Long nights

When lights go out and all is well

I slip under my sheets

And drift off quickly to a land

Beyond the tallied sheep

All is calm and all is bright

As dreams o’ertake my mind

When through the silence screams resound

That scare all humankind

For ‘cross the wall there lies in bed

A small babe, blonde and sweet

By day at least, but once the night

The Mandrake’s call we meet

His cries are not quite yet matured

But vile still is his shriek

The cry of my wee Mandrake

Is slowly killing me

And once I rise and go to him

His wrinkled face relaxed

He smiles and holds his arms out

“Mom, it’s time now for a snack!”

He eats and burps and stretches long

Content with being fed

The Mandrake calmly drifting off

As I tiptoe back to bed

All is calm and all is well

And dreams are sweet and glad

‘Til 3AM, when once again

The Mandrake, just plain mad.

Repeatedly he screams and howls

An hour or more at least

I wish I might be Petrified

So I could get some sleep

Losing my marbles

I try really hard to be the type of mom who lets her children play with relative freedom. I want them to explore life, make messes (within reason), and get their hands dirty in the name of educational play. There are lots of moms who are far too high-strung and there are lots of moms who sit back with a cup of coffee and their iPhone and just let chaos unfurl. I pride myself on finding a good balance there. For instance, I would never:

Ban playdough from my house because it gets in the cracks of the table, floors, and sneaker treads of whomever is walking by.

And I would also never:

Let my kids get out all the playdough in North America as I say casually to a friend, “Just make sure Child B doesn’t eat TOO much.” (As Child B is gnawing hungrily on a blob the size of a tennis ball.)

Both of those instances are true stories, btw.

I’m kind of in the middle. I’m the kind of mom who absolutely lets her preschoolers cut out cookies, but also tries to teach them the best technique to maximize cuts per roll-out.

So our house isn’t as clean and organized as I dream, and I generally make myself stay OK with that. I wish it was cleaner, especially when anybody (and I mean ANYBODY—sorry for the mess Mr. UPS Man) stops by, but I love that the boys can be boys. I value that more.

Except in one area.

I’m just about ready to banish this thing from my house. (By “banish” I mean, “laughing maniacally as I drop-kick it out the front door.”) Roy brought it home from a thrift store yesterday and promptly dubbed it, “the Jamesest game ever.” Which is admittedly true. Mr. Order and Logic has been completely captivated. But this particular Mousetrap came from a thrift store, and it did so with good reason:

Problem A: One of the big crane-like pieces is snapped off, so the actual Goldberg process is in two acts. This bothers me. I’ve tried to tweak it myself and I only seem to exchange fixing one issue for creating another. The thing shouldn’t stop. Stop stopping!!!!

Problem B: The four year old operating the machinery forgets to set all the components before he cranks the wheel to start the marble. It kills me to sit there and watch him when I KNOW the trap at the end is already on the ground.

Problem C: We have hardwood floors. Those marbles are friggin’ heavy and, in the hands of a young child, particularly inept at staying on the table. I swear, one of them hits the hard floor and starts a gingerbread man-like escape all around the downstairs every thirty seconds.

And every time I hear a marble hit the ground my nice middle-of-the-road mom philosophy loses a little balance and I do this. (Hopefully inwardly.)

 

Notice the pursed lips, the haphazard hair, the expression of resigned exhaustion.

I don’t know what it is—I can handle two hundred blocks on my living room floor, preventing any kind of normal path across the room. I can deal with crumbs on the table and floor and half-digested food in the high chair. Tearing books? Nothing a little tape can’t fix. But. That. Marble.

I realize this is all on me. But it’s killing me, one drop at a time.

Please help.

Today’s 1%: If I really want to find a good 1% for the day I should start blogging at night. I’ve only been awake for two hours and most of that time has been trying to survive marble drops. So I’m just barely hanging on right now. But yesterday I made biscotti for the first time. (After an unfortunate biscotti experience from a local coffee shop. Biscotti should be crisp, but it shouldn’t smash into smithereens if you were to take a hammer to it. Or break your teeth.) These biscotti still need a nice partial-submersion in a bath of white chocolate, but the actual bake is AWESOME. They look professional and they taste great. Thumbs up on this one!

