Cheapest, Best School Lunch EVER

Isn't it the greatest thing ever when you screw something up and have to settle for a really lame Plan B, only to be rewarded by a super awesome unforeseen consequence that basically makes you look brilliant?

That happened to me today! Yay!

We just came through one of the most soccer-packed, social-packed, traffic-packed, logistics-packed weekends of our lives, which is indeed saying something.  Before the weekend even started, I texted the following to my husband:

"Can you hear the circus music yet?  I CAN!"

My eldest saw that text in the car on the way home on Friday evening...he got a chuckle.

But I digress.  It's just that the weekend was so completely fricking insane that I couldn't manage to do any grocery shopping, so I had to settle for my last minute fall back: take the kids to Safeway in the morning on the way to school to get them breakfast and lunch.  But then, I was so sleep deprived, and in such a non-caffeine dither (no coffee in the house either!), that I completely forget to get off the freeway to go to Safeway.

No breakfast.  No lunch.  No plan.

My three oldest go to school in downtown Oakland, which is a lousy place for a person in search of groceries, especially at 7:45am.  So we made the very sad decision to get what we all call Gas Station Food.  We stopped at one of those food marts at a gas station and stared dismally at the selections before making some seriously depressing choices.  Off Lola went with her Cup Noodles, with a side of her mother's shame and guilt to chase it down.

That was my really lame Plan B.

But the brilliance!  The unforeseen brilliance!

When I picked her up after school, she happily announced that her buddy desperately wanted that Cup Noodles and gratefully traded her own lunch: a gourmet chicken caesar salad.  Lola was psyched.  I was relieved that she got to eat something besides a styrofoam cup full of sodium.  It was a win-win.

The best was yet to come, though.  Because then I came up with the BEST School Lunch Plan Ever, and the most Affordable.  I'm going to buy her a couple flats of those cup noodle things.  She'll be the most popular lunch trade in town, and all those other chumpy moms will buy the really good, organic, non-GMO, non-HFCS, locally sourced, locally grown, attractively packaged, liberal-heart-soothing lunches and their kids will trade with my kid.  Healthy lunch at processed food prices.

Bingo.

I just love that I learn something new every day, especially when it involves me being brilliant and not even knowing it.

* * *

That Omelet Doesn't Threaten Me

A Tip for Mothers. Or Fathers. Or People.

This is a public service announcement.  Probably kind of a long one.  But here it goes:

At least a year ago, a mom I know told me a story about the day her teenage son made himself an omelet.  She told the story to illustrate that he is more capable than she had previously imagined.  I'll admit it: I was impressed.  My teenage sons can barely make toast.  And there she was, waxing eloquent about the vegetable chopping, and the spice using, and the whisking, and the this and the that and the competency.

I won't go so far as to say that my confidence in my children -- or in my ability to raise them to be capable adults -- plummeted just from the story of the omelet.  But I do remember thinking: "Man, I wish my kids could do that."  And I've thought about that kid every now and then over the past year or so, especially when I make frittatas for my family, which I do with some frequency, giving me occasion to ponder the big questions: Will these boys ever know how to feed themselves?  Will their palates, and imaginations, and basic attitudes toward food ever move beyond Subway being the pinnacle of gastronomic delight?

Who the hell knows?

All I can be sure of is that that kid made an omelet.  It could have gone one of several different ways.  Herewith, I suggest just two:

Scenario One: 

Kid: I'm hungry.
Mom: Why don't you make yourself an omelet?
Kid: That's a great idea!  Do we have any dill weed? Fresh basil? Feta cheese?

Scenario Two:

Kid: I'm hungry.
Mom: Why don't you make yourself an omelet?
Kid: Phhht.

Kid: I'm hungry!
Mom: Why don't you make yourself an omelet?
Kid: Ugh! Whatever!  I'm not THAT hungry.

