This morning, as I stirred squashed grapes, water, and flour together until they congealed into a gooey paste, I felt an eerie kinship to Dr. Frankenstein. After all, wasn’t I combining several organic elements in the attempt to create something even slightly more alive? Trust me, once you double check to make sure no metal utensils or bowls have been involved, place the concoction in a warm, well protected area, and check anxiously for signs of bubbles each morning, a sourdough starter really can become your “baby” so to speak. The only problem is, that at this time, I really don’t need any more babies. I really don’t even have time for a pet, not even the quiet, housebroken type like a sourdough starter. A starter still needs to be fed, and even played with. Of course, it certainly has cats beat in regards to the treats it gratefully delivers to its master. My last starter left pizza dough, bagels, and loads of bread before it met its demise. In short, I’m sorry to say that it died a slow death of starvation in my frigerator and then was dumped unceremoniously down the drain. Due to no fault of its own, its pungent, tangy odor of which I had once been so fond became absolutely abhorrent to me during the first few months of my second pregnancy.
“Don’t open the refrigerator door!” I remember warning my oblivious husband. It was too late, before I could stop him, he had unleashed the aroma into the entire house.
“I don’t smell anything,” he protested. Nevertheless, the kitchen was rendered useless for around forty-eight hours unless I cared to suffer extreme nausea. Still, after all that, I was reluctant to make a quick end to the little guy. For whatever reason, guilt, laziness, trepidation of actually opening the container and experiencing the full magnitude of the smell, I let the starter languish slowly away into a blob of goo, fermentation, and mold. Not a pretty sight I assure you.
Months have passed and the tiny baby that triggered such violent changes in my olfactory sense is actually over ten weeks old. My husband has been not so subtly hinting that I bring another batch to life. He stops forlornly at the bagel displays in the grocery store and comments, “Lender’s Bagels; I used to like those, but you’ve spoiled me for good.” Last week, he came home from an in-service where fresh bagels from Panera were offered and he told me pitifully, “I tried to eat one, but it just tasted like rubber.” A few months ago he asked if in honor of his birthday I might make a dozen bagels. That, he said, would be all the present he would need. Ha! All the present he needs, my foot. He knows good and well that once I get a starter going bagels will appear every few days, more bagels than we could ever possibly eat. Once a starter comes to life, it must be fed, and used, or, well, I’ve already gone into that.
Well, Jeff’s birthday is in less than twenty days and for better or worse, his present is burbling to life on my counter top now. What do you know? I’ve already had to resist the urge to check for bubbles and I know there couldn’t possibly be any for at least another twelve hours. Actually, there might not be any ever. Apparently, from all I’ve read, my fetal starter must harness the wild yeasts from the air in order to begin the fermentation process. Of course, I could have added dried yeast which is probably the way ninety-nine percent of sour dough bakers coax their starters to life. If I’m going to do something though, I usually end up doing it the most authentic way—or in other words, the hardest way possible. So if bubbles appear tomorrow letting me know a few of the wild yeasts which scientists aren’t even sure exist have been captured from the air of my kitchen, of course, I’ll feel a bit of motherly pride toward the fledgling batch of goo. I’ll probably also make all sorts of internal promises to insure this blob doesn’t suffer the same fate as its predecessor.
In the area of cultivating batches of starter, some people must have fortitude and commitment that far exceeds my own. These traits are quite possibly genetic since certain families can manage to keep a starter thriving for generations. When I was babying my first batch, I read longingly of mixtures, which had been kept alive lovingly since their journey across the prairie on the Oregon Trail. It is claimed that such starters have a flavor beyond compare—that the longer they live the more desirable baked goods they yield. I remember laying in bed night after night scheming on how I might become chummy with one of these honored sourdough owners and then after a bit offer to help them ensure the continued legacy of their starter by caring for a bit of it in my refrigerator. Luckily, for my sake and that of sour dough posterity, I never obtained any of this cherished sludge. Just imagine how guilt-striken I would be at actually dumping such an esteemed century old batch of goo down the drain since I was virtually crippled with guilt at parting with my mere run-of-the-mill glump. I can remember as my poor starter was gasping for it’s very last breaths in the fridge, eulogizing over how it had only reached a ripe old age of a month, but already matured in taste somewhat. Oh well, here I go again. Here’s to second chances.
