Shannon Phillips

Here’s a picture of Robin shortly after waking up from a nap. His hair was so tousled and cute that I had to snap a picture. He’s having a snack of bread and butter.

The big news in our family is that my rock-star husband is bringing home a fifteen percent bonus this year (in this economy! I know!) so we suddenly find ourselves with the down payment for a house. We have a real estate agent and we’re going to start looking at properties maybe as soon as tomorrow.

I’m thrilled and scared. It’s a big financial commitment in an uncertain economy…but I think it is actually not too bad a time to buy. We plan to stay in this as-yet-hypothetical house until we die so we don’t really care if prices continue to drop for a while. We need more space; and considering things like the low interest rates and the tax benefits for homeowners, I think we can actually end up with a mortgage that will have lower monthly payments than our current rent. Plus we’ll be doing our little bit for the economy.

We’re looking in Oakland. Prices there have actually dropped to what I consider reasonable levels: there are lovely little bungalows built in the 20s and 30s going for $75,000 to $150,000. (This compared to San Francisco, where $400,000 will just about buy you a one-bedroom condo). It won’t be good for Sam’s commute—we will most likely end up having to buy a car as well—but nowhere else in the Bay Area has, well, suffered enough in the recession for us to be able to buy. (And the economy has put any thoughts of moving away from the Bay Area out of our minds.) On one hand we are sort of like vultures circling over the carcasses of foreclosed homes. But on the other hand we’re exactly the sort of young family that, moving as a group, can help to revitalize a blighted neighborhood.

(Don’t get me started on my “gentrification” rant. Gentrification is good. Urban neighborhoods move in cycles from new prosperity to gradual decay to revitalization, and if you artificially tamper with this cycle you are deliberately engineering slums. There is a large contingent of well-educated, highly-privileged, young white people in San Francisco who consider themselves artists and activists, and who basically fetishize poverty even though they have never really experienced it. The anti-gentrification brigade is largely composed of these types and they drive me absolutely batty.)

Anyway! I’m finding it pretty easy to get psyched up about a move to Oakland. I have this nice article bookmarked.

And I am profoundly mindful that our personal good fortune comes in the midst of so much hardship for so many. I’m proud of Sam’s leet skillz but even more grateful for our simple good luck.

Robin has awesome new rain gear:

For once, the scratch on his face isn’t from the kitty. He tumbled headfirst into a bush when we were at the park. He’s fine, of course.

The rain slicker has a froggie-shaped pocket, so it matches the boots.

Here’s a thing I love about living in the city: last night, as we were sitting around after dinner, we heard the sound of distant music. “Oh yeah,” said Sam, “I think the big Chinese New Year’s parade is tonight. Should we go see it?”

“Sure, why not,” I said, and so we put a jacket on the boy and walked down four blocks, and there it was: lights! floats! firecrackers! lion dancers! stilt walkers! fan dancers! marching bands! and almost more little children in spotted cow hats, shaking their tufted ox-tails, than you could even say “awwww” at. But we said “awww” at them all.

There were shiny silver oxes:

(yes, those ARE small children in rooster, hare, and ram costumes surrounding the ox. yes, they ARE adorable.)

There were glittery gold oxes:

There were scary electric oxes with glowing demonic eyes:

The interesting thing about this ox-herder is that she was either pregnant or wearing a costume to make her look pregnant. Shout out to pregnant ladies in the Year of the Ox!

And there were close encounters of the lion kind:

This lion came up to be petted by, and to flutter his eyelashes at, the onlookers. When we got home we flipped on the TV and the local commentators were talking about lion dancing. They said that using the motion of the head and articulation of the face parts, like the eyelids, the dancer is supposed to be able to convey eight separate emotions. One of them was sleepiness, which I thought was awesome. Wikipedia has a lot more on lion dancing and what the different colors of lions signify. I did not know that lion dancing is linked with kung fu!

Robin liked the parade:

I thought he might get scared when the big dragon came by, with those little poppy firecrackers going off in its mouth, but he just stared at it. And he really liked the ribbon dancers, the marching bands, and the troupes of little kids in their cow costumes. At several points he did his best to squirm out of Sam’s arms so that he could run into the street and join them! Not this year, little buddy.

