Getting Our Fruitful On

It's raining little girls around here, or so the doc tells us. It is officially official - the Noodle is expecting a sister in October. Actually, the chances are "eighty to ninety percent" that it's a girl but extremely good that it will be our new darling baby. 

I'm fifteen weeks along. According to the internet, I'll have gained five pounds (so cute! try eight) and may have "rhinitis" which is fancy talk for a stuffed nose. Check. Also, I'm a total jerk. They don't tell you about that on the internet, but just ask my husband. Around this time my last pregnancy around he told me that he loved me but that I used to be a nice person and now I'm not. This time around he just rolls his eyes and walks away. 

Black and white photo of forthcoming daughter. Maybe this one will look like me.

Also according to the internet, our dear proto-baby is now the size of an apple. It can sense light, it's legs are longer than it's arms, and apparently this is a great week to start bonding with her (him?) by "narrating your activities," reading to it, or sharing "your secret wishes" for your child. 

My secret wish for my child is that she is healthy and grows up to be happy and surrounded by love. My more immediate concern is that she survives this pregnancy without being stomped on by her elder sibling, who is sweetly oblivious to the fragile assembly of sparrow bones and mist that is trying to become a person in her mommy's quickly expanding belly. 

Everyone has asked me whether we've tried to explain the situation to Miss Noodle. Well, sort of. Maybe once the belly is more obviously abnormal. And I'll order a few kids books soon, the kinds with titles like "Being a Big Sister is Great!" and "Betty's New Baby Brother is Great!" and "Sharing is Great!" and "Babies are Just So Great!". But for now, it's basically hopeless. 

When I got the first good womb shots we tried. We got the Noodle all set up with a bottle of milk. 

Black and white picture of our what is currently our only child. Enjoy, my sweet.

"Look at this picture, Sweetheart. What do you see?"

"Meine picture. Mine."

"Is this a baby?"

"This Noodle's* milk. Noodle's milk."

"This is a picture of a little baby."

Noodle considered. She pointed at the picture. "Me!"

"No, it's not you. It's a baby."

"Baby!" she said. 

"Yes! It's a baby! It's going to be your new brother or sister. Do you know what a sister is?"

"Noodle's milk. This Noodle's foot. Noodle's."

"This baby is inside Mommy's tummy."

Noodle slapped my belly. "Belly!"

"Yes! The baby is inside Mommy's belly."

"Ja. Nava's mommy. Mommy's belly. Nava's milk. Look, cat!"

"Are you going to be a good sister?"

"Yeah. Uh-huh. Katzi!"

"Are you going to be a terrible sister?"

"Mm-hmm. Yeah."

"Do you love babies?"

"Mm-hm. Yeah!"

"Do you hate babies?"

"Yeah!"

So we shelved this conversation for another day. I'm sure Miss Noodle would be totally stoked if she could conceive of the idea of pregnancy, new babies, or having to share everything she owns for the rest of her young life. 

As for me and Alex, we can't wait to meet the young 'un, and we can't wait to be the four of us. Well, the four of us plus also two cats, those wh*res. (This is just an aside, but I roasted char siu pork on Sunday and ran out to meet friends and then got a text from Alex who informed me that the cats had dragged this pork loin out from under the bowl, across the kitchen and living room, and had decimated it on the couch. Greedy and sticky, those little s**ts. Obviously, this morning there was porky cat puke all over the place. Greedy, sticky, ungrateful AND they can't hold their pig. Honestly, I don't want to give them away, I don't want them to die, but I do wish they'd just disappear. Not in a punitive way, just in a convenient way. I don't want them to suffer. I just want them to be Elsewhere. Like I wish the cats would just walk with God, like Abraham did in the Bible. Lord knows they've lived long enough. Though Abraham, being blameless, would probably never have stolen anything, much less roasted pork. But I fear I digress.)

So yes. We can't wait to be the four of us! And until then, we'll prepare in our own little ways. The Noodle will continue to plough along oblivious to the silver linings on the horizon, I'll read a bunch of parenting books that say soothing things, Alex will try not to think about it and we can all just pray we'll be ready. 

