Soup saves the day

IMG_5724It’s been some kind of week. Wally was sick, of course, and home from school for two more days after trapping me for the duration of his long Tuesday nap. We arrived home at 4:30pm this afternoon to find we were out of milk, out of trash bags, and that some moron had decided the evening’s dinner should be “gourmet ramen,” which we’ve never made before.

Caroline and I started to chop shiitakes and Jay and Wally decided to compare the number of coins in their respective plastic treasure chests (which had been acquired as promotional giveaways at a minor league baseball game this summer). Comparing your bank account to your sibling’s turns out to be as bad an idea at age five as it is at thirty-five. Wally’s no financial genius, but he quickly noticed a gaping discrepancy between his pile of booty and his brother’s. There was some wailing, some grabbing for Jay’s coins, and finally some feverish promises from me that I’d get him a bigger stack of pennies. (Come to think of it, maybe Wally is a financial genius after all.)

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Anyway, the soup. As the chicken was broiling in its brown sugar and soy sauce marinade, I was preparing in my mind to write a post about the obvious disaster that unfolds when you venture outside of your culinary safe zone at the end of a week in which everyone’s been sick. But no! The soup was incredibly easy to make and turned out quite well. The broth simmers with a hearty amount of fresh ginger, which establishes a solid foundation of flavor, and then all the add-ins require little prep and taste good: the broiled chicken, chopped mushrooms, spinach, and rice noodles.

Jay and Wally liked the soup and were appropriate with their chopsticks, if not entirely effective, for much longer than expected. Afterward, Caroline gave the boys a bath while I cleaned up and listened to Pink on the hi-fi. All told, I’m ready to say we played this week to a draw.

Friends, reunited

James and Sammy II A few Sundays ago Jay and I took a ride to the playground. He usually talks a lot in the car, about the vehicles we pass, the speed we’re going, but on this trip he was quiet. Finally, as we made the last turn to the park, he spoke. “Do you think she’ll remember me?” he asked.

By she, Jay meant Saidy, his best friend from preschool the previous year. Saidy and Jay were not fast friends. Caroline and I didn’t hear her name until December, but after that, Saidy was practically the only person Jay spoke of when we asked him each night at dinner: Who did you sit with at lunch? Who’d you play with on the playground? They were always scheming. He told us how they’d made plans to sneak out at night to the airport, with a stop at Lowes to get equipment, so they could fly and see Santa. One morning he said he needed to bring our headlamps to school, because today was the day he and Saidy were going to dig to China.

Then summer came and we were away, and in the fall, Saidy started kindergarten at a different school. Caroline and I were sad for Jay, and also worried about how he’d fare without his best friend around. But on the first day of school, Jay skipped off happily. If he wasn’t going to mention Saidy’s absence, Caroline and I weren’t, either. I did wonder, though, where a best friend lives on in the mind of a boy just stepping out into the social world.

It took a few weeks to arrange a playdate. I told Jay on a Thursday that we were going to see Saidy that weekend. A grin flashed across his face and he looked shyly toward his shoulder. It was a rare kind of expression for Jay, and I knew right away that he had not forgotten her. Each day after that he asked me how many more days until they were going to play together.

Now it was Sunday, and Saidy was late. Jay and I parked and walked onto the playground. Jay pointed to the picnic table where we’d sat last time we’d met Saidy here, and spoke of the time between then and now as though it were ages. I told Jay he could sit next to me while we waited, but he didn’t want to. Instead, he took up a position on the lowered end of a teeter-totter, and asked me, “What direction do you think she’ll come from?”

We focused on an intersection at the southwest corner of the park. A few cars rolled by. Each time, Jay strained to see if it was the right one. Finally, Saidy’s car pulled up to the stop sign, turned left, and parked, about three hundred feet across an open grassy space from where we were sitting. Jay got off the teeter-totter, walked to the edge of the playground, and stopped. “Go say hi,” I told him, and he was off.

Saidy emerged eagerly out of the back of her car, and the two of them ran fast toward each other across the grass. It was like watching a fairy tale unfold, and as they drew nearer to each other, I expected them to hug and twirl as a storm of daisies fluttered down upon them.

But that wasn’t what Jay had in mind. At the last second he cut right and looked back over his shoulder with a wicked grin. “Catch me if you can,” he seemed to say. Over the next two hours, she did.

