A Bowl from Way Back

I've been waking up at night feeling antsy and out of sorts. I'm sure part of it is due to the little one who must be attached to me at all times (I've woken up with hickies, yes, hickies on my arms) but part of it is also a feeling of disorganization in an area too neurotic to mention without feeling embarrassed. My digital photos. I'm definitely a fool for organization and whenever my husband or son can't find something they look for it for 5 minutes before asking, "Did you throw it/give it away?" Sometimes I get indignant at the question, usually I just pretend I didn't hear and sneak over to the trash can to make sure the clump of dog hair I used to cover said item is still firmly in place.

I decided to tackle my photos today and found one that instantly made me so happy. It was the photo below of a very simple brown rice and kale dish. I know, nothing special. This photo instantly took me back to this exact time last year when at the end of my pregnancy I was eating this at least twice a day to satisfy a very intense sushi craving. It's also a marker for the beginning of my culinary love affair with the Cut n' Clean Greens Pre-Cut Rainbow Kale. I know some people bag on pre-washed greens but all I can say is...whatever. I choose my domestic duties wisely and standing at the sink endlessly cleaning and de-stemming kale is not my deal. I love it too much to make it a chore! This is easy, healthy and goes well with a huge piece of cake or pie.

Buddha Belly Rice Bowl

3 large cloves garlic, thinly sliced

2 heaping handfuls pre-cut kale or sliced kale from 1 large bunch

Juice of half a lemon

Salt and pepper to taste

1 cup cooked brown rice (I prefer long grain)

Avocado

Soy sauce to taste

Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in pan over medium/high heat, saute garlic until slightly crispy and just starting brown. Toss in kale and mix with the garlic for 30 seconds. Reduce heat to medium, squeeze in lemon juice, add salt and pepper and cook kale until just started to wilt. A little crunch is best.

Pile kale, avocado and any other add-ons on top of warm rice and drizzle with soy sauce.

Add-ons: grated ginger, black sesame seeds, grated carrot, steamed peas, cooked chicken, chili paste, fried egg.

The Birth Heard 'Round the Canned Goods

I'm convinced there is a moment in every pregnancy when one realizes that what goes in must come out. For some, this moment comes as you anxiously pour through your first pregnancy book and make the mistake of wandering too far towards the back. For others, this moment comes while you're "takin' a 10" during the graveyard shift at 7-11, go to pee after having a smoke and realize that you didn't eat too many churros, you were just pregnant. It's apparently a very common mistake.



The best way to describe this sensation is that it's a cross between realizing you forgot to pick up your elderly grandmother from the airport 6 hours ago and that scene from "Raising Arizona" that involves a child and the roof of a car. You know the one. I don't remember the exact moment specifically during my first pregnancy, but this time around I have a distinct memory of brushing my teeth, sometime during my fifth month, when my eyes shot open, my hand instinctively went to my stomach and I shouted, "Oh fuck!" through a mouth of toothpaste. As I cleaned up the mess I thought how ridiculous it was that I seemed to have forgotten this key part of the process. Of course I knew I'd be giving birth, but somehow I'd managed to speak and think about it in the abstract, not allowing myself to recall the preparation, the anxiety, the packing of the bags, the first ride home with somehow who, until recently, resided between your kidneys and was now dressed and wearing an ill-fitting hat. And maybe there was good reason for this denial. If you and your infant are fortunate enough to make it to the end of the line, then the odds are incredibly good that the baby is coming out, one way or another. And odds are also good, given modern technology, that you'll be bringing home a strong, healthy and incredibly dazed person. I suppose it shouldn't matter how this happens, that the end result should justify almost any means to get there. Sadly, it matters a great deal.



