Moms.

We put everyone before ourselves.

We vacuum.

We dust.

We do laundry. (Well, some of us do, I suppose…I’m still working on making that a regular thing…)

We cook edible meals, even if it is just out of a box or a can. But we make it look pretty.

We change diapers.

We kiss boo-boos.

We act as a taxi service.

We act as a child psychiatrist.

We act as a super hot wife. (When we’re not in our sweatpants because we can’t stand the idea of getting spit-up or pureed yams on our clean jeans.)

And we roll out of bed at 4 in the morning when the baby suddenly decides that’s when he wants breakfast. Like he did today.

Because it’s just what we do.

I’m really trying to be a more organized, efficient wife these days. We’re on a pretty strict budget, and I want to be helpful towards that in the kitchen, so in an effort to save money on lunches I decided to try a recipe from one of the cookbooks I inherited from my aunt.

Falafel!!!!

Falafel, for those of you who may be unfamiliar with this wonderful little hamburger of the Middle East, is basically ground up chickpeas (garbanzo beans) with some spices and other flavorings that is then deep fried into oh-so-yummy goodness. It is typically served, as far as I know, inside a pita with lettuce, tomatoes, and some kind of spread. I figured we could do falafel in pita pockets with tomatoes, lettuce, and tzatziki sauce.

Incidentally, isn’t that fun to say? Tzatziki. Tzatziki. Tzatziki. It is so delicious too. Tzatziki is what mayonnaise wishes it was.

This cookbook of mine is a “healthy” cookbook that takes regular recipes and slashes the fat and calories without sacrificing taste. I’ve tried a couple other recipes and they’ve all been good. So hey, let’s give falafel a try! I figured I could make a double-batch and we’d have enough for both of us for a week. We already had everything except the chickpeas. So on our last grocery trip we loaded up a few cans of those marvelous little golden beans and I prepared to do the falafel dance.

Visions were dancing in my head of THIS:

So I made my chickpea mush in the food processor and molded it into little patties:

Heated up some oil in the cast iron skillet, and…

THIS:

Is what I got. They fell completely apart when I tried to flip them over and continued to crumble as I transferred them to the cooling rack. And they’re just…well darn it, they’re just not pretty.

Sadness. I know. Far from the beautiful golden-brown crispy heaven I had imagined. Recipe modifications are in order. Perhaps it was just using egg whites that did it. Maybe next time I’ll leave in the yolks and see what happens.

Oh well. At least they still taste good and my husband is excited about having such an exotic lunch. I figure the falafel will be just as good crumbled into bits as it would have in perfect little patties. So I’ll let them crumble how they will, and we’ll just stuff them into pita pockets that way.

But my tzatziki sauce turned out great! It did come out of the blender kind of liquidy, so I’m hoping it solidifies by tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know…

I LOVE this movie. Absolutely love it. It combines two of my favorite things – cooking and writing – in the most entertaining and hilariously acted form. I can’t get enough of it. Husband bought it for me for Christmas and I’ve watched it probably a dozen times. I can quote along with the movie as I watch.

There are a lot of things in this story I can really relate to. But the one line that sticks with me is this:

“Julia Child wasn’t always Julia Child.” – Eric Powell, Julie’s husband.

That really makes me think every time I hear it. It was relatively late in life that Julia Child discovered her love of cooking and became an author, teacher, chef, and inspiration to people across the globe. But she didn’t count herself out of the game because of her age. She did what she did because she loved it and she wanted to share it with people. Who cared how old she was? She sure didn’t.

I think in today’s society we often get stuck on the idea that we have to accomplish anything worth accomplishing by a certain age. But if everyone thought that way we wouldn’t have Julia Child. We probably wouldn’t have a lot of people who have made a huge impact on the world.

Sometimes I beat myself up because I’m closer to thirty than twenty now, and I don’t feel like I’ve done anything. So then I feel like giving up. But when I watch Julie & Julia, I feel inspired again. I remember that God doesn’t care how old we are or what kind of background we have or don’t have. It’s not too late for me to write my own Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I’ll write it when the time is right. It won’t matter what my age is.

