walnut, coconut, black currant, chocolate chip bars

Posted on May 6, 2013 by Claire

Walnut and coconut black currant jam bars

I’m in a mood to talk about things I don’t understand! Since David is at work, the dog’s not one for abstract conversations, and my imaginary friends are all busy with their monday morning chores, I’ll write about it instead. Or I’ll write about thinking about writing about thinking about it. (Nooooooo, don’t do that, Claire!) I realized recently that for a vague person I have some very strongly-held beliefs. I’m insecure and indecisive, but I’m oddly arrogant as well…deep down I honestly believe that there are certain inexplicable, inarticulable truths floating around in the universe, and I don’t understand them, of course, but I recognize that they’re there. I do! And it bewilders me that everyone else doesn’t recognize them, but they just don’t! I don’t believe that anybody can ever fully understand, but I believe in the value of trying to understand. I don’t think there are any definitive answers, but I think it’s important to constantly ask questions. I believe that words are confusing and clouding and inadequate, but we should never stop putting them together to help us to understand the world around us, and to share our questions. I’m in a mood to read words that other people have written about the questions–philosophers and theologians, possibly scientists and politicians. But I want to just absorb the knowledge–I want to inhale it, I want to eat it! And then I want to pare it down and arrive at my own explanation for all of the mysteries of the universe, in my own arrogant and insecure way. And then I want to write about it in the simplest and most articulate language possible, but, you know, with a touch of poetry. Luckily for you I have to finish the laundry and go to the grocery store, so none of that is going to happen. But the thinking continues…you’ve been warned!!

Let’s talk about bar cookies! They’re the simplest to make. You can combine all sorts of intriguing layers with practically no fussing and fiddling. I’d been reading in my old mennonite cook book about cakes that have a sort of meringue baked right on top of them, and that’s sort of how this worked. But the meringue is combined with walnuts and coconut. And there are finely ground walnuts and coconut in the bottom, shortbread level. And in between we have blackcurrant jam and bittersweet chocolate chips. Yum.

Here’s some Vivaldi that’s dramatic and tender, it’s beautiful, but I’m not sure what to call it. The first movement of a Concerto for two violins in g minor, maybe? Anyway, we’ve been listening it it a lot lately, here at The Ordinary.

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Strawberry shortcake (with chocolate chip shortcake)

Posted on May 4, 2013 by Claire

Strawberry (chocolate chip) shortcake

Hey, kids! It’s Saturday storytelling time! As I’m sure you recall, this means that along with your daily recipe and song, you’ll get a story, too! Each week, everybody in our small salon of auteurs (well, generally me and one or two other people) writes a story based on a found photograph. This week’s photo might be my favorite yet, I think it is ridiculously beautiful. But maybe I say that every week. If you’d like to write a story about it, and I hope you do, send me a copy and I’ll post it here, or send me a link if you have somewhere of your own to post it.

Here’s a funny story about my story this week. Isaac asked me to read what I was writing, so I read the first paragraph. It reminded him of a folk story, which he told to me, and which I wrote into the story. I’d never heard it before, but it was oddly perfect for the direction the photo was taking me. I always think that the exact moment that you write something changes the writing completely, and this is proof of that. If he hadn’t been sitting next to me, if I’d tried to get it done while he was at school, if he wasn’t the sort of boy to ask a person to read what they were writing, my story would have been completely different. Better or worse? Who can say!

Strawberry (chocolate chip) shortcake

Well, is there anything better than strawberries and whipped cream? Yes! Strawberries and chocolate and whipped cream. These shortcakes are more like a cookie than a biscuit. Like a big, soft chocolate chip cookie that you pile high with strawberries and cream. Because the shortcake itself is fairly sweet, you don’t need to sweeten the strawberries or cream that much–I just tossed the berries with a little maple syrup to make them saucy.

Here’s Sister Rosetta Tharpe with Up Above My Head, and if you read the story you’ll know why!

