I hadn’t exactly been praying for them.  But they appeared just the same.  (Thank you.)
And now, my belly is full of fingerling potatoes sliced thin and sauteed in olive oil with green onions, just wilted chard and an egg over easy.

Yum, yum, yum, yum, yum.

And this was just my midnight snack.  Tomorrow, I’m gonna do it right.

I’m gonna eat the chihuahuas.

Just kidding.

No, no.  I’m gonna plant my feet to the kitchen floor and cook and cook and cook.

And, of course, I’ll keep you posted.

Formerly a foodie, I do long for the days when I ate for the sake of pure pleasure and I ate healthy.  I also weighed a lot less, took long walks in the woods, and, well, enjoyed my food and enjoyed learning about were it came from.  I could also cook.  I mean truly cook.  Ask anyone who had been visitor to my kitchen.
Oh the bliss.

Well, in this post kitchen-trauma, vacation era, I can feel that foodie inside of me being called by her insatiable muse.

Not so much because of the French Woman… (I would recommend Michael Pollen’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma if you really want to get into it), but because of the twists and turns that life is taking and the surprises that present themselves to me.

I have come to a place where I am less than enchanted with what I put in my mouth and come to a crossroads where I feel that I need to make some serious changes in terms of my weight, my health.  I don’t know how I fell off this savory wagon, but I’ve just been sustaining, for awhile.  And it has taken its toll.

One of the nice little surprises is the discovery of a sweet, delicious little blog that I friend of mine has started about food and health and life and mothering.  It’s called “Nina” and it is listed in my blogroll.

I love Carrie’s discussion about what feeds us rather than what sustains us on autopilot, especially when caring for another.
She also has some great recipes too.

So, a toast, to Nina, to good food, to really feeding ourselves and our souls and to using the summer to jumpstart (or restart) a love for good food and good health!

I’m psyched.

Hmmm…

Furthermore, while I stuffed my face with these less-than-gourmet treats, I sat on my fat behind and read the first three chapters of French Women Don’t Get Fat.   (Damn the french!)
Why?

Je n’sais pas.

I simply don’t know.

I just wanted to point out the ironie.

But, I basically just poisoned myself with high fructose corn syrup and cheap sugar.

If you are not sick yet, I am.  (Literally.  I feel really gross.)
Anyhow, if I stick to reading the relatively uppity, but seemingly practical, dietary smash by Madame Guiliano, I will let you know.

For this evening, however, I will just continue to berate myself as I count sheep.

1-sheep-your-a-fool-2-sheep-your-thighs-are-like-tree-trunks-3-sheep-you-have-a-jellyfish-for-a-belly-4-sheep…

Bonne Nuit.

Jason’s Blog Post:

I am sure some of you have noticed that I haven’t blogged in several days.  Well, my friends, the truth is that I have been living with a hidden shame for all these 31 years of my life.  A secret so dreadful, I fear I might lose some readers (all five of you. If that) once this truth is revealed in the light of day.  But this secret, which I have buried deep in my soul for these many years, is like the old man with the evil eye that is buried beneath floor boards in Edgar Allen Poe’s “A Tell Tale Heart”.  Much like the main character of that story, I can hear my shame’s still beating heart.  It is getting louder and louder by the minute.   The more I try to hide it the more deafening it becomes and the madder I grow. Even as I type this confession my palms grow damp with perspiration as my anxiety grows.

I have delayed this long enough.  You must be told to clear my conscience.   You must know, so that I will be free to have a peaceful night of slumber for once in my life.

My friends……I can’t read.

That’s right.  I am illiterate.  I never learned to read nor do I care to.  Sure, I can write, that’s the easy part, but I will never know what I have written.  This is my burden in life as a blogger.  My wife often tells me that she likes what I have written.  I am glad she does, I wish that I could like or dislike what I have written.  The fact is I have no idea what I have written.  From what I’m told, it is humorous in nature, which is ironic, seeing that it is written amongst so much tear shed.

So, I hope you have enjoyed reading this blog.  And maybe one day, I will too.

And, Yes, Sly, I will be publishing your little gems soon… 

I meant “jogging” in the broadest sense of the word.

Good night.

(I didn’t think I was such a big fan of 80s & early 90s pop hits until I started writing this blog. It seems I can never resist a chance to “pop” one in somewhere. And, it’s not just in this blog. I was recently reprimanded for trying to tell my sister for the 4th or 5th time about an episode I caught of the Bobby Brown reality show in which Bobby meets a man at the bar who doesn’t recognize him, so he keeps naming off all of his hits like “Toni Roni” and “My Perogative”. Still the man doesn’t recognize him until he mentions Whitney Houston. It really made an impression on me. I thought it was one of the funniest moments I’d ever witnessed. I kept singing “It’s my perogative. I can do what I wanna do. It’s my perogative…” and moving my head in some stiff roboto-like motion back and forth and back and forth. My sister was getting sick. That’s when I busted out with the entire first and second verse of “Ice, Ice Baby”. What’s happening to me?)

