It’s a Pot Roast, Bobby Flay

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Before we start, yes, I know that I should appreciate that the kids want to spend time with me because they won’t always.

And no, I’m not fun at parties.

Shall we begin?

We don’t have a lot of activities that all five of us enjoy. It’s damned near impossible to find a movie we all like. Board games rarely straddle the age gap between the kids, never mind interest both me and my husband. I tolerate am happy sitting and watching them play, but that’s not as interesting (or as good parenting) as actually participating.

Incidentally, they feel this way about swimming, too. I like swimming. I do not like swimming with them. “Swimming” with them means watching them do handstands and/or goofy jumps off the diving board, or getting splashed, or being pulled into never-ending races across the pool. Most often, though, swimming with them means being used as a flotation device. In the base case, swimming is not so much a group activity as it is an unwieldy location in which to perform Stupid Human Tricks while surreptitiously picking bathing suits out of our various crevices. (Each picking one’s own suit out of one’s own crevices, pleaseandthankyou.)

But we do occasionally find ways to spend time together that don’t involve me forcing everyone to do their chores.

Because I’ve announced my impending spontaneous combustion if I had to listen to one more kid show, we’ve all bonded over mini-marathons of various Food Network shows.

Sometimes it’s Chopped. We try to predict who will be victorious while simultaneously trying to determine what we’d do with that accursed mystery basket. (My typical answer: throw it out and order a pizza.)

Sometimes it’s Bobby Flay in some competition or another. That’s pretty much what he does. The man has racked up thousands of hours of competition experience. It’s a real edge.

We talk about that

“He loves competing that much,” my husband said. “Wouldn’t you?”

I would not. That’s why I’m not an Iron Chef. That and I can’t cook geoduck 10 ways.

Heh. Geoduck.

We noted Flay’s ubiquitous presence on Food Network, his confidence, his ability to truly respect his opponents without knocking them down (unless they trashed talked him excessively, in which case he was more sensei than anything else.) It was fun to see how he put his “spin” on things and how he would take a mistake or a miscalculation and make it work.

We turned that into various life lessons, which, as I’m sure you can guess, went over with the kids like a big ol’ plate of geoduck.

But some of the Lessons from Food Network stuck – mostly newly acquired vocabulary. My kids now critique their dinners. Terms like “Flavor profile” and “Balance” and “Presentation” and “Not enough acidity” all bandied about over their plates of chicken nuggets.

But. BUT – the other day, we went out for dinner, and the Son who never met a plate of macaroni he didn’t choose over all other options –

ordered a burger…with a fried egg on top.

Then. THEN, guys…

When we got home, he asked to cook with me – this is tenuous, of course, because when kids ask to “help” that usually means “do something for 3 seconds, make a mess, then leave and take credit.”

He wanted to make pot roast. Pot. Roast.

I purchased the meat. He seasoned it (“More salt!” I insisted. He was stunned, but listened.) He watched me brown the meat. He prepped the vegetables. I taught him how to dice them (“evenly”) using a sharp knife (“carefully!”)

He sautéed the carrots and celery and potatoes. He added the tomatoes.

We didn’t have a dutch oven, so we used our crock pot. I worried about the timing so I gave it an extra 30 minutes which was, it turns out, was 30 minutes too long. I didn’t say anything about how overdone the center was (I swear to God, I am the only person alive who can overcook something in the crockpot.) However, my husband, i.e., Sir Meats-a-Lot, mentioned gave a nice Ted Talk on the proper cooking time and temperature of all meats ever.

As one does.

To celebrate Son’s first real culinary achievement, he asked if we can eat while watching a movie, so we dined a la tv tray.

Arguments about the movie started. Their vocabulary for that is almost as sophisticated as their newly acquired Words That Express How Gross My Cooking Is. “I don’t want to watch that. It’s stupid,” met “I don’t want to watch that, it’s boring.”

It’s like the jury panel for Cannes, n’est-ce pas?

We decided on – wait for it –

The Food Network.

The pot roast was good. Not in the “oh, my child, Precious Be He, made this,” but good on its own. For purposes of humor, it would be funnier if it had been better than anything I cooked. Even funnier if it were awful. It was neither. It was solid. Which means praise had to be carefully meted out because this child is convinced the world blows smoke up kids’ asses. Which it does, right or wrong, all too often. (See: participation trophy.)

He was quiet.  If a person could lurk from a couch behind a tv tray, he would have been. Watching. Tracking how many times we went back for reloads. (A lot, as it were. We like to eat and it was better than a lot of the crap I’d been making the last few weeks because I’m too tired to do much beyond unwrapping things.)

He didn’t look happy.

“You ok?” I asked. That’s my “What’s Wrong” 2.0.  The old version too often glitched and got an automated “Nothing” response no matter how often or gently I input it.

“Yeah.” He always says yeah. It takes a parent of unusual skill to determine the underlying meaning. In this case, his eye roll, sigh, and angry voice were subtle clues that actually was not ok.

I obviously have a participation trophy in parenting.

I waited. I’ve learned any noise from me will startle the confession back into its hidey-hole.

He spoke. “I didn’t do much.”

