Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

20 May

It’s Easy to Eat Your Weight In Something When You Don’t Weight Anything

Posted by jaysaint in Uncategorized.

I just watched from the upstairs landing as a naked Alden had a conversation with the pizza delivery woman. He gestured to me at the top of the stairs and said, “That’s Jillian.” And then when she left he yelled a cheery, “Bye man!”

Today we took Elliot for his DTap and Rotovirus vaccines (By the way, the sugar water trick worked shockingly well). He’s nearly eight months old. We learned that he’s topped 20 pounds now, which puts him within five pounds of his 2.5-year-old brother. Alden was a big baby too. I need to dig out his records and find out when he fell off the cliff.

Alden, as I have mentioned to , has broken me when it comes to food. For the first year of his life I had a solid list of standards from which I would not deviate. I was not afraid to send a stubborn kid to bed hungry. And then he stopped gaining weight.

At one point in his life Alden was up in the 90th percentile. I don’t put a lot of stock in things like percentiles. Until my kid is in the 50th for height but 10th for weight.

Now I’m all, “Crackers? Those have calories. You bet!” If he wants to eat seven breakfast bars through the day, he can do that. Ovaltine? Sure. Pizza used to be a great go-to food. Then he started picking off the toppings. Now he picks off the cheese too. His idea of a great meal is bread and water. Seriously. Heaven help you if you try to put the thinnest slick of butter or peanut butter or Nutella on that bread. Then it’s “dirty.” He does like French fries, because he is not a communist.

He’ll eat a few bites of ice cream. He likes cheese, but only shredded. No milk (unless spiked with Ovaltine). No yogurt.

He’s a big fan of donuts (meaning he will eat between half of one and a whole one) but I’m not broken that badly just yet. He LOVES coffee, but that doesn’t help me. He will still eat his weight in pickled okra.

I’m frustrated, but not freaked out.

I was, by a large margin, the smallest kid in my class. Damon was a skinny little kid. In the long run his reedy body type will serve him well. As will his admiration of healthful but low-calorie foods like tofu and beans. Our pediatrician also pointed out that Alden is ACTIVE, and that means he’s not holding on to calories like more sedentary children. My kid has the excellent fortune of a super-active Daddy who takes him to the park and the zoo every week. Who wrestles and runs and dances and tumbles with him.

So we have switched back to full-fat milk for that Ovaltine. And we’ve moved from 90% water and 10% juice to something more like 50/50. We offer snacks continually. And otherwise we’re not going to worry about. I’m not going to beg him to eat. I’m not going to make it a power struggle. I tell him it makes me feel good when he eats the food I made for him. And if he doesn’t want to eat it I tell him that’s fine.

If anyone has any thoughts on delicious, high-calorie, healthy foods I would love to hear them. He won’t eat avocado either. Maybe he is a communist.

18 Apr

Life List: Take Another Trip With Dad

Posted by jaysaint in Uncategorized. Tagged: .

Things I inherited from my dad*: eyes, coloring, reclusive nature, appreciation of high class things, reading bug, fascination with history, love of cooking and eating great food, impulse to travel

Lots of those things tie together, and never in a better way than when Dad decided it’s time to take a trip.

He wasn’t around much when I was growing up. He wasn’t absent, but he came in somewhere a little light of the classic every-other-weekend-and-two-weeks-in-the-summer standard with which every child of divorce is well familiar. We didn’t have anything in common. Or if we did, we didn’t know it.

We had a breakthrough the summer of my junior year in high school. Dad was going on a trip to Europe, courtesy of his employer. He was a salesman, and the highest earners each year went on a swank trip. He went on a lot of trips. Normally his wife went along, but sometimes the travel fell during their semi-regular breakups. He was meeting a coworker and his wife in New York before they took off (Maybe for Kenya? I get the trips mixed up) and decided to make a weekend of it. I got invited as the stand-in fourth. I was crushed to realize the trip fell in the middle of my spring break trip with my friends, which I would probably have ditched except that I had already shelled out a chunk of my savings for my share of the hotel. But Dad threw open that door that felt so glamorous to me, where anything could be fixed, and experience could be upgraded. He simply flew me from the beach to New York City and then returned me to my friends the following night. On that trip, my first to that city, I saw a Broadway play (Cats). We ate at a famous restaurant (that I’m chagrined to say I can’t remember — Brown Derby Manhattan outpost?) and it was the first time I’d ever seen an a la carte menu. I was shocked that vegetables were extra. I wore my homecoming dress. We stayed at the Marriot Marquis and I sat looking out the window long into the night. Dad made sure we had a room with a view of Times Square. The next day before returning me to the airport he took me to Tavern On the Green. Dazzling. I ordered a soft-shelled crab sandwich and then couldn’t eat more than a bite when I saw that it was a whole, crab-shaped crab still in the shell. I thought soft-shelled was just a name.

It was the beginning of our adult relationship. I think we both had more fun than we expected. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that we enjoyed each other’s company more than we expected.

They broke up again and the summer after I graduated Dad took me to London. We poked our noses in all the sites of some of our favorite historical spots — Westiminster Abbey, The Tower of London, Stonehenge. We talked about the book Sarum, which he’d given me to read the year before. A month later his company sent him on yet another trip and this time I got to go along. We spent a week in Italy, based in Rome. When I was little Dad had given me replicas of all the coins minted during the reign of the Caesars. We talked about Tiberius while standing on a balcony on Capri. I had my first caprese salad there and spent futile years back home asking for “that cheese that looks like melting ice cream” before fresh mozzarella became common.

