On turning nine

Somehow its been nine years since I "opened up shop" at this little spot in the bloggy universe. How did that happen? It's pretty incredible to go through the archives and see the twists and turns of life and the different incarnations my life has taken from teaching, to law school and lawyering, to now working with my agent to sell a novel and raise two beautiful boys. I'm so thankful for this space to put my thoughts into words, and for the connections I've made, some that have blossomed into real and lasting friendships I feel eternally blessed to have in my life. Between sleep deprivation and mountains of laundry, I have nothing witty or profound to add today except to say thank you for reading. One of the particular joys a blogger gets is knowing who is reading. If it interests you, I put a link to the blog's facebook page to the right, I don't post much there but it does link to my instagram account and updates when there's a new post here. In any case, if you are reading these words I would truly love to hear from you. Just a hello, or how you came to this blog, what you enjoy reading, anything really, would make my day!

On naptime, college, and the one-two punch to the gut parenting inevitably is

Conversation as I tucked Waleed into bed for his nap today:

Me: Did you have fun at school today?
Waleed: I like school!
Me: One day you'll go to kindergarten, then first grade, and then one day much later, you'll graduate high school and go to college.
Waleed: Okay. 
Me: When you go to college will you live with us?
Waleed: Yes Mama.
Me: When you get a job will you live with us?
Waleed: Yes.
Me: Oh yeah? And when you get married? Will you live with us then too?
Waleed: No Mama. Then, Waleed go bye-bye

And then we read If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. And I tucked him in and kissed him goodbye. And as I moved to get up, he whispered Mama don't go. Sit down. Stay with me. And then he gripped my hand and I watched him until he fell asleep. 

Oy, this parenting journey is forever laced with heartbreaking punches to the gut isn't it? Yes, one day he will leave the nest, as well he should, but today, he's my toddler roaming the house with monster trucks and toy airplanes and maybe it's the knowledge of how fleeting this all is that makes it so heartbreaking. And so very beautiful. 

And Then, You Were Three: Happy Third Birthday Waleed

Dear Waleed,

Today you are three years old. As I sit to write this letter I'm surprised by how emotional I feel because its been an entire year since my last letter to you and as is the case with life, so much has happened-- and my have I missed writing these letters to you and remembering the moments I don't want to forget.

Like how we moved into the house you just might one day remember as your childhood home. How we searched high and low for baby gates for the steep stairs and then paused, watching you run up and down those stairs with an ease I have yet to possess walking these very same stairs.

This was the year of cooking. And baking. Confession time: 80% of the reason I bake despite the flour that coats me, and the mountains of sticky bowls to wash, is you. Because I get to see your eyes light up at measuring out the sugar, and flour, at locking the mixer and 'cleaning' the wire whisk after we're done. This was the year you became my sous chef, chopping up olives and feta cheese with a butter knife for our evening salads. You take the task almost as seriously as you take eating. And feta and olives? Are among your favorites and why we sometimes call you our Turkish babe.

This was the year of the spoken word. Yours. You took your time talking but now new words pour like a steady faucet. Questions and observations. Orders and pleas. And jokes. You love slapstick. You laugh with the pure guileless laughter only boys quite this small can do. Of the two languages, English holds a stronger allure, and I'm often tempted to ditch the efforts at raising you bilingual-- and yet, at the time of this writing, you can speak Urdu and you understand it completely. And for that? Its worth persevering. You are an American babe born and bred, but dig deeper and there lie your desi roots, I want to nourish that side of you because it is a part of you.

This was the year you went from only child to eldest child. For a time you reacted as if we betrayed you deeply. But slowly you're warming up, realizing he's not just a little being designed to take away attention from you, but also your comrade. You kiss me goodnight before you go to bed for stories and songs with your Abu, and now you never fail to kiss your little brother goodnight too. He seems so small next to giant lumbering three year old you, but he will be your greatest friend, your confidante. I pray.

Three is climbing playground structures without my hands to help you up. The year of going to nursery school without my presence to to guide you. School. You wore the green rugby shirt Khala Saadia got you and I waved goodbye when the car pulled away. They told me you cried for twenty minutes. Stopped. And then never looked back. I love that you love school. I love that you come home chattering about the kids you played with and the teacher you whole heartedly adore. Three is beginning the first wobbly steps away from me.

Three is putting on pants and shoes all by yourself. Of picking out your own clothes. Of picking out our clothes. You hate lounging in PJs, a thing we your parents, are quite fond of. And crocs will do if they must but socks with closed toed shoes are the truly fashionable way to be.

Three is hanging out in the pillow nest in the corner of the family room serving alternately as a garage for your cars, oven for your cookies, or a place to rest your head after a long and busy day. Three is cars. And trucks. Lining them up from largest to smallest. In circles. In squares. Lines as small as three, but more commonly much longer starting in the foyer and winding their way into the family room. I love watching your intense focus. How satisfied you look when your'e finally done.

