Mallow Nirvana

Some of the greatest merits of making homemade cookies are as follows: eating the cookie dough out of the bowl, the smell & anticipation while the cookies are baking, and that first bite of an [almost too hot to handle] mushy, gooey cookie straight out of the oven. Plus, everything just tastes better when you've made it yourself.

Now, I have to say that I'm pretty passionate about my chocolate chip cookies-- they're tough to beat. That's not to say that I'm not willing to branch out and take some risks in the cookie making department (I know, I live life on the edge). However, sometimes I surprise even myself.

My new favorite-- you might even call it a bit of an obsession, as I have made them twice in the last few days, and am contemplating making them again-- is a cookie that: 1) You can't eat the dough, 2) You can't smell baking in the oven, 3) You can't eat hot, and 4) Doesn't even involve butter. I know, you're less than intrigued, aren't you??

These mysterious new gems that have found a soft spot in my heart are meringues called Nighty Night Cookies-- something that my mom used to make, and for some strange reason, I used to turn my nose up at.

You preheat the oven, whip up the batter just before bed, throw them in & turn off the heat. When you wake up in the morning, it's tough not to eat a dozen cookies for breakfast. They are like marshmallows that have died & gone to heaven-- glorified & perfected little soft, crumbly vanilla pillows, flecked with chocolate & nuts (if you want-- and trust me, you do). They are light, amazingly delicious, simple and addictive. In fact, I think I'm going to stop writing about them, and go eat one-- there's only 4 left, and I don't want to give Chris the satisfaction.

Oh, and here's the recipe:
-2 egg whites
-a pinch of salt or cream or tartar
-2/3 cup sugar (I like to use just a little less)
-1tsp vanilla
-2/3 cup chocolate chips
-2/3 cup chopped nuts (walnuts, pecans)

Preheat oven to 400. Spray/grease a baking sheet (2 if you want to double the recipe-- which you do). Beat egg whites on low in a clean mixing bowl until foamy. Add a pinch of salt/cream of tartar. Beat on medium until soft peaks form. Keep beating, adding sugar, one Tbs at a time (about 20 seconds in between each addition), until stiff & glossy. Add vanilla & beat about 20 more seconds. Gently fold in chocolate chips & nuts. Drop batter in Tbs sized mounds on baking sheets (with about 1 inch in between). Throw them in the oven & turn off the heat, leaving the cookies overnight, or for at least 6hrs. Don't peak or open that oven door!!
Enjoy!

Unexpecting

I admit that I wandered into pregnancy rather blind. While it's true that I have had plenty of friends & loved ones close by who have experienced this maternal bliss themselves, I supposed I simply wasn't paying attention to what they really went through. Either that, or there are certain unspoken aspects to pregnancy that people just don't talk about.

I'm actually going with Door #2 on this one.

Maybe I didn't ask, but at the same time, no one told me about some of the crazy idiosyncrasies of being pregnant.

And so, I am here to bring them to light. I'm not really sure why. Does anyone really want to know all the ridiculous things they will experience when they are pregnant? Doubtful. But there are definitely some things that would have been helpful to know ahead of time, without reading the entire fear-inducing "What to Expect When You're Expecting" from cover to cover.

So, rather than what TO expect, I thought I would share just a bit about what I didn't expect in little installments throughout the summer.

Here's the first-- enjoy...

Unexpecting: Feathers

Although each of these symptoms were somewhat familiar with me beforehand, it's the combination that has got me wondering.

First of all, I have started waddling. Now, I have seen enough pregnant women to know that The Waddle was inevitable. Earlier in my pregnancy, I realized that The Waddle came partly from the inability to keep a pair of pants around my waist (the reason being that I no longer have a waist). I discovered that if I walked with a bit of a swagger, my pants wouldn't slide off quite as easily. Now, it's the stiffness in my back & thighs that has me looking like John Wayne, fresh off the saddle.

Second, I have duck feet. It was about a month ago that I went with my mom for a pedicure, and noticed that my outstretched extremities would be classified more as cankles than ankles, and that my feet were much, much puffier than normal. The problem has gotten worse since then, and recently, it seems that no matter what I do, I look like Fred Flinstone. When you put together the fat feet and the waddle, that's when things start to get interesting.

