comment dit-on?

creamy corn empanadas

2011-11-29T14:34:00.000-08:00

We make a few kinds of empanadas, but these are most people's favorite.

The filling is adapted from Alton Brown's Better Than Grannie's Creamed Corn recipe. I use La Salteña's wrappers (para hornear) and this is an easy, crowdpleasing recipe.

Directions:

Make filling and let it cool
Line 1 cookie sheet with parchment paper (in case of blowouts)
Fill wrappers, fluting the edges or using a fork to seal them well
Paint with a beaten egg yolk (for color)
Bake at 350 for 25 minutes or until golden brown

Creamy Corn Filling
Prep Time:10 min
Cook Time: 12 min
Yield: 3 cups

Ingredients
1/2 onion, diced
1 TBSP butter
2 pinches kosher salt
2 cups frozen organic corn
1 TBSP sugar
1/4 tsp turmeric
2 TBSP yellow cornmeal
1 TBSP corn flour or all-purpose flour (to thicken it so that it doesn't ooze out)
1 cup heavy cream
Fresh ground black pepper

In a saucepan over medium heat, sweat the onion in butter and salt until translucent, about 3 minutes. Add the corn and cook over medium high for about 5 minutes. Sprinkle the corn with the sugar and turmeric and stir constantly for about 2 minutes. Sprinkle the cornmeal and flour on the corn, using a whisk to combine well. Add the heavy cream and cook until the corn has softened, about 2 to 3 minutes. Season with freshly ground black pepper.

zucchini bread

2011-11-08T12:48:00.000-08:00

My friend Audra made this the other day and it was the right mix of spicy and sweet. She served it with softened salted butter, and it was a great complement to the other flavors.
It is a Paula Deen recipe, and because Paula's the queen of butter, I did a double-take when I saw that she used oil in the recipe. Being a butter fascist myself when it comes to baking, I substituted unsalted butter for the oil. I also omitted the nuts and added the zest of half a lemon.

Ingredients

3 1/4 cups all-purpose flour (or 2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour and 1 cup whole wheat pastry flour)
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
3 cups sugar
1 cup unsalted butter, melted and cooled (it works just as well with 1/2 cup butter and 1/2 cup applesauce)
4 eggs, beaten
1/3 cup water
2 cups grated zucchini
1 teaspoon lemon juice
zest of half a lemon
1 cup chopped walnuts or pecans

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. In a large bowl, combine flour, salt, nutmeg, baking soda, cinnamon and sugar. In a separate bowl, combine oil, eggs, water, zucchini and lemon juice. Mix wet ingredients into dry, add nuts and fold in. Bake in 2 standard loaf pans, sprayed with nonstick spray, for 1 hour, or until a tester comes out clean. Alternately, bake in 5 mini loaf pans for about 45 minutes.

Thanks to Audra N for sharing this Paula Deen recipe with me.

my renewed pledge on national coming out day

2011-10-11T08:21:00.000-07:00

On National Coming Out Day, I renew my pledge to teach my son (and his little sister) what I didn’t learn at home:

That the greatest family value is valuing all families.
That home is a safe place to be yourself.
To embrace your identity and the identities of others.
That there is no normal, no different ... there’s who you are and that is unique.
To speak up for those who are afraid to use their voices and to stand up for those who feel powerless.
To befriend those who feel alone and are most at-risk for checking out of this world.
To fight for a world where there is no need for closets because there is no longer any reason to hide.

hate is a virus

2011-10-03T21:33:00.000-07:00

I love my son more than I ever thought was possible and want him to grow up knowing that he is loved and accepted for who he is. I also want him to love deeply without worrying that I will love him less if he happens to love a man instead of a woman. I'm fortunate that his father feels the same was as I do. And both of us will absolutely stand up for and with our son, no matter who he happens to choose when he's older.

Lessons from Sharing the Story of My (Possibly) Gay 6-Year-Old Son
By Amelia
Posted: 10/3/11 12:07 AM ET
Editor's note: "Amelia" is a pseudonym chosen by the author in order to keep her family's identity anonymous.

On August 16 I learned what viral meant.

I wrote an essay about my oldest son and his love of a popular gay television character, Glee's Blaine, and how this crush led to him telling me he wanted to kiss boys, not girls. I naively posted it to a blog, thinking some fans of the show might think it was cute.

Within 24 hours it had been reposted and "liked" over 30,000 times on the blog's website. It wasn't long before messages started flooding in, other websites began posting it and people were commenting. The response was overwhelming positive. What I thought was a simple story about my kid and our family had clearly stuck a chord with a lot of people.

It also made some people uncomfortable. Of the criticisms, the most common is that my son is six years old and doesn't know anything about sex. While I fully acknowledge this may not be the end-all-and-be-all to my son's sexual orientation, I object to the idea that being gay is only about sexual acts. Our emotions and feelings, our attractions and compulsions, all contribute, not just our body parts. If my son had a crush on the star of iCarly, I doubt people would be saying he was too young to have those sexual feelings towards a girl. I think they would think it was an innocent schoolboy crush, which is exactly what it is.

Plus, for every comment I've read saying my son is too young, I have received multiple messages from adults saying "I knew when I was little, too."

It got me thinking and after awhile I started to feel like I knew this big secret that shouldn't be a secret at all: Every gay adult used to be a gay kid. It's not as if all children start off as straight until some time later when someone flips the gay switch. We are who we are from the very moment we are born.

The horrible and hate filled words of the Michele Bachmann's of the world take on a whole new level of disgusting when picturing them being screamed at a group of kindergartners and first graders. They are unnatural. They are sinners. They are going to hell. They are dirty, wrong and sick.

These people would tell my innocent little boy (who currently wants to be a fireman-ninja when he grows up) he is the biggest threat the American family... because he wants to kiss boys and not girls.

The reality is they are pounding these words of ignorance and hate into the ears and minds of gay children every day. And those children are hearing them. I know because many of those kids are now writing to me. Kids as young as 14 have sent me messages. So many are scared children, who sure as hell did not choose this for themselves, living in fear of their family finding out because they know full well what their mom and dad will say. And they tell me they wish I was their mom.

I want to keep all this talk, all these lies, all this hate, away from these kids. Of course, there is an inherent problem with that. We can't pick out the gay kids simply by looking, and behavior isn't a clear indicator (some little straight girls are tomboys, and some little gay boys love their monster trucks). The only way we can truly know someone's orientation is if they tell us, which for some doesn't happen until well into adulthood.

So the solution is obvious to me. Keep it away from all our kids. It's my responsibility as a mother, as a human being, to stand up and say "No more." No, you are not allowed to say those things in front of my children, not unless you want to deal with me. Because I will not allow any of my sons to be viciously attacked without seeing me defend them. They will never have to doubt for a second exactly where their parents stand, and never have to live in fear of who they are.

Because since August 16, I have learned that hate is the virus we all need to be worried about.

“mommy, they are just like me.”

2011-10-03T21:00:00.000-07:00

What an amazing parent. In a time when bullies and gay teen suicide are finally being taken seriously, it's refreshing to encounter a mom who is focused on her son's happiness and supporting whatever choices he makes.

I aspire to be this kind of parent. If my little boy is lucky enough to eventually find love and someone who loves him and deserves him, I really don't care if that person is gay, straight, or purple. So long as he is good to my son and good for my son, I'll be thrilled.

“Mommy, they are just like me.”

My oldest son is six years old and in love for the first time. He is in love with Blaine from Glee.

For those who don’t know Blaine is a boy…a gay boy, the boyfriend of one of the main characters, Kurt.

This isn’t a ‘he thinks Blaine is really cool’ kind of love. It is a mooning at a picture of Blaine’s face for a half hour followed by a wistful “He’s so pretty” kind of love.

He loves the episode where two boys kiss. My son will call people in from other parts of the house to make sure they don’t miss his ‘favorite part.’ He’s been known to rewind it and watch it over again…and force other to, as well, if he doesn’t think people have been paying enough attention.

This infatuation doesn’t bother me or his father. We live in a very hip-liberal neighborhood, many of our friends are gay, and idea of having a gay son isn’t something that bothers either of us. Our son is going to be who he is, and it is our job to love him. End of story.

He is also six. Six year olds get obsessed with all kinds of things. This might not mean anything at all. We always joke that he’s either gay, or we have the best blackmail material in the history of mankind when he’s a 16 year old straight boy. (Take that naked bath time pictures!)

Then the other day we were traveling across the state listening to the Warblers album (of course), and in the middle of Candles, my son pipes up from the back seat.

“Mommy, Kurt and Blaine are boyfriends.”

“Yes, they are,” I affirm.

“They don’t like kissing girls. They just kiss boys.”

“That’s true.”

“Mommy, they are just like me.”

“That’s great, baby. You know I love you no matter what?”

“I know…” I could hear him rolling his eyes at me.

When we got home I recapped this conversation to his Dad, and we stood simply looking into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then we smiled.

“So if at 16 he wants to make a big announcement at the dinner table, we can say ‘You told us when you were six. Pass the carrots’ and he’ll be disappointed we stole his big dramatic moment,” my husband says with a laugh and hugs me.

Only time will tell if my son is gay, but if he is I am glad he’s mine. I am glad he has been born into our family. A family full of people who will love and accept him. People who will never want him to change. With parents who will look forward to dancing at his wedding.

And I have to admit, Blaine would be a really cute son-in-law.

warren for president 2016

2011-09-22T08:16:00.001-07:00

quotable

2011-09-22T08:01:00.000-07:00

Dogs love us like we wish we could love others; they are faithful where we are feckless. For as long as they are able, they endure. - Annmarie Kelly-Harbaugh, in Hounded By Grief Over A Canine Companion

quotable

2011-09-12T20:58:00.001-07:00

How I love thee, Jon Stewart.

Via Prose Before Hos

love

2011-09-11T21:46:00.000-07:00

Leap
by Brian Doyle

A couple leaped from the south tower, hand in hand. They reached for each other and their hands met and they jumped.

Jennifer Brickhouse saw them falling, hand in hand.

Many people jumped. Perhaps hundreds. No one knows. They struck the pavement with such force that there was a pink mist in the air.

The mayor reported the mist.

A kindergarten boy who saw people falling in flames told his teacher that the birds were on fire. She ran with him on her shoulders out of the ashes.

Tiffany Keeling saw fireballs falling that she later realized were people. Jennifer Griffin saw people falling and wept as she told the story. Niko Winstral saw people free-falling backwards with their hands out, like they were parachuting. Joe Duncan on his roof on Duane Street looked up and saw people jumping. Henry Weintraub saw people “leaping as they flew out.” John Carson saw six people fall, “falling over themselves, falling, they were somersaulting.” Steve Miller saw people jumping from a thousand feet in the air. Kirk Kjeldsen saw people flailing on the way down, people lining up and jumping, “too many people falling.” Jane Tedder saw people leaping and the sight haunts her at night. Steve Tamas counted fourteen people jumping and then he stopped counting. Stuart DeHann saw one woman’s dress billowing as she fell, and he saw a shirtless man falling end over end, and he too saw the couple leaping hand in hand.

Several pedestrians were killed by people falling from the sky. A fireman was killed by a body falling from the sky.

But he reached for her hand and she reached for his hand and they leaped out the window holding hands.

I try to whisper prayers for the sudden dead and the harrowed families of the dead and the screaming souls of the murderers but I keep coming back to his hand and her hand nestled in each other with such extraordinary ordinary succinct ancient naked stunning perfect simple ferocious love.

Their hands reaching and joining are the most powerful prayer I can imagine, the most eloquent, the most graceful. It is everything that we are capable of against horror and loss and death. It is what makes me believe that we are not craven fools and charlatans to believe in God, to believe that human beings have greatness and holiness within them like seeds that open only under great fires, to believe that some unimaginable essence of who we are persists past the dissolution of what we were, to believe against such evil hourly evidence that love is why we are here.

No one knows who they were: husband and wife, lovers, dear friends, colleagues, strangers thrown together at the window there at the lip of hell. Maybe they didn’t even reach for each other consciously, maybe it was instinctive, a reflex, as they both decided at the same time to take two running steps and jump out the shattered window, but they did reach for each other, and they held on tight, and leaped, and fell endlessly into the smoking canyon, at two hundred miles an hour, falling so far and so fast that they would have blacked out before they hit the pavement near Liberty Street so hard that there was a pink mist in the air.

Jennifer Brickhouse saw them holding hands, and Stuart DeHann saw them holding hands, and I hold onto that.

Via Aaryn

on globalization

2011-09-10T12:30:00.001-07:00

Your car is Japanese. Your pizza is Italian. Your falafel is Lebanese. Your tortillas are Mexican. Your democracy is Greek. Your coffee is Brazilian. Your movies are American. Your tea is Tamil. Your shirt is Indian. Your oil is Saudi Arabian. Your electronics are Chinese. Your numbers are Arabic, your letters Latin. And you complain that your neighbor is an immigrant? Pull yourself together!

quotable

2011-09-07T08:30:00.001-07:00

Do your little bit of good where you are; it's those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world. - Bishop Desmond Tutu

quotable

2011-09-05T18:03:00.000-07:00

"How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something but to be someone." - Coco Chanel

happy birthday freddie

2011-09-05T12:23:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday, Freddie. Your light burns brighter than ever.

quotable

2011-09-05T12:21:00.000-07:00

“Modern cynics and skeptics see no harm in paying those to whom they entrust the minds of their children a smaller wage than is paid to those to whom they entrust the care of their plumbing.” -John F. Kennedy

font geeks of the world, unite

2011-09-04T12:26:00.000-07:00

I'm a typography geek. And I love "Doves". Carry on.

Know This Headline's Font? You're 'Just My Type'
September 4, 2011

Are you an Arial person? A Times New Roman? A Garamond? A Lucida Handwriting? So much of our communication is expressed in text these days that people become deeply attached to the typeface they use to type out their thoughts. Bold or unbold, serif or sans-serif — like the car you drive or the clothes you wear, your font expresses who you are ... and can go in and out of style.
A Font For Radio

Many NPR staffers read scripts all day, so fonts are near and dear to our hearts. We asked some familiar NPR voices share their typeface of choice:
Garamond: "It's got little feet on it — serifs. It's a very clear, simple font."

Garamond: "It's got little feet on it — serifs. It's a very clear, simple font."
Gill Sans: "The cleanness, the simplicity of the Gill Sans is what I really like. I like that you can experiment with different fonts, but finding one that really works is nice. I feel like I'm not wandering through the font desert anymore."

Gill Sans: "The cleanness, the simplicity of the Gill Sans is what I really like. I like that you can experiment with different fonts, but finding one that really works is nice. I feel like I'm not wandering through the font desert anymore."

"Type, like fashion and music, comes in and out of vogue," Simon Garfield, author of Just My Type, tells NPR's Audie Cornish. So what's in right now? "I think now script fonts are making a comeback," he says.

Fonts didn't always hold such a significant spot in the cultural imagination. Before personal computers, type looked largely the same. "Everything basically looked like the typewriter font," Garfield says. "It was a liberating thing in the '80s" when it became possible to manipulate fonts with the click of a mouse.

But with great power comes great responsibility ... and some didn't use their typeface forces for good. To wit: Comic Sans. If you've ever printed signs to advertise a yard sale or sent invitations to your child's birthday party, chances are you've employed the wildly popular Comic Sans. The playful letters became so overused that it inspired a backlash. Garfield is hardly a fan, but he comes to Comic Sans' defense.

"The key thing with Comic Sans and with all fonts is really the use to which it's put," he says. "If you used it ... to invite people to your school fair, that was great. [It was] not so great, however, when it began appearing on the sides of ambulances and gravestones." Garfield recalls one member of the Ban Comic Sans "movement" saying: "If you use it in the wrong place it's like inviting a clown to a funeral."

Then there's Helvetica — a typeface used so widely that for many people it has become essentially invisible. (The 2007 documentary Helvetica chronicled the many uses of Helvetica in our everyday lives, from public transit signage to corporate logos.) In Just My Type, Garfield follows the story of one man who tried to spend a day without Helvetica — and found it almost impossible.

"He couldn't get up in the morning," Garfield says. "His T-shirt label instructions had Helvetica on them. He couldn't use a dollar bill because the numbers were in Helvetica. He couldn't go on the New York subway because [all the signs were] in Helvetica as well. It's really taken over the world."

But fonts come and go, and Garfield says that Helvetica has a rival these days: Gotham. (You may recognize Gotham from Barack Obama's 2008 presidential campaign materials.) But while fonts today simply fall out of fashion, back before computers, getting rid of a font wasn't simply a matter of waiting for it to fade away. Take, for example, the Doves typeface, which met a rather abrupt end.

"Doves, like the bird, is a fleeting type," Garfield says. The typeface was designed in 1900 by T.J. Cobden Sanderson, who was "a real aesthete. He thought he could invent the perfect, most beautiful type," Garfield explains. (You can see a page from the 1903 Doves Press Bible here.)

Sanderson formed a publishing house that printed using Doves type, but after a terrible falling out, Sanderson decided that he did not want his publishing partner to be able to use the font after he died. "So he took all the letters that had ever been made with Doves and he took them to Westminster Bridge over the [River] Thames and threw them in," Garfield says.

... don't get any ideas, Comic Sans haters.

happy re-birthday to me

2011-09-04T12:17:00.000-07:00

Today, I'm eight years kidney cancer-free. Lots has changed in my life since my diagnosis and treatment. I have much to be celebrate. I also have much to be sober about, including the current illness of my father (stage 4 bladder cancer) and other friends who are waging their own battles with pancreatic and breast cancers.

If nothing else, please do as I'm doing today -- take a moment to savor a wonderful meal, hug (and laugh with) your loved ones, and do something healthy for your mind/ body. None of us are promised tomorrow. But we can all make today glorious.

quotable

2011-09-03T20:56:00.000-07:00

“Harry Potter is about confronting fears, finding inner strength and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is about how important it is to have a boyfriend.” -Stephen King

why capitalization matters

2011-08-30T20:37:00.000-07:00

Capitalization is the difference between helping your Uncle Jack off a horse & helping your uncle jack off a horse.

miscarriage and the luxury of grief

2011-08-19T12:31:00.000-07:00

I heard this story on the way home yesterday and it touched me deeply.

It wasn't until I had a miscarriage that I found out that I was joining a club that so many of my girlfriends (and their partners) were already members of, but remained silent about. Their support, along with Leo's, were just what I needed to help me cope during one of the saddest times in my life.

After Miscarriage, Missing The Luxury Of Grieving
by Ken Harbaugh
All Things Considered
August 19, 2011

Ken Harbaugh is a former Navy pilot and an NPR commentator.

It has been three months since the miscarriage. We weren't far along, still in the first trimester, so only our closest friends knew we were expecting.

Annmarie, my wife, is fine. At least, her body is fine. There is something broken in both of us, though.

My wife and I have every reason to be grateful. The miscarriage happened early on. Annmarie was never in danger. We have two beautiful girls already. If we want, we can still have more. But the whole experience left us wondering how one deals with a tragedy that happens quietly at home.

A few weeks before we lost the baby, my wife's grandfather died. His funeral, like any other, was solemn. But also beautiful. Everyone came — all 10 kids, from across the country. Distant relatives, co-workers, people from church stopped by to pay their respects. They mourned alongside the family. We buried Grandpa Kel that afternoon, and woke the next morning with the memory of a beautiful send-off.

There is a reason that such ceremonies exist. Who knows if it meant anything to Grandpa, lying in his coffin, but it meant a lot to everyone else. I gave him my gold Navy wings, pinned to an American flag laid on his chest. He was the only other Navy pilot in the family, and I felt the need to solemnize that connection. Others said goodbye in their own way. Some talked to him, some knelt for a while by his side. Most important, we all said farewell together.

A miscarriage is tragic enough by itself. What makes it worse is the fact that no social custom has evolved to help us through the loss. There is no ceremony, no coming together, no ritualized support. Annmarie and I suffered alone, in silence. Most of our friends had no idea we were grieving. It took me two weeks to tell my own mom.

And it's not as if life stopped, or even slowed down to allow us a moment to reflect. We had jobs to get to, kids to take care of. Real sadness seemed an indulgence we could not afford.

In the months since, I have learned something about this kind of grief. It is not a luxury, but an essential part of healing. So this weekend, after the kids are in bed, Annmarie and I will do something that may seem a little crazy. We will head into the garden with a bulb we've been saving. We will bury it, say a few words, and hold each other. We will finally have our ceremony.

I suspect that watching the first green shoot push up through the earth will hurt. Every time we see it, we will be reminded of what happened to us. But that's alright. Grief cannot be buried forever. With enough time, and a little sunlight, it might just transform itself into something that aches a little less.

quotable

2011-08-13T14:27:00.000-07:00

"This is your life. Do what you love and do it often.
Start doing things you love.
Life is short. Live your dream and share your passion." -- The Holstee Manifesto

pollo al ajillo

2011-08-13T10:45:00.000-07:00

It doesn't get much better than this traditional tapas dish. Leo and I have a new favorite recipe for pollo al ajillo. We used skinless, boneless chicken thighs and loved this dish. Make sure you've got some good bread on hand to sop up the juices -- they are delicious.

Spanish Garlic Chicken
by Joyce Goldstein
Tapas: Sensational Small Plates from Spain

Yield: Serves 4
ingredients
4 boneless, skinless chicken thighs, cut into 1 1/2-inch pieces, or 12 chicken wings, tips removed
Sweet paprika
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

1/3 cup olive oil
6 cloves garlic, crushed, plus 2 cloves, minced
3 fresh thyme sprigs
2 bay leaves
1/2 cup fino or manzanilla sherry
1/2 cup chicken broth
Chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley for garnish
preparation

Rub the chicken with paprika, salt, and pepper and set aside at room temperature for at least 1 hour or preferably in the refrigerator at least 8 hours or overnight.

Preheat the oven to 400°F.

In a large sauté pan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the crushed garlic and cook, stirring, until softened but not colored, 2 minutes. Add the chicken pieces and fry, turning as needed, until golden on both sides, 5 to 8 minutes. You want them nicely colored on the outside but not cooked through. Using a slotted spoon, transfer to paper towels to drain briefly, and then arrange the pieces in a cazuela or baking dish large enough to hold them in a single layer.

Remove the crushed garlic from the oil and discard. Return the pan to low heat. Add the minced garlic and cook briefly. Add the thyme, bay leaves, sherry, and broth, raise the heat to high, and bring to a boil. Remove from the heat and pour over the chicken.

Bake the chicken until cooked through, 25 to 30 minutes. Remove from the oven and discard the bay leaves and thyme. If the pan juices are thin, transfer to a small saucepan and cook over medium high heat until reduced, and then return to the cazuela. Sprinkle with the parsley and serve at once.

Variation:

You also can complete the cooking on the stove top. Sauté the minced garlic as directed, return the chicken to the pan, add the sherry and broth, and simmer, uncovered, until most of the liquid has evaporated and the chicken is tender, 15 to 20 minutes.

quotable

2011-07-14T21:16:00.001-07:00

“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.”” — M. Radmacher

quotable

2011-06-03T20:57:00.001-07:00

"Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that will never be again. And what do we teach our children? We teach them that two and two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France. When will we also teach them what they are? We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are? You are a marvel. You are unique. In all the years that have passed, there has never been another child like you. Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move. You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel. And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is, like you, a marvel? You must work, we must all work, to make the world worthy of its children." - Picasso

modern love: eating the ham sandwich

2011-05-09T21:56:00.000-07:00

My mother moved to the U.S. as a thirty-something military wife in the mid 1970s. Her upbringing in a staunchly conservative Catholic family in South America burdened her with many neuroses, many of which she inflicted upon me. Her negative messages about sex, power, and men took me a long time to unlearn. I've concluded that fear seems to drive most of her decisions (including all of the unhealthy things she ever said to me about men and sex). The irrational world she's constructed for herself (and for me, expected to be the perfect only child of a narcissist) were suffocating even when I was child.

I distinctly remember the fight that my parents had about me going to prom. I wanted to go with my high school sweetheart. My mother was dead set against it, because she thought that prom was essentially an abbreviation for 'promiscuity' -- that it was really an excuse to have sex (perhaps it was for some, but that wasn't my M.O. for the evening) and with so many unsupervised (I'm assuming she meant predatory) high school boys, one was likely to prey on her daughter. What she didn't realize is that her (and my father's) discomfort with the subject of sex meant that I filled in the blanks on my own.

In the fifth grade, that meant the racy bits in Judy Blume's "Deenie," lots of poring over the entries about vagina, penis, intercourse, etc. in the family encyclopedia that defined things in a decidedly unsatisfying way because there was no mention of how things felt, and obligatory misinformation from friends with older siblings. By junior high, I had a basic idea of the mechanics and consequences, but still hadn't had a sex talk from my parents and (because I skipped the seventh grade) also never had the benefit of a sex ed class.

In high school, I was outraged by the way my mother criticized my classmate for being at a high school basketball game when she was visibly pregnant. And I told my parents as much because they had never said a practical word to me about how not to be in her situation. By that point, I had my first serious boyfriend. We stumbled our way through first base and the rest, but it wasn't until I got older that I started to explore and enjoy sex in the way I do today. Even by the time the high school boyfriend and I got divorced when I turned 30, I was completely naive in the language of seduction, because I was dating for the first time in my adult life.

