Adventures in ice cream making

Note to self: do not make frozen custard before morning coffee.

Addendum to note: do not attempt to make a very persnickety food for the very first time ever before morning coffee. Ever.

It started with the very best of intentions. (Doesn't it always?) I had some rhubarb pulp left and a handful of strawberries and a new ice cream maker just begging for some play. And Mark Bittman made custard-based ice cream sound so very straightforward. What could go wrong?

If my life were a movie, this is the scene where you'd hear ominous music begin to play in the background. Like when the nubile blonde says to her friends, "I'll catch up with you guys later" in an 80s horror flick. You know it's a very bad idea.

Maybe it wouldn't have gone so wrong if I hadn't taken that extra step of trying to combine roles? Culinary goddess, thrifty domestic manager, and doting parent. You see...the frozen custard called for six egg yolks, and I didn't want to waste six perfectly good egg whites. Especially free-range egg whites approved by Whole Foods (that assuager of vague well-heeled carnivorous guilt). Oh, and I have this very finicky child who rejects most breakfast foods and eats only egg whites, no yolks. (Do you see where this is headed?)

So I decide that the very best usage of our resources is to make frozen custard before breakfast. On a school day.

Was it a surprise that this ended in tears? (Was it a surprise that in the next scene, the blonde is stumbling through a dark woods, screaming her nubile lungs out? It's really amazing how many horror movie suburbias have vast expanses of woods. Super convenient.) Anyway. Back to the custard slaughter...a pot of frothy, curdled custard-wannabe poured down the sink and many muffled curses at Mark Bittman for failing to note that custard must be cooked at a very low temperature. Very low. And that one must not beat the milk into the eggs too vigorously.

So. Take two.

It looks like liquid cat food for your senior kitties, right? Tuna custard for your toothless felines?

Our new $24 retired-model Cuisinart purchased at Costco did not make ice cream. It made...sludge. Product-of-blood-sweat-and-tears sludge. Plus strawberry rhubarb has an odd fleshy color that isn't super attractive, especially when it's not a nicely shaped mound of ice cream.

(It did taste good and was an excellent use of leftover rhubarb syrup pulp.) Oh well. Adventures in ice cream making, take two, is coming soon.

Tulips and a love note

"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom."
~ Marcel Proust

What a brilliant day, surrounded by my charming gardeners.

I hope your day was filled with love. Happy Mother's Day.
xoxo
Gena, A Bluebonnet in Beantown

Toto...

"Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Boston anymore."

I'm in a place of saturated, riotous color...

...and relaxed, outdoor living. Perfect for dining al fresco with pitchers of margaritas and friends.

Where when you talk about metal ceilings, you don't mean historic tin ceilings, but a collage of shiny hubcaps...

Where you can feast on Polvos Enchiladas Doña Clara: enchiladas dipped in guajillo sauce, stuffed with monterey jack cheese and onions, topped with shredded cabbage, jalapeños, fresh avocado, and dried cheese. Or Torchy's Trailer Park tacos: fried chicken, green chiles, lettuce, pico de gallo, and cheese on flour tortilla with poblano sauce. Done extra trashy (queso, no lettuce). Or Chuy's Chicka-Chicka Boom-Boom: roasted chicken and cheese with Boom-Boom sauce (cheese, roasted New Mexican green chiles, tomatillos, green onions, cilantro, and lime juice). This last was so spicy that it made my nose run. I'm obviously out of training.

I'm visiting in a place that will always hold a piece of my heart. The land of family, great friends, great food...and bluebonnets. I'll be back soon to Beantown (hopefully with some fabulous dried peppers and spices stashed in my luggage), ready to share some great Mexican-inspired recipes. Meanwhile, I hope you're having a wonderful Easter weekend/Passover.

Hope?

The house still seems curiously quiet. No furious barking at Portia's mortal enemies (the coffee grinder, kitchen garbage bag, and vacuum cleaner). No nails clicking on the hardwood floors during a game of chase with the kids. I know that she was an animal, but her passing has left a tangible absence in our family. An emptiness.

A couple of days after Portia's passing, I came down with flu. High fever. Aches. Misery. So that's why I'd felt so off-kilter. Not just sadness and stress and the fatigue of spending a night holding a dying dog.

The best said about last week is that it has passed. But today I can get out of bed without reeling (punch-drunk without the fun). And it is starting to feel like spring. Thanks for your sympathy and your visits. They added light to an otherwise dark week.

Hello, sunbeam

Hello, sunbeam.

I was so surprised when I rounded the corner, and there you were! I've missed you this long, gray winter. I hope to see you again soon.