Kid: Gaawwwwd…I'm…so…hungry…I'm gonna die…ughgrrrrraaaaaghhhhh...
Mom: Why don't you make yourself an omelet?
Kid: FINE WHATEVER FINE JEEZ FINE.  Crap.  Where the hell is the frying pan thingee?  How do I do this anyway?  Do we have a flippy tool thing?  I can't BELIEVE you are making me do this.

* * *

See, just hearing that someone did something tells you NOTHING.  There are so many ways to do something: quietly, angrily, enthusiastically, peevishly, piously, deviously, pleasantly, like a teenager…the list goes on.  Let's go back to the kitchen for a moment, shall we?

Scenario One:

Kid: Mom, do you want one?  I've got tomatoes, basil, feta, a little mozzarella if you prefer, I'm sautéing some onions first, adding a little garlic.  The kitchen smells fabulous!  Do we have any organic, whole wheat, HFCS-free bread I can toast to go with it?
Mom: Sure I'll have a small one, as long as you're offering.

Scenario Two:

Kid: (picture all of the following being said while the kid is using 10x the necessary number of dishes and utensils, dropping half the ingredients on the floor, and gyrating like a Woodstock attendee.) You mean I have to CHOP stuff?  Forget that.  Ewwwwwww: eggs are slimy and gross.  Do we have the cheese that's already shredded, cuz no way am I gonna use that flesh ripping thing you call a grater.  And by the way, we have barely enough salt: there's only like half a cup in that Morton's canister.  How do you flip this?  I can't flip this! This is fricking IMPOSSIBLE.  OH MY GOD THIS IS A MESS!  And everything's burning! UGH, NO WAY NO ONIONS.  Whatever.  This is stupid.  Why can't we just go to IHOP like normal people.
Mom: (She's actually pretty quiet.  The only thing you can hear, if you listen very hard, is barely audible weeping into a coffee cup spiked with whisky.)

* * *

The result in both scenarios: The kid makes an omelet.  Truth.

Here's the thing: that mom, the one who told me about her son making an omelet, if I were her, I am sure I would have told the story the exact same way.  The damn kid DID make an omelet, and to a mom or dad, that is MON-U-MEN-TAL.  A Scenario 2 mom gets to tell the story just like the Scenario 1 mom gets to, because in the end, it may not be pretty, but the omelet does get made, which is proof positive that someday the kid will be OK, or at least, that's what we are hoping like hell it means.

Also?  The good news, for all parents and other people out there, is that we get to narrate our own stories.  Every single one of them has a germ of truth in it.  Sing that song as loud as you want to. As soon as it starts to make someone else feel like crap, that germ of truth is dust, but until then?  GOLDEN.  Stories are meant to lift us up and show us what is possible, not prove how lame we are and how together everyone else is.  I don't begrudge my friend her omelet story, for two reasons. First, it shows me that I can tell my own stories, with their germs of truth, any way I want, and I can decide what those stories really mean.  And second, I celebrate the fact that on my good days, I can see beyond the halo cast by that story and realize the essential truth: kids grow up and learn how to make omelets and it isn't necessarily pretty along the way, but eventually, we won't have to make them frittatas.  Which reminds me of an image I saw recently:

I heard the omelet story IRL, from an actual person.  But the reverberations of it -- the fact that I think of it sometimes when I'm yet again making frittatas for 14 and 16 year olds who can't boil water -- reminds me of the scourge of Facebook and the like.  I am 100% sure that while social media is keeping us connected to family and friends near and far and making all kinds of powerful social movements possible, it is also responsible for a crap ton of anxiety and neurosis, as we find ourselves staring at screens depicting in word and picture how wonderful and well-adjusted all of our friends' families are.

So.  Here's the public service announcement:

• No one knows the price a mother paid to get her kids to pose like that.
• No one knows the many twists and hair pin turns, the set backs and restarts a father endured to teach his daughter to drive.
• No one knows just how loud those kids were screaming at each other, or with what degree of vitriole, mere moments before mom snapped that Back to School photo.
• No one knows what went down in the omelet kitchen.  All we know is that an omelet emerged at the end.

