Mama's Minutia

the quotidian

2012-01-30T05:05:00.000-08:00

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;

everyday; ordinary; commonplace

*trying to take silhouettes: I still can’t figure it out
*more card playing, with a cat centerpiece
*the royalty, crafting their paper crowns
*this week’s fort: a wind tunnel—all four kids, plus sleeping bags and cat, fit inside
*after the neighbor lady stopped by with a bunch of old magazines
*writing letters to city council members to request their support of the library
*sucky oranges (that’s what we called them when I was growing up): cut the top off of a juice orange, stab it all over inside, and suck as much juice out as possible before tearing it open and eating out the innards
*a fast lunch: leftover mashed potatoes + several beaten eggs = pancakes
*muffin experimentation: not a winner (though I learned something, so it’s not all failure)
*washing dishes: their assistance is no longer token
*babysitting: notice how she attached the pacifier to her sweatshirt
*bedtime stories: he reads the girls the mermaid books they crave, bless his heart
*musical beds

This same time, years previous: curried lentils, orange cranberry biscotti

Friday evening fun

2012-01-28T07:01:00.000-08:00

Last night I cried my eyes out while reading to the kids. We were nearing the end of our book, a story about a happy family with six rollicking kids. It was a safe story, I thought, cute and well-written.

And then the little brother crashed his bike, severed his brain stem, and died.

I cried for two and a half chapters. What I really wanted to do was to put the book down, go to my room, and bawl my eyes out. Instead, I persevered, voice tight, tears streaming down my face, nose running, long pauses, the works.

My older daughter listened with her head pressed into my arm, her shoulders heaving. My younger daughter, curled up on the chair, cried with her hands over her face. My littlest kept whimpering, “I don’t want to read this book anymore, Mama.” And my oldest repeatedly offered to take over the reading. At one point he suggested we read something funny. “How about Matilda?”

Losing one of my babies is my worst fear, my deepest heart pain. Just one thought of one of them not growing up is enough to make my eyes start watering. I can’t go there.

But then I did. With no warning, I plunged right into a grief so profound I can’t even imagine it, and the breath was sucked right out of me. It was awful and ridiculous.

I feel like I’d for sure shatter into a trillion little bits if one of my children died, but I know better. I would keep going. And so I plowed through the pages, reading about the uncle who told the oldest brother that there was nothing wrong with him for not crying. It’s like each of us has just been handed a steaming bowl of sorrow, the uncle said. Some of us start eating it right away, but others wait till it cools a bit before digging in. Either way, everyone has to eat what’s in their bowl.

I read through to the very end, even though it was more than I normally read—there was no way I wanted to extend the agony.

But even after the kids were in bed, I couldn’t shake the achy sad.

It was a good book, though.

This same time, years previous: Gretchen's green chili, shoofly cake, my real name, gripping the pages, ode to the Titty Fairy

housekeeping

2012-01-26T12:03:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of full disclosure, I wasn’t making regular rice krispie treats. The ones I wrecked involved, along with rice krispies, marshmallows, and butter, potato chips and Rolos. They should have rocked my world, but alas, I didn’t have enough marshmallows so I cut back on other ingredients to balance everything out. But my guesses were sloppy and harried because I was in a frantic rush to eat rice krispie treats now. The treats ended up being so hard and dry that they rubbed the skin off of the roof of my mouth and three days later I’m still in pain.

***

This warm weather is making me grumpy. It’s stupid to gripe about the weather because I can’t do anything about it, but it’s not supposed to be 60 degrees in January!

When it’s winter, I want winter. I want cozy fires and snow and lots of hot chocolate and thick sweaters.

Instead, my kids wear shorts and go outside in bare feet, and one evening we had strawberry daiquiris after the kids were in bed. It’s just wrong, plain wrong (though the daiquiris were good). It makes me feel like the end of the world is nigh, which is not a pleasant feeling to have.

***

I must have a word with you about vacuuming and window washing. Perhaps it’s a confession, perhaps it’s a clarification, but:

a. I vacuum multiple times each day. The other day I vacuumed four times, I think. (Also, I can never spell "vacuum" correctly.)

Back when we were living in our small house in town, my husband and I argued constantly over sweeping the floor. I wanted it to be done every night—crunching on crumbs gives me the willies—and he thought I was obsessed and crazy. So, because neither of us had (has) learned the art of Giving In, we argued and fought until eventually, somehow, sweeping the floors became an evening ritual. It was beautiful thing.

Then we moved to our new house and my husband insisted on installing central vac. I thought he was going overboard, spending all that money when a broom and dustpan worked just fine, but he’s the carpenter and so now we have central vac. And I love it. I just grab the hose off the hook in the hallway, push a button, and zip the pushy thing over my floors and, voila!, they’re clean. It’s addictive and simple and I vacuum all the time.

Note: The upstairs gets a thorough vacuuming every other week, if we’re lucky.

b. A reader (Hi, Margo!) noted my obsessive window washing.

When we moved to this place, we—I mean, my husband—installed a lot of large, easy-to-open windows. Large, floor-to-ceiling windows let in lots of glorious light and attract sticky fingers, fly poop, and splatters (for those above the kitchen counters).

So, I’ve taken to washing them with some regularity. The ones in the kitchen get washed about once a week. Clean windows brighten the house and my mood, and furthermore, window washing is an excellent task for belligerent children, of which I have four. Yay, me.

Most days, I feel like my house is falling down around my ears. Clean floors and sparkling windows help me to pretend it’s not.

What’s your cleaning obsession? (Notice I did not say, "Do you have..." I'm on to you, so 'fess up.)

This same time, years previous: flourless peanut butter chocolate chip cookies (look at that! I just made these, adding chunks of the ruined rice krispie treats to the batter), random thoughts

five things

2012-01-25T11:42:00.000-08:00

Thing 1: multigrain
I made a double batch of this mix the other day. I would’ve made more, but I was running out of certain flours.

To answer all your questions (I hope):

a. I buy my flours from our local grocery store and Frankferd Farms, a Pennsylvania co-op that ships each month. I placed an order yesterday, and along with the cheeses, salt, and soy sauce, I ordered barley, kamut, corn flour, millet, soft winter wheat, raw wheat germ, quick oats, brown rice, and wild rice. There will be lots of baking in my near future. Brace yourself.

b. I grind my own wheat in my handy-dandy nutrimill electric grain mill. I also use it to grind up yellow popcorn for cornmeal. I have groats, millet, quinoa, and rye berries in the freezer. I can put all of these through the mill to make flour (I think), but haven't yet.

yes, I'm aware that the bowl is too small

c. I’m beginning to get the hang of this multigrain mix. I’ve added it to waffles, pancakes, and bread. Both the color and texture are light, and the flavor is sweet. I suspect you could add a bit to most homey baked goods, like muffins, cookies, quick breads, and the like.

Having such a variety of grains in our diet makes me feel sophisticated. It’s invigorating.

Do you have a favorite multigrain blend that you use for baking? Please, share your secrets.

Thing 2: the matter with muffins
My husband and I are having a muffin war, and it’s not as cozy as it sounds.

He has recently announced that he doesn’t like—gasp!—the muffins I’ve been making for well over a year. They are my very favorite muffins, the ones I serve to everyone.

ginger, peach, and white chocolate

I think he’s beyond ridiculous—these babies are good—but then I start wondering if maybe I’m losing my taste buds.

Have you made these muffins? If so, what did you think? Should I disregard his cantankerous self, or should I find a new favorite muffin?

It'd be nice to have some reinforcements, not that I’m operating under the illusion that I’m going to win him over, or anything...

Thing 3: clothes
Last weekend, my husband and I sent our kids in four different directions and then went clothes shopping for five hours. He was out of everything—socks, work jeans, t-shirts, dress shirts, etc.—and the kids needed odds and ends.

We hit up the thrift stores first. Right off the bat, I landed a coat.

I’ve been idly looking for a coat for several years, so I was pretty pumped. My mother, the thrifting queen, found me a coat last week, a nice black one, but she's in WV and I won’t see her before I head to NYC and that’s what I needed the coat for. Because you can’t really go north to the big city with just a brown vest. So I bought the brown leather coat, and then I went into another thrift store, found a super-soft, gray cape/shawl, and bought it right up.

So now I have three coats, my husband has clothes without holes, and there is no more money in the clothing envelope.

Thing 4: Ethiopian food
I made chicken wat and injera for supper last night.

It was fab, but I was the only one who thought so. I don’t know what’s wrong with my family.

Thing 5: published!
See the little “published!” button up top there under the header? Click on it and you’ll find a running list of my Kitchen Chronicles articles.

Bonus Thing: rice krispie treats
I made rice krispie treats and they turned out awful.

Last night, I sat at the kitchen table and watched while my husband gnawed on a block of failed marshmallow goo and ranted about my ineptitude.

"I can't believe you screwed up rice krispie treats," he said. "You write a cooking column for the paper and you can't even make rice krispie treats. For crying out loud."

Chomp-chomp.

"Rice krispie treats are so basic they're not even included in Cooking One-oh-One. They're more like Cooking Point Zero Zero One."

Chomp-chomp.

"These really are terrible. You sure are something else, Jennifer. I'm impressed."

This same time, years previous: corn tortillas, grumble, grumble, movie night

the quotidian

2012-01-23T04:44:00.000-08:00

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;

everyday; ordinary; commonplace

*an after-church wrestling match: nowadays, my husband struggles to hold his own against our four wildkids. In fact, he and my older son had an impromptu wrestling match at the day’s second church event (which was informal, but still—wedgies were involved!) (confession: passing by the skirmish, I was tempted to deliver one myself). Afterwards, I overheard some girls giggling about how the son beat up the papa. Hon, your glory days are fading. Watch out.
*a steaming sample: I’m learning to make risotto. No one is crazy about it, so I don't think I have it down pat yet—because isn’t everyone supposed to adore risotto? I will persist, so enlighten me with your favorite risotto recipes, pretty please.
*solar panel handiwork
*breakfast, thawing
*a modern day sledge: otherwise known as the upcycled fort
*we let them tool around the field a few times before putting an end to the gas-guzzling, natural-world-destroying game
*an early morning read-aloud: when I refuse to read my older daughter’s book selections (like mermaid mysteries, ugh), she hounds her papa till he caves
*another early morning with books: a fresh batch of library books buys me a good thirty minutes of blissful quiet
*one of the many varieties of card games that have been cluttering up my floor: it looks peaceful, but oftentimes the fun ends in an angry game of throw-them-down-and-stomp-off.
*clothespin doll creations
*the princess and the compost bucket: she wears this gown all the time, constantly, without ceasing, nonstop, and perpetually
*multitasking: eating supper while preparing to go snow tubing by putting on every article of clothing she owns (almost)
*the multigrain bread before it became multigrain

This same time, years previous: chocolate cream pie, on thank-you notes, pink cupcakes, in no particular order

multigrain bread

2012-01-20T18:25:00.000-08:00

I was recently—as in yesterday—pointed in the direction of a series newly available for streaming on netflix. Four products get manufactured in each episode of How it’s Made. It’s utterly fascinating, and the kids and I now boast a two-day-old ritual of watching one episode after lunch, like an informational dessert. And then the kids watch it again in the evening because they just have to show their papa.

Yesterday, we witnessed the production of tinfoil, contact lenses, bread, and snow boards. Today, it was CDs, pantyhose, mozzarella cheese, and florescent lights.

That factory bread bothered me. The voice over dude called it a multigrain bread, but it was as white as a sheet of paper. I was all like, Are you kidding me? and Where in the bloomin’ world do they get off calling THAT pasty stuff multigrain? Get OUT.

Maybe it was a mixture of many glorious grains THAT JUST HAPPENED TO HAVE THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS, COLOR, AND TEXTURE BLEACHED, PRESSED, AND PROCESSED OUT OF THEM. I really have no idea. So, you know, whatever.

But those plastic bags of nutritious bread wannabees got me to lusting after real multigrain bread—soft bread flecked with bits of germ and tasting of a whole slew of grains. So I took Bernard Clayton's (I'm loving this new book) Cuban bread—an all-white (oops, I'm guilty), chewy-sweet affair that I'd already made a couple times—and bastardized it into something much more hippie and wholesome and mother earthy-like.

I sure showed them. Take THAT, you smarty pants factory. All your bells and whistles and you STILL can’t hit the mark, ha!

However, grainy loveliness aside, what's so intriguing about this bread is the process. It's fast, as in blink-your-eyes-once-and-you're-done fast.

The steps are as follows:

a. mix up the dough
b. let it rise
c. shape it
d. set a pan of boiling water on the bottom oven rack
e. put the bread in the cold oven and turn it on to 400 degrees

Forty minutes later, you have yourself two gorgeous, crackling boules cooling on the kitchen table. Amen, hallelujah, and pass the butter. From start to finish, it takes no more than two hours.

It's so good, it disappears right speedy quick, too.

My family can put away both loaves at one meal, no problem.

Multigrain Bread
With inspiration from Bernard Clayton’s New Complete Book of Breads

1 cup multigrain mix (see below)
1 cup whole wheat flour
3 ½ cups bread flour, plus more as needed
2 scant tablespoons dry yeast
2 tablespoons brown sugar or honey
1 tablespoon salt
2 cups hot tap water (but not so hot it will kill the yeast)
cornmeal, for dusting

Mix together all of the ingredients—except for one of the cups of the white flour. Once well combined, add the remaining flour. Knead for 3-5 minutes. Set the dough in a lightly oiled bowl. Cover and let rise until doubled, about one hour.

Fill your tea kettle with water and bring to a boil.

While the water is coming to a boil, turn the dough out on to a floured surface. Cut in two pieces and shape into round boules (or long loaves, if you prefer). Place the boules on a buttered baking sheet that’s been lightly sprinkled with cornmeal. Dust the loaves with flour. Using a knife, slash an X in the top of each loaf.

Pour the boiling water into a baking pan and set it on the bottom rack of the oven. Place the bread on the rack above it. Close the oven door and turn the oven to 400 degrees. After 30 minutes, rotate the pan and bake for 10 more minutes, or until the loaves are burnished and crusty.

Multigrain Flour Mix
From Good to the Grain by Kim Boyce

Once you start adding this mix to your baked goods, you’ll want to make everything multigrain, so I highly recommend doubling, tripling, or even quadrupling this recipe. It adds a sweetness and flavor that plain old whole wheat does not have. I guess that’s the point.

1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup oat flour
1 cup barley flour
½ cup each millet flour and rye flour

Pack into glass jars and store in the freezer.

This same time, years previous: chuck roast braised in red wine, hitting puberty, peanut noodles, on not wanting

polenta and greens

2012-01-18T10:39:00.000-08:00

Another Kitchen Chronicles is out today. I’m in the middle of figuring out where to put these articles so you can access them. Maybe another blog? Or perhaps a facebook fan page? In any case, I will repost the recipes here (that is, the ones that I haven't already written about).

Today’s recipe was Cheesy Polenta with Sauteed Greens.

The greens came from my mom and they lasted a whole month in the fridge. When she and Dad came to visit last weekend, she brought me two more bags. Thrilled, I was. Now I can cook me up some vitamin-packed leaves whenever I’m feeling depleted. Which, this week, has been constantly.

Cheesy Polenta with Sauteed Greens
(This recipe first appeared in the Daily News Record on January 18, 2012.)

Sauteeing results in firm, full-bodied greens. If you prefer them softer, steam them instead, and be sure to finish them off with a drizzle of brown butter.

the polenta:
1 cup chicken broth or water
1/4 cup coarse cornmeal
a generous pinch of salt
2-4 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Bring the broth to a boil. Sprinkle in the cornmeal, whisking steadily. Stir in the salt. Reduce the heat to low and allow to simmer, stirring occasionally for 8-10 minutes, or until thick. Stir in the cheese and taste to correct seasonings.

the greens:
2-3 cups torn hardy greens, such as kale, collards, mustard, etc., stems removed
1 tablespoon butter
pinch of salt

Melt the butter in a skillet, and add the greens and salt. Using a fork, toss the greens until they have brightened in color, softened, and slightly blackened in places.

Spoon the polenta into a bowl, mound the greens on top, and sprinkle with freshly ground black pepper.

This same time, years previous: snapshots and captions, Julia's chocolate almond cake and chocolate butter frosting, five-minute bread

educational thoughts, kind of

2012-01-17T12:55:00.000-08:00

This is the view out my kitchen window (or from my deck, rather).

Hang on a sec. Let me get a different lens.

There. That’s better.

The oldest two tore down the (hideous) plastic-and-wood fort this morning while I was visiting with a friend. I think they said they are upcycling the materials into a car.

They did not use the word “upcycle.”

Legos. That was what I thought of when I looked out the window. They’re just playing Legos, but on a bigger scale.

Or Tetris, now that I think about it.

Maybe life is just one big Tetris Lego game. We spend our days figuring out how to fit things together: people, furniture, food, car parts, words...

***

Then my friend left and I called the kids in from their giant Lego Tetris game and we watched this youtube video: Seven Lies About Homeschoolers. The kids loved it, especially the ending.

***

My daughter has still not gotten the hang of reading. She loves words—copying them, listening to them, playing with them—but she isn’t able to (easily) decode them.

Sometimes I feel completely confident with our decision to let her learn at her own pace. Other times, I freak out, but only on the inside.

Despite her inability to do something as basic as reading, she is sparklingly confident and happy, much more so than I was at her age. This gives me peace.

***

FYI: when a homeschooled kid (who happens to live in my house) plagiarizes, all hell breaks loose.

A simple 'F' would be so much easier.

This same time, years previous: snapshots, kiddisms, getting in fixes

the quotidian

2012-01-16T04:25:00.000-08:00

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;

everyday; ordinary; commonplace

*snow blocks: the white stuff is scarce this winter---to make the most of it, we bring it inside (not my idea, but it worked)
*the latest in fort technology: a hanging nest
*new bookshelves: tired of a bed full of lumpy books, he built himself a solution. It's crooked, which pains him a little, but it serves the purpose most famously
*baking, baking, baking: Cuban bread (delightfully chewy), bran date bread, granola
*such a dork
*recipe creation: still needs some tweaking, but it's close
*Bible quizzing: the competition is fierce; the kids are having a blast
*transport for a sick child: she needed to use the bathroom but could not possibly get to her feet---her brother (not me) was sympathetic to her plight
*a pre-supper snack
*reading/reciting poetry for Baby Cousin's dedication
*freezing temps and bare toes: who needs shoes anyway?

This same time, years previous: quick fruit cobbler, cranberry relish, spots of pretty, inner voices, the bet

vanilla cream cheese braids

2012-01-13T13:05:00.000-08:00

It’s 1:14 in the afternoon and I’m still in my pajamas. But. The kids are done with their lessons, two baking experiments are completed, and the granola is in the oven. Whoever said daytime clothes were necessary for productivity anyway?

Have you noticed that blogger now lets us talk to each other in the comments? Yes? When my friend shot me an email informing me of the improvement, I about levitated out of my seat with excitement. The only reason I ever considered switching host sites was so I could have that little, super cool “reply” button after each comment. I hated having to respond to a particular question three or four comments later—so much momentum got lost. But now I’m battling the urge to respond to every single comment! It’s hard, but I’ll do my best not to. I figure I’ve held forth enough in the post—the comments are your turn to pontificate. (But I’ll still chime in here and there. That reply button is too shiny to resist.)

I thought I’d tell you about the chipotle chicken dinner I made for supper last night, but then we had some of the leftovers at lunch and I decided it wasn’t thrilling enough to share. And now that I’m slowly plowing through my enormous new bread book, I’m going to have oodles of bread recipes to pass on. However, I need to bake several before I start yapping—get a handle on Clayton's approach and develop a taste (literally) for his style, etc. Also, I still want to tell you about garden steaks, but just not today.

I know! I’ll tell you about the braids that I made for a church breakfast and then again, just for us. This recipe comes from my sister-in-law Kate, the same lady who changed my life, or at least my take on the ‘lada experience, with her cheesy beef enchiladas. (Try them, people. You will be slayed.)

She made the braids for us, years and years and years ago, and of course I begged the recipe and made them for myself once or twice, if my memory serves me correctly. But years and years and years went by and I did not make them. Then, with a church breakfast nigh upon us, I decided that the braids were the only possible thing I could make. (One might say I was “fixating.”) I searched high and low, but the recipe had either evaporated or disintegrated. So I emailed Kate. The subject line said “help” in all caps, followed by three vigorous exclamations points—one excited, one demanding, and one desperate.

My long-suffering (she has eight younger siblings, seven of which are boys), sweet, patient sister-in-law emailed me right back with the recipe. (Those adjectives I used to describe her? It’s kind of funny, but I’d never in a million years pick them to describe my husband her brother. Siblings—they’re such wildcards.)

(I take that back. He can be sweet.)

(Mmm, and I guess he’s long-suffering, too, considering he’s married to me.)

(But not patient. On that I stand firm.) (I think.)

The title of this delectable treat is misleading—no braiding is involved. The four loaves are shaped just like a sweet roll, but with a cream cheese, sugar, vanilla, and egg filling instead of butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon. The rolled dough gets knife (or scissor) X’s cut into the top, and the vanilla glaze, drizzle-slashed across the still-warm loaves, helps to perpetuate the braid myth.

A word about the dough. This is no ordinary dough. It is super rich. Insanely rich. Along with the four cups of white flour, there are two eggs, a whole cup of sour cream, a half cup of sugar, and a stick of butter. Oof, I feel guilty just typing that.

But darlings, the loaves are like candy! Impossibly soft and creamy and profoundly addicting, especially when still slightly warm. I can devour a good third of one loaf without even batting an eye. In my email back to Kate (after the initial “THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!” upon receiving the recipe), I said only this: "Better than I remembered. To die for."

Take it from here, peeps. You know what to do.

The little clock in the bottom corner of my computer screen is informing me that it’s now 2:01 pm. I’d best go get dressed. Happy Friday!

