Liveblogging the Bread

No, I don't have any pictures to show you. The lighting in my kitchen is appallingly bad and my camera is not a good enough one that it can make up for the bad lighting.

If you are just landing here, here is the recipe.

King Arthur Unbleached Bread Flour--I just happened to grab that before I found the all-purpose flour. I doubt that it makes a difference in this case.

Yeast: I used a very generous 1/4 teaspoon. Heaping, almost. I didn't have instant yeast, as called for in the recipe, so I made a couple of adjustments: that little extra bit of rapid rise, for example, and also adding about 1/8 teaspoon of sugar.

One of the blogs I saw (I think it may have been Smitten Kitchen, actually) suggests that 1/3 teaspoon of rapid rise yeast is the way to go. I may try that next time.

1 1/2 teaspoons table salt

Water: 1 5/8 cups of warm water.

I whisked the yeast, sugar, and water together in a big bowl this morning around 9. That's not a step that's called for in the recipe, but because the recipe also doesn't call for sugar and I wasn't using instant yeast, I wanted to give it a little head start.


Then I dumped in the flour, and, on top of the flour, the salt. Salt retards the action of yeast, which is why I dumped it on top. I have no idea if that made a difference at all.


I stirred it all together with a wooden spoon. The dough looked rough and shaggy, like the recipe says it should. I didn't find a picture of the what the dough should look like until later tonight, but when I did, it looked just like what I had made. So, I'm happy.


I let the dough rise without disturbing it for 12 hours. That seems to be the minimum rise time described by nearly every account on every website I looked at. At 9 tonight, the dough looked swollen, bubbly, and by all accounts, a great deal like it was supposed to. I was comfortable with punching it down at this point.


A small aside: I didn't actually punch it down. I dumped it out onto a very clean, well-floured countertop, and with wet hands (the flour/water ratio seems to be important here) I gave it a couple of turns, then tucked the ends under to make a (basically) smooth ball of dough.


I did the 15-minute rest that the Bittman recipe recommends. Not every website mentions this rest. I didn't know if it was important or not, but I did err on the side of caution in this case. Usually I prefer to err on the side of error. We'll see how this all plays out. Anyway--rested on the counter, lightly covered with plastic wrap.


I put the bread down for the second rise on a clean, well-floured cotton flour sack towel. They cost about $6 for five of them, and we bought a bunch of them when Max was a baby. He had reflux and a regular burp cloth was more like something for him to projectile-vomit past than an effective parenting tool. I covered it with another well-floured towel. As it turned out, flouring this towel wasn't really necessary, as the bowl I used was deep and the dough never rose that high. I did worry a little about the dough drying out and getting that funky skin on it as it rose, but it didn't.


I let it rise for a full 2 hours. At the 1 hour mark, I had Dan wash the Dutch oven. As I mentioned before, ours is used so often that it's rarely clean. At the half-hour mark, I cranked the oven to 450, wrapped the plastic handle on the lid in several layers of heavy-duty aluminum foil (the manufacturer says it's safe without it; again, erring on the side of caution) and slid the pot and lid into the oven to preheat.


Half an hour later, my kitchen smells odd. I should clean the oven more often.


I slide the pot out of the oven (using potholders! Big, thick ones. I think it's almost as important to have faith in your potholders as your spouse, and to not have that faith betrayed. You'll never again trust either a cheating spouse or a half-assed potholder; ask anyone who's had either) and take off the lid. The pot, which went into the oven dry, releases a puff of slightly odd-smelling steam. Okaaay.


This dough is extremely sticky. Following one blogger's advice, I put a big square of parchment paper over the mouth of the pot, then go to dump the bread onto the parchment, where, it is my hope, that it will all collapse into the pot. Not so: the dough is firmly stuck to the bottom towel, the one I had faithfully floured so thoroughly. I coax/peel/squish the dough off the towel and onto the parchment, carefully not burning myself on the extremely hot pot. Lid on, and into the oven.


"Is everything okay in there?" Dan asks as I shut the oven door. "Those are some...interesting smells." I love the smell of napalm in the morning. I set the timer for 30 minutes, and after some consideration (our oven does run a little hot) I back the temperature down to 425 and contemplate how to get all of the stuck-on dough off the towel without it destroying our washing machine. It's a question for another day.


The funky smell has faded from the kitchen by the time the timer goes off. I take the lid off the pot for the first time, not sure what I'll find. This part is embarassing to me. When I see what's in the pot, I actually utter the following phrase out loud:


"Oh, Daddy."


Lightly golden brown all over, slightly craggy and rustic-looking, yet expertly rounded, the half-baked loaf of bread is like something out of a very good, very expensive bakery. This is the appearance I had in mind when I got it into my head to bake bread: something that would impress the shit out of people. The last time I got this feeling was the first time I held Max after he was born: I can't believe I did this. It's what passes for cautious optimism around here. For the first time since changing my major from photojournalism to print journalism at the end of my freshman year of college, I regret not being a more skilled photographer.


At the 14-minute mark, I go back to the kitchen, take out a wire cooling rack, and set it on the counter. I open the oven door and make a noise I don't quite recognize--probably because I don't watch a lot of porn. The bread is...it's everything I hoped it would be. The crust is crackling and deeply golden.


My only regret, so far, besides not flouring the towel sufficiently, is that I have to wait until tomorrow morning to cut into this thing.


This morning, I walk into the kitchen and lift the towel I've draped over the loaf--it offers no protection whatsoever, but it makes me feel better for some reason. The crust has retained every ounce of its crisp character. It looks...just like bread should look when it's exactly right. It's a thing of beauty. I use a serrated knife to pierce the crust, and before I've even sliced a piece off, I can feel that the crumb is light, tender, airy, and yet substantial. Again, what it should look like when it's exactly right. Into the toaster it goes.

And I eat the toast with butter. It's the best loaf of bread I've ever made, by a long shot. It is not a perfect loaf of bread. It is just a tiny bit salty. While I'd never describe the inside as "gummy," like a few people have, the interior does have a certain...dampness, but not in an unpleasant way. I'm not sure how to describe it. Flavorwise, it's incredibly deep, developed, intensely yeasty. The flavor that long slow rise imparts is like seeing color TV for the first time. It changes how I feel about bread.

As far as what I'd compare it to: maybe a good ciabatta bread. Wonderbread it ain't. I think it would make an incredible sandwich, maybe one with cold leftover roast pork loin sliced thin, a little caramelized onion relish, grainy mustard; or smoked deli turkey, very thinly sliced granny smith apple, sharp cheddar, butter lettuce, and mayonnaise. I'm telling you, I could start a sandwich revolution. I also think it would make some seriously special garlic bread.

So, next time (which will probably be today, because I am just this kind of person), I will step the yeast up to 1/3 of a teaspoon and leave out the sugar. I will dial the salt back to 1 1/8 tsp. I will do the second rise on parchment. I will probably do 1/2 bread flour and 1/2 all purpose, just to see what the difference is.

At some point in the future, I'd like to acquire an oval dutch oven (mine is round) in a 3 1/2 quart or 4 quart size, to make more loaf-shaped loaves. I am very fond the one I have, but a smaller, more narrow one might make sense. I'd also like to try some add-ins: maybe kalamata olives and fresh rosemary, sun-dried tomatoes and basil, fresh thyme and grated romano cheese.

The bread is a very-nearly-unqualified success.

A Non-Exhaustive List of Stuff I Want to Cook Before The New Girl Comes and it's All I Can Do to Just Stand Upright

I recently discovered Smitten Kitchen and have added it to my ever-expanding repetoire of food blogs that I read. Go there, right now, and browse through her recipes. They're amazing, really, and so are her photos.

I love to read about food and cooking. It's sort of like porn--there's a lot of descriptions and pictures of things that may or may not turn me on and serve as inspiration, but are probably not literally appropriate or good for me, and that I'll never even attempt to do.

That's not what I'm putting on this list. I'm putting things on this list that I am actually going to do. In a frighteningly short amount of time, my life is going to become increasingly more complicated and I won't have time or space or wherewithall to do a lot of them.


The first item on the list is Mark Bittman's No-Knead Bread. It has gotten quite a lot of exposure on the internet and lots of foodies have been making it with some great results. I love making bread, it makes me feel productive and frugal and also, I love bread. I've also made some disasterous bread, the latest of which should be idiot-proof but is no match for me: America's Test Kitchen's Rustic Country Bread. This bread bakes up big and flat and heavy every single time I make it. It's not inedible, but it's not what I have in mind, and no amount of fiddling that I do fixes it. So I have the no-knead bread beginning its long, slow rise this morning in my pantry in the hopes of making a basic yet delicious loaf of bread that's not leaden and dull, or full of fat like this one (to be fair, that last link is to some really incredibly delicious bread, but it's also far more complicated than I think a loaf of white sandwich bread should be to make yourself, and also requires things like a lot of whole milk and melted, cooled butter.)

