Thirty

People like to make a big deal of turning thirty. For some, it looms as a finish line across which they must have achieved any number of reputable or disreputable things, sometimes even in actual list form. For others, it demarcates a threshold for closing off the frivolous twenties, emerging a responsible citizen in a bizarre reverse butterfly move.

I have a family, friends, a home, and a career I adore. I have the privilege of abundant free time and the inclination toward introspection and self-fulfillment. There are still things I wish to do: Live abroad. Lose the ability to procrastinate. Get the perfect tattoo. Take my children sledding. Make more music. But nothing time-sensitive.

Sometimes I tire of this half-assed culture, which tries to erect so many milestones that they collectively dwarf one another. Maybe it is an unavoidable byproduct of extending childhood past its evolutionary expiration date. A faint but unquenchable craving for a clear and timely ascension to adulthood.

Or maybe I am still feeling the aftershocks of a vacation bookended by red-eye flights.

Either way, I’ll gladly accept a mellow day at home followed by an early dinner of all-you-can-eat sushi, nestled amongst my sweet, slightly cranky, much beloved family.

Sous Chef

When does it stop being just “good experience” for your child to help prepare dinner and start being real help?

Tonight. That’s when.

Owlet cut nearly everything that needed cutting for our dinner tonight using a small sharp knife. I only refined a few of the larger pieces of onion and zucchini and finished up the tomatoes when they got too goopy for her to want to continue.

I took care of the meat and twiddled my thumbs a bit (read: prevented Platypup from getting into multiple mishaps). I wound up doing the spices since Owlet was out playing, but she enjoys helping with that step, too, on other days. Then we went out to pick lettuce from our Victory Garden and she cut the lettuce and some cheese, too, again unassisted.

Do I delude myself into thinking this will happen every night?

Hell yeah.

Bunny Love

As long as we are photo-rifling…

Remember my lonely rabbit, Autumn, who had a rough start to 2013?

Last month we finally found her a (neutered) companion! We named him Leopold (Owlet helped choose it — her first suggestion was Scratchel but I felt that would ignite undue prejudice against a very friendly, affectionate rabbit and reluctantly overruled her. I offered Satchel which I thought was close but was rejected swiftly and with scorn. I then nominated several names at once and she chose Leopold).

They had met through wire walls once at a nearby shelter and we returned later for a real “date.” For the first hour and a half or so it was nothing but love. Sweet sweet cuddly bunny love.

Then they had their first fight (some nipping from both and lots of crazy jumping from Leopold), and I was a little nervous, but the experienced bunny handler at the shelter wasn’t too worried. I decided to go ahead and adopt him, kept them in separate cages close together in a room neither had seen before (our bathroom) for neutral territory a couple days, then tried letting them loose in our outdoor bunny corral. At first there was more nipping, but Leopold had more room to jump and run so he wasn’t trying to do that on top of Autumn, and they settled down quickly, eventually lounging relaxedly on opposite sides of the play yard for a few hours. We separated them that afternoon before leaving the house, and tried again the next day. Minutes later, this was happening:

And before long, this:

And this:

And it’s been nothin but love ever since.

Yearling Platypup

Same as yesterday, except with Platypup… Not time for cute reflection today, but here are photos from his sweet little birthday party, which he both began and ended with napping:

(Photos taken by N. Erickson, E. Erickson, M. Knight, and C. McDougall.)

That last picture might be from the next day, but isn’t it gorgeous? My Women in Northern California with an Affinity for Yarn (no, that’s not our group’s name) made it for Platypup before he was born.

Our Birthday Owl

If I weren’t caught up in a sea of rehearsals, concerts, birthday parties, travel plans, and even a trip to the DMV, I would write something beautiful for my darling Owlet’s third birthday. But I don’t think you’ll mind too much since I’ve got photos aplenty!

(The above photos taken by myself and N. Erickson; those below by M. Knight.)

Yup, pretty fun birthday all around! Orange chocolate bird cake, peanut butter pinecone bird feeders, friends, family, and a cello from my dad. Happy Owlet!

