Bean Party

photo courtesy of frangrit on flickr

It probably wasn't until I was in college that I learned what a real dinner party was. Growing up, my family didn't have much disposable income and had no sense of "entertaining." As a good Christian family, we "ministered" to others. There was never any fine china, a prime rib coming out of the oven or fine wines being decanted. We had "bean parties."

Early on Saturday morning, we'd sort through 3 to 4 pounds of dried pinto beans. Picking out all the reject beans and the bits of stones and dirt was a job even the youngest could help with. Then we'd rinse the beans a few times and set them to boil in a industrial-sized stock pot. Add a ham hock or some bits of bacon. Bring to a boil, then simmer for hours and hours.

Later in the day - after dad had mowed the yard and we'd tidied up the house - we start to make the tortillas. I can't remember the exact recipe but I know it involved a few cups of flour, a couple scoops of lard (dad kept a jar of bacon drippings in the back of the fridge) or Crisco, baking powder, salt and enough water to make a dough. The dough would rest in a bowl for 20 or 30 minutes and then the rolling-out process would begin.

By this time, people from church would start arriving. (We could only hang out with people from church who were Christians. And don't think that Catholics were allowed.) Sometimes it would be a few dozen people, or sometimes it'd be 30 or 40. (Even inviting 2 or 3 other families meant a few dozen mouths to feed. Think TLC's Duggar Family stance on birth control.) A handful of people would gather in our small, hot kitchen - this would have been central Florida with no air conditioning. Assembly line in place, one person would start fashioning golf ball-sized rounds of dough. Then someone else would flatten these into a pupusa shape. Dad, with his jumbo sized rolling pin would roll them out to the perfect smooth thinness and cook them on a screaming hot cast iron skillet.

The pièce de résistance was the salsa. Here's the recipe as well as I can remember it:

4-5 jalapeños
1 habanero (optional)
1 can tomato sauce
1-2 limes
1-2 cloves garlic
large pinch of oregano (mexican)
large pinch of ground cumin

4-5 tomatoes, chopped
1 small onion, chopped
cilantro
olive oil
salt
pepper

Put peppers, tomato sauce, lime juice garlic and spices in blender and puree. Add tomatoes, onion and cilantro. Pulse to desired consistency (or don't blend at all for a chunky salsa). Add a few glugs of olive oil, and salt and pepper to taste.

Comet Wings

In my opinion, these are the best wings in town. Now, if only I had the recipe for that horseradish/creme fraiche dip.

Time for Botox?

As relayed by our good friend, K:

[Last night 2-year-old daughter] calls me to get her out of her crib at 9:00 pm (like clockwork) to go to the bathroom. I'm keeping her company, sitting on the edge of the tub next to the toilet.

She touches my forehead and says, "What's that?"

Me: "My forehead?"

She: "No, Mommy, what's that? " (running her hand horizontally)

Me: "My eyebrow?"

She: "No, Mommy, it's cracked." (pronounced "cwacked")

Me: "Oh, my wrinkles."

She: "Mommy, why you so wrinkled?" (pronounced "whinkled")

Good question. If ever there were an argument for Botox...

Bail me out

As the Democrats and Republicans fight over this massive billion dollar bail-out deal that will hopefully save the American and global economy from completely collapsing, I'm really starting to get a bit worried. What if I or the reluctant grownup should lose one -- or both! -- of our jobs?!

Like any late and guilty converter, I'm starting to pay more attention to the financial picture. I've put all our financial information into mint.com (it's online, it's free and it's so much cooler than Quicken) and have started examining our family’s budget a bit more closely.

Exercises like this are always way too revealing. Kind of like the time I decided to keep a food diary. Two generous glasses of red wine, schmears of creamy Brie cheese, several slices of French bread and a handful of olives. Eighteen thousand calories. And that was just the first course. Needless to say, I'm one of those people who prefers to play dumb when it comes to the number of calories that I am consuming. And, as reality avoidance would have it, the same also goes for the number of dollars that I'm typically spending.

So here's the harsh reality: our family budget has been set up to accommodate the appetite of a new 90210 starlet when in fact we have John Goodman raiding our refrigerator.

What I've budgeted for:

• Childcare - Nanny, 40 hours
• Transportation - Subway/bus
• Clothing - A few sensible items from the Gap, Old Navy a few times each year
• Groceries - For healthy, non-processed, home-cooked meals
• Recreation - Netflix
  

What I actually spend:

• Childcare - Nanny, 45 hours, competitive DC rates, extra $ so she won’t leave us, several hours each week of time-and-a-half overtime due to client emergencies at work
  
• Transportation - Car payment, exorbitant gas prices, downtown parking garage fees, speeding tickets (as I rush home to avoid paying nanny overtime)
  
• Clothing - Designer clothing to better “complement” those curves, several pairs of $40 Spanx control top/butt/thighs/tummy undergarments (because I haven't had time to work out and haven’t lost the baby weight)
  
• Groceries - Groceries (many of which typically rot in the refrigerator), Chinese delivery that has our credit card on file, Dominos.com, cases of wine, bottles of single malt
• Recreation - Bar tabs, food/wine tabs, babysitters, pharmaceuticals (and resulting therapist bills)

Dinners this week

I've realized that being able to come home and cook a decent dinner is an absolute must in order for me to feel sane. Ordering pizza, making mac & cheese in the microwave and resorting to cereal is my version of shit happens. Putting together a quick, delicious, healthy and budget-conscious dinner makes the perfectionist cook in me smile.

So with our recent decision to sign up for Washington's Green Grocer, I am making an even greater attempt to make good dinners - and get enjoyment out of doing so.


(photo courtesy of epicurious.com and by: Romulo Yanes)

In this week's basket we got: eggplant, portabello mushrooms, corn, grape tomatoes, red leaf lettuce, broccoli, zucchini, cantalope, bananas, plums, peaches and a ruby red grapefruit.

At the outset my strategy was to grill a bunch of vegetables on Sunday to have ready for dinners throughout the week. This was my plan:

• Sunday: BBQ chicken and corn. (Also grilled zucchini, extra corn and eggplant. Mixed ricotta with some herbs and rolled up in the eggplant slices.)
• Monday: Eggplant rolls and garlicky broccoli. (Took the ricotta-stuffed eggplant slices and threw into the oven topped with a quick tomato sauce -- sauteed can of tomatoes, couple cloves of garlic and few leaves of basil -- and mozzarella cheese.)
• Tuesday: Zucchini, corn and basil fusilli with bacon. (Super quick and easy since the zucchini and corn were good to go.)

This is the point in the week where my email inbox starts exploding, the kids run out of clothes because I didn't finish the laundry this weekend, my husband and I start bickering over finances and I start plotting how I can swing a happy hour. Pushing ahead though, there's still some semblance of a plan...