Anyone want to guess at my New Year’s Resolution?
Friday, December 15, 2006
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Unitasking
Multitasking: isn’t that supposed to be a hallmark of a successful mother? I used to be pretty good at it, but now, I’m trying my hardest to break myself of the urge and forget how it’s done.
Ten weeks ago, I gave birth to my second child. I had attempted to prepare myself mentally for the added labor involved in caring for two children as opposed to one, but the magnitude of that transition is one that really has to be experienced first hand. My first day alone with a two year old and a newborn could be described as many things, but not rewarding. Labor had seriously thrown something in my back out of joint. I could move, but my movements resembled more closely those of a hunched arthritic senior than the spry thirty year old that I was. Most of that morning was a blur, but I do remember that there was a lot of crying. Everett cried, but I suppose that was understandable. Clara Grace cried and threw herself down on the floor in one of her two-year-old convulsive fits. I cried, and changed diapers, and diapers, and more diapers, and somehow made lunch for my daughter before blissfully tucking her in for an early nap. I knew I somehow had to prevent the next day from being even half as chaotic. After a twice-interrupted night’s sleep, I braced myself for the ordeal with a few cherished moments in my safe bed and then, with an already familiar whimper from the bassinette, my day began early.
It was during this second morning though, that the epiphany came. I was on my way to change Everett’s diaper when I stepped on a colorful, wooden block. Instinctively, I bent to retrieve the misplaced toy. “Want some yogurt.” Clara Grace called from her high chair. Block and Everett in hand, I detoured to the kitchen, only to realize it was very difficult to open a yogurt container one handed. On my way to the high chair, another toy lay directly in my path, and the impulse to grow an imaginary arm and pick it up was maddening. “I can’t do this,” I thought in a panic. No matter how much I do, three times that is undone even faster. Out of nowhere, that logical part of my brain for which I am extremely grateful overrode my pounding blood pressure and shallow breaths. I realized in a stark moment of clarity that getting more than one thing done at once was going to be impossibility. What I needed to do, was to do one thing and only one thing at a time, but to do that one thing to the best of my ability.
So now, when I’m feeding Everett, instead of making mental notes of every plaything Clara Grace is strewing across the living room in order to collect them the moment he unlatches, I’m remembering to trace his oversized baby ear and soft, ample cheek. When I set lunch down for Clara Grace, instead of using her captive moments in the high chair to throw crusty breakfast plates into the dishwasher, I’m enjoying a conversation with her over my own cheese sandwich and apple. And in the afternoon, when Everett is not willing to go down for a nap without me close by, instead of longing for all the masterpieces I could be writing with just a bit of free time, I’m relaxing in bed and breathing in the beautiful fragrance of fuzzy infant hair.
Of course, this theory of unitasking has its limitations. Priorities sometimes override the perfect system. For example, If I’m cooing back and forth to Everett while changing his poopy diaper, and suddenly hear a noisy thud that sounds uncannily like a two year old falling from the height of, oh, say the kitchen table, baby talk is put on hold. Or vice versa, if I’m enjoying a wonderfully creative play-doh session with Clara Grace and then notice an inordinate amount of warm barf suddenly running down my neck and sleeves, experimenting with bumpy shell imprints can wait.
I certainly haven’t become perfect at this new way of organizing my day. Unfortunately for all concerned, I often find myself relapsing into that frazzled, hypertensive drill sergeant. The strange thing is that when I find myself in that mode, the house doesn’t stay any cleaner, we don’t get out the door any sooner, and we never ever have much fun. Conversely, another funny thing is that ever since I resigned myself to letting certain things go, I find that everything I needed to get done eventually does get done. When I get a chance to clean or do the laundry, I make sure to make the most of that time and low and behold, our house is still standing.
So, excluding relapses and momentary snags, my days really have seen a vast improvement. Even despite the great results I’m finding though, eliminating the urge to be more productive than humanly possible still proves a constant battle. It’ll take about eighteen years or so to fully work the bugs out of the system I suppose. By the way, I haven’t asked a mother of three or more whether my discovery of unitasking still applies and I don’t think I’m brave enough at this point to test it out myself.
