This week. And tostadas.

On Monday, three people were killed during the Boston Marathon. On Tuesday, my sister texted me to say that her son, Charlie, had taken his first steps all on his own. As a downpour of rain fell from the sky on Wednesday, April 17, our new nephew Griffin was born. 

The storm that swept through Chicago this week brought the rivers to record-high levels, forcing people to evacuate their homes due to flooding. I sat at my desk, scrolling through pictures of familiar spots in surrounding towns, only in these images, there were cars submerged in the flood, rescue workers in boats saving animals, a fish swimming through someone's yard. (Thankfully, our neighborhood and home is safe and dry.)

In between the bombings and the birth and the flood, there was everyday life. I had lunch with coworkers and sang in the car during my commute. I exercised, and avoided laundry, and looked out the window, hoping the flowering tree in my backyard had finally bloomed. It hasn't. It's been stuck mid-bloom, fuzzy bits of green and white poking through tiny buds, stalling. Fighting for life. Searching for sunshine. Outside, the sky is gray and heavy.

On Tuesday evening, with music playing softly in the kitchen, I chopped onion and cilantro and tomato. I mixed black beans with corn, and sliced an avocado, and cut a lime into wedges. And as I went about this calming routine, I wondered if Griffin would be born that day, and I couldn't help but think about the spring we had three years ago. It was a beautiful spring. By early April, the daffodils were in full bloom, flip flops dusted off, and bright buds of green speckled the trees. I remember this spring vividly because it was the spring that Murdo's grandmother died. During those first warm days, while everyone else was opening their windows and venturing outdoors to breathe in the fresh new life, we were visiting the hospital and preparing for the worst. It was impossible to enjoy a beautiful world when such a wonderful woman was leaving it. 

This spring will be remembered for the 2013 Chicago flood, which will also become a story that we tell to Griffin when he's older, about how on the day he was born, it rained and rained and rained so much that the area around his hospital flooded with water while inside, he slept safe and sound and alive. We will remember this spring for the Boston Marathon bombing. And every spring after, on April 17, we will celebrate life.

We go about our days every week, while tragedy and joy and life-changing events throw a bump in the routine, and we stop in our tracks to mourn, or celebrate, or ponder the newly-formed fork in the road. And then we continue on. The waters recede and we dry ourselves off and breathe. We go to work. We eat lunch. We have taco nights. The flowering trees bloom, and cold weather turns to warm and back again. Our days remain the same, but different, because people are dead for reasons unknown to us, and now Charlie is walking and getting into all sorts of trouble, and Griffin is alive and has an entire life ahead of him -- a whole world of happiness, sadness, fear, excitement, confusion, seasons, food, family. And the everyday in between.

Black Bean and Corn Tostadas (inspired by Kate in the Kitchen)

This is more of an explanation of how I made my tostadas on Tuesday night, rather than an actual recipe. Swap out ingredients to your tastes -- maybe some shredded chicken instead of black beans, or refried beans instead of avocado, or sweet potatoes instead of corn, or green pepper instead of radishes, or corn tortillas instead of flour. Maybe you want your cheese melted, or don't want cheese at all, or like your tostadas with lots of crunchy lettuce. Possibilities = endless.

1 14.5-oz can of black beans, rinsed and drained

1 14.5-oz can of sweet whole kernel corn, drained

A few spoonfuls of cilantro-onion mix (see below)

2-3 radishes, chopped

A few good shakes of Valentina, to taste (or your favorite Mexican hot sauce)

Salt, to taste

4 6-inch flour tortillas (we like El Milagro tortillas)

1 avocado, chopped and smashed

tomato, diced

handful of shredded Chihuahua cheese

Preheat oven to 375. Mix first 6 ingredients in a large bowl and adjust seasonings until it tastes good to you. Place the tortillas on a baking sheet and bake for 4-6 minutes, flipping once, until they are golden brown and crisped to your liking. (My tortillas usually start to bubble in the oven, so I poke a few holes in them and try to flatten with a spatula as much as possible before pulling them out.)

Spread the smashed avocado onto the tortillas. Layer the black bean and corn mixture over the avocado. Top with diced tomato, cheese and more hot sauce.

Makes 4 tostadas.

Cilantro-Onion Mix

I've talked about this mix in a previous blog post, and how I didn't know if I should post it because it's so basic. But it's become crucial to our taco nights. This makes enough for me to mix some in with my black beans, with plenty left for Murdo's beef tacos.

1/2 large white onion

1 bunch of cilantro

1/2 lime

Chop onion very, very finely. So that it's practically translucent mush. Chop cilantro very, very finely. So that it's practically a green paste. Combine the two in a bowl with the juice from 1/2 lime. Stir well.

Film Friday: Ryan + Catie.

They were married on a fall day

and served a whole roasted pig for dinner.

They came to our house a few weekends ago

bearing gifts like whiskey and bacon and beer.

It's good to have friends who understand

the joy and love that comes

from feeding others well.

Here's to a lifetime 

of eating, drinking

and being married. 

Ready.

The evening light in my house strikes in different stages. First, it's strong and solid, streaming through the window in wide beams and casting blocks of shadows across the walls. As the sun goes down, it starts filtering through the leaves of the house plants that live in my bay window. The light becomes dappled and delicate. Yellower, calmer. It leaves in a hurry, quickly dipping behind the rooftops to the west, then gone.

