Strawberry shortcake (with chocolate chip shortcake)

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Strawberry (chocolate chip) shortcake

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.

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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

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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Millet & chickpea kofta

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Millet and chickpea kofta

Millet and chickpea kofta

Malcolm’s basketball coach told him that if he keeps his head in the game he’ll be unstoppable. “Keep your head in the game” is now my favorite phrase in conversations with myself. “Keep your head in the game, Claire, or you’ll never get two breakfasts and two lunches made by 7:30!” And Malcolm’s teacher said that with a little more focus he’ll be unstoppable. There it is, the “f” word. It all comes down to focus, it all converges at focus. Isaac has been advised that he needs to focus on his focus, as well. It’s a distracting world! There’s so much going on, so much to see and say and taste! How can anybody concentrate on just one thing? It’s all very well to tell somebody to keep their head in the game, but the game is so complicated! The game is so fast-moving and there are so many things going on at once! One is in danger of getting one’s head bonked, if one keeps it in the game for too long! I’ve always had trouble focussing, too, so that’s probably where the boys get it. I can’t concentrate on one thing very long, with my gnat-like span of attention. My life is strewn with half-read books, half-written novels, half-sung songs, and lots and lots of brilliant ideas that never amounted to much (you’ll have to take my word for it). It doesn’t feel good, and I would wish my boys more success in concentrating on one task until it’s completed. I wish for them the ability not just to focus narrowly on one thing, but to bring everything around them into focus. To adjust the lens through which they view the world so that everything is as bright and vivid and clear as they can make it. Malcolm has discovered the joy of focussing beams of light through a magnifying glass until he makes fire, and this is sort of how I can see him moving through life–focussing his light and energy to set the world on fire. (Safely, of course, as executed with focus’ good friend self-control!) And I hope they’ll be able to concentrate on everything that interests them in the sense that they’ll distill it and make it as pure and flavorful as possible, creatively speaking. Isaac is a rare child who can actually sit and concentrate on one project for a fair amount of time. He’s happy with his own company, singing and drawing or making something out of legos. From when he was very little, his whole face reflects his absorbtion–head on one side, tongue out like Charlie Brown. Here’s Isaac’s picture of a focussed face…
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This is how I’m going to imagine myself, from now on, when I want to try to get something important done!!
Millet and chickpea kofta

Millet and chickpea kofta

I wonder if I like cooking because it’s a chance to finish a project – to see it through to its tasty completion. When you start to make a meal, you can’t stop till it’s done. You can’t give up halfway through because you get to a tedious part. If things aren’t going well you have to fix them, you can’t just set it aside for another time and then forget about it completely. And you have the promise of a good meal that you can eat and share as motivation to get it all done. Plus it’s fun! These croquettes were so simple to make. I combined leftover millet with chickpeas and grated cheese. I seasoned them fairly simply, with basil, cumin and lots of pepper. They turned out lovely–crispy and delicate outside and soft and flavorful inside. We ate them with spicy spinach cashew sauce and OOTOs (yeasted semolina flatbreads), as well as avocado and arugula. But you could eat them with pita bread or tortillas, and any sauce you like…tahini or tomato sauce or mustard or mayonaisse, or no sauce at all. Very versatile.

Here’s De La Soul with En Focus. Love this one!

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Ricotta chard tart with roasted peppers, olives, and a yeasted cornmeal crust

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Ricotta tart with red peppers, chard and black olives