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Cherry chocolate blondies with coconut milk

Posted on April 20, 2013 by Claire

Cherry chocolate blondies with coconut milk

I’d hoped to get to this before work, but time flies fastest just before work when you have a lot you want to do, and just at the end of work, when you have a lot you have to do before you leave. It’s Saturday, so it’s storytelling day. As ever, we’ve chosen a picture from Square America, and I’ve written a story about it, and I welcome yours, too. Here’s the picture. My story is after the jump, just before the recipe.

I made these blondies because we had nothing sweet to eat with our coffee in the morning. Horrors! And I made them because I had some coconut milk leftover from a savory sauce. They’re so easy to put together, and so tasty once you do. They’re very very soft, but they get a little chewier as they sit.

Here’s The Verlaines with Bird Dog.

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Strawberry frangipane tart with balsamic caramel glaze

Posted on April 15, 2013 by Claire

Stawberry frangipane tart with balsamic glaze

One of the great pleasures of doing the same thing every day is watching for the small changes. This is never more true than in springtime, when the small changes are so glowing and growing and hopeful. We’ve been taking walks after dinner, which is one of my favorite things to do when the days start to stay lighter later. No matter how tired or full I am, or how much my feet and back hurt, I always want to go for a walk after dinner. Clio can be relied upon as a companion, Malcolm is almost always game, David comes if he has time, and Isaac needs to be persuaded, almost every time. We’re lucky to live along a canal with a beautiful towpath, and we’re even luckier that between that canal and the river is an old abandoned train track. It’s got a quiet, secret feeling about it, but it’s a shared secret: you won’t be overrun by people, but you’re likely to meet somebody you know. Last summer, Malcolm and I discovered a beautiful network of paths that wind from the train tracks to the river, through a low woodsy stretch of land crisscrossed by creeks. This is where we go. It’s a beautifully dreamlike landscape, and if you run through it trying to keep up with Malcolm and Clio, it can feel ecstatically like flying. After the storm in the fall, it was difficult to walk here. Fallen trees and debris and networks of crazed brambles changed the course of the path forever. Even now, in spring, everything is coated with a hoary grey vine, dried, dead, and wintery, but still clinging thickly to everything in its path. It’s a solidification of the damage that the storm did…a creeping tangling spirit of everything that got washed up and unrooted and washed under.

storm grasses

Lately beautiful small yellow flowers are taking over the landscape. In the dusky light, they glow like grounded stars, more and more every day. They’re tiny compared to the strangling vine, but they’re alive and growing, and the vine is slowly turning to dust. Each day we see more green, more gold, more leaves and flowers, we hear more birds, and watch as the creeks rise and fall with the spring rains.

the yellow flowers

The other night it was just Malcolm and Clio and me. A storm was predicted, and I’m predictably terrified of thunderstorms. I thought we wouldn’t go very far, I said we wouldn’t go very far, but I didn’t want to go back once we’d started out, and we followed almost to the end of the winding path. We walked back to a gathering of dark clouds over the river, and the rumble of thunder. I grabbed Malcolm’s arm. He shone his bright face at me and said, “Don’t worry, mom, it’s a sign of spring.” We tumbled into the house, laughing, as the real rain started to fall.

I think this strawberry tart is one of the best things I’ve made in a long time! And I’ve made a lot of good things!! I’m so proud of the stupid balsamic caramel. I feel as though I may have invented it, and I’m scared to google it and see how many millions of examples of balsamic caramel exist. So…we have a sweetened pastry crust shell, peppered with black pepper. We have a soft almond frangipane layer, topped with thinly-slice fresh strawberries. These are coated with an unbelievably delicious sweet-tart balsamic vanilla caramel glaze that’s perfect with the strawberries and the creamy frangipane. I’m patting myself on the back as I think about it!!

Here’s We Walk, by REM, live in 1983 (!!!!) Actually, the vine-clad terrain of our walks reminds me of the cover of Murmur!

