Sometimes You Get Anchovies

It is well established on this blog that the perfect food is ice cream. That stuff is creamy crack in a carton, which is why I no longer keep it in the house unless someone else buys it. Someone who, I must admit, looks exactly like my evil, ice cream-addicted twin.

But there are other foods that run a close second to ice cream, and not all of them are chocolate. In fact, one of those red-ribbon foods may just be the anti-chocolate. Because it's not a dessert. It's a fish. The anchovy. No sugar. Almost no saturated fat. Just salty, protein-filled goodness.

And no one else likes them.

At least that was my impression given how frequently my pleas to order even half an anchovy pizza have fallen on deaf ears. These people, they don't know what they're missing. Anchovies do something amazing to a pizza. They give all that fatty warmth and comfort a bit of a salty edge that makes all the sweetness in the sauce and the cheese not quite so cloying. If you add a veggie or two, it even feels healthy.

Anchovies are awesome. Even if I have to eat them alone.

Except that I don't anymore. Because my San Francisco sweetie - remember him? He likes them, too. We recently had a spot of time together babysitting for a few junior family members, and we ordered a pizza. You'll never guess what was on it. With no prodding, no poking, just a little, "Hey, what would you think of ...?" and an immediate, "Absolutely!"

And then we had them again, not a week later, at a tapas place, wrapped around a little bamboo skewer with a fat, green olive and a tiny, marinated pepper that together made the perfect bite.

He likes them. He really likes them.

And I had no idea. Which is funny. Because I've known this man for two full decades. We've had coq au vin au chocolat and cauliflower goat cheese gratin. Green curry and noodles of the drunks. Coconut cake and fried green tomatoes. Vichysoisse and tapenade. And once, during a blizzard, a heart-warming Irish stew.

And yet, we'd never shared a pizza.

Now we have. And now I know something new about him. I know he likes the salt and the tang and the difference of anchovies. Which is one of the coolest things about dating one of your dearest friends. Sometimes, you get anchovies. And you didn't even know they were there.

Peanuts Happen

When I talk to my kids, I often use nicknames. There’s “sweetie” and "kiddo" and all the typical mom stuff, which I use mostly because I can’t remember their names. But they also have one nickname each that’s just for them. Almost like a name, except easier to remember.

My Aspie, he gets to be my pumpkin because he was born in October.

My diva used to be my sweet pea, until she realized she was really a princess and started behaving like one, and that’s what she’s been ever since.

And my little guy, who is much bigger than your typical nearly-five-year-old, he’s my peanut. Not because he’s little. He’s never been little, not even at birth. Nine pounds, nine ounces of baby, that one. I call him my peanut because he’s the only one of my three who got an ultrasound in utero during that phase when your soon-to-be baby still looks like a peanut.

It stuck.

Last night I was on the phone with my sister having a very deep conversation, because there’s a whole lot of deep going on. And I was eating a big bowl of ice cream, because my fella is moving to San Francisco and that means I get to eat ice cream. Suddenly I was interrupted by the pitter patter of little feet on the stairs. I jumped up to put my ice cream in the freezer before the little feet found me, because it was on the verge of melting anyway, and came back to find my little guy on the sofa.

At which point I interrupted my sister to say, “Hey, peanut. Why are you awake?” (Clearly, that was not directed toward her.)

I got a raspy croak in response, which generally means, “I have to pee, mom, but there’s zombies in the bathroom, and really I’d rather be sleeping.”

So I made my excuses to my sister, and when I apologized for the interruption she said, “That’s okay. Peanuts happen.”

Which I thought was funny.

Now you get to think so, too.

Wait, Is It Really July? Well, Almost ...

I came here today intending to blog about frittatas. That's right. Frittatas, and all their eggy goodness.

This post, sadly, is not about frittatas.

On the way to my blog, I got distracted by my friend the Diva. She posted her mid-year resolutions.

