New calendar. New date to write in the checkbook. Fresh start at school. We start this year washing off and putting away the holidays, and yet, here I am, only weeks after I whined "I'm tired of partying...", looking at the calendar and wondering when I can start getting ready for Valentine's Day.
Valentine's Day shocks me in its excess. A day set aside to show love and kindness has degraded into a day to use money as a measurement of love. How can that be? The hearts abound in February and yet it seems to all boil down to a purchase. It becomes a necessity instead of the intended thoughtful gesture of loving, caring, intention.
I've been trained, you see, by a European man who insists that every day is Valentine's Day. On February 14th, I don't get flowers, candy, jewelry. But I might have gotten them at any time during the year, without reason, without warning...just because, well, because every day is Valentine's Day!
He didn't come with the expectations of gifts, the hype of an excellent dinner at a chi-chi restaurant. It is an American pretense, this fury of buying, overpriced roses, sought-after dinner reservations. He came from France. Yes, the reputation is true. He is an excellent lover--he loves daily, hourly, no matter what crap I end up standing in. It makes him diligent, and in turn, me too, to make sure that February 14th feels as good as every other day.
Don't get me wrong. The first few years of our marriage, I mourned Valentine's Day. I was bitter. Definitely disappointed when we ended up having pizza with his friend at a dive on Valentine's Day. "Why is it so crowded in here?" he boomed over the din of couples conspiring. "It's February 14th." I mumbled. Our friend smiled, shaking his head. I didn't get it. Didn't care. I wanted my holiday. I wanted my presents!
But I caught on. It made our marriage better, to remember that Every Day is Valentine's Day. I try to apply this to all of my loved ones--my babies, my friends, the people who fill my daily life and make it easy to be here even with all the crap that hits my fan. I hope they know how I feel on a regular basis. If I'm doing it right, we don't need a special day to say it.
I don't use Valentine's Day as an artificial day of Romance. I use it, instead, as an excuse to entertain. Sometimes, we invite single friends for dinner. We have, in the past, chosen to celebrate Valentine's Day with a wine tasting party. Sometimes, it's just Us: my man, my babies, the dog.
Yes, I do the treats, the cookies, the handmade love notes. That's the fun part! I adore the heart-shaped plates, pepperoni cut into little hearts on our pizza, cinnamon rolls baked into hearts. The Reds! The Pinks! The Peaches and Violets! February begins with me and my kids making, cutting, pasting, coloring. We bake and sprinkle. We hug and say it: "I love you!" It's a loving month to top off a loving year. We find a hundred ways to say I love you, and then, we just keep going...
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Punxsutawney Phil
Groundhog's Day always puzzled me. What's it all for? What's with the little beast? Why him and not some other groundhog in another state? These are the questions that filled my childhood brain.
I grew up. I became slightly pagan. I discovered that Groundhog's Day just happens to be the exact halfway point between Winter Solstice and Vernal Equinox. It is, in fact, halfway through winter, six more weeks until the First Day of Spring, March 20. It is, in some circles, the day you burn your Christmas tree and let go of your regrets. It is in other circles a day called "Candelmas." In France, they call it Chandeleur. I call it Crepe Day.
February 2--it's sooner than you think!--is Groundhog's Day, Chandeleur, Imbolc, Candelmas. Such a loaded day for Punxsutawney Phil. He has the lore and traditions of several cultures and religions riding on his little furry back.
And it's my Crepe Day. The French flip crepes with a coin held in their hand. There's something about good luck in there. We create a stack of sweet crepes for dessert. We clear dinner and set out jams, sugar and cinnamon, Nutella, chantilly cream. And then we watch as our pile reduces to a few left for each person, and suddenly, it's: "Who wants the last one?"
The seasons turn, and we roll right along. Life is passing us by! We get busy working, driving, wondering what to make for dinner, and how to find time to read a book that doesn't have pictures. We pass each other at a run. It's days like February 2nd that allow us to stop and smell...the crepes. Life is passing us by! Stop! Make some crepes. Let them ask why. Spend the night explaining our ancestral worship of the sun, the seasons, the light, the stars, the planets. Take an evening to contemplate our small place in this universe. I promise this conversation will last through dessert...