Ricotta tart with red peppers, chard and black olives

There’s a particular pleasure to watching Temporada de Patos that’s hard to define. As I was thinking about it this morning, it came to me…it’s like making a friend, or maybe even falling in love. Which is fitting because friendship and love and the blurry lines between the two are at the core of the film. From the opening credits you like the look of it–aesthetically it’s just your type. Simple, spare, a little bit rundown, but beautifully so. You watch it for a while, and it seems funny and smart, a little bit off-kilter, but in a way you like. And then you hang out with it, and have conversations, and everything it says is charming but sincere. Not “hey, baby, I’m so sincerious,” sincere, but honest and uncalculated and heartfelt. You get a peep at its music collection and it’s all kind of weird but good. Unexpected, but you feel it’s the absolute perfect thing at the perfect time. You keep waiting for it to let you down and say something off-putting, or start telling a story that’s overly dramatic or just doesn’t make sense, but that never happens. It all just clicks, softly and almost imperceptibly. And then you don’t want your time with it to end, you want to spend more time with it, and you think about it after it’s gone, and realize that it’s much more complicated than you realize. That’s what it was like with Temporada de Patos, the first feature from Mexican director Fernando Eimbcke. It’s one of those rare movies where everything seems to come together perfectly, every aspect is thoughtfully combined and there are no missteps. The plot is very simple. Two fourteen-year-old boys, Moko and Flama, have been friends since childhood. They plan to spend a Sunday together at Flama’s apartment when his mom is away. They have all their supplies, soda, video games, money for pizza…and then the power goes out. The pizza delivery man, Ulises, shows up, and they insist their pizza should be free because he didn’t deliver it on time, but he says the deal is off because the power is out and he couldn’t take the elevator. He won’t leave till they pay, and they won’t pay. Their neighbor, Rita asks to borrow their oven to bake a cake. And that’s pretty much it, that’s the story, the story of one beautifully ordinary but unforgettable day. People grow and change and learn about themselves, and forget and start over. Relationships shift, slowly and quietly, and then shift back again. It’s simple, it’s funny as hell, it’s sad but hopeful, and it’s one of the best new movies I’ve seen in years.

Ricotta tart with chard, roasted red peppers and black olives

Ricotta tart with chard, roasted red peppers and black olives

This tart is a bit like a fancy pizza, and a very delicious one! It has a yeasted cormeal crust, which is very crispy and flavorful. It has a ricotta custard, with mozzarella, and it has sauteed chard, garlic, shallots, and rosemary. Then it’s topped with roasted red peppers and black olives. Salty, sweet, comforting, cheesy, crispy, and flecked with greens. What could be better than that?

Here are a couple of songs from the movie…Puto – Molotov. O Pato by Natalia Lafourcade. And Panorama by Alejandro Rosso.

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Roasted beet and butterbean salad with spinach, arugula and smoked gouda

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beet-and-butterbeanWhen I was younger–shall we say early twenties?–I wrote a screenplay about a man who wouldn’t leave his front porch. He’d travelled the world, and then something happened, but I don’t remember what, or maybe nothing happened–I’ve always been a big fan of the anti-drama–and he sat in a rocker on his front porch and refused to leave. His mother fussed over him and consulted various experts to aid in his cure. She talked to ministers and doctors and wise neighbors. He chatted with the mailman and with small children that ran by the house. We worry about him, because he’s not behaving like everyone else, he’s not normal. But he seems okay. He’s a little confused, but he’s pleasant and cheerful. He’s alright. It turns out he’s trying to rid himself of fear and desire, based on some combination of ideas gleaned from several philosophies that I barely understood at the time and understand even less well now, all these many years later, seen through a haze of crumbling memory. I still think about this from time to time. Would I want to rid myself of fear and desire, assuming I had the strength to do so (I don’t)? In all honesty, I don’t think I would. Desire, like hunger, is such a part of being alive. Wanting keeps you wishing and hoping and trying. And fear is so closely connected with imagination and creativity and dreams. The idea seemed good at the time, I suppose. I was confused, myself, and so full of wants and worries. But in thinking about losing myself, I was doing the opposite, I was completely self-conscious and self-centered. We all look at the world through our own eyes, through the prism of our own fears and desires. As Hobbes so delightfully says…

