A Glorious Bonus Day in Chicago

Every once in a while, you get a bonus day, a true unexpected gift filled with memories. Yesterday was such a day. Two very inconveniently scheduled doctor appointments at opposite ends of the day forced me to clear our schedule and spend the day in Chicago with my 4 year old in tow. Vicious thunderstorms were predicted, but the sun held out, and we cruised through the city, Ferris Bueller style.

After a requisite stop at the American Girl Doll Store to pick up a little outfit, we hit some more Mommy-pleasing stops: the Art Institute and a walk through Millenium Park. The Cloud Gate is always a great spot to get a few fun shots.

Lunch at the Art Institute was like being transported to Paris. The museum serves small plates in its fountain garden, but seems to publicize it poorly, because we were the only ones enjoying the beautiful space.

Having the place to ourselves just made it easier to pretend we were crust-less grilled cheese eating princesses.

After an hour lunch, I felt more relaxed than after a week in the Carribean, soothed by the gurgling fountains and a stroll through the Impressionist floor of the Art Institute before walking out past the dazzling blue Chagall windows.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

Spices... My Secret Vice

Some women collect shoes, piling their closets with colorful boxes of Manolos. I too have a vice which fills my closets. I collect spices, as passionately as Imelda Marcos.

I can't resist their sensual promise of spectacular meals. When I pluck them off the shelf at fancy food stores, my pulse quickens at the possibilities in their shiny little jars, especially the unexpected ones. I imagine crumbling that cinnamon stick into an exotic beef stew or adding just a dash of star anise to my next batch of cupcakes. Just enough mystery to make people gasp with surprise or to push my children over the edge and agree to try a new food.

My convenient spice lazy Susans stopped spinning long ago, and they'll send spices cascading down on the head of anyone who dares to brave their precarious order. How could I resist a sweet spice grinder called Gluttony filled with shards of butterscotch and vanilla? That jar of rosemary salt crystals is huge, but just a little sprinkle on top of sliced fresh tomatoes or grilled lamb chops transports me back to summers in the South of France. 

My spice cabinet is my lair, organized to feed my creativity as I create new dishes. Just the sight alone should be enough to warn off any intruders. This is my personal bazaar, it's not open to the public. The kids are welcome to play dress up with my heels and dresses, as long as they steer clear of my ancho chili powder, my latest addition that gives my dishes a sweet and smoky gentle heat.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday. I'd love to hear what are your favorite dishes, the ones you stash in your pantries to make dishes your own.

Little Hands on my Growing Belly

The last time I was pregnant, Jack and Bella eyed my growing belly with suspicion bordering on terror. They touched it like a ticking time bomb, occasionally asking me whether it would pop open and whether there would be blood when it came time for the baby to come out. As I grew larger, I became more alien, more frightening, another sign that things were about to change in our house.

This pregnancy, my children cannot get enough of my swelling belly. They gravitate to it like moons in my orbit, soft hands touching me in passing. My belly is stroked, petted, and probed to feel the baby's gentle butterfly flutters. The transformation of my belly button is neat and cool, and when we read, they snuggle in close, thrilled that I've taken on this soft pillowy shape.

I've always been a little threatened when people touch my stomach during pregnancy, never quite understanding why its taut roundness is an open invitation to work colleagues and supermarket clerks. But I'm loving these little hands touching me, like a giant family hug before the baby is even here.

Thank you for indulging the pregnant ramblings of a happy mamma. Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

Wordful Wednesday: Tell Me Their Stories

"Tell me their stories," she demanded from the back seat.

I peered at her through the rearview mirror, looking at me earnestly in her princess pink booster seat with her halo of uncombed hair and I asked, "whose stories do you want to hear, sweetie?"

"Their stories, Mom, the stories of all the dead ones with their names on the stones. I want to hear them all!"

Her request in the parking lot of our supermarket, was so unexpected, torn from the wilds of her 4-year old world, that I pressed her to clarify, but she insisted. She had chosen that particular moment to call upon my memories, to learn about those connected to her by blood but blocked by time. "Mom! I want to know all about them: their names, their stories, and where their stones are. Tell me Mom. Tell me now."

