Mash Up

16 years ago, when we weren’t pranking the Latin students or Mr. Walker's algebra class; when we weren’t reciting speeches for Mr. Altman on stage, writing papers for Dr. Free, or escaping to Egypt via Dr. Bedell; when we weren’t protecting our belongings from the class kleptomaniac, cleaning the clay out of our nails, or alerting Dr. Vassar that she had the in case of emergency number wrong (with all due respect, I believe it’s 9-1-1 not 9-9-1); you could probably find Nicole and I on a school heater, warming our kilted bottoms from the cold winter weather and tearing out a clean sheet of paper to craft yet another MASH grid.

For those that are unfamiliar, MASH is a girly, horoscope game. The respondent get three inputs for each category ranging from the name of your spouse to the place you will live to the number of children you will rear. The questioner and person filling out your MASH card gets the fourth input. After you've filled in all of your answers, a rudimentary algorithm determines which choices will define your future.

I don't know if it was version 521 or 630, whether it was freshman or junior year, but there was one MASH game that was pretty accurate in predicting Nicole's future.

She went to CMU.
She became a doctor.
She lived in an apartment in Boston.
She got married in Pittsburgh - Heinz Chapel to be exact; honeymooned in Africa.
She wore a white dress.
His tux was black.
The cake was a couple layers of burnt almond torte.
Nailed it.

Well almost. The only problem is that our little oracle indicated that Nicole would be marrying one of the four known boys within Ellis' deserted dating pool. Woof.

The default, worse case scenario guy circled on your MASH sheet was always depressing and clouded an otherwise rosy future; so we came up with another way to define the man who would be waiting for us at the end of the aisle.

A list, compiled of the ideal qualities we sought in our Prince Charmings. He was nameless in high school, but as we left Ellis’ bubble and ventured into a scarier co-ed world, our compasses led us to some other choices in the game of MASH.

Nicole's list was tough though. She didn't just have the standard attributes like good looking, funny and nice. She took Prince Charming's qualifications to the next level.

(Very) smart.
Great sense of style.
Comes from a good family.
Can dance. And preferably tango.
Loves to travel. Globally.
Good cook.
Likes to entertain.
Speaks Spanish. Or will learn.
Cultured.
Appreciates art.
Good luck with that.

It took a couple mismatches and some reordering of attributes, but Nicole found her first choice in the game of MASH and married him yesterday with multinational, cultural gusto and grace.

While we were never going to be able to perfectly predict all that our futures will hold – the house might actually be a mansion, the pink car might actually be blue, and the two kids might turn to three - but I feel confident predicting that Nicole and Alec have a happily ever after in their cards. And yesterday I felt so honored to be standing up for my dear friend as she said, ‘I do’ to her dream come true.

Lo.

On Time

While my Mom is assembled of Irish and Croatian parts, my Dad is 100% German engineered. Precision, detail, and absolute timeliness are synonymous with the way he runs.

While my Mom's internal clock is more variable, surprising us at early dismissals on one hand and leaving us waiting to sit down to dinner as she cruised along the Boulevard of the Allies on the other; my Dad's timing is scientific. The numbers that dictated certain practices and procedures growing up are still implanted in my mind.

1 minute,10 seconds: exactly how long a cold cup of coffee should be in the microwave to return to its optimal temperature.
7 minutes: how far ahead all my Dad's clocks are. His philosophy is that if he is 'running late' he's actually on time.
9 minutes: precisely how long it took my Dad to get from Children's Hospital to Extended Day if he went through the Park ...
Which meant he could leave work at exactly 5:51 PM and arrive to pick us up just as after school care was closing at 6:00.
45 minutes: the boast worthy time between getting home and getting a quality dinner on the table.

I'd like to say that I inherited a combination of my parents' genetic make-up, but I feel that I was born with my own, unique strain of tardiness. I'm chronically guilty of finding one more thing to do, arriving ten minutes late, and planning only to break said plans.

