Lately I have been telling my children that I am going to start feeding them donuts for breakfast, ice cream for lunch, and cake for dinner in an effort to make them stop growing up.  Because nothing else seems to be working.

Yesterday, February 2nd, my baby turned five.  If you have a baby, five probably doesn’t sound like a baby, but he will always be my baby.  Five is a big birthday.  Five is the year children start kindergarten.  Five is officially the end of toddler-dom.  Five is a kid.  I could say a million other things but it all boils down to the fact that I can’t believe my baby is five.  Five years ago, we took Graham, then aged 26 months, to a friend’s house so we could go the hospital and have a baby.  I sobbed with guilt in the car on the way.  Spencer was a planned for and wanted baby, but I felt almost that I was betraying my beloved first born by bringing another child into our little family.  I had no idea, of course, that Spencer would complete our family and that he would become an amazing playmate for Graham.

So my (not so) little baby, who are you at five?  You are an incredibly independently minded person who can carry on a full and engaging conversation.  You still, however, need help buttoning your pants.  You have just started to write your name with the “p” backwards and the letters very large.  You are s-m-a-r-t.  So bright and interested in everything.  You ask me what a word means and I see it just sucked right up into your brain.  You have a temper and hate to be embarrassed.  You love school and ask me every day if it is your show and share day.  You still want to do everything the same way Graham does – you idolize him.  You also squabble with him.  A lot.

(This is one of my favorite photos of my Seattle baby.  You are about 14 months here.)

Your hair can really no longer be called blond but I hold out hope that it will lighten again in the summer.  You are still a big guy – people rarely guess your age correctly.  Your cheeks, arms, and legs are still squishy.  Your belly is just big enough that it kind of pushes down your pants so you have a perpetual plumber’s crack going.  It may be time for a belt.  You still allow me to pick out your clothes each morning but if left to your own devices, you would wear “cozy” pants every day.  Your voice is still raspy and high, surprising for such a big boy.  And adorable.

You still like vehicles but no longer carry one in each hand everywhere.  You really like tape and making little projects out of paper and various things you find.  You call it “artzuka” from one of the shows you watch.  You are obsessed with Batman and love this shirt that comes with a “cake” (that would be a cape).  You do not, however, want to put the Batman sheets that Santa brought on your bed because they are too scary.  You continue to be a much pickier eater than your brother – carrots and celery are the only vegetables you will touch.  You are a big snacker and love yogurt.  Treats are a big part of your life and your current favorite is “mommy’s homemade ice cream”.

At night you like me to lie next to you and rub your back.  My own father used to do this for me – I know how lovely it feels.  All animals are banished from your bed but they do sit on a chair nearby.  We talk about what the next day brings.  Some nights, when you are very very tired, your eyes will flutter closed while I lie next to you.  I remember lying in my bed with you during your colicky months, trying to nap along side you, completely exhausted from caring for a baby who cried from 5pm to midnight non-stop every day.  You were tiny, of course, and I would pat your back, silently begging you to sleep.  Your eyes would flutter in that same way and I would hold my breath, willing them to stay closed.  Now you almost never cry (and when you do, it’s a big production), and sleep comes easily to you.  I almost want your eyes to flutter back open so you will say goodnight to me one more time.

I’ve been keeping track of some of the cuter things you say.  You were telling me about the Zamboni at the ice rink and you called it a “tromboni”.  We broke through a spider web and you said, “Looks like we need a web repair”.  Melted frozen yogurt looked like “a yogurt swimming pool”.  People don’t litter, they “glitter” as in “that man is glittering”.  Stupendous is “dependous”.  You think driving school has little mini cars and pretend stop lights.  I was roasting beets one day and when they came out of the oven you asked, “Are those sharks?”  “Sometimes, when I have a headache, I pretend to pull my head off.”  And my favorite – one day we were about to pull into an intersection after our light turned green.  A guy came through, completely running his red light.  I cried out and you asked me why.  “Because that guys was going really fast and he went through a red light – that is not safe!”  To which you said, “Well, maybe he had some ice cream in the back of his car and it was melting.”

I have written so many posts about Graham, one might wonder why there is so little of you here on my blog.  The truth is that my love for you is so uncomplicated.  There is that age old saying that you love your children the same, just differently.  I love you the same amount as Graham but with less frustration, less guilt, more ease, and more humor.  Every year brings new wonders in being your mother.

My parents are living the retirement that we all dream of.  They deserve it.  My dad had a busy oncology practice for over 30 years that had him leaving the house at 7am every morning and coming home at 7pm every night.  There was evening call and weekend call and when you are an oncologist, you get a lot of calls in the middle of the night.  He worked with extremely ill people and their families and had many people he grew to truly care for pass away.  He also had other patients who should have passed away but did not because he is a terrific doctor and an all around smart man.  He is also, as I have said here, kind and compassionate – a doctor that the nurses loved.

My mom also worked very hard.  She spent the first eight years of motherhood staying home with us and then, soon after my youngest brother was born, decided that she was tired of spending the day waiting for Sesame Street to come on (pre-DVR days) and then waiting for my dad to come home, so she went back to school (with three children) and got a nursing degree.  She spent worked full time on a evolving range of shifts (including night shift) for a number of years before settling in to a half time job in the recovery room of our University hospital.

Eight years ago, while still working full time, my dad, the cancer specialist, developed cancer himself.  Bladder cancer.  Randy and I were living in London at the time and we had just returned from a weekend away in Dublin.  Once back in our flat, I picked up a voice mail from my dad asking me to call when I got a chance.  Even though it was the middle of the night in Seattle, I called right away.  If I get a voice mail from my mom saying “call when you get a chance” it usually means she just want to chat.  I had probably never gotten a voice mail from my dad period, let alone one asking for a call back, so I knew something was up.  Calmly, he told me that he had a tumor in his bladder and they were hoping to be able to remove just the tumor and leave his bladder intact.  More tests were imminent and he was thankful that he had had symptoms so that they could catch it early.

A couple of weeks later, the phone call that I didn’t want to receive came across the ocean.  The tumor was invasive and they were going to have to remove his bladder.  His surgeon would make him a new bladder (called a neo-bladder) out of a piece of his own intestine.  Since the intestine is a long tube and the bladder is essentially fist-shaped, many cuts would need to be made to make the new bladder.  It would be hooked up according to the laws of anatomy and we would all hope for the best.  My dad, entering into surgery, contemplated retirement.  He would need to take a couple of months to recuperate from the surgery, he was near retirement age, so why not just retire?  But in the months following the surgery, he realized he needed something to work toward.  He wanted to go back to work.  And so, after a successful surgery and a rocky but successful recovery, he went back to treating patients full time.