Much love,
Gena

Living life while paying attention

Recently, I've started reading a new book, The Dirty Life: On Farming, Food, and Love by Kristin Kimball. Her story is Eat, Pray, Love meets The Omnivore's Dilemma. It's what happens when a Harvard-educated New York City urbanite falls in love with a draft horse driving, electricity-eschewing farmer. He woos her by cooking meals of such authenticity that dirt is literally clinging to the vegetables and the meat is practically warm from slaughter. She moves from the city to a farm that they create together, trading in her 4 a.m. lattes for 4 a.m. farm chores.

The book is engaging, and Ms. Kimball writes well. Her evocations of fragrant, fresh, succulent meals mingle with the narration of their romance.

I skidded through her words. A few chapters in, I noticed that I was tickled by a niggling feeling.

Was that annoyance?

Which made me pause for thought. (Note: this pause for thought is rare for me, but as it was Sunday, I had the luxury of a little time.)

What was bothering me about her narrative? Was it envy? After more than twenty years of marriage, did I begrudge her rhapsody over her farmer's "long, chiseled torso, the size of his callused hand over [her] breast"?

Then it struck me. Can authenticity not be found in the suburbs? Memoirs such as this one or Eat, Pray, Love seem to be founded on a fundamental premise that one must leave in order to find one's authentic self. A person must go to Italy (or India or somewhere equally far-flung) or drastically change lifestyles (from urbanite to farmer's wife).

Why can't I find myself amongst the laundry and afterschool activities?

My response came from an unlikely source: Facebook. I'd posed this question as my status, and it had generated an interesting discussion among my friends. One had surmised that it was easier to change one's pattern of thought after making a drastic change, and that it was far more difficult to find time for self-reflection in between one's daily activities.

What if you didn't pause for thought between your activities? What would happen if instead, you just paid attention to your activities? After all, isn't that what a huge change does? It forces you to pay attention. To focus on gaining mastery of a new skill. To focus on how to navigate an unfamiliar landscape. To notice little details because you haven't grown used to them.

We call it "multitasking" or "using our time more efficiently." I'm a habitual offender, routinely browsing the web while catching up on a Tivo'd show. I'm constantly juggling. When I'm folding laundry, I'm thinking about dinner. When I'm cooking dinner, I'm thinking about this blog and checking my email and making sure my son practices guitar. Etc. etc. What's coming up in the next few minutes, the next hour, the next day, this week?

I remembered an article I'd read in the New York Times last fall. "When the Mind Wanders, Happiness Also Strays" focuses on research that showed that people "tended to be happier if they focused on the activity instead of thinking about something else." In fact, As Dr. Daniel Gilbert, one of the Harvard psychologists conducting the study, stated, "The heart goes where the head takes it, and neither cares much about the whereabouts of the feet."

So my feet don't need to be in an ashram or on a well-tended wheat field. They can be firmly planted in suburbia, as long as my head and heart are there as well.

So, how do I go about paying attention? My first impulse was to do something big. I'd take a photo of some detail of my life every day and publish it on my blog. But that would become another dreaded "must do" on my ever-expanding "to do" list. Not exactly the road to self-awareness, joy, and my most authentic self.

My delayed new year's resolution. I'm not going to dash to Indonesia (or even Maine), and I'm not going to forge a vastly different life from the one I already live. What I am going to do is to live my life while paying attention. Which sounds simple. But I'll bet it's not. And I'll write about it. Or maybe not. We'll see how it plays out. Maybe in the process, I'll discover that you can indeed find your most authentic self in the suburbs, amidst the laundry and the extracurriculars.

Holiday traditions (something old)

Every year during the holidays, we work on a new jigsaw puzzle. It's usually holiday-themed. Sometimes, like this year, it's just wintery. When we first started this tradition (our son was around four), the puzzle was 100 pieces. This year was our most ambitious yet: 1,000 pieces of neutral-colored, maddening puzzle. We had a separate, easier one for the girls to do.

I love this tradition. We spread out the puzzle on the dining room table and spend a lot of evenings poring over it. It's a nice way to slow down over the holidays. Take a breath. Focus on something that isn't rush, rush, rush.

I'm such a southerner

This afternoon saw an unexpected snowfall. The meteorologists had predicted just light flurries, but this was actual snow. The kind that sticks and creates slush and traffic havoc.

And I realized as I walked gingerly to school, I am still such a southerner.

I love snow. I do. I love the way it traces branches and leaves. The way it hushes sound, stilling the air. The pointillistic patterns it makes as it swirls in the air.

