feeding the soul

Starting a new job is always hard. But I’ve sort of been through the ringer with this one. In the span of my first three months, I went through company layoffs, loosing two great editors and getting news that the company might sell. Then, Greta got an endless cough (file that under “no one sleeps”), pink eye, and stitches (note to your child’s nursery—do not hide Easter eggs anywhere near a wrought iron gate). Between that, a never ending winter and the crowded commute on the F train, my spirit was suffering a bit. Not serious suffering, like living through war and poverty suffering, but not its light and joyful self. 

It’s times like this I’m incredibly grateful for a good friend and her birthday—the perfect excuse to flee all responsibility for one uninterrupted hour (a near impossible find for two mothers) with her, a pizza and a glass of pink champagne. A whole hour of real (non-work-related) adult conversation? As she put it, “it’s the first time I’ve ever finished telling you a story without stopping every thirty seconds to say ‘here’s your grapes,’ ‘yes I can get your more milk,’ and ‘do you need to go potty?’” Mommies, I know you get this.

Besides the usual (how our husbands annoy us and are at the same time insanely amazing), here’s what I learned in that hour—that nothing, nothing can heal the spirit like face time with someone you love. File that under feeding the soul. And in the same file, goes cooking that baked oatmeal that’s been calling your name ever since you read about it on this blog post last week (from another new mommy who gets it—hey, in these circles, making baked oatmeal is a much bigger accomplishment than it sounds). When something, or someone is calling to you, listen. 

Here’s the thing—to be creative, you have to create. To dream, you to have time to close your eyes. To shine, you have to see the light. And to feed the soul, well, sometimes you need to bake oatmeal, or play hookie for an hour, or order champagne in the middle of the day. Trust me, everything and everyone around you will be better for it.

Baked Oatmeal with Caramelized Bananas, Vanilla and Hazelnuts

Adapted from Super Natural Every Day by Heidi Swanson (via Orangette by Molly Wizenberg)

Serves 6

Baked Oatmeal

½ cup hazelnuts (blanched or skins removed)

2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats

½ cup skin-on sliced almonds

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 ½ teaspoons ground cinnamon

½ teaspoon sea salt

2 cups whole milk

1/3 cup pure maple syrup

1 large egg, beaten

3 tablespoons melted unsalted butter, cooled slightly

2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

Roasted Bananas

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons brown sugar

1 vanilla bean

2 bananas, halved lengthwise

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Toast the nuts in the oven until lightly toasted and fragrant, 8 minutes. Remove and cool.

Meanwhile, stir together the oats, almonds, baking power, cinnamon and salt in a 2-quart baking dish.

Whisk together the milk, maple syrup, egg, half the butter and vanilla in a bowl or large liquid measuring cup. Pour evenly over the oats and stir lightly to make sure all the oats are evenly moistened. Drizzle the remaining butter over the top.

Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, or until the top is lightly golden and the oats have set.

While the oatmeal bakes, heat the butter, brown sugar and vanilla bean in a shallow pan. Add the bananas and cook over low heat until the bananas are golden and buttery, adding a splash of water as needed, about 5 minutes. Keep warm over very low heat.

Top the baked oatmeal with the bananas and the vanilla-brown sugar syrup. Serve warm.

the sweet smell of Saigon + an apple-pear sauce

Do you know what's really wonderful eaten along side a generous hunk of fresh Carrot Banana Hazelnut Bread? A bowl of warm Apple-Pear Sauce. The apples break down into a tender mush, leaving elegant slivers of pear in tact, every bite swimming in the heady satisfaction of Saigon cinnamon. I make mine in small batches because we all love it warm, straight from the stove, but it keeps like a dream in glass jars in the fridge for the week. There's really little more to say....

~

Apple Pear Sauce

Serves 4

4 pounds sweet-tart apples such as Macintosh, Jonagold, empire, or Macoun

1 pound firm, ripe pears such as Bartlett

1 stick cinnamon, or ground cinnamon to taste

about 1 cup apple cider, or as needed

Wash, quarter and cut out the core of your favorite apples (I like a variety, just like in my pie). Repeat with the pears. Cut the apples into chunks and the pears into chunks or slivers. Layer them in a large saucepan with 1 stick of cinnamon, or a generous pinch of Saigon cinnamon. Add just enough apple cider to reach about 1 inch up the pot and cover and simmer over medium heat until the apples are soft and start to break down, and the pears are soft throughout, about 25 minutes.

