Baby Trashes Bar
I know, I’ve been posting not at all. I’m busier than I can handle this week. You’ll forgive my silence when you see this, from the trailer to a short film called Las Palmas, directed by Johannes Nyholm.
On This, Your Last Night of Being One
You can’t stand carrots, but you’ll pretend not to see little cubes of them if I shove them in your quesadilla, and then we shove the quesadilla in your mouth, together.
You are just learning about colors, and only know orange and blue. Arj. Boo.
You love hearts. It’s Valentine’s Day, and you liked the heart balloon with a bear I got for you quite a bit. Haaaart.
You start most meals in your highchair, and you finish most meals in my lap.
You like to help make meals.
Henry making Korean food.
You are nearly unphotographable, because you just want to take the camera away from me.
You’re a milkaholic. I never thought this would be the case at 2 years old, but you’re a mymilkaholic.
You carry your stuffed dolphin around everywhere, and use it as a pillow at night. You are what your father calls a “stuffed animal terrorist,” because you are so passionate and possessive of your many, many animals.
You know which parent you want when you wake up and call for one of us, and aren’t shy about saying “no!” to the wrong one.
You are distraught when we tell you that your babysitter is coming, but sometimes I hear you laughing so hard with her that I am afraid you will choke. You hug her and kiss her a zillion times when she leaves.
When asked a question and the answer is the affirmative, you wait a beat and then loudly say out a very well-enunciated YES.
You are full of wonder and you fill me with wonder. In short, wonderful.
I love you I love you I love you, tiny Valentine.
Happy birthday!
Valentine Reflections and Advice
A hundred and seventy five thousand ago today, my great-grandfather John Drake was born. Eleven years ago today, my cat was born. Four years ago today, I got engaged. Two year’s ago today, I dragged my whalelike self into a Duane Reade, checked my blood pressure, and realized it was time to go to the hospital to get – the – overdue – baby – out. So now, for me, this is baby eve, my cat’s birthday, and the anniversary of one of the most important decisions in my life.
See? This is an exciting day, except for when it isn’t. If you are single and see nothing exciting about today, just think, your new cat is probably being born right this minute!
If you are teamed up, manage your expectations about romantic trappings, which seem to be created by and for women. Based on stories I have heard, I am developing a new theory that we should all be assigned a secret same-sex valentine teammate who makes sure that we don’t get disappointed.
If you are linked to family, I hope you get a bit of breathing room to step back and appreciate the romance in your life, which may well have acquired the distracting and yet dull patina of oatmeal that has dried on everything in sight. Romance is being able to appreciate the beauty of your mate and situation despite the crumbly things everywhere.
Try to at least hug everyone, and if you believe that chocolate or flowers should be a part of the day, my advice is to be proactive about buying and distributing them to the people who you love the most, even and especially if that is yourself.
Regressive Cocktail for a Sleep Regression: the Old Fashioned
During the current sleep regression of Henry, we turn to this regressive, old-fashioned cocktail.
Old Fashioned Cocktail
Procedure
Ingredients
A Burned Bittman Chicken
Many people love Mark Bittman recipes; I do not stand in solidarity.
What if I said that How to Cook Everything were the Walmart of cookbooks—seemingly utilitarian, and you can always find a version of what you need, but that the goods do not stand up?
Mark Bittman, lest my name be as much of a household commodity in your borough as yours is in mine, I’d be reluctant to know what you think of my hodgepodge of enthusiastic yet sloppy recipes. While you are composing your thoughts, this is what I think of your Chinese-style roast chicken that I made the other day.
The recipe says to heat the oven to 500 and put a chicken into it. The SUBSEQUENT step is to combine soy sauce with oil, honey, garlic, ginger, and scallion.
I reluctantly put an unseasoned, unoiled chicken into a 500 degree oven, breast-side down, as instructed. 20 minutes later I took it out to turn it, and brush with the aforementioned combo of flavorants and lubricants. Of course, the entire skin of the breast—ONE OF THE BEST PARTS, not to mention a protector of the breast meat—tore right off, right before I applied the honey and garlic, which, predictably, turned black and bitter in the 500 degrees. Eventually I turned down to 325 as instructed, marveled at the bubbling and burning mass in my oven, basted basted basted, and then served my husband and myself a sticky, blackened, bitter, and yet underdone bird.
(An apparently amended online version suggests a 450 degree oven; putting the oil on the bird BEFORE putting it into the oven; and taking it out to put on the honey soy etc.)
I heartily enjoy your recent pontificating in your Opinionater blogs on eating less meat and the idiocy of government funding the creation of certain unwholesome “foods” while all the while trying to move away from them, especially this one. In fact, I had been meaning to simply post that one as a great thing to read.
The chicken is small, small potatoes in comparison to a rousing call for better policy, I admit. But in my opinionater, this recipe needed an editor before it was published, rather than after.
Next time the Keller for sure.
Church Avenue Chomp 