UI'm, beuing held captuive

One of m,y] chuildren (IU don't jknow whom, becauise they] won't say]) spuilled water on m,y] jke]yboardm, and now m,y] letters are wonjky].

Som, UI'm, beiung held captuive uintuil m,y] ransom,em, a new jkey]boardm, uis paiud.

Of coiursem, we couiold jkuist ,majke thuis a contest. Whoever can decuipher m,y] blog entruies gets to buiy] m,e a new jke]yboard. Doesn't that souind luijke fuin?

UIn the m,eantuim,em, UI'm, worjkuing on a new hobby] whuich UI'll tell y]oui abouit when UI get m,y] vouice bacjk.

Happy] blogguing!

My Love Languages

The Five Love Languages

My primary love language is probably
Quality Time
with a secondary love language being
Acts of Service.

Complete set of results

Quality Time:		9
Acts of Service:		7
Receiving Gifts:		7
Words of Affirmation:		6
Physical Touch:		1

Information

Unhappiness in relationships, according to Dr. Gary Chapman, is often due to the fact that we speak different love languages. Sometimes we don't understand our partner's requirements, or even our own. We all have a "love tank" that needs to be filled in order for us to express love to others, but there are different means by which our tank can be filled, and there are different ways that we can express love to others.

Take the quiz

Why do I have to make things so complicated?

I'm feeling much better today, thankyouverymuch. I took the advice of my dear Bo and made a goal for myself to simply accomplish three things, so I set my sites rather low and decided to:

~Wash all of the linens on my bed,
~Put away the clean laundry
~Eat something

These were completely do-able but still difficult tasks. I know, I know. It sounds horrible that a person would have a difficult time doing such simple things, but when I get into a funk, I have a tendency to spiral into avoidance of all things that are good for me. It's a rebellion, and I'm working hard to train myself to recognize it. Thank God for my husband who knows me and loves me who can give me advice that will help me climb up out of the abyss.

Once I had food in my system, something as simple as yogurt and granola (which I literally had to force myself to eat because I just didn't want to eat anything), I felt much better, but not good. After I stripped my bed of linens, I decided to vacuum my bedroom and clean my bathroom floor. That lead to cleaning the sink and toilet. Once I had begun to put away the clean clothes, I was inspired to wash more clothes. And from there, things got better. I still snapped at people, and I still felt like crying for most of the day, but it got better. It really did.

The point in my day when I most felt like crying was while I was driving to pick up the children from piano lessons. I asked the Lord for some wisdom, and then a song came on the radio that seemed to speak to me where I was. An unlikely source, but God spoke through Avril Lavigne :

Chill out whatcha yelling' for?
Lay back it's all been done before
And if you could only let it be
you will see
I like you the way you are
When we're drivin' in your car
and you're talking to me one on one but you become

Somebody else round everyone else
You're watching your back like you can't relax
You're tryin' to be cool--you look like a fool to me
Tell me

Why you have to go
and make things so complicated?
I see the way you're acting
like you're somebody else gets me frustrated
Life's like this you
And you fall and you crawl and you break
and you take what you get
and you turn it into honesty
and promise me I'm never gonna find you fake it

Now, aside from the terrible grammar, there was a message here for me, as if spoken by God. Okay, so I don't know if God would tell me to "chill out," but the basic message is this: Be still. Be slow to anger. There is nothing new under the sun. Worrying will not add a day to your life. Forget piety.

But the part that perhaps spoke to me the loudest was the line about looking like a fool. A week ago, this may not have stood out to me, but on Sunday, our pastor gave a teaching about how fools don't understand the ways of God, how the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing. So, when I returned home, I did a quick word study on "fool." These verses hit home for me. Maybe they will for you, too.

Job 5:2 Resentment kills a fool, and envy slays the simple.

Psalm 107:17 Some became fools through their rebellious ways and suffered affliction because of their iniquities.

Proverbs 1:7 The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and discipline.

Proverbs 1:32 For the waywardness of the simple will kill them, and the complacency of fools will destroy them;

Proverbs 10:8 The wise in heart accept commands, but a chattering fool comes to ruin.

Proverbs 12:16 A fool shows his annoyance at once, but a prudent man overlooks an insult.

Proverbs 14:1 The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish one tears hers down.

Proverbs 14:17 A quick-tempered man does foolish things

Proverbs 18:2 A fool finds no pleasure in understanding but delights in airing his own opinions.

Proverbs 20:3 It is to a man's honor to avoid strife, but every fool is quick to quarrel.

Proverbs 26:11 As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his folly.

Proverbs 29:11 A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control.

1 Corinthians 1:18 For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are
perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.

1 Corinthians 1:25 For the foolishness of God is wiser than man's wisdom, and the
weakness of God is stronger than man's strength.

1 Corinthians 1:27 But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.

1 Corinthians 2:14 The man without the Spirit does not accept the things that come from the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him, and he cannot understand them, because they are spiritually discerned.

I don't know about you, but I've been a fool many times these past few weeks.

Sometimes, though, it takes someone who has their head on straight to pull you out of your foolishness. For me, that person was Bard. She came to me and asked if I would like her to make lunch. Deep in my funk, I said, "Yes. Please." I didn't know what she would make, and I don't think she did either, initially, but after a while I could smell wonderful wafts of basil and pasta cooking and I knew that she had something good going on.

When she called me to dinner, I was very ready to eat. In the kitchen, I found that she had placed a new tablecloth on the table, used the good dishes, and served me grape juice in a wine glass. The fare was fantastic! Homemade three-cheese lasagna with fresh basil (from our summer garden, pulled from the freezer) accompanied by hot garlic bread.

We all enjoyed a wonderful meal, and I find myself truly blessed.

Thanks for all of your thoughts and kind words and prayers.

That about sums it up...

Well, I feel
Like I have to feel
Something good all of the time
With most of life I cannot deal
But a good feeling I can feel
Even though it may not be real
And if a person, place or thing can deliver
I will quiver with delight
But will it last me for all my life
Or just one more lonely night

The lust, the flesh
The eyes
And the pride of life
Drain the life
Right out of me

I'm feeling awfully down this morning. I'm in a funk, and I can't say exactly why, because there are many things that are on my mind.

Part of it is the clutter that is my life,
part of it is comparing myself and my children and our accomplishments with other people, their children and their accomplishments,
part of it is a feeling of hope lost,
part of it is a desire for excellence that seems elusive,
and part of it may just be a bit of undigested morsel.

This morning, I was supposed to pick up the Amish schoolteacher before sunrise. That's quite a task for me, because, while I consider myself somewhat of a morning person, I live in a house full of bohemians. I can't really settle myself into bed well until I feel that everyone and everything else is settled first, so I often find myself burning the candle at both ends, staying up and cleaning, puttering, getting ever-grumpier, while I just wish my day would come to a tidy, comfortable close, and then, as soon as the sun streams through my east-facing, curtainless bedroom window, my eyes pop open and my mind swirls and spins with the limitless things I should do, need to do, and want to do.

My husband's grandfather is moving to Illinois to be with my husband's family. While I know it's the best thing for him, it fills me with guilt. My husband's family all work, and I'm a stay-at-home mom. I should be able to keep him here. They have their hands full already. But I'm not dependable enough, I know. Not qualified. And I highly doubt that he would be comfortable with such a proposition, so I've never offered it. This house is loud and obnoxious. He's used to quiet and neat. It's the main reason we've not visited him, our loudness and obnoxiousness. The last time we visited his house, before Grandma died, Sweetheart left her shoes smack-dab in the middle of the floor and Grandma tripped over them, sending her sprawling to the floor, her shoulder bruised and broken. I was horrified. After that, Bo and I agreed that our visiting was more for our own selfishness than for their benefit, though we ached to be of help to these people who had been so kind to us for so many years. It seemed, though, that any help we offered had already been offered and taken care of by someone else.

