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Snowy days

by Cate on February 3, 2013 · 13 comments

Today Jason made his weekly pilgrimage to the Barnes & Noble cafe to work on his National Board certification in peace. A snowy day and an inspiring post by Jamie reminded me that intentional mothering might as well start with a day at home.

While the kids played in the kitchen, I made myself a cup of tea, kneaded a batch of whole wheat bread dough, and set it out to rise.

I wrapped James for his nap – he was asleep before I finished knotting.

When he woke up, I peeled sweet potatoes for a sweet potato casserole. I’ve created a healthier version of my mom’s classic recipe, and we like to eat it as a breakfast dish.

We played dominoes.

We read. Lots and lots.

And while Simone shared her Duplos with James, I wrote a letter to my best friend.

Sometimes, in the hustle and bustle of keeping a household running smoothly with children, I forget that the laundry and meals and mopped floors aren’t really the point. They’re necessary jobs, of course, but that doesn’t mean they should take first priority. There’s value in slowing down, in being there. This evening I wrapped James in a quick rebozo, and while usually I would stand at the counter checking my email while swaying him to sleep, I paced the dimming bedroom as his warm little cheek nodded against my chest. A difference of five minutes…but what a difference it made to me.

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Making my own peace

by Cate on January 7, 2013 · 5 comments

in Home,Simplicity

Jason was working late, on the heels of a restless night and an unusually busy morning. By mid-afternoon, I was exhausted. I set Simone up on the couch with a blanket and turned on the television. I wrapped James onto my back, paced until he fell asleep, and stood at the counter making a list of the month’s dye orders.

Suddenly, I realized that aside from the sounds of Arthur coming from the family room, the house was quiet. I took a peek. Simone was huddled into the folds of the special zoo quilt, her head on the sofa’s armrest, eyes closed. Napping. My preschooler hasn’t taken daily naps since she was a year old, and has hardly napped at all since she was two. I wasn’t about to wake her up.

I realized that I needed to start dinner: a butternut squash and caramelized onion galette from the Smitten Kitchen cookbook. I made the galette dough and prepared the squash for roasting. James woke up and I unwrapped him so he could play on the floor. He was quiet and happy while I sliced onions and put them in a pan to caramelize. The kitchen smelled of butter and cooking onions. Outside, a schoolbus stopped and children departed. I could hear their muted shouts, the soft rumble of the bus departing.

On the weekends sometimes, we stay with my husband’s parents. They live on a sizable portion of land, and it’s so quiet that when a car speeds past on the highway, we all turn our heads. On those visits, we leave our laptops behind. We sit on the couch and rest. We let my husband’s mom serve us tea and snacks. We read. We take walks around the lake. And I always wind up telling Jason that I want to move out to the country.

But it suddenly occurred to me, as I cooked dinner in a quiet house, that it wasn’t living in the country I wanted. It was peace. And I can make it myself, simply by closing the computer. The children won’t always nap, of course. I won’t always enjoy cooking dinner. But striving to be fully present? I can do that.

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Less is More

by Cate on November 9, 2012 · 3 comments

in Family,Home,Simplicity

I am sitting in my living room with James asleep on my back. Simone is playing on the rug with her Duplos, building a “bunny cage.” The coffee table plays host to a hardbound book of fairy tales, a hot cup of sweet milky tea, and a knitted gnome. The front windows are adorned with paper chain garlands, in fall colors. Outside, our maple tree blazes orange and red above the rustic wooden birdhouse Simone built with her grandfather.

These are the things and moments I want to hold onto.

Since I was a little girl I have kept a journal. (Jason loves to tease me about the page from one I kept when I was seven, which says simply “I LOVE CATS!!!!!!!!” amidst a flurry of kitten stickers). I use them as free therapy and as a record of my days and life. I write down sweet things my children say, what the weather’s like, that I cooked a particularly delicious stew, wise words from my Nana’s letters.

I don’t write down that we went to Target and bought a whosit and a whatsit and three items from the dollar bin. I don’t write down that I spent a couple hours getting into political arguments on Facebook.

Because those things aren’t what I cherish about my life.

I don’t sugarcoat. If I’m feeling tested by my children or angry with my husband (or myself), I’ll write it down, and examine how to move past it. But generally, the material things and wasted time simply aren’t worthy of remembrance. They’re not what pops into my mind when I remove the cap of my pen.