I like that idea. See, I did do the New Year's resolution thing. I kept them simple. And I did not make them public, because my resolution track record pretty much sucks.

For reference, here they are: my 2010 New Year's Resolutions, nearly seven months late.

• Read
• Sleep
• Move

See? Simple. And I am reading more. But that's mostly because I'm sleeping and moving less. Funny how that one worked out.

So I like the idea of a whole new set of resolutions, a set of mid-year, hey-what-the-heck-is-it-really-July resolutions, that I might possibly be able to accomplish.

Here they are.

• Finish the half gallon of Breyer's rocky road ice cream currently melting in my lap. Very doable, particularly as a half gallon container now holds a mere 1.5 quarts. (When exactly did that happen?)
• Learn to say "yes." Ironic, since I spent my year plus in limbo learning how to say "no." Now I'm really good at no and realizing that I need a few more yesses in my life. I'm not talking about "Yes, I'll manage the whole soccer league," or "Yes, I'll make 84 cupcakes for tomorrow's bake sale." I'm talking about "Yes, sweetie, I'd love to play Polly Pockets with you," and "Of course you can have a hug," and "Sure I can read Wacky Wednesday 18 more times today." These are important yesses.
• Find a sugar daddy who wants to buy me a brand new and completely bug-free house and send all three of my super-smart kids to college. (But only if I can keep dating my San Francisco-bound sweetie.)
• Set a new family record by blowing up six - yes, I said six - bottles of Diet Coke with Mentos. This is hands-down my kids' favorite activity of the summer. Yeah, I know, six isn't really that many - particularly when compared with this YouTube classic - but since the kids usually get just the one bottle apiece, six is a big, big deal.
• Write that frittata post. I even took pictures folks. Yes, pictures.

Stay tuned ...

Ice Cream for Breakfast

Today was the very best kind of day.

A year ago - and this is where blogging is just a little surreal, because you do get to look back a full year and see where you were - but a year ago, I was in a very different place. A year ago, I dropped a pitcher of iced tea on the floor, burst into tears, and put my cranky kids to bed.

Today I had ice cream for breakfast.

Today I had eager kids bouncing on my bed, and an amazing au pair who woke up early and helped them mix and scramble and toast and scoop. They gave me ice cream for breakfast, with four spoons and a heaping helping of Belgian chocolate sprinkles (I am so planning a trip to Belgium, 'cause those folks really do have their priorities straight when it comes to food).

Today I had my family around me, with two mothers in the house and a birthday to celebrate, and plenty of yummy goodness. That includes some incredible cupcakes - and yes, I made them, but it's not really bragging because they are not really my cupcakes. These cupcakes belong to Martha. THE Martha. They are Martha Stewart's tiramisu cupcakes, and they are easily worth whatever you have to pay for real vanilla beans to make them happy.

What's funny is, that bad day, a year ago? That's the day I realized I was happy. And yes, I know that seems a bit contrary. But it's true. I knew I was happy because that one bad day didn't knock me down. It didn't send me diving for the covers. That one bad day was followed by one good day. And then another. And another.

And that's what makes happy. A string of good days, with a bad day plopped in there from time to time to remind you of what you've got.

Crap happens. It happens a lot. And then you have ice cream for breakfast.

Happy Mother's Day, folks. Gosh but this mom thing is fun!

The Great Potty Caper

Ever since our One Step Back, the redhead has had a bit of trouble with ... uh, shall we say preschool incontinence? That first day, my poor little guy went through five - yes, five - pairs of pants. He just doesn't make it on time anymore, and I'm not sure why. He could be regressing. Or maybe he just really hates washing his hands.

We've tried all kinds of incentives and bribes, the latest being an M&M for every successful, dry trip to the loo. None has really worked. Though, thankfully, our failures have generally been at home. Quiet. Discreet. Stash of clean clothes in a dresser upstairs.

Until yesterday.

