Easy summer grilling

As the end of school draws near, everyone I know feels frazzled and rushed. Mealtimes, even for an avid and enthused cook like me, feel like little more than yet another to do. As such, my love affair with our grill has rekindled to a mighty degree, as it does each May, and I am reminded that grilling is really a tremendously simply, tasty way to enjoy dinner and reclaim a heck of a lot of time from its prep.

Last week, I had the pleasure of speaking to Andrea Donsky, nutritionist and part of the impressive Naturally Savvy team, a website dedicated to more natural, organic eating. She's also written the book, Unjunk Your Junk Food: Healthy Alternatives to Conventional Snacks, and is an enthusiastic spokesperson for Applegate Natural and Organic Meats. 

I wanted to talk to her about hot dogs, a food my children and husband love but which I hold at arm's length. I don't recall ever enjoying hot dogs, although corn dogs smothered in mustard were a youthful favorite. I happen to only buy Applegate's Great Organic Beef Hot Dog's for my family because they're antibiotic- and hormone-free and made with 100% grassfed beef which is important to me from both an animal welfare (cows were meant to eat grass, not corn and grain) and human health standpoint. Antibiotic overuse is rampant in the States and is responsible for a huge degree of the scary antibiotic-resistant bacteria that make so many folks sick. 

But, is any hot dog healthy? It seemed a good question to ask as summertime kicks in and our grill will be fired up on the regular. 

Not only are Applegate's dogs antibiotic- and hormone-free, they are also lower in fat than most brands (8 grams per dog compared to an average of 15 grams per link found in most brands), contain no fillers and are lower in sodium than other brands. Applegate also offers tasty chicken and turkey hot dogs if you want variety, prefer those flavors, or want to avoid red meat all together. 

I serve my boys' hot dogs on whole grain buns which, not surprisingly, Andrea endorses, and I use organic, low-sugar ketchup which is devoid of the high-fructose corn syrup found in most ketchup brands on the market. Andrea suggests wrapping your dogs in cabbage or lettuce leaves if you want to avoid carbs, but we are a carb-loving family so plan to stick with whole grain buns.

All in all, I do feel better about the health aspects of the dogs I'll be grilling my boys this summer. Slice a few steam vents in the top before grilling, and don't let the dogs burn as char can contain carcinogenic material. Grilling a hot dog takes about three minutes, and with some fresh watermelon or berries, and boiled corn on the cob, tossed salad, or steamed edamame (also about three minutes each to prep), you've got a healthy summer dinner lickety-split.

Other favorite grill-based meals include pizza loaded up with summer veggies; 
grilled hamburgers (regular beef, turkey, these delicious chicken ones, or my kofta variety);
salmon burgers which are easy and sublime;
and grilled vegetables of all stripes - eggplant, zucchini, sweet onions, yellow squash...

Gifts (Mother, May I?)

• My Oliver’s tush. So pert and perfect, at the age of 7, it still fits, just barely, in one of my hands. Stop growing, sweet Ol. Stop.
• Jack’s aquamarine crystals, aka his eyes. They flash and sparkle with so much intelligence. I think he will change the world. At the least he might set the record for single-longest single-person filibuster. 
• Photographs. Snapshots of the best times and also some of the harder ones. Reminders of moments that feel both infinite and ephemeral. I surround myself with these.
• Oliver's ability to quietly observe and take in everything. His creativity. Jack's too.
• My garden.
• My canning pot.
• The moment I return home from dropping my boys at school and realize that my home is quiet and will be for a short while.
• Zoloft.
• The recent morning that Jack’s buddy was still here post-sleepover. Both boys were still in jammies, and I was still in bed, and Jack, nearly 10, came and got in bed with me for “morning snuggle” while his pal waited in my doorway. It was slightly odd but utterly dear. My darling Jack…if his head weren’t attached. He’s the best sort of clueless. “I love you, Mom” he calls out as he heads into school. He is not too cool yet. Not at all.
• Little boy humor that makes me belly laugh until it hurts. Read: the recent USS Anus discovery.
• Watching the world through their eyes. Two stickers given at a boat shop in North Carolina. Jack saw, realistically, a boat. Oliver saw a pair of pants. The stickers are on the rear passenger doors of my car- as a boat and as a pair of pants. When I look at them, I smile, and I remember that no one way is necessarily the right way of seeing.
• My husband who last week fixed our broken air conditioner with an $18 part and then also mowed the lawn. He is so capable. He teaches our boys to tinker and fix, to ask questions, to want to know why and how. They are lucky for his influence.
• A morning latte. An evening cocktail.
• My fluffy, fat, hilarious, buff-orange dog-cat, Nutmeg.
• Nanny.
• That Mom came up because I needed her to. That she can teach me how to prune bushes. That she dug up, carefully packaged, and brought me a blackberry bush from Papa's original patch. He planted those about sixty years ago. I still have tears in my eyes over this gift.
• Daddy and his glassy-lake calm.
• My sister and our friendship.
• Benedict Cumberbatch, my unbeknownst-to-him boyfriend.
• Lake Nakuru and the flamingo migration.
• Little hands slipped into mine, trusting and loving. That they are my boys!
• Tomato plants and all that they promise.
• A room of my own with a soft, fuzzy rug and empty journals and natural light.
• That I am warm and safe and loved.

