When you have one of the best food photographers/food bloggers/pastry chef/French wonderful women coming to stay with you, it can be a little intimidating to make breakfast.
Luckily, she has recently gone gluten-free as well. Danny and I figured she'd enjoy some pancakes her first morning here with us.
She did.
Do you know Helen? You probably know of her. She's the amazing force of nature who writes and takes photographs and creates recipes for Tartelette, one of the most loved food blogs in the world. Her resume is tremendous.
Her kindness is enormous.
Here she is, watching our Little Bean eat and play at the table as we all shared lunch together. Look at those eyes. That's a real mensch.
We first met through each other's websites, these places of conversation and sweets passed across the table. Long before we were in each other's presence, we read each other's thoughts and shared habits. By the time we could finally hug at the BlogHer Food conference in San Francisco, we were already friends.
This visit was much more quiet than the frenzy that was that fabulous weekend in the Bay Area. Helen flew into Seattle to teach workshops on how to make macarons and take delicious photographs, which she had just completed in Los Angeles as well. She stayed with us on the island as a sort of refuge, a still point in the midst of the whirlwind.
We talked. We ate. We shared stories. We read books to the Little Bean. We watched movies and told more stories and laughed. We drove around the island, looking at beaches and green trees. We lived.
Life's been pretty full-tilt around here. I can't remember the last time I took an entire day off from the computer. With Helen here, I had more reason than ever.
It felt good to breathe.
I feel blessed to have friends who are impassioned photographers. This last year, I feel like I've been soaking up photographs, living on Flickr when I can, watching the way other photographers look at the world. At BlogHer food, I took photography seminars from some of the best: Todd and Diane, Heidi, Matt, and Lara.
(We are so honored to have Lara Ferroni as the photographer for our cookbook. I can't wait for you to see it!)
In California at Kingsford University, I learned more about my camera and how to use it from watching Todd and Diane, plus my outrageously talented friend, Jen Yu. After watching the way they shoot, and peppering them with questions, I've been keeping the camera near me, all the time, and looking through that lens as often as I can. Taking photographs is a way of listening, a place without words, a solace.
With Helen here, I learned again. Have you seen her photographs? The woman takes my breath away with her light and colors, the details, the openness. Look at this swiss chard, goat cheese, and prosciutto tart. (And it's gluten-free.) Her talents seem so far beyond my reach that I might as well put the camera down.
However, if you want to see something truly inspiring, look at Helen's photographs from March 2006, the first month she started the blog. Wow. Helen, you have come a long way, baby.
It's a transformation almost as incredible as a frightened girl who has just learned she has to go gluten-free to the woman five years later, joyful and alive, sitting with a French friend by her side.
I never know where life is going to lead me. Raising the camera to my eyes helps me to see my world, right now. Like this wall of canned tomatoes at The Monkey Tree, the vegetarian café where we ate lunch with Helen on Monday. How many times have I eaten there before and not seen this image?
Having Helen here helped me to see differently.
They do have lovely baked goods at that café. Sigh.
And that bakery space. What I wouldn't give to have that rack for baking pans.
Helen and I both stood there, taking photographs. The island is a quirky enough place that people didn't even ask us why.
We forgot the baked goods we couldn't eat when we returned home. We pulled out the scale, various flours, sugar, and butter.
(we didn't use all that butter in one recipe, though.)
Can you guess what we were making?
Puff pastry.
Together, Danny, Helen, and I are going to conquer gluten-free puff pastry. I don't know when. You'll see it here, and on Tartelette, when we three feel like it's right. This first batch showed promise. We had layers and flakiness. But not yet. We have work to do.
(This did, however, make a wonderful pie crust afterwards.)
Anyone who thinks that living gluten-free is drab should have hung out with us this weekend.
Yesterday, Little Bean and I shared lunch with Helen, Anita, Jen, and Jeanne. What a fine frenzy of women talking and laughing, eating and taking photographs.
