Ode to Sunday mornings of the past. Waking up at 10:35a.m. for 11 o’clock church used to seem like a feat, a feat that made me feel worthy enough to sit in the pews despite the smell of gin and sodas still on my breath. Now, rain or shine, one cocktail or ten cocktails, we are up before 6:45a.m…and my breath smells of coffee and cereal and oh.my.God i’ve been up for 4 hours rather than juniper.
Sunday mornings used to be easy. Getting home from the grocery store before the Panthers’ game started was, by all accounts, a raging success. Now that Jackson is here though, the simplicity that used to be Sunday is no longer. When that 16 lb. human alarm clock goes off, we better be ready to play with toys come hell or high water. As for our afternoon naps of the past, no matter how times we try to get him to snuggle with us–even after darkening the room to the point that he can’t see his toys–he just won’t. It’s a lost cause.
It’s not only Sundays that are harder. It’s showering. And cooking. And cleaning. And going to the bathroom in public bathrooms(I look like Michael Jackson dangling a child over the railing as I hold him out and squat, i assume this is normal?).
Luckily, I have a few things that make my days easier.
- Baby Breeza: A Keurig for baby bottles, a lifesaver for all. When Starvin’ Marvin wakes up, that bottle better be ready within negative 85 seconds. We used to mix the bottle, brew an empty cup of water from the coffee keurig, set the bottle in the hot water and let it warm up. Marvin immediately let us know this was unacceptable parenting. With the press of a button, what used to take 5 minutes now takes 19 seconds. The sheer happiness in his eyes when he hears the machine start lets me know that he forgives me for letting a side table fall on him last week.
- Baby Bjorn bib: The thought of even putting a dirty cloth bib in my washing machine makes me want to buy a new washing machine. The thought is about as repulsive as not having a “feet” end of the blanket. How people gamble and snuggle their faces on what may or may not have been the “feet end” last time is just, well, about as nasty as a dirty cloth bib. Enter the Baby Bjorn plastic bib. It not only catches food that falls (which is close to 46%), but it is plastic. After each meal, I rinse it out in the sink and use a clorox wipe on it. Cleaned and Cloroxed, done and done.
- Doorway Jumper: Without this contraption, there’s a good chance my hair would not have been washed since about April 6th when he outgrew the rock-and-play. I hang it from the doorframe next to the shower. I’m genuinely intrigued what other people do who don’t have this–not shower? Strap them to the toilet? I also use it in the kitchen to cook dinner, unload groceries, load the car, and count my freckles/do anything and everything as long as this monkey is happy being strapped into something.
Besides those three things (and a “feet end” end of the blanket), the only other thing that makes my days easier is the smile on his face when he wakes up. No matter how many times I want to cut off the monitor and swear I didn’t hear anything, the second I walk in and see that smile, it’s the best day of my life all over again. I may not be ready to play “find the instrument that this sound makes” on the learning cube at 6 a.m., but at least I know I can shower, have a clean bib, successfully make bottles, and spend the day with my best friend.
There hasn’t been a day since Jackson was born that he hasn’t been called a girl–despite wearing all blue and despite me telling people that he is a boy. It goes like this every. single. time: Fellow Harris Teeter grocery shopper: “She’s beautiful.” Me: “Oh, it’s actually a boy, but thanks” And then, as if I’m in denial about my own child’s gender, the response is always, “well, she’s just adorable.” I smile, knowing that my frustration is better spent on the incompetency of the deli meat counter.
The goal was to wait until he was a year old for his first hair cut. Despite him being called a girl. Despite the mullet. Despite the fact that his view of the world was limited to seeing his own bangs. Despite needing anti-frizz products after being outside for 30 seconds of our city’s raging humidity.
But on a sad, sad day this past Saturday, I caved. Ninety seconds was all it took. Bye bye mullet. Bye bye bangs. Bye bye baby Jackson.
