Keep Running

This is not the triumphant return to blogging that I'd hoped for, but it seemed like the easiest way to communicate with a large group of people.

We're fine.  We didn't go to The Marathon this year.  Aaron was at work.  Leo and I were safe at home in Somerville.  I didn't even know it had happened until Aaron called me for our afternoon check in.

I've only ever been to one marathon.  When Aaron's brother, Sean, ran the New York Marathon a few years ago, we went down there with his parents to cheer him on.  For those of you who have never watched a marathon, you should.  It's a truly unique spectator experience.  First of all, the vast majority of people you're cheering on aren't professional athletes.  They're ordinary people--salesmen and students and doctors and grandmothers--who've set out to complete an extraordinary challenge.  Second, you're close to the runners.  Close enough to see the names their first names pinned to their shirts.  Close enough to see the confidence of the people who do this often. Close enough to see who's struggling.  Because of these two things, something extraordinary happens: the people on the sidelines cheer their brains out for perfect strangers.  While we waited to spot the yellow pompom on top of Sean's St. Ed's hat, we spent hours cheering for everyone who came by.  Keep going, Katie.  You got this, yellow shoes.  Almost there, Sam.

I don't know what it's like to be on the 18th mile, but the runners I know have confirmed that it's just about as rough as you would imagine.  You hurt with every step.  You're tired beyond anything you can imagine.  Maybe you're not sure you can go on.  And then someone in the crowd calls out your name.  And you keep running.

The Marathon is a celebration of everyone who keeps running and everyone who cheers them on.  We weren't there this year, but we sure as hell will be next year.

No Place Like Home

We are officially moved in to the new house.  Right now, it kind of looks like a trailer park on the other side of a tornado, but even in the midst of the unpacking chaos, there are moments of peace.  Here's my two guys, catching a nap.

Grade Grubbing

As many of you know, last year I was involved in a year long Novel Incubator course at Boston's Grub Street, a non-profit creative writing center that offers classes for beginners and professional writers alike.  The idea was that ten students started with drafts of their novels, and under the leadership of our two teachers (the wildly outstanding Lisa Borders and Michelle Hoover), and over the course of a year we revised and reworked, resulting a new full draft.  I wrote a blogpost about my experience for the Grub Street's blog,  The Grub Daily.  Go ahead and give it a look-see, and then read the rest of the Novel Inc. post from the other writers in my class.

First, a quick spoiler: no, my novel's not done.  It's on it's third draft, and I work on it most days, but no, it's not done yet.  But, as Oscar Wilde says "Books are never finished.  They are merely abandoned."  I take that to mean that the book will probably never be as good as I want it to be, but eventually I will just run out of ideas of what do with it.  At that point, I'll pour myself a stiff drink and toss it into the world of literary agents, thinking  "Screw it.  Just screw it all.  What happens, happens.  I don't care.  I can't look at it for one more minute." ::glug glug glug::

Which is not to say I don't enjoy it, because I do.  Writing a book is one of those life things that I've always wanted to do.  In my parents' hope chest, there's a picture book that I "wrote" as a very young kid, maybe five or six.  Hilariously, I was a recognition whore even then; the front cover is littered with "awards" for best book, best pictures, etc.  If I'd known what a Pulitzer was, I would have given myself that too (the first picture book ever to receive a Pulitzer!!!).  But here's the thing: writing can't be about recognition.  Recognition is too sparse and too fickle to sustain anyone through the hours and hours and years of work it takes to make a book work.  So, I've had to learn how to love the work of writing for itself, regardless of whether anything ever comes of it.  It's still a struggle, but I'm getting better.

I'm hoping to "abandon" my novel by May, and then pitch the book at Grub's Muse and Marketplace conference.  We'll see.  And in the meantime, I'll keep working

3 Lessons for 3 Months

Is it hard to believe our little boo is 3 months old?  Yes and yes--two different kinds of yeses.  

Yes, it's hard to believe he's already gotten so big.  As we were packing up our things to move to the new house, I decided it was as good a time as any to put away Leo's three month clothes.  As I did, I held each one up and marveled at how unbelievably small they were, and how equally unbelievable it was that he used to be that small, and how especially unbelievable it was that he would never be that small again.  The whole thing defies all belief.  I can't imagine how stunned I'll be when he starts talking or playing sports or (god forbid) dating.

But also, yes, it's hard to believe that he's only 3 months old.  Our lives have been so completely transformed by his existence that pre-Leo time feels like a very long time ago.  I remember in the same way I remember law school or even college: fondly but fuzzily, with a pleasing veneer of nostalgia.  

I think this time distortion is caused by the tremendous learning curve of bringing home a baby.  Within a few weeks, I went from carrying our tiny baby like he's made of glass to slinging him over my shoulder mountain-bride style while hopscotching over the toys on our living room floor.  And that's just the beginning. Here are three other things I've learned in the last three months.

