Care Packages

From the bluffs overlooking Lake Erie, I witnessed the forging of many summer storms. The natural drama of clouds colliding into an angry tempest would play out on particularly hot, humid days in July. As the first rain drops fell and the distant thunder rumbled, campers would scurry from electives stationed around the grounds of Calvary Camp into their respective, but identical small white, wooden cabins.

The counselors - the muscles of camp - would quickly, but diligently unfasten latches that released an extra layer of protection from the approaching gales and showers. As the wind would pick up, the flashes of lightening would become more vibrant, the thunder would reach a more frightening decibel, and the last cabin mate (number ten of ten) would burst through the door panting, soaking wet, relieved they had finally reached a measure of safety.

Tucked inside the dark cramped cabin, rain pummeling the roof, gusts of wind threatening the wooden boards that stood between us and nature's fury, I was always thankful for the stuff that had reached me in the past week from the world outside of camp, hundreds of miles away.

A postcard from my parents written from a lazy porch in Chautauqua; a letter boasting of operas, ballets and symphonic masterpieces that followed dry happy hours. A greeting card inscribed with my Grandmother's perfect penmanship, capturing the putting green, Mississippi River Catfish, lightening bugs, Hello Dollies, and heat indexes of Quincy, Illinois. A note from my Grandpa, decorated with exclamation marks that showcased his enthusiasm for this summer's crop of tomatoes. A mix tape titled 'Quite the Gentleman Caller' - a gift from a friend back home; a melange of catchy songs that became the soundtrack to the summer. And finally, my care package.

My name, as well as my brother's and sister's had been called over the loud speaker earlier in the week. The announcement summoned a dozen other lucky campers and us to the camp office to pick up their respective miniature treasure chests of branded packaged goods. Walking back to my cabin, arms wrapped around my brown parcel, I felt a little more loved, a little less hungry, and a little closer to home.

Back in my cabin I unwrapped a tube of Pringles, Oreos, Goldfish, Life Cereal, Trident, two rolls of Certs, a Mad Libs, my In Style magazine, a couple extra pairs of Hanes, the long sleeve GAP t-shirt that I had forgotten to pack, and a note from my Mom and Dad sealing the gift with love. 

Atop my bunk, my fear of thunderstorms turning to tornadoes was assuaged with a stack of Oreos and a sheet of Mad Libs fielded by the more verbally provocative in the group. Despite their distance, my parents always knew how to make me feel better. 

***

Huddled in the plastic wrapped safety of the Peggy O on Saturday afternoon, Stacy's Pita Chips making their rounds, Revolution brews cracked, famous tales getting taller, we watched sails unravel, skyscrapers disappear, and white caps form as a massive storm system descended upon the Windy City. With one of my fellow Calvary Campers on board, I flashed back to the stormy scenes of Camp that I remember so well.

This past weekend, I felt like Calvary was back in session. My campers, two special new ones included, gathered in the Midwest for Arts and Crafts, Skits, Swimming, Boating, Banquets, Campfires, and laughs that echoed across Lake Michigan and back. 

While there were some changes ... the outfits were trendier ... 

The food more craveable, the bug juice more potent, and the ice cream at canteen sweeter. 

The electives more colorful ... 

And the news a little quicker to reach home. 

A lot was the same; campers got R-O-W-D-I-E,

More seasoned campers watched out for the newbies.

Girls passing boys' tables in the dining hall paused to flirt. 

Rest hour was mandated. 

New friends were made while old ones were nurtured.

And the hugs on the last night of Camp had to last another year.

A special thank you to my wonderful Aunt and cousins for making their way all the way to Chicago to show how much they cared. I hope you had as much fun at Camp 2015 as I did.

Lo.

A Parent

Last weekend, Peter shoveled away some snow, pulled out the smoker, and shredded a serious piece of pork into carnitas for dinner. I made the fixings, Peter opened up the beer cellar, and we welcomed first and second generation friends into our house for a winter-in-Chicago-kind-of-sucks gathering.

After dinner, we were sitting around, half of us with babies suctioned to our chests, and my friend Greg turned to me and said, 'isn't this crazy, we're parents.'

Looking around the room it was. Five years ago we were at Corby's drinking too many beers, eating one more chili cheese dog, and making arguably bad decisions. Now little lives and bed times (namely mine) depended on us.

I don't know if hadn't registered to me or if in actuality no one had said it to me in the ten months that Mary has been around, but the positioning of Greg's comment threw me off. I didn't just have a baby, I was a parent. A parent. And in that there was something that made me hold Mary a little closer. The statement was weightier; filled with more responsibility; and way more stressful.