Sweet boy has been equating cooking, “real” cooking, with panicky, fast-paced, intense, beat-the-clock, chop-til-you-drop movements and unusual ingredients and stress.

He wanted to cook until he was exhausted and sweaty, then have us be his panel of judges.

If only the Food Network had a show “Clean My Room with Bobby Flay!”

I’m putting this here because I did not take a photo of the pot roast, or of us swimming. Or Bobby Flay. I suppose I should call this “food for thought.” No?

Hey 2017 — Later, As in, Later Much

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2017 should not let the door hit it in the ass on the way out. I think most people feel this way. The world feels depleted right now.

A friend of mine posted this fun cover on her Facebook page recently, and I admit to watching it with something close to obsession. It’s a little hit of joy each time.

The last week of each year, I hunker down and reflect on the past year. Here are some random thoughts:

  • I didn’t knit enough.
  • I baked more than enough cookies.
  • The nice thing about being the age I am is how much more I respect myself and my boundaries. “No” is a complete sentence and one I owe it to myself to say as needed. I gave love as freely as I could to the wonderful family and friends in my life who took that and held it dear.
  • I have writing ideas now, which for the longest time I yearned for. Now I just yearn for time, and, when I have that, skill.
  • Professionally it’s been a wonderful year, although I still crave quiet and regularity in the process. Soon enough. Soon enough.
  • This year I co-wrote and produced a short film (you can see the trailer below). Never has such a steep learning curve been so much fun. I know for sure that when you work with quality people, work doesn’t feel like a burden.
  • I read 53 books this year – I’m probably going to add one or two more by year’s end. Many were significant and important. My favorites were a slim volume called Heating and Cooling by Beth Ann Fennelly and Circadian by Chelsey Clammer. Both are literary rides that challenged and delighted me.
  • I read a lot of nonfiction. I am cycling back to fiction now, for no reason other than I want to.
  • I have a deep affection for John Oliver. I have an equally deep and entirely different affection for Gumball.
  • Have you seen this Ted Talk with Joshua Prager?
  • Indecent, one PBS’s Great Performances, should be required viewing. I am haunted by its truth and its form and its beauty weeks later. Unfortunately it does not seem to be available on the PBS website any longer, but if you can catch it on demand or indeed live, please do so!
  • My husband and I are in the middle of The Zookeeper’s Wife (I fall asleep during almost every movie we watch at home, no matter how great the film.) It, too, should be a reminder to any fool who forgets that Nazis are the bad guys.
  • My writing had an acceptance rate of about 20%, which is pretty great. I am proud of all the publications which honored me by including my work, especially the second Multiples Illuminated anthology and The Sun magazine’s Readers Write section.
  • One of the highlights of my year (and a true bucket list item) was being part of the Chicago Listen to Your Mother show. When I was submitting and auditioning, I was told that being cast would be life-altering. And indeed it was.

 

2018 holds promise. I am attending the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop this spring, another bucket list item. My film will be screened publicly. There are some announcements I cannot yet make, but you know that I will return and spill the beans here.

I’m going to start working on a book. Terrifying, that. But it’s time.

And I will continue to enjoy my friends and family, all of whom have wrapped their arms around me this year as needed and have honored me by trusting me with their hearts and experiences as well.

I wish you all a happy remaining 2017 and a joyful, peaceful 2018. I’ll see you here soon!

In the immortal words of Colonel Potter —

 

When Children Break Your Heart

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Two days ago we said goodbye to our dog, George. You can read about how ill he’s been here, if you wish.

I won’t go into details of his final days. Or his eleven years. Not now. I’ve been writing between tears, though, trying to capture every detail, every memory, every feeling. That’s been both cathartic and awful. But I need to put it to paper. For someday.

I know that this almost unbearable grief means that we loved George and he loved us. Uncomplicated. Pure. Utterly fuzzy.

It’s been a shit year, personally and politically, but this dog has, as always, been a constant. His moods. His needs. His sweet face. His ability to absorb a hug, sigh, and then put his head back down as if to say, “It’s all going to be ok. Now please let me nap.”

The last 48 hours have clarified how much this dog has woven himself into our hearts, our lives, and our routines.

After dropping the kids off at school today, I put my purse on the counter next to this.

 

I’d been doing so well, too. Looks a little like a heart, doesn’t it?

Right after George passed away, the twins were processing, each in their own way. They wrote a little eulogy on the whiteboard we keep in the play area. I didn’t get a picture before they wiped it away in grief but it said, “George. Born July 4, 2006. Died December 19, 2017. Rest in peace and fuzz.”

My daughter spent a part of her day on Tuesday making a card for her brother.

In case you can’t read Kindergarten, it says “Hope you feel better Logan*. I love you.” That green blob on the left is the dog, and the blue lines with pink dots are his angel wings. Written in the angel wings are “Miss You.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how children break your heart. With their goodness and their grief — I can’t take the credit for the first, and I cannot do much to alleviate the second, but I am grateful for these three little people.

And for a dog who filled these last eleven years with simple love.

 

*The fact that she spelled it “Login” is the greatest thing ever.