goods and heroes

gravy, part 1

I hope you had a festive and happy Thanksgiving.  We celebrated with Grandma and Grandpa (and all the Chicago cousins and Aunts and Uncles) in Hyde Park on Thursday. Over the years this has evolved into a such a happy and easygoing gathering. Franny makes the turkey and the guests bring all the sides. I woke up on Thursday, skipped the parades on TV and made my bread, sausage and water chestnut stuffing. I just love the simplicity of bringing one pot to the celebration and adding it to all the others on the table (Larry's bread, Carole's sweet potatoes, Rachel's cranberry sauce, Allison's salad). It sounds corny as all get out, but I think this communal approach is very much in the spirit of the original Thanksgiving gathering, no? Only, I don't think the Pilgrim's stuffing (if they even ate it way back then) came to the supper in a much loved Le Creuset after rattling around the back of an old Volvo wagon . . .

No matter, do you know what my very favorite part of the Thanksgiving meal is? It's the gravy. Ah, the gravy. I believe strongly that the gravy can make or ruin a turkey gathering. A so-so turkey, most people are willing to overlook and happily douse some gravy over the top. Ditto for dry stuffing or too lumpy mashed potatoes. But if you have bad or (gasp!) no gravy, well it just doesn't seem like Thanksgiving to me. Of course, I am biased and sentimental since my mom made a righteously good gravy and it was the very last thing that was set on the table. When the gravy appeared, we had the green light to start passing all the other platters.

But the last five or so years we have celebrated Thanksgiving here in Chicago and we have looked to Ira, a second cousin of Ted's (by marriage)  to make the gravy at Thanksgiving. And every year, he totally delivers. He melts the butter and then makes a roux with flour and then adds the pan drippings and stirs and stirs and lets it reduce. I am usually standing around, watching, talking, being somewhere between a busy-body and a truly interested witness. As I am typing this, it is dawning on me that I almost always hung very close to my mom as she did the final phases of the gravy, so I bet I like to be by Ira and his gravy making because it is where I was always was as a kid. But to be totally honest, in those first years of the Ira-graving-making, I stood close guard because I wanted to make sure he was doing it "right." Not that I am any whiz at gravy-making, that's for certain. But I am an obsessive observer of how proper gravy is made. That seems to be an annoying culinary skill of mine, I can tell you how it's supposed to be done, even if I haven't made it or haven't stepped forward to make the thing itself.

But back to Ira and the gravy. It's not as rich as my mom's, and it's actually lighter in color, but I also think it has half the fat, which isn't necessarily a bad thing at all. But it is thick and full of the flavor of the bird and so, so good. Plus, Ira is able to make the gravy and entertain the ever changing throngs who zip, bump and waddle through the kitchen, ranging from pets, toddlers and guests who want to chat and even a certain pesky cousin-in-law who insists on peeking at her stuffing in the oven.

Just as you know, things often don't go as planned, especially around the holidays and when you are in the heat of gravy making in a kitchen that isn't yours. And so Ira had his gravy done and was ladling it into the two gravy boats. As he was ladling the gravy in, something happened, I still don't know what, but I came in and the pan was upended and there was a glorious rich, thick wall of golden gravy flowing over the top of the stove (think Niagara Falls) and onto the kitchen floor. Ira was standing there, with his wooden spoon in his hand, sort of frozen and gasping and chewing back words that would make a sailor blush. It really did feel like slow motion the minute I saw it. But then a spoon was grabbed and a wide bowl came into play and we managed to sort of squeegee all the gravy floating on the stove top into the second gravy boat. The gravy on the floor was lost, lapped up by the dogs and an assortment of wet rags. 

Ira was blue for a short spell and I so understood why . . . after stirring and making this liquid gold, this humble but beautiful concoction, he had to watch more than half of it literally be washed away. Onto the the floor. But after a little time to breathe and a Zen-like moment to be reminded that we had two very full boats of gravy, his spirits were up and he was ready to enjoy the gathering and the array of dishes. And so we went and piled up our plates with amazing food and yes, poured the wonderful gravy on the parts where we wanted it. Every last drop of gravy from those two boats was devoured. Scoured out in happy gleaning.

That was grace under fire, for Ira and that was good gravy.  I am so thankful for that.

dia de los muertos, part 2

We had ourselves a little Day of the Dead fiesta here last night. I figured it was time for me to get together with friends and honor my mom in an upbeat, colorful and communal way. (It was her birthday on Friday and so it made twice as much sense to celebrate.)

