Blackberry and Peach Pie and Things I've Learned: Baby Turns 4 Edition
The benefits to all of Gargantubaby, who recently turned 4, having an 11-year-old sister (and spending all day with four 11- to 16-year-olds):
Jenny (pulling out the magna-tiles): What do you want to build, honey?
GB: Your mom!
Jenny: GB, stop pulling at my leg, please.
GB: Too fricking bad!
GB: I freaking looove Spiderman!
GB: I pooped in my fricking underpants!
***
GB, my son, my Gargantubaby, turned four years old on a sunny, mild afternoon a couple of Sundays ago. It's the second birthday he's had in captivity. The plan was to host a superspreader event at a park on Sunday, then put the family in the van on Monday and drive into the heart of a wildfire for a family vacation. California living!
At 3:55 p.m. that Saturday, I got a text message from a young friend of my mom's. My parents are visiting from Evanston, Illinois, and my mom has the annoying habit of making kind and fascinating friends of all ages all over the world, so four days before GB's birthday party, my mom arranged for us to meet this friend — all of us vaccinated — indoors to eat pizza and talk about writing.
When the friend texted me on Saturday, I was in Daly City picking up four boxes of mini-bundt cakes for the birthday party, which is the most suburban sentence I've ever written. I didn't look at the message because I couldn't respond right away and I knew if I looked without responding I would forget it entirely.
At 4:09 p.m., my mom called. By then I was walking to the minivan with a large, brightly colored bag holding four boxes of mini-bundt cakes, and now that is the most suburban sentence I've ever written.
"Did you get Mary's text message?" my mom asked in a clipped voice I know well.
"No," I said, bracing myself.
"She has COVID."
I learned a lot in the next five hours — first, that “breakthrough” cases of COVID, whether or not they are statistically rare, are not going to appear rare, because they’re more evenly dispersed throughout the population.
Second, 20 milligrams of Lexapro, my most recent daily dosage since I had another panic attack on July 8 (so many stories, so little time!), works like a fucking charm — I did not have a panic attack! (Later that evening I may have screamed "I NEED SILENCE" when my mother attempted to reassure me with nonstop chatter — but after I did, I felt better.) (When I sneaked a look at my mom in the van’s passenger seat, she did not look like she felt better.)
My mom and I raced around San Francisco in grim silence (as I so politely requested), trying to get tested for COVID to figure out whether I could a). continue with the birthday party, and b). attend the family vacation that started the following day, since that vacation included four people in their 70s and 80s and one with COPD. In case I sound naive about the shitstorm that is COVID testing, I have been tested twice for COVID and had my young son tested twice, so I thought that getting a COVID test was relatively uncomplicated in San Francisco if you have Kaiser. Here is what I learned:
Major West Coast health provider Kaiser Permanente does not do rapid tests. Like, at all. WTF KAISER.
Testing locations exist all over the fucking city of San Francisco, and they all have different hours, and they're all closed today.
You can get a rapid test at SFO, but only during certain, fucked-up hours, which aren't now, and it costs $250.
Walgreens sells rapid tests! Each box includes two tests, and customers are limited to two boxes per person. These tests are 98.5% accurate and more likely to give a false positive than a false negative.
You can call your doctor friend once every four years for a medical issue, and she will call you back and stay on the phone sharing the latest research to help you make a decision.
TLDR; my mom and I tested negative with the home tests. I sent an email to all potential birthday party attendees at 9:30 p.m. in case anyone wanted to opt out anyway, and I was able to spend the next day worrying about having provided only pizza and bundt cakes to a guest pool that happened to include people who are gluten-intolerant, lactose-intolerant, and both gluten- and lactose-intolerant, plus some sort of slimy jicama and celery from Safeway.
But the bounce house was a hit, and we had so many bundt cakes left over we were able to offer them to the adolescents lurking about the jungle gym eyeing the party and then pick up their bundt-cake-related garbage after they’d left because adolescents are fuckers.
***
Gargantubaby hangs his arm over a box in the office and sighs, "Bisexual."
GB (walking around the house): "Sweeeeeeet Jesus!"
Oddly profound: Jenny (the night before GB turns four): Tonight is the last night you’re going to be three. When you wake up tomorrow you’re going to be four. How do you feel about that?
GB: It’s funny. Because I don’t know why that’s true.
***
Things I've Learned:
1. White is not an option. Not a couch, not a shirt, not a towel. No. White.
2. Cafés know what you mean when you order a hot chocolate for a kid: They make it warm, not hot. You don't have to explain this every time.
3. Poop is funny.
4. Other people are not aware of how brilliant your kid is and need to be constantly reminded.
5. Forgetting the blueberries is a go-back-to-the-store-on-the-same-day-level kind of issue.
6. Mommy is ANNOYING. Mommy talks, sings, dances, and kisses. MOMMY IS UPSETTING ME.
7. Do not cut a piece of food for a child unless you have their express, written consent.
8. Four is the year when birthdays start to count. My son was disappointed he didn't get a "real cake" and so dislikes the Spiderman jeans jacket I paid $95 to have made that he won't even put it on. He doesn't like the "blue" of the jeans, he says. I can't get over the feeling that he's saying this to be nice to me, because he doesn't generally have a problem with the color blue, or with jeans. But I can't figure out what the problem might be. Probably because THERE IS NO PROBLEM IT’S A FUCKING JEANS JACKET WITH BABY SPIDER-MEN ALL OVER IT IT’S FUCKING CUTE.
9. Don't pay any money, especially $95, or plan, say, weeks in advance to buy a surprise birthday present for your four-year-old, because he will be much more interested in the little plastic Star Wars figurines your partner will buy him at the last fucking minute at Walgreens (and that were YOUR IDEA).
***
Jenny, to SJ (on my way to the back deck to eat lunch): Do you want to come sit outside with me for a minute?
SJ: Indubitably. Isn’t that what all those relaxed classy people say? Indubitably?
***
I MADE THIS PIE ON A WEEKDAY. I know, it makes no sense and sets a bad example for working parents, but let me explain. Last Monday was my first day at my new job, and I have insane amounts of energy because I'm new and I'm excited and I love my co-workers and the work, and I took a break around noon and noticed our blackberry bush in the backyard is exploding. So I spent maybe five minutes picking a bunch and then put them in a metal bowl. SJ had already bought tons of peaches, so I cut up two and put them in another bowl. Then I made sure all the fruit was slightly coated with corn starch and white sugar, then I grated the skin of a large lemon into the bowls (which honestly was a little too much — I would recommend using a medium lemon, but once I started grating I didn't feel like stopping halfway through and ending up with a halfway-grated lemon. You know what I mean).
Then I took a premade pie crust from Trader Joe's out of the fridge, and I totally fucked up the first one because I didn't let it come to room temperature because who has time for that so it broke apart. So I took the second one, parchment paper and all, and bunged it in the microwave for 10 seconds. Then I unrolled it in a glass pie dish, squooshed it to the sides with my fingertips, poured in the blackberries, and sprinkled cinnamon on top. Then I piled on the peaches and sprinkled cinnamon on top.
425 for 20 minutes
350 for 30 minutes
BOOM. It was delicious and I ate it for breakfast all week because no one else ate it because they're stupid.
Jenny (in the bath with GB): What's the worst word?
GB: Stupid.
Jenny: That's right, baby.
GB: Also "shit" is really bad.
Jenny: Also correct.