My Daughter Thinks Macaulay Culkin is Her Mom

So, the other night the whole family was backstage at Carnegie Hall.

David produced two nights of Family Guy Sings! there, which was Seth MacFarlane, Mila Kunis, Seth Green, some other folks reading from Family Guy episodes and singing with a full orchestra behind them.

It looked funny and entertaining, although I didn't get to watch much on the TVs in the green room because I was trying to prevent Lucy from stealing all the cherry tomatoes off the catering table with a stray pair of tongs and lobbing them into the sweet and sour sauce meant as dip for the egg rolls.

And there were the 20 different moments where the girls nearly decapitated themselves while wearing their backstage passes dragging down to their knees, which would invariably get caught on something. And then, strangling and crying would happen. And 5 seconds later all would be forgotten, except for the ligature marks around their necks, and they were on a mission to crash every one of the star's dressing rooms and David and I would grab them by their ears, make some lame silent apology that involved eye rolling and dragged them out flailing and mocking us.

But here's the best part of the night and it's about Macaulay Culkin.

David was at the bar in the green room - Don't you love that there are bars in the green room? - and the kids were playing and all of a sudden, Lucy looked around and realized she had no idea who any of the people were around her and she searched the crowd until she saw the back of my head and found me sitting on the coffee table and sort of leaped onto my shoulder and yelled "Mommy!" and everyone turned around and we saw that it wasn't Mommy at all. She had mistaken Macaulay Culkin for me.

Yes, she thought Macaulay Culkin was her Mommy.

And everyone laughed. Because it's funny when your kid thinks the back of Macaulay Culkin's head looks like yours. But probably not as funny for Macaulay Culkin (I like writing his name a lot) who apparently has a back-of-the-head that resembles the back-of-a-head of a middle aged mom. Not what he was going for when he coughed up $350 at the salon.

But Macaulay was a good sport. Lucy was a little embarrassed, at first, and turned all kinds of red, but she quickly forgot about it when she saw that pelting her sister with kernels of corn from the roasted corn salad could be a satisfying experience.

The kids slept until nearly 10 the next morning. They were spent. Lucy fell asleep with her backstage pass still around her neck.

xxoo YM Continue Reading...

I Turn My Back For One Second...

Just putting away the groceries after a run to Costco. Minding my own business. Clearing out the old stuff to make room for the new. La ti da...

And somehow, the cat is in the fridge. Eating my home-made chicken broth.

Is it wrong to fantasize about giving him to the neighbors? Just asking...

xxoo YM Continue Reading...

I'm Mortified To Post This Picture...

Okay, not this one.

The one you'll see when you scroll down the page that I am too embarrassed about to leave at the top of my blog post where it will haunt me and mock me every time I log on.

I'm talking about the one...down there.

I'm mortified because, of course, I try to only post pictures that are either flattering of us (meaning me) or just not unflattering (mainly to me) and so this picture is simply stupidly, irrevocably, ridiculously unflattering. I do not look this ugly. Promise. It does, however, help me explain my story which is about how David and I look when we go to bed at night.

Okay, here's the picture. I think it's far enough down the page now...


We look like freaks, right?

See, we have these reading lights that are like spotlights, shining beacons in the night, and of course, we didn't realize that when we bought and mounted them but they are the least restful lights on the planet. You can't read and get sleepy with the high beams shining in your face and God forbid if David goes to bed first and I'm trying to read, he keeps thumping this way and that all over the mattress, all sending me a message and sighing loudly, as if I can't hear him and he keeps at it until I can no longer enjoy my reading, and I can't get up and go to the living room in case the ghosts are lurking about, and so, I finally turn off the beacon and lay staring up at the ceiling and occasionally sighing at him and thumping around the bed one way and the next.

Not a marriage-maker, if you know what I mean.

And so, we've taken to shutting off the lights altogether and wearing David's camping/mountaineering head lamps. The best part is with all the lights off, it feels like you're in a tent at base camp on Everest, only without all the impending freezing-to-death-alone-on-a-mountain stuff.

