I find myself in a weird place: rather busy—sometimes annoyingly so—and yet on the cusp of a lull. I can feel it coming, the slipping into cozy comfort, the sweet routines, the ordinary ebbs and flows, and while I love it, I also have an underlying need for more, more, more. A new project, maybe. Something to challenge my mind. It’s like a craving, this pulsating need to produce, stretch, experience, delight, thrill.

A dozen-plus years ago, I invited some high school girls to come hang out in my house to talk. Actually, I wrote about this in my (unfinished) book, so here. No need to write the same thing twice…

And then there are my high-schoolers.  The idea simmered on my back burner for quite a while before I sent out invitations to the girls at church to come to my house to talk.  I promised I would answer any questions they had.  I was open to all topics:  religion, family, eating disorders, and the hottest of all concerns, sex.  The girls started flocking to my house every other Wednesday night.  Very soon they dubbed themselves the Milkmaids because they were drinking large quantities of milk with my homemade snacks. 


The nights everybody descends on our house for our loud and hairy gabfests, I dim the lights and pile pillows around, and as the lone semi-mature adult I hear out their ecstasies and sorrows.   A single votive candle is my one attempt at order; the rule (quite loosely followed) being that only the person holding the candle may speak.  I throw out a question or an idea and they respond to it, taking however much time they need, passing the candle when they’re finished.  Much of the time is spent laughing hysterically, but it’s a rare evening that no one weeps.

I share this now because nearly a decade later, this group has reformed. It’s kind of funny how it started. A few weeks back, several of the girls came over to see the puppies. We sat in the yard drinking mint tea and ended up talking for three hours. In passing, I mentioned how it’s amazing that so many of the original Milkmaids are living in the Valley after all these years, and one of the girls said, “Yeah, we should do Milkmaids again.”

I laughed off her suggestion—that era is long gone—but that night in the shower I did a double take. Milkmaids again? Could that even possibly work? After a bunch of pondering and some consultations with my husband, I sent out an invite. A couple weeks later, Milkmaids 2.0 (until we come up with a better name) was in session.

In some ways, the group is different. We drink wine instead of milk. They have husbands, babies, and jobs instead of sports, homework, and youth group. With ten more years of experience under their belts, there is greater depth to their insights. The conversation is richer.

But in many ways the group is exactly the same. They all look just like they did ten years ago (they say I do, too—aren’t they sweet?). Tears and laughter bubble over willy-nilly. The nights run late. And I still open each gathering with a guiding thought.

The last time we met, I opened with one of the teacher’s precepts from Wonder: It is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers (James Thurber). After the candle had made its way around the circle, they asked me what my questions were. I confessed I hadn’t given it any thought and proceeded to bumble around for a bit before mercifully falling silent.

Since that night, I’ve been mulling over that precept. I think I’ve finally come up with my question:

How do I know when to practice contentment and when to push myself beyond my comfort zone? And what if contentment is beyond my comfort zone (oh no!)?

Maybe my constant desire for More is an addiction, a distraction technique, a hindrance to true joy. But maybe this aching itch means that there is more of me to be uncovered. Maybe it is My True Potential yanking at its collar, begging to be unleashed?

Discovery is what I want. Sometimes I dream about being discovered, but I think that would be, ultimately, unsatisfying. What I really want, I think, is to discover. To discover a good recipe, a new insight, a skill, a friendship, myself.

Most times, I feel like a walking cliche. Take it one day at a time! Know thyself! To every season there is a purpose! Think of others first! Love wins! Dare to dream! 

Perhaps it’s silly, this constant turmoil. But hey, it is what it is.

Do I practice contentment or do I push?
Do I do both?
And how?

This same time, years previous: not your typical back-to-school post, a piece of heaven, grilled trout with bacon, lately, our life, kill a groundhog and put it in a quiche, and fresh mozzarella.

Yesterday—Monday—I had nothing on the calendar.

No rehearsals.
No shows.
No canning.
No freezing.
No doctors’ appointments.
No nothing.

