Priss & Vinegar

When it comes to choosing a primo guy to be the father of my children, I think we can both agree that I kind of nailed it.

You’re welcome, kid. Now go give the big guy a hug and try to be cool today. He’s earned it.

Unbelievably, our Little Lady turns two next month. We could fill a zillion posts with incredulous musings about how quickly our baby has become a full-fledged big kid — She sings her ABC’s! She speaks in complete sentences! She finally figured out how to jump! — but it’s ever so much more fun to chat about her upcoming birthday party.

We promised the Hus-b we’d keep it simple this year, and we meant it, really we did. We’ll be eight-and-a-half months pregnant and just plain physically unable to pull off an affair like last year’s preppy pool party. No massive guest lists, no complicated menus, no fussy table linens or insane animal cracker tracking expeditions. We swore up and down that, this year, it would be evites, sheet cake and absolutely NO hydrangeas.

But then we saw these impossibly adorable forks on Sucre Shop’s Instagram. Preppy! Neon! Dots! (The person writing their copy is clearly reading our mind.) An idea for a neon-hued second birthday party crystallized immediately and just like that, our promise was doomed. As we sat beside the Hus-b on the sofa last week, the open tabs on our Mac in full view, he figured it out, laughed, and said he loved that I was pathologically incapable of mailing it in. (Did we marry the right guy or what?)

So, for what it’s worth, we blame the fork. Okay, and maybe some balloons. Geronimo Balloons. How could anyone resist these tasseled beauties? I’ve already made tassel prototypes in several different tissue papers and sourced perfectly round balloons from Sweet Lulu. (Note to self: making prototypes of anything for a child’s birthday party is decidedly NOT low key.)

Unlike her first birthday party which was really about us celebrating the fact we’d kept her alive for an entire year, the Little Lady’s second birthday party is truly a children’s party that’s about her having a marvelous time with her friends. In that spirit, we adore the idea of having neon art supplies strewn about the lunch table for mealtime doodling.

Then we found this brilliant tablescape which we plan to unabashedly copy in a neon palette. (PS, don’t spend too much time on 100 Layer Cake-let unless you want to feel like the laziest, least-creative person ever to spawn. The awesomeness of the parties featured there makes our Pinterest guilt seem minor by comparison.)

Finally, the perfect neon birthday cardigan. (Summer birthday in San Francisco = sweater weather.) AND it can be monogrammed. Of course.

Are we having fun yet? We can’t wait to share the rest with all of you as the inspiration continues and the ideas become more than just rumpled tissue prototypes. We’d say the Hus-b has no idea what’s coming, but yeah, he kind of does…

There are few places more spectacular than San Francisco on a sunny day. The city is always beautiful, even under cover of fog, and one never wants for something to do, but legit sunshine is so rare in San Francisco that the dozen or so sunny days we enjoy annually feel exceedingly precious.

So when a perfectly warm, sun-dappled day strikes, it must be *relished.* We’re not lingering over al fresco, rosé-laden lunches like we used to pre-kid {sigh}, but that doesn’t mean we’re doomed to rot at the playground all day either. Here are a few of our favorite ways to pass a rare, sunny San Francisco day with our tiny sidekick.

Survey the Golden Gate Bridge in all its splendor with a morning walk on Crissy Field. The blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Dynamo Donut Kiosk at Little Marina Green is a perfect spot to grab some Four Barrel coffee and a (wait for it) bacon maple apple donut to enjoy while you stroll. That covers three food groups, right?

While the frisson of excitement running through San Francisco on sunny days can be contagious, consider taking a quiet turn through the Japanese Tea Garden. We are always struck by the beauty and serenity of this oft-forgotten city landmark, especially in springtime when the cherry trees blossom. For her part, the Little Lady loves getting up-close-and-personal with the koi and can now identify “Buddha.” Calming and educational? Yes, please.

Reward your child for being ever so well-behaved at the Japanese Tea Garden with a run through the Sculpture Garden at the de Young Museum or a turn on the gorgeous Herschel-Spillman Carousel.