Now eight years cancer free, my dad is a success story.  About three years ago, he decided to finally retire.  I worried about him a bit.  He identified very much with his job, with his role as doctor (although he never introduced himself that way), and I had trouble imagining him as a retiree.  Also, the fact that both my parents are very youthful, in shape, and active, did not fit with the picture in my mind of retirement.  I thought they both would be bored.

I was wrong.  They threw themselves headlong into life after work.  They took birding classes, yoga classes, did continuing education classes in art history and aviation history.  They exercise everyday and are traveling nearly constantly.  They are not sitting still for more than a moment.  They had always liked to travel but with my dad’s busy practice, it was hard for them to take consecutive weeks off.  Now their time is their own and they have discovered going on tours and cruises as a way to see parts of the world they have been meaning to visit.  These are not the groups with the blue hairs and senior water aerobics classes.  These are the trips I would go on right this minute if I could.

My parents recently returned from a cruise that left from Istanbul and ended up in Cairo.  They stopped in Israel and Jordan along the way and went through the Suez Canal.  They saw Luxor and the pyramids and Petra in Jordan.  In the past couple of years, they have taken a trip to Paris (with me for my birthday) followed by a week in Budapest and Prague, a cruise throughout Croatia, a group trip to Austria, but they recognize that this Middle Eastern cruise was truly a trip of a lifetime.

My parents don’t really shop when they travel.  It’s just not their thing.  But this time they brought me back something special.  Saffron.

If you aren’t familiar with saffron, it is the world’s most expensive spice.  It is probably one of the priciest food items period if just considering price per pound.  The reason it costs so much is that saffron is actually the stamen of the crocus flower and it is harvested by hand.  I can’t imagine the number of flowers and the number of (wo)man hours it takes to get an ounce of saffron.  Consequently, much of what we can buy in this country is not true saffron, but the stamens of other flowers.  Nothing compares to true saffron, in taste, aroma, and color, so be sure to buy yours from a reputable place.  And if it’s not super expensive for a very small amount, it’s probably not real saffron.

The stuff my parents brought me is Iranian saffron and it is shockingly red and the strands are nice and long.  It is gorgeous.  It is the kind of thing I might be tempted to put away and save for something special, but I believe in using gifts and besides, they brought me three small envelopes of it.  While saffron does have a very distinctive flavor, that flavor is subtle.  The color that it gives to food is truly extraordinary.  When I found this recipe for red lentil soup in a well-loved cookbook and it mentions that saffron rice would be a great accompaniment, I knew I had my first dish with my new spice friend.

So yes, you need three different pots to make this soup.  Do not let that deter you!  One pot makes the soup, one pot separately sautés the onion and spices and then the greens, and one pot makes the rice.  It  may sound like a pain but please believe me when I tell you that this is a very easy dish to make and you get a LOT of soup for your effort.  Red lentils are one of my favorite ingredients on earth and this is a fabulous way to make the most of them.  Red lentils love things like mustard seeds, cumin, and tumeric – all present in this flavorful soup.  I had never used lime juice with them before and was hesitant to add as much as the recipe called for.  But I loved the subtle sour flavor paired with the savory soup.  I made the soup for Randy and I to enjoy, brought leftovers over for dinner with friends, and then made another pot to eat with my parents so they could see how much I’m loving the saffron.

One Year Ago:  Olive Oil Granola with Dried Apricots and Pistachios (I just made a quadruple batch of this stuff)
Two Years Ago:  Blackberry Rugelach, Frittata with Carmelized Onions, Goat Cheese, and Sage

Red Lentil Soup with Lime
Adapted (barely) from Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone
Serves 6-8

You certainly don’t need saffron to make this dish and actually, you don’t need the rice if you want to save that step.  You can make this a super thick soup by adding less water or make it thinner by adding more.  If you make it in advance, know that it will thicken up as it sits but you can always add more water as necessary.  For this rice, I used ½ cup raw basmati rice in 1 cup of water and a pinch of both saffron and salt.  This might be more than you need for the soup, or make more as needed.

2 cups split red lentils, picked over and rinsed several times
1 tbsp. tumeric
3 tbsp. butter
Kosher salt
1 large onion, diced
2 tsp. ground cumin
1½ tsp. brown mustard seeds
½ bunch cilantro, chopped
Juice of 3 limes, or to taste
1 bunch kale, or other leafy green, chopped into small pieces (I’ve also used beet greens)
1 cup cooked rice
Plain yogurt

Put the lentils in a soup pot with 2 quarts (8 cups) of water, the tumeric, 1 tablespoon of the butter, and 1 tablespoon of salt.  Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer, covered, until the lentils are soft and falling apart, about 20 minutes.  Purée for a smoother texture (an immersion blender is great here).

While the soup is cooking, prepare the onion flavoring:  Heat a medium skillet over medium heat and throw in 1 tablespoon of butter.  Once it is melted, add the onions and a large pinch of salt.  Cook for another five minutes, until soft, then add the cumin and mustard seeds.  Turn the heat to medium-high and allow the onions to brown slightly, stirring occasionally.  This slight bit of char will add great flavor to the soup.  Add the cilantro and cook just until it wilts.

Add the onions mixture to the soup, then add the juice of two of the limes.  Taste, then add more if needed to bring up the flavor.  The soup should be a tad sour.

Just before serving, add the last tablespoon of butter to the same skillet the onions were cooked in.  Once melted, add the kale and a large pinch of salt, and cook just long enough to wilt.  Add to the soup and let all the flavors blend for a couple of minutes.  Even though you have added salt several times along the way, you will probably need to add more to your taste at this point.  If the rice is warm, place a spoonful in each bowl.  If it’s leftover rice, add it to the soup and let it heat through for a minute.  Serve each portion with a dollop of plain yogurt if desired.

Today, November 28th, is Graham’s birthday.  He is seven.  I have written so much about him that I have created his own category here on my blog (scroll down on the right hand side for the categories).  What I haven’t written about is his birth story.  It is a story I have told countless times and have written about in my journal, but not one I have told here.  It’s time.  Don’t worry, no blood and guts, just the story of having Graham.

