Rising Up

Last Friday afternoon, despite my deep dismay at the inauguration, I was feeling pretty okay. I had been successfully avoiding media coverage, and I was few minutes ahead of schedule in rainy weather heading to school to pick Wyatt and his friend up at school. That feeling vanished while I waited at a stoplight, heard a crash behind me, and then a split-second later, heard and felt another thudding jolt to the back of my car. I yelled, thumped the steering wheel, and then called Wyatt's school to let them know I'd be late for pick-up.

The three of us drivers were rattled, but unhurt. I had steeled myself for unpleasantness with the rear-enders, but I needn't have bothered. This was probably the most kind and pleasant car accident anyone could ever experience. The only vaguely angry interaction in the entire situation was a grumpy driver who shook his fist out the window and told us that the van driver who had started everything REALLY should turn his hazard lights on. But not even he uttered an expletive. The van driver, who was quivering, apologized profusely for confusing his accelerator with his brake. The poor woman in the middle looked at him, unable to steady her own hands, and said generously, "Well, accidents happen. Let's exchange information." Pretty much all that was left for me to do was to empathize and compliment these two drivers' legitimately attractive license photos, so I did. While we were standing by our cars snapping photos of each others' documents (remember when you had to carry a pen and paper for such things?), one guy came out of a cafe, into the rain and without a jacket or umbrella, to make sure we were all okay. Shopkeepers shouted to us to make sure no one was hurt. And all the passers-by on foot stopped to say how sorry they were that the accident had happened. I blame the inauguration for the van driver's pedal confusion. And while car repair is a giant pain, I am so grateful to know I live in a city that was ready to be so incredibly kind on Friday, January 20, 2017.

And then? Saturday was a busy day: art, hair appointments, and the Women's March rally.

For months, I have had on our calendar the opening of the Recology Art Exhibition. I was so excited to go, and it was even better than I had imagined it would be. "Make Art, Not Landfill," as the t-shirts I bought for us say, doesn't even begin to convey the astounding effort and astonishing artwork the three artists created during their 4-month residencies.

Jinmei Chi's Dizz Mall experience, complete with mall music playing and a sales circular (my copy of which I told her I couldn't possibly give back because it is just so good), was so captivating that Wyatt insisted we go back so he could ask her if he could buy one of her products. She kindly told him that she wasn't permitted to sell anything, but she was glad to know how much the show had affected him.

Ramekon O'Arwisters connected with every single person who wanted to participate in his crochet jam, or talk about his art, or ask him questions about himself or his process. As he explained to Wyatt while teaching him to crochet in about two minutes, "It's not complicated, just unfamiliar." And yes, I've been repeating that inspired saying to myself several times a day ever since. Ramekon talked about how his current art projects invite participation, how there are no rules, and how important those aspects are to art. He also mentioned that the shards of pottery in his sculptures are sharp, just like us, until we start to rub up against each other.

Anja Ulfeldt's kinetic sculptures had a "magical attic" feel to them. Air and sound brought everything to life. I was so pleased to tell her how much we had loved her work at the Museum of Craft and Design.  She told me the most challenging and best part of this show was not being able to plan anything when she started. You just have to see and collect what you find in the dump, and go from there.

That afternoon, Marc, Wyatt and I made our way downtown with our homemade signs and rain gear. Traffic was basically at a standstill, partly in anticipation of the Women's March, and partly because of the annual anti-abortion march that took place earlier in the afternoon. Once coiffed, we walked to Civic Center, with our friend (and supremely talented stylist), Susan, to participate in the rally. I have never been in such a large crowd before, and people were as energized as they were kind. It was a wonderfully inspiring and encouraging warm-up for more activism. (If you're looking for a bite-sized, easy, organized way to take action daily, I encourage you to sign up with Daily Action for their text alerts).

In other more mundane news, we are still eating dinner! You probably are, too. A new recipe I tried this week is for Spaghetti Squash Casserole. As my aunt promised me, it's terrific. And this endorsement is coming from me, a person who finds spaghetti squash decidedly unappealing because of it's tendency to be watery and/or prepared with spices that remind me of dessert. I made two versions of the casserole, one with mushrooms and one with mushrooms and ground buffalo (because, weirdly, I had that and not ground beef in the fridge). All three of us loved it. The recipe took longer than most weeknight dinners to prepare, but we ate it for three days as leftovers, and good leftovers are basically like a mini-vacation, so to me that's winning.

My changes to the recipe were: make two casseroles in two glass pie dishes, sautée about a pound of sliced mushrooms, use a whole jar of Rao's Basil Marinara sauce plus the crushed tomatoes (we needed more sauce), skip the stevia and chicken broth (because WHY would you use those), and put an extra layer of mozzarella in the middle of the casserole (mostly because the name of the recipe's website made me feel contrary). Also? Dry that spaghetti squash as much as you can. I literally squeezed it in my hands (although twisting it in cheese cloth would have worked great, come to think of it) to extract as much of the water as I could. It was worth the effort.

Less Talk, More Action

"Mom. So you know how Martin Luther King Jr. was killed? That's bad. But that's only half of it. The other half it's so bad is because he was such a good person and doing such important work."

I just re-read Dr. King's Letter from a Birmingham Jail. His call to action and reminder that tension is necessary for progress towards justice and equality are just as relevant and important than ever. Wyatt, for his part, has been studying the pictures and illustrations in I am Martin Luther King, Jr. since Saturday, when it arrived from his grandparents.  We have read the book to him many times already, but there is still more to learn from studying the illustrations and the photos. He remains astounded by the images of the throngs of people who gathered to hear Dr. King speak ("Look! Those are people! I thought it was a field of flowers!") as well as the images of the people marching.

Today was our beach clean-up day. Wyatt, his flamingo hat, and I went with some friends from school, and it was absolutely terrific. To start, our friends had us over to their house for a delicious (second) breakfast before we got started. And then, even though all five of us volunteers would all have been perfectly happy to just pick up trash with our own gloves and call it a Great Day, we got so much more. The Golden Gate National Parks Conservancy is such a class act. They provided buckets, gloves, kids activity books, pencils, and the opportunity for the youngest volunteers to be sworn in as a Junior Ranger at the end of the project. They were more than ready for all 267 of us registered volunteers.

I think we were all expecting there to be a lot of easy, obvious trash to pick up, but there wasn't. In fact, at first glance, the beach looked pretty clean. But once we started focusing more closely, hunting for trash like you would seashells, we found lots of shards of sharp glass, plastic straws, bits of colored plastic, dental floss, paper, Lego pieces, plastic toys, bits of plastic bags, and a syringe. Fortunately there was no needle attached to the syringe, because one of the kids proudly presented it in her fist as a "Great piece of trash that does not belong on the beach!" As her mother and I suddenly realized, the Ranger's warning not to pick up dog poop or dead birds meant something (and probably wasn't even necessary--that stuff's gross). But "Don't pick up hypodermic syringes or needles!" might as well have been "Don't pick up fitzwooshles or tizzywhats!" If you have no idea what they are, and you're five, you might incorrectly conclude there's no way you could find any.

By the end of the project, the children had answered the necessary questions in their activity books, and Ranger Maria was ready to check their work, administer the Junior Ranger Pledge, and give them their badge.

"I promise to help take care of the beaches I visit including the Golden Gate National Parks. I also promise to continue to explore, learn about, and protect the natural world wherever I go,"

Thanks to the pledge, charming Petey the Golden Plover who stars in the activity book, and all the bits of plastic and straws we found, Wyatt has renewed interest in minimizing plastic waste. If we ever needed proof that action makes a difference, we have it now.

But wait, there's more! I have been all talk lately about how I want us to make dinner together on the weekend. I have been grumbling, whining, and announcing this wish for months; but until this weekend, I had no plan to put my wish into action. The key, as it turned out, was to make a simple plan for a meal where everyone could do something and I didn't have to orchestrate much. We made Mark Bittman's super easy and great Salmon Roasted in Butter, the most delicious recipe for Baby Bok Choy I've ever found, and Wyatt made his specialty: fried potatoes. He uses a crinkle cutter to get them the right size and shape and then shallow-fries them in avocado oil. Once ready, he rains a sprinkle of Kosher salt down on them, and we gobble them up.

Plunging into 2017

Happy New Year, team. I feel like 2017 will demand, among other things, my being alert and perpetually in an athletic stance. Good thing I love my sneakers.

And good thing we ate lots of black-eyed peas for New Year's Day. We can use all the luck we can get. Wyatt and I also ate bacon, because when you get right down to it, I'm a belt-and-suspenders type of person (who also likes bacon).

There's a lot to be said for starting the new year off with Conscious Intention and Healthy New Habits. If you pulled that off, good for you. We went the contrarian route. After sleeping in, Wyatt and I headed straight into the kitchen to try our hand at a new recipe for us: homemade Accara (West African black-eyed pea fritters) and Sosu Kaani sauce. I had made the sauce the day before, so it was fritter time. Wyatt was very helpful at removing all the skins from the black-eyed peas as we were preparing the batter. I am such a novice at deep-frying, but I did my best. And while the fritters were not as pretty as the ones Marc and I ate when we were in Accra, they tasted great.

After breakfast, I made a double-batch of Chocolate Zucchini Muffins to take to our friends' house for their New Year's open house. We spent part of the afternoon catching up with old friends and meeting new ones.

