In the Kitchen in My Birkenstocks

I never dreamed I’d be one of those make-your-own-baby-food people. It sounds like something you do if you wear Birkenstocks and have your own chicken coop. Okay, so I do own a pair of Birkenstocks (which my husband calls my lesbian shoes), so I should have known I had the potential of falling into the homemade baby food trap.

But for some reason, I love making baby food. Who could have guessed? We received a Baby Bullet as a shower gift, and as soon as our son was old enough to try his first spoonful, I cooked some peas until they were mush, pureed them, and fed them to him as he made horrible faces. I loved it.

I don’t know why I get so much satisfaction from making his food. It could be that it feels good knowing I am giving him the best nutrition possible. It could be that I feel it gives me Gold Stars in the Good Mommy category. But overall, I think I like the orderliness and simplicity of making his food. I don’t have to plan elaborate meals or think about their cost or about if a side dish goes with an entrée. I don’t have to wash a lot of dishes or make sure my husband is in the mood for a certain dish.

Instead, I pick out a vegetable in the produce section. Something fresh. After all, these are his first tastes. His first foods! What fun to introduce him to a smooth avocado or a sweet butternut squash. I pick out the brightest, freshest ones and take them home, chop them up, put them in the pan in the steamer basket, and then forget them for a while.

Even pureeing them is satisfying – adding some water and watching the mixture get smoother and smoother. Then I spoon it into ice cube trays, freeze them, and pop them out into Ziploc bags perfectly labeled with the contents and the date. The freezer shelf is a pleasant place to poke about, to see his fresh veggies there waiting.

So far, in addition to rice cereal, multi grain cereal, and oatmeal, he has had peas, yellow squash, avocado, sweet potato, butternut squash, zucchini, and apples. (Those apples sure smelled good cooking on the stove!) This week he’ll have bananas for the first time, and next on the list is green beans. I’m excited for him!

Maybe I need to make some for myself, too, and reintroduce myself to simple, good food.

I Am a Nevadan?

I have lived in Las Vegas for nearly 18 years. I had to count on my fingers to figure it out, and I have to say that I’m overwhelmed at the idea of having lived here longer than anywhere else during my life. Wow.

So does that mean I am a Nevadan? And what is that exactly? Other states have it easier. If someone says they’re a Texan, you immediately get a mental image of their heritage, of their history of being loud and proud – I picture my Uncle Ed with his big smile, big belt buckle and cowboy boots. Texan is understood.

Another population that clearly states their heritage are New Yorkers. Smart, in-your-face, confident; those people are New Yorkers and proud of it. New Yorker implies an identity like no other.

Some states have their own labels for their residents – ones more creative than simply adding an “n” to the end of the state like Californians. I grew up in Indiana and was therefore a Hoosier. And what are Hoosiers? Pure Midwesterners, salt of the earth people. But having an unusual name like “Hoosier” gave us a bit of mystery. Or an oddity.

For Christmas our son received a cheese head hat from our relatives in Wisconsin. Of course George had to try it on, too. I think it’s neat that the single silly term "Cheese Head" can evoke the silliness and enthusiasm of a whole state. It must be fun to live in Wisconsin.

But, Nevadan? What are we exactly? If it is a label that I now have to claim, I want to know. The word itself conjures up images of dusty desert and cowboys. Am I part of that now?

This state is full of transients, people who come and work and move on - people who do not get to know their neighbors because the stop is temporary. Those are not Nevadans. Those of us who stay are those who moved West, much like those pioneers of long ago. We packed up our homes, got an itch to see what was beyond that next mountain, and took off. That’s what I did eighteen years ago, when I packed up my car and drove here by myself. I was adventurous. I was an explorer. I needed to head West.

If that is the definition I have come to, I will claim Nevadan. And I will befriend those who have also decided to make this home. I will learn to love this dusty, expansive, wild, sun-filled place. It’s time to claim my new state.

Notes, Scribbles, and Dog Ears

I love opening the pages of a brand new book. The smell is freshly printed, the pages crisp, the spine opens with a pleasant crack. You would think that I always want to keep books in this pristine condition, but sometimes it feels good to break them in, to write in them, to dog-ear their pages, to condition them and make them look loved.

I just finished reading my Mom’s old copy of The Scarlet Letter. And this book could not be more used. I had to hold it together with a large rubber band because both covers were off, and as I read I had to piece together halves of pages that had been torn off. This book went through a lot.

The most interesting thing in the book was Mom’s notes, written in ink in the margins, and her passages that were underlined. She obviously read this book in class, maybe in Mrs. U’s Senior English class in high school, and her notes allowed me to read the book along with her.

I’ll never forget the first time I was allowed to write in a book. It was in college, and I relished the idea that I could mark it as I wished with pencil or ink - make notes wherever I wanted.

Well-used books make me think of my Grandma’s Bible. As a kid I envied the look of it. The leather cover was soft and worn, there were notes and papers stuck in it everywhere, a yarn bookmark kept her place, and sometimes she even made little notes on the thin pages in pencil. I wanted a Bible that looked like that, so I got out mine from way back on my bookshelf and tried to think of things to stick in it so it looked loved like Grandma’s. I think those papers are still inside it, on my bookshelf, where it sits today.

Of course some books I will never write in, such as my large beautiful art books, or old ones from my childhood that I cherish. But I do write notes in my cookbooks (a check mark next to a recipe means it was good; a check plus means it was great), and I like to write, as my Grandma does, the date I cooked a recipe on the page, too. That makes the book more personal, as a historical record.

