Sisyphus and the Mother

I sweep up Cheerios for what seems to be the hundredth time today. Sometimes I’m not even sure why I clean, when at least ten minutes later, it looks like someone let the Tazmanian Devil loose in a Post cereal factory. My two devils, one and two, smile at me maniacally with blueberries stuck to their chins.

I scrounge up some time to meditate. I feel the lovely glow of a quiet mind for a few minutes, and then end up screaming at my big kids for hitting each other. Again. After I threatened to take away their summer video game privileges. For the fifth time today.

When I finally shower - ahhhhhh, showering - the water blinks scalding hot, freezing cold, never settling on anything my skin can handle, so I hop out shivering and red, with soap still in my hair. Shutting the door wakes the babies, and my shoulders sag a fraction.

I do these things again and again, many times a day, each day. And I know when I wake in the morning, I will do it all again. I strive to stay up until 10 pm, but by 9:45 my body alerts me that it’s been rolled over by a boulder all day and would like a little time at the bottom of the mountain. To tape up my sore legs. To pop my shoulders back in their sockets.

Existentialist author Albert Camus said, “I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain. One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself, forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”
I liken Sisyphus to motherhood for obvious reasons - the seemingly endless repetition, the difficult tasks that face us daily, often with no tangible results.  And despite the exhausting nature of it, we mothers, for the most part, are happy.

Because unlike Sisyphus, we know that the grade of the hill will change one day. The boulder may have less heft sometime, possibly soon. We live in a short season of their lives right now - Cheerio-studded, loud, sloppy and golden.

And the reality of it is, we are not pushing boulders.We are hiking the summit as best we can, balancing tiny bodies on our shoulders. It is their weight we bear, and that is what makes all the difference.


Don't Bring Gramma Gertie's Peanut Butter Brownies: The Hidden Dangers of Nut Allergies at the Holidays

My nose caught a whiff of it before I saw anything.

My toddler and I were playing at a local indoor play place when I sensed danger. Now, eight years ago, danger smelled delicious. I loved peanut butter in all its glorious forms, but now when I catch the scent, my adrenaline pumps and I go into mama bear mode.

"Do you serve nut products here?" I asked the woman behind the counter.

"Oh goodness, no," she replied.

I relaxed, but the scent was in the air and I knew my little boy could have a problem.

A quiet voice spoke up from the corner of the cafe section. "My son is eating peanut butter on crackers as a snack," she said.

I nodded and tried to reply as politely and non-judgmentally as I could. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but I have to go now. My son is allergic, and if he touches anything your son touches, it's an ER trip."

Her face fell and I felt my heart sink. I felt horribly about being "that mom", but I genuinely thought we were all aware by now about the true dangers that face so many children with allergies. Sadly, over and over, I'm proven wrong about this.

Just a few months ago, a mother at my six year old's soccer practice brought peanut butter crackers as the team snack. I was dumbfounded. Even if my son, who is bright enough to read labels, avoided the snacks - any one of his teammates could have come in contact with him and caused a reaction that could be fatal. That's right, regardless of blood tests, you don't know how allergic your child is until the moment of contact or ingestion. Right now all four of my children are allergic to nuts, but I will not know how badly they react until it happens. And I hope it never does.

So I have to speak up now, at the most wonderful but dangerous time of the year for children and families living with food allergies. Here's a little story about some of the less obvious dangers of what could happen when you bring something with nuts to a family gathering or party with friends.

So, your Gramma Gertie made the best brownies on earth. In her memory, you bake them every year. Everyone in your family loves them, and they praise you for your culinary finesse. You credit Gramma, of course, and happily watch as everyone gobbles up your annual treat.

This year you're invited to a mom's group Yankee Swap for your kiddos. Everyone raves about your brownies, but they have nuts, so you label them. If kids are allergic, you assume, there's no need to worry. They know not to take them.


The problem is contact; the problem is cross-contamination.

The tray of cookies that abuts your brownies touches the edges of three cookies that are now contaminated enough to send eight-year old Liam to the emergency room.

The little pigtailed Christmas angel who ate a brownie is playing with the legos she hands to her friends. Six year old Riley could pick up one, and start to itch. His throat may close up. His mom may have to jab his thigh with a $400 Epi-Pen and race him to the closest hospital.

Then there's the frantic scramble around the popcorn bowl. One little brownie-speckled hand touches a few kernels that Ronan ingests, and boom, here come the hives and labored breathing.

