Ursine

/ur-seen/

adjective

My first cub and her ursine hat while sledding on Mount Rose, which has become a yearly trek and measure of time passed.

1. Of or like a bear

Ten years later:

Chaja.

We stuff kids, sleds, hot cocoa, lunch and armloads of boots, jackets, hats and gloves into the car, drive for 45 minutes, trudge up the hill in knee-deep snow while listening to complaints of hunger, exhaustion, cold and the need to pee, and I think: My God, I am a fool. Here I am, another year, and I'm doing this again. Why?

I climb on the back of a sled and hold tight to my daughter. Snow sprays, I scream, a hat flies, so does a boot, and Chaja and I are at the bottom. I stare up at the empty blue sky, gasping, laughing, my heart pounding against my chest, and find my answer.

This year we left my husband and my 2-year-old's jacket at home, but brought extra layers and friends with infectious attitudes, so although the day started out cold and grumpy, it ended on a warm note.

Sam and Max.

Annie.

Shannon.

In want of

Photos by Max Levy.

I feel like the sky today. It's leaden and tired, the clouds soft and cool and heavy as a feather pillow. I want to fall into the sky and sleep for a long time.

All day I wait for the clouds to break open, and about 4:30 p.m. tears splatter the windshield as my daughter and I drive to the grocery store. Inside we buy cans of Italian tomatoes, Satsuma tangerines, chocolate, and a small lemon tart that we eat while watching shoppers dash from their cars and enter the store breathless, brushing rain off their faces. Earlier, I was my own thunderstorm, casting sharp words, papers and stuffed toys about the house, but now I am dull from spent anger and lack of sleep. My 2-year-old is waking five, six, sometimes seven times in the night. I miss my dreams.

Home again.

I pour tomatoes into a pot, add halved onions and butter. The sauce simmers, melting, breaking, collapsing into a velvety sauce, sweet with tomatoes, savory with onion. Forty-five minutes later, a salad is made, pasta cooked, and I scoop out onion and ladle the sauce over noodles. A perfect meal for an imperfect day.

Later still.

The kids watch a movie, my husband returns to his freelance work and I bake the last of the chocolate cookies spiked with peanut butter chips. I sit at our kitchen table and write, but my words sound wooden. I need to sleep uninterrupted by small hands kneading my breasts, small toes digging into my thighs, a small mouth searching, not finding, and so shatters my sleep with dark wails.

I crack the bedroom window, pull the blanket up to my neck and close my eyes. My breath is slow, soft, gray. Outside the wind blows, but there is no sound of rain.

Succor

suhk-er
noun and verb



Our world has so many needs. How will you provide succor?

Noun
1. help, relief, aid, assistance
2. a person or thing that gives relief, help etc.

Verb (used with an object)
1. to help or relieve

A palette for the palate

Two on a night walk.

I like the washed-out colors of winter. The sky's broad brushstrokes of pale blue, pink, yellow and gray, the dark silhouettes of bare trees, the muted greens and rusts. I like the way winter smells of wood fires and oranges, and how the cold air burns the insides of my nose during night walks with my daughter. I like that days lend themselves to bowls of creamy cauliflower soup drizzled with browned butter, tasting as pale as the world outside and toasty as a handmade quilt.

Ivan under his Christmas quilt.

In the bowl:


Cream of cauliflower soup
garnished with brown butter and toasted walnuts

Cream of cauliflower soup
Adapted from a recipe by Top Chef finalist Carla Hall on National Public Radio
Serves 4

1 head cauliflower
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 leeks, white part only, washed and cut into half-moons
1/4 cup white flour
1 quart, plus 1 cup chicken stock
1/2 cup cream
Salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
Nutmeg

Garnish: Optional but for the browned butter because it's so good.

1/2 cup walnuts, toasted
parsley, chopped
4 tablespoons butter
12 tiny cauliflower florets

Wash and core the cauliflower. Reserve about 12 tiny florets and roast them in the oven at 400 degrees until tender. Roughly chop the remaining cauliflower and set aside. In a pot, heat the butter over medium heat. Add the leeks and cook until soft, but not taking on any color. Sprinkle the flour over the leeks and stir to combine. Gradually whisk in the stock. Bring to a simmer. Add the chopped cauliflower and return to a slow simmer. Season with salt and pepper. Simmer, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon to keep the bottom from sticking or burning until the cauliflower is fork-tender.