When Grandma was taken to the hospital just before she died, we wanted to go visit. We wanted to be there, but we knew that it would cause confusion and stress, so we stayed away. After the funeral, we asked if there was anything we could do. I, for one, felt useless. I wanted to be there to care for grandpa, to comfort him, to do his laundry and cook for him. But it was all taken care of.

This weekend, when we realized that it may be the last time we see this man who has made us laugh for so many years with his magic tricks, who has inspired Houdin to take up illusion as his primary hobby, Bo said that we really needed to go visit him. After all, because of our unreliable cars, we haven't been out to visit Bo's parents in Illinois for years. Grandpa's 86 years old. We had to face reality. We wanted to spend time with him, tell him we love him, enjoy some magic tricks again before he leaves.

It was so wonderful and yet so awful. Just to be there with him, to visit and talk and laugh and question and remember was so very good. He and Houdin swapped magic trick tips, showed each other their fake deck cuts, and Grandpa told Houdin that he had a gift, that he needed to work on it, that he could do well. Bard, who had felt very badly about not spending more time with her grandmothers, stayed by Grandpa's side through the whole day and into the evening.

It was clear to me that we should have been visiting more. Grandpa is so lonely, is grieving so hard over Grandma. After sixty-three years of marriage, he still awakes in the middle of the night and looks for her, still tries to find her in the crowd at church. I thought she was coming home, he said. I thought we'd take her to the hospital, and she'd get better, and she'd be back here with me, he said. And he cried. I can talk about anything, he said, but not her. I break down every time I talk about her. And I wonder, is that what I had that he needed? Someone to talk to about Grandma?

We stayed too late, I know, but it wasn't long enough. I just wanted to sit with him. I knew that he didn't want to be alone in that house, that the night was the hardest part. And I cry now, even thinking about it. He's so lonely for his sweetheart. How could we leave?

But we did, and it was almost midnight when we arrived home. I was too tired to keep my eyes open, but I set my alarm, because I knew I had to get up before dawn to pick up the Amish teacher. I checked the alarm and double-checked it and triple-checked it.

And I awoke to the telephone ringing.

I opened my eyes, oriented myself, and looked at the clock. But before I did, I knew. The sun was up, and I'd overslept. The phone stopped ringing. I tried to call back, but there was no answer.

Must I fail everyone?

Well, I see something and I want it
Bam! Right now!
No questions asked
Don't worry how much it costs me now or later
I want it and I want it fast
I'll go to any length
Sacrifice all that I already have
And all that I might get
Just to get
Something more that I don't need
And Lord, please don't ask me what for

The lust, the flesh
The eyes
And the pride of life
Drain the life
Right out of me

Retail therapy. Saturday morning I awoke and knew that I had to go into the Big City to take Bard for choir practice. It's my chance to buy groceries at The Great Big Warehouse Store Where We Buy Everything In Mega Quanitities to Feed Our Moderately Large Family. It's also my chance to buy real yogurt at the Upper Class Health Food Store, oggle at the puppies in the Very Upper Class Pet Boutique, and shop for clothes at The Store that is Not Stuff*Mart or Thrift*Store. Before I even got out of the house, I had an itch to buy something. Not something I need, because there really isn't very much I need. Something else. Something completely frivolous and feel-goody. I don't know why. I just did. Flowers or nice clothes or a new shiny thing of some sort. I don't do this often, because I quite simply don't have the money for it. Most of the nice things I have are from the Thrift*Store of have been gifts from my mother-in-law or other people who love me and know my champagne taste and my Kool-Aid budget.

But I decided to resist. I would be sensible. I would stay within my budget. I would not overspend.

Somehow, we ended up with:

~A shearling lamb lavendar coat for The Baby
~a Music Man DVD
~and an i-pod shuffle ("ONLY $49.95 if you spend $75 in retail merchandise!").

Cha-ching. Overspent by $75. For some people, that's a drop in the bucket.

For me, it's 1/3 of my groceries for the week.

And I love when folks
Look right at me
And what I'm doing
Or have done
And lay it on about
How groovy I am
And that I'm looking grand
And every single word
Makes me think I'll live forever
Never knowing that they probably
Won't remember what they said tomorrow
Tomorrow I could be dead

The lust, the flesh
The eyes
And the pride of life
Drain the life
Right out of me

So I let the teacher down and I don't even know how or if she got a ride. So Houdin had a show at the County Home on Friday and he messed up or forgot to bring half of his tricks and I feel like it was my fault. So I don't have any people signed up for the upcoming Sprouted Acorn classes and I wonder why I even try. So someone who I though was a friend has basically stopped talking to me and I don't know what I've done wrong, but it makes me sad and angry. So no one came to the play group that I planned for our homeschool group, even though I've heard so many people talking about how there needs to be something for the families with younger kids. So Houdin isn't taking piano lessons anymore because I can't get him to practice and getting him out of the house to piano lessons is like pulling teeth. So a neighbor accidentally left her husband's pants hanging in a bag on my mailbox and I took them because I didn't know whose they were, and two weeks later, she showed up at my door explaining what happened and how she should have called right away but she didn't and they're going to Florida the next day, so could she have them back, and I didn't find them until after they left. So I was supposed to pay for the Irish Step classes by today and I haven't sent the check. So my house is messy today and my porch has chicken poop on it and I don't have any money for retail therapy and I'm trying to eat healthy so I can't go binge, and Grandpa's moving out-of-state and he doesn't need anything because it's all being taken care of by a good Catholic man and I feel like a useless twit.

And I'm just looking for something to make me feel better. A person. A place. A thing. Whatever. It doesn't matter.

The lust, the flesh
The eyes
And the pride of life
Drain the life
Right out of me

1 John 2:16 (Amplified Bible)
Amplified Bible (AMP)

For all that is in the world--the lust of the flesh [craving for sensual gratification] and the lust of the eyes [greedy longings of the mind] and the pride of life [assurance in one's own resources or in the stability of earthly things]--these do not come from the Father but are from the world [itself].

The Lust, The Flesh, The Eyes and The Pride of Life Lyrics by The 77s

houdin with bunny

Sweetheart with bunny.

Why not?

If you don't mind long black scuff marks on your wood floor,

And if you don't mind hearing a loud *THUMP* every five minutes which sends you flying to the location of the noise to check for injuries,

And if you aren't concerned about broken bones or bloody noses or bashed-in-heads,

And if you don't mind people moving past you very quickly while you're doing the dishes, making dinner, or talking on the phone
And if the constant chorus of "watch out!" "you're in my way!" and "you ran over my toe!" doesn't affect you at all,

And if you don't mind tripping over extra footwear every time you step,

Then, by all means, go ahead and BUY those roller blades from the thrift store for a buck a pair, one pair for each of three of your five children, and let them roll around the house in them for days upon end.

Why not? After all, life is short. And it's getting shorter every day.

Looking for BOOKS

I'm currently looking for a few books for our Charlotte Mason curriculum. I've been having a difficult time finding a few of them either in the library or inexpensively. I know some of them are available to read online, but I prefer having the children sit comfortably with a book. So, if you happen to have an extra copy of any of these and would like to make this soul very happy, please let me know! I'd also like to own the Charlotte Mason series, which I currently don't have, so if you have extras of any of those, too, I'd be interested.

