• the myth of the hungry teen

    Teenagers are huge eaters, or at least that’s what I hear. I have read countless posts in which mothers detail their never-ending struggle to keep their teens’ tummies full. We need more nourishing snacks! they plead. We’re running out of ideas! At a family reunion, someone suggested we have a grazing bar for the teens, as though teens are insatiable beasts and must be kept appeased at all times.

    Ever since the kids were little—and probably before they were even born—I looked forward to feeding a pack of teenagers. I’d be able to cook anything I wanted, and lots of it, too, and then I’d get the satisfaction of watching my children enthusiastically devour the food with gusto, no complaining. Furthermore, in the hollow-leg stage, there would be no such thing as “watching it”—for a few glorious years, the kids would be able to feast on all the cinnamon buns and chocolate cake they wanted and then, never full, turn right around and gobble down baked potatoes, veggie soup, and tomato sandwiches. What fun!

    Alas, this has not been my experience. My teens eat boringly healthy quantities of food, get full, and stop. Unless it’s something they love, they rarely take seconds. They don’t snack, either. Sometimes—and this is the thing I find most baffling—if it’s not a meal they like, they’re fine saying no thanks and patiently waiting until the next meal. So much for this teen plague of persistent hunger.

    Maybe it’s too early to talk. Perhaps they’ll turn 17 or 18 and suddenly be overcome with episodic bouts of starvation. I really don’t know. It’s just that from where I sit right now, the whole teens-are-bottomless-pits talk is, I’m sad to say, just that. Talk.

    So what’s your story? Are you one of those moms frantically searching the web for a good homemade granola bar recipe? Or are you, too, crushed by their non-energetic appetites?

    Signed,
    An Abject Mother Cook

    PS. I’m not that abject. The kids have healthy appetites, and I get plenty of chances to cook. Still, I have been surprised at the absence of a noticeable appetite shift, especially now that they’re shooting up like weeds. I find it curious, that’s all.

    PPS. Now my nine year old, on the other hand… When that kid gets hungry, he’s frantic. If I don’t toss some food his way right quick, all hell breaks loose.

    PPPS. Re that photo: he only ate about two-thirds of that stack before passing the plate to his hovering grandaddy. (Now there’s a man who can eat.)

    This same time, years previous: the quotidian (9.29.14), a different angle, chocolate birthday cake with vanilla water frosting, ciabatta, dumping: a list, butterscotch cookies, and peposo.

  • getting shod

    “The farrier will be at the farm tomorrow,” my older daughter said. “You should come.”

    My daughter is not one to gush and coerce, so I took her suggestion to heart. If she thought we’d find the farrier interesting, then we probably would.

    When my younger son and I arrived at the barn, the farrier and his assistant were already working, and my daughter was in the back stables getting the next horse. “Leah hates the farrier,” she said. “If we tie her, she breaks the ropes, so I’ll have to hold her.”

    And so she did, standing directly in front of Leah while the farrier popped off her horseshoes, cleaned out her hooves, trimmed and filed them down, put the new ones on, and hammered them into place.

    The farrier worked out of a truck he had backed up to the door. He had a little box kiln that he said gets up to 2500 degrees, plus an anvil and a ton of tools. Everything was hard looking and efficient, including the farrier himself—all ropey muscle and utilitarian toughness. (But warm and friendly, too.)

    The most dramatic part of the whole process was when they stuck the red-hot guide shoe (or whatever it was) onto the newly filed-down hoof.

    Flames shot up and smoke billowed, and the powerful stench of burned hair filled the barn. The horse didn’t even flinch.

    PS. Interesting (gross) fact: dogs love to munch on discarded hoof clippings.

    This same time, years previous: pointless and chatty, 37, the skirt, warm feet and golden crosses, and ballerina daredevils.

  • home cut

    My older daughter decided she wanted to cut her hair. She wanted a bunch taken off, she said, but she still wanted it long, or at least long enough to pull back into a ponytail.

    “Look,” I said. “You have two options. One, you can get it professionally cut. I’ll chip in 15 bucks towards the cost and you’ll have to pay the rest out of pocket. With long hair like yours, the cut should last about a year, so it’d be worth the investment. Or, I could Google it and do it myself. Your choice.”

    Ever the thrifty one, she opted for the home-cut version. So after work one day, while she was in the shower washing off the horse stink, I logged onto YouTube for a crash course in layering. I didn’t understand most of what I watched, but I got the general idea.

    First off, just for kicks, I did the what-you’re-not-supposed-to-do cut: flipping the hair over her head, pulling it straight out and chopping it off. It worked fine (ha), but she wanted it shorter. And more layered. So I set about experimenting. “It’s a good thing your hair grows fast,” I chirped. “I’m probably going to screw this up.”

    I was following the directions, but suddenly her hair looked way too short. My husband stepped out on the porch to have a look-see and actually gasped. So I told her to sit tight and ran back inside to re-watch the video. I was doing it right. Or mostly right, anyway. Thus reinforced, I went back outside and continued hacking away.

    And it turned out amazingly fine! Dramatically lightened and plenty long enough for a ponytail. She could hardly quit tossing her head long enough for me to snap some photos.

    I still need to do some touch-up around the face—shaping and texturing, something—but it’s no biggie. Cutting long hair is much easier than I thought it would be.

    Also, YouTube is amazing.

    This same time, years previous: on quitting, in which I have a come-to-Jesus moment, the run around, minute by minute, she outdid herself, a jiggle on the wild side, a list, and my beginnings.