Scots Bearing Gifts --and Other Joys

Last week’s highlight (besides the inauguration, of course) was a short visit from my old pal Karen during her annual American homecoming pilgrimage from Glasgow. We usually see her around Christmas, but this year’s trip was timed so she could hit the Mall for some Obamamania. As for me, there was no way I was going to brave the freezing breezes and inaugural frenzy of DC with two little kids, so had to be content sitting in front of the television weeping tears of joy.

Karen and I were housemates in Virginia in the mid-90s until I moved to New York and she put her dual citizenship to work and decamped to the UK. She’s a striking, rubenesque gal with a robust, sometimes brash personality to match. She can be a little off-putting to some, but I have always loved her adventurous spirit and thoughtful, conscientious side. We had some wild times in our twenties. I have to laugh when I think of us partying with rockstars, clubbing in London, etc. Such a far cry from my own daily grind these days. Karen’s still a part-time party girl, but has settled down considerably with an office job and an adoring (and adorable) man in her life.

Anyway, it’s always nice to have a visit from a prosperous European. She took me to dinner at one of the swankier restaurants in Loserburg, absolute heaven after being stuck in the house for two weeks. And on top of that, she brought me the latest Boris Akunin (not yet out in the States) and lots of Cadbury. Trying to picture myself lying in bed reading a mystery novel while eating bonbons. Have yet to make it happen though I have been getting in a little Fandorin fix every night before passing out from exhaustion.

In other news, I’m happy to report that we got the Christmas tree down before February. Henry took it better than expected. All that’s left is a pile of pine needles and shards from a broken Christmas bulb, which I’d better get off the floor before Coco eats them.

Daily Bread...

My favorite three-seed loaf at the health food store is now going for close to 5 bucks, an indulgence I no longer feel I can justify. But the idea of resigning myself to a lifetime of mushy grocery store bread had me down. So, I decided to take matters into my own hands and make some bread. I’m fairly satisfied with the results: two chewy and rather tasty whole-wheat loaves. The kids seem to like it. But as we slice our way through the second loaf, I’m left wondering whether I have the discipline to keep it up.

Christian likes to tell the story of how his mother was very briefly caught up in the bread- making fad of the seventies. For a short time, as he tells it, the smell of homemade bread graced their kitchen. And then…nothing. It had lost its charm. My mother-in-law, a very genteel British lady, is a decidedly unenthusiastic home cook. I have a feeling that the microwave oven would rank right up there with antibiotics in her list of crowning achievements of the twentieth century. I can’t imagine that bread baking would in any way be her cup of tea. But I have to ask myself—is it mine? I’m no Nigella Lawson myself, but I am a microwave-free, whole foods kind of gal (I mean the concept, not the grocery store since we don’t really have one in proximity). I certainly wouldn’t call the process difficult. A little time consuming, maybe, with all the rising, kneading etc. It does seem like the kind of thing that might become somewhat effortless once one had incorporated it into her routine. And right now, the days are long and cash is short. So let’s keep mixing it up.

And Cheese Wars

This just in: In retaliation for the European Union’s refusal to lift its ban on stinky old US hormone treated beef, the Bushies (don’t let the door hit you on the way out, guys) have put in place a 300% tariff on the bliss that is Roquefort. While there are reportedly 60 or so European products on the US hit list, Roquefort has been singled out, apparently because of its symbolic value, for a much higher rate.

Roquefort producers, including the anti-globalization vigilante José Bové, who made headlines nearly 10 years ago by attacking a McDonalds in the town of Millau, are threatening to suspend imports into the US altogether. Alas, Roquefort (even without the 300% tariff) is not in my budget these days, but I do have very fond memories of it from my former life as a jetsetting trade attaché. (I’ve got a tear in my eye and water in my mouth as I write this.) Especially delicious with Sauternes or a red Burgundy, as I recall. Also have a nice memory of a very simple endive and Roquefort salad Christian and I had at our friend Jacky’s flat in Paris one winter afternoon a few years ago.

