Pork Tenderloin with Cherry Sauce and Green Beans

I swear to God last night's dinner was like being transported back to the holiday season. Never mind the colors of the meal, but the flavors were rich, decadent and thanks to the port in the sauce, downright merry.

I got this recipe from Country Cook's Illustrated's 30 Minute Suppers section and in a true moment of laziness, instead of writing out the recipe here, I took a picture of the recipe card.

Now, CCI and I have butted heads in the past because there's no way to verify to them that you're already a paid member when browsing their recipes online; they want a credit card number for a two week trial membership, and that really pissed me off. But I will say that if you're in the market for a new food magazine subscription, then give these guys a shot. And not just Cook's Illustrated, but Country Cook's Illustrated, as the latter has those handy cards. Like so:

And yes, some cherry sauce got on the card during my haste to plate this dish up and snap a photo before I tore into it like a rabid dog. This recipe was beyond easy, and we all have seen that selfsame green bean recipe but if you want it OMG NOW, here:

Green beans: trim and parboil green beans til you can pierce them with a fork, then drain and place in ice water. Once cool, wrap them in a clean dish towel to dry.

When ready to cook green beans, put skillet over medium heat with a couple tsp - one tbsp butter. Once they're heated through, add half a minced shallot and about 1/4 cup finely snipped parsley. Toss to coat and cook a further couple of minutes to soften the shallots. Donezo!

First Kisses.

I know by know a vast lot of us have seen the video circulating Facebook newsfeeds and gracing the front page of Reddit and other websites, you know the one I'm talking about, the one where all those pretty strangers are paired up to share a first kiss even though they don't know one another. And how beautiful it is, to see strangers lose themselves in one another. Sure, it's actually a commercial for a fashion line, and sure, the strangers are all gorgeous actors, models or musicians, but the fact remains that they are indeed strangers.

The kisses range from shy to reckless abandon but all are beautiful. Some couple decided to gaze at each other first, others just dove right into it. It was beautiful and sexy and tugged at heartstrings to watch. Todd and I have been together nine years, yet I still remember our first kiss clear as day, and I remember a handful of other powerful kisses we'd shared during our first few months together.

But it seemed so girly to bring up to him, to be all "Hey babe? So these hot strangers on this video on Facebook kissed each other? And it got me thinking? About like, our first kiss and what that felt like nine years ago?" Still though, the video resonated with me, and it did not leave me all day. Finally that night, while ensconced in his arms as he twirled my hair and we watched TV on the sofa, I brought it up. He didn't roll his eyes or think me silly, but he did smile.

So I asked him if he'd like to kiss and pretend it was our first kiss ever. OH MY GOD JIL I JUST THREW UP YOU ARE SO SAPPY. Yeah, yeah. Todd grinned and was like, sure. And we briefly talked about the first kiss, where we were, what side of the booth we were sitting on, the identical cocktails we'd ordered just minutes before.

And then we kissed. And it was perfect, just like our first kiss, and then we both got lost.

It's not like I imagined myself transported back in time, because there's no way to erase so many years together, a marriage and a child, the world we'd created together, and also who would want to? No, it was just that we took the time to kiss each other properly, all focus and intent, just like sexy strangers would do in a fashion line commercial. The TV was gone, the dishes we had to do were gone, there was no dog lounging on the couch beside me, no chores to do the next day. It was just Todd and me, together, kissing each other for no other reason besides kissing.

And you know, it felt good for other reasons (get your mind out of the gutter) because part of me wondered if we were so far along in our relationship that those butterfly moments during a kiss were only in our past. Watching these lovely strangers open themselves up and fall into a kiss made me wonder about those precious beginnings to relationships where we are consumed with the now and with each other, and absolutely nothing else. You can't ever re-do a beginning, a lot of the magic and heady rush of it does get lost as we strip away the skin of a stranger and become someone far more interesting and intimate to the other.

But kissing Todd in my yoga pants and he in his stretched out long sleeved baseball t-shirt, my makeup washed off and his muscles tired from teaching kung fu, we got the butterflies back. No, wait. They'd actually not gone anywhere, they were just resting, and waiting for the moment when we'd call purposeful attention back to them. They are always there, ready to spring up and scatter just as soon as we devote some time to them, to us, to kissing.

I highly recommend you stop one day, look at the person who has been by your side all this time, and conjure up memories of that first kiss, that first taste of love you shared in your relationship. And you give him or her that first kiss all over again; not those kisses that are shared on the threshold before or after you come home from work, or before you go on an errand or drop your weary head on your pillow after a long day of wrangling the children. Kiss like that's all there is left to do in the world. Lose yourself.

Pain Was Too Good For Her.

So I have this hilarious address book with color-touched vintage drawings of ladies with various text. One of them was the line above, except it's "Pain was too good for him" and it was a picture of a couple embracing. An even funnier one was two women chatting together with the text bubble saying "And then I ripped his lungs out."

Except this post is not about me getting my lungs ripped out, it's about pain. Pain! Wow! So I have a newfound surge of sympathy, empathy, all the athys except for apathy, for those who live in constant pain. Why, yes! This post is all about me and my stupid broken foot! How did you guess?!

Anyways, yes, it's a constant pain and it doesn't seem to give much of a shit what I do to avoid it, it still finds me. It's like the best seeker in hide and go seek EVER. Advil isn't seeming to do too much for me. Todd has some ancient Chinese voodoo liniment called dit da jow that seems to actually help with these excruciating bruises but God forbid you accidentally, with your fingers or even the sheets on the bed, brush the skin ever so slightly, because here come the flames from all levels of hell. Hurrah!

It's intense. And once again, it's a not so friendly, kinda bitchy and sanctimonious reminder of how good life is when there is simply the absence of pain. It's also a reminder that attitude is everything; yesterday I was tired from a rough night's sleep and for some reason the pain got me. As Todd's plumber friend Howard said once, after Todd accidentally punctured the water line in our backyard with an over-zealous shovel strike, and the water shot out of the ground like an impromptu fountain, some days you eat the alligator, some days the alligator eats you.