Ten weeks ago, I gave birth to my second child. I had attempted to prepare myself mentally for the added labor involved in caring for two children as opposed to one, but the magnitude of that transition is one that really has to be experienced first hand. My first day alone with a two year old and a newborn could be described as many things, but not rewarding. Labor had seriously thrown something in my back out of joint. I could move, but my movements resembled more closely those of a hunched arthritic senior than the spry thirty year old that I was. Most of that morning was a blur, but I do remember that there was a lot of crying. Everett cried, but I suppose that was understandable. Clara Grace cried and threw herself down on the floor in one of her two-year-old convulsive fits. I cried, and changed diapers, and diapers, and more diapers, and somehow made lunch for my daughter before blissfully tucking her in for an early nap. I knew I somehow had to prevent the next day from being even half as chaotic. After a twice-interrupted night’s sleep, I braced myself for the ordeal with a few cherished moments in my safe bed and then, with an already familiar whimper from the bassinette, my day began early.
It was during this second morning though, that the epiphany came. I was on my way to change Everett’s diaper when I stepped on a colorful, wooden block. Instinctively, I bent to retrieve the misplaced toy. “Want some yogurt.” Clara Grace called from her high chair. Block and Everett in hand, I detoured to the kitchen, only to realize it was very difficult to open a yogurt container one handed. On my way to the high chair, another toy lay directly in my path, and the impulse to grow an imaginary arm and pick it up was maddening. “I can’t do this,” I thought in a panic. No matter how much I do, three times that is undone even faster. Out of nowhere, that logical part of my brain for which I am extremely grateful overrode my pounding blood pressure and shallow breaths. I realized in a stark moment of clarity that getting more than one thing done at once was going to be impossibility. What I needed to do, was to do one thing and only one thing at a time, but to do that one thing to the best of my ability.
So now, when I’m feeding Everett, instead of making mental notes of every plaything Clara Grace is strewing across the living room in order to collect them the moment he unlatches, I’m remembering to trace his oversized baby ear and soft, ample cheek. When I set lunch down for Clara Grace, instead of using her captive moments in the high chair to throw crusty breakfast plates into the dishwasher, I’m enjoying a conversation with her over my own cheese sandwich and apple. And in the afternoon, when Everett is not willing to go down for a nap without me close by, instead of longing for all the masterpieces I could be writing with just a bit of free time, I’m relaxing in bed and breathing in the beautiful fragrance of fuzzy infant hair.
Of course, this theory of unitasking has its limitations. Priorities sometimes override the perfect system. For example, If I’m cooing back and forth to Everett while changing his poopy diaper, and suddenly hear a noisy thud that sounds uncannily like a two year old falling from the height of, oh, say the kitchen table, baby talk is put on hold. Or vice versa, if I’m enjoying a wonderfully creative play-doh session with Clara Grace and then notice an inordinate amount of warm barf suddenly running down my neck and sleeves, experimenting with bumpy shell imprints can wait.
I certainly haven’t become perfect at this new way of organizing my day. Unfortunately for all concerned, I often find myself relapsing into that frazzled, hypertensive drill sergeant. The strange thing is that when I find myself in that mode, the house doesn’t stay any cleaner, we don’t get out the door any sooner, and we never ever have much fun. Conversely, another funny thing is that ever since I resigned myself to letting certain things go, I find that everything I needed to get done eventually does get done. When I get a chance to clean or do the laundry, I make sure to make the most of that time and low and behold, our house is still standing.
So, excluding relapses and momentary snags, my days really have seen a vast improvement. Even despite the great results I’m finding though, eliminating the urge to be more productive than humanly possible still proves a constant battle. It’ll take about eighteen years or so to fully work the bugs out of the system I suppose. By the way, I haven’t asked a mother of three or more whether my discovery of unitasking still applies and I don’t think I’m brave enough at this point to test it out myself.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
High Time for a Vacation
I’ve been missing the ocean lately. Whenever I stand just on the border of land and water with cool white foam washing over my toes and eroding the warm sand right out from under my feet, I feel so much more myself. Thoughts wash over me by the ocean in waves of inspiration just as thrilling and deep as the water before me. And it’s always been that way, even since I was a little girl.
