My husband felt such pain, he says, seeing the Astros lose that game. After all, Nolan Ryan was pitching - a hero to my husband as a kid and now - and at that moment, feeling all hope slip away from an idealized group of ball players, my husband Pete, then a sixth-grader, became the Astros fan he still is today.

Logically speaking, the San Diego Padres should have been his team, he was born and raised in San Diego, California. But sports loyalties don’t always make sense. You would think that people would grow up rooting for their hometown teams, then maybe go off to college - thereby forming new sports affiliations but NCAA sports don’t interfere with professional sports loyalties - and root for their hometown and college teams the rest of their lives. I guess life just has too many variables for that type of formula to apply.

And that is what makes it fun.

I was born in Los Angeles then moved to Seattle at 2 when my father entered the MFA program at the University of Washington. He took me to Huskies games every weekend from the time I was a teeny little thing. When he got his degree, I was 5, and we moved to San Diego where he started teaching at SDSU. I later went to UCSD. The team loyalties resulting are such: I root for the UDub Huskies, not the UCSD Tritons, and I am a Padres fan, not an Anaheim Angels, Seattle Mariners or L.A. Dodgers fan. My husband, who went to SDSU, loves the Auburn Tigers for this reason: none.

See the sense in that? Random and little.  But come first inning or kickoff, especially when any of the aforementioned teams play each other, who cares about sense? Hearts race, crowds cheer, firecrackers go off literally and metaphorically, and it’s anyone’s game.

Love that.

Tonight, the San Diego Padres host the Houston Astros in game 1 of the 2008 regular season. This should be good, it’s Peavy vs. Oswalt. My father and his best friend are taking my son, Alex to opening night - it used to be a little me in that seat in between two lifelong baseball fans, now it’s my little guy - traditions may change a little, but the rules stay the same. 

Which makes tradition similar to loyalty. Your faithfulness to your team doesn’t budge a bit, but there is always room for more in your need-for-excitement heart. It’s the things you never see coming that make these games so addictive. The ”brown-eyed handsome man” rounding third and heading for home, the upset, the comeback, the almost and could have been. The Steve Finley grand slam in the bottom of the ninth, and cracking the plastic stadium seat beneath my boots. How can I explain getting so willingly wrapped up in something so illogical?

I can’t…and it’s better that it doesn’t make sense.

Oh, did I mention? Last night WGN kicked off a baseball movie weekend. I walked into the bedroom where my husband was folding laundry, but before I could even notice what he was watching, he gave me that look he only gets when watching Field of Dreams and said, “This part of the movie gives me chills.” He loves it when Ray travels back in time and catches up with Doc Graham on the street (my Grandpa was just like Doc Graham, yep). I love it when Ray says “I didn’t really know until just now.” Brevity.

“They’re going to be showing baseball movies all weekend long,” said my hubby to me. WGN and other stations do this every year during the pre-season. I love having this to count on. 

Sunday afternoon a friend and I are hosting a couple shower for my brother-in-law, Leo, and his bride to be, Angie. I’m making my Sonoma Chicken Salad, as well as Pasta Salad with Cilantro Pesto. 

Saturday night just got a lot more enjoyable as I prep these salads for 80 people; Bull Durham is on WGN at 8:30. And it’s the edited version, my kids can watch it with me (“Mama, why does he say the baseball is an egg?”)… 

The cilantro pesto recipe is in my last column on familiesonlinemagazine.com, and the Sonoma Chicken Salad recipe is in my book, but let me share Pasta Primavera with you now.

Enjoy your weekend! 

