Late Summer Transitions: A Rambling Reflection

So, we were away. And then we came back. This week, we skipped doing a market tour. Brittany is taking a much-needed vacation. Next week, we resume. But that's not the focus of this post. Summer slams into fall, it seems, bringing halcyon days to a screeching halt, but leaving a confused, last burst of abundance. Are we supposed to be thinking about tomatoes and blueberries and corn and peaches, or saying bye bye to them, canning and freezing them, in favor of buying squashes, which are already popping up on market tables? Are we finished with sandals and swimming and ready for corduroys and earthtones? No, we're in this middle zone called September, where it's hot and cold all at once and summer's bounty hasn't quit, but we can't bring ourselves to buy pumpkins, even though I'm assured squashes have to come up now or otherwise they get mildew on them if they're planted any later. And you're farming organically (thanks, Matt Salvaterra, for that explanation.) Yet we're forced to leave all those summer signifiers behind to some extent once school starts.

Ocean City, New Jersey.

We're talking about the acutely painful quality of transitions, which we have been dealing with in our house. The boys started kindergarten yesterday, and the month leading up to it has been one of slow, gradual shifts, with friends disappearing from their pre-K class to go on vacation and then make their own transitions into new schools, new situations, new routines, for the fall.

This hasn't been going over well with one of the two boys especially, who has been acting out quite terribly and uncharacteristically. It has been an exercise in trying to remain calm and present, to bring compassion.  Admittedly, this is kind of hard when one of your kids says "Attack her!" and then throws shoes at you. Or something else.

I say these things because they are true, and because I suspect others have these experiences with their kids. And because I'm hoping one of you will poke your head up and say, yep, that happened to me. And then we can all breathe a collective sigh of recognition.

For all the big feelings of anxiety and fear that may be trapped in those little bodies, they had a lovely first day as far as I could tell. No one cried at drop off. (That happened beforehand.) No one ran back for an extra hug; this was startling.

I have not been immune either, to these shifts. I have had these strange nightmares about somehow missing their first day and misplacing important documents that are necessary for school. (It's been two days in school, but the EASD has been sending us tons of stuff since the summer registration.) I didn't realize how much I'd internalized and shut off my own fears about them somehow getting swallowed up in what looks like a big school (compared to the Learning Center at Third Street Alliance, yes), but Desmond remembered where the library, nurse's office and bathrooms were, along with the gym. I was worried about them getting on the wrong bus until I was informed the kindergarten teachers line the kids up according to bus route. When we got them from Third Street yesterday, I was relieved they were both there even though logically, I knew that if they'd gone missing I would have discovered it long before 5pm yesterday, in the form of a phone call.

I learned that Miles has trouble opening things with peel-off plastic lids (yogurt containers are much easier), so we need to work on that skill. His teacher wants him to be able to have a snack that doesn't require an adult for help. This makes me sad—this was never part of my school-related concerns—but it's pragmatic and necessary, I suppose, although it feels a little bit like a rude awakening. I know this sounds dramatic but I don't mean it to be.  I bought some containers for sandwiches on the days like today when I pack them lunch for Third Street when they aren't excited about what's on the menu. I got some little ones that hold one cup worth of snacks, with a removable ice pack to keep the contents cold. I want to make it as easy as possible for them—they are still so little, they need to learn how to tie their own shoes (thanks velcro)—without resorting to overdoing it. They'll stretch naturally just by the sheer fact of having to adjust to a new school with new people. If there are small gestures I can provide as a parent, I will do so. This helps me as much as it helps them.

And so this means as many comfortable foods as possible, such as homemade pizza and pierogies, a little something extra here and there for snack after school, and lots and lots of hugs. It means setting up dates to see friends who are going to different schools. It means your son bursts into tears and tells who you who he misses. It means skipping karate on the first day of school because they're living without afternoon naps for the first time and realizing they sorely miss them. It then also means everyone tries to go to bed early. But mostly, it means hugs and love from as many familiar people as possible. The days of being coddled during change are somewhat numbered. I need to lengthen this last breath of innocence.