I remember when I was very, very young, looking out over the blue green expanse in sheer wonder. All around, there were other children knocking down sand castles, prodding dried up jelly fish or burying their parents in the sand, but I didn’t notice any of it. I was staring out over the sea trying to picture it as the very same waters in which at this very moment enormous whales were diving and breeching. It was the very same ocean over which ships captained by explorers had taken months to traverse. I was connected to all of it, the present, the past, and the enormity, right then just because those very same waters were washing back and forth over my toes.
Later that afternoon, exploration and marine life came together in a far less metaphysical manner. I commandeered a two-man rubber raft and squeezed in with my brother and cousin. When common sense personified by the two other passengers of the vessel begged me to turn back, I urged them to go just one bit farther. Secretly, I wondered how deep the rolling water had grown beneath us. I gazed at a distant shore with an unsurpassed thrill. Just then, a splash very near our boat made me turn once again to the horizon. My cousin had just seen an enormous tail slip back into the waves, but she was sure it had to be a shark. In sheer panic, I dove overboard and everyone else followed. Not logical, I know, but for some reason, it seemed the safest course of action at the time. Safely in our hotel room, my mom informed me that sharks don’t jump out of the water in that way. I had most likely encountered a dolphin as a visitor in the midst of its vast home.
My next trip to the ocean came sometime during adolescence. Once again, I stood in the gentle surf and gazed down the long stretch of foam. The beach was almost empty making the place feel almost magical. I truly felt as if anyone, even the most unexpected person, might suddenly appear on the horizon and walk along the tide line to meet me. When I pondered whom out of all people living or dead I most wanted to see, I discovered that it was my older self whom I desperately hoped would appear strolling along for a quiet seaside chat. There were, after all, so many questions I needed to ask her. Did she ever fall in love? Did she write any books? In what country did she live? How many languages could she speak? And most important of all, did she like me?
Years later, I did fall in love and marry. My husband and I spent our honeymoon beside the ocean. He’s more of a woods and lakes person, but he knew how much it would mean to me. On our first day, he encouraged me to swim with him out to a distant sandbar. Knowing he didn’t enjoy swimming like I did, and knowing he was probably thinking more of a swim in his Michigan lakes, I declined. He tried again believing this would be something I’d truly enjoy. “There might be sharks out there,” I told him matter-of-factly.
“There’s no sharks out there,” he teased.
“This is the ocean,” I told him and waved a hand over the churning water grandiosely. “Where do you think the sharks are?” This was my domain, and I reveled in sharing it with him; the mystery, danger, beauty, and excitement. Later that afternoon we met a coastguard pilot on the beach who mentioned a few six-foot sharks he’d spotted cruising along that very bar.
The next day we bought a few Styrofoam boogey boards and decided to stay close to shore. We were having a wonderful time until I announced that I felt something brush against my leg. “It was probably just seaweed,” Jeff told me trying his best to put on a show of enjoying the water for my sake.
“No, It was definitely fleshy,” I told him. It took two more of these encounters before Jeff actually felt one himself. When a patch of the reddish seaweed cleared, he saw for the first time that we were in the midst of a swarming school of stingrays. Needless to say, I forgot the time-honored wisdom of shuffling your feet in the sand on your exit.
Despite our close calls with nature, we both remember that week as the best in our lives. One night, over eight years later, when I felt completely overwhelmed and sleeping was impossible, Jeff ran his fingers through my hair and told me in a soothing whisper, “Whenever I start feeling too much stress, I just think about our week on the ocean. Try it.” I took his advice. I thought back on teaching him how to eat crab legs, our matching striped beach towels laid out on the sand, and floating in our rubber raft beneath the moonlight, and I was fast asleep in a matter of minutes.
Jeff says the lakes and forests are his favorite places in the world. He grew up right in the midst of Northern Michigan, which happens to be an ideal spot for both. The forest has always been my second love, but lakes never really appealed to me at all. That’s partially because I grew up in Tennessee and the only lakes I knew were little better than mud holes. When he first brought me to Lake Michigan I was amazed. There was sand, waves, and a watery horizon. This should be good enough, I told myself; this is just like the ocean. No matter how I tried to convince myself that I was standing by the sea though, my senses rebelled. The breeze was clean and fresh, but there was no nostalgic brine. The sand was smooth and warm, but it held no treasure trove of bumpy tiger claws, unbleached sand dollars, smashed conchs, or colorful butterfly shells that wriggled for cover after each wave. The water was safe and saltless, but it held no mystery, no danger, no thrill. Lake Michigan stretched as far as the eye could see, but something inside me reached out in hopes of feeling the boundless depths and broad expanse of an ocean and found land far too near.
