Daniel, Daniel, quite contrary

How does your day go?

Napless, whining, wanting your way

And lots of “No, No, No, No, No!”

Daniel is 32 months.  He was so easy-going and laid-back for the last several months that I thought we had perhaps escaped the Terrible Twos.

Au contraire.  In the last few weeks, it’s like someone flipped a switch, and he has started to demand his way.  And the whining when he doesn’t get his way is a-may-zing.  He’s also become very fond of saying the opposite of what he means, which is quite maddening:

Me: Daniel, do you want to go outside?

Daniel:  No, not go outside.

Me: Ok, we’ll stay inside.

Daniel: (on the verge of tears) Go outside! Go outside!

Thankfully, he’s still pretty cute

]]> http://babywithatwist.wordpress.com/2012/02/23/daniel-daniel-quite-contrary/feed/ 0 kh99 AngryDoodle http://babywithatwist.wordpress.com/2012/02/21/book-review-bringing-up-bebe-of-course-the-french-do-it-better/ http://babywithatwist.wordpress.com/2012/02/21/book-review-bringing-up-bebe-of-course-the-french-do-it-better/#comments Tue, 21 Feb 2012 21:17:47 +0000 kh99 http://babywithatwist.wordpress.com/?p=1225 ]]>

It’s that time of year again! Time to allege that Americans are lousy parents.  Last year, it was Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother; this year, the slings and arrows come from Pamela Druckerman’s book Bringing Up Bebe: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting.

Oh la la.

I was eager to read the book because I a bit of a francophile (though not as much as I am an anglophile) and have visited twice and also have French in-laws.  I was curious to see how French parenting differed from American parenting.

Bringing Up Bebe in a Nutshell

As an expat bringing up three children in Paris, Druckerman noticed that the French parent very differently than Americans. In France, French babies sleep through the night at 3 months as a rule.   French parents also never fear taking their children to restaurants because these paragons can easily handle lengthy, multi-course meals containing a variety of ingredients.  At playgrounds, French children play enthusiastically but never throw tantrums when it’s time to leave or they don’t get their way.  French parents are even able to enjoy a leisurely coffee and chat with a friend while their children happily entertain themselves without destroying the house.  Druckerman concludes that whatever the French are doing, it allows them to parent with much less stress and more joy than American parents, who in contrast over-parent and are hyper-vigilant about any possible danger, resulting in stressed, exhausted parents.

According to Druckerman, French parents do the following to achieve such civilized children:

• Teach their babies to sleep through the night around 3-4 months through the Pause, a type of attentive listening that means parents don’t immediately pick up a crying baby
• Teach their children to wait and learn patience as well as to become bored and figure out how to entertain themselves
• Talk to their children as if they can understand & treat them with respect from infancy
• Setting firm limits in which certain rules are inviolate (fixed meal times, no snacks, respect for adults and parental authority) but are extremely permissive everywhere else
• Understand that parents are not chained to their children and need adult time
• Do not try to rush their children on to the next developmental stage but are content to let them explore and develop at their own pace
• Don’t overpraise; praise them when they say or do something truly outstanding
• Approach child-rearing with the believe that they are educating their children instead of disciplining them

What I Liked

There was a lot to like about Druckerman’s book.  First of all, it was a quick read.  Also, a lot of what she observes about French parenting makes sense.  Take the Pause for example. French parents typically wait a few minutes to evaluate whether the baby is really awake and to give the baby a chance to settle on his/her own.  In contrast, I remember rushing to pick up Daniel immediately at night when he started to cry as an infant.  It wasn’t until almost 2 years later that I blearily waited a few minutes and discovered the child could put himself back to sleep.  What is really amazing is that it appears that the Pause is understood and agreed upon by almost all French parents.  There is no CIO vs attachment parenting in France; there is only the Pause.

I also liked how French children are able to entertain themselves.  Perhaps I take this ability for granted since I was an only child, but I like that Daniel is at the age where he can play with his trains by himself.  I want him to use his imagination to alleviate any boredom he might feel without depending on me or Jimmy to give him something to do.

Druckerman’s book also made me rethink some of what I think Daniel may or may not be capable at his age.   I was struck by a story in which Druckerman recounts her shock at seeing a three-year-old girl carefully measuring out the ingredients for a cake all by herself and scooping batter into a cupcake pan.  These cupcakes were later eaten at the one snack-time French parents allow.  After reading that story, I wonder if I may be too quick to rule out an activity or experience for Daniel because I think he’s too young or doesn’t have the attention span.

