Food, Ink

22 Jun

Take me to the North End.

I eat anything. I’m that out-of-shape, aw-shucks sadsack who risks indigestion with chicken feet, raw octopus, tripe steamed in a sweat sock. I consider an air-conditioned hotel room with cable “camping,” and I indulge my taste for adventure by mawing just about any spicy food, bizarre body part, or evolutionarily obsolete organ plated at me.
My mom tried. I grew up with very wholesome, basic meals. We ate as a family at 6:30 nightly. Pepper was exotic. There were no mysteries, and there were no choices. Meanwhile, where I grew up, the nearest restaurant was called The Rusty Scupper. Appetizing, right? It’s closed now.
By the time I hit college, the takeout sub shop–the one that let you add jalapenos to your eggplant parm–blew my mind. Since then, I’ve always looked for the metaphorical jalapeno. And now I’m the epicurean Chris Farley.
Not so my son.
Fine, so he’s ten months old. He’s not going to hustle carts at Hei Lei Moon for a few years. But, dude, how about trying some pasta primavera? I know it’s from a jar. But I tried it, and it tasted good! It smelled nice. The label looked friendly! I had such high hopes.
Brian had a work event, so I was feeling exceptionally solo and independent and bold at dinnertime. Also, I had friends coming over for gossip and wine, so time was at a minimum. I decided to crack open a Third Stage Gerber (chewy, advanced) and see what happened. Pasta Primavera seemed like an innocent enough option: soft pasta offset with something that looked orange and healthy. Yet tonight’s dinner was an unmitigated disaster that concluded with him drenched in pungent orange puree, with sweet potatoes streaking his arms like alarming tattoos.
Andy couldn’t abide the noodles. He loved the veggies but pffft’d the pasta onto his bib in tiny, soggy nubs. Then he began swatting the spoon and shrieking. After about a half a jar, I gave up and coaxed him into submission with his favorite ultra-smooth sweet potatoes. Then, worrying he hadn’t eaten enough, I plied him with YoBaby drops.
My pediatrician, Dr. Jenkins, had given us an intimidating handout about what kinds of foods we should try with him, right down to what shape pasta noodles he might prefer and how to introduce him to table food. And so we tried. We even have a baby-food cookbook, for weekends and “free” time.
He spits it all out. The one “adult” item he seems to enjoy is kung pao chicken, and his diapers are atmospheric enough as is.
Am I lazy, feeding him the vegetable purees he loves? Should I reattempt the pasta tomorrow night? Should I make it from scratch and hope for better? I do have visions of trotting through some kind of minty garden time-share situation and plucking ripe vegetables from the vine and plopping them into a cute bag, then coming home to gently saute them in a pan. I want to be kind of GOOP about this, in theory.
But in reality, I’m pretty sure Andy’s going to learn to expand his culinary horizons the same way I did — through the urgency of sheer boredom and necessity.

Soooo…Do You Ever Play Dead?

16 Jun

Short-lived.

I confess: By night, I’m not the most devoted mother. I consider bedtime my sanctuary. I slip between the covers with my iPhone (Words With Friends screenname: Paddington79) and my Murder, She Wrote for Netflix (AARP card: lost in the mail) and I shut out the world. I’m in bed by 9, up at 6. I keep the hours of a grandfather.

And there’s a reason grandparents don’t have infants.

Usually, my nocturnal habits work out just fine. Andy’s always been an awesome sleeper — in his crib by 8:30, up at about 6:30. But lately, about once a week, he’ll mutter to himself at around 4 am. Eventually, this muttering escalates to a steady whimper, then a cry, then a series of wails. Do I move from the comfort of my bed? Not always. After all, if he’s wailing, it means he’s breathing.

I’m sort of a bad person, aren’t I?

