To commemorate our triumphant return to Freedom Friday, Mr. C and I celebrated with ceremonial trips to Target and Costco. After our shopping revelry, I led Stan off our beaten path to a little hole-in-the-wall deep in North Hollywood, called Brami's Kosher Pizza. I had read about some amazing creation they had there, though I could not remember the name. My confidence was momentarily shaken when we pulled into a dingy little strip mall and I saw cheesy posters in the window of Brami's, advertising "two slices and a drink, $3.99!" It looked like your average generic pizza slice joint, no frills, nothing that promised to be earth-shattering.
Appearances can be deceiving.
We wandered in, throwing caution to the wind (though we didn't throw too much caution; we did, indeed, take all our valuables out of the car). There was no ambience to be found within the confines of Brami's; in fact, this was pretty much a get-down-to-the business-of-eating place. We went to the register and said to the guy, "Okay, we read about you guys in the Times. What should we get?"
He humbly pointed to one of the items, entitled Malawach Pizza, saying, "This is pretty darn good.". It wasn't even prominent on the menu. But it sounded different enough to be promising. So we told him to bring us one of those, and a Greek salad.
Once we had ordered, we noticed the very article I had read from the Times, framed on the wall. Indeed, it was the Malawach pizza they had reviewed, and I was happy I had gotten my facts straight.
We were even more thankful when we got our pizza. WOW. Turns out Malawach is a kind of dough. I can't quite describe it except to say it is melt-in-your-mouth spectactular. Kind of a cross between puff pastry and phillo dough. The bottom gets a little crispier, the top is soft and pillowy, and stuffed in between is an exquisite melted mixture of mozzarella, feta, chopped tomatoes and green olives. Stan and I shamelessly inhaled this pizza in about five minutes, giddily laughing because it was that good. I could have used a little less green olive- I love them, but the tang was a bit overwhelming after two pieces. No matter; I simply peeled back my Malawach, picked a few out, and folded it back. If I ordered it next time (and there will be a next time), I would ask for what the menu says: green onion, not green olive. Big difference. I think the menu must be a misprint, but I'd like to try it! Stan loved the abundance of green olive, so it might have just been my delicate feminine palate.
Let it be said that the salad was also big, beautiful, and quite tasty. Lots of lettuce, feta, red onion, kalamata olives and tomato, with a huge side of ranch dressing. And if you're just not in the mood for kosher pizza or a salad, fear not... they have omelettes too.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Flying Solo on Freedom Friday
How can there be a restaurant called "There's No Place Like Home", and I didn't know about it?!
This week, my husband was rehearsing a show and was unavailable for Freedom Friday. Oh, the horror! But I quickly rallied and recruited aforementioned awesome friend Jimmy to be Stan's Stan(d) In. He lives in Los Feliz, so we chose this place with the name I melt for, right around the corner from him. You can't miss "Home", as a huge red sign hangs over the outdoor patio seating area as you walk in, as if announcing to the neighborhood that you've arrived at the zenith of comfort and coziness. I almost expected Aunt Em to emerge from the kitchen to hand us our menus.
We sat inside on this chilly November day, and were greeted by our waitress, a good old gal who was so friendly and helpful we almost asked her to join us. She explained the highlights of the menu, and was very enthusiastic about her favorite items. She also joined Jimmy in a discussion of the best and worst wheat-free products available at Trader Joe's.
Jimmy got the red velvet pancakes, and I ordered the Eggwich, designed As You Like It. As I Liked It was with eggs scrambled fluffily, as-crisp-as-they-could-get-it turkey bacon, smothered with cheddar cheese, on grilled sourdough. This was one awesome Eggwich, accompanied by home fries- the kind with tiny perfect squares of red and green pepper and onion mixed in. Who invented breakfast? I'd like to kiss him.
Jimmy raved about his red velvet pancakes, but I didn't try a bite only because I am not a huge red velvet girl. It's just chocolate with red food coloring, right? But the red throws me off. I think I prefer taking my chocolate straight. And keeping it out of my pancakes.
Jimmy and I talked about everything under the sun, which always happens when we get together. We're very like-minded and seem to agree on most things of grand importance, from the key to world peace to the best and worst movies (perhaps we only disagree about red velvet). On this particular day, we were lamenting violence in film and TV. We agreed that many psychological dramas and creepy thrillers can be great fun... but both of us have trouble watching scenarios of blatant brutality towards human beings. I know for me, something changed when I had kids (I can hear the collective childless-adult groan now). But it's true; after Addie's birth, I was shocked to find myself walking out of the room early into a renting of "Pan's Labyrinth", because of a particularly brutal scene involving a father and son. This scene would certainly have bothered me before I had kids, but it is unwatchable now. It followed me into my dreams. I will replay the images over and over again. It's not worth the wrenching sadness it causes within me. Lots of people tell me I'd really enjoy "Dexter", but I haven't seen it because I'm afraid I won't sleep.
By contrast, I watched "Paranormal Activity" on Halloween. I was tense the whole time, but it was a fun tense... and I didn't dream about it, or even think about it, again. Supernatural and demonic, I can handle. Throw me an Exorcist or a Rosemary's Baby anytime. I love it. But I will never watch "Saw", any of its countless sequels. What good are these movies in the world? They only serve to give bad people innovative torture ideas. For the rest of the population, they're a way to watch horrific things happen to ordinary people. Who sits in a room and thinks of these things? What a waste of brain cells. I can't think of anyone I'd want to see tortured in this manner. Okay, maybe Katherine Heigl.
Funny that Jimmy and I were sitting in a restaurant called "There's No Place Like Home", talking about violence and death. Maybe we needed to provide a yang to the eatery's yin. Whatever the discussion, I always come away from Jimmy feeling a little closer to The Truth, whatever that is. Pity we can't spend a week at some culinary retreat. We could solve all the world's ills during our meals, and I'd never get fat because Jimmy's a nutritionist.
Next Friday, my hubby will be performing in Palm Springs and I'll be spending Black Friday with my two wonderful boys, eating leftovers and belching a lot. So stay tuned for the following Friday, when Freedom will be restored and Stan and I will be reunited to embark on yet another Los Angeles eating adventure.
Speaking of eating... Happy Turkey Day, everyone.
This week, my husband was rehearsing a show and was unavailable for Freedom Friday. Oh, the horror! But I quickly rallied and recruited aforementioned awesome friend Jimmy to be Stan's Stan(d) In. He lives in Los Feliz, so we chose this place with the name I melt for, right around the corner from him. You can't miss "Home", as a huge red sign hangs over the outdoor patio seating area as you walk in, as if announcing to the neighborhood that you've arrived at the zenith of comfort and coziness. I almost expected Aunt Em to emerge from the kitchen to hand us our menus.
