Belly and The Bug: 2011

Quelles des vacances! And, um, sleeping with my husband just isn't working out.

A week ago, I packed a hanging bag with only items belonging to me, drove my fast car to the airport, handed my passport to the appropriate TSA people, and boarded a plane to Montreal. How grown up! How fancy free! How.... needed.

My brother-in-law, Billy, had a film, The Suicide Tapes, in the Fantasia Film Festival (the largest genre festival of its kind in North America, I might add) and I went to support him. And to hang out with my sister, Erika, because we like each other and we like to eat a shit-ton of good food when we see each other. Always fun. Always.

Let me back up a minute, though, and make something perfectly clear: I hate being scared. I can't understand the logic in wanting to be scared. I don't do haunted houses or scary books or, worst of all, horror films. I have the scare-factor of a little kid so I just avoid that stuff altogether. I'm 36 years old and I have done a pretty good job at this avoidance.... until now. This "genre" film festival was all scary movies. I mean, everything from psychological thriller to slasher to whatever other kinds there are (I don't know because, again, I avoid them). I figured that I would watch Billy's film (it was my understanding that it was creepy, but not really scary, per se) and that would be it. Well, the first night in Montreal, we attended a "filmmaker dinner" before the screening with the guys who made the movie to which Billy's was attached, Absentia. Billy's film is a short and theirs is a feature. Everyone was excited because the screening was one of the few at the festival that had sold out in advance. The Absentia guys were really nice and as we got to know each other a bit, I blurted out, "Hey, listen. I hate scary movies. I get scared really easily - like, REALLY easily. I was planning to cut out on yours, but now I feel a little guilty about that. I'll try to watch it, but I might need to leave. It's nothing personal. But tell me about the movie. Is it gory? Bloody? Are there ghosts? What?" They couldn't believe I was at a horror film festival and hated horror films. But you know, whatever. Technicalities. They assured me that they wouldn't take it personally if I left halfway through the movie. And if I had nightmares, I had permission to slap the filmmaker (there was a second screening of the movies together the following afternoon, so I'd be sure to see him again). It all sounded reasonable to me, but I was still nervous.

We got to the theatre and the crowd was awesome. Packed! The seven of us attached to the films sat on the steps, along the wall - Erika in front, then Billy, me, and the four Absentia guys. It was terrible. And by that, I mean terrifying. I was so tense. I had to keep my eyes covered for a lot of it, but I couldn't block the sound. Ugh. About halfway through the movie, I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. Good thing I'd slipped my heels off, because I jumped up and practically flew over the others behind me as I bolted out of the theatre doors.

Next thing I knew, I was waking up on the cold floor with two security people standing over me, freaking out. Everything was spinning. I hadn't puked, but I'd most assuredly fainted. They told me not to move. They called paramedics. I insisted on sitting up. The paramedics were there quickly and at first they thought I was drunk; then they thought I was on drugs; and then maybe crazy. As time (minutes) went by and I felt better and better, and let them take my blood pressure, etc., they decided that I'd been so stressed out by the movie that I must've been holding my breath, blocking the flow of oxygen to my brain or something like that. Yeah. Great. Because THAT wasn't embarrassing! Once I drank some water and felt fine again, I went back in the theatre. I sat next to Erika and told her what happened. "What?!" She whispered to Billy what had happened, who whispered to the Absentia guys what happened. Erika also mentioned something about me smacking the shit out of those guys. Again, that sounded reasonable. I kept my eyes averted for most of the rest of the movie.

Finally both movies were done and we went out for drinks as a group. The Absentia guys felt bad, but when they realized that I really was fine, they thought it was super cool that I fainted from fright. I guess that's a pretty good compliment. I guess. I don't know. I can't imagine I'll be watching another scary movie for a long, long time. If ever.

The rest of the vacation was pretty great. We had amazing Japanese food for dinner one night at a teeny, teeny, tiny restaurant named Kazu. The next night we had incredible French at L'Express. We walked all over from downtown to the old city and up to Mont Royal. We went back to Kazu for ramen (only served at lunch). We had poutine. We had crepes - twice. We found a place that made the best iced lattes in the entire world. We ate and ate and ate and ate. It was four full days of being tourists and it was glorious. It was also the longest I'd ever been away from my peeps. I missed them. I was ready to come home and cover them with kisses. Which I did.

Oh! I almost forgot! The second night we were there, our hotel phone rang around 3am. I don't remember it, but Erika says I jumped up in bed but didn't answer it. The next morning, our message light was flashing. Someone had left us an obscene message. It's not totally, totally nasty, but it's pretty bizarre - almost clinical. Here it is, if you're interested (but consider yourself warned that you shouldn't play this at work or in the presence of children):

Changing subjects abruptly, because there is both a) nothing more that can be said about that, and b) there's not an easy way to open this next part (although I realize this is not the most appropriate way, either, for which I'm truly sorry).....