The sleeping baby, the playing child, the dappled autumn light on the hardwood floor, the dozing cats, the fairy tales, the tea, the cornflower blue sky, the quiet…those are the things I feel urged to record. Not the stuff.

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In the woods, on the sidewalks, and living our ideal life

by Cate on October 29, 2012 · 7 comments

in Family,Home

“And I dreamed your dream for you, and now your dream is real.”

-Dire Straits

My husband’s parents live in the country.

Their property is ringed with forest, limestone cliffs peeking through the foliage. On our last visit, Jason and I walked a craggy path through the trees. Our son napped on my back, and on the shore of the lake our daughter flew a rainbow kite with her grandmother. The woods held that precisely autumnal smell of decay, and all was quiet. My husband and I kissed among the flame-colored leaves.

Yesterday we took an afternoon jaunt to our old neighborhood. The wind was brisk and the sky was a pale shade of pewter. We stopped into the coffeeshop for a treat, ordered hot chocolate with whipped cream for our 3-year-old. She dropped her cup outside on the sidewalk, its contents spilling onto the concrete. I could have cried for her and the ruin of such a happy thing. Instead, we returned to the coffeeshop for another cup and Jason carried it while Simone danced along the sidewalks, flopping down into the fallen leaves like a cat. I found myself wishing that solving our children’s hardships could always be as easy as buying another cup of hot chocolate, and holding it out of harm’s way.

Jason and I chatted, and pointed out the rotund wandering felines, and peered surreptitiously at a pre-foreclosure we’d spotted online. We’d always wanted our children to grow up there, to play on the wide sidewalks. Home.

For a couple years now we have been holding out for something better. Instead of living our ideal life now, wherever we are, we’ve been waiting for our ideal circumstances. We preferred walking in our old neighborhood, so we don’t do it much here. We preferred browsing our old library, so we don’t do it much here. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.

We are finally admitting that we are ready for changes, that the location of our home is more important to our happiness than we thought. And so we are moving toward moving, looking at real estate listings, calculating our savings.

But for the time being I am going to bring my children to the library, and walk to the park, and bake cranberry nut bread in our not-quite-bright-enough kitchen.

{ 7 comments }

Slowness

by Cate on October 2, 2012 · 3 comments

in Home,Recipes

One of my very favorite things about autumn is how the season lends itself to slowness.

Summertime is always harried in our house. Despite our plans to do “nothing” all season, our calendar is pockmarked with last-minute notations. It’s go go go, places to be and people to see. Come August, Jason removes his backpack from the hook on the inside of the office closet door. He asks me questions about lesson plans. We shop for clothing. We ask ourselves how it is that school is starting already. We pout a little.

Although I adore having my husband home all summer, fall is truly something else. There are long rainy mornings perfect for reading on the couch, or for building a boat out of pillows and the mop (topped with a pillowcase sail, of course). There’s apple butter to cook in the big Dutch oven, the warm spicy scent filling the house all day long. There are walks to take, burnished leaves fluttering onto the sidewalks, and scarves to wear. There are warm days with sunshine the color of honey, and dreary days with a stabbing wind. There are windows to open and Halloween costumes to make and potato soup to eat.

All of this is to say that I’ve been feeling quieter lately.

Farmhouse Apple Crumble – adapted from Love Soup

Ingredients:
for the apples-
2 lbs apples, peeled, cored, and sliced into large chunks
3 Tbs fresh lemon juice
1/4 cup white sugar
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground nutmeg

for the crumble-
1/2 cup unbleached white flour
1/4 cup white sugar
1/4 cup ground flaxseeds
3/4 cup rolled oats
6 Tbs cold unsalted butter, sliced
Pinch of sea salt

Directions:
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees and butter a 9-inch square baking pan. Inside, combine the apples with the lemon juice, 1/4 cup sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. In a food processor or stand mixer, combine the flour, 1/4 cup sugar, 1/4 cup flaxseed, oats, sliced butter, and a pinch of salt. If using a processor, pulse for 30 to 40 seconds. If using a mixer, mix on medium-low. The mixture should look like a coarse meal starting to clump together. There shouldn’t be large chunks of butter.

Push the crumble into a rough mass, then take a bit at a time and, well, crumble it on top of the apples. Bake for 40 to 55 minutes, until the topping is light golden brown and the juice is bubbling around the edges.