P.S. Thanks to Alex for this remarkably effing awesome video, featuring one of our two revolting animals. 
P.P.S. I would never actually want tiny space fighters to descend from the sky and blow up our cat, not even if she stole another char siu pork roast. Right? Right. 

*She doesn't actually call herself Noodle. But she finally learned her name and it's been her favorite word ever since. Well, that and "meine" (mine). 

Domestic Bliss: A Recipe for Minestrone Soup

There are blogs, terrible novels and a good number of cooking shows that would have you believe that the apex of domestic bliss is this: Mama is in her cozy kitchen, children at her feet, preparing a nutritious meal for her family. She is calm, her hair is good. Perhaps her sweet son or daughter helps her to stir the pot. A cat and a pot of basil share a spot on sunshine on the windowsill. It smells like peaches and vanilla. Outside, birds chirp a little song. Come with me. Peek into my Monday. Let us cook this delicious minestrone together.

(I forgot to take pictures.)

MINESTRONE

Ingredients

Gather these from the supermarket in a hurry on your way home from work. Your husband has committed to getting your daughter from kindergarten. This means you have about an hour before they get home. Run! 

• 1/2 pound (about 1 1/4 cups) dried white beans such as Great Northern, picked over and rinsed 
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 pound pancetta (Italian cured pork belly, available at Italian markets and specialty foods shops) or sliced lean bacon, chopped
• 1/3 cup olive oil
• 1 onion, chopped
• 1 large carrot, cut into 1/2-inch dice
• 1 rib of celery, cut into 1/2-inch dice
• 3 garlic cloves, chopped fine
• 2 zucchini, scrubbed and cut into 1/2-inch dice
• 1/4 pound green beans, trimmed and cut into 1/2-inch pieces
• 1/2 pound boiling potatoes
• 4 cups shredded green cabbage (preferably Savoy)
• 1/2 pound kale, rinsed, drained, stems discarded, and the leaves chopped (about 6 cups)
• a 28-ounce can tomatoes, chopped coarse and drained well
• 4 1/2 cups chicken broth (preferably low-salt)

• freshly grated Parmesan, garlic bruschetta , and dry-cured sausages as accompaniments

Pick me up!

Preparation

Get home. Good news: Noodle and Daddy aren't here yet! Bad news: there is cat pee in the hallway, AGAIN. Those filthy animals. Drape toilet paper across the mess. You have no time for this now. You have veggies to prep before all hell breaks loose. 

Despite having destroyed the hallway, the cats expect to be fed. Feed them. Try not to have a terrible attitude about it. Also try not to slice your finger open on the can again. Dammit, again!

Okay, okay. Focus on cooking. But first, you need to take off your suit jacket. Also the skirt. But no time to change anything else; stand in the kitchen in your pantyhose and blouse. Pretend this is empowering. Wash the vegetables while you read the recipe on your laptop; try not to drip water into the keyboard. This looks like a great recipe. Shame about all the steps. Why can't you ever cook anything simple, for Gof's sake? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Alright. No big deal. Multi-tasking. Women are awesome at multi-tasking, you read it on IFLscience or something. 

First step: Let the beans soak overnight. Ha! What kind of a**hole has time for that? You bought canned beans, like a boss. Go ahead and puree half of them now, because later there will be a toddler around, and putting toddlers and immersion mixers in the same space is basically like combining monkeys and guns. Ha. Yes. You feel very smug and organized for having thought of this. You'd totally say that if you were on your own cooking show. 

"Remember, everyone," you'd say, in your best Mary Berry voice. "Blend your beans before your child gets home! Would you leave monkeys in a room full of guns?" 

Next step: crisp the pancetta in a pot. Simultaneously peel carrots, chop celery, slice garlic. This is so totally under control. Add the veggies to the pot. You have four whole minutes to chop the next set of veggies. This is easy. 

The click of keys. "Hi babes, we're home!" says Alex. 

Uh-oh. 

"Mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy!" says Noodle, racing down the hallway. She may or may not have a little sheet of cat-urine soaked toilet paper attached to her rain boot. 

From down the hall, the husband calls: "Wow, you couldn't clean this up?" You ignore him as he mutters and cleans up cat pee. 

"Hello my love! How was kindergarten?" you ask the Noodle, smiling. Aww. It's so great to see this kid. What a cutie. 

