• Stream of consciousness: a list

    1. It’s cold. It was so hot the last couple days and then today it’s been raining and it downright chilly. Right now I’m huddled under a blanket on the sofa, drinking coffee and eating cake. The oven is on, serving a dual purpose—to bake the granola and heat the house.

    2. I’ve had so many different thoughts lately that I’ve decided to use Mavis’s method and make lists. It helps in my everyday life (so far today I’ve made lists of a) the money my friend owes me, b) a grocery list, c) questions to ask my brother about the computer, and d) things I need/want to accomplish when I sit down at the computer so I don’t just sit there stupidly and stare at the screen for excessive amounts of time), so why not on the blog? And besides, it eliminates the need for transition. I’m not good with transition.

    3. My upper back is feeling much, much better, but then yesterday I got a nasty knot in my lower back, but last night Mr. Handsome massaged it good and hard and I woke up just fine this morning. I think there is still some tension there, though, and it makes me feel a little extra tired…

    4. All this back pain is to be expected, I guess, seeing as I’m not getting any younger. I’m 34 today. Thanks, Mom, for birthing me, and to you and Dad for raising me! (I’m not going to give you any thanks for conceiving me ‘cause I’m assuming that wasn’t any sacrifice on your parts—Oh, goodness, I said “parts!” Can you believe it? Just shut me up already!) You did a swell job (birthing and raising me—just wanted to be clear here), if I do say so myself.

    [5. About that cake that I had with my coffee? My mother made it for me.


    Earlier this week (when she came to our house to watch the younger kids while Mr. Handsome and I took Yo-Yo to one of his doctor’s appointments), she entertained the four little ones (the extra child was my one-year-old niece that she was babysitting) by baking and decorating a three-layer lane cake for my birthday. (And she thinks I have a lot of energy—ha!)


    We’ve been eating it all week long (there’s only a small wedge left), and it’s very good (not that I’m surprised by that, or anything).]

    6. I called Mr. Handsome at work yesterday to find out if I needed to cook supper tonight. I told him that it was fine if I needed to (that might have been a little lie)—I just wanted to know. Because if he was going to do something else and I didn’t need to plan anything, then I didn’t want to waste any time planning something. He said that he would bring something home. So I’m not planning anything. Which is a nice treat.

    7. Last night we all drove into town to get free (with a donation) ice cream from Cold Stone Creamery. Then we walked around Petco and looked at the ferrets and rats and guinea pigs. Then, on our way (which was the wrong way, of which I was telling Mr. Handsome in no uncertain terms) out of the parking lot, Mr. Handsome pulled into a parking space and announced he needed to read a map, and then he got out and opened the trunk and came back with my computer. “Go write,” he commanded. “The kids and I have some errands to run.” So I walked across the parking lot to Panera, laughing out loud all the way. I sensed people were looking at me, this crazy laughing lady, but I didn’t care. Mr. Handsome so rarely plans ahead and even more rarely succeeds in surprising me, that when it does actually happen that he plans a surprise (granted, he only planned it as he was cleaning up the supper dishes an hour before), I get quite a kick out of it. And then I do embarrassing things like laugh out loud for extended lengths of time.

    8. I played around with Picasa for the duration of my imposed free time. I explored the “collage” feature. Here is a sample of my work:


    And here is another sample:


    It’s kind of addicting, this collage feature, so you probably can expect to see some more of my creations in the future.

    9. I love it that my kids are now old enough to get into The Birthday Spirit. Now that I’m a grown-up (most days), I still get excited about birthdays, but I play it kind of cool, since I am a grown-up, after all. I still feel little bubbles of excitement on my birthday, but I keep them tamped down, preventing them from welling up and erupting out of me, spewing everyone with my raw, jittery, giddy emotion. Us adults are good about not exposing our vulnerabilities (and yes, excitement is a revealing emotion), but children, heaven help us, haven’t learned to regulate themselves all that well, especially not when it comes to birthdays—then it’s a free-for-all in the excitement department. My children love birthdays, any birthday. They wake up early, do lots of whispering, accidentally blurt out information and then grin hugely. They even produce presents early because they just can’t wait one more stinkin’ minute! They are my excitement personified. I love it.

    10. It’s a dreary day, like I said. Do you need a laugh? Then go here. I’ve watched it twice and both times I smiled hard and then laughed out loud—I just couldn’t help myself. It makes me feel good (and it almost makes me want to have another baby). I just may have to book mark the link so I can watch it whenever I feel blue.

