Devonnaire

"To Work or Not to Work?" and "Edible Distractions... "

2011-07-16T23:16:00.000-07:00

Well, I have been seriously considering the possibility of adding to my already too-long list of shit to do, by maybe getting a job... something that doesn't involve changing diapers or praising people for using the toilet. As such, I was contacted a couple of weeks ago regarding an open position for a "cook" in the Marines' residence here in Brussels. It was a "part-time" job, which is what I am after since I made a conscious decision to stay home with my kids until they go to school (which is getting terrifyingly close, by the way). The job requirements included making dinner for 16 Marines daily and breakfast and lunch per order, as they make their way out of the house for a day of dutiful service to our country. At first, it sounded perfect, but then, I started doing the math and it sounded less and less perfect. Of course, even though it technically is part time, at five hours a day, five days a week, it felt more like full-time to me. Having to be there at 7AM each day would mean leaving long before the girls the got up and getting home at 1PM would mean I would return just in time to put them down for their midday nap. They nap for about 2 hours, sometimes more, sometimes less, so I would only see them awake for about 4 hours a day, those hours between naptime and bedtime. Ultimately, my momma emotions got the best of the decision. This time in their lives is too fleeting and since my husband's career choice has afforded me the considerable luxury of actually being able to be home with them, I think I will take advantage, at least for now.

But this whole process did get me thinking about what kind of job would actually work for me and I returned to a time in my life when I was my own boss and in charge of my own destiny-- when I was running a small, but lucrative, catering business out of my home in Northern California. Stefan has mentioned my career history to Ambassador Kennard (a good subject for awkward small talk) and he suggested I throw my name and credentials into the pool for catering embassy functions while I am here. At first, I thought: nah, I want to take advantage of being in Europe and work with Belgian chefs and learn from them and see how they handle the topsy-turvy service life here in Brussels. But now that I know a thing or two about service in Belgium, I think I might be better off sticking close to the embassy, at least in this regard. So, that's what I have decided to do: this week, I will get in touch with the Protocol Office and let them know that I'd like to be considered for future events. It will interesting to manage event planning in a foreign country and I hope it works out.

Speaking of catering and event planning, I have become completely addicted to the outdoor markets here in Brussels, particularly the huge one in Stockel at Place Dumon. I have made it a custom to take the girls there on Friday mornings, under the pretense that we are getting waffles for them. My friend, Eve, who many of you may know from her foreign service blog, has been having a torturous time trying to acclimate to an inclement post and as such, has been asking her nears and dears to share their food experiences, so she can daydream, wistfully, about life after Luanda. I was hesitant, at first, because I feel shy about touting the many blessings of life in Brussels to my friend who was posted to Angola at the same Flag Day. It doesn't feel fair, but since she asked, I did and I told her the following story about the World's Best Waffles:

On Friday mornings, I have made it my habit to go to a 10AM yoga class at my gym and then quickly retrieve the girls and run for Stockel Market before it closes, or more likely, all the goods have been picked over. Its an awesome outdoor market, open three days a week, but Friday is its best day. The produce here rivals California, if you can believe it (in quality, if not variety) and right now, the place is loaded to gills with tiny, sweet-like-candy-Belgian strawberries, all manner of lettuce (peppery arugula, lush watercress, bitter dandelion greens, little gems!), sweet, tart grape and cherry tomatoes (of course, the big mommas aren't ready yet). Its a wonderful market and has everything you could possibly want or need for your basic grocery shop, which is awesome, but the REAL reason for going there is for the Jean Gaston Waffles, literally the most amazing waffles I have ever conceived of, let alone eaten.

Now, I know you asked for pastry porn, but anyone can give you that. Who else but me can describe the way these little babies come off the iron with a perfectly caramelized exterior, having been lovingly sprinkled with extra large crystals of turbinado sugar before being placed on the hot, 100 years old iron where they are then turned constantly to ensure the perfect, crispy, toothsome outside will make way for the steamy, sweet, doughy interior. They sell them "chaud" or "froid," depending on when you plan to eat them, but the girls and I can't save them for later, so I always order "4 gaufres chaud" and hope there's at least half of one left for Stefan when he gets home later in the day (yeah, right). Then we walk through the market, talking about food and flowers and sometimes, monsters and elephants (depending on who is leading the conversation) and we will pull apart our perfect, steamy, sticky waffles and eat them bite by bite, never wanting it to end, licking our fingers of gooey caramel between bites. Before Jean Gaston, I didn't know what a waffle was. I though it was just some dried-out alternative to a pancake. But now that I know how delicious a waffle can be, I may never be able to leave this place. I wish they traveled so I could send you a bunch. They are, after all, the best substitutes for friends, family or community I've managed to find here. When I'm eating one of these waffles, I completely forget all my troubles and think that life is just perfect, if only for the five or so minutes its takes me to devour that perfect dough ball of love.

Human Class

2011-06-28T22:26:00.000-07:00

My husband is very good at finding creative ways to put the travel rewards he earned at his last job to good use in this life. Last week, we said goodbye to the girls and hopped on a train to London, where we celebrated our fourth anniversary at the River Cafe and slept in a free suite at Le Meridien Hotel in Picadilly Circus. Then, we flew for free to New Jersey, where we celebrated my cousin Meghan's wedding to Fred Storz. The real trick Stef pulled, though, was the free First Class, British Airways return flight.

When I say that I don't know if I have been happier than I was when I put on my free pajamas and slid into my super pod, I am not lying. There is something about that seat, the way the staff trips over themselves to answer your call button, the available entertainment and the edible food that just made me feel complete and as if I may never be able to fly coach again.

I have been lucky to fly International Business Class many times in my life for my own business travel, but trans-Atlantic First Class is a completely different animal and the only bad thing I can say about it is that our flight was too short. That's how awesome it was: I actually wish that it had been a 16 hour (or more) flight. That way, I could have had Stefan over to my pod for dinner, then asked him to go so I could watch two movies and eat my "midnight snack" before having the flight attendant "make my bed," so I could get a full night's sleep. Instead, I had to rush through my aperitif and dinner, skip dessert and watch half of a (terrible) movie in order to get three hours of sleep before waking up for my three course breakfast.

Now, I realize that First Class is a bit over-the-top indulgent and I recognize that it isn't possible for every seat on the plane to be a super-pod, but experiencing this luxury really made me realize how horrendous the conditions in the "back of the plane" really are. In addition to the complete lack of personal space and the third class amenities, the flight attendants literally treat you with contempt. I actually fear asking for a bottle of water when my throat is so parched dry that I can hardly speak the words, "please... water... please..."

In addition to the comfort of the actual flight, First Class offers lounges on both ends of the flight. On the departing end, we enjoyed a small, gourmet snack and two glasses of dry Reisling (ordered from a lengthy wine list that had no prices on it), and followed up with some DirectTV on a 62 inch flatscreen and the Sunday New York Times. We got to talking to the manager of the lounge who regaled us with stories of the A-list celebrities and top Government figures who usually prepare for their flights in these lounges (If we had only traveled the night before, we could have swapped parenting stories with Matt Damon and his wife... damn!) Upon arriving in London, where we had some hours to kill before our train to Brussels was due to depart, we indulged in a shower (multi-head super-shower) and had some more breakfast (capuccinos, waffles, eggs to order and sausages) just because we could. We were so tired so we also took a nap in the lounge before heading out to the streets of London for a delicious lunch at Barrafina in Soho.

Now, the actual price per ticket for this experience is roughly $10,000.00 EACH so it's fair to say I won't be enjoying the glory of International First Class anytime soon (unless Stefan travels a whole hell of lot more and works his magic again), so I am going to continue to reflect on this last trip as one of my best and say, with confidence, that it was a worthy 4th anniversary present. Funny- we are so broke that we opted out of anniversary (or birthday or Mother's Day or Father's Day) gifts, but we flew back to Europe in a style usually afforded to celebs and world leaders. It's so typical of us- living the good life without the goods... and having a lot of fun doing it.

Downward Dogs

2011-06-14T23:21:00.000-07:00

Life in Brussels is pretty much business as usual, save for the occasional moments when I say to myself (inside my head or out loud, depending on the day I am having): Holy Shi*! I live in Brussels!

There's the usual morning dog walk, the place where we devotedly get our croissants (Yasaki Sasushi has the best Pain au Chocolate in the city, if not the world and I am not the only the one who thinks so: http://www.life-in-brussels.com/article-yasushi-sasaki-et-le-meilleur-pain-au-chocolat-de-bruxelles-44066295.html), the five weekly trips to the healthclub (I have said it before, but I will say it again, Royal La Rasante is a life changer), and everything that happens in between like grocery shopping, picking up the dry cleaning, taking the kids to the playground or on a playdate with new friends. As exotic as this life may have sounded at one time (and still does to those who only know of it from a distance), it's really not all that exotic. It's life... only someplace weird you never thought you'd live without any old friends or family nearby to hold your hand through the rough spots.

And just like when you live in a familiar place, there ARE rough spots. Life is just as hard in terms of the mundane, day to day, things here as it was anywhere we've lived as a family. Money is tight, marriage is incredibly challenging, the children are demanding, the dogs are a huge additional responsibility, and housework is still detestable (albeit unavoidable).

So, what's a girl to do?

Just like I often did when I felt like the walls were closing in on me and that I couldn't handle all the things I had going on and was responsible for when we lived Stateside, I have, once again, found comfort, balance and fitness in the form of a daily yoga practice.

Unlike in the states, yoga is not THE thing to do here and you can't find a yoga studio on every other street corner. There are few studios and fewer teachers. I was baffled by this until I started to look into doing my own teacher training program (prompted of course, by seeing the obvious need for more teachers) and I discovered that in Belgium, it takes four years of active training to become a certified yoga instructor. That's funny, because in the states, most (flakey) certified yoga instructors lose interest in teaching yoga after four years! Perhaps, that's the idea. Needless to say, I can't become a yoga teacher in Belgium. I simply don't have enough time...

Fortunately, La Rasante has three very good yoga teachers: Sash (Kundalini), Evelyne (Hatha) and Stanislava (Ashtanga). Most of the time, I can find my way into one of their classes and avoid paying more for classes outside of the gym membership that is already crippling us financially. When I am really looking for a change in the routine, I head over to the Yoga Loft in Woluwe-Saint-Lambert, which is run by a Bay-area transplant and her (incredibly handsome... did I just write that? Sorry, Stef) Belgian husband. It's a funny place- an apartment, in a mid-70's style apartment building, where they've transformed the bedroom and living room into zen retreats, complete with big-bellied Buddha statues, billowing drapes and burning incense. I recently started a 6-week Ashtanga workshop there that has proven to be worth every one of the 95euros it cost to sign up. I have managed to perfect my downward dog, warrior and triangle poses and even (and this is the big, big news for a fat, lazy mamma) managed to do a real handstand (against the wall, of course) and hold it for over a minute of intense breathing and concentration. It's an empowering way to spend a few hours each week and even more than that, it's a great way to feel connected to a community of like-minded spirits at a time when I am otherwise feeling very, very lonely.

The other benefit of this newly-stoked passion of mine is that it's paying off in terms of my physique. I have never been a particularly fitness-minded person. I don't like running, sweating, bouncing around to house music or watching myself lift weights in a mirror. Therefore, getting fit after having two babies in two years has been a challenge for me. But, doing yoga 5 or 6 days a week has proven to be just the thing to get me back to pre-Adela weight. Oh how I have longed to be able to close the button on my pants without saying a prayer beforehand, to just simply get dressed in the morning, without trying 32 different combinations of things in an effort to hide everything but my head and hands (without looking like I am trying to hide everything but my head and hands), and to go into a store and try things on and have them actually fit (being 5'10" and a size 12 in Europe is not, like, super awesome; being 5'10" and a size 10 is little more manageable.)

Best of all, I have finally, after 4 years (next week!) of marriage, persuaded my husband to join me at a few classes. Having an hour or so, every once in a while, when we're not changing some one's diaper, feeding some one's appetite or averting a disaster of some kind, is really quite novel for us. While having these children is rewarding beyond anything either of us ever imagined, it is unbelievably hard and finding time to nurture our marriage is seemingly impossible most days. But, side by side, in perfect downward dogs, sweating, breathing deeply and just being together is a perfect, momentary escape. In lieu of counseling, or better yet, a monthly weekend getaway, I highly recommend a few sun salutations for bringing levity back to a marriage that is largely all about hard work.

Hey, it's none of your Strabismus!

2011-05-23T07:27:00.000-07:00

No one ever wants to admit that there is something wrong with her child. So, when our local Belgian pediatrician took one look at Flora two months ago and said, "there's something going on with her right eye," I was miffed and momentarily convinced that the doctor was a mean sadist who liked to hurt people. But, of course, after I pulled myself together and gave it some real thought, I had to agree that there was something "going on with her right eye." I dutifully gave Stefan the name and number of the pediatric ophthalmologist and asked him to call and make an appointment right away. My French, though getting better, still isn't good enough to navigate a hospital switchboard.

Right away turned out to be two months later, this past Monday. While we waited for the appointment, we told ourselves many stories about how this was something she would grow out of. "It's a developmental thing. She'll be fine." But in the backs of our minds, we were fearing that the something "going on" was a lazy eye or as the medical community calls it, "Strabismus."

When our Monday appointment finally arrived, we were thrilled to be able to at last dispel our fears and move on. Unfortunately, after what was the most horrendous and unpleasant doctor's appointment my children or I have ever had, we found out that she does, indeed, have strabismus. Her right eye is severely far-sighted, so much so that the strain of trying to see out of it has forced it to turn inward. Poor little peanut can't see and we really had no idea. Of course, now we know why she has refused to walk more than 6 or 7 steps before stopping, sitting down and reassessing the route. It's a bummer, but at least we know that there isn't something more sinister at play.

It's funny how life works. When I was living in San Francisco, trying to get a catering business off the ground, I doubled as the personal assistant for the former president of the International Council of Ophthalmology. He was and is one of the most well-respected and forward-thinking doctors to practice in the field. He also has spent the better part of his retirement working to put an end to preventable blindness in developing countries. You know what one of the most common causes of otherwise preventable blindness is? Strabismus. So, of course, after being largely mistreated by a very nervous student doctor who spoke badly broken English, I immediately sent my old boss and friend an email, asking him every question under the sun about this condition, its treatments and prognosis. Of course, he searched his vast Rolodex for the foremost pediatric ophthalmologist in Belgium and got us an appointment for a few weeks from now. We will be seeing the HEAD of Pediatric Ophthalmology at University Hospital Ghent (there's the opportunity to return to Ghent we've been waiting for...)He also assured me that with proper care (glasses in the best case, surgery in the worst), the prognosis for both vision and appearance are excellent.

So... now we are just waiting, for the glasses to be made (apparently, this "special" corrective lens takes a very long time to make... but I think it's just the Belgian way of doing things: very, very slowly with little concern for customer experience. That's another blog post all together, however) and for our next ophthalmological appointment. Unfortunately, I am assuming Flora will face another grueling exam in which she's held down, kicking and screaming, for upwards of two hours. While I am looking forward to having a competent doctor evaluate her condition, I am not looking forward to that.

When the glasses are finally ready, I will post pics of my little bespectacled Flora May. If anyone can pull this off, it's her.

A Long Update after a Very Long Hiatus:

2011-04-19T23:07:00.001-07:00

I mentioned in my last post (a long, long, long time ago) that I was having computer problems. Well, I still am. So, I haven't been blogging. I have gotten a few emails saying, "are you okay? Is everything all right?" I am okay. I just haven't wanted to risk permanent damage to me or my computer from electrical shock. But, of course, now so much time has gone by, I don't even know where to begin (I'd such high hopes for consistency too).

I will start with a basic update:

Well, I must confess that I'm surprised there haven't been more songs, poems and novels written about springtime in Brussels. For, it is an absolutely extraordinary time. When the grey clouds parted and the endless damp of winter gave way to blue skies, sunshine and explosive blossoms, something magical happened here... and to me.

The spring has brought hours of outdoor play-time, early evening meetings with daddy in our neighborhood playground on his way home from work, and multiple introductions to new friends- both natives and expats alike. It would seem that as they keep their coats fastened firmly closed in the winter months, so do Belgians keep their hearts. Now, with the warmth of spring, there is a new openness and willingness to engage in conversation with this sometimes shy American mother of two.

I've made some good friends and I feel like this place is starting to feel like a home. I have a much better understanding of the geography and I'm able to go places, both on foot and by car, without spending hours trying to then find my way home. My French lessons have paid off (and will continue for the duration of my time here). I'm proud to report a complete, courteous and jovial conversation with a fellow canine-lover in the dog park a few days ago. I was able to tell her the ages of both Otis and Rudi when she asked, ask about her dogs and even make a joke about the size of her 7 month old St. Bernard puppy. It is precisely this type of mundane exchange that I could not have had four months ago, when we arrived, that made me feel so lonely and isolated. My biggest struggle now is with the children in the playgrounds who steal Addy's beloved bucket and shovel. I've asked my teacher to prepare a lesson on playground etiquette so that I can protect Adela's considerable interests there without offending or mistreating the unwitting Belgian thieves.

For friends and family who are interested, I have this to say about my lovely children:

Adela is a star. She's funny, kind and agreeable these days. Her vocabulary has exploded to include such benign expletives as, "Oh my gosh!" and "oh, goodness, mommy!" Somehow, against all the odds, she's not using her parents' preferred expletives and expressing herself in ways that would get us booted from English-speaking playgrounds. She's very tall and very lean (her waist is smaller than her sister's, but more on that in a moment). She makes me incredibly proud everyday because she is unassuming in her interactions with other children, deferential to her little sister and quick-witted in her exchanges with me. I couldn't ask for a better two and a half year old.

Flora is our demure flower. Notice I didn't say: "demure, little flower." She's enormous. I mean that in the nicest, most loving way. She weighs nearly 28 lbs., 9 more than Addy at the same age. She's wearing clothes cut for a two year old. She has a voracious appetite. She also is utterly charming and easy-going. I am so grateful for her even temper, because mothering two such young children is no easy task. She makes very few demands of me, but stands her ground all the same. She literally stands her ground, but is not yet walking. I'm guessing this has something to do with her size (although she's hardly behind the average age, she is behind her two, little embassy pals who are the same age). I probably could work harder to get her to walk, but I'm really in no rush. They grow up way too fast on their own. No need to push it along any faster.

Happy Belated Birthday to My Little Flower:

2011-03-20T00:58:00.000-07:00

Flora celebrated her first birthday while we were in Austria. So, there was no big party, no bells and whistles, no big presents. It was just us- Mommy, Daddy, Sissy, Kerstin, Puppa and the "boys." Adela had a big, first birthday party with ALL the bells and whistles, so I feel a little sad that we didn't do the same for Flora. She would have no memory of the party (and neither does Adela), but I know she's going to put it together someday, when she's looking through old pictures (or reading this blog). She'll see the big "hurrah" her sister had and how she was surrounded by a huge group of friends of family and how she ate cupcakes that I made with my bare hands. I really hope when Flora looks back, she knows that she only missed the party and that she was no less loved on her first first birthday.

Flora is the world's most easy-going child (and I used to say that about her older sister, but I was wrong. I hadn't met Flora yet). If she ever complains, it's for a darn good reason. The rest of the time, she's happy to laugh at life and take what she gets with gratitude. She's just a doll and I am so grateful to have her shiny, happy spirit to keep things in perspective when her sister is wreaking havoc on me and my surroundings. So, Flora, if you're reading this, 25 years from now, I hope you're not still working out your sibling rivalry issues and I hope you're not pissed that we didn't throw you a first birthday party (or a Christening party). You are so very loved-- I think of you as I close my eyes at night and as soon as I wake up in the morning. If Addy is my clone, then you are my foil, which is arguably more important. The first year I had you in my life was the best yet. I love you. Happy Birthday!

Our First Ever "Family" Ski Trip, Part 1: Introduction and Overview

2011-03-18T00:15:00.000-07:00

I have been having a hard time writing this blog. First, I am having major computer problems these days. My beloved MacBook Pro is no longer holding a charge and occasionally, packs a rather forceful electrical shock. Second, with all that's happening in Japan, I feel like talking about my awesome, middle-class ski vacation is a little insensitive. And finally, a big part of me feels like I should be writing about the fact that Congress wants to take food and toys away from my children because that's a truly "hot topic."

But, right now, my computer isn't giving me electroshock therapy. My perspective on the Japan disaster is probably of little interest to you and I know there are people and bloggers out there who are much better equipped to handle the subject of Congressional budget cuts and how they will impact those of us in the Foreign Service. So, here goes:

Our First Ever "Family" Ski Vacation, Part 1 (Introduction and Overview):

Last week, the Whitneys packed up the whole clan and headed for the Austrian Alps for a week of skiing (snowboarding) and family fun. We left Brussels with the car packed full of babies, dogs, skis, snowboards and all the clothes and toys we need to get through 10 days without access to laundry (brother!). We picked up "Puppa" (Stefan's aunt, Henriette, and our saintly babysitter on the trip) in Bonn and then continued through Munich, where we grabbed Kerstin (Stef's cousin, Puppa's daughter). 8 1/2 hours and several tantrums and pee breaks later, we made it to Mayrhofen, Austria- a little Tyrolean village in the valley surrounded by giant, craggily, snow-covered peaks.

I have skied (snowboarded) all over the Rocky Mountains and the East Coast, but I had never been to the Alps before and had, of course, always wanted to go. It turned out to be everything I had always dreamed it would be. While the ski conditions weren't the best I have ever experienced (it's been warm and there hasn't been a ton of precipitation), the charm of the villages, the breath-taking vistas and the divine Austrian fare made up for that 10-fold. The trip was so incredibly interesting that I decided to break my blogging about it into three parts ("Introduction and Overview", "Tyrolean Cuisine", and "Lessons Learned While Traveling with the Whole Family").

"The View From the Top" (taken from the tippy-top of the Hintertuxer Gletscher, one of the three ski resorts we hit while staying in Mayrhofen):

"The Whole Crew" (minus the dogs, eating dinner in the Neue Post Hotel Restaurant):

"Happy Again" (Stef and I are never happier than when we are skiing and snowboarding together):

The Skiiers (Kerstin, Stef and I were able to ski 5 out of 6 days thanks to Puppa's willingness to hang with the toddlers):

Action Shot (Mommy, the "shredder"):

Action Shot (Daddy catching some "air"):

"Someday..." (Flora and Addy trying on our "Brain-buckets"):

Addy and I on our terrace, enjoying the view:

Just one of the death-defying rides up to the top of the mountain:

Riding up to the top with 30 other enthusiasts:

So, that's "Part 1." Stayed tuned for Parts 2 and 3. I gotta run; my computer is telling me so.

