italian dreaming (and practicing)

Ever since I read Under the Tuscan Sun and Eat, Pray, Love, I’ve had a burning desire to live in Italy. (Yes, I loved both, so sue me.) I’ve visited a few times — Rome, Florence, Venice, Cinque Terra — but this was 15 years ago and the trips weren’t long enough to absorb the culture.

When I think about Italy, I dream of stone kitchens, homemade bread and long dinners with wine. I dream about delicious espressos and walking among ruins. I dream about stone churches in bustling squares and women leaning out of second-story windows over flower pots. I dream about the blue ocean, and visiting nearby islands.

A. is half Italian — his mom is from Orsogna and moved to the U.S. when she was seven. She is the youngest of five, and she speaks Italian with her brothers and sisters. In their New Jersey home, above the stove, hangs the sign “Cucina.” When we visit, she asks C., “Dove la Cucina?” and he looks up and points to the sign. When A. makes C. spaghetti, he’ll say to him: “Mangia la pasta.”

Around the time C. was born, my MIL brought us Italian CDs. They’ve been sitting on our bookshelf, uncracked (I thought I’d have time on maternity leave, silly me).

But C. has had a fever since Friday and this morning it was a scary 104.2. The nurse at the pediatrician’s office told me to give him fluids and meds — and keep him cool and inside (it’s pushing 100 today). So I’ve read him a trillion books and we’ve played with trucks and blocks. He’s his usual funny self — he makes himself laugh and says, “Fun-ny.”

But I need inspiration to combat cabin fever, so I pulled out the Italian CDs and loaded the first one into my computer.

C. seemed a bit confused about counting in Italian (he just started counting to 10 in English), but he giggled when I put my hands out and exaggerated the pronunciation. And I had fun learning basic words, like macchina (car) and chiavi (keys).

Of course, the best way to learn is from the natives — like his nonna (grandma). And someday we’ll travel to Italy to show C. part of his heritage. I’m hoping we can live there for a few years so he can be fluent and we can explore Europe, but that’s far away. For now, dreaming — and practicing — keeps me happy while I’m trapped inside on a hot desert day.

my first loaf of bread from scratch

One thing that’s been on my bucket list for years is to make bread from scratch. I remember having a conversation with a hippy named Seamus in a dark D.C. bar more than four years ago who said that making bread, building furniture and skiing where the three things that made him feel connected to the earth. I wasn’t interested in the guy, but those comments stayed with me.

One of the reasons we moved to the California desert nearly six months ago was to have time, space and money to do things we’ve always wanted to do. Here, the rents are cheap, the skies are blue and we have zero distractions, including obligations or places to go in town. That gives us energy to create.

Last week, I received an email from our farm box supplier Abundant Harvest Organics: “Our baker is going on a well-deserved two-week vacation.”

“Noooooooo!” I thought to myself.

And then I looked at the sky. Overcast. Actual clouds in our desert skies. I took that as a sign.

So I bought some yeast and whole wheat flour and started the process while C. was napping. I halved the recipe because we have only one bread pan. And maybe I chose the right recipe on Epicurious, but the oatmeal wheat bread was easy. I kneaded it for about 10 minutes: the majority of the process was to let the bread rise.

girls’ night in the unforgiving desert

The last several years I lived in D.C., I met my girlfriends S. and A. weekly for drinks. “Girls night” was generally on Thursdays, and often late. A. worked full-time at Georgetown University and went to law school in the evenings. S. was a lobbyist for hunger issues and represented food banks. I worked for NPR. We were all professionals and all dating.

Over bottles of wine and cheese plates, we debriefed each other on dates, gave each other advice on work, talked about world events and shared exciting trips. It was our time to vent, over-share, laugh hysterically, and, most importantly, trust. At one point, S. said, “Can we do this always and forever?”

A. and I both fell in love around the same time, and we talked each other off ledges in the early days as we worried about one thing or another. Over time, we both realized we met our life partners, so we looked to S. for fun dating stories. One time, S. brought her computer to the bar and we helped her write her Match.com profile.