We sat inside on this chilly November day, and were greeted by our waitress, a good old gal who was so friendly and helpful we almost asked her to join us. She explained the highlights of the menu, and was very enthusiastic about her favorite items. She also joined Jimmy in a discussion of the best and worst wheat-free products available at Trader Joe's.
Jimmy got the red velvet pancakes, and I ordered the Eggwich, designed As You Like It. As I Liked It was with eggs scrambled fluffily, as-crisp-as-they-could-get-it turkey bacon, smothered with cheddar cheese, on grilled sourdough. This was one awesome Eggwich, accompanied by home fries- the kind with tiny perfect squares of red and green pepper and onion mixed in. Who invented breakfast? I'd like to kiss him.
Jimmy raved about his red velvet pancakes, but I didn't try a bite only because I am not a huge red velvet girl. It's just chocolate with red food coloring, right? But the red throws me off. I think I prefer taking my chocolate straight. And keeping it out of my pancakes.
Jimmy and I talked about everything under the sun, which always happens when we get together. We're very like-minded and seem to agree on most things of grand importance, from the key to world peace to the best and worst movies (perhaps we only disagree about red velvet). On this particular day, we were lamenting violence in film and TV. We agreed that many psychological dramas and creepy thrillers can be great fun... but both of us have trouble watching scenarios of blatant brutality towards human beings. I know for me, something changed when I had kids (I can hear the collective childless-adult groan now). But it's true; after Addie's birth, I was shocked to find myself walking out of the room early into a renting of "Pan's Labyrinth", because of a particularly brutal scene involving a father and son. This scene would certainly have bothered me before I had kids, but it is unwatchable now. It followed me into my dreams. I will replay the images over and over again. It's not worth the wrenching sadness it causes within me. Lots of people tell me I'd really enjoy "Dexter", but I haven't seen it because I'm afraid I won't sleep.
By contrast, I watched "Paranormal Activity" on Halloween. I was tense the whole time, but it was a fun tense... and I didn't dream about it, or even think about it, again. Supernatural and demonic, I can handle. Throw me an Exorcist or a Rosemary's Baby anytime. I love it. But I will never watch "Saw", any of its countless sequels. What good are these movies in the world? They only serve to give bad people innovative torture ideas. For the rest of the population, they're a way to watch horrific things happen to ordinary people. Who sits in a room and thinks of these things? What a waste of brain cells. I can't think of anyone I'd want to see tortured in this manner. Okay, maybe Katherine Heigl.
Funny that Jimmy and I were sitting in a restaurant called "There's No Place Like Home", talking about violence and death. Maybe we needed to provide a yang to the eatery's yin. Whatever the discussion, I always come away from Jimmy feeling a little closer to The Truth, whatever that is. Pity we can't spend a week at some culinary retreat. We could solve all the world's ills during our meals, and I'd never get fat because Jimmy's a nutritionist.
Next Friday, my hubby will be performing in Palm Springs and I'll be spending Black Friday with my two wonderful boys, eating leftovers and belching a lot. So stay tuned for the following Friday, when Freedom will be restored and Stan and I will be reunited to embark on yet another Los Angeles eating adventure.
Speaking of eating... Happy Turkey Day, everyone.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Double Feature Freedom Friday
Today I shall proudly report on our last two Freedom Fridays, since I neglected to post last Friday. What a week to neglect! We went to what had to be my favorite F.F. place so far: BeaBea's in Burbank. Stan found our destination last week, and he did it unprompted, too! He got inspired, went onto Yelp, and announced where we were going. I was thrilled and delighted! So mid-morning, we took our hungry selves to a strip mall on Pass Avenue. Tucked in the back corner was the little diner with the big menu. BeaBea's tag line is "Breakfast is Everything", and when I saw that on their awning, I already knew I was going to love it.
The joint is obviously a local favorite; it wasn't overly crowded, but we got the immediate sense that they have their "regulars". There's a counter, where customers chatted it up with the wait staff like they were all old buddies. We told our waiter that it was our first time, and he happily regaled us with his personal menu favorites.
It is a restaurant where you definitely need suggestions. The breakfast selection is massive. Under the heading "Pancakes", there are twenty options. Same goes for "French Toast", "Waffles", and "Crepes".
Do you already love this place? I thought so.
Because it was a mere three days before Halloween, I decided on the pumpkin pancakes, our waiter's very first suggestion. Stan, who is usually in a more savory mood, got the Volcano Scramble. A perfect combo, as we always go halfsies. Mind you, it was tough to pass up the specials... there was an apple walnut pancake a la mode, for example. But we went classic, simple, and straightforward for our first BeaBea's bonanza.
Wow.
The pumpkin pancakes were perfection. A light sprinkling of powdered sugar on top. I slathered on the butter because... well, because it's butter... and asked for an extra maple syrup, because I hate to run out. I've been to The Griddle before (where the pancakes are the size of manholes and I'm not complaining), but these pancakes were even better, simply because they weren't so rich that you're done after three bites. These had just the perfect amount of sweetness that kept you coming back for more until the plate was empty. At The Griddle, I felt terribly guilty that when I was full I still had enough on my plate to feed a small third-world country.
Stan's scramble was delicious too... eggs, mozzarella, cheddar, chicken apple sausage, tortilla strips, sour cream and tomatillo sauce, with hash browns on the side (Stan orders his extra crispy and they got it right). We sat, holding hands, filling our bellies and commenting about how much we love our Fridays. This may be the best idea we've ever come up with!
Today, we decided to turn it into Freedom Friend Friday and meet our wonderful amigo Jimmy for breakfast. Originally we had chosen Alcove in Los Feliz, but it's an outdoor cafe... so when the rain resumed mid-morning, we quickly re-routed ourselves to Fred 62. It's a very popular kitschy diner on Vermont. We sat in a cozy booth and basked in the excitement of a rainy-day egg delight. There's nothing like breakfast in the rain! Stan and I were both in a savory mood (Stan was shocked I did not get a pancake/waffle/french toast concoction), and this time we both opted for their breakfast burrito.
Jimmy is eating gluten-free these days, so we almost made him sit at another table. The only reason we allowed him to stay is that he really is having trouble with gluten; he's not just deciding to be a pain in our wheat-eating ass. We appreciate that. But he had to order an egg sandwich without the bread, so there you have it. I'm sure it was tasty, but who cares. Bread is everything.
What's surprising about Fred 62 is that it looks like your average greasy spoon, but what emerges from the kitchen is actually quite artful. Our burritos were beautifully coated with a delicious red sauce and perfectly drizzled with sour cream, then sprinkled with cilantro. Inside was a mesmerizing combo of scrambled eggs, chorizo, jack and cheddar cheese, and green onion.
I can't believe I ate the whoooooole thing.
