How to take young children anywhere



Mimo and I have a regular date on Fridays. Usually, we take the kids to visit a museum or paint pottery, or we drop by Union Market for smoked fish and ice cream. But last week, when I got to her house, she was sitting in her favorite chair, surrounded by a mountain of photo albums. We spent the whole afternoon pouring over pictures from her amazing life. Our grandpa, Didi, was elected to congress the year that I was born, and spent the next 28 years dragging me and the rest of his grandchildren to completely inappropriate places. For that brazen disregard of protocol and better judgement, I will be eternally grateful.

These days, my kids and I don't have occasion to crash state dinners, but I do look to my fearless grandparents as inspiration when deciding whether to get a sitter or bring the team.

If you're feelig bold, Here are my top 5 tips for bringing your kids anywhere...*

*I also feel I need to insert a disclaimer for anyone who has been to church with my kids. I don't know what it is -- maybe the hyper-familiarity of once-a-week worship with so many of their best little friends? But my tricks don't seem to work there. Once we walk through the chapel doors, it's kind of in God's hands....

Notes from Montreal



Another week - in which, during an attempt to ask about what she thought was a new fish in a recent convert's fish tank, my companion asked if this new member had a new sin....It was a little awkward, especially because the member in question recently moved in with her boyfriend...But it was all quite silly and jolly and I don't *think* anybody was horribly offended.....Nah!

Oh! So elections are taking place in Quebec right now. There are a lot of get out the vote signs, and other political signs. And they are all. So. Weird. Really really odd. I'll take pictures today and send them next week. But they are super strange - and a very good way to see some fundamental differences between Quebec vs. U.S.A. Just to give you an idea, one has a stony faced 60-something year old woman with purple streaks in her hair and a giant bobble necklace. It's weird, and not particularly inspiring. All of the campaign posters have giant pictures of the politicans on them. It seems like something from a Kurt Vonnegut story. Yissss....these frogs are a little odd. Also, we did some street contacting and were mistaken for campaigners...And then we street contacted one of the politicians from the creepy giant signs! She was not very sympatico. So we've started passing out flyers for her opponent. I kid, I kid! But we actually should.

I gave up bread to help understand one of the people we're teaching who wants to stop smoking. I went three weeks! And then she told us to stop.....But. I do understand a little better now. And, sadly, I don't love bread as much as I used to :( 

Je vous aime!

It's All Greek to Me



Around the corner from my office in DC there's a tiny storefront restaurant called, quite simply, "Greek Deli". It would be easy to miss, were it not for the long serpentine queue stretching all the way to the pavement, then turning 90-degrees and continuing on for a good distance more. Unsuspecting pedestrians are often corralled by the hungry ranks, eyeing the potential interlopers with suspicion as they push through towards their intended destination. You might think foul weather would dampen the resolve of the masses, and sometimes it does. But there are days when the promise of a carton of lush avgolemano soup is the only thing that gets you through the dull, grey drudgery of life in the city. And so you wait.

You take the full hour for lunch, and you spend most of that hour outside in the drizzle, the collar of your wool-coat hiked up and itching your neck because you left your scarf at home again. By the time you make it to the door, your coat smells, and you hate every person ahead of you. You stare at them through the stenciled door, they're smug and cozy, and also idiots. You didn't think this was possible, but you actually hate them more as they bumble through their orders.

And then, the door opens. A rush of warm air, saturated in olive oil hits you, and suddenly the last 40-minutes spent shivering in the cold are forgotten. The space is packed tight to the counter with customers. Behind the glass stands Kostas Fostieris. He looks like the captain of an old dory, with his fisherman's cap, leathery skin, and a beard as full as his belly. You watch him age through the pictures and news-clips crowding the walls. You're shocked by how little has changed. Aside from the color of his beard and the style of the suits, the scene around you perfectly mirrors the ones on display. Does he notice it too? Finally, it's your turn. But you were distracted by the photos and the baklava. "MEEEEEESSSS! MEEEEESS?" barks Kostas, and you realize that you haven't decided what to order. Now you're the one staring into the case of steaming lamb and salmon and brisket and spanakopita and moussaka and orzo and white beans and green beens like a tongue-tied nincompoop. The woman behind you sighs heavily, and someone from the back of the shop hisses "you've gotta be kidding."  Suddenly you're very warm, you blurt out a list of six different items. Because overcompensation? Azzad is at the the register, more relaxed than his employer, he sneaks you a wink and a smile along with your giant white sack of food.

