Wonderbread Eyes

It’s the swoosh of those strenuously long eyelashes that makes me go weak at the knees. Always. I know she is cute in so many ways, who better than me, her mother, to name them all, but most definitely the eyelashes are my weakness, maybe out of maternal pride (look at that Voguesque attribute that formed in MY uterus) or jealousy (I glob and glob and glob endless vats of mascara promising to deliver half her natural length. I am lucky if I’ll get a third). They get me every time.

“Pleease, mom, please”, she pleads in rhythm with her swoosh. Each time those lids close I swear I am being fanned.

She clutched the bright white bag with psychedelic red, blue and yellow dots floating amongst its brazen “WONDER BREAD” inscription as if it where her most treasured American Girl doll. I appeared shell shocked and just looked around aisle 8 anxiously hoping no one would recognize me. How on earth would I, a self-ordained food snob, explain my offspring cavorting with such low-grade food fare?

“Come on, Dani, it has absolutely no nutritional value”, I attempted in my most maternal tone, all the while picturing mush clogging up an already clogged colon (mothers really can picture this).

But I haven’t described to you the color of her eyes yet, have I? They are not the light sky blue eyes that I carry; eyes that, growing up amongst Venezuelans whose standard oculus color choices range in black, dark brown, and brown, were both cherished and gawked at as if they made me into some unique species. Nor are her eye’s those of my Venezuelan husband, a non-descript muddy tone
that falls under the dark brown category.

No, her color is one all of her own, as if her tiny DNA ladder took a dance with sky and sludge to decide which she’d end up with and couldn’t make up its mind so she ended up with a strange mix of the two. A swirl with the heavens and the earth leads to a most interesting hue: a rich honey, like amber with splotches of gold and even a speck of green (my father’s hazel making a quiet cameo appearance).

And why stick with one tint when you can have them all, her tiny, logical blueprint thought to itself? And so she hasn’t, for those swirls of colors do change depending on my daughter’s outfit, her mood, or the clarity of the day. Every sunrise holds a new surprise as to what color eyes she will have – a constant motion of change and beauty, much like her.

So I am telling you when those killer eyelashes brush over those amazing eyes (today the color of wild blueberry honey) you buckle at the knees and even allow a loaf of Wonderbread to be bought (and not even hidden, you balance it right on the top of the shopping cart, damnit, next to the organic, free range eggs and the locally grown arugula, because you don’t give a crap anymore, you are forever swollen with love over that beautiful gaze you somehow participated in creating.

She knows she has this hold over me because she looks in my direction and throws two more blinks.

“Thanks, mom” she says, with a subtle, yet victorious grin sliding on her face. I know she knows how easy that was. I know she wonders what else she can get and whom else she will sucker if her mother, The Toughest of the Toughest, caved under seven blinks. I know she knows all this. Aside from having stunning eyes, she is incredibly smart. But I can’t help myself. I can’t say no to her eyes.

At home I place the white spongy bread next to the hearty multi-grain loaf. It is bright and bleached and happy next to its sullen, heavy healthy counterpart. Thanksgiving has just ended and I find myself recalling my childhood right after this holiday where turkey was enjoyed best in a sandwich: thick chunks of meat slathered with mayonnaise and thinly sliced red tomatoes. The bread was always lightly toasted and white, airy and delicious. I know I have a whole Tupperware filled with leftover turkey. No need to hide from anyone anymore, I am still under my daughter’s eye spell and the grains can wait; I am suddenly craving that wonderful memory.

Wonderbread Turkey Sandwich
2 slices Wonderbread, lightly toasted
immeasurable amounts of mayonnaise
tomato slices
arugula
leftover turkey

Assemble. Eat. Repeat.
Makes 1 sandwich

Baking Through Grief

I suspect she will never be the same. The road held humid secrets of the night before it and the sky was a blackish blue, the same color Richie’s veins habitually carried before the accident. But then in an unfathomable twist of fate, while darkness turned to dawn, her son was hit by a Jeep Grand Cherokee and the break of day began with one less person. One less son. One less smile to fill Judy’s heart and so it froze and her eyes have turned cold, gray, and hard, eyes that normally flowed with warmth like rich butterscotch one drizzles on their ice cream with glee. That was gone and I suspect she will never be the same.

There is no sense to such a senseless act. There is no sense to a child, all of sixteen, being taken away from his world, which, by all accounts, was one filled with thrill and adventure. I visited Judy in her home and it was adorned proudly with photographs detailing all of her son’s explosiveness and zest. An image of a young child, all of seven or eight, comfortably propped on a huge motorbike bathed in crusted mud. Another of the same child, a year older now, sporting a huge fish and an even bigger grin. Another image stops me and begs me nearer: it is a close-up of Richie sporting a wildly long and bleached-blonde Mohawk. He is probably eleven in that one, and, where the hairdo could easily serve as the centerpiece of that image, it is not. It is the warmth and promise of Richie’s smile that has brought me closer. It is the sparkle of his eyes that demanded me to stop. And think. And look closely. ‘I am Richie’, it spoke confidently and fearlessly. And then, if you look deeply into those eyes there is a spark of Judy there, always watching.