An Island Story by H.E. Marshall
This Country of Ours by H.E. Marshall
Trial and Triumph by Richard Hannula
Secrets of the Woods by Wm. J. Long
Parables from Nature by Margaret Patty
Heroes by Charles Kingsley
Children of the New Forest by F. Marryat
Swallows and Amazons or any other books by Arthur Ransome
Any books by Elizabeth Enright
Complete Book of Marvels by Richard Halliburton
Poetry by Sara Teasdale, Hilda Conkling, William Blake or H.W. Longfellow
English Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs
Unknown to History by Charlotte Yong
Fifty Famous Stories Retold by James Baldwin
Viking Tales by Jennie Hall
Any books by the D'Aulaires
Any books by Holling C. Holling
Any books by James Herriott
Any books by Thornton Burgess, but especially The Bird Book
The Blue Fairy Book
St. George and the Dragon by Margaret Hodges
The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

Friday Feast

From Donna over at Quiet Life, the Friday Feast:

Appetizer
What job would you definitely not want to have?

An employee in a customer complaint department. People can be *so mean*! Especially when you're dealing with their money or their food.

Soup
Oprah calls and wants you to appear on her show. What would that day's show be about?

A good thing: Homelearning as a family. A not-so-good thing: Unreconciled mother-daughter relationships (I'm the daughter).

Salad
Name 3 vegetables that you eat on a regular basis.

Corn, onions and fresh spinach.

Main Course
If you were commissioned to rename your hometown, what would you call it?

Something esteemed, like Oxford or Harvard. Or something silly, like Heaven or Confusion or Paradise. Though I actually like the name of my town.

Dessert
If you had a personal assistant, what kind of tasks would you have them to do?

ALL of my bill-paying, ALL of my housework, and I'd have them clean out and wash my vehicles daily. I'd have them bring me ice-water and fresh vegetables because I tend to forget to eat healthy snacks until it's too late and all I want is chocolate covered potato chips.

Oh, the tragedy of it all...

Have you ever awoken with the thought, "Wow. My son has such nice teeth. I'm so blessed that I don't have to get braces for him. His smile is so bright and his teeth are so straight. How wonderful this is." Have you ever woken with this thought?

Neither have I.

Houdin ran into the house last night after playing at the neighbors' house and made a quick visit to the bathroom. Then he ran up to me and threw his mouth open, proudly uttering, "'ook! 'ook!" He's too old to be losing teeth, so I had to peer closely. But there it was. A chip. On his top front tooth.

"What on earth...?"

"We were tossing the basketball back and forth to each other, and Monet had it, and I tried to get it from him, and..."

"Oh, son..."

"Did you see this one?" He asked, pointing to the bottom front tooth. Oh, Lord. Another chip. And the top tooth was loose.

"Oh, son. Why did you do that? Why did you chip your teeth? You have such a *nice* smile. You have such *nice* teeth. What would make you want to go and chip them?"

"I didn't mean to, Mom. So, he had the ball and I..."

"Son, your TEETH are the same TEETH you'll have with you for the rest of your LIFE. Why would you do that? Why would you chip your nice, perfect teeth?"

"Mom, do you think I meant to do it? So I tried to get the ball and..."

I didn't really hear the rest. All I could see was the chips in his perfect teeth, like the tiny scratch on a brand-new vehicle. All I could do was shuffle around the kitchen shaking my head and muttering, "They were such nice teeth. Why wasn't I grateful for them before? Maybe that's it...Maybe I wasn't thankful enough...Oh, his lovely teeth. Oh, the inhumanity!"

If your son has beautiful teeth, count your blessings. Then again, maybe you just shouldn't think about it. It might not hurt so much when he ruins them. For life.

Oh, the pain. The pain. What a world, what a world.

Thank you!

Thank you, Firefly, for the kind words about your visit with us. It was, indeed, wonderful to visit with another homeschooling/ambleside-using/animal-loving blogger. :-) I'm so glad you took the time to meet with us. I do wish you lived closer, too!

Your Banjo is cuter than a button. :-)

For those of you who haven't visited Bioluminescence, what are you waiting for?

Wounded in the Line of Duty

"Mom? Um...you need to come here. Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow..."

The words floated up to me from the basement, where ten-year-old Monet had just gone with a bag full of trash. His daily job is to haul the trash to the garage, and his weekly job is to usher it to the curb. He had just begun the first phase of the weekly job--gathering all of the rubbish around the house.

The funny thing is, I panicked, but not really. Does that make sense? Inwardly, I thought, "Okay. He's not screaming his head off. He usually screams his head off if it's just a little scratch. Maybe this is serious?"

As I descended the stairs, there sat Monet, cradling his right foot, while a pool of blood collected beneath it. It was serious.

"Look away. What happened?" I asked, as I gently removed his sock, trying to calm his nerves. He was full-force crying by then.

He explained that he had been swinging the bag into the can when he felt something hit the top of his foot. He didn't think it was anything at first, until he noticed that his sock was soaking wet. I poured peroxide on it, assessed the offending object (the top of a Starbucks Frappuccino bottle--no rust), and applied pressure. After several minutes of pressure, the gaping 1/2 inch wide wound was still gushing blood. I couldn't determine how deep the cut was.

A trip to the doctor's office proved entertaining. Sweetheart went along, for moral support and for the gross-out factor. She was greatly intrigued by the massive amounts of blood. Our doctor, a fellow homeschooling parent with a great sense of humor, helped Monet overcome his fears by talking about their common interest in Calvin and Hobbes.

The doctor explained that he was going to give Monet a pin prick, which was the needle to numb the pain. As he inserted the needle, the wound started gushing blood again. Monet winced. Another poke. A bigger wince. And then, the needle and thread. Now, a great big wince, until...

"Hey! I don't feel anything! It doesn't hurt! Wow. This isn't so bad. You know what? This is kinda cool. Wow! This is GREAT!"

I, on the other hand, was just about to pass out. More blood. Needle going in and out of the foot. More blood. Argh.

"How long does the numbing stuff last?" Monet asked.

"About three minutes, so I have to work fast," the doc replied. After the scared look on Monet's face, the doc admitted that it would stay numb for about an hour.

After the stitching, the doc said, "I'll have my nurse come in here and put some dressing on it. What do you like...thousand island? Bleu cheese...?" Monet didn't quite get it, so I explained it after the doc left.

On our way to the car, Monet continued admiring his wounded foot. "I kinda wish it woulda been more serious," he said.

I glared at him.

"Well, then I coulda just gone home and sat around all day."

Still, he thought it was pretty cool that he could go to the library without his shoe on.

Never a dull moment.

Splish Splash

Yesterday's Tournament

We're enjoying a deliciously lazy Sunday after being out very late last night and getting little sleep since Thursday. While I did get up around 8:00, took care of my chores and read for a while, I went back to sleep and slept, as the rest of my family did, until after noon. Apparently we were all very tired!

And well we should have been. Yesterday was a very long day. We were up before dawn to prepare for thirteen hours of speech competition wherein Bard would present her Programmed Oral Interpretation and Houdin his Persuasive speech three times before three different panels of judges. There were over 200 participants and over 150 judges swarming around the two-building church and fellowship hall that hosted the event. Local newspaper reporters and editors, public figures and politicians were on hand to judge and cover the event.

And all of the participants, from the youngest speaker in the Junior division to the oldest speaker in the debate division, were homeschoolers.

Houdin's speech was on a topic of his own choosing--the dangers of and alternatives to fast food. He had difficulty memorizing the entire speech and, as a result, had to refer to his script often during his presentation, which resulted in a two-rank reduction. Still, the judges' ballots, which he received after the event was over, showed very high mark. Had he not referred to his script, he may have placed second in his category. On the upside, he still has two tournaments to go and might be able to memorize and improve his presentation before then.