(Age 3)

My pregnancy with him was easy.  I felt sort of yucky for the first few months but only at night and was never very sick.  I had some food aversions (salad) and some cravings (citrus juice) and I didn’t gain too much weight or retain water or develop hypertension.  Easy all things considered.  My due date was December 3rd and once I passed into my 38th week, I breathed a big sigh of relief – he could come any time and would be fine.

On the morning of November 27th, I woke up at 7:30am to a contraction.  I had had a few before but I knew this was different.  I lifted my head to look at the clock and note the time.  Then I waited.  If another didn’t come – it was just a teaser.  But about ten minutes later, another came, just like the first.  I woke Randy and we called my doctor.  She told me to wait until they were five minutes apart and then call her again, so I spent the morning eating breakfast, taking a shower and packing my bag with a stopwatch in my hand the entire time.  I was scared, I was excited.  I called my mom to wish her a happy birthday and also to tell her that we would not be attending her birthday dinner that night as I would most likely be delivering a baby.

When it came time to leave for the hospital, we had a She’s Having a Baby moment.  I was sitting calmly in the living room, packed bag by my side, and Randy was running all over the house trying to find his wallet and keys.  After a few minutes of male hysteria, we were on our way.  We had done a practice run to the hospital so we knew exactly how to go and this happened to be a Saturday so traffic was light.  We were there in no time.  The night before had been a full moon so there were no rooms immediately available – it turns out that more babies really are born on full moon nights.  They hooked me up to monitors in the triage area and our long day of waiting officially began.  I had some fear of being turned away at the hospital and told to labor more at home, this had happened to people I knew, but I was already 3 centimeters dilated when we arrived.  The nurse told me I would not be leaving without a baby.

(Age 4)

The next few hours went by quickly.  The pain from the contractions was intense but not terrible.  I got moved into my room.  Periodically a nurse would check me and I was still 3 centimeters dilated (you need to get to 10 before you can start pushing).  I got in the tub at one point, just for something else to do and also to help ease the pain in my back.  My brother Michael was living in New York at that time and had been home for a Thanksgiving visit.  My parents brought him by the hospital on the way back to the airport.  He took one look at me and said, “You look like shit.”  I told him, “Maybe that’s because I’m in labor.”  Oh, the sensitive male.

The afternoon progressed.  My doctor, who was fortunately on call that weekend, came in to check me and when I was still stuck at 3 centimeters dilated, she told me it was time to walk.  Randy and I took an hour long stroll in the hospital halls, the pain getting more intense as we went.  At each contraction, we stopped, I held my arms around his neck, and we swayed back and forth.  Almost as though we were dancing.  We had learned this trick in our lamaze class and somehow that swaying and the rhythm of it calmed me.  I started to worry.  If I was feeling this much pain at 3 centimeters, how was I going to make it much further?  Natural childbirth was not something I had considered.  I applaud women who go that route but my feeling is that if there is a safe way to ease the pain of what is known to be one of the most painful things in the human experience, I wanted to take advantage of it.

When we finally made it back to the room they checked me and I was 6 centimeters dilated.  No wonder it hurt so much – I had dilated 3 centimeters in an hour.  Time for the epidural.  A nurse told me that the anesthesiologist was with another patient and could I wait 5 minutes?  Yes,  I could wait 5 but I literally could not wait 6.  Fortunately, he walked in about a minute later and in another few minutes, I was feeling those contractions but without pain.  An extraordinary relief came over me.

(Age 5)

Afternoon moved into evening and I kept dilating.  Around 9pm, my doctor checked me and said that in another half hour, I would start pushing.  The hospital where I delivered has birthing suites which means that the room you start in is the room you end in.  There is no labor and delivery room – it all happens in your room.  They are set up like hotel suites and the overall effect is very pleasant.  As we counted down that last half hour, we turned the lights down to a nice soft low, put on some Miles Davis, and prepared to meet our son.  We had put very little in our birth plan – just that we wanted to avoid a c-section if possible and that we wanted as few people in the room as possible.  No friends, no family, and certainly no interns.  So when the time came, it was just me, Randy, my doctor, and one nurse.

I pushed once.  I pushed twice.  After the third time, my doctor’s eyes jumped to the machine that was monitoring Graham.  I will never forget her voice saying, “Come on little guy.  Come on.”  And then, “We’re out!”  His heart rate had plummeted and not recovered and so, in a matter of seconds, we were in the OR with a bright lights and a flurry of people.  I was crestfallen.  I had just made it through 15 hours of labor, only to have a c-section?  I was also terrified.  Was he all right?  Surgery?  I had never had surgery.  My doctor promised me that, once they got me all hooked back up, if he had recovered and kept his heart rate up, we could resume pushing.  But we had to stay in the OR just in case.

(Age 6)

He did recover and I did resume pushing and slowly, all the extraneous people melted away.  It was once again just me, Randy, my doctor, and a nurse, but now I was in the OR with its antiseptic atmosphere and bright lights.  I was not allowed even an ice chip as surgery was possibly imminent.  Thirst started to make itself known.  But truly I didn’t care.  I kept pushing.  I did not feel the pain of the contractions but I did feel them and I could also feel the toll they were taking on my body.  An hour went by and he still had not descended.  After the second hour went by, my doctor looked at me and said, “I’m sorry Dana, but I think we have to do the c-section.”  I had read or heard somewhere that doctors at this hospital will let you push for three hours before they do a c-section so I begged her for another hour.  She relented and I spent another tortured hour just trying to get him to budge at all.  My doctor said that if I got him to a certain point, she could use forceps to get him out.  But I could not even do that much.

The end of the third hour came and I was beyond exhausted.  I was also very worried.  Why was he not coming out?  Was he all right in there?  At this point, I just needed to see him and I did not argue when she said it was time for the surgery.  A drape was set up, more doctors and nurses came back in.  I begged the anesthesiologist to give me something to prevent nausea (I am more afraid of throwing up than labor contractions), and then a dreadful feeling came over me.  When I say beyond exhausted, I truly mean it.  I felt like I was lying at the bottom of the ocean with the weight of all that water resting on me.  I could barely move and I would have sold my soul for a glass of water.

