I recently happened upon FoMu Alternative Ice Cream and Cafe in Allston, Massachusetts. FoMu ice cream is a vegan ice cream which uses coconut milk as a base. A few select flavors use an almond-cashew blend and their soft ice cream has a soy base. The interesting thing about FoMu ice cream is that all of it is completely dairy free.
Some people may be skeptical about dairy free ice cream. But I'm happy to report that FoMu's Salted Caramel ice cream was as good as any traditional ice cream that I've tasted. It had a smooth and creamy consistency, like milk-based ice cream but perhaps a touch softer, reminiscent of gelato. The flavor was bold and very caramel, much more caramel than most salted caramel ice creams that I've tried. Perhaps the omission of dairy and cream really lets the caramel flavor shine through. I also enjoyed the Pumpkin Spice ice cream. The Pumpkin Spice was true to its name and had spicy notes of pumpkin pie flavors such as nutmeg and cinnamon. More spicy than sweet, it tasted like a grown-up flavor, and was very reminiscent of the Fall season.
I was very happy to find FoMu because one of my daughters has a milk allergy. She has been living with and managing this and other allergies for years, but especially because of the milk allergy, there are many things that she cannot eat. Most of our ice cream outings offer her a predictably minimal choice. She is limited to places that serve dairy-free sorbet, and it's always, inevitably, a choice of two: raspberry or lemon, raspberry or lemon. One of the things she always wanted was to be able to go out for ice cream and order whatever she wanted. And so, I was ecstatic to present her with FoMu, a place where she could choose from twenty flavors. I was overjoyed to watch her read the blackboard menu, announcing "Cake batter, cookie dough, salted caramel--I can actually have the salted caramel!" We ordered four flavors and she tried them all.
I was very thankful to FoMu to be able to give her this small gift, to feel like everyone else who goes out for ice cream and to have the freedom to order whatever she wanted. For those who are not familiar with what it's like to live with food allergies, or to live with someone you love who has them, I can tell you that it's a constant and that it is often difficult. There's the worry about being safe, about having an accidental exposure and having a reaction. There are the basic, practical considerations of will there be anything to eat at the school, the function, the party, the new restaurant, and the phone calls, inquiries, and micro-managing that go with that. There are the social considerations of being the only one to eat a turkey sub when all the other kids are having pizza. There are the medical considerations such as do you have your medications with you, and if not, no, you're not eating anything until we get home. Yes, it's a constant.
There have been angels along the way, like the owner and creator of FoMu, who shine a little light on the task of living with food allergies. It is to those people that I would like to pay tribute today. To the pre-school moms who asked for my special allergy-free cake recipe and served only that cake at the party. To the elementary school mom who served hot dogs instead of pizza at her son's birthday so that my daughter could feel included. To the moms (and especially the kids who asked their moms to do it) who made special goodie bags for her that were safe. To the neighbor who made a special trick or treat bag on Halloween night just for one child. To an older sister, who at six years old, announced during Trick or Treating to unsuspecting homeowners that "Minnie Mouse has food allergies." To the family members who have changed entire menus for holidays and celebrations so that she could be safe. To the mom who consulted with me about her daughter's bat mitzvah menu so that my daughter would have enough to eat. To those parents who did not shy away from dealing with their child's friend who has food allergies but who welcomed her for dinner and made her something special. To her friends who ask what she can eat and who bring a safe snack to the celebration or bake something with her in mind. To all of you, I say thank you. Your small kindnesses are more appreciated than you know, by a child who is now a teen who has lived with allergies all of her life. But most especially, by her mom, who probably cares more than she does, who can't be with her everywhere or make all of her food or ensure that she is always included. You have helped me to do that, and I am most grateful.
Go try some FoMu ice cream! You won't be disappointed.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Butterfingers and Two Singers
This summer I made a long trip to Kimball Farm Ice Cream in Westford, Massachusetts, to meet a dear friend and her children for some ice cream. I had the Peanut Butter Butterfinger. I have tried many, many, permutations of peanut butter-flavored ice cream and this flavor did not disappoint. First of all, the portions at Kimball Farm are huge. There is something very enticing about digging into a giant, perfect mound of ice cream, especially when you only ordered a small. The peanut butter-flavored ice cream was very creamy, seemingly like vanilla, but with a pronounced peanut butter flavor. The Butterfinger pieces were large, larger than I expected, and added a nice crunch. Small pieces of chocolate were mixed throughout the ice cream. I had never seen this flavor anywhere else, which is surprising because having tried it, it's obvious that peanut butter and Butterfinger are a perfect match. Kimball's got it right.
Although Kimball Farm is renowned for its ice cream, and I did enjoy my new flavor, I made the trip primarily for the company. It was great to spend time with my friend and her children. We met twenty-eight years ago this month, in a freshman dorm, and instantly became fast friends. Our friendship has survived the test of time and place, spanning different states, countries, and even continents. I am thankful that we are still close, and that we are still able to find the time to stay connected.
As the years go by, I realize more and more that it is the connections we make with others that really matter in this world. I have a story about this, and although it takes place in a church, the important part of the story happens after the service ends.
