Chookooloonks

A Photo Post To Hold You Until I Get Back and Put The Holiday Photo Album Together

Much choonkolocity:

From left to right: Alex's cousin Keziah, cousin Theo, Alex, and cousin Eliana

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Incidentally, for sort of a "photo preview" of our holiday, click on the My Life in Pictures link to the right -- I've pre-loaded some photographs I've already taken here in England, so that the site will automatically update each day until we return to Trinidad. Note: the photos on that site were taken more for me to play with the camera; for the more snap-shot-y, storytelling photographs, you'll have to wait until we get back.

More soon.

Pip, pip, and the Definition of Surreal, #849

Well, we've made it to jolly ol' England, and are now safely ensconced in the bosom of Marcus' family in Gloucester.  Alex is in her element, currently being amply doted upon by her English grandparents and cousins, and having already been stuffed silly with hot tea, scones and jam, fish and chips and bangers and mash.  Let's just say I'm glad that I bought her her own seat on the flight back, because I don't think I could manage her ever-expanding butt sitting on my lap for 10 straight hours.

And speaking of flights, surreal is me, a person who when previously confronted with a screaming child on an overnight flight, usually thought to herself "would someone shut that kid up?" ; now, when faced with a similar child who screamed OUR ENTIRE FLIGHT OVER TO ENGLAND, thinking to myself (with more than a modicom of sympathy):

"Thank God that's not my kid."

“She’s the spitting image of you!”; and We’re Off

When I published this post, I received the following comment from “b”:

You two look so much alike in that picture. I don't know if that's something that adoptive parents are happy/indifferent to hearing (would be interested in your opinion) but it is so apparent in that picture my jaw dropped.

Well, thanks, b – I think she looks like me, as well. In fact, Alex and I get that a lot. Some people (like yourself) already know Alex is adopted, and they remark on our resemblance with more than a small amount of incredulity in their voices. Others have no idea about the way Alex became part of our family, and are simply commenting on a resemblance that they happen to notice.

As a mom, I have to say I’m usually quite flattered by the remark, mostly because I think Alex is really pretty – but then, being her mom, Alex could look like Bobo the Monkey Child, and I’d probably still think she was a pretty stunning little imp. But there’s also a part of me that is pleased with the comment because, frankly, when Marcus and I started out on our adoption journey, we wanted to adopt a kid who looked like us.* Marcus and I clearly didn’t care about a particular race so much (let’s face it, between the two of us, we represent English, Irish, African, Chinese and Indian – and those are just the races that we know about), but we were specifically interested in adopting a child who was multiracial**, because for us, it was important for our daughter to be able to manage her own communication about her adoption herself – that is, when she’s older and she brings her friends home to meet us, we didn’t want her adoption to be apparent on its face – her adoption can be something she could reveal (or not reveal) to whomever she chooses. Her call. ***

Again, this was the decision that was right for Marcus and me – it should by no means be interpreted that we have any issues with any other types of transracial or international adoption. I will say, however, that families who look like us don’t have a monopoly to the “she-looks-just-like-you” comments: one my white friends (whose wife is also white) is constantly told how much his Hispanic son looks just like him. Similarly, even the lovely men of Daddy, Papa & Me have been told how much their African-American daughter resembles them. As I recall, when one of them bewilderedly told a commenter that their daughter was adopted, the commenter responded:

“Regardless, she looks like you. I guess love does that.”

I guess it does, indeed.

In summary (and taking a risk and speaking for adoptive families everywhere), I suspect we all love to hear that our children resemble us, no matter what our or our children’s racial background may be – because, you see, it allows us to believe that there is a visible manifestation of the bonds we have with our kids. And if I’m honest, I’ll even admit to feeling a bit of a thrill at the astonishment in the voices of those commenters who know Alex is adopted – it’s as if it’s just dawned on them that perhaps DNA isn’t truly what makes a family a family.

It’s not in our family, anyway.