Then, not two months later, two weeks after I returned from a vacation with (my husband) A. in Tanzania, I showed up and said, nonchalantly, “I think I might be pregnant.”

They looked at me, incredulous: “Why are you not running down to the corner to get a pregnancy test?”

a toddler, books and … tears?

One of the wonderful things — and curses — of living in the desert is the quiet. So much quiet. The wind is fierce, the air is dry and the summers are hot. This week, the temperatures are pushing 100 degrees — a hint of what’s to come. Our swamp cooler kicks on at random times during the day and I have to park under trees and stretch a shade across the windshield.

There aren’t many toddler classes in town, the city is shutting down its only public pool for lack of resources and it’s getting too hot to go to the park.

That means that C. and I are spending most of our time at home or at the library. At home, we don’t watch TV — and so we read. A lot.

The tiny, shabby desert library is open Tuesday-Thursday and the kids’ section is meager. We’ve run across gems like Jim Aylesworth’s “Little Bitty Mousie” and Pamela Edwards’ “Warthogs Paint” about colors (C. still calls everything “bue”), but I feel like in a few weeks we’ll have picked over the stock.

As I skim through books, I notice that many of them have characters behaving badly, and I gently close them and return them to the shelves. A. and I have read that what you read to kids can influence them in ways you might not realize. Kids don’t have the staying power or ability to comprehend a resolution. They just pick up the bad behavior.

What we didn’t expect was for a book to make C. cry. This is new for our almost 17-month-old: His chin wobbles and he tears up when a book ends with a “goodbye.” He has no problem saying bye to A. in the morning, or bye to me if A. takes him to Home Depot. But a book about a mouse leaving a museum had him crying over the weekend. And a book about boats had him in hysterics yesterday evening.

The boat book is about ferry boats and row boats and passenger boats and cruise ships. And people load on the cruise ship and wave goodbye to others taking off. The next page, the boat is smaller as it sails away. And on the last page, the boat is tiny, and it says, simply, “Bon voyage.” C. wanted to read it three times, and each time he cried more loudly and held my neck tightly. I asked him if he was sad and he nodded — and kept crying. I finally had tell him that no one is getting on a boat and I’m not going to leave him. He seemed to calm down after that. It’s probably an emotional break-through for our little sensitive soul — and calling it “sweet” would be an understatement. Regardless, this book is going back to the library today.

And so, I’m desperate for age-appropriate books for this little guy. I know there’s a whole world out there that I’m missing. So I ask of you: What are you favorite toddler books? Please share. I’ll owe you. Big time.

Here are some of ours, so far:

• “Barnyard Dance” by Sandra Boynton
• “The Foot Book,” “Hop on Pop,” “Mr. Brown Can Moo!,” “Dr. Seuss’s ABC,” “Cat in the Hat,” by Dr. Seuss
• “Sheep Take a Hike” by Nancy Shaw
• “If You Give a Pig a Party” and “If You Give A Moose a Muffin” by Laura Numeroff
• “Caps for Sale,” by Esphyr Slobodkina
• “Goodnight Moon,” by Margaret Wise Brown
• “Little Green,” by Keith Baker
• “I Love You Stinky Face,” by Lisa Mccourt and Syd Moore
• “Hug,” by Jez Alborough
• “Wherever You Are, My Love Will Find You,” by Nancy Tillman
• “The Very Hungry Caterpillar,” by Eric Carle
• “Pete the Cat and his Four Groovy Buttons,” by James Dean and Eric Litwin

my seasonal treat: strawberry smoothies

I have an unhealthy addiction to sugar. Luckily, I married a man who doesn’t care for it the way I do. He makes a disgusted face when I put a spoonful of sugar on my Cheerios (for a while I sneaked it, then I stopped buying Cheerios altogether.) And he eats plain Greek yogurt, which is what we give C., so now, at the grocery store, I walk past those cartons of yogurt filled with 22 grams of sugar.

Anyway, I probably get my max daily amount of refined sugar in my espresso I make myself every morning. And then, of course, I put brown sugar on my oatmeal. And we usually have dessert after dinner — a scoop of ice cream from Baskin Robbins, dark chocolate with almonds. Needless to say, I’m maxed out.

