November 18, 2024

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I knew from the time I was nine years old that I would probably become a writer. The funny thing is that if you had asked me at the age how I felt about writing, I would have told you that I hated it. Passionate. Emphatically. With every fiber of my being.

While it was true that I didn’t enjoy the process of it in those days, I did always like the outcome. And I somehow knew deep down that it was something I was innately good at. That love/hate push/pull that all writers experience was something I could relate to, even as a fourth grader.

I remember the moment it switched and I went from announcing clearly and loudly that I hated writing, to understanding its inevitability for me. I was when my teacher told us that we were all going to write pieces to submit to the Oregon Young Writers Conference (it seems like it still happens and is now called the Oregon Writing Festival). Based on those stories, they would pick one student from each school to attend. In a flash, I realized that I was a writer and that I would be going to that conference. And I did.

There have been a few times in my life when I have had that clear sense of knowing. An understanding that this is something I need to do and that it is the right choice for me. That was the first time. The next came when I was in high school and looking for where I might want to go to college. I got a promotional postcard in the mail for Whitman and just knew that that was where I was supposed to go.

The next was just after college. I flew to Philadelphia to visit my grandmother. When I got off the plane, I knew that the next right step was to move to Philly. It was absolutely clear in my mind.

The last time I had that intense sense of rightness was when I started Food in Jars. I didn’t have any kind of plan, but I knew that the name felt perfect and it seemed like the obvious next step after leaving Slashfood. I really didn’t have any idea at all of what it would become.

And now here I am. Sixteen years out from the last time I just knew the next step and the world is murkier than ever.

Writing on the rooftop

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It’s Tuesday morning and I am struggling to write. Not here, I look at this site as a place where I can put just about anything. But I’m really trying to get into the practice and habit of sending out at least two Substack newsletters a week and I am floundering.

Part of the trouble is that I’m not entirely sure what kind of writer I am anymore. My recipe development skills are super rusty, but at least when I’m writing about a recipe, I am on familiar ground. These days, I’m trying to find my way through an in-between space and figuring out what that looks like is proving harder than expected.

I do need to acknowledge to myself that I’m still coming down from five years of intensive parenting, where the pattern of my days was dictated by the needs to two little boys. We are only in the second month of kindergarten, so it’s okay that I am still finding my way. Thinking about it now, I realize that there was part of me that thought that once they started school, I’d be able to leap right back into my old levels of production. And I’m just not able to do that because I’m not the same person I once was.

As I sit here and write this, it also occurs to me that I am actually trying to do something different than what I did in the past. Yes, I do want to get back to Food in Jars and my goal there is to be producing new recipes on a monthly basis. But I want the Substack to be something different. I am hoping to be writing more thoughtful things. And so it makes sense that it is feeling like a challenge, because it’s not just leaping into the same old thing. It’s something new. And it’s okay that it feels challenging.

This was helpful. Thanks.

October 7, 2024

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Six weeks ago, my sweet twin boys started kindergarten. After a pandemic babyhood and a scant two mornings a week of preschool, being students for six and a half hours a day, five days a week has been a very big adjustment for them. Thankfully, it’s one that they have adjusted to at lightning speed and they are now happy swimmers in the sea of elementary school.

In many ways, it has been far more of an adjustment for me. I have been deep in the moment-by-moment parenting trenches for the last five years and their needs and activities gave shape to my daily life. I welcome the opportunity to recall how I used to fill my time before kids, but the speed with which it all happened has been a little disorienting.

One of the things that I have experienced repeatedly since becoming a parent is how a piece of equipment can go from being absolutely vital in our lives to being completely unnecessary. I remember it happening with nursing pillows, bouncy chairs, the baby bath, the bottle warmer, the activity jumper they took turns in, and the gate that kept them safely out of the kitchen.

Our stroller will most certainly be the next thing to go. It still has utility for things like the 20 minute trip to our favorite playground or fifteen minute walk to our pediatrician’s office. They had their annual check-up last week and it would have been a very frustrating walk for me if they had both been on their feet. But compared to the days when I used it every day (and sometimes twice), it is approaching obsolescence.