With that, I’m off to finish packing for our holiday; we leave tomorrow. Posting over the next two weeks will be sporadic, at best: while I should have a dial-up connection wherever we are in England, I suspect that our focus will be on reuniting with family and friends, and I shan’t have a lot of time on the computer. That said, while we’re gone, if any of you (lurkers included!) have any questions you’ve been burning to ask me, feel free to ask – I’m happy to answer them when we return.

Speak soon!
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*Now, before anyone gets bent out of shape, understand that I’m absolutely, unequivocally, 100% pro-adoption no matter the form: international, domestic, transracial, older child, sibling group, special needs, by a lesbian/gay couple, by a step-parent, by a family member, by a friend – it’s all beautiful to me. Remember, people: “love and light, love and light.”

**Alex is 1/2-Mexican-American, 1/2-Black Colombian.

***I know there are some of you who will claim that we should make a point to raise Alex to be proud of her adoption, such that she will want to shout it from the rooftops. Clearly, her adoption is something we’re proud of, and our every intent is to convey that pride to her. However, as many adoptive parents will tell you, “adoptism,” (a word my friend Brat introduced to me), exists – the belief that becoming a family via adoption is somehow inferior to doing so via childbirth. I can conceive of occasions where Alex would rather not deal with adoptism (from schoolteachers or whomever), and would instead choose to be silent on the issue. Besides, while her adoption is important, it shouldn’t be the main thing that defines her – or our family, for that matter.

Trinidad Stew Chicken

Well, after all that build up, as I’m putting this recipe together, I’m afraid that it’s going to be a bit of let-down. Trinidadian Stew Chicken, you see, is basically the same recipe as Pelau, but without the rice.

Do you feel a bit ripped off, now?

Anyway, it’s a really delicious recipe, and goes beautifully with Macaroni Pie -- serve the two together, and you’ll have a true Trini meal on your hands. End it all with a serving of coconut ice cream, and you might even start talking with an accent.

So without further ado:

KAREN'S TRINIDADIAN STEW CHICKEN

What you’ll need:

- About 10 pieces of chicken
- 3 - 4 cloves of garlic
- Fresh ginger (I use one about the size of a large clove of garlic)
- 1 large onion, chopped coarsely

- “seasoning” (Much like the Curry Chicken & Dumplings, if you’re in Trinidad, use “green seasoning” – if not, use any creole seasoning, such as Tony Chachare’s Creole Seasoning.

- Soy sauce
- Worcestershire sauce
- Vegetable oil
- Brown sugar
- 1 cup water
- 1 chicken-flavoured bouillon cube
- Coconut Milk (Again, this recipe assumes powdered coconut milk. If, however, you’re only able to obtain canned coconut milk in liquid form, for the purposes of this recipe, I’d use about 1/2 a can.)
- Salt to taste

For the marinade:

1. Clean chicken, removing any excess fat.

2. Grate garlic and ginger into the chicken.

3. Add onions.

4. Add seasoning to taste.

5. Add enough soy sauce and Worcestershire sauce to fully coat chicken pieces.

Mix well, and let stand for 10 minutes.

To prepare:

1. Place about 2 “potspoonfuls” of oil (the amount of oil it takes to fill up a cooking spoon) in a large pot, and place on high heat.

2. Add 2 potspoonfuls of brown sugar to the oil, spreading it evenly in the oil without mixing

3. Leave on high heat until the sugar starts to turn dark brown, almost black, and starts to bubble, like in the Pelau recipe. Recently, I read an article describing the burning sugar looking like the head of a Guinness – probably a good description, and your signal that you’re ready to add the chicken. Depending on your stove, it will only take a couple of minutes for this to occur.

4. SLOWLY add the chicken pieces to the oil, one by one. WARNING: THE OIL WILL SPATTER, so be careful, so now would be the time to get your little ones away from the stove!

5. Once you’ve got all the pieces in, let the sugar “brown” your chicken, stirring occasionally, to ensure that the pieces don’t stick.

