Birthday Cake

Growing up, birthdays meant multiple trips to Prantls Bakery, a small family-owned establishment in the east end of Pittsburgh. The first trip was an early morning cupcake run so I could celebrate at school with my classmates; the next drive by was to get a couple dozen rolls for the family party, and the final stop was to get my birthday cake - the shop's signature Burnt Almond Torte - a multi-level masterpiece that became synonymous with all cake-cutting rituals.

The sweet, almond encrusted delicacy provided the curtain call at just about all of my parties: after skating to the Limbo and Hokey-Pokey at Ardmore Roller Rink, after playing on very novel devices called computers at The Factory, after skiing at Hidden Valley, dining at the original Mad Mex, and watching Star Wars, and after making the trip across a couple states in my Mom's trunk, my birthday cake always had my family and friends craving just a little slice more of custard filled heaven. Or if they were like me, picking out every stray almond left in the box.  

This past week, a corridor that marked both Peter's birthday and mine, my parents came out to visit, Mary started blowing kisses, there were presents, cards, dinners out, and champagne; but there was something missing and no amount of Fannie Mae meltaways could compensate.

So when Peggy and Jan decided to host a little joint birthday party last night, I volunteered to bring the cake and with it the Burnt Almond Torte. To my knowledge, Prantl's doesn't ship, so I started from scratch. (With a little help.)

The recipe must be a closely guarded secret because while there were articles and reviews of the cake, I couldn't find a copycat recipes. The closest I came was a blogger who called her burnt almond beauty a cake instead of a torte. So I proceeded with her instructions, creating my own wiggle room as I whisked. 

Basically, a burnt almond torte has four components: sponge cake, buttercream icing, custard, and caramelized almonds. This go around, what I'm deeming practice for Mary's birthday cake, I feel like I aced the custard, but the other parts left room for improvement. The cake could be spongier, the icing fluffier and the almonds a little less caramelized.  

So I'm not going to publish the recipe (yet.) You'll have to wait a week or so. Instead, I'll share the sweet finale to our Valentine's dinner - little chocolate covered orange peels - that almost (almost) compensated for my birthday cake craving.

Lo.

Orangettes

Ingredients: 
1 orange segmented
1 cup sugar
1 cup of water
6 ounces semi sweet chocolate, melted

Directions:
Cut orange peel into thin strips. Blanch in boiling water and set aside. (This removes the bitterness.)

In a medium sauce pan bring sugar and water to a boil. Add orange peels and let caramelize until they are just turning a little tan. Keep stirring as the mixture reduces and keep an eye on it. It can go from soupy to burnt very quickly. Remove orange peels and let cool on a wire rack.

In a double boiler, melt chocolate. Dip each orange peel in chocolate and lay on sheet of parchment paper. When all complete, refrigerate for a couple hours. Serve at room temperature.

A Last Time

With the arrival of baby come a lot firsts. And you tend to wait with baited breath for each of them to happen.

A first day.

 

A first bath.

 

A first word.

 

A first bite.

A first step.

These firsts are captured on camera and documented in the baby book. And the essence - the sites, sounds, and feelings of the moments are plastered in your mind.

But with each first, there also seems to be a last. And sometimes it's the exits that happen so fast that they go unrealized or unrecognized.

For instance, it must have been around Halloween that Mary took her last dip in her pink plastic tub. Given Mary's recent growth spurt, she likely wore her favorite sweater for the last time on Friday. She had her last car ride in the Mini Cooper on Saturday morning. And after giving my boob the silent head turn and dismissal for the fifth night in a row this week, I have a feeling that Mary took her last breastfed sip from me at some point on Wednesday night or early Thursday morning.

There was no ceremony to commemorate the moment and I certainly didn't savor the suckling. But this morning, thinking about it, I hurt. That special part of my life and the unique bond that I had cultivated with my daughter for the past eleven months is over. And despite knowing that this juncture was approaching, I guess I just wasn't ready for the abrupt finale; for the unspoken truth that Mary had already grown up and that her bottle would suffice.

This evening, as I grapple with the understanding that her little mouth has moved on, I just want her know that as unexpected as it was, I cherished every moment of nursing. I want her to know that what's mine will always be hers: my warmth, my energy, my love. And although she won't remember the time we've shared, calf to cow, I will. And just how special it was. I want her to know that with each first and with each last, she will always be my baby.

Lo. / Mommy.

