Medical Advice

Folks, we are getting SO close.
SO uncomfortable.
SO anxious.
SO ready.
We're at 38.5 weeks and I'm told that any day now I could go into labor and into the hospital as Mary works her way out. At this final stage of pregnancy, it's all about getting ready for judgment day - those hours of pain in the hospital, which I know won't be pleasant. But I believe I have a great support network around me, ready to help me through it - a network that includes my doctors.

Over the past nine months, I've really come to like my OB group. There are six doctors in the practice, and I have seen all but one of them. For the majority of my pregnancy I saw the three senior physicians who have been bringing babies into this world for a combined 110 years or so. Each of them made the process less overwhelming, added his own sense of humor to our medical dialogues, and had an affinity for Notre Dame. Three winners.

For my most recent appointments though, I made an effort to see the women of the practice. I wanted to make sure I at least knew the face and manner of the doctor that could be in the room with me at the final hour. Not surprisingly, both were very thorough. In fact, I was a little taken aback by just how thorough Dr. R. was on Thursday afternoon.

Our post exam conversation went a little something like this ...

So, do you have any questions?
Am I just going to keep getting fatter until Mary arrives?
It's mostly water retention at this point. You will notice increased swelling.
My ankles already noticed it.
When do you think I will go into labor? 
It's hard to say. But sometimes, some women build such a nice home for their babies that they don't want to come out.
(I knew she liked the morning runs!)
We generally let women go till 41 weeks. If they haven't made progress at that point, we will schedule an induction.
I read that inducing labor isn't ideal - that it's better for you and the baby to go into labor naturally. (Yes, you'd be proud - I've been reading.)
True. And there are ways that you can entice labor to start. Some of these are wives tales, but generally, they work. Let's see ... keep up the running and walking. Drink red raspberry leaf tea. Sex. And something else that can help is having diarrhea. The contractions of the bowels can spur on labor. Try White Castle. Lots of women have been having success with White Castle. Now, I'm not saying go to White Castle every day for the next two weeks - but give it a try.
(Mouth agape. My doctor is literally telling me go to White Castle to get diarrhea. Thank heavens she didn't tell me to try McDonald's.)
I nodded. Thanked her for her sage advice and got dressed.

Yesterday, I tried a couple of the tactics, but to no avail. It's still early after all, and I still have stuff to do: a couple more finishing touches to put on the nursery, a bag that needs to get packed, a few more chapters to read ...

And several more meals, just for two, to cook. Peter's birthday Clam Chowder, made by me, but under the guidance and coaching of my husband, was the best of this week. 

When it comes to 40+ weeks though, for the first time in my life, you might just find me pulling out of the drive-thru with a bag of sliders and a milkshake in tow. And if the mission is a success, I plan to suggest a new marketing slogan to White Castle - 'medically proven to make little miracles happen for the past  92 years.'

Lo.

31

On Saturday, for the first time in I don't know how long, I slept through the night. No bathroom breaks, no water guzzling to quench an unquenchable thirst, no leg cramps, no lying in bed blankly staring into the dark. 9 hours of uninterrupted rest. And it was bliss. The culprit of this sensational slumber - my birthday. A great one. 

Birthdays are funny. People seem to think they should be the shining moment of your calendar year - that upon their approach you should have a royal plan of regalia primed for launch. On Friday, I entertained the question, 'so what are you doing tomorrow?' from at least a dozen people waiting with baited breath for something amazing to come out of my mouth. I sensed their disappointment with my more or less blank reply.

Ten, twenty years ago, I would have had better answers. I would shared that I was going to lace up my roller skates and glide around Ardmore Roller Rink with my best friends. Or that we were off to Hidden Valley for a ski weekend. There were a couple trips out West, and when I turned sixteen, there was a trip to New York City. In High School, there were girls nights - dinners and movies and over analytical gossip sessions on the boys we were crushing on, but who likely didn't know we existed. In College, it was all about the burnt almond torte, shipped directly from Prantl's in the trunk of my Mom's car, shared by my teammates in the locker room. And in my twenties there were grand affairs - big birthday parties, DJs, cupcakes and cocktails. This year, I didn't have much to tout, but in the end, it turned out to be just what I needed.
 
I went for a (very) chilly run through the forest preserve with Peter. I got a huge helping of my favorite frozen yogurt, which was followed by a massage. I did some baby errands. We went to Mass and then out to dinner. Sweet. Simple. Perfect.   

The day and the satisfaction that I felt from it made me think about how far I've come. How much more the small stuff means to me now; how having an ever appreciative perspective tends to bring a sense of genuine happiness to your life; how birthdays aren't so much about the show and tell on Monday, but about reveling in the love, laughter, and life that will inevitably find you on your special day.

Sure, I could have griped that I only made it 3 out of the 5 miles at a jogging pace - that the remainder was spent power walking. I could have complained that I was freezing most of the day because of my very cold choice of lunch. I could have found fault in the fact that my masseuse wanted to chat with me for 90 minutes instead of letting me relax. And I could have been discontented with our perch at the bar of Capital Grille instead of a cozy table for two. But I couldn't find a single negative in any part of the day. The pace gave Peter and I more time together, bouncing through the woods. Being cold just made getting warm that much more rewarding. The chatty massage probably prevented me from turning into comatose for the rest of the day. And having dinner at the bar was way more fun then blending into the crowd of cheesy belated-Valentine's diners.

A special thank you to my husband, for making me feel like a Toms clad, Tiffany sporting, cupcake filled, champagne toasting queen, not only on my birthday, but everyday. And for nine months of making me understand that being two people, can be more beautiful than being one. Just as everyone keeps telling me, this is going to be one amazing 31st year.  

