Stories

You will be pleased to know that I will not rant, complain, sigh or otherwise indicate my GREAT displeasure with the week that has just passed. Suffice it to say that Mistakes Were Made. I will, instead, look at the good stuff: we ate our first Michigan asparagus of the year, all of the flowering trees are just popping into bloom and looking and smelling so good that it’s almost surreal, the vegetable seeds that Sam and I planted are mostly coming up, I found a fantastic bread recipe, and I got a beautiful box of lemons in the mail from Eric, in San Francisco. (About which more, later). In the TMI department, I started meditating this week and found that I can sit cross-legged for 20 minutes, and that I can keep random thoughts from intruding about 10% of the time. It may not sound like much, but my mind is a busy place, and I find that my “ohms” are frequently swept away by a recollection of the picture that was taken for my London Tube pass 24 years ago, or musings about which Netflix movie to watch.

I also found a great iGoogle widget which tells me what is in season at this time of this month in my state. It may be optimistic, but I have some evidence to support it’s claim that I should be able to find Michigan asparagus, potatoes, peas, greens, herbs and rhubarb. I have made a menu centered around those as my fresh produce items, and I’m also buying the relatively little meat we need from the meat guy at the Farmers Market (along with eggs and butter). Here’s the plan:

Oscar night approaches and something is missing. My kids. The nest is empty, and 364 days a year I’m fine with that. But not on Oscar night. Let me tell you why. Growing up, kids are like natural hostages. Until they get their driver’s license, they’re pretty much always there. And the night of the Academy Awards was no different. On that night in March (now February) my children, the two cats and I would gather in front of our living room or sometimes bedroom TV and take it all in. This was before we all had wide screens that now make the event seem like a private Oscar party. It was just a modest little TV. We’d sit in rapt attention and watch what to me was the most exciting part. Everyone’s magical entrance. The Red Carpet.

As each stunning actress made her way through the gauntlet of tedious interviews, I would ooh and aah at how beautiful she was. That’s when my kids would turn to me, me sitting there in my dirty sweats, my unkempt hair tied above in a twisted knot, no makeup, and assure me that I was even prettier!!! I’m not kidding. No matter who the actress was or how young and beautiful, my kids would yell, in unison, that I was MUCH prettier. “You’re MUCH prettier than her, mom!!” Don’t get me wrong, I know they were humoring me, I’m not delusional, but I bought it. And, I looked forward to it every year.

I grew up in Beverly Hills, but on the wrong side of the tracks, south of Wilshire. It wasn’t where the stars lived, even though our house was located only a half mile from the Hilton, the current site of the Oscar Nominees Luncheon and the Governor’s Ball. My father was a B-movie producer, but most people might grade his movies with a D. He was a joyful, glass-completely-full kind of guy, who was thankful for everyday of his life on this planet.

As we all know, one interesting by-product of the so-called 'economic crisis' is that many of us have become re-acquainted with the things that really matter in life i.e. love, comfort, safety, security, unlimited-ride Metrocards, and food.

I've actually been having a bit of fun learning more and more ways to economize in the Food department, much of which involves, well, cooking. Something I never did in my before-crash life.  I'm one of those people who simply cannot be trusted in the kitchen. I burn – no, scorch – expensive pots, set fire to spatulas (once because I left it in the oven) and have ruined more electric tea kettles than I care to count. How, you ask? I put them on the stove.

I have an excellent excuse which is that I am recovering from a mild traumatic brain injury – but that is another story, not to be belabored here.

The point of this tangent is: I should not, not, not cook. Thus, raw. Thus we come to the point of this particular piece: Why you should crack your own nuts.

Call it vanity, arrogance ...when I signed on as a stay a home dad I assumed there’d be mothers stepping over one another to help guide me through the trials and tribulations of my new job. I miscalculated. To the contrary, gaining admission into the sorority of stay at home mom’s has been impossible. I’ve tendered numerous applications on my sojourns into Mom Land and have been rebuffed at nearly every turn. Case in point. I was attempting to make a ratatouille awhile back and was shopping at Whole Foods for one of its ingredients – a Japanese eggplant. Shocked that Japan even had its own eggplant, I searched and searched, but the closest thing I could find was – are you ready for this – a Chinese eggplant; given their geographical proximity, it seemed logical to me that a Chinese eggplant was more like a Japanese eggplant than, say, an American eggplant. But was it suitable for my recipe?

For the answer to this, and perhaps more, I approached what looked to be a mom and politely asked if she’d be kind enough to explain to me, once and for all, the difference between a Japanese and Chinese eggplant. After looking me up and down, she snorted some sound of disapproval and walked away. Just like that. Why, the contemptuous look, I wondered?