If you'd like to make bread too, try the no-knead recipe with me. You need a big, heavy, cast-iron pot with a lid. I have one similar to this one. I bought it at Target, but it's no longer available. This seems to be the closest thing to it. If you don't own this pot, or a similar one to it, and you're balking at the price, let me just reassure you that you will use this pot a lot. Ours is rarely clean because we use it so often. You can also spend a whole lot more on a similar pot from Le Crueset or other expensive sources, if you really want to, but the differences are pretty minimal. If you want some other kind of bread to make, try this one instead. It's delicious, although it's a bird of a whole different color.

The next thing I want to make is Smitten Kitchen's 44-clove garlic soup. I know what you're thinking: Casa Nonhipster must have a vampire infestation. Really, though, one of the greatest things about garlic is that it has multiple personalities. It can be punchy and edgy or sweet and mellow, and in either incarnation, it speaks to me. Right now is the perfect time for comfort food like this soup. The weather's in the 50's; it's sorta like spring here, but not really. Spring is the perfect time for garlic. Well, really, anytime's a good time for garlic. Except, maybe, for a date. Or a job interview.

Want some more garlic-flavored inspiration? Start with Ree's garlic cheese bread. Incidentally, if you're not reading The Pioneer Woman Cooks, you're missing some of the best food writing on the internet, not to mention some of the most unrepentantly silly. Another reason to like her: she does a great job of illustrating her recipes, so you get to learn great, smart, basic techniques like the easiest way to chop an onion (seriously! So easy!) and see how things look in progress. Also, this is one of my favorite dishes ever. Do yourself a favor and buy yourself some really great extra virgin olive oil. I recommend Lucini, which is a brand that's available in a lot of grocery stores. There is a lot of terrible olive oil out there, and so a lot of people don't really understand what a life-changing experience the right olive oil can be. Don't cook with it--it degrades the oil and all that amazing flavor is wasted. Dip your bread in it, use it in salad dressings, drizzle it over hot pasta. Better yet, look for a specialty food store that holds tastings of olive oils.

If some other kind of soup sounds more to your liking, one of my favorite things ever is French onion soup. This is the little black dress of food, in my mind: simple, classic, timeless, always appropriate, elegant and flawless. America's Test Kitchen does this really well; this is their updated recipe via Cookography. I won't bother with a recipe beside this one; none I've ever seen is as good as this one, but I will say that when the onions are in the oven, I would stir them a little more often than the recipe recommends, maybe every half-hour or so. This time frame beats the pants off the hours and hours of standing over the stove, stirring pounds of sliced onions, in my mind.

Third on my list: Chicken-fried steak. Larry McMurtry, one of my mother's favorite authors, once said "Only a rank degenerate would drive 1,500 miles across Texas without eating a chicken-fried steak." I'm thinking that only a rank degenerate would go through this entire pregnancy without eating a chicken-fried steak, and I am just a regular degenerate, not the other kind. I have made chicken-fried steak before. It's not for the faint of heart. It's hard work, messy, with a lot of steps, and it's the kind of thing that makes you feel totally satisfied and yet bad about yourself afterwards. It's so easy to do badly, and yet when you put your back into it, it's almost equally easy to do well. We're not talking about rocket science here: it's a cheap cut of beef, tenderized with a meat pounder, dredged through seasoned breading, fried, and served with cream gravy and mashed potatoes. It is a thing of beauty, a very basic and yet totally irresistable thing of beauty.

I'm don't remember which recipe I've used in the past, or if I used one at all. This time around, I might try Homesick Texan's recipe. I really wish there was a recipe for chicken-fried steak on Pioneer Woman Cooks; this is cowboy food and who knows better how to feed a cowboy than a cowboy's wife? Sadly, there isn't one. America's Test Kitchen, which serves as the Holy Grail of food in my house, may have a recipe. I'm not going to get up and go look right now though, because I am currently sitting in one of the few comfortable positions that this pregnancy affords me. But before this baby comes, I will have homemade chicken fried steak, cream gravy, homemade mashed potatoes, and glazed carrots with brown sugar, pecans, and bacon. And a salad. Because, as I'm sure you can tell, I am all about the healthy eating.

If you feel like frying things, I am coming over to your house. Just kidding. No I'm not. Yes I am. But no I'm not. Anyway, if you feel like frying things, one of my very favorite food bloggers, Kim from The Yummy Mummy Cooks Gourmet recently made fried calamari. She also made these chicken fingers. I am also very partial to this firecracker fried chicken from Cook's Country, although it's really pretty complicated and messy. What's neither complicated nor messy: fried artichoke hearts, something I don't have a recipe for except for this: drain a can of artichoke hearts thoroughly. Season about a cup of all-purpose flour with a teaspoon of salt, a half-teaspoon of black pepper, and a little cayenne, and toss the artichoke hearts in the flour until well-coated. Heat a generous half-cup of vegetable oil in whatever pan you typically use for frying--I like a deep cast-iron skillet because it holds the heat well and you can fit a lot of food in it--over medium-high heat until the oil is shimmering. Carefully drop in about eight artichoke hearts, and use tongs to move them around until they are golden-brown on all sides. Remove from the oil and let drain on a plate lined with paper for a few minutes. Sprinkle with kosher salt and, if you like, finely grated parmesan cheese. These are pure wonderful. See if you can actually make it out of the kitchen with these, or if you just stand there at the counter and eat the whole batch yourself. Don't worry. I won't tell.

The next thing on my list is a potato galette. I'll probably use the recipe from Fine Cooking.com. I love how this is almost like a potato gratin, but more constructed, and almost like pommes Anna, but less fussy and with the added elements of shallots, rosemary, and cheese. I don't own a tart pan, because I don't bake a whole lot, but I do own a nice non-stick 9-inch cake pan that I'll probably employ for this use. When I was in college, my friend Ryan invited me to his home in Western New York for fall break one year, and his mother made this amazing dish that they referred to as "yummy potatoes," and indeed, they were incredibly yummy. This galette reminds me a little of that, only less rich and creamy and over-the-top.

If you've now got potatoes on the brain, let me steer you back to Ree's place (Ha!! Steer! Ree, who lives on a cattle ranch! Get it? Steer?!! Oh...forget it.) and these twice-baked potatoes. Also at Pioneer Woman Cooks: these roasted potatoes from her friend Kay.

Like the title says, this list in no way represents every single thing I want to cook between now and the end of June, when The New Girl will put in an expected appearance. But creating a new human being seems to have stoked my creative fires a little, and I'm wanting to stretch my culinary muscles a little, make and consume things that I don't get a lot of. Maybe this is how my nesting instinct is manifesting itself this time around. At any rate, I promise to update you on what I make, how it turns out, and in general, what happens around here. I may not have a lot of money, time, or patience, but I do have a lot of fun.

Fear of Falling

When he was about 14 months old, Max took a big face-planting fall off the arm of the couch, headfirst into the back of a chair that was sitting nearby, onto the floor. It was truly one of the most awful moments of my entire life, that split second of stunned silence between crash and screaming. It's the first time I can remember him having really hurt himself--he'd had stomachaches and other minor ailments before, and he'd certainly been uncomfortable, I'm sure--but he'd never really been hurt before. In the second it took me to get to him on the floor and flip him over, looking for blood or broken teeth or anything visibly terribly wrong with him, I burst into tears too. Dan was in the kitchen correcting papers at the time, and I screamed for him. He came running, I sat on the floor holding Max and wailing, Max flailed wildly and cried, and once he determined that there wasn't anything really wrong with any of us, Dan sat on the floor next to us and comforted his crying wife and son.

He wasn't hurt, luckily. Max is like a cat: it seems to me like he should have gone through all of his nine lives ten or twelve times over by now. I've read more near-misses and horror stories recently: babies who've rolled off their parents' bed onto a hardwood floor, toddlers who've miraculously been caught by a passing stranger as they've fallen from a third-story window, and of course, like nearly every blogging and Twittering mother on the planet, I was shocked and horrified to read earlier this week about little Maddie Spohr.