This back and forth over hormone treated beef has been going on for years now. I used to follow it pretty closely while working for the French government in the early 2000’s. Am decidedly out of the loop now. But I’m definitely backing Brussels on this one. I mean really, now, who the hell wants to eat hormone treated beef? I certainly don’t and will keep doing my best to stay away from it (though it’s difficult and expensive for an American mean-eater to avoid it entirely). Makes one want to go out and drive a tractor into a McDonalds. If only I could tear myself away from the heater…

Windchillin'

Well, the dastardly GI virus has chewed us up, spit us out and moved on. But the winter doldrums appear to be firmly entrenched. Finally got Hank back to preschool on Wednesday after what felt like an interminable absence. The three-year-old class at our local community center takes place three days a week, which works out to twelve days a month (or so). What with four sick days and two days off next week for MLK and the inauguration, we’re down to six measly days for January, which leaves poor old mama deprived of a considerable chunk of precious downtime. We are definitely not getting our $140 this month, I can tell you. There’s no such thing, by the way, as free preschool for the middle class in Virginia. My niece, who’s also three, goes 5 full days a week for free in DC. (Not that I’m quite ready to give him up full time just yet.) Here, we pay until kindergarten. Our well-regarded county-run program is a bargain compared to some of the other places around. But still, it hurts to cough it up every month, especially when your kid’s not even in class.

This winter is shaping up to be a bit of a drag I have to say. We’re in the middle of a major cold snap. Seventeen degrees feels pretty damn bitter to me, although I’m sure my readership in the upper Midwest is snickering right now. I should note that winter in the Virginia countryside does have a silver lining. I love to look out at our frozen pond with a little icing of snow. The muted hues and watery January light are lovely. The coziness of the kitchen. A down quilt and flannel sheets, etc.

None of this, of course, was in my mind on Friday as I undertook my first major outing with both kids in the new year. A routine trip to an indoor pool in a nearby town for swim lessons turned into a nightmare when the heat in my car wouldn’t come on. Most normal people would have turned right around when the check gages light came on, but I was hell bent on getting out of the house, and just kept driving and waiting for the heat to kick in. It didn’t, and after 20 minutes in the car, both kids were screaming as their little extremities started to freeze. I started to panic as we neared the rec center, and I started smelling smoke. By the time I hustled my little popsicles into the building, all three of us were in tears, and the kind staffers took care of us like refugees. I had to call Christian out of work, and he showed up with a good samaritan friend of his and some antifreeze. They managed to get us home (miraculously, with heat). The good news is that the problem is apparently related to the thermostat and should, God willing, be relatively easy and inexpensive to fix. And, while we were waiting to be rescued, Hank made it to swim class (a little late) and wound up getting a private lesson, as the cold had apparently deterred his fellow ducklings, those wimps.

The Real Thing, Only Smaller

I am, generally speaking, the kind of parent who swears by brisk walks and plenty of fresh air. But as we ride out the GI bug from hell, we’ve been spending a maddening amount of time inside.

This had led us to bust out some of the fabulous educational toys Hank managed to accumulate at Christmas: Magna-Tiles, Tinker Toys and his first set of big-kid Legos. All of them, of course, have enough tiny pieces to give a heart attack to the mother of a one year old whose favorite pastime is eating debris off the floor. But the Legos are by far the worst, which leads me to this pressing question: have Legos gotten smaller or is it just that I’ve gotten bigger? They seem so unbelievably tiny. I have to say that manipulating minuscule pieces of plastic is not in any way my cup of tea, what with my spatial-relations handicap and all. But I bit the bullet and jumped in there for the sake of my firstborn.

Anyway, above is the result of my first foray into Legomania. Must disclose that this does not in any way reflect the slightest indication of creativity on my part. The set came with detailed instructions on how to build the pirate ship, treasure chest and amazingly realistic shark.

Gut Wrenching

Waiting, waiting for the evil bug to catch up to me. I’ve determined that it’s only a matter of time. Am experiencing fever, chills, aches and bracing for the more unpleasant symptoms to manifest.

The kids are on the mend, which is a blessing and a burden at once. I’m so glad to see that glassy look has disappeared from their little eyes. But it also means that they have essentially returned to their usual energetic state, which is rough on poor old mama who would like nothing more than to spend the day curled up in bed watching bad television. Speaking of curled up in bed, Christian has definitely succumbed and has been horizontal most of the day, listening to the (soothing?) tones of right wing talk radio (and running to the bathroom every few minutes). We’ve decided that this is exactly the same virus we all (except newborn Coco) got last year around this time, which has me feeling guilty about my failure to sanitize everything in the house following that illness. It’s like it’s just been lurking around for a year, waiting until our defenses were down. I’m not really sure about the science of all that—can a virus survive on a surface for a whole year? I’d look it up, but can’t stand to look at pictures of microscopic organisms.

