There is more work to do than ever. There are more play dates to coordinate, more vacation days to fill, more birthday presents to buy. More house projects. More work projects. More dog hair. More spoiled leftovers.
I never had illusions that both kids going to school would answer my longings for more, more, more. But I did think I was gaining, if not a tree, then a stout stump where I could set up my laptop. A reliable piece of property.
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I spent all day yesterday with my mom and our inspired friend, rearranging my cluttered house.
Though we have a good amount of space there’s nothing expansive about it. It’s a small house inside a big house, the footprint of the original 2 bedroom/1 bath bungalow dictating the way the rooms relate to each other, even those that have been added on since the original 1940 build date.
A bunch of small rooms means it’s a great house for hide-and-seek and intimate conversations over tea. Not for big parties or, our friend says, big furniture.
So by the end of the day, we had earmarked a cabinet and a coffee table for Craigslist, taken extra chairs to the garage, and schlepped various pieces to new rooms where we settled them into new corners.
It’s interesting. She achieved an illusion of spaciousness by condensing the seating areas. Which seems to be the way to make something work – by doing what we thought we wanted to avoid. (These rooms are so small, I think I’ll crunch the chairs together even more.)
We minimized and condensed in a similar way all day, taking every vase and lamp and candlestick out, putting back only what worked and saving the extras for shelves in a different room or for a different time altogether.
Now the house is a place I want to live. It’s inviting. And I can get to the back door without turning sideways between two tables.
But alas, the task is not finished. And until it is, our house will be a metaphor for the process of simplifying. On the one hand are the rooms that have been cleared and rearranged and even vacuumed. These rooms are serene and spare. There is no clutter on top of the piano. No slipping piles of back issues of The New Yorker on the stereo cabinet. In fact, there is no stereo cabinet. They are the kind of spaces that make you want to settle in with your laptop or a book or a cup of Rooibos and just be.
On the other hand there’s the box filled with knickknacks from the mantel-that-was, resting in another room that’s not quite serene yet. There’s a tall, neat pile of magazines in the corner for me to sort through. There are cabinets whose contents need relocating and clutter pooling around the newly moved desk that needs taming with a few IKEA cabinets. This part of the process made me feel a little panicky by the end of the day. This part of it is like peeling fava beans.
Don’t get me wrong. Fresh favas are a dream. Husk them and boil the beans gently for three or four minutes. Plunge them into ice water. Now you can enjoy the nutty flavor of the beans, tasting faintly of oregano; now you can toss them lightly with a vinaigrette and some fresh chopped vegetables and herbs and there’s dinner, right?
Not quite. Before you toss and chop, you have to peel. Each wide and lovely pale green bean is hiding something: the real bean. The bright green one that gives so nicely when you bite down into it. The one that tastes good with a splash of grapeseed oil and shredded carrots. You have to peel them. Each one of them, individually. And that is tedious. That is something I want to do about as much as I want to go through the children’s art supply cabinet and organize it, one washable marker at a time.
But the results are really, really worth it. Because favas are good. Just like organized cabinets and new office spaces are good. Don’t let the extra work deter you. Pour yourself a cup of something and put on some music and prepare a beautiful salad. And maybe your salad will be something you will eat while you go through your scratched CDs and you will emerge happier, nourished and more organized.
Fresh Fava Salad
adapted from Green Prophet and E is for Eat
20 fresh fava bean pods, husked; to yield about one cup of beans
1-2 carrots, julienned
1½ teaspoons brown rice vinegar
1 teaspoon lime zest
½ teaspoon Celtic sea salt
1 tablespoon grapeseed oil
8-10 fresh mint leaves, chiffonade; to yield about one generous tablespoon
extra mint leaves for garnish
Makes one generous portion or a starter for two.
Bring a pot of water to a boil. Prepare a bowl of ice water
and place near the stove.
Add fava beans to the boiling water and boil 3-4 minutes.
Scoop beans out with a strainer and plunge into the ice water
to halt cooking. When beans have cooled, drain.
Peel fava beans by slitting outer skin with a paring knife and
slipping the bright green bean out of the skin. Place peeled
fava beans in a medium bowl.