I grew up. I became slightly pagan. I discovered that Groundhog's Day just happens to be the exact halfway point between Winter Solstice and Vernal Equinox. It is, in fact, halfway through winter, six more weeks until the First Day of Spring, March 20. It is, in some circles, the day you burn your Christmas tree and let go of your regrets. It is in other circles a day called "Candelmas." In France, they call it Chandeleur. I call it Crepe Day.
February 2--it's sooner than you think!--is Groundhog's Day, Chandeleur, Imbolc, Candelmas. Such a loaded day for Punxsutawney Phil. He has the lore and traditions of several cultures and religions riding on his little furry back.
And it's my Crepe Day. The French flip crepes with a coin held in their hand. There's something about good luck in there. We create a stack of sweet crepes for dessert. We clear dinner and set out jams, sugar and cinnamon, Nutella, chantilly cream. And then we watch as our pile reduces to a few left for each person, and suddenly, it's: "Who wants the last one?"
The seasons turn, and we roll right along. Life is passing us by! We get busy working, driving, wondering what to make for dinner, and how to find time to read a book that doesn't have pictures. We pass each other at a run. It's days like February 2nd that allow us to stop and smell...the crepes. Life is passing us by! Stop! Make some crepes. Let them ask why. Spend the night explaining our ancestral worship of the sun, the seasons, the light, the stars, the planets. Take an evening to contemplate our small place in this universe. I promise this conversation will last through dessert...
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Why I Cook
Why do I cook? I started late. I didn't have a mother who cooked for the sake of cooking. I had a mother who had a repetoire of 8 to 10 dishes, recycled weekly, maybe seasonally. I had a mother on a budget. In the Midwest. In the 60s and 70s. She, like all of us, was my model. What is a mother? What is a wife? What are my duties? My responsibilities?
I turn back, wearily, to Iowa, to my youth, and see my mother: intelligent, layered with children she loved, a stay-at-home life she didn't, a husband who loved her and played his role. I remember ghoulash, tater-tot casserole. chili, stroganoff. My mother is a good cook. She gave me the love for liver and onions (just the two of us), the understanding of lasagna, the inspiration for my best potato gratin.
She gave me, mostly, the idea that the kitchen was just another play area. We made cookies. We made cake. She taught me how to make crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, good orange juice from that concentrate can...(It's an art, that's all I can tell you...) She also endowed me with the idea that families eat together. Play together. Sometimes at the same time.
She taught me that Family Time was Always: there was no down time, no Time Out, no uncounted hours. Like Sands Through the Hour Glass...And so I make our time count: my time in the kitchen is Our Time in the Kitchen. My little ones pull up a chair an stir, add the cheese, whisk the eggs. We played this game so often that my first child grew tired of cookies, named her first doll "Garlic," proclaimed proscuitto her favorite food at the age of four.
I saw the need, as soon as I knew my French man, to cook. Meals. To create. Ambiance. A welcoming. I knew when I met him that I was lacking: I was The American. In a bad way! Six months later my trip to France confirmed my suspicions: I needed kitchen skills. Hospitality. Savoir Vivre. I have strived, since that first trip 18 years ago, to replicate the lessons I perceived on that visit.
Cooking is a large part of the French culture. It is now a large part of mine, so much so that I felt compelled to attend cooking school. In France. I now enjoy every aspect of the experience. (okay, maybe not the dishes....) Living in France, perhaps I could even say in Europe, gives one a new persepective on food. It is not "I eat to live." It is rather "I live to eat." The mode tends toward quality, rather than quantity. Food becomes the focal point for every occassion. The table is the vehicle that moves the event.
How serendipitous, then, that I began cooking at the first murmurings of Martha Stewart. Make fun of her. I do! But do it respectfully, for she has turned entertaining into a regular household affair. I immediately subscribed to Bon Appetit. Learned what Montrachet was. Discovered proscuitto. Avocados. Fresh herbs. Shallots. (Iowa, remember?)
I made my own pasta. (not anymore...pasta is for lazy days...) I made my own salad dressing (still do!) I made my own ice cream, waffles, pie crusts. I added appliances, tools, essential spices. I studied: Indian curries, Norweigian cured salmon, Spanish tapas, Italian sauces and pasta shapes. I get the Latin fusion. I know what sauce goes with pig's feet (gribiche) and what to serve with intestine-filled sausage (mustard).
