we thanked our lucky stars

Abbott at about 8 months

At 4:21am, as I was explaining something about my cell phone to a stranger, I reflexively leapt out of bed in terror. As I did, the heartstopping sound of our security system, sure to wake anyone within a mile radius, ceased as suddenly as it had started.  I shook Alexi. “Did you hear that?!” He muttered something as he sat up and felt around for his glasses. We stalked down the stairs together to check that the perimeter was secure; a door or window that hadn’t been fully closed was likely the source of the problem. The noise happened again, and we realized it was actually the low battery signal from one of our smoke alarms. The device that was the culprit can only be reached with a ladder. Muffled meows came from the direction of the laundry room, where the cats sleep, as we walked down the three flights of stairs to the garage. We picked up our ladder and carried it back up three flights of stairs, and thanked our lucky stars the boys didn’t wake up before we managed to replace the battery. It was just light enough to see the fog that had begun to roll in as we got back in bed. I fell back to sleep thinking about the dream I’d been having, likely brought on by phone drama earlier in the week. My iphone spent several days drying out on a windowsill after I inadvertently ran it through the washing machine. It had a miraculous recovery.

2004

I am grossly out of practice with fatigue, and that realization always makes me grateful for where we’re at right now. Abbott and I are reading our way through Anne McCaffrey’s books together; he always passes on his good reads to me. We’re addressing fifth grade graduation invitations. I say goodnight, then good morning, to each and every one of Cal’s stuffed animals. They ask me about my day on the way home from school. 

2005

We’re inching our way toward summer. We reach the forecasted high temperatures late afternoon, and it cools hours later. Unlike summer heat, which flows from one day to the next even in the night’s chill, this lasts so briefly the house doesn’t have time to overheat, we don’t have time to get languid; we hardly have time to notice. Monday we reached a record temperature for May 6 in Seattle. 87 degrees. I put on my favorite sundress: A-line, knee length, the color of sunshine. 

Cal 

When I put on that yellow dress I felt the passage of time. I bought it the summer Cal turned two and Abbott turned four. Months earlier, I’d learned the explanation for the two breast cancers I’d had. I have an inherited flaw in a tumor suppressor gene; a BRCA1 mutation. People with these mutations have a high lifetime risk of breast cancer, may get breast cancer at an early age, may develop cancer in both breasts, or may develop other cancers; most significantly, ovarian cancer. At the beginning of that summer, I had surgery to remove the breasts that threatened my life, and a plastic surgeon re-fashioned them with tissue from another part of my body. I wore the dress for the first time to a birthday party weeks later, and it still wasn’t easy getting around. I had plastic tubes – drains – coming out of my hips and tucked into my underwear. I realized when I got home that wearing white underwear and a white bra under a dress with thin fabric had been a mistake. Out of character for me, I didn’t really care that much. It had been good to get out; I was glad to be there. I was not down for the count.

That dress has had a lot of living. It has a thousand memories of picnics and vacations and outings, and there will be many more in the months and years to come. Alexi had his first summer hockey league game last night. We’re already making plans through Labor Day. It’s going to be a good one.

maybe it is enough

The summers between my years of college, I worked on a tour boat in Prince William Sound, Alaska. No other place on earth has ever filled me with the same degree of awe. Maybe nostalgia amplifies beauty, just as love does. I worked for a friend’s family’s tour business based out of Valdez. Every spring, around the time of my midterms, I’d start longing for that place and those summers that were about the friendships I had with the people I worked with, some of whom I’d known for many years. That period of my life, the end of my teenage years and transition to early adulthood, was a time of great emotional intensity; my craving for those with whom I had a relationship was at its greatest. 

Every morning, we’d motor out of the Valdez boat harbor past the fishing boats and tenders and sailboats, past the Alyeska pipeline terminal, out of the Port of Valdez and into the Sound. On the trip to the Columbia Glacier, we took in a miracle of marine life. On a good day, we crossed paths with whales: sometimes minke, sometimes humpback, sometimes orcas. Dall’s porpoise swam alongside the boat with some regularity. Rafts of playful sea otters were everywhere, more gregarious than any animal I’ve ever seen. Sea lions sunned themselves on buoys, or fought with each other in their jockeying for a position. When we got close to the shoreline, we sometimes spotted mountain goats, seeming so perilously perched I couldn’t look. The thing I remember most clearly is the bracing, clean air once we got to the glacier on those summer days. Seals and their babies populated the icebergs. Once in a while, we’d see an iceberg red from the birthing process. People from all over the world came on our tour: groups who arrived in buses, couples who’d driven the Alaska-Canada highway in an RV to get there, those who flew in and traveled by rental car. Every night I was left with something to think about from a conversation I’d had.