6. After the chicken is browned, add the remaining seasoning (shown below) to the pot, turn the heat to medium.

7. Add one cup of water to the mixture, and stir.

8. Add coconut milk to the mixture, as shown below, and stir.

You’ll notice little flecks of colour in the above picture – this is the addition of peppers called “pimientos,” although I don’t think it’s the same type of pepper that comes in an olive. This Trini pepper SMELLS hot like a chili, but it actually isn’t – it’s completely mild. If you can find a mild pepper, then by all means, add it to taste – however, I don’t think bell peppers would work, as they’re a bit too sweet.

9. Crumble bouillon cube over the entire mixture, and stir, and add salt to taste. Cover the pot, and let simmer until the chicken is cooked, about 30 minutes You’ll want to stir the pot occasionally, and if it looks like your liquid is disappearing (though it shouldn’t), feel free to add a bit more water.

Once the chicken is cooked, your stew is ready. It’ll look something like this:

Again, this recipe is delicious with Macaroni Pie, but it goes well with any other starch – rice, roasted potatoes, etc. Marcus really loves this with couscous – not particularly Trini, but delicious, nonetheless.

So, again, thanks for all your travel tips – enjoy!

The Visual Equivalent to Muzak

While you wait for me to format the Trinidad Stew Chicken recipe, I thought I'd post the results of our latest Fun With A Nikon episode, illustrating the best of voguing by the Alexis Cheese School of Modeling:

Enjoy.

Thanks, and more thanks

Aww, you guys are just too much. Thank you for all the wonderful birthday wishes. I had a fabulous birthday -- we didn't do anything special to celebrate, but OH! the loot I pulled in! First, the camera bag I ordered a few weeks ago arrived, just in time for our trip to England. And as if that wasn't enough, Marcus, that man-o-mine, bought me a KICKING tripod for my camera, and tells me the most amazing lens is on its way via post as we speak. And as if that wasn't enough, he also got me the latest Harry Potter book. Do you see why I keep him around? Do you see?

(Of course, with all this fantastic camera equipment, the pressure is now on for me to actually make something of this photography business. Gulp.)

Thanks also for the wonderful ideas for stuff to take on our trip to appease the Diva. (An aside: she's now added Foot Stomping to the Arched Back and High Pitched Squeal of her Tantrum Repertoire. Such a clever girl.) We all went shopping Saturday, and I must say, Girlie pulled in quite the loot herself (though she doesn't know it yet). We have stickers! We have books! We have Magnadoodles! We have crayons ... to say nothing of the Post-it Notes and Ziploc bags we're hoarding like madpeople, as well. Tonight: the search for Goldfish, Cheerios and sleep-inducing decongestant. So if this trip all goes pearshaped, it will not be because we weren't prepared, or you weren't generous in your suggestions. You guys rock. Trinidad Stew Chicken recipe to follow.

And finally, for a true definition of "looks great for her age," check out the photograph I took of Granny the Great yesterday at my parents' place.

Now that's age-defiance.

Thirty-Eight

Self-portrait, age 38

I’m thirty-eight years old today.

I find that at every birthday I celebrate, I get a bit introspective. Introspective, but not depressed – I love my birthday. As far as I’m concerned, each birthday is a milestone. For this reason, rather than focusing on regrets or character flaws, I always spend my birthday making personal “new year’s resolutions," and celebrating the things I did during the past year of which I’m most proud.

This last year was a pretty profound one, to say the least. When I started my thirty-eighth year, I was just learning how to be a mum – although, to be honest, I still feel pretty new at this. These kids, they change so fast, don’t they? Just when you think you’ve finally got one stage down, they pop up with a whole new parenting challenge. The good (and frankly, surprising) news is that each phase tends to be more rewarding than the last.

I just hope it stays that way.

Anyway, as I was saying, it’s been a pretty whirlwind year, with lots of changes. And judging from how happy my life is right now, I’d say that the changes have generally all been for the better.