It's gotten warm here over the last few weeks, and for several hours in the afternoons most days, we've opened the windows, and Max has taken a particular and somewhat peculiar joy in pressing his face against the window screen in his room and screaming out the window at the top of his lungs. Yes, I'm aware that my kid is a bit of a total weirdo, but at any rate, no. We live on the third floor, and there will be absolutely no pressing of our heads against a window screen. The screaming I can live without, but the real issue is the visual I have of the screen giving way and Max falling headfirst out of the window, three stories, into the parking lot below. It's one of the few infractions of the rules that has earned Max a spanking: we only spank for things that could seriously hurt him or someone else.

I can't prevent every header that Max is determined to take off the couch. I just can't. This kid is three and a half. Sometimes they have to fall down, just to check to see if gravity is working. I get that. I can (and do) keep the machetes and heroin and porn out of his grasp (yeah, the heroin and porn are all mine; hands off, kid), but I can't eliminate every sharp corner and edge and forehead-level-everything from our house. And furthermore, I don't want to. He is, after all, three and a half. At some point, you should learn not to walk headfirst into things.

When he was six months old, Max was exposed to whooping cough from a ten-month-old who had not been immunized according to the CDC's childhood vaccination schedule, or, as it turned out, according to any medically-recognized vaccination schedule at all. Max had just received his third dose of the DTaP vaccine when he was exposed, but I was concerned enough to call his pediatrician immediately. I was further concerned a few days later, when I learned that the older baby had, sadly, died. Max has a wonderful pediatrician, a brilliant clinician and an extremely capable woman who's never pooh-poohed my concerns, no matter how outrageous they may have sounded to her, and the first thing she said to me was, "You've done the right thing calling." She immediately looked at his vaccination records to see that he was fully up-to-date, saw that he was, and said, "My immediate thought is that he should be completely fine, but keep a close eye on him over the next two weeks." Done and done, I thought. I was a stay-at-home mother at that point; I had not a whole lot else to do besides keep a close eye on him.

Max never developed so much as a sniffle. In checking with the local health department, I learned that six cases of pertussus were reported in conjunction with the baby who died; all were children who were on "alternative" or "delayed" vaccination schedules. They never ascertained exactly how many people were exposed to pertussus; but no fully-vaccinated children or adults reported becoming ill.

Let me repeat that, because I think it's significant: no vaccinated children or adults reported becoming ill. There has been a lot of talk about vaccination lately; Heather Armstrong at Dooce is a lightning rod for most internet-based parenting controversy and this is no different.

My feelings about vaccination is pretty straightforward: I have and will continue to vaccinate my children on schedule against anything that they have vaccinations for, including measles, mumps, rubella, diptheria, pertussus, polio, varicella, hepatitis A and B, rotavirus, Haemophilus influenzae type b, pneumococcal, influenza, meningococcal, and HPV. These are, by all reliable accounts, medically safe and proven to prevent, not cause, life-threatening and devastating diseases, anecdotal evidence notwithstanding.

I could not be more sympathetic to the parents of children who suffer from autism-spectrum disorders. I have a nephew who's suffering terrible social, developmental, and learning delays due to an autism-spectrum disorder. As a parent of an energetic and precocious pre-schooler, I am struck multiple times a day by how much of a challenge a totally normal kid is; I simply cannot fathom the depth and breadth of challenging a delayed child.

When Max fell head-first off the couch, I immediately blamed myself. I was sitting right next to him; why didn't I grab him? Why did I let him climb the arm of the couch? What was I thinking? He could have broken his skull, his neck. I could be sitting here holding his dead body right now! What is the matter with me? That's why I cried, not because of him getting hurt. I cried because it was my fault he fell.

You spend nine months, minimum, anticipating and growing this tiny little human being, and they hand them to you, and they're perfect, a total stranger to you, but still somehow exactly what you were expecting. When this perfect little person turns out not to be perfect, of course there must be a reason for it. Of course. Of course parents struggle to find some reason that the train has come off the tracks in such a thoroughly hideous way.

Vaccines are taking the heat for things that they're just not responsible for, and as a result, there are individuals out there who are making the decision not to vaccinate. As a result of that decision, diseases that should be practically extinct on this continent are making a comeback, and my kids are being exposed to things like whooping cough. Here's a news story from today, about patients who've been exposed to measles in a local hospital.

I know it's not pleasant, the idea of your baby getting a shot. But at the risk of sounding intolerant, the mothers that tell me, "I'll never vaccinate my precious children, I can't imagine making them get a shot," well, don't get pissed at me or anything, but I'm going to be forced to push you in front of a bus. That's what's known as thinning the herd where I come from.

The same goes for parents who tell me, "I won't vaccinate my children--everyone else does, and they'll never be exposed to anything for that reason." Well, your thinking is flawed, and you clearly don't have much of a grasp on, you know, science, but whatever. Do me a favor and don't let your kid come within twenty yards of my kid, okay? They probably don't wash their hands either.

And for the parents that cite the anecdotal evidence of vaccinations causing developmental delays, I don't know what to tell you, except that I'm afraid of my son falling down. I'm afraid of him falling off the couch, I'm afraid of him falling off the bed, I'm afraid of him falling out the window, I'm afraid of him falling off his bike and off the playground equipment and from the loft in our condo and down the stairs. I'm scared to death of the feeling of helplessly watching him fall, the anticipation of the sound of him colliding with a hard surface, the sight of my own hands reaching toward him just a second too late. I'm afraid of that moment of silence before he starts to cry, of that moment going on and on and on, holding my breath while I wait for him to start to cry, and what will happen if I never hear him cry again, how I'd ever be able to stand it.

But I know he will fall down. I know he will. I know he'll hurt himself, probably, at some point seriously. I did. When I was about Max's age--younger, maybe--I fell skiing and sprained my ankle badly, an ankle I've reinjured numerous times since then, probably due in part to the injury that I sustained when I was three. Kids do that. It happens. You take risks, calculated risks. You spank them for leaning on the window screen on the third floor, but you cheer when they ride away from you on their bikes. You stop them from jumping on the bed, but not from jumping down the last two stairs.

I am vaccinating my children because I feel that it's not only the responsible thing to do for them, but it's also the responsible thing to do for my community. I can't depend on other people to be responsible, so I do my part. Herd immunity is something everyone has to contribute to; I do my part by contributing, and I will continue to do so. I have no good evidence that vaccinations cause anything other than immunization.

Sure, go ahead and don't vaccinate your kid. But don't tell me I'm harming mine by vaccinating him. Don't tell me I'm putting him at risk. I'm not stupid and this is the calculated risk I'm taking: the slim possibility of vaccine reactions versus the much-less-slim possibility of devastating neurological damage or death due to a preventable illness. I get it, okay? You take risks as a parent. This is the devil I know versus the devil I don't.

And do me a favor: if you're not going vaccinate your kid, keep him away from mine. I wasn't kidding about that.

My Child's Genitals Are Not Up For Discussion

So mostly I talk about silly stuff my kid or my husband says, or something funny I saw on the internet, or something I'm eating (or would like to eat.) Occasionally I get a little maudlin and talk about politics or something else that I take seriously, usually in regards to how it relates to me or my family.

This is a little bit like that. But not really. But sort of. I'm deadly fucking serious right now.

There is a lot of talk out there on the internet about circumcision, especially among parents or about-to-be parents. Especially right now, in light of the Momversation webcasts.

I would like to go on the record and say that I think all of the participants made excellent points. I think some of them made them in ways that left something to be desired, but people have strong points of view on circumcision. I understand and respect that.

However, some of the commenters on some of the participants' sites have left a bad taste in my mouth. Because I left the last comment on Mighty Girl's blog before she closed the comments, I am concerned that a lot of wind might blow in this direction, so I would like to fully articulate my position on the subject.

• I have a son, so obviously, the topic of circumcision has come up between my husband and I.
• I am pregnant again, and for that reason, I anticpate that the subject will come up again.
• Male circumcision is a personal choice, typically made by a parent or parents.
• Male circumcision is not the same as female circumcision, also known as female genital mutilation. They are comparing apples to oranges.
• My son's penis is the business of expressly no one but myself, his father, and his pediatrician, should need arise.

For the record, I very much resent on the behalf of parents who have made or will make the decision to circumcise their sons the implication that female genital mutilation is comparable.

Here are some facts about this practice:

Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) is the partial or total removal of the female external genitalia. External genitals include the clitoris, labia, mons pubis (the fatty tissue over the pubic bone), and the urethral and vaginal openings. (Source: World Health Organization, 1995. "Female Genital Mutilation: Report of a WHO Technical Working Group". )

The practice of FGM is often called "female circumcision" (FC), implying that it is similar to male circumcision. However, the degree of cutting is much more extensive, often impairing a woman's sexual and reproductive functions. (Source: Toubia, N., 1993. "Female Genital Mutilation: A Call for Global Action." New York: Women, Ink)

Female Genital Mutilation is practiced globally.