Third, I am nesting. I've heard this term before, and assumed it meant that women just get a little more homey-- organizing & decorating, and the like. But it's more than that. In the last few days, I've baked pies, made cookies (twice... each), tackled homemade ice cream, organized a closet, made dinner for two other families (who recently had babies), and have tried countless new recipes. Messes are starting to make me crazy. I want to preen-- um, I mean clean-- everything. Nesting...

Fourth, ever since our trip down to Southern California, where we stayed at the in-laws, I have been dreaming about floating in their pool. It was glorious. I felt weightless. I could lay on my stomach. I could swim around and actually exercise without the nagging reminder that I am twenty pounds heavier than normal. Now, when I lay awake at night, I fantasize about floating. I close my eyes, feel the sun on my back, and remember that weightlessness.

Now, put all of those observations together: waddling, paddle feet, nesting, and floating-- and I'm starting to wonder. Come to think of it, I would love to migrate somewhere a little warmer, as well. I suppose if I start sprouting feathers, I should call my doctor.

Windmills and Giants

Fight or Flight. There is a philosophy that an animal, when faced with a potentially dangerous situation, will either turn and fight, or turn and run. I actually tend to fall under a third category that some might call the "Deer in Headlights" syndrome... or possibly the "Pull the covers over my head" response.

There have literally been times when I have been woken up in the middle of the night by gunshots or fights, and have laid paralyzed in bed, not willing to move, believing that if I just stay right there under the covers, everything will be okay. It doesn't work in horror movies, so I don't know why I would try it out in real life, but it seems that that is my natural response.

While gunshots in the middle of the night are startling and scary, I have to admit that there are few things in the world that scare me more than Failure. I suppose we could spend some time psycho-analyzing me, sticking on labels like post-it notes saying "Fear of Abandonment" and other official sounding terms, but we can save that for another night.

When faced with a Fear-- especially a potential failure, or when a past failure has been exposed to harsh sunlight-- I tend to freeze up. I want to crawl in bed, pull the covers over my head, and pretend it doesn't exist. I notice that tendency especially when it comes to finances, and as I mentioned in my last post (about a hundred years ago-- my apologies) avoidance always seems like the best policy... which is exactly how I ended up in the mess I'm in.

As I mentioned before, the issue of my credit score came up in buying a house. Now, a Fighter would attack that credit score with everything he had, and change his situation. A... Flighter(?) would run away from the whole situation and claim that he didn't want the house in the first place. But me, I just stare at that number, and it feels like a failure the size of a house is staring back at me. I squirm under the discomfort of that gaze, but am stuck with my feet cemented to the ground.

An image came to mind as I looked at that credit score, with eyes the size of saucers. I thought of Don Quixote charging full-force into a windmill, believing all the while that it was a giant. And I wondered if maybe, just maybe, all the mountains of failure that I had always been afraid to face might actually turn out to be mole hills. I thought of other times that I had the courage-- or confidence, or rashness-- to take a swing at those giants, and how usually they really were nothing but windmills.

In this particular story, I sat down with the lender, talked through each of the failures, written out in black & white, and found a way to contest them. The final score is still yet to be seen, but there was something so very satisfying in taking a swing at that giant, only to find that it didn't fight back. In fact, the whole process was a lot easier than I thought it would be-- it was just that initial step, and bringing my fears & failures into the light that was the scariest.

It feels good. And in the end, whether my fears were founded or not, Don Quixote makes a much better story than some little girl hiding under the covers.

Ghosts of Payments Past

There's this pit in my stomach that has nothing to do with pregnancy nausea. It feels a little like remorse, and a little like shame, and a lot like kicking myself. I'll tell you why:

You see, there's this Dream House-- a house that, for months, I've been decorating in my mind during sleepless nights; a house that has taken up much conversation between Chris, myself, and some good friends.

It's a 3-story Victorian house, in our neighborhood of which we hope to one day be the proud co-owners. There are a lot of details and small miracles that go into the story of how we came to even dream that we-- the tight-budgeted, always-broke, non-profit workers-- could one day own this house, but I'll save that for another time.

