I Hide My Chocolate

Midlife observations

Category: Parenting

April 26, 2020

Joy

What Matters Now

In Zoom Yoga this morning, our teacher had us conjure up a memory of when we felt joy. In this time of fear, loss, grief, depression, anxiety, terror, perhaps – if we can inhabit that memory of joy – it would be a resource of hope and light.

Without any hesitation, the memory of the birth of my children is what came up for me. I could not replace it by recalling some flash of ecstasy or awe at nature or pride in some personal achievement.

No, it is the extreme pain and effort and emotion of childbirth that resonated for me as joy this morning. I alternated between my two children. Seeing them for the first time as if it was yesterday. Vivid. I could see them. Feel them. Smell them.

Twenty plus years later, in this time of fear, loss, grief, depression, anxiety, terror – I worry for them. What now? Will they stay healthy? Will they find work? Will they find love? Will they have children? Will I stay healthy to see what happens next? When will I hug them again?

Perhaps this insistent and searing travel back in time to the birth of my children is a result of a mini baby boomlet our extended family is experiencing. The announcement of each new pregnancy over the last few months has been ever more exciting and hopeful in this dark time.

May the world waiting for these new humans be safe and secure, filled with love and new opportunities. May we all experience joy, even if it be born of pain and effort and emotion.

May we be healthy.

2 Comments
March 11, 2018

Thank You Cooper

Mwah!

He never learned to say any words. Occasionally, though, his intonation sounded just like how we say “Cooper,” but it was a stretch. He did, however, mimic the sound of kissing. When I walked in the house, “Mwah!” When my husband walked in the room, “Mwah!” When he wanted to fly about, “Mwah!”

I thought we had more time, but Cooper died this week. He was 6. We always think we have more time, don’t we?

He’s a sweet, generic, blue budgie from the pet store. I am heart-broken. Slightly comical, I suppose. I find I am embarrassed to tell people that my parakeet died. Embarrassed that I care so much. Guilty that I didn’t do enough.

I’ve been pondering the ethics of “owning” a “pet.” My kids desperately wanted a dog, but we didn’t think we were home enough to give a dog a good life. A bird was the compromise. But is a life in a cage a good life for a bird?

I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe it is better than a life in a cage in a pet store.

We certainly tried to give Cooper as good a life as we could. His cage was in the center of all the family activity and we let him out every day. He had his flight pattern, circling around the first floor of our house, making his navigational chirps as he negotiated the turns with the utmost speed and accuracy before alighting on my husband’s head. His favorite human. I was too busy. My kids were too impatient. But my husband would stroke him and play with him every evening.

Cooper loved music and had pronounced preferences. His favorite was B.B. King, especially “The Thrill is Gone.” On weekends, we would have long family dinners in the dining room with conversation, joking, and music. Cooper was right there with us, singing along.

It seems salt on the wound that he would die shortly after my youngest left home for college. We joked, “Ah, just the three of us,” as Cooper would alternate between the top of my head and my husband’s hand. Well, now, it really is just the two of us and the house is much much quieter without his bright chirping, squawking, mumbling, and of course those air kisses.

He is very much a part of our family history and it feels fitting and painful that his life ends as the childhood part of our family story ends.

My husband told our son the news before bringing him home for his spring break. Our daughter is spending the semester abroad, so I facetimed with her to tell her the news. It must feel like an integral part of their childhood and homelife has died. They were both upset. I am proud that they are both connected to their feelings and cry easily. I do not. May they always love deeply and feel deeply.

My daughter said that Cooper was the reason she has chosen a vegan lifestyle. If he was so sweet, with so much personality — clearly a sentient being — how could anyone eat another being? Indeed.

Perhaps that is why we have pets. I don’t know that we make their lives better, but they make our lives better. Perhaps we are better humans for having known them.

Thank you Cooper. Mwah.

6 Comments
August 21, 2017

Don’t Guzzle Your Beer

And Other Thoughts 

My son was born thirsty. He would nurse voraciously, gulping, urgently, as if he could not fill up fast enough. He brought this habit to his bottle, to his sippy cup, to his big-boy cup, and ultimately to the gallon of juice in the refrigerator at all times. I felt compelled to tell him, at the age of 7, that he will need to learn to sip alcohol, sloooowly, to savor the taste. I was terrified of the horror stories of 18-year-olds going off to college and guzzling their beer or throwing back shots until they die of alcohol poisoning. Okay, so it was more than 10 years away, but I figured it was never too soon to discuss.