A few things I’m proud of (and a couple are related to that revelation I spoke about in an earlier post):

First, at the tireless urging and encouragement of two Chookooloonks-readers-turned-invaluable-friends (hi Brat! Hi Tina!), I’ve written a children’s book. If published, it will be a picture book, probably best suited to 5 – 8-year-olds. I’ve submitted the manuscript to several American publishers, so now I’m in “wait-and-see” mode – apparently, most publishers take several months to respond, so I’m trying not to think about it too much. Keep your fingers crossed.

The second thing I’m pleased about (and hope to eventually be proud of), is that I’m exploring the possibility of starting a photography business. I’ve been working on a website of my best shots, I’ve contacted a large stock photography company, so the plan is to submit some work to them when we return from our English holiday in August. I'm also thinking of contacting some local magazines whose content I admire, and enquiring about getting some work from them. And speaking of England, while we’re in London, a friend of mine will be introducing me to a friend of hers who is a photographers’ agent – she’s already seen some of my work, and has agreed to meet with me. So we’ll see what happens on that front.

Finally, the thing of which I'm most proud that I did during the past year: leave my job. It was a very scary thing for me to do, give that up. It’s so easy to get comfortable with a nice, steady paycheck, and my career was very promising at the company where I worked. But I knew the move would be good for my family: it exposes my daughter to my culture in a broader way than I would’ve ever been able to do in Texas. It was a wonderful career move for Marcus, and God knows he’d sacrificed a lot for my career in the past – I owed it to him. Finally, I’ve been given an opportunity to re-connect with my country. And while I knew all these things before I quit, there’s been an unintended and unanticipated benefit to me—the move has allowed me to flex a creative muscle that I suspected I had, but had never exercised.

Now for the “new year’s resolutions”: I guess, for the most part, I’d like to see progress in the things I’ve already set in motion. It’d be great if one of the publishers offered me a contract. I’d love if I could get signed on with one of the magazines to do some freelance photography. And clearly, I want to continue to grow as a mum and a wife.

So anyway, happy birthday to me. And happy birthday to all of you, no matter when your birthday is. When your day does come around, I hope you’ll spend some time celebrating your successes of the year. Because we all have successes, of all shapes and sizes – we just need to commit to ourselves to take the time to recognize them. Revel in them. And use them to propel us forward toward our next triumph. After all, as Andrea says:

You are your very own superhero.

Bag O' Tricks

A week from tomorrow, the Chookooloonks family will be boarding a plane for a 10 hour flight to the United Kingdom.

For those of you who happen to be on our flight, I apologize now.

I have begun to worry about this trip -- not the trip over, you understand, as it's an overnight flight, and we will all likely sleep for most of the flight. And I'm certainly not worried about being in England -- to be honest, I'm excited beyond description. We're visiting Marcus' family (who I love), but I'm particularly excited for Alex to meet Marcus' dad. He's a seasoned grandfather, and wonderful with all his grandchildren. I'm eager for Alex to join the fray.

It's the flight back I'm worried about. Ten solid hours of daylight with an easily-bored toddler. Nothing good can come of this.

So here's where you come in, Internet. This weekend Marcus and I are going to purchase an Arsenal of Stuff that will hopefully keep Alex engaged for the entire trip. Problem is, being relative traveling-parent neophytes, we have no idea what to buy.

For those of you who've traveled with a toddler before, what's the lifesaving thing you brought with you that saved the trip (and kept from ruining the other passengers' flight)? Any suggestion related to toys, books and/or illicit substances is most certainly welcome.

Thanks, as always, in advance. In return, I'll see if I can scare up a Trinidadian Stew Chicken recipe for you.

Storm comin'

Battening down the hatches, now.

UPDATE: Judging from the latest satellite photos and the light rain falling outside, looks like Emily is heading north, pretty much missing us. It's actually very uncommon for Trinidad to get hurricanes, since we're so far south, so we shouldn't be too surprised.

Thanks for your kind notes -- everything's fine!

