Yesterday, I was reading an article about the top ten mistakes bloggers make that sinks them into bloggy unpopularity. As I read through them, I realized that, yes, my blog falls under the category of an unsuccessful blog. I don't post with regular frequency, I don't narrow my topics to appeal to a specific readership, I'm still on Blogger instead of having my own domain. In fact, I think I'm probably guilty of all ten of the mistakes bloggers make.
I'd like to say something noble, like "I don't care, because I'm happy with things just the way they are."
But that would defeat the point of this blog.
Because the reason I started this blog wasn't to garner readership. I never imagined anyone on the face of the earth would read this blog. Well, okay, I imagined it, in a Walter Mitty sort of way. I imagined that someone would come along and "discover" me and I would land a column in the New York Times which would catapult me into literary immortality and make my family rich and proud.
That's called "fantasy," folks, and I'm here to tell you that it hasn't happened. Yet.
But I have been discovered. By friends. Friends I hadn't even known I'd had. Good people who live good lives and do good things, who keep their own blogs full of top ten mistakes. And their mistakes inspire me. Their lives inspire me.
And, true, I do wish sometimes that I could have more readers. That's the honest part. Sometimes, when I read other blogs who have massive readership, I feel jealous. Especially when the blog isn't all that great, or focuses on being nasty and sarcastic. But when I come back to the reasons for keeping this blog, I know that wide readership was never a goal.
I have five kids. I was an only child. Even having an only child, my mom didn't seem to be able to write stuff about my life that I could look back on, didn't keep a journal of any kind, though she did consider herself somewhat of a writer. I have very few photos and hardly any memorabilia from my childhood. I wish I did. I wish I could read about my mom's struggles with my dad, and her frustrations with me. And I would hope that, occasionally, she was proud of me for something. I'd like to read about her dreams and ambitions, her fears and failures. I'd like to have that as part of a very important history for me and my own children. But now that my mom has passed away, all of that stuff is gone with her.
With five kids, I have five times more difficulty providing those things than my mother did. I've always tried to keep some kind of diary for my children and I've tried keeping tons of pictures, but I haven't always been consistent with either one. With a public blog, I have something that can drive me more than my own need for nostalgia and sentimentality.
Pride and arrogance. The need for approval and kudos. Feedback.
Like I said, I'd like to say something noble. But that would be disingenuous. And that, remember, would defeat the point of this blog.
Because, while I write about my life and my children, I also want to touch people with honesty, truth and transparency. I could possibly increase my readership if I threw in more snark and sarcasm. I might get more hits if I tried to be exclusively funny. People might not run away screaming in boredom if I focused only on my thrifting and my crafts or any one area of my life. The whole blog would be entirely more interesting and professional if I'd pay for a domain name and have someone design me a few snazzy seasonal templates. Or if I'd just update the photos (The Baby, for instance, is now almost FOUR and no longer looks like a baby--see sidebar), for goodness sake.
I could be a super-spiritual person, too, only blogging Scripture or giving (sometimes contrived) life lessons.
But when I sit here at my computer cabinet, dusty and cluttered and open, I intentionally think of the reader who needs to hear from someone who's life is dusty and cluttered and open, who's feeling like everyone makes more money than she does, or everyone's kids are more well-behaved and accomplished than hers, or that he's the only one who struggles with selfishness, that his relationship has problems that no one would understand. That's the reader I want. That's the reader I hope to reach, so that I can say, "Hey. I'm here with you. Let's be dusty and cluttered and open together. But let's be fair about it. Let's look for the dustcloth, and scatter the motes, and sort out the clutter."
"It won't always be perfect. It won't always be spiritual. It won't always be funny. But it will always be real."
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Monday, December 11, 2006
My Wish List
My Christmas Wish List
~Good running shoes (asics have been recommended--Thanks TrueVine) They're on their way from eBay!
~A stem for my Cuisinart food processor
~This yogurt maker
~A subscription to Feminists for Life of America
~A Thrift Store gift certificate
~Any cool thing *from* the Thrift Store
~A pot rack constructed in my basement stairway or some other reasonable place
~Someone to clean out my spice drawer--and all my kitchen drawers, actually.
~Anything with acorns on it.
~Some very good candles
~A new blog design
~
~A stem for my Cuisinart food processor
~This yogurt maker
~A subscription to Feminists for Life of America
~A Thrift Store gift certificate
~Any cool thing *from* the Thrift Store
~A pot rack constructed in my basement stairway or some other reasonable place
~Someone to clean out my spice drawer--and all my kitchen drawers, actually.
~Anything with acorns on it.
~Some very good candles
~A new blog design
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Japanese Mushroom Lip-Concealing Hydrating Cellulite Mousse
Apparently, I have reached the age of desperation. I have begun believing that health and beauty products are actually going to miraculously eliminate the physical landmarks of the aging process.
I know this, because I have been spending increasing amounts of time investigating the aisle in my local Stuf*Mart which attempts to pass for the cosmetic equivalent of the fountain of youth. In that aisle, there exists a plethora of promises that, up until recently, I scoffed at in my naivete. But, as I approach forty, I've begun to toy with the idea that these products, goos and ointments and creams that promise me everything from a sexier back to the impeccable eyebrow shape, might actually improve my aging appearance.
There's no shortage of anti-aging products available for those of us seeking eternal beauty. If I were to plop down a few million dollars for all of the products that are revealed when I do a Google search for "age reducing cosmetics," I could be the world's most perfect woman. How could I pass up great stuff like:
A Lip-Inflation Lip Plumper, for that freshly-plumped lip feeling;
A mini On-the-Go Smile Refresher, when my smile is experiencing that not-so-fresh feeling;
A new head-shaving gel for the male grooming market, or for those looking for that Sinead O'Connor or Captain Jean-Luc style;
An Air Repair kit, to pamper my skin during air travel or reinflate my deflated lips;
Japanese Mushroom Cosmetics to lighten my skin and cause terrible hallucinations;
Anti-aging lip contour corrector pens, just in case the Lip Plumper doesn't get it for me;
Solutions for Aging Legs, as if that's the only part of you that's getting old. The rest of your aging body will have to come up with its own solutions; and
Lip gloss that will help me lose weight and curb my smoking (thought I don't smoke), simultaneously.
I haven't always been interested in anti-aging cosmetics. Really, this all started when I burned the living daylights out of the back of my hand. That kind of thing tends to happen when one places one's hand against the wall of a 450 degree oven. I had believed I was wearing an oven mitt, when, in reality, I was merely holding a tiny square of a highly inadequate hot pad. Instead of age-defying cosmetics, I suppose what I actually need is some type of mental assistance program that will keep me from further harming myself.
But, the damage having been done, I ended up with a nasty spot of singed skin which would very definitely turn into a terrible scar, so I decided to be proactive (though I guess being proactive would have been to be sure about the oven-mitt thing) and pamper my healing hand.
So I took a trip to the Stuf*Mart and strolled along the skin cream aisle. Said aisle generally baffles me, because I can't imagine what could possibly be so different about skin creams that would warrant such a huge selection. And every single one of them seems to be the very best choice for rough, dry, problem skin. But there, nestled among the skin softening stuff, was the section I had come to find--the scar-healing section. Unfortunately, the only scar-healing cream I saw cost over $20, so I decided to look for alternatives and made a mental note that oven mitts are cheaper.
That's when I remembered that my holistic practitioner had once suggested a stretch-mark cream for my youngest daughter when she had developed a beastly inexplicable open wound on her hip which turned into an equally beastly scar.
Stretch-Mark Cream, eh? I thought, mentally envisioning the lovely silver-white stripes that refuse to tan which make it impossible to wear a bathing suit without feeling like my child has decorated me with a gel pen. Well, that would certainly be a useful product.
As I was lifting the Stretch-Mark Cream into my cart, I noticed that the Stretch-Mark Cream company was promoting a new product--Firming Butter. Now, I've always been quite fond of butter, which would explain the stretch marks, so I decided to further investigate:
This Firming Butter was especially created to return your floppy skin to its former firm, youthful perkiness anytime, even after weight loss or pregnancy, firming and toning your skin, providing added elasticity and firmness to all firmless skin, always and without fail.
That sounded like exactly what I needed to save my skin and improve all of my relationships, but I thought, "Wait. There must be more..."
There's something about shopping for a new goody that draws me to read the labels of every similar product and comparison shop with obsessive curiosity, like a rubber-necker who must see the graphic details of a terrible train wreck. I always think that maybe, somehow, there's a magical serum that's just been developed and made available to us non-Hollywood types which will effectively enhance my life AND be undeniably affordable.
Fortunately for me, I hit the jackpot this time. I found a box which, believe it or not, contained not only the moisturizing, elasticity-improving, non-greasy, lubricating Stretch Mark Cream, but a FREE 2.6379 fluid ounce bottle of toning, restoring, tightening Firming Butter. FREE!
I promptly bought the package with such excitement that I completely forgot about shopping for a new oven mitt.
I use my Firming Butter (FB) and Stretch Mark Cream (SMC) several times a day. The secret to remembering is that I keep both tubes of my miracle products on my bathroom countertop, next to my toilet. That way, I will never, ever, ever forget to use it, because when I am sitting there on my throne, I have a bird's eye view of almost every stretch mark I've ever acquired.
Almost every stretch mark.
Because, see, that's one of the downsides (no pun intended) of acquiring a product like SMC. I have suddenly found more uses for the stuff than I ever knew I had. Before the SMC and FB, I only had a few stretch marks here and there. Now, I realize that my 6.935741 fluid ounce tube of SMC will never cover all of the ground I have for it to cover. The acquisition of SMC has revealed to me all of the places on my body that have lost their elasticity and have tried desperately to stretch beyond their limits. My only consolation is that stretch marks are visible AFTER the weight has been lost. So, as far as I can figure it, I've gained and lost weight in places I didn't even know could gain and lose weight. That has to be a good thing, right?
Still, I apply my SMC and FB faithfully and liberally every day, even though, based on the labels, there really isn't any difference between the two, other than their thicknesses, which constitutes calling one of them "cream" and the other "butter." I wonder--if I whipped the cream in my food processor, could I use it in place of the butter? And which do I put on first, the SMC, or the FB? If I put the FB on first, will it shield my skin from absorbing the SMC? Do the areas where I need SMC really need the FB, too? Or should I apply each in little individual ovals based on what that particular patch of skin most needs?
It's a complicated routine. And while it may be working it's quite hard to tell. Generally, when I change my appearance, I count on those around me to notice, to offer me affirmation and kudos for all of my hard work. But, honestly, who do I know well enough that they will say to me, "Hey, you're looking firmer today! And, wow! You've really reduced those unsightly stretch marks! Have you been religiously applying SMC and FB in a circular motion? Keep up the good work!"
And even if it were readily apparent to those around me that I'd reduced my battle scars, would they even notice? I mean, if I were to, say, get an 1/16 of an inch scratch on my left eyelid, just under the eyebrow, people might say, "Wow. That's a terrible injury. How did you manage to do that?" But would they notice if I eliminated all of the scars and stretch marks from my entire body?
Just last night, I read that family members and coworkers cannot be counted on to provide an accurate gauge of things like weight loss success. If your coworkers have come to view you as fat, they will continue to view you as fat even after you've lost a significant amount of weight. They'll likely continue to view you as fat until you've lost over 70 pounds, or, like, 85% of your body weight and have kept it off for eighteen years. Then, someone might say, "Hey, did you get glasses?" and you'll have to tell them that you've lost 85% of your body weight and have kept it off for eighteen years. Even then, they'll probably still refer to you as "Big Barb" or "Tammy, Tammy Two by Four" or "Cousin Joe who pulled an Oprah" because that's what kind of human beings we are--we like to keep people in their boxes. It makes us more comfortable with ourselves.
So I doubt that my loved ones will notice once my skin takes on that youthful firmness and elasticity I'm striving to achieve with my twice-daily circular-motion applications of SMC and FB, though I keep hoping that they will.
Until then, I'll be surfing the web for new collagen face mask kits, under-eye anti-wrinkle patches, hydrating marine tonic (in case I come into contact with any dehydrated marines) and Anti-Cellulite Mousse.
Just reading all of the silly names makes me laugh. And laughing makes me feel young again.
I guess these age-defying products work after all.
I know this, because I have been spending increasing amounts of time investigating the aisle in my local Stuf*Mart which attempts to pass for the cosmetic equivalent of the fountain of youth. In that aisle, there exists a plethora of promises that, up until recently, I scoffed at in my naivete. But, as I approach forty, I've begun to toy with the idea that these products, goos and ointments and creams that promise me everything from a sexier back to the impeccable eyebrow shape, might actually improve my aging appearance.
There's no shortage of anti-aging products available for those of us seeking eternal beauty. If I were to plop down a few million dollars for all of the products that are revealed when I do a Google search for "age reducing cosmetics," I could be the world's most perfect woman. How could I pass up great stuff like:
A Lip-Inflation Lip Plumper, for that freshly-plumped lip feeling;
A mini On-the-Go Smile Refresher, when my smile is experiencing that not-so-fresh feeling;
A new head-shaving gel for the male grooming market, or for those looking for that Sinead O'Connor or Captain Jean-Luc style;
An Air Repair kit, to pamper my skin during air travel or reinflate my deflated lips;
Japanese Mushroom Cosmetics to lighten my skin and cause terrible hallucinations;
Anti-aging lip contour corrector pens, just in case the Lip Plumper doesn't get it for me;
Solutions for Aging Legs, as if that's the only part of you that's getting old. The rest of your aging body will have to come up with its own solutions; and
Lip gloss that will help me lose weight and curb my smoking (thought I don't smoke), simultaneously.
I haven't always been interested in anti-aging cosmetics. Really, this all started when I burned the living daylights out of the back of my hand. That kind of thing tends to happen when one places one's hand against the wall of a 450 degree oven. I had believed I was wearing an oven mitt, when, in reality, I was merely holding a tiny square of a highly inadequate hot pad. Instead of age-defying cosmetics, I suppose what I actually need is some type of mental assistance program that will keep me from further harming myself.
But, the damage having been done, I ended up with a nasty spot of singed skin which would very definitely turn into a terrible scar, so I decided to be proactive (though I guess being proactive would have been to be sure about the oven-mitt thing) and pamper my healing hand.
So I took a trip to the Stuf*Mart and strolled along the skin cream aisle. Said aisle generally baffles me, because I can't imagine what could possibly be so different about skin creams that would warrant such a huge selection. And every single one of them seems to be the very best choice for rough, dry, problem skin. But there, nestled among the skin softening stuff, was the section I had come to find--the scar-healing section. Unfortunately, the only scar-healing cream I saw cost over $20, so I decided to look for alternatives and made a mental note that oven mitts are cheaper.
That's when I remembered that my holistic practitioner had once suggested a stretch-mark cream for my youngest daughter when she had developed a beastly inexplicable open wound on her hip which turned into an equally beastly scar.
Stretch-Mark Cream, eh? I thought, mentally envisioning the lovely silver-white stripes that refuse to tan which make it impossible to wear a bathing suit without feeling like my child has decorated me with a gel pen. Well, that would certainly be a useful product.
As I was lifting the Stretch-Mark Cream into my cart, I noticed that the Stretch-Mark Cream company was promoting a new product--Firming Butter. Now, I've always been quite fond of butter, which would explain the stretch marks, so I decided to further investigate:
This Firming Butter was especially created to return your floppy skin to its former firm, youthful perkiness anytime, even after weight loss or pregnancy, firming and toning your skin, providing added elasticity and firmness to all firmless skin, always and without fail.
That sounded like exactly what I needed to save my skin and improve all of my relationships, but I thought, "Wait. There must be more..."