Lo.

Big Plans

This is always a big week for us: Valentine's Day, our birthdays, then this year throw in the Chinese New Year, Mardi Gras, and the beginning of Lent. There is epic culinary potential in it, and generally I plan out this corridor to staged perfection. However, this year, given several factors, planning consisted of more ad hoc arrangements. My dumplings were a day late for the New Year, Mardi Gras was celebrated over Claire's gumbo a couple days before the holiday, and I had no idea what to make on the morning of Valentine's Day.

Drawing on inspiration from a comment Peter made earlier in the week about wanting to take a beer tour of Belgium, I ended up creating a scenic, savory journey through Belgium on Thursday. I knew we weren't going to be able to fit international travel into our 2013 agenda, so I brought it to our dining room table instead.

The thing is, my spontaneity didn't ruin a thing. In fact, I think the meals tasted a little better, the conversation was more lively, and based on the success of the fried cod last night, we just might open up our own Western Suburban fish fry during Lent.  

It made me start to think about planning and the over and under of it. When I was young, it happened the week, maybe even the day of. Sure, there were certain things etched on the calendar - black out dates per se: birthdays, holidays, dance recitals, family vacations. But besides that, I had a wide open agenda; so did everyone else.

What was in store for the weekend was the topic of conversation late in the day on Thursday and the destination of Friday's sleepover might not be decided till the morning of. Menus, games, outfits, prank call lists, bedtimes (to my dismay) were flexible and fluid up until the hours that they were executed. No one stressed. No one cared. All that mattered was the guarantee of a good time in the decisions that were made. 

However, somewhere in between my first wedding season and the arrival of the first baby to my inner circle, planning became essential and extensive. This year in particular, some sort of subliminal memo went out, prompting everyone to get out their calendars and start blocking off dates, early. Within the first week of the year, a good third of my agenda was already chiseled in: weddings, work events, vacations, reunions, races, and of course the big birth date were entered into Outlook.

I capped it there though and ceased making arrangements. Mostly, because 2/3 of my little family couldn't commit at this time. The very idea of calendar-marking makes my husband cringe; he still prefers the week-of plan. And the little lady, who everyone keeps telling me will change my life, might have a totally different set of plans come March 6.

While growing up, I loved the thrill of the question mark attached to every weekend, and today, I love the spontaneity which Peter wants in our life, there is something very different about then and now. Sure, there's the fact that you are an adult - and you have a little one on the way - and you have all these grown-up priorities to balance - blah, blah, blah. But the biggest difference is that your best friends aren't a couple blocks or even the PA turnpike away. They aren't down the hall or across the quad. And you can't just be over in a sec. Instead, they are scattered, hundreds of miles apart - plane tickets, cab rides, hotel rooms away. And to see them at least on a yearly basis, you have to make some big plans. Sure, you can relive the memories of gossiping on the school's heaters, stealing erasers, jumping on the trampoline, watching romantic comedies, going stag to dances, Boat Clubbing, and tailgating on the phone or even over emails. But to make new memories, you have to be together.  

In thinking about this, I've been anxious to book tickets to New York, Boston, San Diego, Seattle, Denver, North Carolina, and DC - to lock in spending quality time with my girl friends who I miss so much. But plan-making is no longer just about me. And something tells me that under-planning this spring and summer, might just work better for Mary.

Like this week though, I believe there is a lot of potential in the last minute arrangement that in our household always seems to translate into the best kind of fun.  Now to plan my play-it-by-ear birthday ... GO!

Lo.

Frisee Salad with Poached Eggs
Serves 2  

Ingredients

Mixture of Frisee, Radicchio, and sweeter green lettuces
Green beans 
Two eggs
Honey vinaigrette (recipe below)

Honey Vinaigrette
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 tablespoons champagne vinegar
1/2 teaspoon diced shallot
Sprinkle of diced thyme 
1/2 teaspoon tarragon, chopped  
1 teaspoon honey
Salt, pepper

Directions: 
Blanche the green beans and let cool. In a medium bowl, combine lettuces and green beans. In a small bowl, mix together dressing ingredients. Toss over the salad mixture and divide onto two plates.

Poach the eggs, Peter style: In a medium pot, bring water to a boil. Reduce heat, so not at a rolling boil anymore. Using a spoon swirl water, so its churning around the pot. Let it slow to a gently swirl. Crack one egg into a very small bowl and gently release the egg into the water. It should sink to the bottom and the water's motion should keep it together in a beautiful rounded form with the white on the outside, and the yellow on the inside. Cook for 3-4 minutes, remove and repeat the process with the other egg. Serve warm over the salad.

Prep Work

I used to arrive a couple hours early for my shift on Fridays and Saturdays. Typically, they were my longest, busiest days on the floor of Eleven; I figured what's another hour or two. Instead of going straight to the office though, I moseyed into the kitchen with a cautious plea to Chef, 'Can I help?' Incredulously, he would wonder what the girl with the wrong clothes, scar-free arms, and big hair was doing in the back of the house. But with an apron, a promise I wouldn't cut myself and a quick sweep of my hair, he would let me pitch in: rolling out, cutting and flouring the gnocchi, mixing up and molding the crab cakes, filling, simmering, and setting the massive pots of stock for a 24-hour journey toward richness.

I loved participating in the prep work rituals of the massive, industrial kitchen, steaming toward serving 300 to 400 people throughout the course of a given evening. There was both an art and science to the planning. Timing was everything and coached through frequent Chef check-ups on process and status. When the doors of Eleven opened at 5:00 PM, every cook, every pastry chef, every station needed to be as equipped as possible for the estimated amount of traffic that would come through the double doors. A slip in efficiency on the line due to a lack of preparedness, could dismantle the whole evening.