And so I told her about her great-grandmother, my Lola, her namesake who so resembles my Juliette in spirit and determination. A woman who would be shocked to have a descendant who eats corn dogs and walks out of the house with wild hair but who would no doubt see herself in my little dictator in the making.

I told Juliette Loreau's story in Disney terms, painting a picture a 4-year old would appreciate, the story of a rich little girl who grew up with her baby brother in a big castle. She had a friend who lived nearby, a best friend who she married when she got older and he wore a handsome costume like Cinderella's prince because he was in the army. They had four pretty daughters who loved to eat cherries, right from the trees in their backyard. And later on, when she was old and living in a little house on a hill by the sea, her baby brother came to live with her again, with a little yellow bird who sang pretty songs to them in the evening from its golden cage.

She listened to the story, rapt, with her mouth a little open as if she could drink my memories. When I stopped speaking, she let out a soft, "oh," and looked dreamily at the window, no doubt imagining the life of this woman she'll never know, happy to be filled with the stories that she craved.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday! 

Hot Date

My husband and I are very committed to staying connected with frequent date nights. I have a small battalion of babysitters in my phone book for our Saturday night dates that we've collected over the last year (after a few memorable mishaps). But I have to admit that since the pregnancy, our date nights tend to be at the local movie theater in the same sweaty jeans and t-shirt I've been wearing all day. The romance and intimacy definitely goes down a notch without makeup and clean clothes.

This Saturday, our date night regimen got a major makeover thanks to the PR team at Cottonelle. They sent a chauffeured town car over to our house with a $200 gift card for our enjoyment and a $25 for the babysitter and the kids to get some pizza. When the chauffeur opened the door, I went from feeling like a pudgy pregnant whale to feeling like Cinderella with her prince.

We drove into Chicago for a unique meal at Blackbird restaurant. The waiter fussed over us, explaining the exotic ingredients in each dish: mandarinquat, sesame powder, and duck fat poached elk were consumed. After a decadent caramalized banana bread with bourbon ice cream, we lingered over fragrant coffee, laughing and talking, feeling like royalty with our chauffeur outside.

I'm always amazed by how the little things make the biggest difference in marriage. A touch on the shoulder. A hand stroked at dinner. In the middle of our hectic schedules, a few hours with clean clothes and a white tablecloth are like a luxurious Caribbean vacation.

A big thank you to the Cottonelle Ultra team for a very special night. I'll remembering it every time I reach for one of the 24 rolls they gave me in the bathroom, a little lasting touch of luxury. Stay tuned for a special giveaway I'll be hosting to bring a little Cottonelle Ultra in your lives.

Happy very belated Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

Questions About Babes Out of the Mouths of Babes

When I told my kids that I was pregnant, I expected a barrage of questions. I expected silly and shocking questions. But somehow, they still managed to surprise me. Here are a few of the most memorable.

Juju: "Will the baby be born in an Africa hospitable?"

Jack (after seeing a black and white sonogram): "Is the baby going to be black? Are you sure, because it's black in this picture, and that would be neat."

Bella: "Are you going to make me share a room with the baby?"

Juju: "Can I stay four until the baby is four so we can play together?"

Jack: "Will you bring me back the electrical cord from the hospital? I want to see it."

Bella: "If I have to babysit the baby, will you pay me? How much? Five bucks? TEN bucks? You know Mom? I'm getting really excited for the baby to come."

Bonus points if you can guess what type of cord Jack really wanted me to bring home. I would have preferred to reach for an electrical cord.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

Family Fishing at Cheeca Lodge in the Florida Keys

Even the greatest fishermen have to rest some time.

I married a fisherman. We'd only been dating a few months when he introduced me to the joys of opening spring fishing, romantically threading my slimy worms on my hook all morning. Now he has three happy helpers, eager to reach into dirt containers to pass him grubby worms, and his joy at getting a fish on the line hasn't decreased a bit.

A proud Daddy moment. Baby girl with a rod.