• Wednesday: Pinto beans. (Still have most of a package of bacon and the cooler weather reminded me to bring out the slow cooker.)
• Thursday: Pappardelle bolognese. (As I was frantically rummaging through the freezer for something that would soothe the baby's teething pain - discovered bolognese sauce I made and froze back in February. I'm sure it's still good. Oh, and we don't have pappardelle. Linguini should work.)
• Friday: Have you checked out dominos.com?
  

Good Eatin' in St. Louis

Well folks. St. Louis was not good for losing the baby weight. Toasted ravioli. Provel cheese. Ted Drewes frozen custard. Gooey butter cake. Pork steaks with Maull's barbecue sauce. And one of the best dining experiences in recent memory at Niche, owned by chef Gerard Craft who was just named one of 2008's Best New Chefs by Food & Wine.

As soon as the July issue of Food & Wine came out and I saw the St. Louis-shout-out to Niche, I made a reservation for the Saturday we'd be there. Craft's featured recipe in the magazine, Smoky Pork Pappardelle, sounded amazing. At the restaurant in real life, it was Smoky Lamb Papperdelle, but goddamn was it good. I will be making this recipe...as soon as the new exercise and healthy eating regimen starts working.

(pasta pic courtesy of Food & Wine)

Happy Half Year

I had many thoughts earlier today that ended with, 'yeah, that'll be good to blog about.' Sadly though, I can't remember too many of those.

Maybe it was the tortuous 3-hour car ride with screaming baby, chatty 3-yr-old and highly anxious husband, or the ill-planned Sunday night trip to Whole Foods to join the throng every annoying self-centered urbanite joined by - once again - screaming baby who it turns out is teething, or the scramble that was quickly cook dinner but try to entice 3-yr-old to poopy on the potty, or the well-deserved and must-needed glasses of Chardonnay. Regardless, the brain is fried. But I will leave you with this:

The baby is now Six Months Old. Yes, a big milestone. A half year. Six months. Wow. Can't believe we've made it this far. Everyone always says -- and even I've even taken to repeating it -- that the first six months is the hardest. Make it past that, and it's all downhill from there, they say.

Wonderful. But the 6-month mark has been a slap in the face to me. A bit of a wake-up call. Basically this gave me an okay-you-haven't-just-had-a-baby reminder. Yep. No more excuses. The baby weight needs to come off. I'd hate to be one of those women who complains about their baby weight when in fact her baby is. Seven. Years. Old.

So much for 'finding time' to work out. I now realize there is no such thing. I need to MAKE time. It may mean a few hours less sleep. It may mean a few hours less work - and a few more to-dos not done. It may mean a few hours less hanging out with the husband or a few hours less sitting on the porch drinking wine. But, it's gotta happen.

I'm tired of "empire waist" being my saving grace. At some point, I need to get back to being me and shed the post-baby weight. I'm giving myself another 3 months. That will be a full 9 months post-partum. I figure it took me 9 months to get here, so I at least should give myself a full 9 months to get out of it.

I feel like half the battle is realizing that the weight isn't just going to fall off by itself. It's going to take some work. And it's going to take some tough decisions to actually MAKE time. But I think I'm ready.

And the first shall be last

Over the weekend a friend and co-worker jokingly mentioned that she was basing her self-worth on the number of social media followers she had. I had to laugh because I realized that even more sad was what I use to evaluate my self-worth on a daily basis: number of ounces.

Lately it's been a measily 6 oz per day. Back in the day I could easily produce 12 or 15 oz.

Of milk that is. (Most of you are getting totally grossed out right about now.)

Of all the jobs I have, being a mammalian mother may be the toughest. I'm not discounting the hard work that ALL mothers have to shoulder. What you feed your kids -- whether it be the purest drawn breastmilk, Gerber baby formula, or Doritos and Diet Coke -- has little to do with the bulk of the effort. It's a hard pill to swallow when you realize that even after the pregnancy is over, it's still not my body, my choice. Having to think about what I can and can't put into my body, having to force in pumping time at work, and having to wake up at odd times in the middle of the night for months on end can take a toll on a gal.

Maybe the hardest thing about breastfeeding is the knowledge that you've got to take care of yourself in order to nourish the baby. And as all my mom friends will agree, one of the hardest things is trying to figure out where they stop and you start -- or maybe it's where they start and you stop.

Taking the time to exercise or eat a healthy meal or - gasp! - put my feet up is nearly impossible at worst and a selfish indulgence at best when the baby needs feeding, the 3-yr-old needs corraling, the laundry needs folding, the dinner needs stirring, the dog needs relieving, the husband need loving, the bills need paying, the report needs proofing and the dishes need washing.

So, ok, I guess it's not a breastfeeding thing. And maybe it's not even a mom thing. Universally we all struggle with where to put ourselves. First certainly doesn't work, but too low on the list ain't a good thing either.

For now, I'll try to keep up the breastfeeding gig. For all it's annoyances, it does guarantee some sweet cuddle time with the little guy and it does help out in the cleavage department. Speaking of which...

Good Wife? Good Mom?

Had a very good conversation with a good friend about how vices and parenthood co-mingle.

What makes one a good parents vs. a bad parent? What makes one a good wife vs. a bad wife? Struggling with the fact that getting fucked up with my hubby is actually very good for our relationship aka good for our marriage. But wondering how a hungover mommy is good for my kiddos.

Maybe Dooce knows? I think a good marriage is probably one of the best things for children. Hopefully this doesn't offend anyone. A serious question though.

Magical

Once again, it's been a very bad month for blogging. The all-encompassing job thing continues to interfere.

The mini family reunion in my hometown of Melbourne, Florida was a nice diversion though. There may be no pleasure greater than watching your kid groove in the sand and waves at the beach.



We also gave in to the inevitable, infamous Disney World visit. Was it magical? Yes, if you consider lines that lead to other lines, hundreds of thousands of fat people with children on leashes, and foreigners gnawing on smoked turkey legs magical.

For roughly $300, the hubby, Jackal and I spent about 5 hours in that magical place. The day's events: 2 rainstorms, 3 spinny rides, 1 over-sized lollipop, 2 artifically colored and flavored popisicles, 1 fake treehouse, 1 major meltdown, 25 what-the-fuck-were-we-thinking moments, and 4 greasy tacos.

Priceless? Seeing the glee in the Jackal's eyes as he got to drive his first race car and catching a crazed mother yelling "IT'S YOUR FAULT I'M CAUSING A SCENE AT DISNEY WORLD" in the middle of Main Street as we we leaving.

It just doesn't get any better than this

It's in the Jeans

It's time to fess up. I've gotten so spoiled lately.

I remember when I was 8 we had no money to buy clothes. My 4 sisters and 2 brothers eagerly looked forward to that day when another family at church would give us hand-me-downs in big brown paper shopping bags. We'd take the bags home in our beat-up Volkswagon van and wonder what it would be like to have new, store-bought clothes and be one of those kids who's "in style" and gets to go back-to-school shopping.

At some point in high school -- when I got a job at Footlocker at the local mall -- I was able to squirrel away enough cash to pay for gas AND blow $40 bucks at Wet Seal on brown denim Bongo jeans. (I was supposed to be saving the money for college. Don't think my parents didn't chastise me for making such a "foolish purchase.")