By the time you make it back out into the rain you're late for work. You take the shortcut through the alley, and a driver blares his horn at you for blocking his way. That girl across the hall gives you the stink eye as you slink into your office, and you can't really blame her. The conference call you were supposed to be on has already started and you hope no one notices the 'bloop' announcing your arrival. They say something about slide five, you mute your line. You, are very, very hungry. You rip open the sack, it's oil-stained now and making an even bigger mess of your desk. You start to ask yourself why you keep going there anyway, but the first bite of warm bread shuts you up before you can finish the thought.


The below is my rendition of one of my very favorite dishes from the Greek Deli. I've added kale to make the dish a bit more substantial, and would not be against throwing a fried egg on top for good measure. Serve with crusty bread.


Rustic Gigantes Beans with Kale
---
3/4 lb. dried large white beans
1/2 c olive oil
1/2 large sweet onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, diced
1/2 c white wine
2 t fresh dill
1 16 oz can good Italian tomatoes, whole
2 c kale, chopped
2 oz Greek feta

Cook beans in salted water according to your preference until just shy of done. For me, this means a "power soak," followed by about 20 min. in the pressure cooker.

While beans are cooking, prepare tomato sauce. Pour tomatoes (including their juices) into a large bowl, and squish to break up into a nearly uniform consistency. Heat 1/4 c olive oil in a large sauté pan, cook onion until translucent, add garlic and cook 2 more minutes. Add wine and tomatoes, fill can half full with water to rinse out any additional juice and add that as well. Cook over high heat until reduced by almost half (you can always add water if it gets too concentrated, sauce should still be a bit soupy). Add beans, kale and dill, and season to taste, then stew until beans are tender. Stir in additional 1/4 c olive oil, and top with crumbled feta.





Why do I judge you? Because my brand of feminism is better than yours.

We like to talk about food a lot on this blog. I hope that doesn't diminish our feminist credibility, because in the next weeks, you can expect a few posts on the topic.


Which track to take? That is the question.
Next question? How I can make the woman who took a different road feel bad about herself.
Actually, maybe that shouldn't be the question at all.


I was 18. It was midnight and my best friends were over. Katie, Ruth and I were an ambitious troupe with very clear goals. Ruth wanted to be a mother and musician. Katie wanted to be an academic. I loved opera and writing, but all I really wanted to do was go on a Mormon mission. We were eating frozen fruit as I read the central thesis of my newly written, favorite college paper ever. It was a magnum opus on a coming fourth wave of feminism that would broaden the scope of a once, narrow idea of female empowerment. The paper was good; it got an A. But the gathering foretold truths about modern womanhood that I would have never anticipated.

Today, we're riding that fourth wave of feminism I wrote about in 2002. From Hillary Clinton to Sherry Dew, Sheryl Sanberg to Sarah Palin, Susan Patton to Anne Marie Slaughter, Beyonce, Lena Dunham, Jezebel.com to FeministMormonHousewives.org, there seems to be a renewed understanding of the realities of womanhood. But it feels like the world of feminism is all Lean In vs. You Can't do It All, Ordain Women vs. I-Don't-Want-The-Priesthood, or Professional Lady vs. Parenting Warrior. In my life, the issue isn't either/or, it's achieving excellence and happiness in my path while experiencing joy in the roles of others.

I don't know of many people who stayed home with their kids while running a super successful business who became pop stars, politicians, gagillionaires, best-selling authors, astronauts, Olympians, scientists and concert pianists at the same time. Maybe I am alone in this, but if I want to be truly excellent in one thing, I need to focus. One of Paul's epistles says each of us are given different gifts. He goes onto enumerate some of the gifts: languages, healing, faith, knowledge, wisdom, discernment, the list goes on and on. I don't think this epistle was reserved for men.

