Last But Not Least

She's here, she's here! Tali Amelia is here at last! Our daughter. The Noodle's little sister. Everyone's sister, if you take the broad view. 

Tali arrived in a hurry just before noon on Sunday, the 18th of October. We're not sure what her nickname will be yet, because we still need to get to know her. What we do know is that she is still and alert. She has ten fingers and ten toes. Her belly is pink and smooth. Her belly button remains unknown. She has dark, almond-shaped eyes and black hair. She seems wise and centered (it's all downhill from here, my love). Her skin is warm and smells of cookies and jasmine. 

We love her, we love her, we love her. 

Welcome to the party, tiny one. 

Good grief, we get to have some gorgeous (and definitely related) little girls. 

Nava at 1 day, July 2013

Tali at 1 day, October 2015

This Is Not Delicious

** IMPORTANT NOTE FROM THE BLOGGER: This post is actually about how a certain class of cookie embodies the futile, broken dreams of Western civilization, but I take a really long time to get to the point. Sorry about that. In my defense, brevity might be the soul of wit but a didactic ramble is often its elaborate coffin, so, you know, have some respect. Also, writing about my doubleplus cute daughter is the only way I can smuggle in pictures that people actually want to look at and when you write blog posts this long it really is important to have pictures.** 

We've crossed a sad milestone here on Gumpen Village Street. It used to be that the child distinguished between things that were delicious and things that were disgusting. Now she recognizes that a lot of stuff is just...kind of okay. And I'm sad about it, because it is the beginning of the end of innocence.  

Waffles are delicious...for now.

There was a time when all food was good. Then she started rejecting stuff on the grounds that it was "yucky", "disgusting," or "spicy" -- more recently, "sour" or "nasty". These judgments are delivered with a look of horror, a grasping of the tongue and sometimes tears and even spitting. 

But at least it was cute. Like the rosemary incident. One dinner a couple months ago Noodle was tucking into a fresh bowl of pasta with tomato sauce, which she loves, when she froze. Mid-bite. 

Dammit, I thought. I knew it. 

"This is a stick," the Noodle said to me with distate, holding up a single, tiny rosemary leaf. 

"It's rosemary," I said. "It's an herb." 

Noodles with sticks. This photo is a poor recreation of the offending dish.

She peered into her bowl. "No, this is a stick." She went in like a monkey looking for fleas. "Look! Other stick."

She held each leaf up demonstratively before smearing it onto the table. "Stick," she said. "Stick. Stick." You stupid, stick-hiding fiend, she thought to herself. It was a long dinner. 

But in the weeks since she turned two, there is a third, sadder category of food: Stuff she'll eat but without pleasure. 

Rice crackers, for example. Our go-to playground snack. One recent day she looked up at me, rice dust on her lips, and noted: "This...this is not really delicious, Mommy." And then with a hint of sorrow she polished off the rest. 

Or last week. She was eating my soup and seemed to be enjoying it, so I went fishing for compliments. "Mmm, is it yummy?" I asked. "No," she said with a shrug, "It's not really yummy." And kept eating. 

In fact, the only things that she finds delicious are, I'm afraid, things that everyone finds delicious, like ice cream and candy and cheese. (And plain black bread, for some reason, but I'm sure that'll end soon too.) 

And I guess this makes me sad because it means the way is prepared for her to experience disappointment. The let down. The long slow process of becoming jaded. Heck, one day soon she's going to realize that sorting rocks and riding the bus to the supermarket actually constitute a fairly shitty Saturday, and then what will I do?  

On the other hand, it's an achievement that she can distinguish between things that are delicious and things that we eat because they keep us regular. It means she has a sense of personal taste. Maybe she'll be less likely to buy in to stupid fads. 

Which brings me to the actual reason I started this blog post. Ready? 

MACAROONS ARE NOT DELICIOUS.* 

I mean, HELLLOOOOOOO. They are not delicious, and they do not even keep us regular. 

Destined to break your heart. Actually I never made this recipe, so I shouldn't judge, but I will.
No macaroons are actually delicious.

Ya. Macaroons. That is what this post is really about. Macaroons are the insipid, overplayed arm candy of the confection world. And if one more shitty schlock shop starts selling these by the checkout counter, I might scream. Is there no escape? Every airport. Every bourgie supermarket. Every bakery. 

Sure, they're pretty to look at. Their smooth, bland form allows for fun with color and indeed many are beautiful. It's obvious why the people have been Instagramming them ever since Instagram was invented. But #yum? Please. 