A few weeks ago I was playing the organ and piano for our Sunday church service. After I arrived, the summer visiting priest came over to speak to me. Thinking that he was checking on the music, I immediately gave him a list of the service hymns. He listened patiently, noted that he was not actually serving for this particular service, and told me that he was sorry that he had not had the chance to hear my children sing a duet. It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. And then I remembered.
My son had served as a song leader in church a number of times this summer. Weeks ago, this priest had complimented his singing, and then asked my middle daughter if she liked to sing as well. I had told him that she did in fact sing, and that perhaps the kids could sing a duet in church for him when I played for one of the services. And then I had forgotten all about it.
Unfortunately, this Sunday was to be his last with our parish, as he had to return to his mission in Africa. I hastily apologized and felt terrible that I had forgotten.
The service began, but I still felt badly, and could not let it go. I began to think about how the kids could perform a duet before the priest left. I went into the back room during a pause in the service and found a song that my kids knew very well. From the organ, I mouthed to my daughter and son the idea to sing for the priest after church. I saw the priest enter the sacristy and I scurried through a back passageway, to ask if he would like to hear the kids sing after church ended. He seemed very pleased.
After the service ended, he headed toward the back of the church to greet some parishioners, assuring me that he would return in five minutes. He returned, and the four of us gathered at the piano. People were still milling about the church but we did not care. I played the opening notes of "Who Would Imagine a King," and my teenage son and daughter sang the beautiful words, alternating on the verses and joining together on the refrain. The priest listened and smiled a beautiful smile, and when it was done, offered words of thanks and encouragement, especially to my daughter who had not sung for him before.
Sharing that song was the nicest thing that happened that Sunday, and probably that week.
How many times do we say something in passing, promise something, refer to something, and then forget all about it? It can happen all too often in our busy world. But the person on the other end of the conversation may actually be listening.
During the service, I had doubts about whether I was doing the right thing. Would the priest really care? Had the moment already passed? Should I be paying more attention to the service instead of scurrying around, trying to plan an impromptu concert? I decided to do it anyway. And I'm so glad that I did.
It's in the connections, in the sharing and doing for others, that we find the joy and the reward. Sometimes the connections are those that we have cultivated for years. Sometimes the connections are fleeting, momentary, created in the length of time it takes to sing a song.
There was a moment of grace in the sharing of that song. I call it God's presence. Some may just call it grace, or goodness, or connection. Either way, it's good news.
Although Kimball Farm is renowned for its ice cream, and I did enjoy my new flavor, I made the trip primarily for the company. It was great to spend time with my friend and her children. We met twenty-eight years ago this month, in a freshman dorm, and instantly became fast friends. Our friendship has survived the test of time and place, spanning different states, countries, and even continents. I am thankful that we are still close, and that we are still able to find the time to stay connected.
As the years go by, I realize more and more that it is the connections we make with others that really matter in this world. I have a story about this, and although it takes place in a church, the important part of the story happens after the service ends.
A few weeks ago I was playing the organ and piano for our Sunday church service. After I arrived, the summer visiting priest came over to speak to me. Thinking that he was checking on the music, I immediately gave him a list of the service hymns. He listened patiently, noted that he was not actually serving for this particular service, and told me that he was sorry that he had not had the chance to hear my children sing a duet. It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. And then I remembered.
My son had served as a song leader in church a number of times this summer. Weeks ago, this priest had complimented his singing, and then asked my middle daughter if she liked to sing as well. I had told him that she did in fact sing, and that perhaps the kids could sing a duet in church for him when I played for one of the services. And then I had forgotten all about it.
Unfortunately, this Sunday was to be his last with our parish, as he had to return to his mission in Africa. I hastily apologized and felt terrible that I had forgotten.
The service began, but I still felt badly, and could not let it go. I began to think about how the kids could perform a duet before the priest left. I went into the back room during a pause in the service and found a song that my kids knew very well. From the organ, I mouthed to my daughter and son the idea to sing for the priest after church. I saw the priest enter the sacristy and I scurried through a back passageway, to ask if he would like to hear the kids sing after church ended. He seemed very pleased.
After the service ended, he headed toward the back of the church to greet some parishioners, assuring me that he would return in five minutes. He returned, and the four of us gathered at the piano. People were still milling about the church but we did not care. I played the opening notes of "Who Would Imagine a King," and my teenage son and daughter sang the beautiful words, alternating on the verses and joining together on the refrain. The priest listened and smiled a beautiful smile, and when it was done, offered words of thanks and encouragement, especially to my daughter who had not sung for him before.
Sharing that song was the nicest thing that happened that Sunday, and probably that week.
How many times do we say something in passing, promise something, refer to something, and then forget all about it? It can happen all too often in our busy world. But the person on the other end of the conversation may actually be listening.
During the service, I had doubts about whether I was doing the right thing. Would the priest really care? Had the moment already passed? Should I be paying more attention to the service instead of scurrying around, trying to plan an impromptu concert? I decided to do it anyway. And I'm so glad that I did.
