chocolate peanut butter bananas

I thought I'd share one of the new Elliott-friendly treats we're whipping up over here. This photo doesn't do them justice. These frozen banana pops are so yummy and, rolled in homemade granola, almost healthy. Here's how to get some:

Chocolate Peanut Butter Bananas

Half bananas.
Put banana halves on popsicle sticks.
Melt 1 cup chocolate chips.
Mix in two big spoonfuls of creamy peanut butter.
Spoon chocolate mixture over bananas.
Roll banana pops in granola.
Freeze and eat.

Liam helped with the banana cutting, popsicle stick inserting and granola rolling, which made the prep a fun rainy day activity. I froze them in our basement chest freezer right on the silpat on the cookie sheet. (Full discloser: I ate one - okay, two - before freezing. I think it's the peanut butter in the chocolate that made me do it - sigh.)

I'm sure these would be delicious rolled in coconut, chopped peanuts, sprinkles or anything you dream up, but we really love the granola. The recipe is one I adapted from my new favorite cookbook, Feeding the Whole Family: Cooking with Whole Foods. The granola not very sweet, so it's great on oatmeal, fruit, yogurt, ice cream or just by itself as cereal. I didn't have the pumpkin seeds and sesame seeds the recipe called for so I adapted the recipe to use what I had in the cupboard. Just use the same amounts of nuts and seeds and such and you can make up your own version, too.

Maple Nut Granola

3 1/2 cups rolled oats
1/2 cup coconut
1/2 cup sunflower seeds
1/2 cup chopped raw pecans
1/2 cup chopped raw almonds
1/2 t cinnamon
1/2 t sea salt
1/2 cup butter
1/3 cup maple syrup
1 T peanut butter
1 t vanilla extract
1/4 t almond extract

Combine oats, coconut, seeds, nuts, cinnamon and salt. In pan, melt butter. Stir in maple syrup, peanut butter and extracts. Pour wet ingredients over dry and stir well. Spread onto a jelly roll pan. Bake at 325 for 50 minutes, turning every 15-20 minutes.

let food be your medicine and medicine be your food

Hippocrates said this, according to the tote bag my fried Tracy brought to our boys' t-ball game tonight. In other words, eat right and you'll be well. The problem is, even health professionals can't agree on what eating right looks like. Some don't even think diet makes a difference, at least not for a three year old with chronic reflux. They'd rather prescribe the "real" medicine.

About a month ago Elliott was burping and refluxing so frequently, I timed these disruptions at three minutes apart for nearly two days straight. He was pointing to his throat and stomach saying, "Ouch." I felt terrible for him. But our family doctor didn't know what to do. He thought a stomach virus was aggravating his already delicate digestive system and it would subside soon. It did, but during his acute bout, the "wait and see" approach we've been operating under as a way to address E's ongoing chronic issue wore thin. As much as I hate intervention, especially after the boy has already been scoped and biopsied, I decided to make an appointment with another specialist for a second opinion. On a whim, I also decided to go hard core and completely eliminate dairy.

If we lived in the Far East, cutting dairy out of my son's diet would be a no brainer. No one in the Far East eats diary products. And, interestingly, practically none of the people who live there can tolerate them. Milk-drinking Americans have genetically mutated to digest lactose. Weird but true. It can be argued that we were never designed to drink the milk of other animals. But we do. And we love it.

This is where it gets really interesting. We drink big tall glasses of milk, we think we're downright healthy for it, and we suffer the consequences as the lactose wreaks havoc on our tummies. At least some of us. Elliott, for one.

Here's what we've discovered through our anti-cow experiment (which since we've begun, Elliott has been walking around the house singing "ei-ei-o," as if to say, finally you people are getting a clue): No dairy, no reflux. Tiny bit of dairy, within the hour, thrown up.

It's a little hard to believe that the solution to a chronic two-year problem could be this simple, but I think that's the health care system talking. In America, more is better: more doctors, more tests, more drugs, more interventions. Figuring out how to "cure" a condition by taking out a food group - one that's primary on the government's food pyramid, no less - seems downright hippie-like. Next we'll be moving to a commune and foraging for nuts and berries in the woods.

