I adore silence. I like to ease into my day slowly, and if it were up to me, no one would speak to me for an hour or so.
I enjoy gabbing, but I could go hours without speaking and be utterly happy. When I went on retreat during my first yoga teacher training, we would have silent mornings, where we did not speak from the time we woke until after breakfast, when the day's lessons began. This made some people uncomfortable, but oh, the joy it brought me!
I didn't know this about myself until I had children. My, how they talk your ear off! And while so much of what they say is adorable, and fascinating, at a certain point in the evening, I JUST WANT IT TO STOP. I try to wake 30 minutes before my children, to have a cup of coffee, and soak in the silence. I listen to less music than I thought I ever would at this point in my life, not because don't enjoy it, but because given life in a household of five, the opportunity for complete silence is rare and beautiful.
Tonight, as I was cleaning up dinner my son was flummoxing me by trying to make me solve relatively simple multiplication problems in my head. Maths have never been my strong suit, and all the calculation was making my brain ache. But when Gabriel gets tired, his chatting switch flips quickly. When he's in that woozy zone between wakefulness and sleep, he will turn to me and say, "Can we not talk anymore?" That's my boy!
My daughter, on the other hand, can talk a blue streak. And I mean indigo, moving into violet. Tonight, she regaled me with the plot of an episode of the Simpsons she'd been watching, in TREMENDOUS detail. Sarah is old enough to now to understand that as the day winds down, I simply run out of wind for conversation. She can sense this, and sometimes will ask me, mid-stream of consciousness, "Is this time when you can't speak anymore?" But she can't quite help herself, because even as I nod yes, she resumes her story. She's learning.
Because she knew I didn't want to talk anymore, tonight she left me with an assignment; in the morning she wants me to explain the difference between furthermore and fluidity.
Right now the roomba just finished cleaning the dining room rug, and my son is snoring sweetly next to me (sometimes he passes out on the couch during reading time).
Aside from that 30 minutes alone in the morning, the time I look forward to most is when the children are all asleep, and I can sit on the couch with my feet on David's lap reading in companionable silence. Then at some point, we will look at each other, gesture toward the stairs, gather our books and move to the bedroom, hopefully, without saying a word.
05 May 2009
slinging hash
I am a housewife. Some people may call me a stay-at-home-mom, I prefer to call a spade a spade. I am highly educated and intelligent, and I like being a housewife. It is my trade, and my dharma. Like many jobs, housewifery can be extremely dull. The financial renumeration sucks, but it is also the most satisfying, rewarding job I've ever held. So in addition to the child care and cleaning, and diplomacy, one of the things I do to amuse myself, which also happens to be an essential part of the job description, is to cook.
Although I think she would deny this, my mother hated to cook, so I did not learn at her knee, but from books, when I was in my twenties, after I set up my own household. Marcella Hazan and Laurie Colwin were my constant companions. I had a lot of time on my hands for such pursuits, as a graduate student in art history. And while I loved my studies, in retrospect, I found the work I did in my kitchen, after my schoolwork was done for the day, far more engaging. Art history taught me about the sweep of history, while cooking taught me how life is lived.
It is many years later, and I have three children now. I prepare at least two hot meals a day, 6 or 7 days a week. (There are packed lunches for school, which my husband takes care of, to my great appreciation.) My children usually get a hot breakfast; pancakes, or french toast, a quick bread, oatmeal, cocoa. There are toaster waffles and english muffins, and cold cereal in rotation as well. But the truth for me is, it is that while cooking from scratch may be messier, it is not much harder to prepare most of these items from scratch than from mixes, and since I do not have to run to catch a bus or train after taking my kids to school, I have the luxury of being able to clean up the mess, at my leisure. As long as its done by lunchtime, I'm happy.
When other mothers hear what I make for breakfast, I am frequently confronted with reactions of intimidated disbelief, which is not at all my intention. I do not think I am a better mother for cooking this way; it simply brings me great satisfaction. I do find it curious that as someone who cooks for their family, I am the exception to the norm, that cooking from scratch, one of the most ordinary of things, has taken on overtones of a radical choice.
Our family sits down to dinner, in the dining room (the kitchen only seats four, and I find it much more relaxing not to look at the prep mess), while eating. We do not answer the phone during dinner, much as it makes my children squirm. We light candles and use cloth napkins.