Et tu, McDonalds? REALLY? 

Macaroons are disappointment itself. To bite into a macaroon is to feel your hopes dashed and, worse, to feel like a sucker for having hoped your stupid hopes in the first place. How could you have believed that something so beautiful would actually taste good? 

A bit Orwellian, really.

Remember that scene in American Beauty (reach way back, guys) where Kevin Spacey's character finally gets the girl of his burning imagination and then it turns out she's just a clueless child onto whom the man has been projecting his remarkably lame fantasies? They didn't even need to make that whole movie. Alan Ball could have just passed around a box of macaroons and waited until everyone took a bite and been like, "That? That feeling you just had? That's what our movie is about". 

Macaroons are not disgusting (actually, I had a foie gras-stuffed one this summer that was SUPER disgusting, but that was an exception). They are just...nothing. They are okay. But you should only eat food that is just okay if it contains vitamins or supports your ability to poop. 

You should definitely not be paying (way) upwards of fifteen euros for six cookies that are just sort of okay. Bizarre liver-based varieties notwithstanding, your average macaroon is made out of egg whites and food coloring. Sure, the gorgeous cardboard boxes are fit to be used as the display sarcophagi of tiny dead pharaohs, but still. Have we lost our damn minds? The Emperor is naked, y'all, and has been for years. 

Laduree has boxes fit to bury tiny Care Bear kings. Still not that delicious though.

Enough already. Let's go back to eating rice crackers and cupcakes. I mean real cupcakes. The kind that don't have a three-inch butter-boner on their heads...and on that note, I'm going to stop because I feel another food rant coming on. 

Oh man. This blog post is such a macaroon. 

-------------

*Betcha didn't see that one coming, eh? Keeping it fresh. 

Chitter Chatter

Hey hey hey! Remember how I was going to post all my vacation photos? HA! Joke is on you; I'm super pregnant and my back hurts and I can do anything I want. 

Instead of sharing those photos, let me tell you about my chatterbox daughter. The Noodle is now two years and one month old and she just will not stop talking. She mixes up her languages and her word order can be a little Yoda-esque, and she has cartoon lisp that only me and her dad fully understand, but still. She can talk.

It runs in the family. As those who know me know, I suffer from a terrible case of think-while-I-talk. The blah blah blahs. It's like a neurological deficiency. But obviously it's not MY fault; I inherited it from my father. Although unlike my verbacious dad (and his siblings), I talk without having anything interesting to say. 

We are also a terribly loud bunch. I'm not sure about my granddad, because he died long before I was born, but someone wrote a book about HIS dad and literally the third sentence is: "The father had a loud bass voice, and the little boy (my great grandfather) inherited those stentorian tones." 

Two pages later there's a story from when my great grandfather was three years old, and someone thought he was a girl because of his long curly hair. "The child proclaimed his gender in a voice half croak and half bellow: 'I am not a girl; I am a boy.' The visitor laughed and responded, 'If I had heard you speak first, I would have known you were a boy.' In an aside, he commented, 'There is a coming orator.'' 

So you see. Exuberant speech is in the blood. 

Back here in the Gumpen Village, our little piece o' pasta's latest milestone is that in addition to being super bossy, she now wants to negotiate everything. "Just one episode, mommy." "Please mommy. I want pizza mommy." "No vegetebegedebebbas...Let's buy stwawbewwies! Stwawbewwies ONLY." 

And of course the classic, "It's not bedtime." We made a video to record her speech development for posterity plus also my mother, and, lucky you, you get to see the edited version. Champagne, confetti, party blowers*. 

Behold, an incredibly long (it used to be longer?) video of Noodle procrastinating with her enablers, who clearly think she is adorabubble and are probably ruining her but don't quite mind yet. 

*Party blowers? Really? That's their actual name?... Huh...*Snort*harhar.

Everyone Sucks

So, happy belated Mother's Day! I love my mother. She is awesome. I also love being a mother. It's great. As you know, I will be a mother times two in October. By which I mean I am pregnant. 

Unlike being a mother, being pregnant is not awesome. Okay, let me qualify that. It is LITERALLY awesome to be pregnant. It is an undeserved privilege and also, you know, super magical and fundamental and biological, or whatever. 

It's super great that two twisted ladders of information are twisting together again, reassembling into something both ancient and new. Each strand carries the genetic history of a thousand thousand ancestors. Each of whom ate and prayed and worried and wondered whether they were pretty and wished they owned nicer stuff and fell in love (or didn't) and couldn't actually believe they were really going to die until the moment they did. But whether saints, martyrs, or total jerks, our ancestors had one other thing in common, too: they managed to breed, and so did their kids. 