A Very, Very Important Visitor:

2011-02-28T12:31:00.000-08:00

When I was younger, I was very fortunate to do a lot of world traveling. I had the benefit of a high school which promoted travel and organized annual trips to Europe and the Far East. Then, in college, I took advantage of every opportunity to travel with friends, one of whom had a family home in a little town in Provence where we went almost every summer to wander around Southern France drinking Rose and flirting shamelessly in horrendously broken French. I also did a semester abroad at Oxford and used that as a springboard for even more travel around the UK, Ireland, France and Spain. Just after graduation from college, my father, stepmother, brother and I went to China along with my stepmother's parents and our very dear family friends, Bob and Fernando.

When I "grew-up," I continued to travel as much as I could possibly afford to and I eventually got a job writing and producing corporate videos, which sent me on more overseas trips than I can count, one of which was actually a true "around the world" adventure-- 9 cities in 17 days; we went from China to India to multiple stops in Europe to Baltimore and back to California.

With all this travel and all the exposure I was so very, very lucky to have, there was a quiet and deeply emotional sentiment that I carried with me; my mother and my stepfather had never been outside of the United States of America. And as much as they may have thought (and still might) that all I was thinking about was my own selfish enrichment, I never stopped thinking about how much I wanted to change that fact. It was not something I could have easily done at any point in my life before now (in spite of the rather glamorous story I am currently telling, I was always squeaking by with absolutely nothing left to spare). So, every time I have been in a brand new foreign city, looking at some incredible landmark or piece of artwork that can only be seen in that place, I think to myself how much I wish they both could be seeing it with me. I vowed many years ago, that someday, I would make it happen and they would see at least some of the incredibly beautiful and interesting things I have seen outside of the continental USA.

Well, just over two weeks ago, half of my dream came true. As some of you might know from previous posts and from knowing me, my mother is much too ill to make the journey from New Jersey to Belgium. But my wonderful, amazing stepfather and dear friend, Elliott Lewis is not! And he came, thanks to the many miles Stefan accumulated from business travel in his last job. He came for 5 days (a short trip for some, but the absolute maximum amount of time he could bear to be away and that my mother could survive without him).

We had a wonderful time. It was a brilliant combination of much-needed family time and adventures around Belgium. In addition to some local sightseeing within Brussels, we went to Bruges and to Ghent, both of which were beyond beautiful and exceeded all expectations. People have said many times that Bruges is so beautiful, picturesque and clean that it feels like a movie set. It really does. When you close your eyes and imagine what an ancient European city should look like- Bruges is it. If you find yourself in Belgium and you've not been to Bruges, you absolutely must go. It's gorgeous. Ghent is also outstanding and it has one thing over Bruges-- it doesn't seem to have the emphasis on tourism that Bruges has, so it's a little more authentic in that way. Go there too. It's totally awesome and I can't wait to go back. To shop, to eat, to meander around giant, monolithic temples to medieval torture (those ancient "Belgians" were sadistic bastards, btw).

Anyway, having my stepfather here was a much needed dose of family love and I am so glad we were able to make it happen. The only thing better than realizing that longtime dream of showing him the world, was actually having him here.

On that note, here are some pictures from our adventures (taken with a real camera, not my blackberry, Eve ;) ):

My super-awesome Stepdad, skipping around Bruges:

The gals just kickin' it in one of the oldest operational Town Halls in all of Europe:

The View from the Belfry in Bruges (ever see the movie, "In Bruges"?:

My super-duper little family, of which I couldn't be any prouder!:

A funny picture of Adela that has nothing at all to do with my Stepfather's visit, Bruges, OR Ghent, but I that I thought was worth sharing:

Why Blog?

2011-02-09T06:08:00.000-08:00

Recently, someone said that they think I share too much on-line.

I paused when I heard this because I realized that I probably do share a bit more than is comfortable for some.

When you're part of the Foreign Service "blogosphere", you get real cozy, real quick. There are so many of us and we are, without exaggeration, a family of sorts. It's easy to think of that particular audience and feel safe sharing your feelings without hesitation. You know that there is this special group of people out there, literally speckling the globe, who understand your deep, deep need to feel a part of something. When you're so isolated, as we all are, it's huge relief to be able to vent to people who can relate to the lonesomeness and to our very unique struggle to find connection.

For instance, the minute you/your spouse joins the Foreign Service, you are catapulted into a life defined by uncertainty. First, you are uncertain about what your temporary life in Virginia will be. Then, you are caught in the purgatory of waiting to find out where you will be posted and then of course, you have no idea what to expect once you get to post. No amount of travel literature, personal post reports or even correspondence with people at that post, can create a clear picture of what your individual life will look like. We all try very hard to imagine, but there is no possible way to uncover the specifics until you arrive at post and begin to peel away the many layers of a new place for yourself. And that's just the first time around. For many of us, we will go through this process as many as 10 or 15 times in a lifetime! So, what do we do with all this uncertainty? Well, we think a lot... we speculate a lot... we talk a lot... and of course, some of us blog a lot.

The sheer number of bloggers out there are proof enough that it is part of human nature to want to share our feelings and experiences. And the range of what people will share online is literally staggering-- bloggers share everything from our sexual proclivities to our strategies for saving money at the grocery store to our political views to our failings as parents to our favorite restaurants and on and on and on. There are as many different blogs out there as there are personalities to write them.

So, add to this obviously very natural desire to share our feelings, the unique characteristics of Foreign Service life and it's no wonder that so many of us do it--- if for no other reason than it feels completely natural and fills an ever-widening void in our hearts. We are a lonely group (particularly the trailing spouses among us) and we spend most of our time, online and off, looking for people who can understand how we feel.

This is why I blog. I blog to feel a part of something and I blog to feel that people actually care about what I have to say (because in my physical life, there aren't very many people around to listen). And for those people out there who think I sometimes go too far in exposing my intimate feelings on everything from my mother's illness to my insecurities about my marriage to the sense of loss I feel at the sale of my family home, I want to say this: if anyone actually spends the time to read what I have written, then I firmly believe that they are worth sharing it with.

From what I can tell, there are two basic groups of people who read our blogs-- the friends and family who love us (and want to understand what our lives look and feel like) and our Foreign Service families-- hopeful members of the community and actively serving members. Those are two groups that I feel very good about and I don't much care about the people who think I am doing something wrong or inappropriate. This is what I need to do now, to get through, to get by and to feel like I am part of something beyond the walls of this house that isn't mine, in a country that isn't mine.

(and of course, as with every blog I write, this is just another unabashed plea for validation... )

Big, Big, Big News:

2011-02-06T23:12:00.000-08:00

On Saturday, Stefan and I went to Cite du Dragon in Uccle. A friend of ours is in town for training on a new job and offered to stay with the girls (in exchange for staying in our guest room). I am pretty tired of the standard Belgian menu-- moules, frites, steak tartare, waterzooi, etc.-- and we'd passed this wild looking place before and had read it was good. So, date night took us to a giant, traditional, Belgian mansion turned Chinese banquet hall.

It was incredible-- like nothing I have ever actually seen in real life before. There must have been 300 people eating in the mansion's many dining rooms. There were traditional Chinese sculptures everywhere and loads of pink and blue florescent lights. The floor in the main dining room was clear and underneath it, swam giant, over-fed Coi of all shapes and colors. There were fountains spouting recirculated water into ponds covered in footbridges. It was ostentatious, gaudy and decadent, all the while having a certain self-effacing charm.

It is not a stretch to suggest that Cite du Dragon is a perfect metaphor for our Foreign Service life-- it was once a perfectly proportioned, Belgian mansion, snuggled into the charming Flemish commune of Uccle and now, it's a huge, outrageous Chinese banquet hall where families come to mange on endless buffets of dim sum, sweet and sour chicken, fried rice, lychees and tapioca.

You're probably scratching your head and wondering what the hell I am talking about. Well, on Friday night, I returned home from an evening walk through the park with the dogs and Stefan handed me his blackberry and told me to read the message entitled, "Assignment Notification: Whitney, Stefan." My jaw dropped. We had only sent in our bid list on January 27th. How could we possibly have been assigned already? But sure enough, I opened the message and it read, "Congratulations, we have carefully reviewed all bidders... and we have selected you for the following position: SHANGHAI, CHINA 10/2013."

So, we are going to Shanghai next! For those who don't know, Stefan had CNL (Critical Needs Language) points for Mandarin, Chinese when he joined the Foreign Service and we are therefore obligated to serve in a Mandarin designated post on one of our first two tours. Knowing this, we strategically bid on Western European and South American posts the first time around. Shanghai, while not a total shock, is still incredibly exciting because we easily could have been going to a more remote, industrial Chinese city instead. We have dodged yet another bullet and we are going to another beautiful, exciting and relatively easy to acclimate to city. Yippppppeeeee! The super-lucky Whitneys strike again.

Au Revoire Aft Cabin:

2011-01-23T23:52:00.000-08:00

My father and stepmother are in the process of getting divorced. It's a hard time for all of us. This past Friday, they sold our family home in Sagaponack, NY (a little village in the middle of the "Hamptons"). They built it 23 years ago. I remember walking the empty field that would become that property and imagining all the possibilities for what it would someday be.

It became an enclave for our family. A safe haven. A little bit of something to call our own. My little bother learned to walk on the grass there and learned to swim in the pool. My stepmother tended to a vast rose garden in the south-eastern corner of the lot. My father cooked giant steaks on the grill. I hosted my classmates for an after-prom party when I was seventeen. I had countless friends from college there to go to the beach, swim in the pool and BBQ on the lawn. And perhaps, most importantly, my husband and I were married there four years ago.

It was a shingled beach house with an out building that we called the "Carriage House." The lot was flag-shaped and immensely private. It was lined with giant privet hedges and when you sat on the long front porch that was the dominant feature of the house, you could feel perfectly alone with your thoughts, isolated from the madness of the Hamptons. You could hear the waves in the distance. My most favorite time of the day was sunset, with a glass of Chardonnay-- the goblet frosty with perspiration; the warmth of the sun, giving way to the crispness of evening. It was that very feeling that I wanted to recapture and share with all my friends and family when Stefan and I decided to have our wedding on the front lawn.

The sadness I feel at knowing the house is gone is only eased by knowing that there was no room left for good memories there. When my parents' marriage began to unravel, it became a dark place. Not just because they were angry and disappointed, but also because the money had run out and the house began to show signs of neglect. It was like watching a beautiful woman age rapidly right in front of your eyes. The shingles started to fall from the roof, the fences began to wilt and crumble. You could hear the echoes of happier times-- see children running around on the lawn, adults skinny-dipping in the pool late at night under the cast of the moon. These were ghosts though and inside the house was a groaning sound-- a longing, a deep, unsettling absence of these very moments.

I guess I had hoped my own children would become part of this house's memories, but by the time they both arrived, there was no hope left. It was already too late and that oddly makes saying goodbye easier, but no less final.

It's gone and I think the new owners are going to level it and build something bigger and more glamorous. They will have their own stories and their own memories and they will be layered over ours. I guess this must happen a lot, particularly in America where everyone wants something of their own-- something new and untarnished and without history. I vow right now, to never "level" a house. I never want to wash away the very things that make a place special. Maybe I am just angry, but I think it's a terrible waste.

And so Life Begins...

2011-01-11T22:36:00.000-08:00

We are really here now. We aren't waiting for anything else to come to make it official. We have a car. We have our things. All of our holiday guests have gone... really, this time. Now, it's us in Brussels and our daily life has begun to take shape. I feel like things are coming together in a natural and pretty livable way.

I started French class yesterday, which was great, if only because I now feel like I am taking some real responsibility for learning to communicate here. I miss the daily exchanges that make life as a stay at home mother tolerable. I have the perfect set-up: an incredible butcher, patisserie, bookshop and coffee-shop all within three blocks. These are the unsuspecting people who would otherwise become my easiest contact with the outside world, but alas, I can't talk to them in anything other than well-rehearsed grunts and sign language. I promised my butcher that I would speak to him in nothing but French by March, so here's to hoping that Madame Tuchsznajder can make that happen.

This week also brings the start of two baby/toddler classes. We would have started Music Together this Friday, but our teacher apparently suffered the loss of a family member and has put it off until next Friday. However, we do start the Belgian version-- Bebe Maestro-- as a family, on Saturday evening. I am looking forward to suffering through the embarrassment of singing and dancing with my co-parent by my side. This class is entirely in French and I am hoping it will help both Adela and I get a little more comfortable with hearing the language spoken in a context we can both relate to (Addy will be going to a French preschool in the fall and I hope to go to work in the local economy at the same time).

I joined an incredible Health Club, Royal La Rasante, shortly after we arrived here and it is proving to be my saving grace on so many levels. I've begun calling it my "Personal Urban Wellness Retreat," which is actually not hyperbole because in addition to the fitness facilities, it also has a full-service creche (the french word for "daycare"), a beautiful holistic day spa, tons of yoga and fitness classes, tennis courts, pools, a restaurant (with booze!), a steam room, sauna and best of all, two "relaxation rooms" (which in my case are actually "nap" rooms). I can go there, drop off the girls and hit the gym, have lunch, get my eyebrows waxed and then take a shower, steam and nap. It's heaven... truly.

Perhaps the best part of life here is the Parc de Woluwe. It is two blocks from our house and it's so dog friendly, I can't believe it. I feel like it's a little taste of nature in an otherwise very concrete jungle. The dogs can run off-leash and Adela can walk, at her own pace, through the park's many trails and closed roadways. I find it's the perfect place to reflect on my new life. It also reminds me a lot of Brookdale Park, which we left behind in Montclair, NJ. So, it also has a transcendent effect on me-- it takes me home, if only for a few moments.

A nice day in Brussels is one when it doesn't rain. The sun shines maybe once a week, so getting outside when it's not raining is essential. Here are some pictures of this morning's walk through the park:

A woodland seat, carved from a stump:

Addy, enjoying her favorite "Lait" flavored lollipop on a bench carved from a fallen tree:

Taking her time, meandering through the woods:

My sweet girl and lately, my absolute best companion and partner in crime:

All in all, with the rhythm of our lives taking shape, I feel back in control of my proverbial helm. I see the next two years as a time of great discovery and growth. We have gotten the bid-list for our next post already, and even though we've only been here for little over a month, I already feel a tug at my heartstrings when I remember that this is a finite experience and Brussels will only be mine for a short time. I want to enjoy every minute of my time here and I hope I can keep the lonesomeness at bay, so it doesn't define the entire experience. Here's to hoping I make some friends... SOON!

Our House in Pictures:

2011-01-07T01:38:00.000-08:00

So, this post is dedicated to:

Our friends and family who are interested in seeing where and how we live.
New Foreign Service families who have yet to go to post and are curious about what an FS house might look like.
Foreign Service hopefuls who want to know what an FS house might look like.

Of course, I recognize that there is a great deal of variability and I make no claim that our house is standard State Department housing. I really have no idea how it compares to housing outside of Brussels, but from what I have seen, it's pretty standard for here and for a family of our size and rank. It is a clean, spacious house and we love it. It's so much nicer than anything we've lived in before and has everything we need, including an additional refrigerator to compensate for the miniature European one in our kitchen. I'd say if I had any complaints at all, it would be the size of the appliances, but I am managing just fine and feel very lucky to have such a nice place to call home for the next two years:

The Living Room:

The Dining Room (table is set without the two leaves that make it banquet-worthy... it's enormous!):

The Kitchen:

The Reading "Nook" (just off the kitchen, so I don't have to cook alone):

The "Fun" Room:

Adela's Bedroom:

Flora's Bedroom:

Guest Bedroom:

Our Bedroom:

The Big, Belated Holiday Update:

2011-01-02T09:43:00.000-08:00

So, our stuff arrived pre-Christmas as hoped. Unfortunately, it came sans Christmas ornaments, which admittedly made me very sad at first. But, not for long because I am learning to count my blessings. Our stuff came and the only thing that didn't come were the bits and baubles we needed to make our home Christmas-y. But everything that did come made our house "home," which is vastly more important. Now, as I sit here on my huge, luscious, cushy couch and I look at my cookbooks and candlesticks and artwork and I know that when I go to cook dinner, everything I need will be there, I feel... elated. Now, we LIVE in Brussels and so many of the things that seemed daunting and miserable three weeks ago now seem exciting and accessible.

Life is good.

But, I would be lying if I didn't say that while the last two weeks have been incredible and heart-warming in ways unimaginable, they have also been really, really hard.

A list:

Dec. 22, 2010: Our shipment of household goods arrive! My husband's cousin and aunt from Germany arrive too.

Dec. 23, 2010: Unpacking continues. My mother and father-in-law arrive too.

Dec. 24, 2010: Christmas Eve. Unpacking continues. Christmas Eve is celebrated (both in Europe and at the senior Whitney household, Christmas Eve is the "high" holiday). We ate homemade Sauerbraten, Braised Red Cabbage, Potato Dumplings and for dessert, homemade "German" Christmas cookies. At night, after the children went to sleep, we built a miniature IKEA kitchen, a toddler-sized table and chairs and wrapped some miscellaneous kitchen accoutrement. Most of our gifts didn't arrive in time for Christmas, due mostly to poor planning and really, really bad weather).

Dec. 25, 2010: Unpacking continues. Christmas morning is celebrated and my brother and stepmother arrive. We all (10 of us) head out to the largest Christmas market in Brussels at St. Catherine's Place. We drank Gluwhein while Addy rode the awesomest Carousel ever. Then we slogged through the slush and snow to get home. I made truffle totoloni, followed by Leg of lamb with mint sauce, pureed Parsnip and Roasted Purple Potatoes. We bought two heavenly Buche de Noel from our local (Japanese) Patisserie. Next year, I vow to make them myself, but this year, corners HAD to be cut.

Dec. 26, 2010: Christmas is over but the entertaining continues.

Dec. 27, 2010: My brother and I decide to make good on an earlier conversation to go to Amsterdam together. He's 19 to my 33 and in his first year of college. I decided. given my constant proximity to the Netherlands (2.5 hours by train), that I would defer to his agenda. You can imagine what that included. Here's the thing: we snuck out of the house in the wee hours, before the babies were up and came home long after they'd gone to bed. Therefore, I didn't really care what we did. It was so nice to feel light and free and without responsibility, if only for a 15 hour day. No, we didn't see the Van Gogh museum and we didn't see Anne Frank's Huis. The Rembrandt Museum was closed. But instead of those more culturally demanding activities, we walked all around town together chatting and bonding, with snowflakes falling on our heads and shoulders, taking in its charm and beauty-- the canals, the architecture, the incredible design shops! Then we ate Chinese food (I know- huh? I had a craving, what can I say?) We finished the day by walking some more and eating a local favorite-- Dutch Pancakes.

It was a good day. And a blessing to get to spend that amount of uninterrupted time with my brother, during a period when we both need to be reminded of the importance of having one another. Though so many years separate us, our experience is much the same and there is no substitute for a sibling. I love my little brother very much and I am sorry that his life is hard.

I could keep going with the list, but you get the point. It's been a very busy time-- lots of guests, lots of activity and very little time for quiet reflection. So when New Year's Eve rolled around and we hadn't any plans, I had no problem whipping up a a quiche and a salad and drinking wine instead of Champagne with my husband and stepmother. It was quiet, but lovely.

As 2011 unrolls, I feel I have a lot to be thankful for, but I also feel I have a lot of work to do on myself. I suppose there will always be that-- a list of things you want to change and/or improve. But for me, this year, that list seems particularly long and I think it's because this lifestyle really highlights some of my biggest shortcomings. I am disorganized and bad at keeping in touch with the people I love when they are far away. To those of you who might be reading this and have been the victim of my terrible correspondence, I want to apologize and acknowledge that I will do better. That's my resolution. Well, one of them.

Most of the boxes are unpacked and the house is coming together. As soon as I get the final pieces put away, I will photograph the entire house and post the pictures. When we were contemplating the Foreign Service, I searched every blog I could for pictures of the housing and now that I have my own Foreign Service housing, I want to share. Stay tuned for that.

The Tale of the Mysterious Cameroonian Housekeeper:

2010-12-20T10:43:00.000-08:00

(WARNING: very long post. no pictures. read at your own risk.)

It's no secret that I have been a little overwhelmed with my responsibilities here and as such, I made it a top priority to find some domestic help STAT. I set about looking for the world's perfect domestic helper, one who excelled at both housecleaning and childcare and who could speak both French and English fluently. I secretly hoped she might also be very likable and could double as "my friend," but that's another story entirely.

Knowing little about how such people are located here, I went to our trusty "xpats.com," which is a kind of craigslist for expatriates living in Brussels. It's an amazing resource and I found many ads for women (and men) looking for just the kind of job I was offering. I quickly set about emailing all of them (literally), hoping to found one I liked. I got a few responses, not as many as I'd hoped, but a few was enough to find "Anny."

Anny and I corresponded over several emails. I learned that she was young, 26, and she was originally from Cameroon. She had loads of experience "child-minding" and cleaning and she also "loved to iron" (huh? really? okay.) Her written English was superb. It was very, very formal, yet instilled a sense of total calm. I felt her words formed a warm embrace around me and said, "I will save you. I will make your life livable. I will coddle your children, iron your bed-linens, cook along side you and sing haunting, west African lullabies all the while." She seemed perfect.

We set a date to meet: 6:30PM last Monday evening. I was so excited. I had found the solution to all my problems: out of control children, disaster of a house, wrinkled duvet covers, lonesomeness. I spent all of Monday preparing the house (weird, I know) and setting the stage. I wanted to say, "We need you, Anny, but we're not totally out of control." I lit candles. I dressed the children. I coached Stefan. Then, we waited. And waited. 6:30 came and went. 7:00 came and went. I scratched my head and defended her to Stef, "Perhaps, she's gotten lost. She's never been here before after all." Right. 7:15 arrived and I decided to call her, "Anny? It's Devon. Just wondering... are you still planning to come... I hope?" Her creamy, smooth French/African voice sang, "Yes, Devon. I am just getting off the bus. Should be there momentarily."

