This is just not a simple time of the year! It seems like things that ought to be easy, uncomplicated tasks take on a certain frantic urgency during the Spring-feverish, pre-Pesach whirlwind. Like buying diapers. For ages, like SephardiLady, I was extremely well-stocked in the diaper department. And I still was, but I had to buy some this week anyway. I'll explain:
When Andy was a baby, I bought a box of diapers for him labeled size 1-2. Apparently, this is some kind of pseudo-size that's bigger than a 1 but not a full 2. However, the diapers were mislabeled inside, and all of the individual diapers themselves were labeled 1. After calling the company, they told me that they were not sure if the diapers I had were size 1's or size 1-2's or a hybrid diaper, or what. "Is there some kind of experiment going on here?" I wondered, possibly out loud to the sales rep.
The end of the matter is that they graciously sent me some coupons for significant amounts of savings on diapers, and I held on to these coupons, using other ones that expired earlier, until finally, the 31st of this month brings with it the expiration of these coupons.
We went to a large diaper-selling store to get the diapers yesterday, but it was earlier than the large store opens (Sundays!), so we went to an even larger store a bit further down the road that sells everything on Earth ever, including diapers.
Getting two big boxes of diapers for free was very cool. But it was also exciting (if a little frightening) to see rows and rows of summer clothing for kids. Sometimes I wish that the stores here were more like the stores in Europe. One store that sells only one thing. Boulangerie. Patisserie. Diaper store. (Maybe something like this?) Instead, you walk in for free diapers and wind up buying many, many other things.
In general, I consider myself a frugal and disciplined shopper. $3.99 for kids' clothes, however, did catch my eye (although this was not a special sale, and these are probably not the most durable clothes ever made), and so I chose some summer clothes for the RaggedyKids. Can't have them looking too raggedy come the warm weather!
There were some tough decisions to make about sizing, since Ann, who's turning 4 this summer, has a body that most resembles a piece of spaghetti and Andy, who's almost one-and-a-half, has a body that more closely resembles a shell macaroni. For those who truly care, we went with the size 24 months for Andy and the size 4T (5 was just too shlumpy and loose) for Ann. Although, in a laundry pinch, I bet they could wear each other's clothes!
All in all, there are a few returns and exchanges to make, but I feel like the summer clothes we picked are tasteful, appropriate, and tucked away into already Pesach-cleaned drawers. And a lot cuter than diapers.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Obstacles
Now that Andy is old enough to be a playmate for Ann, his biggest thrill is when she gets home from preschool and they can spend the afternoon playing together (with some strategic intervention by Mommy, of course).
Having kids old enough to play together can often lead to having kids old enough to fight over toys, but overall, they enjoy one another's company. Ann usually comes up with some kind of plan or idea for what the game is, and Andy provides a hapless combination of joining in and totally missing her point.
Lately, we've been in the midst of a super-family-cleanup. The poundage of "stuff" we've gotten rid of makes me feel lighter and calmer, but it also makes me not want to buy anything ever again! Apartments can get cluttered easily, so I'm hoping we can continue to stay ahead of the game and focus on using what we have.
Today's activity involved Ann setting up an obstacle course and trying to teach Andy to follow her through it (I've said it before: Who needs a puppy?). There were some falls followed by kisses, some moments of lying down on the various parts, some points where the corn-popper-vacuum needed to be brought out (though I am not sure why).
But overall, the idea of obstacles didn't frustrate, annoy, or worry the kids. It was thrilling and funny to them to face the challenge of something in their way. Another lesson learned courtesy of the RaggedyKids.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Titchazki
"Titchazki" - literally - strengthen yourself (female).
On a Friday evening in July of 2003, I was getting in the car with Raggedy-not-quite-yet-a-Dad. It was nearly time for Ann to be born, though I wasn't sure whether this was really "it" in terms of going to the hospital. I'd been in various degrees of labor for pretty much the entire last month of the pregnancy, a phenomenon that repeated itself (only much earlier) the next time around with Andy.
A brief telephone discussion with the obstetrician confirmed that it was showtime, and that there ought to be no further delay. Since I'm not a fan of giving figures and details in a public forum, let's just say that once we arrived at the hospital, it was definitely time.
We left for the hospital from my parents' home. They didn't join us because of the oncoming Shabbos, and waited at home for any news, which came a couple of hours later. As we were leaving, I looked into my mother's eyes with what must have been a quiet panic, which I assume based on the fierceness of the hug she gave me, and the last phrase she said to me as my mother before I became a mother.
"Titchazki." Strengthen yourself. And in moments of desperation, fear, or panic that I encounter today, it is still the phrase that I think to myself.
In the past couple of days, my sister-in-law received some shocking and devastating health news regarding her father. Titchazki.
My grandmother is grappling with the loneliness of having just observed my grandfather's first yahrtzeit, with the oncoming holidays that at this time last year had us all so shell-shocked in the midst of a fresh loss begins again. Titchazki.
I was referred to an account of an eloquent, optimistic woman facing some major and overwhelming news in her life with mixed feelings. Titchazki.
There is much strength that we have to offer each other, and even more strength that somehow comes from within ourselves when it seems the least likely that we'll be able to.
I'm not much of a dvar torah blogger, but I do think that this strength relates well to the persistent, continual sense of renewal brought on both by the start of Spring and by the holiday of Pesach, also called The Time of our Redemption.
To all of us: Titchazku.
On a Friday evening in July of 2003, I was getting in the car with Raggedy-not-quite-yet-a-Dad. It was nearly time for Ann to be born, though I wasn't sure whether this was really "it" in terms of going to the hospital. I'd been in various degrees of labor for pretty much the entire last month of the pregnancy, a phenomenon that repeated itself (only much earlier) the next time around with Andy.
A brief telephone discussion with the obstetrician confirmed that it was showtime, and that there ought to be no further delay. Since I'm not a fan of giving figures and details in a public forum, let's just say that once we arrived at the hospital, it was definitely time.
We left for the hospital from my parents' home. They didn't join us because of the oncoming Shabbos, and waited at home for any news, which came a couple of hours later. As we were leaving, I looked into my mother's eyes with what must have been a quiet panic, which I assume based on the fierceness of the hug she gave me, and the last phrase she said to me as my mother before I became a mother.
"Titchazki." Strengthen yourself. And in moments of desperation, fear, or panic that I encounter today, it is still the phrase that I think to myself.
In the past couple of days, my sister-in-law received some shocking and devastating health news regarding her father. Titchazki.
My grandmother is grappling with the loneliness of having just observed my grandfather's first yahrtzeit, with the oncoming holidays that at this time last year had us all so shell-shocked in the midst of a fresh loss begins again. Titchazki.
I was referred to an account of an eloquent, optimistic woman facing some major and overwhelming news in her life with mixed feelings. Titchazki.
There is much strength that we have to offer each other, and even more strength that somehow comes from within ourselves when it seems the least likely that we'll be able to.
I'm not much of a dvar torah blogger, but I do think that this strength relates well to the persistent, continual sense of renewal brought on both by the start of Spring and by the holiday of Pesach, also called The Time of our Redemption.
To all of us: Titchazku.
Monday, March 19, 2007
The Great Debate
The topic of this debate is something that still surprises me. You see, before I married RaggedyDad, it didn't occur to me that there was any other way to eat French toast besides sweet. That occasional Sunday morning treat when the challah quantity was too plentiful, draining on a paper-toweled plate, makes me think of nothing else but raspberry jam or maple syrup to go with it.
RaggedyDad, however, sees French toast and thinks - dare I type this - ketchup! Ugh! Ketchup! On French toast! I shudder nauseously just thinking about this. But so be it. Forget about adding cinnamon or some vanilla extract to the egg coating for him. Sweet things are for dessert and not for the meal, he tells me. Stop being so uptight, I say!
Yesterday morning, while RaggedyDad was at shul, I made some French toast, and lo and behold, Ann asked for ketchup to go with hers! "Like Papa," she smiled, innocently. "No problem," I said. But inside, a small part of me felt defeated.
You see, this phenomenon is not exclusive to French toast. In a couple of weeks, at my parents' Pesach table, we will likely sit to a lunch meal of matzah brei. Matzah brei is one of those foods that's so entrenched in my family experience that to have RaggedyDad violate it with anything other than sugar and/or raspberry jelly is devastating. But I know it will be ketchup he asks for at the table. (At least it's that Pesach ketchup that always tastes so sweet!)
