But first!  I have received requests and I have listened.  Now, at the end of each post, you have the option to email the recipe.  You can send it to yourself, your friend, your mom.  Hopefully someone who appreciates being emailed recipes.  Thanks, as always, to my amazing designer Kaytlyn who was able to figure this out and implement the change in less than 24 hours.   Also, this is the third non-food related post I’ve written in a row.  Yes, I remember this is a food blog.  So to thank you for your patience and endurance, I promise to talk about food – with emailable recipes! -  Monday through Friday of this upcoming week.  Deal?  Hope you enjoy.

5 Tips to Greatly Improve the Taste of Your Food

1)  Always make your own salad dressing.  I know store-bought is easy and it keeps forever.  It is also expensive and contains ingredients that I can’t pronounce.  Making your own, once you get in the habit of doing it, is super quick and easy and you most likely always have the ingredients on hand.  You can make it to your taste (I like mine with a lot of bite), it will keep for a week or more, it tastes much better, and is much less expensive.

2)  Whenever you can, use fresh herbs.  And a lot of them.  There is a time and place for dried herbs.  Something that is simmering for a long time on the stove (like a sauce or a stew) is a great place to use dried.  The subtlety of fresh would be lost in that case.  Same goes with roasting in the oven.  But other than that, the flavor is fresh herbs is so lovely and adds so much to your food.  Fresh rosemary and fresh oregano are strong, so you might want to use a light hand with those two, but otherwise you can be generous with your fresh herbs.

3)  Throw out your spices.  I touched on this when I wrote about my favorite gingerbread cookies.  Spices have a shelf life.  Most people agree it’s about a year.  They don’t spoil, they just lose their oomph.  As we were packing up from the year we spent in London, I found out that we were not allowed to bring any food stuffs back into the U.S.  Not even canned goods.  So I had to give away everything in my little kitchen, including my considerable spice collection.  I saved all my jars and, once back home, I restocked everything.  I was blown away by how much better my food, savory and sweet, tasted with new spices.

4)  Always use fresh citrus.  Those little plastic lemon shaped bottles of lemon juice?  Don’t buy them.  Or do and then taste that juice next to the juice of a fresh lemon.  No comparison.  Fresh lemons (and limes and oranges) keep very well in the crisper drawer of your refrigerator and they also have the added benefit of possessing zest which is super flavorful.  I don’t think a Microplane would work on a plastic bottle.

5)  Never buy bagged cheese or cheese in a tub.  I know, again, the convenience is tempting.  Grating cheese is one of the kitchen tasks I like the least.  But grated cheese has been mixed with things like flour or cornstarch so that it doesn’t stick together and who knows how long that cheese has been sitting in a bag.  Buy a hunk of cheese and grate or slice it yourself.  It is one extra step for a lot more flavor.  Do the same with feta or blue cheese and the increase in taste will be more than worth the work.

And now, 9 Thrilling Facts About Me.  I did this once before for my 300 Posts post.

1)  In my life I have owned six cars and they have all been different colors.  Red, dark gray, green, silver, blue, and black.  It looks like yellow is next, huh?

2)  My favorite color is purple.  My least favorite is yellow.  (See above.)

3)  My name and my husband’s name are both unisexual (is that a word?)  Meaning that a guy or girl can be named Dana or Randy.  In fact, before I met him, the only other Randy I ever knew was a girl in my grade school whose sister, coincidentally, was named Dana.  The only other Dana that Randy ever knew was a giant African American man.

4)  I have been practicing yoga for 14 years, taking a couple years off while I was having my kids, nursing, dealing with infants, etc.  You might think that means I can put both my feet behind my head but I am very very far from that.  I started off doing Bikram yoga for a year and it almost destroyed my back.  Fortunately, I found my way to the Yoga Tree, a wonderful studio in Seattle, where they teach Iyengar based yoga.  Iyengar is the yoga of alignment so I really learned how to do the poses correctly.  I now try and practice 3 times a week and it is truly what my body likes best.  If you are tempted to try yoga and are scared off because you are “not flexible”, know that strength is equally important to flexibility.  Being tight allows you to learn to use your body’s own strength to open up, rather than just flopping into poses.

