Charmed by Chipotle

I am subject to the occasional food fad. I'll get on a kick where something will inspire me, some ingredient or spice, or sometimes a cooking method, and it will obsess me and I'll use it over and over again until someone calls in an intervention. It's happened with curry -- all my utensils turned yellow. Once it was horseradish -- still have to put horseradish on each and every sandwich. Right now, it's chipotle. Not canned chipotle ("in adobo sauce," whatever that is), but ground chipotle powder in all its deep, red, velvety loveliness. Hot and rich and smokey, a Mexican mistress in a flamenco dress - it is scandal in edible form.

It's been making quite a scene at our place. It's gone into soups and stews. I put it in a cream sauce I commandeered from Stacy. It made an appearance in the cocktail sauce we served with the shrimp on Christmas. I sprinkled it on fried eggs this morning (the kids amazingly didn't notice) and it dusted a turkey sandwich this afternoon (making good friends with the smear of horseradish sauce already installed). My mind is ever racing for new and novel chipotle applications. I'm thinking of mixing a little bit into some melted chocolate for fudge sauce with a kick. Maybe on some of those baked squash Stacy's always making - hmmm, yes. That has potential.

Stacy, not a big fan of le cuisine fumé, has endured this little culinary outburst with good grace, but I can tell it's wearing thin. I have a feeling I may overextend my chipotle welcome and she'll have me feeling the heat when she gets all smokey on me. Silly girl. Doesn't she know she'll always be my favorite spicy pepper.

Messiah Mayhem

Feeling festive, I dusted off the iPod, plugged it into the speakers, dialed up The Messiah and cranked up the volume. Initially the kids were shocked and annoyed. Zero sleighbells and there were no references to reindeer or sugarplums anywhere to be heard. I had N on my lap and L standing at my side and I could see their interest cresting the edge of the cliff and heading sharply downward. They were about to dismiss the oratorio all together when I said, "You know, this is really good music for singing... LIKE THIS!!!" And I launched into my most absurd accompaniment to the hapless tenor trying to deliver "Comfort Ye." Subtlety of performance was hardly a concern. Pitch? - Bah Humbug! It was all about volume and pomposity. I very soon had a willing trio.

Poor Georg Friedrich was never so sorely but joyfully abused. We belted "And the Glory of the Lord," bopped to "And He Shall Purify," and reached down to the depths of our beings to join in "Thus Saith the Lord of Hosts," even simulating a California 6.0 when the bass promised that "He shall shake the Heavens, the Earth, the seas, the dry land..." Stacy kept peaking in from the kitchen, rolling her eyes and going back to whatever she was doing to give the impression that she wasn't a part of this desecration. Fortunately we never got to the "Hallelujah Chorus." It was pretty painful, I'm sure. Come to think of it, it's probably a good thing you couldn't hear it. I would venture to say... you probably couldn't Händel it. (Ho! Ho! Ho!)

Merry Christmas!

Make Sure You Get the Pre-Nup

I had a rather strange conversation with my daughter today. She came up to me with a pen and notepad and wanted to ask me some questions.

"What's your phone number?" she asked.

"The same as yours," I answered.

"No! No! You have to pretend, like, that you don't know me, and like, we are getting married, and we need to ask questions."

"Oh, I see," I said, even though in truth I didn't; I gave her my phone number. She then asked for my address and how to spell my name. She then asked me how many children I wanted to have. I thought that was a little personal of a question for a first date, but I told her that I would want two children.

"What names do you want for them?" she inquired. "Like, maybe L?" she suggested.

"Yes, I would want one of them to be named L, and the other I would want to name N."

"Oh, I know how to spell that! And I used to have a brother named N, so I know how to spell that one too! Do you want girls or boys?"

"I would want L to be a girl and N to be a boy." She seemed pleased with this.

"What do your kids like to eat? My son N likes macaroni and cheese and my daughter L only wants macaroni and cheese too." I told her that her kids sounded an awful lot like I would expect my future children to sound like.