My father grew up non-religious in Israel, a child of Holocaust survivors, both ob"m - a Hungarian mother and a Polish father. Which meant that my grandmother's raison d'etre was cooking the best food on earth, but also that she had adapted her cooking to accomodate my grandfather's Polish need to add a little sugar to any and every dish. It can't hurt, right?
When my father first spent Pesach with my mother's family, Boro Park Jews whose oldest daughter (my mom) had rebelled, it was, needless to say, a significant clash of cultures. It helped a lot that a distant relative on my mother's side knew my paternal grandfather and his family from Jaworzna in Poland. It also helped that my father knew how to make the best matzah brei (only on the last day for them) that they'd ever had. Layered and baked in a frying pan like a large pie, and then cut into triangular slices like pizza. And topped with sugar or jam.
Over 36 years later, my father is still making our matzah brei, until 120. Of course, there are the inevitable arguments from my mother about the tremendous mess he's making. And the oil splatters, crumbs, and tendency of us all to eat a little too much of it. And in the midst of it all, I'll be the mom hoping my daughter chooses the sugar instead of her Papa's ketchup to go with it. For old time's sake.
RaggedyDad, however, sees French toast and thinks - dare I type this - ketchup! Ugh! Ketchup! On French toast! I shudder nauseously just thinking about this. But so be it. Forget about adding cinnamon or some vanilla extract to the egg coating for him. Sweet things are for dessert and not for the meal, he tells me. Stop being so uptight, I say!
Yesterday morning, while RaggedyDad was at shul, I made some French toast, and lo and behold, Ann asked for ketchup to go with hers! "Like Papa," she smiled, innocently. "No problem," I said. But inside, a small part of me felt defeated.
You see, this phenomenon is not exclusive to French toast. In a couple of weeks, at my parents' Pesach table, we will likely sit to a lunch meal of matzah brei. Matzah brei is one of those foods that's so entrenched in my family experience that to have RaggedyDad violate it with anything other than sugar and/or raspberry jelly is devastating. But I know it will be ketchup he asks for at the table. (At least it's that Pesach ketchup that always tastes so sweet!)
My father grew up non-religious in Israel, a child of Holocaust survivors, both ob"m - a Hungarian mother and a Polish father. Which meant that my grandmother's raison d'etre was cooking the best food on earth, but also that she had adapted her cooking to accomodate my grandfather's Polish need to add a little sugar to any and every dish. It can't hurt, right?
When my father first spent Pesach with my mother's family, Boro Park Jews whose oldest daughter (my mom) had rebelled, it was, needless to say, a significant clash of cultures. It helped a lot that a distant relative on my mother's side knew my paternal grandfather and his family from Jaworzna in Poland. It also helped that my father knew how to make the best matzah brei (only on the last day for them) that they'd ever had. Layered and baked in a frying pan like a large pie, and then cut into triangular slices like pizza. And topped with sugar or jam.
Over 36 years later, my father is still making our matzah brei, until 120. Of course, there are the inevitable arguments from my mother about the tremendous mess he's making. And the oil splatters, crumbs, and tendency of us all to eat a little too much of it. And in the midst of it all, I'll be the mom hoping my daughter chooses the sugar instead of her Papa's ketchup to go with it. For old time's sake.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Forgive Me
Do the JIBs have a sappiest post ever award? Because if so, I'm going to nominate this post. It's very sappy. But it is also very true.
Ann has had a little red bowl for most of the time she's been eating real food. In the classic style of the unique personalities of my kids, Andy destroyed in mere moments what Ann kept in great condition for years.
Unfortunately, while Ann was at preschool today, Andy was eating some dry Cheerios put of the red bowl. Between my own fixation on Cheerios lately, and his, I can't keep enough of them around, even pre-Pesach.
Andy dropped the bowl, and the nature of the piece that cracked off and the resulting sharpness meant that the only option was to throw away the red bowl.
Knowing that Ann is a pensive kid who does well when things are explained to her, I saved the bowl and the shard for a post-preschool discussion. With one significant deviation from the truth.
Ann has seen quite a few of her things get ruined by Andy. Torn book pages and demolished projects are something I do my best to prevent, but sometimes they're among the inevitable little brother nuisances. I decided to cover for Andy this time.
Instead of telling Ann that Andy broke the bowl (by accident) I sat her down, showed her the two pieces it had become, and explained that while I was washing the dishes, it slipped from my hands and broke. And that I'm so sorry, but we're going to have to thank it for being a great bowl, and say goodbye to it.
Ann had some questions about when and how it had happened, but overall, she was very calm about it, and less emotional than I'd worried she would be. I asked Ann if she forgave me for what had happened to her little red bowl, and she told me, after a moment, that she did. No tears, just a little confusion, and a glimpse into that world that exists here when she's not home.
But the essential nugget from this whole exchange came a couple of minutes afterward.
Ann looked at me with those eyes that probably take up at least half her face and said, "Do you forgive ME, Mommy?"
"Forgive you for what?"
"For when I sometimes break YOUR things or don't do the right thing."
Wow. Are you really three-and-a-half?
Because Ann is little, she asked her question with an honest, innocent seriousness. Not the bargaining, rude, self-righteousness I can probably expect in about ten years.
"Yes, Ann. I do forgive you. And I'm sorry that I get upset about the things you do sometimes."
We talked for a minute about how things like bowls and books and toys and papers are nice, but they aren't the most important part of our life, because they are just things. And that the main thing that we care about is each other.
By now most of my readers are either smiling tenderly or throwing up. Hopefully it's the former. For the latter group: How is Ann going to recognize those sappy but true cliches in life if she's never heard them before?
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Stand-In
In my previous post, I described how disgruntled I'm becoming with grocery shopping these days.
Andy, on the other hand, loves grocery shopping. He loves outings of all kinds, which I like too. The cold weather and the cough/cold combos that Andy and I are both working through have been hampering our long outings, but . . .
I've decided that at 16 and a half months, Andy needs to start pulling his weight around here. And he's heavy!
Today, Andy did some last-minute grocery shopping for me. I tried to make things easier for him by illustrating the shopping list and pointing him in the direction of the store.
He wasn't gone very long, and got almost everything right. Also, he didn't bring back any more tea or other unneeded items, which makes him a better shopper than RaggedyDad!
Andy, on the other hand, loves grocery shopping. He loves outings of all kinds, which I like too. The cold weather and the cough/cold combos that Andy and I are both working through have been hampering our long outings, but . . .
I've decided that at 16 and a half months, Andy needs to start pulling his weight around here. And he's heavy!
Today, Andy did some last-minute grocery shopping for me. I tried to make things easier for him by illustrating the shopping list and pointing him in the direction of the store.
He wasn't gone very long, and got almost everything right. Also, he didn't bring back any more tea or other unneeded items, which makes him a better shopper than RaggedyDad!
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Thank You For Not Shopping Here
Of late, I've begun to feel that one of the supermarkets I frequent simply does not really want mine, or anyone else's business.
This actually goes back a long while, back to the days of trudging out to the stores on foot with my mom all the way down the hill and across the neighborhood, and then back again, only with heavy bags. The closed circuit televisions and the unfortunate treatment of store employees by the management never sat well with us, but as non-drivers, choices were not abundant, at least back then.
Several months ago, I saw a handwritten sign advertising a particular salami-type thing on sale. When it failed to ring up with the sale price, I gently informed the (semi-management) cashier that this was an item on sale for x amount. I was told, "No, it isn't." I walked over to the sale sign and carefully peeled it from the shelf, bringing it to the cashier. "Yes," I said, "It is."
After examining the sign, she informed me that the sale price referred only to the item in the one-pound size. Whereas the item I was holding clearly contained not one pound, but, in fact, 16 ounces. So there. (This is a totally true account). After doing my best not to sound conceited as I enlightened her on some basic mathematics, one manager came over and said, "This sale sign must be very old. Maybe it was under another sign." No, it wasn't!
By now I was fed up. "Fine," I said, "I don't want the item."
"No, no, we'll give it to you this time," I was told.
"This is not a personal favor. Your merchandise is not being advertised clearly," was all I said, and I finished making my purchase and left. I can't even remember if I got the salami in the end or not.
A friend saw a sign at this store's fish department stating "Fish prices subject to change according to customers' attitude." Which could be a little cute if it had a smiley face on it or was actually part of an otherwise pleasant shopping experience. Neither was the case.
