Spinach: 0, Marshmallows:...0

Carter has a nose for vegetables. Anything green is out, and anything with too many vitamins is an automatic "no", unless it's an especially sweet fruit. We are having to learn to be stealthy. On the other end of the equation, he offers a hearty, "yeah!" when he is offered something new and nutritionally vacuous to try. Today at a birthday party, it was a marshmallow, his very first. It was a big fluffy, sugar-coated square, almost the size of a tennis ball. I cut him a strip. Upon fingering it, he turned skeptical. "What's coming out of it?" he asked, handing it back to me. I thought for a moment, and then realized that he was experiencing the special marshmallow sticky ooze for the first time. Just as well if it repulses him; less work for the toothbrush tonight.

No real insight

Flipping channels last night, I came across an episode of the "Real Housewives of Orange County" that promised to tell, among others, the tale of culture shock experienced by one Housewife and her daughter as they traveled to Berkeley. It sounded interesting at the time; perhaps it would give me insight about my culture shock in Orange County, as I feel much more at home in Berkeley? No such luck. Nothing deeper than that the "bums and hippies" weirded them out, wheat grass smells funny. Too bad. But what did I expect, really?

A friend from my writing group lives in "Coto". I really like her. OK, so she's a republican, but she's clever and funny, and college-educated... which, she pointed out to me once, is something that none of the "Housewives" is, alas. But at least the daughter is enrolled in UC Berkeley, (and talking about transferring to UCLA, where I guess the bums and hippies are fewer.) Party/study/shop on.

Love and fromage

My friend M. recently joked that her husband's hatred for cheese was potentially grounds for divorce. It made me laugh, but I could relate. On all the important things, we're good. But on food, once you get beyond our shared eggplant aversion, we diverge pretty drastically. He dislikes mushrooms, olives, and artichokes, all of which are on my top ten, (somewhere behind cheese). For him, licorice and cupcakes are two important food groups, ones I could do without (the first more readily than the latter, admittedly). I doubt taste in food is ever a real "deal-breaker" for a relationship, and yet, it strikes me that it is nonetheless important, something I confront every time I sigh and turn the page in a cookbook past a great recipe that is half mushrooms.

Looking good

I had a dentist's appointment recently, just a cleaning. The dental hygienist introduced herself and explained that the woman who usually cleans my teeth was not there that day. The hygienist was in her mid-forties, pleasant, and had a vibe of taking her job very seriously; she was so professional and methodical. What made me laugh was that when she was cleaning my teeth, after she got started and made some progress, she began talking to herself. She said things like,"Oh yeah, that's much better. There we go. Looking good." It was under her breath, not for my benefit. But I didn't mind hearing that she was pleased with her work. Certainly better than other possible mutterances.

On Declawing the baby

So many times I have been scratched, bruised, banged, bitten by one of the kids, and of course it is just par for the course. Nothing major, even though getting whacked in the face by Gavin's helmeted head can smart for a bit. The worst lately is scratching. And it's not because I've fallen behind on his manicures. The kid has my nail growth genes, i.e. very speedy, but I've been good lately about keeping them short. In spite of this, he got me good yesterday, in the face. I knew right after it happened that there would be lasting evidence of the scratch; I could tell it had broken the surface. All today, I have had to walk around with a one-inch scab on my lower right cheek. Not fun! Tonight, he did it again, on my forearm, grasping the skin so tightly that the tips of a few fingers sunk in deep enough I know I will have more fresh scabs tomorrow. I was moaning to myself about it and briefly had the thought of "declawing" him... Obviously won't happen, but the thought of being tickled rather than torn is a pleasant one.

Carter-isms

Two classic Carter-isms:

1) "Eiffel Towers", as in "There are Eiffel Towers over there." I looked around for what he could possibly be talking about, as we headed north on the 405 toward Long Beach, and found power lines.

2) "Airplane stars". Of course. What could he possibly think a star was, beyond a small, bright light in the sky? The airplane ones move; the other ones don't. Makes perfect sense.

Cheese gene

It is quite clear that C got the cheese gene from me. Every morning, when we ask him what he wants for breakfast, he enthusiastically says, "cheese!" "How European of you," we say, before cutting him a banana. But my husband knows as well as I, he can't help it. This love for cheese runs deep.

My earliest memories are from Sonoma, where we lived across the street from a cheese factory. I vaguely remember drawing pictures for the guys who worked there, and also receiving samples of the cheeses. My mom made fondue occasionally for dinner when I was growing up. During my year abroad then, I was ready to sample some excellent apres-ski fondue in Grenoble. I also grew quite fond of the regional cheese of the Juras, comte, of which my host family was rightfully proud. And even in Orange County, there is superb raclette in the winter months, if you know where to look. I can't wait to take C when he's older; that will certainly make him say cheese.