On Life As A Picky Foodie

This is my baby girl just a couple of weeks ago: peaceful, at home in London, oblivious to the changes about to take place.  Although we made a book to explain that we were going to be moving, that we were leaving London for New York, I was well aware that it really was more for us grownups than for the sixteen-month old toddler who pointed out the big red busses and the airplanes in the photographs much in the same was she did in the street.

But the Grand Bus Rouge was replaced by the Grand Bus Jaune and I don’t know whether she expected everything to be so different.  I am familiar with New York, I knew what was coming, and the changes are still intense.  DW has been commenting about how different I am in the city.  Calmed somehow, he says, more at ease.  And bizarrely, I feel just as much at home here now, at age thirty-five, than I did the very first time I landed at JFK, over twenty years ago. 

We said goodbye to London in the best way we knew how: we walked through Hampstead Heath and to the Marylebone Farmer’s market.  We smelled the cheese at The Fromagerie one last time, we stopped by our favourite neighborhood café to swap general complaints.  There were people to take leave of and traditions to enjoy. 

But really, it’s the little things that make a place feel like home.  And wandering the streets of New York City, it becomes clearer with every step that London doesn’t feel mine – never has.  I loved it like a tourist on an extended stay, but I have missed the crazy fucking place that is New York.

When we were drowning in boxes, I couldn’t quite get past the questions of what we should keep, what we should sell, what should come on the plane with us, what we should leave behind.  It felt like an interminable list, constantly circling around in my head, piercing my brain like ice picks in the middle of the night.  What about the high chair?  What about the sofa bed?  What about the …?

October fourth, the day of departure, came way too quickly.  In about five seconds and after a hundred years.  I wasn’t ready.  I had never been more ready.  The taxi arrived to take us to Heathrow at 10:15 sharp.  We loaded our eight bags, the stroller, the car seat, the foldable cot – travelling light wasn’t an option this time.

The moment of realization had come earlier, as DW and I walked up the street to say goodbye to our friends at The Kitchen Table, where we spent gazillions of hours over the years.  On our way up the road, we had held hands, feeling each step in silence, knowing that we would not be making this silly little walk, which we had so taken for granted, again.  They had greeted us as they have every day for the past four years.  And we had said goodbye much in the same way we had so many times before.  DW and I laughed as we crossed the street and headed back home.  It all felt so… normal.

An hour later, the tears flowed. 

Saying goodbye is tough.  Because even if you return to the same places and see the same people, nothing will ever be the same. 

Someone else will be living in our house.  Another family will inhabit the walls where my baby girl came into the world.  They will cook on the incredible range, and take that same wander up the block to order sandwiches and fantastic coffee at The Kitchen Table.  They will live fifteen minutes from Hampstead Heath while we …

We are heading into this new chapter in our lives.  One in which nothing is clear or determined yet.  In the past few weeks, we have been in turn excited and terrified, elated and suspicious, relieved and regretful, sad and joyful and everything in between. 

As the taxi pulled out, a weight lifted off my shoulders.  I could do nothing more, even if I had wanted to.  What was packed would be packed, what was being shipped we would see again in a few weeks, what would be would be.  And if I wanted to avoid motion sickness, I needed to keep looking forward.

I don’t know if I actually laughed out loud, but I felt like doing so.  To go from being worried about what box contained my fermentation pot to not caring in the space of half a millisecond knocked me off balance enough that I was grateful to be sitting down.  The only thing that mattered wasn’t whether we should or shouldn’t take the furniture, or how many tea bags I should take on the flight – it was the two people sitting on either side of me, my husband and my daughter. 

And then, just like that, we find ourselves wandering the streets of New York slightly in awe, but also bizarrely at home already -- we know where we like to eat, where we like to shop for groceries, who we need to call, what we need to see, do, explore, experience.  Only unlike in the past, there's a little person involved and at the same time everything is new.  