I will admit that, unlike getting to the end of a bag of white cheddar popcorn, it’s not all bad. Now I can see his beautiful eyes and his too-cute smile, and there is remarkably less hair for smashed avocado to get stuck in. His hair will grow back, the number of times he is called a she will diminish (hopefully before he is potty-trained and using public bathrooms in this state), and it likely won’t be the last thing I cave on.
All of a sudden, my eight-month-old newborn can crawl. And eat. And pull up. I clearly did a horrendous job of posting since he was born, so ill fill you in pretty fast: he ate, he spit up, and he slept. (And in between, he had his first smile, first babble, and first laugh. He rolled over, sat up, and stole our hearts forever. There were trips to the beach and the mountains and outings to grandparents’ houses. Simply put, the best 8 months of my life.) But the fact that i can now run multiple errands a day is FASCINATING. I truly thought it would never happen. But I also thought that it would never happen that I would miss those cyclical days of nothings. Some days I just force his head on my chest as if he is going to magically fall asleep like he used to rather than push off like Buzz Light Year for the remote control or cell phone nearby.
Now that he crawls, I feel like I have a best friend–and a dog. The best and only type of dog I will ever have. My favorite thing to do is to leave the room and hear him start crying. I immediately say his name repeatedly–and maybe throw in a few snaps and “here boys”–and make him come find me. The pride in his eyes and the smile on his face when he finds me is what I can only imagine first-generation college graduates feel on graduation day. I clap and sing and let him bathe in first-born pride. Other times, I let him explore. I genuinely love letting him explore. Not so that I can finish the chapter of the book I’m on, but to see what he finds interesting. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he will find shoes to suck on. If it’s not shoes, then it’s cell phone chargers–or cords. It’s quite baffling why they make toys in every combination of the rainbow when all they want is black remotes and dirty shoes.
I know I glossed over a lot, but it wasn’t until a few weeks ago when I even felt like I had a free second to do anything other than sneeze one day, shave my legs the next, and maybe clean a toilet the next. We are finally getting our nap times figured out, and I hope to use that time to write more frequently. Until then, I’ll be singing Raffi and talking in high-pitched voices way too often.
There are some foods that bring you back in time. Maybe it’s a meal you have every year for your birthday or every year at Christmas. I have both of those things– beef stroganoff for the former and spaghetti (followed by National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation) for the latter. But the most poignant transport in time is homemade ice cream, bringing me back to the Fourth of July. Like the peanut butter balls, this family tradition comes with a lot of griping about what a pain-in-the-rear it is to make. It started with my grandfather back in the 1960s with a hand-crank ice cream machine. My mom remembers having to crank the machine when she was only a few years old–must have been around the same time she had to walk 6 miles to school. About 20 years ago, they switched to an electric machine in what may be the most delayed adoption of progressive technology ever. Either way, the recipe and pain-in-the-rear comments haven’t changed. Switching it up between banana, strawberry, and peach is the extent that we step out of the culinary box. That is, until a few weeks ago.
My sister was throwing us a gender reveal party, and I decided that homemade ice cream would be the perfect way to celebrate. The contents are hidden until right before you eat, so there would be no way to know what “it” was until we served it.
Truth be told, I couldn’t wait for our strawberry ice cream, as I just knew it was a girl. We had strawberry-banana ice cream a few weeks prior for the Fourth of July, to which I commented, “hmm this is a little too sweet, let’s just do strawberry for the reveal.” We had talked about what to do if it was a boy– peach ice-cream with blue food coloring, but viewed it more as a hypothetical situation in which we would never know the results.
The day of the reveal came, and it turns out that it wasn’t a hypothetical situation after all. We had BLUE ice cream. WHATTTTTTT?!? Of course my first thoughts were, “is my baby boy going through gender-crisis in utero from me calling him a ‘she’ so often? I know transgender is cool right now, but please just be a boy! Get that testosterone pumping little man. If wine can transfer to his blood, so can protein powder, right?”