Vanilla Cream Cheese Braids
Adapted from my sister-in-law Kate’s recipe

These loaves are like a tender cheese Danish, but in, well, in loaf form. I added some cranberry sauce to a couple of the loaves, and that was swell. Other ideas for filling additions that have flitted across my mind’s dashboard include: chocolate chips, lemon or orange zest, sour cherry pie filling, and red raspberries. However, the loaves straight up are super classy. There’s really no need to fiddle.

the dough:
1 cup (8 ounces) sour cream
½ cup sugar
½ cup butter, melted
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon yeast
½ cup warm water
2 eggs, beaten
4 cups all-purpose (or bread) flour

Whisk together the sour cream, melted butter, sugar, and salt.

In a small bowl, combine the yeast and warm water.

Stir together the sour cream mixture, the dissolved yeast, the flour, and the eggs. Knead for a few brief minutes before placing in a floured bowl and covering tightly with plastic. (At this point, the dough can be placed in the fridge for 6-12 hours before continuing.)

the filling:
2 8-ounce packages cream cheese
3/4 cup sugar
1 egg
2 teaspoons vanilla

Cream together the cream cheese and sugar. Beat in the egg and vanilla.

to assemble:
Divide the dough into fourths. On a well-floured surface, roll one of the pieces of dough into a rectangle measuring about 8x12 inches. Plop 1/4th of the cream cheese mixture into the middle and spread evenly, leaving a 1-inch border at the top and sides and about 2 inches at the bottom. Starting from the top, roll the dough towards you. Pinch and tuck the ends together and place the loaf on a greased baking sheet. Repeat with the remaining pieces of dough.

Using kitchen shears or a knife, cut six X’s in the top of each loaf. Cover and let rise for 30-45 minutes.

Bake the loaves at 375 degrees for 15-20 minutes. They will get very dark, but as long as they don’t burn, they’re fine. Cool on torn-open brown paper bags or a cooling rack. (They will sink into themselves as they cool. Don't worry—it's all good.) Drizzle with glaze while still warm.

the glaze:
2 ½ cups powdered sugar, sifted
1/4 cup milk
2 teaspoons vanilla

Combine and drizzle on loaves. Or, if not using right away, refrigerate.

To freeze: wrap unglazed loaves in plastic and freeze. (They are very soft, so place on a tray so they keep their shape in the freezer.) To serve, thaw at room temperature. Glaze immediately prior to eating.

This same time, years previous: creamy blue cheese pasta with spinach and walnuts, baked hash brown potatoes

crumbs

2012-01-12T11:37:00.000-08:00

I just wrote a post I’m not going to publish. So there went one hour of my day.

***

Digging in the freezer for chickens, I tore a bunch of skin off the back of my pinky. Shuffling frozen bags of ground beef, green beans, and bread around in a pit of white ice is the same as fingers scraping down a blackboard. I hate, hate, hate it.

***

First thing this morning, the kids and I watched this youtube video of how to cut up a chicken. Then we cut up a chicken, watched the video again, and cut up another one. Three or four more chickens and I’ll be a pro.

***

Then we ate breakfast.

***

I finally finished Middlesex. It was a good book, but I’m glad to be done with it.

***

Speaking of books...

A. For many months now, I’ve been racking my brain, trying to remember the title of a book my mother read to me and my brothers when we were young. All I could remember is that the kids lived in the mountains and put an onion poultice on some man, possibly while he was in a bathtub. Neither Google nor the librarian were any help, and my mother had no idea what I was talking about. And then one evening when I was leisurely perusing the stacks at the library, I saw it! The book was sitting there, centered on the shelf, screaming my name. I snatched it up before the title—Where the Lilies Bloom—even had a chance to register. It’s as good as I remember it, too.

B. I’ve recently discovered Johanna Hurwitz’s books and we’ve been cruising through them, one right after the other. The books are geared towards kids ages 4-8, but the older two love to listen in. In fact, my oldest child is the one who laughs the hardest at the funny parts.

***

My kids had their first-ever (as far as I know) Little Debbie cakes: Peppermint Swiss Rolls. It was a big deal. However, their enthusiasm quickly faded. “They’re not very good,” they said, confused by their disappointment.

***

Note to self: never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever buy Stayman apples again. In 2010 you said you didn’t like them and in 2011 you still didn’t like them. 2012 is no different.

***

After watching a Jackie Chan movie—The Spy Next Door—my youngest said, “If I was a Chinese person, I could kill anyone I wanted!” There were so many things wrong with that statement that I had no idea how to respond so I just said, “No.”

***

I stayed up late the other night to watch True Grit with my husband. Most of the time I had my head under a blanket. But that scene in the cabin where that guy had his hand on the table caught me totally off-guard. Ouch.

***

Tootsie just came in the mail. It's more my style. (I think.) (I don't really remember what it was about.) (Darn, maybe I'll hate it.)

***

Are you supposed to italicize movie titles anymore? It's suddenly looking kind of weird.

***

And no, we don't watch movies all the time, though it may appear that way.

***

I'm dismal bored, so now it's your turn. Throw me some crumbs, pretty please?

This same time, years previous: rum raisin shortbread,

what we ate for lunch

2012-01-11T11:13:00.000-08:00

Today, one of my children dry heaved at lunch. He wasn’t sick, either. He just didn’t like the food.

The other kids hated the meal just as much, but, with the reward of a peanut butter apple dangling over their heads, they plodded onward, using their bits of rationed toast (“no more until your soup is all gone!”) to scoop up the bits of pasta and spinach.

However, when the gagging happened, I threw in the towel. They were mostly done anyway and I was sick of playing The Evil Witch. The chickens got the dregs and the kids got their apples.

I suppose I should feel guilty that my kids suffer through their meals so. Many people think it’s ridiculous, wrong even, to make children eat something they don’t like. I don’t feel any remorse, though. Just prickly irritation. Dagnabbit, you ungrateful wretches, THIS IS GOOD FOOD! Buck up and eat it and don’t forget to kiss my feet and say thank you when you're done!

Good grief.

(For the record, I regularly make my kids eat foods they don't prefer, such as—and it depends on the child—dried beans, peas, squash, stewed apples, semi-burnt toast crusts, tomato chunks, egg casserole, oatmeal, potato peels, etc. Foods I choose not to push include peanut butter, dark chocolate, burnt toast crusts, kale, mushrooms, meat, pie, polenta, and grapefruit. Don't waste time trying to find a rhyme or reason because there mostly isn't one. Also, if you have any brilliant food-and-kid policies, feel free to share.)

I loved the soup. Loved, loved, loved it. It fed my soul.

But after our tumultuous lunch, I started to feel like maybe I was weird for liking it, so I looked the recipe up on-line again, this time checking the comments. Everyone raved about it which made me feel better.

Clearly, my kids are the weird ones, not me. I will never doubt myself again.

Nor will I try to feed them this soup for a very, very, very long time.

Spinach Lemon Orzo Soup
Adapted from sprinkledwithflour’s recipe on the Tasty Kitchen Blog

This soup is bright and flavorful and spicy and alive. I think the kids were reacting to the textures more than the tastes. They’d probably like it just fine if I used shell pasta and broccoli in place of the orzo and spinach. A bit of ground sausage (or shrimp!) wouldn’t hurt either.

a hearty drizzle of olive oil
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 lemon, zested and juiced
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
½ teaspoon dried thyme
1 ample cup orzo
1 10-ounce package frozen spinach, drained
6 cups chicken broth (part of which can be water)
1-2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons water
1 tablespoon cornstarch
Parmesan cheese, for serving

Saute the onion and garlic in the olive oil. Add the lemon zest, red pepper and thyme and stir for a couple minutes. Stir in the orzo and spinach and toss around until heated through. Add the broth, lemon juice, and salt. Simmer for 10-15 minutes, or until the pasta is nearly tender. Mix the cornstarch and water in a small bowl and add to the soup. Cook for several more minutes. Taste to correct seasonings before ladling into bowls and sprinkling with Parmesan. Serve with buttered toast.

This same time, years previous: kiddling shenanigans

sticky toffee pudding

2012-01-10T11:18:00.000-08:00

We’re languishing, doing everything halfway. We’re halfway working, halfway playing, halfway sick(ing) (gotta keep it parallel), halfway eating, halfway writing. Even the weather is halfway weathering—a little snow, a little rain, a little sun—and the kids’ fighting is halfway, all aimless whining and bickering.

Everyone felt better yesterday, though, and that’s when I made this pudding. I had a house full of kids—seven in all—and none of them sick. They played hard and ate much and the girls even cleaned one of the disaster areas (otherwise known as a bedroom) from top to bottom.

One of my favorite meals to serve a houseful of kids, some of which are vegetarian (*!), is a large bowl of baked potatoes with butter and salt, a half gallon-plus of green beans, and applesauce.

The kids eat and eat and eat, and then I give them a dessert of some sort, often a cobbler or crisp, or maybe a plate of leftover Christmas cookies. Last night they got sticky toffee pudding with whipped cream.

I served it up and then quietly watched then eat. I couldn’t wait to hear their reaction (I’d snuck tastes and was totally head over heels in sticky toffee ecstasy), but they ate their dessert nonchalantly, slowly, minus any lip-smacking and mm-mming. The silence was unnerving.

But then, then! One by one the kids looked at me as though they were waking from a deep sleep. Their eyes slowly focused on my face, and, trance-like, they held out their bowls. “Is there any more?”

Sticky Toffee Pudding
Adapted from Ruth Reichl’s blog

Suggested variations: swap out the dates for raisins, add in pecans or walnuts, flavor the syrup with vanilla or bourbon. The pudding must, however, be served with whipped cream.

for the syrup:
1 cup brown sugar
1 tablespoon butter
1 ½ scant cups boiling water

Bring all three ingredients to a boil in a saucepan. Reduce the heat and simmer for 20-25 minutes, or until slightly thickened.

for the cake:
½ cup sugar
1 tablespoon butter
1 cup flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
a hearty pinch of salt
½ cup milk
½ teaspoon each nutmeg and cinnamon
½ cup chopped dried dates

Beat together the sugar and butter. Beat in the flour, baking powder and salt (it will not be well-incorporated, so don’t stress). Slowly add the milk, beating after each addition. Fold in the spices and dates.

Pour the syrup into a greased loaf pan. Spoon the batter into the middle of the pan—it will float on the syrup. Bake the pudding at 350 degrees for about 35 minutes, or until a cake tester (inserted only in the cake part) comes out clean. Cool for 10 minutes before inverting onto a plate.

Serve warm, with barely sweetened whipped cream.

*! My younger daughter proclaims she is now a vegetarian. This is not because of some great moral awakening, but rather because she wants to be twins with her vegetarian friend.

Also, she has renamed herself, though I can’t right now remember what it is.

Her teen years ought to be pretty interesting.

This same time, years previous: eyeballs and teeth, a rant against the boob tube

the quotidian

2012-01-09T04:29:00.000-08:00

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;

everyday; ordinary; commonplace

*lunching on leftovers: pork tamale, oven-roasted poblanos, red beans, sour cream, mmm
*bathtime humor
*fun, deconstructed: a tree, a come-along, part of an old tire, a rope, a board, and siblings
*cooking projects galore = dirty dishes galore
*freezing cold weather and snow flurries at the beginning of the week gave way to...
*brilliant blue skies and 60 degree weather at the end: it's not climate change, folks—it's climate WHIPLASH
*studying: he's joined our church's Bible quizzing team, and is loving it
*posh nosh: have you seen it? A BBC cooking satire, it's a little on the raunchy side (my kids have seen some of it, though that's probably not a good thing). Today I took notes. The mussels get "irritated" (scrubbed) and "thrilled" (boiled), and they have "free-range, homeschooled chicken." They make their own stock, though "by all means, buy stock cubes if you have low self-esteem." A few more episodes, and I may revamp the way I write recipes. You've been warned.
*a new used Bible: at our church, the 12-year-olds are gifted Bibles with a twist—the parents have already had them for several months and have passed them around to family and friends so that they can mark up the pages and jot down their thoughts, words of encouragement, etc. This past weekend, my husband and son went to the 12-year-old overnight retreat. It's a small affair, just the kids and one parent, plus the pastors—the focus of which is to celebrate and prepare for the upcoming teen years. The Sunday service following, the Bibles are gifted.
*muffins: his breakfast contribution at the retreat
*frying up the leftover pancake batter (fyi, three days in the fridge is too long): but just look at that hair! It's red! Also, is it wrong for mothers to imitate their daughters' hairstyles? Because I'm on the verge of doing just that.
*sick girl: the (thankfully mild) bug has been making its rounds
*birthday books: what I bought with my birthday money (and one more thing is yet to come)

This same time, years previous: hog butchering, moving big sticks of wood, baking hash brown potatoes

so worth it

2012-01-07T05:04:00.000-08:00

Last night I took the girls to see Much Ado About Nothing. It was pay-what-you-will night, and, once again, we got to sit on the stage. The funnies kept happening, wave after wave of them. I laughed so hard my face hurt.

I let the girls buy a treat from the snack cart. Spending outrageous sums of money for sugary drinks is one of my absolute no-nos, but I was struck with the image that my grown-up girls will have of me: our poor, pinchy mother who didn’t like to spend extra pennies on the fun stuff in life. That sour picture in my mind, I cracked open my wallet.

Their eyes widened in amazed disbelief, but they wasted no time snatching up the twenty and prancing up to the cart where they asked for a Sprite in two cups and a bag of gummy bears. On their stools again, they gushed their thanks, thus confirming that I am correctly perceiving their image of me.

But back to the play. It was hysterically funny. Really, really funny. On numerous occasions, the serious characters had trouble keeping a straight face, and there was one moment when the entire cast dissolved in laughter, unable to go on with their lines (thanks to the sharp-tongued Beatrice). But only twice did actors call “privy” (I mean "PRITHEE," OH MY WORD, MY FACE IS RED!) which is pretty amazing considering the cast had only been rehearsing the show FOR TWO DAYS.

This rawness is what makes the theater invigorating, alive, addicting. It’s pure magic to sit on stage (or anywhere else in the room, for that matter) with these incredibly gifted people as they act out these old (and sometimes new) stories.

Also, where else would I allow strange men to (stage) whisper stuff about goat guts in my seven-year-old daughter’s ear? Nowhere, I tell you. The theater is special.

To be clear, nobody is paying me to sing the theater’s praises.

I'm doing it all on my own, and quite naturally, too.

This same time, years previous: candied peanuts, salted dulce de leche ice cream with candied peanuts, turkey noodle soup, home alone, butchering chickens

buckwheat apple pancakes

2012-01-05T18:43:00.000-08:00

Last night when I went grocery shopping, I didn’t buy the cereal. I was supposed to pick up a couple boxes, along with the ladyfinger popcorn, onions, and sour cream, but then my published words came back to haunt me. I had made some disparaging comments about bought cereal, referring to it as “fluff-o-nothing,” and then I said “...boxed cereals are expensive, not to mention a waste of calories, so I’ve taken to buying oats in 50-pound sacks and mixing up my own version of breakfast.”

So there was pretty much no way I could put a box of Cheerios in my cart. If someone saw me, imagine! In a matter of seconds, maybe minutes, the whole world would know I was an imposter, a fake, a hypocrite. My writing career would be over before it even started.

Such were the irrational thoughts of Yours Truly. I knew I was acting a little hyper-sensitive, a little crazy—like anyone cares, you goose!—and I laughed at myself (though not out loud). I did not, however, touch a single box of fluff.

So we had pancakes for breakfast this morning.

Actually, I had already mixed up the batter that afternoon in anticipation of six hungry munchkins at my table (two extra kids were staying over), so that particular cereal turmoil was irrelevant to this particular meal.

I’d already made these pancakes a couple weeks before, and in spite of them being one hundred percent whole grain, half of that being the rather strong-tasting buckwheat, the kids ate them right up. They didn’t pig out, mind you, but they made favorable noises and liked them well enough for me to add them to our pancake repertoire—a repertoire which is getting rather lengthy, me thinks.

Batter, not sludge. Promise.

Pancakes We Have In Our Repertoire

Buttermilk Pancakes

Cracked Wheat Pancakes

Farmer Boy Pancakes

Oatmeal Pancakes

Russian Pancakes

Pancakes are happy food. They make the world go round, or at least our day get started. Eat up!

Back to these buckwheat pancakes. I got the recipe from my new cookbook, Good to the Grain by Kim Boyce—

Stop it right there. I gotta tell you about this book. I had been lusting after it for months and months and months. All the other food bloggers were chortling its praises and I felt all woeful since I wasn’t in the know. But then my mother gave me some hot diggity dog birthday cash (thanks, Mom!).

Already, the book looks like it’s been through a minor war, what with the sticky notes poking out around the edges, the smudged and wrinkled pages, and the kid scribbles.

Kim breaks the recipes into sections according to flours, so after a quick read-through, I honed in on the recipes that called for the flours I already had, and just today I mixed up my own multigrain flour (whole wheat, barley, rye, millet, and oat flour).

I’m sampling recipes on a regular basis, trying to get a better grasp of baking with whole grains. I find I want more information than what Kim provides, but that doesn’t bother me too much. I’m learning lots—I can always go deeper later.

Oh, and one final—and perhaps the most important—thing: Kim is focused on creating recipes that taste good. She’s not into that cut-out-the-butter and reduce-the-sugar crap. She’s a pastry chef, for crying out loud! These recipes are all about flavor, about exploring the grains for their own unique tastes (and ooo, lookie! They’re good for you, too!), and that, my friends, is a bandwagon I will happily hop on.

Anyway, that’s how I came upon this buckwheat pannycake recipe. The end.

Buckwheat Apple Pancakes
Adapted from Good to the Grain by Kim Boyce

The original recipe calls for white sugar instead of brown, pears instead of apples, and milk instead of buttermilk.

I make a double batch (the night before) and save the leftover batter in the fridge for another morning. The batter keeps for at least 24 hours, but quite possibly 48. (I’ll know tomorrow.)

1 cup buckwheat flour
1 cup whole wheat flour
3 tablespoons brown sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/4 cups buttermilk (or milk)
1 egg, beaten
2 tablespoons butter, melted
1 ½ cups grated apple

Stir together the dry ingredients. Add the wet and stir lightly, just until combine. (At this point, you can refrigerate the batter for up to 24 hours, though they are best made right away, or at least so says Kim.)

Fry the pancakes in plenty of butter. The batter will be very thick, so put small dollops in the pan and then spread them out with the back of the spoon.

Serve hot, with more butter and syrup.

This same time, years previous: sweet and spicy popcorn

of an evening (and a morning)

2012-01-04T09:33:00.000-08:00

It’s been a struggle to keep the house warm today. I went for a walk this afternoon and thought I’d die from cold before I got back. In fact, it was so bad, I had a Jack London moment in which I heard wolves howl and nearly dropped my box of matches in a snowbank. (Never mind that there was no snow, let alone wolves or matches. The cold will do things to you.) It was freezing miserable, but I got my walk in.

The kids and I spent most of the afternoon by the roaring, but-never-quite-hot-enough fire. I read books out loud, and we watched part of a National Geographic movie. My littlest was sick all day, and, excuse me from saying so, it was quite lovely. He—the kid who never stops moving—laid on the sofa in a most uncharacteristically calm and genteel fashion. So peaceful, so quiet, so still.

This evening, I stayed at home with Sick Boy while my husband took the other kids to town for our church’s monthly supper and family fun night.

As soon as they left, I got a shower and then fixed toast for the kid and spiked hot chocolate with marshmallows for me.

I read books to him, and then I read to myself while he read to himself, and then he curled up on one end of the sofa to go to sleep while I settled in to write this on the other end.

Except now he’s slumped over close to me, with his head laying on my arm, pinning it down to the keyboard.

I’ll post this in the morning, but I wanted to get this sweet moment down right now, before it disappears in a swirling cloud of life.

(Also, my arm hurts, and I want more hot chocolate.)

***

That was last night, Tuesday night. Now it’s Wednesday morning and I’m sitting by the fire again. (When we were getting ready for bed last night, shivering and shaking in the cold upstairs air, my husband said between clenched teeth, “It is freezing up here!” And I said, “At least we don’t wake up with snow on us like Laura and Mary did.” It’s all about perspective, see.)

At 5:30 this morning, I braved the bitter cold when I dashed out to fetch the paper. I don’t ever get the paper—that’s the kids’ job—but my column debuted today so I was all sorts of eager.

I had a series of writing-for-newspaper anxiety dreams last night and didn’t know quite what I’d see when I opened the paper, but there it was, my words running down the front page of the Flavor section with my picture (taken by my son—not every five-year-old can boast that he's a published photographer!) at the top, like an upside down exclamation point, yee-haw!

I titled the column Kitchen Chronicles—since it will be about stories and food—and the first recipe is, of course, granola.

(I'd link to the article if I could, but the online paper is only for subscribers.)

This same time, years previous: baguettes, hitting the jackpot

cranberry sauce

2012-01-03T04:40:00.000-08:00

I've spent a lot of time trying to find my favorite cranberry sauce recipe. There were recipes that called for lots of orange zest, recipes that demanded ginger in all its forms (candied, fresh, ground), and recipes that glugged in the booze. The recipes were good, sure, but not what I was looking for. So I gave up.

And then it was Christmas day and my husband was taking the cloves out of the ham and I remembered that I needed a cranberry sauce to go with our dinner.

I did the most basic thing possible. I tumbled a bag of frozen cranberries into a saucepan, added a cup of sugar and a cup of liquid (the juice of half an orange and the rest water), and a few scrapes of orange zest. I simmered the berries for 15 minutes or so, spooned the sauce into a serving bowl, and called everyone to the table to eat.

It was perfect, the very cranberry sauce I had been lusting for all this time—classy, simple, and so stinkin' easy that it made me feel both brilliant and stupid.