This summer, we spent an amazing weekend fishing in the Florida Keys at a luxury hotel called the Cheeca Lodge. As Spring break begins in a few weeks, I thought I'd use my Wordful Wednesday this week to share some memories, in case any of you are still looking for inspiration and ideas. We didn't stay at Cheeca Lodge as part of a press trip or a blogger event, just a long weekend we took to recover from the stress moving and gear up for the beginning of school. I kept meaning to write about it, but as soon as we returned to civilization, life got in the way.

The long Cheeca Lodge Pier is great for fishing.

A Fisherman's Paradise
Cheeca Lodge is a fisherman's paradise. There are rods everywhere to throw a cast in at the end of the 500 foot pier that juts out from the back terrace, and charter boats and party boats constantly going out to take advantage of the water. My husband and kids spent most of the weekend staring at the bottom of the shallow water, catching and releasing small sharks and colorful fish. When we caught a few red snappers during a snorkeling trip, the hotel chef was eager to fillet them and prepare them as a tempura appetizer. We had great meals at both the swanky hotel sushi restaurant and the outdoor contemporary American restaurant.

Isn't it amazing how good a fake beach can look? Illusion.

Disappointing Beach
Based on the hotel website, and the reservation agent, we expected the hotel to have a beautiful beach, but it was man-made and full of rocks. The pool and the dazzling turquoise water stretching out to the horizon made up for the lack of sand castles. Even if there had been a great beach, it still would have been pretty hard to tear my crew away from their fishing rods. I would have been left all alone with a good book with my toes in the sand. Such hardship!

Getting a little fish education from the charter captain. Better him than me!

Easy Access from Miami Airport
Cheeca Lodge is located in Islamadora, a Northern Florida Key and a 90 minute drive from Miami Airport. To give you a frame of reference, Key West is another two hours South of Islamadora. We took advantage of a some pretty amazing discount offer online when we booked our room. Make sure to shop around before booking.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

Tacos and the World Around the Corner

We live in a typical suburban neighborhood where kids bike to school past lush green lawns and the crossing guards know them all by name. But just a dozen blocks down the street, our suburban island of colonial houses with wide front porches gives way to gas stations and fast food chains.

I love the reality of our location and the fact that you can't tune out the rest of the world. It gives us quick access to Chicago and all of its museums and restaurants, and it also provides some pretty amazing experiences within a brisk walking distance.

My favorite taco joint, Don Alfredo's, is tucked away out of sight behind some Citgo gas pumps. I pumped many tanks of gas there before even noticing it. I never would have guessed that the tiny restaurant served up homemade tortillas filled with freshly grilled skirt steak, delicately marinated chicken, barbecued and fried pork. Everything is served with vibrant tomatoes, cilantro, onions, and avocado. The green and red sauces available on each table pack a gentle yet complex heat that thrill my mouth.

Juliette and I go there at least once a week to get our fill of tacos, rice and beans. She loves to hear me stumble through my order in Spanish and shouts, "Gracias!" Seeing the Dora vocabulary in action never loses its entertainment value. It's a whole different world of tastes, sounds and smells, just minutes from our house.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

Wordful Wednesday: Unfit for Springtime

How long does it take to get out of shape? Not nearly as long as it took to get in shape in the first place. Just a couple of gray, overcast, subzero months will do it, months that felt more like years, huddled up in a shapeless parka, reaching for the chocolate to compensate for the chopped lips, the cracking hands, and that chill that seeps right to your bones.

I felt fit during those long hibernating months. I played tennis three days a week, jumped on the elliptical every once in a while. But with every bowl of macaroni and cheese comfort, I settled into winter hibernation. It was necessary. It was survival.

When I laced up my running sneakers and went outside yesterday, mesmerized by the dazzling blue sky and the manic birds in the trees, I couldn't wait to race through the streets, wind in my hair, heart pounding like last summer. But when my feet hit the pavement, my legs were lead. Each step was slower than the next. I was plodding, not flying, and it was hard, more torture than recreation. The street is a tough talker, she doesn't lie and coddle you.

It took 20 minutes for the sweat to come, and my heart to start pounding. My legs still felt heavy, but as the sweat began dripping down my forehead, I felt glimmers of the power within, hints of the exhilaration I felt that glorious August day when I ran on the beach in California, sea lions barking in the distance, waves crashing on the sand. Spring is right around the corner, and so is my springtime in shape body.