Shock aside, we can’t wait for our baby boy to arrive in early December. We can’t wait to find tractors and trucks with him, play golf with him, and dress him in the cutest Jon Jons ever. Most importantly, we can’t wait to serve him homemade ice cream every Fourth of July and create even more traditions together as a family. We love you Baby H!
I love sandwiches. My mom hates them. Probably because I made her make me a sandwich every single day of middle school and high school. And I required my sandwiches to be toasted due to the unfortunate fact that I was born with an un-toasted sandwich bread gag reflex. Since high school, I have remarkably learned to make them for myself. And have realized that I never fully appreciated the amount of love it took for my mom to do this for me. Packing lunches (especially sandwiches) is what Michael and I have termed “The Dreaded” in our house. And sometimes weekends are celebrated soley because we don’t have to do The Dreaded.
Naturally, my love for sandwiches has grown exponentially now that I’m pregnant and cannot eat deli meat. #ALLIWANTISASANDWICHDAMMIT. I’d do The Dreaded on weekends if it meant I could have a sandwich. Even more telling is the fact that my dreams have switched from blue Gatorade waterfalls to quench my drunken thirst to dreams of deli sandwiches.
So I have resolved to get creative in my sandwich-making. This includes the Italian Sausage and Pepper Burgers from Katie Lee’s Endless Summer cookbook. While technically a burger, I convinced myself it was a sandwich. I mean, it fits my definition of the quintessential sandwich: a sauce, melted cheese, meat, peppers/onions/pickles, and toasted bread. Also, it deeply troubles me to call anything a burger unless it is on circular bread, and my bread was not circular. Verdict: call it a burger or call it a sandwich but call it amazing.
They were so amazing that I actually had a night of sandwich-less dreams. Instead, I found myself dreaming about a week in Santorini. I told Michael this and he threw away every piece of bread in the house so that I would go back to dreaming of sandwiches. Not the response I had hoped for.
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 onion, thinly sliced
1 red bell pepper, cored and thinly sliced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tablespoon tomato paste
8 ounces hot italian sausage (remove casings)
8 ounces sweet italian sausage (remove casings)
8 slices provolone cheese
4 ciabatta rolls, lightly toasted
1/4 cup pesto (gotta use homemade)
Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the onion, pepper, and garlic and sauté until the onion is translucent and the pepper is tender, 8-10 minutes. Stir in the tomato paste and cook for 1 minute longer. Remove from the heat.
Preheat an outdoor grill to medium-high. Combine both sausages in a bowl. Form into 4 patties. Grill for 4 to 5 minutes per side, until cooked through. Top each burger with some of the onions and peppers and two slices of cheese, cover the grill, and cook until the cheese melts. spread the rolls with pesto, add the burgers and banana peppers, and serve immediately.
Charlotte Tip: the best sandwich I have had recently is the Beef Short Rib Baguette from Cafe Monte (with caramelized onions, provolone, and arugula salade).
the only problem with shrimp and grits is that they disappear too quickly. in general, i am a fast eater– a fact that i hate but openly admit. if i admit it then it’s not a problem. i try to combat this by chugging glasses of water right before i eat so that i am physically too full to eat fast. most of the time though, i forget to do this and am done before the blessing has started. it is especially bad with casseroles, pasta, grits, soups, etc. basically anything other than massive hunks of meat. i mean, there’s minimal, if any, chewing. what’s the hold up?
As was the case the other night when I made gouda grits with smoky brown butter shrimp from How Sweet It Is. Per usual, Takeru “The Tsunami” Kobayashi took over my body. For those of you that don’t dream about winning Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest and staying as skinny as he is on a daily basis, he is a professional speed eater. No dreams are dumb dreams.
As a lover of all shrimp and grits, this one was spot on.The crisp corn gave the perfect little crunch and the shrimp provided me the opportunity to not only chew, but to have my mind blown at the flavors. It was the (massive) amounts of gouda mixed into the grits that rendered all efforts to eat slowly useless. I paused once– to think if it was possible to make a quantity large enough to swim in–but other than that, it was go time.
