now fortified with impotent fury!risperdal

I have food entries out the yin yang to write. Too bad I can’t find my menu from Trio for mom’s birthday (WAAAAAH! Where did it GO!) or Citronelle, but Citronelle was way less involved so I can recap it from memory.

When we went to DC, we had Sean for a day before the inlaws rode into town. It had been quite some time since we’d attempted to dine anywhere with him other than 40. I hadn’t realized what a difference familiar surroundings, a familiar menu, and Michael Smith and Debbie Gold you two are GODS thank you for taking our obstreperous toddler out of our hands so we could eat dinner and walk him around and show him the prep line and feed him cracklicious frites (Michael reports Sean likes licking the fleur de sel off, faaaabulous) makes. We ate outside at a restaurant in DuPont circle, nice but forgettable, artfully presented food like I’ve seen at dozens of other high end hotel restaurants. Sean made a mess, threw his cup repeatedly, and tried to climb out of his highchair and then his stroller. A fun time was had by all.

(Side bar: the sous chef as 40 [well, one of them] is a gentle giant of a guy named John. John has a perfect goatee and a bald head, and wears a rolled up bandana as a sweatband. One fine day a few months back I had to get Sean out of the house for a few hours while they sprayed the casa for bugs, so we went to 40 for lunch. Towards the end, Jamie kicked on the espresso machine and Sean promptly had a meltdown. Various waiters and waitresses tried soothing him, and nothing worked, until John came out of the kitchen, cooed at Sean, and took the wee man’s hand and patted his goatee. “Fuzzy!” Moved Sean’s hand to pat the clean-shaven part of his face, “Smooth!” “Fuzzy! Smooth!” Sean promptly calmed down and began wonderingly patting John’s face. John, pleased with himself, declared, “See, you can’t cry at me, I’m too silly looking!” Sean then promptly reached for John’s smooth bald head, prompting everyone to crack up.)

I had cleverly arranged for us to have our best dinner of the DC trip on the night the inlaws took Sean back to their house, as a means of distracting us (read: me) from paranoid fretting. After leaving them at the air and space museum, we sauntered to the Sackler, and eventually wound our way back to the hotel to get ready for dinner. A hair-raising cab ride later, and we were disgorged into the hotel lobby where Citronelle is. It’s a very strange space; it reminds me of the fancy restaurants my parents would take me to in the 80s- the colors, the style, the layout- but there are aspects of it which are not dated in the least, like the enormous, L-shaped windowed wine cellar and the open kitchen. It was a strange melange of fine French dining, 80s California design, and Washington Power.

We had a table with a perfect view of the ginormous wine cellar (600+ selections, over 8,000 bottles. Despite outstripping our cellar by a factor of 80, we got a ton of ideas for what to do in the basement if/when we finish it. Anyone know jack about doing electrical, framing walls, doing drywall, and flooring? How about recessed lighting? Anyone?), and they ascertained quickly we had no theatre reservations that night, and were in for the long haul. They run a room with two sommeliers, and we had the younger of the two- and a woman, which pleased me no end. They have so many table captains, though, that at times service was screwed up just because they lost track and essentially mentally tripped over one another, but oh well.

We were in DC for the end of Restaurant Week, and were treated to a family with 3 kids coming in, being shocked by the construction of the menu, and then being more shocked that there was no kids’ menu, and then truly shocked Citronelle wasn’t participating in restaurant week. I discovered later in the evening that the two little girls were keeping themselves from going mad with boredom by playing hide-n-seek in the enormous ladies’ room inbetween courses. As they were navigating trying to order for 3 children under the age of 10, the Lad and I requested a second copy of the wine list so we wouldn’t have to share, and then hunkered in for the long haul of 8 courses:

Amuse Bouche Actually, 3 amusees in one, on a long white rectangular plate. Poached asparagus slices in asparagus reduction, presented in a hollowed- out eggshell split the long way. Vitello tonnato, a slice of terrine of thin veal and raw tuna layered in perfect stripes, and a cigar of wild mushrooms in a spring roll wrapper.
Vichysoisse Without a doubt, the best potato leek soup I have ever tasted. Presented artfully, with a spoon made of shaped, fried potato (the best Pringle ever) topped with a dollop of perfect potato salad. This was one of the courses where the service shanked, as they gave us the wrong kind of spoon (we were told to not try eating the soup with the potato spoon, it would fall apart and we’d get splatted)
Foie gras, with red onion pickle We had earned ourselves an arched eyebrow and an approving nod when, after announcing we weren’t going to do the wine pairings, we would instead stick with our cocktails, then have glasses of sauterne with the foie gras, and then a bottle of Stag’s Leap with the meat courses. The Sauterne was perfect and unbelievable, the foie gras silky smooth. The Lad has a never ending quest for the perfect ravioli. I have a quest to match the foie gras at Toque! in Montreal, and I have to say, good as Citronelle’s was…. it wasn’t Toque. But very tasty!
Soft shell crab, tempura, vegetable chili Here our dinners diverged, as my allergies made this a no go. Instead, they shot out the grab atop a lemongrass and ginger sauce, with gently poached and sauteed veggies. So so so good. The crab was light and crisp, no hint of connective tissue (often a problem for me when eating soft shell crab). I tried a taste of the Lad’s preparation, and hot damn, it was good but a plate of it would have made me violently ill.
Lobster Medallion Citronelle sauce, japanese eggplant. I damn to near licked the plate clean. Perfect. Oh, except for my being allergic to the eggplant, but that was easily avoided.
Squab Minute breast steak, potato crusted leg confit, english peas and snow peas, cinnamon cabernet sauce. The squab was sliced and splayed out on opposite corners of the plate, atop gently mashed English peas (causing me to think of Nigella making mushy peas and giggle) and chiffonade of snow peas. In the middle sat the leg, skewered on a stainless steel corn pick and wrapped in a thin loop of potato, perfectly crusted over. The Lad DID use his bread to mop the plate clean.
Imported cheese selection Let’s face it. I love cheese. Cheese cheese cheese. The roquefort on here was so goddamn strong my eyes watered and my tongue itched. Bad call on their parts for the American palate, especially with dessert still to come.
Chocolate three ways Again on a long rectangular plate, a tiny dish of perfect chocolate gelatto, a layered chocolate mousse thing, and… something I forget. We had eau de vie with this, thus completing the total inebriation.
Petits fours Please god. No more.

What amazes me is that the next morning we managed- somehow- to wake up and go eat brunch at Bis. We are dedicated in our piggery.

Next time: Zatinya (Everything good you’ve heard? So so so true.), and a backlog recap of Trio (I hope. Where the hell IS that menu? Did it wind up in the Lad’s backpack since I accidentally brought it with to DC [it was still in my suitcase] or did it get left behind in the hotel in DC? Damnit!)

So it’s week one of daycare, which means week one of me going ‘Son of a bitch, this is what productivity feels like?’ The skinny:

Day one. Tears and howling. I stay in the lobby where he cannot see me for 10 minutes, as the center owner and I go over paperwork. Sean cries so hard he chokes off his own breath. The center owner is amazed that I can pick out his cry above all the other din of 20 yelling, screaming toddlers. I quip I’m a penguin, and she looks at me as though I am green and have three heads (none of them penguin or human). I leave feeling like the worst mother in the history of woman.

End of day one. I show up to retrieve my irrepairably psychologically damaged child to be confronted by the director, co owner, and education director and be told there was an ‘incident’ involving ‘biting’. Being completely convinced my high maintenance child is the hellion of the century, I gasp, “Who did he bite?!” All three women look at me blankly, and the director finally allows as how no, another child bit him. Great way to start the daycare experience. Sean is happily playing in the toddler room, but his arm looks like a remora has gone at him.

Day Two. Sean sits right down next to the teacher and starts flipping through a book. Stunned at my child’s sudden adaptation to daycare, I slink off and don’t bother to call in to check on him at any point in the afternoon. Pick him up only to have him put on a great display of howling and agony at my having left. Teacher hands me a piece of red construction paper and informs me gravely that it’s Sean’s drawing. It consists of several dots and a slash or three. “He slammed the crayon around and then tried to eat it, didn’t he?” “Yes.” she replies, and as per a bet I made her in the morning that he’d try to eat the art supplies, “I owe you ten dollars.” Score, just apply it to the exorbitant fucking cost of daycare, thanks.