Classic Cranberry Sauce
From the November 1999 issue of Gourmet

12-ounce package frozen cranberries, picked over
1 cup sugar
1 cup liquid, a mixture of orange juice and water
½ teaspoon orange zest

Stir everything together in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, stirring occasionally, for 15-20 minutes, or until slightly thickened. Serve the sauce warm, room temperature, or chilled, keeping in mind the sauce will thicken as it cools.

This same time, years previous: lentil-sausage soup

the quotidian

2012-01-02T04:27:00.000-08:00

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;

everyday; ordinary; commonplace

*the "dining room" table: peppernuts, orange-chocolate chunk cookies (recipe needs some tweaking), my new (and much loved) Good to the Grain Cookbook, my current novel (Middlesex).
*to calm a fussy baby: twinkle lights and the cold night air
*still-life art: a dinosaur in green marker
*living-life art, part I: Renaissance Man
*living-life art, part II: Renaissance Man, with Navel Orange Bosoms
*Christmas Goodies Galore
*family: all a-jumble (don't be deceived by the boy's closed eyes—he was very much not asleep)
*a professional cut: after staring at her chopped hair for a couple days, and with Sunday fast approaching, I rushed her into town for a real haircut. I'm so glad I did.
*her papa: "You're beautiful!"
*story time: my mother, in her element
*New Year's Eve: he was wearing the earmuffs in order to block out the sounds of me watching Glee

This same time, years previous: loose ends, maybe not a true confession

tamalada!

2011-12-31T07:21:00.000-08:00

That’s what a tamale party is called, in case you didn’t know, which I didn’t—at least, not until I decided to have one.

When I learned that my whole family would be coming to our house for a not-on-Christmas dinner, I decided to make tamales:

Lots of people + big appetites + open-minded tastebuds = a chance for me to try something different, yee-haw.

I’d never made tamales before and I didn’t particularly like the Nicaraguan tamales (called nacatamales)—giant, greasy, gelatinous piles of masa and meat, wrapped in a green banana leaf and boiled in water for hours on end—but I do like Mexican tamales. So I turned to Lisa’s blog, The Homesick Texan—

No. I’m getting this all wrong. It went like this: I was flipping though Lisa’s blog in search of the bacon-jalapeno cheese ball recipe (because Julie told me to) when I spied her tamales. I looked at the pictures, studied the recipes, and thought to myself, “That’s what I’ll do for the family. I’ll make tamales!”

I emailed some friends in search of a tamale steamer, but no one had one. So I cornered my husband and made him promise he’d rig something up for me. He agreed (after a brief bout of second guessing my decision: why do you always pick things that are so complicated!), and I was able to finally turn my full attention to the delectable details of masa, pork, and chiles.

They say that making tamales is a big affair, requiring lots of work and many hands, but I found it to be much easier than I anticipated. I blackened the chiles and made the meat filling and the masa (dough) the day before, so all we had to do was assemble and steam the tamales.

However, when it came time to stuff, roll, and tie the tamales, all the would-be tamale makers were off working on other projects, so it was my mother, my daughter, and I (with a little help from the other children) who assembled the tamales.

We made 60-plus pork tamales and 20-plus cheese and chili and it only took us about an hour. Making cut-out sugar cookies is harder.

For the steamer, my husband poked holes through a piece of metal and bent it so it fit into my largest canner. For the other kettle, I used several metal measuring cups to support a metal roasting pan.

count the helping hands!

To help set the mood and get the tamale vibes going (and because I really had no idea what I was doing and there was a good chance the entire dinner would flop), I cranked up the tejano music. I hated the twangy tunes when I was living in Nicaragua, but I liked it well-enough during our tamalada. I think the music may have even enhanced the flavors.

Also for our supper: refried beans and Mexican rice (both recipes courtesy of The Homesick Texan—thank you, Lisa) and my mother’s cabbage slaw, and leftover crumbly cheese (I bought the wrong kind) and salsa and crema. Dessert consisted of hot chocolate with marshmallows, coffee, cookies, citrus, and Christmas cake.

Tamales
Adapted from The Homesick Texan

*All components can be made ahead of time. I recommend you do so.

Masa (dough)
Pork Filling
Poblano Chiles and Cheese
Dried corn husks
A steamer

the masa:

*for the liquid, I used 2 cups strong chicken broth, 2 cups pork broth, and water.

2 cups lard
12 cups maseca flour
12 cups liquid
2 tablespoons salt

Cream the lard. Beat in the salt and a cup of flour. Now a cup of liquid. Continue adding the flour and liquid, alternating between the two and beating thoroughly after each addition. Keep track by making tally marks on a piece of scrap paper. Part way through, you’ll probably have to dump the whole mess into a large bowl and swap the beaters for a wooden spoon. Cover the masa tightly with plastic and store in the refrigerator until you are ready to make the tamales.

pork filling:

*I used only 5 jalapenos and the filling wasn’t spicy at all. Next time I’ll use the full 8 and maybe even add some of the seeds.
*The original recipe calls for 8 tomatoes, roasted and charred, but I used roasted tomato sauce instead.
*Also, I found the meat filling to be too dry, so I added a cup or two of the pork broth back in at the end. Next time I will add even more liquid.
*Don’t skimp on the salt.

5 pounds boneless pork, cut into large chunks
12 large garlic cloves, minced and divided in half
2 large onions, chopped and divided in half
1 tablespoon salt (at least)
1 teaspoon black pepper
4 cups roasted tomato sauce, or 8 tomatoes, roasted and pureed
1 tablespoon canola oil or lard
6-8 jalapenos, seeded and minced

Put the pork, half the onions and half the garlic, the salt and pepper, and a half cup of water in a large crock pot. Cook on high for 3-4 hours, or until the meat is cooked through. Remove the meat to a plate to cool and then shred into little pieces. Strain the broth and reserve (if not for the pork filling, then for the masa).

Puree the tomato sauce with the remaining garlic.

Heat the oil in a large pan and saute the remaining onion until translucent. Add the tomato sauce and jalapenos and cook for five more minutes. Add the shredded pork and heat through. The pork should be saucy and juicy, but not runny. If it’s too dry, add a cup (or three) of the reserved pork broth (or some chicken broth). Taste to correct seasonings. (I added some of the roasted poblano chilis—an excellent addition.)

Store the meat in the refrigerator (or freezer) until ready to use.

poblano-cheese filling:

*I used only 2 chilis, but the flavor was so wonderful I recommend preparing more and then chopping up the extras and freezing them in little containers to add to future chili, rice, and bean dishes.
*The original recipe says to cut the chilis into thin strips and add one to each tamale. I thought the tamales could use more umph—next time I’ll make a mixture of (lots of) minced chilis and grated cheese.
*I bought the wrong kind of cheese—crumbly and dry. What you want is a mild, chewy, soft Mexican cheese. If you can’t find any, use Muenster or Jack.

2-4 poblano chilis
1-2 pounds soft Mexican cheese

Put the chilis on a baking sheet and broil until blistered black, turning them every few minutes. Cool slightly before coring and seeding. Cut into thin strips, or mince. Store prepared chilis in the refrigerator.

to assemble:

Soak the corn husks in a bowl of water for one hour. This makes them pliable, so they don’t break and crack when they bend. Drain the husks (just a few at a time—keep the rest in the water until you need them) and pat dry.

Place the husk lengthwise in front of you, the skinny end on one side and the wide end on the other. Place a handful (perhaps 1/3 cup?) of masa in the center of the tamale and pat it flat so it’s about 1/4 inch thick, leaving a border of husk all the way around (making sure it’s a particularly wide border on the sides, as those are the ends that will be tied). Top the masa with 1-2 tablespoons of meat or chili-cheese filling. Roll the tamales up as you would a sweet roll, not worrying if husks are pressed into the filling.

Tear a couple softened husks into strips and use the strips to tie the ends of the tamales shut—like giant Tootsie Rolls.

Put 3-4 inches of water in the bottom of the steamer. You want enough water that the kettle won’t boil dry (though one of my pots did and it wasn’t the end of the world), but keep it low enough so the tamales aren’t sitting in the water. Pile in the tamales and clap a lid on top.

Steam the tamales for 45 minutes, occasionally checking the water level. You know the tamales are done when the masa pulls away from the husk.

Serve the tamales straight up, or with whatever green or red salsa suits your fancy. Leftover tamales (rejoice!) can be refrigerated or frozen. Reheat in the microwave (or a small steamer).

Yield: 60-80 tamales

This same time, years previous: eggnog, in which I throw my bread on the floor and stomp on it, delight

chopped locks

2011-12-30T04:33:00.000-08:00

It'd been taking my daughter forever and a half to comb her hair in the morning. She’d walk around with a brush in her hand, half-heartedly thwacking at her mane every now and then, and almost every morning I'd end up yelling at her to “Get in the bathroom, shut the door, and do not come out until your hair is brushed!” So when she started making noises about perhaps wanting to cut her hair, I was thrilled.

A couple days ago, my brother and his friend and I got to talking about hair, and Locks of Love came up. “That’s it!” I shouted. “I never thought of that! She’ll love the idea!” I scurried over to the computer to do a little research, and when my daughter came home from a trip to town with her papa, I explained all about Locks of Love. She jumped right on board. (Interesting fact: did you know that 80% of donations come from children wanting to help other children?)

First, I washed her hair in the sink and then blew it dry. She tossed her hair about like in the shampoo commercials she doesn’t see.

“I’m missing my hair already,” she said.

I pulled her silky-smooth (and suddenly painfully beautiful) tresses back into a ponytail, braided it, and tied off the end.

Hair donations are supposed to be a minimum of ten inches—we were cutting more than twelve.

I measured once, measured twice. Giggling giddily, we admired, touched, and mourned her hair. And then I picked up the scissors and started snipping. At first, they didn’t make a dent, but then I figured out how to use just the point to take little cuts and soon the braid started to come free.

Right in the middle of all that snipping, my husband came inside. He stood in the door, his eyes wide. “You mean you were going to cut it without calling me in to watch?”

And then her short, choppy hair was swirling around her face, and I was holding a strawberry-blond braid in my hands. I stared at it, semi-shocked at what I had done, tears filling my eyes. I felt like I had just cut off my child’s arm.

I watched her closely, waiting for the hot tears of remorse, but they never came. She kept ruffling the back of her hair with her hand and tossing her head from side to side, saying “It’s so light!”

“You look funny,” her sister said, appalled.

I’d never hacked off a ponytail before, so I didn’t know what it would look like. The sides swooped down long around her face, while the hair went up in the back, stacked-fashion.

We quickly discovered it was too short for a ponytail—her one, very clear specification, oops—but I showed her how we could pull back the top to keep it out of her eyes, and she was satisfied.

We put the braid in a zip-lock bag, wrote her name and address on a piece of paper (so she’ll get an official acknowledgment from Locks of Love) and made a quick trip to our local post office where we bought a padded envelop (according to the instructions), and sent her hair on its merry way to Florida.

Back home, my brother’s friend (her hairdo courtesy of my other daughter) and I tried to smooth out the sawed-off appearance, but we quickly gave up—it was way beyond our abilities.

For a while I kept suggesting we take her to a professional to get it fixed, but then I stopped talking about that, too.

My daughter loves her new chopped locks. And besides, hair grows.

This same time, years previous: one step above lazy, tomatoey potatoes and green beans, hats

giant sausage and leek quiche

2011-12-28T17:18:00.000-08:00

The other week, I bought a couple bundles of leeks because I needed to photograph a potato and leek soup for an article that’s coming out in a local magazine.

The pictures were a flop (I’m not sure what I expected exactly, since it’s just a bowl of white creaminess and I don’t style my food at all), but the soup was delicious. The younger two kids fought over the leftovers.

I was surprised at how expensive leeks were—about a buck a leek (that sounds funny)—and it felt even more extravagant since I was only buying them for the white part. I couldn’t bring myself to toss the mountain of green stalks though, so I bagged them up and stuck them in the fridge, thinking I might use them in a beef soup.

However, instead of the beef soup, I cooked up all that leeky greenness into a gigantic sausage-leek quiche. It was a fabulous quiche, a quiche made all the more fabulous because the star ingredient was originally destined for the compost bucket (shame on me).

Never again will I toss the leek tops. I can think of a million uses for them now—pretty much any dish that calls for sauteed onions.

Giant Sausage and Leek Quiche

½ (the bigger half) recipe lard and egg pastry
4-8 cups chopped leek greens
1 pound ground sausage
2 cups cheddar cheese
½ cup Parmesan cheese
1 ½ cups milk
4 eggs, beaten
1/4 rounded teaspoon salt
1/4 rounded teaspoon black pepper

Line your biggest pie pan (mine is a 10-inch, earthenware monstrosity) with the pastry and crimp the crust.

Brown the sausage in a large pot over medium high heat. Transfer the meat to a large mixing bowl, leaving the drippings in the pan.

Return the pot to the heat and add the leeks (and a pat of butter if the drippings were meager). Saute until tender and brilliant green. Add the leeks to the bowl of sausage. Add the cheeses and toss to combine. Put the cheese and meat mixture into the pastry-lined pan.

In a small bowl, mix together the eggs, milk, and seasonings. Pour over the meat and cheese. Bake the quiche at 350 degrees for 40-50 minutes, or until the center is puffy, golden brown, and set. Cool for 10 minutes before eating.

This same time, years previous: Christmas 2010, windows at dusk-time, spaghetti carbonara, marmalade-glazed ham, for my walls, Christmas 2008

dancing mice, and other Christmas tales

2011-12-25T20:19:00.000-08:00

So some mice had a disco party on my kitchen counter the other night. They were leaping and prancing around like they owned the joint, or like they were practicing for the Nutcracker.

My husband hauled our half-asleep black cat over to the party and—shazaam—one of the mice was no longer dancing.

The cat now owns a free indoor pass (at least until the infestation is under control).

***

We trekked around the neighborhood, handing out festive tins of crack (and some bags of peppernuts and a couple lip balms). The kids were boinging all over the place.

Note to self: next year, practice approaching houses and knocking on doors before letting the kids do the real thing. The littlest twit of yours, especially, would benefit from some basic instruction.

***

When I was packing up the Christmas goodies, my daughter entered the kitchen bearing an old National Geographic. “What’s this?” she asked, showing me a picture of a dead, bruised and battered little boy.

I scanned the caption. “It’s a war in another country. A bunch of people were killed, including some children.”

As I scribbled Christmas trees and drew stars on my note cards, she peppered me with questions. How old was he? Did he have any brothers and sisters? Where are his parents? And, Look! They put all his toys beside him on the bed.

I watched her out of the corner of my (misty) eye, waiting for her face to crumble and her shoulders to hunch forward. But they never did.

***

I made a cheese ball and even though I haven’t eaten it yet (I wrote this part of the post on Christmas Eve), I know it’s the best cheese ball ever and that it’s going to be a part of the rest of my life, so there.

Bacon-Jalapeno Cheese Ball
Adapted from The Homesick Texan

I bought fresh cilantro specifically for this recipe, but when I got it out of the fridge it had mysteriously turned into parsley. (I hate when that happens.) So I used some dried cilantro (that tastes more like cardboard than cilantro) and a tablespoon of chopped fresh parsley just for anyhow.

8 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature
½ cup sharp cheddar cheese
2 tablespoons chopped cilantro
1 clove garlic, minced
1 teaspoon lime juice
½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1/4 teaspoon cumin
pinch of chipotle powder (or cayenne)
pinch of salt
5 pieces of bacon, fried, crumbled, and divided
1 jalapeno, minced and divided
1/4 cup chopped pecans, toasted

Mix together all the ingredients down through the salt, plus half of the bacon and half of the jalapeno. Shape the cheesy goop into a ball with your hands.

Mix together the remaining bacon and jalapeno, as well as the pecans, put them in a plate or shallow bowl, and roll the cheese ball around in the crumbles until it’s nicely coated.

Cover the cheese ball with plastic and chill for an hour before serving with crackers (though I like my cheese ball at room temperature—it spreads better).

***

They’re back at it again.

This time around, the tools are fancier.

It made for a great holiday project, something to get them outside after gorging on candy and cookies.

***

I had a minor break down at our Christmas eve service. Three of my kids were in a little skit—dirty sneakers and dress-shirt collars poking out from under their robes, plastic ivy and pipe cleaner laurel wreaths, that sort of thing. Nickel was Quirinius. He had to stand up front beside his big brother (Cesar Augustus) and unfurl the registry scroll. But the scroll wouldn’t unfurl, so he tossed it out, as though a quick flick of the wrist would fix everything, but instead of unrolling, the scroll flew out of his hand and landed on the floor with a thunk.

That’s when I lost it, a giant belly laugh half exploding out of me. I pressed my lips together quick and held my breath, but that only made the belly trembles grow all the more violent. My eyes watered, my shoulders shook—I was helpless against the hilarity.

At that moment, when I was physically and emotionally completely out of control, at that moment all the tension of the last couple hours—all the yelling and running around and cleaning up the house and getting everyone through the shower and trying to be jovial because it’s Christmas Eve for Pete’s sake—all that tension peaked and I realized that—oh my word, I am not stable! I am going to start sobbing because my child just hurled his scroll on the ground!

I didn’t do The Ugly Cry, thank goodness. A couple more stifled gasps and the strain eased up. I was even composed enough to wink at my boys without falling to pieces, whew.

Supper restored me the rest of the way.

***

Even though we’ve told the children that it’s us doing the gift giving, our Santa pretending makes my younger daughter upset, almost angry even.

This morning, after the stockings and hoopla, she told me, once again, that she knows there’s no Santa. “Tell me for real, Mama. I know it’s you and Papa.”

“This really bothers you, doesn’t it,” I said. “Okay, so yes, Papa and I buy the gifts, but we like to pretend it’s not us, just for fun.”

“And—tell me the truth—you’re the tooth fairy, too!”

“Yes.”

“Who does the tooth fairy more, you or Papa?”

“I do.”

She smiled, pleased (and relieved?) to finally get a straight answer.

Later, she asked if she could tell the other kids the truth. They already know, I said, but she wanted to tell them anyway. So she did, and the big kids said, Yeah, we know, but for her, this truth-telling statement was big, I could tell. The air was cleared. She could finally relax.

(Also, at bed time tonight, I asked her what her favorite part of the day was, and she said playing in the field and getting her feet muddy on the swings. Hello, honey! Today was CHRISTMAS and playing in the field was YOUR FAVORITE THING?!)

***

My older daughter took her earrings out for the first time.

Except they were stuck, so my husband had to use a pair of pliers to wrench them from her ears, smooshing the earrings in the process. She put in a pair of dime earrings she had made for herself, but later, after she took them out so she could go roughhouse, she couldn’t get them back in. She needed the lightweight studs, but I, thinking they were too damaged to use, had thrown them away.

So she and her father meticulously went through the garbage, searching for the tiny studs, which they somehow found, cleaned, and made useable. The earrings slipped back in (with a little numbing cream), and the dreaded holes-growing-shut disaster was averted.

***

I read the first couple chapters of The Best Christmas Pageant Ever before bed on Christmas Eve, and we finished it up tonight. So much of our last 24 hours coincided with parts of the story: the kids acting out the Christmas story during our church service (my daughter was Mary—You really should’ve thumped that doll on the back like Imogene did, I told her), the bit about Imogene not being able to take out her hoop earrings for fear the holes would grow shut (Sound familiar, sweetie?), and the ham, of course.

We didn’t bear ours down the center aisle of the church, though. We just ate it.

Hey! Unto you a child is born!

***

Peace and joy to you, sweet friends. Merry Christmas!

flat

2011-12-23T05:03:00.000-08:00

My writing mojo has flown the coop, gone on a hike, decamped, whatever. I sat at Panera for several hours yesterday and wrote the worst crap ever. All cliches, nothing interesting, bad, bad stuff.

To give me a little credit, I had trouble focusing for a good reason: I was afraid I was stranded. See, my husband and son are in Pittsburgh working on my brother’s house, my two littlest are in West Virginia at my parents house, and so it’s just me and my daughter at home, and she was at a friend’s house for the day. So I could write long, eloquent, charming essays, whatever.

Except one of the van tires kept going flat. My husband said I had to check the air every day and then fill it up.

“Check it how?” I wailed. “Fill it up with what? Every day, are you serious?”

“Stick this thing on it and the stick should pop out to 34. If it’s less than that, fill it up with air. Beccaboo knows how—have her do it.”

I didn’t do it the first day he was gone, but the second day I dutifully stuck the little stick thingy on (making even more air whoosh out)—it read 15 pounds. So my daughter filled it.

“I’m getting tired, Mom. Here, take a turn,” she pleaded.

“No, no. You’re doing fine.”

Two things to note about this picture. First, her shoes. My mother gave her a traditional Japanese outfit complete with these horribly uncomfortable wooden shoes which she now wears all the time. They're loud, too. Second, the hole in the van bumper. There's a story behind it (of course)—new blog readers can learn all about it here.

I discovered the source of the leak when I got to Panera so I went inside to write an SOS email to my husband, via my brother’s email. It read:

So I'm at Panera. I get out of the van and hear hissing. The roads were wet, so I can see the air bubbling out. There is a nail stuck in the tire. I pushed it in even farther and the hissing slowed.

I may be stuck at Panera till you get home.

Send advice.

He didn’t send any advice (I wasn’t surprised), so I finished writing my pages of crap and nonsense and then drove around town acting like I didn’t have a nail sticking in my tire. I called my husband once I got home (I don’t have a cell phone—be shocked, I don't care), and he ordered me straight to a tire shop to get it patched. The end.

I mean, "And that’s why I couldn’t write yesterday. The end."

I can’t write this morning for the dead mouse on the kitchen counter. I’m supposed to be baking, but my daughter set a trap and caught the little bugger, but she’s still sleeping and I am not about to touch that trap. I mean, I could, but I’m ethically opposed to cleaning up my children’s messes. Even if it’s a mess she made to help me.

Really, I just don’t feel like it.