The actual surgery is blurry for me.  Randy watched (which surprised me) and I just tried to hang on and stay conscious.  They pulled him out and I remember that he did not cry.  That worried me.  A nurse whisked him off to get cleaned up and when they finally did bring him over to me to see him, my little Graham who I had been waiting nine months to meet, I could hardly turn my head to look at him.  My voice just a croak, I asked how much he weighed and was surprised to hear that he was just 6 pounds, 13 ounces.  Not a big baby at all.  I couldn’t push him out?  Randy got to hold him as they stitched me back up, surely the worst part of the surgery.  Of course, I didn’t feel pain, but I could feel them tugging at me and I started to feel really sick.  I begged the anesthesiologist for more nausea medicine – after all this, the last thing I needed was to throw up.  Fortunately, it worked and I started to feel better.

I learned that Graham was born at 12:40am.  This meant that he was not going to share a birthday with my mom after all but have his very own, November 28^th.  I also learned that his blood sugar was low and they gave him formula immediately and did not bring him to me that night.  I don’t remember much else except soreness, fear, and complete exhaustion.

The next morning, the pediatrician on call came in to tell me how he was doing.  I had to keep slapping myself in the face to keep from falling asleep.  He had a somewhat rocky start, including jaundice and a few days under the lights, but never had to be in the NICU.  My grandmother’s mother died in childbirth and now I understood how easily that could happen in the days before c-sections.  Graham surely would have died and I might have as well.  It was a sobering thought and one I tried to hang on to whenever I had feelings of failure about the c-section.

My recovery was rough.  I had been through full labor and pushing, followed by major abdominal surgery and it took me a while to come back from that.  But of course I did and I also made it through the first couple of weeks of breast-feeding when I thought I would cry my eyes out before we finally got the hang of it.

(Today)

Seven years ago.  There have been times that I have looked back to those moments in the OR and wondered if it was my stubbornness that caused Graham to have the issues he has had.  If I had just gone ahead with the c-section right away, would he be typically developing?  I have barely dared voice this question aloud but when I have, I get a resounding “no”.  No one knows, and probably no one will ever know, why Graham is the way he is.  I had some bleeding in my second trimester and it is more likely that something happened then than at birth.  Still, even these many years later and even though I know better, I torture myself with this question.  Guilt is a complicated thing.

It is hard for me to believe but now I have a first-grader.  He is tall and lanky and has none of the baby fat that was once so much a part of his face.  He is pretty darn cute and pretty darn sweet.  We had his teacher conference last week and his lovely teacher told us that he is doing great.  She adores him.  She showed us some of the terrific work he is doing.  She mentioned that although he struggles with some things, he seems to get other things on a deeper level.  The class did a big segment on Veteran’s Day and she encouraged the children to write a note to a soldier.  She had stationary set up for them to use when they wanted.  She saved Graham’s note for us.  It read, “Dear Soldier, Please do not give up.  Love, Graham”.  That made me cry a little.

My blog captures the dishes I make and the stories I have that are associated with food.  It has also become my journal, since I no longer write longhand in one anymore.  This post is the type of thing I would write in my journal.

Today is Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving.  In addition to being the day before Thanksgiving, this day has become The Day We Pick Up Graham’s Birthday Cake.  Graham’s birthday is November 28th and we usually have a party for him sometime over the weekend.  This is a busy time of year in our family – my mom, Graham, one of his best friends, my best friend, and my best friend’s son all have birthdays within three days of each other.  Graham is a very go-with-the-flow kind of guy so he doesn’t care when we celebrate, but he always has very specific ideas about his birthday cake and this year it was Spiderman.

I bake.  I bake cakes.  I bake cakes that taste good and sometimes look pretty.  But I don’t do Spiderman cakes or fire truck cakes or construction vehicle cakes.  Those I leave to the professionals so for years now, we have been getting our birthday cakes at a sweet little old-fashioned bakery in a neighborhood right next to a lake.  This bakery sells parker house rolls and cookies with sprinkles on them and the boys think it is just magical.  They have old dusty fake example cakes set up around the shop and my boys oooh and aaah over them and fantasize about what they want to get next year.  The day before Thanksgiving, the bakery is crammed full of special orders.  Pies and rolls and cakes and breads are all stacked on racks with names in permanent marker.  Each one of those bundles has to be picked up today because the bakery closes for the weekend at 5pm tonight.  Which is why the Wednesday before Thanksgiving has become The Day We Pick Up Graham’s Birthday Cake.

Like most Wednesdays before Thanksgiving, it is pouring today.  We got out of our car, all of us in rain jackets and rubber boots, and held hands as we crossed the street to the bakery.  As we did so, I was hit with a giant wallop of nostalgia.  I remembered picking up Graham’s cake the year he was turning four, the fire truck cake you see above.  Spencer was just under two and had just started walking (he was a late walker).  I was frantic.  It was raining.  I had a million things to do.  It was close to naptime.  How was I going to get the cake to the car and carry Spencer at the same time?  And keep track of Graham?  And once we got home, how was I going to cook all the things on my to-do list while my boys napped?  If you ever see a mother with two young children who looks totally sweaty and harried – that was me that day.  As I was getting ready to leave the bakery, a man held the door open for me, took one look at me, and then offered to carry the cake to the car.  Bless that kind man.  I carried Spencer and held Graham’s hand and the nice man carried the cake.

Today we walked in, waited our turn in line, and then got our cake.  (There were some squeals of delight – it is an awesome cake.)  I decided that the boys could wait for me in the bakery while I brought the cake to the car because we were having a mommy lunch date afterward at one of their favorite Mexican food places right next door.  I asked that they sit at the little table crowded into a corner, and out the door I went.  Not harried.  Not sweaty.  Still overwhelmed with all that I have to cook today and tomorrow but taking comfort in the fact that the boys would probably take a little nap (yes – still!) and even if they didn’t, that they will play together more or less nicely while I sauté and bake away in my cozy kitchen.

We had our lunch date where there were no high chairs or diaper changes, just two wiggly boys and chips and bean and cheese burritos and flan for dessert.  Conversations.  Kisses and snuggles.  Reprimands of course.  I looked at the two of them across the table as they colored in their kids menus, both of them with their long eyelashes and their darkening hair, and could hardly breathe for the thankfulness of my life.  My two healthy and kind children, my husband who is so present in their lives and brings parts to them that I don’t posses, the family and dear dear friends that I will cook for tomorrow, and the fact that we get to go to an old-fashioned bakery every Wednesday before Thanksgiving to pick up a special birthday cake.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Hello Friends.

I’m a little more than halfway through what will, when all is said and done, be the busiest month of this year.  That scares me because November is looming and December… well, we all know how crazy December can be.