House Rules (Revised)

We have a three bedroom house. Which Goldilocks and I have deemed to be just the right size (for now.) There's one bedroom for Mary; one bedroom for Mommy and Daddy; and one bedroom for an occasional house guest. This past weekend, when my sister came to town, we were at full occupancy.

From Friday to Sunday our house was a little cozier than usual and it felt great. There were more dishes in the sink and the line for the bathroom was a little longer; there were less leftovers and by Sunday what leftovers we did have were gone; there were more feet on the ottoman, more voices singing 'if you're happy...' and more hands clapping out the ending. You know it.

When we first moved and when we welcomed our first house guest, we drafted up some house rules. But the rules, like our lifestyle, have noticeably changed. So to accommodate a new era in hosting, I revised the guidelines. Mom and Dad, take note.

Eat, Eat, Eat. And before you go to the airport, eat the leftovers.

Request that Peter make brunch.

Occasionally, Mommy's running intersects with Daddy's errand. In this event, house guests also become babysitters.

We make you sing. Not just for your supper, but for the cutest little giggles.

The water show starts at 6:45 PM, but to make sure you get a splash zone seat, arrive at the tub a little early.

Pack basics - Melissa and her Stella and Dot collection might just pop over to help you accessorize.

Avoid that crack in the floor, that creaky board on the landing, and most of the steps.
Don't go to the bathroom at the night.
Don't knock anything over at night.
Don't snore at night.
Don't breath too loud at night.
Don't wake the baby.
And if you happen to rouse the munchkin, put her back to sleep.

And the most important rule of all ... leave us with a photo. Selfies welcome.

Thanks big sis, for an awesome visit and for always following the house rules.

Lo.

Long Weekends and Lasagna

If every weekend were three days long, I wonder what the world would be like?

Arguably, we'd have a population of happier, healthier people.

Thursday would be the new Friday. Or Tuesday could be the new Monday. Regardless, no one would catch a case of the Mondays anymore.

Houses would be cleaner. And meals would be made with a little more love.

More time could be spent dressed in your intermediates, my Grandpa's word for wardrobe choices that are slightly better than pajamas.

There would be more play time.

But also more date nights. More babysitters. And less clingy babies.

And likely, in our household, everyone would be ten to fifteen pounds heavier. Because if every weekend were a three day weekend, there would be a lot more lasagna in my life. And to be exact, a lot more of the recipe that follows.

For the first time in a while, I got to cook. And I mean cook with my undivided attention. From the noodles, to the bolognese sauce, to the bechamel, to the hand grated Parmesan; I put a large dose of homemade TLC into each and every one of my lasagna's seven layers (while dressed in my intermediates.) And it felt and tasted melt in my mouth amazing. 

So here's to progressive HR directors making the argument for three day weekends, family time and lasagna.

Lo.

Lasagna Bolognese
(Read all the way through to bottom before starting)

Bolognese Sauce: 
Ingredients: 
1 medium onion, diced
1 carrot, diced
1 celery stalk, diced
3 cloves garlic, diced
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 pound ground pork
1/2 pound ground chuck
6 ounces pancetta (or bacon) finely chopped
14.5 ounce can crushed tomatoes
1 cup white wine
1 cup milk
3 cups chicken stock
Salt, pepper

Directions: 
In a large pot or dutch oven, heat olive oil and add onion, carrot, celery, garlic and meats. Break up meets as you brown. Cook for 25-30 minutes until meat is all browned and liquid that has formed is soaked up. Add wine, scraping up browned bits as you stir. Add tomatoes and milk. Bring to a boil and then let simmer for 8-10 minutes. Add 2 cups of chicken stock, bring to a boil again, add salt and pepper. Let reduce heat to low and let simmer for 3-4 hours, until aromatic, reduced by 1/4 or so. Remove from heat, let cool and then refrigerate for at least 12 hours or up to 2 days. You will add the last cup of chicken stock when you reheat the sauce before assembly.

Pasta
Ingredients: 
3 cups flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1/4 - 1/2 cup water

Directions: 
In a large bowl, whisk together flour and salt. Make a well in middle and crack eggs into well. Beat eggs together with whisk, then add 1/4 cup water. Start folding in flour and bring together with wooden spoon or your hands until dough starts to form. If you need more water, add a tablespoon at a time, just until dough comes together. Knead for 5 minutes or so until smooth and supple. Wrap in plastic wrap and let sit for 2 hours. You can make dough one day ahead by wrapping and chilling. Let sit at room temperature for 1 hour before working with it though.