Day Three. Sean has a complete and utter meltdown when I go to drop him off, to the point where even the center owner is concerned, and she encourages me to call back in an hour. I do so, and am gaily informed that Miss Williams says ‘Sean stopped crying as soon as you left’. Little manipulator. He dispenses with the grand show of ‘how could you have left me!’ and just starts waving adios as to the teacher as soon as I walk in. Too bad for him, she has to fill me in on all of his activity for the afternoon, and so he keeps waving and waving and waving, beginning to bleat with frustration. Too bad, little man, because I had to hear allllll about how you rode a tricycle around the room. And then I had to try and keep a straight face as the teacher told me how you built the tallest tower of blocks she’d ever seen a kid your age build, and then you threw out your arms, yelled ‘like a dinosaur’, and stormed through it, viciously knocking down the tower.

We have taught you well, Gojira. Daycare can never survive your wrath.

*thud* Okay, I embrace my wiremonkeymotherness. I am counting the fucking days until Sean starts in daycare. I love him with every fiber of my being but sweet jesus lord, I cannot telecommute and take care of a rampaging beast child who has learned to push the kitchen chairs around to climb onto them, thence onto the table, thence to grab the kitchen chandelier and swiiiiiiiiing! Kowabunga! (Not to mention, open drawers, even with the child locks, stand on his toptoes on the edges of the drawers, and grab for coffeepot, stand mixer, sink, etc; push kitchen chair over to play with the light switches and the house alarm pad; and is so strong that when he gets bored in his crib he now reaches through the bars, grabs his enormous diaper changing table, and moves it around) I keep telling myself the daycare thing is all about enabling me to do my job, and I’ve done the math- daycare will take a hefty chunk out of my take home pay, but it’s still damn fine pay and totally worth it. In actuality, though, day care is all about me not going bugfuck mad as I say ‘Sean! Down! Not safe! Get down! Feet First! for the eleventy billionth time by 9 am.

On a positive note, I’m raising a happy, healthy kid with a great sense of comedic timing. I had a run in with a woman at the grocery store the other day. I’d popped in to grab a few more things for Greekfest (aka, ouzo and greek food while mocking the opening ceremonies of the Olympic games. To my delighted surprised, I adored what they did with the opening ceremonies design wise, though the cauldron does look like the biggest spliff in the history of man). The checker said something to the effect of ‘Yum! What are you making?’ and I replied ‘Greek food, hummus, dolmades…’ And the checker asked why. ‘Uh. The Olympics? In Greece? Starting Friday?’

And then the bitch in line behind me opened her braying piehole. To say, to my shock, “You should be making all American food in support of our athletes. Who are going to show the world what freedom and democracy are!” (Sidebar: as I told this story to Leather Pants Grrrrl, she snitted, ‘Yes. In the country where they INVENTED Democracy. Jesus!’) As I stood there in slack jawed horror, the checker asked what she was making. Jingoistic Moron replied proudly, showing off the cartful of coolwhip and berries, “An American flag cake! With strawberries for the red stripes and blueberries for the stars!” Before my editing function could kick in, I snarked, “Oh yeah, cause that shows respect for Old Glory. Eating it and then extruding it out your anal sphincter”. As the two women stood there, mouths agape at my use of the phrase, ‘Anal sphincter’, Sean looked up with love and delight in his little face.

And squealed and clapped for me.

And I live, thanks for the swift kick in the arse, Tyg.

I’ve got a smile on my face and a song in my heart. Is the world ending, you ask? Have I been replaced by stepford alien pod people?

No no, all is well. Man the TMI klaxxons, folks. I had cosmic amounts of sex this weekend! And liquor! And real conversation! And sleep! I feel human! Nevermind the kid is running a slight fever and horfed this morning, I don’t care! Why? Because for 3.5 blissful days my in-laws got to deal with the Seanmeister, and the Lad and I behaved like- wait for it- people in love! People in lust! People capable of making their livers cry! My in-laws, for their part, were gravely worried about our condition when they met up with us for the great toddler hand-off, asking if we were okay, our relationship okay, we were so tired and stressed. By the time they’d dealt with Sean for one day, they called and said “Now we understand. He’s a lovely kid, but oh my god”

Yup, the grandparents declared him high maintenance.

More of an update later. I am doing email triage and mail triage and laundry triage like nobody’s business, and desperately unearthing. To our credit, we got the bags all unpacked and stuff put away last night, but still, I’m in the post vacation ‘holy crap’ phase.