Death is an awkward visitor in our lives, the type that always manages to show up and we are never sure what to do with. It seems Death has made a bit too many unwarranted visits in my life lately and I feel a bit befuddled and drained from it all. But Richie’s passing seems to have touched me even further. There are pictures everywhere, you see. So many pictures. So many memories. And the promise of a life that remains unkept. And Judy’s eyes that have hardened and I wonder how they will see life as sweet again.

We all deal with grief in our own personal way. Mine, of course, is through the kitchen. It is the turf in which I feel most comfortable, where I know my way around best and no one can bother me. For Richie I made a cake. I beat the sugar and butter for a long, long time. It needed time and care, just as a small child does. I didn’t want to rush this cake. I wanted it to be just right. Some cakes call for a more impersonal approach: dump all the ingredients in one big frosty hello and beat the crap out of them for 3 minutes, dump them in their respective pans and bake them and that is the end of that. I love those cakes. They are convenient, fast, and good, but for today, it didn’t feel right. I wanted to savor making this cake, carefully divvy its contents and gently introduce them to make a grand batter. Like the young life cut short, I wanted to nurture this cake.

Lulu, my hot red mixer, understood. She churned diligently and produced the fluffiest butter/sugar mixture just for me as I stood numbly watching her paddle go round and round. Things work just as I intend in my kitchen, and that soothes me today. Once the cakes are baked and cooled, I begin to assemble them, first carefully slicing them into thin layers then dousing them with simple sugar to seal the moisture, then adding the raspberry preserves and finally, the whipped cream topping. It feels just right to make this cake on this day. As I bake it, I can’t seem to shake the images from the collage of photographs at Judy’s house. Images of youth and hope and adventure churn into a sad loss under the hum of Lulu. Still, I know Richie would think this the perfect cake for his mom and the thought of that gives me solace.

I spin the final layer of frosting, making sure to have my cake spatula at the perfect angle so as not to create any imperfections. I carefully mark the pieces using the back of a bread knife and go about creating the final touches with a French tip and some fresh berries. I turn and pipe and assemble as if this cake were my practical test for Le Grand Diplome. All the while I think of this boy that I never knew who has died, and I think of his mother, who has touched my life and that of my children with all her spunk and creativity and fun. I love her for that and for teaching them that thinking out of the box is always cool. I remember the look of delight in my daughter’s eyes every time she got to do another messy hands-on project with Ms. Judy, or my son’s fascination with the cookbook projects she spearheaded. During the years my children where with Ms. Judy, her energy and innovation was a current fixture in our home and it has grown and transcended all these years.

The cake is done and is indeed perfect. I know she will never be the same, how can she? She has lost her son. But I bring her the cake anyway. It is round and sweet and filled with richness. She places it on the table, next to Richie’s photographs and I know he is smiling somewhere and already I feel better.

Raspberry Vanilla Cake with Whipped Topping
(Chef, Gian Flores, J&W)

For the Cake:
3 cups flour
1 Tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon baking poser
¾ teaspoon salt
1 ½ cups milk
2 teaspoons vanilla
1 ¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons butter, softened
5 large eggs

For Filling:
Simple Syrup*
1 cup seedless raspberry jam
whipped cream
*made by taking equal parts of water and sugar and boiling down for five minutes

Decoration:
Berries
Sliced almonds

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease 2 9” cake pans.
In a large bowl, combine the flour, baking powder and salt.
In a separate bowl, combine milk and vanilla.
Using an electric mixer,, cream butter and sugar until fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add eggs, 1 at a time, and beat well.
On low speed, add flour mixture alternating with milk mixture. Mix until fully incorporated.
Divide batter equally between 2 cake pans and bake for 30 -40 minutes.
Cool 10 minutes in pan, then invert them onto a cake rack. Cool completely before assembling. Each cake pan makes 1 cake.

Slice each cake into three thin layers. Brush each layer with simple sugar, then add 5 tablespoons of jam and spread thinly. Top with whipped cream. Place layer on top and repeat with next layer.
Cover cake with whipped topping. Add nuts and berries as decoration.

Makes 2 cakes

No Se Tu (How A Child, Hormones, and Luis Miguel Changed My Life)

It was a cramped quarter, roughly half the size of my bathroom at home, but nevertheless, it was one of the more desired spaces in the office because it had a window view. As my boss led me to my new abode I felt a hushed envy rush over those poor souls I was passing by who were subjected to the dark grayness of a corridor cubicle. I had only worked there for several months and already I was being granted the coveted corner cubicle. They barely knew me, but they hated me for my undeserving sunlight.

“This is where you will work now”, my supervisor offered in her quick, chirpy voice. I quietly gloated at the view. From the tenth floor, the Florida rays easily flushed over my future workspace, and, although the flat terrain did not offer much if you weren’t facing the ocean (I wasn’t) it still beat the fluorescent lights that surrounded my envious co-workers.

