Almond Joy

My current vices, as I’ve let on previously, are pretty limited. An occasional square of dark chocolate, a Heineken here, a couple glasses of wine there. Mama is my name and tame is my game…

I should, however, confess my obsession with marzipan. I’m addicted, in particular to Ritter dark chocolate/marzipan bars. Got hooked on those things when I lived in Brooklyn and they sold them at the deli around the corner from my house. They are not so easy to come by out here in the boonies but miraculously available at Target, which makes me love that place even more (there, I admit it. I love Target). I recently found myself doing a little jig in the frozen food aisle when I discovered that Ben and Jerry’s had launched (so to speak) a new flavor called…Mission to Marzipan. Yeehaw! Have only indulged a couple of times so far. (philosophically opposed to spending 4+ dollars a pint for ice cream but sometimes it’s impossible to resist).

And how I miss almond croissants. They were always my favorites in Paris. They used to make a mean one at Bruno Bakery on Lorimer St in Williamsburg, a few blocks from my old place. One of those and a cup of black coffee always put me in a euphoric state of mind. They also made kickass pignoli tart (heavy on the almond paste). There were some Turks who had a bakery in a strip mall in a neighboring town and produced a soggy, overpriced version. But they closed up shop a year or two ago. (couldn’t handle life in exurban hell?). So, I’m still looking for a decent almond croissant out here, but there is a place that makes a killer Rhubarb pie.

Souvenirs, souvenirs

Speaking of toxic cocktails, my last post brought to mind a drink I was acquainted with in New Orleans called a Wild Night at the Capri Motel. They poured that one at Nick’s Bar on Tulane Avenue (named for the motel next door). No idea what was in it, but it had these crazy strata of different colored alcohols. Pretty tasty as I (vaguely) recall. I’m sure one of those would send me right over the edge these days. My habits down there were a far cry from my current abstemious lifestyle. But everyone knows the rules are different in New Orleans.

Was racking my brain to remember the name of the bar and came across someone's blog (via Google), which had an archived report from 2006 on the demise of Nick’s.

It’s been 15 years since I left New Orleans, ten since I visited. My New Orleans nostalgia comes and goes in waves. A lot of it is focused on various bars/clubs I frequented: the Maple Leaf, Bon Temps Roule, the old Charity’s, Café Brazil etc. But I always did love the still, peaceful side of the city, too. I have lovely memories of Alvina’s yoga studio on Oak Street. I used to run there (along the streetcar tracks) from my place on lower Magazine, do an hour of yoga and run home. Seems like a million years ago. I don’t have any idea what it’s like there now, and I hardly know anyone who still lives there. I did get a call out of the blue the other day from an old boyfriend, an NO native who is still hanging in there. He’s apparently in the Catskills with his wife and daughter and they’re going to spend a night here at the funny farm on return trip. Looking forward to reconnecting and getting the scoop on the post Katrina scene…

The Last Straw

On the subject of bêtes noires, allow me to share another: the loathsome Capri Sun “juice” boxes. This of course is a vile mixture of water, high fructose corn syrup and a teeeeeny little bit of juice in an appealing foil pouch with a cute little straw.

I recently joined a playgroup for Coco through a local housewives confederation I got involved with some time ago in an effort to “branch out” (or something). This week’s playdate was hosted by a very nice woman with a nice house (and pool) in a sprawling subdivision. We were having a fine time, and the snacks were perfect (whole wheat pretzels) but in the icebox: the dreaded corn syrup cocktail. I have participated in various playgroups/meetups since Hank’s toddlerhood and am appalled at how often these things show up. I always cringe when one of the moms whips out the foil pack. Like our fabulous first lady, I am, of course, an avowed corn syrup repudiator. But when faced with this kind of situation, I usually wimp out and let the boy have one just to avoid a scene. I figure that, at almost 4, a little bit of HFCS won’t kill him, but I just can’t fathom giving one of these to a toddler. These kids aren’t even two for crying out loud. Coco, fortunately, has not yet been corrupted (I don’t even really give her regular old watered down juice yet) and didn’t know what she was missing.

Came across something from the Center for Science and the Public Interest about its lawsuit that forced Kraft to abandon the phrase “all natural” on the CS label. CSPI charged that deceptive labeling might cause people to think the darn things are actually made with juice. Kraft, I should note, are also the purveyors of Lunchables another disgusting processed food medley. They, of course, market these products together—just to make sure your kid gets his daily requirement of chemicals and sugar at one sitting. Do people not know this stuff is bad for you? Do they not care? I’m trying to fit in around here but sometimes I’m ready to throw in the towel.

