pink pajama mama

Cathy and I took Henry and Annabelle to the French Quarter today to watch the Stella shouting contest that is the climax of the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival. I’ve always wanted to attend, but have never made it, but today was the perfect day–no humidity, no extreme heat–crisp air, a brilliantly sunny day–no clouds, blue sky–incredible day in New Orleans. We looked at the street artists–we liked the mermaids–and had beignets at Cafe Du Monde. We climbed and played and got balloon animals and the babies got their faces painted. Henry was a wolf boy, Annabelle was a butterfly.Stella stood in a retro slip on the balcony of a Pontalba apartment while a group of aspiring Stanleys geared up to shout their hearts out, fall to their knees, while tearing their shirts. Soooo funny I was crying! Most of the contestants were guys who had too much to drink and happened to be walking by the contest. One was a woman dressed as a pirate carrying a chihuahua, one was a woman dressed as a clown. It’s the end of pirate week in New Orleans–only in New Orleans. And this is why I love New Orleans.I couldn’t help but wonder what the kids thought as they watched these grown men act out this scene. I knew it would start cropping up in their play, and sure enough, on the way home, Henry started shouting Stella from his car seat and pretending to tear at his shirt. I can’t stop laughing around here. 

OK, I elect two year old Henry as messiest toddler of the year. This afternoon, he was eating a chocolate ice cream cone which is only allowed in the kitchen. I saw him through the crack of the door toddling down the hall with his cone. I watched him drop it upside down, squat down to pick it up, but then change his mind and get down on all fours where he promptly began eating it like a puppy. I was brushing my teeth, so I continued, realizing I’d just have to clean it up in a minute. When I re-emerge, he says, “Mama, I’m ice skating!” And he is. He’s ice skating through a large patch of melted smooshed ice cream which now covers him from forehead to toes, including between his adorably pudgy toes. He has smeared chocolate ice cream all over the walls as he’s hanging onto the wall and it’s all over his hands.After I clean up him and that mess, I hear a big ruckus in the hallway as I’m putting Annabelle’s hair in a ponytail. Next thing I know, he’s dumped out a paper bag full of books in the hallway and is stumbling into the bathroom with the bag on his head.He is our little hero though. The other morning Annabelle saw a roach down near the front door. She came running back up to me and said, “Mama! Mama!! I saw a real cucuracha!! I feel like I ate butterflies!”Henry was playing quietly by himself, but as soon as he heard her, he was off to the rescue. A few minutes later I heard him shout “I dot it mama!!”  ”You got what?” I replied.”I dot the bug!”I ran down the stairs and sure enough he had killed this giant hard shelled prehistoric creature WITH ANNABELLE’S TINY PINK CROC that must weigh less than an ounce!! I have no idea how he did this. When George gets them, he uses his own giant shoe and smacks it about 10 times. Not Henry, he used a tiny little pink shoe.This of course sent Annabelle into hysterics and I had to spray her shoe with antibacterial spray. Always an adventure around here! 

The Case of the Chocolate Footprints

Today there was a mystery in my house, and we love a good mystery around here. If we can’t find one, we create one. For example: The Case of the Missing Car Keys, The Case of Mama’s Missing Cell Phone, The Case of the Little Lizard in the Paintbrush Drawer…

 On this particular day, I was busy making lunch and when I turned around and saw a trail of footprints across the kitchen floor. I gasped. “Where did these footprints come from?” I asked. We all looked at the footprints and then each other’s feet, we being me, my two-year-old son, Henry, and my four-year-old daughter, Annabelle. It wasn’t long before we found the culprit— Henry’s little pink toes were covered in chocolate.

Henry is one of those amazing children that can eat one cookie and end up with it in his hair, across his face, down his belly, and yes, smeared all over his tiny plump feet.

I had just swept the floor, but it was impossible to feel anything but amusement. I stand by the motto I have taped on my refrigerator: “My favorite kitchen has chocolate fingerprints on the appliances and flour on the floor.” 