    …for the similitude of the thoughts and passions of one man, to the thoughts and passions of another, whosoever looketh into himself and considereth what he doth when he does think, opine, reason, hope, fear, etc., and upon what grounds; he shall thereby read and know what are the thoughts and passions of all other men upon the like occasions. I say the similitude of passions, which are the same in all men,- desire, fear, hope, etc.; not the similitude of the objects of the passions, which are the things desired, feared, hoped, etc.: for these the constitution individual, and particular education, do so vary, and they are so easy to be kept from our knowledge, that the characters of man’s heart, blotted and confounded as they are with dissembling, lying, counterfeiting, and erroneous doctrines, are legible only to him that searcheth hearts.

“Only to him that searcheth hearts”!!! I love that! Where was I? Ah, yes. I’ve been remembering my juvenile struggle with all of these muddled ideas lately because of all the memes! The memes and soundbites and super-designed quotes and quips and words of wisdom. It feels, sometimes, as though we’re taking little pieces of these philosophies that we don’t understand, and spinning them around to become something entirely new. Like all good twenty-first century Americans, we’re stripping them of their original meaning and making them all about making us feel better about ourselves. So that they’re no longer about losing ourselves, but about loving ourselves. We don’t have to rid ourselves of anything, cause we’re okay! Reduce a philosophy to a few pithy phrases, superimpose it over a rainbow or some flowers, and its meaning is distilled–it’s all about me! I know, I know, I sound hypocritical and hypercritical. But it seems as though if we’re going to appropriate ideas we should at least read enough of them to be confused by them, to let the words get us into a muddle, to struggle to understand something of the original wisdom, and not just swallow it down like some sugary pill that makes us feel better with no side effects. We should have more respect for the words than to make them into social-media-ready memes. That’s what kittens are for!

Springtime with its damp fragrant earth and unfurling ferns always makes me crave beets. So I bought a big bunch. My favorite method of cooking beets is one that Malcolm invented…grated, tossed with olive oil and herbs and roasted. So that’s what I did here. And I roasted some buttery butterbeans in butter. And I sauteed some spinach with garlic, and I mixed all of these things together, stirred in a little black truffle butter, added some ripe avocado, piled it into a nest of fresh wild arugula, and grated smoked gouda on top. Delicious! A warm, hearty salad with such lovely melty, smoky, sweet and buttery flavors.

Here’s Tom Waits with Just Another Sucker on the Vine, just because I love it.

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Flourless chocolate cake with salted almond praline

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Flourless chocolate cake with salted almond praline

Flourless chocolate cake with salted almond praline

Would you rather have super strength or super speed? This is a question I encounter frequently, in my travels. Usually it’s Isaac doing the asking. But there’s a trick to the question, because Isaac already has super speed! He makes his hands rigid, like knives, and they slice through the air, propelling him forward at a remarkable rate. Malcolm’s new favorite sartorial accoutrement is a button down shirt, usually flannel, always plaid, worn open over a t-shirt. Not because he looks cool, or it keeps him warm, but because if he holds the corners and pulls it up behind him over his head, when a slight breeze blows it feels as though he could fly. We invented a super hero called “Whatever Boy.” His power is that he’s as impervious to discomfort as a ten-year-old boy. Sub zero temperatures? He’s fine in a t-shirt. Sand in his swimsuit? Pour some more in there, he won’t mind. Soaking wet jeans? Bring them on. This was my little joke, and I left it at that, but Malcolm didn’t. He’s expanded the universe of Whatever Boy to include arch enemies, additional powers and side-kicks. All he needs now is a uniform and a theme song. I love this about my boys! I love that they see the potential in themselves and in everybody around them to have super powers. If you think about it enough, your shirt might become a cape, and you might take off into the sky. If you see things in the world around you that are upsetting, invent a superpower to battle it, and it just might work. Of course they’re not always typically heroic powers intended for commbat with evil-doers. Sometimes they’re quite practical. Malcolm invented a scenario in which super heroes live together in a sort of dormitory, and they all have powers that come in handy around the house. There’s vacuum man and hose man and fan man and fire-starting man. Yes, they can save the world, but they can also keep a tidy house, cool you on a hot day and fill your swimming pool. Whilst walking through the woods, Malcolm and I saw a rusty oil drum. He told me that in World Tenn, a universe in which Malcolm and Isaac have different names, powers, sisters and flying dogs, the whole point is to stop things like that from happening. He told me that when they finish writing their book I’ll know a lot more about it. I can’t wait! If you were to ask me what superpowers I’d really like to have, I’d tell you I’d like to be as glowing and funny and singing as my Isaac. I’d like to be as bright and brave and vivid as Malcolm. I’d like to have their super creativity, and their super energy, and their super generosity in seeing everyone around them as capable of marvelous powers and heroic deeds, in seeing a world where you could have any power you want, just by wanting it.