Bêtes Noires

I was sitting at the kitchen table contemplating my scrambled eggs the other day when I noticed a tiny black bead on my forearm. “What is that?” I asked my beloved spouse. “Looks like a deer tick engorged with blood.” Hmmm. Lovely. Now looking out for the dreaded Lyme disease bullseye thing. I happen to be on antibiotics for a sinus infection so hopefully cephalexin will also take care of any germs the little bugger may have passed on. Apparently, our little corner of the Blue Ridge has an incidence of Lyme disease about 20 times the state average. There are a hell of a lot of deer around here.

The French word for tick, which by coincidence I learned the other night is tique ( in the manner of musique, classique etc.). The author of the novel I mentioned in my last post describes people attaching themselves to cultural crutches like a tique to a fat warm dog. It’s kind of an elegant word for such a nasty little creature. Their existence seems totally unjustified to me, but I suppose they’re food for the birds. Wouldn’t mind getting a few guinea fowl in here to clear them out if I can overcome my distaste for poultry.

Unfortunately, they like to hang out in tall grass and we’re not so big on mowing around here. Our trio of riding mowers is still down. But Christian did get out (on father’s day God bless him) and cut the grass immediately surrounding our house with the (now operational) push mower. Just beyond, there remains a vast expanse of knee high blades way beyond the capability of a any kind of lawnmower. This stuff is going to require a real tractor and bushhog, which we’ll have to borrow. There is a nice little close-cropped patch beyond the garden on which the ever lovin’ has set up a horseshoe court. We’re not really horseshoe pitchers around here but somebody passed on an old set, so what the heck. We can have a glass or rosé and pretend we’re playing pétanques at the Place des Lices in Saint Tropez.

Belles Lettres & Beaux Rêves

At some point in the recent past, I was able to catch a few minutes of the Diane Rehm show while driving (a rare occurrence since Henry hates NPR in the car and usually starts screaming for me to turn it off after about ten seconds). She had a few ladies on the program talking about a new French novel called The Elegance of the Hedgehog recently published in translation over here. I decided to see if I could get a copy in version originale. It’s been a while since I’ve read a novel in French. I think I read something by Zola on the train during my commuting days (when I worked in DC before Henry was born) so that would have been 2005 or so. I used to edit a newsletter in French, and reading is still pretty easy for me. It does, however, require just a little more mental energy than reading a similar text in my native language, and mental energy is in very short supply these days. But I don’t think I could bring myself to read any kind of French literature in translation. I’d always be wondering what they were really saying…This is why I’ve never read Proust, by the way. I gave it a shot in my twenties but was too distracted to read it in French and unwilling to read it in translation. Maybe I’ll get around too it when the kids go to college.

Anyway, I went to my darling little Lovetown library (where there is, of course, no foreign language section) and asked them to try to get Hedgehog for me through interlibrary loan. They totally (and promptly) came through for me (God I love that place). And its exotic appeal is even greater since it came from Vegas of all places. Now I just have to stay awake to read it.

It’s an interesting story written by a 40 year-old French chick. Written from the perspective of a philosophical concierge in a snooty 16th arrondissement apartment building and the suicidal teenage daughter of some yuppies in one of the flats upstairs. Highly enjoyable, thought provoking etc. and yet I can usually only manage a few pages a night before dozing off. This is pretty much the way of things with any reading material I take to bed these days. Oh well, I suppose the most I can hope for is to get in a few belles-lettres before dropping off into oblivion.

Another Year of Exurban Angst

OK…the daily posting exercise is turning out to be impossible. I think, however, that I’ve accomplished what I was going for: a little shakeup of my slacker ways, a little rigor in the mental routine.

I started this thing exactly a year ago. It’s been therapeutic if nothing else. Not sure how many people actually read it and find it hard to believe that my mundane ruminations would be of interest to anyone other than a few friends (wish I’d had a blog while I was in Paris in the 90s—that would have been an interesting read!). I know there are a few diehards out there (thanks guys) who tune in regularly. I’d be curious to know if anyone has ever stumbled across it through a random google search or anything. I’ve found a couple of interesting blogs that way. Definitely have not gone out of my way to get it out there…I barely have the time or energy to post on this thing, much less promote it. I joined a bloggy women’s network but have yet to reach out in any meaningful way to the “community.” I just don’t see the point.

Not that I really see the point of maintaining the blog to begin with. I’ve thought about just canning the whole thing, but the old man keeps dissuading me. I suppose I’d miss it if I stopped. It does impose a little structure to my muddled thoughts, keeps the neurons firing, etc. Anyway, I suppose it’s slightly more productive than sitting around watching The View. So…stick with me for another year.

