the best days

Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year. —Ralph Waldo Emerson

These are the days when we spend evening after evening hanging out with people we love, when we read books together and take naps in the afternoon, when we tidy and purge the house and it doesn't feel like a chore, when we cut down a tree and bring it home tied to the car roof, when we let little boys decorate and resist the urge to change things. These are the days when school and work don't compute, when meals are slow cooked, dessert is a given and no one rushes. These are the days they'll remember. And all I can think is that the way we feel about these days should be the way we feel about every day. Because if you can find the magic in the mundane and the busy and the struggle, you are really living a beautiful life. So far we're finding the best days at least one month out of the year. It's a start.

not what we expected

It's 4:30 a.m. and I'm sitting on the couch with Elliott who's getting his fix of peanut butter toast and Mr. Bean. Although he still requires a blankie, struggles to form answers to open-ended questions and says many of his words like he has marbles in his mouth, I have never met a five year old who enjoys and understands humor like Elliott. He sees nuances even most adults might miss. For a long time I thought it was a fluke, that somehow he was just made to laugh at most anything.

When Elliott was nearly two, a neurologist ordered blood draws to test for some of the most severe genetic conditions. She was deeply concerned that our non-talking, non-walking boy was never going to progress beyond the intellectual level of a three year old. The tests, of course, were negative, but the dread of that suspected diagnosis has never fully lifted.

Two weekends ago I pulled out a take-home project from school - a pumpkin his kindergarten teacher suggested we decorate at home and send back to hang in the classroom. I got out some stickers and markers and urged Elliott to do something to the pumpkin. We worked quickly as I knew Elliott would lose interest after a sticker or two and I'd have to restrain myself from decorating the pumpkin myself. When I could see he was finished, I suggested we write his name and I put a marker in his hand and held it in mine.

"No," he said adamantly. "I do by self."

"Okay," I shrugged, expecting a couple little lines and scribbles on the paper.

Instead, Elliott slowly and deliberately wrote out his name, all by himself.

I am embarrassed to admit that name writing, like reading and thoughtfully answering questions, is something I have doubted my son might ever be able to do. Which, I suspect, is the reason I cried when the last T was crossed.

Only God knows what each one of us is capable of. And I am humbled to have the great privilege of witnessing one child becoming so much more than we ever expected.

how about them apples?

(Before I begin, I would like to say a word to Instagram. Instagram, your new business model stinks. I took a slew of beautiful pictures of pumpkins and apples and my children over the weekend and you have made it impossible for me to save, print or even post those photos on my blog. I love how you make me look so much better than I am, but I am leaving you. All you care about is Facebook. I am so disappointed in you. Okay, now that I've explained why there are no fabulous photos shared here, on with the post.)

I’ve never been a fan of the shorter days or the colder mornings. Give me a bright and sunny 6 a.m. that’s fast-approaching a balmy 80 degrees any day of the year. Still, I’m a sucker for the changing seasons. The sudden transformation from green and brown to orange and yellow never fails to awe me. And the orchards overrun with pumpkins and peck after peck of apples inspires me every year.

The last two weekends we’ve visited two different orchards. For you local folks, Honey Hill Orchard in Waterman, IL, is worth the drive if you’re looking for the world’s best homemade apple cider donut, a pick-your-own pumpkin patch and some family-friendly activities like a hay-bale maze, petting zoo and tractor pull that are (unbelievably) free. If you’re looking for a very expensive three-ring circus that includes a giant plethora of country kitsch for purchase, a cop directing traffic in the middle of nowhere and a “fun” area you can hardly get out of without spending a week’s budget, check out Kuipers Family Farm in Maple Park, IL. (I should, however, note that my kids were crazy about the washing stations at Kuipers. We brought home some spanking-clean pumpkins.)

At both orchards I picked up a peck of Cortlands. Hands down (in my opinion), they make the best applesauce. Using my grandma’s recipe (which is nothing but the whole, peel-on, seeds-in apple), I immediately processed the first peck last weekend. The gallon of sauce lasted a week. I also made this delicious and very flexible breakfast apple crumble. I say breakfast because it’s low on sugar and it has oatmeal in it and it makes me feel better about eating dessert when the sun is rising. And my kids think I rock when we eat apple crumble for breakfast. (I used honey in it and exchanged almond meal for half the whole wheat flour. Hence the flexible part.)

I also tried something new with apples last week. And I am happy to say—especially to you people who are demanding new recipes (you know who you are)—it turned out pretty excellent. I will make it again, which is my criteria for putting the recipe into a post, as this blog has now become my recipe book and lately my reminder that I actually used to cook and bake stuff. Now it is proof that when apples are in season, I still do.