And the sweet, wide-eyed toddler who ate a brownie and kissed her best pal Winnie full on the drooly mouth, well, I don't even want to say what could happen here. I can't make my fingers type the words, but I know you've all read stories about tragedies like this.

I used my own children's names for a reason. They all live happy, full lives, and I stand in the corner watching over them like a good mom. But a nervous mom, one who knows that because of their allergies, she'll never be able to fully let down her guard. All of the examples above would be things I wouldn't necessarily notice or think about...unless I had allergic children.

And if you think I sound like a paranoid mom, I feel you. I never gave any of this any thought until one day when my brother-in-law kissed my eldest's baby belly and we watched as, seconds later, hives bloomed all over...and my brother in law had eaten cashews five hours earlier. It's not just ingestion, folks, the microscopic oils and particles are enough.

So now you know. It's not just about labeling something, it's about bringing it altogether. Please, this holiday season, leave the nuts at home and be an #AllergyAlly.

Gramma Gertie will understand.


Please share this article as widely as you can. The more people that are aware, the safer kids with allergies are. Post it on friends' feeds, tweet about it with the hashtag #AllergyAlly, do what you can so that moms like me can breathe a little easier.

My six year old after making his own nut-free Minion cookies. He did it by himself, can you tell? ;)


Big News

Hey everyone!

Just wanted to give you some info on what I've been up to. I'm thrilled to announce that I've been working as the writer on an indie video game called Perception. It's about a blind woman who investigates a haunted house and must solve its mysteries or become one of its victims.

Here's the Kickstarter, check it out!

Also, I wrote a post about it at Chuck Wendig's terribleminds.

Enjoy! I look forward to hearing what people think!

Why Doctor Who is Like Your Cool Bachelor Uncle

A few weeks ago, I was attempting to describe Doctor Who to a non-Whovian friend. Now, mind you, I'm still a little green in the Whoniverse, as I've only been a fan for under a year, but I can safely say the show has wormholed its way into my heart(s). Anyway, I sort of explained to her how the Doctor is almost like a father to humanity-- he's wise, tries to nudge them in the right direction, but ultimately lets them decide their fate.

But for some reason, that analogy just wasn't working for me. He's not fatherly by any other means, and while 12 may look the part of a wise elder, he's certainly the farthest from a Daddy type. This got me thinking-- the Doctor is older and wiser than we are, but he's much sillier. He's much more adventurous and much more savvy and street-wise.

When I was a kid, I had a physicist uncle who taught us science by lighting things on fire and smashing stuff. He'd take us to his lab, where we'd stick hot-dogs or carnations in liquid nitrogen and then watch them fly into a million pieces when we banged them on the counter-tops. When he babysat, he'd show us that our potpourri aerosol made a fantastic ad hoc flamethrower.

I feel that the Doctor is very much like your cool uncle. Everyone has at least one-- that guy that, when he babysits, can't do anything practical like make you dinner, (cough-fish-fingers-and-custard-cough) but he'll keep you up all night laughing, drinking sugary beverages, and showing you things you've never dreamed of, like rated PG-13 comedies or the aforementioned flame thrower.

The Doctor doesn't stay with humanity, and much like your bachelor uncle, never remains long enough. He's off to discover, to meet new people, and to get in a whole lot of trouble that your parents are likely to grumble quietly about. But you look forward to his magical, fleeting visits, and smile secretly to yourself when he tells you a grownup joke.

I think this is part of why I love this series so much-- it's almost like a guilty indulgence. I get to take an hour of my time and just have a whimsical private laugh with a kooky character who manages to make me think deeply as well as smile broadly.

Thanks, Uncle Doctor.


Tasting the Past

November 6, 2014--

For many, the taste-buds are the gateway to memory. One bite of a favorite dish can send me back in time, and I've always loved the nostalgia attached to well-remembered meals. This is what drove me to write GASTROPHYSICS, my novel about a time-traveling food critic. To celebrate finishing the final (read: sixth? seventh?) draft of this long-awaited accomplishment, my husband and I treated ourselves to the literal flavors of the past.

When one of my critique partners mentioned there was a Boston restaurant that served medieval and Renaissance dishes, I jumped out of my seat. I'd just finished researching centuries of food preparation for Gastro, and the thought of tasting some of these recipes executed at a high-end restaurant sounded too good to be true. I had to find out for myself, so my husband and I booked a table at Boston's new Seaport restaurant, M. C. Spiedo.