I now think back to the hours of preparation and consideration I gave to my first birth experience. I thought I did everything right; hired the best doula, researched every scenario until my eyes bled, asked endless questions at every appointment, etc. If the measure of a successful birth was measured in the form of a checklist, then I was Tracy Flick. And then it happened. I was nearly a week overdue, puffy, miserable and not sleeping. Chris was gearing up for an incredibly grueling and emotional sentencing involving victims he'd become quite close to. I went to my appointment on a Thursday and was told that I had until Monday to muster up some descent contractions or I'd need to be induced. The next day I had acupressure performed to get things going, bought some herbs to aid the process, went to the sentencing and informed my exhausted, drained husband that I couldn't be pregnant any longer and that I was going to swallow the magic pills. His shoulders slumped as he packed his bag and asked, pleadingly, if he could please just have "one night of descent sleep." Because I was also overdue for a feeding, a compromise was reached and I agreed that he could have a night of not falling asleep at the desk with a highlighter in hand...and I could have an entire plate of nachos. Of course, I went into labor at 11 that night with contractions that seemed to be just intense enough that neither of us could sleep and we essentially stayed up all night. And for the next 2 1/2 days.



I don't think I need to go into details, other than to say that I panicked and completely lost my shit. I curled up on the couch and went into a place so freaked out that I can only liken it to my first experience tripping acid. It was at a techno show at an old theater and started out quite pleasant, then took a turn for the worse when Carol Burnett's daughter (seriously) climbed on stage and an entourage of Michael Alig look-alikes, led by Richie Rich, flounced in wearing too much makeup and 6-inch calunka-chunk platforms. My mouth dropped, I got the chills and I fell into a chair. My dear friend Jack, also my caretaker of the evening, sat down beside me and sternly told me, "Listen girl, those are just really terrifying people who love costumes. You can either be terrified and let them ruin your night, or you can keep dancing and have a flawless time!" I chose Option B and other than keeping a leery eye on the huge mound of feathers pulsating near the front of the stage I did have a flawless time and danced my little heart out.



Since there are no glow sticks or drum and bass loops involved in natural childbirth, such a moment never came. By the time I'd gone through 24 exhausting hours with no real progress to show I was so defeated that I actually started to feel indifferent to even having a child. All it took was one veteran nurse to casually suggest that some drugs might help and I was able to rationalize my way into every medical intervention at the buffet, minus a C-Section. 10 hours after that and our healthy, red, screaming son was born. We would comment endlessly on how perfect he was, unlike "some newborns" then look at the pictures again six months later and realize that not only was his head completely cone-shaped, he was also the spitting image of Wallace Shawn.



Given our first experience, I suppose it was only natural to have a fair amount of anxiety and determination as I considered my options for the little being we've come to refer to as "Baby Minty." While not necessarily opposed to hospitals, we agreed that the thought of staying in a hospital for 2 days was horrifying, as was being away from Wallace...I mean Flynn. So very late in the game we opted to have our baby at a birth center. Which is conveniently located just out of arm's reach of the hospital across the street and the drugs housed inside. Making that decision was so exciting and comforting but as I sit here, 7 days from my due date with a baby hiccuping very (very) low in my body, I have my moments of doubt. Most days I feel strong and prepared. I think of all the women I know who have made this decision, who have supported me and cheered me on, who have given bits of wisdom and actually smiled when they recall their birth experiences. But all it takes is a moment of feeling tired, a moment of recalling contractions so intense they rattle your molars and you feel as if they're going to split your body in half, each fiber of your being making a brittle, crackling sound as it falls to the floor and I can't help but wonder what the hell I was thinking. In these moments I crank up fight-songs by The Clash and Sonic Youth, I watch Ricki Lake give birth in her bathtub, I visualize how I'll breath when "the moment" comes, I remind my husband that nothing makes me more irritable when I'm in pain than bad breath and toss another tin of Altoids in his bag. More than anything, I think about what I remember most from that first birth experience. Not the pain, not feeling afraid that "something" may go wrong, but feeling like I'd spent months studying for a test only to show up and find out I'd been using the wrong chapter. This birth may end up the same as the last but I think about how much more excited I am for the entire experience this time, knowing with my entire being that I'm bringing home a healthy baby with at least two working fingers. I don't need to spend two days with only the scent of aromatherapeutic oils to soothe me and a strap to bite on to make me feel like a better mother. I need for my son to see this process come full circle, to introduce him to this new person who's been turning his world upside down for the past 10 months and will likely continue to do so well into old age. The most I can say right now is, "we'll see..."

oop! Ricki's baby is about to crown!

