Lunch at Bronte, my favorite bookstore and hanging out with Nini—what could be better?
“Cheerfulness, it would appear, is a matter which depends fully as much on the state of things within, as on the state of things without and around us.” —Charlotte Bronte
In the beginning, the titles “girlfriend” and “boyfriend” are often so nebulous. Are we? you wonder. Are we? he wonders. Typically a somewhat awkward conversation over dinner solves the issue, hopefully leaving both parties happy.
Often, it’s the word “fiancé” that sends us into fits next. “This is my fiancé,” you say, quickly followed by “Oh my God that’s so weird to say!” (Cue arm squeeze and kiss on the cheek.) There’s a certain flightiness that accompanies “fiancé”—it’s poof and giddiness and icing so sweet it makes your teeth hurt.
Next comes “husband” and “wife.” These are heavy words. “Husband.” “Wife.” Much more serious. Still romantic, yes, but a little less idealistic.
And then “dad.” And “mom.” The title of mom came easily for me. Perhaps it’s because I wanted it so much. Perhaps because it’s not at all nebulous and it’s not simply made true after a lavish ceremony or some signed legal papers. I was mothering Sophie inside of me before she was even born. The intense caretaking that followed her birth simply reinforced the role.
But, for some reason, Sophie’s role as daughter—my daughter—really hasn’t felt real to me until last night. And it was such a simple act. I was picking out some birthday wrapping paper. It’s pretty white paper, with fun flowers on it, obviously meant for a little girl—my little girl. My daughter. Something swelled and I almost cried—right there in a Target shopping aisle.
Maybe it’s because for so long she’s been my baby. “Daughter” seems older to me. More grownup. Oh, I still think of her as my baby. She’s not toddling around yet therefore I find it hard to call her my toddler. She still wears pajamas with feet. She still nurses. She still uses her infant carrier. But she communicates with me, even if I don’t understand all of it. I’m no longer just her caretaker. We do things together, like a mother and daughter. She now requires wrapping paper, with pretty flowers on it.
There are so many titles I won’t experience—partner, father, doctor, son. And there are so many titles that possibly, hopefully, await me—aunt, grandma, mother-in-law. And some that feel like they’ve always just been there—sister, cousin, granddaughter, daughter.
And now my daughter. My daughter.
(Andy loves to sing this song to her.)
“That’s my daughter in the water, who’d have ever thought her? Who’d have ever thought?” —Loudon Wainwright III
I’m sorry I sort of freaked out when I first got here, Rashmi. Sometimes I do that—I just start crying and I can’t stop!
Mom talks about you all the time. She says we’re going to be best friends. Now that I’m over the crying thing, and we’re banging on the coffee table together, I think she’s right.
I LOVE her, Mom! When is she coming back?
“The best part of life is when your family becomes your friends, and your friends become your family.” —Danica Whitfield
Last Sunday we finally got to meet Shruti and Arun’s beautiful daughter, Rashmi—she’s just a couple months younger than Sophie. Shruti’s parents cooked us a delicious south Indian dinner, and it was so fun spending time with Shruti, Arun, Rashmi, Aimee and Jon. If only they lived closer!
“Nothing makes the earth seem so spacious as to have friends at a distance; they make the latitudes and longitudes.” —Henry David Thoreau
a crocus
no coat
inside, outside game
sitting on the porch
playing in the grass
“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.” —Charles Dickens
Last week Mom wanted me to help her make a card for my soon-to-be-here-friend Baby Beets.
“Even just a little scribble will do,” she said. But I didn’t want to scribble. I wanted to eat them instead (Mom freaked out for only a second until she discovered they’re non-toxic. Still, she wouldn’t let me put them in my mouth anymore.)
Sorry, Mom. Guess you’re going to have to wait to do craft projects with me a little longer.
“A box of new crayons! Now they’re all pointy, lined up in order, bright and perfect. Soon they’ll be a bunch of ground down, rounded, indistinguishable stumps, missing their wrappers and smudged with other colors. Sometimes life seems unbearably tragic.” —Bill Watterson
A couple Saturdays ago Andy and I attended Danielle and Bill’s wedding with my parents—Danielle was one of the happiest brides I’ve seen in a long time. Sophie enjoyed four(!) babysitters that night (thanks again, Jenna, Greg, Angel and Marty).
“May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.” —Irish blessing
We recently decided to let Sophie sleep with a blanket large enough to really keep her warm. We decided this blanket, which our dear friend Linda lovingly knitted for Sophie, is perfect. For even if Sophie does get tangled up in it it’s still quite breathable (Andy and I both held it tightly over our faces and were able to breathe—a highly scientific test, I’m sure). I can’t imagine sleeping at night without a sheet or blanket of some sort—even in the summer. So I’m happy Sophie now has one of her own.
“If you are cold at night, let the promise of my love cover you like a warm blanket.” —Matthew White
For reasons I won’t go into here, Sophie’s love of cheese occasionally means a meal of prunes are in order.
This can be trying.
“Well, Art is Art, isn’t it? Still, on the other hand, water is water. And east is east and west is west and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does. Now you tell me what you know.” —Groucho Marx
My daughter will only eat cheese. That’s not entirely true. She still nurses, at least four times a day, often more. I plan to start weaning her once I can substitute my breast milk with whole milk, which is after her first birthday. I don’t expect the process to go well. She loves to nurse.
She’ll occasionally eat other things, especially if she can feed them to herself—bits of banana, wheat bread, Cheerios, goldfish crackers, peas. Actual jarred baby food is very hit or miss. Typically she pushes it away, “telling” us that she’s grownup now (can’t we see?) and will we please give her food she can pick up on her own. She’ll let us spoon-feed her yogurt, though, and (of course) cottage cheese.
But all we have to do is show her the bag of pre-shredded cheese and the girl goes nuts. We pour some on her tray and she stuffs it in her mouth by the fistful. It’s the only food she’ll actually convey in her 11-month-old way that she wants more.
So, I decided to get creative. Last night Andy and I made roasted red pepper & goat cheese puree. (The recipe is from Cooking for Baby, a beautiful book.) To make 1 cup you simply need one large red bell pepper and 1-1/2 oz. of pasteurized fresh goat cheese.
• Preheat broiler. Line a roasting pan with aluminum foil. Place whole pepper on pan and roast, turning every 3 minutes, until evenly charred and blackened on all sides, 12-15 minutes.
• Remove pan from oven, put pepper in a covered container, and let sit until cool enough to handle. (The steam inside the container will loosen the skin.)
• Using your fingers or a paring knife, peel off skin. Cut pepper in half lengthwise and remove seeds and stem. Cut halves in half again lengthwise and puree in a food processor until smooth. Additional liquid will not be needed. Spoon goat cheese into processor and process with pepper puree until well blended and creamy.
To store: Refrigerate puree in an airtight container for up to three days.
I share this recipe with you because it’s good—really good. I tried it. Sophie, on the other hand, hated it. And it wasn’t the goat cheese. (She loved the goat and cheddar grilled cheese sandwiches we made.) It was the red pepper. Or maybe it was the puree. Or maybe it was the fact that it was served on a spoon.
I don’t know. Andy and I find such joy in food. I want her to find joy in food, too. Joy beyond shredded cheese.
“Cheese has always been a food that both sophisticated and simple humans love.” —M.F.K. Fisher