The questions went on in this fashion for quite a while, and I was asked to give my parents names, my children's play preferences, and what I wanted to buy for my future children. I was a little surprised, because when I married Stacy (my first wife), I never had to fill out so extensive an application. I guess the younger generation wants to be sure what they're signing up for.

No date has yet been set for the upcoming nuptials, at least none that I'm aware of. I suspect I may be the last to know.

The Sinking of the Good Ship Lollipop

So, Pops, you think you're being clever, do you?, getting both kids their own lollipop to avoid the fighting and bickering that comes with sharing? But did you think to put them in their own separate, sterilized, Teflon-lined solitary confinement chambers to eat them in? No? You didn't consider it? You might want to rethink that...



The die is cast, the deed is done, the lolly is popped.

Evidently it isn't something to get too worked up about. (At least if it isn't your lollipop...)

A little warm water, a little tugging, and normalcy restored: two disembodied lollipops and a new and novel, if slightly asymmetrical, hairdo.

Did You Hear That in Maine?

The Children Were Nestled All Snug in Their Classrooms...

Yesterday was PAJAMA DAY at L's school! In a move I would love to see catch on in my own professional environment, L and all her classmates were told they could come to school in their favorite pajamas. There were a few Supermen and princesses to be found, but in general lots of basically cozy kids.

L playing checkers with her "best friend" J -- I'm already practicing looking intimidating for when I have to have a talk with that boy.

In a One-Horse Open Sleigh

L has been practicing "Jingle Bells" on the piano lately. Occasionally she likes to fully partake in the musical drama by recreating her own sleigh rides in the living room.







Seems there are a lot of drifted banks in this neck of the woods too...

My Son Is Sensitive

Last night I was playing with the kids on the computer and stumbled upon a fun little game on Yahoo called "Red Ball 2." (Presumably there is a "Red Ball 1" somewhere out there.) It's a cute little game where you try to help a happy little red ball through a series of puzzles and adventures to try to find its missing crown. Evidently the red ball was pretty attached to its crown.
The ball was quite cute, with lots of endearing facial expressions, and the kids (sitting on my lap generally obstructing my view) were rather eager to assist in the little red ball's crown recovery exploits. They would shout directions to me ("Go left, Daddy!", "Down there, Daddy!", "No! Not that way!") and give me all kinds of unsolicited advice, and the more intense the gameplay got, the more they would crane forward and block the screen.



All was well until the levels got a bit more challenging and all of a sudden I started dying in more frequent and varied ways. When you fall off a cliff, for example, the poor little plummeting ball gives out a somewhat disturbing scream of terror. Then there were the sharp pointy things that popped the poor little guy, and soon we came to the green toxic waste baths that induced similar afflictions. The kids became visibly more agitated the more complicated and challenging the game got. L started to get fidgety and N began to suggest that maybe we'd played enough of the game. Finally, we got to one level where you have to levitate through a maze of pointy spikes and I was doing so so poorly that L was huddled with her face pressed into my shoulder and N was weeping openly, begging me to turn it off - so overwrought were they over the repeated traumatic demises of their beloved little red friend. It took N a good half-hour/45 minutes to calm down from his grief.

Later that night, when I put them to bed, the three of us rotated round-robin picking good-night songs to sing. (Stacy has usually given up on the kids by this point.) L went first and picked "Do, A Deer," which was met with hearty approval by N. I went second. ("Greensleeves," since I think all children should be sung to sleep with 16^th century English ballads). The participation was commendable. Then it was N's turn, and he picked one of my favorites, "You Are My Sunshine." (Or simply "Sunshine" as it's known in our house.) Things started well.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
You make me happy when skies are grey,

N sang along bracingly.

You'll never know, dear, how much I love you

N's volume had diminished noticeably.

So please don't take my sunshine away.

I couldn't hear N at all any more. I plunged regardless into the second verse:

The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping,
I dreamt I held you in my arms.
When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken,
So I hung my head and I cried.

You are my sunshine...

