Third Culture

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As you may have noticed, I changed the name of the blog. Same look, same feel, same sparkling wit—just a new name.

I thought an explanation was needed, so here it goes.

I named Baby Ghetto Gourmet when I was pregnant and unemployed. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those things, but at the time I was making on-the-spot decisions without much forethought, pretty much due to the emotional ups and downs that come with pregnancy and unemployment.

And I had just seen Julie & Julia, and thought that having a food blog would be so cool. Silly me, I didn’t realize that everyone else thought having a food blog would be so cool.

Also, the name Baby Ghetto Gourmet might just seem downright weird to anyone who doesn’t live in the Bay Area or is a huge foodie. (Named after the Gourmet Ghetto in Berkeley, blah blah blah.)

So the change to Third Culture. Why Third Culture, you may ask? I first heard the name from a friend and former coworker, CE, who had taught high school to expats in Austria. Apparently, it’s a term for kids of expats who grow up all over the world, and at some point lose a sense of belonging to their “home” country. The State Department website has a pretty extensive description of it.

Well, when I was preggers and unemployed, I’d meet up with CE (also unemployed at the time, though he wasn’t pregnant) once in a while, where we would discuss our idea for a TV show, which in our mind would be called Third Culture.

Since then, I’ve thought a lot about the term, and wanted to make it somehow mine (CE doesn’t mind—I already asked his permission).

I thought the term was much more representative of what I wanted the blog to be about. Neither I nor A were born in the U.S. He moved here from Italy as an adult, and I moved here from Iran when I was 9. But my 20s were spent in Italy, so I have spent almost half of my life living on non-American soil.

I carry and American passport and an Italian passport, but don’t feel like either fully represents who I am. I don’t have an Iranian passport, but you can’t really shake the culture in which you were born. So I’m neither here nor there, nor the other place.

A carries an American and Italian passport, but definitely feels more Italian than American, and rightly so.

Now we have a daughter who was born in the U.S., but into a family that is going to be somewhat different from her friends’. She’ll have the advantage of amazing fusion cuisine, and will hopefully have tri-linguist tendencies. But she will also have to deal with parents who don’t know all the words to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and never took PB&J to school for lunch.

So I hope the new blog name will inspire me to post about the challenges and joys of this aspect of parenthood. Although I will probably still write about my favorite recipes, cool buildings, and random things that have nothing to do with the Third Culture culture.

So stay tuned.

No Ice Cream for Me

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I’ve been a mom to little P for a smidge over nineteen months now, and last weekend I finally had the irrefutable proof that I have stepped the line to thorough mama-hood.

For some reason, this proof didn’t come while I was pushing her form out of my nether parts into the world, or when we brought her home for the first time, or when we figured out that she was smiling at us.

Nope. The proof came in a frozen yogurt shop in Carmel. When I turned down a perfectly good opportunity to have ice cream. I love ice cream. I never turn down a good chance to get my hands on some frozen deliciousness.

We ended up in a frozen yogurt shop because, you see, P is a picky eater. Picky in quality and taste, yes, but also in the form of entertainment that is presented to her when she eats. As I told her doctor at her last well baby visit, A and I pretty much have to do a song and dance routine to make her eat.

The entertainment comes in the form of books, crayons, toy cars, and *gasp* Caillou. Anything to make the girl open her mouth. When we visited A’s parents in Italy, entertainment came in the form of our large, extended Italian family doing their daily thing. Loud uncles, dancing cousins, cooking grandma—who needed Caillou at that point? She opened her mouth for anything and everything (although the yummy Italian food served up by said grandma may have had something to do with it).

But in restaurants, we’re pretty much out of luck. We don’t go out to eat very often, because “eating” turns into one of us scarfing down food as fast as possible while the other tries to get P to open her mouth, then passing her along to the satiated parent to repeat the ritual. It’s great if the restaurant in question has some sort of coloring instrument, and we generally bring some toys along, but the attention span wanders after about five minutes.

This past weekend, we went to Big Sur for a friend’s wedding (FYI, a wedding reception happening in the background is also enough entertainment to make her eat). Adding a day to the trip to enjoy the California coast before heading to the wedding seemed like a good idea. Except, of course, for the whole having-to-make-a-child-eat-sans-Caillou.