For the first several months of Andy’s life, I’d jolt awake at every sleepy whimper, every raspy inhale, every stir. Now I sometimes pretend not to hear him–knowing full well that my husband will bolt upright and stagger into Andy’s room to assess the situation. This from a man who rarely utters more than one syllable before noon. And I happily take advantage of his vigilance, splayed half-awake in my empty bed like Courtney Love posing for Vanity Fair. Yup, I’m pretty sure Brian should write the sequel to Go the F**k to Sleep and dedicate it to me: Get the F**k Up.

I even have a list of excuses that I sometimes make to avoid getting up.

1. I took a Tylenol PM.

2. I have a migraine.

3. I have a deadline early in the morning.

4. I have cramps.

5. I have absolutely no soul.

Yes, dear reader, I admit it: At 4 am, I want to hug my pillow more than I want to hug my child. I can’t be the only mom out there who feigns sleep in the hopes that her partner will rise to the occasion. Am I?

P.S. Benadryl works better than Tylenol.

Baby’s First Haircut: How Soon Is Too Soon?

7 Jun

Ready for the electric chair?

As with most things in our family, it all began at a restaurant. Every time we took Andy out to dinner, a kindly server would stop, smile, and inquire as to the age of our beautiful little girl. This would be thoughtful and sweet … if we had a girl. But we have a 10-month-old son with eyebrows like Eugene Levy’s. It culminated in a particularly confusing evening at Qingdao Garden in Cambridge, where in the course of an hour three waitresses offered “her” a fortune cookie. By the third cookie offering, I was ready to rename the kid Andrea, buy some frilly jumpers, and call it a night. Kinda made me wonder about those people in Canada so concerned about letting their kid choose its own gender. Why let your child choose, when complete strangers will do it for you?

But deep down Brian and I both knew: It was time for Andy to go under the knife. Or the scissors, as it were.

Oh,  I’d given him a mini-haircut once, when he was about six months old, in preparation for a vacation. Basically I snipped his 1980s-style rat tail in the bathtub while he sucked on a rubber duckie. Poor kid didn’t know what hit him. A friend asked if I’d saved the hair, and I looked at her like she was nuts. Save the hair? The thing looked like the remnants of a dirty raccoon.

But this time was different. I would take Andy to Snip-Its in Burlington, recommended to me by another friend, who told me it was like a Disney-fied salon for babies. Name aside (I envisioned chatty hair stylists performing circumcisions while Moms flipped through Us Weekly), the place was wonderful. Andy was promptly guided to a mini-salon chair and handed a medley of toys — bubble soap! Rattles! A cajoling stylist spritzed him with water and began delicately combing his hair. It was at this point that Andy had a major meltdown, flung his rattle to the ground, stiffened, and began shrieking. At which point another toddler in a neighboring chair began shrieking. At which point a little girl, waiting for her brother to be snipped, also began shrieking. At which point I wondered if the kind, hospitable folks at Snip-Its stocked a mini-bar.

After it was determined that no amount of extrasensory stimulation would soothe him, the stylist eased me–carrying a camera, Sophie the Giraffe, an unwieldy diaper bag, and a sweaty McDonald’s sweet iced tea–into an adult salon chair and settled Andy atop my lap. She moved fast. She had to. One deft snip across the top. A few clips to the sideburns. And a little razor-trim at the neckline.

Andy looked great. He also looked old. In the course of 20 minutes, my adorable (if slightly feminine) little baby had morphed into a rough-tough toddler. No doubt about it, Andy’s now a boy. And this time, I saved his hair.

It's a boy!

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Arlington Versus Acton: Are Cities the New Suburbs (Or Vice Versa)?

23 May

Life in the fast lane?

The Boston Globe Magazine has come out with their annual list of top places to live, and they’ve basically eavesdropped on my conversations with my psychiatrist and refined my neuroses into 12-point type. Henceforth, I shall direct Blue Cross/Blue Shield to their website and urge them to bill accordingly.