Remove the pot from the heat and puree the soup in a blender until silky smooth. Once processed, pour back into the pot. Place the pot over medium heat. Add 1/4 cup of heavy cream and bring to a simmer. If the consistency is too thick, add milk. Adjust the seasoning with salt and pepper. Add in a few sprinkles of nutmeg.

In a small skillet or pot, melt the 4 tablespoons of butter over medium heat. Keep the butter on heat until it turns a nutty brown. Remove from heat and set aside.

Mix the tiny cauliflower florets and the toasted walnuts in a small bowl. Portion the soup into four bowls and top with the garnish. Drizzle with the brown butter, then chopped parsley.

Women hold up half the sky

Courtesy of Łukasz Strachanowski.

I'm rusty. Two weeks away and the keyboard clicks oddly, the seat feels strange and my brain(!) ... well, the gears need oiling. So I'll just chat a little and share some half-formed thoughts surrounding the title to this post and Chinese saying Women hold up half the sky.

What does it mean? That we're strong. Important. No, more than important -- critical.

I first saw the quote in the New York Times Magazine's August 23, 2009 issue, which devoted itself to the argument that women -- and our liberation -- are the key to solving many of the world's problems. Authors Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn write convincingly that it's no accident that where girls are uneducated and women marginalized the countries are disproportionately plagued by poverty and torn by fundamentalism. There's growing recognition that focusing on women and girls is the most effective way to fight global poverty and extremism.

The New York Times cites studies that have found that investing in women, rather than men -- allowing women to hold assets and gain income -- results in more family money spent on nutrition, medicine and housing, and children are healthier. And when women are more involved in society and the economy it appears to undermine extremism and terrorism.

"Now it is emerging that male domination of society is also a risk factor [for turbulence and violence]; the reasons aren't fully understood, but it may be that when women are marginalized the nation takes on the testosterone-laden culture of a military camp or a high-school boys' locker room," Kristof and WuDunn wrote.

It's an excellent issue and I urge you to read it. But it's left me restless. I feel a responsibility to do more: to educate my children, to make microloans to financially liberate women here in Nevada and across the world, to support my friends' as they step onto unstable ground following separation and divorce.

In order for me to better hold up half of my own sky -- the roof over my head, the beautiful blue outside -- I must get stronger. Physically stronger, healthier, and happier with how I look right now with my thickening waist and heavy breasts. Did you catch Glamour's celebration of women's bodies in the September 2009 issue? Again, another good read.

The picture that prompted the magazine discussion.

What's my plan for loving and strengthening my body? Well, there will be a number of sit-ups, push-ups and miles logged with my 24-pound boy on my back. There will be moderate amounts of healthy food and chocolate, of course, there must be chocolate. And there will be no squeezing myself into a size or style that just won't work with my body, so I've gone ahead and (temporarily) charged $500 to the credit card so I can try on three different dresses in size 12 and pick the one that makes me feel prettiest for my littlest sister's wedding in May.

But strength of body is nothing without strength of mind, so today I pick up my half-finished novel set aside for the holidays. There is much to be done on it, much of it still unclear to me, so the research begins, as does a new, more achievable habit to write one thousand words a day.

I'd like to count and calculate all of this and make it public in some way. Accountability will force me to continue when the chrome has worn off these commitments. I'm going to take a few days to figure out how to best document my novel-growing, muscle-building and consciousness-raising, and then I'll report back to you because I want you to keep me accountable for holding up my half the sky.

It's good to be back.

Popped

Ma, Ivan and New Year's Eve bubbles.

January one.

Drank champagne in the afternoon.
Finished a Gothic tale by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.
Ate black-eyed peas and brownies.

Ignored all my new year resolutions.

Oh, well. That's what January seconds are for.

For you

Courtesy of tamurello.

My gift to you is this small story about a miracle. I wish you a joyful Christmas spent with those you love. The Slow-Cooked Sentence will return January 11th.

-Rachael

I originally created this story during my summer children's writing workshop, Let's Write! I used it to challenge the kids to write a tiny tale and turn it into a book.

Christmas, past and present

From top: Sam and Max, 2.

Christmas, 2003

I discover my 2-year-old twin boys unscrewing bulbs from the string of lights, "sawing" at the wires with a butter knife and drowning ornaments in the Christmas tree basin. What else is there to do but un-decorate the tree?

In the weeks that followed, the bare tree gained new ornaments -- Christmas cards, paper chains and those Styrofoam packing peanuts adorned with glitter and paint -- simple, safe, sane. I loved that tree.