Consider a beach day at Baker Beach. It requires a little more energy to chase one’s child at what is essentially a giant, potentially glass-and-cigarette-butt laden sandbox immediately adjacent to a treacherous body of water, but you’re at the beach. In San Francisco. How bad could it be?

Outerlands is much beloved for its casual, farm-to-table fare, as is illustrated each weekend by the throngs of devotees queuing up for tables. Waiting for pretty much anything is not a recommended toddler activity, so we like to visit with the Little Lady for weekday lunch. The grilled cheese really is *that* good, as are the fried egg tartines and seasonal salads. To leave without purchasing a loaf of bread for home would be blasphemy.

SHIT. Nothing wrecks an otherwise-lovely day quite like an afternoon nap-ruining snooze in the car. Our favorite tricks for keeping the Little Lady awake include blasting the air conditioning, signing along to a “Music Together” CD at obnoxious volumes, and occupying her with a sweet snack like Stretch Island Fruit Co. fruit leather strips.

If there happens to be a delightful concurrence of sunshine and an Off the Grid event (Wednesday evenings in North Beach, Thursday evenings in the Upper Haight, Friday evenings at Fort Mason, and a seriously awesome “Picnic in the Presidio” on Sunday afternoons), GO. Live music, dining al fresco on kooky inventions like Korean nachos and chicken tikka burritos, *and* not having to clean up the kitchen? Everybody wins. (Except perhaps your GI tract.)

We’re also especially fond of family bike rides on warm evenings. Our regular route includes dinner at Cafe Bunn Mi (the Little Lady devours BBQ pork rice noodles by the fistful) followed by a shared scoop of Double Rainbow ice cream at the perfectly kitschy Toy Boat Dessert Café. As we cruise home, the Little Lady snug on the back of the Hus-b’s bike in her Yepp Maxi seat, we know we’ll soon be returning the sundresses and sandals to the back of our closets, but for now, it’s impossible not to feel pinch yourself-lucky to live here.

Dear Halle: We’re not buying what you’re selling. And why are you selling anyway?

All week we’ve been subjected to press releases from Halle Berry’s publicist about the “naturally” occurring conception and how “surprised” Ms. Berry was to learn she was expecting, followed by a heavily-photographed public display of evening gown-clad belly cupping.

Please.

We’ve made no secret of our disdain for celebrities using motherhood as a public relations tool because it propagates a “just like us” public image that is both condescending and disingenuous. Don’t tell me you understand my life as a mother, Beyonce, when you have multiple full-time nannies, housekeeping staff and private chefs. (And stop feeling like you have to pretend that this significant staff doesn’t exist. You and your husband have extremely hectic work schedules — you *need* the help!)

But with this natural conception rhetoric that Ms. Berry is shilling, there seems to be something more insidious than a run-of-the-mill motherhood PR play. Is the “mommy career bump” not as significant if the baby bump isn’t au naturel?

Becoming pregnant in your mid-40′s by *any* means is a damn miracle. At 46, Ms. Berry is closer to receiving an AARP card in the mail than the advanced maternal age cut-off. Sure, it’s possible that she became unexpectedly pregnant without medical intervention, but it’s very, very unlikely. (And one would think that accidental pregnancy is an oversight a woman would be savvy enough to avoid by her mid-forties.) So why lie? What’s wrong with a simple public statement announcing the pregnancy sans intimate details about the conception? Or, if Ms. Berry feels strongly about being candid, what would be the problem with sharing that she utilized assisted reproductive technology (“ART”) to conceive a much-wished-for child?

The problem, I daresay, is us.

The general public isn’t just interested in pregnancy and motherhood; it’s fascinated with an idealized notion of all-consuming, self-sacrificing, natural motherhood. The rising popularity — trendiness, even — of attachment parenting, organic baby *everything*, long-term breastfeeding, homemade baby food, and family beds speaks to this fascination. And as the general public struggles to live up to these impossible standards of “perfect” motherhood, they look to public figures — including celebrities — for inspiration. They want to hear that childbirth can be “fun” (according to Holly Madison who claims to have laughed while pushing) and that changing diapers is “beautiful” (eye roll in your general direction, Beyonce). They do not, however, want reminders about certain realities of motherhood, which is why nannies are often conveniently cropped out of paparazzi photos and why (we suspect) ART is rarely part of the discussion. Sure, Giuliana Rancic was open about her struggles with infertility, only to find herself on the receiving end of ugly speculation about why she needed ART (anorexia) and that her eventual struggle with breast cancer was caused by fertility medicines that could have been avoided if she’d just been willing to eat some fried chicken, already.

