peevish mama

This music monday is a long distance hug for my little brother, Maestro de Bife, who just left for a year in Australia to do a hepatobiliary fellowship. Spell check does NOT recognize that word, but it’s for real – something about livers and such. The other day my mother was telling me what times to call him and kept illustrating different 15 hour time differences for me to try. My two thoughts were 1. ya ya ya, I can do math and 2. damn, he’s far away.

I love this song by Australian/Belgian Gotye. The whole thing is beautiful, but it sort of explodes around minute 3 and swallows you up. And it turns out Devil Baby really loves body paint, because she kept asking to watch this video over and over.

Through the rabbit hole that is youTube, I discovered the awesome Kimbra. She’s from New Zealand but based in Australia and it’s hard to pinpoint her genre, except to say she’s a little soul, a little pop, a little jazz, and a lot catchy. There are moments when she kind of sounds like Santigold to me, in that she has a unique, silvery, slippery sound that’s hard to categorize but impossible to resist. Don’t let the fact that she looks a bit like Katy Perry fool you. This girl is legit. And also, possibly, has THE BEST collection of dresses ever. The pink in Cameo Lover and the black in Settle Down are to DIE for. And if you too find yourself going down the rabbit hole, don’t miss the Live at Sing Sing Studios sessions. There’s yet another dynamite dress in it for you – as well as a stripped down, soulful Kimbra.

I’m kind of the queen of buying gifts for people that I really want for myself. This Saturday night we’re going to an overnight dinner party at Gigi the Animal Whisperer and Ten Gallon’s “farm” with two other families. In addition to bringing fixings for the fanciest salad I can come up with (I’m thinking arugula with shaved fennel and apple, slivers of proscuitto and a champagne vinaigrette), I wanted to give Gigi and Ten Gallon a little token of thanks for hosting so many teens and children when what they were really after was us grown-ups! As they are the parents of three hungry adolescent boys, I stopped in my tracks when I spotted this book at Cooks of Crocus Hill. I couldn’t resist paging through it when I got home and the recipes look abso fabu. Big on flavor, big on heartiness, low on fuss. My kind of cooking. I love what Lucinda Scala Quinn says in her introduction about feeding the men and boys in her life.

Boys and men who grow up eating flavorful home-cooked food are more likely to cook for themselves. A man who knows how to cook is more self-sufficient, is a better roommate, boyfriend, father, and son. And as any wife knows, a husband who can cook is like one who can dance – the deluxe package. Huzzah!!!

Obviously, this holds true for girls too and like this author, feeding my family is one of my life’s great pleasures. It’s a way to be busy with my hands so I can listen to music and think. It’s a way to feel productive when I may be procrastinating figuring out what I’m going to be when I grow up. It’s a way to nourish and teach and share. It’s a way to show my love. And it’s a way for me to stack the deck in favor of ending up with a brood who will enjoy eating the way I do. If it is something we have always done together, it is something we can always do together. As my mother-in-law would say, bon appetit!

Some families are really good at planning special alone time with one parent and one kid. We are not. We’re kind of an all-for-one-and-one-for-all crew. Several times a year, I get a bee in my bonnet about planning something alone with one of my kids, but then I never do it. As a result, my M.O. is to slap a “special time” sticker on an outing should I ever happen to find myself alone with one of my kids. A few weeks ago I dragged Devil Baby to a downright frigid farmers market and when we stopped for hot chocolate at French Meadow on the way back, I tried to act like it was some fabulous special time. She responded with barely more than a skeptical look while she ate her whip cream with a spoon. Apparently, it’ll take more than an errand and a hot beverage to get her attention.

This past Saturday, however, the stars aligned (or rather Doctor Dash decided, against all odds, to take the girls to a daddy daughter dance at our club) and I had Saint James to myself for the night. After watching him order the lobster poached in butter on New Years Eve in Florida and then meticulously inhale every morsel, crumb, drizzle, micro-green, bit and bite of a five course dinner, I knew what I wanted to do with him. I wanted to eat. Somewhere special. He was ready. Ready for Bar La Grassa.