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Chocolate-dipped framboise madeleines

Posted on April 14, 2013 by Claire

Chocolate-dipped framboise madeleines

He knew that the very memory of the piano falsified still further the perspective in which he saw the elements of music, that the field open to the musician is not a miserable stave of seven notes, but an immeasurable keyboard (still almost entirely unknown) on which, here and there only, separated by the thick darkness of its unexplored tracts, some few among the millions of keys of tenderness, of passion, of courage, of serenity, which compose it, each one differing from all the rest as one universe differs from another, have been discovered by a few great artists who do us the service, when they awaken in us the emotion corresponding to the theme they have discovered, of showing us what richness, what variety lies hidden, unknown to us, in that vast, unfathomed and forbidding night of our soul which we take to be an impenetrable void.

And you thought he just wrote about cookies!! That’s Proust, of course, from Swann’s Way. Here at The Ordinary, we’re fascinated by the connection of music, food and memory, as evidenced by the fact that we talk about it all the time. This morning I made my boys “flat” pancakes and fresh strawberries, which is a meal I remember as a special-occasion meal, for birthday breakfast or even a special dinner every once in a while. The smell of them cooking reminds me of that, and hopefully some day it will remind my boys of the mornings we made them. Likewise, I associate many things with many things, musically. Bob Marley’s Who Feels it Knows It reminds me of a long car trip to the midwest when my brother and I were in college. And his Hammer reminds me of the summer I met David, of his small, warmly glowing room with dried daffodils in the window. Lefty Frizzel reminds me of early morning bird watching and Dunkin Donuts, and the Bay City Rollers reminds me of the end of a long car trip back from Upstate New York in the autumn, stir-crazy and happy. Fly Me To The Moon reminds me of my first feature, one of the actresses sang it as we set up a shot. Jimi Hendrix’ Remember reminds me of walking to my film class, and John Lee Hooker’s Send me Your Pillow reminds me of long cold nights alone in my attic room. Belle and Sebastian’s Sleep the Clock Around reminds me of driving my brother to the train station and crying when the bagpipe started because it’s so beautiful. Fight For Your Right reminds me of parties in Highschool, and a manic release of teenage energy. So this week’s interactive playlist is “musical madeleines,” songs that transport you back to a certain place and time. Bonus points if you tell us where and why.

These madeleines were made with a bit of raspberry brandy or framboise. The taste is quite subtle – just a suspicion. You could use cherry brandy or plum brandy, or any flavor that you like. Something clear is probably best, though, so the madeleines don’t take on a funny color.

Here’s the playlist. As ever it’s collabarative, so feel free to add what you like, or leave a comment and I’ll add it for you.

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Almond cherry chocolate chip cookes

Posted on April 7, 2013 by Claire

My boys are very close to one another. They’re hyperbonded. They love each other more than anything in the world, and they drive each other crazy like nobody else can. They share a room, and recently they moved their beds to be next to each other, despite the fact that this defied all reason, and that they blocked windows, doors and desk drawers. They lie in bed talking and giggling till all hours, discussing their secret world. I worry sometimes that they’re so content with each others’ company that they won’t make friends outside the family. But I think, in fact, they’re learning what it feels like to be a good friend, and to have a good friend. And that can only be a good thing when it’s carried out into the rest of the world. My brother and I have always been close–I can’t remember a time that we didn’t get along, and he’s always been an inspiration and a comfort to me. I have so many memories of discovering music with him, of trying to find my own music that he didn’t know about first. Of sitting in his room playing, and listening to an old boom box. Of riding in his car after he learned to drive, and listening to music that made us feel free, of dancing in somebody’s attic in the city where we both ended up for a time after college. Of arguing about the meaning of No Woman No Cry whilst walking the dark streets of Amsterdam, of dancing around the living room when we were all together in London for a week at New Years. Of course our parents had a lot to do with it, too. We listened to their records and liked what they liked. They danced around the living room, too. So this week’s interactive Sunday playlist is music that reminds you of your family. Music that makes you think about your siblings and their friends, or long family car trips, or certain holidays. Parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, friends-as-good-as-siblings, grandparents–all or any of these will do. And whatever your children are listening to will someday be the music that reminds them of you, so that counts, too. I’ve started the playlist here, so add what you’d like.

