The fine art of the PB&J

"Nooooo!  Ohhhh nooooo!"

Yawning, I swung into the kitchen to see what travesty was currently taking place.

By the counter, my husband was guiltily holding a pink plastic knife, covered in peanut butter.

"Daddy!  You s'pposed to use the pink one for the jewwy!  The JEWWY!" In bitter disappointment and righteous indignation, she flew out of the room.

I looked at the offending sandwich and sighed.  Dan chuckled in bewilderment.

"Yeah, the pink knife is for the jelly, and the blue one is for the peanut butter.  And then the crust is cut off, the sandwich is cut in half, and served on a plate."  Then I went off to remonstrate with the mini diva.

Can't help but compare the humble pb&j to blogging.  It can be tough to find the perfect balance of sweetness and protein, substance and fun.  I'm working on it though.

Meanwhile, try to refrain from having tantrums in the other room, and I'll figure out which knife to use.

heh heh

"The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom..." Psalm 111:10

On the murder of melons

Crunch.  Pfft pfft.  Crunch! Pfft pfft...pfft pfft... pfft pfft (expletive) pfft.  Sigh.  Tap tap tap tap tap.  TAP.  Scrape.  Poke.  Poke!!! Jab jab jab... stab.  Start over....

Those, my friends, are the sound effects of me using "Pop Chef," the food cut-out system advertised on a bunch of kid programming these days.  My soon-to-turn 11 year-old was just dying to have it for her birthday, because it would make her dream of affordable homemade edible arrangements soooo much easier.

And somehow it was I, myself, moi, me,who stayed up to 1 AM completing these delectable creations, with tiny fruit butterflies and hearts and flowers.  I still have fruit residue on my hands... I'm telling you, it won't fully wash off, this evidence of the produce massacre I caused... I killed that watermelon in cold juice and just mercilessly gutted it for hours.  Just have to live with that I guess.  And the sticky floor that needs cleaning, again.  No, I don't like cooking/food prep, why do you ask?  :D  In general, let alone using an ineffectual toy I idiotically bought... for hours.  While exhausted.  I see it all in my dreams now...

Yep, I ended up doing it myself, without the kids... and on a side note this is why--though I love animals, though they beg me, though I'm just certain I am somehow ruining their characters by thus depriving them--I ain't gettin' no pet till the youngest is... I dunno, would you say 20 sounds good?  Okay, fine: I will totally buy a hairless creature that doesn't poop or use water once I find it, I promise.  Anyone with me here? :)

But yeah, in general I'm a nice mom, particularly around birthdays, and dubious as I was (and apparently should have been) I got the %$&*#*! gadget.  My husband went to the grocery store with her and purchased a watermelon, honey dew, cateloupe, pineapple, two mangoes, and six kiwi.  He then with supportive thoughts sat down to watch European football, leaving me holding the peeler with two hyper tweens bouncing around the kitchen.

I carefully dispatched each piece, peeling so as only to take a small amount of my own skin, handing the eager girls precut and prepared pieces for them to punch.  (ooo alliteration alert, hee hee)

And they had sooo much fun for the first 9 minutes... I mean, just a blast!  But then it became apparent that "Pop Chef" was imperfect.  It had flaws.  The stupid balloon piece meant to "blast" your cut fruit through the cutter was, to be kind, pathetic.  (Pfft pfft.)  If you had a thinner piece at the peak of ripeness yeah, it "popped/dropped" out.  But try anything thicker and you had to take extreme and violent measures to extricate your perfect flower mango from that blasted thing.... which in the end leaves you with a mangled mango.  (Btw, I've never worked with mango in my life before... it has like stringy smooshy outside with a tough fibrous core.  Is there a secret to this?  UGH!)

As I worked on past midnight, doggedly determined to have something to show (Arranged!  In a friggin vase!!) for the purchases, time, and mess of it all, I thought, and discarded, the idea that my children were ungrateful.  They're just kids, I reasoned.  They had thanked me profusely, but were disappointed and tired and had to go to bed anyway...  Time will teach them what to value.  I comforted myself that, really, this all was a valuable lesson in the untrustworthiness of advertising.  I thought, and accepted, the idea that making the best of a unpleasant situation was a worthwhile endeavor.

I finished the arrangement.  I had only skewed myself three times.  Exhausted, I stuck it in the fridge.

The next morning, in great glee, my daughter grabbed it in haste and.... spilled perfection all over the floor.