    11. The other day we had hotdogs for supper. We had started the meal, digging into the beans and hotdogs like there was no tomorrow, when all of a sudden Mr. Handsome leaped up from the table and ran out the door. He was back inside in 20 seconds—with his blow torch (the same blow torch he used to sterilize a needle and, incidentally, traumatize our daughter). I stared at him quizzically—what now? Without saying a word, he took his hot dog bun in one hand and the torch in the other and calmly began to toast it.


    But of course! He likes toasted hotdog buns and what’s the fastest way to toast a hotdog bun? With a blow torch, of course!


    Silly me. I am so behind the times.

    12. Now I’m wondering if I could use that blow torch to make creme brulee…

    13. I’ve now stretched the kids’ rest time an extra half hour. They are still quiet. Think I can keep going?

    14. Sweetsie doesn’t let me put her hair up like I want to. She has the bestest put-up hair in the world, gently curling, wispy, and thin. Just gather it together and twist and clip, and it looks great, the loose, curling tendrils gently framing her face. So the other day I bribed her. I told her that if she let me play with her hair then I would let her scroll up and down on my blog, looking at the pictures. She agreed. I loosely pinned her hair up and then snapped a bunch of pictures.


    And then, ‘cause a deal is a deal, she scrolled away to her heart’s content.

    15. I haven’t been cooking much these days. Ever since our trip to New York I’ve been languishing in the culinary department. I left my kitchen, fell out of my habits, and can’t seem to climb back into them. I miss cooking, too. I’m not sure what ails me. I do know that I’m growing sick of grilled cheese and granola and applesauce.

    16. We need to make more applesauce. Our 100 quarts are definitely not going to cut it. I think we’ve already gone through at least 20 quarts and it’s not even the end of September yet. But I don’t waaaant (insert whiney voice) to make more applesauce! I think I just might have to suck it up and get on with it.

    17. Oh goodness. The Baby Nickel just woke up. I guess nap-time is over. And here I was going to try for a 34-item list… Maybe he’ll just curl up beside me and I can type a little longer…

    18. The other night I woke from a deep sleep to hear The Baby Nickel crying and fussing. Neither Mr. Handsome or I had it in ourselves to rouse and go help him. I listened as Nickel stumbled down the hall, his cries growing more and more frantic. Then he was in the bathroom, wailing up a storm. I finally got myself up and walked into the bathroom…and right into a puddle of pee. Nickel was sitting on the toilet, fully clothed, a giant pool of urine spreading across the bathroom floor, soaking into the pile of clean clothing I had deposited in the corner before climbing into bed. Moral of the story: don’t leave clean clothes on the bathroom floor.

    19. I think I need to quit now. So long!

    About One Year Ago: MY birth story.

  • The stuff of my dreams

    Yesterday I drove out to a local orchard to pick up two bushels of Jonathan apples. While I was there I also bought five enormous butternut squashes—the woman went out to her garden and picked them while I waited. In the grocery store, butternuts sell for 99 cents a pound. These butternuts weighed a total of 62 pounds, so I should’ve paid 62 dollars for them, right? Wrong! I paid $67.29 for my total purchase, which besides the squash, included the apples, a fifty-pound sack of potatoes, several pounds of onions, some sweet potatoes, and a head of lettuce.

    Why do I even bother growing butternuts? I’m not sure anymore. While our butternut squashes did do a lot better than last year’s squashes (that time around we didn’t get a single butternut, thanks to a fungus or bug or something disgusting like that), this year’s squashes didn’t do so hotsy-totsy. They have a tendency to start rotting before they fully ripen, and the ones that I did manage to harvest are smallish and rather pallid. I’m about ready to give up. I just can’t seem to get it right.

    But I continue to give it my best shot. I clucked my tongue appreciatively at the child-sized squashes lying on the industrial farm scale and dutifully asked the orchard owners what type of squash they were, and I even jotted down the name (Waltham) as though I had every intention of attempting to plant them next year. ‘Cause I like to pretend that I know what I’m doing. Fanciful dreaming is all it is.


    But my best kind of dreams, way better than the garden dreams, are my cooking dreams. And now that I have 62 pounds of orange, vitamin-rich flesh to play around with (that sounds rather sexual and I’m sorry if that bothers you, but the truth is, cooking is sensual), I have plenty of material for dreaming.

