As I sit here typing in the fourth hotel/cabin/place-other-than-home that I’ve lived in during the last two weeks I am filled with a mixture of gratitude, deep aching loss for humanity, and a growing yet restrained excitement for this small active miracle growing inside me known currently as: Hettie Rose Hedayatpour.  

Blogging is basically Dumbledore’s ‘Pensive’ where one can pull out thoughts and memories with a magic wand and put them in a pool for safe keeping. Lately, the fears and hopes I’m facing, feel like a ‘Pensive Vitaprep’ where contrasting experiences are whirled together leaving me with a fowl tasting smoothie. I cannot feel happy for myself when a renowned journalist’s fingers are cut off, or expect anyone to be elated over my outrageously crazy against-all-odds baby miracle when families are separated at the Border.

My happiness is so small in comparison to the extreme suffering of other human beings. I want to share the beauty of my unplanned vacation/Baby Moon but I am struck with the sorrow of complete devastation for those that couldn’t escape the Camp Fires and those that did but who lost everything. I feel guilty for my little vacay to get away from the hazardous smoke in the Bay Area while others had to suffer through it, even though it greatly effected my daughter Layla. Nothing feels right these days.

So you see, I have news! I have recipes! I have adventures! But it’s all so trivial and untimely in light of a world and a country headed towards moral destruction and undeniable human and civil rights violations.

Am I alone here? Is anyone having problems reckoning what’s going on in the world with their own personal lives? Am I the only person who can’t separate the daily atrocities on the news with personal happiness? It’s overwhelming. How can one person, with little resources, make a difference? And yet, here I am today getting ready to celebrate Thanksgiving, so I write the following, with the objective that perhaps my story of hope will provide a brief respite this holiday weekend…

Lourdes, a highly sought after Home Care Professional in our neighborhood, who I have employed for years with her team of expert women, share each other’s company before our daily routines begin once every two weeks. Like me, Lourdes had an unexpected baby in her early 40’s and we often talk about the ups and downs of being older moms. Besides being a busy business owner, Lourdes is also active in her Church’s outreach to low-income Moms and I support her efforts in whatever ways I can.

On one particular Thursday, Lourdes arrives with her team and we chit chat sharing a cup of coffee before we each have to go our ways. She asks me point blank:

“So Amy, when are you going to have another baby?”

“Are you kidding??!? I’m so old and so sleep deprived, I just don’t think that’s in our future.”

“You know,” She says with a wry smile, “As soon as you donate your baby stuff, you’ll get pregnant again. I promise! ”

“Well, I’m not sure that’s even possible, or that I even want that, but I’m more than happy to donate baby stuff. I’ve kept clothes and toys for a long time now thinking there might be another, but it’s time to move on…”

“Sure, I can come by this weekend and take what you don’t want.”

“Great, thank you!”

I pack up Layla in the car and head to her French nursery school across town singing “Frère Jaques” all the way, filing away my conversation with Lourdes. It is time to clear the cobwebs and even though it would be nice to have another baby, we are super happy with the one we’ve got and count ourselves lucky to have had her so late in life, especially after two late second term miscarriages. And I’m back working with restaurants, creating recipes at home, writing, taking photography lessons, volunteering at Layla’s school and everything seems to be moving along in life – no need to go back to a year of pregnancy bedrest and constant medical checkups and endless anxiety or another two years of sleep deprivation.

Nope. This little family is complete, thank you very much. And frankly, it was complete before Layla arrived. She just happened to make it that much bigger and brighter.

Shortly after Layla’s miraculous arrival we considered trying for another baby because we didn’t want her to be alone in the world. We saw a specialist that told us we were too old and that we would need to do IVF and use a donor egg even though “we looked good for our ages”. It wasn’t the right choice for us.

One June afternoon, I’m taking a nap next to Layla and I wake up in the middle of it, levitating a few inches from the bed and look down at my body to see that I’m glowing green all the way down to my toes. Alien abduction? Acid flashback? Perhaps. But it’s a pleasant experience – my entire body is radiating an incredible bright green. It feels so good, so fresh, so youthful. I could be the spokes person for an Irish Spring commercial, it’s that ridiculously joyous! I fall back asleep no problem and when I wake up I can’t get the little green hallucination out of my mind.