The concept of educating versus disciplining a child is fascinating and possibly the most paradigm-shifting idea I took from the book.  Education is gentler but hints at setting a firm foundation on which everything sits.  It hints at a longer journey with give and take between both the parent and child; it makes rearing children a co-production instead of a dictatorship, thought the parent is clearly in charge.  Discipline, on the other hand, is tied to punishment and has a negative connotation.  Instead of broadening a child’s horizon, it appears to limit them through a litany of “thou shalts.”  Education is what we do for humans whereas discipline is what we do for animals.  I don’t want to be a parent who disciplines; I want to be a parent who educates.

What I Didn’t Like

Bless her heart, I don’t think Druckerman particularly likes living in Paris.  Her constant feeling of being an outsider is reminiscent of other books I have read about American expats in France.  She has low French self-esteem (moral of the story: don’t move to France unless you have extremely high, possibly delusional levels of self-esteem).  It is difficult to read a book in which the author constantly points out how much she and her family suck in comparison to the effortless French.

More importantly, Druckerman generalized a lot about American parenting vs. French parenting.  According to her, American parents are all hyper-vigilant, helicopter parents who don’t sleep for years because our little darlings have never been sleep trained, and we accept that as normal. As well, all American children are poorly-behaved miscreants who eat whenever they want and around whom our lives and schedules revolve.   I get the point she is trying to make, but it doesn’t help her case that we can learn from French parenting when all of American parenting is lumped together and dismissed as “bad” with no statistics to back it up.

Speaking of statistics, more would have been nice.  Druckerman throws in the occasional study to support whatever claim she is making (usually to support her claim for the superiority of a French method), but there are very few studies overall.  I would have liked to have seen more objective information to back up her conclusions.

Conclusion

Druckerman’s book is more of an ethnographic study than a how-to manual.  If you want to learn exactly how the French achieve the behavior they do with their children, then this is not the book for you.  If you are intrigued by how different countries parent, then you will likely enjoy it.

While I criticized the book for over-generalizing American parenting, I must admit that there is a grain of truth to Druckerman’s assertion.  I am constantly trying to define what a good mother is in the 21st Century.  Is it the mother who spends every moment doing enriching activities or playing with her child?  Is it the mother who carves out time for herself and her spouse and acknowledges that she is separate from her child?  I receive mixed messages about this every day and as a result, I feel guilty if I don’t spend every minute with Daniel, if he is not my sole focus and guilty if I want to get a babysitter and do something frivolous.  Bringing Up Bebe, though flawed, was a nice reality check into how other parents parent.

I listen to his labored breathing and hope he’s better by 7AM because I need to go to work for a two-day workshop after two sick days at home. Unable to go back to sleep, I surf on my iPhone, visiting blogs and trashy celebrity gossip sites.

My alarm goes off, and I stumble to the shower to start getting ready. Daniel wakes up, and I get him from his room. His forehead is hot, and his face is flushed and puffy. He’s whiny and crying, “Momma, hold me” while I kiss and hug him and turn on Super Why so I can finish getting ready. He begins to cry, and my heart breaks. He should stay home today. I should stay home today with him. Finally ready to go, I put on his jacket over his cozy footie pajamas and feel grateful that he is going to his grandmother’s house where I know my sick boy will receive lots of cuddles and hugs.

At work I make his doctor’s appointment, booking the only available time, a time that of course is the most inconvenient one. I exhale, pull myself together and go to my workshop, prepared to razzle and dazzle despite sounding like I swallowed a frog and having a scratchy throat and throbbing head. Calm and focused on the outside, twitchy on the inside as I await the verdict from the doctor’s office: an ear infection. I immediately replay the last 4 days in my head, searching for any clue that would have told me Daniel had an ear infection instead of letting him suffer longer than necessary.

Class over, I head to the required evening dinner and working session, checking in with Jimmy. Daniel is miserable: no nap, feverish, needy and clingy. He won’t eat or drink anything. Guilt, today’s constant companion, waves hello. I should go home. A good mother would go home. Previous generations of women fought hard so I could sit at that table and think about being at home. Should, should should. Always should.