We’ve gone to Jalisco in Mexico. We’ve gone to Kauai. Dad took me on a long trip to Egypt, a dream come true for both of us. I’ve stood inside the Great Pyramid with him. We rode camels in the Sahara. We flew deep into the desert to see Abu Simbel. We traveled the length of the country, living on a boat on the Nile.

My dad’s health is not great now. He’s unsteady. He doesn’t have any stamina. He’s got a lot going on. I want one more trip with him. I know he wants the same. It will have to be a different kind of trip. I’m thinking a cruise, which will do most of the work for us. He’s got grander ideas, but I think we might be lucky to pull off something even minimally ambitious. This is about a lot more than a trip, of course. I want him to know that it’s more him I’m after than any fancy destination. I want my sons to have done this with him, to understand the source of our love of travel and of history. My dad never gives me parenting advice. All he’s ever said is to be sure to take them out into the world. He should be a part of that.

I’ve been begging and prodding and nagging him to try to get his health in order. I know that he probably won’t. We can’t go unless he does. This is a big goal on the list, and one largely out of my control. It’s reflective of a bigger wish; and a reminder to do what small bit I can to push things in a good direction.

*Things I wish I’d inherited, but did not: height, killer charm

25 Mar

Life List: Grown an Herb Garden

Posted by jaysaint in Uncategorized. Tagged: .

Every week or two I throw hunks of parsley and cilantro in the garbage. And then I buy more. Until grocery stores come around to my way of thinking and start selling herbs one sprig at a time* I’m going to either keep wasting food and money or come up with a new solution. That’s why growing an herb garden is on my life list.

The complication is that I kill everything I grow. I killed a snake plant. I may have killed your plants just by accessing your home via computer monitor. Go check. I WANT to be a grower of green things. (I also want to be a tea drinker.) I’m going to figure this out.

My plan is to grow cilantro, parsley, chives, basil and mint since those are the things I dump in the landfill most frequently. I’m going to buy an inspiring container for each one for motivation.

*I love how I can crack a tiny chunk off the ginger rather than buying a whole root. Last time I got it free because my piece was so small it wouldn’t register on the scale.

27 Feb

Fondue. I Promise!

Posted by jaysaint in Uncategorized.

“I promise!” is what Alden says when he’s trying to convince me to do something. “Chocolate milk mommy? I promise!” I can only think he’s taken my reassurance that he will like some food I want him to try (“You like berries. I promise!”) as a general assertion that the outcome of the desired activity will be favorable for all parties.


“Let me touch you with my chalky hands. I promise!”

Tonight we’re having friends over for fondue and I keep wanting to say, “Fondue, I promise!” because it’s kind of an eye-roll food. I guess it’s the firm association with the skeevy side of the 1970s, like maybe we’ll be throwing our keys into a bowl at the start of the night. But really, you don’t need a Tom Selleck mustache to enjoy. I am actually prepared to go so far as to say it can be lovely in the same manner as a tea ceremony, lots of little bits and pieces and process. I come by this belief because I have a friend who was fortunate enough to be born and raised in Switzerland. He explained to me that everything I thought about fondue was wrong, and that swilling random chunks of bread in a pot of melted cheese is a tragic bastardization.

You need kirsch. It’s a Swiss or French cherry brandy liqueur. It has to be kirsch, because kirsch is not sweet, as opposed to all other cherry brandies (particularly those traditionally served in paper bags, which is what the liquor store lady tried to sell me as a substitute). You need a nice white wine. Not cooking wine. You never need cooking wine for anything, ever. You need Gruyere and emmenthal Swiss cheese (25/75 ratio).

For dipping you need a few lovely types of fresh bread loaves (I like a grainy rye and a sourdough) that have been allowed to sit out overnight for desired consistency. You’ll also want cornichons and cocktail onions. Those sounded weird to me until I tried it. Now I know they’re so wonderful in fondue cheese that my mouth is watering as I type. My Swiss friend also would cut tomatoes into small wedges and then trim out all the innards and serve just the curve of outside flesh. I diverge here a little and serve tiny cherry tomatoes. I love tomato innards and so can’t give them up (Did you know the gel and seeds are called “tomato caviar” by some foodies? It makes perfect sense to describe what I’m talking about, but I can’t bring myself to say it.) You can add any other things to dip that you fancy (tonight I will do small, red-skinned potatoes) but I consider those the basics. Fruit can be a nice addition, as can blanched vegetables.

I’m not against trying clever new versions of fondue. I saw an Irish cheddar and stout version I’m going to make some time soon.

Did I mention Alden refuses to so much as try it? He eats the pickles and dry bread cubes. Ah well, at least I can use a heavy hand with the wine bottle.


Elliot is not sure about these shenanigans.

14 Feb

Posted by jaysaint in Uncategorized.

Once again, many thanks for all your kind words about my Uncle Frank. They were a source of strength. We headed home to Cincinnati shortly after you saw me here last. I was able to visit him and say some things I wanted him to know. He wasn’t able to speak, but he was present and I know he heard me. We went home and had a good dinner, put the kids to bed and spent some contemplative time in front of the fireplace. I was drifting off around 12:30, my arm curled around Elliot, when the phone rang. It was going to be one of two things. It turned out to be the latter and the hospice nurse said, “He’s changing. You might want to come.” Damon and I threw on some clothes and took off, Elliot in tow. We didn’t want to have to leave prematurely and I hadn’t had a chance to stash milk. Near dawn Uncle Frank died, Damon, Elliot and I on one side of his bed, his son Christian with his sweet fiance on the other. I would love to say I gained special wisdom by witnessing that passing. I didn’t. But I can testify that it seemed painless and I’m grateful for that knowledge.

The rest of the visit was family and funeral and it seemed I blinked and we were headed home, south through a snowstorm.

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