salted almond praline

salted almond praline

This cake was gooooood! First I made a praline of salted almonds, skin and all. I keep buying salted almonds because, of course, they make a healthy snack for hungry boys. But nobody else notices they’re there, and I can’t resist them! So I decided to keep myself safe from them, and use up a few of them in a not-at-all healthy cake! Unassailable logic. So, first I made a praline of salted almonds. And then I pulverized that praline into a crumbly mess. Some big pieces, some quite small and powdery pieces. And I stirred this into a batter of ground almonds, melted chocolate, butter, strong coffee and eggs. And the result was a dense, delicious cake that I couldn’t resist! Damn. Very very good with fresh strawberries or raspberries or sliced pears and a dollop of whipped cream.

Here’s Old School by Danger Doom and Talib Kweli. I love it! And they talk about cartoon super heroes.
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Broccoli and cauliflower with tamari, honey, and cashews

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Broccoli and cauliflower with honey, tamari and cashews

Broccoli and cauliflower with honey, tamari and cashews

Each morning this weekend, Malcolm and I went running. In reality this involved short bursts of running followed by long spells of lazy meandering. The weather was perfect, the new green leaves glowed with all their tiny might, and Clio raced through the morning mist like a sleek grey dolphin. I was happy to spend time with Malcolm because I had to work most of the day. I was glad to have some of his thoughts to take to work with me, to mull over if things got dreary. He said he thought it would be a good superhero power to be an animal for one day at a time. So you could be a dolphin if you needed to swim in the ocean, you could be a monkey if you needed to swing around in trees, and you could be Clio if you just wanted to have fun.
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I was doing a good job of turning off my anxieties. I wasn’t listening to the little voice that considered the possible perilous pitfalls of every single situation. “Most likely it won’t happen. It could happen, it probably has happened, sometime in history…” Malcolm fell in some nettles and came up crying, holding his head. I thought he’d hit it on a rock. But he hadn’t! We thought we heard a chain saw ahead of us on a secluded path, which conjured all sorts of nervousness. But we hadn’t heard one! There was nobody there! I was anxious about going to work each day because there was a festival in town and David would be busy with the store and my boys might wander off… Probably not, but you never know! But they were fine! And our Clio was off leash, leaping up and down brambly hills, merrily greeting every dog she met, and so happy and joyful it was impossible to feel too apprehensive. And then we saw some dogs up in the distance. They were off leash, too, and getting along with each other. Clio raced towards them, around a small bend in the path. And then I heard cries of pain, and saw a little commotion. Clio came running back to us with a gaping wound in her side. It will turn out to be fine like everything else, I thought! If I pretend it’s not so bad it will go away! But it didn’t, and the poor girl needed stitches, and now she’s all dopey and crying and she has to wear what Malcolm calls the “cone of shame.” She was at the vet all morning! And I was so nervous and separation anxiety-y that David suggested I chew up some of her toys, since it seems to work for her when we’re gone and she’s missing us. And then I picked her up and she seemed subdued and reproachful, she didn’t fall all over herself with glad-to-see-me-ness, like she usually does. Oh what a dark and grey-day mood I found myself in! Because it’s a rainy day, and I kept thinking that this is what I get for letting my guard down! This is what I get for letting myself not be anxious every single second of every day! Because obviously my constant worrying is what keeps everybody safe! I make protective walls around everybody with my unceasing uneasiness! I talked to the vet and told them I think Clio’s mad at me, and they laughed at me and said, “she’s on drugs!” Ohhhhhhh. And she’s got stitches but she’s fine. She’s cuddled with Malcolm and Isaac on the couch and they’re all fine. And now I just have a little voice in my head saying, “Get over yourself, honey, you don’t have that kind of power!” And yes, it’s a gloomy day, but the new life everywhere is bursting with vivid greenness against all the grey. And the next time the sun comes out our whole world will wake up! Our whole world will shine!

