I am not a storyteller. I do not regale my children with enchanting tales that have a beginning, middle, and end. Rather, I am more of a conversationalist and lecturer. If something happens to me and I want to tell someone else about it, I regurgitate it all, in a rush, splat. There is no weaving, no crafting, no plotting. Therefore, it is a rather odd coincidence that I have fallen into the habit of telling my baby a story every night before bed.

It came about quite by accident. One night when I went upstairs to tuck the kids in to bed, my littlest grabbed me with his big blue eyes and said, all sweet-like and pleading, “Mama, tell me a story about when you were little.”

So I told him about the time when my dad woke me up in the middle of the night but it didn’t seem like the middle of the night because everything was lit up with a weird yellow-orange light because a gas line had exploded a few miles away. It felt like the whole town was out and about, and we walked around talking with the neighbors just like Atticus and Scout and Jem did when Miss Maudie’s house burned down (though I didn’t include that last part in my story).

And wouldn’t you know, that pleading question is now the first thing he says to me every night when I walk into his room. So I curl up on the bed beside him and rack my memory for something interesting. As I start to talk, his breathing slows and his body stills. His eyes fix on my face, and he listens for all he’s worth. I can actually see him listening. When I finish—and the stories are no more than a minute or two long—he smiles, sucks in a big breath like he’s coming up for air, and giggles. He always, always begs for one more story.

A week or so into our new routine, he asked me to retell a specific story. “The second one you told me,” he said. I was surprised. Was he keeping a mental list of the stories I told? I asked him to recount the ones I’d told him, and sure enough, he could correctly identify story one, two, three, four, etc. I was impressed. For whatever reason, these random memories I’m dredging up to appease him with are sticking in his noggin.

I doubt he could keep the stories in order anymore, though, there have been so many. Usually they’re just bits and pieces of my past, like the time one of our rabbits chewed off my Barbie’s hand, or the one about how I put our neighbor’s chubby dog on an aggressive keep-up-with-me-while-I-ride-my-bike-around-town fitness plan when I was just supposed to be taking it for a little walk every day, or the time bear tracks were found in the swamp below where I waited for the bus on dark school mornings and how I was too scared to go to the bus stop by myself anymore. Others are more well-rounded stories, like when my dad chased the joyriders out of the creek, or when one of our rabbits abandoned her litter and we tried to keep the bunnies alive in the oven (total fail). In every single case, no matter how fragmented the memory, he acts like I just gave him a piece of the moon. Which makes me wonder: is story telling more than just the sum of its parts?

In any case, I’m slowly, very slowly, beginning to see this new ritual as an opportunity and not a chore, and sometimes (but not often enough) I think about the story ahead of time. Once in a great while there’s even a beginning, a middle, and an end.

This same time, years previous: orange-cranberry bread, smashing for pretty, chocolate pots de creme, feminism part one

Our evenings have gotten busier than I like. Take this week for example: something has been scheduled for every singe late afternoon and/or evening. Lots of good stuff. Lots of fun stuff. But stuff that, nonetheless, requires coordination, car keys, fossil fuels, hurried suppers, and missed bedtime stories.

Suppers have been bare bones: an ovenfull of baked potatoes, veggies from the freezer, beans and rice. Only one night did I make a meal that involved any creativity whatsoever, and that was the night that my husband did the running and I got to stay at home. I made a lemony red lentil soup, and wouldn’t you know, the kids hated it. But I thought it was so incredibly delicious that I didn’t even care. It is the perfect soup to have on hand for my lunches: nourishing, easy to reheat, and intoxicating with exotic flavors.

Just a little over an hour ago I returned from an errand that involved an entire morning spent in the car listening to Harry Potter while one carsick child moaned in my intolerant and unsympathetic ear (me: If you’re going to throw up, tell me; otherwise, stop groaning), and by the time I got home, I was starving hungry. I threw some cheese sandwiches and apples on the table for the kids (toast for the recovering sicky) and then went about preparing my feast of soup. I sauteed a large handful of fresh spinach in some butter, and heated up a bowl of brown rice and another bowl of soup. The presentation of this soup is most important and I take care with it, even when it’s just for little old me’s lunch: soup on the bottom, then a mound of brown rice on one side, the spinach on another, and some plan yogurt on yet another. A grind of black pepper and I was set.

The first bite went in my mouth. “Oh wow,” I said out loud, even though the kids were already in rest time and there was no one else in the room to listen to me swoon. But, and I’m not sure if you know this already or not, some foods are so exquisite they simply must be appreciated out loud—this soup is one of those foods. I sat down at my desk and tried to force myself to eat slowly, but all too soon my spoon was scraping up the dregs of lemony lentil goodness.

This soup is not an Indian food, per say, but it reminded me of dahl. There are the seasonings—cumin, turmeric, and mustard seeds—a couple large onions, and the salted, earthy spinach. But it’s the lemon—oh, the lemon!—which elevates the dish to a whole other level. Chapatis, while superfluous, would be a delicious accompaniment.

This season of business is passing, I think (I hope), but in the meantime, for this week at least, this soup will be key in getting me through.

Red Lentil Soup with Lemon and Spinach
Adapted from Heidi Swanson of 101 Cookbooks

I made a couple significant changes (omitting the cilantro and cooking the lentils [and rice] in lots of flavorful chicken broth), so I’m not sure Heidi would want me to associate my recipe with hers, especially considering that my version is rich with chicken broth and she’s a vegetarian.

Note: this recipe is also posted here.

2 cups red lentils, rinsed
6 cups chicken broth (or water)
2 teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon turmeric
4 tablespoons butter, divided
2 medium onions, chopped
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 ½ teaspoons yellow mustard seed
2-3 lemons, the juice of
lots of fresh spinach
cooked brown rice
plain yogurt
black pepper

Put the lentils, turmeric, 1 tablespoon butter, and salt in a large pot and add the chicken broth. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until the lentils are very soft. Puree the soup using a handheld immersion blender (or a regular blender).

Melt 2 tablespoons of butter in a large skillet and add the onions, cumin, and mustard seed. Saute until the onions are very soft—about 15-20 minutes.

Add the onions to the pot of pureed soup. Squeeze in the juice of two (or three) lemons. Taste to correct seasonings.

Immediately before serving, melt the remaining tablespoon of butter in a large skillet and add the spinach. Sprinkle with salt and toss until wilted.

To serve: fill the bowls with soup, and garnish liberally with scoops of warm brown rice, the sauteed spinach, plain yogurt, and freshly ground black pepper.

This same time, years previous: bad mamas

*blue, blue, oh so blue!, autumn skies: but today they are heavy and dark with rain
*the fruits of my (much needed) inspiration to clean out my spice cupboard, thanks to Aimee of Simple Bites
*an apple pie, ready for the oven
*fixing the wheelbarrow tire: he hooked up the air compressor all by himself (and without me knowing) and then used it correctly, too
*slicing apples for the dehydrator
*cozy reading time
*caramel popcorn cooling on the table: decreasing the popcorn and (unintentionally, I promise!) increasing the butter makes for some out-of-this-world deliciousness
*a trash can lid hat
*gorgeous green, good for both my eyes and my tummy. (Bonus, my kids love them, too.)
*after an evening of guests: the table, still dressed and lit. As we’ve had a lot of company in the last couple weeks, we’ve been burning candles endlessly. I light them as soon as I get up in the morning to make the cold, dark mornings a little more inviting.

This same time, years previous: a homeschooling experiment report