She arrived at 7:45. It was admittedly sort of ridiculous to be over an hour late to a job interview, but it's ridiculousness sort of made it all right. I was also very desperate. The interview went well. She had a strong maternal presence despite having had no children of her own. She had gentle eyes and a soft voice. She was confident in her interactions with the girls. She answered our questions thoughtfully, if not a little bashfully. She was willing and eager to do all the things we asked and ready to start immediately. Phew. Fabulous. We left it that she would start on Wednesday, as long as her references came in and were up to snuff. They were. Well, it was.

I sent emails to the three references she gave me and I got one back in response. It was glowing and included passages such as this:

"With regard to the quality of her work, one word summarises her output- superb! She tended to the general cleaning and tidying up of the house and that she did remarkably well! With respect to childcare, she cared for our kids as she would her own-- with sheer kindness and affection. The kids simply loved her, and would mimic and sing the new songs she taught them."

And also:

"Besides, she was punctual, and incidents of timing or lateness were very uncommon."

To summarize, these people, for whom she worked for two years, thought she was the second coming. They adored her and had nothing but extraordinarily good things to say about her. Additionally, the woman mentioned timeliness, which had obviously already become a concern, so I felt like this was as good as I was going to do with absolutely nothing to go on. She seemed great. She said all the right things. She seemed like a good fit. And most importantly, Adela seemed to like her immediately. So, I wrote an email and said, as I had mentioned at our first meeting, that I would like her to start on Wednesday morning, at 9AM.

Tuesday night, before I went to bed, I checked my email for a final time and she hadn't written back. Then on Wednesday morning, I hadn't heard from her still, so I called her and asked her if she intended to come. She claimed had only just seen my email, but would love to come work for us and she would head right over. She would be here at 11AM.

At noon, she came and she made no apologies. Okay. No problem. She hadn't expected to come, but she made it. And she got right to work and began cleaning. And she cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. I was very ill. We were all quite ill, but she cleaned around us... for 8 hours. Much longer than I had asked her to and much longer than anyone would have expected her to. So sick was I that I just kind of let it happen and enjoyed the sounds of the vacuum and mop downstairs. Finally, Stefan suggested that she leave and go home. She had done enough for the day and could finish on Friday when she came. She left us with a mammoth list of supplies that she needed to "do a proper job," and left. We agreed she would come back on Friday and that I would email her the time.

The next day, I wrote to her asking her to come at 1PM and thanking her for her hard work the day before. She wrote back and said she would come at 1PM and thanked me for thanking her.

Friday at 1PM came and she didn't show. I waited. And I waited. And I waited. By 3PM, I started to worry about her. The weather was bad. It was icy and snowy and Anny, well, Anny is a very large young woman, so I was imagining that she'd taken a bad fall along the way or some other horrible scenario. After all, it would have to be very bad for her not to even call me from her cell phone to explain her absence. I had long since forgotten all the things I needed her to do and was more worried about her well being.

At 3:30PM, I got a message. It read,

"Dear Devon, I'm deeply sorry I couldn't make it today as earlier agreed, due to my failing health. Worse still, I couldn't send you a mail notifying you about my impending absence (lack of internet connection). I've been bed-ridden the earlier part of the day. Hoping to regain health and vitality back quick enough. Please, accept my most profound apologies for every inconvenience inflicted upon you and your family as a result of my poor health. I'm awfully sorry. Whilst counting on your kind consideration, Regards Anny"

Hmph.

Now, I ask you, friends and followers, what would you have done? Every instinct I had told me to cut and run… immediately. In this day and age of instant communication, there’s really no excuse for the old “no show, no call,” and in any formal workplace, there would have been nary a second thought. But there is this nagging part of me that still isn’t sure that my immediate dismissal of poor Anny wasn’t just a bit too harsh. Of course, we probably gave her the illness that kept her from coming to work. And I have no idea what her circumstances are at home. So, I feel a little bad and a little sad about the whole thing. Mostly, I just think it’s all a bit weird and when it comes to choosing the people who will help care for your children, weird is something that we all try to avoid at all costs. So, I explained that I need someone I can count on unconditionally and that her not calling to let me know was simply unacceptable and the end of this very long tale is that Anny’s gone and my house is still a mess, my children are still overwhelming and I am still a little lonely... but, just a little. Life has improved immensely. More on that tomorrow.

My Dramatic Turn-around:

2010-12-12T22:29:00.000-08:00

Admittedly, my last post was pretty bleak. Perhaps even more so than I intended. When we got here and Stef immediately went to work before we'd had a chance to iron out the kinks in this life, I felt bewildered (I still do to a large extent). Taking care of two babies, 2 and 9 months respectively, along with two dogs and a four bedroom house all alone is very, very difficult. Add to that the unfamiliar city, the lack of being able to communicate with the locals and having NO ONE to talk to or lean on, was a recipe for disaster. I fell apart. I am a little ashamed of myself. I am feeling a lot more normal now. Here's why:

This weekend, we walked all over our neighborhood and beyond. I made some incredible discoveries. In addition to our gigantic park, where dogs and children are encouraged to run free (pictured below after a recent snow storm), there's a huge gourmet market called Rob within a reasonable walking distance.

We also found a fancy European Mall and a cultural center, as well as a nifty, little place called "Cook and Book," which is a combination book store, art gallery, restaurant and library kind of place. Crazy cool, right?

We also went to three, yes three, embassy Christmas parties. All of which yielded a few, like-minded trailing spouses. On Friday, we went to the Embassy Children's Christmas party for a failed visit with Santa. Then on Saturday, we went to a reception at the Deputy Chief of Mission's gorgeous home. And finally, last night, we had chili and fritos with some of our contemporaries at the embassy (one of whom took me to Cora, Brussels' answer to Target, where I bought an incredible Bosch vaccum cleaner that may have played the biggest part in my attitude adjustment).

Here's Addy on the stairs at the embassy, post-Christmas Party:

And of course, a holiday weekend in Brussels wouldn't be complete without a stop at one of the city's many, many Christmas markets (pictured here):

And just so you know that I am really quite a bit happier and better adjusted, here's a picture of Stefan and me on one of our many walks around town:

Week One:

2010-12-07T05:25:00.000-08:00

It's been one week since we arrived in Belgium and so much has happened, it's hard to know where to begin. First of all, I know that pictures are in order and I promise, I am working on that. I promise.

In the meantime, I have to purge some of this weight that is building. Everyday that passes here, I feel heavier with new information and more overwhelmed by the scope of my changing perspective. What I have discovered is that while I absolutely love Brussels and I absolutely love our house and our neighborhood, this type of transition is very, very hard. The challenges are so many that it's difficult to even pinpoint each of them in a way that makes it possible to resolve it.

Of course, there are the obvious challenges. Our household goods haven't arrived and the "welcome kit" is laughable. Yes, there are sheets, but they are hard and coarse. Yes, there are plates and bowls and drinking cups, but there are only four of each, so they have to be washed immediately after each use and forget about adding a fifth to your dinner table. The same is true of the towels. When someone did the blog round-up with the theme, "What I wish I packed in my UAB," I had nothing to contribute, but boy do I now! I think I would have packed: one small piece of artwork to hang in our home, perhaps a few extra drinking glasses, definitely some wine glasses and some sheets of our own. A sampling of home. A few things that make me feel like I am home, because for now, I am in this weird in-between home with naked walls and cold, uncovered floors. My children are so sick and tired of the same toys they've been playing with for the last month, they look at them with nothing short of contempt.

I have my issues with the inside of my new home, which I really believe will all be resolved when that shipment arrives. I know I am very, very, very lucky because I think we might get it before Christmas, making it a 6 week process. There are many other families in the Foreign Service who aen't so lucky and to them I strongly suggest bringing some "pieces of home" either in the luggage you carry or in the UAB that will arrive sooner. But then there are issues outside of the house that are arguably even more challenging. One, I was told by so many people that I shouldn't worry too much about learning French before getting here because, "everyone speaks English." While that might be true in the professional environment, it doesn't seem to be true of the people with whom I do most of my interacting. The sales clerks, our neighbors, the people I pass on the street while walking the dogs, none of them seem to speak english, which makes my days long and very lonesome. I can't wait to start French class in January (of course, this will only help with half of the city's population because the other half proudly speaks Dutch.)

I would be lying if I didn't mention the toll this has all taken on my marriage. I am finding that we are on separate fronts this last week, both fighting our own, separate battles each day, but occasionally taking a moment to fire at eachother. I was once told by someone who grew up in the FS, that Foreign Service marriages either thrive or explode into a million sad little peices. I am always thinking about this statement. I find myself, for better or worse, viewing the marriages around us under the same lens. Will THEY thrive or explode? Will WE thrive or explode? Will all this travel and transition make us stronger or drive us apart, resentment having built past the point of no return? I don't care how you spin it, this life comes down to a few simple facts. With all the excitement and diversity of experience, comes the reality that all members of a FS family give up their freedom to choose the physical path their lives will take. The Officer gives up his/her freedom in exchange for the career of his/her choice. The rest of the family gives it up for both the unconditional love of the Officer and for the security and lifestyle the job affords. Inevitably, there is some resentment.

When Stefan walks out the door each morning here in Brussels, he goes to a place where everyone speaks English. He is surrounded by interesting information and all the resources he needs to be a success (at least in his job). He also had language training, so he speaks French, if not perfectly, well enough to do absolutely everything he needs to do a daily basis, including talk to people who both inspire and interest him. On the other hand, I am left behind, trying to raise two small children in a home without carpets, in a city where nothing is familiar or easily attainable; where I can't even order a cup of coffee without being overrun by self-doubt. I know it probably seems trivial to lament these things when you consider all the beauty and intrigue this city and its location have to offer, but it's still very hard and it's hard not to lash out at the person closest to you when you're feeling this utterly fragile.

I promise tomorrow will be lighter and I will post little words and many pictures of our house, our neighborhood and all the things I see day to day.

P.S. I apologize for what I am sure are many misspellings in this post. I can't seem to change the language on Blogger from Dutch to English! Once again, foiled by my lack of understanding of the local languages!

Bon Jour Bruxelles!

2010-11-30T22:23:00.001-08:00

We made it. It wasn't easy, but we did it. And somehow, against all odds, it's 7AM and the kids and dogs are still sleeping. Stefan is in the shower, getting ready for work and it's almost like nothing has changed. Almost...

Arriving at JFK on Monday afternoon, we had 11 bags, two dogs, two babies, two giant dog crates, a double-wide stroller, three adoring grandparents and a lot of nerves. We arrived with what we thought was a comfortable 3 hours early for our flight, but by the time we'd checked the dogs and our bags in, said goodbye to the grandparents, made our way through security and had a beer in the "lounge" (Stefan accumulated "platinum status" thanks to his previous job), the plane was boarding. In true Whitney-fashion, we still had to run for the plane and were the last to board.

The flight itself was brutal, but could have been much worse. It could have easily been twice as long, so I am counting my lucky stars. After about 2 hours of excited babbling, Flora fell asleep and stayed so until we landed. Adela on the other hand, slept nary a wink and vomited all over herself and her car seat about an hour before we landed, forcing us and the flight crew to scramble to find cleaning supplies and something to supress the characteristic odor. I had a lovely French-speaking gentleman tap me on the shoulder in the midst of her embarrassed sobbing to alert me that "it is quite unusual for a child to cry so much, no?" I wanted to jump over the seat and throttle his tidy, European neck.

There was very little turbulence and that was a blessed good thing because every time the plane so much as leaned too much in one direction or another, I found my heart in my stomach thinking of our nervous, four-legged family members down below. When we forced Otis into his crate at the airport, he was terrified-- panting and looking wild-eyed and vulnerable. Rudi seemed perfectly at ease, but had the fear of his previous life to contend with. It was with much reluctance that we said goodbye after security at JFK. Thinking of them in the belly of the plane throughout the 8-hour flight was arguably worse than cleaning the toddler-vomit from the crevices in Addy's car seat.

All the anxiety was for naught because despite a very long wait upon arrival in Brussels, Otis and Rudi seemed less nervous than when we'd left them. They were happy to see us, happy to get out of their kennels and as relieved as we were . They were perfectly fine and still are, 24 hours later. I have no regrets at all about bringing them with us. Stefan and I are still most amused that our dogs are now in Belgium. How funny.

We were picked up by one of Stef's colleagues, who was lovely and informative, but who laughed when were told her we expected our cable and internet to be set up at our house when we got there and that we expected to receive our household effects in time for Christmas. Despite her considerable skepticism, I remain hopeful.

Our house is lovely-- spacious and clean and everything we hoped it would be. Our neighborhood is sleepy, but charming. There's a small square two blocks away with a large grocery store, a butcher, a bakery, a small gourmet shop, a dry cleaner, a gas station, and a book store. We have several playgrounds, or pleins du jeux, within walking distance as well.

All things considered, we are very happy to be here and very happy with our home. I look forward to venturing out today with the girls and the dogs to see what else the commune of Woluwe St. Pierre has to offer.

And for those we are interested, the State Department furniture is just as bad as we'd feared. So, I am glad I insisted on bringing as much stuff as we did. It's going to take an awful lot of decorative savvy to overcome the "scrolly knobs" and stylized upholstery.

The Final Days...

2010-11-24T12:15:00.000-08:00

Wow. It's been a really wild few days... er, weeks. We've been ticking off one item at a time from our "to-do" list, the vast majority of which seems to somehow involve the dogs. I have been at some type of veterinary establishment for each of the last three days, compiling Otis and Rudi's medical records and mounting proof that they are indeed Rabies free and fit for travel. Today's trip to the USDA in Annapolis was (hopefully) the final step. The tricky part of transporting dogs is that none of the paperwork is valid unless it's done within 10 days of travel, so no matter how organized and proactive you are, there's no way to really prepare ahead of time, with the considerable exception of knowing exactly what you have to do beforehand.

So, all of our stuff has been shipped and by all accounts is on a freighter somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. Our car was picked up today and will be loaded onto another ship on Friday. Our newly purchased luggage has arrived and is sitting, across the living room, staring at me, wondering when I am going to fill it up (gosh, I hope all that remains will fit!!!) It seems like everything is in order. There are still a few items on that "to-do" list, but nothing insurmountable-- just little things like buying a weather guard for our double BoB stroller and doing a couple of loads of laundry.

In five days, Stefan, Adela, Flora, Otis, Rudi and I will board a plane, bound for Brussels, Belgium. It is a fact that I have no way of processing in advance. I feel sudden moments of electrifying excitement. I feel utterly exhilarated by all the unknowns. I can't wait to see our house. I can't wait to take my first walk around our neighborhood. I dream of the local restaurant that will soon become "ours" on the nights I don't feel up to cooking. I can't wait to ingratiate myself to the local butcher, baker and candlestick maker! I want to make the most of every minute that we live in Brussels because if the last 7 months is any indication, time is going to go by terrifyingly fast.

I do feel very blessed that our first post is one in Western Europe. While it might have been nice to be in a more affordable place, where babysitters and household help would be within our reach, I think the undeniable comfort of Europe and the excitement surrounding it is just what we need right now as a family. We've had a tough few years. My mother is very ill, as I've recently described. My father is arguably more ill, as he is a terrible alcoholic who seems to have reached rock bottom in the last year (let's hope) and has done everything in his power to bring the rest of us down with him. Subsequently, he and my stepmother are splitting up and that is proving to be as ugly and painful as it was the first time around for me. In addition, Stefan's mother suffers from Alzheimer's, the most tragic disease of all and one that requires all of his father's attention and patience.

All of this has happened as we have been building our own family, trying to become whole and grown-up. With every joy we've experienced in the last two years, it seems some hidden challenge jumps out from a closet to threaten that happiness. It has been said that God gives you just as much as you can handle. While I am not entirely sure about the "god" part, I do feel as though the universe posted us to just the right place, a place where we can be comfy, cozy and free to focus on being our best selves. I look forward to that, more than anything.

And on that note, here are two recent pictures of our girls. Addy is talking-- stringing together sentence after sentence. Flora is crawling and knows the meaning of "mama" and "dada." Her little mouth is rapidly filling with super sharp teeth and she's growing up way too fast for my taste.

Adela, 2 years:

Flora, 8 months:

The House of a Thousand Couches/Packout Part Deux

2010-11-10T12:44:00.001-08:00

Ooooops, guess I misunderstood the housing manual. I thought it said that we had one opportunity to tell them which furniture we didn't want. I was wrong. That opportunity is rare and well, they are going to provide full sets of living room, dining room, family room and bedroom furniture. Unfortunately, I packed TWO sectional couches, one a monstrous three piece and the other, a small two piece I intended to use in the playroom. I was thinking that I didn't want to sit on an uncomfortable, government-issued couch for two years and we had plenty of room in our shipment. As it turns out, they are currently unwilling to even consider the possibility of removing the two full-size sofas, love seat and two easy chairs from our furniture inventory (there's currently no furniture in the house because it's a newly acquired property). On the plus side, we will have plenty of seating should we choose to throw any massive house parties. On the other hand, we're going to be walking across couches to get to and from the kitchen and bathrooms. Oye. I am such an amateur.

So, yeah, the pack-out was yesterday and I think the biggest snafu was the one I just described. I stupidly assumed that they would actually be pleased if we told them not to move in the couches. I don't know. Bureaucracy is so unpredictable and often, irrational. I really hope they take pity on us when they see the embarrassment of couches at our house.

We also cut it impossibly close with our weight limit. I think we just made it with 4 lbs. to spare. We brought A LOT of stuff and here's why: when we did our initial pack-out in NJ, I was still recovering from childbirth and Flora (henceforth called "FiFi," because that's what we call her at home) was only 8 weeks old. Addy was at her most irrational and it seemed impossible to spend the necessary time organizing our things. So, we have no idea where things ended up and those tattooed packers did NOT inspire confidence. We thought by bringing just about everything, we'd be able to do a better job next time. That said, there's not much room to expand, so we're hoping to purge quite a bit of stuff while in Europe.

All in all, It's really nice to have that part over with. The Oakwood apartment is no longer cluttered and feels like it could be any one's. There's nothing "Whitney" about it. Just a wash of beige and dark maple.

2 1/2 weeks and we'll be in Brussels. The waiting is quickly coming to an end. I am carrying the weight of a thousand and one emotions. Sad to be leaving my family and friends, but elated by the possibilities and opportunities for reinvention. It's a wonderful, challenging, overwhelming journey and we are just at the beginning.

The Incredible Flying Labradudes

2010-11-04T08:42:00.000-07:00

I have come to realize that when it comes to dogs in the foreign service, there are two schools of thought. There are those who have the "my dogs go where I go" attitude and then there's the "this is not a good life for a dog" folks. Unfortunately, I've noticed, that many people who have the former attitude are new to the FS, while those who think dogs are best left stateside are seasoned officers. This is a total generalization. In fact, we have a friendly neighbor, a 25-year veteran of the service, who dotes on his petite female Lab with as much dedication as any landlubber would. But in fairness, he seems to be an exception.

As anyone who has kept up with my blog knows, we have two, large Labrador Retrievers. Otis, the elder statesman of the two, celebrated his 12th year over the weekend. Retrievers have an unfortunate average lifespan of 10-12 years. But this an average, which takes into account all the fluky passings of much younger dogs from heart attacks, strokes, and defects of other varieties. This reminds me of our recently departed friend, Mac, who was taken last month by a large tumor on his heart. He was only 9 and his death was unfair. It was also exceptional. MOST retrievers live well into the double digits, as Otis father proved by living to an energetic 16 years!

Now to the heart of the matter: We are flying to Brussels in less than 4 weeks and we have, just today, begun to get very serious about preparing our pooches for the flight. It has me thinking a lot about the impact this is going to have on my old pal. If you has asked me even three years ago if I would be willing to put him in a crate and fly him for 9 hours, I would have said, "absolutely not. We'll drive... or take a boat... or anything other than that!" But, now, our very livelihood depends on flying to foreign countries and Brussels is a very canine friendly place. There isn't really a choice... except that I could leave the old guy with my mother, which is completely uncharacteristic of me. I have never gone anywhere without him.

But, I am definitely agonizing over this. I am definitely imagining all the worst case scenarios. He's very sensitive and easily agitated and he's utterly co-dependent, so no matter how you slice it, the flight itself is going to be torture for him. The real question is: after the flight is over, will he be okay and back to his old self? Will he suffer any long-term emotional damage? (You're probably wondering why I am not worried about Rudi. He's a rescue dog and has been through far worse. He's also kind of a silly bone-head. I have total confidence he'll come out the baggage hold wagging his tail, with the same goofy look on his face. He's also 6.) Ugh. I have said it before and I am going to say it again, having the dogs is the toughest part of all of this and it was the biggest obstacle to my agreeing to do it. Now, here we are and I really hope it's all just going to be okay...

Shameless Self-Promotion and Holy Shi@, it's time to Pack!

2010-11-02T08:17:00.000-07:00

Well, I am proud to report that I am keeping up a Halloween tradition started by my mother when I was a child. It's the one where the mother works tirelessly to construct a handmade costume for a child who will have no idea the amount of work that went into it until she has children of her own. It's taken 33 years, but now I understand the blood, sweat and tears that my mother put into all the amazing costumes she made for me as a child. I also understand the extreme pride she must have felt as I walked around in those costumes. I was so proud of Adela and of course, myself, when she wore this Madame Butterfly costume around the halls of the Oakwood, collecting candy of all varieties (much to her shock and amazement):

Holidays are so much more fun when you have children to celebrate with. Seeing Adela's uninhibited joy was as powerful as anything I have ever experienced. Christmas is going to be SO FUN!

In unrelated news, we have officially scheduled our pack-out. We decided to do it earlier than we had originally thought because we want our things to arrive in time for the big family Christmas we have planned in Belgium and because without all the stuff that has completely taken over our Oakwood apartment, it will be easy to move to another unit that isn't quite so surrounded by construction noise. Seriously, I know there are many who are suffering at the hands of this renovation, but we are one apartment literally surrounded by apartments (above and to each side) that are under construction. I feel like I am living an episode of "Candid Camera." Just when I think it couldn't get any more ridiculous, I hear a drill coming straight for my head from the ceiling above my bed. At this point, all I can do is laugh-- it's just too unbelievable that they would leave us in such a state...

So, our HHE is going to get packed out from the Oakwood in a week and I am nowhere near ready. It's time to get down to business. I want to mention that we have a surplus of baby toys and clothes that we will probably toss into the garbage if no one else wants them. Is there anyone out there reading this who would like some high-fashion infant clothes and toys that suit the 0-12 month set? If so, please let me know and I will get them to you!