The street is a tough trainer, but I know she will me reward in the end.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

From Romance to Family in the Snow

My husband and I had only been dating a few weeks when we went away skiing together. The tiny rental car propelled us from the muddy snowbanks of the New York highways to the pristine Vermont snowscape sprinkled with picturesque red barns. Somewhere along the way, we became a couple.

We love to settle marital disputes on the Nastar Race Track.

I was a bundle of nerves during the ride up, but not about our blossoming relationship. I was terrified to ski. My childhood skiing memories were filled with the harsh sounds of skis skidding on hidden ice, painfully frozen fingertips, and the thudding of my heart from fear. But the next day, at the rental shop, Steve convinced me to rent smaller skis, and they transformed my skiing experience. Suddenly I was in control, able to go fast and stop when I chose, feeling the wind in my hair and the sun on my face instead of the terror in my chest.

My form is looking a little stiff. 

We enjoyed two more romantic weekends in Vermont that winter and spring, and skiing became our thing. We learned so much about each other as Steve challenged me to move beyond greens and blues and make my way down giant mogul mounds and steep slopes. Off the slopes, we discovered that we also shared a passion for food, whether it was romantic dinners at snowy Vermont inns or gigantic breakfasts of bacon, eggs, and pancakes with real Vermont maple syrup.

Steve taking a strong lead. It's about playing, not winning, right?

We've kept our skiing tradition, heading out to Colorado and Utah every winter to conquer new bowls and remember that first winter together when our love blossomed in the snow. Until this year, we left the kids behind, to better pretend to be a young couple alone.

But this year, we decided that it was time to share our tradition with the kids. Their skiing was good enough to make the trip out West worthwhile. I was nervous about giving up our time together, about turning our treasured tradition into something different, something too focused on the kids. But I shouldn't have worried.

Jack and Bella eager to get going down the mountain.

Overnight, our treasured couple tradition became a family tradition. Jack and Bella were racing down the mountain on their first run, marveling at how high they were in the sky, and racing. Juliette went right along with the family, snowplowing between Steve's legs and telling him, "Faster Daddy! Faster!"

But every afternoon, the kids went home to a babysitter, and Steve and I raced around the mountain alone again, enjoying our romance in the snow.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

Even the Thermometer Is in Denial

Even my thermometer is in denial. These arctic temperatures, 8 degrees at 8AM today, are just too brutal. My heart races the minute I set outside, body shocked and rebelling from the arctic weather.

My thermometer has the right idea. He's given up, tired of his dangerous flirtation with the number zero. With a little help from some dripping ice, he has decided to paint a rosier picture by hovering just below 30 instead of reading the true temperature.

Could it be a not so subliminal message of hope? Encouragement to think positive? Prediction of balmier weather to come? At this point, 30 degrees would be heaven.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday. Stay warm!

a World of White

Remember the friendly skies? They're not so friendly anymore. It's so easy when we travel to focus on the negatives. There's the unsolicited foreplay from overweight robo-cops. There's the unrequested starvation diet. And, most unbearable, there's the two feet of personal space that become a foot and a half when the jerk in front of you reclines with one angry thrust into your kneecaps.

Now when we think of flying, we think of that turbulent flight, the one spent in the middle seat in the last row, sandwiched between a tattooed giant with dreadlocks who rocked all flight to the beat of some mental rhythm and a business traveler wearing a rumpled suit with a dusting of dandruff that cascaded softly onto your blue cashmere sweater. Because your seat didn't recline, you spent the entire flight staring at the greasy back of the head of the guy in front of you as the smell of bathroom grew more pungent by the hour.

But every once in a while, even in these very unfriendly skies, magic strikes. You wake up and find that you've been transported to a world of white, free of garbage, crime, and sludge. Trapped up high in your expensive coach seat, you get a beautiful glimpse of the wrinkled face of mother earth.

