New Foods Monday: Time for Squash!

"It's summertime, and it's time for squash!"

"Time for wha'?" your kids say.  

"You mean squash the game- with the racquet?"

"No."

"Oh, you mean like squash a bug?"

"Wrong again."

"Huh." 

"I'll give you a clue... it's green, and yellow, and oh so fresh!"

"Ya' lost me."

"Squash! The vegetable! Zucchini. Yellow crook. I got it. You want it!"

"Woh-woh-woh! I am so not eating that!"

"Oh, yes you are, and you are gonna Love It!"

Squash in the morning and squash at night... Eat your squash and you'll feel all right.

Finely grate one zucchini or yellow crook squash. (The yellow crook is good if your kids won't eat greens, otherwise either one is comparable.) Divide the squash into two bowls. Keep one out, save the other for later.

In the first bowl, crack two large eggs, and whisk the eggs and squash together until thoroughly scrambled. Pour into a small, hot, oiled skillet, and cook on medium heat until the egg is almost dry. Do not stir or scramble. Flip once, cook on second side for 30 seconds to 1 minute and serve. 

Later that day...

Use same skillet to heat a small flour tortilla. Sprinkle tortilla with grated mozzarella cheese, and the remaining grated squash. Cook on medium heat until the cheese has melted. Fold tortilla in half to form a quesadilla. Serve.

Viola.

You have just gotten your kid to eat a whole squash. 

Why it works. Squash does not have a strong flavor. It's generally the wet slimy texture that makes kids averse to it when steamed or sautéed. When shredded and cooked with the eggs, the textures meld and become one. You need to make sure the eggs are cooked dry or this will not work. 

When cooked as a quesadilla,  the chewy texture of the cheese overwhelms the wetness of the squash.

Try it and enjoy!

Earth, Wind and Fire!

California's burning and there's no escape!

                                                                                  picture from GOES West NOAA

This morning's satelite show's a wall of smoke, trapped by a wall of fog, the length of the entire state.

For those of you in teeny states like Rhode Island or Delaware, this may not seem like a big deal, but California is 795 miles long, and it takes 12-13 hours to drive from the border of Mexico to the Oregon state line. As of this writing, there are some 50 major fire complexes burning throughout the state.  These are made up of over 1,300 individual fires, and more than 330,000 acres have burned so far.

All this is to say that the air quality around these parts is really, really bad.

The light is dim. The sky is hazy.  The filtered sunsets resemble an alien landscape. 

The fires are doing strange things to the psyche. Driving down the highway, the cars resemble a crush of wild animals, panicked as they escape the burning forest. Not that California driving is ever stellar, but this smokey curtain has certainly added to the confusion. It's hard to see, hard to breath, and really best to stay inside.  

While the kids thought it would be a good day for a trek to the waterpark, we took them to see Wall-E instead. A concious commentary on conspicuous consumption, this film definitely brings new meaning to the phrase,  "pack your trash."  

No spoilers here... Go see it, and then come back soon for a new ongoing segment called "Trash to Treasures Tuesdays." Each week, we'll be looking at new and innovative ideas for recycling fun.  So, call out your inner grouch and join me in putting your trash to work for you!

I'll cry if I want to!

Ba-na-na-na-na-na- You say it’s your birthday! Ba-na-na-na-na-na- It’s my birthday too, Yeah.... 

I can never understand why people complain about their birthdays.  Shy away from being sung to, refuse parties, etc.... 

Birthdays! They’re SO much fun! Wooh-hoo!

But, oops! I am one of those people, and it seems I always have been. 

I remember, waking up on the morning of my third birthday ecstatic.  After weeks of giddy anticipation, I was three!  I was no longer a baby!  But, by three that afternoon, I was exhausted and cross.  Birthdays have been that way for me ever since.  The anticipation and expectation of turning one year older wears me out before I can even enjoy it. Wake me when it’s over.

Twelve years into our relationship, my bad birthday attitude still catches my husband by surprise. He suggests that I could change the date, if that’s the problem, but worries there might be astrological ramifications. 

But, I’m looking into it. I suspect it’s already legal in California.

I’m keeping my eye out for the perfect date. One that’s fun and exciting, and will bring me great fortune... or, at the very least, will make me a great organizer and a better housecleaner.

