Green beans with almond granita and the most wonderful time of year or at least the end of it
It's the end of December in San Francisco, which means I can't comfortably wear flip-flops and occasionally there are some leaves on the sidewalk. We passed that annual milestone, the turning-on of the heater, which makes a pleasant boom below us in the garage before hot air seeps upward through three of the four wall vents (the office will always, always be cold). In the morning I prop Gargantubaby's clothes on the living room vent before crawling into bed with him and stripping him naked before he's fully awake so he won't scream about being shoved into cold jeans. It's on mornings like these, when he balls his fists and yells "MOMMY!!!!!" with a look of rage and helplessness that I recognize so well that I think, Thank god I only have one.
During the week I get this overwhelming feeling of missing GB, but when I think about actually picking him up early from after-care I get exhausted.
I've written a grand total of three blog posts this year. I still, really, only do this for me and SJ, although I love having an audience, appreciate beyond measure anyone who reads, love the connection and the feeling of making intelligent people laugh. But I don't have any illusion about anyone champing at the bit for the next missive about my incredibly insular world. Whenever I open an email newsletter from another writer who starts by apologizing for not having written for a while and then writes in excruciating detail WHY they haven't written I'm all EYE ROLL SKIP. Also, a few people now have signed me up for their email newsletters and TEXT MESSAGE NEWSLETTERS WHY without asking me first and because I'm worried these connections are tenuous enough they won't endure me unsubscribing, I'm inundated with plenty of content I don't want or need.
Like I said, no illusions about this newsletter.
But SJ says he misses it, because without fail it makes us laugh. I miss it, too, because I like to write and I want a written record of my son's life. I've been reading old blog posts lately and feeling grateful I wrote things down, including this exchange from when he was 2 3/4:
Jenny: Do you want to go pee-pee?
GB: I don't want to go pee-pee. But thanks to asking me.
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It's been a weird and, I think, ultimately good year. I got checked hard in a couple areas. Oooeee did it hurt, but this year (as with all years) it was sink or swim. I remember when I was dating the Dog Walker after my divorce in 2007, and this tall, graceful man was a dream on a skateboard. Because he was mostly interested in introducing me to his interests, he put me on a five-foot skateboard on top of a hill in the Outer Sunset, and because I was fucked up and anorexic and bulimic and body dysmorphic, I let him do it. As I rolled down a hill faster and faster, I realized I was going too fast to jump off and not break my arm, but also coming up on an intersection that cars might go through at the same time as me, having no warning I was barreling toward them. I realized I had to stay on the skateboard, because I was either going to fall off and get hurt bad; go through the intersection and get hurt bad; or go through the intersection and not get hurt. I went through the intersection, terrified but somehow balanced, and did not get hurt. It didn't feel amazing, but I made it through.
Same, 2022.
(Some good stuff happened, too, but that's boring.)
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These children who somehow got '90s drum and bass right are my jam right now:
I connected with this book hard this year:
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Transcript from the back seat on the way to kindergarten:
GB: I wish I wasn’t trapped in this prison.
GB: I wish I had a self-driving car.
Jenny: What would you do if you had a self-driving car?
GB: I would tell it where I want to go.
Jenny: Then what?
GB: Then it would take me where I want to go.
Jenny: Isn’t that what Mommy does?
GB: (Rolls eyes)
GB: Mommy, let’s have eye contact.
Jenny: I can’t, I’m driving.
(Every time I look into the backseat, GB is staring at me with wide eyes and a creepy grin, his head tilted, not blinking.)
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GB does finger guns at me every time he gets a word right in reading practice.
Jenny: Where did you learn that?
GB: A TV show!
SJ and I take GB to Radio Habana Social Club in the Mission one night to see a friend play in a trio in a parklet, which makes me feel normal and alive. We drink from cut-glass goblets of sangria and smile too much in our coats. Inside the café, GB sees a picture of Andy Warhol on the wall and cries out, "It’s Nonna," which delights me to no end because HE'S NOT WRONG.
With everything else that's gotten back to normal I KNOW WE'RE IN A TRIPLEDEMIC AND PEOPLE ARE STILL DYING OF COVID AND NOTHING WILL EVER BE THE SAME BUT WHY SHOULD IT ANYWAY we're back to being less-than-gentle with each other.
I had to go to GB's school in the middle of the day, and instead of parking in the middle/turn lane on Valencia, as parents do during drop-off and pickup, I had to find a parking space or risk getting a ticket. Half a block away, in front of a café, a small Middle Eastern woman was standing in a parking space, holding her phone. I made to park in the space, and she leaned down and said, "Someone's parking here."
"Yeah, me," I said. "Move."
I flashed back to when I moved to the Lower Haight after the Dog Walker broke up with me, and how, after a long day at work, I finally found parking 10,000 miles away on Divisadero Street outside the Metro Hotel, but a young woman, much like this one, was standing in the parking space.
"You're not allowed to save parking spaces," I said tiredly then, and started to pull into the space. But that woman literally started screaming that I was trying to run her over with my car.
"MOVE," I kept saying, but she wouldn't, adamant that she was in the right and I was a crazy lady trying to run her over. We had a standoff for a while. Eventually a man walked past and told me he was about to pull out of a space around the corner, so I followed him and took his space.