Anita made this addictive pork chile verde for us. (Little Bean looked up from her first bowl and said, "Yum yum yum!" This made Anita happy. And then the kid went back for seconds.) There were warm tortillas, sparkling lemonade, and sunlight coming through the window.
Nobody missed the gluten.
And seriously? Are you kidding me? Chocolate-hazelnut pot de creme with fresh whipped cream.
I don't need no stinking gluten.
(Jeanne's recipe for this is right here.)
Life, it seems, has been too busy lately for gatherings of the good women in my life, the ones who tease me and sustain me both. This weekend, thanks to Helen visiting, I reconnected.
And when the unexpected moment of March arrived at our front door, Helen and I both had our cameras ready. Little Bean, seeing her first snow.
Thank you, Helen, for being here. For helping me to slow down. And for showing me how to notice it all again.
p.s. There will be more slowing down for the next week. Danny, Little Bean, and I leave for Arizona tomorrow, for indolent days with eagerly waiting grandparents. We'll be playing in warm sun and reading on the back porch. Next week, we'll be back with new recipes.
10 March 2010
looking, talking, and eating together
04 March 2010
corn tortillas
People, I have a problem.
I'm in love with corn tortillas.
Oh, I'm still in love with my wonderful husband, who takes our daughter to the playspace on the island — to climb jungle gym equipment and feed pretend tea to her dolly — every morning about this time so I can settle in front of the computer and write these words.
(And live on Twitter for a bit. It's so easy to nibble on peoples word's, banter in that small space, and feel like I'm talking to my friends. It's also so easy to feel like I'm nattering away my life. And then I find these astonishing essays that connect me to myself again, like Amanda's piece on the beauty of taking care of ourselves, and I am grateful all over again for this internet that connects people sitting alone in rooms.)
And I adore our darling daughter, who spent a couple of hours yesterday playing in our yard while I weeded a raised bed before I plant potatoes. She traveled at her pace, picking flowers, talking to herself, and climbing the porch steps again and again. As I kneeled to separate roots from black earth, feeling the muscles in my back open to the sun again, I heard her come up behind me, babbling. I sat up and showed her: a worm in my hands. She watched it wriggle, touched it gently, then looked at me in astonishment. Then she was off to kick a big ball.
I love that having a kid means I can be a kid again too.
I love the smell of the daphne just off our front deck (all laundry should smell like this), the rollicking sound of Sharon laughing on the phone, the feeling of my fingers wrapped around the first cup of coffee in the morning. I love pickles dripping liquid, the sound of Little Bean's giggle when we tickle her, and the rhythm of rain on a tin roof.
I love driving into the tiny town of the expansive island where we live.
(And hey, if you're going to be anywhere near us this weekend, I'm speaking at the Vashon Food Summit this Saturday. Take a look at this lineup of impassioned people talking about food that matters to them. I'm honored to be a part of this, so grateful that I live in a place like this one.)
I love so much that I could go on typing all day. But I'm forgetting what I came here to tell you.
Corn tortillas. People, I have a problem.
That photo up there? That's corn tortillas browned in oil, then cut up for migas. My goodness, if you have not eaten migas before, get to it. (I say this as a week-old convert.) That's one of the endless ways you can eat corn tortilla goodness.
But since we have a toddler instead of a baby, we're just digging the quesadillas. ("Make yourself a dang quesadilla!" This line from Napoleon Dynamite is always in there while I'm grating the cheese.) Fast finger food with good ingredients.
Enchiladas. Warm soft tortillas torn off in strips, with a little butter and salt. Nachos — man, we love nachos more than two adults probably should. We're hooked in this house.
For the past week, however, it has been tortilla chips. Homemade tortilla chips. Have you made these yet? Until last week, I thought making tortilla chips must be hard. I mean, they taste so damned good, right? How could it be this easy?
Easy it is. I found this wonderful photo tutorial from my friend Alice at Savory Sweet Life. (Did you know that Alice has a gluten-free category on her website, as well? Thank you, Alice.) I made some 10 minutes later.