So I’m looking for ways to eat natural sugar. And I need look no further than strawberry season. That’s right, folks, we’ve been buying a big box of strawberries from a Mexican man with a cane who drives them up every weekend from Oxnard and sits on the corner under a green tent. I love this man, and I kind of freaked out on Saturday morning when he wasn’t there at 9:30 a.m. I went back at noon and when the green tent came into view from the car, I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel. I got out of the car and said: “I’m so happy to see you!”

I don’t even like strawberries very much, but I found (and adapted) a recipe for a strawberry smoothie and I’ve been making it nearly every afternoon while C. naps. I sit on our patio, listen to the birds sing, and read or write. I save some for C., who sucks it down through his “taw.” And then I’m not hungry till dinner time and not snippy if A. is home late.

Yes, I’m loving this thick, delicious treat. I hope you do, too.

Strawberry Smoothie

(Adapted from Smitten Kitchen)

A 12-oz. glass of frozen strawberries, plus one or two
A banana (a big one — if they’re small, I put in two)
Half a glass (same glass I used for the strawberries) of whole milk
A spoonful of plain Greek yogurt
A spoonful of honey
A generous handful of rolled oats (not instant)
A generous handful of sliced almonds
A splash of vanilla extract
A few shakes of ground cinnamon

Put it all in the blender and mix away.

help. i can’t stop making hats.

I think a zombie has overtaken my body, and all it wants to do is crochet hats.

Before C. was born (he’s a December baby), I had the hardest time finding a cool hat for him, so I ended up putting the only hat I could find on our baby registry. When C. was 8 days old, our best friend and talented photographer S. did a photo shoot of him, and this hat made us double over and squeeze our eyes shut with laughter. Poor kid may get me some day for this one.

So now I keep thinking of friends who are pregnant and will need hats for their babes and I’m crocheting like a madwoman so I have gifts on hand. C. in Alexandria, Va., who has two girls already, could have a boy! C. and J. in Maryland are having their first boy, and wait, so is W. in Chicago.

It’s a bit insane to make so many hats when it’s 80 degrees in the desert and will only get hotter.

A. grinned at me the other night, as I sat on our brown couch under a blanket, crocheting away in the quiet and totally zen.

“You’re going to be the best grannie,” he said.

“Get away,” I said. “You taught me, so you can’t make fun.”

But he’s right: I’m out of control. So much so, that I haven’t been reading or writing or doing much of anything else. Our joke is, “One more row.”

It’s satisfying to create — I can make a hat in one evening — and see quick results. For you crocheting addicts, I’ve mostly used this pattern, and I’m drawn to this half double crochet pattern, too.

The zombie is getting better with time (among the first, top right, looks like a football helmet from the 1920s). But I have to exorcise it for now and put down my hook and tend to other matters that tug at the heart.

the land of meltdowns

Last week, A. and I crossed into the land of meltdowns (said with a booming voice) where storms can unleash with little warning. Our little helper — who loves to sweep, rubs down the floor with tissues and toddles to the trash can to throw away litter — gave me his first forceful “NO!” when I tried to change his diaper. It was accompanied by a little kick and I raised my eyebrow, like, “Really? You’re going to go there?”

In general, this kid is awesome. He wakes up in his crib and reads to his llama and owl for an hour. The other day I heard him counting. He giggles like crazy and has a new way of saying, “Hi!” that brightens up a room. He sings to himself, and says things like, “Mama, hat, on” when he wants me to put on a hat and “Book, couch” when he wants to read with me. He says “mama, nine” (that’s wine) and “papa, beer.” (Hmmmm…) He always says please (“peas”) and he grabs my face to give me kisses.

And now there is this budding streak of independence and “no” is his new favorite word. Last week, he tried to shake off my hand and run into the street. I grabbed him, jerked him to safety and made him look me in the eye while I told him why that wasn’t OK. Major Meltdown. (A few drivers flashed me sympathetic smiles.) He has a new fascination with outlets and crouches down to see if he can look into the wall. Cool! Electricity! He drags us objects to plug in and we shake our heads, “No, buddy, how about we don’t plug in the curling iron where you can step on it?” Meltdown. He loves the food processor plunger, but we decided that hey, maybe that’s not a great toy so let’s lock that cabinet. Meltdown.