1) Sixteen pounds is really heavy.  It doesn't sound like that much, but lifting that little bugger a few dozen times a day is giving me some serious no-foolin' guns.  By the time he's two, I'll be able to arm wrestle Michelle Obama.  

2) Trying to get around with a stroller is a little like having a disability.  Suddenly, I have to plan where I can and can't go based on the layout of the store, whether there's a ramp to get inside, the size of the bathroom, etc.  And, I've had to make some substitutions.  For example, I have a new coffeehouse of choice.  Old coffeehouse:  I'm sorry.  We had some good times, but your tables are too close together.  Put a changing table in your bathroom and we'll talk. 

2a) I have a whole new respect for people with disabilities.

3)  If you'll just sit still and stop worrying about everything else you're supposed to be doing, letting a baby sleep on your chest is one of the finer things in life.

And now, for your viewing pleasure: Leo versus the Camera Cord, feat. Johnny Cash.

(Not Quite) Picture Perfect

'Tis the season to dress up your kid, pose him artfully, and drain your camera battery trying to get something that can pass for a smile.  Here are some of the out-takes from Leo's first Christmas photo session.

Smile for the what now?

Man, that flash is bright!

Muscles!

::blink::

And fist . . .

. . . goes . . .

in the mouth!

Again!

And again.

And again.

Home Sweet Home: A Q&A

The new digs

Q: So, you guys are moving to a new place?
A:  Yup.  We bought a house in Somerville, at 8 Fennell Street, near Magoun Square.
Q:  Congrats.  I didn't even know you were looking.
A: We weren't.   For a long time, we thought we could fit us and two kids in our current apartment.  I guess, technically, we could, because babies themselves are small.  But all the baby stuff?  That turns into kid stuff?  Forget it.  It became obvious pretty early on that we'd outgrown this place.  So, we started looking in early October, made an offer on October 22nd, closed on November 30th, and we'll move in December 15th.
Q: Yeesh, that was fast.
A: Tell me about it.
Q: So what are vitals on the place?
A: Three beds + study, two baths, almost 2,400 square feet of living space, front yard and back yard with covered patio, fireplace, eat-in kitchen, finished basement with a bonus kitchen.
Q: A bonus kitchen?  So you have two kitchens?
A:  Yeah.  I'm pretty excited about it.  It's common in old school Italian homes; the upstairs kitchen is for show, the downstairs kitchen is where the sausage gets made, so to speak.  I was positively frolicking through Home Depot, picking out my two gas ranges.
Q: Should we be expecting twice as many dinner parties?
A: Maybe not twice as many, but there will be some kind of multiplier effect.
Q:  How's the neighborhood?
A:  Great.  It's about a mile and a half from our current place, on a small dead end street.  It's across the street from a big park that has two baseball diamonds and two basketball courts and close to the best public elementary school in the district.  The closest T stop is Davis Square, which is about a twenty minute walk, but there are some smaller squares close by that have restaurants, shopping, and public transit.
Q:  Sounds a lot like your current neighborhood.
A:  Our current neighborhood has gentrified a lot in the past few years.  The new neighborhood is a little more "Old Somerville", families that have lived there for decades rather than yuppie transplants.  But the footprints of Davis Square and Tufts University are growing, and will probably include us soon.
Q: Tufts, huh?  So you're trading one brand of college kids for another.
A:  It's Boston.  College kids are pretty much unavoidable.
Q: So, how much did you guys end up paying, if you don't mind me asking.
A:  Not at all.  It's nothing that can't be looked on the city assessor's website.  We paid $473,000.
Q: Whoa!
A: I know.  It's more than I ever thought I'd ever pay for a house ever in a billion jillion years.  But for the area and for what we got, it's a bargain.  Similar single family homes are running at least a 100K more.  We actually ended up paying about 75K over asking price because there were eleven other bids on the property.
Q:  What are you most excited about in your new place?
A:  It's the little things.  A dishwasher.  Not having to go to the laundromat.  No ancient shag carpets.  Oven knobs that don't come off in your hand.  A bathroom wide enough for two adults to pass each other.
Q:  Is there air conditioning?
A:  Nope.  No air conditioning.
Q: Seriously?!?  Are you guys secretly Amish or something?  With the apple butter and everything?
A:  Sometimes it feels that way.
Q:  What are you going to miss most about your current place?
A:  The neighborhood.  My favorite coffee shop.  My little fancy grocery store.  My big not-so-fancy grocery store.  The little playground catercorner from our place.  The tree lined walk to Harvard Square. Our crazy neighbor with all the ducks in his yard.  For the past few weeks, I've had to remind myself daily that it's only a quick walk away.  Now it's almost hourly.  In my head, I know that I will find just as many things to love about the new neighborhood.  But my heart doesn't know that yet.
Q: And Mary?
A: And, of course, we'll miss our landlady "Grandma" Mary.  But we'll definitely be bringing Leo by for visits.
Q:  There's a rumor that you wrote a sappy letter to sellers to try to persuade them to take your bid.
A: Guilty.  It was on the advice of our realtor.  And it was high-octane sap. If I put in the whole thing, you might have to squeeze it out over your eggo waffles, but here's the last paragraph.