Yesterday, the alligator ate me and I felt every lusty bite. I rolled over and just let it devour me. Just the giving up made the pain worse, made my mood worse, and I found I couldn't deal with anything. I just sort of squirmed and writhed in agony at my desk, in my evil, wicked, naughty boot (rhymes with Zoot - now, from which movie could that line variation be?) and I let myself be consumed by the negative.

Today I'm going for a different tack. I would like to eat the alligator today. So I dressed smartly, had a good cup of Earl Grey this morning before leaving the house, got rounds of kisses from Todd and Alex. The pain is there and I don't expect it to leave until I fall asleep tonight, but I'm here too, when I wasn't yesterday. So in the immortal words of Kanye West, I'mma let you finish, but I think Jil should win this round.

Fractured Foot Friday!

I don't even know how to start this. Do I start with the incredulous sort of shock I have over the fact that, after 34 years of a pretty spectacularly clumsy life, I finally managed to break something? Do I start with the story itself? Do I tell you how painful a drive from Phoenix to Tucson is with a fracture of the fifth metatarsal?

The story itself, we can start with. A simple attempt to alight a hotel shuttle ends with me slipping off that little jutting ledge they have TO AVOID THIS SORT OF STUPID THING, landing on the edge of my left foot, in high heels, and of course my ass, because I bought a new dress for this wedding and of course I land on my ass. Actually I bought new nude pumps for the occasion as well. They're only slightly scuffed and it's barely perceptible; had it been worse I would have just thrown myself off a bridge (these shoes are cute).

So there you go. I could go on and talk about how afterwards I had another couple of drinks and walked around on my broken foot for awhile, but WHY EMBARRASS MYSELF FURTHER.

The shock I have over getting such a stupid injury is palpable, especially after a veritable lifetime of questionable choices and some seriously misplaced trust: sure, I'll sit on the hood of your car, I am confident you will park your car and not take off, pedal to the metal, down the parking lot and then slam on the brakes, sending me flying several yards before skidding several more on the pavement; you know, I've never skied before, let's try that black diamond, I hear it has a jump and everything!; a hot Mexican honey shot? SURE sounds delicious.

In fact, that shock mingled beautifully with the pain on the drive home from the wedding venue in Phoenix back home to Tucson. The pain was physical, and more importantly, psychological. That's actually the whole point of this post, how horrifically painful the threat is, of losing all those basest, simplest functions that we wholeheartedly take for granted. 

For those two long, throbbing, uncomfortable hours of squirming, half-moaning and not-quite-crying, I went through a list of things I wouldn't be able to do. Since I wasn't sure how severe the break was, but was pretty sure it was a break, the time frame of crippledom stretched from two to six months, and after my dad regaled me with a tale of an ankle sprain so severe it kept him on crutches for two months and not-quite-right for a year, I may have even swooned. 

The list started from the "big" stuff:, to the "small" stuff, which I realized later was the opposite: I wanted to do Warrior Dash in April. I enjoy running and biking on a weekly basis. Taking my child to school, to the park, to the museum. Walking. Grocery shopping without a goddamn wheelchair. Cleaning the house. Making dinner. Going to the bathroom by myself. Showering. Rolling over in bed. Being independent.

You know that cinematic trick of zooming in on the main character while the background seems to fall away? That's how the reality of a stupid broken foot felt as it came flying towards me. My God. One stupid moment of not paying attention, of being flippant because hey, I KNOW how to get out of a van, OKAY, turned into potentially a quarter of a year being benched during the game known as My Life. 

Todd of course was amazing, jumping up for me every time I needed something, or walking me to the bathroom. And he waited so long with me at Next Care, and then went grocery shopping while I waited for the doctor and the X-Rays, and was just so sweet. But it made me feel so guilty, so stupid that just some mistake, some accident, could make my entire family's life turn upside down, dumping everything onto my husband's shoulders.

I got the X-Rays, and the doctor guy comes in and is all "Well, you did break it. It's in pieces. Surgery is highly likely." And my sweet husband is at the store and I'm alone and I see surgery and pins and boots and crutches and casts and months of recovery and loss of independence, and humiliation and fear swarm me like a thousand angry bees. Tears flood my vision. I nod my head, ask for my X-Rays, and get fitted for crutches and a boot.

The next day was better. In fact, it was fabulous. I went to Tucson Orthopedics and the wonderful doctor, who, after what he said, is now up for Sainthood in my opinion, told  me it was just a fracture. Its horseshoe shape is what must have made Next Care Guy think the end of the metatarsal was in pieces. But this doctor told me it's the most common fracture there is, no surgery necessary, to walk on it whenever, that I wasn't special, and I have never been so happy to hear of my status as a mundane, boring old Regular Person. 

Relief washed over Todd and me. Several high fives were executed throughout the rest of that day, and the morning after. I had been faced with, and was blessedly relieved of, the threat of a life that was filled with things I hated; the inability to exercise and move my body, to be an active participant in my kid's life, no longer being able to take care of my family, not being able to carry my own weight, do my part, not being able to be independent. And the whole walking and showering thing, that was huge too. 

So now I have an ETA of six weeks for recovery. I'm walking on it, I'm going to work today, and I've only taken three pain pills (only at night) so far, though Ibuprofen is my friend and counsel. I'm managing, I'm kicking its ass, I'm going to the bathroom by myself and shaving my legs and washing my hair and I made dinner the other night. And, you know, I am thinking I might still do that Warrior Dash in April. 

Thank God, the universe, the angels and the devils and whoever else moved in or stepped aside to let me escape relatively unscathed. And I'd like to think I've learned some lessons about, you know, going a bit slower, taking stock of a situation even if it's as simple as getting out of a hotel shuttle.

Hey, anyone wanna let me sit on the hood of their car while they park?

Workout Wednesday WHAAAAT

So I did this workout routine last week and afterwards I was delightfully sore in the three main areas: arms, trunk, and legs.

Hey, so I just used an Oxford comma there. I'm not really a fan, because I don't know why, but I'm just not. However I read this cool essay Todd wrote on Tai Chi and he is apparently a fan and uses them. I found that fascinating! It's nice to know that even after eight years you will still learn things about your spouse. I also just forgot how to spell fascinating for a hot second there.

Anyways! I have another workout that I've posted here, that I un-affectionately refer to as The Ballbuster, that is similar format of 10 moves, 50 seconds a move with 10 seconds rest, completed a total of three times. It sucks.