I have a friend who hates when people say they are busy.  “Everyone is busy!  Don’t use it as an excuse!”  I hear her voice in my head regularly.  And it’s true.  All my friends are busy, my brothers are busy, my husband is busy, hell – even my kids are busy.  I don’t believe in over-scheduling children but when they are small, even things like after-school care, art classes, soccer, and Cub Scouts can make for a busy week.

I’d love to share some healthy nourishing dish with you but I don’t have one.  I may not have one until next week.  Aside from a salad I threw together from my crisper drawer (which actually turned out to be very tasty), I have made nothing savory except eggs and those were for breakfast.  I hope to cook on Sunday night.  There may be a treat between now and then.  We will see.  I do have a chance for you to win a copy of the new Cook’s Illustrated cookbook (click here).  I will have another cool giveaway next week.  And I have some photos.

The last time we had real family photos taken was soon after Spencer turned one.  He is now four and a half.  In May, Randy and I spent a weekend in Napa and our wonderful babysitter Talitha stayed with the boys.  About every other hour, she would email a photo of one or both of them, taken with her iPhone.  Those snapshots were all better than anything I have taken with my “real” camera, so when she suggested a shoot with us, I couldn’t say yes fast enough.

We were lucky to get an incredible day.  I actually don’t like having my picture taken so I mentally fought this a bit.  But I’m so glad that we got some of just Randy and me.  These are just the first few that she sent us but I love them and wanted to share.  Anyway, thanks to all of you for being here and I hope to feed you soon.

In the Seattle school district, the Wednesday after Labor Day is The First Day of School.  So we had a big day in the Dana Treat household last week.  Graham had his first day of school in his new school (1st grade!) and Spencer moved up from the Orange Room to the Yellow Room at preschool.  The Yellow Room is pre-K, the room with the biggest kids.  How it came to be that my baby is in that room, I can’t really explain.

Emotionally, I’m a bit all over the place.  I don’t feel the crushing nostalgia that hit me last year at this time.  I feel thrilled about Graham’s new school.  Being there for an open house last week, meeting some parents and kids at a 1st grade brunch, being there on the first day as the ribbon was cut and the community was welcomed – I just feel such relief.  This is the right place for him.  He will thrive there.  I want to get involved.  I see myself making lifelong friends and really joining this community.  Why didn’t I feel that way last year at his other school?  Was I afraid that Graham would not be successful there and was I protecting myself?  If so, how selfish.  I’m not sure truthfully.

I feel glad to see Graham back in school.  We had a nice summer.  He spent a few days a week at a day camp near our house but he also got plenty of time with me and Spencer.  We had a couple of Lopez weekends and two trips involving airplanes.  I love and adore that child with all my heart but he does tire me out.  The fact that he still, at the age of 6¾, requires so much of my attention is exhausting.  I can’t just say something offhand to him, every remark, every request has to be extremely deliberate.  At school he has a lot of success.  He has many people who adore him and are cheering for him.  He will have the same resource room teacher as last year and the same beloved librarian.  I am ready to hear about how well he is doing instead of focusing on challenging he can be.  I hope that doesn’t sound too callous.  I have to add the caveat that Graham continues to be a sweet, loving, charming, sensitive child who really truly always tries his best.

My emotions about him continue to be so complicated.  I still feel that I have failed him every night when I get into bed.  I need more patience, more acceptance, more tolerance, more light-heartedness, more thankfulness, more celebration in the things that make him uniquely Graham.  I need to be easier on him, kinder to him, more generous with him.  I first wrote about these struggles years ago and I am ashamed to say that rather than improving I am worsening.  Sometimes I feel that I don’t really “get” him.  I don’t know what he is thinking or experiencing because often he can’t really tell me.  It is hard to see the world through his eyes.  But on the first day of school, I did get a glimpse.

Because it was the first day for everyone in this building, they had a photographer on hand to get a picture of all the kids.  The parents stepped away for a few moments as the photographer clicked away, hanging out an upstairs window.  Before we knew it, the ribbon was cut and there was a bit of a crush as all the kids, parents, and teachers went up the steps and through the doors.  I hurried over to find Graham and saw him a few paces ahead of me and his body language (shoulders rounded, head down) told me that he was trying to hold it together.  I pushed past a few small people, touched him, said his name, and he spun around with a look of terror on his face.  Once he saw it was me, he burst into tears and wailed, “I don’t know who my teacher is!”  Oh my.  Of course.  Here we are, walking into a building that he has only seen once before, to a classroom he has only seen once before, to see his teacher who he has only met once before.  Overwhelming for really any young child but particularly one who doesn’t totally understand what is going on.  This poor kid who tries so very hard but spends a good part of his day a bit confused.  He knows he is at a new school, he does not know why.  At times he embodies that saying “fake it ’til you make it”.  He smiles and charms people all the while not truly understanding what is going on.  And yet.  He thrives in school.  He is learning at a pace similar to his typically developing peers.  He does not have any behavioral problems.  He eats and sleeps well and is nice to his brother.  Sometimes being a mother is a bit bewildering.

This post is not about me but I do have to say a word about my hair.  I’ve stopped coloring it.  I am not sure how I feel about it.  As it was starting to grow out, I even considered writing a post called “Gray – No or Yay” but that seemed a little vain.  My mom has the most gorgeous all-silver hair and while I know I am far from that, it seems to be the path I am taking.  Randy loves it, my family loves it, I think my friends are puzzled by it.  I’m on the fence but I don’t miss paying a fortune to sit with chemicals on my head every six weeks.  Thoughts?

Thank you all for the sweet comments on my one, two, and three years ago posts.  I will keep on keeping on!  Today I have a recipe for a most special, and very different, guacamole.  If you visit here regularly, you know there is sometimes a story that must be told.  Feeling impatient?  Feel free to scroll down to the bottom – I don’t mind.

The story goes a little something like this.  Four years ago, we met an artist named Erik Hall.  We were looking for a painting to fill a large wall in our dining room and we stumbled upon him (in the old-fashioned way, not the internet way) at an art fair.  We were struck by the beauty in his work and learned that he took commissions for paintings.  Over the course of several dinners, we became friends with him and his then-girlfriend/now-wife Amy, who is a talented artist in her own right.  And we got the most beautiful painting, one that makes me happy every time I step foot in the dining room.