Nine days later I’m dry heaving over a toliet bowl wondering what on God’s Earth I did to deserve such a nasty stomach bug. I go to my doctor, who enlightens me about morning sickness (which I never had with Layla) and he confirms via ultrasound that I am indeed pregnant, even though it is too early to really see anything. I leave excited, scared, and disbelieving. I go home and take four more tests that strongly confirm it. Ok. I guess I’m pregnant. At 44. I thought this wasn’t possible?!?!

A week later I go back to my doctor for another ultra sound. This time the news isn’t good. Using his archaic machine that never gives a clear picture, he tells me that that there is no baby inside the gestational sac and that I will miscarry. He offers to give me medication to speed up the process. I ask him: “But I’m so sick, how can there not be a baby? This pregnancy feels stronger than any I’ve had before?” He tells me that the pregnancy hormones are still going strong and that soon enough my body will recognize there is no baby and begin the un-fun process of renewal.

I say “no” to the drugs and decide to let nature take it’s course, and I leave depressed but still surprised that we even got pregnant for a little bit considering all the loud voices around us saying it would not be possible. And, for the life of me, I just can’t get that little green dream out of my head. I share the sad news with my husband and we decide once again, that our little family is perfect as is.

Another week goes by and I am so sick and sooooo fatigued and I have a gut feeling that the doctor’s diagnosis is wrong. I return for yet another ultra sound to see what exactly is going on. He begins to try and describe the blurry picture on the screen and assert once again that there is no baby when I stop him and exclaim – “Yes there is! I see a heartbeat! I see it!” At which point he also admits with surprise that there is a little baby. With the disclaimer, “It’s a good thing I didn’t give you that medication.”

He’s not my doctor anymore…

I’m a Halloween baby and I’ve always loved the creativity and harvest bounty that my birthday month signals. October in the Bay Area is the month where Summer fruit is coming to a close, yet still sweet & bountiful and Winter squash is done curing in the fields. Late harvest corn and dry farmed tomatoes overflow the farmer’s markets alongside tall stalks of brussel sprouts and giant globe artichokes. It is a great month to get going in the kitchen and I’m determined to create a recipe a day before my birthday. Now with a two-year-old who LOVES to bake, the idea of making all those fun creepy cool cupcakes and pumpkin-y treats is exciting once again.

But no, my recipe goal attempt is sadly unattainable. Layla brings home the flu from one of her little Frenchy nursery school co-conspirators and our entire family is laid out flat. All of us. Too bad Little Bean, our Cairn Terrier can’t cook.

I normally don’t get sick. I have never missed a day of work due to sickness – injury from cooking yes (like the time the handle came off an enormous pot of boiling salted water at Le Bernardin and burned the flesh off the top of my foot), flu or winter cold – no. My body simply attacks anything foreign. My body goes apeshit when it registers an intruder. It really doesn’t matter if the “intruder” is wanted. I have an overactive immune system and it’s not necessarily a good thing.

I spend three weeks, mostly in bed with the flu. My husband suffers the same. Layla has the mildest symptoms probably because we were smart enough to give her the flu shot, but she’s still having difficulty breathing and sleeping. We emerge from our sickbeds briefly to celebrate my 45th birthday before all of us end up with secondary infections. Brutal.

And then just as our lung infections are beginning to clear, the Camp Fire devastates Northern California burning 80 football fields a minute (hard to comprehend that statistic, I know) and our family is left again struggling to breathe in the hazardous aftermath of smoke that has made its way, the short distance, from Paradise to the Bay Area. 

Time for an unplanned Baby Moon? We head South to Monterey where the air is clear even though we know it’s late second trimester and the danger time during our pregnancy. But weighing the options of watching our toddler cough, wheeze and struggle to breathe properly with going Into preterm labor – we decide it’s best for all of us to be in breathable air.  

Layla ooggles sea otters at the incredible Monterey Bay Aquarium and stands open mouthed in front of the ethereal jelly fish exhibit. She puts her hands to the glass of the enormous deep sea tank and a gigantic fish comes up and stares at her for a full minute. She stares back without flinching. We watch octopuses slink around their aquariums, 7-gill sharks zoom-a-zoom-zoom and we stick our hands in man-made tide pools pulling out kelp and hermit crabs. This is by far, the most exhilarating living museum she has ever been to. I’m not sure that Hettie Rose can see anything but she sure is kicking the whole way through so it must be fun for her too.

Back at the hotel, located right on the beach, we grab shovel & bucket and hit the sand looking for tiny crabs buried just below the ebbing tide. Layla searches for sand dollars and little treasures while I try to keep up with her pace and hold on to her every time the tide rushes over her feet sinking her little body deeper into the sand.

