Dear Miles,

“Daddy Mi night-night!”

“One two ee oh igh!”

“Uh-oh doggy eyeball.”

This has been the month of sentence-building.  You don’t always have all the parts of speech in the places one might expect, but you’re getting really good at verbalizing what you experience.  Tonight at the dinner table, your dad and I were having pizza, and you were having some extra shredded cheese in a cup.  You looked at your dad’s plate and said “Daddy pizza.”  Then you looked at my plate and said “Mommy pizza.”  Then you looked at your tray and said “Mi chee!”

You’ve also embraced the idea that people can have more than one name.  Tonight I walked into the play room, and you were sitting on the floor, playing with your Magnadoodle (which you call your I-O, since those are your two favorite letters to write on it).  You were murmuring “A-pull Mommy, Denny Daddy.”  You’re also getting good at saying your own name.  You still like to call yourself Mi, but now and then you’ll make it to Mile.  The s still eludes you, but your doctor said it’s nothing to worry about.  She was too busy being impressed that you noticed there were two d’s on the cover of the book she gave you.

Now that the Christmas and birthday excitement have died down, we’re all getting kind of antsy for winter to be over.  We’ve gone out to play in the snow a few times, which you love, but nowhere near as often as we go out when it’s nice outside.  I think it’s hard on you.  You run up and down the hallway.  You dance like the floor’s on fire.  You’ve recently taken an interest in the Beach Boys, and the change of pace is great, but it makes me crave sunshine and the sea even more.

While we’re stuck inside, we find ways to stay busy.  You are very, very proficient at using my iPhone.  Last week we made an unexpected call to Uncle Tyler—you got a concerned look on your face, and I checked to see what you had done. It was dialing.  Since we’d gotten that far, we went ahead and waited for him to pick up and chatted with him a little.  That’s one of the more pleasant surprises that has resulted from you messing with my phone.  I didn’t like it so much when you changed my wallpaper to something stupid.  I’m sure there are other Easter eggs waiting for me, and I’ll find them as I get around to my lesser-used apps.

We have begun some very gentle potty training, or it might be better described as potty familiarizing.  You got a potty seat for your birthday, the kind that fits on a regular toilet, and you’ve sat on it a few times.  You’re okay with it as long as you’re fully clothed.  You don’t like it so much nude (or, as you would say, “Nuuuuuuuu”).  Maybe you don’t quite get the concept yet.

You don’t get to be nude much these days, since it’s cold out and you don’t have a lot of body fat.  At your doctor’s appointment, we found out that you’re between the 75th and 90th percentile for height, but below 50th for weight.  That’s not necessarily a problem—it’s probably just your build.  But the mommy in me (which is basically my entire me) feels a compulsion to feed you, so you often find me chasing you around with fruit and cereal and turkey and ABC cookies.

I’ve noticed a jump in your ability to understand more complex ideas this month.  You’re starting to get “If x, then y” propositions.  For example, in the bathtub, you don’t like leaning back to have your hair rinsed.  You do, however, like getting extra hot water added.  After asking you several times to lean back so I could rinse your hair, and after you refused several times, I told you, “If you lean back and let me rinse your hair, you can have more water.”

Plop.  Back you went with no argument.  Ten seconds later, your hair was clean and you were upright again, enjoying the stream of hot water from the faucet.

Really, you have been a delight to hang out with lately.  You haven’t been throwing hardly any tantrums, and you’re funny and affectionate.  It’s so satisfying to see you be able to communicate better, how proud you are of yourself when you make an observation.  You always know exactly what you mean, and sometimes it’s frustrating when your dad and I can’t understand you, but we usually figure it out.

Your sleeping has gotten a lot better too.  We think we’re going to convert your crib into a big boy bed soon, and in preparation, your dad has changed your night-night routine so that you fall asleep in the guest room bed, and then he moves you to your crib.  You seem to really love it.  Sometimes I can hardly get through milk, stories, and tooth-brushing before you’re scrambling to Daddy for night-night.  You still end up in our bed before the night is out, but that moment has been arriving later and later.  Besides, I don’t mind.  You’re awfully cuddly.

Happy last month of winter, Little Scoop.  We’ll make it.

Love,

Mommy

Does anybody have any great ideas to cure the mid-winter ennui?  It seems like I usually have a spring trip in the planning stages, but this year I’m not going anywhere until June.  And late June, at that.  And it doesn’t even require a passport.  Denny teases me by saying I don’t think it counts as a vacation unless it’s to Europe or the Caribbean, but he’s kind of right.  On the other hand, Haiti is in the Caribbean, and nobody wants to be there these days (except the humanitarian workers who have great amounts of my respect and admiration).

I am excited about the trip to the San Francisco Bay Area (with a side trip to Monterey) in June, and it does meet my criterion of air travel, but it’s so distant.

We have tentative plans to go to our favorite restaurant, the Lincoln Café, tonight—check out their new website.  It has what I’ve always wanted their website to have, which is an up-to-date listing of their specials.  It’s a bring-your-own wine kind of place, and knowing what you’re going to eat really helps in the wine selection process.  Denny had a cough last night, so I hope he feels up to the trip.  I could really use an adventure, even a low-scale one.