My favorite ornament.

Six years later, my twins (and their sidekick) are busy mastering a new set of tools, this time in the kitchen. Recently, Max made Chewy Chocolate Cookies for his dad. The whir of the mixer drew one brother and the scent of chocolate the other, until they were all crowded around the Kitchen Aid enjoying its speed, power and ability to make flour fly!

From left: Sam, Max and Ivan.

Baking with boys is punctuated with exclamation points (Yes! Cool!) and feats of physical prowess (eggs shells are slam-dunked into the garbage can, the refrigerator door is closed with a karate chop). By the end I'm exhausted, but, man, can my bakers whip up a mean batch of death-by-chocolate cookies.

Chewy Chocolate Cookies (per Mindi's request)
Adapted from Cook's Illustrated, January-February 2009

Makes 16 cookies (we doubled it, of course)

1/3 cup granulated sugar, plus 1/2 cup for coating
1 1/2 cups white flour
3/4 cup Dutch-processed cocoa powder (we used regular cocoa powder)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon plus 1/8 teaspoon table salt
1/2 cup dark corn syrup (we used light)
1 large egg white
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1/3 cup packed dark brown sugar
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped into 1/2 inch pieces (we used Ghirardelli chocolate chips)

Heat oven to 375 degrees.

Whisk flour, cocoa, powder, baking soda and salt together. Whisk corn syrup, egg white and vanilla in another bowl.

Beat butter, brow sugar and 1/3 cup granulated sugar at medium-high speed until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Reduce speed to medium low, add corn syrup mixture, and beat until fully incorporated, about 20 seconds. With mixer running at low speed, add flour misture and chopped chocolate; mix until just incorporated, about 30 seconds.

Chill dough 30 minutes to firm slightly, but no longer than that.

Divide dough into 16 equal portions, roll between hands into balls about 1 1/2 inches in diameter. Working in batches, drop 8 dough balls into baking dish with sugar and toss to coast. Set dough balls on prepared baking sheet, spacing about 2 inches apart; repeat with second bath of 8. Bake, reversing position of the baking sheets halfway through, until cookies are puffed and cracked and edges have begun to set but centers are still soft, 10 to 11 minutes. (Cookies will look raw between cracks and seem underdone.) Do not overbake.

Cool cookies on baking sheet for 5 minutes, then transfer to wire rack.

A cookie to die for.

Cookies 'til we collapsed

I spent a sweet day with my mom and sister Cheyenne. For six hours we scooped, rolled, dipped and pressed dough, ending up with 336 cookies, minus those eaten for quality control!

Happiness by the spoonful

A school lesson.

More than a week of snow, bitter temperatures, ankle-deep slush and freezing fog forced a new routine on my family: At 8:30 a.m., the six of us pile into our one car and I make a giant loop -- kids at school, husband at work, milk or eggs at the grocery store and home again.

One morning we passed a boy that left me feeling punched in the stomach.

He was running to school wrapped in a fleece Spiderman blanket, which loosely covered his T-shirt and backpack and flapped about his ankles. He looked about 10.

Is this a kid who rejects a jacket on the grounds of style? Is this a parent practicing tough-love and natural consequences? Is this poverty?

My children's friends come over to play in the snow and have no boots, jackets or mittens. They're fingers are bright pink, their shoes soaked when I invite them inside for hot chocolate.

The school hands out jackets, backpacks, some children regularly receive bags of groceries, and weekly all students get a healthy snack thanks to the federal Fresh Fruit and Vegetable Program.

"Why do they give you that?" my son asked his friend, peeking inside the bag at the juice boxes, cereal and cans of soup.

"Because my family's poor."

It's not always easy to tell, but I know some of my neighbors struggle to survive because I've been mistaken for being in their shoes. Twice cars have stopped me as my children and I walked down the street. The first driver handed me a flier about a church event involving food. (We'll have hot dogs, lots of them and they're free!) The second driver wanted to give me groceries.

"No, no. I'm good, thank you. Take them to the food bank," I said.

And I walked on feeling humble and grateful for our steady income, warm clothes and food. Gifts, indeed.