It sounds very serene, and perhaps insufferable? In reality, we have as many moments of tranquility as bursts of savagery. We frequently have to remind our younger patrons that this is not a clothing optional establishment; we will serve you without a shirt or shoes, but we do draw the line between your bare ass at the table. I often have to scramble to clear the folded laundry off the table so as to set it for dinner. The savage, AKA the three-year old, spends a good portion of the meal under the table, which we've taken to calling his lair, eating off the floor. We sometimes yell at the children, but more often, we talk; about school or politics or current events. We play parlor games, and try to teach our children about the give and take that is the art of conversation. All this in about 20 minutes; we've learned through trial and error that it is unrealistic to expect children to sit for much longer.
Dinnertime is both delightful and exasperating, but I believe the family meal is central to family cohesion. Food is one of the best, most primal ways I know to express love. Were I to try, I could probably track the dissolution of my parent's union to the timbre of the family meals. By the time I was in high school, everyone prepared their own meal, usually involving something boiled in a bag or heated in the microwave, and we ate in staggered fashion You sat when your meal was ready, rarely ate the same thing that the person sitting next to you was eating, and when you were through, you cleaned up after yourself and went on with your business. Even as an adolescent, this struck me as sad.
The exception was Sundays, when my did cook, and when she served the meal, she often did so with the caveat that she had now completed her weekly obligation, and we could eat the leftovers until the next Sunday. Needless to say, this did not make me feel very loved, but more like an albatross, as if cooking for us was a terrible burden. In hindsight, I have come to look on this with more empathy; such is the lot for those depressed, and unhappily married.
I don't cook complicated things--my customers are ages 10, 6 and 3--and while I believe we are doing children a huge disservice to assume all they will eat is pizza, hot dogs and chicken nuggets, I have found that there are limits to what their palates will tolerate. Rare is the occasion when all three of my children are uniformly happy about what's being served. If two out of three like it, I call it success. And no matter how you slice it, clean-up is a bitch--my husband and think long and hard before serving rice; have you ever spent the later part of the evening plucking dried grains from the rug? By the time dinner is over, we are desparate to move you children along to bed.
I have a few guidelines as to what makes a reasonable meal with children. The key is to manage expectations; with dinner as a paradigm for so much of life, my golden rule is not perfect, but good enough. Where dinner is concerned, this translates to my two out of three rule. At this point I find it too challenging to cook a protein, starch and vegetable for one meal, so usually, there's two out of three, preferable protein + vegetable. One-dish meals are a great option, and I try to do these often. If it's not a one-dish meal, there is generally one item I spend a good amount of time on, never two or three. I try to limit our meat consumption to 2-3 times a week. Vegetables are usually prepared very simply, and are often frozen. I have come to rely greatly on frozen vegetables, cooked in the microwave and seasoned with a bit of salt and butter. The truth is, Trader Joe's frozen Haricot Verts are pretty good, and when last week, for the first time since last spring I served fresh green beans, my 6-year old rejected them. If my kids eat two out of three items on their plate, I am satisfied (although I am frustrated internally). Similarly, if two of my children enjoy a meal and one rejects it outright, I consider it a success. When everyone likes the entire meal the heavens open up, and there is much rejoicing (quietly, on my part; if I were to let on how pleased I was, it would surely ruin things the next time.)
Although I think she would deny this, my mother hated to cook, so I did not learn at her knee, but from books, when I was in my twenties, after I set up my own household. Marcella Hazan and Laurie Colwin were my constant companions. I had a lot of time on my hands for such pursuits, as a graduate student in art history. And while I loved my studies, in retrospect, I found the work I did in my kitchen, after my schoolwork was done for the day, far more engaging. Art history taught me about the sweep of history, while cooking taught me how life is lived.
It is many years later, and I have three children now. I prepare at least two hot meals a day, 6 or 7 days a week. (There are packed lunches for school, which my husband takes care of, to my great appreciation.) My children usually get a hot breakfast; pancakes, or french toast, a quick bread, oatmeal, cocoa. There are toaster waffles and english muffins, and cold cereal in rotation as well. But the truth for me is, it is that while cooking from scratch may be messier, it is not much harder to prepare most of these items from scratch than from mixes, and since I do not have to run to catch a bus or train after taking my kids to school, I have the luxury of being able to clean up the mess, at my leisure. As long as its done by lunchtime, I'm happy.