And in the meanwhile I’ll keep coming here and writing for kicks. I’ll write about funny things, deep things, spiritual things, random things, sad things, beautiful things, serious things…I’m finding inspiration everywhere and it’s so refreshing!

Last night, my husband and I went on a romantic walk down Memory Lane. It was my “night off” – we dropped the baby off at my mom’s house, went out for a cheap dinner, and then I said,

“You know what we used to do a lot but haven’t done in a looooong time?” with a big cheesy grin on my face.

My poor husband’s eyes did a total deer-in-the-headlights. I kept grinning at him and let him think for a minute. Finally he replied “Um…walk around the Broadmoor?”

YES!!!!!!!

For those of you who may not know, the Broadmoor is a historic 5-star hotel/resort here in the lovely city of Colorado Springs. It’s absolutely beautiful. We hung out there a lot in the early days of our relationship. The Broadmoor doesn’t care if you’re a guest there or not. They’re equally nice to everyone on the property.

My husband took me to dinner there, at The Tavern, for our one-month anniversary when we were dating. We’d sometimes go and just walk around the lake in the twilight hours, hand-in-hand, just talking. If we needed an escape from life we’d go to The Tavern and split a dessert and just relax in the dim lighting, listening to the band, watching couples hop around the dance floor.

It’s the place where he went down on one knee and asked me to marry him, standing next to the lake. We went back to that spot last night. We retraced our steps and ended up right where he proposed to me. We sat on the cushy lounge chairs and talked about our past, our future, our life as it is right now, and just drank in the beauty of our surroundings. The flawless landscaping, the gently rippling waters of the lake, the beautiful old buildings, the majesty of the mountains in the background, the absolutely perfect just-after-sunset-but-not-quite-dark-yet light.

We also spent our wedding night at the Broadmoor. I remember pulling up to the little guardhouse at the entrance, in my parents’ big white Jaguar, my husband in his tux, me sitting among the white fluffy folds of my wedding dress, and the guard said “Mr. and Mrs. Frank! We’ve been expecting you.” As we drove the rest of the way to the hotel entrance I squealed “He called me Mrs. Frank!”

I love revisiting beautiful memories. We’ve spent a lot of time doing that recently. I think it’s because our life has changed so much. We’re constantly on the go these days. Taking care of the baby, taking care of our new house, husband is working, I’m trying to have a social life…we don’t spend a lot of time just remembering how beautiful our life really is. So we’re trying to be more intentional about that.

Memories are a fascinating thing. They’re so complex. The feelings they evoke can range from sadness to elation and anywhere in between, and sometimes even two or three feelings combined.

I’ll never be able to think back on my son’s birth without feeling a pang in my heart along with the joy. A beloved family member passed away suddenly just a few days before he was born. I’ve never had such joy and such pain exist in the same moment. But at the same time, whenever I think about my lost loved one, I smile. She left us with so many warm, funny memories. There is always laughter when we share remembrances of her. There have been tears, yes, and there probably always will be. But there are also warmth and smiles. How beautiful is that?

There is another period of memories in my life that are a huge conflict for me. The conflict is less than it has been in years, thanks to some closure I got from talking to a wonderful pastor at my church, but it was a struggle for a very long time. There are a lot of memories from that time in my life that are painful. So painful I would sometimes collapse in a heap of angry tears when they came up. There were good memories in there too, but I couldn’t enjoy the good memories without the bad ones slipping in there. So I shut all the memories up in a mental box and tried not to visit them.

I don’t know if that was the right way to deal with that. Because I did that, all those memories feel like a dream. They feel like they never happened. It’s a very odd feeling. I’m at the point now where I can enjoy the good memories and the bad ones don’t paralyze me anymore. But the good feelings still have that weird dreamlike quality about them. I kind of wish they didn’t, but oh well. Regret isn’t going to change that fact. I’ll enjoy those memories for what they are, and I have the logical knowledge that they really did happen. Maybe someday the logic and the memories will collide and it will feel real again.

