t know, maybe that’s what she meant us to do… Anyway, we devoured them and are both converts. Roy commented, “I’m eating baked beans AND olives in the same meal and actually LOVING them.”

Just trust me on this, OK?

Awww. We’re growing up.

The sandwiches were incredible. We didn’t ever doubt this. We topped our rubbed, marinated, BBQ-sauced pork with a light slaw of tart apple, radicchio, and cilantro. The buns were buttered and toasted. The sauces dripped out and got mopped back up again (with rolls…or fingers). 3 lbs of pork makes a lot of sandwich materials, so we had more the next day and I’m already counting down the minutes ‘til lunch. Daniel and Emily, we thought of YOU with this dish.

Cilantro is the herb of the gods.

The salad of oranges, avocado, olives, mint, and salt was refreshing. One of those combos where we’ve just learned to trust that she knows what she’s talking about. We don’t doubt her anymore. It was very light and sweet/salt/tangy/bright all at once. Simple and elegant.

Look at that little triangle of salt. So fancy!

Mendiants are good. We know this. Not really a very DNI dessert as far as being super-rich/drowned in cream, but that was fine for a change. And we skipped the milk punch. We didn’t have bourbon and Roy opted not to make a big investment in a bottle if only one of us would drink it.

On a personal note, it was really, really nice to eat DNI food and enjoy it. The sausage pizza from December was rough. I knew it was amazing but I could barely choke down a single tiny piece. Hooray for second trimester and food being incredible again. (Hopefully not too incredible…those checkups always involve the scale!)

“In case you do read this, you should know that you are making the right decision. But you don’t really know love. The love you feel, anxiously awaiting that glimmer in his eyes when he sees you for the first time in your wedding dress and for the last time you aren’t his wife, that love is just the start.

There will be days when the butterflies don’t flutter as rapidly as you think they should and you will question love. You will resent him for shining light on parts of you that are selfish or unflattering. He won’t complete you in the way you expect. But love isn’t simply about how he makes you feel; love is a choice and love is action.”

DNI, p. 217

Blah blah blah

The world outside looks all one color, if you can even call ‘drab grey’ a color (Crayola certainly doesn’t). The snow is dirty, the roads are salted, and the sky is heavy with a low blanket of clouds. You’d think those clouds could insulate the earth and keep it warm. But it’s cold and freezing rain has covered our sidewalks and surrounding roadways, making travel a danger. Winter is hard.

It’s January 10 and I’m already so tired of it. The chill that sucks the will to do anything out of my bones. The draft that seeps in through the windows. The pervasive grey that casts its pallor over everything it covers. Even the few rays of sunshine seem cruel, as it’s almost always far too cold to go outside and soak in what looks like warm hope.

Pregnancy complicates winter, I am discovering. With James and Owen both due in November I missed out on the fun twice before. Turns out, I shouldn’t run in the deep chill/over the frozen sidewalks. I don’t really want to anyway. Exercise on the inside is relegated to whatever DVD or online workout I can find, which seem boring and either too hard to safely do while pregnant or too easy for Roy to join me in. I thought you’re supposed to be hot during pregnancy, and I was kind of hoping that this time around it would serve as a nice insulator against the winter. Roy will boldly testify that I’m every bit the ice block that I’ve been in years past when we crawl under the covers at night.

So I currently feel very stuck inside, not pregnant enough to wear cute maternity clothes, but just pregnant enough to feel unattractive in my normal clothes. Everything right now just screams “BLAH!”

I’m reading a book about the American justice system and the numerous injustices that occur on a daily basis in this country. It’s literally making me sick to my stomach, as good and important of a book as it is, and the tales of those locked up against their will, and undeservedly so, underscore my own feelings of cabin fever.

Obviously I need some type of project, or some kind of getaway to look forward to. A new hobby or form of exercise. Or a shopping trip for the cute maternity clothes that I definitely don’t have because I’ve never been pregnant in winter before.

I’ll keep taking my Vitamin D. I’ll keep exercising even though it feels stupid. I’ll keep reading and going to work. I’ll keep on keeping on. But, anybody have any brilliant ideas for helping make winter less, for lack of better terms, sucky?

Thank you for enduring this depressing entry. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess I’m not alone. We need each other in these times especially, even as it seems so much easier to crawl under a pile of blankets and hibernate until April. Who’s coming over for coffee?

Fitness life lessons

Taking down your Christmas decorations, including the tree, sorting the entirely of the downstairs toys and books, and cooking a delicious Italian lunch from scratch logs you a grand total of 2,200 steps and 0 minutes of active time on a Fitbit.

28 minutes of Piyo (Pilates + Yoga) equals 100 steps and 0 minutes of active time on a Fitbit.

Sitting at a piano and leading a 30 minute rehearsal with a single singer playing a few simple choruses and hymns logs you 5,500 steps and 28 minutes of active time on a Fitbit.

Calorie-incinerating piano player that you are, this does not justify eating a double cheeseburger from Five Guys with a generous serving of fries. As much as the baby loved the iron, the baby could do with a single patty next time. #neveragain

Book 2/30: The Happiest Refugee. A recommendation from my Aussie friend written by Ahn Do, an Australian comedian who immigrated to the country from war-ravaged Vietnam. I’d never heard of the guy before, but his story was both engaging and inspiring. Two for two so far in 2017! I also started Just Mercy and it’s primed to be an incredible read.