WINE!
Just kidding. (Not really.)
Wanna make your housewife happy?
Make her dinner. Plan the whole thing. Make sure everything you need to do so is in the house. Corral the kids while you're doing it. Give her the afternoon (or evening) off at the same time.
I would kill for this. I would kill for a meal made for me. Or to eat a meal while it's hot. I would kill for quiet time in my own house to work on my hobbies. I would kill for a shower where I can shave my legs at the same time. Or a bubble bath. Definitely a massage. And a nap that didn't include kids.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Thursday, March 6, 2014
500 Steps to Homemade Baked Goods
I really love to bake. It started as a kid. My Grandma used to bake just about every Saturday. I loved the way the house smelled. I loved licking the spoon. I loved sneaking tastes of the batter. When she baked bread, it was an all-day affair. And she would always pull some dough off at lunch and fry it in lard and then spread melted butter and sugar over the fried dough. They were called "Bread Cakes". I loved those. I loved the day that my Grandma told me "All good cooks eat their mistakes". I made a lot of mistakes. On purpose. I was a chubby kid.
But I thought we were poor because she always made her own baked goods. We never had store-bought cookies, bread or cake. It wasn't until I was an adult that I understood that instilling a love of baking in me was truly a gift.
And homemade. From scratch, not a mix.
I do this for Chunk because of his food allergies. Commercial mixes are extremely overpriced. I've found it's much cheaper for us when I buy the flour and make it myself. I already bake for the rest of my family, so I keep a pretty well stocked baking pantry.
But it's an ordeal.
Not because there are a million steps (even though there are actually a million steps for this recipe), but because anything I do in my house takes forever.
Once I decide to bake something, I make a mental run-down on the ingredients list. For these cookies, I've made them often enough to know what I need. If I'm sure I have it all, then the process begins.
I pull out my favorite kitchen appliance of all time - my Candy Apple Red KitchenAid Stand Mixer. (Best Mom's Day gift EVER!)
I catch Monkey hitting Kitty with a remote. I take the remote away, pick him up and move him into the living room - hoping his toys will distract him.
I plug in my stand mixer and pull the measuring cups and spoons out.
Kitty's meowing for food. It's nowhere near time, so I ignore her.
Next, I pull out the spices and condiments out of the baking cabinet. I walk toward the pantry to get out the flour and catch a glimpse of blond hair whizzing by me. I hear giggles and see the laundry room door fly open.
I turn the corner in time to see Monkey turn on the washing machine. I turn off the machine and redirect him to Thomas & Friends.
Kitty is meowing louder now and she's following me back and forth in the kitchen. She gets moved to Chunk's room behind a closed door.
I go back to the pantry closet to get the flour.
I'm about to measure out the butter for melting when I see fluffy blond hair bouncing up and down across the couch. He's accident prone and seems to enjoy falling on his head - because he does it often enough - so I rush into the living room in time to catch him mid-air as he's falling off the couch. Since this is now a game to him, I put up the gate between the kitchen and living room to corral him in the same room as me.
The stove gets preheated and the butter goes into the microwave for melting as I measure out and mix together the dry ingredients.
The kitchen floor is now a mine field. Monkey has a play cabinet in the kitchen. It's empty except for a few pieces of tupperware that the dishwasher mangled. And whatever else he's hidden in there for safe keeping. While I was mixing and measuring, he happily threw the contents of the cabinet all over the room.
I take a minute to corral his crap back into the cabinet. This elicits perturbed squeals. He then sets out to putting every single piece back where I got it from.
The wet ingredients go into the KitchenAid and I turn it on. Monkey stops dead in his tracks and watches, entranced, as the paddle goes round and round in the bowl (it's glass). I get the dry ones in there and finish the recipe steps.
Monkey howls when I turn off the mixer. No amount of pleading or cajoling quiets him down. However, the chocolate batter-covered paddle is just the bribe to do the trick. He gets deposited in his seat so I can get the cookies onto trays and into the oven for baking.