Both Sam and I really enjoyed the art activities they had at the Mexican Fine Art Museum when we went last week. So we set up a table for the kids where you could decorate a skull and make a couple of ofrendas. Over at Secret Agent Josephine's blog I found this whimsical ofrenda download, so I printed some of those up. 

I went to the Dulcelandia store to get some cajeta lollipops and I noticed they had blank sugar skulls for sale. Blank as in you get to decorate them yourself. I was so excited when I saw them I let out a little yelp. I bought a box of 20 and the lollipops and smiled all the way home. For the party I made a super basic royal icing, dyed it different colors and set everything out.

It was messy going with the skulls but the kids dug it. I mean, come on--hyper-bright sugary icing stuck to your fingers which you have to lick off? Not such a bad deal. Plus, I put out these tiny gum drops which the kids used as little fetching hats and then popped a few in their mouths. 

 
Oh and we ate, how we ate! I made sopa de tortilla and picked up a couple dozen tamales down in Pilsen. My neighbor Beth brought an enormous bowl of guacamole, my friend Sarah brought a gorgeous bowl of brothy beans and my other neighbor Maria brought dozens of delicious chicken and green chile burritos (made with chiles we brought back from Colorado) and a wonderful bowl of Mexican red rice. It felt like an old fashioned neighborly pot luck, in the best way. We had good conversation, the kids were tearing around the house, we went back for seconds and we just got to hang out with each other. It was exactly what I wanted it to be. Exactly. 

 

thoughts

I must admit that I am feeling a little hesitant and a tad self-conscious with this post. Not sure what the tone of the post after I posted that my Mom passed away really ought to be. So I think I am going to just go with my gut on this one and try and be myself and share a tiny little sliver of the somethings happening in the last week or so.

Well, basically, it's an odd and relatively mundane thing that happens when someone you love very much dies. Life around you still goes on. The kids still need to be fed and bathed and you get a postcard that your Saveur subscription is just about over and dogs still bark out the window and dirty clothes pile up. Cars honk, leaves fall gloriously from the trees, you walk by a condo and you smell garlic simmering. The checkout person at the little produce shop gossips in Spanish to the checker on the other side of you as she scans your apples, pears and bananas. You get an email from school saying lice has appeared in a certain classroom. You try to make chocolate chip cookies and end up with puddles of oozing dough and try really hard not to cry because crying over chocolate cookies at this time would be really stupid. You walk to the bus and rejoice in it, you go to birthday parties and pumpkin patches and a harvest festival. You walk to school and kick leaves. Your son starts a list of how many decorated Halloween houses he see and is currently at 158. You curse someone in traffic since you are running late to a meeting and they are in your way. You eat lukewarm Ramen straight from the pot and it tastes superb. You do a late night run to Target for diapers and walk the aisles like you're in slow motion. You clip you nails on the bus even though you know you shouldn't.

But in the middle of all of these things . . . you get a card. Or twelve in one day. Or someone at work stops and puts their hand on your elbow and says how sorry they are. Or you walk into your neighborhood bookshop and they stop the registers, get off the phone and get off the computer to come hold you, tightly. All three of them. Your gorgeously sensitive husband with a terrible cold is fuzzily aware that you got up, packed lunches, changed diapers, filled cereal bowls and then takes one look at you and says, "It's okay to go back to bed." And you do. Your neighbor (that you want to know better) locks your gaze in the narrow hallway as you prepare to carve up pumpkins, hands you a foil-wrapped burrito and asks questions about the mom she never met. You get emails from across the globe and a call from a college friend driving to Fresno, CA and she didn't even know you were born there. People you know are extra kind to you and you feel it and you appreciate it on a level you never thought you would. And even though it is hard, you know it will get easier and you know you will be okay and you even know it's okay to miss someone like crazy.

And then you go and you buy a jar of hot fudge from Margie's, since your mother adored Margie's and was adamant that you should only ever have real hot fudge (not chocolate sauce!) on ice cream. And you put it on the dresser that was your mother's mother's, your Grandma Ruthie's. And you decide two things. To make a bit of a shrine to your mom, since you want to and you know she would love it. And also that you will leave the hot fudge on the shrine until your mom's birthday on November 6th and on that night the whole family (and maybe a few friends) will enjoy hot fudge sundaes. After a hearty but simple supper of really good soup and excellent bread and salty butter.