Bo and I served as judges for the event, which was a real treat. It's so much fun to listen to the presentations--the creativity, the wonderful literature, and the fine characterizations--and have the opportunity to give them encouragement and written suggestions for improvement.

But the highlight of the day was the awards presentation. Our dear Bard presented a Programmed Oral Interpretation, or POI, a speech weaving three or more pieces with literary merit together, each of them with a common theme. The pieces must be a balance of prose, script and poetry with an original introduction, under ten minutes long, and memorized. Her piece, themed around honesty, included sections of Pirates of the Carribean, a poem called On Lying, and Unicorn in the Garden by Ohio Satirist, James Thurber. There were many competitors and the competition was tough.

We sat through all of the other awards announcements, POI being one of the last to be announced, and...

Drum roll please...

BARD EARNED THIRD PLACE!

The comments on her ballots were glowing and encouraging, and it was clear from her point ranking that the top three places were within just a point or two of each other. She hopes to improve her speech and delivery for the next tournament in order to contend for first place.

We ended the day with a delicious meal and great dinner conversation, getting to know some of the other parents in our speech--or forensics--club a bit better, and winding down from a pretty intense month of preparation.

Oh, and ten-year-old Monet managed to catch his sleeve on fire during dinner while grabbing for the breadsticks--right over the candle centerpiece. I think he has now learned his lesson about the dangers of the boarding house reach.

Next year, Bard hopes to participate in debate as well, and Monet and Sweetheart will join the club.

Thanks for your prayers and good advice!

Prayers, please

In about five hours, we'll be on our way to our second Speech and Debate Tournament. I'm asking for your prayers for Houdin. He has a very difficult time keeping focused on things, and he has chosen to recite a ten-minute speech on the evils of fast food. He has the whole thing memorized, but really stumbles between transitions. He also has a difficult time refraining from stammering, so he repeats many things twice, causing his speech to run over ten minutes, which will lose him a rank.

Please pray for Bard, too. Last tournament, she was in either third or fourth place; we don't know because they only awarded first and second, but she was in the power round with three other participants, two of whom received the first two places. Pray that she will be able to accept the place that she's given, though I know she's really hoping for at least second place.

And pray for our stamina. We'll be at the tournament from 7:30 to 9:00 P.M. and, obviously, I'm still not in bed. The tournament is very fast-paced. The kids barely have time to get a drink and lunch isn't scheduled until 1:45, over six hours from the beginning of the tournament.

In spite of all that, I think this is a good activity for them both. Bard has a hard time speaking in front of people, and this has given her confidence. Houdin has taken to dressing very dapper, which saved us from the constant argument about stained t-shirts and excessively baggy pants. Plus, he needs practice focusing and memorizing. Ironically, his name means "the Lord remembers." May the Lord remember for him tomorrow.

Thank you for your prayers.

(4:53 am)

(4:53 am)Another very inspiring website. Maybe I should begin with a sock monkey?

Inspired

I've been perusing some of the craft blogs, and I'm really feeling inspired. After looking at all of the very cute projects here (hat-tip to Randi!), and because of my affinity for vintage and thrift-store stuff, I very, very, very want to learn to sew. My machine is fixed, and I've spent the morning cleaning the basement craft room (though I'm not done. Not even close!), and I'd like to start making some cute dresses, dolls and quilts for my girls. I need curtains, and I just can't see buying new ones when I can find vintage ones, or at least fabric, to make my own.

I have been waiting for quite a long time to find someone who could teach me to sew, and people have been kind enough to offer, but it never seems to gel. Now, I figure, I taught myself to knit from a book. I think it's time I tackle sewing.

Any suggestions for beginner's resources, books or projects, please share!

Special Guests!

Last week, I received an e-mail from a fellow blogger who, in passing, mentioned that she and her family would be visiting Ohio to pick up their new puppy and wondered if I might be familiar with the area they'd be visiting. The world keeps shrinking and shrinking. Not only am I familiar with the area...I live in it! AND I know the person from whom she acquired the newest member of her family!

So, we arranged to meet here at my home, and around four o'clock on Tuesday, Firefly from Bioluminescence, her husband and their two LOVELY daughters joined us for some chatting and bunny-holding.

Firefly is one of my favorite bloggers. I love her photos and the beauty she adds to the world. When I discovered that she uses many of the same learning materials that we do and that she is a Charlotte Mason/Ambleside mama, I was even more drawn-in. There were so many things to talk about, but time was short, so we made our visit short but sweet.

Firefly, if you ever decide to reside in Ohio, please, please make me the first to know. I look forward to reading your blog for many, many years to come!

In the photo, you see, from left to right: Houdin, Bard, me (the shortest one in the photo), Bo, Mr. Firefly, Mrs. Firefly and the eldest Firefly Daughter (would she be a glow worm?). The other children, my three and her one, were off exploring, swinging on the swing and petting the horse.

Blue glass, swingset and chickens from my bedroom window.

Great Granola!

I've been searching for just the right granola recipe for years. I used to order granola by the five-pound box through our local co-op, but then the kind that I loved the bestest increased their quantity size. I don't think I could eat, nor afford, twenty-five pounds of Maple Almond Date (MAD). So I've been sampling commercial granolas here and there for the past several years, but, sadly, none could compare to my MAD.

A couple of months ago at the homeschool women's luncheon, I was pleased to see that the fare included my favorite breakfast--vanilla yogurt and granola. I sprinkled my yogurt with the chunky concoction, which looked very promising, but I wasn't expecting too much. After all, I'd been on a search for The One for so long, I'd just about given up hope. I just started eating.

And then...

My taste buds sang a symphony! AAAAHHHH! It was the PERFECT granola! Chunky, nutty, sweet--but not too sweet--and generously laced with big flakes of coconut. I asked Beth, the woman who organized the event, where she bought the granola, and she told me that she MADE it! Immediately I insisted that she give me the recipe. Well, she said, she didn't really have a recipe, she said, but I wouldn't accept that. I. Must. Have. The. Recipe. She assured me she'd send it to me via e-mail.

And then, months passed.

I got desperate. I e-mailed Beth and asked for the recipe. No response. Thinking my e-mail may have been lost, I tried again. Nothing. I called and asked her husband to have her call me back with the recipe. Nada. In the meantime, I found another granola that was very yummy, but it was quite expensive. But I was so desperate, I bought it, even at $5.00 for 12 ounces. They do carry it at Sam's Club, if you don't have time to make your own, and they sell it on their website, too.

I started to wonder if I had offended Beth somehow, if she were withholding the recipe from me because I'd done something terribly wrong and not known it. Or, I thought, maybe she didn't really make the granola and just said she did, not realizing it would be so popular, and now was avoiding me and the rest of the homeschooling group, taking off for Nepal so that she wouldn't have to face the angry masses.

But then, last Friday at the homeschooling meeting, I saw her. At the earliest opportunity that didn't seem like complete granola-recipe-stalking, I grabbed a pen and a scrap piece of paper and hunted her down.

She was sorry. She was repentent. She'd been busy. I forgave her. She promised she would send me the recipe via e-mail as soon as possible. I believed her.

And she came through!

I made a batch faster than you can say rolled oats. Still warm from the oven like a big oatmeal cookie, my family, who doesn't have as deep of a love affair with granola as I do, descended upon the pans of sweet, crunchy goodness. Before night's end, an entire pan of granola was gone, gone, gone.

Yesterday I made another batch, which filled two jars. By the end of the evening, one jar was empty. By this afternoon, the second jar had been polished off, too.