How loved are your books?

One Hobby is Never Enough

My husband probably thinks I have too many hobbies, since all their accompanying accoutrements take up a lot of space in our house. My shelves are filled with books because I like to read. Stacks of fabric, a sewing machine, and notions take up one corner of “my” room, standing by for when I feel like sewing. I also have yarn and crochet hooks for when the mood strikes, and an easel, paints, and canvases for creating masterpieces. This does not include the piano and guitars in our living room, my files of travel articles, or stacks of cookbooks and cabinets of bake ware for their accompanying hobbies. Hobbies require a lot of stuff.

I thought about hobbies this weekend at the dog park when I watched a man fly a model plane over the nearby soccer field. I have seen him before, and he stands on an embankment with the controller in his hands, moving his plane in graceful loops and circles and dives while most people don’t even notice.

Everyone needs a hobby. And no, watching TV, playing video games, or surfing the web are not hobbies. Real hobbies make you think, but not too hard. Their aim is to get you away from your daily stresses, away from work or normal life. They automatically connect you to other people with similar interests - people with whom you might not associate in other ways.

A man next to me in the dog park mentioned that in northern Las Vegas, there is an aviary park where all the plane-flying-people can fly together. He said people show up there towing twelve-foot planes. They’re serious.

My hobbies are fairly normal, I think. But I admire people with unusual ones. My cousin has a beehive and raises geese. My uncle plays on an amateur hockey team and has a collection of rare guitars. My brother-in-law races model cars. A friend collects model trains and goes to train conventions. It would be so cool to say that I am a spelunker or a rower or that I pilot a hot air balloon or have a collection of petrified dinosaur poop.

One thing I know is that I don’t want to turn a hobby into a profession. That would add an underlying money-related stress to something I love. Why do that?

My Weird Brain

It takes a very long time to alter an image you’ve had in your head for over thirty years. We all have images of what our lives will be like in the future – a future picture of ourselves that we take for granted.

The first time I had to change my mental image of my future was when my Mom died nearly twelve years ago. It was literally a life-changing event, and suddenly I had to change the vision I had of my future. Mom wouldn’t retire and come to visit every Christmas. She wouldn’t have my kids over for cookie-making and finger painting. It took a very long time to come to terms with, and to change, that cozy image I had of her as part of my future life.

Recently I have again had to change that picture I have in my head, but this time it’s in a positive way.

For years I have thought about my future kids. My husband and I were well in our thirties when we started the family-making plan, so we had hundreds of conversations about our future kids. I pictured taking “my kids” to museums, teaching them to bake and cook, singing with them at our piano. The kids in my head were never the same. Sometimes I envisioned two boys, sometimes it was a girl, sometimes it was just a nebulous idea of children.

Now, I have a son. It’s still a weird thing to say, since we only got him less than four months ago. And even though we have him and he is here and laughing and cooing and eating and pooping, I have yet to alter that original picture. Just this afternoon I daydreamed as I drove in my car, about taking my kids to the UNLV campus where I was headed, and my imagination envisioned a blonde curly-headed girl balking at the idea of strolling the shady campus. Then I laughed out loud. We have a son! A real son, with big blue eyes and chubby legs and an easy laugh. I quickly made the switch, and imagined taking our actual son to the campus someday for a performance or ballgame, or just to ride his tricycle on the safe, wide sidewalks.

The brain is a weird thing. Or maybe it’s just me.

Goodnight, or Goodnap

I’ve had many early mornings lately, usually for a feeding and diaper change. But one day this week I got up before the sun for a trip to the airport. My visiting relatives needed a ride home, so I obliged with a sleepy, coffee-fueled ride.

Of course I hate getting up early, but visiting the airport is always fun for me – even just the Departures lanes. I love that excitement of everyone having an important place to go, all the taxis vying for position, all the hurried goodbyes and lugging of suitcases.

But the best part for me was the nap I took afterward. Three whole hours in my office at work before I had to actually be at work. I snuggled on the couch with my pillow and blanket and had the best sleep I’ve had in a long time.

Naps are always luxurious. Sleep at night is something we always must have, but naps are extra. They’re stolen moments of heaven, while the rest of the world is up and about. I hope to have many more of them.

The Value of Errands

Now that the weather is cooler, George can go in the car with me more often. I often take him to the park and then run a few errands, and he sits and waits patiently in the car until I return from the grocery or post office or Target or wherever. He usually sits with his little white head sticking up, watching in the direction I disappeared, or he falls asleep if I take too long.

When I was a kid Mom often waited in the car and had me run into the post office for stamps or into the grocery for a carton of milk. And I wonder how old I was when she first let me do that. I’m sure it was very convenient for her to keep the car running and let me do the work for a change, but I’m sure I received the biggest benefit.

Imagine the confidence I learned from being trusted with money and such important jobs. I had to act like an adult and tell the guy behind the high post office counter exactly what I needed. I had to pick out the correct items on the grocery shelf and be responsible for handing over the money and receiving the right amount back. Independence like that is priceless.

And those errands also taught me that I could be trusted. I was important. Adult-like. I can’t help but think that errands like those enabled me to be an independent adult. There was nothing that I couldn’t handle on my own. I learned that early.

Now I’m going to add that lesson to my ever-growing list of things to teach my son. It’s a very long To-Do List!