I was thinking that these cookies are perfectly Claire-y Ordinary-y cookies. I love cooking with almonds, I love the combination of bittersweet chocolate and tart fruit, and I love cookies that are crispy outside and soft in. And these are all those things! I added a bit of condensed milk, because I had some to use up, but I think these would work without it, so don’t not make them if you don’t have any.

Happy Sunday, everybody! The sun is shining here, and I hope it’s shining on you, too.
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Dark chewy smoky brownies

Posted on March 26, 2013 by Claire

Dark, chewy, smoky browines

I’ve started to notice a certain phrase popping up all over the place, lately. That phrase is “home cooks.” The first time I saw it was in the Guardian, describing a contest for said home cooks. I felt slightly, inexplicably annoyed, but I berated myself for being such a curmudgeon and got on with my life. Then the TV at work was on the food network and there were not one, but two shows about home cooks. Eager, tail-wagging home cooks who couldn’t believe they’d get to meet a celebrity chef. And now, there was no denying it, I felt annoyed. “Home cooks.” It sounds so patronizing and dismissive, doesn’t it? It sounds as though they’re talking about ladies in house dresses exchanging recipes for casseroles made with spam and velveeta clipped from their women’s magazines. (Now I’m sounding dismissive! There’s nowt wrong with spam and velveeta!) It really seemed as though they’d come up with a new demographic of people to sell things to, and I was in that demographic. I hate being in a demographic! Well, I walked around feeling irked about this development for a few weeks. And then, yesterday, I had a breakthrough. Whilst driving my sons to the supermarket to pick up supplies to do my home cooking, we listened to the Clash. (Lord they’re good!) And, once again, The Clash had all the answers, this time, in the form of their song Garageland. I don’t want to be a called a home cook, I thought, I want to be a garage cook! And then I realized how unappetizing that sounds. I want to be a garageband cook! A punk rock cook! I want to combine flavors in a way that might seem novel and jarring at first, but makes sense when you’ve tried it a few times, and makes you feel exited and energized. I want to be brimming over with creativity and new ideas, even if it seems sloppy at times! And I don’t have much respect for “celebrity chefs,” I’ve never been all that impressed by their recipes or their ideas, and

(I read a profile of a certain well-known chef, and all the interesting things he’s doing, and all the interesting places he’s going, and I learned that “food bloggers and women over fifty are his most boring customers.” Double stab in the heart! I’m not a woman over fifty yet, but I hope to be one someday!) Who needs that? Not me! (Heh heh, let’s see if I can find an interesting recipe to use up all of my sour grapes!)

Of course, I also very much like the idea of being a home cook. Part of the beauty of cooking is that you create a home. By combining foods you like and feeding people you love, you make a home, no matter where you are or what your living situation. It’s all part of the warmth, the nourishment, and the love. Let’s just hope that home has a spacious garage where you can make some noise!!

These brownies were ridiculously, addictively good. They’re dark – made with bittersweet chocolate chips and very dark cocoa. They’re chewy inside, and very dense and heavy, the way brownies should be! Nice and crackly on top. And they have a haunting, smoky flavor, because I grated in a little black cardamom, and added some smoked sea salt. It’s subtly, but quite lovely! Black cardamom is a funny-looking beetle-y spice. I grated a little of the husk on a microplane, just a touch, and it added its nice smoky almost savory flavor. If you don’t have black cardamom or smoked sea salt, make these anyway, because they’re really good!!

