Because of an assignment Chup had his camera at church last Sunday. He took this horrible shot of The Chief and me in the hallway towards the end of our third hour meeting.
I love being a Latter Day Saint. I have a firm belief in the doctrine. I uphold my promises and covenants. I will until I die. I say this because bringing a sixteen month toddler to church every Sunday during his nap time just might kill me.
"I want the afternoon sun to come in and make the space light up like El Dorado."
____ Last weekend sent me into the loving arms of Laura (owner of the fresh boutique Dear Lizzie). In the whimsical space of her store we stood talking about motherhood.
"When you are sick and pregnant nothing is quite right." She noted.
Yes! That is it! Nothing feels quite right.
Like the green in my front room.
It should be gold.
____ I didn't have anything to wear to the Relief Society General Broadcast last night. I looked at my closet and nothing mentally fit. I could've tried some dresses on, but my mind had already decided. I didn't want to wear anything I could see.
So I put on my black stand-by dress and tried to revive it with some green accessories. I used to be cute, I swear I used to be cute.
____ After the broadcast I went to dinner with my sisters. We ate at Rooster. Rooster seems to be the only thing I can stomach. I think it is because my friends make the food, and I love them and feel love from them.
But I can't make food right now, because my love seems restricted.
____ When my friend Lani was pregnant with her fifth baby I asked her what she fed her children.
"Frozen anything."
But I knew Lani wouldn't--in her right mind--feed her children anything defrosted. Not with her admirable devotion to a natural lifestyle. I didn't know then what I know now.
I want to be Lani. If I can't be Lani I want to be as much like her as possible.
____
Back at Rooster.
"I don't go to bed with any big hopes for the future." I confessed as we ate lava cake. Except the day when Chup lets me paint the living room gold.
"Sounds like first trimester." Observed Page.
____
My mother's house is adorable. Every pillow, vase and sculpture sings a happy song.
Nothing is chirping at my house. I haven't vacuumed in weeks. I refuse to vacuum when I am gestating. I get to pick these things, right?
"Were you concerned about having a cute house when your children were little?" I asked my mother.
"No, but I always tried to have a clean house." She replied.
____
Tonight Chup and I took The Chief up the canyon to see the unveiling of autumn. I would like to use these words to describe the foliage: spectacular, breathtaking, glorious.
I asked him, "Are any negative thoughts positively useful?"
He answered, "I am going with no."
As we drive out of the canyon I noticed the gold in the sunlight. It was the perfect hue for my front room.
____
We are in the green living room tonight.
I put some flowers in an orange vase on the coffee table.
The Chief climbs on top of it and knocks it over.
Chup grabs him off.
I put the vase back up in position.
The Chief climbs back on top of the table and knocks it over again.
Chup grabs him off.
I position the vase again.
I think, what am I doing?
____ I am not right.
And that is the point. I am not right because I am not listening to what is right. Right for me, my body, my season of life.
My season is not about house decoration. It is not about glass vases on low centered tables (as lovely as it looks, and it looked lovely). I need a simple house without toddler traps. Good organization and lots of cues from nature.
A clean house.
My season is not about fashion. It is about picking a few items, showing off the best part of my body. Easy laundered shirts for the inevitable snot trails that end up on my shoulder area. Look nice, but not encumbered.
Clean clothes.
My season is not about cooking elegant meals. I do not have the heart to treat food the way it should be treated. It is okay to eat peaches, apples and toast. Pirate Booty and Lorna Doones.
Just eat something.
My season is for babies. For sleeping when my baby naps and early morning bottle swapping. For belly and breast expansion and retraction. Music in the nursery and afternoons in the backyard. A season for schedules and predictability. A quiet time, a time to be at home, a time to focus on growing and gathering.
Love this season. (I don't want to ask my energy to do more than this, though some women can.)
Then, then, then! I will start to dream again. I will dream of the season of glass vases and vacuum lines in my carpet. The time to cultivate a more sophisticated wardrobe and mornings to stay in bed until noon. I will earn my way to a kitchen full of spices and surprises. Parties, gatherings, social outings.
I promised a theory post, started to write it and was rudely interrupted by my husband who decided to come home from a four-day business trip.
When I say "rudely interrupted" I mean, I was so excited he was home I couldn't do anything else but stare into his man-eyes and call myself Lucky.
On Sunday night I am going to finish that post and Alexa Mae, it is going out to you across the Red Sea (inside joke).