The other week, I was at this store again, on a day of icy rain and bitter cold. There was little parking to be had, and whatever I bought would have to be shlepped on flimsy stroller handles back to the car while helping Ann navigate the sidewalk.
At checkout time, the (truly deranged) man who bags groceries on a line I hope to never stand on again was bagging some heavy things in single bags. Considering the walk that awaited me, I said, "Please double the bags."
"No, no. Very strong bags." (What?! Did he say no?)
"Sir, I need to walk with my kids. Please double the bags."
"My boss said one bag. Strong bags."
There was a line behind me. I am not a fighter by nature, but this was simply ridiculous. I did not need to contend with spilled groceries and a stroller carrying Andy that would surely tip back with the weight of the bags if I needed to retrieve fallen items, while keeping three-year-old Ann safe on the street.
"Fine," I said loudly. "I'll double the bags myself. It's a shame that other people are waiting, but I can work here too. This seems like a great way for the store to save money." (I can't believe I actually said that. Get ready to be mortified as you grow up, RaggedyKids.) I cannot think of one other supermarket ever where a request to double bags by someone with kids would be outright refused.
At this point, the deranged bagger procured some flimsier bags that he was willing to double for me. "No, thank you," I said. I had just four bags in total! and bagged my things quickly, and left in a huff.
Of course, the new barrier to prevent shopping cart theft (?) did little to help smooth my exit from the store. We'll see if the decent prices tempt me back despite all the cons.
This actually goes back a long while, back to the days of trudging out to the stores on foot with my mom all the way down the hill and across the neighborhood, and then back again, only with heavy bags. The closed circuit televisions and the unfortunate treatment of store employees by the management never sat well with us, but as non-drivers, choices were not abundant, at least back then.
Several months ago, I saw a handwritten sign advertising a particular salami-type thing on sale. When it failed to ring up with the sale price, I gently informed the (semi-management) cashier that this was an item on sale for x amount. I was told, "No, it isn't." I walked over to the sale sign and carefully peeled it from the shelf, bringing it to the cashier. "Yes," I said, "It is."
After examining the sign, she informed me that the sale price referred only to the item in the one-pound size. Whereas the item I was holding clearly contained not one pound, but, in fact, 16 ounces. So there. (This is a totally true account). After doing my best not to sound conceited as I enlightened her on some basic mathematics, one manager came over and said, "This sale sign must be very old. Maybe it was under another sign." No, it wasn't!
By now I was fed up. "Fine," I said, "I don't want the item."
"No, no, we'll give it to you this time," I was told.
"This is not a personal favor. Your merchandise is not being advertised clearly," was all I said, and I finished making my purchase and left. I can't even remember if I got the salami in the end or not.
A friend saw a sign at this store's fish department stating "Fish prices subject to change according to customers' attitude." Which could be a little cute if it had a smiley face on it or was actually part of an otherwise pleasant shopping experience. Neither was the case.
The other week, I was at this store again, on a day of icy rain and bitter cold. There was little parking to be had, and whatever I bought would have to be shlepped on flimsy stroller handles back to the car while helping Ann navigate the sidewalk.
At checkout time, the (truly deranged) man who bags groceries on a line I hope to never stand on again was bagging some heavy things in single bags. Considering the walk that awaited me, I said, "Please double the bags."
"No, no. Very strong bags." (What?! Did he say no?)
"Sir, I need to walk with my kids. Please double the bags."
"My boss said one bag. Strong bags."
There was a line behind me. I am not a fighter by nature, but this was simply ridiculous. I did not need to contend with spilled groceries and a stroller carrying Andy that would surely tip back with the weight of the bags if I needed to retrieve fallen items, while keeping three-year-old Ann safe on the street.
"Fine," I said loudly. "I'll double the bags myself. It's a shame that other people are waiting, but I can work here too. This seems like a great way for the store to save money." (I can't believe I actually said that. Get ready to be mortified as you grow up, RaggedyKids.) I cannot think of one other supermarket ever where a request to double bags by someone with kids would be outright refused.
At this point, the deranged bagger procured some flimsier bags that he was willing to double for me. "No, thank you," I said. I had just four bags in total! and bagged my things quickly, and left in a huff.
Of course, the new barrier to prevent shopping cart theft (?) did little to help smooth my exit from the store. We'll see if the decent prices tempt me back despite all the cons.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Purim Rundown
Princess Ann's costume - $17
Swashbuckling Andy showing his Piratitude - Arrrgh! - $11
All the NY cousins looking out the window together - priceless.
Swashbuckling Andy showing his Piratitude - Arrrgh! - $11
All the NY cousins looking out the window together - priceless.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Pre-Purim at the Raggedys
It's been a busy week here at the Raggedys, getting ready for the hectic, sticky fun that is Purim. Above are some of Ann's Purim projects from school.
Aside from trying to kick my cold-cough-etc., I've been cooking ahead for the Purim Seudah, finishing up Mishloach Manot, and hemming Ann's costume.
Also, I've been having fun laughing about how much RaggedyDad seems to like that weird Ford The Edge(uh) commercial.
Here are some photos from this week:
Our cakes for Mishloach Manot (the other nearly 20 are crammed into the freezer -these are for Ann's teachers and some other people at her school). These are giong out along with a mini grape juice bottle.
Some shots of our early morning hamentasch-baking adventure before Ann went to preschool
And finally, some meat-filled borekas for the seudah appetizer. Yum! And yawn! Good night!
Monday, February 26, 2007
Empathy
One of the things I know needs work among my midot (aside from that famous redhead temper, of course) is my ability to really, truly empathize with others.
I will admit that this is a real fault. Some of the things I hear about people grappling with, in the news or in my social sphere, just make me think "I don't get it! Snap out of it!" Despite this, I can usually be (hopefully) a good parent, a good friend, a good listener. Internally, though, I don't always empathize enough with struggles that differ from my own.
There was even a point where I got interested in reading non-fiction works about or by people who struggle with things like mental illness or challenging types of upbringings that differed vastly from anything I'd ever experienced, attempting to gain some insight into subjects that baffle me.
When Ann has a cough, and the line is blurred between the involuntary coughing and the "Mommy, look at me, I'm sick" excessive coughing, I sometimes tell her to try and stop the coughing, to count to ten before the next cough, to get a drink and think about something else. And, of course, to grin and bear it when it comes to that awful cough medicine.
Well, now I'm the one who's coughing. And my suggestions to Ann are seeming pretty lame as I struggle with that back-of-throat tickle or the chest-tingling urge to cough. Let me just say that there's nothing like a spoonful of empathy to make that humble pie go down!
I will admit that this is a real fault. Some of the things I hear about people grappling with, in the news or in my social sphere, just make me think "I don't get it! Snap out of it!" Despite this, I can usually be (hopefully) a good parent, a good friend, a good listener. Internally, though, I don't always empathize enough with struggles that differ from my own.
There was even a point where I got interested in reading non-fiction works about or by people who struggle with things like mental illness or challenging types of upbringings that differed vastly from anything I'd ever experienced, attempting to gain some insight into subjects that baffle me.
When Ann has a cough, and the line is blurred between the involuntary coughing and the "Mommy, look at me, I'm sick" excessive coughing, I sometimes tell her to try and stop the coughing, to count to ten before the next cough, to get a drink and think about something else. And, of course, to grin and bear it when it comes to that awful cough medicine.
Well, now I'm the one who's coughing. And my suggestions to Ann are seeming pretty lame as I struggle with that back-of-throat tickle or the chest-tingling urge to cough. Let me just say that there's nothing like a spoonful of empathy to make that humble pie go down!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Staples
No, this is not a post about the office supply superstore.
I want to talk about the food inventory situation at the Raggedy home. Namely, one of my friends (please update your blog!) was making a batch of meatballs, and realized, mid-mix, that she has no eggs in the house. No Eggs! I was laughing with her that "no eggs" pretty much never happens here because eggs are one of the panic-inducing staples that I'm terrified of not having in the house.
Sometimes I think that if all the supermarkets blew up, I want to at least have flour, sugar, eggs, milk, bread - the basics - so I can make some pancakes and hide until the supermarket bombers are found.
I get a little hoard-y about some foods. Having less than a full dozen eggs is called running low on eggs over here. And we're not the biggest egg-eaters. But we need to . . . have them.