This one though, you guys, I love! The other workout had some really tough upper body stuff back to back to back and my form suffered significantly by the time the third round rolled around, and that is a recipe for injury.

So here is one that I actually enjoyed! Start your clock and at the 10 second mark, start the exercise and keep it up for 50 seconds. Lather, rinse, and repeat. OXFORRRRRD

Around the World (grab a weight or medicine ball and hold hip height to the right of your body. Swing up to the left above your head, circling once like a halo before lowering and bringing down to the left of your body, hip height; repeat going the other way - this works everything if you use everything to stabilize)

Abs (any ab work you like; after lots of different stuff I've found that crunches on an exercise ball with my butt as high up as possible will never fail to exhaust both upper and lower abs)

Burpees (the devil's playground)

Sumo Squats with 7lb weight (squat down with the weight grasped between two hands; push up quickly with your weight in your heels, swinging the weight to the right as you lift your left knee as high as is comfortable to counterbalance. Squat down and repeat on the other side)

Pushups (the devil's mistress)

Butts Up! (lie on your back with your lower calves and feet resting on a medicine ball. Dig your heels into the ball, lift your hips and pull the ball in towards your ass, then slowly return the ball to start position. Do not drop your hips. If you get tired, keep your hips up and ball in start position and just pulse your hips up, squeezing your ass as you go)

Shoulder Press (I have two different weights so that if I get tired I can do down to the set that's a couple of pounds lighter and not slow down too much)

Plank (the devil's nightmare)

Weight Punch Shuffle (with weights in hand, do a sort of shadowbox routine. Punch with the right fist, with your arm crossing over your body towards the left. Twist your torso to follow the movement and put your right foot back as you punch with the right, and vice versa. Go as quickly as you can and play around with your rhythm to have fun)

Backwards Lunge (pretty self explanatory. I like backwards lunges because I really have to concentrate on placement and go pretty slowly; that way I can avoid injury since I already have a fussy knee)

Anyways, it's by no means easy but I think I figured out a really good order for the moves so that while you're always tired, you're never wiped out, and therefore can finish all three rounds. Happy sweating!

16,425.

I haven't posted in forever, because I am not quite sure what I want to post about. Some stuff has happened, some big, most of it small, but I haven't really felt like sharing. Wait, let me back up. I have felt like sharing, but I have lost a bit of courage in sharing something in particular, because it involves a serious topic, one that is frequently the center of vicious, passionate debate, mostly by people who aren't even involved in the issue at hand.

Oh, hell. Let's talk. It's a Friday, I got paid, and tonight I'm having pizza and red wine for dinner. All in all, a pretty good day, so whatever, right? Let's do this.

What I'm talking about is same sex marriage and the reason that I hesitated to mention it on here is because it isn't my story to tell, not really, just like it's really not anyone's business what grown ups do in their bedrooms or at the court house or at the altar. I guess you can tell where I stand on this issue, and let me tell you, my rainbow flag flies high and proud.

It's the story of my godfathers, Bob and Jeff, and my family and I were lucky enough and honored and blessed to attend their wedding. It was a beautiful wedding, on the rooftop of an old hotel under a breezy San Diego sky before sunset. And that sunset struck me, in a bittersweet way, because Bob and Jeff are in their seventies. They had to wait this long, close to the sunset of life, to get to marry one another. That makes me want to cry.

I am, however, immensely proud that my daughter was a flower girl, the only one that walked down the aisle aside from my godfathers. I'm so proud she was part of, in my opinion, a little sliver of history, part of this union that took 45 years before it could come to fruition. Bob and Jeff, hands clasped, vows on their lips, friends and family behind them. Two partners standing in dappled sunlight that shone on the silver of their hair, the silver that should not have been there on their wedding day. Theirs should have been dark heads of hair above strong, youthful shoulders that had yet to carry the weight of the world upon them. They should have been married nearly half a century ago, but for some ridiculous reason it has been denied them until now.

I don't care how you feel about gay marriage. Get your own blog if you want to complain about it. I just wanted to put my thoughts out there, share my happiness that they were finally wed after so many decades, my sorrow that it took that many decades, and pride that I was there, that I saw it, that my kid danced to disco with family and friends, and with a bunch of amazing gay men who dressed much better than I and I don't care how stereotypical that sounds, because I did NOT match a rhinestone brooch to my burgundy suit jacket.

So, 16,425 toasts to you, Bob and Jeff, one for every day of your 45 years together.

Do You Remember When 21 Was Old?

Apparently I've been inspired by music lately. I'm listening to Phoenix's "Countdown" and in it is the line above: Do you remember when 21 was old?

And so much of me responded instantly. My emotions, my heart, my memories, my wistful smile. Because I DO remember when 21 felt So Grown Up. So OLD. My GOD I'm 21, I'm so old, how did I live this long? And it's not even medieval times.

I'm 34 now and I know everyone older, even by a year, will be all "OH BUT YOU ARE SO YOUNG" and I know that, I feel that way. I've been the person I am my whole life, so I still identify as a 10 year old, 15 year old, 20 year old and so on. Luckily for me, I will always feel young. Anyone else, or is that just me? I mean, the root of my name means youthful, so maybe I'm one of the lucky ones, who knows.

I hate, though, how people are so eager to over-age themselves, to edge themselves out of the game, so to speak, by claiming old age, even though they're only 28, 32, 45 or so on. I hear from a lot of 65 year olds how they wish they could be 50 again. So if a 50 year old ever tells me "Oh well, I am too old for that sort of thing," then I am going to be like, "Girl, there are a ton of 60 year olds that want to slap the shit out of you."
But then here's another thing, I do tend to look back on my 20s wistfully. I miss those years because my God man, they were fun and they flew by way too quickly. Sure, they were tumultuous and full of emotion because that is what youth is for. Remember your first crush? I LOVE HIM FOREVER MOMMY I WILL NEVER WANT TO LET HIM hey what's on Nickelodeon right now?

So, my point is, I'm already looking back on the first chunk of my 30s with some nostalgia and... not sorrow but perhaps regret that I lived it too quickly, always waiting for the weekend to roll around, for summer, for Christmas, for a party, for my pregnancy to end so I could meet my child, for the newborn stage to finish up already so I can just fucking GO TO SLEEP, and so on and so forth.