This is another of my honey and tamari numbers. The boys loved it! It’s very simple and quick to make. We ate it with rice, but you could eat it as a side dish or with long noodles, or however you like.

Here’s Sleepy John Estes with Ain’t Gonna Worry No More. I’ve got to get a kazoo and learn to play this to chase away the worry demons.
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Yeasted chickpea flour and sage flatbreads

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Yeasted chickpea flour flatbread

Yeasted chickpea flour flatbread

On Saturday evening a restaurant gets cacophonous. The people at the bar get louder with each drink. Children who have missed their naps are crying for their dinner. Conversations cover conversations till all you hear is a sea of noise. At one point last night we stood in the wait station craving a pocket of quiet, and a waiter said, “Do you ever just stand here and get lost in the noise?” Letting it wash over you is your best defense, trying to make sense of it only gives you headache. There’s a festival in town this weekend, and it’s noisy from morning to night. Caravans of cars and trucks, bringing in booths, engines idling as they set up. Hordes of chattering tourists. Yard parties that stretch into the night. It leaves you wanting some peace and quiet. It makes you yearn for Sunday morning. Waking slowly, speaking quietly or not at all. Whether you go to church or not, maybe remembering times you did, remembering times you had to be calm and good. Maybe nursing a headache lingering from the raucous night before. So this morning we’re looking for Sunday songs. Songs about Sunday, songs that make you feel like Sunday morning, or songs that you like to listen to on a Sunday morning. As ever, the playlist is interactive. So add what you like, or leave a song in the comments and I’ll add it for you as soon as I get a chance.

What? Another flatbread recipe? That’s right! This time of year my favorite way to eat is lots of little dishes that you eat with your hands, so I’m constantly concocting some sort of flatbread to use as a utensil and a sopper-upper. This is a sort of version of socca, the french chickpea flour flatbread. I love socca, but I find it very difficult to make, so in an attempt to limit the amount of cursing I do in front of the boys, I like to develop less frustrating methods. I’ve added eggs, and that helped. But in this case, I added yeast and some regular flour. It’s still vegan, but it’s not gluten free any more. It was simple to work with, though! It all came together like a charm–easy to roll out and bake. And tasty, too!

Here’s the Sunday Songs playlist. Have a peaceful Sunday, everyone!

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Couscous and kale croquettes

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Couscous kale and potato croquettes

Couscous kale and potato croquettes

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 or vernacular photograph. This week’s photo is a doozy. What is she dreaming about? 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.

THE PHOTO
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My story, which you can find after the jump, turned out inexplicably sad. It’s a sort of loose retelling of a myth, painted over with grim economic reality.

Kale & couscous croquettes

Kale & couscous croquettes

I made these croquettes out of leftover pearled couscous and leftover kale and potatoes, but I’ve given you directions to make it from scratch. You could make it with leftover mashed potatoes and sauteed spinach or chard as well. They were quite tasty – delicate and crispy outside and soft within. Even the boys liked them.