We relax during dinner at Salt Wood, with rising star Chef David Baron at the helm. He’s a friend of ours and a father with two kids so he takes a little extra time to make sure Layla is fed-up with asparagus cooked in a silky miso butter broth and real house-made egg pasta drenched in homemade butter and shaved Parmesan. Layla picks the avocados out of my Caesar salad with David’s delicious black garlic dressing and scrunches up her face when ‘Baba’ tries to give her an oyster from the shell.

David’s unique food perspective effortlessly weaves fresh and local California comfort casual with flavors of the Philippines and Nicaragua. His food is beautiful, generous in proportion, layered in flavor without skimping on process or purity of ingredient, and he uses a massive wood fire grill for whole fish preparations, sand dabs, and many other sea food offerings which I love. His fried chicken served alongside an enormous buttermilk biscuit smothered in honey butter, is just ridiculous. I don’t know if he uses a pressure fryer, but I have never been able to achieve fried chicken quite like his – so crisp on the outside and so perfectly juicy inside. (And no, he does not sous-vide it or pre-bake it.)

After four nights in Monterey eating our way through David’s menu and splitting our time between the Aquarium and the beach, we are beginning to miss home. We only planned for a few days thinking the smoke would clear by now, but even Monterey is becoming questionable and our coughs have returned. We pack our gear and head further South to Big Sur to a cabin in the woods.

Although Layla has seen redwood trees, she hasn’t seen really old redwood trees and she stands under an enormous one and looks up slightly reeling backward all the time singing: “ooooooooooooooooo”. The wonder of nature is not lost on us either and we head to Pfeiffer beach after a little walk in the redwoods for some more sun and fun.

Normally Ramin and I would have a campfire going and be cooking morning, noon and night – leave it the Eagle Scout and Girl Scout to whip up some delicious fiery feasts but, it just doesn’t feel right to light up considering the smokey air. So we head to one of our favorite little spots, Big Sur Bakery, which has been a well loved restaurant for a long time now – my parents used to take me here when I was a kid!

The French restaurant manager greets us in the morning with a “Bonjour, ça va ça va? (Hello, how goes it?) and Layla offers back her version: “Boujee boujeee!” which makes him laugh and declare that “Layla is just too cute.” To which we agree whole heartedly. We sip rich roasted coffee in the cool morning marine layer and munch our way through the best tasting pastries I have ever had. Big Sur bakery marks Layla’s first chocolate chaud experience and we devour and relax while Layla covers her face in chocolate and pastry.  

Still no rain in California and fires rage North in Paradise and South in Malibu with little hope of containment. The air in the Bay Area remains hazardous and schools close down. We spend a whole day trying to find another cabin in Big Sur to extend our stay – why not?  – we’ve already been away a week and a half, it would be silly to come home during the worst part of it! But there is nothing available. And I mean nothing. Even the super expensive hotels are booked. There is no room at the inn – not in Avila, Big Sur, Carmel, or Monterey. This is unheard of. The entire Bay Area is invading our little getaway.

With nowhere to stay, we decide to head home. But as a last ditch effort we swing by a dog friendly hotel in Carmel and I walk up to the front desk with my big belly holding Layla on one hip with one hand and my dog leash in the other and plead to the Front Desk Lady: “I really need a room for tonight, do you have anything by chance available?”

She looks at me and smiles, “Let me check…You just got our last room. We are completely booked now. Two queens, does that work?”

“Oh halleluja, thank you!”

We weren’t exactly roughing it in our Big Sur cabin but it sure feels great to be back in a real hotel room, with a clean floor and big comfy beds and a hot shower. We take Layla to Monastery Beach and splash around for a bit before hitting Carmel’s outdated restaurant scene. 

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that the food is bad in Carmel, it’s just old school. Every restaurant serves carbonara, Caesar salad, fried calamari and seafood blanketed in butter or cream sauce. Demetra Cafe, is the only Mediterranean restaurant (also old school) in town and the menu reminds me of my days as Exec Chef for Faz where pizza and pasta are served alongside Turkish and Persian offerings. It doesn’t totally make sense to me, but the restaurant is packed and the owner is there playing his lute, serenading all the guests, urging people to dance and clap their hands and he is very sweet to Layla. Upon asking her name, he kisses her hands repeatedly which makes Layla blush and cling to me like a koala bear. I have a feeling that there is a Layla in his family, because the name makes his eyes light up when we tell him. Bashar is Syrian and some of his dishes slightly point to this, but not as many as I would personally like.