FGM is practiced in at least 26 of 43 African countries; the prevalence varies from 98 percent in Somalia to 5 percent in Zaire. A review of country-specific demographic and health surveys shows FGM prevalence rates of 97 percent in Egypt, 94.5 percent in Eritrea, 93.7 percent in Mali, 89.2 percent in Sudan, and 43.4 percent in the Central African Republic.

FGM is also found among some ethnic groups in Oman, the United Arab Emirates, and Yemen, as well as in parts of India, Indonesia, and Malaysia. (Source: Toubia, N., 1993.)

FGM has become an important issue in Australia, Canada, England, France, and the United States due to the continuation of the practice by immigrants from countries where FGM is common. (Source: Ibid.)

In 1995 the World Health Organization classified FGM into four broad categories. They are as follows:

Type 1
Excision (removal) of the clitoral hood with or without removal of part or all of the clitoris.

Type 2
Removal of the clitoris together with part or all of the labia minora.

Type 3 (infibulation)
Removal of part or all of the external genitalia (clitoris, labia minora, and labia majora) and stitching and/or narrowing of the vaginal opening leaving a small hole for urine and menstrual flow.

Type 4 (unclassified)
All other operations on the female genitalia, including:

• Pricking, piercing, stretching, or incision of the clitoris and/or labia;
• Cauterization by burning the clitoris and surrounding tissues;
• Incisions to the vaginal wall;
• Scraping (angurya cuts) or cutting (gishiri cuts) of the vagina and surrounding tissues; and
• Introduction of corrosive substances or herbs into the vagina.

Type I and Type II operations account for 85 percent of all FGM. Type III (infibulation) is common in Djibouti, Somalia and Sudan and in parts of Egypt, Ethiopia, Kenya, Mali, Mauritania, Niger, Nigeria, and Senegal.

Complications arising from FGM are frequent and often serious.

The highest maternal and infant mortality rates are in FGM-practicing regions.

The actual number of girls who die as a result of FGM is not known. However, in areas in the Sudan where antibiotics are not available, it is estimated that one-third of the girls undergoing FGM will die.

Conservative estimates suggest that more than one million women in Centrafrican Republic (CAR), Egypt, and Eritrea, the only countries where such data is available, experienced adverse health effects from FGM.

One quarter of women in CAR and 1/5 of women in Eritrea reported FGM-related complications.

Where medical facilities are ill-equipped, emergencies arising from the practice cannot be treated. Thus, a child who develops uncontrolled bleeding or infection after FGM may die within hours.

Immediate physical symptoms may include the following:

Intense pain and/or hemorrhage that can lead to shock during and after the procedure. A 1985 Sierra Leone study found that nearly 97 percent of the 269 women interviewed experienced intense pain during and after FGM, and more than 13 percent went into shock.

Hemorrhage can also lead to anemia.

Wound infection, including tetanus. A survey in a clinic outside of Freetown (Sierra Leone) showed that of 100 girls who had FGM, 1 died and 12 required hospitalization. Of the 12 hospitalized, 10 suffered from bleeding and 5 from tetanus. Tetanus is fatal in 50 to 60 percent of all cases.

Damage to adjoining organs from the use of blunt instruments by unskilled operators. According to a 1993 nationwide study in the Sudan, this occurs approximately 0.3 percent of the time.

Urine retention from swelling and/or blockage of the urethra.

Sound pleasant? Not so much.

Let's talk about male circumcision now.

Male circumcision is the removal of some or all of the foreskin (prepuce) from the penis. The word "circumcision" comes from Latin circum (meaning "around") and cædere (meaning "to cut").

This is an operation as old as mankind, highlighted today by Jewish and Muslim tradition in which all males are typically circumcised as a part of their faith and culture. It is performed worldwide by many tribes and cultures as an initiation rite and, despite some aggressive opposition, it is routinely done at birth for the majority of boys in the USA as well as many in Australia, Canada, New Zealand, South Africa and much of the English speaking world. Overall it is estimated that a quarter of the male population is circumcised - about 750 million males.

Benefits to circumcision:

(I freely acknowledge that this information is appended from a source who is pro-circumcision. Not being in posession of a penis of my own, I have to rely on secondary sources.)

1. Many older men, who have bladder or prostate gland problems, also develop difficulties with their foreskins due to their surgeon's handling, cleaning, and using instruments. Some of these patients will need circumcising.

2. Some older men develop cancer of the penis - about 1 in 1000 - fairly rare, but tragic if you or your son are in that small statistic. Infant circumcision gives almost 100% protection, and young adult circumcision also gives a large degree of protection.

3. Cancer of the cervix in women is due to the Human Papilloma Virus. It thrives under and on the foreskin from where it can be transmitted during intercourse. An article in the British Medical Journal in April 2002 suggested that at least 20% of cancer of the cervix would be avoided if all men were circumcised.

4. Protection against HIV and AIDS. Another British Medical Journal article in May 2000 suggested that circumcised men are 8 times less likely to contract the HIV virus.

5. As with HIV, so some protection exists against other sexually transmitted infections. Accordingly, if a condom splits or comes off, there is some protection for the couple.

6. Lots of men, and their partners, prefer the appearance of their penis after circumcision, It is odor-free, it feels cleaner, and they enjoy better sex. Awareness of a good body image is a very important factor in building self confidence.

7. Balanitis is an unpleasant, often recurring, inflammation of the glans. It is quite common and can be prevented by circumcision.

8 Urinary tract infections sometimes occur in babies and can be quite serious. Circumcision in infancy makes it 10 times less likely.

In comparison, the WHO and every other recognized health, human rights, and civil rights organization who have addressed it have acknowledged that there are few, if any, health or social benefits to FGM, and the drawbacks are numerous and severe.

I am aware that a cost-benefit analysis when it comes to circumcision is not necessarily appropriate. Lots of people have very strong feelings one way or another, which, as I said before, I understand and respect. However, let me say that the research that I've seen against circumcision mostly deals with the fact that it is unnecessary.

At this point, I would like to make something perfectly clear, so sit down, put away your righteous indignation, and listen very carefully, because I am going to say this probably multiple times before anyone listens to me. You can save yourself some time by catching on right now.

Circumcise your son, don't circumcise him. Do it as an infant, do it as a child, let him make the decision for himself later on as an adult. Do it for medical reasons or social reasons or religious reasons. I honestly don't give a tiny rat's ass about your kid's schwantz. I have enough to do, teaching my own son responsible penis usage, without worrying about yours.

One of the things that has truly shocked me as a parent is other parents' willingness to mind my business for me. I would never be so presumptuous as to inquire about a stranger's intent to circumcise their child, or not; and yet I was asked by no fewer than six when I was pregnant and when my son was an infant.

I politely declined to answer that question, the reason being that I certainly hope no one is discussing my genitals with strangers behind my back, and I think it's an inappropriate topic of conversation. Max may have that conversation with anyone whom he chooses to once he is old enough to do so appropriately, at which point, it will no longer be my business.

I don't care whether your son is circumcised. Please don't ask me whether mine is. It's not your business.

As Maggie points out in the Momversation video, why is it so necessary for people to convince others that they are wrong in order to believe that they, themselves, are right? The tenor of this discussion has gotten way, way, way out of hand and I am insulted on behalf of people who have the temerity to make their own decisions.

Do not tell me how to raise my child. Do not tell me he is too young for potty training or too old to be wearing diapers. Do not tell me why I should have nursed Max longer or gone back to work sooner. I am a full-grown adult, and I will handle that decision for myself. Please feel free to do the same for your child. I will do you the small courtesy of not judging you.

And finally: I welcome vigorous discussion and debate on the topic, but one thing I will not change my mind about is that my son's penis is his business, not yours. By all means, let's talk about it, a lot, but you won't change my mind on that topic. Also, I won't tell you you're wrong, even if I disagree with you, but you also won't change my mind on the fact that circumcision and female genital mutilation are, in fact, not the same thing. Let's just assume that I'm actually quite bright and don't try.

Dear Anthony Bourdain: Will You Marry Me?

I once had a conversation via email with Goon Squad Sarah about Anthony Bourdain, about how he was like that guy in high school that you got totally drunk at a party with once and made out with a little, and who then broke your teenage heart when he didn't talk to you the next day in school, and then broke it again when your best friend marched up to him (he was smoking behind the baseball dugout) and asked him why he never called you, and he said that he didn't know your name, and then he hit on your friend. Sarah and I realized that we had actually known the same guys in high school, despite the fact that I grew up in Michigan and she grew up in Florida.