Here we are.

We’ve made the checklists. We’ve got the stuff from Bed, Bath, and Beyond. You know, the shower caddy and shower shoes, new bedding (Extra Long Twin for those weirdly long and narrow dorm beds), hangers, a surge protector, a desk lamp, an umbrella, and myriad other supplies for living away from home. We’ve gone through his old toys and games and art projects. Keeping what has sentimental value (some of the sweet Lego figures he played with in the bath) and giving away the games he never opened. (They seemed like a good idea at the time.) And laundry. We’ve done a ton of laundry. He doesn’t mind doing laundry, so I think he’ll have clean clothes in college. Wrinkled but clean. We’ll see.

Now we wait.

Some of his friends have left already. Some don’t leave for a while. He leaves later this week. We’re sort of ready. (Can you ever be ready?) Kind of eager to get the emotion behind us. Kind of dreading it. Will he like his roommate? Will he like his classes? Will he be homesick? Will he be okay? Will he be happy?

He’s a loyal friend. He’s had a few close friends his whole life. It took him a while to develop and nurture these friendships. He is sad to leave them. He wonders how these friendships will evolve when they are far flung across the country. I try to reassure him that his closest friends will remain close. I am still connected with several of my friends from high school. They were crucially important people to me at a time when we were becoming ourselves. I love them deeply.

I think of all the things I want to say to him. Usually in the middle of the night. I try to nag less and be present more. I try to be near by in case he wants me. I try to tell him my middle-of-the-night ruminations during the few moments when he will allow me into his room, into his space. Stuff like:

  • You don’t have to have it all figured out. Try new things. You can change your mind.
  • Rent your textbooks. Don’t buy them.
  • When I look at you, it’s because I love you, not because I am judging you.
  • Take your vitamins.
  • You can tell me anything. I know you think you can’t, but you can.
  • Go to all the extra help sessions and office hours with your professors.
  • You will make new friends.
  • Take advantage of the city. Explore!
  • You have a deep and loving heart. It is my favorite thing about you. You are a good human being.
  • Choose your professors carefully. The teacher is more important than the class topic.
  • Use the credit card for necessities. Use your own money for entertainment.
  • I am sorry for all the times I disappointed you. Like that Friday night when I was the one who had a tantrum because you didn’t do what I wanted you to do.
  • Be you.

I am proud of you. I will miss you. (More than you know.) I love you.

Oh, and don’t guzzle your beer.

4 Comments
December 12, 2016

Sacred Privilege

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Sacred Duty

This is me. At around 7:45 on the morning of November 8th. Exhilarated! I was so thrilled to have voted for Hillary Clinton, the woman I was so sure was going to be President that I insisted on documenting the historic event with a photo. I am wearing my most patriotic Clinton-esque red pantsuit jacket.

Quaint, eh? About as quaint as the Clinton-Kaine pin my daughter gave me to commemorate the occasion. I carry it around as a talisman, but I worry that it’s just a kitschy souvenir.

My hand is on my heart – pledging allegiance – and showing off the ring I am wearing. My mother’s ring. She was with me that day.

It is from my mother that I got my political grounding.

My mother was a Democrat. On Election Day, she would take me with her into the voting booth and show me how it worked. I felt very grown up, very excited, and very proud. It was a sacred privilege, voting.

My mother was the first feminist I knew. She was a charter subscriber to Ms. Magazine. Literally. She got every issue of the magazine as long as it existed. It’s one of many many magazines that I grew up with in a household where words mattered. No wonder I made a career in magazines.

My mother believed that women were equal to men (actually, I think she believed that women were better than men) and that I could be anything. ANYTHING! She encouraged me to go to Bryn Mawr College so that I would be with other intelligent and serious women who wanted to make a difference. We women wanted to matter. I wanted to matter. To make a difference. To contribute something important to the world.

Sometimes I feel like Hillary must feel. Hard-working, over-prepared, focused on the details, only to be bested by some guy who shoots from the hip. Haven’t we women all been there? When will it stop?

This election was the first election my mother was not alive and did not vote. It seemed fitting that it was the first election in which my daughter could and did vote. Continuing the democratic lineage. Excited and proud.