    Normally we just eat our butternuts plain (our standard method involves boiling the squashes and then mashing and salting and baking them, with pats of butter and a sprinkling of brown sugar on top) or in pie (the kids’ off-the-chart favorite), and now I have a new recipe, thanks to one of my friends.


    Linell—bless her!—gave me this roasted squash recipe. She is the same person who is responsible for introducing me to the Potatoes in Cream with Gruyere and the Walnut Balls, so when she emailed me this recipe, I knew I better sit up straight and grab a knife. I’m so glad I did.

    This salad is the embodiment of autumn. It’s composed of fall vegetables—peppers, onions, and, of course, butternut squash—that are tossed in a wine-y sauce and then bolstered with red pepper, garlic, and a sprinkling of feta. The vegetables are roasted in the oven, a perfect remedy for those chilly-but-not-quite-cold-enough-to-light-the-woodstove days; when you make this salad, you warm not only your tummy, but the whole kitchen.


    Roasted Butternut Squash Salad
    Adapted from a recipe from my friend Linell.

    This salad goes well with any meat dish, but I served it with curried lentils and brown rice. I didn’t, however, get a chance to eat any of the lentils and rice as I was too busy scarfing down multiple bowls of the squash salad.

    Just so you know, the original recipe called for shallots instead of onions and a red chili pepper instead of red pepper flakes. Also, I used some crumbled blue cheese in place of the feta (because I didn’t have any feta on hand). I thought the blue cheese was delicious, but feta cheese might be more of a crowd pleaser. (And if you don’t like feta or blue cheese, feel free to leave them out. Mr. Handsome isn’t fond of either cheese and opted to eat his salad without them; he still thought the salad was mighty fine.)

    This is an easy recipe to assemble and the oven does most of the work, however, there is the problem of peeling the squash. What is the best method for peeling a squash? I’m not sure, but I gave it my best shot with my vegetable peeler. It did the trick just fine, though it wasn’t exactly easy.

    Leftovers are delicious.

    1 medium (2-3 pound) butternut squash
    1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes
    4 medium onions
    1 green (or red) sweet pepper
    5 cloves garlic, minced
    1 tablespoon soy sauce
    1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
    5 tablespoons olive oil
    ½ teaspoon dried thyme
    sea salt
    freshly ground black pepper
    feta cheese

    Cut the peeled onions into wedges or large chunks. Do the same with the green pepper.

    In a small bowl, mix together the soy sauce, balsamic vinegar, and olive oil. Toss it with the onions and pepper and spread it on a large baking sheet (that has sides). Liberally sprinkle the onions with salt and black pepper. Roast the onions in the oven for 15 minutes at 400 degrees.

    While the onions are roasting, peel the butternut squash, scoop out the seeds, and cut the squash into 1/2-inch pieces. When the fifteen minutes are up, add the squash to the baking sheet and stir briefly. Sprinkle on more salt and pepper, the red pepper flakes, and the thyme. Roast for another ten minutes. Add the minced garlic, stir, and roast for another 20 minutes, stirring every 5 or 10 minutes.

    When the squash is fork-tender, remove it from the oven. Dump the vegetables into a serving bowl, season to taste, and sprinkle with feta cheese. Serve warm.

    About One Year Ago: One Hot Chica, a photo documentary of Sweetsie’s short-lived (and accidental) love affair with hot peppers.

  • Vacationing till it hurts

    The weekend was lovely. The veranda was crowded with pillowed seats, an assortment of tables, decorated gourds, and a jungle of potted plants.


    We lounged. We reclined. We milled. We lingered. We lollygagged.


    We belonged in a renaissance painting, especially my cousin Zoe.


    So much of the weekend consisted of eating, really good eating. Do you know how refreshing it is to eat my kind of food for an entire weekend, without the Children’s Complaining Choir wailing away in stereo? As it were, when each dish was placed before us, we started talking and admiring and poking and asking questions. And then, as soon as we took the first bite, we began to name the ingredients.


    It went something like this. For the orange soup with sprigs of mint, we suggested carrot! orange! ginger! lemon! onion! For the potato salad: vinegar! capers!—what are capers anyway?—green peppercorns, I think—oh. For the salad dressing: goat cheese! lemon! olive oil! maple syrup!—no, not maple syrup, honey—oh.