The story I'm thinking of today goes back to about 5 years ago, when I walked into a U-Haul rental office, couldn't find my ATM card, and rented a truck on an old credit card that I hadn't used for ages. Fast forward 4 years to a collections agency sending me an $800 collection for this silly little rental bill, that somehow never found it's way to our new mailing address. Yuck.

Weeks of terrible phone calls, confusing numbers, and even tears resulted in paying the stupid bill, with a serious ding to my not-exactly-flawless credit score. And that insignificant little number-- that tiny little forgotten detail-- is what is haunting me this afternoon, causing the pit in my stomach & the lump in my throat.

Chris just got home from a meeting with a lender, working out the details of buying our dream house. And, as fate would have it, the one thing holding us back-- 22 little things, to be specific-- is my credit score. Vomit.

No, it's not the end of the world, and no, it doesn't necessarily mean that we can't get the house, but it most likely means (best case scenario) that we will have to wait another month before we can find out. And waiting another month translates to moving in right smack on my due-date. It also means starting off the school year, and welcoming a team of new staff and interns into the busiest season of the work year while moving, painting, cleaning, remodeling, and adjusting to life as new parents (i.e. sleep deprived zombies). If that's not enough to put a pit in your stomach, I don't know what is.

Not only that, but it pokes at a soft, squishy part of me that I would rather keep hidden. It's the part of me that Chris saved when he married me & took on the financial responsibilities of our lives. Quite the knight in shining armor, when you consider all the forgotten bills, the late payments, and the financial chaos I so often found myself in during my college years. There is something about financial shame that is so... well, shameful. And now, all those skeletons in my closet are dancing around out in the open, affecting not only myself & my wonderful husband, but also our dear friends that we are trying to buy a home with.

I might have spent part of the afternoon in the bathroom crying. It's possible that I made a giant bowl of chocolate pudding, and ate said pudding straight out of the bowl with a serving spoon. I can neither confirm nor deny this story, and feel that I have already done enough confessing for one day.

At the moment, I am working hard to remember Grace-- not the person, but the concept. I am trying to remember that if God wants to provide us with our dream house, He's not going to allow 22 little points on a credit score to keep that from happening. I am trying to remember that my worth & identity is not wrapped up in a number. I am trying not to eat the rest of that chocolate pudding...

Stuck

There comes a moment in everyone's life where you cease to be cool. Wait, I think I need to qualify that-- obviously there are some people who were never cool to start off with, and there are some (like James Dean) who die young and are immortalized as cool. Then there's the once in a lifetime types (like Clint Eastwood) who manage to hang on with a death grip to their coolness, even in old age. But for the rest of us, there is this invisible barrier, this tiny thread we cross over one day, somewhere around middle age, where "cool" is no longer an option.

I remember being in high school, pondering an elderly woman. She was stuck, in her fashion, somewhere between the 60's and the 80's, with polyester pants, the standard old woman helmeted & permed haircut, and those cushy nurse-looking "comfort shoes". As I took her in, I wondered, At what point do you just stop? When does fashion & pop culture and relevancy sort of float out the window, and you just don't care?

Of course, in high school things like fashion, pop-culture, and relevancy matter very, very much. Everyone knows that Beyonce makes the world go round, and that skinny jeans & Tom's define your worth & identity. But when is that magic day when you realize that you just don't care anymore-- when you get old?

My theory is that most people pick a date and stick with it. For most, that date coincides with the year printed on their high school diploma. Or maybe college. There's this moment where keeping up becomes all too tedious, and those flannels & jeans in the back of your closet just seem so comfy-- and, well, they were cool once, right?

Chris & I recently had a revelation that pointed to the fact that, if we hadn't crossed that line yet, it was coming soon. Although I have never really been "into" music-- I don't have an ipod, and have probably owned less than 50 CD's in my lifetime-- he was pretty up on the music scene ever since 5th grade. But the frightening revelation was that, in the past 10 or so years, most of our new music wasn't actually "new", but just recent albums from the same old bands we'd been listening to since our teen years. Then I noticed that our car radio was either set to the news, classic rock, or the "new" 90's rock "flashback" station that Chris recently discovered. Uh-oh. Que the funeral music.