After you get married, the world expects you to have a baby. So you do. And we did. But having a baby is easy. It means decorating a nursery, taking cute pregnancy photos, picking out miniature outfits, planning first birthday parties, bath time, play time, and nap time. Sure you complain about sleeplessness, but somehow never feel that tired. Babies are hugs, squeezes, cuddles, smiles, coos, crawling, cruising and milestone after documented milestone recorded in a perfectly organized scrapbook.

This week, Greg's comment resonated more than ever. I did not just have a baby. I was a parent. And for the first time ever, I forgot to eat. (Just the M&Ms that I had stashed in my glove compartment, but in my world that says something.)

Being a parent means poo and diaper rash and potty training. It means saying no. Meaning no. And enforcing no. It means car safety and passive driving, ear infections and antibiotics, wanting to be there for baby, but knowing you have a job to do so Day Care it is. It means your mouth comes second; and on an airplane, despite what the stewardess might tell me, it means my air mask can wait. It means asking for help, accepting help, and realizing defeat. It means planning for the future, monitoring the budget, and denying yourself the shoes, bags, and clothes that deep down you really want.
It means no time.
It means worry and anxiety.
And it means good enough is the passing grade.

The problem for me and many in my generation is that we all want babies - the chubby little cherubs pasted all over Pinterest. But we also want careers, not just jobs. We want to mothers, not just moms. And we want to remain these unique, celebrated individuals that we've spent decades cultivating. We don't just think it's all possible, we think it will all be easy. And when it's not, we (or maybe it's just me) panic a little bit.

Being a parent is realizing that life isn't easy and it's not perfect and there's never just one solution. It's exhausting, emotional, and sometimes painful. But with that said, I wouldn't trade in my role for anything. Because the laughter after an ear infection, the moment of pride and relief after a heavily anticipated meeting, and the group hug at the end of a tough day are some of the sweetest notes in life.

Big hug, to me.

Lo.

A Saturday Routine

Yesterday, Livia was showing me how she could stand in first position, do plies, pose in an arabesque and leap across the carpet with a grand jete. Her aunt had given her some of ballet's fundamentals, but in a couple months she would be able start taking classes in her neighborhood. I could sense her excitement about the upcoming opportunity to take the steps she had learned and weave them into a routine that she could perform in living rooms across the Western Suburbs. 

It made me think about my experience dancing - the first steps that I learned - the anticipation I felt as my teacher started piecing them together - the thrill I found when my movements started to make sense - and my pride in knowing with absolute certainty all the fancy footwork and armwork to match. After a while, improvisation and swaying from my prescribed routines started to confuse me. I needed the precise rhythms, measured spaces and calculated cues. Without them, I felt lost.

This notion of strict choreography started to seed itself in my day to day activities as well. I embraced knowing what came next. But when I met Peter, all the solo acts that I had memorized and perfected, were no longer relevant. I needed to start developing duets.

However, trying to establish a new routine with a partner who prefers improvisation is quite difficult. While he thrived on the riffs, scats, and jam sessions in life, I tried to tame the dissonance with structure. There were times when we just flopped.

In the end, we learned to compromise and take turns leading. Some days, we used my choreography, but set to songs that I knew Peter would like. Other days, we would wing it, constantly changing keys, tempos, and direction all in the name of creating something different. To my surprise, both ways worked and both ways made the performers and spectators happy.  

Peter and I tend to be really good together on the weekends, and yesterday was no exception. I must say it was one of our most successful routines - one that combined both of our styles and possessed all the right elements. Sure, there were some trials leading up to its execution: a steady rain that made us soggy; a cheese shipment delay, detouring us from one theme to Peter's love affair with the pig; a goal line stand controversy; and a cider press conundrum. But the show, good food, cheers, and juices went on - another little thing I taught Peter about show business.

And it went a little something like this. 

5,6,7,8 ...
A good read. 
Followed by a good run.
A special frittered breakfast.

 

Then a couple chores and some stokes of the smoker. 

Quick chasse into the shower. 
Chopping, slicing, pestling, chilling.
Brendan, enter stage right. Stoke, stoke.  
Brises or jumps, followed by plies to the beat of hole finding, pass grabbing, quarterback scrambling, helmet hitting, fumble recovering, field goal kicking, touch down scoring, and goal line standing.
Bill and Meghan, enter stage left. Mira and Livia scurry in. 
Slicing, smashing, pressing, apple foam tasting, bottling. 

 

 Shredding, eager forks noshing, stacking, Carnitas consuming, stomach satisfying. 

Little bow. 
Bravo!

The crowd wanted an encore of apple fritters, so I've included it below. 

Lo. 

