A week in suppers: 2
Monday supper. Veggie beef soup in crockpot (made with one steak that simmers all day in the tomato-y liquid until it is rendered meltingly soft). Cornbread. Cut up raw veggies. Albus doesn’t like cornbread, which is a pity, but there’s always someone who doesn’t like something. Fooey didn’t like the soup–too much corn. The corn and green beans were from last summer, frozen. That’s it for the green beans. Albus had a friend over for a sleepover. They went to bed very sweetly and slept soundly until about 5 the next morning, when they woke up and decided to play wii. Mama Bear, up for an early spin class, did some growling, and they turned it off and went back to bed. For half an hour. It’s the thought that counts.
Tuesday supper. Chili in the crockpot. Were the black beans leftover from the week before, or did I cook them up fresh on Monday? I can’t remember. I also made yogurt at some point this week, perhaps today. I made a vegetarian version of chili, with few additions. Baked rice and baked squash on the side. The squash was divine–one of the last remaining in the cold cellar, a sweet keeper variety. I love a good orange veggie in this lean month of March. I also baked a tray of ginger cookie-bars that morning. We’d had friends over for lunch (leftovers and sandwiches), and I was tired, on this the second day of March break. Not so much napping with all the kids home. I skipped yoga and went to bed early.
Wednesday supper. Tortilla wraps baked in the oven, using the leftover beans from the chili, the leftover squash, the leftover red peppers, the leftover rice, and some freshly grated cheese. Assembled by Kevin, who came home early so that I could go to a yoga class and regain my sanity. Big thumbs up from everyone. I ate late, alone. Kevin made two especially for me, and heated them up for me when I got home. He also did the dishes. Then we watched a movie together as a family: School of Rock. Must be said, I’m starting to enjoy March break.
Thursday supper. Spring is in the air! And drunken university students are stumbling in their green mini-skirts down the street. Must be Saint Patrick’s Day. I took the kids to a movie this afternoon: Yogi Bear. Supper was simple and good. And green. A big bowl of pasta with homemade pesto (toasted pecans and sunflower seeds, basil from the freezer, olive oil, two cloves of raw garlic, salt). Buttered green peas, frozen last summer. A big green salad using up the last of our local greens from Bailey’s buying club. Apple-Apple said it was the best dressing ever (olive oil, cider vinegar, maple syrup, salt, and tamari). Fooey said the pasta wasn’t green enough. The cook’s feelings were hurt, and Fooey wasn’t invited to the table until she apologized. We have a rule: no complaining about the food that is set before you. Well, smallish complaints are okay. It’s okay to say, for example, This isn’t really my favourite. It’s not okay to say, Yuck! Disgusting! There is not way I’m ever going to eat that! Add: That pasta is not green enough! to the verboten list. (Especially if said with a certain whiny disgust and disdain). The good news is: she apologized. The other good news is: Kevin discovered two cans of Guinness in the basement.
Friday supper. “Leftover surprise.” In other words: I cleared out the fridge (this is the after photo). It was actually quite a spread. Leftover pasta with pesto. Two kinds of soup (the chili, without the majority of its beans, was a bit thin). A fresh loaf of bread gifted to us by a neighbour. Cheese, butter. The kids had skating, but no soccer. The evening was blissfully free, so naturally I filled it with baking: I made granola and breakfast pitas. After the kids were in bed, Kevin and I caught up on my favourite tv shows (currently): Parks and Rec, and 30 Rock.
Saturday supper. Macaroni and cheese, baked in the oven. The kids ate it, and I didn’t take a photo. Instead, I took a photo of me and Kevin dressed up and ready to go out for supper at a fancy restaurant uptown. Whoo-hoo! (Though after the photo was taken, we both changed our minds about our outfits and fancied ourselves up a bit more). The day contained a strange mixture of activities: I ran 18km in the morning, came home and quickly showered and changed to go to the funeral for my kids’ crossing-guard, came home and picked up all the toys spread all over the house after a week of March breaking (with help from Kevin, but sadly, very little from the kids–which is our doing, not theirs–we need to get them helping more regularly), and then I made supper for the kids. Kevin and I ate a bowl each, too, because our reservation wasn’t til 8:15. For my supper, I had: a mojito-like martini, smoked salmon with house-made onion rings, a salad of escarole and sheep’s milk cheese, a sirloin steak with green beans and potato croquettes, and an apple donut-like dessert with whipped cream, with the first three courses paired with wines, and the last with a decaf cafe au lait. Put your hands in the air!