I enthusiastically dove in and got a crash course on the topic. I got comfortable with expressing my desires and needs and with having really candid (and fun and serious) conversations about what it means to be good, giving, and game. A few partners later, my would-be sexual renaissance came to a screeching halt when I tested positive for a few high-risk strains of HPV. I called a girlfriend and blubbered to her about my fate and she told me that she was HPV positive, too and that it was pretty common. I lamented my luck, given that I hadn't engaged in what are typically considered high-risk sexual practices, had only had a few sexual partners my entire life, and that (with the exception of my ex-husband), I'd never had unprotected sex. But it was helpful in putting the brakes on physicality and focusing on really getting to know someone before getting in bed with him. Slowing down also meant that I met the love of my life -- my partner Leo, with whom I now have a 9-month-old baby boy. The added bonus: my body finally killed off the HPV a few months before I got pregnant.

Leo and I have had our share of conversations about how we plan to parent our children. We've put a lot of thought into the messages we want them to get from us about sex, sexuality, body image, healthy eating, self esteem, and several other subjects. I know that I'll never punish them (as my mother punished me) by not attending their high school graduations if they choose to go to prom. I hope that I won't make sex a taboo and make them or their boy/girlfriends feel dirty if I think they're having sex. And I hope that I'll be able to have an open relationship with them about sex, so that questions are asked and answered, information is shared, and emotions are discussed. More than anything, I want them to understand that sex is a very big deal, that there are big consequences attached to it (I'm talking emotional ones just as much as STDs), that it is a wonderful thing, and that over time they'll probably get a good deal better at understanding and communicating about their sexual needs.

This Modern Love essay was written by someone who also got really negative messages about sex from his mother. In this case, he's a guy who figured out how to move beyond his upbringing.

Modern Love: Eating the Forbidden Ham Sandwich
By ANDREW LIMBONG
May 5, 2011

AT 8 in the morning, I expected some old woman to be working behind the counter of the pharmacy — the kind of person who usually gets up at 6 a.m. anyway. Instead, there was a young guy in tight jeans and one of those faux-ethnic kaffiyeh scarves. I thought about how cold it wasn’t inside the pharmacy. When he asked me if I needed anything, I stepped aside to let my girlfriend, Sam, walk up to the counter.

“Yeah, a morning-after pill?” she said.

“We have Plan B and a generic,” he said. “Which one do you want?”

Sam looked at me as if I would know.

I made a face Sam knows all too well that said, “Uh?”

“How much is the generic?” Sam asked.

“Ten dollars cheaper.”

She looked at me again, then said, “I’ll take the generic.”

“O.K., that’ll be $35.”

I held out my debit card and he took it, looking as if he had done this a hundred times before.

I paid, we went home, Sam took the pill and I’m not a father: all good. But something felt off.

Had that proverbial old woman been behind the counter that morning, I think I would have been more comfortable.

Well, actually I would have been a lot less comfortable at the pharmacy, but I think that would have made me feel more comfortable about the situation as a whole, because we would have fulfilled the archetype that I thought our story was supposed to fulfill: young couple has sex, condom breaks, they feel ashamed buying a morning-after pill and no one speaks about it after.

But as it happened there was absolutely no shame in it at all. Everything was fine, and I was joking about it later that day.

Yes, this was a good thing. But it still bothered me.

On my first day of college, my mother took me aside while my father carried my stuff from the car to my dorm room. She held my shoulders tightly and told me not to hug any girls because they’ll lie, say I raped them and then I’ll go to jail. Either that, or I’ll get them pregnant.

It wasn’t the first time I was hearing this. I nodded along, pretty certain that the chances of a girl accusing me of rape because I hugged her weren’t very high.

I knew a lot of my mother’s attitudes toward women and sex were wrong, but that didn’t keep me from absorbing some of it. Persistence does count for something.

I met Sam when I was 20. She’s my first girlfriend, my first sexual partner and the first girl I’ve ever kissed twice. Luckily for me, she was very patient throughout this whole process.

And it really was a process.

Both of my parents are Indonesian immigrants. They grew up in a strict Christian household, and they did their best to impart all aspects of their home culture to me.

My father never spoke to me about sex. We never sat down and had the “talk” that seems to happen only on television. But I always knew we were a different kind of family from the ones I watched on a nightly basis, because nobody on “Full House” ever got in trouble for kissing a boy, as my sister once did.

I never got that far when I was younger. There was something about girls that scared me. This isn’t uncommon, but most people seem to get over it somewhere around high school. By the time I was 20, I still had this irrational fear of rape, jail, pregnancy, God and my mother. It led to feeling lonely a lot, but at least I knew I wasn’t alone.

My friend Haroon calls this fear the “ham sandwich” effect. Like me, he’s a first-generation American, born to a religious family. He’s Muslim. His parents would tell him not to eat pork because it’s evil and God will send you to hell. They had a similar attitude about sex.

But he was 16 and curious, so why not? He sat down one day, bought a ham sandwich, ate it and then threw up.

He tried again, though, and was eventually able to eat ham sandwiches like any other American.

It was the same way with sex.

A lot of people suffer from the ham sandwich effect, especially first-generation Americans. You can reject the parent culture all you want, but the more serious the situation, the harder it is to get over. And sex is very serious.

Over the course of one semester, Sam and I went from being friends of friends to making out in my bed on a nightly basis. There was nakedness and there was touching, but it never went any further than that because I always felt my mother was there in my room, too.

Sometimes, she would be sitting in the chair across the room, holding a Bible. Sometimes she would just be casually standing by the wall next to my bed. Once I even saw a vision of her in my room with my imaginary teenage son, who started using heroin because I gave him up for adoption.

These characters, these figures, put pressure on my blood vessels, not allowing the blood to go where I oh so desperately wanted it to.

It was like this for a month. Sam was patient, but I didn’t want to wait for her patience to run out.

So I called Haroon. At this point, he had already had sex, or “eaten the ham sandwich,” as we like to say.

He laughed when I called, but not condescendingly. He was expecting this call from me. He had become something of an expert in overcoming the ham sandwich effect. He ran off a list of people we both knew in similar situations whom he had coached through this sort of thing.

His advice? Breathe a lot, do some push-ups and don’t really think about it. “Stop thinking about her as a person,” he told me. “People are animals, and having sex is a natural thing that animals do all the time.”

He probably could have worded it differently, but I was comforted by the simple fact that he got over it and was now eating ham sandwiches on a regular basis.

That kind of achievement wasn’t really my goal, but I did need to stop thinking about it so much. For my blood to go where I needed it to go, I needed to distance myself from my fears, my religion, my mother, Sam and even myself.

So I did, and it happened.

I don’t blame my mother for how difficult it was for me to have sex, to have any sort of physical relationship with women at all. That’s how she was taught, and she was just trying to do her best with me.

Actually, unlike Haroon, I appreciated my mother’s old-school leanings for making sex so difficult. Getting over the mental block seemed like an achievement, an accomplishment, something worth doing.

I tried explaining all of this to her once. The semester before I met Sam, I was studying in London. My parents visited me, and my mother and I took a walk around my campus. She asked me a lot about women. Apparently she thought I went to London to go on a wild sex romp. She seemed almost disappointed when I told her no.

There was a glassy, wet look in her eye, and she asked me if I was gay. And I said no, I was just messed up. She nodded.

A lot of times traditional families can display a certain degree of homophobia. My mother certainly wasn’t friendly with the idea of homosexuality, but on that walk, for the first time, I knew that if I were gay, she might actually be all right with it. It was nice to know.

“Haroon calls it the ‘ham sandwich,’ ” I told her. And I told her about the religious pressure, and the constant clashing of Eastern and Western ideals when it came to sex. She stopped walking, so I put my arm around her. Then she apologized to me. She had never done that before, and she’s never done it since, but that bit of progress was nice.

SO when the kaffiyeh scarf guy in the pharmacy sold Sam that morning-after pill, I think what was missing for me was the ritual of seriousness, the sense of progress that I was doing something big. If the old woman had been behind that counter that morning, I’d like to think I would have asked quietly for the pill. I would have paid the extra $10 for the brand name. I probably would have also picked up some toothpaste and deodorant to act as if I was doing this casual thing that didn’t mean much to me.

But I would have known that she thought it was serious, and that would have been enough.

Andrew Limbong, a runner-up in the Modern Love college essay contest, is a senior at the State University of New York at New Paltz.

brined chicken

2011-05-08T20:27:00.000-07:00

We brined some leg quarters before grilling them last weekend using this recipe and technique and loved the result.

Ingredients
1 gallon cold water
1 cup kosher salt
1/2 cup sugar
optional added spices, herbs, chopped onion, garlic, celery, etc.

Preparation
Bring 1/2 gallon of the water, the salt and sugar to boil, stirring until both are completely dissolved. Remove from heat, add flavorings, cover and allow to cool completely. Add the remaining 1/2 gallon of water. Refrigerate to below 40F before adding chicken.
You can cut the recipe in half, or double it as needed, depending on how much chicken you'll be brining. Make enough so the chicken is completely covered in the brining container. If you brine in sealable plastic bag, you'll need less brine than if brining in a bowl.
To keep the chicken submerged, place a heavy plate, or a flat-bottomed bowl filled with some water over the chicken in the brine container.
Keep the brine and chicken COLD during brining, between 36-40F. If there's room, place the brining chicken in the fridge. If not, brine in an insulated cooler, and place a sealed bag of ice in the brine with the chicken. Don't put loose ice in the brine...when it melts, the brine will be diluted and it won't do its job.

How Long to Brine Chicken
Use the following brining time chart for chicken as a guide. Adjust within the brining times to achieve more or less salty flavor.

Whole Chicken --4 to 8 hours
Half Chicken --3 to 6 hours
Bone-in Skin-on Breasts --1 to 2 hours
Boneless Skinless Breasts --30 to 60 minutes
Legs, Thighs, Skin-on --45 to 90 minutes
Legs, Thighs, Skinless --30 to 45 minutes

Always brine in a non-reactive container. Glass, porcelain, crockery, plastic and stainless steel are all OK. Aluminum, copper and wood are not.

After brining, rinse the chicken well in cold, running water. Pat dry with a clean towel.

Now that the chicken is brined, it's ready to be seasoned with your favorite dry rub and smoked or grilled. Brined chicken usually takes less time to cook.

oven fries

2011-04-29T05:48:00.000-07:00

This recipe is always a winner in our house. We try to make enough to have leftover fries, which typically make their way into a Spanish tortilla.

From-Scratch Oven Fries
Makes 4 servings

Ingredients
1 1/2 pounds medium-size baking potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch-thick strips
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/2 teaspoon kosher or table salt
Ketchup (optional)

Preparation

Preheat oven to 450°. Rinse potatoes in cold water. Drain and pat dry. Toss together potatoes, oil, and salt in a large bowl.
Place a lightly greased wire rack in a jelly-roll pan. Arrange potatoes in a single layer on wire rack.
Bake at 450° for 40 to 45 minutes or until browned. Serve immediately with ketchup, if desired.

leek potato soup

2011-04-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

Soup's on. (I had some leeks left over from last week's CSA share.) This one's a winner. I was skeptical about the buttermilk, but it balances the flavors perfectly. The soup itself tastes like a baked potato with sour cream.

Alton Brown's Leek Potato Soup
Prep Time: 25 min
Cook Time: 1 hr 15 min
Serves: 6 servings

Ingredients

* 1 pound leeks, cleaned and dark green sections removed, approximately 4 to 5 medium
* 3 tablespoons unsalted butter
* Heavy pinch kosher salt, plus additional for seasoning
* 14 ounces, approximately 3 small, Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and diced small
* 1 quart vegetable broth (I used chicken stock)
* 1 cup heavy cream
* 1 cup buttermilk
* 1/2 teaspoon white pepper
* 1 tablespoon snipped chives

Directions
Chop the leeks into small pieces.
In a 6-quart saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter. Add the leeks and a heavy pinch of salt and sweat for 5 minutes. Decrease the heat to medium-low and cook until the leeks are tender, approximately 25 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Add the potatoes and the vegetable broth, increase the heat to medium-high, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and gently simmer until the potatoes are soft, approximately 45 minutes.
Turn off the heat and puree the mixture with an immersion blender until smooth. Stir in the heavy cream, buttermilk, and white pepper. Taste and adjust seasoning if desired. Sprinkle with chives and serve immediately, or chill and serve cold.

street photography discovered

2011-04-27T19:21:00.000-07:00

These shots are interesting not just for their artistic merit, but also because they were taken by an ordinary woman with an extraordinary eye. I'm curious how this nanny got to Yemen and some of the other places where she photographed. Unfortunately, much of Vivian Maier's story remains private (for now).

Amazing Mystery Photographer Comes To Fame After Her Death
An incredible story. Vivian Maier was a nanny who lived in Chicago for most of her life and passed away in 2009 at the age of 83. Little more is known about her, except that she was an avid street photographer. Her work was discovered at an auction in 2007, more than 100,000 negatives and undeveloped rolls of film, sold by a storage facility who were cleaning out her locker for delinquent rent. Here is a small sampling of Vivian Maier's stunning work from the Maloof Collection, spanning from the 1950s to the 1970s. Many of the photos, if they had any information at all, only provided a year and/or city.

been there, said that

2011-04-27T19:08:00.000-07:00

Seba started crawling last night for the first time minutes after Leo got home from work. It was awesome, because both Leo and I got to see it and cherish the moment. As we headed to bed, I reminded Leo that sleep disturbances are common around the time that a toddler reaches each developmental milestone.

Suffice it to say that it wasn't a complete surprise to me when Seba awoke at 3 a.m. today instead of his usual 5-6 a.m. I still muttered the name of this book under my breath each time I heard him making the sounds he does as he gradually wakes up.

Go the Fuck to Sleep: a storybook for exhausted parents
Mark Frauenfelder at 3:48 PM Tuesday, Apr 26, 2011

Go the Fuck To Sleep is a bedtime book for parents who live in the real world, where a few snoozing kitties and cutesy rhymes don't always send a toddler sailing off to dreamland. Honest, profane, and affectionate, Adam Mansbach's verses and Ricardo Cortés' illustrations perfectly capture the familiar--and unspoken--tribulations of putting your little angel down for the night, and open up a conversation about parenting in the process. Beautiful, subversive, and pants-wettingly funny, Go the Fuck to Sleep is a perfect gift for parents new, old, or expectant. Here is a sample verse:

The cats nestle close to their kittens now.
The lambs have laid down with the sheep.
You're cozy and warm in your bed, my dear
Please go the fuck to sleep.

craigslist jogging strollers

2011-04-26T06:31:00.000-07:00

I'm on the prowl for a used jogging stroller. (Yes, I have a great umbrella stroller, courtesy of my friend Martha, but need something a little smoother for my all-terrain walks.) This ad slayed me. BTW, if anyone's selling a BOB (or can convince me why their stroller is as good) I'm all ears.

Dear people who think your USED jogging strollers are worth HUNDREDS - $9000 (San Diego)
Date: 2011-04-21, 4:58PM PDT
Reply to: sale-c6amg-2339615363@craigslist.org

Dear people who think your USED jogging strollers are worth HUNDREDS of dollars:

I've had it with you and your $350 FIRM 3 year old USED Lance Armstrong edition BOB revolution and your $250 "decent" will not budge under any circumstances 20 inch allow wheeled baby joggers.

NEWS FLASH!!!!! You have this sick twisted emotional attachment to these strollers thinking of all your fond baby memories pushing around your little bundles of joy with smiles and giggles while the rest of us trying to purchase these are thinking of how many times your precious baby barfed, drooled, and shat all over the place and if we can even clean them good enough to actually feel comfortable putting our children in them.

You are selling a HIGHLY USED worn out stroller and GUESS WHAT....after three years of use they are not still worth $350 or more.

So, if anyone is interested in selling me their USED jogging stroller for a normal "this has been used for years with my drooly, farty, poopy, spilling baby" price, email me.

Oh and this goes for those of you who are selling USED Ikea furniture at astronomical prices as well.

Sincerely,

Fed up craigslister.

* Location: San Diego
* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

breaking free of the "man box"

2011-04-24T09:01:00.000-07:00

When I found out I was pregnant with my little boy, my friend Sally told me that there's something quite feminist about raising a compassionate son. She's right -- we're raising a little boy who will one day be a man and it's something Leo and I think a lot about.

This powerful TED Talk looks at the consequences of putting our sons into the "man box."
What’s Wrong With Being a “Man”?

At TEDWomen, Tony Porter makes a call to men everywhere: Don't "act like a man." Telling powerful stories from his own life, he shows how this mentality, drummed into so many men and boys, can lead men to disrespect, mistreat and abuse women and each other. His solution: Break free of the "man box."

epic eating in penang

2011-04-22T09:05:00.000-07:00

I will forever remember Penang.

Leo and I followed advice from our friends Ash and Reggie and enjoyed many amazing meals. I'm looking forward to taking Seba there when he's old enough to appreciate the UNESCO World Heritage-designated city, gorgeously diverse and friendly people, unique harmony between Buddhists, Sikhs, Muslims, and Christians, and (of course) the food.
12 dishes, 12 hours: Epic eating in Penang! « Street Foodie

quotable

2011-04-16T09:04:00.001-07:00

Don't limit a child to your own learning, for he was born in another time. - Rabindranath Tagore

sweet potatoes, apples, and braising greens

2011-04-10T20:24:00.000-07:00

We got a bunch of braising greens in our CSA share this week, so Leo found this recipe and I made this tonight, along with some pork sirloin chops in currant sauce.

The apples alone are to die for. Adding the sweet potato and the greens made for a nice balance of flavors.

Ingredients
4 medium sweet potatoes, peeled and cut lengthwise into quarters, then cut crosswise into 1/8-inch slices
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus 3 tablespoons melted
1 tablespoon fine sea salt
2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
3 medium baking apples, such as Sierra Beauty or Granny Smith, peeled, cored, and cut into sixths
6 cups loosely packed braising greens such as kale, chard, or collard greens, stems removed and torn into 2-inch strips

Preparation
Preheat oven to 400°F.
On foil-lined baking sheet, toss potato slices with 3 tablespoons melted butter, 1 teaspoon salt, and 1/2 teaspoon pepper. Bake until cooked through and slightly caramelized, about 20 minutes. Keep warm.
In heavy medium skillet over moderate heat, melt 3 tablespoons butter. Add apples and sauté until tender and golden brown, about 15 minutes. Keep warm.
In heavy large pot over moderate heat, combine remaining 2 tablespoons butter and 3 tablespoons water. Add greens and sauté, stirring occasionally, until wilted, about 5 minutes. Lower heat to moderately low and add sweet potatoes and apples. Continue cooking, stirring occasionally, until warmed through, 3 to 4 minutes. Stir in remaining 2 teaspoons salt, and 1 1/2 teaspoons pepper. Serve hot.
Makes 10 servings

Adapted from Sweet Potatoes, Apples, and Braising Greens by Traci Des Jardins (Jardinière Restaurant, San Francisco) Epicurious, November 2007

the power of vulnerability

2011-04-04T20:13:00.000-07:00

Over the years, I've realized that I experience the most joy when I make myself the most vulnerable, when I decide to choose fearlessness and take the biggest chance in hopes of an even greater reward. To be sure, sorrow, fear, and painful disappointment have been part of that equation. But joy beyond words has also been the result.

Brené Brown studies human connection -- our ability to empathize, belong, and love by analyzing vulnerability, courage, authenticity, and shame. Her talk on the power of vulnerability blew me away.

I've captured just a few of the things she said, but there is so much more in the talk. Enjoy. And be vulnerable.

"Maybe stories are just data with a soul, you know, and maybe I'm just a storyteller."

"When you ask people about love, they tell you about heartbreak. When you ask people about belonging, they'll tell you about their most excruciating experiences of being excluded. When I asked people about connection, the stories they told me were about disconnection."

"Courage -- the original definition was to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart."
"They were willing to let go of who they thought they should be in order to be who they were."
"They fully embraced vulnerability. They believed that what made them vulnerable made them beautiful."

"Here's the thing -- I'm struggling. I know that vulnerability is kind of the core of shame and fear and our struggle for worthiness. But it appears that it is also the birthplace of joy,of creativity, of belonging, of love."

You know how there are people who when they realize that vulnerability and tenderness are kinda important, they surrender and walk into it?
A) That's not me. And B) I don't even hang out with people like that.

Religion has gone from a belief in faith and mystery to certainty. I'm right, you're wrong, shut up. That's it.

This is what politics looks like today. There's no discourse anymore, There's no conversation.. There's just blame. You know how blame is described int he research? A way to discharge pain and discomfort.

We perfect, most dangerously, our children. Let me tell you what we think about children. They’re hard-wired for struggle when they get here. When you hold those perfect little babies in your hand, our job is not to say, “look at her, she’s perfect. My job is just to keep her perfect and make sure she makes the tennis team by fifth grade and Yale by the seventh grade.” That's not our job. Our job is to look and say, “you know what? You’re imperfect and you’re wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging.” That’s our job. Show me a generation of kids raised like that and we’ll end the problems we see today.

But there’s another way, and I’ll leave you with this. This is what I have found: to let ourselves be seen, deeply seen, vulnerably seen; to love with our whole hearts, even though there’s no guarantee; to practice gratitude and joy in those moments of terror, when we’re wondering, ‘can I love you this much? Can I believe in this this passionately? Can I be this fierce about this?’ Just to be able to stop and instead of catastrophizing what might happen, to say ‘I’m just so grateful. Because to feel this vulnerable means I’m alive.’ And the last, which I think is probably the most important, is to believe that we’re enough. Because when we work from a place that says ‘I am enough’ then we stop screaming and start listening, we’re kinder and gentler to the people around us and we’re kinder and gentler to ourselves.”

quotable

2011-04-02T21:24:00.000-07:00

Believe there are no limits but the sky. - Cervantes

cass' oreo pie

2011-04-02T15:37:00.001-07:00

My friend Cass makes a phenomenal oreo pudding pie that consistently wins favorite dessert contests at work. I asked her to share the recipe with me and she did.

1 package oreo cookies, crushed into crumbs
1 stick butter, melted
1 cup powdered sugar
8 oz cream cheese, softened
1 large tub cool whip
1 package chocolate pudding mix
milk

Use food processor to crush oreos. Pour crumbs into a pie plate. Pour butter over crumbs and pack to make a crust.
Beat cream cheese and sugar until combined. Fold in half the cool whip. Place in a layer on crust.
Prepare chocolate pudding. When set, place in layer on top of cream cheese mixture.
Spoon remaining cool whip on top of pudding layer.

quotable

2011-03-24T20:24:00.000-07:00

"I call upon you to draw from the depths of your being to prove that we are a human race. To prove that our love outweighs our need to hate. That our compassion is more compelling than our need to blame. That our sensitivity to those in need is stronger than our greed. That our ability to reason overcomes our fear. And that at the end of each of our lives, we can look back and be proud that we have treated others with the kindness, dignity and respect that every human being deserves." - Elizabeth Taylor, in her 1993 Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award honorary Oscar acceptance speech.

soccer dreams in a floating village

2011-03-21T07:33:00.000-07:00

How these boys living in a *floating* village went from being soccer fans to becoming a football club is so inspiring. Whatever challenges you face in life, if you think you can make a difference, you can.

quotable

2011-03-16T21:12:00.000-07:00

Cancer, I've found, is a passport to intimacy. It is an invitation, maybe even a mandate, to enter the most vital arenas of human life, the most sensitive and the most frightening, the ones that we never want to go to but when we do go there, we feel incredibly transformed. -- Bruce Feiler, author, father, and cancer survivor.

lentil and vegetable stew with kale

2011-03-08T12:47:00.000-08:00

Leo and I made this for the first time last night.

The herbes de Provence made for a delicate, slightly sweet soup that knocked our socks off. I was concerned that the kale would make the soup bitter, but removing the stalks also removes the bitterness. We topped this with fresh grated parmesan cheese and oyster crackers.

Ingredients
* 2 tablespoons olive oil
* 1 large onion, chopped
* 2 large carrots (8 to 9 ounces), peeled, chopped (1 1/4 cups)
* 1 medium celery root (celeriac), peeled, chopped (3 cups)
* 1 medium rutabaga, peeled, chopped (2 cups)
* 1 pound brown lentils, rinsed
* 1 tablespoon herbes de Provence
* 10 cups chicken stock
* 1 large bunch kale (about 9 ounces), ribs removed, leaves coarsely chopped

Preparation
Heat oil in large pot over high heat. Add onion and next 3 ingredients; sprinkle with salt and pepper and sauté until beginning to soften and brown, 10 to 11 minutes. Stir in lentils and herbes de Provence. Add broth and kale. Bring to boil, stirring to incorporate kale. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover with lid slightly ajar, and simmer until lentils are tender, stirring occasionally, about 20 minutes. Add more broth to thin, if desired. Season with salt and pepper. Serves 8.

PREP: 35 minutes
TOTAL: 55 minutes

Nutritional Information
One serving contains:
Calories (kcal) 280.5
%Calories from Fat 14.5
Fat (g) 4.5
Saturated Fat (g) 0.6
Cholesterol (mg) 0
Carbohydrates (g) 46.3
Dietary Fiber (g) 15.8
Total Sugars (g) 9.5
Net Carbs (g) 30.5
Protein (g) 16.8
Sodium (mg) 1005.5

Recipe adapted from the Bon Appétit Test Kitchen, March 2011.

quotable

2011-02-28T22:03:00.000-08:00

The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along. - Jalal ad-Din Rumi

apple bread

2011-02-19T12:05:00.000-08:00

I made this bread for the first time this morning. It was a hit with us and with our breakfast guests. Although the dough seems very thick, do not add additional liquid. The resulting cake is moist and light.

