Getting the most out of the season

I can't believe it's the day after Christmas already. For the first time in about two years, I took consecutive days off from work (on purpose and planned ahead!) and did nothing but run around like a mad woman and fight with my family. In other words, I prepared for the holidays.

In the midst of the madness, P and I took a look at each other and realized we were going to miss it all if we didn't slow down and soak it in. Because of custody agreements and crappy logistics, we only get our Boy Wonder every other Christmas...so if we spent this entire past week bickering and stressed...well, guess what? It would be another two years before we got to celebrate with him again. (Oh, gosh, I even hate reading those words.)

So long about Wednesday night, we called a time out. We ate dinner, gave the kids their baths, and loaded everyone up in their pjs into the truck. We stopped off and got hot chocolates from a coffee stand, and we went out in search of adventure. We found crappy light displays, great light displays, living nativity scenes (our personal favorites). We listened to the Christmas music station and we had a contest to see who was the most excited about Christmas. ("Me!" "No, mee!" "Meeeeeeeee!")

By the time Christmas eve rolled around, we were happy and in love with each other and the season again. Which is probably the ONLY reason I didn't freak out and cry when there were no seats at the Episcopal Christmas Eve mass and we had to leave. (Trust me, church is the LAST place you want to feel like you don't fit or belong. I hate it.) Packed back into the truck in our fancy church clothes, I made the off-hand joke that maybe we were a little like the first family thousands of years ago trying to find a place that had some room for them. So we kept going. And we found a church that I used to go to years ago and there was plenty of room and they were happy to see us. The feeling was mutual.

We stayed up late putting together plastic kitchens and basketball hoops and wrapping more presents than I remember buying. As I had just closed my eyes (at least it seemed that way) I heard a tiny voice saying "Mom! Santa came!" It was 3:30 a.m.

By 6:45 a.m., the destruction had hit and the boys were love drunk with new toys and stockings full of chocolate and match box cars. P was exhausted and had blisters on his hand from the 12-hour stint assembling toys. I was comatose and hid underneath my new electric blanket (yes!). My mom took a four-hour nap. But we had made it a beautiful Christmas with a little help and a lot of faith.

Merry Christmas and here's looking forward to an incredible new year.

Searching for this year's Christmas Eve-ning

Remember last Christmas Eve?

Well, I'm sure you do, but what I'm specifically referring to is the Christmas Eve traditions post I wrote last year. With shrimp and pajamas in place, sorta, (minus the spiced wine, thanks to the whole pregnancy thing...boo!), our family is in need of a "movie" that night to distract ourselves from the copious amounts of little shelled sea creatures that will sacrifice themselves for our holiday enjoyment.

My personal favorite is "It's a Wonderful Life," but let's face it...it's in black and white and is a little too introspective to attract the average dweller in my house. We love, love, love the Griswold's "Lampoon Christmas" and after the last couple weeks we've been having around here, well, let's just say maybe we can relate a little more than we should. Ha! But maybe I'm sending the wrong message with that one? (Listen, between the double pink eye infection Boo got himself and the epic meltdowns and face-scratching arguing in these walls, it's enough to want to give up all together and break out the prozac...but we can't. 'Cause that would be cheating ourselves out of the wonder and magic and chaos of the season, right?! That, and we all really like presents around here. Just sayin'.)

Boy Wonder likes "Santa Buddies" and Boo is all about the Caillou Christmas Special (Yuck!). P loves the original "Santa Clause" movie from the 80s and I'm too wrapped around the clothing and hairstyles to let the message sink in much. And me, well, with my penchant for old movies, you can bet I'm usually up late during the holidays watching Turner Classic Movies by myself.

So, if you have a favorite, let me have it. Odd, hard to find, out of date...send them my way. Our Christmas Eve may very well depend on you! (Well, maybe not so much, but at least you might save us from an evening of Santa Buddies and Caillou! Ugh!)

Good luck surviving the last few days of the Christmas crush...we've got a few days left and my to-do list is miles long (including the nagging desire to make these salted caramels! Nums!)

xoxo
me

Seven is a grand number

Just ask Boy Wonder.

Last week he had his birthday and I'm still having a hard time remembering that he's no longer five...let alone SEVEN!

