Over the past couple of years this has become one of our staple beach house dinners. I don’t know why I don’t make it the rest of the year, I just don’t. But as a result, this has become an extra special and extra ‘beach house-y’ meal for us. The bonus is that this is super easy to make (because of a couple of built in “cheats”). The most awesome thing about this supper, however, is that if you double or triple it (like I always do), there will be lots of leftovers — which can be used in lots of different ways.
INGREDIENTS:
- Bottle of your favorite store-bought Italian dressing (totally skimp here and buy the cheap stuff– it seems to make it even better, I swear! This– store bought dressing– is Cheat #1)
- Chicken breasts
- Store-bought pesto (make your own, if you really want to — I’m the first to say that homemade pesto is totally 100% worth it… in certain circumstances… unlike this circumstance… in which the store-bought kind is 100% better, I swear! This– store bought pesto– is Cheat #2)
- Pasta — whatever shape you like. For some reason, Owen & Kyle always want this meal with thick spiral pasta (I have no clue why that is).
- Veggies for skewering. I always use Vidalia onion for this (because they are so good here; we are so close to Georgia where they are grown), but other than that — I buy whatever is fresh and good looking. Zucchinis and bell peppers looked good at the farm stand the other day when I was shopping, so that’s what I used this time.
TO DO:
The night before you’re going to have this meal, cut the chicken into bite-sized skewer-able chunks. Place in air-tight container (or zip-loc bag). Drown in Italian dressing (you are using the dressing as a marinade).
Place in fridge to sit overnight. See how hard this is? The chicken just sits there in the fridge while you go about your business. Marinating for the win! Tip: do not let this marinate more than 24 hours or the chicken will start to break down. 
When you’re ready to make dinner, get to work skewering. Tip: make your kids/husbands/wives/partners/friends/enemies do this for you! Skewer the chicken so that the pieces are touching, but not too closely packed together. Cut the veggies into bite-sized, skewerable chunks. Skewer them too. Drizzle Italian dressing onto the veggie skewers.
Meanwhile, prepare the pasta. Cook according to box directions, then, once drained, toss with the pesto. Note: for my family, I do two boxes of pasta and two containers of pesto. This is my tried-and-true favorite store-bought pesto:
Grill the skewers! See my little portable “travel grill”?! I love this thing. Sometime I’ll have to devote a whole post to this grill-o-mine! Anyway…. Tip: Don’t overcook the chicken! Keep it moist! The veggies will actually take longer to grill than the chicken.
Enjoy!
LEFTOVERS: Seriously, the best part of this meal is the leftovers, which can be used in so many ways!
- My bambinos love the pasta heated up the next day. With parmesan cheese, this is a meal unto itself for them. They love this for breakfast, lunch, or dinner (really, no joke).
- You can also just toss all the leftovers together — the pasta, the chicken, and the veggies — and warm up for another dinner.
- But the pasta is great room-temperature, or cold, as a ‘pasta salad.’ Toss some veggies in there (cherry tomatoes and peas are my favorite for this), mix it up, and there’s a nice pasta salad for another time.
- The chicken and veggie skewers are great cold. Eat them on their own, or on a salad…
- …or mix with some couscous and raisins for a great easy dish (serve with a tossed salad and that’s a whole other meal).
- Or, place the chicken and veggies in pitas, drizzle with tzatziki sauce, or simply drizzle with more of the Italian dressing, and ta-da! awesome pita sandwiches for a beach picnic!
It is a long drive from Bethlehem, PA to Harbor Island, SC. Literally and figuratively. We made it in record time this year –(relatively quick!) — we did 8 hours the first day and 6 hours the second day (each year the kids are older these drives are easier and easier). But it is still far, far away and it feels good to go the distance.
Still. We are a TRAVELING CIRCUS! This year was even crazier, since we had not only Dash with us, but Pearl as well. This cat is seriously the best cat ever; she rode in that car like a pro the entire time as though it was no biggie whatsoever for little ‘ole her. Meera loved it.
Kyle loves this drive — he gives us a running commentary on the historic sites and Civil War battlefields all along the route.
Of course, the biggest mile marker of all along that east-coast-route is the South of the Border tower. Amazingly (and awesomely for us) not once has any of our three bambinos requested we stop there. Thank heavens.
Also awesomely for us, and thank heavens, they are all lovers of that unique southern delicacy — the hot glazed Krispy Kreme. Lucky for us, the hot light was on in Florence, SC and we got a hot glazed dozen (which were gone in less time than it took to pull on and off the highway. because. Owen.).
