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Last week while running some random errands I stopped in TJ Maxx to see if they had any of the beautiful glass apothecary jars that I had seen on their shelves before. I had eyeballed those jars for years, never able to commit to spending the money on them, but knowing full-well that they would look perfect somewhere in my house. Finally on that random Thursday last week I decided it was time to bring them home. Surprisingly, however, when I found them in the store they weren’t the normal large jars I had seen before, they were miniature, cuter versions of their former selves, perfect for sitting as a centerpiece on my dining room table with some seasonal candy inside of them.
Although the stores have already nose-dived into the holiday spirit with their twinkle lights, Christmas music, and red and green candy strewn all through the aisles, I wasn’t ready to give in yet. Not yet. Not until Thanksgiving has come and gone. So instead I tried to find fall-ish candy with which to fill my new pretty jars: candy corn (duh), dark chocolate Reese’s peanut butter cups (because of the color of the wrapper and, okay, BECAUSE THEY ARE AWESOME), and peanut butter and jelly M&M’s (which, although they have a fall color scheme, are absolutely disgusting. Don’t buy them. I’m warning you).
Thus is my beautiful new centerpiece. The only unfortunate part is that there is a certain someone who lives with me that keeps dipping into the M&M’s because he seems to think that they taste good. HE IS SO WRONG.
Rob is taking me to get a pedicure tonight. I asked him yesterday if he would since my toes are in total disrepair and 1) it’s physically impossible for me to contort my body enough to reach down and paint my own toes and 2) I don’t exactly trust Rob to do it. However, I’ve realized that me saying that Rob is “taking me to get a pedicure” sounds a lot more glamorous and romantic than it really is, considering all he is doing is dropping me off at the salon while he goes and runs some of his own errands. It’s not like he’s going to sit with me throughout the whole thing or whip out cash to pay for the pedicure when I’m done. So really, scratch that first sentence, Rob has nothing to do with it.
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Etsy has been a dear friend of mine ever since I found out that we were expecting a girl. Are you aware of the endless treasures that etsy offers for babies? So far I have bought lots of headbands, bows, and baby leg warmers for Avalon and everything is so adorable. It was all moderately priced, too, and I really like buying straight from the artists themselves. Something about it makes me feel like a good samaritan.
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I’ve turned into a peach fanatic lately. In the past three days I’d estimate that I’ve eaten at least seven peaches. They’re so juicy and good this time of year, it makes me wish that summer lasted all year long so we could enjoy the fresh produce. I thought about whipping up some peach cobbler or peach pie or peachy something-or-other, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I think I must unconsciously love the unadulterated peaches too much to let them mingle with flour and sugar. And if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
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Yesterday I got to meet the Head Honcho of labor nurses at the hospital where I will be delivering Avalon (she is a client of my mom’s). She was really, really nice and made me feel very comfortable and at ease about labor and delivery. Her biggest piece of advice for me was to STAY OUT OF BED when in labor. Stay on my feet, move around, use the tub, do the hokey-pokey, whatever it takes. Which is all good, but you know what all those things mean? No epidural. Epidurals essentially glue your butt to the bed and you forfeit the opportunity of getting out of it until after the whole thing is done and over with. So! I think I’m going to try and remain mobile and epidural-free for as long as my body can handle it. This could be six minutes or six hours. What a fun gamble. Anybody want to place any bets?
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You know when your split ends are screaming at you to get a haircut but you ignore all the commotion and let it just keep on growing, dry, split ends and all? That’s where I am right now, as I’m on a quest to grow my hair long again. My hair has been every length and color in the past twelve years, from pixie cut to way down my back, and here is some more recent evidence:
This was right before our wedding, and was the longest my hair had ever been. I had grown my hair out for a couple of years knowing that I wanted it really long for my wedding. Then I got married and this happened:
I hacked it off, a la Posh Spice, and donated the remains to Locks of Love figuring that, hey, my wedding was over, I didn’t need all that hair anymore.
Now I’m in the BLAHHHH middle/boring length trying to get it back to where it was pre-wedding. I don’t know why, I guess I just liked it. And also (THIS IS GOING TO SOUND SO SHALLOW, CAN’T BELIEVE I AM EVEN SAYING THIS), I want to be a ‘cute mom’. And I picture myself as a ‘cute mom’ with long hair. Also: I love throwing my hair up into a quick ponytail.
