On figs and cats and torches and summer coming to a close

Tonight Jack convinced me to drill a small hole through a stick he'd found so that he could insert a match and light it, thus making an Olympic torch. As you may not be surprised to hear, a match burns pretty quickly, so "torch" was an ephemeral status.

"No, Mom, I've got it! We need gasoline!"

"No, Jack, we're not pouring gasoline into a handheld twig. Thank you. Goodnight."

"Moooooooooooom."

"No."

30 minutes later, T and I are presented with this.

Another 60 minutes later, I check on the children to find that both have drawn red marker and black ink pen beards on their faces and are wearing Italia hoodies. Oliver is drooling onto his pillow-whilst gnawing on corn last night, another top tooth dislodged and so he is now minus his front four which is really pretty significant- and Jack is still awake which does not bode well for tomorrow, the final day of camp.

The good thing about camp ending is that I do not have to pack another lunch until next summer.

The bad thing about camp ending is that camp is ending and we have three weeks left until school resumes. LAWD! SO MANY HOURS IN A DAY!

I will seek refuge in the Nut who continues to be adorably imperious and delightfully plump, and I will continue to encourage anyone listening to vote not only Donald Trump off our island but also Ryan Lochte. At least he hasn't resurrected his grill.

Today I admired and photographed figs and also cooked the boys a lovely dinner that required no more than three teeth to eat and then made a rainbow carrot and raisin salad. The evening light glows so becomingly this time of year; if you can avoid the mosquitan bandits out for all your blood, you will be rewarded with beautifully lit, no flash photos. 

As an added bonus tonight, I leave you with this truly HYSTERICAL Ode to Synchronized Swimming. 

A review of Kinship and a quiet night in my kitch

Last night, Tom and I went to a work event at Kinship, a marvelous new contemporary American restaurant in DC's Shaw neighborhood. Opened by Eric Ziebold (former chef of CityZen) and his wife and partner, Célia Laurent, Kinship is a relatively small (just 55 seats) place on 7th St NW with an unassuming exterior and a minimalist but very warm interior.

Last night's menu was set but still a terrific way to first experience Kinship. Frankly, I enjoyed the lack of decision-making. I enjoyed simply being fed by people who seemed to care deeply about the food they prepared and served.

Passed hors d'oeuvres included mushroom fritters with a sunchoke reduction, lobster profiteroles, tuna atop a fried chanterelle, and duck loin. A beautiful sparkling rosé complemented and enlivened each bite, although a zippy Sancerre, a smooth red, and an open bar were also up for grabs.

Isn't this butter pleasing? I love the serving plates too. 

My favorite dish of the evening was our first course once seated: grilled okra and baby corn atop chilled summer succotash, cilantro vinaigrette, and red pepper sorbet.

Yep, that is straight up red pepper sorbet.

I ADORE okra, succotash of any stripe, cilantro and red peppers so felt good about this from the moment I first saw it. But oh wow, each bite was nearly blissful. The sorbet could have so easily derailed the whole thing, but it didn't. It was so bright and herbaceous and cool- a lovely compliment in both taste and color to the rest of the plate.

Next up was a pan-seared redfish with shrimp and bell pepper jambalaya and Old Bay emulsion which was lighter than air, and finally, a dry-aged ribeye with mustard-braised spinach, Gruyère steamed pudding and a sauce Dijonnaise. 

People, the mustard-braised greens were TO.DIE.FOR. Do you hear me? TO.DIE.FOR. 

With all that goodness we drank a Burgundian white, the 2013 Alain Gras, Saint-Romain, as well as a 2011 Spottswoode Cab from St. Helena. I adored the white, admit to hardly paying attention to the Cab (egads!) as speeches and toasts were ramping up at this point and had to leave to relieve our sitter just prior to the serving of whipped chocolate nougat with whipped crème fraîche, espresso caramel, cacao nibs and chocolate sorbet. What a tragedy to miss that.

I did have a lovely cappuccino and tried to buy this cup and saucer from Kinship, but to no avail.

The service was impeccable, the ambience lovely and welcoming- think Scandinavian rustic-chic meets peonies and a hide rug in a library. I look forward to returning soon!