"Up! Mommy, up!" She says. You hoist her up. 

"Look! Mommy is making minestrone. That is a kind of soup," you explain, stirring the veggies. 

"Cheese?" she asks. 

Current favorite food EVER, which, frankly, who can blame her.

"No," you say. "No cheese. You had a snack at kindergarten. Let's wait until dinner."

"Wahhhh!" she cries. 

"Mommy has to chop some more veggies now, so I have to put you down," you say. You turn your face toward your husband, who appears to be dawdling. "MOMMY HAS TO CHOP SOME MORE VEGGIES NOW." 

"CHEESE!" screams the Noodle. 

Daddy appears. "No cheese," he says, to great wailing and gnashing of teeth. "You want grapes?" Grapes are okay. He has no comment on your attire, because standard.  

They disappear with a bunch of grapes, and you frantically chop: zucchini, green beans and...motherf***cker, potatoes too? Where is the peeler. Where is the peeler. There! OH MY GOD. Peel, chop. Chuck, stir. 

"Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy."

"Yes, darling," you say, as you pick apart a head of kale. 

"Cheese?"

"How about you go read a book on the couch with Daddy? Does that sound like fun?" you say.  What is that man doing? Is he...omg, is that Facebook? "ALEX!"

"Alex!" says the Noodle. "Alex! Cheese!"

"Daddy," you say. "Go play with your daddy." 

"Come read a book with me, Noodle," says Daddy. He holds up Good night, Gorilla enticingly. It is the current favorite. 

"Elmo?"

"No, a book." 

"Tubbies?"

"How about this book?" 

"Of course." Noodle toddles off. 

Chop the kale. You've decided to skip the green cabbage, because if there is one thing you've learned in life, it's that if you make a recipe that uses only "4 cups of shredded green cabbage" you will shortly thereafter have half a head of slowly rotting cabbage in the back of your fridge. "Don't forget," you tell the imaginary cameras in your imaginary giant, airy kitchen. "Kale and cabbage are basically the same thing anyway! Ahahaha!" 

Angelic giggles tinkle out of the living room, and Daddy is reading. You smile beatifically.

Add the kale to the pot, stir until wilted...Stir until wilted. Wilt. Come on. Wilt already. Oooh, you could go cut some basil why you wait, since you actually have some for a change! Oh. THAT'S wilted. And...did the cats eat some too? Oh. My. God. Daddy and Noodle have finished two whole books. Check on the kale, which is still kind of like the soles of combat boots. American kale wouldn't do this, you think. This is just some b.s. Austrian pseudo-kale. You should have bought the green cabbage. 

Little feet pad sweetly across the floor. 

"Mommy, book," says Noodle. She is standing by your feet with a book. Reading is really good for you and you should encourage it. Reading is probably even better for you than minestrone. Could this recipe take any longer? Seriously. 

"Why don't you read with Daddy, honey?" you say.

"Because I already read two books with him, idiot," says Noodle. She doesn't actually say that, but you can hear it in your head. 

"Look! Daddy is playing with blocks. Why don't you join him?" you say. Daddy clicks the blocks together, optimistically. (He's so great, you think, in a footnote).  

Noodle points her finger in your face. "I haven't seen you all day, because all you care about is going to work, and now you're ignoring me. You will not read me Hop on Pop even though when I say the word 'pop' your heart nearly does." 

What she actually says is: "UUUUUP! CHEESE!"

It is really very, very warm in the kitchen. And very cramped. And the floor is suddenly covered in something sticky. 

You breathe deeply and try to remain calm. You feel terrible. Toddlerhood is short and precious. The days are long but the years are short. Cherish this moment. Be in this moment. Do not think about cigarettes at all. Think about the precious, fleeting, beauty of childhood. You're going to miss this, right? Actually, you know you are. That's the f***ing tragedy of the thing. 

You pick her up. "Hi, lovely. No cheese. But do you want to watch me make the soup? You can help, okay?" 

Add the tomatoes--try not to cut your child while opening the cans! Now add the "broth", i.e. 4.5 cups of water and soup cube. Hey, remember when you used to make broth from scratch? Meditatively skimming chicken foam while This American Life ran in the background. You'd drink tea, and smoke cigarettes out the window. Oh my God I LOVE cigarettes. 