(I will not go into detail about what my husband thought of the restaurant's name, but let's just say he pictured a DJ in questionable swimwear.)

M. C. Spiedo is owned by Clark Frasier and Mark Gaier, who own one of my favorite restaurants on the planet, Ogunquit Maine's legendary Arrows. So, Mister Speedo-- ahem, M. C. Spiedo-- already has some points on the board in my book.

When we arrived, we noticed the restaurant's upscale modern decor with hints of baroque-- some tapestry-like prints here, velvet booths there-- and although it didn't give the real appearance of a historical restaurant, part of me was glad. I wasn't looking for King Richard's Faire, here, I was looking for kingly fare. 

And I wasn't disappointed.

The meal started off with a snack cart that came by, boasting small plates of historical origin. There was poached pear wrapped in prosciutto, a pate made of walnuts, spiced ham and orange salad, and a dish akin to deviled eggs. I'm always on the prowl for good pig, so I took the pear and prosciutto dish. The pear was firm and the prosciutto tore apart like tissue paper. It was heavenly.

For an appetizer, all I needed to see was one word and I ordered it. In the Medieval feast scene in Gastrophysics, my protagonist Alfredo is wowed by a meal served on a trencher. I'm one to sop anything up in some good bread, so when I saw this meat and cheese trencher on the menu, I nearly hugged the server with glee as I ordered. When it came out, I was slightly disappointed that it wasn't served with bread as a plate, but the cured and smoked meats were diverse, unique and heavenly. And then there were the cheeses.

Don't even get me started on the cheeses. 

Let's just say it took a lot of self restraint not to stab my husband for the last piece of Parmigiano. And yes, of course there was bread with it, but like Nicholas Cage, it was gone in sixty seconds.

At this point in the feeding frenzy, I couldn't help but gush when the waiter came over. I told him how excited I was to be eating at a historically-based restaurant and I sort of pitched him my book. Sorry, Jessica, I know that's your job. Anyway, he began telling me the story of how they put the menu together, and even had the chef come out to the table to help us navigate the menu for our main courses! Chef Michael Sutton came over and discussed the most historically-accurate dishes they served. We talked at length about some of the most famous old cookbooks-- the Medici family's, in particular, where the M. C. Spiedo team got their "torta" recipe.

Now, I'm going to stop for a minute and give you a minute to think about what's in the torta, because I wasn't prepared for it and I sort of made a scene and there may have been some Muppet-flailing. The torta is a pie baked with Bolognese sauce, meatballs and tortellini.

I'm sorry, WHAT?!

The sort of pies I was used to researching were pasties and meat pies with ale, not ones WITH MEATBALLS. The chef explained that this was an Italian Renaissance dish, an era I did not cover for this book. I began to feel a sequel coming on when he described this recipe. I had to have it, or, rather, my husband did and I leaned over the table and did a face-plant into it. 

For my dish, I had to order something that Alfredo would have eaten.

One of the things that so entranced me about the Medieval feast dishes was the fact that the sauces were so thick, they were the consistency of hummus. This was because it would stay on the bread trencher and not make a mess. How interesting! Plus, they were nut-based, a delicacy I can't sample at home because of my itchy children. I threw my epi-pen to the wind, however, and ordered the spit-roasted chicken in an almond and dried-fruit sauce. This was something akin to what Alfredo ate during the feast, so I had to try it. It was just how I had imagined! Yay for authenticity on both parts! The sauce was thick and rich from the almonds, had a zip of traditional spices such as cinnamon and clove, and the dried fruit really added a nice sweetness. The chicken fell off the bone, too. Next time you see the word "spit" in a dish's description, don't cringe.

Because the people at this restaurant are so cool, Chef Sutton sent over two particularly historic dishes that we didn't even order! A "green cauliflower" dish that was fire roasted and covered in pesto, and the Leonardo Da Vinci salad...a recipe that came straight from the genius himself's note-pad! I couldn't get over the hospitality and atmosphere. 

All good things must come to an end, however, and the hubs and I finished our meal with some historically-inspired cocktails. While I thought mead might be more appropriate for my dish, my 14th century barrel-aged Manhattan was impressive to say the least.

