Full-bellied livin'

More and more, I am giving credence to the notion that our uninhibited selves manifest in our children. Or at least that's what we see when we look at them.
A stellar example Monday night: (Caveat: This is what happens when your husband finds himself unemployed for the first day in a two-week stretch between jobs, for the first time in nearly two decades and home, alone, all day.) We decide to take Josie to a national, sit-down restaurant chain fondly parodied in Glee as Breadsticks.

It was her pre-first birthday party and my pre-last day at work party and our pre-moving celebration and an excuse for my husband to get out of the house.

Josie gleefully ate said breadsticks, mashed potatoes, chicken and cheese tortellini. And then? She passed out. Cold. In the car. Full belly. Heater on. Oh yeah.

Only a child would have such confidence and shamelessness and joie de vivre as to eat carbs, forgo vegetables, guzzle drinks, wave at strangers and talk with full mouths and not feel that's in any way bad. It's also good that those people have parents so they don't do that all the time.
But we can take lessons from children in how to find and enjoy the good things.
Eat up those fleeting pleasurable moments and then enjoy a full-bellied rest.

I'm baaaaack!

Miss me? My man and I got back today from a well-deserved respite in Lucea, Jamaica. (Sighhh...) Originally, the getaway was timed to celebrate my upcoming birthday, but we ended up NEEDING it. We're planning a move to another state, trying to sell our house in — shall we say — a not-so-good market and moving on to other jobs (I still have to find mine, gulp!). Plus we have a cruising, hungry, teething, adorable despot running our household.
It was my first time away from the baby for more than one night. I woke up the first morning feeling...uh, what's the word...rested? I hadn't said that in so long my lips almost forgot how to form the sounds.
My parents kept Josie for the five days we were abroad. They're still so in love with grandchild No.1 that they still think of babysitting as a pleasure and a privilege. Shhhhh...let us let them keep thinking that as long as possible.
And, yeah, I was nervous leaving my lamb for so long even though she was staying with the people who raised me (I mean, I turned out OK, right? RIGHT!?). And, yeah, everything went well. And, yeah, somethings they didn't do as well as Mommy and Daddy. But dang it if somethings they didn't do better  — namely getting Josie to eat more table food.
Whenever I spoke to my parents on the phone my questions always went in this order: How is she sleeping? What is she eating?
I let them feed Josie. I sent her with snacks and formula, but her main meals came from them. Looking back on it, I think that's the ultimate sign of trust.
Here's what I learned from my elders:
1. Parboil sweet potatoes in natural orange juice and mash. The OJ gives them a little sweetness but is way healthier than brown sugar or marshmallows, and it also adds vitamin C.
2. Make real oatmeal. At 11 months, Josie can handle the real stuff, which I imagine also tastes better than the pasty, high-polished baby oatmeal we've been giving her.
3. Fresh pineapple cores (you know the fibrous, hard, throw-away centers of the fresh-cut pineapple in the produce section) make excellent teethers. Baby can scrape some off just a little of the sweet, tart fleshy fruit but can't bite chunks big enough to choke on.
4.  Puree cooked vegetables and hide them in meatloaf and meatballs, a strategy also known as the sneak. My dad made Josie a turkey loaf and she LOVED it.
5. All babies love mashed potatoes. 'Nuf said.
And, as a side note, here's what I learned in Jamaica:
1. You can eat callaloo for breakfast. And it's gooooood.
2. Never go against Canadians (in drinking games) when integrity is on the line.
3. Food really does taste better when your toes are buried in sand.
4. Chicken patties! Chicken patties! Chicken patties!
5. Feral cats love jerk chicken.

Mommy's little baby loves cornbread, cornbread

My southern belle had a down home feast Sunday night. I'm talking pinto beans and cornbread, y'all.

And judging by her face and hands and shirt, she loved it.

Then again, it's hard not to love my husband's homemade cornbread. Just ask Josie.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RtkbHO7IDVI

And look! She has her Braves shirt on. It don't get more southern.

P.S. I did it! Pshew. I'm s-m-r-t.

It's in the blood

Mommy's little Fressack

My paternal grandmother, Nana, who grew up in the Bronx always speaks to us in her own (perhaps made up) language. And per our culture, the vocabulary has several words for food and people who annoy us. The word I most remember and most use myself is "fress." As in to chow down. I fress, you fress, he/she/it fresses, Let's fress! It's something our family does well. It's in the blood.

And because we are Polacks, there are two subtypes of our people: Fressacks and Pissacks. (You can probably figure the difference out on your own, sans explanation. If not, you may be what my Nana refers to as a hossesfootya. I'm sorry.)

So I'm happy to report my daughter is a Fressack. Case in point, my parents are in town this weekend and we had dinner plans. I asked my folks where they wanted to eat (as if that's a question that needs asking) and, of course, they say the local Indian joint. (Man, we eat a lot of Indian for Polacks. Maybe there's a story in the bloodline I'm not aware of. OK. Back on track).

So nine-month-old daughter is in her high chair munching away on blueberry-flavored puffs and the occasional spoonful of turkey squash dinner until THE ADULTS' FOOD COMES.

And she's freakin' out. Quick like a ninja her tiny paws are grabbing handfuls of basmati rice drenched in Goan curry sauce off my poor father's plate. I'm watching in slow-mo, powerless to cut her off before she's jammed a few long grains into her gullet.

Pshew! Close call. But now, she's pissed. So to appease the raging Fressack, I offer a sacrificial spoonful of plain rice. Surely, she can handle that. Boy, does she!

She starts delicately extracting single grains and then expressly adopts the shovel strategy. Curiosity piqued, I gingerly approach her with a small spoonful of unnatural red but oh-so-delicious butter chicken sauce. She takes it in without even looking up. Smacks her lips as if to say "Yep, that's good" and continues shoveling rice.

"Hey, watch this," I warn my parents (isn't that how disasters start?). I offer up another spoonful. This time, Josie looks up.

"Oh! Oh! She wants water," my mother saws, brows knitted, ready to douse the baby.

Smack. Smack.

"No. I think she likes it," my dad says. "Do it again."

I agree to one last bite (I don't want to risk an upset tummy in the name of flavor exploration). Suffice to say, she was 'bout it, 'bout it.

In fact, I'm pretty sure when Josie's old enough to comprehend race and nationality, she may be quite disappointed to discover she's not from the Indian subcontinent. Hopefully, she'll be sated knowing she's not a Pissack.