This burnin' heart

As I look out the window on this frosty, dreary day, I'm struck by a few realizations: 1. Our house is eerily quiet now that my little pipsqueak went back to preschool today 2. It's been way too long since I wrote anything and I've missed it 3. That black bean soup I had for lunch the other day may be my last spicy meal for at least the next four weeks, probably longer. Sigh.

Now, number 1, I'll take. As much as I've loved being with my buddy for the last 2 1/2 weeks, we were both ready for a break from each other. I took no offense when he got dressed and had his shoes on at warp speed, too excited to eat a whole breakfast. And I felt little guilt when I told him that I was, in fact, dropping him off then going to exercise. A few tears were shed at the door but I'm sure he's now busily tying up some poor child under the supervision of someone other than me. And honestly, it's pretty horrifying that I've been beaten at "Memory" several times by someone who's head got stuck in the arm hole of a shirt for a half hour yesterday. Where is that ginkgo biloba??

As for the writing? What are you gonna do? I have a stack of required reading that's teetering and mocking me every time I walk by. Plus, I can't miss out on my quality time with my dear friend, Jerry Orbach.

Ah, but the soup. Had I known that I'd soon be avoiding anything even mildly spicy I would most certainly have gone for something a little more worthwhile than a can of Amy's soup. Being pregnant keeps you up at night for a wide variety of reasons; leg cramps, bathroom trips, lucid dreams where Rachel Ray delivers your baby in 30 minutes then invites you to a game of Nerf basketball and the fact that simply rolling onto your right side makes you feel paranoid that you're doing irreparable harm to your baby by pressing on your vena cava are only a few. I don't mind waking my husband up by shouting, "Cramp! Cramp! Lower left! Lower left! Aghhh!" but I do feel a little silly when we're both awake because I just had to eat overly seasoned tomato soup or a piece of pizza (yes, pizza is now off-limits to me). I don't need someone to stay up and watch me burp, moan and curse "that damn Amy and her damn soups" to prove their undying love. So, after spending half the night sucking down papaya enzymes and impersonating one of the Klumps, I decided it was probably time to make the switch to foods that are a little more agreeable.

I haven't minded my apple-saucier diet so much until this morning when I walked outside and felt the wind blowing this frigid breeze up the driveway and these little pellets of snow hitting my face. At that moment I immediately thought of my favorite Italian Sausage and Pasta Soup. Normally I would make this extra spicy and enjoy it with a crunchy loaf of bread, but tonight's version will most certainly be tamed down. That being said, I hope someone will take up my cause and indulge in something smothered in green chile, flecked with crushed red pepper or eaten from a jar with a warning label. I'll be over here with my unsalted Matzo crackers.

Italian Sausage and Pasta Soup

Adapted from Sunset magazine, 2005

2 lbs. hot or mild Italian sausages

3 carrots, peeled and chopped

1 onion, peeled and chopped

4-6 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
3 quarts chicken broth

2 cans (14 1/2 oz) diced tomatoes

2 cans (15 oz) cannellini beans, rinsed and drained

1 tablespoon dried basil or shredded fresh to serve

2 cups dried large shell-shaped pasta

12 oz. spinach, rinsed and stemmed

Salt and pepper to taste

1 cup grated parmesan cheese

Crushed red pepper, if desired

Squeeze sausages from casings into a stock pot or dutch oven over high heat. Stir often, breaking them apart with a spoon, until browned and crumbly, 8 to 10 minutes. Spoon out and discard all but 1 tablespoon fat from pot (yeah, right).

Add carrots, onion and garlic; stir often until onion is limp, 5 to 7 minutes. Add broth, tomatoes (including juice), beans and basil if using dried. Bring to a boil.

