No.

After work on Friday, Cristine and Mason came over for some ice cream, a tour of the B and B and a swing in the hammock. Mason, just about 20 months-old, had learned a new word, which has since become his favorite.
Say your favorite word, Mason. 
No.
Mason, high five.
No. 
Mason, time to go, get out of the hammock.
No. 
Mason, eat your ice cream.
No. 
Mason, sit still.
No.
Mason, tell Roscoe not to dig over there.
No. 
Good job! 

Cristine told me that he just liked the word - that he didn't really know what it meant or how his terse response might affect the person on the other end. After a while though, I started to see why the word had such appeal. Just saying it was so straightforward and easy; making the n sound gave his tongue the opportunity to touch his baby teeth, crinkling his cute little nose then lifting his eyebrows as his mouth made a circle was just fun, and the look of surprise on everyone's faces when he said it was hysterical.

It made me wonder, at what point in a child's development does 'no' become an unacceptable answer. When does 'yes, ma'am' and 'yes, sir' become the order of the day? When even if you don't want to do it, you have to say, 'yes, of course'; if she doesn't look good or skinny or classy, you have to say, 'yes, you look amazing'; if it doesn't taste good, you have to say, 'yes, it's delicious'; if it's not working, you feel the need to say, 'yes, it works.'

After awhile, 'no', actually becomes difficult to say - it becomes a latent part of our vocabulary. My co-worker, Vicky, even has a big 'NO' button outside of her cube that does the work for her - that sounds off with four or five iterations of refusals, because she has such a hard time saying N-O to the hundreds of requests and questions that come her way every week. 

Raised by parents who never took no for an answer, I stopped using the word early on in life. I've always been an eager yah sayer - a can do kind of girl - bound and determined to do, see, explore, live, love it all.

However, yesterday, about half way through my Saturday morning run, I really wished that I had taken Mason's hint, and just said, 'no.'  Around 8:00 AM, my body was feeling tired from the week - from my commute, from the extra mileage I've tread walking Roscoe, from cleaning the house, from not taking a day off (ever.) The first four miles were a rather dazed effort, but I found a rhythm and kept making it closer to the turn around point. At mile five though, fatigue met a double whammy - the choice of Thai cuisine on Friday night, which started taking a terrible toll on my stomach. Two bathroom breaks later - one plush and one much more rustic - I was completely depleted of energy, and not even Tracy's reminder to 'FINISH HARD!' could get my legs to move at a normal pace. It was the worst, most lethargic, most uncomfortable 12 miles I've ever run.

My sister sent me an article this week, which has since been shared by a number of my female friends on Facebook. It's a good read, with a lot of valid points. My key take away was that you can't say yes to everything. You can't do it all. There are sacrifices you are going to have to make. And it's only when society accepts an occasional 'no' for an answer, that there will be happier, healthier communities, work places, and families. So for my own health and sanity, I'm going to start incorporating a 'no' now and then. Thank you, Mason.

There is one thing, that will never, ever receive a, 'no' from me though. And that's helping to cater birthday parties for my wonderful Mother-in-law, especially when they take place on her boat.

  

As a side note, the chicken chorizo empanadas were all that Smitten Kitchen brags about and more. And we will be using the leftover filling (there is a lot) for tacos on Monday night.

Lo.

Smitten

Lunch-packing was never one of my parents' fortes. 30-minute meals in the evening - A+, yes.  But opening my bag lunch at school always seemed to be a bit of a disappointment.

In a sea full of specialized lunch boxes, I would have a brown bag. And in it a couple of those signature we-were-in-a-hurry this morning selections. A cold chicken patty sandwich from the night before, a leftover hunk of meatloaf, a slice of salami on squishy white bread, some baldy pretzels (those are the unsalted kind), and an overly ripe peach, plumb, or pear. My hungry eyes would invariably shift toward the pimped-out lunch that Katy unwrapped every day.

Around second grade though, the "Hot Lunch" program was rolled out. The school built a cafeteria, hired some lunch ladies and sent out a memo in the Bulletin alerting parents that their life was about to become a little bit easier. My parents immediately signed us up. There were good hot lunch days - nacho cheese day, taco salad day, pizza day for instance. But more often than not, they were bad. Really bad.

There was one week in the Spring though that brought great food. Sometime between March and April, the lunch ladies would set up a special table in the cafeteria. It was a little out of the way and a little hidden, but my mature gastronomic senses knew its presence from the moment I entered the cafeteria. That, there is NEW food!

On the table was a spread that I recognized as what my babysitter, Patty, would eat during Passover - gefilte fish, lox, hard boiled eggs, kugel, rice dishes, fruits, nuts and MATZO! LOTS of Matzo! Upon looking at what was being served as the hot lunch special du jour - Sloppy Joes - I moseyed on over to the secret table and partook. I filled up my plate with every last one of the more exotic foods, took a seat, and finally gleamed in pride at my lunch, which looked better than Katy's wax paper-wrapped double-decker chicken salad sandwich on the bread that her family had made with their new bread maker.

The next day I once again rushed over to the miniature Jewish Food Festival and went heavy on the Matzo. Midway through lunch though, midway through filling my tubby belly, the little bell in the center of the cafeteria rung, and there was an announcement:
Only Jewish people, celebrating Passover, are supposed to eat the Passover food on the table over there.
As the only non-Jewish person eating off the table, in a school of about 200 people, this announcement was obviously directed entirely at me. My stomach flipped, my cheeks blushed, and I gulped in embarrassment.

I solemnly ate my last supper, sad that I was being tossed out of the inner circle that got to eat the good hot lunch. I thought it was unfair - just another one of those circumstances where being Catholic in a predominantly Jewish community meant that I was left out. I never got to see what was inside the Seders that my neighbors set up in their yards every year; I never got to go inside one of the five Temples within a mile radius from my house; I didn't get to wear a special long kilt to school; I didn't get to set up a menorah amongst the illuminated display of Christianity that my family erected every Christmas; I wasn't going to be able to stomp on a glass, get lifted up in a chair, or dance the Horah at my wedding. I did get to go to Bagel Nosh growing up, but I wanted to experience more.


I now live in Naperville. And there seems to be a total lack of noshing in Naperville. In general, people here stick to the basics - burgers, boneless skinless chicken breasts, and bad restaurants. So every night Peter and I challenge ourselves to think outside the burbs. We explore and travel vicariously through food and have just about made it around the world and back. We're now at the point where we're revisiting and we each have our favorite destinations. Peter makes us go to Mexico quite often. (We went twice this week)

Empanadas!

Thank you Bridget!

And I make us go at least once a week, if not two or three, to a little kitchen in New York City - a kitchen that is alive and steeped in the traditions of Jewish cooking - a kitchen that feeds my fascination with Jewish culture and brings the side of Squirrel Hill that I never had full access to into my life - we go to Smitten Kitchen. 

Not that she reads my blog, but I wanted to give Deb my congratulations. This week she won Food Blog of the Year by Saveur Magazine. In my opinion she not only won for writing, adapting, and photographing a cache of wonderful recipes. But she won because she breaks down barriers with her cooking. She embraces and celebrates her culinary heritage and traditions, and challenges her readers to think outside the kitchens they were raised in. To go outside of our comfort zones; to consider calling the recipe that we grew up knowing by one name, a different one; to not just make cake, but make it a celebration cake; to turn a fascination into an understanding and love for a culture that might seem very far away, but is actually quite close to your own.  

Shakshuka!

To not just have breakfast for dinner on a Tuesday night ... but instead a traditional Israeli dish of poached eggs in a spicy tomato sauce that's called something similar to a super hero's name - Shakshuka!

Lo.