Erik and Amy are not only talented artists, they are good business people with an eye for the talent of others.  They have opened a beautiful gallery where, once a month, they do an opening  for an artist they represent.  Last year, we attended several of those openings – lovely all of them.  Amazing art, nice wine – but the foodie in me thought they needed a nibble.  When you invite people somewhere between the hours of 5 and 7pm, there needs to be at least cocktail nuts.  So I offered my services.  I told them I would cater one of their parties pro bono and if they and everyone else liked having food there, we could figure out some kind of deal.

At that party, where gallery owners and visitors alike really did like having food there, I fell in love with some spoons.  Not just any spoons.  This simple beautiful painting of a trio of spoons.  In a gallery full of stunning art, I was immediately drawn to this lovely piece.  It was on a back wall, not even the star of the show, but I just stood in front of it, mesmerized.  Which, as it turns out, did not go unnoticed by Erik.

The day after the opening he called with a proposition.  We could pay a bit of money for the painting and do the rest in trade.  Food trade.  I didn’t even ask for details before I said yes.  What we ultimately agreed to was I would cater six of the year’s openings which I thought was a very fair deal.  I have done five so far, Erik’s show in November is the last one, and all have been so much fun and more than worth having those spoons hang on my dining room wall ever since January.

(A beautiful woman makes beautiful art.)

I catered last Thursday’s show and it was a special one for us.  Gretchen Gammel is an artist that we have had our eye on ever since we have known Erik and Amy.  Around the time that Erik finished our commissioned painting, we saw our first Gretchen show in their gallery.  Gretchen features a theme each year and that year it was people in boats.  Randy, having been in the Navy, got it in his head that he would like, some day, to commission Gretchen to do a family portrait of us in a boat.  The timing was tricky.  She was ready, we weren’t.  We were ready, she moved to France.  Finally early last summer, we had her over so she could get to know us, meet the boys, get a better sense for who we are as a family.  Gretchen started reading my blog too.  Just before Thanksgiving, she brought us this.

There are so many reasons I love this painting.  The obvious of course – it’s our family.  But there are so many special things she did here.

She put me in purple (my favorite color) and got my tattoo (and made me look quite glamorous, I must say).  She put Randy in, what we now call, a “Daddy shirt”, totally his style.  Seeing Spencer, my little somewhat-tyrant, in a Napoleon hat totally cracked me up.

And I think of all of us, she got Graham’s face just right.  That flag he is flying behind us – well, Gretchen copied what his handwriting looked like from the photo in this post.  Amazing, huh?

So let’s see.  Art, artists, spoons, people in boats, Napoleon hats, and now finally guacamole.  I was paging through The Essential New York Times Cookbook looking for ideas for the show when I saw this recipe.  I am a guacamole purist.  Avocados, lime, salt, pepper, cilantro.  Nothing else needed.  Sometimes I will add tomatillos but even then, I feel like they are just helping out the limes with sour and acidity.  Here we have onions that have been marinated and grilled, tomatoes, jalapeño peppers – all things that of course go with avocados and lime but for a moment I wondered, would it just be too much?  Amanda Hesser, in her head note to the recipe, put me at ease.  She is also a purist but really liked the flavors here and if it’s good enough for Amanda Hesser…  Obviously, it was fabulous.  A little more work but worth it for a little more oomph in something is already basically perfect.  Finally, I have a theory that no matter how much guacamole you make it will all get eaten.  I put that theory to the test for this party and it turns out that if you make a serious ton of the stuff, there will be some left over.  Oh darn.

Guacamole Previously on Dana Treat:  Simple Guacamole
One Year Ago:  Israeli Couscous with Olives and Roasted Tomatoes
Two Years Ago:  Cheese Balls Three Ways
Three Years Ago:  Farro with Green Beans and Corn

Grilled Onion Guacamole
Adapted from The Essential New York Times Cookbook
Serves 4-6

2 tbsp. vegetable oil
2 tbsp. fresh lemon juice
1 tbsp. red wine vinegar
1 tsp. ground cumin
¾ tsp. salt, plus more to taste
1 tsp. cracked black pepper
1 large red onion, cut into ¼-inch-thick slices
3 avocados
1 large tomato
1 garlic clove, minced
2 serrano chiles, seeded and chopped
¼ cup fresh cilantro, chopped
Juice of 2 limes

Combine the oil, lemon juice, vinegar, cumin, salt, and pepper in a small bowl.  Pour into a shallow dish, add the onion, and let marinate for 1 hour.

Heat a charcoal or gas grill until hot (or heat the broiler, with the rack 6 to 8 inches from the flame).

Drain the onion and place on the grill (or on the broiler pan under the broiler).  Grill for 3 minutes per side (4 minutes per side if broiling).  Let cool slightly, then coarsely chop, discarding any bits that have charred.

Peel, halve, and pit the avocados, and cut into ½-inch dice.  Seed and dice the tomato.

Combine the grilled onion, avocado, tomato, garlic, chiles, and cilantro in a bowl, mashing the avocado slightly as you go.  Season with salt and lime juice.

(As we all know, guacamole starts to turn brown as it oxidizes.  You can stall this process slightly by place a piece of plastic wrap directly on the surface of the guac, trying not to trap any air.  You can store it like this in the refrigerator for several hours.  Bring it to room temperature before serving and stir gently before doing so.)

30
30 years ago, my mom drove me to the parking lot of a church on a Tuesday morning in late June.  In that parking lot were several buses, lots of moms, and even more kids.  It was my first day of camp, 1981, and my first time going away for more than a slumber party night.  I was 10, almost 11, and I was terrified.  I only knew one girl and she was a year older than me and therefore in a different unit, a different world in camp terms.  We had never visited the camp and I had no real idea of what to expect other than that I would be able to ride horses.  (Like many girls that age, I was obsessed with horses – until I got bucked off of Nellie Gray and my obsession turned to fear.)  I didn’t know that I would be sleeping in a wood-framed but canvas-topped tent, that it would rain everyday for the first week, that I would feel hungrier and colder than I ever had in my short life, and that I would watch the road for signs of my mom coming to pick me up to save me from almost unbearable homesickness.