In full disclosure, while he has been gone all week, I've had three extra children (who might be Claire, Jane and Ollie) while my sister is across the country, was involved in taping a couple segments for a talk show with my family (ohh a teaser!) AND managed the fortitude to not let my constant companion--nausea--compete with my competency. And so let's put our hands together for me!
Clap! Woot! Hollering across Texas! And Australia!
In return, I shall going to drop a little present off on your computer's doorstep. It is a Cooking for One episode I did for my friend Katy Knight. Please be aware of a couple issues:
1.) We shot this video many months ago when I still had blond hair and some very luscious post-partum/breast feeding pounds on my body. I tell you this because if I don't, surely I will be getting emails reading, "I don't know about you going back to blond . . .maybe if you combed it . . .?" or "You are looking pregnant already! That was fast!" 2.) I sing, dance and make quesadillas. All hot.
3.) Katy and I have been friends since birth. We also starred together in a Jackson 5 lip synch contest in high school when Katy was the Student Body President. She wanted to put a clip of the lip sync in the segment, but SOMEONE lost the tape. And I think that SOMEONE knows who HE is. HE is the person who lost the lip sync contest to US. Sour grapes after fifteen years makes for bad whine. I just made that up.
4.) I don't really cook naked. Mostly, I don't cook.
5.) It is a full-powered c jane you are going to see in this video, I mean the c jane uncensored. This me when I am with my friends. It might be too much for you. I repeat: IT MIGHT BE TOO MUCH FOR YOU. In other words, it might be TOO MUCH for you.
Consider yourself warned, alright?
Have a great weekend, and eat quesadillas!
*photo above is Wendy who didn't make the video, although she spent the night wrangling The Chief while we cooked. What are best friends for? I ask you?
I've been blogging my little heart out at dear c jane AND c jane's guide to Provo, playing with rollip, and reading the Jed Wells account of what it is like for a professional photographer to play mommy (good reading! start on day one and hit 'newer post' to read them all) on my cousin Jayne's splendid blog.
Then I read an email from my new favorite reader, Alexa Mae who requests: I just had to say I have been aching for one of your "CJane Theory" posts. They are my absolute favorite.
She even mentions my one of my posts Unrequited which when cornered, I'd have to admit might be my favorite post I've ever written for this blog.
Shoot, what does it take for a blogger like me to be more flattered?
Just as I promised, The Chief and I spent the afternoon in the backyard. I was beat so I just flopped myself down on the grass and baked in the sun. The Chief--bare skinned--wondered around the area, as he always does, taking a sampling of anything he could find. All samples go inside his mouth cavity for internal assessment and back out wrapped, dangling in spit.
I was thinking about self-sufficiency.
(On my mind a lot lately.)
The Chief came back to me with a pear. This despite the fact that there are no pear trees in the recent vicinity. And yet, there he was with yellowish greenish, freckled soft pear clutched in his fingers. And he was so proud, offering me--his mama--the first bite.
I bit into the pear.
It was delicious.
Maybe the best pear every plucked?
I thought for a second about . . . maybe . . .you know . . .where that pear had come from.
Then again, how would you refuse that offering? I was wildly charmed with the fact that I had my own little hunter/gatherer. A man-child who searched the fields to feed his feeble mother. Inside of his male make-up he has a natural desire to provide. And look at this! His tiny ego was fed by success and bravery! His smile spread so high on his face it actually flared his nostrils.
I offered back the pear.
He took it and baptized it in the pool (pond), turned around and offered me another bite. My teeth sunk into the dripping fruit as it pleased my son. He laughed and held it up for another chomp. I obliged.
I said, "Now you eat it."
So he did, he took turns around the backyard eating the pear. When we went inside to put his shoes on those little feet, he continued eating the pear. In fact, exactly two hours later I heard the bell tower chime four o'clock. At that point I watched him, upside down in the stroller, finish his last bite.
Do you know what I can't believe?
I can't believe I cried when his ultrasound revealed we were having a boy.
I had no idea.
Just . . . no idea.
Post-Edit:
Just in case you thought this was some subtle attempt to announce we are having another boy (don't put it past me right?) It really is just about me and The Chief as a pair.
We are a couple weeks from knowing the gender of this baby, even so I am desperately trying to talk Chup into waiting until birth. Can we do it?
We toasted the season adieu with goblets of Kristian Regal peach sparkler before dinner. (I don't think I've ever tasted a better drink in my life.)
Feeling the change in the air, I spent some time in my neighbor's wondrous garden this weekend. The Chief rolled on his stomach like a snake, scarfing up all the dark raspberries dangling from the vine. We moved through peach and apple trees, past reaching grapevines and around colorful pepper plants. Food was everywhere. It was a God-given, man-harvested, earth-meets-heaven natural factory. For the first time, I understood how dreadful it was to be cast out of the Garden of Eden. How I want to go back.