The moment I swallow the last bite of braised lamb shank (while Jimmy is eating leftovers if he has even eaten at all), I make my excuses and fly. I race home, but I’m too late: Daniel is already in bed. Jimmy and I chat about the evening and how pitiful Daniel was. No longer racing anywhere, I slump, my body reminding me I’ve been awake since 2AM.

I get ready for bed and wonder why I do this routine each and every day. Why I go to work. I have good days during which I accomplish a lot and make a difference:  I’m queen of the world.  I have bad days during which I feel tied in knots and tripped up by processes and people, making no progress and feeling like it is impossible to make even the smallest impact.  On those days I resemble that poor guy in Munch’s The Scream painting.  He looks like he might understand the special hell that is working with bureaucracy.

Birth and death and sickness and health and change and carpet beetles cycle around and around. Lately I feel like I’m constantly moving and running and getting nowhere, especially during times like this. Exhausted, I wonder why I bother. I gave up ambitions of setting the world on fire years ago; I’m just a rat in a cage.

I go to bed, thankful that the breathing coming from the monitor is smoother and less labored than the night before.

Four hours later, my eyes pop open. It’s 2AM. Time to do it all over again.

Death Comes to Pemberley, a sequel to Pride and Prejudice, is the latest entry.  Written by acclaimed mystery author P.D. James, the novel picks up a few years after Pride and Prejudice ended.  We join the happily married Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, parents to two small boys, as they prepare for an annual ball hosted at Pemberley.  They have been joined by Mr. Darcy’s sister, the Bingleys, a young attorney and Colonel Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s cousin.  As the wind picks up and a storm moves in on the eve of the ball, so does trouble in the form of Elizabeth’s sister, Lydia Wickham.   Even more unexpected than her arrival is her news:  Wickham has been murdered, and Pemberley’s residents become embroiled in a mystery.

What I Liked

James did an amazing job of recreating Austen’s world (customs, language and the legal system) as well as recreating the characters; it also helped the novel’s believability as a sequel that of the Pride and Prejudice characters present in the novel, only Darcy and Elizabeth were present throughout.  In brief scenes, James managed to convey the flavor of Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Bennet, Wickham and Lydia without exposing a faithful P&P reader to a misstep.  She also wisely introduced new characters who had larger roles, so that the focus was carried evenly by the Darcys and the new characters.  I also liked that she delved into Darcy’s family tree and fleshed out some of the pressures and history that shaped him into the Darcy we know (and adore!).  James also slyly included clever references to characters in Emma and Persuasion that both worked with the plot and added to the novel’s credibility.

What I Didn’t Like

I haven’t read any of James’ mysteries, so I don’t know if this style is typical of her, but a lot of the novel took place in the characters’ thoughts.   Yes, there was dialogue, but there was a lot of exposition that seemed excessive.  I also thought that she spent too much time explaining plot points from Pride and Prejudice that the reader needed to know in order to understand the plot.  I understand that she was trying to make her novel accessible to a reader who hadn’t read Pride and Prejudice or hadn’t read it in a long time, but honestly, if you aren’t a major P&P fan, are you going to read a book that is a sequel to a book  you haven’t read?  The explanations, though well tied into the story (typically in the character’s thoughts), took up too many pages and couldn’t quite hide that the central mystery was a little thin.  The actual mystery and characters’ motivations seemed a bit sensational for Austen’s novels; they seemed a bit closer to Dickens’ novels.

Verdict

Overall, Death Comes to Pemberley was a fun read.  I’ve read other sequels to P&P that were far less competently executed.  While I can quibble with the details, overall, James got it right (and she’s almost 92 years old!!).  She obviously loves Austen and Pride and Prejudice, and this sequel is one that any Austen-phile can safely pick up and enjoy.

JJiraffe is one of those awesome, brave, amazing women. She has started a series of posts focusing on the real faces of the ALI community, hoping to provide a counterpoint to the sensational coverage in most mainstream newspapers (looking at you, NY Times).  Her goal is to get 1000 views on her current post featuring Sarah’s endometriosis and adoption story because she believes (and I agree) that the more we are able to get the true stories of ALI out there, the greater the understanding and empathy will be.  I empathize very much with Sarah’s story because severe endometriosis is one of my issues and while I haven’t lost an ovary, I have lost a tube to it.