 

I think March is my least favorite month, which is a shame because I was born in March. Daylight savings time and sunshine and temps in the upper 40s and talk of planting seeds and sprouting buds make me feel as though spring should be here already. But there is still March to get through. I'm still bundling up in scarves and gloves every morning. Soups for lunch, slow cooker meals for dinner. March is a long month. 

But at least it began with birthdayfeasting. There was a lunch at Three Floyds Brewpub in Munster, Indiana, where I ate pork rind nachos and sweet potato poutine washed down with some of the most delicious beer around, with some of the best people I know. Another lunch with coworkers at Priscilla's Ultimate Soulfood Cafeteria, where the special of the day was ox tail and I had absolutely no regrets. 

Also, have you ever had a Pickleback shot? If you like whiskey, and you like pickles, I highly recommend it.

The geraniums are blooming! 

The tomato seeds are sprouting! 

And then there's this kid. He turns 1 year old in less than a month. Here he is showing off his sweet standing skills.

Come on, March. We're bursting with light and life over here. We're ready. 

A million moments, and caramelized onions.

I sat in my car, in the left turn lane, waiting for the arrow to turn green. A car honked next to me on my right. I looked over to see this man, his window rolled down and his hands clasped together in a sort of beg/prayer, and I could tell by his gesture and his expression that he was asking me to let him go in front of me.

But I had just let the guy already in front of me cut me off, and I had been waiting in this lane for the past three or four light changes because traffic was really horrible for no reason this morning, and here comes this guy, who decides to speed past everyone else waiting so he can give me a pathetic look and ask to cut in line, and there isn't even enough room for him to get in front of me so really he'd have to go behind me,  and while I'm thinking of all this stuff the arrow changes green and I roll my eyes and before I know it, I'm moving forward and pointing for him to move it on back.

I felt really bad about it. I thought of all the times I felt so grateful for nice people on the road. I imagined him following me to work and getting out of the car to tell me I'm a despicable human being. I put myself in his place and saw myself as a heartless bitch. I let these things define me for the rest of the drive to work.

Silly, I know. But sometimes all it takes is something very small and suddenly, a judgment is formed and held firmly, if only for a moment. When filling out paperwork for a credit check at the furniture store a few weeks ago, I casually asked if my social security number was required, and the salesman gave me an impatient look and replied knowingly, "I can't check your credit without it." Just a few words and roll of the eyes, and I had become a dumb little girl playing house, and he became an asshole.

That guy probably isn't an asshole (even though his handshake was weak and clammy, and he spends his days convincing people to spend money on more stuff that they probably don't need). I'm not a dumb bitch who never lets people go in front of her in traffic (and I always give the "thank you" wave when people let me in!). We are more complex than what single moments and actions make us out to be in that instant. We are a million different moments -- some that we wish we could forget or do over, others that make us feel as though we're doing everything right. I try to remind myself this every time I let words tumble out of my mouth that I immediately regret. The ones that just hang there, that I wish I could grab and hide and pretend they never existed. But they're out there, and they were heard, and there's nothing left to do but apologize and move on, and hope that others don't let those single moments define me, either.

It kind of reminds me of all the onions I've been caramelizing lately. About five times in the past two weeks, I've thrown a sliced onion in a pan with olive oil and let the whole thing cook down until brown and sticky, sweet and thick. It's so easy -- I often read a book next to the stove while the onion cooks, stirring every few minutes, joking to myself that I'm not really cooking but rather, you know, just hanging out with an onion.

And when it's done, I am amazed every time. Here is this onion, this simple food that you think you know just by looking at it, but give it a little time and attention and in just half an hour, it can change into something completely different. It becomes a sauce for pasta. An addition to a warm salad. It makes a soup seem almost sinful, and turns a ho-hum sandwich into something you'd order at a restaurant. It makes food deeper and richer and tastier.

It's so much more than just that single moment when you hold the raw onion in your hand and think you know exactly what it is or ever could be.

We're all more than that.

How to Caramelize an Onion
Grab a large onion. Peel and slice it however you want. Heat a tablespoon or two of olive oil in a (NON-non-stick) skillet over medium heat. Throw in the sliced onion and let it cook a few minutes, until fragrant and translucent. Give it a stir. Continue cooking the onion for another 20 to 30 minutes, stirring occasionally so the onion starts getting a good brown color without burning/sticking to the pan. When the bottom of the pan starts to get brown, add a tablespoon or so of water. As the water sizzles, scrape up the brown bits with the a wooden spoon. Keep adding more water and scraping as the pan gets more brown -- all those brown bits will cling to the onion and make it that thick sticky sweet that is so good. The onion is done after about half an hour, when it looks and smells and tastes nothing like the onion that you just peeled and sliced.  

What to Do with Caramelized Onions

• Toss with thin spaghetti, spinach/greens, Parmesan cheese and roasted cauliflower (like in that top photo). 
• Add to baked spaghetti squash with Trader Joe's turkey meatballs (I ate this for lunch a few days ago).
• Spoon on top of a Polish sausage (this is how White Sox fans eat Polish sausages). 
• Add to pretty much anything (ANYTHING!).