What I learned as an observer, I've transported to my kitchen. And at home, I've gotten relatively good at the prep work needed to execute a dinner party in which I'm less of a caterer and more of a guest.

Last night, I felt particularly proud of the prep work I put into a dinner for my friend, Cristine and her husband Kevin. The menu was planned by mid-morning. Grocery shopping was done by 3:00. Dessert was finished by 4:00. The ribs were braising by 4:30. The table was set, garde manger was ready for salad assembly, and cocktails and appetizers were set up fireside by 5:45 PM, Cristine's reservation time. After an hour relaxing and chatting with our guests, I only needed 15 minutes in the kitchen to get everything on the table. I felt like Chef would have been proud.

***

When it comes to prepping for the baby though, I'm a little less sure about my plans and timing. Sure, the nursery looks cute, I'll pick up the vintage Sound of Music poster that I just had framed tomorrow. Mary's closet is all organized and color coordinated. And I translating 'nesting' to mean buying new furniture for our sun room. But this week, I had a couple 'huh, I should really do that' moments which led me to question my preparedness.

Say when Genevieve asked if I had been reading a lot recently.
I have actually! I'm about halfway through Moby Dick. Great book!
Oh, I meant baby books.
Right. No. Haven't read any of those.
Or at my shower on Wednesday, when I started opening essentials like bibs, pacifiers, a baby tub and an infant swing, and realized that I would have totally forgotten about these staples had others not come to my rescue.
Or when my Mom sent me a message in her signature check-list format. Have you ...
Stopped running. (Kind of) 
Stayed away from anyone who is sick. (Like the plague) 
Relaxed and gotten lots of sleep. (Not so much.)
Stocked the freezer with meals. (No, but excellent idea.)

So with a little more than three weeks left, I've decided to do a little more practical prep work. I started to think of the comfort food classics that were always stocked in Grandma Barry's freezer and made a mental list of the meals I should make, starting with beef stroganoff. But I had this idea. Instead of making a whole meal without the instant gratification of eating it for dinner, I would just double the recipe so we'd have the other two servings for those days in March when I'll probably be too tired to cook.

My plan backfired though. See, the retro stews, braises, and roasts of this world - the ones that make excellent leftovers, also translate into amazing seconds or thirds. So my beef stroganoff for four on Thursday night, quickly turned into beef stroganoff for 2.5 with nothing, not even a couple egg noodles, left to freeze.

So I'm back to the drawing board again tonight. And with it, I'm thinking I need to make meals for eight or ten, in order for their to be any generous portions in my freezable future.

In terms of non-culinary prep work, savvy Moms, what else am I missing?

Lo.


Citrus and Pomegranate Salad with Honey Vinaigrette
Adapted from Thomas Keller's 'Ad Hoc at Home'
Serves four  

Ingredients:
Mixture of Bibb and Romaine lettuces (Keller calls for Little Gem lettuce, which I could not find in the store)
1 grapefruit, segmented
1 orange, segmented
1/2 cup pomegranate seeds
1/4 cup toasted walnuts
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon vegetable oil
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
1 teaspoon honey
1 teaspoon fresh tarragon finely chopped 
Salt, pepper

Directions:
Mix oils, vinegar, honey, tarragon, salt and pepper in a small bowl. Toss lettuce with dressing. Plate lettuce. Top with citrus slices, a generous amount of pomegranate seeds and walnuts. Serve.

Red Wine Braised Short Ribs 
Adapted from Bon Appetit 
Serves six 

Ingredients: 
5 pounds bone-in beef short ribs
salt, pepper
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
2 yellow onions, chopped
3 carrots, peeled and chopped
2 stalks of celery, peeled and chopped 
3 tablespoons flour
1 tablespoon tomato paste
Bottle (750 ML) Red Wine, preferably Cabernet Sauvignon
3 cups beef stock
Head of garlic, sliced in half horizontally
10 sprigs of flat leaf parsley
8 sprigs of thyme
2 sprigs of rosemary
2 bay leaves

Directions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Generously season beef with salt and pepper. In a large dutch oven, heat oil. Brown short ribs on all sides in two batches. Set aside.

Add onions, celery and carrots to the pot. Cook over medium high heat for 8-10 minutes until onions are soft and starting to brown. Add the flour and tomato paste. Mix well to incorporate and cook for about 2 minutes. Add the bottle of wine, stirring well, making sure the liquid is even. Put the ribs back in the pot, bring to a boil, and reduce liquid by half. It took me about 40 minutes to do this. By that time the sauce was thicker, richer in color, and delicious.

Add beef stock, herbs, garlic, salt and pepper to the pot. Place in oven and cook for 2 hours.

Remove the pot from the oven. Let sit for about 15 minutes. Remove the ribs. Strain the liquid into a saucepan. The fat should rise to the top, remove that using a spoon or skimmer. Serve short ribs in a shallow bowl over something like mashed potatoes and parsnips, with the sauce on top.

Beef Stroganoff 
Serves four (or two and a half on a hungry day) 

Ingredients: 
1 pound beef stew meat
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
Salt, pepper
1 onion, halved, then thinly sliced 
1 tablespoon flour
2 teaspoons ground mustard 
2 cups beef stock
1/2 pound baby bella mushrooms, sliced
3/4 cup sour cream
Flat leaf parsley
Egg noodles

Directions:
Season beef with salt and pepper. Heat oil over medium heat in a dutch oven. Brown meat evenly, about 8 minutes. Add onions to the pot and saute until soft and fragrant, about 5 minutes. Add flour and ground mustard, stirring well and cook for 2 minutes.

