Bethany | Bethany Bassett

Author: Bethany

4Jun

Buzzkill

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 6 Comments

My grocery list has been blank for the better part of today. The cursor and I blink at each other, neither of us sure where to start. It’s not like me to be paralyzed at the thought of food; after all, I’ve built up a pretty good repertoire by now of seasonal menus that manage to be both healthy and delicious, inexpensive and simple. But this morning, I read about yet another lifestyle diet, and my easily susceptible guilt center went into lockdown.

Over the last year or so, I’ve heard a lot of buzz about eating local. The arguments in favor of organic produce, free-range eggs, and grass-fed beef are still going strong as well. Then there’s the vegetarian voice, which I hear in the back of my own mind from time to time, vying to be heard over the supporters for veganism. The case to go gluten-free chimes in from multiple angles, and fans of a raw diet cheer from the sidelines. Each new way of eating promises energy, balance, and happiness while passively decrying anyone unwilling to follow it, and I’m left feeling thoroughly muddled. If we only ate local, organic, vegan, gluten-free, raw food, our meals would consist entirely of olive oil.

I have no doubt that our eating habits could be healthier, but I don’t have hours a day to devote to food preparation. We don’t have the funds to swap our usual produce haul with its organic equivalent, and it’s not like we have a Whole Foods around here anyway. If we gave up meat or dairy, we would offend every single Italian cook who invited us to dinner, and beyond that, sausage is near and dear to my little family’s heart. And dessert… Let’s just say that at my table, you will never bite into a key lime pie and discover pureed avocado.

I’ve been pretty far down the road of dietary deprivation before, and I know that it is not the right journey for me or my family, especially considering the food-adoring culture we’ve joined. I truly believe that the effort I put each week into designing a custom menu is valuable. Mealtimes at our house are happy occasions, and we each get up from the table feeling nourished (with the possible exception of the resident two-year-old who suspects vegetables to be poison). We neither have to wrestle with our beliefs nor risk indigestion when we accept dinner invitations, and I am so grateful my girls can grow up in a home where food is a peaceful subject (unless broccoli ends up on the two-year-old’s plate, of course).

I just wish I didn’t let myself feel so confused and judged by people whose right way of eating is different than mine. Don’t get me wrong—olive oil has its merits. But so do the foods we love drizzling it on. Perhaps that’s precisely where this week’s grocery list should start…

31May

A Daily Dose of Beauty ~ May 2010

Posted by: Bethany in A Daily Dose of Beauty Comments Off on A Daily Dose of Beauty ~ May 2010

May 1^st – Spending the day at a soccer tournament then a dinner party we had forgotten about until the last minute, treasuring the friendships we’ve made since moving here.

May 2^nd – Slipping out of a sermon that interested me not a bit to chat with other moms in our church’s unofficial nursery.

May 3^rd – Rooting out the scary dust bunnies (and elephants) from under the girls’ bedroom furniture and discovering beloved lost toys in the process.

May 4^th – Finding a quiet stretch of afternoon for yoga and jasmine green tea.

May 5^th – Being ordered onto a tiny plastic chair by Sophie for an impromptu picnic of plastic pie doused in invisible milk and sixteen cups of pretend coffee, all of which were hers.

May 6^th – Refilling my favorite pink vase with fresh-picked daisies from our little balcony garden.

May 7^th – Staying up two hours past bedtime for a round of Settlers with friends… then staying up another two hours for a second round because none of us was psychologically capable of stopping at one.

May 8^th – Sleeping until noon and curing the subsequent daze with pancakes.

May 9^th – Finding the breakfast table loaded with hand-drawn Mother’s Day cards and our new tent—a promise of camping adventures this summer with the dear little family that made me a mother.

May 10^th – Being the first recipient of Natalie’s newly-invented “flower kiss” (patent pending).

May 11^th – Easily revising an essay, usually my most hated job ever.

May 12^th – Rocking my tired baby to sleep and forgetting for a few magical moments that she’s not actually a baby anymore.

May 13^th – Attending a friend’s piano concert and being swept away by her thunderous interpretation of Chopin.

