Saturday, November 10, 2007

Frisee and the Flu

I love salads with eggs and bacon. Well, I love almost anything with eggs and cured pork products (scrapple does not, in my mind, count as a cured pork product. Or really, as a food product, unless it’s for dog food, something it strongly resembles). One of our favorite dinner salads is a variation on a classic spinach-bacon-egg; we use dandelion greens, and I then fry preserved artichoke hearts in the bacon fat, which may not be healthy, but is ridiculously tasty. Last night we had frisee as the green, and topped it with a fried egg. I made the dressing hot in the pan, which allowed me to deglaze some of the bacon-y goodness sticking the bottom of the pan. Overall, though, I didn’t really do that great a job. Fortunately, it’s hard to mess up, so it was still quite delicious.
The reason that I wasn’t doing a very good job wasn’t just me being me. One of the blog police has been struck down with the flu. Curly is sick, poor thing. And it’s tricky to administer Tylenol, hold a girl’s hair back, take her temperature, sing her to sleep, calm her worried brother down and cook dinner. The whole time I cooked, I was concentrating on listening for any whimpers coming from her room, worried that she might wake. And, less maternally, I found myself thinking about the fact that I’m doomed to get this thing. Because all that snuggling and kissing and comforting was not done from across the room from the little sicko.

Still, the salad was lovely, and she rather kindly slept for a couple of hours while we had dinner and chatted about our days, and the kids. As we were picking up (minimally, to be honest), I saw some drawings Curly had done. Clearly, she found the crayon drawing I did of the shoe I covet, and it struck her fancy (and also: she's an awfully good copyist for a 5-year-old. Curls may have a future in forgery.). She and Mies Van Der Rohe would not have gotten along. She does not believe in less is more. Glitter, color and shine make, in her mind, a perfect combination. And, really, take a look at her sneakers. Over-the-top is pretty cute in a kindergartner, particularly when she wears it in a way that doesn’t prevent her from running around. My mom is fantastic on that front; a side effect of six grandsons has been that Curly receives some particularly fabulous shoes and clothes, but my mom buys her gorgeous things she can run, jump and play in, which is important when there are six boy cousins (and one 17-year-old girl cousin who is an ice hockey goalie) to keep up with. Those cowgirl boots pictured below? Have little decorations that can snap on and off, and have a rubber sole that allows her to run around with as much ease as sneakers would. How cool is that?



Anyway, poor kid has been lying on the couch, miserable, this morning. I've been tapping away, on and off, at the computer, talking to the doctor, taking her temperature, timing how long she holds something down for, all of that sort of mommy thing. She improved greatly (but unfortunately, only temporarily) when I got down three pairs of shoes from my closet, and allowed her to try them on over her thick, pink-striped athletic socks (quite the look). Apparently, there is some moral (or at least palliative) value in fancy shoes.

4 comments:

claudia said...

great writing. i know. i'm redundant. sorry. so who are you besides a mommy/wife kinda person? and/or when are you writing the next great american novel?

have i told you about the blog dooce? it is very like you... she is amazing.

Meg said...

Thanks, Claudia. Right now, I'm a hockey-playing housewife, which is a pretty nice gig (although I had been led to expect that there might be more bon bons involved). I like reading dooce, too. She has a nice combination of snark and heart.

Philly Sis said...

To heck with the writing. I want the sneakers.

Meg said...

the sneakers are not your size. Keep your paws off of Curly's shoes, or you'll be sorry come xmas, when our other sister lends me a hockey stick for pick-up.