Here’s Garageland, by The Clash

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Chocolate oatmeal cookies

Posted on March 19, 2013 by Claire

Chocolate oatmeal cookies

Steenbeck died a year ago. I can’t believe it’s been so long, I can’t get my mind around how quickly this year has passed. My memory is shot (I forgot to bring my wallet to the grocery store yesterday!) but I remember the day of Steenbeck’s death with unusual clarity. I was wearing grey jeans and a grey shirt with a big black beetle on it. I was in a foul mood, because I’d had a bad weekend at work and I hadn’t slept well and I was worried about the dog. I yelled at everyone before school, and they looked almost frightened of me. I yelled at the dog because she couldn’t stand up. I regretted all of it, of course, the second the boys were out the door. The day was unseasonably, ridiculously warm and sunny, it was hard to stay cranky for long. I made grits, and I don’t think I’d ever made them before. I turned them into grit cakes for dinner, which were delicious, but I regretted it later because I shouldn’t have stood at the stove cooking grits, I should have spent the time with Steenbeck. I went to the store and came back late to pick up the boys, so I left the dog in the yard, because she liked to stand in the sunshine, swaying on her shaky old legs, staring at nothing. I didn’t have time to say goodbye, I didn’t want to be late to school.
And six months later we got Clio, although mere weeks before I swore I’d never be ready for another dog. I remember that day with odd clarity as well, but I won’t bore you with the details. I can’t believe we’ve known her six months! It feels as though we’ve just met. It feels as though I’ve known her forever! I was thinking that it’s funny that we named her Clio, the muse of history, because dogs are natural historians, uncovering layer upon layer of the past with their sharp noses. And I feel as though I could measure out my life according to the dogs we had. From childhood dogs to Steenbeck, the first dog that was my adult responsibility, a daughter-dog, if you will. And now to Clio, who is my son’s first puppy. I could define eras in my life by which dog we owned at the time. I have a little memory of myself as a changing person with each dog, like a polaroid snapshot. Tessie died after I’d left for college, which felt like growing up, and felt horrible. A few years later I tried to adopt Easy and couldn’t do it, I wasn’t ready. Which felt like not growing up at all. Memories of Clio will be so vivid to my boys – how she cuddles with them when they’re sick, how she races around like a mad thing when they play in the yard. Clio is so much like Steenbeck that it’s spooky at times, it’s like history repeating itself. It might seem strange to say it, but when Steenbeck died, it felt as though she’d already left some hours or days before. Her body was stiff and her eyes were vacant. All summer I felt her spirit in the yard, or maybe I just needed to. I’d sit out in the dark warm night and talk to her. We don’t know for sure how old Clio is, but it’s less than a year. I suppose this is something I need to believe, too – that when Clio makes a certain face, or stretches in a certain way, or gives me a look with her bright, smart eyes… Well, it’s too foolish to put into words! But my memories of Steenbeck are fading into my knowledge of Clio, and I don’t feel as bad about it as I might, I think she’d understand. I suppose it’s a comfort to believe that everything is connected. It’s all a part of our history, of ourselves as changing people, moving through the world.

This year the last days of winter are decidedly not unseasonably warm! The weather is grey and icy and dripping. And so, we made chocolate oatmeal cookies. Our natural antidepressant. This is a sort of variation on oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, I suppose, with a little element of flapjack thrown in. The chips are melted, but not incorporated too thoroughly, so you find some nice patches of solid, soft chocolate. The cookies are quite crispy, very tasty, and very comforting.

Here’s Dog on Wheels by Belle and Sebastian. It’s not a real dog, but it’s a childhood memory.