Once home again, I made my annual batch of Black-Eyed Pea Soup, this year I cooked the peas myself (so much tastier) and also added shredded kale leaves. We ate the soup with our new favorite Gluten-Free Sourdough Bread from the recipe in My Darling Lemon Thyme (sourdough starter generously gifted to me by Maja), and cheese, too, of course.

And while 2016 was a stinker of a year on so many levels, we closed it out really well around here. We had early Christmas fun and adventures with my parents, and then spent Christmas Day with dear friends who shared all kinds of amazing, delicious, and entertaining traditions with us. We also feel we won the Yankee Swap/White Elephant Gift Exchange.

Last week, we played tourists in our own city, and took a visit to Coit Tower and North Beach. The murals and view are breathtaking.

We then got shockingly good last-minute tickets to the matinee of Cirque du Soleil's New Year's Eve performance of Luzia. The show was fabulous. Neither Wyatt nor I had ever been to a Cirque du Soleil show, but Marc had been to several. I was so inspired by the athleticism and strength of all the performers, and I was sure Wyatt must have been, too, so I asked him, "Which of the performers would you have been?" He answered, "Remember the guy that was dressed as a cactus and wore the goggles for part of the time? Him." I pushed a little harder, "Not the super strong lifeguard guy? Or the trapeze artist? Or the birds flying through the hoops?" He responded firmly, "No. The cactus guy. With the goggles."

My friend, Sara, shared the following photos of the performance with me. I was too busy being awed to take any. Believe it or not, she didn't get a photo of the cactus-in-goggles. Go figure.

And after the show? We went to a NEW YEAR'S EVE DINNER PARTY. All three of us! I know. Amazing. And we ate dinner, hung out, toasted with champagne and were home by 8:30pm. It was basically perfection.

I wish everyone fortitude as we find our new and improved grooves and move into January. And before I forget, if you eat chicken, you need to drop everything and go make this recipe for Vietnamese Lemongrass Chicken. Make it today, because it needs a day to marinate, and you don't want to wait even one day longer than you have to before eating this. It's one of the best things I have ever cooked, and Wyatt agrees.

Glitter Glue for Refugees

People, look east. The time is near
Of the crowning of the year.
Make your house fair as you are able,
Trim the hearth and set the table.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the guest, is on the way.

So goes the first verse of the Christmas carol, "People, Look East," by Eleanor Farjeon. According to my research, Ms. Farjeon wrote this piece in 1928. Even though I have a lot of Christmases under my belt (many of them church Christmases, even), I don't remember hearing this particular carol before. This year, though, it's Wyatt's theme song, and he sings it under his breath, or at full volume, off and on most of the day. Occasionally, he also belts-out some bastardization of "Jingle Bells," or imitates that classically grating Christmas song by Alvin and the Chipmunks about one of them wanting a hula hoop.

Usually, this time of year, our friend Suzanne emails us and others of her friends and customers to say when she and her business partner, Peter, will be collecting clothing, blankets, and other goods for homeless people around San Francisco. We always bring over what we can, and we relish our visit at their custom shoe making shop. Last year, we saw Peter's diorama of Bethlehem, made from leather scraps, found objects, glue, and glow-in-the-dark paint. We also met Joe, a photographer in the neighborhood. Joe, after learning I'm a knitter, gave me a glass head he wasn't using anymore. The head is the perfect size for hats, looks great on a bookshelf, and it allows me to scrutinize my designs from all angles. We see Joe frequently around town, often walking his beautiful dog. We also got to visit him during Open Studios this year, and now we own two of his wonderful prints.

Suzanne's holiday giving email arrived the other day. This year, because of the looming Trump administration, she has shifted her focus slightly. She has volunteered through the International Rescue Committee to sponsor a refugee family who will arrive in the Bay Area later this month. The family will likely be from Afghanistan, Iraq, or Syria. She invited all of us to participate in supporting the family; we are awfully excited to help.

Furrows, be glad. Though earth is bare,
One more seed is planted there:
Give up your strength the seed to nourish,
That in course the flower may flourish.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the rose, is on the way.

"Wyatt. Remember the last couple of years when we dropped off blankets and toothbrushes for homeless people at Suzanne and Peter's? This year, we're dropping off gift cards and probably some toys or maybe art supplies for children. There's a family that's moving here from very far away. And they have almost nothing with them!"

"Are they homeless? Why don't they have anything with them?"

"I suppose they are homeless. They had to leave their home, and they've been traveling a lot, waiting to find out where they will live next and have a home for good. They're going to come to the United States and they'll fly here in a couple of weeks. They'll need to buy everything—clothes, pots, pans, silverware, plates, toilet paper—everything. So we're going to go to Target next week to get them a gift card so they can buy things they need, and we'll also get some presents for the kids. We can look for presents for the kids after you visit Santa today."

"But how old are the kids? How do we know what they like? Maybe we can get them a gift card, too, so they can choose toys."

"We could, but I was thinking that if we found good stuff, we should just get it for them. When grown-ups go shopping and need all sorts of really practical things for the family, like toilet paper, towels, clothes, and a rice cooker, there might not be enough money left over for toys."

"Mmmm. You're right. Should we get them art supplies? I think they definitely need glitter glue."

 Stars, keep the watch. When night is dim
One more light the bowl shall brim,
Shining beyond the frosty weather,
Bright as sun and moon together.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the star, is on the way.

This Saturday, it was pouring rain, and Santa was scheduled to be at Just For Fun on 24th Street for a couple of hours. Wyatt has met Santa there every year for the past three years, and unlike at other stores, Santa looks exactly the same year after year. Right beard, right suit AND same face.

Because we are loathe to mess with tradition or perfection, Marc, Wyatt and I put on our full rain gear and slip-slopped in puddles and rain up to the shop. Along the way, we cleared storm drains that were clogged with leaves and litter, and Wyatt identified all the olive and ginkgo trees without any help from me.

Thanks to the rain, there was no line for Santa. Wyatt stepped right up, made his request, and then we set about our remaining task: choosing gifts for the children who are moving from so very far away. Fortunately, Just For Fun had glitter glue, scotch tape, and more. Even better, everything we bought fits into a tidy box with a snap-on lid. As Wyatt remarked, "They need a box, too. You can't just leave your art supplies lying around, you know."

Dude.

"Dude" is such a versatile word. Sure, it's really casual and not particularly respectful, but I love it. It is one of the few words in the English language where you can apply many different intonations and get an equal number of different meanings.

"Dude" even works beautifully without voice intonation, like in texts, as my friend Sarah proved this week. She texted me, "Dude," followed by a photo of her poor son, Benjamin, who was sitting as close as possible to the toilet, resting his head on the seat. "Dude" says it all, including the sarcastic, "Thanks, barfing flu," the frantic, "I know I should really seriously avoid using bleach on everything, but here I go anyway," the weary, "How long will this last?" and the empathetic, "My poor, sick, sad child."

It's December, or The First Month When Everyone Gets Sick, and after hearing from Sarah (they're across the country from us, but that fact matters little to a worrier of my caliber), I've been annoying my family even more than usual by reminding them to really wash their hands, like for at least the entire recommended 20 seconds ("Sing the alphabet, but slowly!" Or, "Sing 'Happy Birthday' twice!"). But some version of the barfing flu squiggled into our home anyway. Wyatt woke upon Sunday yelling for me and saying with a quiver in his voice and chin that his stomach felt "oogie." Of course it did. Sunday was his school's Winter Fair, the one-day, super fun, winter holiday fairyland extravaganza that everyone, including him, looks forward to all year. Woe. It was not to be this year. Marc went to the fair to handle his shift for the little passenger train that would carry children up and down the road, and I stayed home with Wyatt. I texted Sarah, "Dude," followed by a photo of Wyatt in a similar pose to Benjamin on Thursday. She welcomed me to the Galactic Wormhole of Doom and Sh*ttiness ("GWODAS"), and I thanked her for her hospitality.

Over the course of the next several hours, I sat on the bathroom floor and read the rest of Laura Ingalls Wilder's On the Banks of Plum Creek to Wyatt. The end of Plum Creek really puts the GWODAS of a short-lived barfing flu (he perked-up before noon) in a modern home into perspective. I seriously cannot imagine living the last hundred pages of that book (or really any of it, but especially the end). The endless swarms of noisily munching grasshoppers who blocked out the sun and ate all the crops two years in a row, Pa's having to walk 600 miles round-trip (once in holey boots) so he could earn some money before winter, twice-weekly blizzards that would easily blind you, swallow you up and freeze you and your children to death, fiery fireballs of tumbleweeds that jumped over trenches to burn your house down, and don't forget all the regular work of being a farmer and homesteader. The whole scenario is its own, special kind of uber-GWODAS, and I am a spoiled whiner by comparison.

Comparisons aside, however, the truth remains that community improves whatever GWODAS we find ourselves in. Mr. Nelson helped beat back the fiery fireballs of tumbleweeds to save the the Ingalls' house from burning to the ground; Sarah helped me keep my perspective and sense of humor while I was wedged into the corner on the floor of the bathroom near my inconsolable child on Sunday morning.