In Italian architecture, the “hearth room” is often an extension of the kitchen. The Italian word for hearth is “focolare” from the same root for the word, “focus.” This makes sense as the kitchen is the heartbeat and focus of most homes. I like to fantasize about the hearth-like kitchen I’ll have one day: arched ceilings, a brick oven, Tuscan colored walls, a lavendar dishwasher, and plenty of room for family and friend to hang out with a glass of wine while I’m cooking. Recently, I was able to pick out a few things for the little kitchen in my new house. My coup de grace of the entire house? A blue granite farmhouse sink, one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I love running my hands over the rough side, and I must say everyone who comes to the house gasps when they see the sink and says the kitchen is their favorite room.

I don’t know why I’m so devoted to kitchens as cooking has never been my forte. The only recipe I’ve ever mastered is chocolate chip cookies. I’ve been the cookie queen since I was twelve years old. But other food? What other food? To me, the essential food groups are all contained in a big bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough. Add oatmeal and the nutritional value increases exponentially.

However, I knew I couldn’t feed my growing children cookies, so I learned to cook, and amazingly enough, I’ve learned to enjoy it. I love making hot meals that nourish their growing bodies. I like thinking about which vegetables, fruits, whole grains, and proteins they might want to eat today, and I feel very fortunate that they love vegetables. The other night I told Annabelle she could pick whatever she wanted to eat for dinner and it could be anything. She shouted exuberantly, “Broccoli and carrots!” Wow. I offer you anything and you pick broccoli and carrots? I made oven-roasted cauliflower the other day and Annabelle said, “These are great Mom! They taste like candy!” My heart did a little flip. Of course, I made them again a couple of days later and they weren’t nearly as popular as the first time. In fact they were spit out accompanied by a nasty face. But I just keep presenting a wide array of colorful veggies and tell the kids we need to eat rainbows to be our strongest. Incredibly, they get very excited about eating rainbows and will usually try just about anything colorful I put in front of them. And I’ll tell you a little secret if you don’t already know: when you roast veggies in the oven at a very high heat (like 450-500) after you’ve massaged a little olive oil and salt into them, all the natural sugars in them rise to the surface making them taste—and I’m not kidding here—better than candy.

And so my cooking has become a labor of love, I never thought I’d see the day when I, self-proclaimed domestic disaster, reveled in cooking, but when you’re doing it to nurture the people you love, it takes on a whole new meaning. It becomes a sacred rite. And I get to reap the benefits of it myself by eating more healthy food then I ever thought possible.

And I still bake the cookies. And I have the curves to prove it.

As for Henry, he was delighted by his chocolate feet. After gazing at them with wonder for several minutes, he sat down, lifted his foot, and said, “Mama, lick my toes!”

It’s not every day you hear those words come out of someone’s mouth. And as tempting as tiny chocolate-covered chubby toes are, I ended up washing them and the footprints, although a bit sadly. I actually like having chocolate footprints on my floor. 

I woke up this morning to Annabelle jumping on the bed wearing my baby blue satin bra on her head, the strap tucked under her chin, shouting “I’m a hiker! I’m a hiker!” Henry was soon imitating her saying, “Hiter! Hiter!”A while later, we decided to make monkey bread and it turned out to be a crazy experience. We barely had enough flour, so when the dough turned into batter, I had to add wheat flour. Then I scorched the butter in the saucepan, and when I poured the mixture over the bread, it ended up leaking out of the damn bundt pan all over the stove–the house is still smoking–and when I tried to clean it out of the bottom of the stove, a drop of butter seared my hand and it’s now blistered. It was worth it all, however, when I bit into a piece of monkey bread–it was HEAVENLY!! Melt in your mouth, explosions of cinnamon and sugar and light and fluffy moist bread. Perfect! Try the recipe: http://www.recipezaar.com/Monkey-Bread-from-Scratch-153152.Then I heard a retching sound from Henry on the floor and when I looked at him, he was eating a pink post-it. Why? Why are you eating a pink post-it?  