Interestingly, I have been rereading Barbara Kingsolver's book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle along with the seasons. Last week I finished the chapter on Late June, which was all about our dependence on cow's milk and lactose intolerance and so on. This weekend I listened to an incredible This American Life radio show explaining the American health care system called More Is Less (listen to it!), haphazardly chosen to accompany me while I washed a pile of dishes. And then today, completely unsolicited, a friend sent out this very provocative article by a physician who lays out more concerns about milk than I ever imagined existed. If God's trying to send me a message here, I'm getting it.

Hippocrates' idea of healthcare sounds pretty idealistic, if not like a downright fairytale. But maybe that has more to do with wanting what we want and not wanting to give up what we like. Lucky for me I have a three year old who doesn't get a vote. He's giving up ice cream and quesadillas and his beloved pizza. And I'm working on making up some delicious alternatives, because I know he feels better. Best of all, I didn't need to pay a specialist hundreds of dollars to tell me he needs medicine. Maybe I am a hippie afterall.

dishing up more than pie

You're probably tired of seeing what's in my pie plate, but I can't help it. I love summer food: growing it, making it, eating it. All year round I make frittatas. But when the veggies are local and fresh, these spur-of-the-moment inventions rock. I've put nearly every kind of leftover, vegetable, herb, cheese, you name it in this pie dish. Smothered it with eggs and baked it. Some have outshone others, but we've never ended up with anything we didn't really like (at least, not me). Last week I made the frittata pictured. It was maybe my favorite ever. I guess I knew it would be, which is why I was a geek and took a picture. I even consciously thought about what I was doing as I made it so I could write a recipe down. This is an especially great dish to make the night after you serve spaghetti. You'll actually make use of the leftovers rather than let them sit for a month in the fridge and then finally throw them out. Please tell me I'm not the only one who does this. Excuse me, the only one who used to do this. Now I have spaghetti frittata. And now - no more excuses - so do you.

Spaghetti Frittata
Handful of leftover cooked spaghetti (with or without the sauce)
1 T olive oil
2 small zucchini
6 eggs
3/4 t salt
1/4 t fresh ground pepper
Splash of milk (optional)
Few snips of fresh rosemary or other herb (optional)
Couple ounces crumbled feta cheese

Spray pie plate and spread out spaghetti to cover the bottom. Heat oil and saute sliced zucchini until just beginning to soften. Put zucchini over spaghetti. Whisk together eggs, salt, pepper and milk and herb (if using). Pour over zucchini. Sprinkle with cheese. Bake at 400 for 25 minutes.

Lately I've been leaving out the milk since we're keeping Elliott off dairy. Adding it just gives the dish a little fluff. I actually like it better without. Also, since I put feta on this particular frittata, Andrew wasn't a big fan. This means I had to eat all the leftovers by myself. Yeah, I felt really bad about it, too.

hard-working pie dish

For probably ten years, a few dear friends of mine have been hosting dinner parties for each other every couple months. The host, responsible for the main part of the dinner, divvies out the rest of the meal's responsibilities, including appetizer, beverages and dessert. No one ever goes home hungry.

My good friend Laura makes the most incredible desserts. It's not really surprising considering she and her husband own a very popular cafe and she fills the dessert case with pastries that pop from her own ovens. She does this, of course, while running a catering business, selling real estate, rehabbing her 100-year-old home, counseling her teenage employees (to the point of legally adopting them if need be), fighting city hall (yes, she's crazy this way), all with four young children in tow.

I met Laura the spring of 1998 when she and her husband were rehabbing the building across the street from my apartment. That summer they opened their cafe. In the years that followed, Laura inspired me to try knitting, latte making, blind dates, natural childbirth (with a cheering section), and, recently, baking pie.

To be her friend is something special. To be a recipient of her pie or homemade ice cream is heaven on earth. So, whenever it's my turn to host our dinner party, Laura brings dessert.

A couple years ago, Laura shared the recipe for her summer pie. My deep-dish pie pan has seen four berry pies this season and it's not even officially summer yet. I aways shied away from making pie, thinking there was some exact science to the flaky crust that I wouldn't be able to master. Don't be intimidated. It's so much easier than you think. The real key is getting the ratio of fruit to crumb topping right. Pack the pie with fruit. Use more than you think you should. Like a friendship with Laura, you won't be disappointed.

