Birthday Eve

I spent the bulk of today on a farm field trip with Oliver's kindergarten class. My charges could not have been better behaved, and we saw both a baby goat (darling) and donkey (even more darling), the latter born less than 24 hours before we laid eyes on it. We talked germination and composting, took a hay ride, ate lunch outside, and I was gaga by the bus ride home.

I was not the only one.

Is that not one of the best field trip aftermath picture you've ever seen? I mean, those kids are OUT. The little boy proceeded to flop over face-down onto the little girl, as if he'd fast-forwarded twelve years and this is post-prom. Oddly enough, as the bus stopped at the final red light before school, both of these kids sat up, hair mussed every which way, rubbed their eyes, and acted like nothing had ever happened. 

Hysterical. And then there's my child.

Oh, Oliver. How I love this unique little being!

My mother-in-law came over after school and took us out to dinner- my second birthday celebration so far as Oliver's pals sang to me during our picnic lunch today which was adorable. 

MIL took us to 2Amy's where we all chowed down, and then we returned home to share three lovely desserts she'd brought over. It was all wonderful, especially since T is out of town right now, and I feel grand.

I will say that despite my long-standing dislike of morel mushrooms, I ordered the Special Pizza 1: morels, garlic, tomato puree and grana.

that is a gorgeous pizza

Why? Because morels are one of those elusive, cultish, ephemeral ingredients that I feel I should like despite the fact that their shape reminds me of a urinary tract probe.

I concluded that, as I already knew, I do not like morels. They taste like soap infused with a soupçon of dirt, an element I never need to have on a pizza. Or anywhere else really. Sorry morels. This almost-39 year old has given up on you.

Love affairs

Yesterday morning was both sunny and warm enough to finally return to the farmers market. I have missed it desperately, so after their swimming lessons, the boys and I beat a path down to Dupont, found a great parking spot and headed in. They ate everything they saw, and I came home with some real treats. 

Can you even stand how gorgeous this bread is? I mean, you'd have bought it too, right? Indeed. Once home, I immediately made a sandwich with a wedge of it; dripping with peppery olive oil, salt, pepper, basil and tomatoes, avocado and chicken, it was so satisfying I nearly had another.

And how fresh and lovely is that head of lettuce I ask you?! It just made a fabulous lunch salad.

We were so happy to be there. Now if only the boys would talk a bit less next time...I'm serious. It was epic.

On the way home, we passed this tulip tree. It lives about a half-mile from our house, and every year I'm flabbergasted by its marvelously ostentatious display. It's Octomom-pregnant! DC in the springtime really can't be beat, aesthetically speaking.

Ol headed off to a birthday party, so I decided I best go for another run. Jack asked if he could join me, and I'll admit that I was hesitant at first. His coordination skills are not always tremendous. He's been known to fall down while simply standing in place, and I wasn't sure I wanted the equivalent of Phoebe from Friends (remember how she ran?) tagging along behind me. But he was so earnest and darling, and I would love a good partner, so...

4.2 flipping miles later -at a 9:39/minute pace!- this awesome kiddo and I arrived home. I remain floored by his running prowess and am unbelievably proud. T attempted to join us, but when we circled back at mile 3, we found him panting on a bench. He has wide, flat, plank-like paddle feet which is one reason he was a good swimmer but is also why running is not his best activity. He drove home which was a good call. 

Last night, still amazed by Jack's out-of-the-gate run in inappropriate shoes (he was wearing those heavy, light-up shoes kids like; they don't even have laces!), I was certain I'd done something dreadful to him and that he'd wake up paralyzed. I may have even shed a few tears worrying about it.

No, he popped out of bed and isn't even sore. Did I mention he talked the entire time? I mean, that kid could probably run a damn marathon tomorrow if he closed his mouth to conserve the energy he spends verbally.

It's so cool to have your children knock your socks off in a good way. Maybe you've underestimated them, or maybe you just don't realize how capable they're become as they grow up. It's like a niece you haven't seen in a year, and so in your mind, she's still just walking and not really talking. Then you see her, and she's running and is a motor-mouth but it's dissonant, because she stopped growing when you last saw her, right? Except of course she didn't; your mind just froze in time.

With your kids, whom you see every day, it's the same but different: you recognize that they're changing but you don't see the changes as dramatically as you do when your times together are years apart.

And then boom, one day your eight-year-old  runs alongside you for more than 4 miles and says, "When we're done, I want a double high five and a hug. And then, I want to do this again together next weekend!" and you think, "Wow, when did this happen?" And it's cool.

Strawberries and rhubarb: vibrancy and an evolution

When the cold starts moving out, vibrancy moves in. Like a shapeshifter of the best sort, it comes in many forms: flowers; brightly hued berries and tomatoes; changing pedicure polish preferences; fewer black clothes.

It's almost shocking, the first few times you encounter really red strawberries, variegated stalks of rhubarb and bright green basil with leaves the size of dog ears. I can never resist buying huge quantities of these things and then enjoy working like mad to do justice to them before they lose their luster or, worse, begin to rot.

Other than pie and jam, my favorite way to combine strawberries and rhubarb is in a simple, cooked-down puree. It's like applesauce, but seriously pink and a bit more interesting. Oliver and I like to eat it plain; nothing needed but a spoon and, if you want to get fancy, a bowl. It's also divine with yogurt or ice cream; an easy snack or dessert if ever there was one.

Sometimes, when I'm really jazzed and/or in a dessert-obsessed myopia, I stir some of the puree into this French yogurt cake and then also dollop a bit on top for a streak of pretty. Both are a sublime addition to what is already a ridiculously good cake. Thank you hottie Andrew Knowlton!

Go forth y'all, and make! Also, go read my latest bit on the Huffington Post!!