The Very First Thanksgiving.

It didn't take long for Paige to decide what she wanted to be in our Thanksgiving play. I described in full detail my idea for the snowflake costume, but I'm convinced she only heard two words..."adskljeyasdfld glitter alsfljfa lsdfljd al;sdjfl;adsjf wands..."

After school yesterday, she walked in to find sparkled glitter everywhere. I think she wondered if her dreams were actually coming true. (She later asked me why we can't always have glitter on the floor?!) I showed her the finished product, and she sighed, "Oh, they are soooooooooo beautiful," in a dreamy, princessy sort of voice.

And I must give a shout out (after all, this is my blog, I guess I can shout out to whomever I please!) to Megan. She wasn't feeling so hot and hadn't been to school in two days. But, in the name of professionalism, she rubbed on some red lipstick and pink blush, and conquered her role as the pilgrim mother, Sarah. I was really proud of her.

And then there was Mitchell.

Serious, serious, Mitchell.

He was a champ. He played two roles: an ocean wave and an Indian. He killed both. His mood raged like wildfire several times during the play, hanging from my leg backstage, crying, begging for a kiss and whining for me to hold him. But, when duty called, he bucked up and did what needed to be done. What a guy!

And, as mentioned in a previous post, there was a reluctant pilgrim. And that would be Matt. Due to a last minute change in the cast, I had no choice but to inform him he would be playing one of the lead roles. He had no time to even read the script until five minutes before the play. But he put on his hat, tucked his pants into his socks and transformed himself into the perfect pilgrim. Couldn't have done it without him.

All the kids were so adorable and did such a great job. I was really proud of them. I'm so thankful to have so many great friends who helped out and participated. It was a great night!

Thank you to all who participated.
Also, a huge thank you to those who came and supported all of our kids. You made our kids feel so special. (Our babysitter actually made signs with my kids names on them, cheering them on.)

I was unable to take any photos, so a big thanks to Lynsi for these pics (click to enlarge). If anyone else has any pictures, please send them my way. I missed the whole thing (!) and would love to see more.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Second Thoughts.

I have always loved that Matt and I are spontaneous. Last minute weekend getaways. Unplanned vacations. Surprise dates.

Love it.

But I'm starting to think that spontaneous home remodels aren't quite so romantic.

My living room looks like a storage shed. Sawdust is everywhere. My counters are covered with paint cans and brushes. And my "no shoes" policy is now out the window, as my house feels more like a dirty warehouse than a home.

Don't get me wrong. I am excited about this change. But, maybe, perhaps, I'm wondering, if we just might be in over our heads. I'm sick. Megan is sick. Mitchell woke up all night (might have been the saw spinning at 11:30pm...). Jane woke up at 5:30. Matt's running on empty between his duties at work and at home...and filling in as a last minute cast member of a Thanksgiving play I'm putting on tomorrow night (email me if you'd like to come!), and...deep breath... we have company coming on Tuesday.

It's all sort of exhilarating though, I mean, the challenge of it all. Racing against the clock like this is right up my alley. I mean, I prefer doing it without a grumbling tummy and splitting headache, but still, it's fun.

So, maybe I do love the spontaneity of it all. I know it will all be worth it in the end. But in the meantime...anyone have a dump truck I could borrow?

Too Tired For Words.

I'm just warning you now, there is no story to this post. No moral. No laughs. In fact, if I were you, I'd probably stop reading right now and go find something more interesting to do.

That being said, I want to write something, but I'm just too plain exhausted.

Here's why.

Saturday Matt and I woke up needing some change. It's been coming for weeks now. I'm burned out (didn't even make a fancy breakfast on Saturday morning, which says a lot!) and so is he (hasn't eaten his nightly bowl of 9:30 ice cream in four days! I think he's just too tired to get up and get it!) And since Paris is out of the question, we had to search for some excitement on the home front.

Literally.

Around 9:00am we stared into the pit of our home, the den, and cringed for the last time.

By 12:00pm Matt (and his handyman apprentice Mitchell) had cleaned out Home Depot.