And now, in the case of me and Alex, all that information has again duked it out in a very tiny game of dice and the resulting individual is currently constructing herself in my stomach. And all while we watch Spartacus and eat chocolate! 

So, you know, on THAT level, I'll give it to you, pregnancy is pretty cool. 

On the other hand, my clothes don't fit, I'm SO tired, and I can't take my skin medication. Therefore I am crabby. Or, to put it differently, everyone who is not me sucks. 

Three whole people have struck up conversations about my skin in the last couple weeks--people that I have never met before. Seriously now. What is their thought process? 

Do I walk up to people I have just met and put forth, as a point of entry into conversation, my opinion about the mole on their neck? Do I casually tell new people that the way they wear their boots makes it look like they are about to invade Poland? Do I inform them that sensible people no longer underline their eyes in pale metallic blue? No. No, I do not, because I wouldn't like to make them feel bad. Whereas they, apparently, enjoy making other people feel self-conscious and also like to demonstrate their incredible knowledge of skin diseases. 

All psoriasis-driven conversations, for all of my life, have gone something like this: 

"Oh wow! Sebborheic dermitis?"
"Big words. Not what I have."
"Does it itch?"
"Yep."
"Have you tried avoiding strawberries?"
"There really is no cure. I'm going to go hang myself in the next room, if you'll excuse me."

"Oooh, would you look at that! My cousin had that."
"Did she really."
"Yes. It's a fungus. You have to stay out of the sun."
"It is not a fungus."
"The thing my cousin had looked JUST like that, though. She had to shower with anti-dandruff shampoo for ages, but then it cleared right up. You should try it!"
"I hate you."

"Have you ever tried a macrobiotic diet?"
"No! Why?"
"I've been on one for ages. I've never felt better."
"Tell me more."
"Well, it's great for your energy levels. And it like cures all allergies. And, you know, stuff for your skin." *Looks interestedly at my arms*
"There is no cure for psoriasis."
"You should really try it!"
"I hate you." 

"My dentist has psoriasis!"
"Great!"

"Classic. Neurodermititis."
"You mean neurodermitis. It's not neurodermitis."
"Oh."
"It's psoriasis. Psoriasis. With a "p". It is genetic."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"You know how they say all happy families are the same, but every f***** up family is f***** up in its own special way? That's how skin conditions are."
"Oh man. That must be really hard for you. Have you tried meditation and neem tree extracts? This one time on my spiritual journey to India I met a guy who said people who meditate never get these common ailments."
"Mm."
"Like, they don't have allergies or dandruff and they never get colds."
"You don't say."
"You should try it!"
"Thank you for this unique advice that I have never heard before." 

And it is not just my skin. It might seem like I'm being unreasonable, but I assure you it is true: ever since I got pregnant, everyone else has sucked more. Fact.

More examples? Fine. For example, the people who work at the grocery store don't make eye contact anymore plus they ring up my stuff extra slow. Like what, they think I have all day to get home and make dinner? 

Except you know what's worse? When they ring up the groceries all extra super fast so you can barely bag them, and then they start ringing up the next guy before you're done, and his ugly tubs of coconut-pineapple yogurt get all mixed up with my delicious, normal flavored yogurt. 

Mind you, these ultra fast scanning people don't care about customer service. They just want to see how fast they can scan things. I've worked at a convenience store before, so they're not fooling anyone. I was just like them. 

No, the speed with which you scan groceries does not say anything about your adequacy as a human being. It won't get you to the end of your shift any faster. Are fast counters good rocket scientists? Are fast hand-washers better surgeons? No. No, I don't think so. What are you, six? Scanning groceries fast doesn't mean you are good at your job. 

If you want to be good at your job, grocery store girl, convince the overlords that Spar should sell ripe avocados like an effing real store. I'm serious. What is this graveyard of pitiful, hard, green plant excretions? Seriously. It's like Spar stocks its fruit and veg on the basis of a Peppa Pig episode. Bananas, oranges, apples, and broccoli. Ah yes, some strawberries, because spring. Yes, Spar. Clearly these are all of the fruits that Mother Nature has bequeathed unto humanity in the year 2015. Give yourself a little pat on the back, Spar, since your work here is obviously done. 

Anyway. I'm clearly very pleasant to be around these days. 