The Empty Chair

A song in honor of my mother’s birthday. I wrote the music almost a decade ago using a poem she entitled “March Birthdays” which will always seem most at home on May 18th, her own birthday. She would have been 63.

Soprano Noell Dorsey performs it in this live recording, taken at the Longy School of Music in December 2004.

* * *

[listen here]

* * *

MARCH BIRTHDAYS
Jacqueline W. Knight

I was there
In the empty chair
I was there
In hearts and eyes
That filled
When they heard a word
A phrase
Like mine.
I was there
In the sunny
Green spring air.
I was there
In the empty chair.

love from my momastery

Children are stressful; everyone says so: overwhelming, a strain on marriage, a tax on life and personal freedom. You could say it and not be wrong.

But children above all are a brilliant chance. I say there is no pristine mountaintop monastery better-suited to disciplining the mind, refining the spirit, clarifying a marriage, chiding misguided attempts to “accomplish” and “sleep,” breaking bad habits, and ceaselessly goading riotous celebration of simple existence. How many people long for a spiritual teacher (always described as “childlike,” have you noticed?) to work with them tirelessly?

It is impossible to describe parenthood to the uninitiated. That’s why you hear, over and over, the same simple phrases: “it’s hard,” “it changes everything,” “totally worth it,” and “you’ll never sleep again.”

Parenthood is a long, long, long line to take a long, long, long elevator ride to something truly spectacular that you’ve waited all your life to see.

It is the week before your thesis is due, but somehow you are in the monkey cage at the zoo just before feeding time.

A life-defining seminar held by those wise ones you most admire accompanied by your favorite companions.

Also, often not unlike trying to hold an important conversation in a very noisy club.

Most of all, it is the gorgeous simplicity of watching and waiting, waiting patiently, through sweltering midday and endless mosquito-thrumming afternoon, watching the sun set and the stars sprinkle out, fighting to keep eyelids propped open all night, shivering, until the clouds imperceptibly lighten and the sun finally rises once more — the gorgeous simplicity of seeing something simultaneously grow and stay the same.

In other words, so so hard, so so worth it, and so so very indescribably beautiful.

To those who are mothers and those who are pregnant, those who wish to become mothers, and those who are amazing, incredibly strong mothers to children no longer here. To the fathers who love as ferociously, as gently, as any mother; to the parents and siblings and aunts and uncles and grandparents and friends who carry us along; and to anyone who has or had a mother who was or was not everything they could ever have hoped for. Beyond the flowers and cards and too much mimosa, let this day of mothers soothe and nourish you like a good mother should.

Three Cheers for Victoria and Albert!

[Originally written two years ago and given as a toast for my stepsister's wedding. Happy second anniversary, "Victoria" and "Albert!"]

Kindhearted and handsome, steadfast and true, fun and intelligent. Albert has a long list of traits that are perfect for Victoria.

And so, in due course, he passed Round One of testing.

Yes, as everyone knows, friends and relations are The Jury. Both consciously and unconsciously their collective verdict carries weight.

Men who are kindhearted and handsome, steadfast and true, fun and intelligent sometimes take awhile to find, but there is a decent number of them in the world. I have one myself.

That is why Round Two is important.

In Round Two, we leave the jury box for the nature observatory. We hunker down in the undergrowth, binoculars trained, and wait patiently. If we’re very lucky, before our feet fall asleep we’ll see something grow.

This indescribable something has no color and yet it glows; no shape and yet it surrounds; no size and yet it fills any space to the brim. There are no bullet points to check off, but we know it when we see it, and deep in our souls we know that, to survive, a marriage must feast upon it as vigorously as we have tackled these delicacies tonight.

Before my very eyes, this indescribable something — which must be a species of mint — sprang up all around and between Victoria and Albert. You can see it when they are together, and see it just as plainly when they are apart. It is woven through their hair and growing up between their toes, and I am certain their marriage will never go hungry.