I also didn’t know that at Camp Nor’wester I would learn how to build a campfire on my very first day, sit in a wagon pulled by Clydesdale horses in a 4th of July parade; learn to sail; swim in water so cold it made my teeth ache; spend every Sunday at non-denominational chapel, eating from a giant bowl of banana split at Sunday “supper”, and taking a hike for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the evening.  I didn’t know that I would learn to sleep with my jeans under my sleeping bag so they didn’t freeze in the night; fall in love with an 11 year-old boy; dance the Virginia Reel; sing songs of breathtaking beauty; and feel like my heart was being ripped out of my body when it came time to say goodbye to my beloved counselors and friends.  That was only the first year.  In later years, I learned to play the guitar and sing in front of the whole camp, fell in love with plenty more boys, got bucked off more horses, and found out that the best bakery in the world was just down the road.  I have long said that I want to have my ashes scattered over Sperry Peninsula and I know many former campers feel the same way.

(The ferry landing on Lopez.)

20
20 years ago, my parents took off on a wonderful-sounding trip to Calgary and Banff, Alberta.  They decided to drive and I was between my junior and senior years on college at the time so I was excited to have the house to myself for two whole weeks.  Just before the Canadian border, they were stopped at the bottom of an exit ramp and a car plowed into them from behind at high speed.  The trunk of the car got pushed up all the way to the passenger seats but thankfully, neither of them was hurt.  In spite of the fact that the car was now completely undriveable, they were determined to have their vacation.  They came back to Seattle, re-grouped, rented a car, and threw together a trip to the San Juan Islands and Victoria, B.C.  By this point, they had been going up to Lopez for ten years visiting me and later my brothers in camp and they too had fallen in love with the island.

(Deer are everywhere on Lopez.  If you sit still on our deck for long enough, they will come out of the trees and walk right by you, looking into your eyes as they pass.)

On that trip, in 1991, it rained.  They were staying in a bed and breakfast and they were bored so they walked to town and into a real estate office.  A woman in the office said she had a place they had to see and away they went.  My parents had looked at property before but nothing seemed right.  This one was just right.  It needed some work, it was too dark, had very dated finishes, a deck that was about to collapse, and other problems.  But it was on a bluff overlooking Mud Bay, had easy waterfront access, was just about the right size (small) and, in an amazing twist of fate, faced our beloved Camp Nor’wester.  On a quiet summer evening, we could hear the campers singing after meals and hear the morning bell.  Minor construction began and by the following summer, the house was ready for use.  Since that time, and because of two men’s greed, the camp is no longer there, in spite of the fact that it changed people’s lives for almost 60 years.  We no longer hear singing or wake-up bells and we no longer see teepees across the water or smoke coming from the fire pit in the long house built in the Kwakkiutl style.  We see four monstrous houses with slate roofs built by Paul Allen, one of the founders of Microsoft, one of the world’s billionaires, and a man who almost never sets foot on that beautiful property.

Even though camp is no longer there, I treasure that view and offer heartfelt thanks that my parents had the vision for it.  (Camp Nor’wester continues to thrive on another island in the San Juans.  Our children will go there when they are old enough.)  For half my life we have had that house.  I’ve been up with friends, co-workers, family, my ex-husband, current husband, in-laws, and my children.  There is that cliche “if these walls could talk”.  But oh, if those walls could talk.

(This the super high tech kayak rack that my dad rigged up on the beach.)

10
10 years ago, in the winter of 2001, I brought Randy to the Lopez house for the first time.  We had only been dating a few months and I was almost more worried about that introduction than I was bringing him to meet my parents for the first time.  I knew my parents would love him, former Navy pilot, Harvard MBA, brilliant and kind.  But would he love Lopez?  Would he understand what a special place it is, how important it had been and would always be in my life?  No need to worry of course.  It is a magical island, something he surely would have picked up on even if I hadn’t been along to share the most special parts of it.  I love that we went in the winter together, something I had never really done before.

(Beaches are rocky on Lopez, not a lot of sand.  And that water is bone chillingly cold.  We don’t do much swimming.)

9
9 years ago, on Valentine’s Day, after a little over a year together, Randy asked me to marry him.  He did it on a most special beach, one I had discovered as a camper.  He likes to tell the story that he asked me, showed me the ring, and that I ran away.  That is not true.  I was overcome and I turned away – there was no running involved.  I had made an unfortunate choice in my first marriage.  I had wasted two years on a re-bound guy that was everything but right for me.  To find myself on my favorite beach, contemplating a life that I had always wanted with someone who was right for me…  It was too much in the moment.  Thankfully, I quickly recovered and said yes.

Later that year, August 24, 2002 to be exact, we got married in the little church on Lopez.  How could we marry anywhere else?  We had a tiny ceremony on a sunny day and our families and very closest friends were present.  It was a perfect day in every way including dinner at our favorite Lopez restaurant and dancing to a bad cover band in the island’s dive bar.  There are several ways to drive back to our house from town and from one of the roads, you can see the church in the distance.  These days, it always makes me catch my breath.  When we went in May, Graham said, “That’s where Mommy and Daddy got married,” to which Spencer replied, “Where were we?”

(4 kids in jammies in the hammock.  What more do you need?  OK, maybe a cinnamon roll.)

We headed to Lopez last weekend with some dear friends.  Because Randy was on his way back from New Orleans, I drove the familiar route along I-5 and then Route 20 taking us to the town of Anacortes where we catch the ferry.  Randy is usually the family driver, so me being in the driver’s seat allowed me to really think about where I was going and why.  How many times have I driven that path, in how many different cars, with how many different people, in how many different phases of my life.  Camper, daughter, sister, employee,  girlfriend, friend, daughter-in-law, wife, mother.  Lopez will continue to be an important part of our family’s life and I am grateful.

(Randy kayaking with Spencer on his lap.  The piece of land to the left is the previous Camp Nor’wester and the white blob above it is 10,777 foot Mt. Baker.)

Over Memorial Day weekend, we spent a couple of days on Lopez Island.  Our kids are now getting to the ages where they remember things from the few past years of their lives.  We are no longer dragging them around without them knowing where they are, they are really creating memories.  It is exciting and moving to witness.  They remember Lopez.  It isn’t just another place where they sleep in a bed that is different from home.  They remember the pretzels on the ferry, that our house has a hammock and a great rock-throwing beach.  They remember that the drugstore has milkshakes and that there is an incredible bakery.  (Hmmm.  Most of these memories involve food.  I wonder why that would be.)

Because I have written so much about my almost life-long love affair many different times here, I thought I would more or less let the photos speak for themselves.

The hammock.  It is silent out there.

Every time we go up to the island there are different shells on the back porch.

