Frustrated.

I cannot figure out any other way to do it, to make my heart stop thundering with this crazy need to write. So I'm up now, near midnight, revising the same damn paragraphs I've spent all day on, interrupted.

Do people really do this?

A list happy inventory

In January for my birthday, inspired as always by Andrea's awesome lists, I wrote my own: 32 things to do before I turn 32. But then I forgot to post it, until now, when I was cleaning up the post-its on my desktop (how I love the post-it widget!) and found the list again. I was surprised by how many things I've already done, or started to do. Something about putting stuff on the page makes it happen. And I love that.

I'm thinking that maybe as I accomplish things on my list I'll post about it & link to the list in my sidebar. Aside from the sheer glee of writing them, nothing beats crossing stuff off lists. You too should make your very own list. I would LOVE it if you shared. Here in the comments. Or share the link to your list on your blog.

The thing about making a relatively long list of things to be completed in a relatively short time (a year) is that you have to really think about your life realistically. What do you really want to do this year? What do you want to accomplish? What are some of the small things that you have been meaning to do, that will likely get pushed to the side by bigger more consuming (and not necessarily on the list!) things unless you write them down?

this, in my heart

The birds don’t care about the stock market dips.The weather is unknowing of the forecast: clouds, even when there was call for sun. Things keep right on brazenly living, bursting, growing, with such a stark indifference to the tumbling of our souls.

Some days we’re just on this earth. Other, truer days, of it.

We have forgotten this. How to speak with our hands close to the ground, our fingers whispering with worms, our hearts wild like the hearts of salmon spawning. They swim upstream. They know how to leap, and to leap again, upwards, improbably against the current even as bears wait.

We are the only ones that are caught, feeling so much, trying for so much, for flint against stone, for a spark, or for a thousand bucks, for a cleft, a notch, a hold on all that we cannot hold. So much that on some days we’re deaf and busy in our little boxes, and on others, the song of the vireo is enough

and everything breaks open.

Springtime boys

Trying to get focused (and it's not really working)

It’s been like pulling hens teeth to get words on the page here lately. Life is happening full tilt and I’m all over the map. Things are busting out everywhere: dandelions, rhubarb, fiddleheads, grass. We have allergies, Bean and I. We are a display of loud, honking nose blowing, in the morning We eat fresh bread with tahini and honey; drink lattes over ice; and make our way to the mail box, the four of us, Bean on his bike, Sprout on me, and our goose bumbling behind, orange feet fwapping the gravel. We foray out, Bean ahead of us, wearing his yellow thunderbolt helmet, knees going around as fast as they possibly can, sneaker to the pedal. He is a whir, a blur, a sudden mess of limbs splat on the gravel. He gets up, brushes the gravel off hands, grins, rides off chattering.

Along the edges of the road the grass is growing tall. Pollen everywhere. The other day Bean was covered head to toe in hives after playing outside all day long in the windy, pollen heavy air. The kid is still throwing us curveballs with his health. With everything actually. This is a new phase. FOUR. Years. Old. He’s a big deal. “Look how strong my muscles are!” He tells us, flexing his bean-pole biceps. “I’m a superhero!” he yells, as he runs to fetch a diaper for Sprout.

Everything is a big deal. Everything is confusing and complex and full of danger and delight and curiosity. Everything is worthy of negotiation. He has an opinion about everything. It’s exhausting, sometimes. It’s a totally different ballpark parenting a kid than it is parenting a baby. In some ways, it makes the whole baby thing a piece of cake. Things are simpler when they revolve around four things: eat, sleep, poop, smile.

Sprout is three months old and brimming with gummy grins. It happened so fast, these past three months. With Bean I remember practically crossing off the days on the calendar, waiting for the three months, waiting for a time when he would be less fussy and I would get more sleep, but with Sprout, the days have just slipped by. He is a sleeper, a grinner, a delight. He lights up when he sees his big brother. He coos. He rolls over (tummy to back) and grabs things tight in his hands. In his sleep he practices laughing now. His little rib cage rising and falling with giggles about things without words, smiles fluttering about his face like humming birds.

