I missed the memo about having babies.

I mentioned in a previous post that I found a nice guy and settled down some time ago.  What I didn’t mention is that we were married nearly 10 years before we finally took the plunge and decided to have children. Having married relatively young, we had the luxury of fooling around for nearly a decade before certain biological and logistical pressures started to really kick in. 

Both my husband and I were kind of ambivalent about children, but we had never said to each other, “Let’s not have kids.”  Kids were always out there in the nebulous ether of “someday.”  But I didn’t want to be one of those women who turns 40 and says, “Oh crap, I forgot to have kids!”  So in the summer of 2007, we pulled the goalie and I braced myself for the infertility that was sure to afflict me as a 30-something, over-educated, white woman. 

About six weeks later, I locked myself in a stall in the ladies’ room at Target and peed on a  pregnancy test that I had purchased moments before.  (Yeah, I’m that impatient…that’s a whole ‘nother stack of memos…)  And you guessed it…pregnant.  Shocked, awed, and pregnant. 

About two weeks after that, I started to bleed.  Even though I hadn’t had much time to get attached to the pregnancy, my grief at the prospect of miscarriage was immediate, desperate, and awful.  It was in that moment that I finally acknowledged to myself how much I really wanted this baby and it literally took my breath away.  Inconveniently, but mercifully, I turned out to be one of those pregnant ladies who bleeds for no apparent reason.  My pregnancy continued with few complications and my son, Atticus, was born in April of 2008. 

When I say I missed the memo about having babies, I think what I’m really saying is that I was vainly and stupidly presuming that all of the clichés about having kids somehow didn’t apply to me.  I was smug and dismissive about the overwhelming love people professed for their kids.  It just seemed terribly sentimental and I just didn’t get it.

And then I went and won the baby lottery. 

Atticus is the total package…healthy, handsome, robust, smart, sweet, and relatively well-behaved as little kids go.  Even as I sometimes struggle with the mundane aspects of motherhood, I marvel at how insanely lucky I am that I get to be this kid’s mom.  Now I’m one of those saps I used to roll my eyes at.  And that’s fine by me.  Memo received. 

© 2011 Jamie Walker Ball

I missed the memo about how to make a kick ass meatloaf.

I mentioned previously that meatloaf was a mainstay of my diet as a youngster,  and I coincidentally married a man who gets unnaturally excited when meatloaf is on the menu.  Needless to say, it’s sort of a religion to me.  My meatloaf recipe is a closely guarded family secret  involving  Colby Jack cheese and green olives…and I’ll either hand it down to my daughter if I ever have one, or I will take it to my grave. 

Growing up, my mom made meatloaf in a loaf pan and it never occurred to me to do it any differently.  Then, I met Alton, and   meatloaf-wise, he literally turned my world upside down:

And with all due respect to my dear mother, cooking meatloaf upside down and out of the pan is a vastly superior technique.  You get more of that crusty goodness on the outside, especially when you coat the whole thing in a mixture of Heinz ketchup and French’s mustard (oh crap…I’ve said too much…)  Comfort food at its yummiest.

I had lived most of my life as a slave to meatloaf convention, but now I can think outside the loaf pan.  In addition to enjoying better meatloaf, I can also say that this revelation clues me in about a couple of things:

First, “traditional”  does not equal perfect and traditions can be improved upon.  No offense, Mom, but my meatloaf kicks your meatloaf’s ass.  

Second, sometimes it makes sense to turn something upside down.  Or  backwards.  Or inside out.  Ever accidentally put a shirt on backward and figure out that you like it better that way?  There’s no one perfect way of doing anything and sometimes rejecting the conventional way turns out to be what’s perfect for you. 

So meatloaf as metaphor for non-conformity?  Why not!   Memo received.

© 2011 Jamie Walker Ball

I  missed the memo about fresh pepper.

I grew up on a steady diet of tuna casserole and meatloaf and loved it.  But, as I’ve gotten older and moved around the country, it’s occurred to me that I’ve missed a lot of memos when it comes to food.  And the memo about fresh pepper was one of them.

When The Food Porn Channel The Food Network was added to our cable line up, I was instantly riveted.  I noted that so many of the TV chefs made a point to use freshly ground pepper.  I wasn’t in the habit of adding pepper to my food at the table so I wondered what all the fuss could be about.  I mean, who cares if the pepper came from a shaker or grinder?

Turns out, I care.  The extra bit of effort it takes to acquire and use freshly ground pepper makes a huge difference in the flavor.  I could finally understand how fresh pepper could inspire this kind of  passion.

Fresh pepper makes just about everything tastier.   Once discovering the yumminess of fresh pepper, I felt like the protagonist at the end of “Green Eggs and Ham” (does he have a name??) 

 I will grind it on my rice, I like it, like it, yes, it’s nice!  I will grind it on my eggs, and on corn, and chicken legs!  I do so like this fresh ground pepper!

 And I’ve extracted a few lessons from my fresh pepper conversion. First, stretching beyond my humble culinary beginnings has been good for me.  While I still love the simple comfort foods of my childhood, I’m not afraid to branch out a bit.  Second, fresh is almost invariable better than not so fresh.  Third, it’s not that much more effort to seek out a pepper grinder; they’re now in just about every grocery store.   Fourth, when somebody as knowledgable and as adorable as Tyler Florence tells you to use fresh pepper, for heaven’s sake, listen to him.  Memo received.