I’m still recovering from yesterday. I took the kids to the toddlers at 10 class at the zoo, a kind of science class. They always bring an animal to circle time for the kids to look at and touch. One week it was a turtle, one week a bearded dragon, last week was a possum, and this week, the grand poobah of nasty ass animals–a vulture! What the @&#%&$#? This horrid creature, and I do have great respect for them in the wild, I just don’t want to see them up close as a man feeds him chunks of dead mice and tells us how the vulture crushes the mouse’s skull. To make matter worse, Miss Keitha passed around the vulture’s food bowl, I’m not sure what made her think anybody would want to see what was in it, but sure enough, there was a little mouse body curled up surrounded by red chunks nad I though I was going to vomit! As it was, I leaped back and screamed and had to suppress the tears. All the other parents said, “What?” and I had to say, “I have a phobia of dead animals!” It was a great moment. And then some joker of a mother decided she’d be brave and help Henry or Annabelle feed the vile creature. Annabelle refused thank goddess, but little trooper Henry, accepted her offer and now I can’t believe I let his perfect and beautiful little hand hold a chunk of dead mouse out to a damn vulture that was twice his size! I was so traumatized I wasn’t thinking straight. They had already freaked me out by passing around pelts for the kids to feel–a tiger, a wolf, with holes where the wolf’s eyes should be–so gross!! Frankly I’d rather them learn about these animals by seeing them alive and in their natural habitat. Then I had nightmares all night about death. I think we’ll take a break from zoo class for a few weeks. Mama needs a break!  

My girlfriend Kayren from LA got married last weekend in the French Quarter. She’s originally from Pontchitoula. She had a 1920’s theme and it was a DREAM! I loved how everyone got into the spirit and dressed to the nines everywhere the wedding party went. The ceremony was held at the historical Beauregard Keyes House on Chartres Street. There were lanterns on the stairs and walking around the Quarter, seeing all the houses from the 17-1800’s, hearing the clip-clop of the horse and carriages, walking into this amazing house and into the courtyard where they were serving mint juleps–it was like stepping back in time. There was a large wooden table covered in envelopes that said Western Union Telegram on them. Inside was a list of everything that would happen during the ceremony.The ballroom was lit with candles and a jazz band that sounded like Louis Armstrong played. Kayren looked stunning in a 1920’s silk dress with buttons down the back. She was radiant and ecstatic and her groom kept crying. Their minister was hilarious and romantic and profound–he had all of us laughing and crying. Afterwards, the entire party walked over to the Palm Court Jazz Cafe for dinner and dancing. The groom’s family owns a Vineyard and every table had divine bottles of wine with different photos of Kayren and her groom. I was wearing my 1920’s hat that Kim bought for me in Scotland. Like a fool, I hadn’t planned my outfit, thinking, “Of course I have a 1920’s outfit–it’s my era.” But after perusing my closet, all my vintage dresses are on the island, so I ended up looking like a bag lady. But thank goodness I had my hat.Kim and I were backpacking and hitchhiking around Scotland and Ireland. We were walking down a curving stone path and came upon the dreamiest (and priciest) hat shop. Of course I had to choose a huge hat that doesn’t fold up. the one Kim chose folded up into a tiny ball in her suitcase, but not me. No way. I had to have the big Holly Golightly hat. I had also bought a velvet cape in London, so now I’m backpacking with a velvet cape and a crazy hat, niether of which I want to get dirty. So we’re riding on freezing buses, and I’m shivering, refusing to cover myself with my cape incase it gets dirty. I found a giant hat box for my hat in Dublin, so now I’m hitchhiking with a hat box bigger than me, and 5 yards of velvet in cloak form, plus my suitcases, etc. I’m trying not to squish my hat, so I end up wearing it most of the time. I get comments like, “Look at you–you have a lampshade on your head!” They told Kim her hat looked like a tea cozy. And the thing about this hat is I can’t see when I’m wearing it. I’m running into dear old friends I haven’t seen in years at this wedding and all I can see is their lips moving because my hat is so low over my eyes. My neck hurt the next day from tilting my head back all evening. I finally gave it to John, Kim’s boyfriend, and he put it on a statue in the corner of the cafe. It actually looked stunning on the statue. I had pinned a peacock feather to the front of the hat to add a dash of flair, and I took photos of the statue at the end of the evening. As I stumbled to leave (ok, I had a julep, a mojito, and that delicious wine…) George motions to me that I had forgotten my hat. In all my fun taking photos of the hat on the statue, I had forgotten it! And now it sits in my closet happy with its new addition–the peacock feather. My oh my. It was everything a wedding should be. 