On Saturday, we had lunch at a really cute bistro, which had a respectable kids’ menu. I ordered P a quesadilla and a side of broccolini. She had about a half an inch of the quesadilla, and the majority of the broccolini (what can I say, she does love her greens…for now). But as far as the calories actually consumed, I figured she’d had about 150, max. She needed something else.

Which brings us back to the yogurt shop. One thing P never says no to is frozen yogurt. So we bought her a cup and watched happily as she proceeded to consume the entire thing without any jazz-hands routines from us.

As she was eating, I suddenly had a flashback to when I was a kid, happily eating ice cream while my parents watched. And my 4-year-old self would think, “Why would you NOT have ice cream?” It didn’t even cross my mind that sometimes, you might not want ice cream. You may be too full for ice cream. You may not be having an ice cream sort of day.

That’s when I kind of knew that the line had been crossed, and there wouldn’t be any going back. I was full but not stuffed; I hadn’t had dessert at the cute bistro; I wasn’t having an anti-ice cream day. But I was perfectly happy to watch P eat her cup without any need to enjoy some myself.

Mama-hood, at this point I must embrace you wholeheartedly. I looked around the yogurt shop and noticed that there were multiple sets of adults there with their kids, and only the kids were having ice cream. We had all crossed the line.

The way I figure it, this is the ice cream thought process at different ages:

4 year-old: “Ice cream ice cream ice cream ice cream ice cream ice cream!”

14 year-old: “My parents gave me money for this ice cream, but I’m too cool to share it with them. Or be within 100 miles of them when I eat it.”

24 year-old: “Ice cream? I’d love some! Who cares if it’s midnight and I just had a slice of pizza?”

34 year-old: “My child is sure enjoying that ice cream.”

Oh, ice cream, I love thee. But definitely not as much as P does.

Is that Evan Dando?

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Until last weekend, I hadn’t slept more than 10 feet away from P since she was born nineteen months ago. But after four months of quasi single parenting, I was long overdue for a mini-break. So for the past three months, I eagerly awaited the July 29-31 weekend, when I would be meeting up in L.A. with four of my bestest friends.

My friends and I go way back. WAY back. I met L & S when we were in seventh grade, and M & E when we were freshmen in high school. We’re now in our early (OK, mid) thirties, so we’ve known each other most of our lives.

We’ve all become happy, healthy, responsible, and interesting adults: L is getting an MBA and works for an NGO, S is a marketing guru who’ll have her second daughter in December, M is in Baltimore doing a post-doc in bio-statistics, and E is headed off on an amazing adventure to teach in Hong Kong for a year.

My most vivid memories of growing up back in the day include going to L.A. Kings games with L, the sense of freedom when S became the first to get her driver’s license and car, sleepovers at E’s house, and watching M inhale ice cream sundaes at Denny’s. And of course, watching the seminal movie of our high school years (OK, maybe I’m a bit partial here), Reality Bites.

The weekend got off to an amazing start with a mini birthday party for E, who ended up making us a delicious dinner of a Barefoot Contessa chicken classic and a wild rice and cherry salad, while S bought amazing pastries at a French bakery in lieu of birthday cake.

Saturday involved an almost two hour hike in Runyon Canyon (is it the only hiking trail in L.A.? Seriously, everyone and their mama was there), an amazing brunch at Aroma Coffee & Tea, a dinner that tested all the senses at The Bazaar, and shmantzy drinks at the Roger Room. (And no celebrity sightings anywhere! The only thumbs down for the weekend.)

I had no idea I was so cool. OK, I’m not; S did all the planning.

But really, for me the best part of the weekend was the downtime in between all the fab activities, when we looked at People and UsWeekly and commented on the awfulness of Amy Winehouse’s death, and of course, watched Reality Bites.

Then we could pretend that we were back in a time when Winona Ryder hadn’t stolen anything, Ethan Hawke was still hot and had yet to break Uma Thurman’s heart, and people knew who Evan Dando was.

So consider this my love letter to MELS. I love you guys. I loved this weekend because it was like a time warp. With the big difference being that we’re much more interesting people now. Which makes the time warp that much sweeter, and hanging out so much more satisfying.

Mr. & Mrs. Frank

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I admit it: I love making grown men cry. Mind you, I didn’t know this about myself. But apparently, I do. It’s not that I go around whacking grown men over the head so I can squeeze some tears out of them. I like them to be moved so much that they cry.