After work most nights, I’d take a walk along a dirt road bordered by mountains over 5000 feet in elevation. Waterfalls, lupine, fireweed, columbine and forget-me-nots flanked the path. It was a holy place.

Sometimes on a day off I’d go out with a friend on his boat and pull shrimp pots. Back at the dock, we’d feed the shrimp heads to a sea otter. We’d boil the shrimp just until they turned bright pink, stand at the kitchen counter to peel and devein them, then dip the succulent meat in a bowl of melted butter before devouring it.

I learned from the people I met who were there vacationing, from those I worked with, and the residents of the town I got to know. I understand better than I would otherwise, from my experiences those summers, that there are many ways to do, and look at, everything. More than once, I thought about what it would be like to make Valdez my home.

Now, I live in a less-northern location at the water’s edge, in a setting that is a pale version of Prince William Sound. The mountains out my windows are more distant, but still magnificent. I watch them change with snow and cloud cover and light. Gulls and eagles and other sea birds are part of my everyday life. Now that spring is here, the low tides are dramatically low, and we take long excursions on the beach that allows further passage. We walk on and around the emptied out shells of cockles, moonsnails, oysters and mussels; recent meals for another creature. The large rocks we encounter are barnacle-encrusted, with purple sea stars clinging to the sides of them. Sea anemones are smooth raised nubbins on the sand, awaiting the return of the tide. Soon, we’ll see the Canadian geese in the water with their goslings. I imagine these images will populate my boys’ memories, and perhaps shape their perceptions of natural beauty.

At home, our yard is at its best in spring. I planted a tiny bleeding heart a few years ago that has since grown into an impressive bush, now in its full glory. It withers in the heat of summer. Two lone irises come up and bloom every spring in a flowerbed otherwise inhabited by hellebore. Our lilac tree is blooming. Next to our perennial supply of rosemary and mint we now have sorrel and chives, and I harvested our first batch of rhubarb over the weekend. 

I’m perfectly happy to stay home when the weather starts getting nice. I want to work in the yard, or spend time on the beach, or just relax with my family. I force myself to make plans for at least once during the weekend, assuming my hermit-like tendencies aren’t good for the kids or for me. But maybe I over-think things. Maybe it is enough to love one’s home and one’s family, and roast your rhubarb when you can.

Roasted Rhubarb

I’ve roasted rhubarb with water and lemon zest, and with wine. I recently experimented with freshly squeezed orange juice, and we liked it best of all. The acidity of the orange juice really complements the rhubarb.

2 pounds trimmed rhubarb, cut into 2 inch pieces

½ cup packed brown sugar

½ freshly squeezed orange juice (juice from approximately 1 ½ oranges)

Place a rack in the lower third of the oven, and preheat the oven to 350F.

Mix the rhubarb, brown sugar, and orange juice together in a deep, oven-proof pot.  Bake uncovered for about 30 minutes, or until very tender, stirring a couple of times as it cooks.

Serve warm or cold, with greek yogurt or ice cream or all by itself.

Yield: 4 to 6 servings

in that spring moment

Tuesday, the boys and I visited the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival with my friend Aran and her son and daughter. It was the morning after the bombing at the Boston marathon. We’d made our plans over the weekend, and as I helped her load things into my car, our murmured conversation indicated that, though we were going forward with our lives, it felt a bit shocking to do so. We didn’t know what else to do. We drove the 60 miles north of the city with the kids chattering in the back seat while we talked about homework and liberation theology and what it was like to experience winter in Alaska. We made sideways references to the bombing, mindful of our young audience. Periodically, I noticed one or the other of them listening to us, and I tried to remember what tragedies I knew as a kid. Tragedy and violence are not always the same thing; the memories that surfaced were mixtures of the two. I recalled the wretched loss of my older, teenaged cousin Janet, killed in a car accident. The stories on the news of Jonestown and the people drinking the Kool-Aid. I thought about the anxiety I felt as Walter Cronkite gave his nightly update on the Iran Hostage Crisis. Still, it seems my kids are growing up in a harder world.