Community matters, and friendships across many miles matter, too. This story about the Transcontinental Barfing Twins reminded me that I have not yet shared the most recent installment of our Craft Pals exchange (read about earlier exchanges here and here). It's awfully heartwarming.

At the end of September, our doorbell rang. The mail carrier had a package for Wyatt. It was from Benjamin, and Wyatt was so surprised and pleased he could hardly contain himself. Benjamin had sent Wyatt the most glorious set of homemade, handpainted story stones, all about a fishing adventure. There's a trout, a fishing pole, a mystery trout that got away, a worm on a hook, an island, a dock, a sailboat, a whale, the weather, an umbrella, a buck-toothed shark, assorted bait, another hook that the mystery trout ate the bait from and sneakily escaped, an octopus, and a jellyfish. This set has all the elements of so many epic adventures, and we have enjoyed many excellent stories thanks to these stones.

It took Wyatt and me awhile to figure out what to send Benjamin in return. We were thinking about it, and talking about it, but we were also working on the felted trivets all the time, so the weeks got away from us a little bit. Inspiration struck after our friend, Anne, gave Wyatt a National Parks Journal for writing and sketching. It's a great little book, and Wyatt has been working on drawing plants from our garden and things from his imagination ever since he received it. Wyatt thought Benjamin would enjoy a notebook, but not just any notebook. It needed to be special. I suggested we get an unlined blank notebook and decorate it somehow. Wyatt agreed, and he and I made a trip to SCRAP in San Francisco for inspiration and supplies.

SCRAP is a magical place. The flamingos at the top of this post greeted us outside, and after that, we explored pretty much every corner of the shop. We found everything we needed at SCRAP for the bargain price of $3.15. Everything, that is, except for the notebook (which we were particular about), and the yarn, glue sticks, googly eyes, and thread that I already had.

Wyatt decided he wanted to make a cat notebook. And he sketched this prototype.

We made the notebook by ironing the fabrics, cutting lightweight batting the same size as the cover, covering the batting-covered cover with fabric, and decorating the book like a cat. Sadly, our hot glue-gun didn't work well for sticking the fabrics together (because it's a low-temperature version, maybe?), so I did more stitching than I had anticipated, but that was fine. Wyatt finger-knitted the whiskers, tail, closure, and collar. He also chose the button, applied all the hot glue we could use, and held me to a high standard in terms of his art direction.

The hardest part about sending off this package was parting with the working kick-scooter key chain that Wyatt had found at SCRAP. He searched in endless bins there, but only found one (in contrast to the boxes and boxes of medals; he got himself a medal, too, because he "had always wanted one, and Benjamin probably had, too.")

Once the package had arrived, Sarah sent the best ever thank you video from Benjamin. It brought Wyatt the biggest, goofiest grin and giggle each time he watched it.

I know I've said it before, but I absolutely love this tangible exchange of thoughtfulness, care, and creativity.

I hope everyone reading this post enjoys a healthful December and beyond. But just in case that proves impossible, here's a recipe for pancakes that has proven delicious and easy on recovering stomachs in our house for the last couple of years. The recipe is courtesy of Sweetsmith in Adelaide, South Australia. Gluten-free, dairy-free, and refined-sugar free, these pancakes would also be good in times of good health.

Ingredients:

• 1 cup rice flour
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 2/3 cup rice milk (or nut milk)
• 1 egg
• 1 teaspoon of cinnamon
• 1 tablespoon honey
• 1 grated apple

Directions:

Sift flour and baking powder. Mix with all other ingredients. Cook on a griddle (I use coconut oil on the griddle) and flip once they are golden brown on the first side. After both sides are golden brown, eat!

Stepping Up (and Snacks)

The election this week left me sad, angry, frustrated, and broken-hearted. Our president-elect is someone who has shown us through his words and actions that he is someone who believes people who are immigrants, minorities, disabled, Muslim, LGBTQ, female, or otherwise different, are not equal to him, should not be treated with respect, and should not be afforded the protections of our laws. He also thinks global warming isn't real. More than ever, those of us who value equality, tolerance, civil rights, the environment, and frankly, personal decency, need to act and lead by example from wherever we are.

I was inspired this past week by a post that author Catherine Newman wrote: "Service is the road to happiness...we can support the most vulnerable people in our communities, either in established ways—volunteering with organizations that serve youth and queers and the poor and the elderly and other people in need who need our time; involving ourselves in local politics and issues; donating money to local causes we believe in—or in creative ones." She went on to explain how her friend, Kate Schatz, delivered flowers to the Islamic Center of Alameda. I read Catherine's post while I waited for Wyatt to finish chasing the pigeons at the Ferry Building on Friday. I thought to myself, we could do that.

Before heading back to the muni station, I Googled Islamic organizations and mosques, and I found a mosque in the Tenderloin. Wyatt and I stopped to buy some flowers from a woman outside the Embarcadero subway entrance on Market Street. I didn't ask, but Helena, the florist, shared with us that she is from Poland and has lived and worked in this country for many years. (I suspect she might have been having a terrible election week, too.) She carefully boxed the arrangement we had chosen so it would survive the trip on the train, and I wrote a little card.

Because Wyatt prefers to use all forms of public transit whenever possible, he insisted we take BART to Civic Center. Once at Civic Center, he complained bitterly about the ride being too short, but the busker crooning Carole King's "It's Too Late" took his mind off it. We began to make our way up Market Street. Along the way, we watched a police officer fall off the the back of his mountain bike as he tried to perfect a wheelie ("Someday I'll get it!" he said cheerfully) while his partner shook his head and rode on, we saw some homeless people sleeping, some asking for money, and a variety of "activity" as we walked up Jones Street.

Once we had arrived at the address, I realized I didn't know how to deliver flowers to a mosque. It was time for prayer, and there were men hurrying in, removing their shoes, and washing their hands. Wyatt and I were definitely out of place. I said to the man closest to me at the entrance, "We have these flowers to give to the community." He looked at me and said, "But I don't know any of these people." Me neither. So I said, "Well, I don't want to interrupt...would it be okay if I left them here by the sink?" And he replied, "Yes. I think that would be fine." So that's what we did.

On our way out, Wyatt noticed some mothers wearing headscarves sitting on the sidewalk with children in their laps. They were holding signs asking for money. "Are those KIDS homeless?" he asked me once we were down the block. "Maybe," I said, and I could feel Wyatt's little hand tighten in mine it as the weight of their reality hit him. Does empathy start when we notice an aspect of ourselves in someone who is suffering? I can't know for sure, but we have been discussing homelessness off and on ever since.

There is a lot of work ahead of us. And as Wyatt's and my Friday flower delivery showed, sometimes we won't know what we're doing and we'll feel awkward, but we will do our best, and we will learn. I realize that dropping off flowers isn't the only answer, but it felt good to offer a small kindness directly to people who, as I told Wyatt, "are probably even more upset about the election than we are." Marc and I are also looking at how we can better impact our community and country in terms of volunteering our time and donating money to established organizations. We will also be vigilant in contacting our representatives in an effort to hold them accountable.

Meanwhile, I've been a terrible cook this week. Awful news affects me on pretty much every level, and this week I lost interest in eating anything other than pretzels, which is bad news for the people I live with. But we have been muddling through thanks in part to some homemade Lara-esque bars Wyatt and I made last on Sunday while the cookies for the Hillary volunteers were baking. It seems like a lifetime ago. Here's the recipe in case you want to make the bars, too.

Ingredients:

• 12 ounces of dried apricots
• 16 ounces of cashews
• 1/2 teaspoon of sea salt
• 1/2 teaspoon of vanilla
• 2 oz raw hemp seeds

Directions:

Put all of the ingredients into a food processor and let it run for several minutes, until everything is in tiny pieces and has come together. Line a rimmed baking pan with waxed paper (or parchment) and press the mixture down evenly into the pan. These are yours to make whatever shape you want, so however thick you want them, go for it. Cut them in whatever shapes you like. Refrigerate the pan, and eat up once they're firm. You do need to keep the bars refrigerated, or they get smushy.

Democracy and Cookies

"S-O-P-E! Come join our DEMOCRACY!"

This was Wyatt's chant most of the way home on Sunday, as he proudly marched down the sidewalk holding up his new sign. He got smiles, waves, thumbs-up, and all the responses you'd expect to get in San Francisco from a sign picturing Nancy Pelosi as Rosie the Riveter saying "WE CAN DO IT!" After several blocks, though, I gently suggested, "Why don't you use an 'H' instead of 'S,' that way you can spell "HOPE," because "SOPE," even though it sounds like "SOAP," doesn't mean anything." He looked at me quizzically, took a beat, and then resumed his original chant until he had placed the sign in a window of our house.

One question I've been asking myself during this presidential election year (ha! as if it has been only a year!) is: How do I engage a five-year old in electoral politics without totally ruining his innocence (and sounding to him like the useless grown-ups on Charlie Brown)? Until yesterday, I had no answer other than taking him to vote with us. We otherwise keep quiet about the election around him, except when he asks a question about cartoons on the cover of the New Yorker, remarks on the poll one of his classmates keeps trying to take during recess, or mentions the Trump Trap they have been building in the play yard. "Voting" is a solid answer, to be sure, but I was hoping to come up with more.