Two nights ago, right after dinner, my husband received a call informing him that his uncle had died in a car accident. Naturally, it was very upsetting. I wanted to be there for Dude. I wanted to offer as much comfort as I could. We put the girls to bed. Dude washed the dishes and went to bed. I stayed up and watched tv, falling asleep in the family room and waking up at 3am. I started to do the usual routine of taking Belly out of my bed (she goes in there sometime around midnight every single night) and putting her back in her own. I then climb in between her and her sister and Dude gets our bed all to himself. That night, though, I thought Dude needed my snuggles more than the girls, so I slipped in next to him. The miracle was that neither girl woke up until 7am, at which time the Bug bounded in demanding to know what was going on - "Why are you in this bed??" The very, very unfortunate turn of events was that neither Dude nor I could sleep. It was fairly uncomfortable sleeping in our bed together. He was hot next to me. And I guess I was a hot lump next to him, too. We're not used to it anymore. There was once a time when I couldn't sleep if he wasn't lying next to me. Now? Forget it. I need two girls who toss and turn throughout the night or no one. What a difference four years make, huh? Dude said it was a nice idea, but maybe next time we try it, we should wait for a weekend when he doesn't have to work the next day. Sigh. This whole situation honestly has me thinking, "What the fuck?"

It's 8:27am

And these are a few of the funny little things my daughters have said already this morning:

"Mama, you have the prettiest, skinniest, best wrists I've never seen." Gee. Thanks.

"Ask me how many children I have." How many children do you have? "Five. I've been busy." Damn! I'd say!

Belly to Buggy: "Please call me Little Rachael. If you call me Michael again, I'm not going to be your brother anymore."

"Excuse me, but I can't help you because I have to nurse my baby. Sorry, Mom. You can clean up by yourself, though."

"I'm on the phone. Please shhhh. Thanks." No response from me. "I said be quiet." Silence on my part. "For real, Mommy. If you can't be quiet than I'm going to have to put you in your room." Blank stare from me. "If you'd be quiet, than you'd hear me." We just looked at each other. "Fine. I'll take it in the other room."

Who are these people?

Some things require very few words

Like this that I made. Yum.

Camping: Rachael-style

You know, I loved camping when I was growing up. My family never had any money, so camping trips were our family vacations. I loved the ride in the family vehicle - making a nest in the back with blankets and pillows and listening to cassette tapes in my walkman. I loved the tent and the being outside and the lack of rules and the fact that my dad had a penchant for packing a gallon of salsa and giant bags of tortilla chips. I really, really loved all of it. As I've gotten older, the shine has worn off a bit. And since I've had kids, I downright dislike it. I don't like all of the logistics involved and the bugs and never being warm enough. I always wish that I was in a hotel or back at home. I've decided that I loved it when I was a kid because I didn't have to do anything but show up (and really, I didn't even have a choice in the matter). Adult camping is laden with responsibility and that just doesn't seem like a vacation to me.

Dude and the girls, on the other hand, absolutely adore camping. They have gone on several daddy-daughters trips and I always manage to beg out of it. We spent a night camping on a friend's farm about a month ago and that was mostly fun, but I still found myself annoyed with Dude's needing to have the girls' feet clean before they crawled into the sleeping bag. So petty. So trivial. But really, it was a reminder that there are rules and just because you're camping doesn't mean that you can overlook them, not even for a night. Sigh.

Fast forward to a few days ago. Dude really wanted to take the girls camping at some place he'd read about that was supposed to be super cool - up on one of the mountains in the coastal range. He said that I didn't need to feel obligated to go but was welcome to if I so desired. I didn't desire. Not one bit. But I'm going to Montreal on Wednesday for a long weekend and I felt guilty that I would be skipping out on this family outing. So I said I wanted to go. I even smiled when I said it. I just couldn't live with the guilt if I didn't go. Besides, there was the promise that we were going to go to the beach, too. THAT I love.

Dude took Friday off work and we set out midday toward the Pacific. The girls napped in the truck and all was well when we made the turn-off up to Saddle Mountain State Park. It was beautiful. Except the road was seriously twisty-twervy and I started to feel like I was going to puke. And the temperature was dropping at an alarming rate. And it looked like it had just rained. Uh oh. Cold, wet, and pukey - this was starting to be a recipe for me being a complete bitch, try as I might to reel it in. We finally got to the parking lot and Dude got out to see if there was a campsite available. The girls woke up and had to pee. I got them out of the truck and headed to the bathroom, both girls whining and crying that they were freezing cold. Such fun this was gonna be! Dude was walking up when we got back to the truck and I said, trying not to sound hopeful, "Are the campsites full? Or is there one for us?" He sort of laughed as we loaded up the little crabapples back into their car seats. "Let's head down toward the beach and to another campsite down there. This is obviously too cold." YES!!!! I mean, that sounded like a solid plan. It was 1pm. The temperature was 55 degrees on that mountain. Dude, being a smart man, knew staying was asking for trouble.

Back down in warmer weather and on a less windy road, I called the other campground. They were full for the weekend. We looked on the map. Dude called another place or two. Everywhere was full. So fine. It would be a day trip to the beach. I was pleased. The girls were aching to play in the sand. Dude was happy that we were happy. We found a cool beach north of Seaside where you can drive right out on it, meaning we didn't have to be pack mules and could have our snacks and towels and toys and EVERYTHING right there. Golden! And we had a ton of fun. Belly and Buggy would happily spend all day every day making sand castles, so they were filled with pure joy. I got nicely sunburned, which means I will be nicely tanned by tomorrow. Dude frolicked in the freezing ocean a bit, which made him happy. In fact, we were having so much fun, that Dude suggested we see if we could find some cheap lodging for the night. Um, no argument from me!