I swear I am going to a better job at organizing this packout than I did for the last one. I mean, my father-in-law made the joke that the movers might have packed "dirty pampers" the last time, and now, seven months later, I am not entirely sure that our stuff is going to arrive in Brussels without the distinctive smell of a 8-month old, soiled diaper. It was that bad...

As I have mentioned in the past, this kind of organization and preparation is not my strong suit, so wish me luck as I enter into this next phase of transition.

P.S. After rereading this post, I have to clarify that we would never simply throw perfectly good clothes and toys into the GARBAGE! We will, of course, donate them all if no friends or family are interested.

HOME SWEET/SOUR HOME!!!!

2010-10-26T10:56:00.000-07:00

There's good and bad in this post. I am going to start with the bad.

I hate the Oakwood. There, I said it. I know I am supposed to grateful and, um, diplomatic as per my husband's request, but I can't keep it in anymore. I have been grateful and diplomatic for almost 7 months and what have I gotten in return? I have been ignored, mistreated and then ignored some more. So, Oakwood, there you have it, I HATE you!

I hate you for your lack of charm. I hate you for your abysmal customer service standards. I hate you for the fact that you happen to be completely under-construction and my children haven't napped on a weekday for the last three weeks. I hate you for never so much as offering an apology for aforementioned construction. I hate you for all the calls I've made and gotten no response. I hate you for dangling the carrot of moving us to a renovated unit without construction noise and then never getting back to me give me further information one way or another. I hate you for leaving me, a chef, with a broken electric range. I hate you for choosing DISH network as a cable provider because it loses its signal at every climax. I hate you for making me use a code every time I log on to the internet and for letting me load an entire jumbo size dryer full of wet baby clothes and not telling me that IT'S OUT OF SERVICE! Ugh. I could go on, but I won't. Oh, there is one other thing: the goddamned vegetable peeler! Come on.

The good news: I have just over a month of suffering to go and then we are off to our new HOUSE in Woluwe-Saint-Pierre, a beautiful French-speaking commune in the heart of Brussels. Yes, the wait is over. The housing folks finally located a beautiful, little house for us and we couldn't be happier. There's a lesson here for new Foreign Service folks: if at first, your housing option makes you want to kill yourself, ask for another option. Chances are they will try to make you happy. In our case, they found what amounts to a perfect situation for us. It has four bedrooms so we all have our own room, plus a room for guests, which I anticipate needing frequently (hint, hint, nudge, nudge). There's a garden for us all to play in (girls), garden in (me), and lay about in (furry ones). There's a garage for our car, a nicely-appointed kitchen, and a separate playroom for all the toys and kid-related clutter. It's a dream, really. I am so happy and grateful to be leaving this hell-hole and going to a place that feels like a home!

Occupation: Mother?

2010-10-14T11:15:00.000-07:00

I love my kids. I love being a mother. There has never been anything more fulfilling. I have a sense of purpose, really, for the first time in my life.

But I have a hang up. When I fill out paperwork that requires me to list my occupation, I always dutifully write: Mother. And there's no better occupation. I am proud and incredibly grateful that I am currently a full-time, stay-at-home mommy. But, there's the lingering reality that in the not too distant future, my girls are going to go off to school and will only need my physical presence before 8AM and after 3PM. I don't want to lose sight of this reality because if I don't stay focused on who I am independently of them, I could end up bored and even more purposeless than I was before I had these children of mine. Of course, me being me, I spend the time that I should be singularly focused on child-rearing, worrying about what I am going to do to fill my time when I am no longer child-rearing. Such is the plight of the neurotic.

I have cooked up an idea (pun intended) that I hope will serve to fill in the gaps while we are pursuing Stef's dream career. I am, by training, a chef. I graduated from the California Culinary Academy in 2003 and have worked on and off as a chef for the last 7 years, the most significant "job" being the one where I ran a catering business in San Francisco. I know many would dispute the "cheffiness" of this job. I wasn't running a robust, professional restaurant kitchen. I was running a ramshackle business out of my own kitchen-- cooking for anywhere from 8 to 300 people. The only full-time employee was me. The rest were hourly workers, mostly friends, who were able and patient enough to deal with the long hours and unconventional setting, not to mention my own questionable brand of organization-- handwritten lists on greasy paper towels and post-it notes on everything from the fridge to the range hood. It was crazy, but incredibly fun and rewarding. It required a specific type of focus and quick thinking, in addition to a lot of creativity.

But alas, I reached a point when I had to either "man-up" and get a professional kitchen or flee the business all together. My crippling fear of failure sent me fleeing to the world of marketing, copy-writing and event planning where there was little risk of failing and no hard-core personal investment. I don't regret it, though. If I had jumped headlong into business ownership, I wouldn't be here... I might not even be married to Stefan and then, I wouldn't have Addy or Flora. Everything happens for a reason, right?

So, now, here we are. We are heading to Brussels at the end of next month. My oldest daughter is approaching the age where preschool makes sense (god-willing she's potty-trained sometime in the next year). And my youngest daughter is not far behind. It's reasonable to think that this time next year, I will suddenly have a lot more time on my hands. Having taken a pretty major hiatus, I am now ready to return to cooking, in some shape. Trouble is: working in a restaurant usually means leaving your family (and any social life you may have) in the dust. Long, odd hours on the weekends and in the evenings are not well-suited to successfully raising a family. So, I am in the midst of considering how to combine two occupations, which are indisputably at odds with each other: cooking professionally and being a dedicated mother.

Until we get to Brussels and get settled in and I truly explore my options, I have nothing to do but "consider" the possibilities. So, for now, I am still a mommy and I am up to my elbows in Halloween costume construction (Adela's "half-cooked" Butterfly costume is pictured below).

The Birthday Present I DIDN'T Get and A Helpful Tip for Staying in New York City:

2010-10-12T18:26:00.001-07:00

For some reason, I thought the Gods were going to shine down last week and force the housing person's hand in Brussels... to send an email to my husband... telling us where we are going to LIVE for the next two years. But, that didn't happen.

As I have done before, I am going to have to ask for a pass because I am naive and new to this whole process. I am just not accustomed to having so little control over my own life. I feel like I am a fish out of water... with no fishbowl in sight. Of all the things I anticipated being problematic for me, this one is proving to be the most so. I need something to hold onto, especially since I have completely lost patience with the Oakwood and I am really hoping that our next "home" is a nicer, roomier and less "under construction" kind of place.

There are things that those of us in the Foreign Service come to see as "acceptable" that people in the outside world would find impossible and astounding. I think not knowing where exactly you will be living until a few days before you arrive is one of those things. Yeargh. I am sure everything will be fine and that we will end up in a place that is completely adequate, but it's just plain weird to play a passive role in all of this. This is especially true for me-- someone who reads the Real Estate section of the newspaper with a microscope and fantasizes endlessly about the home I will someday own. Even when we've rented apartments in the past, I have taken such care to imagine where the furniture will go, what plants I will grow, how I will lay out the kitchen to its best advantage. I want desperately to be able to think about our new home in Brussels in this way.

I am hoping that writing this blog will spur some kind of celestial action...

Moving on, we went to the NYC area this weekend to celebrate my mother in law's birthday. We decided a month or so ago that given the size of our family, we needed to get a hotel room. The party being in Brooklyn, we tried first to find a hotel there, but were met with one figurative "no vacancy" sign after another. There was some event in Brooklyn that had claimed every room. Of course, Manhattan hotel rooms are completely out of reach for an entry-level Foreign Service family. Having moved to Falls Church, VA from suburban NJ (yet another fiscal compromise!), I had an idea: a brand new W Hotel opened in Hoboken last year and the room rates were reasonable and the proximity to the city unbeatable.

This was our view during the day:

And this was our view at night:

And this was the view of a local t-shirt shop:

I didn't say it was without compromise, but they were well worth it. We had an incredible suite with an incredible view (as evidenced above) and we were just minutes from Manhattan and Brooklyn. I highly recommend this route for anyone looking to stay in the area who isn't able to drop a thousand bucks a night or who is unwilling (or unable) to squeeze into a sardine can.

A Critical Discovery in NoVa:

2010-10-06T08:52:00.001-07:00

In all of the madness of relocating and contemplating more relocations, and taking care of babies and celebrating birthdays and engagements, its easy to forget the needs of our furry friends.

Being cooped up in our tiny Oakwood apartment with little more than leashwalks to keep them entertained, Otis and Rudi have probably suffered the most in all of this. Its the sad plight of the dogs who came before the children. Once upon a time, their needs were at the very top of our priority list. But now, they have fallen sadly to somewhere near the bottom.

No more! Thanks to a convoluted discovery of the Shirlington Dog Park, the boys are back in action and I have some time to reflect on how very important these critters are to my sanity. For anyone with dogs, I urge you to make a trip over. It is a long stretch of park where they can frolick sans leash and take a dip in the stream that runs the park's length. Ever since we came upon this canine oasis, we've all been quite a bit happier and more relaxed.

Happy Birthday to Me!

2010-10-05T05:15:00.001-07:00

Today is my 33rd birthday and all recent blog posts aside, I feel very lucky and very happy. I wanted to take a moment to celebrate and take note of the things in my life that I am most happy about and proud of. Is that totally weird and narcissistic? I keep my telling myself it's okay because generally, I whine about how lame I am.

First and foremost, I am so lucky to have found Stefan. He's absolutely and without question, my soul-mate. I know that because when I wake up in the morning and see him next to me, I feel excited, alive and very safe.

I also know that "he's the one" because he got me exactly what I wanted for my birthday-- an Eve VanDalsen messenger bag! It's so pretty and unique and practical, a hard combination for even the most well-established designers. I see a very, very bright and prosperous future for our friend Eve and I am thrilled that I have one of her early (ish) bags. I can say, "I knew her when" and have a grey and aqua messenger bag to prove it.

Secondly, I have the most beautiful children on the planet. Adela is turning out to be happy, confident and self-assured. These aspects of her little burgeoning, personality make me most proud. I tend to think that she feels very safe-- emotionally and physically-- and I know I played a big part in that. Flora has an unbelivably well-developed sense of humor for such a tiny thing. It is with great irony and self-assuredness that she wears this silly cupcake hat my mother made for her:
Thirdly, I have become very close to my extended family in recent years and I am proud to be able to share my life with them and for them to share theirs with me. It's a rare and wonderful gift that one can call her 1st, 2nd and 3rd cousins not only family, but also her best and most cherished friends. This past weekend, we went up to New Jersey to celebrate my cousin Meghan's engagement to her fiance Fred. We stayed with my other cousin, Hillary and her family. The entire weekend was a total blast. The party was beautiful-- gorgeous food, great music and the best company. And even though I woke up on Sunday with the worst hangover I've had in years, I have no regrets about dancing into the night and eating three extremely decadent cupcakes... because I was doing it with the people I love most in the world. Hillary's incredible children got into bed with Stef, Flora and me when they woke up and it was such a perfect reminder of how important it is to stay in close touch with these amazing people.

And finally, I have a diverse and varied group of friends all over the country and the world, from Vancouver, BC to San Francisco, CA to Chester, CT to NYC, NY to London, UK and all stops in between who seem to actually like me and for that, I am grateful everyday of my life. There is no substitute for friendship and no better reflection of the person you are than the quality of the people who surround you. So when I am feeling low or as if I haven't accomplished enough by this stage in my life, I think of my friends and feel like I must be doing something (at least a little) right.

And now, my girls have given me the best present of all: they are BOTH napping at the SAME time. So, just when I thought my birthday couldn't get better, I have the rare opportunity to take a much-needed nap myself!

Good Things CAN Come From "Oversharing":

2010-10-01T04:38:00.000-07:00

I got some very helpful responses/comments (both online and offline) regarding my last post. It was just what I had hoped for and it proves that kindness and support can come from both expected and unexpected places.

In addition to that, a funny, coincidental thing happened (You might not think it's a coincidence because you're probably sure that my mother reads my blog... but, she doesn't. Weird. Right?). Anyway, as I was wrapping up a phone call with her, she told me she was going to send me a picture via MMS. "Okay," I said and hung up. I waited a few moments before I heard the familiar "ping" of an incoming message. This is the picture she sent:

And do you have any idea what that is? Well, I did. It's a "Handmade Cupcake Hat" for my daughter, Adela. And do you know who made it by hand? That's right: my amazing, wonderful, talented-to-no-end mother made it.

I immediately texted her back:

"Is that a handmade cupcake hat. And did you MAKE it?"

"Yes. I did. Why do you sound so familiar with it? Have you ever seen a handmade cupcake hat?"

"No, I never have, but I'm smart."

"Yeah, I made it. I'm knitting again. What else do you want?"

This is a very, very big deal. It would seem that in some small way, the universe is listening to me.

Thanks for all your support!

"Lay Lady Lay"

2010-09-29T04:59:00.001-07:00

Warning: this post is a bit gloomy and bordering on "a little too personal to share on the Internet," but I have reached a point where I feel like I need to reach out beyond my immediate community, for my sake (catharsis) and my mother's (maybe someone out there has a new idea).

For the last 6 years, my mother, who is also my best friend and the one person who I have always been able to count on, has been living on her couch, writhing and moaning in pain. That sounds extreme. Because it is. When she first fell ill, her doctors thought she had the dreaded "Shingles" and I remember her crying because someone had told her that it could last as long as a year. But a year quickly came and went, and she didn't improve. She got worse. Her pain spread beyond her torso, where it had started and moved to her hands, which swelled to comically large proportions. Her hands... she'd always said she could take anything-- the loss of her legs even, but not her hands. She's an extraordinary knitter, seamstress, cook and gardener. She's the most well-read person I have ever encountered, hungrily reading two, sometimes three, books a week. But without the use of her hands, she could do none of those things. Not a single one of the things she most loves to do was within her reach (literally and figuratively). It was at this time that she began to slip away. She started to transform from the person in my life who could literally do anything she tried well into a person who could do nothing but lay, uncomfortably, on her couch and watch endless hours of television-- old, scratchy, black and white movies to be exact.

During the early years of her illness, I was always hopeful. I was sure something would magically make her better and bring the woman that I so looked up to back to me. We would one day cook together, the way I'd always thought we would. We would make things and do things and I could show her the world, the way I thought I would one day when I was able. She would come back and all this would be a bad, distant memory.

When I got married, three years ago, she was really in very bad shape. She said on more than one occasion, "I wish you would wait so I could get better and enjoy the experience of seeing you get married." Of course, I couldn't wait because who knew how long it might take for her to improve to that degree. But she would get better... certainly by the time I started having kids and she would be the most perfect grandmother. She would play endlessly with my children and support me the way I've always needed her to-- guiding me gently and without judgment. I imagined her in the delivery room and coming to spend weeks at a time to help me get my bearings, cooking for me while I recovered, knitting the most beautiful baby clothes. She would be better by then, for sure.

Now, I have two children and she's not better. She wasn't in the delivery room and she's not been able to spend more than a few hours over the course of the last two years at my home. And it wasn't her helping me. It was just her trying to appear to be a participant in her own life. She can't hold the babies for more than a few moments, without being overtaken, again, by the pain. She can't handle the stress of my toddler wreaking havoc, as they do, all around her. It's too stressful to bear. My visits to her house are short, stressful and utterly heartbreaking because somehow, I still go to her with a tiny glimmer of hope that each time it will be different: that she will be able to get down on the floor with Addy and play for hours; that there will be a pot of something cooking on the stove; that she'll show me something she's made for one of them (this has happened... just once. She recently completed a tiny pink baby sweater for the girls. It took five years, but it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. I show it to everyone who comes over, beaming with pride. My mother, my amazing, wonderful, talented-to-no-end mother, made this!).

Of course, everyone always wants to know: what's wrong with her? Well, unfortunately, the answer is pretty unsatisfactory to most people because it's elusive and intangible. It's not a disease that's easily classifiable. There's no tidy explanation. We've found that people have a hard time when the can't put a recognizable name on things. In the beginning, they tested her for everything. There were litanies of tests and doctors and specialists and alternative medicine practitioners all trying to come up with an answer. Lyme Disease? Lupus? HIV? Cancer? Autoimmune disorder of some kind? None of these fit the bill. No treatments worked. The specialists eventually got frustrated and slipped away, defeated. The doctors tried what they knew to do and when everything failed to bring her some comfort, there was nothing left to try. Now, she has her one neurologist who is very devoted, but out of suggestions. So, after more treatments and surgeries than we can count, her only treatment consists of handfuls of narcotic pain relievers that make her days as close to tolerable as possible. That's just enough to keep her from putting a gun to her head, but she can't go anywhere or do anything. She can't drive. She can't be away from home for more than a hour or two. Ultimately, her diagnosis is this: somewhere along the way, she contracted a vicious virus that attacked her nervous system, leaving her tender nerves badly frayed and incapable of transmitting normal signals to her brain. So, her whole body hurts... all... the... time...

As an pretty unhappy side note to her main complaints, her teeth have begun to rot out of her head. All the pain-induced vomiting and the stress-induced grinding have taken their toll. Human beings are funny. I think that if she felt pretty, she'd have a little more power over this thing. But she looks into the mirror and all she can see are those yellow and brown teeth. She's a beautiful woman, but she's atrophied and withered away. Her teeth are almost hard to look at at. Her hair has thinned. And her already fair skin has grown transparent from lack of sun. She's a broken version of the woman who raised me to think for myself, take pride in even the smallest of my accomplishments, to be bold and independent. She's weak, tired and finally, utterly hopeless.

What does that mean? Well as hard as it is for me to write this, it means that she's contemplating ending her struggle, her life. When she first began to talk of suicide, I used to cry and beg her to stop being so cruel to me. "How can you say that you have no reason left to live?" I would ask angrily and indignantly. I couldn't understand what she meant by, "no reason left to live." She had me. She had my children. She had the world's most devoted husband and a mother who doesn't deserve to see her child die. She can't give up, I would think. There's got to be another way.

Now, I just don't know. Now, I can see what she means. While she has me and her grandchildren and her husband and her mother, she can't enjoy any of us. She looks at her life for what it could be and not for what it is and the only thing more painful than those frayed and failing nerves is the reality that her life may never improve. And of course, her question then becomes, "how long can I go on like this?" It's already been six years. SIX YEARS. I can't even believe it's been that long. I couldn't do it. I couldn't spend six years on the couch in agony without knowing when the end would come.

My family is moving to Europe. I am going away and I won't be there for her. That's the hardest thing in my life and I can't reasonably and authentically write about life in the Foreign Service without addressing this aspect of it: you leave everyone behind, which is difficult even when everyone is healthy, happy and well. A day doesn't go by without me wondering how I am going to feel someday about having been so far away from my mother in her darkest hours. I imagine many folks in the FS have similar concerns. It's really the dark underbelly of this great adventure.

Anyway, she may be without hope, but I'm not. I am still hoping that something, someone, might come out of the mist with a new idea, a new suggestion, that will change everything and make all of this seem like a terrible, distant nightmare. Because I want my mommy back more than anything in the world.

Falls Church Aint So Bad...

2010-09-26T05:40:00.000-07:00

It's no secret that Falls Church is not my favorite place on the planet. Sometimes, I feel bad for feeling the way I do about it. It's really a perfectly good town. It's close to downtown D.C. It has every store you could possibly need to manage a family of four. It's easy to find your way around. It even has something of a charming downtown (sort of). It's close to FSI, meaning that Stefan is never too far away from home to save me from a baby crisis. It's fine. Totally fine. But it's not at all inspiring. I feel like I am one of those uninspired people who needs to be in an exciting place in order to feel interesting and that's my shortcoming, not Falls Church's. Anyway, point being, I often complain about living here, but this weekend, I actually had a moment of feeling lucky to be here.

We are a family of walkers, born largely from necessity. Having the dogs means that we have to walk and if we can combine that with getting something else done, it's ideal. We often walk to the various playgrounds in the area, which is what we initially set out to do yesterday morning. We also wanted to hit the Falls Church Farmers Market later in the day. In a flash of genius, we realized we could do all those things in one walk. So, we left the Oakwood and meandered through the back streets of town until we arrived at the market. I have to say, it's a pretty legit Farmers' Market. I think I recall seeing somewhere that it was named, "America's Favorite Market," by whom I have no idea, but it seems like it could be possible. It has everything you could possibly need without any "fluff." We bought croissants to snack on while there. I got a pile of wild mushrooms, the likes of which I haven't seen since Northern California. There's a happy bouquet of zinnias in our single, striped Oakwood vase. We have apples, pears and nectarines to last the week. And when we were done with the market, we made our way over to the Cherry Hill Barn and playground, where Adela burned off some Toddler energy. It was like, an absolutely perfect morning.

As I looked around at the families at the playground, with their bulging bags of produce and their super happy children, I thought to myself, "This is why people live here." And it made perfect sense to me.

On Personal Heroines and Suburban Living:

2010-09-21T12:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I went to see Julia Child's kitchen at the National Museum of American History. It was everything I'd hoped it would be and more. It was tidy, but well-used and filled to the brim with every imaginable cooking tool known to man or woman. It bore no resemblance to the granite counter-topped, stainless steel applianced, utterly sterile kitchens one sees in modern-day American McMansions. It was lovely in its utility and proved once again that a kitchen need not be a glistening showroom to work well.

As with everything relating to the venerable Mrs. Child, the kitchen exhibit at the Smithsonian reflects the profound love she and her husband, Paul, shared. I was so moved by their partnership and how it served as the backbone for everything they did and accomplished. I'd like to think that Stefan and I have a similar type of respect for and devotion to one another. I would also like to think I too might be able to use my time overseas to advance my own culinary career. I am not, by any means, drawing a comparison between Julia Child and myself-- let me be clear-- I just would like to somehow capitalize on my experiences abroad and make them own, and not just my life as it relates to my husband's. I found the exhibit very motivating.

In other news, we got a preliminary housing assignment yesterday. It came in email form and all the anticipation leading up to it was nothing compared to the disappointment both Stefan and I felt once we'd opened it. It would seem, based on yesterday's email, that the only suitable housing for the Whitney family was to be found in a distant, Flemish suburb of Brussels called Steerebeek. While the house itself was perfectly adequate-- large enough for an even bigger family, with four bedrooms, a small garden and a garage-- the location is not at all what we'd hoped for. Not only does it represent an hour commute in either direction for Stefan, but the locals speak Dutch! Stefan will have spent 3 months "polishing" his French and I will have spent more than a few hours at the local Starbucks clicking my way through the French Rosetta Stone. How much sense does that make? None, I tell you.