The world stretches before your eyes, an ocean of whites. A glimpse of such peace and perfection almost makes all the indignities of air travel bearable.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

Wordful Wednesday: The Lady and the Mink

The box under the tree was huge, shiny and white, and topped with the most perfect red bow I'd ever seen. My sisters and I had been poking it gently for the last 30 minutes when my father walked in and announced that it wasn't for any of us. "That's a present for your mother," he declared with a broad smile.

My mother tortured us for another agonizing 10 minutes as she prepared her Christmas morning coffee before coming to even see the box. My sisters and I had lost all interest in our own presents as we walked around it, putting our ears close to see if we heard any rustling inside. If a baby elephant had poked its trunk out from under the lid, we wouldn't have been surprised.

When my mother finally opened her present, she pulled out something infinitely more exotic and exciting than a jungle animal. The lustrous black mink coat seemed to sparkle next to the Christmas tree. And when my mother draped it over her pajama clad shoulders, she was instantly transformed into a movie star. The coat moved with her, a midnight sea of texture. It was glamour personified, not that I could have articulated that as an 8-year old kid. Instead I just stared, open mouthed, desperate to surround myself with its soft fur.

I wasn't allowed to touch it beyond a quick pat with clean hands. The fur was whisked away to an isolated  closet and only worn on special occasions. My mother would appear like a goddess at the top of the stairs, her red high heeled shoes peeking out from the bottom of her mink coat. She would button it all the way up, framing her made up face with a bright ebony garland. With a quick peck on the top of our shampooed heads, she walked out the door, leaving us with the babysitter and the faint trace of her Anais Anais perfume.

For 30 years, I've been dreaming of owning a fur coat just like that one. No account of animal cruelty was powerful enough to erase my notion of a mink as the ultimate elegance for a woman. I wanted to feel its weight on my shoulders, to drape the flowing coat around me, and feel like a movie star, just for one night.

When I saw the ad in our local list serv, I thought it was a hoax. "My aunt died and left me her mink coat. I don't want it. It's yours for $50 obo." 24 hours later, the coat was in my hands. I haven't worn it out of the house, and I may never, but even when I'm wearing comfy socks and pajamas, it makes me feel like I'm walking the red carpet. Like a lady.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

And please link up your posts here so that others may see what pictures inspired you today:

Why Can't I Kick the Craving?

We're here. We're finally here. The day has finally come when traveling with three kids is easy. No diapers. No bottles. Not even sippy cups. Just pack and go with three little people who can walk on to an airplane on their own two feet. Three kids who take their shoes off without being asked in airport security and who countdown and shout "blastoff!" when the plane's wheels finally leave the ground.

This picture was taken during our last trip to New York, in a quiet moment outside of FAO Schwarz. The kids greeted New York with the same thrill their parents did, enthusiastically demanding to visit their favorite restaurants and greeting the skyscrapers like old friends.

It seemed like this day of (relatively) stress-free family travel would never come. But I'm not celebrating. Instead I'm staring at the wrinkled, translucent foot of the infant across the aisle, quietly moved by his frail baby wail. I've forgotten how maddening those cries were at all hours of the night. I'm too busy hungering for that new baby smell, the weight of that tiny defenseless body nestled into mine.

I should listen to the rational me, recognize that life is finally getting easier, and celebrate. I meet so many women who tell me without a moment's hesitation, "I'm done having babies." Why can't I declare our family complete with the same certainty? Why can't I kick those baby cravings?

Wednesdays are a time to use pictures as a writing prompt. Check out the Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, not so Wordless and Way-back wednesday posts to see how others were inspired today.

Forced to Live in a World of Women

Being sandwiched between two sisters can be a pretty painful thing for an antsy six-year old boy. It means years of being forced to play with Barbies and My Little Ponies. Years of getting dragged to shop the sales at Justice and the Gap. Years of watching Hannah Montana and Wizards of Waverly Place. And sometimes it even means getting dragged to nail salons and waiting while all the girls, even grandma, get their nails done.

But sometimes, the nail salon ladies take pity on you, no doubt thinking of their own grown-up boys. And they lavish you with hand massages and back rubs. They come out in droves, pat your head, and call you handsome. And then, being forced to live in a world of girls is not so terrible, at least for a little while.

