Hurray hurray, it's V-DAY!!!!!!

Say what you want, Valentine's Day is a happy little holiday in my books. I can't wait till the kids fall asleep so I can creep downstairs to make the kitchen table especially special. We've managed to decorate almost every room in the house so far, but I want to surprise Jade and Dylan with silly heart plates, my special red juice glasses that Jade not-so-secretly covets and heart-shaped pancakes in the morning. I blame my mother for spoiling us rotten with Valentine treats every year; even if you don't have kids or a significant other, there's gotta be SOMEONE in your school or work or life that's worthy of a little extra love on the 14th.

Here's an old post, which made me giggle a bit. As my dear old Babushka used to say, Happy Valenschtines!

Sleepless at Someday: Baba Pickles edition

I've written about being sleepless at Someday before, but last night was an epic no-sleeper. And I can't blame the stuff that used to keep me awake, like bad dreams or anxiety or heartburn or false labour. Nope, last night was my own damned fault: I allowed myself to fall asleep in Dylan's bed and though D (allegedly) tried to rouse me a couple of times, I didn't stumble out of the kids' room until 11:30 p.m. And then I was wide. Frigging. Awake. Argh.

D tried to coax me to come to bed, but I knew it would be hopeless. I pointedly took a bottle of wine and a pint of blueberries out of the fridge, which is when he gave up and went to bed and fell asleep in thirty seconds flat, like he always does.

I drank a small glass of wine and ate the wine-soaked blueberries at the bottom of the glass. Then I played online scrabble for a while. Then I did what any country woman would do when faced with a long night of wakeful alone-ness: I made pickles.

These pickles are just like the ones my Russian grandma, my Baba, used to make, with cold water and cold vinegar and kosher salt and about a dump truck full of garlic. Instead of boiling them, you just tighten the lids, give them a shake and leave them alone for four or five days to ferment themselves into fizzy, crispy goodness. The cucumbers and garlic and dill are from local Mennonite farmers, which Baba would approve of. She always admired the "Mennoniteskies," as she called them. She probably wouldn't have been horrified to learn that I made them at 1 in the morning either, as we sometimes caught her outside raking her lawn in the middle of the night when she was having one of those sleepless spells that afflicted her occasionally.

I'm so tired today that all I can offer you is a photo essay of my Baba pickles. I hope you like them. I think they're rather beautiful. But maybe that's just the sleep deprivation talking.

The stinky things in life

One of the things I love - and sometimes loathe - about my lovin' hubby is how opposite we are in many ways. A relationship of opposites can be disastrous, but ours works. When it comes to politics, money, childcare and the merits of Prince's music, we don't always agree. We do, however, share the same taste in jokes; otherwise I never would have married him. Sharing a sense of humour is deadly serious in my book.

The fact that D and I are ofen on the polar opposite sides of an issue is never more apparent than when I cook certain foods. For example, I can predict with some measure of accuracy what he will say when he walks in the door tonight: "Geez Kim, it smells strong in here. (sniffs the air suspiciously) It smells like....(wrinkles nose)...geez, it smells like onion. (a dramatic pause) I hate onion."

My response has already been rehearsed: "Yes, darling. I know. I've cut up ONE onion and ONE (a slight lie) clove of garlic to make the stew you will later rave about. Trust me."

I come from a Russian heritage where onion and garlic figure predominantly in every meal except for breakfast. My Babushka ate garlic every day of her life and she lived to be 96. Even my Dad, a non-russkie, eats raw garlic almost every day. But D hates onion. And garlic. And cilantro. And goat cheese. All those delicious, smelly things that make my culinary life complete.

So to perserve marital harmony, I don't make him eat raw onion very often, or raw garlic ever. I keep the cilantro separate when I make fajitas, and sprinkle heaps of goat cheese on my salad, but never on his. I do continue to cook with the other unmentionables, because it would be sacrilige to make a beef stew without onion or borscht without garlic. And there are very few meals he's ever made a negative comment about; I've lucked out in that department - the man eats everything I ever put in front of him!