5)  I am a big reader.  I subscribe to the New Yorker and I always have a book going.  I like modern fiction, the good stuff, and have read some really terrific things in the last year.  Lord of Misrule, A Visit from the Goon Squad, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, Land of Marvels.  I’m currently reading The Marriage Plot.

6)  I sometimes suffer from crushing self-doubt when it comes to this blog and this food-related job that I have created for myself.  I start to feel some of the same insecurities that rocked me in middle and high school – not pretty enough, not smart enough, not working hard enough, not getting invited to the right parties.  Sometimes I just want to back away from it all – blog, Facebook, Twitter.  It is during those moments that I honestly ask myself why I am writing this blog – why I have been writing it for all these years.  And the truth is that it is for me.  I love that people read and share, I love that I have met some amazing people and have made some lifelong friends.  I love that I have been able to start teaching classes and that a big driver for those classes is my blog.  But ultimately, I am keeping a record of my life through food so that someday, we as a family can look back and see what our life was in these years.  I don’t say this as a cry for sympathy or a request for praise.  I just want to put it out there that, at times, I feel very inadequate in this space.

7)  My 20th college reunion is this year in June.  I’m alternating between excitement and horror.  Randy and I went for my 10th.  We were about to be married, we stayed in the same dorm where I lived my freshman year, and I had a blast.   I remember looking at the tables of 20th year people thinking that would probably be the next reunion I would attend.  Early 40′s, married and kids seemed far away.  And here I am.

8)  People ask me, at least several times a week, if my hair is naturally curly.  Yes, my hair is naturally curly.  Then they say that they always wanted naturally curly hair.  I’m confused by this.  Why do straight irons, Brazillian blow-outs, and places whose sole point of business is to blow out curly hair exist if curly hair is so desirable?  I, in keeping with the tradition that the grass is always greener, have always wanted straight hair, but at the ripe old age of 41, I have made peace with my curls.

9)  In March, Randy and I are going on a trip to the country that is about as far away from Seattle as you can get.  Guesses?  Book recommendations?

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.

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.

Friday afternoon 4:30pm:
Graham had been home from school for about half an hour.  His first grade class had a potluck that night and I was racing to finish the salad that I was assigned to bring.  He asked me a million questions, I suggested he play downstairs.  I tried to pick up the mess in the house and asked him to put on his shoes and jacket.  It was one of those days when a simple request required multiple asks and a lot of patience.  By the time we got in the car to pick up his brother at preschool, I was at the end of my rope.  “Graham, you are almost seven years old, I should not have to ask you so many times for your help.  I promise I will do less yelling if you do better listening, all right?”  Of course, he said yes.  He always says yes.

Down our hill we went.  We stopped at our major intersection.  There are always a lot of cars at that time of day yet it seemed that there were even more than usual.  The clock was ticking.  I was still tempering my annoyance at the time it took to get out of the house and mentally steeling myself for the night ahead with Randy out of town. So much traffic…oh here is a break…time to turn and

CRASH.  In that moment when your life is suddenly out of your control, I turned into oncoming traffic and head-on into a silver car on a rainy day that I did not see.  A sliver of a split second where I realized that my breaks were useless and then poof! airbag. smoke. pain. graham’s cries. panic about picking spencer up. pain in my hands. guilt. fear. being that person blocking a busy road with an accident. apologizing. what if. crying. nose bleeding. consoling. accepting help from strangers. looking a person you just hit head-on in the eye and mouthing “i’m sorry”.  All of it was awful.

When that kind woman (Brooke – wherever you are, thank you) came to my open window and asked if I was all right, I knew my nose was bleeding and my hands hurt and my poor Graham was terrified by the smoke coming from the airbag, all I could say was that I had another child to pick up and I needed to get there.  Slowly the pieces fell into place.  The car was un-driveable.  I had to wait for the cops to write up a report and a fire engine to come with firefighters to check out my hands, and a tow truck to take my poor battered car away.  Brooke suggested, gently, that I call the school and arrange for someone to pick him up.  I looked at my phone.  I scrolled to “p” – sure the number was under “preschool”, right?  My addled brain could not make sense of how and who to call.  I could sense Graham’s rising panic in the back seat and so I did what moms do.  I held it together.  I spoke calmly to him, told him he was about to meet real live police officers and fire fighters.  I searched for the number of the preschool and gave permission for my dear friend Deb (thank you Deb!) to pick up Spencer, then I started to process what had happened and how the next few hours were going to go.