Ugh, I am ridiculous. Somebody slug me.
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I never thought that when I stepped onto the scale I would see the numbers that I saw yesterday. As every day passes the numbers creep higher and higher, as does my blood pressure upon seeing how far away from my pre-pregnancy weight I am straying.
What kills me the most is knowing that I have little to no control over the weight gain. Before getting pregnant I liked and took advantage of the control I had over my weight. I was somewhat careful with what I ate, and I enjoyed working out on a fairly consistent basis. If I did splurge on crappy food I knew that all I had to do to make up for it was take an extra kickboxing class or cycle a few extra miles. This happened all the time, truth be told, because my willpower when it comes to food is horrible. I’d rather exercise like a gerbil on a wheel for hours on end than deprive myself of some delicious grub.
All that being said, I was still far from having the perfect physique or weight, yet I was in a place where I was comfortable and happy.
Also: CONTROL.
At almost nine months pregnant, the control thing is obviously on hiatus. If I eat like crap, I’m physically unable to just ‘work it off’ like I used to. And even if I don’t eat like crap, the numbers on the scale are still going to keep getting higher.
It’s challenging to break through my old mindset and accept the fact that, at this point, my weight is (mostly) out of my control. It’s not something I dwell on all the time, and luckily I haven’t really had to up until my third trimester when I quit kickboxing and all of a sudden the pounds just begin piling on.
I’m looking forward to the days where I can exercise again and achieve some new physical goals. I’m thinking of maybe even running another half marathon, which means something serious because did you know? I HATE RUNNING. I even told my kettlebell trainer that she has full permission to kick my butt like she never has before, which is something I will probably regret ever saying as soon as I step back into the gym.
All I know is that I am more motivated than I ever have been before.
1. This past week it has been really hot, getting up into the mid-nineties everyday. But because I am such a hater of winter, I’m definitely not complaining. I would totally chose hot, muggy weather over ice and snow and PURE HELL any day. Because it has been so sunshiney everyday, I have finally been able to resume my daily ritual of sitting in the sun when I come home for lunch. Even if it’s only for ten minutes a day, I love being able to relax and soak up some vitamin D. It makes me a happier, more complete individual. And gives me a little tan. And totally convinces me that I am solar powered.
2. I finally started going to my OB every two weeks now, which, YES! I’m getting closer! At my last appointment after I had gotten weighed and the nurse was getting my blood pressure, I nonchalantly asked her if I had gained any weight from the last time I was there two weeks ago. Thinking for sure that it was maybe only a pound, if that, she checked my chart, looked back at me, and with a small smile replied, “yes dear, four pounds.” EXCUSE ME? FOUR POUNDS IN TWO WEEKS? That has to be some sort of disgusting record. What pissed me off the most was not that I had gained another four pounds, that’s to be expected, but how could I gain four pounds in two weeks and not be aware of it? Not thoroughly enjoy it? Not try really hard at it? ‘Cause, dang, if I’m going to gain weight that quickly I want it to be because I had a bacon and peanut butter ice cream sundae with a side of queso three times a day. I want to work for those el-bees, baby! But no. That was definitely not the case, and it was thoroughly disappointing.
3. I was just in the kitchen making some coffee when it dawned on me that my oil and vinegar jars are totally empty and that they have been empty for months. Sadly enough, this means that the last time I cooked a meal was sometime back in 2001. Poor Rob. Our dinners now consist of either smoothies, PB&J sandwiches, pizza, or protein bars. I think this pregnancy has gotten me in a culinary slump and is causing me to prefer sitting on my ever-expanding butt to watch all the cooks on the Food Network make all their delicious concoctions instead of getting up and actually whipping up a hot plate of food myself.
4. (*writes this with fingers crossed*) Tomorrow Rob is going to paint the nursery! And hopefully also put together the baby furniture (which is in boxes in our garage) and hang the artwork. Yippee! This means I can finally start putting things away and organizing and quit badgering Rob like a lunatic to freaking paint the nursery already! Are you going to paint the nursery today? When are you going to paint the nursery? How about today? No, you have to go to work? What do you mean you have to sleep tonight? He’s finally giving in and tackling the nursery tomorrow, so my work has been accomplished (finally). I am so ready to start nesting, I’m practically growing feathers.