Three scenes

Scene A:

Owen and James are in the tub. It’s Owen’s first bubble bath and, shocker, he is pleased about it. He sits in the warm water with an expression of utter delight and reaches for an armload of soapy foam. He immediately shoves it into his mouth, wrinkles his nose for just a split second, then bursts into an enraptured smile and faceplants into the water to eat it all.

“Owen, don’t eat the soap.”

<me, trying not to laugh> “OWEN…please don’t eat the soap.”

James, “O-WEN!!! Don’t eat the SOAP!”

Owen and James splash around with bubbles and bath toys for a while. Owen eats more foam and I give up trying to make him stop, hoping that maybe it will help him poop. (Does this qualify me as a terrible mother?) Owen tries to get me to chew on a foam letter P while he shakes his head back and forth with a B hanging out of his mouth. He looks like a puppy with a white beard.

“Owen, no standing in the tub.”

“Owen, NO standing in the tub.”

James, “O-WEN!! No standing in the TUH-UB!”

Repeat twenty times.

Scene B:

Roy takes James outside to play hockey across the street. James sets George and Steven very carefully on top of the toy “cube” in the living room. Roy watches James look warily at Owen as he places them high out of reach. “Take some photos of Owen with George and Steven once we’re gone,” he whispers as they exit.

 

Two seconds later...

"At last, we meet."

Upon offering him his own George.

A little relieved that we have a clear preference.

Scene C:

James and I are on the floor reading Berenstein Bear books. It was library day so there are a dozen new ones. Owen is doing a decent job pushing around a walking toy and amusing himself. But James has no limit to his capacity for story time and Owen starts getting bored.

“So Papa and Mama made up a chore chart for taking care of the new puppy…Owen, you want your shoes on?”

 

He hid them in the bottom drawer of the oven apparently.

“Where were we James? OK, so they made a chore chart for the puppy. A few weeks passed and it was time to bring their new puppy home…Owen, stop bopping James on the head.”

“Owen, (don’t laugh Julie) please don’t whack James on the head.”

James stares at the book intently without blinking or seemingly noticing that his noggin is being used for target practice.

 

"This is my reading face."

“Owen, PLEASE don’t hit James on the head.”

“OK boys, I need to take a quick potty break. We’ll finish this book in a minute.”

Owen throws himself down on the ground dramatically and starts howling indignantly, kicking his little legs and shaking his head back and forth. I enter the bathroom, ignoring his vehement protests, which suddenly cease after about thirty seconds. I quickly wash my hands and slowly open the door, just in case he’s standing up against it.

He’s sitting on the floor, gnawing on my cell phone. Upon noticing my return he holds it up, waving it triumphantly in the air and smiles so big I think his face might split in two. “Lookie what you forgot Mom! Hah!”

"A boy's story is the best that is ever told." -Charles Dickens

Today's 1%: I chose to blog tonight, fighting our stubborn laptop computer for the right to upload pictures, when what I initially wanted to do was curl up with Harry Potter. Turns out, blogging was the better, and more entertaining, choice. 

Sadness in the lands

I now have the Lieutenant Dan of hand mixers.

It died mid-creaming.

Rest in peace, old friend. You served us well.

Today's 1%: It's hard to think about what you did to improve yourself by 1% when your country is fighting just to preserve its sanity. I have such a heavy heart for those in San Bernadino, Colorado Springs, and other places that have recently experienced such senselessness. Prayers for the spouses, parents, children, friends, neighbors...Jesus, build your kingdom here.

5 things...

1.       I, so far, am still running, even though it’s getting colder outside. I’ve discovered that having insightful podcasts makes all the difference when I’m going solo. (Also, a hat. If my ears are cold it ain’t happenin’.) Today we went as a family. The boys were bundled up and it was twice as enjoyable to chat with Roy as we loped along. Another reason to anticipate the spring of 2016.