Throughout high school and college, it was much more normal for me to make any clothing purchases at a thrift store or Goodwill or Salvation Army. Even shopping sprees were focused on the clearance sale racks at the very back of the store.

At some point after college and a few years into receiving a regular paycheck, I started feeling comfortable shopping at the Gap. Mainly at the sale rack, but sometimes venturing to try on something in the front of the store that was full-priced. If full-priced Gap jeans were my gateway drug, designer denim became my habit. Six years ago it was a $100 pair of Lucky Brand Jeans. Now it's a new pair of $200 Citizens of Humanity or 7 for All Mankind or Chip & Peppers or whatever else makes my ass look good just about every season.

And so as hubby and I pore through our bills and finances and ask ourselves the following questions -- Why haven't we saved for the boys college? Why are we still living paycheck to paycheck? Don't we make good money? Where does all our money go? -- I have to admit that it's probably all gone to "foolish purchases".

Maybe mom was right all along. But goddamn, who wants to wear hand-me-downs, or even worse, mom jeans?

Day Out with Thomas

It was slightly absurd - getting the whole family up and out of the house by 7:30 this morning to attend a Day Out with Thomas at the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Museum in Baltimore. Even more incongruous was driving through the Baltimore ghetto -- crack addicts, street walkers, police cameras, etc -- to get to the museum where Thomas was making his appearance.

Once inside the fenced parking lot, we became one of hundreds of upper middle class white families parking mini vans, juggling strollers, and buying Thomas-branded conductor hats for screaming toddlers. As hubby pointed out to me, trains should be added to the list of stuff white people like .

The highlight of the Day Out is supposed to be a 25-minute train ride on a real train pulled by Thomas. The Jackal is easily impressed with a simple metro ride, so this particular train ride had been talked up and eagerly anticipated (and used as a potty training reward) for many weeks.



The train ride started out as expected -- waiting in a long line with other families. I came to realize that even though I might have 2 kids of my own -- I am not really a kid person. Rarely is it that I find stranger's kids even remotely bearable.

But it was the scenery outside the train window that lead to this:

Hey kids, let's take a ride on Thomas!

Yeah, okay!




Mommy, why do those people live by the train tracks?



Mommy, why is there so much trash?



At least the Jackal got a good lesson in the fact that Baltimore is no Sodor Island fantasy.

Strangers in a Familiar Place

This coming weekend marks the 7th wedding anniversary for hubby and me. An apartment, two houses, one dog, two babies, one near divorce, a damn good therapist, four jobs and many cases of wine later we're better friends and more in love than ever.

To celebrate -- and to remind ourselves that we are husband and wife -- we're taking a mini vacation. The in-laws are coming from St. Louis to watch the 2 boys. I'll start freaking out about the horrible mess in the house about 12 hours before they're due to arrive. But for now I'm just happy to daydream about and plan for the weekend.

Life has been so hectic lately that we've decided to waste absolutely no time in transit and book a room at the Mandarin Hotel right here in DC. I'm supposed to get a discounted rate through my company so we figure we can afford the semi-splurge since we aren't spending any money on a train to NYC or a flight to some warm beach.

The Mandarin is so removed from most of the city that we think it'll feel like we're in some other city. But not having the responsibilities of parenthood for 2 days will make it feel like an other-worldly experience.

Maybe we'll try some new restaurants, finally check out that exhibit at the Corcoran and sleep in past 7 am.

Maybe we'll work out at the hotel gym, read the paper from front to back, stay out late and not worry about stopping at the ATM to get cash to pay the babysitter.

Maybe we'll sleep through the night, have sex that lasts longer than an episode of Curious George, and not check under the bed for monsters.

Bi-Polar

Last night I attempted to self-medicate-away my stress with half a bottle of Petite Syrah and a little Knob Creek on the rocks.



Tonight I'm trying a cup of Sleepytime herbal tea and the latest issue of Real Simple. Should be thrilling.

I have to say, the Knob Creek website is much cooler than the Celestial Seasonings. Knob Creek does a pretty damn good job of making you think you're special for being a bourbon snob. The 'customize your own label' feature and personalizing the people behind the ad campaign almost had the cynical marketer in me converted. However, when I saw that their 'ask a professor' feature was just a fancy FAQ they lost me.

Maybe I'll join the Celestial Seasonings book club. That is - if I can get past all the mentions of "bagged teas". Right, tea bag?

Too busy

Of all the titles I carry - Wife, Mother, Milk Bar, Executive Producer, Friend, Cook, Housekeeper, Accountant and Blogger - I've slacked most in the Blogger department lately. I have a list of draft posts that is getting embarrassingly long. And I have even more mental-note-blog-about-this ideas crowding my brain.

The irony of it all is that my work - helping clients understand and use social media - is really becoming a roadblock to my blogging.

The week started out mildly enough. The hubby and I were determined to get a head start and not have the head-spinning chaos of the previous week. So Sunday became the day we prepped for the week. Groceries were purchased. A slow-cooked meal was prepared. All laundry was cleaned, dried, folded AND put away. Even the pile of old receipts, unpaid bills, half-addressed baby announcements and forgotten tax forms was sorted through, organized into color-coordinated folders and neatly hidden away. We felt ready for the week.

Monday came and went in a flash. I actually started blogging about the week's menu -- exciting times now that the weather is nice and the grill has a new propane tank -- but then got sidelined working on a proposal.

Tuesday was so long ago I forgot what happened. Except that the baby who normally sleeps 12 hours through the night decided to get up at 2:30 and feed.

Wednesday involved business travel. Up at 4:30 am to pump a bottle, shower, blow dry and be at Reagan National for the 7:30 American flight to Raleigh. Met with very cool Lenovo executives about their Olympic Blogger project. Stole away for 15 minutes to hand pump a few ounces so my boobs didn't explode right in front of everyone in the conference room. Was back to DC in time to send a few emails from home, dash to the store, nurse and bed baby, and make Ina Garten's Roasted Salmon Nicoise Platter for diner guest. Drank slightly too much wine and smoked a regret-filled cigarette or two.

Thursday involved crazy day at work trying to catch up from being out the day before. Dinner was supposed to be the left-over salmon but both hubby and I lost our appetites when the smell of reheated fish permeated the house. Cereal is always good for dinner. When hubby heard that I'd need to work most of the night, he decided to go visit a friend whose wife was also going to be burning the midnight oil. It sucked to be home working by myself, but part of me was also grateful for the time to get some shit done.

Friday was the perfect escalation to the by now out-of-control week. Hubby had plans to spend the night away, and I was looking forward to a quiet Friday night with the luxury of a little alone time.