Today while I was at home eating lunch I turned on the Food Network, and per usual Giada’s Everyday Italian was on (although sometimes Giada At Home is on during this time, and I’m not really sure which show I prefer more, but it’s possible that the “at home” show is a little bit more entertaining only because I find myself chuckling/rolling my eyes/throwing carrots at the TV because her life appears to be so lovely and perfect, what with her beautiful house overlooking the ocean and her designer clothes from her designer husband and her afternoons spent with friends at the polo match, AND GAH SHE REALLY KNOWS HOW TO MAKE HER AUDIENCE FEEL LIKE A PIECE OF UNSUBSTANTIAL CRAP.).
Now, I really like Giada and am sure that we would make great friends in real life (Giada? Can we share secrets and clothes and have pillow fights in our panties? What? My clothes aren’t sophisticated enough for you? The necklines on my shirts don’t plunge down low enough?), but whenever I watch her show and see what she’s making it always seems like it’s the same as what she made yesterday, which was the same thing that she made the day before, which was the same as BLAH BLAH BLAH.
Her recipes are fine, I’ve made a few of them myself, but whenever her show comes on it’s like I turn into the psychic on 1-800-READ-ME because I already know that she’s probably going to make a PAZ-tah! dish with tomatoes, olive oil, and capers, and then maybe something wrapped in prosciutto on the side, and then for dessert some espresso/chocolate concoction because did you know? She has a major sweet tooth? AND SHE TOTALLY LOOKS IT, TOO.
So as a service to my readers, if you are ever wondering what Giada is up to and what she might be preparing on her show, just ask and I have you covered.
And I can definitely guarantee that her nails will be painted in OPI Bubble Bath, that’s a for sure.
All of a sudden I am finally starting to look really – you’ll never guess – pregnant! My stomach has finally exploded outside of its normal, acceptable boundaries and now looks as though it is lurching forward to desperately grasp the finish line in some unknown, mysterious race against the rest of my body. This, combined with the fact that I still have an entire 17 weeks left in this pregnancy, compels me sit down and have a little heart to heart discussion with my stomach, one that might sound something along the lines of DUDE, EASE UP, WE HAVE A LONG WAY TO GO HERE.
I don’t so much mind looking round and pregnant in my midsection, but what I do have an issue with is the jiggly arms and thighs that I have recently discovered. (Or maybe I just finally acknowledged it? Ignorance really is bliss.) Now, I’m not usually one to point fingers, but Mr. Edy? This is all you, man.
So as of recently (read: today) I have tried to eliminate the junk from my diet and replace it with more wholesome, healthy foods. This morning I replaced my usual breakfast of Reese’s Peanut Butter Puffs cereal with Cinnamon Life cereal, at lunch I ate some carrots and a turkey sandwich, and then for dinner I had this:
In case you can’t tell, it’s peanut butter and chocolate chips. Oh, and there’s an apple under there, too. Does this count as healthy? I’m not really sure, but do I know that apples contain fiber, peanut butter contains protein, and chocolate chips contain deliciousness, so therefore I’m choosing to believe that INDEED, NUTRITIOUS.
My paternal grandmother is 100% Italian, which is my favorite culture for no other reason other than I love the food. I am aware that this clearly identifies me as a very well-educated, polished, and worldly individual. The best Italian food I have ever tasted, however partial it may seem, is my grandma’s food, specifically her meatballs and pasta sauce. The recipe she uses was her mother’s – my great-grandmother’s – and has been made for years and years and years. Our whole family absolutely drools over it and can’t ever get enough of it.
Although my grandma is really good at supplying our family with sauce and keeps a freezer full of it at all times, I decided to take it upon myself to learn how to make the sauce and carry on the tradition of deliciousness. My grandma printed a recipe book that contains the sauce and meatball recipe that I could have easily followed, but I knew the only way I would really learn how to make it was to actually do it with her. Sure, I can read a recipe, but I just knew that there were some little secrets here and there (AND THERE WERE) that made it an authentic family recipe. So on Saturday, in preparation for Easter’s dinner, I went over to my grandma and grandpa’s house to conquer THE SAUCE.