The other thing that I think is starting to reach the end of its usefulness for us is the item we simply refer to as The Backpack. Originally we used a purpose built diaper bag that a friend gave us at one of my showers. Once the pandemic hit, it was abandoned because we didn’t really go out or take them anywhere beyond a quick walk through the neighborhood. Then, once the vaccines arrived and the boys got old enough for daily outings to the playground, the diaper bag wasn’t quite right and so I shifted to using a black backpack I’d ordered on a whim on clearance (similar to this one).

Since then, The Backpack has been everywhere with us. It contains all the things that we needed for a happy handful of hours at the various parks and playgrounds in Center City. That includes the snack box, a plastic pencil box filled with packets of the various bars and cracker packs that the boys like. The box prevents the snacks from getting crushed, which in turn prevents fits of hangry weeping. There’s a little foldable first aid kit that we use mostly for bandaids, nail clippers, and tweezers (splinters abound!).

A pouch of cleaning tools, including baby wipes, Clorex wipes, sanitizing wipes, glasses wipes (for when a kid inevitably lands a dirty finger on my glasses), alcohol swaps (mostly used for when someone steps in gum), a roll of diaper disposal bags (occasionally used to wrap around a child’s tush to catch an emergency poop. Philadelphia doesn’t have much in the way of public bathrooms), hand sanitizer spray, and little paper packets of ibuprofen (for me).

The bag has a secret stash of Dum Dum lollipops for when spirits need lifting. A pee bottle for emergencies (see above). A large soft sided pack of tissues for the constantly dripping noses. A large zippered pouch of toy construction vehicles and a smaller one of Hot Wheels cars. A hard sided plastic case of sugar-free gum. One large muslin baby blanket that serves as a towel in case of unexpected water play or a tumble into mud. And fresh water bottles tucked into the outer side pockets.

At the very bottom of the bag, lives a soft layer of snack crumbs, broken bits of leaves the boys tried to bring home, a few precious pebbles, a thoroughly dried out baby wipe, and wheels broken off cars that were played with so hard they fell to pieces. I clean it out occasionally, but the same things always gather in the depths.

When I had this fully stocked bag with me, I felt like I could handle any parenting issue that came my way. Are you hungry? No problem! Need something to play with? We have options! Are you hurt, dirty, or sad? I can fix that. Now with the boys in school, The Backpack is mostly unnecessary and so much more is out of my control.

I haven’t dismantled it yet, but it’s days are very clearly numbered.

Clearing my Email Inbox

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A picture of a white woman wearing blue glasses and a preschool aged boy. They are both bundled in winter clothes and are outside. — This picture has nothing to do with the contents of this post. It’s Sammy and me, taken yesterday at the playground.

I haven’t had a handle on my email since the two weeks before my twins were born (we’re talking early July 2019). I spent that time in the hospital with preeclampsia with nothing more than my computer, an iPad, and an occasional visitor to keep me busy. And so I answered as many emails as my swollen fingers would allow before the boys arrived.

Since then, my work life (as represented by my inbox, which has always served as part to-do list for me) has been something of a disaster. First the boys were tiny and getting anything done was nearly impossible. Then the pandemic arrived and I spent two and half years without any outside childcare. I thought things would improve back in the fall when the boys started preschool, but they proceeded to get every single cold, flu, and virus on offer (I got a number of them too).

Things have finally started to look a little clearer for me. We’ve had several weeks of good health (you can’t see me, but I’m knocking vigorously on the table as I type that). The boys are pretty good at playing with one another and leaving me alone for stretches of time. I regularly get seven plus hours of sleep. And so I’m once again trying to turn on the work portion of my brain.

One of the things I did today to facilitate this is that I archived all the old emails that have been hanging out in my inbox for the last three and a half years. I don’t know why I thought I’d get back to them, but I am finally accepting that it’s just never going to happen. I am never going to answer the canning questions that people sent me two years ago. And that to move forward, that needs to be okay.

I actually feel physically lighter having moved all those emails off my plate and into my digital attic (it might have been smarter to delete them entirely, but that was a bigger step than I was prepared to take at this time. What if someone follows up and I don’t have a record of our previous interaction?!).