It is a sacred privilege, voting. Have we forgotten how fortunate we are to live in a democracy? Did we take voting for granted? Our vote does matter, doesn’t it?

Doesn’t it?

The shock that such a selfish and cavalier man could beat such an experienced and intelligent woman has left me with no words.

In the five weeks since, I have reflected on how I want to handle this mind-boggling reality. I alternate between outrage, fear, disbelief, and attempts at patience and optimism. A Democrat, like my mom, I tend to be pragmatic and centrist, always a diplomat, never particularly active. Careful to try to understand both sides and all points of view. Too conflict avoidant to be provocative.

When I am optimistic, I wonder if the outcome of this election is just what we needed to shake us all up. To create a constructive political movement that will lead to positive change.

The week of the election, the Dalai Lama appeared in my dream. He counseled me to distinguish between being concerned and being caring. It’s all about caring, he told me.

Wise words, don’t you think? Being concerned is intellectual and kind of negative and judgmental. Being caring is active and personal and hands on. Caring is positive. I think of that every day. How can I be positive, constructive and caring in an impactful way? What kind of example do I want to set for my children? What political legacy will I leave them?

For now, I have decided to choose and focus on a few issues that are meaningful to me and that honor my mother and her political legacy to me.

  • Women’s Rights. Particularly reproductive freedom. I am Pro Choice.
  • Freedom of the Press. I never thought I would feel the need to fight for the First Amendment.
  • The Environment. After all, if we destroy our world, then it doesn’t really matter who is President, does it?

I don’t quite know all the ways I will act to support these issues. I am not used to feeling that it is imperative that I act. I do know that I will keep caring, peace, and kindness top of mind – like the Dalai Lama.

And, I will not take our democracy for granted. Believing in democracy is not quaint. Voting is a sacred privilege. It is our sacred duty to protect our democracy, our right to vote.

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October 16, 2016

The Mirror

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Homework

I am in the middle of a yoga training with Colleen Saidman Yee. She has designed thought-full and specific sequences of poses to enhance or mitigate significant emotions and life transitions. All with a goal of achieving peace and confidence in ourselves, in order to be able to say: I Am Enough.

Our assignment this week, among other things, was to look in the mirror, see ourselves, our souls, and say I Love You. When I looked in the mirror, I felt so silly. Who says that?

Why not? Why don’t we give ourselves permission to love ourselves?

It brings up a long buried memory. I am at the wedding of our neighbor. My first wedding. I am about 8, perhaps. I am wearing a fancy dress and my mother did my hair in her favorite way, pulled back into a top-knot. I feel excited and grown up. At the wedding we are chit-chatting with another neighbor who remarks how pretty I look. Feeling confident and pleased, I respond, “I know!” My parents are embarrassed and scold me. One should be modest and humble, not braggy and conceited. The neighbor smiles indulgently and defends me. But the damage is done. A lifelong struggle with how to be in this world begins. Pretty? Smart? Assertive? Confident? Bossy? Slutty? Ambitious? Bitchy? NICE?

It is more socially acceptable to commiserate: I am so busy. I am so tired. I have so many problems. Or to be self-deprecating: I’m too heavy. I’m too thin. I’m too old. I hate my hair. When was the last time someone asked you “How are you?” and you answered: “I am beautiful, healthy, and strong. I like my job. My kids amaze me. My husband loves me.” Well, dammit, that’s how I am. I’m tired of complaining.

Don’t get me wrong. I could complain! My beauty is one of a middle-aged woman now. My wrinkles, age-spots, thinning eyebrows, and jowls (wtf?) shock me. SHOCK! I am not passionate about my job, but it’s interesting. I wish I had more time for yoga, both practicing and teaching. I’ve been hurt. Badly. A lot. I worry about everything. But… I am who I am and I am enough.

What is beauty anyway? We women are encouraged to meet an impossible external standard. Tall, thin, fit, young. Those of us who come close work very hard to get closer to the standard and feel like failures when we don’t. Those of us who don’t come close work very hard to get closer to the standard and feel like failures when we don’t. Or, we give up. As we get older, perhaps we find more peace with who we are and how we look, but our fading looks are a bittersweet reminder of the fleeting impermanence of youth and of life.