I'm always struck by how simple homemade food is. I used to think it would take much longer to make good food from scratch than grabbing something from the deli or takeout. It does take longer. Usually about 10 minutes longer, it seems to me.
(Also, it's really good for me if I make tortilla chips instead of buying a big bag. Big bags quickly dwindle into tightly rolled empty bags that need to go into the trash. Like I said, I have a problem.)
Sometimes I get letters from people begging me to work on a gluten-free flour tortilla recipe. I have to tell you — it's pretty far down the list. I don't really like flour tortillas. They feel so wan and enervated in comparison to the rugged goodness of a corn tortilla. And if you make your tortillas by hand — a skill I'm still improving — then you really won't want those packaged goods again.
But maybe you have a great gluten-free flour tortilla recipe you'd like to share here. Or one of your favorite uses for tortillas. I can't be the only one with this problem. Go ahead. Share.
Homemade Tortilla Chips
I could write a formal recipe here, but seriously? You don't need one. Here's what you do.
Take 10 corn tortillas.
Brush both sides with canola oil.
Cut them into 4 pieces each (for big tortilla chips) or 8 pieces (like a pie, for tiny crispy wedges that will shatter between the teeth).
Don't do them all separately, silly. Pile them up then drive that knife down.
Sprinkle with salt and whatever spices you like.
(I'm playing with smoked paprika, chili powder, pepper, and lemon zest. Also, cinnamon sugar.)
Done.
Lay each one out on a baking sheet (we put down aluminum foil) — this is honestly the longest part of this short task.
Bake them in a 375* oven. 10 minutes, then turn them all with tongs. (yes, this seems fussy. worth it)
Bake again, about 4 more minutes for the small chips, about 10 more minutes for the big ones. (What happens in your kitchen might be different.)
Are they crisp? Golden? Solid and airy as commercial tortilla chips, but warm? Ah yes.
Let them cool, a bit. (Come on, you don't want your tongue to be burned.)
Crunch.
28 February 2010
The Pioneer Woman Cooks
Can you guess whose cookbook we cooked out of this week?
You can't? What, have you been hiding under a big old rock the past couple of months? That's Ree Drummon, the Pioneer Woman herself, force of nature, damned good writer, authentic being, hilarious hoot, and amazing woman. Her cookbook has been on the New York Times bestseller list. At her first reading, people waited in line five hours just to see her. She's the Beatles, people. She's bigger than us all.
She's cool, as Little Bean might say.
So, you probably don't need me to tell you about this cookbook, do you?
Well, let me tell you this part first.
I adore Ree Drummond. I've been reading her site since nearly the beginning, when her photographs were washed out and she shot straight from the heart in every sentence. My dear friend Tea alerted me to The Pioneer Woman. "You have to read her," she told me in an email. "She's a real writer. And she's a hell of a lot better than she wants people to believe." I've been reading, faithfully, since then. (And I especially love her multi-part series on how she met and fell in love with her husband. Look, I'm still dizzy-crazy in love with my husband. I'm a sucker for a good love story.) After all these years, like many of us do, I feel like I've been on that ranch, that I know those kids, that I can smell Charlie's breath. Meeting Ree at the BlogHer conference in San Francisco, and being astonished that she knows who I am, was one of the best parts of last year. No one was cheering for The Pioneer Woman more than me when her book came out.
(And I'm still mortified that one time, when she and I were writing a couple of emails back and forth, I asked her if she needed an agent, because she should really write a book. Yeah, this cookbook was coming out in about a month. She was so polite when she told me, though. She didn't call me an idiot at all. What can I say? My blog reading slowed down when Little Bean was born.)
As much as I love Pioneer Woman (and I have a hard time calling her anything but Pioneer Woman), I don't really love the layout of this book. Her vivid photographs of the step-by-step preparations of dishes deserved larger space, not tiny dime-sized pictures crammed together on a page. And am I the only one confused at first, because the steps read top to bottom, in columns, and then you skip to the next column to the right? I tried to read the recipe photographs left to right, the way our eyes naturally go, with reading. Every recipe felt entirely strange until I realized how I was supposed to read it. Even though I love Ree, and her writing, I didn't entirely feel called to cook out of this book, at first.
