Ramblings and Recipes, Part 6 - Life with Children

“Whether your pregnancy was meticulously planned, medically coaxed, or happened by surprise, one thing is certain—your life will never be the same.” – Catherine Jones

As much as I wanted to stay home and cuddle this precious little angel in my arms all day, our budget wouldn’t allow it.  So after my 6 week maternity leave was up, I headed back to work and Tracy headed to the baby daycare nursery. 

Being a mommy, a wife, a worker bee, a housekeeper, a laundress, a family budgeter and a dietitian is tough.  Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.  What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger?  Ha!  It’s no wonder women today are so strong!  And it’s no wonder why in God’s great wisdom he chose the female of our species to bare the children.  Men wouldn’t be able to handle it.  Just see what happens in a household when everyone has the flu.  Hubby is whimpering in bed asking for soup, and wanting his temperature taken every ten minutes, your child is calmly laying on the couch watching The Skipper Chuck Show, happy he or she didn’t have to go to school, and Mom is mopping the floor, throwing in a load of laundry and taking out the trash.  We are all sick.  But Mom’s just keep on keepin’ on.

GARDEN VEGETABLE SOUP

Ingredients:

·       2/3 cup sliced carrot

·       ½ cup diced onion

·       2 garlic cloves, minced

·       ½ cup green beans

·       ½ cup diced zucchini

·       1 ½ cups diced green cabbage

·       1 Tbsp tomato paste

·       3 cups fat-free broth (beef, chicken or vegetable)

·       ½ tsp. dried basil

·       ¼ tsp. dried oregano

·       ¼ tsp. salt

Procedure:

Spray a large saucepan with olive oil, heat.  Sauté onion, carrot, and garlic over low heat until softened, about 5 minutes.  Add broth, cabbage, beans, tomato paste, basil, oregano, and salt; bring to a boil.  Reduce heat; simmer, covered, about 15 minutes or until beans are tender.  Stir in the zucchini and heat for 3-4 minutes.  Serve hot.

Extra work pops up from time to time.  Like the time Tracy woke up in her crib and discovered how to remove her diaper so that she could feel the warm mushy poo inside.  Then she proceeded to finger paint the wall next to her crib with this new brown color, moving the painting episode to each rail of her crib before calling out to mommy to come see her masterpiece.

Watching Tracy grow up through her toddler years taught me a lot about human behavior.  Things like taking the road less traveled. You know.  Like the one with the most mud, even if there is a sidewalk nearby.  After all, a puddle is a small body of water that draws other small bodies wearing dry shoes into it.

Getting a full night’s sleep is something you give up when you become a mother.  So that Sunday morning when Tracy was 3, I was surprised to be able to actually sleep in without my little girl hopping up on my bed as soon as the sun was up, bouncing delightfully until I would drag myself out from under the covers.  That’s when the phone rang.  Squinting at the clock I saw that it was 6:45 AM.  On the phone was my next door neighbor calling to ask if I was aware that Tracy was at her house, still wearing her pajamas and hugging her stuffed bear, sitting at her kitchen table and asking for pancakes.  “Where is your mommy?” my neighbor had asked her.  “Oh, she’s still sleeping, but I got hungry”.

Trying to get to work on time was a real chore when Tracy got to that dawdling stage.  After several minutes of me trying to get the left shoe onto her left foot I would finally give up and let her wear them on the wrong feet, no matter how uncomfortable they were to her since she absolutely insisted that this was the way they were supposed to be.  Morning conversations consisted of things like, “No you can’t wear your tutu to school”, and “No I cannot pack ice cream in your lunchbox”. 

One day we were running so late that out of desperation I told her that if I was late for work one more time, I could get fired (yes, I was sometimes a bad mom and blurted out guilt ridden things I was sorry for later).  Her reaction was startling.  Her eyes grew as big as saucers and she burst into tears!  “Honey, what’s wrong?”  I said.  She looked up at me with sad red eyes, tears still streaming down her little cheeks and said “Mommy I don’t want you to burn up.”  Her only definition of “fired”.  Sigh.