And so it is.

 

(Thanks for indulging the second person action, it was just easier that way.)

paris, pastures and pie

We flew to Colorado for a little party last weekend. It was my sister Syl's 50th and so a soiree was in order.

The theme for the party was "Paris" since that's where Syl wants to go next. We figured, if she couldn't get to Grand Paris for her birthday, why not bring a little Frenchie action to the farm?

If you're going to act French, you must don a beret. A black one, of course.

And you must have glasses of bubbly and kissing

and a basket of macarons . . . (with a petit Eiffel Tower tag).

And if you want to get extra fancypants extravagant, you will have a towering, gilded croque en bouche.

But if you are partying on the Pastures of Plenty farm and you are my sister, it doesn't matter where you are or how old you are turning, what you really must have at your party is pie. Not just one pie, but eight. Eight pies made with fruit grown on the same road you live on. Peach pie. Apple pie. Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie. Peach-Raspberry Pie. Pies made by your daughters and your neighbors and your best friends.

And two coconut creme pies made by 70-something Belle, who could bake blindfolded.

And then you drink your bubbly and eat grilled lamb and quail and get silly 

and then move the party in the house and dance so hard that the glasses rattle in the cupboards and the floor bounces. You dance until 2 am. And you fall into bed. And when you wake up, you have pie for breakfast. With a slice of cheese. Maybe even a little glass of champagne too.

At least, that's how we did it.

a party amidst the packing

We had Sam's 5th birthday party on Sunday. In the backyard, as per his very adamant request. We all joyfully obliged especially when we realized it would probably be the last family celebration held at 1444 W. Berwyn.

It was a picture perfect day and we had a perfect bakers' dozen of children running around the yard and in and out of the house. They decorated masks, "fished" for prizes, dressed up in costumes . . .

chased "monsters."

And the twisted balloon guy that I wasn't quite sure about was actually a hit.

Even with the little ones . . .

And Sam was pleased with his Batman Cave cake. Good old Dinkel's bakery, they've never let us down.

Sam's actual birthday is Thursday (another cake! more presents! a birthday celebration at school!) and then the next day the moving truck will pull up and transport all of our belongings all of four blocks away.

Lots of big transitions coming our way, but for now, I am just going to enjoy my almost five year-old boy.

almost turkey time!

We have had such a whirlwind, wonderful week around here (my mom was in town, we went to our friend Sarah's super festive 40th birthday, we went to our second hypno-birthing class, last night the author Richard Louv was in town . . . ) that it was just today that I realized Thanksgiving is only one week away. Holy turkey feathers!

It might seem an easy statement to utter, but Thanksgiving truly is my favorite holiday, because it isn't about a particular religion or gifts or excessive candy. To me it's about being gracious and thoughtful and gathering with family and friends--over food, can it get any better? I do wish the distance between Chicago and Colorado was not so great right about now, but other than that, I am looking forward to an easy going meal next week with Ted's family and I am such a sucker for all the side dishes: Larry's homemade bread, the stuffing, potatoes, gravy (is gravy a side dish? um, on my plate it sort of becomes one) and the catching up and conversing.

I was at Marshall's a few weeks back, trying to score a warm coat that would fit over my protuding belly when I spotted these treats by the checkout line . . . I think they will be a hit with the younger crowd rocking over at the kids table.

I love the vintage graphics and the plump pumpkin!  I know chocolate isn't a seasonal as say, candy corn or pumpkin cookies, but still, I just couldn't resist. (Check out this blog, which Ted turned me on to, she has this lovely page featuring the packaging of candies from all over the globe. It's nice to know I have a British counterpart who buys sweets more for how they look in their packaging than what they necessarily taste like--if one is even willing to disturb the stunning packaging at all!)

And my mother (who brought all sorts of fun treats inside her Mary Poppins suitcase) brought this timely wood carving for us. It's from Farmington, New Mexico. There is a gallery there which specializes in Navajo wood carvings. 

He certainly is plucky, isn't he? (Pun intended!) If not a little mysterioso with that wise far-off look. I think he'll look just right by a little pot of mums or maybe flanked by a couple of candles. My mom always has us name the turkey that's being cooked in the oven, since I won't be in her kitchen to name one (and I can barely come up with a name for the fella cooking in my belly) I'm going to name this one Thomas. Or should it be Thomasina?