Todd and I joke around about how by Tuesday evening, the week is over. I stay home Wednesdays and Thursdays, so those days fly by for both of us: Todd works those days so they're jam packed. Mine are busy with chores and spending quality time for Alex, and that makes them sweep along all too quickly for me, as well. And then it's Friday. And then we take a deep breath, and suddenly it's 2014, my child will be in preschool soon and will be four years old in as many months.

I'll be 40 before I know it, then 50, 60, 70 and so forth. I just hope I'm not constantly looking backwards, being nostalgic, wishing I could go back. I want to look forward too, but also make sure I look around, appreciate every little minute of my life, and appreciate that right there on THAT DAY, whatever day it is, is the youngest I'll ever be for the rest of my life, that I am in the sunrise of the rest of my life, the spring, never the summer, never the autumn, never sunset, and not think about growing older, time passing by so damn quickly, as it is wont to do. I will always be the most vigorous version of myself, for however much more time I'm awarded.

I wish I could live forever, I do. Sounds immature, lacking in wisdom? Remember, my name means youthful! But since I can't, I guess I can just try to live it as much in the present as I can, with as much enthusiasm as I had when I was a baby of 21, but with better skin and a better credit rating.

We'll Always Have Paris.

There's this great song I heard the other day, driving Todd's truck since he took the Child Friendly Vehicle to Alexandra's dance class. It's called Paris, by Magic Man.

I sat in the driveway, transfixed by its beauty, engine off because Todd's truck is so cool that the radio still plays when you shut the truck off. Finally I memorized the name of both song and artist (GOD JIL IT IS THREE WORDS) and then enthusiastically ran into the house to share with Todd my new found musical treasure.

"Babe, I just heard the coolest song and I have to buy it!" I say, putting my sunglasses on the mantle by the door, kicking off my flats because UGH THEY HURT MY FEET SO BAD GOD FLATS UGH.

"Oh yeah? What's the song?" he says from the kitchen, where he is enjoying a quick snack before teaching Kung Fu.

"It's this song by Magic Man, called "Paris" and I wanna buy it," I say, rounding the corner right into the kitchen, where I come face to face with a grinning husband.

"Too late, because I already bought that song two weeks ago."

And then we high five, because love and awesomeness and we are perfect together, and because that's not even the first time that's happened.

I'm sure loads of people will be all "we love the same stuff too," and that's great. But for me, I think about how my favorite band will always be Pixies and Todd's will always be Metallica; I know that those dudes do from time to time scream on the same intensity level, but they're still pretty different. I mean, has James Hetfield ever sung about how birds dream of the Olympus Mons? (Did I lose you yet, mom?) Anyways, taking that into consideration, and simultaneously considering the overwhelming amount of music out there, especially when you have Sirius and Pandora to explore instead of the singular playlist of 10 songs that every goddamn radio station seems to glance off of, it feels pretty spectacular when it happens to us.

The first time this sort of thing occurred, Todd and I were pretty new to iTunes. We also had yet to buy Sirius, which we have on Todd's truck, which has an option to hit "info," which tells you the name of the band and of the song. WHICH WHICH WHICH

 So we're Googling away on a Saturday night, trying to remember lyrics of songs we'd heard on the radio. I wanted one song, he, another.

Me: "It's like, "baby cause I'm yelling at you, it's not your fault, it's not your fault, yeah"

And

Todd: "I don't know, it's just sort of slow and dark and I think he says "sail!" a lot."

Well, we Googled it, and for those who know, well, you know, but those who aren't, not only did both songs happen to be by the band Awolnation, but they also happened to be on the same album. They sound so different, those songs, but our interest in one band dovetailed, unbeknownst to us, during that search.

We did a high five that night, too.

I don't know, I just love those moments, however simple and arbitrary, where God or the universe or both take over in order to say, "Hey, it's a good thing y'all met on that sidewalk eight years ago. Because you're perfect for each other. It took us some time, but we moved your worlds so they'd collide. Enjoy the soundtrack."

Egg Drop Soup - Fast!

So last Wednesday... No, let me back up. Last Sunday, we attended a birthday party at Peter Piper Pizza, which is just a place you take your kids so they can run around while you get a headache. But there's also skee ball so it's got that going for it. Anyways, Alex had fun and we got to see friends, so that was fine and dandy.

Then, the Wednesday after, Todd came down with an absolutely horrendous cold. Thanks Peter Piper! Now, let me tell you, when this man gets sick, he is KO'd for approximately 48 hours and then he's fine. Just... Fine. He gets the aches and pains, the sore throat, the coughing. He gets to skip congestion because I guess he's God's gift to man, but I digress. This time, though... THIS TIME, man, he's been knocked over for, what, 9 days? Judging by his snoring this morning, I'm just going to go ahead and round that up to 10. A 10 day cold, AKA the flu.

He hasn't been this sick since the end of our honeymoon, when he got sick from smoking a cigar in our hotel room in Rome, head hanging out the window in the wintery evening, people gazing and just generally looking like a tourist on their last day in Rome. I DON'T WANT TO MISS A THING. The next day we were at Ostia Antica IN THE RAIN and he's running around like a puppy on chuck wagon day, hiding in old caves where cults gathered and checking out ancient public toilets with running water. Then the next day we're on a 10 hour flight and his sinuses just like, oh I don't know, explode or something. I'll never forget the angry red streaks down his face and throat, where he had tried in vain to rub the pressure out. Oh, that flight ran out of drinking water halfway through. GOOD TIMES.

SO ANYWAYS. That cold/flu was bad and this one has proved to be just as formidable. I pronounce that word en francais in my head whenever I use it. FOR-MI-DAHBL. I thought I was in the clear, too. He came down with it last Wednesday, and I didn't get the oh shit feeling until we woke up at 3:40am THIS Wednesday morning to Alex having a pee accident and I realized my throat was on fire and my limbs were filling with the pin-prickly aches of doom. Oh good. It's heee-eeere!