Laura's Summer Pie
Crust (makes two 9")
2 1/2 cups flour
1 tsp. salt
2 tbs. sugar
1 cup shortening
1 1/2 sticks butter
1/4 cup ice water (maybe more, maybe less)
Put all ingredients except water into large bowl and use a pastry cutter to cut butter and shortening into dry ingredients until the pieces are small. Sprinkle water over and use a large fork to stir until dough comes together into a ball. Divide into two balls and refrigerate for 15 min. Roll out and place into pie pans. Refrigerate again.

Filling (for one pie)
4-5 cups of any fruit combination you can dream up
1/2 cup to 1 cup sugar per your taste and tartness of fruit
1/4 cup instant tapioca
Squeeze 1/2 lemon (and grated peel if you like more tang)
Mix all ingredients together and let sit for 15 min.

Topping (it makes a lot, you can stretch it to cover 2 pies)
1 cup flour
1 stick butter
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup either chopped nuts (any kind) or oatmeal
Use pastry cutter to cut butter into dry ingredients until it resembles course meal. Sprinkle topping on pie. Bake pie at 400 degrees for 40-45 min.

ladykiller

Liam played his first t-ball game last night. Although he doesn't really know the rules or the positions, just how to whack a ball, chase it down with his mitt in tow, and throw it to whoever happens not to be looking, he was Mr. Cool on the field. Nearly all the other players wore baseball pants, but he didn't seem to notice or care that his mom had put him in jeans. His favorite position was catcher and playing the game was the high point of his day. The way his long wavy hair curled out of his hat and his too big shirt was knotted to the side, one might think this boy was the ladykiller. But no.


100 yards away from the game, the king of playground was being swooned over by three teenage girls. For 40 minutes - until I went and physically rescued him - three cute and silly high schoolers were entirely glued to my three-year-old son. At first, when I heard their piercing laughter, I thought they might be teasing him, so I rushed over to see. Instead, Elliott was putting on a little show for his eager audience, cocking his hip, doing little dances, pointing to anything he could name and shouting "ball," "water," "slide"! Every few seconds one of the girls would squeal and laugh, "Oooooh my gosh, he's so cute!!!"


The girls in their short shorts and long shiny hair followed my goofy little son around the playground without pause. Once they learned his name, they began picking him up and cooing to him, "Hi, Elliott." "Where do you want me to take you, Elliott?"

Elliott would point, stick out his tongue, look coyly to the side, and blurt, "Blah!" The high-pitched squeals of laughter and crooning over his undeniable cuteness would start up all over again.

Sometimes I worry that Elliott will be at a disadvantage in life because of his delays and struggle to comprehend things that other kids his age understand without any difficulty. But last night I had the gift of seeing our developmentally delayed boy in a different light. He was completely independent, happy to entertain the crowd of pretty women surrounding him, without any worry about where his mom or his blankie might be. Although he has gone up and down the playground slide alone before, last night was different. He was showing off. He was performing. And he was loving it.

When I finally broke the spell and went over to retrieve the boy, I asked each girl her name and had Elliott repeat them. Each one swooned as he attempted to wade through the awkward consonants and pronounce their unfamiliar names. Before we walked away, the cutest girl of the bunch looked at Elliott like she was standing in front of Justin Bieber or some other teen idol and blurted all breathily, "Elliott, you are the cutest little boy I've ever met!"

I'm so grateful to those girls for quelling my fears about Elliott being left behind and giving me a peek into a different future. The one where my son is a ladykiller, and he knows it.

the hand of an old friend

I am captivated by this photo I took over the weekend of my three-year-old son engrossed in the music of three women playing dolcimer at a Fiber Festival in Indiana. What gets me is how sweetly he is holding the hand of my dear friend Ann's nine-year-old daughter. It's one thing to visit a long-time friend that you love - to reconnect over fabric and gardening, recipes and parenting, shared history and imagined futures, the battles that do us in and the surprises that leave us speechless, and, of course, the world's best cookies. It's just icing on the cake to have my kids adore and be adored by hers.