When other mothers hear what I make for breakfast, I am frequently confronted with reactions of intimidated disbelief, which is not at all my intention. I do not think I am a better mother for cooking this way; it simply brings me great satisfaction. I do find it curious that as someone who cooks for their family, I am the exception to the norm, that cooking from scratch, one of the most ordinary of things, has taken on overtones of a radical choice.
Our family sits down to dinner, in the dining room (the kitchen only seats four, and I find it much more relaxing not to look at the prep mess), while eating. We do not answer the phone during dinner, much as it makes my children squirm. We light candles and use cloth napkins.
It sounds very serene, and perhaps insufferable? In reality, we have as many moments of tranquility as bursts of savagery. We frequently have to remind our younger patrons that this is not a clothing optional establishment; we will serve you without a shirt or shoes, but we do draw the line between your bare ass at the table. I often have to scramble to clear the folded laundry off the table so as to set it for dinner. The savage, AKA the three-year old, spends a good portion of the meal under the table, which we've taken to calling his lair, eating off the floor. We sometimes yell at the children, but more often, we talk; about school or politics or current events. We play parlor games, and try to teach our children about the give and take that is the art of conversation. All this in about 20 minutes; we've learned through trial and error that it is unrealistic to expect children to sit for much longer.
Dinnertime is both delightful and exasperating, but I believe the family meal is central to family cohesion. Food is one of the best, most primal ways I know to express love. Were I to try, I could probably track the dissolution of my parent's union to the timbre of the family meals. By the time I was in high school, everyone prepared their own meal, usually involving something boiled in a bag or heated in the microwave, and we ate in staggered fashion You sat when your meal was ready, rarely ate the same thing that the person sitting next to you was eating, and when you were through, you cleaned up after yourself and went on with your business. Even as an adolescent, this struck me as sad.
The exception was Sundays, when my did cook, and when she served the meal, she often did so with the caveat that she had now completed her weekly obligation, and we could eat the leftovers until the next Sunday. Needless to say, this did not make me feel very loved, but more like an albatross, as if cooking for us was a terrible burden. In hindsight, I have come to look on this with more empathy; such is the lot for those depressed, and unhappily married.
I don't cook complicated things--my customers are ages 10, 6 and 3--and while I believe we are doing children a huge disservice to assume all they will eat is pizza, hot dogs and chicken nuggets, I have found that there are limits to what their palates will tolerate. Rare is the occasion when all three of my children are uniformly happy about what's being served. If two out of three like it, I call it success. And no matter how you slice it, clean-up is a bitch--my husband and think long and hard before serving rice; have you ever spent the later part of the evening plucking dried grains from the rug? By the time dinner is over, we are desparate to move you children along to bed.
I have a few guidelines as to what makes a reasonable meal with children. The key is to manage expectations; with dinner as a paradigm for so much of life, my golden rule is not perfect, but good enough. Where dinner is concerned, this translates to my two out of three rule. At this point I find it too challenging to cook a protein, starch and vegetable for one meal, so usually, there's two out of three, preferable protein + vegetable. One-dish meals are a great option, and I try to do these often. If it's not a one-dish meal, there is generally one item I spend a good amount of time on, never two or three. I try to limit our meat consumption to 2-3 times a week. Vegetables are usually prepared very simply, and are often frozen. I have come to rely greatly on frozen vegetables, cooked in the microwave and seasoned with a bit of salt and butter. The truth is, Trader Joe's frozen Haricot Verts are pretty good, and when last week, for the first time since last spring I served fresh green beans, my 6-year old rejected them. If my kids eat two out of three items on their plate, I am satisfied (although I am frustrated internally). Similarly, if two of my children enjoy a meal and one rejects it outright, I consider it a success. When everyone likes the entire meal the heavens open up, and there is much rejoicing (quietly, on my part; if I were to let on how pleased I was, it would surely ruin things the next time.)
22 April 2009
A case for intermarriage.
