I guess I do appreciate you putting my groceries away in the same bags I brought you. You are stacking things pretty nicely and avoiding the use of too many bags which I like since I already have too many of the blasted things at home.
Hey, I understand that you might find some of our purchases interesting. I myself am often curious to see what the Frenchman is going to put into our basket so to a certain extent I share your curiosity. You never know what's going to end up in there, it could be something as simple as mache, as unusual as a truffle or as forbiddingly delicious as fois gras.
Curiosity is one thing, however I need to tell you that it is completely unnecessary for you to hold any of our purchases over your head and stare at them into the light as if they were counterfeit 20 dollar bills.
That item currently in your hands over your head, my dear, is just a teeny tiny jar of golden cavier. I realize the color is a little bright, and maybe it offends your need for the monochromatic as demonstrated by your wardrobe. Or perhaps I should intuit by your grimace that you object to its very existence. Maybe eating fish eggs is wrong by your moral standards. I understand. We all have our own sense of what is appropriate to eat. You may be a vegetarian. Some of my best friends are avid carnivores. I am, you see, an omnivore. I won't eat just anything though, I try to limit myself to things that are delicious and despite your disapproving look, let me assure you that the contents of that jar are quite wonderful.
Tomorrow night is New Year's Eve, you may have heard. What is less known is that it is also my 22nd wedding anniversary and in honor of that I intend to eat only things that are delicious. Including that little jar you have finally had the grace to stop squinting at.
Whether or not you approve of my food choices, to which I say to each his own, I would like to remind you of our roles: my job is to buy stuff I enjoy, and your job is to enable me to take it home without feeling embarrassed. I don't judge you by your clothes, tattoos, haircut, piercings or the way you scrunch up your face when you don't like something. But I do judge you by the way you judge my purchases.
Let's start the new year on the right foot, shall we? I won't judge you and you try do a better job of hiding your contempt for me, ok?
As the kids say, peace and love.
Before Christmas I'm the little fish inside the big fish
After Christmas, I'm the big fish who eats even when she's not hungry.
By the way, this is Bruno. He's a peacock bass who lives in the shop's fish tank. He only eats live fish - and when he's really hungry, or just being a jerk, he eats so many that he can't swallow them all. They live, like the poor guy in the above pic, as temporary prisoners in his giant mouth. Sometimes they escape, but not for long.
We went to the mall today for a day of christmas shopping. We found clear sky, easy parking and no lines. It was a little disconcerting. I was expecting hand to hand combat.
We went to Williams Sonoma four times. It turns out that most of our friends like the stuff they sell there, but it took us four visits to realize that. Each visit we bought something for one person. You could say we're not very efficient at this shopping thing.
The first visit we bought stuff for Xav. Each of the girls picked out something shiny for him and although there was a huge line when we walked in, by the time we were ready to pay we walked straight to the counter. The woman behind the counter was super nice. She offered the girls hot chocolate which I encouraged them to try. I had seen the hot chocolate kit on the way into the store and I was very curious to know what $35 hot chocolate tastes like. Not curious enough to buy it however. I'm curious, not crazy.
The chocolate was literally cooking on the stove and the sales woman was fretting that it would be too hot. "It's really, really hot" she said about 100 times. We get it, it's hot. "Be sure to let it cool." I promise, we'll be careful. She triple stacked the cups so the girls wouldn't burn their hands and as she gave it to them she said again "remember, it's really really hot! Don't drink it yet." Right. Ok. No drinking.
We walked outside, the girls solemnly holding their chocolate cups in front of them as if they were religious chalices - or maybe molotov cocktails. We went over to a concrete bench and sat down, waiting for the chocolate to cool. Outside it should cool quickly, right?
No.
It turns out I made a tactical mistake with the chocolate. When the woman asked us if we wanted marshmallows, I let the girls answer. Each one said yes, very enthusiastically.
The marshmallow - there was only one and it was the size of a Peep - had formed a hermetic seal over the hot chocolate. I know this, because when I blew on Juju's cup to cool it down, nothing happened. No foam. No heat. Nada thing. I blew harder at the side of the cup and BLAM!. Before I knew it, the marshmallow raised up to the top of my cup, releasing all the heat into my face like a giant burp. My face turned red and my glasses fogged up. Ok. This is hot, I thought, but it's working. Very carefully, I blew again. The marshmallow exploded into my face. It covered my cheeks, my lips and my glasses. Cassandre burst into hysterical laughter. Juju pointed at me screaming "you have marshmallow on your NOSE!" And sure enough I did.