Slowly add stock, whisking constantly. Turn heat to low, and let simmer for 2 hours. After an hour, check on the pot. If you need to add more liquid, add another 1/2 cup of stock.

Add mushrooms, salt and pepper and let cook for another 20-30 minutes over low heat. Right before serving add the sour cream. Serve over egg noodles, topped with fresh parsley.

Different

Recently, finding something to wear to work has been a challenge. Nothing looks good. But honestly, the foremost question in my mind when I open my closet every morning is not my appearance, but my level of comfort. The cute dresses have been replaced with muumuus; four inch heels have gone flat; once opaque tights have stretched to translucence; the belly hangs out; and the bra size, well it just continues to creep down the alphabet, past the point that Ellie knows.

Given my appearance, I've found myself using my cubicle as a shield at work - a cover up for the body sitting, no slumping, just behind the wall. And given the sedentary nature of my job, it's been easy to keep my expanding state of being contained to a smaller group.

However, on Friday, my barricade was brought down as my team collided with others in the close quarters of a conference room for our first department meeting of the year. Six hours; no walls; here I am, world.

The meeting was focused on diversity in the workplace - an excellent session that hit on some of the tougher issues inside and outside of the office. It got the whole group out of their comfort zone and into a place that produced some incredible bonds.

About midway through the meeting, all forty or so of us were called upon to answer five questions and read our reflections aloud to the group. They were:

• What is the name on your birth certificate? 
• What comes first in your life? 
• Name a defining moment in your life.
• What is your guiding principle?
• When was the first time you recognized that you were different; or that others were different from you? 

What started as an innocent, deeper glance into the life of the person who sits next to you, shortly turned into a large-scale group therapy session. The reflections got a little more honest; hardened voices developed quivers, and emotion swelled through the room.

The baton was passed to me and it was my turn. I felt like a had a million different answers for each of these questions, and a million different ways I could go in my storytelling. But since I was talking and most likely emoting for two, I played it safe. I hesitantly stood up, pulling at my dress and subtly hiking up my tights.
I'm Lo.
Hi, Lo.
My faith and my family come first. (Check.)
Defining moment. That would be what I'm going through now. (I looked down at my stomach. They got it. Check.)
My guiding principal. Well, my grandma and Mom used to always tell me that an idle hand is the devil's workshop. And I've taken that to heart. (Check.)
I answered the last question with a cop-out story about a second grade sleepover when I told Mrs. Magyar that I wasn't allowed to watch Dirty Dancing with the rest of the group - my parents wouldn't want me to. So I excused myself from the television room and went upstairs to play alone. I realized then that I was a dork. Probably always would be. And wasn't afraid to be that way. (Lame. But check.)

***

As we were leaving Piece last night, Caylan wanted to take a photo of the girls.
Ugh. No.
Please. Come on.
I jumped in on the end closest to the camera - worst position to be in. Snap. Review. Oh my GOD!
I think Caylan thought it was one for the blog. She had commented that I hadn't posted a picture of myself in months. No one had seen the baby bump.
Yeah, there's a reason for that. Don't put that picture on Facebook! 
You should post it.
On the way home, I started thinking about the words I shared on Friday, and the place where I was too nervous to go. 

There wasn't just one moment when I realized I was different; there were many.
There was the time I went to try on First Communion dresses and my Mom told the saleslady that I had a little tummy. 
The time when I noticed that all the other girls in my class didn't have Xs on their size 6 uniforms.
The time that I realized that not all little girls could fit two Big Macs in their stomachs. And honestly still have room for more.
There were the photos - from birthday parties, class trips, dance recitals, and softball games where I always looked like the biggest person in the group.  
There were the Dr. Levin appointments; the longer talks with my Mom or Dad about doing a little more exercise and eating a little less dessert. (Seriously, do you know how my Grandma bakes?)
And perhaps the final straw. In sixth grade, I heard the boys snickering and whispering a chant to each other, 'boom ba ba boom, ba ba boom' as I walked down the stairs of the auditorium to my clarinet lesson. I pretended that I didn't hear. But I had. And it hurt. So much. 
For the record, I was never obese. I was chubby. But in a classroom, on a stage or in a cabin where you are the chubbiest one, it makes an impression.
By the summer of sixth grade, I was on a self-imposed diet. By eighth grade I knew the calorie composition of everything that went into my mouth, strove for 1-2 grams of fat per day, and was approaching a size 0. I haven't looked back since, and there were years when the obsession took heavy tolls.

That is, until now. Well, more like July. My defining nine-month 'moment.' A steady, healthy weight gain that has challenged what I've been doing to myself for the past eighteen years. Things that I've neglected: a real lunch, a day off from running, the other side of my scary weight, tucking away my mental calorie counter have become non-negotiable. Standing up in a room of 40 people, humbled by my appearance, has shaken my confidence. But over the course of this waiting period, I've realized that despite the changes to my body, I'm still me. Same sense of humor, same goofy girl, same work ethic, same love for all the people in my life. I've just let a little bit of the chubby girl back in. And she's not so bad at all.

In one more act of bold sharing, I'm posting a photo of me. Circa right ... now.

Should've done my hair and put on makeup. Oh well.
I'm nearly 36 weeks along. I've gained a little more than 30 pounds and I'm anticipating that I'll add another five or so to that in the next couple weeks. 