Women are finally coming to terms with the vast number of acceptable and valuable occupations open to us. There are many noble professions, parenting being just one, incredibly valuable option. Happiness becomes much more difficult when we are preoccupied with expecting others to have the same skills, talents and gifts that we do. In my never-as-humble-as-it-should-be opinion, true feminism is about fulfilling our potential and encouraging others as they do the same -- regardless of their gender.

Take me and my sisters. We have as similar of a baseline as possible: same parents, same city, same gene pool and similar educations. But we're all different. Kimber is a full-time mom. I'm an artist. Liberty is a young professional. Mercina is a missionary. Glorianna is a student. I could envy Kimber's stable income, fabulous aesthetic and perfect children, Liberty's rational professionalism and effortless style, Mercina's work ethic and perfect chic, or Glorianna's Yale education, brilliance and self assurance. Sometimes, I do. But more often than not, I feel blessed by their different gifts.

Within a few years of that late night in Denver, me and my friends were living out each other's dreams. Katie was getting married. Ruth was going on a mission and I was at a top music school. It would have been easy for jealousies and envy to get in the way of friendship. Instead, something wonderful happened: I learned to experience vicarious joy in a way I never knew was possible. These days, Katie is being an amazing mother to her four kids, Ruth is a respected researcher and I am making music. We're still friends and I continue to receive a great deal of satisfaction from their successes. When we stop judging one another and focus on doing our best in the life we're living, we can experience the satisfaction that comes from doing it all without doing everything by ourselves.

What do you wish was part of the current discussion of women, womanhood and feminism?
What do you think is being overlooked? We'd love to hear your thoughts here. We might even write a post about them. Whether you're a lady or man-type, thank you for reading! We <3 you! 

Things impressed upon me from a young age, in no particular order:


Respect older people, those in positions of authority, and everyone else too.

Always say ‘please’, ‘thank you’, and ‘hello, you’ve reached the Tillemann-Dicks' residence. How may I help you?’

Cucumbers should be planted in small mounds.

You should not consider yourself superior to anybody else.

Appearances are important.

Appearances mean very little.



Read.

You are in no way obliged to do things how other people do them.

Privacy from family is not a right – some would prefer to abolish it all together.

The American flag should never touch the ground.

You are capable of hard work, and you have very few good reasons to avoid it.

Manners are an important thing for a young person to have.

Wash the dishes when a guest in someone’s home.

Screaming won’t kill you.

Most things won’t kill you.

Emotional trauma is largely avoidable.

You are capable of figuring out when to go to bed by yourself.

Water is delicious and good for you.

The easiest way to impress anyone.

Can you poach an egg? Neither could I. That is, not until this morning. I'd heard all sorts of things, from using vinegar to sliding the egg directly into the water to straining the egg. But every time I tried, the results were downright embarrassing.

Then this morning, I decided I was going to try a hybrid. The results were nothing less than HAmazing.

No stringy mess. No gross looking, contorted, semi curdled egg. Just poached, eggy perfection. Try it out. It will blow your mind and bring fancy brunch home to you whenever you want it.

So here's what you do:

Bring water to a gentle boil with a tablespoon of white or white wine vinegar and a dash of salt.*

Take a fresh egg.

Gently crack and slide into your hands or a mesh strainer, allowing the more watery part of the white to drain into a bowl or the sink.




When you have the more viscous part of the white and yolk, place in a bowl or directly into boiling water.





Allow to cook until white is firm but yolk is still soft.






Douse in cold water.



Serve.




*for the heart conscious out there, the salt is entirely optional,

MEEEEEEMORIIIIIIEEEEES, ALL ALONE IN THE MOOOOOONLIGHT


               We’re sitting in the opera house, the opera house, the opera house.
We’re waiting for the curtains to arise.

We're sitting on the steps of the Budapest Opera House, waiting for Charity to check whether there’s a matinee showing of Faust. She’s the only one who sort of speaks Hungarian.

We’re sitting in the opera house, the opera house, the opera house.
We’re waiting for the curtains to arise.