Spoon the sauce into four bowls and eat warm, or remove from the heat and puree with an immersion blender until smooth. Serve warm, or spoon it into sterile jars and cool on the counter before sealing. Store in the fridge up to one week. 

date night with mama

I'm about to leave for a trip to California, solo. It's hard to go just about anywhere without my little girl, but when I do, I try to make sure she and I do something really fun together--sans distractions-- the night before I leave. It just so happens Andras had to work late, which used to bum me out (I love when we're all home for dinner), but I've changed my tune. It's the perfect excuse for breaking tradition and hitting the town, just Greta and me, for a dinner date.

It's amazing that all kids really want from us is our undivided attention. Ironically, for a mommy who cooks, our own kitchen and dinner table, as healthful, important and harmonious as it is, isn't the best place for that. I'm always jumping up to finish cooking, ladle another bowlful of soup or grab a cloth to wipe Greta's chin. And I can only imagine how those demands double and triple as a family grows. On the flip side, out at a restaurant, I can't see dirty dishes, and they aren't my responsibility even if I could. I'm not responsible for setting the plates or pouring the milk or creating all the other magic that goes into a meal. It's just Greta and me and this experience. I can look in her eyes. Listen to her sweet voice and all of these amazing, brand new words forming into sentences that never sounded sweeter.

I know, you're skeptical. Eating out with kids is supposed to be a nightmare. But it's amazing what happens to a child when you ask them, "Do you want to go somewhere special tonight with mommy?" Their eyes light up. Put them in an outfit you find adorable, if only for your own indulgence, and just like when you yourself dress up to go out with your husband, your little one will start to get in the mood.

Our special place is, mercifully, right down stairs at Bear Restaurant, an advantage of urban living. I admit, it helps to know that if things go terribly wrong, we can scoot out and home quickly. But I'd happily walk another ten blocks or more to sit in a booth next to my girl, watching her scan the room, learning, observing and adopting restaurant behavior and manners from the big people around her.

People have all kinds of opinions about taking babes and toddlers out to dinner. We've been doing it on since day one, so yes, in a sense she's learned a bit about the etiquette of eating, but we don't do it often, and it's never too late to try. Caveat, I haven't yet parented a boy. But despite the fact Greta's just like any toddler and can go from happy to hungry in an instant, is capable of enormous messes, and can get an incurable case of the fidgets anywhere we might want her to sit still, you'd be amazed at how well behaved a child at this age can be when you sit them up in a booth by candlelight and make them feel that you're taking this time-out from the normal scheduled routine just to be with them. Let them give your world a try. Use the grown-up spoon they find before them. Butter their bread themselves, just like you. Most restaurants worth their salt will be accommodating; and it's sort of a thrill to un-tuck the cloth napkin from your little one's chin after the meal and know that's one bib you won't have to wash yourself. I'll pay good money for that.

I suppose I adopted this mentality from my two older sisters, who, not wanting to miss the best new restaurants on their annual trips to see me in New York, brought their toddlers in tow. I remember one occasion at Craft, when they first opened, telling my tiny toddler niece Grace to walk like a lady as she scooted the narrow passage between tables about a dozen times, going back and forth from her mama to me. And you know what? She did! It was fun for her to have the chance to behave, and just as much, for us. And, when she got a case of the fumble fidgets, the open kitchen, more common now in many restaurants than not, provided thrilling entertainment. 

It's not for everyone, but if you remove the concept of luxuriating over your own meal (order a one-course home run), skip the precarious glass of wine and just have a real date--face to face, eye to eye, with the little one you adore, you might find a dinner date with your toddler surprisingly sweet. And satisfying. 

I'll be back with Greta and Andras in a few days. In the meantime, I'm cooking in San Diego with my sis, my brother-in-law and my now-oh-so-grown-up nephew, who's overdue for some undivided Aunt Sarah time, hard to come by once your aunt becomes a mama herself. Today, I'm looking forward to nothing more than a date night with him.

I'd love to hear from you--what's your experience eating out with your kids? Any what traditions do you have for making one-on-one time that's a pleasure for you and your babes, both?