May 14^th – Going through our photos from the last couple of years and savoring each sweet, silly moment captured.

May 15^th – Helping the girls introduce their Uncle Michael to basketball… on the Wii!

May 16^th – Biting into melt-in-your-mouth Snickerdoodles hot from the oven.

May 17^th – Amusing myself throughout the day with the stupidity of a neighborhood bird who was overcome with the need to fly through our balcony door.

May 18^th – Making a tough decision and shortly realizing it was unquestionably the right one.

May 19^th – Trying out a new video game with Dan and losing track of time like we used to back in our Unreal days.

May 20^th – Befriending another mom at Natalie’s English class’s open house and finding myself one step closer to belonging here.

May 21^st – Honoring our viral mint with afternoon mojitos on the balcony.

May 22^nd – Discovering that the Flower Show is less a floral display and more a place to watch Venus Flytraps in action, stock up on obscure spices, and chat with friends while pretending not to see our daughters eating a meal worth of piadina samples.

May 23^rd – Glancing up from our gardening work to see skydivers like colorful butterflies parachuting into the stadium just below our house.

May 24^th – Catching up on my correspondence, taking the time to connect with loved ones who may be out of sight but not out of mind.

May 25^th – Spending a wonderful evening with friends we’ thought we’d lost.

May 26^th – Launching Popsiquest 2010, a highly yummy research endeavor with the girls for the best popsicles in town.

May 27^th – Sitting down to have six years’ worth of mysteries answered in the “LOST” finale. (The anticipation turned out to be more satisfying than the actual watching, unfortunately.)

May 28^th – Using a wretched head cold as an excuse to spend the afternoon in bed listening to This American Life and looking through family photos.

May 29^th – Beating sickness with a game night and my self-prescribed remedy of salted fudge brownies.

May 30^th – Tucking a pair of apple-scented girls into their beds early, leaving a deliciously long evening to spend with their daddy.

May 31^st – Flouting a [mistakenly] dire weather forecast by spending the afternoon in front of an open window, soaking up every sun-tinted breeze.

28May

Skulldrudgery

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 7 Comments

Hours a friendly neighborhood head cold has flattened me: 62 (and counting)

Tissues violated in the last 62 hours: 8,193,123,487,438,653,910,293,801,934,983

Antihistamines consumed before I realized allergies were not the root of this current evil: 7

Photos edited while on skull-imposed bed rest: 500+ (we take a lot of photos)

Summer fun options researched while on skull-imposed bed rest: 37

Lingering anxieties about the girls sitting around bored for the next few months: 0

And to think, all it took was total head incapacitation. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to bed to do my most rousing impression of road kill. (Attractiveness on a scale of 1 to 10: -3. And falling.)

24May

The Grass Is Always Busier

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Over the weekend, spring finally pulled itself out of the mud and launched into full fairy-tale mode: fluffy, baby blue skies, birds doing Broadway in flash mobs, second and third and fourth courses of the most delectable sunshine, and a lavish swirl of allergens dancing on the breeze. I wasn’t sure I would survive my own respiratory system last night. However, I woke up this morning without a hint of inner-skull itch, feeling like a new person and ready to dust out every golden corner of the day.

The downside to clear-headedness, though, is that it tends to help one remember things… specifically, that summer break is quickly approaching. And I have nary a thing planned to do with the girls. We have zero popsicles stockpiled in the freezer. Not a single date is marked on the calendar for a zoo trip. We put back the hula hoops at the store yesterday, unwilling to pay 10 euro for rings of cardboard plastered in glitter tape. No one is signed up for summer camp.

It occurred to me as I blinked away the cobwebs this morning that I am dangerously close to a nomination for So-Boring-She-Might-As-Well-Be-Negligent Mother Of The Year. Admittedly, a lot of this is circumstantial. Our freezer is not big enough to stockpile popsicles, the local zoo costs as much as our weekly grocery budget (and rumor has it that most of its animals have died and been replaced with concrete replicas), and our summer travel plans keep us from making any major schedule commitments. Also, we are a one-car family, which means our excursions are generally limited to how far short legs can walk.