Driving around the French Quarter in a horse and carriage, I felt so at home with the red leather seats and the rocking motion of the carriage. I know damn well I must have lived in the Quarter in a past life–most likely as a Madame of my own gorgeous bordello. I love everything about it–the wild and intense history, the romantic architecture, the literary inspiration. I’ve been madly in love with the writings of Tennessee Williams since I was a young lass, and the house where he wrote “A Streetcar Named Desire” on St. Peter Street is like a temple to me. Never mind the bookshop in Pirate’s Alley that was Faulkner’s house. The owner, Joe, says he occasionally smells cigar smoke when there are no cigars to be found–apparently Faulkner smoked cigars. You KNOW there are ghosts everywhere down there. My housekeeper Rose has a very different view of the Quarter. She cleans down there on Saturday, and told me she sees all sorts of nasty things going on down there, in addition to her car being robbed last week. I choose to ignore the seedier side of the Quarter and instead focus on my romanticized version of it. It’s a bit like the article I just read on the latest excavation of Stonehenge. They are saying now it was quite possibly a healing place or temple, because of the amount of sick and diseased skeletons they’ve dug up. I’m sure this is quite plausible, but I was always under the impression it was a portal to other worlds, other times, between the living and the dead. I told George this, and my little Virgo said that was preposterous. I can’t believe the man who loves Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter doesn’t believe in time travel, but I guess his analytical nature struggles with mind-blowing ideas. Of course Einstein was analytical AND he came up with the whole space-time continuum.In any case, I just read a book I loved called Sepulchre. It had all the elements of a good gothic mystery–tarot cards, devils and ghosts, romance and music… I got very swept up.Then I read The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. It is a jaw-dropping book. Amazing. One of my favorite books ever, I’d say. Deeply philosophical, beautiful, stunning writing, and a great story. Wow.Then I read Are You There Vodka, It’s Me, Chelsea by Chelsea Handler. I’d never heard of her when I ordered the book. It had a funny title and had good reviews, so I went for it. There were some really funny moments, and I applaud her for being so brash and brazen and outspoken, but at the same time, the book was a bit harsh for me. Comedy that offends people isn’t funny to me.But back to the French Quarter, a pretty blissful day is getting covered in powdered sugar eating beignets at Cafe Du Monde, although why I end up getting covered and the kids stay clean is beyond me, then taking a horse and carriage ride past the Napolean House, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Tavern, the Ursuline Convent… A trip back in time. 