Bean is ALL BOY now, no shred or scrap of toddler left in him, except for in the secret soft scent of his hair when he wakes up from a nap. He draws detailed robots , and pictures of people with many toes and big smiles. He draws alligators and diggers and suns with bright rays and monsters with many teeth. He writes his name on everything. He knows all his letters. He is obsessed with things that are “dangerous.” “Beavers can be dangerous,” he tells me matter of factly. “Because look at their big sharp teeth.” Other things that are dangerous according to Bean: moose (they can step on you!), monsters, earthquakes, alligators, tornados, bears, and pirates.

When he comes downstairs from a reluctant nap (he still needs them, but fights every. single. one.) his cheeks are rosy, his nose snuffly with allergies, his feet bare. He curls up in the crook of my arm as I type, and notices that I don’t use my left thumb as I write. “Why?” he asks. He asks why about every little thing in the whole world lately, and it’s a challenge because somewhere in the human brain there is a bit of hardwired code that makes a person compelled to answer that word.

On our way back from our walk, we trundle up the driveway hauling Bean’s bike and two day’s worth of Wall Street Journals. We stop at the coop to collect a half dozen smooth eggs in pale blue and brown. The chickens are finally starting to grow in new feathers after molting and looking generally ridiculous. We have more chicks coming in the mail next weekend. New Hampshire Reds and ‘chocolate layers’ that supposedly lay gorgeous dark brown eggs.

Spring is in full tilt. The garden beds are tilled. I’ve jumped the gun and planted some seedlings, and got my comeuppance immediately: the thermometer dipped, and the poor melons, I’m afraid they’re not going to make it. I must have been afflicted by a case of severe optimism to think I could get away with putting crookneck and honeydews in the ground before memorial day. I live in zone 5b after all. Last frost date: May 25. Sigh.

This week I’m determined to get back into posting. I can't honestly put a finger on why the cat’s got my tongue recently. Maybe I hit the delete key too much? I’m editing two short stories, and my time to write comes at me like a bone tossed at a dog: whenever, wherever. I’m not always prepared to gnaw the marrow of new words. I need some inspiration!

What does spring look like where you are? Tell me things. What are you doing this week? What are you planting? Eating? Listening to? Reading?

Topographs::9

Ever since happiness heard your name, it has been running through the streets looking for you. ~Hafiz

Adventures in food:: a perfect spring dinner

Hi. Happy Friday! How was your week? Mine was full of serendipity and unexpected gifts from strangers. Finding things in common. A date at a french bistro, shiraz and lively music. A dreamy Sprout. A bike-riding, giggling goofball Bean. Lots to tell about, when I get more than a half hour to write. In the meantime, here is an absolutely perfect dinner I simply had to share. I used to be so afraid of cooking/baking. Gradually I am discovering how much I love it. Especially when food is simple, like these recipes are: just a few ingredients, fresh, local, in season.

Best Springtime Salad Ever 1 bunch fresh asparagus 1 large handful sugar snap peas 1/2 head red lettuce 1/2 head romane lettuce (or improvise with whatever are the freshest best salad greens you can find!) grilled flank steak

Just barely saute asparagus & peas in a little lemon and olive oil. Turn the heat off when the asparagus is just tender, but still a bit crispy. Throw veggies onto a bed of fresh lettuce. Add one whole avocado sliced. Grill the steak until just medium rare. Slice thinly and add to the salad just before serving.

I used Brian's delicious vinaigrette. I used a seedy dijon mustard, thyme, tarragon, and parsley. Apply lavishly. Toss. DELICIOUS.

Inspired by Nigella's Hearthbread from How To Be A Domestic Goddess. So easy. And it turned out perfectly. Light, soft, flavorful, crusty.

3 1/2 c. white bread flour (I have found that actually using bread flour as opposed to substituting with just anything, really does make a difference!) 1 T. instant yeast (I used SAF Instant) 1 T. salt 1 1/3 c. warm water 5-ish T. olive oil 1-2 heads garlic 1 T. fennel seeds 1 T. herbs de Provence 1 handful parsley more olive oil

Preheat to 400. Mix flour, yeast & salt. Add water and olive oil. Stir until dough forms, add more liquid as needed. Make dough into a ball & knead until it feels really soft and supple. Put into a oiled bowl, cover with a tea towel & put in a warm place (a sunny windowsill is my new favorite spot for rising dough. In the winter, by the wood stove.)