2.       We now have a Christmas tree in our living room. And stockings hung. And a nativity set up. James GETS it this year. He remembered where every decoration went from last year, even down to the animals’ location in the nativity. He is most excited, as he was last year, about the little tree he gets to have in his own room, along with George and Steven’s stockings hung on his wall. Owen thinks the tree is great fun and, as we suspected, wants to bat down every ornament within arm’s reach. James is very worried about this and lies under the tree trying to protect the precious ornaments from breakage.

For all of his mischief and shenanigans, he is rather adorable.

3.       I’m planning the Christmas cookie extravaganza for our December. In my family growing up each member picked a certain kind, which led to five types in all. I think James most wants to make gingerbread men (he is sure one will pop out of the oven and take off), and Roy wants the traditional sugar cut-outs. I want to make Melissa’s chocolate cut-outs, and Owen will happily sample any and all that are offered (or not). This is going to mean a lot of cookie cutters, and I’m happy to have a giant bag from my mom’s house passed on for our little guys. Thanks Mom!

4.       Roy and I were going to have Date Night In next weekend, but, surprise!, he found a babysitter for that night, so we are swapping Date Night In for Date Night OUT. (Your regularly scheduled DNI will happen mid-month instead.) I’m not sure what we’ll be doing—we chatted through numerous options during our run. Part of me would love to sip hot drinks and hear live jazz. Part of me wants to go to the big mall and walk through the hustle and bustle. (Part of me thinks that’s nuts too.) It’s rare that we go out just the two of us, and I’m not very practiced in it, I’m afraid. My goal for our night out is to be able to be “out” from the get-go, and not take two hours to relax.

5.       This came to my door twenty minutes ago…

Eeeeeeeek!!!

Today’s 1%: The tree-getting was fast and uneventful (see previous posts of madness and mayhem on hubby’s blog). No screaming children, no snowstorms, no…thongs. (It’s such a long story.)

A one-legged dilemma

Sometimes I don't think anybody reads my blog, which is OK. I write mostly for my own pleasure and try not to put too much pressure on myself to please imaginary readers. But some of you must be out there, because we have gotten a SLEW of emails and messages from people letting us know what the best Black Friday/Cyber Monday deals are on KitchenAid stand mixers.

I, of course, was already keeping a sly eye out on the deals myself. (See: googling "Black Friday Kitchenaid 2015", downloading Kohls and Amazon apps, negotiating mentally how to justify such an enormous purchase.)

I PROMISE I haven't done anything out of the ordinary to my hand mixer in the past two weeks. Solemnly promise. But it must know that I've been mentally cheating on it with a KitchenAid, because it's started making funny noises. I have prided myself on taking good care of it, remembering numerous hand mixers burning up in my mom's kitchen. I think it's because we used to throw all of the good stuff (see: chocolate chips, whole oats, nuts) in there while it was running.

But my beloved, used since our wedding day, is giving up the ghost. In fact, we are down to one leg, so to speak.

Once again, Google has failed me in attaining a funny caption for a one-legged mixer that isn't offensive to other one-legged things.

It is no fun to make Christmas cookies on one leg. It takes forever and the flavors aren't nearly as balanced.

So Santa sent a messenger to me in a vision, telling me that, if I continued to change diapers regularly, sweep the downstairs, and cook stunning meals for my husband, my mixing needs would be addressed. 

And lo, there will be a rebate of $50, a coupon for 20% off, a second coupon for $10 off, a third coupon for $15 off, Kohl's cash in the amount of $75, and free shipping...

Santa was very specific.

My question is this: I really want to wait for Santa to come down my chimney on Christmas Eve and deliver unto me a delightful present. But, I'm not sure how to get to Christmas Eve with Hop-along Cassidy. James has a very long list of to-dos that require mixing (see: chocolate chip cookies, gingerbread cookies that jump out of the oven and run away, red and green M&M cookies, "chocolate bear Melissa cookies", etc, etc, etc). I realize I haven't gotten to the question yet, but it should be obvious.

To wait or not to wait? 

Santa's messenger said it was up to me.

Today's 1%: I did this today. 