So if anyone other than my cats (I have very advanced felines) reads this blog, please click over to JJiraffe’s post on Sarah and help her reach her goal of 1000 views.

Lovingly-made brownie. I hear it tasted good.

I have a confession:  I don’t like chocolate.  There, I’ve said it.  Feel free to brand me with a scarlet “W” for Weird.

The Crazy Situation that Turned Me Off Chocolate

It wasn’t always this way.  When I was younger, I loved chocolate as much as the next person.  My favorite birthday cake was yellow with chocolate frosting.  I adored Whitman’s Samplers and chocolate chip cookies (especially fond memories of Hardees’ Big Cookies); I saw those giant heart-shaped boxes of candy in the store around Valentine’s Day (or the day after Christmas as it happens now), and I dreamed of having a boyfriend give me one.

It all changed when I was in the 9th grade.  My classmates had been giving rave reviews on the cafeteria’s chocolate chip cookies and one day, I gave in and decided to try one.  Later that night, I was sick.  I wasn’t majorly sick, but it was enough to make me dislike chocolate forever.  Was it the chocolate chip cookie?  Probably not, but it was the only thing outside of my routine that day, so my brain projected my nausea onto the poor cookie.  It probably did not help that my duties for the newspaper staff meant that I worked in a room in which those horrid chocolate bar sale kits were stored.

Presently

I’m 34.  I was 14 in 9th grade.  That means that for the last 20 years, I have not eaten chocolate.  I can’t stand it.  Any desire I had for it was killed.  The only other food I’ve had this reaction to was Doritos when I was 6 years old and licked too many (still can’t eat or smell them to this day).

I do cook with chocolate.  Jimmy loves chocolate, and I will bake cakes and cookies for him.  I made chocolate souflees for a dinner party a few years ago.  However, I violate the main rule of any decent cook: I don’t taste my food.  I can’t.  I can’t taste the chocolate and evaluate it impartially.

That means no Whitman’s Samplers for me for Valentine’s Day.

Poor Me

It’s very hard being a non-chocolate lover in a chocolate-lover’s world.  Consider the desserts on most restaurant menus.  If they have a non-chocolate option, it’s usually cheesecake or something with apples.  That’s nice, but cheesecake gets old after a while. Fun fact: if you’re dieting, not eating chocolate is a great way to avoid dessert.

Petite Chocoholic

Daniel likes chocolate.  He had his first take of chocolate ice cream on Ocracoke Island just after his first birthday in 2010.  He has since explored and enjoyed Oreos and Kit Kats (thank you, Halloween).  We occasionally buy him a piece of cake from our local bakery and give him tiny bits from it over the course of a week.  He devours all chocolate eagerly.

Or so I thought.

After having some disappointing reactions to some homemade non-chocolate sweets, I thought that I couldn’t go wrong with brownies.  We made brownies last weekend, and Daniel helped by adding the water and oil and trying to stir the thick batter.  I had high hopes for this treat.  After lunch, I served him a tiny bit of brownie and he…rejected it.  He acted like I had tried to get him to eat brussel sprouts.  He wouldn’t eat the brownie.

Heartbreak.  My little boy will freely and happily eat store-bought cake but not brownies made at home by his mommy?  Ouch.  Rejection.

He’s 2.5. I know that can be an exceptionally picky age, and we’ll keep trying.  I love baking, though, so I’m suddenly afraid he won’t want what I can make.

Asserting himself already.  I guess I’m sort of proud.

Write about something that you unexpectedly had a hard time saying goodbye to.

My car before the one I currently have was a 1998 red Ford Explorer.  I called it, predictably, Big Red.  We bought Big Red in 2004 after my car was totaled in an accident at Crossroads in Cary the day we left for France (I needed a coat & Old Navy was the winner.  Or loser depending on your point of view. I actually still have the coat.).   The totaled car was 2000 Mazda Protege, belovedly and again predictably named Sandy due to her gold color.  She was also my first brand new car, so she had a special place in my heart.  I cried the day we received the verdict about her.

Big Red served me well.  He was the biggest car I’d ever had, and I put a lot of miles on him.  He took me to work.  To and from Chapel Hill for class.  He hauled purchases from Lowe’s for landscaping projects and was the default vehicle for grocery trips.   He went back and forth from our previous house to our current one when we moved. The only real negative about Big Red was the horrific gas mileage, but he was a SUV, so I didn’t have high expectations. Oh, and he was paid for.