My oh my. It all began last summer when I saw my friend Neila and she looked goood! Wearing leggings and a fitted shirt, she was toned. Nothing jiggled or shook. Granted, she has always had a phenomenal body, a dancer’s body with ballet posture and a small ribcage and long long legs, but she just looked good. I asked her what she was doing for exercise and she said she was going to Curves. This surprised me as I’d had Neila in my belly dance class and I knew when I left the island she had bought dvd’s of pole dancing for exercise and had even ordered a pole for her living room.But when push came to shove and I wanted to tone up my jiggly ass too, I signed up for Curves. The bonuses–it was a five minute walk from my house and I could go, work out, and be home in under 45 minutes. And so began my adventures with Curves. I joined on Martha’s Vineyard, a fascinating group of New England women, many farmers and self-sufficient strong women who owned their own businesses and enjoyed a mild workout. After going religiously three times a week the whole summer and still feeling jiggly, I gave up. It was harder to go once we returned to NOLA. It’s about a ten minute drive now, and the hours drive me CRAZY!!! They’re open in the morning and the late afternoon and closed during the hours I need them most–11:30- 3:30pm. I like to work out during Henry’s naptime. I went many times to find them closed, partly because of hours, and for many other reasons, like the rain. This is part of the charm and a very annoying aspect of NOLA, many things close when they feel like it, and rain usually makes people feel like closing their doors. The NOLA Curves was completely different than Martha’s Vineyard. The women here are much more rambunctious. They talk loudly and laugh loudly and tell wild stories which is great for making the workout faster. Still, I went a few weeks and decided to quit and get a personal trainer as it wasn’t doing diddly for my jiggles. Then they got Curves Smart and that changed everything. I realized nothing was happening with my jiggles because I wasn’t trying very hard. I finally understood how hard I needed to push myself to get an actual workout. In any case, everytime I go to Curves, it’s an adventure. For example, today I was working out in my pink outfit. A little old lady in big sunglasses came up to me and asked me if I knew the band called Pink. “Yes,” I replied, “I love Pink.” ”Are you them?” she asked me. I shook my head. Besides the obvious–I am one person and not many, and therefore couldn’t possibly be a ‘band,’ I also wouldn’t wear pink every day just because my name was Pink.She continued, “I saw that it says Pink Royalty on your pants and whenever I see you, you’re wearing pink, so I thought maybe you were that band.”Mmmm-hmmm.Last time I went, I was greeted by a flamboyantly gay male working the desk. It was a little startling as there are rarely any males at Curves, but I went with it. The manager introduced him as the new employee and he greeted us with a gorgeous arabesque and a little ballet. There was a robust woman doing a very robust workout, a welcome change from the usual group of little old ladies falling over on the thigh machine, falling asleep and snoring on the bench, or working out in their perfect white keds, button down shirts and tweed pleated pants, careful not to mess with their hair.This woman was going for it.The manager asked Robust woman to show the new employee the “line dances.” I didn’t know what they were, but soon they were going for it, doing some wild second line dancing, which got me going, and the little old ladies around me, and soon we’re all shimmying and doing high kicks. A chunky line of Rockettes.Like I said, always an adventure… 

Ok, technically he wasn’t REALLY a pirate, he was a commodore. Or so he said. We were playing on the playground when I spied out of the corner of my eye, a man striding across the park wearing a long pirate coat, pirate pants, tall boots, a sword in his scabbard, and a huge three-cornered hat complete with dancing feathers on his head.  His long black hair was tied back in a ponytail. “Annabelle! Look! A pirate!” I said. She stopped playing to look. “Actually,” I said, “It looks like Napolean.” She gasped in delight. “Look! It’s Panolean!” she whispered to her friend ecstatically, and we all crept closer. “Let’s go ask him his name,” I said, and we all walked over, me, Annabelle, her friend Sophie, Henry, Aya (Henry’s baby doll) and Coconut (Annabelle stuffed dog.) He told us his name was Commodore Something or Other and that he was looking for Jack Sparrow and had any of us seen Captain Jack Sparrow or Elizabeth Swann? We all shook our heads.”Look at his sword,” I said, pointing to the plastic sword he had taped together at the handle hanging from his belt. All their eyes grew wide as he withdrew it and let them hold it. They all collected sticks and he taught them how to block blows from other swords. Annabelle was fascinated, and after five minutes, was ready to teach the class herself to anyone who would listen. As more and more children lined up to learn about swordfighting, Annabelle couldn’t resist putting in her two cents. “Not like that, George! Like this!” She’d say, showing him how he should be holding his pretend sword.Henry was busy reverently holding the plastic sword. I have to say he did a fantastic job. He held very still and quiet. He didn’t swing it or dig in the dirt with it or try to hit anyone else with it. He just stood and held it with one pudgy hand, his other hand held behind his back like the Commodore was teaching. Every time I told him he needed to let someone else take a turn, he would hold up one tiny finger and say “One more minute,” and continue his sword reverie. After about five times, I finally had to pry his fingers loose and give it to another child. Henry was devastated, but quickly recovered when we laid out a blanket under the slide to have snacks and tell ghost stories. Annabelle of course led the way, telling everyone a story about a little boy and girl named Daisy and Sunshine who were very brave. The fact that we had snacks at a playground right before supper made us VERY popular at the playground, and we soon had an audience of about six kids listening to Annabelle’s stories. As we left the playground, Annabelle curtsied to the Commodore and he saluted her with his sword. He told me he was from the Phillipines and that he taught the kids at orphanages about pirates and swordfighting. Just reaffirmed my love for this quirky city.  A pirate in the park!! How often does that happen? 