I love cooking. It is an endless lesson. It is a pasttime everyone is happy that you have. It is meant to be shared, one way or another, with others. It creates only good things, good feelings, good moments, to have a cook in the house.
Really, I love cooking because it is limitless. There are rules. They are meant to be broken. I want to learn them all. Then I plan to break them all. It will take me a lifetime. I'm looking forward to it. Bon Appetit!
I turn back, wearily, to Iowa, to my youth, and see my mother: intelligent, layered with children she loved, a stay-at-home life she didn't, a husband who loved her and played his role. I remember ghoulash, tater-tot casserole. chili, stroganoff. My mother is a good cook. She gave me the love for liver and onions (just the two of us), the understanding of lasagna, the inspiration for my best potato gratin.
She gave me, mostly, the idea that the kitchen was just another play area. We made cookies. We made cake. She taught me how to make crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, good orange juice from that concentrate can...(It's an art, that's all I can tell you...) She also endowed me with the idea that families eat together. Play together. Sometimes at the same time.
She taught me that Family Time was Always: there was no down time, no Time Out, no uncounted hours. Like Sands Through the Hour Glass...And so I make our time count: my time in the kitchen is Our Time in the Kitchen. My little ones pull up a chair an stir, add the cheese, whisk the eggs. We played this game so often that my first child grew tired of cookies, named her first doll "Garlic," proclaimed proscuitto her favorite food at the age of four.
I saw the need, as soon as I knew my French man, to cook. Meals. To create. Ambiance. A welcoming. I knew when I met him that I was lacking: I was The American. In a bad way! Six months later my trip to France confirmed my suspicions: I needed kitchen skills. Hospitality. Savoir Vivre. I have strived, since that first trip 18 years ago, to replicate the lessons I perceived on that visit.
Cooking is a large part of the French culture. It is now a large part of mine, so much so that I felt compelled to attend cooking school. In France. I now enjoy every aspect of the experience. (okay, maybe not the dishes....) Living in France, perhaps I could even say in Europe, gives one a new persepective on food. It is not "I eat to live." It is rather "I live to eat." The mode tends toward quality, rather than quantity. Food becomes the focal point for every occassion. The table is the vehicle that moves the event.
How serendipitous, then, that I began cooking at the first murmurings of Martha Stewart. Make fun of her. I do! But do it respectfully, for she has turned entertaining into a regular household affair. I immediately subscribed to Bon Appetit. Learned what Montrachet was. Discovered proscuitto. Avocados. Fresh herbs. Shallots. (Iowa, remember?)
I made my own pasta. (not anymore...pasta is for lazy days...) I made my own salad dressing (still do!) I made my own ice cream, waffles, pie crusts. I added appliances, tools, essential spices. I studied: Indian curries, Norweigian cured salmon, Spanish tapas, Italian sauces and pasta shapes. I get the Latin fusion. I know what sauce goes with pig's feet (gribiche) and what to serve with intestine-filled sausage (mustard).
I love cooking. It is an endless lesson. It is a pasttime everyone is happy that you have. It is meant to be shared, one way or another, with others. It creates only good things, good feelings, good moments, to have a cook in the house.
Really, I love cooking because it is limitless. There are rules. They are meant to be broken. I want to learn them all. Then I plan to break them all. It will take me a lifetime. I'm looking forward to it. Bon Appetit!
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Little Men
Snips and snails and puppydog tails: After two lovely girls, I have received the challenge of raising a boy. This curly-haired ragamuffin passes through superheroes, police and firefighters, zombies and vampires--sometimes simultaneously! He may tout a motorcycle helmet, vampire cape, Ironman underwear and boots one morning, pounding down the hallway on his way to....fight the bad guys? be the bad guy?
I watch, mostly, astounded, sometimes on the verge of appalled, as my little man grasps his newest toy, asking himself: "How does this break?" It is his birthright, I guess, to break, then cry because it is broken: his Batmobile, his Lego helicopter, his mother's heart!