I'm searching for something heartwarming to say. 

Oh yes. On the plus side, it turns out our little family obviously has a career singing together. We're like the freaking von Trapps. (And if you don't know who the von Trapps are, you must be Austrian). 

Watch the magic on this video below, which features terrible sound and a blurry picture. I'm sorry about the blurry video. It's not just everyone else who sucks, you see. It's ME TOO. I'M SO SORRY. 

*runs away, eating*

Baby Smooches

Extra! Extra! Miss Noodle got a smooch from Sir E., probably her oldest friend (see here and here), who is only two weeks older (and whose birth date was only three days after Noodle's...they're really the same age). Cuteness ensued. At least I think it is cute and am shamelessly subjecting you to the video.  

Sir E. and his Mama joined Alex, Noodle and me for an extremely cold walk at the Jesuitenwiese yesterday. After plenty of frickin' freezing fresh air, we found a little restaurant to warm up in. The kiddos amused themselves by screeching and bouncing and waving at the people leaving the restaurant (this video was made shortly before we paid and ran away so as to stop bothering the other guests). 

We may or may not have instructed them to give each other a "Bussi" (little kiss), something we've basically been trying to do since they were born. And this time, IT WORKED. 

Are we exploiting them for adorbsness? YES. 

The Superior Parent

My fellow parent has many excellent qualities. Yet it has always been clear to me that I am the superior. Evidence? Please. It is evident. I mean, just look at me. I'm GREAT. 

Heading south. I think we were over Egypt.

So imagine my dismay when I returned on Wednesday from a week-long work trip to Nairobi and the homestead was in perfect order and our child SEEMED both happy and throughly kempt. The kid barely noticed I was gone. At first I was perplexed, but looking back over the evidence of the week, I have an explanation. Gross corruption. 

My daughter has been bribed. 

Exhibit 1: Vegetables (lack thereof). One evening I Skyped in to my wee, dear family to find that my one year-old was merrily dining on take-out from the local cheap Chinese place. The child clutched a gyoza and was smeared in pork fat, soy sauce and jollity. A transparent effort to buy her chubby little heart. 

Exhibit 2: Bedtime. Last night at dinner, Alex's sister asked when the Noodle usually goes to bed. "At eight," I answered promptly. "Between seven and eight...well, nine," said Alex, just as promptly. He said, "I mean, it would be seven fifteen every night if I had my way. Ha! Hahaha! HA!" We looked at each other. I raised an eyebrow.  

Corrupted.

Exhibit 3: Television. Also last night, while dining at Alex's sister's home, our daughter kept picking up the remote control for the TV and pointing it at the screen and pushing random buttons in what can only be described as a well-practiced motion. When the TV finally came on she was utterly transfixed. "Wow, look how fascinated she is," I said. "We almost never watch TV when she is around at home." I looked at Alex. He looked away. 

Exhibit 4: Cookies. Again last night at dinner, Noodle was given a piece of cookie for dessert. Then she wanted another one, which I was inclined to let her have. "She never eats this stuff, so it's fine," I said. At the same moment, Alex said, "No more! Noodle, I think you have had more than enough cookies lately." 

Daddy and daughter.

"Wait, when was that?" I asked. 

"Psh," he said, holding up his thumb to start counting. "Just this afternoon she had one, two...plenty," he said. 

I looked at him, and had a sudden vision of the dozens of cookies that had disappeared down that delicate toddler gullet over the last seven days. My husband shrugged.  

I rest my case. 

But also, I would like to reiterate my thanks to my darling husband for making it possible for me to go gallivanting halfway across the world to do my job, indeed to enjoy my job, without worrying for a minute whether my baby is being taken care of. 

Of course she is. She has the loveliest Daddy in the world, and we both love him very, very much. 

Three big loves. 

We Heart Bedtime

When it comes to ease of parenting, the first fifteen months of Miss Noodle's life have had their ups and downs. We are definitely, definitely on an up right now. 

Noodle reacted to her first month of daycare with what can only be described as dismay. At the kindergarten itself she was fine: she wanted her teachers to carry her around all the time, but was otherwise friendly and personable. But once she got home...DAMN. Tears. Lots and löööts of saying "no". She reverted to her face-smacking ways. Threw things on the floor. Would not go to bed. 

She had also learned a slew of new techniques for driving us slowly bananas. If for example it was bath time or time to leave the apartment or time to put her coat on or whatever, she had learned how to go as limp as a sack of dead cats, leaving us to try and and manipulate her dangling, whining body into or out of her clothes without accidentally dislocating her shoulder or whatever. 