I don’t believe in soul mates predestined. I believe, if a couple is both hardworking and lucky, their souls grow increasingly mated with time. Victoria and Albert are both kindhearted and handsome, steadfast and true, fun and intelligent, and the love between them is bursting forth in flower today. I believe decades from now we’ll find them swinging on the porch swing of their nursing home at dusk, soul mates watching the first stars appear.

Anyway, now that the jury has assembled, I’d like all who think Albert (and Victoria!) have passed both Round One and Round Two with flying colors to raise a glass and say, “congratulations!”

Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, 1854
(Roger Fenton [Public domain])

 

Unequivocally Schooled by School

Owlet is nearly three. This means nearly everyone we know is asking us about school.

Gah!

I am decidedly undecided about school. Whether to even send her, and if so, where and when.

It is borderline financially viable for us to do a minor amount of preschool, probably the Montessori school a few blocks away. I think Owlet would love it. my mom was a Montessori teacher and I was a Montessori student, first in my mom’s toddler program at home and then in a real school from age three till third grade. Definitely better than regular school.

Owlet is surely well-suited to Montessori, but maybe she needs something a little less like what we already do at home? In that case, maybe somewhere with rough-and-tumble outdoor activities and lots of opportunities to get really messy, like the Waldorf-inspired preschool our friend’s child attends. But does it need to be in school form? Or would a few hours a week with the right babysitter be a better match? (Is Finland’s success proof that waiting to start school till age seven is the way to go?)

The thing is, Owlet is really happy at home. She loves being with us, puttering around the house. Should we homeschool? I have a good basis in most subjects. My skills in music, humanities, science, and math are up to snuff up to (and in some cases, beyond) the A. P. high school level with a minor amount of brushing up toward the end. Thor’s are, too, and he has audio engineering (it’s his job, after all) and carpentry as well. We both cook and I can sew and do other crafties. Plus, now Ivy League colleges offer online courses free of charge.

Anyway, I have been maintaining a mental list of those things I don’t feel qualified to teach that I would like her to gain some exposure to during childhood:

- self defense
- foreign language (ideally Spanish)
- visual art in all its diverse forms
- computer programming
- theater and dance
- engineering and mechanics

Spread out over the next decade and a half, these (plus many others of her choosing) could all easily be achieved through ad-hoc private lessons and classes, and for substantially less than Montessori tuition.

Although… there is a local Spanish immersion charter school opening up this coming fall. If it does well, that’s a nearly failsafe way to achieve true fluency, or close to it. (There is also a French immersion school that started recently that we’re keeping in mind in case the teaching/administration makes it a more attractive option than the clearly more useful Spanish.

But then I wonder whether a school that prioritizes language acquisition so highly might be too vigilantly uniform in their approach to all other subjects, maybe even less accepting of deviating interests than a standard public school.

Of course we are not alone in this decision. Owlet and Platypup will certainly be weighing in on the direction their education will take. I will not send my children somewhere they don’t want to be. Thor and I have the luxury of both being home a good portion of the time. They can always be here with us, busy brains whirring away just as they do now.

Of course, all this dithering might be for nothing — our choice might be much easier by the time Owlet hits kindergarten. The world of education is changing rapidly these days, and in and amongst soul-crushing standardized testing and draconian disciplinary systems, more and more revolutionary ideas are being championed by parents and educators alike. More and more are taking root and inevitably transforming the landscape of public education.

Perhaps my favorite new suggestion is this one. It has cropped up in articles a few times over the past few years, and just sounds ideal. Finally something that allows for the coexistence and intermingling of a myriad individuals, all with equal access, all with the power of choice.

Too good to be true? Or maybe in a generation or two our own desk-bound school days will be looked back on with incredulity and pity?

Somehow, my worry dissipates in the face of this

And this

And this.

We’ll find our way.

Sweet Sweet Sourdough

The no-carb, gluten-free team shall never recruit me. I love me some bread. But I’ve done my research and know the grains available in your average supermarket are a mutated-mutilated distant relative of those our grandparents consumed as children. You can get involved in a rigorous soaking regimen; been there, done that, not too hard, fairly delicious. But according to every paleo resource on the interwebs, the best (and tastiest) way to render conventional flour into digestible form is via sourdough.