Silly me.
It started last week with the pancakes, the thin-as-whisper Edna Mae sour cream pancakes. My friend Judy told me, "You really should make them. They only have 7 tablespoons of flour in the whole recipe." That did it. I made them. And loved them.
(That's sorghum syrup in that photograph above. Danny's pouring. We ended up drenching the pancakes in that slightly molasses, thicker and more bitter than maple syrup concoction. He didn't like the pancakes for that. I'm making them again soon so he can see the error of his ways.)
Seven tablespoons of flour? Easy. These were lacey and present, full of flavor yet delicate. (This is starting to sound like a feminine anti-perspirant ad, so I'll be quiet.) These are pancakes you can stack 12 high and not feel guilty as you slam your fork through them. Go ahead. Enjoy.
After those pancakes, I made a long list of all the dishes we should cook last week. It was longer than my hand could write. I stopped and started putting post-its in the book instead. The top of it now looks like the sidewalk filled with smashed flags, after a parade. I couldn't get to them all.
I'm going back.
The recipes in this book are homey. Do I intend that as an insult? Absolutely not. They're recipes you make in the home, not in a restaurant, not to impress, not at a party. They're family dinner food, recipes handed down from grandmothers and trusted friends. They're recipes that have been tested in the belly, many times before making it into print. This book is filled with comfort meatballs, chicken-fried steak, blackberry cobbler, meatloaf, chicken pot pie, and oatmeal crispies. This food is filled with butter, sugar, beef, cream, and breading. This is food intended to fill the stomachs of hungry cowboys and little kids both.
This food is good.
I had some funny reactions when I posted updates of our food adventures cooking from The Pioneer Woman Cooks
On our first date, Danny told me he is a chef because "...I like to give people joy in the belly."
When he came home from work the first night I was cooking from this cookbook, and handed him a plate full of roast chicken and crisp potato skins filled with bacon, cheddar cheese, and sour cream, with the promise of chocolate sheet cake after, he sat on the couch and munched and moaned. That man was happy, in this primal, important way. He felt well fed. He ate everything.
And then he asked me to marry him again.
Sometimes I think we all make too much a fuss over food. The only thing it's really good for is that joy in the belly. We had plenty of that this week.
We made pico de gallo from scratch(bought hothouse tomatoes for the occasion). Danny braised short ribs for the enchiladas. And the next morning we had leftovers.
Last night, we had nachos with homemade tortilla chips, the last of the braised short ribs, ripe avocado, the last of the pico de gallo, and sour cream. We lifted our chips into the air to thank Ree.
Look at this skillet cornbread. Gluten-free. It was twice as easy to make (one-pot meal, on the stove, then in the oven) than any other cornbread before it, for me.
Every single baked good I tried to convert from this book worked like the giant smile Little Bean flashes at us when she wants our attention. You know why? These recipes are family tested, belly tested. They work.
I could bake out of this book forever.
So we had potato leek pizza (you cook the leeks in bacon grease) one night. I grew so excited about the buttermilk biscuits that I guessed at the weight of the flours (our scale broke) and made them by feel. I ate pineapple upside down cake, warm out of the oven, for the first time since I was wearing OP shorts and Vans shoes in Claremont, California in 1982.
Damn, that cake was good. Moist and soft with vanilla, the brown sugar sort of caramelized, the pineapples burrowed into the cake — we just couldn't get enough. (And the cake was almost like a pudding cake, like custard that had set well. Three days later, it still tasted good.) No one cared that these were gluten-free. This was good food.
And I realized today that the photographs in this book (even if they are squinched together) are much more enticing than most styled shots. So many professional food photographs are gleaming and distant. When I see a cake book with the photograph of a mile-high chocolate cake with glossy ganache and frosting without any crumbs, I feel intimidated. It's good, in a way, because it kicks me in the butt. However, I've just realized this week that I usually set myself up to this impossible standard. When I convert baked goods recipes to gluten-free, it's not good enough for me that they look like they might be served on someone's dinner table. I want them to look like the baked goods at the best bakeries in Paris.