It’s not as if the girls will be suffering. We have a huge balcony and a backyard for them to play in, and we’ll see their friends at the neighborhood park each day. Plus, Saturdays devoted to exploring and a tremendous trans-Europe camping trip in July promise plenty of adventure. However, I can’t seem to side-step guilt when reading other moms’ plans for daily swimming, soccer camps, field trips, play dates, book clubs, and craft days. Other moms seem eager to dive into activity-packed months centered around their children, whereas I just feel… reluctant.

This is the natural outcome of the comparison game, I know. I was excited about our low-key summer until I measured it against other families’ and let our assets—child-friendly neighborhood, travel opportunities, my ability to be at home with the girls, their colorful imaginations—be overpowered by the deficits I suddenly see. If only we had more money or lived in a more metropolitan city or had a housekeeper, if only I could allocate every moment of my days to the girls without losing myself in the process, if only our community had a pool, if only the girls were a little older, if only, if only, if only… The If Onlies are neither healthy nor helpful, but my perspective seems determined to gaze at the greenness of everyone else’s grass while ignoring our own lush lawn.

So here’s my game plan:
1) Comb travel sites, talk to the neighbors, and compile a list of activities that will be kind to both our wallets and our naptimes.
2) Remind myself that my daughters really sincerely enjoy drawing pictures, playing kitchen, and running through the house in tutus screaming their happy lungs out.
3) Do the best I can with what I have, remembering to count love among our assets.
4) Politely tell the If Onlies to stuff it.

18May

Mail Room

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Dear Weather Forecaster,
You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.
Resentfully,
Mrs. Dug Out The Sunglasses This Morning For Naught

~~~

Dear Chickadee,
I know that your newly acquired purpose in life requires you triumphing over the glass on our balcony door, but I assure you—that glass is less breakable than you are. Smarter, too.
Helpfully,
A Concerned Citizen
P.S. – How did you manage to poop on a completely vertical surface?

~~~

Dear Elbow,
Please note that slamming yourself into the sharpest corner of the end table twice in one morning voids the terms of our contract. You will be hearing from my lawyers.
Regretfully,
Your Owner

~~~

Dear Lemon-Parmesan Asparagus,
You are delicious. Could you please make my two-year-old aware of this?
Gratefully,
President, Mothers Against Scurvy Intl.

~~~

Dear Imagination,
Following is a list of complaints Management has received over the last 24 hours:
– God looks like Charlton Heston again.
– Those tiny red insects peppering the balcony appear to be mutating and/or planning a coup.
– Rumors are circulating that Steven Seagal now has his own TV show.
– 7 a.m. is bearing an ever-more-striking resemblance to the Apocalypse.
– My future career has shapeshifted into an opportunity to Work From Home!!!!1! stuffing envelopes.
I would appreciate if you could take care of these as soon as possible.
Cordially,
She Whose Brain-Space You Occupy

14May

Classic is Always In

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Last night, I went to a concert featuring a friend of ours who is an incredible pianist. (She started with this, and my jaw was later found rolling on the floor several rows back.) Knowing how my local friends get all dolled up for casual get-togethers, I donned a dress and jaunty boots for the concert, hoping the ensemble was fancy enough to look appropriate in a room of Italian fashionistas. As it turned out, the Italian fashionistas all wore jeans. Skinny jeans. With black patent leather pumps. I did my best to stifle the sore-thumb sensation and focus on the music, but I couldn’t help wondering how everyone else in the room knew to wear the same thing.

At least I can now add to the list of occasions for which I am aware of wardrobe expectations:
Concerts: Skinny jeans, black patent leather pumps. Note: not a dress.
The playground in spring: Skinny jeans (preferably colored), Chucks, t-shirt with rhinestones, short trench, giant glasses. Note: The only item of these I possess are the glasses, but if I pretend they are Dolce & Gabbana rather than €5 knock-offs, do they count for a complete wardrobe?
Summer weddings: Cocktail dress, shimmery wrap (essential), strappy stilettos, and up-do. Note: I almost got this right the first time, but failed to bring a shimmery wrap. Alas.
Winter weddings: A black dress. Or pant suit. Just so long as it is black. Note: not red.
Dinner at friends’ houses: For some, church clothes; for others, sweat suits. It’s all very trial-and-error and dependent on the hosts, the weather, the proximity to major holidays, and what we’ll be eating. Note: Oh, help and bother!