We eat juicy lamb kabobs and rice with a little too much turmeric (and not enough saffron) alongside a scoop up tzaziki and grilled pita bread. It’s not Faz quality, but even still, it’s tasty. Layla belly dances at the table to the music and she offers up her hands for Bashar to kiss when he comes to check on our table and then hides away in my hair once he does. To say that Layla has charmed the pants off the Bashar, is an understatement.

Layla is a pro diner. She’s great in restaurants. This may come as no surprise but even with her limited palate, she will carefully poke her finger in new foods and taste to see if it’s thumbs up or down, sit in a high chair and observe the servers and clientelle, pretend to read a menu and hold a conversation at two-year-old level for at least a portion of the meal before we inevitably turn on YouTube French songs or programs so that we can finish without rushing.

Our vacation is coming to a close now that Northern California has forecasted rain for Thanksgiving. We pack our bags after our comfortable 3 night stay at Carmel Mission Inn, change into some new clothes that don’t smell of smoke or cabin or two weeks sans laundry and head North to my Auntie’s house in Santa Cruz where she will be hosting Thanksgiving dinner. 

My Aunt Suzie and Uncle Phill prepare the classic and delicious Thanksgiving dinner of my dearly departed Mother and Grandmother. In years past I have given Thanksgiving dinner various modern twists, but I have to say that I really just appreciate the good old-fashioned made-from-scratch-meal passed down through our family. 

The menu: Perfectly cooked heritage turkey with chestnut crispy skin, rich giblet gravy (no cream), mashed potatoes, spiced smashed yams with marshmallow topping, stuffing cooked in the bird and out, homemade biscuits, roasted asparagus with a squeeze of Meyer lemon, maple glazed carrots, cranberry orange sauce, and a slew of homemade pies. Yum.

All of my family is exceptionally educated, many are legitimately brilliant, and most are extremely liberal. Any heated political debate is normally about degrees of liberalism as opposed to Left vs. Right which is often frustrating but well intended. This Thanksgiving though, we steer clear of politics, it’s been too dividing a year all around. Even though we all play on the same team, no one wants to go down that rabbit hole. We love our Country and our fellow Americans regardless of religion, ethnicity, sexual persuasion or political affiliation and this has been a truly depressing year to watch the degradation of democracy and deep divide our current leadership has entrenched. Everyone is ready just to focus on family and on Layla and leave out the noise for an evening.

We skip the individual “what are you thankful for” toast because we all feel that being thankful this year for something we have (and we have so much) unintentionally implies some one else’s devastating loss. Instead, we raise our glasses to the rain helping to quench California’s thirst and extinguish the fires. 

It goes without saying that I’m always thankful for my family, especially my husband who keeps this little unit going strong – but some one lost their entire family in Paradise, some one lost their home in Malibu (and Florida and Cuba), and some one is not going to snuggle their little baby or even see them again at our Border.  

My cousins, Travis and Sophie, zero in on Layla and play with her for hours. Sophie brings out her old baby toys and Layla is in heaven having two super cool young people give her attention – much more fun than two old parents!

Hettie Rose is happy and kicking away. Little Bean is in a turkey comma. Ramin is relaxing and his funny ongoing banter with my expert story telling Uncle is keeping us all entertained. It is a lovely evening all around. We overstuff ourselves with pumpkin, pecan and apple pie, say our goodbyes, and leave to drive over the mountain and head home to Oakland. It will be good to sleep in our own bed tonight. The rain is in full force now and the air quality is back to breathable. 

I take Layla from the car after our long journey home, sound asleep and carefully put her in bed. She briefly wakes up, smiles at the sight of her room, then falls fast asleep. Hettie Rose, who has been busy inside my tummy the whole evening is starting to wind down and I can tell she’s ready for me to sleep. I share Hettie’s name now because she is so much a part of my life already and I am well aware of the risks I face, so I want to full-heartedly welcome her into this world for as long or as little as she might be here to enjoy it.

Her due date is somewhere in-between St. Patrick’s Day, March 17th and Persian New Years, March 21st which marks the advent of Spring. Hmmmm, maybe that’s what the green dream was all about?!?!?! 

Oh, and I guess there is one thing I’m truly grateful for this Thanksgiving weekend: I’m thankful to Lourdes for telling me to donate Layla’s baby clothes to her Catholic Charity!!!