So every night now, one of us says something predictable and unoriginal, like "Okay, let's head off to base camp...Hope we don't get hit with an in-coming storm before I can acclimatize and do the second vertical pitch" or "Let's find a nice ledge for our bivy about 6,500m up or so." or "Let's take that snow ramp Alpine-style, baby!"

Okay, David doesn't talk like that. I do.

David's role in this little game is to roll his eyes, climb into bed with a book or magazine, turn on his headlamp and pretend that I am in fact on Everest thousands of miles away.

Every once in a while, I remind him that he should be nice to me because I rappelled 300m down a crystal ice wall just to get to him. But he doesn't care. He just turns off his headlamp and goes to sleep.

No appreciation.

xxoo YM

PS: Below, I give you one of the best chicken dishes I've had in a long time. The chicken was juicy and moist and the sauce was beautiful - the roasted lemons really make the taste more complex and interesting. I used chicken breasts and boneless thighs. It was great.

Long live Lyidia Bastianich for this one. May the ramp up to the vertical snow bulges be gentle and easy, Lydia. Whatever that means.

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Sauteed Chicken with Olives, Capers & Roasted Lemons
Recipe by Lydia Bastianich

Ingredients

1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling
2 lemons, sliced 1/4-inch thick
Salt and freshly ground pepper
Two 5-ounce bags baby spinach
2 tablespoons plain dry bread crumbs
Four 6-ounce skinless, boneless chicken breast halves
1/4 cup all-purpose flour, for dusting
1/2 cup pitted green Sicilian or Spanish olives, sliced
2 tablespoons drained capers
1 cup chicken stock or low-sodium broth
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small dice
2 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley

Directions

Preheat the oven to 375°. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Drizzle olive oil on the parchment, then arrange the lemon slices in a single layer. Drizzle the lemons lightly with oil and season with salt and pepper. Roast for about 20 minutes, until the lemons begin to brown around the edges.

Meanwhile, heat a large, deep skillet. Add the spinach and cook over high heat, tossing, until wilted, about 2 minutes. Transfer the spinach to a strainer; press out the liquid. Wipe out the skillet and heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in it. Add the bread crumbs and cook over moderate heat, stirring, until toasted, 2 minutes. Add the spinach, season with salt and pepper and cook for 1 minute.

In a deep medium skillet, heat the remaining 1/4 cup of oil. Season the chicken with salt and pepper and dust with the flour, shaking off the excess. Cook the chicken over high heat, turning once, until golden, about 6 minutes. Add the olives, capers and stock and bring to a boil. Cook over high heat until the stock is reduced by about two-thirds, about 5 minutes. Add the roasted lemons, butter and parsley, season with salt and pepper and simmer just until the chicken is cooked through, about 1 minute.

Transfer the chicken to plates and spoon the sauce on top. Serve the spinach on the side. Continue Reading...

A Proper Glass of Beer

Last night, I overhear David talking in the other room. He says:

"Okay, now here's the right way to pour beer...First, you tilt the glass to a 45 degree angle...That's right, good...Then, you pour the beer so it hits the middle of the glass, about half way down...yep, that's about half...then, you bring the glass up straight again and continue to pour...That's great! Good girl!"

I think he's talking to the cat again.

"...And that's how you pour a glass of beer, Edie"

Edie is two years old.

I peek around the corner just in time to see my youngest child sitting on her father's lap, beaming as if she has just aced the Mensa exam and holding an empty beer bottle. David is sipping a large glass with a thick, foamy head. He looks pleased with himself.

He sees me, turns back to Edie and says, "You're Australian. You have to know how to pour a proper glass of beer."

Touche.

xxoo YM Continue Reading...

Broiler Phobia

The other night, the neighbors were here and we were cooking and eating and Kian from Red Cook handed me a tray of garlic bread and said, "Pop this in the oven, will you?" and I said, "Great!" and set the oven temp and Kian said, "Do it in the broiler. It's better."

And I, like, shit myself.