Then came 2009 and Cash for Clunkers.  The deals were very good, and Big Red qualified as a Clunker.  We had planned for me to get a new car around 2011 or 2012, but the deals made a new car almost a no brainer.  And we had just brought home a newborn and putting him in an 11-year-old SUV seemed wrong somehow.   Jimmy and I picked out a car, and he made the deal happen.

The day Big Red left us was more emotional than I anticipated.  Though he had been a good, reliable car, I hadn’t loved him like I loved Sandy, and I felt bad about that.  I also felt bad that I was essentially dooming him since he was going to be scrapped.

I patted him goodbye and told him how much I appreciated his time with us.  And then they took him away.

It seems a little silly to anthropomorphize a car, but I did.

Thank you, Big Red.

As I started thinking about the issue, I began to wonder where these women would receive breast exams if Planned Parenthood was no longer able to provide them.  Grand political declarations are well and good until you think about the reality.  The entire point of Planned Parenthood providing breast exams was because these women couldn’t afford them elsewhere. So I think the real question is this:

Why do we hate poor people?

Yes, that is a rather inflammatory statement, but it is not difficult to conclude that when you look into some of the positions taken recently.

Planned Parenthood

• Provides around 750,000 breast exams each year
• One in five women in the United States have used them at some point

One in five.  Twenty percent.  That’s a lot of women who have been able to receive care they might not have been able to afford otherwise, yet why do we let the political storm around the 3% of their services that comprise abortion threaten the 97% of important healthcare services (such as breast exams, Pap smears, birth control, etc.) they provide?

WIC (Women, Infants and Children Program)

WIC provides nutritious food to women who are pregnant or who have recently given birth and children under the age of 5 who are nutritionally at-risk due to income.  In 2010, WIC served 9 million people and almost half (45%) of the nation’s infants under one year received benefits in 2010.  In 2011, Congress attempted to cut more than $500 million from WIC’s budget in an attempt to balance the budget and still faces cuts in future budgets. Typical criticism of the program is that WIC subsidizes fatty foods and provides free formula (though they also offer education and nutrition classes); however, research demonstrates that WIC provides healthy food. While I don’t know personally what types of food are available through WIC, I think we can all agree that any food – even fatty food – is better than no food if it comes to that.  For more information, read Dresden’s amazing series of posts on living on assistance called “In Times Like These”.

Head Start

Head Start also found itself on the chopping block of Congress’ budget in 2011.  Head Start is a federally-funded preschool designed to help low-income children become prepared for school.  Head Start provides not only educational preparation but also nutrition and health services.  In FY 2011, Head Start had funding to serve 965,000 children, but potential budget cuts would reduce the number able to be served by 157,000. Criticism lobbed against the program is that early gains are not sustained: by 3rd grade, children lag behind due to lack of support, family issues, etc.  The obvious solution to this would be to fund another program to help low-income children throughout school, but no, let’s throw the baby out with the bathwater and de-fund Head Start so that low-income children never have a chance to succeed in school.

These are just a few examples of how the programs to aid lower-income citizens are constantly in jeopardy.  My question is why they must bear the burden of helping us balance the budget or rein in our fiscal household.  Do we truly hate the poor?  If so, what is it we hate?  Is it that they must not be working hard enough?  Is it that they must be less educated and not taking advantage of opportunities available to them?  Statistics on who makes up that demographic certainly would not bear that out. Forty-six million Americans were living in poverty in 2010, including 25% of children.  Those totals are the highest since the 1950s and reflect the current economic times when lost jobs are throwing families into poverty.  Unemployment, however, isn’t the only reason.  There are many who work but qualify due to not making enough.

Maybe it’s a far simpler explanation: we fear them.  We fear becoming them and losing control over our lives and the ability to take care of ourselves and our families.  So instead of acknowledging that shit happens or that maybe a policy will hurt more than help, working to build them up and give them a helping hand, we want to shame them, hide them, punish them.

I’m tired of it.  I’m tired of women and children taking the brunt of these partisan acts and laws.   How can we purport to be a family-friendly nation if we are friendly only to certain families?

