The Secret Food Life of Parents

When I was young, little made me feel more betrayed by my parents than the early-morning discovery of empty Dairy Queen cups in the garbage. The lingering residue of creamy soft serve and tiny bits of chocolate, still clinging to the skinny red spoons, launched an indignant fury: I was deceived, and by the people who love me most. 

Kids are not dumb. Although it might take them longer, they do eventually put two and two together. Two empty Dairy Queen cups + I did not receive any ice cream = my parents got Blizzards after I went to bed. 

And at least in my childhood world, there were few greater treats than a trip to Dairy Queen. To be sneakily sidestepped by my parents in their selfish quest for ice cream that they did not have to share with their beloved flesh and blood was simply the worst kind of low-down dirty trick. 

I remember very clearly finding evidence of late-night ice cream or popcorn or other treats and, lower lip extended, wondering why I was not included. My sister, either because she in more in tune with such sneakiness or because she had a better nose for the smell of microwave popcorn, was more apt to get out of bed and confront my parents in the midst of their treachery, while I slept on, unaware.

This is, of course, a treachery that Chef Matt and I now engage in on a regular basis, making me the most evil kind of hypocrite. How many times has my poor preschooler called down to me with some sort of sleep-stalling excuse and I have had to hastily swallow a mouthful of Oreo Blizzard to answer her?

Our kids are still a little too young to catch on, so we have a few more blessed years of the patient waiting for a bedtime all-clear before Matt ventures out for an evening treat that the little ones will never suspect. Someday our kids will discover the long red spoons in the garbage and accuse us of exclusion, but for now they are blissfully clueless. 

Now that I am seeing this undercover Dairy Queen quest from a parent's point of view, I absolutely see the logic of such deception. Nighttime ice cream for kids can only lead to unwanted sharing. Sometimes, I think, parents deserve a treat that they can enjoy without the experience descending into feeding time at the zoo. 

Selfish? Maybe. There is something vaguely naughty about after-dark ice cream, much like wine before noon, and after a day of temper tantrums and befouled clothing, it is only too fair for a parent to selfishly indulge. So much like our children may someday hide their cigarettes and speeding tickets from us, I am getting my trickery in now as we wait with bated breath for the silence at the top of the stairs before dashing out for a little secret, deceitful ice cream. 

A Summer Onslaught of Vegetables

I must confess: we are not that into organic food. That might seem strange for two people who love food like we do, but we eat corn-fed beef and non-organic tomatoes and regular old milk, and we are perfectly fine with that.

The idea of organic food, however, is a fine one that we finally bought into. This winter, my colleagues asked if Chef Matt and I wanted to buy into a CSA (Community Sponsored Agriculture) share. We had resisted in years past, partly because of the upfront cost and partly because we were unsure if we would be able to consume all the vegetables that came in a weekly box.

But this year, in the pit of despair that is February, I perused the list of vegetables and fruit and could suddenly smell sweet summer breezes and feel watermelon juice running down my chin. I called Matt and pitched the idea to him, and he agreed before I could finish rattling off the many varieties of leafy vegetables. It was very much a "you had me at rainbow chard" moment.

Last week, our first box arrived. I was a little stumped: how does one cook a turnip? how does one eat that much lettuce? what, precisely, is a pea vine? But, motivated by the upfront cost and the sad sight of food in the garbage, I resolved to use it all. When in doubt, Matt said, saute in butter and garlic.

First, I made a layered summer salad with romaine, green leaf lettuce, scallions, pea vine and basil. The bouquet of greens tasted like fresh air, even through a veil of mayonnaise, cheese and bacon. Tonight, I whipped together a homemade sweet and sour dressing, and tossed it with baby bok choy, scallions, French breakfast radishes (sauteed in butter and garlic), and parmesan cheese. The greens had that bright, heady taste of something that has been recently plucked from the earth, still warm from the sunshine.

Undoubtedly, the flavor and freshness of something organic and recently harvested is heavenly. Our non-organic way of eating is not likely to change, but the CSA will inject a little new life into our summer menus, with its heirloom tomatoes, varieties of peppers and eggplant, and lovely exotic foods like kohlrabi and rutabaga.

The weekly boxes, unfortunately, do not include any sort of macaroni and cheese, so it is unlikely that our children will eat any of it, no matter how luscious. I suppose that means more rainbow chard for us ... whatever that is.

An Escape from Kitchen Widowhood

Having a newborn brings into sharp perspective the things in life one should never take for granted, namely sleep, uninterrupted meals, and time with one's spouse. For the last week and a half since our son was born, two of these have become scarce and the other fantastically abundant.

Babies have impeccable timing. Inevitably, I will make the briefest of contact with my bed or the dining room chair when his "Mommy is getting comfortable" radar will go off, and he will scream, face scrunched in misery, until he is fed. It is the extreme good fortune of babies everywhere that they are so adorable; a routine of little sleep and cold meals could only be briefly borne otherwise.