Well, Saturday night was my first real night out after bedtime (7pm!) in four years! I went to see VDay–the tenth anniversary of the Vagina Monologues. Eve Ensler has chosen to focus on Gulf Coast women for 2008. She wrote some INCREDIBLE monologues for the women of Katrina and dear New Orleans. She opened the show with a monologue saying New Orleans is like the “woman” of America. People come to her for pleasure, for spiciness, for fun, but when she had needs of her own, they turned away. She has so much energy, is so smart and amazing and leaves a wake of healing and inspiration and courage and care wherever she goes. The Sports Arena was packed with thousands of women. I pretty much wept from the moment the Mardi Gras Indians led the actresses into the arena in a second line parade.  And if I wasn’t weeping I was laughing my ass off and screaming with everyone else.I found the show to be very cathartic and healing in many ways. I hadn’t even realized that I was feeling out of sorts. Without even realizing it, I had been thinking negative thoughts of my own v-jay-jay ( Cathy’s code word for vagina). She just hasn’t seemed as perky and cute lately. She seems more languid, like a lioness who has just had a huge meal and now rolls around in the grass, stretching. She’s gone from peppy cheerleader to one of those ladies in Arizona who drinks beer and smokes cigarettes and speaks with raspy voices and who are really tan and wear a lot of turquoise and gaze at the world with merry but world weary eyes.But after seeing VDay, I celebrate my V-Jay-jay! I sing her praises!! She’s seen the world, given birth to two amazing children, and she’s beautiful! A creator of miracles! A holy vessel of love! A delectable crumpet of divinity! A kick-ass powerhouse elegant queen! Don’t mess with the V-jay-jay!!Back to Vday! The VDay actresses nailed it! Christine Lahti wowed with the hair monologue. Jennifer Beals rocked the house with the hysterically funny orgasm monologue. Jane Fonda was a powerhouse with the birth monologue, and Ali Larter was awesome in the short skirt monologue. An actress I’ve never seen before–Liz Mikel–just totally brought the house down with two monologues–the angry vagina and a new one about Katrina. At the end of the show, Eve Ensler asked everyone who had ever been raped or abused to stand with the at the end, to break the silence, and from that moment on, to rewrite their stories from tragedy to triumph and power. Then she asked everyone who knew anyone who had ever been raped or abused to stand up and by now, the entire arena was standing in solidarity and support. The show ended with Faith Hill and Jennifer Hudson and Charmaine Neville singing Respect and everyone in the place dancing. I went with Miss Cathy, and we of course, were sitting right behind one of the three men who attended, and as luck would have it, he was a drunk and obnoxious man and he nearly ended up getting whacked in the head with my purse. Cathy was kinder–she kept gently putting her hand on his back to tell him to quiet down at which point he yelled at her that he was not in a library, but at a sports arena. As if we were watching a basketball game and not a life-altering piece of theater.Eve announced the focus for 2009 would be women from the Congo and showed a very moving little film about her visits there to help the hundreds of thousands of women there who are experiencing rape and torture in the name of war. There is a doctor there helping them, and he came to New Orleans to receive an award and quietly and humbly spoke in swahili about how honored he was to help women. The Vagina Monologues has raised more than 50 million dollars to help fight violence against women. There are VDay activists in so many different countries, even the countries you would never expect–the Middle East for example.Totally incredible show. And the world didn’t fall apart while I was gone. George did a phenomenal job putting the kids to bed for the first time alone, and all was well.