Food. My New Best Friend.

My sister put me in charge of cookies for Thanksgiving.

I haven't stopped making them since.

When I make cookies, I have this image that hovers around my brain: Oh! The kids will be so excited!  And we'll enjoy cookies with milk after dinner!  And the kids will sing about how I'm the best mom in the world!  And we'll eat them and laugh and dance and be the cutest little family in the whole wide world (minus my John, which breaks my heart more than anyone could ever know).

But it never happens that way.  If I don't end up eating half of the batter, I'll just eat them when they come out of the oven, piping hot, gooey, dripping, chocolaty mess that they are.  Sometimes I'll shove a steaming hot cookie into my mouth, burn the roof of my mouth, curse myself, then shove another one in because I know I can cool it down with the remains of the first one.

And when the kids get home from school, there's no laughing and dancing and talking over cookies and milk!  There's homework, and there are tears because someone didn't eat all their dinner, so they don't even get a treat, and there's bath time, and pajama time, and cleaning up after dinner, and books to read, and clothes to get out for school in the morning, and of course making sure I've spent ample time talking to each one of them about how their day was, and if something special or not-so-special happened to them that day.

My relationship with food has certainly evolved over the last two years, since being separated from my husband.  I know I don't have to explain how hard it can be sometimes being a single parent with three children.  And it certainly isn't easy for my husband either, being 1600 miles away from his family.  But I had a revelation the last time my John was here: food has become the companion I lost in my John when we moved here without him.

On a typical night, after getting the kids into bed -- usually just before eight o'clock -- I empty the dishwasher then sit in front of the television.  Once I realize I'm bored out of my mind, I waltz into the kitchen to see what yummy treats await.  For the first month or so that I was here by myself, I made it a habit to not buy any extra-yummy snacks, simply for this reason.  Of course that went out the window right after Halloween, when the kids ran out of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

So when I attack those cookies at the end of the day -- or any time of the day -- I'm not looking to fulfill my desire for something chocolaty and decadent.  Most of the time I'm not even hungry!  I'm looking at these cookies as my companion; something to lean into while I'm anticipating the long nights of homework and baths and crying and exhaustion.  These cookies are sharing all that anxiety with me.  We revel in it, and together, we thrive on it.  I can't live without them, and they can't live without me.

But there's more: it's the least satisfying bit of food I consume.

And even after I've eaten three or four, I still go back for more.  Not because I'm hungry for more, but because I'm hungry for that companionship, some sort of adult connection.  And if I can't have an adult or my husband physically here to tread the waters of nighttime routines, I might as well treat myself to something special.  Something sweet.  Something rich.  Something chocolaty and peanut buttery.

My John needs to get home soon.  For the sake of my sanity.  If I start talking to these cookies, I'm in serious trouble.

Leek and Parsnip Soup

Before having kids, I was pretty brave in the kitchen.  I had about eight cookbooks, and I used them all regularly.  A few recipes have stuck, and have even been altered according to my husband's and my tastes.  I even use some of them for the kids.

One recipe we tried was just awful: pea soup.  I should have known it was going to be gross.  I don't like peas, but I'm always up for trying new things, especially veggies.

Long story short, I pureed it, it was gross, we went out to eat dinner that night.

And I still don't like peas.

Since that day, I had sworn off pureed soups.

A few weeks ago I had lunch with my youngest sister, and she was eating butternut squash soup -- pureed. I immediately turned up my nose.  She managed to convince me to try it.  It.  Was.  Awesome.

I was on a mission to prepare a soup that I could use in my regular blender.  (We moved four months ago, and I still haven't found my immersion blender.)  It turned out so much better than I imagined, and it was perfect for the cold, rainy weather we were having.  I love leeks.  And parsnips?  Well, parsnips don't get enough love.  So here is my attempt at spreading some leek and parsnip love!

Venditti Parsnip and Leek Soup:

• 2 Tbsp salted butter

• 3 leeks, trimmed, sliced lengthwise, and chopped into 2-inch pieces 

• 5 medium parsnips, peeled and sliced
• 4-6 cups chicken or vegetable stock
• 1/2 cup heavy cream
• Salt and pepper to taste
• Fresh chives, for garnish

1. In a large soup pot, melt the butter over medium heat.  Add the parsnips and cook 5 minutes.
2. Add the leeks and cook another 5-7 minutes, or until both vegetables are tender.
3. Add  the chicken stock and bring to a boil.  Once it boils, turn the heat down to low, and simmer for about 30 minutes.
4. Turn the heat off, and allow the soup to cool for about 15 minutes.  Put the soup in a blender, and puree, working in small batches.  Once the entire pot has been pureed, add the soup back to the pot, and add the heavy cream.  
5. Turn the heat back down to low, and allow the soup to heat up again.  Add salt and pepper to taste, and top with fresh chives.  Be sure to have lots of crusty bread to pass around the table!

