Monday morning I got an email from my editor saying that she needed
my column by two that afternoon because, due to the July 4th holiday,
they’d be running the Flavor section a day early. I spent the morning
furiously writing (my husband took the kids) and sent it off with seven
minutes to spare.

Also, I’m completely out from under The Play’s Cloud. I don’t miss it or think about it much anymore, so that feels good.

In other words, I’m all sorts of liberated this week.

But
back to the column. In it, I wrote about a book I read and how it’s
changed my perspective on eating. I didn’t make all my points in the
column, though. I couldn’t—I didn’t have enough time to hone my
thoughts. Plus, I had too many ideas for the allotted 600 words.

The main point (and you better go read the column
first if you’re to have any idea of what I’m talking about), one that I
think I’m just beginning to catch on to, is that we (North America?
Mennonites? Just my family?) eat for both pleasure and to fill ourselves up, yet food has a primarily utilitarian purpose.

Much of feeding my kids involves me saying, more or less, Just get it down.
They are to eat the peas because they’re green, the beans and rice
because they’re nutritious, the oatmeal to fill them up and give them
energy for the day. It tastes good, too, but to dwell too much on the
flavor seems snobby.

While the French eat for
fulfillment, too (obviously, they’re human), they also put high priority
on enjoyment and flavor. Dinner doesn’t get slapped on the table—it
gets portioned out, discussed, appreciated. Food is to be savored. The differences between the two approaches are small, yet profound.

I
was explaining these ideas to my mother and she said, “That’s a really
sophisticated perspective of food. Starving people can’t eat like that.”

“But we’re not starving,” I said.

That exchange, right there, perfectly sums up the tension: I
feel guilty about eating well. In fact, maybe I even eat like starving
people—quickly and too much—because I don’t know how to handle the
bounty.

The funny thing is, I’ve been taught it’s
fine—virtuous even—to spend hours upon hours growing, preserving, and
cooking my food. Yet, somehow, spending much time eating it is
sumptuous and excessive.

Of course, I’m not French and
I’ve never been to Paris (or even Europe), so all my information is
second hand and therefore probably skewed. But when I serve French-style
meals to my family, they are well-received, even with the “adult food” emphasis, so I do think I (as a pseudo French person)
am on to something.

We had a French-style lunch
yesterday. Just my younger son and older daughter were present, and
since my daughter was gone all last week and this was the first time she
had one of these meals, I asked my son to explain the rules to her.

“No fussing,” he said. “And you don’t have to eat everything.”

(Several times, he’s accidentally said “curses” for “courses,” as in, “What’s the next curse, Mama?”)

First course: Greek cucumber and tomato salad (with green olives instead of black)
Second
course: red beans over a mix of brown rice and quinoa (with toppings of
sour cream, cheese, and salsa), and some tortilla chips
Third course: apple slices and peanut butter
Fourth course: molasses cookies

It’s
all normal food, leftovers and such. But the genius lies in serving
only one thing at a time, with the veggies being first, and actively
discussing the flavors—why they are paired up together and so on.

With
meals like these, there’s a little more planning involved, but that’s
mostly because I’m not used to laying out meals in this manner. Also, I find
I’m thinking about vegetables and fruits more—they’re not simply a side,
they’re the star.

Last night’s supper:
First: a cucumbers, tomatoes, and peppers salad
Second: grilled flatbread with pesto
Third: watermelon and cantaloupe
Fourth: good cheeses (a creamy buffalo and a smoked sheep) from NYC
And after the sun went down: ice cream cones

There
was a cake recipe in that book, so of course I made it. The author
claims it’s so simple that French kids make it all the time. It’s
low-maintenance, for sure, the only tools required are a whisk and one
bowl, but it took me three cakes just to get a feel for it.

The
first cake: I bought two six-ounce containers of yogurt and then, like
the recipe said, used the empty yogurt containers to measure the rest of
the ingredients. But I think that method led to inaccurate
measurements—the resulting cake was too dense and dry. However, it had
great potential, we all agreed.