"Soup!" says Noodle. 

"Do you love soup?" you ask. Foolishly, self-indulgently. "Does this look yummy?"

"No!" she says. "No! CHEESE!"

Breathe more.The Om Shanti part of your brain wins out against the part that desires to put your face through the wall. But it's a close call. 

Your arm is breaking with 11 kg of toddler, but hey, you're almost finished. Check the recipe. Scroll down. Hm hm hm. Ah yes. 

Cover the pot and simmer...for an hour? AN HOUR? This kid will be asleep in an hour! 

The Om Shanti part of your brain is no longer winning. You mysteriously want to actually...cry? Is THAT this feeling you are feeling? Ew. Unacceptable. You are a professional. Also a domestic goddess. There are no problems. There are challenges. And challenges have solutions. 

"Would you like some cheese and bread?" you ask. "And, um, this nutritious carrot?"

"Cheese!" she says happily. And cheese for dinner it is. 

Look into the camera with a knowing smile and a wink. "And remember, if you wish to avoid any fuss you can make this soup a day ahead. Just refrigerate and re-heat! No one will ever know the difference."

***

P.S. This recipe from epicurious.com was actually totally delicious, and even the Noodle liked it...the next day. Highly recommend. 

P.P.S I seriously have no idea how other people dis-attach their small children (plural! I have only one and can't manage!) from their legs while they are, for example, wielding large knives or manipulating hot fat. Please tell me your secrets. 







  

Laconic Love

These two just love each other endlessly. Which is pretty much how I feel about them. Behold! Father and daughter. And messy kitchen.  

And if I ever have time ever again in my life that is not consumed with either going to work, maintaining our household or blowing raspberries on this gorgeous toddler's belly, I promise I'll do a blog post with, like, words in it. 

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. 

That Time We Went to Istanbul

So as I was saying, like, a month ago, Alex and I went to Istanbul for the first time.  And I'm going to blog about it. 

The old part of the city, from across the Bosphorus

We arrived under dark wet skies, and at the wrong airport. Not just wrong in the sense that it was not Atatürk, where for some reason I thought we would land, but wrong in the sense that it was a million miles from our hotel in Kariköy. 

We found a well-appointed bus that took us down a crowded highway, stopping at neon-lit shopping centres along the way to let people out. There was a Burger King within sight of each bus stop, and also our little public transportation map from the airport was sponsored by Burger King and had a little logo to show every Burger King in town. Istanbul, brought to you by Burger King. 

We squinted through the raindrops on the window and tried to imagine how the hills and houses to the left and right would look in the summer, radiating heat. It was pretty hard to tell. 

Us. 

At the port in Kadiköy we picked our way through people and rain, and finally boarded a giant ferry. The main cabin was lit up like...well, like a Burger King, with comfortable but strictly functional seats that were not filled. Three young buskers started singing. A middle aged man sitting across from us fiddled with prayer beads and mumbled under his breath with his eyes closed. The ferry generated its own field of noise and light, and we rumbled placidly across the black water and black sky. We kept passing giant, grand mosques and I thought every single one was the Hagia Sophia. It felt like we were crossing the Styx in a jumbo jet. Alex and I were quiet and perfectly content, the way you are on the first day of a vacation in a brand new place, even if the sky is falling and your feet are wet. 

Fishing off the bridge is apparently an all-weather activity.

Our hotel was called The Vault, and it was beautiful. The whole building used to be a bank but had a recent and pretty lux restyling. We admired the view from our balcony and drank half a bottle of wine before heading off again. That night we ate fish in a nearby restaurant on the top of some other hotel on the waterfront, and looked out across a bustling bridge to the old part of the city. The mosques and buildings were lit so that the whole hillside looked like the altar of a church. We drank beer and we did not have to change any diapers or watch Elmo cartoons or fumble with a stroller. It was good. 

Trying not to shop.

In the morning, tourism happened. We went to the Spice Bazaar and the Grand Bazaar and overpaid for everything and wondered how so many people could make a living from selling little towers of roasted chestnuts. The bazaar, and basically a whole swathe of the old city is nothing but market, was filled with people. Deep-set shops with narrow storefronts were shoulder to shoulder up the entire hill, and the front of each store was hung with products from the ceiling to the floor. There were whole sections that sold nothing but underpants, or bedsheets, or knick-knacks. If a person is in need of, say, a headscarf, how the heck do they decide where to start looking? It was totally overwhelming. 

