A couple months ago Dorothy and I repotted some basil I’d grown from seed into bigger pots. It was really ready to cut and eat a week or two ago, but we finally got around to it today. Dorothy decided we should eat it on pizza, so tonight I baked vegetable pizzas with pesto, yellow squash and sundried tomatoes. Rob and I thought it was delicious; Dorothy picked off the visible vegetables, dug in, then declared that our basil was “nasty.” Luckily I’d thought to bake a separate pizza with more traditional toppings. If you’ve never made pesto at home, it’s fun and easy. Fill a food processor bowl most of the way with clean basil leaves, then drizzle with olive oil, throw in a handful of pine nuts, a handful of shredded parmesan cheese (the real stuff, not its bastard cousin that comes in a plastic can), sprinkle with salt and whirl. Yum.
So yesterday I went shopping with my mother. Being the generous Nana she is, she bought Dorothy some new clothes from Children’s Place–clothes Dorothy picked out herself. The girl selected one of her new outfits this morning and put it on first thing, instead of the usual time spent lolling in jammies. She put on this shirt with this matching (skimpy) shrug. My first thought was, sheesh, my mother bought my daughter hootchie-girl clothes! Why must little girl clothes be so much like skanky teenager clothes? Can’t they be little and non-sexy for just a few years? Then I got totally knocked off my high horse. My kid said, “Mommy, in this outfit I look just like you! See this shirt? It has a nursing bra!”