A Clean house. Now that’s something worth celebrating! 

Appenidicitis Interruptus

It all starts out innocently enough. 

We’re reading ‘bout Madeline. 

Who’s having a grand ole’ time. 

That is... until we get to the apex,

and they up and remove her appendix!

“What’s an appendix Mama?” 

“Oh, it’s a part of the body that’s not really necessary. Every once and a while it gets blocked and has to come out. I had mine out. Daddy’s had his out. It’s not a big deal, and it doesn’t happen to everyone”

“I don’t want my appendix out! I want it IN!  I’m too SHORT to take out my appendix... Agh...Aghh!! 

Tiz’ is starting to panic. 

“Like I said, it doesn’t happen to everyone. It’s not really something to worry about.”

“No fix my ‘pen-nix!” Zip chants

“You see these wiggly toes mama?”

Tizzy’s calm once again and he’s looking down at his feet. “These wiggly toes make my appendix SORE!”

“Then I suggest you don’t wiggle them.”

I decide that it’s time to prevail. 

So resume with the telling of tale. 

Sadly, we hardly get very far, 

when she up and announces her scar! 

O.K... So, I’m no Ludwig Bemelmans. What I’m trying to say here is that it’s hard to make much headway in this book!

“A scarf Mama? Where’s her scarf?” 

“A scar honey. It’s the mark that’s left on your body when they take out your appendix. See, I have...” 

I lift up my shirt, but can’t find mine. It’s been replaced by stretch marks.

“Well, anyway, it would be right about here.”

“Mama, my scarf holds my belly button on!” Exclaims Tizzy, making his belly expand and contract.

Zip is thrusting his pelvis and growling, “ERR - EEE - ERR - EEE! No Touch My Scarf!”

If they only knew that it’s not the appendix or the scarf they need to worry about, it’s their mother.

Well, maybe not their mother. My mother.

I was nineteen when I felt the tale-tell signs of my appendix rupturing. I was a nanny at the time and was with the kids when the pain hit. Kind of like a minor birthing contraction, but with no relief. It seemed to be on my right side, but it was hard to tell.

“I think I need to go to the hospital,” I told the kids father, when he arrived home.

“Are you pregnant?” He asks.

Before I knew it, I was waking up to a room full of flowers, my friends, and my mother.

“You had us worried,” they said. “We just saw you yesterday, and you were fine!”

“There’s someone else who saw you yesterday,” my mother said slyly, “and he very well may come to see you in the hospital.”

“What?!”

My mother knew I had a huge crush on the bagger at the grocery store where I shopped for my employers. He was funny and cute, and somehow I always ended up in his line.

“That’s right,” she confessed.

“I thought you might need some cheering up. I went into the store, and I told him, ‘You know that pretty blonde that comes in here with the three small children? She’s my daughter, and she has a mad crush on you. She just had her appendix out and I thought it might be nice if you came up to visit her in the hospital. You would make her feel soooo much better.”

I thought I would die.

“What?” she asked, registering the shock on our faces. “I was just trying to be helpful.”

My recovery was especially painful knowing that I was going to have to go back to work soon and face the checker. 

“Me? Appendix? No. I’ve just gotten back from a long vacation. What? Some woman claiming to be my mother? Don’t know her. Sounds like a crazy person!”

Knock-Knock

T: Knock-Knock... who’s there?

Me: Who’s there?

T: Who’s there?... Orange.

Me: Orange who?

T: Buwana.  Boo - Hoo... (giggle) ... Don’t cry, it’s just a joke... a joke get it? Ha - ha - ha! Knock-Knock, who’s there?

Me: Who’s there?

T: Buwana - Orange who?

Me: Banana Orange who?

T: Tee-hee-hee... Boo!

Me: Boo-who?

T: Aah-Ha-Ha-Ha!!!  Boo - Hoo!!! Don’t be sad.  It’s o.k. Knock-Knock who?

Me: Who’s there?

T: Who’s there? Orange.

Z: Is a knock an’ a boo-hoo is funny joke, Eh? Is funny.

Got any good one’s?

Our drive down under

Driving the boys to school today, I slowed down for a fawn that was frolicking along the side of the road. 

"Look guys it's a deer!"

Having also spotted us, she was now bounding up the hillside.

"Oh mama." Tizzy said "That is just a kangaroo."