Optional expansions from the staple foods listed above are the big block of American cheese, oil, basic spices, apple juice (apologies to my pediatrician - I water it down about 80%!), canned tomato sauce, canned beans, a couple of frozen chicken packages, cereal, potatoes, onions. And of course, RaggedyDad's endless and varied teas. But running low on these things doesn't make me as nervous as the top list.
I guess based on family history it doesn't take a genius to figure out the food hoarding, though you'd think the Holocaust mentality would wear off after a generation or two. It was also reinforced by my mother not driving, which meant that she was very careful to be well-stocked foodwise. And winter weather takes the food-stocking panic to a new extreme entirely. As does the idea of small children who are hungry and crying and don't want to eat freezer-burned soup or canned mandarin oranges (no, this didn't really happen - but nightmares of it have!)
So why does someone like me who has a car and lives about 5 minutes (12 minutes on foot!) from every kosher food product known to woman get so crazy about stocking staples? I don't know, but I'll always have an egg for you to borrow!
***Sunday Night Insanity Update! As I type this, we experienced a change in Purim seuda plans here at the Raggedys! My sister-in-law who was to be hosting the Purim seuda this year has informed me that her oven is kaput. And she and my brother are away until Thursday. And the babysitter who's with their kids is not going to be able to deal with the serviceman/repair situation, so . . .
We're hosting (cooking!) the Purim seuda here. And there may be several inches of snow today and tomorrow (please stop rolling your eyes, Ezzie and PT). And the kids seem to have colds, hopefully nothing more. And RaggedyDad has a very busy week ahead at work and in school.
Hectic schedule + sick kids + bad weather + last-minute (to me) big family gathering = RaggedyDad just shlepped out with my list after already having visited most of the stores for a more innocuous grocery fill-in.
Additional Caveat: Parking is tricky around this stretch of apartments, and there are definitely places you do not want your car getting stuck when it snows (hey, we drive a '95 Corolla, remember?). Since we're already 'parked well', moving the car now would be bad.
So RaggedyDad's busing this one. Yep. The bus. Potatoes. Onions. Eggs (I'm down to my last 30 and I have to bake 15 more mini-cakes for Shalach Manos). Chickens. And More. We'll see how many of those 2 dozen eggs I asked for actually make it here whole!
I'm off to start cooking for the freezer.
I want to talk about the food inventory situation at the Raggedy home. Namely, one of my friends (please update your blog!) was making a batch of meatballs, and realized, mid-mix, that she has no eggs in the house. No Eggs! I was laughing with her that "no eggs" pretty much never happens here because eggs are one of the panic-inducing staples that I'm terrified of not having in the house.
Sometimes I think that if all the supermarkets blew up, I want to at least have flour, sugar, eggs, milk, bread - the basics - so I can make some pancakes and hide until the supermarket bombers are found.
I get a little hoard-y about some foods. Having less than a full dozen eggs is called running low on eggs over here. And we're not the biggest egg-eaters. But we need to . . . have them.
Optional expansions from the staple foods listed above are the big block of American cheese, oil, basic spices, apple juice (apologies to my pediatrician - I water it down about 80%!), canned tomato sauce, canned beans, a couple of frozen chicken packages, cereal, potatoes, onions. And of course, RaggedyDad's endless and varied teas. But running low on these things doesn't make me as nervous as the top list.
I guess based on family history it doesn't take a genius to figure out the food hoarding, though you'd think the Holocaust mentality would wear off after a generation or two. It was also reinforced by my mother not driving, which meant that she was very careful to be well-stocked foodwise. And winter weather takes the food-stocking panic to a new extreme entirely. As does the idea of small children who are hungry and crying and don't want to eat freezer-burned soup or canned mandarin oranges (no, this didn't really happen - but nightmares of it have!)
So why does someone like me who has a car and lives about 5 minutes (12 minutes on foot!) from every kosher food product known to woman get so crazy about stocking staples? I don't know, but I'll always have an egg for you to borrow!
***Sunday Night Insanity Update! As I type this, we experienced a change in Purim seuda plans here at the Raggedys! My sister-in-law who was to be hosting the Purim seuda this year has informed me that her oven is kaput. And she and my brother are away until Thursday. And the babysitter who's with their kids is not going to be able to deal with the serviceman/repair situation, so . . .
We're hosting (cooking!) the Purim seuda here. And there may be several inches of snow today and tomorrow (please stop rolling your eyes, Ezzie and PT). And the kids seem to have colds, hopefully nothing more. And RaggedyDad has a very busy week ahead at work and in school.
Hectic schedule + sick kids + bad weather + last-minute (to me) big family gathering = RaggedyDad just shlepped out with my list after already having visited most of the stores for a more innocuous grocery fill-in.
Additional Caveat: Parking is tricky around this stretch of apartments, and there are definitely places you do not want your car getting stuck when it snows (hey, we drive a '95 Corolla, remember?). Since we're already 'parked well', moving the car now would be bad.
So RaggedyDad's busing this one. Yep. The bus. Potatoes. Onions. Eggs (I'm down to my last 30 and I have to bake 15 more mini-cakes for Shalach Manos). Chickens. And More. We'll see how many of those 2 dozen eggs I asked for actually make it here whole!
I'm off to start cooking for the freezer.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Rude Patrons
After reading the recent great post at Orthonomics about tipping for religious services, I'm going to post about an arena where tipping is more traditionally expected. Restaurants.
Now, it has been quite some time since we've been to a restaurant, and even longer than that since we've been to one with our kids. RaggedyDad and I probably eat out an average of about 3 to 4 times a year, though there's no shortage of kosher places in the NY metro area.
I'm also not a big fan of taking small children (ours are 3.5 and almost 1.5 years old) out to restaurants. It's usually not fun for the parents, the kids themselves, and the kidless patrons, who usually don't need any more fuel for the kid-hating fire that burns within :)
But, yesterday we were urged to join in on a last-minute family celebration. My brother and sister-in-law (with 3 young-ish kids of their own) wanted very much to take my parents out to celebrate their birthdays. My parents' birthdays fell out last week, and are within three days of one another. How I managed to survive being brought up with two Aquariuses as parents really baffles the mind, but I digress.
My parents are also going away for about 2 weeks in a couple of days, and this was an opportunity for us all to see them. The restaurant was very nearby. And the reservation was not particularly late. So off we went.
Overall, it was a lot of fun. We had a great time, and it was more or less a family-oriented place (hey, this is Queens, not Manhattan!) so there were no issues as far as having the kids there. Six adults and five relatively calm kids. It was fine.
But one thing really irked me, and still does. At a table next to us sat a middle-aged couple who just had this angry, farbissiner (bitter) look on their faces the whole time. If a comment about our (quiet) kids had been made, it would have come from them, and I sort of braced myself for the possibility.
Instead, the husband of this couple chose to trounce on the waitress. You see, the owners and staff of this restaurant are Israeli. The couple in question were not. The husband apparently asked for black coffee with (for?) dessert, and the waitress misunderstood. She came back saying it was not something they serve, and suggested espresso, capuccino, or whatever instead. It seems like in her mind, she translated to 'cafe shachor' which might be something else in Israel.
Whatever the mixup was, the man obviously thought it was ridiculous that he couldn't just get a cup of black coffee, and made a fuss about it. He explained what he wanted in a haughty way, and the waitress apologetically said, "I'm sorry, I don't think I understood what you were asking for."
At that point, the man coolly replied, "Well, understand this. You're in this country now."
The waitress took it like a pro, and left to get the man his coffee. But I was so appalled by what he said, having heard the whole exchange directly to my right (crowded place).
This type of rudeness to a service person is so low and base because he knew full well that he could get away with it. She was not about to risk her job and answer back over something so trivial. But it was so condescending, so nasty, and so upsetting to me. I knew that if I didn't say something to the waitress it would bother me later on. I've worked in food service, and gotten my fair share of nasty remarks. But a kind word from someone who sees it your way can help.
Soon afterward, as we were leaving, I discreetly approached the waitress to tell her, derech agav (by the way), that I thought it was totally rude and wrong the way that the man had spoken to her. She kind of shrugged it off, and made light of the incident (I realized she was thicker-skinned than I am!), but still gave me an appreciative smile.
Let's hope I don't come across Mr. and Mrs. Rude again around here anytime soon. Ugh!