Over the next couple days, we visited the usual list of suspects. We went to the Hagia

Ayasofya, under construction.

Sophia and the Blue Mosque. At the Hagia Sophia we took a private tour, mostly because it meant we could cut the giant line. Our tour guide was a gregarious middle-aged man in a hat and sunglasses, and for the first fifteen minutes I despaired of ever making it into the building. He preferred to stand outside this grand old shamble and point in compass directions to give us a rundown of Istanbul/Turkish/Ottoman/Roman history, but in a sort of stream-of-consciousness fashion that led me to initially believe we had been swindled, not by a common crook but by a lunatic who actually thought he was a tour guide. 

More Hagia Sophia

"Over that way, some few hundred meters," he said, gesticulating toward a wall, "was where the emperors used to live and there were aquaducts that brought them water from here, where there are some hills" he said, pointing, "but have you heard of the University? You really must go, it is fascinating. It is over there. An amazing place, architecturally and historically! But anyway, just this way are the cisterns that collected the water from the aquaducts I just mentioned and the cisterns were built by the man who lived, like I said, over here but of course when Atatürk came to power over there, and he entered from this direction..." I was quite relieved when the call to prayer drowned him out for a few minutes. 

"Sorry," I said. "Does this tour actually take us inside the building? I'm quite keen to see it. It's just that you said the tour was thirty minutes long, and it's already been about twenty." 

My favorite.

"What? Of course we go inside," he said, a bit offended. "I'm just trying to provide information for background. We can go in."  

And then we passed through the enormous door into the interior. "This door," he said. "Touch it! Rub it! It is made of Noah's ark." And so we did. The tour actually turned out to be pretty wonderful--and lasted well over an hour. We had a rundown on the history of the building, and its partial restoration. He thoroughly covered the mythology surrounding various corners and pillars of the building, while still managing to transmit his very specific and occasionally alarming political views. 

("The Kurds will not have one. single. stone from our Ararat! Do you know about our beautiful mountain Ararat?" 

"Oh yes, isn't that where the Armenians--" 

"--Not one rock! We will die first!") 

At the end he gave us blessings, candy and his incredibly ornate if somewhat scrappy business card, which I politely inspected. 

"Wait, you speak Japanese?" I said. 

Hagia Sophia: the shitty bit. Seriously.
It was like they let the 11 year-old
apprentice do this wall.

He shrugged. "Yeah." 

As you'll know if you've been, the Hagia Sophia or Ayasofya was originally a Greek Orthodox church that became Roman Catholic and then again Orthodox, before becoming a mosque in the 15th century. Its mosque-ification involved painting over every single interior surface, because these had previously been (fairly glorious) mosaics of Christian figures and symbols. Of course, Islam forbade the representation of such things, not least the enormous and mystical looking representations of angels in the form of wheeling wings and eyes. Thus all of these majestic mosaics were painted over with okay-but-not-that-great patterns. Some of which have since been removed to show what was underneath. Overall, kind of meh, really. It is huge, enormous, and it kind of looks like the belly of an immense golden dragon, but one which is long dead and totally cold. It would look better if they'd restore all the mosaics (that would be something), or maybe just cover them up again--at the moment the place just looks like it has a skin disease. Which just goes to show that trying to make a banana into an apple is never going to be as awesome as just making an apple.  

Sultan Ahmet Mosque. So much wonderful.

The awesome apple, in this case, being the Sultan Ahmed Mosque (or Blue Mosque). Which was designed to be a mosque, is decorated as a mosque, and unlike the Ayasofya, which is a museum, actually continues to be a place of worship. Now THAT building knocked my damn socks off. Actually I had my socks on. We had our shoes off, though, like everyone else.  That building was astonishing from top to bottom, every tile and pattern perfect. A chandelier the size of my apartment hung in the centre. The whole space, which felt like an immense slice of sky captured in a jewelled box for the glory of God, resonated with the recitation of the Koran from the front of the building. It was moving and beautiful, tourist hordes notwithstanding. 

