Tonight my dad made eggnog; my sister, a huge bowl of salsa; my mom, french toast bread pudding; and I, a carrot cake, all at the same time in the kitchen. We talked loudly over the old mixer and waited for measuring cups and mixing bowls. Eli sat holding 5 month old Jesh, whose little head bobbed and watched us all, and Hollie drifted in and out of the room, her bread patiently rising on the counter.
At home, I love to be in the kitchen alone -- a corner of the house where I can unlock my mind to wander as I work with my hands for a few brief moments in perfect allowance.
But here, at my parents' house, I spend about 80% of my waking time in their kitchen with family, eating, talking, watching whatever's being made or sorted or discussed.
There are few places I'd rather be.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
an Eggnog Extravaganza of sorts
When I was a kid, the night before my parents' annual eggnog party, my dad and uncle would disappear to the basement for hours of eggnog concocting. I could hear the thrum of the electric mixer knit with their voices and would poke my head downstairs to watch. It was always a night of chemistry, as they tweaked the recipe and jotted notes on the index card my dad kept in his yellow plastic recipe box.
When I was in high school and college, I began sitting in on the sessions a little longer, learning how to beat the yolks to death, to pour the liquor in a tiny steady stream. After Ben and I lived in California a few years, we decided to throw our own eggnog party; making my own frothy batch felt a palpable rite of passage. Each time we make it (this year was our 5th time), I have a wow-ed sense of accomplishment, that I have invoked my father, his mother, his mother's mother, and on back, in my own kitchen.
Last year I was clever enough to jot myself a note: 4 dozen eggs for eggnog this year -- perfect! Long story short, my note was faulty; 4 dozen eggs was a larger amount than I had EVER made before. So large, that it overflowed both of my biggest pots and left me at 11PM with no container big enough to combine the halves:
Yolks/liquor/milk
to be combined with egg whites/whipped cream:
I stood in the kitchen staring at my two largest pots, filled, and at more egg whites and whipped cream than I'd ever seen. Ben breezed in and out holding various pliers and announcing he was turning off the water. After looking between the pots, I finally got in my car; we had nothing large enough. Thankfully, a friend was awake and met me in her driveway with a cooler that we swapped for a bigger cooler. At home, I stood in the dark cold scrubbing it in the hose and then went about the work of combining:
In the end, it all worked. I did have to dump some eggnog residue down the drain of the complex, which I'm pretty sure I wasn't supposed to do, but at the party there was eggnog for all. I will note for next year that 4 dozen (though unprecedented) was the perfect amount but to be sure I have large buckets on hand.
When I was in high school and college, I began sitting in on the sessions a little longer, learning how to beat the yolks to death, to pour the liquor in a tiny steady stream. After Ben and I lived in California a few years, we decided to throw our own eggnog party; making my own frothy batch felt a palpable rite of passage. Each time we make it (this year was our 5th time), I have a wow-ed sense of accomplishment, that I have invoked my father, his mother, his mother's mother, and on back, in my own kitchen.
Last year I was clever enough to jot myself a note: 4 dozen eggs for eggnog this year -- perfect! Long story short, my note was faulty; 4 dozen eggs was a larger amount than I had EVER made before. So large, that it overflowed both of my biggest pots and left me at 11PM with no container big enough to combine the halves:
Yolks/liquor/milk
to be combined with egg whites/whipped cream:
I stood in the kitchen staring at my two largest pots, filled, and at more egg whites and whipped cream than I'd ever seen. Ben breezed in and out holding various pliers and announcing he was turning off the water. After looking between the pots, I finally got in my car; we had nothing large enough. Thankfully, a friend was awake and met me in her driveway with a cooler that we swapped for a bigger cooler. At home, I stood in the dark cold scrubbing it in the hose and then went about the work of combining:
In the end, it all worked. I did have to dump some eggnog residue down the drain of the complex, which I'm pretty sure I wasn't supposed to do, but at the party there was eggnog for all. I will note for next year that 4 dozen (though unprecedented) was the perfect amount but to be sure I have large buckets on hand.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
interpretation
A conversation between Silas and Eden while listening to Christmas carols in the car:
song: everybody knows some turkey and some mistletoe
Eden: turkey head!?
Silas: no, Eden, turkey hand.
song: everybody knows some turkey and some mistletoe
Eden: turkey head!?
Silas: no, Eden, turkey hand.