Try it yourself if you don’t believe me.
Gouda Grits with Smoky Brown Butter Shrimp
TOTAL TIME: 35 MINUTES
4 cups low-sodium chicken stock
1 cup quick-cooking grits
8 ounces gouda cheese, freshly grated
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
2 ears grilled sweet corn, cut from the cob
2 tablespoons freshly snipped chives
1 pound raw peeled and deveined shrimp
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 teaspoon chipotle chili powder
1/4 teaspoon ground cumin
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 garlic cloves, finely minced or pressed
Bring the stock to a boil in a medium saucepan. Once boiling, add the grits and whisk constantly until they are fully mixed into the stock, about a minute or two. Reduce the heat to low and cover, stirring once or twice more, until the grits are thicker and creamy, about 5 minutes. Stir in the grated cheese, salt and pepper. Taste and season more if desired – this will depend on the salt in your stock and cheese.
Pat the shrimp completely dry with paper towels. Once it’s dry, season it with the salt, pepper, paprika, chili powder and cumin. Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat and add the butter. Once it’s melted and begins to sizzle, add the shrimp in batches (don’t overcrowd it!) and cook on both sides until pink. The butter will brown as the shrimp cooks and you can whisk it occasionally to prevent it from burning. When the shrimp is finished, stir in the garlic (I stir a little in each batche of the shrimp) and cook for a second then place the shrimp on a plate. Repeat.
To serve the grits, spoon them into a bowl and add the shrimp on top. I like to drizzle any of the butter in the pan on top too. Cover with spoonfuls of grilled corn (you can toss it in butter, salt and pepper!) and a sprinkling of chives. Eat immediately.
Somewhere along the way of transitioning from post-college-yet-still-act-like in-college to sort-of-adults, we find ourselves in need of furniture. Like, real furniture. And real artwork. Like, real artwork. But this often comes with the realization that our budgets are more conducive to splurging on the 3rd nicest glass of (house) wine on the menu than they are for buying chairs for our living rooms. Few days go by that my friends don’t ask, “where can I get a cheap [insert piece of furniture]?” We want to find modern/chic/vintage/sturdy/versatile furniture and artwork all for the small price of an air mattress that, up until this point, has been our most important possession in our nomadic lives of renting houses on VRBO that sleep ¼ of the people actually on the trip.
It has been a little over a year since we closed on our house, and there’s no other way to put it than to say it has been a process. I am usually Anal Alice when it comes to unpacking and getting things set up. I want it done yesterday and damnit it’s going to be done yesterday. But I’ve learned that I just gotta lock up the inner Alice telling me to buy the first side table, painting, or chair that I see. Gone are the days where I can leave those hideous, highly questionable (i.e. WTF was I thinking?) purchases in the apartment dump as I pull away.
As evidence that I practice what I preach, my parents gave us a sideboard for our wedding gift–you know, to store all of our china and crystal that we use ever so often that its all still in the original packages. Our wedding was December 29, 2012. I got the sideboard last week. Besides assuming they were still paying off the bar tabs and the Liquid Pleasure bill from the wedding, I didn’t want to push for it because I didn’t know what I wanted. However, I knew that I wanted something that could store the china and crystal without having it displayed in the open–because let’s face, on a given Saturday night, there’s a chance that the post-college-yet-still-act-like in-college comes out in the best of us. I also wanted something unique, but not too unique that it wouldn’t work in the open floor plan.
Alas, I found the perfect one at Cotswold Marketplace. The bamboo with the acrylic knobs and glass top was the perfect solution. It was well-made, unique, and reasonably priced. It says I’m not your average wood blob sideboard while still being timeless. Ammi right, or ammi right?
Local furniture shops for the adult-ish budget:
1) Sleepy Poet
3) Cotswold Marketplace (warning, some stuff is pure-adult budget, but gorgeous enough for a splurge)