On Foodie Kids & Pumpkin-Eating

It's so yesterday to talk about cooking on a parenting blog...but here's the thing: it's also so tomorrow.  Every single morning, no matter how much I fed them the day before, those pesky kids wake up hungry. 

We are blessed with foodie children. That is to say, they get excited about things like crispy kale and mustard cod and curried chickpeas.  I say "blessed" because I don't in any way take credit for this miracle, nor will I try to explain for you how to get your kids to eat a wider variety of flavors or colors. Mine have got a bit of jealous streak to them, so if anything maybe their culinary adventurousness stems from wanting to eat what the grown-ups are eating. (This gets murky when it comes to beverages, of course; a discussion for another day.)

Like all of us, they have their aversions: Ruby wouldn't touch a mushroom if Daniel Radcliffe were offering it from his palm, and Bella has similar feelings about tomatoes. Louisa will beg like a pro for anything on my plate, and then will decline, quite politely ("no tank you") if what's on my plate happens to be lettuce or fish. 

Undoubtedly, if the kids helped to cook it, they tend to enjoy eating it. Ruby is a pro at making meatballs and pancakes. Recently she made her birthday cupcakes with very minimal assistance. Bella likes to make her own eggs. They are both all over the smoothie maker (hand blender).

A few weeks ago, we went pumpkin and apple picking, which led to a fantastic spate of family cooking projects. There's nothing like eating foods made from fruits you picked yourself. (Even better, I would imagine, if you grew them yourself. One day: growing fruit and veg is on my bucket list. Check back with me in thirty or so years...) Josh and Ruby made apple galettes, and 

caramelized apple slices. I made apple muffins, and then pumpkin muffins.

In honor of the national week of the pumpkin, I really wanted to post my recipe for child-approved high-fiber pumpkin muffins (these kinds of blog posts are supposed to have recipes!). Those muffins were fought over like...like...hotcakes. But, sadly, I can't, because I didn't write it down. My recipes are often devised by opening no less than three web pages, and then creating, in the bowl, a mashup based on what I have at hand. I have no fear of oat bran, nor sugar. (Okay, maybe that's why they were so good).

We still have another pumpkin. What pumpkin experiment will be next? No time for frivolous baking; there is still dinner to cook for today. Maybe a spicy pumpkin coconut curry would be just the thing. Or, on second thought, a nap.

Confession: I Love Mother's Day

It's a so-called "Hallmark holiday," beleaguered by consumerism and guilt-buying. It's the reason why shelves are full of icky #1 Mom mugs, bad chocolate, overpriced cards, and other detritus that ends up overflowing landfills. Its founder, Anna Jarvis, essentially disowned it.

Before I had kids, I called my mother and told her I loved her. Maybe sent flowers. That was about it. No big fuss, and no guilt. It was a Hallmark holiday, after all.

But now, as a mom of three, I must confess that I love Mother's Day. Here's why:

1. Secrets. All that whispering between my daughters and their dad leading up to the big day was pure joy. These girls love a secret, and they especially love having a secret from me. Bless them.

2. Self-directed art projects. Gotta love those awesome cards and posters...how sweet, right?  You know they won't be doing that anymore in only a few years' time. But best of all, it took them many nagging-and-boredom-free minutes to make them (secretly and quietly in their rooms). What mom doesn't love that?

3. Peace and quiet. Josh took all three kids out to buy the ingredients for brunch, and then to his parents' to cook it, leaving me ALL ALONE for almost two hours. I took a shower, without having to stick my head out three times to negotiate with a child. I got dressed, without any visitors. I left the house and walked in the sunshine to a nail salon, where someone soaked and rubbed my feet and put purple polish (aptly named "playdate") on my toes. Yes, my family knows how to pamper a mom.

4. Brunch. My mishpacha put together a meal of egg and whitefish salad, smoked salmon, potatoes (by Bella), arugula-walnut-parmigiano salad (with the most delicious dressing by Aunt Nina), and a beautiful fruit salad with mango, peaches, and pomegranate seeeds (by Ruby). They made sure I had a cup of coffee in my hand, without having to get up to fetch it. When the meal was over, they snapped at me for trying to help clean up. Wow.

5. Cooperation. For some reason, my instructions carry more weight on this day. The kids listen because it's against the understood rules to argue or disobey with me on Mother's Day. (Well, the big kids did. The two-year-old had better get with the program for next year.) Admittedly, it stinks that this isn't the case every day. But hey, I'll take it.

6. Love and appreciation. You'll notice there are no gifts on this list. I didn't get any, and I didn't want any. What I like most about Mother's Day is that my kids were reminded to appreciate me, and they did. They know that that it takes a lot to take care of them. I think that knowledge will go a long way to make them good mothers themselves one future day, should motherhood be in their cards.

All in all, I think Anna Jarvis would have approved.

No, there's no need for kids' day, we told the girls yesterday. Because every day is kids' day. Well, today I appreciate my unique and quirky and difficult and loving and wonderful kids--who made me a mother, after all--just a smidgeon more. And their dad, too.