As I envisioned my increased productivity bathed in surpluses of Vitamin D, a head popped up from the other side of the wall.

“Hi! My name is Adrianna! I work in the ad department!”

Adrianna appeared harmless to the naked eye. She was round and bubbly, with warm chestnut eyes and stark black hair coifed in a perfect bob that easily hugged her full face. She was all of 5 feet tall (with heels) and sported few accessories save for a solid 18-karat gold cross linked with a small medallion of a woman in deep prayer, some Saint, I suppose.

After my boss left, Adrianna extended an invitation to her side, most likely to show off her half of the much-desired workspace. Work was the last thing Adrianna could do, I thought to myself, as her desk was littered with thousands of tiny artifacts; remnants of where she’d been or would like to be. There were at least 25 different angel statues, tiny porcelain things with pink lips and gold-rimmed halos, I couldn’t tell if she wanted her area to resemble a 9-year old’s room or the inside of a church. Propped up behind them where at least 100 diminutive stuffed animals: bears, lions, dogs, seals, giraffes, pandas- the entire San Diego Zoo was housed here in miniature form and excessive dust. I felt my nose itch just looking at them.

Wherever there was a possible gap of oxygen, Adrianna had added something else: a snow globe, a doll, a crystal shoe that doubled as a pencil holder. All she was missing was a crown to complete her title as The Ultimate Queen of Kitsch. In the far corner, hidden behind a file or two (yes, she actually sported those) was a tiny blue boom box. It seemed so comfortably forgotten that I did the mistake of paying it no attention and moving on.

I thanked Adrianna for her invitation and moved back to my happily barren space where I began to assemble my files and decorate my area with one or two picture frames. I could breathe much better over here.

As I waited for the computer tech and the phone guy to come set me up I began sorting through some reports I would have to present at the end of the week. That’s when the blue boom box I had carelessly ignored slowly began crooning through the foam wall that separated Adrianna and I:

“No se tu,
Pero yo no dejo de pensar
Ni un minuto me logro despojar
De tus besos, tus abrazos,
De lo bien que la pasamos la otra vez…”
I don’t know about you, but I can’t stop thinking, not for one minute can I strip my thoughts of your kisses, your embrace, of the good time we passed the other night…”

The voice continued with sappy promises of eternal love and devotion, holding out on long notes in a painful bout of affection that seemed, by her sighs, to mesmerize Adrianna but managed to only give me a bad bout of indigestion. Who the hell was this guy and wasn’t listening to him against company policy?

The day continued with a series of amorous serenades. If I were fortunate enough, Adrianna would lose herself in the lyrics and belt out a few. I felt her angst, her anticipation, her hope, her broken heart and her love-swelled one, and all the while, I got more and more frustrated. I wondered if this was the reason co-workers fell quiet as I passed them by on my way to, what I thought was, a victorious workstation? Maybe the silence and hushed gasps weren’t those of jealously but rather, some form of fascinated pity, a kind of, another-one-bites-the-dust gawking that would soon occur as I unraveled in obsessive love ballads. This cubicle wasn’t coveted, it was cursed, window view and all.

There were several instances when I gently asked Adrianna if she wouldn’t mind turning down the music, but in doing so, I seemed to have run a stake through the principles of love.

“But, what? You don’t like Luis Miguel?” she asked aghast, her warm chestnut eyes turning cold and harsh on me.

“He’s fine,” I lied. “I just have a hard time focusing with any kind of music.”

But I know she hadn’t heard a word of my rebuttal. I was officially The Enemy to her and as such, she made every tune-filled effort to mark her turf and stand her love ground. The conditions where clearly set: she and Luis weren’t going anywhere, either I dealt with it or I joined in their pain.

I never visited her booth again, but even though I avoided the saints and teddy bears, there was no getting around Luis Miguel. He crooned as I typed emails, filed papers, wrote reports and spoke to clients on the phone. In my top drawer I housed an extra-large bottle of Tums and found myself popping the chalky anti-acid tablets often, no doubt a consequence of exposure to too much forlorn love.

I began resorting to snacking. Loud, crunchy snacking that would crunch out the unbearably high notes Luis attacked over and over again. It became a scientific study of sorts, trying to find the perfect snack that could bring culinary satisfaction and help keep my sanity. Chips where too flimsy, dissolving almost instantly and therefore not worthy as a muffler. Pretzels where a bit better, but their snap and salty kick left me feeling more bloated and annoyed. It was only after being subjected to Luis Miguel and his full-studded Mariachi rendition of “Amaneci Otra Vez” for the umpteenth time that the obvious dawned on me: chips and guacamole! How hadn’t I seen it before? There lay the harmony I needed of flavor and crunch and plenty of deafening time to enjoy it. A Mexican snack to beat a Mexican problem. And so, I would bring my tiny Tupperware of homemade guacamole, loaded up with extra lime to keep the avocado from losing its brilliance. I kept a bag of chips inside my file cabinet, between the monthly budget report and the South American clients and I began munching my way through the endless ballads.