I started the letter-writing tradition last year and figured I'd keep it going as long as he seemed interested in hearing them. So here goes.

Dear D,

Seven!!! I can hardly believe it. Just yesterday I was baking you a dino-cake for your fifth birthday at the museum, and now here you are all grown up and leaving me on the side of the pool while you swim with your friends.

There are no two ways about it, Sir...you are born to swim. In the past year we've dipped our toes in the proverbial pools of about a million sports and activities and they all stick for about 14.5 minutes before you'd rather stay home and watch cartoons than brave the cold weather. But not with swimming. From the moment we started your first lesson when you were three, swimming has been the one thing you never tire of. And you're good at it, kid. We like to joke that with that stretch torso and long legs, you're bound to put Michael Phelps to shame some day. Could happen...

First grade started off as a challenge. Not really because you weren't prepared, more because it was new people and new experiences that were waiting for you after your trip to Texas this summer. You weren't overly thrilled for me to leave your classroom on the first day and after the SHOVE out the door you gave me on your first day of kindergarten, I have to admit I kind of liked it! But you did fine. You've made some great friends who come over and eat all our food and never want to leave because our house is so, well, animated? Yes... that's a good word for it.

You shine in math, little man. Numbers are kind of like legos and you figure out places to put them and make it work. I'm amazed. You're on the road to reading and it's exciting to watch the wheels turn in that brilliant head of yours.

You're learning that being a big brother isn't always easy and sometimes a toddler is a challenge...especially when you have to let go of the power struggle, despite the fact that you're bigger. It's just what you do, kiddo, and you get it. You're protective of Andrew in a fierce, loyal way. I'll probably never forget the hike we took as a family at the end of the summer and Andrew did what wild, carefree toddlers do...he wandered off the path and into the thick of things. The tears on your face were real and you would not calm down until I had him back within arm's reach and safe from the dreaded Cow Parsnip! But that's you...even at such a young age you think it's your job to keep the ones you love safe and happy.

As you grow, I pray you learn balance...that sometimes your job is just to be a kid and laugh, fart, and get in trouble for putting gum in the dog's fur or something harmless like that (though be warned, you will learn what grounding is sooner or later and if you're anything like me, you'll spend a good portion of 4th through 6th grade under house arrest!)

Six flew by, my love. I see a pattern now, and it's bittersweet. Before long, we'll be packing up your room and shipping you off to college (Texas A&M, hopefully! ha!)...but not yet. You're still the boy who wanders around the house with one boxing glove on and a kitchen spoon tucked into your belt like a weapon...and I love you so much for it.

Always,

me

Outing Ourselves

I have absolutely no good excuse for ignoring this blog for so long. Truly.

I haven't cured cancer. Haven't polished off another novel. Hell, I haven't even had a good cold to knock me off my feet for a week or so. I've been lazy. There, I said it. L-A-Z-Y.

In the past two months there has been a fantastic jiu jitsu tournament that I did not participate in (more on that later), a one-year super anniversary that me and the man of my dreams have YET to celebrate (ordering take out at 9 p.m. after giving each other the silent treatment all day does NOT count...for either of us...ha!) and a BOATLOAD of first grader activities to squeeze in (including Turkey Bingo at his school tonight...C'mon lucky 0 67!!)



I've also been in hiding. We found out a few weeks ago that M3 (short for "Minion the Third" aka "Baby #3) is due in June. Joyous news, right? We sure think so. We also think that me staying awake between the hours of 1 and 9 p.m. requires an Act of Congress, a miracle enacted by the creator, and some serious willpower. (And those who know me, well, you know that's not my strong suit by any means.)



So I've been overjoyed by a year married to the love of my life, endless hours of stepping on and clearing legos and blocks from our floor, swim practices, afternoons volunteering in the classroom during reading labs, and early pregnancy--you know, the part where you just sorta look fat and mushy, but not really pregnant? I'm so there.



My mom arrived this week. Did I mention that yet? We're all excited around here and she even managed to survive the first two mornings of 6 a.m. toddler wake up drills. So far. But she's no morning glory, so I won't be surprised to find her bedroom door padlocked closed from the inside any day this week...my boys are determined to jump on her super airmattress every morning and one of these days, it's going to burst with all three of them on it. And I'll probably laugh. And pee my pants. (It happens. Don't judge.)