Jeff has been undergoing a battery of personality tests during a year-long leadership program. There have been tests that categorize people by all sorts of details, but none that group them according to the places on earth that make them feel most alive. Why not? Doesn’t this seem one of the most telling aspects to a person’s nature? What if my ingrained longing for the sea is connected inextricably to the same inner passion for vastness, excitement, beauty, and connections to bigger things like whales and explorer’s ships? What if Jeff’s tranquility, contentment, and lack of a need to travel and grasp for things beyond boundaries is expressed in his love of lakes? What if both of us feel renewed in the forest because we enjoy shelter, quiet, the industry of creatures, and the music of birds? Are there people who think wistfully of a rolling plain or long for a high mountaintop?
Just two years ago, I stood in the surf and all the thoughts of all the years before rolled in and out of my mind. I pictured gigantic whales plumbing unfathomable depths and sails of ancient explorer’s ships billowing in the wind. I glanced down the strand and smiled wondering whether my younger self, the outgoing and awkward, confident and insecure adolescent would make an appearance. I wanted to introduce her to the wonderful husband who stood beside me and to the baby growing in my womb. What I would have given to glimpse for just a moment in that little girl, the energy, optimism and dreams which time had slowly mellowed in myself. I wanted to hug her and tell her how special she was and most of all, that yes, I did like her. Only, then I wondered, would she be happy with me? Would she want to know that she was just a Spanish teacher, a mediocre fiddle player, and an unpublished author? Would that idealistic and dream-filled little girl understand that she would someday be happy, very happy, even though she didn’t have a job in a foreign country or a talent that made her famous? Would she be all right with knowing even twenty years later, she would still be stretching and pushing her boundaries just like the constant ocean waves?
I remember when I was very, very young, looking out over the blue green expanse in sheer wonder. All around, there were other children knocking down sand castles, prodding dried up jelly fish or burying their parents in the sand, but I didn’t notice any of it. I was staring out over the sea trying to picture it as the very same waters in which at this very moment enormous whales were diving and breeching. It was the very same ocean over which ships captained by explorers had taken months to traverse. I was connected to all of it, the present, the past, and the enormity, right then just because those very same waters were washing back and forth over my toes.
Later that afternoon, exploration and marine life came together in a far less metaphysical manner. I commandeered a two-man rubber raft and squeezed in with my brother and cousin. When common sense personified by the two other passengers of the vessel begged me to turn back, I urged them to go just one bit farther. Secretly, I wondered how deep the rolling water had grown beneath us. I gazed at a distant shore with an unsurpassed thrill. Just then, a splash very near our boat made me turn once again to the horizon. My cousin had just seen an enormous tail slip back into the waves, but she was sure it had to be a shark. In sheer panic, I dove overboard and everyone else followed. Not logical, I know, but for some reason, it seemed the safest course of action at the time. Safely in our hotel room, my mom informed me that sharks don’t jump out of the water in that way. I had most likely encountered a dolphin as a visitor in the midst of its vast home.
My next trip to the ocean came sometime during adolescence. Once again, I stood in the gentle surf and gazed down the long stretch of foam. The beach was almost empty making the place feel almost magical. I truly felt as if anyone, even the most unexpected person, might suddenly appear on the horizon and walk along the tide line to meet me. When I pondered whom out of all people living or dead I most wanted to see, I discovered that it was my older self whom I desperately hoped would appear strolling along for a quiet seaside chat. There were, after all, so many questions I needed to ask her. Did she ever fall in love? Did she write any books? In what country did she live? How many languages could she speak? And most important of all, did she like me?
Years later, I did fall in love and marry. My husband and I spent our honeymoon beside the ocean. He’s more of a woods and lakes person, but he knew how much it would mean to me. On our first day, he encouraged me to swim with him out to a distant sandbar. Knowing he didn’t enjoy swimming like I did, and knowing he was probably thinking more of a swim in his Michigan lakes, I declined. He tried again believing this would be something I’d truly enjoy. “There might be sharks out there,” I told him matter-of-factly.