We ended up staying in a one-bedroom condo just over the grassy sand dune from the beach we were at. And had dinner at the restaurant across the street. The condo complex had a pool and a hot tub, so we played around in those before bed. It was all just.... perfect. And this morning we got up, ate breakfast (so convenient that we had all that food packed for camping), and made our way back down to the beach for several more hours in the sunshine and sand and surf. We packed it in at lunchtime and headed back to Portland.

When we got home, there was a box waiting on the porch: two Le Creuset baking dishes that I'd forgotten I'd ordered. This was the best camping trip ever. EVER! But Dude says I'm not invited on the next camping excursion because suddenly it becomes expensive. And really, that's fine with me.

Now for the onslaught of pictures.....

Buggy and Belly in sand heaven

Making a sand angel

And then auditioning for Chris Isaacs' Wicked Game video

Basking in the sun

Dude being a beach stud

Happy me

Beach family portrait

The dunes

The sky reflected in the water

Porn names are helpful

I've been doing a lot of research this week into being a personal chef - who else is doing it in Portland, what they're charging for which services, etc. It's sort of exciting and sort of overwhelming all at the same time. I'm definitely cheaper than the four or so that I found and I also realized that not everybody is professionally trained, which boosted my confidence a bit. I need to set my pricing by portion size. I need beautiful marketing materials. I need to figure out exactly what licensing and insurance I need. I also need to come up with a name for my business. I asked for name suggestions on Facebook, noting that my porn name - Violet Nash - doesn't work. I was trying to be cute, but someone suggested Violet Nosh. I kind of love it. I'm not married to it yet, but I kind of love it. It's food-related, but not specific. Any of you have other suggestions?

My mind is swirling with the possibilities and logistics of all the different things I could do with this. There's the straight-up personal chef gig (I cook for you in your kitchen), but there are also little tangents that I'm contemplating. One being the potluck dish option: give me 24 hours notice and I'll make you a delectable dish to take to your next gathering. I could have a whole menu available for people to choose from including appetizers, side dishes, main dishes, desserts, brunch, etc. That would be incredibly easy.

I could also offer a soup service. Again, beyond easy. There's a soup service with bike delivery that is fairly popular here. They post three different kinds of soup each week on their website and you can order it directly there. They then deliver your soup with bread and a salad. It's $19 for a quart of soup and $32 for two quarts of soup. Um, that seems kind of pricey for soup - one of the cheapest things to make. But the ease of having it delivered and not having to think about it is what people pay for. Why not add a soup delivery to my offerings? I keep thinking of little things like that. I don't want to spread myself too thin, but soup is crazy easy and delicious.

The groceries I buy are mostly organic and the meats/fish are all from New Seasons, our local version of Whole Foods. The proteins are all labeled as to where they came from, if they were grass-fed, wild-caught, etc. I don't always buy organic if the option isn't readily available to me, though, so Dude suggested I say that my food is morganic - mostly organic. Yes or no? Cute or dumb?

So this week I made chicken wings and steamed broccoli and a surprisingly good rice-grain salad with dried fruit and hazelnuts for my clients. I had told them at our first meeting that I make excellent buffalo wings (my dad's special recipe). They finally asked for them, but it was the mom and the two kids who were discussing it with me and the one kid said, "Can you make them not barbecue, though? I'm tired of barbecue. Can you do something with lime?" Well, little pain in my ass, then they're not my excellent buffalo wings, are they? They're something else that I will have never made before, but if you want me to experiment on you, sure. I'd be happy to make something else. With lime. For your 11-year-old picky palate. He suggested I go to this wings restaurant that he likes and buy some sauce. I bit my tongue, but wanted to suggest that he could just go eat at that restaurant if that's what he really wanted. I know, I know - these are the clients and I cook for them. But why does the kid get to make "helpful" suggestions like that and the mom just sits and smiles? Ack.

Anyway, I made a marinade with lime juice, soy sauce, apricot jam, and a couple other things and they came out pretty good. They weren't MY wings, but they were good. And apparently, they loved them. The grain salad was my favorite part of the dinner. I used this harvest grain blend from Trader Joe's, added dried cranberries, dried apricots, crushed hazelnuts, parsley, and a dijon-balsamic vinaigrette. Dang it was good. Unfortunately, I forgot to take pictures when everything was ready and pretty. So, um, here. Here's my plate when all was said and done....

I don't think I'll be using that picture for my marketing materials.

I have kids two at a time; I can whip out a fancy dinner like nothing; and I am a model mother. Okay, that last one is a lie.

One of the things I tend to dislike about "mommy" blogs is that there is a whole cadre of women who try really hard to fit into some look-how-badly-i'm-parenting-but-isn't-it-funny-and-I-hope-I don't-fuck-them-up stereotype. I sincerely hope I don't come across like that. I want nothing but the best for my little darlings. I try really, really hard to be a good mother while readily admitting that I'm not as good at it as I thought I would be. I thought I'd be that super-mom with infinite patience who bakes cookies and has a every kind art supply known to mankind. But I'm just.... not.

As the girls get older and punkier, I recognize in them everyday that they (especially Belly) have inherited my need-to-fly gene. I mean, I think about flying away all the time - getting a little bit of a running start and blasting off into the sky. To where? Away. Somewhere. For awhile. It's how I've been for as long as I can remember. And I've come to realize that it's not an indicator of unhappiness in where I am, it's just that things feel stagnant when I stay in one place too long. Like more than a month. I need to shake it up. I need to forget the things that tether me. I'm restless. Anyway, they're so much like me in both good and bad ways. Seeing their imaginations take flight helps inspire me to try to be more imaginative in my parenting. And since I feel like that doesn't happen nearly often enough, I'm going to brag about the two things we've done so far this summer that have been fun and inventive (on my part, I mean - those two are fun and inventive every day).