We haven't really had a "miss" yet on our Freedom Fridays. I like to think it's because the world senses this is a good thing. We are in the Karmic Zone, treating our tastebuds and our marriage to a weekly treat. Even if we run into a meal that stinks, the company will never let us down. Today, we spent an hour with a true friend. We laughed, we commiserated, we shared ideas and stories and insights. Talking to Jimmy is never boring. He's one of those people you just feel lucky to have in your life.
Him, and breakfast. Because you know what BeaBea says.
The joint is obviously a local favorite; it wasn't overly crowded, but we got the immediate sense that they have their "regulars". There's a counter, where customers chatted it up with the wait staff like they were all old buddies. We told our waiter that it was our first time, and he happily regaled us with his personal menu favorites.
It is a restaurant where you definitely need suggestions. The breakfast selection is massive. Under the heading "Pancakes", there are twenty options. Same goes for "French Toast", "Waffles", and "Crepes".
Do you already love this place? I thought so.
Because it was a mere three days before Halloween, I decided on the pumpkin pancakes, our waiter's very first suggestion. Stan, who is usually in a more savory mood, got the Volcano Scramble. A perfect combo, as we always go halfsies. Mind you, it was tough to pass up the specials... there was an apple walnut pancake a la mode, for example. But we went classic, simple, and straightforward for our first BeaBea's bonanza.
Wow.
The pumpkin pancakes were perfection. A light sprinkling of powdered sugar on top. I slathered on the butter because... well, because it's butter... and asked for an extra maple syrup, because I hate to run out. I've been to The Griddle before (where the pancakes are the size of manholes and I'm not complaining), but these pancakes were even better, simply because they weren't so rich that you're done after three bites. These had just the perfect amount of sweetness that kept you coming back for more until the plate was empty. At The Griddle, I felt terribly guilty that when I was full I still had enough on my plate to feed a small third-world country.
Stan's scramble was delicious too... eggs, mozzarella, cheddar, chicken apple sausage, tortilla strips, sour cream and tomatillo sauce, with hash browns on the side (Stan orders his extra crispy and they got it right). We sat, holding hands, filling our bellies and commenting about how much we love our Fridays. This may be the best idea we've ever come up with!
Today, we decided to turn it into Freedom Friend Friday and meet our wonderful amigo Jimmy for breakfast. Originally we had chosen Alcove in Los Feliz, but it's an outdoor cafe... so when the rain resumed mid-morning, we quickly re-routed ourselves to Fred 62. It's a very popular kitschy diner on Vermont. We sat in a cozy booth and basked in the excitement of a rainy-day egg delight. There's nothing like breakfast in the rain! Stan and I were both in a savory mood (Stan was shocked I did not get a pancake/waffle/french toast concoction), and this time we both opted for their breakfast burrito.
Jimmy is eating gluten-free these days, so we almost made him sit at another table. The only reason we allowed him to stay is that he really is having trouble with gluten; he's not just deciding to be a pain in our wheat-eating ass. We appreciate that. But he had to order an egg sandwich without the bread, so there you have it. I'm sure it was tasty, but who cares. Bread is everything.
What's surprising about Fred 62 is that it looks like your average greasy spoon, but what emerges from the kitchen is actually quite artful. Our burritos were beautifully coated with a delicious red sauce and perfectly drizzled with sour cream, then sprinkled with cilantro. Inside was a mesmerizing combo of scrambled eggs, chorizo, jack and cheddar cheese, and green onion.
I can't believe I ate the whoooooole thing.
We haven't really had a "miss" yet on our Freedom Fridays. I like to think it's because the world senses this is a good thing. We are in the Karmic Zone, treating our tastebuds and our marriage to a weekly treat. Even if we run into a meal that stinks, the company will never let us down. Today, we spent an hour with a true friend. We laughed, we commiserated, we shared ideas and stories and insights. Talking to Jimmy is never boring. He's one of those people you just feel lucky to have in your life.
Him, and breakfast. Because you know what BeaBea says.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Son of Freedom Fridays
Last night as I settled into our cozy bed, I must admit I felt giddy anticipation of our imminent Freedom Friday #5. I knew we would be visiting Clementine, a little cafe in Century City that boasts the best scones, muffins, cakes and cookies this side of the Pacific. Those of you who know me know I am a sucker for scones, melt for muffins, and kvell for cakes and cookies. Basically anything bread-related makes my heart beat the faster. So I was all atwitter this morning when we returned from dropping off our boys at their respective schools. We hit the road at 9:15, hit a bit of traffic, but no matter; this was our time. Time spent laughing and holding hands and playing Punch Buggy and acting like we did before our daily dialogue became "Honey, did you pack the diaper bag?"
We didn't have anywhere important to be. We just had each other.
We arrived at Clementine a little after 10, and it's just the cutest little place! It's located on a side street, quaint and romantic, complete with sidewalk tables and a colorful array of customers. We had already agreed we were going to sample multiple things, and we brought our appetites. After asking the guy behind the counter what he'd recommend, we ordered: Stan, a mushroom/basil/three cheese scramble with a side of crisp bacon and a hot buttermilk biscuit. Me, a bacon and leek quiche and a blueberry sour cream coffee cake muffin (their specialty), accompanied by a caramel cappucino.
Heaven.
We lingered over our creations at our adorable wooden table, sharing everything. The best thing on our plates was the quiche, followed closely by the scramble. Both incredibly savory, decadent and dee-lish. Stan's buttermilk biscuit was also awesome, especially smothered with butter and raspberry jam. Truth be told, the least interesting thing we tasted was the muffin. It was mighty good, but apparently the LA Times raved about it, and we thought there were other things behind the counter that looked more my speed. Like the gingerbread cake. Thick and dark and amazing. Shoulda gotten that. Next time.
Bellies full and hearts soaring, we made our way back to the valley and stopped at Target. We went in for two things and came out with twenty... but it was bound to happen; our moods were too jovial (note to self: never shop Target when feeling celebratory). We bought Super Mario pajamas for both kids, a Sonic T-shirt for Addie, and a sweatshirt for Tucker that says "Save Ferris". He'll be clueless, but it'll make me happy. We bought Halloween candy and a spooky brownie kit for the kids. We mused about all the women who wear jeggings five sizes too small and then walk around hiking them up every five seconds.
We had a ball. We entered the elevator with our loot and rode in silence up to the second floor, where our car was. For a moment the elevator was silent, then I looked at Stan, smiled and said, "I love Target." The old woman standing in the elevator with us looked at me rapturously and said, "Isn't it WONDERFUL?!"
Then we went to get our boys. All in all, a perfect day. And a great kick-off to our ten-year wedding anniversary, which happens to be tomorrow.
Life is awfully sweet.
We didn't have anywhere important to be. We just had each other.