My priorities have been right where they were supposed to be, I'm sure, but that also means that my more selfish inclinations (writing, gym time, knitting horrendous scarves) has been minimal, therefore making me a puffy, overtired, miserable tyrant. Can you believe I made it to my anniversary in one piece? Me either!



So there it is...the happenings around the nest from the last 60 or so days, along with a solemn vow not to let that much time pass again before posting. (Be warned, willpower and the ability to keep strict promises...I have bad histories with both!)





With love,


me

Nothing gold can stay...

"I cannot endure to waste anything as precious as autumn sunshine by staying in the house. So I spend almost all the daylight hours in the open air. " (Nathaniel Hawthorne)

I took a break from blogging for a minute or two. Partly because my house seems to be one giant petri dish meant solely for breeding rhinovirus carriers, and partly because I had a touch of ennui. Such a pretty word, isn’t it? Ennui. I feel sorta exotic just saying it.

I tried explaining this lame feeling I’ve been carting around to my poor husband and I’m sure I only served to confused the man even more. How can I be absolutely fine on the surface and yet feel so sluggish and down on the inside? The same dork in pajama pants doing the running man at breakfast day in and day out that fights this nagging sadness that looms just around the corner and at the blurred edges in my vision? I don’t get it.

I think the crux of the problem is that I am used to working towards something. At any given moment in my life, you can ask me what I’m into lately and I always have a fire-burning passion about something. MMA, jiu jitsu, knitting, sewing, writing, Warcraft, running, yoga, swimming, baking. Something. And yes, I love all of those activities, but I think I might have burned myself out when the realities of my life as it stands now hit.

Life is busy. And not always in the carpooling to soccer/swim/baseball practice, but in the everyday reality of raising a family, working full-time with one of us in school full-time. It’s nuts. And it leaves precious little time for selfish pursuits. (I know it’s selfish to want to be able to sew for four hours straight, and it’s a notion I’m adjusting to. My boys saved me from my own vanity and self-interest, but I am not an overnight success. A work-in-progress at best!)

Each night at 4-ish when we get home, a part of me sighs heavily, knowing that the longest four hours of the day are about to begin. Between picking up after our morning rush out of the house to doing the daily upkeep chores, to cooking, bathing, and cleaning the wild apes running through the house, I’m done by 8 p.m….and that’s assuming the wild apes actually stay in their beds and sleep and don’t stand screaming for 45 minutes until we can’t stand it anymore and go get them.

But today on the drive in, the leaves are changing. My town is green and gold and full of crisp contrasts in every view, and around here, it doesn’t last. Fall is orange and red, full of pumpkins and chilly evenings, tempered with bright, warm afternoons, and it’s gone all too quickly—replaced by overcast, snow-threatening days and sad, bare trees.

Much like this stage in life, right? Our boys are young and they’re needy and it’s a beautiful time that’s fleeting at best. Perhaps I ought to reconsider my viewpoint and be happy they require so much work, because if I remember my teenaged years correctly, the times coming where they want to be on their own and away from the house.

And what would I do without lunches to pack and babies to bathe? Where would I be without 24-hours of Dragon Tales and Spongebob.

Lost, my friends. I’d be lost.

So here's to folding mountains of laundry and endless bowls of macaroni and cheese… beauty in the small details. Happiness in the everyday...

Lessons I wish they didn't have to learn...

We are blessed. Our lives are filled with Elmo and Dragon Tales, Legos and Scooby Doo. Our boys (and family, I suppose) live in a mostly sunshine-filled bubble were everyday is mostly the same glorious experience over and over again. I am so thankful for that.

But we’re moving into an intimidating age with Boy Wonder—one where he’s beginning to sense that everything is not always right with the world, that people aren’t always kind and patient. And that superheros (fictional and real) can’t always save the day for us.

We don’t watch much violent television in our house. Truth be told, Boy Wonder and Boo dominate the channels and they choose either Sprout or Cartoon Network (and even then, it’s usually Chowder, Scooby Doo or Phineas and Ferb.)

But every once in a while, I need to see something, anything, not animated and I turn on the news hour while I’m making dinner. And sometimes our local news is scarier than any horror movie Wes Craven can come up with.