There's something about shopping for a new goody that draws me to read the labels of every similar product and comparison shop with obsessive curiosity, like a rubber-necker who must see the graphic details of a terrible train wreck. I always think that maybe, somehow, there's a magical serum that's just been developed and made available to us non-Hollywood types which will effectively enhance my life AND be undeniably affordable.
Fortunately for me, I hit the jackpot this time. I found a box which, believe it or not, contained not only the moisturizing, elasticity-improving, non-greasy, lubricating Stretch Mark Cream, but a FREE 2.6379 fluid ounce bottle of toning, restoring, tightening Firming Butter. FREE!
I promptly bought the package with such excitement that I completely forgot about shopping for a new oven mitt.
I use my Firming Butter (FB) and Stretch Mark Cream (SMC) several times a day. The secret to remembering is that I keep both tubes of my miracle products on my bathroom countertop, next to my toilet. That way, I will never, ever, ever forget to use it, because when I am sitting there on my throne, I have a bird's eye view of almost every stretch mark I've ever acquired.
Almost every stretch mark.
Because, see, that's one of the downsides (no pun intended) of acquiring a product like SMC. I have suddenly found more uses for the stuff than I ever knew I had. Before the SMC and FB, I only had a few stretch marks here and there. Now, I realize that my 6.935741 fluid ounce tube of SMC will never cover all of the ground I have for it to cover. The acquisition of SMC has revealed to me all of the places on my body that have lost their elasticity and have tried desperately to stretch beyond their limits. My only consolation is that stretch marks are visible AFTER the weight has been lost. So, as far as I can figure it, I've gained and lost weight in places I didn't even know could gain and lose weight. That has to be a good thing, right?
Still, I apply my SMC and FB faithfully and liberally every day, even though, based on the labels, there really isn't any difference between the two, other than their thicknesses, which constitutes calling one of them "cream" and the other "butter." I wonder--if I whipped the cream in my food processor, could I use it in place of the butter? And which do I put on first, the SMC, or the FB? If I put the FB on first, will it shield my skin from absorbing the SMC? Do the areas where I need SMC really need the FB, too? Or should I apply each in little individual ovals based on what that particular patch of skin most needs?
It's a complicated routine. And while it may be working it's quite hard to tell. Generally, when I change my appearance, I count on those around me to notice, to offer me affirmation and kudos for all of my hard work. But, honestly, who do I know well enough that they will say to me, "Hey, you're looking firmer today! And, wow! You've really reduced those unsightly stretch marks! Have you been religiously applying SMC and FB in a circular motion? Keep up the good work!"
And even if it were readily apparent to those around me that I'd reduced my battle scars, would they even notice? I mean, if I were to, say, get an 1/16 of an inch scratch on my left eyelid, just under the eyebrow, people might say, "Wow. That's a terrible injury. How did you manage to do that?" But would they notice if I eliminated all of the scars and stretch marks from my entire body?
Just last night, I read that family members and coworkers cannot be counted on to provide an accurate gauge of things like weight loss success. If your coworkers have come to view you as fat, they will continue to view you as fat even after you've lost a significant amount of weight. They'll likely continue to view you as fat until you've lost over 70 pounds, or, like, 85% of your body weight and have kept it off for eighteen years. Then, someone might say, "Hey, did you get glasses?" and you'll have to tell them that you've lost 85% of your body weight and have kept it off for eighteen years. Even then, they'll probably still refer to you as "Big Barb" or "Tammy, Tammy Two by Four" or "Cousin Joe who pulled an Oprah" because that's what kind of human beings we are--we like to keep people in their boxes. It makes us more comfortable with ourselves.
So I doubt that my loved ones will notice once my skin takes on that youthful firmness and elasticity I'm striving to achieve with my twice-daily circular-motion applications of SMC and FB, though I keep hoping that they will.
Until then, I'll be surfing the web for new collagen face mask kits, under-eye anti-wrinkle patches, hydrating marine tonic (in case I come into contact with any dehydrated marines) and Anti-Cellulite Mousse.
Just reading all of the silly names makes me laugh. And laughing makes me feel young again.
I guess these age-defying products work after all.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
A Good Day
It's nice to have a generally good day, don't you think? And I did. I had a generally, basically, pretty good day.
Started with a walk. Well, to be honest, it started with an alarm clock that annoyed me beyond belief, and then it continued with me, once again, trying to figure out a justifiable reason to not go walking. I couldn't think of a good enough one, so I insisted on getting out of bed, fired up the computer, put on about forty-two layers of clothing, then checked my e-mail. I was very pleasantly surprised to see that I had won a bid on a pair of asics 2110 running shoes--$15.00 for a gently used pair in what very well may be my size. We'll see when they arrive. Consider this a Christmas gift to myself. And the auction was for a worthy cause; the money went to a nature center in North Carolina. If the shoes don't fit, they've offered a refund, minus shipping costs. I hope they fit!
I actually arrived at my walking spot a few minutes early this morning and was able to take time to read my new bargain book, I'm a Stranger Here by Bill Bryson. It's the first time I've read Bryson, and I'm enjoying it. I'm also reading A New Way to Be Human by Charlie Peacock-Ashworth, but I may have mentioned that before. In it, he mentions an author who just happens to be the sister of the father of Houdin's debate partner. I was impressed with what I read about her, and then realized that the last name sounded familiar. It's not a common last name, so I asked the father at this week's debate session and was pleasantly surprised to find that the connection was there. I have several of her books on hold at the library and will tell more after I've read them.
The walk was brisk and cool at first, but I warmed up fairly quickly. Some days. the walk seems to take forever. Some days, it goes quite quickly. Today, it was medium, but the conversation, as always, was good.
Probably my favorite thing about walking, aside from the great conversation that I just mentioned in the very preceding paragraph--yeah, the very preceding sentence--is what comes right after the walking--THRIFT STORE SHOPPING! I take a very leisurely time checking all of my favorite areas of the thrift store; I check the books, the linens, the furniture, the dishes and mugs, the candles, the purses, the shoes, the coats, and then, the clothes, if I have time and/or need. It's excellent therapy, and quite inexpensive therapy at that. I generally see at least a couple of people I know, too, so it's a lovely social time, as well.
Today, I felt like I hit the jackpot. I found a nice stack of excellent books for decent prices, a good stack of Christmas cards so that we can finish that task (we filled out our last batch of thrift-store cards while listening to Advent a couple of days ago), a couple more dishes for the HUGE stack of plain white vintage ironstone dinner plates in two different patterns that I found earlier this week(bonus! finally a set of Christmas dishes!), a funky shabby chic metal table with white and mint-green paint and several Christmas gifts for the kids that I'm unable to disclose at this particular time, due to the fact that the recipients often read this blog. Hi, recipients!
I stopped at the grocery store and found my very favorite artisan bread in the sale cart. Cool! I vigilantly check this cart whenever I'm in the area for the very specific purpose of buying the bread that I can't afford under normal circumstances. The bread will complete a broccoli cheese soup meal, if it lasts until tomorrow.
When I got home, the mail had run, and in the box was a wonderfully familiar sight--a PaperBackSwap package. It was Brennan Manning's Reflections for Ragamuffins, a daily devotional based on Manning's writing.
This evening, Bo and I headed into town to meet up with fifteen-year-old Houdin who was portraying Peter Cratchit from A Christmas Carol for our town's Victorian night. He looked quite dapper in his thrift-store "Victorian" outfit, borrowed felt tophat and the six-foot-long ribbed scarf I knitted for Bo a couple of years ago for his birthday. The man who played Uncle Scrooge treated Houdin to dinner; they were preparing to eat just as we arrived. Scrooge invited us to order something, so we each had a cup of coffee, which I enjoyed greatly but am now suffering the consequences, at 2 a.m.
Playing at the restaurant was a young man I've been hearing about lately and have been wanting to hear perform. I'd talked to his mother recently about our houseconcerts and she told me about her son's musical endeavors and directions. It was very good to hear him live and chat with him. He seemed like a kindred spirit of sorts, someone who enjoys many of the same musicians we do, and I think it may work out to have him perform a houseconcert in May when he's in town.
At home, the young'uns and I wrapped our homemade caramels, and now they're all pretty and safely hidden, ready to give as Christmas gifts to friends and neighbors. Houdin and I also hope to make cheesecakes to give to neighbors--we've decided on mint chocolate chip.
Now, it's time to clear the clean laundry off of my bed and hit the hay. It's been a good day, and tomorrow, I hope to get the gang in the Christmas spirit by decorating the house. I think I'm looking forward to it--as long as I get enough sleep.
May your days be merry and bright!
Started with a walk. Well, to be honest, it started with an alarm clock that annoyed me beyond belief, and then it continued with me, once again, trying to figure out a justifiable reason to not go walking. I couldn't think of a good enough one, so I insisted on getting out of bed, fired up the computer, put on about forty-two layers of clothing, then checked my e-mail. I was very pleasantly surprised to see that I had won a bid on a pair of asics 2110 running shoes--$15.00 for a gently used pair in what very well may be my size. We'll see when they arrive. Consider this a Christmas gift to myself. And the auction was for a worthy cause; the money went to a nature center in North Carolina. If the shoes don't fit, they've offered a refund, minus shipping costs. I hope they fit!
I actually arrived at my walking spot a few minutes early this morning and was able to take time to read my new bargain book, I'm a Stranger Here by Bill Bryson. It's the first time I've read Bryson, and I'm enjoying it. I'm also reading A New Way to Be Human by Charlie Peacock-Ashworth, but I may have mentioned that before. In it, he mentions an author who just happens to be the sister of the father of Houdin's debate partner. I was impressed with what I read about her, and then realized that the last name sounded familiar. It's not a common last name, so I asked the father at this week's debate session and was pleasantly surprised to find that the connection was there. I have several of her books on hold at the library and will tell more after I've read them.
The walk was brisk and cool at first, but I warmed up fairly quickly. Some days. the walk seems to take forever. Some days, it goes quite quickly. Today, it was medium, but the conversation, as always, was good.
Probably my favorite thing about walking, aside from the great conversation that I just mentioned in the very preceding paragraph--yeah, the very preceding sentence--is what comes right after the walking--THRIFT STORE SHOPPING! I take a very leisurely time checking all of my favorite areas of the thrift store; I check the books, the linens, the furniture, the dishes and mugs, the candles, the purses, the shoes, the coats, and then, the clothes, if I have time and/or need. It's excellent therapy, and quite inexpensive therapy at that. I generally see at least a couple of people I know, too, so it's a lovely social time, as well.
Today, I felt like I hit the jackpot. I found a nice stack of excellent books for decent prices, a good stack of Christmas cards so that we can finish that task (we filled out our last batch of thrift-store cards while listening to Advent a couple of days ago), a couple more dishes for the HUGE stack of plain white vintage ironstone dinner plates in two different patterns that I found earlier this week(bonus! finally a set of Christmas dishes!), a funky shabby chic metal table with white and mint-green paint and several Christmas gifts for the kids that I'm unable to disclose at this particular time, due to the fact that the recipients often read this blog. Hi, recipients!
I stopped at the grocery store and found my very favorite artisan bread in the sale cart. Cool! I vigilantly check this cart whenever I'm in the area for the very specific purpose of buying the bread that I can't afford under normal circumstances. The bread will complete a broccoli cheese soup meal, if it lasts until tomorrow.
When I got home, the mail had run, and in the box was a wonderfully familiar sight--a PaperBackSwap package. It was Brennan Manning's Reflections for Ragamuffins, a daily devotional based on Manning's writing.
This evening, Bo and I headed into town to meet up with fifteen-year-old Houdin who was portraying Peter Cratchit from A Christmas Carol for our town's Victorian night. He looked quite dapper in his thrift-store "Victorian" outfit, borrowed felt tophat and the six-foot-long ribbed scarf I knitted for Bo a couple of years ago for his birthday. The man who played Uncle Scrooge treated Houdin to dinner; they were preparing to eat just as we arrived. Scrooge invited us to order something, so we each had a cup of coffee, which I enjoyed greatly but am now suffering the consequences, at 2 a.m.
Playing at the restaurant was a young man I've been hearing about lately and have been wanting to hear perform. I'd talked to his mother recently about our houseconcerts and she told me about her son's musical endeavors and directions. It was very good to hear him live and chat with him. He seemed like a kindred spirit of sorts, someone who enjoys many of the same musicians we do, and I think it may work out to have him perform a houseconcert in May when he's in town.
At home, the young'uns and I wrapped our homemade caramels, and now they're all pretty and safely hidden, ready to give as Christmas gifts to friends and neighbors. Houdin and I also hope to make cheesecakes to give to neighbors--we've decided on mint chocolate chip.
Now, it's time to clear the clean laundry off of my bed and hit the hay. It's been a good day, and tomorrow, I hope to get the gang in the Christmas spirit by decorating the house. I think I'm looking forward to it--as long as I get enough sleep.
May your days be merry and bright!
Thursday, December 07, 2006
My Kids ROCK!
Congratulations to my two eldest who did very well in their debate mini-tournament today. Bard was the first place speaker and she and her partner were the first place team. Houdin and his partner were the third place team.
Bard also received her test results from her PSAT and did very well, scoring in the 94th percentile. Her math was weak, which we knew and are working to improve, but she placed in the 94th percentile in writing and the 100th percentile in comprehension.
I'm proud of you both. You definitely rock.
Bard also received her test results from her PSAT and did very well, scoring in the 94th percentile. Her math was weak, which we knew and are working to improve, but she placed in the 94th percentile in writing and the 100th percentile in comprehension.
I'm proud of you both. You definitely rock.
Breast Milk Ensures Children's Survival:Mother Nurses Two Children Over Nine Days
NOTE: This article mentions that the father has not been found. Tragically, he was found dead in a mountain stream. Major kudos to this mom for being prepared for the ultimate emergency and using all of her possible resources. Another big reason for breastfeeding.
By DAN CHILDS
ABC News Medical Unit
Dec. 5, 2006 — - Trapped miles from civilization in a snowbound car in subfreezing temperatures, Kati Kim had to ensure that her children survived until search parties rescued them.
Nine days later, the helicopters came.
Remarkably, Kim's daughters, 4-year-old Penelope and 7-month-old Sabine, were reported to be in good condition after the ordeal.
The key to this fortunate ending may have been the fact that Kim breast-fed both of them to keep them alive amid the harsh conditions once no other food was available.
Experts say the episode suggests how mother's milk, in a disastrous pinch, can make the difference in whether a child survives.
"The fact that Kati Kim was able to breast-feed both of her children for the amount of time that they were stranded most likely was lifesaving for them," says Dr. Sheela Geraghty, assistant professor of pediatrics and medical director at the Center for Breastfeeding Medicine at Cincinnati Children's Hospital Medical Center in Cincinnati.
"Breast milk not only provides the calories needed to sustain life, it also helps prevents dehydration," Geraghty says.
"I'm really, really grateful that the mother had breast milk available for the baby, as well as for her other child," says Judy Hopkinson, assistant professor at the USDA/ARS Children's Nutrition Research Center at the Baylor College of Medicine in Houston.
"This is a remarkable fluid in many ways. There is nothing better you can give a child in a disaster than breast milk."
"Lucky for these children that mom was breast-feeding," says Kathy McCoy, a lactation consultant at Clarian Health Partners Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis. "No one ever expects disaster to happen, but when it does, breast milk is truly a lifesaver."
Not Just Nutrition
Breast milk is often reputed for its nutritional benefits for children, but Hopkinson says human milk confers more than just sustenance.
"These kids weren't getting, I'm sure, all the calories they needed," she says. "So the breast milk was also giving them protection against serious illness, in addition to nutrition."
The idea that babies get an immune boost from breast milk is not a new one.
According to the American Academy of Pediatrics, breast-fed babies suffer fewer illnesses such as diarrhea, earache and respiratory infections.