Ha ha.
Very funny.
I used my finger to scrape at the marshmallow on my nose. Instead of coming off, it stuck to both my finger and my nose and as my hand moved away it formed a sticky string as long as my arm. More laughter. Against the Mother On An Outing With Kids rules, I did not have any tissues with me. I was completely paperless. I wrapped the marshmallow string around my finger, scraped the last of it off my nose and ate it. Hey, it's sugar. And it's not like it was in my nose. Plus I was desperate, being in a public place and all. I would have licked it off but my tongue is not long enough to lick the tip of my own nose. No, I didn't go looking for a bathroom because at this point I still thought there might be some way to save the "delicious" hot chocolate held captive by the evil marshmallow.
I poked my finger into the cup and immediately burned myself. Doh. Determined, I grabbed the top of the marshmallow and tried to lift it out. It was well past time for it to go. But it would not go. It was goo. It was like trying to hold a loogey. Or so I imagine. Ew.
Cassandre, beginning what I'm sure will be a life-long path of not learning from her mother's mistakes, blew directly into her cup. It exploded, spreading marshmallow all over her face and in her hair.
Marshmallow hair is bad.
We took a vote, agreed to give up and chucked the as-yet untasted hot chocolate into the trash can.
I still don't know what $35 hot chocolate tastes like and now that it's sold out, it's likely that you won't either. But if you happen to come across it in the store, take my advice and skip the $18 marshmallows.
I believe in flu shots, even when they don't get it right. I understand that while there is a lot of science involved in predicting - a year in advance - which viruses will be the most problematic, a certain amount of crystal ball gazing, or maybe even Magic 8-ball activity is also involved in creating the final potion. It's not easy to be a fortune teller.
I haven't been sick with the flu for years - ever since I started getting the shot. I don't even get many colds - probably due to the placebo effect of believing I'm protected. I'm a believer.
We've been getting the Germ Mongers, AKA Les Girls, their flu shots ever since they were old enough to qualify.
They hate it.
Whenever it's time to go for the shot they have to be pinned down - literally: I hold whichever girl on my lap, facing me (this immobilizes her kung fu master legs) then I make her fold one arm into my chest and the other one goes around my neck. I hug her tightly to my chest, arms wrapped around, holding on to the arm that will get the shot so she can't move and accidentally get hurt. The shot itself doesn't hurt, unless you are flailing your arms and legs and you get it through your arm, it's really the anticipation that hurts. The crying starts when we're standing in line (at the clinic) or waiting for our appointment at the doctor's office. Sniffling turns to sobbing turns to wailing with Real Tears (TM). You would think they were being auctioned off to live with the gypsies, such is the scene they make. No, I don't ever threaten to do that, whatever gave you the idea? Other mothers look on with sympathy - at me.
Xav gets his shot by himself at the supermarket. They can't give shots to kids under 9 there, so while I was able to get mine done (along with a little banking and some groceries - vive the modern supermarket), I had to make a doctor's appointment for the girls.
Once Cassandre realized what was up, she went to work: "Mama, we don't have to get a shot, we can get it up our noses!" This turned out to be true. Yesterday we went in for the appointment.
The night before I told some work friends about the shot up the nose vaccine and they were rather alarmed. It sounded a little like torture to them. How awful, they said. I insisted that it was all the girls' idea and, once convinced, the conversation turned into a discussion about how this up the nose thing could either become a valuable "just say no to drugs" experience, or the opposite. The consensus was that it would depend on how unpleasant the experience was. "Maybe" said one "they could add something in there that makes it sting." Or perhaps not.
The next day the conversation continued with someone else. "Up the nose? That sounds a lot like water boarding." Yes! I said, But at least we know that technically this is not considered torture, so it's all good, no need to call child protective services.
Fast forward to the appointment. We arrived ridiculously early, for once highway 101 didn't just cooperate, it aided and abetted a speedy run from san jose to the kids' schools. A quick shakedown of the receptionist resulted in lollipops, then we went outside to play on the play structure. Shaped like a ship, it is much nicer than what you find in most playgrounds.