After exiting off I-5 and driving through the town of Mt. Vernon the fields of flowers came into view, and it was like accompanying Dorothy to Oz. The farmland is magnificently dazzling. We parked and walked the fields of tulips. The sun shone while the kids played in the puddles and then argued about who was the muddiest. I wondered if it was obscene to take in so much beauty at such a sad time. We ate the picnic we’d packed: apples, a salad of mache, tuna, rice, avocado and cherry tomatoes, and hazelnut banana bread.  And then we drove home, mindful of those suffering such gaping, irreparable loss, sending our love out into the world.

at this point in April

Because there were no hockey practices, and the daylight now lingers long enough to allow it, and the sun shone warmly, we walked the mile and a half to our neighborhood ice cream parlor after dinner twice last week. While we were out, we exchanged greetings with and waved to neighbors we haven’t seen since last fall. Every last flowering tree in the neighborhood was in bloom. Walking under and in the pink, white, and purple veils of blossoms felt like stumbling through an exaggerated dream sequence in a movie. Over the weekend, the boys wanted to make the trek for ice cream, again, despite torrential rain. They’ve fallen right back into our spring and summer routine of after-dinner walks without comment; hockey season is over, and it’s as if it was never a part of our life. So we put on our raincoats, grabbed a ball to toss around, and headed out on the slippery, petal-carpeted sidewalks.

In the mornings, I listen to the world on the other side of our walls slowly come to life. The first lone call is followed, tentatively, by the stutter of several more. Within a matter of minutes, the volume and quantity of sound increases to a symphony that, by breakfast, subsides into the background of my consciousness.

Our two indoor cats have taken to staring hard out the windows at what appears to be nothing while making crazy, guttural sounds. Every spring and fall, when the weather changes, a lizard or two finds its way inside; a small consolation for their lost opportunities outdoors. On occasion, we end up finding a tail, or worse, behind the couch or under the dining room table. 

There’s still enough of a chill that I’m subsisting on comfort foods. I think of it as transitional eating. I learned from Melissa Clark that leeks planted in the fall and left in the ground until spring, which is what is for sale in the markets now, taste sweeter than new-crop leeks in summer. I’ve taken to making a regular batch of leek gratin to have alongside roast chicken, and, best of all, as a vegetarian entrée.

Creamy Leek Gratin with Parmesan

slightly adapted from Cook This Now by Melissa Clark

If you don't own this book, I highly recommend getting it. I cook from it a couple of times a week on average. It's organized by month, focusing on seasonal availability.

You can assemble this dish several hours in advance and store it in the refrigerator until you’re ready to bake it.

2 pounds leeks (4 to 5 medium; about 4 pounds untrimmed), white and light green parts only, trimmed of the base, and halved lengthwise

1 cup chicken or vegetable stock

1 cup half and half

3 tablespoons unsalted butter

3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1/8 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

pinch freshly grated nutmeg

small pinch cayenne

½ pound Gruyere cheese, grated (about 2 cups)

2 ounces Parmesan cheese, grated (about ½ cup)

Preheat the oven to 400F. Lightly grease a 9 x 13 inch baking pan.

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Meanwhile, rinse the leeks to remove any dirt between the layers. Simmer the leeks in the boiling water until almost tender, about 5 minutes. Drain well and pat completely dry.

In a small saucepan, warm the stock and half and half or milk.

In a separate saucepan over medium-high heat, melt the butter. Add the flour and cook, stirring, until the roux is pale and frothy, about 1 minute. Slowly whisk in the warm milk and stir until thickened, 2 to 3 minutes. Reduce the heat to a simmer and season with salt, pepper, nutmeg, and cayenne; simmer 1 minute more. Whisk in the Gruyere until melted.

Transfer the leeks, cut side up, to the prepared pan. Spoon the sauce over the leeks. Sprinkle the top with the Parmesan. Bake until the sauce is bubbling and golden, about 40 minutes.

Yield: 4 to 6 servings

I haven't been lonely since

(images taken at The Whale Wins)

Once upon a time, I was a nurse. My first job out of college, I worked the night shift, as all, or at least most, new nurses do. I rented a little house in a quiet suburban neighborhood, and adopted a couple of kittens for company. I liked living alone, but I had just been through a breakup, and at times loneliness overwhelmed me. I kept busy. I planted a garden in the back yard. I took rambling walks. I cooked simple, comforting meals for myself every night before work, and the ritual was nourishing. It got me through the long night ahead. I roasted vegetables, and topped them with poached or fried eggs, and herbs from my garden. I made ratatouille out of the vegetables I grew. Sometimes I’d stir a risotto into existence. Then I’d put a napkin in my lap, sit next to the window that overlooked my garden, and read while I ate. I didn't mind eating alone. After I’d finished and cleaned up the kitchen, I went to bed, mostly for the comfort of lying between sheets in the evening. The kittens would curl up together on the pillow next to mine, and we'd rest for an hour or two. When the neighborhood became completely quiet and devoid of light, aside from the street and porch lights, my alarm would go off. I’d brush my teeth, get dressed, fill a thermos with coffee, and drive to work.