I have this sweater dress that is just borderline too hoochie for work, and I want to wear it.  It’s not revealing or anything, just attention-grabbing beyond the typical business casual.  It’s the kind of thing Dr. Cam Saroyan would wear on the show Bones.  How does she get away with being the boss of a forensics lab and wear such hot clothes?

I start thinking about my birthday cake months in advance.  Winter begins birthday season at our house—Miles’ is in January (supposed to be February, but in a way it’s kind of nice to spread out the celebrations a little), my mom’s and brother’s are in February, and Denny’s and mine are in March.  There are more as the spring continues in the extended family.  That’s a lot of cake in a short timeframe.

Making cakes is fun.  I don’t generally make a cake for people outside the “little family,” or as Miles calls it, “Mommy-Daddy-Mi.”  I’d be happy to if they asked or the opportunity arose, but it’s not part of our current set of traditions.  I look forward to making and sharing my own birthday cake and don’t find it depressing at all.  Sometimes people are shocked by this, and a while back, I mentioned making my own cake and bringing it to share with coworkers.   Someone in my sphere found the idea horrifying, and she insisted that she would bring a cake for me.

It was one of those things where I had to act like I was really appreciative—and I was appreciative of the gesture, because it obviously came from a place of generosity and kindness—but the fact is, I was psyched to make the cake.  And I couldn’t exactly say no, you know?  She asked me what my favorite kinds of cake were, and I told her, and then she brought something totally different.  It was fine.  I’m not picky at all, and I will eat just about any cake, but it was all kind of a let-down.

This year, I will not be thwarted.  I saw this recipe today, and while it’s not a cake technically speaking, I think it will be my special birthday treat.  Besides, after a cake for Miles (vanilla with orange cream filling and chocolate frosting) and Denny (carrot with cream cheese frosting), I might be ready for something else.

From Chocolate and Zucchini.

Galette des rois (Tart of Kings) — Original post has helpful photos

- 500 grams (17 2/3 ounces) all-butter puff pastry, thawed if frozen

For the crème d’amande:
- 125 grams (9 tablespoons) unsalted butter, softened
- 125 grams (1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons) sugar (I used a blond unrefined cane sugar)
- 110 grams (1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon) almond meal (= finely ground almonds*)
- 20 grams (2 tablespoons) hazelnut flour or finely ground hazelnuts** (optional; you can also use all almond meal as in the classic galette)
- 8 grams (1 tablespoon) corn starch (in France, this is known under the brand name Maïzena)
- a good pinch sea salt
- 2 eggs
- 1 drop almond extract (optional)
- 1 tablespoon orange flower water or a liquor of your choice, such as Grand Marnier or rum

For the eggwash and glaze:
- 1 egg yolk
- 1 tablespoon confectioner’s sugar

Accessories:
- 1 porcelain trinket or dried bean
- 2 paper crowns

Serves 6 to 8.

1. Prepare the crème d’amande.

Beat the butter until creamy, but avoid incorporating air into it. In a bowl, combine the sugar, almonds, hazelnuts, corn starch, and salt. Stir with a whisk to remove any lump. Add to the creamed butter and mix until smooth. Add the almond extract and orange flower water, then the eggs, one at a time, mixing well between each addition. Cover and refrigerate for an hour or overnight.

2. Roll out the puff pastry.

Divide the puff pastry in 2 equal pieces, and roll each one out to form a rough circle a little larger than 30 cm (12 inches) in diameter. Use a sharp knife and an upturned plate of the right dimension to cut a neat 30-cm (12-inch) circle out of one, and a slightly larger one with the other, adding, say, 6 mm (1/4 inch) all around the edge of the plate.

3. Assemble the galette.

Place the smaller of the two circles on a piece of parchment paper or a silicone baking mat. In a small bowl, combine the egg yolk with a tablespoon water (or milk, if you have it handy) until smooth. Using a pastry brush, brush the outer rim of the dough lightly with the eggwash by a width of about 2.5 cm (1 inch). Make sure not to wet the actual edge of the dough, or it will impede its rise.

Pour the crème d’amande in the center and spread it out inside the eggwash ring with a spatula.

Place a porcelain fève, a dried bean, or the trinket of your choice in the crème d’amande — not in the center but closer to an edge, or your knife will keep running into it when you divide the galette. And if it is an elongated shape, make sure to orient it straight toward the center of the galette, again, to minimize the possibility of you hitting it with your knife (as you see in the picture below, mine was not, and sure enough, I cut right into the top of the little tower). Press it down gently to bury it.

Transfer the second round of dough precisely on top of the first, smooth it out gently over the crème d’amande to remove any air pocket, and press it down all around the sides to seal.

4. Score the galette.

Using the back of the tip of your knife (i.e. the dull side), draw a decorative pattern on top of the galette: a diamond-shaped grid, optionally with double or triple lines, a flower pattern… see examples here, here, here and here.