So anyway, tonight is Easy Beefy Stewy night. It's redolent with aromas and your kitchen will stink to high heaven after you're done chopping up the smellier ingredients. But your tummy will thank you. Just like my husband will thank me after he's eaten his 3rd bowlful.

Easy Beefy Stewy
Ingredients
3 tbsp olive oil
1 lb stewing beef, cut into bite sized chunks
1/4 cup flour, seasoned with salt and pepper and paprika
1 medium onion, chopped
2 rib celery, chopped
2 carrots, sliced
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups broth
1 cup red wine
1 bay leaf

1. Toss beef with seasoned flour to coat.
2. Heat oil in a heavy pot and brown beef lightly.
3. Add onion and celery; cook 3 minutes.
4. Add sliced carrots, garlic, broth, wine and bay leaf.
5. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer covered for 1 hour, or until beef is tender. Serve over orzo.

Hullo from the 'hood...

Mummyhood that is! Yes, the blessed event finally happened on May 16th at 2:04pm. May I present to you the lovely miss Jade Violet Alisa Lowry!

She weighed 6lbs 10.5 oz, 19 inches long but is now up to 7lbs 7oz and is verrrry long...thanks to daddy's genes. She is growing way too fast for Mummy's liking. *sigh* She makes snorty piggy noises when she's angry and honks like a Canada goose when she's content. I can't get enough of her toes and fingers and belly. As for the name, which probably seems huge for such a wee girl, here is the story behind it.

D and I had been volleying names back and forth for months. Our tastes are very different and so we had a hard time agreeing on anything for a girl. We had a very short list for boys (of course). After Jade was born, she was referred to as "sweet pea" for 4 days because we STILL couldn't decide on a name. I think the nurses were getting rather disgusted with us. And then, as I was lying in that wretched hospital bed, recovering from the C-section while Sweet Pea got light therapy for her jaundice, I started mulling over a conversation I'd had with my brother-in-law about a month previously.

C was filling up my errant Kia's tires with air in the shop on the farm. Suddenly he looked up at me and said, "Kimmy, I have the perfect name. Your troubles are over. Jade Lowry. Just add whatever your mother's name was in the middle." And he grinned in triumph. Hmm, I thought. Kinda strippery. Kinda catchy. I politely nodded but wasn't really won over at the time.

The more I thought about it in that hospital bed, and the more I came to know Sweet Pea's personality, the more I realized that she was not a Grace or a Madeleine or a Danielle or a Taylor. She was a Jade! And really, C has done so much for us over these past two years - the least we could do is let him name our child.

D liked the name Jadyn, which means "God has heard us" so it was a good compromise. Also, the stone Jade is said to have mystical, heart-healing properties; what better way to heal hearts so bruised after two losses than with sweet baby Jade's arrival. And as my sister Tanzi reminded me, I wrote several stories when I was younger that featured a main character named Jade.

As for Violet, it's my favourite flower, and I found them in bloom all over Someday farm's lawns the week Jade before was born. Alisa was my mother's name; she died in 1993. She was a strong, sophisticated, intelligent woman who had a gift for friendship. I can only hope that Jade will inherit these qualities from the Babushka she never got to meet.

So there's the scoop for now. Sorry to have kept you in suspense, bloggy friends! I hope to do more entries, but I'm telling ya, it's darned hard to type blog entries with one finger while nursing. (0: We are all well and healthy and very, very happy. Thanks for all your prayers and warm wishes. I'll be back soon...

The Perils of Pregnancy - Part II

A continuation of the previous post...second trimester...

4) Hands off the merchandise!
I can't say I wasn't warned about people who would be drawn to my watermelon tummy like moths to a light. I just didn't believe people would actually have the nerve to rub a complete stranger's belly - but they do.

The first person to fondle my stomach was an acquaintance of D's we ran into at a New Year's party. Said fellow was in a wheelchair, so I guess I can't blame him, since my tempting tummy was directly at his eye level. But it really threw me when he reached out with not one, but TWO eager hands and began rubbing my stomach. "Oooh," he said, "it's so big!"