Sunday supper. Fooey’s menu: make-your-own-soup, with steamed homemade wontons, noodles, spinach, bean sprouts, and shrimp. I helped season up the broth, which was made from frozen homemade stock (I added miso and tamari). Kevin and Fooey are wonton experts–this is the second time they’ve made them, and he grinds together shrimp, spinach, ginger root, cilantro, and last night he added leftover peas when the stuffing ran low. Thumbs-up from around the table. Something for everyone. Kevin and I tag-teamed the dishes, and ran around like chickens with our heads cut off trying to get organized for school/work/routine the next morning. It was a late night, but I went to bed with the feeling that everything was under control.
Eye Woes
This is not the post I’d composed in my head during yoga class this morning. That post might yet materialize, but what’s top of my mind in the here and now of this chilly grey first afternoon of spring is my eyes. My eyelids to be precise. On my left eyelid, I’ve developed what may be a sty, though it hasn’t been diagnosed yet by a doctor, and wikipedia suggests several exciting alternatives (and yes, I’m trying quite hard not to self-diagnose). On my right eyelid, another bump is starting up. The one upon my left eyelid has grown rather, well, enormous, let’s just say. I can’t look up out of that eye, or to the left, because of the lump in the eyelid physically blocking my way. It’s red. It’s swollen. It’s disfiguring. It’s the kind of thing that people feel compelled to comment on because, you know, it’s there, in your face, so to speak. In mine, that is, which is facing yours.
What is especially miserable about this unexpected arrival is how it shakes my sense of self. It targets my vanity. I think of myself as being a strong, confident woman. But add in a giant eyelid pustule, and suddenly I shrink. I become smaller, weaker, more cautious. For example, I’ve noticed myself not entering into friendly casual conversation with strangers–you know, the kind of conversation that happens in line-ups at the grocery store, or in other public, potentially (but not necessarily) social situations. Once upon a time, I never had those conversations. I avoided them and stayed quiet. But post-children, I’ve grown to enjoy that kind of interaction, and I don’t think these exchanges are superficial at all, but a way to be present in the world, and open to the humanness of everyone I come into contact with.
I wonder–is my confidence, my willingness to reach out, only skin deep?
Do I need to consider myself attractive to step forth, strong and confident? If I feel ugly or weak, am I still myself? If I were much more sick, or altered physically, would my sense of self crumble quite utterly? What is it that makes me strong and confident? It can’t only be on the outside, on the surface, can it? Can I feel like myself while integrating a mild deformity into who I am?
Can I rock this eyelid pustule?
Family Fun Night, for the record
March Break
Check it off the want-to-do list:
We have hosted one friend sleepover (with the boys waking at approximately 5:30am to play wii in the basement, only to be foiled by semi-outraged, semi-amused mother who was leaving for spin class).
We have gone for walks in springlike weather, and visited our little neighbourhood park.
We have gone to the movies. Okay, so we were too late to get tickets for the one we wanted to see (Tangled), and thus ended up seeing the only other option (Yogi Bear), but it was friendly, corny, and funny enough to keep everyone happy, and the big kids were sent to the long concession line, by themselves, with cash, and returned with change and one treat for everyone, even mama (a Coffee Crisp–good choice, Albus).
We’ve had a family fun night (drawing, dancing), and a family movie night (School of Rock–who knew? It was the perfect movie for our sometimes ambivalent budding musicians).
We’ve had friends over for lunch, and vice versa, and everyone’s had a playdate or two sprinkled into the mix.
And now it is Friday. I fear the coming of the end of March Break, if only for the list of have-to-dos. We have to pick up all these toys, for example, the ones that have migrated around the house, along with blankets, pillows, art supplies, fort-building materials, and orphaned odds and ends of mind-boggling proportions. We have to memorize the times tables (well, one of us does, and if the rest of us come along for the rote-ride, all the better). There is much baking to be done (granola, pitas, bread). And there is the sense of: have we done enough with this magical week of freedom?
That question seems front and centre in the nine-year-old mind (almost ten). I’ve been sensing the pre-adolescent emergence this week; more than sensing it, seeing it, witnessing it, being slightly horrified by it. I keep working to emphasize the good, and call out the bad. I’m trying to figure out the balance between expectations and acceptance. If the grumpy nine-year-old has to howl about going for a walk in the beautiful spring breezes, because it doesn’t involve any direct pay-off for him that he can recognize, but then agrees to go for the walk, and comes along, and has a generally good time and is generally pleasant, should I get upset because the good was preceded by the bad?