Because I don't use the broiler. Ever. I avoid the broiler like it is a mutant strain of super-herpes. See, I am a clutz - prone to singing my eyebrows just turning over a steak, or burning my hand right through the heat-proof mitt, able to start a blazing grease fire just by forgetting I had bacon on the stove. I can set my sleeve on fire making soup.

I cannot be trusted with a broiler and all that congealing, highly-flammable meat fat that wells up into pools (even in the drip pan) and sits stupidly close to all those dancing flames, which mock me and hiss "I can have this kitchen ablaze in under 2 minutes, chica..."(Yes, the flames call me "chica")"...just move that filet mignon a tad closer...Wa ha ha ha..."

This is what broiler flames would say if they could talk.

I believe that my children's life is perilously at stake every time I even think about using the broiler. And this was evident the other night as Kian showed me how to turn on my broiler and where the flames were exactly and I ordered people to take my children to a nearby safe house and in my head, I up-dated my will and testament.

Guests streamed into the kitchen to support me as I bit my nails and gulped several glasses of wine to calm the nerves. I might be exaggerating a little but really, I was convinced we might have to evacuate. I memorized the exits.

Then, I whispered to the girls as they were shuttled away, "Remember...Stop. Drop. And roll...Mommy loves you...no matter what happens."

And then, I grabbed their little cheeks and gave them one last kiss and, like Bella said to Renesmee in Breaking Dawn when she thought she would never see her daughter again, I whispered, "More than my life..." all dramatic-like and choked up, with tear-filled eyes. At this point, I contemplate buying them lockets with the phrase engraved inside and then realize what a completely stupid thing that would be. Then, I push them out the door to safety.

But then, like, nothing happened. The broiler just crisped the garlic bread until it was all crusty and browned and perfect and it took like two whole seconds and no invisible, combustible gasses in the air were ignited and no one was set ablaze like some stunt man in a bad Clint Eastwood movie and all my hair seemed to avoid being singed off.

It was effortless. Not one flame leaped at me from the oven.

I have finally conquered my broiler-phobia. Bring on the French Onion Soup. I am an inspiration...

xo YM Continue Reading...

My Exciting Life: A List

This is what I do everyday. My life is sex-o-rama, people.

6am - Get up. Drink ice tea that David made for me and keeps in a vat in the fridge so I am not tempted to run down to Starbucks and spend the family fortune in $2.60 increments every day.

6:30am - Sweep up the debris on the floor I was too tired to sweep up the night before. I find chunks of duck fat in the girl's toothbrush holder. I am perplexed but not altogether surprised.

7am - E-mail people.

7:30am - Compose blog entry that I think is hilarious at the time, but when I later read it, realize it's just stupid.

8am - Feel like a failure. Vow to give up writing. Kids get up. I am distracted from my own self-pity. I remember back to when I didn't have kids and I could wallow in self-pity indefinately. Ah, those were the days...

8-9am - Poach eggs for David, his breakfast of choice, two eggs gently poached with a little salt and a bit of romano cheese grated on top. Girls make a toilet paper highway across the house while I cook for them. House looks like hoodlums have taken over and left me bound and gagged in a cabinet. Someone takes a poop on the floor. Least it wasn't me.

9am - Kiss David good-bye at the door. We linger there. I'm all hot. Just as he's walking out the door. We vow to have sex when he gets home. We already know we have no shot in hell.

9am - 2pm - Babysitter comes and kids play with her. I write stuff for my clients and basically do nothing to further my own book writing career. At least twice during this time, I read something my clients tried to write and curse them for not knowing how to write properly. Then, I remember this is why I write for them. That makes me feel needed. I continue on, ridding the world of bad prose.