    That was just the meal that Dr. Perfection prepared (and only part of it). For the restaurant dinner: grilled watermelon, corn-molasses fritters, peppered brie, a cheese platter, scallop ravioli with provolone cheese, Swiss chard, and black sesame seeds. Chocolate flan, smoked pear-ricotta cheesecake with blue cheese drizzle, coconut-white chocolate ice cream comprised the dessert. There were cocktails and coffee, too.

    There was only one hitch to the whole blissful affair—I sustained a mysterious back injury (and it was not due to the yoga, of that I am certain). After sleeping four lovely hours on a feather/air mattress, I awoke at 4:30 with intense back pain. I couldn’t lay down, so I got up, hobbled to the bathroom, and took 1000 mg of Tylenol. I gingerly walked downstairs to the first floor. I paced. I couldn’t move my arm. Was my shoulder out of socket? The grandfather clock ticked eerily. I tentatively tried to perch on the edge of the sofa. Success! I waited. My mother was sleeping in the sun room—I could hear her snoring. I didn’t know my mother snores. Do I snore?

    I tried to rub my right shoulder with my left hand. I discovered I could lean back on the sofa. I found a “comfortable” position, chin elevated, but not too high, head slightly tilted to one side. Any variation hurt. Breathing too deeply hurt. Blinking hurt.

    It was six o’clock. Was it too early to wake my mother? I cleared my throat. That didn’t hurt. I cleared it again. I waited some more. I breathed.

    Surely Mom would be waking up soon. She’d come out and make her coffee and then I could tell her that I hurt. Not that she could really do anything about it.

    Shortly after 6:30 and a few more throat clearings, Mom emerged. She made her coffee. She came and sat beside me and rubbed my shoulder for a good thirty minutes. Dr. Perfection woke up and gave me 400 mg of Motrin, and then another 400 mg. The medicine relaxed me enough that I could lay down, and Aunt Valerie and Cousin Amber kept me company as I lay on my bed of pain. After a bit, I kind of passed out.


    When I woke up, the rest of the group had finished up with breakfast and were visiting, squeezing in the last few minutes of Veranda Lounging. Dr. P had given us all fancy (and very comfortable) flip-flops. We posed, snapped photos, and departed.


    Back home, I glided stiffly through the house, slowly unpacked, half-heartedly helping with the evening chores. I took another 800 mg of Motrin and went to bed.

    ***

    The next day—Monday, yesterday—I called my friend Shannon. She wasn’t home, so I left a message: He-ey. Just calling to check up. I’m back. Don’t remember your Monday schedule, but apparently you’re not there. Call me when you get back. But I should warn you, I can’t really talk on the phone. I injured myself vacationing—it’s such a strenuous activity, you know—and I have a hurt back and can’t hold the phone with my shoulder so it will have to be a shorter phone call. But anyway, call me. Bye.

    When I’m bored, I like to leave long, annoying messages like that. It helps to pass the time.

    A little later the phone rang. It was Shannon.

    “You will not believe this,” she said pointedly. “Guess where I just was?”

    I thought hard for two seconds and then gave it my best shot, “The chiropractor?”

    “YES! Over the weekend I developed a knot behind my right shoulder blade and then it radiated up into my neck and I have been in so much pain and couldn’t sleep and can’t hold the telephone with my shoulder and then I went to the chiropractor and she said she’s seen about five people with this very same thing over the last couple weeks and it has a name! It’s called torta-something or other. She said not to stretch it, to treat it like it’s a smashed finger, and to use a simultaneous combo of ice and heat on the sore spot. She said it will go away in several days.”

    Do I have a good friend or what? She doesn’t settle for simply feeling my pain, oh no! She goes to the extreme of experiencing the exact same thing, making a trip to the doctor, obtaining a diagnosis and treatment plan, and then filling me in on all the little details…for free! How totally cool is that? True, she did get the privilege of running around with a couple of acupuncture needles stuck in the back of her neck for 24 hours, but I’m okay with that. (My back is already feeling much better—could it be possible that we’re so connected that somehow her needles are helping me?)

    ***

    I’m relieved to know that my mysterious condition will not last forever and that I’ll soon be able to scrub a toilet and pick up toys without wincing. Not that I really want to scrub toilets or pick up toys, of course.

    But then again, I do want to do those things. You know what I mean?

    The best part of vacationing is realizing that you wouldn’t want to do it forever. It drives the lesson home even more when you sustain injuries while slacking off.

    But even so, I’m already looking forward to next year’s soiree.

    I’ll be sure to pack plenty of Motrin.

    About One Year Ago: Cross Dressing.