I chose to make a sun pattern as demonstrated in this video: you start from the center and draw an arc to reach the edge of the galette in a single, smooth gesture, exercising just enough pressure to score the dough without piercing it. You then turn the galette ever so slightly, draw a similar arc nested in the first one, and repeat until the entire galette is scored.

Holding your knife upright, blade down, and using the dull side of the blade, push the dough inward where each sun ray ends, to create a festooned pattern.

Brush the top of the galette lightly with the eggwash: again, make sure it doesn’t drip over the edges, or the eggwash will seal the layers of the puff pastry in this spot and it won’t develop as well. Let it rest a minute then brush it lightly again with the eggwash. (As you can see on the picture below, my eggwash pooled a bit around the bulge of the crème d’amande, which resulted in a darker coloring around the sides; I didn’t mind, but I’ll be more careful next time.)

Using the tip of your knife, pierce 5 holes in the top dough — one in the center, and four around the sides, piercing through the pattern you’ve drawn — to ensure an even rise.

Transfer to a baking sheet or a tart pan with a removable bottom, and refrigerate for 30 minutes. (Alternatively, you can place the galette in the freezer at this point, on the baking sheet or pan, and bake it the next day. Although I haven’t tried it, I’m sure you could prepare it up to a week or so in advance: once the galette is thoroughly frozen, transfer it to a tightly sealed bag to avoid freezer burn.)

5. Bake the galette.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (360°F); if the galette was in the freezer, take it out while the oven preheats. Insert the galette in the middle of the oven and bake for 30 minutes (35 if it was frozen), until puffy and golden brown.

In the final minutes of baking, combine the tablespoon of confectioner’s sugar with a tablespoon very hot water (heated until boiling in the kettle or the microwave). When the galette is done, remove it from the oven, brush it across the top with the sryup, and return it to the oven for a minute; this will give it a shiny finish.

Place on a rack to cool completely (it will settle as it cools) and serve at room temperature. (Some people prefer it slightly warm, so they reheat it slightly in a warm oven before serving.) The traditional pairing is with Champagne or hard cider.

Have one of the guests (usually the youngest) hide under the table if he’s willing, or at least cover his eyes or turn his back to the table. Cut the galette into servings and, for each serving, have the guest decide who should have it. If your guests are unfamiliar with the tradition, make sure you warn everyone that a fève may be hiding in their slice. Whoever finds it is king/queen for the day, receives a paper crown, and gets to pick his/her queen/king (or king/queen for that matter) by giving her/him the second paper crown.

* I normally mention that you can also grind your own almonds, but here it is worth seeking out almond meal (you’ll find it at natural food stores and Middle-Eastern markets): it is a lot more finely ground than what you could achieve at home, and this will make the crème d’amande incomparably smooth.

** Read more about the hazelnut flour I used. Alternatively, you can grind the hazelnuts yourself if you prefer: place 20 grams (3 tablespoons) shelled hazelnuts in a blender with 2 tablespoons of the sugar used in the crème d’amande, and pulse until finely ground.

Miles’ 2nd birthday, the immediate family celebration.

Two.  2.  Dos.  Deux.  Mon dieu.

Moey at-ah plee.

That’s that phrase that woke your dad up yesterday morning.  I was getting ready for work, and your dad was hoping you’d sleep in on this Daddy-Miles day.  No such luck.  Moey at-ah plee.  Moey at-ah plee.

That means “More water, please,” and it has nothing to do with thirst.  We’ve been getting a little stir-crazy on these cold afternoons when we’re stuck at home.  I try to limit both the quantity and inanity of the YouTube videos you’re allowed to watch, which you would do all day if I let you, so I came up with the idea of turning on the bathroom faucet, just a trickle, and letting you play with it.

Now it’s your new obsession.  It wouldn’t be so bad if you were content with just that, but no—you want your supervisor to fill a cup, then you want to carry the cup and dump it into the bathtub, which means you need to put the cup down and get help to descend from your stepstool.  Then you dump the cup, then climb back up to the sink, then demand that the supervisor refill the cup.  I’m not sure why a grownup has to do that part, since you can reach, but you are quite sure that cup-filling is not your job.

Then you want the water on stronger, which we’ll let you do for a moment, but when we can no longer stomach the wastefulness and turn the water back down, you are not so happy.

It’s been a month of mood swings.  Life is either tragic or euphoric for you right now.  When we got our Christmas tree, you ran up and down the hall about thirty times, yelling “Yay!  Yay!  Yay!”  When you saw the dining room all decorated for your birthday this morning, with streamers and balloons and the number 2 formed out of sparkly pipecleaners, you let out a low but truly impressed-sounding “Wow.”

You are developing a sense of humor.  You get a kick out of calling everyone Uncle [name], including Uncle Mommy, Uncle Daddy, Uncle Bean, and Uncle Mubby.  When you get an owie and I ask you where you need a kiss, you usually start with the knees, then the head, and then it could be anywhere.  Sometimes you need a kiss on the eyeball.  Sometimes you need a kiss on the Christmas tree.  Yesterday you told me I needed to kiss my own nose, and I when I failed, you kissed my nose for me.