As the months dragged on, I found myself reaching more and more for my Tums, enough so that I had to slow down on my guacamole habit (it didn’t really work anyway, I could hear him through anything). I thought it best to make sure Luis Miguel was not the only cause to my upset stomach.

When the tiny blue plus sign magically appeared my husband and I were both elated. We had been planning on having a baby and where thankful to get pregnant so soon. Chomping regularly on my Tums had an ulterior motive now, and, the newly discovered pregnancy also gave me determination to leave the job I was never happy in and focus on becoming a mom. Without much fanfare, I left the corner cubicle and all the members of the tenth floor. Still, at the end of my last day I got the allotted ice cream cake in the conference room as well as feigned enthusiasm for the upcoming new chapter in my life. I had no true ties to the place and wouldn’t be missing that many people there.

Which was why I was surprised to find Adrianna approaching me as the goodbye party fizzled and people drifted out, slipping comfortably back into their lives. She headed straight for me and handed me a thin wrapped package. As I grasped it, she reached up and gave me a surprisingly strong, heartfelt hug and whispered,

“Good luck on your journey. Don’t forget to feel love.”

With that, she walked out the door and I never saw her again.

Somewhat stunned, I placed her parcel on top of my cardboard box filled with already forgotten remnants and left. When I dumped the box in the passenger seat of my car, Adrianna’s gift fell to the floor and slipped under the loose carpet, hiding from sight and forgotten entirely.

As the months passed and my belly swelled, my memories of tenth floor hell easily faded. Days passed by learning the latest safety trends on cribs, clearing up potentially hazardous material around my house (how different a home becomes once a child in introduced) and trying the unfathomable task of preparing to go from a woman to a mother.

Around month eight I got a harried phone call from my husband. He had landed from one of his many business trips in South America and had forgotten to rent a car (his usual ride home). He sounded apprehensive and a bit nervous. It seemed to be his usual approach to me these days. Hormones had kicked up in full gear and led me to become wildly erratic, but he proceeded with his question: would I mind picking him up?

To his relief, I jumped at the chance. After all, I had been cocooned in my house and needed a purpose beyond folding spotless onesies.

I wobbled to the car and got in, throwing my purse onto the passenger seat. It banged against the chair and bounced to the floor, landing upside down and showering the ground with all its crusty contents. I looked at the disaster of my life now spread all over my car and decided to take care of it before I began the 40-minute drive to the airport. There was no way my short fuse would stand for that lipstick rolling back and forth.

Wobbling back out of the car, I crouched beside the passenger side and began scooping up all my belongings and throwing them into the secret confines of my purse. As I scraped and dumped (no time for sorting now) I felt something poking from under the carpet and found Adrianna’s parcel, hidden all these months, just waiting to be discovered.

I grabbed the thin package and tore it open. Then I sat down and laughed. I was holding a CD of Luis Miguel. Of course, I was holding a CD of Luis Miguel. It was titled, appropriately, “Romance”, and had a black and white profile of the crooning god himself, decked out in a crisp tuxedo, his full lips in mid-song, eyes shut tight in love-drenched agony, beautiful mane of hair spiked and perfectly slicked back.

In a tribute to my former archenemy and a curious need to walk down corporate memory lane, I popped in the CD and began my drive.

The song crept to a start. What was that, an oboe, or a clarinet announcing the impending hopes and glories of a despondent love? I hadn’t recalled that opening before. Either way I found myself surprisingly intrigued and not annoyed in the faintest. Dare say there was something soothing about the instrument?

And then something horrible happened: Luis Miguel began to sing and I felt warm, fuzzy love! I grasped the steering wheel tightly and was captivated by his every word. It didn’t seem to matter that I had single-handedly supported GlaxoSmithKline with my faithful and regular ingestion of mint-flavored Tums or that I had devoured an entire California orchard of avocados trying to drown the man out, here I was, a mere six months later and I couldn’t get enough of this sappiness!

The rest of the drive was a hazy blur of hormones and tears. All I know is that by the time I reached Terminal E and found my husband, I was a mascara-running mess. Horrified (and obviously panicked) he quickly asked:

“What happened to you?”

And I, too worn down to get angry or defensive or even care, began crying all over again, explaining the irreparable torn fabric of lost love to a very confused and misplaced man who was gentle enough to simply hug me and let me cry my heart out amongst thousands of befuddled travelers.

So the pregnancy continued as such. Wherever my belly and I went, so did Luis Miguel. No doubt there was a part of me that wondered if this relationship would end once my daughter was born and the hormones would be flushed out. But when Daniela arrived so did the chance for more love, hope and happiness, and Luis Miguel burrowed himself more comfortably than ever in my psyche and daily listening life.