Anyhow, there's so, so much to be thankful for . . . (I plan on doing a separate post just about that in the next few days). For now, I am thankful there is chocolate ice cream in the freezer and a cozy bed to curl up in afterwards and a new New Yorker and two fantastic fellas who I'll wake up to in the morning who love me as much as they do.

Cheers.

ahoy mateys!

Happy Halloween! Arrggggh, Captain Jack "Sam" Sparrow wants ye all to know he hauled in a mighty fine booty of lollies on this chilly night of goblins and ghouls and ninjas and princesses . . . and now he's sleeping like a baby.

Hope yours was sweet and full of treats.

from provolone to patisserie

Ted and I snuck off to New York last weekend for a belated 10th anniversary celebration. This is the first time ever that both of us have spent two consecutive nights away from Sam, so we were a little nervous. (And of course, he was completely content to be staying with Irma, his Nanny and her daughter Andrea.)  But we were also a little giddy with the prospect of 48+ hours to do . . . well, to do whatever we could think of to do in Manhattan on an October weekend.

I am sure no one will be shocked to learn that much of the adventure was pivoted around food and food-based adventures. We weren't maniacal in our quest for NY edibles but I did have a couple of places on my wish list--and we happily managed to experience almost all of them.

On Friday evening we had a lovely autumn-inspired dinner at Hearth in the East Village. As the name implies it was confortable and warm and we enjoyed dining in an establishment that didn't have a dancing hot dog on the wall nor did it serve our meals in bright yellow plastic baskets (not that I'm knocking our old fave Huey's, but we all need a change of pace every now and then). I'd compare it to North Pond in its approach to featuring seasonal, local produce. We had pillowy home made gnocchi, a divine fennel, arugula and anchovy salad, Ted had tender lamb chops and I had robollita, a hearty white bean soup. We were very, very satisfied. The dessert really sealed the deal: warm apple cider doughnuts served with maple cream and applesauce. My doughnut fervor has been especially intense this fall (and I don't think it's just the pregnancy, but who knows?) and I was just so happy in that moment--we were in New York and cozy and relaxed and grateful---and grinning over a plate of crispy, sweet, warm doughnuts. Heck, if I am willing to drive all the way to the far south side of Chicago for a Dat or Old Fashioned doughnut, why not get on a plane and go to New York?

I didn't take many pictures over the weekend, which seems to be this new laziness that has set in of late. But I also like to think it's a healthy thing to be in the moment just enough that I don't keep reaching in my cluttered bag to get the camera and snap photo after photo.

After dinner we walked around the Village, ending up at the Strand Bookstore. That's a pretty darn lovely date for Ted and I--good conversation, excellent food and sniffing around an enormous but well-stocked bookstore looking for good reads.

The next day we really pulled off a healthy urban hike. First thing in the morning we went to the Greenmarket at Union Square, then we went down to SoHo where I scored some quiche and tea from the uber-popular and enormous Balthazar. We "shopped" around SoHo like teenagers--checking out cool shoes we couldn't afford, eyeballing trendoids, window shopping at silly fancy places, troving through the Pearl River Mart . . . and then we skipped over to Little Italy. I was determined to get us a chub of salami and some good cheese so we could have a decent snack for the plane ride the next day. We came across DiPalo's, an old neighborhood "dairy" and salumi shop, and wedged our bodies inside with all the other Saturday shoppers and took a number. It was a wait, but it was worth it.

Is it silly to wait 20 minutes to procure a small chub of Hunter's sausage and a quarter pound of imported aged provolone? I don't think so. And besides, a neighborhood market is a great way to get the feeling of a place. I realize that when travelling, either solo or with Ted, I always like to find the food markets first, because that makes me feel centered and connected. And New York can be so overwhelming, it's nice to find yourself in a tiny neighborhood grocery, waiting behind the little old lady who knows all the staff by name.