Also, she learned how to pick her nose. (Except she doesn't even do it right. Nothing comes out. She just inserts her pointy little finger further and further up her wee nostril until her left eye is tearing, and then she leaves it there a while.) 

But anyway. This tumultuous period is behind us now, and it is the dawn of a new era of total compliance. Well, 50/50, anyway.  In the mornings she is ultra keen to go to kindergarten, where she has made a few equally tiny friends that bobble around with her. She has stopped saying "no" as often, and now mostly says "yes," even when she has no idea what we're saying to her. Actually, she doesn't say yes. She nods. But we'll take it. It is so brilliant to be able to ask whether she needs a new diaper, whether she is hungry or thirsty, whether she would like to play with her blocks, and actually get an answer. 

And here is the best part: 

She TELLS us when she's ready to go to bed. When she is really on her game she'll even point toward her bedroom and start saying "bye bye".  Other evenings she is cranky and unamused, but if asked whether it is bedtime she will nod. And then she starts chirping "bye bye" while her PJs are put on and her teeth brushed. 

The video below doesn't actually capture bed time, but you can see the nodding. 

I LOVE THIS NOODLE! And also: walking around, climbing on furniture, saying "no," going to kindergarten, and putting herself to bed? I hereby declare this baby a toddler. 

Sea Changes

Winter is coming. But before that, we have to get through the Fall. And it is madness, I tell you. We have thrown ourselves overboard into unknown seas. 

I'm back to work at a wonderful new job with great new people. And I have to say, compared with a full day alone with the bebe, working seems easier. It's always nice to do new things, and at the moment I'm sort of revelling in the fact that I get paid to put on nice clothes and interact with adults all day long in an environment full of endless free coffee. And when I snack on an apple at work, it's all mine. There is no child hanging on my leg, gesticulating at my fruit and chanting: "Appie! Appie? Appie! Appie?" I can use the restroom and shut the door. You know. The little things. 

Anyone need any crayon on their wall? Anyone?

However. This also means I need to cherish all the hugs and kisses I can get from my mini mouse when we are together. Because while there are many joys relating to the new job, kissing my baby's squishy cheeks is not one. And I love kissing my baby's cheeks. 

But of course, she's not a baby anymore. She is a full-fledged toddler. You can tell because of how she toddles, mincing about like a tiny drunken tyrannosaurus. She follows me around the apartment (on two feet!), playing peek-a-boo around the edge of the furniture, unloading our drawers, crayoning on the mirror, blowing kisses across the room. She tries to put on her own clothes (so far no luck, but we're bullish), insists on feeding herself, and seems to understand basically everything we say. Well, stuff that matters for her, anyway. For example, any mention of fruit precipitates gleeful chirping. Any mention of b-e-d-t-i-m-e results in distinctive fleeing behaviours. At the moment, she flees with all the speed and grace of a chubby flightless parrot. It's adorable. 

Noodle at the playground. Now that she's a toddler, she can do playgrounds! (Well, sort of.) This photo is from my mom's visit. Consider it a preview. 

And despite my secret desire for her to stay one year old forever, she is off to kindergarten. She is currently in the painful phase referred to as The Transition. This is where a parent takes her, stays for a while, and then leaves for ever longer periods. Alex is taking care of this process at the moment. He has a theory--not unreasonable--that our little mommy's girl will be more likely to accept her new environment if someone besides said mommy drops her off every day. It has been five days, and results have reportedly been mixed. Apparently her new teacher does a lot of carrying her around. Since I pretty much have chronic back pain from lugging the chunk around, Ms. Teacher has all my sympathies. 

As does the Noodle. Her new teachers are lovely, as are the other kids in the Frog Group, but of course switching from long, quiet, one-on-one mornings in our living room to the mayhem of the classroom would be a bit of a challenge for anyone. 

Because, you know, children are lunatics. On the morning I went there was a three year-old girl parading around with a naked doll on a plastic plate. She asked no one in particular if they would like a slice of her baby, and then pretended to serve everyone a piece. She was using an inch-long doll knife to pretend to cut into the baby's forehead. 
"Hmm," said the teacher, gently. "What are you doing, Betty?*

"This is a baby-cake," explained the girl. "A cake-baby."  

"Ah," said the teacher. "A cake that looks like a baby." 

The little girl looked up with her big, brown eyes and shrugged. "Ja. Okay." 

