a dream is a wish your heart makes, unless you never sleep and then a dream is just well, a dream.

So we do this thing called family movie night and tonight we watched Cinderella. I hadn't seen it since I was a kid and I forgot how hard she had to work. Clean the tapestries, scrub the floors, take care of the animals, etc. And when it got to the making of the gowns part, I was struck by how similar our lives were. Today, Annabelle told me (albeit very sweetly) "Mama, I want you to go upstairs and make me a dress and I will do the pins." I, too, spend a fair amount of time cleaning the house and fixing food and drink for very demanding people.

But there are also some differences.

1. She is awoken in the morning by cheerful birds and mice. I am awoken, well tormented really, by snoring that is so loud that it cannot be fathomed, let alone described, crying, a three year who has wet the bed and is yelling "I'm wet, I'm wet!" and a dog who wants to be let out at the ungodly hour of three in the morning.
2. She has the cranky step sisters, I have a sick, cranky baby.
3. The cat is named Lucifer. I have a dog.
4. At the end of the day, the handsome prince politely demands her hand in marriage, whereas at the end of my day, a paunchy Asian politely requests, well.. you know.
5. She is a blonde and I am a red head.

christening gown

busted!


I am trying to get some spit up stains out of Tallulah's christening gown. Well, it's not hers really--and not because Annabelle wore it first. That gown belongs to me and my mom.





You see, back in 1999, before these children were even a twinkle in my eye, we subscribed to Gourmet (RIP) magazine. The Italy edition arrived at our house. And it had this huge list of things to do and shops to go to in Italy, and in Rome. One of them was a place that only sold Christening gowns. I am surprised I noticed it, because 1) I seldom read Gourmet, preferring In Style or Country Living and 2) it was just this tiny blurb on a long list. But I read it and I thought-- if I ever go to Italy, I am going to find it and get a gown from there. Fast forward to October of 2007. The Stevens Family Italy trip. Two weeks, paid for by all the days my mom didn't take off while she was teaching. Ten days in Tuscany and the last four in Rome. We had reached a point in the vacation where if you could divorce your blood relatives, we would have been filing petitions. The only person who was holding everyone together, Hyphen, had gone back to Houston (while he is extremely crazy, he is delightful to go on vacation with, because as long as his hotel room is orderly, he is Happy- Go- Lucky- Vacation- Guy) Audrey and her husband were off touring ruins of some sort (her husband is definitely not happy go lucky vacation guy, and I say that with love and affection, kind of...). My dad wanted an afternoon off, he was still recovering from the stress of the loss, search and recovery his passport in the Rome airport. So that left me and my mom, and I was in a delicate condition. So I suggested that we find this shop. I got the concierge to let me use the Internet for free. Audrey said that he and I flirted a lot, but I don't think so--Italian men, they are just friendly, no? And I found what I thought might be the shop. It was near the Spanish Steps and after he arranged for a taxi, my mom and left to find it. We walked around a bit and asked for lots of help before we found it-- Lavori Artigianali Femmilini. We walked in, unsure if we were even in the right place, until we looked at all the lovely hand smocked dresses and Christening gowns. I got the cheapest one. And it was still 250 euros. My mom bought the bonnet, 50 euros. We walked out, thrilled and excited for this little child that had received blessings, candles and prayers at every church we went into in Italy (in case you are wondering, we went into a lot of Churches) and for the baptism to come. This beautiful gown was the first thing I had bought for it (she was an it until she was born). Then we walked by McDonald's and my mom suggested we eat some fries, which we did. And then we went to see the Spanish Steps. We were scheduled to see it the next night, with the while family. We knew if Audrey found out that we saw them without her, there would be hell to pay, but we were right there, in Rome, with our fancy shopping bags and greasy fingers and decided we were good enough actresses to pretend to be amazed the next night. We took a picture at the fountain at the bottom of the steps and hoped no one realized what we did. Then we went back to the hotel. I still remember my mom thanking me for including her, and for making the baby seem more real and for the wonderful afternoon.

No mom, thank you.

Tallulah Rose

Tallulah Rose is a peaceful child, except when she is angry. She starts out so politely, moving her arms and legs, then makes a few little noises, then we graduate to a quiet cry, then a loud one, then a scream and then what I like to call the silent scream of rage. It is unfortunate, but she gets to the silent scream of rage because she is the second child, and is often put aside in order for me to cook, clean or deal with an almost three year old who has taken to ordering me about like she is a grumpy, old, overweight person on a little rascal from Porter and I am a waitress at the Golden Corral. But she is patient, because she is the second child and does make her initial demands in a very polite manner.

Because she is the second child she lives in a bassinet in our room. She has no real nursery, no table made by her grandpa,chairs made by her great grandmother, and certainly not 5 handmade baby quilts--just a really cute corner of the guestroom, that I can't bring myself to put her in, because it is so far away and because she is the second child, my last baby, she can stay in our room for as long as she fits in the bassinet (perhaps longer if I can convince H to bring the crib downstairs.)