Last week I completed an application for a highly sought-after local preschool.  You’re nowhere near ready for preschool, at least if they have a potty-training requirement, but there’s a waiting list.  The application was extensive.  I had to write about your academic strengths and weaknesses, your personality, what we would do to contribute to the school’s emphasis on diversity, and how you handle frustration.  For that last one, I wrote “Yelling.”  It seemed like that was kind of the wrong answer, like I should say that you retreat to your Unhappy Chair and do some quiet yoga until you feel better.  But, seriously, you’re two.  You yell.  You are almost never physically aggressive, which is mostly good, though it leads to you getting bowled over by more assertive children and curious puppies.

Two years ago today, I met a tiny boy, too new for the world, but strong and tenacious.  Your eyes were swollen shut, so you couldn’t see my face, but I didn’t worry about that too much since you had never seen me anyway.  We talked and sang to you a lot, the same songs we sang to you in utero, and you really seemed to recognize them.  I don’t know if those early experiences with singing and music shaped your current personality or if it’s just a coincidence, but you are absolutely crazy about music these days.  You always want to listen to the iPod or hear your dad and me sing, and you dance with great enthusiasm.  You recognize tempo and mood changes, and during a slow bridge, you close your eyes and sway like Stevie Wonder, singing “Oooooh” with the backing vocalists.

When I met that pickly, jaundiced, swollen-eyed version of you, I imagined the person you’d become.  I don’t remember any specifics, and honestly I don’t have any dreams for you besides general personal fulfillment.  I just tried to picture you as a one-year-old, a two-year-old, a ten-year-old, a seventeen-year-old, a thirty-year-old.  I’m sure I was completely wrong in a lot of ways, but you still have my mouth and your daddy’s eyes (which we discovered once the swelling went down).  You have a lot of my facial expressions, and I’m pretty sure your tendencies toward anal retention come from your father.  An ajar cabinet door is anathema to you.

You’ve been in a huge Mommy phase for the last few months.  It kind of hurts your dad’s feelings, I think, because at certain moments, there’s just nothing he can do to make you happy.  It wears me out sometimes too, when all I want to do is make dinner, and you freak out because you can’t be in my arms every single second.  It’s tiring.  You’re heavy.  The stove is hot.  The kitchen is not the place for little kids.

But…I have to admit there’s something heart-exploding about it.  When you say Mommy, and you run to my arms and bury your head in my shoulder, and suddenly everything is okay in your world, and I was the one who could make it okay just by holding you—I know I’m going to look back on these days and I wish I could always solve your problems so easily.

Today, our problems are few.  You’re healthy, save for a runny nose.  The weather is cold, but our house is warm.  You are smart—the preschool application offered a box to check labeled “Exceptionally bright.”  Yeah, I checked it.  I’m guessing pretty much everybody in the Willowwind Parents demographic checks it, but what am I going to do, sell you short?

You’re not really that short.  You’re almost three feet tall.

I love you more than than a thousand people typing a thousand words per minute on a thousand keyboards could write, even if the only words they were writing were “I love you.”

Happy birthday.  And many more.

Love,

Mommy

Vegetarian (even vegan, I think) Black Bean Soup

1 onion, chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 ribs of celery, chopped
1/2 red bell pepper, chopped
1.5 cups vegetable stock
1 tsp kosher salt
1 tsp ground cumin
2 15-ounce cans black beans, undrained
hot sauce to taste
juice of 1/2 a lemon or lime

Combine first 7 ingredients in a Crock Pot, plus half a can of beans.  Cook on low for, you know, whatever (a few hours, probably even a whole workday would be okay).   Using an immersion blender if you have one, or transferring the contents into a blender if you don’t, puree the cooked contents.  It’s okay if it’s not 100% uniform.  Add remaining beans and lemon juice.  Leave in the Crock Pot until it’s all hot.  Serve with whatever toppings you like, e.g., sour cream, salsa, cilantro, cheese, corn chips.

I’m totally copying Darah on this one.

These are my favorite pictures of Miles from 2009—not necessarily the best ones, but the ones that sum up the year for him.  Click for larger version.

The annual round-up post:

We’ve been working on various phrases with Miles, and he’s getting a lot better at combining words.  His favorite joke recently is to call everybody “uncle.”  He had “Uncle Ty,” “Uncle Mi(chael),” “Uncle Mark,” and “Uncle Joe” down pat, but a few days ago he started cracking himself up by saying things like “Uncle Mommy,” “Uncle Daddy,” and “Uncle Mubby.”

I’ve been trying to get him to say “I love you,” which he will kind of do, but only in a mimicry way.  That is, if I say “Can you say ‘I love you’?” he’ll spit something out that contains mostly the right sounds, but it’s not something he’s really doing on his own yet.

Except!