"It is beautiful." I told my neighbor.
"Now it's getting close to the end." She said, looking towards a line of stubs where tall corn once grew.
I could see what she meant. Everything was heavy. The apple trees were being pulled down by the weight of their creation. Giant peaches sagged their way to gravity off tired limbs. Squash begged to be picked from the ground below. Abundance ending.
Page and I like to talk about the seasons as they pertain to a woman's life--as a human being, a mother, a wife, a divine entity. Spring is about youth and planting seeds--the seeds of character and knowledge. Summer is for working, weeding and cultivating those seeds--while fighting the heat and the sweat. Fall is for enjoyment in the harvest. Picking the best of the heavy fruit and tasting the flavor. When winter comes it brings with it quiet redemption, a peace of self. Best of all, after the fight of change, winter promises purity.
This summer we cultivated our tastes. We saw art in London together. We took The Chief on a food-rampage in the desert of Arizona (our tastebuds will never be the same again). We weeded together in the front flowerbeds while Dad mowed the lawn. We worked on our kitchen floor (with the help of my gracious in-laws). And we took a trip to the Pacific Coast which was slightly peppered with my pregnancy sickness. At the beginning of the season we asked for it to be fruitful. It was.
But now here is fall. And my hope is that we will sit a little more still--our heads full of fine summer memories. Stay out in the backyard longer to appreciate Chup's hard-fought lawncare--most of which was done in the dead heat--before it becomes frosted. Marinate in the sun while we can, until it offers only shorter days. In the newly floored kitchen, we will eat the pears, peppers and cherry tomatoes my neighbor bagged for me from her ample cropping. Cook meals inspired by the food we ate in Arizona. Soak in hot water tubs (rembering the ocean) with a promise of warm pajamas after drying off. Ask for less, be grateful for more.
God has given us an incredible planet. One that moves through space and creates movement in our surroundings, making us beings of transition. Even so, I always find myself fighting the changing intervals. It is not until I feel safe inside the adjustment (light patterns, weather, landscape) I can finally tranquilize. Tonight, with a peach sparkler in hand, I accepted the incoming season.
I woke up to a throbbing forehead--a pulsating ache that extended to my temples when I moved my torso. My legs and feet accompanied the painful beat of my head with opposite-yet-equal torturous vibrations. Then, the reliable wave of good morning nausea hit like a tsunami of the corpus.
I groaned at Chup who was getting ready for work.
"What am I going to do?" I desperately asked him. "How am I going to get up and get going?"
Then I ran through a mental phone book of all the family I could call to help me. Blessedly, I've got a village of good people who have offered to help. And yet, I couldn't forge the humility it takes to make the call. It was like a tennis match in my mind, Call someone to help you! vs. You can do it, just get up and get going!
"Say a prayer." Was Chup's sincere answer to his lamenting wife.
"I am going to need more than a prayer." I complained.
But I said one anyway, wrapped up in the comforter, my head heavy head pushed against the pillows.
"Help me!"
(A short prayer.)
After Chup left for work I got up and picked up The Chief. His pants smelled like sulfur, I could almost see green fumes chasing his diaper. This induced another wave of pukeness which had me at the bathroom sink for quite sometime.
In the middle of this episode, The Chief stood holding my leg. In between heaves he looked up at me with his bright, cheery face and sang. "Hiiii."
Then I knew my prayer was answered. Not because my headache disappeared. Not because I lost my queasiness. Not because a good person called offering to take The Chief to the zoo. And not because while I was throwing up an angel did not come down to forbid my son to not unroll the toilet paper down the hall around the den and back into the bathroom for good measure.
No.
My answer came in remembering how adorable these charming-sometimes-stinky baby beings become. How they make impossible messes in one moment, and kiss you with wide open mouths the next. How they express emotion with such passion and dedication. How every horrible morning is worth their growing souls.
Now, if only I will remember all this at three o'clock today when the second wave of sickness comes to say, "Good Afternoon!"
p.s. I don't take medication for my pregnancy sickness. I tried with my last pregnancy (numerous remedies) and it was unsuccessful while making me successfully hopeless.
A couple years ago Chup stole some children's books from his parent's house. I had nothing to do with it--mind you--although he wouldn't have stolen them had I not said I wanted them.