2pm - 6pm - Babysitter leaves. I am alone with the kids. I love my kids. They are old enough to be really fun to be around. This is good because babies make me want to watch Maury Povitch re-runs. We play and people drop over and more debris litters the floor. I sweep. The floor is actually clean for 5 minutes. Then, the Playdoh comes out. Or the paint. Or the paper mache. Or the kid downstairs, who is a little ADD and likes to tear the curtains from the rods, comes over and my sweeping is in vain because snacks are required and cup after cup of juice and I am Flo from Alice's diner and I'm wearing a pink uniform and a paper hat and bad plastic earrings and clacking my gum like a hooker and somehow, Edie has blue paint on her tongue and Lucy spilled a gallon-sized bag of pink sequins all over the rug and the ADD neighbor kid tore a fern out by the roots and carried the thing across the house to show me, raining a torrent of dirt and root parts through my house and I go to pick up the broom, but the hooligans have trashed my house and they are cracking up having a good time and I think, "Okay, if social services walks in, I'm screwed but at least the kids are having a good time," and then I make them all cuddle up with me in the gigantic bean bag and settle down and we read books, surrounded by a flood of pink sequins and raisins. ADD kid goes home. Finally. Try to get the fern dirt out of the grout in my kitchen floor. Oh, and I sweep again.

6pm - 7pm - David comes home. Children experience a surge in energy and enthusiasm because of his arrival. They squeal when he walks in and throw themselves into his arms for hugs as if they had just gotten back from saving the world and the day had been more stressful and hard than any they could imagine. I roll my eyes at them. That's how it is end of day. I kiss my husband, kind of full on the lips, just preparing him for his night of torrid love-making and erotic calisthenics. We are full of hope. It's gonna happen, dammit. I make dinner. We eat dinner. I sweep dinner off floor. Broom is looking over-worked. I find peas in the heater.

7pm - 8pm - The three B's: Bath, books, bed. Takes an extra 15 minutes to get paint out of Edie's eyelashes and both girls end up sobbing because I have the audacity to try to wash their hair. Our basic hygiene issues continue unabated.

8pm - Children might go to sleep at their actual bedtime. David and I look at each other knowingly. I brush his shoulder lightly with my finger tips and he smiles. I say something nice about his abs. He mentions that I combed my hair. This is the only foreplay we're gonna get. We go with it.

9pm - One child is still resisting bed time. With the other out cold, the one still standing gets to be the only child and relishes being the sole object of our affection and attention. She becomes super-human in her ability to fend off sleep. There are numerous bathroom breaks, requests for water, leaping out of bed and chasing the cat, some very earnest sounding "I love you's" and several hundred pleas to stay up with us. David and I see our sex fading in the distance. I yawn. The window is nearly closed. David opens his lap top to do a little work. And the last of our mood is officially killed.

10pm - The last remaining child goes to sleep. I have to lay down with her to get her down, so of course, I fall asleep with her. Now, I'm bleary-eyed. Sex is like the last thing on my mind. David is tapping away at the keyboard. We are surrounded by the sound of sleeping, dreaming children. I have the shape of the pillow crusted into my face and my hair looks like I've been electrocuted. I take a tub of home-made ice cream out of the freezer and get two spoons. David pops a movie in and I find the crook of his arm and settle there. We feed each other ice cream. We know we're gonna get all fat and bloated but we don't care. This will have to do for tonight. And it does.

See, I told you...Sex-O-Rama.

xxoo YM Continue Reading...

The Picture that Sums It All Up...

David's rock climbing shoes tossed aside next to Lucy's princess shoes.

Does anybody in this family actually pick anything up?

Okay, I have a fun party recipe for you. I totally ripped this off from the absolutely awesome Melissa at Alosha's Kitchen who ripped it off from the absolutely awesome Mario Batali. So, how could I go wrong?


I doubled this recipe for about 12 people at a pot luck we hosted for Kian's birthday - that's Kian from Red Cook. It worked out great.


I couldn't get Manila clams here in Harlem, so I used Top Necks which are a little bigger and meatier, but they were just fine. I think you could also sub in just mussels if you wanted to do this recipe on the cheap.

