Friday, February 12, 2010



When I was a kid, a favorite summer pastime of mine was to take my mom's planter that looked like a cauldron and use it to cook stuff. By "cook stuff" I mean I would hang it from the lowest branch of our mountain ash tree, fill it with berries, chives, grass, puddle water, and Indian paintbrushes, and then mush it all up with a stick. I have no idea why my mother let me do this.

I remember taking great satisfaction in the end product: a stinky pulp that would dry in the sun and solidify in the planter. Witch's brew. Again, Mom, did you know I was doing this? Disgusting.

It didn't seem disgusting at the time, though. It was an engrossing activity with a thoroughly remarkable (again, at the time) result. I wonder if this is why I now will happily spend hours waiting for an assortment of ingredients to stew until they magically change into something else. Something that is the sum of all the characteristics of its differnt parts, and which smells way better than my "witch's brew."

speeding up the process...

Coq au vin for when you have 2 cold winter days to stay inside and work on it...
from Les Halles Cookbook, by Anthony Bourdain (I love this man, although my mother does not).


Thursday, February 11, 2010

munchkin land

Baby J

Hi, folks. It's been awhile! I've been meaning to write about my weekend spent feeling very tall and very old, surrounded by tiny people.

Pete and I were lucky to snag a visit with Anna, Theron, and Baby J, while T was in town to check out expensive dental drills and wander the streets of Boston. I have to say, while his parents are pretty great, Baby J was downright delightful.

Unfortunately for Baby J, as far as I'm concerned he will be Baby J for the rest of his life. Never just J, but Baby J. When Baby J is 25 and coming to visit his mom and his aunties with his new girlfriend, I can just image us, a bunch of boozy old ladies, yelling: "Baby J, bring me another martini! Did you tell your friend you used to go through 12 diapers a day?" Baby J might be 6' 2" with a beard and tatoos, but too bad for him. Still Baby J. Actually, a huge tattooed guy called "Baby J" sounds like he might be the kind of guy who carries around a crowbar...

Ha, ha! We are funny.
Poor Baby J is going to have to deal with
Mommy's embarrasing friend.

As if lauging at a poor, defenseless little baby for a few days straight wasn't enough entertainment, we fastforwarded a few years to attend K's 3yr birthday party. It involved mimosas, balloon bending Venezuelans, and the pinata that wouldn't quit. We survived the bat wielding 3yr olds to party another day.

Kill! Kill! Kill!

Phew! I'm not sure where I was going when I started this post, but here's the end: thanks to Baby J and his parents for visitng -- come back! Thanks to tiny K for turning 3 and for the fabulous princess cocktail ring and magic wand.

Until we meet again...

Saturday, February 6, 2010


riding the rails south
two feet of snow looming near
blizzard misses me