We arrived at Clementine a little after 10, and it's just the cutest little place! It's located on a side street, quaint and romantic, complete with sidewalk tables and a colorful array of customers. We had already agreed we were going to sample multiple things, and we brought our appetites. After asking the guy behind the counter what he'd recommend, we ordered: Stan, a mushroom/basil/three cheese scramble with a side of crisp bacon and a hot buttermilk biscuit. Me, a bacon and leek quiche and a blueberry sour cream coffee cake muffin (their specialty), accompanied by a caramel cappucino.
Heaven.
We lingered over our creations at our adorable wooden table, sharing everything. The best thing on our plates was the quiche, followed closely by the scramble. Both incredibly savory, decadent and dee-lish. Stan's buttermilk biscuit was also awesome, especially smothered with butter and raspberry jam. Truth be told, the least interesting thing we tasted was the muffin. It was mighty good, but apparently the LA Times raved about it, and we thought there were other things behind the counter that looked more my speed. Like the gingerbread cake. Thick and dark and amazing. Shoulda gotten that. Next time.
Bellies full and hearts soaring, we made our way back to the valley and stopped at Target. We went in for two things and came out with twenty... but it was bound to happen; our moods were too jovial (note to self: never shop Target when feeling celebratory). We bought Super Mario pajamas for both kids, a Sonic T-shirt for Addie, and a sweatshirt for Tucker that says "Save Ferris". He'll be clueless, but it'll make me happy. We bought Halloween candy and a spooky brownie kit for the kids. We mused about all the women who wear jeggings five sizes too small and then walk around hiking them up every five seconds.
We had a ball. We entered the elevator with our loot and rode in silence up to the second floor, where our car was. For a moment the elevator was silent, then I looked at Stan, smiled and said, "I love Target." The old woman standing in the elevator with us looked at me rapturously and said, "Isn't it WONDERFUL?!"
Then we went to get our boys. All in all, a perfect day. And a great kick-off to our ten-year wedding anniversary, which happens to be tomorrow.
Life is awfully sweet.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Revenge of Freedom Fridays
Today Stan and I stuck close to home, lunching at Charlie's Pantry in Studio City. It's a kind of mini-Dean and Deluca... small marketplace, coffee, muffins, scones and a lovely sandwich, soup and salad menu. I am a die-hard egg salad fanatic, so I tried theirs, and it was mighty tasty. I usually prefer my egg salad minced, so there aren't any huge chunks of egg white... and though theirs was slightly chunkier than I am used to, the seasonings and celery made it scrumptious. It comes on toasted brioche bread with iceberg lettuce. Stan got the Studio Club with organic chicken breast, and that was very straightforward and quite good too. We'll definitely go back; I'm anxious to try more things on their diverse menu! They serve breakfast all day every day, and since that's my favorite meal, I'll be trying their stuffed french toast. They also have homemade matzo ball soup! All of this is served in a very bright, cheery room with marble tables and ceiling fans. Ahhhhhhh.
So far, the grilled cheese truck wins for Best Freedom Friday Lunch so far! Stay tuned. Next week... Clementine.
So far, the grilled cheese truck wins for Best Freedom Friday Lunch so far! Stay tuned. Next week... Clementine.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Freedom Fridays Part Deux
On this, our second foray into the world of Child-free Culinary Cuisine, Stan and I took the food truck plunge and sought out the famous Grilled Cheese Truck! I have been Twitter-following this elusive truck for many months now, hoping to hear it was in the vicinity; well, the Gods must have been with us, for today- our second official Freedom Friday- they were in Sherman Oaks. We got there right when it opened at noon (which I heartily recommend; a half-hour later, the line was thirty deep!), and since each sandwich is made to order, we cheerfully stood aside to wait for our creations.
They were worth the wait.
Stan got the Bayou Melt: Habanero Jack cheese, chicken Andouille sausage, sauteed onions and peppers on french bread. I went classic, with the Cheesy Mac Melt: sharp cheddar, carmelized onions and macaroni and cheese on french bread. Did I say mac and cheese inside the sandwich? Oh yes, I did. After all, why have plain old grilled cheese when you can have grilled cheese and mac and cheese all in the same bite?
In order to do it up right, we each ordered a "shot" of tomato soup for fifty cents. Once our sandwiches were up, we rounded the corner, where they had a nice little alcove all set up with paper tablecloths and fake autumn leaves sprinkled on each table. We think this might have been set up for the workplace that ordered the truck, but no matter. Nobody was sitting there, so we stretched out and removed our works of art from their aluminum sacks.
First of all, mine came wrong. There is a "fully loaded" version of the Cheesy Mac Melt, which comes with BBQ pulled pork. I am not a pork person, so I would never have chosen it... but they put it on anyway. At first I was disappointed, but then I figured the grilled cheese Gods must have wanted me to experience my first melt exactly as it came, so I took a leap of faith and dug in.
Oh. My. GOD.
The best thing about this sandwich was that all the things they pile in there- and they have many choices and add-ons to choose from- meld to create one delicious, perfect bite. Nothing slides out the side or drops out onto your sack. The onion, cheese, and noodles were so artfully fused, no texture overrode any other. It was, bite after bite, an absolutely perfect grilled cheese sandwich. I experienced the first half with the pork, then pulled some of the pork out of the second half for Stan to enjoy while I tried to experience what I actually ordered. Both ways were scrumptious.
Stan's sandwich was also excellent. An entirely different, equally delicious melt that was extremely spicy, and definitely needed the tomato soup shots we ordered! The shots of soup were piping hot and had just the right amount of kick. The truck always has a daily special (today it was a cumin chicken, gruyere and basil concoction), lots of different taste treats to choose from so you can create your own if you like. We'll definitely be going back for the dessert melts; they have a s'mores sandwich... marshmallow fluff, graham crackers and chocolate melted into sweet brioche bread. Come ON.
I'm liking this Freedom Fridays thing so far. A LOT.
They were worth the wait.
Stan got the Bayou Melt: Habanero Jack cheese, chicken Andouille sausage, sauteed onions and peppers on french bread. I went classic, with the Cheesy Mac Melt: sharp cheddar, carmelized onions and macaroni and cheese on french bread. Did I say mac and cheese inside the sandwich? Oh yes, I did. After all, why have plain old grilled cheese when you can have grilled cheese and mac and cheese all in the same bite?
In order to do it up right, we each ordered a "shot" of tomato soup for fifty cents. Once our sandwiches were up, we rounded the corner, where they had a nice little alcove all set up with paper tablecloths and fake autumn leaves sprinkled on each table. We think this might have been set up for the workplace that ordered the truck, but no matter. Nobody was sitting there, so we stretched out and removed our works of art from their aluminum sacks.
First of all, mine came wrong. There is a "fully loaded" version of the Cheesy Mac Melt, which comes with BBQ pulled pork. I am not a pork person, so I would never have chosen it... but they put it on anyway. At first I was disappointed, but then I figured the grilled cheese Gods must have wanted me to experience my first melt exactly as it came, so I took a leap of faith and dug in.