Last night my folks were here (YAY!). They live on the other coast, so we see them maybe once a year. I had the kids out for a very late dinner at Wendy's. And no, I don't do fast food that often, but when in the excitement of seeing the grandparents and possibly swimming in the hotel pool you totally forget what time it is, then realize it's nearly 8:00 p.m. and your kids haven't eaten yet, fast food is the result.

We'd made it through the chicken nuggets and on to the ice cream when suddenly the redhead starts saying, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Why are you sorry, peanut?"

"'Cause I pee on everything."

Oops.

I rushed him to the bathroom. Too late. He was soaked. And because he's been potty trained for nearly three years now, I was there without a stitch of extra clothing, trapped in an eco-friendly restroom with not a paper towel in sight.

Seriously. No towels. And you can't dry pants with toilet paper.

So I did the only thing a mom could do. I held him up, pants and all, under the air dryer. Baked him till he was done on one side, then flipped him over.

Worked, too. He marched out of that restroom, dry and warm, and finished his ice cream. He even washed his hands.

Fingers crossed that delivered a lesson, though. Because I'm running out of M&Ms.

Where's the Food, Reprise

Tonight I talked to my dad. My dad reads my blog. He is a FAN, and I do mean that in all caps. It's a good thing. It's what dads are supposed to be.

He did have one criticism though. "Where's the food?" he asked. "Don't forget you're writing about food."

I reminded him that this is meant to be about family. Food's just a filter. I am not a foodie; I'm a mom. What's more, I'm a nearly single, working mom of three, one of whom has Asperger's Syndrome, and I'm feeling my way through the mandatory period between separation and divorce more commonly known as Limbo. That means stress, joy, lessons learned, lots of time with the kids, time spent without them, finding new friends, finding myself ... and a whole host of other things.

It also means food. For me anyway. Because, well, it's one of the few things you really can't live without. And also because I used to have time to cook.

Yeah, I so don't do that anymore.

Anyway, I checked, and yes, indeed, there is food in each of my last three posts.

My most recent post was about - forgive me - vomit. And it was about toaster waffles, chicken quesadillas and ice cream. It was also about blueberries - at least it was for me. Be grateful I did not share that part.

That was, by the way, my second post about vomit. I hope not to write too many more.

The one before that was about learning to ask for help. This is a valuable life lesson, and one you learn the hard way in Limbo because if you don't ask for help, generally, you don't get any, and trust me there is little to no chance you'll manage Limbo without it. This, too, was about food - namely chicken, potatoes, wheatberries and cabbage. Oh, and brownies. I am all about the chocolate.

And the one before that? It was about my thrilling yogurt-and-Oreos dinner and the Petri dishes school makes out of our kids.

See? Food everywhere.

Tonight, one day after the anniversary of my first (and I hope only) year in Limbo, my not-yet-ex and I signed our separation agreement. Not much food in that. Just a feeling that the tunnel is nearing its light, and that you don't much want to cook. So I warmed up a can of refried beans, doused it in salsa and tomatoes, then melted low-fat cheddar over the top. I ate in front of the TV.

Ah, freedom.

Ew

I have always believed in my heart of hearts that ice cream is God's gift to dessert. It is the perfect treat. Sweet but not too sweet, blessedly compatible with chocolate, and it even has some honest-to-goodness nutritional value mixed in with all the fat and calories.

As of this weekend, I'm in the market for a new dessert.

My wonderful au pair has been running the kids ragged all summer. Long neighborhood walks, trips to the park with a soccer ball, and hours and hours at the pool. All three of them are brown as berries - and yes, that includes my redhead. My water-phobic oldest is learning to swim. And my diva, already a fish, has actually grown gills. The kids are active, active, active.

As a result, come the weekends, they are utterly fried.

This past Saturday, I tried to get them out of the house. I tried to take them to the pool. I tried to take them to the park. Nope. They wanted to sit at home and sleep and snack and watch TV. Can't say as I blame them. But me, I work from my house. I sleep at my house. I am always, always at my house.