Passover is my least favorite holiday. Seders are lovely, but I loathe the eight days of eating matzah. Any gentile will tell you how delicious matzah is with butter and salt, and while that may be true, bread and butter is infinitely more so. Not only does matzah taste like cardboard, it is notoriously binding. All I'll say is two weeks out from Passover, and my system is still recovering.
I was reading Molly Wizenberg's lovely book, A Homemade Life while cooking for the seder, and came across a recipe for Fruit-Nut Balls, a favorite Christmas cookies. The recipe is extremely simple; a mixture of walnuts, dried fruits and a splash of Grand Marnier, rolled and coated in powdered sugar and topped with a chocolate cap. It didn't appeal to me much, but I thought it would make a good haroset, as it's very similar to Sephardic preparations.
Haroset is one of the symbolic foods on the seder plate, a paste of fruit and nuts, sweetened with a bit of wine, and meant to symbolize the mortar used to bond bricks while the Israelites were enslaved in Egypt. I grew up eating a traditional Askenazi haroset of apples, walnuts, wine, cinnamon and honey. Shortly after I was married, my mother gave me Joan Nathan's Jewish Cooking in America, where I learned there is a whole world of haroset out there.
Sephardic harosets are heavy on dried fruits, so I decided to use Wizenberg's recipe sans the Christmas gilding, and serve the paste on its own. It made an adequate, if not exciting, filling for the Hillel sandwiches (haroset + horseradish on matzah), and a lot of leftovers. When the seder was over, I put it in the refrigerator for the night.
The second night we had an impromptu seder with our neighbors, and when I broke out the haroset, my neighbor's first comment was, "Oh, Sephardic haroset!" I got a kick when I explained; "Yes, but it's a bastardized Christmas cookie." We ate it at our second seder, still didn't make much of a dent, and back in the fridge it went.
It wasn't until the next day*, when I came across a mention of Charoset truffles on the kitchn, that the tide turned for me and my haroset. Oh, the power of a name; I mean, what would you rather eat, a ball, or a truffle? For truffles, the haroset is rolled and coated in granulated, not powdered sugar, and...oh my lord! I served them with tea to my Irish friend, and we could not eat enough of these. The contrast between the grainy crunch of sugar crystals and the sweet, soft fruit was irresistible. Call them what you will, the shiksa haroset was delicious. Good things happen when Jews and Gentiles mix.
*That that the mixture had now spent two days macerating is not insignificant; this is the kind of food that gets better with age.
Shiksa Charoset Truffles, or Fruit Nut Balls
adapted from A Homemade Life, by Molly Wizenberg
1 cup walnuts
1/2 pound each, pitted:
dried cherries
dried figs
dried apricots
prunes (is it redundant to say dried?)
1-2 T liquor, such as Grand Marnier or brandy
(The cork in my bottle of Grand Marnier, which was a divorce spoil from my parents unravelling, making it...I don't know how old, turned to dust as I tried to remove it, so I had to use Calvados. If you were more letter than spirit of the law, you'd useBoone's Farm a sweet Passover wine like Manishevitz.)
granulated sugar for coating
Pulse the walnuts in the food processor until finely chopped, and remove to a bowl.
Pulse the dried fruit in two batches and add to the walnuts.
Add a the liquor a bit at a time until the mixture holds together well when rolled.
Let sit overnight, or roll into approximately 1-1/2-inch balls, and then roll in sugar.
I was reading Molly Wizenberg's lovely book, A Homemade Life while cooking for the seder, and came across a recipe for Fruit-Nut Balls, a favorite Christmas cookies. The recipe is extremely simple; a mixture of walnuts, dried fruits and a splash of Grand Marnier, rolled and coated in powdered sugar and topped with a chocolate cap. It didn't appeal to me much, but I thought it would make a good haroset, as it's very similar to Sephardic preparations.
Haroset is one of the symbolic foods on the seder plate, a paste of fruit and nuts, sweetened with a bit of wine, and meant to symbolize the mortar used to bond bricks while the Israelites were enslaved in Egypt. I grew up eating a traditional Askenazi haroset of apples, walnuts, wine, cinnamon and honey. Shortly after I was married, my mother gave me Joan Nathan's Jewish Cooking in America, where I learned there is a whole world of haroset out there.