Both Arlington (my current resting place, 5 minutes from Cambridge) and Acton (my hometown, 20 miles west) made the list. Quasi-urban oasis Arlington boasts an eclectic blend of cosmopolitan and country, with its fun downtown, proximity to Cambridge, and meandering bike paths. Acton, meanwhile, is incredibly eco-friendly … which makes sense, since when I lived there, most kids vanished into the Arboretum to engage in some kind of illicit activity. Plus our high school made Harvard look like The Hangover!

But I digress.

The Globe piece basically highlighted the big tension that exists in my early-30s life right now: city versus suburb. For a long time, I dismissed suburbs–well, mainly because I grew up there. Your parents live in the suburbs. The burbs are boring, boring, boring–and petty and small and gossipy and competitive and every cliche that made John Hughes rich. The suburbs are your dad drinking whiskey at the kitchen table at 11 p.m. reading Flashman. The suburbs are your mom telling you who she ran into in the cereal aisle of Roche Brothers.

Well, check out this fun xoJane piece on 5 reasons to live in the suburbs (and drool over whatever house they decided to use for the photo). Then see today’s Tweet from Jill Kargman, chick litress: “Gun to my head and I HAD to move to burbs, I’d pick Rye. Such cool fun yummy mummies. AND they all have FOUR kids!” Or, hell, let me check my email and find that half of my Isis class are decamping to greener pastures, per our newest thread.

People have four kids in 2011? And, moreover: The former editor of Sassy thinks the suburbs are cool? Maybe there’s something to it–or else we’re all getting old.

Or this: I’m sensing a backlash. A suburb fetishization.

And scarier still, it resonates with me. Used to be uncool to want to move to the burbs. It was a symbol of certain defeat, a shrinkage into normalcy …a willingness to become your mom. A departing of a certain hardness. Of confessing a certain unwillingness to fight–for a parking space or a great school. The city offers a multitude of absolutely wonderful things, from music to theater to food to architecture. But for me, moving farther out says that I’m willing to drive to them–to see them once in awhile–while satiating more immediate concerns. Because really? My life isn’t about art or architecture. It’s about finding a f-ing parking space at 6 p.m. at Roche Brothers when my kid is blubbering for strained peas.

Or maybe I could resist longer. But comes a point, perhaps, when your child is six years old and you don’t want to face the uncertainly outlined in this story about the Boston public schools lottery. It’s easier to leave. And the grocery stores are so nice. And the parking is so easy. And…and…

…And now trendy sites like xoJane are into it, too. Did they read my mind?

Or maybe I’m just more secure in my priorities. I  know who I am more now, too. Look: There are certain things I refuse to do. For instance, I will (try) never to eat crappy food. Anyone who knows me realizes that I will drive any length to seek out good restaurants. Even if I live 20 minutes outside the city, I will hunt down the city’s best pig intestine. If you ever catch me sipping white wine at Not Your Average Joes, throw me headlong into a watery  marinade.

But, more and more, there’s stuff I just don’t want to forage for.

Basic Instinct: A Splash of Guilt, Squelched by Hollandaise

21 May

A rare Gerber vintage.

Today I saw Andy for probably three hours. It’s funny how, sometimes, I categorize days and hours and minutes and moments through the lens of how much time I spent with my son. It’s not a qualitative assessment; it’s a knee-jerk observation and a way to categorize and rationalize untethered time. How long was I gone from my spawn? The answer: Almost all day.

It was lovely as hell.

This morning, I inhaled eggs benedict with my friend Sarah at Lolita. The smoldering tequila/dry ice cocktail they brought to our table gave me an instant deep-pore treatment. Then I mawed chorizo, grilled cornbread, and chili con queso atop poached eggs. Sarah got velvet pancakes with a pituitary problem. Bloody Marys and champagne all around. My Spanx (not linking to be smarmy; I just think everyone deserves a turgid pair of Spanx) didn’t stand a chance; my gut rolls roiled volcanically beneath the table.

Then we hit up Newbury Street in force, so I could lament not being born on stilts. Intermix, Zara …  and at last Jonathan Adler, where I had an unsavory exchange with a smirking, hassled salesperson who insisted on no returns when I bought an iPhone case that didn’t fit my iPhone.