"Breast milk is really primarily an immune booster," Hopkinson says. "We think of it as nutrition, but it is really integral to the immune system."
Breast-feeding, in this case, may have also given Kim and her children another way to survive in the harsh conditions -- body heat.
"Breast-feeding her 7-month-old and 4-year-old child was undoubtedly what kept Kati Kim's children alive during their horrific snowbound ordeal," says Michelle Collins at the Vanderbilt University School of Nursing.
"The very act of holding her children against her body to nurse them would have preserved their body heat, allowing them to maintain their core body temperatures despite the freezing temperatures outside their vehicle."
Breast-Feeding Amid Stress
The Kims' situation was nothing if not traumatic.
After the car ran out of fuel, and Kim and her husband, James, burned tires for warmth, James left her and their two young children and set off into the wilderness to seek help.
He still has not been found.
That Kim was able to continue to breast-feed her children while fearing for the survival of her family is a notable feat, Hopkinson says.
"People always talk about how stress can undermine breast-milk production. In this situation, it's very important to see that it's not about external stress, but it's about internal management of stress."
"You hear stories of mothers breast-feeding during disastrous situations, such as in the blitz on London in World War II. This was obviously a very stressful situation, but she wasn't internalizing it to the point that she could not do anything."
"A huge advantage to breast-feeding is that it is available in any emergency situation," says one expert from the Breastfeeding Center of Boston Medical Center in Boston. "In the Superdome in New Orleans, there was no formula, and women who were not breast-feeding had nothing to feed their infants."
"In times of natural disasters, when water and food sources become contaminated or scarce, breast-feeding is a lifesaving measure for our smallest survivors," says Ann Peery, a registered nurse and lactation consultant at the Women's Center at the University of Virginia Health System in Charlottesville.
It is also possible that the very act of breast-feeding could have kept Kim's fear -- and that of her children -- in check.
"Breast milk contains naturally occurring substances to calm the nursing child and help them to sleep, which would have been imperative to help keep, especially the older child, from panic," Collins says. "It would have benefited Mrs. Kim as well, because when a woman nurses, a hormone is released that we know as the 'mothering hormone' -- prolactin -- which would have helped Mrs. Kim stay calmer."
Experts say it is also remarkable that Kim was able to continue to breast-feed her children with little or no food for herself.
"Although the mother herself probably had a very limited food intake during this time, a lactating woman is able to produce an adequate milk supply based on the demand for the milk for a considerable amount of time even under the most extreme circumstances," Geraghty says.
"Think about running a marathon -- it takes a lot out of you, but you can do it," Hopkinson says.
"Mothers can, and often do, operate of a calorie deficit. There is no evidence that a 24-hour fast reduces milk production."
Kim's body was apparently also able to adjust to providing enough milk for both of her children to remain healthy.
"In the vast majority of cases, the baby determines how much milk it needs from the mother," Hopkinson says. "It's really quite amazing how some mothers breast-feed triplets without any help."
"Who knows what the human body is capable of."
Copyright © 2006 ABC News Internet Ventures
By DAN CHILDS
ABC News Medical Unit
Dec. 5, 2006 — - Trapped miles from civilization in a snowbound car in subfreezing temperatures, Kati Kim had to ensure that her children survived until search parties rescued them.
Nine days later, the helicopters came.
Remarkably, Kim's daughters, 4-year-old Penelope and 7-month-old Sabine, were reported to be in good condition after the ordeal.
The key to this fortunate ending may have been the fact that Kim breast-fed both of them to keep them alive amid the harsh conditions once no other food was available.
Experts say the episode suggests how mother's milk, in a disastrous pinch, can make the difference in whether a child survives.
"The fact that Kati Kim was able to breast-feed both of her children for the amount of time that they were stranded most likely was lifesaving for them," says Dr. Sheela Geraghty, assistant professor of pediatrics and medical director at the Center for Breastfeeding Medicine at Cincinnati Children's Hospital Medical Center in Cincinnati.
"Breast milk not only provides the calories needed to sustain life, it also helps prevents dehydration," Geraghty says.
"I'm really, really grateful that the mother had breast milk available for the baby, as well as for her other child," says Judy Hopkinson, assistant professor at the USDA/ARS Children's Nutrition Research Center at the Baylor College of Medicine in Houston.
"This is a remarkable fluid in many ways. There is nothing better you can give a child in a disaster than breast milk."
"Lucky for these children that mom was breast-feeding," says Kathy McCoy, a lactation consultant at Clarian Health Partners Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis. "No one ever expects disaster to happen, but when it does, breast milk is truly a lifesaver."
Not Just Nutrition
Breast milk is often reputed for its nutritional benefits for children, but Hopkinson says human milk confers more than just sustenance.
"These kids weren't getting, I'm sure, all the calories they needed," she says. "So the breast milk was also giving them protection against serious illness, in addition to nutrition."
The idea that babies get an immune boost from breast milk is not a new one.
According to the American Academy of Pediatrics, breast-fed babies suffer fewer illnesses such as diarrhea, earache and respiratory infections.
"Breast milk is really primarily an immune booster," Hopkinson says. "We think of it as nutrition, but it is really integral to the immune system."
Breast-feeding, in this case, may have also given Kim and her children another way to survive in the harsh conditions -- body heat.
"Breast-feeding her 7-month-old and 4-year-old child was undoubtedly what kept Kati Kim's children alive during their horrific snowbound ordeal," says Michelle Collins at the Vanderbilt University School of Nursing.
"The very act of holding her children against her body to nurse them would have preserved their body heat, allowing them to maintain their core body temperatures despite the freezing temperatures outside their vehicle."
Breast-Feeding Amid Stress
The Kims' situation was nothing if not traumatic.
After the car ran out of fuel, and Kim and her husband, James, burned tires for warmth, James left her and their two young children and set off into the wilderness to seek help.
He still has not been found.
That Kim was able to continue to breast-feed her children while fearing for the survival of her family is a notable feat, Hopkinson says.
"People always talk about how stress can undermine breast-milk production. In this situation, it's very important to see that it's not about external stress, but it's about internal management of stress."
"You hear stories of mothers breast-feeding during disastrous situations, such as in the blitz on London in World War II. This was obviously a very stressful situation, but she wasn't internalizing it to the point that she could not do anything."
"A huge advantage to breast-feeding is that it is available in any emergency situation," says one expert from the Breastfeeding Center of Boston Medical Center in Boston. "In the Superdome in New Orleans, there was no formula, and women who were not breast-feeding had nothing to feed their infants."
"In times of natural disasters, when water and food sources become contaminated or scarce, breast-feeding is a lifesaving measure for our smallest survivors," says Ann Peery, a registered nurse and lactation consultant at the Women's Center at the University of Virginia Health System in Charlottesville.
It is also possible that the very act of breast-feeding could have kept Kim's fear -- and that of her children -- in check.
"Breast milk contains naturally occurring substances to calm the nursing child and help them to sleep, which would have been imperative to help keep, especially the older child, from panic," Collins says. "It would have benefited Mrs. Kim as well, because when a woman nurses, a hormone is released that we know as the 'mothering hormone' -- prolactin -- which would have helped Mrs. Kim stay calmer."
Experts say it is also remarkable that Kim was able to continue to breast-feed her children with little or no food for herself.
"Although the mother herself probably had a very limited food intake during this time, a lactating woman is able to produce an adequate milk supply based on the demand for the milk for a considerable amount of time even under the most extreme circumstances," Geraghty says.
"Think about running a marathon -- it takes a lot out of you, but you can do it," Hopkinson says.
"Mothers can, and often do, operate of a calorie deficit. There is no evidence that a 24-hour fast reduces milk production."
Kim's body was apparently also able to adjust to providing enough milk for both of her children to remain healthy.
"In the vast majority of cases, the baby determines how much milk it needs from the mother," Hopkinson says. "It's really quite amazing how some mothers breast-feed triplets without any help."
"Who knows what the human body is capable of."
Copyright © 2006 ABC News Internet Ventures
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Christmas Blues
It's like I can't have a good day.
Bo just called, and he asked me how I was doing. It's sad to admit this, but generally when he calls, I'm in a nasty mood. What does that say about me? I don't know. But, usually, I'm overwhelmed, depressed, anxious or grieving about something. Either I have a kid who isn't cooperating, or I have an appliance or vehicle that's broken, or I need to do something that I'm unable to do because of time or money.
Today, none of that was the case: I have a few groceries--not much, but enough to keep us fed for a couple of days; I taught my Women's History class today (more like faciliated, because the girls really do the majority of the talking) and it went well; Bard received her PSAT scores, and she scored in the 93rd percentile, her highest section landing her in the 99th percentile; At the thrift store, I found a stack of vintage white shabby chic style dishes to use for large gatherings so that I no longer have to use paper plates (21 dishes in two different, yet very similar, patterns) for less than $6 total; I was able to find 15-year-old son Houdin a $2 jacket for his in-character Dickens stint on Friday night (he's to be Peter Cratchit, Bob's eldest son, and he's roaming the streets of our town with "Uncle Scrooge" and "Tiny Tim"), and, in the process of searching, found him a black leather jacket that fits him perfectly...for $1; I'm not in great pain today, which is unusual, though my hip and thigh, which have been nagging me with a dull ache for weeks, are getting worse.
And I've been a decent mom, even. Can you believe it? We celebrated St. Nicholas day yesterday, the kids got bags of candy in their shoes this morning, and I made a batch of cutout cookies last night before they went to bed. I must have warranted a bonus of some sort, because I awoke this morning to Sweetheart beside me with a tray--breakfast in bed for me! Homemade granola, whole milk vanilla yogurt and a little pitcher of homemade eggnog. PLUS a little pair of angel earrings that she bought yesterday for $1.
So, things have been going generally pretty well today, wouldn't you say?
Then, just a little bit ago, Bo called. And I was able to say, "I'm doing pretty well, thank you. How are you?"
Well, it turns out that, while he sounded non-panicked and optimistic, he was calling to inform me that our loan officer for our mortgage has requested a meeting with us. He's known about it for a week, but the meeting is scheduled for tomorrow. Our mortgage has been running behind by one month consistently, and, she says, "the powers that be" are giving her a hard time. We need to talk, she says.
I feel like I'm slipping back into "Bah, Humbug" mode...but I won't. I won't let it happen. Even if it seems like SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE wants me to give up.
Blech.
It's like last year, on Christmas Eve, when I got a speeding ticket, though I was on cruise control going 60. He clocked me going 70, he said. And Merry Christmas. Just what I needed.
Years ago, when we first moved into this house, our whole family was sick during the holidays. Bo was incredibly sick. We found out later that he'd had pneumonia, bronchitis and sinusitis. On Christmas Eve, we had no gifts, no Christmas tree, and no plans for either. I had a majorly sick spouse and a mildly sick baby (she ended up with pneumonia, too). I called my mother-in-law in tears. She sent me this:
FIRST CORINTHIANS 13 [CHRISTMAS VERSION]
If I decorate my house perfectly with plaid bows,
strands of twinkling lights and shiny balls,
but do not show love to my family,
I'm just another decorator.
If I slave away in the kitchen,
baking dozens of Christmas cookies,
preparing gourmet meals
and arranging a beautifully adorned table at mealtime:
but do not show love to my family,
I'm just another cook.
If I work at a soup kitchen
carol in the nursing home,
and give all that I have to charity;
but do not show love to my family,
it profits me nothing.
If I trim the spruce with shimmering angels
and crocheted snowflakes,
attend a myriad of holiday parties
and sing in the choir's cantata
but do not focus on Christ,
I have missed the point.
Love stops the cooking to hug the child.
Love sets aside the decorating to kiss the spouse.
Love is kind, though harried and tired.
Love does not envy another's home
that has coordinated Christmas china and table linens.
Love does not yell at the kids to get out of the way,
but is thankful they are there to be in the way.
Love does not give only to those who are able to give in return; but rejoices in giving to those who cannot.
Love bears all things,
believes all things,
hopes all things, and
endures all things.
Love never fails.
Video games will break,
pearl necklaces will be lost,
golf clubs will rust;
but giving the gift of love will endure.
-AUTHOR UNKNOWN
That brought me to my knees in prayer and confession. And I've kept the copy of that e-mail to pull out every Christmas holiday as a reminder of what's truly important.
If we end up living in a cardboard box at the bottom of the ocean, all I've lost is a home and my stuff. My family and my salvation can never be taken from me. They will both last long into eternity.
It's time to hug the child(ren) and kiss the spouse.
Bo just called, and he asked me how I was doing. It's sad to admit this, but generally when he calls, I'm in a nasty mood. What does that say about me? I don't know. But, usually, I'm overwhelmed, depressed, anxious or grieving about something. Either I have a kid who isn't cooperating, or I have an appliance or vehicle that's broken, or I need to do something that I'm unable to do because of time or money.
Today, none of that was the case: I have a few groceries--not much, but enough to keep us fed for a couple of days; I taught my Women's History class today (more like faciliated, because the girls really do the majority of the talking) and it went well; Bard received her PSAT scores, and she scored in the 93rd percentile, her highest section landing her in the 99th percentile; At the thrift store, I found a stack of vintage white shabby chic style dishes to use for large gatherings so that I no longer have to use paper plates (21 dishes in two different, yet very similar, patterns) for less than $6 total; I was able to find 15-year-old son Houdin a $2 jacket for his in-character Dickens stint on Friday night (he's to be Peter Cratchit, Bob's eldest son, and he's roaming the streets of our town with "Uncle Scrooge" and "Tiny Tim"), and, in the process of searching, found him a black leather jacket that fits him perfectly...for $1; I'm not in great pain today, which is unusual, though my hip and thigh, which have been nagging me with a dull ache for weeks, are getting worse.
And I've been a decent mom, even. Can you believe it? We celebrated St. Nicholas day yesterday, the kids got bags of candy in their shoes this morning, and I made a batch of cutout cookies last night before they went to bed. I must have warranted a bonus of some sort, because I awoke this morning to Sweetheart beside me with a tray--breakfast in bed for me! Homemade granola, whole milk vanilla yogurt and a little pitcher of homemade eggnog. PLUS a little pair of angel earrings that she bought yesterday for $1.
So, things have been going generally pretty well today, wouldn't you say?
Then, just a little bit ago, Bo called. And I was able to say, "I'm doing pretty well, thank you. How are you?"
Well, it turns out that, while he sounded non-panicked and optimistic, he was calling to inform me that our loan officer for our mortgage has requested a meeting with us. He's known about it for a week, but the meeting is scheduled for tomorrow. Our mortgage has been running behind by one month consistently, and, she says, "the powers that be" are giving her a hard time. We need to talk, she says.
I feel like I'm slipping back into "Bah, Humbug" mode...but I won't. I won't let it happen. Even if it seems like SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE wants me to give up.
Blech.
It's like last year, on Christmas Eve, when I got a speeding ticket, though I was on cruise control going 60. He clocked me going 70, he said. And Merry Christmas. Just what I needed.
Years ago, when we first moved into this house, our whole family was sick during the holidays. Bo was incredibly sick. We found out later that he'd had pneumonia, bronchitis and sinusitis. On Christmas Eve, we had no gifts, no Christmas tree, and no plans for either. I had a majorly sick spouse and a mildly sick baby (she ended up with pneumonia, too). I called my mother-in-law in tears. She sent me this:
FIRST CORINTHIANS 13 [CHRISTMAS VERSION]
If I decorate my house perfectly with plaid bows,
strands of twinkling lights and shiny balls,
but do not show love to my family,
I'm just another decorator.
If I slave away in the kitchen,
baking dozens of Christmas cookies,
preparing gourmet meals
and arranging a beautifully adorned table at mealtime:
but do not show love to my family,
I'm just another cook.