When we filled out the initial housing questionnaire, we were very clear that we are willing to sacrifice space for proximity to the city centre. Really, all this means, is that we want to be on the metro line. Steerebeek is no where near the metro. Public transport to the embassy would include a bus and a train. The good thing about Steerebeek is that it's close to the American School, but with a 6 month old and a 23 month old, that means little more than nothing to us. I know that for some, this probably seems like splitting hairs because we are going to a wonderful city in a wonderful central European location. But, come on, what's the point of being there if we can't enjoy it on something near an every day basis.

We were given only one option and based on everything we knew up until this point, we expected at least two, if not three. So, we felt entitled to write back and say, "Isn't there any other possibility considering that none of our requirements are met with this option?" Our housing contact quickly replied that she and her colleagues will look into leasing something more appropriate. Let's hope they can find something closer to town in a French speaking commune, because if they don't, I foresee a LOT of bitching and moaning here on Devonnaire (and every where else in our lives).

I am still alive.

2010-09-20T05:49:00.001-07:00

Despite a complete disappearance from the blogosphere, I am still very much alive and kicking. I let the summer get the best of me-- lakes, beaches, single-parenthood (largely), and family drama all made me feel like I couldn't get my head far enough above water to get to my laptop for 10 minutes. I have also been thinking a lot about my new (and forthcoming) blog, which I intend to be a much more professional and less personal type of blog covering what I hope will be my overseas career as a culinary observer. Details on that to follow later.

In the meantime, I have been thinking a lot about our journey to Belgium. The tickets are reserved, the dogs have their place as very special luggage on our plane, we have a good idea of what we'd like to bring as our HHE. It's all coming together and yet, here we are, in purgatory, waiting and waiting and waiting. Personally, I am ready to get there and get the next two years of our lives underway. While it's true that we have an abundance of great activities lined up here in Falls Church-- music, art and yoga, I am anxious to get Adela into La Farandoline, the french-speaking, co-op style preschool we're hoping will be her first formal place of education. I'm chomping at the bit to explore our new city and hopefully, find some form of daycare for Flora, so that I can begin looking for work as a cook. There's a lot to do that can't be done until we get there, so let's get there already! Here's to hoping that Stef's gift for languages proves itself and he passes his test with flying colors.

The waiting might not be so bad if we knew what type of house/apartment is waiting for us (because truthfully, that's the thing I'm most anxious about). But, despite all reports that the housing people in Brussels are the most attentive, we've heard nothing for weeks from them. I guess this is par for the course, but it's our first time, so we have no idea what to expect. There is so much variety, it seems, in the pool in Brussels, that we could end up in an apartment downtown (please, please, please) just blocks away from the embassy or all the way out in the 'burbs with no metro station for miles and miles. I just want to KNOW so I can both get emotionally prepared and practically prepared by locating the appropriate schools and figuring out of our new minivan will fit anywhere near our home.

Alas, these cycles of anticipation are just another aspect of our life in the Foreign Service, but as a sometimes blogger, I feel like I need big, momentous changes to write about to keep things interesting and for now, it's just a lot of waiting and preparing.

At Long Last:

2010-07-17T06:23:00.001-07:00

Way back in May when we first arrived in Falls Church so that Stefan could begin his A-100 class, my stepmother came down to lend a hand. When she came, she brought a bottle of 1989 Perrier-Jouet champagne that she and my father had been given on their wedding day. For some reason, they never drank it or used the hand-painted flutes that came with the Belle Epoch edition bottle. When she gave it to us, she suggested that we would drink it on Flag Day to celebrate our first post and the beginning of our new life.

Our first Flag Day came and we were posted to Frankfurt and while we were relieved not to have been posted somewhere completely remote and difficult to live in (easy all you hard core Foreign Service types... We will do our time. We just didn't want to do it first with an infant and a toddler and all the tension that goes along with having them), we didn't seem compelled to really celebrate in the "pop open a bottle of Champers and run around screaming and jumping up and down" kind of way. It was good, not, like, totally great. There was the whole "compound" living thing and the fact that Frankfurt is almost completely devoid of romance, but it had its advantages and we were happy. Just not 20 year old Champagne happy.

Well, I think now that our second Flag Day has come and gone, we might just crack that bottle open and run around screaming and jumping up and down because we were posted to...

BRUSSELS, Belgium!!!!

And we are very excited.

Argh.

2010-07-10T12:01:00.000-07:00

All week long, I was trying to concentrate hard on what was right in front of me-- the kids, the lake, my lovely extended family. However, in spite of my best efforts, there has been the unrelenting nag of the not knowing where we're going in the back of my head.

For better of worse, Beaver Lake is a tiny community and most people who are at all interested have some idea of what's going on in your life. So, of course, I am asked "the question" at least once a day.

"We'll know this Friday," I've said with confidence on multiple occasions this week.

That really kept me sane-- the whole "we'll know on Friday" routine.

Then Friday came around.

Stefan, god bless him, has been in the fiery inferno that is Northern Virginia while the girls and I have been enjoying the lake. So, I expected him to call some time late yesterday morning with the big news. My blackberry was glued to my hand at all times. We were assigned while all the CDO's (Career Development Officers are responsible for assigning posts) were on the 154th A-100 class retreat on Thursday and it made sense that Stefan's CDO would call as soon as she was able. That wasn't soon enough. Stefan called her around 10AM.

That phone call proved to be a major set back for the Whitney family (at least in the immediate) because she revealed that she's not in a position to tell us our post until FLAG DAY! Mother f-er. Seriously? OMG. WTF!!! God-damned bureaucracy! This normally calm, collected, roll-with-the-punches mother of two is starting to really lose her f-ing mind.

"I can tell you that you did get one of your "highs," however," she told Stefan sheepishly.

Of course, I can't tell you any more than that... until Flag Day. We were completely inflexible this time around and we only bid 6 jobs "high." Those six jobs are in 4 cities. Those 4 cities are among the best and most beautiful in the world. The good news: we got one of our highs. The bad news: it's starting to feel like we're never know where we're going.

Ooooops...

2010-07-07T19:19:00.001-07:00

It would appear that my last blogging effort came through incomplete. I guess that's not a complete shock since I sent it from my blackberry and I have pretty shoddy coverage up here at the lake.

The last sentence should have read:

... Its so heartwarming to watch Adela eat a lollipop next to her cousin Violet after a long day of learning to swim off the Porter's dock. Especially since I too learned to swim there. Bringing her and Flora here makes me feel like I'm giving something back for having had the same opportunities.

This is a humble place. There are no frills or attitude. The road is roughly paved with loose stone and the docks are often bowed. The "beach" is roughly 20 feet by 20 feet and the keg at Saturday's Weenie Roast was filled with Budweiser. There is no air conditioning in most of the summer-only cottages and "out houses" are still in use all over the lake. But, somehow, the docks feel just right when you run off one and dive into the lake with its perfect lake smell and its murky bottom. The beach is a heavenly place filled with children, getting to know each other and the best ways to makes sand castles stand tall. The Bud is cold and pairs perfectly with a kraut-topped hot dog and even despite this intense and unyielding heat, the lack of air conditioning doesn't seem to hinder a perfectly restful night's sleep.

When you read the paper and drink a cup of coffee at the counter at the General Store, its impossible not to run into someone who remembers you as a child and can recall the way you ordered your ice cream cones.

Perhaps I'm naïve (or more likely, ignorant), but I don't think there are a lot of places like this in the world- a perfectly beautiful place with a community whose connections have a 100 year plus history.

I feel so lucky to be here and to have the opportunity to share it with my children.

Greetings from the Lake!

2010-07-05T16:52:00.001-07:00

Well, the Whitneys are fully ensconced at the lake and we are virtually incapable of obsessing over "the post." For, our days are filled with splashing around in the lake and our nights are characterized by big, robust, corn-riddled buffets and of course, Saturday night was the first "Weenie Roast." It was a wonderful opportunity to see many, many old friends of the family and eat way too many hot dogs to recall.

Being here as an adult with two kids makes me realize how truly incredible it was to be a kid here. Without the burdens of washing towels, grocery shopping, and cooking meals, all that's left is to enjoy the lake and all its bounty: boating, fishing, swimming, walking, playing tennis, etc. Its so heart-warming to watch Adela

Shuffle to Your Past:

2010-06-29T06:06:00.001-07:00

I don't know what it is-- the summer weather, a new sense of well-being since I dropped 15 lbs. (so far) on Weight Watchers, or the prospects and opportunities that await us overseas somewhere, but I am so into music right now... in a way I haven't been since I became some one's wife, then mother. Listening to loud music and waxing philosophic is generally reserved for people without a care in the world, rambling across European countrysides in old trains and daydreaming about lost and new found love.

A few days ago, I was driving in my very sensible family station wagon (hopefully soon to be replaced with the even more dreaded minivan... totally my choice too by the way. I care not for what the world thinks... just whether or not I can fit two car seats, two Labrador Retrievers and a week's worth of groceries inside. All you minivan haters out there: talk to me when you're in my shoes. Until then, shhhhh! Minivans rock!). Anyway, I was driving along, with my two gals in the backseat and I decided to turn off NPR and hit shuffle on our Ipod.

I was transported to such long ago times that I was forced to view myself as, um, kinda old. Were my girls a little older, they would have surely had a laugh as I bopped my head and mouthed the words to Cypress Hill's "Cock the Hammer," and reminisced about a time when I walked around the streets of New York, dressed like some kind of faux-hoodlum in baggy jeans and big, gold, dangling hoops. Oh, to be a child of the 90's in Manhattan (for some reference, there was a movie made not to long ago called "The Wackness" that really captured the essence of that time. Also, the movie "Kids" was made while I was living in New York and many of its stars were people whom I regularly ran into-- this is not so much a source of pride, but just a matter of fact).

Cypress Hill soon gave way to Portishead's "How can it Feel So Wrong?". That might not even be the name of the song, but if you ever saw "Stealing Beauty" with Liv Tyler, you know the song I am referring to. The soundtrack to that movie became my own one summer, after high school, when my girlfriend and I toured around France and Italy on trains. One late night, we were riding from Nice, France to Pisa, Italy (a stopover) and just as we had gotten ourselves good and comfy in our cabin, a man joined us from Monte Carlo. He stunk of booze and his tan lines revealed the places where his watch and jewelery were before he'd gambled them all away. He was creepy and kept saying, "Vous le vous coucher avec moi?" so when he got up to use the bathroom (and probably to restore his energy with something illegal), my girlfriend and I gathered up all of our belongings and ran for another cabin. We found two completely deaf Polish students whom we tried desperately to inform that we were running for our lives from a would-be Italian rapist. They were so sweet and confused by our hysterics.

Then it was Bonnie Prince Billy, who took me back to a time when I was living in Big Sky, Montana when I would drive 40 minutes through the most breathtaking canyons to go grocery shopping in West Yellowstone. His somber and sentimental lyrics suited this very lonesome but introspective time in my life. When, soon after I broke my ankle badly enough that I was rendered immobile for almost 6 months, I felt just as somber and melancholy as Bonnie Prince Billy (aka Will Oldham) seemed to.

And finally, since it wasn't such a long ride after all, came Feist's "Mushaboom," which truly was the soundtrack for the most incredible summer of my life, the one when I met my husband on a beautiful, warm, spring day in San Francisco. As I listened to her warbly voice as she sang of snow and crackling fires and watching her as-yet unmade babies grow up, I looked at Stefan and hoped for all the things she sang about... with him.

Music is so amazing and I hope that with all our upcoming adventures, we will have many new songs to attach to them. We found out this morning that we will, in fact, have to wait to hear about our new post until the 154th class is assigned. That's sometime next week. I wonder if there is a good song to capture the anxiety of this time somewhere on that Ipod of mine????

Minibar: It's Among the Top Five Whitney Dining Experiences...

2010-06-26T08:27:00.000-07:00

I am not an "easy to please" diner. In fact, my professional food background makes me an ornery dining companion and I often wish it weren't so. Everything gets scrutinized to the nth degree and it has been known to take the fun out of going out to eat for me... and occasionally, my husband. Although, I have learned to keep my complaints under wraps for every one's sake.

When we walked into Cafe Atlantico in Downtown D.C., I was surprised to find a relatively comfortable and relaxed environment. The "guts" of the room were exposed (big, white HVAC vents and pipes running across the walls and ceiling) and the tables were sort of haphazardly set on white table cloths. The dominant features were big, bright oil paintings and a massive stairway leading to the unknown.

We apologized for being a little early (so eager were we to get out on our own, I think we arrived almost 30 minutes before our 8:30 reservation). They seemed delighted that we were so punctual and offered to seat us at the "downstairs bar" for a pre-dinner cocktail. I ordered a "Pineapple Caiparihna" and Stefan ordered a "Grey Goose Martini with a twist." Our server returned a moment later with the news that they were "all out of Grey Goose." Hmmm... "That's strange," I thought as I looked behind the bar at a giant, full, 2 liter bottle of the Goose. I was up in arms already, but Stefan assured me that he'd be just as happy with the Hangar One our server had sugested as an alternative.

We sipped our cocktails and wondered outloud where we would ultimately be seated. The host had given no indication. "Where's the minibar?"

At one point, our server returned with a small book, the winelist, and proceeded to list our "options" for ordering wine while we ate our 27 course "minibar experience."

"These are flights." He pointed to a list of four distinct "flights of wine," and explained that each was a 2 oz. pour and that we'd end up with about 3 full glasses of wine if we chose that route. Gulp. 75$ a person for three glasses of wine.

Then he turned the page and offered that, "these are half-bottles and we recommend choosing three to accompany your experience." The least expensive "mini-bottle" was 38$.

And finally, on the last two pages, full bottles of very expensive sparkling, white and red wines were listed. Our server explained that this was the least interesting option, because it limits opportunity (but certainly not the impact on our wallet...)

We chose the mini bottles and were shortly therafter, guided up that massive staircase to the second floor, where the "minibar" was located. Six seats, three chefs, and 27 courses of pure culinary intrigue awaited.

Almost immediately, upon sitting down, one of the chefs gave us the rundown of what to expect: "There are 27 courses, in total-- divided loosely into three sections: snacks, entrees and desserts. Most are intended to be one bite, but we will instruct you as to how many you should take with each course. We will place each course on the glass and ask that you pull each one down in front of you to eat. The servers will clear from the left, behind you. Feel free to ask questions and enjoy your meal."

We started with a cool, smoky "Passion Fruit and Mezcal Marguerita," served in a tiny, hollowed-out Passion Fruit and topped with Mezcal Tequila "foam," (yes, there was a LOT of the now semi-passe foam being tossed around). This was quickly followed by "Beet Tumbleweed," "The Popcorn," "Sea Bean Tempura," and "Bagels and Lox." None of these, with the exceptions of the "Tumbleweed" and the "Sea Bean Tempura" were what you would think. "The Popcorn," which has become a signature dish, is a completely deconstructed "one-bite" type of affair that looks nothing like buttered popcorn, but completely captures its essence. The "Bagels and Lox" looked more like a tiny ice cream cone, in which cream cheese "soup" is topped with tiny postules of salmon essence, made by the chefs one by one, and surprisingly "pop" in your mouth like caviar (that sort of begs the question... "why not use caviar?"). The undeniable standouts of the "Munichies" section were the savory "Ferrero Rocher" and the "Cotton Candy Eel."

As we moved through to the next section, "Flavors and Textures," we were delighted by the smoked raw oyster with apple. Stefan was almost moved to tears by the "Zucchini in Textures." A smoky, smooth layer of caramelized Zucchini custard is topped with a fresh and salty Zucchini gelee and finished with effervescent, hand-picked Zucchini seeds. Seemingly a strange choice for my husband's favorite, but zucchini has never tasted so good. Seriously.

I have never been much of a "Umi" fan, but minibar's "Sea Urchin with Hibiscus Foam," somehow how took away the slimy, livery texture of the sea urchin without compromising the pure taste of the sea it is so well known for. The next three dishes, "Organic Carrots with Coconut," "Sweet Peas Catalan Style," and "Corn on the Cob" were real show stoppers and perhaps, the most molecularly gastronomic (see pictures).

The final entry into what amounts to the entree section of the meal was a "Philly Cheeesteak," which is a puffy, cheese-filled pastry, topped with thinly-sliced, nearly-raw, delicately-marbled Wagyu beef. It explodes and drips down your fingers and chin while you eat it, just like its inspiration and it's even better, for it's sophisticated while being completely simplistic in flavor.

The dessert section seemed slightly less inspired (but only compared to what preceded it). There were "Strawberries with Cream and Sun dried Tomatoes," "Japanese Baby (green) Peaches with Burrata," and a non-specific, "Thai Dessert," which included all the most familiar Thai flavors without giving any of its ingredients away.

Minibar at Cafe Atlantico was an incredibly interesting experience-- completely varied and unexpected. Though, I am loath to make such an obviously cheesy comparison, we DID go there to celebrate our anniversary and I couldn't help but think what a fine metaphor it makes for our life together; It's unbelievably delicious, constantly surprising, never what I expect, but always, just perfect.

My Big, Fat, Crazy Week:

2010-06-25T07:44:00.000-07:00

It seems like sometimes, I have to think real hard to come up with something to blog about and other times, I have so much to blog about that I can't find the time to write it all down.

This is one of those times.

Sunday was Fathers' Day, of course, and I had really wanted to write a long, wistful homage to Stefan for being such a wonderful father to Adela and Flora. The day came and went and I never got it done.

Wednesday was our 3rd anniversary and I had wanted to scan in a wedding picture and write about how grateful I am to have had 3 such wonderful years with my adoring husband. That day came and went and I never got it done.

I rationalized by saying, "Well, we ARE going to minibar at Cafe Atlantico tonight and THAT will really make for an interesting blog post, especially for my similarly food obsessed friends and family. Of course, on Thursday, I was too hungover and overwhelmed to write that post.

Then somewhere in the course of all of those things happening, we got some pretty jolting news: They are "breaking" our assignment to Frankfurt.

It would seem that one of the very things that made our Germany post so interesting (Stefan was born there) is turning out to be the very thing that will keep us from being posted there. His dual citizenship represents a problem, which is something we always wondered about and therefore, Stefan was very transparent about it from the beginning of the whole process. Bureaucracy being what it is, they overlooked his initial concerns and posted us there anyway. And now we've told everyone. I've spent two weeks learning German via FSI's Rosetta Stone and Stef's spent three polishing his German in class; not to mention the hours we've spent fantasizing about living in Frankfurt and the trips we've reserved (in our heads only, of course)!

Alas, this is a lesson that is worth learning early on. Stefan told me yesterday that he's heard of some Officers who spend an entire career not going to the places they were originally posted to. This latest development is further evidence that it takes a very special type of flexibility to live a Foreign Service life well.

So, here we are, seemingly back to square one, clutching the 154th A-100 class' bid list. Yes, we do have to bid again. The good news is that the 154th has an exceptionally good list. Assuming the same rules apply, I can't mention specifics, but I can say that we might end up being better off...

Contemplating our New Home:

2010-06-19T12:17:00.000-07:00

Last night, we were all having dinner at one of the Vietnamese joints in the Eden Center located in our backyard (for those of you who don't know: The Falls Church Oakwood is located right next to both a cemetery AND what amounts to "Little Saigon"-- a giant complex housing numerous Pho and Banh Mi Sandwich shops, Vietnamese DVD stores, jewelery stores, and manicure suppliers. It's great for a family living on a government salary, as dinner for the four of us can easily be had for under 25$), and we were fantasizing about our new life in Frankfurt, Germany.

Stefan had such a glimmer in his eye when he spoke about the country where he spent so many childhood and adolescent weeks. His fondness for the place is contagious, truly, and I feel so blessed that we are going to a country where one of us has such strong roots. Germany has the added bonus of being Stefan's birthplace and his intimate understanding of the culture will certainly add an extra dimension to our time there.

While we don't have to do very much heavy research (because relatively speaking, the lifestyle won't be so different from what we are used to here), we do get to do a lot of fantasizing about how we will spend our free time. One of the greatest advantages of Frankfurt is its very central European location and we have, of course, decided to take as many road (and train and plane) trips as we can comfortably afford. I am looking forward to spending time with one of my oldest and dearest friends who lives in London. Word has it that a flight to the UK can be had for a mere 20 euros on Ryanair. I also look forward to visiting Stef's cousin in Berlin and hopefully, experiencing the Oktoberfest at its epicenter in Munich. I have never been to the Netherlands and I haven't eaten nearly enough Parisian meals. I have always longed to take long, slow walks in Prague. I have never experienced snowboarding in the Alps and I've missed Brussels ever since I fell in love with my husband there. It probably sounds overly ambitious to do everything there is to do in Europe, but we are a resourceful and adventurous family and I have little doubt that our memories have just begun to be made.

I am so so excited by this move (made even more so by the reaction of friends and family; so many have said they will visit and I really do hope this is true!), that I can't contain it. I have trouble sleeping, for thoughts of German Christmas Markets and homemade sausages fill my head. I wake in the morning exhilarated, knowing how much opportunity and richness awaits us. It's a lucky thing that we will be leaving in September because with more time to anticipate, I would surely implode.

I want Bauhaus! Waaaaahhhhh!

2010-06-12T08:06:00.000-07:00

Now that we know where we are going and that particular worry has been put to rest, I am free to worry about the finer points. In particular, I am concerned about this whole "Drexel Heritage" furniture situation. Thankfully, I have Shannon over at Cyberbones to help soften the blow and give it to me straight now, so that I don't walk into my own personal interior design nightmare when we get to Frankfurt.

For all you veteran FSO's and Trailing Spouses out there, I am sure this is old news and you probably are far less superficial than I am. But for me, this has been a concern ever since my husband started the application process.

I have faithfully been collecting mid-century post modern furnishings and accoutrement for the last 10 years. I have done so on a minuscule budget and with the help of many familial donations (Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Grandma.) I had hoped that when I reached this age of maturity, I would really be able to rev it up and start buying some valuable additions without straining quite so hard. I always thought that by the time I was happily married with two children, I would settle in somewhere and really have the opportunity to adore and add to my teak, chrome and enamel "things." Alas, it will now probably be many years before I have such luxury. In the meantime, I have dark-finish American Colonial style furniture to admire (er... wretch over).

I get that the State Department in all its bureaucratic loveliness has to streamline the process of furnishing 12,000 Foreign Service homes. I get that. But what I don't get is why they chose such a stylized (and heinous) line of furniture. Why didn't anyone say, "I think we ought to chose something neutral so the families can find a way to easily integrate their own things." That makes perfect sense to me. No scrolly knobs and handles. No patterns or potentially offensive fabrics. No over-the-top headboards or back-lit curios. Just simple, unobtrusive, functional and straight-forward furniture.