I was absolutely out on Wednesday, which also happened to be my mumblethirtyfourthmumble birthday. And, good mother that I am, since Todd had to do some work, I just set Alex up to watch Curious George all morning while I burrowed into a nest of blankets and pillows on the living room sofa marathoning episodes of Arrow which is good and bad and awesome and stupid and EVERYONE keeps landing in the hospital, it's great.

I sucked down ibuprofin and bowls of broth brought to you by Better Than Bouillon and that night, after Alexandra threw up three times and finally got put to bed after she was in the all clear zone, Todd made me my birthday dinner which was linguine with crab in spicy white wine sauce which was as delicious as it sounds, especially when you pair it with ginger ale. Then I writhed around in agony on his lap while he watched episodes of Breaking Bad.

Later at midnight Alex woke up with a 102 degree fever so we gave her medicine and all piled into bed so we could all writhe around in agony together because we are family. Thursday morning, I piled her into a nest of pillows and blankets to marathon Curious George which is good and bad and awesome and stupid and EVERYONE keeps trusting this goddamn monkey with shit like TRIPS TO THE GODDAMN MOON, it's great.

I wanted protein that morning (Alex had toast and apples, because hey vomit), but also knew that chicken broth was my best bet at recovery. So I did a lightning quick google search and found one of the simplest yet tastiest soup recipes in my life. And I wanted to share it with you! And also share my agony. My misery. My child's pain and suffering. Todd's servitude to his sick girls. But mostly, and I'm being completely honest here, my agony. My misery.

Here was my countercurse for yesterday's agony. Yesterday's misery.

Egg Drop Soup

serves two

4 cups chicken broth (I used Better Than Bouillon)

salt and pepper to taste

sesame oil (optional but you should do it)

2 eggs, lightly beaten

fresh scallions, sliced (I used chives)

soy sauce (optional but you should do it)

So just boil your broth. Once it's boiling, add the salt, pepper and few drops of sesame oil. Let boil another minute or so. Next, sloooowly pour in your eggs, stirring rapidly in a clockwise motion. Once they're in, ladle your soup into bowls and garnish with the scallions or chives. Add a few drops of soy sauce to deepen the flavor, and you're in like Flynn.

The recipe I found online suggested you could add a slurry of cornstartch to the broth before adding your eggs in order to thicken it. I contemplated doing so but ultimately did the original as is, and I'm glad I did. There's something refreshing about enjoying a soup with so few ingredients. And, hey there, if you use Better Than Bouillon, there's the added benefit of knowing that 8 oz of this soup has only 50 calories, give or take.

So, there's the reward for listening to me bitch about illness. SOUP.

Low-Carb Caprese Bites

I absolutely hate how blurry this photograph is, but I was in between making a pie and a soup for a luncheon and was in a hurry. It was the only one I took so this is all I have, but since we're so close to Christmas, the colors really are perfect for a light, healthy appetizer for a holiday party. Plus they're quick and easy to make, so long as you have nice, big basil leaves to use. I ran out and actually had to utilize a sloppier method of pinning two leaves per toothpick, so instead of the 24 I wanted to make, I settled for 18.

Low-Carb Caprese Bites

makes 24

1 tub mini mozzarella balls from Trader Joe's

1 1lb package Mini Pearl tomatoes from Trader Joe's

24 large, rinsed basil leaves

24 toothpicks (obviously)

1 tsp Balsamic vinegar

1 tsp extra virgin olive oil

So, I'm sure this is pretty self-explanatory. Pierce the basil leaf, then the cheese, then the tomato, and the basil leaf again to make a cute little boat. Repeat 23 times. Add a little sprig or two of basil, you know, for flair. For pizzazz.

Refrigerate, covered, until ready to serve. Mix your vinegar and oil well, then using a spoon, drizzle the dressing over your little basil boats. Presto!

These were really yummy and a welcome alternative to heavy cheeses or pates or dips you typically encounter this time of year. And I originally wanted to call them No-Carb, but since there is a WHOPPING .47g of carbohydrates in a cherry tomato, I didn't want to lie to my audience.

A Cold Night Snuggle.

Earlier this week, Alexandra fell asleep a couple of hours before bedtime. She had crawled into bed, tucked herself in and just, zzzzzz, was out like a light. So we decided to see if she would sleep the whole night through, and let her catch up on her sleep. Around 11pm when we went to bed we noticed she'd turned her light on and was awake. So we changed her into her jammies, red her a story and got her settled back down.

She seemed keen on it, but after completing my nightly toilette, I peeked in and she was wide awake, staring right at me. "I'm freezing," she said, despite being under two warm blankets, in a nightgown and jammie pants, and not knowing what "freezing" means (well maybe she did, since earlier that day I had instructed her she must put her pants and socks back on since her legs and feet were "freezing"). But let me tell you, I am a sucker for bedtime snuggles, and since she had fallen asleep at 6pm, and I had worked all day, I had had basically zero time with her.

"Wanna come to bed with us?" "Mm-hmm!!" and out of bed she scrambled, trotting ahead of me to climb into our big bed. And oh, how we burrowed. Oh, how we curled around each other, a big S and a little s on their sides, her head on my bicep and the covers to our chins. Todd came in soon after, another big S facing us, our heads bent together like sleepytime conspirators in our chilly bedroom.

The way her body nestles into mine will never get old, and neither will the realization that I am a provider of comfort for her, simply by existing. I remember how comforting it was to snuggle up with my mom in her bed, how being cradled in her arms was a security, a reminder that there was someone larger than me in my life to protect me, a huge force of love there just for me.

Feeling how Alex hunkers down, scooting back against me, eyes closing immediately despite having been asleep for five hours already, how she sort of mumbles and murmurs as she gets comfortable between the two pillars holding up her world, her parents, and knowing that she is at peace, she feels comfort and security, that she knows she can come to us, that our arms are open, and knowing all we have to do is love her, and be ourselves for her, is quite possibly the best feeling in the world. It's frought with responsibility, anxiety at times, and constant accountability, but all of that is such a small price to pay.

French Onion Soup Gratinee



We finally, FINALLY, had weather to match the time of year this past weekend, so naturally my friends and I had a soup party and then the next day I made French onion soup. Yesterday I had some for lunch and Todd was like, MY GOD MAN, NO MORE SOUP and I was like, tough toodles, buddy, we're having another kind of soup on Tuesday.