Busy

Busy: A word that is entirely too common in our every day language.

My life can get very busy, just like everyone else's.  I have 3 kids, one of whom stays home with me for all but an hour and 15 minutes, 3 days a week.  I have a husband who is out of town.  I take care of baths, dinners, and making lunches for school.  I pay the bills and return the library books and make the dentist and doctor appointments.  I attend the kids' conferences, and take them to the birthday parties.  I make the curtains for the new house.  I clean (maybe a little obsessively).  I help with the homework and sign the tests.

'Busy' is a common occurrence.  But it seems as though the meaning of the word 'busy' has evolved.  Is that the case for everyone?  Or is it just me?  I found myself saying, "Oh, we've just been busy" to a neighbor of ours last week who mentioned she hadn't seen us around in awhile.  I certainly am busy, in the true sense of the word, but defining the 'busy-ness,' especially when someone mentions they haven't seen you in awhile can become tricky, especially if you're just using the word as an excuse.  When someone says, "Oh, I can't.  I'm busy," I don't truly think they can't.  I think they simply won't.  And unfortunately, that was the case when I responded to my neighbor.

The word 'busy' has become a general term to define everything we do in our lives as an excuse to not have to do other things that we may just not feel like doing.  And that is certainly okay.  I just wonder if it's starting to affect the way we communicate and interact with other adults, or even potential friends.

I want to use that word as seldom as possible.  Because if I start using that word as a way to describe how I'm living my life, my life is going to become a big jumble of events that I can't keep track of,  I have no recollection of, and I certainly am not enjoying.

Anyone too busy to stop by and chime in on this one?

Paranoia

Being the grown-up in our house has many advantages: I can eat the kids' Halloween candy after I've put them to bed; I can also let the kids watch movies all day!

There are also some disadvantages, the biggest of which I experienced last night: fear that someone will come into my house in the middle of the night and kill my kids and me.

I don't know if this is a mom thing or some kind of neurotic episode I was experiencing or what.  We live in a very safe and respectable area.  Earlier in the day, I saw a few creepy headlines about these bold criminals waltzing into people's houses and raping and/or killing its residents.  Well, I took it all to bed with me last night.

The images that went through my brain were some of the most horrific and unimaginable things that have ever crossed my mind.

Of course, I was hearing things in the house... things I hear all the time (the heater going on, cars passing by, neighbors' car doors opening and closing, airplanes, trains).  But all of those things somehow morphed into intruders.  Vicious, merciless, strong, armed intruders.  I began to make a plan in my head.  Exactly what would I do if someone were to come into the house?  Grab my phone?  Grab the kids?  Break the windows and start screaming for help?

Before my John had to go back to Texas after we moved into this house, he placed a metal baseball bat next to the front door, "just in case," he said.  Well, that bat has made its way into my room, and resides right beside my bed.  Safe, right?  Well, what if I tried to use it against an attacker in the middle of the night, and they somehow manage to wrestle the bat from my hands?  Bam.  I'm dead.

And don't even get me started on the awful things I'd thought about my precious babies.  They're still so young.  They wouldn't know what to do, where to start.  I've taught my six-year-old how to use my phone to call 911, and he knows my cell phone number and John's cell phone number, but would he remember what to do in a situation like that?  We don't have a land line, and we still don't have the phone numbers of any neighbors yet.

I'm bringing my pepper spray to bed with me from now on.  Hopefully that will be enough to -- at the very least -- calm my paranoia.

Does anyone else out there get like that?  Any singles moms?  Or single dads?  Or even happily married parents that get to go to bed together every night safely and soundly?

May God have mercy on the soul of any person who attempts to hurt my precious loves.  Because I won't.

Guacamole

Shortly after my husband and I moved to Texas, we were having dinner at a friend's house.  We were asked to "bring the avocados."  We had no idea what we were doing -- we're from Philly... we do hoagies and cheesesteaks.  I wasn't even 100% sure what avocados were...?  So my husband and I searched the produce and happened upon 3 nice, bright, green avocados.  Proud of ourselves, we brought them to our friend's house, where they proceeded to laugh and scold us about how these "nice, bright, green avocados" are nowhere near ripe, to which my husband replied, "But guacamole is green!"  We all had a good laugh, and the avocado experts from Texas went out and got ripe ones.

After living in Texas for close to 15 years, just a few hours from the Mexican border, one would think that avocados became a daily part of our diet.  Oddly enough I was never too crazy about them.  I was intimidated by them, having never tried them in the past.  But six months ago I discovered them.  Boy oh boy, did I discover them.  I always wanted to like avocados -- they have amazing health benefits: heart-healthy fats (so it's okay to indulge!), lots of potassium (think regulated BLOOD PRESSURE!), lutein (think EYES!), and they have a lot of vitamin B, which is terrific for fighting off infections, and keeping your immune system in tip-top shape.