Tell your stories.  Don't let anyone else's bring you down.  See the germs of truth and let them inspire, not hen-peck, you.  The long road of raising children, of life, is not pretty, but there are fantastic views along the way and we get to frame the photos.

It doesn't hurt that just recently, the omelet maker got in trouble with his coach for coming to soccer practice high.

Nope.  Doesn't hurt at all.

* * *

WHY did I agree to this?

Why oh why oh why, on a school night, with five players needing to do homework, with 9 to 5 work needing to be done outside of the 9 to 5 framework, with dishes multiplying, and laundry threatening world domination, and dinner barely manageable, and a 6th grader needing to find a missing school book, and a 1st grader needing to go to the SuperKids website to read or some such nonsense (a site where she always manages to do SOMETHING to the screen so that all the words and images get HUGE and I can't get them back down to normal size and I try and I try and then give up and she has to start all over), with too too much already going on…

…WHY did I agree to let my 9 year old make bread?

We're not talking bread-maker bread, here.

We're talking knead the dough, knead the dough, knead the dough, let it rise, punch it down, let it rise, no breeze, covered in cloth, warm place, up high, NO BREEZE MOM, b-r-e-a-d.

It's about to go in the oven.

We shall see what happens.

With that much chaos, these loaves of bread have been thrown together in a distinctly haphazard fashion.  Measuring cups?  Not so much.  Thorough kneading?  Not so much.  No breeze?  Kinda breezy in that kitchen.  No order, no clean surfaces, no well-run kitchen.  Definitely not a Martha Stewart, Pinterest worthy evening; it was messy, loud, and stressful.  Just like my family.

It might taste terrible.  It might be delicious.  It was definitely exhausting.

* * *

30 minutes later:

Lady E's Loafs of Love

* * *

30 more minutes later, the verdict:  It was lumpy, lovely, warm and wonderful.  Just like my family.

* * *

Empanada-palooza

Goodness gracious, it's once again past 11pm and I have not yet posted anything in this month of NaBloPoMo madness.

I spent several hours tonight making a crazy amount of empanadas.  I made a large batch for my office Thanksgiving Feast/Potluck tomorrow…I made more for dinner tonight…I made more for school lunches tomorrow.  Hence: empanada-palooza.

So, since empanadas are the reason I have nothing more interesting or thought provoking to post, I will share my empanada pastry and filling recipes.  They are mouthwatering good.  Try them, and then come tell me what you think of them!


Cream Cheese Pastry
Recipe Credit: My friend Starr.  She's amazing.

8 tblsp (one stick) butter at room temp
4 oz cream cheese at room temp
1/4 cup heavy cream
1 1/2 cups plus 2 tblsp flour

1. Process butter, cream cheese, and cream in food processor or by hand (it takes longer by hand and it is harder to combine).
2. Next add flour, process until just combined, and divide the dough into 2 equal balls. Wrap in plastic and chill for at least 30 minutes.
3. After the dough is chilled, roll out and cut into 5" discs (if you don't have cutters a top of a plastic tupperware, or bowl will work).
4. Preheat oven 375 and make your filling.

Empanada Filling

Recipe Credit: PBS Kitchen Explorers

1 lb. ground beef, turkey, or vegetarian ground “meat”

1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped

3/4 tsp. salt

1/4 tsp. garlic powder

3/4 tsp. cinnamon

1/4 tsp. cumin

1/8 tsp. ground cloves

2 Tbsp. balsamic vinegar

1. In a large heavy skillet, brown the meat and onions over medium-high heat.
2. Once the meat is browned (about 5 minutes) add the salt, garlic powder, cinnamon, cumin, cloves, and vinegar, and simmer it for about 10 minutes. 
3. Remove it from the heat and let cool for awhile.