Vida Lev is now toddling along, which means she has little time to be in her carrier or her stroller.  So we let her wander the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn to her heart’s desire.  She waddles, holding her arms up on each side of her to keep her balance.  And then every so often, she squats down in a kind of downward dog to recalibrate before taking off again.  This child fits right in here: already she is in a hurry.  People wave, people smile, people ask whether her boots come in adult sizes.  If you think New Yorkers are rude or unfriendly, you should set a beaming toddler loose in the streets: never have I seen such love, enjoyment and pleasure in people’s faces as in the past few days with my little girl. 

On a final note, I will say this: we have gone from a four-bedroom house in London to who knows what in New York (though I know for a fact that whatever we find will be smaller than what we were in).  The stress, which was can I keep this?,  has now become why in the world did I hold on to that?

Life.  The jokes never stop coming.

Recipe: Breakfast for Globetrotting Parents 

When you're moving continents and running after a very energetic little girl, breakfast needs to power you through until God knows when.  This one might seem complicated and filled with scary, unknown ingredients, but people often ask me what I eat so I decided to share this latest favourite which has kept me sated, grounded and happy for many a challenging morning recently.  I won't lie, this is one greeeeen smoothie but it's choc-full of good fats, minerals, protein and awesome quality slow-burning fuel.  Plus, in my opinion, it's delicious though I am aware that my palate is greeeeener than most people's so consider yourself warned.  The great news is that all you have to do is blend so it's super simple to make.  And if you let the mixture sit for a few minutes, it will thicken up into a pudding.  I like to top mine with juicy berries and crunchy cacao nibs for something to chew on, and eat it with a big old spoon.

Ingredients:

1 T coconut butter

1 T hemp seeds

2 T chia seeds

1 t spirulina

1 t chlorella

1/8 t kelp powder

1 t cinnamon

1 t vanilla powder

1 dropper Oceans Alive

1 banana

3/4 c raspberries

1 dried fig

4-5 kale leaves, stalks removed

1 cup water

For the topping (optional): 

small handful fresh blueberries

a sprinkle of cacao nibs

Instructions:

Combine all the ingredients in the blender.  

Blend well -- you might need to add a little more water, depending on the strength of your machine.  

Allow to thicken for a few minutes.  

Top with blueberries and cacao nibs (optional). 

P.S.  Happy Birthday to ME!

For the past while, I’ve been reading (and drooling) about pop-up restaurants without being able to partake in this latest foodie fashion.  I cannot think of a less pleasant phone call to make than ringing a four-day passion project to ask whether they can do me a gluten-, dairy-, bla bla bla, everything-free version of whatever it is they have spent months agonizing over.  Not really my idea of a good time – not for them, not for me.

Until this week.  Thanks to the lovely Molly from The Particular Kitchen – my twitter friend who magically transformed into real-life bud – I found out about this place: Tolerance Restaurant 

Vegan and gluten-free – in London (England) -- huh?  Huh?  WHAAAAAT?

The last time I got this excited about food in London, it was served on a bus and the view was of hookers. (long story)

DW and I had a date-night planned for Friday, and seeing as cinema times are not really geared towards co-sleeping attachment-parenting Ima and Pappa of a toddler, we decided to check the place out.

Let me start with a warning: there are no pictures of the food.  I wanted to enjoy, relax and eat without stressing out about whether I had a good enough shot. 

We called to ensure that I could, in fact, eat their food and got a resounding yes.  Even when I called again, early Friday morning – the day of said dinner – to make sure there was no dreaded agave, the friendly Natalie who was to be our waitress, patiently and kindly liased with the chef to assure me.  Raw avocado chocolate mousse it was then!

DW and I sauntered through the streets of North London, holding hands, feeling strangely free and yet as if we’d – as DW said – “left a part of our hearts back home.”  It’s difficult to leave Vida Lev.  And wonderful to be alone with my husband. 