I have done my best to shift out of the LaLa Land my daughter's brought me to, hands held. I sit between my Coloring-Quietly Six-Year-Old and the Tasmanian Devil who has constructed a battle scene at my kitchen table: soldiers on one side, zombies on the other, all of them against the giant spider menacing the world in the middle of this chaotic warzone.
No, this is not LaLa Land! This is serious business, this Boyhood. For a while, the song was "We don't play with guns." But sticks became a gun, magic wands became a gun, swords--I know! It's a weapon already!--became a gun! What's a mommy to do? I stutter now, when I say it: "We don't shoot people!" because not only does this boy of mine turn everything into a gun, but the people surrounding us have a tendency to give him guns: double-barrel shotguns, Star Wars guns and light sabers, cowboy six-shooters...
I have become a different kind of driver because of my son. We seek out cops, fire engines, guys on motorcycles. We roll down the windows and wave with the enthusiasm of, well, a four-year old. "Hi!" he'll yell with love in his heart, a huge smile on his face, joy in his voice. They all wave back...
Besides, what mommy couldn't use someone in the back warning you about the police car behind you?!
My son and I rarely build things without an earthquake, godzilla, perhaps an unnamed monster of the Human variety knocking it down: destruction should've been my boy's middle name. While my daughters pirouette and float, this guy jumps and stomps, flailing, kicking at the air--joyfully! My girls find beauty in pinks, purples, sparkles. Our boy wants skulls, shrunken heads, mummies, blood! Halloween, for this one, lasts all year long.
At first, I was flabbergasted. I didn't get it. But I see him, really see him, lounging in his car seat, watching all those cool cars and trucks go by. There is contentment on his face. His wants are simple: hang out with me and check out the cars. Hang out with me and build a story with his Lego people. Hang out with me and whisk the eggs (just another form of destruction, mind you!).
I have insights into the opposite sex that I did not have after years of marriage. Boys are simple: they want to play, physically. They want to hang out with their favorite people: Me! They love to shock and scare you--proof, after all, that you are truly interacting! They build things, destroy, build again, but in the midst of all that construction and destruction is a little man prancing toward you with a "mommy, come see what I made!" smile on his face. The icing on his cake is when you join in the neverending process of construct-crash-smash...and help him clean it all up.
I realize my responsibility: I am molding a Man. Someday this lovely boy will shave, shoot hoops, fall in love...wear a tie! I see my calling here: raise a man that I would want my daughters to marry. This finished product, above all, should be a nice guy.
I duck my head as the remote control helicopter goes whizzing past me, read stories of love and caring, remind him one more time that we don't hit people, hug him deeply. I watch, satisfied, as Spiderman flies in to visit the Batcave, and, upon leaving, gives Batman a kiss good-bye. Yes, I think he'll be alright...
I watch, mostly, astounded, sometimes on the verge of appalled, as my little man grasps his newest toy, asking himself: "How does this break?" It is his birthright, I guess, to break, then cry because it is broken: his Batmobile, his Lego helicopter, his mother's heart!
I have done my best to shift out of the LaLa Land my daughter's brought me to, hands held. I sit between my Coloring-Quietly Six-Year-Old and the Tasmanian Devil who has constructed a battle scene at my kitchen table: soldiers on one side, zombies on the other, all of them against the giant spider menacing the world in the middle of this chaotic warzone.
No, this is not LaLa Land! This is serious business, this Boyhood. For a while, the song was "We don't play with guns." But sticks became a gun, magic wands became a gun, swords--I know! It's a weapon already!--became a gun! What's a mommy to do? I stutter now, when I say it: "We don't shoot people!" because not only does this boy of mine turn everything into a gun, but the people surrounding us have a tendency to give him guns: double-barrel shotguns, Star Wars guns and light sabers, cowboy six-shooters...
I have become a different kind of driver because of my son. We seek out cops, fire engines, guys on motorcycles. We roll down the windows and wave with the enthusiasm of, well, a four-year old. "Hi!" he'll yell with love in his heart, a huge smile on his face, joy in his voice. They all wave back...
Besides, what mommy couldn't use someone in the back warning you about the police car behind you?!