Add pasta, reduce heat, cover and simmer, stirring occasionally, until pasta is just tender to bite, about 10 minutes. Skim and discard fat (sissy). Stir in spinach and cook JUST until wilted, about 30 seconds. Add salt and pepper to taste. Garnish with parmesan, fresh basil and crushed red pepper if desired.

Cook's Note: This makes a LOT of soup and it also freezes very well. Just separate half the soup before adding pasta or spinach and freeze. Pick up where you left off after thawing. It is also very filling as a vegetarian soup, just omit the sausage and substitute vegetable broth. Still delicious!

Thanksgrieving

The first time I met my future in-laws was on Thanksgiving. Chris and I had been dating a short time and I was here on a work trip from Philadelphia. My entire family is here as well, but this was the first holiday since my parents had separated and meeting my boyfriend's family seemed like the perfect way to avoid my own. I've never been nervous about meeting other people's families - my awkward black-sheepishness seems to be limited to the people I share DNA with and generally speaking, parents love me. I decided that there is no good first impression like a fresh baked first impression and pulled out the stops making a delicious Pumpkin Pecan Cake with White Chocolate Ginger Mousse from "Caprial's Bistro Style Cuisine" by Caprial Pence.

As dessert was brought out I listened while everyone "oohed" and "aahed" over the cake. Oddly, the only person to take a slice, besides us, was my father-in-law. We were sitting adjacent to him in the living room when he took a bite, chewed, then slowly set down the plate. "Aah! He's a man who likes to savor a good dessert!," I thought. About 10 minutes later he stood and shakily said, "I don't think I'll be able to drive home after eating Scully's cake. Margaret, you may need to drive us." Now, anyone else may have been embarrassed by this. Perhaps even mortified. But I knew the cake was a winner. I had made it just the year before and an elderly distant-relative-by-marriage that I'd never met called someone the next day to say, "That young lady who made the cake could either be a model or a chef." Now, I acknowledge that her glaucoma was off the charts. She had needed help "pulling up" in the bathroom and I saw her try to set her drink on the back of our dog, whose fur was similar in shade to the coffee table. Still, her tastebuds were intact and my cake was no dud. A recipe that calls for 1/3 cup (liberally applied) rum is not something to turn your keys in for. My only thought at the time was, "Wow. Chris's dad really can't handle his frosting."

Since then I've learned that tradition reigns with my new family and any unrequested addition to the meal is seen as an intruder both foreign in taste and unwanted in presence. They don't take kindly to roasted brussel sprouts with water chestnuts in them parts. It's Durkee all the way. This doesn't apply to just Thanksgiving; I've seen brownies made with $30 worth of Valrhona chocolate passed over in favor of a Costco cake. No matter, we just bring them home and eat them like greedy little pigs.

Now, to be fair, a holiday with my family requires several serious preparatory conversations. One of my most distinct memories of my family's Thanksgiving meal was one of the last years that my parents were miserable and in the same home, rather than awkward, in denial and living 10 minutes apart. It was an unseasonably warm day and deep-frying turkeys was all the rage. I pulled into the driveway just in time to hear, "Okay, okay. I have the dog, he's out of the way this time. You throw it in, then run like hell in case it catches on fire again." Not exactly words you want to hear in reference to your dinner. Pyrotechnics, ammunition and off-road vehicles are the glue that holds my family together and I'm pretty sure that the deep-fryer was abandoned the following year because it didn't actually blow anything up and the dog's injuries were minor.