A pizza recipe with apples may seem odd, but the best recipes often are. This one’s no exception. (By the way, I know this recipe would benefit from photos, but thanks to Instagram, there aren't any. The final product looks like a muffin and functions like a calzone, in case that helps.)

Muffin-tin Meatball (or Meatless Ball) and Apple Pizza

1 recipe pizza dough (below) or store-bought dough (like Trader Joe’s)

6 meatballs (like frozen Turkey meatballs or vegetarian meatballs from Trader Joe’s)

1 apple, peeled and thinly sliced

6 T marinara sauce

shredded mozzarella (about 1 cup)

shredded parmesan (couple ½ cup)

egg

1 T milk

Separate dough into 6 pieces and roll out pieces individually to diameter of a large grapefruit. Set first piece in large, greased muffin tin compartment. A couple inches on all sides should hang over the edge. Fan out a layer of thinly sliced apple in the bottom and along the sides of the dough-lined tin. Put meatball, a tablespoon of marinara, a couple pinches of mozzarella and a pinch of parmesan on top of the apple. Fold over the excess dough to close the pizza pocket. Continue with the other five pizza pockets. Brush the tops of the six mini calzone-like pizzas with a mixture of egg and milk. Bake at 400 for 20 minutes.

For the dough:

Dissolve ½ teaspoon of yeast in ¾ cup warm water. In mixer with dough hook, stir together 2 cups all-purpose flour with ½ teaspoon salt. While mixing, pour in the yeast water. Continue mixing for several minutes. Dough should look and feel like pizza dough. Form into a ball and let sit for a few minutes before using.

it makes no sense

So, friends, every day do something that won’t compute. Ask the questions that have no answers. Put your faith in two inches of humus that will build under the trees every thousand years. Laugh. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts. Practice resurrection. —Wendell Berry

I had plans to pack as many chores and errands into a late Sunday afternoon as I possibly could. Clean laundry was wrinkling in baskets. Staples needed to be purchased for school lunches. Dinner should soon be started. The workweek was fast approaching.

But Liam had his own plans.

I attempted to hustle the boys into the car to run to the grocery store. But they wanted none of it. The two were in the backyard surveying a trench Liam had dug. And now Liam was instructing his young apprentice to go and collect some “poison” berries for the potion he was concocting to pour into the dirt crevice, which would apparently protect us against house brownies, gremlins and other mischievous fairy types.

It was a perfect late summer afternoon and I was now the ultimate gremlin come to break up their fun. As I closed my eyes to the warm sun, I considered my options. I could demand that they get into the car. I am the mother, after all. I could give up on getting to the store and go back inside to fold laundry and get a jump on dinner. Or, I could scrap all my plans for a productive afternoon and observe the nonsense going on in the yard.

Although it went against my plans entirely, I chose the last option. Liam lit up and, as he now considered me a co-conspirator, broke out his secret weapon should the salt-and-berry barrier fail.

So, that’s where the forks disappear.

Whether it's making secret potions and pitchforks to keep the bad fairies from entering the house or running gleefully for the park—the unproductive activity we did next—nothing my boys choose to occupy their time computes in a useful sense. Their joys are, in fact, completely useless. And for a productive, results-oriented mother, joining in and attempting to experience their abandon takes more effort than I care to admit.

To add to the nonsense, we have brought a dog into our family. Nothing could compute less. Another mouth to feed. More vacuuming to do. Earlier mornings to wake up and step outside—as winter approaches no less!

Yet already, the joy has increased ten-fold. Just the presence of a being so completely unproductive, so useless (in the traditional sense) has resurrected a purposefulness that cannot be found in baskets of laundry or trips to the grocery store. There is no making sense of love. And when we open our hearts to the clever nonsense of a boy who makes his own pitchfork, a useless trip to the park when there's loads of work to be done or a freeloading dog who makes the whole house happier, we get a glimpse of Wendell Berry's truth. 

What's the point of spending your whole life being productive and useful? Results are just results. The stuff that makes no sense... that's where we find the magic.

Welcome, Bella!

preparing for the week

I think this may be the longest I've ever gone between blog posts. It has something to do with being in a perpetual state of jet lag. Without the jet. Between a very demanding project that has turned my 12-hour work/commute days into 14-15 hour work/commute days, a boy who has been waking up in the middle of the night, multiple daily lunch preparations before leaving the house at 7, 6 or even 5 a.m. and the effort needed to tend to my family and maintain some semblance of friendship with the people I love, there has been very little time to write. Or think a coherent thought, which would allow me something to write about.

A couple of weekends ago in the kitchen, I had some thoughts as I listened to a great interview with one of world's leading geophysicists and spiritual thinkers on the meaning of humanity from NPR's On Being. Maybe I'm just starved for meaningful thought, but I was so moved by what he said, I stopped the podcast a couple of times to take notes. I was going to write about this, but I'm pretty sure the notes have been swept off the counter into the garbage.