Oh. My. GOD.
The best thing about this sandwich was that all the things they pile in there- and they have many choices and add-ons to choose from- meld to create one delicious, perfect bite. Nothing slides out the side or drops out onto your sack. The onion, cheese, and noodles were so artfully fused, no texture overrode any other. It was, bite after bite, an absolutely perfect grilled cheese sandwich. I experienced the first half with the pork, then pulled some of the pork out of the second half for Stan to enjoy while I tried to experience what I actually ordered. Both ways were scrumptious.
Stan's sandwich was also excellent. An entirely different, equally delicious melt that was extremely spicy, and definitely needed the tomato soup shots we ordered! The shots of soup were piping hot and had just the right amount of kick. The truck always has a daily special (today it was a cumin chicken, gruyere and basil concoction), lots of different taste treats to choose from so you can create your own if you like. We'll definitely be going back for the dessert melts; they have a s'mores sandwich... marshmallow fluff, graham crackers and chocolate melted into sweet brioche bread. Come ON.
I'm liking this Freedom Fridays thing so far. A LOT.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Tricky
I remember, before I was a mom, thinking that I would be awfully good at answering kid questions. After all, besides being pretty smart, I am also a very reasonable person- meaning that I am quite good at using common sense (something I feel our society is sorely lacking these days). I also knew I'd never talk down to my children or cause them to feel they were less than a whole person, even though they may be half my size.
But boy, it's a whole lot trickier than I once thought.
Case in point: Saturday night, a neighborhood baby shower was thrown for one of my dear friends, who happens to live next door. The party was thrown right across the street, and a bunch of us hired two babysitters to watch the gaggle of kids while we celebrated. Addie has always been very dramatic about goodbyes; he makes sure to hug me at least fourteen times, and then there's the kiss-blowing, followed immediately by the "I Love You" sign with his fingers. This ritual, when done exactly to his liking, can take about 15 minutes. Lately, he's been extra-sensitive about my departures, and thus my exit Saturday night was a three-act Shakespeare play. I had to explain to him that the party was strictly for adults, and that all his friends would be playing with him at our house and won't that be much more fun?
Once I was at the party, however, I noticed that many of the neighborhood kids that were supposed to be over at my house with the babysitter were running around enjoying the festivities. Only the babies were left at our house... and Addie. After about an hour, I decided to make his day and go back home, offering to let him come over and visit the party for a few minutes, since the other older kids seemed to have permission. Addie was over the moon.
Unfortunately, I walked him into the party right when all the men had just been handed their celebratory cigars, and had retreated to the backyard to enjoy them. Addie, scampering about the party with the other kids, saw his father smoking a cigar and came to me instantly, tears welled in his eyes, talking a mile a minute. He gets very philosophical when he's falling apart on the inside.
"Mama." (He says this in his best authoritative tone, hands on his hips.) "Daddy is over there SMOKING A CIGAR. He's going to DIE. He's going to get cancer and DIE. Are you going to let this happen? Wow, Mom. Wow."
His lip is trembling. He's very shaken up. And why? Because ever since he was old enough to ask about smoking, I have told him that it's VERY, VERY BAD and CAN KILL YOU.
Oops.
Well no, not oops, right?
I realize I am a rather dorky cigarette-drug-and-alcohol-free anomaly in the world. I never liked the way being under the influence of anything even slightly addictive made me feel, and always felt quite giddy and ready to have fun without the extra help. But I also am fully aware that part (not all) of the reason I always stayed away from the stuff is that my mother SCARED THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF ME. She regaled me with stories of a party she went to, where a high school friend of hers smoked a joint that she didn't know was laced with PCP, fell into a coma and never woke up. That was enough for me. Got it. When I was a teenager, theatre was my high. I didn't need to combine that drug with anything that would put me at risk for indefinite unconsciousness.
When it was clear to my mother that I probably was going to stay away from drugs (sometime in my mid-thirties), she casually informed me that she may have exaggerated the events of the PCP-laced joint. Her friend never slipped into a coma. I think she felt sick and her mom picked her up.
Now, it remains to be seen whether I will fabricate stories of comas with my boys as they get older, but I would be lying if I said it hasn't crossed my mind. I will do anything to keep them safe. And when Addie's questions started about the people he saw smoking cigarettes, I did not waver when I told him cigarettes were BAD BAD BAD for you. They give you LUNG CANCER and lung cancer can KILL YOU. There was no gray area in my admonition. I can't afford gray areas, especially in the formative years.
Which brings us back to the baby shower. I looked down at Addie's stricken face, and started to try to explain.
"Addie, yes. Daddy is smoking a cigar. Tonight is a special occasion, and this is the only time Daddy is doing this."
"But he's inhaling all that smoke!" Addie pleased. "He's filling his lungs with cancer! You can't even breathe over there, the air is so smoky!"
"I know, buddy. But listen to me. Daddy is not going to get cancer if he smokes one cigar."
As I'm speaking, I'm hearing myself and realizing I am hedging... going back on what I said before, if only a little bit. And perhaps I'm sending Addie the wrong message. It's only okay on special occasions? If you do it once it's okay? But I don't want him to do it, not even once. Once leads to twice leads to Addie dressed up in a leather jacket leaning against a motorcycle without a helmet, cigarette dangling from his lips, flask in his free hand, telling his mom to go fuck herself.
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!
How to explain the subtleties of cigar-smoking to a six-year-old, who isn't going to be able to grasp them? I try again.
"You know what, Addie? You're right. What Daddy is doing is bad for his lungs, and you're right to be concerned. But I want you to trust me when I say that when babies are born, it is a tradition for the dad to pass out cigars and for all his friends to smoke just one. It's like a ritual. And one cigar, in Daddy's WHOLE LIFETIME, is not going to give him cancer. Does that make sense?"
Why oh why did I pull him away from the babysitter?!
Addie would not let it go. I didn't think he would. No amount of convincing would deter him. He kept going to check on Stan, coming back and giving me the minute-by-minute update, hands on hips: "Still smoking. He puts it up to his mouth, like, every FIVE SECONDS."
I suppose I feel slightly more comfortable erring on the side of "Well, Daddy might just get cancer from this" than "Don't sweat it, Addie, it's fine"... but I don't want Addie worrying about his father's lungs either. These are the moments when you realize that there is no perfectly right answer. There is only "doing the best you can". Because some of the neighbors saw Addie's upset, they started offering their comfort... but everything that came out of their mouths was only complicating things. One of Addie's friends said, "Don't worry, Addie. It's only for special occasions. You can smoke once, or even twice, or however many times you have a baby. And it's okay."
Shut up kid.
I approach this dilemma, as I do most parenting snafus, with a sense of humor. But it's hard when you can see your kid in turmoil. He eventually calmed down and enjoyed the present-opening. And I know this too shall pass, like yesterday's cigar through the lungs, with hopefully very little damage.
