dinner

i'm just now realizing that the way i grew up is much more the exception than the rule. of course, i knew that in many regards, but i'm speaking specifically about family dinners. when i was a kid, we ate dinner at the table together. every night. and i don't mean it in a norman rockwell sort of way, necessarily. i just mean that we did. like it or not, pleasant or not, it was a ritual and it was a rule. (or was it an exception? hmm.)

now, as an adult and as a mother, having a dinner together as a family is something i find in my self-evaluation as a successful parent or a failure. i love to cook and i love to cook especially for my family, and whatever wandering stragglers we can fit at the table. (it's a small table, i'm sad to say. so we have to crowd around. but that's on my 'next house' list to rectify.) but at any rate, more nights than not we eat together, a meal i've prepared. and the not-nights, we still eat together as a family, but those are meals i haven't prepared. and fend-for-yourself nights only occur when there's a babysitter or i'm incapicitated and ill.

so, by my standards, i succeed in this criteria on the mom-assessment. most of the time.

enter: tonight's dinner.

well intentioned, but disaster nonetheless. i bought a whole chicken to roast.. and remembered using a recipe not long ago that called for a fruit inserted into the chicken before baking it. unfortunately, i couldn't remember either where i found the recipe, where i've stashed the recipe, or what the fruit was. that should have been the first sign that things were not to go as hoped.

i have a counter full of small tangerines, left over from last weekend's fruit fest, so i thought to myself, 'maybe it was an orange...' and stuffed one in there. but first, let me just say, this was the most unusual chicken i've ever seen. the breast side had very little meat on it. it had a nice arch and the legs nicely tucked alongside, but truly this beast wasn't well endowed.

but i greased her up anyway with some olive oil, stuffed her with an orange, sprinkled with seasonings and put her in my favorite roasting pan for what should have been a delicious meal, some time later.

much later.

after repeated checkings and repositionings and a steady nudge on the temperature of the oven, it occurred to me that maybe the bird was upside down. but no, the bottom side of the roasting chicken was flatter than a pancake. surely not the breast. but wait.. when i cut into it, there's definitely white meat there. lots of it. and on the breast side (or the back side??) there's nothing. must be something about those organic chickens, i mused.

i know this sounds like i'm a novice in the kitchen. like perhaps i've never cooked a bird before. but truly, i have witnesses. this bird was unlike any other chicken i've ever seen, bought or been served. ever. (nance, can i get an amen on that?)

after flipping it over, and another nudge on the thermostat, it finally reached an acceptable level of pink/white balance for me to comfortably serve. (of course, some had to be microwaved to appease my guests.. but i'm braver than most with raw poultry.)

it tasted only marginally better than it looked. which wasn't great. for the record, i don't think an orange was the right fruit.

and that's just the chicken part of the disaster.

i never serve white potatoes. i don't even know the difference between the ten different varieties of potatoes that aren't sweet. i generally just pick up the sweet potatoes and move on. but for a change, and as a concession to my children, i thought i'd make homemade mashed potatoes. i do know how to do this. and i did it just fine. but i refuse to put in two sticks of butter and a quarter cup of salt...and so they were rather potatoe-y. ie. bland.

the good news is that the boys will be happy to see sweet potatoes back on the menu.

everything else turned out fine. though there wasn't much else there to mess up. the failure of the white side of the plate overpowered the success of the colored side.

i think i mentioned once that stone soup was a favorite book of mine as a child. it came to mind as i cleaned the kitchen, so i threw the carcass of that mutant chicken into a pot of water and i'll have you know, it won't be a total wash.

and as for my mom-grade... misery loves company, you know. and perhaps these are the sorts of meals that will be more memorable in the long run anyway. (one of my clearest meal memories from childhood was when i negotiated to never have to eat liver again if i ate it that one time. clear as a bell.) so while i get an E for effort and an F for edibility, i give myself an A for making meal memories.

d: more memorable, edible, meals with my family
b: the soup will be fantastic. i just know it.
g: meals together, be they victorious or disastrous.

treats

i just caught mega humping one of her baby toys. her baby toys because she's still a baby herself! how can she possibly be doing such a thing? i tapped her flank and scolded her and she hung her head. is it possible she knows it's inappropriate? nothing would surprise me.