Monday, December 06, 2010
one of those days
The kids wanted to have a camp out on the floor of their room tonight -- really on the stairs' landing, but I swayed them toward the bedroom. All afternoon, they played camp with imaginary "Olivia the camp mom." Playing in any imaginary world is unprecedented, much less one that involves a camp mom, whom Eden called on her imaginary phone every few minutes. (I loved this game). So, though I have a headache that has hovered for two weeks, and though I am worn out and feeling blah, I moved mattresses to the floor and rearranged their room.
Now it is night. Bedtime has been going on for an hour. I think everyone has gone to the bathroom at least three times a piece, and there has been much calling/yelling/crying/negotiating. I've already taken away the nightlight and overly-scolded. I partly need them to stop talking so that I can stop talking.
Earlier, after cleaning a kitchen that bordered on disaster area, I made some less than mediocre lasagna (ran out of tomato sauce halfway through and had to use a tomato paste concoction). In the process, I vigorously shook the can of Parmesan whose lid was not closed and, yes, cheese snowed all over the kitchen. Then a few minutes ago, while making myself a bowl of cereal and trying to block the insane yelling that had just erupted from upstairs, I knocked the can of chocolate milk powder out of the pantry. It fell, hit the floor, lost its lid, and, yes, rocketed chocolate powder all over the kitchen.
Now, I am sitting with my foggy headache trying to finish watching The Office. Out of a brief silence, Eden's voice just called down with a mouthful of pacifier. I have no idea what she's saying and I wish everyone would sleeeeeeeeeep. All I just heard is, "hey Mommy, would you? That would be so helpful." So whatever it is, I suppose I'd best go be "so helpful."
And then maybe we'll sleep.
Now it is night. Bedtime has been going on for an hour. I think everyone has gone to the bathroom at least three times a piece, and there has been much calling/yelling/crying/negotiating. I've already taken away the nightlight and overly-scolded. I partly need them to stop talking so that I can stop talking.
Earlier, after cleaning a kitchen that bordered on disaster area, I made some less than mediocre lasagna (ran out of tomato sauce halfway through and had to use a tomato paste concoction). In the process, I vigorously shook the can of Parmesan whose lid was not closed and, yes, cheese snowed all over the kitchen. Then a few minutes ago, while making myself a bowl of cereal and trying to block the insane yelling that had just erupted from upstairs, I knocked the can of chocolate milk powder out of the pantry. It fell, hit the floor, lost its lid, and, yes, rocketed chocolate powder all over the kitchen.
Now, I am sitting with my foggy headache trying to finish watching The Office. Out of a brief silence, Eden's voice just called down with a mouthful of pacifier. I have no idea what she's saying and I wish everyone would sleeeeeeeeeep. All I just heard is, "hey Mommy, would you? That would be so helpful." So whatever it is, I suppose I'd best go be "so helpful."
And then maybe we'll sleep.
Sunday, December 05, 2010
from gifts to shadows: anticipating nearness.
Today Ben came home from New York and the kids exchanged presents. As they sat on our bed *delighted* in their one gift from each other, I wished we could give them each one more present and then stop Christmas there. They would be satiated and immensely pleased -- and Christmas would be simple.
But we won't stop it there. It's hard, even, to stop buying presents even when everyone on my list is checked off. Each year, my whole family launches into conversation about how to simplify and change Christmas this year, and each year we celebrate it almost exactly the same. Because we always have. Because it's a moment to indulge. Because we love thinking of each other and hunting for gifts. Because we can.
Maybe one year we will strip it down. Or maybe we'll just always talk about it. I'm not sure.
Today I've been realizing, though, that even if the presents under the tree look exactly the same, we are all different. The year has stripped us down, and Christmas will be covered with shadows, some very dark and some hardly a tint to the light. We haven't ever had a Christmas like that before in our families, and I wonder what it will feel like. I wonder how we will manage to think about each other and not only ourselves, to sit in sadness instead of try to fix it, to make space for absence in the room, and to name each other when we need to be reminded, again, of who (and whose) we are.
This year we'll change our usual Christmas rhythm. I don't know what that will look like yet, but I am learning to hold more loosely to what I've always thought of as in-stone-tradition. Growing up, I tended to be adamant about keeping things the same -- the same food, the same restaurant for Christmas Eve Chinese food, the same Advent celebration, the same people gathered around the living room, the same Christmas party, the same, same same. And, of course, this stubbornness was born out of fear, the fear of change, which is really the fear of loss. We are still in the in between years of sharing the traditions we grew up with and establishing our own -- a dance of loss and gain. And this year, we also knead utter newness into the dough.