Lord love a duck, I am so hot for Anthony Bourdain. He is beautiful, has an incredibly sexy voice, has Distinguished Silver hair, and can cook like an unmitigated motherfucker. He does eat some of the most disgusting bits of the most disgusting animals I have ever seen in my entire life and I really disagree with him about Hung from Top Chef, but he is hot enough that I don't care. Witness:

Hi Tony. That's a nice...bone. And when I say bone, I mean...you know, bone.

Maybe one of the ten thousand reasons that I love him is the interview I just read with him, in which he says the following about Sandra Lee. You know, Sandra Lee from "Semi-Homemade With Sandra Lee", also known as "The Coming Apocalypse Starring The Food Network?"

On Sandra Lee: “Charles Manson and Betty Crocker’s love child. She gets that
glassy Squeaky Fromme look when she’s talking about her tablescapes. I want to
call security.”

The rest of the interview (which took place in Washington D.C.) can be found right here. We ran into him at Eastern Market when he was in town--this was quite a while ago now, but I did what I typically do when confronted with a famous stranger, which is to stare like I'm suffering from brain damage as he nods politely at me. I am smooth, I tell you.

A Tale of Too Stupid

First of all, go and read this post. Then come back.

The upshot is that this mother, in her nightly struggle to get her pre-school-aged daughter to bed and to sleep, in her frustration, wondered aloud via Twitter if it would be acceptable to smother her daughter in order to get her to stay in bed. A woman who follows her on Twitter, who clearly doesn't know her, her morbid sense of humor, or the deep and abiding love for her child that is so obvious to anyone with the common sense God gave pistachio nuts, found this tweet to be objectionable.

Shortly afterwards, the police appeared at her door. At 11 o'clock at night, this woman had to show them her sleeping child in order to prove that she hadn't murdered her own daughter.

I am totally dumbstruck by the ardent stupidity of this entire situation. I am absolutely horrified for this woman, and so sorry for the mortification and abject humiliation she must be feeling.

Dan is a teacher, as are several of our closest friends. They are all required by law and their jobs, not to mention simple human decency and civility, to report suspected physical, emotional, verbal, and sexual abuse of all children they come in contact with. In a thousand years, I cannot imagine anyone legitimately interpreting what this woman was saying as a threat of actual child endangerment.

Not a month ago, I threatened to tape Max in a box with a couple bottles of water and a couple of sandwiches and Fed-Ex him to my parents. Did any of you--seriously, anybody at all--interpret that as something I would publicly brag about doing, let alone actually do? Even for a minute? Did anybody sit down and give it any thought at all, whether that was something I was capable of?

Honest to God, I know my readership isn't enormous or anything, but really--anybody?

People don't brag about murdering their children on Twitter before they actually go and do it, for fucking Christ's sake! Especially not rational, sane, loving parents--as this blogger clearly and obviously is. People abuse children secretly, then they bury the body, or burn it, or chop it into pieces and stow it in their freezer! They don't write about what they're doing on the internet--especially before they do it. Come the fuck on.

That's the point. I've admitted my parenting shortfalls right here on this blog--a year ago, when Max was biting, I admitted to biting him back once. I admitted how terrible it made me feel to have physically done something that made him cry. I've admitted that I'm not the most patient parent on this earth, that I have a tendency to tune him out when I'm deeply involved in something else. Does that qualify as child neglect in somebody's mind? Quick--call child protective services.

This is busybodying run totally amok. This is a woman with not enough to do (and there's a link to her blog at the first link; I won't link to her because, frankly, I don't think she deserves the traffic) and too much time on her hands and too little to think about. I won't go so far as to call her stupid or ignorant, because name-calling is a little inane even in a case like this, but really, I'm starting to think that there ought to be a common sense or I.Q. prerequisite in order to connect to the internet, if for no other reason than to protect us normal, sane, rational human beings.

NaBloPoMo Day 26: Unadvisable

To be filed under "Just Because You Can Doesn't Mean You Should":

Paula Deen's Deep-Fried Stuffing on a Stick

P.S. I wasn't aware of Paula Deen's working relationship with Smithfield Pork products, which is an absolute abomination of a factory farm, but I don't have to love her to shake my head in wonderment at the woman who's deep-fried a stick of butter, do I?

NaBloPoMo Day 19: Motor City

One of the very finest writers that I have ever known is Jim Griffeon at Sweet Juniper. I went to high school with him and have a son who is several months younger than his own Sweet Juniper and I admire his writing and his photography and his creativity and his principles very much.

Jim is a resident of the city of Detroit and a close-up observer of the place. He, unlike the vast majority of people who live there, lives there by choice and by design, which makes him both an oddity and a perfect advocate for the place, which has its detractors.

And probably for good reason. Detroit's reputation is, in many ways, well-deserved. It's a troubling place and has been for many years, and as our economy has, in recent months, headed south, there has been an increase in the discussion about what's to become of the Big 3. It's an important discussion and one that, frankly, people should have had years ago, decades ago really.

Jim's written a fascinating and extremely significant post about a proposed bailout of the auto industry. Read it here.

I understand the urge to blame corporate greed and shortsightedness for the current situation. I was troubled by the government bailout of the banking and insurance industries last month, and I am increasingly troubled in an I-Told-You-So kind of way by the lack of oversight and accountability in regards to the bailout that's now being reported on a daily basis, but Jim articulates perfectly why it is that I was so uneasy about the banking bailout and why I feel the auto industry bailout is important and needed and necessary.

The banking bailout is about people who move paper from one folder to another and who send each other emails and move numbers from one column to another column. Yes, I understand how banks work, and I understand why insurance is important--as someone who worked for two years in a non-profit arena dealing with credit and housing, I would humbly say that I think I have more insight into the subject than, say, Joe the Plumber. But I'm more than a little troubled by the idea that a guy in a suit that costs more than my monthly mortgage payment needs to be bailed out. I would complain further about the fact that it's my tax dollars that are bailing him out, but what the fuck, this is the government of the United States, not the government of the people that agree with the government all the time. I get my pound of flesh in the shape of student financial aid and tax breaks for the middle class and what-not, and we really can't just let the economy collapse, so I'm willing to suck it up. Mostly.

The auto industry is about people who make things, and people who make things and who make things work and who make the things that make things work. They're people who do things that are critical to who and what we are as a nation, what we do and how we function on an hour to hour basis. Should they have been more forward-thinking when it came to innovating? Very much so. Is hindsight 20-20? Same as it ever was.

We don't hold people who make things and who make things work in very high regard anymore. Just ask my husband, who teaches kids English to kids who are uniquely suited to making things, whether it's by aptitude or interest or conditioning or personality. These are kids who aren't special education students to a degree that they need to be in a special education classroom--they're kids who, like my husband, have learning disabilities. Some are emotionally impaired. Some come from backgrounds of such abject horror--my aunt, who's a public school counselor, said it best when Dan was beginning teaching. She said, "It's kind of hard to give much of a damn about enriched math when your mom's a crack whore." My husband has taught children whose stories would make people with a stronger stomach than mine throw the fuck up, and I am not exercising my over-developed sense of hyperbole when I tell you that.

Of course there are inspiring stories about kids who rise above their station. I am married to a man who not only overcame dyslexia to have a successful military career but has completed two college degrees and is pursuing a master's degree as well. But the educational environment is such that kids aren't encouraged to do anything but go to college and become that guy in the suit, sending the emails and moving the paper from one folder to another.

Look, I think if a kid wants to go to college and can possibly be successful in doing so, nothing should stand in their way, especially not their ability to pay for it. But I also think that we need to throw out the notion that everyone should go to college. I think we need to get used to the idea that we need auto workers and plumbers and electricians, people who make things and fix things. I think we need to prepare the people who want to be those people as thoroughly as we prepare our doctors and lawyers and teachers and support them as thoroughly.

Yes, I think we should bail out the auto industry, not because I think that the auto industry is so great, but because I think that the auto industry is about real people, doing real work and producing something concrete that we need. I think the people who do that work are a dying breed in a dying industry, and I think it's important that we not let it die. It matters in the short run and in the long run, it matters for my kid and your kid and their kids. The thought of Detroit becoming more and more like a modern day goldrush ghost town breaks my heart, because of the real people who live and work there, who are raising their kids under circumstances that I can't even fathom. We've had it good for a long time, and I think that how we weather this storm will define the next century the way that the Depression and the World Wars defined the last one. I hope that we get it right.