Still, if public image enhancement was her goal, we see Ms. Berry as having missed an opportunity here. Millions of women struggle with infertility and she could have been a rare authentic voice in the conversation. Instead, she seems determined to keep up the charade of eternal youth in the form of a “natural”, “surprise” pregnancy. Count us amongst the growing chorus of naysayers who aren’t buying what she’s selling and wish she didn’t feel the need to sell her impending motherhood in the first place.

Whether it’s excitement over the arrival of spring or merely a renewed personal appreciation for food after a seriously queasy first trimester, I’ve been cooking like *mad*. Here’s what’s been happening in the Priss & Vinegar kitchen:

Being pregnant means I’m often inexplicably wide awake at 3 a.m. Brilliant. Catching up on news, meal planning and otherwise dicking around on my iPhone make these wake-ups ever so slightly less miserable. I found this unfussy recipe for tagliata during one such bout of sleeplessness and immediately added it to my supper recipe queue. Paired with Cooks’ Illustrated parmesan polenta, this dish is everything Sunday supper should be: effortless, comforting, and easy to scale for an unexpected crowd.

Leftovers are kind of a problem in our house. I loathe eating the same thing two days in a row and the Little Lady seems to have inherited this embarrassingly wasteful habit. So when faced with over a pound of leftover flank steak that the Hus-b had grilled beautifully, I decided it was time to wage war on our leftoveritis. Topped with homemade tomatillo-avocado and pico de gallo salsas mimicking those from one of our favorite takeout joints, Green Chile Kitchen, cubed tagliata became steak tacos I was actually delighted to eat. The following night? Thinly sliced tagliata and poached shrimp became surf & turf Vietnamese-style Summer Rolls that my entire family (Little Lady included) devoured happily.

Toddlers and kitchens are not generally considered an ideal pairing, but I love to cook and my kid loves to be with me so combining the two is just not optional in our household. It helps that the Little Lady has been cooking with me since infancy, first while snuggled in her Baby Bjorn carrier and now sitting at my hip or atop a kitchen step stool. She is great at stirring dry ingredients (Martha Stewart’s basic pancakes are her specialty), greasing baking dishes with softened butter, and “decorating” holiday sugar cookies. This past week, we made baked fusilli and cheese (loosely based on this Gourmet recipe) and she did a fantastic job of whisking bechamel sauce (with plenty of oversight and instruction about what could and could not be touched on the hot stove). Does it take longer to cook with your kid? Of course. But when you have the time, it’s a wonderful way to include your child in something that will (fingers crossed) eventually become a shared passion.

Between my parents’ and my in-laws’ meyer lemon trees, our fruit bowl is often an embarrassment of riches. The Smitten Kitchen recipe for lemon bars (which is itself a reworking of the Barefoot Contessa recipe) is just about the most perfect lemon bar recipe we’ve ever come across. To note, the quantity it produces is *massive* so have your elastic waist pants or hungry friends at the ready.

Toddlers can cook, part two: last night’s supper featured pan roasted pork tenderloin with rosemary and garlic, so I put the Little Lady to work picking rosemary. I showed her where the woody stem was and told her to make it “naked.” She felt so grown up helping and I got ten minutes of supper prep time without hearing “Mommy up!” a single time. Lovely.

Other recipes we’ve been digging as of late:

• Cooks’ Illustrated Basic Cornbread. I loathe this word but it is unfortunately essential to describe such fantastic cornbread: MOIST.
• Chow Peanut Sauce. Toddlers seem to like “dipping” their food so the Little Lady really enjoyed eating her summer rolls with this “peanut butter sauce.” (It’s all about marketing with this kid. We also tell her that chicken apple sausages are “breakfast hot dogs” and dried apple rings are “apple candy.” Shhhhhh.)
• Smitten Kitchen Scrambled Egg Toast. We’ve made this for brunch guests the past two weekends in a row to universal praise. Honestly, every recipe we’ve ever used from Smitten Kitchen has turned out beautifully. We’re kind of obsessed.