Like good parents on a ticking clock, we arrived early and chatted to the two women in charge – one of whom was the lovely Natalie from earlier.  The other was her equally gorgeous sister.  They made us feel welcome and comfortable, a detail that always has huge ramifications on my dinner – the attitude of restaurant staff is more often than not, reflected in the food, don’t you think?  Their charm lasted throughout the meal.  Really, truly, I could have sat there for hours.  I loved the décor, the lighting, the whole ambiance was wonderful. 

And now to the food.  This is trickier.  Let me start by saying that I did very much enjoy it.  The ingredients were fresh, and clearly a lot of love and thought had gone into each dish. 

Simply put, I’d give the Chef a 10 for effort.  I could tell he worked his ass off to provide a range of options showcasing his different talents as well as catering to us “healthy” “vegan” types.  Each course offered both raw and cooked options -- earthy roots, refreshing salads, great grains and healthy fats. 

For all three – the starters, mains and desserts -- DW and I shared a cooked dish and a raw one.  The cooked dishes were without a doubt superior to the raw though I feel a little guilty saying this as I’m so grateful that there was raw food to begin with!

Our starters were a salad with mandolin-thin sliced sweet potato and olive and tomato tapenade – richly flavoured, a great combo of sweet and savoury.  I happen to be very partial to mixing things like olives with sweet roots and was very happy with the results in this particular salad.  It was satisfying without being heavy.  The raw nori rolls, on the other hand, were surprisingly unconvincing.  They tasted like many a raw mock tuna salad I have had in the past – something I’m not all that keen on anyway.  But based on the description on the menu, I had expected a lovely, mellow vegetable roll, not the intense taste I was confronted with.  It didn’t feel as well thought out, as nuanced as the cooked salad (which did contain raw spinach leaves). 

For mains, we had the quinoa cakes and the raw stir-fry (which obviously wasn’t fried) with pine nut “rice.” 

I’m going to interrupt myself here to mention a pet peeve that extends to most of these places: please don’t call something by a more widely known name if what you’re delivering is completely different.  Don’t say “pizza” when it has nothing to do with the famous dish, or “meatballs” when there isn’t any meat for miles, or “stir-fry” when it isn’t fried.  OK, I feel better now.  Thank you.

When DW had his first bite of the quinoa cake with cabbage sauce, he pronounced it “bland.”  But lo and behold, by the second, third, fourth, twentieth bite, we were both wanting more.  I want it for my vegan Thanksgiving; or for Sunday roast.  Every week.  It was a warming, comfort-food type dish – not immediately impressive -- but it crept up and discretely turned wonderful.  In fact, we requested a takeaway sample for Vida Lev, which the chef kindly sent us up on the house.  How sweet is that?

Unfortunately, however, though the raw “stir fry” and “rice” wasn’t bad, it also wasn’t fantastic.  Here’s the thing about raw food: getting gourmet raw food right is harder than it seems.  Almost anyone can make a decent salad, but what separates a bunch of lettuce leaves from actual uncooked greatness is the same thing that separates a chef from a passionate cook.  Once again, however, I would have to give Chef Cooper a 10 for effort.

For dessert, DW had the chocolate hazelnut cake, which I tried a tiny bit of (it contained soy so I stayed away for the most part).  I found it slightly dry – personally, I’m big on icing – but DW would happily have enjoyed a second piece had his stomach, budget and ego allowed him to.  My raw chocolate mousse was good.  The chef made me a special agave-free version for which I was grateful.

What a treat to be able to spoon food off DW’s plate, to allow him to taste mine without having to request additional cutlery -- to eat and enjoy without worrying and wondering. 

I know this guy is going to make waves in London.  At least I hope he will.  Because I could taste his passion in every bite.  He still has a ways to go, but I applaud him.  Bring on the healthy, gluten-free, vegan pop-ups!

We enjoyed our experience at Tolerance so much that DW and I decided to stop by Oliver’s Café, where the pop-up took place to check out their regular service.  Again, lovely people, lovely ambiance.

“Where has this place been all my [London] life?”  I wondered out loud.