It had always bothered me that Rick and I were not married in a church.  Somehow, although quite legal, the courthouse wedding didn’t have as much meaning to me.  So after five years, we decided to renew our vows at a little country church with a small but meaningful wedding.  Three-year-old Tracy was our flower girl, and the ceremony was attended by family and close friends.  The next day when Tracy went back to school, which was a rather staunch Episcopalian church nursery, she proudly announced to her teacher and classmates that her mommy and daddy got married yesterday.  Her wide-eyed teachers looked at her, then looked at me, and then looked at each other before muttering a quiet “That’s nice, dear”.  “Renewed our vows” I repeated several times before they offered a faint smile.

When Tracy was five, we had moved to Tampa.  By the time she was six, we were back on the east coast.  Only this time had relocated a bit further south to Miami.  And I was once again pregnant. 

Rick was busy setting up his new office and I was busy setting up our new home.  It was a townhouse in the Perrine area, just east of the “highway” (that’s what the locals say when referring to US1).  I took Tracy to the local public elementary school to register her for first grade, but when I couldn’t understand what her new teacher was saying to me due to her extremely heavy Hispanic accent, I politely told them thank you… but no thank you.  I couldn’t imagine how this teacher was going to teach my child to read English when my child could not understand a single word the lady was saying.  Okay, you can call me a snob if you want, but we are talking about my child’s education here.

I found a very well respected private school, and although I was told they had no more openings available in the first grade classrooms, I took Tracy by the hand, drove to the school anyway and parked myself in the office there.  I was eight months pregnant and already looked like I would pop at any moment.  Again, I was told there were no more available slots for first grade, but they would be happy to put me on a waiting list.  I leaned close to the lady, looked her straight in the eye, put my hand on my outstretched belly and told her “I can’t wait!  I need her in school NOW.  I have been having contractions for the past hour and I think my water just broke!  Please just make a space for her!  I will personally buy a desk for her if necessary!”  After a frantic phone call to the Administrator, the lady informed me that she thought she may be able to help.  Tracy was allowed to start school that same day, although her baby sister wasn’t actually born for another three weeks.

This time my husband accompanied me to the delivery room.  There was no way I was going to allow him to drop me off at the hospital and wait for a phone call letting him know when the baby was born.  If I had to be there, HE had to be there!  I believe I even threatened to handcuff myself to him at one point.

We had taken natural childbirth classes together so he was prepared to coach me.  Rick’s job in the labor room was easy.  Change the channel on the TV, get me more ice chips, remind me how to breathe.  Hee Hoo, Hee Hoo.

First time Mom’s are so concerned about breathing right, or whether or not to have an epidural, or when do they start to push.  Second time Mom’s are more concerned with whether or not they remembered to shave their legs.  When I went into labor this second time around, all I could think of is that I couldn’t go to the hospital yet because I needed a pedicure.  I hadn’t been able to see my toes for the past two months, but I knew that the moment they put my feet up in those stirrups I would be mortified!

None the less, this second time was much easier.  Jamie Anne was born within a few hours.  A perfect, sweet, adorable little girl.  This time there was no swearing, no screaming and no begging for drugs.  All was good.

Ramblings and Recipes, Part 4 - Moving to Florida

“Life takes you down many paths but my favorite ones lead to the beach.” – Author Unknown

I remember packing up the family station wagon back in 1960 for the long move from Arizona to Florida.  We were promised sandy beaches, swimming in the ocean, and fishing from a boat.  What we got was Hurricane Donna.

Hurricane Donna struck the Florida southeast coast with 150 mph winds and a 13 foot storm surge.  My mom was ready to pack it up and head back to Arizona.

Life was different in Florida. 

During the summer months, you could ride the City Bus downtown for ten cents, walk down Flagler Street past Burdines and the Biscayne Hotel to the movie theatre, sit in the balcony and watch a great movie for six RC cola bottle caps.   

I spent most of my teen years hanging out at the beach in Fort Lauderdale somewhere in the vicinity of the Elbow Room, especially during Spring Break when all the young girls knew that was “Where the Boys Are”!  Oh how I remember being 15 years old, walking along the sidewalk on A1A, near Las Olas Boulevard, wearing my newest bikini trying to act older and more sophisticated when I suddenly realized that I had stepped on a big old wad of bubblegum and it was securely attached to both the bottom of my foot and the sidewalk, with stretchy strings of pink goo following every step.  So much for sophistication!