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Black currant and bittersweet chocolate bakewell bars & cardamom ginger chocolate chip cookies

Posted on March 8, 2013 by Claire

Bakewell bars

Our house was built in 1850, or thereabouts. This June, we’ll have been here a decade. In that time, for every part of the house we’ve repaired or prettied up, another has fallen apart. We’ve got cracking plaster, peeling paint, rickety railings. We’ve got brick dust and spider guests and inexplicably leaky ceilings. Seen from without or within, no two lines of this house are parallel. It’s a mad mess of slants and angles. Originally, it was probably only a few rooms, and parts have been added on over the years, with well-meaning foolishness. The middle of the house is held up by a piece of railway track over a cistern. At one time this was a two-family house, and the boys’ bedroom was a kitchen, as the linoleum tacked over pumpkin pine floors attests. It’s a ridiculous ramble, but I love it. During storms and blizzards, I always think about how crumbling it seems, and then I think about how long it has lasted, how many fierce winds have rattled its bones, with people inside huddled by candlelight, talking and playing games, trying to keep out the storm with the force of their bright cheer. People must have been born in this house, and died here, too. Couples must have fallen in love. Malcolm and Isaac learned to walk here, and dozens of other babies must have done so, too. When David was fixing up the house, before we moved in, he found lots of lovely artifacts. Toys that had been dropped through holes in the floor boards – jacks and doll parts and bits of clothes – just as Malcolm and Isaac drop their toys through today! He found newspapers from 1850, with little bits of news about people in the area – words on brittle brown paper to us now, but fully lived with warmth and emotion at the time. In the time that we’ve been here, we’ve left our mark. There’s a smudgy line at the height of a boy’s hand, that traces their progress through the house – up the stairs and down the hall. Nearly every wall has mad scribbles in crayon or marker. The floors and doors are forever scratched with dog’s claws, first Steenbeck’s and now Clio’s, and a dog’s life is such a time capsule, such a reminder that time is passing. It’s got personality, our house. It’s not perfect, but I love it.

In an attempt to channel the creative efforts of our little artists off the walls and onto a more acceptable surface, David painted an entire table with black chalkboard paint. It’s a massive and handsome table that runs the length of our kitchen. It’s got drawers for paper and crayons and chalk. We can doodle while we dine! It’s been a lot of fun, over the years, watching the boys tell stories with their chalk. And I love the look of the rich, matte, black paint. This year David had the genius idea to apply chalkboard paint to some tins we had leftover from cookies and chocolates. They’re beautiful! They’re crafty! They’re repurposed! And useful! You can write the name of the contents, and erase it when you put something new in. You have to sand the metal first, and then spray an even coat of paint on. I think they’d make nice packaging for a gift of food, because they’d be reusable.

Chalkboard tins

bakewell bars

In honor of my lovely new cookie tins, I made some cookies. (Who am I kidding, I always make cookies!) I made some bakewell bars, a simpler version of a bakewell tart. They have a shortbread layer, a jam layer, and an almond frangipane layer. I made mine with black currant jam and bittersweet chocolate chips, because I love the tart-sweet combination of the two. But you could use any sort of jam you like, and omit the chocolate chips if you don’t want chocolate. (Who doesn’t want chocolate?) These were quite soft and flavorful. The other cookies are cardamom ginger chocolate chip cookies with just a hint of coconut. I think ginger and cardamom, which are mysterious and have a bit of bite, are very nice with chocolate, which is familiar and has just a hint of bitterness. I only used a small amount of chips and coconut, which made these cookies seem elegant to me!

Cardamom ginger chocolate chip cookies

Here’s Our House, by Madness, of course. What other song could I have chosen?

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Malcolm’s hazelnut almond chocolate cookies

Posted on February 21, 2013 by Claire

Almond, hazelnut chocolate cookie

When I was little, I was very curious, I was a messer, I liked to invent things, and I liked strange gadgets. Our Malcolm has inherited all of these traits, for better or for worse. I used to beg my parents for odd devices from cooking catalogs, and they’ve all ended in a jumble in a drawer in my kitchen. It should come as no surprise that Malcolm likes to go through the drawer. He had the day off school, Monday, and I found him in the kitchen playing with two ancient hand-cranked graters. (Why did I have two? I don’t know! I don’t even remember what I used them for!) Malcolm’s plan was to grate crackers into the dog’s bowl. My first reaction was of terrible iration (shouldn’t that be a word?!?!) And then I said, no, let’s actually use the grater, to grate food that according to my foggy memory, it was designed to grate.