Add carrots, vinegar, lime zest, salt, oil and mint to the
bowl and toss well.
Arrange salad on two plates and garnish with the extra mint.
I read an essay last week by Catherine Newman in the most recent (and, sadly, final) issue of Brain, Child Magazine. A letter to her younger self, the piece is typical of Newman: sharp-witted and honest enough to be just a little painful.
In the essay she tells her younger self about things that will and will not change about motherhood, reassuring herself that much of it will get better. Even the good parts. They get better.
My kids and I are in Portland for a week and it’s been an easy, fun time. Really. So I’ve been thinking about Newman’s essay and wishing I could tell my younger self that this scenario we’re living is even the tiniest of possibilities. The me who was checking diapers and convincing someone to give Mommy the digital recorder back and thrusting her hand between skulls and the sharp corners of kitchen cabinets. That me would have like to know that it will be okay. That it gets easier.
Even though it’s been a long time since I hovered between meltdowns and possible broken bones all the time, something in me must remember what that was like and how hard it was to travel when our kids were little. I still get a lump in my stomach when we’re on the road, questions running through my head. What essential item have I forgotten? How long will this quiet moment last? Maybe that’s why the ease of this vacation feels so lovely and unexpected.
If I could, I’d say to the younger me: there will come a time when you’ll say to the kids, “it’s time to go” and shortly afterward, you will. Maybe the children won’t listen the first time because he’s finishing the last details on a drawing that’s been in the works for twenty minutes and she’s engrossed in a graphic novel from the library and is unresponsive until the main character completes a skateboarding competition or something. So you’ll remind them again. But instead of screaming and throwing themselves to the floor, he’ll say, “I drew the rest of the pirate hat, Mommy, and now I’m ready to get dressed anytime.” And she might give a resigned sigh but she’ll say, “Okay,” tuck the book under her arm and go to put on her shoes. You’ll still have to deal with whining. Good, solid whining sessions. Sibling fights, too. And the eye rolls will just be getting started. But overall, it will be nice. You’ll have time to sit down and have a cool drink on the back deck if you want to, sometimes. Heck, you’ll have time to make your own cherry syrup and mix it up with sparkling water. You’ll have time for the garnish. And when the kids discover you’re out there, sipping on a lovely cool drink, they’ll ask for one too. You’ll go inside and they’ll help you make it and everyone will be bubbly and syruped up together. And the day will be fine.
Rainier Cherry Sparkler
adapted from Bon Appetit and Culinary.net
1 pound fresh Rainier cherries, pitted
1 cup raw honey
boiling water
juice of four lemons, strained
ice
sparkling water
fresh mint
Makes four sparklers
Mash pitted cherries and honey in a medium bowl using a fork or potato
masher. Stir in ¾ cup hot water and let stand about 30 minutes, stirring
occasionally. Cover and refrigerate.
When the syrup is cool, strain and reserve cherries for garnish.
Fill four 12-ounce glasses with ice. Add juice of one lemon and ¼ cup syrup
to each glass. Top with sparkling water. Garnish with reserved cherries and mint.
Posted by Chie
In Japan, a part of summer was people exchanging oseibo, gifts to celebrate the season and show thanks to the people in your community. We would receive individually wrapped, plump, tree-ripened peaches in one-layer boxes with lids in the height of summer. The momo were each about the size of a baseball. When I’d bite into one the juices would drip down my arms. One day, I was so hungry for them I ate three, followed by a stomachache for the rest of the day. Beware of the fruit that lures you in with its magic!
Herbed Peach Salsa
4 peaches with skins on, diced (nectarines, plums,
pluots, apricots or cherries work well in combination or alone, as well)
1 avocado, diced, optional (add only if eating within a few hours)
6 radishes, diced small
1 small cucumber, seeded and diced
½ c cilantro, chopped
1/3 c basil, chiffonade
3 sprigs mint, chiffonade
1 lime, juiced
1 jalapeno, seeded and minced
Celtic sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
Prepare all ingredients and toss in a medium bowl.
Use as a dip for chips. Also great with grilled fish or to add flair to chicken tacos.
It’s also a refreshing snack.
