Category: Family

First Grade and Pre-K

September 11, 2011

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?

 



Art, Trade, and Guacamole

August 11, 2011

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.)



Lopez Island, By the Numbers

July 29, 2011

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 needOK, 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.)



Lopez in Photos and News About Graham

June 18, 2011

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.




From the Other Cookie Jar

June 9, 2011

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.



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