I modified the recipe a bit, so I'll present it to you in its original state and with my substitutions/additions. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do, and, Beth, if you ever read this, you are AWESOME!

Beth's Granola

7 cups rolled oats (half old-fashioned and half quick, though it probably doesn't matter much)
2 cups of coconut, large unsweetened flakes
1 1/2 to 2 cups nuts (I used two cups of whole raw almonds and a half-cup of chopped pecans. Beth uses chopped walnuts)
I also added 1/2 cup of ground flax seed and 1 cup of toasted wheat germ.

Mix all of the above in a very large bowl.

Then, in a large microwavable bowl, mix:

1 cup canola oil
1/3 to 1/2 cup honey (I use the lesser amount. All of it makes it too sweet for me)
1 1/2 cup brown sugar (I used a bit less and added some maple syrup)
1/3 cup evaporated milk (I used regular milk. Again, evaporated made it too sweet, in my opinion)
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp maple flavoring (I omitted this)

Heat second mixture in microwave for about 40 seconds and stir. Pour over the dry ingredients and stir with big spoons until all ingredients are thoroughly mixed and wet. Bake in 2 9 x 13" pans, ungreased.
Bake for 25 minutes at 325
Switch pan positiions.
Bake another 25 minutes at 225, stir or flip half-way through this time.
Turn off oven and leave granola in for one hour. Take it out, cool, break into desired sized chunks, and store in an airtight container.

Then watch it GO!

The girls with their favorite bunny.

You'd better grow, or else...

I sure would hate to be the runt of the rabbit litter. Apparently, if you don't grow quickly enough, your mother will eat you.

We're now down to twelve kits.

Roll with it, baby

I hadn't been on roller skates in, like, fifteen years, and there we were, among a group of our peers, taking our children to skate, among a group of their peers. And our children had never been rolling skating.

"Quads, speed skates or in-lines?" asked the man behind the skate counter. I glanced around me. I couldn't believe how skating rinks had stayed virtually the same since I'd skated. Snack bar, video games, loud music.

"What's the difference?" I asked.

"Uh...well..."

"I mean, I know what quads are, I think. But what are speed skates? And in-lines? Are those the same as roller blades? And which should I get if I haven't been on skates in fifteen years?"

The nice man gave me a quick lesson on skate differences while The Baby pulled on my hand, eager to get onto the rink. Did she have any idea what she was in for?

The evening out was a result of an invitation from our homeschool support group. The rink had been reserved entirely for our group, so it was good to see friendly faces there. As I laced up my skates, one of the fathers chatted with Bo about skating. "Our daughter broke her leg here a couple of years ago." Great, I thought. That's wonderful. What was I thinking?

"Well, I haven't skated in fifteen years...since junior high school," I said, suddenly realizing that it's been more like twenty-five years. What WAS I thinking?

But it really wasn't as bad as I'd thought it would be. I mean, I actually stayed upright the entire time. And none of the kids complained about skating. Monet, always eager to try new things, roller bladed and fell many times, but kept getting up and trying again. Bard was greeted immediately by one of her homeschool group friends and they stuck close by each other through the evening. She, too, fell a few times, but she got right back up and tried again.

Even Sweetheart and The Baby put wheels on their feet and tried. And Bo, who seems to do well at everything he tries, braved the Limbo and actually made it through the first round.

Even though they were playing Petra and Steven Curtis Chapman, it reminded me of my pre-Christian junior high days. An evening wasn't complete without a couples skate, and there were always the ever-popular standards playing as I wheeled expertly around the rink--Hold On Loosely, Strange Magic, Caught Up in You, Working for the Weekend, Hold the Line, Hot Child in the City, Kiss You All Over, and Xanadu. Ahhhh...the excitement of Saturday Night Skating.

But I do recall one not-so-pleasant memory from my early skating experiences. My dad had taken me to a skate rink when I was about eleven, and he sat on a bench as I skated. The older boys were racing around the rink while I fumbled along, jerking backward and forward awkwardly. Plus, I was eleven, for pete's sake! That horrid age when you so very much want to be cool but are very much NOT, especially with your boyish just-out-of-the-seventies haircut and Holly Hobbie shirt, where all of the older boys are so very cute, but they wouldn't notice you unless you...

...unless you happened to skate a bit too slowly right in their speed-skating path. Unless they happened to receive a very big push from one of them as they race past you. Unless you know for a fact that they notice you, because you see them pointing and laughing as you swirl into helplessness. Unless your dad happens to see the whole thing.

And then, as a young girl, you find yourself sprawled on the floor of the skating rink, nothing bruised except maybe your pride (and possibly your butt), but still feeling a secret thrill that he TOUCHED you. Sigh.

Yep, that was me. Right up until I saw my dad reach across the kneewall that separated the seats from the rink and grab that kid, yank him up by his shirt, his skates dangling above the wooden floor, and scream nasty things into the boy's, face which included watching out for little girls on the rink. And I, the little girl, wished that the whole world would just open up and swallow me whole.

I can still remember stealing a glimpse of that boy as he continued around the rink, and I think that was the first time I ever saw anyone give a person the finger. I knew that it was a bad thing, because that kid was mad, and my dad just ignored it.

But I saw it. I see it, still. And it still makes me feel small and humiliated.

I know my dad meant well, but I think I would have been happier to have had him on the floor with me, and my mom and a few siblings would have been nice, too. And if someone knocked me to the floor? Well, he would have been out there to pick me up.

That's why it was so good to see Bo skate around the rink with Sweetheart and encourage The Baby to get her balance, to encourage her to skate into his arms.

And to have him hold my hand as we glided--okay, eased warily--around the rink.

Sew Blessed

When I received the phone call yesterday from an Amish neighbor who wanted a ride, I immediately said, "no." Just a few days before, this neighbor had asked me to take her and her husband to appointments in town. That day, when I had explained to her that I was very busy, I had asked her if there would be anywhere else she would need to go.

"Shopping?" I had asked.
"No. No shopping." She had responded
"Do you have to go anywhere else at all?" I had asked, knowing that sometimes when I've taken Amish "to the store," I'd ended up out all day, stopping to pick up a sister, drop off children, go to the fabric store, stop at the greenhouse...
"No. Nowhere else. My husband's appointment should be five to ten minutes. My appointment is only a half-hour. That's all."

When I picked her up, it turned out that I needed to pick up her husband at work, that the eye appointment was a half-hour long, that she did go to the grocery store, that her appointment was an hour and a half long, and that, after she came out of the doctor's office without apology, her husband asked if they could get a sandwich at Burger King. I could have said, "no," but I didn't. A quick run through the drive-through wouldn't hurt, I reasoned, my schedule was shot to heck anyway. Imagine my surprise when we pulled into the parking lot of the fast food place and they unbuckled their seatbelts. They wanted to go inside!

I know I didn't handle this well. I was steamed, but I didn't say a word. I felt that I was being taken advantage of, even though I do get paid for my time (not enough, in my opinion). Honestly, I felt like the horse. They didn't speak to me more than ten words the whole trip, and when they went in to get their food, they didn't ask me to join them, didn't offer to pick up something for me. So I just stewed while I waited, even though I would have refused the offer. I've given up most fast foods, except the occasional Wendy's chili or baked potato, or the very rare McDonald's salad.

Still, I feel like it wasn't really the Amish lady's fault. She didn't know that her appointment would go long, or her husband's. And she did get the groceries while he was in his appointment, so that really didn't take longer. But I was a bit perturbed that she knew I was on a schedule and didn't even apologize. Why did that bother me so? After all, I have no idea what her doctor's appointment was for! She may have just received terrible news! Why couldn't I be compassionate?