Assembling the empanadas

1. Add stuffing to one half of each disc, and leave an edge.
2. Wet the edge with water; fold over and press the edges with a fork. 
3. Put on cookie sheet (parchment paper is optional but easy to clean up). 
4. Make an egg wash (beat one egg with teaspoon of water) and brush all pastries before you put them into the oven. 
5. Cook about 20-25 minutes (check for your taste of browning)

I think this makes about 14-16 smallish empanadas…maybe around 10 larger ones…I always double, triple or quadruple this recipe because of the numbers of mouths I have to feed.  No matter how many I make, I never get to eat as many as I would like.  So actually, the first step in this recipe should be amended to: 

STEP ONE -- HAVE ONLY ONE CHILD SO YOU DO NOT HAVE TO SHARE THESE EMPANADAS WITH TOO MANY PEOPLE.

After you have done all of the above, get ready for everyone at your office Thanksgiving Potluck -- well…everyone except the vegetarians and the gluten-free eaters -- to oooooh and aaaaah over your culinary impressiveness.

Bon appetite!

* * *

A Refrigerator's Worth A Thousand Words

NaBloPoMo Writing Prompt for November 12, 2013: 

Name five things inside your refrigerator right now 

and how you feel about them.  

Hmmm…fridge contents are like a peek into a person's inner life, don't you think?  I mean, I don't let just anyone look inside my fridge.  But for the sake of NaBloMoPo, I shall share, selectively, a few things you would see were you in my kitchen right now whilst I pull out Item #1.

Item the first: Red Hook Longhammer Ale.  I feel very, very happy about this particular thing inside my refrigerator.  Relaxed and happy.

Item the second: Buttermilk.  I feel good about the buttermilk too, not because I like buttermilk, but because the only reason I have it is so my 9 year old daughter can make her dark chocolate cake pops from scratch, the recipe for which calls for said buttermilk.  These little morsels are dense and delicious, and I derive great pleasure from doing the bidding of a 9 year old who bakes.

Item the third: Applesauce.  I feel guilty about the applesauce.  Because it's a giant, practically full container and it's been in there for ages, since the kids abruptly decided to quit their apple-saucing binge, the same one that not long ago had me scrambling to keep enough sauced apples in the house to meet demand.  Kids.  Their whims are inexplicable.  I am guessing (although I still haven't found the courage to look) that this particular container of applesauce is sporting lots of pretty shades of mold.

Item the fourth: A very large bag of pepperoni.  I feel daunted by this bag of pepperoni.  It taunts me.  It mocks my ability to think of new ways to serve it.  It ridicules me for not freezing it when someone else (not me) brought its girth and heft into our happy home.  So yes, I feel challenged and daunted by a bag of meat.

Item the fifth: Two netted bags of small, yellow roasting potatoes.  I feel excited about these potatoes.  Here's where you learn that, much like my husband can turn any conversation into a soccer conversation, I can turn any topic into a reason to sing the praises of NPR.  And so:

I love roasted potatoes.  But for the longest time, I have been unable to make them as delicious as the ones I've had other places.  Total mystery.  This past August, while visiting friends in Portland OR, my dear friend Kari served the most scrumptious roasted potatoes ever.  I actually FB messaged her after the visit, to ask how she made them.  The answer?  Bite size chunks of potatoes…olive oil…garlic…salt…pepper…hot oven.  Exactly how I do mine.  So I tried roasting them for longer, since she said she just waits till they turn the right crispiness.  Still not as yummy.  I was flummoxed.

Until one day, when NPR came to my rescue, as she has done so many times before.  (Did you know NPR is a girl?  She is.)

My rescue came this past September in the form of an interview with Mollie Katzen, of Moosewood Cookbook fame, who happened upon the subject of roasting vegetables, and shared this gem: You should never salt your potatoes before you put them in the oven, because the salt draws out the moisture.  Voila!  That was my problem!  I had been salting my potates (not a typo) before roasting them, and creating a moist roasting environment instead of nice dry roasting environment.  After my little chemistry lesson, I went out that same day, bought more potatoes, and tried it that night.  Salted them on the back end instead of the front, and ended up in potato nirvana.  Now, I can make those little bits of heaven whenever I want, in confidence that they will be everything I dream of.

(Many people already know this.  I did not.  I needed NPR to tell me.  And like a BFF, she told me what I needed to hear.)