The Answers, and Three Stories About Which I Am Somewhat Amused (in no particular order)

Thanks for playing. I must say, judging from the responses to the two pictures (a) I worry that our family's sobriety so often comes in question with all of you -- what is it I have done to give you the impression that alcohol, that demon drink, is consumed in our house with such abandon? I mean it is, but what is it I have done? and (b) poor Marcus, what with all of you suggesting that he has bad taste in toddler fashion. You're right, of course, he does, but still ... poor, poor Marcus.

And so, to the answers:

In the first "Guess," the correct answer is (D). However, I plead innocence: when I dressed the child, she was merely wearing the dress alone, and was barefoot -- a vision in tropicality, she was. Then Marcus found the Chuck Taylor high tops (the ones I thought I'd hidden well), and put them on her with glee. Finally, Alex has a total hat fetish going on these days, and felt the jaunty little topper completed the look. Thank goodness we weren't going anywhere that day.

In the second "Guess," the correct answer is (C) -- that look is all Alex. We had just woken up, and Alex was still in her footie pyjamas (yes, I know we live in the tropics, but our home is air-conditioned, which is a good thing, since we discovered that the cold air makes wandering snakes slow and sluggish). While Alex wandering around our bedroom (I was trying to get a couple of more winks), she found the laundry basket with the clothes yet-to-be-ironed, and pulled out that dress. She insisted I help her in it. Then, of course, she needed a stylish chapeau, and Marcus' Carib beer hat seemed to do the trick.

Sadly, all parties were sober in the creation of both looks.

Now, for the three stories:

One

Alex knows she's not supposed to play with my camera. The other day, I'd left it on my bed. I went into the next room, and when I returned, I found the camera lying on its back on the floor, lens facing up to the ceiling, and Alex standing over it.

Because I hadn't gone far, I knew she hadn't dropped it, or I would've heard it. However, I wasn't pleased -- she knows the rules.

"Alex!" I said. "What are you doing with my camera?" I put on my best scolding-mum face.

Without batting an eye, she stooped over the camera, and looked directly into the lens.

"CHEESE!!!" she said.

Child has issues.

Two

On Tuesday, someone detonated a bomb in Port-of-Spain, Trinidad's capital (this isn't the amusing part). No one was killed, but about 15 people were injured, and a jewelry store was demolished. Now, if I know my country (and I think I do), the culprit was likely some moron who was enamoured with last week's bombings in London, and decided to see if he could create equal havoc in Port-of-Spain.

He succeeded. You would've thought bin Laden himself had set off the bomb. "WAS IT A TERRORIST ACT?" screamed the press (as if al Qaeda could even find Trinidad on a map, let alone have some vendetta against this tiny island). "DON'T PANIC!" yelled the officials. The entire downtown section of Port-of-Spain was evacuated, causing traffic jams everywhere. Marcus couldn't get home until later, because as he looked outside of his office window at the Queen's Park Savannah (Trinidad's version of New York City's Central Park), there was traffic as far as the eye could see. To make matters worse, cars had decided to cut through the park to make it home -- even going so far as to drive right through the middle of a cricket match that was taking place. And of course, because of the rainy season, the Savannah was particularly muddy, so many of these vehicles found themselves stuck in the middle of the park.

Marcus went downstairs to a bar to have a beer and wait it out.

Today, they've discovered that the device was probably made in someone's backyard, and likely has no ties to any terrorist organizations. You could almost feel the anchorwoman's disappointment as she relayed this bit of information. I kinda felt sorry for her.

Three

The following painting, done by a friend of mine, hangs in our guest bedroom:

Yesterday evening, Alex and I were in that bedroom, and I found Alex studying the painting carefully. Finally, she looked at me.

"Hat," she said, pointing to the painting solemnly.

"Yes, Alex, he's wearing a hat," I said. "That's very good."

She went back to studying the painting, her brow furrowed. Then all of a sudden, her face lit up, and she smiled broadly at me.

"PEE!!" she exclaimed proudly, pointing to the painting again.

Methinks the time for potty training grows nigh.