Because she is the last baby, she does not have to cry herself to sleep. The first one needed to learn to sleep on her own, before I went back to work and I was very Tiger Mom about it, putting her in the crib and walking off to the living room and where H and I would huddle together, and try to reassure ourselves we were doing the right thing while we listened to her cry until she stopped. But not my last baby. My last baby has been cuddled and coddled and pacified and nursed to sleep, and now just drifts off on her own with nary a tear.

She is a very social child and will fuss if she is in a room by herself. She likes to be part of the ruckus, especially where her sister is. She loves her sister and has a special smile reserved just for Annabelle. And whenever I grouse about how it isn't fair to her about the nursery, the lack of picture taking, grandma time, and attention in general she gets, Hyphen will say in that way he sometimes has of making everything better "yes, that is true, but she has something that Annabelle never had, she has a big sister who loves her."

My last baby gave me my most favorite Christmas present, a real true social smile. She was only a month old. Annabelle didn't smile until she was two months old, and then did it just once and for Hyphen, not me. Tallulah smiles and coos all the time (except during the silent scream of rage) for anyone who looks at her, but especially for me. She can also roll over from front to back and back to front. Just like Annabelle, when she is excited about something, she kicks her legs about, but Annabelle didn't start doing this until she was about 5 months old.

And the jury is still out on who she looks like. About half say Hyphen and Annabelle, the other half say me. Personally, I think that when she smiles and lifts her eyebrows, she looks like Jack Nicholson, which causes me to say "come out, come out, where ever you are," but I am a little crazy from lack of sleep.

But no matter, she is Tallulah Rose, my second child, my last baby, who makes her own way in this world, and in my heart.

what's for dinner

So I feel the need to bestow my super delicious chili recipe upon the world. Here it goes:

Stella's super easy chili:

one medium onion, chopped smallish
some olive oil (note: I am not Julia Child and am not in the business of writing recipe books, so I am not exactly precise, but that is okay, you can't screw this up)
5 cloves of garlic, minced
1 lb. ground chuck (you could use something leaner, but I don't guarantee results with something leaner)
chili powder (what you have in the house, I several kinds and I use them all)
Kosher salt
ground cumin
1 28 oz can of whole tomatoes
1 15 oz can of cannenili beans
3 cups chicken stock (why chicken stock? because I never have beef stock on hand)
Cheddar cheese
Green onions, chopped

Saute onion in olive oil until tender, about seven minutes. Add garlic and continue to saute for one more minute. Add beef and brown for a bit. Before meat is completely brown, start adding the chili powder. It is probably about 3 tablesspoons. Add some salt. A couple of big pinches. Add cumin (note, my mom puts cumin, what she calls cominoes, in everything. She even suggested we put them in our Thanksgiving dressing, but I told her that our Thanksgiving would be comino free.) Add tomatoes, crushing them as you add them. Add beans (note, obviously with addition of beans, this is not a true Texas chili, but it is good, nonetheless). Add stock and cook down.

Top with cheddar and green onions and enjoy. Add corn bread if you like. Saltines if you don't. Or fritos if you are from San Antonio.

my word for the year

I was reading in some blog somewhere that someone's word for the year was nourish. I liked hearing that. I like that word. Nourish. That is what I am supposed to be doing right now, nourishing my family, everyone, even Hyphen. But I am going to add something to the mix. My word is going to be fun. It is suppoed to be fun. We are supposed to be having fun. There is no point in my staying home. No point in having a clean house, no point in going to the zoo, or to ballet or making supper if were are not having fun.

Fun. Have more fun.

suspicious minds

I was watching the Today Show this week and they were doing a story about the tragedy in Tuscon. They were interviewing the shooter's friend, and when they story was over, Annabelle said "who is Jared mama?" She was in the room with me waiting for 8:00 which, in our house, is when the cartoons come on. I tried to play dumb, "what? who is who? who is Jarrius? He is from the bible story we read last night." Annabelle: "no mama. who is jared. he is on t.v." Me: "oh. Jared is a man who did something very bad. And now he is in big trouble."

I forget that the today show is not rated G. I forget that the world isn't rated G.

Not that I am completely oblivious to things, despite my previous posts, I believe in calling the cops whenever you see suspicious behavior. But my version of suspicious and everyone else's is completely different.

My office at work was once filled with at least 50 cokes because in the hysteria after September 11th, I heard that the terrorists were poisoning all coca-cola products. So I did what any red-blooded American would do, I called the FBI. My conversation did not get off to a good start;

Me: "okay you are going to think I am crazy, because this sounds crazy, but I am not crazy, I am completely normal but my sister heard that a lady was at the grocery store.."

Fibbie: " and let me guess, loaned money to an Arab and he told her not to buy coke?

Me: "oh, thank God you know about it, see I am not crazy..."

Fibbie: Ma'am, I want to let you know whenever people start conversations by saying they are not crazy, I think they are crazy and you have mentioned the word crazy several times now and I do think you are crazy."

Me: "well I think you are rude. Are you investigating this or not? I mean, it doesn't affect me, because I only drink Dr. Pepper..."

Fibbie: "good bye ma'am."