A small piece of my heart died, but there was a little too much business-in-front/party-in-back going on. Also, of note, Curious George serves the second-born as nicely as the first when it comes to receiving haircuts. Thanks George.

30 seconds before bedtime

What I see in us

My dearest James Davis,

It’s easy on this blog to focus on your little brother. He’s tiny, for one thing, and I want to be sure to jot down memories and share pictures of his fleeting babyhood. He is sociable and wants his picture taken, unlike you, so it’s simple to snap and post. Your daddy posts a lot about you on his blog, so I have confidence your stories are being told.

Everybody says you look like your daddy. That you act like your daddy. And it’s true—I see so many wonderful, amazing things from him in you. If you grow up to be a man like him, the world will be blessed and bettered by it. But, oh James, I see so much of myself in you…

I see the fear in your eyes underneath your calm exterior when I drop you off at Sunday School. You clutch your little George close and walk in without protest, but I watch you stride quickly to the quietest corner where there are zero children and numerous books. I peek in an hour later to see you sitting quietly, by yourself, listening to the others singing their songs and doing crafts together. And I know your fear James. I remember hiding in the corner of my Sunday School, terrified to talk to anybody. I remember not knowing what to say, and having no idea how to make friends. I saw the fun around me and hadn’t the slightest clue as to how I might fit into it. Kids can be mean—sometimes we take risks to talk to others and they shoot us down, without knowing they have wounded us forever. We will fight this continually, you and I—you’ll learn the right cues and things to say, but you won’t ever stop being overwhelmed in big groups.

I see the joy in your eyes when you run around with your one friend; sweet Alexa Jane. The one person your age you trust. You demonstrate that trust by sharing your beloved Steven immediately upon greeting her. (A lovey you won’t let any of us in your actual family touch, by the way!) You run around uproariously, laughing at the top of your lungs with her, taking the lead in conversation and sharing your most favorite stories. I see how you pick one and tie everything to it. And I think back to my one friend over the seasons of childhood. Breanna, Beth, Amanda, Jessi…how I equated my happiness to having that one best friend, and how unflinchingly loyal I remained to them, no matter the circumstances. I pray that you always have that one friend, and that you choose him or her wisely.

I see the intensity in your eyes when you read books with us. Your brain is working a mile a minute second, and your face glazes over as you commit every single detail of the story to memory. It’s like somebody pushes the pause button on the world around you as you freeze and focus. And I am reminded of myself once again, as I read to the exclusion of everything throughout my childhood. Later on, I memorized various hour-long programs of piano music for performances and competitions. I know what it is to eliminate all distractions around me and zero in on what needs to be done—the performance, the book, the project. This skill will serve you well, even as the mom in me watches you compulsively obsess and fears for your sanity.

I see the laughter in your eyes when your little brother purposely tumbles into your space over and over again. His overt expressions of admiration and love for his big brother are easy to see. If I weren’t your mom it might not be as simple to see the reciprocation, but it is there in spades. You smile at his antics, even if they’re occurring in the middle of your favorite book. You are quick to bring him his favorite toys when he is upset, and you are willing to share your stories and read out loud to entertain him. You love those younger than yourself, and already show a maturity in loving and leading them. You are an oldest, as is your mama. I am most comfortable and, dare I say it, myself, around children. They free me to be me, and they love me more for my quirks than my put-togetherness. I see you sensing that already. Keep children close by (we’ll help with that, as will your aunts and uncles)!

I see the reluctance in your eyes at any change, whatsoever. New dish for supper, slightly different bath time, normal shopping cart instead of a steering wheeled one, new activity to try. You loathe (and I don’t use that term loosely) the new and the unexpected. James Bear, your Grandpa Davis can tell you about how he had to drive me, many months after I turned 16, to get my drivers permit. I didn’t have anything against driving, except that it was NEW. I wept about going to college, even as I knew it was going to be wonderful, because it was different. Your daddy can tell you about the journey it was to convince me to marry him—not because I didn’t love and want to be with him, but because it meant a CHANGE. My prayer is that we can help guide you through change in a wise way—giving you new opportunities (even forcing, if necessary), but also providing you with chances to flourish and trust in the blessings those changes bring.