Unpopular Mechanics

Very sweetly asked the ever lovin’ to go out and take care of the little patch of grass between driveway and porch (in anticipation of weekend visitors) only to learn that our push mower is not currently operational. This rounds out our stable of three non-functional riding mowers (one won’t mow and the others won’t go). Our automotive graveyard is also populated by several John Deere tractors in various states of disrepair, a Chevy pickup truck and a Ford cargo van. None of these is up on cinder blocks, so we have not totally descended into abject white trash wretchedness. I should note that the van is actually pretty useful. Christian uses it as a storage shed, and it hides our unsightly trash cans. Trying very hard not to allow the unreliability of mechanical systems to play havoc on my state of mind, but really impossible to ignore when the damn grass keeps tickling my shins.

Arachno-rama

Seems like it’s been pouring down rain for weeks, and all the sticky weather has brought out the spiders in droves. Hank and I were enjoying an educational moment the other day, observing a classic fat spider on an intricate web catching and wrapping up her prey. Poor Coco got attacked in bed the other night by what we suspect was a surly arachnid and woke up with a forehead full of little welts. Then there’s the beauty (in photo) we discovered on the porch this morning. I’ve never really had a spider issue (although if I find the one who was chewing on my baby, you know I’m going to squash him). They seem to be keeping the mouches at bay for which I’m grateful. Ticks on the other hand are my bete noire (so to speak). Our runaway vegetation is a haven for these nasty little beasts. They always seem to go for the ears… Looking forward to the welcome whir of the weedwhacker soon.

Chemical Overreactions

You may be surprised to learn this, but here it is: the old man and I occasionally have our differences on the eternal questions of child rearing. For example, what to do for a sore bum. Little Coco, unfortunately, is pretty susceptible to diaper rash. Her mama, I should note, is more than a little susceptible to intense parental guilt and needless worry.

We’ve had fairly good luck with an over the counter product which contains petrolatum. Christian (who’s pretty positive on fossil fuels generally speaking) is a devoted fan and advocates applying it with abandon. I get a little nervous about putting hydrocarbons on my kid’s rear end and would prefer to use something more natural.

I’ve found quite a bit of conflicting information about petrolatum on the web. On one hand, you have the folks who say it’s a carcinogen (its use has apparently been restricted in the EU since 2004). On the other, you have sites that tell you the cancer thing is a myth and go ahead and slather the stuff on. Anyway, the truth is, it’s hard to get away from it. Petrolatum, it seems, is in just about everything--including pretty much every skincare product recommended by my pediatrician. My sister, also a pediatrician, uses all the mainstream stuff on her kids. But I have crunchier friends who wouldn’t let these industrial products anywhere near their precious offspring’s behinds. I found a nice product at the health food store: olive oil, beeswax and yarrow or something. It seemed to help but cost a fortune. We went through the tiny $10 jar in two days. Someone suggested cornstarch, but I’ve read that that can actually do more harm than good if there’s any yeast in the picture. What to do? I suppose for the time being, we’ll stick with the tried and true and hope the Europeans are wrong. It’s certainly happened before, n’est-ce pas?

Gabon Baby Gabon

Libération reports today that Omar Bongo is, in fact, dead. Embarrassed to admit that I had never heard of Omar Bongo until today. It turns out he was President of Gabon for 40+ years and quite a character. He was apparently tight with a string of French presidents from the 60s all the way up to Sarkozy and was one of the few remaining old school politicians still openly supporting strong ties between France and its former African colonies. Libé attributes his staying power to political instincts and “reasonable” use of corruption (he was, of course, rich as hell from oil money).

In case you had forgotten (as I had) or never knew exactly where Gabon is, it’s in west central Africa, right underneath Equatorial Guinea. Africa has always been kind of a mystery to me, and I regret not having seen any of it during my traveling days. At one point, I had friends from Togo, Benin and Burkina Faso, neighboring countries in West Africa, and thought about trying to organize a trip. I’ve unfortunately lost touch with them (as I have with so many wonderful connections from my former life) and a trip to Africa now seems about as far-fetched as a trip to the moon. Anyway, planning a little geography lesson for Hank this week. We’ll talk about Gabon.