Last night we were going through our usual bedtime routine, and the time came that we had finished brushing Miles’ teeth, finished brushing his stuffed animals Bear and Bob’s teeth, and gone in to cuddle with Daddy.  I deposited him onto Denny’s lap and leaned in to say night-night and give him a kiss.

Miles looked up at me, and, unprompted, said “Alyoo.”

Aw, alyoo too, Scoop.

Denny and I were watching Little People, Big World last night, and the episode dealt with an Iraqi family who came to the States to help their kids get the medical attention they need.  The Iraqi family stayed with the Roloffs (the central family in LPBW) for a short time, and before they shared a meal together, the father of the family said a prayer in Arabic.

Because I always pay attention to translation, I made special note of the choices in the closed captioning.  I was pleased to note that the translator decided to use the word God instead of Allah.  Islam is an Abrahamic, monotheistic religion, and the deity therein is the same Old Testament figure that Christians and Jews worship.  Allah translates literally to God.  It is simply how you say the word God in Arabic.

Language matters, and in this whole anti-Islam spin that the western media has taken, choosing not to translate that one word makes a big difference.  It sets up Middle East versus the West, as if it’s Zeus and Thor duking it out to determine who’s the one true European god.

I remember on September 11th, some right-wing blowhard (Pat Robertson?) said that too many Americans were gay, which meant that Allah had won, and he brought his wrath.  There’s no need to address the obvious stupidity of the argument, but he fell into the fallacy of depicting Allah as some Ultimate Fighter jumping into the cage with God, when really they’re two words for the same figure.

I also find it funny that Allah is on the side of the gays, in his vision.  Wouldn’t that be funny if it were true, if the ultraconservative Muslims (equally offensive to ultraconservative Christians–I’m not giving the bombies a free pass by any means) had gotten it completely wrong and the Muslim god was actually a giant, wrathful drag queen in the sky?

Dear Miles,

Little Scoop, you’re almost 2.  This is your last month as a 1-year-old, and it’s about time, because you’ve been counting to 2 like a maniac lately.  Everything countable is “one, doo, one, doo, one doo.”  You’ve thrown on a “ee, oh” (”three, four”) a few times, but mostly you’re stuck on the 1-2 repeat.

You know all about the fact that your birthday is coming up, that you’re going to be two, and that you’ll have a cake with two candles and you’ll blow them out.   Last weekend we celebrated your Papa’s (Grandpa Denny’s) birthday, and you were pretty sure he was turning two as well.

It seems like every day you learn new things.  This month you mastered a lot of compound and two-syllable words, like eyeball, Corn Chex, snowman, cookie, Mubby, and boobie.  That last one started out as a mispronunciation of “bootie,” which has been hot in your vocabulary ever since Mubby brought you a pair of Elmo booties, but you took the opportunity to tell me you knew its other meaning as I changed into my exercise clothes the other day.

You also demonstrated that knowledge in a tactile manner on the swimsuit mannequins at the mall a few days ago:

Poke, poke. “Boobie!”  Poke, poke. “Boobie!”

This continued long after we left the sporting goods store.  Ah, Miles.  You’re nothing if not persistent.

Your dad and I have noted lately that ignoring you just doesn’t work.  We should have figured it out already; our early and earnest experiments with letting you “cry it out” were complete disasters.  I don’t want to go into the details again, because it makes me feel sick, but I honestly think you would scream until your vocal cords eroded their way out your throat.  You don’t scream a whole lot these days (though the recent forays into whining are their own special kind of grating), but if you want to talk about something while we want to talk about something else, forget it.  You will chant whatever is on your mind ceaselessly until we acknowledge you.

And often, that’s all it takes.  You just want to be heard.  You would rather be told no than ignored.

(Which is not to say you like being told no, but this is common among your contemporaries, I hear.)

We had a really fun Thanksgivsmas with the Clarke side of the family.  You’re a little shy around new people, especially kids, probably because they’re loud and unpredictable and get in your face.  Still, you thought your cousins Maxwell, Meredith, and Anna were just fascinating, and you do a great job naming them in pictures.  Meredith comes out more like Meh-deh, but it’s recognizable, and I appreciate your effort.

You could look at pictures and home videos all day long, which I don’t let you do, but we spend at least some time every day looking at family multimedia objects.  I had to stop letting you play with my iPhone (or, as you call it, Duck-Cuckoo, because of an animal sounds app I have) because you were getting obsessed with it.  You really got the hang of the touch-screen, the downside of which is the fact that you think my laptop screen is also a touch-screen, and now it’s fingerprintier than ever.

Gosh, you can do so much now.  You can play the recorder (just one note, and a squeaky one, but still).  You know every capital letter of the alphabet and a lot of the lower-case ones.  You can pick out your own clothes, which often involves a vest and gives me happy memories of your Uncle Tyler’s argyle vest phase.  You can gallop on a stick horse and make giant choo-choos out of Legos.  You can put together simple puzzles and, with help, more complicated ones.