We look in the mirror and see our soul shining through our eyes. The same soul from 50 years ago, from 40 years ago, from 30 years ago, from 20 years ago, from 10 years ago. Real beauty is self-acceptance. Self-confidence. Pride. No more wishing to be someone else. No more wishing to be richer, thinner, smarter, nicer, more successful, more popular, more badass, more happy. We are enough.

Besides, it’s not about me anymore. I want my daughter to be happy and to love herself and to know – really know – her value. If I can’t model that kind of love and confidence for me, what makes me think she can do it for her? If my love for myself is a bit tentative and embarrassed and filled with buts and what-if’s, my love for her is fierce.

Dear girl, you are enough.

4 Comments
August 21, 2016

The Pause

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Before What Is Next

Well. Here we are. Already. August. End of Summer. End of his childhood. The pause after the exhale before the inhale. Before September, the new school year. 12th grade. Before he begins whatever he will be beginning a year from now. Because we don’t know.

Our vacation this summer was a quiet week in Vermont, just the three of us. I missed my daughter, but it felt important to have this time with him. It was sweet to be away from our routine and entwined together, synchronizing our lives to be focused on each other, if only for the week. We listened to music together, impressed that he had such eclectic taste and appreciation for “our” music of the 1970’s. (Thank you, Guardians of the Galaxy.) We adventured together, zip lining down Mt Mansfield and rock climbing a wall. We walked in the woods, read by the pool, and found restaurants with wings for him, pasta for my husband, and vegetables for me. It was a delicious, restorative break, nothing fancy, and I am trying not to be too sad that it is over.

17 years. Over.

I stare at him. Often. He hates it. He thinks I am judging or noticing something he wished I wouldn’t notice. He is self-conscious. Embarrassed. My gaze is really more about wanting to connect. Wanting him to know, to really know deep down in his soul, that I love him and want him to be happy and to know that he is enough just as he is. I want him to know that I am sorry for all the times I do judge and nag and wish for something to be other than it is.

I spend a lot of time judging and nagging and wishing for something to be other than it is. Like the end of August. The end of summer, the end of vacation, the end of childhood. I don’t want it to be over! Hell, I’m just figuring out how to do it … and it’s over?

So. Instead of clinging and resisting, I am trying – trying! – to be patient with the pause. Open to possibility. Open to change. With not knowing what is next. With not rushing to the inhale, but fully and completely exhaling all the air out and pausing. Appreciating the breath. Appreciating the boy who is becoming a man. Gazing at his graceful shape, searching for eye contact with his soul that is embarrassed to be seen. Trying not to be frantic about the college application process. Trying not to grieve for the time that is gone. Trying not to regret all that I could have done differently. Trying not to regret that I’m not a different mother, but to accept that I am the mother I am. Just as he is enough, I am enough.

We are here. Abiding in the pause. Open to what is next. Because we don’t know. Now is enough. We are enough.

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May 8, 2016

What Is Your Dharma?

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Sacred Purpose

“What if you don’t know your dharma?” I whispered. Urgently.

Without hesitation Jill answered that my dharma was to be a mom.

What?!

Consumed by my own self-centered ambition to achieve something great, or at least be superior at everything I do, I’ve always thought of being a mom as something I did while pursuing achievement of external goals.

But the truth of the matter is that there is one thing that feels profoundly meaningful and elicits intense, tight chest, lump in the throat emotion. My children.

I was sitting in a circle discussing the Baghavad Gita and the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali with a group of yoga teachers. I had shared a strong emotional reaction I had to the Baghavad Gita and its poetic argument for non-attachment. Arjuna is stuck in a state of indecisive and pained inaction as he resists the war he is destined to fight. (Been there. Haven’t you?) He is terrified. Not wanting to kill or be killed. Damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. Krishna counsels him to act. It is his dharma, his sacred purpose, to be a soldier and to fight. He must be the best soldier he can be. He should not be afraid of death, because our souls live on.

I understand loosening the attachment – the grip we have on our stuff. I don’t need all the stuff in my house, in my life. It is not what makes me happy. And there is always someone who has better stuff then me. But after that it gets hard. I care deeply for the ideas I have come to think of as important. Living mindfully, making the world a better place with what you do and how you live.

And when it comes to people, how can we not be attached? Especially to our children. What does it mean to be not attached?

With their birth was born a new and infinite sense of responsibility, fear, and love. Hovering over them as newborns when they slept, making sure I could still sense their breath. Now that they are 16 and 20, the anxiety has evolved.