PASTA PRIMAVERA
8 oz. cooked pasta (you choose the type)
2-3 cloves minced garlic
2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil, plus 1 tsp. for drizzling
8 oz. broccoli florets
8 oz. cauliflower florets
8 oz. yellow wax beans (green beans are fine, but the yellow ones are so pretty)
8 oz. fresh snow peas (or just peas - if frozen, defrost under running water)
8 oz. diced carrots (julienne is fine too)
8 oz. zucchini, julienned or diced
Juice of 1 lemon
1 bunch Italian parsley or basil, or both, chopped
1 bunch green onion, chopped (red onion makes this dish sharp, just as good as green)
Coarse grain salt and pepper to taste

Add pasta to boiling water.
Steam broccoli, cauliflower and wax beans for about 5 minutes, then drain.
In a separate pan (large enough to hold drained pasta), add olive oil over medium-high heat and sautee garlic for about one minute.
Add peas, carrots, and zucchini to pan.
Sautee vegetables until they soften and begin to brown.
Remove from heat.
When pasta is done, drain and add to pan of sauteed vegetables.
Add broccoli, cauliflower, and beans.
Mix well, add additional 1 tsp. olive oil.
Add lemon juice, salt and pepper.
Top with onion and parsley.

I don’t do a cream sauce with my Primavera because I feel it depletes the healthy factor. However, I have been known to add parmesan to this dish when I need something creamy. My husband uses Tabasco in his Primavera. Poached shrimp or diced chicken are the only proteins I’ll add to this.

And while I like this dish well enough, roasted vegetables (especially root vegetables) and pasta is about the best eating anybody can do - but cooking all of the vegetables stovetop makes Pasta Primavera quick…that is to say, it’s ready during the first inning (unless Maddux is pitching, those innings are quick, too).

My Melia, two-and-a-half-years-old now, has outgrown her 24 months/2T clothing. While I considered buying her new clothes and going to the baby resale stores in my city, and soon - her once long pants now look like capris and her t shirts bare her baby Buddha midriff - I just spent her clothes budget on flower girl dresses for Melia and her older sister, Zoe.

Her older sister Zoe…what did I do with her old clothes? Didn’t I put them somewhere accessible because I couldn’t part with them, even though I had no need for them?  Aren’t I just an organized sentimentalist who can’t re-sell or giveaway patchwork dresses and sailor girl bathing suits?

I get attached to things, and unexpected things happen to me - but it all makes sense when I look at it with vision created by necessity. I hoarded clothes my first daughter outgrew, not knowing I would have a third child. And that third child turned out to be another girl.

When someone says “It’s so funny how things work out,” it must be the equivalent of an angel getting their wings…giving props to the divine. Nothing in our lives is so small or insignificant as to be discounted by this philosophy. This philosophy gets me through everyday.

And last Thursday, the first day of Spring (I didn’t intend to do this on the first day of spring, but it’s in accordance with my philosophy), I retrieved six plastic bins of 3T-5T clothing from the attic, clothing previously worn by my oldest daughter, and went through them, one garment at a time.

“I remember wearing that!” … ”Zoe looked so cute in that dress” … “You look just like someone else I know in that” ~ “The good things last”

They really do.

Melia, my unexpected one, sits next to me in Zoe’s old pink dress with magnolias and ruffles.
 
This process of going through old clothes, remembering sweet things and also looking at my life like it was someone else’s - it was exhausting. My emotions felt taxed from re-living all of the growing Zoe did in those clothes. There were also some things I couldn’t remember no matter how hard I tried, and that regret made me retreat.

I thought about it all night. I wrote an essay. My husband told me it was late, please stop writing, honey. But I couldn’t, I was too restless. The rest of the world slept, and my creative energy, as always, was inappropriately timed.

I went to the kitchen in those wee small hours and made myself a fried egg sandwich.

Here is the recipe for a sandwich I have been eating for more than thirty years because it always fixes me, it’s the culinary version of a vintage dress.

FRIED EGG SANDWICH
2 slices of bread
1 egg
1 slice cheddar cheese
Yellow mustard, to taste
Coarse grain salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Non-stick spray

Toast bread slices.
Spray frying pan with non-stick spray.
Crack and fry the egg, salt and pepper it. The black pepper is important.
When egg is almost done, lay slice of cheddar cheese on top of it (while it’s still in the frying pan) so it somewhat melts on top of the egg.
When bread slices are toasted, spread yellow mustard on them.
Put fried egg topped with cheese in between bread slices.
(I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad idea to add a slice of tomato…yum)

“What time does your shift start?”