It has been twelve years now since I first heard Luis Miguel and cringed, ten since that fateful ride to the airport when I cried my eyes out. I find my feelings for Luismi (as he is known by his faithful followers) to lie comfortably between both extremes. There are moments when a good cry comes in handy and he is there to deliver and there are moments when the white-bleached teeth and neon-orange tan he sports are cause for more hysteria and criticism from me than anything else. Both times work well with guacamole, by the way.

Still, in the time he and I were informally introduced and I grew to adore him, I have managed to follow Adrianna’s advice and feel love: through my smart and caring daughter, her adorably cute and inquisitive younger brother and their admiring dad whom blazes through life with me full of excitement and adoration. This is the love I cherish and tear up over. This is the moment I live for and embrace. This is what is worth more to me than anything. Still, it doesn’t hurt to belt out a song or two of Luis Miguel as a reminder once in a while…No se tu!

LUISMI GUACAMOLE
¼ cup minced white onion
2 tablespoons minced cilantro
1 jalapeno, seeded and finely minced*
2 teaspoons fresh lime juice**
1 medium ripe avocado, quartered
1 small tomato, chopped
1 teaspoon sea salt
Tastiest if done with a “molcajete”, the traditional Mexican mortar and pestle made out of volcanic rock. If you don’t have one, just use a bowl. Whatever you do, don’t use a blender! Guacamole should be chunky.
Add onion, cilantro, and jalapeno to molcajete and grind with pestle to combine. Add lime juice and avocado and gently mush avocado. When it is half mashed, add tomato and salt and mush some more until fully combined. Adjust seasoning. Serve with chips.
*For spicier guacamole, add jalapeno seeds.
**More lime juice will prevent oxidation and preserve avocado for longer (good for picnics or office). Otherwise, guacamole should be consumed immediately.

Serves 4

The Pleasure of Being Sick

It starts inconspicuously enough, like, when your kid turns towards you and gives a whole-hearty, sloppy sneeze in your direction. ‘Okay, that was gross’, you may think to yourself, but, being that it is your kid (the one that inevitably has crapped, puked, and pissed on you at some point in your bonding) you most likely will think nothing of it. And so you go on your way.

The other one may cough on your food when you aren’t looking. Dirty little fingers inevitably snag a bite of your chocolate cake (they never steal the broccoli). Whatever. Either way, one of these mugrats houses some sort of cold that is silently passed on to you.

So that when you wake up three days later with your throat on fire, your eyes glazed and bloodshot and your head throbbing as if a chau gong where banging ceremoniously in there declaring the arrival of your newfound illness, I can guarantee you, without a doubt, you can blame it on one of your children. And you don’t even need proof.

When I was a kid, the world would actually stop if I was sick. People would flock to my side to tend to me as I wallowed in self-pity, not too thrilled about feeling lousy, yet quietly basking in a utopian egocentricity. It was a careful balance of perfection and lots of tissues. For eight hours, I became an only child bathed in excessive doting and not the forgotten last kid in a rung of three. Meals where instantly cooked up and presented on pretty trays splashed with tropical flowers: perfectly soft-boiled eggs nestled in delicate porcelain eggcups, bowls of homemade chicken soup and freshly-squeezed orange juice arrived with me just thinking of them. Each dish was hot and soothing and perfectly blended with love and salt and pepper.

Cars would honk in traffic in the distance and I would relish in the thought of harried children or workers, rushing to their varied responsibilities while I basked in the serene and almost naughty pleasure of sleeping at 10:00am on a weekday. Of course there was always the nagging issue of make-up homework waiting in the dusty corner of my mind, but, for most of the day, I would park that nuisance in my unconsciousness and focus on the pleasures of being sick.

Today things are a bit different. The world dare not stop when I am under the weather, it seems to only speed up. With two young children to care for and a weekends-only spouse, balancing the tissues with self-pity only gets me behind. I do get nostalgic for my past when Nyquil becomes my beverage of choice. I can almost smell the chicken soup my beloved nanny, Yoli, tenderly simmered for me or the extra dose of warm hugs my mother would offer just to perk me up a bit, but I have piano and karate and tutors to get to, and if I don’t get going I will inevitably fall behind. Still, a quick trip down memory lane is something I simply can’t pass on, especially if this one takes all of four minutes. Tripping over laundry and discarded toys, I make my way to the kitchen for a quick, revitalizing soft-boiled egg. It may not be served to me in a dainty eggcup as it was in my youth, but as I crack the top, douse it with coarse sea salt and fresh pepper and take that first nourishing, creamy bite, I am instantly transported to a moment made just for me filled with time, love, and the quiet pleasure of feeling sick for a day.

Feel-Good Soft-Boiled Egg
This is not brain surgery, but you’d be amazed how many people mess it up. Precision is key.

First and foremost, begin with THE PERFECT EGG!!! Always use organic, hormone-free, cage-free eggs, it makes a difference! I rely on The Country Hen eggs . They are on the pricey side, but well worth the cost: the flavor is unparallel!

Bring to a boil 2 to 4 quarts of water, enough to cover a single layer of the egg by 1 inch. Gently lower the egg into the water. Simmer for exactly 4 minutes. Remove the egg from water immediately.