Now, it has been quite some time since we've been to a restaurant, and even longer than that since we've been to one with our kids. RaggedyDad and I probably eat out an average of about 3 to 4 times a year, though there's no shortage of kosher places in the NY metro area.
I'm also not a big fan of taking small children (ours are 3.5 and almost 1.5 years old) out to restaurants. It's usually not fun for the parents, the kids themselves, and the kidless patrons, who usually don't need any more fuel for the kid-hating fire that burns within :)
But, yesterday we were urged to join in on a last-minute family celebration. My brother and sister-in-law (with 3 young-ish kids of their own) wanted very much to take my parents out to celebrate their birthdays. My parents' birthdays fell out last week, and are within three days of one another. How I managed to survive being brought up with two Aquariuses as parents really baffles the mind, but I digress.
My parents are also going away for about 2 weeks in a couple of days, and this was an opportunity for us all to see them. The restaurant was very nearby. And the reservation was not particularly late. So off we went.
Overall, it was a lot of fun. We had a great time, and it was more or less a family-oriented place (hey, this is Queens, not Manhattan!) so there were no issues as far as having the kids there. Six adults and five relatively calm kids. It was fine.
But one thing really irked me, and still does. At a table next to us sat a middle-aged couple who just had this angry, farbissiner (bitter) look on their faces the whole time. If a comment about our (quiet) kids had been made, it would have come from them, and I sort of braced myself for the possibility.
Instead, the husband of this couple chose to trounce on the waitress. You see, the owners and staff of this restaurant are Israeli. The couple in question were not. The husband apparently asked for black coffee with (for?) dessert, and the waitress misunderstood. She came back saying it was not something they serve, and suggested espresso, capuccino, or whatever instead. It seems like in her mind, she translated to 'cafe shachor' which might be something else in Israel.
Whatever the mixup was, the man obviously thought it was ridiculous that he couldn't just get a cup of black coffee, and made a fuss about it. He explained what he wanted in a haughty way, and the waitress apologetically said, "I'm sorry, I don't think I understood what you were asking for."
At that point, the man coolly replied, "Well, understand this. You're in this country now."
The waitress took it like a pro, and left to get the man his coffee. But I was so appalled by what he said, having heard the whole exchange directly to my right (crowded place).
This type of rudeness to a service person is so low and base because he knew full well that he could get away with it. She was not about to risk her job and answer back over something so trivial. But it was so condescending, so nasty, and so upsetting to me. I knew that if I didn't say something to the waitress it would bother me later on. I've worked in food service, and gotten my fair share of nasty remarks. But a kind word from someone who sees it your way can help.
Soon afterward, as we were leaving, I discreetly approached the waitress to tell her, derech agav (by the way), that I thought it was totally rude and wrong the way that the man had spoken to her. She kind of shrugged it off, and made light of the incident (I realized she was thicker-skinned than I am!), but still gave me an appreciative smile.
Let's hope I don't come across Mr. and Mrs. Rude again around here anytime soon. Ugh!
Thursday, February 15, 2007
All Better
When the kids had the vomiting stomach virus last week, and I was covered in grime, puke, and more laundry than I had ever seen, I thought it couldn't get much worse.
Actually, it can. What's worse than the kids being that sick is Mommy being that sick. Yep, I got it. Tuesday night and all day Wednesday was the craziest, all-out sick-fest ever. I felt so weak and awful that I needed a mental pep-talk to muster up the strength for every single aspect of every menial task. But the kids still needed a mommy!
The house looked kind of like those awful news stories where the kids have had to fend for themselves for days. The remains of the ideas that a three-and-a-half year old and a 15-month old have about what they need to find to eat, play with, and wear were scattered all over the house. Disastrous.
I was too scared that RaggedyDad would get it too to have him spend the day at home with me. The moment he left for work, I tried to paste on a reassuring smile, but I think the best I did was look wan and panicked.
I'm blessed with helpful parents nearby-ish and great neighbors who took Ann to and from preschool during the miserable weather. And when I woke up this morning, RaggedyDad (who left the house at 7:30 a.m. and got home at 10 p.m.) had not only shoveled out the car, he also cleared the path of the tornado in the apartment and it really, truly looked like a livable space again.
There is nothing like feeling better after a bout like that of being sick. This morning, after drinking a lot (more) Powerade and water, I disinfected the bathroom like a madwoman, as well as some other surfaces for good measure, and ran a load of wash on hot. Mommy's back, kids!
Actually, it can. What's worse than the kids being that sick is Mommy being that sick. Yep, I got it. Tuesday night and all day Wednesday was the craziest, all-out sick-fest ever. I felt so weak and awful that I needed a mental pep-talk to muster up the strength for every single aspect of every menial task. But the kids still needed a mommy!
The house looked kind of like those awful news stories where the kids have had to fend for themselves for days. The remains of the ideas that a three-and-a-half year old and a 15-month old have about what they need to find to eat, play with, and wear were scattered all over the house. Disastrous.
I was too scared that RaggedyDad would get it too to have him spend the day at home with me. The moment he left for work, I tried to paste on a reassuring smile, but I think the best I did was look wan and panicked.
I'm blessed with helpful parents nearby-ish and great neighbors who took Ann to and from preschool during the miserable weather. And when I woke up this morning, RaggedyDad (who left the house at 7:30 a.m. and got home at 10 p.m.) had not only shoveled out the car, he also cleared the path of the tornado in the apartment and it really, truly looked like a livable space again.
There is nothing like feeling better after a bout like that of being sick. This morning, after drinking a lot (more) Powerade and water, I disinfected the bathroom like a madwoman, as well as some other surfaces for good measure, and ran a load of wash on hot. Mommy's back, kids!
Monday, February 12, 2007
Label Me (Sell-Out!)
In my adolescence, I thought that any reliance on labels was a conformist plot of the masses. Questions that started with "What kind of . . . " often led me to launch into a rant about how labels belong on cans, not people.
And then I grew up. A little. To some degree, I still feel like labeling has a real dark side when it becomes a means to classify and limit the total of a person. But I think that many mature people are able to make some use of labels in order to better understand and organize the world and the extreme amount of information with which we are perpetually assaulted.
Recently, I started noticing that some of my regular blog reads started using those little optional label tags at the end of each post. For a while, I felt like these things were kind of silly, and didn't see the real point in reading someone's post and then seeing a bunch of Cliff-Notesy catch phrases hanging off at the end. Disjointed and odd. It seemed like a great way to take blogging too seriously - does this stuff really need to be archived like something at a university library?
But as I thought about it, and after a couple of times trying to find a post about a particular something, I realized that the little labels are not that foolish after all. If someone's been blogging for a while, and I'm interested in other posts of hers about . . . a holiday . . . finances . . . childrearing . . . driving . . . anything, the labels are actually quite useful.
Arranging posts by topic can help my own writing in showing me whether there are topics I haven't looked back on in a while . . . topics I write about so often it's probably a drag . . . or some interesting subject I started exploring and abandoned.
So I went back the other day and played around with the template a bit, and then went back and labeled all of my posts. Now, since there were only 54 of them, and they are somewhat unified in subject matter, it was not that difficult. The blogger cult has also made it pretty easy by automatically suggesting existing labels while you're typing based on the first letter or two. Lazy labels.
We'll see how the labeling thing turns out, and whether it continues to spread. And I guess I'm not that cool, edgy, and different after all!
And then I grew up. A little. To some degree, I still feel like labeling has a real dark side when it becomes a means to classify and limit the total of a person. But I think that many mature people are able to make some use of labels in order to better understand and organize the world and the extreme amount of information with which we are perpetually assaulted.
Recently, I started noticing that some of my regular blog reads started using those little optional label tags at the end of each post. For a while, I felt like these things were kind of silly, and didn't see the real point in reading someone's post and then seeing a bunch of Cliff-Notesy catch phrases hanging off at the end. Disjointed and odd. It seemed like a great way to take blogging too seriously - does this stuff really need to be archived like something at a university library?
But as I thought about it, and after a couple of times trying to find a post about a particular something, I realized that the little labels are not that foolish after all. If someone's been blogging for a while, and I'm interested in other posts of hers about . . . a holiday . . . finances . . . childrearing . . . driving . . . anything, the labels are actually quite useful.
Arranging posts by topic can help my own writing in showing me whether there are topics I haven't looked back on in a while . . . topics I write about so often it's probably a drag . . . or some interesting subject I started exploring and abandoned.