“And then to bathe in the watermelon water.” (This one intrigued me).

“What do you not understand about playing a game of catch?”

“Get closer. In closer. Okay. Hold it right there.”

“Your table is now available.”

“Why would I do that?  I’m a good girl.”

“They closed down a year and a half ago. Now there are, like, four Starbucks within a mile and a half of each other and we’re all like, so….not happy.”

“Pass to the outside. Outside!”

“She’s not a very friendly animal.”

“Board and batten.”

“Thank you for serving our country.”

“Can I go climb on the rocks?”

“Don’t lose the wiffle balls in the surf!”

“Salsa Verde? Oh, oh! Salsa Fresca. Sorry.”

“Do you have quarters?”

“Get out of my spot!”

“Twist of lime…” (my internal dialogue)

“People come into our lives for reasons.”

“No. I’m scared! I’m just…scared.”

“Poppa, I’m so mad.”

“I think I will eat Huevos Rancheros every day until I die.”

“Should I go to the market?”

“Kinda numb.”

“It’s just water.  That’s all it is.”

“Yes, I am.”
(“Momma don’t yell.”)

“The horizon is more interesting when you can see something on it.”

“No! I’m not!”
(“I’m going to tell your father!”)

“About twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

“That went on the market last week.”

I used to make bruschetta, but I soon became hungry for more.

I bought a French bread - not a baguette - a soft, sweet, inviting French bread. I cut it in half lengthwise. Next I took a mortar and pestle, added cloves of fresh garlic and some extra virgin olive oil to it’s cradle, and pounded until I got a garlic paste that I slathered onto the open bread halves with a pastry brush. It looked beautiful; the garlic was the color of buttermilk, but I could still see the greenness of the olive oil.

I set the oven to 400 degrees.

Next, I applied pesto over the garlic paste. A ton of fresh pesto. I don’t know what I was building, I considered olive tapendade, but it’s spring now. Spring makes me want basil pesto (or any kind of pesto).

I topped the pesto with diced tomatoes that had been sitting in balsamic vinegar, extra virgin olive oil, and sea salt since twenty minutes prior when I started dreaming about this layered toppings thing.

It went in the oven for about six minutes until the bread started to brown.

I ate it all.

My kids and husband wanted the spaghetti with meatballs I had made. I ate all of the bread, which, as I type this, I realize should have been topped with maybe crumbled goat cheese and diced red onion.

I ate it all and I want more. Bread, pasta and potatoes…I could live off of these things alone, with some vegetables, good olive oil and cheese.

Tonight I roasted chicken, with a compound white wine butter placed under the skin of the chicken and then rubbed over it, then drizzled with extra virgin olive oil, cayenne, white pepper, sea salt, and paprika. But all I wanted were the sweet potatoes that sat alongside the chicken in the roasting pan, drowning in juices as they, too, roasted and filled my home with a visible, smokey scent trail, the kind you used to see in cartoons. The sweet potatoes, they crumbled into the buttery pan sauce when checked for doneness.

This time of year makes me so thankful for the harvest of things growing again. The flavors take care of themselves. The kitchen keeps my attention all day, and this is fine, fine, fine…

a) he knows already, and learned from a very young age
b) I know already, but don’t always admit to knowing

My husband needs this magazine like he needs an -add something here- Book for Dummies he will never, ever read. This magazine is useful and fun for a certain demographic. But honestly, what does this magazine offer that we (I say “we” because I involuntarily, indirectly hear what the articles say, as aforemtioned) need to learn?
 
1) Heart healthy recipes? He has me. I cook healthy. Check.
2) The latest cool merchadise for guys? My husband seems to stick to the basics. Check.
3) Opinions on Roger Clemens? No need. Check.
4) Advice on women? See number 1. Check.

The thing this magazine did besides give me another reason to say “Oh, really?” sarcastically was this…it said “Reciting someone else’s lines reminds people that you haven’t the wit to write your own.”

Oh, really?  Do the sportscasters on ESPN know that? Someone should tell them.