Are you happy?

Do you feel loved?

Please. Please be safe.

Worrying, worrying, worrying that all my neuroses have rubbed off on my children. (How could they not?) Worrying that my daughter is too much like me, too obedient, too diligent. Is she having enough fun?

Worrying that my son is too much like me, too eager to please.  Will he be decisive and express himself, especially if he is angry or wants to pursue something different from what we have in mind for him?

Worrying that in both cases we’ve controlled their interests and pursuits so tightly that they have lost track of what they feel and want, overshadowed by the need to please Mom and Dad.

But most of all, I am afraid. Afraid of losing them. Please. Please be safe.

If you believe that we are a soul, not a body, and that we continue on in some capacity even after this body dies, then, perhaps, you can lessen your grip on the people you love. Reduce the fear that they will die or that you will die.

But what if you’re not sure?

What does non-attachment mean when it comes to being a mom?

I think it means pausing. Considering whether you are putting your self first or putting them first.

A friend, with still young children, shared how she wakes up very very early so she can have time alone. (I know it well.) Every now and then, a child tiptoes downstairs to be with her. (I know it well.) Shit! There goes my alone time. (I know it well.) Do you send the child back to bed: It’s too early! Go back to bed! Go watch TV! Yes, I’ve done that. Or: Do you welcome the child to join you? Hello Sweetheart! You’re up early! What a wonderful surprise! I love you! What shall we do with our special time together? I have not done that as much as I should have. And when those young children get older, they will stop reaching out to you and you will have as much alone time as you want. (I know it well.)

I think it means being joyful and loving at their presence. Happy to see them.

I think it means helping them be them, not what you want them to be.

I think it means letting go of worrying about whether you are a good mom. I mean, really, how narcissistic is that?

You can’t change what’s already happened in the past and the impact it’s had. After all, it’s made them who they are.

It’s not about regretting the past or worrying about the future. It’s about being present in the present moment for them right here right now. And letting go. Letting them be them.

Photo Credit:  Photo by Cindy Knoke at cindyknoke.com.  Thank you Cindy for your beautiful photos!

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November 14, 2015

We Hurt Everywhere

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May We Go On

I understand anger. Kill them all! I feel anger.

I understand fear. Don’t go there! I feel fear.

I understand despair. There is no hope! I feel despair.

More than anything, I feel despair.

What now? How do we make sense of another 129 people dead? How do we go on?

I’ve gotten used to saying good-bye in the morning, after 9/11, whispering I love you, and wondering. Will I come home tonight? Will you? I no longer have burning ambition for my life. I am okay. What will be will be.

But I am heart-broken for my children. I want them to want to travel. I want them to want to change the world. I want them to want to bring children into the world. But what world is this?

The hatred is palpable. Why do they hate us so much? Why do we hate them so much? Why is there us and them? Aren’t we all human beings living on Earth? The last I read, there is very little DNA difference between us and chimps and virtually no difference between us and them.

If we kill them, they will kill us back and then we will kill them back and then they will kill us back. Is that what it will take? The apocalypse? We will kill ourselves. And our Earth.

More than anything, I feel despair.

I sympathize with the angry warmongers. But I want to believe the spiritual leaders who tell us to pray. For that is all I can do today. Pray for Paris. Pray for us. Pray for them. Pray for love. Pray for peace. Pray for my children and their children and their children and their children. May we go on.

 

“later that night

i held an atlas in my lap

ran my fingers across the whole world

and whispered

where does it hurt?

 

it answered

everywhere

everywhere

everywhere.”

 

― Warsan Shire

 

Image Credit:  World Map in Orange and Blue by Michael Tompsett

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October 29, 2015

Too Old To Dress Up

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Being Someone Else

“Hey Mom, maybe I’ll just wear some vampire teeth. Mr. C said he would be disappointed if I didn’t dress up.”

My son lets this announcement drop so quietly I could have missed it.

At 16, he is self-conscious and wants to fit in and be cool. Even though, secretly, I know he loves Halloween and dressing up. Well, we can’t disappoint Mr. C! Off we go to find some vampire teeth. (And maybe a cape? And maybe some makeup?)