They were in the deep recesses of the basement playroom. No one had touched them in decades and that is how Chup stacked them up and put them in our car with a clear conscience. They were children's encyclopedias from the 1950s and A Child's Garden of Verses from Robert Louis Stevenson illustrated by GyoFujikawa. I had a vision of putting them in a nursery someday for classic reading with a cutesie vintage touch.
Had I known stealing these delightful books so many years ago would come back to punish me, I may have reconsidered. Today, in fact, I opened up A Child's Garden of Verses for some light after-nap reading to The Chief and my world ended.
That last sentence was inspired by pregnancy hormones which whispered in my ears, "Go for the drama! Why not?"
But there I was in my room reading a poem about picture books on a wintry day with Gyo's heavenly illustration of a little girl looking out the window onto a frozen pond drizzled in snowflakes and I stopped. The combination of picture books and wintry days and a childhood with a window overlooking a pond made me sad. A whimsical sadness that broke my heart.
The Chief looked up at me and stared. Then, as if he needed more information, he moved his face closer until his nose was kissing mine. When this produced nothing, he got up and headed to the door which leads to our backyard.
I sat alone for a moment, wishing I could give my son that page, that poem in real life. Days full of books and inclement weather.
When Chup came home from work I showed him the page and read him the poem. There was some silence afterward, so finally I said something.
"Don't you want that life for our children?"
"What life?"
"That life of picture books and ponds and snowflakes?"
"Well . . ."
Chup started to say something, but my big sobbing tears interrupted him.
"Are you okay?" He asked instead.
"No!" I turned the page and showed him another wintry scene where a little boy was towing a red sled over snow-covered hills. Behind him in the distance was a cozy country home with a puffing chimney.
"Don't you want that to be The Chief?" I blubbered pointing at the page. "Don't you want that to be our house all cozy against the blowing snow?"
I wiped my nose with the back of my wrist. With my blurry eyes I could see my husband looking at me. Confused, but compassionate.
"Yes. Of course I do." He said. "What do we need to do?"
"We need lots of land. And you need to be either a farmer or independently wealthy. And a pond."
"Ok." He breathed. (Kindly taking me seriously.) "Let's start with dinner. What would you like for dinner tonight?"
"I don't know." I sobbed.
"How about curry?"
When that was decided I went to find The Chief, he was sitting on my bedroom carpet looking out to our backyard. We've been spending the afternoons outside noting the changing colors on the mountainscape next to our "pond" which is really the plastic pool.
My outburst must've been a chastisement for stealing those books years ago, because how could I want more than what I already have? I've got a view of a majestic mountain range. Right out my back door. If we traded those mountains for a farm, I'd spend the rest of my life crying to Chup,
"Don't you want those mountains back?"
Of course, that would be his punishment for stealing those books in the first place.
We deserve each other.
p.s. I still want the land, pond andmountainscape. Can a girl have it all?
Post-Edit: Wow. Having my comments back on is life changing. (again, going for the pregnancy-embellishmented drama, sort of)
Thanks to the commenters so far, I 've come to an understanding about why I was crying this afternoon (besides my bad karma for stealing). It is because I worry my children will never know simplicity. Not like the simplicity I've known, or the simplicity my mother knew, or the simplicity found in Stevenson's words with Fujikawa's pictures.
Unless I move them to a farm.
Or a secluded mountain hideaway.
And speaking of simplicity, are my conclusions too simplistic?
One thing I wasn't looking forward to in motherhood was having to watch kiddie shows. All those silly cartoons and animated whatnots. They come with all those toys and puppets. Forgive me this, but I just didn't want to have anything to do with it.
We don't watch television in our home much. Not because we are morally opposed, but because we'd just rather be on the internet. (You can't script the drama of blogs! The real time of facebook! The confusion of Twitter! I still can't figure out Twitter!) Because of this, The Chief hasn't had much exposure to that big, flat deal that sits in our den. This has been an admitted relief to me.
Until I started getting sick in the mornings. Then I wanted nothing more than Elmo to entertain my child while I contemplated my need to get up (will anyone notice if I don't get up today?) But no matter how cute Elmo, how grumpy Oscar, how culturally diverse Seasame Street, my child doesn't want anything to do with it. Yes, we tried Baby Einstein. He's just too busy with the vacuum, a box of Kleenex, and the fireplace shovel.
This hasn't stopped me from tuning into PBS every morning anyway. And so this is how I have become my worst nightmare. I know all the kiddie shows. AND MY CHILD DOESN"T EVEN WATCH THEM--I DO. I lounge on the couch with a fuzzy blanket and watch show-after-show as The Chief reorganizes my pots and pans drawers.