I see the longing in your eyes to be a grownup, even as you resist the changes that are required to get there. You already sense the silliness around you, the appeal and power that adulthood brings, and you want that. I PLEADED with my parents to let me attend adult Sunday School at church. I hated the flakiness and immaturity of my peers and yearned to soak up the wisdom of the grownups. James, choose to soak in each day as it comes. You will be a grownup—you already are in lots of ways. (I have to remind myself daily, “He is three, he is three, he is only THREE.”) The taxes and bills will come, as will the independence to choose your own bedtime and activities. But know that it’s perfectly acceptable to be a kid. To even ACT like a kid. To be goofy and silly on purpose. We delight in that more than you can possibly know or understand. We laugh hardest when you are dancing to a silly song, making funny faces at Owen, or doing your spot-on Mater impersonation.

So on this, your fourth birthday, know that your momma sees you. And in you she sees, in many ways, an unfiltered version of herself. What she still is when you strip away the practiced layers of social graces and expectations. She aches for your hurts and fears, and she celebrates when you are comfortable in your own skin, because she KNOWS. May this very special day be full of the things you love most, and enjoyed freely, without fear or anxiety. I love you so much it hurts James Bear. 

Happy birthday sweet boy.

On our run today...

'Member this?

Sfogliatella from Wegmans. Italian pastry that seems nearly impossible to replicate at home.

I really, really liked the sfogliatella I had from Wegmans. (I triple-checked just to be sure.) But I told Roy that I wished I could try one fresh from the oven. The ricotta filling is dense and, dare I say, a little clammy by the time it got in my mouth. Undeniably delicious, but I could imagine a fresh one transporting me to new levels of incredulity.

So a couple of weeks ago, almost absentmindedly, I googled "bakeries near me." I think I've shared before on my blog that we used to live near Mt. Wegmans, sacred home of ALL groceries (you can buy truffles there...the mushroom kind), and now all that's in walking distance is a pizza place, donut shop, and ice cream parlor.

<I just looked for some kind of funny meme to insert here and was so horrified by most of them that had anything to do with being overweight that I shall now seamlessly continue my narrative without one.> #peoplearereallymean

So. I saw a couple of bakeries listed, and Roy, almost absentmindedly, peeked over my shoulder at the results. "Hey, we live kind of near Clifford Ave. Hey...that number is on our end of Rochester. Wait. WAIT. Julie...that bakery is less than a mile away."

Get your running shoes on boys. It's time to boogity boogity BOOGITY!

So we ran to the bakery that morning. And you know what? It's a REAL bakery. And I didn't even have to run as far to get there as I do to drop off a bank deposit (which I'll need to do if I want to buy things at the bakery).

The staff were wonderfully friendly and gave James a free Italian cookie and we chose samples of tiramisu and biscotti to taste-test. Roy asked about the sfogliatella and they said they only baked them on Wednesdays and Thursdays (it was a Monday).

PERFECT reason to return.

I'm actually pretty proud of the fact that we didn't go back 48 hours later, but waited a couple of weeks. But today was the day. We almost missed ;em due to their top shelf billing on the display case, but also really because they were ENORMOUS.

SFOGLIATELLA. <insert NICE fat meme>

We ate them for lunch. Genuine Italian bakery sfogliatella taste is...pretty much the same as Wegmans, if I'm being brutally honest. I think the filling might have been slightly less citron-ey, which is a plus in my book, but the texture and taste was almost identical. I didn't ask Roy, but I suspect it would be more cost effective to buy the big-as-my-face ones and eat a third of it than the equivalent amount from Weggies.

But the grander lesson we can take away from this is that there is a BAKERY near me. For better or for worse, I can sample other things and ask questions about how they make all their deliciousness. It's a very exciting prospect.

