Here. Have Some Beads.

Carnevale was this weekend. You can read about the food here (and yes, it's been so long I nearly couldn't find the keys to get into the door).

Or you can start looking at it here:

This years feast was a metaphor for everything I'm thinking my Lenten journey is going to be about. I was not organized, I was not prepared...I didn't plan the menu until Saturday morning and I was still cooking well after guests arrived. Was it horrible? Not in the least. But I did not like the feeling of not having my game on. It just felt like one more example of how much life has changed since August and how much I still need to get a handle on it all. It is very ironic to have a job that is so superfantastic and splendid and affirming and life-giving etcetcetc and then feel like everything else I care about is going to hell in a handcart.

I was never one of those women who bought the myth that we can "have it all". But a little more balance can't possibly be out of the question.

Chaos in My Kitchen

If I held to my motto: "do the dishes first", I would not be blogging today. Or likely tomorrow.

There are a lot of dishes.

Carnevale was grand.

But man, we have a lot of dishes. Not including the 15 small soup bowls I borrowed from The Neighbor. Those are clean now.

There's more to tell, most of which will be done over on the food blog later. But really, I'm distracted by the lack of empty counterspace.

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The Child and I went to see "Juno" yesterday, at the darling little cinema in our darling little shopping district. Wow. The movie, I mean. Yeah, I should probably work up a proper review.

Later, while The Spouse watched the Superbowl, The Child and I watched the Food Network. And during commercials we talked about "Juno". Because she kept bringing it up. You see, as much as the parent in me would love to latch on to this "teachable" opportunity about the perils of pre-marital sex and unwanted pregnancy and making choices, the used-to-be-a-teenager in me knows that if I initiate that conversation, this time, in response to this film, the conversation will go like this:

Moi: "So, Juno really blah didi blah didi blahdiblah blah. What do you think, Child?"

Child: "Yeah. Can we listen to Radio Disney?"

Understand, I'm not afraid of having this conversation with her. We've been talking about sex, age-appropriately, of course, since she could speak. Because that's how you're supposed to do.

One day, when she was in the second grade her teacher, Sister Barb, pulled me aside to say that the class had been studying life cycles and that day they had talked, in 2nd grade appropriate fashion, about how babies are made.

"We just cover the basics, you know, but every year there is one child who asks the question and this year it was The Child". She said this very brightly, with the sort of look reserved for the parents of child prodigies.

"And the question?" I asked. (I myself, a prodigy not so much).

"Well, I was explaining about sperm and eggs and how they need to get together to make a baby. But I don't go into the details, of course. The Child was the one who asked how the sperm and eggs actually get together".

"Oh!" I exclaimed (proving that I'm not squeamish about sex education). "And how did you respond?" (Because, you know, if this came up later I wanted to be on the same page with teacher).

Sister Barb smiled, beatifically. "I told her it was an excellent question and she should be sure to ask her parents when she got home".

I looked at Sister and said, "$4,800 a year in tuition and I have to answer the question?"

Of course, I was teasing. Sorta. I didn't mind. And I understood the logic...it was a weighty question and not every family was going to be down with their 7 year olds getting the "whole story".

That afternoon I was taking The Child to choir practice, anticipating the question every time she opened her mouth but she just chatted on brightly about this and that. As she got out of the car at church she turned to me and said, ever so casually, "Oh, yeah, and mommy, we were talking about sperm and eggs today and I want to know how they get together".

"Can we talk about this after choir?"

"Sure!" and she ran off. I spent the next two hours thinking of what to say. (Let's face it, this is a classic case of "what do they really want to know and how much information is too much?").

On the way home from choir, she sat in the backseat, chatting again. I waited, not intending to bring up the subject. I wanted to see if she really had a burning interest.

"So, mommy, what's the deal with the sperm and the egg?"

"I'm happy to tell you, but why don't you tell me what you know, first". Not hedging, just wanting to verify her facts and make sure that she's really asking what I think she's asking.

(You know the old joke: "Where did I come from?" Long explanation, blanched face of child...punchline: "Timmy said he came from Chicago..." ba da bump).

She had her facts. Men have sperm. Women have eggs. Sperm has to meet egg to make baby.

"But how does the sperm get to where the eggs are?"

Moment of truth. "When a mommy and daddy love each other very much.....", I began, and then proceeded to give her the most basic of facts.

There was silence from the backseat for a moment.

"Well, that's just gross," she said.

"Yes, it is gross to you now. Because you're 7. When you grow up and graduate from college and travel in Europe for a year and work at a great job for a while and then meet the man you love and marry him, it won't seem gross at all". (Not that I have a vision for her life plan or anything but you do what you can).

"It's still gross".

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She's taking a mental health day today. I wouldn't mind one, myself. But there's still a ton of good times to clear up. Best get to it.

The Passage of Time

On the Feast of the Epiphany (the day the wise men found Baby Jesus), there is this very awesome morsel in the liturgy wherein a cantor gets up and "sings" the dates of the feasts and fasts for the coming liturgical year. (The Catholic church year starts the first Sunday of Advent. There are 4 weeks of Advent and then Christmastide so we obviously know what we are doing for those first months of the cycle. But heading into Ordinary Time we get this dandy little proclaimation to let us know what else is coming up. Like a coming attractions blurb, sung on three notes). Anyway, I love this little bit and sat eagerly, all poised and excited.