The paddle keeps him busy through the first set of cookies (these cookies have so much sugar in them, I make them smaller than called for in the recipe, so I get almost 50 cookies from this one recipe). I change out the trays for the next set and it's time to clean him off.
I alternate cooling and retraying cookies with chasing, wiping and entertaining Monkey. Luckily, these cookies have about 20 minutes from the time they go into the oven until they come out and hit the cooling rack.
This recipe of cookies usually takes me about 2 1/2 to 3 hours from start to finish.
For an ordinary day, that's a huge investment of time. So cookies like these are usually special affairs - holidays, his birthday, or special trips. Like the cross-country trip we have coming up at the end of the month.
And these cookies are so good, our whole family eats them. The sugar coating around the outside gives each cookie a crispy crunch, while the inside stays SUPER soft! And since I make them on the small side I can eat two and not feel guilty. And if one breaks (like they sometimes do) I always remember my Grandma's advice and gobble up my mistake! :)
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
The Toddler Olympics
Every day my toddler and I play a series of games. At least to him, they're games. To me, they're the dishes, the laundry, and other various cleaning/straightening/cooking duties that I handle as the CEO of the house.
He is utterly delighted every time I open the door to the dishwasher or the either of the laundry machines. He wants to "help". Part of this is my fault. In a moment of utter weakness (and because I thought it would be good for him to start learning good habits) I handed him the cooking utensils one by one with the instructions to "Put it away". He thought it was great fun to walk back and forth across the kitchen, carefully handling a spatula or bamboo spoon, slowly open the drawer and slam the utensil in before carefully closing the drawer and coming back for the next one. On his final trip, he came back and there was nothing else for him to put away. That's when the anarchy started and the Toddler Olympics was born.
His little hands reached into the racks of the dishwasher for whatever he could free. A plastic plate was fine. As was the plastic cup that followed. When he reached in and pulled out a knife, I knew I was screwed. Since then it's been a game of "Divert and Distract" while I hastily put away the dangerous and the breakable. However, our dishwasher has seen it's better days and the drying cycle doesn't work. So each dish that comes out has to be hand-dried before putting it away. It's a lesson in speed that I never imagined I'd ever need.
He does the same thing with the laundry. He's absolutely gleeful as he pulls all the clothes out and flings them over his head - clean, dirty, wet. It doesn't matter. They all go all over the floor. Then he crawls into the piles, giggling. This is the one "game" where I hate racing. I'm meticulous when it comes to the laundry. I have to be. As much as I try, we're not a wash-and-wear household. Both hubby and I have garments that require specific cleaning and my Teenager has school uniforms (why, oh WHY do schools think WHITE is an appropriate color for kids?!?!?). Laundry is usually a team sport in our house - hubby is the diversionary tactic and everyone gets clean clothes. Yay!
Baby is also studying to be a Michelin-star chef. Ever since he learned how to stand on a chair to reach the counter, he has INSISTED on helping with dinner. Every day. When we're rinsing or draining or mixing, I'm happy for his help. He's not a terribly picky eater - he eats just as many fruits and veggies as he does Goldfish and graham crackers. But when I'm chopping or using the stove, it's hands-off! This usually elicits squalls and repeated demands of 'UP" with arms outstretched. He likes to stir the pot (don't they all) and smell the aromas of cooking food. (He's like his mom that way. I love lifting the lid on a cooking pot and smell the heavenly aroma of dinner wafting out.)
There are some times when participating in the Olympics is fun and I etch the memories on my brain. Like when he races me around the house with his Little Tykes vacuum as I'm doing the same to see who can get done first. Or when he claps his hands after throwing all his toys in the trash and says, "All done!"
But now the Toddler Olympics is a mainstay in our house - as evidenced by last night's cacophony of screaming, caterwauling and kicking. I made the mistake of capitalizing on his being restrained in the high chair to empty the dishwasher. (We have one of those booster seat/high chairs that you set on a regular kitchen chair. He nearly upended himself in the chair onto the floor!) And as with everything else, this too will fade. Just like his fascination with the light switch. And the VCR. I'm just going to try and enjoy it while it's here and remember it fondly when he's a teenager and asks me "why" when I tell him to empty the dishwasher or do his laundry.