Anyway, I highly recommend it. It takes about 10-15 minutes to whip up and it is ridiculously simple. You can't mess it up. Serve it up in big pan and it looks impressive. Make extra and re-heat the next day for lunch. Scrumptious.

xxoo YM
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Babbo Linguine with Clams and Pancetta
Mario Batali

Ingredients

1 pound linguine
½ medium red onion, finely minced
¼ pound pancetta, cut into 1/8th inch dice (or mole salame)
4 cloves garlic, peeled and thinly sliced
6 Tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon crushed red chiles
1 pound Manila clams, scrubbed and rinsed
2 cups dry white wine
4 Tablespoons unsalted butter
1 bunch Italian parsley, finely chopped, to yield ¼ cup

Directions

Bring six quarts of water to boil and add 2 tablespoons salt.

In a large sauté pan, sauté red onion, pancetta, and garlic over medium heat until onion is very soft and pancetta is translucent, about 10 minutes. Add hot chiles, clams, white wine, and butter and bring to a boil. Cook until all clams have opened, and then set aside.

Boil linguine according to package instructions. While softened but still firm, drain in colander over sink and toss into plan with clams and stir gently to mix. This should still be a little broth-like. Add chopped parsley, pour into warm serving bowl and serve. Continue Reading...

Madison, Max & Renesmee

I suspect you will have no idea what the hell I'm talking about unless you've read "Breaking Dawn" in the Twilight series, so I say this to my readers who've read the books:

Renesmee is a ridiculous name.

I needed to get that off my chest, because I read that BabyNames.com just added Renesmee to their list of baby names and I am freaked out that tomorrow I'm going to go to the playground and I'll hear some woman screaming to her kid, "Renesmee, please leave the organic, sugar-free, whole wheat, gluten-free cheerios in the Bugaboo and go play with Satchel, Rumor and Apple."

I will mock these people when I find them.

xo YM Continue Reading...

On Prisoners & Presidents...

Remember yesterday when I wrote that post about how Lucy wanted to go to Obama's house? And I thought it was all cute and funny and worthy of a blog post?

Well, apparently I have my head in my ass because my daughter and I had two completely different conversations. Turns out she wasn't being funny. She was just terrified.

Last night, something was bothering her and all of a sudden, she said to me, "Mommy,I don't want to go to the prisoner's house." Like out of the blue.

And I said, "Well, who's the prisoner, baby?" I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Obama," she said. "I don't want to go to his house because he is the prisoner."

Which led us to a lengthy discussion about the differences and similarities between prisoners and presidents, because they sound very similar but have very different meanings, and I realized the whole time during the election when we were talking about presidents, my kid thought we were talking about prisoners and was probably perpetually freaked out that prisoners were surrounding us, and there were a bunch of reassurances that we would, indeed, not be visiting the White House anytime soon, in case, the president turned into the prisoner and, you know, that maybe I need to get my head out of my tuckus when my daughter is trying to tell me something.

xo YM Continue Reading...

The Election

So, the rafters of Harlem rocked last night as people took to the streets and sang and laughed and hugged and celebrated and played music until the wee hours.

I was not with them, of course. Not because I'm not happy that Obama won, I'm happy, but because I'm decrepit in spirit and I've become the type of person who dozes off in front of the TV set before 9, only to be jostled awake by my dutiful husband, informing me about what I've missed and me sputtering, "oh, oh...I'm up, I'm up, not asleep...just resting my eyes... eh...resting...not sleeping" and having to wipe the spittle off my cheek, which is imprinted with the shape of a shoe that I had unknowingly fallen asleep on.

I'm a catch.

Anyway, this morning I told Lucy about the election results that I slept through, even though a neighbor was here drinking beer with David and a party had kind of formed, even if it was a small one, and Lucy asked, "Is Obama coming to our house?" and I said, "I don't think so, baby...Obama is going to be very busy the next few months getting ready to move to the White House."

And she thought about this and said very confidently, "Well, we should go to his house then..." and then, she quickly added, "...I bet he has good toys."

And I bet he does.

xo YM Continue Reading...

From the Penis to the Boob...

So, I'm doin' the Hoop-Dee-Do with my husband...