On Sunday, I had built untimeliness into my marathon equation. Running a little behind wouldn't matter - I would make it when I made it.

That is, until I lined up; until Rahm Emanuel stepped up, the Star Spangled Banner waved, Born to Run blared, and the Kenyans started (and basically finished) the race. One foot in front of the other, I willed myself to be on time. I had told Peter and Mary that I would see them at 9:45 AM on Taylor Street and I wasn't going to keep them waiting.

So I ran fast. And then faster. I ran past the men peeing and puking; the women who had applied make-up for today's race (really?); and my teammates as they eased up.

I ran past the Lincoln Park lawn picnics, the drag queens of Boys Town, drums, cow bells, and kazoos; past the barbecue pits near the United Center, the garlic roasting in Greek Town, and the spaghetti bolognese bubbling in Little Italy.

I reached mile 17.5 and with it my biggest and littlest fans at 9:50 AM. If only I had set my clock seven minutes ahead.

By far - this was the best visual I have seen on any course to date.

After that moment, my eight minute miles got harder, then nearly impossible. When I reached mile 20, then 21, 22, 23, and 24 I considered walking and kept the temptation circling through my head, but one foot in front of the other I ran on.

I ran past the tacos in Pilsen, the General Tsao's chicken in China Town, and the beer man as I turned down Michigan Avenue. I ran past the people passing out, the nurses running to their rescue and the stretchers taking them off the course.

I ran to get to the finish line on time because I had promised my baby girl I'd be there for brunch (and my homemade brunch was ready an hour ago.)

I made it. And in a new time to add to my list: - 3:41:37 - Precisely how long it took this mommy to run 26.2 miles so she should be with her family again; to hug her baby and thank her husband for making a marathon, seven months out, a possibility.

Lo.

F is for Food

With the exception of Oma's signature pound cake that arrived at our door last weekend and my husband telling me that I had made the best grilled cheese ever on Wednesday night, my kitchen has left me little to write about over the past couple weeks. The stories range from bland to downright bad. (So bad that I actually took one bite and threw my pasta away on Friday.)

The overtired working mom in me can produce countless excuses why our dinner table doesn't have the same look and feel and taste as it used to. I've been sick on and off for a month. There's not enough time. We have a new little diner on a solid food regimen. And now there's even less time.

But the fact remains, I feel like a slacker.

I used to get a big kick out of Peter bragging to his friends about how he ate like a king every night. And I loved adding my culinary tales to the Coke cooler chatter at my office. I kind of wondered why some of the other women seemed less interested, but nonetheless, I loved sharing stories of seared duck breasts, cherry compotes, roasted fingerlings, and spinach gratins whipped up on a Monday night. (Ah, I sense why the other moms were annoyed at my gourmet diatribes.) The commoner cuisine we've been having lately is far less novel and I guarantee Peter's been focusing his food boasts on the bacon wrapped corn he grilled the other day, not my dinners.

Over a high point of the week - crab cakes on Sunday night, I apologized to Peter for a week of more mediocre meals. Peter poo poo'd my comment and told me that we eat very well.

My next bite tasted a little better. 

Yes, my bar is set sky high and my expectations are unreasonable. I'm working harder than ever, training for a Marathon, managing a household, reading and writing (okay, just writing), breastfeeding, pureeing my own baby foods, and (trying) to put a decent homemade meal on the table every night. Something has to give, right?

In my type A world, the answer would be 'wrong.'

I'll continue to try to do it all. I might get sick along the way; people may spit out their peas; and I might have to stop and walk the last mile. But by looking at smiles as my new qualifier - my own and my family's - and by leaving the other rats out of the ranking system, I'll win every time.

My advice is to focus on your little cheering section - their applause is what you are fighting for. And likely, they'll keep smiling no matter how bad the shrimp scampi is.

Lo.