First, I actually looked at a kid-craft website and then not only got inspired, but went to the store and bought all the supplies we needed to execute a summer mural. Holy crap! Follow through! I bought three yards of white cotton fabric and nailed it to the fence along our back deck. Then I got some poster paints and turned the girls loose. The idea is that we can just wash it off with the hose and start again whenever we want. Overall, I'd say this has been a success. Except the one time I decided to wash it off, it was utilizing a TON of water. I started to feel bad about the wasting. I started to feel like a Republican or something with my blatant disregard for the environment (oops - did I just let my political views slip in there?). So I stopped. Who cares? They can paint over the old paint. One of the best parts is that they can paint naked and then run through the sprinkler to clean up. And if I was a foot shorter in stature (which would probably technically make me a little person), I could, too - but right now I believe the neighbors can see me over the fence. Too bad.

The other project was totally of my own making. I really wanted to go for a walk one beautiful, sunshiny morning and the girls were being crabby about it. "We want to watch Sesame Street! Don't make me go outside!" But I am the boss around here and I was insistent that we go. I tried to cheer them up. I told them it was a special walk. "What's so special about it?" Buggy wanted to know. "Ummmmm...... it's a rain...bow walk. Yeah. A rainbow walk. We're going to walk around the neighborhood and pick a flower for each color of the rainbow. We'll put them in a basket (which we can each take turns holding) and then we'll put each flower in its own vase when we get home to make a rainbow down the middle of the dining room table." Their little eyes sparkled. I couldn't believe it. I'd come up with a great idea at a moment's notice. I'm not usually that good with the short notice stuff. And so off we went on an hour and a half stroll with our basket in hand. We had a great time looking at everyone's yards and stealing the flowers that were exactly the colors we wanted. I'm thinking once summer fades and fall comes on, we can do variations on this seeing how many different kinds of fall leaves we can find. And in spring, how many different shades of green leaves. Whatever gets them outside and happy....

This evening we flew a kite in the school yard up the street. It's not creative or inventive, but what a joy to see them so happy doing something so simple! Dang, I love summer. I love, love, love, love, lovey it.

Get me to the pole

For about a year plus, there has been an onslaught of stickers in this house. I absolutely forbid them being stuck on walls or windows or furniture, but they are always on the floor which means they are always stuck to my feet, my socks, my shoes. And because I am always picking them up and sticking them in pocket to throw them away, they are always getting forgotten, washed, and stuck to my clothes. They drive me insane. Truly.

But we've reached a new height with sticker madness around here, in the form of gemstone stickers. I first bought them for the girls to wear like earrings. Which they loved. And then we used them to decorate wooden boxes for their friends for Valentine's Day. Which they loved. Most recently, I bought some white paper crowns for them to decorate with crayons, markers, and - yep, you guessed it - gemstone stickers. Which they loved. Every time I go to the craft store, I purchase more because they love them so much. But me? I've slowly started to feel that their charm is disappearing. They can actually kind of hurt when you step on them. And when they stick, they stick REALLY well. Sometimes it's hard to get them off my shoes. But mostly I've resigned myself to them because of the blatant girl love that is radiated in their direction. Until this morning.

All morning I'd been having a wardrobe malfunction of sorts. I thought my skirt had suddenly grown an itchy tag. Nope. Not the tag. So then I thought it was the inside of the pocket. But no. Not the pocket. I took my skirt off and stood in my kitchen trying to figure out what the hell was driving me so insane, but only when I moved certain ways. I couldn't, so I put it back on. It was still itchy. And then it dawned on me. It wasn't the skirt. It was my underwear. And yes, there it was. A freaking gemstone sticker embedded into the lace of my underwear, likely the result of being washed in. That little fucker caused me about two and a half hours of irritation this morning. I'm about to embark on a mission to throw away every one of those goddamn stickers that I can find. We are THROUGH.

It's kinda funny, though, when I think about me walking around like a rhinestone stripper underneath my mom-exterior, ready to rip off my clothes at a moment's notice to reveal my gemstone-studded panties. Or not. Maybe I need more coffee.....

The culprit. And yes, those are two sticker packs on the floor in the background.

A bedtime story

So my last post was about the girls in bed this morning. Here's tonight's story....

Dude informs me that Belly had quite a bit of gas as she was trying to fall asleep tonight (which is a direct result of the broccoli at dinner). He asked her why she was so tooty fruity. She said, "I don't know. I have toots coming out of my bum and going into my Easter basket." Oh lordy I find that hilariously funny!

Twintuition?

Without getting into the sordid details of our terrible sleeping situation (please, baby Jesus and baby Allah, let us have this rectified by the time they're 4), I was lying in bed at 6:30am spooning Belly. She had been awake for an hour at that point and, understanding that she wasn't going to go back to sleep, I was just trying to keep her quiet so Buggy could keep sleeping. It was sort of a farce, though, because the Bug had been stirring and was in the beginning throes of waking up for real. Anyway, I was in the middle of the girls and both Belly and I had our backs to her sister. Belly whispered something I couldn't understand. What? She whispered it again. What? She whispered very clearly, very slowly, "She's. Eating. Her. Boogers." I rolled over and looked at Buggy. Sure enough, the mostly-asleep little punk was digging in her nose and popping it in her mouth. Twintuition? I think it just might be!