I recall one night being awakened by a phone call and hearing my dad’s irritation boil over with language he generally reserved for those times when my mom and us kids were not around.  It turned out that the police had called him to come to the station to pick up my brother Bill.  Bill and his girlfriend had been arrested for trespassing.  Apparently they had decided to go for a swim at the Yankee Clipper hotel pool on Fort Lauderdale Beach.  It was late at night and no one was in the pool except for them.  I guess they were getting a bit… um… romantic… not realizing that the hotel bar had a big window that peered into the underwater area of the pool.  My brother’s shenanigans caused quite a stir with the crowd tipping back a few drinks.

My brother Roy taught me to drive.  My dad tried, but went into panic mode the moment my foot touched the accelerator.  Roy had a calm demeanor about him.  Nothing seemed to frighten him and he was just a real easy-going type of guy.  Even when I managed to hit the only sign in the entire vacant parking lot, he just calmly sat there and smiled, told me to put the car in reverse and try it again.  I had to check his eyes to see if they were glazed over.  After all, these were the ‘60s.  Nope, he was good!

My first car was a 1959 English Ford Anglia.  It was a little car, about the size of a VW, only squared off instead of bubble shaped.  It was rusty and dented and not much to look at, but it was mine.  At the time, my dad owned Buck’s Garage and Body Shop on State Road 7.  As a special treat for me, he told me he would have the car painted and he would fix the dents.  I was overjoyed.  When I saw the finished product, I stood there in shock.  My dad had painted my car pink with big purple flowers all over it!  Now keep in mind, this was the 1960’s… days of Flower Power!  Needless to say, I was ecstatic!  I loved, loved, loved it!  But surprised as I was that my dad would be so hip, little did I know at the time that he had a hidden agenda.  From that day on, my dad always knew where I was.  Friends of his could spot my car a mile away!  “Oh, I saw your daughter’s car at the mall this morning”, or “I saw your daughter’s car down on Dania Beach pretty late last night”.  Smart dad.

Keeping track of me secretly like that was my dad’s way of letting me know that he truly cared about me.  Being an emotional, hormone-driven teenager, hell bent on having drama in my life, I left home at the ripe old age of 14.  There was no real problem at home, nothing that a rational person couldn’t deal with.  But I was a teenage girl.  Teenage girls are not rational.  And after dealing with the antics of my brothers and my sister, my parents just didn’t have the energy to deal with me. 

For a while, I lived with my friend Pat on a flat bottom, 2-story houseboat on New River.  They were building and furnishing the houseboat themselves with whatever they could scavenge.  We got scrap pieces of carpeting from dumpsters behind carpet companies, cut them into various shapes and created a puzzle-like carpet in each room, gluing together various colors of the previously discarded shag in different lengths.  

Life on that houseboat was rather interesting.  It wasn’t very stable.  Every time a boat would travel down the river near us, the waves would cause such rocking that we would have to hold onto our dishes when we sat at the table to eat.  One time it rocked so hard that I fell into the batch of glue we had just mixed up for our carpet project.

Living on a houseboat, our diet consisted largely of fish.  We found different ways of cooking fish to keep from getting bored with it night after night.

Coconut Almond Fish

Ingredients:

·       Yellowtail or Red Snapper fillets

·       Coconut

·       Coconut Milk (canned)

·       Extra Virgin Olive Oil

·       Unsalted almonds, sliced

·       1 Egg, beaten

·       Pineapple juice

Directions:

1.    Crush almonds (or macadamia nuts, if you prefer) into fine pieces and mix with coconut in a plastic bag.

2.    Beat egg in a bowl and set aside.

3.    Rinse fish filets and pat dry.  Gently coat each piece of fish in the beaten egg and then toss in the bag to coat with almonds and coconut.

4.    Heat frying pan with a small amount of olive oil.  Sauté fish until done (do not overcook).  Remove from pan and set aside, keeping the fish warm.

5.    Pour the entire can of cream of coconut into the frying pan.  Add an equal or slightly less amount of pineapple juice.  Heat to a boil stirring constantly to mix with the drippings from fish, until the mixture thickens.

6.    Drizzle the sweet sauce over the fish.  You can also add sliced tropical fruits on top if you wish.

When my friends moved their houseboat to Miami Beach, I moved in with my sister after first making her promise there would be no more toilet dunking.  Penny was recently divorced and actually wanted my company, so the promise was made.  We lived near a drive-in movie theatre.   Sometimes we would sit on top of our cars in the parking lot of our apartment building and watch whatever was playing at the drive-in.  We couldn’t hear the movie, so we would improvise with what we thought they were saying.  Our version of the movie lines was far more interesting than the actual script.  Of that I am sure. 