I keep checking the mouse to be sure it's actually dead. It doesn't move: no breath puffs, no tail twitches. It remains perfectly flat, still, quiet, GROSS.

I guess you could say the dead mouse is making me write. Because otherwise I would be baking.

I have an impossibly long list of things to cook this morning, things like pretzel crack and mozzarella cheese and peanutella and peppernuts and cheesy polenta and eggnog. I’ve been eating so poorly since my family up and left me. Coffee, mostly, and pretzels and cider and peppernuts and hot chocolate with whipped cream. I’m so ready for real food—thus the reason for the cheesy polenta. I’m going to saute some kale and collards to go with it and can hardly wait. My very veins are yipping with anticipation.

This same time, years previous: marshmallows, the big snow, power paranoia, and turkey in a wash basket

Christmas pretty

2011-12-21T04:09:00.000-08:00

I feel like I owe you a Christmas post. To assure you that we got the tree and put it up and strung (a little) popcorn and set up a couple nativities, etc. (Or maybe it’s to reassure myself that I’m on the right track?)

We’ve done it all—and parts of it have even been fun!—but what I really want to know is: HOW IN THE WORLD DOES ANYONE EVER KEEP THEIR HOUSE CLEAN?

I don't know how anyone does it, period, but I really don't know how you all cope with the mess and filth during the Christmas hoopla—I mean, holidays.

The glitz and glam make more mess, do they not? And the decorations are supposed to be up for at least several weeks, so you have to clean around all The Extra Pretty, right?

Seriously, people! Are you okay with this?

I read blogs and see magazines and all these people are doing such wonderful festive stuff and all I’m thinking about is the pine needles that are falling on the floor (and the mittens that fall in the tree’s water pan—why are there mittens in the tree’s water pan, willsomeonepleasetellme?) and that all the pretty votive candles eventually burn down and then need to be washed out before I can fill them with fresh votives but the little votive holders clutter up my sink for days because I hate washing them out and then my counter looks trashy.

So... I corral the five children in my charge—all under 10 years of age and two of them not mine—and make them work. They dust baseboards and chairs, wash dishes, desprout the potatoes, scrub sink and toilet, empty the compost, collect the trashes, all while I run around washing windows, dusting, and wiping down the stairs. It feels really good and I even call my husband to tell him he married a goddess.

But then the next day comes around and I spend the entire morning with the four children in my care—all under 12 years of ages and all of them mine—cleaning the house again. There are more windows to wash and picking up to do and organizing and vacuuming and a toilet to scrub and the kitchen floor to wash and empty canning jars to be taken to the basement and full ones to be lugged back up (and washed and shelved) and firewood to be hauled to the front porch and—

I am so sorry. This is probably boring you to tears. Heck, it’s boring me to tears. My point is: the house still feels messy and I feel defeated. All these blog-and-magazine people go waltzing through the holidays, red ribbons and twinkle lights and sanding sugar galore, and all I can think is: WHO IS CLEANING YOUR TOILETS! WHO IS DUSTING AROUND ALL THOSE KNICK-KNACKS AND WHO IS MOPING UP THE STICKY SUGAR AND DON’T YOU EVER GET SICK OF IT AND FEEL LIKE SCREAMING?

I’m not really that shouty. I just start talking in all caps when I feel like my reality is totally different from everyone else’s. Perhaps they have better filters on and know not to talk about such boring stuff on their blogs. Perhaps they have cleaning ladies. Perhaps their houses are such screwball messes that they have to focus on the sparkly lights with uber concentration, because if they let themselves even notice the dust rhinos under the piano, the facade will crumble into a pile of dust, which is just one more thing to clean up.

Baby Jesus' halo has fallen off and the windows are dirty, but hey,

there's a bouquet of poky red berries to divert the eye and boost the happy!

P.S. I don't have an open fire in my kitchen, in case you wondered. Those pictures are from our annual visit to a local Christmas tree farm where the kids get to hunt for the hidden candy cane tree, drink hot chocolate, and pick out a free ornament. Oh, and cut down a tree, too. It's a jolly affair.

P.P.S. I love Christmas. Seriously. It doesn't even stress me out.

P.P.P.S. Messes stress me out.

This same time, years previous: middle-of-the-night solstice party, lemon cheesecake tassies

the quotidian

2011-12-19T13:39:00.000-08:00

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;

everyday; ordinary; commonplace

*de-sprouting the potatoes (the five-year-old was quizzing the four-year-old in basic addition, no joke)
*using the inhaler for the first time: my husband is giving my (wheezing) daughter a demonstration. Also, I'm so thankful for medicine.
*beef broth: a quarter cow showed up on my porch in the form of ground beef and a huge box of frozen-together bones that my husband jumped up and down on in order to break them apart. I thought it might be fun to try to reconstruct the cow by hooking the bones together, but instead I've been steadily cooking them for hours, batch after batch—it makes the most marvelous, thick (think jello) broth.
*"I'm a Chinese-er, Mom!": because that's what you become when you eat your peppernuts with chopsticks
*watching this Ted.com talk
*messy art: (stifled sigh)
*rest time results: whatever will I do with this child!
*more rest time results: a paper-and-tape bridle and saddle for a favorite unicorn
*leeks: because they're too beautiful not to photograph
*learning to make granola: she made it two days in a row. A couple more times and she'll be the new granola expert, yay
*wood carving: inspiration credit goes to Christmas Story (cheesy, but the kids liked it well enough)
*we're not perfect: but we did tone it down a little (after pausing to to laugh at them)
*the solar project continues! (photo credit: my oldest)

This same time, years previous: chocolate-dipped candied orange rinds, walnut balls

peppernuts

2011-12-17T09:53:00.000-08:00

I’m at Panera. I’m writing (obviously), but, I’m pleased to say, it’s efficient writing. So often I procrastinate till I’m bored to death and only then do I begin to string words into sentences and sentences into paragraphs.

Today, however, is different. Today I’m working extra hard because I have a lot to write down, plus I’m feeling a little guilty since I left my husband at home with the four kids and a 300-pound tank to get into the basement and mountains of laundry to hang up in the bitter cold.

He told me to go, though. He said it’s easier for him to do his projects and take care of the kids when I’m gone. He said something about how he hates having to “protect me” when I write at home. The phrase “high maintenance” may have escaped his lips. Humph.

***

It’s one week and one day till Christmas (like you don’t already know that), and I’m feeling resigned and relaxed and like who gives a big whoop anyway. The tree is up and the kids spend lots of time rearranging the ornaments and dropping them and I don’t really care anymore. Heck, I didn’t even touch the tree except to cut off some boughs for an arrangement: green bits o’ Christmas tree stuck in a milk pitcher along with some violently poke-y red berries I stole from a roadside ditch, fa-la-la, ouch-crap.

***

I’m sounding more scroogy than I actually am. I throw lots of flour and sugar around in my spare time, and when I venture out, I say Merry Christmas in best holly-jolly fashion. We’re happily ticking off the things on our Christmas to-do list (our next read aloud is The Best Christmas Pageant Ever—have you read it?), and the kids are contented, so all is well.

***

Peppernuts: they’re my latest obsession.

I read about them on my sister-in-law’s sister’s blog and promptly whipped up a batch. The kids went bonkers for them, which surprised me because I have a vague memory of little turned up noses the last time I made the spicy cookies.

While baking them, I ate a ludicrous amount—my self-control was no match for their tiny peppery selves. Besides, I had to sample each batch to make sure they were the correct hardness. It's part of the job.

When I finished the baking, my peppernut belly and I went for a walk and then off to a church council dinner where my earlier gluttony prevented me from eating as much as I would’ve liked, and where, when I confessed my reason for not sampling both kinds of soups, I unintentionally sparked a vigorous debate.

Everyone had a strong opinion about the hard cookies. Some professed complete adoration while others couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. One man said, “I think the reason I like them is because they’re not really that good,” (huh?), and when one member of the group admitted complete ignorance to this food, she was attacked by both parties, the peppernut haters waving their arms dismissively and pooh-poohing all the hoopla while the peppernut lovers rolled their eyes and wailed protestations.

Someone, I do believe it was a hater (can my memory be messing with me?), made mention of one member of the congregation who made excellent peppernuts. They have a wonderful bite, she said. (Are the haters bluffing?) So back home, I fired off an email to The Maker of Excellent Peppernuts, begging her recipe. I got it this morning (it varies only slightly from mine), plus a promise of a peppernut sampling party at church tomorrow, yay!

I’m going to go ahead and share the recipe I made this week even though I might not be done experimenting. I can always update with adaptations and variations later, I figure. Besides, according to my family, this recipe is already a winner.

Peppernuts
Adapted from Queenie's recipe

I swapped in a cup of spelt flour and a cup of whole wheat for part of the white flour—delicious. Next time I’ll increase the whole grains to at least four cups.

1 ½ cups butter
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup white sugar
1 cup golden syrup (I used King)
1/3 cup sour milk (I used plain yogurt with milk)
4 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoons salt
1 ½ teaspoon cinnamon
1 1/4 teaspoons cardamon
1 1/4 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon each nutmeg, ground cloves, ginger
7 cups flour (part whole wheat)

Beat together the butters and sugars. Add the syrup and sour milk. Beat in the remaining ingredients, but only part of the flour. When everything is well-mixed, exchange your beaters for a large wooden spoon, and—because the mixture will be quite thick—stir in the remaining flour by hand.

Shape the dough into skinny ropes, the size of your pinky finger (assuming you’re not a giant) and cut into quarter-inch pieces. Place the peppernuts on an ungreased baking sheet (they will puff only a little, so you can place them fairly close), and bake at 350 degrees for 10-12 minutes, or until golden brown. (They are supposed to be crunchy, so let a few cool to room temperature and then sample to make sure they are hard all the way through. Adjust your oven time accordingly.)

Cool to room temperature before storing in an airtight container or freezing.

Yield: I’m not sure—we ate so many of them while baking! (But I think at least 1 gallon, and maybe 1 ½ gallons.)

This same time, years previous: my baby, scholarly stuff

crazier than usual (updated)

2011-12-15T04:16:00.000-08:00

It’s gotten a little crazy inside my head. Crazier than usual, I mean. It’s all good stuff (from a writer’s perspective), but I’ve been moving around slowly, trying to keep the spinning top that is my head from popping off.

Take, for example, this one 24-hour period in which I:

*worked on an article for a local magazine
*drunk way too much coffee
*read a radio interview transcript (and was appalled by how casually and effortlessly I butcher the English language)
*had trouble sleeping
*wrote a potential guest post for another blog
*met with a newspaper editor
*wrote the (rough) first piece for my food column

That's right, FOR MY FOOD COLUMN! Every other week I get to write about food for the flavor section of our local paper! I queried them and they said no and then they said yes and now I'm trying to figure out a title for the column, which will be stories from my life and down-to-earth, made-from-scratch recipes. Any ideas?

Last night my brain was fried, so I turned off the computer early and watched What About Bob?, and then I dreamed I was passed out on the floor and everyone was trying to figure out what was wrong with me.

Update: The guest post is up and running! It's a Biting Confession. Literally.

This same time, years previous: fig-and-anise pinwheels, ginger-cream scones, a pragmatic man

cracked wheat pancakes

2011-12-13T05:02:00.000-08:00

Remember the salad I made last week? The recipe originally called for bulgur, but I didn’t have any so I tried to use cracked wheat. But the cracked wheat cooked up kind of mushy, so I called my friend and she said bulgur and cracked wheat were basically the same thing but that bulgur was precooked. So I put the mushy cracked wheat in the refrigerator and switched to quinoa for the salad and all was well.

Saturday morning came and with it an urge for pancakes. Saturday mornings are supposed to be lazy, slow affairs punctuated with multiple cups of coffee and a carb-heavy kick-off. Or is that Sunday morning? Not sure on that one, but in either case, I’m a failure. The first weekend day, my husband is raring to jump into his projects, and the second one, we’re trying to get out the door without killing each other. So I usually dump granola in bowls and call it good.

But this Saturday morning was different. My husband was chomping at the bit even more than normal: he had a hot date with three other guys to get those panels on the roof right after lunch and there was lots of prep work to do. But I had time and a fair bit of energy despite my sore throat and head cold. I could handle standing by the stove with a spatula in my hand, I decided. Plus, that cooked cracked wheat was begging to be dealt with.

Intermission: solar panels
My husband submitted an application for a grant and we were accepted. The whole project is supposed to be done before Christmas so now he’s running around like crazy, punching holes in walls and ceilings, moving the freezers around, zipping up and down ladders. It kind of gives me a headache (but I’m not complaining).

Saturday was the big Haul The Lunkers Up On The Roof Day. The guys got it done in an hour and a half, no sweat.

The hardest part (from my perspective) (and from my husband's, he just informed me) was keeping my littlest from going up on the roof with them.

See these two guys sitting pretty in the sky with my husband?

These are the guys my husband spends his days with. The one up higher is the boss, and the one down lower joined up with them a couple years ago. There’s so much I could say about these guys—like how the one enjoys throwing rocks at the porta-potty when my husband is inside it, or how the other rides his bike everywhere, two kitty litter buckets attached to either side, saddlebag fashion—but I’ll spare you all the gory details and give you two little tidbits instead:

Tidbit One: a couple days ago, the bearded guy called me to talk bread. He’d gotten some of my starter and was getting ready to wake it up and go to Baking Town but first had some questions regarding wheat and such. He hasn’t made a peep about the bread since then, so maybe it flopped and he’s not telling me because he doesn’t want to give me a sourdough starter complex?

Tidbit Two: When I walked out of the house to take pictures of the whole operation, Boss Man accosted me with a “Hey, Jennifer. I need a good gluten-free granola recipe. Do you have one?” I went back in the house and emailed him what I had, and the next afternoon I got a reply email: “Thanks Jennifer, Here goes!” I haven’t heard a peep out of him since then, so maybe it went downhill?

My point: I’m surrounded by guys that bake.
My other point: my husband works with guys that willingly, graciously, generously come out to our house in the middle of their Saturday to help with our project.
My final point: I’m glad the panels are on the roof.

P.S. I spent this intermission mostly talking about my husband’s co-workers, but my brother also busted up his Saturday and put his life on the line (i.e. his butt on our roof) for our solar project. You should know, since we’re talking about bread and bikes and such, that my brother bakes with ease, and he rides his bike to work, too.

End of intermission and back to the pancakes.

I took Luisa’s Oatmeal Pancake recipe (that I’d already made once before), did some swapping and substituting, and came up with a splendiferous Saturday (or Sunday) morning pancake: hearty and filling, with a delightfully nutty texture from the cracked wheat.

The kids, however, took a few bites and eyed their pancakes suspiciously. They said things like, What’s in these, Mama? And, I like the other kind better. They ate them then, but there was no pigging out. I bagged up the leftovers and stuck them in the freezer.

I eat a pancake each morning for my breakfast. I heat the pancake in the microwave and then top it with a dab of butter and a glug of syrup. I cut my cake into small pieces with my fork, and swirl each bite over the plate to mop up the syrup drips. Chewing slowly, contemplatively, I savor the complex textures, the depth of flavor. I've actually become rather protective of my pancake stash.

And wouldn’t you know, now all my mornings feel like Saturday morning!

(Just kidding. It seemed like the appropriate ending, though, so I had to say it.)

Cracked Wheat Pancakes
Adapted from Luisa’s blog The Wednesday Chef, and she, in turn, got it from Kim Boyce's book Good to the Grain (that I ordered last night!)

1 cup whole wheat or spelt flour
3/4 cup white flour
2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons butter, melted
1 1/4 cups buttermilk (or regular milk)
1 cup cooked cracked wheat (see below)
1 tablespoon molasses
2 eggs, beaten

In a large bowl, stir together the dry ingredients. Add the wet ingredients and stir lightly to combine. The batter will be thick.

Fry the pancakes, making sure to spread the batter out with the back of the ladle as soon as it hits the hot skillet. Serve with butter and syrup.

to cook the cracked wheat:
Place one cup of cracked wheat in a small saucepan and cover with 1 1/4 cups water. Bring to a gentle boil, stirring once or twice. Reduce the heat to low and simmer without stirring, uncovered, for about 15 minutes, or until all the water has evaporated. Fluff with a fork.

This same time, years previous: gingerbread men

the quotidian

2011-12-12T04:43:00.000-08:00

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;

everyday; ordinary; commonplace

*a walk around the property in the gloaming in which my daughter introduces me to one of their woodsy hideaways
*this favorite dress-up gown gets some pretty heavy usage
*look at me, look at me, look at me go! I'm a five needle knitter now!
*constructing a fort
*inside the fort
*baby sweetness: we took care of her for about 8 hours one day and when I woke up the next morning, my first coherent thought was: I miss her.
*the only drawback to having a baby in the house: EVERYONE WANTS TO HOLD HER ALL THE TIME, so at bedtime I sneak her up to my room where I get to have her all to myself.
*cousins: pouring over a book of cartoons
*a growth spurt: I bought him these sweat pants last fall
*the warmest spot in the house, these chilly winter mornings. (The sleepwalking saga continues. Saturday night, my husband and I were watching a movie on the couch when she started coming down the stairs. My husband hurried to intercept her—didn’t want her to get a good gander at our movie and popcorn and start the no-fair wail—but her eyes grew round as saucers and stared blankly, she started breathing fast, almost a shallow gasping, and her body went rigid. It was straight out of a horror movie—a zombie entering our midst. Freaked us both out, it did.)
*mini peppermint whoopie pies: her choice of Christmas cookies (they may be my favorite—it's this recipe, but with about 2 cups of Andes Peppermint Crunch baking chips added to the icing)
*rooftop bottoms: our solar panels are up! (And soon to be functioning.)
*kitchen windows at night

This same time, years previous: Sunday Vignettes: Human Anatomy, cashew brittle

a family outing

2011-12-09T13:05:00.000-08:00

We hardly ever go on family outings to restaurants, movies, plays, or parties, so an evening at the theater was a honkin' huge deal. It would be the first time my two littlest ones had been to the Blackfriars and anticipation ran high.

Town clothes (we are so Laura Ingalls) were brought downstairs and stacked on the table. Baths were taken. The house was (kind of) straightened. Sandwiches were made. Water bottles were filled. Coats were put on. The wood stove was filled up and banked. Once everyone was loaded into the car, I handed out the bologna sandwiches (a favorite treat) and off we went, munching happily and listening as Tim Curry recounted A Series of Unfortunate Events though the car speakers.

We thought we were arriving in plenty of time to get good seats. Since it was a pay what you will night, being at the head of the line was of utmost importance. But alas, twenty minutes before the doors opened, there was already a bubbling crowd milling around in the cold, so we joined the line (that wasn’t visible to everyone, boo) and huddled close. When the doors finally opened we pressed forward as politely as possible and jostled our way through the lobby to the next door where we had to wait for another half hour. We weren’t at the head of the line, but I was close enough to overhear the usher telling some people that most of the downstairs seats were reserved. The stools on the stage weren’t taken, nor were the three rows at the back, but the balcony was up for grabs. I started to feel discouraged. We’d get bad seats and all the hype would be for nothing, bah humbug. Oh well, we’d do the best we could. I whispered instructions to my husband to go left and save us six seats—I would scurry to the front to see if I could find anything better.

Then the doors opened and everyone made a mad rush for the seats at the back while I walked straight on to the stage and claimed six stools! (Well, five—another kid slipped in with us and snagged a stool before the kids could plunk their butts down, so I had to hold my baby who is not a baby on my lap.) The place was packed—standing room only and people got turned away at the door—and there we were on the stage. All my bent-up tension and anxiety melted away as I absorbed my good fortune and settled in for the show. (Confession: a girl, probably a college student, tried to snag on of our stools as I was in the process of claiming them but I said, “I’m sorry, there’s six of us.” Her shoulder slumped as she turned away, defeated. I still feel kind of bad about it.) (But not bad enough to give up my seat.) (So much for a generous Christmas spirit.)

I had been carrying a large canvas tote with our blankets (for in the car) and my knitting (for the long wait, but that I couldn’t do because there was no space) and some games that we were going to play while we waited (again, didn’t happen), and we soon realized that it made a perfect little seat for Nickel when it was plopped on the floor between our seats and piled high with our coats.Which was a relief since that boy is no lightweight.

The play was fabulous. Bob Cratchit plunked his top hat on Nickel’s head and asked me to hold his scarf. The narrator pulled candy canes out of his hat and gave them to the kids while singing Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire. The Ghost of Christmas Past, a sprightly, giggling actress all done up in white and glitter, asked Sweetsie to hold her wand. Sweetsie smiled shyly and took it, her eyes a-sparkle. Pure magic, it was! (Later my oldest daughter recounted the moment. “She was so close, I could smell her!” “Did she stink?” I asked, thinking of unwashed costumes and all the dancing. “No!” she sighed dreamily. “She smelled so good!”)

But Marley, oh Marley! He scared my girls to pieces, jumping up at the window like that, his black face painted white, his eyes popping out of his head. And when he came up through the hole in the floor, chains a-rattling, drums banging, roaring and hollering and wailing, and then lunged at Scrooge (who was standing right beside us so it felt like he was coming straight at us), screaming, eyes rolling, the chains snapping him back, oh my. The three youngest kids were definitely not prepared. They sat there, shoulders hunched and fingers in their ears, completely horrified, terrified, petrified, and unable to move. It was spectacular.

After that, my oldest daughter begged to sit between me and my husband. I told her she could sit in her papa’s lap if she got scared again. “Really? In the middle of the play?” she asked, alarmed about breaching theater etiquette. So when the shrouded Ghost of Christmas Future floated out, I tapped her on the shoulder and she zipped over to his lap while Sweetsie ducked under my arm and covered her face with her hands, and my husband and I laughed.

My husband and I weren’t the only ones finding the children’s terror delightfully hilarious—I could see other people pointing at the girls and laughing. And when I got home, I found an email (from a friend I didn’t know was there) that said: It’s fun to watch your kids react to the show. Don't drop that wand!