For some reason, I couldn't be. I just felt angry.

So when she called me yesterday and asked me if I had some time, I immediately said "no." After all, I had to get Bard to Algebra class, and we were expecting some very special company (which I'll tell you about later) in the afternoon.

But something niggled at me.

"Where do you need to go?" I asked.
"Just to drop off my sewing machine at Windy Ridge."
"Can we go right now?" I asked, since it was early and I could get it out of the way. Plus, it would give me plenty of time just in case something kept us longer.
"Yes, I suppose."
"And you have no other stops to make?"
"No, I don't," she answered.

I thought about the fact that I really needed a few extra dollars; I'm trying to save money for my kids and I to participate in an Irish Step Dancing class. I thought about my poor, broken sewing machine sitting in the fruit cellar, the machine I bought new last year and then promptly mangled by hitting a seam in a pair of jeans while attempting to make shorts.

"Okay," I said. "I can take you."

I threw all of the trash from the front seat of my husband's Jeep into the back seat. I put my Singer in the way-back. When I picked up my customer, she had two of her children with her. I hadn't planned for that. They'd have to sit on the trash in the back seat. I apologized for the mess. I always apologize for the mess. Even when it's my husband's work vehicle and it's not my mess. Even when it's my kid's bedroom and it's not my mess. Even when it's the cat's mess, who knocked over the plant in my bedroom, or the dog's mess, who chewed the head off of a kitten and left it on the porch. Still, I apologize for it.

"I'm sorry for the mess," I said. She responded forgivingly. I wondered what she was really thinking.

Windy Ridge Sewing is only about fifteen minutes from my house. I was very tempted to do a couple of things I needed to do while I was out, like stop at the bank and visit the new health food store, but I didn't. I didn't want to do the same thing to her that she'd done to me, even though I was sorely tempted. My vengeance likes to niggle at me. My morals almost always win.

When we got to the sewing shop, I pulled my machine from the back. It has a cool little handle on top that sticks out through the cover so I can just pick it up and carry it anywhere. The Amish woman's machine was large and cumbersome, stored in a cardboard box. She already had the machine in her arms when her younger daughter started fussing and refused to take another step. I was standing about fifty feet from them, holding the door open and trying to decide what I could do to help. Most Amish children do not care to be held by English (non-Amish) people and they don't, generally, understand English until they go to school, so it makes it hard to step in and help with the children. I couldn't carry the box, because I had my own machine in my hand. So I let the door go and stepped inside the shop.

"Hello!" I was greeted by a friendly employee, to whom I explained my machine's problem. She began filling out a service ticket, asking for my name, phone number, all of that basic stuff.

"What's the matter with the machine?" she asked. She had such a smiley face, such a pleasant voice.

"Well," I explained, "I don't know. I don't know what's wrong with it, because I don't know what would be right. See, I was in a hurry while hemming some jeans and I hit a seam. It bent the needle, which I replaced, but now my bottom stitch is all loopy and the thread wraps around the bobbin, over and over and over. I'm pretty sure that's not right. But since I don't know how to sew, I don't know what's wrong."

She laughed. In that moment, something happened, something that's missing from most service industry and sales professions. Two human beings communicated, connected. She cared. And then, she set down her pen, pushed the service card aside, and began tinkering with my machine.

As she was evaluating the problem, she made comments about my machine. They sell Berninas. Mine's a Singer. I obviously didn't buy it from them; the bright red Stuff*Mart clearance tag was still stuck to the bottom. But the comments weren't insulting. Instead, they were along the line of, "Oh! You have a needle threader! That's nice! And a buttonholer. And a serging foot." This was all as a foreign to me as the Penn-Dutch that my fare's child was now speaking to her mother as the mother explained her problem to the other shop employee.

"I don't know how to sew," I admitted. "My mother never taught me, though she sewed all the time. We didn't have home-ec in school. I've been mostly relying on the kindness of people to tell me what they know. I know it's ridiculous that I live in this community and don't sew, but..."

"I'll show you how to use these things," she smiled as she kept tinkering with the thing.

By this time, my fare was finished filling out her service ticket. She was standing with her two daughters looking...well, looking ready to go. But my sewing machine was being toted to the back of the shop. I followed.

"This plate right here is catching the thread," the employee was telling the serviceman. "And I think this bobbin case is out of place, too." The serviceman pushed aside the machine he was working on and pulled mine in front of him. I ran my fingers along an old, metal-bodied Bernina in a beautiful emerald green color, wondering if it was someone's regular machine or someone's great-grandmother's antique.

Before I knew it, my machine was fixed. The tension was adjusted, the bobbin was replaced, and I was sitting at a table watching the employee as she instructed me on the use of my needle-threader, a quite cool feature, now that I know how it works. My fare had taken her daughters to the porch to run back and forth.

The employee explained all of my stitches and how to use them. She demonstrated the button-holer, the serger, and how to set the stitch lengths. She recommended a better thread, but other than that, she made no effort to sell me anything. And then she packed up my machine for me.

As I headed to the counter, I kind of feared what my bill would be. I hadn't expected to have to pay so soon. Last time I brought a machine in here, it had been weeks before it had been ready, and it cost me a LOT of money. But it had been an old machine and still hadn't worked after I'd brought it home.

"Are these things yours?" the employee asked me, referring to a couple of items on the counter as I pulled out my checkbook.

"No," I answered. "I'm not buying anything."

She paused for a moment, and said, "Then what are you doing?"

I was a bit taken aback, confused. "I'm paying for the service. What's my bill?"

"Just go," she said. "You don't owe anything."

I stammered. "Are...are you sure?"

"Yes, I am. And when we have a beginner's sewing class, I'll let you know."

I gushed my thanks and hauled my Singer out the door and to my car, where my fare was waiting with her children.

"I'm sorry for your wait," I said. "Thanks for your patience. I've had this machine in my fruit cellar for six months. I hit a seam and apparently knocked something out of place. But it's fixed now! And they didn't even charge me..."

Her eyes grew wide and she shouted, "What?!?"

I chuckled. "Yes! Isn't that amazing? So, thanks for calling me this morning."

I stepped into car, and in my excitement, I yammered most of the ride. When I gave her a moment to speak, she told me why she had taken her machine in to have it fixed. She'd been in a hurry, wasn't looking, and she'd hit a pin. Bent the needle. And now, the bottom stitch was making big loops and the thread was wrapping around the bobbin.

Oh, my, I thought. Just like mine.

And while she needed it right away, it wouldn't be done for weeks. She could have had them fix it today, she said, but it would have cost her another twenty-five dollars.

I was floored.

I only charged her five dollars for the twenty-dollar ride. She'd waited for me, after all, and I'd been given a gift. Spread the wealth, I guess.

When I got home, I told Bo all about my blessing. As I thought about it, I realized that it was very much undeserved. I had a bad attitude about going, was in a hurry, went purely for selfish reasons, and didn't help my fare when she was struggling with her daughter. Had I opened the door for her, she may have been served by the employee and I'd not have received a mini-lesson and a free repair.

"There's absolutely no moral lesson in there anywhere," my husband said.

But I think there is. It's called unmerited favor.

That's just grace.

And I can definitely use a bit of that once in a while.

A Nation of Homeschoolers

I received this note in my e-mail box this morning, and it just blessed my day. I've heard from many different sources about how the caller at Bard's dance was impressed with the group we had, about 100 people, and most of them homeschoolers. Sometimes it's obvious to me how well-behaved and impressive most homeschoolers are (there are always exceptions), but sometimes I'm so close to it that I can't be objective. Reading this from a non-homeschooler who works with a lot of people on a regular basis, I was encouraged.