My son and I rarely build things without an earthquake, godzilla, perhaps an unnamed monster of the Human variety knocking it down: destruction should've been my boy's middle name. While my daughters pirouette and float, this guy jumps and stomps, flailing, kicking at the air--joyfully! My girls find beauty in pinks, purples, sparkles. Our boy wants skulls, shrunken heads, mummies, blood! Halloween, for this one, lasts all year long.
At first, I was flabbergasted. I didn't get it. But I see him, really see him, lounging in his car seat, watching all those cool cars and trucks go by. There is contentment on his face. His wants are simple: hang out with me and check out the cars. Hang out with me and build a story with his Lego people. Hang out with me and whisk the eggs (just another form of destruction, mind you!).
I have insights into the opposite sex that I did not have after years of marriage. Boys are simple: they want to play, physically. They want to hang out with their favorite people: Me! They love to shock and scare you--proof, after all, that you are truly interacting! They build things, destroy, build again, but in the midst of all that construction and destruction is a little man prancing toward you with a "mommy, come see what I made!" smile on his face. The icing on his cake is when you join in the neverending process of construct-crash-smash...and help him clean it all up.
I realize my responsibility: I am molding a Man. Someday this lovely boy will shave, shoot hoops, fall in love...wear a tie! I see my calling here: raise a man that I would want my daughters to marry. This finished product, above all, should be a nice guy.
I duck my head as the remote control helicopter goes whizzing past me, read stories of love and caring, remind him one more time that we don't hit people, hug him deeply. I watch, satisfied, as Spiderman flies in to visit the Batcave, and, upon leaving, gives Batman a kiss good-bye. Yes, I think he'll be alright...
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Do you?
Okay, I know I'm a wuss when it comes to the weather. I whimper when the temperature dips below 60 and start scrambling for my slippers. I live in one of the most temperate states on the continent, and yet...I'm cold! There are parts of me--that chef inside, the fashionista--who look forward to cold weather. Yes, I whine, but at the same time I'm slipping on a mohair sweater and pulling out one of my favorite "appliances:" the fondue pot.
My first fondue pot came from my mother. I don't remember ever having fondue growing up, so this pot--a seventies orange-- came still in the box, plates, skewers, and all! So funky!
Fondue is a great meal, so convivial! Everyone sits close, elbows touching. We all reach in, drawing that circle closer. Like a tabletop campfire, a fondue dinner creates a glow around the table, some primal urge to congregate around that heat source. I love this about fondue.
Fondue is so easy! Pull out this "appliance" when you don't want to cook! Fondue, a French adjective, states: Melted. What you need to make a meal with this simple pot is minimal: bread will do. It helps to have Great bread. If not, great cheese will probably make up for it. Add a few other dipping pieces to this meal: a protein if you're inclined. We use sausage that coincides with our cheese, almost always potatoes, boiled or roasted, and usually one more thing....The only thing to remember with a fondue is that the ingredients are few and so must be high quality.
My basic fondue is great: so simple! Swiss cheese, white wine, a little cornstarch (cooking secret, right there!) I slice a batard or miche into bite-size cubes. I boil or roast baby reds, little yukon golds, fingerlings. I slice some sausage diagonally while my kitchen warms. I sip some wine (quality control!) and try to look busy, stirring my cheese occassionally, flipping through that magazine...
Fondue can carry an entire meal. Yes, you can start or finish with a nice little salad, perhaps some grapes, but a fondue all by itself gets stretched out, full of conversation while your family, your friends (just the two of you?!) slowly empty platters of sausage, bread, okay...carbs.
There are as many variations to fondue as there are melty cheeses: swiss, cheddar, monterey, gruyere. Add some spicy Pepper Jack and turn your fondue south towards that border. Slice up that chorizo, char those chilis. Suddenly, your fondue deserves a beer! Turn toward northern France and add a little apple cider, apple vinegar, Calvados. Green apples and gruyere with this combination: mmmm. Combine cheddar with gouda. Stir in some stout! Meld garlic with your cheese combinations. Throw in some goat cheese, a little Brie, some roasted tomatoes. Skewer some roasted mushrooms, a few tortellini, cubes of roasted pumpkin, chunks of blanched broccoli and cauliflower. Add some cubes of ham, small bites of ciabatta, hunks of olive bread. Suddenly, the possiblities excite!