It's a little exhausting.
This week, however, I just flung flours into a bowl and baked with joy. When I looked at The Pioneer Woman's pineapple upside down cake, I felt comforted. It looked a little schlumpy. It looked delicious. So I just baked to feed my family.
This week tasted good.
Ree Drummond just wants you to get into the kitchen and have fun feeding people. I would love to be in her kitchen with her, cracking jokes while the onions start cooking down in a hot pan. That probably will never happen. This book is as close as we're all going to get.
I could not recommend this book more if I could write it in the sky. Buy it, people.
Then make yourself some pot roast.
We're giving away a copy of this book to one lucky reader. Tell us why you want it, in a story. We'll pick the winner at random next Monday night.
p.s. You want to know how cool Pioneer Woman is? When she read about this giveaway, she upped the ante. There are 10 signed copies of the cookbook to give away now. Thank you, Ree.
Chocolate Sheet Cake, Gluten-Free, Adapted from The Pioneer Woman Cooks
I have to admit, I was dubious about this recipe at first. How good could a cake only an inch high actually be? You pour the chocolate-rich batter into a rimmed sheet tray and bake it that way. I like my cakes fluffy and light, sky high if possible. A cake no taller than a sheet tray? I couldn't see it.
However, when I read Ree's headnote, I was convinced to at least try. "This is absolutely, without a doubt, the best chocolate sheet cake. Ever. It's moist beyond imagination, chocolatey and rich like no one's business, and 100% of the time it causes moans and groans from anyone who takes a bite."
So? Does it live up to its reputation?
Oh dear lord. This is the most addictive chocolate anything I have ever eaten. The moist, fudgy cake with the icing clinging to its top could stop men in their tracks. It did in this house. I had to hide it from myself for fear of eating it all in one night.
Turns out, too, it's pretty darned easy to convert to gluten-free goodness. Thank you, Ree.
10 ounces gluten-free flours (I used 3 ounces almond, 3 ounces super-fine brown rice, and 4 ounces potato starch)
2 teaspoons xanthan gum
1/2 teaspoon guar gum
2 cups sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup buttermilk
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 pound (2 sticks) butter
4 heaping tablespoons cocoa powder
For the icing
1 3/4 sticks (7 ounces) butter
4 heaping tablespoons cocoa powder
6 tablespoons milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 pound (16 ounces) powdered sugar
1/2 cup finely chopped pecans (I used cashews here)
Preparing to bake. Preheat the oven to 350°. Pull out a rimmed baking sheet (also called a jelly roll pan or half-sheet tray). Set a pan of water on to boil.
Mix the dry ingredients. Combine the gluten-free flours of your choice, the xanthan and guar gums, the sugar, and the salt. Whisk them together.
Mixing the wet ingredients. Combine the buttermilk, eggs, vanilla, and baking soda. Stir well.
Making the chocolate concoction. Melt the butter, then add the cocoa powder. Whisk them together to combine. Pour 1 cup of the boiling water into the chocolate mixture and let it sit for a moment. Turn off the heat. Stir.
Making the batter. Pour the chocolate mixture into the flours. Stir for a moment to cool the chocolate, then pour in the egg mixture. Go to town stirring with a rubber spatula until it is smooth.
Baking the cake. Pour the cake batter into the rimmed baking sheet. Slide it in the oven and bake until the cake is firm and a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean, about 30 minutes.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch: icing. Melt the butter in a large saucepan on medium-low heat. Add cocoa powder. Stir. Add milk and vanilla. Stir. Add that pound of powdered sugar. Stir. Add the chopped nuts. Stir.
Finishing the cake with icing. Remove the cake from the oven. Immediately, pour the icing over the cake evenly, covering the top. Let it sit until it is cool enough to eat, about 20 minutes.
Dig in.