               "We read in the listing that this home has been occupied by the same family for the past sixty three years, since 1949.  Know that if you let us buy this home, it will stay a family home as long as we own it.  We will take care of it and take pride in it, hopefully for the rest of our lives.  This home has clearly seen some good years, and we hope to add many more good years of our own."

Q: Oh, lord.  You were laying it on thick.

A:  It gets worse.  We included a family photo.

Q:  Did it make a difference?

A:  We'll never know for sure, but Aaron went by the house today, and there was a bottle of champagne in the fridge and a note from the sellers, congratulating us on our new home.

Aftermath of a Fall Outing: The Apple Butter Saga

Like many seductive things, the early days of a New England fall are very dangerous.  The leaves begin to turn, and when a breeze catches them, they flutter down like gold tipped confetti.  It’s cool enough for a turtleneck but warm enough for bare ankles, a combination that feels vaguely Kennedy-esque.  And on some particularly buoyant, blue day, while sipping warm cider on the deck of your favorite café, you remember that in an orchard just outside the city, rosy Winesaps and succulent Honeycrisps are reaching their peak ripeness.

And you lean over to your companion and say “We should go apple picking next weekend.  Remember how much fun it was last year?”

Now, if your companion is of the practical, kill-joying bent, he would remind you of what happened last year, with the apple butter.  But my companion is not like that.  In fact, I’m pretty convinced that my companion was a farmer in a previous life, so apple picking is right up his alley.

So, we went again this year, this time with Leo, Grandma, and Gido, and when I came out with just one bushel bag, Aaron gave me the puppy dog eyes until I went in and got another.  And we picked apples and had a jolly good time.  And when we got home, we marveled, “Look at all these apples!”

Then, over the following weeks, after we’d eaten enough apples to repel the medical profession for a decade, the marvel turned to despair.  ::sigh::  “Look at all these apples.”  It was like having one of those weird paintings with eyes that follow you across the room, as if to ask “Are you just going to leave us here to rot on the kitchen floor?”

We're watching you

No, I think to myself.  No, I guess not.  I guess it’s time for apple butter.

Making apple butter is not hard.  Any monkey could make apple butter.  Scratch that—monkeys have too much intellect and curiosity.  You need something a little duller, a little dead behind the eyes.  A cow.  Any cow (who could be trained to wield a vegetable peeler) could make apple butter.

Step one is peeling, coring, and chopping a whole hell of a lot of apples.  This is by far the worst part.  It’s simultaneously slippery and sticky work.  Or, more accurately, it’s slippery at first, when your hands get covered in apple juice, and then sticky as the juice dries into an industrial strength adhesive.  And it just takes so long.  I couldn’t tell you how many apples I actually go through.  Counting would just be too depressing.  Basically, I take the biggest pot in my kitchen and start filling it with apples.  When it gets up to the handles, I stop.  Here’s a good rule of thumb: when you find yourself losing the will to live, you only need about four or five more apples.

See this thing?

Fill it with these things.

Next is the revenge stage of apple butter.  Take your big pot of apples, add 2 cups of cider and 4 cups of water, put it on high heat, cover it, and boil the ever-loving crap out of it.  The only thing that would make it more perfect is if the apples screamed for mercy like lobsters.

When you’ve satisfied yourself that the apples are sufficiently dead (35-45 minutes), turn off the heat and let it cool a bit.  Then, if you have one, get out your immersion blender.  This may be my favorite weapon in the kitchen arsenal.   It’s commercial grade (interestingly enough, made by the same company that makes Aaron’s hair trimmer), more like a power tool than an appliance.  It rarely comes out more than once a month, but ohh, when it does.  The whole pot is pureed in about a minute.  Those apples didn’t stand a chance!

Say 'allo to my leetle friend!

Then the whole thing gets moved to the slow cooker, where I stir in the following: 1 cup white sugar, 3/4 cup brown sugar, a generous capful of vanilla extract, 2 teaspoons cinnamon, 1 teaspoon nutmeg, 1/2 teaspoon allspice, 1/2 teaspoon cloves, a healthy pinch of salt, and a dash of cayenne pepper.  The point is to reduce this down to a dark brown, which in my slow cooker, uncovered on high heat, takes about nine hours.  So turn it on, and go get on with your life.

Like buttah.

As much work as it is, I will say that the finished product is pretty terrific.  Sweet, spicy, with just a tang of heat.  It’s good over ice cream.  It makes a nice glaze for roast pork.  It even makes oatmeal downright palatable.  But, for my money, the best use of apple butter is in what I like to call a Butter-Butter Sandwich.  Imagine, if you will, that the grilled cheese and the PB&J had a torrid New Year’s love affair.  The Butter-Butter would be their autumn lovechild: peanut butter and apple butter, grilled between two pieces of buttered challah bread.  So good.