Three was airplanes. Maritime museums and airport parks. Counting jets flying overhead as you swing from our backyard swingset.

And zoos. San Diego and Atlanta. Of smiling at the elephants and pointing at the tigers, but losing your ever loving marbles with ecstatic joy at the ducks that snuck into the flamingo exhibit.

Three was your first bed. Your first Halloween. And backyard garden. Three was sandcastles at Amelia Island and your very first cruise where you informed us every twenty-five seconds that we were on a boat. You know, just incase we forgot.

Three is forest hikes.

Three is chai with nana.

milk 'chai'

Three is hair no longer quite so curly. And cheerios with Elmo. Three is pedaling on any one of your four bikes around the house at all times and under all circumstances and lego towers more fun to break than build. 

Three is loving. Three is being loved.

I heard an old song on the radio yesterday. I knew I loved you before I met you. I think I dreamed you to life. It brought me to tears. Because I did dream of you. And there was a very real time in my life I thought I would never meet you. Even now, three years later, I can't believe I get to be a mother to this beautiful mop-top little boy. You transformed my world. You've brought light to my life brighter than a thousand sunflowers and you've given me joy by the sheer presence of your being along with a humbling only parenthood can do.

To celebrate your birthday, we made red velvet cupcakes.

Set up the toy kitchen from your nani and nana.

And chatted with your entire family and opened gifts from loved ones near and far.

And I paused. To take in the chatting, grinning, ever-evolving you. There are days you frustrate me, and days when I must speak firmly, but even in the toughest moments one fact is always indisputably true: I am beside myself blessed and ever fortunate to be your mother. Happy Third Birthday. And a mother's dua for a million more.

Love,
Your Mama

On kitchen-aid mixers, grocery store flour, and the art of making roti

Since I've left the bringing-in-the-bacon workforce, my cooking [and baking] has increased exponentially. From the girl who couldn't boil an egg, I've somehow learned to make pizza, eggplant parmesan, crescent rolls and chocolate cakes from scratch. I enjoy cooking. It brings a special joy to my world to see people I love, enjoy what I make and the more I cook, the more I want to try new things.

Except roti.

Ghar ki roti, the kind ami makes. The kind that makes any dish from simple aloo gobee to more complex kardhai chicken go from great to jaw-dropping-great.

The reasons to avoid making roti were legitimate: 1. Making roti is messy, sticky, business. 2. It's best fresh and thus can result in one making rotis on the stove and tossing them fresh to folks while you remain hungry until the end. 3. And honestly, our moms make great roti so why mess with perfection and just eat it when we visit or are visited? Considering all this my stock answer when asked to attempt the art of roti by my roti-loving spouse was simply my mom didn't start making roti until she had kids, when we have kids I'll make it too.

Enter kids. And a little boy who adores all food desi. Sure he'll eat spaghetti but he positively does the happy dance if bhindi or aaloo gobee is the evening's main course. And when nani or dadi make roti? The look of bliss is unmistakable, so today, I decided to give it a try.

I didn't have any desi-store atta around but thanks to internet searches and chatting with my mother, I made this recipe in our kitchen-aid mixer using grocery-store flour. To our great delight the roti came out well!

Ingredients: Makes six rotis

•  1 cup 100% whole wheat flour [I used King Arthur- I'm fairly convinced the desi store flour would be better, will try it next time and will update here if it makes a huge difference].
• 1/2 cup all purpose flour [This helps soften the harder-textured whole wheat flour]
• 1 cup water [Start with 1/2 cup only. Add the other half as needed].
• 1/2 tspn salt 
• Pam cooking spray or canola oil

Directions:

Step one: Add your dry ingredients into the mixer bowl and mix on the lowest speed with the dough hook attachment for 15-30 seconds.

Step two: Add in 1/2 cup of water slowly on level 1 [about two minutes].

Step three: Pause, scrape the sides, and trickle in a bit more water until the dough no longer sticks to the sides.  [note: the water really can vary, so just keep watching until its sticking together. It shouldn't take more than one cup of water.]

Step four: Take out the dough, if too sticky for your liking knead in some more flour [I didn't], then break off a piece, make a ball and flatten it onto a well floured space. Coat both sides with flour so its no longer sticky.

Step five: Grab your roller and flatten until it is thin and round [Re-coat with more flour if needed to help the rolling go smoothly]

Step six: Place on a preheated frying pan coated in either canola oil or pam [I use the latter for caloric reasons].

Not a perfect circle but we'll get there eventually!

Step seven: Wait about two minutes and then flip. If you see bubbles forming, gently use a cloth and blot them down. Flip until both sides are golden brown.