So I went back the other day and played around with the template a bit, and then went back and labeled all of my posts. Now, since there were only 54 of them, and they are somewhat unified in subject matter, it was not that difficult. The blogger cult has also made it pretty easy by automatically suggesting existing labels while you're typing based on the first letter or two. Lazy labels.
We'll see how the labeling thing turns out, and whether it continues to spread. And I guess I'm not that cool, edgy, and different after all!
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Kol Imma (Voice of a Mother)
With all the talk about Kol Isha out there, I thought I'd post a personal take on (my own)singing.
Before we listened to lots of lame kiddie music, RaggedyMom had lots and lots of my own albums that I loved, and still do. There is no better way to make kugel night more fun than pulling out some old music and belting out those lyrics that are deep-frozen into your brain.
After finding that there was nothing (surprise!) on the radio, I pulled out some old cassettes. My choice for the potato kugel (potato kIgel, according to RaggedyDad) was The Zombies Greatest Hits. This was actually the first tape I ever bought, at 11 years old. I listened to it every day, repeatedly for years, and to my credit, I know exactly how many seconds to pause at the end of one song before I take a breath to start the next song right on cue.
The Zombies were a popular yet somewhat obscure group, and are probably best known for the song "Time of the Season." (Also, "She's Not There", "Tell Her No") I had heard "Time of the Season" on a record of my mother's and wanted something I could listen to on my walkman. Singing along to it all these years later, I would say that the lyrics on some of the tape, and that song in particular, are waaay too sexy for an eleven-year-old!
I wonder if anyone is familiar with the Zombies' sound and has also heard the California band Smash Mouth ("Walkin' on the Sun"). Ever since I heard them, I thought they sounded like a reincarnation of the Zombies (maybe it's the sound of their keyboard).
Mid-session cleanup and carrot kigel time was devoted to another favorite, The Jayhawks (now defunct). Coming out of Minnesota, they are the quintessential folk rock/alt-country band. Their early albums are particularly heartfelt, and the harmonies are golden.
Years back, I went to a record store in Manhattan where the Jayhawks were performing to promote an album. I found myself pretty close to the front, and after the show, when Gary Louris was signing my CD, he said, "I saw you in the audience. Wow, you were singing along to every word!" Well, friends, that moment has been relived so many times in my mind it's embarassing. To say it has been one of the highlights of my otherwise "singing while cooking" career is an understatement.
I grew up hearing my mother singing Laura Nyro and Joni Mitchell around the house as she dusted and cooked. The grocer we frequented when I was in my stroller days used to call me Maria Callas for my tendency to break into song. Ann and Andy hear a lot of spontaneous singing, and I hear them break into song a lot too, particularly Ann, who loves to belt out original lyrics about her thoughts and her day.
One of the more difficult things for me when we have long-term male non-related company (RaggedyDad's stepfather, for example) is being unable to sing around the house. But most of the time, my kids enjoy Kol Imma quite often. Singing to and with my children is one of our most cherished pastimes, whether or not anyone ever hears it.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Bedtime
Until I became a mother about three-and-a-half years ago, my experience with children was rather limited. I'm the youngest of three children. I saw my younger cousins somewhat infrequently. My babysitting days were erratic and short-lived. One summer, I was a day-camp counselor for three-year-olds. The toileting, the in-and-out-of-bathing-suits, the feed-me . . . It was enough to convince me that I'd rather be an arts and crafts counselor, which I did for the next three summers at sleepaway camp.
Let's just say that when Ann was born, RaggedyDad (also the youngest growing up) and I were, for the most part, baffled by her. She cried. All night long. I was so delirious with exhaustion, and so worried about keeping my parents up all night (we were there for two weeks following the birth). I started and finished novels night after night, holding and feeding Ann intermittently, wondering what this new, bizarre life of mine as a mom would ultimately turn out to be.
Thankfully, babies have no clue at the outset just how terrifying and confusing those beginning weeks can be for their parents. Ann stuck around, as did her parents, and we figured a lot of things out. About nursing, about sleeping, about crying (both of us!), and just about being together. In the midst of her colicky phase, my pediatrician turned to me and said, "Ann's getting through this. But how are YOU doing?" That was all it took to get me to start crying right in his office! RaggedyDad had just made a quick visit to Belgium for his sister's wedding, and it was all Mommy, all the time. I'll never forget Ann's one-year checkup, when, with no condescension whatsoever, the same doctor said, "She's come a long way, and so have you - great job, Mom." I was totally vindicated from my previously blubbering self, and brimming with pride.
Lots of other sleep-related adjustments followed, and Ann was not much of a sleeper through them all. Weaning. Giving up naps. Becoming a big sister to Andy. Moving out of the crib and into a bed. Toilet training. Nighttime training. I think that kids really teach us a great deal. Ann taught me not to be afraid of my kids, and once Andy came along, I think I had mostly internalized it. Of course, Andy teaches me every day that each child is different! But our basic principles for how things operate in our household stay mostly the same, and I no longer worry if I have the "right" to maintain decorum.
Now that bedtime involves the two of them, and not a toddler and a newborn, it's a flurry of cleanup, supper, bathtime, pajamas, stories, goodnight phone calls to RaggedyDad and my mother, toothbrushing (I'll have to post a picture of Andy brushing his teeth one of these days - it's his big thrill of the day!), Shema/HaMalach HaGoel, "I love you and I like you"s, and then . . . quiet. By 6-6:30 p.m., I'm over on the other side of the apartment, catching up on the mail, IMing with a friend, and just resting. I listen for Ann's whispers to quiet, and for the soft snoring in stereo to start, before the rest of my night begins. We've come a long way, babies!
Let's just say that when Ann was born, RaggedyDad (also the youngest growing up) and I were, for the most part, baffled by her. She cried. All night long. I was so delirious with exhaustion, and so worried about keeping my parents up all night (we were there for two weeks following the birth). I started and finished novels night after night, holding and feeding Ann intermittently, wondering what this new, bizarre life of mine as a mom would ultimately turn out to be.
Thankfully, babies have no clue at the outset just how terrifying and confusing those beginning weeks can be for their parents. Ann stuck around, as did her parents, and we figured a lot of things out. About nursing, about sleeping, about crying (both of us!), and just about being together. In the midst of her colicky phase, my pediatrician turned to me and said, "Ann's getting through this. But how are YOU doing?" That was all it took to get me to start crying right in his office! RaggedyDad had just made a quick visit to Belgium for his sister's wedding, and it was all Mommy, all the time. I'll never forget Ann's one-year checkup, when, with no condescension whatsoever, the same doctor said, "She's come a long way, and so have you - great job, Mom." I was totally vindicated from my previously blubbering self, and brimming with pride.
Lots of other sleep-related adjustments followed, and Ann was not much of a sleeper through them all. Weaning. Giving up naps. Becoming a big sister to Andy. Moving out of the crib and into a bed. Toilet training. Nighttime training. I think that kids really teach us a great deal. Ann taught me not to be afraid of my kids, and once Andy came along, I think I had mostly internalized it. Of course, Andy teaches me every day that each child is different! But our basic principles for how things operate in our household stay mostly the same, and I no longer worry if I have the "right" to maintain decorum.
Now that bedtime involves the two of them, and not a toddler and a newborn, it's a flurry of cleanup, supper, bathtime, pajamas, stories, goodnight phone calls to RaggedyDad and my mother, toothbrushing (I'll have to post a picture of Andy brushing his teeth one of these days - it's his big thrill of the day!), Shema/HaMalach HaGoel, "I love you and I like you"s, and then . . . quiet. By 6-6:30 p.m., I'm over on the other side of the apartment, catching up on the mail, IMing with a friend, and just resting. I listen for Ann's whispers to quiet, and for the soft snoring in stereo to start, before the rest of my night begins. We've come a long way, babies!
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Pancake Social
For some reason, people who meet me sometimes assume that I'm into healthy food, or possibly a vegetarian. I am really not sure why. Maybe because I'm so pale they think I'm probably anemic from a lack of red meat. But I really have no idea how I got the healthy-eater reputation, since for the most part, my eating habits are not the greatest.
My mother has a notoriously unhealthy approach to eating, but as far as meals went, they were always solid and square. However, she often just ate nosh for dinner herself, almost always skipped breakfast, and was known throughout the land for giving my brothers and me the best (junky) snacks in our school lunches. Ring Dings were typical. I guess you pick up more by example than anything else.