On Saturday, I phone-banked from home, and I dedicated hours to figuring out my votes for the longest ballot in the country. (Oh, California! Sometimes, I don't even know where to begin with you.) On Sunday, our original plans had been for book club (we're reading The Buried Giant—it's wonderful!), but the meeting was postponed. Then Marc was sidelined because he finally came down with The Horrible Cold. As the Primary Sunday Parent, I didn't feel like I could phone-bank again. But Wyatt and I could bake and deliver Cacao Nib Cookies for the volunteers at Hillary Headquarters. So we did that.

Overall, baking went very well. And the whole delivery would have gone really smoothly if I had paid better attention to the address: 1001 Van Ness Avenue (Hillary Headquarters) is nowhere near 1001 S. Van Ness Avenue (Limón Rotisserie Restaurant). I took us to Limón. Upon our arrival, Wyatt made it clear he was not impressed. My mistake would have been no big deal if I had been driving, but it was a by-public-transit-and-foot kind of day. So we took a deep breath and regrouped. As we walked to the 16th Street BART station, we ran into a small parade of demonstrators in favor of San Francisco Propositions A and N (which would expand voting rights in local elections). The demonstrators' chant was a little bit muddled, but "DEMOCRACY!" came through loud and clear, and Wyatt had some questions. "Mom. What's democracy?" I did my level best to answer that one, and he said "Mmm," while nodding knowingly.

Once we were finally at Headquarters, we got to make ourselves name tags, and the greeter explained that we could deliver our cookies to the person in charge of "the café" on the third floor. She also said that we should check out the phone-banking rooms and texting rooms, and maybe, just maybe, they'd have a sign or something Wyatt could have. His ears perked up and his step quickened as we headed for the elevator. "Mom. Remember she said maybe they'd have a sign for me. Can you ask? PLEASE?" The third floor was buzzing with lots of voices, palpable excitement, and a flurry of activity. We looked into the texting room (it's boring watching people text, as I'm sure you have experienced, and get-out-the-vote texting looks the same), and then we went to the phone-banking room. We heard a volunteer reach a voter in Ohio, thank them for their vote and support, and then ring the bell. We left on that high note.

We were at Headquarters for 10 minutes at the most, which is hilarious considering how long it took us to get there. We picked up Wyatt's sign on the way out, and he had me read it to him a few times. He carried it down Van Ness as we headed to the Muni station, turning positively pink as people gave him smiles and fist-bumps .

"Mom! People really like my sign. It's a really nice sign, isn't it? And it's the same on both sides, right?" Emboldened, he said loudly for the first time, "S-O-P-E! Come join our DEMOCRACY!" then paused and asked with an ear-to-ear smile, "Right, mom? Isn't that what those people with the signs were saying?" I laughed and said the democracy part was right, but I wasn't sure about the rest of it. He responded with conviction, "It was S-O-P-E! I just know it."

And so he continued, as well he should have. Details (like political platforms, policies, and spelling) matter, but they only matter in the context of our democracy. It's our democracy that really matters.

Please be sure to vote!

Make Every Bite a Delight

I love knowing people who are experts at their craft. In an age when it's all about who has the loudest voice or best story propelling their marketing, my favorite master crafts people and professionals are the ones who consistently and confidently do great work, have little need for fanfare, and are happy to share about their process and projects when I ask. These are the people I love to have as my teachers.

My favorite master of woodcraft (and a favorite person in general) is Al Henry. Al has described himself to me as a cabinetmaker. Doesn't that sound infinitely practical? I can attest to the fact that Al designs and builds beautiful, functional, and as far as I can tell, perfect cabinets. But cabinets are just the beginning of what he can make, and has made. Work tables, desks, toys, unique bookshelves, and stunning large-scale inlaid and woven artwork. I'm pretty sure that if something can be made out of wood, Al can make it, and make it beautifully.

A month or so ago, I was on the hunt for a step-stool for Wyatt (who has outgrown his Learning Tower). I went to all the usual places one might find a step-stool, but none were the right height. I then checked Etsy, and I found someone who'd make me a custom-height stool. Just as I was about to place an order, though, I wondered if Al would consider doing a step-stool project with Wyatt and me. It seemed like it might be too small a job, or maybe too much to ask of him to have our "help."  But I ultimately concluded that I should let him decide for himself whether he wanted to do it.

Lucky for us, Al said he would be happy to help. And within the span of a few text messages, he had vastly improved on the step-stool design I had imagined.

Wyatt and I went by Al's shop after school one afternoon to build the stool.

Before we arrived, Al had pre-cut the pieces and drilled pilot holes in all the right places. Wyatt and he assembled everything. As you might imagine, this is no ordinary step-stool. The pieces fit perfectly, reflecting the precision of an expert cabinetmaker. Al also placed tape on the front piece so that Wyatt could write his name. Al then carved Wyatt's "signature" with his dremel tool. Wyatt sanded the edges of the stool when we got home, and has been taking impeccable care of the stool ever since. As he says, "There aren't many kids who have a step-stool as nice as mine that Al built with them!" He went on to create and send Al's thank you card with unmatched exuberence.

This step-stool has changed our kitchen life. Wyatt can now wash dishes and cook with ease. When we saw Chef Kellie, culinary expert of Chicks & Love Pizza Patio, last week, she asked Wyatt if he would like to know what she always taught her culinary students. "YES!" he said, and then he stood listening with all his being. "Make every bite a delight," she said. He nodded solemnly. She went on to explain that when she makes anything, she looks carefully at what she's creating and her goal is to make every single bite delicious.

Wyatt has taken this motto to heart. With this guiding principle and his step-stool, he has become a force in the kitchen. Our latest creation was Delicata Squash Nachos. And before you make a weird face, just try them. Remember, I am not the biggest fan of squash. In fact, I bought delicata squash with deep skepticism tempered only by a willingness to give them a try, just this once, after hearing people sing its praises. Boy am I glad I did, because delicata squash is show-stoppingly good when sliced into little crescents (unpeeled!) and roasted. Those slices were so good out of the oven that Wyatt and I had to summon a lot of willpower not to just eat them all off the baking sheet. And before I forget, be sure to save those seeds! Rinse them clean of squash goo, let them dry, then toss in a bit of olive oil. Roast for 20 minutes or so, at 325-ish stirring occasionally, until they are golden. Sprinkle with salt while they are hot. They're better than pumpkin seeds.

We sort of followed this recipe, which is to say we followed the directions for roasting the squash. Then we layered on top of the mountain of squash crescents most of a can of drained black beans, grated cheddar and monterey jack cheese, and homemade green enchilada sauce. We broiled the whole mess until the cheese melted and started to brown. Once out of the oven, we added mild salsa and slices of ripe avocado. We served our "nachos" with sprouted brown rice, but I'm sure there are more exciting accompaniments.

I understand that delicata squash season is short. Go get yours before we eat all of them up.

Roadworks Steamroller Printing Festival

"My favorite part was the STEAMROLLERS!"

Of course it was. How could it have been anything else?

Every year, The San Francisco Center for the Book puts on this terrific, free event. It is part fundraiser (through the sale of the steamroller prints), part education, and part hands-on fun. For some unfathomable reason, this is the first year we have ever attended.

My favorite part was the entire event. There are few things I enjoy more than fonts, hand lettering, or enormous, heavy, mechanical tools that look like they could kill you but, in their highest and best use, make beautiful things. I'm in awe of the people who can use them and of the works they create.

And Wyatt is right. The steamroller printer was pretty amazing. As he remarked as we were walking up, the whole street smelled as if people had been lighting sparklers all morning. So festive! We arrived early, and Wyatt got as close as he possibly could to the steamrollers. One of the drivers let him throw coal into the fire. If you want to see a steamroller making the first print of the day, I posted a video of it here.

Outside on Rhode Island Street, there were printing tables, artists, vendors, and examples of all the steamroller prints you could purchase.

The Rhinoceros Project, a "participatory watermark sewing circle," was also set up outside. As the creators explain on their website, 

We will produce [our watermark of Albrecht Durer’s 1515 woodblock “The Rhinoceros”] through hand sewing on silk. Using embroidery stitches on fabric, we will recreate Durer’s Rhinoceros line-by-line, enlarged to life size. In order to achieve this goal, we are embarking on a series of participatory sewing circles, taking place at San Francisco locations such as Ramon’s Tailor and the San Francisco Center for the Book. When complete, the watermark will be stretched on a frame, and paper pulp will be poured into the frame to create our Rhinoceros watermark in handmade paper.  We aim to make a total of three, referencing the remaining three Northern White rhinoceri.

I participated, naturally. My little line of sewing is the very tidy one. The part I liked best about this project is that some people sat down, watched, and then said, "I want to help, but I don't know how to do it!" and the project creators taught anyone who was interested how to embroider the lines of the enormous rhinoceros.

Inside The Center for the Book, there were volunteers helping people make prints on all kinds of machines, other volunteers explaining what the various machines did, and a book petting zoo.

Marc, Wyatt and I left wanting to learn how to physically make a book using all of the tools we saw. But one of us isn't yet old enough to take a class at The Center for the Book. Fortunately, we learned we can visit more machines at The American Bookbinding Museum downtown. Yet another gem I never knew existed. I love San Francisco.

Tomato, Tomahto

"Mom! Dad said to ask you if the tomAHtoes are done yet!"