In a week we fly to Washington for togetherness -- to walk and eat, watch movies and celebrate birthdays. And I'm guessing over the two weeks there, we'll feel just about everything from misunderstood to sweetly connected, but more than anything, I hope we feel near. That's what we're traveling for, the nearness, for the moments of lying on the floor and hearing family talk in the other room, or watching each other move around a party. The nearness. That's what I'm waiting for.
But we won't stop it there. It's hard, even, to stop buying presents even when everyone on my list is checked off. Each year, my whole family launches into conversation about how to simplify and change Christmas this year, and each year we celebrate it almost exactly the same. Because we always have. Because it's a moment to indulge. Because we love thinking of each other and hunting for gifts. Because we can.
Maybe one year we will strip it down. Or maybe we'll just always talk about it. I'm not sure.
Today I've been realizing, though, that even if the presents under the tree look exactly the same, we are all different. The year has stripped us down, and Christmas will be covered with shadows, some very dark and some hardly a tint to the light. We haven't ever had a Christmas like that before in our families, and I wonder what it will feel like. I wonder how we will manage to think about each other and not only ourselves, to sit in sadness instead of try to fix it, to make space for absence in the room, and to name each other when we need to be reminded, again, of who (and whose) we are.
This year we'll change our usual Christmas rhythm. I don't know what that will look like yet, but I am learning to hold more loosely to what I've always thought of as in-stone-tradition. Growing up, I tended to be adamant about keeping things the same -- the same food, the same restaurant for Christmas Eve Chinese food, the same Advent celebration, the same people gathered around the living room, the same Christmas party, the same, same same. And, of course, this stubbornness was born out of fear, the fear of change, which is really the fear of loss. We are still in the in between years of sharing the traditions we grew up with and establishing our own -- a dance of loss and gain. And this year, we also knead utter newness into the dough.
In a week we fly to Washington for togetherness -- to walk and eat, watch movies and celebrate birthdays. And I'm guessing over the two weeks there, we'll feel just about everything from misunderstood to sweetly connected, but more than anything, I hope we feel near. That's what we're traveling for, the nearness, for the moments of lying on the floor and hearing family talk in the other room, or watching each other move around a party. The nearness. That's what I'm waiting for.
Thursday, December 02, 2010
YES!
we found a place to live and will move jan 1*
1940's house. pink. a back deck. to-be wood floors. walking distance to library, park, coffee, school. one little bathroom. a garage. dr seus pine tree. teeny front porch. dwarf lemon tree, loaded. humming birds. potential tree house tree. friends down the street. old light fixtures on brass chains. a tiny writing studio that looks onto the yard. 80's berry wallpaper in kitchen. pink counter tops.
it's going to be good.
it will also involve our saying goodbye to this little house and neighborhood where we've lived, despite our short-term intentions, six years. the house to which we brought both our children home from the hospital. the house where Ben learned everything he knows now about handiness. the house silas will probably remember as his first house. the house where i learned how neighbors can be life-givers, pantry-sources, and tea-company first thing in the morning. the house where ben and i weathered so many conversations and processed all kinds of news. this is the first house we built and filled to the brim. in the mist of the excitement of newness and the relief of finally settling somewhere, i will be sad to go. as silas would say, it's bittersweet.
1940's house. pink. a back deck. to-be wood floors. walking distance to library, park, coffee, school. one little bathroom. a garage. dr seus pine tree. teeny front porch. dwarf lemon tree, loaded. humming birds. potential tree house tree. friends down the street. old light fixtures on brass chains. a tiny writing studio that looks onto the yard. 80's berry wallpaper in kitchen. pink counter tops.
it's going to be good.
it will also involve our saying goodbye to this little house and neighborhood where we've lived, despite our short-term intentions, six years. the house to which we brought both our children home from the hospital. the house where Ben learned everything he knows now about handiness. the house silas will probably remember as his first house. the house where i learned how neighbors can be life-givers, pantry-sources, and tea-company first thing in the morning. the house where ben and i weathered so many conversations and processed all kinds of news. this is the first house we built and filled to the brim. in the mist of the excitement of newness and the relief of finally settling somewhere, i will be sad to go. as silas would say, it's bittersweet.
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