The second cake: I
converted the measurements to standard cups and made the cake again.
Yummy, but the bottom of the cake had a single, thin layer of
denseness—not doughy and not un-done, just a little line of heaviness.

The
third cake: I turned to the web. There are tons of yogurt cakes out
there, mostly from bloggers who read the book and then made the cake (a
lá Yours Truly). I chose one that was simple and clean-cut. It had an
extra egg, less sugar, and some nutmeg, but was still heavy on the
bottom. We preferred the second cake.

So
then, rather than make a fourth cake, I decided that the little bit of
heaviness (and it really is hardly noticeable) is just how it’s supposed
to be. The cake itself is delicious: mildly sweet and noticeably tangy
from the yogurt and with a unique crumb—moist, dense, chewy, and springy.

French Yogurt Cake
Adapted from Bringing Up Bébé by Pamela Druckerman.

1 ½ cups plain yogurt, preferably full-fat
1 ½ cups sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
3/4 scant cup flavorless oil, such as canola
3 cups flour
1 ½ teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt

Whisk together the yogurt, sugar, eggs, oil, and vanilla. Add the dry ingredients and stir to combine.

Pour
the batter into a greased, 10-inch springform pan (or two round cake
pans) and bake at 375 degrees for 35-45 minutes or until the top is
cracked and an inserted toothpick comes out clean.

This
cake is great served plain, with a cup of coffee, or with whipped cream
and fresh berries. Also, I think it would be fabulous crumbled into a
bowl, topped with sugared strawberries and drowned in milk.

This same time, years previous: butchering chickens, in their words, sauteed Swiss chard with a fried egg

Last week, we split the fam up three ways: two kids to camp, two kids with my mom and dad (at our house), and me and my husband to New York City.

Almost immediately, our plans got foiled.

The plane that was to take us from our regional airport to our connecting flight in DC hit some birds on its way in, so we had to wait for an hour for the mechanic to come which meant that we missed our connecting flight and had to live in the airport for several hours.

But then the next day we went to Ellis Island and I read all about the immigrants who traveled for, oh, like weeks and weeks and weeks to get to where they were going and about the families who got detained for years, and I was all like, Ha! Three hours in an airport? That’s NOTHING! 

Perspective—it’s bloomin’ amaz-za-zing.

While in the city, we immersed ourselves in the Broadway show lottery culture, but after losing out twice, we gave up and bought tickets for The Phantom. Which was good and impressive and all (fire! swinging chandeliers! opera! disappearing acts! exotic costuming!), but—and this might sound nearly blasphemous—it made me realize how much I really really like The Blackfriars. (Though I still have a deep and abiding hankering to see Once. The two tickets that were left were over 200 bucks a pop—it just wasn’t happening).

I took my husband to Carmine’s … twice. The sheer quantity of food they served us nearly traumatized him. We ate our fill, brought home the leftovers, and fed a half dozen more people—and that was just from one order.

We walked over the Brooklyn Bridge, got lost, and then found what we were looking for: Grimaldi’s Pizza. We had to stand in line for half an hour, but it was totally worth it. Some of the best pizza evah.

In Times Square, I stared at the topless woman (with her nipples painted red) and the guitar-strumming man wearing only his whitey tighties. In Central Park, I stared at the man doing ballet-type stretching exercises and the woman with a napkin tucked into her shorts that read “Sex—Five Dollars.” In the subway, I stared at the giant rat snuffling over and under the tracks. (Okay, so I only “stared” at the rat. I “glanced discreetly” at everything else.) (Except the man in his undies—I do believe I stared at him.) (But everyone else was, too, so it was okay.)

Neither my husband or I wanted to sit in the grass in Central Park. It felt so dirty, like a million dogs had probably pooped on it (it mattered not one wit that their owners had probably immediately scooped up their droppings with a plastic bag afterwards). And then we laughed at ourselves for being such grass snobs. Chicken shit on our feet? No problem. City dog poo? Ew!