[squeals and peals of laughter followed]

I used to love heirloom tomatoes best, but after I met dry farmed tomatoes, I barely looked back. Dry farmed tomatoes tend to be firm, on the small side, and I've only seen them in red instead of striped, purple or green. They look like a classic tomato—like those tomato pincushions that you might find in a sewing box. But unlike a pincushion (or any other tomato I've had) their flavor is intense and, frankly, outstanding.

Tomatoes are everywhere lately. In fact, Wyatt and I recently saw a stunning sculpture made of tomatoes (the pincushion variety) at the Museum of Craft and Design in San Francisco.

This piece, made of tomato shaped pincushions, wood, plaster, and mirrors is called "Rose Window," and it is part of Marianne Lettieri's exhibit, "Reflections." It is on display at the Museum of Craft and Design in San Francisco through January 22, 2017.

I've been meaning to go to the Museum of Craft and Design since it moved to the Dogpatch neighborhood three years ago. When I learned that Poco Dolce chocolates was having their tasting week just a couple of blocks away, though, I suddenly decided it was time to actually go. I was looking forward to Marianne Lettieri's exhibit, which she obviously created with me in mind. As the website describes, "Reflections contextualizes overlooked relics of home making. The ritual of repetitive acts and the accumulation of objects in the domestic sphere each create a physical reminder of the passage of time." Wyatt was excited to pump water through Anja Ulfeldt's "Of Sound Mind and Objects" installation, "Domestic Infrastructure #2." After walking through all the exhibits, both of us considered the "Beyond the Pour" to be a delightful bonus. Seeing glimpses of artists' creative processes and how art can find its way on to a wine bottle was fun.

"Domestic Infrastructure #2"

"Sisters of Biscuits and Pies"

"The Art of Manliness"

The chocolate tasting up the street was outstanding, too. After trying three of the chocolates twice (just to be sure we could rank them properly), we agreed that the Peanut Butter and Honey Cups were the best.

On the way back to the car, Wyatt spotted an ice cream sign and thought that it would be best to see what they had inside. So we did. Sure enough, they had ice cream. Wyatt had bubble gum flavor and I chose toffee brittle.

But back to tomatoes! Stuffed tomatoes, specifically. Until this weekend, I've never eaten one I loved, but I'm now a convert. On Friday, I heard a great review of Rachel Roddy's cookbook, My Kitchen in Rome. The commenters highly recommended her recipe for stuffed tomatoes. Lucky for all of us, the recipe is available online at Roddy's website and through The Guardian. The recipe takes awhile, although most of the time is waiting time. But I promise, it's worth it. In fact, all three of us agree it is worth every single minute.

The recipe creates a baked, creamy and vibrant tomato-basil flavored risotto inside a beautiful tomato shell. I used dry farmed tomatoes, but choose whatever tomato you like the best.

I'm going to make this recipe at least once more before tomatoes are no longer in season, and you should, too. Here are my tips for getting the most out of the recipe:

• Roddy advises letting the arborio rice soak for at least 45 minutes. I let it soak for 2 hours at room temperature, and I'm glad I did. The rice had absorbed a lot more of the tomato juice at the end of 2 hours than it had after 45 minutes.
• The recipe The Guardian provides says to cut the potatoes (whose function, as far as I can tell, is to absorb the tomato juice in the pan--don't skip them!) into "chips." Had I consulted Marc for a British to American translation of this description, he would have told me "little wedges." I didn't consult, bought little potatoes, left them unpeeled, and I cut them into small rounds. This approach worked fine.
• If, like me, all of your rice doesn't fit in the tomatoes, oil a little baking dish and put the remaining rice in it. Cover the dish with an oven-proof lid or tight foil and pop it in the oven with the tomatoes. The rice cooks up perfectly, and it will be done when the tomatoes are done.
• Make more than you think you want to eat in one day. The tomatoes reheat extremely well, covered, in a 350 degree oven, with a splash of water in the bottom of the dish. Plan for leftovers!

Tomatoes filled, before baking.

Hats back on! Ready for the oven.

Baked, rested, and ready to eat!

Summer Squeeze

Last week, we attended our big family reunion in Hyannis Port and I managed to take exactly zero photos at any of the gatherings. The only photos I took were of our Kids Fishing Trip, and of my shoes while knitting Wyatt's halloween costume in the steam room (a.k.a. outdoor patio) of our hotel room.

Some might argue that a big family reunion is a terrible time to consciously leave one's phone in the car,  but I would argue otherwise. You're welcome, relatives.

I stepped-up my photo game a little bit once back at my parents' house: Lawnmowing! Chipmunk-hole-filling! Dog walking! A visit to Ann and Steve's farm! Ice cream! Bumper boats!

And then suddenly (after six hours on a plane), we were home again. Trips are like that, I guess.

Since we've been back, I've been looking to squeeze a little bit more out of summer before school starts next week. Yesterday was Sunday Streets, so we walked what felt like all of Valencia Street, twice, and we spent extra time in the Pirate Store.

Today, Wyatt and I took a pedal boat around Stow Lake: "Mom. You be the engine. I'll be the rudder." I agreed because his legs were too short to pedal. We did marvelously, alliding only once with some rocks at the shore.

And I can't forget summer food! Even though it's chilly here, in the last few days, I've revisited some stellar (and easy) recipes featuring summer produce, including Grilled Eggplant Parmesan and Charred Corn Tacos with Zucchini Radish Slaw (no photo; we were too hungry). I've also tried a new one: Burrata with Lentils and Basil Vinaigrette. Wyatt was not a fan of that recipe, but everyone is wrong sometimes. And as the photo at the top suggests, we have also been eating artichokes (steamed, with a drizzle of olive oil, sprinkle of salt, squeeze and slice of lemon, and homemade mayonnaise for dipping).

Gone Fishing

It has been nonstop fishing questions around our house since last weekend: "When are we going to buy my fishing rod?"  "When are we going to go fishing?" and all the follow-up questions that come when you're five and don't have a real grasp of the days of the week or the passage of time.

We went to buy the fishing rod on Saturday at the Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World in San Jose.

It was an epic adventure. As you can see, there was a lot to take in, including boats, ATVs, bowling, and fortunately, fishing gear, too.

We had planned our first fishing adventure for Monday. On Sunday afternoon, I realized I had some questions of my own, including how to set up Wyatt's rod. A dozen or so years ago, I was pretty into fishing. But since then, I haven't touched my gear or even thought about fishing, and any specific knowledge I once had has disappeared from my brain without a trace. Google searches confused me more than I could have thought possible. So I called my brother, who talked me through the entire set-up (including specific knots) over speakerphone while he was driving. It's tough to beat that kind of tech support. As Wyatt remarked, "Good thing you called Uncle Greg!"

On Monday morning, we stopped by the hardware store to pick up a pair of needle nose pliers (mine had disappeared along with my fishing knowledge, I guess) and to see if we could find some worms. I remembered that Flowercraft had some garden worms, and when we arrived, I saw that they were half-price. When I said we were planning to fish with them, the woman helping us let us see how big they were (not very, but workable), and then gave us the box for free.

We headed for Lake Merced. Within about ten minutes of our arrival, a fisherman we later learned was named Merlin caught a catfish. Wyatt was SURE he was next to catch a fish. And so we fished all morning. At lunch time, we took a break and drove to a deli for some sandwiches. When we returned to the lake, our fishing spot had been taken by another group. Merlin invited us to join him on the shore, with his three open rainbow umbrellas, several chairs, three fishing rods, blaring sports radio, and an array of homemade fishing gear that was frankly astounding.

Merlin had written his name on every item that could hold it, including on the handle of the black umbrella that hung closed on the railing next to his towels and rags, each of which was attached to a string that was tied in a bow around the railing. The black umbrella, we quickly learned, was for chasing away raccoons. It worked very well. In fact, we have Merlin (and his black umbrella) to thank for saving Wyatt's water bottle from the paws of a persistent, curious, and grabby juvenile raccoon.

After rescuing the water bottle, we fished beside Merlin for awhile. As the afternoon wore on, Merlin offered Wyatt some bobbers, and then he offered to improve his rod set-up with some weights from his own kit and a long leader with a red hook. He looked at the worms we had and chided, "Where did you get these? How much did you pay for them?" I told him the garden store, and that they were free. He shook his head. "These are no good," he said, "Don't get them again. We have to put three on the hook to even get started! Go to Dick's Sporting Goods next time. Worms are in the refrigerator." He proceeded to pile three of the largest worms I could find in the bag onto the hook and then added a dollop of homemade, secret-recipe trout bait to the end. He put Wyatt's rod in an extra stand he had, and then he loaned Wyatt his binoculars.

We fished for another hour or so, and while it's hard to believe that any trout could have resisted Merlin's worm parfait royale, they all did. No fish for us today. But by my last cast, Merlin shouted, "Hey! Good one!" And Wyatt and I both remarked on our walk back to the car that we felt very happy.

Pop-Up Toy Sale

This photo of Wyatt's formerly beloved toy toolbox, tool belt, hard hat, and cooktop basically represents his first five years. I hope I will forever remember him playing, for hours on end, construction worker, chef, and worker-in-the-cherrypicker-bucket. But it's now time for new adventures. First up: Fishing. After all, there is no more logical choice for a city kid, right?