i've run out of the important, essential commands to teach her. so now we're doing frivolous things like laying out three treats in front of her and then sending her to them one at a time, in an order i specify. it's win/win to her - she gets three treats! and it's a power trip for me - i point and she eats! added benefit: it teaches her patience and self-control.

i personally could use more of both. maybe i should enroll in puppy class, for myself. after two mini-meltdowns, (ok, maybe not so mini), in as many days i am in need of probably an entire semester at obedience school. it seems that my thoughts and emotions and energy are at the whim of some other entity and certainly not in line with my higher thinking. i call that entity: hormones.

i'm trying to get a grasp on what may be misaligned in my hormonal circuitry; met an endocrinologist, am reading and studying possibilities, and am getting every toxin out of my life that's within reach. keeping the system as pure as possible. and yet... it feels as though a nuclear reactor melts in my head when i get this way and nothing can contain it.

i read in a book recently, 'schedule around your pms..' as in, know when it's coming and don't make any critical decisions during that time. wouldn't that be nice? it would be nice enough to know when it's coming, ie have any semblance of regularity; but being able to put the rest of my life on hold while my estrogen takes over would simply be divine.

perhaps i could put a little escape hatch in my garage. i feel the temperature rising in the reactor and i simply could jump through the hatch and slide down a tunnel to a get-away vehicle, think batmobile, that takes me somewhere free of responsibility and free of... myself. until i come back to what's normal for me, at least. then i could reemerge in my family, in my life. all put back together and refreshed. nobody else the worse for the wear.

sigh

unfortunately under the piles of paint cans and the strewn and broken bicycle bits my garage holds no escape hatch. no tunnels to freedom here. and so, tonight i'm cuddled into bed, mega under my arm, working on a spreadsheet for my day job, and trying to buffer my contact with the outside world by at least a layer of technology; as i've heard that those mushroom clouds can be quite deadly.

mega just sighed in her sleep. i imagine she's dreaming of a row of treats laid out before her. (not the quasi-sexual experience she just had with her baby toy)

hmm, perhaps a row of treats is the answer i'm looking for.

d: patience and self-control.. with and of myself.
b: despite a failed first attempt, second try success at my daily workout.
g: a family and partner that love me..and bring me treats, right when i need them.

reward!

i'm minutes away from doing something i haven't done in months. and i'm absolutely, utterly, on the edge of my seat with joyful anticipation for it. well, sort of on the edge of my seat. really on a massive assemblage of pillows on my bed, with mega under my left arm.

i've cleaned the house today. done the grocery shopping. planned meals for the week. worked out - twice, in fact. showered. and now.. i'm setting aside the stack of books i've been studying, er i mean reading, over the past couple of months. (and i'm setting aside this computer, just as soon as i finish this short post.) and i'm picking up my new sarah waters novel.

sigh

i've been reading non-fiction for months now.. and it's making my brain hurt. between the exercise and nutrition books saying 'do this to change your body!' and the new-agey metaphysical books saying, 'it's all in your head...even your body' and the dog-training and the money-managing and.. and..

i need a break.

how can i possibly be creative when even my relaxation time makes me do so much processing? how can i possibly relax?

and with that.. i'm off to make a dent in a totally fantastic novel about something paranormal and mysterious. and nothing i have to remember after i turn the page.

d: creativity to stimulate creativity
b: my extremely productive day is being rewarded!
g: the little stranger awaits...

mom

most every day i wish i lived closer to my mom.. but then there are days when i really wish it. when i really want nothing more than to go be underfoot and be taken care of. i imagine that if i lived nearby, i could do that. but then i remember that she's perhaps even busier than i am and when i am there, i often take as much pleasure in taking over her kitchen as i do in her taking care of me.

i wonder if maybe that's my style.. when i want to be taken care of, i find a way to do it for someone else. i don't know that it's healthy though. i probably should find a way to take care of myself.

luke just said to me, 'i had a dbg kind of day.' i don't know what that means to him, exactly, but it made me smile. he then proceeded to rattle off two dbg's in a row, with one of the g's being that he's grateful to be home (after a night at a friend's house), and that made me smile too. and then, of course, he made me do one. and that made me smile too.

so maybe, i don't have to go all the way to my mom's skirt-hem to find comfort. perhaps i have what i need right here.