Prep Time: 20 Min | Cook Time: 40 Min

Ingredients
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon allspice
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1 cup applesauce (unsweetened)
1 cup sugar
3/4 cup brown sugar, packed
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/2 cups apples - peeled, cored, and coarsely chopped

Directions

Preheat oven to 350F.
In bowl, combine flour, cinnamon, baking soda, baking powder and salt; set aside. In large mixing bowl, combine oil, sugar, eggs, vanilla and apples. Fold dry ingredients into wet ingredients, stir until just moist. Note: dough will be thick, but do not add any more liquid.
Divide mixture between two greased 8-in. x 4-in. loaf pans.
Bake for 40-45 minutes or until bread is done. Cool for 10 minutes on wire rack before removing from pan.

Adapted from Apple Bread by Phyllis Herlocker

quotable

2011-02-05T16:10:00.001-08:00

"Being who you are is one of the bravest and most rewarding experiences. So start immediately - as you can't imagine how much fun you'll have, until you do." -- , Eamonn, on the Born this Way blog

quotable

2011-02-01T07:08:00.000-08:00

"Yes, some man will love you, child, because it's your nature. And I hope it will be somebody who loves you for who you are, and not for what he wants of you. We have a right to what we want." - DH Lawrence

quotable

2011-01-24T07:57:00.000-08:00

"It may happen that a crab is caught with the shadow of a hand on its back, that the wind be imprisoned in a bit of knotted string. And it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain or misery." - E. Annie Proulx

better than grannie's creamed corn

2011-01-18T21:43:00.000-08:00

We made this and couldn't get enough of it.

Better Than Grannie's Creamed Corn
Recipe courtesy Alton Brown

Prep Time: 10 min
Cook Time: 10 min
Yield: 3 cups

Ingredients

* 1/2 onion, diced
* 1 tablespoon butter
* 2 pinches kosher salt
* 8 ears fresh corn
* 1 sprig fresh rosemary, bruised
* 1 tablespoon sugar
* 1/4 teaspoon turmeric
* 2 tablespoons yellow cornmeal
* 1 cup heavy cream
* Fresh ground black pepper

Directions

In a saucepan over medium heat, sweat the onion in butter and salt until translucent.

In a large mixing bowl, place a paper bowl in the middle of the bowl. Resting the cob on the bowl in a vertical position remove only the tops of the kernel with a knife, using long smooth downward strokes and rotating the cob as you go. After the cob has been stripped, use the dull backside of your knife to scrape any remaining pulp and milk off the cob.

Add the corn and pulp mixture to the saucepan and cook over medium high until the juice from the corn has tightened. Add the rosemary. Sprinkle the corn with the sugar and turmeric. Stir constantly for about 2 minutes. Sprinkle the cornmeal onto the corn, using a whisk to combine well. Add the heavy cream and cook until the corn has softened, about 2 to 3 minutes. Remove the rosemary. Season with freshly ground black pepper.

in defense of the guilty, ambivalent, preoccupied western mom

2011-01-15T09:10:00.000-08:00

In Defense of the Guilty, Ambivalent, Preoccupied Western Mom
Ayelet Waldman on the virtues of letting kids quit, have sleepovers and find their own way.
By AYELET WALDMAN
JANUARY 15, 2011
Here are some of the things that my four children of a Jewish mother were always allowed to do:

• Quit the piano and the violin, especially if their defeatist attitude coincided with a recital, thus saving me from the torture of listening to other people's precious children soldier through hackneyed pieces of the juvenile repertoire, plink after ever more unbearable plonk.

• Sleep over at their friends' houses, especially on New Year's Eve or our anniversary, thus saving us the cost of a babysitter.

• Play on the computer and surf the Internet, so long as they paid for their Neopet Usuki dolls and World of Warcraft abomination cleavers out of their own allowances.

• Participate in any extracurricular activity they wanted, so long as I was never required to drive farther than 10 minutes to get them there, or to sit on a field in a folding chair in anything but the balmiest weather for any longer than 60 minutes.

• Quit said extracurricular activities, especially if their quitting coincided with league finals that might have demanded participation on my part exceeding the requirements stated above.

In the days since this newspaper published Amy Chua's simultaneously entertaining and infuriating excerpt from her new book, "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother," my two elder children, 16 and 13, have devoted a remarkable amount of time to raging against the essay and crafting compelling and bombastic rebuttals to be delivered to Ms. Chua herself, should they ever encounter her.

I am more than a little astonished. I say with confidence that neither of my children has ever before bothered to read a single word of The Wall Street Journal. I don't think that I could have screamed or threatened them into doing so, not even if I'd tossed them outside in the middle of winter, to cower barefoot and freezing on the front step. So to Ms. Chua I express my gratitude. It seems to take a Chinese mother to force my Western kids to read the paper.

Were I crafting my own bombastic and compelling rebuttal to Ms. Chua, I might point out, as others have, that Asian-American girls aged 15 to 24 have above average rates of suicide. I might question the hubris of taking credit for success that is as likely to have resulted from the genetic blessings of musicality and intellect as from the "Chinese" child-rearing techniques of shrieking and name calling. But I have a feeling that she knows that.

More importantly, if I did write such a rebuttal, I'd risk being called a hypocrite by my own children. Sophie, my oldest, would remind me of the recent evening when I stared in stony silence at her report card, sniffing derisively at her father's happy congratulations.

"What?" she said. "I got 5 solid As."

I shrugged.

"Ayelet," my husband warned.

My daughter narrowed her eyes at me. She knew what was coming.

I pointed at the remaining two grades, neither a solid A. Though there was not the "screaming, hair-tearing explosion" that Ms. Chua informs us would have greeted the daughter of a Chinese mother, I expressed my disappointment quite clearly. And though the word "garbage" was not uttered, either in the Hokkien dialect or in Yiddish, it was only because I feared my husband's opprobrium that I refrained from telling my daughter, when she collapsed in tears, that she was acting like an idiot.

The difference between Ms. Chua and me, I suppose—between proud Chinese mothers and ambivalent Western ones—is that I felt guilty about having berated my daughter for failing to deliver the report card I expected. I was ashamed at my reaction. But here is another difference, one I'll admit despite being ashamed of it, too: I did not then go out and get hundreds of practice tests and work through them with my daughter far into the night, doing whatever it took to get her the A. I fobbed that task off on a tutor, something I can afford to do because my children reside in the same privileged world as Ms. Chua's.

I am, actually, grateful to Ms. Chua, and a little in awe of her. I expend far too much of my maternal energies on guilt and regret. Reading her essay definitely put some Chinese iron into my Nerf Western spine, and though I eventually apologized to my daughter for failing to acknowledge, right off the bat, all those tough classes in which she had excelled last semester, and for expressing my disappointment at the others too vigorously, I have also refused to back down from my expectation that she devote extra time to those two subjects in which she is "underperforming."

In her book, Ms. Chua tells a story of coercion that resulted in a certain kind of success with one of her daughters. Let me tell another kind of story. My Rosie is mildly dyslexic. By the time she was diagnosed, in second grade, she was lagging far behind her classmates. For years I forced her to spell words in the bathtub with foam letters, to do worksheets, to memorize phonemes and take practice tests. My hectoring succeeded only in making her miserable. Eventually, and totally out of character, she had even stopped loving school. She suffered from near-constant stomachaches and broke down in tears almost every day. At last we heard about a special intensive reading program that required students to spend four hours every day in a small room with an instructor, being drilled in letters, sight words and phonics. It sounded awful, but Rosie insisted on doing it. She loved books and stories. She wanted to read.

Every day when we picked her up, her face would be red with tears, her eyes hollow and exhausted. Every day we asked her if she wanted to quit. We begged her to quit. Neither her father nor I could stand the sight of her misery, her despair, the pain, psychic and physical, she seemed far too young to bear. But every day she refused. Every morning she rose stoically from her bed, collected her stuffies and snacks and the other talismans that she needed to make it through the hours, and trudged off, her little shoulders bent under a weight I longed to lift. Rosie has an incantation she murmurs when she's scared, when she's stuck at the top of a high jungle gym or about to present a current events report to her class. "Overcome your fears," she whispers to herself. I don't know where she learned it. Maybe from one of those television shows I shouldn't let her watch.

At the end of a grim and brutal month, Rosie learned to read. Not because we forced her to drill and practice and repeat, not because we dragged her kicking and screaming, or denied her food, or kept her from the using the bathroom, but because she forced herself. She climbed the mountain alone, motivated not by fear or shame of dishonoring her parents but by her passionate desire to read. She did it herself, without us, and it is no exaggeration to say that we were and remain stunned with pride. What's more, she came out of the experience with a sense of herself as a powerful, tenacious person, one who is so proud of having succeeded despite her dyslexia—"like Alexander Graham Bell, Winston Churchill and Albert Einstein," as she likes to say—that during her school's "Care Week," on her own initiative, she gave presentations to her classmates and to groups of other students about living with dyslexia.

I have a feeling that had one of Amy Chua's daughters suffered from a learning disability like Rosie's, Ms. Chua would have channeled her admirable perseverance into finding a solution that worked for her child. She would have been just as dogged and determined, but in an entirely different way. Roaring like a tiger turns some children into pianists who debut at Carnegie Hall but only crushes others. Coddling gives some the excuse to fail and others the chance to succeed. Amy Chua and I both understand that our job as mothers is to be the type of tigress that each of our different cubs needs.
—Ms. Waldman is the author of "Bad Mother" and the novel "Red Hook Road."

on breastfeeding

2011-01-12T10:45:00.000-08:00

My good friend and former roommate had breast cancer a few years ago. She's now in the process of trying to adopt. People invariably say the wrong thing, and weird things. I thought her post on the things smart, kind, well-meaning people say about breastfeeding (to someone who's had a double mastectomy, no less) was awesome on many levels.

One reason it resonated is because breastfeeding was one of the hardest, most frustrating experiences of my life. Leo and I took breastfeeding classes while I was pregnant and were able to cite the myriad benefits of breastfeeding. I wanted to have a breastfed, happy baby and was planning to do so for at least a year. My mommy friends were all great about saying that it's a tough thing for you and the baby to learn and get right -- even if everyone thinks it's "the most natural thing in the world." They were also right to say to get help -- from lactation consultants, other moms, and support groups.

When Seba was two days old, I remember holding him at 3 a.m. in the NICU and trying to get him to feed. He was hungry and not latching well. With the pillows, rocking chair, footstool, IV, wires, monitors, and everything else, I found that I was about three hands short of what I needed to position him properly. As my back and shoulders throbbed from contorting myself into a position that was supposed to work for feeding him, I wished for the many hands of Shiva. I looked down to see the few precious drops I was producing (my milk hadn't come in completely) rolling off of Seba's cheek and into my hospital gown. That was the first time I completely lost it while trying to feed him. The silent tears were profuse and my swollen eyes hurt almost as much as my C-section incision and tweaked back when I struggled back to my bed.

Over the next few days, we tried again and again and again and had a little better luck. I also pumped every two hours to help stimulate and establish my production, and that was yielding better results. Still, things weren't working as well as I had hoped. By the end of the week, Leo growled at the nurses who would bring us privacy screens any time I was breastfeeding Seba in the nursery because I "might want more privacy".

In spite of our plans and our efforts, Seba never latched well. It might have been that he was bottle-fed for that first week of his life because he was in the NICU. Or it might have been the damn brace he was in for his hip dysplasia for the first six months of his life. Or it might have been my letdown. Or it might have been something else.

Yes, we saw the lactation consultant three times a week for about six weeks.
Yes, we tried a supplemental nursing system.
Yes, my kind seamstress mother-(s)in-law made a custom nursing pillow to try and get Seba in the perfect position to nurse despite the hip brace. She also drove me to lactation appointments and even lent a hand whenever I needed it to get Seba into the proper position while nursing.
Yes, my baby screamed at me and cried whenever he was put to a breast -- he loved my milk from a bottle, by the way.
Yes, my breasts leaked horribly at the forceful letdown.
Yes, I felt like a failure for not being able to do something so "natural".
Yes, I cried as my milk production tapered to nothing after I took supplements and pumped with a hospital-grade pump every 2-4 hours AROUND THE CLOCK for nearly 4 months.
And, yes, I finally learned to stop measuring my motherhood in ounces.

So, yes. As I told my roommate, skipping the hardest, most frustrating experience of motherhood is not necessarily a bad thing.

Today, I will feed Seba the last 3 ounces of the freezer stash of breastmilk. I'm grateful to have been able to give him what I could, but hope that I don't have the same issues with our next child. Beyond the emotional component of breastfeeding, there was the sheer exhaustion borne of spending 25 minutes every 2-4 hours pumping, and 25 minutes every 2-3 hours bottlefeeding our son. Leo was amazing in the process and helped a great deal. Still, when I realize that I basically doubled my sleep deprivation/ feeding time by having to pump and to feed, it's no wonder that I was a zombie for the fourth trimester.

For those who are interested, here's my friend's post on the topic:

Some Perks of Not Breast Feeding
Sometimes smart, kind, well-meaning people say stupid and insensitive things.

As an example, about 6 months ago I was doing some house-related shopping. The charming (no sarcasm intended) sales lady asked, "do you have or plan to have children?" At which point I gave her a quick explanation of my parental status. No kids yet. I'm adopting. Could happen tomorrow or in five years. And, oh yes, I've pretty much always wanted to adopt at least one kid -- my friends from high school are in no way shocked by this decision -- so when I was diagnosed and told this meant I was not allowed to get pregnant and take some of my post-chemo meds (you take them for 5 years) adoption was an easy and obvious choice. And, no, I did not have any eggs frozen or even consider that. "But you might be able to get pregnant later? Because, you should experience breast feeding if you can. It's such a great bonding experience." No, I'm not kidding. She didn't just talk about the joys of pregnancy, she specifically identified the joys of breast feeding. One minor problem with that: I had a double mastectomy. The only thing coming out of these guys is saline.

Even in my post-breast-cancer days, I've heard many stories about why breast feeding is just the best experience ever and how it really cements maternal bonds. Though, a good friend called me one day to say, "in case you were wondering, I hate breast feeding and wouldn't do it if I could get away with it." This, of course, got me thinking about possible benefits of my particular situation. As usual, if anyone else wants to share thoughts, please do so. And, no, you don't need to tell me about why breast feeding is good. I am actually pretty familiar with all of that.

(1) There is no reason I have to be the one to always get up in the middle of the night to feed the baby. A baby is a very compelling reason to get out of bed, and certainly I plan to take on my fair share of 3 a.m. feedings. But, I'll have less moments of mild resentment while I look over at my sleeping husband than the average new mommy.
(2) Speaking of this, along the lines of feeding=bonding, my husband will be seen as equally able of meeting essential needs in the eyes of our little one (who has no concept of $$$), and will get equal bonding opportunity. My husband is pretty nifty. I don't mind sharing with him. He deserves equal adoration.
(3) No need to pump, find a place to pump, find a place to store pumped milk, etc.
(4) No milk leaking onto my dry clean only work wardrobe. Also, no need to worry about leaking in front of a client, judge, boss, etc.

P.S. The woman carrying the baby in the cute little onesie at a breast cancer awareness march that says "I'm a breast man," probably didn't have a mastectomy.

quotable

2011-01-11T22:25:00.000-08:00

"If there is a heaven, I hope this is what it's like: free books and good company." - Karina Vesco

boys and their toys

2011-01-07T18:21:00.000-08:00

Boys love their toys and their penises. So ... welcome to the Toylet.

SEGA Brings Gaming To Public Restroom Toilets

"SEGA recently announced that they are testing their Toylets male urinal video game at select locations around Tokyo. Toylets uses a pressure sensor located on the back of the urinal to measure the strength and location of your urine stream. A small LCD screen above the urinal allows you to play several simple video games including a simulator for erasing graffiti and a variation on a sumo wrestling match. At the end of a game, the screen displays advertisements. Whether you find the concept hilarious, disturbing, or disgusting, urinal video games are simply another way that interactive media could invade every part of our lives. It also shows that no space is safe from digital ads."

quotable

2011-01-05T22:19:00.000-08:00

"Decide that you want it more than you are afraid of it." ~ Bill Cosby

exactamente

2010-12-29T21:32:00.000-08:00

Leo and I were talking to his family a few days ago about how we hope to raise Seba. He'll be bilingual (Spanish/ English) at home, and will study a third language, hopefully beginning in elementary school. Leo pointed out that Mandarin is the logical third language. Nicholas Kristof agrees.

"So, by all means, have your kids dive into the glamorous world of Mandarin. But don’t forget the language that will likely be far more important in their lives: el idioma más importante es Español!

¡Bien dicho, Señor Kristof!

Op-Ed Columnist: Primero Hay Que Aprender Español. Ranhou Zai Xue Zhongwen.
By NICHOLAS D. KRISTOF
Published: December 29, 2010

A quiz: If a person who speaks three languages is trilingual, and one who speaks four languages is quadrilingual, what is someone called who speaks no foreign languages at all?

Answer: an American.

Yet these days, we’re seeing Americans engaged in a headlong and ambitious rush to learn Chinese — or, more precisely, to get their kids to learn Chinese. Everywhere I turn, people are asking me the best way for their children to learn Chinese.

Partly that’s because Chinese classes have replaced violin classes as the latest in competitive parenting, and partly because my wife and I speak Chinese and I have tortured our three kids by trying to raise them bilingual. Chinese is still far less common in schools or universities than Spanish or French, but it is surging and has the “cool factor” behind it — so public and private schools alike are hastening to add Chinese to the curriculum.

In New York City alone, about 80 schools offer Chinese, with some programs beginning in kindergarten. And let’s be frank: If your child hasn’t started Mandarin classes by third grade, he or she will never amount to anything.

Just kidding. In fact, I think the rush to Chinese is missing something closer to home: the paramount importance for our children of learning Spanish.

Look, I’m a fervent believer in more American kids learning Chinese. But the language that will be essential for Americans and has far more day-to-day applications is Spanish. Every child in the United States should learn Spanish, beginning in elementary school; Chinese makes a terrific addition to Spanish, but not a substitute.

Spanish may not be as prestigious as Mandarin, but it’s an everyday presence in the United States — and will become even more so. Hispanics made up 16 percent of America’s population in 2009, but that is forecast to surge to 29 percent by 2050, according to estimates by the Pew Research Center.

As the United States increasingly integrates economically with Latin America, Spanish will become more crucial in our lives. More Americans will take vacations in Latin America, do business in Spanish, and eventually move south to retire in countries where the cost of living is far cheaper.

We’re already seeing growing numbers of Americans retire in Costa Rica, drawn by weather and lifestyle as well as low costs and good health care. We’ll also see more and more little bits of Florida that just happen to be located in Mexico, Panama or Dominican Republic.

Another reason to bet on Spanish is that Latin America is, finally, getting its act together. Of all regions of the world, it was arguably Latin America that rode the recent economic crisis most comfortably. That means that Spanish study does more than facilitate piña coladas on the beach at Cozumel. It’ll be a language of business opportunity in the coming decades. We need to turn our competitive minds not only east, but also south.

Moreover, Spanish is easy enough that kids really can emerge from high school with a very useful command of the language that they will retain for life, while Mandarin takes about four times as long to make the same progress. Chinese has negligible grammar — no singular or plural, no verb conjugations, no pesky masculine and feminine nouns — but there are thousands of characters to memorize as well as the landmines of any tonal language.

The standard way to ask somebody a question in Chinese is “qing wen,” with the “wen” in a falling tone. That means roughly: May I ask something? But ask the same “qing wen” with the “wen” first falling and then rising, and it means roughly: May I have a kiss?

That’s probably why trade relations are so strained between our countries. Our negotiators think they’re asking questions about tariffs, and the Chinese respond indignantly that kissing would be inappropriate. Leaving both sides confused.

In effect, Chinese is typically a career. Spanish is a practical add-on to your daily life, meshing with whatever career you choose. If you become a mechanic, you’ll be able to communicate better with some customers. If you’re the president, you’ll campaign more effectively in Texas and Florida.

China will probably be the world’s largest economy within our children’s lifetimes and a monumental force in every dimension of life. Studying Chinese gives you insight into one of the world’s great civilizations and creates a wealth of opportunities — plus, it’ll be a godsend if you’re ever called upon to pronounce a name like, say, Qin Qiuxue.

So, by all means, have your kids dive into the glamorous world of Mandarin. But don’t forget the language that will likely be far more important in their lives: el idioma más importante es Español!

quotable

2010-12-03T21:00:00.000-08:00

"If you want to build a ship, don't herd people together to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea." - Antoine de Saint-Exupery

conversations with seba, part 1

2010-11-12T23:58:00.000-08:00

Seba: Achooo.
Mama: Salud!
Mama: aaAaachooOooO.
Seba: (Startled look) A-gooooo (big smile).

quotable

2010-11-09T17:07:00.000-08:00

"Para mí es usted su boca, sus ojos, sus negros cabellos, que deseo acariciar con mis manos; su dulce voz y el regalado acento de sus palabras y que hieren y encantan materialmente mis oídos; toda su forma corporal, en suma, que me enamora y seduce, y al través de la cual, y sólo al través de la cual se me muestra el ...espíritu invisible, vago y lleno de misterios."
- Juan Valera

quotable

2010-11-06T21:02:00.000-07:00

"We are training our children to avoid the window pane, to stay safe, to gaze at the world outside, to create stronger panes. We don't want to see them hurt."- Michael Doyle via http://doyle-scienceteach.blogspot.com/2010/11/on-balance.html

welcome to date night

2010-11-05T20:43:00.000-07:00

No sitter? No problem.

We enjoyed a quality family meal, starting with pinot noir and artisanal cheese from Venissimo. While we ate manchego, brie, cheddar, gouda, and pecorino, Seba ate his hands. And the velcro thing on the tabbies book.

After putting Seba to bed, we had tiny sandwiches (baguettes with leftover thinly sliced mustard and summer savory pork and creamed chard).

For dessert: Eclipse Chocolat salted caramels and hand-made truffles.

After preparing bottles for the night and then pumping, I'm headed to bed. At 9:15 p.m. on a Friday. : /

six to eight black men

2010-11-04T13:52:00.000-07:00

I love David Sedaris and his offbeat observations about other cultures, the weird, and the disgusting. And like David, when visiting a foreign land, I always ask what the sounds are that animals make and how holidays are celebrated.

I shared the highlights of this story today with my friend Sara as we talked about what sort of holiday traditions we grew up with and whether or not we'd perpetuate those with our kids. The Dutch story of Christmas is pretty whacked from my perspective, but then I guess that's probably because I didn't grow up with it.

Six To Eight Black Men
By David Sedaris
December 1, 2002, 12:00 AM

I'VE NEVER BEEN MUCH for guidebooks, so when trying to get my bearings in a strange American city, I normally start by asking the cabdriver or hotel clerk some silly question regarding the latest census figures. I say silly because I don't really care how many people live in Olympia, Washington, or Columbus, Ohio. They're nice enough places, but the numbers mean nothing to me. My second question might have to do with average annual rainfall, which, again, doesn't tell me anything about the people who have chosen to call this place home.

What really interests me are the local gun laws. Can I carry a concealed weapon, and if so, under what circumstances? What's the waiting period for a tommy gun? Could I buy a Glock 17 if I were recently divorced or fired from my job? I've learned from experience that it's best to lead into this subject as delicately as possible, especially if you and the local citizen are alone and enclosed in a relatively small space. Bide your time, though, and you can walk away with some excellent stories. I've heard, for example, that the blind can legally hunt in both Texas and Michigan. They must be accompanied by a sighted companion, but still, it seems a bit risky. You wouldn't want a blind person driving a car or piloting a plane, so why hand him a rifle? What sense does that make? I ask about guns not because I want one of my own but because the answers vary so widely from state to state. In a country that's become so homogenous, I'm reassured by these last touches of regionalism.

Guns aren't really an issue in Europe, so when I'm traveling abroad, my first question usually relates to barnyard animals. "What do your roosters say?" is a good icebreaker, as every country has its own unique interpretation. In Germany, where dogs bark "vow vow" and both the frog and the duck say "quack," the rooster greets the dawn with a hearty "kik-a-ricki." Greek roosters crow "kiri-a-kee," and in France they scream "coco-rico," which sounds like one of those horrible premixed cocktails with a pirate on the label. When told that an American rooster says "cock-a-doodle-doo," my hosts look at me with disbelief and pity.

"When do you open your Christmas presents?" is another good conversation starter, as it explains a lot about national character. People who traditionally open gifts on Christmas Eve seem a bit more pious and family oriented than those who wait until Christmas morning. They go to mass, open presents, eat a late meal, return to church the following morning, and devote the rest of the day to eating another big meal. Gifts are generally reserved for children, and the parents tend not to go overboard. It's nothing I'd want for myself, but I suppose it's fine for those who prefer food and family to things of real value.

In France and Germany, gifts are exchanged on Christmas Eve, while in Holland the children receive presents on December 5, in celebration of Saint Nicholas Day. It sounded sort of quaint until I spoke to a man named Oscar, who filled me in on a few of the details as we walked from my hotel to the Amsterdam train station.