Cake-limb, anyone? 

I see cake limbs

This is not to suggest that my own Noodle* is some kind of placid angel. She spent a good deal of time last week trying to force feed another kid her age with a plastic drinking cup. 

"I don't think Lily* wants anything to drink," said the teacher. 

Lily's lower lip quivered as she tried to escape. 

"No no no," said the Noodle, shaking her head. "Baba dis daba." And shoved the cup in Lily's face again. 

You know what their classroom is like? A reef. The three and four year-olds are like sharks. As the biggest and strongest, they can nip down and take what they like (well, as long as their teacher overlords don't see). 

The two year-olds, though, are the piscine residents of our coral paradise. Some of these fish spend the day tearing around in manic circles, while others gently float, opening and closing their mouths every once in a while. They eat the lower forms of life and poop sand. Both the fish and the sharks swim in schools and demonstrate social, even very loving and altruistic behaviour, but are ultimately alone in their little egos, hunting for Things To Do. 

Now the one year olds, however, while technically mobile, are much more like a bunch of anemone. Perhaps jellyfish. They don't really get around. They can spend minutes alone, fiddling with their teeth or a single counting bean or a corner of the carpeting. But should the stormy ocean currents blow them into one another, beware! The first probing swipes of each other's faces are followed swiftly by alarmed poking and then outright violence and defensive secretions, like tears and spit. 

Look how much our dearest pookie pants has changed!

But there are plenty of tempting treats for a young wiener in the Frog Group. First of all, there are endless toys, and endless children to observe, which is the Noodle's favourite hobby. Secondly, there are bananas like basically every day. Third, her classroom features a kiddy pool full of chestnuts, which, you know, is pretty sweet. And as far as assuaging my own deep-seated concerns, I notice that the group includes plenty of tiny noodles who seem happy and comfortable with their caretakers. So I'm sure it'll just be a matter of days until she's happy to go. At which point, I'll probably want to cry. 

Well, that's enough feelings for one sitting. I also need to post photos from our trip to the zoo and my mom's visit this past weekend, but those will have to wait until next time. 

******************************

*Names have been changed to protect the dangerously young. 

Life Goes Onam

Do you know what Onam is? Do YOU know what pookalam is? Of course not. You are steeped in ignorance and have no education. I, on the other hand, having learned what these things are a week ago, am sophisticated and worldly. Come, little grasshopper. I shall explain.

Our fine hostess, cooking. 

Our little family, as usual, was late getting to their apartment. Really late. 

"Hello, hello! Oh Gof you're all here already. I'm sorry. We are sorry, " I said, coming through the door. 

Alex came in after me. "Sorry, hi everyone. Sorry." We are often sorry, because we are often late. "Hello, and sorry. Sorry. Hello," we said. Actually mostly I said sorry, in hopes of being endearing. Alex is less stupid. But I digress. And so soon, too. 

We were at Nayana and Tamas' home. Nayana and her friend Geetha, who hail from Kerala in India, were celebrating Onam. As sophisticated people know from frantically reading Wikipedia beforehand, this is a Hindu festival that falls around nowish, celebrates the harvest, and involves pookalams and special food. 
By the time Alex and I arrived with Noodle on her push bar tricycle, everyone else was already there. The table was set, and also covered with food (that smelled divine). Everyone leapt to their feet as we came through the door, apparently starving. 

On the floor of the entrance was the pookalam, which I, in my as yet unenlightened state, did not recognize. "What pretty flowers," I said. 

This is a pookalam, you ignoramus. Thanks for the photo, Milica!

"I did the design," said our friend Louise. She is not Indian, but her work looked very authentic to my sophisticated and expert eye. 

"Right, please gather," said Nayana, before my child had time to even clamber down from her tricycle.  All nine of us gathered. Well, 10 if you count the dog. You could almost hear the stomaches rumbling. ("So, so sorry," I whispered.)

She continued: "Now I will tell you all the story. Geetha, I want no interruptions to correct historical inaccuracies." We looked at Geetha. Geetha seemed prepared to correct historical inaccuracies. 

Noodle and the chefs and Onam experts Nayana and Geetha

The story is this. There was once a king called pause for Google search Mahabali who was wonderful and therefore beloved. He was so popular that the "lead God," Google reminds me his name is Vishnu, decided to take action. He disguised himself as a dwarf...

"No, a small boy," Geetha said. 

"...a dwarf or a small boy," said Nayana. "Divergent narratives. In any case he was very small."