All that said, I am still trying to figure out what my work life is going to look like as I move forward. The world has changed so much in the last four years. The blogging I did for so long doesn’t really work anymore. I’ve spent the last couple years working with a SEO consulting company to better optimize Food in Jars. And that’s been useful (thought it moves very slowly since my bandwidth is so narrow), but it has left me floundering a little as I try to figure out what my writing life should look like now.

One of the things that the SEO folks have repeatedly stressed is that I should focus on my existing content rather that keep creating more. And while I get that (it’s the best path towards higher traffic and more ad revenue), I also keep wishing for a place for the new stuff. I am considering a newsletter, though I fear that that is now an oversaturated market. So I am here, noodling around, writing about what’s on my mind. Which feels good!

February 24, 2022

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Sammy and Declan have recently started making up small, silly stories, and I am loving every moment of it. A couple of days ago, I was changing Declan’s diaper and Sammy hopped into Declan’s crib.

Then Declan said, ” Once upon a time, a little boy appeared in my crib.”

Sammy said, “It’s Sammy!”

Declan said, “He likes Declan and licking!”

They told their three line story over and over again, giggling all the while.

Parenting is hard and takes you to the brink of your sanity, but it also has some really satisfying moments.

January 30, 2022

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A few days ago, this little emblem fell off the cabinet where it has been affixed for the last 56 years. It was a feature of the kitchen that would often catch my eye and I would always think to myself, “who’s lifetime are we talking about? I’d prefer that it not be mine”

Just a few days before the fixative failed, Scott and I had been talking about the possibility of replacing the kitchen. Now that we have the added space of the efficiency next door, we’d like to move our laundry over there. That could easily kick off a much needed redo (the kitchen still functions, but there’s so much that is screaming to be replaced).

But now I wonder if the kitchen is listening and has gained sentience. Is it communicating with us, pleading not to be replaced? Or is it simply ready for retirement?

January 26, 2022

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I think about writing in this space every day. Sometimes, it’s just a whisper of a thought that passes so fast that I barely notice it happening. Other times, it’s a more insistent urge. Lately, the desire to be writing about my mundane life has been building into a tsunami of need. I can either yield and let the wave wash over me or I can drown in it. And so, here I am.

In part, it’s the isolation. We’re wrapping up the second full year of the pandemic. My days are full of the work necessary to keep two toddlers clean, dressed, fed, and entertained. It’s occupying work, but doesn’t do much in the way of giving me connection with people outside my household. And writing on the internet has always given me a sense of connection (even if hardly anyone drops by anymore).

The other thing that’s propelling me back towards this space is the fact that I just hit my 20 year anniversary in Philadelphia. I don’t remember the exact date I moved back in January 2002 (it’s probably buried somewhere in the archives of this site), but it was mid-month. I can’t quite believe how much of my life I’ve spent in this city (and in this apartment).

When I moved here, I was 22 years old. I followed a quiet nudge from my inner voice that Philadelphia was the place I needed to be. I came with a couple of suitcases and an expectation that I’d be here for three years. But then my grandmother died. I inherited the apartment. I made friends. I started writing. I met Scott. I went to grad school. And on, and on, and on.

I am not at all dissatisfied with my life, but it is decidedly different from what I imagined for myself when I was younger. I wonder what the next 20 years will hold. And will I still be here, in apartment 2024?

Apartment 2024 Expansions

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Back in July, Scott and I bought the studio apartment next door to us. It has been nothing short of life changing. I’ve now lived in this apartment for nearly 19 years (wrap your brain around that one), and there’s never been a moment when I did not fantasize about expanding into the unit through my dining room wall. The fact that it has actually happened still amazes me.

Those of you who have been reading here for a while (which is probably most of you, I don’t think anyone just stumbles across this site these days), you might remember that when my grandfather Phil bought this apartment back in 1965, the purchase actually included the second unit that we now own (Apt. 2023).

He died shortly before they moved in, and in a fit of panic, my grandmother sold off that portion of the apartment (for $800), leaving herself with a two bedroom, one bath. Everyone immediately regretted that choice (grief driven decisions are rarely good ones), but the apartment next door never came up for sale at a time when my grandmother was in a place to buy it.

It took us about six weeks after making the purchase to have a door installed connecting the two units. But back in September, we took the boys to the Jersey Shore for a week and while we were away, a very nice contractor named Tom cut a hole and put in a very nice, simple door.