We had to laugh – ain’t it always the way?  Like when you’re about to go to the hairdresser and your hair looks perfect for the first time in forever. But hey ho, we leave for New York in a week!

That being said, I was chatting to the owner and the guy behind the bar about vegan food and raw food and how different people react to it.  I’m of the opinion that anyone who cooks special diet meals should be focusing on making their food exciting and delicious for everyone, not just people who choose to or are forced to eat a specific way.  Whether it’s gluten-free, vegan, raw, or all of the above, it needs to knock your socks off, even if you eat ham and cheese baguette every other meal of your life.

For example, some of the diners at Tolerance were turned off by the fact that the chocolate mousse was made with avocado.  My theory is that had they not known the strange and unexpected ingredient to begin with, they probably would have enjoyed it more.  Case-in-point: my raw chocolate banana torte.  The name doesn’t give anything away, nor do I tell people about the tahini or the avocado (unless, of course, there’s an allergy or intolerance issue) until they’re licking their fingers and plates clean – and, believe me, they usually do.  This recipe appeared in the second Leon cookbook, Naturally Fast Food.

Raw Chocolate Banana Torte

A great one to make a day or two in advance as the extra time lets the flavours meld together.  Trust me, if you can get past the idea of avocado in dessert, you’ll love it.    

For the Base layer

¾ cups almonds

6 dates, pitted

¼ cup melted coconut oil

1/3 cup sunflower seeds

pinch salt

For the chocolate layer

2 avocados

2 T tahini

6 T cacao

½ t vanilla powder

2 t honey

4 T water

For the banana layers                       

4 ripe bananas

It is important to start by making the base layer so that it has time to set in the freezer:

For the base layer:

Combine the almonds, dates, sunflower seeds and salt in the food processor.  Melt the coconut oil in a Bain de Marie to avoid overheating.  Once the coconut oil has liquified, pour into the food processor while it’s working.  The mixture should end up as more or less one uniform ball. 

Divide into two parts, one larger (about 3/4), one smaller (about ¼) and put the smaller one aside.  Press the larger part into an 8 inch round cake pan with the base of your palm until it is about half a centimetre thick.  Put in the freezer to set while you prepare the other layers.

For the first banana layer:

Mash up two bananas.

For the second banana layer:

Chop the remaining two bananas into even slices.

For the chocolate layer:

(This can be done by hand or in the food processor – the key here is to make sure that it is extremely well-mixed: you don’t want little chunks of avocado ruining the party.)

Mash the avocado.  Mix the tahini in very well.  Add the cacao and vanilla powder followed by the honey and make sure everything is well blended – it should look like and have the consistency of chocolate pudding.  At the very end, dilute ever so slightly with water.  

To create the torte:

Pull the bottom layer out of the freezer. 

Cover with the mashed bananas.

At this point, roll out the second, smaller chunk of base layer dough until it is about as thick as a pancake or a tortilla and gently place on top of the mashed bananas

Gently arrange the chopped bananas over the entire surface

Cover with the chocolate layer.

Keep Refrigerated until serving.

Somewhere along the way, I lost my sense of direction.  The map I had drawn got washed along with my favourite flea market jeans.  I was sixteen and couldn’t remember where I was supposed to turn to get where I wanted to go.

The first time I revealed to someone I loved and trusted that I wanted to be a writer, I took what was, for me, a huge leap of faith.  It was a deep and scary revelation that took all of my courage.  Their response broke my heart:

“Why would you want to do that?” they said with a chuckle that felt like a smack across my cheek, “you can’t make a living at it, and besides, who would be interested in anything YOU have to say?”

Though I am no longer in contact with this person, their words shut me down for years.  Unable to get past the question about who my audience would be, I froze – I didn’t have the answer and couldn’t muster the guts to find out.  Because what if they were right and nobody read my words?  I couldn’t bear the thought of pouring my soul onto the page and having it be rejected.  