This woman a couple weeks ago did not entertain a standoff. She moved out of the space when I started to pull in.
But she also called me a motherfucker.
Huh, I thought. Been a while.
I have gone over this interaction in my head many times. On one hand, San Francisco parking is San Francisco parking. You can't save spaces. Whoever gets there first gets the space, even if you have your indicator light on and someone comes from the other direction and slides right in. They're a dick but they win, and you fight only if you feel like getting shot. If you see a parking space, even if it's on the other side of the street, you put your car into it, then hold up traffic while you do a three-point turn to fit in the space, because otherwise you'll be looking for parking for so long you'll eventually give up and go home or pay $25 to park in a garage.
But I'm pretty sure that if this woman had leaned into my car and pleaded her case, just told me why she was saving it and asked if I wouldn't mind looking for another one but said she'd understand if I didn't, I would have given up the space. I’m pretty sure I would have done this.
I've gone over this in my head not to berate myself or her, but to fully hold what happened, and to try to embrace something I've had written on a Post-it note on my computer for months: It's how you behave. It's not about whether you're right or wrong. It's whether you're effective.
For a writer, communication is not my strong suit. And this year, as I mentioned, I got checked, and by checked I mean put in a 100% submissive position where I had to follow certain rules or else lose something critical to my life and the life of my family. These checks came at the same time, and although the consensus is I’m not actually a horrible person and these situations could have (and perhaps should have) been handled very differently, they weren't. (Cryptic enough for you? The fact that I can't write about either is another reason I’ve been stymied on this blog.)
So, instead of swimming forward in community with my fellow humans and holding on to some dignity, I had to keep my mouth shut and smile and say thank you when all I really wanted to do was tear someone's head off (and sometimes my own).
And that was a learning experience ENOUGH ALREADY WITH THE LEARNING EXPERIENCES. What I told SJ was this year felt like going to a chiropractor, which I’ve never done. I got adjusted — I got my bones cracked — and although I would have preferred a nice massage followed by some constructive feedback I could take or leave, the adjustment happened to me, all at once. And the result was I was forced to prioritize my mental health, which I did, and to take everything except my mental health off my endless to-do lists, which I did, and I'm better for it, I think.
So, thank you?
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We’re on the 580 passing the exit to my old apartment in East Oakland. I tell the kids that my stepdaughter has been there before, that she was there for my 40th birthday.
Jenny: It was before I was pregnant!
GB: Let’s not talk about vaginas and stuff like that.
GB’s sister, age 12 (a few months ago), had a friend over, and GB had been running them ragged. Earlier I'd tried to explain that the friend uses they/them pronouns. As the two big kids sat on the couch on their phones, GB whispered in my ear, “Can you help me get in touch with [X]? I wanna hang out.”
I gently explained that they might want a little private time. Soon after, I found GB in our bedroom, looking sad.
Jenny: What’s wrong, honey?
GB: I’m just sad I can’t get in touch with they. Where are them?
GB: Mommy? How do you spell ... two sharks eating a sun?
I ask GB to describe me.
GB: Very boring and not funny.
GB: I like you combined with love.
GB: You never make it good.
Jenny: What?
GB: Life.
Jenny: I never make life good.
GB: Yeah.
Jenny: OK.
GB: What is the last number?
Jenny: Nobody knows. Numbers are infinite, which means they go on and on.
GB (a day later): I love you to the last number.
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One last thing: I've been mentioning over time that GB's speech is getting more and more clear, and now that he’s 5, I believe I've captured the last of the nonsense: Sharpen the death of your hearts.
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SJ has a business plan to turn these little lights you’re supposed to attach to the tips of your fingers so you can pretend you’re a robot or something — two handfuls of garbage GB got at his school’s fall fundraiser — into reading lights you put on the tip of your nose. No notes.
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OH the Turkish edition of my book is out!!!!! Isn't this crazy? It's called Biraz Yorgun Gibisin and you can buy it in Turkey. I don’t even have a copy yet. I have no idea what the process was, who translated it, who designed it, it kind of looks like the illustrator did more illustrations but I don't know??, it's amazing and I'm so grateful!!!! One person I know I can thank is LAURA LEE MATTINGLY, the best agent a person could have. I schmove you, Laura Lee!
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These greens beans were fine. I had everything the recipe called for except the green beans, so they were a go for a Thanksgiving potluck. They're from Smitten Kitchen, and all the text is from her site.
You need:
2 pounds green beans
1 cup almonds, toasted and cooled
1 1/4 ounces (about 1/3 cup grated) parmesan cheese
1 small garlic clove, peeled and crushed
Leaves from a sprig or two of thyme
Pinches of red pepper flakes, to taste
1/4 teaspoon coarse sea or kosher salt
2 to 3 teaspoons white wine vinegar
1/3 cup olive oil, plus extra for drizzling
You need to:
Bring a large pot of salted water to boil. Trim green beans and cook beans in boiling water until crisp tender, about 3 to 4 minutes for regular green beans. Plunge in an ice water bath to fully cool. Drain and pat dry.
In food processor, grind almonds, cheese, garlic, thyme, pepper and salt to a coarse paste. Add vinegar, and pulse again. Stir in oil and adjust seasonings to taste.
Toss cooled green beans with almond pesto. Drizzling with extra olive oil for a fresh glisten.