Sephardic harosets are heavy on dried fruits, so I decided to use Wizenberg's recipe sans the Christmas gilding, and serve the paste on its own. It made an adequate, if not exciting, filling for the Hillel sandwiches (haroset + horseradish on matzah), and a lot of leftovers. When the seder was over, I put it in the refrigerator for the night.
The second night we had an impromptu seder with our neighbors, and when I broke out the haroset, my neighbor's first comment was, "Oh, Sephardic haroset!" I got a kick when I explained; "Yes, but it's a bastardized Christmas cookie." We ate it at our second seder, still didn't make much of a dent, and back in the fridge it went.
It wasn't until the next day*, when I came across a mention of Charoset truffles on the kitchn, that the tide turned for me and my haroset. Oh, the power of a name; I mean, what would you rather eat, a ball, or a truffle? For truffles, the haroset is rolled and coated in granulated, not powdered sugar, and...oh my lord! I served them with tea to my Irish friend, and we could not eat enough of these. The contrast between the grainy crunch of sugar crystals and the sweet, soft fruit was irresistible. Call them what you will, the shiksa haroset was delicious. Good things happen when Jews and Gentiles mix.
*That that the mixture had now spent two days macerating is not insignificant; this is the kind of food that gets better with age.
Shiksa Charoset Truffles, or Fruit Nut Balls
adapted from A Homemade Life, by Molly Wizenberg
1 cup walnuts
1/2 pound each, pitted:
dried cherries
dried figs
dried apricots
prunes (is it redundant to say dried?)
1-2 T liquor, such as Grand Marnier or brandy
(The cork in my bottle of Grand Marnier, which was a divorce spoil from my parents unravelling, making it...I don't know how old, turned to dust as I tried to remove it, so I had to use Calvados. If you were more letter than spirit of the law, you'd use
granulated sugar for coating
Pulse the walnuts in the food processor until finely chopped, and remove to a bowl.
Pulse the dried fruit in two batches and add to the walnuts.
Add a the liquor a bit at a time until the mixture holds together well when rolled.
Let sit overnight, or roll into approximately 1-1/2-inch balls, and then roll in sugar.
07 April 2009
Ten
It is hard to imagine how it is that you're turning ten today, though indeed you are. There are few times when it seems your life begins again, and that was certainly the case when I first held you in my arms and became your mother.
I am not good at documenting milestones. You will likely never have a baby book; many of our family photographs (when we still printed stills), are in a box in the study, awaiting placement in albums. I have always imagined writing each of my children a letter on their birthdays; as you begin your second decade seems as good a time as any to start. Not a day goes by when you don't amaze me.
In honor of your birthday, here are just a few things I adore about you:
1. You slip into our bed at night like you are on a clandestine operation. Who knows how long you've been there when I finally notice you, but you are so cozy that I don't always have the heart to kick you out.
2. You always choose homemade over store-bought. You chose to spend your birthday at home instead of at school.
3. You were concerned last week that we were taking advantage of our next door neighbor when we asked to borrow a cup of sugar, but in actuality, wound up with closer to two or three.
4. You worry about the health of strangers smoking cigarettes.
5. Your ability to write spontaneous poetry and prose.
6. How beautiful you look in your swimsuit, and your natural grace in the water.
7. When you go to the foot of the stairs, clap your hands, and call to your brothers, "Boys, dinner, now," they come running.
9. You help me get Sacha ready for school in the morning.
10. When I asked you last week what you wanted for your birthday you couldn't think of anything.
And one more, for good luck:
11. You have short, middle and long-range plans, and a counter-argument for everything.
Happy Birthday, Sarah. You are my joy.
Love,
Mama
PS: Check your email to find out what your present is!
I am not good at documenting milestones. You will likely never have a baby book; many of our family photographs (when we still printed stills), are in a box in the study, awaiting placement in albums. I have always imagined writing each of my children a letter on their birthdays; as you begin your second decade seems as good a time as any to start. Not a day goes by when you don't amaze me.
In honor of your birthday, here are just a few things I adore about you:
1. You slip into our bed at night like you are on a clandestine operation. Who knows how long you've been there when I finally notice you, but you are so cozy that I don't always have the heart to kick you out.