I stood there, giggling nervously, somewhere between shocked and amused, and let the rubbing continue. All I can say is that if you are NOT in a wheelchair, and you attempt to massage my stomach without permission (because if you ask, I'll let you), you may very well be seeing stars rather than the graceful curve of my belly in front of you. All you compulsive tummy-touchers, consider yourself forewarned.

5) The Weepies
I never was much of a crier. In fact, my colleagues have informed me on occasion that "I'm all dead inside" because I don't get teary over emailed chain letters about friendship, kids or puppies they way they do. That stuff makes me gag and roll my eyes simultaneously. At least...it used to, before I got myself up the stump.

Now I weep at just about ANYTHING - Latter Day Saints commercials, Sarah McLaughlan songs, sad bits in books, cloying annecdotes about children or animals or the elderly...you name it, my chin is wobbling over it.

It's tiresome to think that I have absolutely no control over my tear ducts these days. My sudden sogginess amuses D to no end; he's always worried he's the softie in our relationship, but I taught him a few weeks ago that the tables have turned: he came home late without calling, and I burst into a torrent of tears when he walked into the kitchen, so worried was I that he'd been upside down in a ditch on the Shore Road.

Yeah. I know. Pass me the tissues.

6) POP goes the belly button
The other day I sneezed, and happened to glance down just in time to see my belly button pop out under my t-shirt with the force of my breath. Cool! I laughed; it popped again. I coughed; same thing. What a party trick!

When I demonstrated to D, however, he looked freaked out and begged me to stop. Hmmm. I wonder how he'll cope when it pops out permanently?

The Grumbling Tummy: Part II

Before I share a Baba-inspired recipe with you, can I just say that I am currently craving all things grapefruit? They say pregnant women who crave citrus are bound to have a girl, but I'm convinced that Bumbo is definitely a boy - esp if the scary Chewbacca hair growth on my legs is any indication. (Oh, did I mention I'm 5 months preggers?)

I've eaten half a grapefruit for breakfast every morning this week, sucked back gallons of Ruby Red and am so addicted to President's Choice Sparkling Grapefruit tonic it's becoming an issue. I try to curb the problem by forcing myself to sip it out of a wine glass, but after a few dainty attempts, I generally gulp the whole thing like it's a tequila shot. What can I say? Whatever Bumbo wants, Bumbo gets.

Anyway, I stumbled across this bizarre sounding recipe today. Grapefruit cupcakes? YES!! Since I am having a grapefruit obsession, I will likely try baking these this weekend. Something tells me it's going to end in disaster but what the heck; I'll give it a go. D has a hockey tourney so I can always feed the cupcakes to the hockey boys - they'll eat anything after a game.

So yesterday I shared a recipe inspired by my mother; today I will share one inspired by my lovely Russian Babushka. I think the mark of a natural born cook is the ability to make stuff without using recipes, and that was Baba all over. I never learned to make anything from her because I was a) really, really dumb, b)content to let her make stuff for me and c)freaked out by the thought of cooking anything without explicit written instructions. (Just try to get a 90 year old Russian woman with limited English skills to write something down for you.)

Although she never used beets in her borscht that I can recall, this recipe comes from my favourite Russian cookbook and still reminds me of Baba's. You can make this vegetarian by leaving out (you guessed it) the beef. Enjoy the pretty reddish tinge on your fingers from cutting the beets!