It's in the connections, in the sharing and doing for others, that we find the joy and the reward. Sometimes the connections are those that we have cultivated for years. Sometimes the connections are fleeting, momentary, created in the length of time it takes to sing a song.
There was a moment of grace in the sharing of that song. I call it God's presence. Some may just call it grace, or goodness, or connection. Either way, it's good news.
Have a sweet week.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Cookie Bites and a Popsicle Stick
Today I am reviewing Cookie Bites from Whole Foods Market. Cookie Bites are bite-sized dessert cups. The base is a chocolate chip cookie turned into a little mini muffin, with a hollowed out middle. The cookie is a great consistency and there are ample chocolate chips--so much so that sometimes all you get when you bite into one is a hunk of good chocolate. The chocolate chip cookie shells are filled with a dollop of really good frosting. The sugar content in this frosting matches exceptionally well to the flavor of the chocolate chip cookie shell. It sounds like it would be too sweet but it is not! I am powerless over these little desserts. It's impossible to have just one. Or two or three.
I don't love the name "Cookie Bites" because I'm not sure that's a very inviting name. I think the taste of these little desserts far surpasses the attractiveness of the name. I think they should be called something else, like "Cookie Dessert Cups" or "Chocolate Chip Cookie Treats." No matter what they are called, however, they are positively, absolutely delicious.
What's in a name? I have a name story. It takes place in a third grade classroom.
There was an eight-year-old girl who had an interesting name. One of her classroom reading assignments involved a character who had a name similar to that of the girl, which created the perfect environment for a lot of teasing. Some kids in the class seemed to find pleasure in calling the girl by this new, unattractive name, or by mixing up the two names during read-aloud time. One boy in particular was relentless in teasing the girl. He did not let up.
Later that day, the class was working on a project with popsicle sticks. The students had to write their names on the popsicle sticks so that the projects could be correctly returned. When project time ended, the girl helped to collect the projects. When she took the project from the boy who teased her the most, she happened to glance down at it. And there, written in black crayon on a popsicle stick, was his name. It was not the name that everyone called him, which was, apparently, a well-designed nickname. It was his actual name. And his name was Frank Edgar.
Frank Edgar is a perfectly respectable name. But perhaps not when you are a third-grader, and you have gone to great lengths to adopt a cool nickname that everyone thinks is your real name. Frank Edgar realized what had happened. He looked at the girl-- the same girl that he had been tormenting--with a desperate, pleading look. Their eyes met and locked for a matter of seconds.
In that moment, the girl could feel angst, desperation, and panic coming from Frank Edgar. The embarrassment from his teasing was still fresh in her mind. But the intensity of his pain, his potential pain, based upon what she chose to do in that moment, won out. The girl did nothing. She collected the project, and said nothing.
Two things happened that day. Right there in a third grade classroom, in the time that it took for the girl to lock eyes with Frank Edgar, she learned the meaning of empathy. She learned how to put herself in someone else's shoes and to make a decision based upon someone else's feelings. That's not always the easiest decision to make. But it's probably always the right decision.
The second thing that happened that day is that Frank Edgar never teased that girl again. My guess is that he learned something that day too.
Never underestimate the power of doing good.
Have a sweet week!
Sunday, September 1, 2013
S'mores and Some Mail
The Cheesecake Factory has a new cheesecake flavor. It's called Toasted Marshmallow S'Mores Galore. It tastes as decadent as it sounds, and I think it's one of their better cheesecakes. It's comprised of Hershey's chocolate cheesecake, with chocolate frosting on top, a thick blanket of toasted marshmallow draped over the cheesecake, crumbled graham crackers sprinkled throughout, one artfully placed graham cracker square, and whipped cream. The toasted marshmallow blanket is sweet and thick, and is deliciously rich, especially when mixed with the chocolate cheesecake. The cheesecake itself is a smooth, rich chocolate, and the frosting on top is a bold accent of chocolate flavor. There seems to be more whipped cream than usual with this flavor of Cheesecake Factory cheesecake, and the fact that the whipped cream is sprinkled with graham cracker fools you into thinking you should eat the mound of whipped cream as if it were ice cream or mousse. This cheesecake, for lack of a better word, is quite yummy! It is, however, extremely rich and I could only finish about half of it. Bring a friend when you try the S'Mores Cheesecake!
S'mores are definitely a summertime treat. To be honest, I never actually had s'mores growing up. We had plenty of toasted marshmallows, toasted over barbecues with charcoal, sometimes just browned on the outside, sometimes toasted until they were charred and black on the outside, and gooey and almost liquid on the inside. Those were the best kind. It wasn't until I was much older that I found out that some people went the extra step and brought graham crackers and chocolate into the mix. I think I prefer just the toasted marshmallows, to be honest, probably because they play such a large role in my summer memories. I see the point of adding the graham crackers and chocolate, but it's the toasted marshmallows that really mean summertime for me.
How many of our childhood memories end up defining who we are? I have a memory from early childhood that I know played a significant part in defining who I am. I was around seven or eight years old. I had written a poem about the American flag. Someone in my household thought it would be a good idea to send it to the President. The President! Well, we mailed him the poem. And one day, there was a letter in my mailbox with a return address that said "The White House." And it was addressed to me.