To make matters more complicated, I don't enjoy the shows. Too many goofy voices mixed with unlikable characters. And, I find most of the plots confusing, nonsensical and over-dosing on dinosaurs. Dinosaurs on a train? Two-headed dinosaurs? Purple dinosaurs? What is wrong with rabbits?
Anyway. One morning I was about to turn off the tube and face the music when Electric Company came on. A new Electric Company with hip-hop and slides and urban kiddie goodness. I was hooked and I sat for thirty more minutes and watched. The Chief even climbed on my plush lap and watched with me. Would it be too much to say that Electric Company has cured me of Morning Sickness Blues? I know I could be really late on this one, but heavens I love it.
Plus, Hector looks like my lovely friend Brooke's husband Aaron:
Do you see it?
Me too.
Anyway, plenty of Wycleaf Jean, but no (thankfully) dinosaurs:
And don't forget the Slide and Drop:
*photos in this post were found through google search and our family archives.
It started out with a trip to Ashlee's chair where she did some magical thing with an instrument that blows hot air and suddenly my hair looked nice. I won't wash it until it starts to smell like wet leather or old pizza, this makes my life so simple. Plus, how attractive are shower caps? 70% attractive.
Then Chup and the little one met me at Costco for rice milk. Costco on Saturday morning in the heart of Utah Valley is like going to the zoo on a warm holiday without the animals. Or was that a gorilla buying butter?
(I practice these jokes beforehand.)
Costco on Saturday in Orem, Utah is a crowded, noisy, bumpy affair. If you persevere past all that, you are rewarded with a fifteen minute wait in line. For rice milk.
So we waited and waited in line until finally The Chief decided he wasn't going to wait anymore and tried to jump ship. Nearly dove out of the cart. You wonder why we didn't have him buckled in? We did. So stop wondering.
Our escapee took off running once I helped him walk the plank. He was interested in the la-Z-boys demonstration with the vibrating massage. Blame him?
In a split second, I ran to retrieve, while Chup watched. I turned around, wrestling the Costco pirate in my arms, and saw the line in front of us move. Before Chup could advance our cart forward, a white-haired lady with a pink-and-blue plaid button-down rapidly cut in line in front of us.
Oh yes she did.
With a big ol' cart of Costco loot. For the grandkids.
Let that sink in.
I was furious!
I started to say something, but my holier-than-me husband made a motion for me to zip it.
So I just stood there--a kicking infant in my arms--with my mouth looking like it could swallow the whole seafood section.
I simply would've said to the lady, Maybe you didn't notice that we were in line. We wouldn't have a problem with you going ahead, only I have an unsettled infant and a first trimester illness that won't let me smile for long periods of time. I can probably guess you've been where I've been before, and if so, you'd surely let us back into the line where we've been waiting with our rice milk.
Instead I seethed until Chup banished me to the outer parts of Costco where I could no longer project my disgruntled stare in her direction. And some thing, some hormone, some failing of spirit on my part could not forgive that lady all day long. Worst part being that frustration doesn't make me mad, it makes me sarcastic and snarky.
So my Saturday was dumpy.
Everyone I encountered asked, "What is your problem?"
And I answered every time, "A lady butt in line in front of me at Costco this morning."
Later that evening, after I had offended half my family and made Chup (almost) resort to tears twice, I realized I should probably just let it go. It was harder than I thought it would be. I even approached Chup twice just to see if I could keep the grudge. Just this once?
"No." He said. "But we can get out and buy you a little present."
I didn't get his line of reasoning, but I decided to trust him. He was right on. After an hour of shopping I had forgiven the Costco lady. Nearly forgotten the whole incident. Maybe I just needed attention. Maybe I just needed some new shoes. Maybe it is okay to put money to good use when nothing else seems to work?
I don't know.
Except, I will always be grateful for shower caps.
I. In Twin Falls Idaho there is a massive crater-like canyon that runs through town. Like the earth's flesh was cut open, leaving a deep scar of rocks and shadows. Looking into the canyon is like peering into the core of our planet. It intimidates me, it thrills me.
I stood on the threshold of that canyon, spiritless and humbled two years ago. Five years had not given me a pregnancy. Not even a hint or breath of a conception. Sometimes I wondered if a miscarriage would be a welcomed experience. A reassurance of possibility.
Instead, I gathered up all my hopes for motherhood and sent them over the cusp of the canyon, rolling past the dark volcanic rock, splashing into the cold Snake River and sinking down into the depths of the earth. To be buried forever by mud and sediment. They were too heavy to carry around, they obstructed my path to present happiness.
Heavenly Father, I will stop asking for fertility to make me happy. And I will be happy. Right now.