While the dough is rising: peel heads of garlic, put onto tinfoil & drizzle with olive oil. Wrap loosely to make a little package & roast in the oven at 400. In a food processor pour a good splash or two of olive oil & add parsley. Give it a whirl. Then add the garlic once it has baked until it is golden and soft.

Reduce oven heat to 375.When the dough is double in size, deflate it, divide dough in half, put parchment paper on two baking sheets, and roll out dough to form a bulky rectangle or oval. I used my hands to stretch the dough. I found it very supple and easy to work with--no rolling necessary. Transfer the breads on their papers to baking sheets, cover with tea towels and let rise for 25 minutes until they are puffy. Then poke your fingers all over the tops of them to dimple them. Spread the garlic/parsley/olive oil mixture on one. On the other spread the fennel seeds, herbs de Provence, and more olive oil. Put them into the oven and bake at 375 for about 20 minutes until breads are cooked and golden.

The only way to eat this bread is greedily. With bare hands.

For dessert, fresh rhubarb grunt (also a Nigella recipe.) I use this recipe a lot, with any kind of spring or summer fruit (I described the peach version here,) but rhubarb in springtime is quintessential and utterly grand.

Grunt: Cut 4-5 stalks rhubarb into slices and place them in the bottom of a pie pan with a few dabs of butter and a sprinkle of sugar. Mix 1 cup flour, 1/3 cup sugar, and 1-1 ½ cups whipped cream together until it becomes a sticky dough. Place dough in mounded spoonfuls on top of peaches and bake at 375 degrees for about 40 minutes until the top is golden brown and the rhubarb bubbly.

*** Do you have any favorite spring recipes to share?

Smitten

I couldn't imagine this beforehand. How I'd be this head over heels. Entirely smitten. This boy, how I adore him.

tonight

In the pale crook of a birch a robin threading its song through the fluttering green of newly furled leaves makes my heart tremble.

Things are up in the air, and I’m holding my breath waiting for unrecognized brilliance. It’s like I’m occupying the thin space between air and water in a drinking glass, where the whole world is reflected in a line.

I spend whole days skimming, flitting, careening. In my molskine I’ve started writing again, finger bones gripping in quiet concert, the lead becoming a rush of loopy js and ys, answering the same questions each morning: what do I feel? What do I want?

Today I don’t know how to get myself started with the rest of my life. Today I am trying to catch up with myself. Trying to be something.

Across the sky clouds the color of cinnamon remember the fiery circle of the sun, then draw together close like stitches over a wound; gathering indigo, gathering twilight, gathering the night.

*** What do you feel? What do you want? Right now. Today. Right this moment.

Topographs::8

Stormy skies, holding hands, being on the same side, bath time for the boys, aged balsamic, Mary Oliver poems from my mother, the color of the grass, stacks of folded laundry, striped yellow baby socks, a trip to the bookstore, and loving him.

How to hold these moments

I know that nothing lasts. I know that spring in this place, northward where the light is lingering now and the first dandelions fleck the lawn, will become summer before I blink. I know these days will pass, and I will look back, suddenly much older than I am, with a heart full of longing for the sweet scent of my son’s head after playing in his sandbox until noon and for the way each year we celebrate the first trillium, purple and secretive by the tumbling stone wall, with our own little giddy dance.

I will likely not remember this season’s heart full of ambiguity and ache. I will probably entirely forget how Bean has entered a new SUPER BOSSY exceptionally annoying phase this past week where he’s trying on YELLING and DEMANDING just to see how far he gets with that. (Not far, little man. Not far at all.)

I know this, and yet I’m still struggling with being right here in these moments, because damn, right here in these moments is an uncomfortable place to be sometimes.

I know they are not unique, these moments of stress and financial strain and oh damn, I’ll just say it, it’s spring and I’m feeling a little tethered by these two boys. I still don’t know how to take on the playground, or any trip for that matter that involves just me and my boys. I don’t know how she does it with her girl tribe and her positive attitude all the time, because right now nothing terrifies me quite as much as the prospect of being out somewhere when they launch into their perfectly synchronized meltdowns.

