I've been reading again.

    This evening I paged through Amanda Hesser's The Cook and the Gardner (I supposed I ought to do a proper citation but I'm not going to - it is late, I am tired and anyway Amazon has already done it). Amanda Hesser has a lot of snark thrown her way, which I'm not sure she deserves. I think she accomplished a lot in a competitive field at a young age and also comes across as rather unnecessarily pedantic and rigid in her writing (I hope to God that you can't really tell what someone is like through their writing, else my personality is not only run-on but also full of typos), a deadly combination for those who love nothing more than to tear down a tall poppy, as it were. But I like her and I think she's clever and creative and, unlike some well-known food industry people, I wouldn't be at all shy about having her to dinner. If she didn't like something I was doing I would just say, "Well then, Amanda, the kitchen's right there. Have at it!" She'd probably have a good time and either way I win.

    I was unsure of The Cook and the Gardner because it is very, very thick and full of all kinds of things that I will never cook. I cannot, ever, make rabbit anything - as much as I might enjoy it - for my family because Brainiac had a pet rabbit in his youth and remains unrepentently sentimental about them. I will never cook a goose (although I could be talked into a duck), and I've never actually seen salsify or any of maybe a score of other vegetable featured in the book. But I was surprised by the preserving recipes, for jellies and jams, pickles and spirits. There are a couple recipes I will be noting before the book has to go back to the library, among them one for cassis (where I'm going to get black currents I couldn't tell you, but I want to be ready just in case) and another for a garlic green bean pickle that's sufficiently different from my own that I'm very intrigued. I need to make a list on the sidebar of this season's canning plans, but for now you can add Amanda Hesser's pickled green beans to the plum jam I've already mentioned.

    In more book news, the same library visit that awarded me with The Cook and the Gardner also resulted in me bringing home two kids' books, From Fruit to Jam and From Fruit to Jelly. Despite the remarkably similar titles these books are not, in fact, from the same series - although each series has books with titles like From Metal to Airplane and From Idea to Book.

    The first of the books, the Jam one, has lovely little 70s-era drawings showing a man and a woman visiting a farm to pick fruit and making jam in their own little kitchen. Part of the text is outdated - you just don't see preserving skin all that much anymore - but as a whole the book is charming and quite accurate. I can imagine a child reading the book might be inspired to ask a nearby grown-up to make jam right away.

    The Jelly book, published in 2004, is an entirely different affair. In the illustrating photos, a large machine drives between rows of plum trees and the jelly is made in a small factory. The procedural steps are accurate as described - fruit is crushed and the resulting juice is heated with sugar and pectin to make jelly. Fair enough. I'm sad, though, that the heating step is described as necessary to kill the germs lurking in the pot (which could "make people sick") and that the final product is packed into boxes so trucks can take it to stores. No where is there even a hint that one might be able to cut out the packing and truck business altogether. Then again, who would want to make their own jelly when doing so requires braving contact yucky germs and avoiding large farm machinery and those huge vats of boiling liquid. Much safer just to hit the store and buy an already prepared jar thoughtfully delivered by the nice people in the truck. The glossary in the back of the book contains five terms, two of them are "germs" and "factory".

    I'll give you two guesses which book I've read to the kids this week and which book went right back into the library tote for a speedy return.

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    Things Brainiac gave me today:

    1) A cord for our new (to us, from Craigslist) dryer

    2) Reimbursement checks for our moving expenses

    3) A dozen red roses

    Things I gave Brainiac today:

    1) A paid trash hauling bill

    2) Uh...

    Hm.

    Onward. A friend of mine recently made some mention of my "mommy blog" in an e-mail he sent to mutual acquaintances. I know I'm late to the party on the whole controversy here, but I have to say that the phrase felt like an insult, a smackdown designed to make me feel as small and insignificant as possible. And it pissed me off.

    When a blogging man writes about his fantasy football league is he a "would-be jock blogger", I want to know. Is his blog transformed into a eroto-blog when he shares his dreams of cavorting with whoever is on this month's lingerie catalog? Or maybe he's just another MBAlogger when details of his latest business plan hit the screen? Or why, if he hasn't declared his blog about any of these exclusively would we impose such a designation upon him? We wouldn't, because men are allowed to have multi-faceted lives and I'm pretty sure even Laid-Off Dad was never accused of having a "daddy blog". He's just called funny.

    It's true that I write about my kids. And my husband. And my house. And canning and crafts and cooking and shopping and work and school and clients and friends and travel and politics and media and religion and reading and movies and business plans and recipes and health and...I don't know, have I left anything out? Oh, sewing. I forgot about sewing.

    I love being a mom and I love being called a mom, or mommy, or mama - even by people I don't parent. I find it charming when someone holds the door for me and the kids saying with a smile, "How you doing today, mom?" But when such an emotionally loaded word becomes dismissive and serves as cause for removing my words from the realm of serious consideration for no other reason than I share my life with two young lives well, that just plain sucks.

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    Brainiac and I have a long-standing agreement to not spend a great deal of money without first discussing the expenditure together. We've never really defined the amount above which "a great deal of money" kicks in, preferring to let the context of the purchases inform the designation. And, even allowing for the time when he bought a new car, telling me after financially committed, this arrangement was worked out beautifully.

    Seeing as the Boy Wonder is half-way to turning six, I (rather unilaterally) decided that it would be time for him this summer to enjoy a bit of day camp. I have fond memories of Camp Fire from back in the day when there were Camp Fire Girls instead of the more current Camp Fire Kids and, well, I figured that camp is just one of those things that kids do and that it was time to step up and get with the parenting program. So I located a respected local camp-provider (truthfully, Philly is a summer-camping kind of place and there are literally hundreds of options, not to mention several periodicals and at least two tradeshow-type expos to help parents choose the "right summer camp match") and was delighted to see that they offered both golf and science programs. Golf and science are two of the Boy's current obsessions and after affirming his interest in attending and establishing fees nearing $500 for three weeks of camp I took the matter to Brainiac, in observance of the "great deal of money" clause.

    In theory, Brainiac thought camp was a delightful idea. Although he had a couple forays into Boy Scout camp in his youth, camps devoted to specialized interests (as opposed to general cavorting in the woods) are a little beyond his ken and I give him full points for being open to the idea. When I laid the sticker price on him, well, let's just say his enthusiasm dimmed. And although he didn't immediately verbalize it, I am sure that he really, really, wanted to say, "no". But he didn't, and instead listened to my well-reasoned arguments about a lifetime of memories, increasing skill sets, independence and differentiation from parents and on and on. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth, "fine. At least we won't have fees for art class or swim lessons in the summer."

    Ahem. Well, then. Do you think now is a good time to tell him or should I wait until the camp check clears?

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