NaBloPoMo Day 7: Schadenfreude

By this time, everybody's familiar with FailBlog. Their tagline: Delighting in the Suffering and Humiliation of Others Since 2006.

Mostly I think a lot of the things on there are sort of awful, but this one cracks me up. Look:




Nothing cracks me up like things that are lost in translation.

I like my nonsense braised, personally, but whatever.

My Own Finger-Quotes

(Updated: It's merely a coincidence, but I love that Heather Armstrong at Dooce and Melissa Summers at Suburban Bliss have written posts very similar to this one in the last few days. I am restating my plea to anyone who reads this: it matters. It matters who you vote for. It matters that you vote to protect women in this country, women who can't speak out for themselves, who have no medium in which to say, at the top of our lungs, that this crackpot has nothing but contempt for us. It matters. It matters that you stand the fuck up and say, I'm an American and a patriot and you are not going to tell me to sit down and shut up because I have ovaries. John McCain doesn't give a rat's ass about me, and he probably doesn't give a rat's ass about you either, and it's high time that his career in professional politics was over for good. Let's end it together on November 4.)

I've been trying all week to write a post about politics, and failing. I have to say that I am totally and completely struck speechless by John McCain. So I've stopped trying, and I will now just say the following:

I think it's because I'm not great at talking through my outrage, and I do feel strongly about this election. I think that there will never be so important an election in my lifetime, and maybe not in my son's. I think that the conservatives have ransomed our economy, our environment, and probably our national security, and they must go. It's become a moral imperative.


I want to quote some other writers that I admire here. There are very smart people saying incredibly eloquent things about the current state of American politics, and if you are listening, I honestly cannot imagine a scenario in which voting for John McCain and Sarah Palin sounds like a viable alternative.

First of all, from Heather Armstrong:

I am angry. I am infuriated. And I don't think I would be if Sarah
Palin were a qualified or competent choice as McCain's running mate. But the
fact, the reality is that she is not. And instead of demanding better from their
party, instead of going, wait a minute, no, we deserve better than this, many
Republicans are contorting themselves into a denial of reality. (please read this, it's a report from the AP, not some spooky liberal blog that wants to kill babies) And
that right there is what has been going on for the last eight
years.

And I am just so damn sick of it.

From Nancy Keenan at Huffington Post:

Do you hear that?

It's the sound of even more women voters in swing states like Colorado,
New Hampshire, and Virginia moving to Sen. Barack Obama after
John McCain's response to questions regarding a woman's right to
choose in last night's debate.

McCain reiterated his call to overturn Roe v. Wade. (Even George W.
Bush didn't make this statement when he was running for president.)

McCain used "air quotes" as he insulted women who need an abortion
because their health is threatened. (A friend of mine who was at the debate said
the crowd gasped at McCain's callous disregard for women's
health.)

McCain looked every bit as out of touch with women's everyday lives as
his 25-year record of voting against women's freedom and privacy
demonstrates.

McCain even used the right-wing rhetoric of sending the issue "back to
the states" (a baseless argument that we've debunked on multiple
occasions).

From Completely Unnecessary:

My ‘health’ isn’t something you get to throw around as an angry,
uninformed talking point in a final, vain attempt to drag your base to the polls
as the pathetic and absurd campaign you’ve run grinds your last moment of
political relevance into the dust.

Only ten percent of the country agrees with your new-found
horror of a position (h/t Megan) - which, if polls continue in the current
direction, is about the percentage you can expect on election
day.

Women die in childbirth. They die being pregnant. Some of them die
inside - that’s why mental health is important, too.

It’s not ‘extreme’ to want the living, breathing woman to count for
more - or, hell, even only as much as - the fetus inside her.

And finally, and I think most eloquently, Alexa at Flotsam says:

McCain states that he would deal with the issue of abortion with “courage
and compassion.” I quote: “the courage of a pregnant mother to bring her child
into the world and the compassion of civil society to meet her needs and those
of her newborn baby.” As if terminating my pregnancy would be the easy way out,
the way not requiring his precious “courage.” As if dictating my medical care
based upon his religious beliefs is compassionate. And I find it interesting to
note that his “compassion” for this newborn does not extend to guaranteeing it
health insurance.

I have long suspected that McCain does not think much of women. First
because of what I regarded as his rather uncouth treatment of the women in his
personal life, and later when he chose Sarah Palin as his running mate. But his
words last night, and the tone in which he spoke them, show such a terrible and
deep disregard for our personhood that they left me shocked and speechless. I
have never felt so powerfully disenfranchised as when hearing McCain insinuate
that women—us crafty minxes—are not above using trickery to get a (much-coveted, apparently) late-term abortion. How dare he. How dare he imply that women are either too stupid or immoral to be trusted to wrestle with ethical issues on their own. How dare he insult my intelligence, my character, and my commitment to my babies, to my much wanted and years-in-the-making pregnancy, by implying that he is better equipped than myself and my doctors to weigh my child’s life against my health. Women may have the vote, but we do not have the respect of a frighteningly vast segment of our government, and I am sickened and saddened to see it.

As am I. I've never felt that the Republican party had my best interests in mind and I know John McCain doesn't. And I am not okay with it.

You shouldn't be okay with it either. Unless you're a lobbyist for an oil company, a CEO, or an old, rich, white man (and I don't think I have many readers who are), John McCain doesn't give a fuck about you. He's made that sufficiently clear.

Nourishing Me

I rarely do this.

Please go to Suburban Bliss and read Melissa Summers' post "This is a first draft." She has written a post about her childhood that is so raw, magical, and beautiful that it has completely taken my breath away. I have gone back and re-read her post several times this morning, and I will probably continue to do so throughout the day.

As parents, we want so much. We want it for our kids and for ourselves and for the world that they're growing up in. We can't fathom a world in which our children experience anything except love and compassion, despite what we go through ourselves as children. We fight tooth and nail to protect what's soft and new in them, the openness in them that comes from never having been hurt before.

Last night, Max and Dan were watering the plants. It's cold enough here that we've dragged all the tomatoes and peppers and herbs inside, and they're continuing to thrive in the loft, which gets a lot of light from the southern exposure. Dan was telling Max about the plants, how we take care of them, give them light and water and we trim them back, and they grow and make food for us.

Dan said, "We take care of them, and they take care of us."

Max said, "They make us strong and healthy, right, Daddy?"

Dan said, "That's right."

I grew up without a father, and in many ways it was a mercy, especially when compared to the horror that Melissa describes. When I was 15, my mother remarried a man whom I have always called Tom. When my parents split up I was four, and I don't remember what I ever called my father. But the word "Dad" was not in my vocabulary until my son learned to speak.

The word used to be a question mark to me. Now it's a symphony.

It's just another way that my family nourishes me.

Seven Skills Every Woman Should Master

Yay for Maggie Mason and her lists. She made a list of skills every woman should master (or muster.) I agree with most of her things, and I have a few of my own.

1. Write a thoughtful and personal thank-you note. I can't tell you how many times recently I've received a "thank-you" note from someone for whom I took at least a little trouble to find a personal and thoughtful (I thought) gift. In every case the note was not addressed to me on the inside, and in most cases said something like this: "Thank you for your thoughtful gift, whatever it was."

When I was in elementary school, my mother once refused to allow me to complete an assignment handed out as a punishment: copying pages from the dictionary by hand. As a professional writer, she loathed the idea of writing as punishment. These deeply impersonal and thoughtless notes seem a lot like that kind of punishment to me; frankly, I'd rather not receive a thank-you note at all rather than one of these no-thanks notes.

2. Entertain unexpected guests. Keep a bottle of white wine in the fridge and a bottle of red someplace dark. Keep bags of cashews, toasted pecans, and dried apricots in a dark place in the cupboard (and don't polish them off while watching "Grey's Anatomy.") Invest in a nice cheeseboard, and keep a wedge or two of decent cheese (like an aged cheddar and a hard cheese, like real Parmigiano or Dry Jack) in the fridge.

3. Perfect one easy appetizer, one salad, one main course, and one dessert. In case the unexpected guests stay for dinner. Here are some that are easy and use things that ought to be in your pantry (if they're not, consider keeping them in your panry.)

Cheese straws
Spinach-Basil Salad with tomatoes, candied walnuts, and warm bacon dressing
Glazed blueberry chicken
Orange flan

4. Break up with a toxic friend. You know who I mean--it's that one friend who admires your new shoes, and two days later has some of her own. The one who, when you told her you had a crush on a new boy in high school, became enamoured of him herself. The one who is just a little two-faced or likes inappropriate drama or doesn't return phone calls when she's got a boyfriend. Yeah, you don't need her--you just need a good way to lose her.