2. You always choose homemade over store-bought. You chose to spend your birthday at home instead of at school.
3. You were concerned last week that we were taking advantage of our next door neighbor when we asked to borrow a cup of sugar, but in actuality, wound up with closer to two or three.
4. You worry about the health of strangers smoking cigarettes.
5. Your ability to write spontaneous poetry and prose.
6. How beautiful you look in your swimsuit, and your natural grace in the water.
7. When you go to the foot of the stairs, clap your hands, and call to your brothers, "Boys, dinner, now," they come running.
9. You help me get Sacha ready for school in the morning.
10. When I asked you last week what you wanted for your birthday you couldn't think of anything.
And one more, for good luck:
11. You have short, middle and long-range plans, and a counter-argument for everything.
Happy Birthday, Sarah. You are my joy.
Love,
Mama
PS: Check your email to find out what your present is!
31 March 2009
Earth hour
Last Saturday evening was Earth Hour. I'm not certain what, if any, relationship there is between Earth Hour and Earth Day. Is the former meant to be a replacement for the latter, or something else entirely? Has Earth Day been such a smashing success that it's no longer necessary, or is a case of readjusting overly optimistic expectations to accommodate our short attention spans?
Regardless, it is not hard to sell me on the idea of an hour by candlelight; as long there is enough light to read by, I'd happily spend every night this way. The biggest challenge, as far as I could tell, would be making it up until 9.30, because lights off at 8.30 is a powerful soporific.
After we put Sacha to sleep and played a few rounds of a color memory game by candlelight at home (considerably more difficult), we celebrated the auspicious occasion by...having a trash burning bonfire with our neighbors. The gods of bulk trash passed over their house last week, leaving them with a small ailing wooden patio set that they in turn, had scavenged from someone else's bulk trash many moons ago. We gathered around the fire, which burned in a large metal tub, as the kids played a few songs on recorder. I can't stand the sound of this loathsome instrument, but in this context, its wheezy honk was surprisingly apt. We played a round of If I Went to the Zoo, enjoying the smells of hot lead and melting blacktop mixed with woodsmoke. When all the wood had been consumed, the boys doused the flames by peeing them out.
Despite negatively impacting our collective carbon footprint, it was a lovely evening.
Regardless, it is not hard to sell me on the idea of an hour by candlelight; as long there is enough light to read by, I'd happily spend every night this way. The biggest challenge, as far as I could tell, would be making it up until 9.30, because lights off at 8.30 is a powerful soporific.
After we put Sacha to sleep and played a few rounds of a color memory game by candlelight at home (considerably more difficult), we celebrated the auspicious occasion by...having a trash burning bonfire with our neighbors. The gods of bulk trash passed over their house last week, leaving them with a small ailing wooden patio set that they in turn, had scavenged from someone else's bulk trash many moons ago. We gathered around the fire, which burned in a large metal tub, as the kids played a few songs on recorder. I can't stand the sound of this loathsome instrument, but in this context, its wheezy honk was surprisingly apt. We played a round of If I Went to the Zoo, enjoying the smells of hot lead and melting blacktop mixed with woodsmoke. When all the wood had been consumed, the boys doused the flames by peeing them out.
Despite negatively impacting our collective carbon footprint, it was a lovely evening.
05 March 2009
On the importance of completing one's work in a timely manner
Sacha is famous for cross-pollination of toys; all day long he brings upstairs toys down, and downstairs toys up, where they all have a meet-up on the first floor. Today this was driving me especially insane, so I decided, on a whim--I can do that, because I'm the MOM--that it was time for the kids to clean up the playroom. I myself avoid this odious chore at all costs, because a) it sucks; b) the kids (well, mostly Sacha) make the mess; and c) if I can't make my kids do jobs that I don't want to do, then why the hell did I have them?
So when I said it was time to clean the playroom, Sarah began her pursuit of the perfect flimsy excuse.
This child, who must be nagged to do her Hebrew school homework, developed a sudden urge to do it right now. Surely it could wait a few minutes, I told her, seeing as it's not due until next Wednesday? Her desire to do this homework was so strong that she brought it downstairs with her, trying to work on it while cleaning. This didn't fly with Gabriel, who knows a thing or two about procrastinating. I told Sarah to put it down and concentrate on cleaning, reminding her that the sooner she was done, the sooner she could get to said homework. At this point her zeal to complete the task became so great that she developed an occupation injury, hurting her shoulder on the craft table.