"Not all small people are dwarfs," said Louise, who has Views. Often from below.* 

Nayana said, "Anyway..."

So Vishnu disguised as a person of short stature appears in front of the great and good king Mahabali and says he has heard that the king is very charitable, so would he please grant him (little Vishnu) a favor. The king, being lovely, says he of course will. The small person then asks if the King will grant him (the short one) as much land as he can cross in three steps. The King, ever kind, tells the little person that he has short legs so perhaps he'd like to define a slightly larger gift for himself. The little boy/dwarf says no, three steps is fine. 

Team Eaters, minus me, Alex and the Noodle. And the dog.
L-R: Milica, Tamas, Louise and Markus

But, in what theologians are calling "a classic divine bait-and-switch", Vishnu then resumes his leggy god size and proceeds to cross all the earth with his first step and then heaven with the second step. At this juncture, Vishnu helpfully informs the king that pretty much all available surfaces were covered by the first two steps. King Mahabali, a proper bleeding heart if ever there was one, tells Vishnu to then please step on the king's own royal head with the third step. Vishnu triumphantly steps on King Mahabali, pushing him down into the underworld. 

However, because the King is a really good person who worked hard all his life he is allowed to leave for a couple days a year during the harvest festival and check on the folks back home. Apparently the Hindu underworld and the American service industry have similar vacation policies. Anyway, because the people of Kerala love their king so, to this day they welcome him with pookalams and have a giant vegetarian feast to demonstrate how prosperous and happy they are. This is Onam. 

The story over, all nine of us proceeded to the dining table where we descended like locusts upon a vast array of absurdly delicious dishes. 

"If you see anything that looks like a green chilli and you don't like chillies, don't eat it," warned Geetha. 

No chillies in the dessert

"Especially you," Nayana said to our friend Milica. Milica, I learned, was wary of chillies that might be lurking in the curry like tiny, cruel crocodiles. Her caution was based on a recent personal experience.

Milica explained, "I noticed the chilli first because the left side of my face was on fire, so I moved it to the right side, which was on fire, and then I didn't know what to do so I swallowed it. Big mistake. My stomach was like fzzfff..BOOOM." She made a little mushroom cloud with her hands. Upon receipt of this anecdote I started sifting my own plate for suspicious green capsicums. 

I didn't find any, though. It was all so delicious we didn't speak to each other. There were fifteen minutes of determined chomping. 

Pretty much Miss Noodle's favourite food.

And for dessert there was super sweet, cardamom-flavored milky rice dish topped with cashews and raisins that had been fried in butter. It was epic. McNoodle first ate a whole serving and then had half of Alex's. 

How fortifying was this lunch, you ask? 

The Noodle and I came home (Alex had to go somewhere else for work) and this little girl...drumroll please...walked. WALKED! No hands! First one step, then two, and then she was doing six or seven at once before collapsing with laughter. 

So thank you, Nayana, Tamas and Geetha. And thanks, King Mahabali. You are inextricably linked to my little girl's first steps. I hope her legs take her across the earth and the heavens, but I can pretty much promise she'll never step on your head. 

*******
Re: This video, sorry it's vertical (I was scurrying backwards on my butt and somehow failed to turn my phone), and also please excuse my extremely overenthusiastic voice. Best to just turn off the sound on this one, really. 

*I LOVE YOU LOUISE

My Brother is Here, Plus Socks

And what have we been up to lately? 

Let me tell you! 

Well, a week ago we went out to the Danube with friends and family to belatedly celebrate Nava's birthday. Because I am rubbish in many ways, I apparently took only one photo. Here it is! 

Thanks for coming, y'all

I also baked an orange-almond cake and spent much time and effort writing a Happy Birthday message on it. It looked like I did it drunk and left-handed, but I figured my illiterate one year-old probably wouldn't care. In the end it was a moot point since the cake got lightly squashed in the cab and all the words were peeled off along with the aluminium foil covering. So it goes. 

Poorly lit cake photo, prior to brutal smooshing.

Nonetheless, the cake did a fine job holding up a single candle and subsequently transporting ungodly amounts of butter and sugar into everyone's bodies. 

We also used this fine opportunity to release the last five tadpoles into a stand of rushes on the side of the river. It seemed sort of safe, in that it was at least ten feet from a school of approximately 10,000 carp. Some guy who was watching with interest assured us that the tadpoles would be eaten within hours. I did not enjoy his attitude. However, it is true that I had to keep redirecting one of the little swimmers into the rushes and away from the fish. He (she?) seemed quite keen to die, really. 