When I got there, she already had the tomato sauce on the stove getting warm. Something to note in this photo is how huge this pot is. It’s a sixteen quart pot, and is holding three gigantic cans of tomato sauce, two onions, and lots of parsley. One thing I learned right away about making the sauce is that if you’re going to go to the trouble of making it, make enough to feed not just one, but three entire Italian families. For five days. THAT is definitely how much should be made, and no less.
Meanwhile, Grandpa was doing his job outside: frying up the pork bones, an absolutely crucial step to making this sauce. After the bones are fried, they are added to the sauce to add flavor and to make the world a better place. Something to notice about this photo: THE OUT OF DOORS. It’s a really smart idea to fry the bones (and later, the meatballs) outside because the smell, although glorious, can seriously stink up a house and splatter grease all over the kitchen, which could cause any neat freak to…freak.
Here is the start of the meatballs. Five whole pounds of ground chuck, ten eggs, eight frozen (grated) hamburger buns, an entire chopped bulb of garlic, tons of parsley, a bucket full of romano cheese, and some pepper go into these babies. Moderation is NOT the key here, and don’t you forget it.
Here’s Grandma with the meatball mixture after we mushed everything all together. We had so much fun.
Anybody want to guess how many meatballs five pounds of ground beef will get you? (This was only some of them.) We estimated that we had around 130-150 meatballs by the time we were done rolling. And rolling. And…rolling.
Then came the fun part: frying the meatballs. Grandpa did a grand job at frying them to their perfect doneness. One of the pointers he gave me, when it comes to frying meatballs, is that a glass is wine is always crucial. No matter that it may only be eleven o’clock in the morning, it’s non-negotiable! Besides, do you know how long it takes to fry 150 meatballs? Long enough to need wine, my friends.
When all the meatballs are done it’s time to throw them into the sauce, which makes it clear why you need an enormous pot. Then comes the best part (or worst, depending on how you choose to look at it): after frying all of the meatballs, you take the skillet full of grease and…dump it into the sauce. Now, this is important! Do NOT think about it or overanalyze it! It’s something you just have to do, and while you’re at it, I definitely wouldn’t judge you if you felt the need to shoot back a multi-vitamin. I understand. Then stir it all together and incorporate the meatballs, grease, and sauce. Just let it simmer for awhile, remove the pork bones, and that’s it!
The result is some seriously delicious eating. And, unfortunately for us all, I do not have a final picture. I’m sorry. I was just too busy eating and I couldn’t stop. It’s a problem I have that happens from time to time.
I am so happy that I was able to learn from the pro’s and will now be able to make the sauce myself. I can’t wait until I can tell my kids, and even my grandkids, about the day that Grandma cooked with me and taught me how to make her meatballs and sauce. I have a feeling that they’re going to love it so much that they’ll think she is some sort of an Italian icon. And, well, she practically is.
I have a confession to make.
Don’t judge me, okay?
But before I go spilling my sins to the whole wide world, let me back up and give you the whole story so I may make a proper confession. Or feel more justified in my wrong doing. Ahem. Whatever.
Last Sunday I went to the grocery to get all of my essential food items for week; candy corn and tortilla chips. While I was there, fighting my way through The Mass of Sunday Grocery Shoppers, my stomach started growling something serious, tempting me to pull one of those ‘mom tricks’ on myself of Opening Up The Animal Crackers Before You Pay For Them So Your Two Year Old Will Stop Screaming Bloody Murder And PLEASE PULL HERSELF TOGETHER BEFORE YOU PURPOSEFULLY LEAVE HER IN THE PRODUCE SECTION AND TAKE YOURSELF TO THE SPA FOR SOME PEACE AND QUIET!
(Moms, you know exactly what I’m talking about.)
(At least my mom does.)
(Hi Mom!)
Clearly, I am a few years older than a toddler so I must act like it and resist walking around the store eating the contents of my grocery cart like a gluttonous pig. Because a gluttonous pig, I am not (yet).
Anyway, while in the middle of the snack aisle, after I grabbed my tortilla chips, I then laid eyes on my favorite chips in the whole wide world but never buy because, I don’t know, they’re bad for me or something? And my jeans, I prefer for them to fit my hips? But the next thing I knew, the sour cream and cheddar ruffles had somehow made their way into my cart.