Though I was able to get that person out of my life, their words continued to haunt me.  To this day, when I’m struggling with my writing, I can hear that familiar voice telling me I’m not good enough.  With time, I have learned to recognize it for what it is.  And now, after years of hiding and procrastinating, I have finally decided to take that leap once more. 

The kitchen is my sanctuary.  It’s where I go when I’m sad or angry or frustrated.  It’s my safe place.  Somehow, I seem to have more courage in the kitchen.  Because here’s the thing: I am a terrible baker.  My cakes, gluten-free and vegan, come out crumbly or hard, too gummy or not sweet enough.  Sometimes – believe it or not – my cakes come out all of the above, and it takes a certain talent to make a cake that is both crumbly and gummy!

I guess with cake as with fiction, it’s about accepting that your first draft will probably be terrible.  In fact, it’s supposed to be terrible.  Not that that’s easy to admit to yourself or pleasant to hear or acknowledge.  But only by doing something over and over, by ripping it to shreds and really analysing what needs to be improved can you get good.  Like writing.  Or baking.

Recently I have been spending a lot of time on Jennifer Perillo’s blog.  When I saw this cake, although, as I say, my baking leaves a lot to be desired, I decided I had to attempt it -- Picky Foodie style of course.

The result? 

I’m pretty sure I will bake better cakes in the future.  But I’ve definitely done worse.  It wasn’t too gummy or too crumbly and it wasn’t too hard.  Amazingly, it stayed together quite well in that you can pick up a piece and comfortably take a bite without losing half of it along the way.  It could possibly have been a little sweeter -- the kind of cake you could have for breakfast or for dessert -- and I suspect it will complement DW’s afternoon tea really well.

Best of all?  I love the feeling of having another draft under my belt and my baking seems to have really improved in that my raspberry cake was at least edible.  I’m going to make this one again, try for better, keep working towards that elusive perfect Picky Foodie cake.

Calorie-wise, at least, I think writing will be easier than baking.  So there’s another reason to give this fiction thing another shot.  In the mean time, however, I think I’ll go brew some rosehip and hibiscus tea and cut myself another little piece.  

Raspberry Cake
(adapted from Jennifer Perillo’s Raspberry Olive Oil Cake)

Makes one 10-inch cake

2 cups Bob’s Red Mill gluten free All Purpose flour
¼ cup coconut sugar
1 T maple syrup
2 t baking powder
¼ t coarse salt
2 T ground flax seeds briefly soaked in 2 T water
1 T melted coconut oil (and a little more to grease the pan)
2 t vanilla extract
½ cup coconut milk
2 c frozen raspberries
1 mashed banana

Preheat the oven to 350 Fahrenheit / 175 Centigrade

Sift together the dry ingredients.

Whisk together the wet ingredients, leaving out the raspberries.

Combine the two and then fold in the raspberries.

Grease a 10 inch round cake pan with a little coconut oil and then pour in the batter.  Bake for 45 minutes.  Allow to cool slightly and then remove the cake from within the cake pan but keep the bottom. 

Once the cake has cooled down completely, indulge in a piece and wait for the muse to find you.

Seven years ago today, the man I had just broken up with drove me down the PCH and dropped me off at the home of the man who is now my husband.

We didn’t know it then.  In fact, we had met two weeks earlier and knew very little about one another, seven years ago today.  We certainly didn’t know we were in love.

Seven years on, and we know so much more.  We know what we love deeper and what drives us mad, what makes the other who they are and what they wish they could change.

Seven years ago today, I sat on his couch and he said “I don’t know if you have plans for this afternoon, but I’m going to go look at some apartments on the beach.”

And I thought do I have plans???  I want to spend every second getting to know you better because if you’re as amazing as every cell in my body is telling me you are, then maybe you’re the man I want to be with.

Later on, we shared a salmon salad and walked along the ocean.  He pointed out where Dudley Moore used to live to impress me.  And in the evening, we had our first kiss and then he made up the sofa bed.