She teared up.  Oh no... I don't think so!!!  No worries honey.  Momma's got this. With grim determination (me vs fruit now, all out war) I picked up the scattered skewers, washed the pieces, and stuck em' right back on.  Okay, a little more soggy and rumpled then before, but otherwise, good as new, right?  Yeah, sure!  Ignoring my pains of arrangement the night before, I thrust the drippy sticks into the vase, into my daughter's hands, and directed her out the door to share with her friends, who merrily devoured them.
In 9 minutes.

I think someday my girls will look back fondly and remember mom's labor of love here.  Hmmm.... Till then, save your money, and eat fruit whole, with peels on!  More fiber that way.

And thank you, Lord, for still working patiently with me, with all my flaws, till we create something beautiful together. :)  I think I can only check off some "love" and "forbearance" for today.  Working to getting more into tomorrow... ;)

"But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, 

kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control."  Galatians 5:22-23

To Dance With No Music

This is my mother. 

This is her with my kids. :)

They are at a park, and simply decided to dance. So my mom hums something, and they do.

Growing up, I did not know Shakespeare said that "all the world's a stage." In my family, I simply knew it to be true.  At any moment, my mom could break into a jig or a song and require me to join. Wherever we were.  Whoever was watching. And I always did, shy as I was, because I knew it made her proud.

I'm not saying it was not sometimes more than a little embarrassing. My humble piano, recorder, and even guitar skills (of which I knew five chords) were trotted out at every nursing home.  Company over for dinner was always treated to some sort of performance by the Mitchell kids. "So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen" etc... remember that song? Yeah, did that every time we kids went off to bed and left my mom and the other adults to chat. Oh no, I'm quite serious.  Thankfully, there are no pictures...

My mom's confidence spurred me on through auditions, acting in plays, performing in choirs. Whenever I sang--and even now, as recently as this Mother's Day in church--my mom signs an "L" to me. Nope, not for "loser"... It meant "loud" as in "sing louder!" :). And for her, I will sing a forte.  She gave me the ability to face life with song, with confidence, optimism, and joy.

My mother and I are different. I'm a bookworm... My mom claims she does not like to read, though she frequently researches things on Google.  I'm not sure she knows about blogging yet, and she still does not trust Facebook. :) Yet, my love of reading is from her. I can still hear the cadence of her voice as she read me endless Madeline's growing up, sitting on her lap on the old tweed couch. She wanted me to love something because she knew was good, even though she didn't love it herself. 

My mother and I are the same. We eat to live. Mind you, she can cook well--no one could beat her chicken cutlets or lasagna, and her chocolate chip cookies have won competitions.  But the usual fare of my youth?  A can of green beans, instant potatoes and extremely well-done hamburg was a perfectly acceptable dinner... Come to think of it, how about just grab an apple and forego the whole cooking stuff altogether?  I married into a family that was horrified at my culinary techniques.  One I'm still teased about: Drop block of frozen ground beef on a frying pan.  Scrap off meat as it cooks and thaws.  Yes, this results in some burnt bits with medium rare hamburger.  I was trained in more acceptable defrosting techniques.  My dirty secret?  I prefer my mom's original way to this day, burnt bits as a spice that remind me of the home I grew up in.  

My mother taught me what was most important: to thank God for everything, in everything, through everything.  When I sulked during adolescent, my consequence was to write what I could be grateful for in a "Blessing Book."  I kept it from the age of 13 till I started this blog.  :)  My mom taught me to cherish children: to treat them as the individuals they are, who can't help being young.  She taught me to love one's family, to have compassion, to not cry over spilled milk; when I broke something, she would help me sweep up the fragments while telling me not to worry about it. I learned that women did not have to be squeamish.  When I got sick, she would hold my hair back till things were over, telling me I was going to feel so much better soon.  She imparted a love of animals: to my father's dismay, we would regularly seek out and rescue birds for mom, usually pigeons. I remember being up late one night with her, bathing a fat bird that had gotten tar all over, gently scrubbing its feathers with old toothbrushes.  We would release them later, holding hands in pride and some wistfulness as they took to the sky.  

Yesterday was my mom's birthday. Having retired from teaching some years back from the school she taught at with my father--from whom she is inseparable--she now spends most of her days indoors: at church, then to the nursing home for her mother-in-law, followed by visiting her homebound dad.  But knowing how she loves to be outside, my sister and I prepared a picnic. Someday, we hope to finally get her to Ireland, her lifelong dream, but for now, a day by the water with grandkids will do.