By 4:45pm, all six of us were eating Costco hot dogs, pizza and frozen yogurt for dinner. (I actually ate all three.) Totally irrelevant, but worthy of mention.

At 8:00pm, with more joy than I can possibly describe, Matt and I hauled a large roll of dingy carpet out to the dumpster. It was sort of romantic, out there under the stars, hurling that piece of yuck (too tired for a real word) into the trash.

By 11:30pm we'd scraped up glue, yanked out nails, hauled out furniture (including the SAME wire-basket desk I've had since I was twelve!), ripped off baseboards, watched DIY videos, discovered some rust and flinched at several miniature, thin, empty egg shells hidden behind a wall.

What a night.

The next day included more demolition, which my husband performed in a suit and tie. Also, sort of romantic. Even Mitchell declared watching his dad cut a whole in the wall as one of the all time greats in his life.

By 9:45am today I was staring hopelessly at endless rows of color swatches. I actually had to call my friend for back-up as I'm completely incapable of deciding between, well, anything.

By 2:30pm we were painting.

By 4:30pm Mitchell was bawling. Again, totally irrelevant, but very noteworthy as it lasted a good two hours.

(Mitchell, pre-meltdown.)

By 5:00pm I was dragging this child to furniture stores, searching for the perfect reading chair.

By 7:15pm I was back at Lowe's, staring at more wood. Megan kept picking oak, and Paige just kept twirling in her sequined fairy costume.

Now, here we are, at 9:49pm. Phew. The room is painted and free of egg-shells. Matt is down there, as we speak, sawing wood and installing (or trying to) our new floor. Next come baseboards. And a desk. And a chair. And a lamp. And new photographs, courtesy of yours truly.

And this is why I'm exhausted. Too tired to blog. My brain feels like mush, although, that might be because I've been listening to the Tinkerbell soundtrack all day long.

Literally.

Posts might be sparse this week. But stay tuned for before and (if I'm brave enough) after photos of our new and (yet to be determined) improved room/life.

Also up and coming on the old Grapefruit blog: a glittered snowflake, a reluctant pilgrim, a crashing wave and a young bride.

Now that sounds more interesting, doesn't it?




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KMS, THANK YOU for all of your help today. I would still, twelve hours later, be standing in the paint aisle at Home Depot, chasing Jane, stealing her goldfish and twiddling my thumbs. You are a true friend! (Wanna come back tomorrow?)

Sweet and Sour.

I love Friday because it usually means pizza.

And I love pizza.

But this past Friday, Matt called in the early afternoon with a request. "Can we pleeeeeeease have something besides pizza tonight?"

Had I heard him correctly? No pizza? What would that mean for our family? For our well-being? For our existence?

Offended, I retorted hotly, "Fine. I wasn't even planning on having pizza anyway." Then I opened the fridge and sighed desperately. Nothing inspired me. It was empty.

I wanted pizza.

"So what do you want to eat?" I asked, sulking heavily over the phone.

With an upbeat tone, he replied, "Let's try something new tonight, something different. What about Chinese?"

I perked up at this idea. I love Chinese food. (Actually, is there a food I don't love?) Then he asked, "Will the kids be good if we take them to a restaurant?"

This is the laugh of the century. Will the kids be good? Taking four young children out to dinner is sort of...no, exactly...like childbirth. It's painful, and difficult, and exhausting. But once you've left the restaurant and life has returned to normal, you forget the pain. You forget the struggle. You forget the annoyed looks from neighboring tables. And then, shortly after, when the wounds have healed, you start daydreaming about wanton soup and potstickers, and voila. Back to square one. You find yourself doing it all over again.

I pulled up to the restaurant and delivered my pre-restaurant speech. "Alright guys, here is the restaurant. Now, you know what this means, right?" They all echoed in response, "Restaurant manners!"

We reviewed restaurant manners as we walked across the parking lot. No crying. No yelling. No whining. No screaming. No running. No...No...No... They nodded in agreement.

I wasn't quite convinced, but I really wanted spring rolls. So we forged ahead.