And then, before we know it, we’re light years away, and we’re seeing palm trees, and bridges, and we’ve got the windows open and the marsh air is thick and the Spanish moss is almost as thick, and we know we’ve made it — to our home away from home in the Southland.
Driving through Beaufort, Owen announces proudly: “I recognize it! Visually and smellithly!” Love him!
Meera says: “This is so familiar! Spanish moss!” She’s probably the biggest lover of South Carolina of all of us. She tells us each year that we’re visiting that she wishes she lived here year-round. The mildness of it, the depth of it, all the sweet and salty and good of the Southern coast — it’s exactly Meera Grace.
All the bad of it — the hard bitter explosiveness of the South rippling just beneath the surface here, the cutting grit and edge of it — we hold it in our hands with the good and we understand it in its fullness and entirety and learn through it and from it. It is important to be on the edge of our comfort zone, on the horizon of easy, to re-center ourselves in our core and keep learning who we are vis-a-vis the rest of the big, complex world.
The beach house is awaiting, and the view off the back deck is unwavering. There is something so anchoring about this annual time-away-from-the-rest-of-the-year…
…and there is nothing like a Lowcountry sunset to remind us of the importance of wide open spaces and expanded horizons.
I’ll be posting from Harbor Island, South Carolina for the next five weeks. Thanks for reading y’all!
“Summer in the deep South is not only a season, a climate, it’s a dimension. Floating in it, one must be submerged.” ~Eugene Walter
We are on the road to our Southern home away from home today. Driving toward South Carolina, Braydon and I put on the car stereo Barack Obama’s eulogy for Clementa Pinckney. Two of our three bambinos don’t have the attention span, but one, of course, does, in large part because the speech strikes at the center of his deepest passions. Kyle listened intently to the entire thing with us from the backseat.
I have a feeling this might be — for him — one of those formative memories he’ll always hold: that time, when he was 11, driving to South Carolina for our southern summer, listening to Obama give this speech.
There is so much that I could say, because I have a million thoughts on the speech myself, but I’m posting this for Kyle, instead, in case I’m right that he will remember this, and in case it is as formative as I think it might be for him.
Kyle’s reactions:
“I know one thing, he [Obama] did that from his core.”
“I believe we, the United States, are going uphill not downhill. For gay rights and for race — for Civil Rights — we are going up the hill. It’s a big mountain, but we’re going up it.”
“He wasn’t letting this thing go. Now we need to make something happen. We can’t just be sitting here watching this this happen. Now we need to change this thing. This thing is racism.”
From this mama: Thank you Mr. President. My boy — and all of us — needed to see you do that today. Thank you. 
Photo taken last July, Charleston, SC
This morning I told my beautiful bambinos about the Charleston shootings. Sadly, for me, but mostly for them, we’re getting quite accustomed to these conversations. I’ve become — again, sadly — strangely adept at discussing these things in age-appropriate ways with my children. And let’s be real: when I say “these things” what I’m talking about is the tragic loss of black lives and the horrific racism all too often at the root of current events.
We can’t shield them from reality. And I want them to hear the truth from me first — before they overhear someone talking about it, catch a glimpse of a tv somewhere, or see the front page of a newspaper or website.
I knew I had to tell them today; I had tried to sort out my own emotions enough yesterday to prepare myself for talking with my kids about it today. So I got up early to make them their favorite muffins. And then, one by one, over muffins and milk, I had three separate conversations in our kitchen.
“I have to tell you something,” I began, and then I told them. 9 black lives lost, an historic black church in Charleston, South Carolina, 21-year-old white male killer, gun, police search, caught and in jail, families and communities and me mourning, racism, the battle is not over, so much progress has been made, still a long way to go, and we — each of us in our family — you and me — need to be part of the push for change-for-the-better, we need to use our lives for good. And you are so deeply and enormously loved and cherished and valued.
Kyle couldn’t contain himself as his angst spilled over. I just looked up the word “angst” to be sure it was precise. It is the perfect word for Kyle’s reaction: “Angst: a feeling of deep anxiety or dread, typically an unfocused one about the human condition or the state of the world in general.” This kid, more than anyone I know (for real), gets it. In a rooted, comprehensive, overwhelming way, with — as C. Wright Mills would say, a complex intersection of history and biography — he gets is.