For the last several years we've somehow managed to strike out on our own and create an independent holiday. We've shuffled obligations and used every excuse under the sun to justify why we need to do Thanksgiving on our own and instead join Chris's family for "Leftover Day" (Friday) and my family for "Some random meal" within a week or two of the actual holiday. And it's worked. I've gotten to drool over a stack of cookbooks 3 feet tall and moan over the beauty of Gourmet's spread and choice of jewel-toned place settings. I've lived in a state of blissful preparation for our own underground dinner with friends and when we're told that we don't need to bring anything to family affairs I just shrug and say, "Lasagna for Thanksgiving? Sounds great to me!" But this year is different. As Chris's grandma approaches the big nine-four we realize that we should probably put in our appearance on the proper day and save our "real meal" until the day after. My parents just celebrated 5 years of separation with no resolution in sight and we were recently subjected, once again, to a meal with two people who now share the same uncomfortable relationship but insist on pretending that they're already at the good buddy stage of divorce. The climax of these shared evenings is always waiting to see what moment my dad will choose to present my mom with a stack of mail that she's accumulated at what he still refers to as "the house." I gauge his progress by when this happens and since he's moved it to the end of the night rather than the middle of the meal, this year ranked as near tolerable.

I've given it a lot of thought and my resignation to join our families has little to do with the food and everything to do with the feeling. It makes the whole day feel like a bit of a fraud when no one seems at all thankful to be there. This year I've heard the phrases, "very little effort," "nothing fancy or special," and "something quick and easy" thrown around when I ask what the plan is. Making an effort, cooking something both fancy and special is simply my way of saying, "Hey. I know you don't like to be touched or talk about your feelings and I know that green beans not from a can seem odd, but making an effort on this meal is just my way of saying that I'm thankful for you." When you feel so grateful for what and who you have, adopting a "get in, get out" mentality on this day seems especially depressing. And so I refuse to engage in pettiness, I refuse to eat quickly for the sake of the football game and I refuse to make something quick, easy and bland. I will dress-up, wear lipstick and put my contributions on the gaudiest platters I can find. And I'll do it because I want to, not because I have to.

So, as I sit here, using a needle and syringe to inject bourbon into assorted chocolates for my father-in-law, I think about what I'm grateful for. The list is endless, but the thing that sticks out the most is that I can't remember the last time that I went a day without laughing. I mean genuinely laughing. Sure, it may have followed crying and it may have taken a 3 year-old's potty talk or the "Family Guy" to make it happen but it does and I hope I never take that for granted.

Happy Thanksgiving! Now pass the frosting, please.

Pecan-Pumpkin Cake with White Chocolate-Ginger Mousse

Pumpkin Cake
2 cups canned pumpkin puree
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 cup pecans, toasted
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
3 whole eggs
3 eggs separated
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon allspice
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 teaspoon ground ginger


White Chocolate-Ginger Mousse
10 ounces white chocolate
1/4 cup unsalted butter
5 egg yolks
3/4 cup sugar
1/3 cup dark rum
1/4 cup chopped candied ginger
1 cup heavy whipping cream
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Ground cinnamon

To prepare the cake, preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9-inch springform pan, and set aside. Put the pumpkin puree, sugar, pecans, and flour in a large bowl and mix well. Add the whole eggs and egg yolks and mix well to blend. Add the vanilla, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg and ginger and mix well. Put the egg whites in a medium bowl and whip with a handheld beater until soft peaks form. Gently fold the egg whites into the pumpkin mixture. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake in the oven for 30 to 40 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool completely.

To prepare the mousse, put the chocolate and butter in the top of a double boiler and bring to a slow simmer to slowly melt the white chocolate. Meanwhile, put the eggs, sugar, rum and 2 tablespoons of ginger in a medium metal bowl and whisk together. Set the bowl in a saucepan of simmering water and whisk the mixture until it is thick and resembles softly whipped cream, about 4 minutes. Be careful not to let the eggs get too hot (or they will scramble). Fold the melted white chocolate into the egg mixture. Place the mixture in the refrigerator for 30 to 45 minutes to chill.

To assemble the cake, remove the mousse from the refrigerator. Put the cream and the vanilla in a medium metal bowl and whip with a handheld beater until soft peaks form. Gently fold the whipped cream into the mousse, mixing with a handheld beater to combine, if needed. Pour this mixture over the top of the pumpkin cake and let it set for 2 to 4 hours in the refrigerator before serving.

To serve, slice the cake into wedges. Top each slice with a bit of candied ginger and a sprinkling of cinnamon.