A few footsteps before entering the red doors, Paige fell apart. Big tears, heavy sobs. Something about needing her dog Pinky. I offered solution after solution. (Can you just snuggle with the napkin?) She slowly calmed down and walked inside with a red face, swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

As we sat inside our corner booth, I noticed how quiet this place was. Hardly any music. Hardly any talk. Hardly any noise.

Except for us.

Jane refused her high chair, opting to run across the sofa, one end to the other. Again. And again. And again. Suddenly, she stopped. "Phew," I thought. "She's done."

Wrong.

She stood up, picked up her fork, raised her arm, and with expert kung-fu-street-fighter skill, chucked that fork across the table at lightning speed. It spun perfectly through the air, like Jason Bourne had tossed it himself. With a loud BANG, it missed Matt's head by a thread and crashed into the porcelain dishes.

We were off to a good start.

Things only got worse.

Just as the waitress served our food, Jane vomited. Yep. Vomited. On my hand. On my cell phone (which was supposed to be a distraction, not a landing spot for throw up). I just looked up at the waitress and smiled, hopelessly.

Mitchell rolled along the bench like a tired centipede. Paige cried over the red sauce that gooped over her pork. Megan dissected the spring roll, flake by flake. Everyone whined. And Jane ran wild under the table, around the table, over the table while I tossed out threats of losing fortune cookies like free candy at a parade.

Meanwhile, Matt and I shoveled in handfuls of chow mein (which I'd only ordered for the kids' sake) like culinary athletes, competing for first prize in the "how fast can we get out of here" contest. We begged our waitress for our bill and sat waiting, credit card in hand, on the edge of our seat, for her return.

She delivered the bill and a platter of fortune cookies. Jane spit out her cookie while trying to step from bench to highchair, back and forth like a frog jumping between lily pads. She pointed to every painting on the wall, crying out, "Horse! Dragon! Fish!"

I was finding it difficult to laugh my way through this until Mitchell opened his fortune. You, or one of your friends, will soon be married.

Okay. That was funny. (He thought so too.)

Then, under her breath, with a coy look on her face, Jane said, "She-ay She-ay." That's thank you in Chinese.

That was funny too.

I'm looking forward to pizza next Friday.

Red.

GIVEAWAY: Twirlybird Baby Boutique

Can you imagine your baby wearing shoes like this? I don't even wear shoes this cute. And sadly, neither do my kids. (Do muddy, faded flip flops from convenience stores count?)

Twirlybird Baby Boutique would like to offer the winner of this giveaway a pair of handmade shoes, up to size 18 months. You can select your pair from their website, www.twirlybirdbaby.etsy.com.

Even if you don't have kids with little feet anymore, this is your chance to secure your spot as favorite aunt...babysitter...friend...grandmother...random giver of cute baby shoes...

Rules for giveaway:
-Leave a comment on THIS post (no anonymous entries)
-One entry per person
-You have until Sunday, November 15th at midnight to enter
-Winner will be chosen at random and announced on Monday, November 16th.

Now. About an outfit to go with these shoes...

Yum. Yum. Yum.

Did yesterday's post convince you to plan a picnic?
If so, here is the answer to your "what should I make?" question.

Grapefruit's Steak Sandwich

2 rib eye steaks (about one inch thick)
1 baguette
Arugula, washed and spun dry
Roasted red pepper
Horseradish Mayo (recipe will follow)
Mayonnaise
Lemon
Salt
Pepper
Olive Oil

Oh wow. Now that I've started typing this, my mouth is seriously watering. The flavor of this salty, tender meat is unbelievable. Is 9:30am too early to go make this?

Remove your steaks from the fridge about 30 minutes before you're ready to heat up your kitchen. Let them come to room temperature.

Do you have a grill pan? If so, send it to me. I hate mine. If you don't want to send it to me, then use it for this recipe. Or, if your backyard is not covered in snow, you could grill your steak outside. But I just cook mine in my cast iron skillet, and it turns into crusted, seared perfection.

Heat your cast iron pan over medium-high heat. Rub your steaks with olive oil, then season with cracked pepper and kosher salt. Now, here's the deal. Use a lot of salt. Don't freak out, you won't blow up. Use more than you think looks appropriate. I mean, don't dip your steak in a bowl of salt, but sprinkle a generous amount on both sides. It will pay off in the end.