Friday morning involved big meeting with the U.S. Office of Personnel Management, which went well despite me and the client's mix-up over who was supposed to bring the print-outs. I returned to the office looking forward to expressing myself with my handy-dandy Medela pump, but realized I'd forgotten to bring storage bottles to work and made a mad dash to a near-by breast feeding store to pick some up. Grabbed grilled chicken salad at the Corner Bakery and got back in time to be 15 minutes late to creative meeting. Left half-eaten salad at desk as boss calls in the team for a crisis situation.

Shit! Now realize that we're going to be at work very, very late tonight and I have no one to watch the baby! Race home to pay the nanny and bring the baby back to work with me. Sit on conference call with big, important company people while jostling baby so no whines or cries give my situation away.

And they say us working moms can't have it all.

Pumping Moms

This week I had one of those moments when you kind of stop and realize what you're doing is utterly ridiculous - but also so indicative of your life. I was Googling "pumping moms" -- it's almost too painful to even admit/type.

The good news is that thanks to the Internet I now know I'm not the only woman out there who has a love/hate relationship with her breast pump...and struggles with everything from finding the time and privacy to do it, and the focus and dedication to actually fill enough bottles.

Ayelet Waldman at Bad Mother and the Rookie Moms' "Pump Project" reveal that it's better if you have a good sense of humor and realize that life as a pumping mom will never be perfect nor under your control. (Come to think of it, that's probably good advise for anyone out there.)

I realize that only a subset of woman will understand the intense obsession with pumping enough milk for your baby's next meal. But for the rest of you out there - try this analogy: How men equate their manlihood to the size of their penis; us pumping moms equate our womanhood to the number of ounces of breast milk we can eek out each session.

Perhaps it's a small symbol of a much larger feminist dilemma -- I want to be breastfeeding my baby, but I also want to work full-time outside of the home. Why should I have to choose between the two? In years past, women didn't have this choice -- it was probably either figure out a way to give cow's milk (pre-formula invented) or just never leave the baby's side.

I think Emily Bazelon in this Slate article puts it best:

"In the end, breast pumps aren't proof of our maternal dedication or abdication, or evidence of our feminist cowardice. They're a convenience that allows us to have it both ways, for a little while at least. That's not the same thing as having it all, but it's a compromise worth savoring."

I'm a Fan

Things I'm lovin' right now:

• Maldon Sea Salt: I love the way the "soft white flaky crystals" feel when I pinch a bit and sprinkle it over food. At 9 bucks a box, it feels like a guilty pleasure. But it's worth every penny. Not only is the texture nice, but the taste is exponentially better than even kosher salt. Anything that makes food taste more like itself, but better, sharper, clearer is good in my book. Interestingly, the Maldon website says it has a "salty flavour." What other flavors do salts come in?
• Cookie Magazine: I cringe when I see Parenting magazine (it screams mom jeans to me). Real Simple is nice and all. But I can't help but feel like it's written for a nice mom in Minnesota who drives a mini-van and wants to de-clutter her mud room. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just not me. But Cookie Magazine seems to be a little more urban, a little more hip, a little more edgy. Not that I'm those things - but I do aspire to be those things and isn't that what magazine reading is all about? Admit it, you feel a bit like a rock star when you read Rolling Stone or Paste. You feel smugly superior and liberal when you read The New Yorker. And you feel like a star fucker when you read People. Back to Cookie. I love it because where else am I going to find out that the Brazilian bikini wax is out and the French is in? That there is decent women-directed porn out there -- and it's "good for couples." That there are family-friendly, non-cheesy Caribbean vacation spots. And that it is possible to find kid music that you'd actually want to listen to.
• Hanky Panky thongs: Think you don't like thongs? Try these. They are cute, sexy and comfortable. Recently some of the friends reminded me how the low-rise style is exactly what a modern girl needs to wear under her designer jeans so there's nothing peeking out when she bends over. I prefer to leave the whole thong-showing thing to cute teenagers, shameless skanks and Monica Lewinsky. Thanks to K and A who kindly gave me 2 lovely pairs for my birthday.
• Cuisinart Slow Cooker: This was my Valentine's Day present. Some might not consider this to be very romantic. (Remember that scene in Father of the Bride when Brian gives Annie a blender for their 8-month anniversary?) But I really do dig kitchen gadgets and anything that has to do with cooking. (My cast-iron frying pan might be my favorite possession.) It was sweet and thoughtful of my husband to get it (and calculating). He knows that one of my greatest regrets is having a job that rarely allows me to come home and cook the elaborate and nutritious meals I dream of. But the slow cooker lets me indulge the obsessive compulsive Type A in me -- prep and chop the night before, throw meat/veg/broth/herbs/spices together in the cooker in the morning before work, and bam! dinner is waiting for me when I get home. It also lets me indulge the gourmet in me -- recent dinners have included pulled pork bbq with Carolina sauce, lemon rosemary chicken, chili, parmesan sage pork and beer braised beef brisket. Tomorrow I'm trying slow cooked pinto beans. Maybe I won't be that into it when the weather gets warmer and lighter cooking will be more appropriate, but for now I'm happy. (Jewelry, shoes and handbags are good too.)

Should I be worried that my friends buy me lace underwear and my husband buys me a crock pot?

Happy Easter

Overheard at church this morning:

Small Child: Easter is when Jesus came out and saw his shadow.

So naturally, the hubby and I had a good chuckle over the kid's confusion between Ground Hog Day and Easter, Punxsutawney Phil and Jesus Christ.

Later on, as we attempted to leave a brunch gathering but were road-blocked by our 3-year-old who refused to put on his shoes and instead choose to run away jamming green peeps into his mouth, I hear hubby muttering and cursing "Phil H. Christ" under his breath.

More Rules

As I mentioned before, I spent the weekend in Miami with the girl friends. While we were ordering our first round of beverages at the Delano Hotel, a new rule came to me. (And for those of you not familiar, I have a running set of rules I'm collecting.)

So, without further ado:

Rule #4: If you happen to find yourself at a bar where there's a bachelorette party, turn on your heel and get the hell out of there.

And, this new one comes from E again:

Rule #5: Never eat at a restaurant that starts with the word "Captain."

Knee Deep in the Hoopla

Dear Blog -

It's been a while. I know, I know. You're tired of hearing the lame excuses about how I'm too busy now and how after spending all day at the computer for work the last thing I want to do is type another keystroke.

No more excuses. I promise. I'm gonna turn over a new leaf. I'm gonna wake up early - or steal a few minutes during the day - to fit in blogging (and exercising).

Those half-formed posts about red wine and donuts, the weekend alone with the kids, the girls' trip to Miami and the exegesis on "We Built this City." I'll finish them. Really. I will.



Talk soon,
RKC

Back To Work

Maternity leave is officially over. Today was my first day back at the office after 2 months of time off. Spent the day discussing things with other adults. Spent the day in heels and a dress...with no spit-up on either shoulder. Spent the day emailing and not changing poopy diapers.

So, with the boys peacefully in bed and the hum of the dishwasher in the background, I'd like to thank the following for making the day possible:

• Spanx: Thank you, Spanx body shaper. Your "all-the-way-up" style with added tummy support slimmed and tightened me from rib to knee and helped me feel like I was sucking it in all day long. Who really needs to know that I really haven't lost the baby weight and was basically wearing a modern-day girdle? If only I had been wearing a slip -- then mother would have been really proud.
  