Pooped!

In a store parking lot this morning, I reach to open the car door for Tizzy, and kick a nasty, grease-drenched—*AACK!!*—make that, BLOOD-drenched towel! Immediately my shoulders tense, as if having been grabbed from behind in a dark alley, and my toes curl up in my shoe. 

I have an image of police arriving on my doorstep. “Ma’am we’ve matched the tire prints from your car to the ones found next to this bloody rag. Mind if we ask you a couple of questions and maybe swab your shoes for DNA evidence? It’ll only take a moment.” 

I don’t consider myself a squeamish person. I do fine mending cuts and bashes, and I’ve endured having both a baby and an appendix cut out of my abdomen to affirm my tolerance for my own blood-soaked sutures. It’s the implied violence and the dispassionate abandonment of this towel that gets my skin crawling. As if somebody left their displaced arm on the side of the road and said, “Well, this is no longer useful, I’ll just leave it here for somebody else to pick up.”  

Along the lines of displaced bodily fluids, I tend not to get too unfurled by poop, as long as it is neatly contained. Uncontained poop, is another story. 

Recently, while attempting to change Zip’s pungently defiled diaper, I notice tracks leading to the changing pad. I look at his leg, which is covered in *shudder* diarrhea, and I see that clumps of poop have tumbled out of his diaper and are now mashed into the bottom of his shoe. 

Recognizing the disgust on my face, he runs, cackling like a madman. I chase after him in his foul wake.

“*Aaghhh!!* STOP!!!” I yell, egging him on faster. 

Finally, I arrest the little offender, look him in the eye, and say, “This is NOT funny!”  

He smiles at me, shakes his head, and says with a grin, “Is *YYYUCK!!*”

Cone Heads

You want me to eat what?!

After three fun filled years in NYC, Brad and I decided it was time to pack our bags and head back out West to start a family. By the time we hit Nebraska, I was craving latkes like nothing else, so when I saw Potato Pancakes on the breakfast menu, I ordered them.

You would have thought I’d ordered a cow patty.

“You want Potato Pancakes?” the waitress grimaced.

“Why, are they not any good?”

“I don’t know. Nobody’s ever ordered them. I suppose they’re fine if you like that sort of thing.”

I was missing our Ukrainian haunts in the east village, so I confirmed my order. I wanted the Potato Pancakes.

I figured I’d made a mistake, as I watched her walk away, shaking her head miserably. I had an image of a bag of Kineret latkes, housed in deep freeze since 1985, the cook cursing as he scraped away the freezer burn before chucking them into the fat fryer.

I knew I’d made a mistake when the busboy emerged from the kitchen, looking highly disturbed, set the food in front of me, and refused to make eye contact.

In front of me sat a a pile of raw hash browns, loosely held together with Krustees instant pancake mix, and a pitcher of HyTop syrup.

***

Fast forward six years, and I spend a good deal of my waking hours trying to hide anything remotely nutritious in my kids favorite eats. I’ve been pureeing since before the boys were babes, and I’m not opposed to being Sneaky or Deceptive. However, even I wasn’t sure I’d get anyone to try my Banana Lentil Multigrain Pancakes. You can call me wacko Jerry, but these actually taste great.

The best part is, my kids think they’re chocolate!

***

Lentils are high in fiber, protein dense, fat free and great for maintaining balanced blood sugar. This makes them a great compliment to pancakes, which traditionally have a high glycemic index. 

 For more nutritional information on lentils visit here.

Black Beluga Lentils are a small caviar shaped lentil that have a firm texture and a mild flavor that doesn’t overpower other foods. 

I buy the ones that are pre-cooked at Trader Joe’s. If you are unable to find them in your area, bulk baby beluga lentils are easily found online. 

*** 

Banana Lentil Pancakes

1 large banana

2 cups Trader Joe’s Multigrain Baking & Pancake Mix*

2 eggs

1 cup milk

1/2 cup to 1 cup Trader Joe’s Black Beluga Lentils* (fully cooked) - start small, with 1/2 cup, to see how your family responds. If they like them, then gradually increase by 1/4 cup, each time you make a batch, until you’ve found the amount that matches your family’s tastes. The flavor does not change, it’s more about texture.