He’s only 16 1/2 months, but I’m seeing a rapid change. It’s natural development and A. and I agree that we’d worry if he didn’t go through this stage. And, really, he’s so much easier than when he was an infant and I had a trillion hormones coursing through me and his cries made me want to crawl into a corner, curl into a ball and rock. So much easier.

But I’m getting prepared for this new stage: I plan to put on a heavy raincoat and boots AND carry an umbrella as we enter the land of meltdowns.

a new appreciation of mornings

It’s official, I’m a parent. This night owl is starting to appreciate mornings. And I don’t mean hanging-in-the-kitchen-with-C.-while-he-eats-his-yogurt-and-blueberries mornings. I’m talking a half-hour-before-sunrise mornings where I have the quiet house all to myself.

The past few days, I’ve woken up at about 5:30 and holy crap I’ve achieved a lot before many people are swinging their legs out of their beds. I can enjoy my espresso and read the news without interruption, run west (sans stroller) along dirt roads so I can visit nearby horses and see the mountains in the distance, hit up the grocery store and have the aisles and check-out dude all to myself, and, most importantly, write.

It’s always quiet where we live, on a cul-de-sac in the Mojave desert. But, for me, the mornings are extra peaceful.

the desert’s hidden beauties

When A. told me he wanted to move to the desert, I’m pretty sure I laughed in his face.

“Have you seen my skin?” I said, pointing to the Irish white dotted with freckles.

He had spent several years in Pasadena, and had fallen in love with Joshua Tree National Park and this was very, very important to him.

I had just delivered a baby, loved my job and my friends and city-living and really, the desert was a place I never considered. I am drawn to the beach and to the mountains — the desert sounded lonely and inhospitable.

When we visited the first time, last April, I noticed the ravens. In the parking lots, in the streets, hopping around and staring at me with their beady eyes and opening their long beaks and croaking at me. I felt dread, then, and I found the only green swatch of public land in the dusty town and hunched on a park bench to nurse the then 4-month-old C. I called my best friend, exhausted, and pleaded with her to tell me it was going to be OK. And then, on the drive back to LA, I cried.

We’ve been here for five months. And what I’ve noticed about the desert is its hidden beauties. Small white and yellow wildflowers hiding in shrubs (the smallest we’ve ever seen) and hummingbirds zipping by and Joshua trees bending and twisting and blooming and red and green and striped rocks sparkling in the sun.

Lately, we’ve been going on weekly hikes, sometimes more, and have explored Indian Wells Canyon and Short Canyon.

A. said last weekend, “It amazes me that I lived in LA for so long and never considered coming here for hikes.” Neither have the others, it seems, for we have the trails to ourselves and can enjoy the quiet and catch roadrunners sprinting by and birds swooping overhead and flowers ruffling in the wind.

It surprises me how much life is here, even though we’re less than an hour from one of the hottest places on Earth.

And it amazes me I was so narrow-minded to never consider the desert: It’s no coincidence that writers and artists find their muse in its subtle magic.

a rustic table from old 2x4s

A few weeks ago, A. and I stumbled across a pile of wood while on a hike. A. examined the boards, and decided two of them were worth heaving down the mountain. Our guess is this wood is old — very old — maybe even nearly a century old. Luckily, we didn’t have C. with us, so we could arrange the boards in our Ford Fiesta.

One of them was rotting, so A. had to cut off the end to be sure it didn’t have any termites. And when he did, we saw a beautiful red color under the blackened surface — cedar! The wood was so weathered, it gave off a trillion little splinters like a cactus. So after working in his shop for a few hours, A. would lean against the bathroom counter with tweezers and steadily pull splinters out of his hand.

A. designed and assembled this table for our living room — to sit next to our plush red chair — and it’s our favorite piece yet. I tasked myself with crocheting a few coasters for it (you can tell I’m a beginner — more are in the works).

Now A. is excited about working with salvaged wood. Soon, instead of going on a bear hunt, we’re going to go on another wood hunt.