Amazing.

Alex and I also did some shopping. Actually, we did very little shopping and quite a lot of avoiding shopping, which was quite a feat. 

The shopkeepers in Istanbul's tourist area have really hit that date-rapey sweet spot between flattery, begging and outright bullying. For them, "no" just means "not yet". 

But at least many of them were funny. 

On one market street, a guy stepped out from his stall to block our path. "Spend your money," he demanded, without smiling. He pointed inside. "It is almost free! Just check."

One kid selling boat tours ran up to us on the street. "Hello hello! Romantic boat tour! Just like the Titanic!," he said, brandishing a flyer. "But without sinking." 

"Sie sprechen Deutsch? Ich auch! Ich bin in Stuttgart aufgewachsen! Ich sag es Ihnen, unser Lokum ist von der höchsten Qualität. Ohne Scheiss. Es ist tipp-topp."

The man who did end up with our money was a carpet salesman. We spent two seconds in his window and, without really knowing what happened, were sitting on cushions being given a broad rundown of carpet-making styles, techniques and regions in Turkey.

The cistern.

"Hey, can I get you some tea?" asked the young man, who spoke truly excellent English. "I'll get you some tea." He gestured to someone to bring us tea. 

"Well, now we are screwed, Alex," I said, jokingly. "This guy has trapped us good."

"No, no. Not trapped," said the young man, smiling as he calmly unfolded a rug on the floor. "We call it "Magic of the Grand Bazaar". Now. Do you like these colors, or something brighter? " 

On our last full day we took a boat tour of the Bosphorus. Because we did zero prior research and slept late, we missed the public ferry and had to select from among a number of dodgy private tours. The one we went with was probably no worse than any other. 

It really was "wonderful".

What was bad was that the heavens opened and unleashed all their fury on us the minute we left the pier, forcing us and our 15-ish fellow passengers to scurry under the deck. The boat pitched left and pitched right. Within three minutes there were a few people who looked like they were going to hurl. The windows fogged up so badly that we couldn't see out. The most motivated among us spent the whole time wiping them down with our sleeves, just so we could more clearly see the wall of fog and water hammering the sea. I compared the view (of nothing) to my brochure, which indicated that we were passing diverse sites of historical and architectural interest. We couldn't stop laughing offensively. 

The good news is, it stopped raining after half an hour. The skies cleared, birds soared. We climbed out onto the deck and felt pretty lucky to be looking at anything at all. 

And I'm going to go ahead and declare The End, because this was so long I've probably lost most everyone by now anyway. 

xxx

The boat after the rain.

Happy Everything: Part 1

Happy new year and a belated Merry Christmas, one and all! It has been a beautiful holiday season over here in Gumpen Village Street. My parents are here and so we are drowning pleasantly in Christmas cheer, and the Noodle has been spoiled rotten with a constant stream of toys, cookies and company. I am just super fat and on day five of a slow-motion post-holiday sugar crash that has left me slightly cranky and tired. Not in a bad way. Just kind of a flabby way. 

The magic of Christmas *drool*

Noodle didn't really get what Christmas is about, but she has definitely been enjoying the side benefits: sugar, toys and the presence of her smitten grandparents, whom she calls Nana and Gdod, or rather ..., since the "Gr" in "Granddad" appears to present a challenge so insurmountable that she doesn't even try. 

Decorated by Alex. In his defense, he's Jewish.

But while she doesn't understand what we were celebrating, she definitely did understand that it was awesome. Here are some of the highlights. 

First off, the Christmas tree. This is the first time Alex and I have gotten a real live dead tree for Christmas, since usually we aren't in Vienna at this time of the year.  We set it up one night after Nava had gone to sleep, and decorated with our brand new string of lights and ornaments purchased in a large box set. We forgot to get a tree topper, so Alex McGyver'd a Kenyan mask onto the top and fed lights through the eyeholes. This is how we celebrate multiculturalism. 

Miss Noodle doesn't know the difference, and was much enthused. 