My husband thoroughly enjoyed his first (real) visit to NYC. I, too, enjoyed myself, but I was also a little surprised to feel myself getting bored with the place.

Wait! Before you throw up your hands and run away in disgust, let me ‘splain!

The first time I was in NYC, I was fully engaged in exploring, absorbing, observing, surviving. It was new and challenging, and the whole place kind of blew my mind. The second time I was at a conference. This last time, it was like the first time, but without the edge of newness.

What I realized was that there’s not much to do in the city (as a tourist, of course) besides taking it all in. (And to think that the city folks come to the country and cry, There’s nothing to DO here!) While in the city, I wasn’t creating or producing, just being and seeing, which can be a lot of fun and relaxing and all that, but after awhile it gets kind of dull.

The only time I got engaged enough to have an actual exchange was when I was making a purchase, and there sure isn’t much long-lasting fulfillment in consumerism. Oh yeah, and the other time I switched from taker to giver was when I offered to take a family’s picture for them. A little thing, no? But it made me feel totally different—much more alive.

Friday morning we showed up at Port Authority bus terminal to meet the kids we’d be chaperoning for the Fresh Air Fund.

Some parents stayed on the other side of the barrier up until the last minute, just to watch their kids. Some kids and mamas stayed locked in embraces for long stretches of time, just savoring being in each others presence. Watching all these little kids leaving their families, I teared up, repeatedly. The sadness, even when mixed up with eager anticipation, was physically painful. (Of course, there were many kids hopping around with pure, giddy excitement, too.)

The bus ride home was uneventful, except for the tractor trailer tire that blew out just as our bus was passing. It sounded like a bomb went off. I could feel the hole in my chest.

Note: we still need host families for this summer. There are lots of city kids anxiously waiting and hoping they’ll get to spend a few days in the country this summer! Next trip dates for our area are July 31-August 10.

This same time, years previous: berry almond baked oatmeal, cottage potatoes, fruit cobbler, orange julius

We’re skipping church this morning in favor of a) my husband and the kids cleaning up the yard and doing garden work before the heat peaks, and b) writing time at Panera for me. Our power came back on last night, but the internet is still out, and considering that the tower it at the top of a mountain, I have a hunch it will be out for quite some time yet. So I just spend forty-five minutes answering and organizing emails, skimming Facebook, and now, writing. The air conditioning, strumming guitar music, and caffeine buzz are a pretty nice combo.

Since I was last here in bloggyland, I flew to NYC, did All Kinds of Stuff, and then escorted a busload of 35 city kids back home (to the area, not to my house). But I’m going to skip over that (I’ll tell you about it eventually…probably) and cut straight to the latest story: the storm.

Friday night, my husband and I were innocently making the rounds between the kids’ rooms, tucking them in to bed, when the storm hit. I was saying good-night to my son when I noticed that the wind was picking up. I knew a thunderstorm was coming, so I went out into the hallway to shut the window at the top of the stairs. Right as I reached the window, the wind smacked into the house with such force that the window screen buckled, the bedroom doors slammed (some of the door stops were knocked clean off), and the maple tree (the one right outside the hallway window) snapped.

I screamed at my husband (I have no idea what I said) and took off down the stairs. When I paused at the bottom to gather my bearings and to make sure the rest of the family was coming, Nickel zipped right by me. I caught him around the waist and held on tight while he screamed and struggled, frantic to be going somewhere, though I had no idea where. I yelled at the other kids to get to the basement, scooped up the shaking boy with one arm, and ran for the door.

Later I asked Nickel where he was going. “To the basement,” he said.

“Did someone tell you to go there?”

“No.”

“Then how did you know to go there?”

“Because that’s where you go when it’s windy!”

My husband had a harder time getting our older son out of bed. He was nearly frozen with terror and my husband had to yell at him a couple times to get him to move. Later, our son told us that the attic hole board (that’s in the ceiling of his room) had lifted up and blown away and some cloth (or something) shot down through the hole, a la a hand or something equally nightmarish. No wonder he was paralyzed!