I stole the attached picture from Cyberbones so I could show my friends and family what I am working with (thanks Shannon). The collage shows what her Carl Schurz Siedlung apartment looked like when she arrived. It pains me that we are moving to Germany, the birthplace of Bauhaus and austere but beautiful architecture and design, and yet we are going to live with the worst furniture design that the good ole USA has to offer.

I want to know who has the job of choosing the furniture for the Foreign Service and I think I want to take over. Now, I realize that hyper-modern isn't for everyone and I respect that. If I were the person who chose the furniture, I would find things that would fit everyone's taste and match everyone's colors. Foreign Service housing people: for the next round, pick me! Pick me! I promise I can make 99% of the people happy.

In the meantime, I am in the process of ordering multiple slipcovers...

Just to Clarify:

2010-06-09T05:28:00.000-07:00

It was an artistic choice to name the country only, but people have asked, so I wanted to clarify that we are being posted to Frankfurt, Germany. We are very excited about it, too.

First and foremost, there couldn't be a better place to take the dogs. I hear that dogs are permitted on the subway and in most stores. Secondly, Stefan's maternal family is from Germany and his aunt and cousin live there still. We are very anxious and excited for both of them to be a bigger and more frequent part of our lives (and our children's)! Maybe I should reverse the order of those two points... nah, everyone here knows how important the dogs are.

I am also looking forward to learning to speak German because there has been more than one occasion where I've felt left out of a conversation in the Whitney family home. They chatter on in German and I imagine the worst... that they are all talking about me. No more. I will soon be in on the joke myself.

Stefan tells me that Germany is a wonderful place for children and I have no doubt, seeing as how all the best toys come from there... I imagine the preschools are like amusement parks and the playgrounds are built out of over-sized playmobil bits. I think the girls are going to be very happy. I just hope they have some memory of our time there as Flora will only be 2 1/2 and Adela will be 4 when we leave.

Having attended a "Logistics of Moving Overseas" class yesterday, I am starting to understand just how many things there are to think about (by the way, I really wish I had been able to take that class before we moved to the Oakwood. It would have been great to have been armed with all that information before we packed up our house. For those of you who are yet to make the initial move, don't be afraid to ask for some of the highlights when your time comes). I feel overwhelmed by all the details and I am going to a fully developed Western European country. I can only imagine how it must feel to be going to a place like... Luanda, Angola!

The only downside to our first post is that because Stefan is already fluent in German, we will be leaving NOVA sooner than I had hoped-- not because I am so in love Falls Church, but because I am loathe to move again so soon and had hoped to enjoy getting to know Washington, DC and some new friends before we depart. But I am not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I am totally psyched. This is awesome.

Tomorrow: my rant on government-issued "American Colonial" dark-finish furniture.

Flag Day!

2010-06-08T06:05:00.000-07:00

During the first part of of the day, yesterday, I had wanted to write about my anxiety, but then I read my fellow blogger's perfect explanation and knew my own description would fall short. It was one heck of day... so much waiting, so much anticipation, so much fantasizing and so much fear.

I got dressed while the girls' napped and carefully clothed myself in all white, for optimism. I put on my best turquoise jewelry and looked in the mirror knowing that it was the last time I would ready myself without knowing where I was going (for a while anyway). Then I put the girls in their best dresses and clumsily loaded us all into the car. I was shaking the whole time. I was excited (but also really hungry because I started Weight Watchers last week). As I pulled into the gates at FSI, I breathed deeply and found my sweet, wonderful husband waiting on the other side.

Entering the room, I could feel the tension and excitement. There wasn't an officer or a spouse or an eligible family member who wasn't feeling the same sense of helplessness that I was. But, oh, my helplessness was to get much worse. With the help of a friend, I got seated with my infant and toddler. And for a moment, all was well. We were looking forward at the giant screen that read, "Welcome to Flag Day," and knew within an hour or so, our most pressing question would be answered. And just as I got nice and comfy, Adela started to freak out. Like, completely freak out. Like I have never seen her freak out before. Out of total humiliation at my lack of ability to control my eldest child, I threw Flora and her bottle to my friend and ran out of the room with Adela dangling from the crook of my arm. I begged her, "please, please, please Addy. This is such an important moment for us. Don't make me miss it." But that seemed to only inspire her frenzy more. So we walked and walked and walked. Occasionally, I could hear the crowd explode when a delighted officer went to pick up the flag she had so hoped to hold, but really, it was just murmurs from a distance. Soon, it became clear, I had missed the moment.

As I looked at Adela with such sadness, the sun was shining brightly and I surrendered. It wasn't such a big deal, right? As I turned to walk back toward the building with the hope of it all being over and done with, Stefan opened the door, and came walking towards us. He had a big, bright, mischievous smile and from around his back, he pulled a tiny flag.

Deutschland.

And all was well and good, indeed.

Coming out of Hiding:

2010-06-05T10:12:00.000-07:00

I haven't blogged in a while... a long while, relative to how frequently I had been blogging. I think it's because I have swimming in some pretty muddy waters lately-- dealing with family stuff that has me sort of out of sorts. I feel like I can't talk about it without compromising everyone's privacy, so instead of purging it and working it out here on Devonnaire, I have suffered in silence. But those things are so far out of my control, that I have decided to move forward and focus on our lives: the Whitneys' lives. Therefore, I'm back.

It's Saturday and Monday is the much anticipated Flag Day. We can hardly contain ourselves. There are cities on that bid list in which I've always longed to live and there are cities where I've never imagined living and really don't want to. So, it's a pretty big gamble we're taking. And while two years might seem a relatively short period of time when looking at the broader picture, it also has the potential to feel like an eternity. So, needless to say, this weekend is not without its anxieties.

One concern that has cropped up while living here in Falls Church, VA is the heat. Though I've always known my pale, freckly self is not at its most glamorous in temperatures over 80 and humidity levels exceeding 30%, I had forgotten how utterly miserable it makes me. I am loathe to go outside because within just minutes, I become bright red in the face and completely drenched in sweat. Every step is a labor. I move like a sloth and look like a pink-faced piggy. I hate the heat and humidity and without giving too much away, there are several potential posts that are both hotter and more humid than even here in Northern Virginia. My fingers are crossed so hard they are starting to cramp.

In other news, Adela is really starting to talk and Stef and I are quite proud that one of her most used phrases is, "Dank ooo." She's also become much softer and more predictable with her "Sissy" (as pictured) and she effectively uses her "doot bruh" to clean her teeth. Everyday, her communication skills improve and we are closer to light at the end of the tunnel.

I have officially made my first Foreign Service friend, I am happy to report. I have also found a wonderful yoga studio, which features (in addition to great Hatha classes), a "Toddler Together" class and a "Mommy Baby" class. And thanks to the help of Estela, our new babysitter, I am able to attend all of the aforementioned classes easily. I feel much more sane and energetic with a little extra help and another set of hands around here. I feel I can manage things much more effectively.

Now we are off, all four of us Whitneys, to explore Georgetown and try to forget the drama of the waiting game. Pictures of our outting to follow!

Lamenting the Absence of "Stuff":

2010-05-20T04:59:00.000-07:00

All the dust has settled. We are here and its quiet. We are moving through our days as we would anywhere else. Stefan goes off to work and I stay behind, watching him go, wishing he could stay because truthfully, now that the move is over and we are all settled in, I'm a little... bored. Hard to imagine that a mother of two small babies could ever be bored, but I think its one of my dysfunctions that I am not truly engaged unless there's some sort of major crisis going on.

I think if we knew where were we off to next, I wouldn't be bored because I would be able to obsess over that place and how to get there and what to bring and what things I could do to make that place home. I have been thinking a lot about the nesting process lately, probably because I can't really nest under our current circumstances and in the absence of being able to, I've realized just how much I need to.

My friend (and fellow blogger and trailing spouse) recently made a joke about how much she fears the presence of "government-issued furniture" in her home. For some reason, it took reading about her fears for me to fully realize my own. All these years, I have lovingly collected what I consider to be beautiful things for our home- furniture, vases, pot and pans, enamel dutch ovens, paintings, sculptures, photographs, rugs. And now, they all sit somewhere in rural Virginia in a storage unit. I feel like the rest of my family is locked up, out of reach, all alone, collecting dust.

It probably seems totally shallow (especially since I was inspired to write this post because of today's "Home and Garden" section in the NYT, which features about a hundred things I really, really must have), but it's not just about the stuff. Its about my identity and I really do believe that our homes are (or certainly "can be") an expression of who we are and how we view the world. (Is it at all ironic that as I write about how important my "stuff" is, there's an ad on TV for an upcoming episode of "Hoarding: Buried Alive"?).

What's the point of this post? I guess the point is, that every time I identify something exciting and wonderful (i.e. liberation from "stuff"), it's met with a new fear (i.e. liberation from "stuff"). While my husband is realizing his own dreams and identity, I am really struggling (hard) to find my own. It's like I have been stripped down to the barest, most basic version of myself. So while I have dealt with the separation from all my friends and family (reasonably well, if I do say so myself), I am still dealing with not being able to nest and make a home for myself, my children, my husband and my dogs and I am little scared... well, a lot scared... that I'm going to have to wait a really long time before I am able to do it again.

What a Week (plus) it's Been...

2010-05-14T05:01:00.000-07:00

I'm still spinning...

Eight days ago, we were in New Jersey and this whole Foreign Service thing still seemed something distant and intangible. Now, a week later, we're here and fully in the throes. Stef has completed a whole week of training. We are calling our Oakwood apartment "home." I have attended (most of) the spouse/partner orientation. Best of all, we have the much anticipated "Bid List" in our hands...

Of course, I can't tell you anything about it. I can't tell you about all the wonderful places where we might end up living nor can I tell you about the few god forsaken places we might end up living. But I can say it's a great relief to have the list in our possession, so we can begin the process of processing all the possibilities and doing the necessary research on each destination.

As those of you who know us well would guess, our biggest concern is getting the "boys" to our new home, safely and without having to quarantine them (as you can see in the attached picture, they too are quite comfy in the Oakwood). As the girls get a little older, I think the available education will probably trump the comfort of the Labra-dudes, but for now, they are still the kings.

When we first began talking about the logistical aspects of FS life, my biggest concern was for my dogs. It still is. Otis is nearing 12 years old, so it makes sense to think a very long journey could be dangerous and overly taxing for him. We also need to go to a place where there is adequate veterinary care because in these later years, medical issues arise almost monthly. It's a lot to consider, but I still stand firm that I won't go anywhere Otis (and Rudi) can't come.

I will never forget the day I picked little, six week old Otis up from the breeder. He was the last of the litter to go home and boy, was he ready. When I got there, he was hiding under an end table from his mother and auntie, who were relentless in their rough-housing. He was so small and scared, but grateful to see me and to be carried off. We made an instant connection. We were fast friends.

Since that day, I have taken Otis everywhere. First, I took him back to college to finish my senior year (yes, I have had him since college!). Next, we went to New York for my first "real" job. Then, we went to the Hamptons, for my first "restaurant job." Then we drove cross-country for the first of many trips to the West Coast. We lived in Massachusetts, Montana, San Francisco, San Diego, New York, New Jersey, and now Virginia.

When I look at the bid list, I look for mainly one thing: in which of these fascinating cities will Otis be most happy and comfortable? For some, this probably seems irrational and to others, it probably makes perfect sense. Despite all the wonderful people I have met along the way, there's only one who has always been there and always been very, very happy to be.

Otis has gone everywhere with me since the day I got him. And as long as his heart is still beating, he will continue to, for he is truly the best friend I've ever had and I won't go anywhere without him.

Oakwood: Temporary Apartment Living or Premature Retirement Community?

2010-05-12T04:31:00.000-07:00

Well, the Oakwood has it all. There are potholders in the kitchen drawers, minimally sharpened knives in the butcher block, clean, recently-shampooed wall to wall carpeting in all the rooms. There is also a nice, clean pool in the courtyard, next to the pro-shop, tennis court and children's playground. There's a "community room" in the Clubhouse, next to which, is the on-site convenience store and a neat row of gas barbecue grills for communal cooking. There's a "Movie Night," and an "Ice Cream Social" and "Adult Cupcake Decorating." And Best of all, folks, there's an "Activities Center," which really makes my argument, that the Oakwood is secretly a premature retirement community, for me.

In all seriousness, I am pretty happy with the situation at the Oakwood because in addition to providing almost everything we need right here on the property, it also provides a window into what our lives might look like 40 years from now. We've always said that we'd like to end up in a place like this so that we don't crowd or overburden our children and I will say that if life in an "Adult Retirement Community" looks even remotely like life in the Oakwood, we'll be a couple of relaxed and happy old farts.

Life is easy here and given the circumstances of our lives, we need "easy." When we came to visit, we looked at the apartment and I grunted a disappointed mumble about sterility and lack of character. While these things are true- our apartment is sterile and completely lacking the character of almost all of our ramshackle previous abodes- there were many things we didn't consider at first glance. The most important of which, is the fact that it so easy to meet people here, it's almost laughable. Every where you go, to the playground or the Activities Center (for an adequately heart-pumping "Cardio Jam" class), there's a friendly face eager to talk and hear your story. It's comforting beyond belief to a woman who left everything familiar behind to follow her husbands dreams.

While it's not the stuff of a progressive homemaker's dreams, it is a good place to be right now. For that, I am grateful.

It's All Led Up to This Moment:

2010-05-10T03:59:00.000-07:00

Ah, well, it's hard to know where to start. Should I start with the fact that both mornings I woke up in the Oakwood, I had no idea where I was (or where my husband was, thanks to the gargantuan king sized bed we now share)? Should I start with trumpeting the virtues of Ikea for making a generic corporate-style apartment something resembling home? Or how about the fact that the sound-proofing in this place is so adequate that both my children have slept past 8AM since we got here? Or more appropriately, should I start by mentioning that as my husband adjusted his tie one last time before leaving this tiny cubicle of an apartment, I looked at him and knew that the last 10 or so years of his life had come down to that moment?

It's amazing to recall the first time we talked about Stefan's dreams of working for the Department of State. It was the second time we met. We were standing in the grass near Crissy Field in San Francisco. He was telling me about why he was going to going to graduate school for international relations. He said, "I want to do something meaningful. I want to help people and make a contribution." I was so self-absorbed at that point in my life; I hadn't yet considered the fact that one might actually want to devote his life to making a contribution to other people's. At that point, I didn't view my own work, running a catering business, as making much of a contribution (now, I realize that you could make the argument that cooking for people, nourishing people, indeed impacts their lives, but that wasn't a part of my thinking at the time). It was almost 5 years ago that my husband told me that after he finished graduate school, he hoped to join the Foreign Service (at that time, he had taken the exam and was awaiting the results).

My husband failed the entrance exam this first time he took it. But, to his credit, he took it again after getting his Masters degree. We both viewed this second time as an opportunity for him to redeem his own image of himself. I said, "yes, take it. That way, you will know one way or another." Well, he passed and I thought to myself, "oh, shit."

He subsequently passed the Oral Exam and then my "oh, shit" turned into, "oh my god, you're actually going to do this to me." We were living our lives as if we were going to stay in the New York area indefinitely. We had moved back from California to be close to our families and get settled in, get married, make babies... we even looked at buying a house. He had a good job at Bloomberg, which he really liked. We were a young family, coming along in our way and everything seemed to be going well. But there was this thing that my husband wanted so badly hiding in the corners of every decision we made. Knowing how much it meant to him, I encouraged him and together, we waited over a year for his security clearance to come through. It was the last of many steps to his becoming eligible to be hired by the State Department. It came last March, but we had a very new baby and wanted one more before we made the move. So he put himself on the "do not call" list and we got to work. We made one more baby and spent as much as possible with our families.

And now, after all that, I am sitting in the Oakwood and he is off to his very first day of training. It is so amazing that it's all led up to this moment. This is what life is all about: identifying your dream and making it happen. I owe a lot to my husband for setting such an incredibly fine example, not just for my little girls, but also, for me.

Go Team America! Go Stefan! I love you so much and I am so very proud to be your wife.

Just kickin it

2010-05-05T04:39:00.001-07:00

The Whitneys are on hiatus in the Hamptons. Yesterday included a trip to Montauk to watch Daddy surf (pictured above), a mid-afternoon nap and a delicious family supper at Della Famina.

We felt dinner was 75% successful because it only included three or so toddler outburts. We are the type of family who goes out to dinner... a lot. Of course, it would be a favorite pastime for a chef, but my husband also loves it. We love food. We love to cook it, eat it, read about it and talk about it. Therefore, it's important to us that we raise children who are interested in food and in the customs that surround the experience of dining out, like: sitting still, not screaming bloody murder, eating the food and not throwing it on the floor, etc., etc., etc. So far, I think we're doing a pretty good job because Adela knows to put her napkin on her lap upon sitting down and proudly uses her sippy cup to toast the start of the meal with us, "Cheers!" over and over and over and over and over.

Anyway, today's blog is devoid of any major epiphanies. Because we're just kickin' it while we can. The adventure begins again tomorrow, when we pack up the car and return to Jersey for some final goodbyes and a last trip to the pediatrician. Saturday is the big day. For now, I am enjoying the sun, the sand, the ocean and the family.

Our Bon Voyage Party: May 2nd 2010

2010-05-03T09:06:00.001-07:00

(Note about the message on the cake to all you Francophiles: you might think it should say, "Bon Voyage and Bon Chance," but the "Bon Jour" is a special shout out to Tiny Flora).

Among our many blessings, we have a very loving group of friends and family who came together yesterday on an unseasonably hot spring afternoon to wish us luck and to say farewell. I haven't felt so much love since my wedding day. There were so many of the people I love in one place, for one reason: us. I felt like Sally Field winning the Oscar; "You like me. You really like me." It was magical, in spite of the fact that I had a wicked case of postpartum sweats, Addy was sleep-deprived and acting like an under-medicated mental patient, and Stefan and I were both at the end of our ropes from having been living out of our car for three days.

I would like to take a moment to directly thank my cousins, Meghan, Fred, Liz and Rob for hosting the wonderful affair. I would also like to thank everyone who drove HOURS to celebrate with us (especially the lovely Mike Brautigan who drove 4 hours each way). We are so touched. Knowing we have this community of people at "home," gives me the confidence and strength I need to raise my family under the unusual circumstances created by the Foreign Service.

More so than saying "goodbye," the party provided an opportunity to take stock of what we have in these people and relationships. It put it all in one place, so we could effectively count our blessings. This village, our village, is one that will keep us going and will keep us coming back. As Stefan and I held each other's hand and made a wish as we blew out the above pictured candles, I felt my heart swell with the knowledge that there was nothing left to wish for. At that perfect moment, I had it all... everything I could ever want.

Gypsy Livin'

2010-05-01T06:37:00.001-07:00

Last night was our second night as a family of wayward gypsies. Thank goodness for the kindness of our extended family. Without them, we'd surely be shacked up at a Best Western Express lapping up frozen biscuits with powdered gravy. This scenario- car swollen with stuff, us on the road without a care, stopping for a hot meal and an accoustic, fireside "kumbayah"- would have would have been far more charming back in the good ole' days when "we" meant Stefan and me. Now, its something else entirely. We need more than a white t-shirt, jeans and a pair of aviators. Now, it's diapers in two sizes, bottles, sippy cups, tiny, plastic-handled forks, toys, blankies, dog beds, dog bowls, food and snacks for multiple species. The "Music Together" CD has replaced the melodic indie rock of our younger years and life has surely changed. My, my, has life changed.

We've been ROBBED!

2010-04-28T09:46:00.000-07:00

I woke up feeling naked. Oh wait, I was naked. Because the movers took all my clothes and squirreled them into boxes alongside my Kitchen Aid Mixer and my husbands running shoes.

OMG. What the hell just happened? It was whirlwind of tattooed fury running about, wrapping everything in sight in brown paper! My cousin Hillary, who kindly took Adela off our hands, commented when she dropped Adela back off, "I love how they packed yesterday's newspaper into the box." We laughed. Oh, how we laughed. OMG. They packed yesterday's (well, now the day before yesterday's) newpapers into a box? Did they also pack full garbage cans and dirty underwear? Probably.

Note to self: don't look at your husband midday while breastfeeding your 6 week old baby and say, "I am going to take a Buddhist approach to this move and just let it happen." That was when things really went wrong.

I had piles of things I had hoped to reserve for use over the next days after the packing had begun. Piles of things, like, clothes. Ooops. Those are gone. So, uh, I went to Dunkin Donuts this morning with my coat pulled closed over my shirtless torso.

I don't really have words. I don't know what to say or do. I foresee us re-buying a lot of things we already have because we have no idea which boxes they are in.

First Trailing Spouse test: FAILED.

Pack-Rats don't do Pack-Outs.

2010-04-26T04:39:00.000-07:00

So, it's Monday and the packers/movers are coming on Wednesday. I have scheduled my next two days such that I hardly have time to organize. This morning, we're off to the vet, which is roughly an hour away. We will be making a 40 minute detour to pick up my stepfather, so he can sit with the girls while I deal with the "boys." Of course, on the way back, I will have to drop off my stepfather and run the boys on the golf course where he is the superintendent. I will visit with my mom and give the girls some lunch. Then I have to stop at IKEA ("stop" at IKEA! hah!) to get some vessels in which to organize our clothing and personal belongings. I will get home around 5PM most likely. That leaves on hour before the bedtime routine begins. Nice.

It gets worse because tomorrow, I have two appointments in the city; one is at the OB-GYN (tmi?) to ensure that I don't have THREE children in three years and the other is at the dentist to finish a crown. I will gone all day and will likely be in pain upon my return home. My husband was born to be a Foreign Service Officer, but I don't think I was born to be a Trailing Spouse. I suck at this stuff. I am terribly disorganized and thoroughly devoted to accumulating "stuff." I am low on motivation and hate to clean. I am a world-class procrastinator as evidenced in the fact it's Monday and we're moving Wednesday and all I've done is blog about it!