So yes: excited about the potatoes in my fridge.  And by turns happy, ashamed, and daunted by the other contents.

And no, you may not look in my linen closet.

* * *

Make a Difference. Make Food.

Life moves pretty fast.  If you don't stop and make guacamole once in a while, you could miss it.

Yes, I stole that line from Ferris Bueller.  I only steal things that are truly great.  And when my daughter wanted guacamole last night, I sighed inwardly because I was "too tired" and "too busy" to make homemade guacamole.

But I did it anyway, and it was the best thing I've done in days and days and days.  The chopping.  The mashing.  The taste testing.  It was all simple and lovely and wonderful.

Make a difference in your life.  Make real food.

* * *

7 Quick Takes, Volume 57

7 things to make you laugh, think, and smile.  Visit the original.  Visit some others.  Leave some comments.  7 quick comments.  That's your goal.

And now:

~1~

Great TAL show on education and what kids really need to be learning.

~2~

Notwithstanding the profanity, this pretty much sums up my life's philosophy.  Now, what's interesting, is that I see no conflict at all between this sentiment and my Catholic faith.  So I don't think I need to convert to the Church of the Latter Day Dude.  The RC's have got me covered.

source: I originally saw this on Facebook,
but traced its roots to this site: http://dudeism.com/

~3~

Today is dress like a book character/donate a book day at school.  Which had me making stops at Target and Barnes and Noble last night far past dinnertime, with all five kids, spending too much cash to buy books to donate to the school and outfits for Atticus Finch, Ivy (of Ivy and Bean), Sally (of The Cat in the Hat), and some character from Percy Jackson I can't remember the name of.

Now, just a week or so ago, I passed on school pictures because we couldn't afford it.  But give me a cause like promoting a love of reading in my own kids and donating new books to others, and I'll apparently spend all kinds of money I don't actually have.  My altruism is fervent, if not wise.

And anyway, those school picture packages are a total racket.

~4~

My 10 year old daughter recently got 12 inches of her hair cut off.  And we learned just how easy it is to donate to Locks of Love.

We were out of town, at a soccer game about an hour away, and she decided she wanted to get her hair cut.  Ping!  I thought: what about Locks of Love?  She said sure.

So, after the game I searched for a Supercuts on my Intermittently Smart Phone, found one a few blocks away, googled Locks of Love, discovered that anyone can cut your hair as long as they know ahead of time to pony-tail it and not let it hit the floor, and an hour later, we were back in our car with a Supercuts bag containing a 12 inch pony tail and SuperCute 10 year old sporting a big ole smile.

Just so ya' know, in case you happen to have 10+ inches of hair you aren't using, this was the easiest good thing to do ever.

Before...

After...

For Locks of Love

~5~

I'm slipping, people.  Really, really slipping.  The other day, I took my 12 year old to Taco Bell.  While I do deserve some props for him getting to be 12 before Taco Bell fare ever passed his lips, I still feel, deeply, the Shame of Fast Food Consumer.

But it didn't stop there.  No, this morning, when I stopped for gas on the way to drop him at school, and because there wasn't much in the way of lunch food for him at the house, I actually assembled his lunch from a gas station convenience store.  Pa. Theh. Tic.

How do people who work full time manage to feed their children without compromising their ideals or dying of shame?  This is not a rhetorical question.  I need answers!

~6~

This is your teenager's brain.    This is your teenager's brain on plain old, developmentally normal hormones.  Watch and learn.

The Mysterious Workings of the Teenage Brain



This is all very interesting, but I have to admit, "synaptic pruning" scares the hell out of me.

Thank goodness the impressive Sarah-Jayne Blakemore also says this:  "This is a period of life where the brain is particularly adaptable and malleable.  It's a fantastic opportunity for learning and creativity.  So what's sometimes seen as the problem with adolescence--high risk taking, poor impulse control, self-consciousness--shouldn't be stigmatized.  It actually reflects changes in the brain that provide an excellent opportunity for education and social development."