though i do wish a dinner-cooking fairy would show up.. i'm just saying.

d: a hot shower, dinner, and bed.
b: luke had a 'dbg kind of day'.
g: my boys, my mega, and my haley.. for when mom is out of reach.

online

daylight savings is a conundrum of the nth power. in the spring we lose that hour over and over again and in the fall, we spend that additional hour every day for weeks, as though we've received the key to the kingdom.

not that i'm complaining about the latter, of course. i have been waking up before my alarm every morning - which already goes off at the tormenting hour of 7am - and unable to go back to sleep with the sun brightly shining. by noon, i've already accomplished more than 75% of my day's tasks and i'm wondering what i'll do with my 'free time'.

but when evening rolls around i have the satisfied feeling of exhaustion and accomplishment. and not a minute to spare. oh how i've spent that hour. again and again.

today after starting work at 7am (it really is the best time for business with singapore), cleaning the kitchen, doing some laundry, making breakfast, researching vacation spots, working out, driving to and from atlanta, climbing a tree at the park, eating lunch at a new restaurant, grocery shopping, cutting fruits and veggies for a school carnival tomorrow, taking the boys to dinner, and wrestling them to bed; i finished and uploaded my dbg fitness website.

and that is what the extra hour afforded me tonight. an internet presence. (no offense to this one.)

check it out.

www.dbgfitness.com

d: preparation and promotion rewarded
b: i'm online!
g: it's bed time.

wrong

tonight the boys and i went to see this is it, the michael jackson documentary. i won't pretend that i've been a huge fan or anything. i loved his music growing up, of course; but i filed him under F for freak after he dropped from the limelight and i paid his later headlines little heed.

tonight i stand corrected. tonight i sat in amazement. jaw agape. and wondered how i missed the artistry behind his music and his work.

perhaps it happens a lot that true art isn't realized or appreciated until the artist is gone. that's what they say, at least. and i find that tragic and sad. (not just because i'm in love with an artist, either.)

i have my theories about why that is and i don't think it's a sign of a deteriorating society, or anything of the like. i think, if you look closer at human nature, we often don't appreciate what we have until it's gone. art.. family.. health..

but i digress. back to the film.. i found jackson's creative vision and all-encompassing ownership of his music to be riveting. the layers and the complexities of what he created around each song and the production associated with the developing concert changed my perspective entirely. while i would never consider music to be one-dimensional, perhaps i wouldn't automatically categorize it in the dimensions jackson did.

perhaps this makes no sense to those of you who haven't seen the film. perhaps it makes no sense to those of you who have. i simply am finding myself at a loss for the right words.

what i can put into words though is this... i was wrong. i was wrong in my dismissal. i was wrong in my marginalization.

and i am so very sorry i had to see a documentary of tour rehearsals rather than the tour itself.

d: more compassion and appreciation for the incomprehensible among us
b: i'm starting with the (wo)man in the mirror...
g: better late than never.

surfaced

when i was in college, it was a rite of spring to allow the first deep part of the creek to distract a day-hike and permit a swim. the best spring time swims though were in the unexpected deep swimming holes we found hiking along the mountain rivers.

standing on the edge of an embankment, readying to jump into dark waters for the first time, there's an inexplicable sensation. nervous anticipation. a twinge of fear. a sense of daring. a maternal, discouraging voice of reason. and an overriding pursuit of the thrill.

adrenaline rising.

then feet hit the water. senses come alive. water closes overhead. body engulfed in a rush of endorphins.

down. down. down.

how far to the bottom? will my feet touch soft sand? hard pebbles? or will i just keep falling? for a second fear crowds the rush.

and then, as suddenly as the plummet, i'm rising. i'm reaching up for air. i see the light penetrating the water and i struggle to gauge how far away it is. as if knowing my exact depth will make a difference.

gasping, kicking, and straining: i surface.

from the safety of shore and warmth of my springtime layers, i store the memory of another dive into the dark depths. another dive that stole my breath. another dive that revved my heart. another dive, from which i surfaced.

but there is a small voice that reminds me when i dive into the unknown pools, there's a chance of shallow rocks. and coming up short is something that only happens once.

d: clear, sunny pools of pleasure.
b: i've surfaced.
g: five days deep rather than moments shallow.