A Shot in the Dark (and a plea for help from my new FS hommies):

2010-04-24T03:48:00.000-07:00

So, I was quite disappointed to learn that the orientation for FS spouses/partners is scheduled for an 8-hour, regular workday. There is no childcare available. While an exception can be made for Tiny Flora (thank goodness because if she gets too far away from my boobs, she turns into a pumpkin- or so she seems to think), Toddlersaurus Rex is not welcome. So, lemme get this straight: we're not permitted to move into our new "home" until May 8th. Stefan starts full-time training on May 10th. And without knowing a SOUL in the Falls Church area, I am supposed to find a babysitter who I trust with my FIRST BORN by 8AM on May 13th!!! That really pisses me off.

Anyway, I would really like to go to the orientation. I would also really like to find a babysitter who can come three days a week in the mornings and as needed on the weekends and evenings. I would also like a yacht, a limitless, no-interest credit card, a size 4 heinie and a diamond headband. I doubt I will ever have any of those things. I think it's so important for me to attend the orientation (and not the inferior online option) because I'm sorely unimformed about every aspect of Foreign Service life and because I would really like to mingle with my fellow trailing spouses.

Does anyone out there know where to find a perfect babysitter in Falls Church, VA? By perfect I mean, available and 1000% trustworthy (and available all day on May 13th)?

I'm mad at the State Department already

2010-04-23T06:30:00.001-07:00

So, this was the scene: Poor, sweet little Addy at the mercy of two, crazed, needle-wielding phlebotomists. No amount of marshmallows or lollipops could calm her. Her father had to hold her tightly against himself to keep her (and her stubborn little veins) from wiggling away. I, of course, was wearing baby Flora (in the Ergo, not the sling), so all I could do was watch from a safe distance. Heart-breaking. So, I'm mad at the State Department for making my first born endure the battery of blood tests that are required for her to be medically cleared. Hmph. Not nice. Mommy no likey.

Thank Goodness for the Beave:

2010-04-22T04:20:00.000-07:00

In the midst of all this movement and panic, there's this lovely little lake community that remains a constant (in our hearts and in our lives) and that will continue to, no matter where Stef's job takes us. I was thinking about Beaver Lake, NJ this morning and trying to figure out how to ensure we have a rental house there every summer going forward. I can't imagine there are very many places like Beaver Lake (in the world) and I think returning every summer will keep the Whitney family sane and connected to the people who matter most.

It's a small lake, as far as lakes that are large enough to support a community of people go. There's a limit on the size of the motor boat engine one can have, so everyone cruises around on the these jenky aluminum vessels with 6 horse power motors. When time allows, we opt for canoes or kayaks instead (after 5PM, there's a requisite "Jolly Roger"-- a cocktail taken along for the ride). There's a "General Store" type of place where you can pick up a copy of the New York Times and an egg sandwich in the morning and then grab an ice cream cone and a game of ping-pong in the afternoon. The center of activity for those of us who have small children is the "Kiddie Beach," which is essentially a patch of sand nestled in between the "Community House" (where the Barn Dance is held) and the boat house for people whose homes are on islands. There's a strict "Board," who most people complain about, but without whom the rules that keep this place the way it is- humble, honest, close-knit- would be broken. The best part, and the part that makes Beaver Lake so important to a family such as ours is that the place is overflowing with family and friends-- people who have been a part of my life for as long as I have been alive to enjoy them.

When I was a toddler, I learned to swim by jumping off a Beaver Lake dock with abandon. When I was 6 or so, I dutifully attended Beaver Lake Day Camp and made necklaces out of macaroni. When I was 13, I hung out at the "Big Kid Float" in the middle of the lake, coating my skin with baby oil and listening to Blues Traveler. It's safe to say I drank my first beer, smoked my first cigarette and had my first crush at Beaver Lake too. Now, I am 32 and I am anxious to watch my girls grow up here (except for the beer, the cigarette, the baby oil and definitely NO Blues Traveler).

P.S. (to today's earlier post):

2010-04-21T19:32:00.001-07:00

How can I NOT follow this man around the world?

Parting is such... sorrow.

2010-04-21T04:15:00.000-07:00

(Please forgive this very long and self-indulgent post)

Last night, reality actually set in. You might wonder- three years of passing tests and gaining security clearance and knowing that our new life in the Foreign Service was imminent wasn't enough? To that I will say, I have been in a long coma of denial and have been so consumed with making babies and nesting (in a temporary home) that I didn't really face the facts. We are LEAVING... For a LONG TIME. And the craziest part- we don't know WHERE we are going.

There are other bloggers out there who write about how much they long to feel precisely what I am feeling. They are in some early stage of the process or they are deeply invested, but have yet to receive an invitation and when I read their (your) posts, I feel guilty for feeling the way I do. Like, I know, I am really lucky. My husband is really lucky (and smart). My kids are going to be terribly interesting people. We are going to see the world and there will be so much fodder out there, I won't even have time to write everything down. I know all these things, but I also know how lonely I will be and how much harder it will be for me to find my own way professionally and how little things-- like going grocery shopping or taking my aging dog to the vet-- will become extremely difficult in a country where I don't speak the language.

And then there's the really hard part and the one that sent me running to my mommy after dinner last night. I won't have my family, as crazy and dysfunctional as it is, around to help me... when I have a migraine, when the babies are driving me nuts, when I need to talk about an argument with my husband, when I just need to be with the people who love me no matter how much I screw up or disappoint them. It breaks my heart to the core to consider the daily absence of these people-- my mom, my Elliott, my friends, my aunts, uncles, cousins and now elderly grandmothers, my brother and stepmother, my father. It's this kind of thing that makes me wonder-- what's really most important in life?

I guess that's the whole thing-- this experience (already) has me asking the difficult questions about my life and the people in it and the kind person I want to be. I won't be able to take anyone (or anything familiar) for granted. I have to reflect on all the things in my life with care and consideration and that has got to be a good thing.

While it might not be my dream to enter the Foreign Service, it's my husband's lifelong dream. And seeing how much joy he gets from realizing it, makes it worthwhile and has taught me what a real partnership is. This is my time to suck it up and sacrifice so he can have what he's always wanted. It's going to be very hard, at times, but I know he'd do the same for me. He's my man. Seeing him happy means as much as anything and oh boy, do have the ultimate in leverage when my times comes!

Slingadingdong: What to do?

2010-04-15T05:10:00.000-07:00

So, when the CPSC first warned of the dangers associated with baby slings (March 12th), I had JUST received a beautiful, hand-embroidered "Market Sling" from Serena and Lily (http://www.serenaandlily.com/Sling-Prague-Market-Sling). I vowed, this time, to have a fashionable sling to wear to social events and the like. While I love my Ergo Baby Carrier, it can really bring down an otherwise great outfit with its unsightly black straps and various snapping closures. So, I found this sling on sale and snapped it right up. It arrived and about 10 minutes later, I read the warnings about babies dying in slings. YEARGH. It's was FINAL SALE. Doh!

So now I have this great sling. I also have a great pouch-style sling from Kangeroo Korner, which Adela loved and so does Flora. It's like instant cozy for the little ones. They go right to sleep in the faux womb. Addy lived in it for the first four months... precisely the amount of time the CPSC suggests they not be in a sling. It made a lot of things that wouldn't have been possible, possible. At first, I thought, "what the hell? Women have been "wearing" their babies for centuries." In fact, the Ethiopian restaurant, Mesob, around the corner from our house, has hundred year old antique papooses on display that look very much like the ones I now own. My initial reaction was that I am a responsible mother and I pay close attention to the babies I "wear," so there couldn't be a real problem with the slings. But then I wore the sling out in public and the looks I got from complete strangers made me rethink the whole thing.

I don't know how middle-aged men know about the warning, but I do know that people feel compelled (and comfortable) to tell me how much of a risk I am taking when I use the sling. It's like such a buzz kill because now, with the amazing convenience of the sling, come scornful glances and contemptuous glares.

Maybe people in other parts of the world haven't heard the warnings or feel less entitled to tell strangers how to best transport their infants. That's the most I can hope for, at this point. For now, I am feeling too much shame to take Flora outside of the house in the sling, which means I look really, really good wearing Flora in that lovely "Market Sling," as I walk around my own house.

As much as I whine...

2010-04-14T15:42:00.001-07:00

... I really did get so lucky. Flora is approaching 5 weeks and she has consistently given me 6-8 hours of sleep every night since she was 2 weeks old. I'm not so foolish as to think it might not change, but I'm grateful, regardless. My hat's off to the mothers (and fathers?) who manage my same set of circumstances with little to no sleep. How do they do it??? HOW?

Travel Orders:

2010-04-14T04:02:00.001-07:00

So, yesterday, Stef forwarded me an email which contained our "travel orders" (which is basically the official record of where we are going, where from and how much we will be fiscally compensated for our journey). I have to confess something. I don't understand it. I guess it's good that Stefan is the FSO and I am the Trailing Spouse because I clearly don't speak the language of beauracracy. I mean, I kept reading it over and over and over and all I kept thinking was: why can't they just write it in clear, comprehensible English? Like this:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Whitney,

Welcome to the Foreign Service. This is a just a little note to say we are looking forward to your arrival in Washington, DC on May 10th and we do hope you enjoy your time at the Oakwood Temporary Housing in Falls Church, VA. Below, we've made a note of your anticipated expenses. All the best on your journey to America's capitol city!

Thanks,

The People at the Foreign Service Place

Hmph. Wouldn't that be better? Maybe there IS a career for me at the State Department after all...

So, it would seem any chance of me waking up from this dream (sometimes nightmare) has evaporated. We are really doing this. And we are really going to do it under these absurd circumstances.

Calgon! Take me AWAY!!!!

2010-04-13T03:21:00.000-07:00

I actually have reached a point in my life when I understand those Calgon commercials.

This is SO HARD. I think of the people who work tirelessly and have such difficulty getting pregnant and I know I shouldn't complain. I am blessed with these little angels from heaven, but sometimes, they don't seem like angels.

Yesterday morning, I found myself sitting on the floor in my kitchen, crying and praying to a god I have never even been certain of. Addy was throwing a complete tantrum (the reason for which I've completely forgotten), Flora was screaming bloody murder for yet another feeding (she'd live attached to my boob... ouch) and the GD dogs were following me around the house, panting and clickety-clacking their nails on the hardwood (hoping that in the midst of the hysteria, I was going to take them to... the park?). As I sat on the floor praying for grace in this moment of complete chaos, I thought of a time in my life when I had virtually no responsibility-- college.

When I was in college, at Boston University, my biggest decisions were those involving which classes I was going to take. I would scan the course guide for hours, imagining the possibilities. I thought it was HARD! Second biggest decisions were: what I was going to do on Saturday night and what I was going to wear to the class with the cute guy. Ugh. As trivial as it now seems, life seemed hard then. Life seems hard now. Logic is getting to me a scary place right now: am I going to look back someday at this time and laugh because the really hard stuff is yet to come??? Oh god, no (there's that mystery god again). I don't think anything could be harder than raising a toddler and a newborn simultaneously while planning an overseas move and coping with a sick mother and an alcoholic father, but of course... that's how I see it now.

Ahhh.... give me grace to get through this day... just this day...

Things I love about Montclair, NJ:

2010-04-12T04:31:00.000-07:00

Now that I am leaving this lovely suburban retreat, there are things that I already know I will miss... possibly forever, because as we all know, businesses come and go and what might have seemed solid at one point might quickly become desolate and obsolete years later.

We have only lived here for 18 months- not long in the scheme of things, but for my life, it's the longest time I've been at one address since I graduated from college. That's nuts, isn't it? It makes our life in the Foreign Service (moving every two or so years) seem luxurious. Since we got here, I have walked by a little door with a paper sign reading, "Today's Raviolis and Today's Cookies." Corso 98 on Walnut Street is a restaurant that we have yet to try, but their tiny little ravioli and cookie shop located next door represents a time and culture warp that I never could have imagined at first glance.

One evening a couple of weeks ago, the first of the warm days of spring, I walked the girls to meet Stef at the train as he arrived home from work. As we walked up Walnut Street, I pointed out the paper sign and asked if we could stop in- I've always wanted to, but at 20$ a box, we've been unable to take the plunge (raising two children on one income in the NY Metro area is a very delicate balancing act). Alas, the first of March meant bonus time, and we've been letting our hairs down so we went in. Nothing could have prepared us for the absolute perfection we found beyond that little door with the paper sign.

There is actually a little Italian lady inside working on a long, well-worn butcher block, rolling out perfect little pillows of pasta filled with anything from braised rabbit to radicchio and walnut to classic four cheese. She delights in talking about her raviolis and in feeding babies her handmade biscotti and pignole cookies. It's a wonderful little place with the perfect balance of comfort and deliciousness. We went home and cooked the ravioli and despite the considerable price, they are well worth it. The little Italian lady with the carefully pressed toque might well have been enough, but the raviolis are perfection- delightfully toothsome and packed full of fresh, flavorful stuffings. The perfect way to take a break from cooking dinner without sacrificing a fabulous food experience.

I will miss this.

96-98 Walnut St.
Montclair, NJ 07042
Tel: 973-746-0789
Fax: 973-746-6488

News that I have long been waiting to share:

2010-04-10T18:04:00.001-07:00

It's been a long time since my husband got the news that he passed all the requisite exams and clearances for his new job working at the State Department and I have long waited to share the details of our exciting new lifestyle. It's been hard to keep it to myself, especially since if there's anything in my life worth blogging about (aside from my beautiful daughters), it's the fact that I will soon become what is referred to as a "Trailing Spouse" (charming title, no?).

On May 8th, we will be moving to Falls Church, VA for Stefan to begin his training and there we will be until we are relocated to our first foreign post. It's a daunting and exhilarating new beginning and one which my dear husband has always dreamed of. On some level, I have always fantasized about living abroad and of having fabulous stories to share at adult dinner parties about my unusual and intriguing life. I guess I never thought I would be doing it with two such small children and two giant dogs in tow, but life is never quite what we imagine it will be.

I hope to take the opportunity to turn this blog into a place where our friends and family can follow our adventures and where other fledgling Trailing Spouses can take refuge, but that remains to be seen. For the next couple of weeks, we will be packing up our lives and putting our earthly belongings into distinct categories: that which is coming with us to the Oakwood temporary housing and that which will be locked away in a distant storage unit not to be seen for many many months (or more likely, years). Woes me... for all the lovely little things I have accumulated-- artwork, enamel pots, collectible post modern furniture-- it's all become meaningless for now and my identity becomes only what I can portray in person. I feel scared, naked and incredibly excited, for my husband is giving me a life that most can only imagine or read about.

Maxin' and Relaxin'

2010-04-07T17:15:00.001-07:00

Flora, she knows how to get down to the business of sleep. In fact, she sleeps all night long, which makes my life pretty good let alone possible. I'm psyched. Zzzzzzz....

My baby girl smiles!

2010-04-06T10:29:00.000-07:00

Flora is lovely, happy and healthy. She's growing stronger and longer by the day. She's moments away from holding her little head up and laughs at my goofy faces and bad jokes just like her big sister.

Baby x 2 is Pretty Freakin' Hard, But....

2010-03-18T05:43:00.000-07:00

So, Flora has been with us for 11 glorious days and the adjustment has gone as smoothly as we could have hoped. Adela has embraced her sister (I mean this quite literally) and she has taken to smacking her lips in a faux kissing action every time she catches a glimpse of her. Jealousy seems to be on the back-burner for the time being, because I don't think she fully grasps that this is a child and not just an incredibly demanding toy that her father and I brought home for the three of us to play with.

Flora sleeps a lot. I am trying hard to take advantage of it, but of course, I don't want to sleep when I could be playing with or caring for Adela and this is the fundamental difference between bringing Adela home and bringing Flora home. We were able to lay around and stare blissfully at newborn Addy for hours on end, whereas now, each minute not spent nursing, changing or otherwise trying to comfort Flora, we have to chase, feed, change and entertain the toddling monster. It's hard. Thank god Stefan was able to take off a big chunk of time so that I could heal and recover in the midst of all the seemingly endless childcare.

I had hoped that the migraines that plagued me during pregnancy would have subsided by now, but sadly, they still linger here and wake me from the occasional sleep I do get. I suppose, in light of all our many, many blessings, I should just learn to suck it up. But, alas, it's hard to ignore a pain in one's head that is sometimes so fierce it makes one's toes curl! I have resigned to live with the pain for a while longer so that I can continue to breastfeed Flora and give her the same advantages that Adela had. Unfortunately, they have yet to develop an adequate migraine medication that is safe for breastfeeding and pregnant women.

With that one exception, our life is such an incredibly good one. When I watch Stefan and Adela walk down the street as they head to one of her many scheduled activities, I am moved to tears (thanks, in part, to whopping hormone fluctuations). Then as I think life couldn't be any more wonderful, there is little Flora sleeping peacefully (or looking around bewildered... or screaming her little lungs out), and I know the possibilities for joy are endless. It's such a profoundly beautiful thing to have this time together- the six of us- to savor our good fortune and to imagine all the adventures that lay ahead.

Love is...

2010-03-08T16:10:00.001-08:00

... A perfectly healthy baby girl whose very existence is an extension of her parents' devotion to one another (I can't help but be sappy. I'm in a state of postpartum euphoria). I'm just so damned happy. I love this new, little baby and I am so lucky to have such a perfect family in Stefan, Adela, Flora and even, Otis and Rudi. Life is so goooood.

Introducing Flora May Whitney!

2010-03-07T14:45:00.001-08:00

Her last day as an only child

2010-03-06T17:36:00.000-08:00

Stefan took this picture on a recent walk through Mills County Preserve, a place we like to take the dogs and wander through the woods. In many ways, its our saving grace. Having grown so accustomed to being dog owners in Northern CA, we just couldn't get used to not having a place where our animals can run free. Little dinky, dingy urban dog runs don't cut the mustard when you're used to the glory that is Crissy Field. Anyway, this picture is of Adela at Mills after our most recent battle with Stormasaurus Rex. It was the last time she will walk through the woods sisterless, because... Drumroll, please... I'm really, really, really in labor this time. Woo-hoo! We are on our way to NYU Medical Center, in the Lincoln Tunnel and I'm typing this between the god-awful (but welcomed) contractions! My next post will almost certainly include a picture of our second child.

The Last Sonogram Picture

2010-03-06T02:50:00.001-08:00

This was taken on Friday, March 5th. Doesn't she look (sorta) cute in a squished-up kinda way? This was the last time she will be photographed in-utero because on Monday, they will finally begin the process of inducing us. As it turns out, she is very high still, so rather than just going for it and breaking the water, my doctor is going to do what is referred to as "stripping the membranes." This apparently hurts just as much as it sounds like it will. Yow. Ugh. Its also not a sure thing, so if that doesn't work to get things moving within a couple of hours, then they will break the water. I'm hoping to avoid chemical intervention, but its starting to look like that's impossible. Oh well. She's all cooked and its time for her to come out. I've had too many sleepless nights, too much discomfort and actually, I'm damned ready for a giant Manhattan! I've been pregnant for 10 weeks shy of
a year and there was only a six month break between this and my last pregnancy, so, yeah, I'm pretty ready to call this game!!!

Status update:

2010-03-05T10:59:00.001-08:00

'Nuff said...

How SILLY!

2010-03-03T05:46:00.000-08:00

Three weeks ago, I took Adela to her Wednesday "Gym Juniors" class and I said "goodbye" to all the other mothers and the teacher, all of whom have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of baby girl #2. I said, "Thanks for everything, but I am sure there's no way that I will be here next week. My husband will be bringing her, I'm sure."

Then two weeks ago, I waddled in and they all sort of looked at me with sympathy. We all agreed that it would have to be my last week.

Last week, the teacher guffawed and said, "Oh, sweetie, don't worry, this is definitely the last week you will be here with Adela."

Well, I am getting ready to go today and I feel very silly.

Can you guess her weight?

2010-03-01T17:37:00.000-08:00

I am starting a pool for my favorite 10 blog followers. What do you think this stubborn baby is going to weigh? I gave a pretty good clue in my second to last post (that's your ONLY hint... don't ask for any more). The person who comes the closest will get a very special surprise when she finally arrives on the scene. Oh, which reminds me, I should probably tell you that I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow at 2PM. I'm hoping that I won't make it that long, but if I do, I have a strong suspicion that we will decide on proceeding with induction. I so wanted to let nature take its course. I hate the idea of rattling her out of here, but truthfully, waiting too much longer could mean she won't fit through the tunnel and a C-Section is my own worst nightmare... for so many reasons. One, I feel like the baby would be so put off by the surprise of being tugged out of her happy home. Secondly, I don't have the luxury of being able to recover at my own pace. I have a toddler. I can't just chill out on the couch for three weeks without lifting anything or laughing! And finally, of course, I don't want the scar. I just don't. My midsection is about the only part of my body I don't completely hate, so I would like to keep as intact as possible.

Anyway, I digress. I really do hope you will place your best guess as to baby Whitney #2's birth weight. Please do so in the comments section below.

I will be back tomorrow with the doctor update...

Good Luck, Grandpa Elly!

2010-03-01T04:20:00.001-08:00

My dear friend and stepfather and Adela's best buddy and grandpa Elly is having orthopedic surgery this morning to repair is long-painful shoulder and collar-bone. Here's to hoping it goes wonderfully- that his shoulder heals without pain and that we both spend some time in the hospital today! All the best today! We love you so much.

This was Adela's face...

2010-02-28T11:58:00.001-08:00

... when I told her to expect a sister today...

What does she know that I don't?

For those of you waiting with baited breath, there has been nary a contraction today. I no longer have a relationship with the moon. At 11:38EST when good ole Mr. Moon was at his supposed highest and most gravitationally powerful point, I was taking a much needed nap. It came and went without a cramp.

Many people have asked me for an explanation for my impatience. After all, today is my due date. My answer is this: there's a baby inside who began her battle to escape almost 11 days ago and at that point, she weighed 8lbs 3oz. My vast mathematical and gestational knowledge leads me to believe she is well over 9 lbs now and on her way to 10lb (if my dietary choices have anything to do with it- what the hell else am I supposed to do?). So, there you have it. I'm not just a crazy, hysterical pregnant lady. I'm one who's been in labor on and off for 11 GD days!

