Friday, November 19, 2010

The Brownie Debacle

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 9


Milo takes after his mother in that he has managed to stretch his birthday celebration over an entire week.  Today is the day we are bringing goodies to his school so that he can celebrate with his classmates.  I asked him if brownies were okay, thinking this would be the easiest route.  Cupcakes require a level of detail orientation that does not run through my veins, and besides, I don’t have a cupcake pan.

“Sure,” Milo responded.

“Can I come to the party, too?” C.C. asked.

“Well, it’s during the school day, and you’ll still be in class,” I told her.

“Nikolaj went to his brother’s party at school.”

“Well… Milo, do you want C.C. to come?”

“Yup.”

“If it’s okay with Miss Melissa, it’s okay with me.”

My children do a great job of imitating the Hatfields and the McCoys most days.  Milo, like every other younger sibling I know, has perfected the art of annoying his sister just to the point that she goes over the line, while his hands stay clean.  Just last night, after we’d sent them to their room to put on their pajamas, Milo emerged, crying:

“What happened?” Alec asks.

“C.C. bit me in the butt!” he wails, tears streaming down his cheeks.

C.C., of course is right behind him.  “He was being a big fat meany-head!” she yells, in defense.

“Did you bite him in the butt?” Alec asks.

She looks down at the floor. “Yes.”

“Go to your room and take 5,” Alec says. 

“At least I tell the truth!” she shouts, as she stomps down the hall.

Alec turns to Milo.  “Milo, what did you do to make C.C. think you were being a big fat meany-head?”  (As if any kid who has just managed to get his sister sent to her room will admit anything.)

“Nothing,” he replies.  Of course.  Note his strategies:  Commit your crimes where there are no witnesses.  Take no prisoners.  Admit nothing.

If you are a younger sibling, an older sibling, or a parent, I am quite certain that you could write your own version of this script, direct from your lived experience.

 But when it comes right down to it, they’ve got each others’ backs. I know in my gut that C.C. wants to be there for Milo’s celebration at school, and not only because she gets to leave her class and eat brownies.  And Milo wants her there.  They are proud of each other.  And they are there for each other.  This gives me great comfort.

Although I love to bake and almost always bake from scratch, when it comes to brownies I usually use a mix.  My college roommate Anne-Marie became a chef after we graduated, and maintained that she had never found a brownie recipe that was as good as the mix she used.  I took this as carte blanche to use brownie mix, guilt free, for the rest of my days.

However, it’s not so easy to find brownie mix in Spain.  There are a couple of places that sometimes stock it, but not always.  It just so happened that we passed a cute little bakery in Madrid, and I popped in to see what they had.  Cupcakes in the glass case—the cupcake craze that has swept the US has begun to make its way across the Atlantic—and brownie mix on the shelves!  I bought a box.

Last night after the kids were in bed, I set about making the brownies.  The box conveniently had the instructions in English, but with metric temperatures and measurements, which also works for our current situation.  But there was a big sticker listing the ingredients in Spanish covering the part of the box that told what kind of pan to use, and how long to bake them.  Having had much experience with brownie baking, I greased a pan that approximated a 13 x 9 x 2 incher, and figured I’d start checking them after 20 minutes.

I mixed the batter with the eggs, the water, the oil.  Did you know that when the modern cake mix was invented in 1947, when women were being pushed back into the home after joining the workforce in droves during WWII, all you had to add was water?  (There was an earlier version introduced in the 20s, but it spoiled on the shelves).   It turned out that adding only water was a tad too convenient for the American housewife, so the producers changed the formula so that she would have to add eggs also, thereby making her feel as though she was really baking.  We are a gullible bunch, are we not?

I emptied the contents of my mixing bowl into the pan I had prepared, only to find that the pan was way too big for the amount of mix I had.  I started to laugh maniacally.  Alec, who was cleaning up the kitchen, asked “What’s wrong.” 

“Look!” I said, pointing, and still laughing.

“Huh, that doesn’t look good.”

If memory served me, one box of mix in the states either makes a small pan of thick brownies, or a larger pan of thinner ones.  I briefly considered spreading the mix as best as I could over the entire surface of the large pan.  “They’re only kindergartners,” I thought, “as long as I give them chocolate they won’t know the difference.”  But I quickly realized that I’d end up with brownie flavored crackers, and I might not even be able to extract them from the pan. 