As we finished our meal, I realized that this truly was the perfect place to celebrate finishing the long-awaited final draft of my "Anthony Bourdain meets Doctor Who" manuscript. The food itself was high-end and lovingly prepared, but the recipes sent me back in time. This was a food version of what I wanted my readers to experience! Sumptuous but with sustenance. A feast for both the mouth and the mind.

Bon appetit, friends.

A Geek Finds Who

March 27, 2014 --

Ok, there's been a blind spot in my geek radar for years-- Doctor Who. I've been a Lord of the Rings fan since I was five when my physicist uncle read it to me. I was weaned on Star Trek because of my dad, who outwardly was never a nerd but inside he was a space geek through and through. I've been a gamer since computer screens depicted only two colors. All this, and yet I've never watched Doctor Who?

Well, I've finally decided that enough is enough. Many of my compatriots banter the terms "TARDIS" and "Dalek" about and I'd smile and nod, but inside I'd feel like a noob. What was the hype about?

I soon found out. And while I'm only about thirteen episodes deep, I think I'm a fan. Here are my thoughts about the first season I've watched, which was the start of the re-booted series in 2005.

For the first three episodes, I was wary. There were farting aliens, weird mannequins and over-all I felt it was cheesy. Then I thought back to the early episodes of Buffy and decided to give the show a waiver. If Buffy could become my all-time favorite show and have a rough year or two, then this could definitely get under my skin.

And by the time I got to to The Empty Child, I was hooked. What a creepy, atmospheric and overall wonderful episode! I'd come to love the ninth Doctor and his kooky grin. His companion Rose was brave, smart and very human. I liked their interactions and I looked forward to seeing more of their chemistry together.

When suddenly Eccleston was replaced with Tennant, my first instinct was to shout "Nooooo" at the sky. I'd just completely fallen for this character, and now he was going to be replaced? Already? We'd just gotten to know each other. It was unfair.

After watching the first episode with the tenth Doctor, I'd warmed up to him a tad. I was familiar with Tennant from his performance as Hamlet, so that gave him a buy. I haven't watched any more of that season yet but I suspect he'll be just as whimsically charismatic as his predecessor.

All in all, I'm hooked and proud to be among the ranks of Whovians everywhere.



On Spoilers, Social Media, and the Demise of the Denouement

March 17, 2014--

So, last night when I went to bed an hour early, I didn't really think there would be any ramifications other than feeling more rested than usual. I opted for Cosmos before bed (space dreams!) instead of The Walking Dead (Survival/horror nightmares!) and this choice actually had an effect on my life.

This morning, when I began to review the usual feeds-- facebook, Twitter, etc-- I was stunned by the amount of OH MY GOD #THEWALKINGDEAD I saw. There were sad faces, the term "gross" came up a lot, and it was overall pretty negative stuff.

Then I got hit with anxiety.

Now, this makes me sound like I have no life. I became anxious, actually, because I watch the show with my husband, and he's away all week so we need to wait until next Tuesday to watch both last week's and this week's episodes. Still, no reason for alarm. Just tarry on and it doesn't matter.

But, to be perfectly honest, I want to stay away from social media.

I don't want spoilers.

What has happened to TV watchers since the social media revolution? It's more than just a water cooler mindset; watching TV has become a group experience in ways that were much more immediate than just a few years ago.

Back when Battlestar Galactica was ending, a co-worker of mine created a "Final Five" chart that we kept on the wall in our office, joking weekly and updating our picks. It was fun. It was a great way to come back to work after a weekend. I feel like that would be the extent of my "social" side of entertainment consumption.

Now, if you don't watch a show when it's on, chances are you're screwed. I've had Downton Abbey spoiled for me so many times that I don't even watch it anymore. If anyone would have spoiled L O S T for me I would have choked a bitch.

But is all this necessary? It's silly that I want to avoid the internet for a week, but have we become so addicted to plot twists and turns that if things like this don't happen, we get upset? Take True Detective, for example, something I'd call one of the best shows I've ever seen. Last week's finale drew ire because it didn't have any kind of reveal about the Yellow King or Cthulu or Marty's daughter Audrey. People were disappointed by denouement.

The series was 8 episodes long. Now, are we demanding plot twists in the final 8th of a book? Or the final scenes in a movie? No, it's where things wrap up. Denouement is ok. So why are we accepting of it with literature but not with television?

Personally, I think it's the "discussion" factor. I think we need to talk about it, and talk about it immediately.  And slap a hashtag on it.