I had barely finished my first sentence, “Kyle, sweetie, I need to tell you something horrible, on Wednesday night nine people were killed—” when he first said it, “Again?” I nodded as I continued, and he repeated it over and over in the short three minutes it took for me to tell him. “—in an historic black church in Charleston, South Carolina—“—-“Again?” I’d nod and keep going, and he’d say, “Again?” and I’d nod and keep going. My throat felt constricted, like a thick choking feeling, looking him in the eyes — noticing for the millionth time how deep dark brown my boy’s eyes are, how gorgeously creamy his dark brown cheeks are — and having to tell him this sickly thing. He seems way too beautiful for this ugly truth. But I know with every part of me that I have to tell him, and I have to do it right. I finished, waiting for his response, and he said again, simply, “Again?” And I just stood there with him in a long silence. He finally said, “And in Charleston again? Why does it have to happen in Charleston? I love Charleston.”
We’ve been traveling to Charleston every summer for the past four summers. And we’ll be there again in just a few days. It is our family’s happy place. No place is unscathed.
In Charleston, 2012
Owen is much more cut and dried. There isn’t a lot of complexity to it for him. There is no gray area, things are right and things are wrong, and he calls it like it is. His reaction: “That. Is the definition of racist.”
Meera, at age seven, is and has always been the consummate family girl. There is nothing she values more than her family, and no one on earth she adores more, or craves the love and affection of more, or — as a healthy set of siblings — is more annoyed by, than her brothers. She knows no life without them, she knows no different, and the concept of racism is about as foreign and detached for her as could possibly be. If there is a white child on this planet who is less intrinsically racist than Meera, I’d be curious to meet them; there is not any tiny fraction of her that can understand how something like the Charleston shootings could possibly happen. But she understands family and she understands love and loss, and I think that she feels those things — at times like this — more powerfully than many others, at least in part because of her unique family and thus her unique perspective on life.
I felt sick to my stomach as I watched her sweet pink-cheeked face go slack and pale as I told her. The color literally drained from her. She said nothing. I asked her what she was thinking. She said, “I know this probably sounds weird, and maybe bad, but I am happy for the ones that died that they at least get to be in heaven.” I said, “That doesn’t sound weird or bad. I’m happy for that too.” I asked her if she wanted to ask anything, or say anything more. She said, “Not really.” I said, “I saw your face get really pale. Do you want to tell me about your feelings?” She said, “I was just thinking mostly about their families. I just feel so bad for the families.”
We hugged. Her pink cheeks came back. She ate a muffin and drank her milk. The boys got ready to run off to basketball camp for the day. All was ok. Sort of. Again.
In Charleston, 2011
So. Rachel Dolezal.
I’ve been getting email from all over the world asking me if/when I’m going to blog about this. It’s weighing on my mind. But honestly, I don’t think I’m going to be blogging in any extensive way about it. Mainly because I have too many deadlines (real work-related deadlines) looming in the next ten days. And also because this one is just a little too sensitive for me. I’m not sure I could write something on this right now without getting all mama-bear-with-the-hair-on-my-back-all-bristly.
I know, I know, it doesn’t make any sense– how could I write about things like Trayvon Martin and Ferguson, but not be able to write about Rachel Dolezal? I’d like to think I could rise above, but at the heart of it all — the ongoing commentary, insinuations, and outright arguments that white mothers can’t raise black children — well… truthfully… it puts me a little bit… maybe a lot… over the edge.
“Several years ago, she became the guardian of one of her adopted, black younger siblings, Izaiah, now 21. He sees her as his ‘real mom,’ she said, ‘and for that to be something that is plausible, I certainly can’t be seen as white and be Izaiah’s mom.'” (Quote taken from this source.)
To say that this makes me a little bit squeamish is certainly to underrepresent my squeamishness about this. For the past few days, as the word “transracial” has been increasingly thrown around surrounding the Rachel Dolezal story, those of us in the Transracial Adoption Community (all caps there folks, because, this is a real thing), have been getting more and more uncomfortable (to put it mildly) with this whole entire media-blitz-Twitter-Facebook-Rachel-Dolezal-frenzy. We aren’t used to our word (transracial), our phrase (transracial adoption), being acknowledged much — let alone getting any media attention. And now we’re not only seeing and hearing “transracial” peppered all over the mainstream media, the news outlets, the internet, everywhere — we are seeing and hearing “transracial” being used in what is — for us — a very peculiar, and very — how shall I say this? — ummm…. OFFENSIVE — way.
There is a long history of white women raising black children. It would be wrong to pretend that history isn’t totally, totally, totally messed up. But today — in this historic era — when we have so much history to learn from, and adult adoptees to teach us, and research on adoptive families to absorb, well, to be honest: there is just no excuse for not doing our absolute 100% best to live out transracial adoption as right as we can. And, TRUTH: there are lots of us out here — lots of us — who are trying hard, every day, trying very, very hard, as white mamas of precious black children, to do it right.