And that's when I noticed the sobbing. I was lying in N's bed with him as we sang and looked down to find him cuddled up against me weeping in abject pain and suffering.

"N, what's wrong?" I asked. He didn't answer immediately but let his broken heart have its way for a period. When he finally calmed down he was able to choke out an answer.

"That song is too sad," he said.

Thanksgiving Thesis

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I've often stopped to think through why that is and I'm not sure I've come to a convincing conclusion. Certainly there's the commendable aspect of reflection on our blessings and the titular thoughts of thankfulness, though I fear even in my best attempts to keep a noble focus on the day, it really is easily more a thinly veiled day for indulgence and hedonism that self-sacrifice and gratitude. (I have an indomitable bent toward selfishness.) Of course each year as the day approaches we make the stouthearted attempts around the dinner table at enumerating our blessings and all the things we're thankful for. But there seems to be a subtle kind of legalism about that - at least when I do it. Am I doing it so I can check off my thankfulness box for the year?

Count your blessings instead of sheep,
or God will kill you while you sleep!

Or is there some wisdom or benefit to the discipline of going through the motions if, for whatever reason, I don't feel particularly more thankful at that moment than in general? I seem to have an uncanny ability of taking something lofty and noble and full of grace, and poisoning it with duties and obligations that I'm not sure really belong. Why do I have to justify my involvement by "doing something?" I'm also pretty sure I'm overthinking it.

But there's something about about the layout of this particular day, apart from it's intended semi-spiritual focus, that I appreciate. A Thursday holiday with a bonus Friday off makes the event that much more relaxing and enjoyable. Spending the time at home, going for a family hike, playing with the kids, cuddling with Stacy, and (admittedly) cooking and eating and staying up late with friends and family without the dread of an 8:00am clock-in looming over my head really is a wonderful thing. I guess in retrospect I am very grateful for these times with my family.

This year our Thanksgiving feast was held at Stacy's-aunt's-boyfriend's-sister's house. We were assigned a couple of dishes, so our cooking obligations where relatively light. I got up at some ridiculous hour (because I wanted to, not because I had to) and got started on the collard greens. My goal, as is my general culinary philosophy, is to take an essentially healthy, wholesome dish and add enough sin and wickedness to it to make it an immediate threat to your general health and well-being. In the case of the collards this meant adding more bacon that I shall admit in print. They were bubbling away merrily by 5:30, ready to simmer the morning away.

Soon there were rumblings in the hallway and L and N staggered out with their semi-drunk lists, rubbing their eyes and stretching like cats. I love having my early morning alone time, but I'm rarely disappointed when the thumping and bumping begins in the hall. For some reason I won't overanalyze (for fear it will go away), their own little mug of tea with Daddy in the morning makes the world a wonderful place.

After a quick breakfast I put the kids to work making our second assigned Thanksgiving concoction: sweet potato casserole. L and N took turns cracking the eggs, or shall I say crushing the eggs. (After each egg we'd spend five minutes fishing out minute flecks of shell.) They then each alternated carefully measured out flour and sugar and orange juice and butter and vanilla and nuts. (Yes, I do eventually put healthy sweet potatoes in, but revisit my comments on cooking philosophy above.) It only needed an hour or two to cook, so once all assembled, it was popped into the fridge for safe keeping until the appointed hour. By this time Stacy had thump-bumped out to the kitchen and we had a free morning before us: Thanksgiving Hike!!!

We've sort of thump-bumped into a Thanksgiving family tradition of taking a little local hike on Thanksgiving morning. (This year, since it was on a weekend, we expanded it to cover Halloween too.) Our jaunt today revisited our usual local hike near Del Cero park up on Palos Verdes hill. As we drove up and got the first couple of glimpses of the water and cliffs it was clear it was going to be a gorgeous day. Catalina Island, twenty-something miles off the coast, was ruggedly clear, and looking up northwest you could even see the Channel Islands off the Ventura coast lying low on the horizon.