After seven years, I know he’s not perfect and he’s seen my flaws.  But we make it work in our own way most of the time.

Someone launched a fun idea recently: make July 5^th Pie Day.  So here is mine. 

It’s really a testament to my relationship with the man whom I eventually married.  Seven years ago today, the butterflies in my stomach told me he was someone special.

Of course, we have had to make our compromises.  This banoffee pie is a really great metaphor for ours.    

Like my husband, like marmite, like tea, banoffee pie is extremely English.  But seeing as I am intolerant to pretty much everything in it – sugar, butter, condensed milk, biscuits (gluten) – I made a version I could enjoy as well.

Raw, vegan, gluten-free, no refined sugar. 

It was hard work: I dehydrated the crust for 48 hours.  The Banana part took a few tries as did the toffee because the ingredients I use are so unlike what makes a classic banoffee pie in both taste and texture.  In fact I'm still tweaking, which is why I am not posting the recipe. (what can I say, it's all a work in progress)

The final product was, possibly comparable, possibly completely different.  Regardless, it was rich and decadent, much like its original inspiration.  Most importantly, it was delicious. 

Seven years ago today, if you’d told me that this would be my life – living in London, married to DW, mother of an amazing little girl, writing this blog, making raw vegan pie -- I wouldn’t have believed you.  And yet, we make it work, each one of us in the way that makes life as palatable and tasty as we possibly can.

This week, New York passed a law legalizing gay marriage.

Like most people I know and love, I am overjoyed.  But I also have a personal reason to celebrate.

When I was growing up, gay was weird, scary, a name the meaner kids hurled at you to indicate there was something wrong with you.

My father is gay.

He never came out to me.  Instead, I found out by accident, when reading a book – one of those teenage coming-of-age novels where the parents are divorced and the protagonist is trying desperately to figure out where she fits in.  The father in the book had a best friend who was always coming over – just like my Dad – and, much like my father’s buddy, the best friend was an excellent cook.  At the end of the story, the girl’s dad admits that Greg is more than just a friend…

I couldn’t just come out and ask him though.  My father wasn’t that kind of person.

Two years passed.  I studied every reaction, made note of anything that could hint at some kind of clear-cut answer.  Was that hug they shared a little too close?  Why was the best friend using his spoon to give my Dad a taste of his dinner?  As a child, I loved the Harriet the Spy series, and now I had a chance to use those skills for my own research. Sadly, Harriet ends up losing all her friends and as he felt me watching him, my father became increasingly uncomfortable.  Our relationship became fraught, difficult.  He blamed my adolescence but I know now that it was to do with the secret I was making it more and more difficult for him to keep.

(even today, as I write these words, I still feel a chill running up my spine)

Secrets were popular when I was growing up.  Around me everyone had secrets:  secret lovers in other cities, secret children with former flames or personal assistants.  Somehow, though, sexuality was different. 

“I wouldn’t talk like that,” a kid in my seventh grade class retorted when I told him to shut up, “if MY father was like yours.”

The rumour mill in my hometown is a Monster.  Created by bored housewives and perpetuated by their husbands and best friends, it has a life of its own.  Constantly starving for new prey, this Beast feeds off the weak, the deceived, the deceptions. 

My father, forbade me from telling anyone.  I was completely alone bar the one person I confided in.  When someone else hinted at it, I attacked my confidante thinking she had betrayed my trust.

Then there was the day I read a story in Time magazine, written by a girl my age who had sewn a square on the AIDS quilt in memory of her father.  It was a tiny sidebar, a barely noticeable post scriptum, but it changed my life. There were two of us!   

Growing up in a small community was hard for someone like me.  From day 1, I was an outsider – having moved at age six, there was only my mother, my father, my brother and I, when almost everyone else seemed to be related.  I didn’t fit in.  And then there was our family secret.  It took me a long time to find out that everyone knew because nobody talked about it.