I worked on a mother-baby unit, which I loved. If you have to be awake all night, it’s a good way to do it. I’d try to coax newborns to nurse, and help their mothers recover from childbirth. As I interacted with the babies, their inky eyes would stare at me with unblinking intensity. Sometimes I’d play a game with them. I’d stick out my tongue, then do it again, and again, and often, they’d do it back, after a time. I couldn’t imagine how I got lucky enough to be a part of this first conversation of theirs.

I began to regret the solitary existence of the night shift. Other people slept when I was awake; I slept when everyone else was out living their lives. As I tended my garden and simmered pots of soup and cared for the newborns, I dreamed about falling in love and having a family someday. Eventually, I gave up my nights with the babies for a day job on a surgical unit, and my garden in that quiet little neighborhood for an apartment in a bustling part of town where I never felt alone. Before too long, I met Alexi, and I haven't been lonely since.

in motion

Yesterday, I set in motion the shape of a portion of the next decade of our lives. In my morning uniform, ponytail and sweatshirt and sweatpants, I walked around and between middle and high-school-aged boys and girls, surprisingly familiar-looking; similar to Abbott and his peers in size and appearance. When I reached my destination, the high-ceilinged, light-filled school office, I told the receptionist, with a nervous, over-eager, beaming smile, “I have a deposit check for you! And a contract.” The head of the middle school, whose words largely sold me on the school at their open house, was shuffling through a stack of papers at the end of the counter. She looked up, and we exchanged wide smiles as she said, “Yay!”   I felt like cheering, too.

I heard recently that something like sixty percent of kids in Seattle attend a private middle school. A lot can be said about that statistic, but there it is. For the past six months, since Abbott’s fifth grade year began, our family has been in middle school application mode: visiting open houses, touring schools, writing application essays, preparing for the ISEE (private middle school entrance exam), interviewing, and then, for the past couple of months, waiting. March 14, schools mailed out letters of acceptance, rejection, and wait listing. We had eleven days to make a choice between the schools where Abbott was offered admission. We re-read the notes we took at the open houses and tours, met with the head of Abbott’s current school to solicit her opinion, and talked with parents at each of the respective schools Abbott was accepted to. We thought about commute issues, considered which school is likely to be the best fit for both of our kids, and which seems strongest academically and in other ways. We re-visited the schools. Ultimately, comfortable with all the choices, we let Abbott decide. He liked them all, but one felt much more comfortable to him, instinctually, and after one final visit last Friday morning, he made up his mind. I felt elated all weekend. The decision was behind us; the contract was signed and ready to be delivered. 

As I ate my lunch, I couldn’t shake the dreadful sense of finality that had come over me sometime after dropping off the contract. The lack of mystery in the years stretching out in front of us was unsettling. How did we go from having a ten year old to knowing what his life would look like until he’s a soon-to-be college freshman? The next big choice will be about college.

After school, the boys dyed eggs, and I tried out a recipe I’m considering making for an Easter gathering we’re hosting. A Limoncello Tom Collins recipe. We’re having another family in the neighborhood walk over and join us, after church, and egg hunting in our respective homes, mid-afternoon. After drinking a glass of it, I felt better. I remembered there is so much unknown in what is yet to come. Abbott will hit puberty in a heartbeat; he’ll become a teenager. He’ll have his first girlfriend. Maybe he'll join a band, or decide to become a physicist, or both. He’ll experience disappointment and uncertainty and pride. He'll always remember what it felt like to look out the window while sitting in his geometry class, where he liked to sit in the cafeteria, the jokes his science teacher told. 

Limoncello Collins

I can tell this will be my drink this spring, and perhaps on into summer. Sunday, I’ll pretend it’s one of those Easters when it’s 82 degrees outside (I doubt it has ever been 82 on any given Easter in the history of Seattle, but somewhere, it must be), or at least warm enough to eat with the windows open. We’ll look forward to summer, and all that is to come.

From Food & Wine

16 ounces limoncello (lemon-flavored liqueur)

12 ounces gin

8 ounces freshly squeezed lemon juice

24 paper-thin lemon slices

24 ounces chilled club soda

8 mint sprigs

Combine the limoncello, gin and lemon juice in a pitcher, and refrigerate for at least two hours. Press three lemon slices against the outside of 8 collins glasses, then add ice to the glasses. Stir the limoncello mixture and divide among the glasses. Stir 2-3 oz club soda into each drink, to taste. Garnish with a mint sprig.

Yield: 8 servings