As a closing remark, what I went through with my department on Friday was insightful, inspiring and invigorating. And I have a personal plea to parents out there: Please teach your children that people come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They have different credos, convictions, and co-pilots on life's journey. They are old and young; male and female; rich and poor. But each person has a tremendous value. A worth that can't be seen by an exterior perception. Don't let yourself or your children try to take that value away from anyone.      

Lo.

Analog Parenting

There is one priest at our Church that can wrap up Sunday Mass in 40 minutes or less. He's the kind of speed reading, prayer condensing, get me out of here before the Bears game starts celebrants that Catholics love. We rarely have him at 10:30 Mass though. Instead, Peter and I settle in every week for a good hour and ten minutes, set to the sonorous, soft and slow prayers of our Pastor. I'm not complaining - I need that time. But generally the jersey-clad assembly starts getting restless when the myriad of post-Eucharist guest speakers step up to the pulpit. This past Sunday, that speaker was the School Board president who extended an invitation to us to stop by the Parish's elementary school for an open house.

For kicks; a trip down memory lane for Peter and an accelerated planning session for me and Mary; we heeded the president's call to action and took a tour of the school. We were met in the auditorium by three enthusiastic eighth grade ambassadors, eager to show Mary her potential classroom. 

While Peter moseyed down the hallways where he had grown up, reminiscing about where his old teachers had reigned, I started to notice things that didn't look like school as I knew it. I suddenly became an incredulous observer of bulletin boards, classroom decor, and academia that were a far cry from what I remember.

There was the second grade artwork, hanging on the walls of the first floor. The herd of dinosaurs wasn't depicted with the help of a set of crayons or markers, instead it was composed with the paint brush function of Apple's drawing program.
I saw a bunch of exercise balls in the classrooms.
'Um, what are those for?'
'Oh those are for the kids that can't sit still. They use the balls instead of their chairs and it helps them concentrate.'
'Are you kidding me?!'
The blackboard - that wonderful tool that I used to practice writing on before class started - was covered with maps, schedules, pictures, and other laminated paraphernalia. There wasn't an inch left to use. And the chalk? There wasn't a single slice of it.
'A lot of kids are allergic to chalk.'
'Seriously?!'
'We have interactive white boards instead! How cool is that?'
Then there was the library. A classroom that boasted perhaps four, maybe five book shelves.
'This is the library. But they cancelled library classes. They were replaced with additional computer classes.'
My heart skipped a beat. No Mrs. Sabeh. No plastic covers that crinkle when you open them. No library cards and overdue notices. No quiet time at a table in between the stacks for you and a good book to bond.
'So, they don't teach you the Dewey Decimal system?'
'Um. No. They don't teach that anymore.' 

I left school, feeling a little uneasy. It was shock I guess, but it was exacerbated by the daunting themes of my recent non-fiction reading binge. Within the past two weeks, I've read Omnivore's Dilemma, The Last American Man, and Cod - A Biography of the Fish that Changed the World. I highly recommend them all. Each book painted a rather ominous portrait of our society - from manipulating the food chain, to replacing hard work with laziness, to raping the oceans - we have spent decades, no centuries reshaping and reclaiming natural human systems. 

And as we do this, we foster and pass on new techniques to future generations. Instead of teaching our children how to do things for themselves, we give them products, which are most likely electronic and programmed to do the work for them. We surround our children with over stimulation to the point that it is impeding their ability to process things in a linear fashion. And apparently, the stimuli are making us so attention deficit that we need bouncy balls to concentrate. We are feeding ourselves and our children food that we were never as humans were supposed to eat. Whether its something jacked up on corn and its bi-products, shot up with hormones and chemicals, synthetically farmed, or genetically modified, it's doing crazy stuff to the way that we think, age, and interact. And yep, it's probably making us allergic to freaking chalk. 

Yes, I'm being pessimistic. And honestly, for all that had changed in the classrooms that I observed, there were many things that were the same. The love that our tour guides showed for certain teachers, especially that science teacher who drank her coffee out of a beaker. Hey, I had one of those teachers too. The fear they remembered as second graders in the middle of a bustling third floor hallway filled with seventh and eighth graders. Their band pride - from the remedial Hot Cross Buns playing fourth grade band to the more advanced group of instrumentalists in the upper school. And their giggly friendship accentuated by their matching Sperry shoes.

With Mary arriving in five weeks, I've been doing a lot of thinking about parenting and the world that she will inherit. It's far different from the place I knew and the speed at which it continues to shift is scary. But I've made a promise to myself that despite what the rest of the world is pushing and promoting, Mary and the rest of our children will be raised in a rather analog house. We'll always be equipped with a record number of books per capita and everyone will have a library card, we'll stick with economy cable, music will come from a record player, there will be ample tools for growing, gathering, and yes, hunting, we will spend quiet time listening to the crackling of birch wood in the fire place, we'll open up the box of art supplies on lazy Saturday afternoons, and our refrigerator will continue to be stocked with food that is local, fresh, and as unprocessed as possible.

I am bound and determined to fill in the gaps in Mary's education with the stuff that I'm afraid is going to be missing from school by the time she gets there. There will be plenty of time for artwork, exploration in Bemis Woods, theater, dance, and imagination. And if there ever comes a day when there is a choice between the short version of Mass and the long version; a pew versus a bouncy ball; an e-reader hymnal versus the bound edition; our family will always take the longer, slower, sturdier, steadier, and more tangible route.

Lo. 

Out and In

After Thanksgiving, Aunt Jeannie told me not to entertain anymore. She said to take it easy.
Just relax. I nodded, complied, but knew perfectly well that there would be many more guests before March rolled around. 