Now that I have a baby, who is growing so fast, I’m making a concentrated effort to keep the memories real. The first several weeks of his life could have been a fog, what with the sleeplessness and all, but I made sure to take the time to just sit and stare at his little face peeking out of his swaddle and savor those moments for what they were, so the memories feel very real. I still get warm fuzzy butterflies in my stomach whenever we drive past the hospital where he was born. I love that. I hope it never goes away.

This Father’s Day is a very special Father’s Day.

1. Just because it’s Father’s Day.
2. It’s my husband’s first official Father’s Day (we celebrated last year when I was pregnant, but this year I guess is officially the first).
3. It’s also the 4 year anniversary of our first date.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my husband’s first official Father’s Day is also the anniversary of the day we first laid eyes on each other, the day he knew he was going to marry me. No, seriously, he knew. He called his mother the next morning and said “Mom, I just met the girl I’m going to marry.” And the first thing I said to my mom? “Mom, he’s so tall I could wear whatever high heels I want!” I know. Deep.

I’m so thankful for my husband. He is the best husband I could have ever wished for, and the best father. He coached me gently and patiently through a short but very intense labor, letting me squeeze his forearms to the point of bruising and yell in his ear. He helped hold up my (completely numb from the glorious epidural) legs while I birthed our son. He stayed by my side through the entire hospital stay while I healed from the birth, got used to having a baby, and mourned a loved one my family lost just a few days before. He got out of bed with me for every single middle-of-the-night nursing during the 2 weeks of leave he took from work. He sent me to get a massage when I had a meltdown from the stress and lack of sleep. He gladly takes over diaper duty as soon as he gets home from work. He drove the ugliest car in the universe for months so I would have the safe car during the day. He kept telling me I was the most beautiful woman in the world when I was crying over my new stretch marks. He works hard at his job so I can stay home with our child. He loves playing with our son. He takes such an active role in day-to-day baby care. And he does his very best to provide us with the very best.

I love my husband. I respect my husband. He’s more than I ever wished for.

Happy Father’s Day, babe. I love you so much.

*I love food. I love to cook. It’s a big part of who I am, and I want to start sharing it with all of you! So keep an eye out for cooking and food posts…it’s going to be fun!

Yes, I’m one of those moms! I make my own baby food. Well, except for today when we ran out so my husband had to go to the store to buy a couple jars of baby food because I miscalculated my supply…and left the container of yams out overnight…ahem…

It’s funny what a noble thing making one’s own baby food seems to be. My mom said “That’s the way we did it when I had babies” as if it were the most normal thing in the world. I guess the idea that it’s such a grand thing to make my own baby food comes from how over-processed the American diet is. I mean seriously, you can get anything in a box, bag, or can. We’re so used to it that it becomes unusual to see someone cooking from scratch, when it wasn’t all that long ago when scratch cooking wasn’t a concept, it was just reality.

That’s what we try to do in our little family – get back to the reality. Real food, simple food. For the grownups and for the baby.

*That’s not to say frozen and pre-packaged food is all bad. It has its place in our lives. Some days you just want to be lazy!

It all started for us when our good friends Alejandro and Renee decided to make their own baby food (which she detailed in this post on her blog). We saw how easy it was, and how cost-effective it is. No need to purchase any fancy equipment – all you need is the ability to boil or steam and a blender. And this way, we also get to give our baby organic food.

We love organic food. But we don’t love how expensive it is. And pre-packaged organic food? If you’re on a strict budget like we are, forget about it. But my husband really, really wanted to do organic food for our baby’s first year of life. And there’s a natural market right near his office where organic produce is reasonably affordable. So organic it is! We’re happy about that.

I won’t do the step-by-step with pictures right now, since Renee already did it in her awesome post, but I’ll talk just a little bit about the mechanics of making baby food. It really is so easy.