Along with all the new words you’ve learned, you’ve started doing some complex communication units that incorporate nontraditional methods as well.  We saw two of your favorite people, Aunt Suzy (”Ah-ah”) and Uncle Joe, at Thanksgiving, and you love to talk about them.  It goes something like this:

Miles:  Unco Joe.
Mommy:  Yes, we saw Uncle Joe, didn’t we?
Miles:  Ba-boom!
Mommy:  That’s right, he fell off his bike.   [This happened the last time they visited my parents, and Miles won't let it go.]  He’s all better now, though.
Miles:  Ah-ah [pucker-kiss noise]
Mommy:  Yes, Aunt Suzy gave him a kiss and made him feel better.

We repeat this sequence every time you think about Uncle Joe or when you see someone on a bike.  That’s one good thing about the cold weather setting in:  fewer cyclists to trigger your obsession with Joe’s bike accident.  Of course, that doesn’t address the dog on a bike on the inside cover of one of your favorite books.

Another example of your communication sequences:  a couple of weeks ago, your dad had to go out of town for several days, so Mubby and Skittergramps came to keep us company.  You were wearing a shirt with no onesie, and when you lifted it up, Mubby jovially threatened to tickle you.  You shook your head, puckered up, and made a kiss noise.  No tickling, you were telling her.  Just a tummy kiss, please.  You bet you got one.  You probably got twenty.

Enjoy your last month of one-dom, sweetheart.  I don’t know if they make onesies much bigger than the ones you’re wearing now.  This may be the last month your tummy goes mostly protected.  I don’t care if you’re a big-boy two-year-old.  That tummy is getting kisses.

Love,

Mommy

I think Miles made his first joke yesterday afternoon.  We were goofing around, playing on the bed, talking about relatives (or “our big family,” as we call them).  He’s quite adept at saying Uncle Joe, and he loves doing it.  After a bit of general squirreliness, he said “Uncle…NO.”

I laughed and said, “Do you mean Uncle Joe?”

He shook his head and said it again.  “Uncle NO!”  He laughed and laughed, and he said it about twenty more times.

I think he’s starting to understand rhymes and puns, because later that night as we were reading bedtime stories, he spontaneously listed a bunch of rhyming words:  Ty, guy, Mi (short for Miles), buy, ni.  I blame/credit the high penetration of Dr. Seuss books in our home library.

On the Clarke side of the family, we’ve been celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas in one fell swoop for the last few years.  This year we did it at a community center in Monticello, which we rented for the afternoon because it’s easy for my grandparents to access, and their apartment isn’t big enough for our whole gang.

Here are some of the shenanigans that ensued.

I got an audio recording on my phone of Miles listing off the various nicknames people have for him.

Transcript:

Aprille:  Miles, are you Daddy’s little…?

Miles:  No.

Aprille:  You’re Daddy’s little…?

Miles:  NO.

Aprille:  You’re not?

Miles: MO-EY! (more–he wanted to play with the iPhone some more)

Aprille:  But we have to record something so we can listen to something.  Are you Skittergramps’ little…

Miles:  No.

Aprille:  Are you Uncle Tyler’s little–

Miles:  PAL!

Aprille:  Yes, and Skittergramps’ little…

Miles:  Mi-nu (Mileo).

Aprille:  Yes, and Mama’s little…

Miles:  Mu– bebbeh.

Aprille:  Yeah, and Daddy’s little…

Miles:  Boo-boo.

Aprille:  Yeah!  And Mubby’s little…

Miles:  Muh (Muffin).

Aprille:  That’s right.

Banana Pudding Pie, from Country Living Magazine

Crust:
50 vanilla wafers
2 tablespoon dark brown sugar
2 tablespoon granulated sugar
1/8 teaspoon sea salt (more if using kosher salt)
5 tablespoon melted butter
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

Filling:
3 egg yolks
2 tablespoon cornstarch
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
1 teaspoon powdered gelatin (optional:  see note.)
1/4 cup cold milk
1 cup heavy cream
3/4 cup milk
1 vanilla bean, pod and scraped seeds
1 1/2 teaspoon butter
3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup fresh whipped cream
5 tablespoon caramel sauce, plus extra for garnish
3 medium bananas, sliced

1.  For the crust: Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Crush vanilla wafers and toss with brown sugar, 2 tablespoons granulated sugar, and sea salt. Stir in melted butter and vanilla extract and press mixture into a 9-inch pie plate. Bake for 10 minutes. Cool on a wire rack.

2. For the filling: Chill a medium bowl over a larger bowl filled with ice water and set aside. In another bowl, whisk egg yolks, cornstarch, 1/2 cup granulated sugar, and sea salt together until very thick and light in color. Set aside. Sprinkle gelatin over 1/4 cup cold milk. Let sit for 5 minutes.

3.  Bring heavy cream, remaining 3/4 cup milk, and vanilla bean to a boil in a medium pot. Remove from heat, slowly whisk cream mixture into reserved egg mixture, pour back into pot, and stir over medium-low heat until it reaches a boil. Pour into chilled bowl, remove vanilla bean pod, and stir in gelatin mixture, butter, and vanilla extract. Let cool and fold in whipped cream.