It was a letter from President Gerald Ford, thanking me for sending him my poem. I remember getting the mail, and seeing the crisp white envelope with the words "The White House" on it, and feeling so excited. I actually got a letter from the White House! From the President of the United States!
It's been quite a few years since that letter arrived. I don't remember what the letter actually said, and I don't even remember the poem that I wrote. But I do remember how I felt when I got that letter. Besides being excited, I felt really important, like something that I had done really mattered. I'm not sure who's idea it was to send the letter, or what the intention had been. Quite possibly, my mother or father just thought it would be something fun to do. It actually had a much bigger impact, and left me with the feeling that great things can happen when you put yourself out there. Whoever thought that the President would write to me, a girl living in a small suburb of New York, who hand-wrote a poem in pencil on some lined paper? But he did.
I'm really thankful to my parents for that moment, for showing me that anything is possible. Why not send a letter to the President of the United States? Why not do something, be proud of something, reach for something, no matter how unreachable it may seem? It was a good lesson, and it's a lesson worth repeating I think. For kids and for adults. For all of us.
Have a great week. And invite a friend to share some of that S'mores Cheesecake!
S'mores are definitely a summertime treat. To be honest, I never actually had s'mores growing up. We had plenty of toasted marshmallows, toasted over barbecues with charcoal, sometimes just browned on the outside, sometimes toasted until they were charred and black on the outside, and gooey and almost liquid on the inside. Those were the best kind. It wasn't until I was much older that I found out that some people went the extra step and brought graham crackers and chocolate into the mix. I think I prefer just the toasted marshmallows, to be honest, probably because they play such a large role in my summer memories. I see the point of adding the graham crackers and chocolate, but it's the toasted marshmallows that really mean summertime for me.
How many of our childhood memories end up defining who we are? I have a memory from early childhood that I know played a significant part in defining who I am. I was around seven or eight years old. I had written a poem about the American flag. Someone in my household thought it would be a good idea to send it to the President. The President! Well, we mailed him the poem. And one day, there was a letter in my mailbox with a return address that said "The White House." And it was addressed to me.
It was a letter from President Gerald Ford, thanking me for sending him my poem. I remember getting the mail, and seeing the crisp white envelope with the words "The White House" on it, and feeling so excited. I actually got a letter from the White House! From the President of the United States!
It's been quite a few years since that letter arrived. I don't remember what the letter actually said, and I don't even remember the poem that I wrote. But I do remember how I felt when I got that letter. Besides being excited, I felt really important, like something that I had done really mattered. I'm not sure who's idea it was to send the letter, or what the intention had been. Quite possibly, my mother or father just thought it would be something fun to do. It actually had a much bigger impact, and left me with the feeling that great things can happen when you put yourself out there. Whoever thought that the President would write to me, a girl living in a small suburb of New York, who hand-wrote a poem in pencil on some lined paper? But he did.
I'm really thankful to my parents for that moment, for showing me that anything is possible. Why not send a letter to the President of the United States? Why not do something, be proud of something, reach for something, no matter how unreachable it may seem? It was a good lesson, and it's a lesson worth repeating I think. For kids and for adults. For all of us.
Have a great week. And invite a friend to share some of that S'mores Cheesecake!
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Ice Cream Sandwich Chronicles
I recently had the pleasure of trying the Ice Cream Sandwich at Fuse Bistro in Lowell, Massachusetts. I thought it would be a fancy ice cream sandwich, but still an ice cream sandwich that you could pick up and eat with your hands. It was quite a bit more! It was served on a long, rectangular plate. There were three toffee cookies spaced evenly on the plate, and scoops of salted caramel ice cream were placed in between the cookies. The cookies were topped with whipped cream, the plate was drizzled in hot fudge, and there was a piece of walnut brittle placed as a garnish in the center. It was quite an elaborate take on the ice cream sandwich! It looked lovely and it tasted even better. The cookies were buttery and just the right consistency; not too soft and not too crunchy. The salted caramel ice cream was delicious; the right combination of bitter and sweet, and I just wished there had been more of it. The whipped cream and hot fudge were nice accompaniments. The walnut brittle, although tasty, was difficult to chew and proved to be more of a distraction. The rest of the dessert, however, was fantastic.
I have always been a fan of ice cream sandwiches. There is something very comforting about the standard ice cream sandwich--vanilla ice cream sandwiched between two rectangular layers of thin chocolate cake. Growing up in the 1970's, that was the one and only ice cream sandwich. In the early '80's the chipwich made its appearance, and I was an instant fan. Two chocolate chip cookies, vanilla ice cream in the middle, and chocolate chips all along the sides. The chipwich was like a delicacy; it was more expensive, and you didn't get it very often. It was like the champagne of ice cream sandwiches.
I have a chipwich story that I would like to share. It's kind of a bittersweet story.
I was almost sixteen years old at the time. On one ordinary morning while getting ready for school, I found out that something awful had happened. An older cousin had been hurt badly, and my parents were leaving to be with my aunt and uncle. My brother, sister, and I went to school not knowing how things would turn out, and feeling quite powerless to do anything at all. It was a difficult day, and when we arrived home, we learned that our cousin had passed.