Unlike the jolly, obese American Santa, Saint Nicholas is painfully thin and dresses not unlike the pope, topping his robes with a tall hat resembling an embroidered tea cozy. The outfit, I was told, is a carryover from his former career, when he served as a bishop in Turkey.

One doesn't want to be too much of a cultural chauvinist, but this seemed completely wrong to me. For starters, Santa didn't use to do anything. He's not retired, and, more important, he has nothing to do with Turkey. The climate's all wrong, and people wouldn't appreciate him. When asked how he got from Turkey to the North Pole, Oscar told me with complete conviction that Saint Nicholas currently resides in Spain, which again is simply not true. While he could probably live wherever he wanted, Santa chose the North Pole specifically because it is harsh and isolated. No one can spy on him, and he doesn't have to worry about people coming to the door. Anyone can come to the door in Spain, and in that outfit, he'd most certainly be recognized. On top of that, aside from a few pleasantries, Santa doesn't speak Spanish. He knows enough to get by, but he's not fluent, and he certainly doesn't eat tapas.

While our Santa flies on a sled, Saint Nicholas arrives by boat and then transfers to a white horse. The event is televised, and great crowds gather at the waterfront to greet him. I'm not sure if there's a set date, but he generally docks in late November and spends a few weeks hanging out and asking people what they want.

"Is it just him alone?" I asked. "Or does he come with some backup?"

Oscar's English was close to perfect, but he seemed thrown by a term normally reserved for police reinforcement.

"Helpers," I said. "Does he have any elves?"

Maybe I'm just overly sensitive, but I couldn't help but feel personally insulted when Oscar denounced the very idea as grotesque and unrealistic. "Elves," he said. "They're just so silly."

The words silly and unrealistic were redefined when I learned that Saint Nicholas travels with what was consistently described as "six to eight black men." I asked several Dutch people to narrow it down, but none of them could give me an exact number. It was always "six to eight," which seems strange, seeing as they've had hundreds of years to get a decent count.

The six to eight black men were characterized as personal slaves until the mid-fifties, when the political climate changed and it was decided that instead of being slaves they were just good friends. I think history has proven that something usually comes between slavery and friendship, a period of time marked not by cookies and quiet times beside the fire but by bloodshed and mutual hostility. They have such violence in Holland, but rather than duking it out among themselves, Santa and his former slaves decided to take it out on the public. In the early years, if a child was naughty, Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men would beat him with what Oscar described as "the small branch of a tree."

"A switch?"

"Yes," he said. "That's it. They'd kick him and beat him with a switch. Then, if the youngster was really bad, they'd put him in a sack and take him back to Spain."

"Saint Nicholas would kick you?"

"Well, not anymore," Oscar said. "Now he just pretends to kick you."

"And the six to eight black men?"

"Them, too."

He considered this to be progressive, but in a way I think it's almost more perverse than the original punishment. "I'm going to hurt you, but not really." How many times have we fallen for that line? The fake slap invariably makes contact, adding the elements of shock and betrayal to what had previously been plain, old-fashioned fear. What kind of Santa spends his time pretending to kick people before stuffing them into a canvas sack? Then, of course, you've got the six to eight former slaves who could potentially go off at any moment. This, I think, is the greatest difference between us and the Dutch. While a certain segment of our population might be perfectly happy with the arrangement, if you told the average white American that six to eight nameless black men would be sneaking into his house in the middle of the night, he would barricade the doors and arm himself with whatever he could get his hands on.

"Six to eight, did you say?"

In the years before central heating, Dutch children would leave their shoes by the fireplace, the promise being that unless they planned to beat you, kick you, or stuff you into a sack, Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men would fill your clogs with presents. Aside from the threats of violence and kidnapping, it's not much different from hanging your stockings from the mantel. Now that so few people have a working fireplace, Dutch children are instructed to leave their shoes beside the radiator, furnace, or space heater. Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men arrive on horses, which jump from the yard onto the roof. At this point, I guess, they either jump back down and use the door, or they stay put and vaporize through the pipes and electrical wires. Oscar wasn't too clear about the particulars, but, really, who can blame him? We have the same problem with our Santa. He's supposed to use the chimney, but if you don't have one, he still manages to come through. It's best not to think about it too hard.

While eight flying reindeer are a hard pill to swallow, our Christmas story remains relatively simple. Santa lives with his wife in a remote polar village and spends one night a year traveling around the world. If you're bad, he leaves you coal. If you're good and live in America, he'll give you just about anything you want. We tell our children to be good and send them off to bed, where they lie awake, anticipating their great bounty. A Dutch parent has a decidedly hairier story to relate, telling his children, "Listen, you might want to pack a few of your things together before you go to bed. The former bishop from Turkey will be coming along with six to eight black men. They might put some candy in your shoes, they might stuff you in a sack and take you to Spain, or they might just pretend to kick you. We don't know for sure, but we want you to be prepared."

This is the reward for living in Holland. As a child you get to hear this sto-ry, and as an adult you get to turn around and repeat it. As an added bonus, the government has thrown in legalized drugs and prostitution--so what's not to love about being Dutch?

Oscar finished his story just as we arrived at the station. He was a polite and interesting guy--very good company--but when he offered to wait until my train arrived, I begged off, saying I had some calls to make. Sitting alone in the vast terminal, surrounded by other polite, seemingly interesting Dutch people, I couldn't help but feel second-rate. Yes, it was a small country, but it had six to eight black men and a really good bedtime story. Being a fairly competitive person, I felt jealous, then bitter, and was edging toward hostile when I remembered the blind hunter tramping off into the Michigan forest. He might bag a deer, or he might happily shoot his sighted companion in the stomach. He may find his way back to the car, or he may wander around for a week or two before stumbling through your front door. We don't know for sure, but in pinning that license to his chest, he inspires the sort of narrative that ultimately makes me proud to be an American.

For twenty-two more stories by david sedaris, visit esquire.com/sedaris.

a belated halloween photo

2010-11-03T20:46:00.001-07:00

Here's my sweetpea in his first Halloween costume.

quotable

2010-11-02T19:02:00.001-07:00

"There's education. Then, there's school. And, sometimes the two cross." - Jill Yoshikawa

revenge

2010-11-02T10:51:00.001-07:00

quotable

2010-11-01T23:35:00.001-07:00

“Time has a wonderful way of showing us what really matters.” - Margaret Peters

homophobic chilean anti-domestic violence campaign

2010-10-29T12:24:00.000-07:00

In societies where masculinity equals power and femininity is equated with weakness, it's no wonder that gay men and women are marginalized. It's frustrating to see women internalize that message and turn it against their gay bretheren. It's also not surprising in a culture where machismo dominates everything and everyone.

A recent Chilean ad has me deeply conflicted -- it's one step forward, two giant steps backward in dealing with societal attitudes about domestic violence. On the one hand, it's a campaign condemning violence against women, which is great and a huge step forward in a society where, on average, women wait 7 years to file a police report about domestic violence and 73% of women who die of domestic violence never even file a police report.

On the other hand, it's advocating calling men who are violent against women by a slur that demeans them as weak -- 'maricón' means 'faggot'. The rationale is that a man who demeans a woman is "poco hombre" -- barely a man.

"¿Es más macho el que maltrata, golpea o denigra a una mujer? La respuesta es clara: el que maltrata a una mujer es poco hombre", agregó la Ministra.

Gay groups are ~~(justifably) pissed~~ now backing the campaign. Clearly, a larger conversation needs to take place about what it means to be powerful and attitudes that marginalize the powerless.

En Chile llaman 'maricón' al que maltrate a una mujer
www.eltiempo.com
29 de Octubre del 2010
Es una campaña del Ministerio de la Mujer para reducir los índices de violencia contra ellas.

La ministra del Servicio Nacional de la Mujer, Carolina Schmidt Zaldívar, anunció que en Chile casi 2 millones de mujeres sufren violencia intrafamiliar y que una mujer es asesinada a la semana por su pareja o ex pareja.

La campaña, denominada 'Maricón es el que maltrata a una mujer', insiste en que la violencia intrafamiliar es un delito, pero invita a los agresores a informarse y a pedir ayuda.

"Esta campaña está dirigida al hombre. Es una campaña fuerte, potente, con una mirada nueva, habla claro y de manera frontal", dijo la Ministra al explicar que la violencia de género en Chile se basa en el abuso de poder y en una mala comprensión de la verdadera masculinidad.

"¿Es más macho el que maltrata, golpea o denigra a una mujer? La respuesta es clara: el que maltrata a una mujer es poco hombre", agregó la Ministra.

La campaña contará con los rostros del fotógrafo y presentador de televisión Jordi Castell, quien ha reconocido públicamente su condición homosexual.

"Cientos de veces me han gritado maricón y maricón es el que maltrata a una mujer. Digámoslo al que se lo merece", enfatizó Castell. De hecho, las organizaciones de homosexuales respaldaron la campaña.

La presentación de esta iniciativa coincidió con la entrada de la Ley de Femicidio, que tipifica el delito e impone mayores sanciones.

En Chile una mujer tarda, en promedio, 7 años en denunciar a su agresor y el 73 por ciento de las chilenas que murieron por violencia familiar nunca pusieron una denuncia.

SANTIAGO
Efe

outside my comfort zone

2010-10-28T12:31:00.000-07:00

Cambodia is probably the most raw place I've ever been. It is filled with stark contrasts: beautiful Angkor Wat, horrifying Killing Fields, scenic countryside, pungent food, and a guarded national psyche that's still reeling from years of civil war and genocide. All of these took me well outside my comfort zone.

I like that the country has the same effect on others, including Tony Bourdain.

Comfort Zone
October 28, 2010, 5:06 PM
By: Anthony Bourdain

I am a total whore for a grand, old, colonial hotel in Southeast Asia. In my early, adolescent fantasies of what it might be like to be a writer and what land such exotic creatures might occupy, I imagined a place where Somerset Maugham or Graham Greene would look at home. Pierre Loti, Norman Lewis. In short, it would look like this:

Le Royal in Phnom Penh, the smell of jasmine flowers and burning coal, the occasional waft of jackfruit. Gin tonics by the pool, fiery noodles in broth for breakfast, and the history bearing down as heavily as the humidity.

Day one after a long, long flight–over 36 hours in transit — Zach and Todd are in their rooms, sorting equipment and are due down here any minute. I think the plan is beer at Hurley’s, the local Expat Central–said to be the information hub–then shooting starts in earnest tomorrow.

It’s been ten years since I’ve been here–the last time in the still not-so-good old days, the third episode of COOK’S TOUR, my first time really out on the road with a television crew on the other side of the world. Me, Chris and Lydia, not yet really knowing what we were doing, still feeling our way–and over our heads in Cambodia, a country still reeling from one of the most awful genocides in history. We arrived to dark, unpaved streets, random road blocks, and a country that frightened, confused and beguiled us. We then went straight out on a spectacularly misguided, foolishly arrogant and misinformed plane, boat and road trip to Pailin, then the retirement village/heartland of what remained of the Khmer Rouge.

Things have changed. The decidedly unlovely government hasn’t–but the country has.

Then? I had a very different life to return to–which may or may not explain the recklessness with which I careened through this still tragically afflicted country. It was, in late night, Battambang, not the first time I’d had a loaded gun pointed at me. But it was certainly the first time it was a group of locked and loaded AK-47′s, held by a group of very angry persons trained in their use. We’d just attempted to blow though a roadblock and these men had not taken this breach of etiquette lightly. It was, as they say, a learning experience.

There are now consumer goods in the streets. New cars and motorbikes. School children in clean uniforms. It seems, at first glance anyway, a younger and slightly more prosperous and hopeful country. I no longer feel the paranoia of my previous trip. But maybe it’s just me that’s changed. They no longer serve alcohol at the gun range after (it is said) a depressed expat blew his brains out. You read the local English language paper and it’s still a litany of the depressing and the lurid. But these days–at very least–it’s easier to recognize the obvious about this country: that it’s spectacularly beautiful. Electric green rice paddies, tall sugar palms, the incredible temples, the moldering, French style villas of the long gone or long dead.

Today, it’s gin tonics by the pool and expat quesadillas. Tomorrow? We jump right in.

I’m clinging particularly hard to my current creature comforts as–in general–the next few days and weeks and this season as a whole–are not about that at all. After a season six, which found me in Rome, Paris and Madrid in cushy succession, we’ve decided to move out of our comfort zone a little bit, off the usual travel show grid, confronting destinations with more… challenging histories.

Cambodia, Haiti, Nicaragua, Yemen, the Congo, the Ozarks. Needles to say, it won’t all be gin and tonics and five star water pressures.

let's talk about sex, dad

2010-10-26T17:28:00.000-07:00

I never had "The Talk" from either of my parents. Their silence about sex was pretty deafening and it took a long time for me to unlearn their taboos.

I plan to have a very different approach with my children about sex, sexuality, and their bodies. So I'm filing this one away, for future reference.

Girls Want to Talk About Sex — With Dad?
By Belinda Luscombe
Monday, Oct. 25, 2010
Mostly, the conversation that dare not speak its name, the most excruciating 25 minutes of either a parent or an offspring's life, The Talk, is left to Mom. Make lunch, do laundry, figure out where the thing is that goes on that other thing, tell kids about sex. But a new study from New York University suggests that young women could actually use a little more talk about intimate matters from their dads.
Yes, I know, eeeew. Previous studies have concluded that girls who have open communication with their fathers — about everything — tend to have intercourse later in life and also have fewer sexual partners, both of which can be very good for sexual and mental health. But do they actually have to talk about sex to have this effect?
While young women are still mostly influenced and informed on this subject by their mothers, Katherine Hutchinson, associate professor at the NYU College of Nursing, wanted to figure out whether fathers had a role to play. As part of a larger study examining family influences on adolescent sexual risk, she asked a representative sample of 250 or so women aged 19 to 21 what kind of impact their fathers had on their sex education.
The answer was: very little. And, surprisingly, a lot of the women, most of whom were sexually active, wished their fathers had told them more. Specifically, they wanted to hear stuff only guys would know, about how to communicate with men and what the carnal landscape looked like from a male's vantage point. "They felt that if they could have been more comfortable talking with their fathers about issues around sex, they might have been more comfortable talking to boyfriends or potential sexual partners about them," says Hutchinson, whose study was published in the Journal of Family Issues. "And they wanted to know how to negotiate intimacy issues with men."
So does this mean dads should be the ones sitting down and explaining where we all come from? "I'm not a big proponent of The Talk, whether it's from a mother or a father," says Hutchinson. "It takes away from the normalcy of sexuality." She advocates instead for ongoing communication with kids about their bodies, sexual development and sexual issues, so that the subject is not so fraught. But she feels dads could weigh in on how to politely tell a guy you don't want to have sex with him, or that you're not ready for sex with anyone right now, or that you want him to wear a condom.
One note of warning to dads: probably best not to bring the subject up while the guy your daughter likes is in the room. Awkward.

tunes that got you through your teens

2010-10-18T13:26:00.000-07:00

Several albums come to mind, including
U2 "The Joshua Tree"
Depeche Mode "Violator"
Peter Gabriel "So"
INXS "Kick"
Pretenders "The Singles"
Squeeze "45s and Under"
Blondie "Best of"
ABBA "Gold"
Don McLean"American Pie"
Simon and Garfunkel "Greatest Hits"
Neil Diamond "12 Greatest Hits"
New Order "Substance"
The Smiths "Louder than Bombs"
The Cars "Greatest Hits"
Pet Shop Boys "Discography"
Erasure "Best of"

I think I'll do this as a birthday present for Seba when he's 13 ... filing this one away for future reference:

Tunes That Got You Through Your Teens
September 29, 2010
by Bob Boilen

The other day, Steven Feller, a Facebook friend and fan of the show, wrote to me with a special request. He said his daughter was turning 13 and he wanted to give her 25 albums that were essential to getting her through adolescence. He wanted to know if I had any suggestions.

For me, In the Court of the Crimson King by King Crimson was the one that immediately snapped to mind. I slept with that frightful cover art next to my bed for years. I saw it every morning and every night. In a world where I had a comfy suburban bed, but could also be asked to pick up a gun and fight in Vietnam, that music and that cover was somehow grounding.

Other records I offered included:

The Beatles - Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
The Rolling Stones - Beggars Banquet
Jimi Hendrix - Electric Ladyland
Neil Young After the Goldrush
Led Zeppelin - II
George Harrison - All Things Must Pass
Bob Dylan - Blonde on Blonde
The Doors - The Doors
Steve Miller Band - Sailor
Simon & Garfunkel - Bookends
The Who - Tommy

That last one was cathartic when I failed my drivers test. Some of these may seem like obvious choices, part of the canon of great records, but at the time they were groundbreaking, mind blowing records.

So tell us what you think. What albums were essential to getting you through your adolescence? Share any stories you have about listening to or discovering the music.

forty-two things that change when you have a baby

2010-10-18T12:55:00.000-07:00

Forty-two things that change when you have a baby
by Rebecca Woolf
Last updated: June 2009

What changes when you have a baby? A better question may be: What doesn't change? Here, writer and mom Rebecca Woolf lists her most notable post-baby observations. Then scroll down to read our favorite comments from readers about how their babies changed their lives.

1. You finally stop to smell the roses, because your baby is in your arms.

2. Where you once believed you were fearless, you now find yourself afraid. [See a reader's perspective in #22, below.]

3. The sacrifices you thought you made to have a child no longer seem like sacrifices.

4. You respect your body ... finally.

5. You respect your parents and love them in a new way.

6. You find that your baby's pain feels much worse than your own.

7. You believe once again in the things you believed in as a child.

8. You lose touch with the people in your life whom you should have banished years ago.

9. Your heart breaks much more easily.

10. You think of someone else 234,836,178,976 times a day.

11. Every day is a surprise.

12. Bodily functions are no longer repulsive. In fact, they please you. (Hooray for poop!)

13. You look at your baby in the mirror instead of yourself.

14. You become a morning person.

15. Your love becomes limitless, a superhuman power.

And from our readers...

1. "You discover how much there is to say about one tooth." — Ashley's mom

2. "You finally realize that true joy doesn't come from material wealth." — Anonymous

3. "You now know where the sun comes from." — Charlotte

4. "You'd rather buy a plastic tricycle than those shoes that you've been dying to have." — Sophie's mom

5. "You realize that although sticky, lollipops have magical powers." — Roxanne

6. "You don't mind going to bed at 9 p.m. on Friday night." — Kellye

7. "Silence? What's that?" — Anonymous

8. "You realize that the 15 pounds you can't seem to get rid of are totally worth having." — Brenda

9. "You discover an inner strength you never thought you had." — Ronin and Brookie's mom

10. "You no longer rely on a clock — your baby now sets your schedule." — Thomas' mom

11. "You give parents with a screaming child an 'I-know-the-feeling' look instead of a 'Can't-they-shut-him-up?' one." — Jaidyn's mom

12. "Your dog — who used to be your 'baby' — becomes just a dog." — Kara

[Many readers begged to differ, saying things like, " I disagree with number 12. My dogs are my additional children," "Nothing about previous babies, whether two- or four-legged, changes when a new miracle comes along," "My dog will never be 'just a dog," and "This is sad to me. My dog is still my baby too."]

13. "You take the time for one more hug and kiss even if it means you'll be late." — Tracey

14. "You learn that taking a shower is a luxury." — Jayden's mom

15. "You realize that you can love a complete stranger." — Dezarae's mom

16. You find yourself wanting to make this world a better place. — Arizona

17. If you didn’t believe in love at first sight before, now you do! — Ciara

18. You start to appreciate Sesame Street for its intellectual contribution. — Anon.

19. You have to quit watching the news because you see every story from a mother's perspective and it breaks your heart. — Brooke&Boys

20. You just plain love life more - everything comes together and becomes better because of one tiny person and your love for them. — Anon.

21. You finally find out the real reason you have those breasts. — Anon.

22. In response to #2 [above], I'd say that where you were once afraid, you're now fearless. I was always very timid and shy and let myself get walked all over … but now where my kid's concerned, I'll speak my mind and really connect with my inner "b"! — gummismom

23. The support you get from other people surprises you, because the people giving it are not always the ones you'd expect. — japanese_macaque

24. Nothing is just yours any longer. You share EVERYTHING! — DylanLsMom

25. No matter what you've accomplished in life, you look at your child and think, "I've done a GREAT job!" — Anon.

26. You want to take better care of yourself for your child. — Treasor

27. You can have the most wonderful conversation using only vowel sounds like "ahhh" and "oooo." — littlehulk2008

pumpkin spice cake

2010-10-16T14:20:00.000-07:00

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
4 teaspoons pumpkin pie spice*
3 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup yogurt, at room temperature
1 cup canned pumpkin
3/4 cup canola oil
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour a Bundt pan (or even better, use Baker’s Joy spray).
In a medium bowl, sift or whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and spices; set aside.
In a large bowl combine eggs, yogurt, pumpkin, and oil. Beat well with a hand mixer (or use a stand mixer), scraping down sides with a spatula, until everything is well blended. Add flour mixture a little at a time, beating well after each addition, until everything is well combined. Scrape down sides, then blend in the vanilla extract.
Pour batter into prepared pan and bake in the center of a 350 degree oven for 35-45 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the cake comes out clean. Let cool on wire rack for ten minutes, then invert cake onto wire rack and let cool completely. Sprinkle with powdered sugar immediately before serving if desired.

Yield: 10-12 servings

Recipe Notes: *Pumpkin pie spice can be substituted with 2 teaspoons cinnamon, 1 teaspoon ground ginger, 1/2 teaspoon ground allspice, and 1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg (or make your own combination).

Adapted from Pinch My Salt

my pledge on national coming out day

2010-10-11T10:20:00.000-07:00

On National Coming Out Day, I pledge to teach my son what I didn’t learn at home:

That the greatest family value is valuing all families.
That home is a safe place to be himself.
To embrace his identity and the identities of others.
That there is no normal, no different ... there’s who you are and that is unique.
To speak up for those who are afraid to use their voices and to stand up for those who feel powerless.
To fight for a world where there is no need for closets because there is no longer any reason to hide.

mean girls and me

2010-10-10T04:44:00.000-07:00

The New York Times article below about mean girls and bullying -- and how parenting, pop culture, and a culture of entitlement all feed the phenomenon -- triggered memories I'd long forgotten. It gives me pause as a parent. I'll also admit that it makes me slightly relieved that I have a son and not a daughter.

Like most teens, I was incredibly insecure, cared far too much about what other people thought of me, and craved acceptance and approval from my peers. I also had a very dysfunctional mother who actively eroded my self-esteem. I was never a popular kid. I wore the wrong clothes, was smart (and didn't make any effort to hide it), and was not clued in to what was cool pop culture-wise. All of these sins were manageable in elementary school, but I still remember the day in junior high when the mean girls turned on me.

I was an eighth grader at Cope Junior High in Redlands, CA. Redlands is an old-money town, where the kids at my school had been together since playgroup. Worse yet, their parents had all been together since childhood, making it difficult for me (the kid who rode the bus in from the next town over) to feel like part of the crowd. I had the misfortune of being one of the only kids who attended that junior high from my elementary school, so I had no friends with whom I'd gone to K-6. Finally, I skipped from sixth to eighth grade, so I was ill-equipped to deal with the socialization issues of my peers because I was about a year and a half younger than they were. (On the pop culture front, I was still way into Anne of Green Gables, while they were into hair bands like Poison and going to parties with alcohol at them.)

Coming into Cope (a name whose irony holds up all these years later), I knew one person from my elementary school. Her name was Pretty Simon. She had been my buddy on the bus during elementary school, but went on to Cope the year before I did because she was a year ahead of me in school. I immediately looked for her when I got to junior high. She was Indonesian, a fashionista, and into the 'right' things (she was obsessed with Simon LeBon of Duran Duran) even in elementary school. She was also quiet, had an unfortunate case of acne that I think made her very self-conscious and insecure (in hindsight), and not someone who would stick up for me when push came to shove. But I didn't realize that when I unwittingly joined the clique she was part of.

She was at the periphery of the group of the cool girls in our grade. I don't remember if she invited me to join her for lunch or if I just gravitated to the one familiar face I saw. Either way, I was soon eating with the cool girls and immediately feeling the pressure to keep up. It was the 80s, and the ESPRIT bag was what all the cool girls carried their books in. I became desperate to get one and finally got a used purple one (with a big ink stain on it) either at a thrift shop or as a hand-me-down (I honestly can't remember where it came from). It's a telling artifact that even my bag reflecting my membership in the group also gave away my status as an impostor ...

I didn't realize it, but I was marginally "in" with the group -- after being interviewed by the B-level females of the bunch, I skated by for a few months, changing my hair and makeup, and trying to literally wear the uniform of the group. Eventually, my lack of the 'right' clothes, lack of pop culture knowledge, and naïveté caught up with me. The group had a few alpha females at the center, and many of the B-level girls were nice or shy or had been part of the group since preschool. Several of the B-level girls were also in my college-prep classes, but had the good sense to play down their intelligence. Anyhow, I don't know what triggered it, but as I walked up, put my ESPRIT bag down, went to buy my lunch, and returned to a cool reception from the girls. One of the alpha females essentially played a game of cat and mouse with me that day and I unwittingly failed the test.