Nickel did pretty good for his first theater production, especially considering that the majority of the event took place long after his bedtime. He got bored (seriously?) and kept saying he was hungry and thirsty. But he (mostly, sorta) whispered his complaints into my ear, and we never had to take him out, hallelujah.

I had packed a special bedtime snack for the ride home—donuts and little bottles of chocolate milk. (When Sweetsie discovered them in the fridge the morning after my late-night shopping trip, she yipped for joy and hollered to her siblings, “Hey guys! Mama bought cold hot chocolate!”) Huddled in the car, the hot air blasting out the vents, the kids slurped down the milk and then fell asleep before finishing their donuts. So this morning we slept in and had leftover donuts and shots of cold hot chocolate (my lactose-intolerant husband didn’t drink his allotted bottle) with our breakfast oatmeal.

I asked Sweetsie if she’d like to go see the play again. She thought for a minute and then said, “I don’t know, maybe. I might get used to it the second time.” When I asked my other girl the same question, her reply was an emphatic, “No way!” My son, on the other hand, is very happy that we are scheduled to usher for the play next week.

Me, too. I’m excited already.

This same time, years previous: zippy me, peanut butter cookies, Ree's monkey bread, butter cookies

all sorts of bolstered

2011-12-07T12:27:00.000-08:00

Land sake’s alive, we are having one heck of a rainy day!

It brings back memories of when we lived in Nicaragua and Hurricane Mitch came along and dumped water on us for three solid days. (Or was it five?) We’re not having any hurricane, though, and tomorrow is supposed to be sunny, I do believe. Plus, I haven’t heard of bridges being washed out between our house and civilization (like they did in Mitch), so I’m not too troubled.

Also, knowing that I have my belly dance class this afternoon helps to keep my mood up. I won’t be trapped in the house the whole live-long wet day.

Plus, I made myself a kick-butt lunch, just for the heck of it. Quinoa, spinach, chicken, feta, yeehaw! I’m feeling all sorts of bolstered.

Rain-schplain, do your thang,
you ain’t gonna flush my fine mood down the drain.

I couldn’t decide if this salad is Greek or Mediterranean, and then I realized that Greece in ON the Mediterranean so it’s both. (At this point my husband cocks his eyebrow at me and says, “And you are homeschooling our children?”) But I don’t generally think of tabbouleh and tahini as Greek food, like feta and black olives are. So I’m still mildly confused and therefore do not know what to call the salad. Possible names include the following:

Greek Quinoa Salad
Near East Quinoa Salad
Mediterranean Quinoa Salad
Quinoa Salad with Yogurt and Tahini Dressing
Quinoa Salad with Feta, Black Olives, and Roasted Tomatoes
Quinoa Salad with Chicken and Spinach
Quinoa Spinach Salad
Winter Quinoa Salad
Flexible Quinoa Salad
Swoon Salad

Because it’s December, and because I omitted all things fresh (like green onions, mint, parsley, tomatoes), I’m going with:

Winter Quinoa Salad
Inspired by a recipe in Cooking Light Magazine, but I changed it beyond recognition so I’m not going to credit them. (Except for the idea. Thanks for the idea, Cooking Light!)

1 cup raw quinoa, cooked (see below)
1 cup roasted tomatoes, diced
1-2 cups chopped, cooked chicken
4-8 cups fresh spinach (or 1-2 cups cooked), lightly sauteed in a bit of olive oil
1/4 - ½ cup minced onion
1 clove garlic, minced
a couple handfuls of black olives, torn into bits
½ - 1 cup feta cheese, crumbled

for the dressing:
1/4 cup tahini
1/4 cup plain yogurt
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black pepper

Toss the salad ingredients together in a large bowl. Combine the dressing ingredients in a small bowl and stir into the salad.

Serve the salad warm, room temperature, or chilled.

How to Cook Quinoa
According to my friend, The Quinoa Queen. (In fact, she should be called The Quinoaeen.)

for 1 cup quinoa:
Put the quinoa in a bowl and cover with hot (but not boiling) water. Let sit for five minutes. Drain.

Rinse and drain the quinoa with cold water—about four or five times. Drain thoroughly.

Put the quinoa in a medium-sized saucepan and add 1 ½ cups water (maybe a little less). Bring to a boil, uncovered. Stir once or twice. Reduce the heat to low and simmer, covered, for 15 minutes. Fluff with a fork and serve. If you want a warm salad, mix immediately. If a cold salad is the goal, dump the quinoa into a large pan and spread it out to cool (and so it doesn’t clump).

This same time, years previous: baked corn, company tizz

iced ginger shortbread

2011-12-06T10:29:00.000-08:00

I’m not fully in the Christmas spirit yet, but I’m trying. (As my father would say, “Yes, you’re very trying, indeed.”)

We had our family meeting to discuss what Christmasy things we oughtn’t miss, two of the kids made their choice of Christmas cookies (neither of which are Actual Christmas Cookies), and we listened to a bit of Christmas music, but that’s about it.

Perhaps the most Christmasy thing we’ve done is read Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. (Boy, there’s a lot of “Christmas” in these first paragraph. Just writing this might launch me into the spirit, fingertips first.) We finished the story last night and are going to see the play later this week. I’d love to listen to the radio version as well. I have fond memories of lounging on the brown shag living room rug when I was a kid, listening to Marley’s clanking chains through the radio speakers.

Maybe I’d feel more ready if we got the tree.

I need to focus on a bunch of Christmas baking before other stuff creeps up on me, though making lots of pretty cookies doesn’t excite me much. Probably because it takes so much time and my time is already packed with other stuff (and I don’t want to give up writing). Also, I have to make the same old same old—butter cookies, gingerbread, raisin-filled—and it’s the new and shiny that draws me in. But, sigh, Christmas is all about tradition. I mustn’t knock it.

I did make a pan of this gingery shortbread the other day. My husband and I had just had a crash-bang fight and he was tearing around the house cleaning things while I was tearing around the kitchen baking things. We weren’t talking, so we got a lot done. And then we made up.

In some ways, this shortbread remind me of peppernuts, but more high-end and without the labor-intensive cutting. The texture couldn't be better: the shortbread is crunchy buttery, while the icing is soft and cool and almost chewy in a caramel-toffee sort of way. That, plus the biting ginger, and these little treats are mouth fireworks just begging to dazzle. They certainly were the ideal thing for a sulking woman who is not in the Christmas spirit and doesn’t have much drive to bake.

Iced Ginger Shortbread
Adapted from Dinner with Julie

I tried sprinkling some minced candied ginger into the still-wet icing, and while I liked the flavor, it wasn’t the prettiest. The second time around, I left the ginger out all together, though I bet it would be good mixed into the shortbread bottom.

This recipe is open to interpretation. What about brown sugar instead of white, or molasses or maple syrup instead of golden syrup? And how about stirring some walnuts or pecans into the bubbling frosting? And maybe swapping cinnamon for the ginger?

Whatever you do, don’t stick the spoon you were using to spread the hot icing on the shortbread into your mouth. That’s just plain stupid (yesI'madork).

Shortbread:
1 1/4 cups flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 stick butter, cut in chunks

Icing:
1/3 cup butter
1 tablespoon golden syrup (I used King’s)
1 cup confectioner’s sugar
½ teaspoon ground ginger
½ teaspoon vanilla

Put the flour, sugar, baking powder, ginger, and salt in the bowl of a food processor and pulse once or twice to combine. Add the butter and pulse until completely incorporated and the mixture looks like fine sand. (Alternately, just use your fingers to rub the butter into the dry ingredients.) Dump the mixture into a greased 9x13 pan, and firmly pat it down to make a bottom crust. Bake the shortbread at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes.

When the shortbread is nearly done baking, make the icing. Melt the butter in a saucepan and add the remaining ingredients. Simmer for about 30 seconds, stirring constantly (the mixture will look greasy and lumpy at first, but it will quickly become smooth and satiny). Pour the icing over the hot shortbread, tilting the pan to cover it evenly.

Cutting the shortbread can be a little tricky since it wants to shatter every which way. To get even little squares, cut while it’s still quite warm. Or you can cool the shortbread in the pan and then cut it into artful shards with a knife. Either way it will still taste fantastic.

Display the shortbread in a pretty jar on the counter, or package well (in plastic or glass, as it’s bound to break if bumped around) and freeze for later use.

Yield: about 1 pound

This same time, years previous: my kids are weird

the quotidian

2011-12-05T11:44:00.000-08:00

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;

everyday; ordinary; commonplace

*Peanut butter and apples: it’s a favorite snack around here. We buy apples (but not these!) by the bushel and peanut butter by the tub (and then put it in smaller containers).
*My youngest daughter is gifted in the trashing a bedroom department: she only needs a few short minutes to create her signature A Tornado Went Through It Look. She’s got some serious skill, that girl has.
*A super windy day came along and blew my boy right into the lettuces. At first he laughed, but the bully wind pinned him down and the laughter turned to sobs of terror. (Days later, when he saw the pictures of himself crying, he started wailing all over again. Not sure if the trauma is from the wind, or from seeing pictures of himself panicking on the computer screen, or from the fact that I took pictures instead of saving him.)
*A pen for a pet caterpillar: see it sticking out of the cardboard tube?
*Late night Sunday school planning: one of the adult classes asked my husband and I to come talk about ourselves, so we did.
*A hallway of puzzles.
*A face mask, fashioned out of a muffin wrapper.
*The richest coffee cake ever—more than a pound of butter, plus a cup and a half of sour cream. The flavor was good, but since all the crumbs sank to the bottom, I count it as a flop. (The cake is said to serve 8-10, a fact which I found to be utterly scandalizing. It should be more like 20-30.)
*Accidental ghee: what I made when I was trying to brown the butter for the coffee cake.
*Paper chain decorations: somehow they ended up all over the house. As the tape de-sticks and the chains flutter-fall, I discretely collect the bits and pieces and stuff them in the garbage, shhh.

This same time, years previous: wild, raisin-filled cookies, the selfish game

red lentil coconut curry

2011-12-03T10:46:00.000-08:00

I meant to tell you about our lunch yesterday (which was also our supper the night before and our lunch today): a curry made with red lentils that go all soft and tender so the lentil haters in my family don’t have any texture issues to rebel against. Coconut is the background flavor, and there are peas and sweet potatoes to bulk it up. Cauliflower would be tasty, too, but I didn’t have any.

We eat it over rice like curry is intended, but I think it would be mighty fine served in a bowl solíto—a thick, creamy, nourishing stew, perfect for counterbalancing the sweets that flood our kitchens this time of year.

The kids like their curry (though to be honest, they aren’t huge fans of this dish—they prefer this one) with raisins and sunflower seeds, but I take mine with a side of briefly sauteed spinach and a sprinkling of coconut. Yogurt is quite nice, too.

Red Lentil Coconut Curry
Adapted from Simply in Season

1 onion, chopped
1 tablespoon coconut oil (or butter or canola oil)
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger
2 teaspoons curry powder
½ teaspoon each turmeric, cumin, black pepper
1/4 teaspoon each red pepper flakes, and cinnamon
2-3 curry leaves (or bay leaves)
1 13.5-ounce can coconut milk
1/4 cup soy sauce (I used tamari)
1 cup tomato sauce
2 cups red lentils, rinsed
2 large sweet potatoes, peeled and chopped in cubes (about 4 cups)
2 cups peas
1-2 teaspoons salt

Put the lentils in a medium-sized saucepan, cover with four cups of water, and bring to a boil before reducing the heat to medium-low and simmering for 15 minutes, or until very tender. Set aside.

Put the sweet potato in another medium-sized saucepan and cover with water (but just barely—no more than 1 cup) and bring to a boil before reducing the heat to medium and simmering until almost fork-tender. Add the peas and cook for another five minutes. Set aside.

Melt the coconut oil in a large soup pot and add the onion. Saute for about five minutes, until tender but not browned. Add the garlic, ginger, and spices (down through the curry leaves) and saute for several more minutes, stirring steadily. Add the coconut milk, soy sauce, and tomato sauce and simmer on low heat for about 15 minutes. Add the cooked lentils and vegetables (with their broth) and salt. Stir to combine and heat through. Taste to correct seasonings.

Serve curry over rice with desired toppings: sunflower seeds, cashews, grated coconut, raisins, yogurt, etc. A banana might be really nice, though I’ve never tried it.

Yield: an awful lot

This same time, years previous: chocolate truffle cake

Friday variety

2011-12-02T18:41:00.000-08:00

There was so much activity today. Such a variety of happenings, all of it low-key and none of it fancy, but enough to keep the house buzzing.

First off, there were chores and abbreviated studies before my friend’s kids came to spend the day, at which point I turned everyone loose.

I let my oldest daughter make her Christmas cookie of choice (each of the kids gets to make one kind of cookie—she picked New York Black and Whites) (I get to make whatever I want). And even though the sun was shining and the kids were outside in shirtsleeves, I cranked up the Christmas music. It is December 2nd, after all.

The girls jumped headlong into the holiday spirit, whirling and twirling around the kitchen.

The dance extravaganza morphed seamlessly into an intense game of dress up, complete with a smoking dandy...

clinking goblets...

and table manners that went above and beyond.

Lunch came and went...and so did the kids—outside.

The boys pretended to be groundhogs while the younger ones went down to the field and did Who Knows What.

Though I actually do know one thing they did. It seems there was some mock fight that involved long thin sticks and the littlest kid (not mine) got a handsome welt across the back of his neck. Battle wounds, one might call them. The inflictor helped patch up the inflicted, and all was well.

It was so glorious that I took my afternoon cafecito out on the deck. While I basked in the sun, I read and knitted and listened to the cackling chickens and chattering chillens and the clanking in the kitchen that was my daughter baking her cookies.

And then my husband came home five hours early and handed me some Pringles, after which he punched a hole in the ceiling. It was all legit—a solar panel project—but still.

I sat down at my desk to write but my ceiling-punching husband wouldn’t shut up.

Husband [in a quavery, twangy, highly-irritating voice]: Ethel! Ethel, honey!

Me: silence

Husband: Etheeeeeeel!

Me: Shut up.

Husband: Ethel! Ethel, honey! Are you writing words, eh? Words like ‘it’ and ‘but’ and ‘gee’?

Me: sigh

Husband: Ethel? Ethel, honey?

And then my husband got an important email regarding the solar panels and I had to vacate my seat. To entertain myself, I took pictures of his cobwebby back. (He was crawling around in crawl spaces.)

Right about then my sister–in-law showed up. The kids immediately swarmed her, or rather the baby she was wearing. Bring a baby to my house and you automatically become a pied piper—it’s a promise.

She and I split for our walk. While we were gone, my friend came to pick up her kids and my husband refinanced the house.

I made a simple supper of baked potatoes, broccoli, and corn, and my youngest got buttery potatoes all over the floor like he does every single time.

Now I am upstairs writing this and soon I’ll go back downstairs for our dessert/bedtime snack/supperparttwo: a huge pan of apple crisp. And then we’ll watch some more Human Planet and then I’ll terrorize my children by reading to them from A Christmas Carol.

The end.

P.S. There may be a little Glee after the kids are tucked in. Perhaps popcorn, too...

This same time, years previous: Mom's new and improved cabbage salad, beef bourguignon, potatoes in cream with gruyere

butternut squash pesto cheesecake

2011-11-30T12:18:00.000-08:00

So my cousin-in-law posted a recipe for a butternut pesto cheesecake and seeing as I had a bunch of butternuts in the back hall (thanks, Mom and Dad!) and oodles of pesto in the freezer (thanks, Me), I had no other choice but to make it.

When it comes to cheesecake, I’m ferociously fatalistic.

The original recipe was supposed to be some sort of healthy dip (all cottage cheese), but I tossed that idea out the window faster than you can say “reduced fat is gross.” People, it's cheesecake! It's dip! It's CHEESECAKE DIP!

So I doubled the recipe and used half cottage cheese and half cream cheese. Because while I’m a huge fan of cottage cheese (for the record, cottage cheese is not a reduced fat food) (unless you get the reduced fat version) (which I don't), I wanted the finished dip to have more of a ... of a ... well, creamy, cheesecake texture. The resulting texture was spot-on (though it’d probably be even better with 100% cream cheese) (if you're that sort of person). (I'm not suggesting my cousin-in-law's low calorie version wasn't spot-on, because it probably was, but I just don't know for sure because the only version I tasted was mine.) (Whew. That was exhausting.)

Confession: I did not like the crust.

Confession’s Confession: It was all my fault. Because I just tore up stale bread, tossed it with some melted butter and stuck it in the pan. It tasted exactly like what it was: wet, greasy, stale bread stuck in the bottom of a pan. Next time I’ll toast the bread crumbs, or maybe pulse up some Wheat Thins or something—like a graham cracker crust, but savory.

We ate the dip fresh, and semi-warm, for our Sunday night supper. It was good, but a little bland. Then it sat in the fridge for a couple days until I pulled it out to round out Tuesday’s lunch and it was fabulous: rich, flavorful, creamy, elegant. The kids dug into it like nobody’s business. And that's when I decided the recipe was a keeper.

It’d be the perfect thing to contribute to a potluck or Christmas party or family reunion. Because:

a. it can be made well in advance (I bet you could slice and freeze it, just like the infamous pesto torte),
b. it’s easy to transport (cover the pan with plastic and set it on top of a couple ice packs in a box), and
c. the flavors are gentle and comforting.

In other words, it’s sure to be a crowd pleaser.

Then again, you could make it just for yourself, just because. That's really all the reason you need.

Butternut Squash Pesto Cheesecake
Adapted from Kate over at Motley Mama

1 cup cottage cheese
1 8-ounce block of cream cheese
2/3 cup grated fresh Parmesan
2 eggs
½ cup roasted butternut squash puree
½ teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 cup pesto, thinned with olive oil (if necessary), and divided
1 cup toasted bread crumbs or savory cracker crumbs
2 tablespoons butter, melted

For the crust:
Toss the crumbs with the butter and press into the bottom of a greased, 8-inch springform pan. Pat crumbs firmly to make a bottom crust (no need to worry about the sides), and set aside.

For the cheesecake:
Put the cottage cheese into the bowl of your food processor and pulse until creamy smooth. Add the cream cheese, Parmesan, eggs, squash, and salt and pepper and pulse until silky. Taste to check seasonings (I added about another 1/4 teaspoon salt).

Pour half of the cream cheese batter into the crumb-lined pan. Drizzle half of the pesto over the batter. Carefully pour the remaining batter into the pan and drizzle with the remaining pesto. Using a table knife, gently (and artfully!) swirl the pesto into the batter.

Bake the cheesecake at 350 degrees for 50-60 minutes. The cake should be puffy, but the middle should still be a little jiggly (just like your tummy will be after you eat it). Turn the oven off and prop open the door by wedging it with the handle of a wooden spoon—let the cake sit in the oven for one hour more.

Cool the cake to room temperature before covering tightly with plastic and transferring to the refrigerator to cure. After a day or two, serve with crackers.

This same time, years previous: all a-flutter, apple chutney

peppermint lip balm

2011-11-29T11:10:00.000-08:00

**It’s raining. Lamps are on, candles are burning. There will be a fire later (the temperature is dropping).

**My second and fourth children are Doing My Hair. Lots of brushing, braids, and clips. There was even a scrunchy stuck round my nose.

**The dishes need to be washed. I have baking projects and some little Christmas gifts up my sleeve. Maybe after my salon appointment is over?

**The other night I woke up. I woke up because Sweetsie was standing at the foot of our bed. (It was either the second or third time that night, it’s all a blur now.)

My husband growled, “Go back to bed.” (He's completely uncivil in the middle of the night.)

Undeterred, she continued to stand there, sucking her thumb and breathing heavily.

“What do you need, sweetie?” I asked.

Her reply came as clear as an out-of-tune bell, “I’m waiting for my instructions.”

I punched my husband. “She’s sleeping, hon. Take her back to bed.”

Notice it's a blue rag now. She's becoming entirely too flexible.

**All this rough sleeping makes for a very tired girl at the end of the day.

It had been quiet for a long time before I finally went in to investigate.

And a very tired papa. Little brother, too. Heck, it’s bedtime—we should all be tired.

**I stayed up, foolish woman I am, and watched The Knit Witch on youtube. You guys are right: she’s awesome.

***

Now it is later. The kids are in rest time (except for a daughter that’s downstairs collecting tape and paper) (and except for a son who is downstairs looking for his leftover school work).

The childrens (that is not a typo) spent the morning making cards for a friend, and Christmas paper chains that look more like Easter paper chains.

As for me, I made peppermint lip balm and felt all sorts of mother earthy.

I made this recipe last year but I didn’t follow the instructions to stir until thick, so my balm separated into a waxy top layer and a honey bottom layer. (I’ve been using it all year anyway, despite the over-waxiness.) My failure didn't stop me from thinking ahead and ordering little lip balm tins for this year. I’m so glad I did, as having them ready to go made it that much easier to jump into the project.

It’s really quite simple. Just melt the ingredients together, stir while cooling, and then fill the tins.

Bonus: it makes the house smell lip-balm-licious.

I’ll be giving these away as little gifts...maybe. So perhaps it’s foolish to go writing about it here on the blog where everyone can see it? Way to be all hush-hush secretive, Self. But that’s where a no-one-reads-this-blog-anyway mentality comes in handy—all I have to do is tell myself that no one actually reads anyway, so I can get away with saying whatever I want. Illogical, but true.

The REAL reason I’m writing about the balm is because I thought you might like to give this balm a whirl yourself. (The OTHER real reason is that I can’t resist showing off a little: Look at me! I’m going all down, down, down-to-earth, rah, rah, rah!)

What's that you say? You have no cute little tins on hand? No problem. Just dump all the balm into a mug, stick it in the bathroom cabinet, and apply liberally every time you make a trip to the loo. Do this and you’ll be sure-fire guaranteed to have shiny smooth lips till kingdom come.