Now the playroom is clean. Since coming upstairs, Sarah hasn't mentioned her Hebrew homework.
So when I said it was time to clean the playroom, Sarah began her pursuit of the perfect flimsy excuse.
This child, who must be nagged to do her Hebrew school homework, developed a sudden urge to do it right now. Surely it could wait a few minutes, I told her, seeing as it's not due until next Wednesday? Her desire to do this homework was so strong that she brought it downstairs with her, trying to work on it while cleaning. This didn't fly with Gabriel, who knows a thing or two about procrastinating. I told Sarah to put it down and concentrate on cleaning, reminding her that the sooner she was done, the sooner she could get to said homework. At this point her zeal to complete the task became so great that she developed an occupation injury, hurting her shoulder on the craft table.
Now the playroom is clean. Since coming upstairs, Sarah hasn't mentioned her Hebrew homework.
02 March 2009
R.O.U.S., or I really should have told this story sooner
A few months ago I was awoken by David abruptly bolting out of bed. For the next few minutes, all I heard was the sound of the toilet flushing, repeatedly.
My first thought was that David was sick, but this was unlikely. Not to put too fine a point on it, but in the twenty years that I have known him, he has vomited on exactly one occasion, and that was after having a bad reaction to a raw milk blue goat cheese he sampled at Fairway. (He really liked it at the time!) There have been times when our family has been felled by a stomach virus, and everyone is puking with abandon, and while David is as sick as the rest of us, he can somehow manage to hold onto his lunch. I didn't think it was food poisoning because that night, to celebrate my birthday, we'd been to dinner at Prune, where we ate exactly the same meal (unimaginative, but delicious), and did not drink to excess.
After a few minutes of listening to the symphony of flushing, I called out to see if he was alright. "Yes, I'll be right back..."
When he finally came back to bed, he told me he had woken up when he heard splashing in our bathroom. So he went to check it out, and saw A RAT TRYING TO CRAWL OUT OF OUR TOILET.
Wow.
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I flushed the toilet. A lot. Then I went to the second floor, and flushed the toilet, repeatedly. And then to the first floor, and flushed that one a lot as well. And let's keep the lids down from now on?"
I nodded in approval; it seemed like as good a strategy as any.
The following week, I called our plumber. David mentioned it to a very, very handy friend, as well as the proprietors of a local plumbing supply shop. All had more or less the same reaction: "Wow; I've never heard of that before."
Its not comforting when you stump the home repair experts in their area of expertise. David still can't sleep at night unless the toilet lid is down.
My first thought was that David was sick, but this was unlikely. Not to put too fine a point on it, but in the twenty years that I have known him, he has vomited on exactly one occasion, and that was after having a bad reaction to a raw milk blue goat cheese he sampled at Fairway. (He really liked it at the time!) There have been times when our family has been felled by a stomach virus, and everyone is puking with abandon, and while David is as sick as the rest of us, he can somehow manage to hold onto his lunch. I didn't think it was food poisoning because that night, to celebrate my birthday, we'd been to dinner at Prune, where we ate exactly the same meal (unimaginative, but delicious), and did not drink to excess.
After a few minutes of listening to the symphony of flushing, I called out to see if he was alright. "Yes, I'll be right back..."
When he finally came back to bed, he told me he had woken up when he heard splashing in our bathroom. So he went to check it out, and saw A RAT TRYING TO CRAWL OUT OF OUR TOILET.
Wow.
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I flushed the toilet. A lot. Then I went to the second floor, and flushed the toilet, repeatedly. And then to the first floor, and flushed that one a lot as well. And let's keep the lids down from now on?"
I nodded in approval; it seemed like as good a strategy as any.
The following week, I called our plumber. David mentioned it to a very, very handy friend, as well as the proprietors of a local plumbing supply shop. All had more or less the same reaction: "Wow; I've never heard of that before."
Its not comforting when you stump the home repair experts in their area of expertise. David still can't sleep at night unless the toilet lid is down.
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