Today's 1%: Our upstairs bathroom has been semi-out of commission for three months due to the Plumbing Fiasco of 2015. That was only recently resolved (see previous entry) but I dragged my feet about getting the bathroom cleaned because, quite honestly, didn't believe that it would stick. It's stuck so far, and my feet are also sticking to the bathroom floor because it's so gross in there. So I CLEANED it today. I scrubbed all of the residual toilet ring wax and built-up nastiness that was everywhere. It took two hours, but it is CLEAN. Clean enough that I can actually entertain the idea of taking a leisurely bath for the first time since mid-summer. Yay!

Musings

Dear blog,

I have started to write things several times this week and it’s been nothing but a big bother. The things that are interesting to me wouldn’t be interesting to anybody else—that’s the pitfall of blogging. I do much better when I, no offense those who read this, write stuff that I’m interested in instead of trying to appease some invisible audience.

So here’s what’s interesting to me lately…

·         I had a Sally fail today. I made a peanut butter cake with chocolate frosting (James’ request) and the cake was D-R-Y. And not even a little bit. I don’t think I overbaked it. I think the recipe was a bum. Peanut butter is one of those things that kind of dries your mouth out anyway—the batter was really thick and it’s way too crumbly. Blech. The frosting was pretty good (although, again Sally, I had to play around with your recipe to take some of the sickening sweetness out of it). Roy says average cake is better than no cake. I tend to agree, although it would be healthier if I didn’t.

·         I can’t remember a season where I’ve been less interested in the NFL than this. The Patriots are undefeated, Ben Roethlisberger has been injured, and the Bills are kind of disappointing. Little boys mean I can’t ever sit and watch an entire game, nor do I have many chances to catch sports radio in the mornings. I kind of miss it—I miss having the time to care. But it’s not bothering me as much as I thought it would.

·         I need some good book recommendations. I was on a reading kick for a while this fall, but the past month it’s kind of petered out. I’ve thought about rereading Harry Potter this holiday season, but most of our books are in literal pieces and that’s just not a very fun reading experience. I love memoirs and GOOD fiction. I do not love science or historical fiction. I’m afraid that these days a book has to be pretty accessible and not require 100% focus for me to make it through. If I tried to read Dickens or Dostoyevsky I would fall asleep within paragraphs.

·         Owen is getting daggone smart. Today he deliberately pulled the only George book off the downstairs kids' shelf and read it with me a dozen times. It went something like this:

“Curious George is going to the zoo today. There are so many things to touch, see, and do. Where’s George Owen?”

<points> “DAH!”

“Yes! Good job!”

“Here’s the penguin…where’s George?”
<points> “DAH!”

“Yay Owen! OK, here’s the flamingo. Where’s Geo…”

<points> “DAH!”

Etc.

Also this. He totally knows he’s not supposed to toss food off the tray. Or pull books off the shelf. Or gnaw on the toilet cap. Or try to descend the staircase by himself. And this is what he does.

He’s very pleased with himself.

·         Roy wants to go on a vacation. To someplace warm and expensive. Soon. Part of me says, “YES. LET’S DO THIS YESTERDAY.” More of me says, all matter-of-factly, “We could take that money and do so many things with it, including pay down some remaining debt.” Roy says that we are entering a season where I won’t be nursing and also not pregnant. This season will be when it’s concurrently cold and depressing where we live. And he has some time that he could make it happen with his work schedule. I am torn. Part of me reeeeeeeally wants to see the world and experience new places, sights, sounds, smells, tastes. And part of me finds it completely frivolous to spend hard-earned money on a trip when we have SO much compared to the vast majority of the world. Inner turmoil here.

Today’s 1%: Late night supper with Roy after kids were asleep. Salmon cakes and steamed broccoli. The salmon was so good. I love fish. Yet another one of those things I chose to dislike when I was little that has turned into a fav. Of course, Old Bay makes everything better.

It is time

Younger Bro won't leave Older Bro alone on this one.

Younger Bro dances when he hears the theme song.

Younger Bro shed many tears when he had to leave the library version behind.

It's time. In the mail...

Monday assortment

Sister Shout-outs:

To Martha: For designing and executing a wonderful first birthday sign for Owen’s party yesterday. Having an artist in the family is extremely handy, especially one who loves your children. It’s hanging on his bedroom door now so we can enjoy it for weeks to come!