The first 30-40 minutes in the basement were traumatic. Even in the cellar, we could hear the trees thrashing and doors banging. We had no idea what was going on. Was there a tornado? I had checked the weather a couple hours before—they were calling for some severe thunder storms but there was no mention of anything out of the ordinary.

The kids were shaking and crying, clinging to each other, hunkered down on the dirty concrete floor. Sweetsie was so terrified she got sick to her stomach and threw up. I said all sorts of things to calm them down:

We’ll be just fine.
Your spit rag is fine.
You may NOT keep crying. You have to calm down and be quiet.
If your clothes get ruined, we’ll buy more.
The dog and cat are perfectly fine. The chickens are FINE.
It’s just some bad wind. It is not a tornado.
This won’t last forever. It will soon be over.
We will be fine.
We’re safe here.

I wasn’t lying exactly, but my confidence was not based on reality. Unless hope is a reality?

“Pray, Mama, please pray,” they begged. And so, even though I don’t believe in that sort of way, I did, in little fits and starts. And when my husband and son went upstairs to get blankets (and the laptop, camera, and spit rag) and shut the windows against the rain that had started, I sang to them, too—”Jesus Loves Me” is what popped out.

We made a nest on the floor with all the blankets. Note: you know your kids are scared when they can lay practically on top of each other for an hour and a half without fighting.

To lessen their fear, I tried some humor. “Hey guys! Did you notice what I saved when the storm hit?”

“Blankets?” one daughter suggested.

“No, silly! YOU! You kids are always saying I love my computer more than you, so I’d like you to notice that the only thing I thought of when the storm hit was you. I just wanted to clear that up, you know, for the record.”

Also, I thanked them for the lovely family time we were having.

I don’t think they fully appreciated my little jabs at humor, but oh well. Joking around made me feel better.

Actually, I wasn’t all that scared, really—perhaps because I’m generally pretty clueless? My husband, on the other hand, was much more freaked out than I was  (though he didn’t let on in front of the kids).

When it came time to go back upstairs, we had to order the kids to come with us. They refused to go back up to their beds, however (I didn’t blame them), so we threw blankets all over the place and told them to pick a spot.

The next day was spent getting water from a spring, doing bits of clean-up, and cooking on the outdoor cookstove. We got the generator from the my parents’ property, and, with my brother’s family, took turns using it to keep the freezers cold. Which was a HUGE stress reliever, thank you Mom and Dad (and I’m so sorry that you had to get towed when your car broke down while you were driving home to WV in the storm and that you didn’t get home till one in the morning, and that when you did, you didn’t have electricity, but yeah, anyway, thanks for the generator). Towards evening we even hooked the generator up to the well so we could get showers, and we took water to some neighbors (and then kicked ourselves for not thinking of them sooner).

Last night at bedtime, the kids were still too scared to sleep alone so we piled into two bedrooms, never mind the thick, sultry, oppressively still air. (My daughter had cleaned up the basement and carried a pile of blankets down there, just in case.) And then the kids feel asleep and the power came on, yay.

Now that the power is back on and life is normalizing (though we’re still without a phone), I’m hoping the trauma soon fades. However, ordinary breezes feel slightly malicious (to all of us, I think), and one daughter believes it’s the hot weather that brings on the storms. In that case, we may be in for a couple more communal sleeping experiences as the heat wave isn’t going to break for another few days at least.

So tell me, how did the storm treat you?

P.S. Update: the power went back out again this morning, my husband reported when we met up at the church potluck. I’m still in town (though my latest coffee shop doesn’t have internet access)—it’s tempting to just stay here in Air-Conditioned Coffee Land forever.

P.P.S. The power is back on. The phone works. Still no internet.

P.P.P.S. Update, late Sunday night: we have internet!!!!

This same time, years previous: the big apple, goat cheese whipped cream, how to dry apricots, red beet greens, linguine with shrimp and cilantro-lime pesto, spaghetti with Swiss chard, raisins, and almonds, yogurt