Here is what I think…someone else’s thought, wit, or humor could lead another person to take that line of thinking one step further, and from that unique perspectives on the same topic are born and cause us to look at things differently. Is there something wrong with that?

I think some phrases are so brilliant or hilarious that they can’t be improved upon, and should not be said only once. Isn’t it commonplace knowledge that the standard Caddyshack quote can only be used once a season? Hmm, then why tell people what they already know…

I think inspiration is everywhere, and thank heavens people did not stop writing because no one like Shakespeare or Christopher Marlowe will ever live again (by the way, do you know how often people quote Shakespeare without knowing it?) If someone told Stephen Sondheim this philosophy on someone else’s lines, I am grateful he didn’t take it seriously, I can’t imagine a world without West Side Story, similar as it is to Romeo & Juliet.

But, I know said philosophy is just a snippet from an article with a really good point. It just got me fired up because I doubted myself for a moment - am I unoriginal because I quote Annie Savoy, because I scribble “You got your hair slicked back and those Wayfarers on, baby…” to my girlfriends in our correspondence? Haven’t I built my self-opinion on my ability to be creative?

You bet. The way my mind defaults to movie lines and song lyrics and poetry stanzas…that is what makes me original, I guess. I simply know good material when I hear it, and I know how to distinguish between what is mine and what is someone else’s. Originality always wins out, and I haven’t run out of things to say yet, just ask my husband in between his article reading.

And for those of you who need a yummy, quick, win-win recipe (a panini maker helps), this is a recipe worthy of a men’s, or women’s magazine.

DELICIOUSLY EASY TURKEY BASIL AIOLI PANINI
1 panini roll, cut in half
1 tbsp. mayonnaise
1 tbsp. pesto
4 oz. lean sliced turkey meat
1 slice Swiss cheese
1 romaine leaf

Heat up panini maker.
Mix together pesto and mayonnaise (this is a quick aioli).
Slather basil aioli/pesto mayo on the inside of the panini roll, layer the meat, cheese, and romaine accordingly.
Spray the inside of the panini maker with non-stick spray.
Place prepared panini sandwich inside panini maker and follow manufacturer’s instructions.

There you go. Make it with a lean salami/cured Italian meat and use olive tapenade instead of pesto. Use heirloom tomatoes instead of romaine. Make it original, add your own touches, but if you have to use someone else’s recipe - words, that is - don’t worry. 

It was all for the purpose of a vibrant spirit and healthy heart.

Blog topic:
Have you ever been told, “East something, you’ll feel better,”? I’ve heard this a lot, but unless you’re out of fuel and your blood sugar is low, it doesn’t apply (imagine a foodie saying that, but it’s true). I now have one way and one way only to make myself feel better, now that I’m the grown up.

I hate to sound boring, and I’m not giving instructional tips on living - far from being that righteous - but I’ve learned that accomplishment is the key to me. And it hasn’t been more evident since I have been set back since January, and I have had to focus more than ever to get even one thing done. 

The kids keep getting sick. Seriously, since January, it’s been one affliction after another. Baseball has begun again - I’m so happy - but I remember now the effort required in balancing multiple practices and games, not to mention keeping the uniforms clean, along with giving schoolwork it’s due attention and priority.

The other stuff that would usually be no big deal - house painting, article querying, column formatting, window measuring, applying for passports - those are all time eaters when I am tending to sickies. Basing my end-of-the-day happiness score how much I got done is what I was used to. Living one day at a time is where I have been sent back to.

As Editor-in-Chief of Mom Writer’s Literary Magazine, I read a lot of submissions, and one of them said “Some days all you accomplish is that your kids get another day older.” I have had a lot of these days recently. My arrogant, even foolish, drive to check off as many things (and add more as I go along) from my to-do list might as well have been a letter to the Universe in red Sharpie marker, saying “Humble me!” and the responses I’ve received, in the form of signs, are everywhere.

Everywhere.

