Gnocchi Love

It all began on a Friday night back in 1998. The Husband and I were living together in DC (in sin!). I had just flown into Dulles from Denver to find my cute little Honda Civic encased in ice and my luggage lost. When I finally slid my car home to our Northern Virginia apartment, the power was out and our poorly insulated place was cold. So we did what any young, child-less, two income couple would do. We went out to eat.

We wandered around Adams Morgan in the cold drizzle that is a DC winter until we stumbled into a new Italian place. It was this dinner that would remain forever cemented in our history together. It was on this night, at this hole in the wall restaurant, that The Husband had THE BEST GNOCCHI OF HIS LIFE. For days, weeks, months afterward, he reminisced about that magical plate of gnocchi. He swooned over it. He dreamed about it. He talked incessantly of it.

It has been 11 years since that fateful meal, and I am still hearing about the damn gnocchi.

Honest to God, I am Still. Hearing. About. The. Damn. Gnocchi.

I finally decided that I had had enough. What's so special about the gnocchi in DC, anyway? Could he not be satisfied with the gnocchi here, at home? Despite being 100% WASP, I had to try and recreate those little Italian potato lumps he talked about so longingly. Plus, I didn't want him to have to go roaming the streets for his gnocchi. It's just not safe these days.

So last weekend I preheated the oven to a toasty 400 degrees as I prepared to make The Husband a plate of hot, soul-satisfying, Saturday night gnocchi. The best he's ever had.

Here is a play by play:

Start with a pound and a half of baked potatoes and scoop out the insides until you have a pound and a half of potato mush.



Crack an egg yolk on top of said potato mush



follow with a cup of flour on top of the egg yolk on top of potato mush.



Carefully and delicately, blend mush together. Or chop it up into pieces with a sharp knife.



Pat potato dough into a round disc. At this point one might need to pour a glass, or two, of wine and put two hours worth of Springsteen on the ipod because it's your kitchen and you'll be damned if someone is going to tell you you can't listen to what YOU want to listen to when YOU'RE the one slaving over a cold mound of potato goop all afternoon some tunes on the trusty ipod.



Gently roll a section at a time of dough into a long 1 inch thick "snake", careful not to overwork the dough unless it likes it rough.
Cut into 3/4 inch sections. Or smaller. Or bigger. Whatever feels right.



Place gnocchi onto a floured baking sheet while pushing your husband out of the way letting your husband think he's being funny. But he's not.



Please use caution at this point. Offer your gnocchi protection. Talk to your gnocchi. Because after a few glasses of wine, these bad boys tend to get excited and if they are not properly supervised, they WILL multiply. Quickly.



Now that you are stuck with 5 billion pieces of gnocchi, you have no choice but to boil them



or saute them



savor them



and tell your wife that it was the best damn gnocchi of your life.

Bad Habits

The Second Grader has a bad habit of staying up late. Too late for a seven year old, in my opinion.

He is tucked into his cozy top bunk at 8:30. After water refills and kisses and hugs, he clicks on his reading light and solves crimes with Dink in an A-Z Mystery or heads to New York City to hang out with Hank Zipzer (did you know Henry Winkler writes children's books?).

At 10:00 he knows it's time to close his book, turn off his light and settle in for the night.

He switches off his light. But, of course, he does not settle in anywhere.

He creeps out of bed and pokes his head around our creaky bedroom door. If we are there, reading our own books, he will bound into the room and wrap his arms around us, giggling and grinning his way under the covers.

And we oblige.

This is the time of day when he talks to us. Truly, talks to us. It is during these late night moments when we get to hear all the dirt from his day: who wronged whom at recess, who sat where at lunch, who made an unfair Bakugan trade, and every other big or small Second Grade worry that he can find words for. All of it, every last crumb, comes sweeping down from his brain and out through his lips until finally, he is on empty, his mind decluttered.

After he has dished out the good, bad and ugliness of his day, he sighs heavily, gulps down a new breath of air, and snuggles in closer. He laughs his seven year old laugh, and for the first time all day, he bubbles with silliness.