I needed to get out of my house.

So I resorted to a bribe. I promised them a trip to Maggie Moo's. Like me, they'll do pretty much anything for ice cream.

Maggie Moo's is cool - one of those cold marble places where they mix up a bunch of stuff and put it into a cup. My little guy went straight-up chocolate with M&Ms. Good choice, though I'm still trying to get the stains out of his white T-shirt. The two oldest, though - they have really odd taste in ice cream, I gotta say. Both of them picked this sickly sweet, bright blue, cotton candy flavor. And then they mixed it with mint. Yes, mint. Oh, and the add-ins. My oldest added Reese's Cups and Heath bars. And my diva, she put in peanut butter and white chocolate chips.

Ew.

And then they had dinner. Meatballs. Apples. A little pasta.

By the time the three of them headed up to bed, my diva was looking somewhat green around those new gills. Then, as I was turning off the light and saying a hushed good-night, she exploded, sending a sea of bright, neon blue vomit all over her bed. I rushed her into the bathroom, where the explosion just kept coming. The poor thing was sobbing and retching and sobbing, all at once.

This is where the single mom thing gets really tough. I had to leave her sitting there. It's the last thing you want to do when your baby is sick and crying. But they all share a room. My boys were exhausted and needed to sleep, and it smelled awful, and cleaning up was going to take a very, very long time. So, in the space of about 30 seconds, I dashed into the bedroom, stripped the bed, spritzed some air freshener, said good-night and closed the door.

Then I rushed back into the bathroom. By then there was blue everywhere. In her hair, all over her pajamas, on the floor, the tub, the cabinets. The poor girl had nothing left. She was just standing there, miserable and wet and stinky. I put her gently in the shower, and while she washed, I disinfected everything. When the blue was gone at last, my diva crawled onto the futon in our playroom, snuggled up beside me and fell fast asleep.

It was over. No middle of the night wake-up calls. No post-breakfast nausea. Other than having to listen to my boys enumerate in great detail and with great glee all the contents of their sister's blue spew the next morning, it was over.

But, as God is my witness, we are never having ice cream again.

I Love Rocky Road

Hello. My name is Rosemary. And I'm an addict.

Okay, so my name isn't really Rosemary - that's the name of my blog, or part of it anyway. Meant it to refer to an herb, but it could just as easily mean me. Right?

But I am an addict. An ice cream addict.

It's appalling, actually.

For the last four or five months I have been very capably managing my addiction. I successfully removed from my house any ice cream that is even remotely appealing to me. I have kid-friendly popsicles in a variety of neon colors and some artificially-greened up mint choco-chip - see, it's not even real chocolate! Who would eat that? Not me! No one over the age of reason, really.

I very consciously bought the Weight Watchers Giant Cookies & Cream Bars to deal with the occasional craving. They're like the patch. Not really ice cream, but I could make myself eat them because I felt fairly virtuous trying to stave off my craving for sweet and frozen with something so full of FIBER. I'd eat one. And stop. Perfect!

Then, two weeks ago, with company coming, I did the unthinkable. Breyers was on sale. And I bought one. Well, I paid for one. Really, I bought two. That's the problem with a buy-one, get-one sale. You buy two.

I know - most of you have more refined tastes. You want the Ben & Jerry's or the Hagen Dazs. Not me. I'm a Breyers girl, through and through. Love their mint chocolate chip. Real mint. No green. And their rocky road? Oooooh. They dip the almonds in chocolate. Really, need I say more?

I bought one of each.

I wish I could say I controlled myself. I wish I could say I put a single scoop in a demure bowl and ate it delicately from a demitasse spoon with my pinky extended.

That is not what I did. I took the whole carton, pried it open, plopped it next to me on the sofa as if it were my best friend, grabbed the biggest soup spoon I could find, and dug in while I watched American Idol (yes, I watch American Idol, too). I ate half of it.

The other half went during the results show.