Then he sang that "Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the Lenten sea-son" (I can totally hear him singing that) was on February 6. HELLO? Consider. Epiphany is January 6. So this year, having just finished Christmas, we get one month of down time and it's 6 weeks of Lent? Wow.

With Ester being a movable feast it sometimes happens that Lent is early. In fact, Lent was early the year The Child was born. She was baptised at 10 days old because Lent was a'comin' and baptisms aren't typically celebrated in Lent and we didn't want to wait until Eastertide. (No, not because we thought she would die and go to hell. We don't believe that. It was because the Cathedral was going to close for renovations and we'd be worshipping in the gym across the street and we wanted her baptism to be in the same actual physical place where we were married). So anyway, there she was, the youngest baby to be baptised in Cathedral history but you know what? Her baptism anniversary is Feb. 6. Which means that as early as Lent was that year, this year it's even earlier!

The fundamental impact of this information was that I had to quick send out evites for Carnevale and start planning a menu before the Christmas leftovers were all gone.

In other "my how time flies" news:

1) The Child will be 14 in 11 days. (High School Musical theme for the party. Of course).

b) On the weekend I will be going to the Portland area for the service of a family friend who passed last week. He'll be getting his own post later but last night I was thinking about it and trying to wrap my mind around it. "Uncle" Gibby and his wife "Auntie" Nan are some of Dame Judi and Sean's oldest friends. We met when I was a sophomore in highschool. See? Long time. Now, I don't know if it's true or just the way my mind works but the last time I saw Gib and Nan, they seemed completely unchanged to me. Of course, that's sorta how I view Sean and Judi, too. Yeah, they are getting older. I'm getting older so they must be, right? And there's a bit more grey in their hair, perhaps. But really, unchanged. Still young and vital, as far as I can tell. (They will laugh at that characterisation but serioulsy, they are both now in their 70s and you wouldn't believe it to look at them or talk to them. See, youthful).

And I don't know if my similar assessments of Gib and Nan are just because they always "were" so I still see them that way or if they too were immune from that "getting ancient" thing but the point is, I was trying to think how old Uncle Gibby was and surely he was in his 70s, which sounds so much older than how I think of him.

Anytime, I've been thinking about his memorial service, which will be held (I believe) in the church we attended when I was in high school, a place I haven't revisited since I was in college. Not a ton of good memories, what with the whole PK thing, and I never really felt a burning desire to go back to the scene of so much angst and humiliation. (And yeah, it actually WAS that bad). But this is different. It's not about me. It's about honoring personal history and supporting a dearly loved family.

But I find myself wondering if I'll recognize anyone, besides Auntie Nan, of course. I think of my peers from that time and imagine who might be in attendance. We're all older. I don't think I've changed that much. Well, actually, I have. Frankly, I'm way more attractive now than I was then, which is a perversely comforting thought. But I am older. Will I be recognized? Will I know anyone else? Or will I have to stick close to Dame Judi, who has been in much more contact with that group of people, waiting for her whispered prompts so that I don't look like a complete idiot when someone comes up to greet us? Funny thing to think about, really, given how much a part of my life those people were once upon a time.

I really should get my hair done before the weekend.

Hi. I'm So Glad It's Sunday.

I am sorely in need of a day of rest. I will not be getting out of my jammies. The glorious madness of non-stop parties is over, leaving me a happy little puddle of weariness.

But enough about me. Let's talk about the Carnevale feast, shall we?

Ah, Carnevale! One of the most favorite of all our feasts, the time when no regard is given to calories, carbs, grams of fat or any of that other nonesense. Time to eat large, drink plenty and generally indulge; it's one last fling with the table before the fast of Lent begins.

The party began with a little apertif of wamed olives with orange zest (pretty much my signature apertif snacky thing) and champagne or sparkly juice. Beads were donned.

The first course was a little wedge of paté with cornichon and crackers. I did not make the paté myself because Trader Joe's has a very good country style one but one of these days I'll get around to making my own in the proper little paté terrine that Nicole gave me long ago. (I also used to make cornichon from itty bitty French cucumbers that I grew myself. Note to self: find some seed again this year because that was just plain fun).

We have the same salad each year for Carnevale, a very simple toss of chopped celery and shaved Parmesan in a lemon juice/olive oil dressing. It is a surprising combination of refreshing crunchiness. Ancient Romans would secure celery leaves around their heads as a preventative to hang-overs.

Then came the main course, which is always lamb, but this year involved the discovery of something called ras el-hanout, which is Moroccan for "superfantastic and gorgeously aromatic powder of heaven". There wasn't time this week to go to the souk in the Public Market, which would no doubt have had many variations on the theme so I had to make my own. Never having used the stuff before nor having any idea what it is supposed to taste like, some research was involved. Ras el-hanout is like curry powder in that there are common ingredients to all the recipes but personal twists are given the concoction from region to region, cook to cook. Some of the recipes read like something you'd find in the notebook of a white witch and there wasn't time to search the city for many things unpronouncable. I finally struck on an accessible combination of cinnamon sticks, cloves, fenugreek and the seeds of mustard, coriander, cumin and fennel. One of the common ingredients to the mix, however, is rose petals. The co-op only had rosebuds for craft use and I didn't know if my Valentine roses were free of pesticides or whatever so I threw a pinch or so of rosehips into the mix.