After his hockey game, we scooted downtown and without too much delay, scored a seat at the kitchen bar, so we could watch the action. Sitting shoulder to shoulder we watched while Isaac Becker checked plate after plate of gorgeous food coming off the line. We marveled at the pretty young girl in chefs whites working the salad station. We giggled at the server with the waxed curly cue mustache. We talked about books, movies, middle school and high school. We perused the whole menu, savoring the choosing almost as much as the choices. I sipped my Lambrusco Rose, he sipped his Shirley Temple. And we feasted. Plate after plate, passing before us, forks crossing, words murmured. Saint James was intrepid and curious and a joy to eat with. Here’s what we had.

Belgian Endive, Apple and Orange salad.

Calamarata with Raw Tuna (this is my must have – I dream about this dish)

Pappardelle with Veal Ragu

Crab Ravioli

Pork Ribs

Braised Greens with Ham Hock

I’ve had many memorable and happy meals at Bar La Grassa, but this one, the one with my boy, is my absolute favorite. There is nothing I love more than watching a ravenous kid eat, but watching a ravenous kid eat while his mind is being blown by new foods and flavors is a whole other kind of awesome. One kid down, two to go.

 Last week I had the pleasure of curling up on the couch to watch Under the Great White Northern Lights with Dash in the middle of the afternoon. There are some real perks to having a husband who works nights. His first day off after a week of work is a cobwebby affair for him – a day best spent having long lunches and catching a movie. Nothing too taxing, but entertaining enough to keep him awake during the hours he’s usually in a deep sleep. It felt indulgent, almost unseemly to be so firmly ensconced in our basement on a blustery January day, but hey, someone’s got to keep him company.

I loved this movie. If you like the White Stripes, you will love it too. And if you don’t and somehow I can convince you to watch it anyway, I can’t see how you won’t fall head over heels for this band (which is sort of a cruel thing to do to you considering they are no longer a band). No matter, this documentary is cool to look at, gorgeous to listen to and Jack White gives us a generous look into his creative process, which is impressive, fascinating and completely humbling What he does looks effortless, but as we learn, it is anything but.

I love this lady. I aspire to be this lady. Bring on the pink Mary Janes and culottes. Last weekend My Little Spring Roll talked me into going to what is basically a spinning class at our yoga studio. I had seen this class on the schedule, but truth be told, I probably wouldn’t have tried it but for the dangling carrot of some time with my friend. As I huffed and puffed and giggled at her attempts to tilt her bike with her tiny little body, I thought to myself: how lucky am I? At this point in my life and where I live, I am absolutely surrounded by women who love to move, who love to try new things, who love to laugh and break a sweat. I’m a yoga girl, and usually a solo one at that, but lately I feel as if not a week goes by without a text or email from someone enticing me to go for a walk, go to a hip hop class, go snowboarding, go to a dog park, go dancing. (Oh, the dancing. Fountain of youth, right there). Lady Tabouli has even taken me for a steam with the Jewish old ladies a couple times. Divine! I’m friends with more than a few crazy triathlon gals, but they know not to come a knockin’.

As I grapple with what it means to be over forty, I can’t help but think about the state of my body. Not necessarily because of how it looks, but because of how it feels. Or how I want it to feel. Those days of college dieting and forcing myself to the gym are a distant memory and shit, good riddance. Now, I’m grateful to have the time, the means and mostly, the health to be able to move my ass. We exercise for ourselves, and for the selves we will be in 10, 20, 30, 40 years. We exercise to figure ourselves out, whether it be a piss-ass mood or an eternally tight shoulder. We exercise to find our bliss.

My friends, I’ve been trumpeting this for a while, but I’m officially putting it out there: I am all about the limber. Limber body = limber mind = limber heart. See an adventure with your eye, say yes with your mind, chase it with your body.

What are the chances Pinky Tuscadero up there isn’t one happy old biddy?

Much thanks to all you movers and shakers. You inspire me.