We continued hiking on for lunch. I did put us on a bit of a wild goose chase looking for a noodle spot called Momofuko that everyone is supposedly raving about. But our bellies were crying out, our feet (and my back) were aching and we were starting to get just a teentsy bit cranky with hunger, so we opted instead for plan B, another ramen shop called Rei Rei Ken. (Thanks, Rachel for the New York mag Cheap Eats issue--it saved us on this very day!) If you've ever seen the film Tampopo, this is the closest you can get to feeling like you're eating on the set. It's a tiny hole in the wall joint with about 10 stools. There were only four different types of ramen to choose from. The noodle guys are on a level slightly higher than you with these enormous pots billowing steam up behind them and they silently slide your enormous bowls over the worn wooden counter.  We slurped rather quietly over our large bowls, getting what I always think of as a "soup facial." (A good thing, to be sure.) It wasn't fancy, it wasn't hip, it was actually bordering on cramped. But it did feel so good to be off our feet enjoying simple, tasty noodles and hot savory broth. (If anyone knows of a ramen joint in Chicago, let me know, I don't believe we have one, other than the food stalls at Mitsuwa.)

After our noodles, our bellies were warm and we were happy but beat. So we caught a cab back to the Upper East side, where were staying. We were looking for a toy store to buy a couple of items for a certain special somebody back in Chicago. As we were walking down Lexington looking for the toy shop, we came across Payard.

Payard! The ultimate in exquisite and precious French pastry. My sister Sylvia had urged us to go, if only to make us feel like we were in Paris. It was on my list but I hadn't even written down the address. It was fancy, it was filled with extremely well-dressed New Yorkers speaking a variety of languages and it gave off an air of exceptionally confident sophistication.  (A combination that would normally have me go into shrinking violet mode.) But I was as tickled as a school girl. "Can we go in, please, can we?" And Ted said of course. So we first went and bought Sam a couple of toys and then backtracked to Payard.

There were rows and rows of pastries that looked like little gifts or sexy soft sculptures. It made deciding extremely difficult. I got that panicky "What if I don't choose the most perfect one?" feeling but then I just snapped out of it and went for what I know and love: a tart filled with creamy caramel, dried fruits and nuts and topped with a delightful dollop of chocolate mousse. Ted got a small bowl of chocolate mousse and a cappuccino. The two women next to us were speaking in both Russian and French, behind us Italians were drinking champagne and laughing, in the back of the restaurant people were taking in afternoon tea with those three-tiered platters on each table. Our waiter, in a jacket and tie, gave off an air of slight indifference to my girlish excitement. Another waiter chided me for taking a photo of the pastries. Everything was golded or chocolate colored. Yes, it was like we were in Paris, I suppose.

And every bite tasted just like I had hoped it would--insanely rich and buttery and crunchy and extravagant. And it truly felt like we were on vacation, indulging in something we normally wouldn't, which is exactly why we'd gone away. We went back to the apartment, loaded down with packages (salami, Chinese tchotkes, a Mr. Potato Head and a knock off leather bag . . .) and napped easily. Not a bad way to polish off an autumn afternoon in New York.

belly up to the blog

I bet many of you are wondering how or why I have gone so long in this blog without a single mention of the fact that I am pregnant. Not just "a little" pregnant but in fact somewhere around six months pregnant. I actually have a super simple but valid enough reason. My family from Australia sometimes reads my blog and they were coming for a big visit in August and I wanted to tell them in person, rather than them reading about it here. So I held out. But here's the kicker. . .  (pun intended these days) they first stayed at my sister's place in Colorado before heading to Chicago and I forgot to tell Sylvia of my little "announcement" and so of course the first thing she blurted out upon seeing them was, "Can you belive Bonnie's pregnant?" or something along those lines. Typical of me to forget a crucial detail in communicating a surprise like that. Oh well, Mum and Tracey seemed especially excited when they did get to see my little "bump" in person.

Anyhow, I realize it's now October, and you know, if I space mentioning it here any longer, the next post will be about the labor and delivery . . . so here's a shot of my current state.

I am in my 26th week and due January 15th (although I would be completely happy to have the baby earlier). We now know it is a boy and all three of us, Sam very much included, are thrilled to have a baby brother on the horizon. Ted and I are not doing so well with agreeing on names, it's not snarky or anything, we just can't seem to find one we both like. (Me: "How about Arlo?" Ted: "Yeah, if we were bringing home a puppy." Actually, that does sound rather snarky but it didn't come out that way when Ted responded.) Sam is completely lobbying for Ben--"It's a nice name for a baby brother." I am actually staring to get sarcastic with names, which is um, not such a great way of dealing with the anxiety, eh? I'll go on a silly Western bent, "How about Jedidiah or Wyatt?" Anyhow, any suggestions for names are completely welcome.