It’s the first time in my adult life that I’ve had a second bathroom, which continues to be an absolute pleasure. Other joys that this expansion have brought include a second small kitchen, complete with an additional fridge, and the ability to move Scott’s office into the new space, freeing up the room that was once his for the boys.

That said, there have been some bumps in the road. There’s so much I want to do to make the new space more functional for us, and I have so little time and energy to make it happen (because of the pandemic, we don’t have any childcare help anymore, and so I don’t have a whole lot of bandwidth for anything extra these days).

And so, while it’s amazing to have more space, it’s also because a bit of a dumping ground, where we tuck anything that the boys might destroy. When they do breach the perimeter and make their way into the annex (as we have been calling it), we have to tail them closely to ensure that they don’t pull down a camera or help themselves to a drawer full of knives.

But there is time for all that. We will eventually put up shelves and get things tucked away. Perhaps someday, we’ll even find the funds to break down more of the wall and build a larger, more functional kitchen out of the two we now have. I will keep dreaming it so.

Two Years Ago

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While I was waiting for the transfer to happen, I took a hopeful selfie.

Two years ago right now, I was in a strange, in-between place. A few days earlier, my first round of IVF had resulted in the retrieval of four tiny, precious eggs. Those eggs had been fertilized and were successfully growing in a lab a mile and a half west of our apartment. I was waiting to see whether they would continue to thrive long enough to be transferred back into my body.

I haven’t really written much about my fertility experience. Looking back at it now, with two energetic, sturdy little boys playing a few feet away from me, it doesn’t have the same weight that it did when I was going through it. But before, during, and just after, I lived with a balloon of hope, fear, and anticipation in my chest and throat that was always about to explode open.

I remember the morning I got the call from the lab, telling me that the fertilized eggs were doing well. I was at a busy farmers market and I started crying on the sidewalk. I was wearing my red vest and holding a bag filled with apples and a leafy bunch of swiss chard. In true city fashion, people just kept on walking by as a wept.

The boys’ very first baby pictures. The tech told me that these two embryos were so big that they couldn’t get them into a single image. I found that incredibly hopeful at the time.

On the morning of the egg transfer Scott had a meeting and so I went by myself to the appointment. When I got there, they told me that there were two eggs that were doing really well. One was slightly less good, and one had stopped growing all together.

The advice was to transfer the two most robust embryos, in the hopes that one would implant. I told the doctor (a woman I’d never met before and would never see again) that we really didn’t want to have twins (ha!) and she said that given my age (I was 39 at the time), there was a very slim chance that both would implant. Truly, the odds were against me that even one would stick around.

I watched on the monitor as she slid the delivery tool into my uterus and left two, tiny clusters of cells behind. So much hope. So much worry.

I walked around for the next ten days in a state of wonder and fear and deep curiosity. Would one of those clusters of cells stick around? Would both? Finally, a day before the fertility appointment where they’d test my blood for HCG (the hormone that appears during early pregnancy), I took a home test and the plus sign turned pink within seconds. It was the only time in my life that I’d gotten a positive result from one of those tests (though I’d self administered many with a great deal of hope).

I don’t know how long late November and early December will bring me back to the fertility treatments that brought me my boys, but at the moment, I can’t live through this time of year without remembering and feeling that balloon of desperate hope and anticipation.

Things for Which I am Grateful

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I am grateful that I don’t have to do laundry the way women once did, dragging their soiled linens to a stream and pounding them against the stones.

I am grateful that I don’t have to cook food for my family over an open flame, always worried a wobbly toddler might accidentally pitch forward into the hearth.

I am grateful that I don’t have to preserve food in order for my family’s survival. The weight of the work must have been nearly crushing when it was the only thing standing in the way of starvation.

I am grateful that the work of my hands isn’t what keeps my children clothed. That torn out knee must have been heartbreaking if you raised the sheep, carded the wool, loomed the fabric, and stitched the garment.

I am grateful for this modern age.

I started thinking those first words earlier today when I was piling dirty clothes into our washer. Even with a machine to do the work of washing and drying, I still mumble and moan about the work of gathering and folding under my breath. But suddenly, remembering how far we’ve come made me reorient my thinking and instead feel widely, impossibly grateful for the epic conveniences of modern life.