I need to know how you do this with two. How do you get two into the car and then back out of it—without a double stroller. How do you make sure the big one doesn’t fall off the swing at the playground or get run over in the parking lot while toting the enormous weight a car seat carrier or a baby strapped to your person? What do you do with the big one while the little one needs a diaper change at the bookstore, and the situation demands an entire change of clothing due to an apparent explosion up the back? Or, how do you possibly navigate something as civilized and pleasant as a story hour for the bigger one, if the littler one is present and possibly grumpy? Not to mention—shopping for a new pair of jeans? (He’s here, he’s there, he’s under every freaking clothes rack in the store, and oh joy, he’s managed to unhang eighty nine dresses, even though of course, he didn’t mean to.)

My solution thus far has been to stay home. Which is decidedly not a good solution. It is spring after all. Picnic baskets seem in order, and swinging at the playground and trips to the bakery for croissants. There is a consignment store for fabulous vintage jeans I’ve been dying to poke around in, and there are errands of the more mundane sort (the post office for more stamps, we’re out of Vitamin C, the chickens need more hay) that seem to pile up, never getting done. I’m floundering a bit. This two thing is hard. Not loving them, just having them. Together. Logistically speaking.

I know it will all pass, and I’ll be grinning like a cat after a bowl of cream in four or five years when I can use both hands for carrying things like lattes and shopping bags, and my boys will be SO BIG. I know it will get easier, and I’ll take a not-so-secret glee in watching my currently childless friends whose lives seem divinely effortless right now, navigate these same first years with their own little ones. Because it just is the way it is. Littleness demands patience and selflessness and satisfaction in small things.

Guess what I'm figuring out?

Having little ones means showing up for parenting even when you don’t feel like it. It's not Bean’s fault or Sprout’s that I’m worried about money, or that DH and I sometimes climb a proverbial tower of Babel and are unable to say anything the other one understands, or that my pants are tight, or I miss my girlfriends. Because these days that are passing? These hours of bright sunlight and stormy afternoons; these rain puddles and duck feathers and muddy garden beds; these moments? These are their childhood.

Theirs. Short, fleeting, glorious.

So even though DH and I were both tired and preoccupied after going for a run yesterday (with both boys in the jogger and the sun warm on our backs) I went and got the little plastic terrarium and hiked down to the neighbor’s pond because I promised I would.

I promised Bean I’d help him catch a tadpole, and he held me to my promise, big-eyed, curious, eager. We went before dinner, and I tried very hard to just sink into our time together. The grass was scandalously green. There were soft catkins from the birches under foot, and mud, and sparkly rocks. We went barefoot, and in the pond the silt was soft. The reeds from last year's cattails were limp and brown and lumpy with gelatinous bobbing egg sacks.

I waded out, sun-warmed water up to my knees and scooped the jellied eggs. Polliwogs soon, we think. We also caught a newt. Still with gills. Its belly jewel like, spotted, yellow and green.

“I love you, Newty” Bean kept whispering later, as he sat at the kitchen table in glorious evening sunlight, drawing what he saw.

These moments, how to hold them? How do you hold them and let them be enough?

Oh restless heart, be still, be still.

Weekend Topographs::7

Too many favorites from the weekend to just post one pair of topograph photos. Since I've been doing these I've become so much more aware of my environment. Of textures, light, sound, color. How one experience influences another, how one image brings something to the next. Delight is effortless when I take notice.

White wine & stake frites, just him & holding hands, window shopping & pretty dresses, ice creams, 85 degrees, sunset on the lake.

Spring finally, catching tadpoles, rubber boots, woodpeckers, small boy wipe-outs on the bike, Neosporin, compost, more seed starts, the first sunburn of the season.

An impromptu Sunday road trip, the best BLT ever, old train stations, collard greens & trout, cupcakes, piano jazz, picking daffodils, and remembering that sometimes making memories and being present is enough. More than enough.