 

When I see this I understand how people can be tone deaf. I don't comprehend why they can't match pitch, but I also know I could never in a bazillion years draw something like this.

To Kylie: For lending me her kitchen counter space to store party supplies. Trying to pull off a party that’s 25 minutes away from your house is a huge challenge. (Especially when it’s Sunday and you worked all morning at church.) Having a pit-stop on the way made everything a lot easier to pull off. Bonus props for volunteering all of this when she was hosting her own company and celebrating her birthday.

To Beka: For miraculously being at the party venue an hour early, without knowing how many extra hands I was needing (I didn’t really know until I got there) and for my favorite hour of the day setting up and catching up together. Happy first day of work!

To Melissa: For knowing everybody at our party. It’s always a little awkward having friends and family at the same gathering, hoping it’s not too uncomfortable or segregated. Melissa ended up being a wonderful way to fuse the groups and prompted some great conversation.

To Emily: Who wasn’t at the party, and had nothing to do with our party, but is an incredible sister in PA who gave me a pretty pair of shoes to wear this week. And she keeps my little-big bro in line, which deserves a high-five right there.

Future blog prompts:

“Surviving Croup: The Kids Are Fine--The Mom’s Still Recovering”

“Plumbing: The Final Chapter”

“Owen’s Party Prep: A Review”

“World Gymnastics Championships: The Americans and Everybody Else Who Wish They Were American”

“Holiday Baking Wish List”

“Guess What We Discovered Right Up the Street?”

Today’s 1%: Owen got a lot of cars yesterday. A lot of them. (Thanks everybody!) Almost all of them are the kind you pull backwards and they self-propel across the floor. Needless to say, it took less than 5 minutes this morning before it became necessary to remove the table and chairs in the dining room. What fun it was for the four of us to be pulling and pushing cars all over the hardwood together on our day off together!

Important 1%!

Today's 1%: The pipe is fixed. As in, the pipe is replaced. As in, I helped my dad cut out the old pipe, was covered in...well, you know...from the saw and pipe blockage, viewed the problem, disposed of the blocked and cracked part, and watched Roy and Dad replace the pipe successfully. SUCCESSFULLY. Many showers and baths have tested this already. More on this in a later post but, suffice it to say, it's been rather celebratory around this joint. 

Date Night In: Wood by Fried Chicken

“…it wasn’t until we had kids that I discovered how truly selfish I was, thinking that the time when they all were finally quiet and in bed belonged to me. During the day, I had played Legos when I wanted to read, changed diapers when I had just sat down to eat, given hard lessons about sharing when I really just wanted to sink into the couch and let my mind think of nothing. So when late evening’s quiet finally came, I wanted nothing more than to answer only to myself. Soon, however, I realized my desires overshadowed my marriage and that I had selfishly ignored the person I cared for the most.”

                -Ashley Rodriguez, Not Without Salt, pp. 168-169

I wrestle with this daily. Introverted as I am, the peace and solitude of the end of a long day beckons to me. When Roy is home for a few nights in a row we fall into a lovely rhythm of sitting down after the kids are asleep and connecting in conversation, often over a dessert or drink. But if he’s had several consecutive evening concerts, that first night when he’s home again can often feel stilted. I quickly claimed that time as “my own” while he’s gone and it takes a little practice to share again. It comes back soon enough, and this Date Night In happened to fall on the third consecutive evening of being together, so we were in our groove.

Roy tackled the cocktail and preheated the oven while I snuggled and kissed and tucked in. Then I came down to face my greatest kitchen fear: deep fat frying.

As I double-dredged the chicken thighs I couldn’t help but remember my days of working in the deli at the local grocery store. My parents have always maintained that it’s important for everyone to work a menial, minimal-wage job for a while. This was it, in spades. Pounds and pounds of frying chicken, slicing deli meats and cheeses, prepping subs—all the while terrified for my musical fingers around all the sharp blades. There wasn’t a lot of joy in the deli I’m afraid, but it did give me a better appreciation for those who do it cheerfully. (I’m a lot better at guesstimating small weights too.)