So I found a smaller pan, transferred the batter, and baked them.  The problem was that there was no way I’d have enough.  As Milo had reminded me many times, I needed 19 brownies:  16 for him and his classmates, 2 for the teachers, and 1 for C.C.  I’d be lucky if I got 12.

It was too late to go to any store that would carry brownie mix—another difference between Bar Granja and the Brooklyn Bodega.  So I figured I’d cut my Friday workday short and go to the Fabulous Baking Company—another outpost of the cupcake invasion—after my meetings.  I was pretty sure they carried brownie mix.

I arrived at about 1 pm, with only two hours to purchase the mix, get home, bake the brownies, and get them to cool enough to cut.  At this point, I was feeling a little like Kate, the protagonist in Alison Pearson’s I Don’t Know How She Does It, which my friend Anne sent me right after C.C.’s birth.  It arrived when I was lying in bed with cabbage leaves stuffed into my nursing bra because my breasts were like boulders that hurt when I breathed, and I could not sit down without positioning an inflatable ring just so on my chair.  Kate is a working mother, and her struggles resonated a bit too much.  Anyway, one of my favorite scenes in the book finds Kate in her kitchen past midnight, having stopped at the grocery store on her way home.  She is supposed to send her child to school with baked goods the next day, and she has bought a cake or something at the market.  She’s standing there in her kitchen, in her office clothes, banging on the cake in the hope that if it does not look so perfect, it can pass for homemade. I cracked up when I read it.

I scan the shelves at the Fabulous Baking Company, and I see cake mixes, and cookie mixes, but no brownie mix.  Until I notice a separate display of beautifully packaged mixes, complete with wooden spoons tied onto them with gingham bows, that are clearly meant to be purchased as gifts.  One is a brownie mix—s’more brownies, to be exact—graham cracker bottoms and marshmallow tops.  It’s my only option, so I take it to the register and hand it over along with my credit card.  My jaw nearly dropped to the floor.  In fact, I cannot even tell you the price the clerk recited as she swept my card through, because it’s too embarrassing.   Suffice it to say I paid a bloody fortune.   But what choice did I have? Sometimes I really do feel like a stranger in a strange land. And I did not even use the marshmallows or the graham crackers because I knew that if I showed up with half plain brownies and half s’more brownies, all of the kids would want one or the other.  I’m no dummy.

I put the pan in the freezer to quick cool them after they came out of the oven, hoping they would not defrost the chicken nuggets underneath.  After an hour, I had to chisel them out. But they tasted good. And the kids loved them.  In fact, they ate them so fast I’m not sure they even tasted them.  And Milo had both his parents there, and his sister, and all of his new buddies.  So all was right with the world.  And by the time C.C.’s birthday rolls around, I’ll know better.

Photo of the Day

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Mystery solved...


Last night, on the late side, after I had already posted, Sulma returned our call.  It turns out that on Tuesday, when she came to clean, she found Cyclone on the rug near the fish tank, dried up and dead as dead can be. 

I still can’t believe he got out through that very small opening in the tank lid.  It almost seems as if he had to really want to escape.  But probably it was just a freak thing.  What an awful way to go, though—kind of like drowning in reverse.

So Fishy is off the hook.  We said a short prayer for Cyclone, thanking him for being our pet and for being a good friend to Fishy, and we wished him peace on the next phase of his journey.  Then we apologized to Fishy for thinking he had eaten his friend.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

The Case of the Missing Fish

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 9


Cyclone is missing.  When we came in last night from Madrid, we dropped our things in the entryway and turned on the lights so that we could check on our fish.  We had left them with one of those big food block things that dissolves into the water over the course of several days.

Well.  We looked into the tank, and could only find Fishy!  It’s not a very big tank, and there really is no place to hide, but still we looked and looked, as though we expected him (or her) to appear out of nowhere. He didn’t. 

“Where’s Cyclone?” the kids asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” I said.  “It’s a mystery.”  I looked a little more closely.  “Fishy does look a little fat, though.”

“Yeah,” C.C. said.  “His belly is HUGE.”