And no, I haven't forgotten that fondue appears just as often as dessert. Chocolate. Warm. Melted. The possibilities for what might go with that...well, really?! Pound cake. Angel food cake. Croissants. Strawberries. Apples. Pears. Bananas. Marshmallows! Rice crispy treats! Donut holes, biscotti, macarons. Then again, there's always a caramel fondue.
The problem with fondue isn't what to make. It's what to choose! So many choices, so few cold months in the year!
My first fondue pot came from my mother. I don't remember ever having fondue growing up, so this pot--a seventies orange-- came still in the box, plates, skewers, and all! So funky!
Fondue is a great meal, so convivial! Everyone sits close, elbows touching. We all reach in, drawing that circle closer. Like a tabletop campfire, a fondue dinner creates a glow around the table, some primal urge to congregate around that heat source. I love this about fondue.
Fondue is so easy! Pull out this "appliance" when you don't want to cook! Fondue, a French adjective, states: Melted. What you need to make a meal with this simple pot is minimal: bread will do. It helps to have Great bread. If not, great cheese will probably make up for it. Add a few other dipping pieces to this meal: a protein if you're inclined. We use sausage that coincides with our cheese, almost always potatoes, boiled or roasted, and usually one more thing....The only thing to remember with a fondue is that the ingredients are few and so must be high quality.
My basic fondue is great: so simple! Swiss cheese, white wine, a little cornstarch (cooking secret, right there!) I slice a batard or miche into bite-size cubes. I boil or roast baby reds, little yukon golds, fingerlings. I slice some sausage diagonally while my kitchen warms. I sip some wine (quality control!) and try to look busy, stirring my cheese occassionally, flipping through that magazine...
Fondue can carry an entire meal. Yes, you can start or finish with a nice little salad, perhaps some grapes, but a fondue all by itself gets stretched out, full of conversation while your family, your friends (just the two of you?!) slowly empty platters of sausage, bread, okay...carbs.
There are as many variations to fondue as there are melty cheeses: swiss, cheddar, monterey, gruyere. Add some spicy Pepper Jack and turn your fondue south towards that border. Slice up that chorizo, char those chilis. Suddenly, your fondue deserves a beer! Turn toward northern France and add a little apple cider, apple vinegar, Calvados. Green apples and gruyere with this combination: mmmm. Combine cheddar with gouda. Stir in some stout! Meld garlic with your cheese combinations. Throw in some goat cheese, a little Brie, some roasted tomatoes. Skewer some roasted mushrooms, a few tortellini, cubes of roasted pumpkin, chunks of blanched broccoli and cauliflower. Add some cubes of ham, small bites of ciabatta, hunks of olive bread. Suddenly, the possiblities excite!
And no, I haven't forgotten that fondue appears just as often as dessert. Chocolate. Warm. Melted. The possibilities for what might go with that...well, really?! Pound cake. Angel food cake. Croissants. Strawberries. Apples. Pears. Bananas. Marshmallows! Rice crispy treats! Donut holes, biscotti, macarons. Then again, there's always a caramel fondue.
The problem with fondue isn't what to make. It's what to choose! So many choices, so few cold months in the year!
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Happy New Year!
Happy New Year! After sleeping in--a good start to the new year!--I am washing champagne glasses and looking backwards at this past year. 2011 was a whirlwind year for me and my family. We stood up to a series of drastic changes in our life, buffeted by changing finances, new work for both of us, loss of friends, and the joyous gain of new ones. I lost friends to cancer, began to believe in my own eminent demise, and found myself reading my Kindle a little farther away from my nose. I colored my hair! At the same time, I secretly started writing a little blog: this housewife needed a little intellectual time in her week! Imagine that!
I'm still a housewife, but I work. With three children, a dog, a husband whose "I work at home" means he works whenever he is at home, I find myself inundated with piles of laundry, "what should we have for dinner?", and homework--mine and theirs! I spent a good part of last year purging my house, reorganizing my piles, and trying to sleep in a bed with no children in it. (Still working on that one...)
As I put away a menagerie of wine glasses, I say good-bye to this tumultous year that gave me so many reasons to rise to the occasion. I am still adapting to unexpected bumps in the road, and finding the silver lining even in my biggest mistakes. 2011 challenged me--over and over!-- to grow rather than wither. After all that character-building, I am blooming at 44.