We can thank Golden Gate Park for this inspiration. The first time Wyatt and I rounded the end of the par course at Golden Gate Park, he noticed the casting pools down the hill. Once I had explained what the pools were and what the two people were doing with "those sticks and strings," Wyatt exclaimed, "I REALLY want to get a fishing rod. When can we do that!?" I told him I would look into fishing rods, and then I forgot to do any looking whatsoever, even after he reminded me.

Meanwhile, Marc and I had been asking Wyatt for months to identify the toys he didn't use anymore so that we could consign them or give them away. He kept telling us he would think about it, but he never got around to identifying any toys, and we pretty much stopped asking.

Our mutual procrastination evaporated last week when Wyatt said, "Mom. I REALLY want to get a fishing rod so we can go practice casting soon. I think I'm ready to get rid of all of these toys. Should we take them to Chloe's Closet to have them sell them and then we can order me a fishing rod?"

In a split second, I swallowed my surprise and calculated that we might, if we were very lucky, get $10 from a consignment of all the toys. I also knew we wouldn't see any money for at least six weeks. And how would I explain "consignment?" "Weeelll," I said, "I'm not sure Chloe's is the way to go for this. Do you want to have a pop-up toy shop this weekend and see if you can sell these yourself?"

"YES!" he beamed. "I'm going to go see what else I can find!"

I have no experience with garage sales, and neither does Marc (who was out of town for work when we hatched the plan and fortunately said "YES!" to the plan, even though I didn't check with him first, like a thoughtful partner should). But the pop-up toy shop was worth a try. I figured the worst case would be that we'd sell nothing and head to Chloe's.

Wyatt gathered toys and one book. On Saturday, we laid everything out and organized items into price groups: $1, $5 and $10. Marc and Wyatt put price stickers on everything. I made some signs, and Wyatt and Marc stapled them to telephone poles around the neighborhood. I wrote posts about our sale on our neighborhood online groups. I also got some coffee, stirrers, half-and half, and the ingredients for watermelon agua fresca because why not sell drinks? Fortunately, I also remembered to get some change in case everyone showed up with a $20.

Sunday morning, we were open by 9:00 am, as advertised, and we had brisk business for the first fifteen minutes. Then, much to Wyatt's dismay, the long lulls began. He had no idea that keeping shop could mean a lot of waiting around. We were supposed to close at 11:00 am, but when that time came, Wyatt flatly refused to go inside. So Marc went around with a sharpie and changed the end time on all the signs to 12:00 pm. But we stayed out even longer than noon. We ate lunch outside, and with every passing hour, until almost 3:00 pm, we sold more items.

As the hours passed, Wyatt made improvements to the shop. He wanted to do some advertising himself, so I made him a sign to hold. And once many of the toys were gone, he concluded the table needed to be more beautiful, so he covered it with play silks.

We sold toys and drinks to our nearest neighbors (some of whom we had never met), as well as to people from further away who had seen our advertisements. We got to visit with dogs while their families shopped. And we heard from our favorite neighbors about how in the 1970s and 1980s, the whole street would pool together and have garage sales on the corner, or in each others' garages. We heard about how the best garage sales used to be out in The Avenues. One neighbor suggested we turn our table 90 degrees so people down the road could see what we were selling. I remarked that we hadn't done that because we wanted to be sure that pedestrians could easily pass by. His eyes twinkled as he said, "People always find a way by. And, you know people who sell stuff on the sidewalk are no good anyway, right?"

In total, we sold $55 worth of drinks and toys. Our favorite neighbors also donated $5 to the fishing pole fund after Wyatt helped with some gardening during one of the long lulls in the shop. We were left with only six toys, and Wyatt seemed to have no pangs of regret as he demonstrated the most wonderful aspects of each toy before selling it.

At the end of the day, as Wyatt and I quietly watched a beaming brother and sister carry his hard hat and tool box back to their house, I took a deep breath. And for once, instead of wishing I could freeze time, I thought: Bass Pro Shop, here we come.

Watermelon Agua Fresca

I do not pretend to be an expert on agua fresca, but we love this drink. I combined a few of the recipes I found online and arrived at this refreshing combination. I hope you like it, too!

• One small seedless watermelon (mine had about 8 cups of melon in it)
• 12 mint leaves
• 2 teaspoons fresh lime juice
• 2 cups cold water
• 2 tablespoons maple syrup, honey or sugar (or more or less to taste)

Scoop out the flesh of the watermelon. Put all the ingredients in a blender (in batches, if necessary) and blend until very smooth. Drink up!

Glimmer of Magic

String and Twig turns one year old this week!

I started this blog without any specific goal in mind, other than to start writing again, and I achieved that goal. Eventually, I settled into a predictable weekly rhythm of a Monday night publication with Tuesday morning trumpeting on social media to herald my latest post. Committing to posting weekly forced me to sharpen my observation skills and taught me to get out of my own way. Looking back, I see that without fail, I posted something each week, and you kept reading! You even shared with your friends. Thank you.

So far, String and Twig has been about transforming. Whether we're making something (cheese, anyone?), exploring our city, learning something new, or connecting with people, there's a touch of alchemy. A glimmer of magic every week is good.

Speaking of magic, last week, Wyatt and I had a MORNING. It was the kind of morning that no matter how hard I tried, everything took at least twice as long as usual, and even though I tried mightily to claw my way back to on-time-ish, I slipped further behind schedule. I hadn't prepared for any of our activities the night before, I couldn't find the items we needed, and Wyatt was equally unfocused. As the minutes ticked by and we still hadn't left for the fitness trail (Mountain Lake this time), I started getting annoyed. By the fourth time I had asked Wyatt to put on his shoes, my voice was brimming with irritation. Wyatt gave a dramatic sigh, and said, "Mom. Are you unhappy? You sound UNHAPPY. And I DON'T think THIS is very FUN." He was right. It wasn't fun. I gave up looking for the lost 90 minutes. All we really had to do was be on time to our swimming-knitting lesson later that afternoon.

Once I gave up, magic happened. We had a fun workout, got our grocery shopping done, visited with our favorite checker, and we took advantage of being out past lunchtime by grabbing lunch at Chicks and Love Pizza Patio, which is right outside Rainbow Grocery, at 1701 Folsom Street.

We love Chicks and Love. The food is delicious (with lots of gluten-sensitive options, and dairy-free options, too), and Chef Kellie Joe and her staff are so welcoming. After Wyatt and I had finished our breakfast-sandwiches-for-lunch, we stopped up to the order window to ask some 5-year old questions about how electricity gets into the little restaurant kitchen. Kellie gave us her best answers, and then she offered us a tour. Did we have time? Of course we did.

Chicks and Love's restaurant kitchen is 102 square feet. There is enough room for two very spatially aware people to work at the same time. I noticed there is not an inch of wasted space. Kellie told us that many of the appliances and fixtures are the smallest available, because that's all that would fit. The pizza oven is amazing—it is programmable, and whooshes heat around at something like 60 mph while a conveyor simultaneously moves the food. Kellie had two circulators going to cook impeccable sous vide eggs, and an impressive array of ingredients in their mise en place.

The tour only solidified our admiration for Kellie and her restaurant.

If you're in the East Bay, you can find Chicks and Love on the weekend at the Walnut Creek farmer's market. During the week, if you're in San Francisco, it's worth stopping by for breakfast, lunch, or to pick up something to bake at home later.

After our tour, we made it home in plenty of time to prepare for swimming and knitting. And while it will take probably take more than just this experience to really teach me that sometimes, magic requires letting go, this particular lesson was a good one, reinforced with a tasty reward.

Summertime

It has been Another Week: more killing in the United States and abroad, violent political instability, and don't forget the generous side of racism from the star of the Republican National Convention.

But this morning, on my way to Other Avenues to buy ingredients for lentil soup (because it is a wintry, foggy, 55 degrees in San Francisco), I found myself walking behind two men, one black and one white, and they were out for a walk with a dog. Just before moving to the side to let me pass and greeting me with a big, warm "Good morning!" I overheard them discussing the history of the Black Panthers. In those few seconds of eavesdropping and exchanging greetings, I got exactly the reminder I needed this morning: Things may not be good in the world, but the potential for greatness in our connections with each other is staggering.

As I mentioned, it feels like winter where I live. If you go 20 miles north, south, or east you'll find summer; we'll get ours in September or October. So, unlike most people in my part of the world, I'm coming up with reasons to turn the oven on. Another reason I'm excited to use the oven is that for ten days, we didn't have one. The glass oven light cover had shattered, and it's only thanks to Marc's keen research skills and perseverance that we didn't have to replace the entire (20 year-old) stove because of this one, very basic part.

While we were relegated to stovetop cooking and reheating, we ate a lot of salads. I started by incorporating a warm element, like boiled new potatoes cut into bite-sized pieces, and then adding other vegetables and greens, some cheese, sometimes a super ripe avocado and other times just a simple red wine vinaigrette. The vinaigrette is best with shallots, but I often skip them when I'm short on time (or short on shallots). We topped the salads with chicken or boiled eggs, and in one case, jarred herring (which was terrific).

Two actual recipes I've followed and loved recently are Runner Beans with Swiss Chard Stems and Basil (can't find runner beans? fresh green beans work great), and Chickpea and Celery Salad (it is even better the second day, photo is at the top of this post). And in case you need a recipe for the swiss chard leaves, try Sautéed Swiss Chard with Garlic and Lemon.