It was tragic and heartbreaking. It is always tragic and heartbreaking to learn of such a loss, but harder perhaps when you are almost sixteen and your cousin isn't that many years older than you, and nothing like this has ever happened before.
My parents were still with my aunt and uncle, but my grandparents were at home, watching my younger sister and my brother and I. My sister was upstairs with my grandparents, and I was in my room, having a very hard time with the news. My brother, thirteen at the time, came into my room. We didn't speak much. But at some point, I remember that he left. The ice cream truck was on our street. I don't remember if we heard it, or if he went outside and saw the truck. But he left my room, and then he came back. And silently, he handed me a chipwich.
I took it and I ate the whole thing. I remember how I felt when I ate it. I remember thinking, I'm going to keep eating this chipwich and maybe I will feel better.
When I look back on that day, I see loss and pain. But I also see a brother trying to comfort his sister, in the best way that he knows how. And that makes me want to cry for a different reason.
Yes, dessert itself can be a comfort. But I think, more than that, the act of sharing a special dessert at just the right moment, can be a comfort. I know it was for me.
Have a sweet and comforting week.
I have always been a fan of ice cream sandwiches. There is something very comforting about the standard ice cream sandwich--vanilla ice cream sandwiched between two rectangular layers of thin chocolate cake. Growing up in the 1970's, that was the one and only ice cream sandwich. In the early '80's the chipwich made its appearance, and I was an instant fan. Two chocolate chip cookies, vanilla ice cream in the middle, and chocolate chips all along the sides. The chipwich was like a delicacy; it was more expensive, and you didn't get it very often. It was like the champagne of ice cream sandwiches.
I have a chipwich story that I would like to share. It's kind of a bittersweet story.
I was almost sixteen years old at the time. On one ordinary morning while getting ready for school, I found out that something awful had happened. An older cousin had been hurt badly, and my parents were leaving to be with my aunt and uncle. My brother, sister, and I went to school not knowing how things would turn out, and feeling quite powerless to do anything at all. It was a difficult day, and when we arrived home, we learned that our cousin had passed.
It was tragic and heartbreaking. It is always tragic and heartbreaking to learn of such a loss, but harder perhaps when you are almost sixteen and your cousin isn't that many years older than you, and nothing like this has ever happened before.
My parents were still with my aunt and uncle, but my grandparents were at home, watching my younger sister and my brother and I. My sister was upstairs with my grandparents, and I was in my room, having a very hard time with the news. My brother, thirteen at the time, came into my room. We didn't speak much. But at some point, I remember that he left. The ice cream truck was on our street. I don't remember if we heard it, or if he went outside and saw the truck. But he left my room, and then he came back. And silently, he handed me a chipwich.
I took it and I ate the whole thing. I remember how I felt when I ate it. I remember thinking, I'm going to keep eating this chipwich and maybe I will feel better.
When I look back on that day, I see loss and pain. But I also see a brother trying to comfort his sister, in the best way that he knows how. And that makes me want to cry for a different reason.
Yes, dessert itself can be a comfort. But I think, more than that, the act of sharing a special dessert at just the right moment, can be a comfort. I know it was for me.
Have a sweet and comforting week.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Of Chocolates and Children
She is two days old. The nurse brings her into my room, her eyes wide, wide open, a shock of dark hair standing almost straight up from her little head. She looks like she is ready for the world, full of energy, and ready to get started.
She is three weeks old. She has been crying, actually screaming, for the better part of six hours. She stops when it's time to take pictures for our fifth anniversary. From the pictures, you cannot tell that she has been crying at all. She looks angelic.
She is two years old. She marches around the house, wearing my work heels and holding a yellow legal pad, proclaiming that she has a lot of trials.
She is five years old. She has a kindergarten project, where she has to write about a favorite stuffed animal and leave the stuffed animal at school overnight. I notice that the stuffed animal is still in her room and I rush to the school, find her at her lunch table and triumphantly hand over her beloved stuffed animal. She does not look at all pleased to see me. She tells me that she does not need the stuffed animal, and I find out later that she has a moral objection to the assignment and had decided that it was not appropriate to ask five-year-olds to leave beloved stuffed animals in a school, overnight.
She is nine years old. We are holding hands and jumping up and down on the stairs outside of a local community theater. She has just gotten her first musical theater call back.
She is twelve years old. We are in a mall parking lot and she is explaining to me why it is imperative that I purchase her a North Face jacket and a pair of Ugg boots. I deliver a long lecture about being comfortable in your own skin and bucking fashion trends, complete with detailed reminiscing about a fuzzy winter hat with a pompom that I used to wear when I was her age. She listens patiently until I finish and says, "Mom, you're wearing Uggs." Several years later, she uses her own money to buy her younger sister a North Face so that she won't have the same trouble getting proper middle school attire.
She is fifteen. We are eating a host of desserts in my car. This is our routine; I drop her at her voice lesson and then I purchase the newest desserts and chocolates at Trader Joe's, and we review them when she is done with her lesson. We share this in common, our love for chocolate.