Two weeks later I found out I was pregnant.
II. In London, England there is a tunneled walkway which takes a traveler on foot from bridge to bridge along the Thames. I followed Chup as he led me towards the Millennium Bridge on a quiet evening. Dampness and darkness pushed us to hurry. We were having dinner over the river, and rain was across the sky.
We reached a concrete stairway which led straight into the rocky Thames. Chup descended and let the waves lap up his feet. I stood away from him, looking up river. My mind floated away with the water, across the ocean, over the rocky mountains to where my baby was sleeping in his crib. He was now a part of me, and being a part from him made me feel less whole.
We desired a dozen more, (two dozen more!) but my fertility record didn't substantiate anything. And I didn't want to spend my motherhood in a month-to-month anticipation cycle. It had already started, months after giving birth. And the next one? When? How? When? When? When!
The wind blew and I almost lost Chup with the tugboats to the Thames.
Heavenly Father, I can be happy with one baby. There would be cousins and neighborhood kids for communal siblings. He wouldn't be lonely, he'd be just fine. One baby. I could be happy with one baby. This prayer I sailed into the wind while taking my husband's hand for stability.
Two months later I found out I was pregnant.
III. To create life--this act of man and wife--is sanctified by God as the greatest of man's ability. To some He gives it freely, to others he tempers with humility and patience. To struggle with procreation is how God chooses to keep my pride in check. I fail, I fail and fail until it becomes more logical to give up. Somehow in giving up, He gives to me.
The thing about September is this: it cannot decide if it is summer or fall. Like a good mullet, it is fall in the mornings and summer in the afternoons, so that by evening you are all mixed up.
So many things to love about this time of year, peaches, mums and (my favorite) dahlias, but the split personality? The dramatic daily spikes in temperature? It shakes my delicate core.
This cold morning I slummed around taking bites of oatmeal-sprinkled-yogurt while looking for something I couldn't find. Then I remembered it was my courage. I couldn't find my courage. Even when the pregnancy-controlled contraption decided oatmeal-sprinkled-yogurt back up the shoot (that was me trying to be poetic about puking) I couldn't find the courage to calm myself down.
Then I remembered 11:30 was lunch at Simy's house.
I love lunch at Simy's house!
And Lucy was invited too.
Simy (SEE-ME) is a gift, to me from God. He sent her into my life to teach me many great and wonderful things. Mostly about food. And, as I have previously posted, I am a needy eater.
Sometimes I will get a chocolate tart on my doorstep, or a invite to an early afternoon lunch from my thoughtful neighbor. She tells me about growing up in Hong Kong, or loving her four beautiful children, or her devotion to Industrial Design. And I feel so comfortable around her, she's wonderfully open-minded and doesn't spend too much time forming unstoppable opinions. I find her simply enjoyable.
This afternoon she served Lucy and me a lunch full of taste and texture. At one point she spread bits of blue cheese on a piece of bread and smeared it with honey.
"Ever tried this?" she asked.
Lucy and I just sat staring at her like we were her devoted disciples.
"Fix my bread like hers." Lucy commanded of me while staring at Simy, her hands busy holding Betsy.
For desert she fed us lava brownies and homemade malt ice cream. I looked at Lucy and she was laughing as she ate. I was sent home with some bulgogi beef and rice for Chup and my leftover brownie. I was careful not to eat too much. I didn't trust that pregnancy-controlled contraption. And I ain't my losing dessert.
By the time we walked home, it was hot. Lucy and I raced down the street with our babies bumping along the way. I thought about what I asked Simy before we left.
"You are so good to me. What can I do for you?"
"Keep writing." she said.
So Simy, this post is for you.
Thanks for making this indecisive September day a splendid one.
Next post: How we became pregnant this time around. Did you hear? We're pregnant.And the hot topic in my email inbox is how? Besides the obvious, I will tell you my theory.
And, for those living in Provo and environs: please do me a favor and visit my Provo blog. I just posted about Friday night entertainment/date options. It took me seven hours to compose the post. Just give me the satisfaction of looking at it, maybe even caress it through the computer screen. Is that too much to ask?
Labor Day took me to a movie. With my mom and a van full of women folk from my family. We set out to see Julie & Julia, a movie recommended to me by hundreds. Or was it thousands?
They were right, I liked it very much. What a pleasing movie. I went a little hesitantly because who likes a food movie in the company of pregnancy queasiness? But, I want a sequel. And all of that.
But now, here is my truth.
