Being Beige

For most of my life, I've just wanted to be beige; not black or white, but some indistinct color that allows me to blend in or be invisible. But, I'm not beige and in trying to be so, I feel like I've been resisting instead of embracing all the things that make me, me.

When I was in elementary school, one of my best friends was biracial and you couldn't tell us that we weren't sisters. We liked the same things, wore matching outfits whenever we could convince our parents to buy us the same clothes, and we spent much of our time together plotting how we could spend more time together (sleepovers, play dates, weekend trips to my grandmother's house, etc.). Like most children, we didn't see color or shape or size or anything like that. We had to be told that she was just a little taller, or had a lighter complexion, or that our hair was different textures, which was why we couldn't wear it exactly the same.

Around the time we started being told of our differences, she moved away and we were forced to discover how much we differed from everyone else without being able to rely on one another for moral support. And that's when the fight began. During my adolescence, I stood out for being one of the first girls in my class to get boobs and hips. And the dark hair that cascaded to my mid-back didn't help divert anyone's attention away from me. In the 90's, girls my age didn't just have naturally long hair. Moms were still opting to relax their daughters' hair and/or keeping it short for easier maintenance. My hair was easily maintained by washing it, moisturizing it, drying it, and keeping it combed and brushed. Needless to say, this process didn't allow me to be beige. To the girls in my junior high, it made me white. According to them, I had a white-girl body and white-girl hair.

After graduating from a predominantly black junior high school, I went on to a predominantly white high school. As you can probably already guess, this was a culture shock for me and for many of my non-black classmates. And, as you can also probably guess, I was no longer the "white girl" I had been in junior high. To everyone around me, I was black...or something non-white. I was regularly asked "can I touch your hair" or "is one of your parents white" or "were you adopted by white people". There was clearly a significant amount of confusion caused by my appearance and even more confusion in reconciling my appearance with my use of proper spoken English; I was accused of "sounding white". I didn't understand any of this at the time and I didn't want to; I wanted to blend in, fit in, and be just like everyone else. I wanted to be beige.

Like many people, I didn't really start to come into a sense of self until college. Suddenly, I could explain what it meant to be me when my white roommates asked and my black friends sounded as "white" as I did. But, I still couldn't explain what it was like to be black and I definitely had no way of explaining what it was to be white. However, I felt like my friends allowed me to be my regular, beige self. They accepted me in a way that I had never felt accepted before and introduced me to their other friends and family members as just "Reece"! And that's who I was -- regular old beige Reece. I blended in, I fit in, and I was just like everyone else.

Say what you want about the accuracy of Zodiac signs, but sometimes they get it right. Cancer's are known to reinvent themselves every few years and I have definitely done that. But one thing remains quite constant. My desire to remain beige in a world that focuses so much time, attention, and negative energy on making things black or white issues is something that I'm proud of because I don't think that anyone else has gotten
it right. I'm not saying that I've figured out some secret of the universe, but I've figured out what works best for me.

I'm beige. I stand out when I need to. I blend in. I fit in. I'm me and I'm just like everyone else.

Sex in the Kitchen

Much like Sophia from Golden Girls, I consider myself to be pretty good in at least two rooms of the house; the kitchen and the bedroom. And it's no real big secret that I've been putting it down in the kitchen for years. What many people don't know is how erotic the kitchen can be. With spices, music, and foods that are natural aphrodisiacs, it's easy to make the kitchen a very sexy place if you do it the right way. 

"Kitchen, bedroom, I knew it was a room I was good in." ~Sophia Petrillo

The obvious way to spice things up in the kitchen is to add some spice to your everyday cooking. Unbeknownst to most people, they have a favorite taste or smell that makes them feel some kind of way about what's cooking in the kitchen. Sometimes, it's just a matter of asking them what they'd prefer and other times, it's necessary to use trial and error to find that one special taste. Don't limit yourself to the things that you'd typically think of like cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger. I was surprised to find out that my husband really enjoys the taste of cumin, which I'd actually never cooked with before. You can bet that I went straight out to the store and bought some as soon as I found out and found more than one dish to add it to just to make him happy. It turns out, cumin (if you've never used it before) has a delicious smoky flavor that is perfect in a lot of vegan and vegetarian dishes like a hearty lentil soup, which is perfect for those cold winter months otherwise known as cuffing season. 