One of our favorites from Trader Joe's is the Dark Chocolate Sea Salt Caramels. There is something addictive about the salt on these caramels. Underneath the salt is a layer of chocolate, high quality chocolate. The center is a light, gooey caramel. The combination of thick salt, dark chocolate, and caramel is delicious. Another favorite of ours is the dark chocolate peanut butter cups. The peanut butter cups are small, almost bite size. The chocolate is very dark, and pairs unexpectedly well with the peanut butter center.
She is almost sixteen. She has just left for a summer program, which takes her halfway across the country for three weeks. I decide I will clean out her closet while she's gone. Mostly, I just want to be in her room. Somehow it feels better if I'm sitting in her room.
She is seventeen. We have traveled to yet another city, for another college audition. We have just turned out the lights in our hotel room, as she has an early morning of acting, dancing, and singing. In the dark she says, "Thank you for doing this."
She is eighteen. All week I keep seeing, in her face, flashes of her eight-year-old self, or her eleven-year-old self. It seems like yesterday, but also, like an eternity ago. Because she is not a child anymore. She has a high school diploma and a bank card and a driver's license. She takes trains into the city, she drives on a highway, she visits out-of-town friends. She picks college courses and makes plans for this new phase of her life. No, she is no longer a child.
But still, she is mine. Somehow, from a hospital room, we have arrived here. My hope, like the hope of all moms, is for a path full of happiness.
I also hope for room to share some more chocolates. Now and then.
Have a sweet week!
She is three weeks old. She has been crying, actually screaming, for the better part of six hours. She stops when it's time to take pictures for our fifth anniversary. From the pictures, you cannot tell that she has been crying at all. She looks angelic.
She is two years old. She marches around the house, wearing my work heels and holding a yellow legal pad, proclaiming that she has a lot of trials.
She is five years old. She has a kindergarten project, where she has to write about a favorite stuffed animal and leave the stuffed animal at school overnight. I notice that the stuffed animal is still in her room and I rush to the school, find her at her lunch table and triumphantly hand over her beloved stuffed animal. She does not look at all pleased to see me. She tells me that she does not need the stuffed animal, and I find out later that she has a moral objection to the assignment and had decided that it was not appropriate to ask five-year-olds to leave beloved stuffed animals in a school, overnight.
She is nine years old. We are holding hands and jumping up and down on the stairs outside of a local community theater. She has just gotten her first musical theater call back.
She is twelve years old. We are in a mall parking lot and she is explaining to me why it is imperative that I purchase her a North Face jacket and a pair of Ugg boots. I deliver a long lecture about being comfortable in your own skin and bucking fashion trends, complete with detailed reminiscing about a fuzzy winter hat with a pompom that I used to wear when I was her age. She listens patiently until I finish and says, "Mom, you're wearing Uggs." Several years later, she uses her own money to buy her younger sister a North Face so that she won't have the same trouble getting proper middle school attire.
She is fifteen. We are eating a host of desserts in my car. This is our routine; I drop her at her voice lesson and then I purchase the newest desserts and chocolates at Trader Joe's, and we review them when she is done with her lesson. We share this in common, our love for chocolate.
One of our favorites from Trader Joe's is the Dark Chocolate Sea Salt Caramels. There is something addictive about the salt on these caramels. Underneath the salt is a layer of chocolate, high quality chocolate. The center is a light, gooey caramel. The combination of thick salt, dark chocolate, and caramel is delicious. Another favorite of ours is the dark chocolate peanut butter cups. The peanut butter cups are small, almost bite size. The chocolate is very dark, and pairs unexpectedly well with the peanut butter center.
She is almost sixteen. She has just left for a summer program, which takes her halfway across the country for three weeks. I decide I will clean out her closet while she's gone. Mostly, I just want to be in her room. Somehow it feels better if I'm sitting in her room.
She is seventeen. We have traveled to yet another city, for another college audition. We have just turned out the lights in our hotel room, as she has an early morning of acting, dancing, and singing. In the dark she says, "Thank you for doing this."
She is eighteen. All week I keep seeing, in her face, flashes of her eight-year-old self, or her eleven-year-old self. It seems like yesterday, but also, like an eternity ago. Because she is not a child anymore. She has a high school diploma and a bank card and a driver's license. She takes trains into the city, she drives on a highway, she visits out-of-town friends. She picks college courses and makes plans for this new phase of her life. No, she is no longer a child.
But still, she is mine. Somehow, from a hospital room, we have arrived here. My hope, like the hope of all moms, is for a path full of happiness.
I also hope for room to share some more chocolates. Now and then.
Have a sweet week!
Sunday, August 11, 2013
White Chocolate and White Water
While searching for a treat featuring white chocolate, I happened upon Blue Moon Bagel Cafe's White Chocolate Mousse Cupcakes (Medfield, Massachusetts). This cupcake featured vanilla cake, white buttercream frosting, an abundance of white chocolate curls, and a lemon mousse filling. The filling took up about three quarters of the cake itself, which I thought was an interesting change. The frosting was a buttercream with an emphasis on the butter. It was mostly butter, with just a bare hint of sweetness. There is something to be said for eating your cake with basically a slab of butter on top! The white chocolate curls added a subtle welcome crunch to the cupcake, and provided a sweetness to the frosting underneath. The ratio of frosting to cake was perfect. The best thing about this cupcake was the buttercream/white chocolate combination.
