Chloe is an absolute charmer these days. She is demanding, in a very sweet, social way. She is never as happy as when someone is doting on her and trying to make her laugh. This, she rewards with the most conversant chuckle I believe I've ever heard from an eight-month-old.
I am turning into my Grammie. I know it’s cliché, to say you’re turning into one of your matriarchs. It is a well-traveled trope. However, it is a true one. She always used to say things three times in a row, and now I'm starting to do it too. It stemmed (and stems) from low-level anxiety, a need to know that you are actually being heard, above the din. She always moved fast, in everything she did, muttering in triplicate, "I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming," or “I heard you, I heard you, I heard you,” or “I got this, I got this, I got this.”
So if you were to open our freezer this minute, you might wonder this thing: why do they have two placentas in there? Well, I will tell you.
I lay in my spot on the corner of the couch, the baby swaddled on my belly. I was already well on my way to hungry. "I don't have a plan for dinner," I said.
I've been working very hard these past months to answer that old question of "how do you cook delicious, nutritious, economical meals on a strict money- and time-budget." On the days I work, I'm home after 5:30; I don't have time to be scraping and chopping vegetables late into the evening. I'm sorry, Thirty Minute Meals don't cut it. I need something more along the lines of Ten (for prep time at least), for under ten dollars, for a family of five. I know it's a tall order, but it's what I need.
My sister Katie is an excellent cook. She often says she should run a soup kitchen, that she is existentially happiest when she is cooking simple, hearty food for large amounts of people. She says it comes from the days when she worked at The Corner, a now long-extinct hippie restaurant from her college days here in Olympia, Washington.