She asked me about my clothes and why I didn't wear certain shoes (Peds), certain jeans (Guess), or a certain watch (Swatch). I could not bring myself to tell her that my mother refused to spend money on brand name items and bought 90% of my clothes at thrift shops. I tried desperately to turn the tables on her, then another alpha female brought the topic back to my clothing. When I tried to change the subject and to engage the other girls in the conversation, Pretty Simon and the other girls wouldn't make eye contact with me. The lunch bell rang at that point and I rushed off, hoping that the days events would be forgotten.

I foolishly returned to the lunch table the next day, but I was an untouchable -- I was ostracized in a public way when not a single one of those girls spoke to me. I left, humiliated, and bought a big plate french fries, a cinnamon roll, and some ice cream. It was the first time when I'd consciously turned to food as a source of comfort. That year, food became my friend and I went from the 50th percentile weight-wise to the 80th.

Although I was a social pariah among the popular kids, I made new friends amongst the other kids in my college-prep classes. I joined a few clubs that met at lunchtime. And I moved on, at least on the surface. Clearly, I was still hurting from the pre-teen pecking order drama (and issues with my mother), and using food to stuff down the hurt. The girls got to me in one more dramatic incident the next school year. I'm not sure how, but somebody must have noticed my crush on one Eddy Malesky.

Eddy was a popular kid who was whip smart, easy on the eyes, and in most of my classes. He was also one of the nicest boys in school. At lunch, a girl who was not in the clique told me that Eddy "liked" me and was planning to ask me out. On the way to 5th period, a geeky guy told me he heard about Eddy, too. In 5th period, a B-level girl asked me if I liked him. I replied that I did and was glad that he was going to ask me out. I later saw that girl speaking to a group of the popular kids and him blushing. By the 6th period, the anticipation had built and when I saw him, I couldn't even look at him. For whatever reason, he never said a word, and I watched as the girls in my class whispered and snickered. To this day, I don't know if he was interested and caved to the pressure from the clique or if it was all an elaborate ruse to mess with me one last time.

Thankfully, I left the Redlands Unified School district when it was time to go to high school. I made new friends, crafted a new persona for myself, and mostly enjoyed my high school existence (within reason). I also put the mean girls of Cope Junior High and their petty cruelty behind me.

The Playground Gets Even Tougher
By PAMELA PAUL
October 8, 2010

SCARLETT made for a good target. The daughter of a Williamsburg artist, she wore funky clothing to her East Village school, had a mild learning disability and was generally timid and insecure. Lila, the resident “mean girl” in Scarlett’s kindergarten class, started in immediately.

Scarlett, she sneered, couldn’t read. Her Payless and Gap shoes weren’t good enough. She wasn’t “allowed” to play with certain girls. Lila was forming a band, and Scarlett couldn’t be a part. One girl threatened to physically hurt her. During recess, Lila would loom over Scarlett, arms crossed, and say, “I’m watching you.”

“I was in middle school before things got as awful as they did for Scarlett,” said Scarlett’s mother, Annelizabeth, who asked that her last name not be used to protect her daughter. “I understand that children are maturing much faster, but to see such hostility at this young age, wow. It was really shocking.”

Mean-girl behavior, typically referred to by professionals as relational or social aggression and by terrified parents as bullying, has existed for as long as there have been ponytails to pull and notes to pass (today’s insults are texted instead). But while the calculated round of cliquishness and exclusion used to set in over fifth-grade sleepover parties, warfare increasingly permeates the early elementary school years.

“Girls absolutely exclude one another in kindergarten,” said Michelle Anthony, a psychologist and co-author of the new book “Little Girls Can Be Mean.” When her own daughter was manipulated by a “friend” into racing down a slide booby-trapped with mud, making it appear to a group of boys as though she’d soiled her pants, Dr. Anthony was taken aback. “You don’t expect to run into that level of meanness in a 7-year-old.”

But at a time when teenage cyber-bullying is making headlines, parents fear that the onset of bullying behavior is trickling down. According to a new Harris survey of 1,144 parents nationwide, 67 percent of parents of 3- to 7-year-olds worry that their children will be bullied; parents of preschoolers and grade-school-age children are significantly more likely to worry than parents of teenagers. Such fears may be justified. One recent survey of 273 third graders in Massachusetts found that 47 percent have been bullied at least once; 52 percent reported being called mean names, being made fun of or teased in a hurtful way; and 51 percent reported being left out of things on purpose, excluded from their group of friends or completely ignored at least once in the past couple of months.

In Washington, at a “Bullying Prevention Summit” in August, Secretary of Education Arne Duncan announced stepped-up efforts in elementary schools, noting, “Bullying starts young — and we need to reach students when they are young with the message that bullying is not O.K.”

Capt. Stephanie Bryn, a military officer overseeing the government’s “Stop Bullying Now!” program, is initiating a campaign geared toward 5- to 8-year-old children this fall. “Girl relational bullying has been under the radar,” she said. But when the campaign surveyed its 80 partner organizations, they unequivocally said children were aging up, making bullying pervasive in the early elementary years. “We realized we need to address this in kindergarten.”

In the case of a little girl named Caroline Port, the torment didn’t begin until first grade. Within months of starting at a private elementary school in suburban St. Louis, Caroline, now 9, was waking up with night terrors, sleepwalking and crying excessively. When her mother, Karen Port, met with Caroline’s teacher, she learned that her daughter was being ostracized. “I was very upset,” she said. “Why hadn’t anyone told me?”

Five birthday parties passed, without any invitations. No one would play with Caroline. She sat with the boys at lunchtime. “I hate myself,” she would tell her mother when she came home. She was 7 years old.

Ms. Port sought help from a school counselor, which improved matters briefly, but the scorn and ridicule persisted. One day, Caroline came home from school carrying a little blue rock that her counselor had given her, a treasure she had presented to her class. “They asked if it had Caroline Disease,” she told her mother. “It’s starting again.”

Is there really a fresh spate of mean little girls? Social scientists who study relational aggression point to a dearth of longitudinal data. It could just be heightened awareness among hyper-parents, ever attuned to their children’s most minuscule slight. It could be a side effect of early-onset puberty, with hormones raging through otherwise immature 8-year-olds. Or it may be that an increase has yet to be captured; relational aggression wasn’t a focus of academic research until the mid-1990s, making longitudinal study a bit premature. Most studies still leapfrog from preschoolers to early adolescents.

Nicole Werner, a psychologist who studies bullying at Washington State University, said that she hasn’t seen research “to indicate that these forms of hurtful behavior are increasing in younger kids.”

“However,” she continued, “I have to expect that the amount and type of media kids are consuming at younger ages is having an effect.”

Other experts agreed. “The research literature on aggression is very clear that with relational aggression, it’s monkey see, money do,” said Tracy Vaillancourt, who specializes in children’s mental health and violence prevention at the University of Ottawa. “Kids mirror the larger culture, from reality TV to materialism.”

We no longer live in the pigtailed world of Cindy Brady where a handful of channels import variations on sugar and spice, with prompt repercussions for the latter. “So much of what passes for entertainment is about being rude, nasty and crass,” said Meline Kevorkian, who studies bullying at Nova Southeastern University in Fort Lauderdale-Davie, Fla. “What we see as comedy is actually making fun of other people.”

Nicole Martins, a professor of telecommunications at Indiana University, has conducted a study linking aggressive behavior to shows with stars she deemed socially aggressive, like “Hannah Montana” and “The Simple Life.” “There was no effect on aggression on boys, but in girls, there was an increase among those who watched socially aggressive female models on TV,” Dr. Martins said.

Then there is the tendency of children to grow older younger (a trend with its own acronym: G.O.Y., bandied about by parents and educators). Six-year-olds go to see Erin Munroe, a school guidance counselor in Boston, complaining that So-and-So won’t play with them because they like the Jonas Brothers and the “It girls” like Miley Cyrus. She sees first-graders pulling their hair out, throwing up before school and complaining of constant stomachaches. “It’s not cool to not have a cellphone anymore or to not wear exactly the right thing,” Ms. Munroe said. “The poor girls who have Strawberry Shortcake shirts on, forget it.”

Nobody wants her daughter’s penguin kicked out of the igloo on Club Penguin. But too many parents are too quick to take their daughter’s side, without fully exploring her role in the fracas, said Rosalind Wiseman, the author of the anti-mean-girl bible, “Queen Bees and Wannabes.” Sometimes, she points out, the victim may turn out to have been the initial provocateur.

While peer influence is no doubt a factor, veteran teachers and school counselors say parents are often complicit. “Parents think it’s really cute when their 2- and 3-year-olds are doing ‘Single Ladies’ or singing the Alicia Keys/Jay-Z song,” Ms. Wiseman said. “But it’s not so funny at age 8, when they’re singing along to Lady Gaga and demanding a cellphone.”

A kindergarten teacher at one of New York City’s top private all-girls schools observed, “The mean girls are often from mean moms.” She was thrown back by the “venom” among 5-year-olds. They’ll say, “You only read ‘Biscuit,’ and we’re all reading chapter books.” Or, “Why don’t you brush your hair? You don’t look nice today.” And they’re not afraid of getting into trouble with a teacher. “Perhaps they can act that way at home without repercussions,” she said. “It’s untypical of this age group because they’re usually adult-pleasers.”

In certain cases, the parents themselves seem to be pleased. When her daughter Julia was in first grade last year, said Lea Pfau, a mother of two in Sherman Oaks, Calif., one girl threatened that, unless Julia did as she ordered, “I’m going to tell my mommy, and she’ll set up a meeting with your mommy, and you’ll get in trouble.” The girl then orchestrated a series of exclusive clubs in which girls could be kicked out for various infractions. “I was surprised by the fierceness,” Ms. Pfau said. “But I was more surprised at the other parents. Rather than nip it in the bud, they encouraged it.”

Eileen O’Connor, a lawyer and mother of five girls in the Georgetown section of Washington, has also witnessed trickle-down meanness in her daughters’ classrooms. “To be honest with you, the parents not only enabled it, they engaged in it,” she said. “The parents of mean girls often think, Great, our daughter is so popular!”

Across town, in southeast Washington, Rosalyn Rice, the associate principal of a public elementary school until last year, continually held mediations among young grade-school girls. “They were reporting deeply held grudges from the first grade,” she recalled. One first grader was shunned because she didn’t have the “in” classroom supplies — sparkly glue and a Powerpuff Girls carrying case. She stopped going to school because her parents couldn’t afford them. “The other girls kept accusing her of stealing theirs, which wasn’t true,” Ms. Rice said. Children who didn’t have their uniforms regularly laundered or had to borrow one from the school office were mocked mercilessly. Even at the lower end of the socioeconomic spectrum, “Girls were judging how much people cared about them based on what they owned.”

Ms. Rice and several other experts point to a shift in childhood play, with a focus on controlled environments, techno-goodies and material objects. Instead of working out issues themselves during free play outside, children are micromanaged by parents who step in to resolve conflicts for them. Debbie Rosenman, a teacher in her 31st year at a suburban Detroit school, said that helicopter parents simultaneously fail to provide adequate authority or appropriate forms of supervision.

“The girls who are the victims tend to be raised by parents who encourage them to be more age appropriate,” Ms. Rosenman said. “The mean girls are 8 but want to be 14, and their parents play along. They all want to be top dog.” And so the nastiness begins.

danny & annie

2010-09-10T13:54:00.000-07:00

The most moving romance you'll ever see (in five minutes, no less).

Danny Perasa and his wife, Annie, came to StoryCorps to recount their twenty-seven-year romance. As they remember their life together from their first date to Danny’s final days with terminal cancer, these remarkable Brooklynites personify the eloquence, grace, and poetry that can be found in the voices of everyday people when we take the time to listen.

citrus tilapia

2010-09-02T02:31:00.000-07:00

We made this quick healthy fish dish for dinner a few nights ago and loved it.

Citrus Tilapia

Epicurious | October 2009

by Jeanne Besser, Kristina Ratley, Sheri Knecht, and Michele Szafranski

yield: Makes 4 servings
active time: Prep Time: 15 minutes or less
total time: Total Time: 30 minutes or less

This light fish entrée gets a flavor boost from a citrus glaze made from fresh lemon juice, orange juice, and fresh ginger.

Ingredients

* 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
* Salt and freshly ground black pepper
* 1 pound tilapia fillets
* 1 tablespoon olive oil
* 1 tablespoon butter
* 1/2 cup freshly squeezed orange juice or high-quality store-bought orange juice
* 1 lemon, zested and juiced
* 1/2 teaspoon grated fresh ginger

Preparation

1. On a plate, combine the flour and a sprinkle of salt and pepper. Lightly dredge the tilapia in the flour.

2. In a large skillet over medium heat, add the oil and butter. When the butter has melted, add the fish and cook for 2 to 3 minutes per side, or until golden and just cooked through. Remove the fish and set aside.

3. Add the orange juice, 2 tablespoons of the lemon juice, and the ginger to the skillet. Increase the heat and simmer for 1 to 2 minutes, or until thickened, stirring occasionally. Taste and add lemon zest or more lemon juice if necessary. Return the fish to the skillet, coat with sauce, and cook for 1 to 2 minutes, or until heated through.

katie's legacy

2010-08-17T07:53:00.000-07:00

I'm registered as an organ donor. My will also specifies that my body be donated to the local medical school. (If I can't make use of my body, it should go to helping someone else's quality of life and advancing science.)

Out of Grief Sprouts a Life-Saving Legacy
By JANE E. BRODY
August 16, 2010

You don’t have to be rich, famous or even an adult to leave a memorable legacy that can change lives.

Just ask Stacey Oglesby of Lockwood, Mo., whose 15-year-old daughter, Colbey, died in a car accident in 2001. Colbey had told her mother that when she got her driver’s license, she was going to sign up to be an organ donor. So when hospital personnel asked about organ donation, Ms. Oglesby said, “we had no hesitancy.”

Seven people got Colbey’s organs. Her lungs went to Valerie Vandervort, a 29-year-old Oklahoma woman with cystic fibrosis. In the nine years since, Ms. Vandervort has run three 5K races, hiked a mountain, danced at her sister’s wedding, doted on her nieces and nephews, and won medals in swimming at the 2010 National Kidney Foundation United States Transplant Games.

Ms. Oglesby also befriended the recipient of Colbey’s heart, Judy Kaufman of Chesterfield, Mo., who was near death with congestive heart failure. When they met, Ms. Oglesby took a stethoscope to listen to the beat of her daughter’s heart.

Ms. Oglesby, who speaks often about Colbey’s legacy, said she has inspired others to become potential organ donors. If not for donating her daughter’s organs and connecting to the recipients, she said, “it would have been hard to get through the grief.”

A Widespread Need

At any given time in the United States, more than 100,000 people are waiting for donor organs, more than 10 times as many as become available. Some die waiting; others get sicker and sicker, sometimes too ill to survive when a suitable organ finally becomes available.

In addition to kidneys, heart, lungs, liver, pancreas and intestines, donations can include tissues like corneas, skin, heart valves, bone, veins, cartilage, middle ear, tendons and ligaments that can be stored in tissue banks and used when needed.

Most donations come from people who die suddenly, usually from an accident, a gunshot or a brief illness that resulted in brain death. (A small but growing number of donations follow cardiac death.) Some adults indicate their wish to be donors by signing the back of their driver’s license or a donor card or simply telling their next of kin. For minors, hospital personnel often ask the distraught parents if they would consider donating their child’s organs.

But when 6-year-old Katie Coolican died in 1983 from an undiagnosed heart malformation, it was her mother, Maggie, a nurse, who asked about donating the child’s organs — “to make some sense of it all,” Ms. Coolican, of East Hampton, Conn., said in an interview.

“We were willing to donate anything,” she added, “but at the time all they could use were Katie’s corneas and kidneys.”

Likewise for Julie Schlueter of Winsted, Minn., whose daughter, Missy, 10, died of a cerebral hemorrhage in 1992: donating the girl’s organs meant her loss was not in vain.

Missy’s liver and one kidney went to a man who four years later won a silver medal in the Summer Olympics in Atlanta; he sent the medal to the Schlueters to thank them for enabling him to live. Two toddlers, one from Italy and the other from Colorado, got Missy’s heart valves. And an Iowa woman, then 47, got her other kidney and is still doing well 18 years later.

Rose D’Acquisto of St. Paul said that donating all her husband’s usable organs “has led to things I’d never imagined.”

Her husband, Tony, died in 1996 at age 35 when an undiagnosed brain tumor hemorrhaged and left him in an irreversible coma. Ms. D’Acquisto said the recipient of his liver — an Indiana man near death with a rare liver disease — had now been married more than 30 years and has three grown children.

And the Minnesota farmer who got one of Tony’s kidneys got his life back; he had spent three years traveling three hours a day three times a week for dialysis.

Ms. D’Acquisto, now remarried, says she continues to write and speak about organ donation as love’s greatest gift. Along with Ms. Schlueter, she was among more than 7,000 people who attended the Transplant Games last month in Madison, Wis.

When Katie Coolican died, there was no follow-up care for families who donate the organs of their loved ones. After a few years of struggling with grief, her mother wrote about her experience in The American Journal of Nursing and began speaking about organ donation all over the country.

She went back to school, got a master’s degree and wrote a booklet, “For Those Who Give and Grieve,” that was published by the National Kidney Foundation. (The foundation also publishes a quarterly newsletter with that title, edited by Ms. D’Acquisto.)

“Katie’s had a wonderful legacy that continues to this day,” Ms. Coolican said. In 1992 she founded the National Donor Family Council for the kidney foundation to help grieving families that donate loved ones’ organs and tissues. The two-year follow-up program she created for families has become a model for organ donation programs throughout the country.

(To read more “gift of life” stories about organ donation, see the Web site org/gift/index.html.)

Who Is Eligible to Give?

Do not rule yourself out as a potential donor because you think you may be too ill or too old. Only a few circumstances, like pervasive infection or active cancer, absolutely preclude organ donation, and there is no age limit. People in their 80s and 90s have been successful donors of certain tissues, as have newborns. But for anyone under 18, a parent or guardian must approve the donation.

Even if a person dies after an illness that precludes organ donation, or if too much time elapsed after death for organs to be viable, there is still the opportunity of whole-body donation to a medical college, where the body can be used in research or to help students learn anatomy.

While it is best to register one’s interest in whole-body donation with a medical school in advance of death, after death it is up to the next of kin to make it happen. You no longer own your body after you die. If this is something you would want for yourself, discuss it with your spouse and children, who must agree with your wishes.

Most religions support organ donation as a charitable act, although some may not condone whole-body donation. Check the Web site www.organdonor.gov and click on “Religious Views on Donation” for guidance.

quotable

2010-08-16T12:26:00.001-07:00

When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.
- Mark Twain

women's rights by a hair

2010-08-14T16:13:00.000-07:00

My Favorite August
By GAIL COLLINS
August 13, 2010

The story in American history I most like to tell is the one about how women got the right to vote 90 years ago this month. It has everything. Adventure! Suspense! Treachery! Drunken legislators!

But, first, there was a 70-year slog.

Which is really the important part. We always need to remember that behind almost every great moment in history, there are heroic people doing really boring and frustrating things for a prolonged period of time.

That great suffragist and excellent counter, Carrie Chapman Catt, estimated that the struggle had involved 56 referendum campaigns directed at male voters, plus “480 campaigns to get Legislatures to submit suffrage amendments to voters, 47 campaigns to get constitutional conventions to write woman suffrage into state constitutions; 277 campaigns to get State party conventions to include woman suffrage planks, 30 campaigns to get presidential party campaigns to include woman suffrage planks in party platforms and 19 campaigns with 19 successive Congresses.”

And you thought health care reform was a drawn-out battle.

The great, thundering roadblock to progress was — wait for the surprise — the U.S. Senate. All through the last part of the 19th century and into the 20th, attempts to amend the U.S. Constitution ran up against a wall of conservative Southern senators.

So the women decided to win the vote by amending every single state constitution, one by one.

There were five referenda in South Dakota alone. Susan B. Anthony spent more time there than a wheat farmer. But she never lost hope. The great day was coming, she promised: “It’s coming sooner than most people think.” I love this remark even more because she made it in 1895.

Sometimes I fantasize about traveling back through time and telling my historical heroes and heroines how well things worked out in the end. I particularly enjoy the part where I find Vincent van Gogh and inform him that one of the unsold paintings piled up over in the corner will eventually go for $80 million. But I never imagine telling Susan B. Anthony how well American women are doing in the 21st century because her faith in her country and her cause was so strong that she wouldn’t be surprised.

The constitutional amendment that finally did pass Congress bore Anthony’s name. It came up before the House of Representatives in 1918 with the two-thirds votes needed for passage barely within reach. One congressman who had been in the hospital for six months had himself carted to the floor so he could support suffrage. Another, who had just broken his shoulder, refused to have it set for fear he’d be too late to be counted. Representative Frederick Hicks of New York had been at the bedside of his dying wife but left at her urging to support the cause. He provided the final, crucial vote, and then returned home for her funeral.

The Senate failed to follow suit. But Woodrow Wilson, a president who had the winning quality of being very vulnerable to nagging by women, pushed the amendment through the next year. The states started ratifying. Then things stalled just one state short of success.

Ninety years ago this month, all eyes turned to Tennessee, the only state yet to ratify with its Legislature still in session. The resolution sailed through the Tennessee Senate. As it moved on to the House, the most vigorous opposition came from the liquor industry, which was pretty sure that if women got the vote, they’d use it to pass Prohibition. Distillery lobbyists came to fight, bearing samples.

“Both suffrage and anti-suffrage men were reeling through the hall in an advanced state of intoxication,” Carrie Catt reported.

The women and their allies knew they had a one-vote margin of support in the House. Then the speaker, whom they had counted on as a “yes,” changed his mind.

(I love this moment. Women’s suffrage is tied to the railroad track and the train is bearing down fast when suddenly. ...)

Suddenly, Harry Burn, the youngest member of the House, a 24-year-old “no” vote from East Tennessee, got up and announced that he had received a letter from his mother telling him to “be a good boy and help Mrs. Catt.”

“I know that a mother’s advice is always the safest for a boy to follow,” Burn said, switching sides.

We celebrate Women’s Suffrage Day on Aug. 26, which is when the amendment officially became part of the Constitution. But I like Aug. 18, which is the day that Harry Burn jumped up in the Tennessee Legislature, waving his mom’s note from home. I told the story once in Atlanta, and a woman in the audience said that when she was visiting her relatives in East Tennessee, she had gone to put a yellow rose on Harry Burn’s grave.

I got a little teary.

“Well, actually,” she added, “it was because I couldn’t find his mother.”

This article has been revised to reflect the following correction:

Correction: August 14, 2010

An earlier version of this article incorrectly stated that the House of Representatives was composed of only men in 1918. Jeannette Rankin, a female representative from Montana, served from 1917 to 1919.

the great typo hunt

2010-08-09T17:26:00.000-07:00

It's always encouraging to learn that others also suffer from Corrective Tourette's.

A Man, A Plan And A Sharpie: 'The Great Typo Hunt'
August 9, 2010

Incensed by a "no tresspassing" sign, Jeff Deck launched a cross-country trip to right grammatical wrongs.

He enlisted a friend, Benjamin D. Herson, and together they got to work erasing errant quotation marks, rectifying misspellings and cutting unnecessary possessive apostrophes.

The Great Typo Hunt is the story of their crusade.

In 2 1/2 months, Herson and Deck traveled the perimeter of the country, exploring towns and cities in search of typos. They found 437 typos, and were able to correct more than half of them.

Some typos were uncorrectable — out of the team's reach, or, as Deck tells NPR's Tony Cox, requiring tools and materials that weren't included in his "typo correction kit."

Deck carried a variety of Sharpies, of which "the black Sharpie was the most important." Deck also carried Wite-Out, dry erase markers, chalk, crayons and pens.

Sometimes Deck and Herson couldn't get permission from the typo-maker to make an adjustment to the signage. "They would turn us down, or they'd be apathetic about it," says Deck.

"Or they'd say 'Oh, we'll fix that one later,' and we'd really have to take their word on that."

Though people predicted Deck would find more typos in some regions of the country than others, in fact, "everyone really does make mistakes," he says. "We would find them wherever we went."

They did find, however, that local businesses tended to need more typo help. Corporate chain stores and signage usually didn't need as much editing.

less stuff = more joy

2010-08-08T14:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I asked my brother-sin-law to tell me more about his new girlfriend. A few minutes into the conversation, I asked how she likes to spend her time and her money. I explained that the answer to both questions usually tells me a great deal about one's values, because time is something one never gets back and money is usually valuable to the spender.

I then explained that my free time and money tend to go to travel, photography, and good food/ drink. In short, I look for experiences, rather than things. Still, I have far more stuff than I need, despite routinely donating as much as possible to keep my stuff in check. Although we tend to use a great deal of used and second-hand items (especially with all the baby gear), I'm wondering if we can pull off the hundred things or less at this point. Maybe it's time for another housecleaning, and a serious conversation about what we can get rid of in order to make space for the more important experiences in life.

But Will It Make You Happy?
By STEPHANIE ROSENBLOOM
Published: August 7, 2010

SHE had so much.

A two-bedroom apartment. Two cars. Enough wedding china to serve two dozen people.

Yet Tammy Strobel wasn’t happy. Working as a project manager with an investment management firm in Davis, Calif., and making about $40,000 a year, she was, as she put it, caught in the “work-spend treadmill.”