"The key to a man's heart is through his stomach." ~Unknown 

In today's feminist culture where women are encouraged to be bread winners instead of bread makers, this may seem like a horrible lesson to teach a young girl, but I don't see anything wrong with being wise in as many ways as possible! I've learned and taught myself a lot about foods to set the mood by keeping this little quote in mind. Nothing gets an open-minded foodie of any gender ready for "dessert" like a sumptuous meal. One of my favorite Valentine's Day dinners starts with lightly breaded, fried oysters followed by pan seared sea scallops on a bed of angel hair pasta in a white wine sauce, and a mixed greens salad with a homemade balsamic vinaigrette. Pair it with prosecco so the bubbles make you giggle and hope you have enough in your kitchen to make breakfast the next morning (wink, wink). If either of you actually have room for regular dessert, something chocolatey like warm brownie a-la-mode is simple, yet effective, but a warm apple crumble often does the trick as well especially with the male persuasion...I've found.

"If music be the food of love, play on..." ~Shakespeare  

'Time to seal the deal? The ultimate trifecta is an appropriate combination of ingredients including spices, food, and of course music; because, nothing stirs the soul or warms the loins quite like the right playlist to accompany the evening. Growing up, my parents listened to lots of jazz which, as much as I'd like to pretend like it had no involvement in their sex life so that I can continue to listen to it without thinking about them...together...in that way, was probably one of the many things they used to communicate certain feelings to one another. It was a passion that they shared with each other and, indirectly, with us. As the eldest, I was aware that their date nights often included dinner at their favorite steak restaurant, Gibson's, and a jazz concert. I am happily oblivious to anything that may have occurred after said date. But in all seriousness, meals, music, and making love just go together. Jazz, blues, or soft R&B before, during, and after dinner creates the overall ambiance needed to keep you playing on into the night.

When in doubt, keep it simple. Not everyone is a born chef and not everyone can be. One of my favorite memories about the seductiveness of the kitchen actually doesn't involve any cooking at all, but rather a playful moment with a former beau where, in the heat of the summer, barefoot and too exhausted to cook, we shared a sticky sweet pineapple. As the juice dripped off of our fingertips and into each other's mouths while we fed it to one another, we connected in a way we never had before and never would again; but in that moment, we were satisfied. 

A Lesson in Patience

When you really stop to think about it, you can learn a lot of important lessons in the kitchen. I write a lot on here about lessons I've learned in the past, but as a professor, one of the biggest things I stress to my students is continuing to learn. I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't take my own advice, right? But, these days, learning new things can be difficult. Having a toddler and being a full-time mommy often means that I'm spending time reading books to my son that I read as a child, teaching him how to point his toes as he walks down the balance beam like I used to during gymnastics classes, or watching episodes of Sesame Street with him that, although new, contain some of the same characters and messages that I enjoyed when I was a kid.

The same can be said about lessons in the kitchen. As parents, we have to teach the basics: Don't touch that, it's hot; don't touch that, it's sharp; don't eat that, it's raw; don't drink that, it's mommy's "juice". What I've had to learn though is much more difficult than just keeping my hand away from a hot surface. You see, my kitchen used to be my Zen place. I could go there and get lost in a recipe while I listened to my music with a good glass of red wine in one hand and a cooking tool in the other. I could spin around and whip things from stovetop, to oven, to countertop without a care in the world.

These days, I generally have to refrain from carrying sharp, fragile, or hot objects around for fear of tripping over my toddler or stepping on a toy. Frequently, my thought processes are interrupted by requests for snacks or to reprimand him for getting into the garbage can and throwing trash about the floor. And, while I'm still able to listen to music, even that has changed slightly to more upbeat, dance jams that'll keep him blissfully spinning in circles, dropping it like it's hot, raising the roof, or whatever odd little dance he's chosen to perform so that I can finish what I need to do.

Needless to say, I take lots of deep breaths, try not to kick the toys in the general direction of my child's head, and overall just try to exercise patience. I tell myself at night while lying in bed reviewing the day that there will come a time when I'll want him near me to glean whatever he can about cooking, learning, and life so that he grows up to be a well-rounded, self-sufficient man. And what will I do then if he doesn't want to hang out with me? How will I convince him to even just sit there and taste-test what I'm cooking while we have deep, philosophical conversations if I kick him out now and force him to keep himself entertained elsewhere?