Last weekend, I did take Jeannie's suggestion though. Instead of staying in, we went out for sixteen dollar hamburgers, specialty drafts, and the company of our friends, Bill and Meghan. The hot spot was Vie, which besides coming over to our house, is the reason you should make the trip to the Western Suburbs for dinner. It's a Michelin rated gem with an impressive seasonal menu, excellent wine list, and a preservationist's dream walk-in. They also offer a whole hog butchering class, which was the highlight of our summer a couple years ago.

However, amongst the smartly casual crowd, I became (at least in my mind) the thing that didn't belong. Party due to my frugality and partly due to the way I've been carrying this baby, I've resorted to stretch ware's finest, which is just what I wore out last Friday night. I quietly hoped that the sassy suburbanites would focus on my new Frye boots instead of the Lycra-wrapped upper quartiles of my body. But I could sense the spandex haters all around me. Or maybe it was just me, hating myself in spandex. Regardless, the food was great, the company better, and the lack of dishes to wash, much appreciated.

This weekend though, I decided to return to my comfort zone and invited the party to come to us. That is, two of my cousins, two of their friends, and the showpiece of the evening, Ellen's new beau. (Uncle Mike, not a jagoff. Two thumbs up from us.) To fend off the frigid temperatures, there were platters of bruschetta served fireside, followed by Thomas Keller's filling and seemingly mile-high quiche, a roasted beet salad, and freshly baked biscotti for dessert.   

About midway through dinner, I once again confirmed the benefits of staying in. It's cheaper. And in many cases, better. Everyone seems a little more comfortable - so comfortable in fact, that picking at the crust of the quiche before its served is A-okay. There is full transparency about what's happening in the kitchen and the guests always seem to eager to participate. You don't have to weight for the server to fill up your pint glass. Stretch pants are totally acceptable. And when dinner is over, there's no road trip separating you from your warm bed.  

There is also something infinitely rewarding about preparing dinner and serving it to a group of young people who have dedicated the early part of their careers to making a positive difference in the world. Whether it's through clean energy, social work, environmentalism, educating some of the most vulnerable children in the country, or tackling the big issues through prose, Peter and I were in the company of some Millennial change-makers last night, privy to some incredible insider information that added human faces to the problems plaguing our nation. To send this optimistic, hard working crowd off into the 3 degree Chicago tundra, warm, full and happy, was awesome.   

So yes, Aunt Jeannie, there are hours here and there set aside for lying down, relaxing with my pregnant belly blocking the lower half of my book nowadays. But the hours leading up to dinner will always remain full, because they continue to bring so much life to my life.

Lo.

Thomas Keller's Over the Top Mushroom Quiche
Adapted from Food and Wine 

Buttery Pastry Shell
 
Ingredients: 
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 small container oyster mushrooms, roughly chopped
1 big container white mushrooms, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon unsalted butter 
2 small shallots, minced 
1 tablespoon fresh thyme, chopped 
1 cup shredded Emmental cheese
1 1/2 cups milk 
1 1/2 cups heavy cream 
5 large eggs, lightly beaten
Freshly grated nutmeg
Salt, pepper

Directions:
Prepare the crust. This can always be a challenge, and stepping up to the heights of a spring form pan to create Keller's crust can be very challenging. Here are some tips:

• Make sure you chill the dough enough before rolling it out and right before you put it in the oven. 
• Roll out the dough enough that you have excess hanging over the side of the pan and press the top firmly around the edges. It seems inevitable that the crust will collapse inward, so being prepared in this vain will help. 
• If you are aiming for Keller's perfection, save some excess pie dough to fill in the cracks.  
• Use pie weights. 
• Bake almost the full hour that it calls for before adding your custard mixture and the rest of the ingredients.

Preheat the oven to 325 F. In a large skillet, heat oil. Add the mushrooms, season with salt and pepper and cook over medium high heat until they start to soften, about 5 minutes. Reduce the heat to medium, and add the butter, shallots and thyme and cook about 12 minutes longer, stirring often. Season with salt and pepper and let cool. (There will be a lot of liquid from the mushrooms. You will want to drain most of this before adding the mushrooms to the quiche.)

Scatter 1/2 cup of the cheese and half of the mushrooms evenly over the bottom of the pastry shell. In a large bowl, mix together the custard: eggs, milk, cream, nutmeg, salt and pepper. Pour half of the mixture over the cheese and mushrooms. Top with another 1/4 cup of cheese and the remaining mushrooms. Then add the rest of the custard. Finally, scatter the remaining 1/4 cup of cheese on top.

Now, there is a reason this is called an 'over the top' quiche. Sure, it's 'over the top' in that it's a higher, fluffier, quite impressive quiche. But it's also 'over the top' in that the egg mixture quite literally went over the top of the (and under) the pan for me. That is why I reduced the custard proportions a bit. I don't like wasting eggs in this house. Depending on how well you did with your crust, look out for the lowest lying crack, and try to fill the shell past that point.

Bake the quiche for more than 1 1/2 hours. I say more than, because at 90 minutes, it wasn't quite set yet. I needed an additional 15. It should be richly browned on top and barely set in the center. Let it cool in the pan until still very warm, but set. Pop out the bottom of the springform pan and serve in wedges.

Craving-Beating Biscotti
(Barely) adapted from Smitten Kitchen

Ingredients:
3 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups sugar
10 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 teaspoon almond extract
1 tablespoon orange juice
1 teaspoon orange zest
1 cup sliced almonds, toasted
1 large egg white, lightly beaten

Directions:
Preheat to 350F. Line baking sheet with parchment paper.

Sift flour, baking powder and salt into medium bowl. Mix sugar, melted butter, eggs, almond extract, orange juice and zest in large bowl. Add flour mixture to egg mixture and stir with wooden spoon until well blended. Mix in almonds.

