Do you know?

Do you know that some of my days are the happiest I've lived? That after twelve years, my favorite date night is one spent laughing in bed with my husband?

Do you know that when I awake to the gentle nudge of a little hand attached to a young voice saying "Mama! Mom! Mommy! Are you up?", I shrug in the weighty haze of sleep, open my covers instinctively, and eagerly welcome into my nest one or both of my small offspring?

Do you know that I never tire of seeing my sons' faces as they first see mine in the pick-up line after school? Do you know that on the day they stay until 4:30pm because one loves chess and the other loves science, I miss them and dare the hours to pass more slowly?

Do you know that my boys saying, "I love you" is some of the sweetest music ever sung? That the notes they write me in awkward handwriting are perhaps the best love letters I've ever received? That I still smile when I hear my husband's key in the lock?

Do you know that in the moments I allow myself to consider what life would be like were something to happen to one of them, both of them, all of them, I can't stand it? Can't fathom it? Panic?

***

Do you know that I am sometimes crippled by tremendous anxiety? And that it is sometimes, or even often, brought on or exacerbated by my darling children and their love for me? 

Do you know what it feels like to need a good deal of alone time but to push that need away daily? As if you're running a marathon in the summer sun but must eschew the rehydration stations along the way.

Do you know what it's like to have almost nothing left for your partner when finally he or she returns home?

Do you know about the challenge of finding good child care and of affording it?

Do you know about counting on the minimum sleep/days at school/you name it and being cheated of that? Do you know what that does to you? To your friends? To those you don't know?

Do you know the feelings of failure and shame all of that knowledge elicits in women who want to do best by their children? And who feel that the smallest slips set them back dramatically? Mar their children beyond what's "normal"?

Do you know the feelings of failure and shame and worry that knowledge elicits in me?

***

Do you know that each time someone like Sarah Silverman or Hayden Panettiere or Brooke Shields or Gwyneth Paltrow or Catherine Zeta-Jones publicly admits to depression or anxiety or postpartum depression, so many women breathe a collective sigh of relief and are saved by knowing they are not alone?

Do you know that this is all hard? That life is hard? That motherhood is hard? That unearthing and living as our truest selves is hard? That gilding those lilies is a profound disservice to individual struggle? That honesty would make individual struggles less solitary?

Do you know that in unabashed truth there is not only relief but joy? Connection? Empowerment?

***

I know all of these things now. I know them even when they're hard to accept. When they're difficult to say aloud. When loved ones frown or shrink away from what I know and say aloud.

I know that my friends know these things. That readers know these things. That strangers do.

I want to own them and share them with you because when others have done so in the past, I am strengthened and made more brave. I am comforted. I am normed. As are you. 

And what better to know?

Time's a ticking

It's 2:02pm and I just sat down to lunch. Other than a quick trip out to the doctor, I've spent today at home waiting for another FedEx package. It was a loud morning, and I have appreciated the peacefulness since.

The leaves on my sugar maple that have started to turn golden are falling like a lovely foliage rain. I'm watching them as I slowly chew hearty bites of massaged kale, walnuts, dried cherries and roasted potatoes. It's an interseason salad; it's fitting for today.

A pork and beef ragù is simmering on the stove, nestled by my old Staub's trustworthy walls. Sometimes I wonder what you can count on more than cast iron. I like that about my Staub, which is why I have several.

Although the sauce has been cooking for nearly an hour, it remains in the "vegetables melting into the meat fat" stage which is to say, it's still in the nascent stages of what will become a savory ragù. It's not there yet. But it smells so good in here, and this netherworld is nice. It smells like cool fall days which, in this interseason, isn't quite right, but it's close enough. 

Because of the FedEx uncertainty, the boys are getting a ride home from school. Tuesday is early dismissal day. They get off at 2 which I don't understand. Why not 3:15 like every other day? I love the extra 75 minutes that Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays provide. On Tuesdays, I feel a bit cheated.

I cannot wait to see them, but I am also not ready for them to get home. I suspect I have roughly seven minutes left. Seven minutes more of quietly chewing and quietly stirring, quietly watching the leafy rain and quietly able to hear the pets snoring softly. Seven minutes more of quietly being with myself and my own thoughts.

I don't like saying goodbye to all that until tomorrow, even though I welcome warm, wriggly boys who adore me and whom I adore. I don't like feeling this countdown even though it also leads to laughter and kisses. But it's there, like leaves falling on a hot day and half-cooked ragù. And there is magic on the fulcrums in and around life. It's just harder to find on some days than others.