I am my sons’ real mom. That is plausible. And I am most certainly seen as white. And they are most certainly seen as black. I am white and they are black, and we are a good strong family who knows who we are. I am the white mom of Kyle and Owen — I am seen that way, and I am that.
Here’s a link to the best thing I’ve seen on the topic so far — please watch:
click here: Angela Tucker on Anderson Cooper
This past weekend was our annual Haiti Reunion. This was our 9th year getting together with this extended family of ours. I’ve written a lot about this in the past 8 years (see here).
A couple of days ago I heard something that really has had me thinking. Tylenol has a new ad campaign called #HowWeFamily (see here). It asks, “When were you first considered a family?… When did you first fight to be considered a family?” It has had me reeling, just thinking about it. Because I think this — how we became families, how we had to fight to become families, how our families are considered/perceived by others, and how we have to keep fighting to be considered a “real family” — this, at the core, is the bond that we share with our Haiti Reunion kinship network. This is what separates us out, and sets us apart.
I’m going to be honest: 11 years in, I can say with total confidence that, quite frankly, most people outside this little tiny world of Haitian adoption just don’t get it. You know I don’t go out on a limb and say such provocative things very often, and I know I’m going to ruffle some feathers by saying it, so that should just signal just how strongly I feel about this. Truthfully: we’re a small tight fierce little crowd for a reason. We have had to fight hard simply to become the families that we are. And we are still fighting, on a daily basis, to be considered — perceived and understood — by the world as the families that we are.
Haitian adoption is not for the weak of heart, mind, or soul. Not at the start, and not a decade in.
Even within the adoption world, even within the international adoption world, Haitian adoption is sort of on the extreme end of the spectrum. There are very few U.S. agencies that will process Haitian adoptions, the infrastructure (or lack thereof) in Haiti makes it an uphill (often losing) battle, and no piece of it — large or small — on either end — U.S. or Haiti — is smooth or easy. To say that we had to fight to become families is a huge understatement. We had to fight the fight of our lives, with every cell and prayer in us, in a grueling (non-)process virtually impossible to navigate. I am not exaggerating. When we get together as Haitian Adoptive Families, we can share our war stories and commiserate over the battles as we still try to process our experiences and memories, even after many years in. But I think, more than anything, what we’re doing is bonding over all that goes unsaid — all that doesn’t need to be stated when we’re together — we all get it, we’ve all been there and done that, we have unquestionable respect for, and solidarity with, our fellow comrades in the struggle to become families. We fought. Hard.
As for how our families are considered… That’s a whole other part of this journey that we’re on. It isn’t a chapter in the story, it is a theme threaded throughout all the volumes. We get everything from (this one was popular a bunch of years ago) “Oh! You’re so cool! Just like Brangelina!” (oh, how I hated that one), to the blank stares and/or piercing glaring stares, to the frequent questioning (we’re currently thick in a stage of life where the J-M bambinos get a lot of this) “How is she your real sister? That isn’t really your mom, is it? Where are your real parents? Can you prove those are really your brothers?” Don’t even get me started on the documents we need carry with us when we travel (particularly internationally), or the really unbelievably stunning comments/reactions/experiences we run into frequently in our own hometowns. The fight to be considered a real family is a daily battle, ever-looming, and ebbing and flowing as we — especially our kids — go through various phases and stages of life. When we are at our Haiti Reunion we have one day a year where there is no fight. We are foundationally unquestioned, and unconditionally accepted. When you’re fighting all the time, a day’s break feels indescribably amazingly good. To look around and see families that resemble your own? That’s the icing on the cake. It is a powerful bond.
Our other bond is the joy, grace, and beauty that we uniquely know in Haitian adoption. We have the fighting (and we are all warriors), but we have the sweet soft center in common too. There is a deep delicious vivacious gorgeous love at the heart of it. We share that together too — we know the profound utter beautifulness that is in being the families that we are. We have something special, and we know it. Together, we can be witness to that in community. There is beauty in struggle. There is grace in pain. There is dignity in the fight. We are the lucky ones on the front lines.
My dear Haiti Family, Thank you. I meant it when I said I want you dancing at my kids’ weddings someday. I want us to all stick around, and hold on tight, for the long ride. We need each other. What will become of all these kids? What lies ahead for us? Let’s find out together. I wouldn’t want to be doing all this without you. Love, Heather (for the J-Ms)
Two years later, the Fairy Forest is still buzzing with the telltale signs of fairy life — and now more than ever! During a walk in the woods a few nights ago, we discovered a new installation! One we did not build! 
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