The biggest mutha-lovin' poblanos ever

I make this spinach dip that is crazy, crazy good. The first time I had it was at a memorial service. Not to make light of a tragic moment in my life, but I was pretty inconsolable and only eating a little something because I was tired of people coming up and telling me I should. So I put a spoonful of dip and a couple chips on a plate. I nibbled the dip. It was the BEST spinach dip ever - hot and cheesy and perfect. I found out who made it and insisted she give me the recipe. Now that's the standard easy potluck dish I make. And I always say it's like the best of white-trash cooking because there's no real cooking involved (zapped in the microwave), it uses canned and frozen food; the most complicated part is cutting a bit of onion. Oh, but it's delicious and you'd never know. And the fact that I make it, people never suspect. Ha! Anyway, I got this idea in my head about a month ago that that dip would make a great filling for chile rellenos. I kept thinking about it and thinking about it. So this week I made it for my cooking gig (and us).

This is the dip uncooked.

I should also mention that I've never made chile rellenos. I was unaware that there were so many steps involved. I was a little short on time. And I broke a sweat getting it all done. I felt sort of like I was on a reality cooking show trying to get everything ready before the clock expired and I had to put my hands in the air. I didn't want to be the chef who mouths "fuck!" as I slam down some key, unused ingredient, or the one who starts crying and murmuring, "I could've done better.... I could've done better...." I almost always hate the crier. Man up, for christ's sake. But I digress.

The peppers I got from the store were ridiculously big. I could only fit half of them on my largest baking sheet to broil them, so I had to do two rounds. I broiled them, stuck them in a paper bag until they cooled, peeled, and stuffed them with the dip.

Then I dredged them in flour, dipped 'em in eggs, dredged them in cornmeal, fried them up in a skillet. THEN they went in the oven to make sure the insides were melty and hot all the way through. I served them with salsa and sliced avocado. Plus I made a green salad with a buttermilk-blue cheese dressing. They were incredibly good, but I will not make them again without another person to help me. I could've seriously used another set of hands.

These are the peppers I gave to my clients (with the salad stuff, salsa, and avocado on the side).

And this was how it looked plated on our table.

There is a distinct difference between a bottom and a bum

Screw the fourth. I didn't have an independence day. I had a whole independence weekend! And my oh my it was glorious. Dude took the girls to my mom's for the weekend - leaving Friday afternoon and coming back Monday around 1pm. That whole time, I was fancy free. I got up when I wanted. I made coffee and toast for breakfast. Nobody yelled at me, was rude to me, made unreasonable demands of me. I set out to accomplish absolutely nothing. And that's exactly what I did. Except..... something inside of me snapped. Something strange. If you know me, you know there is pretty much nothing I hate doing more than cleaning. But my house was crazy messy and the toy tornado twins were nowhere in sight. I cleaned up all their kitchen stuff. Then I tackled this big pile that ended up having the kitchen table underneath it. Then I took a break. Then I decided that I wanted to read in the sunroom, but there was too much crap everywhere. So I cleaned it. And then I read on the floor in there. This is how I meandered throughout the whole house and before I knew it, I'd cleaned the entire thing top to bottom. Let me assure you that this is unlike me to the nth degree. But I was sooooo happy to spend the weekend in a clean house. I even entertained some girlfriends on Sunday evening, just like a real grownup - drinks and snacks on the back deck and I didn't have to say, "Please excuse the kid mess. You know how it goes...."

I missed my people a little, but I enjoyed my alone time more. I knew they were gone for a limited time only. And just like that, they came home. I looked a bit like supermom/wife because the house was clean and I had a pie in the oven. Ha! It was all for me, but let them think that I did it for them....

While I lolled around and shirked real responsibility of any kind, they attended a bluegrass festival, waded in the John Day river, got spoiled by Grandma, and spread misinformation about me to a family friend. Apparently that went like this:

My mom's ex-husband lives in the same small town as her. And, despite the fact that he was my stepdad only during a small portion of my adult years, I love that guy. Dude took the girls to hang out with him. He has chickens and a horse and there's not much more appealing to my peeps than that. It was a hot day and Mike wasn't wearing a shirt. Belly asked, "Hey, Mike - is that your belly button?" Yes. "Are those your nipples?" Yes. "Are they private?" Yes. "Hey, Mike - you know what? My mom has hair on her bum. And she has a vagina." NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! You can not understand the horror I felt upon hearing the retelling of this story. I almost puked. For realz. WHY is she telling people about my vagina?! And for the record, they have bottom-bum confusion. We always called the vagina the bottom and the butt the bum. But then we go places and others will tell them "sit down on your bottom" meaning their bums. Thus the confusion. I thought it was no big deal, but now they're going around saying I have hair on my ass! I don't! I swear!

I confronted Belly about this so we could discuss appropriate vs. inappropriate conversation. She didn't care that it was inappropriate. She cared that both Daddy and Mike laughed and laughed. That's right..... laughed and laughed. Sigh. So I guess this means I should be bracing myself for a repeat performance at the next big gathering of people. The kid has a brain like a steel trap. And the next time she's at a loss for something to talk about, I just know this is what she'll bust out. I'm already blushing thinking about it.

Help, please! I don't know what to tell my peeps about death.

My second blog post today. I know - I'm overachieving. Anyway....