But amidst the whirlwind of starting all over again, there has been a peaceful glow settling about our house, radiating from the constant presence of Chef Matt on a two-week paternity leave. Reality has been temporarily suspended, and as a result, I have not, in the last 11 days, felt rushed, stressed, overwhelmed, vaguely out of control, or lonely.

Our time together as a family is normally pinched into Monday nights and Saturday mornings, shoehorned in around gymnastics and swimming lessons and random weekend work meetings. Thus, two full weeks together has been nothing short of luxuriant. We have no schedule. We have no time limits. We are living like idle rich people, without the accompanying yachts and Gatsby parties.

And I love it. What do I have to do to continue this amazing life? Win the lottery? Keep having babies? Nag Matt to quickly finish his best-selling cookbook so we can be millionaires? This sort of 24-hour togetherness is not normal for anyone, but for us, always scraping to find time to do things other than eat dinner and watch a Disney movie, it has been a beautiful week of the zoo, the children's museum, the library, a backyard barbecue, morning walks, visits with our families, and actual conversations.

On Thursday, Matt goes back to work. We will still have nine weeks of abnormal, until I go back to work, but nothing can quite compare to the brief escape of the past two weeks. The lack of sleep and meal interruptions will continue as we learn to make our newest little man a part of our family, but our time together will diminish and we will go back to missing each other and the comfort that comes with having two parents in the house. Kitchen Widowhood, ever so briefly slumbering, will be back.

So honey, get to work on that cookbook. I sure like having you around.

A Year with the Kitchen Widow

Once upon a time, there was a romance, a marriage, a mortgage, and three pregnancies. There were changes in jobs, changes in finances, and changes in the world. Yet there was also a constant, through all the moments of joy and moments of difficulty, and the lives in this relationship were defined by that constant: the kitchen.

I started this blog a year ago this month to address that constant, on my own terms. Kitchens and food have become my roots, whereas before they were, perhaps, like a bed of autumn leaves: visible and noticeable, but not part of any foundation.

The adjustment to a world of food has been a path I have loved and despised. It has brought out the very best in me, and illuminated the very worst. It has brought me closer to my husband emotionally, although it generally keeps us apart physically. It has carried us to the absolute pinnacle of cuisine, in our evening at the French Laundry, and has kept us humble in our financial attachment to pasta with red sauce.

The best food writers will tell you, through their masterful command of the language and the cuisine, that food is profound in its ability to unite, impress, satisfy, nourish and inspire. If these same writers have knowledge of the business, they will likely say the same about being in kitchens, while in the same breath they bemoan the business' tendency to frustrate, demoralize, antagonize and destroy. Both are true. It is finding a balance that tips toward the inspirational that keeps chefs coming back for more.

I have not sought here to be a great food writer; my knowledge of food -- the ingredients, trends and history -- is passable, at best. What I have sought to do is make sense of the world of kitchens that is our gravity, and perhaps stretch my writing muscle while I am at it. I enjoy this outlet and the fact that Chef Matt does not mind that I parade our exploits with food and his job around the digital universe.

We are not the sort of kitchen royalty that makes it into books and television shows; our story is not uncommon enough. But as long as Matt continues to be a chef, and as long as I try to be a writer, I will use this medium to tease out the elements of unity, frustration, satisfaction and destruction that characterize our lives in kitchens. It is who we are, even if it is not fodder for a Lifetime original movie.

Whoever you are out there, thank you for reading. As long as you remain, I will press on.

A Third-Trimester Love Letter

Dear Baby,

Very soon, I will have to share you with the rest of the world. For almost nine months, you have been my constant companion, growing in a private little world that only you and I were privy to.

While I will miss your kicks and somersaults within, and the feeling that I am never alone, I cannot wait to see your face. I cannot wait to call you by your name and see the look on your daddy's face and watch the sure-to-be-interesting reactions from your sister and brother.

As selfish as it is, I am also anxious for your arrival simply for the normalcy that will return. Soon, I will not obsess about the next time I will have access to a pickle, or five or six. Soon, I will be able to eat more than the somewhat more "ladylike" portions that I've been consuming lately. And soon, very soon, I will be able to sit on my back porch in the summer sun and eat a hot dog straight off the grill and wash it down with a cold Stella Artois.

These last weeks are the longest, as I struggle to sleep and you struggle to find space, and as we both prepare for your life in the outside world. For me, life will resume a more familiar rhythm, with the added blessings that a newborn brings, but for you, life will transform. You will see things like sunlight and colors and faces, and I wonder what will spiral through your little mind as you process all the newness.