The real supper in our house was often something in the meat/chicken family, but as I got older and more vocal about my finicky-ness, I often just toasted a Lenders bagel with some melted cheese on it and called it a night. My poor mother.
When I first married RaggedyDad, I had little to no knowledge of cooking. My mother never asked us kids for cooking help, and it was never "my night to prepare supper" growing up. I think she was mainly concerned that we'd make a mess. When RD and I got married, he and my mother tried to show me the ropes, and I caught on for the most part (with a little help from my cookbook bible, Spice and Spirit), but I personally would be happy to eat macaroni and cheese for supper.
One of RaggedyDad's first jobs was at a small financial company where one of the bosses also owned a popular kosher (fast food) restaurant in NYC. In an attempt to keep employees in work mode without a break, there was basically an unlimited policy on ordering food from this guy's restaurant, and later other restaurants. So if RaggedyDad got a big, free fleishig meal every day at work (don't worry, he brought home plenty of leftovers for me!), he certainly was not going to be eating a big dinner at home. Thus, my proclivity towards scant, lame suppers managed to live on.
Once Ann got old enough to need real food, I got back into supper mode, and shortly after that, RaggedyDad started a new job, minus the food. Little Andy and his famous appetite have also ensured that I keep cooking something, even if it's just reheating leftovers.
I do manage to get away with making pancakes for supper on a fairly regular basis. Pancakes are one of my favorite foods ever. Road trips as a kid often meant stopping at Denny's where they had several flavors of syrup and ridiculously high stacks of pancakes. Don't even get me started on IHOP. Yum. RaggedyDad's nonkosher memories are a little more interesting, but for the most part, my own family dabbled into the world of treif in more minor ways. While his former faves were bacon and liver-and-cream-cheese (ugh) sandwiches, all I really want is to be able to be in the middle of nowhere and go have some pancakes.
Being Russian, RaggedyDad and his mother taught me that pancakes don't always have to be fluffy and high with syrup (and I'll admit to adding a pat of butter on top). They showed me how to also make pancakes that are more like crepes, topped with sour cream and brown sugar and then rolled up.
Thanks for indulging me and my eating habits, RD, and for your eagerness to eat pancakes (both ways) for supper now and then!
My mother has a notoriously unhealthy approach to eating, but as far as meals went, they were always solid and square. However, she often just ate nosh for dinner herself, almost always skipped breakfast, and was known throughout the land for giving my brothers and me the best (junky) snacks in our school lunches. Ring Dings were typical. I guess you pick up more by example than anything else.
The real supper in our house was often something in the meat/chicken family, but as I got older and more vocal about my finicky-ness, I often just toasted a Lenders bagel with some melted cheese on it and called it a night. My poor mother.
When I first married RaggedyDad, I had little to no knowledge of cooking. My mother never asked us kids for cooking help, and it was never "my night to prepare supper" growing up. I think she was mainly concerned that we'd make a mess. When RD and I got married, he and my mother tried to show me the ropes, and I caught on for the most part (with a little help from my cookbook bible, Spice and Spirit), but I personally would be happy to eat macaroni and cheese for supper.
One of RaggedyDad's first jobs was at a small financial company where one of the bosses also owned a popular kosher (fast food) restaurant in NYC. In an attempt to keep employees in work mode without a break, there was basically an unlimited policy on ordering food from this guy's restaurant, and later other restaurants. So if RaggedyDad got a big, free fleishig meal every day at work (don't worry, he brought home plenty of leftovers for me!), he certainly was not going to be eating a big dinner at home. Thus, my proclivity towards scant, lame suppers managed to live on.
Once Ann got old enough to need real food, I got back into supper mode, and shortly after that, RaggedyDad started a new job, minus the food. Little Andy and his famous appetite have also ensured that I keep cooking something, even if it's just reheating leftovers.
I do manage to get away with making pancakes for supper on a fairly regular basis. Pancakes are one of my favorite foods ever. Road trips as a kid often meant stopping at Denny's where they had several flavors of syrup and ridiculously high stacks of pancakes. Don't even get me started on IHOP. Yum. RaggedyDad's nonkosher memories are a little more interesting, but for the most part, my own family dabbled into the world of treif in more minor ways. While his former faves were bacon and liver-and-cream-cheese (ugh) sandwiches, all I really want is to be able to be in the middle of nowhere and go have some pancakes.
Being Russian, RaggedyDad and his mother taught me that pancakes don't always have to be fluffy and high with syrup (and I'll admit to adding a pat of butter on top). They showed me how to also make pancakes that are more like crepes, topped with sour cream and brown sugar and then rolled up.
Thanks for indulging me and my eating habits, RD, and for your eagerness to eat pancakes (both ways) for supper now and then!
Friday, January 26, 2007
Grocery Shopping After Hours
Due to a glitch in planning, and some adjustments regarding company for Shabbos, I made a quick dash to the supermarket last night. Those who know me realize that this is miraculous. It is very difficult to get me to go anywhere at night. In the dark. In the cold. By myself! Let's just say there is only one "consistent" example of this in my life, and otherwise I'm a daytime person 100%.
I'm not sure why this is so. Likely because, as the youngest child, and the only girl, my parents were loathe to let me go anywhere at night, even in a group. For all of my "It's not fair"s, I can safely say that I'll probably be as overprotective as they were. Although I know that overprotecting your kids usually just leads them to lie. We'll see. Thankfully they're still very little, and these are not my worries yet.
This is what I learned from my excursion: Thursday night at around 8:30 on Main Street is hopping. I may not be out there, but just about everyone else is. And they probably don't even miss me. When I finished shopping, there was someone eagerly awaiting (nearly salivating over) my shopping cart. It was BUSY.
Never mind that it hasn't been this cold (-6 with the windchill) in NY in 2 years. (Stop rolling your eyes, Ezzie and PT). People simply bundled up, and headed on out into the night. Who knows what insanity is unleased come 9:30?! Luckily I didn't stick around to find out (hey, some of us have a Thursday night TV show, ya know).
I was reminded of the Journey song "Don't Stop Believing" which RaggedyDad is quite sure is called "Streetlight People" due to the one lyric he could make out. (You're too cute, RD!) He's a sufferer of foreign-born "lalala" syndrome when it comes to song lyrics, whereas I'm the one who generally knows almost all the words. At night, the streetlights, car lights, store signs - everything seems kind of eery and blinding and ominous. Maybe just to me.
Also, it is very, very miserable shlepping the groceries to your car in the bitter cold and dark because you wanted to be nice to that man who wanted your shopping cart in the store and you casually threw a glance at your pile of bags, and shrugged "Okay" trying to be cool. It's not cool to carry bottles of milk, random heavy fruits and vegetables, and a couple of dozen eggs (crack!) to your car. It's foolish.
In summation, though none of the "streetlight people" tried to kidnap me, and I did warm up when I started the mirth-mobile's heating system, and even more when I got to the blasting heat in our apartment, I remain a species you will be more likely to find running out at 7 a.m. when the store opens and RaggedyDad still has 25 minutes to catch his bus.
What are your shopping/outing habits?
Good Shabbos!
I'm not sure why this is so. Likely because, as the youngest child, and the only girl, my parents were loathe to let me go anywhere at night, even in a group. For all of my "It's not fair"s, I can safely say that I'll probably be as overprotective as they were. Although I know that overprotecting your kids usually just leads them to lie. We'll see. Thankfully they're still very little, and these are not my worries yet.
This is what I learned from my excursion: Thursday night at around 8:30 on Main Street is hopping. I may not be out there, but just about everyone else is. And they probably don't even miss me. When I finished shopping, there was someone eagerly awaiting (nearly salivating over) my shopping cart. It was BUSY.
Never mind that it hasn't been this cold (-6 with the windchill) in NY in 2 years. (Stop rolling your eyes, Ezzie and PT). People simply bundled up, and headed on out into the night. Who knows what insanity is unleased come 9:30?! Luckily I didn't stick around to find out (hey, some of us have a Thursday night TV show, ya know).
I was reminded of the Journey song "Don't Stop Believing" which RaggedyDad is quite sure is called "Streetlight People" due to the one lyric he could make out. (You're too cute, RD!) He's a sufferer of foreign-born "lalala" syndrome when it comes to song lyrics, whereas I'm the one who generally knows almost all the words. At night, the streetlights, car lights, store signs - everything seems kind of eery and blinding and ominous. Maybe just to me.