Take yams, for example – our little one’s current favorite!

There are a few different ways to cook a yam. You can bake them if you like. I find it difficult to get the center completely baked without overcooking the ends of the yam, though. So I go straight to the boiling method.

I peel and dice one or two medium-to-large yams into what we would consider bite-size chunks. Then I boil them until they smush easily with a fork. The yams go into the blender with some filtered water, and I hit the “puree” button. The goal is to get the yams to blend into a vortex, and let them spin for a while so they’re smooth. A little more water might be necessary to get to this state. You want them thin and smooth, but not runny.

Then you can store the yams in Tupperware if you like, or freeze them in individual portions. They’ll keep for quite a while.

A couple websites I’ve found helpful are wholesomebabyfood.com and weelicious.com, both recommended by other baby food making mommies. They’re chock full of recipes and information about giving your baby solid foods. I particularly found the charts at wholesomebabyfood helpful, since I operate best when guidelines are clearly spelled out for me.

I have to say I’m really enjoying making my own baby food. It gives me a sense of accomplishment to know for certain what’s going into my baby’s tummy. I feel the same way about our grownup food, but that’s another post. In the near future I’ll regale you with the tale of how I came to start making my own spaghetti sauce. And where I get 6-pound cans of tomatoes for that particular venture…

Last night, my husband voiced a desire to watch last week’s sermon from church. Sure thing, I said. It was his “night off” so it was his choice.

I’m REALLY glad we watched that sermon.

It was all about comparing ourselves to others. My husband and I both struggle with that. The basic gist of the sermon was God made you the way He did because that’s the way He wanted you. To quote the pastor, “God obsessed over you in your mother’s womb for 9 months – you’re just right!” Wow. I mean, think about that for a second. God, the God of the universe, who created all things, took the time to make YOU just right.

So what would happen if we all stopped comparing ourselves to others, took a good look in the mirror, and said “Thank you, God, for who I am”?

Have you ever – EVER – genuinely thanked God for the way He made you?

I know I never have.

Last night during the closing prayer at the end of the sermon, I closed my eyes and said silently, “Thank you, God, for who I am.” And a peace I’ve never felt washed over me. God made me the way I am for a reason. For me to look in the mirror and criticize myself in any form – physical or personality – is like looking at the majesty of nature and saying “Oh, hey God, by the way, you screwed up when you made that.”

It says in scripture that we are God’s masterpiece. The angels were in awe when God created mankind. So how can we look in the mirror and think “You messed up, God – I suck.” Does that bring a pain to anyone else’s heart? Because it does to mine.

I’ve been my own worst critic my entire life. But when I think of standing in the glorious beauty of a place like the Rocky Mountains and saying “This is WRONG, God!”, something I would never do, I realize I’ve done even worse than that.

I’ve torn apart His masterpiece.

I’ve taken a knife to God’s Mona Lisa.

It’s taken me 26 years, almost 27, to thank God for how He made me. Acne and all! And I’m committing right now to look myself in the eye at least once a day and say “Thank you, God, for who I am.”

Because I am a masterpiece.

And so are you. You are His masterpiece. He made you exactly the way He wanted you. It grieves His heart when you say “I wish I was like that other person.” He didn’t make you like that other person because He knew the world needed YOU.

So I’m encouraging anyone who reads this to give it a try – “Thank you, God, for making me. Thank you for who I am. I am your masterpiece.”

Okay, I have GOT to break out of this box I’ve put myself in, that whenever I blog it has to be all serious and stuff. Because then I don’t blog, because I don’t have anything serious to say all that often right now. So I’m gonna talk about something FUN! Yay!

I’m going to talk about my baby. Here he is:

Isn’t he CUTE??? Yeah, I’m kind of nuts about him.