*** What was your weekend like?

Topographs::6

Wood fired pizza by the slice, an unshakable feeling of happiness, a nap, an afternoon latte, running with sun on my shoulders, the weather forecast, flip flops, macaroons, and getting grocery shopping done with the whole family & no stress.

Topographs::5

Sticky little boy kisses, planting more seed starts, stormy skies, dragon rolls & sashimi with a good friend, a new New Yorker in the mail box, lemon frosted cupcakes, Lego rocket ships, and Sprout's endless beautiful smiles.

***

Also listening to this. Have you seen/heard it? Bean and I couldn't get enough this morning over breakfast. We're both jazz lovers. The boy falls asleep to Miles' Kind of Blue album every night. I have always secretly wished I could play the sax. He wants to be on drums.

I'm working on a long post for tomorrow. Aperture. View. The way we look at this right now. This life. Is you expected it to be ten years ago the life you are living now? How is it different?

Topographs:: 4

Impromptu bakery fresh croissants & macaroons, french toast with homemade bread, Bean dancing to Bananarama before bed, kissing on the couch, sun breaking through the clouds just before dusk, the unlimited possibilities of a cardboard box, video chatting with my sister, lego rocket ships, the first daffodils, revising five paragraphs, a load of blue towels in the dryer, and making soup for lunch (butternut squash, rosemary, chicken & wild rice.)

Topographs::3

A hot shower, sun, an iced latte, David Sedaris in the New Yorker, laughing, glasses made in Italy, wind in spirals, new-to-me terra cotta bread pans, my mother's smiles, newly baked bread & butter, another latte, stacking fire wood, rain against the evening windows, bare feet.

Topographs::2

A new sandbox. Straight-up sunshine. Dessert to remember (lemon meringue with a flaky pate brisee.) On our walk: splashy puddles, new lilac buds, red barns.

2 months old

Things I want to remember about you this month: Your curly eyelashes. The way you thump your feet. How you put yourself to sleep for naps almost anywhere: on the floor on a quilt, on the couch, in bed. Your coos, your grunts like a freight train arriving at a station. The way you suck down milk, gulping noisily. Your smile like a the fluttering of a hundred humming birds among the summer hibiscus. Hiccups. The intensity of your gaze. Today your blue eyes look more hazel when the light shines through your iris. The way your head smells like milk and honey and vanilla.

You are patient and peaceful and I am grateful every day for this. It was so hard to have you in my belly, but now you are a dream. I relish every day. Even the tired ones. I am smitten. Head over heels.

You only cry when you need something and then only until you are sure we get the message (the minute we start removing your pants, you stop fussing, knowing a diaper change is on it’s way.) In the night you only fuss if you are hungry, and even then you mustly grunt and wave your arms about: hey mama, some milk would be great. We both fall back to sleep as you nurse.

In the past few weeks we’ve fallen into a pretty nice rhythm at night—you sometimes even sleep for five hours in a row, which compared to how little your brother slept, feels like a blessed eternity of sleep.

Milestones: You discovered your hands this week. You stare at your balled up fists, almost going cross-eyed. You suck on them like they are some kind of delicious treat. You use them to pull your pacifier to you; to bat at toys; to grab as much of my long hair as you can hold. You cling to it like a monkey.

You also roll over tummy to back, beautifully, like a pro. You were born with this talent, and showed it to us first at two weeks old. Already you hold your head up high and steady. You prop yourself up on elbows and look around the room.

Sometimes I lie with you belly down and look too. I see shoes, legos, cookie crumbs, hair barrettes. I see people’s feet, polka-dot rainboots, the edge of the blanket, logs by the wood stove, the Persian carpet fringe. Your

Little one, right now as I type you are lying beside me on the couch on a sheepskin. You are staring up at me and waving your arms and legs about, thumping your foot down with determination, trying to get me to look at you. When I do you reward me with these otherworldly grins. Pure, pure delight. Your entire face beams, and it makes me feel like helium, like swooping barn swallows, or fireflies flitting in the tall grass at dusk.