If I work at a soup kitchen
carol in the nursing home,
and give all that I have to charity;
but do not show love to my family,
it profits me nothing.
If I trim the spruce with shimmering angels
and crocheted snowflakes,
attend a myriad of holiday parties
and sing in the choir's cantata
but do not focus on Christ,
I have missed the point.
Love stops the cooking to hug the child.
Love sets aside the decorating to kiss the spouse.
Love is kind, though harried and tired.
Love does not envy another's home
that has coordinated Christmas china and table linens.
Love does not yell at the kids to get out of the way,
but is thankful they are there to be in the way.
Love does not give only to those who are able to give in return; but rejoices in giving to those who cannot.
Love bears all things,
believes all things,
hopes all things, and
endures all things.
Love never fails.
Video games will break,
pearl necklaces will be lost,
golf clubs will rust;
but giving the gift of love will endure.
-AUTHOR UNKNOWN
That brought me to my knees in prayer and confession. And I've kept the copy of that e-mail to pull out every Christmas holiday as a reminder of what's truly important.
If we end up living in a cardboard box at the bottom of the ocean, all I've lost is a home and my stuff. My family and my salvation can never be taken from me. They will both last long into eternity.
It's time to hug the child(ren) and kiss the spouse.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Advent
So, we're a little behind on our Advent. But we're a little less behind today. We just finished our first two days of our Advent family worship. We talked about St. Nicholas, about how he saved some boys from being pickled by an evil innkeeper, and we discussed salvation and forgiveness of sins. We lit our first candle, and we sang together. Houdin knew today's Advent song, though none of the rest of us did. He has such a fine voice, that boy.
And then, we put the "ornament" on the Advent wreath. Only twenty days until Christmas!
Tomorrow, we will join some friends at the monastery for a celebration of St. Nicholas' day. The monastery is a new discovery of ours, and I really enjoy it. A simple yet dedicated service filled with more Scripture than I've heard in any church in years, the Greek monastery gives me a feeling of being connected to not just a Christ Jesus, but an historical Jesus, who dwelt among men. The deliberateness of the monastic service is comforting. While it is long and repetitive, it's also moving and thought-provoking. Afterwards tomorrow, I'm told, the children will gather around one of the monks and receive golden chocolate coins, cookies and stories about St. Nicholas. I'm looking forward to it.
Blessings!
And then, we put the "ornament" on the Advent wreath. Only twenty days until Christmas!
Tomorrow, we will join some friends at the monastery for a celebration of St. Nicholas' day. The monastery is a new discovery of ours, and I really enjoy it. A simple yet dedicated service filled with more Scripture than I've heard in any church in years, the Greek monastery gives me a feeling of being connected to not just a Christ Jesus, but an historical Jesus, who dwelt among men. The deliberateness of the monastic service is comforting. While it is long and repetitive, it's also moving and thought-provoking. Afterwards tomorrow, I'm told, the children will gather around one of the monks and receive golden chocolate coins, cookies and stories about St. Nicholas. I'm looking forward to it.
Blessings!
Monday, December 04, 2006
Baby steppin' to Christmas
Ms Booshay's little Christmas meme really did give me a bit of a jump start. Now, little by little, I'm warming my engine and getting into the Christmas spirit. It started that little autofill feature that, well, um...autofills the title field of my blog entry. I started to type "Christmas Meme," and, lo and behold, I already *have* an entry titled "Christmas Meme." Inspired me to go back and read my entries from last holiday. And you know what? We actually enjoyed Christmas last year, even on a budget only a bit less strict than this year's budget.
And the thing about those entries is that they serve as a reminder. For several years now, I've worked in the mail order department of a local cheesehouse (hi, Ashley!). The past two years, I headed up the mail order operation. Last year, I was miserable. I missed my family, we didn't do our traditional stuff, and I felt like Christmas just kind of rushed on without me. I vowed that I would never let that happen again.
And so, while it's very financially tenuous right now, I'm thankful that I'm, once again, a stay-at-home mom during the Christmas season. That's very important to me. After all, Bard will be seventeen in just two short months. While I hope she plans to stay at home for as long as she wants to, I know that my holiday seasons with her at home are numbered.
Monet and Sweetheart did some gift shopping for me. They spent their "free money" that their Illinois grandpa gave them to buy me treasures from the thrift store. Sweetheart is anxious to get them wrapped, but I told her to wait, that we'll soon get all of our Christmas decorations out and she can wrap them then. She knows that there will be meager offerings this Christmas, and she says she doesn't mind. As long as her stocking is full, she says, and she gets a couple of coloring books, that will be fine. I do know that I bought her a few little goodies at the thrift store, and she'll be pleased with them: a soft cotton quilt, a mosquito net for her bed and a hand-embroidered pillow case with a cute little kitty in a basket. She'll be happy.
Tonight, I prepared some holiday foods--a gallon of eggnog and a pan of homemade vanilla caramels. The eggnog is chilling in the fridge while the caramel loaf is cooling just a few feet from where I type, waiting to be set enough to be cut into pieces and wrapped in wax paper. Later, I'll make dozens of batches of hard candy--watemelon and wintergreen and spearmint and cinnamon and root beer and butter rum and cherry. Lucky for me, I bought a dozen or more jars of the oils last year and I still have them in my spice drawer, so the only outlay I have for that is corn syrup.
Making hard candy was originally Bard's idea. We were trying to think of a good gift for Grandma, and Bard thought of the hard candy, which she thought we could break into pieces and pour into a huge jar. Her idea was inspired by one of Grandma's hobbies--stained glass making. We've made the candy every year since, filling a large jar as full as we can with every flavor we can find. The first year we made it, I added the cinnamon oil too soon ended up with oil burns on my face. I was red for days. I've learned since then, and am much more patient when it comes to adding the oils.
We'll also make butter toffee, pulled molassass taffy and fudge. And this year, for our neighbors' Christmas gifts, Houdin and I will make peppermint cheesecakes, presented on platters found at the thrift store.
For tonight, though, I think we'll put on our jammies and settle in for a couple of our favorite Christmas movies.
Tidings!
And the thing about those entries is that they serve as a reminder. For several years now, I've worked in the mail order department of a local cheesehouse (hi, Ashley!). The past two years, I headed up the mail order operation. Last year, I was miserable. I missed my family, we didn't do our traditional stuff, and I felt like Christmas just kind of rushed on without me. I vowed that I would never let that happen again.
And so, while it's very financially tenuous right now, I'm thankful that I'm, once again, a stay-at-home mom during the Christmas season. That's very important to me. After all, Bard will be seventeen in just two short months. While I hope she plans to stay at home for as long as she wants to, I know that my holiday seasons with her at home are numbered.
Monet and Sweetheart did some gift shopping for me. They spent their "free money" that their Illinois grandpa gave them to buy me treasures from the thrift store. Sweetheart is anxious to get them wrapped, but I told her to wait, that we'll soon get all of our Christmas decorations out and she can wrap them then. She knows that there will be meager offerings this Christmas, and she says she doesn't mind. As long as her stocking is full, she says, and she gets a couple of coloring books, that will be fine. I do know that I bought her a few little goodies at the thrift store, and she'll be pleased with them: a soft cotton quilt, a mosquito net for her bed and a hand-embroidered pillow case with a cute little kitty in a basket. She'll be happy.
Tonight, I prepared some holiday foods--a gallon of eggnog and a pan of homemade vanilla caramels. The eggnog is chilling in the fridge while the caramel loaf is cooling just a few feet from where I type, waiting to be set enough to be cut into pieces and wrapped in wax paper. Later, I'll make dozens of batches of hard candy--watemelon and wintergreen and spearmint and cinnamon and root beer and butter rum and cherry. Lucky for me, I bought a dozen or more jars of the oils last year and I still have them in my spice drawer, so the only outlay I have for that is corn syrup.
Making hard candy was originally Bard's idea. We were trying to think of a good gift for Grandma, and Bard thought of the hard candy, which she thought we could break into pieces and pour into a huge jar. Her idea was inspired by one of Grandma's hobbies--stained glass making. We've made the candy every year since, filling a large jar as full as we can with every flavor we can find. The first year we made it, I added the cinnamon oil too soon ended up with oil burns on my face. I was red for days. I've learned since then, and am much more patient when it comes to adding the oils.
We'll also make butter toffee, pulled molassass taffy and fudge. And this year, for our neighbors' Christmas gifts, Houdin and I will make peppermint cheesecakes, presented on platters found at the thrift store.
For tonight, though, I think we'll put on our jammies and settle in for a couple of our favorite Christmas movies.
Tidings!
Another Christmas Meme
The five senses of Christmas.
According to you.
I saw this over at Quiet Life and thought it would be a nice pick-me-up.
Christmas favorites...
Sight: Candles lit all around the piano room while the Christmas tree glitters in the corner. Seeing our children asleep under the tree, their faces illuminated by the tree's twinkling lights--it's a family tradition to spend one night there.
Sound: Our Christmas playlist, with Nat King Cole, Sting, Barenaked Ladies, Steven Curtis Chapman, The Three Stooges, Danny Kay and many others.
Smells: The fresh tree, cookies baking, nutmeg
Things to Touch: Freshly laundered Christmas pajamas.
Taste: Homemade caramels, White Trash, fudge, shortbread and Tasha Tudor's cutout cookies.
Wow. That actually did make me feel better. Now I can't wait to make some goodies this week.
According to you.
I saw this over at Quiet Life and thought it would be a nice pick-me-up.
Christmas favorites...
Sight: Candles lit all around the piano room while the Christmas tree glitters in the corner. Seeing our children asleep under the tree, their faces illuminated by the tree's twinkling lights--it's a family tradition to spend one night there.
Sound: Our Christmas playlist, with Nat King Cole, Sting, Barenaked Ladies, Steven Curtis Chapman, The Three Stooges, Danny Kay and many others.
Smells: The fresh tree, cookies baking, nutmeg
Things to Touch: Freshly laundered Christmas pajamas.
Taste: Homemade caramels, White Trash, fudge, shortbread and Tasha Tudor's cutout cookies.
Wow. That actually did make me feel better. Now I can't wait to make some goodies this week.
In which I am a spoiled brat
Bah, humbug.
I finally convinced myself to shut down the computer and turn off the lights at around 4:00 this morning. Bo was asleep sideways on the bed, having spread out there right after we returned home from grocery shopping. He fell into a deep, snoring sleep shortly thereafter. I didn't want to wake him, though I hated the idea of sleeping sideways on the bed, especially since the corner of the fitted sheet had come dislodged from the corner of the bed. But I grabbed my trusty down pillow and knee-walked across the mattress, dropping my pillow somewhere around Bo's feet. Just as I was about to rest my head, Bo stirred, rose, and immediately began pulling the sheet back into place. I rose, too, and did my part, and then I curled up on my side of the bed and waited for sunrise.
As if the alarm wouldn't have come early enough, the phone rang obnoxiously at 7:00 a.m. When the phone rings at either 6:30 or 7:00, I always know that it will be an Amish neighbor. For some reason, they like to make all of their phone calls during hours when most people wouldn't think of calling another human being. Not late at night, but early in the morning, though I've also had calls from young Amish girls as late as midnight. I always feel guilty when I answer an Amish phone call, because I feel like I should be awake and milking cows or something, so I probably talk faster than I normally do, and I doubt that I make much sense. But that's what you get when you call me at 7 a.m.
After the phone conversation, I debated about whether I should go back to sleep or get up, since my alarm was set to explode in just a short 45 minutes. While I debated, I rested my eyes, then the decision was made for me.
When the whiny, nagging alarm clock started screaming at me, I slammed the snooze bar, even though John Tesh says that's a very, very bad thing to do. I couldn't help it. Why is it that I had to force myself to sleep at 3:30 in the morning, but when it comes to 7:45, I fight to stay in bed?
Again, the nagging alarm started its schpiel again, the internal arguing started. The sleepy me wanted to stay in bed and ask my husband to call my walking partner and tell her that I was sick. I was in no mood to walk, especially with the plummeting temperatures highlighting the fact that I don't know where my gloves are.
But the guilt-ridden me won over. I climbed out of bed, did no more than brush my teeth (I was still wearing my clothes which I slept in last night. That's truly depressing) and pull on some winter garb, forced myself into my husband's heatless Jeep and barrelled down the road.
Okay, okay. I'm glad I went, alright? I needed the walk, and I needed the talk. But I'm still dragging, and that idiotic guilt-ridden me won't let me take a nap. She keeps nit-picking me. "There are piles of laundry to do. The dusting needs done. Aren't you going to make Christmas cookies?" She's beginning to sound like my dad. Or my kids. Even more frighening, she sounds just like me. I have informed her, in no uncertain terms, that I am NOT in the Christmas spirit, that I have no interest in being merry and bright, that she can stick her glad tidings in her ear, and that I will most definitely NOT spend my evening making a popcorn garland while watching Will Ferrell act like an overgrown Elf.
After my walk, I hit the local thrift store and found a great papasan chair for $7, along with a stack of Bon Apetit magazines (ten cents each) and a fistful of vintage Christmas cards (also ten cents each). When I finally dragged my prodigal butt home, eleven-year-old Monet was waiting anxiously by the door for me to get out of the cold Jeep.
"Guess what! Guess what! We have a Christmas tree!" I gave him my standard "I'm-the-confused-mother" look and he elaborated. My walking buddy, Kim, who knows that money, the very root of all possible evils, is very tight for us and that, so far, a Christmas tree has not been in the cards for the Thicket household, delivered a Christmas tree while I was gone. Now it's here, in my house, waiting to be decorated and loved. I have no idea where she got it, but there it is.
That certainly changes things.
Now I *have* to make Christmas cookies, pull out the Elf DVD and mix up some eggnog.
Heck, we might even string some popcorn garlands.
May your days be merry and bright.
I finally convinced myself to shut down the computer and turn off the lights at around 4:00 this morning. Bo was asleep sideways on the bed, having spread out there right after we returned home from grocery shopping. He fell into a deep, snoring sleep shortly thereafter. I didn't want to wake him, though I hated the idea of sleeping sideways on the bed, especially since the corner of the fitted sheet had come dislodged from the corner of the bed. But I grabbed my trusty down pillow and knee-walked across the mattress, dropping my pillow somewhere around Bo's feet. Just as I was about to rest my head, Bo stirred, rose, and immediately began pulling the sheet back into place. I rose, too, and did my part, and then I curled up on my side of the bed and waited for sunrise.
As if the alarm wouldn't have come early enough, the phone rang obnoxiously at 7:00 a.m. When the phone rings at either 6:30 or 7:00, I always know that it will be an Amish neighbor. For some reason, they like to make all of their phone calls during hours when most people wouldn't think of calling another human being. Not late at night, but early in the morning, though I've also had calls from young Amish girls as late as midnight. I always feel guilty when I answer an Amish phone call, because I feel like I should be awake and milking cows or something, so I probably talk faster than I normally do, and I doubt that I make much sense. But that's what you get when you call me at 7 a.m.
After the phone conversation, I debated about whether I should go back to sleep or get up, since my alarm was set to explode in just a short 45 minutes. While I debated, I rested my eyes, then the decision was made for me.
When the whiny, nagging alarm clock started screaming at me, I slammed the snooze bar, even though John Tesh says that's a very, very bad thing to do. I couldn't help it. Why is it that I had to force myself to sleep at 3:30 in the morning, but when it comes to 7:45, I fight to stay in bed?
Again, the nagging alarm started its schpiel again, the internal arguing started. The sleepy me wanted to stay in bed and ask my husband to call my walking partner and tell her that I was sick. I was in no mood to walk, especially with the plummeting temperatures highlighting the fact that I don't know where my gloves are.