Om Yum: Yoga People are like Food People

I wanted to share a few things I learned about myself after attending the IACP36 conference in Chicago. There are many, many more tidbits of external bits of information I absorbed, including the latest projects from Ferran Adria, the Lexicon of Sustainability, the latest research on cookbook purchasing, the cider renaissance that's underway (the alcoholic kind), recipe writing, and what mind-bending things the researchers at the Nordic Food Lab are doing, such as making bog butter and insect broths. 1. My yoga practice helped me on the road. I was mindful of my energy during the whole trip and didn't push it. I wanted to use the time for introspection and reflection at the end of the day, which was different from how a fair portion, I suspect, of my fellow conference goers use their time in a foreign city with great food—they go out. That's ok. This was my first conference, and I wanted to be on my game and take it seriously when it was time for the sessions. I did not want to feel icky in the morning—too much food and drink dulls the senses. Someone famous said that. Maybe it was that historically famous overindulger Benjamin Franklin?

2. I had a bit of anxiety going into this event, feeling like a newbie and unaccomplished in comparison to my peers; almost everyone there had a cookbook, it seemed. Admittedly, I have so much to learn and explore (more food and recipe work—bring it!), there's so much I already know and am capable of. Often I've wished I'd landed in food writing earlier in my career, but I am now able to (mostly) dismiss those moments. Trust: You are where you are supposed to be.

I also was reminded in two sessions specifically how much I am already on the right track and maybe further along than I thought. We had a session with Adam Ried from America's Test Kitchen on recipe writing—a sort of a bootcamp in which he discussed his methods and then we made four different iterations of, get this, pimento cheese. It was incredibly validating: Yes, I've basically been doing it right all along, but I also learned a lot.

The second session that reassured me was the Pitch Slam on Monday morning, in which you could present your ideas to a bunch of awesome food editors from across the spectrum (magazines, books, newspapers). I realized at that point something that was should have been evident but hadn't really crystallized for me: a lot of people come to food writing from food and therefore don't know all the ins and outs of pitching editors. Learning the hows, the whys, the protocols, the methods, what they want, and so forth takes time. I know many of these things but I still learned a lot (yoga thought: you're always a student!). And the ability to recognize fear (false emotions appearing real) and push it aside and pitch twice with two separate ideas was irreplaceable. (Let's see how this helps me with inversions.) And then, as I approached the table afterward to thank the panelists, I swear I was guided directly to the one person who wasn't already engaged in conversation. And that one person was also a yoga instructor. Of course. One of my story ideas was about the intersection between yoga and food.

3. Food people really are a lot like yoga people. Everyone I met had was incredibly generous with their time, business cards, and their knowledge. This was true of folks like me who are trying to get to the next level, grow, sort themselves out, however you want to call it, or those with established platforms and blogs and cookbooks under their proverbial belts. Many of the folks I met wanted to help each other and share. At the most basic level, we are all united by the love of food, the commitment to deliciousness, the passion for creating something new and different, and the act of sharing that with others. It's the most welcoming community of writers I've experienced in my 15+ years as a journalist. I know this on a micro level, day to day, with people I encounter. Imagine that, en masse, with hundreds of people. And lots of food. Yep.

You might say, oh, it's all that heart. Yoga opens the heart. Undeniably, it does, if you do enough of it and let it happen. And people talk easily about cooking from the heart. This is true, for many. Michael Ruhlman told us at the conference (and his readers a while ago) about the fallacy of following your passion, that he started cooking out of fear and anger. However, once he did, look at all the space he made for beautiful things to happen in his career. He acknowledges as much—you're opening yourself up. He says he came to food and cooking by accident, but seriously, there are no accidents. No matter.

Food people and yoga people have lots in common, and I loved seeing how these two dovetailed so harmoniously. The mat work informs your life, if you let it.

There's more to say, of course. But that's it for now.