Now that I'm a mother myself, I appreciate my own so much more. I understand why she was the last to sit and the first to rise form dinner. I admire how she hosted so many parties, so readily, at the drop of a hat.  I laugh thinking about how she made dad take us camping. I honor her childlike spirit, the one that believes the good in everyone and encourages it to bloom.  I love that she taught me to make my own music and dance despite the world, and that I will pass this on to my children.

"Awake, my soul!  Awake, lyre and harp!  I will awake the dawn." Psalm 57:8

Happy Birthday to Me....

I just dumped several years of Christmas letters right on your lap in celebration.  I was intending to dole them out to you piece by piece--I'd saved them as drafts back in December--but when I publish from my phone they are dated IN December, and here on the computer they publish the day of.  Too confusing.  You now know more than you ever wanted to know about the past ten years of my life.  :)  All the way from the dawn of my motherhood when hubby and I returned fresh from a year of study in Austria, to the present.  Oh yes, still haven't sent out Christmas cards.  Or taken down the tree.  Or told Facebook friends about this blog... still writing to myself.  I'm absurd. 

Well, a pretty good birthday.  Partied this morning with my parents and 97 year old grandmother, always a good thing.  She made me some nice chunky jewelry.  And carefully fed my baby cake. :)



Got a hug from each of my siblings.  Ginger beer from one brother, a cell phone case from another, and my favorite flowers and chocolates from my sister (tulips and Almond Joys.)  Roses and card from hubby.  Then took a nap (Score!!) Snuck out in the evening to have tea with one of my best mom buddies during the Patriots game, and remain dry eyed at their loss, despite the despair of my friends' husbands everywhere.  I'm actually inwardly dancing with glee, oh wicked, wicked, me.  Sorry Danny.  Just glad to have one less distraction, that's all.  Next time maybe they will get cut out of the playoffs BEFORE my birthday... oh, I am evil...

I thank God for my life today, that my mom chose to have me in a time when she could have legally chosen otherwise.  It's great to be here. --TLC

P.S.  Here's my cake, courtesy of my girls' creativity.  You can see the cupcake blossoms over the stems and leaves on the cake, right?  Kinda?  :)

The Aftermath

I awoke this morning to the sound of my girls singing “Amazing Grace.”  Honestly I did.  And no, this is by no means typical.  I am just as likely to awaken to the dulcet tones of them singing, “Firework” by Katie Perry, or “Where is My Hairbrush” by Larry the Cucumber.  Even more common is for me to awaken to “Mom, she took my SOCKS!  And I have a HEADAHCE!” (I have still not convinced them that, if they really had such a horrible headache, yelling loudly would not help the situation.  Nor have I yet convinced them that there are enough socks to go around.  Because there are.  We have enough socks for the neighborhood.  Do you need socks?  Let us know, cuz they’re all here.

But no, this morning I awoke to “Amazing Grace,” sung pretty darn well, by my daughters.  Which made me smile (as opposed to waking up with Patient Mommy Speech #32 which begins, “Now ladies, there are plenty of socks…”)  And it was appropriate to hear the old hymn on a morning of sunshine and warm air and yes, still many autumn leaves, after our visit from Hurricane Sandy yesterday, which for us, gratefully, was more bark than bite.  Our thoughts and prayers are heartily with those who faired worse. 

As usual, things were a lot better than I’d feared, because I’m a pretty good fearer.  After getting warnings about days of no power, I had bought the last generator—no hand-to-hand combat required--at Job Lot (the el grande cheapo kind that can power a whole toaster oven).  That evening, when I checked Facebook postings, I realized that all my mom friends were cooking.  Oh.  Right.  I am ashamed to say, I had not thought of doing that.  At all.  Even though I had realized the stove might not work in an outage. 

True confession here: I am not a good cook.  This blog will likely not be replete with amazing recipes.  I am no domestic goddess (though I do follow her blog).  I do not enjoy cooking it, though I gradually warming up to it (nyuk nyuk)  It just seems to take so much time, and it makes more things to clean (of which I always seem to have an overabundance).  I do not like seeing or touching or smelling raw meat, nor could I kill anything larger than a beetle, so maybe I’m a subconscious wanna-be vegetarian, who knows.  

