Bright Lights, Big Thanks

When you measure a couple feet tall and weigh a mere 17 pounds, life and all it has to offer must seem immense. I tell myself this as Mary wakes me up to play at 4:30 in the morning; and when she declares thirty minutes long enough for a nap. I'm presuming the new sites and sounds, tastes and touches, songs and dances that await her are far too exciting to sleep through. When you couple that inertia with a first time experience in the city that never sleeps; when you layer that enthusiasm with the speed, noise, and decadence of New York City; and when on top of that you execute the standard non-stop, whirlwind agenda that my parents are famous for; you might have an inkling of how exhausted I am this evening.

But despite my body's desire to curl up in bed right now, the bright lights of the big city are still shining, not only keeping me awake, but spotlighting just how precious my life and all the people in it are. And since I missed documenting most of November and with it, 30 chances to give thanks, I decided to use my long weekend in Manhattan as the backdrop for a little litany, outlining my seemingly countless blessings.

Here are 30 things, in no particular order, that I'm thankful for:

1. The black Lululemon hat with a special hole for my ponytail that Peter got me for Christmas a couple years ago.

2. Art museums. 

3. Restaurants with impeccable service.

4. Olay Night Repair Cream and the energy God gives me to get through another sleepless night. 

5. Christmas lights. 

6. Mary's laugh. 

7. The ability to put one foot in front of the other and run, run, RUN through Central Park. 

8. Reclamation projects. 

9. French bistros, French bread, and French 75s. 

10. Hugs that warm you from the inside, out. 

11. Parades, marching bands and Peter's commentary on them.  

12. A job that I love and people I love working with.  

13. My health. 

14. Elevators and handicap accessible ramps. 

15. Back rubs. 

16. San Pellegrino sparkling water.

17. Park views and the people that have them. 

18. Babysitters and day care teachers. 

19. Thoughtfulness wrapped up in a really amazing piece of gourmet chocolate. 

20. Chubby cheeks. 

21. God, my faith, and multiple Mass times. 

22. The 21 Club's corn bread. 

23. Sisters. 

24. And friends that seem like sisters. 

25. Nap time. 

26. Immediate family, extended family, family jokes and my brother's ability to deliver them.                     

27.Markets and all the fresh food they have to offer. 

28. Friendships that will get passed on to future generations.

29. All the people who came before me - who built our cities, laid our foundations, paved our paths, and gave us ...

30. Life, liberty, and happiness. 

Lo. 

Cider's Story

Everyone knows that if walls could talk, they would have to a lot to say. The walls that frame our house have more than 70 years of stories to tell.

What you might not know though, is that if the mighty cider press could tell its tale - the one that spends it days and nights waiting patiently on our screened in porch for its seasonal shift - you would certainly want to cozy up for its musings. But since the old press remains on quiet ground, I'll take a stab and elaborate for it.

Like anything that my Grandpa built or bought, the cider press is as sturdy and steady as can be.

It used to live in the garage of 126 East Edgewood - my grandparents house. There it would wait. For the apple trees lining the yard to mature; for the fruit to grow and ripen; for the leaves to change; for the first fall breeze to knock a couple apples down. It would wait to hear the cars pull down the driveway, the laughter of the grandkids, and their dutiful picking, wheel barrow loading and carting of apples.

It would wait for my Grandpa to pull it out into the crisp autumn air and for all the generations to gather around. It would wait to dust itself off and claim the spotlight for one special day a year - to do one special job that only it knew how to do. That is, turn Red Delicious, Braeburn, Jonathon, Macintosh and Gala apples into liquid gold.

It had a way of easing up its mechanism for the younger generations and holding stubborn ground for the uncles. With Grandpa leading the charge, knowing its every secret, it would press the sweet apples down, down, down, squeezing the juices until they flowed from the sides and foam and froth seeped from its pores. It's succulent waterfall wouldn't dry up until each of the family's empty milk jugs were filled with its nectar.