Also, it is very, very miserable shlepping the groceries to your car in the bitter cold and dark because you wanted to be nice to that man who wanted your shopping cart in the store and you casually threw a glance at your pile of bags, and shrugged "Okay" trying to be cool. It's not cool to carry bottles of milk, random heavy fruits and vegetables, and a couple of dozen eggs (crack!) to your car. It's foolish.
In summation, though none of the "streetlight people" tried to kidnap me, and I did warm up when I started the mirth-mobile's heating system, and even more when I got to the blasting heat in our apartment, I remain a species you will be more likely to find running out at 7 a.m. when the store opens and RaggedyDad still has 25 minutes to catch his bus.
What are your shopping/outing habits?
Good Shabbos!
Monday, January 22, 2007
Hakaras Hatov (Appreciation)
Without going into too many extraneous details, I want to briefly blog about something more for my sake than for my readers'. I think that when something makes a strong impression on us, we need to act on it in some way, or at least write it down, before the moment passes, and with it, the accompanying thoughts and feelings.
I remember doing this growing up when it was my birthday. Having a summer birthday sometimes made me feel like the day came and went and was just another hot, sticky, long July day. The thought that tomorrow would be another, nearly identical day, with nothing much to distinguish it from my Big Day, made me kind of pensive.
I kept a notebook where, among other things, I would start a fresh page for each birthday I remembered to do it, and would write something to the (teenagerish) effect of:
just in an attempt to capture something tangible. Time has a very fleeting and sad quality to it. Well. This is turning into a Very Intense Blog Post for me. Sorry.
A case in point for withered inspiration is the way that nearly a month ago I visited one of the local firehouses with Ann's class.
I came home full of resolve to mail a thank you card with a picture to the firefighters, and possibly donate a small amount to whatever their equivalent of a benevolent fund is. Well, of course, I have yet to do it. Not that it's too late. But these things are better when they're done "fresh" in my opinion.
Anyhow, let me get back to the main subject of this post.
Today I had to take both of my kids to a relatively routine follow-up appointment related to a specialist they see. At the start of this calendar year, we switched to a new health insurance provider, and part of the fun is that the specialist's office does not do the procedure in-house with our current insurance.
Instead, I have to take the kids to the hospital to have it done there, and bring/have sent the resulting films and reports to the specialist appointment.
I'm sure it's trite, but today was my mega-dose of hakaras hatov. I've been to this hospital before, and my reaction is the same each time. There is nothing, NOTHING, like going to a childen's hospital to make you realize that all of the worrying, the shlepping, the complaining, the stress that you have in your life is so blessedly minute compared to the thoughts, fears, and concerns of families of kids who are Really Sick.
The walk through the corridors of this institution is so somber and humbling as one scans the various names of the departments, unimaginable to a parent regarding their own child, until, for some, they suddenly are not only imaginable, but horrifyingly real.
It takes a lot of composure for me just to walk the halls, and I know that that's nothing compared to the composure and resolve of the very brave doctors and braver patients.
Thanks, Hashem. That's it.
I remember doing this growing up when it was my birthday. Having a summer birthday sometimes made me feel like the day came and went and was just another hot, sticky, long July day. The thought that tomorrow would be another, nearly identical day, with nothing much to distinguish it from my Big Day, made me kind of pensive.
I kept a notebook where, among other things, I would start a fresh page for each birthday I remembered to do it, and would write something to the (teenagerish) effect of:
I'm 14 today. Happy 14th Birthday to me! Some of the things I'm thinking about this birthday are . . . Some things I hope to have done by my 15th birthday are . . .
just in an attempt to capture something tangible. Time has a very fleeting and sad quality to it. Well. This is turning into a Very Intense Blog Post for me. Sorry.
A case in point for withered inspiration is the way that nearly a month ago I visited one of the local firehouses with Ann's class.
I came home full of resolve to mail a thank you card with a picture to the firefighters, and possibly donate a small amount to whatever their equivalent of a benevolent fund is. Well, of course, I have yet to do it. Not that it's too late. But these things are better when they're done "fresh" in my opinion.
Anyhow, let me get back to the main subject of this post.
Today I had to take both of my kids to a relatively routine follow-up appointment related to a specialist they see. At the start of this calendar year, we switched to a new health insurance provider, and part of the fun is that the specialist's office does not do the procedure in-house with our current insurance.
Instead, I have to take the kids to the hospital to have it done there, and bring/have sent the resulting films and reports to the specialist appointment.
I'm sure it's trite, but today was my mega-dose of hakaras hatov. I've been to this hospital before, and my reaction is the same each time. There is nothing, NOTHING, like going to a childen's hospital to make you realize that all of the worrying, the shlepping, the complaining, the stress that you have in your life is so blessedly minute compared to the thoughts, fears, and concerns of families of kids who are Really Sick.
The walk through the corridors of this institution is so somber and humbling as one scans the various names of the departments, unimaginable to a parent regarding their own child, until, for some, they suddenly are not only imaginable, but horrifyingly real.
It takes a lot of composure for me just to walk the halls, and I know that that's nothing compared to the composure and resolve of the very brave doctors and braver patients.
Thanks, Hashem. That's it.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Olde Tyme Entertainment
Living on a busy street has some, if very few, advantages. It's kind of neat that RaggedyDad literally walks 12 feet or so to the bus stop. It's fairly easy to give people directions to our house. But one of the best advantages by far to living here is that our living room window gives our kids a view of all of the major neighborhood action.
Two bus lines pass by with stops in front of our apartment. Nearly every ambulance, police car, and fire truck that needs to get from this neighborhood to the next or to one of three main highways passes by our place. Noisy, but we're mostly used to it. The kids' bedroom is on the other side of the apartment, so it doesn't often keep them up.
There are usually lots of trucks, motorcycles, bicycles, dog walkers, and pedestrians carrying all sorts of interesting things out on the street. Right now we can see the first snow of the season coming down in its quiet, carefree, yet deliberate way. For my kids, the spot right by the couch that overlooks the window is the most coveted and fascinating spot in their home.
I recently commented about our own family's take on TV at DaBoysof905. Here's an excerpt of what I said over there:
I'm sure that as the kids get older, the window will grow less fascinating, and we may have to make some tough decisions in our house about whether we want it around or not. I think that as a medium, and in moderation, TV has its place. I'm just glad that, for the time being at least, we've got an alternative nearby.
Two bus lines pass by with stops in front of our apartment. Nearly every ambulance, police car, and fire truck that needs to get from this neighborhood to the next or to one of three main highways passes by our place. Noisy, but we're mostly used to it. The kids' bedroom is on the other side of the apartment, so it doesn't often keep them up.
There are usually lots of trucks, motorcycles, bicycles, dog walkers, and pedestrians carrying all sorts of interesting things out on the street. Right now we can see the first snow of the season coming down in its quiet, carefree, yet deliberate way. For my kids, the spot right by the couch that overlooks the window is the most coveted and fascinating spot in their home.
I recently commented about our own family's take on TV at DaBoysof905. Here's an excerpt of what I said over there:
I also think that TV today is more of a blatant assault on the senses and morals than it was when I was growing up.
For the 5+ years we've been married, we've never had cable, so that cut out a large part of the available offerings, combined with the antenna reception we get that leaves much to be desired on certain channels.
When it's repeats time, I get much more into books, magazines, even more housecleaning and cooking/freezing ahead.
As far as TV for kids, with my 3 and a half year old, we let her watch TV, and it became obsessive, so about a year ago, I just stopped turning it on for her, almost 100%. If she or I are really sick, or on the occasion that my mom comes to watch the kids (e.g. I have a Dr.'s appt), there's maybe about a 30-60 minute show. Honestly, it's a drop in the bucket at this point, and my daughter is more than willing to go shut the TV off herself when it's over.
My fifteen month old has had such limited exposure to TV that it doesn't really interest him. I have found for my older daughter that eliminating TV has helped her to be more relaxed all around and also to play more creatively.
As for the news, RaggedyDad relies on the internet for 95% of it, and us parents watch about 3 hours a week, give or take a couple of hours if there's something very interesting going on.
I'm sure that as the kids get older, the window will grow less fascinating, and we may have to make some tough decisions in our house about whether we want it around or not. I think that as a medium, and in moderation, TV has its place. I'm just glad that, for the time being at least, we've got an alternative nearby.
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