It's just a reminder to me, to take ultimate care with the things that come out of my mouth. As Stephen Sondheim so beautifully wrote:
Careful the things you say
Children will listen.
Careful the things you do
Children will see... and learn
Children may not obey
But children will listen
Children will look to you
For which way to turn
To learn what to be
Careful before you say, "Listen to me..."
Children will listen...
But boy, it's a whole lot trickier than I once thought.
Case in point: Saturday night, a neighborhood baby shower was thrown for one of my dear friends, who happens to live next door. The party was thrown right across the street, and a bunch of us hired two babysitters to watch the gaggle of kids while we celebrated. Addie has always been very dramatic about goodbyes; he makes sure to hug me at least fourteen times, and then there's the kiss-blowing, followed immediately by the "I Love You" sign with his fingers. This ritual, when done exactly to his liking, can take about 15 minutes. Lately, he's been extra-sensitive about my departures, and thus my exit Saturday night was a three-act Shakespeare play. I had to explain to him that the party was strictly for adults, and that all his friends would be playing with him at our house and won't that be much more fun?
Once I was at the party, however, I noticed that many of the neighborhood kids that were supposed to be over at my house with the babysitter were running around enjoying the festivities. Only the babies were left at our house... and Addie. After about an hour, I decided to make his day and go back home, offering to let him come over and visit the party for a few minutes, since the other older kids seemed to have permission. Addie was over the moon.
Unfortunately, I walked him into the party right when all the men had just been handed their celebratory cigars, and had retreated to the backyard to enjoy them. Addie, scampering about the party with the other kids, saw his father smoking a cigar and came to me instantly, tears welled in his eyes, talking a mile a minute. He gets very philosophical when he's falling apart on the inside.
"Mama." (He says this in his best authoritative tone, hands on his hips.) "Daddy is over there SMOKING A CIGAR. He's going to DIE. He's going to get cancer and DIE. Are you going to let this happen? Wow, Mom. Wow."
His lip is trembling. He's very shaken up. And why? Because ever since he was old enough to ask about smoking, I have told him that it's VERY, VERY BAD and CAN KILL YOU.
Oops.
Well no, not oops, right?
I realize I am a rather dorky cigarette-drug-and-alcohol-free anomaly in the world. I never liked the way being under the influence of anything even slightly addictive made me feel, and always felt quite giddy and ready to have fun without the extra help. But I also am fully aware that part (not all) of the reason I always stayed away from the stuff is that my mother SCARED THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF ME. She regaled me with stories of a party she went to, where a high school friend of hers smoked a joint that she didn't know was laced with PCP, fell into a coma and never woke up. That was enough for me. Got it. When I was a teenager, theatre was my high. I didn't need to combine that drug with anything that would put me at risk for indefinite unconsciousness.
When it was clear to my mother that I probably was going to stay away from drugs (sometime in my mid-thirties), she casually informed me that she may have exaggerated the events of the PCP-laced joint. Her friend never slipped into a coma. I think she felt sick and her mom picked her up.
Now, it remains to be seen whether I will fabricate stories of comas with my boys as they get older, but I would be lying if I said it hasn't crossed my mind. I will do anything to keep them safe. And when Addie's questions started about the people he saw smoking cigarettes, I did not waver when I told him cigarettes were BAD BAD BAD for you. They give you LUNG CANCER and lung cancer can KILL YOU. There was no gray area in my admonition. I can't afford gray areas, especially in the formative years.
Which brings us back to the baby shower. I looked down at Addie's stricken face, and started to try to explain.
"Addie, yes. Daddy is smoking a cigar. Tonight is a special occasion, and this is the only time Daddy is doing this."
"But he's inhaling all that smoke!" Addie pleased. "He's filling his lungs with cancer! You can't even breathe over there, the air is so smoky!"
"I know, buddy. But listen to me. Daddy is not going to get cancer if he smokes one cigar."
As I'm speaking, I'm hearing myself and realizing I am hedging... going back on what I said before, if only a little bit. And perhaps I'm sending Addie the wrong message. It's only okay on special occasions? If you do it once it's okay? But I don't want him to do it, not even once. Once leads to twice leads to Addie dressed up in a leather jacket leaning against a motorcycle without a helmet, cigarette dangling from his lips, flask in his free hand, telling his mom to go fuck herself.
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!
How to explain the subtleties of cigar-smoking to a six-year-old, who isn't going to be able to grasp them? I try again.
"You know what, Addie? You're right. What Daddy is doing is bad for his lungs, and you're right to be concerned. But I want you to trust me when I say that when babies are born, it is a tradition for the dad to pass out cigars and for all his friends to smoke just one. It's like a ritual. And one cigar, in Daddy's WHOLE LIFETIME, is not going to give him cancer. Does that make sense?"
Why oh why did I pull him away from the babysitter?!
Addie would not let it go. I didn't think he would. No amount of convincing would deter him. He kept going to check on Stan, coming back and giving me the minute-by-minute update, hands on hips: "Still smoking. He puts it up to his mouth, like, every FIVE SECONDS."
I suppose I feel slightly more comfortable erring on the side of "Well, Daddy might just get cancer from this" than "Don't sweat it, Addie, it's fine"... but I don't want Addie worrying about his father's lungs either. These are the moments when you realize that there is no perfectly right answer. There is only "doing the best you can". Because some of the neighbors saw Addie's upset, they started offering their comfort... but everything that came out of their mouths was only complicating things. One of Addie's friends said, "Don't worry, Addie. It's only for special occasions. You can smoke once, or even twice, or however many times you have a baby. And it's okay."
Shut up kid.
I approach this dilemma, as I do most parenting snafus, with a sense of humor. But it's hard when you can see your kid in turmoil. He eventually calmed down and enjoyed the present-opening. And I know this too shall pass, like yesterday's cigar through the lungs, with hopefully very little damage.
It's just a reminder to me, to take ultimate care with the things that come out of my mouth. As Stephen Sondheim so beautifully wrote:
Careful the things you say
Children will listen.
Careful the things you do
Children will see... and learn
Children may not obey
But children will listen
Children will look to you
For which way to turn
To learn what to be
Careful before you say, "Listen to me..."
Children will listen...
Friday, September 30, 2011
Freedom Fridays
In honor of the fact that my hubby and I both have Fridays off, and because Tucker has now started pre-school three days a week, both our kids are in school between the hours of 8am and 2:30pm, we have decided to officially instate "Freedom Fridays". Sound the trumpets! What are "Freedom Fridays"? Glad you asked. They are: a weekly grand culinary celebration sans booster seats, one meal per week dedicated to the celebration and enjoyment of kid-free food-fests.