"A belated thank you for the check for the birthday dance. I thought you did a beautiful job of organizing the event, and your daughter handled the surprise with great poise. It is a treat for me to work with home schoolers. I wish the whole country were full of home schoolers, from families that care so much about them."

Can you imagine it? A WHOLE COUNTRY full of homeschoolers from families who care so much about them? Wow! What an amazing thing that would be. A whole nation of parents who claim, who WANT, responsibility for their own children's education, who actually enjoy being with their children and learning new things together. Who don't blame someone else for their child's weaknesses but work with him to help him overcome and find his niche in life. Parents who provide the day's meals for the child, who actually know what kind of food is going into that child's body, helping to form his brain. Parents who literally oversee the child's learning as opposed to just trying to be sure that he finishes his homework and gets on the bus every day. Parents who care enough about their children that they actually stay home with them, converse with them, and get to know each other. Parents who actually protect their children from the violence, crassness, obsenity, ridicule and abuse that goes on in the public school setting. Children who actually know right from wrong and are free to use their day to learn instead of fighting through all of the distractions, fears, peer pressures, red tape, testing and requirements. Parents who can evaluate, daily, their children's progress and customize their education accordingly. Parents who are intimately aware of each day's activities and are always available to offer a hand, give advice, provide motivation, a pat on the back, or, better yet, a big hug when needed.

A family. A working, caring, functional family. What a concept.

What an incredible nation that would be.

Boring stuff about my day

Quick recap of the day:

Houdin was invited to do a magic show for a local care center for St. Pat's day. I offered to take him to the magic shop to restock his supplies, but he didn't follow daily instructions of cleaning his room and putting away his clothes (had a huge pile of clean clothes on the floor), so he lost that privilege.

We had choir today, so I dropped the older three off at their classes and the younger two accompanied me to the pet store, where we oohed and aahed over all the exotic animals, beautiful birds and tropical fish. We then treated ourselves to Chicago dogs at a downtown favorite, followed by very yummy ice cream. I was supposed to pick some things up for FreeCycle but couldn't find the item at the given location, so I gave up.

Then it was off to Sam's Club for staples--eggs, butter, milk, apples, washcloths, sour cream, cream cheese, mozzarella and oreos (for cheesecake crust)--and then back to pick up the kids. Lost my temper with Monet because he took so long to get to the van, just shuffling his feet along to leave the building.

It's such a great thing when you hear your daughter tell you something that you've done well. Sweetheart shared with me this evening that she sometimes feels jealous of other people who have nicer clothes or prettier hair than she does, but then she remembers the advice I gave her, "It's more important to have a beautiful heart that to be physically beautiful." She said that helps her a lot, and she's so glad she has a mom like me. Wow. That was a wonderful thing to hear.

Houdin is working on a speech to present this weekend for the speech and debate tournament. He'll be presenting the reasons why one should not eat fast food. I'll be sure to post it when he's done. It's pretty good, even though he's taking forever to get it done and hasn't memorized it yet. Yikes.

And, in closing (don't you hate it when people say, "in closing" because they don't know how else to close? Well, I'm doing it. So there.), Bo and I had a pretty intense conversation about money. Something along the lines of we don't have any and he feels responsible so he doesn't want to tell me not to buy this or that, and then I do, and then we have even less money, and then I feel like garbage and he feels stressed. As I've said before, money is a major pain. Trying to maintain an eight-member household on a modest single-income and my dad's pension is quite a challenge. It's almost overwhelming. I sometimes wonder what God meant, exactly, when he assured me that I would be dressed like the lilies of the field and eat like birds. I've always felt that He would provide for us if we were obedient to Him, and now I wonder if we were somehow disobedient, as the taxes are overdue, the cars are falling apart, and my weekly grocery budget just doesn't cut it. Sigh. I wish I could do something to help, but I just can't think of what.

And now, as morning approaches, I am feeling the weight of the day.

Goodnight, world.

A Saturday Afternoon.

A glimpse into our afternoon yesterday. I actually got to see one of the Mama bunnies caring for her babies. It was the first time I'd seen her feed them. We lost two yesterday morning--the runts, I think, so now we're down to thirteen.

Bard has been learning to play guitar under Bo's tutelage and is currently learning to play Cyndi Lauper's Time After Time.

Houdin was in my room working on his speech, which he is to give on Saturday and hasn't completed it! He presented it to friends yesterday and it was six minutes over time. He has a lot of editing to do!

In the evening, we attended a contra-dance about forty five minutes away, taking our new friend Em along with us. There were SO many people there, but still not enough guys. I wish guys would give it a try! The young men that are there are SO cool, and there were actually FOUR girls fighting to dance with one guy last night, literally pulling at his limbs! Real men of the world, rescue your maidens from despair...DANCE!

A Kitchen Meme

I was tagged by Bioluminescence to complete this kitchen meme. Here are my answers!

1. How many meals does most of your family eat at home each week? How many are in your family?

Just about every meal, we eat at home. Bo and I go out occasionally and eat dinner together, and we sometimes order pizza, but most food is eaten here.

2. How many cookbooks do you own?

Probably about twenty-five. I haven't counted, but I have three or four that I really use often.

3. How often do you refer to a cookbook each week?

Probably twice a week, but it goes in waves. Some weeks I refer to cookbooks more often, and much more often during holidays or when looking for meal inspiration. I have a lot of recipe cards I use, too.

4. Do you collect recipes from other sources? If so, what are some of your favorite sources (relatives, friends, magazines, advertisements, packages, the Internet, etc.)

Everything. Friends, internet, magazines, packages, whereever I can get them.

5. How do you store those recipes?

My favorites I've typed up with stories about the recipe and then laminated them. Printed out, they're 4x6 cards. I hope to do that with all of my favorite recipes. The others, along with owner's manuals for kitchen appliances, have their own drawer, though I may put them all in three-ring-binders, at the suggestion of a recent visitor.

6. When you cook, do you follow the recipe pretty closely, or do you use recipes primarily to give you ideas?

I follow them pretty closely.

7. Is there a particular ethnic style or flavor that predominates in your cooking? If so, what is it?

We make a lot of food, basically. :-) We like Italian foods, lots of fruits and veggies, and rice.

8. What's your favorite kitchen task related to meal planning and preparation? (eating the finished product does not count)

Looking through cookbooks for good recipes.

9. What's your least favorite part?

Doing the dishes.

10. Do you plan menus before you shop?

Sometimes I plan the whole menu, and sometimes I think of meals as I'm shopping. I try never to go into a grocery store without a list.

11. What are your three favorite kitchen tools or appliances?

My food processor, kitchenaid mixer and bread machine.

12. If you could buy one new thing for your kitchen, money was no object, and space not an issue, what would you most like to have?

Either a huge, huge fridge, a china cabinet or a really, really good dishwasher.


13. Since money and space probably are objects, what are you most likely to buy next?

A dishwasher.


14. Do you have a separate freezer for storage?

Our friends who rent from us store a freezer in our basement and we put things in there. We also have a second fridge that gets a lot of use.

15. Grocery shop alone or with others?

Usually alone or with Bo.

16. How many meatless main dish meals do you fix in a week?

Almost all of them.

17. If you have a decorating theme in your kitchen, what is it? Favorite kitchen colors?

Kitchen colors are hickory, forest green and the accents change depending on the season. Right now, it's mint green, red and white.


