being not doing

Apple pie, round two.

Never in a million years, after spending years tweaking the ingredients of my pie crust until I had it just the way I like it, did I expect to be attempting to make pies without flour or butter. Never! Yet, here I am, as it wouldn’t be autumn without apple pie. Partly because I myself can no longer eat butter and partly because the sprout now wants to be sure that he’s eating what we’re eating by feeding himself directly from our plates, I went in search of a dairy-free gluten-free pie crust recipe that would taste decent. For this, I invested in The Allergen-Free Baker’s Handbook, which promised to deliver.

The first attempt at pie was not a success, pretty much entirely because I didn’t follow the recipe exactly. Yes, I know, you would not be the first, last, or most vociferous to point out that not following the recipe at least the first time I make something means that we never actually know what the recipe tastes like. Point taken. In this case, I didn’t follow it because the very expensive special rice flour had not yet arrived in the mail AND I wanted to see if the very expensive special rice flour was actually necessary or if the only fairly expensive special flour mix from the store would work just as well. The answers are yes and no respectively, mostly because the gluten-free flour mix from the store is mostly bean flour and as you might imagine, bean crust does not taste super fabulous in a pie. I addressed the problem by dousing each piece in maple syrup (should you ever find yourself in this situation and need a solution). In addition, I forgot the dollops of fake butter for the filling in my rush to get the crust on before it dried out and totally fell apart, so there were some challenges all around.

The second attempt produced a respectable (albeit ricey) pie, using Pascal’s crust and baking instructions and my regular apple pie filling. The quirks of the gluten-free crust are that it doesn’t move as it bakes. It basically dries out and keeps its shape, so the big domed up top you make over the raw apples is still a big domed up top once the cooked apples have compressed into a normal-sized pie. While perfectly edible and nice looking when it comes out of the oven, it’s a bit of a pain in the keister to cut a piece without breaking the crust or to fit the pie into the handy-dandy pie container when it’s time to store it. The best way to address these issues is to only share the pie with really good friends and eat it all as soon as possible so it doesn’t need to be stored.

I can hardly believe the sprout is a year old, and yet he’s definitely turning into a toddler. He’s been practicing his tantrums, perfecting the art of going boneless and throwing himself onto the ground to sob when frustrated. Not very often, just frequently enough to let you know there’s no going back to the compliant baby stage. He’s also nearly walking running, standing well on his own and launching himself toward you as long as you’re within about 10 quick little steps. He finds something new to get into every day, although he has not yet turned out to be a climber *knock wood*.

Most notably, he’s starting to show distinctly toddleresque food preferences. Banana imported from Peru? Yes. Delicious chicken chili made from scratch with love and local organic veggies? No. Avocado imported from Mexico? Yes. Delicious homemade organic mushroom and barley stew with fresh thyme from the garden? Not so much. Applesauce? Yes. Brown rice and lentil stew? A few bites on a good day. Instant oatmeal? Definitely. Zucchini and millet with fresh basil? Haven’t tried it yet, but I’m pretty sure I know where this is heading. Hummus, peaches, enormous bites of apple just like Daddy takes that lead to mouth sweeps? Yup. Delicious and nutritious sweet potato in all its forms? Apparently a babyish delight that he gave up just in time for Rosh Hashanah.

I am trying to be a good sport and chalk this up to teething, taking time to warm up to new tastes, a renewed preference for nursing following a cold, and the desire to feed himself whenever possible. We are still working on finding appropriate finger foods while avoiding dairy and wheat, and that’s presenting a bit of a challenge; while we don’t seem to be dealing with true allergies, an intolerance that keeps us up all night with a writhing crying baby is not something we can ignore in good conscience. Still, I fear I am staring down the tunnel to fish fingers, and I’m not liking it. That won’t be happening any time soon, though, as there remains a whole mess of veggies to chop, dice, steam, roast, mash, and purée before we even consider throwing in the towel.

One year ago today I was in labor. All day, from contractions that started in earnest at midnight until the sprout was born at 11:58pm. While my water broke on the evening of the 15th, there is no doubt that the 16th is his Day Of Birth.

Despite all of the trying and hoping and planning, the classes and reading and shopping, I was not prepared to be having a baby. I like to think that was due to his arrival three weeks ahead of his due date, but the truth is that I probably would have felt completely out of my element at any time. Okay, yes, it would have been nice to not have missed the last class sessions that covered active labor, postpartum issues, and how to take care of your newborn, that probably would have helped a bit. Thankfully my partner had read ahead and we had two amazing midwives and an acupuncturist to help me through the rest of it. Emotionally, though, I am certain that some part of the reason my labor lasted 24 hours was my resistance to the reality that I was actually having a baby RIGHT NOW and was soon to cross over that line between my established comfortable life and my new unpredictable life as a mother. (I’m pretty sure the rest of the reason was the sprout’s elbow, which seemed to be lodged somewhere around my kidney for the duration of my labor, right until he arrived with his hand tucked up on his cheek.)