But it is late. It is well after his bed time, and we already begin to dread the grumpy boy who will greet us in the morning if sleep isn't found soon.

"Bugaboo," I say (because this is what I will call him until he's 43), "why, oh why, do you stay up so late?"

"Because," he answers so sweetly, "when I come in here at night, and it's just us, I feel like I am your only child."

Some bad habits aren't worth breaking.

This Little Light Of Mine

Well.

It seems as if this blogging thing may have its advantages.

Because a few days ago, the package man arrived at my house.

I don't know about you, but when the big brown truck pulls up to my driveway, I get the night-before-Christmas jitters. A package? For me?

It was a big one, friends.



And inside the big box? Was another big box.



And inside THAT big box? Was the answer to all my winter woes.



Enter the Seasonal Affective Disorder Happy Light.

It seems as if The Husband not only reads my blog, but responds accordingly. He's a problem solver, that one.

And look what it says right on the box:



Perfect! Because an "innocuous automatic antidepressant effect" is EXACTLY what I need. I mean, if it had read "harmful antidepressant effect that requires a lot of work", I would have sent it back lickity split.

Those marketing guys are geniuses.

I cut through the industrial strength packing tape, pulled out my new light box,



plugged in my innocuous antidepressant friend,



and burned my retinas.

Holy crap, that thing was bright. Like looking-directly-into-the-sun-from 10-feet-away-bright.

Since wearing sunglasses would no doubt minimize the desired effect of the light box, I took a deep, cleansing breath, rubbed away the flashing spots that were appearing before my eyes, and forced myself to look directly into the LIGHT.

And you know what?

The box doesn't lie, my friends.

It was like gazing longingly into a bright, shiny glow of JOY.

Placebo effect or not, I felt all warm and fuzzy inside with my Happy Box by my side.

Many thanks to The Husband, even though I'm pretty sure this wasn't a completely selfless act.

And although my Happy Box is working for now, let's not discount the benefits of real sunlight, which can easily be achieved by purchasing a plane ticket (or four if we must) to somewhere closer to the equator.

Just saying.

Transitions

Once upon a time there lived a clueless young, corporate girl. She was an exhausted new mother, juggling a baby and a busy career (not literally, of course). She got up each morning at 5:30am to feed her baby boy, rush to work and then rush home again at the end of the day.

One afternoon her friend, a seasoned, at home mother of three, phoned her. They small talked while the Corporate Girl answered emails and the Mother Friend prepared individually wrapped Halloween goody bags (that part's totally true). During their conversation the Mother Friend mentioned that she was starting a new volunteering gig in her son's school library.

"Great!" The Corporate Girl said to her Mother Friend. "How many hours a week are they giving you?" she asked, glad her friend would finally be doing something.

The friend told her that she would be a library aid for one hour a week.


An hour a week?!? An HOUR a WEEK?!? My God, what has she done with her life? The Corporate Girl thought to herself, Thrown it all away for an hour a week in an elementary school library. And there's not even any money involved, for God's sake.

After an awkward silence, they finished their conversation, hung up their respective telephones and resumed life, The Corporate Girl in her air conditioned, windowless office, and The Mother Friend in her suburban chocolate chip cookie-smelling home.

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It is six years later, and The Corporate Girl has turned into the Stay At Home Mother Girl. She has two children, who consume most of her waking hours. She is challenged every day by these small people. She is exhausted, juggling their school and sports schedules, and trying to find the energy it takes to keep everyone happy.

One afternoon she phoned her Mother Friend from so long ago. They small talked while the Mother Friend tap tap tapped on her keyboard (her kids have grown and she's got a new gig, with money involved and everything) and the former Corporate Girl clang clang clanged dirty dishes into the dishwasher.

After awhile, with seemingly nothing left to say, they politely wrapped up their conversation, and pushed their respective End Call buttons on their cell phones.

It was only after she had flipped her phone closed, that the former Corporate Girl realized she hadn't told her friend the reason for her call.

She wanted to tell her Mother Friend that, hey! guess what?!?, she's reshelving books in her son's elementary school library on Wednesday mornings from 9:15 to 10:00.

And? That she gets it now.