Last Saturday in the small village of Hoonah, Alaska two village police officers were chatting in a parking lot with their families and were gunned down. On the spot. In front of their children and mother. (You can read the heartbreaking story of the village’s police chief’s reactions and remarks here. But keep tissue handy, especially if you dare view the slide show. The officers were larger-than-life, good people that Alaska was privileged to call their own the past four years.)

So when the news is covering the lives of Anthony Wallace and Matthew Tokuoka, it breaks my heart. It’s senseless and violent and so horrendous it shakes your faith in human beings. I’m standing in the kitchen glued to where I stand, dinner boiling over, tears streaming down my face.

My reaction was not lost on my sensitive, all-seeing first grader, who wanted to know what had upset me. What had broken the hearts of all Alaskans...

How do you explain this to someone who stills sees the world in black and white? Where bad guys and good guys meet on epic battlegrounds, where good always prevails and the heros go home to their families every night for dinner.

I included the information about Officers Wallace and Tokuoka for folks to remember them, their families, and the Hoonah Police Department in their thoughts and prayers. I’m sure they could all really use them right now.

I don’t have the answers when Boy Wonder wants to know how such bad things can happen. I try to explain that God’s got it all in control somehow and we’re not ever going to understand, but it’s not our job to worry ourselves into a frenzy over it.

And Boy Wonder, our little “rev” said he was going to pray for the policemen—and did so, right on the spot in his beautiful, simple prayerful way. He asked God to give the policemen who were killed hugs and to help their families stop crying.

Maybe he’s got it down. Maybe Boy Wonder and Boo really need to teach me a little more about blind faith and not losing hope in humanity. But every now and then, I wish my son didn’t need such a highly developed sense of empathy or understanding.

Sometimes I wish the world really was Dragon Tales and Transformers and would stay that way forever…

And to Wallace and Tokuoka, rest in peace. Thank you for your service and your selflesness. You will be missed by an entire state of grateful, heartbroken people.

Crowded Kitchen: Nanny's Ginger Crinkles

My trip to Texas this month was better than I could have imagined. Good times with my dad and my son. Good food. Hella sunshine. A chance to spend time with my Donna Lynn after a five year absence. Sleeping in my old bed.

And note cards? Recipe cards to be exact.

This year I've slowly become fascinated with cooking. And baking, though the results are mixed and vary, depending on whether I accidentally skip over the "baking soda" line in the ingredients.

In my dad's house, I was pawing through the old bookshelf and stumbled across three recipe boxes FULL of my mom's recipes, handwritten on index cards. Here's the thing about finding these...for years, my mom had the most beautiful handwriting. She had such pride in it, that she did her best to pass it on to me, even if it meant making me re-do my sloppy homework. (Oh, how I cursed her then!)

In recent years, since her diagnosis of the brain disease, her ability to write in the neatly rounded print has dwindled, and often times, when she's quickly jotting notes, I have a hard time reading it. But these recipe cards, well, they tell a story. Not only do the contain all the things I grew up eating, they show the progression of a brain disease of sorts, along with highlighting my mother's fascinations--cranberries, biscottis, cranberry biscotti. You see where I am going.

To make a good find even BETTER, one of the boxes I found had a different penmanship all together. Can you tell where this is going? Oh yes, the motherlode of all recipe boxes...my grandmother, Margaret. Nanny is a woman after my own heart. She devotes precious little space to nonesense like main dishes and vegetables. No, my grandmother gets down with the baking. Muffins. Breads. Biscuits. Cookies. Candy. Pies.

I sat on the phone with my mom on a recent Sunday afternoon reading off the recipes and getting whatever stories went with them. Hermits are Pop's favorite cookies. Penuche is Nanny's favorite candy. Anything with raisins in the recipe was definitely made for Pop. The god-awful sounding things in there like "Cabbage Casserole" and "Minced Clam Lunch" were from an era when Nanny was religiously shedding pounds with Weight Watchers. (Phew!)

Nanny's penmanship is classic cursive they must have taught back in school. It's slanted. It's tightly spaced and feminine. Her s's are perfect. Her f's are elegant. And her recipes? Fantastic.