The goulash we had the other day was really nice. It is, incidentally, gluten-free. The recipe is from America’s Best Lost Recipes, a really excellent cookbook that collects “heirloom” recipes from families across America. Because every recipe has a story behind it, the cookbook is as much fun to read as it is to cook from. Székely Goulash, for instance, apparently “gets its name from the Székely Hungarians, an ethnic minority group in Romania whose name, Szekler, means frontier guard. They guarded the eastern flank of Hungary, which was prone to invasion because of its geographic position in Europe as a crossroads.”

The goulash takes a long time to cook but it isn’t really much trouble. You need 2 pounds of boneless pork loin, cut into 1-inch pieces, patted dry with paper towels and seasoned with salt and pepper. Heat 2 tablespoons of butter and 1 tablespoon of vegetable oil in a Dutch oven over medium-high heat, until the foaming subsides, and then brown the pork on all sides (you’ll have to do it two batches or it will just steam rather than browning properly). This is the most time-consuming step. Incidentally, I used to cut corners when browning meat until I read about the Maillard reaction and how important it is in unlocking the flavor of meat. Now I take the time to brown meat properly. This would probably count as my second substantial improvement as a cook (the first came when I started using home-made chicken broth instead of the storebought stuff).

Anyway, while the pork is browning, chop up two large onions (I used leeks because that’s what we had) and mince a couple of garlic cloves (or get them ready to be put through a garlic press, which is what I always do, as it yields a more intense garlic flavor). Once the pork is browned, transfer it to a plate and pour off all but 1 tablespoon of fat from the pot. Cook the onions until soft, add the garlic along with 2 tablespoons of paprika and stir it around until you can really smell it, about 30 seconds. The recipe specifies to use “sweet, not hot” paprika, but the stuff that is sold in the supermarket simply as paprika will do just fine.

Add the pork back to the pot and stir in one and a half cups of chicken broth, a tablespoon of chopped fresh dill, a teaspoon of salt, 1/2 teaspoon of pepper, and bring it all to a simmer. Also, turn your oven on to 300 degrees. When the broth is simmering, cover the Dutch oven and transfer the pot to the oven, where you will let it cook for an hour and a half.

After its time in the oven the meat should be just about tender. Pull the stew out and stir in 2 pounds of sauerkraut, drained and rinsed. You want the fresh stuff (from the deli or a vacuum-sealed package) if you can get it. Also stir in 2 teaspoons of sugar. Then put it back in the oven for another 45 minutes. At this point the pork should be really tender, and if it isn’t, keep cooking it. When it’s nice and tender take the stew out of the oven and stir in 2 cups of sour cream. Serve it with extra chopped fresh dill, and if you want, spätzle, boiled potatoes, or hot buttered egg noodles. We ate it plain and were very happy with it that way.

Here is a bonus picture of Robin with a little bit of goulash left on his face and collar:

I’ve figured out when Sesame Street comes on, and I let Robin watch it every day, because he loves it and I can’t quite believe that Sesame Street could be bad for him. They always have an “Elmo’s World” segment, and whenever it comes on Robin has to run and find his Elmo doll. Then he stands there in front of the TV, hugging Elmo, enraptured. It’s a little weird, but also cute.

Today I’m sick with some kind of stomach bug. I’ve been taking my temperature periodically; well, Robin got a hold of the thermometer (don’t worry, it’s the digital kind, not glass) and what did he do with it? He took Elmo’s temperature.

Robin’s work permit expires this month, and I’ve sent a letter to his agency telling them that it was a blast but we’re dropping out of the modeling biz. Once the novelty wore off the whole thing was just more hassle than it was worth. And although he ended up with several paid gigs, I don’t think his picture actually got printed anywhere.

After agency fees and taxes, Robin’s career earnings are about $180. So I guess that’ll sit in his bank account until he gets old enough to decide what he wants to do with it.

Here’s my beautiful boy mugging for the camera:

Among the clothes I pulled out from storage was a fleecy jumpsuit that Nanita sent us last year. At the time it seemed huge, ginormous; I couldn’t really imagine Robin ever filling out that vast expanse of fabric. But whaddyaknow, It fits great now—and just in time for the cold snap we’re having! Here’s a few pics of Robin at the playground:

I gave Robin a haircut the other day, although by that I actually mean to say that I snipped randomly at his hair for a while as Robin tossed his head and tried to grab the scissors. The results are predictably uneven, but nonetheless cute.