I realize that the chances of me capturing his undivided attention will probably be slim to none once he's older and for that reason, I'm practicing patience. Instead of my yummy glass of wine, I'm holding raisins or goldfish crackers. Instead of zipping around and spinning on my heels, I'm checking near my ankles before I make a move. Instead of being in the zone, I'm zoning in and out and taking the occasional dance break with him just to let him know that I'm happy he's there. It's not easy, but like most challenging tasks, it's necessary so when it's time for him to absorb his own kitchen lessons, he'll listen, laugh, and learn just like I did when I was a kid.

From the Kitchen with Love

So recently I had a little chat with my grandmother in which I expressed my interest in getting a certain recipe from her that I have fond memories of us making together when I was a child. Just a bit of backstory on my relationship with her: she's pretty much my favorite person in the whole world and I've rather consistently called her every Sunday for at least the past fifteen years. That being said, our conversations often turn to food, which in my family is how we show love and also how we judge each other.

She'll tell me what she's making for Sunday dinner and then she'll ask me what I'm making. It is understood that cooking a proper Sunday meal is one of the most important things you can do as a wife and mother. An acceptable response is one that contains mention of a balanced meal that includes meat, carbohydrate, and a green vegetable. An unacceptable response, is pretty much anything other than that and should definitely never be pizza. Note: hotdogs, hamburgers, and other grilled meats are an appropriate dinner on certain holiday weekends throughout the year when paired with sensible side dishes.

Overall though, love is cooking and eating good food. A meal that is prepared with love always tastes better no matter what it lacks in flavor. When you think of all of the kind gestures you can give to someone in need, you often think of food first: feeding the homeless, taking a meal to a new mom so she doesn't have to cook, delivering a meal to the sick or elderly, baking someone a cake to celebrate a special event. The last of these "baking" has always been my grandmother's forte. Without a doubt, her cakes and pies are absolute heaven in your mouth and there's no disputing it.

However, the recipe in question has always been a point of contention in my family. You see, the story I received from my mom about said recipe made it sound like one that should never be attempted again. In fact, my grandmother herself relayed a similar message to me when I asked her for the recipe and expressed complete surprise at the mere suggestion that she give me the recipe. So, what is this horrible, awful, disgusting thing that she made that should never be made again, you ask? BISCUITS!! Biscuits that to apparently everyone but me were hard enough to be hockey pucks, were definitely not for human consumption, and not likely to be eaten by the dog either.

I'm well aware that these little additions to a meal are insignificant to most and can be bought rather cheaply in several different sections of the grocery store. But, there was something magical about waking up early in the morning with her, sifting flour, mixing ingredients, rolling out dough, cutting each and every perfectly round piece, smelling them baking in the oven, taking them out when they were done, and slathering them with butter to eat while they were still hot.

It is completely possible that my adult brain has added an element of fantasy or fiction to a childhood memory in an effort to preserve that time with my grandmother as special. If that's true, that's fine. And if it's true, I still want that recipe because it may mean that making those hockey pucks in the kitchen with my children causes them to have a similar fond memory of our time together mixing and making things with love.

A Bun in the Oven

Well it's no secret at this point that I'm pregnant. My once tight tummy has now burst out of every pair of pants I own and I'm relegated to flowing dresses and maternity jeans; but, these are not complaints! At a little more than five months (22 weeks to be exact) pregnant, I really can't complain about anything. I didn't have morning sickness, the nausea I experienced from smell sensitivity has subsided, the headaches I experienced every day for a week have passed, and my energy level has increased since the early months where I wanted to nap four times a day. The best part is that baby is waking and resting rather regularly now, which means at any point during the day I can feel shifts, kicks, flutters, or nothing at all. On one rather fun-filled weekend, baby actually kicked rather furiously on the two separate occasions that I watched Captain America, which made a very nerdy Daddy and Mommy rather happy.

We are about half-way through "the bun's" baking process and I couldn't be more pleased to have a happy, healthy baby. We get regular tummy rubs from Daddy in the evening when he gets home, midday tummy rubs on special occasions when Daddy isn't too busy at work, regular exercise, an occasional ice cream treat, and lots of songs and chats from Mommy throughout the day. One such chat focused on the fact that baby needs to stay in the oven until fully and completely baked without any surprises; baby should also consider coming out as close to on time as possible considering we have future school years to think about (we wouldn't want baby to be the oldest kid in class because he/she missed the September 1st cutoff).