Yesterday when I took my two-year-old to the peditarician’s office - I’ve only been there twice this week - I heard the receptionist saying two patients had to be taken away in ambulances (and I inquired, the kids are doing fine now). Wildflowers have sprung up all along the mountain by my home, so yellow and cheery that people are stopping their cars, getting out, and picking bunches for themselves. And although a string of bacterial and allergic bad luck has depleted our Health Care Reimbursement Account, we’ved dodged the worst case scenario bullet. 

In exchange for relinquishing my idiosyncratic need for daily accomplishments, the Universe has given me some insight. I am surprised to learn pointed insight is not like a vaccine, sometimes more than one dose is required throughout development, even for the same issue. Humble me.

My accomplishment may not be in the form of a checkmark, but nonetheless, it’s there.

So what I had planned for today - baking cookies as a thank you to the numerous doctors who saw us on short notice, finishing a column, writing a brilliant pitch to 3 different magazines, and folding/putting away 2 loads of laundry, in addition to other mundane struff - may have to wait.

I’m accomplishing me, I am doing what some divine entity thinks I need to be doing, and I have a long to do list for tomorrow and this weekend.

And thankfully, like my kids, I feel a whole lot better.

However, the Thin Mints made it into our bellies before they made it into the Cuisinart to be reduced to crumb-like consistency. This year will be different! I, Samantha Gianulis, will not hide Girl Scout cookies from myself, thereby driving me further into desiring them. Nor will I allow my children to eat all of said cookies in one I-just-got-home-from-school-feed-me session.

Girl Scout cookies have a higher purpose this year. Those Thin Mints are destined for the Cuisinart, then into a springform pan, next, Bain Marie, and finally, as part of a dessert gracing the kitchen counter…for probably as long as a box of cookies would typically last.

Here is my recipe as I plan to make it, drawn from cookbooks, websites, imagination and some experience. Or, what I call, mommy ingenuity. 

GIRL SCOUT COOKIE CHEESECAKE, DARK CHOCOLATE AND HINT OF MINT

For the crust:
2 cups Thin Mint cookie crumbs
2 tbsp. dark brown sugar
6 tbsp. unsalted butter, melted

For the chocolate ganache:
1/2 cup bittersweet chocolate chips, or 4 oz. of a dark chocolate bar broken into pieces
1 tbsp. unsalted butter, melted
Handful of organic mint leaves
3/4 cup heavy cream

For the cheesecake:
(4) 8 oz. pkgs. cream cheese at room temperature
1 1/4 cup granulated sugar
4 large eggs
2 tsp. vanilla extract

Night before: Pour heavy cream into a bowl and add cleaned, washed and dried mint leaves. Refrigerate. Strain cream next morning. Set cream aside until ready to use in ganache.

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

In a food processor, pulse Thin Mints until you get a yield of 2 cups worth of cookie crumbs. (I plan on crumbing an entire box, I can always buy more boxes outside the grocery store or from one of the many Girl Scouts I know. Any remaining crumbs go straight into the freezer, you know, waste not…)
Mix together brown sugar and melted butter with cookie crumbs. Press into the bottom of springform pan for the crust, put into the fridge.

Make the ganache: In a pan, heat strained/minted heavy cream over medium heat. Add butter, when butter is melted, add chocolate chips or chocolate bar pieces. When chocolate is melted, set ganache aside. Next, beat the softened cream cheese with a mixer or in a standing mixer until smooth, low or medium-low speed. Add granulated sugar. When sugar is incorporated into cream cheese, add eggs, one at a time, make sure each egg is well mixed in before adding the next! Add vanilla. Finally, add chocolate ganache and when chocolate is all mixed in, pour into springform pan.

Wrap bottom of springform pan with heavy duty aluminum foil, so no water seeps in from the Bain Marie (hot water bath). Boil about four cups of water in teapot. While water is coming to boil, place cheesecake in fridge. When you have boiling water, remove cheesecake from fridge and place into a large, empty roasting pan. Pour enough boiling water around the springform pan so that it comes just about two inches up the side of the springfrom pan.

Place in pre-heated oven and bake for approximately one hour to seventy minutes, or until center of cheesecake is firm.

Refrigerate at least 4 hours to overnight.