Since the weather was cool and overcast, I decided to spend my morning cooking actual food. I’ve had so many things on my to-make list, but what with all the Busy, I’ve only succeeded in getting by with the bare minimum. So while the children played, I caught up on my NPR shows and made granola, yogurt, a chocolate cake, and the base for salted caramel ice cream. It was just the kind of day I needed after the rush-rush of the last couple weeks. And then, to top off the perfectness, I made a supper worth writing about, whoo-hoo!

Two things:
1) When I was in NYC this past winter, I had ravioli in a vodka cream sauce at Carmine’s. The ravioli was nice, but the sauce was spectacular. Upon my return home, I researched recipes but none seemed right. The end.
2) When we were in Guatemala, one-pot spaghetti was all the rage. I tried it and hated it. The end.

Except not the end. Enter, just yesterday, a friend’s Facebook status update: We made a vodka-cream-tomato sauce…

Of course I begged the recipe, and shortly thereafter he obliged with a follow-up post that began with a sentence that could not have been more straightforward:  This is a post about how to cook pasta in one pot. After a flurry of questions and answers, I set about making the spaghetti to end all spaghettis.

My friend’s method is direct, just like his opening sentence. Saute garlic and onion. Add five cups of liquid (stock, water, tomato juice), some tomato sauce/paste, chopped tomatoes, and seasonings. Boil. Add the spaghetti, and when it’s almost done, add the vodka and cream. Toss in the precooked meats, if desired, and add lots of chopped fresh basil. Transfer the whole glorious mess to a giant serving bowl, sprinkle with Parmesan, and serve.

I was a bit nervous, starting out. Carmine’s vodka cream sauce was nectar-of-the-gods good, and that one-pot pasta was such a pile of muck. Turns out, I needn’t have worried. Each taste test along the way lightened my mood, and by the time I added the vodka and cream I was practically tap-dancing around the kitchen, pausing every time I passed the stove to slurp the sauce.

The family fought over the spaghetti. At one point, my husband even tried to steal my older son’s entire plate (no luck). There wasn’t one speck of pasta left over, but the delicious memory lingered well into the night when I dreamed, no joke, of Carmine’s. Except that meal, in my dream, was flavorless and cost 600 dollars, so I’ll happily stick with my new favorite homemade recipe, thank you very much.

Spaghetti with Vodka Cream Tomato Sauce
Adapted from Christian’s Facebok Status Update. (He needs to start a food blog.)

The key is five cups liquid to one pound of pasta. I used water with chicken bouillon and the juice from a can of strained tomatoes. I added the drained chopped tomatoes and then a pint of pizza sauce for richness. You can play around with types and quantities of tomato products, but don’t mess with the quantity of liquid.

Updated measures, so I can eliminate thinking: 4 cups water/broth, 1 quart canned, chopped tomatoes, 1 pint pizza sauce.

1 onion, chopped
5-6 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons olive oil
5 cups liquid (water, broth, tomato juice, etc.)
3 cups chopped, canned tomatoes
1 pint pizza sauce
salt and black pepper, to taste
1 teaspoon sugar, optional
1 pound dry spaghetti, broken
1/3 cup vodka
2/3 cup heavy cream
precooked meat, optional (I added a couple pounds of meatballs)
½ cup chopped fresh basil
½ cup freshly grated Parmesan

In a large stock pot, saute the onion and garlic in the olive oil. When the veggies are tender, stir in the pizza sauce, chopped tomatoes, liquid, salt, pepper, and sugar. Bring to a rolling boil. Add the spaghetti. Cook for 8 minutes, stirring frequently. When the spaghetti is almost done, add the vodka and cream and return to a simmer. Add the precooked meat and fresh basil. Transfer the pasta to a large serving bowl and sprinkle with Parmesan.

A word about the play: people are really enjoying it! Comments I’ve heard include, “It’s really funny,” “This may be the best thing I’ve seen at Court Square Theater yet,” “Everyone was crying,” and “What a great story!” We’ve got four more shows this weekend! I hope to see you there!

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (8.12.13), and totally worth it.

This same time, years previous: getting my halo on, there’s that, a bout of snarky, sanitation and me, how to can peaches, dried fruit, and orange-mint tea.