• Starbucks: Thank you, Starbucks. The regular cup of coffee I had at 6:00 am at home this morning got me to the office. But the tall skim latte at 8:30 am -- what a treat! -- was what really got me hyped and jittery. You even helped me appear awake enough so folks thought I was actually paying attention when they were telling me important stuff about budgets and deadlines and projects.
• Laura Mercier concealer: Thank you, industrial-strength Laura Mercier undereye concealer. You helped me cover those dark circles and bags...and made my face look brighter -- or so the lady at the Neiman Marcus makeup counter says. Perhaps you even covered up the listless look of 69 days and counting of no REM sleep?
  
• Medela: Thank you, Medela "pump in style" breast pump. Yes, we've had a love/hate relationship in the past and it's bittersweet to rekindle the tormented relationship after a 2-year hiatus. I still don't know why you say you are "in style." I haven't seen any breast pumps on the runways lately. And I certainly don't know of any breast pumps that are definitively out of style. But that's another matter. Thanks for giving me an excuse to shut my office door every 3 hours and remember that I miss my bambino. Thanks for making that weird mee-wah mee-wah sucking sound that sometimes makes me think I'm actually hearing some little beast chant, "Me want. Me want. Me want." Thanks for allowing me to breastfeed for as long as the wee one (reasonably) chooses. And most of all, thanks for helping me sport that rack.
  

Overheard This Morning

3-year-old: "Mommy, don't leeeeave."

Me: "Sorry, buddy. I have to."

3-year-old: "Mommy, don't leeeeeeeave. You're making me really sad."

Me: "Sorry, buddy. Mommy has to go to work."

3-year-old: "Why?"

Me: "Mommy has to go to work so she can make money so you can have food and clothes."

3-year-old: "And candy?"

Me: "Yes, food and clothes...and candy."

3-year-old: "Ok, bye mom. Keep it real."

Sprinkles for Lunch

Metro ride downtown: $2.10
Dinosaur stickers, dinosaur penny and photo booth prints at National Geographic: $18.57
Krispy Kreme chocolate iced donut with sprinkles: $0.75
Letting your inner mommy nutritionist I-am-what-my-kids-eat bullshit go for the day: priceless

And they call this a family establishment?

Dessert at Buca di Beppo.

Notes from Wine Club: Red and Rusty

Inspired by a recent article in Food & Wine about Washington State Reds, we drank a few the other night when I hosted this month's wine club. Out of the 10 or so members, it was a low but cozy turnout as 5 of us ladies tasted some great blends from Hedges vineyards.

The first was the 2004 Hedges Three Vineyards (~$22), a blend of mostly cabernet and merlot from three of their vineyards in the Yakima Valley. Described as 'firm yet supple' with deep red fruit, this wine is your classic, curvy, sultry movie star - think Sophia Loren. Around town, you can find the bottle at the Tenley Whole Foods or at Calvert Woodley Liquors.

The second was the 2004 Hedges CMS Red, which at $12 bucks we decided was a very nice buy. With less tannin and softer fruit, it is the younger sister to the Three Vineyards bottle. It could also be a wine you could bring to just about any dinner party and everyone would love -- from the wine snob who didn't know it only cost $12 to the newby who's just learning to like red wine. This one was picked up at the P Street Whole Foods.

As for the actual "theme" (see previous post from January), this wine club will always be remembered as the Rusty Trombone wine club. Thank you, Wikipedia for enlightening and educating us on the intricacies of the rusty trombone. Since I'm not sure I want this blog to become X-rated, I'll just leave you with the link and sign off for now.

When Infamy is Fame

So the other day I saw some item in the Washington Post about Kim Kardashian...and then on Monday there was a Keeping Up with the Kardashian's marathon on E! And, I have to admit, I let my curiosity get the best of me. I found myself watching the show like a Beltway fender bender rubbernecker.

Is it just me, or are reality shows getting really bad? Besides the alarmingly inane events on the show -- manager mom pimping out her daughters for Playboy shoots and brokering deals with Girls Gone Wild founder Joe Francis (who's in jail), 12-year-olds pretending to do pole dances, yay-I'm-not-pregnant-inspired Vegas family vacations, etc .-- the most troublesome aspect is, Who the fuck are these people?

I mean, I consider myself fairly up on celebrity happenings. I indulge my shallow self by perusing through People magazine while waiting in line at Safeway...and always buy an US Weekly, OK! or Life & Style when traveling. (Make no mistake, though, I'd NEVER actually subscribe to any of these magazines. Still, finding comfort in a trashy magazine is a lot less fattening that finding comfort in a pint of Ben & Jerry's.) I even find myself watching E! News while I'm feeding the baby. So why don't I know who these people are, and why they'd qualify to get their own reality TV show? Don't you have to be somewhat famous to have a reality show?!

Well, I broke down. Yesterday, I went and Googled the Kardashians. I found out (thank you wikipedia) that the mother, Kris Jenner, used to be married to Robert Kardashian, who was lawyer and friend to O.J. Simpson (nice!), and is now married to Bruce Jenner, some Wheaties Olympian athlete from the 70s that my husband has heard of but I haven't. Kim Kardashian is infamous famous for a sex tape she made with Ray J. (Nice!) Her sisters and step-brothers are some mix of Hollywood socialite, celebrity stylist and reality show "star" -- Kourtney Kardashian of Filthy Rich: Cattle Drive and Brody Jenner of The Hills. Even worse, the show's executive producer is Ryan Seacreast. Blech!

So now I feel dirty. Dirty like I need to take a hot shower. Hopefully I can feel better and get back to watching more wholesome shows...like Girls Next Door.

Good Wine, Good Times

Appetizer of steamed lobster tail accompanied by Veuve Clicquot Brut Yellow Label. Filet au poivre, double-baked potatoes with mushrooms and cheese, and steamed asparagus served with Stag's Leap 2004 Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon. Dessert was of the single malt variety - Aberlour.

This was our Valentine's Day menu, served fireside chez nous. It's been our tradition for the last couple of years to stay in, spending what money we'd throw away to babysitters and 3-star restaurants on great ingredients and good wine. We finally realized that the worst time to go out for a nice meal is when EVERYBODY else in the city (and the bridge and tunnel crowd) is jockeying for that same bar seat, cozy window table or seared scallop special. (New Years Eve is also a bad time to dine out -- unless you like over-priced, sub-par food prepared by disgruntled kitchen staff.)

So, here's to another low-key but thoroughly enjoyable Valentine's Day...and to remembering that I'm a wife, not just a mother.

Lessons from Chuck

Our culinary outings the last few days aren't going to impress any of you foodies out there. On Friday we took the Jackal to Chuck E. Cheese's.