Peppermint Lip Balm
Adapted from Amanda’s recipe on SouleMama

½ cup coconut oil
3 tablespoons beeswax (I used two ice cube-sized chunks)
1 ½ tablespoons honey
25-30 drops essential oil of peppermint

Put the coconut oil, beeswax, and honey in the top part of a double boiler (I used a little metal bowl on top, for easier clean up) filled with simmering water. Stir occasionally until everything is melted and runny (it takes about 15 minutes).

Remove the bowl from the top of the double boiler and stir in the peppermint oil. Set the bowl in a large pan of cold water and stir until thick and creamy (but not solid hard—you still need to fill the containers, remember). (Actually, the cold water might not be necessary. I tried it that way, and the balm on the edges of the bowl kept getting hard really fast. Just stirring it at room temperature might be good enough.)

Yield: one dozen ½ ounce containers.

This same time, years previous: Smashing for Pretty opens (and now we're closing - check out the 20 percent off sales!)

raveled

2011-11-28T15:03:00.000-08:00

I’m still learning to knit. It’s a long and arduous process, made all the more difficult due to my inability to “read” the knitting. I don’t know how to fix my errors, so I knit with the fury and fear of someone walking on the edge of a high cliff—one slip and I plummet to my knitting death below.

For example, I knit two rows and purl two rows—but oops, I just did three by accident, so I pull out one row of purling, but now I can’t remember if I’m supposed to knit or purl and all the Yarn Staring in the world doesn’t reveal the correct answer. And so I yell at my husband that I’m going into another room and no one may come close or I will unleash all my knitting fury upon their poor heads.

And knitting is supposed to be a relaxing activity, ha.

If a stitch gets dropped, oh woe. And whoa. When that happens, I have to set the whole project aside and wait until Sunday when I can take it to church to ask my friend to help me fix it. This friend—a woman who has been known to sheer the sheep, card and dye the wool (whatever that means), and then knits beautiful things with it (bow low, reader friends, bow low), looks at my stringy mess for a mere couple seconds and then says, Oh yes, I see. You knitted that one backwards, so I’ll just reverse that like so and pick up the stitch there, like that, and there you are, all good to go now. I stare at my resurrected project in utter amazement and say stupidly, “I have no idea how you just did that.”

I’m determined to figure this whole knitting business out. I experiment with my brown yarn, trying different patterns to see the effect, not worrying if I mess up and need to rip it all out. It’s my scrap paper, so to speak. I’m making a red scarf for my youngest daughter (I stole her yarn so I had to repay her somehow). It has mistakes in it, but I don’t think she’ll care.

During Sunday school yesterday, I sat beside a friend who was knitting a sleeve for a sweater. She had the four needle thing going, plus a washer as a marker (or something). I watched, fascinated. I kind of even understand what she was doing.

My goal for this winter: learn several different stitches, and learn to make hats, socks, and mittens. Next winter, a sweater, maybe. Am I being completely unrealistic?

just starting out, adding to one of my old projects

I'm not the only one getting into the knitting spirit. My little boy has persevered with his knitting. He knows how to cast on and knit row after row. However, his rows kept getting shorter and shorter, thanks to all the stitches he dropped. His knitted creation (too short to be anything) is one step from the garbage, but hey, it kept him happily occupied for many, many minutes so I’m not complaining.

I even hauled the kids’ knitting projects to church one Sunday. I glanced down the row during the sermon—three of the kids were knitting away in unison. Bliss.

Thanksgiving of 2011

2011-11-26T15:12:00.000-08:00

We all went to West Virginia for the turkey (that was actually a chicken) this year. My brother came, and my perfect aunt from over the mountains, and some of the Pennsylvania cousins: uncle, aunt, and boy cousins one, two, and three. We got there on Wednesday night and Thursday morning, before everyone else showed up, I went for a walk.

A Medieval Walk

It’s hunting season, so I put a florescent orange vest over my coat over my hoodie over my t-shirt and set off up the road. A gun banged in the distance, and I hadn’t even crested the first hill before I spied a dead deer in the gutter (not a result of that banging gun). I started to feel like I was in a war zone and I took a closer look at my florescent orange vest. How many square inches did it cover? How many square inches do hunters have to wear? Did I have a sufficient amount of square inches? And while my front and back were draped in orange, I wasn’t so sure about the side view. Would a gun-happy hunter mistake me for a walking deer in a blue coat? But then there was a lull in the shooting and dead deer spying and I kind of forgot all about how much I resembled a deer.

And then I ran into Eddie Murphy. I’m not sure which is which, but they both reminded me of Shrek’s donkey, so I promptly named one Eddie and the other Murphy. I could practically hear the thoughts running through their heads.

Eddie: Oh, will you look at that! It’s a person that’s trying not to look like a deer! Dang, ain’t she smart?

Murphy: I don’t know about you but I think we need that orange thing a lot more than she does. Our owner is a total dumb ass leaving us outside this time of year.

Eddie: That's right, Murf. We are in constant danger of gettin’ our behinds pinged. I just know, before this is over, I'm gonna need a whole lot of serious therapy. Look at my butt twitchin'.

By the time I got to the top of the hill, I was hot. I took off my coat and tied it around my waist. And then I looked over and saw my shadow walking along beside me in the ditch.

What with my hair in a ponytail, my hoodie up around my neck like a tied cape, the orange vest fluttering behind me like a fluttering cape, my coat tied around my waist like a short skirt and the sleeves poking up all sword-like, I looked exactly like a knight. (Or at least my noble shadow did.) I squared my shoulder and lengthened my stride.

When I was halfway home, I heard a gunshot in the direction of my house. My father had been out hunting when I left—perhaps it was him? Thirty second later another shot rang out and I gave a little skip of hopeful happiness. A minute later and there was another shot. Oh dear, I thought. Problems. And then, Or maybe I should think, 'oh deer'? (Turns out, it wasn't my father doing the shooting.)

At home I grabbed my camera and drove back up the road to take pictures for you since I almost never think to take my camera on walks with me.

And thus concludes the tale of a bright morning walk with guns, knights, two asses, and a dead doe. The End

Other things that happened:

Tools and guns...

The grownups sat around inside...

and played with plastic tools that my mother picks up at her local thrift store while the kids ran around outside...

and played with guns. (Yes, they were real, and yes, they had permission.)

(Overheard: "Don't shoot each other!")

Odd, manly rituals such as...

A. measuring each others arm spans. (Your arm span is supposed to equal your height, right? Well, not so for my husband. My husband is just a smidge shy of six feet tall but his arm span measures 6 feet 5 inches. So now we call him Gorilla Man.)

B. playing table football with money.

Actually, I don't know what that game was called. All I know is there was a bunch of yelling and quarters kept hitting people in the head.

The kids sat out on the porch and watched through the window.

Conversations...

around the table. We're big yakkers, all of us. Lively times, ya'll.

Sewing...

I learned how to purl and am immensely please with myself.

My brother...

played the mandolin and made lots of weird faces while I tried to take pictures of him.

What a dork.

Food (of course) ...

We had Feast Number One at noon: chicken and stuffing, garlicky mashed potatoes, green beans, corn, turnips and greens, kale, applesauce, and cranberry salad.

Feast Number Two: A Supper O' Desserts. I ask you, can there be anything more glorious?

Nectarine tart, black raspberry pie, apple pie, two pumpkin pies, banana bread, chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting, vanilla ice cream, and coffee.

MY MOTHER MADE ALL THE BAKED GOODS ON HER STOVETOP.

Yesyoushouldbeimpressed. (Plus, the next morning we had gorgeous loaves of stovetop bread for our breakfast toast.)

This same time, years previous: Thanksgiving of 2010, Swiss chard and sweet potato gratin, pumpkin pie

the new bestest ever

2011-11-23T07:24:00.000-08:00

Please tell me that you haven’t made the pies for Thanksgiving yet? Please, please tell me you have a bag or two of unclaimed cranberries hunkered down in your freezer? Please, please, please tell me you’re in the mood to make a pie today, right now, immediately, at this very minute?

Because, honey sugar, it’s what I have on my agenda, for you.

[Ahem, cough-cough, much pompous throat clearing]

I hereby merrily (and joyfully and happily and ecstatically) proclaim the great news of November 23, 2011: I have discovered the new bestest ever pie in the world and it’s totally perfect for Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas dinner or New Year’s dinner or Three Kings Day or winter solstice day or the first big snow day or Sunday dinner or Monday dinner.

It’s perfect, and it’s perfect for whenever, is what I’m trying to say.

For quite some time, I’ve been on the lookout for a cranberry pie. I’d tried some mixed fruit cranberry pies, and while they were good—cranberries make everything good—they weren’t pure cranberry. And then Aimee posted a cranberry pie and I got down to business lickety-split.

One bite and I was bowled over. It’s potent, unlike normal pies. In fact, it's so dark and rich and strong that one small sliver carries you over the moon and back, no problem.

Cranberry Pie with Cornmeal Streusel Topping
Adapted from Aimee of Simple Bites

Aimee calls this a cranberry-orange pie, and while the pie contains both orange juice and zest, I found their flavors to play more of a supportive (but delicious) role, so I dropped the “orange” in the title. To me, this pie is all about the cranberry.

I used frozen cranberries instead of fresh, increased the amount to a generous 4 ½ cups instead of 4, used light brown sugar instead of Turbinado, and added one tablespoon of tapioca as thickener just in case. Not a hitch in sight anywhere.

This pie is best eaten the same day it is made.

1 unbaked 9-inch pie crust (I used this one)
4-5 cups cranberries, fresh or frozen
1 cup brown sugar
3 tablespoons butter, melted
zest of two oranges
juice of one orange (it looked like a lot—close to ½ cup, perhaps)
1 gently rounded tablespoon granulated tapioca

for the streusel topping:
½ cup flour
½ cup brown sugar
1/3 cup cornmeal
½ cup salted butter, cut in chunks

In a large bowl, toss together the cranberries, sugar, butter, orange zest and juice, and tapioca. Pour into the unbaked pie shell.

Measure all the streusel ingredients into the canister of a food processor and pulse to combine (it took quite a few pulses). (Or, rub together with your fingers. That will work too.) Sprinkle the crumbs over the top of the pie.

Bake the pie* at 375 degrees for 40-50 minutes, or until golden brown all over and the juices are bubbling madly.

Serve with vanilla ice cream.

*Important Pie Baking Note: Place the pie on the bottom rack of a very hot oven (about 425 degrees) and bake for 15 or 20 minutes or until the pie juices are starting to bubble. At that point, set the pie on a foil-lined baking sheet (to catch the juicy drips) and reduce the temperature to 350 degrees. This extra step helps to ensure a golden brown bottom crust.

This same time, years previous: apple rum cake (oh goodness, I want this NOW)

right now

2011-11-22T12:38:00.000-08:00

I’m feeling chatty. Like I just want to curl up with my computer and talk, you know? Not about some preordained topic or event, not about a recipe, not about anything, really. Just random stuff, whatever falls from my fingertips.

It’s a dreary, rainy, foggy, dark day. I feel kind of sad, kind of excited, kind of peaceful, kind of stressed, and kind of mellow. Most days, one particular feeling rises to the surface and beats all the others into submission, but not today.

I’ve been rather bored lately. (Yes, I do realize I was just complaining about being super busy. But you can be super busy and still bored, did you know that?) Last night, I counted out the many ways in which I am bored to my husband and he burst into tears. Just kidding, about the tears, but I did bore him to sleep. He argued with me for a few minutes about the ridiculousness of everything I was saying and then said, “Isn’t your period coming?” and we both busted up laughing, and then his eyelids drooped and he said, “Can we go to bed now?”

I’ve kind of lost my will to cook. Part of the problem may be that ever since my decade of breast feeding ended, I’ve never been back down to my pre-pregnancy weight. I’ve made some substantial changes (greatly reducing snacks and junk food and trying to get exercise), and even though I feel like I’m not over-eating at all (in fact, it can be depressing how little I’m actually eating), the last few pounds aren’t budging.

Part of me thinks this is fine—I’m still in my normal weight range and I’m certainly not overweight—but another part of me worries I’m on a slippery slope. A pound here, a pound there, a pound of pounds EVERYWHERE.

What makes it all the more confusing is:

a. I never really had a solid grasp on a healthy weight before I started the baby-making marathon
b. my body has changed shape after popping out four humans—how much of that changed shape is inevitable?
c. do I really want to spend years tweaking and fretting and worrying when I’ll end up a little pile of organic matter in just a few more decades?
d. but I certainly want to be healthy
e. and it’d be nice to look attractive, too
f. (I’m not talking about inner beauty here, either. Besides, how can I act all confident and sunshiney if I feel like I look bad?)
g. is it lazy to accept my tummy rolls? Maybe I’m supposed to accept them? Nurture them? (Okay, okay. So that’s going a little too far.)
h. BUT I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TUMMY ROLLS, WAH.

I could go on and on. Like, this is stupid because I am healthy. Or, the women in Nicaragua were all thick around the middle and probably never gave a second thought to that extra padding except to be grateful for it. In fact, the majority of women thicken in the middle, even those that never have children. It’s a part of life, I think. Right?

I could starve myself and run for miles and knock off the pounds, I’m sure. But I don’t want to spend my time and energy that way. Besides, I think I should be allowed to eat when I'm hungry and till I'm full. Isn't that kind of basic?

Clearly, it’s all about balance and I have none.

This really is relevant to the not-cooking-so-much-anymore issue: it’s not as much fun to cook if you aren’t going to eat it. I’m not that kind of cook.

I’ve kind of decided to ignore the whole quandary right now and cook anyway. I’ll just eat good breakfasts, go for walks when I can, and pass on the nachos (usually) at bedtime ... and make a boatload of sweet rolls just because.

I rolled them out after supper and my little boy informed me that the rolled-out dough was the same size as the kitchen floor rug. I never know how to roll out the dough when I make such a huge recipe—dress and roll half the dough and then the other half? or do it all at once and make tire-sized sweet rolls?—but this time I got smart. I rolled it all out at once, dressed it, and then used a pizza cutter to slice it in half. Rolled up in opposite directions, and I had two long sweet rolls ready to slice. Problem solved.

That night, we all clustered around the computer on stools to watch a movie while I baked pan after pan of buttery, cinnamony sweet rolls. Rolls done, we crowded around the table, poured glasses of cold milk, and I let the kids eat till they popped. Because hey, how many times in your life do you get to have fresh-from-the-oven, homemade sweet rolls for a bedtime snack? Exactly.

I had another sweet roll epiphany that night. (I was on a roll.) (Tee-hee, a roll. Get it?) I was running out of glass baking pans, so I greased up one of my bread pans and stacked in a bunch of rolls on their sides. I ended up with a pretty loaf of pull-apart sweet rolls.

The genius of this method is that you can fit a whole lot more rolls in the oven when they’re stacked in loaf pans than when they’re laying flat on their backs in 9 x 13 glass pans, thus greatly speeding up the baking process. Plus, they’re easier to store and reheat. I’m kind of smitten.

(That movie we watched whilst our very pores became infused with the yeasty smell of sweet rolls? The Human Planet. Have you seen this amazing series yet? It’s nearly six hours of gorgeous photography and incredible stories. So far we’ve seen disc one—there are three total—for the ocean part, I kept getting short of breath; for the dessert (I mean DESERT) part, the kids kept jumping up for drinks of water; and for the arctic part, we huddled close to keep warm. I can’t recommend this series highly enough.)

Changing the subject: we’re starting to wonder if our youngest daughter is sleep walking. The other morning when my husband came downstairs at 5:30, all the lights were on and Sweetsie was sound asleep on the sofa. She said she didn’t remember turning the lights on.

My husband found her downstairs this morning at 2 am—same story. He even took a blurry picture to document it.

She’s collapsed against the sofa because there were books on it. It must not have occurred to her to move them?

Her sleeping is getting progressively rockier. After discovering her downstairs this morning, my husband put her in bed with me and took himself off to her abandoned (and very comfortable) bed. Sweetsie tossed and turned, stole my sheets, mumbled Harry Potter curses, and was up at six, begging me to take her downstairs.

Perhaps we should tie her ankle to the bedpost?

Also, she’s found a substitute for her spit rag (note the red rag she's holding). We might be back to square one.

There's more to say, but I'd better call it quits. The kids are up and the rain is falling and I need (want?) (no, it’s a need—cranberries are central to my emotional well-being) to bake a pie and prepare for a meeting tonight.

xo,
me

This same time, years previous: pasta with creamy pumpkin sauce (I made this for supper last night - delicious), steel-cut oatmeal

ushering in the fun

2011-11-21T11:37:00.000-08:00

We did, indeed, get to see Hamlet three ways this fall, funfunfun. On Friday, the kids and I hopped into the car and sped down the interstate to the Blackfriars Playhouse, raucously singing along to the songs on my son’s MP3 player (that he piped through the car’s speakers)—Peter, Paul, and Mary, Beethoven’s Wig, My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, etc.

We were scheduled to arrive 75 minutes before the show because, not only were we going to watch the show, we were going to usher for it, too. Because—get this!—as new members of the volunteer usher brute squad, we get to see the shows for freeeeeee!

Since my son is 6 years shy of 18, the minimum age for ushers, they are graciously allowing us to usher as a team. Though judging by the size of his shoes (mens 10 ½, yikes) he might look the part a little sooner than is normal.

Not his ushering uniform. He was dressing up for fun and asked me to take a picture.

Notice I did not say “act the part.”

We attended an usher training where we learned about patrolling for photography (which led to an interesting discussion on the ride home about how actors are their art), checking bathrooms, our dress code, putting up seat backs, and handing out programs.

The really good news about this whole arrangement is that we get one comp ticket each time we usher, which means my daughter can come along and watch with us! (Or, we can save up comp tickets and take the whole family.)

Friday was our first time on the job. My son and I were assigned the balcony, and my daughter sat in a corner and knitted while we stood there and tried not to get too bored. Once the show started, I let the kids sit up closer while I stayed back by the door. It was a simple job (thank goodness I didn’t have to approach any patrons about photography usage—confrontations with strangers makes me a wee bit nervous), and we were able to watch the whole show. We are signed up to usher for this week’s closing show of The Importance of Being Ernest, and then there will be A Christmas Carol—I expect we’ll usher for that show more than once in order to get some extra comp tickets saved up, and because it’s the sort of show that we’ll want to see over and over again.

The downside of volunteer ushering is that we don’t get the best seats (though comp ticket holders can reserve any seat in the house, from what I understand), and I’m a big fan of sitting close enough to see the sweat fly. Plus, there’s the fifty-minute drive each way and the late bedtimes.

But there are so many upsides—exposure to theater culture and etiquette, learning to be professionally hospitable and gracious, the incredible shows—that I’m not even about to complain. No, no, quite the contrary—I’m tickled hot pink over our newest adventure.

a new ritual

2011-11-20T13:21:00.000-08:00

I am not a storyteller. I do not regale my children with enchanting tales that have a beginning, middle, and end. Rather, I am more of a conversationalist and lecturer. If something happens to me and I want to tell someone else about it, I regurgitate it all, in a rush, splat. There is no weaving, no crafting, no plotting. Therefore, it is a rather odd coincidence that I have fallen into the habit of telling my baby a story every night before bed.

It came about quite by accident. One night when I went upstairs to tuck the kids in to bed, my littlest grabbed me with his big blue eyes and said, all sweet-like and pleading, “Mama, tell me a story about when you were little.”

So I told him about the time when my dad woke me up in the middle of the night but it didn’t seem like the middle of the night because everything was lit up with a weird yellow-orange light because a gas line had exploded a few miles away. It felt like the whole town was out and about, and we walked around talking with the neighbors just like Atticus and Scout and Jem did when Miss Maudie’s house burned down (though I didn’t include that last part in my story).

And wouldn’t you know, that pleading question is now the first thing he says to me every night when I walk into his room. So I curl up on the bed beside him and rack my memory for something interesting. As I start to talk, his breathing slows and his body stills. His eyes fix on my face, and he listens for all he’s worth. I can actually see him listening. When I finish—and the stories are no more than a minute or two long—he smiles, sucks in a big breath like he’s coming up for air, and giggles. He always, always begs for one more story.

A week or so into our new routine, he asked me to retell a specific story. “The second one you told me,” he said. I was surprised. Was he keeping a mental list of the stories I told? I asked him to recount the ones I’d told him, and sure enough, he could correctly identify story one, two, three, four, etc. I was impressed. For whatever reason, these random memories I’m dredging up to appease him with are sticking in his noggin.

I doubt he could keep the stories in order anymore, though, there have been so many. Usually they’re just bits and pieces of my past, like the time one of our rabbits chewed off my Barbie’s hand, or the one about how I put our neighbor’s chubby dog on an aggressive keep-up-with-me-while-I-ride-my-bike-around-town fitness plan when I was just supposed to be taking it for a little walk every day, or the time bear tracks were found in the swamp below where I waited for the bus on dark school mornings and how I was too scared to go to the bus stop by myself anymore. Others are more well-rounded stories, like when my dad chased the joyriders out of the creek, or when one of our rabbits abandoned her litter and we tried to keep the bunnies alive in the oven (total fail). In every single case, no matter how fragmented the memory, he acts like I just gave him a piece of the moon. Which makes me wonder: is story telling more than just the sum of its parts?

In any case, I’m slowly, very slowly, beginning to see this new ritual as an opportunity and not a chore, and sometimes (but not often enough) I think about the story ahead of time. Once in a great while there’s even a beginning, a middle, and an end.

This same time, years previous: orange-cranberry bread, smashing for pretty, chocolate pots de creme, feminism part one

lemony lentil goodness

2011-11-17T11:54:00.000-08:00

Our evenings have gotten busier than I like. Take this week for example: something has been scheduled for every singe late afternoon and/or evening. Lots of good stuff. Lots of fun stuff. But stuff that, nonetheless, requires coordination, car keys, fossil fuels, hurried suppers, and missed bedtime stories.