I’m pleased that the Komen Foundation bowed to the pressure to rescind its decision on Planned Parenthood, but I’m certain we haven’t heard the last of it.  After all, many wonder what will happen next year when PP reapplies.  I admit that I have failed to educate myself adequately on the Komen Foundation, and I’ve been appalled at what I’ve found.  I’ll never walk in a Komen walk again. Politicizing health and well-being is the lowest of the low and any group or politician that tries to do so should be ashamed.

What are your thoughts?

It’s been a stressful time in my house, which you might have gathered.  One night a few weeks ago, I uttered a very loud, expressive “Jesus Christ” when Jimmy and I were recounting our days.  It probably sounded more like “JEEZUS K-RIST!”  About two seconds later, Daniel mimicked me with an utterly adorable and enthusiastic “Jesus Christ.”  We laughed, and I muttered something about being more careful.

A few days later, MIL and I were chatting, and she mentioned Daniel’s new phrase.  And that it sounded more like swearing than a sweet call to our Lord and Savior.  Sheepishly, I admitted that Daniel might have heard the phrase at home and that said phrase might have been used as an expletive.  Ha ha ha.

Cue to the church.

Last Friday was Mum’s funeral mass.  Daniel behaved beautifully despite the mass being during nap time (he’s fascinated with music, so the many songs helped).  After the mass, we proceeded outside for the internment of Mum’s ashes.  It was a tiny space, and Daniel, Jimmy and I were very close to the priest.  The priest began to speak.  I can’t remember what he said except that it contained a lot of “Praise Jesus.”  During that sacred time when I should have been focusing on Mum, I had a horrible thought.  What if my toddler, hearing the many “Praise Jesuses,” decided to add a boisterous “Jesus Christ” of his own which the priest would have heard easily?  I would have been mortified.

I steeled myself for it, but thankfully, that moment never came.  Daniel can exclaim “Jesus Christ” every day if he likes (ok, so no he can’t) because I am SO RELIEVED that he did not do it at his great-grandmother’s funeral mass.

So yeah, I need a swear jar.

And why was everyone so quick to assume he learned it from me?

Spinach, tomatoes, broth and veggies make a great winter soup

Even when temperatures have been closer to spring than winter recently, Jimmy and I have craved homey, substantive meals.  I think these meals fortify the soul as much as the stomach, which we have needed.  Jambalaya is a perfect example of this type of meal and as a bonus, it can scale easily to make a meal for several days.

I’m always trying to reduce the carbs in my diet, so this dish is more like a soup, but you could add rice easily for a more authentic jambalaya dish.

Ingredients

• 1 package boneless chicken breasts, baked in the oven (350 degrees for 1 hour; this a great make-ahead tip. I usually cook the chicken the night before and use it the next day)
• 1 pound Italian sausage (we like hot)
• 4 cups chicken broth
• 1 zucchini, chopped
• 1 squash, chopped
• 1 onion, chopped
• 1 green pepper, chopped
• 1 red pepper, chopped
• 1 can Italian-diced tomatoes
• 2 cups baby spinach
• Tobasco sauce
• 1 tsp basil or thyme
• 1 tsp garlic powder

Directions

• Melt 2 Tbs butter in pan.  Add pepper and onions.  Saute over medium heat until soft (around 5 minutes). Set aside
• Break sausage into chunks and cook over medium-high heat until done
• In a stew pot combine peppers, onion, broth, tomatoes, 3-4 dashes tobasco, garlic powder, basil and thyme (if you have a pot large enough,  you could saute the veggies in it and then add the rest of the ingredients instead of dirtying another pan)
• Bring soup to a simmer; reduce heat to medium-low and simmer for 25-30 minutes
• Add chicken and sausage
• Before serving, add baby spinach and stir until it begins to wilt

As with all my favorite recipes, this recipe is very versatile.  If you don’t want to add spinach, you don’t have to, but I find that it adds an extra layer of substance and flavor to the dish.  I’ve thought about adding a second can of diced tomatoes too and may do that the next time we make the recipe.  If you like spicier foods, feel free to add more tobasco.  You could also add any vegetable you like.  I’m a big fan of zucchini and squash, so those are the ones I chose.  It just occurred to me that this dish is very similar to one of my favorite summer side dishes: ratatouille.   It’s a great dish to allow you to have some veggies when all you want to do is ingest carbs!

Enjoy!

Do you have a go-to meal when you need something hearty?