And for me, the worst part of cooking is, the results are never guaranteed.  You can slave over a particular dish, only to have no one really want to eat it.  The last time I steamed green beans I forgot about them, set my entire oven on fire (harvest gold circa 1950.  Sadly, it survived), and had a visit from the somewhat cranky local fire department who advised me to air the smoke out of the house and “clean this up.”  (By “this” they were referring to the results of my frenetic sweep of the kitchen with powdery substance during my first use of a fire extinguisher, which involved me pulling everything off that looked like a pin and squeezing the trigger, neglecting the aiming part somewhat in my anti-fire enthusiasm.) 

At any rate, after reading posts such as “Just finished baking three pies, creating four casseroles, sautéing eleven stir fries, and confecting the perfect lasagna... waiting around the hearth holding hands with board games and laughter for the start of Sandy,” I felt somewhat lacking.  So when I woke the day of the storm and saw the lights still on, I blessed the Lord I had been given a second chance at domestic success.  I graciously told my kids they could watch TV “till the power goes out,” and then frantically cooked most of the day.  These dishes mostly involved my “comfort zone” of cooking, which is boiling.  I can boil with the best of them.  My mother was Irish, and we were raised on all things boiled and blackened.  I thought steak and scallops were supposed to be really chewy till I met my husband (who, naturally, is a fabulous cook, which is how this all works out.)  And I still have a fondness for canned green beans, instant potatoes, and well-done hamburger.

So I made rice, and pasta, and then got all kinds of crazy and pulled out the quick bread mixes.  After the frozen pot pies emerged in “edible” form from the over, I tired a bit and let my eight year old take the reins on completing the apple crisp… all went well till she mistook unlabeled hot cocoa mix for brown sugar.  (FYI cocoa mix does not bake well, and in no way does it “crisp.”)  (Note bene: In my heart, I am an organic, gluten-free, locally grown, paleo-inspired provider of nourishing traditions.  In reality, I am not. Yet.)

And after all this delectable bounty of overdone rice and dark brown pot pie… we did not lose power!  Praise the Lord!  The worst thing that happened here was that my children were bleary eyed from television (as it worked just fine all day) and everyone was overfed on starches.  I guess it just goes to show that 95% of what we worry about doesn’t happen, and no, it does not add one minute to our lifespan as Christ said.  (Matthew 6:27).  Still, unfortunately, doesn’t always stop me from being anxious. Yet.

I’m reflecting on Matt 6:28-9, “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they labour not, neither do they spin.  But I say to you, that not even Solomon in all his glory was arrayed as one of these.” It makes me think that God doesn’t just give us what we need, but He makes us beautiful.  “He hath made everything beautiful in its time.” Eccl. 3:11).  That our mere existence gives glory to Him and our life is upheld by His abiding love.  What hurricane has anything on that? 

I earnestly hope you all are well after Sandy or otherwise, and if not well, then will soon be.  Not being glib about it: I earnestly believe God looks out for our best interests, though I am well aware it does not always appear that way.  (The last time I said a novena, my car was stolen at the end of it.  That’s still a head-scratcher to me.  Still, I trust God works all for good, and perhaps someone needed the car more—and the car seats, and my notebooks, beach umbrella, and purse that was inside it… no, I’m not bitter lol.  Okay, not anymore. But I remain curious, and I’m cultivating the faith that God worked it all for the best, though I don’t understand why things happen at times.) 

I sometimes feel badly promising to pray for people, when my prayers are often so distracted and hurried.  But I have faith my prayers are worthwhile to God, though I confess—since I had babies—I have found daily Mass a thing of the past and a hope for the future, and the last time I was actually on my knees with a rosary was when one got tangled in the dishwasher and I prayed that nothing was broken.  Formal prayers mostly happen in the car or shower these days, how about you?  I miss contemplative prayer so much though… for now, mommy life seems to be mostly active prayer, offering up mishaps and aches and exhaustion.  Working while praying, and praying through work… I like to this I’m being “Opus Dei” about my vocation.  Trying anyway.  So I will boldly promise to pray for you; and I would love if you pray for me.  (Thus "Oremus pro invicem"... just sounds so much cooler in Latin. :)    

Turns out, my girls were not actually singing the traditional “Amazing Grace” this morning after all, but a parody about “Amazing Baby.”  Ah well, ‘twas a nice thought.  As I write, this same “amazing baby” is taking a nap while my three year-old thunders back and forth past her room to the kitchen on juice acquisition missions.  This could get… sticky.  Perhaps I’d better go for now.  Oremus pro invicem!