Translation: no matter how many times my teenager loses his soccer ball, it's not too late!  YAY!

~7~

Do you yell at your kids too much?

Because I certainly do not, and I do not need this resource at all, but apparently, or so I've heard, there are parents out there who actually raise their voices sometimes (shocking!), and maybe perhaps could avail themselves of the concepts in this book.

Seriously, it's about so much more than not yelling.  It's about raising happy kids.  Even a non-yeller like me (font of serenity that I am) can use some help in that endeavor.  And you?

* * *

Happy Friday.  *Clink!*

* * * 

Rachael Ray?

I have one comment.

30 minutes my ass.

I do love the yogurt-cucumber-cumin sauce, though.  Fish tacos....mmmmmm.

* * *

Farmer T

We are chicken sitting.

A neighbor down the street is away for a couple of weeks, and since we never go anywhere, we are taking care of her chickens.  This means fresh eggs for us!

Confession?  I inwardly groan every morning when it's time to go "do the chickens."  I described the whole thing to a friend like this: "Yet another thing I should not have said: 'Sure!  That sounds fun!' to."

Sigh.

Little T is thoroughly enjoying it though.

Will this exposure to local chickens just complicate my life?  Am I going to be dealing with Pleasemommypleasemommypleasemommycanwehaveourownchickenspleasemommypleeeeeeeese?

Oh dear.  I hope not.  I'm not quite ready to walk my local food talk in that particular way.

But oh-so-yummy were the fried eggs we had for breakfast!

* * *

Thank You, Rock-n-Roll!

When my first born son was a wee tot, probably no more than 1, he tried his first tomato.  It was the first time I ever saw him dislike a taste; up to that point, he was a dream eater.  But that tomato caused a facial response worthy of overcooked brussels sprouts and became the first chapter in a long, depressing story called How A Kid Got Picky.

At the time, I thought: "OK, he doesn't like tomatoes.  No big."  But it turns out, it has been a huge road block in his eating life.  Pizza?  Nope: tomato sauce.  Family spaghetti night? Not with my homemade sauce.  Salads?  Well, sort of fine, if you pick out the toms, which of course, he does.  Salsa? No.  Bruschetta?  Uh-uh.  Most soups?  Fail.

As he has gotten pickier over the years, his not eating tomatoes has gotten more and more frustrating for me.  Pizza is such kid-standard fare that the issue comes up frequently.  Pizza is the meal of choice at most birthday parties, soccer team parties, class parties, always leaving me with "What the heck did he eat?  Chips?  A carrot or two?"

I've tried a million times to get him to try pizza again.  We make pizza for dinner fairly regularly, and he will not eat it.  I've encouraged, cajoled, threatened, bribed, stormed, and reasoned.  I've screamed and yelled.  Over pizza.  I've come unhinged a few times, to be sure, and that's never a good thing.

For a long time now, I have suspected that he would actually love pizza if he just gave it a try.  After all, it's now been over a decade since a tomato passed his lips.  Things change, right?

A couple of years ago and at the end of my rope, I tried a new tactic.  Employing my most practiced nonchalance, I mentioned, offhand, that "someday, I'm sure you'll like pizza."  Since then, every now and then I've asked (using my most crafted casualness): "So, wanna try some pizza this time?  No?  OK, no problem.  Someday you will, I'm sure.  You'll love it."  

In his presence, that zen like confidence prevailed.  But out of eye and ear shot?  I've expressed my true feelings, storming mightily at his monumental stubbornness.  I've obsessed over how he will ever truly enjoy college if he won't eat pizza.  I've wistfully longed for a normal kid, one who inhales pizza like a healthy American teenager. 

It's not that pizza is so great.  Bread, cheese, sauce.  It's not the holy grail of nutrition.  But pizza has become a metaphor, a symbol of his refusal to do something I want him to do, of his epic picky-ness, of the pain-in-the-neck hassle of figuring out how to feed him, of the never ending power struggle that food became at an early age between him and me.  (I learned my lesson.  My other kids are far less picky because I got smart about how to feed them and how to handle food with them.)