Cook's Note: This cake gets even better after being in the fridge a day. The recipe makes a lot of extra frosting, definitely enough to smother on a few cupcakes as well. The last time I made it I realized I was out of rum and used half Grand Marnier, half cognac and I think I like that even better. Either way, this cake will put a little hair on your chest! So maybe not for the kiddies...

One delicious storm

As I've spent more time nibbling my way through "A Homemade Life" I've found more delectable goodies that are must-haves on these snowy days. A few are below:

Pickled grapes. Oh, man. These are so delicious that I have to keep them slightly hidden in the back of the fridge or they'll be gone in no time. The day Flynn can open Ball jars I'm in serious trouble! A perfect pre-dinner nibble or snack. I love to eat them alongside my favorite Ines Rosales Sweet Olive Oil Tortas (find them here), which I like to top with a soft cheese or butter while sipping tea. A nice slice of prosciutto would be an excellent addition!

Chana masala. So heavenly and so easy to make. I like to prepare it sans yogurt and add extra crushed red pepper and lemon then serve over rice. Find the recipe here.

And, in the "don't knock it till you try it/no prune jokes needed" category, there are these beauties: Stewed prunes with citrus and cinnamon. I've had them on waffles and oatmeal, on crackers and plain. Then there's my favorite - serving them on a bowl of vanilla bean coconut milk ice cream with walnuts on top or a Carr's Lemon Ginger Sandwich cookie on the side. My husband, who has some seriously awful childhood prune associations to overcome, as well as a 3 1/2 year old, are both fans. That's enough convincing for me!

Wheat Berry Salad

These days I'm pretty shocked by what I'm eating. Not that any of it's bad, it's more a matter of sheer volume. I worry that one day I'll start to notice a discolored, worn spot in front of the refrigerator where I can usually be found standing, peering into the shelves. I'll find myself torn, eyes darting back and forth between a beautiful honeysuckle apple and a slab of sharp cheddar the size of a Smart Car. I'll weigh the options with arguments like, "Hmmm. Hard to choose because Big Bird recommends eating both of these. I suppose I should just eat what there's more of...in case someone else wants the apple." Of course, this is a pointless exercise because I know someone will want the apple. Me. And I'll be back for it in an hour or so.

The best defense against taking foraging to a level that will eventually land you on a reality show is to stock up on delicious, healthy things that are meant to be made and consumed in bulk, guilt-free. Early last Summer I stumbled across this book - "Super Natural Cooking: Five Ways to Incorporate Whole & Natural Ingredients Into Your Cooking" by Heidi Swanson. To me, the sign of a good cookbook is that you carry it around like a security blanket for a couple weeks and read it whenever you have a moment to spare. Doctor's appointments, the park, to movies so you can peruse during the previews. When someone asks, "How are you doing?" the response is, "Great! Wanna see my new cookbook? Wanna see? Wanna see?" I've definitely gotten my use out of this one, which features vegetarian recipes that can easily be made vegan. There's a great dessert section with recipes like Coconut Panna Cotta, Mesquite Chocolate Chip Cookies and great tips for how to swap sugar substitutes like agave nectar and honey in various recipes. I got hooked on the Big Curry Noodle Pot, Espresso Banana Muffins and Spring Minestrone with Brown Rice, but it's the Wheat Berry Salad that I'll be keeping in the fridge at eye-level for the next few months.

Combine 2 cups wheat berries, rinsed, with 6 cups water and 2 tsp. sea salt in a large saucepan. Bring to a boil, lower the heat and simmer, covered, until the berries are plump and slightly tender but still chewy. This can take 1 - 1.5 hours. Taste often and find a texture you like. Remember, these are very hearty and are meant to be dense and slightly chewy. Drain and season to taste with more salt.