And once that one was gone? I waited a few days. Tried to fool myself that I was back in charge. Clean and sober.

Then I ate the other one. And I baked a nice batch of brownies for my guests.

So yes, I'm an addict. And I have just fallen off the wagon. Hard.

I blame my dad for this. I love my dad. Smart man. Good man. And a good and loving dad. And when my folks divorced and he was trying to find a way to stay connected to his kids, he did a good and loving thing. He introduced the concept of Ice Cream Mondays. Every Monday, he'd pick me and my sister up at school, and we'd head off to the local deluxe ice cream shop for a decadent cone of whatever the heck we wanted. My favorite was the bubble gum ice cream. Pink and sweet and gummy. Yes, gummy, because there was real gum in it. I'd pair it with chocolate. Chocolate goes with everything.

Ice Cream Mondays were the highlight of my week. I lived for Ice Cream Mondays. Got to see my dad and feed my burgeoning addiction. I was eight. I couldn't possibly know that ice cream, for me, might as well be nicotine, Jack Daniels and crystal meth all rolled into one.

I did outgrow the bubble gum. But the chocolate ... oh the chocolate! I gave up three whole years of my life to chocolate ice cream.

That happened in college. At the start of my sophomore year, my friend Gabe had joined the student newspaper staff. I should come too, she said. No no! It was not for me. No time. But she'd been asked to do a story on the local Baskin Robbins. They were introducing 10 new flavors. And not just any 10 flavors. All 10 were variations on a single, luscious, irresistible theme. Oh, I can barely say it! They were chocolate. All 10 of them. I could not let Gabe go in there alone. So I went with her ... and spent the next three years sacrificing every one of my Wednesday and Thursday nights - and any other free time I might have - to the paper. They suckered me in with ice cream.

I have yet to forgive Gabe for that. Though I'm not sure she knows that.

Which brings me to the Breyers. I finished the second carton yesterday. I have now been clean for 24 hours. I can do this. One day at a time, right?

So, there is no more Breyers in the house. There will be no more Breyers in this house.

There are, however, Milanos.

It's All About the Texture

My au pair doesn't like couscous.

This is a surprise to me. I mean, it's couscous. Cooks up in minutes, minimal on the flavor spectrum, nice and easy. On the starchy sides scale, it's easier and about as interesting as plain rice or potatoes. And she's a plain food kind of girl.

Still, no go for her on the couscous.

I'm starting to think that half the world's likes and dislikes have more to do with texture than flavor.

All his life, my not-yet-ex-husband vehemently protested the addition of onions to a dish, sometimes crying allergies if he couldn't get his point across to wait staff. We were married a decade before I figured out the secret. I was making soup from scratch one day and desperately wanted the onions in it ... so I sauteed them, ground them to a pulp in my food processor, and put them back in the pot. Two whole onions, and not a single complaint from the peanut gallery. In fact, the dish got raves and a request for seconds, even thirds. I realized that, much as he might like to think otherwise, the issue was never one of flavor. It was simply the fact of the onion, its clearly observed presence, and its texture, that set off this intense reaction.

My lovable Aspie has always chosen his food - with the exception of permafaves pizza and macaroni & cheese - by their texture. I think this is a symptom of his hypo-tactile sensory integration issues. He needs stimulus. So when it comes to food, he wants hard, crunchy, tough or chewy. Or tongue curdlingly sour - yes, a taste, but one that produces a physical reaction.

I'm not much different. I will eat almost anything, but there are some foods - well, two, to be exact - that I avoid like the plague. Rye bread with caraway seeds, because little hard things that get stuck in your teeth simply do not belong in bread. Or in anything, for that matter. The second? Cottage cheese. The lumps get me every time. Actually, it reminds me of this coconut ice cream - I think it was called magpuno? - that I had when I lived in Manila as a kid. Little soggy pieces of frozen, grated coconut. It felt a lot like eating worm ice cream. Ick.

Couscous I can handle. Worm ice cream, not so much.