The Full Moon Baby Theory:

2010-02-27T09:38:00.001-08:00

Does anyone know anything about what it means to be born on a full moon? Tomorrow, February 28th, is my actual due date and it's a full moon. First of all, I am trying to make myself vulnerable to the moon's "natural gravitational pull," which in some circles is said to help rupture the good ole' bag o' waters. There's also good evidence to support the idea that more women go into spontaneous labor under the full moon. That's good and bad. While I am so anxious to have this baby that I've become impossible to be around (just ask my husband), I am also hoping for a quiet hospital with an attentive staff and available private rooms. NYU is notorious for overcrowding (I think my friend recently spent her postpartum recovery in a janitor's closet) as well as unabashedly pushing healthy moms and babies out the door the moment their time is up. Unlike the last time I did this, I am actually looking forward to being in L'hotel Hospital for a couple of days. I see it as a very, very short break before I become the overwhelmed mother of two darling, little, demanding baby girls. I plan to sleep, eat, read and occasionally breastfeed. I have no problem allowing the nursing staff the privelige of changing every diaper. I have had enough practice. Thank you very much, Adela. In short, I want the full moon to work for me, but not for all the other expectant mothers in the NY Metro area...

And to the fortune-teller who sent me this, I ask: WHEN?

2010-02-27T04:54:00.001-08:00

I opened this fortune over two weeks ago...

Winter Storm 2010 Part III

2010-02-26T04:30:00.000-08:00

Well, it's safe to say this is the big one. We thought the last one was, but this storm is out of this world. When we woke up yesterday, the ground glistened with an icy sheet of rain, but by 7AM, the snow started up and by the time I dropped Adela off with my aunt Debbie and Nan at 9AM, nearly 4 inches had accumulated. Of course, I had to drive into the city so the doctor could tell me that I hadn't dilated any more since Monday. LAME.

It was a bit dicey, but I made it home armed with the knowledge that I actually have no idea what labor feels like.

This morning, the world is completely white and still. You can't even see our road, which is usually somewhat busy. I think because of the rain that preceded the snow, even the crazy people (like me) are staying off the roads. Totals of 16-24 inches are being reported. Last night, as the wind blew trees down and the snow danced in spirals around our house, I thought, "this would be the night that my baby comes." I had about a dozen strong, painful contractions and I really felt that they might be the ones to send me running to Labor and Delivery, but my skeptical husband suggested that I lay down in bed, relax and breath. No sooner did I start to breath regularly, did I drift off to sleep. I woke a couple of times to breath through a few more painful contractions, but mostly, I just slept like normal (in fact, maybe a little better than normal). So another night has passed without the new baby. I guess I am grateful. It would have been so scary to drive into New York in last night's conditions. It would be so scary to drive into New York in today's conditions, I suppose. I don't even know what I should wish for at this point.

2010-02-24T06:53:00.000-08:00

Perhaps, this picture is one I should keep in the family because it's so outrageous. But even more outrageous is the fact that it was taken almost a month ago. So, yeah, I am like a month bigger now. I am relegating this blog to bitching about the fact that I am still f*&#*$(* pregnant.

Up all night, I laid on the couch waiting for (make that, longing for) the familiar burn of the "real" contraction. It didn't happen and now I am up with Adela, eating breakfast and getting ready to go about business as usual. We will go to Gym Juniors, then to Whole Foods for the groceries (we've already bought twice before) for whomever ends up staying at our apartment to take care of Adelchen while we are in the hospital. We've eaten the beef stew my mom made for us for when we're newly home and too tired to cook. We've eaten the meatballs I made for when we're newly home and too tired to cook. Argh. ARGH. So, what should we make NOW? Now that we've exhausted our minimal stash of post-partum eats. Suggestions? I am out of ideas on every front.

ALMOST... There... I MUST be.

2010-02-23T22:10:00.001-08:00

I am up, in the middle of the night, sweating. It's February 23 and I am still pregnant with my second daughter. I have been having trouble sleeping for months now, but this is starting to get ridiculous. I just want to be done with it already. This picture immortalizes a happy time when it was still just the three of us and I was thinking that while this last 16 months has been so utterly rich and profound in every imaginable way, our family wasn't yet complete. Knowing this, and knowing I hold the key to its completion inside my (now busting at the seams, comically large) belly, I am so anxious, I can hardly hold it together. I am ready to meet my second born and get on with the business of being Whitneys.

Long Overdue: A Recipe for a Rainy Day

2009-06-04T16:41:00.000-07:00

We just got back from Northern California. Well, no, we didn't just get back. We got back weeks ago, but life seemed to take over and my silly little mom-blog took a back-burner. But, now, I want to be back. I want to be back better than ever. So, I am opening with the above pictured Pork Ragu that I made for some friends while crashing in lovely Noe Valley. It's a version of Chris Cosentino's ragu of Incanto, my favorite Italian restaurant in San Francisco.

It's not particularly summery, but it's been so god-damned rainy, why not? Plus, it's cheap. Take your time both cooking and eating it. It's delish. I recommend serving over homemade pappardelle and topping with finely grated Grano Padano.

Pork Ragu

2 pounds ground pork shoulder
1/2 pound pancetta, finely chopped
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more to drizzle
1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, cut into slivers
2 celery stalks, finely chopped
2 heads fennel, finely chopped
1 large carrot, finely chopped
1 teaspoon fresh thyme, chopped
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 cup red wine, like Sangiovese
1 (28-ounce) can peeled whole San Marzano tomatoes and their juices
2 bay leaves
1 tablespoon roughly chopped parsley
1 teaspoon fresh oregano, finely chopped
Ravioli or rigatoni, cooked to al dente

Grated Parmesan cheese.

1. Season the meats all over with salt and pepper.
2. In a large saucepan heat the olive oil over medium heat. When hot, add the onion, garlic, celery, fennel, carrot, thyme and 2 large pinches of salt. Cook until soft, about 5 minutes. Stir in the tomato paste and cook for 3 minutes more. Add the ground meat and brown over medium heat, stirring occasionally, for about 20 minutes. Deglaze the pan with red wine and cook at a lively simmer to reduce the wine, about 5 minutes. Crush the tomatoes with your hands and add them and the bay leaves. Simmer for 2 hours. Season to taste with salt and black pepper.

An Ode to the Family Bed

2009-05-04T07:06:00.000-07:00

When I was pregnant with Adela, I read "On Becoming Babywise" hungrily and with confidence. I was certain that the tenants its authors touted were the answers to all my baby-rearing queries. For those of you who haven't yet had the pleasure of becoming parents (or reading Babywise), the book is a bible for rigid, scheduled and non-attachment parenting (i.e. feed your baby on a strict 3-4 hour schedule, put your baby to sleep while she is awake, paying little mind to the screams, play with your baby for a certain number of minutes each day, etc. etc. etc.) It made so much sense to me when I was still pregnant. The things that resonated most with me were the ideas that babies need to learn to put themselves to sleep and that they feel anxiety when it's up to them to determine when they want to eat and sleep. At 7 months pregnant, I was on my way to becoming Babywise.

Then Adela was born and everything changed. I mean, it happened as early as our first days in the hospital when I could literally feel her need to be physically close to me. At one point, the militant Russian nurse who was our nighttime caretaker both nights yelled at me for sleeping in the hospital bed with Adela in my arms. I pretended not to be sleeping, so she would go away and leave me to it.

Adela's and my need to be near each other didn't diminish when we left hospital and when she was her tiniest, I would sleep on the couch with her on my chest (I have never slept better in all my life). Then, she got bigger and it became dangerous to sleep with just a loose hold on her so we moved to the bed. She would begin her nights in her bassinet, but then by her first feeding, I would bring her into the bed with me to nurse her back to sleep. We tried to be conventional. We really did. But as it turned out, the entire family slept better when we were all cuddled up together. With a 5AM wake-up call, my husband needs his rest and with an inherent crankiness, so do I!

Anyway, what I am really trying to get to here is that, at night, when I am in bed with my husband and my baby girl and I can hear the snores of my two giant Labrador Retrievers on the floor nearby, I feel completely whole-- like I have everything in the world anyone could ever want. In the six short months since Adela was born, I have learned one very important thing: life goes by very fast. With that in mind, I am proud to share the bed with the whole family. I know the authors of Babywise (and my own mother) would balk at this rationale, but I wouldn't trade these magical moments for any predictable schedule or routine.

I know now that I can't sustain this co-sleeping indefinitely (especially if I want to make another baby, which I do). I know it's just going to get harder to wean (us all) from it, but for right now (like tonight and tomorrow night and maybe a couple more), I am savoring this ever so primal expression of familial love.

"Double L" (aka Laura Larson, Laura Williams, and Whosiepie) did it again!

2009-05-01T13:44:00.000-07:00

I can't help myself either. So, for all those who follow my blog and don't follow Laura's (www.whosiepie.com), here's another incredible photo she took of my daughter. She is for hire. Hire her.

The Whitneys: Unwitting Victims of the Montclair Pudding Attacker!

2009-04-30T08:36:00.000-07:00

Okay, this is going to be a little gross for a minute, so bear with me.

On Sunday, both my husband and noticed a pile of, um, something shiny and brown in our driveway. With two large dogs, we came to the same immediate conclusion (no explanation necessary here). But upon further investigation, it appeared to be some sort of chocolate pile. At first, we thought, "ice cream"? Perhaps, but then it didn't have that characteristic melt as the day wore on and well, neither of us had had a rogue chocolate ice cream cone.

Eventually, thanks to the abundant, pollen-spewing trees that hover above our driveway, the pile was covered and concealed. I stopped obsessing over it. Forgot about it. But then on Monday, I noticed a group of happy squirrels hanging around it, lapping it up joyfully. It was weird. What was it? I had been too afraid to clean it up and now, the squirrels had done the job for me.

The strange chocolate pile was now just another greasy stain in our driveway, but its memory haunted me through Tuesday and Wednesday. But on Thursday, I got a break in the case as I was cruising our trusty local news source, Baristanet.com. There was a passing reference to the "Montclair Pudding Attacker," and I found my answer. Read here, for further unsatisfactory explanation of the deranged criminals: http://www.baristanet.com/2009/03/riding_in_cars_with_pudding.php

I don't know what would posses someone to throw perfectly good chocolate pudding at his neighbors, but what I do know is that I will no longer say, "those things just don't happen to the Whitneys."

GiGi: a Salad, a Meal, a Sexy Lady's Name!

2009-04-29T07:02:00.000-07:00

Oh, it was so hot this weekend. The Whitneys didn't have an air conditioner and yet, the Whitneys had multiple dinner guests. The worst part, Mrs. Whitney developed a sweat disorder when she got pregnant and it hasn't subsided. The dilemma this weekend was, obviously, how to make a nice dinner for friends without sweating in it. Ewww... I know.

So, I put on my thinking cap and remembered my favorite salad from the Palm and subsequently, several other "steakhouse" style restaurants on the eastern end of a Long Island. I wish I knew the true origins of the GiGi Salad. If you know, please share in the comments section.

GiGi Salad for Four (with some leftovers for picking)

Ingredients:

2 lbs. 20-25 peeled and deviened Shrimp, marinated in garlic, olive oil, the juice of one lemon, and plenty of salt, pepper and Crazy Jane's salt.
1/2 lb. cleaned French Beans
3 medium Tomatoes, small diced (locally grown without slave labor)
1 large small diced sweet Red Onion
6 sliced crispy Bacon, chopped to just before a crumble.
2 ripe Avocados, small diced
1/2 c. cold Goat Cheese, crumbled (totally optional and not traditional. I just love goat cheese, so I put it in everything these days)
1 cup homemade Balsamic Vinaigrette
Butter Lettuce leaves to serve as the bed for the chopped salad

Technique:

First, find a charcoal grill in your backyard that you didn't know was there. Send your husband to the store to get charcoal and make him start the fire, watch the coals and yell at you when its time to put the shrimp on.

Grill the shrimp, being careful not to overcook. As soon as they are nicely curled into themselves and they are opaque all the way through, they are done. Take them off immediately and allow them to cool while you prepare the rest of the salad.

Combine all other ingredients, except the goat cheese and shrimp. Chop the shrimp into thirds, roughly and add to the salad. Then, at the last moment add the goat cheese, toss one last time and serve over a bed of lettuce, preferably a few leaves of butter lettuce for presentation, but any type you have on hand... or not, if you don't.

Wipe the sweat from you brow and serve to your grateful, hungry and too polite to complain about the heat, friends. Finally, send your husband out for ice cream.

Goodbye Dear, Sweet, Wonderful Monty.

2009-04-14T04:11:00.001-07:00

Last night, I lost one of my dearest friends. He hadn't been the same goofy, curious boy for quite a long, long time. And though, it was his time to go, the loss hurts so deeply that I don't know if it will ever go away.

I have been trying to heed the advice I recently gave some friends, "remember the joy he brought in his life, not the sadness of his passing." In the dawn of this first day without Monty, it's hard to think of anything but how much I miss him and how much it stung to feel the life drift from his body. But I have so many wonderful memories of this most special dog and one that stands out as a testament to his profound sensitivity and empathy was when I was laid up with one broken ankle and one sprained one in the mountains of Montana about 6 years ago. He couldn't seem to understand why I had gone from the girl who took him running through the snow in the mornings, to the girl who was unable to walk to the bathroom on her own. He was so sad and it was all he could do to comfort me. He finally figured it out. He jumped up on the couch with me and laid his long, lean body between my legs and propped his funny, funny face on my shin. He laid there for what seemed like forever... days, weeks. He didn't want to be anywhere else. Even when his friend, my dog Otis, was barking to go for a run, Monty looked at him as if none of that mattered in light of the job he had to do. He was so sweet and so giving.

Perhaps, it was his giving nature that led him to me to end his struggle with the tumor that was pushing against his little brain. I believe that he came to me as a gift, in his final days, to both say goodbye and give me the opportunity to struggle with the choice to put him down and the actual putting down. Without Monty, the first time for me would have been with Otis, the closest friend I have. Monty didn't want that. He wanted me to know the feeling, so I would be better prepared. I am so grateful to him for that. And for everything he brought to my life over the last nine plus years.

I love you, Monty, and I always will. For the rest of my life, I will miss you.

Baby's First French Kiss!

2009-04-08T07:16:00.001-07:00

It's finally happened: two of my most favorite people (one very small and the other covered with fur) have fallen in love.

It made me realize that I have successfully given Adela an important gift: the lifelong love of animals and specifically, dogs.

While there are many who would object to an infant rolling around on the floor with two giant Labradors, to me it's a thing of beauty and love-- a magical introduction to the purest and most unconditional form. I think that's a good thing for a baby to learn very early on. More than developmentally challenging flashcards that accelerate her ability to process meaningless information and more than irrelevant puzzles, loving a dog teaches her to value life and a soft, gentle touch.

You Give Me Fever

2009-03-24T08:31:00.000-07:00

This is somewhat divergent from my typical food-focused blogs, but I have to vent about the most stressful, to date, week of my life.

Last week, my little baby bear was afflicted. It started on Monday night, when Stefan was away. She was uncharacteristically fussy. On Tuesday, I packed her up for a visit to her grandma and cousins. We arrived, she cried. She got hot. I got nervous. Her fever registered 102.2.

In typical new mom fashion, I raced to the doctor who told me "not to worry. Babies run high fevers." I breathed a sigh of relief. Later that night, her fever was up to 103.7. I panicked, called the doctor, who told me, "not to worry. Babies run high fevers." Hmmm... I worried regardless.

On Wednesday, her high reading was a whopping 104.7! She felt like a tiny oven and it almost hurt to touch her. It hurt my heart to see her in such discomfort. I was a wreck and she was in agony.

On Thursday, there was no improvement and her mood was markedly worse. Friday, more of the same. I ran to the doctor, again. Again, "not worry. Babies get high fevers, but come back on Monday if there's no improvement."

Well, thankfully, by Sunday, she seemed to be back to herself, with the exception that she was a little tired and worn out from the week of cooking her insides.

I guess the moral of the story is: "Not to worry. Babies get high fevers."

Quick Tip: Pain Free Whisking

2009-03-13T14:01:00.000-07:00

Phew... it's been a busy week. What with Sesame Street, the rainforest jumperoo and mommy and me yoga, we've hardly had time to take a breath (except for the ones we took IN yoga). I do, however, have six new and incredible recipes to share including: Thai Beef Salad, Whitney Minestrone, AsianAhi Poke and more. BUT, I am too busy to compile them now. However, I am adding a new weekly feature: The Quick Tip. Pain-Free Whisking is the first of many to come.

When I was a child, everyone in my family had a hand-held electric mixer. You know the kind with multiple inserts that you pop into the bowl of cream and sugar and within seconds, you've got a lovely whipped cream? I have, however, noticed that many of my contemporaries DO NOT have one of these, myself included. I think we're all waiting for the day that our shiny, new Kitchen Aid arrives. But until then, there's the manual whisk, that with few notable exceptions can do any job the electric can. BUT, if you've ever hand-whipped cream or hand-whisked a vinaigrette, you know there can indeed be some cramping involved.

The solution is so simple, yet known to so few. First, make sure your ingredients and your tools are very, very cold. This is especially true in the case of cream. By putting your metal mixing bowl into the freezer a few moments before whipping, you'll cut out at least two to three minutes of whisking time. Secondly, DON'T USE YOUR ARM. This was something I learned from the greatJacques Pepin (he was on TV; I am not pretending to have had one-on-one time with the man) and something I chant to myself each time I pick up the whisk. Use your wrist. There are a multitude of ways to use your wrist; I like to repeatedly push away from my body where others prefer to whisk towards themselves. Whatever it is, just don't use your arm. You'll thank me the next time you're in the midst of whipped cream or salad dressing crisis. And I promise, your friends and family will be SO impressed when you turn a liquid into a solid in minutes flat.

Say What? Enslaved Tomato-Pickers!

2009-03-03T14:42:00.000-08:00

I try hard to ignore the hype and eat the foods that I crave, when I crave them. No politics. Just food. But a recent article in Gourmet Magazine inspired me to rethink the way I grocery shop. Seriously, don't eat tomatoes in the winter (it's not as if they taste like anything anyway)... unless they come in a can. Just don't. Read the article here:

http://www.gourmet.com/magazine/2000s/2009/03/politics-of-the-plate-the-price-of-tomatoes

Tomatoes, like any seasonal fruit or vegetable, are best at their peak and invariably worth the wait. Just think how euphoric it will feel to bite into that first ripe, juicy, robust Jersey tomato when the time comes!

Nothing's Cozier than a Great Friend

2009-03-02T19:05:00.000-08:00

Could this be the first meeting of future best friends? The way they seemed to look deep into each other's souls and the way they inherently understood each other made me think about what makes friendships great. When you connect with someone and without words, are able to see deep into her soul, it's as if you're saying, "I am here and I am able to understand the way you feel in the world." Just like Adela said to tiny Simone: "I am here and I am small, scared, amazed and inspired every second of my life. I just found my feet like you and I understand."

I had such a magical time with my friend Laura in Connecticut. I felt like she understands how I feel in the world. Thanks, Laura for being such a wonderful friend and for taking such beautiful pictures of my daughter and me.

Beet Soup on a Snowy Day

2009-03-02T13:26:00.000-08:00

It's a snowy day in Montclair and since, with the wind chill, the temperature is in the teens, I thought it best to keep the infant all cozy inside. To keep myself from going mad, I made a delicious beet soup to serve as the first course to our dinner of herbed roast chicken, popovers and arugula salad.

Recipe:

Ingredients:

1 lbs. Red Beets, trimmed, peeled, halved and sliced
2 small yellow onions, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
3 1/2 tbs. unsalted butter
2 cups apple cider
3 cups (College Inn) chicken broth
salt
pepper

Technique:

In a medium saute pan, over medium-low heat, melt the butter.
Add the onions and bring up the heat to medium.
Once the onions have begun to turn translucent, add the garlic and cook until fragrant.
Add the beets and sweat the veggies for five minutes, being careful not to scorch by stirring frequently.
Add the cider and broth and cook until the beets are very tender and can be easily pierced with the tines of a fork (approximately 35 minutes).
Using an immersion blender (or stand blender), puree the beets until smooth and creamy.
Serve hot, topped with creme fraiche, sour cream or my personal favorite, a nice spoonful of fresh, creamy goat cheese.

Sweet Potato and Pecan

2009-02-24T06:17:00.000-08:00

My husband is away. For the week. Typically, I make a practice of preparing dinner every night- for emotional and financial reasons, but last night, I didn't have it in me and I didn't have an audience. So, I pulled over at "Sweet Potato and Pecan," a little soul food, take-out place three blocks from my house in Montclair, NJ. This little place has been beckoning for months, but I have passed it by as I dutifully drove from the grocery store to home on a mission to cook my own "soul food." Well, long story short, I am really glad I stopped. If the warmth and sense of humor of the older Jamaican owner weren't enough, then the free "sweet potato and pecan pie" he threw in for it being my first visit and the best collard greens I have ever had, were.

My "BBQ Rib Combo," which included sides of Mac and Cheese, Collard Greens and gratis Corn Bread, along with my pie was roughly 11$ and I have an entire meal leftover for tonight. I generally eat leftovers out of a sense of obligation, but it's 9AM and I'm already looking forward to the last of those tender, tangy ribs, creamy mac and cheese and yes, those COLLARD GREENS!

I like living in Montclair more and more everyday.

Sweet Potato & Pecan

www.sweetpotato-pecan.com

103 Forest St
Montclair, NJ 07042
(973) 746-3444

An Ode to Winter Citrus

2009-02-18T06:45:00.000-08:00

This time of year, produce is generally sad. Pale tomatoes and artificially preserved veggies abound, but there is one bright spot in the produce aisle: citrus. And of special note: blood oranges. Not just glorious for the sanguine juice that flows from them, but also for the sweet, tart flavor that blends honorably with a number of savory dishes. Last night, the Whitneys enjoyed a nod to Mexico (our future home? perhaps?) as I used the juice from three blood oranges and two limes, mixed with adobo and a dash of salt to create a sauce for shrimp. Paired with Sofrito-spiced black beans and long-grain brown rice, it was the perfect (yet incredibly simple) way to honor this luxurious winter fruit.

By Way of Introduction:

2009-02-17T04:26:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago, my husband received his long-awaited (I mean loooong-awaited) top secret security clearance, the final piece of his Foreign Service application. What that means is that it now falls to me to confidently say the words, "Okay. Let's do this. Let's pack up our infant, our two giant dogs, my food-processor, stand-mixer, 18 All-Clad pots and pans, 14 professional-grade knives, panini-press, waffle-maker, ice-cream maker, deep-fat fryer, and of course, my thoughtful collections of shoes, coats and denim and hit the road for parts unknown." Of course, with all things considered, it will still be months away, but knowing now that my (conventional) professional career aspirations are to be put on hold, I have decided to dip my toes in the blogging waters if for no other reason than to explore my fears and considerable apprehensions about living abroad.