Here’s Tom Waits with Come On Up To the House, because I borrowed a line from it for my story.

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Strawberry chocolate hazelnut tart -or- failed macaron tart

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failed-macaron-tartAndre Bazin once suggested that critics should only write about films they like, and I agree with him. I feel as though I wasted some time earlier in the week talking about aspects of films that I don’t enjoy, and, to borrow Dylan’s phrase, that don’t do no one no good. One of my goals as proprietress of The Ordinary is to share films and music and art that I’ve stumbled upon at some point in my life. I’d like to share things that are often overlooked because they’re small or not-well-hyped or outside the mainstream. I want to share them not just because they deserve to be known, or because their creators have earned praise and recognition, but because your life will be richer for knowing them. Or so I believe. In that spirit, I give you Little Fugitive. I spoke in grand and foolish terms about the death of independent cinema last week, so it’s fitting to talk now about the film that many people have described as the birth of American independent film. Little Fugitive was made in 1953 by novelist Raymond Abrashkin and photographers Morris Engel and Ruth Orkin. It was nominated for an Oscar for best writing, which is somewhat surprising, because the story, though full of drama, is somewhat sparse of plot. Seven-year-old Joey takes a practical joke a little too seriously and believes that he’s killed his older brother. He’s on the lam, and he flees to Coney Island, where he spends a few days eating hot dogs and cotton candy, sleeping under the boardwalk, and collecting the deposit money on glass bottles to pay for food. Richard Andrusco, who played Joey, was a non-professional, as were most of the other actors. Engel hid a camera inside his coat, and he filmed Coney Island, teeming with life. He filmed hundreds of people who had no idea they were on camera. His portrait is joyful and affectionate, he captures every small beautiful gesture. He shows the poetry of two people folding a towel, coming together and moving apart as if in some strange sweet dance, he shows the easy generosity of a boy carrying a younger child through a flooded street. The story is told with the spontaneity and humor of a child–he sees everything because few people notice him, and we’re afforded the same chance. He’s buoyant and resourceful, as most children are. He operates outside the rules of the bustling society around him, darting in and out of crowds, weaving through a sea of towels and sunbathers. During the day this is mostly exhilarating and fun–he’s getting away with something. But as evening falls we feel his wistfulness and loneliness. We’re not told about it, we’re not hammered over the head with it, but we feel it in the off-kilter shots, in shots of him still in the center of a whirl of families, in the lights of the amusement park separated from him by a sea of forbidding darkness, and in the way he falls as the parachute falls, floating slowly down to the dark earth.

In this scene of a sudden summer storm, everybody runs for shelter, and we see Joey by himself, in a desert of lonely empty beachfront, searching for bottles.

The film is so visually beautiful and yet so simple and unplanned–more about observation than manipulation, more about noticing and capturing the beauty of the every day than creating a pretty scene with an expensive budget. The movement of the crowds, the small dramas, the lights and shadows of the boardwalk, the boy’s little triumphs and failures are so beautifully captured and so captivating. Francois Truffaut credits The Little Fugitive with the birth of the French New Wave, “Our New Wave would never have come into being if it hadn’t been for the young American Morris Engel, who showed us the way to independent production with his fine movie The Little Fugitive.” I wish the Americans had noticed this film half as much! I wish it had been like a little pin full of simplicity and honesty to prick the bloated studio system, and let out all of that hot air.

Strawberry hazelnut tart

Strawberry hazelnut tart

The filmmakers of Little Fugitive worked with the materials they had, and that’s what we do here at The Ordinary as well. I had a lot of leftover egg whites from a job I did last week. I tried to make them into hazelnut macarons. All went well, they fluffed up nicely and piped up nicely. But they were soft and sticky when they were done. And they all stuck to the tray. So I scraped them off, mixed them with some butter, liqueur and brown sugar, and made them into a topping for this tart with strawberries and chocolate. Delicious! They crisped up nicely as topping, and added a wonderful crunch to the juicy fruit and the flaky crust. You could use almond macarons, or meringues and chopped hazelnuts. You could probably even combine eggwhites, sugar, coarsely ground hazelnuts and a bit of butter, and it would work just as well.