Apple Fritters (makes about 8 fritters)
Adapted from Pioneer Woman

1 apple, cored and sliced into 1/8 inch rings
1 cup flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
Pinch of salt
1 egg
1/2 cup milk
1 tablespoon melted butter
Vegetable or canola oil
Powdered sugar, for dusting

In a medium bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and almond extract.

In another medium bowl, beat eggs. Then add milk and melted butter. Gently fold the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients.

Heat oil over medium high heat until about 375 degrees. Keep this temperature consistent. Drop each apple slice into the batter to create a thin coat. You made need to coax the batter along to stick on the apple slices evenly.

Drop battered apple slices into oil, perhaps three per batch. Fry for 1-2 minute per side until golden brown. Keep a careful watch over them as they can quickly burn. Remove from oil and set on a paper towel lined plate to dry. Repeat process with remaining apple slices. Serve immediately with sifted powdered sugar.

Ribfest

Every year, Naperville hosts Ribfest during Fourth of July weekend. It's a four or five day event, centered on 16 of the best rib vendors in the country. The party extends far beyond barbecued slabs of pork though - there are carnival rides, concerts, games, and tent after tent of fat people food, designed to help you pack on the pounds as quickly as possible.

We not only used to attend Ribfest, we used to actively participate. Peter was a rib judge several years in a row; we had parties in sponsorship tents; and I spent a lot of time hanging out with the Mayor's grand kids. While at first, I was incredulous that this activity was going to happen on more that one day in a lifetime, it started to grow on me. I liked the Americana feel. The ribs started to season my stomach. And the pulled pork - it was just awesome. I found that for a weekend, I enjoyed embracing my inner park person, relaxing in the grass while listening to over the hill rockers like Joan Jett and ZZ Top, and methodically snacking on every bite of my perfectly prepared funnel cake. 

With our move closer to the city and with our trip to D.C. last weekend, we didn't make it out to Ribfest this year. And we were both sensing a summer void. So midweek, Peter asked what was planned on Friday night?
Nothing.
Saturday night?
Nothing.
Done.
We're smoking ribs.
Great idea!
Which then made me think that where there are ribs, there has to be a festivity.

So today we hosted our own little ribfest at our house.

It starred the rib master and his ribs:

The rib judges and their overwhelmingly positive scores: 
Trent: 10
Claire: 10
Becky: 10
Kate: 10 

The live entertainment:

And the park people food, brought to the crowd by yours truly.

If you don't have any plans next Saturday, I'd recommend hosting your own ribfest. (The recipes are below.) It was a great afternoon and evening.

Lo.

Sweet Potato Chips

5 sweet potatoes, peeled, and thinly sliced
Tub of crisco
Parmesan or Pecorino cheese, finely grated

In a large dutch oven, heat the oil until it reached 350 degrees. In about 4 or 5 batches, drop potato slices into the oil and fry until crisp and browned. About 15 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon and let dry on a rack. Season with grated cheese.

***

Corn Bread Salad with Green Goddess Dressing

Corn Bread (I've tried tons of recipes, but I love Jiffy Mix), cubed and toasted
Boston Bibb Lettuce
1 Avocado cubed
3 tomatoes, preferably heirloom or three different colors
Shallot finely sliced

Mix together lettuce, tomatoes, avocado and shallot. When ready to serve top with croutons and toss with Green Goddess Dressing (below.)

Green Goddess Dressing (Adapted from CHOW)
1 anchovy filet
1 clove of garlic
3/4 cup mayonnaise
1/4 cup sour cream
1/2 cup tarragon
1/2 cup Italian parsley
2 tablespoons scallions
Juice of 1 lemon
1/2 teaspoon course salt
Pepper

Place all ingredients in blender, mix until smooth. Add extra seasoning if desired. Serve over crouton salad.

***

Apple Slab Pie - Just like Grandma's

Buttery Pastry Dough (I also really like Martha Stewart's Pate Brisee)
Three big granny smith apples, peeled, cored, sliced and then halved
2 tablespoons cinnamon
1/4 cup sugar
2 tablespoons lemon juice
Egg wash (1 egg plus a bit of water, whisked together)
Vanilla Glaze (1 cup confectioners sugar, 1 tablespoon milk, 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Butter a 10 by 10 by 3 inch pan.

Mix together apples, cinnamon, sugar and lemon juice. Set aside.
Split dough into two pieces - one bigger, one smaller. Roll out large piece of dough and lay in pan, letting the extra crust drip over the side. Fill with apples. Roll out the small piece of dough and drape over the apples. Pinch together the two crusts and trim the edges with a knife. Brush the top with egg wash. Bake for 45-55 minutes or until the top is golden brown. Let cool and drizzle with vanilla glaze.

I'd give you Peter's rib recipe and methodology as well, but the rib master did not reveal his secrets.