I've also noticed that lately, my cute, punk-rock hubby has taken to wearing running shoes with his 501's & baggy flannel-- and has been accused by several of our students of being "90's grunge". Oh man, it's begun.

One of the really great things about crossing over that line, though, is the simple fact that you really don't care. As a teenager, the idea of not worrying what other people thought of you was almost inconceivable, and with that reality came a constant self-consciousness, a slight discomfort in your own skin.

A student was teasing me the other day about trying to pass me off as 19yrs old, to fit into the dorms. But as I thought about it, I realized that I would much rather be 31, having no idea what was playing on the radio, yet at home with myself. I think I like Me better at 31 than I did at 19. Besides, there are few things more tragic than someone who's past their prime, trying to keep up with the young whipper snappers. ;)

Surreal Saturday

[I apologize, but Blogger is being screwy with pictures. Here's one to whet your appetite-- you'll have to use your imagination for the rest! And, yes, that man is wearing a tweed crab on his back!]

It's been a long run, to say the least. I realize that I haven't exactly "arrived" anywhere (still pregnant, still busy, etc), but I feel like I'm getting a bit of a half time, or a 7th inning stretch, or whatever the sports analogy might be. And let me tell you, it feels great.

Ever since November, I've gotten the one-two punch of pregnancy illness and excessive traveling. There were literally some months where we never bothered to put the suitcases away, and it seemed like if I wasn't on a plane or in a car, I was plastered to the couch moaning about nausea.

But I'm not here to tell you about being pregnant. I'm tired of that topic. I want to share about my weekend-- that glorious weekend that was a big, deep breath. The weekend that marked the (momentary) end of huge responsibilities, and the beginning of Spring Break-- which technically doesn't mean vacation, but at least it means getting our ducks in somewhat of a row again.

Chris & I were faced with an entire Saturday with absolutely nothing to do. It sounded glorious-- the sky's the limit!-- but somehow the thought of all that open space scared us a little, like a big black hole that might suck us in. After a huge crepe breakfast in our PJ's, we looked at each other and asked, "Now what?"

With just a little internet research, we discovered "what": The Old Fashioned Tweed Ride in Berkeley. What better way to spend a sunny spring Saturday than dressed up like a turn-of-the century British golfer, riding our bikes around one of the kookiest towns in America with a band of complete strangers??

[If at this point in the story, you are wondering WHY would a group of people dress up in tweed & ride their bikes around together, let me spoil it by telling you that there is no reason. Some things you just don't question] ;)

After discovering that impromptu costumes are trickier than they seem when you're 5 months pregnant (and also discovering that Chris was actually meant to be a Newsie-- he looked perfect!), we lugged our bikes onto BART, crossed the Bay, and bumped into about 80 other cyclists who looked even more-- in fact much more-- ridiculous than we did. We were dull & clean cut compared to this crowd.

As we joined the bike procession, we took over the streets at a leisurely pace, and soaked in the perfect sunny day. At one point, as we were entering a park that sits on right top of the Bay, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge & the City, we came upon big rolling green, windswept hills and dozens & dozens of kites flying overhead. Just at that moment, one of my fellow Tweeders passed me, pulling behind him a wagon with an accordion player in tow, serenading us. For a moment, I felt like I was in the movie Amelie... and a little bit like I was on drugs (but in a pleasant sort of way).

We ended our ride at the pinnacle of the park, right on the water, where the accordion player was joined by the rest of his band. I took in the scene around me: an eclectic group of steam punk musicians played everything from a xylophone (with spoons), a ukulele, a plastic keyboard with a mouth piece, and sang into a "microphone" made of a bull horn taped to a mic stand. All the while, a band of gypsies (really, I don't know how else to describe them) danced in little circles around & around a picnic table-- one wearing a top hat, antique aviator goggles & a (real) giant flared mustache, his dancing partner in a leather corset & knee-high lace-up boots. Let me tell you, it was surreal.

I'm sure that part of the experience was the feeling of release, knowing that we had made it through the busiest, hardest stretch of our year. But it was also rather magical about being a part of something so very "other". It was lovely.

We discovered that there is another Tweed Ride scheduled for San Francisco in April, and I can assure you that we will be there. Until then, I'm on the search for tweed maternity pants and a bubble pipe.