The Shoes (Mother, May I?)

Ours is a family full of snake-feet women. What on most people are feet are on us, long, winding, toe-ended reeds. When Mom took my sister and me shopping for back-to-school shoes, the trips invariably ended up with her shaking her head back and forth and muttering “snake feet” while the saleswoman slid the width-measuring bar ever-inward and subsequently offered the lone pair of shoes that “might fit.”

Mom has the same feet, and her twin sisters too. My aunt Renee has something like a 11.5AA which is more like a pair of skis than feet (love you and your feet, Renee); suffice it to say that it’s hard for her to find shoes.

Despite the fact that it was once hard to find properly fitting shoes, it turns out that high heels and strappy sandals love snake feet, and in the years since those types of shoes replaced Keds, my inner Imelda Marcos has thrived.  

I love ballet and pointed-toe flats, my trusty TOMS –especially my Union Jacks and my map-of-New-Orleans special editions- and my worn in Reefs. I love slides and kitten heels, the occasional svelte wedge, versatile pumps, leather riding boots, impractical suede booties, sherpa-lined slippers and, back to them, towering stilettos.

At its least glam and most practical, a shoe is a protective support. It can help you run, provides arch support, and allows long walks on city streets or a meandering hike in the woods.

Shoes are also accessories, a relatively simple way to gussy up an outfit. I can never figure out how to wear vests or hats, and only after years of practice, have I come to understand scarves. But shoes? Put on a crisp pair of navy shorts, a trim white shirt and some flip-flops or sneakers, and you have a lovely summer uniform. Trade the flops or tennies for a colorful pair of silk-toppedor metallic leather sandals, and sister, you are a different person.

Let’s get back to heels. Oh, the passion I feel for them. A beautiful pair of heels is a magical transport to a different world. The higher the stiletto, the better, IF they’re well-crafted. That’s a big and important if, for ill-fitting heels are a death sentence.

When I shimmy into a dress, I start to feel both princess and festive. Bubbles inside of my core start to rise up, pushing their way excitedly to my surface: something fun is about to happen. Maybe you’ll dance, maybe you’ll clink flutes, maybe you’ll see a marvelous performance, maybe you’ll get kissed under the mistletoe.

When I slip on my heels, however, the maybes become truths. Those things will happen. I will dance the night away at my sister’s wedding, clinking flutes of cheers and Auguris over and over again. I will see my beloved Benedict Cumberbatch as Hamlet and I will see BC’s hair in an alley behind the theater where I waited like a teenaged-fangirl for him to come out and sign autographs. I do get kissed under the mistletoe and at midnight and all that jazz.

I am no longer a tired, pony-tailed mother unloading the dishwasher or folding laundry for the billionth time. I am a woman, ME, who is gleefully anticipating whatever fanciful moments are to come.

When I sink down later, tired and happy, and I undo the teeny straps that held these glass slippers to my feet, I marvel at the craftsmanship that goes into a good pair of shoes. They’re forms of art, really. Wearable, transportive art.