Through the Wine Glass: a review of The Red Hen

A few days ago, Tom's parents invited the boys to spend the night so that they could take them to Luray Caverns the next day. As today is Columbus Day and there's no school, it was decided that we'd bring them over yesterday evening after Jack's baseball game.

Tom and I were tired after a busy weekend but decided that since we had a rare evening off and no babysitter on the clock, we'd pick a restaurant, no matter the distance, get dressed and go.

"The Red Hen," we declared, and way downtown to Bloomingdale we drove. Literally. We drove to 1st St and live near 50th. We had no idea if they'd have room for us, and indeed when I asked, a table was a two-hour wait. On a Sunday. This is testament to The Red Hen's popularity.

But theirs is a sizeable bar, and as T and I rather prefer sitting at the bar anyway, we settled in to wait after scoping out several duos who appeared to be winding down.

view, through my wine glass, of part of The Red Hen's kitchen

I ordered an unusual Trebbiano blend, an Italian white, and T his preferred, a saison-style beer, and just as we settled in to each other, relaxing under the weightlessness of no schedule and no children for 18 hours, two bar stools were vacated and we moved in.

The menu is full of hearty fare that incorporates a wide array of seasonal veggies, artisanal meats, seafood and cheese in unique ways. In short, I loved the offerings. 

We started with the Roasted Beet & Goat Cheese Bruschetta with Capers, Mint & Toasted Pistachios as well as a plate of Charred Octopus with Sweet Potato Hummus, Braised Beans ‘alla Romesco,’ Shaved Fennel & Frisee. 

roasted beet and goat cheese bruschetta with pistachios

The bruschetta was lovely, and I enjoyed not only the small dice of the roasted beets but also the micro greens and pistachios. If the capers were there, I couldn't find them. And that's OK because I'm not totally sure how those would pair with the nuts. Food for thought.

charred octopus with sweet potato hummus and frisee

The octopus was assertively charred (which makes me swoon) but still tender which is a tough line to tow, but I can't say that I loved the sweet potato hummus and black beans with it. The shaved fennel and frisee were perfect accompaniments though, and I was happy they were there in generous fashion. Tom liked this dish more than I did and was unfazed by the beans.

We both felt our entree choices and second round drink choices hit things out of the park. I was hungry and felt decidedly carnivorous, so once the delightful male bartender assured me that  pig had lived a happy life, I chose the Mezze Rigatoni with Fennel Sausage Ragu & Pecorino Romano. 

People, I would pay good money of another bowl of this right now. I shared several of the sizeable (too-large in my opinion) fennel sausage chunks with Tom who gratefully and quickly devoured each boulder, but when he tried to take more pasta, I nearly sliced his hand off.

"Step away from my perfect mezze rigatoni man!" 

The sauce...oh, I weep for the fact that it's gone. It was rich and complex and creamy but not too creamy and tomatoey but in just the right way. And that snow shower of coarsely grated pecorino? Mamma mia!! As if I needed more pleasure, I ordered a glass of Montepulciano which was the perfect pairing.

T chose the Caramelized Scallops with Autumn Squash Chowder, Mussels, Smoky Bacon, Fregola, Basil & Breadcrumbs and was equally thrilled. I try over and over again to enjoy scallops, but I simply do not. That said, that stuff the scallops were nestled on?? Fantastic! I love fregola (a Sardinian pasta similar to pearled couscous), and this "chowder" is an excellent way to use it. It was bacony and squashy and the basil gave it just enough sweet brightness.

one of the best desserts I've ever had!

Tom has sworn off sugar since July which has mostly worked in my favor, but last night I really wanted to share dessert with him and he obliged. We chose the unbelievably spectacular Sugar Cream Tart with Toasted Pecan Crust, Honey Gelato & Candied Pecans, and after the first bite, I was sorry he'd agreed to split it with me.

Naturally.

I cannot even tell y'all A) how good sugar cream tarts are and B) how quickly today I researched a recipe and bought all the ingredients to make it. It's like a sweet cream custard that tastes as if it's been slightly bruleed and then set atop a crust (and in this case the toasted pecan element was epically good) and served with caramel and an ethereal cloud of honey gelato. 

I actually did want a second piece.

Other than one of the female bartenders who was not terribly helpful in giving us a sense of anything and asserted that 500ml was much more than 16 ounces (when in fact it's 16.9 ounces) thus making T even more sure that he did not want to splurge on the very expensive 500ml beer he was eyeing, everyone was friendly, the ambiance is warm and bouncy and intimate, and the food was really excellent.

Five stars to The Red Hen. Thanks for a wonderful evening.