Oh, and as far as a somatic summary goes . . . I am much bigger this time around than with Sam. I have been told this is just how it goes with second pregnancies but I think it also might have something to do with the fact that I have been consuming sweets and cake and chocolate with such verocity that it induces a teeny bit of awe even in myself. I was no saint while pregnant with Sam, I am pretty sure I ate a small bowl of vanilla ice cream several nights a week, but this is different. I am even diving into desserts I normally shun--a few weeks back I was attacking a tiramisu so aggresively it actually made me pause. For about 32 seconds. And then the spoon went right back into action. I can't even peek at the nutrition parts of any of the pregnancy books because I just turn crimson with my total lack of self control. There's a very matter-of-fact section in Dr. Sears where he says, "If you want to make it easier to lose the weight after the baby is born, you might just want to skip that chocolate chip cookie." And I laugh, "Cookie? Cookie as in singular, solo cookie? Hah hah hah hah, my friend you have no idea who you're dealing with here." The other night when I popped my pre-natal vitamin in my mouth it was still so chocolately from popping a "fall colors" Hershey's kiss (how autumnal! how celebratory and of the season, eh?) in it a few seconds prior, it was actually difficult to swallow. Oh me oh my.

Ah well, beyond the sordid tale of my sweets problem, the truly important thing here is that I really do feel great and it is such a gift to feel the little guy kicking and elbowing and bumping around in my expanding belly. Maybe he's responding to all the sugar that's been coming his way . . .

finally, the party

Sam had his birthday party on Saturday and he had mined just about all the patience he could find and was just trying so hard to not burst with excitement and complete anticipation for his 1. friends to arrive and 2. the party to officially begin.

And right around 11 am begin it did. You could see his whole body brighten and lighten up. Waiting is so damn hard, isn't it? We didn't have much on the agenda--some to time to play with friends, a special guest to sing some songs, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle cake ("Fresh From the Swamp!") and an enormous, potentially obnoxious 6 ft. Superman pinata from the Mexican candy store. (The salesgirl was so excited when she informed me that I would be able to fit 10 pounds of candy in it. I just smiled and thought, if I actually put 10 pounds of candy in here and all of eight toddlers crack this sucker open, their parents will instantly despise me and ban their children from entering the Tawse-Grossman household ever again. So we bought 2 pounds and called it a day.)

But the larger-than-Sam pinata became a total non-issue as the kids were having so much fun doing everything else that we ran out of time before the pinata could even be strung up and whacked around. (Currently he's hanging out in the kitchen and we're trying to figure out another celebration where it would be fitting to blindfold a few folks and go at him with the stick . . . )

Our special guest was Shana, who is a Wiggleworms instructor at Old Town School of Folk Music and someone I've worked with for years. I'd like to say that I'd been planning to have Shana come for months but actually, I saw her a little more than a week before Sam's party and I just said, "Hey, would you like to come hang out in our backyard with a bunch of three and four year-olds on Saturday?" And she said she'd be thrilled to. Thank goodness.

She sang a nice repertoire of songs to make the kids feel welcome and engaged and she even sang the Spiderman song--twice! Sam was in Spiderman mode most of the time she sang, webbing in a post-modern movement kind of way.

I so wish I had a photo of the cake, which was well, rather swampy looking in its green and brown frosting scheme, but I was too busy cutting and serving it to a wild horde around the table, perched on their knees and thrusting little red paper plates at me with big eyes. But I didn't crack under the pressure and all were served and suddenly quiet and beginning to get that frosting on the cheeks bliss going. Sam managed to lick all the frosting off his piece and then meticulously pick every teeny rainbow sprinkle up and suck it off his finger. It's intense to watch, it's so specific. He then plopped the two remaining hunks of cake onto my plate, "Here Mom, here you go, I know you like cake. You can have mine."

After the cake Sam started tearing into his gifts--don't be thinking he was sitting politely perched on a chair while his pals oohed and ahhed around him and I daintily wrote down who gave him what. It was supposed to be that way, I mean, that's how they tell you to do it in certain lifestyle magazines, but it just didn't quite flow exactly like that. Anyhow, he did receive some amazing gifts from his pals, everything from a Batman costume and belt to knights and horses and cool games that four year-olds can actually play.

After the last guests said goodbye we settled on the carpet and played a few rounds of "Air Soccer" and then Sam became Batman and I became Batgirl it was back to being a typical Saturday with our freshly four year-old guy. And then Sam asked without blinking when it was going to be his next birthday . . .