I wish you a good week, full of delicious vegetables and staggeringly good connections with strangers.

Hitting the Fitness Trail

"Sweaty! Sweaty! Half the fun of exercise is [beat] getting sweaty!"

(Just make up a tune and go with it—that's what we do.)

I am one of those people who is intolerable if I don't exercise. Without exercise, I get antsy, snappish, and grumpy. My knees start to ache dreadfully—like they are rusty and creaky from inactivity. I lose patience with everyone and everything. It's a bad scene, as Marc can tell you. The only cure is a workout.

When Wyatt is in school, I lift weights at the gym a couple of times a week, and the other days, I do a workout at home (on a suspension trainer, with a heavy kettlebell, or on a pull-up bar in the garage), or run stair intervals outside, or hike the steep inclines around San Francisco. But summer is different. There are more full days of "together time," and call me crazy, but I don't always relish getting up two hours earlier to fit in a workout on my own before settling in for a full day of mothering.

More than that, I feel like I shouldn't have to compartmentalize every day that way. Kids are active, and there's every reason to integrate fitness with everyday life. Of course it's not always possible to get a good workout with a young child around, and a lot of times, if I'm honest, I'd rather it be MY time than together time. But ever since Wyatt was a baby, I've exercised a day or two a week with him: walking with him in a front carrier, pushing him up hills in the jogging stroller, hiking hills with him in the frame backpack, doing calisthenics while he played on the floor, and most recently, teaching him a little circuit at home so I could do one myself.* Despite all of these activities, though, I think the whole concept of fitness only clicked for him after the Saturday morning I took him with me to a personal training session (Marc was deathly ill and couldn't look after him). Ever since that morning, Wyatt has been very interested in exercise and being strong enough to lift very heavy things all by himself.

The other weekend, Wyatt asked me, "When can we go back to the exercise course?" He meant the Perrier Parcourse at the Polo Fields in Golden Gate Park. We had tried it a couple of times last year, but he wasn't yet old enough to (a) make it around without being carried part of the way or (b) let me do my reps while he waited. Frustration ensued for both of us, so I gave it a rest. But after he asked about it, I figured it was worth another attempt. Good thing we tried again, because this may be the Summer of the Perrier Parcourse. We went twice last week and we both found exercises we want to work on (for me the vault; for him, the hand walk).

Notice the oversized running water bottle Wyatt is wearing. You know how new workout gear can make you want to get to the gym or go for a run? Same is true for the 5 year-old set, only in this case, I just had to loan him my old training gear. He loves it, and I love not having to schlep his water.

It's tough to beat a fitness trail. We get to be outside (and as loud and silly as we want), go at our own pace, work as hard as we want separately, work together, count, race, find flowers, climb log piles, goof around, and get stronger. It's basically playing in the park, but with a little bit of structure and some goals.

It's so much fun. You want to try it, too, don't you? A list of Fitness Trails throughout the world is here. If you find another list, or another trail, please leave it in the comments!

*All of these ideas, the progression of them, and my ability to do any of them, are thanks to my inimitable trainer, Doug Norris.

Father's Day

"Is tomorrow Father's Day? Dad. We are definitely not doing ANYTHING special for you for breakfast tomorrow."

Wyatt has almost moved on from sharing surprises the moment he hears them. Lately, he's into the (very obvious) "misleading" statements that reveal the surprise.

But who cares about the "surprise" part, right? We don't. Wyatt and I got up on Sunday and prepared a lovely breakfast. He snipped a big bunch of lavender flowers from the garden while I made blueberry pancakes. At breakfast, he gave Marc the mug he had painted the week before (saying as we left for the ceramics studio, "Dad. We are are NOT leaving right now to work on a surprise for you for Father's Day.")

After breakfast, we headed down the street to see the aftermath of the terrible fire that Wyatt and Marc had witnessed Saturday afternoon. On Saturday, Marc and Wyatt had gone out to the park, but soon after, they noticed a lot of smoke coming from down the road. They followed the smoke and commotion to a five-alarm fire where flames were pouring out the top story of what turned out to be six burning buildings. According to news reports I have read, no one was hurt. But the whole scene was intense and sad. Wyatt announced when they got home, "Mom. I haven't gotten enough snuggles from you today," and he proceeded to sit on my lap for over an hour while peppering me with questions about fires and firefighters. On Sunday, the devastation was still very much on Wyatt's mind, so Marc suggested we revisit the scene. Nearly 24 hours later, the buildings were still smoldering in places. And, now, more than two days after the fire, Wyatt is still processing what it means to be a firefighter. He thought he knew, but now he understands that he truly had NO IDEA what it entails. The combination of flames coming out of buildings and his beloved Cole Hardware, gutted and unrecognizable, was sobering.

We spent a long time on the sidewalk watching all the activity. Eventually, we headed home.

Later in the day, we picked up giant sandwiches from Ike's and ate them at home in our garden on lawn chairs. Then, we lounged on the lawn chairs. Next, we walked (and some of us also used our kick-scooters) to get ice cream. I should note that all of these activities were aspects of Wyatt's dream day, and he suggested all of them. Fortunately, Wyatt and Marc like many of the same things, so this plan worked well for Father's Day.

On our way back from ice cream, a fire engine drove by. As the firefighters rang the bell, Wyatt stopped and looked. Without even a hint of a smile, he waved earnestly, reflecting his new and deep respect.

I thought to myself as I saw him wave, "The kid's growing up." But the truth is, all of us are offered opportunities all the time to grow-up. As adults, if we're present and ready for it, we can gain new perspectives and work to become our best selves. Children, on the other hand, aren't ready to author their own stories in the same way. It's our responsibility to help them. As I reflected on the big and small things that had punctuated Father's Day, I found myself especially grateful that Marc is Wyatt's father. I can't think of a better person to help him write his story. 

Got Plums? Make Jam!

"Mom. Play Lulu's message again for me. I love when she says, 'Yummy, yummy, yummy! Plum jam in my tummy!"

If you haven't been paying attention to the plum trees in San Francisco, consider this a warning: the plums are ripe. And ripe plums means we are so close to having sticky, plum-spattered sidewalks in certain neighborhoods. I wish I had photos from past plum seasons when unsuspecting owners thought they were lucky to nab parking spots shaded by plum trees. I have yet to meet anyone who liked the purple goo and pits that ended up baked on their car.

For the last couple of years, there have been plum blossoms in January and February, but no plums in the spring. I suspect the lack of fruit is thanks to the drought, but I don't really know. This year, though, is definitely a plum year, which is lucky for Wyatt because he has been dying to pick plums and make jam.

Plum Tree, 2013

The last time we picked plums for jam was July, 2013. Wyatt had just turned two. We picked over ten pounds of plums, all from the plum tree in front of our house.* I cooked them into jam, and we managed to put up enough jars to give some away and continue enjoying the jam until this fall. Even though Wyatt doesn't remember our picking the plums, he remembers eating the jam. While our picking didn't seem to reduce the number of plums Marc scraped off the sidewalk every weekend that season, the jam tasted great, and it allowed us to feel like we were making the most of the situation.

Wyatt tried one of the plums from our tree last week, and he reported that it wasn't THAT sour. So we picked plums on Friday. Here is a mock-up of our set-up, because I wasn't able to photograph what we actually did.

In reality, I climbed and perched all the way up into the tree while Wyatt nestled himself in the crook closest to the beach bucket (that he had cleverly insisted we lash to a limb with sparkly yellow shoelace). I picked whatever plums I could reach, handed them to him, and he put them in the bucket. Just after we got started, our neighbor, Lulu, visited with us through her second story window. We talked about how there were definitely some plums this year, but not as many as in other years. Once I had picked the eight plums I could reach, and Wyatt had started complaining there was nothing for him to do, I said to Lulu, "I really wish we had one of those fruit pickers, because I can hardly reach any of these plums. You don't have one, do you?" She said, "Do you mean one of those things that can grab and bring things down? I have one of those! I'll bring it to you." And Lulu presented us with her Gopher. She said she uses it for reaching jars or cans that are on high shelves. But I can now attest that it is great for picking San Francisco street tree plums. I plucked each plum with the Gopher and then reached it down to Wyatt, released the plum into his hand, and he placed the plum in the bucket. Teamwork for sure. We also got a few more plums using the ladder and Gopher, but not many.

We picked just shy of 2 1/2 pounds of plums.

And on Saturday, we made jam. I love the recipe my friend, Sarah, suggested three years ago, from Food in Jars: Italian Plum Jam with Star Anise. Even though the recipe is technically for Italian plums, our San Francisco street tree plums are great in it. Once we had pitted and chopped our plums, we had about four cups. To scale the recipe up, I used about 1/4 cup of sugar per cup of plums, and it worked perfectly.

We chopped our plums, let them mascerate with four star anise blossoms and the sugar for about an hour, removed the four star anise blossoms, cooked the jam for about 15 minutes, and checked the temperature and conducted a couple of plate tests as it started to look done. When the jam was finished, we put some in a jar for us and some in a jar for Lulu and her husband. Because the yield of this jam was so small, I didn't bother with a full canning set-up. We're just refrigerating our jar.