Combine the grated zest and juice of one orange or tangerine with 1 tbsp. fresh lemon juice and 1 tbsp. minced shallot. Whisk with 1/3 cup to 1/2 cup olive oil, depending on your preference and season with a few pinches of salt and some fresh ground pepper to taste. Toss the hot wheat berries with 3 large handfuls spinach (stems removed) and 1 cup toasted pine nuts. Stir in the citrus dressing and top with 1/2 cup crumbled feta or goat cheese. Enjoy cold or warm.

Cook's Notes: Heidi Swanson suggests several seasonal variations that all sound delicious; cranberry vinaigrette with toasted walnuts in Fall, basil dressing with heirloom tomatoes and corn in Summer.

I'm sure you'll find yourself walking into many walls while distractedly sifting through this cookbook. You can purchase it here.

The pitter-patter of little beats

I can't believe it's here! That's right, the third trimester! It really is shocking how quickly it's happened this time around. Although this month brings words like "mucus plug" and "sciatica" into my vocabulary, it also brings what is definitely my favorite prenatal activity...music time! 

You start reading reports very early on about how your baby can hear everything you say and will slowly begin to identify your voice. While this is amazing and touching, it also leads to days where you just want to sit, in silence, while pondering what exactly that baby has heard. These days I cringe as I realize that I'm more and more like Ma Kettle. I feel like I'm either standing on the porch, hollerin' at the dog or issuing idle threats to The Boy about what will happen if he doesn't finish his breakfast. Okay, part Ma Kettle, part Joan Crawford. I sometimes imagine that this child will be born already able to talk and its first words will be, "I promise to pick up my socks, Mama, I promise. Just tell me what they are and I'll do it." 

While pregnant with Flynn, I often felt hyper-aware of what he was hearing and imagined him soaking it all up, like a little sponge, floating around in my stomach. These thoughts would later lead me to ask ridiculous questions like, "I wonder if he hits children because I had to reprimand so-and-so at work while I was pregnant?" I then remember the huge steps I took to avoid fetal angst...like tucking my iPod earbuds into the gigantic waist of my pants and letting him enjoy Ibrahim Ferrer during especially boring meetings, or giving him his nightly rounds of classical music. We switched to opera just once and watched in horror as he began to kick and wiggle violently, then moved across my entire body in a way that made it look like he actually stood up and tried to shove his way out through my ribcage. Chris watched in wonder as I began to yell, "Get it out! I can't take it! This is too Sci-Fi! I hated that scene in Spaceballs!"

This week I've been dusting off my special pregnancy headphones and pondering our first playlist, which will be an amended version of some CDs I made called, "What Day Is It?". I think it will go something like this:

1. Who Loves the Sun - The Velvet Underground

2. My Cherie Amour - Stevie Wonder

3. Air - Talking Heads

4. L.E.S. Artistes - Santogold

5. Pink Moon - Nick Drake

6. A Nod On Hold - Ms. John Soda

7. Piazza, New York Catcher - Belle & Sebastian

8. Me And My Charms (String Version) - Kristin Hersh

9. Run Devil Run - Jenny Lewis & The Watson Twins

10. Five Feet High and Rising - Johnny Cash

11. I Want You - Bob Dylan

12. Angels and Devils - Echo and the Bunnymen

13. The Wind Cries Mary - Jimi Hendrix

14. NYC - Interpol

15. I'm A Lonely Little Petunia (In An Onion Patch) - Imogen Heap

16. There's An End - Holly Golightly

17. La Vie En Rose - Edith Piaf

18. The Wind - Cat Stevens

19. Have Mercy - Loretta Lynn

20. Slip Away - Clarence Carter

21. The Night - Morphine

22. A Melody From the Sky - The Sons of the Pioneers

23. Redondo Beach - Patti Smith

24. Vampire - Antsy Pants

25. Across the Universe - Rufus Wainwright

26. Sunshowers - M.I.A.

27. I Was a Lover - TV on the Radio

28. Hyper-Ballad (Live) - Bjork

I know, a little pedestrian, but what did you expect for the first session? This? Or, maybe I'll go the easy route, and just play one of my favorite soundtracks of all time, one that pretty much sums it up today - this one.