Suppers have been bare bones: an ovenfull of baked potatoes, veggies from the freezer, beans and rice. Only one night did I make a meal that involved any creativity whatsoever, and that was the night that my husband did the running and I got to stay at home. I made a lemony red lentil soup, and wouldn’t you know, the kids hated it. But I thought it was so incredibly delicious that I didn’t even care. It is the perfect soup to have on hand for my lunches: nourishing, easy to reheat, and intoxicating with exotic flavors.

Just a little over an hour ago I returned from an errand that involved an entire morning spent in the car listening to Harry Potter while one carsick child moaned in my intolerant and unsympathetic ear (me: If you’re going to throw up, tell me; otherwise, stop groaning), and by the time I got home, I was starving hungry. I threw some cheese sandwiches and apples on the table for the kids (toast for the recovering sicky) and then went about preparing my feast of soup. I sauteed a large handful of fresh spinach in some butter, and heated up a bowl of brown rice and another bowl of soup. The presentation of this soup is most important and I take care with it, even when it’s just for little old me’s lunch: soup on the bottom, then a mound of brown rice on one side, the spinach on another, and some plan yogurt on yet another. A grind of black pepper and I was set.

The first bite went in my mouth. “Oh wow,” I said out loud, even though the kids were already in rest time and there was no one else in the room to listen to me swoon. But, and I’m not sure if you know this already or not, some foods are so exquisite they simply must be appreciated out loud—this soup is one of those foods. I sat down at my desk and tried to force myself to eat slowly, but all too soon my spoon was scraping up the dregs of lemony lentil goodness.

This soup is not an Indian food, per say, but it reminded me of dahl. There are the seasonings—cumin, turmeric, and mustard seeds—a couple large onions, and the salted, earthy spinach. But it’s the lemon—oh, the lemon!—which elevates the dish to a whole other level. Chapatis, while superfluous, would be a delicious accompaniment.

This season of business is passing, I think (I hope), but in the meantime, for this week at least, this soup will be key in getting me through.

Red Lentil Soup with Lemon and Spinach
Adapted from Heidi Swanson of 101 Cookbooks

I made a couple significant changes (omitting the cilantro and cooking the lentils [and rice] in lots of flavorful chicken broth), so I’m not sure Heidi would want me to associate my recipe with hers, especially considering that my version is rich with chicken broth and she’s a vegetarian.

2 cups red lentils, rinsed
6 cups chicken broth (or water)
2 teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon turmeric
4 tablespoons butter, divided
2 medium onions, chopped
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 ½ teaspoons yellow mustard seed
2-3 lemons, the juice of
lots of fresh spinach
cooked brown rice
plain yogurt
black pepper

Put the lentils, turmeric, 1 tablespoon butter, and salt in a large pot and add the chicken broth. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until the lentils are very soft. Puree the soup using a handheld immersion blender (or a regular blender).

Melt 2 tablespoons of butter in a large skillet and add the onions, cumin, and mustard seed. Saute until the onions are very soft—about 15-20 minutes.

Add the onions to the pot of pureed soup. Squeeze in the juice of two (or three) lemons. Taste to correct seasonings.

Immediately before serving, melt the remaining tablespoon of butter in a large skillet and add the spinach. Sprinkle with salt and toss until wilted.

To serve: fill the bowls with soup, and garnish liberally with scoops of warm brown rice, the sauteed spinach, plain yogurt, and freshly ground black pepper.

This same time, years previous: bad mamas

the quotidian

2011-11-16T04:25:00.000-08:00

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;

everyday; ordinary; commonplace

*blue, blue, oh so blue!, autumn skies: but today they are heavy and dark with rain
*the fruits of my (much needed) inspiration to clean out my spice cupboard, thanks to Aimee of Simple Bites
*an apple pie, ready for the oven
*fixing the wheelbarrow tire: he hooked up the air compressor all by himself (and without me knowing) and then used it correctly, too
*slicing apples for the dehydrator
*cozy reading time
*caramel popcorn cooling on the table: decreasing the popcorn and (unintentionally, I promise!) increasing the butter makes for some out-of-this-world deliciousness
*a trash can lid hat
*gorgeous green, good for both my eyes and my tummy. (Bonus, my kids love them, too.)
*after an evening of guests: the table, still dressed and lit. As we’ve had a lot of company in the last couple weeks, we’ve been burning candles endlessly. I light them as soon as I get up in the morning to make the cold, dark mornings a little more inviting.

This same time, years previous: a homeschooling experiment report

why I'm glad we don't have guns in our house

2011-11-15T10:23:00.000-08:00

My husband loves to make analogies. They’re usually really bad, too, and they make me roll my eyes and snort. In fact, he made one just the other day and I thought to myself, I need to remember this one so I can use it as an example of his analogy badness, but it was so bad that I can’t even remember it now.

However, the one he made two weeks ago is not quite as easy to forget because he got injured in the process.

I wasn’t home for the moment of reckoning, and he didn’t say anything to me about it when I got back. It wasn’t until I noticed he was limping and flat-out demanded an explanation that I found out just how bad his analogies can be.

Apparently, my youngest son was driving him batty, running around helter-skelter, bothering people and doing a bunch of things that would only serve get him in trouble. This was the day before the pie party, so there was lots of work to get done and deviant behavior was not cool. So finally my fed-up-to-his-eyeballs husband launched into a lecture around the theme “Shooting Yourself In The Foot.” In his noble efforts to help his five-year-old son grasp the concept of how totally stupid it is to shoot yourself in the foot, my husband kicked himself in the ankle.

His goal was to knock his left foot off the ground with his right so he’d end up sprawled on the floor, but instead his left foot stayed firmly planted and he jammed his right foot something fierce. It really, really hurt, he reported.

For the next couple hours he was mostly okay, but as the day progressed, the pain worsened so that by mid afternoon he was fully laid up on the couch, his foot elevated, and with a bunch of painkillers coursing through his veins. He was researching foot injuries, and I was fretting about when we should go to the hospital.

“I can’t go to the hospital,” he'd whine. “What am I going to say? That I kicked myself? They’ll think I’m an idiot!” And then we’d howl with laughter.

I wasn’t always laughing though, seeing as the remaining mountain of cleaning was mine to climb alone. I flew around the house mumbling, I can’t believe it. And, Of all the times to injure yourself. And, If you can’t work for several weeks because of this—oh, good grief!

He crawled upstairs to bed that night. I stood at the top and just shook my head.

The next morning, he was considerably better. He was even able to vacuum the floors and clean the bathrooms. I had to drive to church.

“Don’t you dare tell anyone about this,” he said.

“Okay, but I am going to blog about it.” I giggled wickedly. “Just you wait.”

Note: no husband was taken advantage of in the writing of this post. He read it, made corrections, and despite his injured pride and a few lingering twinges of humiliation, approved it for publication. What a man.

(Also, his foot is fine.)

This same time, years previous: cinnamon flop, on homeschooling and socialization

the greats

2011-11-14T17:06:00.000-08:00

My kids don’t see their great grandparents all that often, but whenever they do, there is an immediate connection.

When they came for a visit last week, the children wasted no time claiming them as personal entertainment makers, plying them with books and board games, and showing off their newly learned piano songs.

The Greats jumped right in with remarkable gusto, reading book after book, playing multiple games of chess, explaining the purpose of each of the pills they had to take, and telling stories.

This time around, my grandmother brought her childhood Bible school books, yellowed but in excellent condition, for my kids. She gave my youngest girl a lesson out of it, reading the story to her and quizzing her with the follow-up questions. My girl basked in the one-on-one attention—grandma all to herself!

Soaking them up, that’s what my children did while they were here. When grandpa was sitting by the fire working on the crossword puzzle, my daughter silently pulled a wooden chair alongside his soft one and quietly worked on her (rediscovered) knitting. The kids wanted to sit beside them at the table and ride with them in their car on the evening outing. They wondered where the grandparents went when they disappeared for naps, and how long till they’d come back downstairs.

But my children also exhibited an uncharacteristic reserve, too. A bit in awe of these folks with the wrinkles and white hair and walking cane, they didn’t argue too loudly or crowd them too roughly. They watched their grandparents closely, occasionally coming to me with little whispered reports: I was talking to grandpa but he never said anything because he didn’t hear me!

When I was tucking my daughter into bed the evening they arrived, she asked me their age, which I didn’t know. She didn’t say all that much after that, but I could tell she was both impressed and saddened by my guessed number—it was high. They won’t be around forever and she knows that.

This same time, years previous: a boy book, my apple lineup, chicken and white bean chili, peanut butter cream pie, horseback riding, my year of homeschool torture, chicken salad, Chinese cabbage and apple salad, why I homeschool

as simple as simple gets

2011-11-10T11:35:00.000-08:00

“I’m not spoiled, I’m primitive!”

That’s what my older daughter yelled at me after I had a hissy fit about my children having the nerve—the nerve!—to thumb their noses at the food I serve.

I busted up laughing, of course, which stopped her short and prompted her to ask, “What’s primitive mean?”

That’s my girl, the primitive spoiled one. Or the primitively spoiled one. Or the spoiled primate.

Whatever.

pretending to not be primitive

***

My son has been playing with his MP3 player. So far he’s already deleted all the music he put on it. Smart move, sonny.

And he’s discovered it has a webcam and that he can hook it up to the computer and then take pictures of the computer screen which makes the screen go on into infinity, like those three-way mirrors in dressing rooms.

I’m intrigued with the pictures he comes with. Like of me turning my head:

Or of me writing:

Don’t I look tortured?

It’s already come in handy, too.

I sent him out on a six-mile, round-trip bike ride with orders to take pictures of the agreed upon destination spot as proof he got there.

He also took a nauseatingly wobbly video of the trees and road and garbage cans, his voice in the background saying, “You believe me, Mom? You believe me now?”

***

Here's a novel way to peel garlic. It really does work! (I entertained the family with a demonstration. My husband was sufficiently impressed.)

***

I have another little non-recipe to share with you. It’s my method of choice for preparing sweet potatoes in quantity.

I stuff my oven with sweet potatoes and bake them potatoes until they’re fork tender. (I’ve always pricked my potatoes with a knife, because that’s what I do with the white ones, but I recently read that you’re not supposed to prick sweet potatoes. Which makes sense, considering that my baked sweet potatoes ooze lots of juices that turn to balls of char when they hit the stove floor. I’m eager to see if no-prick baking equals a cleaner oven.)

Once the potatoes have cooled a bit, I tear off the peels with my fingers. The skins go to the chickens and the soft potato pieces plop into my large mixing bowl where I give them a thorough beating with my handheld mixer.

Now, at this point I have two options. I can either refrigerate or freeze the potato puree for later (think sweet potato pie!), or I can proceed with the mashed sweet potato recipe. I usually just work up to this step and then refrigerate the whole kit and caboodle. The mashed potatoes tend to disappear over the course of the next several days, usually before I can even get around to making a pie. The kids love to eat it by the bowlful.

But if I want to make this into an official side dish, I stir in a little salt, scoop the mashed sweet potatoes into a greased baking dish, dot the top with butter, and then bake them in a hot oven.

And that, my dears, is about as simple as simple gets.

Mashed Sweet Potatoes

sweet potatoes
salt
a little butter

Roast the sweet potatoes, scoop out the soft flesh, and beat it until it’s creamy smooth. Stir in some salt to taste. Spoon the potatoes into a greased baking dish, dot with butter, and bake at 350 degrees till the top gets slightly caramelized and the potatoes are hot the whole way through.

brilliant brownies

2011-11-09T10:37:00.000-08:00

I’m in a cooking rut. Zero inspiration, no happy kitchen feelings, nothing. And I miss it. Because turning out pots of beans, baked potatoes, granola, chef salads, and bread, over and over again, is delicious, but boring. I need my cooking mojo back asap.

I have a hunch that my bah humbug cooking slump is a result of other busyness. There have been lots of writing projects (does this mean I prefer writing to cooking? I’ll have to ponder this) (oh, and last night when I was in bed, my mind racing with lots of writing energy, I said to my man, "I just have so many ideas and things I want to say and not nearly enough time to do it, know what I mean?" "Um, no," he said), church meetings, homeschooling, cleaning, and celebrating. As a result, I end up cooking the fastest and easiest foods possible, not wanting to waste extra minutes and mental energy on recipe research and food play.

I did, though, come up with a new brownie recipe. It goes something like this.

1. Be appalled at the insane amount of candy your kids hauled in on October 31st.
2. Make lots of disparaging remarks about childhood obesity and rotting teeth, all the while giggling hysterically and shoveling as much candy into your mouth as you possibly can.
3. Sometime in the next 48 hours when you emerge from your candy coma, stuff the majority of the candy in a hide-y hole and try to forget about it. But first, fill a bowl with mini chocolate bars (sadly, or happily, depending on how bad your hangover headache is, this is just a fraction of the chocolate haul).
4. Mix up a batch of brownies.
5. Unwrap (important step alert!) the chocolates—Butterfingers, Kit-Kats, Snickers, Milky Ways, Mars, Reese’s, etc.—chop them up, and stir them into the brownie batter.
6. Bake the brownies, taking care to under bake them by a good 5 to 10 minutes.
7. Once cooled, cut and freeze. Because there is no way (in ha-a-ill) you’ll be able to stop your fingers from shoveling these babies into your mouth.
8. Every time you eat a brownie, ponder these two amazing facts: a) the candy bars do not give the brownies a chemical flavor (and you were sure they would), and b) chocolates are good on their own, yes, but they are so much better when encased in gooey, chewy, rich, chocolate-y brownies.

Halloween Candy-Infused Brownies

Brownie batter (I made a double batch)
Assorted Halloween chocolates, chopped (2-3 cups)

Combine, (under) bake, and eat. Brilliant.

This same time, years previous: a teacher's lesson

let me sum up

2011-11-08T12:17:00.000-08:00

Well lovies, the pie party happened. There were people and there were pies, and the people ate the pies, the end.

Just kidding. Like I could ever be that concise, ha.

Really though, I don’t exactly know what to say about it. It was fun, a lot of fun, and sweet and simple, and surreal and special. I had no expectations—because how could I?—and then after it was over, I didn’t know how to process it because I didn’t have any expectations in the first place. It was weird. And a little sad. I felt kind of weepy the next morning, partly due to exhaustion and partly because my mind and insides were all scrambled up.

Let me ‘splain.

No, there is too much. Let me sum up. (Name that movie.)

We cleaned house for forever. We tacked on some fall cleaning (like taking out window screens and putting the garden to bed), some heavier cleaning (like wall and window washing), and some fix-it jobs (like replacing the toilet seat) so it really did take forever.

It was a little insane, and what made it all the insaner was that the house still looked raggedy when we were done. So I gave up and made pies instead.

People came. This little fact never fails to amaze me. Because I can clean and bake pies till the cows come home, but it ain’t a party if there ain’t no people, right? And it’s a little miracle that people read some words on a computer screen and then carve time out of their day to visit with a bunch of random people. It’s rather nifty miracle, if you ask me.

And here’s where the surreal part comes in: one of the guests flew in from Washington state for the party, I kid you not.

She was at our house when we got home from church and as soon as the kids spied her red rental parked in the driveway, they forgot all their normal inhibitions and tore into the house ahead of us. Because MAVIS WAS AT OUR HOUSE! And there she was, sitting at the table in the downstairs bedroom that’s not a bedroom, working on the computer and drinking tea.

note her necklace!

This was my first time meeting a blog friend—we have been reading each other’s blogs for years—and it was simultaneously an intoxicating thrill and a total comfort. And surreal. Have I mentioned it was surreal?

The kids immediately took to her, and no wonder—she had brought all the supplies needed for making party hats and right away set up shop. While I fixed the salad for lunch (no waffles when a pie feast is in the works), she instructed the kids in the fine art of handling feather boas and glue guns and fabric. She had them eating out of the palm of her hand.

Mid-afternoon, people started trickling in.

We visited on the porch for awhile before getting down to the business of eating pie. There were all sorts of pie, but Katie-from-West Virginia’s kale-akopita was the only savory pie in the bunch.

It was good, too, and I now have the recipe in my possession. Stay tuned.

Also present: peanut butter pie, two pumpkin (one with pecans and one without), red raspberry, sour cherry lattice, pineapple buttermilk tarts, gluten-free grape, my mother’s stovetop grape crumb, shoofly, green tomato and apple mince, whoopie pies, and sour cherry crumb. Not a single apple, can you believe it?

We ate and visited (and the babies played) and ate some more and still there were leftovers.

After awhile the majority of folks headed home and just a handful of us were left. We curled up on the sofa, pulled up rockers and chairs, and settled into a leisurely visit while the kids played and the candles burned low.

Then everyone was gone but Mavis. My husband and I tucked the kids into bed, made tea, and settled down by the fire for another long chat. Mavis left in the middle of the night—I got up to give her a hug goodbye—but back in bed, I couldn’t fall asleep. There’s something lonesome and sad about a newly-acquired friend driving away in the frosty dead of night, on her way to a plane that will take her thousands of miles away.

I caught up on my sleep last night and ate the last of the kale-akopita for my lunch today. The kids divided out the one remaining tart (I snuck snitches). The stack of party hats on the hutch and the shiny-clean windows are the only signs of the weekend festivities.

Thank you, sweet friends. You made the party.

This same time, years previous: laid flat, crispy cinnamon cookies, lessons from West Virginia, brown sugar icing, no zip, sausage quiche with potato crust

piano lessons

2011-11-04T10:33:00.000-07:00

On two separate occasions now, my son has played piano in church. There are many lessons to be gleaned from the experience, and not all of them have to do with piano playing.

practicing

***

I choose the pieces (with his approval, usually) a month ahead of time, and then I drill him batty, nitpicking the dynamics, demanding perfection, calling him on his tense shoulders or hanging-open mouth. I yell all sorts of nonsense at him, things that would probably make a real piano teacher cringe. “Curl the notes! The top ones, slow them down! Even! Steady! Feel the music! Sit up straight! Don’t hit that note again! It’s not in the song! YOU’RE GOING TOO FAST. ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR-STAY-WITH-ME!”

At least two times before the actual event, I have him practice the songs on the church piano. The day before he plays, I help him trim and clean his nails (whoever heard of playing piano with dirty nails, gross, I mutter), and the day of, we arrive at church early so he can play through the songs several more times.

Fifteen minutes before the service starts, I go completely OCD: go to the bathroom; get a drink; blow your nose; put chapstick on; sit on your hands so your fingers stay warm. I pump him up with lots of positive stuff, too: you’re handsome; you know this music inside and out; you’ll be awesome; smile. He pretty much takes my heckling in stride, only occasionally brushing me off or muttering an annoyed Mom!

It’s a little insane, but then again, not really. It takes that much work to do your best, and the work he does is pittance when compared to what professionals go through. Just ask your resident painter, writer, photographer, chef, builder, etc. (Or Amy Chua, for that matter. Thanks to her, I’ve upped my expectations of my children, roar.)

Funny thing is, my son doesn’t get nervous till the last minute, and the only way I can tell is because he keeps checking the bulletin. Once up front, he plays with complete confidence. At least that’s what it sounds like—I only listen, too nervous to even look his direction.

(Disclaimer: I know nothing about teaching the piano. When my piano teacher friend was visiting the other week, I asked her to please listen to my son play through one of his pieces, just to listen and look for any red flags. When he finished, she said, "That was great, but one question. How do you teach the pedal?"

I looked at her blankly. "I don't."

So she explained the pedal, and after she left, I had him play through the song several more times, this time with me crouched on the floor beside him yelling, UP DOWN! UP DOWN! UP DOWN! until he got the hang of it and we both had the giggles.)

***

Back in the spring, my son did a piece for the offertory that was light and lively. It ended with a playful flourish that caught people off guard which led to laughter and applause. And then my ever-the-ham son, who was caught off guard himself by their reaction, gave a couple little vigorous bows. Not wanting to squelch his pride and happiness right then, I decided to save my comments for the next time he played.

So on our way to church this past Sunday morning, just the two of us chugging along in my husband’s pick-up, our eyes nervously watching the near-empty gas tank's needle (as though staring at it would make the gas last longer), I explained what it means to create a space of worship.

“It’s an important job,” I said. “People come to church with all sorts of experiences and feelings and it’s the job of the worship leaders and musicians and speakers to create a place that invites people in and allows them to connect to something bigger and deeper. Worship leaders that tell rambly stories and crack jokes are drawing attention to themselves which is not the point of worship. Your job as piano player is to do the best you can while trying to be invisible.”

“So I shouldn’t have bowed last time?” He sure didn’t waste any time making the connection, darn it.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, stalling for time, choosing my words carefully. “Pianists are taught to bow after they give a recital, so in some situations it’s quite appropriate. But for church, it’s probably best not to. If people clap for you, just smile at them and go sit down.”

This time around, no one clapped. “It’s not because you didn’t do well,” I assured him. “In fact, it’s the opposite. It’s a sign that your playing fit into the service. Your playing is growing up.”

***

The first time my son played in church and someone thanked him, he mumbled a hurried thanks and turned away, flustered and embarrassed.

I immediately pulled him aside. “Listen here,” I said. “When someone gives you a compliment, you stop whatever you’re doing, look them in the eyes, smile, and say thank you. Look them in the eyes, do you hear me?”

Not a minute later, another person approached with compliments. My son looked the person directly in the eyes, smiled, and said “Thank you.” My eyes bugged.

I was surprised on two accounts:

1. That my son was so receptive to my coaching.
2. That I was surprised that my son was receptive.

Of course kids want to act mature! Of course they want to know how to handle themselves! Why would I think otherwise?

Sometimes I fall prey to the thinking that kids figure everything out on their own. They do figure out an awful lot, it’s true, but sometimes a well-placed pointer can make a world of difference.

***

Give your gifts to the church!

