Catching Up
Long weekends, Spotify Wrapped, short rib ragu
I feel as though I haven’t written in months, like my fingers are out of practice on the keyboard, my thoughts slow and insubstantial, despite it being merely two weeks since I last sat here, with a cup of a tea and the night late. I didn’t really intend to take last week off, but when I woke up Thanksgiving morning in Price’s childhood bedroom, spending the first few hours of the day in pajamas and a sweater, watching the parade with one eye and Kit with the other, it never once crossed my mind. To take many pictures, to write anything down, to give thought to anything but the busyness of a first time mother on Thanksgiving day. And as a self-proclaimed content creator, hopeful writer, I’m happy with that unintentional decision, a weekend of sleeping in and going on walks before dark to see the Christmas lights, just clicked on, take-out pizza and peppermint bark ice cream. A weekend to stop thinking.
Slipping into this week though was harder than I was expecting, given I myself did not have to go back to work. Having Price at home just feels like such a sigh of relief, to have two helpful hands, someone to run and get donuts in the morning, someone to watch Kit while I clean the kitchen floors, instead of cleaning the kitchen floors with a baby attached to my chest, one hand on her head as I maneuver every corner and hidden cranny (although she doesn’t seem to mind this chore, either watching me and smiling the entire time or just falling asleep, her head bobbing with the vacuum).
On Saturday night, we walked through my alma mater’s campus, through the Christmas lights and past the big tree in the plaza that used to be bigger and used to be real, but alas. Kit and Price don’t know the difference. I pushed the stroller that is somehow not working as well as it once did, perhaps because Annie rides in the undercarriage meant for a diaper bag, up the walkways that led to the School of Humanities, where I spent four years of my life. Running late to my children’s lit classes, where I daydreamed through public speaking, edited the yearbook, studied in the newsroom, collected words and phrases and writing styles and stories and ideas that appear before you, in my Friday morning newsletters, all these years later. I told Price how funny it is to return here when the students are gone, when it looks the same, when its emptiness feels like it belongs to me once again, the faces of students I don’t know not a reminder I am 26 and with child. I told him that in moments like these, it feels as though I could slip so easily back into who I was then, my pink backpack and tattered day planner.
But would I want to? No.
Because of our proximity to school, though, I still operate on the university schedule, this week being the first back to classes (although what I’m studying for…I’m not sure. Parenthood? I’m learning this may be the longest class, perhaps one that never ends.) I’m learning a few things about myself this week though, random, silly little snippets I thought I would share in the case you have ever thought the same things.
For one, and perhaps the most important this week, is my vehement disapproval of Spotify Wrapped. Because for one, I just don’t think the data is correct, but even if it is, the technology of Spotify should just know when the data isn’t truly indicative of who we are as listeners. This year, it read me somewhat correctly, my top song being Faith Hill’s “The Lucky One,” mine and Kit’s favorite, and my top artist being Norah Jones, obviously. However, it goes on to list Charli xcx as my second artist, and that was my first sign of incorrectness. Because while I was a fan of “Boom Clap” way back and really, really enjoyed her SNL episode a few weeks ago, I was not participating in brat summer, except for the occasional listen to “Apple” (which I do love) on the way to the grocery store. (Actually, let me say here, I love Charli xcx. This is not meant to slander her.) Then the lack of Noah Kahan anywhere on my history, despite Stick Season being the soundtrack to our entire pregnancy, to any time we are in the car together. And Coldplay’s new album was a mere last second entry on my top songs playlist, and while I’ve only had a month to listen to it, I’ve listened to it constantly as I write or as I walk with the girls in the morning. However, the biggest discrepancy is Spotify’s decision to leave out podcasts in your wrapped analysis, despite the fact probably 18,000 of my listening minutes came from listening to over an hour of the Oshry sisters talking every single day. Maybe that’s what skewed my data. I listened to media not counted more than I did music itself, and who knows. It made it all inaccurate. I’m just ranting at this point though, so I digress.
I made two new recipes in the kitchen this week, on Monday an interesting version of broccoli cheddar soup. Following Martha Stewart’s instructions, this soup called for Yukon gold potatoes, shallots, broccoli florets and stems, and white cheddar cheese, all blended together with my immersion blender and topped with skillet broccoli doused in Worcestershire. It could use some tweaking…maybe chicken broth instead of water, more garlic, a dash of cream, but both Price and I ended the night with empty bowls.
Then a more complex dish, one I’ve never even had anything remotely similar to: a short rib ragu I saw on the Today show, of all places. I’d never worked with that cut of meat before, and I am very weary of my dutch oven these days, after ruining far too many $30 roasts after entire days spent slow cooking. But after Price left for an afternoon of work, I cracked the windows to cool the kitchen and rid the smell of onions, nestled baby in her bouncer and got to work browning the meat and dicing carrots, celery, onion. The recipe called for a bottle of red wine, and I had to dig around for a bottle opener, given I can’t for the life of me remember the last time I had a sip of alcohol. Then the whole thing, smelling of wine and onions, baked for the rest of the day, through our naptime in the nursery and through Price coming home. And it was rather divine, served with a slice of buttered hot sourdough.
On Saturday, I’m making Wishbone Kitchen’s roast chicken from her friendsgiving episode, a sort of trial run for Annie’s third birthday dinner coming up. I’ll finally get to use my gold roasting rack from William Sonoma, a wedding gift I’ve never once even wiped clean.
Other things I learned…deep cleaning the kitchen floors once a week feels like expensive therapy. Giving myself a blowout after my hair wash showers may do wonders for my recently developed, crippling eight-month postpartum self-esteem (I can’t say for sure yet, as I did it for the first time last night. I will say I felt a lot better as I got dressed this morning in my matching loungewear and earrings, my glossy and voluminous hair framing my bare face. Listening to Coldplay’s “GOOD FEELiNGS.”) Reading hardback books, rather than my kindle, is significantly more difficult now, given I read while Kit is asleep, and the sound of pages turning is a risk for a sleeping baby and my reading light is far brighter than the night mode of a Kindle. And finally, a cup of tea with a spoonful of honey almost, almost quenches my lifetime nightly need for something sweet to end the night on. But…not quite.