Place your steaks in your pan and sear them for about 5-7 minutes on each side for medium rare, which is how steak should really be eaten. Make sure you pay attention here because this tip is vital to the success of your sandwich: DO NOT POKE, STAB, LIFT, MOVE OR BREATHE ON YOUR STEAK. Leave it alone. The only time you should touch it is when you flip it, one time. If you can avoid the temptation to tinker with it, you'll end up with a nice crust and tender middle.

Meanwhile, make your horseradish mayo. Add 1/2 cup of mayonnaise, 2 heaping tablespoons of prepared horseradish (don't be scared off by horseradish. It makes this sandwich. One time my step-father poured horseradish down my chocolate milkshake when I wasn't looking. That was not a good surprise. But horseradish with rib eye...that is a good surprise), salt, pepper and a squeeze of fresh lemon juice. Mix together.

Slice your roasted pepper into strips. (Never roasted a red pepper? It's easy. Email me and I'll tell you how. Or google it. But you can buy them pre-roasted in the grocery store.)

Slice open your bread and brush the insides with olive oil. Broil, oiled side up, until golden brown.

When your meat is ready, remove from pan and let it REST on a plate covered in foil. You must let it rest. Seriously. Don't be impatient and slice it open the second you take it out of the pan, you'll lose all of that precious juice. Let it rest for ten minutes, then slice it into thin strips.

Now you're ready to assemble your sandwich. You might just want to skip the assembly and dive in. But it's worth the five seconds longer to put together. I promise! Spread the horseradish mayo onto both sides of the bread. Slap down a bunch of sliced meat. Crack more black pepper on top. Pile on the red peppers. Stack up the arugula. Top it off with the remaining bread and you're ready to go.

If you are taking these on a picnic, then just wrap them in parchment paper. This recipe will make 4-6 sandwiches.

Need a potato salad to go with this? I like this one. My husband says it's the "best thing I've ever tasted in my life." Which frankly hurts my feelings. Really? Of everything I've ever made, he's going with Ina's potato salad? It's not even my recipe! So basically he's cheating on me.

Good luck and enjoy!

A Tale of Two Snobs.

I seriously love picnics. So I'm just going to come right out and say it, before someone leaves a comment stating the obvious: I am a picnic snob.

(At least I'm honest, right?)

Technically, I'm not to blame. My father is also a picnic snob. Well, actually, he is a food snob, which carries over into anything food related: picnics, after school snacks, airplane food... (Have you ever seen anyone actually try to season Kraft Macaroni and Cheese? Like, from a box? When my girls were toddlers, my then 60-something dad stood at the mini-stove in my student apartment, stirring the first batch of mac-n-cheese he'd ever made, actually cracking fresh ground pepper and sea salt into the pan. I had a nice hearty laugh over that one.)

But, truth be told, I loved growing up with a foodie for a dad. Especially on Sundays when we'd head to Stern Grove with picnic basket in tow. We never ate Subway sandwiches or KFC.

And that was just the way I liked it.

We'd stop at some small, quaint grocery store, the kind that only offers baskets instead of carts, and sells things like star fruit and fresh figs. I felt like young Charlie in Wonka's factory. It was magical. All those cuts of aged meat, exotic cheeses, gourmet cookies, fresh fruits. I drooled over everything and loved watching my father order fancy foods with ease and confidence.

He'd okay anything I requested. Always salami. Always fresh berries. Always Orangina. Always swiss chocolate (usually with hazelnuts.) And always, always, always, crusty bread.

We'd leave the shop, our arms full of treasures, then pack up the trunk and head to the park. There were hundreds of people. I loved the smell of the trees. I loved the cool, afternoon air and the green grass. I loved the way I felt amidst the crowd: the sounds, the conversations, the observations. I loved my dad, asleep on his back with his legs crossed and his hands upon his chest. I loved the orchestra, on the stage below, stringing melodies that floated like cheery birds into the air.

