Book fair was last night

Basil Pesto to Drool For

Our family goes gaga for pesto. We put it on grilled chicken, pasta, on toasty French bread and mozzarella. Sometimes Thing Two scoops it up with a spoon and eats it straight. This is a recipe that's simple and quick.

Start with 2 cups fresh basil. Mine came from the garden (one $1.99 plant in early spring produced enough leaves for several harvest fests plus a triple batch of pesto. I only have a teeny food processor so I have to do the basil first to make room for the other ingredients. Pulse to pulverized.

Pine nuts are the most expensive part of homemade pesto. One 1/2 cup bag is about $4-5. Maybe I should have shopped online...

Add 1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil, 1/2 cup Parmesan cheese and 2 cloves garlic. Pulse to pulverize.

Your finished recipe should look like this: make sure the pine nuts and basil leaves are pulsed to smooth and creamy. That's it!!

I put my pesto in ice cube trays to freeze. When I'm ready to cook with pesto I grab two cubes and the meal is fabulous.

Tip: I will frequently put marinade in a plastic baggie with chicken and freeze. While it's thawing for a meal, the marinade is working its magic and I don't have to wait the extra 30 minutes for it to sit. The flavor is stronger that way, since it's had more time to, well, marinate.

Homemade Basil Pesto

2 cups fresh basil, remove stems and wash thoroughly

1/2 cup pine nuts

1/2 cup EVOO

1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, grated

2 cloves garlic, pressed

Tiny bit salt and pepper

Pulverize in a food processor until smooth. Makes about 1 1/2 to 2 cups of pesto.

My Autism Hero

Her name is Katrina. He was four. I was lost.

My son was diagnosed with autism at age four and my world's axis tilted. I wasn't sure what to do, what to say, who to ask for help...I just knew I was thrust into the world of autism and had no clue what it meant.

When my brother heard our news he spoke with an acquaintance of his - someone he trusted would be the person I needed most even though she had never met me. Her name is Katrina. Her son, also four at the time, had been diagnosed with autism a couple years earlier. Without truly realizing it at the time, Katrina became my hero.

We talked on the phone a few times. She sat quietly while I cried into the phone unable to speak. She welcomed me into the world of autism. She talked about her son and we made connections between our boys. She gave me hope. She gave me strength.

And just as quickly as she entered my life, this guiding and non-judging and kind soul, she was out. We lost touch, maybe only meeting in person once or twice at an autism support class years ago.

Son and I and our family went through support groups, 101 classes, charity work, thousands of hours of therapy, hundreds of hours of research, dozens of hours of IEP meetings. I learned to love our autism world, having introduced me to the most amazing people I've ever met.

I think of Katrina so often, with a goal of being other people's Katrina as much as I can. When I hear of a new family entering our world I tell them the story of My Katrina and and what she did for me and ask if I can help be their Katrina. I've talked on the phone with new autism moms, new autism grandmas, new autism uncles. Some I've never met.

Fast forward to today. I was wandering a store and saw her.

My Katrina.

I left her alone not wanting to be that person...and I left the store. I came out of the next store and she was standing outside. It was a sign I tell you! I walked up to her, asked if she was My Katrina. I introduced myself as "you probably don't remember me..." She did. I told her she was my inspiration and my hope and my hero. Then I teared up. The inner voice who usually screams, "Keep it together woman!" was silent. Katrina gave me a huge hug, asked how my son was doing, and introduced me to her son. Same age, same beauty shooting like stars out of his eyes and a gorgeous smile.

Thank you, Katrina. Most likely you'll never see this. Most likely you'll never know exactly how much you mean to me always and forever. Most likely our sons will be just fine.

Thank you, Katrina. Thank you.

Last Mother-Daughter Practice had THIS in the Audience

Tonight was our last practice. We were greeted by an officer taking notes from a child and basically quite freaked at what was happening and why it was right inside the dance studio doors.

We know for sure they weren't there to arrest us for bad dance moves. However the cop talking to a woman at the other door to the studio also had a clear view of our room...and he was doing everything in his power to try to un-see what he was watching: middle-aged women and our dancing daughters.

By the time we were done both officers were gone. One car remained at the studio. Friend and I are convinced they went somewhere for a cold one to discuss that cartwheel we did.

Dancing Queen

Friend just suggested I do a blog. I sent her this. So I checked my last entry (far too long ago) and figured she might be reading tonight, here's a post.

Dance. We have recitals coming up. I have not kicked anyone mid-cartwheel. Daughter _has_ bounced off The Girls (aka girly parts that protrude from the rib cage) and hit the deck way too many times I care to mention. 

Two weeks ago she was to crawl through my legs and *pop* up as I lift her into doing the splits in the air. She cut her crawl short and well...her head was back where it all started, I fell down and got a serious case of dancer giggles, and Coach stopped the music due to our distraction.

Last night I did not think through my workout clothes and went dressed in The Shorts That Should Not Leave The House plus a Shamrock-emblazoned tank plus stark-white semi-hairy legs plus black dance shoes. Then Coach goes, "we're dancing in front of every $&#%*€?£¥ class in the building tonight" and I'm thrilled one of them is the twenty-year-olds in their tight pants and no undie line and I'm all like, "hey check out my shorts. They're not supposed to be here."

I sequined the sh*t out of two shredded tank tops purchased off a dance costume website for far too much money when I could have just cut the damn things myself. I bought the fancy dancer shorts. I have black tights that make spooge spill out the top.

I bought myself eyelashes. 

I'm soooo gonna audibly fart during recital. 

Sailing right along and then THIS happened

I hate these kind of titles every single editorial outfit does nowadays.

Last week we were sailing through practice. I have improved quite a bit and know all of the dance moves. My new problem is I do the moves at different points in the song than everyone else. But when I'm up front and I'm the only one kicking my leg up high, man. I nail it. 

So last week we were waiting for coach to get the next section worked out in her head and moms are chatting it up. Coach asks, "anyone do cartwheels?"

We're still chit chatting and yeah, I could at age 12. My arm shoots up as if an auto response to such s basic question. I look at coach. I look at my hand. Soon the wheels begin to turn again but it's too late. I'm a chosen one. 

I swear a bunch, do some extra stretches and she lines us up. I casually comment to the mom whose head is in my foot's air space to watch out because it's been oh 25 YEARS since I've attempted this. 

Song goes on. 5-6-7-8. We step. We sway. I go. I'm doing it! 

Left Wrist shouts out in agony as if to slap me across the face to knock some sense into me. Cut music. Girls are cheering. Moms are high fiving each other. One mom in the back comments she wished she could have seen the cartwheel by yours truly. Another mom proudly announces she HeARD it. 

And that my friend is a legacy I leave to my daughter. Loud, grunting cartwheels at age 40.