2 teaspoons real vanilla extract (optional)

*I use these products because they’re quick and easy to find. Feel free to replace with your favorite brand, or better yet, a mix made from scratch.

***

In a large mixing bowl, use a fork to mash the banana until smooth and creamy. Add pancake mix, eggs and milk, and stir until blended and wet. Mix in vanilla and desired amount of lentils. 

Ladle pancake mixture onto a hot, oiled, pan or griddle. Test the pan first with a drop of cold water. If the water dances, the pan is ready. If it sizzles, pops, and quickly evaporates, it’s too hot.

Cook on medium heat until the pancakes start to bubble. Flip, and cook for a minute to a minute and a half more.

Serve with fresh jam or real maple syrup.

Enjoy!

(And be sure to come back and tell me how you like them!!!)

When the Cat's Away...

Zip's been impossible to get to bed this last week, and it's been making us all a little cranky. Last night, we resorted to letting him sleep on the couch, because we had fully exhausted our ability to do any better. 

Doesn't he know we're just washing dishes, putting away clothes and looking vacantly at computer screens until it's indeed way past our bedtimes? (And you wondered where he'd gotten it?)  

So, tonight, we're in the garage looking for some old film reels of Brad's, when he grabs a kite my mom brought back from China, and begins running around the dark yard, saying "Look at how great this flies? Thousands of years of kite design at work here."

I, meanwhile, begin jumping on the trampoline on the lawn, thinking I really ought to be spending more time doing so if I intend to look halfway decent at my baby sister's wedding in four weeks.

At some point, we freeze, both simultaneously aware of Zip's shadow lurking in the back doorway, staring at us sleepy-eyed with a bemused grin, as if he's at last caught us in the act of what we do every night once he's gone to bed.  

Potty Talk

Ever wonder what boys, two and four years old, talk about when they're all alone?

Tizzy: Zip, I do NOT like Port-a-Potties!

Zip: Port-a-Potties is Yuck!

Tizzy: They're Gross.

Zip: Gross.

Tizzy: Maybe I just use reg-li-er potties.

Zip: Reg-li-er potties, is port-a-potties, is yuck an' is gross, an' is potties...

Flashback Friday... Alone

In 1976, it's my job to stand guard at the edge of the railroad tracks as my mom lines pennies up to be smashed by oncoming trains.

"Who am I watching for?" I wonder, 

"The police!" My mom answers.

"What happens if they catch us?" I ask. 

"They'll send us to jail."

"What about me?!" 

"They'll send you to kids jail."

"Oh!"

She's smashing pennies to sew onto a belly dancing belt that never gets finished. It's hard to convince my friends that I am indeed normal just like them when my mother is the only single parent they know, and regularly lines us up to dance around the living room adorned in scarves with the cat draped around her neck, clinking finger cymbals and ululating. We try our best to click our tongues in unison, trilling "la-la-la-la-lie."

Then there are the conversations I overhear that leave me fearing for her safety.

"If you ever need an assistant to saw in half, I'm your gal!" She says, flirting with the amateur magician, who then tells us that he's still mastering his tricks. Although he never actually calls, for years I lay awake worrying that he may take her up on the offer, and realize, only too late, that he's incapable of piecing  her back together.

Life's not boring with my mother, but I frequently lose sleep trying to discern the murky boundaries between truth and fiction, while mulling over her quirky responses to my serious questions. 

I ask what will happen if we can't pay the bills she frets about. She tells me that they'll send us to the poor house, which I envision as being inhabited by creaky olde English men in top hats. We don't ever get sent to the poor house, and we never go hungry or even have the power turned off, but I understand a lot better these days how tenuous it must feel to be the sole provider for a small child, not knowing for sure where your next paycheck will come from.  

Her father's unhelpful, reprimanding her for raising a child without a man. Upon seeing the bedroom that, for weeks, she's begged me to pick up, he confronts her with: "What are you going to do when she comes to you at sixteen and says 'Mommy, I'm pregnant, fix it!'"

Even I can see how ridiculous this is. Nobody's ever gotten pregnant from a messy bedroom! 

One evening, worn and weary from the stresses of daily life, my mom loads me into the car and takes me to a cafe, where she buys us hot chocolate and shares a story that she's written about a girl living on a space station who's just had her first taste of real strawberry preserves.

