According to the online gossip rags, Uma Thurman will soon join our ranks when she marries her Suisse millionaire lover and becomes a stepmom to his two kids.

I’m thinking about sending her a gift. I like pretending we’re kindred spirits and that we could be mistaken for sisters with matching platinum hair and sultry blue eyes.

“Suuuuuure,” you mock. Just let me have my fantasy. It’s not gonna kill ya.

So what does a woman, who will soon become an instant mother of sorts, require? Uma clearly doesn’t need any more handbags (although I wouldn’t mind an authentic Louis Vuitton ), and baby bottles and bum cream will do her no good. What this woman needs is some good old-fashioned nurturing. If this superstar is going to survive stepmotherhood, she needs to start by taking care of herself.

And this is what got my thinking.

Call me narcissistic and even a bit greedy, but I believe it’s not too late to throw myself a stepmom shower. (I’ve been married just over a year. Surely, I’m still within the proper gift-receiving window.) In fact, I think all of us in the S-mom club should campaign for a new tradition where we celebrate our friendship, endurance and the bravery and buffoonery required to raise children (not biologically are own) who are part of a family that existed long before we came along!

Can I get a CHEERS for the STEPMOM SHOWER!

Here’s how I see the day playing out: The Instant Mom being showered shows up to the location of her choosing (shooting range, ice arena, winery, poolside cabana) in her wedding dress. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been looking for an excuse to put that silky gown on again. All of her favorite ladies join her for an afternoon of potent libations and indulgent savories. Fat free dip is strictly forbidden. Cheese is encouraged. There are cupcakes aplenty. With extra frosting on the side.

One of the more musically hip girlfriends plays DJ, dancing becomes inappropriate and laughter permeates.

Finally, instead of sitting around in a cramped circle watching one sweetheart open gifts, all attending ladies receive something from the “stepmom shower registry.” Here are a few of my favorites:

Case of wine
5 pounds of Gouda and Pecorino (crackers included)
A day spa retreat
Lipstick for a year
Scones for a month
New bras
An overnight hotel stay with The Husband

Of course, I could go on, but I’m curious how you’d do it. If someone where to throw you a stepmom shower, what would you add to the list? Should I start planning your party right now?

I called my stepdad and said, “My blog ladies want your fettuccini recipe.”

He’d already read my tribute to him, where I acknowledged his culinary savvy, especially during the early years when we (just another trendy 1980’s stepfamily) were trying to figure out how to live under one blended roof. Let alone, sit down every night to a family dinner.

He laughed. And not because he was embarrassed by the extra attention. He laughed at me.

“What do you mean? He said. You know I just used the recipe on the back of the fettuccini package.”

Really?

“What did you think…that I’m some kind of cook? I just know how to read, Izzy.”

Impossible! I’d been conned. Who is this man who masquerades around in an apron?

“Well, what am I going to tell my hungry public? They’re expecting brilliance.”

After some resistance and grumbling, he offered the following instructions:

Ladies, I give you Stepdad Alfredo (in his own words)

“Butter. Pepper. And Half and Half. Very goddamn fattening. And Parmesan cheese.

We usually did a double recipe.

Very easy. Very fast. Boil the noodles. Heat the butter. Stir it up. Pile the cheese. Feed the critters, all of whom will eat anything that has noodles in it.”

Yumalicious. He’s right. I sure do miss the heavy carb days. My mother reminded me that this celebrated dish was later renamed “heart attack on a plate.”

I hope this satisfies. For further clarification, consult your nearest noodle bag at the corner market. Bon appetit!

What are your favorite stepmom dishes? You know, what you make (or your stepparents made) in a pinch on those days when you just want to get it done, appease the troops, gulp it down and announce, “OK kids, you’re on dish duty. Clean it up!”… so you can escape to another room for a measly fifteen minutes of luscious solitude. Before you’re needed for the next thing.

Recently, I heard a story on NPR about a woman who was adopted. She talked about how she considers herself to be the totality of all her parents, the natural and the adoptive. I think of myself this way, a mixture of mannerisms and traits, heredity and circumstance. Except I’m not adopted. I’m a stepkid. My parents divorced when I was nine and remarried others when I was ten. I grew up with a platoon of parents who shaped me into the woman I am today. And for me, this is a good thing.

Today’s post is a tribute to my stepfather, who introduced me to a world I wouldn’t have otherwise known. For starters, he gave me an appreciation for opera and classical music. I was probably the only seventh grader humming La Boheme in algebra class. His passion for breaking news and foreign politics along with his demanding career as a journalist, opened my eyes to circumstances beyond our suburban neighborhood. And the playful bond he and my mom have shared for over 25 years has become my standard for a successful marriage.

I was probably the only seventh grader humming La Boheme in algebra class.

But, all that came later. When we first set up house together, I noticed his influence primarily in the kitchen. When he was in charge, family dinners often consisted of the following staples:

A) Baked chicken with a lemon shoved up it. Of course, this was always real gross to three tween girls. “That’s sick!”

B) Green rice. In the early 80’s, this favorite family starch was nothing more than white rice from a box turned green by an herb packet. No matter, the stepsisters and I believed this exotic-looking food elevated our culinary stature in the neighborhood.

C) Brown bread. This came in a vacuum-sealed can and was always uncomfortably moist. It seemed to have an eternal shelf life, like astronaut food. If I had been as curious as my stepsons are, I would have asked some very pointed questions about the ingredients and potential legality of this food.

But, of all the delightful dishes my stepfather brought to the dinner table, nothing competed with his Fettuccini Alfredo. Its’ gut-wrenching simplicity always pleased the crowd.

My unrefined stepsissies and I always inhaled it too fast (I didn’t learn until much later in life that noodles are meant to be chewed), which almost always led to after-dinner stomach cramps. I often used this over indulgence of butter and Parmesan to get out of dish duty. “My side hurts. I better lay down.”

It was during these long stretches of recovery on the couch that I imagined my stepdad cooking large batches in his bachelor years, his ploy for paralyzing young writers long enough to charm the pants off them. Maybe it was a particularly cheesy night when he’d won the heart of my mother. Now, years later, he was working a new kind of magic on me. Watching my disgruntled stepsisters scrub and stack dishes without me, I’d think, this guy’s alright. I’m not going to call him Dad (I’ve already got one of those), but he makes a pretty decent addition to the family. He can stay.

Image courtesy of The Vermont Country Store