I happen to know this cake freezes well. After I ate the first bite of it, I knew I was in danger. So we ate our dessert portions, then I sliced up the whole thing and stuck them in ziploc bags and flung them in the back of the freezer. Somehow, some of those frozen pieces have ended up in our mouths as well. (Tip: the frozen ones are great with ice cream.)
24 February 2010
baked kale chips
I don't know why I resisted making kale chips for so long.
For months, even years, I've been reading raves of this healthy snack from bloggers across the country, and the world. Maybe it's this stubborn quirk I have. If too many people extol the virtues of something, I resist it. This is why I didn't see Forrest Gump or Rain Man or The West Wing for years after they arrived on screens, large and small. (Actually, it was only the last one that made me curse this silly habit of mine.) It's churlish and childish, but there it is. If everyone loves it, I'm not going to try it.
Believe me, I know how infuriating this can be. My dear friend Gabe, who is a talented filmmaker, has spent almost twenty years resisting any film I recommend. He dallies in seeing the film that forces me to gesticulate and speak louder and louder as I recount the startling cinematography and the subtleties of dialogue that reveal character with the silences between words. He nods. I slow down. I've just grown too enthusiastic, I realize. Now he won't see it.
One night, years ago, we stayed up until nearly 4 in the morning, making a list of movies on stacks of paper napkins, the movies that made us remember how film can cut right through our hearts, urgently. (We had seen a film so bad we questioned the medium all over again.) At the end, I silently noted that at least 90% of the films were ones I had recommended, long before.
And so, I'm not going to rave about kale chips. I'm restraining myself. Perhaps you're just like me. I don't want you to wait years to make these.
I will share this: Little Bean loved them. See the olive oil and flecks of green on her fingers? She grabbed crisp leaves faster than I could photograph them. I wanted a full plate for the photograph. I have one with unexpected spaces instead. She ate half of them before we sat down at the table.
These kale chips have a strange, mesmerizing texture. Want to know what it is? Potato chips. When you cook them just long enough, before they brown and taste bitter, the leaves shatter between your teeth. You taste the grease of the olive oil, the crisp of the chip, and the slick of salt on the tongue. For a moment, you might think you are eating potato chips.
And then the last bite tastes like kale. These days, I prefer this to potato chips, any time.
So does Little Bean. We're lucky, in this house. Because of my celiac, we don't keep a lot of packaged foods around. In fact, there are so few I could count them all on one hand. Sure, there are plenty of great gluten-free baked goods and crackers and cookies on the market now. Occasionally, I enjoy them, and I'm so grateful they're out there. Mostly, however, it's kale from the farmstand, flours in the cupboard, cheese and meats and ripe pears on the kitchen counter.
This makes feeding a toddler an all-day job. I never seem to stop cooking and cutting, doing the dishes and planning ahead for the next meal. However, I'm lucky enough to be at home with her, to write in the evening when she's asleep (like now). I can feed her every meal. Danny makes breakfast — this morning it was roasted potato slivers, leeks, bacon lardons, and scrambled eggs. I take lunch and dinner. Tonight, she and I shared warm brown rice, sautéed chard, a strawberry smoothie, and an apple. She lapped it all up, babbling all the while.
She's never had a Lunchables, a toddler meat stick, a lollipop, or a potato chip. As far as she is concerned, baked kale chips with smoked paprika garlic salt is a really exciting snack.
We're always looking for more snacks around here, though. Little Bean is going through a growth spurt and seems to never stop eating this week. What do you and your kids eat for snacks that makes them smack their lips and leaves you satisfied with what they're eating?
If you haven't made these kale chips yet? Well, let me say in a small, restrained voice: do.
Baked Kale Chips
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 teaspoon granulated garlic
3 large handfuls lacinato kale, torn into shreds
1 to 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Preparing to bake. Preheat the oven to 350°. Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil. Combine the salt, smoked paprika, and garlic in a small bowl.