My mom has made ginger crinkles before. I remember them well, so when I found Nanny's recipe...well, I had to. Consider these my new favorite cookies. And they went well with the boys, too, so I can talk myself into them more often. After all, molasses has a lot of iron, right?

The magic thing about this is that I never grew up close to Nanny. She and Pop always lived on the opposite coast as me, but something happened during that first attempt to cook from her recipe. I learned to trust.

I squinted at the recipe card a few times when I didn't see butter. I saw a whole lot of oil. A lot of the recipes were different than what I'm used to out of today's magazines and recipe Web sites.

"Are you sure?" I asked nobody in particular.

The card was stained and worn. It had obviously been used before, and obviously the results were good if the baker came back to the card time and time again. So I trusted. And I used the nearly one cup of oil. And it was good. Earthy and spicy and crunchy and sweet. So good, I wanted to share Nanny's recipe.

This discovery lit a fire under my butt. I wanted more family recipes. I want them in a book. I want Pam's buckeyes and Dee's peanut butter cookies. I want Cheryl's pie recipes, instructions for my mom's rustic apple tarts, and I want the stories that go with them before nobody wants to tell them anymore. I want my kids and Jeff's kids and Brandy's kids and Justin's kids and Carissa's kids to have this piece of our far-flung, odd, and beautiful family, too.

And I'm working on it, people. :)

Ginger Crinkles

2/3 cup vegetable oil
1 cup sugar
1 egg
4 T molasses
2 cups flour
2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp ginger
1/4 cup sugar for coating

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mix oil and sugar thoroughly in large bowl. Add egg and beat well. Stir in molasses. Sift dry ingredients to oil mixture. Make walnut-sized balls and cover in sugar. Put on ungreased cookie sheet and bake for 15 minutes. Do not overbake. Cool on rack. Store cookies in tightly covered container. Makes about 3 dozen.

The education of me and the meaning of grace

I was getting a bit tired of writing about baking and cooking, even though I'd planned to do a post today about food (and I still might. You never know...)

I figured it had been a while since I did a post with any sort of substance, you know...the stuff friends and family members read to get a sense of what's going on in this corner of the world. I thought about lots of stuff, and really, everything has been overshadowed in the last 23 hours by the fact that my son, Boy Wonder, called another woman "his mom."

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel about it. I ran it past a couple friends last night...do I correct him? Or do I let it go? Do I let the kid call us all whatever he wants. High road? Low road? Off ramp short cut to enlightenment?

I got stuck writing this post, and like I do anytime that I get self-inflicted writer's "goldfish" brain, I cruised around blogs. And cruised.

And I came upon one of my favorite crafty-ish blogs and there was a video about forgiveness and taking God's messages seriously. (I'm not so good at that, you see.) The video is here.

It's about a man who in one awful accident, lost his pregnant wife and two of his four children to a teenaged drunk driver. The video goes on talk about how forgiveness and grace was never NOT an option for this man, Chris Williams and how it has changed not only his life, but every one involved in the horrific accident...including the young man that killed his family. He likened it to how forgiveness and grace is never NOT an option with Jesus Christ either... and it was one of those A-ha moments. (They're rare these days, I guess.)

I admit that I cried when I watched it, and I even forgave the fact that it was a huge ad for the Church of Latter Day Saints at the end...really, the message got through and that's what it's supposed to do, right?

In comparison, my problems are small, my friends, and in the end...anger really isn't an option. When it comes to our children, the high road is really the only road if you want to do it right.

I have two sons. One is blessed and has his parents together all the time. The other has to make do with the reality he was given--based on choices his father and I made. It was never Boy Wonder's choice to live with his heart split across the continent. I'm sure he'll look at Boo someday and feel the smallest bit of envy that everyone he loves is right there under one roof.

My heart caught in my throat when he told me he had to ask "his mom" (the stepmom) to take a picture of his toothless grin, and I won't lie and say it didn't hurt. It stung like hell. But guess what? So does having to up and leave every few months and say good bye and hello four times a year.

Good on you, Boy Wonder, for making the best of this situation and embracing everyone in your life as your family and not some ridiculous label with stipulations and explanations. Moms, dads, brothers, cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles...they come in all shapes and sizes in your life and you are wise enough to see it even when we can't.

So, thank you anonymous Mormon video poster for furthering my education today and getting me to think a little less about me...and a little more about the ones that matter most.