But the guilt-ridden me won over. I climbed out of bed, did no more than brush my teeth (I was still wearing my clothes which I slept in last night. That's truly depressing) and pull on some winter garb, forced myself into my husband's heatless Jeep and barrelled down the road.
Okay, okay. I'm glad I went, alright? I needed the walk, and I needed the talk. But I'm still dragging, and that idiotic guilt-ridden me won't let me take a nap. She keeps nit-picking me. "There are piles of laundry to do. The dusting needs done. Aren't you going to make Christmas cookies?" She's beginning to sound like my dad. Or my kids. Even more frighening, she sounds just like me. I have informed her, in no uncertain terms, that I am NOT in the Christmas spirit, that I have no interest in being merry and bright, that she can stick her glad tidings in her ear, and that I will most definitely NOT spend my evening making a popcorn garland while watching Will Ferrell act like an overgrown Elf.
After my walk, I hit the local thrift store and found a great papasan chair for $7, along with a stack of Bon Apetit magazines (ten cents each) and a fistful of vintage Christmas cards (also ten cents each). When I finally dragged my prodigal butt home, eleven-year-old Monet was waiting anxiously by the door for me to get out of the cold Jeep.
"Guess what! Guess what! We have a Christmas tree!" I gave him my standard "I'm-the-confused-mother" look and he elaborated. My walking buddy, Kim, who knows that money, the very root of all possible evils, is very tight for us and that, so far, a Christmas tree has not been in the cards for the Thicket household, delivered a Christmas tree while I was gone. Now it's here, in my house, waiting to be decorated and loved. I have no idea where she got it, but there it is.
That certainly changes things.
Now I *have* to make Christmas cookies, pull out the Elf DVD and mix up some eggnog.
Heck, we might even string some popcorn garlands.
May your days be merry and bright.
Just breathe
I don't know why I'm awake at 1:30 in the morning, listening to my husband's peaceful breathing as he sleeps this night away.
I don't know why I was awake at 1:30 yesterday morning.
Or 3:30.
Or 5:30.
But I was. And I am. And the only explanation that I can think of is that I'm thinking of too much. Verily, I say unto you, I have a lot on my mind.
Basically, I ache. My body aches, my mind aches. My psyche and my ego and my spirit all ache. And the completely sucky thing about it is that I don't feel that I can really write it all down publicly, that I can tick each thing off, one by one, and explain it so that it makes sense. It doesn't make sense. Instead, I just sit here feeling discouraged, disillusioned and confused. As far as I can figure, I'm sitting here trying to dull the ache that keeps stabbing at me by avoiding everything. Even sleep.
Which is kind of ironic, because for the past two days, I've seen very little reason to even get out of bed. Yesterday, I stayed in my room until 3 o'clock in the afternoon, shuffling back and forth between computer, pillow and blanky, potty, pillow and blanky and computer. At 1 o'clock, my seven-year-old delivered two hot dogs on too-big sub sandwich buns after I begged my sixteen-year-old to make me something. Anything. I wolfed them down greedily and returned to my mind-numbing non-activities.
At 3, I dragged myself out of bed to go to my children's choral concert. I wanted to be there, but I didn't want to go. Fortunately, I dressed. I didn't shower. I didn't really care. I made a lame attempt at straightening my hair, which made me even more depressed. Several times during the evening, I was angered, insulted, offended and hurt. But did I say anything? No. I just ingested it. I think I'll just keep sucking it all down until it boils out of me, exploding like a faulty pressure-cooker, scalding everyone within range. Thank God for my husband, who listened sympathicially to my intolerant snobbery. How did I end up with such a gem? Why did he get such a raw deal?
Today, I stayed in bed until almost 2. I spent a lot of time crying and questioning God. Questioning the very existence of God. If there is a God, and I somehow still think there is, even though I don't think He exists the way we think He exists, I don't think He operates the way we think He operates. He doesn't listen to prayers. Or at least He doesn't answer them. Not mine, anyway. That's coming from me. The eternal optimist. Miss "there-has-to-be-a-way." From the time I was a tadpole, I believed that God would answer my prayers, that He saw the little-girl me kneeling by the window and gazing up at the stars, praying fervently, looking for a sign, even though her own parents never taught her how to pray.
But I never got a pony. And my mother never quit being abusive. And my parents did divorce. And my body still aches. And people still depress me. And...
And I'm thinking a lot of other awful things that I can't say right now. But I can say that I've spent the past couple of weeks feeling pretty discouraged. And I can't even write about it. But I just need to say this one thing aloud.
I'm very unhappy right now.
So if you happened to stumble upon this unhappy piece of writing, and you're very unhappy, too, I can do for you want I can't do for myself. I can hope. And I can pray for you. And I can believe that things are going to get better for you. I really can. Isn't that just certifiably insane? Maybe that's what this whole human-interaction thing is all about, that the very people that you desperately need to lift you up and hold you close against them simply can't do that. They just don't have it in them. But some person, sitting in front of a glowing computer screen on some other contininent, or maybe just in a different house minutes down the road from you, or out in the middle of an African jungle, can pray for your desires, can breath hope into those oxygen-deprived corners of your life. And maybe you'll feel new life, and you won't even know why. But tonight, it's because I'm here, praying for you when I don't know how to pray for myself.
And maybe someone can do the same for me. Maybe tomorrow (today), I'll wake up refreshed, ready to run three miles. Ready to decorate for Christmas. Ready to make cookies, and do laundry, and cook meals, and have conversations with my kids. Maybe, for a moment or two, I'll feel attractive, and I'll feel worthy, and I'll feel like my problems aren't as bad as all that, even though nothing else will have changed. I'll just have fresh oxygen, fresh air in my lungs, from out of nowhere.
All we have to do is keep breathing.
So take a deep breath, my friend. I'm breathing, too.
I don't know why I was awake at 1:30 yesterday morning.
Or 3:30.
Or 5:30.
But I was. And I am. And the only explanation that I can think of is that I'm thinking of too much. Verily, I say unto you, I have a lot on my mind.
Basically, I ache. My body aches, my mind aches. My psyche and my ego and my spirit all ache. And the completely sucky thing about it is that I don't feel that I can really write it all down publicly, that I can tick each thing off, one by one, and explain it so that it makes sense. It doesn't make sense. Instead, I just sit here feeling discouraged, disillusioned and confused. As far as I can figure, I'm sitting here trying to dull the ache that keeps stabbing at me by avoiding everything. Even sleep.
Which is kind of ironic, because for the past two days, I've seen very little reason to even get out of bed. Yesterday, I stayed in my room until 3 o'clock in the afternoon, shuffling back and forth between computer, pillow and blanky, potty, pillow and blanky and computer. At 1 o'clock, my seven-year-old delivered two hot dogs on too-big sub sandwich buns after I begged my sixteen-year-old to make me something. Anything. I wolfed them down greedily and returned to my mind-numbing non-activities.
At 3, I dragged myself out of bed to go to my children's choral concert. I wanted to be there, but I didn't want to go. Fortunately, I dressed. I didn't shower. I didn't really care. I made a lame attempt at straightening my hair, which made me even more depressed. Several times during the evening, I was angered, insulted, offended and hurt. But did I say anything? No. I just ingested it. I think I'll just keep sucking it all down until it boils out of me, exploding like a faulty pressure-cooker, scalding everyone within range. Thank God for my husband, who listened sympathicially to my intolerant snobbery. How did I end up with such a gem? Why did he get such a raw deal?
Today, I stayed in bed until almost 2. I spent a lot of time crying and questioning God. Questioning the very existence of God. If there is a God, and I somehow still think there is, even though I don't think He exists the way we think He exists, I don't think He operates the way we think He operates. He doesn't listen to prayers. Or at least He doesn't answer them. Not mine, anyway. That's coming from me. The eternal optimist. Miss "there-has-to-be-a-way." From the time I was a tadpole, I believed that God would answer my prayers, that He saw the little-girl me kneeling by the window and gazing up at the stars, praying fervently, looking for a sign, even though her own parents never taught her how to pray.
But I never got a pony. And my mother never quit being abusive. And my parents did divorce. And my body still aches. And people still depress me. And...
And I'm thinking a lot of other awful things that I can't say right now. But I can say that I've spent the past couple of weeks feeling pretty discouraged. And I can't even write about it. But I just need to say this one thing aloud.
I'm very unhappy right now.
So if you happened to stumble upon this unhappy piece of writing, and you're very unhappy, too, I can do for you want I can't do for myself. I can hope. And I can pray for you. And I can believe that things are going to get better for you. I really can. Isn't that just certifiably insane? Maybe that's what this whole human-interaction thing is all about, that the very people that you desperately need to lift you up and hold you close against them simply can't do that. They just don't have it in them. But some person, sitting in front of a glowing computer screen on some other contininent, or maybe just in a different house minutes down the road from you, or out in the middle of an African jungle, can pray for your desires, can breath hope into those oxygen-deprived corners of your life. And maybe you'll feel new life, and you won't even know why. But tonight, it's because I'm here, praying for you when I don't know how to pray for myself.
And maybe someone can do the same for me. Maybe tomorrow (today), I'll wake up refreshed, ready to run three miles. Ready to decorate for Christmas. Ready to make cookies, and do laundry, and cook meals, and have conversations with my kids. Maybe, for a moment or two, I'll feel attractive, and I'll feel worthy, and I'll feel like my problems aren't as bad as all that, even though nothing else will have changed. I'll just have fresh oxygen, fresh air in my lungs, from out of nowhere.
All we have to do is keep breathing.
So take a deep breath, my friend. I'm breathing, too.
Japanese IQ Test
Thanks to Rachel, I now know that I can hold a steady job in Japan, because I passed the Japanese IQ Test. Got some time to waste? Here's the best place to do it. :-)
I did solve this puzzle, by the way, so it is possible. Fair enough, it *is* the most brain power I've used all day.
I did solve this puzzle, by the way, so it is possible. Fair enough, it *is* the most brain power I've used all day.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
The Turkeys
It was an experiment, really.
I wanted to see if we could successfully raise turkeys for our Thanksgiving feast. I'm not a big turkey fan myself, but Bo and the children eat it up. For the past several years, we've cooked our Thanksgiving bird on the charcoal grill, a tradition that has served us well. So, while I'd be content with mashed potatoes and homemade cranberry sauce on my plate, I know my family would prefer some meat.
I picked up the turkeys from the grain mill early in the year. I think it was around April. I believe we started with ten or twelve, but we lost a few right away. It seems that turkeys like to die almost immediately after being born, and continue to want to die until they're about six weeks old. After that, killing them is virtually impossible. I let them loose in the barnyard, and off they went, happily devouring everything in sight. They kept most of the bugs out of my garden. Then again, they kept the tomatoes out of my garden, too. Next year, that will need to be remedied.
When people would come to visit and see the large birds waddling around my yard, they would generally make two comments. The first was always in reference to the fate of these beasts.
"Will you eat them for Thanksgiving?"
When I answered affirmatively, there would always be an awe in the response. Sometimes it was a positive awe. "Really? Wow! That's pretty cool!"
Sometimes it was more along the lines of a sympathetic kind of "awwwww...."
"You're really going to kill them and eat them for dinner?" the guest would ask.
"Yup," I would affirm.
"Will you be able to eat them now that they've been your pets?" the guest would ask.
"Yup," I would repeat.
Turkeys, I would tell them, are not exactly pets. Yes, they do get into the dog food occasionally, but that does not make them dogs. Yes, the black lab does chase them fairly often, but that does not make them cats.
Still, to be fair, I did feel that it would be a little difficult to see them go to the Big Platter in the Sky, because I truly did like them. In more than a food relationship kind of way, that is. I enjoyed watching them grow, watching them scamper across the yard, seeing them come when I would call them with a bucketful of goodies, and I was grateful for their apple orchard cleanup duties--devouring all of the falls and the nasty worms along with them.
And that leads me to the second statement people would make about turkeys.
"They're pretty stupid, aren't they?"
I've heard that said, but, honestly, I don't believe it. I tend to think they're more on the trusting and naive side, more calm and tame, more curious and persistent than chickens. I've heard stories of them standing in the rain with their beaks in the air, drowning because they didn't have the sense to keep from doing so.
I never saw that.
What I saw was a group of birds who knew how to find food and water, who knew where to roost at night, who recognized the sound of the garage door opening and made their way quickly to try to get in before it closed so they could raid the dog food dish or all kinds of tasty scraps.
So when the day came to load the five birds into the feed sacks and tote them across town for their Big Day, I did feel a bit sad. I talked to them all the way there, trying to assure them that it would be okay. I don't know who I was trying to kid. I don't think the turkeys bought it.
When it was time to load my feathered friends into the killing cones, I bowed my head and said a prayer of thanks, reminding myself that it's hypocritical to refuse to butcher my own turkeys yet eat or serve inhumanely raised, trash-fed birds that are mass butchered in slaughterhouses after having never seen the light of day. It was hard to watch the lifeblood drain from my turkeys' bodies, puffs of white escaping their nostrils, indicating to me that they were still hanging on in that cold morning air. It reminded me of the snowy winter days when I would test the temperature by sniffing hard, trying to make my own nostrils stick together, forcing hot air from my open mouth to determine whether I could see my breath. As Big Tom breathed his last steamy breaths that morning, I thanked him for his life, and I was grateful that he'd lived a very good one, devouring my tomatoes, swiss chard, green peppers, eggplants and even our carved pumpkins.
Aside from Tom, we butchered four other turkeys that day. Tom was the biggest, weighing in at 20 pounds. The other four, their gray feathers a dark contrast to Tom's whiteness, were each around 17 pounds. I had a hand in every step of their processing, from loading them into the cones, to removing their feathers, to pulling them from the ice water bath and dropping them into their individual bags.
There's a certain maturity that comes when you produce your own food, especially when you raise and butcher your own meat. The mystery is removed. The fear is irradicated. It's not the horribly messy, disgusting process you would imagine it is. It's fairly clean, straightforward and simple. There is a process (thus the term "processing") that everyone in the family, no matter the age, can participate in. You become intimately acquainted with your meal. You become much more grateful for it. You become more aware of what it takes to live, to thrive. I think it may be part of the problem in our culture, part of what's missing. We aren't acquainted with our food anymore.
Tom, being the largest of the turkeys, traveled with us to my inlaws house via a big cooler full of icewater in the back of the minivan. Once there, he became our second Thanksgiving dinner, a small gathering of my parents-in-law, my children, Bo and I. His cavity was filled with fresh herbs, lemons, garlic and onions, and he was basted with apple juice as he browned for hours over indirect heat on the charcoal grill, Bo faithfully tending him all along the way.
The final result? Not bad. It wasn't all I had hoped for, but it wasn't a failure. I think he could have been more flavorful and a bit more tender (sorry, Tom. I still love you), but he was juicy enough. Probably from all of those tomatoes.
I think it was a good experiment. I'll definitely do it again next Spring. Until then, we'll feast on the other four turkeys who are waiting patiently in the freezer for Christmas, Easter and summer picnics.
I think we'll try experimenting with a big, fat piggy next. A freezer full of nitrate-free pork would make my family very, very happy.
It's a simple life. And a very good one at that.
Unless, I suppose, you're a turkey.
I wanted to see if we could successfully raise turkeys for our Thanksgiving feast. I'm not a big turkey fan myself, but Bo and the children eat it up. For the past several years, we've cooked our Thanksgiving bird on the charcoal grill, a tradition that has served us well. So, while I'd be content with mashed potatoes and homemade cranberry sauce on my plate, I know my family would prefer some meat.
I picked up the turkeys from the grain mill early in the year. I think it was around April. I believe we started with ten or twelve, but we lost a few right away. It seems that turkeys like to die almost immediately after being born, and continue to want to die until they're about six weeks old. After that, killing them is virtually impossible. I let them loose in the barnyard, and off they went, happily devouring everything in sight. They kept most of the bugs out of my garden. Then again, they kept the tomatoes out of my garden, too. Next year, that will need to be remedied.