So I have this history, see? Like the constables in my neighborhood know me, because I have their dispatch number on my speed dial, and I use it. Like when I saw a guy in a Kobe basketball Jersey pretend to get out of a yard man's truck and act like he was doing yards, when he was really casing houses. Everyone knows those Jerseys are expensive--no one is going to mow lawns in them. They thanked me for the tip at our National Night Out Party. Hyphen's comment to them, "So, I see you have met my wife, she likes to call the cops."

But I am a contradiction, because in some situations where most people would be completely afraid, I am not. Like when Audrey and I got lost on South Kirby. Not Upper Kirby, where the Bob Williams/Mitchell Gold store is, but on South Kirby, like near the Dome. We were looking for Pappasitos and I finally said "calf-rope" and stopped to ask some guys for directions. When I got back in the car Audrey assailed me with: "WHAT ARE YOU? CRAZY? YOU NEVER, EVER ASK A GUY WITH A DOO-RAG FOR DIRECTIONS, LET ALONE TWO OF THEM." Well they seemed perfectly nice to me, possibly just some state jail possession convictions, no biggie. And they did get us there.

But then yesterday in Gymboree, I saw a man. He was by himself. He was wiping the floor with his foot. walking around the store, and scuffing the floor with his foot. No kids. No other employees seemed to acknowledge him. And when he walked out of the door, I asked the sales lady "Did that man work here?" Her response : "who?" Me: the creepy guy who doesn't belong and is rubbing his foot on the floor??? Saleslady: "oh, him? Kind-of, he keeps the store clean. Me:"so , the answer is yes??" I mean, "kind-of" what? what do you mean, he keeps the store clean? Like he is a janitor, then why isn't he in a uniform. Why did he just walk out of the front door, like a customer? Is he an obsessive compulsive that walks in the store and wipes the floor down with his feet, and how is rubbing the floor with your feet keeping the store clean? And mostly, why did he give me the creeps like that?

I guess my point is.... if it gives you the creeps, ask questions, bring it to someone's attention, call the cops. Don't be afraid to make a fool of yourself and then no one will have to tell their two year old who Jared is.

talk to strangers

One of the great gifts of my life has been the fact that strangers walk up to me and strike up a conversation. I never have thought much about it, and I never even thought it was odd, until someone at work pointed it out to me after I told them about a weirdo I encountered in a gas station. They recounted a half a dozen conversations with different strangers I had told them about and pointed out that whenever someone asked our group for directions, they always addressed me. My co-worker theorized it was because my hair was wavy and it made me look approachable, this was her theory because we noticed a precipitous drop in "stranger-danger" as it came to be called, when I went through my chi phase.

My sister has another theory, and it goes something like this: "it's because you stare people down. Like when we drive on the freeway, you look at people in the next car and they look back. you stare them down in their eyes. quit doing that, it's why I hate driving with you"

Truth be told, except for one really rude homeless guy at the diamond shamrock on north shepherd, I don't mind it at all. And more truth, I occasionally initiate some of these conversations, like today...


After a week and a half of no mother's day out, last minute shopping, Santa Picture in the Galleria on December 23rd, Christmas, New Year, and a colicky baby, I decided to celebrate the return of Mother's Day out with a trip to Nordstrom. I was on the third floor, heading to the ladies room where there is a separate area set aside solely for nursing mothers, (another reason why even though I shouldn't, I shop there, or at least make a pit stop there on the way to the baby Gap) when I saw something you just don't see every day. A set of black, elderly ladies who looked exactly alike and were dressed exactly alike. Since I've become the Aunt of twins, I've taken a special interest in them, and it is really rare when you see older twins, like anyone over the age of 10, dressed alike. But there they were, in their matching coifs, track suits and Louis Vitton purses. Manna from heaven for an eye-starer-downer like myself.

Me: ladies, I just have to ask, are you twins?

ML: yes ma'am, and we are the real deal too, No pills, no hormones. We are the real deal. Our great grandmother had three sets of twins and then our grandmother didn't have any, and then our mom had us and her first cousin had twins too. We are the real deal.

Me: really! Oh my goodness, your poor great gradmother!

ML: She didn't have any hormones either. they were the real deal too! we live together too.

Me: oh how fun!.. And you still dress alike?

VD (the quiet one, there is always a quiet twin): well, that was our father.

ML: he wanted us to dress alike, and it got so that we just had the same taste in things and now we like to do it.

VD: but we don't have the same names.

ML: no, I am Mary Louise, after our two grandmothers and she is Velma Dunn after the obstetrician who delivered us.

Me: Mary Louise and Velma Dunn

ML: Velma Dunn, she was the first black obstetrician in Houston. Not only are we the real deal, we are native Houstonians too!

Me: oh, there aren't very many of those around any more, you ladies really are the real deal. I am so glad I met you. I hope you have a wonderful day.

ML: you too, oh, you got a little one there!

Me: yes ma'am, she is getting hungry too, Bye!

And they walked off, presumably to buy another matching outfit.

Another successful stranger-danger. I think God has sent me every single one, even the rude homeless guy at the Diamond Shamrock.