A Holiday of Schmaltz and Love

Josh made chopped liver yesterday. I will admit that this very fact made me a little crazy, on the day before Passover when I had to clean and change over the kitchen: a dastardly chore perhaps only understood by other Passover-observers for its full-on over-the-top-ness. By the time Josh was able to start cooking in our Passover-ready kitchen, I had spent several hours scrubbing, boiling, and covering. I was tired, and could have used a full-body massage, or at least a nap. But instead, I gave over the kitchen to him, where he reined in complete thrall to his schmaltz and livers for the next half-day, while I took two of the kids out to pick up those last-minute chopped liver indispensables: a Passover food processor and fine mesh strainer.

(As Passover observers, we need to have a separate collection of kitchen utensils and equipment, all only to be used for this one week each year. Our collection is bare-bones, indeed. Every year, we say we'll buy more tools for proper cooking on Passover, and every year we fail to make the necessary investment. "It's only a few more days," we tell ourselves. "We can get by without a knife that can cut through a carrot, and a saucepan makes a perfectly fine teapot.")

Josh and I have different approaches to time spent in the kitchen. I tend to be efficient, using simple but tasty recipes that produce predictable, appreciated results. As my big brother likes to say, Josh is ambitious. No shortcuts for him. He spent hours rendering schmaltz from chicken skin, which he bought from our awesome local/ pastured/ sustainable/ kosher butcher, Grow and Behold. His inspiration for taking this project on, as well as the recipe he used, came from The Book of Schmaltz: A Love Song To a Forgotten Fat, which was a birthday present from his sister, Nina. The two of them share the ambitious-cooking gene.

There was one hairy moment in the kitchen, after I returned with the equipment. Josh realized, after all that rendering, that he wouldn't have enough schmaltz for the recipe. Glitches like this frequently happen when you're making a recipe for the first time--something doesn't turn out just the way you expected, because, in fact, you don't really know what to expect. This may be why, come to think of it, I avoid new and complicated recipes. So much effort, without guaranteed results? Yikes.

I suggested he could make chicken stock, and use the fat skimmed from the top of the pot. Thence began simultaneous project number two: several burners going, plus rising stress levels as the frozen chicken bones were stubbornly stuck to their styrofoam packaging.

I had to go out again to pick up last-minute groceries: eggs, onions, milk, eggs (there are never enough eggs on Passover). Our three girls, plus one friend, were full of energy and none of them wanted to come out shopping with me. They were screaming and doing wheelbarrows and making Louisa laugh. I told Josh I was leaving and he looked at me like I was nuts. "Can't you take them with you?" he asked. To which I responded by smiling and telling him it would be ok. And I left.

When I came home our whole apartment smelled like Golde's kitchen from Fiddler on the Roof. The stove and counters, which, remember, I had just hours before meticulously scrubbed, were covered in a film of grease. The sink was stacked high with grimy bowls and utensils. But the kids were all happy, and Josh greeted me with a bite of what may be the best chopped liver I have ever tasted: creamy, umami-ful, with delicious crunchy bites of onions and gribenes. Love.

Wishing you and yours a happy holiday, complete with old-world ambitious food, be it schmaltzy or vegetarian, made by someone you love.

Don't Stress About the Challah

Recently, a friend invited our family for Shabbat dinner. But then she became worried that she didn't have the right ritual objects, or that the menu would be somehow inappropriate because she is a vegetarian. Here's what I said to her:

You don't need a kiddush cup--any cup will do. And same with the food. All you need for Shabbat is wine (or grape juice), challah, and good cheer. You can order chinese--we'd all be very happy!

Before Josh and I had kids, when we were in our early and mid-twenties, our Shabbat dinners were an important part of our week. The meal was always home-made (though not always made well), with friends, several of whom were regulars (you know who you are), and challah and wine, and relaxed, we've-got-no-place-to-go good cheer. We weren't shul-goers then, so we had little institutional connection that tied us to religion-at-large. But we had those dinners, which became our own kind of ritual, steeped in tradition but shaped to our own needs (which sometimes included going out late to hear jazz, leaving plates piled all over the kitchen). We had a rotating cast of singles, and even some temporary unions (alas, no lasting shiduchs; it was never our forte). It was like an episode of "Friends," with [slightly less attractive?] Jews, and traditional braided egg bread.

I'm thinking about those dinners today because we still have them. The regulars have changed: now it's our daughters who have their customary seats at the table. We still love having guests: the more the merrier. I've never been intimidated by extra seats at the table. If there's not enough food (has that ever happened?), there's always more rice or more pasta or a salad that can be fixed quickly. We clear the detritus of the week off the table, shut off devices, and say the brachot over the candles, the wine, and the challah. Then, over the meal, we catch up with each other about the week. (As Ruby likes to say, "Ok, Dad, now tell your story about work.") The cooking has certainly improved with time, and the menu has evolved. Although there are old standards that circle back often ("Shabbos chicken," a crowd pleaser, and roasted veggies). When we were in London I taught myself how to bake challah. Now I know the real way to please a crowd.

My first ever challah, 9/2009. A little funny-looking. They look better, now. 

But today, for instance, I don't have time for challah baking. Not all weeks are equal in terms of time to prepare, to even think about cooking or shopping [peeps working on the SSSM auction, I know you're feeling me here]. But even on a day like today, no matter how busy any of us may be, we will gather and we will share and we will eat. The challah doesn't matter, the menu doesn't matter. Just the company and the quiet and the ritual of gathering together, at the same time, matters. And that's how easy it is to make Shabbat.

Our challah tonight, freshly smushed from Bella's backpack