Are goldfish cannibals?  I don’t have a clue.  I called Alec, who went straight from the train station to an event he had to attend.  I got his voicemail.

I thought C.C. would be more upset, since it was her fish that appeared to have bitten the dust, but she seemed fine.   I made some pasta, and the three of us sat around the kitchen eating it.

“So,” I said.  “What do you guys think happened to Fishy?”

“I don’t want to talk about it” said Milo.

“Maybe Fishy did eat him,” I mused.

“I SAID I  don’t… want… to… talk about it!”

“Okay, I’m sorry, buddy.”

“You’re right, Mama, his belly does look super big.”

Milo, fed up at this point, stomped out of the kitchen and into his bedroom.  I followed him, and he was really mad.   I felt awful for having laughed.  Maybe he felt badly because we insinuated that his fish is a murderer.

I got the kids to bed, and Alec called me from his dinner.  His theory?  Cyclone jumped.  I find this hard to believe.  The tank is covered with a Plexiglas cover, and there is only a very small triangular opening at one corner.  Also, he has never demonstrated any suicidal tendencies in the past.  It seems that a jump would require a concerted effort.

“Look under the rug, and under that big armchair,” he prods.

“You do it, when you come home,” I say.

Still, when we hang up, I peek tentatively under the furniture.  No sign of Cyclone.

When Alec came home, he searched the room in which the tank lives.  “You know,” he said, “He could have jumped pretty far.”

“Are you kidding me?  For him to have gotten out in the first place and then to do the long jump?  I don’t think so.”

“Maybe Sulma swept him up,” Alec said.  Sulma cleans our house for us.

“She left a note about the laundry, and she didn’t say anything about the fish.  Don’t you think she would have mentioned it?”

“I guess so.”

We went to bed with the mystery unsolved.
 

Photo of the Day

Does this fish look like a murderer to you?

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Home again, home again

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 8


Yesterday we got smart and started out the day at the Reina Sofia, while the kids were still fresh.  I really enjoyed it.  I think for all of us it’s a better fit than the Prado.  The museum’s focus is modern Spanish art.  It is a fabulous collection, and its jewel in the crown is Picasso’s Guernica.  Guernica is one of those works of art that, no matter how many times you’ve seen it reproduced on coffee mugs and postcards and other tchotchkes, still packs a wallop.  Even the kids stood looking, transfixed, for awhile, and then asked us many questions about war and why anybody would start such a thing.  One of the truly valuable things about being a parent is having your kids ask you these basic, unanswerable questions.  It helps you remember the importance of qualities like humanity, and compassion, which are sometimes hard to call up on a daily basis.

The day was beautiful and sunny, and we decided to check out some neighborhoods we’d heard were good for walking around.  So we took the metro to Malasaña, and found a playground in a plaza for the kids to run around in while we people-watched.  From there we walked through Chueca, which has lots of cool shops and restaurants.  We poked into a few and then had a yummy lunch at La Kitchen—I had a zucchini soup and pasta with mushrooms (more mushrooms!) followed by a jasmine flavored, carmelized arroz con leche.  Alec had a dish of sautéed mushrooms, and then a plate of poached eggs, brioche toast and foie gras.  The kids?  Hamburgers.  I need to make some arroz con leche.  And some mushroom risotto, before the mushrooms disappear.  Both, for me, are pure comfort food, and that is what I crave when the air gets nippy.

We retreated to our hotel for a siesta, and then went out again around 6:30 for more exploring.  We started out at Valor for chocolate and churros—to sugar up the kids before our long walk—and then walked to old Madrid, and then to another neighborhood called La Latina.  We were partly in search of a lecheria—an old milk shop.  Casa Lucas was closed by the time we arrived, so we just took photos of the kids in front of its tiled front sign.  Madrid is full of beautiful and elaborately tiled interiors and exteriors.

Alec gave his talk today.  It was gorgeous out, so the kids and I elected not to go to the famous monastery right next to our hotel—you could only visit it on a 50 minute tour—and returned to Retiro Park instead.  On the way back we popped into the shop at the Thyssen Bornemisza which has a lot of jewelry and other things made by Spanish artisans.