Excuses, Excuses

So, I’ve been brought down by the man. Or more acurately, a slightly loopy but very sweet 55 year old woman. You see, I’ve neglected, in this space, to mention my part-time job, which has kept me from meeting my self-imposed challenge to get a post up every day for a month. I started talking to this wacky baby boomer at a yoga class a few months ago and discovered that she’s the events manager for one of the myriad historic mansions in our uncommonly lovely corner of the Commonwealth. She mentioned that she was looking for a site manager to help with weddings, so I’ve been putting in a few Saturdays here and there. Not too gruesome...I’ve certainly had worse jobs. Gets me out of the house and brings in a little extra cash. But after 10 hours of dealing with annoying drunks and intractable folding chairs, I was too pooped to post. And now, DiCaprio and Crowe await. You’ll be hearing from me on the other side.

My Very Own Dumpster on Wheels

The only thing I want to do less than work on a post is clean out my car. It’s pouring outside, and chilly. Coco’s peacefully napping and Hank’s upstairs with a video. I’d like to be curled up with a book and a cup of tea, but I’m forcing myself to sit here at the keyboard as I have pledged to get something up every day. I’m sure you all would forgive me if I skipped a day, but I can’t give up this early in the month with no good excuse. Besides, anything’s better than standing around in the rain trying to dig out the goldfish from between the seats. However, I have volunteered to take a couple of ladies to yoga happy hour this evening, so it’s got to be done. My vehicle’s an absolute disaster: trash, clothes and of course mountains of goldfish and Cheerios. The back is full of stuff that needs to go to the recycling center. It’s been so rainy lately, and there’s dried mud all over the place, including on the back of the passenger seat where Hank likes to kick up his heels. The wheel is all sticky, the dashboard is dusty. Fortunately, I don’t think I’ve left any dirty diapers under the seat in a while, but you really never know what will turn up.

I know plenty of people who let their kids eat in the car. How do they keep things from getting out of hand? I suppose most sane people just take their trash into the house with them when they get out of the car, something I just can’t seem to bring myself to do. I have suggested driving around with a dustbuster, but my darling spouse has something against them. I usually wind up dragging a vacuum cleaner out there with an extension cord. Don’t really want to risk electrocution this afternoon (especially with a much needed night out in the works), so I’ll probably just brush all the crumbs out onto the driveway. OK…going out now. And only when every last goldfish has been cast out into the universe will I allow myself a cup of fragrant, steaming tea.

Just Me and My Microbes

Don’t really listen to NPR that much any more (can only handle small doses of all that careful diction and sickeningly high-minded reporting). But I still love Science Friday. Tuned in for a bit last week whilst cleaning the kitchen floor. They had a researcher talking about a new study cataloging the bacteria on healthy human skin. There are apparently a lot more different kinds than anybody realized. Not harmful—they’re just hanging out and are probably beneficial.

I’m all about preserving the harmony of my microbial flora. I regularly take a probiotic supplement to keep the intestinal bacteria going strong. Hadn’t really given a lot of thought to skin microbes, although I’ve never been one for antibacterial soap or deodorant. I’m happy to say, I’m just not that stinky. I’ve long been convinced of the important role pheromones play in human interactions. Don’t want to wipe those guys out if they can help keep the peace between me and the ever lovin’. And I’m happy to have a few bacteria along for the ride...as long as they stay in line.

I am, however, a big hand-washer, especially since I had kids. I’ve also gotten fully on board on the hand sanitizer thing. I can’t believe I spent five years in NYC riding around every day in an underground Petri dish and never, not once, bought a bottle of Purell. And I was never sick. Maybe the germs agreed with me. Maybe what’s been bringing me down around here is a lack of germs. Or maybe it’s just these darn country bumpkin microbes. They just don’t know how to coexist with a sophisticated woman like me.

SPF...WTF?

Summer is officially here in little old Lovetown. We escaped the humidity yesterday with our first swim at our community pool.

We are, like most 21st century bourgeois parents, slaves to sunscreen around here. We’ve got it all: the sticks, the tubes, the sprays. With my non-cooperative little heathens, I generally find the whole process to be an exercise in frustration. Messy, time-consuming and, of course, thankless. Must admit that patience has never been my greatest virtue. (Hmmm…what, I wonder, is my greatest virtue? Do I even have one?). Anyway, just another one of those obligatory tasks I dread but faithfully execute.

On top of this, we have an additional issue here at the funny farm. The iron in our well water interacts in the washing machine with the sunscreen that has rubbed off on our clothes. Turns everything orange. The ideal solution would be an expensive filtration system, but until that materializes, I’ve been just been avoiding buying light colored clothing as much as possible.