***

Tonight, after I tucked the kids in, I decided I did not have the stomach to stand watching the RNC and so took to my kitchen, perhaps inspired by last night and the fact that T left town today and so I could go vegetarian with no sad face carnivore peeping over my shoulder.

I'd bought some stunning, plump Turkish figs today (which then prompted the purchase of some creamy blue cheese and visions of caramelized onions and a tart) and, while rummaging through my freezer this afternoon, found some puff pastry squares I'd bought at that fab Persian market the boys and I discovered in April.

I also had some beautiful chioggia beets, and as they happen to love blue cheese too, I tossed them in the oven to roast. Long story short because now I see that it's getting very late and I'm tired and teaching in the morning, tartlets. 

STUNNING roasted and peeled chioggia beets

Aren't they darling and tempting? I ate four. And those beets. G'night!

When kids should be neither seen nor heard

There are days, and today was such, I could stand to do without spending much time with the boys.

They are loud and messy and uncouth. They whine and argue and burp lyrics to songs. They scratch their butts and chew hangnails. They hide their clean and folded laundry instead of putting it away. They negotiate, futilely but aggressively, for dessert at breakfast. It is tiring to argue about nonsensical things before 8am.

We got to the camp bus stop and because Oliver insisted on bringing a robot, derby cap and walkie talkie in the car, he’d accidentally left his lunchbox at home. I knew where I’d find it: near his closet where he put it down to fetch the houndstooth cap from its hook. Another sandwich bites the dust.

Home later after the gym, I found and unpacked the lunchbox and saved what I could. I surveyed their rooms and saw dirty underpants crotch-out on the floors. Open boxes of now-stale anything littered their desks and the dark spaces under their beds. The sink looked as if they'd tried to frost a porcelain cake using toothpaste. A Jackson Pollock had been crafted on the wall with rebounding pee.

“This is what ‘I know you can do it by yourself! Independence, darlings!’ gets me,” I mused aloud.

The sheer number of crumbs that Hansel & Hansel had dropped on the breakfast table and then along the path upstairs was staggering. Surely it could wrap the Earth. The dustbuster’s battery petered out before I sucked the crap away.

I was so glad they were at camp. I was so grateful for their lengthy day away.

So I caramelized shallots...

Days like these sometimes blindside me although I'm starting to think that if I carefully mapped my life, Mondays would really be off the chart in terms of the kids being annoying and my tolerance, or lack thereof, for it. 

Weekends are anything but Sabbathy. Come Sunday night, Tom and I often look at each other askance and ask, with both worry and hope, “Will this ever be less depleting?”

Although it is exhausting to be an at-home mom of little ones, I watch Tom leave each weekday morning and think, “How the fuck does he do it?” On, on, on. All the time on. I try to give him down time when I can because, if only for a few hours, I get a taste of that most days; if you count errands and laundry and wiping pee walls and vacuuming up the Earth’s belt as down time which I often do because at least I don’t have to be on.

Or dressed in any quasi-professional way.

I hit a wall today. Was it the training run on Saturday? The play dates + produce + family get together over the weekend? Was it being awakened well before 7am for oh, nine years now? Was it latent anxiety that just wears and erodes?

I dunno but come this evening, when Ol wouldn’t pick up the Legos that he’d cycloned throughout his room but wanted to get out the Halloween bag-of-bones (and naturally cyclone out and then not pick those up either) and then cried and went boneless over my refusal to unearth said bag-of-bones without first seeing a Lego-free floor, I just wanted to quit.

When Jack came down again and again and again from bed, despite the years we’ve spent talking about what bedtime means, I just wanted to quit.

I wanted to finish making dinner for T and me, to try and connect in the thirty minutes during which we’re both just awake enough to talk.

for this tart that actually came together...

Another hug, another kiss, another sad glance at the newspapers that will be recycled instead of read.

“Tomorrow is anothuh day,” I intoned a la Scarlett.

It is.

I think it is.

Is that a good thing?

I think so.

I hope so.

I’m tired.

and really hit the spot.

Tom has banished me, with all the love in his being, to the basement; our secret hideaway. I accept!