The Wednesday Baker: Boule Bread

A few months ago I bought all of the necessary equipment and ingredients for bread, according to the book "Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day."

Bread and I have a long history. According to local legend, I used to take naps in a laundry basket on the floor of the bakery, Baba A Louis, where my mom worked. Bread is a weakness. It's a blessing. It's something I seek and destroy when in the mood.

Except I've never really been that great at baking it. I manage hockey pucks. The occasional door stop. But never fantastic, earthy bread.

So when I bought this book in the Spring, we were weeks away from moving into Anchorage and I never really got to turn loose in the book. Until now. Until today. The day I deemed Wednesdays as "baking days."

The concept of the book is that artisan bread is actually possible without having an advanced degree in chemistry or fancy equipment. No back-breaking kneading. No nonsense. You mix your ingredients. You let them set overnight. You bake your bread. You eat your bread. Bada-boom...bada-bing.

The Master Recipe makes four 1-pound loaves, so I always halve it.

3 cups lukewarm water
1.5 tablespoons granulated yeast (2 packets)
1.5 tablespoons kosher or coarse salt
6 cups unsifted all purpose flour.

The book goes on to have you mix the water, the yeast and the salt. Add the flour. Mix very loosely until there's not dry spots. And then...well, that's it. Put it in a container. Leave it in the fridge. Let the yeast work its magic. In the morning, you knead it very lightly. Let it rest. Bake your bread (with the help of a "steam bath") for 30 minutes. And you're done.

The book is amazing and highly recommended...eventually you can work yourself up to making cinnamon rolls and other super fantastic-ness. But for now. The bread.

It had the bakery-guaranteed"skin" that crackled and broke when you tear into it. It's chewy. It's yeasty. It's perfect for a rainy Wednesday in Alaska.

The authors have a site here. Just so happens today they blogged about baking in Tuscany without their normal equipment. Nice, right?

Happy Wednesday!

The Joy of 32

I've had about a week now to walk around with my new identity and it's about as anti-climactic as any birthday has been.

It just sorta is. The day came. And it sorta went. (But not without some FANTASTIC birthday love from my facebook family out there. THANK YOU!)

(I'm pretty sure the most exciting birthday so far has been 25...the year I was allowed to rent a car! 21 doesn't really count...because, honestly, who hadn't been drinking since the day they arrived on their college campus? But rental cars...well, there was one place you couldn't cheat.)

My husband had flowers for me. Boo had an Elmo balloon that he shared with me, and there were two cakes and lots of princess-themed partyware. I love my husband, have I mentioned that lately?

It was low-key and when it came time to figure out the birthday gift, the practical nature of 32 became very apparent when I asked my husband not to buy me a fancy espresso machine and to let me purchase a new vacuum instead. (The horror!!)

A fu*&ing vacuum, you say?

Yes, dear reader. Our floor was nasty, what can I say? (It sorta reminded me of that Mother's Day back in 1986 when I had my dad buy an iron for my mom so I could sign the card. She laughed then and I didn't get it. Oh, but I get it now...)

Clean floors aside, 32 seems like a magic number to me. It seems to be the nice, well-rounded age I've earned after a few long years of struggle. Fighting against myself, against an ex, against jobs that went nowhere, against rash behavior just because I could. Fight fight fight, strife strife strife. No longer. This is a well-earned age where my phsycial and mental scars tell the story of me becoming me.

32 seems to be the year when I am no longer my own worst enemy, where I have built an incredible foundation around me with friends and family who want the best for me and are no longer afraid to speak up when I'm wrong (though I rarely am, so watch yourself.)

This past week has been like many others in my life. Some good news, some bad. Some drama. Some worries. But here's the thing, at 32 (and beyond, right?) you bend the problem to your solution. At 22, you bend yourself to the problem and try to claw your way out of a hole. That's my take anyway.

At 32 I've become a master at triaging my life. Sure, the electric bill might be late, but the car insurance and the gas is paid, so two outta three ain't bad. Yeah, I might get short with P if we're both lacking sleep...but have you seen Houswives of New Jersey lately? We seem pretty damn normal compared to those fools, and that's a fantastic place to start.

So happy belated 32nd to me...the first of many, many more. I hope, anyway...