Look, it's been over 90 degrees for about seven years here, so when it dipped into the fifties, my Dutch oven came out in all its glory, okay?

Anyways. I got this recipe off of All Recipes so I want to link you there in order to give credit where it's due, and to not seem like a lying, thieving asshole. But I will also lay out the ingredients and steps here for those who are like, MY GOD MAN, NO MORE LINKS

French Onion Soup Gratinee

serves four

4 tbsp butter

1 tsp salt

2 large red onions, halved and sliced thin

2 large yellow onions, halved and sliced thin

48 ounces chicken broth

14 ounces beef broth

1/2 cup red wine

1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce

2 sprigs fresh parsley

1 sprig fresh thyme

1 bay leaf

1 tbsp balsamic vinegar

salt and pepper to taste

4 thick slices French baguette

8 slices Gruyere or Swiss

1/2 cup shredded Parmesan

4 pinches paprika (I did not do this)

The woman on All Recipes was to the point so here are her directions that I followed to a T (aside from the paprika), and I rarely follow something to a T:

Melt butter in a large pot over medium-high heat. Stir in salt, red onions and sweet onions. Cook 35 minutes, stirring frequently, until onions are caramelized and almost syrupy.

Mix chicken broth, beef broth, red wine and Worcestershire sauce into pot. Bundle the parsley, thyme, and bay leaf with twine and place in pot. Simmer over medium heat for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove and discard the herbs. Reduce the heat to low, mix in vinegar and season with salt and pepper. Cover and keep over low heat to stay hot while you prepare the bread.

Preheat oven broiler. Arrange bread slices on a baking sheet and broil 3 minutes, turning once, until well toasted on both sides. Remove from heat; do not turn off broiler.

Arrange 4 large oven safe bowls or crocks on a rimmed baking sheet. Fill each bowl 2/3 full with hot soup. Top each bowl with 1 slice toasted bread, 2 slice Gruyere cheese and 1/4 of the Asiago or mozzarella cheese. Sprinkle a little bit of paprika over the top of each one.

Broil 5 minutes, or until bubbly and golden brown. As it softens, the cheese will cascade over the sides of the crock and form a beautifully melted crusty seal. Serve immediately!

Obligatory line from my favorite movie Clue: "And oh my, this soup's delicious, isn't it?"

The Unwinding Sigh.

I have always loved the word "sigh" because it's beautifully, romantically onomatopoeic. Sigh. You think of lovers sighing between kisses against each other's mouths, the luxurious sigh of want as you say goodnight to your date, leaning against the door as you lock it. There's the sigh before falling asleep, stretched out and comfortable, ready to chase dreams or let them come and surprise you, or the sigh after finishing a wonderful and satisfying novel (though for me that is frequently followed up with far more melancholic sighs as I try to find a book that is on par with the previous; we call that a book hangover). Sure, there are also sad sighs, exasperated sighs, lonely sighs.

When Todd and I visited Venice on our honeymoon, we visited the Palace of the Doge. It was all very impressive and intimidating (there were these boxes shaped like, if memory serves, demonic faces, and you could rat people out as spies or um, I don't know, anti-Doge people, by writing their names on paper and slipping it into the open maw of said demon), but the thing that struck me most was The Bridge of Sighs. It was a bridge crossing to the jail cells over a canal and the windows on the enclosed bridge offered the soon-to-be-prisoner a final look at glorious Venice. It would prompt a sigh. A sad, wistful sigh. Still a beautiful word isn't it?

I could talk about lovers or sorrow all day, but the sigh of which I just reminded myself was actually a very meditative one that I employ while swimming laps. It's been months since I've swum but there is this certain slow, steady, satisfied sigh sometimes I will make. Not like Henry VIII after a large meal or perhaps a beheading, but just a mellow exhalation through my throat and out my nose. I do this sigh after every turn while swimming laps, to steady my breathing as I propel forward underwater as long as possible to really gain as much speed and distance as possible before breaking the surface with my first stroke.

I love that sigh! I love getting reminders of it, getting reminders of the meditation that comes with swimming, even on a rainy fall day like today. Swimming is lovely for that, because if you want, you can completely lose yourself in it. Want to forget a crummy day? No problem. Focus on keeping your arm extended as you pop your face out for a breath, focus on twisting your torso, not kicking your feet, or counting your strokes to see if you can shave one or two off during your next length. And suddenly, despite thinking "These 40 laps are going to take forever," when you first slip into the cool water, you're on lap 25 and are so in the zone you're almost (I said almost) sad there's only 15 to go.

But you can also choose to let the technique switch to auto pilot if you'd like. You can reach the edge of the pool, tuck and twist and push off, give that long, soothing sigh, breathing under control, everything steady as she goes, and let your mind wander. You don't need an iPod to drift off if you want. You don't need any distractions to let your thoughts tumble around you in the swirl of bubbles and the blue water, just you, following the stripe of black tile on the bottom of the pool, and the motions and the water and your deep, unwinding sigh.

Teriyaki Salmon with Sriracha Cream Sauce

Oh yeah, it's as good as it looks, and then some. Todd basically went apeshit over this, and after the second bite was all "This one is a keeper." Which is fine by me, considering it was melt-in-your-mouth tender and juicy, had just enough spice for flavorful warmth without tipping into dangerous third-degree-burn territory, and also really, really easy.

Teriyaki Salmon with Sriracha Cream Sauce

serves two

1/4 cup brown sugar, packets

1/4 cup soy sauce

1/2 teaspoon ground ginger (I had crystallized from Penzeys)

1/4 teaspoon garlic powder

2 tbsp honey

1 cup water

1 tbsp cornstarch

2 tbsp soy sauce

2 6-8oz salmon fillets

1/4 cup mayo

1 tbsp sriracha

Whisk together the first six ingredients to make your teriyaki marinade, and pour into a small saucepan. Bring to a simmer. Make a slurry with the cornstarch and soy sauce. Mine had been opened before so it was refrigerated and therefore cold. Cold liquid works best with cornstarch so if your soy sauce is room temp, I recommend just using cold water.

Science, bitch!

Add the slurry to the marinade in the sauce pan and stir until somewhat thickened. Usually the easiest way to tell is how the simmering bubbles look. Trust me, you can tell.