4.  Spread caramel sauce over crust. Line with 2 1/2 bananas and top with pudding. Chill for 2 hours. Decorate with remaining banana slices and caramel.

Note:  this never set up very well for me, so I ended up serving it frozen.  It was good, but next time I hope it sets up better.  I think I might have screwed up the gelatin part.  That said, you could make it vegetarian by skipping the gelatin and freezing it.

It was a gorgeous weekend, just fantastic, especially for November.  We started an adventure on Friday night, with a trip to Ames to spend the night with Mubby and Skittergramps on the way out to Nanna and Papa’s farm in southwest Iowa.  We explained to Miles ahead of time that we were going to see Mubby, Skittergramps, Nanna, Papa, and Uncle Michael, which he thought was cool, but he automatically added Uncle Tyler to that list and didn’t seem to believe me when I said we weren’t going to see him.

Uncle Tyler or not (though he did have a great weekend over in Lincoln; something good happened in the world of sports, I hear), we had fun.  Miles was a little scared of the farm animals, but he liked the animal toys Nanna bought him, and he had a great time playing catch and peek-a-boo with Papa.

Also, I got to indulge in one of my favorite hobbies related to going a-visitin’:  reading the periodicals of others.  It’s always interesting to take a look at magazines I don’t subscribe to.  At my parents’ house I read Consumer Reports, The Sun, Utne Reader, and Oprah (diverse group, no?).  At the farm I read Country Living, which as far as I can gather is mostly about decorating, but it also has an interesting feature a la Antiques Roadshow where people show things they acquired one way or another and the expert tells them whether the thing is worth $4 or $5000.  I bet more often they’re actually closer to the $4 end, but they don’t feature those very prominently.

Flipping through those Country Living magazines made me remember a really good recipe I got out of an earlier issue during another visit, which I was happy to find on their website.   I’m going to blog it in a new post so I can have an electronic record of it.

We also got H1N1 inoculations.  I have a major injection phobia (not blood draws, just stab-n-squirts), so when Cheryl (aka Nanna) suggested that their neighbor, who is a public health nurse, might have some extra doses, I got that familiar pukey and light-headed feeling.  I knew it was important to do; there have been a lot of people sick at work, some of whom keep showing up, realizing they’re still sick, then going home.  I’m not in the super high risk group, but Miles is, and I don’t want to bring anything home to him.

We went over to the neighbors’ house to visit and get stabbed.  They would have come to Nanna and Papa’s, but we decided we didn’t want Miles to associate their house with pain, so we went there instead.  She set up a station in the kitchen and got her equipment all set up.  I asked for a chair to sit in, due to my passy-outy tendencies in those situations, so she got me one.  Sitting down helped, though would it have killed her to find a chair with arms?  I kind of felt like I was going to fall out the side.

Actually, though, she did a great job.  The injection itself barely hurt at all, and once my blood pressure got back up to a normal level, I was fine.  Her husband did say I looked a little peaked when I got back to the living room.

Miles did okay too.  He howled as he got the shot, but he recovered quickly and was ready to get back to the Legos.  He needs another dose in a month, which might be kind of hard to find around here.  Apparently it’s easier to find the shots in the more rural counties, because the counties with larger cities (and notably the huge hospital here in Iowa City) are using up all their doses on health care workers.  We might have to go back next month for another round of down-home country kitchen immunization.  It’s the same place they make sauerkraut.

Dear Miles,

This is coming a day early, because tomorrow we’re going to Nanna and Papa’s farm, which has cows and kitties and a dog the size of a pony, but the Internet access isn’t so great.

We’re coming into your last two months as a one-year-old.  You love to say two, whether as a reference to your upcoming birthday or as a clarification on how many crackers you’d like.  It comes out more like doo, but we know what you mean (most of the time).

Your language skills have grown so much this month.  You love to try out new words and make observations about your world.  Sometimes when we’re outside playing, you look up at the sky and say “Blue!” like you’re the first person who ever noticed it.  I love watching you get so excited about things.

Another thing we’ve learned about you this month is that you very much do not like your observations to go unacknowledged.  If we’re trying to get you calmed down for bed and you notice your an orange crayon somewhere and start yelling “Oh!”, my first inclination is to ignore your outburst and focus on Go, Dog, Go or whatever story we’re reading.  But if I try that, you’ll keep hollering about your crayon for a very long time.  It’s not that you necessarily want to play with the crayon; you just really want me to notice that you noticed it.  If I say, “Yes, that’s an orange crayon,” we can get right back to the book.

I also appreciate your desire for accuracy.  The other day, you were looking at one of your blocks that has letters on all six sides.  The letters are consecutive, and I could see an X and a Y on the surfaces facing me.  “Beeee,” you said.

Assuming it was actually a V you were looking at, I took the opportunity to model the fricative for you.  “Yes, that’s a vvvvvvveeeee,” I said.

You looked at me like I was nuts.   “Beeee,” you said again.

“Yes, vvvvvvveeeeee.”

“Beeee.”