It is doubly-exciting to be embarking on this adventure because these days, almost every single meal we ingest is cooked in our kitchen and eaten at home (or toted to school or work in a lunchbox). As many of you know, I used to be the queen of the restaurant. Not that I frequented anyplace inordinately expensive (Sharky's, Daphne's and Poquito Mas were about my speed), it's just that I considered dining out a treat, something to share with another human and therefore a bit of an event. However, times being what they are, I adjusted my ways. And I was spectacularly pleased to find that I actually started to look forward to our home-cooked meals in as a family. It's really fun to peruse recipes, shop the farmer's market and Trader Joe's for new things to try, plan the weekly menus.
Besides, let's face it: we are also willing to admit that it's easier to eat at home these days, for a variety of reasons. Tucker is not exactly fun to have at restaurants. He's a pretty well-behaved two-year-old, but he's done eating in about thirty seconds and then either he wants to run around, or we have to hand him one of our cellphones to play on so he'll stay put while we all finish eating. I strongly object to this on principle, but all my principles go right out the window when my stomach is growling... and before I know it Tucker's playing Scooter Heroes. Right on cue, Addie, our "old soul" six-year-old (who always sat perfectly still at mealtime when he was two and usually participated in all the adult discussions; in fact, I distinctly remember him weighing in on the whole weapons-of-mass-destruction debate), wants to know why he can't play with a phone too. We say, "Because, Addie, it's rude to sit with people in a restaurant and have your head buried in cellphone games", but our admonition loses its punch when his brother is sitting right next to him toggling away at Bejeweled. Then their food comes, $6.99 for two chicken fingers and fries. Which they each take two bites of and they're done.
We're better off eating (or, in Tucker's case, NOT eating) at home.
But at the end of a long week, Stan and I wholeheartedly feel we've earned one coveted meal cooked by someone other than us. For years I've made lists of places I've read about, reviews in the LA Times or Westways, little out-of-the-way cafes and bakeries, fun new twists on old classics, even gourmet food trucks. But up until now they've all stayed tucked away on a list in my computer, waiting for their moment. Well, ladies and gentlemen, their time has come. Freedom Fridays began in earnest last week, when we chose our first restaurant. The only rule is that we must choose a place we've never been to. Last week began modestly, with a trip up the street to King's Road Cafe. Stan was very pleased with his steak quesadilla... and truth be told, I was also very pleased with his steak quesadilla because my salad was just OK. But we were off and running...
This week, we hopped in the car after dropping off both kids and headed to Eagle Rock to go to Auntie Em's Kitchen. This place really is an odd little hole-in-the-wall if there ever was one. Limited seating, jams, jellies and aprons for sale in their tiny marketplace area, and motorcycle rock playing over the loudspeakers.
But oh, what good food.
We went because we had read that their pancakes were out of this world... but unfortunately, they only serve them on weekends. Now, it seems to me that if your speciality is pancakes and pancakes cost about a penny to make, you should probably serve them all the time... but we didn't argue. We went ahead and ordered their open-faced breakfast sandwiches. Stan got the applewood smoked bacon sandwich and I got the cajun turkey sausage one. His was better. They cook a fluffy mound of scrambled eggs and pile it on top of the bacon, which all goes on top of a gruyere-smothered thick slice of french bread. Yu-um. The cajun sandwich was good too, but the sausage had a thick casing on it that was pretty hard to chew through.
No matter. We feasted to our heart's content, unabashedly people-watching as we noshed. There is an outdoor seating area, and perched at one of the frilly flowered tables was a young guy with a bright red ZZ Top beard that extended to his belly button. I noticed that he ordered the french toast, which almost had been my choice. I decided on the savory sandwich last-minute, and was glad I did because I eyed ZZ's plate, and they make their french toast with the same crusty french bread the sandwich came on, and I'm adamant that french toast should be made with soft challah or thick cut white bread. I returned to my sandwich with renewed vigor.
Our bellies full and happy, we paid the bill, then got a homemade peanut butter cookie on the way out, which was kind of perfect. Big and crispy and crumbly. We are definitely going back for the weekend pancakes, but that won't be on a Freedom Friday, so you might just have to see us in person to hear about them.
What will next week bring? Stay tuned! Long live Freedom Fridays!
It is doubly-exciting to be embarking on this adventure because these days, almost every single meal we ingest is cooked in our kitchen and eaten at home (or toted to school or work in a lunchbox). As many of you know, I used to be the queen of the restaurant. Not that I frequented anyplace inordinately expensive (Sharky's, Daphne's and Poquito Mas were about my speed), it's just that I considered dining out a treat, something to share with another human and therefore a bit of an event. However, times being what they are, I adjusted my ways. And I was spectacularly pleased to find that I actually started to look forward to our home-cooked meals in as a family. It's really fun to peruse recipes, shop the farmer's market and Trader Joe's for new things to try, plan the weekly menus.
Besides, let's face it: we are also willing to admit that it's easier to eat at home these days, for a variety of reasons. Tucker is not exactly fun to have at restaurants. He's a pretty well-behaved two-year-old, but he's done eating in about thirty seconds and then either he wants to run around, or we have to hand him one of our cellphones to play on so he'll stay put while we all finish eating. I strongly object to this on principle, but all my principles go right out the window when my stomach is growling... and before I know it Tucker's playing Scooter Heroes. Right on cue, Addie, our "old soul" six-year-old (who always sat perfectly still at mealtime when he was two and usually participated in all the adult discussions; in fact, I distinctly remember him weighing in on the whole weapons-of-mass-destruction debate), wants to know why he can't play with a phone too. We say, "Because, Addie, it's rude to sit with people in a restaurant and have your head buried in cellphone games", but our admonition loses its punch when his brother is sitting right next to him toggling away at Bejeweled. Then their food comes, $6.99 for two chicken fingers and fries. Which they each take two bites of and they're done.
We're better off eating (or, in Tucker's case, NOT eating) at home.
But at the end of a long week, Stan and I wholeheartedly feel we've earned one coveted meal cooked by someone other than us. For years I've made lists of places I've read about, reviews in the LA Times or Westways, little out-of-the-way cafes and bakeries, fun new twists on old classics, even gourmet food trucks. But up until now they've all stayed tucked away on a list in my computer, waiting for their moment. Well, ladies and gentlemen, their time has come. Freedom Fridays began in earnest last week, when we chose our first restaurant. The only rule is that we must choose a place we've never been to. Last week began modestly, with a trip up the street to King's Road Cafe. Stan was very pleased with his steak quesadilla... and truth be told, I was also very pleased with his steak quesadilla because my salad was just OK. But we were off and running...
This week, we hopped in the car after dropping off both kids and headed to Eagle Rock to go to Auntie Em's Kitchen. This place really is an odd little hole-in-the-wall if there ever was one. Limited seating, jams, jellies and aprons for sale in their tiny marketplace area, and motorcycle rock playing over the loudspeakers.
But oh, what good food.