The doll he’s holding in the snapshot is a stuffed Wild Thing, from the Maurice Sendak book, which is really an atypical accessory these days: mostly he’s been carrying around the Elmo that his Pappy and Nonna sent. I forget who gave us the polo number, but I think it’s adorable. I recently rummaged around and pulled out a bunch of things folks sent that were too big at the time, and that I’d set aside for a later date: that date is now, and it’s awesome to have a whole new wardrobe ready right when he needs it.

Incidentally, isn’t it funny what kind of daring fashion choices only toddlers can get away? A stripy polo catsuit would not work on me, is all I’m saying.

Four great pics of Robin that my mom took while she was here:

Strollin’ with Daddy

Robin in Munchkinland

Ready to Roll

Now I’m Tall

Yesterday evening I was scolded by Pops and Mo for not updating this blog for a while.  “We have developed certain expectations,” I was informed.

In my defense, we’ve been gone—we’re just back from a plane trip to St. Louis.  So I’ll try and post a lot of pictures to make it up to those discerning Robin-lovers whose expectations have not recently been met! Here’s Robin in his Nanita’s car:

Robin was thrilled with Nanita and with Nanita’s house.  It was filled with baby-friendly things, like a toy truck he could push:

And a high chair he could sit in:

And when he sat in that chair, Nanita fed him fresh Missouri peaches, which he ate with gusto.

But the highlight of the trip for Robin was a visit to the St. Louis Zoo.  We saw baby tigers and baby wild asses (“How pleasant to see a baby ass I don’t have to wipe!”), but just like in San Francisco Robin was much less excited about the animals than he was about all the other people.  Then we went to the children’s zoo.  They had a petting zoo just like in San Francisco, but one thing the St. Louis zoo had that the San Francisco zoo did not was a play area filled with water spouts:

This place, this place was like heaven to Robin.  We must have stayed there for almost an hour.  He crawled from one waterspout to another, screaming with laughter.  He got soaked to the bone and loved every second of it.  It’s so weird because he still hates baths with a fiery passion.

We had a really good time in St. Louis.  We showed Sam more of the urban parts of the city, like the Central West End and the Loop, as well as residential neighborhoods like Southampton and the Hill.  My fantasies of owning a little brick bungalow returned full force.  It’s a topic we’re planning to revisit in about six months.

When I was going to high school there, I saw St. Louis as provincial and backwater, a city lacking in any culture or sophistication.  Now I see a city that has suffered from neglect and decay, but one that retains a great deal of character and charm in its completely unpretentious streets.  Its architectural heritage is marvelously intact (largely because St. Louis was a city built in brick); its history is proud and vibrant (like New Orleans, St. Louis benefitted from a rich cultural stew of French, Spanish, American and native influences, and in the steamboat age she was a queen of commerce); and its neighborhoods are becoming revitalized, with little shops and restaurants opening up in the old once-empty storefronts, and new families moving into those sweet old houses.  There’s a lot to love in St. Louis.  I think life could be easy there in a way that it isn’t in San Francisco: much as we love this city, it’s not family-friendly.  It’s really a city for young childless people, people who want to go to shows and make art and have wild parties, to have their consciousness expanded and their horizons broadened.  It’s easy to do those things in San Francisco.  But it’s not easy to find quiet shady streets where little boys can ride their tricycles, and it’s not easy to buy a house with a garden in back, and it’s not easy to find communities of middle-class parents who can help you with the work of raising your child.  Those things are easy in St. Louis.

I don’t want surburbia: I don’t want subdivisions of identical houses, where even the most trivial daily chores require a lot of driving.  I want city life, but I also want the quiet shady street and the pretty little house with the garden, and neighbors who have kids.  And I want these things for cheap.  So more and more I’m looking outside of San Francisco.  Of course, once I get to this point in the chain of thought, I start having a panic attack about the thought of leaving this beautiful, spirited, mythic city, that has given me so much happiness.  We have many friends here, and real roots.  It would be painful to tear them up.

Even if we do leave, it pleases me to think that Robin was born here, and that fact can never change.  San Francisco is indelibly a part of his personal heritage.  We have given him that.