My brother Bill had joined the Army and had gone off to Viet Nam.  I wrote to him regularly and was overjoyed when he would write back.  When several weeks had passed and I didn’t hear from him, I got worried.  So I did what any worried little sister would do.  I wrote a letter to the U.S. Army Adjutant General and asked that my brother be located.  I soon received not only a letter but a phone call from my brother.  Apparently he was on leave and enjoying himself in New Orleans with his female companion when the Army came knocking on his hotel room door.  Needless to say, Bill was not happy with me. 

In my junior and senior years of high school, I participated in a work program where I completed my high school credits in the morning and went to an office job in the afternoon.  What the school didn’t know was that I worked a second job after that, sometimes late into the night.  A couple of nights a week I worked in the coat room at The Tiger’s Den, a teen nightclub.  Sometimes I even got to dance on stage.  That’s where I met Mark Lindsay of the group Paul Revere and the Raiders.  He danced with me on stage and I had a teen crush on him for years after that.  Of course I also had a teen crush on Paul McCartney of the Beatles and Bobby Rydell.

One night after work, Penny called to tell me she had left her car at a local pizza place on Federal Highway.  Assuming she had too much to drink and had someone else drive her home, I got a friend of mine to drop me off at Pizzio’s and slid into the cream colored leather seat of her ’62 Chrysler sedan.  The car didn’t start immediately, which was nothing unusual, so I sat there a couple of minutes waiting to try it again.  That’s when a couple of U.S. Marines decided they would come to my rescue.  They were too drunk to realize that I didn’t need help.  But one of them was kind of cute, so I gave him my phone number before I shooed him away.

And that was the beginning of my 49+ year marriage.

What's your favorite Thanksgiving recipe? Tell us and you might win a surprise!

Today is the big day... A day we all find things to be thankful for! Except for the turkey.  He is generally not very thankful for this day.  

Of course there are those of us that will be thankful tomorrow knowing that this day of cooking will be over for another year. 

Even so, it's wonderful when family and friends can gather around for a special meal, full of holiday traditions.  We all have our family favorites! In my family, the highlight of the Thanksgiving Day dinner is the turkey stuffed with oyster stuffing. Now, I must admit that we have a few of our newer family members who do not care for oyster stuffing (if you can imagine that!) so we always have a side stuffing for them. My own children, however, will fight to the death over the last spoonful of oyster stuffing!

So for the sake of sharing, and for those who have not tried oyster stuffing and want something different on their table, here is my family recipe.

Turkey with Oyster Stuffing

        1 large turkey, thawed                                            2 loaves stale white bread                  

        4 stalks celery, chopped                                         1 medium onion, chopped

        1 stick butter                                                           4 cans oysters

        Bell's Seasoning                                                     Salt & Pepper

        Wine, any kind of wine, whatever you like.

Gently remove the crust from each slice of bread. In a large bowl, tear the bread into small pieces being careful not to crush the bread. (Yes, I know this seems silly and it's easier to buy the stuff in the bag, but this is the way my mother made it, so just suck it up and do it!)  We usually sit around the evening before Thanksgiving to do this... and that's where the wine comes in.  Have a glass or two while tearing bread.

Add approximately 2 tablespoons Bell's Seasoning and salt and pepper to taste.  In a skillet, saute celery and onion in butter until soft and slightly transparent (not browned).  Drain oysters but save the juice.  Slightly saute the oysters and add all of this (except reserved oyster juice) to the bread in that big bowl I told you to use. Toss gently and add enough juice until stuffing is the right consistency... not soggy!

Wash and pat dry the turkey. Rub the turkey with salt, pepper and a light sprinkle of Bell's Seasoning.

Now here comes the part my daughter hates. I can hear her now saying "You want me to put my hand up WHERE?"  Yes, stuff the stuffing up the turkey's rear end and into the neck cavity and anywhere else in the bird it will fit.

Baste that turkey with more melted butter, cover and roast according to directions.

Now go read a good book, drink more wine and wait until it's time to baste... or better yet... tell us your favorite family recipe for Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner and you might find a surprise in your mailbox!  Just post it here in the "Comments" section!

One lucky winner will be picked!  I'll give you a bit of time.  Post your recipe by December 18th.