All these lovely things were slowly warmed in a heavy pan until little seeds started popping and incense-like fragrance began wafting through the house. Then everything was whizzed through the spice grinder until reduced to a sneeze-inducing powder.

Instead of leg o', this year we did racks o' lamb. The Spouse rubbed the racks with the gorgeous ras el-hanout, then seared the lamb and tossed it in the oven to roast. Then the roasting pan was deglazed with shiraz and honey was added to the wine. I had mixed a few tablespoons of rosewater to the honey, to help make up for the absence of roses in the spice rub. The sauce cooked down to a silky little pot of yum. I have a bit of a thing for a good sauce and this one goes onto my list of "Top 10 Most Delicious Sauces Ever Eaten".

The lamb, which I can really only refer to now as My Favorite Lamb Dish of All Time, was accompanied by the following:

Bleu Cheese Potatoes Delmonico (involving quantities of butter and cream plus some emmantaler that was lying around because you can't have too much cheesey goodness).

Artichoke Heart Gratin, which was stupid simple. The original recipe called for cooking the artichokes in Italian dressing but I figured that was just fussy so used marinated artichokes to begin with. These were cooked by themselves for about 10 minutes, then mozzerella cheese was sprinkled over it all and baked some more, then the dish was sprinkled with french-fried onions and warmed for 1 more minute. It was, um, really yummy.

Green beans tossed with toasted hazelnuts (that ReeRee whacked into little bits for me) and lemon zest, olive oil, salt and pepper completed the plate.

Between dinner and dessert we have a pre-Lenten conversation wherein everyone shares his or her intentions for the coming fast. We draw names for our secret prayer buddy, who we will keep in our prayers during Lent. (In Holy Week we send out what The Child calls "love letters", revealing ourselves). After the sharing and a sung Our Father and a little Sanctus in Latin, it's time to get back to the table.

This year we had 2 desserts. The Neighbor, who came very very late because she was singing in a concert, procured for us a King Cake, baked fresh yesterday morning by a gentleman who is originally from New Orleans. It was very good, with lots of crunchy sugar on the top but as yummy as it was last night, it was even more spectacular this morning with coffee. King Cake, which actually has it's roots in Epiphany, has a little surprise baked into it and the person who gets the prize has the honor of procurring next year's cake. That would be Jerry.

But important as observing tradition is, one also needs something rich and decadent for dessert. This year I made tiramisu, from blog buddy Dariush's recipe. Hello. Let's just call it what it really is, shall we? Coronary in a Trifle Bowl. But what a way to go.

Layers of ladyfingers soaked in coffee and marsala (because I was too lazy to get amaretto) between which lurked cups and cups of luscious filling (marscapone cheese combined with a whipped egg yolk/sugar thing combined with thick cream). And for a little extra Carnevale glam, I also sprinkled grated chocolate between the filling and ladyfingers. Just before serving it got a nice sprinking of unsweeted cocoa. (I doubled the recipe, Dariush. It turned out really well. Thanks again). It was the best tiramisu I've ever tasted...rich and flavorful but with a good balance between all the elements, which is usually where tiramisu fails, imho.

And then there was the post-prandial indulgence of Scotch or a last glass of wine. The Neighbor arrived just as everyone else was preparing to take their sated selves away so she got to give out hugs and then The Spouse and I sat with her while she ate the plate of food we'd kept warm for her. And then we took our tired selves to bed and I didn't even care that there were still dishes to do. Someone will get around to them eventually.

Hi. I'm Exhausted.

Ever have one of those times when you get to the other side of a big event that went really well (except for the one arse who asked 15 minutes into the event, "Is this all we're doing?" and one side of your brain had to remind the other side that you were a Christian so that you didn't say what you wanted to the arse) but then you were so tired that you could barely sleep plus every time you rolled over you ached because you realized too late that doing the Bunny Hop in 4 inch heels wasn't actually the most intelligent thing you could do and then after a restless night you had to get up early to go back to school to finish cleaning up the event and marvel at how much recycling one little party can generate? Then, to top it all off, you have to clean your house and pick up your kid's math tutor and make beautiful food for the annual Carnevale feast which is a really important and precious time in the life of your little community but all you really want to do is take a nap?

Yeah. Like that.

It is a gorgeous springish day, with all manner of birds singing and crocuses popping up and anemones on special at the co-op. The Child, who is supposed to be cleaning her room, is wearing my tiara from last night and putting pictures of Corbin Blue (or as she likes to call him, "my husband") all over her wall. The Spouse is hauling $412 worth of exotic (and not so) groceries into the house. The Dixie Chicks are blaring and The Dog is running around stealing Mardi Gras masks. ("Odd birds," he's thinking, "must destroy").

Just another Saturday around the casa.

I need to soak my feet.