But I walked as if last winter had never happened. It was reflexive. I saw snow-covered sidewalk, and my body froze. I walked as if I was stepping on ice. Very slowly. Flat footed. Moving as creakily as an elderly woman who doesn't quite trust her knees. Ahead, my yankee child skipped across the snow. She ran and hopped joyously, pointing out the scattered pattern of footprints she left on the pristine white surface.

I'm such a southerner.

A patch of sky

I misremembered this lyric. It's actually "corner of the sky" from the musical, Pippin.

I took these photos a little while back. They came to mind today as I was seeking that clear patch in our crazy holiday schedules.

This happens every year. No, not misremembering musical lyrics. Every year, I promise myself that next year, we'll have a laid-back holiday season. We'll savor family ties, celebrate old traditions, forge new traditions, help the needy, and revel in the joys, lights, carols, love of the season. Think an unholy alliance of Norman Rockwell and Martha Stewart.

Every year, I fail.

I thought this year would be different. (I think this every year.) This year, the siblings in my and Will's families decided to donate to charities in lieu of gifts. The children, of course, will receive gifts, but not the adults. It seemed a nice way to both scale back the stress of finding just the right gift while simultaneously helping others. And it is. Of course.

But this year, we've added a plethora of teachers as well as the sitter, the mailman (who's wonderful), the newspaper delivery guy, the trash collectors, and the various and sundry folks whose work and services we want to acknowledge. Of course, they'd appreciate cash or a gift card, but I end up wracking my brains for something special. Something that says, "I took time and energy and thought to come up with this for you." This year, I've got nada.

I could bake. I love to bake. I'm good at baking. But ironically, the more pressure there is to bake, the less I want to do it. So I'm not baking. In my beautiful new kitchen. With my beautiful two ovens in which I could churn out cookies as fast as Rumpelstiltskin spins gold. What a conundrum.

Happy holidays, whatever you may celebrate. I hope that you're finding your corner of the sky. 

First flurries

I first noticed them early this morning. Little bits of something glittery swirling through the air. At first, I thought idly that there was an awful lot of pollen floating about. (Okay, yes ... I am from the south.) Later, walking through a parking lot, I realized that it was snow. Our first flurry this season.

It was enough to make me stop. In the middle of the parking lot. And simply watch the tiny sparkles flutter and swirl.

Apparently one New England winter didn't freeze away this sense of childlike wonder at snow. Wherever I've lived...in New Orleans and in Austin...snow was a wondrous, fleeting, magical thing. Normal life skidded to a stop as soon as the snow started to drift down. Never mind if it was only a few snowflakes that vanished as soon as they hit the ground. Adults and children alike would bundle up and head outside to see the snow. We'd gaze at the skies and hold out gloved hands, hoping to catch a snowflake.

Tonight, the flurries started again, and my children rushed outside to see. They were singing, "It's snowing! It's snowing!" and making plans for snow angels and snow forts and skiing. I could just see the visions of hot cocoa and snowmen and sledding dancing in their heads.

Welcome to the season.

Lucky, lucky

Yesterday was my daughter's 6th birthday party.

Following her "treasure hunter" theme, twenty-plus children charged by joy, sugar, and excitement decorated treasure chests, cracked open geodes, and dug for tumbled gemstones. They frolicked through the house, the basement, upstairs, outside. The rains held off so the children could bounce, bounce, bounce in the moonwalk.

I am so lucky.

Lucky that I have these three children who did not come easily (but that is a story for another day). Lucky that we have the means and opportunities to juggle extracurriculars. Lucky that my worries revolve around what to cook for dinner, not if there is enough for dinner.

Funny. It's really in one's perspective, isn't it? This gray and blustery morning, I'm looking forward to some quiet days. Maybe we'll clear some time to decorate more treasure chests.

Around and around we go

Where we stop, nobody knows.

At preschool drop-off the other day, a mom of two (very soon to be three) commented, "You're my light at the end of the tunnel. I see that eventually, I'll get there too."

Which was funny to me because I'm not feeling particularly inspirational lately. What I am feeling is as if I'm on a merry-go-round, whirling and whirling at a dizzying speed to crazed, frenetic carnival music.

See that wild eye. Those flaring nostrils? That's me confronting my schedule. Three children. Twelve extracurriculars. Pet care. Playdates. Housecleaning. Yard work. Groceries. Cooking. Volunteer work. Appointments with various doctors, dentists, orthodontists.

Is this life? No savoring the leaves turning? No gentle and unhurried ambles through the woods. Just run, run, run from here to there. From there to here? It seems to be the norm in my suburban Boston town, but some tiny part of me wonders about just stopping. Stopping and dismounting and wobbling off the carousel to explore the other wonders of the carnival. The ferris wheel, maybe. Or the games.

But meanwhile, I ride.