In the bowl:

White bean chili with salsa verde

White bean chili with salsa verde
Recipe by my friend Heather at Yo Mama en Espana

Serves 6 to 8

1 teaspoon lemon pepper (I used black)
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
4 chicken breast, halved and skinned
olive oil, non-stick cooking spray or 1 teaspoon oil
1 clove garlic, minced
1 onion, chopped
2 (9 oz.) packages frozen corn
2 (4 oz.) cans diced green chilies, undrained
1 teaspoon ground cumin
2 to 3 tablespoons lime juice
2 (15 oz.) cans great Northern beans, undrained
2/3 cup crushed tortilla chips
2/3 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese

In a large saucepan, combine 2 1/2 cups water, pepper and cumin. Boil. Add chicken. Reduce heat to low and simmer 2o to 30 minutes or until chicken is fork tender and juices run clear. Remove chicken from bones, cut into 1 inch pieces. Return chicken to saucepan.

Spray skillet with oil. Over medium heat onion and cook until tender. Add garlic and cook one minute. Add cooked onions, corn, chilies, cumin and lime juice to chicken mixture. Bring to boil. Add beans. Cook until thoroughly heated.

To serve, place tortilla chips and cheese in bottom of the bowl. Ladle chili over top and serve with salsa verde. (In my case, I only had fresh jalapenos.)

Mad dash for a menorah

Courtesy of bcostin.

Do you ever plan something and then its execution turns into fiasco, leaving you to wonder if you're trying too hard or whether the fates are intent on foiling you?

This is how it's been this week as my family tries out a new tradition. (I kind of view traditions like shoes: If they feel good, keep 'em. If not, kick 'em off and move on.) Anyway, I anticipated moments of awkwardness as we ate latkes and lit our first menorah, but never did I think Hanukkah would involve a run-in with police nor a table fire that set off the smoke alarm.

Religion is a complicated, and in my family it's no different. I'm a lukewarm Catholic, my husband is a baptized atheist, and -- with the last name of Levy -- we're often mistaken for Jews, which is why we're tangled up in these eight special nights.

I don't want someone else to define the part of my children which is Jewish. Rather, I'd like my kids to understand and experience first-hand what it means to (kinda) live a Jewish life so they're able to counter stereotypes like the one that occurred at their school, where most kids receive free lunch, have brown skin and don't know any Jews.

"But I'm Jewish," my daughter countered.

"You are? But you look normal," one classmate replied.

When Hanukkah was first discussed around the dinner table, the kids' eyes lit up with the prospect of more presents in December. My husband and I laughed. Nope, I replied, not a present more unless you want to give up those under the tree on Christmas morning. Gifts don't have to be wrapped, I said, they can be intangible: help freely given, a note tucked into a pocket, an offer of a back rub after a hard day. And so we all agreed to give Hanukkah a spin.

Playing with the dreidel.

When we pulled into the synagogue's parking lot, my 2-year-old was protesting his time in the car and my nose was protesting his fragrant diaper. Belts were loosened, air cleared, and then we went to see if the gift shop was selling menorahs. I opened the door and inside all was dark and quiet.

"Hello?" I poked my head in.

No response except for a beeping, so I closed the door and it locked. A second alarm rang, louder than the first. I was thinking, fast, while I steered my toddler back to the car. Should I leave? What if a camera took a picture of me in the doorway? I dialed 9-1-1.

"Do you need fire, ambulance or police?"

"Police, please."

"What's your address?"

"I don't know. I'm at the corner of Manzanita and Lakeside at the synagogue. I wanted to buy a menorah and accidentally set off the alarm."

"Okay. We'll send a police car."

My son climbed into the front seat where he flipped switches and played with the steering wheel. I looked at the backseat and -- just in case the cop wanted to search me and the car -- I did a quick and dirty clean-up. The police car pulled up, the window rolled down, a few questions and I was free to go.

Without a menorah. And it was too late to order one online.

So my daughter and I rigged up one using whiskey glasses and tea lights. Each night, the lighting has been a painful process of wait and watch -- waiting as a child wears out three or four matches before successfully striking one -- watching as candles are lit and quickly dropped back into the glasses. But the menorah looks pretty on our table and the conversations have been good.

Then the fourth night arrived and another five minutes of waiting and watching. Just as we began to eat one of the tea lights flared up.

"Blow it out," my husband said from his end of the table.

Four children leaned forward and blew. Flames flickered. The inferno in the whiskey glass was four inches high and growing. My husband stood and blew.

Hard.

At the same moment:

A ball of flame billowed out of the glass.

Hot wax splattered across the table.

Chairs were shoved back.

And the menorah was extinguished, as our laughter drowned the beep of the smoke alarm.

It's mishap that creates memory and lays the foundation for traditions, don't you think?