I am so in love with you tears sometimes spring to my eyes. I love to nap with you, to hold you close, to sing you silly songs. I love how you smile at your big brother, how you seem to get that he still wants my whole lap sometimes. You wait patiently in the wings, waving your arms, chortling, cooing. I cannot believe I ever doubted loving you. I cannot imagine my days without you in them. My favorite thing is quiet mornings when you are napping on my chest and I am writing. Together we have watched spring slowly arrive outside the windows, going out cautiously under parkas to cut forsythia or collect eggs from the coop. Together we have watched the days grow longer, your first days, gradually filling with light. How I love you.

Topographs*::1

*top'o·graph' (tŏp'ə-grāf') n. The surveying of the features of a place or region. The study or description of a region or part of something.

I am planning to share a photo or two at the end of every day for a while. To remember the shape of things. The texture of moments. And to practice honing my eye with the camera.

Also, this bread turned out brilliantly today. My favorite so far (I plan to start regularly blogging about my bread adventures.) Perfect for sopping up fresh olive oil with mozzarella and a little basil and tomato. It was also yummy fresh, with raspberry jam.

Ingredients: 2 1/4 teaspoons active dry yeast 7/8 cup warm water (I approximated this. Who has a 1/8 measuring cup?) 2 1/2 cups unbleached bread flour (I used this kind.) 1 1/2 teaspoons sugar 1 1/2 teaspoons salt cornmeal to sprinkle on baking sheet

Proof yeast and 1/2 tsp sugar in 7/8 cup warm water for 10 minutes in a warm place. I put mine near our wood stove.

In processor, mix flour, remaining 1 teaspoon sugar and salt. With processor running, (Bean was TOTALLY into being in charge of this!) pour in the yeast mixture in a continuous stream.

The dough should combine and come clean from the sides of the bowl within a few seconds. After dough combines, let processor run for a little bit more until the dough forms a ball.

Roll the dough with your hands to about 18 inches long. It was sticky at first, but then became pleasantly soft and dry. Place on sheet that has been sprinkled with corn meal (to prevent dough from sticking). Cover loosely with oiled plastic wrap. (The oil is essential!)

Allow to rise in warm place for about 45 minutes. I put mine by the stove again, on the floor, the plastic wrap covered with a tea towel. When I went back to check, the cat had found it and was contentedly kneading it and purring. No harm done. Thank god for the plastic wrap though!

Preheat oven 375. Remove plastic and diagonally slash loaf with a sharp knife at about 3-inch intervals.

Spray dough with water & bake for 20 minutes or until lightly browned. Mine needed more time. I also sprayed it a 2 more times.

pancakes & dumplings

He is on the mend. All your love after my last post meant the world to me. I laugh now at how worked up we managed to get ourselves. But then I stop laughing and am deeply, profoundly grateful. Google + parenting = not such a great idea sometimes. No? I love the Anna Quindlin quote that Julie shared so much.

Right now: At the kitchen counter after breakfast. He's eaten four pancakes after helping DH make them. Martha's recipe, which is the best. Fresh blueberries. On the windowsill the first spring peaches, from Mexico, but still. Out in the back yard robins are gathering dried grass for nests. The sky is overcast, rain threatening.

Bean climbs up into my lap and we snap pictures. A silly face, now a pouty one. We giggle in between. Both of us look rediculous. I am addicted to the sound of his laughter. I can't help it. I tickle him just to get a fix. I am so happy this kid is feeling better. The past two mornings he's woken up declaring "I'm HUNGRY." Love it.

Apparently he's playing catch-up. Today pancakes, last night two orders of dumplings at our local pacific islands restaurant. He loves brightly colored wooden masks they have hanging on the walls. I love the paper parasols hanging from the ceiling, twirling in the breeze of the ceiling fan. Outside people walked by in droves. He wants new flip flops. I'm already wearing mine. We're both bare feet people.

Right now: the dryer is on and Bean has obviously left quarters in his pockets. They clank about but we don't do anything about it. DH and Bean are making plans to go to the dump, then to rent a rototiller. Time to turn over the soil in the garden; though it's cold today and spitting. Likely we'll go out with gloves and rain boots anyway. Get really dirty. Bean will collect earthworms. Then we'll make hot chocolate and eat fresh bread.

Later, I'll share the recipe, and some photos of my beautiful two month old Sprout.

What are your Saturday plans?