To Serve:
Place in an eggcup (or shot glass, if you don’t have an eggcup), wide end down.
Use a spoon to gently crack the top of the egg. Peel off the tip. Using a knife, slice across the top to open egg. Add top of sliced egg into the egg. Season with coarse kosher salt and fresh ground pepper.

Toppings:
There is nothing quite like a simply perfect soft-boiled egg with salt and pepper. However, sometimes you want to fancy it up. The sky is the limit on dressing up your soft-boiled egg! Here are a couple of suggestions you may add to your egg:

Chopped chives
Tabasco sauce
Crumbled bacon
Chili Powder
Crumbled cheese (feta or bleu cheese)
Caviar

No Time To Sleep

This past Tuesday was Election Day, and while I was particularly excited to live through such a history-making election, I was also glad the kids did not have school and I would not have to get up at the crack of dawn to tackle lunches, snacks, breakfast, shoe searches, hair untangling etc. etc. etc. Little did I count on my wake-up call from my six-year old son, Jonathan.

TAP TAP TAP, a determined finger knocked through my comforter solidly on my forehead.

“Mom…” he insisted, mid-whine, as if we’d been engrossed in this conversation a good half hour or so.

“MOM!!!” more forcefully now (he’d definitely found me and wasn’t going away).

I peeked one bloodshot eye out into the dark world and was met by an inquisitive stare framed by ridiculously long, thick eyelashes. Standing by my bedside in his favorite tin soldier pajamas was my son. He seemed irked that my brain hadn’t caught up to his yet; still, it appeared one bloodshot eye would suffice. The minute our gaze locked, he preceded full steam ahead:

“What if Thumbs tied them up because he is good with lassos and THEN caught up with Dink and the others on the horse trail or maybe the magician guy with the handcuffs did it because he was the only one not tied to the chair like the others but then again what was Lulu doing tied up in the office where the safe was if she is the cook? MOM, what was she doing in the office, huh????”

The only reason he stopped was because he six-year old lungs demanded air, and then, of course, he remembered me and became increasingly frustrated that I still had one eye shut. His eyes narrowed on me, lip curled in a well-rehearsed scowl and he waited. I turned to look at my clock whose neon green numbers announced it was 5:35 a.m. Seriously? My one day to sleep in and I was woken up as lead panelist to an overzealous detective conference determined to crack the code of Ron Roy’s The Ninth Nugget A-Z Mystery series?

I tried to grumble something about needing a cup of coffee but he would have none of that. He stood his ground, grimace well placed, waiting for me to solve this urgent dilemma.

I didn’t know who did it or why I was even thinking about it without caffeine in me but I did recognize that look on my son’s face as that of wild, vivid imagination that had captured him and woken him at this early hour. As much as my body ached to sleep, as a writer and a mother I knew I was privileged to be a part of that excitement and I would not let him down. So I opened my other bloodshot eye and his smirk turned a tad bit hopeful.

“All good theories,” I grumbled, slowly cracking the warm shell of my bed and sitting up. “Thumbs did stay back at the ranch for most of the time so he could be the one who tied them all up and stole the gold nugget, but then, he is the creepy one so the author might want you to suspect him. The magician certainly was agile with those handcuffs, and the book tells us the reason Lulu the cook was in the office was to water the plants, but, who knows…we’ll have to keep reading to find out who the real culprit is.”

I didn’t solve much for him. Really, I didn’t solve anything at all, just rehashed what he had said and put periods in the appropriate places. But what I did do was jump into his enthusiasm, regardless of the early time, and this seemed to be enough for him. He crawled into my bed and begged, “mom, can you please read more now???”
“Not yet, we have to wait for your sister to wake up”, I reminded him. “Can’t solve the mystery without her.”

We did wait for his sister to wake up to solve the mystery. I won’t tell you who it was, but I will say it was filled with enough twists and turns to captivate all our imaginations. Of course, the biggest thrill by far was witnessing the infectious love of reading my son now has. Already he is begging me to help him solve the next mystery. I only hope this one lets him sleep through the night.


The story took place in a dude ranch in Montana, and after a novel-full of horses, lassos, and bonfires, a bowl of chili con carne was something we were all craving.

COWBOYS CHILI CON CARNE
5 tablespoons olive oil
1 yellow onion, coarsely chopped
1 ½ lbs. ground beef
5 tablespoons tomato paste
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 tablespoon dried oregano
2 teaspoons ground basil
3 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1 28-oz. can tomatoes
½ cup red wine
1 can sweet corn
1 can dark red kidney beans, drained
½ cup sliced Spanish olives
1/4 cup chopped parsley
juice from one lemon
salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
5 tablespoons hot pepper sauce*

Heat olive oil in a dutch oven over medium heat. Sauté onions until translucent, about five minutes. Crumble beef and cook fully, stirring often. Add tomato paste, garlic, cumin, chili powder, oregano, basil and mustard and stir to combine.
Add tomatoes, wine, corn, kidney beans and olives, parsley, lemon juice, salt, pepper and hot sauce.
Increase heat and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and let simmer for 15 minutes. Adjust seasoning.