Proudly, it would survey its work - the juicy fruits of its labors. Satisfied by the enthusiastic trade up from Coca-Cola to cider and the smiles on all the grandkids' faces, it would succumb to its scrub down and retreat once again to its little suburban niche where it would wait till next year.

After one cider season, the press' bath was a little more final and its wait a little longer. It patiently anticipating the sound of the cars, the grandchildren, and the apples. But life - football games, universities, school plays - got in the way. With the passing of time, it graduated from one role to another - keeping my grandpa company as he canned his vegetables, fixed things, and told him story after story about the love of his life.

A couple years ago, when my Grandpa passed and a new family moved into his house, the cider press went for a drive across the Midwest - from Pennsylvania to Illinois where it moved in with me and Peter. It didn't know its future and it missed its partner in crime.

I think it remembered me though when it arrived at our house. It remembered my chubby cheeks and my love for its foam. I think it perked up as Peter put its pieces back together and dusted a decade off. With its first press in a long time, it was rusty and tired, but with a couple practice turns, it found its rhythm once again. And I swear I saw it smile.

This year, it got to meet the next generation and show little Mary its might - all that it could do. It understood that Mary still favored milk over its masterpiece, but loved that she got a little taste of perfection.

When it comes down to it, Cider's story is simple. It brings people together, it bridges generations, it knows just what to do with a piece of fruit and it knows how to make food play the supporting role in its annual party.

And as long as its juices flow, it keeps my Grandpa close to me.

Lo.

Apple Rarebit Bites 

Ingredients:
Baguette
2 tablespoons butter, softened
1 Granny Smith apple, thinly sliced
1/2 cup blue cheese
1/4 cup sour cream
1 tablespoon Worcester sauce
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon honey
Cracked pepper

Directions:
Thinly slice baguette. In a skillet or on a baking sheet, spread butter. Place baguette slices on top, rubbing them in butter as you lay them down. Bake at 375 degrees for 10-15 minutes until lightly toasted. Set aside.

Mix together blue cheese, sour cream, Worcester, mustard, honey and pepper. Place an apple slice on each crouton and then place a dollop of cheese mixture on top of the apple. Broil for no more than 5 minutes, until cheese topping is lightly browned. Serve warm.

Creamy Watercress Dip

Ingredients:
2 bundles of watercress, cleaned and trimmed
Handful fresh parsley
4 chives
2 scallions
1 cup cottage cheese
1/4 cup mayonnaise
Juice of half of a lemon
Salt

Directions:
In a food processor, combine all ingredients. Add salt to taste. Serve with a variety of vegetables.

Town and Country

I grew up with a limited amount of experience in the 'country.' My understanding of venturing into it was more or less defined by weekend trips to our far from rustic townhouse in the mountains of Western Pennsylvania.

For years, in one of Hidden Valley's late 1980's model units, complete with pink and teal furnishings, fake plants, and plastic food, my family and I escaped the hubbub of the city in pursuit of quieter, starrier skies. But a long day flexing our intermediate skills on the slopes was as rugged as we got; there was always the promise of a hot shower, heaping bowl of chili, Blockbuster video, and cozy bed to come home to.

I was raised a city girl. I communed with nature by attending annual flower shows, pressing my face against the glass viewing areas at the zoo, and riding my bike on well traversed trails. When I was forced into the greater outdoors by science classes, field trips, and peer pressure I was uncomfortable and unhappy. The idea of sleeping bags, tents, flashlights, spiders, bugs, and snakes was a veritable nightmare.

On the other hand, Peter's permanent state of mind as a kid and as an adult resides in the wilderness - on top of the mountain, at the depths of the ocean, deep in the woods, close in proximity to the world's wildlife - specimens that I am most comfortable viewing stuffed in the Natural History Museum. He is the epitome of an outdoor adventurer, terrified of being landlocked, grounded, or (man)caved in for too long.