Wash the kale. Rinse the kale leaves, then put them in a salad spinner and spin until the green becomes a blur. Round and round, spinning and spinning — let the kale dry. After it comes out, dry it even more with paper towels. Those leaves should be bone dry.
Oiling the kale. Put the kale leaves in a large bowl. Drizzle over 1 tablespoon of the olive oil. Massage the oil into the leaves. You might need more. You might have larger hands than I do. Use your judgment.
Bake the chips. Arrange the kale chips onto the sheet try and slide it into the oven. Bake until the leaves are crisp to the touch but still a dark green. (When they turn brown, they turn bitter.) Check at the 12-minute mark, to be sure.
Remove them from the oven. Sprinkle with the garlic smoked paprika salt.
Let them cool a bit. Eat.
18 February 2010
kale
Danny came home with a bag full of these baby lacinato kale bunches, and I immediately spilled them onto the black tray ($2.99 at Value Village) that I leave on our covered porch to take pictures. I was going to take a few more photos, looking at some of the leaves huddled into themselves, others cuddled into the next one, legs thrown over, sighing in their sleep.
But this was it. Slightly out of focus and not the angle I intended. Little Bean needed a nap, and she let us know that, in no uncertain terms.
I can't wait until she can tell us, in full sentences, exactly what she needs. She talks all day, gobbling up words and throwing her hands wide into the air, showing she means all of this. All of this blue-sky-scoured-of-clouds day, the playground with the big slide, the trees with the bare branches swaying in the wind, the wind on my face, the cold air, the hunger in my stomach rattled by the movement, the need for cheese for cereal for grapes for anything mama I'm hungry, and I need to sleep. I'm tired I'm tired and I don't want to go to sleep because I don't want to miss any of this, Mama. I don't want to miss any of this.
But she grows so frustrated when she can't say it all. She has a lot to say, that one. We have awhile to wait. So we live in gestures and guesses, pointing and saying words out loud, hoping we have it right, until we hand her the C book from the alphabet set so she can point to the cat and tell us all about the tortoiseshell she saw on our walk. And then I let out my breath.
(thank you to all of you who suggested baby signs for her. she knows them. plenty of them. we've been teaching her those for months. they help. but this kid would love to speak in sentences and describe everything. her hands are frustrating her. she's where she needs to be.)
Tell truth, I can only describe that kale up there in sleepy sentences. We're sleep deprived around here, again. Or still. Little Bean, the clear light of our lives, has not slept well since her surgery in May. They said this might happen. We're doing everything we can. Mostly, we stir our coffee with patient spoons, slowly, and then reach for another cup. We love her. We laugh most of the day, delighting in her company. We'll endure.
But my god, some days? Some days I am dragging, near tears, and trying hard to find the light. With Danny working again, it's me and this active toddler trying to tackle language, in the house. Thank goodness for early spring. We're walking in the sunlight whenever we can.
Thank goodness this kid loves food. As the light wanes outside, I scoop out some brown rice from the rice cooker, set a sauté pan on high heat, pour in some olive oil, throw in some chopped-up baby kale, some sliced garlic, a pinch of smoked paprika, salt and pepper, then dance it around in the pan. Little Bean's standing on a chair at the counter, near me, playing with spoons and measuring cups. We're singing something — she's starting to sing along. ("La la la?" she asks me, eyes wide, when she wants me to sing to her.) The green kale grows darker, and smaller, in the heat. I flip it in the pan, then land it on a saucer. A few moments to cool, and we're sitting down to eat, the two of us.
She points to books she wants me to read while we eat. I pretend to gobble up my rice, and she wants more of it too. We both raise a piece of kale in the air, dangling high above our mouths, then drop it in. Yum, she says, rubbing her stomach at the same time. We laugh about something. I read more books. She eats more kale.
When I grab the little book full of M words, she makes the sound, then says Mama in her tender, sleepy voice. And she reaches out of her chair to put her hand on my chest, pat the place over my heart, and says Mama again.
She may not sleep. But she's here.
We'd love to hear your stories about kale and how you cook it, who you share it with, and why.
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