So back to the Zen Strategy.  I tried it because I had tried everything else.  I didn't really believe it would work.  The only thing it did was pull the plug on the power struggle, and as much as I wanted him to eat the damn pizza, that was enough for me for awhile.

12 years later, my son has joined a band as a guitarist.  After the first rehearsal, he came home with the bad news: the boys order a pizza at every single practice.  "Well, maybe it's time to try it, then!" was my response.

His?  "Yeah, maybe."

At the end of the second band practice, he called me: "Guess what mom?  I tried pizza.  I loved it."

He even gave me the details about how when the pizza got there, he didn't say a thing, acted like it was no big deal, grabbed a piece and shoved it in his mouth.  I love having that little movie playing in my head.  

Thank you, rock and roll, for giving pizza back to my family, for proving that the zen approach to parenting works every now and then, for teaching me to let go.  Thank you for confirming what I have long suspected but also long resisted: take 97% of what you most worry about when it comes to the kids, and stop worrying.  Fake it till you make it.  Fake it until you figure out that it's really true.  Fake it until what you most want drops into your lap.

I know it's just pizza.  But that pizza is teaching me to be a better mother.

* * *

  

7 Quick Takes: Volume 38

Whoa!  Did I just blink and another Friday rolled around?  And why does time keep speeding up on me?  Seriously, whose in charge of slowing things down around here?  I would like to file a formal request.  Here's the basic text: "HELP!  SLOW DOWN!"  I sure hope I get a response by next Friday.

Please visit the lovely host of the original 7 Quick Takes and visit the links to other bloggers playing along.

~1~

Yesterday, I offered to take the kids to get ice cream cones if everyone finished their work by 1pm.  Little T looked at me in dismay.

"What?  Ice cweam cones??  Why?"

Her face crumpled.  She fell to crying.

Huh?  I was baffled.  Until she clarified that she didn't want just the cone, she wanted the ice cream to go with it and thought it was very mean of me to just buy the cone.

So yesterday, when my kids finished their work by 1pm, I took them all out for ice cream cones, and I even let them get some ice cream to put on top.

~2~

We have started playing around with the math videos and practice exercises on Kahn Academy.  If you are not yet familiar with Kahn Academy, you should be.  You want to be, you just don't know it yet.  What a cool site!  What an amazing resource!  I ♥ Sal Kahn.

And for further math delightfulness, check out this version of the fantastic Tom Lehrer New Math song:

~3~

We learned how to make these fun paper boxes the other day:

Perfect.  Right when I finally purged all those calendars and children's book jackets I had been hoarding for years.

No matter.  I'm sure I can replenish that supply in a heartbeat, and I expect this to be a fun activity we will do many times.  They make delightful gifts and gift containers.  Thank you Lori and Maddie for teaching us!

~4~

Cooking with Mama Monica

Hee-hee...oh, my, that title makes me laugh.  I'm sure it would make my husband giggle, too.  Ah, the hilarity!  But my limited range in the kitchen is exactly why I am sharing this recipe.  It is the single easiest thing I ever make, and really quite delicious.  Every time I make it, I feel like I'm getting away with something.  So here ya' go:

Rosemary Chicken

I use thighs.  Place your (frozen, if you're like me) chicken thighs in a baking dish.  They don't need to be thawed, another important feature of the easiest recipe ever, since I never remember to thaw things.

1/2-1 cup of red wine
1/4-1/2 cup of olive oil
1/4-1/2 cup of chopped onions (I've used red and yellow, depending on what I have.  Both work.)
1/2 teaspoon of sage
1/2-1 teaspoon of rosemary
You can add a dash of salt: I don't.

Whisk together all of the above ingredients.  Pour the mixture over the chicken.  That's it.  Seriously.