18. What's the first thing you ever learned to cook, and how old were you?

I don't remember what I first learned to cook as a child. My mother didn't really teach me domestic skills. I cooked my first meal from a Better Homes and Gardens cookbook while trying to woo my dear Bo. Chinese Pepper Steak and stuffed tomatoes, I believe.

19. How did you learn to cook?

Self-taught, inspired by the desire to feed my future beau. :-) We had no home-ec in my school.

20. Tag two other people to play.

Whoever wants to. Leave me a comment and I'll come see your blog. :-)

Bunnies! New photos.

Today is day four of the young bunnies' lives. Below, you'll see photos of the past two days. It's amazing how much fur they grew in one day! Tomorrow, I hope to name them all so that we can tell one from another and see exactly what color combinations we have.

Tonight we attended the homeschool group's Spring presentation. Several children played instruments, a couple recited written works and poetry. It was really fun to visit with the other families. The Baby and Sweetheart had an especially good time running, giggling, visiting and snacking.

Tomorrow night is the Contra-dance. Can't wait!

Nests, day four.

All blakc from the bottom, day four.

All black from the top, day four.

Light grey from the top, day four

Light grey, day four.

Black with white belly, day four

Grey from the top, day four

Black and white from the top, day four

Black and white, day four.

Grey and white, day four. Look at all the fur!

Grey and white, day three.

Grey and white, day three.

Grey, day three.

Grey, day three.

Grey, day three.

Black and white, day three

Day Three

Beautiful Things

It has been a very busy day, but it has also been a good one. The house has remained fairly clean, Bard spent the afternoon doing laundry, I have clean sheets on my bed, The Baby is asleep, the other children are in bed reading, and I had several nice conversations today.

One of the best conversations came when I arrived home after an outing with my dear Bo. I opened my e-mail and found a note from A Circle of Quiet. She reminded me in this blog post that it's okay to enjoy the beautiful things in life and she had reiterated that in a very articulate way in her note to me.

I do know that beauty is real, but naysayers close to me have attempted, with some success, to squelch my love for the lovely things. There's a trend in our culture to ridicule those who love beauty, to attempt to pull them down into our mediocrity, and when I admit my love of beauty, even to myself, I feel shallow and vulnerable, like the addlepated Anne of Green Gables who was so often twitted about her romanticism.

Yet I think the Lord is trying to tell me something about my love of beauty, because it has been a theme in my life, especially lately, to accept beauty. In reading Captivating by John and Stasi Eldredge, I've seen that there is nothing at all wrong--in fact, it's completely natural--for women to love beauty.

This evening, Bo and I took a ride to claim a FreeCycle item and I was touched again by simple beauty, this time in the form of an old cast-iron farm sink. Even though it was sitting in the frozen mud when we arrived, my breathing was practically stilled when I saw it. I had romantic visions of a farm wife washing dishes while looking out over her family's land. Yesterday, as I looked out my bedroom window, I could see my chickens--hens and roosters--out in the yard pecking around under the swing. Framing the window was part of my collection of blue glass, things that my mother-in-law has given me and things I've collected over the years. This morning, I held a tiny, fragile baby bunny. It nuzzled against my fingertips, searched for a place to warm itself, and then curled up and fell asleep in the palm of my hand. I gazed, amazed, at the tiny paws, the whispy whiskers, the miniature ears and the new fur that was growing all over its little body, and I was in awe.

Yes, there's realism in the dirty laundry. Yes, it's honest to admit that they kitchen table is never fully clean. But, as A Circle of Quiet reminded me, things that go right, things that are lovely and beautiful...those things are real, too.

Thank you, aCoQ, for that thought-provoking interlude in my day.

Philippians 4:8 (New International Version)

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

Lunch Interview

T.M. came yesterday to interview me for the local newspaper and even though the bread dough was pretending to be soup, we had a wonderful time.

T. is a homeschool graduate who began writing for local papers when she was fourteen. She now writes a weekly column and regular articles for the paper. Her weekly column is about women and cooking. T. herself said she can't cook, but she's so much fun to have around, I think I'll forgive that. :-)

Yesterday, Bard and I arose early (early for us is usually before 8:00) and ate breakfast and then started cleaning the house. I made granola (it didn't turn out, Irene! I don't know what happened, but I only cooked it 3/4 of the time at the right temp, and it got too brown. It's edible, but not big and chunky, like I'd hoped). Houdin got up and cleaned the porch. Really! He scrubbed off the chicken poop and cleaned up the Christmas tree (yes, there was STILL a Christmas tree on my porch) and basically did a wonderful job. Bard did laundry (we're almost caught up!) and helped clean everywhere. Monet took care of the trash (complaining the whole time) while Sweetheart and The Baby put all the shoes and coats away. By the time T. arrived, the house was clean, the meal was just about ready (Bard and I had made our dishes the night before) and we were relaxed.

The only problem was that the bread dough, for whatever reason, came out soupy, so instead of trying to fix it, I just decided to make biscuits instead. Since I was freaked about the bread dough, I tampered with the biscuits, and, as a result, they weren't as good as they usually are. But the manicotti that Bard made was excellent, and the cheesecake was divine, as usual. And we discovered that every dish we provided contained dairy products; even the salad had cheddar and bleu cheese toppings! Both the cheesecake and the biscuits contained sour cream, and the manicotti was stuffed with ricotta, parmesan and mozzarella.

The best part about the whole meal, though, was the company. T. was kind, personable, intelligent and real. We had good conversations about life, learning, dating and even cooking. T. took Taylor's and my picture for the paper. Can't wait to see how that turns out. And through the whole meal, Sweetheart only dumped her plate on the floor twice and spilled her ice water on the table once. T. stayed long enough that her mother called to see where she was.

Thanks, T., if you ever happen to read this. Our famiy enjoyed your presence in our home.

Bard and her manicotti. Ignore those dirty dishes in the background and just pretend the kitchen's clean.

Mom's cheesecake and two cheesy smiles.

Bard's Manicotti

Wild, Wacky Wednesday

I got this from Kate at The Tate School.

Wednesday's can be wild, I'm sure you agree,
Sometimes even wacky, to some degree.
So let's make it fun, what do you say?
How about a little session of Q & A ?
Keep it simple, sweet and short ,
Or write an essay of some sort!
Let's get to know each other a wee tad more,
Perhaps this could be a Wednesday weekly lore...

1. I know you indulge yourself - but how?

2. What's one book you'd like to read sooner then later?

3. What's the next practical TO DO project for your home?

4. Do you like silence or background noise?

5. If you could revisit a certain era, which one would it be?

Here are my answers:

1. Usually, by going to the used book store and spending hours and hours scanning the shelves, buying as many as I can afford, going to see a GOOD film at the independent theater, eating a GOOD meal at an independent restaurant while enjoying GOOD conversation, and doing it all with my favorite person in the world...my dear Bo.

2. Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and some of the books by Terry Pratchett. My daughter loves them, and I think I would, too. Right now, I'm thinking about starting a book group for teens and young adults, but I don't know what book to start with. Because we live in a conservative community, I want to choose something that won't be offensive yet will be deep and meaningful and entertaining. Suggestions are welcomed!

3. Prepare a garden. After that, probably put in a lawn? I don't know. I also need to think about fencing in an area for our future breeding dogs.

4. It depends on the situation. Conversations...silence. Morning...usually silence. Cleaning...music or audio book. I was an only child and too much noise makes me a bit nutty.

5. This is a hard one. Probably Elizabethan England. I love the dresses, culture, socializing. But I'd most definitely have to be upper class. Otherwise, the twenties in America.

A Litter of Kits, Day Two

Trying to GROW.

baby bunny number one

Baby Bunny Number Three

Baby Bunny Number Two