I see this coming year and find myself grasping the hands of my loved ones, hugging them close to my heart, and breathing in that unconditional love that I give and get right back. I wish this for everyone in the coming year: that the people in your life empower you, that you do the same for others and yourself. That we shelter one another, share our best, and have the will to do something about our worst.
I look with anticipation and optimism at this coming year--oh! it's here! It's now!
I'm still a housewife, but I work. With three children, a dog, a husband whose "I work at home" means he works whenever he is at home, I find myself inundated with piles of laundry, "what should we have for dinner?", and homework--mine and theirs! I spent a good part of last year purging my house, reorganizing my piles, and trying to sleep in a bed with no children in it. (Still working on that one...)
As I put away a menagerie of wine glasses, I say good-bye to this tumultous year that gave me so many reasons to rise to the occasion. I am still adapting to unexpected bumps in the road, and finding the silver lining even in my biggest mistakes. 2011 challenged me--over and over!-- to grow rather than wither. After all that character-building, I am blooming at 44.
I see this coming year and find myself grasping the hands of my loved ones, hugging them close to my heart, and breathing in that unconditional love that I give and get right back. I wish this for everyone in the coming year: that the people in your life empower you, that you do the same for others and yourself. That we shelter one another, share our best, and have the will to do something about our worst.
I look with anticipation and optimism at this coming year--oh! it's here! It's now!
Friday, December 23, 2011
My stolen family tradition
Never are our traditions and rituals more evident than in December. Family traditions are the most obvious reminder of where we come from, who we are, what is important to us, as individuals, families, communities. That "every year, we........" is what bonds a family beyond the walls they inhabit together. These are the benefits you take with you, the moments that make you yearn for home when you are 20-something, the pull of repetition you recreate when you build your own nest.
My parents gave me plenty. I'm so thankful for that. Silly songs to sing every day: a wake-up song, a coffee song, a night-night song, even a song to sing everytime we saw the water tower against the horizon in our town. (my mother.............) We absolutely decorated Christmas cookies. We absolutely sang carols around our sparkly tree. We absolutely unwrapped just one present after Midnight Mass every 24th of December. We absolutely sang Happy Birthday to Jesus and enjoyed his birthday cake, even though we were all eyeing the unopened presents.
I carry most of these with me, a torch of sorts. I keep my heritage in the flame of these actions, these silly songs, those cookies.
My French man brought his own. We go for a walk on Christmas Day. Sometimes we drag our friends along. We have a nice meal in the late afternoon. There is Champagne all day long. We go easy on the presents. We go heavy on Family.
I respect this joining. These symbolic traditions are powerful, molding our children to show them what is important, what is valued between Us: two individuals, two cultures, who joined together with love.
I've looked around in my French man's cultural backyard, partly because I love my French man, and the more I add of his heritage, the more he participates in his American experience, but also because I not only love this man, but his country and culture as well. I have, over the years, picked up French holidays, French values, French traditions. I borrow, and then, if it works for Us, I steal.
I found one in particular that thrills me: a Christmas tradition that is specifically from Provence, in the South of France. It is, like many things French, centered around a meal. It is entirely symbolic, which the poet in me thrives on. The Thirteen Desserts, in Provence, show up after Midnight Mass. (France is predominantly Catholic...) The Thirteen Desserts is a meal at 1:00 in the morning, a series of fruits, nuts, dried fruits and bread that represents the thirteen seats at the Last Supper.
This meal begins with "the four beggars", representing the four monastic orders of the Catholic Church: raisins stand in for the Dominicans, dried figs are the Franciscans, the Carmelites transform into almonds, and hazelnuts symbolize the Augustinians. Trail mix, a la Monk!
This wintery platter may have apples, pears, oranges, grapes, or tangerines. What it must have, representing Good and Evil, is nougat. This not your 3 Muskateers nougat. This is French Nougat, a confection (either White or Black) that contains nuts, candied fruit, and honey. Dates are always there, as is quince paste (yum!), and a special bread made with olive oil called "Fougasse."
