nagging (sometimes) works

I’d been trying to get the kids to try kale chips for about a week. They are really good and easy to make. The fatty saltiness of the EVOO and sea salt, the light crisp texture, the smoky, nutty flavor. And they’re good for you.

Spike will try anything these days, even when I don’t offer him a dollar. He hated the California roll he had on Mother’s Day, but thankfully didn’t vomit it all over the table and, teary-eyed and puff-cheeked, managed to swallow it down. I clapped with elation. And I have faith that sushi will enter his repertoire one day, and not in a begrudging way.

He loved the kale chips but only for a day. The next time I offered he said, I don’t like them anymore. C’est la vie. Happens all the time with kids and new foods.

Peaches, the girl who eats grass, leaves and raw onion, refused to try the kale chips but did go for a few leaves raw. She brought a baggie of them to school for afternoon snack. Her idea. I felt so proud I’m sharing it with you now. (I figure I’ve created a wide enough margin out of all my neurotic failure confessions to brag once in a while.)

I had to know what her teacher thought. I imagined kvelling of the highest order, since I descend on all my childrens’ teachers to talk food. But apparently while the kids snack, Teacher busies herself at the very important Teacher’s Desk. This is what Peaches told me when I interrogated her. I guess I would too. But still. Teacher had no idea that while most of the kids munched on orange goldfish crackers, a strange and magical leafy snack was being delightfully consumed in her midst. I am a little affronted.

Finally Peaches decided she’d try a kale chip yesterday. It was love at first bite. She eschewed the raw variety and insisted I videotape the occasion, which I did, thrice.

Then she asked for them this morning as soon as she woke up. I guess this means I’ll be schlepping to Whole Foods again today. Honestly I’d rather laze in bed, watching the sun filter through my skylights, listen to the birds and lawnmowers, procrastinate embarking on my next project by blogging and reading one of my umpteen library books, Bringing Up Bebe, which begs discussing and makes me crave brie. Oh, and nap. Napping is such a luxurious, precious pastime. I would love to take it slow today and not rush around like a spastic, irritable freak. I’d like a day off from that please.

xx

P.S. Here’s how I make kale chips—
Preheat oven to 300 degrees.
Throw your bunch of curly kale into the sink and wash them.
Tear the leaves from the ribs in chunks. Compost the ribs or do whatever you like with them.
Spread out the kale on two cookie sheets. A single layer is best but don’t sweat it if the leaves are a bit crowded.
Pour some EVOO over them, maybe a couple Tablespoons. Eyeball it.
Sprinkle some Celtic Sea salt over them, maybe a half teaspoon.
Massage the oil and salt into the leaves, rubbing them tenderly till all the leaves glisten and your hands feel like they’ve just returned from a Sardinian spa.
Pop the lot into the oven for 25 minutes and go read a good book.
Test with a spatch to make sure everything’s crispy. If not, remove the done chips and replace the still soft chips into the oven.
Turn off the oven and let them dry out. Then get them out in another 10-15 minutes or so.
YUM.

bank of america

I did learn something from all of this, namely that no matter who you are or what your parentage is, you have to work for success. I really did use to sit around waiting to be discovered. After my book was published I thought I’d teleport to a beachfront property in Malibu, be a guest on Dave Letterman. I was that naive about the world. A writer friend tried to explain this to me over dinner one night. I’ll never forget it. Like I’d just fallen off the turnip truck, she’d said. She worked her butt off, for magazines, wrote numerous books, landed a spot on a morning talk show.

Continue reading

fashion fairy tale

Peaches turns six tomorrow. Yesterday was her party. She picked the theme—fashion fairy tale. She wanted a dress-up party. Dress by H&M. Juice and marker stains yet to come.

Continue reading

it don’t take much

It’s official. I am in love. Nyla and I have made it over the preliminary hurdle of post-adoption angst, regret and mustardy diarrhea. Okay the diarrhea cleared up a while ago.

I’ve become one of those (hopefully) harmless weirdos who baby-talks in an insufferably high-pitched squeal to her dog, out loud, in public (as if I didn’t embarrass the children enough). To the tune of, “Who makes the very best poopy-doopy?” And, “Who’s the cutie-wootiest doggiest-woggiest?” And, when I unleash her after a walk at the foot of the driveway and she bounds toward the backyard like a greyhound-pomeranian mix, “Who runs like the wind?” And later, she licks my face, making sure like a doggie in the frenzied throes of OCD, to try and reach my brain through my left nostril. Repeatedly. (She’s almost there.)

Continue reading

puppy courtesy bowl

There are times when this happens: I write a blog post and then hours later, usually in the middle of the night, I wake in a panicky sheen. Wide-eyed in the pitch black I think, what the fuck did I put out there? What the hell is my deal? Why did I insist on sharing THAT? I pad into the bathroom and pee, reminding myself that I am human. I give myself a hug. Then I crack open the laptop and delete the sentence, word or paragraph, creep back to bed and fall asleep praying nobody read it.

I have deleted entire posts in this taut, teeming state of mind. And then I regret deleting. I regret it because I always envision one hater. This hater assumes different forms but he/she always thinks the same about me: that I am an idiot. No one’s ever said as much. Sure I’ve had the odd few who ask me, “How can you share all that personal stuff?” But they don’t usually know me very well. If they did, they wouldn’t need to ask. It’s in my DNA.

Continue reading

I regret to inform you…

It’s shameful how scarcely I blog these days. I want to do it more often, to stoke the anemic flame of my online existence, to practice my craft for a reader who is not Bryan, to cultivate a conversation with you.

The good news is that I’m spending my non-blogging time being a more or less decent housewife and mother. Or maybe that’s not even true. (*See previous post.) No, the weather is warm and I’ve been taking hour-long brisk walks, lip-syching with the cast of Glee. These walks help me keep in shape for my new fitness regime—my kettlebells class. I go once a week and it’s one hour of ass-kicking swinging fun. We do routines with names like Turkish Get-Up, and well, I can’t remember any others. If I were doing Crossfit, which I am not because I can’t afford it and it’s just far enough away from my house to be a pain in the ass, I might be doing routines with names like Nasty Girl. Doesn’t that sound like waist-whittling fun? I think it might kill me.

Continue reading

prune

Here’s a little pattern I have sussed out over the weeks: I have a sublime time by myself, writing say, or taking an epic, hour-long walk through hilly little neighborhoods with winding streets, old growth trees and peeling tudors and Dutch colonials. Maybe I’m just sitting on a comfortable chair with the dog on my lap, reading a good book. And then a kid, one of mine, say, wakes up, or is picked up from school, or a playdate, by me of course, and that peace I’d just been cultivating, luxuriating in, gets trashed like a hotel room by Keith Richards circa 1972.

Continue reading