The problem with secrets is that the people keeping them are always the last to know when it’s not longer a secret.  You are afraid of every word that comes out of your mouth, of even accidentally alluding to what you know you shouldn’t. You become obsessed with the one thing that’s off-limits. Everything sounds like it could be a tip-off.  

It’s so clear now how deeply this secret affected me and the course of life. 

Secrets are the opposite of healthy.  They sit like a knot in your stomach, clamping down on your digestive system and your ability to openly love. 

My first period, which I got while on vacation with my dad. The time(s) when my boyfriends were older than his. The tasteless meals, the charred BBQs, the people I met, the Thanksgiving when he wore a blue shirt with white stars and red and white striped suspenders. The words he uses when referring to my mother or women in general.  His obsession with cars and expressions like "you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink." All of these things are about him, what kind of person he is, what kind of father he is. If you know my father, you know what I'm talking about. But none of this has to do with his sexual preference. And it's about time people realized it.

So I rejoiced this week for New York City.  Because allowing people to get married – regardless of gender, age, class, sexual preference -- is the right thing to do.  But also because I hope and pray that no one ever again needs to grow up with the burden of keeping the kinds of secrets I did, not for their parents, not for themselves.

I leave you with this celebratory green smoothie.

Pride Green Smoothie

Ingredients:
-  1 cup frozen raspberries
-  3/4 cup frozen blueberries
-  1 frozen banana
-  1 handful spicy rocket (arugula)
-  ¼ cup water or more (you need enough so the blender can do its job but this mixture needs to remain thick like ice cream so add 1 T at a time)
-  1 t cacao nibs and coconut flakes (to sprinkle on top, optional)

Instructions:
Blend greens and the water until completely broken down.  Then add the frozen fruit and blend until a thick ice cream like texture forms – you want to do this as fast as possible to ensure it will remain as cold as possible.
Sprinkle cacao nibs and coconut flakes if using.

Go outside, put your feet up, sit in the sun and enjoy with a small spoon, sloooooowly.

Dear Friends;

I was recently reminded in a very real way of how important health is.  If we don’t have our health, nothing else matters.

At 2:30 on Christmas morning, my baby girl woke up screaming.  When I reached over to pick her up, her skin was burning hot and she seemed uncomfortable being touched. 

For the next eighteen hours, DW and I sponged her down, we sang to her, we read every book over and over in an attempt to get her temperature down and make her comfortable.  She was terrified, and when her fever shot up to 40.5 Centigrade (105 Fahrenheit), so were we.  We didn’t eat, we barely spoke.

It was Christmas, but the gifts we had bought for everyone, the food I had cooked for our family meal – suddenly none of it mattered.  The only thing we could think about was getting her well again.

Today, almost a week later, she is back to her self.  She is squawking, chirping, singing, happily eating her apples, oranges and broccoli.  And although neither DW nor I are particularly superstitious, we are knocking on so much wood, I’m starting to see grooves in the furniture.

Over the past seven months, I have questioned everything: Am I overdressing her?  Am I under dressing her?  Am I feeding her too much?  Too little?  Am I starting solids too early?  Too late?  Is she happy?  Am I a good mother?  Is she learning all my bad habits? 

But that day, watching my baby girl in pain, I didn’t doubt or think or analyze.  I simply did.  And feeling her settle in my arms offered a little bit of comfort. 

So here it is, dear friends, the dawn of 2011.  May it be happy, fun-filled, fulfilling, a good laugh, inspired, inspiring, beautiful, surprising.  Most of all, may it be a healthy year for you and your loved ones.

Be well and enjoy

Gabriela

P.S.  Have I mentioned green smoothies before?  Here is the one that has kept me going this week:

Juice:
1 bunch kale or cavalo nero
2 beetroots

Blend the juice with:
2 bananas
1 Tablespoon almond butter
1 T Dr. Schulze's Superfood (optional)
raw honey (optional, to taste – add 1 t at a time as the bananas make this very sweet)

The smoothie tastes very “green” so only adventurous souls should venture here, but it’ll give you energy for hours and hours.