We did not release any baby frogs. This is because they were all dead. Well, except one. One went missing and is only presumed dead, because of how we have two cats and zero ponds in our apartment. Overall, I don't want to talk about it. 

In happier news, this past weekend my brother Elliott arrived from Los Angeles. It's his ten-year high school reunion. This is significant for me in that it means I am super old. How have those little babies been out of high school for ten years? It blows the mind.  

My brother from the same mother. And father. Also, yes we have a fan and an air conditioner. What about it.

Post-reunion face. Day four.

We are, of course, delighted to have him moping around hungover every morning and cheerily recommending that we cook/go out to eat yet another heart-stopping, rib-sticking Austrian delicacy, generally consisting of pork and onions and potatoes. 

After eight consecutive meals the likes of which I generally try to space out over six weeks, I said: "I need to eat a salad for lunch today. Seriously." 

"Ugh, I'm only here for a week," he said. "YOU can have salad." And then he ditched me to have lunch with someone else. Quite astonishing. 

But really, I see him far too seldom and I wish he lived here. I love my brother. 


And also, Miss Noodle has figured out that socks belong on feet. She just doesn't know how to get them there. Behold: 

Remember Those Tadpoles?

Remember how we saved a bunch of tadpoles and took them home? Well, weeks and weeks later, we finally have at least one teeny weeny frog. Yesterday we also had one, which I picked up and put down a couple of times, only to learn that wittle bitty fwoggies do not like that. It died minutes later. This morning, yet another wee polliwog became a frog--apparently ingesting his tail overnight. I feel terrible about the one I man-handled and have decided it's definitely time to release all of them--I don't have the skills or equipment to care for these incy wincy amphibians any longer. 

TA-DAAPOOOLE!

Of the original flock cloud, only around eight remain*. All the rest went in one of two major die-offs. I don't know what happened the first time, which was about two weeks after we'd first installed the tadpoles in our home. Suddenly the water was a murky mess and half the critters were floating around looking grey and hollow. The second massive die-off was entirely my fault: I had run out of boiled lettuce and cheated by dropping in just a tiny bit of, um, bread. Fail.

Almost frogs (or toads?)

For anyone who cares to know, here are my major tips and tricks for the successful raising of tadpoles. Assuming you consider eight almost-frogs out of 30 tadpoles a "success": 

1. Change their water every few days. The new water should be de-chlorinated. I put tap water in a big glass jar in the sunshine for a few days, which seemed to work. Sometimes I also added a little fresh tap water, but I guess in Vienna the chlorine levels are so low it didn't hurt anybody. I reckon in many other cities tap water would basically be an amphibian death sentence. 

Also, not changing the water is very bad--I'm pretty sure that's what was behind mass extinction one. The water should not get even a little bit cloudy - not at ALL. You'd think that was fine, since tadpoles live in filthy puddles, but it is not. I'm sorry, duders. I drowned you in your own goop. 

How do you go about changing tadpole water? What you do not do is try to individually spoon the tadpoles out, because you have better things to do, like change your actual human tadpole and make lunch or whatever. What you do is take out all your decorative rocks, pour the whole mess of water and tadpoles through a fine sieve (poop<"fine"<tadpoles), and dump the tadpoles into a bowl of clean, de-chlorinated water. Tap tap tap your sieve! Those suckers can be sticky. Put your rocks and your tadpoles back in their aquarium, i.e. their big glass tupperware with no lid, which is what we used. Add water as necessary. 

How the Noodle looks to a tadpole.

2. Direct sunshine murders frogspawn. We put our container on a table next to a big plant whose (non-toxic) leaves sort of gave it some shade, and anyway it was not in direct sunlight. Also, somewhere on the internet it says that mint and some other herbs and plants are toxic for fwoggy woggies, so beware. I'd be more specific but I can't really remember and also there is Google. 

3. Boiled lettuce. Feed them lettuce boiled down into nothingness, which you then chop. You can freeze little chunks in an ice-cube tray (a whole ice-cube would be, like, five times too much for one feeding of 20 tadpoles, though) and drop them in every two or three days. Do not feed them bread. I'm sorry, little guys. I didn't know. 

4. Don't touch them. They die. I'M SO SORRY, little frog from yesterday. 

Have fun growing froglets! 

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*A flock? A pride? A murder? A group? According to the internet, the author of one book about clusters of animals says it's cloud, but scientists use school or shoal. Let's go with cloud.