Frogs, Locusts, Hail, Soy Sauce

Thanks to everyone who sent their get-well wishes...as I announced to my Nia class this past Friday, "I'm only telling you all the details because I want your sympathy."

My glacier head has cracked into tiny pieces and floated away. I would talk about the penguins who got separated from their friends in the big break-up but the extended metaphor just starts to sound gross. I'm still a bit weak, but now I have eight days of crunchy cardboard-like squares to fortify my constitution. Yummy. At least we have some frighteningly good Damson Plum Preserves from our trip to Victoria Gardens.

Last night we celebrated the Passover Seder at my parents' place in the O.C. It was a festive meal with all the fixings (my mom is an amazing and tireless cook) but the best part was Jarrah's participation in this year's reading and songs. You haven't heard cute until you've heard her reciting the blessings in a New York accent (her preschool teacher is a New Yorker) and singing "DAY-DAY-AYNU! DAY-DAY-AYNU!" without ever getting to another verse or variation in the refrain. Whenever there was a slight lull in the proceedings, Jarrah murmured, "I want cranberry sauce now," as there it sat, shimmering in a glass bowl mere inches from her nose, but no serving (turkey superfluous) was forthcoming. We joked that "the Fifth Question" could come from Jarrah: "Why on this night do I have to stare at my favorite food for the better part of an hour without getting to eat it?" There's one for the ages. She was also a leetle too interested in wine. At first, she just kept demanding "I want red stuff!" until I finally gave her a taste on my finger to show her she wouldn't like it. That backfired--she smiled and whispered "Yummmmmy," and then asked for a whole glass.

In other Jarrah news, we've entered a new phase of her development I like to call "Advanced Breaking and Spilling." This involves "accidentally" squishing, kicking, ripping, stomping or otherwise decimating objects I prefer whole (and am sometimes sentimentally attached to) within seconds of "just touching it!" It also involves "helping" with all cooking tasks, followed by a dramatic sloppage of whatever was being cooked and her calm, soothing response, "That's okay, Mommy. I spilled, but that's okay."

Friday night I arrived home from Nia starving, determined to make my famous Chinese Chicken Salad (I've been making it since 1994...was it some sort of sign?) The chopping and tossing was finally done, all the dressing ingredients swimming in the measuring cup, and in a magnanimous gesture, I handed Jarrah the whisk. Two seconds later, the entire thing was marinating our counter top. After a rather unseemly, wordless yelp, I put myself in a time-out in my room.

But I can't prevent the "helping" even if I wanted to. Jarrah owns four plastic chairs from IKEA, and she's discovered that the best place for at least one is shoved up against my legs at the kitchen counter. Up she hops, ready for action, whether it's chopping, mixing or measuring. I don't want to discourage her new love of cooking, but I also don't want to chop off her fingers or spend 10 minutes doing what would normally take me two. It's a tricky situation, which requires me to dig into that treasure chest of patience I've been assembling for two years now.

But that's okay. We have to squeegee salad dressing off the granite sometimes, but it's okay.