Which means I won’t return.

Yes, I’m destined to have the same vaguely sweaty phone I’ve toted around since 1998, with crusted concealer on the keypad. I am not, nor will I ever be, a cool person. But for a while, I felt like a free person.

I came home to find Andy inhaling blocks in his bedroom. We piled him into the car and went to have dinner with friends–where over-stimulation functioned as a fantastic baby-sitter. He’s sleeping happily; my iPhone case keeps popping off my phone. Same as it ever was.

I had a great day and I didn’t really see Andy much at all. It reminded me that not every day needs to be defined in relation to what I do with him. At all. He has needs, he’s an infant, he needs his mother–to an extent. Until he begins chewing ferociously on a cord, wire, or plant. Then I’m just an impediment. Right now, he needs clean toys, naps, and dry diapers. And a hug.

And sometimes I need eggs Benedict. (They were really good.)

Do You Ever Stress About Paying for Your Baby’s College Education?

20 May

Harvard or bust!

I realize this is nosy, but I’m semi-freaked out and nobody ever talks about this stuff. I can’t be the only one who clicks on one of those college-planning calculators every so often and envisions a retirement spent eating Fancy Feast. For example: I just ran the numbers for Andy to attend my alma mater, Mount Holyoke. (Yes, I know it’s an all-women’s school. Whatever, the point is, it’s an expensive school. And if they continue to charge so much, they’re going to have to start enrolling guys or farm animals soon enough anyway.) In order for Andy to attend a similarly priced private college in 18 years, we’ll need to save about $414,913.

Interestingly, a WSJ survey came out today about affluent baby boomers and their reluctance to leave money to their spawn. The bottom line: They worked hard for their cash, and they’re not going to fork it over to their kids.

I, on the other hand, constantly think about saving money for Andy. Brian and I make a point of investing in his 529–and have since he was born. Meanwhile, I’m not an affluent baby boomer. I’m a fairly disciplined 32-year-old woman with many financial goals, just one of them being saving for my child to go to college. I can’t be the only one out there who kind of cringes at the thought of socking away nearly half a mil in 18 years. Or am I?

Meanwhile, our financial adviser (who’s so refreshingly un-stuffy and candid) urges us to plan for our retirement and take care of ourselves first, which echoes the WSJ piece. There’s scholarships and loans for college; there’s no such thing as a retirement loan.

What do you think? Are many of us in the same boat here, or is there some super-top-secret savings plan that I don’t know about? Meanwhile, after Andy’s nap, it’s time to practice his croquet skills and reading comprehension.

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My Turnip-Maned Child Who Rarely Bathes

19 May

Light the candles; bring on the incense!

That’s not completely true. He does bathe. Sometimes.

I usually try to plunge Andy into the sudser twice or three times a week. He goes to day care Monday through Wednesday, so Wednesday night is usually spent giving him a thorough scrub-n-lather. We also give him a nice bath on Sunday nights to start the week out fresh. Until now, that’s been it. After all, just how dirty can he get? He doesn’t go anywhere!

The answer: Downright filthy. Now that he’s eating solid foods, he’s become a mess.  I’m constantly extracting bits of pureed vegetables from his fat rolls and finding tiny pieces of lint from his bib buried under his chin. The other night, Brian attempted to feed him pureed roasted turnips. They made a better deep-conditioning treatment than a meal — within moments, Andy had massaged the stuff into a pasty lather, all over his hair. The ends of his mane hardened and turned crusty, and it was back into the bath tub for him … for the second time that day.

I can’t kid myself any longer: He’s not a sweet-smelling infant. He’s an odor-emitting, vegetable-mangling, on-the-move baby. From now on, Andy’s going to be a one-bath-a-day man. (Except if we’re just hanging around the house. If a baby’s coated in goo and nobody’s around to notice … is he really even dirty? I say no.)

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