I don't particularly like white chocolate alone, but I love it when it is used as part of a dessert. Similarly, I don't particularly like whitewater either, but what I do like is what I learned from whitewater. I should probably start from the beginning.
I am not an adventurous person. But for some inexplicable reason, I decided that our entire family should try whitewater rafting during our trip to Yosemite National Park in California. It sounded like fun. It was definitely something we had not done before. My children, who were 13, 11, and 9 at the time, were all very excited to try whitewater rafting.
We arrived at the river, got suited up for the ride, and began our orientation. As the guide instructed us in rowing techniques, defensive positions should we fall into the rapids, safety on the raft, and other pertinent information, I looked around and thought, ok, maybe just wearing these life vests is enough of an adventure. Maybe we should leave now and tell the kids that this was our fun for the day. I may even have suggested this to my husband. But there we were, climbing into a raft with our guide, and setting off on our rafting trip.
The first rapid was very exciting. It was a thrill to all work together, all five of us plus our guide, to paddle through a wall of whitewater. I remember the exhilaration as we made it through, and all of us tapping our oars in celebration. We were having a ball. The kids were thrilled. Look what I am capable of, I thought! And then, we got to our next rapid.
It was a Class 3. I dug in with my oar, listening to the guide calling out instructions. But I wasn't hitting any water, I was just hitting air. And in a split second, I was airborn.
I crashed into the water and all I remember was water, water, rushing everywhere. And the thought, I cannot believe I fell in. I flailed wildly and found something to hold onto. The water stopped crashing for a brief moment and I could finally see; I looked around to find out what I was using as a flotation device. It was my eleven year old daughter, who was bobbing in her life jacket and smiling at me with a beautiful smile. And I remember thinking, Oh my God. She's in the water. I'm holding onto her and I'm going to drown her. And so I let go.
The water took me, threw me. Just water, water, water. I kept swallowing water. I felt hard edges as I crashed into rocks. From the back of my brain I heard someone screaming about some sort of position. It was our guide, and somehow I registered that I was supposed to be on my back. I managed to get into the right position but the water kept taking me, kept crashing me into things. I'm not sure how long this went on for. It felt like forever, and I remember thinking that I might not ever make it back to the raft. Like, ever.
At some point I heard the guide screaming swim, swim. I realized the rapids had stopped crashing me and it was time to swim. I looked around, saw the raft in the distance, and swam as hard as I could toward it. When I was almost there my husband reached into the water and scooped me onto the raft.
I remember being very thankful that I was back in the raft, and I remember feeling like it was incredibly difficult to breathe. I registered that my daughter was back in the raft too, and found out later that she had been scooped up by our guide as soon as she had fallen in, and she thought it had been fun to be in the water. I was incredibly thankful for that.
It was hard to recover from my fall into the rapids. I found it very difficult to calm down. I had bruises and bleeding cuts on my legs from being thrown into rocks. The kids were asking if I was okay, and I kept saying I was fine. I covered up the biggest cut with my hand and I kept trying to smile. "You keep saying you're fine, but you don't look fine," said my youngest, my son. I repeated that I was just fine. I half-heartedly asked the guide if we were almost done. He looked at me and said, "No, we have about two hours left, and a lot more rapids."
That was quite a sobering moment. I still felt like I couldn't breathe well. I could not imagine two more hours of rowing, rapids, and more water, after what I had just experienced. As we began to paddle through some calm water, headed to our next rapid, I looked all around, thinking of ways I could potentially escape. Had it just been my husband and I, I would have asked the guide to drop me at the nearest embankment and I would have scampered up to the road. I would have scaled rocks, walked for hours, camped out on the pavement, I would have done just about anything to get out of that river. But I was determined not to ruin things for the kids. I did not want their big adventure, and our vacation, to turn into some sort of drama, ending in a rescue for mom. So I kept rowing.
We hit more rapids and I was determined not to leave that raft again. And I didn't. It was exhausting and extremely scary and I don't think I really took a deep breath for quite a long time. But I dug deep and stayed in that raft and I finished the trip. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done and I'm not sure how I did it. I think prayer played a large part in getting me through. I was simply determined not to ruin things for my kids. Sometimes you do crazy things when you're a mom.
The kids all loved whitewater rafting. My husband loved whitewater rafting. The pictures of our raft trip show four faces of joy and one face of cowered terror. But, I stayed in the raft. And my kids counted whitewater rafting as one of the best things they did during that vacation.
These days, I prefer to look at whitewater from the road, or a nice viewing platform, rather than experience it. And yes, I most definitely prefer white chocolate to white water. But my whitewater adventure taught me some important things. Like the fact that perhaps someone who was born in the Bronx and doesn't like to be out of breath should not be whitewater rafting.