Serves 6 - 8

TO SERVE, spoon into bowls and add one or more of the following garnishes:
Chopped cilantro
Shredded cheddar cheese
Sour cream
Chopped scallions
Tortilla chips
Rice

*Use spicy sauce to your discretion! Like it burning, add more! Not into hot: take it out

No Time To Sleep

This past Tuesday was Election Day, and while I was particularly excited to live through such a history-making election, I was also glad the kids did not have school and I would not have to get up at the crack of dawn to tackle lunches, snacks, breakfast, shoe searches, hair untangling etc. etc. etc. Little did I count on my wake-up call from my six-year old son, Jonathan.

TAP TAP TAP, a determined finger knocked through my comforter solidly on my forehead.

“Mom…” he insisted, mid-whine, as if we’d been engrossed in this conversation a good half hour or so.

“MOM!!!” more forcefully now (he’d definitely found me and wasn’t going away).

I peeked one bloodshot eye out into the dark world and was met by an inquisitive stare framed by ridiculously long, thick eyelashes. Standing by my bedside in his favorite tin soldier pajamas was my son. He seemed irked that my brain hadn’t caught up to his yet; still, it appeared one bloodshot eye would suffice. The minute our gaze locked, he preceded full steam ahead:

“What if Thumbs tied them up because he is good with lassos and THEN caught up with Dink and the others on the horse trail or maybe the magician guy with the handcuffs did it because he was the only one not tied to the chair like the others but then again what was Lulu doing tied up in the office where the safe was if she is the cook? MOM, what was she doing in the office, huh????”

The only reason he stopped was because he six-year old lungs demanded air, and then, of course, he remembered me and became increasingly frustrated that I still had one eye shut. His eyes narrowed on me, lip curled in a well-rehearsed scowl and he waited. I turned to look at my clock whose neon green numbers announced it was 5:35 a.m. Seriously? My one day to sleep in and I was woken up as lead panelist to an overzealous detective conference determined to crack the code of Ron Roy’s The Ninth Nugget A-Z Mystery series?

I tried to grumble something about needing a cup of coffee but he would have none of that. He stood his ground, grimace well placed, waiting for me to solve this urgent dilemma.

I didn’t know who did it or why I was even thinking about it without caffeine in me but I did recognize that look on my son’s face as that of wild, vivid imagination that had captured him and woken him at this early hour. As much as my body ached to sleep, as a writer and a mother I knew I was privileged to be a part of that excitement and I would not let him down. So I opened my other bloodshot eye and his smirk turned a tad bit hopeful.

“All good theories,” I grumbled, slowly cracking the warm shell of my bed and sitting up. “Thumbs did stay back at the ranch for most of the time so he could be the one who tied them all up and stole the gold nugget, but then, he is the creepy one so the author might want you to suspect him. The magician certainly was agile with those handcuffs, and the book tells us the reason Lulu the cook was in the office was to water the plants, but, who knows…we’ll have to keep reading to find out who the real culprit is.”

I didn’t solve much for him. Really, I didn’t solve anything at all, just rehashed what he had said and put periods in the appropriate places. But what I did do was jump into his enthusiasm, regardless of the early time, and this seemed to be enough for him. He crawled into my bed and begged, “mom, can you please read more now???”
“Not yet, we have to wait for your sister to wake up”, I reminded him. “Can’t solve the mystery without her.”

We did wait for his sister to wake up to solve the mystery. I won’t tell you who it was, but I will say it was filled with enough twists and turns to captivate all our imaginations. Of course, the biggest thrill by far was witnessing the infectious love of reading my son now has. Already he is begging me to help him solve the next mystery. I only hope this one lets him sleep through the night.


The story took place in a dude ranch in Montana, and after a novel-full of horses, lassos, and bonfires, a bowl of chili con carne was something we were all craving.

COWBOYS CHILI CON CARNE
5 tablespoons olive oil
1 yellow onion, coarsely chopped
1 ½ lbs. ground beef
5 tablespoons tomato paste
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 tablespoon dried oregano
2 teaspoons ground basil
3 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1 28-oz. can tomatoes
½ cup red wine
1 can sweet corn
1 can dark red kidney beans, drained
½ cup sliced Spanish olives
1/4 cup chopped parsley
juice from one lemon
salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
5 tablespoons hot pepper sauce*

Heat olive oil in a dutch oven over medium heat. Sauté onions until translucent, about five minutes. Crumble beef and cook fully, stirring often. Add tomato paste, garlic, cumin, chili powder, oregano, basil and mustard and stir to combine.
Add tomatoes, wine, corn, kidney beans and olives, parsley, lemon juice, salt, pepper and hot sauce.
Increase heat and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and let simmer for 15 minutes. Adjust seasoning.