I can tell this post is on the verge of descending into delusional ranting so better sign off.

Just In from the Far Corners of the Commonwealth

Hilarious/pathetic article from WaPo this morning about a 6 year old who attempted to drive his mother’s car to school leaving chaos in his wake. This took place in Virginia’s Northern Neck, a beautiful spot a few hours from Lovetown, where the Chesapeake Bay meets the Rappahannock River. We are fortunate to have relatives down there and are able to visit from time to time, most recently at Thanksgiving. It’s a fantastic place and full of charming people who love the water. But one occasionally gets the feeling of leaving civilization behind, and they’ve definitely some kind of inbred, meth-addict thing going on at the same time (we’ve mostly gotten rid of that kind of thing here in Lovetown). Anyway, according to the article, this kid’s father was under court order not to leave him alone with the mother, which of course he did. So the kid missed his bus while the mother was asleep and, not wanting to miss school-provided breakfast or PE, decided to take matters into his own hands. Made it 10 miles before hitting a utility pole. The meal, according to this report, may have been the primary motivating factor.

Fevered Ego

I originally thought of calling this blog Puke, Shit and Tears until Christian convinced me to tone it down. However, the erstwhile title pretty much describes the scene around here for the past few days. Both kids have the stomach bug, with echoes of Trainspotting, as pointed out by one of my UK correspondents. Coco is on the mend, and her primary complaint now seems to be the nasty case of diarrhea-induced diaper rash which causes her to scream her head off whenever it’s time for a change. Hank is a few days behind and full on into it. Unable to keep anything down except, strangely, for fried eggs. I consider it a blessing when he’s able to make it to the bathroom/trash can before unleashing a torrent from one end or the other. The paper towel resolution, I should say, is out the window. I think I’ve already gone through my yearly target just wiping up vomit. As for me, I’ve been able to skirt the virus so far, but do have a full-blown case of cabin fever, having barely left the house in the past week. Relying on Facebook as my only means of communication with the outside world and starting to feel like I might come unhinged at any moment. Actually, that’s pretty much the normal state of things, but never mind.

The Spice of Life

My first taste of 2009 has been a string of sleepless nights and a case of cabin fever.
Coco very kindly waited until the 1st to come down with that stomach bug (at least we think that’s what it is). She’s been feverish and fussy for three days, with a temp of 104.7 last night. Our amazing girl has had the good fortune to get through her first year with barely a sniffle. And while I knew something like this was bound to happen, it’s still scary as hell. I’ve been a basket case at night and a zombie during the day. The house, of course, is a disaster. And for the past three days, my social interactions have consisted of calling up my sister the MD and crying into the phone and a trip to the doctor’s office where I held my baby down while they catheterized her for a urine sample. Oh and facebook, but that doesn’t really count…does it? Anyway, she seems a bit better tonight, and the docs are calling for baby Motrin (thank God for ibuprofen…) and observation at this point.

Christian’s got an unfortunate intestinal thing of his own going on, and poor little Henry has been left to his own devices, with papa in bed and mama taking care of baby sis. Our no video policy has gone out the window, and the boys have been busting out some of the random dvds we’ve managed to acquire over the years. These include Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer and (Hank’s favorite) some forgotten Gregory Peck flick about WWII soldiers in Burma.

A bright spot in the midst of this bleak landscape has been my rediscovery of the bliss that is Tabasco. I remember using this sublime concoction fairly frequently during the Louisiana years, but for some reason it had slipped off my radar screen. My parents, in their infinite wisdom, brought some over on New Year’s Day to put on the black-eyed peas and conveniently left their nearly full bottle on our kitchen table. We’re going through it like mad, dumping it on eggs, chicken, leftover pork loin (it turned out fabulous, by the way). I can’t get enough of it. Almost put it on my oatmeal this morning but thought that might be taking things a little too far. It really is a little bit like sunshine in a bottle. Not sure if it’s coming out in my breastmilk. But now that I think of it, the onset of Coco’s malady corresponds awfully closely with my initial ingestion of the magic elixir. Oh man, I hope she’s not allergic. Don't know that I could go back to life without it.