Here’s One Too Many Mornings by Bob Dylan, because it’s been on my mind, and it seems like such a perfect song right now.

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Beet and kidney (bean) pies

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Beet and kidney bean pie

Beet and kidney bean pie

It’s take your child to work day. The boys are at the shop with David, hopefully not routering their arms or circular sawing their fingers. Take your child to work day. It’s a little odd, when you stop to think about it, which for better or for worse I’ve just done. It seems to imply a certain neatness and regularity to the world that just doesn’t exist, as I see the world. Does every parent have a safe, child-friendly job? Does every parent have bosses and co-workers that will put up with an infestation of restless children? Does every parent have a job they can work at productively whilst entertaining a bored and or curious tyke? Does every parent have a job during school hours? Maybe they’re chefs or professors or rock stars or stage actors, and they work at night. Does every parent have a job at all? 399919_10200595609406883_2047603223_nI’ve just read that the day was invented by Gloria Steinem as Take Your Daughter to Work Day, and was intended to give girls a sense of possibility and purpose. This makes it seem even odder to me, almost as if it was subversively designed to illustrate the messiness of the world. How many children are bundled off to work with their fathers, because their mothers don’t work during the week because they’re home with children. Maybe they work at night or on the weekend so that they can be there to pick up their children after school. Maybe they have a job but its the kind of job many women have at some point in their lives–cooking or cleaning or caring for someone else’s children, and, strangely, this isn’t the kind of job you’d like to share with your own child. Maybe, like many women, you’re not treated with respect at your job, you’re not treated as an equal. A lot of things have changed, a lot of things have not. Of course, all of this stopping-to-think-about-it has included some thoughts on my own life, my own work, my own ideas of success or failure and how they don’t quite fit into those of the rest of the world. Any thing you do is considered work if somebody pays you to do it. And the more they pay you, the more successful you are at your job. I’ve been doing a bit of pastry cheffing, and yesterday I made a cake for a restaurant. If the boys had stayed home and helped me with that, they would have been at work with me (and we would have had fun!). Today, I don’t have any commissions for cake, so if the boys stayed home from school and baked a cake with me, we’d be goofing off (and we’d still have fun!). If I sit around writing or cooking or conspiring to make a movie, I’m a shiftless slacker who should go out and get a real job (I know, I know…). If somebody pays me to do those things, I’m a person who has followed my dreams to find success (although I probably still can’t afford health insurance.) Everything is a little different looked at through the prism of parenthood. What seems brave and valuable when you’re a single person with only yourself to care for, seems irresponsible once you have children. We have our own small business. We work seven days a week, one way or another, and the truth is that the boys spend all weekend every weekend at work with David, watching him watch the store while I wait tables. This is life as they know it. We don’t have days off or weekends or paid vacations, and we still can’t afford health insurance. And all summer when they knock about the house with me, cleaning and cooking and keeping themselves happy and creative, waiting impatiently while I finish writing some dumb thing so we can go to the creek, they’re at work with me, whether they know it or not. It’s messy, it doesn’t fit into any tidy pattern of employment, but I think they’re okay with it. I think they’re proud of us, and have a sense of possibility and purpose. I think they wouldn’t have it any other way.

Beet and kidney bean pie

Beet and kidney bean pie

Beet and kidney bean pie! It’s ruddy! This was inspired, of course, by beef and kidney pie, or steak and kidney pie. It does have a certain meaty quality to it. It’s roasted beets and mushrooms combined with kidney beans in a saucy sauce of tamari, sage, rosemary, thyme and allspice. If you use vegetable shortening instead of butter in the crust, this would be vegan.

Here’s King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band with Workingman’s Blues.

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