Chuck E. Cheese's has been our go-to idle threat since Santa came and went. So finally, after granting and denying the reward and privilege of a trip to Chuck E. Cheese for everything from peeing on the potty to 'make that noise stop!' we got on Google maps to plan our route out to the 'burbs.

If you ever went to Showbiz Pizza or Chuck E. Cheese's as a kid, you'll be happy to know that not a fucking thing has changed. I'm pretty sure even the carpet is original, complete with about 20 years of kid urine. The arcade games are still there, as are the animatropic characters. I'm still a horrible skee ball player and an even worse video game player. The Chuck E character still looks like a rat and scares me. And I still want to drop-kick the fat kid running around with his miles and miles of prize tickets.

And the whole "prize ticket" concept still turns a generation of kids into greedy little bastards with no sense of value. By my calculations, we spent about $20 on a cup full of tokens and ended up with 50 or so prize tickets. When the Jackal cashed in his tickets for the requisite trinkets he came back with a sheet of Chuck E. Cheese stickers and a Tootsie roll. A fucking Tootsie roll! I don't even want to think about how many tickets some loser kid is going to trade in for a dusty old Beanie baby that will sit in the back window of his parent's Corolla.

As for the grub at Chuck E. Cheese - I should have heeded my intuition and steered clear of the $6.99 all-you-can-eat salad bar. Come to think of it, is there ever a gastronomic delight to be had near an all-you-can-eat offer?!? Probably not. So I think this experience has given me another item to add to my "Eating/Drinking Rule of Thumb" list:

3. If a place says it's all you can eat, don't.

2. If a restaurant "has the best bread", the actual food probably sucks. (Seriously, how many times have you heard, 'Oh my god, I love Olive Garden, they have the best bread sticks.'?)

1. If, according to the label, a wine "goes well with food," it's probably not the best drink.

So anyone out there have any to add to the list? (Thanks for #1, E.)

Snoopy Has a Home

We are now the proud owners of a brand-new Snoopy Sno-Cone machine. The Jackal was very pleased when daddy brought it home after a dutiful trip to Linens-n-Things.

When I was growing up our family was poor so I got my first Sno-Cone machine at a garage sale. I was always a little pissed that I didn't get the "full experience" because it was second-hand and missing the paper cups and colored sugar syrup.

It's nice to know that the Jackal will get to experience Snoopy Sno-Cone making in all its fullness -- especially since the package included a whole friggin' three paper cups. Why three? Why not four? That's only enough for Snoopy, Charlie Brown and Lucy -- poor little Woodstock is shit out of luck.

The Man Cold

A friend sent me this in remembrance of hubby's recent hernia surgery. Hilarious.

Wine Notes: Girls Night Out

Last night the hubby was a gent and watched the kiddos so I could have a girls' night out. I squeezed into my one pair of jeans that fit now, put on some lip gloss, kissed the babies goodnight and gleefully headed out for a long-awaited night of freedom...perhaps a little too gleefully. Nine long months of sobriety did have it's one plus: no hangovers. Oy vey!

The destination was Veritas Wine Bar on Florida Avenue. I'm a huge wine bar fan and am glad that DC is getting more of them. Really, do we need another Irish bar or sports bar selling the same Miller Lite in a bottle and greasy buffalo wings? No. But could we use a place where you can taste something like 70 different wines and sample dozens of different cheeses? Yes!

We started with the Paraiso 2006 St. Lucia Highlands Pinot Noir which was a scrumptous balance of fruit and spice, heft and velvet. If you Google the wine you'll find all sorts of tasting notes that tout the "rich cherry/plum fruit accented by nuances of nutmeg, pepper, smoke, and vanilla" flavors. I've been drinking wine for a while and like to think of myself as fairly knowledgeable about the stuff, but when it comes to describing the taste of the wine I'll often think of it as if it were a woman. For example, the Paraiso pinot would be a sexy brunette with nice curves. She'd wear knee-high boots and always reveal a good bit of cleavage but you'd always think she was classy.

The next wine was the Worthy Sophia's Cuvee (the 2003 I think). As the cuvee in its name would suggest, it's a lovely blend of cabernet sauvignon, cabernet franc, merlot and petit verdot. This might be one of my favorite wines at the moment. I had it for the first time at Sonoma (where Veritas' general manager, Mick, used to work) and get excited every time I see it at a liquor store or on a wine list. Supposedly the grapes come from lots where Napa cult wines are grown. Rich, dense, lush and bold, this wine would be a buxom blues singer in a deep purple dress - earthy, sensual and dark.


In other random "wine news" that I've run across the last few days:

• The 30-something gagillionaire Google founders are getting into the wine business. Seems that one of the Google founders is going to be investing in Mebus Estate winery in New Zealand. Remind me to make a fortune in the tech industry so I can buy a vineyard and lead a charmed life of wine making.
• The Australian wine, Penfolds, holds special "recorking clinics". If you happen to be the lucky owner of any of their wines 15 years and older, you could attend one of these clinics -- in New York or Chicago, or if you're lucky enough - in several cities in Australia. The article I read in Gourmet about this made the company sound pretty damn cool. The "ultimate in after sales service" -- or as we'd say at the agency, the ultimate in creating brand loyalists -- Penfolds experts will uncork your vintage wine, taste it and either deem it okay or not okay. If it's good, they'll top the bottle off, re-cork it and bless it with a special seal. If it's not okay, there is still the silver lining that the owner gets to drink the bottle and doesn't have to worry 'should I cellar for another five years or just drink it now'.
  

Stealing My Thunder

It's been a few days since I've posted, but things on the home front have been a bit hectic. Hubby had hernia repair surgery last Thursday. I don't know why the hell I agreed to the timing of this. I guess it was because when he visited the surgeon back in the late fall the doc informed us there wasn't a rush; we wanted to get through the holidays and the birth of our second son and were even considering having the surgeon do a little snip-snip while he was down there.

We ultimately decided against the vasectomy, but at the time, January 24th seemed eons and eons away. We both (mistakenly) thought that the hernia surgery would be drive-by and didn't think about the logistics of having one of us laid up while the other (me!) contended with this new challenge of caring for a newborn and toddler simultaneously and singlehandedly.

A few days into this ordeal -- me bringing him meals in bed; he watching ESPN on a percocet high -- I started thinking something wasn't right with this picture.

On Saturday night I was offered a second glass of wine and declined saying, No thanks, I'm the one responsible for driving tonight. Then it really hit me, He's stealing my thunder! How is it that I've been the sober, pregnant, designated driver for the last 9 months and here we are just 4 weeks post partum (and more importantly, our 2nd night out) and I'm the one not drinking!?