There is no quote, no sum up that can adequately capture the value of real friendship. Or the joy that comes in seeing your kids caught up in its magic. It's just a beautiful thing.

a boy I'm just discovering

Wednesday afternoon we signed up for the summer reading clubs at the library. By 9 a.m. Thursday morning, Liam had already read and logged five books. He chose the first 15 books on his own, checked them out on his own, and is reading them on his own. Since I am still in awe of this seemingly impossible development, I usually sit and listen. I especially like the Arthur books. I think I've read all of them aloud before, but with this new little voice expressively reading them over, it's like we're hearing the stories for the first time.

Thursday afternoon, as a last day of school treat, we headed to the Carnival in downtown Wheaton. Liam wasn't interested in any of the tame rides for younger kids. He wanted to be thrown around in the bucket seat of the Sizzler. Unfortunately he wasn't tall enough to ride alone. Although I knew I was making a mistake, I agreed to sit with him through one ride. For the first half of the ride all I could focus on was the fact that we would be goners if a bolt came loose. For the second half of the ride I focused exclusively on not throwing up. Liam, however, was having an entirely different experience. Holding on for dear life, using every ounce of energy to keep his head up and eyes open, he exclaimed, awestruck, "I think I know what my high point is today!"

From reading to reckless life endangerment (spoken by the one who is still nauseated 15 hours later), my son is slowly peeling away from me. Although expected, it's surprising. Although beautiful, it's heartbreaking. My little boy is fading away and a new boy is emerging - daring, focused, passionate and smart. I've loved every year so far, but I really think - bittersweet though it is - six will be my favorite.

is it wrong for a kindergartener to give his teacher a bottle of wine?

Probably. Until this morning, however, I never even thought this would be the gift. But it's the last day of school and all my other ideas fizzled. For months I was planning to make Liam's teacher and classroom helper purses but over the last couple weeks I have been second guessing this idea. Then at 11 p.m. the night before the day before the last day of school I had a brainstorm. It was ingenious. It was eco-saavy. It was creative. Liam could even help me. But by 11 p.m. last night I realized it was impossible. A girl has to sleep after all. At least a little.

So it was back to the drawing board and I found myself going to my happy place. Sewing coasters. Lately I have been on a coaster craze. They are relatively quick to make, and so satisfying. And they are pretty darn cute. The coasters led to the wine. And wine glass charms made with some help from Liam, in the minutes before we need to be walking out the door to school, of course. Nothing ever gets done early around here, but that's part of the excitement.

Actually I have been trying to figure out why I do this to myself - wait until the very last second to bring my brainstorms to life. First, I am indecisive. Ask my husband. I need a deadline licking at my heels to finally commit. Second, I am scrappy. I've never liked a detailed plan. I don't use patterns. I like to dream stuff up and then dig through piles and pull things off shelves in a weird random rush to see if I can actually bring my vision to life. And sometimes, when I'm down to the wire, that method doesn't go so well. And other times, it does. Finally, I have far too many things on my mind. How can a working mom sit down for a leisurely sewing session when she's stressing over preschool plans, which doctor her son needs to see next, if the big summer project is going to come through, where the lost library book might be, how mulching the yard can possibly happen in the next two weeks? As much as I try to simplify, declutter, relax, I am always here, skipping from one deadline to the next.

Andrew, at least, is starting to get me. Tuesday I was feeling the pressure more than usual: breathing shallowly, sighing loudly, feeling down. Liam was at school and Elliott was napping and I had just emailed off a project that had been hanging over my head. The counter clutter, the weedy yard, the overloaded inbox - so much I could do in the 50 minutes before school ended but, as I mentioned, I'm indecisive and so I sat at the counter in a huff.

"Why don't you go upstairs and sew something," Andrew said. "That always makes you happy."

So, reluctantly (after all, there was so much I should be doing), I waded through the piles crowding out the floor of my studio and picked up a piece of fabric. And I made a coaster. Because coasters don't take any planning and the sound of the machine bearing down on the fabric in tidy straight lines makes me happy. And, needless to say, they go great with a glass of wine.

Right or wrong, that was our gift to Mrs. McCloud. After more than nine months with 50 kindergarteners, I'm guessing she can use them.