When people would come to visit and see the large birds waddling around my yard, they would generally make two comments. The first was always in reference to the fate of these beasts.
"Will you eat them for Thanksgiving?"
When I answered affirmatively, there would always be an awe in the response. Sometimes it was a positive awe. "Really? Wow! That's pretty cool!"
Sometimes it was more along the lines of a sympathetic kind of "awwwww...."
"You're really going to kill them and eat them for dinner?" the guest would ask.
"Yup," I would affirm.
"Will you be able to eat them now that they've been your pets?" the guest would ask.
"Yup," I would repeat.
Turkeys, I would tell them, are not exactly pets. Yes, they do get into the dog food occasionally, but that does not make them dogs. Yes, the black lab does chase them fairly often, but that does not make them cats.
Still, to be fair, I did feel that it would be a little difficult to see them go to the Big Platter in the Sky, because I truly did like them. In more than a food relationship kind of way, that is. I enjoyed watching them grow, watching them scamper across the yard, seeing them come when I would call them with a bucketful of goodies, and I was grateful for their apple orchard cleanup duties--devouring all of the falls and the nasty worms along with them.
And that leads me to the second statement people would make about turkeys.
"They're pretty stupid, aren't they?"
I've heard that said, but, honestly, I don't believe it. I tend to think they're more on the trusting and naive side, more calm and tame, more curious and persistent than chickens. I've heard stories of them standing in the rain with their beaks in the air, drowning because they didn't have the sense to keep from doing so.
I never saw that.
What I saw was a group of birds who knew how to find food and water, who knew where to roost at night, who recognized the sound of the garage door opening and made their way quickly to try to get in before it closed so they could raid the dog food dish or all kinds of tasty scraps.
So when the day came to load the five birds into the feed sacks and tote them across town for their Big Day, I did feel a bit sad. I talked to them all the way there, trying to assure them that it would be okay. I don't know who I was trying to kid. I don't think the turkeys bought it.
When it was time to load my feathered friends into the killing cones, I bowed my head and said a prayer of thanks, reminding myself that it's hypocritical to refuse to butcher my own turkeys yet eat or serve inhumanely raised, trash-fed birds that are mass butchered in slaughterhouses after having never seen the light of day. It was hard to watch the lifeblood drain from my turkeys' bodies, puffs of white escaping their nostrils, indicating to me that they were still hanging on in that cold morning air. It reminded me of the snowy winter days when I would test the temperature by sniffing hard, trying to make my own nostrils stick together, forcing hot air from my open mouth to determine whether I could see my breath. As Big Tom breathed his last steamy breaths that morning, I thanked him for his life, and I was grateful that he'd lived a very good one, devouring my tomatoes, swiss chard, green peppers, eggplants and even our carved pumpkins.
Aside from Tom, we butchered four other turkeys that day. Tom was the biggest, weighing in at 20 pounds. The other four, their gray feathers a dark contrast to Tom's whiteness, were each around 17 pounds. I had a hand in every step of their processing, from loading them into the cones, to removing their feathers, to pulling them from the ice water bath and dropping them into their individual bags.
There's a certain maturity that comes when you produce your own food, especially when you raise and butcher your own meat. The mystery is removed. The fear is irradicated. It's not the horribly messy, disgusting process you would imagine it is. It's fairly clean, straightforward and simple. There is a process (thus the term "processing") that everyone in the family, no matter the age, can participate in. You become intimately acquainted with your meal. You become much more grateful for it. You become more aware of what it takes to live, to thrive. I think it may be part of the problem in our culture, part of what's missing. We aren't acquainted with our food anymore.
Tom, being the largest of the turkeys, traveled with us to my inlaws house via a big cooler full of icewater in the back of the minivan. Once there, he became our second Thanksgiving dinner, a small gathering of my parents-in-law, my children, Bo and I. His cavity was filled with fresh herbs, lemons, garlic and onions, and he was basted with apple juice as he browned for hours over indirect heat on the charcoal grill, Bo faithfully tending him all along the way.
The final result? Not bad. It wasn't all I had hoped for, but it wasn't a failure. I think he could have been more flavorful and a bit more tender (sorry, Tom. I still love you), but he was juicy enough. Probably from all of those tomatoes.
I think it was a good experiment. I'll definitely do it again next Spring. Until then, we'll feast on the other four turkeys who are waiting patiently in the freezer for Christmas, Easter and summer picnics.
I think we'll try experimenting with a big, fat piggy next. A freezer full of nitrate-free pork would make my family very, very happy.
It's a simple life. And a very good one at that.
Unless, I suppose, you're a turkey.
Eggnog
We just returned from our grocery outing, and I was pleased to find this recipe in my inbox. I've been buying eggnog from a local whole-milk dairy (not homogenized but still pasteurized) and wanted to make my own eggnog using raw milk. My friend Kathy is a big raw milk and slow foods advocate, so I knew that if I asked her for an eggnog recipe, she'd have one. And, as I expected, she delivered. Very timely, since we just loaded eight gallon jars of milky white goodness into our fridge.
Kathy writes: "We lapped up my Dad's Eggnog for years on Christmas Eve until we heard about raw egg scares in the 80's. Then cholesterol aversion.....sigh....
I missed it so that when our family was young, I even made a tofu version in our vegan days!!
What goes around comes around..now I confidently make it as a special Christmas treasure for our immediate family and others. Naturally-raised farm fresh ingredients give me assurance that I am giving a wholesome food, as well as a treat to my family. It's a Good Life."
Dad's Eggnog
Beat 6 egg whites stiff.
Gradually add 3/4 C sugar to whites.
Beat 6 egg yolks till thick and lemony. Fold into egg whites.
Add:
1 pint of cream
1 pint of milk (can add more milk for thinner eggnog)
brandy or flavoring to taste
Liberal dashes of nutmeg in each glass
Makes 15 servings
Kathy writes: "We lapped up my Dad's Eggnog for years on Christmas Eve until we heard about raw egg scares in the 80's. Then cholesterol aversion.....sigh....
I missed it so that when our family was young, I even made a tofu version in our vegan days!!
What goes around comes around..now I confidently make it as a special Christmas treasure for our immediate family and others. Naturally-raised farm fresh ingredients give me assurance that I am giving a wholesome food, as well as a treat to my family. It's a Good Life."
Dad's Eggnog
Beat 6 egg whites stiff.
Gradually add 3/4 C sugar to whites.
Beat 6 egg yolks till thick and lemony. Fold into egg whites.
Add:
1 pint of cream
1 pint of milk (can add more milk for thinner eggnog)
brandy or flavoring to taste
Liberal dashes of nutmeg in each glass
Makes 15 servings
Bard's Choir
Bard's touring choir travels both nationally and internationally, singing for and exploring other cultures. This photo is from last night's holiday concert. Bard is in the top row, first from the right. 
Sweetheart's choir
Here's Sweetheart's choir, the youngest group out of the entire society. Sweetheart is in the second row, fourth from the right. This is her first year in the choral society's children's choir.
The Wal-Mart You Don't Know
This article may make you think twice before shopping at Wal*Mart. I fear that someday, if we aren't careful, companies like Wal*Mart may completely decide what we use, wear and eat.
A Christmas Story House
A Christmas Story House is open for tours! The Ohio house used in the movie A Christmas Story has been restored to it's movie glory, complete with leg lamp. I'm so lucky to live in Ohio. :-)
Friday, December 01, 2006
Running progress
When I looked out the window this morning, I knew I was going to have to make a choice. Yesterday, I'd made plans with my walking partner, Kim, to do the Couch Potato to 5K routine, and this morning, it was raining. A quick check of the forecast told me that the rain would increase and the winds were going to be gusting mightily. Not the best day for running. But I decided I wanted to do it anyway.
I called Kim.
"I figured it would be you," she said. We talked about the rain, and I said I'd like to just go ahead and do it, that I had to travel into town, where we walk, anyway, and it was only a half-hour of getting wet. Why not?
So we met, and I felt ready, though my legs and a few other muscles were still pretty sore from my jogging stint Wednesday morning. We walked for five minutes, then we jogged for sixty seconds...and then, I just couldn't get my breath back. I felt like I was going to vomit. I don't know why, but I just couldn't get my body to cooperate. We walked our prescribed ninety seconds, Kim strolling beside me, not even breathing hard, and at the end of ninety seconds, I still hadn't regained control of my breathing. But we set off, and I ran another sixty seconds. It was awful, and then it was even more difficult for me to get my breathing back to a steady rate.
So we decided to just walk, and I was glad for that, but I felt badly for dragging Kim out to the trail under false pretenses. The rain was really coming down, and I'd abandonned my raincoat hood, so my hair was sticking to my head in heavy, cold ringlets. Time to get a bob.
We walked out usual distance, and then we started back. At one point, she asked if I wanted to try jogging again, so we did, and this time, it was really a breeze. I don't know what the difference was, but I was glad I did it. I'm disappointed that I didn't do the whole routine, but I'm glad I got out and ran.
One of the things I love most about walking with Kim is the conversation. We always end up talking about something good, whether it's books, movies, relationships, religion, politics, whatever. And I don't feel judged or threatened or bothered by our conversations (except that I think I tend to dominate and talk to much. Who knew?), so even though we didn't run, I was blessed by her presence and our discussions.
We plan to try again tomorrow. I think I may just have to stick to the walking, because my legs are still trying to recover from my first day of running, and I'm sporting two pretty new blisters, one on each foot.
It sure was easier putting all this weight on.
I called Kim.
"I figured it would be you," she said. We talked about the rain, and I said I'd like to just go ahead and do it, that I had to travel into town, where we walk, anyway, and it was only a half-hour of getting wet. Why not?
So we met, and I felt ready, though my legs and a few other muscles were still pretty sore from my jogging stint Wednesday morning. We walked for five minutes, then we jogged for sixty seconds...and then, I just couldn't get my breath back. I felt like I was going to vomit. I don't know why, but I just couldn't get my body to cooperate. We walked our prescribed ninety seconds, Kim strolling beside me, not even breathing hard, and at the end of ninety seconds, I still hadn't regained control of my breathing. But we set off, and I ran another sixty seconds. It was awful, and then it was even more difficult for me to get my breathing back to a steady rate.
So we decided to just walk, and I was glad for that, but I felt badly for dragging Kim out to the trail under false pretenses. The rain was really coming down, and I'd abandonned my raincoat hood, so my hair was sticking to my head in heavy, cold ringlets. Time to get a bob.
We walked out usual distance, and then we started back. At one point, she asked if I wanted to try jogging again, so we did, and this time, it was really a breeze. I don't know what the difference was, but I was glad I did it. I'm disappointed that I didn't do the whole routine, but I'm glad I got out and ran.
One of the things I love most about walking with Kim is the conversation. We always end up talking about something good, whether it's books, movies, relationships, religion, politics, whatever. And I don't feel judged or threatened or bothered by our conversations (except that I think I tend to dominate and talk to much. Who knew?), so even though we didn't run, I was blessed by her presence and our discussions.
We plan to try again tomorrow. I think I may just have to stick to the walking, because my legs are still trying to recover from my first day of running, and I'm sporting two pretty new blisters, one on each foot.
It sure was easier putting all this weight on.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Getting Fit
For the past six weeks or so, I've been walking two to three times a week with Kim, my walking buddy and new good friend. I've been so blessed by our time together, and have seen a difference in my body as well as my energy level. We walk about three miles a couple of times a week. It feels good to get out and get exercise, to look in the mirror and know that things are getting *better,* that they're firming up instead of sagging down.
While in Chicago over the Thanksgiving holiday, my husband Bo's family along with all of the inlaws and grandchildren took our traditional Turkey Walk. We begin early, rousted from our beds by my father-in-laws incessant gobbling, his imitation of a sick turkey, and take a brisk Thanksgiving morning stroll through one of my inlaws local parks.
This year, there was a run being held at the same park where we were walking.
As I watched these runners pass us, and watched them cross the finish line, saw their fit, lithe bodies pushing themselves to complete a physical goal, I was inspired.
So, this morning, I decided to begin training for a 5K.
Yes, I, who hasn't run since high school track, am making a commitment to begin a regular running routine.
This morning, in the rain (see how dedicated I am?), I began the Couch Potato to 5K training program.
And I survived.
Actually, I more than survived. I feel great. Yes, it was work, even though it's supposed to be the very, very simple first week, but I'm so glad I did it. I just hope I can oust myself from bed on Saturday morning to do it again. Kim and I walk on Friday morning, so I'll still get my walk in, but I don't want to push too hard, so I'll wait until Saturday to do the 5K program again.
The jogging was hard. I found that, after I got to about 45 seconds of jogging, I was dying, looking habitually at my stopwatch at just that time and every few seconds afterwards until I got to sixty seconds. A minute and a half was just enough time to get my breathing back to steady.
It's supposed to take about 8 weeks to complete the program. That means by the end of January, I should be regularly running three miles, three times a week.
I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, here's the first four weeks' training schedule:
Week One:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk. Then alternate 60 seconds of jogging and 90 seconds of walking for a total of 20 minutes.
Week Two:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk. Then alternate 90 seconds of jogging and two minutes of walking for a total of 20 minutes.
Week Three:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then do two repetitions of the following:
Jog 200 yards (or 90 seconds)
Walk 200 yards (or 90 seconds)
Jog 400 yards (or 3 minutes)
Walk 400 yards (or three minutes)
Week Four:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then:
Jog 1/4 mile (or 3 minutes)
Walk 1/8 mile (or 90 seconds)
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)
Walk 1/4 mile (or 2-1/2 minutes)
Jog 1/4 mile (or 3 minutes)
Walk 1/8 mile (or 90 seconds)
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)
While in Chicago over the Thanksgiving holiday, my husband Bo's family along with all of the inlaws and grandchildren took our traditional Turkey Walk. We begin early, rousted from our beds by my father-in-laws incessant gobbling, his imitation of a sick turkey, and take a brisk Thanksgiving morning stroll through one of my inlaws local parks.
This year, there was a run being held at the same park where we were walking.
As I watched these runners pass us, and watched them cross the finish line, saw their fit, lithe bodies pushing themselves to complete a physical goal, I was inspired.
So, this morning, I decided to begin training for a 5K.
Yes, I, who hasn't run since high school track, am making a commitment to begin a regular running routine.
This morning, in the rain (see how dedicated I am?), I began the Couch Potato to 5K training program.
And I survived.
Actually, I more than survived. I feel great. Yes, it was work, even though it's supposed to be the very, very simple first week, but I'm so glad I did it. I just hope I can oust myself from bed on Saturday morning to do it again. Kim and I walk on Friday morning, so I'll still get my walk in, but I don't want to push too hard, so I'll wait until Saturday to do the 5K program again.
The jogging was hard. I found that, after I got to about 45 seconds of jogging, I was dying, looking habitually at my stopwatch at just that time and every few seconds afterwards until I got to sixty seconds. A minute and a half was just enough time to get my breathing back to steady.
It's supposed to take about 8 weeks to complete the program. That means by the end of January, I should be regularly running three miles, three times a week.
I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, here's the first four weeks' training schedule:
Week One:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk. Then alternate 60 seconds of jogging and 90 seconds of walking for a total of 20 minutes.
Week Two:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk. Then alternate 90 seconds of jogging and two minutes of walking for a total of 20 minutes.