Step eight: Do the happy dance. For the love of a little boy, despite stickiness and a million reservations, a mother did what she thought she would never do, she finally learned to make roti.

Eat with a desi dish of your choice, wrap in some grilled chicken, sauteed onions and mint chutney, or if you're like us and couldn't wait to create a second dish, scramble some eggs and dive in!

Next goal: Parathas! Try this recipe? If so, please do share how it turned out! What do you love to eat your roti with?

On Sunflowers, demonic squirrels, and gardening

If you follow me on facebook, you know about my gardening journey. When the year began, I listed gardening as one of my goals for the year. I began with trepidation. It's not that I lack a green thumb with plants. It's that I have the thumb of death with plants. And yet, I wanted to do this. To harness a hint of my ancestors who farmed and gardened for centuries. For whom pretty ceramic pots and sustainable living would raise eyebrows of confusion, as growing was simply what one did. And did well. And while growing a handful of veggies and herbs is not even on the same planet as their efforts I wanted to know I could do it. That somehow the planting-DNA was simply in hiding. Waiting to be coaxed out.

So I researched planting. Contacted my gardening Gurus, Susan and Yen. They advised me about what to plant, where to plant, and helped me decide between planting in-ground versus containers. We decided on the latter because I have demonic squirrels in my backyard. I don't mean that facetiously. There are seriously mentally unhinged squirrels back there. We have a beautiful hawk who lives in our poplar and many a time we've seen said hawk on our swing set and squirrels will walk by. Not scurry. Not jump from tree to tree hiding and hoping that their biggest predator won't notice. No, these squirrels saunter. And the hawk? He sees them and does nothing. 

To decrease the risk of the demonic squirrels attacking my garden we planted them on the deck so the fruits of our labor would remain in sight. Cucumbers, jalapenos, banana peppers, sweet peppers and cayenne, cilantra, oregano, mint, and two tomato plants. We planted them in simple pots and a shipping crate left over from the previous owners. We chased off a squirrel or two and beamed with hope that this time, after all our efforts to do this mindfully, we could do it.

Until we realized our pots had no drainage holes. And that you need drainage holes. We remedied it two weeks post-planting, hoping the roots hadn't all rotted but remained hopeful. And then, later that day, when I sat down with my son ready to plant my beloved specially ordered 'container variety' sunflower seeds, I pulled out the soil, looked at the bag and saw the warning label printed on the back: FOR IN-GROUND USE ONLY. DO NOT PLANT IN CONTAINERS. SERIOUSLY. NO CONTAINERS YOU CRAZY CRAZY FOOL.

Six large bags of soil. All used. All wrong. It was one thing to retroactively drill holes. Another to dig up and replace all this dirt. Even if we did, would it send the plants into shock? Leave it, my friend Yen advised. There's no one way to garden, maybe it'll work. I appreciated her kind words but watching these pretty saplings with nary a bud in sight, I prepared for them to all turn yellow and brown, my own personal early autumn.

I imagined my ancestors looking down on me and then at each other asking You sure she's ours? 

So I went from disillusioned to dejected. I let my toddler do the watering since you can't over or under water that which doesn't stand a chance. And I felt a pang as I saw his excitement-- will he only know fruits and vegetables as things sold in plastic bags at flourescently lit grocery stores? Sure we don't live on a farm, but will his heritage be as tangible as dinosaurs that roamed the earth?

And then yesterday, he walked over to the sunflower pot. And I heard him call mama look! So I walked over. And I looked. And I saw this:

The beginnings of a sunflower. I went to the tomato plants and counted. 15 buds between the two. The jalapenos had four. The banana peppers, three, and the cayenne showing off 9 promising buds. And the cilantro? The cilantro the internet promised me had no fighting chance for even a seasoned gardener? It was positively blooming.

The buds have not blossomed into fruit yet. And I still do have demonic squirrels. But the sight of these blooming buds makes me positively giddy though I can't fully articulate why. I'm not really going to save significant money or trips to the grocery store thanks to my planting, so why do I feel this incredible sense of satisfaction when I count the buds about to bloom?

Maybe its part of feeling human, connecting with the human experience. After all, I'm not the only one who aspires to garden. And I'm not the only one who has experienced the peace that comes with gardening. But for me, I think its also because I went into this project with a goal: I wanted to prove to myself that armed with enough research and advice I could do what I thought I couldn't but instead I learned something else entirely: That despite inadequate drainage, demonic squirrels lurking around every corner, and incorrect soil-- tiny buds are appearing where just this Monday, there were none. This blooming thing? It wasn't up to me

My ancestors Believed without question and planted without sentimentality or pretty ceramic pots. Staring at my little garden blooming green against my brown deck, I can't help but think: My ancestors grew plants in order to live. Maybe I grew them to remember yet again, for the umpteenth time, how.