So one day she stepped off.

Inspired by books and blog entries about living simply, Ms. Strobel and her husband, Logan Smith, both 31, began donating some of their belongings to charity. As the months passed, out went stacks of sweaters, shoes, books, pots and pans, even the television after a trial separation during which it was relegated to a closet. Eventually, they got rid of their cars, too. Emboldened by a Web site that challenges consumers to live with just 100 personal items, Ms. Strobel winnowed down her wardrobe and toiletries to precisely that number.

Her mother called her crazy.

Today, three years after Ms. Strobel and Mr. Smith began downsizing, they live in Portland, Ore., in a spare, 400-square-foot studio with a nice-sized kitchen. Mr. Smith is completing a doctorate in physiology; Ms. Strobel happily works from home as a Web designer and freelance writer. She owns four plates, three pairs of shoes and two pots. With Mr. Smith in his final weeks of school, Ms. Strobel’s income of about $24,000 a year covers their bills. They are still car-free but have bikes. One other thing they no longer have: $30,000 of debt.

Ms. Strobel’s mother is impressed. Now the couple have money to travel and to contribute to the education funds of nieces and nephews. And because their debt is paid off, Ms. Strobel works fewer hours, giving her time to be outdoors, and to volunteer, which she does about four hours a week for a nonprofit outreach program called Living Yoga.

“The idea that you need to go bigger to be happy is false,” she says. “I really believe that the acquisition of material goods doesn’t bring about happiness.”

While Ms. Strobel and her husband overhauled their spending habits before the recession, legions of other consumers have since had to reconsider their own lifestyles, bringing a major shift in the nation’s consumption patterns.

“We’re moving from a conspicuous consumption — which is ‘buy without regard’ — to a calculated consumption,” says Marshal Cohen, an analyst at the NPD Group, the retailing research and consulting firm.

Amid weak job and housing markets, consumers are saving more and spending less than they have in decades, and industry professionals expect that trend to continue. Consumers saved 6.4 percent of their after-tax income in June, according to a new government report. Before the recession, the rate was 1 to 2 percent for many years. In June, consumer spending and personal incomes were essentially flat compared with May, suggesting that the American economy, as dependent as it is on shoppers opening their wallets and purses, isn’t likely to rebound anytime soon.

On the bright side, the practices that consumers have adopted in response to the economic crisis ultimately could — as a raft of new research suggests — make them happier. New studies of consumption and happiness show, for instance, that people are happier when they spend money on experiences instead of material objects, when they relish what they plan to buy long before they buy it, and when they stop trying to outdo the Joneses.

If consumers end up sticking with their newfound spending habits, some tactics that retailers and marketers began deploying during the recession could become lasting business strategies. Among those strategies are proffering merchandise that makes being at home more entertaining and trying to make consumers feel special by giving them access to exclusive events and more personal customer service.

While the current round of stinginess may simply be a response to the economic downturn, some analysts say consumers may also be permanently adjusting their spending based on what they’ve discovered about what truly makes them happy or fulfilled.

“This actually is a topic that hasn’t been researched very much until recently,” says Elizabeth W. Dunn, an associate professor in the psychology department at the University of British Columbia, who is at the forefront of research on consumption and happiness. “There’s massive literature on income and happiness. It’s amazing how little there is on how to spend your money.”

CONSPICUOUS consumption has been an object of fascination going back at least as far as 1899, when the economist Thorstein Veblen published “The Theory of the Leisure Class,” a book that analyzed, in part, how people spent their money in order to demonstrate their social status.

And it’s been a truism for eons that extra cash always makes life a little easier. Studies over the last few decades have shown that money, up to a certain point, makes people happier because it lets them meet basic needs. The latest round of research is, for lack of a better term, all about emotional efficiency: how to reap the most happiness for your dollar.

So just where does happiness reside for consumers? Scholars and researchers haven’t determined whether Armani will put a bigger smile on your face than Dolce & Gabbana. But they have found that our types of purchases, their size and frequency, and even the timing of the spending all affect long-term happiness.

One major finding is that spending money for an experience — concert tickets, French lessons, sushi-rolling classes, a hotel room in Monaco — produces longer-lasting satisfaction than spending money on plain old stuff.

“ ‘It’s better to go on a vacation than buy a new couch’ is basically the idea,” says Professor Dunn, summing up research by two fellow psychologists, Leaf Van Boven and Thomas Gilovich. Her own take on the subject is in a paper she wrote with colleagues at Harvard and the University of Virginia: “If Money Doesn’t Make You Happy Then You Probably Aren’t Spending It Right.” (The Journal of Consumer Psychology plans to publish it in a coming issue.)

Thomas DeLeire, an associate professor of public affairs, population, health and economics at the University of Wisconsin in Madison, recently published research examining nine major categories of consumption. He discovered that the only category to be positively related to happiness was leisure: vacations, entertainment, sports and equipment like golf clubs and fishing poles.

Using data from a study by the National Institute on Aging, Professor DeLeire compared the happiness derived from different levels of spending to the happiness people get from being married. (Studies have shown that marriage increases happiness.)

“A $20,000 increase in spending on leisure was roughly equivalent to the happiness boost one gets from marriage,” he said, adding that spending on leisure activities appeared to make people less lonely and increased their interactions with others.

According to retailers and analysts, consumers have gravitated more toward experiences than possessions over the last couple of years, opting to use their extra cash for nights at home with family, watching movies and playing games — or for “staycations” in the backyard. Many retailing professionals think this is not a fad, but rather “the new normal.”

“I think many of these changes are permanent changes,” says Jennifer Black, president of the retailing research company Jennifer Black & Associates and a member of the Governor’s Council of Economic Advisors in Oregon. “I think people are realizing they don’t need what they had. They’re more interested in creating memories.”

She largely attributes this to baby boomers’ continuing concerns about the job market and their ability to send their children to college. While they will still spend, they will spend less, she said, having reset their priorities.

While it is unlikely that most consumers will downsize as much as Ms. Strobel did, many have been, well, happily surprised by the pleasures of living a little more simply. The Boston Consulting Group said in a June report that recession anxiety had prompted a “back-to-basics movement,” with things like home and family increasing in importance over the last two years, while things like luxury and status have declined.

“There’s been an emotional rebirth connected to acquiring things that’s really come out of this recession,” says Wendy Liebmann, chief executive of WSL Strategic Retail, a marketing consulting firm that works with manufacturers and retailers. “We hear people talking about the desire not to lose that — that connection, the moment, the family, the experience.”

Current research suggests that, unlike consumption of material goods, spending on leisure and services typically strengthens social bonds, which in turn helps amplify happiness. (Academics are already in broad agreement that there is a strong correlation between the quality of people’s relationships and their happiness; hence, anything that promotes stronger social bonds has a good chance of making us feel all warm and fuzzy.)

And the creation of complex, sophisticated relationships is a rare thing in the world. As Professor Dunn and her colleagues Daniel T. Gilbert and Timothy D. Wilson point out in their forthcoming paper, only termites, naked mole rats and certain insects like ants and bees construct social networks as complex as those of human beings. In that elite little club, humans are the only ones who shop.

AT the height of the recession in 2008, Wal-Mart Stores realized that consumers were “cocooning” — vacationing in their yards, eating more dinners at home, organizing family game nights. So it responded by grouping items in its stores that would turn any den into an at-home movie theater or transform a backyard into a slice of the Catskills. Wal-Mart wasn’t just selling barbecues and board games. It was selling experiences.

“We spend a lot of time listening to our customers,” says Amy Lester, a spokeswoman for Wal-Mart, “and know that they have a set amount to spend and need to juggle to meet that amount.”

One reason that paying for experiences gives us longer-lasting happiness is that we can reminisce about them, researchers say. That’s true for even the most middling of experiences. That trip to Rome during which you waited in endless lines, broke your camera and argued with your spouse will typically be airbrushed with “rosy recollection,” says Sonja Lyubomirsky, a psychology professor at the University of California, Riverside.

Professor Lyubomirsky has a grant from the National Institute of Mental Health to conduct research on the possibility of permanently increasing happiness. “Trips aren’t all perfect,” she notes, “but we remember them as perfect.”

Another reason that scholars contend that experiences provide a bigger pop than things is that they can’t be absorbed in one gulp — it takes more time to adapt to them and engage with them than it does to put on a new leather jacket or turn on that shiny flat-screen TV.

“We buy a new house, we get accustomed to it,” says Professor Lyubomirsky, who studies what psychologists call “hedonic adaptation,” a phenomenon in which people quickly become used to changes, great or terrible, in order to maintain a stable level of happiness.

Over time, that means the buzz from a new purchase is pushed toward the emotional norm.

“We stop getting pleasure from it,” she says.

And then, of course, we buy new things.

When Ed Diener, a psychology professor at the University of Illinois and a former president of the International Positive Psychology Association — which promotes the study of what lets people lead fulfilling lives — was house-hunting with his wife, they saw several homes with features they liked.

But unlike couples who choose a house because of its open floor plan, fancy kitchens, great light, or spacious bedrooms, Professor Diener arrived at his decision after considering hedonic-adaptation research.

“One home was close to hiking trails, making going hiking very easy,” he said in an e-mail. “Thinking about the research, I argued that the hiking trails could be a factor contributing to our happiness, and we should worry less about things like how pretty the kitchen floor is or whether the sinks are fancy. We bought the home near the hiking trail and it has been great, and we haven’t tired of this feature because we take a walk four or five days a week.”

Scholars have discovered that one way consumers combat hedonic adaptation is to buy many small pleasures instead of one big one. Instead of a new Jaguar, Professor Lyubomirsky advises, buy a massage once a week, have lots of fresh flowers delivered and make phone calls to friends in Europe. Instead of a two-week long vacation, take a few three-day weekends.

“We do adapt to the little things,” she says, “but because there’s so many, it will take longer.”

BEFORE credit cards and cellphones enabled consumers to have almost anything they wanted at any time, the experience of shopping was richer, says Ms. Liebmann of WSL Strategic Retail. “You saved for it, you anticipated it,” she says.

In other words, waiting for something and working hard to get it made it feel more valuable and more stimulating.

In fact, scholars have found that anticipation increases happiness. Considering buying an iPad? You might want to think about it as long as possible before taking one home. Likewise about a Caribbean escape: you’ll get more pleasure if you book a flight in advance than if you book it at the last minute.

Once upon a time, with roots that go back to medieval marketplaces featuring stalls that functioned as stores, shopping offered a way to connect socially, as Ms. Liebmann and others have pointed out. But over the last decade, retailing came to be about one thing: unbridled acquisition, epitomized by big-box stores where the mantra was “stack ’em high and let ’em fly” and online transactions that required no social interaction at all — you didn’t even have to leave your home.

The recession, however, may force retailers to become reacquainted with shopping’s historical roots.

“I think there’s a real opportunity in retail to be able to romance the experience again,” says Ms. Liebmann. “Retailers are going to have to work very hard to create that emotional feeling again. And it can’t just be ‘Here’s another thing to buy.’ It has to have a real sense of experience to it.”

Industry professionals say they have difficulty identifying any retailer that is managing to do this well today, with one notable exception: Apple, which offers an interactive retail experience, including classes.

Marie Driscoll, head of the retailing group at Standard & Poor’s, says chains have to adapt to new consumer preferences by offering better service, special events and access to designers. Analysts at the Boston Consulting Group advise that companies offer more affordable indulgences, like video games that provide an at-home workout for far less than the cost of a gym membership.

Mr. Cohen of the NPD Group says some companies are doing this. Best Buy is promoting its Geek Squad, promising shoppers before they buy that complicated electronic thingamajig that its employees will hold their hands through the installation process and beyond.

“Nowadays with the economic climate, customers definitely are going for a quality experience,” says Nick DeVita, a home entertainment adviser with the Geek Squad. “If they’re going to spend their money, they want to make sure it’s for the right thing, the right service.”

With competition for consumer dollars fiercer than it’s been in decades, retailers have had to make the shopping experience more compelling. Mr. Cohen says automakers are offering 30-day test drives, while some clothing stores are promising free personal shoppers. Malls are providing day care while parents shop. Even on the Web, retailers are connecting on customers on Facebook, Twitter and Foursquare, hoping to win their loyalty by offering discounts and invitations to special events.

FOR the last four years, Roko Belic, a Los Angeles filmmaker, has been traveling the world making a documentary called “Happy.” Since beginning work on the film, he has moved to a beach in Malibu from his house in the San Francisco suburbs.

San Francisco was nice, but he couldn’t surf there.

“I moved to a trailer park,” says Mr. Belic, “which is the first real community that I’ve lived in in my life.” Now he surfs three or four times a week. “It definitely has made me happier,” he says. “The things we are trained to think make us happy, like having a new car every couple of years and buying the latest fashions, don’t make us happy.”

Mr. Belic says his documentary shows that “the one single trait that’s common among every single person who is happy is strong relationships.”

Buying luxury goods, conversely, tends to be an endless cycle of one-upmanship, in which the neighbors have a fancy new car and — bingo! — now you want one, too, scholars say. A study published in June in Psychological Science by Ms. Dunn and others found that wealth interfered with people’s ability to savor positive emotions and experiences, because having an embarrassment of riches reduced the ability to reap enjoyment from life’s smaller everyday pleasures, like eating a chocolate bar.

Alternatively, spending money on an event, like camping or a wine tasting with friends, leaves people less likely to compare their experiences with those of others — and, therefore, happier.

Of course, some fashion lovers beg to differ. For many people, clothes will never be more than utilitarian. But for a certain segment of the population, clothes are an art form, a means of self-expression, a way for families to pass down memories through generations. For them, studies concluding that people eventually stop deriving pleasure from material things don’t ring true.

“No way,” says Hayley Corwick, who writes the popular fashion blog Madison Avenue Spy. “I could pull out things from my closet that I bought when I was 17 that I still love.”

She rejects the idea that happiness has to be an either-or proposition. Some days, you want a trip, she says; other days, you want a Tom Ford handbag.

MS. STROBEL — our heroine who moved into the 400-square foot apartment — is now an advocate of simple living, writing in her spare time about her own life choices at Rowdykittens.com.

“My lifestyle now would not be possible if I still had a huge two-bedroom apartment filled to the gills with stuff, two cars, and 30 grand in debt,” she says.

“Give away some of your stuff,” she advises. “See how it feels.”

quotable

2010-08-08T02:36:00.001-07:00

"I think, at a child's birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift should be curiosity." -Eleanor Roosevelt

head over heels

2010-07-20T02:37:00.000-07:00

Our son Sebastián was born at 3:42 a.m. on July 20, 2010.
We're both quite smitten with Seba.

teach your children well

2010-07-19T09:42:00.000-07:00

It might be the hormones, but I'm all sniffly after reading Aaryn's One Love post about this weekend's Pride parade. (Visit her blog to see all the awesome photos.)

We missed this year's parade due to the heat and the fact that I'm 40+ weeks pregnant. As we drove through Hillcrest, we talked about our plans to take our little one to future parades. Part of the conversation centered on the values we want our children to understand. And part of it was about the sheer joy of community.

I'm confident that our little one will grow up understanding that diversity is beautiful, that his gay aunts and uncles love their children in the same way we love him, and that it's better to do the right thing than the popular thing (because the majority is often wrong). More to the point, I hope he has the courage to be who he is, and to know that we will always love him. As usual, Aaryn summed it up much more eloquently:

I don’t know who Ruby will love when she grows up. And I don’t care. I just want her to love, to be loved and to be happy. I hope that’s what she is learning from me.

I can't imagine a better message or values to give to my child than this.

One Love
By Aaryn Belfer 18 July 2010

I never really understand why people are hesitant to take their kids to the Gay Pride Parade. Over the weekend, I had several different conversations about it—since I’d planned to take Ruby—and got several interesting reactions. One couple I met at breakfast this morning said that they’d always wanted to go, but motioned toward their six-year old and whispered that they’d heard it’s “basically a porn show.” Another friend dismissed it because all the “cocks” aren’t appropriate for her daughters.

Now, the porn thing is off by astronomical distances: This is a public event with participants from all across the city. The Mayor was in this past Saturday’s Pride parade, as was Republican Ron Roberts from the County Board of Supervisors, and believe me, there isn’t anything remotely titillating or even vaguely pornographic about either of these guys. Even the public defender’s office represented with a float bearing the slogan “Getting people off since 19[something or other]!”

However, while nobody was whipping out their cocks along University Avenue during this weekend’s party, I have to admit the my friend’s concern was wholly legitimate.

I stand corrected because I did indeed see Cox at the parade. As did my daughter and my bestie’s daughter and all the many children and grown-ups and families who sat on the curb in the heat, beneath a sky the color of swimming pools, sharing sun screen and snacks and spray bottles, celebrating our gay brothers and sisters.

Ruby was very excited about all the swag, the horses ridden by the Wells Fargo people (I suppose it could be argued that bankers are pornographic), and the stilt walker.

I was excited about my friend, Barbarella‘s piglet, Carnitos—who may have cured me of my bacon habit forever—and the Gay Men’s Chorus, since my friend’s Skip and Andy were marching.

I didn’t find Skip and Andy but they were out there and they were proud, I know.

Oh, and speaking of excitement, Ruby just about peed her pants at the sight of the man with the RAINBOW! HAIR!

Who’s not tickled by RAINBOW! HAIR!? I was tickled by the message on his shirt because the message is the reason I bring my daughter to the parade. Love, not hate, is what I wish to instill in her.

I guess this could be considered Jesus porn because I was practically orgasmic at the sight of these folks.

Standing there in the street watching groups of people march beneath such signs is encouraging. They make you believe in humanity and remind you that The Rock church doesn’t represent all Christians. Just too many of them.

Of course, I’d be lying if I represented the parade as all Hail Marys and Holy Water. There was a little bit of shaking, jangling flesh out there, too. And God Bless it!

So she has pasties on her nibbles. Still: Not porn. Just a little edgy. And, I’m guessing, much cooler than my flesh-toned padded bra that’s so old it has dimples. Anyway, have you been to the beach lately? Right. Moving along…

Every parade is better with queens:

In fact, pretty much every situation in life is improved by the presence of a drag queen.

However, the people you really want on your side when the chips are down (or up, no matter) is your family. Which is why PFLAG is the greatest part of the Parade every single year. PFLAG is, hands down, the very best group, float or no float.

I challenge anyone to remain stony when these people walk by. I wanted to run up and hug them. Instead I took their blurry picture with my phone.

I don’t know who Ruby will love when she grows up. And I don’t care. I just want her to love, to be loved and to be happy. I hope that’s what she is learning from me.

attention, baby: we have you surrounded

2010-07-18T21:56:00.000-07:00

I had three due dates. I say "had" because all have elapsed and I still haven't gone into active labor.

The first due date was July 10 (based on my last menstrual period).
The second was July 12 (measurement #1 on an early ultrasound).
The third was July 14 (measurement #2 on an ultrasound taken the same day). We embraced the third due date for a few reasons:

It was the latest of the three dates, and given that this is our first child (and that first babies are usually a few days late), this was the most "realistic" of the three dates.
It was Bastille Day -- a phenomenal due date for a francophile like me.
It was safely after the World Cup finals would be over -- a phenomenal date for a rabid soccer fan like Leo. (Remember, Uruguay qualified for the Cup for the first time in a long time. Although there were high hopes, at the beginning of the competition, Leo reminded me that it was statistically unlikely that Uruguay would make it to the end of the tournament, but did clarify that given the choice between watching Uruguay play in the final or watching me in the agony of labor, he knew where he'd rather be. Then Forlán and la Celeste did what the pundits considered impossible -- they kept advancing, until the heartbreaking deflected goal in the final seconds of the third place game on July 10.)

It's now well past all three dates. My contractions never got rhythmic or really strong (they have pretty much stopped at this point), my water hasn't broken, there has yet to be a bloody show because my cervix is still not fully effaced, and our little boy appears to be hunkering down and waiting for an eviction notice ... thus Leo's Facebook status this weekend:

Attention baby: we have you surrounded. Come out with your hands up. Don't try to be a hero.

After attempting to trigger labor in all of the non-medical ways possible, I've made my peace with the fact that I won't be meeting my passenger until at least Tuesday, when I'll be induced. I suppose it's just the first of many reminders that parenting means letting go of the illusion of control, timelines, and predictable outcomes. It also means being excited about the adventure, no matter how the process unfolds.

modern love: mom/ not mom/ aunt

2010-07-17T12:27:00.000-07:00

I have a few friends who are walking the path to parenthood via donors and surrogacy. I hope their outcomes are as wonderful as this one.

Mom/Not Mom/Aunt
By JERRY MAHONEY
July 16, 2010

AFTER five loving, fulfilling years with my boyfriend, Drew, I suddenly found myself online, looking to meet a woman.

I spent hours poring over profiles, bios and stats, looking at poorly lighted digital pictures and videos of awkward faces uttering tightly rehearsed self-promotional pitches. I narrowed the flash mob of candidates to six. Then I summoned Drew for his approval.

Together we had a decision to make. One of the strangers on this Web site could end up contributing half of our child’s DNA.

“Big nose, bad hair, gross skin, ugh — those eyebrows.” Drew sped down the list and blackballed them all.

I fought for a few: “But she has a 4.0 at veterinary school, and this one teaches autistic kids to tap dance!”

Drew was unmoved.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. As a writer, I’m drawn to characters with intriguing quirks and heart-tugging back stories. But for Drew, who spent 12 years overseeing reality programming for MTV, this was proving to be just another casting session, albeit for the significant supporting role of egg donor.

We’d been instructed by our surrogacy agency not to use the “m-word.” “This child will have two fathers,” the staff member scolded. “He or she will have an egg donor and a surrogate, but no mother!”

Whatever you call these young women, there’s no shortage of them. For all those who are desperate to stop gay couples from adopting, there are others who are eager to help us down a more complex path to parenthood.

And for the most part, they are merely girls — some as young as 19, still in their awkward phases. You click on a face and up pops a video in which an acne-cheeked college sophomore talks about her poli-sci major, her love of soccer and “One Tree Hill” and, eyes wide with optimism, about the corporation she’ll be running in five years. A few write in texting shorthand: “Would luv 2 help u.” Drew and I are nearly twice as old as some of them. If we’d been straight and careless, we might have had a daughter their age by now.

Drew and I found each other via similar means, an online dating site. We used the kind of systemized vetting that, these days, takes the place of destiny. Drew screened out guys who liked house music or who mixed up “your” and “you’re.” I vetoed anyone who in place of a head shot uploaded a crotch shot.

Choosing a biological relative for our unborn fetus wasn’t going to be as simple. There were so many more variables and bigger questions to ponder. Most candidates requested the standard $8,000 fee, but some negotiated their own rates. If she was blond, athletic and Harvard-educated, she thought she was worth 30 grand.

Everybody wants their children to have the best, but this process threatened to bankrupt us even without all the premium options.

Besides, who knew what that money would really buy? If we picked someone with an astronomical price tag, couldn’t we be saddling our child with the greed gene? And how would we explain it to him? “Your egg donor was top of the line, son. We got you, and she got a Porsche.” Or, “We wanted you to be taller, but anything over 5-foot-9 was out of our price range.”

For us, two men who struggle over which Netflix movie to watch, this decision could stretch on long after our biological clocks had run out.

That’s when Susie called.

“You know you can have my eggs if you want them, right?” she said.

It was that swift, that casual, as if we were talking about borrowing her hair dryer or Ani DiFranco CD’s, rather than a part of her womanhood. But with that simple statement, it got even more complicated. Susie was everything an egg donor should be: kind, beautiful, smart, a gifted artist and, at 28, practically at the peak of her fertility.

She was also Drew’s little sister.

Despite being nine years apart in age and on opposite sides of the country, Susie and Drew couldn’t be closer or more alike. They talk on the phone nearly every day, make the same facial expressions, laugh at the same dirty jokes, have the same mercurial temper. Drew was constantly trying to persuade Susie to move to Los Angeles, where we live. He offered to lease an apartment for her, find her a job, do whatever it took to have her close by. With Susie’s offer, I knew generosity was yet another trait they shared.

All along Drew and I had wondered whose sperm we would use. With Susie, the matter was settled: I would be the biological father. Yet for the first time, Drew and I were also able to imagine what it would be like to have a child who had genetic roots in both family trees.

What would she look like? How would he act? How would our respective features merge into one warbling little miracle? We’d grown up when coming out meant putting an end to dreams of fatherhood. Now we were giddy with the possibilities of reproduction that most straight couples take for granted.

But what exactly would Susie be sacrificing?

She was young and unattached. She wanted her own children but wasn’t ready. So was she prepared for someone else to have her child? And how would she explain this particular brand of baggage to a potential husband someday? Most of all, would she be satisfied always being Aunt Susie to this child and never, you know, the m-word?

Drew and I had doubts, but Susie considered it a done deal. This was her brother, and if he needed eggs, damn it, he was going to take hers. She was exactly as stubborn as Drew would’ve been if he were offering and she were the one in need.

She didn’t flinch when the doctor explained the pain and inconvenience she would endure before her eggs were extracted: months of genetic tests, weeks of self-administered hormone injections and the resultant mood swings. Most troubling of all, she’d need so much time off for trips to California that she could risk losing her job. To all of this, she shrugged and asked only one question: “When do we start?”