Since then I've tried to have a good attitude about this whole deal: it is what it is, so better to just find the humor in the situation and get through it. As such, I've been keeping track of all the times he's whined and/or complained about something and proved the point that men are babies and could never get through pregnancy or childbirth:

• Just feels sooo tired: I heard this one a lot this weekend. I realized what a broken record I must have sounded like when my last trimester of utter discomfort equaled mind-numbing insomnia. Of course, the difference between his situation and mine was 4 days versus months and months, and he simply took off work and spent the weekend napping and passing out at 7:30 pm every night leaving me with the dishes to do and two kids to wrangle to sleep. I couldn't help feeling a bit of resentment that I had to weather my fatigue through normal work weeks and weekends where napping just wasn't an option -- and I did my fair share of cooking, cleaning and kid duty to boot.
• Disruption of normal bowel movements: Let me be blunt, certain circumstances of the percocet possibly causing constipation and the likely pain of engaging stomach muscles made hubby very, very afraid to shit. I won't go into this one in much detail, but c'mon mommas, don't we know the joy of the first poop post episiotomy!
  
• Problem of toddler kicking stomach: This is my favorite. After bathing the Jackal, he calls me into the bedroom because he really needs my help putting pjs on the kid. Why, I asked. Just now he almost kicked my stomach - I can't let that happen, he said. Interesting. I had to kick myself (no pun intended) for not using that excuse to get out of more chores while I was pregnant.
  
• Humiliation: If you've read his blog, you'll know how violated he felt by the utter horror of waking up to find that someone had groomed his private parts in prepping for the surgeon's knife. Obviously, all you ladies out there who've ever been through a Brazilian wax or have given birth will collectively roll your eyes at this one. I mean, puh-leeze. Getting through a vaginal delivery with your dignity intact is completely impossible. As I was sitting on the toilet at the hospital a few hours after getting sown up and the nurse was crouched down eye-level with my 'baby wound' shooting it with warm water I thought, Wow, it really doesn't get any more personal than this - I'm actually getting used to being on display.

Anyway, joking aside. I am happy to report that hubby is feeling well and getting back to normal. Love you, w...and can't wait until you can start lifting heavy things again.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Being on maternity leave means I get the chance to see what it'd be like to be a SAHM. I'm not even going to go there on which option is better or worse -- staying at home or going to work. I think we're all enlightened enough to realize that both have their unique challenges and rewards, but here's my take on the pros and cons...at least in my small microcosm.

5 Joys of Working Outside the Home

1. You are more likely to shower regularly: It's amazing how not having a routine schedule can place showering on the back burner of your day. Back when I was working, my day began every morning at 7 am with a cup of coffee and a shower. I took exactly 1 hour to groom myself, check the Blackberry for any overnight fires, find the desired Backyardigans episode on TiVO for the Jackal, slurp down cereal, throw the dirty laundry down into the basement for later attention, find my sunglasses, grab last night's leftovers to take for lunch and head out the door. These days my mornings go something like this:

5:30 AM - feed baby
6:30 AM - wake up, realize I have passed out, put baby back in crib, tuck boob back in nursing bra, crawl into bed
7:00 AM - hear baby whimpering, bring baby into my bed, pull out boob, pray for a few more minutes of sleep
7:30 AM - after 18th time 3-year-old has screamed "Mom!" at top of lungs, get out of bed, pull on robe, gently place baby in crib, go downstairs in search of coffee
8:30 AM - realize I've been watching (I mean, really watching. Watching to the point where you find yourself wondering why Jerry Falwell singled out Tinky Winky.) Teletubbies for an hour when you hear baby waking up; feed baby (has it really been 3 hours already?)
9:00 AM - change poopy diaper, fight to keep 3-year-old from physically harming baby
10:00 AM - spend hour trying to burp baby and settle down to nap
11:00 AM - remember I'm breast feeding and should probably put something besides Seattle's Best in my stomach
11:30 AM - consider taking a shower, hear baby whimpering, feed baby (repeat from above)

Needless to say, at noon when I found myself unshowered and still enrobed, I felt myself questioning my very existence because I obviously had no purpose in life.

2. Your Outlook calendar makes you feel productive: On the contrary, if I had an Outlook calendar that had each 30-minute segment tightly scheduled I'd be more likely to view myself as contributing member of society. There were many, many times at work when I'd have a day full of meetings -- all anal-retentively documented with 5-minute reminders -- and even thought I didn't do a damn thing all day long other than sit in meetings (some were even meetings about meetings) and at the end of day I felt that, by gosh, I had done something that day. Perhaps I should start scheduling the feedings and diaper changes...

3. Other adults may notice your contribution: Hubby has blogged about how our 3-year-old graciously, constantly and repeatedly tells us 'good job, daddy' or 'good job, mommy' for the accomplishment of any task ranging from drinking our coffee to blowing our nose. While it's nice to have his cheap praise, there's no one to appreciate the fact that yesterday I managed to clean the entire house, do 6 loads of laundry, buy groceries, pick up the dry cleaning, pay bills, get in 30 minutes of cardio, make a fabulous dinner from scratch (people, I roasted an entire chicken and de-boned it by hand to yield the meat for the chili) and recycle 2 rotten bananas into a moist banana bread that left the entire house smelling heavenly. And did anyone notice? Yeah, hubby complimented the dinner and banana bread, but it wasn't like my stellar accomplishments were going to make a client happy, or be discussed during my annual review, or noticed by an impressed co-worker who'd nominate me for employee of the month.



Made chicken chili on Monday night. This would have NEVER happened when I was at my job.

4. You have something to discuss with your spouse besides poop: My husband and I frequently call each other during the day for no reason in particular. The conversations go something like this:

Hey, what's up?

Oh nothing, just at work.

Yeah, so what's happening.

Oh nothing, just working on this proposal. It's so annoying because so-and-so expects me to do such-and-such by COB today....[launch into venting session about how life, work and people suck]

Now that I'm home, we still call each other but the conversations go something like this:

Hey, what's up?

Oh nothing, just feeding the baby.

Yeah, so anything going on?

No, not really. I just fed him and he spit up all over himself and me. And, oh my god, you should have seen the poop he just took....

[silence]

Hello?

[sound of typing]

You're emailing aren't you?

Um....[more sound of typing]...what?

Nevermind, I'll just see you later.

And at that point I realize I've become one of those people who only talks about their kids. Or maybe it's just that your state of mind is in a different place when you're faced with office stress versus being faced with a day of poop-slinging. What seems important to one just isn't all that hot to the other. I've been at work on days where my husband is having a less busy day. I'm in the middle of some crisis (e.g. $5M proposal is due in 20 minutes and I can't get the fucking formulas in Excel to work) when my husband calls asking what room we should take in the beach house we're renting with friends ...in 7 months! I can't deal and practically hang up on him.

5. You can afford to pay someone to watch your kids: This is the best and worst thing about working outside of the home. You get to leave the rug rats with someone else who will wipe their butts and referee their temper tantrums while you're typing at your computer and sitting in conference rooms. The stress is different but I often question which vocation requires the greatest amount of patience and restraint. I spend all day missing the kids and race home to spend a few hours with them before bedtime. Cooking their mac & cheese and giving them their baths takes on a sweet and memorable flavor and it's not until right before you read Goodnight Moon for the 7th time that you're getting sick of them. On the other hand, spend all day with your kids and you find yourself obsessively watching that clock for 6 when your spouse will be home to take care of at least one of them. Which leads to the the next blog topic: 5 Joys of Being a SAHM.