He just turned 6 months old. I can’t believe he’s halfway to 1. He was born in early December on the coldest, nastiest, windiest, snowiest weekend I think we had all winter. I remember walking across the parking lot to the entrance of the hospital, stopping for two contractions along the way (they were that close together!), the bitter wind cutting through my clothing like a blast of ice water. And I was an absolute nervous wreck when we left the hospital with our new baby – he was so little and fragile, and we were taking him out into a wind chill that was well below zero!

Of course now we’re dealing with the opposite extreme. The temperature got up close to 100 degrees outside yesterday. I don’t do well with heat, and neither does the baby. Luckily we now have this glorious thing known as air conditioning. Ah, bliss…

Oh, oops, rabbit trail. Where was I…

I can’t even begin to describe how much having a baby has changed my life. I’m still the same person – at the core, I’m still me – but I’ve been enhanced by this experience. I’ve discovered that I’m a lot tougher and a lot more logical than I previously thought. During the extreme sleep deprivation stage in the first few weeks, I remained amazingly calm. I told my husband one day, “I’ve settled in my mind that this is just how it is when you have a new baby. There is nothing I can do about it and stressing out isn’t going to help. It’s just a phase, it will pass. Now please stop messing with my mental calm.” Now THAT was weird. Normally my husband is the totally logical rational one. Except when he’s sleep deprived. Then we switch places.

But the sleep deprivation phase passed, and we settled into our daily rhythm, me and the baby. Life is pretty good. I love being a mommy. I’m not going to sit here and say it’s an absolutely perfect existence. Because it’s definitely not. It has its ups and downs. There are times when I long for the carefree days. And then the baby grins at me as he bounces in his Jumperoo and my heart melts and I wouldn’t change a single thing.

He’s a big guy, my baby. At 6 months old, he’s 27 ½ inches long and weighs just over 17 pounds. He’s mastered the art of rolling from front to back, back to front, and side to side. He can’t quite sit up on his own yet, but the pediatrician confirmed my theory that it’s only because he’s so tall – it’s harder for him to balance. He’ll get there, though.

He loves to suck his thumb. He pretty much only does it when he’s really tired. I try not to let him do it during playtime, but if he’s going to suck his thumb in his crib while I’m not there, there’s not much I can do about that. So I don’t worry about it. I frequently find him curled up on his side, thumb firmly implanted in his mouth, snoozing away when I go in to check on him during naptime. It’s so cute I can hardly stand it. But I tiptoe back out of his room and let him sleep. He takes his sleep very seriously and does not appreciate being interrupted!

He has discovered the fun of going on walks. We strap him into the stroller, and he gazes wide-eyed at the world as we stroll through the neighborhood. The fresh air and sunshine always get him good and sleepy. By the time we get home he’s ready for a nap, so we try to time it that way. I like to put his adorable denim hat on his little fuzzy head, to shade his eyes from the sun more so he can look around. There’s a park just a short walk from our house. It’s going to be so much fun when he’s big enough to go in the swings.

That’s how I try to look at the future. I know as he grows up, I’m going to miss these days of him being a baby. That’s a given. But there are so many fun things to look forward to. So those things are what I choose to focus on when I think about the future.

But for now I’m just going to enjoy my sweet, snuggly, happy, chubby baby. Who will be ready for his next meal in a few minutes. I’ll go upstairs to his room and quietly say his name as I open the door. If he’s awake, he’ll turn abruptly towards my voice and grin, thumb still in his mouth. If he’s still asleep, I’ll creep over to the crib and gently wake him by stroking his arm or rubbing his back or tummy, whichever one he isn’t laying on.

Then I’ll talk to him for a second, leaning over the side of the crib, savoring this precious moment of babyhood. Because I won’t get those moments forever. So I’ll enjoy them while they’re here. And when the new moments come, I’ll enjoy those too.

And then I’ll make attempt #2 at feeding him apples. Which he did not like this morning. He looked at me like “This is NOT my yams, crazy lady!” as I attempted to spoon the homemade applesauce into his mouth. Methinks my child is a yam addict.