When I fried chicken in the deli, I just dumped it in some fancy frying gizmo and set a timer. Not so here. I carefully kept an eye on the temperature of the oil (there was probably a quart of it, glistening in all of its fat and cholesterol, and simmering in a way that made me fear for my skin). Once it hit 360° I carefully dropped in the thighs. They started bubbling and in general doing what they did in the deli, a good sign. I needn’t have worried about the temperature of the oil getting too high…the cold chicken immediately lowered the temperature by thirty degrees. Three minutes per side and I placed them on a cooling rack. That then was placed into the oven (over a silent prayer that the rack was oven-safe) for 9 minutes.

Roy finished the cocktails and handed me mine—a basil mint jubilee. There were 8 mint and 4 basil leaves all muddled on the bottom of our glasses, but we both agreed that all we could taste was bourbon. I muddled some more, but it didn’t change much. Maybe crafting a syrup from the leaves and using that instead next time? In either case, either by design or technique, this didn’t wow us.

The bourbon highlight of the night was not this drink.

We turned our attention to the pickled vegetable salad. I toasted almonds and drained pickled onions, beets, corn, and carrots, while Roy chopped parsley, lettuce, and crumbled goat cheese. It looked super-colorful once assembled. We enjoyed it. Again—probably not my favorite thing? But the flavor combination was new and refreshing. I don’t feel the need to pickle anything anytime soon though.

We were really in it for the goat cheese.

The chicken came out and we assembled our sandwiches. The biscuit WAS probably my favorite thing. It had grainy mustard spread on the bottom and honey drizzled on the top, and it was drop-dead tasty. The chicken was good! It tasted authentic, with a nice crispy exterior and perfect doneness on the inside. I still struggled to eat something that I had fried myself, but I think if anybody else had made it I would have loved it. Personal struggle there. The sandwich was ENORMOUS. No way I was going to manhandle it without utensils. (This is supposed to be a date, no?) So I forked my way through it, which gave me the excuse opportunity to eat the chicken first and then savor the biscuit. Yummmmmm.

Biscuity goodness, grainy mustard, dill pickle slices, a honking piece of fried chicken, honey, and more biscuity goodness. Roy's comment, "If we had eaten stuff like this when we lived in the south maybe we wouldn't have been in such a hurry to leave."

We were full and there was still dessert. (Chocolate pecan ice cream pie with bourbon butterscotch and pretzel crust…you can do the angel “ahhh” song now.) I am excited to have another slice of this today when I’m not pushing over-fullness, because it was incredible and I think I would appreciate it even more when my stomach had room. The crust didn’t come out of the dish very well—I think the butterscotch sauce was absorbed into the pretzel crust enough that it hardened onto the plate. So here’s a picture of pie with the crust on the side (which wasn’t a bad way to experience it at all).

I feel like our dessert photos aren't as good as some of the other ones. Perhaps it's because we're already half-asleep and rolling on the ground from the main course.

The butterscotch sauce was cool. It hit you as BOURBON initially, but quickly receded into a warm, dark caramel, with the lingering taste of the browned butter (I could definitely tell it was browned—yay!). I find complex flavors like that rather magical. Like taking a little journey with each taste.

An extra bonus is that this made an entire pie, so lots of leftovers. (If you happen to be visiting from out of state tomorrow you are in for a treat!) ;)

So…this probably wasn’t my faaaaaavorite menu of the three we’ve done so far, but it was still excellent, and components of it will be added to my go-to list. (Anybody want a biscuit???)

Some people, like me, need the encouragement of a good meal to woo them to the table and to connect with their partner, while others might need a walk or an intentional 15 minutes with their partner. The point is to connect; whatever gets you there is more than good enough.

                -NWS, p. 169

Today’s 1%: I’ve only been up for ninety minutes so there haven’t been many chances to knock this day out of the park. But my day has been greatly improved because of the loving kindness of my dear husband, who washed all of the dishes from last night’s merrymaking before I came downstairs. Excuse me while I go give him all of the kisses…

Update: I went to give kisses and he met me with a cup of coffee. TRULY my knight in shining armor.