Bechamel Sauce
Ingredients: 
5 tablespoons butter
1/4 cup flour
4 cups milk (you can use 2% or whole milk) - room temperature or slightly warmed
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
Salt

Directions:
In a medium sauce pan, melt butter over medium low heat. Add flour and whisk together vigorously. Heat for one minute continuing to whisk. Add milk, 1 cup at a time, stirring to make sure everything is incorporated each time. Continue whisking for 10-15 minutes until sauce is creamy and coats a spoon. Remove from heat and let set a couple minutes. It's better if you make this sauce right before you are ready to assemble.

Assembly:
You will need some butter and 2 cups freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Heat large pot of water until it reaches a rolling boil.

Grease a 10x13 inch pan with butter.

Set up a pasta rolling station, a bowl with ice water, and a baking sheet lined with paper towels.

Roll out dough, working in batches. I broke the dough into three pieces and worked with each one separately. You are going to start the rolling on the thickest setting of your pasta machine and work your way to the thinnest setting, about 1/16 inch thick. After you have rolled out one full piece, cut in half if necessary (most likely will be necessary) and submerge in boiling water for ten second. Remove, dump in ice water, and then lay out on paper towels. Repeat this process until all dough is rolled out and all noodles have been cooked. You will need to add paper towels in between every layer of drying noodles, otherwise they will stick.

Add 1/2 cup of bechamel to bottom of pan. Spread around. Lay down first layer of noodles. Add 3/4 cup of bolognese sauce, 1/2 cup of bechamel and sprinkling of Parmesan. Repeat seven times, starting with the noodle layer and ending with Parmesan cheese.

Bake at 350 degrees for 50-60 minutes covered with foil. Bake 10 more minutes without foil. Let sit for 45 minutes before cutting and serving.

Buon Appetito!

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.

Love

Of all the scoring systems out there, tennis has my favorite. Mostly because instead of a pure numerical system, a win or loss is tallied with language; and a good game is filled with suspenseful poetry. 15-love. 30-love. 30-15. 30-all. 40-30. Deuce. Ad in. Deuce. Ad out. Deuce. Ad. in. Deuce. Ad out. Game. Set. MATCH! The escalating rhythms are particularly powerful when I'm playing (and winning.)

But around my third trimester of pregnancy, when the footwork no longer agreed with Mary, I had to take my play indoors and instead pretend that life, passing back and forth outside of the big picture window of our house was a match. And I used to score it as such, playing the role of neighborhood referee.

I would award points to runners, quickening their pace day by day. Points to pooper scoopers, snow shovelers, mulch spreaders, lawn mowers and garbage carriers. I would give the advantage to cooks in the kitchen. Then to the dish washers cleaning dinner up. Traditional losers found themselves at deuce when they stopped by with a gift for the baby. But in the case of the lazy neighbors with the screaming children, the advantage always went to anyone but them.

These days, I haven't even had time to play the judging game. Which has made me start wondering if some one else has assumed my side. Perhaps one of the more sedentary inhabitants on the block is now looking in and scoring our game. I wonder who appears to be winning?

The pretzel maker.
15-Love.

And flourless chocolate cake baker

30-Love

The garbage carrier.
30-15.
The direction reader, light bulb changer, heavy lifter, and gadget fixer.
Ace.
30-all.
Point for the laundry folder.
40-30
Point for the man behind the smoker.
Deuce.
Negative point for Mom stealing a bite before the family has said grace.
Ad out.
The woman who carried Mary's infant carrier from Gate B 1 to B 19 when United called an audible my would have given me all the credit.
Deuce
But the United Club attendant gave the point to Peter for his noble effort to make sure he made it to Pittsburgh last weekend.
Ad out.
Lyla gave the point to Aunt Lo.
Deuce.

But Uncle Adam gave Peter the advantage.
Ad out.

Point for Mommy calming Mary down at Rebecca's engagement party.
Deuce. (Again.)

Point for Daddy shoveling us out of a foot and a half of snow when we returned home on Sunday night.
Ad out.
Point for Peter letting me drive his snow proof car through Chiberia all week.
Game.

I would say, 'Set. Match!' because arguably Peter tends to win, but what I have learned is that in marriage and in parenthood there should never be a scoring system. And sometimes by just rallying, deferring the point, or focusing on doubles rather than singles, you find that both sides have the advantage. When the unit works together for the benefit of the whole family, everyone is a winner.

And if you find yourself at love. Remember that true love makes a zero sum game livable and laughable.

Lo.