Life gets hectic sometimes, and while I don’t always have time to blog, I frequently upload snapshots of my (mis)adventures to Instagram. The filters make my amateurish attempts at photography look 1000% cooler, and I especially dig the photo-only format. Frankly, I don’t much care if you’ve got a case of the Mondays, but I *definitely* want to see if you’re doing something awesome.

In my case, these daily doses of awesome are generally 97% hilarious pictures of my kid and 3% food porn. (Surprised, party of zero.) Our latest share?

so this is happening…

So if you’d like to keep up with Priss & Vinegar between blog posts, come on over to Instagram. We’ve missed you, too.

With a red carpet awash in pastel princess bride dresses (YAWN), it wasn’t a stellar night for fashion. Our favorite frocks were bright, modern and offered some sophisticated sparkle. (Please GOD don’t say “bling.”) Kerry Washington was magnificent in a coral Miu Miu gown that ever so slightly referenced early-1960′s fashion with a prim bow at the waist. Naomi Watts made yet another fabulous choice with her gunmetal sequined Armani sheath and PERFECT hair and makeup, capping off an entire awards season’s-worth of impeccable styling. (We are still crushing HARD on that black, cap-sleeved, lace Valentino she wore to the Oscar Nominees Luncheon.)

CREEPY.

RIP E! News mani-cam. You were so aware of your utter absurdity that you committed suicide mid-broadcast, if only for the thrill of ruffling little Ryan Seacrest’s feathers. (Those were feathers and not hair, right?)

Poor guy.

Anne Hathaway won; was predictably annoying; nipples joined Twitter.

Seth MacFarlane posing with the only person willing to sleep with him after last night’s Oscars telecast.

Surprising everyone, Annie was not the worst thing about last night’s show; Seth MacFarlane was. From the “We Saw Your Boobs” opener to the thinly-veiled bulimia joke to kidding that Jennifer Aniston was a former exotic dancer and that nine year-old Quvenzhané Wallis would eventually date George Clooney, we found his misogynistic display pretty disgusting. If MacFarlane was trying to be the anti-Tina-and-Amy, ummm, nailed it?

Please. She’s 44, runs on nicotine and margaritas, and hasn’t consumed a carb since the Clinton administration. There is a -79% chance that Jennifer Aniston is harboring a fetus.

Uber-public celebrity pregnancies? Consider us over it. Channing Tatum’s belly bump cupping and Justin Theroux’s attention-whoring “is-she-or-isn’t-she” hand placement have no place on an Oscar red carpet. It’s enough to make us long for the days when famous women hid their pregnancies behind giant handbags.

Jessica Rabbit, er, Chastain.

Another addition to our “over it” list? Old Hollywood glamour. It’s so much more interesting to look like a 21st century movie star than a Veronica Lake impersonator.

“Argo fuck yourself”, indeed.

George Clooney and the rest of the Hollywood cool kids rallied around Ben Affleck following his Best Director snub, bringing home a Best Picture win for “Argo.” Consider us amongst those who were cheering for Affleck’s third directorial effort, which perfectly toed the line between entertaining and substantial. So often the Academy only rewards films that feel “important” (read: snoooooooooore) and neglects that movies are also supposed to be fun to watch. “Argo” as well as “Gone Baby Gone” and “The Town” show that Affleck gets this.

Dear Anne Hathaway: This is how you do self-deprecating charm properly.

With a few “aw shucks” jokes in the press room and a well-timed tumble on her bedspread dress, Jennifer Lawrence won best actress *and* charmed the pants off the entire universe. Her best move now? Disappear. Not a Natalie Portman-style run-off-and-procreate-with-a-French-ballerina disappearance but just a little breathing room for the public to not tire of her, lest she fall victim to that nasty backlash that always seems to follow meteoric rises. We hear Jennifer Aniston knows of a good resort in Cabo…