I have somehow managed to avoid discussing death with the girls until now, just a few months away from their fourth birthday. I don't really know what to say. It's such a sensitive subject with me. I've lost friends and grandparents like everyone else, but I also lost someone much closer. December 1, 1997. My sixteen year old sister died in car accident. It was and is terrible. It changed my life completely. It was a true accident and can only be chalked up to her limited driving experience. There was no one to blame. There was no reason. Sometimes horrible, horrible things happen to wonderful, wonderful people. And since then, I can't let my phone ring in the night without answering it. I tell those I love that I love them because it might be the last time I see them. I sometimes panic irrationally when I'm driving with the girls that someone could hit us and kill one or both of them. I am sort of subconsciously waiting for "the other shoe" to drop all the time. I am petrified at the mere thought of my girls driving someday. It's just a really difficult topic for me to discuss. It's amazingly complex and I don't know how to make it seem like something my girls don't need to stress over.

But my grandma died last week. And I guess the girls overheard me or Dude mention it (neither of us can figure it out, though, because we both made a concerted effort for them to not find out). They've asked me a few times about death, but I've always been able to brush it off. Last night, as the three of us sat down to dinner, the Bug asked me who's daddy Grandpa Richie was. I told her that that was Grandma Lyn's daddy, her great grandpa. "Uh huh. And who was Grandpa Richie's mommy?" That was Grandma Tita, her great-great grandma. "Uh huh. And are they dead? Did they get really old and die?" Yes. Please eat your fish now. "And if someone is dead, are their eyes closed? Can they still talk? What does it mean to die? I don't want to get old and die. I don't want you to die. I don't want Daddy to die..." And with that she started crying. Oh it was so terrible. I froze. I had no idea what to say. I hugged the little sobbing bundle of girl, calmed her down, and told her that we'd talk about it another time. None of us were going to die anytime soon. She should just eat her dinner and maybe we could talk about Mary Poppins (THE favorite topic). She seemed to perk up and the subject was dropped, but clearly I need to have a talk with them about this sooner than later.

Everything I've seen online tells me that kids their age see it as something temporary, that they can't grasp its finality. After that conversation last night, I'm not sure I believe that to be true. Maybe we need to get a goldfish so it can die. But then we'd just get another one and I don't want them to think you can replace someone when they die. Mommy died? Time to get a new mommy. Ack. I'm at a total fucking loss here. Please give me suggestions if you have any.

I always jump the gun when it comes to my own defeat

Okay, so I'm not feeling quite as discouraged about the cooking thing as I did last week. I got a call from the husband of one of the families Dude approached. We met him and his wife just once at a neighborhood brunch about six months ago and I honestly don't remember a thing about them except where they live. At first I thought he was calling to say no thanks - which I appreciate more than not hearing anything - but then he said that they're traveling a bunch this summer and want to do it starting in the fall. He said they keep looking at my write-up and getting hungry. "Call us when it's fall, or believe me, we will call you. We can't wait!" Then he said that he's part of a group of pediatricians who meet monthly for dinner and discussion. The dinner is as important as anything and they try something different every time - would I ever have an interest in catering a dinner for about 14 people? I told him that I'd definitely be interested, but he should know I'm not a licensed caterer or anything. "We don't care about licensing. We're a bunch of foodies and we want good food. And I can't stop looking at your list." Fun, huh?

And I know this is just one little avenue I can go with cooking. Private cooking classes could be an option. A friend mentioned on my Jinx post about someone near her who prepares dishes for people to take to potlucks. That would be incredibly easy. I don't know. I'll keep thinking and something will come of it all. Baby steps, baby steps....

Last night for my clients and us, I made baked fish with an olive tapenade crust and some pan-roasted asparagus. Dang it was good, if I do say so myself. And it was pretty. See?

It's crazy easy to make, too. To make the tapenade, put all of this stuff together in a food processor: pitted green and black olives (like kalamata), garlic, parsley, drizzle of olive oil, bit of dijon. Process. Done. And to make a crust on fish, I add some panko bread crumbs to the tapenade, mush it on top of the fish, bake. Done. Now don't tell anyone I might want to cook for professionally how to do that. They think it's some sort of magic.

Please don't take the babies away, but....

I fed them grasshoppers. Really. I did. Delicious, crunchy grasshoppers at a sushi restaurant. And this isn't the first time (I may have even blogged about it then, but I'm too lazy to go back and research and see if I did). We had the initial grasshoppers when the babes were barely two or something and they don't remember, but last night I asked them if they wanted to try some grasshoppers and they said yes. So I ordered up a few. This particular restaurant fries them whole and puts them on top of sushi rice nigiri-style with a little of that sauce they put on eel. They're actually quite good - crunchy and salty and a little nutty with that delicious sweet sauce. Yum. Anyway, Belly ate hers like it was nothing. Just another piece of sushi. Buggy took a bite and said, "Ummm, I like the rice and the sauce, but I don't think I want to eat the crunchy. It has too many parts in my mouth." Fair enough, but she tried it! And then she went back to eating her salmon nigiri, octopus nigiri, and eel and avocado roll. What would I do if I actually had picky eaters? I guess they'd starve. Here's the Bug's face as she took a bite.... Ha!