I’m seeing the edge of mood swings. The precipice of myopia. The unlovely view of a sense of entitlement. I want to figure out a way to say, hey, I get it, but I expect more. You’re allowed to make mistakes, and lots of them–we all are–but you have to apologize, too. It’s natural and normal to want, to crave, to long for, but when you don’t get what you want, it’s good for the soul to look around and be glad for what you have.
Ugh. Are these just parenting cliches? Cliches generally? Well, they’re what I’ve got. If I find something more effective, I’ve let you know.
A week in suppers: 1
Monday night. Twice-stuffed potatoes, sausages, red cabbage salad. Potatoes leftover from Apple-Apple’s supper the night before. Excellent re-use of leftover baked potatoes, sliced in half, emptied out, insides mixed with cheese, crema, and mashed up brocolli and cauliflower. Red cabbage salad recipe from a friend (onion, mayonnaise, vinegar, and maple syrup). We cut each sausage in half, because there were only five. Kevin and I got one half each and the kids divvied up the rest.
Tuesday night. I ate alone. The kids went to a pancake supper at their grandma’s church, with Kevin, while I went to a yoga class. I made a house-favourite, mashed-potato soup, to be served as supper the next day. This “mashed-potato” soup contained quantities of squash. Basically anything goes into this soup, which does contain potatoes, too (though not mashed). Once it’s cooked, I zap it with a submersible hand-held blender, and hurray, instant happiness around the table. But I ate a bowl alone, tonight, and stored the rest in the fridge.
Wednesday night. Wednesday is always a crockpot supper. I tried out a new recipe with underwhelming results: a lentil and rice pilaf, which would have been far superior cooked on the stove. It was mushy, though smelled pretty good while cooking (cinnamon stick). Luckily, there was also mashed potato soup to warm up and serve. We ate together, between music class and Apple-Apple’s soccer.
Thursday night. I ate alone. The family ate pasta with red sauce. Kevin forgot to put out the greens. I cooked up the red sauce from scratch earlier in the day, and Kevin cooked up the noodles. It’s a good meal for the evenings when I’m out at yoga class. Which is where I was. I came home, and devoured a couple of bowls of pasta, along with the greens. That night, our youngest got sick, so we cancelled our babysitter and I missed kundalini yoga.
Friday night. I ate alone. This is starting to look like I eat alone a lot, but I feel like this week had to have been an anomoly. Kevin took the two girls to a pizza supper at one of our churches, Albus was at a friend’s house for pizza followed by the boys’ soccer (lovely parents feed our boy pretty much every Friday), and CJ was home with me, sick. I fried up a package of frozen spinach with cumin and garlic and onions, and ate it over leftover quinoa. Then I ate two pieces of pizza, which Kevin brought home for me. Kevin dropped off Fooey, and immediately left to take Apple-Apple to her goalie practice (soccer, again). Did I mention the pre-supper skating? The kids were all worn out. But also excited, because it was the start of their March break holiday.
Saturday night. Supper out! We went for all-you-can-eat sushi, and ate our money’s worth. Even CJ, who was still sick, discovered a fondness for cucumber maki, and ate at least six. This was such a treat, and it felt like we were on holiday, for real. We pretended we were at Disney (a place I fully intend never to go). I don’t know why, but it really felt like we were in Florida. We stayed for almost the full time limit, and everyone was beautifully behaved, not greedy, and shared the food. When we went home, we had a family drawing time at the dining-room table, and then a short dance party in the living-room. Considering the still-sick child, and the interrupted nights, and the 16km run that took up a large part of my afternoon, it felt like a real holiday.
Sunday night. All I wanted was not to have to cook supper. Yay! Kevin did it. CJ and I took a nap in the late afternoon, tucked up together in a chair. Kevin made tacos with black beans (which I’d cooked earlier in the day), and hamburger, and lots of fixings. It was an excellent meal, but with the time change, we realized it was nearly 7pm by the time we’d finished, and therefore too late for our planned family movie night. The kids were disappointed, but we let them watch part of a Harry Potter movie, while I did the dishes and the laundry. Everyone got to bed late, but slept soundly. I woke up feeling much more like myself again.