"Mommy!" she said. "Wow!" And she ran over to the tree and started touching the ornaments, muttering "cookie" and "shaka," which is her way of saying "chocolate". At first I thought she thought the ornaments were made of candy, but I've sinced realized that "cookie" is simply the highest form of compliment she knows how to give. As in, damn this tree is cookie. It is SO chocolate. (This morning, for example, she found a yellow highlighter and pulled the lid off, exposing its fluorescent felt tip. Her eyes widened. You could see her wee brain awash with inspired ideas about surfaces that would benefit from the application of this glorious lazer-and-lightning-bolts hue, starting with Mommy's face. What did she say? "Coooookie.") 

Noodle's special ornament.

Nana and Gdod arrived here on the 20th, and Christmas exploded. We hung candy canes and had wonderful people over for Glühwein. We baked and ate stupid numbers of cookies. We ate several individuals from the avian world, naturally accompanied by red cabbage and dumplings. 

Dinner with Alex's sister, her family and his brother and their family was both delicious and educational, as it was the first time I ever witnessed the Austrian Christmas tradition, a la the Nutcracker: the grownups dismiss all the kids, arrange presents, light real live flaming candles and sparklers and then ring a bell to signify that little baby Jesus has visited. Everyone comes in and gawks at the spectacular sight. And I guess all the grown ups are just hoping that nothing catches fire, because that tree would go up like a roman candle. The noodle was given even more glorious gifts, plus also her awesome teenage cousin let her eat a bunch of said cousin's candy cane and also cookies (obviously). The rest of us drank mulled wine and contemplated the quantities of bird in our bellies. 

While spending time with family and friends is great, we all know that Christmas is really about getting heaps of loot. Noodle got many beautiful, occasionally educational but mostly noisy and shiny gifts. She has been playing with all of them--so thank you!--and is so overwhelmed by the amount of new stuff in our home that she doesn't even know what to do. 

The gift that keeps on giving. In non-girly colours, which makes it okay, right?

But of all the gifts, the one that has occupied most of her waking hours has been the toy kitchen.  This girl loves to pretend to cook and serve tea. I realize that this is the most gendered gift imaginable, but in our defence she effing LOVES TOY KITCHENS. She is drawn to them like a paper clip to a refrigerator magnet, like a pig to poop. She wallows in this kitchen.  

Another cheery force feeding.

It's been several days since Christmas, so Noodle has had time to develop a whole process for the kitchen, which sits beside her also-brand-new tiny chairs and desk. 

A visit to her restaurant begins with a command to sit. She points at her tiny chairs and says, "Sit." Her face is deadly serious. If you walk away, she will grow louder. "Sit sit sit SIT SIT SIT. Sit sit." If you do not sit because you have other things to do, like go to the bathroom or check your emails, or converse with another adult, you will be dead to her for at least a quarter of an hour. But the chef is forgiving. You will eventually be welcomed back into the fold with an order to SIT. 

Once you DO sit, you are treated to a warm and welcoming smile. Maybe even a mouth kiss or a pat on the hand. Then you are handed a cup and are spoon-fed delicious air from a tiny pot. Then you get a piece of toy pie or toast. Perhaps a second course of egg or carrot. These must be consumed rapidly and with gusto, because you may soon be encouraged to relinquish your tiny chair and sit on the floor so that Winnie the Pooh and other stuffed friends can have a seat at the table Chez Noodle. 

After the food courses, you will participate in an elaborate and confusing ceremony that involves pouring "tea" from one vessel to another while making the sound "Ssssss". In between you take sips and/or tip some into the mouths of other guests at the table, especially the furry and inanimate. 

If you leave too soon you will be told to sit. Sit. SIT. You can try to do your own cooking and feed the Noodle your concoctions, but as in real life she only accepts toast and pie. The plastic carrot and plush mushroom stew you slaved over for two minutes can go f*** itself. "Nein," she says, shrilly. "This nein!" Overall, at Noodle's Place the portions are small but aggressively presented, and the service is rigorous. The owner is pushy but generous, and non-threatening because very small. 

My parents have been dining at the wee tyrant's palace of culinary delights all day, every day since Christmas, bless them. Alex and I, though, did the smart things and begged off to fly to Istanbul for four nights, which I'll tell you all about next time. 

For now, please enjoy this video of Sesame Street's beloved Cookie Monster, who has been the patron saint of our 2014 holiday season. 

Cookie?