Right now, we’re in the midst of closing escrow on a beautiful house. The closing date keeps getting pushed back–loan applications are not a fun process. As part of the bid package, our real estate agent suggested that we write a letter to the owners, telling them how much we love the place.

This wouldn’t be much of a stretch. We love the place. LOVE it. You see, the Mr. & Mrs. Frank who inspired the title of this post are the owners of this 1940s ranch house with a startlingly large backyard. They bought the place in 1947, and lived in it their entire life, until then entered a retirement home about three months ago.

They raised three kids in the house. They loved the house. You can see how much they loved it. You can see it in the unique built-ins, the meticulously mowed lawns, and quality roof the put in about five years ago.

So late that night, after we came back from our first day of house-hunting, I sat and drafted this letter.

Every homebuyer dreams of walking into a home and instantly envisioning a future there. I must admit that is exactly what happened when my husband, toddler daughter, and I stepped into your house.

Once my daughter P’s feet hit the ground, she was off and exploring the beautiful backyard. As a writer with a historic preservation background, I completely appreciated the wood paneling and detailed care (and love) poured into every carved surface. And my husband, an Italian artisan cabinetmaker, was abuzz with the potential of the little shed as his future woodshop (and respite from the womenfolk!).

The beauty of your house is that we can fully envision our future in it while appreciating your past. The meticulous workmanship inside the house and the painstaking landscaping work outside are unique and need a family that appreciates their uniqueness. I fully believe that we are that family.

I hope that you consider our offer and rest assured that your house will be as loved in the future as it was in the past.

I meant every word of it. It turns out, the letter made the Franks’ son cry. Mrs. Frank, who is apparently suffering from Alzheimer’s in her older age, had a minute of lucidity, read the letter, called her son, and demanded that he sell us the house.

So I’m crossing my fingers, knocking on wood, touching iron (the Italian way)…doing everything I can to send good karma to the bank so that they’ll give us this gorgeous house. And if we do get it, you can be sure that this grown woman will be shedding tears of joy.

thirtysomething

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I have a serious love/hate relationship when it comes to P and TV. On the one hand, I realize how easy–oh how easy–it is to turn it on when she’s eating and let her be distracted enough that she actually eats. On the other, I realize that it’s a much too easy route to take, and not constructive in the long run.

Long story short, we try not to let her watch TV very much, and hope that my parents (who look after her during the day) do the same.

At the same time, my own relationship with TV is not very conflicted. I love television. Love love love it. When my family moved to the U.S. from Iran, I was nine and my sister was thirteen. We pretty much learned to speak English (and well, I might add), by watching The Facts of Life and CHIPs.

I’m not a huge fan of reality TV…I really don’t understand the need for some people to air every skeleton in their closet on TV, I don’t really think people can fall in love in the three months The Bachelor is shot, and feel no need to see super rich women be catty to one another.

I do, however, love a good quality drama. Last night, NBC aired the last ever episode of Friday Night Lights, a show that made this California girl want to utter the words “Texas forever!” I’m still getting over the idea of not having those characters visit on a weekly basis. Sigh.

Recently, I went through the five seasons of The Wire in about four months. I waited with bated breath for the mail to arrive, and was very diligent in getting those Netflix DVDs back in less than 24 hours.

There is another series, though, that I have a soft spot for: thirtysomething.

It first aired on ABC in 1987, and ran for four seasons. I was only 10 when it premiered, and 14 when it went off the air. I vaguely remember the buzz surrounding it, and I may have even watched a few episodes. But I was definitely the wrong demographic.

I think anyone in their late twenties to their early forties can watch thirtysomething and feel an instant bond with one or more of the characters.

By the time you actually hit your thirties, you’ve probably known people who have cheated on their significant others, divorced, been diagnosed with a horrible disease, had to choose between a career and a family, made it big in the world, didn’t really make it, are still looking for that special someone, etc.

Thirtysomething portrays all those scenarios with grace, portraying well-rounded characters that could be your friends. They all go through life experiences that could very well happen to you.

I was talking to a friend a while back, and out of the blue she said, “You know what show I’ve been really getting into? Thirtysomething.”

“OMG me too! The show is FANTASTIC!”

“I know,” said my friend, “it just…I don’t know, it just feels really honest.”

Our conversation about the show pretty much petered out after that, like there was not much more to say. And there wasn’t. It’s a beautifully honest show that makes you, well, maybe be a little bit honest with yourself. And that’s a pretty big claim for a show to make.