Because both kids are asleep and, like, we have to take advantage of the opportunities as they come up because sometimes they don't come up nearly as often as we'd hope and so, we went for it and it was great and then it was over and, like, the very second it was over, Edie woke up and started crying and asking for boob, as if she had been waiting politely for us to finish the Hoop-Dee-Do and so, without any transition from one kind of physical experience to the other, I jumped up and ran into the other room, half-dressing as I moved, and launched myself into her bed and breastfed her back to sleep.

And David walked in and shook his head and muttered, "From the penis to the boob..." and then, walked out. The man was just happy some of the attention went his way.

I'm feeling pretty needed these days...

xxoo YM


Note: The comic was drawn by a very talented, and I suspect wacky, Physics/Robotics guy named Randall Munroe at XKCD. Continue Reading...

The Most Expensive Bacon on the Planet

David has an office in Union Square, right next to the farmer's market. He often picks up farm eggs, grass fed beef, that kind of stuff.

Friday, he brought home a bunch of meats and he held up this one package of bacon and kind of waved it in my face.

It was uncured hickory smoked bacon without nitrates from Tamarack Hollow Farm in South Wheelock, Vermont. Sounds all home cured and yummy, right? So, I reached out to take it and he whipped it out of my grasp and gave me the evil eye.

"Now, don't do what you usually do," he said, "and make this whole package for us at one time...Ration it."

"Ration it? Like Great Grandpa did during the war?" I said. I was being witty.

"It's expensive." David doesn't think I'm witty.

I ignore this and putter in the kitchen. Sure, it's expensive it's from some quaint little farm, with one amputee farm hand and a pig named Bessy from the most expensive state in the country.

"I mean it", he says, "very expensive".

He wants to confess.

"How expensive was it, baby?" I ask. I sound cool. I decide I'll be cool with whatever he paid. I'm a good wife.

"I can't tell you..."

"Oh come on, it's bacon...how much could it be?"

"No, it's really expensive..." he tells me. The words come easy now.

"...See, I went to pay for it and the guy at the farm stand told me how much it costs and I thought I had misunderstood him, like he was speaking in tongues or something, but then it was too late, my wallet was out, he was taking the money, it was all happening so fast and I was too embarrassed to tell him the price was astronomical...so, I bought the ridiculously expensive bacon."

He was breathing a little hard.

I look at the packaging. A little tree graphic. Quaint. I see that this isn't even a pound of bacon. 12 ounces. Thieving New England farm bastards.

"So, just ration the pieces out to us, okay honey?" he says, "You know, make it last..."

And I did. We ate our allotted two rashers a piece for like three breakfasts. And now, it's mercifully gone and all the guilt can stop now.

xxoo YM Continue Reading...

What the Hell...?

...is naked Dora doing in my fridge?

xxoo YM Continue Reading...

Halloween

Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella. These costumes make them ridiculously happy.


Squirrely even before they had the candy.


David and the kids relieve the neighbors of their candy.

Lucy has to repeatedly resist the urge to say, "Trick or treat, smell my feet..." which she thinks is absolutely hysterical.


The girls begin to eat their candy double-fisted.


And the rest of the evening goes like this:

1. Initial sugar high
2. The ceremonial discarding of the wrappers all over my floor
3. A party with a whole bunch of other costume-clad kids across the hall
4. A second round of trick-or-treating when a new batch of kids show up who haven't trick or treated yet and all the kids go back out with empty candy bags and neighbors, who have too much left over candy, give them more handfuls of candy and fill up their second bag
5. Second tier sugar high
6. Kids eat, like, 2 bites of pizza at the party
7. Kids find marbles in the neighbors house and then, lose marbles in the neighbors house. Neighbors might secretly hate us.
8. Children find their bags of candy and pilfer a few more Kit Kats. Parents are too drunk or engrossed in adult conversation to care.
9. Third tier sugar high. All hell promises to break loose
10. Edie is found hiding a melted Twix in the front of her dress
11. 10:30 children's heads are about to explode.
12. Go home. Take off princess dresses. Brush Kit Kats out of teeth and pass out on the sofa.
13. Wake up in bed next morning in a haze of wine, Almond Joys and Sweet Tarts.
14. Nice Halloween.

xo YM Continue Reading...