We went because we had read that their pancakes were out of this world... but unfortunately, they only serve them on weekends. Now, it seems to me that if your speciality is pancakes and pancakes cost about a penny to make, you should probably serve them all the time... but we didn't argue. We went ahead and ordered their open-faced breakfast sandwiches. Stan got the applewood smoked bacon sandwich and I got the cajun turkey sausage one. His was better. They cook a fluffy mound of scrambled eggs and pile it on top of the bacon, which all goes on top of a gruyere-smothered thick slice of french bread. Yu-um. The cajun sandwich was good too, but the sausage had a thick casing on it that was pretty hard to chew through.
No matter. We feasted to our heart's content, unabashedly people-watching as we noshed. There is an outdoor seating area, and perched at one of the frilly flowered tables was a young guy with a bright red ZZ Top beard that extended to his belly button. I noticed that he ordered the french toast, which almost had been my choice. I decided on the savory sandwich last-minute, and was glad I did because I eyed ZZ's plate, and they make their french toast with the same crusty french bread the sandwich came on, and I'm adamant that french toast should be made with soft challah or thick cut white bread. I returned to my sandwich with renewed vigor.
Our bellies full and happy, we paid the bill, then got a homemade peanut butter cookie on the way out, which was kind of perfect. Big and crispy and crumbly. We are definitely going back for the weekend pancakes, but that won't be on a Freedom Friday, so you might just have to see us in person to hear about them.
What will next week bring? Stay tuned! Long live Freedom Fridays!
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Errand Girl
It's been quite a while since my last post! I'm not sure exactly what happened; there was plenty to write about... but not enough time to create grand philosophical essays each time. And let's face it; not everything that happens in my life is essay-worthy. Some events don't even warrant a Facebook status update. But I started this blog to chronicle daily life- the good, the bad, and the ugly. So from now on, I vow to write less, more often. If that makes sense.
Addie started first grade yesterday; Tucker began his pre-school experience at Briarwood a week ago. Yesterday for the very first time, I looked around my house at 10:00 am and realized there was no one in it. I wasn't exactly sure what to do with myself. I took off all my clothes and ran around in a circle a few times. When the excitement of that had subsided, I put my clothes back on and ran some errands.
Sounds less-than-thrilling, but any mom can attest that running errands by yourself can be an uplifting, even slightly orgasmic experience. Oh, the illicit thrill of walking into Target without having to visit the toy aisle for twenty minutes. The elation of spending quality time thumping cantaloupes and not just grabbing the first one that falls off the display in a mad dash for the check-out line before your two-year-old turns into Houdini and twists himself out of the cart seat belt.
Yesterday I began my revelry with a trip to Actor's Equity to get a flu shot. I then drove to the pediatrician to get some medical forms filled out for school, then tooled on over to the thrift store to sell my used clothes. While they looked over my stuff (they almost always pick only one or two things out of twenty, causing me to ponder just how ugly and unstylish my wardrobe must be), I actually got to peruse the racks of second-hand clothes and try a few dresses on, something I haven't done since 2003. I found a cute little sundress and traded it on the spot. I ended my ecstacy with jaunts to the bank, dry cleaner and grocery store. All the while, I blasted my favorite music in the car, and never once did I hear a request from the backseat for "Kung Fu Fighting".
I haven't had such a beautiful day in ages.
The irony is that the entire time I drove around, I was thinking of my boys. Addie, so confident on his first day. He wore the most handsome blue shirt, and looked so grown up. Even though he has a few good friends in his new class, he entered his new classroom in Serious Mode, and sat by himself on the carpet, away from his friends. I think he was intent on making a good first impression. Tucker still seems like a baby to me, so it's quite amazing to drop him off at school with his little lunchbox. It's a brave new world for both of them, and my heart was full of pride watching them navigating it. Everything I picked up at Vons was for them... mayo for their sandwiches and ketchup for their hot dogs, fruit and cereal for breakfast, celery and cream cheese (Addie's favorite after-school snack), ice cream (Tucker has inherited his mom's sweet tooth). It sounds silly, but as I stocked our kitchen with these foods, I found myself experiencing a "mom high", my heart as full as my cupboards. I never felt this much pleasure shopping for myself. But now, I feel a rush as I put away a brand new EZ squeeze bottle of Heinz. Taking care of these three men makes me truly happy.
Running errands for them... by myself... is sheer heaven.
Addie started first grade yesterday; Tucker began his pre-school experience at Briarwood a week ago. Yesterday for the very first time, I looked around my house at 10:00 am and realized there was no one in it. I wasn't exactly sure what to do with myself. I took off all my clothes and ran around in a circle a few times. When the excitement of that had subsided, I put my clothes back on and ran some errands.
Sounds less-than-thrilling, but any mom can attest that running errands by yourself can be an uplifting, even slightly orgasmic experience. Oh, the illicit thrill of walking into Target without having to visit the toy aisle for twenty minutes. The elation of spending quality time thumping cantaloupes and not just grabbing the first one that falls off the display in a mad dash for the check-out line before your two-year-old turns into Houdini and twists himself out of the cart seat belt.
Yesterday I began my revelry with a trip to Actor's Equity to get a flu shot. I then drove to the pediatrician to get some medical forms filled out for school, then tooled on over to the thrift store to sell my used clothes. While they looked over my stuff (they almost always pick only one or two things out of twenty, causing me to ponder just how ugly and unstylish my wardrobe must be), I actually got to peruse the racks of second-hand clothes and try a few dresses on, something I haven't done since 2003. I found a cute little sundress and traded it on the spot. I ended my ecstacy with jaunts to the bank, dry cleaner and grocery store. All the while, I blasted my favorite music in the car, and never once did I hear a request from the backseat for "Kung Fu Fighting".
I haven't had such a beautiful day in ages.
The irony is that the entire time I drove around, I was thinking of my boys. Addie, so confident on his first day. He wore the most handsome blue shirt, and looked so grown up. Even though he has a few good friends in his new class, he entered his new classroom in Serious Mode, and sat by himself on the carpet, away from his friends. I think he was intent on making a good first impression. Tucker still seems like a baby to me, so it's quite amazing to drop him off at school with his little lunchbox. It's a brave new world for both of them, and my heart was full of pride watching them navigating it. Everything I picked up at Vons was for them... mayo for their sandwiches and ketchup for their hot dogs, fruit and cereal for breakfast, celery and cream cheese (Addie's favorite after-school snack), ice cream (Tucker has inherited his mom's sweet tooth). It sounds silly, but as I stocked our kitchen with these foods, I found myself experiencing a "mom high", my heart as full as my cupboards. I never felt this much pleasure shopping for myself. But now, I feel a rush as I put away a brand new EZ squeeze bottle of Heinz. Taking care of these three men makes me truly happy.
Running errands for them... by myself... is sheer heaven.
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