Let this cool to room temperature. I poured mine into a pyrex and left it on the counter for like, 10 minutes or so. Not utter room temperature but close enough! Put your salmon in and let it marinate at least 30 minutes in the fridge.

Set oven for 400. Transfer marindae and salmon, the whole kit and kaboodle, into an 8x8 pyrex which has been treated with cooking spray. Bake until salmon flakes off easily, about 15-20 minutes.

While that's baking, mix together your mayo and sriracha. To achieve a fancy shmancy look, scoop the sauce mix into a small ziploc bag and cut the tiniest snip out of a corner of the bag. Once you've plated your salmon, simply squeeze the sauce into a fun pattern onto the salmon. Serve, AKA devour, immediately!

For anyone who wants to know, the side we had was haricot verts, parboiled about five minutes, cooled under ice or in ice water, and then sauteed in sesame oil. Had I sesame seeds or scallions, I would have adorned the beans with them.

ENJOYYYY

Good Stuff.

I'm in a pretty good mood, considering I went to bed at 12:28 and woke up around 5am. My 7am cuppa Earl Grey has faded and I'm sitting here yawning, but still, good mood man. I woke up at 5am thanks to the neighbor idling his motorcycle for FOREVER. After about an hour of just lying there, I finally got up to get some water, noticed Alex had put her lamp back on in her bedroom, and tried turning it off for her all sneaky-like. I turned to go and then:

"I WANT MY LIGHT BACK ONNNNNN" and tears. So I went in, shushed her and got her to come snuggle with us. Oh, her snuggles are so sublime. My hand found Todd's and we laced fingers while Alex burrowed between us, head on my upper arm. I never went back to sleep but instead just laid there with random song lyrics going through my head, enjoying how it felt to be next to Alex.

Finally around 7am I slipped out of bed.

"Where you goin', mama?"

"I'm going to go to the bathroom and then make tea. I'll be back, baby."

"I'm comin' with you."

"Okay, baby."

So then we're in the bathroom and I'm washing my hands and brushing my teeth and she closes the lid to her potty and sits down.

"I had so much fun snuggling with you, mama."

"Oh well thank you, honey, I did too!"

"It's cause I love you so much. mama!"

AND I DIED.

The Best Version.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, but it really struck me today at lunch when I was lying on the sofa, and Alex came and curled up on me. I've figured out my role as mother in her life.

Well, damn, Jil! you say. Way to finally figure that shit out after three and a half years! Haha, no. I know the job description. I guess what I mean is, what the shape of that role is in Alexandra's life. What I represent. How I differ from Todd, her father. What I am, and what I am not. How to play to my strengths within that role.

I'm the cuddler. I'm the one to watch Tinkerbell movies with all day. I'm the kisser of wounds, the protector when dada's tickle monster chases get too real. What I'm not, is that tickle monster chaser. I've tried it before, and it's not as fun as when Todd does it, because it's just not one of my passions, to chase my kid and scare the crap out of her as she laughs hysterically throughout all of it.

I love listening to them, taking photos of their games, or video if I can catch it in time. It's also not as welcome coming from me as it is Todd. The other day, as she was trotting around the house, I snuck up behind her and tickled her and she nearly jumped out of her skin she was so startled. And then my kid cried. I did that! Yay, tickle monster mommy!

She jumped and cried because it was not expected from me. I usually "attack" her with a kiss or a big hug, sweeping her up off her feet into my arms. Those are mommy attacks. Not tickle monster attacks, no ma'am, not from mommy. It was then that I realized that, after all my halfhearted attempts to be as exuberantly playful with her as Todd, it was for naught. It wasn't only a waste of time and energy, but it was unneeded and unwanted.

And my goodness, what a relief it is to realize and accept that. So what! So I don't have the energy or desire to chase my kid and throw her on the bed 1,000 times in a row! It's ok! Because I have all the energy, desire and time to hold her, to snuggle, to read together, to play arts and crafts together, do our nails together, to curl up at night in bed with her and never let her go (until she kicks me in the sternum).

She gets her ya-yas out with her father. That's his job, at least one of them. He genuinely loves it and he's genuinely good at it. During her second year of life, when horsing around got really fun, I kept trying to measure up to Todd. Kept trying to follow his lead and be as playful and boisterous with her, because look at how much fun they had! I want to have fun with Alex too!

I forgot that I did have fun with Alex, but in my own way, in our own mommy-daughter ways. We have our own games, our own rituals, our own little language. I had kept trying to be everything in her world, but I never needed to do so. It wasn't necessary. What was necessary was, and is, for me to be present and passionate about the roles I do best. That way, I will offer up to my child the best mother she has. The best version of myself.

And that's all I want to be for her.

Review: Alba shampoo and conditioner

All right. When I first bought this, I bought the honeydew "Gloss Boss" version for the amazing smell and hey, who doesn't want to be a Gloss Boss? I liked it well enough so I went out and bought the coconut one, which I have yet to use and which I will likely NOT use, and here's why: It completely weighs my hair down.

I try not to wash my hair everday because the last five inches are super dried out. After the initial transition, the oils in my hair leveled out and it was totally fine for me on the non-wash days.

However. Now I can barely make it 24 hours without my hair looking flat, weighed down and over-oily. And that sucks, because the smell is heavenly, the price is good and the ingredients are pretty awesome. Only two or three chemicals (and while there's no SLS I know at least one of those has to be a detergent of some kind to get the suds) and then just a whole load of natural ingredients.

So, back to the drawing board. Or, to be clear, back to Sprouts where I essentially sit on the floor smelling all the shampoos that don't have sulfates until I find one I like.

Grade: D

Six years. Six years. She got your ring, got you for six years (and counting).

Tomorrow marks our sixth wedding anniversary. There's not a lot to say except my God, it's comfy in here. I love marriage. I love my husband. I love our child, and the life we've built together. Six years. It's such a small number but it feels so good. It feels good because it seems like a nice solid base, a good strong foundation for a marriage that will one day grow into 20, 40, 60 years.

Ours is no different from other successful marriages. There's nothing that makes us OMG BETTER THAN YOU LOSERS. The best thing about us is what's best about all the other successes out there: we're made for each other. I mean... That's it. That's as best as I can describe it.