Then you turned the block and I saw that on that block, Z had been reached and the alphabet started over.  It was, in fact, a B.  Sorry for not believing you, honey, but thanks for not falling for it.  You know when things aren’t right and you won’t stand for it, whether it’s a letter or a cabinet door that’s ajar.

First-born syndrome, maybe?

Life without siblings and without time with other kids in a daycare setting has created (or maybe reinforced an existing tendency toward) timidness in you.  When we go to the library and play with the wooden train set, other kids grab trains out of your hands, and you just stare at them.  You don’t usually get upset.  You just seem bewildered that anyone would act in an impolite manner.

The same thing happened yesterday when we went to the mall and you played on the kids’ play structure.  Lots of kids, mostly bigger than you, were running all around and bumping into you, mostly accidentally except for one rude jerk who needs some anger management.  Right now, you are a tender little fellow, which I find a lot more charming than an aggressive nature.  But your dad thinks you need to learn to assert yourself, and he’s probably right.  I’m not sure how we’re going to do that, but we’ll sort it out.

What you lack in aggression you make up for with curiosity and a love of learning.  You know almost all your letters now, most of them in the traditional way and some of them in funny ways.  For example, when you see a k, you say gay and make a kissing noise.  I don’t think you’re making any comment on gay kissing, specifically.  You just need to practice your unvoiced consonants.

You love to point out letters you see places.  On our mall trip yesterday, we had to pause by a jewelry store so you could show me the “D—Dada!” in the word diamonds.  I never thought of the Coral Ridge Mall as teeming with educational opportunities, but it turns out there are a whole lot of signs to read.  You didn’t believe me that the concentric circles at Target weren’t an O, though.

You had your first Halloween with anything resembling awareness this year.  I though you’d get a kick out of all the doorbell-ringing, but what you liked best was just being outside at night.  We went to an event at our neighborhood shopping mall a couple of nights before Halloween, which was fun enough but kind of confusing, and then we went to some neighbors’ houses on real trick-or-treat night.  We tried to bring you back inside, but you wouldn’t have it.  You just wanted to wander around the yard, kicking leaves and looking at our jack-o-lantern.  Once we finally shoehorned you indoors, though, you had fun answering the door with me.  You also liked sorting all the brightly-colored candy, though this year your consumption levels were pretty low.

Another exciting thing that happened this month was a trip to Lincoln, Nebraska to visit Uncle Tyler.  His sports team didn’t do so hot in their game that weekend, which would ordinarily have sent him into a spiral of grumpiness, but you made him smile.  He made you fly in the air, played catch with you, and shared his toys.

(Photo by Gary Clarke)

Mubby and Skittergramps taught you to flex your arms and make a muscle-man grunt after saying Tyler, a gesture that now represents the letter T to you.  Now, when you see a T, a lot of the time you skip saying Tyler altogether and just do your muscle grunt.

It happens organically, the development of a family code.  Every day when we talk about the things we see and the people we know, tiny bits fall together to form a language that only we understand.  It’s like when you see a cow and say Papa (because Papa raises cattle) or when you see a raccoon and say Guh (don’t ask).  When you’re thirsty, you ask for ghee mi, which is not Indian food at all, but rather Miles-milk in the green cup.  It requires a lot of explanation for people who don’t hang out with us, but that’s okay.  A family code is one of the things that holds us close together in this fast-spinning world.  It can also introduce some great words into a person’s vocabulary.  Thanks to Uncle Tyler, I still sleep on a dudju every night.

Yes, you do throw a tantrum now and then, but mostly you are sweet and hilarious.  Despite some incoming molars, you’re doing better with your sleeping overall, though this morning I woke up with your feet in my face and your head pointing down toward the foot of the bed.  You and your Beanie-nanny have great times together, and you never fret anymore when your dad and I leave.  This morning, your block tower was already four-high by the time we got out the door.

But just when I think you’re such a big boy, you cuddle up on my lap and smash your cheek against mine.  Sometimes you transmit applesauce that way, but I don’t care.  As you played on the mall play structure yesterday, every couple of minutes you’d look around to spot me on the benches.  I kept moving so I could keep an eye on you, and as you scanned the adults sitting there, I could see you mouthing  “Mama?”  When you’d spot me, you’d give me a huge smile and get back to your playing.

It’s okay, Little Scoop. Go have your adventures.  I’ve got your back.

Love,

Mommy

Last weekend we took a very fun trip to Lincoln, Nebraska, to see my brother and for some of the group to attend some kind of sporting event.  The time with Tyler was fun.  The public has mixed opinions on the sporting event.

Miles took the opportunity to model his Halloween costume, which is Max from Where the Wild Things Are.  My dad took some nice pictures of that as well as some other goofing around, including two smallish adults in one giant jacket.

I should save this for the Monthly Miles Memo, but I really like this picture I got of Miles last night, so I’m using it now.

He likes to be called a guy, by the way, rather than a boy.

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This has made me laugh out loud several times in a row.  My favorite part:

“Can I guess your name?  Is it Pedro?  Is it Craigford?  Is it Swimming?”