I had also considered writing about music at one point and the strange emotional power it has over me, but then I figured that may have more to do with sleep deprivation. And if there is something meaningful there to write about, I am still at a loss to find it. Nonetheless, I invite you to listen to one of the very wonderful songs that makes me cry regularly.

I have also had an idea for a post about my ridiculous obsession with my smart phone, but I'm not sure I'm ready to be that transparent. So instead, I'll stick with my favorite topic (after Liam and Elliott) and write about food.

This weekend, between working and playing, I spent time in the kitchen preparing for the week ahead. In addition to clearing piles of accumulated papers (which have grown exponentially with the start of the school year), I cut up loads of vegetables and fruits and put them in containers so they would be easy to grab from lunches and snacks. Not rocket science, but it sure feels like a great and satisfying accomplishment.

I also made a big batch of bolognese sauce that we ate over spaghetti on Saturday night and over baked potatoes tonight. (This is a favorite recipe and one of the few meat dishes I make, using all local grass-fed beef and no pork.) Then, with some of the veggie scraps, I made homemade vegetable broth so I can easily pull together a minestrone or our delicious carrot soup for dinner later in the week.

Although I felt like a truck rode over me this morning (and not for any good reason other than the aforementioned jet-less jet lag), I managed to make my children some very healthy breakfast cookies. They went kind of nuts for them. I thought they were on the dry and tasteless side. Shows how depriving kids of sugar can make them overly excited for anything that bears the name "cookie." I will spare you that recipe. The broth, however, is a worthy addition, particularly with soup season upon us. If it inspires any great soup recipes from your kitchen, please share. I need more to write about.

Simple Homemade Veggie Broth

Celery (what's left after cutting up sticks)
Carrots (1-2 washed and roughly chopped)
Onion (1 large chopped plus the skin)
Other veggies (e.g., golden beet, washed and chopped; swiss chard stalks; just nothing gas-producing like broccoli, cauliflower or cabbage)
1 t salt
1 t thyme
1 t Italian seasoning or marjoram
10 cups water

Bring to a boil and simmer on low boil 30 minutes. Cool and strain into a glass quart jar.

school is where we practice being brave and kind

I heard a statement once that I think about all the time: “Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” How true and how amplified the day a new school year begins.

On Wednesday Elliott started all-day kindergarten at a new (to him) school across town, with a new bus driver, a new teacher and new friends. My stomach was in knots on Wednesday imagining how petrified he might be at all the newness, including eating lunch at school and interacting with a broader school community than the small self-contained Early Childhood pre-school class he was in last year. I felt like we were throwing him to the wolves. And I ached knowing I couldn't be there for him.

He survived, but not without a seizure-like episode that night (episodes which we now see so clearly are triggered by anxiety) and a full-on tantrum the next morning about boarding the bus. I should have known trouble was brewing when he marched off the bus that first afternoon and boldly declared, "I all done school!" Like he had tried it and found it not to his liking.

Sending him back put a little dagger into the heart I wear around outside. 

My son would love nothing more than to lie on the couch with his blankie and watch Alvin and the Chipmunks or play with his cars for hours on the floor. In a perfect world, his mom would be home 24/7, we'd take a daily trip to the pool and the ice cream shop and never visit a doctor. Going to school would be completely out of the question.

In a perfect world, I could put my heart back in my chest cavity. Instead, I ache and bleed for a worried, confused little boy who dreads hearing that "yes" there is school today.

But he has a wonderful teacher and has been put into a classroom where he can get the help he needs to succeed academically. As an added bonus, he gets to practice being brave. As much as it pains me to see him stretch, I know that the courage he musters will just add to the incredible beauty this boy already shows us.

Eventually he will like school. Until then, I just hope my heart can survive.

::
For all moms sending kids back to school this year, I highly recommend this wonderful letter Glennon Melton of Momastery wrote to her third-grade son. I read my own version of it to my third-grade son, knowing that he will meet many "Elliotts" in his school career.

It doesn't matter how smart my third grader is or how popular. It matters that he's kind, and brave. The brave that's not required but that can change the world. To practice bravery in all its forms and to extend kindness when it's not the cool thing to do—that is success in school.

the best thing about working is not working

After four consecutive days with some of the people I love most in this world, I am reminded of one of the great benefits of having a job: Time off is nothing short of heavenly. It is difficult not to fully appreciate being together when most of the time you are apart. It is difficult not to soak up every moment in the beautiful natural world when most of the time you're inside sitting at a desk. It is also difficult to go back to a working life. But, alas, a day of not working will come again. I can hardly wait.