“There’s no sharks out there,” he teased.
“This is the ocean,” I told him and waved a hand over the churning water grandiosely. “Where do you think the sharks are?” This was my domain, and I reveled in sharing it with him; the mystery, danger, beauty, and excitement. Later that afternoon we met a coastguard pilot on the beach who mentioned a few six-foot sharks he’d spotted cruising along that very bar.
The next day we bought a few Styrofoam boogey boards and decided to stay close to shore. We were having a wonderful time until I announced that I felt something brush against my leg. “It was probably just seaweed,” Jeff told me trying his best to put on a show of enjoying the water for my sake.
“No, It was definitely fleshy,” I told him. It took two more of these encounters before Jeff actually felt one himself. When a patch of the reddish seaweed cleared, he saw for the first time that we were in the midst of a swarming school of stingrays. Needless to say, I forgot the time-honored wisdom of shuffling your feet in the sand on your exit.
Despite our close calls with nature, we both remember that week as the best in our lives. One night, over eight years later, when I felt completely overwhelmed and sleeping was impossible, Jeff ran his fingers through my hair and told me in a soothing whisper, “Whenever I start feeling too much stress, I just think about our week on the ocean. Try it.” I took his advice. I thought back on teaching him how to eat crab legs, our matching striped beach towels laid out on the sand, and floating in our rubber raft beneath the moonlight, and I was fast asleep in a matter of minutes.
Jeff says the lakes and forests are his favorite places in the world. He grew up right in the midst of Northern Michigan, which happens to be an ideal spot for both. The forest has always been my second love, but lakes never really appealed to me at all. That’s partially because I grew up in Tennessee and the only lakes I knew were little better than mud holes. When he first brought me to Lake Michigan I was amazed. There was sand, waves, and a watery horizon. This should be good enough, I told myself; this is just like the ocean. No matter how I tried to convince myself that I was standing by the sea though, my senses rebelled. The breeze was clean and fresh, but there was no nostalgic brine. The sand was smooth and warm, but it held no treasure trove of bumpy tiger claws, unbleached sand dollars, smashed conchs, or colorful butterfly shells that wriggled for cover after each wave. The water was safe and saltless, but it held no mystery, no danger, no thrill. Lake Michigan stretched as far as the eye could see, but something inside me reached out in hopes of feeling the boundless depths and broad expanse of an ocean and found land far too near.
Jeff has been undergoing a battery of personality tests during a year-long leadership program. There have been tests that categorize people by all sorts of details, but none that group them according to the places on earth that make them feel most alive. Why not? Doesn’t this seem one of the most telling aspects to a person’s nature? What if my ingrained longing for the sea is connected inextricably to the same inner passion for vastness, excitement, beauty, and connections to bigger things like whales and explorer’s ships? What if Jeff’s tranquility, contentment, and lack of a need to travel and grasp for things beyond boundaries is expressed in his love of lakes? What if both of us feel renewed in the forest because we enjoy shelter, quiet, the industry of creatures, and the music of birds? Are there people who think wistfully of a rolling plain or long for a high mountaintop?
Just two years ago, I stood in the surf and all the thoughts of all the years before rolled in and out of my mind. I pictured gigantic whales plumbing unfathomable depths and sails of ancient explorer’s ships billowing in the wind. I glanced down the strand and smiled wondering whether my younger self, the outgoing and awkward, confident and insecure adolescent would make an appearance. I wanted to introduce her to the wonderful husband who stood beside me and to the baby growing in my womb. What I would have given to glimpse for just a moment in that little girl, the energy, optimism and dreams which time had slowly mellowed in myself. I wanted to hug her and tell her how special she was and most of all, that yes, I did like her. Only, then I wondered, would she be happy with me? Would she want to know that she was just a Spanish teacher, a mediocre fiddle player, and an unpublished author? Would that idealistic and dream-filled little girl understand that she would someday be happy, very happy, even though she didn’t have a job in a foreign country or a talent that made her famous? Would she be all right with knowing even twenty years later, she would still be stretching and pushing her boundaries just like the constant ocean waves?
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