Wasn’t I just talking about Wes Anderson last weekend? I swear, I was. Gushing, yes, a bit, perhaps.  Probably a shade defensive about the fact that I fall, unabashedly, hook line sinker and anything else he cares to put on the screen for his “hipster aesthetic.” I know it’s a thing, I know it’s supposed to appeal to people like me and you know what? It DOES. It so very much does. I love and adore everything he has done – Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, The Darjeeling Limited and Fantastic Mr. Fox. Funny, sad, odd, and atmospheric, his movies are just a feast to me. They are all so beautiful, with such a distinctive visual feel, and yet they manage to take such a tender view of their flawed heroes and heroines. This one looks to be on par. I simply CANNOT wait.

David Bowie turned freaking SIXTY FIVE yesterday. He is like no other. He is spectacular. J’adore, like, for realz. Oh man. ANY Bowie song, ANY time, ANY where will send my hand to my chest in a dramatic I may swoon gesture. It’s Pavlovian. I love. I love. Lovelovelovelovelove! Check out this collection of 65 iconic images of the Thin White Duke and see if it doesn’t make you want to tape your boobs down and put on a tuxedo, or if you’re a boy, you know, the opposite. Hats off to you, Mr. Bowie.

This mural, made by Supakitch and Koralie, is bananas. Absolutely stunning. Their hands are so sure. It is absolutely mind boggling how one would conceive of such a thing, let alone execute it. God, I wish I could do something, anything, with my hands.

I love Christmas Eve. Growing up, that’s the day we would throw the house out of the window. That’s a Spanish idiom basically meaning, have a party, do it up, frolic and fest. Tirar la casa por la ventana. Sounds better in Spanish. Something about the anticipation makes eves a little more compelling than days, in my book. We hosted a brunch with some very old friends in the morning, which was such a lovely mellow start to the day. After putting away the last folding chair and coffee mug, the day just kind of unfolded in its own rhythm. Here in the little apple, it happens to be warm enough to sit on the front stoop with a beer. Late afternoon we took a walk to one of our favorite perches in the city. Someday I’ll tell  you about how much I love a good perch. The watertower in Tangletown is a medium walk from our house and never fails to elicit sighs from on high. At this time of year you can see downtown through the trees, but it’s that heady feeling of elevation, of seeing a blanket of tree tops, that gets me every time. And those stoic, handsome soldiers, protecting our pure waters. We just love it. Happy eve, everyone!

Oh, my. It has been a great while since I’ve felt this swept away by a film, by a book. Saint James, Supergirl and I had all read it prior to settling into our seats, so we were absolutely brimming with anticipation of what was to come. The book, a clever combination of drawings and writing, is fabulous. It has all the elements of a gripping story: a loss, a puzzle, a quest, a love. It is a perfect story, presented with tenderness and a generous allowance for sadness. The movie, by Martin Scorsese, not only does this book justice, I’d argue it tucks it onto a pair of wings and makes it soar. Twinkly 1930’s Paris, with these characters is exactly where you want to escape to this time of year for a couple hours, so do it. With kids or without, having read the book or not, this movie is magic. Go see it. Alors, vite!

I’ve got a thing for knives. I love and require a good, sharp knife in order to be happy in the kitchen. I often travel with a knife if I’m going to a rented cabin or home. Supergirl got mad at me once because she found a paring knife in her backpack – I had brought it along to cut an apple at a soccer game and forgot about it. Ya, I know. Not good. In addition to knives, I like things that are handmade, I like writers, I like people who talk about their art, I like the communities that spring up out of unlikely common interests, I like people who lead an examined life and all of that is wrapped up in this very cool short film about Brooklyn knife-maker, Joel Bukiewicz, of Cut Brooklyn. You need a few minutes to watch this, but it’s very inspiring and makes me feel hopeful.

