CurrentMom

Roto Mom - Or, The Other Side of Helicoptering

Truth Thursday

This may amuse, or even satisfy, those of my friends who have long thought, silently (or not so silently) that am too loose with my kids – allow them too much freedom too early. Or that I'm not paying close enough attention to their comings and goings. That’s not to say there aren’t rules, because that’s different. But I’ve always been the mom who allowed my kids to walk to town sooner than their friends, take the bus alone, do things on their own. I don't hover.

My sister and I were raised in a family that placed a great premium on independence, both because of its inherent value and because of our circumstances. We grew up to be New York City kids, adept at riding the subways, navigating the mean streets alone, taking the train to school from the age of 11.

We both feel incredibly fortunate to have had that experience. It has prepared us for life in a positive and empowering way. 

I have always wanted the same for my children, except that we live a bit more in the suburban, go-car-go culture than I would have liked. But we have public transportation, and schools close enough to walk to. So they have figured it out. My oldest has been getting himself everywhere by himself for years – he hoofs it on his own, takes the bus or metro. Even flew to Israel on his own when he was 14 (to stay with family.)

Each summer I put them on a plane to fly alone to Boston to visit their grandparents. They walk to middle school, have learned how to take the bus to “downtown” and the youngest is about to leave for 6 weeks of sleepaway camp without a worry.

But this weekend tested me in a different way, and I felt more like a mother bear than I have in a long time.

A Surfeit of Carrots? Try this Delicious Carrot Cake Recipe

Meal Monday

I'm sure it never ever happens to anyone else, but occasionally (ahem!), I forget what I already have at home and buy it again at the supermarket. Hence, I found myself putting the second one-pound bag of carrots into the refrigerator last week and wondering what on earth I could do with a bumper crop of carrots.

I've never actually made carrot cake, but it's one of those things that is always surprisingly good when I do have it. I decided to find a recipe and came up with one in my son's school's fundraising cookbook from 2006. This recipe was contributed by Kassy White, who had three sons at the school, and although I've never met her, I applaud her.

I made cupcakes, but the baking time was the same as the recipe prescribes for three layer cakes. I ended up with too many cupcakes, but they were so good! The only drag is grating all the carrots, which I did by hand, but it's well worth the effort. 

And all that vitamin A is so nutritious, right?

Carrot Cake

1 1/2 cups oil (canola works well)

2 cups sugar

4 eggs

2 cups flour

1 teaspoon salt

3 teaspoons cinnamon

2 teaspoons vanilla

3 cups grated carrots (I just grated the whole bag's worth)

 

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Combine sugar and oil, then add eggs.

2. Sift flour, baking soda, salt and cinnamon together. Add to sugar/oil/egg mixture and mix well.

3. Add vanilla and grated carrots.

4. Pour batter into three greased (8 inch) layer cake pans, or two one-dozen cupcake or muffin tins either greased or lined with paper.

5. Bake at 325 degrees for 45 minutes. Cool completely and then frost with Cream Cheese Frosting.

Cream Cheese Frosting

1 stick butter

8 ounces cream cheese (any kind will work)

1 package or box (16 ounces) confectioners' sugar

2 teaspoons vanilla

 

1. Soften the butter and cream cheese, then beat together with an electric mixer.

2. Add confectioners' sugar, a bit at a time, then the vanilla, until frosting is of spreading consistency.

3. Frost the cake or cupcakes.

 

 

Popsicle Toes

Truth Thursday

I’m peering down at my not-yet-chipping ice blue toes, painted this past weekend with a new color from the fabulous Butter London makeup line.

Blue. Since when did one paint one’s toes with blue nail polish? It seems so teen-y, so young, so un-me.

But over the past few years, I have discovered that I really enjoy the alternative looks in nail color. For a few years it has been really dark browns and purples, close to black, that feel a bit goth. I’ve gotten used to these dramatic colors on my toes, and just this year, I actually let them migrate up to my hands a couple of times, both times with exhilarating results. I like how much they look like a young, cool person’s nails. 

And how far a cry they are from my mother’s Misty Lilac and Strawberry Pink nails.

For the first decade of my life, my mother did not use nail polish at all. She barely wore makeup, except for the bright gash of Revlon’s Persian Melon lipstick (which sounds a lot prettier than it was – a pinkish orange, which was the exact wrong color for my mother’s olive complexion.)

Then one day, when I was about 10 or 11, my mother started painting her nails. Never a real manicure. She was a do-it-yourself person, always at home, with cuticle sticks and emery boards and pinks and reds and berry colors galore. Once she started, she never stopped. To the day she died, she had one of those colors on her nails, in the dim hope that they might distract from the ropy blue veins that pervaded her slender hands.

I was not impressed. As a teen who preferred overalls and Earth shoes to dressing up of any sort, I thought painted nails were anti-feminist, a product of the male-dominated military-industrial complex, and as a result, not for me. Also, anything that my mother did at that stage of my life was anathema to me. So I continued to bite my nails and ignore any siren call of adorning them.

The Bully Pulpit

Truth Thursday

Defined by Wikipedia, a bully pulpit is “a position sufficiently conspicuous to provide an opportunity to speak out and be listened to.”

It is also “only distantly related to the modern form of "bully", which means "harasser of the weak."

This week, I will write about bullying from the vantage point of my bully pulpit.

I have learned the very sad news that in one of my child’s circle of friends, there is someone being bullied. Bullied so meanly that this child is afraid to walk in the halls in school alone, and cowers until friends, including my child, come to the rescue.

This has all been happening in the last few days of school, and I don’t know what the parents of either child involved are doing about it officially, since it is not my child who is the victim.

But it was me. And when I heard the story, it pushed a button deep inside me and I started to cry. Because I was that child who cowered in the bathroom, who was afraid to walk in the hallways without a posse of friends to protect me, and who never mentioned a word to my parents for an entire school year about what was happening to me at school.

Summer Fruit -- the Simplest and Best Dessert

Meal Monday

I'm not sure I can get away with calling today's post a recipe. What it is really is a collection of ingredients. But I do think curators are an under appreciated bunch, and that includes gastronomic curators.

Hence, today's entry: a bountiful bowl of summer fruit. It's the easiest, most refreshing dessert and it does require a sophisticated palate and highly refined aesthetic, of course.

The other night I assembled a large bowl of fresh blueberries and cut-up nectarines, spritzed some fresh lemon juice over it and served it as dessert. If you really want to go crazy, serve a plate of cookies on the side. 

Fruit is my favorite way to end a meal on a hot night, because it's light and you don't leave the table feeling too full. The combination of the sweet berries, tart nectarines and a hint of lemon was perfect -- like a bowlful of summer.