Dude is currently in Boston for the week. He's been traveling a lot for work lately, which is basically a bummer, but also easier as the girls are getting older. I treat it as a special time for the three of us - I cook much less, we have a lot of special treats, we shake up routines. Sometimes it's great. Sometimes it backfires and they are hellions. This morning, it's fantastic. They helped me make smoothies and popcicles and because they were such good listeners while using the blender, I gave them smoothies, bananas, and biscotti with gobs of nutella on top for breakfast. Normally I go for a more nutritious breakfast but dang I just couldn't be bothered. Now we're watching Sesame Street and no one is arguing. No one is tattling. No one is in anything remotely close to a bad mood. I feel like I've got this parenting thing down. For this five minutes. I'm going to go enjoy it before something ugly happens.....

Jinx

Damn. I was a little hesitant about posting my new cooking endeavor the other day because I was afraid I'd jinx it somehow. And I did. The family I've been cooking for went down to one night a week instead of two. The mom said she was feeling really guilty because she was hardly cooking anymore. I guess they've been getting three or four nights of dinner out of the two nights of food I've been cooking for them. I shot myself in the foot with my big portions. Ugh. Last week I made them peanutty noodles with chicken and broccoli, and salad. Tonight, per their request, I'm making pad thai with chicken and shrimp (personally, I would've spaced it out a bit since it's sort of similar to last week's dish, but I aim to please). Needless to say, I'm disappointed with this slight downturn in events.

Dude suggested I type up a list of sample entrees and some basic terms (pricing, etc.) and recruit a second client to keep the momentum going. I agreed and we specifically talked about two families we know who have two professional parents and little kids. Dude even said that he'd go talk to both of those families on my behalf (seeing as I hate selling myself). So I did. And Dude set out on Sunday afternoon to talk to them. But unbeknownst to me, he took a bunch of copies of the stuff I'd written and went to about five people in the neighborhood whom he thought might be interest and told each of them that I was interested in taking on a new client and it would be first come-first served (quite literally). I was slightly horrified when I found this out. Maybe it's no big deal, but it made me feel awkward. I'm not even exactly sure why. Anyway.... that was Sunday. Today is Wednesday and I've heard from no one. No. One. Not. A. One. And man am I feeling confident. Sigh. It's just a bummer.

But you know what makes me happy? Like, unreasonably happy? Maybe because I never had it as a kid or maybe because to me it means "summer" and "ageless" and "whimsy"? This....

Mmm. Sugary spun air.

HEY GUESS WHAT!!

I mean, hello friends. Has it really been a zillion months since my last blog post? Well, um, no.... but close. I know. Lame. But let's move on and start anew here because I've got lots to say. No dwelling in the past when I'm here now, right? Right.

So guess what? I'm doing something new. I've mentioned in the past that I used to work in nonprofit development and got a bit burned out, quit to raise my kids, lalalalala. I've been doing the mom thing for three years now and that's cool, but we all know that if I let that define me, I'd shrivel up and die. I'm so not kidding. Dude has pushed me from time to time to get a consulting gig a) to bring in a little extra money and b) to give me something to do to exercise my brain, retain my skill sets, have some outside adult interaction. He's meant well, but I haven't had the least bit of interest in pursuing this. But what to do, what to do.... I suppose I have to work again sometime....

I love cooking and damn I can turn it out. I really can. It's one of the few things I think I can brag about with confidence. Remember when I made all the food for our housewarming party? Anyway. Somewhere along the line I got it in my head that I'd love to be a personal chef. Screeching halt. Um, what? I have no formal culinary training or real professional cooking experience. I'm just a very good home cook. The audacity of me thinking I can do it professionally! The bravado! The hubris! Why would anyone hire me to cook for them? Especially here in Portland where you can't swing a cat without hitting a really phenomenal chef - the real kind who went to culinary school and has spent years in commercial kitchens. And that thinking is why I haven't done anything about it. Seriously. My cooking confidence is gigantic until I overthink it. And I tend to overthink everything. So tick tock time has passed and I've talked about it but not done anything because it seems ridiculous.

A good friend had two motives when she asked me to cater a small baby shower six weeks or so ago. First, she loves my cooking and wanted my food. Second, she wanted me to get off my ass and start putting my little cooking idea into practice. It wasn't exactly what I had in mind a la personal chef, but she was absolutely correct that it was a step in the right direction. We chose an Asian-themed menu (lemongrass beef skewers with peanut sauce; curried cashew chicken salad sandwiches; tofu otsu; pickled cucumber salad; minted fruit) and I sincerely had a great time from start to finish.

Lemongrass beef skewers and peanut dipping sauce

When I got home that afternoon, Dude told me that our neighbor across the street had asked him what I was up to. I guess he told her and she said, "I didn't know she did that! I'd kill to have her cook for us a few nights a week." My heart skipped a beat. Was she serious? One way to find out - I asked her. And yes, she was serious. Very. So over the next few weeks, we talked food and money and logistics and lo and behold.... I'm a personal chef, cooking dinner twice a week for a family of four. Ta da!

The family consists of the parents and two middle-school-aged boys. The dad is vegetarian (eats fish, though); the rest aren't. The boys are picky. The mom is allergic to walnuts and pecans. The scenario is not without its challenges, but it's certainly manageable. Every Wednesday night at dinner time, I bring them a hot meal that is table ready. I also bring a second meal that just needs to be heated/baked/etc. for another night of their choosing. It's cool because I'm only on the hook for one night a week but still get to cook two nights worth of food.

So wanna know what I've made so far? I'm going to assume you just clapped your hands together and exclaimed, "YES!!" You're so great.