5. Throw a frisbee, a baseball and a football. Believe it or not, these things will come up. And if you can't do them, the boys will notice you. And not in a good way.

6. Apologize convincingly. You would be surprised how far a heartfelt apology will carry you. And even if you don't mean it, you should sound like you do.

7. Say no to your mother-in-law. If she's like mine, she is surprisingly convincing. I am working on this skill myself.

April Will Certainly Be Cruel To Me, At Least

Oh, remember back in November? Do you remember that miserable month last year, right after my in-laws were here for three weeks under the most appalling and stressful set of circumstances I really can imagine? That month where I committed to blogging every day for a month, because, well, basically because if everybody jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge I would totally do it too?

So they've made it a thing for every month, not just November, and because blogging every day over here is not enough, not when my job...oh, my job. My job, it is terrible right now. I have no words. It's enough to make me forget to clear my browser history at work. Ever heard of being Dooced? That would be really passive-aggressive of me, wouldn't it?

So the theme is letters, and I like letters, and so I'm going to try it in April. I'm hoping that it will be cathartic for me, and will maybe pad the impact that my professional life is having as it blasts into me full-speed, over and over again.

Things To Do Before I Go, 26-30

OMG! Mighty Girl linked to me!

26. Learn to sew.
27. Own a sports car.
28. Invent a flavor of ice cream.
29. Learn to sail in the Caribbean.
30. Grow my own vegetables.

100 Things to do Before I Go, 16-25

16. Drive fast on the Autobahn.
17. See a Major League baseball game at every stadium.
18. Be great at my job.
19. Make puff pastry from scratch.
20. Own a dog again.
21. Do pilates.
22. Take classes in photography, sculpture, weaving, and pottery.
23. Learn to spin my own yarn.
24. Swim naked in the ocean at night.
25. See my son do something great (win a Pulitzer Prize, lead a big group of people, etc.)

Miles To Go Before I Sleep

After a week at work that has thoroughly kicked my ass to the pavement and laughed while I cried, I've been thinking about other things that I could be doing with my life. Because what better to think about when you've worked a 40-hour week by Wednesday mid-afternoon because you work in the non-profit housing counseling industry and there's an economic recession and a mortgage crisis on?

Maggie Mason, better known as Mighty Girl, has been writing lists of things to do before she goes. I love her list. I love it so much, I decided to write my own, in several pieces. Today, I bring you 1-15 of my list of Things To Do Before I Go. I'm not planning on going or anything, I just love this list and the thought behind it. I've done several of these lists throughout my life; some of the things on it were so important to me at one point but not so much now, some I've accomplished, and some I don't even have a plan for yet. Also, these are in no particular order. Please leave me a comment with some of your own, or consider doing a list of your own.

100 Things To Do Before I Go, 1-15

1. Teach Max to cook.
2. Learn to surf.
3. Do something I don't think I can do (run a marathon, sing in public, etc.)
4. Watch the sun set in the desert.
5. Watch the sun rise in the mountains.
6. Write a play.
7. Make really great marinara sauce.
8. Write for a living.
9. Hang glide.
10. Make a quilt from Max's baby clothes.
11. Take a vacation with my best friend.
12. Stop being mad at my parents.
13. Go to India.
14. Own my dream house.
15. Knit a sweater that I would actually wear.

The Leap Day Roundup

I knew a guy in high school who was born on February 29, 1976. He only had a birthday every 4 years. So wherever you are, Jason What's-His-Face, happy 8th birthday. Hope you get that 10-speed.

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In honor of leap day, here is my post full of things that I didn't think of myself, favorite new places on the internet, questions I've recently been asked, and other randomness. I am reserving this one day every four years to fail to think for myself.

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Watching an episode from Season 3 of "The West Wing" last night, probably one of my favorite quotes ever:

Leo: It was a screwup, but I love how he just ran full speed at it. Bam! It's like, there's a Sam Seaborn-shaped hole in the wall.

Aaron Sorkin: greatest TV writer ever.

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A Twitter by Mighty Girl's Maggie Mason: "BABYBOI plate and "I've got piercings in places you'd love to lick" license frame suggest that aging is gonna be hard on you."

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Dan and I are in a mighty battle with our weight, which has collectively become a little out of control. I have lost 8 pounds; Dan has lost an inch and a half from his waist, but after seeing the food porn at Sunday Night Dinner, I think we'd give it all up for that spicy, totally greasy Thai wide rice noodle dish that I can't think of the name of at the moment.

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Imaginary notes to your kid and from your kid to you: At Yummy Mummy Cooks Gourmet and Finslippy. If Max were going to leave me a note it would say, "FYI: Anything I liked last week, I now hate. You are a terrible mother. Never talk to me again. Love, Max."

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The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks made me put my head down on my desk and laugh so hard that I cried this week. There is very little that I like more than a grammar Nazi.

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Tertia at So Close frequently speaks publicly about her journey through infertility to motherhood. This week she wrote a little about bedside manner and how medical professionals can better meet patients' needs. As a sufferer of a chronic illness and secondary infertility, I really appreciate the comments of her readers.

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I hope that Sarah of Sarah and the Goon Squad doesn't mind me stealing her Leap Day Pop Culture survey, but she would have made an outstanding MTV reporter. Her questions are great ones. They are as follows:

1) What is the last movie you saw in a theater? Was it good?

2) What is your favorite tv show?

3) What is the last album you bought (or stole from the internet, or burned from a friend) that you loved?

4) If you were in charge of People Magazine’s Sexiest Person Alive, who would win?

5) Who is your favorite artist? (Like art artist)

6) What is your favorite musical/opera/play?

7) What do you think is the worst song ever recorded?

Leave your answers in the comments.

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I am so weary of hearing about the dangers of aspartame. Let me throw something out there for you, people: I am diabetic. I would rather be temporarily cranky from aspartame than permanently dead from kidney failure. Sugar may occur in nature, but insulin does not occur in my pancreas, so stop telling me what to eat or I will ritually destroy myself before your very eyes. Additionally, aspartame breaks down in digestion into naturally-occurring substances, and recent studies show that cancer may be hereditary in lab rats. So, thanks for your input, but as it turns out, you know less about my endocrine system than I do, so go away.

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Does Christian Siriano know how he comes across on TV? I feel like I'm trying to peel, slice, and eat a bag of limes every time he talks. If only somebody would give me a large bottle of tequila to go with the limes, and also to ease the pain every time he calls something "fierce."

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If you have favorite recipes or food that you don't have a recipe for but you still love, email me and I'll talk it up on A Year In The Kitchen. Along those lines, here's a recipe for a Leap Year Cocktail, apparently conceived for a 1928 leap day celebration in London.

2 oz gin (I'd go with Beefeaters on this one)
½ oz sweet vermouth
½ oz Grand Marnier
¼ oz fresh lemon juice

Shake above ingredients with ice, and strain into a chilled cocktail glass,
then garnish with a lemon twist, just so.

Just so? Pip pip, old chum.

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Does anyone have a Leap Day tradition? I think I should start one, but what should it be? A leap or jump of some kind seems appropriate, but what? And keep in mind that I am not that coordinated, nor am I looking to break a bone or anything.

All Apologies

Oh, what a weekend. I am in need of some minor first aid after two days with a two-and-a-half-year-old, one who seems bent on doing me bodily harm.

This adorable boy, this blond, curly-haired little peep of a guy, is having a major meltdown when it comes to his behavior. After over a year of not biting at all, he's suddenly taken it up again with great gusto. Even worse, the head-butting: he pretends he's coming in for a hug, and then he rams his head into your face, splitting lips, bloodying noses. I have a bruise--an actual bruise--on my right cheekbone. I managed to almost successfully dodge him that time.

He is punished every time it happens, and every time we punish him, he seems to express what appears to be real remorse, as if he's forgotten that he's not supposed to do that. These are not my finest moments as a parent--yelling, time-outs, slamming doors. I've got a little of that Irish temper from my paternal grandfather; this behavior is absolutely infuriating to me and it sounds terrible, but I just can't stop myself. Even worse, yesterday he jumped up on my lap to give me a hug and immediately bit me so hard on the shoulder that it made me scream from pain and surprise. This morning, I still have a round bruise there with a few spots of broken skin. And he bit me through a t-shirt.

I bit him back, in the same spot.