We are attending a graduation dinner tonight, and I am trying my best to narrow down what I plan to wear so that I can make sure to put on something else. This isn’t one of those situations where expat literature or even Clinton Kelly would be of much help. Rather, it reminds me that the classic combination of time and discomfort zones is a necessary, if inconvenient, good. What can I say? Classic is always in.

We didn’t move to Italy for the novelty, though I may never quite get over the thrill of cypresses standing sentinel around long-forgotten castles or the cappuccino breezes swirling through bars each morning. We moved here, quite simply, because here feels like home. Italy is where we breathe most freely, where our lifestyle clicks into place, where we want our children to grow up. It’s imperfect, of course—(Ask me sometime how the legal hoop-jumping is going. On second thought… please don’t.)—but even with its quirks and frustrations, this is our choice. I feel immensely privileged to have been granted that choice, to stir fresh tomato-basil sauce in my kitchen overlooking Mt. Subasio, to button Natalie in her pink school smock, to attend concerts and weddings and enough dinners that I occasionally know just what to wear.

There is so much beyond the language to learn in a new country, but it’s the best kind of learning—even the awkward fashion lessons—because each realization puts down another root in my chosen home turf. And while I am sure to show up to tonight’s event in the wrong outfit, at least I will wake up tomorrow with my wardrobe list one step close to complete.

7May

Drop It Like It’s Bach

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I was never one of those girls who lived on paper towels dipped in grape juice, fell asleep doing the splits, and dreamed of Juliard, but ballet was still a big part of my formative years. It was the one form of exercise that my tightly-strung limbs could manage with any degree of competence. I was hopeless at jumping rope. Running knotted my sides with pain. Any sport involving a ball promised certain embarrassment; I had even been known to hit onlookers in the face with foosballs. But the precision of ballet meshed with my Bach-infused brain—Plié, two, three, four, and up, six, seven, eight, relevé, two, three, four, and down, six, seven, eight. When I took my place at the barre, the carefully measured beat inside my chest fell into step beside the practice music, and my life took on a certain… not meaning, exactly, but familiarity.

It was when a hip-hop teacher choreographed one of our performances that I learned beat and rhythm were not the same thing.

“Try slouching,” the teacher instructed me. “Well yes, technically it’s similar to hunching over, but you need to relax. Try bouncing a little. Swing your arms some. Maybe bend your knees? Just try to loosen up, please, so you can move with the music.”

I succeeded in looking as hip as a Puritan schoolmarm with epilepsy.

All this to say that rhythm is not a virtue I inherited. I’ve learned a lot about loosening up since my ballerina days, but simple yoga breathing took me months to master, and no one is going to be hiring me for a Snoop Dogg music video anytime soon. Even more regrettably (though failing to capture Snoop’s attention is tragic), my rhythm deficiency seems to apply to the grand scheme of life. Despite plenty of years to settle into this existence of mine, I have yet to find my daily groove. I still approach my schedule awkward and stiff-jointed with no carefree assurance that I’m moving in the right direction, no flexibility to roll with the changes that pulse in the bassline.

What guides me now, as always, is the plodding beat under my sternum: Status quo, two, three, four, and caution, six, seven, eight, now practicality, two, three, four, and misgiving, six, seven, eight. (Yes, I’m a blast to have at parties.) But what I want is to be swept away in a rip tide of driving beats and compelling sounds. I wish I could move freely through my days, trusting in the power of joy and unconstrained movement to produce a full life, a wildly good life. I would love oh-so-very much to stop studying every minute as the next note in a sonata and just… groove.

This is where I am this spring, taking stock of my life and shaking my head. Try slouching, I tell myself. Except this time, relax. Bounce a little. Swing your arms. Bend your knees. And for heaven’s sake, learn how to drop it like it’s hot before you actually turn into a Puritan schoolmarm.

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