Week One

Hot meal: orange chicken (at the adamant request of the 11-year-old), rice-edamame salad with slivered almonds and mint, and a leafy green salad with an Asian vinaigrette.

Second meal: spinach-butternut squash lasagna

Week Two

Hot meal: special miso-rubbed whitefish with lime-honey-ginger glaze, jasmine rice, sesame green beans.

Second meal: pizzas (pesto, artichoke, goat cheese, roasted red pepper, kalamata olive, mushroom, shallot; red sauce, pepperoni, roasted red pepper; pesto, prosciutto, roasted red pepper), green salad with green goddess dressing.

Week Three

Hot meal: coconut curry (chicken on the side for the meat eaters), jasmine rice, vegetable stir-fry with asparagus, red and yellow peppers, snow peas, broccoli, cauliflower, scallions, and carrots.

Second meal: creamy tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches (for the boys - smoked cheddar on ciabatta; for the grownups - gruyere and taleggio with fresh basil leaves on ciabatta).

Vegetable stir-fry prep board

The best part of all of this? I'm having fun. I like every bit of it from the menu planning to the presentation. And once I get into a real groove, I'll look into expanding with more clients. Eek! I'm doing it! Hooray!

And if anyone reading this is fearing that I'm about to turn Belly and The Bug into a food blog, rest assured that I'm not. I'm thinking this venture will be a good way to resurrect my much-neglected "me" blog. What better reminder than connecting the weekly meal with writing a blog post? It's literally like clockwork. And, uh, clearly I need to get back in the habit of writing. I'll be sure to tell you all about my precious hooligans and their recent antics soon. Now I need to put together this week's menu....

Twin speak

That so looks like "twin peaks" to my brain. Huh. Anyway....

People have asked me since before the girls could talk if they have their own language. And my answer has always been a pat "no." They don't. They speak English and a smattering of Spanish words. That's it. The end.

Except lately I've noticed as their play has become more and more imaginative that their vocabulary is going down that same path. I chalk it up to the fact that they play together and not that they're twins, but they do have some stuff that is entirely their own language. Four examples immediately come to mind.

The first two are games they play. I don't even know how the games are played (and when I've asked, they refuse to tell me), but they are called rockabolly and podidot. When one says "let's play podidot" to her sister, she knows exactly what that means.

The other two are food names. These seem strange to me because they decided to change the names, knowing full well what the rest of the (English-speaking) world calls them. Shrimp are not shrimp. They're beginnies. And red bell peppers are peescents. I made a shrimp stirfry for dinner the other night and Buggy asked, "Are these beginnies?" I told her no, they were shrimp. She said, "Right. Beginnies. Belly! We're having beginnies for dinner!" Belly was pleased. She loves beginnies.

That's all I can think of at the moment, but I wanted to make sure I got it down somewhere so I won't forget. These are the things with which I will have great fun embarrassing them when they are older.

Mr. Big makes me happy sometimes

Hi. My beloved Packers are heading to the Super Bowl. Yes, that's the first order of business on the docket. It fills me with such a ridiculous joy that I can't even put words to it. I. Am. Thrilled. THRILLED! And we're going because we beat the stinky Bears. And one of the biggest Bears fans I know is currently sporting a Facebook profile picture of me in Packer wear with a sign that says "Packers Rule, Bears Drool." It really doesn't get much better than that.

In non-sporting news....

We survived Christmas in Wisconsin. It was cold and white and the girls had the best time ever. They were SO into the holiday. We had gone over what would happen Christmas morning a zillion times: "When you wake up, wake me up and ask if it's morning. If it is, then we'll get up, walk down the hall, peek around the corner into the living room, and see if Santa came." Oh you shoulda seen their eyes light up when they saw full stockings, a giant pink dollhouse, and a pile of musical instruments. It was the absolute best! And, of course, as we moved into the opening of presents, they ripped the paper off with wild abandon. Between us and Santa, they got everything they asked for and so much more. Way more. Way too much more. Maybe they're too young to fully appreciate that, but I'm not. I'm very thankful that it didn't cause us any hardship to spoil them this year. As they get older and want bigger, more expensive stuff, this will not always be the case. I'm enjoying it while I can.

Then we came home. Back to the routine. But I had a little ace in my pocket - a wedding in California that I could look forward to. A quick trip by myself to see old girlfriends, wear a sexy dress, drink too much, dance and dance and dance and dance. It was all I had hoped it would be and more. I hadn't seen some of the other wedding guests in 10 years or more and there was something very gratifying about a) picking up right where we left off and b) being told that I looked better than ever. Shallow? Why yes! But who cares? It was fun. And a nice little ego boost. But the best part? Just hanging with some of my best girlfriends, including the bride. In the limo on the way to our post-reception-but-continuing-the-party party at the hotel, the bride insisted that everyone should sing "To Be With You" loudly and proudly. It's the corny stuff like that that I love - not only that she wanted to sing it but that we all knew all the words. We're dorks. And we celebrated that.... with a lot of booze. The morning came, um, a bit too quickly. Back to reality.

But you know what? Reality is pretty cool these days. Dude and I are doing well. Belly and Buggy are cool kids who keep me on my toes in more positive ways than negative lately. Could life be better? Well sure, but I'm trying to be focused on finding the joy in the little things. Sometimes thinking too hard about things leads to over-thinking which leads to seeing every last nugget of what's not "right." I'm just rollin' with my homeys for now.

Belly and The Bug