The munchkin's linguistic repertoire is expanding. Toddler brains acquire language so darn fast you can almost smell their curly little hairs burning. Last week Miss Noodle became really good at pointing at the right part of a face if you said "nose," or "hair," or "mouth". And this week, as if by magic, she can point at "Mommy's mouth" or "Daddy's nose" or "Noodle's ears". 

Before there were cookies.

People are always interested to know what their first words were. It indicates their earliest priorities. According to my parents, after the obligatory "Mommy" and "Daddy," mine were "read" and "cheese," which is pretty much the story of my life. 

I guess Miss Noodle already understands a hundred words (okay, Google says 50 but I think it's more), but the first ones she has spoken are: Mommy, Daddy, this (and das), I see! (which she uses as one word), no (and nein), dog, hi, bye-bye, yes (and ja), up, down, apple (pronounced appie), done, and mine (and meine). There are a bunch of other sounds she says regularly but that are such terrible (and wonderful) mispronunciations that they can't really be counted, e.g. "ahm" for food, "bang" for blanket, "buh" for book, or "nananananana" for banana. Or "sgut," which we think is "ist gut" and "kois," which we're pretty sure is her sweetly Yiddish way of saying "of course". 

Before there were teeth there were macaroons

Yesterday she even tried to say "Nackerbatzl" when I was getting her ready for a bath. "Nackiba," she said. Nackerbatzl is German for a naked person, and it's one of those things that's part of the vocabulary we use exclusively when interacting with kids. 

By the way, have you noticed how many words and expressions we have like that? We expend all this energy teaching children to say things that they will not ever use as grownups. 

You do not believe me? I can prove it. Cock-a-doodle-doo. What right-minded adult describes the crow of a rooster as a cockadoodledoo? Man chickens do not "say" "cockadoodledoo". Maybe, like, a "a-ooo-oo-ooooo." But if you have every heard a cock say "cock" or "doodle" I'd like to know about it. Video, please. 

"Cock-a-doodle-doo"

"Oh dude, I'm exhausted. I was roused at 5 a.m. this morning by a loud cockadoodledoo," said no one, ever. I urge you to recall a single time that you have used the word "cockadoodledoo" in adult conversation. So why do we teach it to children? Is it just to hear their adorable, muppet-like voices saying "cockadoodledoo"? Probably. 

But anyway. That is not the point of this blog post. The point of this blog post is this: One word that Miss Noodle can say VERY clearly, and which is a clear indication of her priorities, is "cookie." 

She knows where we keep cookies. Mid-play they will occur to her, and she will rise to her feet and walk across the entire apartment with her finger pointed toward Mecca and her face pointed toward the nearest adult, all the way invoking the name of cookies. Often I then say something along the lines of, "You already had a cookie today and if you eat any more cookies this week you will turn into a cookie and I will hate myself for being the kind of crappy mother who buys their child's temporary affection by giving them what they ask for i.e. more cookies. No cookies."

But the Noodle is still coming to grips with the fact that even though she can clearly state what she wants, she may not get it. After all, when you're a baby the entire problem is that you can't tell your adults whether you are thirsty or too hot or need a clean diaper. Suddenly you can express your wishes, and the grownups turn out to be giant jerks. The only solution, then, is to drop to the floor like a sack of potatoes, possibly causing lasting damage to the old noggin, stomp your feet, flail your arms and scream. 

Noodle can throw a killer tantrum. It's one of her new skills. But she is very sweet and won't pitch a fit until she is sure that her mother is the asshole. After all, she doesn't speak very well, and it may be that I am simply not understanding what she really wants. 

"Coo-KIE?" 
"No more cookies, Noodle."
"COO-kie."
"No more."
"Cokie."
"No."
"Cokay?"
"Still no."
"Coogie. Cogie. Cakey. Cokey. CooKAI. Kaikai."
"Noodle. I already told you, love. No. More. Cookies."
"WAAAAAH!"

I tell you though. It is hard to deny this kid a cookie. She may be a 16 month-old with but four teeth, but she loves a crisp cookie snack. They make her inordinately happy. As you can see here, in this video that I (AGAIN! Koisses!) filmed vertically in the heat of the moment. 

May all our weekends be filled with cookies.