Over the summer during one of the big wildfire spurts we had, one fire broke out on the hill. I had heard it was near Crenshaw Blvd., which is where we hiked, but we got to the parking lot to find that it had actually raged all along the brush and gullies of our hiking area. The fire road we generally hike down seemed to have served as a decent fire break because in most cases one side of the road was black and charred while the other side was intact. In some places it had clearly jumped the track and in others you could tell the flames had gone all the way up the cliffs to the edges of the neighborhoods perched on top of them. Evidently no houses had been lost, though I think I remember hearing some outstructures had burned.



This had no ill effect on our hike, however, and we got to enjoy the warm sun, the playful ocean breeze, the singing of the birds, and the whining of the children. (Our kids have some work to do in achieving Daddy's goals of becoming consummate outdoorsmen.)



We made our grueling initial hike of 200 yards (maybe more!) down the fire road and then took a much needed breather under a pepper tree. Revived and refreshed, we carried on further down the road. This particular fire road is carved into the rather steep PV hillside and tends to have decent drop-offs on the ocean-facing side. These steep edges are kiddie magnets and tend to drive their vertigo-prone Mommy into fits of panic and hysteria. They're really not too bad when you're right at the edge looking down - you can see the step slope into the ravine below, but it isn't really a deadman's drop. But standing back a few paces (where Mommy prefers to hide out), it does really look like the road drops off like the cliffs of insanity, exacerbating Mommy's already considerable sense of paranoia. After a half hour of hyperventilation and near-teary pleas for the children to back away from the really-not-too-threatening drop off, Stacy and I made an agreement: When we were traversing a canyon edge, Stacy would walk up front with the kids behind her and out off eye sight; she would promise not to look back until we were past the drop-offs. I would hang back and let the children play about as they saw fit, and if they ended up plunging to their deaths, Stacy could feel free to eviscerate me. I was very proud of her for the successful struggle she waged against everything her maternal instinct was telling her to do!

At one point on our decent we encountered a couple of horses heading back up. Strangely it seems N is the animal lover among our kids. He immediately ran to the edge of the trail to wave and talk to the horses while L sulked in the background, bitter at that point from perceived injustice she had endured during the previous hiking. (L has gotten to the age where sulky victimisations seem to be more and more prevalent. Joy.)

Fire before and after: Thanksgiving Day 2008 and 2009.

Right on schedule the frustration kicks in,
with its generally predictable consequences.

After the the slave-driven children made it back up to the top of the hill (oh! the dramas), we returned home to a pre-lunch lunch, and the final prep.

We were invited spend Thanksgiving with Aunt Joyce and Mr. Jay at Mr. Jay's family's home up near Monrovia. We were a little surprised at the invite, since the last time we were invited to an event at one of Jay's family's homes the kids were so squirrelly we had to leave with our tail between our legs. I was pretty apprehensive about how the day would go. (But evidently large Italian families don't hold vendettas for past broken wine glasses and torn up garden plants.) We loaded the car with kids and casseroles and headed north, picking up Joyce and Jay a little after 3:00. The party was large, crowded and noisy, which was an immediate relief - our additional mayhem would blend in better! It turned out to be essentially lawsuit free and we actually managed to have a very relaxed and enjoyable time. Jay's family is large and diverse and there were plenty of interesting people to talk to, and of course, some killer food to eat. There were a couple of other kids there, which thrilled L and N because it would tend to obscure their particular fingerprints at any required post-crime scene investigation. We all ended up having a really great time, and as far as I can tell, we left behind no significant structural damage.

An Outstanding Coiffure

Methinks Mommy needs to find a better place to hide the hair gel...

Vintage Mimi

I've been going through some old family photo albums, scanning pictures and restoring them. I was working on one of my Mom and me from ages ago when L saw it and was intrigued. She was able to identify both of the people in the picture without help, but she said they looked different.

"That's Mimi," she said. "But she doesn't look squishy there. She's squishy now! And that's Daddy when he was a baby. You're still squishy but now you have whiskers."