When I got home from the movie I was visited by some more women folk from my family. One of them said they were on a diet. Not only that, but money was on the line. If her diet could be followed strictly for one month, 100 dollars would be doled out to her by supportive family.
Well, I thought.
Julia Child would never suffer a diet. And that is why I am on her team. Diets are so boring I could cry. I am done following food fads, nutrition findings and trends in What Not To Eat. If I need to learn self-mastery it is not to sugar, but the temptation of thinking sugar is so horrible.
(Not when it tastes so right.)
Thus, I throw my kitchen towel in and declare: I am going to stop the nonsense and just enjoy my food! No counting calories, or vitamins, or pyramids, or food points or partially hydrogenated corn syrup fructose beans. Just a fork (or spoon, or fingers) and a happy soul.
And that is when I started thinking, why doesn't someone start a blog about enjoying food? We have a plethora of helpful cooking blogs (including yours, Juile). And recipe blogs for anything, cupcakes, seafood, vegan, gluten-free, vegetarian, libertarian, librarian--all of which I truly appreciate. But no blog (from which I can tell) spells out the recipe for strict food enjoyment.
I know what to eat. Teach me how to eat.
How to taste food. How to smell it. How to savor the savory and experience culinary divinity. They say to eat slowly, but how? How does one eat slowly when all my life I've eaten fast? How not to eat too much. How does one not eat too much?
I want to know how to eat with an empty stomach and a heart full of gratitude. I want food miracles, stories of life changing experiences. I want food transformations and see people become healthy humans not by hating food, but by loving it.
And on that note, I want to learn how to say a strong thanksgiving prayer before I eat. My pre-meal prayers are too short (thanks for the grub) and Chup's are benedictions of lengthy proportions (while my stomach is background music). Typically, I volunteer to say meal prayers because I will get to eat faster.
I want to posts on how to sip a beverage. How to teach my tongue to know ripe-ness and texture. How to succumb to the glory of slightly cooked asparagus, lightly buttered artichoke and well-placed aphrodisiacs.
Make me a student of ethnicity in the kitchen. How can I identify spices in a spoonful of chili? Teach me about how place setting and goblet choosing make for better meals. Explain to me about meals, when to eat them and how to love them. (Because right now meal time is nothing but pressure--Je resist!) Maybe even more importantly, how to cultivate appetizing dinner conversations.
(Tonight before a brief table sharing of pizza, I was reading from two heavy volumes of opinionated gore when Chup said to me, "Whatever you are reading, you can't talk about at the dinner table." Which made me laugh because nothing makes Chup lose his appetite more than a fiery opinion.)
And I don't mean a book. I mean a blog. I want a blog called: How to Eat. I want a daily update, with photos and poetic musings. I want an author who I can email with questions. And if that author is good-looking enough, I want a show, a TV show to follow. And I get some of the royalties.
Because look, I know God gave us a planet full of food, graced with history and experience. God even commanded me to enjoy the goodness of the earth. It is a commandment! Teach me how to be obedient. Please! My Salvation!
And how is this for incentive?
If anyone can produce an effective--yet beautiful--How to Eat blog I will sent them 100 dollars. From what I hear, it is the going rate for worthy endeavors.
A couple months ago I was looking at the kitchen drawer which stores my kitchen towels and bibs for The Chief. Bibs he no longer uses because as I grow as a mother, I find less need to worry about curry on his onesie. Now we spray, splat and soil onesies with creative eating habits and call the results art rather than stain.
But . . .
On that day a couple of months ago when I looked at those bibs I stopped.
What do I do with those bibs?
Will they sit for years in that drawer waiting for another baby to protect from gooey breakfast messes before church? Will they remain forever hoping--like the toy solider--for another baby that never comes? Will they always call out, reminding me of my hopes for a second chubby neck to tie the bib strings around?
On that day a couple of months ago I thought about throwing the bibs out. I concluded bibs are not such a financial investment that simply throwing them away would ruin our credit score. If a second baby were to ever come along bibs could be replaced. So why not send them off with celebration and ceremony. Thank you hard working bibs! Thank you for dabbing my baby's dangling drool when he was teething! May you decompose with spots of stains in the sunshine of the everlasting landfill!
On that day a couple of months ago bibs became a symbol of my fertility anxieties. Was my pregnancy a one time blessing never to be refilled? Would I get another chance? When was too early to start hoping again? Was it okay to even want when I already had?
Eight years ago, in the summer of 2001, Topher invited Chup to come to his piano recital at my parent's house. I had met Chup six months before and had decided to marry him, but he really didn't know me very well. Small complication.