Check out the Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, not so Wordless and Way-back wednesday fun! 

Stealing Some Fun While Moving

The unpackers arrived the day after the movers unloaded our belongings into our new home. Although they title made them sound like something out of Pulp Fiction, they were more like a cross between family therapists and room fairies.

First they settled a decade-long debate with my husband by telling him they made it their policy to only listen to the woman of the house, forever anointing me as the big boss. Then they went room to room, emptying boxes and carting them away to their waiting truck, never losing the beaming, reassuring smiles amidst our chaos.

A few hours into the day, when the piles of paper and empty cardboard boxes had completely taken over the house, they called the kids over to ask for their "help" jumping on the paper. Even Bella wasn't too old or too cool to get in on the action.

Seeing the wide grins on all three of their faces brought a tear to my eye, the first happy one of the day.

Check out the Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, not so Wordless and Way-back wednesday fun! 

Picnic in an Empty House

There was no furniture, so we sat, criss-cross apple sauce, on the hardwood floor to have our first meal in our new home. So much sunlight was streaming through the window that the dust bunnies in the corners seemed like decorations. The kids could not sit still, even for the time to take this picture, much less eat any of the food at their feet. There were just too many empty rooms to discover, filled with mysterious tiny doors and strange little corners. The empty house echoed with their happy shouts to each other as they explored.

It was just three weeks ago, and although we've filled the house with our belongings, there are still unopened boxes in most rooms. But yet the kids still talk about the day we ate on the floor as though it was a distant memory, laughing about it around the dinner table.

Happy Wordful, not so Wordless and Way-back wednesday! 

Goodbye Columbus

A year ago, our first night in Columbus was spontaneous and magical. We were strolling through the outdoor luxury of Easton when we decided to treat ourselves to a steak dinner at Smith and Wollensky. They were having a surf and turf special and we feasted like kings, dipping our lobster tail bits in drawn butter. We sat outside on the terrace, overlooking the massive silver doors of Tiffany's, mesmerized by the pastel glow of a nearby fountain. The lavender sky seemed to melt right into the water and the kids danced around to celebrate the beauty of our new hometown.

Magic can be hard to duplicate, but we decided to try on our last night in Columbus. I'm not sure if it was the marbled steak or the lure of the fountain, but we danced again, this time to say goodbye to Columbus.

Happy Wordful, not so Wordless and Way-back wednesday! 

Floored by Fear of Heights at the Navy Pier

The Navy Pier seemed like a natural destination for our first sightseeing afternoon in Chicago. And riding the Ferris Wheel was a must, guaranteed to net some amazing photo ops with dazzling views of Lake Michigan and the Chicago skyline.

The kids were a little nervous but I eased their fears, telling them that the ride would be slow, the cabin would be closed, and we would be completely safe. All of this was 100% true, and as soon as our car began moving, they were thrilled by the experience.

Their mother on the other hand, was terrified. You'll see no award-winning shots from the top of the Navy Pier Ferris wheel by this intrepid photographer. I was too busy clutching my 3 year old's leg, and tightly closing my eyes, praying for my life.

But I did get a group shot from the ground!

Happy Wordful, not so Wordless and Way-back wednesday! 

Reconnoiter Mission is Now Complete

In a tough, no-nonsense voice, I gave the kids three simple rules before we toured our new home:

1. Don't touch anything.
2. No arguing over rooms.
3. Be polite.

I think I projected a cool and collected aura, but inside, I was a jamble of nerves. They were jet lagged, confused about another move, and exhausted from flying out that morning. How could I possibly expect them to behave?

But yet, they made me proud, shaking the hands of the current owners, answering questions about their names and their grades in clear and polite voices. No hair was pulled and no voices were raised in early negotiations for the big front bedroom. They walked with me from room to room, peering into nooks and crannies and dreaming of the hide and seek possibilities.

And when we stepped back out into the sunshine, they were unanimous in declaring,
"We love the house!"

Step 2 of Operation Move to Chicago: Reconnoiter the Area is now complete. Wish us luck with Step 3: packing.

Happy Wordful, not so Wordless and Way-back wednesday!