DC Restaurants: Blue Duck Tavern

My husband and I have always talked about doing a 'he said, she said' restaurant review column. Wouldn't it be interesting to hear the two sexes different takes on a given restaurant?

Last night we went to Blue Duck Tavern. It was a big event for us - the first big date night after my second pregnancy meaning the first chance for us to enjoy a good meal and some good wine together. Hubby has blogged about how he's missed me due to the pregnancy, and I had to concur, I have missed myself. As a humble foodie and someone who loves wine, going to dinner when you have chronic heart burn, have a list of forbidden foods and aren't supposed to drink alcohol isn't the culinary experience I pine for.

Anyhoo...about Blue Duck Tavern. We made sure we arrived a few minutes before our 7:45 reservation (booked on opentable.com) so we could grab a drink at the bar. The design of the restaurant was really interesting - interesting to the point that I found myself studying my surroundings and questioning the juxtaposition of the contemporary and traditional. It was almost like someone took a W Hotel lobby and stocked it with a bunch of Shaker furniture.

As we were enjoying our pre-dinner cocktails at the bar, the hostess came over to tell us there was some mix-up with our reservations -- apparently we were in the computer for 7:45 AM instead of PM so there was a chance we wouldn't get a table and might have to settle for the limited bar menu. Damn! We went ahead an ordered some cheese to start: a humbolt fog goat, a bandaged-wrapped cheddar and a bleu. The cheese platter was top notch - great accompaniments of quince paste, wild blossom honey, raisins and enough bread to go around. (It's a pet peeve of mine when a cheese platter doesn't have the right cheese-to-bread ratio.) Of course, we had to get a glass of wine to accompany the cheese: I chose the Caymus Conundrum -- a flirty mix of savignon blanc, chardonnay, viognier and even muscat canelli -- and hubby chose the Steele Chardonnay Cuvee -- noteworthy because it was nicely balanced and not too buttery or oaky. The wines by the glass offered at the bar were decent and provided a good range of price points - from $10 to $55 per glass.

We finally did get shown to a table -- nicely buzzed and satiated thanks to the cocktails, wine and cheese. Hubby and I both knew we'd be ordering something in the red meat category so I narrowed the wine list down to the cabs. When our waiter came by to take our order, I pointed out a cab I thought we might try and he offended me with, 'If you're wanting to go with a cab in that price range, you might want to consider this one.' Thanks jackass, do I look like someone who only chooses a wine based on price?

Once our main courses of braised barbecue beef "long rib" and new york strip came I was a very happy camper. The triple-fried, finger-sized steak fries and creamed spinach were decent but didn't compare to the beef. By the end of meal, we were both moaning over the barbeque beef ribs - tender meat in a perfectly nuanced sauce of sweetness, smoke and spice. If the chef will give out the recipe for that sauce I'll happily spend all day in the kitchen to re-create it.

Overall, Blue Duck Tavern will go on our top 10 list. The homey cooking that turns local, seasonal ingredients from local farms into three-star dining is a nice addition to the DC restaurant scene. Next time we'll double-check our reservation time, order less food and make sure our waiter is a better sommelier.

Notes from Wine Club: Pinots & Plugs

Last night was wine club. For almost 7 years now a group of girl friends have gathered on the third Thursday of every month to drink wine. It's been a journey -- we've evolved from drinking $8 bottles to $$20-$30 bottles and we've dated, married, birthed, adopted, and divorced our way through late 20s to mid 30s.

While we're not a snooty wine club, we have learned a thing or two through the years. When we first started wine club we had definite "themes" each month and came to each wine club having done some research/homework on our wine. We used to take tasting notes on each of the wines. Okay, not "we" -- there was one person who self-appointed herself the historian. Since she's had 3 kids and can't seem to break away to attend each month we've lost the written record of our imbibing.

Since last night was my first wine club post preggers, I made sure to make up for all those nights where I had a few safe sip/tastes and cursed the fact that I couldn't drink. So my memory of the wines is a little fuzzy, but I do know that the theme was California vs Oregon pinot noir.

From California:

• Rodney Strong 2005 (or maybe it was 2006) Estate Pinot Noir, Russian River Valley. This was your typical California pinot - fruity and velvety, nothing to offend yet nothing to really make it stand out.
  

From Oregon:

• I brought an A to Z 2006 Pinot Noir from Oregon. The Wine Spectator had an article on Oregon and said to keep an eye for for this one. Compared to the California pinots, this one had more of a clarity and a nice balance between fruit and acid.
  

• But best of all was the Solena Pinot Noir - not because it tasted so good (which it did) - it was noteworthy because it was the first time any of us had experienced the new glass stoppers that some winemakers are using in lieu of old-school corks, rubber corks or screw tops.

The glass stopper is a great idea. Nevermind that after 5 or 6 glasses of pinot, it bore a striking resemblance to a butt plug (we all had a few raunchy laughs and jokes), but it was super easy to open -- no need for a cork screw, it just pops off. Coincidentally, as I was skimming through the February 2008 Gourmet that came in the mail yesterday, I found a short article on glass stoppers on page 41 (how is it that I've never before heard of glass stoppers and in the last 24 hours have had 2 encounters?!):

James Rodewald says the glass stopper " is easy to open, reseals nicely, and imparts no flavors to the wine. It may not be the one perfect closure - there's probably no such thing - but it's nice to see U.S. wineries beginning to use it."


The 'morning after' each wine club the theme always emerges. Last night's wine club will forever go down as the "butt plug" wine club where we also happened to taste California and Oregon pinots. Remind me to blog about the "merkin" wine club some time soon.

So, wine club girls, what were the other wines we drank/tasted?

It's All About the Boobs

As a new-again mom who is in the throws of around-the-clock breastfeeding, I find myself obsessing about my boobs. In fact, as I was in the shower this morning attempting to keep most of the shampoo suds from running onto my boobs and possibly tainting the baby's next taste, I had to chuckle:

It wasn't too long ago that on any given Thursday morning I'd be stressing about something completely different: whether a website for a major snack bar brand would launch on time; whether the client in California was going to fire us; whether my department would have to write-off a couple thousand dollars because of poor project management.

And now, three weeks into my maternity leave, I'm worried about soap on my boobs. Earlier in the morning -- you know during that 2 am feeding when hazy thoughts rule -- I found myself actually wondering, 'is enough of my areola is his mouth?' And, 'is it the right or left boob that we start on this time?'

My husband is anxiously awaiting the 6-week post partum date when we can start having sex again. I have to say, it's going to be a challenge trying to feel sexy -- especially when my boobs are more like a fucking kitchen appliance than anything sexual. It'll be such a turn-on when we're in the middle of getting it on and the boobs start squirting breast milk across the bed. And while my mind should be on sex and my husband, I'm sure I'll be thinking, 'damn it, that's valuable milk I'm losing.'