I’ve been thinking of experimenting with some of the natural products available at the health food store to see if we can eliminate the laundry problem. I’m ashamed to say, I usually just buy the industrial stuff available at Target, although I do worry about putting all those chemicals on my kids’ skin. The organic ones tend to cost a fortune, though, and we go through them pretty fast.

I do occasionally let the kids out for short stretches without sunscreen at the suggestion of a holistic-minded family physician I once met who contends that the benefits Vitamin D straight from the source outweigh the dangers of a little UV exposure. But for the most part, we toe the line. My mother (one of those outdoorsy, tennis-playing senior citizens) has had numerous basal cells removed. I’ve had a couple of bad burns in my ignorant sun worshipping days and would like to ward off skin cancer as long as possible. We went to Florida last spring and I was so conscientious about the SPF that I was just as embarrassingly white after a week on the beach as I was when I first got off the plane. There were a couple of leather skinned sea hags whom we saw on the beach every day during that trip: sunning, smoking and drinking Diet Pepsis. I remember being kind of revolted at the time, but looking back, I suppose there is really nothing wrong with a couple of good old gals exercising their right to fry.

The Green Grass Grows All Around

I don’t remember signing up to live in a jungle…and yet, here I am. It was unbelievably rainy this spring, and we’ve got the vegetation to prove it. Our grass isn’t quite as high as an elephant’s eye, but definitely getting up to pony level. We have a symphony of bird and frog sounds going pretty much nonstop (actually, the birds are pretty quiet at night). Our pond appears to be the favored hangout for a bunch of very tropical looking redwinged blackbirds. Also have a very cute bluebird who seems to have adopted us. Just hoping the cats don’t eat him.

All that rain has done wonders for our greens. We’ve been enjoying the fruits of our first crop in: Black Seeded Simpson lettuce, spinach, arugula and swiss chard. (I swear Coco said arugula the other day.) Some insect appears to dig the arugula as well—we don’t really mind sharing as long as he doesn’t go overboard. Our second wave recently just started sprouting: baby spinach and mesclun.

The ever lovin’ has turned into quite the devoted gardener. He’s built these super little boxes for our greens and spends hours out there mulching, watering etc. Christian is sometimes hard to motivate, but capable of kicking ass when he puts his mind to it. He’s been looking into this crazy Indian technique called Three Sisters, which involves growing squash, corn and green beans together. I’m definitely down with the corn and squash but mostly keen to get the green beans in as they are always a big hit around here. Also need to get our cukes in. I’m not so much about cucumber in my salads but I like to juice them. They are especially refreshing in the summer and are proven to have cooling properties. We’ve been embarrassingly delinquent on the juicing front this year. I’m sure that’s part of the reason I’ve been feeling like absolute crap this spring. But am determined to turn things around. Oh and look for a post from me every day in June (after a paltry 3 posts in May). Should be interesting.

Requiem for a C Cup

Even an avowed television-hater needs a little escapism once in a while. So, while waiting for the most recent 24 to come out on DVD, I talked an old friend into lending me the first few seasons of Seinfeld. I missed a lot of them in the 90s, having been TV-free for much of my adult life. But have managed to catch some of the classics over the years. Among those is the episode (watched again last night) where Jerry enlists Elaine in an attempt to find out if his love interest’s perfect tits are fake (“They’re real and they’re spectacular”).

I was at one time the proud possessor of a pair of C cups so perfect that people used to ask me if they were real. After nursing two kids, I’m left with a couple of less than perky A’s. It seems that once you’ve breastfed a couple of people for months/years, the milk flow stretches the skin and connective tissues in the breasts, causing them to change shape and—in some cases—shrink. The mother’s age, apparently, can be a contributing factor. (Hmmm…does this mean that f I hadn’t waited til my mid-30s to have kids my boobs would have sprung right back to their former glory?) Weight loss, of course, also comes into play. In fact, it’s been a while since I’ve been this thin (still getting plenty of exercise chasing after Henry). However, there have been plenty of periods in my life where I’ve been pretty skinny and still maintained some respectable cleavage. No longer: it appears they’re gone for good, and I’m not planning on gaining 20 pounds to get them back.

On the upside, I have all but abandoned the underwire. I’m pretty much entirely a sports bra/camisole girl now. I’m even more enthusiastic about this after reading about a suggested link between underwire bras and breast cancer.

I’ve been checking out a few message boards on the subject, and apparently, post-nursing breast shrinkage inspires some women to get implants. One chick on a message board said she had to get fake ones because she couldn’t handle not having other women stare enviously at her chest all then time. Plastic surgery, however, is not really up my alley. Looks like I’ll be aging gracefully, saggy tits and all.