Week Three:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then do two repetitions of the following:
Jog 200 yards (or 90 seconds)
Walk 200 yards (or 90 seconds)
Jog 400 yards (or 3 minutes)
Walk 400 yards (or three minutes)
Week Four:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then:
Jog 1/4 mile (or 3 minutes)
Walk 1/8 mile (or 90 seconds)
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)
Walk 1/4 mile (or 2-1/2 minutes)
Jog 1/4 mile (or 3 minutes)
Walk 1/8 mile (or 90 seconds)
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
I 'm Spring
| You Belong in Spring |
 Optimistic, lively, and almost always happy with the world... You can truly appreciate the blooming nature of spring. Whether you're planting flowers or dyeing Easter eggs, spring is definitely your season! |
Descending
Here are Bo, the Baby and I coming back down from the dune. It's much easier than going up.
At the Dunes
As part of our Thanksgiving holiday, we spent a portion of the day at Mt. Baldy, a dune on Lake Michigan. One of the fun parts (after climbing the dune itself, which *wasn't* a fun part), was watching the guys take running leaps off the edge of the dune. Here, we see Houdin and my sister-in-law Li'l Sis's boyfriend, A.B. taking long jumps off the edge.
Monday, November 27, 2006
After Turkeyday Feast
One of our favorite Thanksgiving traditions is to make Turkey Carcass Soup. First of all, I just love the name. It sounds so...barbaric and medieval. Secondly, it's absolutely delicious and feels very resourceful to use all of the turkey this way. I got this recipe from Jane Brody's Good Food Cookbook, one of my all-time favorites.
Add a loaf of homemade bread, and you've got yourself a meal.
Turkey Carcass Soup
Stock:
Turkey carcass, broken into pieces
Any defatted pan juices or leftover gravy
12 cups of water, or enough to cover the carcass completely
2 medium onions, coarsely chopped
2 ribs of celery with leaves, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup diced carrots
1/2 cup diced well-washed leek (optional)
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp. salt, if desired
Bouquet garni, made by tying in cheesecloth:
6 sprigs fresh parsley (or 2 tsp. dried parsley flakes)
1/2 tsp. dried thyme leaves
1 bay leaf
Soup:
1/2 onion, finely copped
2 - 3 cloves minced garlic
1 tbsp. olive oil
1 cup diced carrots
1/2 cup diced celery
1 1/2 tbsp. flour
6 - 7 cups turkey stock
1 tsp. dried marjoram
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
1/3 cup raw barley or rice
1 cup diced turkey meat
Hot pepper sauce, to taste (optional)
2 tbsp. chopped parsley or chives
For the stock, combine all the ingredients in a large stock pot, bring the stock to a boil and simmer it, partially covered for 2 to 3 hours. (It tastes better the longer it simmers, but be careful not to cook away the liquid.)
Strain the stock; cool, then skim off the fat.
Remove all of the meat from the bones and refrigerate for adding to the soup later. Discard other vegetables, bones, turkey skin, etc. Makes 10 - 12 cups.
To make the soup, in a large stockpot saute the onion and garlic in oil until soft. Add the carrots and celery and mushrooms and cook the vegetables for an additional 5 minutes. Stir occasionally.
Add the flour and stir for one minute.
Add the stock, marjoram, salt and pepper, and barley or rice. Bring the soup to a boil, reduce heat, partially cover the pot, and simmer the soup for about 1 hour. Add the turkey meat and hot pepper sauce. Adjust seasonings, and heat the soup to boiling. Sprinkle the soup with parsley just before serving. Serves 6 - 8.
From "Jane Brody's Good Food Book," Jane Brody
Add a loaf of homemade bread, and you've got yourself a meal.
Turkey Carcass Soup
Stock:
Turkey carcass, broken into pieces
Any defatted pan juices or leftover gravy
12 cups of water, or enough to cover the carcass completely
2 medium onions, coarsely chopped
2 ribs of celery with leaves, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup diced carrots
1/2 cup diced well-washed leek (optional)
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp. salt, if desired
Bouquet garni, made by tying in cheesecloth:
6 sprigs fresh parsley (or 2 tsp. dried parsley flakes)
1/2 tsp. dried thyme leaves
1 bay leaf
Soup:
1/2 onion, finely copped
2 - 3 cloves minced garlic
1 tbsp. olive oil
1 cup diced carrots
1/2 cup diced celery
1 1/2 tbsp. flour
6 - 7 cups turkey stock
1 tsp. dried marjoram
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
1/3 cup raw barley or rice
1 cup diced turkey meat
Hot pepper sauce, to taste (optional)
2 tbsp. chopped parsley or chives
For the stock, combine all the ingredients in a large stock pot, bring the stock to a boil and simmer it, partially covered for 2 to 3 hours. (It tastes better the longer it simmers, but be careful not to cook away the liquid.)
Strain the stock; cool, then skim off the fat.
Remove all of the meat from the bones and refrigerate for adding to the soup later. Discard other vegetables, bones, turkey skin, etc. Makes 10 - 12 cups.
To make the soup, in a large stockpot saute the onion and garlic in oil until soft. Add the carrots and celery and mushrooms and cook the vegetables for an additional 5 minutes. Stir occasionally.
Add the flour and stir for one minute.
Add the stock, marjoram, salt and pepper, and barley or rice. Bring the soup to a boil, reduce heat, partially cover the pot, and simmer the soup for about 1 hour. Add the turkey meat and hot pepper sauce. Adjust seasonings, and heat the soup to boiling. Sprinkle the soup with parsley just before serving. Serves 6 - 8.
From "Jane Brody's Good Food Book," Jane Brody
Sunday, November 26, 2006
"No Blood"
These are the "outlaws." Whenever we gather for a family photo at my in-laws house, there inevitably comes the "blood only" shot, where only those who are in the family bloodline are in the photo. My sister-in-law, G, (to the left) suggested this "no blood" shot of the inlaws (or "outlaws"). When we took it, we were surprised to realize that there are only four of us!
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
We have something in common, then
"I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day." -- E.B. White
Monday, November 20, 2006
The ABC Thingy
Got this from Firefly who got it from Equuschick
*A- Favourite Animals: Dogs, goats and chickens
*B- Favourite Bad Habit: (You know, that one that you like too much to even try to break. You like being addicted.) E-mail, thrift shopping. I'm addicted to both
*C- Favourite Cookie: Warm, fresh-from-the oven chocolate chip.
*D- Favourite Drink: Mint iced tea with mint from my very own mint garden.
*E-Favourite Egg Style: As a quiche (see below) or mixed with sour cream and chives, then scrambled.
*F- Five Favourite Fiction Books: Life of Pi by Yann Martell, Peace Like a River by Leif Unger, Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, Ladder of Years by Anne Tyler, Midwives by Chris Bojhalian
*G-Favourite Gadget: Bard's iPod.
*H- Favourite Hymn: I don't know if it's my favorite, but today I'm singing Come Thy Fount
*I- Favourite Ice Cream: This is very hard. I think it's currently Haagen-Dazs Dulce de Leche.
*J- Favourite Jam: A musical one. Preferably old-time music. :-) Oh! You meant the kind you EAT! Either red currant or strawberry-rhubarb.
*K-Favourite Kid's Books: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeliene L'Engle; Stinky Cheese Man by Jon Scieska; Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snickett; Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling; Mandy by Julie Andrews Edwards; Boxcar Children by Gertrude Chandler Warner; The Chronicles, of course; Winnie the Pooh by A.A. Milne; Little House Books by Laura Ingalls Wilder; Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll; Ring Lardner; Langston Hughes.
*L-Favourite Love Song: I have too many. Your Song by Elton John, Kindness by David Wilcox, Song of Songs by Pierce Pettis (who will be playing a houseconcert for us in March), Sara Smile, which my dear Bo sings to me, even though my name's not Sara.
*M-Favourite Memories: I sat last week and watched Bo play with the girls. The sunlight was filtering through the windows as it set behind our house, and the girls' blond hair was backlit and beautiful. I cried. Watching my kids and/or my husband play instruments or sing. Sitting in my piano room watching the various performers play--Jake Armerding, Jason Harrod, D-Squared, etc. Looking into my infant son's eyes and watching him look back. Building our house. Lighting a real Christmas tree at the cabin with real candles.
*N-Favourite Nonfiction Books: My Life and Hard Times by James Thurber; Traveling Mercies by Ann Lamott; Circle of Quiet by Madeline L'Engle; James Herriot books; Anything about midwifery; John Holt books; How to Write Your Own Low-Cost, No-Cost Curriculum by Bjorg Hendrickson; The Kon Tiki Expedition by...somebody. Thor Heeganthal or something?
*O-Favourite Operatic Song: Not a clue in the world.
*P-Favourite Piece of Music at the moment: Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen
*Q-Favourite Quiet Spot: The cabin
*R-Favourite Reading when you're sick: Anything Bo will read to me.
*S-Favourite Song that you want played at your funeral:
Fall Away
from the album Into the Mystery
Everything I knew
Falls away
All the shining lights and music
Will not stay
Everything I do
Falls away
All the songs that I remember
Will not play
When my time is through
Call my name
Show the way to sweet surrender
Help me say
Everything but You
Everything but You
Everything but You
Fall away
© David Wilcox, all rights reserved
AND
Everywhere
from the album Vista
Everywhere:
(Wayne Kirkpatrick and J.D. Martin)
Tonight I call out your name
And thought of you is carried on the wind
It echoes through the canyon like a train
Winding back home to me again
I can almost touch your face
I know you never went away
Everywhere I go
I can feel you
All around me
In the sunrise
In the moonlight
I breathe you in like the air
You're everywhere
I walk through the forest green
Far from all the chaos and the noise
And the river she sang to me
I could swear it sounded like your voice
There to comfort me
Soothing as a gentle breeze
Everywhere I go
I can feel you
All around me
In the sunrise
In the moonlight
I breathe you in like the air
You're everywhere
Everywhere I go
I can feel you
All around me
In the sunrise
In the moonlight
I breathe you in like the air
Oh, I breath you in like the air
You're everywhere
© 2000 Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. (BMI), Sell The Cow Music (BMI), WB Music Corp. (ASCAP) & Lillywilly Music (ASCAP) All rights on behalf of Sell The Cow Music administered by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. (BMI) All rights on behalf of Lillywilly Music administered by WB Music Corp. (ASCAP)
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
AND
Kindness
from the album Turning Point
I love your sense of humor
I love to see you smile
I love your sense of balance
I love your sense of time
I love your music in the morning
Your rhythm in the night
But it's your kindness
Thatshines so bright
Yes I love your beauty
I love your sexy moves
But more I love your honesty
You always tell the truth
I love your vision of the future
Your hope that never dies
But it's your kindness that clears my skies
Yes I love your wisdom
Your knowledge of the past
Your willingness to listen
And taste for what will last
Your compassion for the suffering
And your solid happiness
But it's your kindness that I love best
I love...
I love...
I love...
©1997 Midnight Ocean Bonfire Music/Nine-Ten Music,
a division of Soroka Music Ltd. (BMI)
All Rights Reserved/International Copyright Secured
*T-Favourite Task: Lighting candles, folding clean laundry
*U- Favourite Ugly Animal: (Can you think of a better question for u?) Opossum
*V-Favourite Vintage Book: Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare. Old, old, old leather-bound copy.
*W-Favourite Writing of C.S Lewis: The Great Divorce, That Hideous Strength
*X-Favourite Word That Starts with X, Because The Equuschick Couldn't think of Any But xylophone: xerography
*Z-Favourite Zoo: Cleveland...it's the only one I've been to, I think.
*A- Favourite Animals: Dogs, goats and chickens
*B- Favourite Bad Habit: (You know, that one that you like too much to even try to break. You like being addicted.) E-mail, thrift shopping. I'm addicted to both
*C- Favourite Cookie: Warm, fresh-from-the oven chocolate chip.
*D- Favourite Drink: Mint iced tea with mint from my very own mint garden.
*E-Favourite Egg Style: As a quiche (see below) or mixed with sour cream and chives, then scrambled.
*F- Five Favourite Fiction Books: Life of Pi by Yann Martell, Peace Like a River by Leif Unger, Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, Ladder of Years by Anne Tyler, Midwives by Chris Bojhalian
*G-Favourite Gadget: Bard's iPod.
*H- Favourite Hymn: I don't know if it's my favorite, but today I'm singing Come Thy Fount
*I- Favourite Ice Cream: This is very hard. I think it's currently Haagen-Dazs Dulce de Leche.
*J- Favourite Jam: A musical one. Preferably old-time music. :-) Oh! You meant the kind you EAT! Either red currant or strawberry-rhubarb.
*K-Favourite Kid's Books: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeliene L'Engle; Stinky Cheese Man by Jon Scieska; Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snickett; Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling; Mandy by Julie Andrews Edwards; Boxcar Children by Gertrude Chandler Warner; The Chronicles, of course; Winnie the Pooh by A.A. Milne; Little House Books by Laura Ingalls Wilder; Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll; Ring Lardner; Langston Hughes.
*L-Favourite Love Song: I have too many. Your Song by Elton John, Kindness by David Wilcox, Song of Songs by Pierce Pettis (who will be playing a houseconcert for us in March), Sara Smile, which my dear Bo sings to me, even though my name's not Sara.
*M-Favourite Memories: I sat last week and watched Bo play with the girls. The sunlight was filtering through the windows as it set behind our house, and the girls' blond hair was backlit and beautiful. I cried. Watching my kids and/or my husband play instruments or sing. Sitting in my piano room watching the various performers play--Jake Armerding, Jason Harrod, D-Squared, etc. Looking into my infant son's eyes and watching him look back. Building our house. Lighting a real Christmas tree at the cabin with real candles.
*N-Favourite Nonfiction Books: My Life and Hard Times by James Thurber; Traveling Mercies by Ann Lamott; Circle of Quiet by Madeline L'Engle; James Herriot books; Anything about midwifery; John Holt books; How to Write Your Own Low-Cost, No-Cost Curriculum by Bjorg Hendrickson; The Kon Tiki Expedition by...somebody. Thor Heeganthal or something?
*O-Favourite Operatic Song: Not a clue in the world.
*P-Favourite Piece of Music at the moment: Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen
*Q-Favourite Quiet Spot: The cabin
*R-Favourite Reading when you're sick: Anything Bo will read to me.
*S-Favourite Song that you want played at your funeral:
Fall Away
from the album Into the Mystery
Everything I knew
Falls away
All the shining lights and music
Will not stay
Everything I do
Falls away
All the songs that I remember
Will not play
When my time is through
Call my name
Show the way to sweet surrender
Help me say
Everything but You
Everything but You
Everything but You
Fall away
© David Wilcox, all rights reserved
AND
Everywhere
from the album Vista
Everywhere:
(Wayne Kirkpatrick and J.D. Martin)
Tonight I call out your name
And thought of you is carried on the wind
It echoes through the canyon like a train
Winding back home to me again
I can almost touch your face
I know you never went away
Everywhere I go
I can feel you
All around me
In the sunrise
In the moonlight
I breathe you in like the air
You're everywhere
I walk through the forest green
Far from all the chaos and the noise
And the river she sang to me
I could swear it sounded like your voice
There to comfort me
Soothing as a gentle breeze
Everywhere I go
I can feel you
All around me
In the sunrise
In the moonlight
I breathe you in like the air
You're everywhere
Everywhere I go
I can feel you
All around me
In the sunrise
In the moonlight
I breathe you in like the air
Oh, I breath you in like the air
You're everywhere
© 2000 Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. (BMI), Sell The Cow Music (BMI), WB Music Corp. (ASCAP) & Lillywilly Music (ASCAP) All rights on behalf of Sell The Cow Music administered by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. (BMI) All rights on behalf of Lillywilly Music administered by WB Music Corp. (ASCAP)
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
AND
Kindness
from the album Turning Point
I love your sense of humor
I love to see you smile
I love your sense of balance
I love your sense of time
I love your music in the morning
Your rhythm in the night
But it's your kindness
Thatshines so bright
Yes I love your beauty
I love your sexy moves
But more I love your honesty
You always tell the truth
I love your vision of the future
Your hope that never dies
But it's your kindness that clears my skies
Yes I love your wisdom
Your knowledge of the past
Your willingness to listen
And taste for what will last
Your compassion for the suffering
And your solid happiness
But it's your kindness that I love best
I love...