That’s the mantra I’ve heard all my life, but I see it the other way round. The church gives us gifts, gifts of community, support, and opportunity. Where else do people of all ages get to try their hand at such a variety of skills—singing, speaking, acting, teaching, leading, mentoring—almost all of them in a public setting, too?

On Sunday, my son busted his tail doing the best he could and in return he received affirmation and encouragement via shoulder punches, high-fives, requests to play again, and even a note of thanks from the lead pastor.

What a gift.

cheesy broccoli potato soup

2011-11-02T11:32:00.000-07:00

I have not a single broccoli recipe in my recipe index. This is criminal, atrocious, and completely unacceptable because:

a) broccoli is delicious.

b) we love broccoli.

c) we eat broccoli fairly frequently.

d) we eat broccoli not frequently enough.

e) there are countless ways to prepare the vegetable.

f) broccoli rocks.

On Saturday, I bought two bushels of gorgeous broccoli from a local farmer because I have learned that it is easier to buy gorgeous, wormless broccoli from a professional than it is to plant it, weed it, cut it, and then pick each and every worm out of it myself. Unless someone can convince me otherwise, I don't think I'll ever grow my own broccoli again.

But first, Saturday. Saturday was a weird day. Let me tell you about it.

1. I woke up to a thick blanket of snow covering my potted plants and tomato cages. The sprinkling of yellow, red, and orange leaves on top of the snow made the early snowfall that much more wronger. And then I got grumpy.

2. Of course, I hadn’t yet gone through the kids’ winter duds BECAUSE IT WAS STILL FREAKING OCTOBER, so my husband climbed up into the attic and handed down all the garbage bags which promptly exploded, spewing boots and woolens and snowpants in all directions.

3. So I went to town for a meeting and left them to sort things out.

4. On my way to my meeting, I stopped at the farmers’ market for my bushels of snow-covered broccoli. I dumped them into two wash baskets I had brought along for the express purpose of broccoli carting.

5. When I got home (after a second meeting, grocery shopping, and errand running), the family (plus two kids who were staying the night) was all at my brother’s house and the power was out. So much for my afternoon plans of blanching and freezing two wash basket loads of broccoli.

6. The kids came home and threw six sets of soaking wet snow clothes hither and yon.

7. We ate stale crackers, peanut butter, apples, and cheese for supper. The kids said they were still hungry. I said tough.

8. The boys did a power dance around the kitchen, but the lights stayed off.

9. I played piano by the light of the flashlight.

10. The boys drug the outdoor cookstove from the barn to the porch and popped popcorn.

11. We sat around by the fire and talked about the sort of things 12-year-old boys like to talk about. (The girls were hiding in their lair.) My husband and I drank Root Beer in mugs without the kids knowing, one of the pluses of life in the dark. (Hm, I wonder what else we could get away with in the dark, on a lark?)

12. The power came on and we screamed and yelled and jumped up and down and then wildly ran around flushing toilets, washing dishes, getting baths, and vacuuming the floors.

So. All that to say, it wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that I got around to blanching and freezing the broccoli.

We froze all of it except for what we ate, plus a large container that I stashed in the fridge to combat the upcoming candy overload. Some of it I tossed into a stir fry and the rest went into a broccoli potato soup.

I love broccoli soup, but I often have problems with it curdling. This is probably because I don’t really follow a recipe, instead just throwing in the ingredients every which way. This time, however, I took care to follow a process—one that I made up in my head—and the soup turned out deliciously creamy and smooth.

My kids aren’t thrilled by it (but they eat it anyway, and with minimal complaining). They declare my friend’s broccoli soup to be the best ever (hers is basically broccoli in a cheese sauce, yum), but I like to add other stuff to my soup, stuff like potatoes and onions. Plus, I use a light hand when it comes to the cheese.

This soup is plenty creamy and rich even without tons of cheese and cream, and it has a hefty dose of nutrition, thanks to the vegetables and several cups of homemade chicken broth. I just had a bowl of it for lunch and it made me very happy.

How do you like your broccoli soup? Do you puree your soup into a creamy green smoothness, or do you keep it chunky? Do you drown it in cheese? Do you add other vegetables or fancy spices?

Cheesy Broccoli Potato Soup

Proportions are flexible: it’s the method that’s key.

3 cups chicken broth
4-6 cups chopped, peeled potatoes
4-6 cups chopped, blanched broccoli
1 large onion, chopped
1 bay leaf
5 tablespoons butter, divided
½ scant cup flour
2 cups milk
1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
1-2 cups good melting cheese (I used Provolone)
2 teaspoons salt, plus more to taste

Saute the onion in 1 tablespoon butter till translucent. Add the potatoes, broth, and bay leaf and simmer until fork tender. Add the broccoli and heat through. (If you want the broccoli to be super-soft, add it sooner to the potato-broth mixture sooner so it can cook along with the potatoes.) Remove the bay leaf and stir in the salt.

Melt the remaining 4 tablespoons butter in a separate saucepan. Whisk in the flour and then beat in the milk. Heat till hot and bubbly. Remove from heat and stir in the cheeses. Stir several scoops of the broccoli-potato mixture into the cheese sauce to thin it out before adding the cheese sauce to the pot of vegetables. Stir well (do not let boil), taste to correct seasonings, and serve.

This same time, years previous: sweet and sour lentils, lemon squares, blessing hearts

posing for candy

2011-11-01T04:25:00.000-07:00

The wind was blowing, the leaves were falling, and I had just read a post about using a fan to boost the interest factor when taking pictures. So I grabbed my youngest daughter. “Hey, I’ll give you a piece of candy if you come outside and let me take pictures of you,” I said. She jumped at the chance to earn a piece of yucky hard candy and hurried to throw on my Guatemalan poncho.

Then she just sat there while I took pictures to my heart’s content.

Why did I not think of bribery before?

We’d hear the breeze roaring through the trees down across the road, and I’d ready my camera.

She’d lift her chin and face the wind.

And then she’d start to smile.

“Feel the wind!” I yelled, and she grinned harder.

“Come on. Smile bigger! Show me your teeth!” And so I got this:

Serves me right.

This little girl is a work of art, let me tell you. She goes through spells where she’s highly irritable, spitting venom with every breath, defiant and argumentative. After one particularly bad day, or series of days, rather, I said to her, “You’ve been having a hard time lately, haven’t you?”

She nodded sullenly, and I said, “What should we do when you get like that? Do you need to go outside and play? Snuggle with me? Be alone in your room? What helps, huh?”

“Listening to music,” she said, quick as a wink.

And it’s true, the girl loves music. She will listen to tapes for hours on end. She picks out melodies on the piano. She loves the songs from My Fair Lady and The Sound of Music. Music feeds and soothes her.

I’ve started giving her piano lessons, but I think she needs more. I think she needs to sing. Perhaps I should look into getting her into a choir? I’ll have to ponder this more.

I also need to ponder why it is that at our all saints’ day church service, she lit a candle, not for her dear friend’s deceased father or her great grandmother, but for Sally, her big sister’s dead guinea pig. It added an element of hilarity to an otherwise somber service.

And I need to ponder how it is she managed to get such gorgeous golden ringlets. The girl has no idea how lucky she is. And the curls will probably all disappear with puberty, or, if not puberty, then with childbirth. My hair used to be stick-straight, but then I had kids. Same things with my complexion: it used to be creamy smooth...until I had kids. Having kids has changed me from the inside out.

It’s been totally worth it.

When my older daughter caught on that her sister was posing for candy, she demanded her turn.

Or maybe I asked her, I forget which. In either case, she was eager to oblige.

Candy is a tool that must not be underestimated!

This girl will be a teenager all too soon. When my husband saw this picture (a pose she pulled off all on her own), he actually gasped, “Teenager! She looks like a teenager!”

She’s starting the bursting-into-tears-at-the-drop-of-a-hat thing. (Door slamming was already commonplace.) She likes to attach an old portable phone to her jeans, put on the headphone/mouthpiece thingy, and sashay around the house talking valley girlese. It drives her father batty. In fact, just the other night he roared, “Don’t talk like that! I can’t stand it! It makes you sound ... dumb!”

He’s never one to mince words (he once mentioned that a soup we were eating at a friends’ house tasted “moldy”—he has yet to live that one down), but his outburst didn’t slow our girl down, oh no. She just went up to him and yakked louder.

Seriously, this girl doesn’t stop talking. Her mouth goes and goes and goesandgoesandgoes. At least a half dozen times each day I find myself squeezing my eyes shut and screeching, “Do not say another word!”

“But—,” she presses.

“Stop it!”

“But—”

“DO! NOT! SPEAK!”

Such theatrics buy me approximately 8.5 seconds of silence. It’s a losing battle.

See how her chin is lifted here? It’s how she goes through life, kind of rammy. She’s a lot like her father. He gets her. Which is good, because, well, lets just say, I love her to smithereens, and I respect her and adore her and think she’s the bomb, but I don’t get her.

This is what’s so amazing and unique and strange about raising children. They are people. I mean, duh, right? But no, really! These children, these people who came from me, exhibit behaviors and thinking patterns and tendencies that are so completely not me. It’s fascinating, challenging, intriguing, invigorating, and baffling.

Partway through the wind and her brother throwing rakefulls of leaves on her, my girl, ever the resourceful one, plucked a long green grass and tied her hair back.

And then when I told her to kneel, because I wanted to shoot some from-above pictures, she went all devout on me.

I never even got around to playing with the settings on my camera. But after last night’s traipse around town, I have enough candy to fuel a gazillion photo shoots, so I’m not worried.

This same time, years previous: why I'm spacey, Greek yogurt, oatmeal bread

apples schmapples

2011-10-30T15:12:00.000-07:00

“What’s wrong with Stayman?” my husband asked over the phone. There was a fruit stand close to where he was working and he had stopped by to pick up some apples for me.

“There’s nothing wrong with them,” I said, “but according to my notes, we like York best for storing and Fuji for eating.”

“Okay, I’ll get some,” he said, and hung up. I didn’t hear back from him, so several hours later I gave him a ring.

“Did you get the apples?” I asked.

“Let’s not talk about it,” he mumbled.

“What do you mean? Didn’t they have any?”

“They had them.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

He exhaled heavily. “Let’s just say we’re never going back there again.”

“Um, hon?” I said, finally catching on, “how much did the apples cost?”

A brief silence, and then, “Twenty-five dollars.”

“Twenty-five dollars a bushel?” I yelped. “And you bought them? You dingbat!”

And then our barely-limping conversation tumbled rapidly downhill. Ugly, it was. When he came home and parked the two boxes of apples on the picnic table, tempers flared all over again. But he’d agreed to pay the 14 dollars—the difference in the cost between apples from my favorite local orchard and this overpriced stand—out of his personal money, so I shut up.

***

The following morning I lugged the apples down to the cellar and transferred the Yorks into one of our bushel crates—I needed the cardboard box to store my newspaper-wrapped sweet potatoes—and was dismayed to discover that the apples only filled the bushel three-quarters of the way full. Bushel containers are different sizes and there’s a chance ours was larger, but my favorite orchard gives us bushels that fill our crates, and for much less money, too, humph. The steam started to puff out my ears all over again.

And then I noticed the apples were bruised. Squishy spots everywhere! So much for long-term storage.

I stomped upstairs and called my husband. “I’m taking them back,” I hotly announced.

He sighed, “Is it really worth it to drive all the way back just to save a few dollars?”

“Yes, it is. This place is ripping their customers off and I will not stand for it.”

***

The woman who answered the phone quickly handed me off to her superior.

“Yes, this is Loreen. May I help you?”

“Yes, my husband bought some apples from you yesterday, and I’d like to return them, please.”

“Can you tell me what’s wrong with them?”

“Well, yes. They’re overpriced, which is our problem, I know. But also, the bushels aren’t filled the whole way, and the apples are bruised.”

“Our apples are good quality," she said defensively, "and it’s not our fault that they cost more than other places. That was your choice."

"Yes, I know," I said, immediately regretting I mentioned the price. "But we got the apples for long-term storage and they won’t last, bruised as they are."

She then attempted to convince me—via a detailed explanation of their grading system—that the motley, not-full bushel of bruised apples was the best out there.

“So can I bring them back tomorrow?” I said.

She took my name and number and said she’d get back to me later on that evening.

***

“Maybe they’re dirt poor, barely hanging on by a thread,” my mother said. “Maybe your fifty dollars is what’s saved them.”

“Whatever, Mom,” I snapped.

***

Loreen still hadn’t called back by the time I had to leave for my evening church meeting, so I coached my husband on what to say if she should happen to call. “Her name is Loreen,” I said, not wanting him to be caught off-guard and accidentally give up the apple battle.

A brilliant idea hit me as soon as I slipped into the driver’s seat, and I was dialing my home number before I was even out of the driveway. My husband (bless his overpriced apple-buying heart) answered.

“Hello, this is Loreen from the orchard!” I blared in a southern, hickville accent (which is quite different from Loreen’s real voice, but he didn’t know that now, did he?) “There is no way in hell (except I pronounced it ha-a-ill) we is going to take back them apples!”

Silence, and then a shocked, “Excuse me?”

“I SA-A-ID,” I hollered, barely able to keep my voice steady, the giggles bubbling up from my belly like hilarious little hiccups, “THERE IS NO WAY IN HA-A-ILL WE IS GOING TO TAKE BACK THEM APPLES!”

“Um... okay...”

“Honey, it’s me!” I screamed, bouncing up and down in my seat and laughing so hard I could hardly see the road. “I love you so much! Hahahaha, heeheeheehee! Did I get you?”

“Wha—? Oh, man, that was rude. That was so rude. That was so rude!”

***

I called the fruit stand the next morning. (“She’s not going to call you back,” my husband had correctly forecasted.)

I cut straight to the chase. “Can I return the apples this morning?”

“The owner is out of town until Monday and I’m pretty sure he’ll say you can’t return them,” Loreen said, her voice hard. “Your dissatisfaction with the price is not our problem—”

“No, the apples are bruised,” I said slowly, clearly, my voice equally steely.

“Well, your husband had every opportunity to open the box and look at them.”

“Sooo," my speech slowed to a crawl, "you are not concerned with customer satisfaction?”

“Um, yes, but...” her voice trailed off.

“Are you really saying you won’t let me return them?”

“No.”

“Okay. Well, thank you. This is really interesting and helpful for me to know, especially in how I relate to others in the valley.” Which is my pathetic version of a veiled threat.

Only later did I realize what I should’ve said. I should’ve said, “Well, Loreen, this has all made a very interesting story. Are you sure this is the ending you want?”

***

Dear Bowman’s Orchard,

You broke my heart, my consumer confidence, and my bank account. We’re through.

Love,
An Apple Lover

***

At least I got to be Loreen for a little. That was fun.

not one of Loreen's apples

This same time, years previous: dusting the dough, light-as-air hamburger buns and sloppy joes, how to freeze pumpkin

Dichotomies

2011-10-29T05:29:00.000-07:00

Today's post is courtesy of my mother, Shirley Kurtz.

In a temper fit this past summer I got hoisted by my own petard.

I wanted hamburgers that evening, cooked on our dinky grill, over a scrap-wood fire instead of storebought charcoal, but my husband and I weren’t smart enough and procrastinated grilling till the heat had started to dissipate. The burgers huddled above the smoke, weakly oozing, rotting. Disgusted at our ineptness—we always seem to bungle meat, even using charcoal—I snatched up the small rusty grate, stomped into the house, and tried to shove it into the kitchen range’s gas broiler (if I’m remembering right). Naw, bad idea. Instead I transferred the patties to a cookie sheet and rammed that in, fuming and muttering.

Days afterward, setting out to bake, I discovered the oven wasn’t heating up. No fire shot out of the element holes, though I seemed to hear the rush of gas. Only later did I catch on. I’d broken my own stove—a tiny gizmo next to the broiler’s pilot light.

My quandary wasn’t unlike that of some years ago near Christmas when the oven knob on the range we owned at the time, a prized, elderly gas/wood cookstove, suddenly gushed flames. I had cheese sandwiches toasting in the skillet. It would be a few weeks till the defective part could be replaced. No oven over the holidays, uh-oh. The crisis reduced us to buying Walmart donuts. Making a birthday cake for me, our 18-year-old carried his batter in pans down the road to the neighbors’ to bake.

But this stove? I wasn’t sure the model now in our possession was worth fixing. It’s the ordinary type—my husband scavenged it from an abandoned, weather-soaked house, paying $15, and although Mr. Handsome Son-in-Law must have thought us insane, he voluntarily took the thing apart, scattering the metal tubes and little jiggy screws across our driveway, scraping off the crud, and then reassembling. But all these years later, the stove’s flabby oven gasket? The oven walls’ evaporated insulation? Why bother with repairs?

I vacillated and vacillated. It’s been months now, and our junker is still all I’ve got. I figure we’ll hit upon another bargain or else I’ll pick out something spanking brand-new. In the meantime I’m resorting to my large cast-aluminum cookpot, pocked in the bottom, with a bucket-type handle and a soaring lid with an eroded black knob, that once belonged to Grandma Kurtz. I’ve inserted a flat cooking rack from another kettle.

This stovetop baking is a mildly tricky operation. No thermostat. And if I preheat the pot I must prop two hot pads inside, against the sides, so I can lower the pie down in without charring my knuckles. Also, any bubbling over results in coal deposits impossible to scrub loose (a jackhammer might work). But, oh my, an apple pie, say, can turn out dazzling. A week or so after the first, I managed three such fruit tarts, causing our whole family who’d collected for the weekend to hiss in surprise and adulation.

Raw expectation

photo by Jennifer Jo, 2011

Apple, apricot, black raspberry
photo by Jennifer Jo, 2011

I can roast potatoes in the pot. Squash works, too. No plans for a groundhog quiche like our Pittsburgh son’s, but I have other ideas languishing up my sleeve. Give me time. The pleasure, I think, comes from the warring—the dueling—no, the permission I’m granted to flaunt my contradicting impulses: my frugality as well as my wastrel inclinations. I’m infatuated with the possibilities—the notion of depending upon a stingy blue fringe of burner flame, not hedonistic gusts of oven gas, to procure the most succulent and carnal of temptations.

I don’t expect I’ll get to Jennifer Jo’s pie party. We live 90 miles across the mountains. Besides, a God’s blood pie—what I’d want to bring, like the pies in a long drawn-out story I’ve written, pies as richly grape-y as any communion-cup sip—deserves a perfect crumb topping and I’ve not experimented enough, yet. I’m not positive the pie’s topping crumbs would achieve, in my big old pot, the desired crispiness. But reminiscent of the other dichotomy, that of a certain God-awful savory sacrifice, my consummate sacrificial offering would surely slay the crowd at Jennifer's house. It’s a dubious, arresting thought.

Grape crumb

photo by Christopher Clymer Kurtz, 2009

Tips for Stovetop Baking

For open-face fruit pies, set the burner flame on medium(?) high(?)—just experiment. When your peeks assure you the pie is done, switch off the burner, keep the kettle lid off, and wait a bit to lift out the pie (for the sake of your knuckles).

For pumpkin pie, hold off on pouring the filling into the crust until you’ve put the pan into the kettle. Like with the fruit pies, let the edges of the crust get quite brown.

A two-crust pie might prove too daunting. Won’t the steam trapped in the kettle make the top crust gluey? Hm, give it a try.

You might accomplish a passable fruit cobbler—the kind with oatmeal crumbs. A cake-type cobbler? Dunno. And what about cookies, dropped onto a sheet of foil? Dunno. Lofty meringue pies? Help!!

Roast large or chunked vegetables by arranging a large piece of tin foil over the cooking rack and up the walls of the kettle and then layering the food inside. To avoid overbrowning, wedge small wads of crumpled foil against the kettle sides where they’re touching bare food or liner foil weighted with food.

How about “oven” fries—potato or sweet potato? And baked corn, in a glass dish? I wonder.

under the grape arbor

2011-10-28T05:06:00.000-07:00

Whenever I send my kids outside to play, I have this secret hope they’ll play deeply imaginative games of the sort I played when I was a kid—games like driving matchbox cars around the roots of trees, building little houses out of sticks, hosting acorn-cup tea parties for their stuffed animals, etc. My kids tend to play bigger, wilder, louder, but a mama can always wish, right?

On Wednesday, my wish came true. The oldest two had friends over for the (night and) day and as soon as they finished their plates of cheesy scrambled eggs and toast, all six kids headed outdoors where they stayed for the entire morning and part of the afternoon. I was in the throws of a brutal cold and gladly seized the opportunity to rest on my bed of snot and sneezes...except for all the times I got up to run outside and snap more photos. It was bliss.

They raked all the leaves from the floor of their new home under the grape arbor, rigged up a pipe for “communication,” wrapped bare feet with old rags to make moccasins, and gleaned food from the garden. Rhubarb leaves cradled their stash of tomatoes, green beans, basil, peppers, and asparagus fronds—another rhubarb leaf on top, and they had a “refrigerator”—and red raspberries got pressed into juice. They even set up bowls of soapy water for their “kitchen sink.”

I had planned to make pizzas for lunch but by 11 o’clock my senses got the better of me, as in, Why, pray tell, would I make more work for myself? I handed the guest girlfriend a piece of paper and pencil and told her to write down everyone’s sandwich orders. There were apples, too (and later on some leftover birthday ice cream cake, and even later, some sweet potato pie and whipped cream). The kids carried the basket of sandwiches out to the arbor where they had a shivery feast. It was so nice and quiet in the house!

It's been two days since the friends left, and my kids have yet to return to their grape arbor house. A cold wind blew in last night and rain is in the forecast. Soon there won't be any grape leaves to shelter a game of make-believe and we’ll spend our days huddling around the wood stove, reading and bickering and dreaming of grape arbor houses and involved games of pretend.

At least, that's what I'll be dreaming about.

This same time, years previous: applesauce cake, garden inventory 2009, pizza with curried pumpkin sauce, sausage, and apples,