At the end of it all, we are all right.  The poor woman I hit, with two boys in the back, is fine.  My car was towed to a body shop where they will fix the crunched front fender and hood.  Randy is flying home a day early from his high school reunion.  We are car-less at the moment until he arrives, but we live in the middle of the city and have plenty of things we can walk to.

Prior to the crash, I wasn’t texting, looking at my phone, talking on my phone, or even listening to music.  I was just hurrying.  My brain already four things ahead of where I actually was.  If this is not a slap in the face, I don’t know what is.  Time to SLOW. DOWN.  We are fortunate.  My hands ache but there is nothing broken, just some abrasions and some jamming from the air bag.  My nose bleed was because of impact, not a broken nose.  I have no bruising, cuts on my face, or whiplash and actually, the semi-permanent crick in my neck seems to be gone.  Much more importantly, my beautiful brave son is completely safe and unharmed.  Graham can be timid.  He is afraid of loud noises and things that are unfamiliar.  He likes to stick to routine.  You would think that a car accident, one that sets off the air bag with a loud BANG!, and blood coming out of his mom’s nose and hands, and the stress of wondering how we were going to pick up his brother, and police cars and fire trucks – you just might think that all that would send my little man over the edge.  Not to mention that we would not be making it to his potluck.   But after a quick cry and a few requests to get out of the car, he calmed down.  He smiled at the police officer, he accepted the sticker the firefighters gave him with delight.  He came to understand we weren’t going to make the potluck and moved on.

Once home, the boys both set out to draw me pictures because my hands hurt.  I couldn’t hold them close enough.  I read them countless stories.  I called Randy four times.  I replayed that moment of impact hundreds of times asking “what if” until my head hurt.  Universe, I am listening.  I really am.

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.

Friends.  I’ve been keeping a little something from you.  That sounds sneaky, I know.  I never meant to be sneaky.  It started out that I was unsure, then I didn’t want to jinx myself, then I couldn’t believe it was real, then I wanted to make sure you could learn as much about it as possible (i.e. I was waiting for a web site to go live).  What on earth am I talking about?

This.  If you are active in the Seattle food community, then you know that an incredible place is about to open its doors.  Book Larder, our fair city’s very own cookbook shop, will open on October 12th.  A bookstore with over 3,000 titles, a gathering space, a place to attend amazing events, a kitchen in which to take cooking classes…and guess who is working there.

Me.  To say I am excited about this new chapter in my culinary life would be an understatement.  Lara, Book Larder’s visionary owner, and I have had multiple conversations about my role in the store and she is currently calling me Culinary Director.  I love that.  Basically, I will be doing a little of everything – working in the store, helping with events – but also overseeing the cooking classes held in the shop’s cozy kitchen space and teaching classes of my own.  When Lara and I had our first real conversation about a possible role for me there, she asked me what path I saw my career taking.  I told her that although I know it sounded a bit “woo-woo”, I felt like there was something out there swirling around in the Universe waiting to make itself clear to me.  And that thing is Book Larder.  I could not be more thrilled.

So!  If you live in Seattle, please come by the store and say hi.  The doors open October 12th.  Sign up for some events.  Come to some classes!  Just come and hang out!  We will be baking yummy things on a regular basis for sampling.  Check the Facebook page to find out about fun things like that or, if you are on Twitter, follow us.  If you don’t live in Seattle, but are planning a trip in the future, same deal.  Regardless of where you live, you can sign up for the Book Larder mailing list to read all about the amazing upcoming events, cool people who are blowing through town, and classes to take.

How about some preview photos?

The kitchen space. Lara and Spencer watching compostible packing peanuts go down the disposal.

The books have been coming in for a week.  Boxes and boxes of cookbooks.  Some of them I may have petted and rubbed against my cheek.  I may have started a list of things I want to buy.  Already.

Where are they all going to go?  The walls are lined with shelves and the next task is to figure out order and spacing.  That is what post-its are for!

We have many categories.  It makes me happy that one of them is called “Quirk”.

There will plenty for the kids to look at.  This is Spencer reading an adorable book called The Star Wars Cookbook: Wookiee Cookies.

Updates coming 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.)