I actually don’t know the song. Liberty and Mercina learnt it in Tour Choir – the most advanced group in the Colorado Children’s Chorale – but they only remember the first two lines. I was in Chorale too, but I was never promoted to Tour Choir. They know a lot of songs I don’t.

We’re sitting in the opera house, the opera house, the opera house.
We’re waiting for the curtains to arise.

I’ve picked up the song by now – it’s only two lines, and most of the words are the same. I sing until I get dizzy and have to take a breath. Chary comes back. There’s no Faust. She sits on the steps and starts to sing too.
           
We’re sitting in the opera house, the opera house, the opera house.
We’re waiting for the curtains to arise.

We sang a lot on that trip. Charity would sing O Mio Babbino Caro in public squares in Budapest and Vienna and make me walk around the resulting crowds carrying her sun hat. Pedestrians would throw 1€ and 2€ coins into it and I felt like a beggar, which was sort of the case but at least it’s a good story now. We’d use the money to buy lemonade at fancy cafes later on.

We’re sitting in the opera house, the opera house, the opera house.
We’re waiting for the curtains to arise.

We’d sing along to My Hips Don’t Lie and Weekends & Bleakdays in our apartment when they played on MTV Europe, which still showed actual music videos most of the time back in 2006. We sang Hungarian folk songs when we went to tea with my grandfather and grandmother at Budapest’s New York Palace, which is still the most beautiful place I’ve ever had tea in my life. We would sing in English every Sunday at the international congregation and sometimes I’d look up from the hymnal to see if the bishop’s son was looking at me.

We’re sitting in the opera house, the opera house, the opera house.
We’re waiting for the curtains to arise.

Now Mercina is upset. She thinks we’re making a scene. Mia’s always had the most dignity of all of us, unless you catch her at 9pm – then something funny happens to her blood glucose levels and she starts acting totally sloshed. But it’s only 2 or 3 in the afternoon right now, and she stalks off into the cobblestone sunshine of the Budapest afternoon to escape our uncouthness.

We’re sitting in the opera house, the opera house, the opera house.
We’re waiting for the curtains to arise.

We can’t see Mercina anymore in the rush of city people running errands, so Charity makes us get up. When we find Mia, she promises us that we’ll go to a cafĂ© for some lemonade.

Polar Vortex, I will miss you so. Now when are you leaving again?


Most Washington winters, snow is a special occasion. This winter has been a different story. Nonetheless, each time it snows, I got outside convinced it is my last change of the season to enjoy the snow. Now the sleet and dirt flavored slurpee and ice pellets, those are a slightly different story. But even with the abundant snow this Polar Vortex has summoned, I still love the snow. So here are a few favorite tips, tricks and tails from this (past?) winter ... ... ...





Yoni figured out that if you take a picture of the snow in the dark with a flash, it looks like an amazing, disco adventure. This might be old news to you but to me, it was down right revelatory.






Noni and Yoni and I met up in NYC for a delicious slush fest. We sought refuge inside the cloisters, which inspired Noni and me to go all Gothic. (get it ... like the architecture ... ... ... I know it wasn't good, but whatever...





Yoni and I made a giant snow baby. I practiced my smothering mothering on him. He seemed to like it.




If you're looking for good snow company, Noni is pretty much top on the list. We gallivanted from the bottom to the top of Manhattan and back again. She's a fantastic spot, insightful and lovely even though she hates having pictures taken of her.

Postcards from the Everglades

 
So many pretty birdies.
 
Willa calls them "dirdies!"

And gets very, VERY excited to see them.


'Gator faces.
...and 'Gators!


Song To a Fair Young Lady Going Out of Town in the Spring

Ask not the cause why sullen spring
So long delays her flow'rs to bear;
Why warbling birds forget to sing,
And winter storms invert the year?
Willa is gone; and Fate provides
To make it spring where she resides.

*I hope John Dryden forgives me for taking the slightest bit of liberty with his charming ditty. I don't know Chloris, to whom he originally penned the poem, but it's certain that Willa's been hogging good weather lately. Sincerest apologies to those she's left behind in the Polar Vortex!