Whoops!  Forgot to tell you to preheat the oven.  Which makes sense, since I always forget to do it.  Anyway, set oven to around 375-400.  Sorry I can't be more specific, but I've got a really spazzy oven, and I'm never sure exactly what temp I've got goin'.   Cover with foil and cook for around an hour...remove foil and cook for another 15 minutes.  Maybe longer.  Test it for doneness.  If you're like my husband, that means cut it open, eye it suspiciously, and poke a forkful in your wife's face and say: "This look done to you?"  I just use a meat thermometer.

Enjoy over rice or pasta.  And bask in the glory.  This takes about 10 minutes to prepare, and tastes like it took much longer.

You are most welcome.

~5~

And a shout out to my 12 year old son, who broke his own juggling record yesterday.   I did not catch the momentous occasion on film, but I did get this video a few weeks ago, to give you an idea of what he is doing.  He got to 50 or so in the video...far below the new RECORD TO BEAT OF 475!

475!  Woot-woot!

~6~

It turns out the Serenity Prayer is perfect for teenagers.  I had occasion to tell mine about it the other day, which reminded me of this prayer for the first time in a long time.  I'm glad I stumbled on a chance to bring it back into my daily life (because I can't control much), and I hope my son makes it part of his.  This is probably better than the Golden Rule as a succinct life philosphy.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can.

And the wisdom to know the difference.

Really, what more is there?

~7~

And if the radically opposing natures of most of my posts have been giving anyone whiplash lately, if you can't figure out if I'm a big sap or a total cynic, if I seem to be sweet one minute and sarcastically cruel the next, welcome to my world.  It's confusing to be me, trust me. But really, what about my kids?  Say a special prayer for them, with me as their mom.  They'll either be hopelessly confused by the world, or ready for anything.  I'm going for better than 50%, so we'll see how that goes.

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7 Quick Fruits and Vegetables: Volume 32

Friday day is in our grasp

So long as we have hands to clasp.

Clasp your hands in thanksgiving that another Friday has arrived!

For today's 7 Quick Takes, I am glorifying the fruits and vegetables in my garden, because I need to eat more of them. I am locked in a dysfunctional relationship with carbohydrates, and I'm trying to create corrective eating experiences in order to change that state of affairs. Maybe these photos will inspire me to eat some green. Maybe you too!

~1~

~2~

~3~

~4~

~5~

~6~

~7~

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I'm just happy that today's 7 Quick Takes got me out of the house and into the lively, bright, fragrant, sunny garden this morning with my camera. Happy Friday and weekend, everyone!

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Please visit our 7 Quick Takes host at Conversion Diary and sample the links of other Quick Takers!

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Broccoli Wars

Him: "Mom, how many pieces of broccoli do I need to have?"

Me: "Five."

Him: "How about four?"

Me: "How about six?"

Him: "How about five?"

Me: "Sounds good to me."

I win.

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Fuel

image credit: West Point Steak House

We bought another fire-bellied toad today. (We've sort of lost a couple in the past...but we've reformed our weak terrarium-covering ways and that won't be happening anymore.) Anyway, this isn't about the toad, whose name, for now, is Bob. This is about fuel.

On the way to the East Bay Vivarium, I noticed I was perilously close to running out of gas. Cenzo asked me what happens to the gas to make it go away. I sort of stumbled through an answer until I hit upon an analogy I knew he would relate to. He loves to make fires in our outdoor firepit, so I told him it's like adding wood to a fire; eventually, you need to add more fuel to the fire because it burns up. The same thing happens with car fuel; the engine burns it up.

To sum up, I said: "So it's fuel. Just like you have to add more wood to a fire, you have to add more gasoline to a car."

And my cute little 8 year old carnivore piped up: "Just like you have to add more steak to my plate!" She's consistent!

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Shhhhhhh! Don't look now, but I'm home alone. Two kids are at the park with the dog (sweet Jesus, they are finally old enough to do this on their own); two kids are next door bugging the neighbor; one kid is at a soccer field with dad having some one-on-one time. I cannot plan for these moments; they drop like manna from heaven. I estimate I have exactly 2.34 minutes of peace and quiet. I'm pouring a glass of wine with one hand and typing with the other. Score!

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