On Friday night there was a collision – the girl in me who wants to fly around in the dark and hear loud live music, feeling it in every cell in her body, ran up against the mother and wife that I am on the outside and in the present. Mostly, these two pieces of me can co-exist peacefully. Mostly, I find that one actually helps the other. After I get to see something that moves me, that opens my mind and my heart, I think I’m actually a better mother. The next morning, my kids come down to breakfast and I’m usually playing whatever it is I heard the night before, all bright and happy, savoring that shimmer left behind, and they ask questions and they listen to the music and I tell them everything. Perhaps I am rationalizing, but my kids’ take-away might be this: art is one of life’s priorities and live music lifts up everyone in the room, the performers and every last person in the audience. I swear, First Avenue is like OZ to them. When they finally get to go, it’s going to be epic. But, as I’ve said before, this town is so chocked full of good music that Dash and I have to turn a blind eye to many many things we would like to see. And even with that kind of triage, there can still come a night when you look at the ticket, sigh and decide that staying in is the right thing to do.

I fell for Doomtree a couple summers ago when they played at the Lake Harriet Bandshell during the Music and Movies Series. We went with our neighbors on a beautiful August night and while the girls stood in line for free t-shirts that were being silkscreened on the spot, our boys stood on the benches and watched, rapt. How cute are they?It was a joyous rapping free-for-all and our guys were drinking it up. (I bet that’s what spawned their careers as Lil’ Ziggy, G-Dog and TNT.)

Doomtree is a Minneapolis collective of seven musicians who each go out and do their own thing, while coming “home” to collaborate with the each other in all sorts of different combinations and constellations. It’s so cool. They’re so cool – super talented, hard working, smart, honest. Dessa, beautiful, bad-ass Dessa, is the only woman. And I didn’t go to see their Blow-Out on Friday night – my sad little ticket is sitting on my bureau. I’m a little bitter, of course, but I snuggled on the couch with my monkeys and watched TV. And that kind of night, as we know, possesses its own kind of magic. But I’m still bitter – Nanook calls it FOMO (fear of missing out). I’ve got IKIMO (I know I missed out). Watch this for a little idea of how they work. So good.

I love this band, although I don’t think you’d really call it a band. More of a French dude. And you all know I happen to have a thing for French dudes – French Canadian dudes, anyway. This song is Midnight City off the new album, Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming. It’s the perfect music for tiny dancing, the season for which is fast approaching, so get ready. The night before Thanksgiving, I went to Transmission with my dancing girls and, in a brilliant move, DJ Jake busted this song out. Heaven. The top of my head popped off and out blew reams and reams of confetti. Really. Ask anyone. It blends seamlessly with 80’s new wave, which is probably why I like it so very much.

It snowed  last night and now our little corner of the world is tucked under a wooly white blanket. As I type, I hear buzzing snow blowers and yelling children from the sledding hill out front. Snowbound on a Sunday (but not really) – it’s a lovely place to be and way to be. I can’t quite decide if I want to build a fire and huddle up in the house for the rest of the day, or run around outside in my pajamas. Likely, I’ll do a little of both. The only thing I know for certain is that I won’t be changing out of the flannel shirt and longjohns I wore to bed last night. So don’t come visit. Or do. I won’t mind.

Today is the day, in fact, that we had planned to kick off our season of merry-making. This is the day I make empanadas and we put up our Christmas tree. Mama Nature just happened to oblige with a little ground bling.

Right around four o’clock, when the last child is home from the birthday parties and soccer practices of the day, we will shut the door, make a fire, crank the tunes and put up our Christmas tree. We’ll eat dinner on the rug in front of the fire while we admire our handiwork and bask in the twinkly glow of Christmas lights. Oh, man. Christmas lights. Just. One of the best things ever. Right?

Enjoy the snow, friends.

A beautiful video of a beautiful natural phenomenon for you on this beautiful holiday. Thank you to Mamarstiste for sending it to us.

Also thank you to Lady Homeslice and Mr. Lady Homeslice for folding my little vagabond family into their celebrations on Thursday night. It was truly delicious in every way. You all know how much I love living here – how I very much feel like we choose this city, every single day. But our families aren’t here, and sometimes I wonder if that’s a huge mistake, especially around the holidays. I don’t know the answer to that – it is something that I struggle with, for sure. I miss them deeply. But I do know that we have friends here in this little apple that feel like family – no, that are family.

And today I’m thankful for that.