For a second time, my toddler and I set out on a mission to obtain a menorah. We went to Cost Plus World Market where we bought rainbow candles at half-off (since Hanukkah is half over). Then to Ben Franklin's for clay. That night the menorah was safely lit, I let go of the idea of the ritual and embraced the reality, and my smallest son sang the only candle song he knew -- Happy Birthday.

A tradition was born.

A conversation between dataheads

Sunday evening.

Dad: What's today's date?

Max: December slash thirteen slash two thousand nine.

In the silence

Frozen blossoms fall on the bare arms of the neighbor's tree, reminding me to be grateful for its summer plums that became jelly earlier this week.

All this snow makes me want to curl up in a blanket with tea and toast, but my toddler's napping and there's so much to do.

Someone needs to tell Muhammad

... a mountain can be moved.

Chaja balances Max on the mountain's peak.

The phone rang with a message that school was canceled, a text arrived that work was canceled, and email announced the evening's commitments to Cub Scouts and 4-H were canceled. And so the house awakened under a blanket of snow.

How did we spend this serendipitous day? Putting on hats, scarves, mittens, gloves, boots, jackets and snow pants, then pulling off frozen, wet ones.

Kids played, I shoveled snow, my husband discovered we had the wrong size snow chains, but ran his errands anyway, and the dryer ran all day long.

Kids fought, I shoveled snow on top of kids to shock them into shutting up, my husband made lunch, and the dryer ran all day long.

Kids watched Looney Tunes, I turned the house into a sauna by boiling a bubbling brew of plum jelly, my husband shoveled snow, and the dryer ran all day long.

Kids ate jelly on crackers, I drank 'nog while knitting and nursing the littlest grub, my husband read part of "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever," and the dryer ran all day long.

The house slept under a blanket of snow, and the dryer ran all night long.

Courtesy of An Optional Holiday.

December is heavy with tradition, much of it passed down by family or steeped in religion. I enjoy the annual outing to cut the tree, the hanging of the Advent calendar, the nights gambling for nuts or M&Ms with the dreidel, but I cherish the traditions that are uniquely our own. These traditions, I think, are serendipitous creations -- like snow days. We do something one time, the kids latch onto it, and the next time around we hear the words ... but we've always done it this way. The annual part of reading the "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" was like that.

The family gathers in the living room on most December evenings to listen to my husband read Barbara Robinson's story's about a bunch of bad kids who lied, stole, smoked cigars (even the girls), talked dirty, hit little kids, cussed their teacher and took the name of the Lord in vain, but decided to crash a church's Christmas play.

Illustration by Judith Gwyn Brown from "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever."

"I've got the baby here," Imogene barked at the Wise Men. Don't touch him! I named him Jesus."

"No, no, no." Mother came flying up the aisle. "Now Imogene, you know you're not supposed to say anything. Nobody says anything in our pageant, except the Angel of the Lord and the choir singing carols. Mary and Joseph and the Wise Men make a lovely picture for us to look at while we think about Christmas and what it means."

"I think I ought to tell them what his name is," Imogene said.

"No. Besides, you remember it wasn't Mary who named the baby."

"I told you!" Ralph whacked Imogene on the back. "I named him."
"Joseph didn't name the baby either, " Mother said. "God sent an angel to tell Mary what his name should be."

Imogene sniffed. "I would have named him Bill."


It's all that good. I promise. If my husband's not careful to hide the book after reading it, one of our kids will secret it away and read ahead.

I'm curious. Do you have a tradition that's unique to your family?

Gallimaufry

gal-uh-maw-free
noun

From the top: Max and Sam sing, Chaja walks and the Big I enjoys his chocolate.
All photos by Dance in the Kitchen.

The weekend was a gallimaufry of holiday happenings that included caroling, a parade and chocolate letters from Sinterklaas. I, for one, am happy for Monday!

1. A hodgepodge, jumble, a confused medley.

Road blocks

Courtesy of Scott Roberts.

The excuses to avoid church were easy to find: Summer was too beautiful to spend indoors, then the soccer schedule tested our sanity, and last month I just needed to sleep after waking at 4 a.m. all week to write, but this past Sunday I realized we'd been gone for too long.

"What are we going to do today?" my eight-year-old son Max asked as he bounced onto our bed and woke me.

"I thought we'd go to church."

"You know what I like best about church?"

"What?"

"The bread samples."

Courtesy of Loci Lenar.

Obviously, we've strayed too long from the flock.