Borscht
1 package stewing beef, cut into small pieces, fat removed
4 tbsp butter (very important! Don't substitute with oil, no matter how your arteries scream)
1 small onion, chopped
2-3 carrots, chopped into small pieces or shredded
3 medium beets, diced
2 cups cabbage, shredded
2 small potatoes, peeled & diced (I omit these because I hate potatoes)
2-3 garlic cloves, minced
2 bay leaves
1 tbsp sugar
1/4 cup wine or balsamic vinegar
1 1/2 tsp salt (seriously, you do need this much)
pepper to taste
6 cups vegetable or beef broth

1. In a large heavy stock pot, heat butter over medium heat and saute onion, carrots, and beef until beef is browned. Be sure to scrape up all bits off the bottom.
2. Stir in the garlic, bay leaf, vingegar, sugar and 1 cup of broth; cook for 1 minute.
3. Add remaining broth, cabbage, potatoes if using, salt and pepper.
4. Simmer, covered, until veggies are tender. I suggest 40 minutes.
5. Serve with a generous dollop of sour cream on top and sprinkle with fresh dill.

Welcome to the Growling Tummy

Boy, do I love cooking. I've only discovered my true culinary identity in the last few years, so now I'm making up for lost time. I was puttering around in the kitchen with lamb chops and wild rice tonight and it struck me (a thought, not a lamb chop) that I should write about it.

One of the beauties of working at home is that it leaves the perfect chunk of time between signing out and D's arrival home to cook supper. D used to make supper a couple of times a week when we were in the city (which is how I learned to hate tilapia) but I've pretty much taken over chef duties at Someday by choice. I love that my man is self-sufficient and not a bad cook (MEAT-VEG-VEG), and he's my main dude when barbeque season rolls around (oh how I hate the BBQ lighter!) - but there's something about having the kitchen to yourself and peeling through recipe books to find an "aha!" meal. The tunes go on, the Coke with lemon comes out, the dog gets something to gnaw on and I'm off to my magical kitchen escapade for the evening.

I come from a long line of amazing cooks. My mother was a virtuoso in the kitchen, whipping up gourmet concoctions from all cultures. When she died, she had a stack of Gourmet magazines that was almost as tall as I was; I still occasionally want to kick myself for selling her mandolin (the kind you slice with, not the kind you strum). Nana also reigned supreme in her kitchen. I have never to this day tasted roast beef as good as hers was, and I have very happy memories of eating lamb and roasted potatoes in her apartment kitchen ("Oh, I thought you might like a snack.") Even Baba, who leaned towards the simple things in life, made delicious soups and yeasty raisin cakes that she never had recipes for. I would kill for a bowl of her "Kroupki (barley) soup" right now on this -20 degree day.

The lovely, talented (and perpetually good-natured)Jaime has begun posting recipes and meal plans on her funky blog, which is very cool. Her cake in a cup is beyond words - I mostly just moan with pleasure when I eat it with vanilla ice cream and blackberries - and I'm forever indebted to her for the peanut butter ball recipe I made at Christmas. So hey, I'm gonna borrow from her creative brain and post a few of my own favourite recipes here. Not a cook? Well, if foolhardy-and-inexperienced-but-brave me can make stuff, anyone can. I have about a 75% success rate in the kitchen, which occasionally leads to bouts of rage where I throw vegetables and pots around, but I have come to view cooking as more of an art than a science. Sometimes things don't turn out the way you want them to, but that's okay - you just feed it to the dog and try again.

Ode to Alisa (Mom)- Chili Honey Shrimp
Mom loved seafood and used to serve this regularly. I remember my sister's dairy famer boyfriend came for dinner once; he didn't know you weren't supposed to eat the shrimp shells. Oops.

- 15-20 medium sized shrimp, shell on
- 1 clove minced garlic (or more, if you're not kissing anyone later)
- 1 good pinch dried chili peppers
- 1 good pinch sesame seeds
- 4 Tbsp honey
- 3 Tbsp butter
- green onions, chopped
- basil or any herb of your choice

1) Melt the butter in a frying pan on medium heat; saute garlic for about 1 minute.
2) Add shrimp and saute for 30 seconds.
3) Add the chilis; saute for another 30 seconds.
4) Add sesame seeds and onions
5) Turn up the heat to high and add the honey. Stir until thickened. Top with herbs of your choice.

I serve these on Oscar night; you suck the coating off the shrimp, then peel and eat. Yes, it sounds disgusting. But trust me - these are addictive.

Tomorrow: Ode to Baba!