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.

confessions of a weed grower

{greta, two coves community garden}

I have a confession to make. My garden is a stage 4 disaster zone. Somewhere between writing this article for Mothering Magazine about gardening with babes, and picking our first radish, Greta outgrew the Moby wrap, started exerting her desire to be on the constant move, adamantly opposing any activity relating to riding against my chest while I pulled weeds. She's riding the fine line between barely sitting and crawling, a girl almost on the move with no time anymore for the sweet sway of my movements lulling her to sleep. 

Earlier, when she was, I eagerly planted rows of strawberries, lettuces and kale, spinach, radishes, and for good measure, a haphazard sprinkling of of Save the Bees flower mix. That was fairly easy, with 5-month-old Greta in her pouch, her arms yet too small and tucked into my chest to cause a wake.

Recently, we were away from the garden for almost two weeks and when we returned and I saw the mess that had become of it, my heart sank. That night Andras saw sadness in my eyes that I couldn't explain. This place of peace and perfection in my former life was now overgrown with weeds. I felt like I was looking upon a home I had built with my own two hands, now abandoned. 

In that moment in the garden, I learned two of life's harder parenting lessons. First, as a mamma, you have less time, which at times makes it imperative to weed out the unnecessary. Maybe its too much to run a business, rebuild a house, cook our meals from scratch and grow our own food in cultivated rows. Maybe instead of growing eight varieties of tomatoes and seven kinds of lettuces, one or two would do.

Second, this is the beginning of me learning to live with imperfection, in the garden and elsewhere. To embrace the chaos, and watch this garden become an environment for Greta's enjoyment and learning, not mine. 

Now that she's sitting and crawling, I can sit curious Greta amongst the wild flowers (indistinguishable from either the edibles or weeds) and let her pull and touch whatever she wishes. It's not perfect, but our girl knows the smell of fresh mint and lavender. She knows the taste of a strawberry we grew ourselves, and of carrot puree made from scratch (even if it took a near-epic excavation to find those carrots beneath it all!)

We won't have a tremendous amount of food from our garden this year. It's is no longer a place of accomplishment, but humility. Of forgiveness. Of letting go. It's a place for a new kind of peace--probably a more lasting one --the peace of excepting life just as it is, and seeing the beauty in every imperfect detail.