Yet with all of that swirling around, I knew that I could birth this baby the way I wanted to—in my home, in water, without interventions—and when the time came, I did. In the end, I was strong enough and I was able to connect with that knowledge and use it. There is a lovely quote by one of our midwives in a recent profile where she states her desire for women to understand that they are capable of handling birth because the strength of the contractions is nothing more than the strength of their own bodies. We are not separate from the process: birth is not something that happens to us. Birth is something that we do, or that our bodies do for us if we let them. When the sprout was finally born, I knew that it was time: he had been in there long enough, he was ready to come out, and it was my responsibility to make that happen. I did, and he was born into a pool of water in our home just before the next day arrived. He was tiny and blue and covered in cheesy vernix, and absolutely the most lovely little being my partner and I had ever seen. By effort and grace, we were among the lucky ones: I found the strength to make it to the end at home, and the sprout was just barely large enough to be full term and not need to be transferred for observation.

Despite being absolutely exhausted, I can still remember that first night so clearly. Holding him (I kept offering him to my partner, and our midwives kept reminding me that he needed to stay on my chest while he adjusted to being in the world), marveling at this tiny but feisty part of me that was now on the outside. Handing him over to be measured and weighed, assuring my partner from the other room that there were small outfits in the baby’s dresser drawer if he just kept looking (the sprout was still swimming in the smallest one they could find), and cradling him on my chest when we slept for the first time as a family of three.

And here we are, one year later. That tiny little baby is gone, and I can see how people end up with more (and more) children as I find myself missing that newborn, fiercely at times. Now we have an older baby who weighs nearly four times as much and is on the verge of becoming a young child, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything. He is delightful in so many new ways, and the fact that they are the same ways that every baby delights all parents takes absolutely nothing from the experience of watching him grow and become himself. So happy birthday, sprout. We’re glad you’re here.

This has been a good spring for seeing birds in our local park. In addition to the pair of Yellow-crowned Night Herons that returns each year, we have two and possibly three pairs of Mallards nesting along the stream. During my morning walks with the sprout, I’ve seen the usual suspects (Northern Flickers, Red-bellied Woodpeckers, Eastern Phoebes, Northern Cardinals, Northern Mockingbirds, Catbirds, Blue Jays, American Crows, Grackles, Carolina Wrens, Song Sparrows, House Sparrows, Starlings, American Robins, Carolina Chickadees, Downy/Hairy Woodpeckers, Mourning Doves, and American Goldfinches) as well as some fun surprises. We’ve come across Brown Thrashers, Yellow-rumped Warblers, a Common Yellowthroat, and Wood Thrushes foraging in the brush along the stream banks. There was a pair of Red-shouldered Hawks hanging around for long enough that we thought they might be nesting, but we haven’t seen or heard much of them lately. One day we walked along behind a Pileated Woodpecker going from tree to tree; now that the woods north of town have been demolished, I doubt it will be able to find suitable habitat nearby.

While I’m always happy to see birds, I’ve been thrilled to find frogs in the stream! So far I’ve only been able to spot bullfrogs, but I have high hopes for more diversity in years to come. We’ve also startled several bunnies (making the sprout cackle with glee) and seen one or two groundhogs in our travels. No luck yet with our nocturnal friends, although I’m pretty sure something (possum? raccoon? fox? skunk?) is visiting the side yard to chow down on the mulberries.

Now that summer is kicking into gear, I need to think about incorporating a bird bath into my plans for the garden. It’s getting hot out there and the little fluffballs of sparrow, cardinal, blue jay, and robin that we’re starting to see are going to need a place to cool off.

It appears that our pieris plant may actually be a native! I had just assumed that it was the Japanese variety and hadn’t even really registered that there is a regional alternative. The other day when we were sitting on the porch I noticed that it was covered in bees of all sorts. So we looked it up again and identified it as a “Forest Flame” pieris, which is (as far as I can tell) a hybrid cultivar.

Over the past few years I’ve been vigilant about cutting out any damaged sprigs and the new growth is starting to fill out the shape of the plant. Once we removed the struggling evergreen on the north side of the pieris there was more room to grow in that direction. With the addition of the oak leaf hydrangea, that shady section of acid-loving shrubs with white flowers is now complete!