When the day of the extraction finally came, the hard part was supposed to be over. With the right dose of medication, most women Susie’s age produce dozens of healthy eggs. But for reasons the doctor couldn’t explain, Susie produced only five. Of those, two failed to fertilize.

The outlook was bad for us, devastating for Susie.

The physician spoke about her fertility the way Al Gore describes the polar ice caps: Time is running out, and it may already be too late. He warned that if our surrogate couldn’t become pregnant with Susie’s eggs, it was unlikely Susie ever would, either.

We all agreed the only option was to implant the three embryos and begin an excruciating wait. If this didn’t work, Drew and I would return to the Web sites full of strangers, if we even had the strength to try again. And we didn’t want to think about what that would mean for Susie.

TEN days later, we were visiting Drew’s family in upstate New York. It was two days before Christmas, and we all were trying our best to talk about anything but babies. My cellphone rang, and a hush fell over the room. The nurse on the other end didn’t stall.

“Jerry!” she squealed. “I have some exciting news.” A cascade of cheers drowned out the rest of the call, and Susie, Drew and I shared a tight hug that seemed to last for hours.

A few weeks later, we joined our surrogate for her first ultrasound, where an even bigger surprise awaited. From the grainy soup on the sonogram monitor, two peanut shapes emerged. Drew and I were going to be the fathers of twins.

Our son and daughter are now 10 months old, and when I look at them I see traces of each of us. My nose, Susie’s eyes, Drew’s chin. They’re just starting to invent a secret language to communicate with each other. If we hear one baby cry, it’s a safe bet that the other just stole her pacifier or hit him with a stuffed monkey. But then, when no one’s looking, sometimes they’ll reach out and hold each other’s hands.

Susie gets to witness it all, because her frequent phone calls with Drew have become video chats with our whole family. And as I watch Drew proudly showing off our children for her, I realize the gift Susie has given us is much more valuable than just a genetic link to our offspring. It’s a brother and sister — tiny, perfect and gradually building a special bond all their own.

Jerry Mahoney, a writer, lives in Los Angeles.

cribs vs. beds: parenthood's all-out war

2010-07-03T16:06:00.000-07:00

Over the years, I've learned that everyone has an opinion on everything ... myself included. If I'm passionate about something, I'm likely to speak up. And parenting is no exception.

Being 39 weeks pregnant, I'm very much on the receiving end of a lot of questions and advice -- about the birth (from "wait, you're using a midwife, but you're going to a hospital?" to "for the first one, there's no need for heroics ... get an epidural!" to "having a scheduled C-section was the best decision I ever made"), circumcision (from "why would you even consider something so barbaric and unnecessary?" to "you know, my nephew wasn't circumcised and now they have to put steroid cream on his penis every day because his foreskin isn't stretching properly as he grows and it's horribly painful for him"), and vaccines (from "you're not getting the MMR shot, are you?" to "please tell me you're not one of those crackpots who thinks vaccines cause autism!"). Depending on my relationship with the person making the comment, I either ask questions or change the topic immediately.

Leo and I haven't made up our minds on everything about parenting, but we do read a lot, listen a lot, and ask lots of questions. We've opted to take the same approach to parenting as we are with the birth -- focusing on being prepared (understanding all the options), confident (within reason), and flexible (who knows what will happen when it's actually 'go' time?) -- because that's the best way for us to deal with the unknown. In some ways, I think we're pretty much free agents on most things, taking a moderate approach when possible, and ordering 'a la carte,' rather than choosing everything on the pre-defined menus. This article neatly gets at the quandaries and passions of parenting, and left me laughing to boot...

Cribs vs. Beds: Parenthood's all-out war
When it comes to raising a kid, two gangs dominate, and they agree on only one thing: You're doing it wrong
By Peter Birkenhead
Friday, Jul 2, 2010 14:01 ET

A wise woman once said it takes a village to raise a child, and as a new father I have found this to be true.

But lately I have also found the village to be dominated by two gangs of extremely, frighteningly organized parents, whom my wife and I spend a lot of time trying to avoid. Members of these gangs are lurking in every Pain Quotidian and farmers' market in Los Angeles, fighting tooth-and-nail turf wars over the best way for kids to be born, eat, learn and especially sleep, which is how the gangs came by their now notorious names in our house: the Cribs and the Beds.

The Cribs, as you probably know, believe in "crying it out," "walking it off," and midcentury modern furniture. The Beds, of course, believe in co-sleeping, home birthing and placenta soup. Both groups believe that I, as a new parent, am a dangerous idiot, and they are not at all shy about letting me know that.

So I'm writing this to take a stand, to ask for your help in taking our village back, and in not getting the stink-eye at parties.

After only eight months of fatherhood I've learned a lot about the gangs. I've learned to recognize the Cribs' distinctive attire (if I see a pair of orange Crocs coming my way, I just cross the street). I've come to know the Beds' brutal hazing rituals (which they refer to as "Bikram yoga"). I've learned each gang's colorful parenting patois.

But the main thing that distinguishes the gangs from each other is their philosophies. Fundamentally, the Cribs and Beds disagree about how kids should sleep. The first member of the Cribs I ever met explained to me, over a steamy quadruple espresso, that they believe a child will grow up to be calm, secure and independent as long as — over the sound of his own terrified howling and the screech of a white-noise machine turned up to 11 — he can't hear his parents grinding their teeth with worry over following the same sleep-training regimen all their friends do.

The Beds, on the other hand, believe that independence is something a family does, together, in bed. According to a conversation I overheard at this year's Topanga Canyon Soy Cheese and Hemp Festival, the Beds feel that nothing can match the sense of security a child feels when she cuddles with her mom, dad, sister, brother, stepsister and ferret, safe in the knowledge that they'll all be with her through the night. Every minute. Of every night. While her brother farts on her knee. Family Bed parents feel that co-sleeping will engender a sense for the child, later in life, that she can face anything, as long as a much older man with gray back hair and bad breath holds her tight while she does.

The gangs speak their own languages when it comes to things like sleep training, and it's important to learn to decipher them. For instance, our friend Marsha recently asked me whether our daughter was "sleeping through the night yet," which in gang-speak means, "How are things on the Island of Misfit Parents?" I tried but failed to change the subject, and when I described the ambivalent, improvised approach Jenny and I take, I was met with the inevitable phrase, "Whatever works for you!" which means, "Have fun visiting her in juvie!"

The Cribs and Beds are mostly in agreement, however, about the notorious peanut dilemma. My wife and I love peanut butter. The first thing I did when she told me it was time to go to the hospital to have the baby was make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for her to have later. I put them in our special "Go Bag" with the earplugs, lip balm, Rebozo support slings and thought, "Did I just release evil peanut dust into the air? Is this the last PB&J we'll eat for 18 years?" Many children, of course, have an allergy to peanuts, which doctors now believe is probably caused by an early exposure to peanut butter, and which can be prevented … by an early exposure to peanut butter. I understand this might be confusing, but don't worry — it's not your fault — it's peanut butter's fault for being mind-alteringly scrumptious. Both the Cribs and the Beds believe in the current scientific consensus that we must stay vigilant against peanut butter, by feeding it to our children early, but never. It's a fairly safe subject to bring up, and good for fooling the gang-bangers into thinking you might be one of them.

And some Cribs and Beds are finding common ground on other issues. For instance, when Jenny was pregnant, and before we knew the sex of the baby, I, as a Jewish soon-to-be father, started to feel the pull of a 2,000-year tradition and considered circumcising my possible son. I mentioned this fact at a rumble ("baby shower"), where I learned that I was just as likely to be called a barbarian by a mom with seven holes punched in her ear and a line of credit at the pediatric homeopath's as I was by the father of a 6-year-old figure skater. I also learned that the idea of not circumcising my son could get me accused of breaking a sacred covenant … by a twice-divorced Hollywood agent. I have to admit that, at that moment, it felt very tempting to join one of the gangs. To at least know where I stood, even if I had no idea what I thought. Maybe effective child rearing was really all about navigating life's daily obstacles with the comforting, quiet sense of smugness that only parent-gang membership could provide. But I fought that impulse. I reminded myself that I have my own brand of arrogance, thank you very much. If there's one thing a lifelong, fence-sitting commitment-phobe is good at, it's not choosing sides.

But sometimes conflict is unavoidable, and it's not pretty. The home-birthing wars could flare up again any minute now, and this time Ricki "On the Business of Being Born" Lake could make a full-fledged comeback. So, if you're not in a gang, it's very important to keep your wits about you. Soon after our daughter was born, we met a person who taught us the word "lactivist" is a real thing that exists. She said it in public, and she wasn't laughing, so I guess she was more likely to be a member of the Beds than the Cribs. But she lacked any of the usual identifying accessories, such as the Bolivian slings that many members of the Beds use to carry their babies, or the actual Bolivians that the Cribs prefer, so I couldn't be sure. Jenny had had a tough time getting our daughter to nurse properly for the first few weeks after she was born. After a very frustrating talk with the lactivist, Jenny asked her if it would ruin everything if she supplemented the baby's feeding with a bottle once in a while, and through an ice-cold smile, without hesitation, the lactivist said, "It would." As far as I'm concerned, the tears that popped out of Jenny's eyes at that moment were a consequence of our first brush with gang violence.

Passions run very high on these subjects. The Beds feel that in defending something like home birth, they're defending something primal and sacred, that they're on the side of Mother Nature herself. The Cribs feel they're on the side of modernity, of rational thinking, science and safety. When I hear them talk about it, I actually think both sides make a good case. But then, when I think about it a little more, I wonder about their sanity. Did I mention that I'm an ambivalent type? I wonder if maybe investing so much emotion in these issues isn't misplacing it a little. Couldn't they use all that righteous indignation for fixing the education system?

But see now, as I write that, I wonder why I'm being so hard on the gangs. Having a kid was an overwhelming experience. All of a sudden I was confronted with this fragile, chaotic, mortal life that I was responsible for. And then there was the baby! Seeing my own humanity clearly was one thing, but seeing my daughter's was all things, all at once, forever. Living, breathing, surprising chaos right there in my mortal hands. It was enough to make me fear that chaos a little bit. To want to hang on, maybe a bit too tight.

When Jenny and I were in the hospital, we never ate one of those PB&J sandwiches. Her contractions never once settled in to the regular pattern we were told would mark the onset of labor. We never used anything in the "Go Bag," or any of the special labor positions we'd learned and practiced in birthing class. But I'm glad we learned them. I'm glad we planned and made promises and came up with lots of rules for ourselves, because it helped focus our minds. It eased our worries, made us feel like this was doable. Made us feel like a family. Real gang members say that's how they think of their gangs — as surrogate families. Not many of us live in the same house with our uncles or grandmothers anymore. These days our friends are our families. So maybe what the home birthers and crib lovers are defending isn't merely about practices but about love and companionship. How these things help us find the sweet spot between chaos and order. Maybe people are just trying to find their footing on ever-shifting sands. Maybe we should all cut each a little slack.

Except for the people wearing orange Crocs, of course. You guys need to buy some real shoes.

Peter Birkenhead is the author of the memoir "Gonville."

separation

2010-07-01T17:29:00.000-07:00

"separation"
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color. - W. S. Merwin, William Stanley Merwin (New York City, September 30, 1927) is the seventeenth United States Poet Laureate and the winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry (in both 1971 and 2009).

five-spice spareribs with hoisin-honey glaze

2010-06-28T22:51:00.000-07:00

These phenomenally tasty ribs are pretty easy to make. Serve with rice salad with sugar snap peas and mint.

Ingredients:
6 lbs pork spareribs (2 racks)
1 cup reduced sodium soy sauce
1/2 cup hoisin sauce
1/2 cup honey
3 tablespoons dry sherry
2 tablespoons finely grated peeled fresh ginger
4 garlic cloves, peeled, crushed
1/2 teaspoon Chinese five spice powder

Preparation:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Season ribs generously with salt and pepper, roast on rimmed baking sheet until tender, about 1-hour.
Meanwhile, combine and simmer the next 7 ingredients in a small saucepan until reduced to 2 cups, about 20 minutes.
Brush sauce onto ribs and roast until well glazed, about 20 minutes.
Cut into individual ribs and serve with remaining sauce. Sprinkle with chopped green onions.
Adapted from Bon Appétit, June 2005

rice salad with sugar snap peas, mint, and lime

2010-06-28T21:41:00.000-07:00

Ingredients:
1 1/2 cups rice
2 cups water
2 cups sugar snap peas
1/2 cup chopped fresh mint leaves
1/2 cup chopped green onions
3 TBSP olive oil
2 TBSP fresh lime juice
1 TBSP pureed fresh ginger
1 tsp sugar
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:
Boil water and 1 tsp salt. Stir in rice, reduce heat to low, cover, and cook for 15 minutes. Let stand 5 minutes, fluff with fork and cool completely in a large bowl.
Steam peas for 4 minutes. Add to cooled rice.
Mix remaining ingredients and pour dressing over peas and rice.
Yield: 6 servings

Adapted from Bon Appétit, June 2005

lemon bars

2010-06-25T22:10:00.000-07:00

I made these lemon bars last week and they were a hit. I modified the recipe, using half all-purpose flour and half cake flour. I made the thinner lemon layer and think that I will go for the thick one next time around.

Lemon Bars
Adapted from The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook

These are bold and tart lemon bars, ones I feel are best in smaller doses than Ina Garten suggests. I’ve made a few changes to the recipe–increased the salt in the crust, reduced the sugar in the lemon filling and an encouragement to grease your pan, as mine were all but cemented into their non-stick pan. For those of you who like the 1:1 crust to lemon layer ratio, use the second option.

For the crust:
1/2 pound unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 cups flour
1/8 teaspoon kosher salt

For the full-size lemon layer:
6 extra-large eggs at room temperature
2 1/2 cups granulated sugar
2 tablespoons grated lemon zest (4 to 6 lemons)
1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 cup flour

Confectioners’ sugar, for dusting

[Or] for a thinner lemon layer:

4 extra-large eggs at room temperature
1 2/3 cups granulated sugar
1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon grated lemon zest (3 to 4 lemons)
2/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
2/3 cup flour

Confectioners’ sugar, for dusting

Preheat the oven to 350°F and grease a 9 by 13 by 2-inch baking sheet.

For the crust, cream the butter and sugar until light in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Combine the flour and salt and, with the mixer on low, add to the butter until just mixed. Dump the dough onto a well-floured board and gather into a ball. Flatten the dough with floured hands and press it into the greased baking sheet, building up a 1/2-inch edge on all sides. Chill.

Bake the crust for 15 to 20 minutes, until very lightly browned. Let cool on a wire rack. Leave the oven on.

For the lemon layer, whisk together the eggs, sugar, lemon zest, lemon juice, and flour. Pour over the crust and bake for 30 to 35 minutes (less if you are using the thinner topping), or about five minutes beyond the point where the filling is set. Let cool to room temperature.

Cut into triangles and dust with confectioners’ sugar.
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen

i don't: the case against marriage

2010-06-25T09:15:00.000-07:00

Having been down the aisle once (and divorced a few years later), I don't feel the emotional need to go there again. To be sure, my relationship with Leo is completely different than my relationship with my ex-husband. Part of it is because I am different, and part of it is because ours is an infinitely more compatible and egalitarian partnership than any other I've experienced.

The financial element also screams for us to remain unmarried. Until I know the outcome of my short sale (and have a few years to put it behind me), it is much better to not share a credit score or to have our finances legally enmeshed.

I'm not completely ruling marriage out (someday). But I don't see us getting married any time soon. And that's not about fear of commitment. (Deliberately planning our pregnancies and raising a child together are not for the commitment-phobic.) Anyhow, this article neatly summarizes many of the reasons why we've chosen not to marry at this point.

'I Don't': The case against marriage.
by Jessica Bennett and Jesse Ellison
June 11, 2010
Every year around this time, the envelopes begin to arrive. Embossed curlicues on thick-stock, cream-colored paper ask for “the pleasure of our company” at “the union of,” “the celebration of,” or “the wedding of.” With every spring, our sighs get a little deeper as we anticipate another summer of rote ceremony, cocktail hour, and, finally, awkward dancing. Sure, some weddings are fun, but too often they’re a formulaic, overpriced, fraught rite of passage, marking entry into an institution that sociologists describe as “broken.”

Once upon a time, marriage made sense. It was how women ensured their financial security, got the fathers of their children to stick around, and gained access to a host of legal rights. But 40 years after the feminist movement established our rights in the workplace, a generation after the divorce rate peaked, and a decade after Sex and the City made singledom chic, marriage is—from a legal and practical standpoint, anyway—no longer necessary. The two of us are educated, young, urban professionals, committed to our careers, friendships, and, yes, our relationships. But we know that legally tying down those unions won’t make or break them. Women now constitute a majority of the workforce; we’re more educated, less religious, and living longer, with vacuum cleaners and washing machines to make domestic life easier. We’re also the breadwinners (or co-breadwinners) in two thirds of American families. In 2010, we know most spousal rights can be easily established outside of the law, and that Americans are cohabiting, happily, in record numbers. We have our own health care and 401(k)s and no longer need a marriage license to visit our partners in the hospital. For many of us, marriage doesn’t even mean a tax break.

The numbers are familiar but staggering: Americans have the highest divorce rate in the Western world; as many as 60 percent of men and half of women will have sex with somebody other than their spouse during their marriage. Maybe it’s a testament to American crass consumerism, but despite those odds, we still manage to idealize the ceremony itself, to the tune of $72 billion a year. Weddings are the subject of at least a dozen reality shows; a Google search for “bridezilla” turns up half a million hits; and there are four different bridal Barbies. Fifty years ago we had Grace Kelly, resplendent and demure in her high-necked lace gown. Today it’s Britney Spears in a custom-embroidered Juicy Couture tracksuit (and separated within a year, to nobody’s surprise). So when conservatives argue that same-sex couples are going to “destroy” the “sanctity” of marriage, we wonder, wait, didn’t we already do that? “Social science tells us fundamentally that this system is not working,” says Curtis Bergstrand, a sociologist at Bellarmine University in Louisville, Ky., who has written on marriage. Having donned our share of bridesmaid’s dresses, and toasted dozens of nuptials, we’ll take reason over romance. Happily ever after doesn’t have to include “I do.”

Before we get into specifics, a caveat: check with us again in five years. We’re in our late 20s and early 30s, right around the time when biological clocks start ticking and whispers of “Why don’t you just settle down?” get louder. (We’re looking at you, Lori Gottlieb.) So just as NEWSWEEK will never live down its (false) prediction that 40-year-old single women were more likely to be “killed by a terrorist” than to marry, we permit you, friends and readers, to mock us at our own weddings (should they happen). Current data may not yet identify our feelings as a so-called trend, but they certainly show we’re on to something: the percentage of married Americans has dropped each decade since the 1950s, and the number of unmarried-but-cohabiting partners has risen 1,000 percent over the last 40 years. At 28 for men and 26 for women, the median age at which Americans are marrying is at its highest point ever—and even higher among our cohort of urban and educated. Turns out that waiting is a good idea: for every year we put off marriage, our chances of divorce go down.

Which brings us to this question: if you’re going to wait, why do it at all? Like a fifth of young Americans, we identify as secular. We know that having children out of wedlock lost its stigma a long time ago: in 2008, 41 percent of births were to unmarried mothers, more than ever before, according to a Pew study. (Older, educated mothers make up the fastest-growing percentage of those births.) And the idea that we’d “save ourselves” for marriage? Please. As one 28-year-old man told the author of a new book on marriage: “If I had to be married to have sex, I would probably be married, as would every guy I know.” Even the legal argument for tying the knot is easily debunked. Thanks largely to the efforts of same-sex-marriage advocates, heterosexual couples have more unmarried rights to partnership now than ever. And for the rights we don’t have—well, “if you have enough money,” says Jennifer Pizer, a senior attorney at the Lambda Legal Defense and Education Fund, “you can pay lawyers to litigate just about anything.” To put the icing on the cake, it often pays to stay single: federal law favors unmarried taxpayers in almost every case—only those whose incomes are wildly unequal get a real tax break—and under President Obama’s new health plan, low-earning single people get better subsidies to buy insurance. As Diana Furchtgott-Roth, writing for the Hudson Institute, put it, “Goodbye, marriage.” As of 2013, “unwed Americans may find it even more advantageous—financially, anyway—to stay single.”
To tell you what you already know, the American family is in the throes of change. Gone are the days of the nuclear nest; in its wake is a motley mix of single parents, same-sex couples, and, yes, unmarried monogamists. Anthropologist Helen Fisher, who studies the nature of love, might say that’s a symptom of our biology: she believes humans aren’t meant to be together forever, but in short-term, monogamous relationships of three or four years. For us, it’s not that we reject monogamy altogether—indeed, one of us is going on six years with a partner—but that the idea of marriage has become so tainted, and simultaneously so idealized, that we’re hesitant to engage in it. Boomers may have been the first children of divorce, but ours is a generation for whom multiple households were the norm. We grew up shepherded between bedrooms, minivans, and dinner tables, with stepparents, half-siblings, and highly complicated holiday schedules. You can imagine, then—amid incessant high-profile adultery scandals—that we’d be somewhat cynical about the institution. (Till death do us part, really?) “The question,” says Andrew Cherlin, the author of The Marriage-Go-Round, “is not why fewer people are getting married, but why are so many still getting married?”
The feminist argument against marriage has long been that it forces women to conform—as Gloria Steinem once put it, marriage is an arrangement “for one and a half people.” No woman we know would date a man who’d force her into the kitchen—and even Steinem eventually got hitched—but we’d be fools to think we’ve completely shed the roles associated with “husband” and “wife.” Men’s contributions to housework and child rearing may have doubled since the 1960s, yet even among dual-earning couples, women still do about two thirds of the housework. (One study even claims that the simple act of getting married creates seven hours more housework for women each week.) In the workplace, meanwhile, women who use their partner’s name are regarded as less intelligent, less competent, less ambitious, and thus less likely to be hired. We may date the most modern men in the world, but we’ve heard enough complaints to worry: if we tie the knot, does life suddenly become a maze of TV dinners, shoes up on the coffee table, and dirty dishes? “The bottom line is that men, not women, are much happier when they’re married,” says Philip Cohen, a sociologist at the University of North Carolina who studies marriage and family.
Since the early 1900s, the driving force behind marriage, along with procreation, was that women couldn’t land well-paying jobs: we relied on our husbands to survive. As recently as 1967, two thirds of female college students (versus 5 percent of men) said they would marry somebody they didn’t love if he met their other criteria—primarily, the ability to support them financially. But today, we no longer need to “marry up”: women are more educated (we make up nearly 60 percent of college graduates) and better compensated (urban women in their 20s actually outearn their male peers). We are also the so-called entitled generation, brought up with lofty expectations of an egalitarian adulthood; told by helicopter parents and the media, from the moment we exited the womb, that we could be “whatever we wanted”—with infinite opportunities to accomplish those dreams. So you can imagine how, 25 years down the line, committing to another person—for life—would be nerve-racking. (How do you know you’ve found “the one” if you haven’t vetted all the options?) “We’ve entered the age of last-minute tickets to Moscow, test-tube children, cross-continental cubicles and encouraged paternity leaves,” write the authors of The Choice Effect, about love in an age of too many options. The result, they say, is “a generation that loves choice and hates choosing.”

Which means that when we do tie the knot, we do it for love. Young people today don’t want their parents’ marriage, says Tara Parker-Pope, the author of For Better—they want all-encompassing, head-over-heels fulfillment: a best friend, a business partner, somebody to share sex, love, and chores. In other words, a “soulmate”—which is what 94 percent of singles in their 20s describe what they look for in a partner. Yet the idea of a “soulmate” is still a pretty new concept in our romantic history—and one that’s hard to maintain. Measurements of brain activity have shown that 20 years into marriage, 90 percent of couples have lost the passion they originally felt. And while couples who marry for love are less “in love” with each passing year, one study found that those in arranged marriages grow steadily more in love as the years progress—because their expectations, say researchers, are a whole lot lower.

So while little girls may still dream of Prince Charming, they’ll be more likely to keep him if they don’t expect too much. Research shows that the more education and financial independence a woman has—in other words, the more success she has outside the home—the more likely she is to stay married. (In states where fewer wives have paid jobs, for example, divorce rates tend to be higher.) But when these egalitarian, independent couples decide not to marry at all, they lose none of that stability. Just take a look at couples in Europe: they’re happier, less religious, and more likely to believe that marriage is an outdated institution, and their divorce rate is a fraction of our own. Not being married may make it slightly easier to walk away—at least legally—but if you’ve gone to the lengths to establish a life together, is it really all that different? Studies show that never-married couples with the intention of forever are just as likely to stay together as married ones. And for all the talk of marriage being good for families, a study of the Scandinavian countries—where a majority of children are born out of wedlock—found that kids actually spend more time with their parents than American children do. Work and living habits surely factor into that reality, but the point is this: what’s good for children is stability. The decline of marriage “doesn’t have to spell catastrophe,” says Stephanie Coontz, the author of Marriage, a History. “We can make marriages better and make nonmarriages work as well.”

It may counter what we grew up thinking, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. With our life expectancy in the high 70s, the idea that we’re meant to be together forever is less realistic. As Hannah Seligson, the author of A Little Bit Married, puts it, there’s a "new weight to the words ‘I do.’ " Healthy partnerships are possible, for sure—but the permanence of marriage seems naive, almost arrogant. "Committing to one person forever is a long time," says Helen Fisher. “I wonder how many people really think about that.” If you’re anything like us, you’ll have plenty of time to do just that—while you’re sitting in the pews, at other people’s weddings.