More seriously, I'm a little bit different now, because of white water. What I did actually learn is that we are stronger than we think we are. And that choosing the more difficult path can truly lead to triumph.
Have a sweet week!
I don't particularly like white chocolate alone, but I love it when it is used as part of a dessert. Similarly, I don't particularly like whitewater either, but what I do like is what I learned from whitewater. I should probably start from the beginning.
I am not an adventurous person. But for some inexplicable reason, I decided that our entire family should try whitewater rafting during our trip to Yosemite National Park in California. It sounded like fun. It was definitely something we had not done before. My children, who were 13, 11, and 9 at the time, were all very excited to try whitewater rafting.
We arrived at the river, got suited up for the ride, and began our orientation. As the guide instructed us in rowing techniques, defensive positions should we fall into the rapids, safety on the raft, and other pertinent information, I looked around and thought, ok, maybe just wearing these life vests is enough of an adventure. Maybe we should leave now and tell the kids that this was our fun for the day. I may even have suggested this to my husband. But there we were, climbing into a raft with our guide, and setting off on our rafting trip.
The first rapid was very exciting. It was a thrill to all work together, all five of us plus our guide, to paddle through a wall of whitewater. I remember the exhilaration as we made it through, and all of us tapping our oars in celebration. We were having a ball. The kids were thrilled. Look what I am capable of, I thought! And then, we got to our next rapid.
It was a Class 3. I dug in with my oar, listening to the guide calling out instructions. But I wasn't hitting any water, I was just hitting air. And in a split second, I was airborn.
I crashed into the water and all I remember was water, water, rushing everywhere. And the thought, I cannot believe I fell in. I flailed wildly and found something to hold onto. The water stopped crashing for a brief moment and I could finally see; I looked around to find out what I was using as a flotation device. It was my eleven year old daughter, who was bobbing in her life jacket and smiling at me with a beautiful smile. And I remember thinking, Oh my God. She's in the water. I'm holding onto her and I'm going to drown her. And so I let go.
The water took me, threw me. Just water, water, water. I kept swallowing water. I felt hard edges as I crashed into rocks. From the back of my brain I heard someone screaming about some sort of position. It was our guide, and somehow I registered that I was supposed to be on my back. I managed to get into the right position but the water kept taking me, kept crashing me into things. I'm not sure how long this went on for. It felt like forever, and I remember thinking that I might not ever make it back to the raft. Like, ever.
At some point I heard the guide screaming swim, swim. I realized the rapids had stopped crashing me and it was time to swim. I looked around, saw the raft in the distance, and swam as hard as I could toward it. When I was almost there my husband reached into the water and scooped me onto the raft.
I remember being very thankful that I was back in the raft, and I remember feeling like it was incredibly difficult to breathe. I registered that my daughter was back in the raft too, and found out later that she had been scooped up by our guide as soon as she had fallen in, and she thought it had been fun to be in the water. I was incredibly thankful for that.
It was hard to recover from my fall into the rapids. I found it very difficult to calm down. I had bruises and bleeding cuts on my legs from being thrown into rocks. The kids were asking if I was okay, and I kept saying I was fine. I covered up the biggest cut with my hand and I kept trying to smile. "You keep saying you're fine, but you don't look fine," said my youngest, my son. I repeated that I was just fine. I half-heartedly asked the guide if we were almost done. He looked at me and said, "No, we have about two hours left, and a lot more rapids."
That was quite a sobering moment. I still felt like I couldn't breathe well. I could not imagine two more hours of rowing, rapids, and more water, after what I had just experienced. As we began to paddle through some calm water, headed to our next rapid, I looked all around, thinking of ways I could potentially escape. Had it just been my husband and I, I would have asked the guide to drop me at the nearest embankment and I would have scampered up to the road. I would have scaled rocks, walked for hours, camped out on the pavement, I would have done just about anything to get out of that river. But I was determined not to ruin things for the kids. I did not want their big adventure, and our vacation, to turn into some sort of drama, ending in a rescue for mom. So I kept rowing.
We hit more rapids and I was determined not to leave that raft again. And I didn't. It was exhausting and extremely scary and I don't think I really took a deep breath for quite a long time. But I dug deep and stayed in that raft and I finished the trip. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done and I'm not sure how I did it. I think prayer played a large part in getting me through. I was simply determined not to ruin things for my kids. Sometimes you do crazy things when you're a mom.
The kids all loved whitewater rafting. My husband loved whitewater rafting. The pictures of our raft trip show four faces of joy and one face of cowered terror. But, I stayed in the raft. And my kids counted whitewater rafting as one of the best things they did during that vacation.
These days, I prefer to look at whitewater from the road, or a nice viewing platform, rather than experience it. And yes, I most definitely prefer white chocolate to white water. But my whitewater adventure taught me some important things. Like the fact that perhaps someone who was born in the Bronx and doesn't like to be out of breath should not be whitewater rafting.
More seriously, I'm a little bit different now, because of white water. What I did actually learn is that we are stronger than we think we are. And that choosing the more difficult path can truly lead to triumph.
Have a sweet week!
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