Trapped with Wally

_MG_5704 On Monday Wally got progressively sicker through the afternoon and fell off a cliff in the hours after we put him to bed. He was too miserable to sleep, a pitiful, hacking, moaning, puddle. By the time morning rolled around, Caroline and I were battered. It’s kind of stunning how much damage a single, disrupted night can do.

In the morning, through slit eyes, we began to triage. Caroline had to teach that afternoon; I had a story to file by lunchtime. Everything else, we figured, could wait until tomorrow if need be.

And need did be. Wally can usually tolerate a fair amount of television on his sick days, but yesterday he was too far gone to do anything on his own. He and Caroline napped together through the morning while I wrote. At 10am he awoke with just enough energy to sit on her lap and eat a few spoonfuls of raisin bran. At noon it was back down to sleep, in the guest room with the blinds half open, curled up against my chest.

I slept, too, and woke up a little while later to find my left arm pinned beneath Wally’s waist. He’d fallen into a deep sleep. His breathing was sharp and quick on the exhale. On every inhale I could hear the congestion crackle in his nose.

It had been awhile since I’d found myself trapped by a sleeping child. As I stared up at the ceiling, I confronted a list of regrets, familiar from the years when Caroline and I had been more instrumental in the boys’ sleep: regret that I hadn’t fallen asleep in a more comfortable position; regret that I’d left my book in the living room; regret that I hadn’t gone pee before we’d started our nap.

Wally moaned a few times and shifted slightly before settling back down on my arm. I tried to get a look at my watch, but I couldn’t raise my wrist high enough to see it. Across the room the screen on my computer had long since gone black. In the room around us, there was an intense quiet, the kind you get in the middle of the day when everyone is off doing something else.

Under other circumstances, I might have chanced pulling my arm from beneath Wally, but he was so tired and so pathetic, I didn’t want to risk depriving him of any more sleep. As I lay there, I recalled the story of a hiker who’d gotten his arm pinned beneath a boulder, and eventually resorted to cutting it off himself. I thought about the container of leftover empanadas in the refrigerator, and how I’d be happy to eat one cold.

Wally slept on and I started to make some calculations. What were the odds he’d wake if I tried to move my arm? How much marginal value did he get from each extra minute of sleep? How long until my fingers started to die from lack of blood flow? I’d almost worked it all out when outside I heard the whine of a large vehicle braking, and then a chorus of chattering kids. Was it that late already? The sound, I knew, was a school bus, releasing kids to the afterschool program at the park across the street from our house.

I thought about how as a kid, home sick from school, I’d picture my friends moving through their days: now they’re in math class, now they’re at lunch, now they’re getting ready for gym. I’d loved that sense of suspension from the world. And on those days, I’d never liked it when the school day actually finished. I’d hear kids walking home outside my house and be reminded that the reverie of a sick day doesn’t last forever.

When a kid says I miss you, how do you know if he really means it?

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Every night before dinner we say a short grace: “God bless this food, and the hands that prepared it, and let us be ever mindful of the needs of others.” The only variation comes on days when either Caroline or I is away. “And please bring Mama home safely,” we add. “And thank you for bringing Mama home safely,” we say when she’s back.

At the end of August I flew to Boston for a wedding. I was gone just one night, and my first evening back, Wally concluded grace by noting he was grateful I’d come home safely. That was nearly a month ago, but Wally continues with his expressions of gratitude. A few times a week we finish grace and reach for our forks. Wally goes on. “Thank you for bringing Daddy back safely,” he says, even though home is the only place I’ve been these last four weeks.

I haven’t really known what to make of Wally’s ongoing prayers. I’m flattered, of course, that my absence for a single night is enough to inaugurate a month of thanksgiving, but mostly I don’t think Wally means what he says. He often apes the way we talk, like he did over the summer with his unintentionally parodic imitation of Jay’s “What has more horsepower, a motorboat or a dinghy?” style of speech. So, when Wally prays for me long after the transaction is complete, I assume he’s mostly just following a speech pattern that he associates with a touch of solemnity, rather than giving voice to an actual feeling he has inside himself.

Last Friday Caroline and I had a meeting with Wally’s teacher. She said Wally is cheery and chatty in the classroom, and told us a few stories that made us feel like she’s been paying attention to who he is. She relayed one interaction he’d had recently with a classmate named Nai’el. Nai’el told Wally, “I have an apostrophe in my name.” Wally told Nai’el, “I have a brother.” That sounded about right.