So there comes a weekend or two a year when our natural tendencies conflict. Say, when Peter gets a call from the wild and I need a date to a black tie affair. Say, this weekend. While Peter escaped into the marshy backwoods of Illinois' country side to commune with the ducks, I stepped out on the town with my fill in date, Ronald.

I have to admit, when Peter shares the photos and stories of his excursions, I feel the urge to dust off the old sleeping bag and join him. But when push comes to shove, I'm still overtly leery of going too far into the great outdoors. I prefer in legend and in gastronomy that nature be brought to me. So as it has in the past, our marriage of town and country was celebrated through dinner on Sunday - a fine dining fusion of wild Mallard with the tamed taste of a Port reduction.

Well, I celebrated until I bit down on a BB and questioned just how wild I wanted my meal. And for now, I'm training Mary to wear Patagonia, but go shopping in it.

Lo.

Seared Mallard Breasts with Cherry Port Sauce
Serves two

Ingredients:
Two Mallard breasts, split
2 tablespoons butter
Small shallot, minced
1/2 cup chicken stock
3 tablespoons Port
1/4 cup frozen whole cherries, thawed
Salt
Freshly cracked pepper

Directions:
Remove all excess fat (there shouldn't be much) from the duck breasts. Make sure all bbs or bullets are out of the meat. (Critical)

In a medium sauce pan, melt butter. Add duck breasts, and cook for about three-four minutes per side or until lightly browned. After you flip from one side to the other, put the lid on the pan to help get the center to the right temperature. Remove breasts and set aside.

Working quickly, add shallot to the reserved butter. Saute for about two minutes until aromatic. Add the stock and the port. Bring to a boil and continue rolling until sauce is reduced by 1/4. Add the cherries and finish reducing till reduced by half or able to thinly coat a spoon. Turn heat to low, add salt and cracked pepper. Then return duck breasts to the pan for a couple minutes. Remove again, slice thinly and plate, adding sauce and cherries to the top of each serving.

Operation

A wise old minister who laughed all the way to the bank once said, 'all you really need to know, you learned in kindergarten.'

While I picked up a few more of life's lessons in the elementary, high school, and collegiate stages of my education that followed the eight sweet months that my classmates and I spent in two temporary trailers parked outside of my under construction school; I do believe that Robert Fulghum was on to something. Figuring out how to work and play in this world is based on simple truths and intuitive building blocks.

This week, inspired by Minister Fulghum's thesis, I started to develop my own philosophical musing. That is, everything I need to know about motherhood, I learned from a box set of Milton Bradley board games.

Take Operation. This classic electrical game gave me insight and ample practice leading up to the strategic, careful, and quiet removal of boogers from Mary's nose with this little suction bulb. The mere brush of the rim of her nostrils creates a cry far worse than Operation's heart attack inducing buzzer.

Mastering Memory has made finding the match to the lone sock in Mary's drawer much easier. Under the dining room table. Nope, that's the binky. In the car. Yes. Match.

I always thought that collecting presents for each child you had in the game of Life was crazy. Seriously, $1,000 per kid? Turns out their estimation wasn't so far afield. And those presents are essential if you assume, contrary to the wise minister's postulation, that an education beyond Kindergarten is necessary.

Five nights in a row without a decent night sleep feels like that fifth peg hitting and sinking your Battleship. However, night six - the night she sleeps for 14 hours straight - feels like you just took a ride up the tallest ladder, positioning you a couple blocks away from winning Chutes and Ladders.

Connect 4 is more like collect four as a Mom. My whole goal in the day is to collect four six-ounce containers of milk, line em up in the fridge, and present them to Day Care the next morning. Score for the only Mom in Day Care still exclusively breastfeeding her baby.  

Feeding is kind of like Hungry Hungry Hippo. Each month the baby seems to eat more and more and faster and faster, and if you can't keep up, you are bound to hear in so many cries, 'now I'm angry.'