So he grated some almonds. And then he used his messer-ingenuity to devise a method of attaching the grater to a cutting board for more control. And then he grated hazelnuts. And then I said, ah yes! I remember it can be used for chocolate. So he grated chocolate.

It was such good fun! And he created mounds of lovely soft, fine nuts and chocolate. We decided to make cookies. Or cakes. Cookie-cakes! And as we sat eating them after dinner, I realized that it was Monday, not Sunday, so the homework we planned to put off because it wasn’t due till Tuesday was due the next day…and that brings us to “pro-social others.” As part of Malcolm’s drug awareness and education class, we do worksheets together as a family. (I should start by saying that I’m glad he’s taking the class and I’m fine with the group activity-quality of it all! Although I don’t see why they can’t just have an assembly with a taciturn policeman showing slides of OD corpses and cocaine-ravaged septums, like when we were young. You know it worked because nobody in my high school ever did drugs.) The language of the worksheets is often very jargonny and difficult to wade through for meaning, but they’re so earnestly well-intentioned that it’s hard to be critical. And some of the scenarios are a little advanced for a ten-year-old, (I can’t imagine him shopping by himself at a mall any time soon!) but that’s okay, they’re starting early. But this phrase, pro-social others, it really bothers me!! I’m no fan of the redundantly, sales-gimmicky, self-help-y word “proactive,” but pro-social seems to have more meaning than that. Apparently it came about in the 80s (did anything good come out of the 80s?) as an antonym for anti-social. It means altruistic, other-oriented, helpful, intended to create social acceptance and friendship. Lord, I love the idea of altruism and helpfulness. I’d like to imagine and encourage such a society, I’d like Malcolm to join the ranks of happy friendly people. But “pro-social others” sounds so robotic, so unfriendly and inhuman. It sounds like a phrase invented to fool us into forgetting the real words. It sounds as if you can somehow control who your children become friends with, or order them perfect, socially accepted friends from a catalog. I genuinely hope that Malcolm doesn’t ever do drugs. He’s so curious and fearless that I worry for him, sometimes. I hope he’s strong enough in himself to resist peer pressure. But surely part of that is to encourage a little bit of rebel in him, to applaud the ability to question convention and to make the decision to be anti-social when the society you find yourself in is unkind or dangerous. It’s funny how everything these days seems to boil down to my wish for my boys. I love to see them with their friends, walking slowly, heads inclined toward each other as they discuss some serious mystery; leaping happily in the air on the street corner before school, pumping their arms and trying to get trucks to honk. Of course my wish for them is to have many friends, and to have interesting friends, and to have good friends. I hope they’ll be strong enough to help friends out of trouble rather than follow them into it. I hope they’ll be able to side-step pettiness and meanness. I hope they’ll experiment with paint or pastry dough instead of hard drugs. I hope they never have an aching empty hole they feel they can’t fill. As we sat discussing the worksheet, and I told Malcolm I hope he won’t ever do drugs, he pointed to my glass of wine, with a smile. “You drive me to it lad!” I yelled! No I didn’t, of course I didn’t. I said, “well, it’s social, and legal, and in moderation.” And he said he hoped that he could have a glass of wine with us someday. And I do, too! I look forward to that as well. To making a dinner with Malcolm, who is always the most fun to cook with, and having a glass of wine, and hearing about his life, wherever in the world it takes him, and hearing about the people that he loves and that love him!

Here’s a little playlist Malcolm put together that we’ve been listening incessantly to lately. It will always remind me of these days! (Sweary language alert!!)
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