I didn't bite him nearly as hard as he bit me--come on, I'm not, like, Britney Spears or something. There's no need to send Child Protective Services to my house. Still, I felt awful immediately. As soon as he realized that he had bit me hard enough to hurt me, he started to cry. He started saying, "Sorry, Mama. I sorry I hurt you." He even got his Curious George and gave him to me as a peace offering. Both of us cried. We hugged and talked it out--it's wrong to hurt people on purpose, and when you bite someone you will always hurt them. Biting is not okay.

Still, all weekend, it was one thing after another. He threw the television remote at Dan and bounced it right off his ribs. Sorry, Daddy. He hit him so hard in the grocery store that he almost dropped him when he was trying to put him into the seat in the cart. Sorry, Daddy. He asked to hold my hand in the car on the way back from Virginia, and pinched me on the arm hard enough to leave a red mark. Sorry, Mama.

Every time, we got an immediate and sincere apology from him, and every time, we punished him nevertheless. Mean, horrible parents! Bad people! Terrible! Right? Okay, well, here's the thing: I think that Max thinks that it's okay to do whatever he wants to someone as long as he apologizes afterwards. By making him say that he's sorry--and we don't make him say it, per se, but we did teach him that when he hurts someone, the kind thing to do is to apologize--I am worried that we're validating this awful behavior.

I really don't think he's too young to understand that actions have consequences, and I know that he's trying to get a reaction out of us. I don't think he's getting the reaction he wants, and his frustration is building, and that's the reason for the escalating violence. I'm just not sure of how to get the message through to him. For a kid who picks things up so quickly, he is just not getting this. Either that, or he's getting it, but he's getting it all wrong, and man, am I taking it on the chin for that. Literally.

I never spank Max, and until this weekend, I have never hurt him intentionally--not even a little. I am more of a time-out, loss-of-priveleges, stern-talking-to kind of parent, known to raise my voice from time to time, even known to slam a door or something when really angered. Dan, on the other hand, is a little more prone to spank, but it's usually in reaction to Max's doing something dangerous or destructive. He got spanked by Dan for jumping on the couch this weekend--sorry, Daddy. And then right back to the jumping. Aaarghh! And if he gets hurt doing something that he has been explicitly forbidden to do, we never punish him further. It just seems cruel to me.

I just am at a loss as to what we should do. Wait it out? It seems clear that this is a phase, but at one point does it go from a phase to a habit to a real problem? Try to figure out what's causing this sudden streak of violence? Well, he's two and a half: that seems to be a key element, from what I understand. Giving him increased attention and affection when he offends seem to be exacerbating the situation, if anything, and I think it may be leading to this attitude of "anything goes as long as I regret it afterward."

Alice at Finslippy talked a few weeks ago about "making" kids apologize, and took a lot of heat because her kindergartener Henry pushed a kid who wasn't following the rules, and then wouldn't apologize to him afterwards. His reasoning: he was going to get blamed for not following the rules, not this kid, and you're really supposed to follow the rules, so why should he say he was sorry. I kind of get it: what's the point in a forced, insincere apology anyway? It reminds me of when I was in fourth grade and made a girl in my class cry by making fun of her weight. The teacher insisted I stand up in front of the class and apologize; I got up, went up to the front of the room, and hissed at her, "Alissa, I'm sorry you're so fat!" I was wrong, I get that. The point, I understand, was to make me empathetic; the result, as it turned out, was to make into a person who'd rather be hilarious just to myself than nice to other people far too much of the time. Also, karma's a real bitch sometimes. Lesson learned.

How do I make Max nice? How do I make him empathetic? How do I make him stop trying to maim me? I know the internet loves to give parenting advice, and in this case, I'm happy to hear almost any of it that you have, as long as it's, you know, constructive. And not about the fact that I bit my kid yesterday morning. Man, I feel awful about that, I don't really need anybody to tell me, "Yeah, don't do that again." But short of those two things, it would be great to get some input. Obviously, kids don't come with instruction manuals, but I'm starting to feel like they maybe should.

I am starting a new project as of January 1st. It's a blog called A Year In The Kitchen.

I did NaBloPoMo and it felt like a terrible effort at the time to come up with something to say every day. Lots of people do it, and they do it well--much better than I did.

I have a number of small obsessions, not the least of which is food. I like cooking, eating, cookbooks, reading about cooking, watching TV about cooking, watching movies where people cook and eat and entertain people with cooking and eating. Being a diabetic, and a little lazy, and also sort of fat, I don't get to eat as much as I'd like to, and so not being able to do that translates into me spending a lot of time thinking about food and eating.

For example, right now I'm thinking about lunch, and running across the street to get some soup from the salad bar at Giant. I think it's Chicken Noodle day. Just thought you might like to know.

A Year In The Kitchen is going to be about food mostly, with bits and pieces. I'll post a recipe every day. Sometimes I'll post a restaurant review. Sometimes I might talk about some celebrity chef whose name rhymes with Fachel Fay and how much I think she really shouldn't be called a chef and how much I don't want to eat what she cooks just because the sound of her voice makes my skin crawl.

No Hipsters will continue to be my chief effort, where most of my creative energy is focused, but A Year In The Kitchen will be my ongoing exercise project, where I have a daily deadline and regular expectations. Discipline is good for people, I think, and particularly for me, as it doesn't come naturally to me.

So please come and read me at my new blog A Year In The Kitchen, starting January 1. Send me ideas and feedback and recipes. I am excited about this new thing I'm trying.

Let Me Make A Few Things Perfectly Clear

There is a blogger (who I will not name for fear of sending traffic her way, so let's just call her Bad Blogger) who is notorious on the Internet when it comes to being a troll. She is critical, nasty, and doesn't bother to actually understand what she's reading most of the time. This isn't really about the fact that she's a big, sucky uber-troll in my opinion and generally detracts from any discussion she joins, but about the fact that she's sort of a bad human being.

Her blog today criticizes a New England charitable organization that, among other things, supplies aid to Jewish families who apply for it. She evidently gets food from this organization each month, and applied to them for assistance with buying her children Chanukah gifts this year.

She's unhappy with the gifts that they bought her children and complaining that Russian Immigrants who "know how to work the system" get so much more than her.

I cannot tell you how much this bothers me. This bothers me more than I am even capable of expressing, and I'm pretty good at expressing.

Listen, I get it. I want to buy Max nice Christmas presents too. I wish that we could afford to get him a nice new big-boy bed. It's what he's said he wants. But we can't really afford it, and we don't have space to store his toddler bed and mattress, and it's just not a priority at this point, when the toddler bed is still functioning just fine and house prices are still as high as they are.

We would honestly rather get him out of this tiny little shoebox of a condo and into a place with a yard to play in and some room to spread out. That's for us too, but being a parent means that when you want, you want mostly for what it would mean to your child. Dan and I aren't thrilled with the condo, but if it were what was best for our family, we would stay indefinitely. Because that's what's best for our family. Get it? It's not about me. It doesn't have to be about me. I have a kid, so it's almost always about him. And I'm good with that.

Bad Blogger wants for her kids too, but the fact that she is angry enough to write about this agency and what they're not doing for her and for her kids--you know, there's a line. There's a line between loving your babies and wanting to see them light up on Christmas morning, and nothing ever being enough and taking aid from people who really need the roof somebody's putting over their head so that you can buy your kid an I-Phone or an I-Pod or a frickin' pony. Come the fuck on.

Bad Blogger claims to be poor, and yet her blog is literally plastered with ads, so many that it generally freezes my computer up every time the blog loads. She doesn't work for health reasons, and yet she manages to write for several different blogs and spend the rest of her day trolling for easy prey on the internet.

Bad Blogger subjects her readers to lectures about her liberal pet causes--she alternates them with posts about her Amazon Wish Lists and things that she'd like all her readers to buy for her. Sorry, Bad Blogger. No leopard high-heel boots from me this year.

And yes, I told her all of this (anonymously) in her comments. Why anonymously? Because I can live without her boring, pointless vitriol that way, way, way too many of her critics have been subject to. But you know what? I'd say it right to her face too, and she's clearly smart enough to come looking for me if she feels like it. So, my name is Molly and I think you suck a lot. I think you're a bad human being and a boring writer and I don't judge how other people parent but I think you enable your clearly spoiled-rotten children beyond all belief. You are the kind of person most people are thinking of when they say "crazy knee-jerk dumb-ass liberal," and that's coming from a liberal. I'm done reading your lame blog, even for the train-wreck value it had for me.

Bring it on, Bad Blogger. molwade26@aol.com. I will leave the light on for you.