It was okay though. I would share them with Rob. They would last us throughout the week. And I’d only eat a few at a time. Plus, they’re 1/2 the fat. I mean, they’re practically healthy!
After I finally left the grocery store and got in my car I was still absolutely ravenous. RAVENOUS, I SAY. So…I grabbed the sour cream and cheddar chips, opened them up, and placed them in the passenger seat next to me like we were new best friends going on a roadtrip to Cellulite City. Then I ate. And ate. And ate.
All the way back home, a twenty minute car ride.
Then I hit a train. And I kept mindlessly eating the chips. Eventually there was nothing but crumbs left, and at that point I finally snapped back into reality realizing the damage that I had just done.
A whole bag of chips, GONE.
My David Kahns were going to hate me.
CURSE YOU, SOUR CREAM AND CHEDDAR CHIPS!
When I got home I said absolutely nothing to Rob about the incident, because I was that gluttonous pig and was just too ashamed to admit it.
Then dinner time rolled around. My stomach was filled to the brim and aching. I couldn’t even move, let alone prepare and eat dinner with Rob.
However, as luck would have it, Rob asked me, Baby, we having anything for dinner tonight?
*crickets*
…okay, guess I’ll just fend for myself.
(Bad wife! Bad wife!)
It wasn’t until two days later when I finally was able to own up to my starring role of PIG and tell Rob about the chip situation.
After laughing at with me, his next response was that I better blog about this.
And now I have.
Ahhh, wow, I feel so much better after making my confession. Thinner, even! Like the weight of ten pounds just came crashing off my hips!
…if only it were that easy.
Last week after watching an episode of Barefoot Contessa I felt inspired and chef-ly, as per usual. The only right thing to do at that point, I decided, was to make Rob and myself a delicious dinner using the Parmesan Chicken recipe I had just watched Ina Garten so eloquently prepare.
I went into the kitchen, gathered all of the required ingredients (whilst utterly shocked that I even had all of the ingredients on hand because the recipe called for something other than my pantry regulars of rice cakes, peanut butter or stale Cheerios), and began to pretend that I was as skilled and graceful in the kitchen as Ina herself.
(Only with better hair. And wearing an actual fitted shirt.)
Anyway.
This is where my disaster began.
First, the chicken was to be pounded into cutlets, ie: very, very thin. What I neglected to realize, and what should have been written right into the recipe itself (hey Ina? where were you on this one?), is that this step IS ABSOLUTELY CRUCIAL TO THE OUTCOME OF THIS RECIPE.
However, Ina didn’t pity those poor, naive kitchen novices like me when she wrote that recipe, so she left out the “cutlets critical” part.
Obviously we can all see where this is going, can’t we?
I left my chicken breasts as they were, without cutting them, and continued on with the recipe.
After breading the chicken, putting it into the pan, and nervously biting my lip and hoping that the chicken would BEAR WITH ME PLEASE I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING, OKAY?, smoke began wafting up from the pan, an aroma of BURN started to stink throughout the house, and the chicken appeared to be horribly charred on the outside but still pink and gummy on the inside.
Aye, Ina would be so disappointed.
When Rob got home just a few minutes later, he walked into the kitchen with a horrible, disgusted look on his face.
Which, actually, I didn’t even see because my back was purposefully turned to him, in shame of myself and numerous wasted hours in front of the Food Network.
But the horrible, disgusted look on his face? TOTALLY THERE.
In a fit of defeat and pure annoyance, and without any other words exchanged, I hastily threw the chicken in the wastebasket, dropped the dirty pans in the sink, turned around to Rob and ordered, Get in the car. We’re going to Applebees.
For some reason I feel as though this won’t be the last time that this kind of episode will ever happen.
That is, unless I wind up with a kitchen as large and as beautiful as Ina’s because then, I’m positive, it doesn’t even matter if you actually follow the recipe or not.
Chickens know how to behave in big, beautiful kitchens. In the Hamptons, of course.
Reason #736 why I am going on a diet AS SOON as the plane hits the Indiana ground…
Fried fish, french fries, 2 for 1 Rum Runners, and beer.
Oy.