After the recital guests socialized and ate baked refreshments. I invited Chup to the backyard lounges to get away from the noise. Always ready to leave a party, Chup took my offer.
We sat and talked about perfect futures of family life. I told him my vision of a big kitchen with a wood fire stove. A sturdy, industrialized family table to host dozens of visitors all at once. A regular night where my husband and I cooked for the neighborhood. An open home both in form and function. Chup listened to every description I painted, until I came to the end when he said,
"And my trusty truck in the driveway."
(And that is when I knew I had him.)
After several nights of acting coy I finally let him kiss me. Our first kiss wasn't worthy a blog post, it was uncoordinated and--may I say--disturbing. (It was symbolic of our commitment levels at the time. I went for passionate, while he went for hesitant.) But in that moment, I passed on to him germs from my hiding fever blister. A generous gift, because Chup had never had the virus before. Days later we wore matching bumps on our lips.
It was official!
Chup was never the same after that night. In the next months he suffered recurring blisters which would curtail our chances to be affectionate. (Safe, considering we were two Mormon singles trying to stay chaste before marriage. Ahh blessings in disguise!) When married, Chup continued to be plagued while I seemed to be cured.
Until today when I noticed a bubbling fever blister riding on the surf of my bottom lip. I studied it carefully in the mirror, making it protrude with the use of my tongue. Then the familiar soreness and cracked skin appeared after breakfast.
It was official.
I tried not to let the obvious growing lip guest get me down. I dabbed it with our special solution and pretended that my bottom lip didn't feel like it was expanding like a batch of Sunday dinner rolls. But you can't fight the common fever blister, you just have to wait.
So I waited. And waited until Chup came home from work. I waited for him to take off his motorcycle helmet. I waited to tell him the horrid news. But when I started to tell him, I noticed he had one too. Twin fever blisters, an anniversary gift from eight years ago.
So here is a confession: I spent my Saturday watching Kennedy documentaries. How could one family be so fascinating? So fascinating I abandoned my entire life just to sit on my couch and watch their storied lives. I don't know what my boys did on Saturday, but I can tell you my favorite Kennedy is Bobby.
Then I thought, I should write a post about my fascinating family. Because really, every family is equally fascinating and not fascinating.
And here is what I came up with:
Last night my sister Page's family hosted a musical recital. The performers were Page's children, Clark on classical guitar, Olivia on piano, Emma on piano and Winnie on piano. In attendance that evening were samples of my family members, mixed in with Page's in-laws and a host of neighbors and friends of the performers. Their grand living room was packed. As the event started, I noticed I was sitting on a lawn chair. A metal lawn chair. Would Jackie Kennedy approve? Lawn chairs in the living room? It was a semi-formal affair, too.
Clark was slated to play about fifteen songs, but we were assured that they were not long songs. Greensleeves, like that. So then there was some discussion about if we should applaud between each song. The Councilwoman said, "You know when you go to the symphony and some yahoo insists on clapping between each movement and it disrupts the mood?" And I asked Chup if he claps between movements. He thought I was funny.
You would think this whole applause issue would be easily resolved, but it wasn't. Debates continued by opposing forces until Page finally asked Clark's guitar teacher to judge on proper clapping protocol. Then somehow it was decided that when Clark stood up we would clap. Which I thought was silly, but you know.
So after five songs, Clark stood up. We noted and started to clap. Then a poopy diaper was hurled at Clark's head. Like the Kennedy's story, I can't make this stuff up.
Page got up to retrieve the diaper. Everyone looked back at those of us balancing babies on our hips. It wasn't me. It wasn't. Anyway, no one said anything about throwing poopy diapers when we were making up our rules about applauding for Clark. I adhere to rules.
Then there was some explanation about the poopy diaper from the guilty party, but I didn't hear it because I too busy thinking of how Rose Kennedy would react. Something tells me, not good.
When the recital was over, Page's elderly neighbor got up off the couch--with the help of her cane--and announced to Page that she was leaving. She did this just as Page, Page's mother-in-law and I were in deep conversation. We paused while Page asked her if she'd like help crossing the street.
"I'll be fine. It was a lovely evening and now I am ready to go home. No help." she stated, and then turned around, and sat back on the couch from whence she came. Twenty minutes later I checked and she was still socializing from the same spot.
Later still, I was talking to Topher about certain serious subjects when Olivia walked by.
"Liv, I love your posture at the piano!" I said, wanting her to know how proud I was of her stoic wrists.
"Yeah, great job!" said Topher. And Liv blushed a little and said thanks.
"Of course you know, I can play that song." He added loudly in her direction as she passed us by.