Last week, our excitement increased when we had our mid-pregnancy ultrasound and got to see baby wiggle, kick, hide from the camera, and even try to put a tiny fist in his/her mouth (I say "we" because Daddy hasn't missed a single ultrasound appointment yet!! In fact, we rescheduled the appointment to be sure that he could make it.) From the darkness of my womb, there appeared an adorable face complete with a nose, ears, eyes, lips that parted and pursed, two tiny feet with just the right number of toes, hands that balled into fists, and a strong heart that pounded away as we listened intently. I smiled, I cried, I finally associated the movements with the baby instead of bubbles of gas! It was wonderful!

Overall, I'm a pretty happy pregnant woman and consider it an honor and a blessing to be carrying such a wonderful gift. I'm already looking forward to emptying this oven and starting over again from scratch with bun number two...but not too soon.

Dirty Thirty

I strongly dislike the term "Dirty Thirty" and I don't think that "Flirty Thirty" is any better. As I approached my thirtieth birthday, I began thinking back to past birthdays and what I did to celebrate reaching each and every milestone in my life. In doing so, I realized that with the exception of an "Over the Hill" party, the thirtieth birthday is the only other one that has somewhat of a negative connotation. But isn't each new year of life something to be rejoiced? If so, then each one should have an equally catchy, upbeat title befitting a celebration of life and living. 

Since it is officially my thirtieth birthday today, I would like to propose the institution of the "Nerdy Thirty" or "Wordy Thirty" or even the "Purty Thirty" birthday. I'm leaning towards the "Nerdy Thirty" celebration for myself since that is the one that best fits my personality. I'm dubbing it a unique opportunity for like-minded nerds who are at least thirty years old to nerd out together by watching cartoons, playing video games, laughing and snorting, and eating lots of cheese! Everyone is required to wear their favorite super hero t-shirt or come dressed as their favorite cartoon character. 

If that doesn't work, I can fall back on the "Wordy Thirty" celebration, which is similar to the nerd party except that the participants will have to come dressed in attire suitable for reciting Shakespeare. We'll drink wine and listen to classical music. At some point, we may collectively decide to write the next great American novel or play. 

If all else fails, there's the "Purty Thirty" where a group of girlfriends gets together and celebrates being pretty; otherwise known in certain urban dialects as "purty". That party will probably consist of mimosas and manicures, lots of man-bashing, and could possibly end at an all male review such as the Chippendale's or Thunder from Down Under. 

As far as future birthdays are concerned, I'm working on titles for the Over the Hill party as well. So far, I've come up with "The Pinnacle Party" and "The First Fiftieth". I have a few years before I get there to perfect the title. In the mean time, I'm going to try to enjoy my thirties and try not to lie and say that I'm younger than I really am -- no promises on the latter. 

Happy Birthday to ME!! 

7 lbs in 7 days?

Okay, on my last post I mentioned that I'm sick and tired of getting picked on by people who don't think that I need to lose weight. So, let's take weight out of the equation and just say that I'm trying to be healthy. In an effort to do so, I embarked on a seven day juice cleanse challenge that I'm hoping will at least rid me of some of the bad things that I've been craving lately.

I've been exercising and trying to eat better, but the temptation to indulge in deep dish pizza, pasta, bologna sandwiches, chocolate, Harold's chicken and White Castle cheeseburgers is always there. Friday night was one of those nights that, against my better judgement and my rule about trying not to eat meat on Fridays during Lent, the hubby and I voraciously devoured a Lou Malnati's sausage and mushroom, deep dish pizza. I justified my actions by reminding myself that I was planning to do a two hour Zumba class on Saturday morning; and I stuck to my plan!

Saturday afternoon, the day before I started my juice cleanse, I maxed out on seafood pad Thai and pork suimai from one of my new, favorite Thai restaurants. And, just because I thought it might be a distraction to have my last two Twix from the four-pack I had purchased for movie night lingering in the same refrigerator compartment as my probiotic, fresh mint, and ginger root, I ate them for dessert.

And so the journey to a healthy mindset about eating began on Sunday just before my second trapeze class!

As of day two: juice two, I feel pretty good. I'm not tired, I don't have a headache, and I'm not really hungry, but I can always go for deep dish and pad Thai. Let's see if that changes.

Current mood: good
Current weight: 138.4

Side effects: none