Divide dough in half and shape each half into logs on the prepared baking sheet. Depending on how long you want your biscotti, vary the width of the log. (You will be cutting them on the horizontal.) Brush egg log all around with prepared egg white.

Bake logs until golden brown about 30 minutes. Cool logs completely on sheet, about 25 minutes, but maintain oven temperature.

Using a serrated knife, cut logs horizontally into slices. Again, based on preference, cut them thinner or thicker. We prefer a 3/4 inch slice. Arrange slices, cut side down, on baking sheet. Bake 20 minutes, turning the slices over about midway through the bake. In the last five minutes, watch carefully, because they turn color quickly. Transfer to rack and cool.

The Sous

In French, 'sous' means under. So in a restaurant, it makes sense that the sous chef works under the executive chef or chef de cuisine, aligning and igniting the kitchen based on the strategic leadership of his boss. The etymology of the title implies that the sous might in some way be sheltered by his boss - protected from the natural culinary disasters that are likely to hit on Friday and Saturday nights. However, in the restaurants where I have worked and in the kitchens that I have observed, I've never seen a sous in such a privileged state. Most times he's on the front line, getting dirty, diced, sliced, and burned; he's there earlier and later than the rest of the crew; and when the chef needs somewhere to direct his wrath, it generally hits his sous. 
 
When I was in search of Mr. Right, I was also looking for the ideal sous chef. Someone who was equally invested in food, who would appreciate the extra effort and dollars put into dinner, who could take the reigns when things got backed up on a big night, and who could handle the pressure. Enter Peter. A month or so in, I hired him. And I haven't looked back.  

So today, in just about the smallest galley kitchen within the remodeled kitchen wonderland of the Western Suburbs, I continue to work alongside my sous chef, testing new recipes, tossing together new ideas, and serving new customers, while his enthusiasm for dinner preparation grows. He asks the right questions, brings new techniques to the chopping block, has a mean jump shot approach to his pizza dough throwing, and while he is afraid of getting burnt, he's not afraid to get dirty. He is the perfect sous. Mostly, because he makes me better. 

The problem is, he doubles as the master brewer of our establishment. Which on busy Saturdays and Sundays can be a challenge. And if our little concept is ever going to work, I'll eventually need another person in the kitchen. 

Enter an interested candidate. Someone who shares a passion for marketing and communications within the food service industry, my black and gold blood and an excellent sense of fashion. Someone who was eager to learn my craft. Hired.

Ashlee started on Monday. She wanted to learn a go-to meat and potatoes recipe that would impress her future Mr. Right. I wanted to get a basic lesson in pan searing in. So we went with seared strip steaks, haricots verts, and garlic mashed potatoes. 

We started at square one: the butcher. I took her through the mystifying case at Casey's and taught her about the different cuts of meat. She earmarked a couple for another apres-work lesson. We selected a couple of steaks, got a few other ingredients to fill in the gaps of our menu, and then set up shop back in my kitchen. She learned to dice and season; to steam, sear and reduce; she took notes, asked good questions, and sampled with a critical palette. But as I expected, the whole 'under' thing, didn't shield her from flying pan sauce, but that's what happens when you're the sous.

The meal was a success - the Brewer approved. And she's scheduled to return for some chicken frying, meatball rolling, and small plate assembling soon. Excellent. In the meantime, she has an assignment on Sunday night. Chops. Slow and low. Go. 

Lo.

The Fizzy Mary

Yesterday, while friends and family were texting, tweeting and posting with sitings of Chris Fowler, Flo Rida, and Versace, live from South Beach; and while Peter provided our neighborhood with quite a site as he cold-smoked salmon with his very own contraption; Mary felt the pressure to perform and bumped up by belly a bit more as she squeezed into a black turtleneck dress and made a debut of her own in front of a very special crowd of women.

Yesterday, I had my second baby shower at the North Shore Country Club in Glenview. It was hosted by the wonderful DG girls - best friends of my mother-in-law from her days at Drake University. Everything was just beautiful: the flower arrangements, the setting overlooking the golf course, the food and company, especially the cookies.

After all the wedding showers, I thought I would have been used to being the object of regalia. But what I have found is that baby showers are really quite different from their bridal counterpart. As the bride-to-be at showers, engagement parties, cookouts and luncheons, I had outfits and ones that fit: cute sundresses, new platform shoes, the clutch to match. I also had a champagne cocktail in my hand and the will power to resist the petifours. I elegantly unwrapped presents with manicured finger nails and knew exactly what I was going to do with kitchen supply A through Z that resided inside. 

Baby showers are a whole different ball game though. Instead of being the one who legitimately looks great, you 'look great' even if you are the guaranteed heavy weight of the room. The outfit isn't quite as cute and you don't look quite as cute in it. While everyone else is having a glass of white Burgundy, you get to sip sparkling water. Present opening becomes a little more awkward because gifts don't seem to rest gently in your lap like they used to, and if you happen to be a nail biter who is anticipating the biggest Notre Dame game in 20+ years, untying the ribbons can be particularly cumbersome. The other tough part is knowing exactly what you are supposed to do with the cloth diapers or diaper rash ointment you are opening. Time will tell they say. I did figure out the Sherpa car seat cover - totally plush - totally practical. 

But there is something way better about baby showers. That is, you always have a little buddy with you, helping you cheer as you unwrap the sweetest little outfits, the most cuddly quilt, a new chair for the dining room table, and a cow-print throne for the car. A little buddy who makes it okay for you to not only have a cookie, but a cupcake as well. And a little buddy who can bring out the double dose of love you feel from everyone in the room.