I started out simple with avocado toast, and later discovered all the different ways to prepare the avocado.  I finally managed to get it just the way I wanted it: loaded with healthy, crunchy veggies, and screaming with flavor!  Feel free to change things around, or add any other ingredients you think will make it even more amazing.

Venditti Guacamole:

• 2 ripe avocados
• 1/4 cup red onion, chopped
• 1/4 cup red pepper, chopped
• 1/2 bunch cilantro, finely chopped
• 1/2 small, seeded jalapeño pepper, chopped
• juice from half of a lime
• Salt and pepper to taste

1. After cutting the avocado in half, remove the pit.  Scoop out the pulp with a spoon or fork and place in a medium bowl.  Mash the avocado, until desired consistency has been achieved.
2. Add lime juice, peppers, onions and cilantro and mix thoroughly.  Add salt and pepper to taste.
3. Enjoy with chips, as a spread, with your favorite Mexican dish, or on its own!
4. This can be refrigerated for up to one day: put the guac in a bowl that has an airtight lid.  Gently place plastic wrap over the guacamole; press down so as not to let any air get into or out of the plastic; put the lid on tightly, and store.

I Can't Hear You if I Can't See Your Lips

For my 28th birthday -- eons ago -- my husband and I met some friends for dinner.  We had a great time, and a great meal, and before we left, I opened the small gifts and cards I had been given.  I don't remember any of the gifts I got, except one: inside the entertaining birthday card was a piece of paper with instructions on how to clean out your ears.

I was quite taken aback by the audacity of my friend.  I didn't know what to say.

My hearing is pretty bad.  But did my friend truly believe my hearing issues were simply a result of bad personal hygiene?  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or punch him in his big, fat nose.  When my bugged-out eyes made their way back into their sockets, he attempted to play it off, and actually said, "Oh! How did that get in there...?!"  It was all I thought about for the rest of the night.  I was so embarrassed.  Is my hearing that bad?  Do my friends discuss the fact that they have to repeat everything they say to me?  Or was this my friend's way of making a joke?  A bad one.

When I was in first grade, I received speech services.  And about a year ago, my mom told me that while I was getting speech therapy, the nurse told her I had issues with my hearing that may be related to the speech problems.  I guess my mom didn't think it was that bad -- and maybe it wasn't at the time -- because I never received any services for my hearing.

As I got older, it became clear that my hearing was getting worse.  I had to keep telling my husband that he didn't have to yell at me; that I simply needed to see his lips when he talked so that I could match what he was saying to what I thought I was hearing.  I've pretty much mastered the art of lip-reading.

About two years ago, I had some audio testing done, and the results I got were albeit expected;  nonetheless shocking.  I don't have "profound" hearing loss, but it's pretty close.  We looked into getting hearing aids, but our move to the northeast interfered with that plan, and I haven't yet pursued a new audiologist.

I don't mean to sound like a Sensitive Sally, but making jokes about my hearing has just become hurtful and rude.  My mom even told me recently that she wants to start keeping a list of all the things she says, compared to what I think she says, "just because it's so funny!"  HA.

"Look, Mom! He's Fat!"

During the summer, the kids and I frequented a local water ice place for a treat.

On one particular occasion, while we were standing in line, my middle child, who was only 4 at the time, pointed to a little boy in the next line, and said, "Look, Mom!  He's fat!"  I heard her, but pretended not to, in the hopes that she would drop it, and we would never talk about it again.  Unfortunately, my plan backfired when she shouted the same thing again, this time, loud enough for -- not the boy to hear her -- his mother to hear her.

Embarrassed doesn't even convey the feelings of humiliation I felt.  I had no idea what to say... to my daughter; to that poor mother (I don't think her son heard, THANK GOODNESS).

I immediately apologized to the mother.  Profusely.  Fortunately she was very understanding, and just let it go with a nod and a slight grin.  I bent down and said to my daughter that she shouldn't say things like that, and she apologized.  I even brought it up again on the way home, where she started crying and apologizing again.  I later resolved that I should have told his mother that I would talk to my daughter about those kinds of comments later.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it.  For a lot of reasons.  My daughter had no idea how insulting it was for her to identify that child as fat.  She might as well have said he was tall, or had brown hair, or was wearing a blue shirt.  It was simply an observation.  There was no malice or hatred behind her remark.

I later became annoyed that I felt so defensive about my daughter's remark.  We live in a society where we try to teach our children, more specifically, our daughters, that fat and thin don't mean anything; that beauty is on the inside.  Children are so easily influenced and I don't want mine to think that just because someone doesn't like they way the look, or they don't "fit" into some degree of "normal," that they're weird or ugly or fat.  I want my kids to accept themselves, and others, the way they are.  It doesn't matter what they look like.

I'm glad I apologized to the mother of that little boy.  But I wish I hadn't made my daughter feel so bad for something she didn't realize she had done.  She truly didn't know that she said a hurtful thing.

I wish fat wasn't such an insult.