Crab Cakes with Avocado Salsa 

Adapted from Plumpjack's Cookbook 

(Makes four - six) 

Ingredients: 

2 scallops 

1/4 cream 

1/2 pound jumbo lump crab meat (it's expensive, but so worth it) 

1/2 cup panko crumbs 

1 tablespoon cilantro, roughly choped  

1 small plum tomato, finely chopped

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 tablespoon olive oil 

Avocado Salsa 

1/2 avocado 

1/2 cup water

1 teaspoon champagne or white wine vinegar 

1 tablespoon cilantro 

Juice of half of a lemon

Salt, pepper 

Directions: 

In a blender, puree scallops and cream. (I thought these were incredibly strange instructions, until I saw the result. Basically you get this scallop whipped cream that acts as an emulsifier for the cakes. I didn't even use an egg.) Set aside and clean blender. 

In a large bowl, combine scallop cream with crab meat, panko crumbs, cilantro, tomato, mustard and olive oil. Stir carefully to combine, careful not to do too much damage to the lump crab meat. Make four (entree size) cakes or six (appetizer size) cakes. 

To make the avocado salsa, puree avocado, water, vinegar, cilantro, lemon, salt and pepper until smooth. Set aside. 

In a large skillet, heat 1-2 tablespoons olive oil over medium to medium high heat, depending on how hot your stove get. You want the cakes to sizzle and brown, but not burn. Cook about seven minutes per side. I put the lid over my skillet for about six minutes per side to make sure the middle was heated through as well. 

Serve hot with avocado salsa. 

Care

Last Friday, I was wrapping up a planning meeting with my team when I got a call from Day Care. Mary had a fever. Could I come get her? I dished off the flip chart and Mr. Sketch markers, got in my car, and motored as fast as I could to be by her side. 

When I arrived she was sitting at the table with her friends, Matthias and Finn. All three of them were watching Miss Eva color the artwork she had made from their foot and hand prints. They were mesmerized, happy as could be. I imagined that she would be fussing, unhappy, and in dire need of mommy. But she was playing it cool, well feverish, but calm and collected. 

I gave her a squeeze and got the low down from the teachers. Apparently a 24-hour fever was going around. Mary was the latest victim. 

Three months ago, I would have approached Day Care's diagnosis very differently. I would have questioned the cleanliness of the room. I would have interrogated the teachers. I would have glared at the other babies, asking why they got my little girl sick? I would have tried to pin down the carrier. Aha, it was you, the one with snot permanently dripping down your face. No, it was you, the one who doesn't wear pants. Oh no. YOU! The one who is always licking everything. How could your mother bring you in the way you are? Now you've made the whole class sick!

Three months ago, I would have cursed Day Care, paid the SitterCity.com dues, and found Ms. Poppins to keep my precious baby germ free and atop an untouchable pedestal. 

But since Mary's first week at Day Care - a week filled with tears, skepticism, and stress - after watching and getting to know Mary's classmates and teachers, after seeing the same sort of working mom anxieties in the morning and sweet end of day joy in my counterparts, and after seeing how happy Mary is day after day, there is no question in my mind that she is getting a really good dose of TLC at her little school.

So I just want to say a big thank you to Mary's Day Care and the wonderful teachers who have given her so much love over the past three months.

Thank you for being there when I can't be.
Thank you for giving Mary her first little friends.
Thank you for playing, singing, and dancing with my girl.
Thank you for pushing Mary to get up and go a little earlier than expected.
Thank you for cuddling and caring so much.
Thank you for helping me to realize that there is a world of wonderful babies out there and while Mary is so special, she is no better than her friends. They are all in this together.   

Recently, I had a discussion with a girl around my same age. We were talking about working motherhood, the drawbacks, the benefits, the stress. She posed the question, "I mean really, who is raising our children?" 

My response: My husband and I are, with the generous support of a Village. And I truly believe she will be better, stronger, kinder, happier and healthier because of it. 

Lo.