I recommended to Lulu that she also refrigerate her jar when I called to ask if Wyatt could deliver them some jam on Saturday evening. When Wyatt returned, he said, "Lulu said thank you so much, and she's going to have the jam on her toast in the morning! Can I also have toast in the morning? Please? With PLUM JAM?"

* The Friends of the Urban Forest claim the fruit of these trees is "insignificant." I couldn't disagree more. While each plum itself is pretty small and in some cases, mostly pit, the volume of plums (and mess) can be quite large for a street tree.

Going Greener

"Mom. Why don't they know how to weigh and label their jars when they buy stuff?"

"It's something you have to learn. I had to ask Christina how to buy olive oil in bulk. If you've never done it before, it's intimidating."

This time last year, I was on a "transfer everything to glass and quit using plastic" kick.

Spoiler alert: Quitting plastic is really hard to do.

When I started really paying attention to how much plastic is used in packaging, I was astounded. If you haven't done this already, just go to any grocery store and try to find something packaged without it—plastic cups, jugs, sleeves inside of plastic bags or cardboard boxes, resealable zippy bags. It's everywhere. One could make a full-time occupation out of simply avoiding plastic and still come up short.

Even though we may never get to "zero plastic" in our house, there is every reason to try to do better. This time last year, I started asking people lots of questions about how they avoid plastic. I started with Wyatt's pediatrician, because she was the one who presented me with the friendly challenge of getting plastic out of our kitchen. She said she's a big fan of glass jars for freezing, glass storage containers for leftovers, and reusable abeego beeswax wraps. I next canvassed friends on Facebook. I got more votes for glass jars, glass storage containers, and abeego wraps. I also got suggestions to use tea towels in refrigerator crisper drawers (instead of plastic bags), and Fresh Paper, which is amazing for prolonging the life of fruits and vegetables.

I also pretty quickly realized that I should buy in bulk, refilling glass jars instead of buying new (plastic) packages of food. So we ventured into Rainbow Grocery. On one of Wyatt's and my first trips there, I saw a very organized-looking woman with a bag of labeled jars that she had brought to the store to refill. We happened to walk out of the store at the same time, and I complimented her on how she had the whole process down perfectly.  She smiled and explained she had been buying in bulk for awhile, and she generously pointed out that it's a process, so I shouldn't expect to get into the rhythm of it right away. She explained that she keeps jars labeled with tare weights (more on that later), what goes in the jar (like, "Rice"), and the store code (the bulk number on the bin), so her shopping process is more streamlined. I asked her whether she waits to run out of stuff before she buys more (because heaven forbid cutting things that close). She explained that for some products, she has a couple of jars, that way she doesn't have to wait until she runs out before she refills one of the jars. And she said that when a jar is empty, she just puts it in her (reusable) shopping bag so she doesn't have to remember what needs to be refilled. So smart! With this role model's excellent suggestions in mind, I went home and dug out all my Bed Bath & Beyond coupons so that I could buy some storage jars.

Over the next week, I began a pantry overhaul, reorganizing dry goods into storage jars and making labels. During that process, I noticed that we had a mountain of those thin plastic bags you can get from the roll at the market to hold fruits and vegetables. Clearly we needed a new plan for our produce bags. So I bought reusable net bags from Simple Ecology. The bags are GOTS certified and made from "green" cotton. We have used the bags consistently for the past year, and they're great. When they start to look a little grungy, I put them through a cold water wash cycle and hang them to dry.

With food-plastic more under control, I moved onto personal care and home cleaning products. We can't really be trusted with glass in the shower, or with glass spray bottles of cleaners, but there was no reason to be recycling so many plastic bottles if we could just refill them. I began going to Green 11 to refill our lotions, soaps, and cleansers.

Compared to last year, we're using much less plastic, and we're comfortable with our bulk-and-refill-buying approach. More than that, I must have looked like I had it together at the store last week because I found myself in the bulk section of Rainbow answering questions about tare weights.

If you know about bulk buying and tare weights, the following is old news. If you don't, though, check it out. Buying in bulk is cheaper than buying the same item pre-packaged, but the tare weight (the weight of your empty container) is critical to that calculation. Let's say I'm buying raisins, and I've scooped them from the bulk bin into the clean, empty jar I brought with me to the store. When I get to the check-out line, the checker will weigh my jar of raisins to determine how much I owe. The way to avoid paying for the weight of jar is by knowing the "tare weight," or the weight of the empty container. So, before I fill my jar, I weigh the jar and the lid together, and write down that weight, measured in pounds, on a label I stick to the jar. When I get to the check-out counter, the checker can subtract the weight of the packaging (tare weight) from the total weight of the raisins and the jar (gross weight), get the net weight of just the raisins. That way, I only pay for the raisins.

I also pay attention to tare weights of the Simple Ecology bags. The weight, in ounces, is printed on the tag of each of the bags. But as I learned the first time I used the bags, that number is not very helpful for checkers where I live. It seems that check-out systems allow checkers to remove tare weights when the weights are in fractions of a pound, not ounces. When I asked a checker to remove 1.3 ounces from the weight of a bag of apples I was buying, her eyes crossed, and she took a beat. She then she poured the apples onto the scale by the conveyor belt to weigh them without the net bag, and then re-bagged the apples. As the check-out line grew longer and longer behind me, I started to imagine my future shopping visits and the checkers' impending dread as they watched me approach with my bags. My face turned pink with embarrassment just thinking about it.*

There is an easy fix, though. The checkers at stores near me (or maybe all stores in the U.S.?) need to know how much the bags weigh in pounds, so I did the conversion for them. Just multiply the weight of the bag in ounces by the conversion factor (.0625), to get the weight of the bag in pounds. Or, stated another way, where the weight of the bag is 1.3 oz: 1.3 oz x 1 lb / 16 oz = 0.08 lb. And that's the tare weight.

I wrote the tare weight of each bag on its tag with permanent marker, so now I can point the checkers to that number, and they can make the weight adjustment easily. Half the time, the checkers remark that the bags are great and ask me where I got them. With any luck, that means I am only being a little bit annoying with my "do-gooding."

*Marc pointed out to me that the weight of the bags is really very small, so I shouldn't think too much about it. But this was around the time that Whole Foods' weights and measures were being investigated, again, and I was feeling indignant about paying any more than the price of the actual amount of goods I purchased there (or anywhere else).

Balance

As a society, we talk a lot about balance. We're looking for personal balance, striving to maintain work-life balance, trying to eat balanced meals, and on and on. The photos that seem to go with "balance" are either of serene, willowy women, dressed in all white, with straight-but-bouncy hair or stones balanced precariously on one another.

Maybe balance comes easily if you're willowy and can wear white serenely while you find the balance points of oddly-shaped stones. I wouldn't know. For me, balance requires constant adjustments, some of which are really challenging to make. Recently, I wondered if I could just take a longer view and assess balance over a couple of months, rather than daily or even weekly. You know, ease-up a little bit on the routine, spend more time on certain things (writing), less on others (cooking and exercise), maybe it would all average out. Guess what? It doesn't. Just ask my too-tight dress and snapped-at husband.

So three weeks ago, I made some changes, re-established a routine, quit skipping lunch half the days of the week, and lo, life is better and my clothes are looser. On the rare days I actually manage to check-off all seven things that "optimize brain matter and create well-being" (focus time, play time, connecting time, physical time, time in, down time, and sleep time) on The Healthy Mind Platter (along with eating the ten cups of vegetables I should), I feel amazing. Most other days, I know I am doing better than I was three weeks ago, so that's okay, too.

But then there are days like Sunday, which was Mother's Day, when everything goes gloriously out of whack. Like lots of women, I have my own misgivings about the holiday, but they all took a back seat to Wyatt's excitement on Sunday morning. Marc and he made breakfast, and I wasn't allowed out of bed until it was ready. And Wyatt might have exploded if he had to wait even one more second to give me the presents he had made at school: a silk scarf he had painted into a rainbow ("Look! I made that lime green!") and then ironed, and a drawing of flowers in the sun. Also, I drank at least a half a bottle of pink champagne with take-out for dinner. It was a relaxing end to a fun day visiting the newly renovated and expanded SF MOMA.

Most of the balance I experienced on Sunday was in the form of incredible artwork and architecture. And if I'm honest, I would have really enjoyed being able to linger in ANY gallery for longer than about 90 seconds. But at the same time, it was wonderful to see how Wyatt has begun to appreciate and interact with art. The last time we were at the museum was just before it closed in 2013. And no surprise, our little builder is far more interested in sculpture these days than paintings, and he's way more intrigued by modern art than the more classical works we saw at the De Young the other week.

Even though we hustled through the seven floors of the museum, I was able to get a few photos. The stranger who happened to walk into my photo of Richard Serra's "Sequence" helps to show the scale of the work. We walked through "Sequence" many times and I cannot wait to do it again. Wyatt was perplexed by "Nonsite" (aka The Pile of Dirt), and it was a great way to start talking about what makes something art. I'm a huge sucker for typeface and gradients, so "Fools" also made it into this set. I want to go back and camp out in the Ellsworth Kelly galleries, among other spots.

Wyatt and I almost went back to the museum on Monday. But because balance will be mine (whether I want it or not), Wyatt basically collapsed in an exhausted heap after school. There was no getting him out the door in time (or at all) to make our ticket time.