I loved everything about our picnics. The food, the atmosphere, the sophistication. The fanciness of it all secretly thrilled my young heart.

It was my favorite pastime with him. (Besides eating, of course.) Still is. Although, he doesn't live in San Francisco anymore. (Sniffle, sniffle.) But we still love to pack up the trunk with blankets, European cheeses and chocolate. We still take our picnics outside, accompanied by live music under a summer sky. We still laugh, and relax, and enjoy each other's company.

Tonight we (my family and I) had a picnic at the park. There wasn't any live music. There were no eucalyptus trees perfuming the air. There wasn't even any grass.

But, as I packed my own gourmet food into my basket, it still felt familiar. I thought of my dad every step of the way. I thought of those lazy hours together on the lawn. I thought about how special I felt with the green light to pick out my own delights. I reminisced about our most recent picnic under the stars, in a summer past, at a Pink Martini concert in Portland.

I still ate salami. Cheese. Orangina. And chocolate.

And I still, after all these years, felt special. And tonight, as I watched my kids toting their favorite sparkly drink around with chocolate smeared across their cheeks, I could tell. They felt special too.

And, in my eyes, that is what it's all about.

(Me, with my father, enjoying a picnic at Stern Grove.)

Bittersweet.

Matt and I have a lot in common.

Bittersweet chocolate is not one of them.

Neither is Paris.

Saturday was a long day. One of the longest. I actually crawled back into bed at 9:30am hoping I could hide, unnoticed, until I was ready to reload and try again.

I quickly realized, with Mitchell bouncing in five minutes later, that my dream of disappearing into the white fluff of my bed was nothing short of just that, a dream.

He lured me back downstairs and I tried my best to shuffle through the day.

I thought maybe eating leftover Ruth's Chris steak for lunch would help.

It didn't.

I thought maybe spinach ravioli for dinner would help.

It didn't.

I thought maybe a secret stash of Milk Duds would help.

It didn't.

It wasn't until 9:30pm that I reached a turning point. The kids were asleep. Matt was gone. And for the first time, in a long time, I found myself alone.

Immediately, I knew how to use my few, precious moments of solitude.

First, I turned on this cd. Ninna Nanna streamed over me like a warm breeze. Instantly, I felt transported to Italy, sitting at a small table in Piazza San Marco, the stars blinking down from the dark sky. I'm sipping hot chocolate, watching the night unfold before me. It's crowded, yet peaceful. The air smells sweet. Strands of outdoor lights dangle above, illuminating the magical canvas around me.

I reached for my favorite, red pot. It makes me happy every time I use it. I don't know, something about the color. And the shiny enamel. And the decadent hot chocolate that comes out of it.

I slowly stirred the milk, the sweet steam warming my hand. Then I whisked in the chocolate. Bittersweet, of course. (I like a more bitter hot chocolate, just like the kind you get in Paris.) They melted together, the milk in the chocolate, the chocolate in the milk. I poured the piping hot goodness into my cup, and took my first sip.

I was back in Paris. Just me. And Matt. Alone, together. It's cold. And grey. I'm wearing a black pea coat and a scarf. We're eating breakfast, croissants and hot chocolate. My fingertips are buttery and my throat is warm. And we're speaking (somewhat rusty) french.

I was content.

Almost.

One thing remained.

I unwrapped my fresh-off-the-press Bon Appetit, opened to page one, and was then completely swept away.

Somewhere between Peppermint Meringue cake and Steak-and-Mushroom Reubens, Matt walked in.

He poured his hot chocolate (with lots of sugar).

He drank his hot chocolate (which he likes lukewarm).

Then, he sighed.

"Drinking hot chocolate in Arizona just isn't the same," he grumbled.

I totally agreed.

And that's when I suggested he whisk me off to Paris. Next week? After Christmas? Spring Break? Permanently?

He rolled his eyes, turned off my music and replaced it with football.

Sigh.

It's a good thing I have lots of bittersweet chocolate on hand.

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Have a good hot chocolate recipe?
Have a secret for disappearing in a tiny house filled with five other people?
Have a convincing argument I can give my husband as to why Paris should be our next trip?
Do tell!!!!