Jessica Bennett and Jesse Ellison blog frequently on women's issues at The Equality Myth. You can find Bennett on the Web or on Twitter; Ellison can be reached via her Tumblr.

i came to sell you this chick magnet of a couch

2010-06-20T20:18:00.000-07:00

Today, Leo and I decided to tackle a biggie on the "to-do-before-the-baby-arrives" list: finding a bigger couch for our new house. Naturally, we checked out Craigslist, Yelp, and a few other online resources to adjust our price expectations, see what was out there, and come to a decision.

Although we didn't purchase this gentleman's "seven foot black leather scream of manliness," we did find just what we wanted. The nice part is that we bought it two blocks away, at a mom and pop mattress/ furniture store where I bought a bed frame 10+ yeas ago. Having said that, I still want to share what has to be one of the funniest ads for used furniture I've ever encountered. Enjoy.

I came to sell you this chick magnet of a couch. - $150 (Mira Mesa 92126)
Date: 2010-06-20, 1:34PM PDT
Reply to: sale-nugvs-1801870182@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]

This thing is a seven foot black leather scream of manliness. That's right bitches.

The only way it could be any more freakin' hardcore is if it had Harley Davidson incised in the leather.
A rare black narwhal gave it's life to provide the perfect baby soft buttery leather it wraps you in.

This big bastard shakes off beer spills and ugly chicks like the smartest horse any cowboy ever rode.
And after a long night of doing blow off the butts of the hookers lounging across its arms, it's a comfy dream to pass out on.
Sleep in it's leathery goodness, and you will wake up with a game controller in one hand, and a bacon sandwich in the other.

Perfect for guests. Just pull out the bed for them, and they will never want to sleep on it again. If Torquemada designed a bed this would be it.
It's like you ripped its skeleton out, then tried to organize the bones into something comfortable to sleep on. Maybe with six inches of air mattress.
So if you actually want your guest to stay another night, leave this thing folded up into it's optimum comfy configuration.

Don't even think about getting this couch if you're married. Your wife will take one look at it and know it's hottie attraction powers instantly.
And it will end up sitting in the garage, hidden from her insane jealousy until you move, and she insists you sell it.

Really. I know. Wayne -

Black. Leather. Sleeper. Sofa. Couch. Conversion.
You came here because you were looking for one or more of the above words.

* Location: Mira Mesa 92126
* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

image 1801870182-0 image 1801870182-1

PostingID: 1801870182

bison and red wine shepherd's pie

2010-06-06T20:17:00.000-07:00

We've made this a few times and love the way the smoky bacon, cheesy potatoes, hearty bison, and tasty vegetables come together. Since we're prepping for the birth of our little boy, we opted to make this as one of the items to put in our deep freezer this weekend. It will keep well and is sure to satisfy when autumn hits and neither of us has the time or energy to cook.

Ingredients

Filling:
1/3 cup all purpose flour
1 tablespoon Hungarian sweet paprika
1 1/2 teaspoons coarse kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 1/2 lbs pounds ground bison
1/3 lb rindless slab bacon, cut crosswise into 1/2-inch-thick slices
2 tablespoons (or more) olive oil (we omit this and just cook the bison in the bacon grease)
1 cup chopped onion
1/2 cup peeled chopped carrot
1/2 cup chopped celery
1/2 cup peas
1/2 cup corn
3 garlic cloves, chopped
2 cups dry red wine (such as Syrah)
1 cup low-salt chicken broth
1 cup canned crushed tomatoes
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme
1 teaspoon chopped fresh sage

Mashed-potato crust:
5 lbs russet potatoes, peeled, quartered
3/4 cup whole milk
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 teaspoon coarse kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 large egg, beaten to blend

Garnish:
1 large egg
1 tablespoon water
1 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese (we've also used sharp cheddar and English cheddar with caramelized onions)

Preparation
For filling:
Whisk first 4 ingredients in large bowl. Add bison; toss. Heat large pot over medium heat. Add bacon; cook until crisp. Transfer to paper towels. Add 2 tablespoons oil to (or simply use bacon drippings already in) pot; increase heat to medium-high. Working in batches, cook bison until browned. Return to same bowl. Add chopped onion, carrot, celery, and garlic to pot; cover and cook until vegetables soften, stirring occasionally, about 5 minutes. Add wine; bring to boil, scraping up any browned bits. Add broth, tomatoes, bay leaves, thyme, sage, reserved bacon, and bison. Reduce heat to low. Cover; simmer until bison is tender, stirring occasionally, about 15 minutes. Add peas and corn, remove from heat. Season with salt and pepper, if needed.

For mashed-potato crust:
Cook potatoes in large pot of boiling lightly salted water until tender, 18 to 20 minutes. Drain. Return potatoes to pot; add milk and butter, 1 teaspoon coarse salt, and 1/2 teaspoon pepper and mash until smooth and slightly cooled, about 2 minutes. Whisk in egg.

Preheat oven to 400°F. Spoon bison filling into two 3-quart (13x9x2-inch) baking dishes. Spoon mashed potatoes over; smooth top to cover completely.

For garnish:
Beat egg and 1 tablespoon water to blend. Brush over potatoes, then sprinkle cheese all over.

Bake pie until top is browned and filling is heated through, 30 to 40 minutes (50 to 60 minutes if chilled). Let rest 10 minutes.

DO AHEAD: Can be made 1 day ahead. Cover and chill. Alternatively, make the filling ahead of time and freeze it. Then make the potatoes the day of, assemble, and bake.

Adapted from Bison and Red Wine Shepherd's Pie by Bruce Aidells, Bon Appétit February 2010

quotable

2010-04-13T23:09:00.000-07:00

"God defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he transforms me to a piece of cheese." - William Shakespeare

like, awesome

2010-04-06T23:26:00.000-07:00

Speak with Conviction, by Taylor Mali

Via Aaryn Belfer

an open letter to conservatives

2010-04-06T08:24:00.000-07:00

Ouch.

An open letter to conservatives
March 22, 2010, 3:16PM
Dear Conservative Americans,
The years have not been kind to you. I grew up in a profoundly Republican home, so I can remember when you wore a very different face than the one we see now. You've lost me and you've lost most of America. Because I believe having responsible choices is important to democracy, I'd like to give you some advice and an invitation.
First, the invitation: Come back to us.
Now the advice. You're going to have to come up with a platform that isn't built on a foundation of cowardice: fear of people with colors, religions, cultures and sex lives that differ from your own; fear of reform in banking, health care, energy; fantasy fears of America being transformed into an Islamic nation, into social/commun/fasc-ism, into a disarmed populace put in internment camps; and more. But you have work to do even before you take on that task.
Your party -- the GOP -- and the conservative end of the American political spectrum have become irresponsible and irrational. Worse, it's tolerating, promoting and celebrating prejudice and hatred. Let me provide some examples -- by no means an exhaustive list -- of where the Right as gotten itself stuck in a swamp of hypocrisy, hyperbole, historical inaccuracy and hatred.
If you're going to regain your stature as a party of rational, responsible people, you'll have to start by draining this swamp:
Hypocrisy
You can't flip out -- and threaten impeachment - when Dems use a parliamentary procedure (deem and pass) that you used repeatedly (more than 35 times in just one session and more than 100 times in all!), that's centuries old and which the courts have supported. Especially when your leaders admit it all.
You can't vote and scream against the stimulus package and then take credit for the good it's done in your own district (happily handing out enormous checks representing money that you voted against, is especially ugly) -- 114 of you (at last count) did just that -- and it's even worse when you secretly beg for more.
You can't fight against your own ideas just because the Dem president endorses your proposal.
You can't call for a pay-as-you-go policy, and then vote against your own ideas.
Are they "unlawful enemy combatants" or are they "prisoners of war" at Gitmo? You can't have it both ways.
You can't carry on about the evils of government spending when your family has accepted more than a quarter-million dollars in government handouts.
You can't refuse to go to a scheduled meeting, to which you were invited, and then blame the Dems because they didn't meet with you.
You can't rail against using teleprompters while using teleprompters. Repeatedly.
You can't rail against the bank bailouts when you supported them as they were happening.
You can't be for immigration reform, then against it .
You can't enjoy socialized medicine while condemning it.
You can't flip out when the black president puts his feet on the presidential desk when you were silent about white presidents doing the same. Bush. Ford.
You can't complain that the president hasn't closed Gitmo yet when you've campaigned to keep Gitmo open.
You can't flip out when the black president bows to foreign dignitaries, as appropriate for their culture, when you were silent when the white presidents did the same. Bush. Nixon. Ike. You didn't even make a peep when Bush held hands and kissed leaders of countries that are not on "kissing terms" with the US.
You can't complain that the undies bomber was read his Miranda rights under Obama when the shoe bomber was read his Miranda rights under Bush and you remained silent. (And, no, Newt -- the shoe bomber was not a US citizen either, so there is no difference.)
You can't attack the Dem president for not personally* publicly condemning a terrorist event for 72 hours when you said nothing about the Rep president waiting 6 days in an eerily similar incident (and, even then, he didn't issue any condemnation). *Obama administration did the day of the event.
You can't throw a hissy fit, sound alarms and cry that Obama freed Gitmo prisoners who later helped plan the Christmas Day undie bombing, when -- in fact -- only one former Gitmo detainee, released by Dick Cheney and George W. Bush, helped to plan the failed attack.
You can't condemn blaming the Republican president for an attempted terror attack on his watch, then blame the Dem president for an attempted terror attack on his.
You can't mount a boycott against singers who say they're ashamed of the president for starting a war, but remain silent when another singer says he's ashamed of the president and falsely calls him a Maoist who makes him want to throw up and says he ought to be in jail.
You can't cry that the health care bill is too long, then cry that it's too short.
You can't support the individual mandate for health insurance, then call it unconstitutional when Dems propose it and campaign against your own ideas.
You can't demand television coverage, then whine about it when you get it. Repeatedly.
You can't praise criminal trials in US courts for terror suspects under a Rep president, then call it "treasonous" under a Dem president.
You can't propose ideas to create jobs, and then work against them when the Dems put your ideas in a bill.
You can't be both pro-choice and anti-choice.
You can't damn someone for failing to pay $900 in taxes when you've paid nearly $20,000 in IRS fines.
You can't condemn criticizing the president when US troops are in harms way, then attack the president when US troops are in harms way , the only difference being the president's party affiliation (and, by the way, armed conflict does NOT remove our right and our duty as Americans to speak up).
You can't be both for cap-and-trade policy and against it.
You can't vote to block debate on a bill, then bemoan the lack of 'open debate'.
If you push anti-gay legislation and make anti-gay speeches, you should probably take a pass on having gay sex, regardless of whether it's 2004 or 2010. This is true, too, if you're taking GOP money and giving anti-gay rants on CNN. Taking right-wing money and GOP favors to write anti-gay stories for news sites while working as a gay prostitute, doubles down on both the hypocrisy and the prostitution. This is especially true if you claim your anti-gay stand is God's stand, too.
When you chair the House Caucus on Missing and Exploited Children, you can't send sexy emails to 16-year-old boys (illegal anyway, but you made it hypocritical as well).
You can't criticize Dems for not doing something you didn't do while you held power over the past 16 years, especially when the Dems have done more in one year than you did in 16.
You can't decry "name calling" when you've been the most consistent and outrageous at it. And the most vile.
You can't spend more than 40 years hating, cutting and trying to kill Medicare, and then pretend to be the defenders of Medicare
You can't praise the Congressional Budget Office when it's analysis produces numbers that fit your political agenda, then claim it's unreliable when it comes up with numbers that don't.
You can't vote for X under a Republican president, then vote against X under a Democratic president. Either you support X or you don't. And it makes it worse when you change your position merely for the sake obstructionism.
You can't call a reconciliation out of bounds when you used it repeatedly.
You can't spend taxpayer money on ads against spending taxpayer money.
You can't condemn individual health insurance mandates in a Dem bill, when the mandates were your idea.
You can't demand everyone listen to the generals when they say what fits your agenda, and then ignore them when they don't.
You can't whine that it's unfair when people accuse you of exploiting racism for political gain, when your party's former leader admits you've been doing it for decades.
You can't portray yourself as fighting terrorists when you openly and passionately support terrorists.
You can't complain about a lack of bipartisanship when you've routinely obstructed for the sake of political gain -- threatening to filibuster at least 100 pieces of legislation in one session, far more than any other since the procedural tactic was invented -- and admitted it. Some admissions are unintentional, others are made proudly. This is especially true when the bill is the result of decades of compromise between the two parties and is filled with your own ideas.
You can't question the loyalty of Department of Justice lawyers when you didn't object when your own Republican president appointed them.
You can't preach and try to legislate "Family Values" when you: take nude hot tub dips with teenagers (and pay them hush money); cheat on your wife with a secret lover and lie about it to the world; cheat with a staffer's wife (and pay them off with a new job); pay hookers for sex while wearing a diaper and cheating on your wife; or just enjoying an old fashioned non-kinky cheating on your wife; try to have gay sex in a public toilet; authorize the rape of children in Iraqi prisons to coerce their parents into providing information; seek, look at or have sex with children; replace a guy who cheats on his wife with a guy who cheats on his pregnant wife with his wife's mother;
Hyperbole
You really need to disassociate with those among you who:
assert that people making a quarter-million dollars a year can barely make ends meet or that $1 million "isn't a lot of money";
say that "Comrade" Obama is a "Bolshevik" who is "taking cues from Lenin";
ignore the many times your buddies use a term that offends you and complain only when a Dem says it;
liken political opponents to murderers, rapists, and "this Muslim guy" that "offed his wife's head" or call then "un-American";
say Obama "wants his plan to fail...so that he can make the case for bank nationalization and vindicate his dream of a socialist economy";
equate putting the good of the people ahead of your personal fortunes with terrorism;
smear an entire major religion with the actions of a few fanatics;
say that the president wants to "annihilate us";
compare health care reform with the bombing of Pearl Harbor, a Bolshevik plot the attack on 9/11,or reviving the ghosts of communist dictators (update: it's also not Armageddon);
equate our disease-fighting stem cell research with "what the Nazis did";
call a bill passed by the majority of both houses of Congress, by members of Congress each elected by a majority in their districts, an unconscionable abuse of power, a violation of the presidential oath or "the end of representative government";
shout "baby killer" at a member of Congress on the floor of the House, especially one who so fought against abortion rights that he nearly killed health care reform (in fact, a little decorum, a little respect for our national institutions and the people and the values they represent, would be refreshing -- cut out the shouting, the swearing and the obscenities);
prove your machismo by claiming your going to "crash a party" to which you're officially invited;
claim that Obama is pushing America's "submission to Shariah";
question the patriotism of people upholding cherished American values and the rule of law;
claim the president is making us less safe without a hint of evidence;
call a majority vote the "tyranny of the minority," even if you meant to call it tyranny of the majority -- it's democracy, not tyranny;
call the president's support of a criminal trial for a terror suspect "treasonous" (especially when you supported the same thing when the president shared your party);
call the Pope the anti-Christ;
assert that the constitutionally mandated census is an attempt to enslave us;
accuse opponents of being backed by Arab slave-drivers or of being drunk and suicidal;
equate family planning with eugenics or Nazism;
accuse the president of changing the missile defense program's logo to match his campaign logo and reflect what you say is his secret Muslim identity;
accuse political opponents of being totalitarians, socialists, communists, fascists, Marxists; terrorist sympathizers, McCarthy-like, Nazis or drug pushers; and
advocate a traitorous act like secession, violent revolution , military coup or civil war (just so we're clear: sedition is a bad thing).
History
If you're going to use words like socialism, communism and fascism, you must have at least a basic understanding of what those words mean (hint: they're NOT synonymous!)
You can't cut a leading Founding Father out the history books because you've decided you don't like his ideas.
You cant repeatedly assert that the president refuses to say the word "terrorism" or say we're at war with terror when we have an awful lot of videotape showing him repeatedly assailing terrorism and using those exact words.
If you're going to invoke the names of historical figures, it does not serve you well to whitewash them. Especially this one.
You can't just pretend historical events didn't happen in an effort to make a political opponent look dishonest or to make your side look better. Especially these events. (And, no, repeating it doesn't make it better.)
You can't say things that are simply and demonstrably false: health care reform will not push people out of their private insurance and into a government-run program ; health care reform (which contains a good many of your ideas and very few from the Left) is a long way from "socialist utopia"; health care reform is not "reparations"; nor does health care reform create "death panels".
Hatred
You have to condemn those among you who:
call members of Congress n*gger and f*ggot;
elected leaders who say "I'm a proud racist";
state that America has been built by white people;
say that poor people are poor because they're rotten people, call them "parasitic garbage" or say they shouldn't be allowed to vote;
call women bitches and prostitutes just because you don't like their politics ( re - pea -ted - ly );
assert that the women who are serving our nation in uniform are hookers;
mock and celebrate the death of a grandmother because you disagree with her son's politics;
declare that those who disagree with you are shown by that disagreement to be not just "Marxist radicals" but also monsters and a deadly disease killing the nation (this would fit in the hyperbole and history categories, too);
joke about blindness;
advocate euthanizing the wife of your political opponent;
taunt people with incurable, life-threatening diseases -- especially if you do it on a syndicated broadcast;
equate gay love with bestiality -- involving horses or dogs or turtles or ducks -- or polygamy, child molestation, pedophilia;
casually assume that only white males look "like a real American";
assert presidential power to authorize torture, torture a child by having his testicles crushed in front of his parents to get them to talk, order the massacre of a civilian village and launch a nuclear attack without the consent of Congress;
attack children whose mothers have died;
call people racists without producing a shred of evidence that they've said or done something that would even smell like racism -- same for invoking racially charged "dog whistle" words (repeatedly);
condemn the one thing that every major religion agrees on;
complain that we no longer employ the tactics we once used to disenfranchise millions of Americans because of their race;
blame the victims of natural disasters and terrorist attacks for their suffering and losses;
celebrate violence , joke about violence, prepare for violence or use violent imagery, "fun" political violence, hints of violence, threats of violence (this one is rather explicit), suggestions of violence or actual violence (and, really, suggesting anal rape with a hot piece of metal is beyond the pale); and
incite insurrection telling people to get their guns ready for a "bloody battle" with the president of the United States.
Oh, and I'm not alone: One of your most respected and decorated leaders agrees with me.
So, dear conservatives, get to work. Drain the swamp of the conspiracy nuts, the bald-faced liars undeterred by demonstrable facts, the overt hypocrisy and the hatred. Then offer us a calm, responsible, grownup agenda based on your values and your vision for America. We may or may not agree with your values and vision, but we'll certainly welcome you back to the American mainstream with open arms. We need you.
(Anticipating your initial response: No there is nothing that even comes close to this level of wingnuttery on the American Left.)
Written by Russell King
Update: removed the mouth kissing reference and tried to clean up spelling
Another update: It seems we've talked about this so much that we've clogged up the "Intertubes." I've created an open thread where the discussion can continue as you see fit.

english hothouse cucumbers and descending testicles

2010-04-05T23:00:00.001-07:00

Like many pregnant women, I subscribe to several websites that provide weekly/ daily emails about fetal development. Today's "Your pregnancy: 26 weeks" from babycenter.com gave me the giggles.

Read the last two sentences, where the writer cleverly mentions the fact that my unborn son's testicles are now descending and that he is the length of an English hothouse cucumber (14 inches from head to toe).

See the big picture

How your baby's growing:
The network of nerves in your baby's ears is better developed and more sensitive than before. He may now be able to hear both your voice and your partner's as you chat with each other. He's inhaling and exhaling small amounts of amniotic fluid, which is essential for the development of his lungs. These so-called breathing movements are also good practice for when he's born and takes that first gulp of air. And he's continuing to put on baby fat. He now weighs about a pound and two-thirds and measures 14 inches (an English hothouse cucumber) from head to heel. If you're having a boy, his testicles are beginning to descend into his scrotum — a trip that will take about two to three days.

See what your baby looks like this week.

cardamom and orange blossom water rice pudding

2010-04-04T21:47:00.000-07:00

This variation on the traditional Persian version (which uses rose water) pairs the delicate flavor of orange blossoms with the seductive flavor of green cardamom.

Orange blossom water is available at Middle Eastern food markets.

Ingredients:
1 cup rice (we used sticky rice)
4 cups milk
2 cups water
2/3 cup sugar
3 TBSP orange blossom water
2 green cardamom pods, seeds only - ground

Preparation:

Bring rice, milk, and water to a boil in a large heavy saucepan, then reduce heat.
Simmer for two hours, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking. Most of the liquid will be absorbed, but the texture should be slightly soupy.
Stir in the sugar, the orange blossom water, and cardamom.
Cook, stirring, for another five minutes. Transfer to a serving dish and let cool to room temperature.

Adapted from Under the High Chair: Cardamom and Rose Water Rice Pudding

aren't dogs supposed to warn you about earthquakes?

2010-04-04T16:38:00.000-07:00

Ruby just stared at me from the couch as I grabbed my wallet, cell phone, the hard drives, and her leash after the violent shaking had been going on long enough that I thought we should get outside.

She was completely nonplussed during the 7.2 Baja quake -- and the multiple subsequent 3.9-5.1 aftershocks (centered within 60 miles of us) we've had in the past hour.

wouldn't it be nice, angeleyes?

2010-04-04T14:22:00.000-07:00

For the past few weeks, I've been experimenting with the baby's response to music. I strap on my iPod and some portable speakers, hit shuffle, and wait for kicks and movement. My iPod's got all sorts of genres, and music in about 8 languages on it. The only trend I've picked out (so far) is that he responds to female voices/ voices in higher registers and pop songs.

This is particularly interesting, because he also gets quite active when he hears Leo's deep voice at bedtime. Although he hears the voice and kicks more, he invariably gets super-still the second Leo puts his hand on my belly ... another data point that makes me think he's got his father's contrarian temperament.

Anyhow, here are this week's winners on the music/ activity front:

The Beach Boys, "Wouldn't It Be Nice?"

ABBA, "Angeleyes"

kumquat oat muffins

2010-04-04T10:05:00.000-07:00

These aren't super-sweet, but they are a nice wholegrain oat breakfast muffin. If you like them sweeter, add 1/4 cup extra brown sugar.

Yield: 12 muffins

Ingredients:
1 cup kumquat preserves (or 1 cup kumquats, halved & deseeded, then pulsed in food processor with 1/2 cup sugar)
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
2 TBSP canola oil
2 eggs
1/2 cup milk
1 TBSP vanilla
1 cup flour
1/2 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1 cup instant rolled oats
1 TBSP baking powder
Pinch of salt
1 TBSP cinnamon

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 400F.
Mix dry ingredients.
Mix wet ingredients.
Add dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and fold until just moistened.
Pour into greased muffin molds
Bake at 400F 10-15 minutes, or until toothpick comes out clean.

Adapted from Wholegrain Kumquat Muffins.

pork saltimbocca with polenta

2010-04-03T21:11:00.000-07:00

What goes better with pork than pork? We made this tonight, substituting gruyere for the original recipe's fontina. It was awesome.

Yield: 6 servings (serving size: 1 stuffed chop, about 4 teaspoons sauce, and 1/2 cup polenta)

Pork:
6 (4-ounce) boneless center-cut loin pork chops, trimmed
6 very thin slices prosciutto (about 2 ounces)
6 large fresh sage leaves
1/3 cup (about 1 1/2 ounces) shredded gruyere cheese
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/8 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 cup fat-free, less-sodium chicken broth
1 tablespoon thinly sliced fresh sage

Polenta:
2 cups 2% reduced-fat milk
1 (14-ounce) can fat-free, less-sodium chicken broth
1 cup instant polenta
1/2 teaspoon salt

Butterfly the pork chops or pound them to 1/4-inch thickness using a meat mallet.
Arrange 1 prosciutto slice inside each chop; top with 1 sage leaf and about 1 tablespoon cheese. Fold chops in half to sandwich filling, and secure with wooden picks.
Sprinkle both sides of chops with pepper and 1/8 teaspoon salt. Place flour in a shallow dish; dredge stuffed chops in flour.
Heat oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add chops; cook 3-5 minutes on each side or until done. Remove from pan; cover and keep warm.
Add wine to pan, scraping pan to loosen browned bits; cook until reduced to 1/4 cup (about 2 minutes). Add 1 cup broth; bring to a boil. Cook until reduced to 1/2 cup (about 5 minutes). Stir in 1 tablespoon sage. Reduce heat to medium.
Return chops to pan; cook 2 minutes or until thoroughly heated, turning once.
Prepare polenta: bring milk and 1 can broth to a boil. Gradually stir in polenta and 1/2 teaspoon salt. Cover, reduce heat to medium-low, and cook 2 minutes.
Serve polenta immediately with chops and sauce.

CALORIES 404 (30% from fat); FAT 13.3g (sat 5.3g,mono 6g,poly 1g); IRON 1.6mg; CHOLESTEROL 85mg; CALCIUM 172mg; CARBOHYDRATE 30.8g; SODIUM 733mg; PROTEIN 34.9g; FIBER 2.8g

Adapted from Pork Saltimbocca with Polenta, Cooking Light, NOVEMBER 2003