Anyhow, on to the karma.

I felt the need to share a bit of my personal irony. This time, I’ll keep it short.

Basically, I just finished sharing with a group of mothers how easy Silas has become. How we had “hell to pay” when he was between 1-4 months old, but how now, like a little cherub, he takes his naps and eats his meals like clockwork. How I can attribute this not only to Silas’s angelic temperament (okay, I’m taking it a little overboard here), but also to my consistency and hard work.

Oh, how incredibly smug.

Yes, I’m sure you know what comes next. You can’t wait. You’d like to see me eat my words and then some…

Well, the morning I finished sharing my bits of mommy wisdom about adhering to baby’s natural need for routine and preserving time for napping and playing, Silas began to resist me.

For several days now, nap time has become hellish and unbearable. He has begun straightening his legs so I can’t get him in his high chair. He has begun throwing fits if I don’t give him Cheerios. He has been screaming and kicking and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s been cussing me. He must have picked up that filthy language from the episodes of the Sopranos I watched while I was pregnant. (I certainly don’t use that kind of yuck-yuck around here!)

Right now, as I type this, he is caught in a raging torrent of temper tantrum and I am trying to decide what to do… give in or remain stern.

Honestly, I don’t think I can take it!

So, for all of the women that I pissed off by acting like our little routine was so fool proof and attractive. I’m terribly sorry. You can imagine me now, sitting here, unkempt and harried, eating my piece of humble pie.

I was also asked to mention that while I was writing last night’s man-bash, my husband, unbeknownst to me, was cleaning the kitchen to a sparkle. It’s true.

It seems like I have a lot of repenting to do. So, if you’ll please excuse me, I am going to rescue my persistent, wild-eyed son from his nap.

Again, I’m terribly sorry. And, thank you.

(Yes, that means that I’ve finished all of my course work for this semester.)

Please stay tuned.

I have been struggling through two Master’s courses that I despise with such passion that I have found myself scrubbing the poop from diaper liners as an alternative to homework.

Finally, the end has nearly come. It is my last week of class and I am battling with a research paper and seven cumulative essays about nothing but utter bull shit.

Never fear! The end is in sight! I’m in good health and can handle such maladies.

When I finish I hope to dazzle you with at one, maybe two!, insightful, witty, and tear-jerking posts per day! So, count your blessings and keep your fingers crossed.
Until then, please think of me.

Yours truly,

Emily Marjean

PS – If you are just tuning in, thank you!, and know that I am sarcastic and not conceited. Again, thank you. No, thank you. Seriously. Thanks.

When I called to check in with them, to offer my condolences, to see if they needed anything, I had prepared myself for a long, detailed story. A sad but necessary rehashing of events. A plea for support, maybe. Or, at worst, a breakdown.

Instead, when I asked my friend how her family was doing, she quickly stated: you know, Em, actually, we couldn’t be better.

Of course, I sniffed around for the hint of falseness that would let me know that she was just trying to sound like everything was under control. Left open the space for her to retract her statement in an outburst of tears. There was a brief pause.

No, really, she said, we’re just great.

I must admit I felt a little empty. Where were all the gory details? The tears? The anger? The confessions about how stressed she might be having her family in her home? Or even the admission that she was pissed that she had loaned her mother her favorite sweater before the shit hit the fan?

There was none of that. And, she wasn’t faking me out. She was serious. They had decided that the things they lost were only things. They had mourned their pets, but were happy that they didn’t suffer. They had already found a new home that they felt suited them and were just waiting for the insurance settlement. Did I mention that only three days had passed since the fire? Did I also mention that her father had just come out on the winning side of a not-so-pleasant battle with cancer?

You may be thinking that this family is just living it up in the land of denial. But, I don’t believe that’s true.

Now, I could try and sell you on the fact that these people are the sort-of well-grounded, living-in-the-present, read the works of the Dalai Lama and actually apply them sort-of freaks that try to make the rest of us feel like shit.

It’s not that either. They are just thankful. Thankful to be alive and to recognize that at any moment of any day our situation– including our mortality– could quickly and drastically change.

And, here I was having a panic attack about my dishes.

Every now and then, we are reminded to get our shit together and prioritize.

I consider that phone call one of my reminders.

Then he grabs your shirt and tries to pull it down so he can eat.