As a little boy, he would dash from house to house shrieking with delight and dressed up (memorably) as Thomas the Train, Indiana Jones, or Captain Jack Sparrow. I would put all kinds of glow-in-the-dark devices on him, terrified of cars, but there was no stopping him. And who could blame him? A child let loose at twilight, allowed to be someone else, with unlimited candy! What could be more thrilling?

But then the shift happens.

“I don’t think I’ll go trick-or-treating. Maybe I’ll just decorate the house this year.” This announcement dropped like a thud about 4 years ago. We got the sticky, stretchy cobweb stuff for your bushes, a giant mechanical spider that drops down in an alarming way, a very cool fog machine, and a few other tacky and extravagant knick knacks that spend 50 weeks a year in the attic.

The following year it was, “I think I’ll just pass out the candy this year.”

Slowly the willingness to put yourself out there with enthusiastic and ridiculous abandon diminishes. I am no help. I used to love dressing up but now am too busy busy busy to be bothered. Halloween becomes another chore. Decorate. Undecorate. Buy candy. Figure out costumes. There was the year I spent all weekend laboriously crafting a handmade costume for my 2 year old daughter, when all she really wanted was to hang out with me. Do we really need to carve a pumpkin? My husband used to create the most fabulous carved pumpkins, inspired by the kids’ drawings. What happened?

Oh and to state the obvious: A holiday devoted to excessive amounts of candy is a nightmare for someone with eating issues. I used to binge on Halloween candy. Enough to make anyone hate candy for the rest of their life. Here is a useful tip for those of you who haven’t mastered this trick. Convince yourself you hate a food item and then it will become easier to avoid eating it. I HATE HALLOWEEN CANDY! Um, that’s not entirely true. I actually like Reese’s Peanut Butter cups and allow myself about 1 on Halloween. Maybe 2.

I digress.

So when that casual nonchalant comment about dressing up this year dropped in my ear so quietly I almost missed it, I jumped at the chance to reignite my son’s childhood love of Halloween as he transitions through murky adolescence. Maybe he will even go trick-or-treating! I can just see them. A few gangly 16-year-olds, towering over their childish counterparts. They probably won’t be wearing elaborate costumes. Their “trick-or-treat” will come from newly deep voices. They may have a bit of scrubble on their faces. No longer children. Not quite men.

Thank you Mr. C for giving my son permission to dress up for Halloween.

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October 19, 2015

Vegan After 6:00

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Brown Rice and Mushrooms with Tomato Salad

(This meal is more delicious than it appears.  I was too hungry to be patient and take a good photo.)

It’s just my son and me tonight.

We went to the college fair tonight. You know, the one with tons of people milling around picking up college brochures. The first time I went with my daughter 3 years ago, we fled after about 20 minutes. Overwhelmed. This time I knew more about what to expect. We picked 5 schools to seek out and then grabbed a bunch of brochures. We ran into some people we knew. We chatted with my son’s guidance counselor. Everyone seemed overwhelmed, especially the first-timers. It’s the beginning. The beginning of the next step. That push-me pull-you stage where your child imagines life without you, with great excitement and a little bit of trepidation. That push-me pull-you stage where you imagine life without your child with great anxiety and a whole lot of hope.

Home, it’s time for a late dinner. My son is happy (happy!) with frozen pizza. Blech! He feels the same about my food choices. Long ago, I swore I wouldn’t make separate meals for different people, but I do.

This is what I ate for dinner tonight. It’s Vegan. No animals were harmed for this meal.

Brown Rice and Mushrooms with Tomato Salad

  • 1/3 cup Brown Rice and 2/3 cup of water (I like Lundberg Brown Rice)
  • 6 oz chopped mushrooms
  • 6 oz sliced tomatoes (I like Campari if I can’t get fresh/local tomatoes)

I started cooking the brown rice before we left for the college fair and then turned off the heat when we left the house. The rice was cooked when we returned home.

Sautee chopped mushrooms in olive oil (I use the pre-sliced mushrooms for convenience.)

Sautee the mushrooms until they are brown and almost crispy.

Mix together the rice and mushrooms.

Add the tomatoes.

Drizzle about 1 Tablespoon olive oil and about 1 Tablespoon white wine vinegar over everything. The vinegar adds tang and brightness to the rice and mushrooms and the rice tastes good with the tomatoes, like a rice salad.

Salt liberally.

Serves 1…unless your 16-year-old son can be convinced to stray from tried and true frozen pizza.

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