I love...
I love...
©1997 Midnight Ocean Bonfire Music/Nine-Ten Music,
a division of Soroka Music Ltd. (BMI)
All Rights Reserved/International Copyright Secured
*T-Favourite Task: Lighting candles, folding clean laundry
*U- Favourite Ugly Animal: (Can you think of a better question for u?) Opossum
*V-Favourite Vintage Book: Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare. Old, old, old leather-bound copy.
*W-Favourite Writing of C.S Lewis: The Great Divorce, That Hideous Strength
*X-Favourite Word That Starts with X, Because The Equuschick Couldn't think of Any But xylophone: xerography
*Z-Favourite Zoo: Cleveland...it's the only one I've been to, I think.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Daily recap/capper
Since we have another VERY EXCITING houseconcert coming up (this one with fiddle and mandolin wiz, Jake Armerding), today was a kind of get-ready day. Bo and I did some shopping, first to the local thrift store.
I had kind of started losing faith in the thrift store, because their book prices have recently increased. Kind of a bummer. I used to go in and buy a stack of books for our schooling for .50 and .25 each, and now they're individually marked. There was a Shakespeare that I've really wanted, and it was marked $3.00. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I passed up an annotated Sherlock Holmes set because I only had a few quarters in my pocket, and they were a dollar apiece. So I don't go out with armloads of books like I used to, but I still do get to find treasures now and then.
Today, I found a lamp for Monet's room. It was a little more than I wanted to pay, but he's been asking for one, and we likely won't do Christmas gifts this year, with the exception of whatever I can thrift. He needs the lamp now, so I didn't wait. I also found a little alarm clock that will be very nice for us. We're currently sharing one between us all! If someone needs an alarm clock, we unplug and reset. This is a cute little vintage wind-up clock, so no unplugging is necessary, no resetting. Nice.
But the real bargain was this: a bottle capper! We've been trying to get things together to make our own sodas--ginger brew, root beer, apple brew, whatever. I have the bottles, which were donated to me by a friend, but I didn't have the capper. While talking to a friend who works at the thrift store, I happened to catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye, and it was ...a bottle capper! At $4, it wasn't much cheaper than eBay, which has one just like it for $4.99, but I saved on shipping, though the caps are included in the one on eBay. I can't wait to get some caps and start brewing!
Actually, the realio trulio bargain was 10 gallons of whole milk, and I do mean whole, whole, whole. I love watching Bo fill the bottles from the great big tank, loading them into the car, filling up my fridge, straining the cream off the top, drinking very , very yummy organic, raw milk, complete with all of the bacteria our bodies need to fight the nasty allergies our culture has begun developing since we started pasteurizing everything.
We spent the evening making homemade potato chips, playing various instruments--Bard played piano very nicely, and working with Flash animation (that's Monet's new thing, given to us by a friend).
Oh! And I had fun perusing through my stack of Country Living and Country Home magazines that I got for .10 a piece at the thrift. Excellent! Lots of great ideas.
In the morning, we will be visiting a new church with friends. I'm really looking forward to this new experience.
And with that, it's time for bed. Bless your socks, friend!
I had kind of started losing faith in the thrift store, because their book prices have recently increased. Kind of a bummer. I used to go in and buy a stack of books for our schooling for .50 and .25 each, and now they're individually marked. There was a Shakespeare that I've really wanted, and it was marked $3.00. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I passed up an annotated Sherlock Holmes set because I only had a few quarters in my pocket, and they were a dollar apiece. So I don't go out with armloads of books like I used to, but I still do get to find treasures now and then.
Today, I found a lamp for Monet's room. It was a little more than I wanted to pay, but he's been asking for one, and we likely won't do Christmas gifts this year, with the exception of whatever I can thrift. He needs the lamp now, so I didn't wait. I also found a little alarm clock that will be very nice for us. We're currently sharing one between us all! If someone needs an alarm clock, we unplug and reset. This is a cute little vintage wind-up clock, so no unplugging is necessary, no resetting. Nice.
But the real bargain was this: a bottle capper! We've been trying to get things together to make our own sodas--ginger brew, root beer, apple brew, whatever. I have the bottles, which were donated to me by a friend, but I didn't have the capper. While talking to a friend who works at the thrift store, I happened to catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye, and it was ...a bottle capper! At $4, it wasn't much cheaper than eBay, which has one just like it for $4.99, but I saved on shipping, though the caps are included in the one on eBay. I can't wait to get some caps and start brewing!
Actually, the realio trulio bargain was 10 gallons of whole milk, and I do mean whole, whole, whole. I love watching Bo fill the bottles from the great big tank, loading them into the car, filling up my fridge, straining the cream off the top, drinking very , very yummy organic, raw milk, complete with all of the bacteria our bodies need to fight the nasty allergies our culture has begun developing since we started pasteurizing everything.
We spent the evening making homemade potato chips, playing various instruments--Bard played piano very nicely, and working with Flash animation (that's Monet's new thing, given to us by a friend).
Oh! And I had fun perusing through my stack of Country Living and Country Home magazines that I got for .10 a piece at the thrift. Excellent! Lots of great ideas.
In the morning, we will be visiting a new church with friends. I'm really looking forward to this new experience.
And with that, it's time for bed. Bless your socks, friend!
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Stranger than Stranger than Fiction
It's not like I try to find metaphors in mainstream films.Okay, maybe I do.
But some of them just jump out at me. Like when I saw Lady in the Water. The metaphors just mobbed me right and left. I tried to just watch the nice little fairy tale, but it was useless. All I could see was how the metaphor either worked or it didn't. It's kinda like solving a puzzle.
You wouldn't think I'd get attacked by a metaphor during a Will Ferrell movie, but I did. Nuts, ain't it?
Tonight, Bo took me to see Stranger Than Fiction with the aforementioned Ferrell, Emma Thompson, Maggie Gyllenhaal and Dustin Hoffman. I was simply expecting the regular funniness of Ferrell, my favorite Elf. And, in many ways, it was.
But in other ways, it wasn't.
I seem to be more prone to attacks by religious metaphors than any. STF was no exception. I couldn't help seeing the Messianic symbols: Emma Thompson as God (Ha! Can you imagine that?!?); Dustin Hoffman as John the Baptist, complete with prophecies and water baptism (he was the volunteer lifeguard at his academic center), and Will Ferrell as the Messiah character, knowing that he will die, asking--begging, even--that this cup would pass by him, yet in the end accepting that he must sacrifice his life to save another.
What can I say? It's not my fault. It's like a strange, uninvited gift. :-/
It didn't help that Emma Thompson spoke the line (and I paraphrase), "Here's a man who knows that he's going to die and has the power to stop it, yet he chooses not to. Isn't that the kind of guy you want to keep around?"
The movie kept me entertained, with the quirky cinematography, Will Ferrell's funniness, the intriguing plotline and Emma Thompson's role as a slightly touched author in conflict with herself and her main character. There were some flaws in the logic, some decent-sized plot-holes, but it was, for the most part, well-written.
I have no idea if the writers really intended the Messiah metaphor, and you probably won't see it at all.
But if you do, let me know. You may have that uninvited gift, too. Maybe we can form a club or something.
I give the movie four stars. ****
Friday, November 10, 2006
Beautiful
This is what "beautiful" means to me. I look at this photo of Bard from last year, and I'm just struck with the beauty. Does she believe it? No. She questions herself constantly.And I understand, because I question myself, too.
I was talking to a friend of mine this morning about daughters, about how much they question their worth and their beauty. "We all want to be worshipped," she said. I think there's some truth to that. It's frustrating to be a mom, to see your child do well at something, to see her loveliness and yet hear her doubt. Where does it come from? When does it go?
I know it hasn't gone from me. Not a day goes by that I don't criticize my appearance, aloud or silently, and wish that I could change "just this thing."
Yet I know that changing "just that thing" wouldn't make me happy.
Today, I pray for my daughters, and your daughters, and for you, daughters, that you'll see yourselves the way our Heavenly Father sees you.
You're so breathtakingly beautiful.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
D-Squared
Bard, Houdin and Sweetheart wrote this song and shared it with Don Charles and Deb Gessner of D-Squared after one of our houseconcerts. Deb and Don loved the song so much that they decided to add it to their repetoire. This is snippet of Deb and Don performing it for the first time at a folk fest in Arizona. How cool is that??
Bard, Houdin and Sweetheart wrote this song and shared it with Don Charles and Deb Gessner of D-Squared after one of our houseconcerts. Deb and Don loved the song so much that they decided to add it to their repetoire. This is snippet of Deb and Don performing it for the first time at a folk fest in Arizona. How cool is that??
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
The BEST Quiche Recipe
Wonderful recipe. My son, Monet, is craving this today. So I just may have to whip up a batch. I can't alway find Gruyere, so sometimes I use Asiago. I love using the Pate Brisee because it contains no shortening.
Bacon and Onion Quiche
Makes 5 four-inch tarts
1/2 recipe Pâte Brisée
1 tablespoon olive oil
6 strips bacon, cut into 1-inch pieces
2 medium onions, cut into small dice
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup heavy cream
2 large eggs
1 large egg yolk
6 ounces Gruyère cheese, grated (1 1/2 cups)
Pinch freshly grated nutmeg
Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper
1. On a lightly floured surface, roll out dough less than 1/8 inch thick. Use a 5-inch fluted cookie cutter to cut into rounds. Fit into five 4-inch nonstick tart pans. Transfer to refrigerator to chill for 30 minutes.
2. Preheat oven to 375°. Heat oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium heat. Add bacon, and cook until fat renders and bacon is crisp and brown, about 8 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer to paper towels to drain. Add onions to the same skillet, reduce heat to medium low, and cook, stirring frequently, until onions are dark golden brown, 30 to 45 minutes. Combine onions and bacon in a small bowl; set aside.
3. Divide half of the cheese evenly among the pans. Sprinkle with bacon and onion mixture, then top with remaining cheese. In a medium bowl, whisk together milk, cream, eggs, and egg yolk. Season with, nutmeg, salt, and pepper. Divide evenly among pans, pouring over cheese. Transfer to oven, and bake until just set in the center, 30 to 35 minutes. Cool on a wire rack for about 10 minutes before serving.
Pâte brisée is the French version of classic pie or tart pastry. Pressing the dough into a disk rather than shaping it into a ball allows it to chill faster. This will also make the dough easier to roll out, and if you freeze it, it will thaw more quickly.
Ingredients
2 1/2 c all-purpose flour
1 ts salt
1 ts sugar
1 c cold unsalted butter, cut
1 into small
1 pieces
1/2 c ice water
Instructions
Place flour, salt and sugar in the work bowl of a food processor. Add
butter pieces and process for about 10 seconds, or just until mixture
resembles a coarse meal.
With machine running, add ice water, drop by drop, through
food-processor feed tube. When dough holds together but is not wet or
sticky, stop adding; do not process for longer than 30 seconds. Test
dough by squeezing a small amount together. If it is still crumbly,
add more water.
Divide dough in half and turn out onto two large pieces of plastic
wrap. Press dough into flat circles (this makes rolling easier than
if the pastry is chilled as a ball). Wrap in plastic and chill for at
least an hour.
Recipe By : Martha Stewart Living November 1994
Bacon and Onion Quiche
Makes 5 four-inch tarts
1/2 recipe Pâte Brisée
1 tablespoon olive oil
6 strips bacon, cut into 1-inch pieces
2 medium onions, cut into small dice
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup heavy cream
2 large eggs
1 large egg yolk
6 ounces Gruyère cheese, grated (1 1/2 cups)
Pinch freshly grated nutmeg
Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper
1. On a lightly floured surface, roll out dough less than 1/8 inch thick. Use a 5-inch fluted cookie cutter to cut into rounds. Fit into five 4-inch nonstick tart pans. Transfer to refrigerator to chill for 30 minutes.
2. Preheat oven to 375°. Heat oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium heat. Add bacon, and cook until fat renders and bacon is crisp and brown, about 8 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer to paper towels to drain. Add onions to the same skillet, reduce heat to medium low, and cook, stirring frequently, until onions are dark golden brown, 30 to 45 minutes. Combine onions and bacon in a small bowl; set aside.
3. Divide half of the cheese evenly among the pans. Sprinkle with bacon and onion mixture, then top with remaining cheese. In a medium bowl, whisk together milk, cream, eggs, and egg yolk. Season with, nutmeg, salt, and pepper. Divide evenly among pans, pouring over cheese. Transfer to oven, and bake until just set in the center, 30 to 35 minutes. Cool on a wire rack for about 10 minutes before serving.
Pâte brisée is the French version of classic pie or tart pastry. Pressing the dough into a disk rather than shaping it into a ball allows it to chill faster. This will also make the dough easier to roll out, and if you freeze it, it will thaw more quickly.
Ingredients
2 1/2 c all-purpose flour
1 ts salt
1 ts sugar
1 c cold unsalted butter, cut
1 into small
1 pieces
1/2 c ice water
Instructions
Place flour, salt and sugar in the work bowl of a food processor. Add
butter pieces and process for about 10 seconds, or just until mixture
resembles a coarse meal.
With machine running, add ice water, drop by drop, through
food-processor feed tube. When dough holds together but is not wet or
sticky, stop adding; do not process for longer than 30 seconds. Test
dough by squeezing a small amount together. If it is still crumbly,
add more water.
Divide dough in half and turn out onto two large pieces of plastic
wrap. Press dough into flat circles (this makes rolling easier than
if the pastry is chilled as a ball). Wrap in plastic and chill for at
least an hour.
Recipe By : Martha Stewart Living November 1994
A Life Saved
The Baby the night of Bard's birthday square dance
A couple of people asked me whose life I'd saved as a result of this post.
We were at Bard's sixteenth birthday dance, with commotion and music and laughing going on everywhere. Every once in a while, I'd look around to find that The Baby was missing. I'd go searching for her, and she'd be down in the basement of the grange hall, alone, munching on the chips or celery that were set out for the dinner after the dance.
Towards the end of the dance, I headed downstairs to get the food set out. I was chatting with another woman when I heard a strange strangling sound. I looked down, and there was The Baby, her eyes bulging, her lips blue, choking on some unknown object. I grabbed her and slammed my fist hard into her back, and out popped a round, juicy grape tomato. She sputtered, breathed and then wailed. And then I held her tight, keeping an incredibly close eye on her from then on.
Even now.
I'm so grateful that I was there. I had thought that she'd been upstairs with Bo at that point, and I think of all of the times that she had snuck downstairs to nibble when no one else had been there.
Still gives me chills.
A couple of people asked me whose life I'd saved as a result of this post.We were at Bard's sixteenth birthday dance, with commotion and music and laughing going on everywhere. Every once in a while, I'd look around to find that The Baby was missing. I'd go searching for her, and she'd be down in the basement of the grange hall, alone, munching on the chips or celery that were set out for the dinner after the dance.
Towards the end of the dance, I headed downstairs to get the food set out. I was chatting with another woman when I heard a strange strangling sound. I looked down, and there was The Baby, her eyes bulging, her lips blue, choking on some unknown object. I grabbed her and slammed my fist hard into her back, and out popped a round, juicy grape tomato. She sputtered, breathed and then wailed. And then I held her tight, keeping an incredibly close eye on her from then on.
Even now.
I'm so grateful that I was there. I had thought that she'd been upstairs with Bo at that point, and I think of all of the times that she had snuck downstairs to nibble when no one else had been there.
Still gives me chills.
Subscribe to:
You might like these posts, too.