To say, 'thank you' to my seven amazing hostesses, I gave each of them a bottle of Rose Champagne and instructions on how to make our little lady's signature cocktail on the day that she arrives.

But I'm thinking I might just need to have a sip of my own Fizzy Mary tonight as a toast to Our Lady. Capital O. Capital L. Her team is playing in one big game tonight. And me and my belly dancer are getting really nervous.  

GO IRISH!!

Lo.

The Fizzy Mary

Place a sugar cube with dashes of aromatic bitters in a chilled champagne flute.
Fill the glass with Rose Champagne
Squeeze a lemon twist on time.
Raise your glass and toast, 'to Mary!' 

THE Gift

As a child, the passage of Christmas Day was devastating. All the build up, all the hype, all the presents, and joy ... and then what? Boxing Day. A sad tree with no gifts under its magical branches. 364 days till the next time Santa came down the chimney, till the whole family gathered together to sing Christmas carols again, till Sacred Heart was full, and till I was allowed to have more than three cookies for dessert. I'm sure there were years when the morning of the 26th actually provoked tears. 

In retrospect though, that week or so after Christmas, without school or schedules or stress was pretty spectacular. It was a week with one purpose: playing with shiny new toys. Changing Molly's outfit with her new ensembles at least three times a day, throwing footballs through the snow, trying out my new ski equipment, watching the latest Disney movie to hit VHS over and over again, and arranging and rearranging my china animal collection making room for the newest additions to the menagerie.

Although the non-profit marketing and fundraising world, highly dependent on the cash that comes in the door during the last couple days of the year, doesn't present the same carefree week after Christmas as my childhood, I didn't let the rapid coming and going of Christmas get me down this year. And I was able to carve out some time to play with some of my favorite gifts.

I stocked Mary's library shelves and got her nursery a little closer to complete. I watched as my husband wound up and shot his new bow and arrow. And I played for hours on end in front of the stove. Specifically, with a gift that came twice: once from my sister and once from my cousin. Two hints that I was missing something very important in my pocket-sized kitchen.

A couple years ago, I misplaced a very special present from my Aunt Dee Dee. Right around the time that my Grandma was developing Alzheimer's - when the gaps in her memory couldn't take her from the start of a recipe to her masterpiece finish - my Aunt compiled a book of her classic recipes for everyone in the family. I had only made it through her saucy spaghetti and meatballs when somewhere in the middle of my move from Indiana to Illinois, I lost it. And I was as devastated as I used to be on the 26th of December. Leave it to Erin and Meghan though to set things right on Christmas Day.  

So this past week, equipped with a little bit of Grandma's magic and a couple tender messages from my Double G, I filled our house with the smells and tastes of 126 East Edgewood. There were beef birds with pan gravy. Green bean bakes. A Dutch oven filled with pork and sauerkraut.

And a little something that I have dreamed of making for a long time now - my Grandma's New Year's pretzel. Kneaded, filled, wrapped, twisted, baked and glazed to perfection. And in the tradition of my Grandma, I made sure there were enough friends, family members, and excited little ones gathered around to share in the bountiful good luck it is supposed to bring in the New Year.

Whether it's under the caring eyes of a photo of my Grandma and Grandpa, or in the bright arms of a big yellow bowl. Whether it's in Sewickley, PA or Honolulu, HI. Whether it's baked fresh for the party or frozen for generations to come, I'm so proud to be one of the Barry bakers carrying on the legacy of my Grandma's simple, family friendly, always made with an extra cup of love food. And I'm sending this little thank you note to Erin and Meghan for making it possible again.

Lo.

Grandma Barry's New Year's Pretzel 

Ingredients: 

Sweet Dough
2 packages active, dry yeast
7 cups of flour
2 teaspoons salt
1/2 cup sugar
2 cups milk
1/2 cup butter
2 eggs

Nut Filling
2 pounds of finely chopped walnuts
1 cup applesauce
1½ cups of sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon

Glaze
2 cups confectioner's sugar
About a 1/2 cup milk (or as much or as little to get the right consistency of glaze)
1/2 teaspoon vanila
extra nuts for topping

Directions: 

You want to start by making the sweet dough. Melt butter over medium low heat, add milk, and bring to about 110 degrees Farenheit.

Combine yeast, with 1 cup of flour, sugar and salt. Add into heated milk and butter mixture, making sure everything is incorporated. Let sit for five minutes. Add well beaten eggs and again stir until smooth.

Add remaining flour, cup by cup to the mixture. Stirring until well incorporated each time. On the 6th and 7th cups, you will need to use your hands to start needed the dough together. Remove the dough from the bowl, and need for five to seven minutes until the dough is smooth and supple. It should be pretty firm dough though. Place is a greased bowl, cover with plastic wrap and a towel, and let sit undisturbed in a temperature controlled part of the house for one hour. After that hour, punch the dough down, and let it rise again for one hour.

Meanwhile, you can make the nut mixture by combine the applesauce, nuts, sugar, and cinnamon. Stir until well combined.

When the dough is ready, roll it out into a long rectangle (like 30 inches by 10 inches long rectangle.)  Yes, this is going to be one BIG pretzel. Place nut mixture down the middle of the dough and then fold over like an envelop in three pieces to make sure all the nut mixture is covered. Seal the edges gently.

On a parchment lined (BIG) baking sheet, fold the dough into a pretzel shape. Again, gently press ends together.

Bake at 375 degrees for 25-30 minutes or until the dough is golden brown on top.

Let cool. Make the glaze and then top the pretzel with it and a sprinkling of walnuts. Make sure there is an army to feed.