I'm not Catholic, although my father is. I grew up attending his church weekly, rising, kneeling, sitting, singing. Catholicism is rife with ritual, an indirect influence, perhaps, on this young girl. As a recently-married woman, I found this Thirteen Desserts (in a French movie, no less!) and couldn't get it out of my head. I researched (no internet back then!) and came upon the lessons behind this smorgasbord that is, in fact, supposed to stay on the table for 3 days!
My French man didn't know about this one. It is obscure, regional, and old. I stole it and wrapped it in my American Christmas. The Thirteen Desserts has become our Christmas morning breakfast: a platter of nature's candy that lasts all day, a foil for all that chocolate falling out of the stockings, a something-something to munch on before our little hike.
I've replaced that fougasse with a gingerbread, or sometimes, a Stolen, my father's German sweet bread that appeared on Christmas mornings. The oranges may appear in a tarte. The apples may show as a Tarte Tatin. It doesn't matter. My Thirteen Desserts is alive! Transformation! I wonder what my children will do with this one in 30 years....
My parents gave me plenty. I'm so thankful for that. Silly songs to sing every day: a wake-up song, a coffee song, a night-night song, even a song to sing everytime we saw the water tower against the horizon in our town. (my mother.............) We absolutely decorated Christmas cookies. We absolutely sang carols around our sparkly tree. We absolutely unwrapped just one present after Midnight Mass every 24th of December. We absolutely sang Happy Birthday to Jesus and enjoyed his birthday cake, even though we were all eyeing the unopened presents.
I carry most of these with me, a torch of sorts. I keep my heritage in the flame of these actions, these silly songs, those cookies.
My French man brought his own. We go for a walk on Christmas Day. Sometimes we drag our friends along. We have a nice meal in the late afternoon. There is Champagne all day long. We go easy on the presents. We go heavy on Family.
I respect this joining. These symbolic traditions are powerful, molding our children to show them what is important, what is valued between Us: two individuals, two cultures, who joined together with love.
I've looked around in my French man's cultural backyard, partly because I love my French man, and the more I add of his heritage, the more he participates in his American experience, but also because I not only love this man, but his country and culture as well. I have, over the years, picked up French holidays, French values, French traditions. I borrow, and then, if it works for Us, I steal.
I found one in particular that thrills me: a Christmas tradition that is specifically from Provence, in the South of France. It is, like many things French, centered around a meal. It is entirely symbolic, which the poet in me thrives on. The Thirteen Desserts, in Provence, show up after Midnight Mass. (France is predominantly Catholic...) The Thirteen Desserts is a meal at 1:00 in the morning, a series of fruits, nuts, dried fruits and bread that represents the thirteen seats at the Last Supper.
This meal begins with "the four beggars", representing the four monastic orders of the Catholic Church: raisins stand in for the Dominicans, dried figs are the Franciscans, the Carmelites transform into almonds, and hazelnuts symbolize the Augustinians. Trail mix, a la Monk!
This wintery platter may have apples, pears, oranges, grapes, or tangerines. What it must have, representing Good and Evil, is nougat. This not your 3 Muskateers nougat. This is French Nougat, a confection (either White or Black) that contains nuts, candied fruit, and honey. Dates are always there, as is quince paste (yum!), and a special bread made with olive oil called "Fougasse."
I'm not Catholic, although my father is. I grew up attending his church weekly, rising, kneeling, sitting, singing. Catholicism is rife with ritual, an indirect influence, perhaps, on this young girl. As a recently-married woman, I found this Thirteen Desserts (in a French movie, no less!) and couldn't get it out of my head. I researched (no internet back then!) and came upon the lessons behind this smorgasbord that is, in fact, supposed to stay on the table for 3 days! My French man didn't know about this one. It is obscure, regional, and old. I stole it and wrapped it in my American Christmas. The Thirteen Desserts has become our Christmas morning breakfast: a platter of nature's candy that lasts all day, a foil for all that chocolate falling out of the stockings, a something-something to munch on before our little hike.
I've replaced that fougasse with a gingerbread, or sometimes, a Stolen, my father's German sweet bread that appeared on Christmas mornings. The oranges may appear in a tarte. The apples may show as a Tarte Tatin. It doesn't matter. My Thirteen Desserts is alive! Transformation! I wonder what my children will do with this one in 30 years....
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