My mother is a talented writer, yet she supports us as a secretary because the work is steady. When school's out or daycare's unavailable, she takes me to work with her and puts me to work filing, a skill I later use to my advantage when trying to make my own ends meet.

She's creative in her attempts to keep me from feeling disadvantaged. She rents houses for us in good school districts, converts living rooms into her own bedroom, and rents out the master bedroom to create an affordable arrangement for herself. One year, she finds a used doll bed and spends many a late night refinishing it so I can have a beautiful gift to wake up to on Christmas morning. When I complain that we never go out to eat, she wraps my dinner in waxed paper and serves it to me from a paper bag, then lets me eat in front of the TV, pretending we've gotten take out from a drive-thru.

Parenting is hard, in and of itself, without having to go it poor and alone. I've learned so much about strength from my mom, and I know now why she writes, why we all write.  So we can make sense of this life, find peace with ourselves, and leave a trail behind us so we can remember how got here. 

Further Reading...

On Wednesday, Crystal at Boobs, Injuries, & Dr. Pepper brought us up to speed in The Crazy Chronicles, where she uses her raw wit to detail the fight for her sanity as well as the fight for custody of her child. She’s kept me awake at night reading and thinking about her blog. In sharing her unique experiences, she captures the thread that threatens all women in our misogynistic and violent world.

Yesterday, J.K. Rowling, once a struggling single mom herself, spoke to Harvard graduates at their commencement ceremony about poverty and imagination, and our ability as humans to empathize and use our creativity to free ourselves, as well as others, from the suffering that unites us. 

This morning, Jenn at Breed 'em and Weep uses beautiful prose to entertain us, and invites us to reserve adjacent suites in Hell if, we too, find ourselves exhausted and unable to embrace attachment parenting. While bravely sharing the pain of loss, grief, and debt, she chronicles her divorce, growth, and parenting as she experiences them in real-time.

What to eat?

Zip wakes up famished every morning. 

"Det up, I'm Ongry" he growls, agressively trying to pull me out of bed at 6 a.m. 

Brad and I take turns feining sleep, which really  tees him off. So, I put on a video and snuggle him into our bed, guiltily remembering my resolution, just yesterday, to not offer up bribes of movies in exchange for sleep.  But, too late, and, for a moment all is warm, quiet, cuddly bliss as his eyes fix on the opening credits of Totoro, and I drift back to-

"Gimme some toast!" He orders, shaking and shoving me.  "Det outa' here! I 'ant toast!"  

Ah! Now I remeber the origin of my resolution. I'm not raising a fascist couch potato, so I haul us both out of bed and say, "Let's turn this thing off and go eat in the kitchen." 

"Mmm-Hmmm!" He's won.

We go out into the kitchen and it's already too late. 

"Want some Milk! Some JUICE!!! Make me a 'moothie!  Wah-hah-hah-hah!!!  I'm 'Ongry. Need toast. Some bites. Gimme apple. Now!!! WAAAHHHHH!"

I set down three cups with milk, juice and water. 

"Need TOAST!" 

"Zip," I say "I'm only one person..."

"A bagel." 

"I can do only one thing at a time."

"Strawberries."

"You're driving me NUTS!" I say, tickling him to temper the outburst.

"NUTS! Mmmm Nuts, gimme Nuts..."

To which we both collapse into a pool of laughter, munch nuts, and lick the salt off of our fingers.

***

Twelve Hours Later...

Brad has climbed into the car having just been picked up from the BART train. After greeting us all cheerfully... "I'm starving. Do you have any thoughts about dinner?"

"Yes," I reply, domestic diva that I am, "I have everything ready for taco's. If you get the kids bathed, I'll go put them together."

"That sounds wonderful..." 

"TACOS?!" Pipes Tizzy, "I don't like Tacos!"

"That's funny 'cuz you did last week."

"Tacos were my absolute favorite when I was a kid." Brad reports.

"See... and Daddy didn't like them!" 

"Actually" I counter, "when something is your 'favorite,' that means you like it better than anything else."

"What's your favorite?" Brad asks... "If you could choose anything for dinner, what would it be?"

Theres a silence in the back seat while he thinks.

"Hmmm- Let me think... I think ummmm... tacos, and uh, um... 'mmm tacos.  Tacos are my favorite. Yeah!  I LOVE Tacos!"