In order to have sourdough bread, of course, one requires sourdough starter. In theory, this is an easy, fun, countertop science experiment. For me, it worked fine in Boston, but alas, my first two Santa Rosa tries turned into a funky witches brew. After a year of intending to do so, I finally purchased starter. (I chose this one.) almost immediately, I saw the creamy concoction I craved happily bubble into being before my eyes.

There are all sorts of conventions about feeding starters, discarding quantities, etc., but here’s what I do: I try to use it at least once a week. Seriously, that’s it. Mostly I keep up with it just by making another loaf of bread when ours runs out, but there are lots of options… Biscuits, crackers, pancakes, pizza dough, bagels, even cookies! Then I feed equal parts water and flour to replace what I’ve used, stir it in, and that’s that. The rest of the week it sits in our fridge like long-forgotten leftovers to frighten guests.

I started with a basic recipe and began tweaking. First, I swapped out the sugar — kind of a no-brainer since honey, agave, and maple syrup are all healthier, more natural sweeteners than the granulated kind… Honey is my favorite, but a no-go till Platypup turns one due to the small risk of botulism. Then I adjusted the amount of liquid sugar down and added some herbs (dried thyme the first time, fresh fennel the next two times). You can play around with toppers (egg wash, shredded cheese, or honey on top before baking, or butter after taking it out).

I recently learned a folding technique for getting a taller loaf, which I’ve included here, and I also lengthened the rise times; you’ll end up with a flatter, sweeter bread if you don’t give the yeast plenty of time to feast. What used to bug me about sourdough in my former life, before motherhood, is now a plus: there is a lot of waiting between steps! I used to want to do all the work in one go; now I’m glad it doesn’t have to be done all at once.

The last two times I’ve made it the texture has been amazing. It holds together for sandwiches and when you press it with your finger it bounces back instead of squishing or crumbling. The crust is pleasantly chewy rather than hard, with just a bit of crunch to the top. In short, after years of baking decently well, it is the first time I’ve made unequivocally real bread!

Elizabeth’s First Real Bread

1 c. sourdough starter
1 & 1/2 c. warm water
1 & 1/2 tsp. salt
1/3 c. honey, agave, or maple syrup
1/2 c. olive oil
Handful of herbs
6 c. flour (approx.)

Mix all ingredients together, adding flour gradually until texture seems right. Knead or have your mixer do it for you — this bread is a little too much for my mixer so I usually knead a portion while the mixer tackles the rest and swap out from time to time.

Cover and let rise at room temperature 12-24 hours until doubled in size. In my kitchen in northern California in the spring, this means about 18-20 hrs. Don’t skimp on this step.

Punch down, knead again if you want, and shape into a round or oval loaf. (You can also divide into two smaller loaves if your family is less glutinous about fresh bread than mine and you are concerned about it going stale.)

Let rise about 30 min, then flip over carefully (they make a cool tool for this step, but I don’t have one). Fold into thirds left to right, then front to back, pressing gently to seal the final seam. (My final seam opened up a bit this time and I baked it anyway. It was still great.) Let rise again with the seam on top, until doubled in size from original ball. Yesterday this took about four hours.

[I use a silpat on a baking sheet. I highly recommend a silpat! If you aren't using one, though, insert a step about greasing or cornmealing the pan.]

Heat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

Make your slashes in the top (seam up) with your sharpest knife — I usually do three parallel slashes. If you are going to brush the top with an egg wash, sprinkle cheese, or drizzle honey, now’s the time.

Bake about 1 hr 10 min for one big loaf or about 45 min for two smaller loaves. I hear bread is supposed to sound hollow when you knock on the bottom if it’s done, but all I get when I try that is some singed knuckles and an indistinct sort of thumping sound so I’ve stopped trying.

When you decide it’s done, take it out and resist the urge to eat immediately — the texture is better if you let it cool!

Here’s our latest loaf:

Pretty gorgeous, huh?