But for all this maternal marginalization, the one thing that has slipped through the cracks, proving my lackluster hypothesis wrong, are those days and nights when baby is sick. Not even the longest game of Monopoly against the most stubborn hoarder of Boardwalk can prepare you for the stress and fatigue that awaits.

Mary has had a high fever for more than 36 hours now. I have been this close to driving to the emergency room twice. I've used my lifeline, my Dad, more than my allotment. And Mary's pediatrician will definitely be getting a unwell visit today.

There's nothing I want more than to get Mary safely to the healthy, happy home tower in the game of Sorry. Having her out in the middle of the board with another piece ready to pick her off is too much to handle at times. And I can't think of a game or a lesson I learned in Kindergarten to make her feel better.

Something my Grandma always said eases the pain a bit.
"This too shall pass."
I'm waiting. And hoping and praying. But I'm an impatient player. And I really want this fever's turn to be over.  

Lo.

Bad Mommy

Sometimes, I feel like a bad Mom.

Say, when people started asking me what Mary was going to be for Halloween and I didn't have a response let alone a costume. I felt worse when the costume that I finally got around to ordering was way too big.

I feel like a bad Mom when I compare my pumpkin-less, cobweb clean, mum and mummy-free entryway, to the lawns of Mayberry on which Halloween threw up earlier this month. Don't worry though, buying and carving pumpkins along with shrinking Mary's costume is on my list of things to do tonight.

I felt terrible when Mary got a rash around her mouth last week and the doctor told me the culprit was a binky that hadn't been properly sterilized. Or Mom.

I feel like a bad Mom when I can't get Mary back to sleep at night, when I spill the milk I pumped all over the Mother's Room at work, when I see Julian's ultra organic baby mush lunch next to Mary's Gerber peaches, and when Mary is one of the last babies to get picked up from Day Care. Seriously, how do all the other Moms or Dads have jobs that allow them to pick up their kids before 5:00 PM?

But for all the stuff that I'm likely doing wrong, I swear I'm doing something right. Mary's developmental milestones tell me so: the way she is eating, crawling, waving, and babbling.

More than that though, her smile keeps giving me the nod of approval. She is just so happy. All the time.

I'd like to say it's the song and dance routine I choreograph to every activity that we do together, but I think the rationale is more simple. Everything is new and exciting to her: seeing her friends at day care, getting a hug from Mommy and Daddy, crawling from one side of the room to the other, dripping dry after I pull her out of the tub, touching her toes, grabbing Mommy's nose, and of course eating, and eating and eating.

After sleepless nights and stressful work weeks, it's a wonderful reminder about what really matters. It's the little things in life that are most important.

And judging by how happy a stack of Oma's potato pancakes made Peter on Saturday night, I can't wait to watch Mary experience the simple joy of  her own heaping portion of Oma's famous kartoffelpuffers. Forget about the pumpkins or gory lawn ornaments; the sure way to go from bad Mom to good Mom on any give night, invite Oma over.

Lo.

Oma's Potato Pancakes

Ingredients:
6 large russet potatoes, peeled and cubed
1/2 of a vidalia onion, peeled and quartered
2 eggs
4 tablespoons flour
Salt, pepper
Canola oil
Applesauce (unsweetened)

Directions:
Using a food mill, grind potatoes and onion into a large bowl. Potatoes should look like shreds.

Beat two eggs, then add into potato and onion mixture. Add flour, salt and pepper and stir until well incorporated.

In the 'bacon pan' or a large cast iron skillet, pour a 1/4 inch of oil and heat until sizzling. Using a slotted spoon, add three dollops of potato to the pan, similar to how you would add pancake batter to a skillet. Using the spoon or a spatula, spread the potatoes out. Cook for about three minutes per side, until golden brown. Flip using a very thin, flexible spatula and brown on the other side.

Drain the grease on a plate covered with paper towels. Serve hot with a side of applesauce.