Lopez has this amazing rugged coastline with mountain views and eagles soaring across (sometimes) blue skies.  It also has a gorgeous pastoral interior where lots of cows, sheeps, and horses live a pretty good life.  This year, because of all the rain we have had, the hay is so green.  By August this will be brown.

Speaking of rain, I don’t ever remember, in 30 years of going to that island, the fire danger sign reading as “low”.

Speaking of rain, again, we spent a rainy morning at their lovely perfect library.

Fortunately there was plenty of sun for rock-throwing on our little beach.

This photo pretty much sums up his personality these days.

No words.  The cuteness…

And because I don’t think I have a single photo of Randy and I together on this blog, I thought I would include this from our Napa trip in early May.

I have good news on the school front.  In the spring I wrote about our predicament with our neighborhood school.  We sent off our application to an “option” school not too far from our  neighborhood.  Option schools are public and they draw from all over the city.  They tend to have a specific focus and the one we hoped to get into has a technology focus.  While that was a compelling reason for Graham to attend, the main reason we wanted to send him there is so that he could follow his amazing resource room teacher, the exceptionally kind librarian, and the all-important gym teacher.  Just a couple of weeks ago, I got word that Graham got in.  Randy and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

But now, as the school year is winding down (2 more days left), I feel incredibly sad about leaving our neighborhood school.  There are so many nice children in Graham’s class and some wonderful parents with whom I can imagine forming friendships.  Everyone just got their immersion language assignment (Spanish or Japanese) and there is a buzz as parents and children alike contemplate their next year learning a new language.  We are not and will not be a part of that.  I feel angry that we were basically forced to leave this school, these children, and these parents.  Our city has let us down.

I know that the new school will be terrific.  Graham will make new friends, I will get to know a whole new set of parents and children – we will form a new community.  I’m glad we have the summer to heal and gear up for first grade.

In my house growing up, we had two cookie jars.  One was traditional looking (photo in this post) and sat out on the counter.  It held all the things my brothers and I took in ZipLoc bags in our lunch boxes and also were occasionally allowed to have as an after school treat.  Most of the time, they were homemade treats but as my mom got busier (she went back to school to get a nursing degree when my youngest brother was just a baby), often times that cookie jar held store-bought cookies.  We didn’t care – sweet was sweet.

The other cookie jar was just a large glass jar with a white screw-top lid and it sat in a cabinet beneath the stove.  There was only ever one thing in that jar and it was Mandlebrot.  We pronounced it “mandel bread” and it was one thing my mom made consistently throughout my childhood.  Like all good bakers, she was always trying out new cookies, cakes, and brownies, but she made Mandlebrot several times a month.  It was my dad’s favorite after-dinner treat and I have very clear memories of him going down to that cabinet, taking out the jar, unscrewing the lid, taking two pieces onto a small plate, and sitting at the table with the paper or The New Yorker. If my dad likes something, especially if it is sweet, he tends to suck on it rather than chew it.  He could make those two slim cookies last for the better part of an hour.

My relationship with my father’s favorite cookie was a little more complicated.  There were a few problems.  First, there is no chocolate to be found here which is problematic for a chocolate lover.  Second, there are lots of nuts to be found here and (let’s say it all together, shall we?), I don’t like nuts in my sweets.  Third, these aren’t very sweet.  To my adult palate, that is actually welcome but when you are nine years old, cookies are supposed to be sweet.  The thing that kept me coming back to sit at that table with him and take my own Mandelbrot out of the special jar was the texture.

The ends are crisp, almost a little smoky tasting.  I am the person who likes the slightly burnt kernels in the popcorn bowl and who, back in the days when I ate marshmallows around  a campfire, used to burn them black, eat off the outer black part, and burn them again, so I like those edges.  But the middle is what really brought me back each night until that jar was empty.  Soft, a bit chewy even with the nuts giving you a pleasant crunch.

After not having Mandelbrot for close to 20 years, I recently asked my mom for the recipe.  She wrote it out in her lefty-looking handwriting and I’ll tell you, it’s a good thing I know a thing or two about baking.  Copied off a 3×5 card from her ancient recipe box, it offers next to no instructions besides ingredients, baking temperature, and baking time.  Having made my fair share of biscotti, I was able to figure it out.  Having waited 20 years to make them, I am now officially kicking myself for not making them 19 years sooner.

This is a sophisticated cookie.  Not hit-you-over-the-head-with-flavor cookie.  Perfect with an afternoon cup of tea or served alongside a cheese plate.  I make so few of the recipes from my childhood since our dinners were mostly focused around meat.  I’m thrilled to be able to share this with all of you.

One Year Ago: Asparagus and Grilled Shiitake with Soy Vinaigrette, Crisp Sage Tempura
Two Years Ago: Oven-Fried Rice Balls, Mexican Pizza with Corn and Tomatillos
Three Years Ago: Paparadelle with Herbs and a Poached Egg

Mandelbrot
Makes about 3 dozen

Traditionally, this recipe is made with either almonds or a mix of almonds and walnuts.  I used pistachios and walnuts in this batch because I was out of almonds.  Use what you have.  I also over-baked this batch a bit, so be sure to watch yours carefully.

3 eggs
1 cup sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
½ tsp. vanilla extract
½ tsp. almond extract
3 cups flour
½ tsp. baking powder
¼ tsp. salt
1½ cups almonds or a mix of almonds and walnuts, coarsely chopped

Preheat the oven to 375ºF with the racks in the middle and bottom position.  Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

Mix together the eggs and sugar until combined well.  Add the extracts and mix to blend again.  Pour in the oil and carefully mix so that you don’t splatter oil.  Sprinkle on the flour, baking powder, and salt and mix until just combined.  Stir in the nuts by hand with a wooden spoon or a rubber spatula.  The dough will be sticky, almost the consistency of Play-Doh.

Scoop out roughly a quarter of the dough and form it into a log about 2-3 inches wide and an inch or so high.  Use a rubber spatula to help you guide it into shape.  Repeat with the rest of the dough, placing two logs on each sheet.  Bake for 15 minutes, or until barely golden brown.

Remove the sheets from the oven and allow to sit for a minute.  One a time and using a serrated knife, cut each log into ½-inch thick slices.  Lay the slices back on the baking sheets and put them back in the oven.  Bake for 7 minutes, remove and flip all the cookies over, and bake for another 7 minutes.  You want the cookies to be barely golden brown around the edges but still pale in the center.  Remove the cookies to a rack and let them cool completely.