Wally’s teacher also mentioned that he chats with her often about his family. She asked me if I’d been away on a trip recently. I had to think for a second, then said, no, I hadn’t really gone anywhere. She said, well, Wally tells me often, “My daddy went on a trip. I don’t like it when he goes away.”

Oh, I thought.

It’s hard to tell when kids really mean what they say. In the span of three minutes Wally will be hellbent against going outside to play, then all of a sudden that will be the only thing he wants to do. A transcript of his day is full of silliness, non-sequiters, half-conceived ideas, comical misunderstandings, and occasional moments of startlingly clear expression. Amid all that noise, it’s hard to sift out his real convictions.

But hearing that my 24-hour absence bubbles up at more than one point in Wally’s day made me think maybe there is something to it. Maybe he is capable of sustaining attention to a feeling for more than a month.

I had this newfound appreciation for the depth of kids’ emotions in mind this morning as Jay and I were getting ready to leave for school. He was retrieving his lunchbox from the kitchen counter when, apropos of absolutely nothing, he told me, “I don’t love you when you get mad at me.” I froze stiff. Then I quickly reassured myself. Surely, I thought, he’s just parroting something he heard on the playground.

What we’re eating 9/22: BLTs, empanadas, ramen with roasted chicken

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Saturday night felt like a Sunday night. We were tired from a day of soccer and birthday parties. Jay was coming down hard with a cold. We were *this* close to throwing in the towel and having frozen waffles for dinner (or something like that) when I remembered the package of bacon in our refrigerator, left over from a breakfast gathering the week before.

I’ve never really understood the BLT. Lettuce and tomato are filler vegetables, and bacon’s a side dish. The BLT has always struck me as a pseudo-sandwich, and definitely not a meal. But Caroline conjured up the image of a diner, a plate of fries, a chocolate milkshake, and soon I was out the door to buy airy wheat bread and mayonnaise (because even as a BLT doubter, I knew that mayonnaise pulls the whole thing together).

Caroline and I ate the sandwiches and a feeling approaching giddiness came over us. For minimal effort, we’d made a delicious dinner and recreated the far-off experience of easing into the vinyl booth of an Upper West Side diner. The BLTs were a slit in the fabric of a gloomy Saturday evening, a passage to someplace a little sunnier. We’ll be making them again soon.

Dinner I: BLTs with french fries and peas. Caroline used the Martha Stewart method (mayonnaise on one slice of bread, butter on the other).

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Dinner II: Beef empanadas. These were very fun to make. The dough recipe has you work two sticks of butter into 4.5 cups of flour with your fingertips until the mixture resembles coarse meal. Whenever I combine cold butter and flour, I love how one moment it looks clumpy and the next you have in front of you something that looks indisputably coarse. The transformation seems to happen slowly and then all at once.

Jay and Wally helped us cut the dough into 6-inch rounds, apply the filling, and pinch the empanadas shut. It was a good family activity, with the usual undercurrent of stress. Wally kept applying unnecessary indentations to the finished empanadas and threatening to eat the dough, which contained raw egg. At one point he actually did eat the dough, and was temporarily banished from the kitchen. Jay, true to form, was diligent throughout. He’d be a real asset to a family of Buenos Aires street vendors.

One cooking note: We left the dough too thick, which made it hard to get in enough filling, and as a result, the dough overwhelmed the taste of the meat. Thinner, next time.

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Dinner III: Pasta with goat cheese, cherry tomatoes, and arugula. Cook the pasta, drain. Combine hot pasta with 4 oz. of goat cheese and stir until the goat cheese coats the noodles. Add tomatoes and arugula. Done. We’ll have this Wednesday before soccer practice.

Dinner IV: Ramen with roasted chicken and mushrooms. The temperatures in South Carolina have finally dipped into the (upper) 70s. So what if this is what summer in Maine feels like? I’m ready to pretend it’s Fall and I’ve been wanting to make ramen for awhile. This recipe is scheduled for Friday. That feels like a long, long time from now. I’ll post pictures if it turns out well.

Related posts:

What we’re eating 9/14: banana-stuffed french toast, pizza with sausage and figs, easy pasta with ricotta and bacon

What we’re eating 9/8: pizza with red onion marmalade, ricotta and prosciutto; slow-cooked chicken tacos