C.C. voted for lunch at a Japanese place where you grab your food from magnetized conveyor belts that pass by the tables, which was fun and pretty tasty.  And now we are on the Ave, on our way back to Barcelona, which is starting to feel like home.

Photos of the Day



Sunday, November 14, 2010

Milo turns 6!

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 8


Six years ago right now I woke up feeling an odd but familiar stirring in my abdomen, and realized Alec and I should probably cancel the brunch we had planned to have for some friends.  We were living in DC—our last sabbatical before this one.  Milo’s due date was November 26, my mother’s birthday, but he decided to show up early.

We spent yesterday walking the Grand Via and exploring the Parque del Retiro, which is magnificent.  We found two excellent playgrounds and saw a puppet show—El Soldadito del Plomo (the Little Lead Soldier)—at the park’s sweet outdoor puppet theater.  It was packed with local kids, their parents and grandparents. 

The Prado loomed nearby so, even though the kids were starting to drag, we coaxed them inside, where we basically sprinted through the Velazquezes and Goyas, and took a quick turn through a Rubens show.  Even with all of the dogs, horses, and naked butts, pre-20th century art does not do much for C.C. and Milo.

Madrid is much colder than Barcelona—down vests and fleece gloves weather.  The trees and plants are much more reminiscent of New York, and the leaves are all turning.  So we are all getting a dose of autumn, which makes sense somehow.  After a siesta, Milo got his first birthday present—tickets to see Atletico Madrid (one of the local futbol teams) with Alec last night.  Diego Forlan plays for Madrid, and—according to Alec and Milo—is one of the greats playing today.  So they were pretty excited.  C.C. and I decided to pass—we are both fair weather sports fans.  We watched a movie in our room, and went out for some ramen noodles and then found another chocolateria where we had cups of dark hot chocolate topped with mounds of fresh whipped cream.

Everyone got to bed pretty late.  Fortunately, like any good hotel, this one can be shut up tight as a tomb at night, with metal shades and blackout curtains.  So when Milo crawled into our bed at 5:30 this morning asking if he could open presents, we told him it was the middle of the night and he needed to sleep some more. He did, for three more hours.

Conversation overheard from our sleeping loft after the kids had gotten up:

Milo:  “I think they’re getting up.”

C.C.:  “Yeah, so that means you can open your presents.”

Milo: “Idea coming up!  I’m going to get into my birthday suit!”

C.C.:  “Great idea, Milo.  Me, too!  Can you wear your socks with your birthday suit?  My feet are kind of chilly.”

Milo:  “Nope!  You have to be COMPLETELY naked!”

C.C.:  “Okay, let’s do it!”

The day turned out to be chilly and rainy.  Milo wanted to go to a museum that had dinosaurs, so we took the metro to the Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales.  It’s not even in the guide books, which tells you something right there.  But a colleague of mine who lives in Madrid had recommended it.  It is an old style science museum, full of glass cases loaded with specimens—38 examples of the same kind of butterfly, that kind of thing.  Kind of like what you’d expect Charles Darwin’s home office to look like, on a grand scale.  Unfortunately, when we arrived we learned that the dinosaur section was closed for renovation.  We rallied.  Milo wanted Alec to take pictures of almost everything.

Yesterday we asked Milo what his ideal birthday dinner would be—what three foods he would most like to have.  His answer?  Spaghetti with red sauce, “big noodles” with red sauce, and pizza.   So in honor of the day we had lunch at an Italian restaurant, where Milo enjoyed a big bowl of spaghetti Bolognese.  The food was really good.  The waitress scrounged up a candle in the shape of the number “2” to stick in his piece of chocolate cake, and sang to him after which the other patrons clapped.  It was really sweet.

We headed back to the hotel for a quick rest before going to a children’s theater to see “Pinocho.”  One of the things that’s been really nice about being in Madrid is that everything is in Spanish!  When we go to museums and children’s programs in Barcelona, they are usually in Catalan.  Being here has made me realize that I often have to do double translations—guessing what the Catalan to Spanish translation might be, and then translating to English.  This is much easier by comparison.

So Milo has been duly feted, without too much jealousy from his sister.  I asked him whether it felt any different to be six than it had to be five.  “A little bit,” he replied.  “How does it feel different?” I asked.  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.  And that was that.

Photos of the Day