The nurse brought us into the room 30 minutes before our appointment (that's right, I said 30 minutes BEFORE our appointment) and I quickly reviewed the paperwork that acknowledges that giving shots can be dangerous. That while only minor side effects are likely, "life-threatening allergic reactions" are (remotely) possible. I always read these documents and I always sign them. To be honest they scare the shit out of me and for a very short moment after Cassandre was born I thought about not vaccinating her. Then I realized that this was foolish. Not only is vaccination good for my kids but it is also good for the public health. There is something to be said for the public good, you know? Personally I prefer to live in a world that doesn't have smallpox, polio etc. in it and if people like me stop vaccinating our kids we will lose what little control we have over these diseases.
Cassandre went first. She sat in the chair, tilted her head back and waited for the nurse to do her thing. The nurse took two small nasal syringes and inserted one up into her nose. Squirt. Over. She did the same to the other side. The whole thing took maybe 10 seconds. Cassandre was smiling with the satisfaction that comes from being right.
Juju sat down without hesitation. One and two and over. They were done before I'd even finished signing the paperwork.
Protected.
For one more year.
Last night at our holiday party, we served a large selection of cheeses. There were hard cheeses and soft, goat and cow, strong and mild. A plethora of cheese choices. After the party was over and we were cleaning up, I was visually reminded that most Americans have no idea how to eat cheese. It's not that it's hard, but most of us didn't grow up eating a regular cheese course with dinner and we never learned the rules. Don't worry, they're pretty simple:
1. Approach the table or take the cheese plate that is passed to you
2. Determine which cheese you would like to sample
3. Take the cheese knife that is on the plate - do NOT use your own knife unless you are in your own house, eating with your family and there is no cheese knife available. Do not hesitate to ask for a separate knife - often your hosts have simply neglected to put the knife on the plate.
4. Slice the cheese from the side that has already been cut. Make a clean slice from top to bottom
5. If no one has yet cut the cheese (ha ha) cut a straight piece from the end
5a. if the cheese is round, cut a small wedge as you would cut a piece of pie
5b. Cutting is important, don't dink around with it. Cut cleanly and quickly.
6. It is totally fine to take more than one piece of cheese, take a small slice of each of how ever many types of cheese you wish to eat and lay them side by side on your plate.
6a. You can also take some of the fruit and nuts that are on the plate, grapes, pears and walnuts are especially delicious with cheese (as is red wine).
7. Return the cheese knife to the cheese plate - don't worry if it still has some cheese on it, it's nice if it's not too schmutzy, but it's cheese after all and no one expects or even wants you to clean the cheese knife.
8. Take only 1-2 pieces of bread. You can usually get more later and you need to make sure there is enough for everyone.
9. Don't follow your nose. Cheese is one of those complicated foods where your nose can't always help you to know what to do. Some cheeses smell great and taste great. Others don't smell at all and hardly taste like anything. Many stink to the point where your tablemates might insist that you to eat it outside in the rain by yourself, and you will because it tastes heavenly.
9a. Don't trust your eyes either. There is a lot of mold involved in cheese and most of the time, those scary blotchy discolored veins are supposed to be there.
10. DO NOT, and I mean NEVER, EVER EVER scoop out the creamy cheese from the middle of the wheel. I hate to say it, but it is beyond rude - it is gross. It says to everyone who sees you "I don't know how to eat cheese and I don't like the crust, even though most of the time it is delicious and perfectly edible. I just can't deal with it." The guests who follow you and who know better will look at you in horror, then quickly divert their eyes and pretend not to have seen your mistake.
Here's why scooping is such a problem: it leaves the next person in line for cheese with a rotten choice: cut a nice slice of rind with no cheese in the middle, or excavate deeper into the cheese cave and hope for gold. From experience I know that most Americans will choose to become miners and most Europeans will slice away in the hope of fixing the mess. Without this cleanup effort the entire cheese will eventually collapse, walls crumbing in a heap, forever trapping the cheese that remains. This is more than an eyesore, it's wasteful. Last night we threw away five cheeses that had been mined to the point of inedibility.
11. No one cares about your cheese once it is on your plate. Don't want to eat the crust? Don't. Tasted a new cheese you don't actually like? Try to remember it's name for next time and then don't eat it.
It's as easy as one two three um, eleven. As long as you are neat and keep your cheese on your plate you are golden. But make a mess of the lovely and, by the way, very expensive cheese plate and your hostess will be less enamored of you.
You want to get invited back, right?