Throughout all these changes, I will be a constant for you. I will look and feel different, and you will adjust to a new way of eating, just as I am adjusting back to an old way, but I promise you will know me, even in this brighter, colder world.

So finish up in there, and when you are ready, come out to meet us. Your family is waiting.

Love, and a Jar of Pickles

Not that anyone will ever ask me for this sort of advice, but if someone were to inquire about my thoughts on the secret to a successful marriage, I would say that the answer lies in a giant jar of pickles.

My last trimester has been an endless battle of wills between me and pickles. I crave them all day and in at least one instance, definitely ate half a jar in one sitting. I am fully aware that the sodium is not good for me or Baby, and I have tried to beat back the desire to eat three or four with every meal. But something enticing about the crunch and the delightfully salty taste has me wearing a path to the fridge several times a day.

As Mother's Day approached, I instructed Chef Matt to forgo flowers or any of the other "usuals" of the holiday. All I wanted was a nice meal out with him and our kids; I did not necessarily need a gift to stress his appreciation of my motherhood. In response, he presented me with a several-gallon jar of enormous pickles a few days before. I laughed and could feel the cravings surge.

When Mother's Day actually arrived, it was a day of epic Kitchen Widowhood for both of us. Matt worked a 12-hour day, and just the right 12 hours to prevent a family meal that was not noodles and red sauce thrown together at the last minute.

As I sat with the kids, eating cold leftovers, I felt selfish and irrational -- what was the benefit for us of my husband missing major holidays with his family, working unexpectedly extended hours, and leaving us minimal hours to nuture our marriage? When he got home, he was equally downtrodden at the pattern of loss of time with his wife and kids. We stared at each other, trying to make sense of the difficulties that sprout from the business that he loves and sometimes bury us in undergrowth.

And then I thought about the jar of pickles and realized that despite the frustrations that come with this business, our marriage is significantly nurtured. The pickles were a gift with far greater value than jewelry or flowers; they demonstrate that despite our limited time together, he makes time to listen and understand. He knows that what I needed or wanted was not an expensive gift but something to ease the last few weeks of a long, exhausting pregnancy.

Last year, I surprised him with a trip to the French Laundry. This year, he surprised me with a giant jar of pickles. I would argue that his gift is more demonstrative of the health of our marriage. A trip to wine country is flashy and extravagant, but the industrial jar of dill pickles is like a homemade greeting card: original, heartfelt, and the product of intimate understanding of what makes someone happy.

Ultimately, Mother's Day is just a day. Long hours are a fact of many people's lives. It is the concerted effort of spouses to make it work, despite roadblocks, that reflect a good marriage, not a meal out on a holiday. Everyone has their own jar of pickles; it is just a matter of recognizing the significance of such a gift when it appears.

The Advent of Breakfast Saturdays

Last week, I was sufficiently entranced by the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton to get up at 3:30 a.m. and spend the pre-dawn hours at a British pub, eating an English breakfast buffet and sighing over the amazing millinery in Westminster Abbey.

If it hadn't been for the allure of the buffet, I still would have been up early, but I would have been watching from the comfort of my couch. One of my great weaknesses in the culinary world is breakfast food, and breakfast food in bulk. Not for me the "light breakfast" of juice and coffee, or a solitary English muffin with a smudge of butter. Give me eggs and bacon and potatoes and toast, and maybe a pastry and fruit, and I will show you a meal composed of splendidly matched pieces, delivered in an unpretentious manner, eaten with the promise of a full day ahead.

Breakfast food can be fancy, to be sure. But most of the time, when you venture out for breakfast food, it is served all crowded together on a single plate, scrambled eggs overlapping hashbrowns hiding beneath pancakes. The plates are quick coming out of the kitchen, often accompanied by any manner of simple condiments and a bottomless cup of coffee. Breakfast food is dependably the same, with slight variations depending on preference or region: sweet and savory and plentiful.

But I think what I like best about breakfast food, whether I am having an omelette day or a French toast day, is that it is the most leisurely meal to eat at a restaurant. When do we go out for breakfast? After church on a lazy Sunday. To celebrate Mother's Day or Easter. To enjoy conversation with a friend. I find that I never rush when eating breakfast out; it is a deliberate appointment to start my day with a large plate of comforting food.

It comes as no surprise to me, then, that as Chef Matt and I discussed opportunities for me to have a little time to myself, outside of work and mommy-ing, I chose to start Breakfast Saturdays. One Saturday a month, I go out by myself or with a friend and indulge in a huge plate of foods that I love to slather with jam or ketchup or syrup.

It is a comfort to me that on my mornings "off," I know I can predict what will be on the menu and know that I will love it. Satisfying my hunger with breakfast food is the easy part; for peace of mind and soul, breakfast has taken on a new meaning as the most important meal of the day as I leave the chaos for an hour of quiet with a pair of over-easy eggs and a cinnamon roll.