There's respect and humor, trust and loyalty. We raise our child with the same goals in mind. We like a clean house. We quote The Fifth Element (just one line) and Dracula: Dead and Loving It (all of them) to each other on a daily basis. From top to bottom of the list, there you go.

I hate to say, he completes me, or I complete him, because our relationship would have failed immediately if either of us looked to the other for completion. In order to have a solid relationship, you need to be whole when you start it. That is basically the hallmark of healthy human interaction and intimacy.

But I will say, we complement each other. What was complete before is now enhanced. What was whole before is now perfected. Right off the top of my head, Todd taught me the beauty of apologizing, of accepting it and moving on. I have introduced him to the freeing world of silliness, lightheartedness. Both are important. Both enhanced, put a bit of a shine on the old exterior.

So I guess now is when I say to my husband, sorry for posting another silly photo of you to the internet. I love you. See you in another six, another sixty if we're lucky (or vampires by then).

Miss Independence.

She's all "What? This is my 'Mom got me new boots' outfit. I had to try them on, and obviously they require my dirtbag hipster Seattle outfit in order to adequately judge whether or not they'll work for me. Hey, bro, they totes work."

Heh. Anyways. I'm pretty upset today. I woke up late this morning, because hitting the snooze button on the iPhone under my pillow is becoming easier and easier. My daughter's bedroom light was on even though after she falls asleep we turn it off for her, but that's okay because often she'll wake up in the mornings, turn it on and go doze in bed.

I decided, right before heading out the door to work, to check on her, give her a hug and a kiss so I had some good Alex lovin' to get me through the morning. Except... she wasn't in bed. A little drop of panic mingled in my blood; was she just wandering the dark house alone? Before I decided to tear the house apart in a mad mommy search, I opened the door further. She was curled up in her rocking chair, asleep.

Her bed was soaked. She peed out in the middle of the night, and instead of coming to us for help, she changed her pajamas and underpants and curled up under a clean blanket on her chair. You guys. She's three. She's too young to be taking this sort of shit on all by herself. She didn't come to us. She dealt with it alone, and she didn't even come curl up with us to sleep the rest of the night away. She just... She just hunkered down. Alone. Pee stained. Alone.

My heart could break. While independence is a wonderful thing (um hello, America), it's just too early. It sort of makes my stomach turn, imagining her in the middle of the night, little bags under her sleepy eyes, worry in her heart, as she realized what happened. Was she scared we'd be mad? And when? When did she tuck herself in into her chair? Is there a crick in her neck? What happened? Why didn't she come to us?

I surveyed the scene and the moment my eyes fell on that big pee stain in bed, my heart sank for her. I wanted to cry. Instead I went to her and picked her up, blanket and Ha-Ha and all, held her tight to my body as I carried her to our bedroom. I told Todd what happened, and she opened her eyes and said "Mama my bed, you see my bed?" and then I just wanted to die. I tucked her in, Todd came close to her, and I said "She's too independent, and it worries me."

I worry about zombies and ghosts and shit, so I know that often times Todd and I don't necessarily share the same concerns. But when Todd said "I know, same here," it almost made it worse. I'm so scared that later in life she will take far too much all alone, will stack the worries and responsibilities too high on her shoulders and will never tell a soul about them. Will she distance herself from her spouse? Will she pull away from her family?

She's only three, and already she's taking on the weight of her kid world. I've seen signs of it before, the messy trails of a little lady who craves control over life. The countless outfit changes (see photo above), the water everywhere after trying to get water for herself, or wash herself, or hell if I know what it was. But this morning was a small devastation for me as a mother. As tiring as parenthood can get, when your child pulls away or shrinks inside or refuses to show up on your radar, you are desperate to clean up pee. You beg to wipe away tears. You would sell your soul to comfort.

I wish I would have woken up, mysteriously, whenever it happened, like it does in the movies or on TV. Alex waking up to her crisis, mommy waking up because Mommy Instinct picked up on something. I wish I could have cleaned her up, consoled her, reassured her all was well. I wish she fell asleep between Todd and me, warm and secure, instead of scrunched up on an old rocking chair, cold and lonely, soothing herself, by herself.

I wish, I wish, I wish.

Zucchini Tots

You know it's a good recipe when after taking one bite you pick up your phone and text two friends about it. That's what happened this past Wednesday after I attempted the first batch of these delicious little devils. I have two friends, Kendra and Amber, who have zucchini in their gardens and are always looking for new things to do with the prolific courgette. These are absolutely perfect.

The only issue for some people is that they call for a mini muffin tray. Totally worth the purchase, for this recipe alone. Anyways, I found this on Pinterest but made some tweaks, so here goes.

Zucchini Tots

makes 24 (serving size is three, supposedly)

2 large zucchini

1/2 cup panko

2/3 cup shredded cheddar

1/3 cup finely diced red onion

2 large eggs

Garlic powder, to taste

Trader Joe's 21 Seasoning Salute, to taste (AKA go batshit crazy)

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Spray a mini muffin pan with cooking spray, or grease with butter. HAVE FUN WITH IT FOLKS.

Grate your zucchini using the large size on your box grater. This goes so quickly and easily, even for accident prone moi, that I don't recommend lugging out the foot processor and fitting it with the grating tool.

Take a clean, thin but durable dish towel (mine tore) and use it to squeeze out all the moisture from the zucchini. This takes several twists and squeezes.

Add all the ingredients, pell-mell style, in a large bowl and stir to thoroughly mix everything together. Fill each of the muffin cups to the top, pressing down to make sure they hold together when you remove them.

Bake about 18 - 20 minutes, until the tops are golden. Now, the original called for 16-18 but in my notoriously, infamously over-hot oven, it still needed at least 18 minutes. Plus, at the halfway mark I turned the pan around to make sure everything was even.

For those of you 1%ers who have convection ovens then WHATEVER man.

After they're out of the oven, I recommend popping them out and serving soon after, so long as you take care not to burn yourself. They're amazing cold and warm, but nothing beats them when they're hot.

Easy to reheat and to freeze, they are just amazing. I think they're better than tater tots thanks to all the yummy ingredients, but maybe I'm crazy.

Enjoy! They rock with a little bit of ketchup as a side to a delicious grilled steak.