TO SERVE, spoon into bowls and add one or more of the following garnishes:
Chopped cilantro
Shredded cheddar cheese
Sliced jalapenos
Sour cream
Chopped scallions
Tortilla chips
Rice

*Use spicy sauce to your discretion! Like it burning, add more! Not into hot: take it out

Voting For Coffeecake

The crowd delicately coiled behind a dirty white minivan, weaving through a red Camry and back around a blue Lexus. Without realizing it, we had wrapped ourselves around the quintessential American symbol: cars the color of the American flag. The wait promised to easily exceed an hour, and I wondered who was the lunatic that assured me early voting at this unknown, dilapidated poll was a guaranteed twenty minutes. Probably the same lunatic that spoke to the lady with the walker, the couple with the frustrated four-year old (we just started, kid) and the aunt and her overly enthusiastic nephew, whose high-pitched voice and pimple-laden face made me question if he indeed did qualify as a first-time voter.

These folks were my neighbors for the morning, and when we’d be done, we’d end as friends, regardless of whom we wanted on our ticket. In fact, our stance on healthcare, Iraq, or taxes never even came up. We had other platforms to discuss on this uncharacteristically chilly Florida morning and they began with our youngest representative sitting in the bright green umbrella stroller:

“I’m hungry”, cute nameless child wailed.
“We’re almost done” her mother lied. “Sit tight and before you know it I will get you something to eat.”

Those of us around the child knew that if her inquisitive blue eyes weren’t buying it we shouldn’t either, still, we longed for her mother’s words to be true. There was no telling when we’d have the privilege to perform our civic duty but a snack sounded tempting to every one of us just the same.

“What I’d do for a cup of coffee,” Aunt X grumbled to her nephew loudly enough so we could all commiserate.

“Such a windy morning, yeah, I could go for a hot coffee”, a man (looking very much like Joe the Plumber) chimed in.

“Dunkin’ Donuts hazelnut,” someone begged behind me.

“I think there is a Starbucks on the next corner,” another voice promised, even though that corner wasn’t going to help us much in this line.

I started salivating just thinking of a cup of Joe, more specifically, my home-brewed marroncito coffee, which is Venezuelan for “little brown one.” My days are fueled by a steady infusion of this drink, made in my reliable espresso machine; using only the finest Venezuelan beans my husband faithful hauls back from his business trips there. Securing this coffee is no simple feat: the brand I favor is reserved for restaurants and local bakeries which boast huge Gaggia machines that nurture the country’s obsession with this addictive drink. Years of string-pulling with the right people have secured us our tasty caffeine, making me fortunate enough to partake of it here in Florida. Even though I already had consumed my allotted two morning cups all this talk of coffee had me buzzing for more.

The child, still glued to her stroller, looked up at us indignantly. She seemed shocked that we could be so selfish as to distort her request for food by digressing into some obtuse adult adoration of a beverage other than apple juice.

“Mom!!!” she wailed much more forcibly. “I said, I’m HUNGRY!”

Her mother, (who looked as if she could use a marroncito herself), began searching frantically in her purse. She was a good mother. I knew this because she had a very big purse. All good mothers have big purses, magic bags that house any given item a restless offspring may desire. She was sure not to disappoint. The child (and I) watched in anticipation.


Her eyes squinted as she bravely groped the inside of her bag. Suddenly, she stopped, as if stung by something, but instead of a scream of pain a warm smile spread across her sleep-deprived face and her hand made its victorious exit. A gold package glittered as it left the cavernous confines of leather hell and sparkled in the bright sunshine. It was a bag of Teddy Bear Graham crackers.

I wasn’t impressed but you’d think the girl won the lottery. She squealed with delight.

“GIMME, GIMME, GIMME,” she demanded.
The proud mother handed over the bag that was surely to be gobbled up in a matter of minutes. Still, a couple of minutes of sanity was better than none.

I looked at the mother and smiled. She looked at me and returned a grin. We’d done it again, our exchange seemed to confirm. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me, but we were both mothers (my sleep-deprived look must have given me away) and therefore her victory was mine as well.

I leaned over to her and whispered, “What we need with our pretend coffee is a good coffeecake.”

“With lots of cinnamon”, she bounced back with a skip in her voice. Under the crunch of her daughter’s snack, waiting in our early voting line that would stretch out a couple more hours, we closed our eyes, not to envision a day with John McCain or Barack Obama, but simply one with the perfect coffeecake.


The Perfect Coffeecake

¼ lbs. soft butter
1 ½ cups sugar
2 eggs
1 cup sour cream
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
1/3 cup chopped pecans
2 teaspoons cinnamon

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Beat butter and one cup of the sugar until fluffy.
Beat in eggs, one at a time.
Stir in sour cream and vanilla.

Sift together flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt and stir into batter until smooth.

Spoon half the batter into a greased 9-inch square baking pan.

Combine the remaining sugar, nuts and cinnamon and sprinkle 2/3 of it over the batter.

Top with remaining nut mixture.

Bake 50 minutes or until done.
Serve warm.

(Makes 16 servings)