He is utterly delighted every time I open the door to the dishwasher or the either of the laundry machines. He wants to "help". Part of this is my fault. In a moment of utter weakness (and because I thought it would be good for him to start learning good habits) I handed him the cooking utensils one by one with the instructions to "Put it away". He thought it was great fun to walk back and forth across the kitchen, carefully handling a spatula or bamboo spoon, slowly open the drawer and slam the utensil in before carefully closing the drawer and coming back for the next one. On his final trip, he came back and there was nothing else for him to put away. That's when the anarchy started and the Toddler Olympics was born.
His little hands reached into the racks of the dishwasher for whatever he could free. A plastic plate was fine. As was the plastic cup that followed. When he reached in and pulled out a knife, I knew I was screwed. Since then it's been a game of "Divert and Distract" while I hastily put away the dangerous and the breakable. However, our dishwasher has seen it's better days and the drying cycle doesn't work. So each dish that comes out has to be hand-dried before putting it away. It's a lesson in speed that I never imagined I'd ever need.
He does the same thing with the laundry. He's absolutely gleeful as he pulls all the clothes out and flings them over his head - clean, dirty, wet. It doesn't matter. They all go all over the floor. Then he crawls into the piles, giggling. This is the one "game" where I hate racing. I'm meticulous when it comes to the laundry. I have to be. As much as I try, we're not a wash-and-wear household. Both hubby and I have garments that require specific cleaning and my Teenager has school uniforms (why, oh WHY do schools think WHITE is an appropriate color for kids?!?!?). Laundry is usually a team sport in our house - hubby is the diversionary tactic and everyone gets clean clothes. Yay!
Baby is also studying to be a Michelin-star chef. Ever since he learned how to stand on a chair to reach the counter, he has INSISTED on helping with dinner. Every day. When we're rinsing or draining or mixing, I'm happy for his help. He's not a terribly picky eater - he eats just as many fruits and veggies as he does Goldfish and graham crackers. But when I'm chopping or using the stove, it's hands-off! This usually elicits squalls and repeated demands of 'UP" with arms outstretched. He likes to stir the pot (don't they all) and smell the aromas of cooking food. (He's like his mom that way. I love lifting the lid on a cooking pot and smell the heavenly aroma of dinner wafting out.)
There are some times when participating in the Olympics is fun and I etch the memories on my brain. Like when he races me around the house with his Little Tykes vacuum as I'm doing the same to see who can get done first. Or when he claps his hands after throwing all his toys in the trash and says, "All done!"
But now the Toddler Olympics is a mainstay in our house - as evidenced by last night's cacophony of screaming, caterwauling and kicking. I made the mistake of capitalizing on his being restrained in the high chair to empty the dishwasher. (We have one of those booster seat/high chairs that you set on a regular kitchen chair. He nearly upended himself in the chair onto the floor!) And as with everything else, this too will fade. Just like his fascination with the light switch. And the VCR. I'm just going to try and enjoy it while it's here and remember it fondly when he's a teenager and asks me "why" when I tell him to empty the dishwasher or do his laundry.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
They're coming to take me away Hee Hee, Ha Ha, Ho Ho
The lyrics of Dr. Demento's "They're coming to take me away" have been running through my head today.
My house isn't just messy at this point. It's catastrophic. I'm talking WW4-style destruction.
Don't mistake me. I clean. Not in that spotless, "I'm keeping my house camera-ready at all times just in case Better Homes and Gardens wants to snap a few quick pics at a moment's notice" kind of way. I clean in that, "organized clutter" kind of way. Where if you give me a 30 minute heads up before you "pop" over, I can sweep the crumbs under the couch and give the bathrooms a cursory scrub.
Yesterday I decided to be ambitious. I decided that I would give the floors the thorough scrubbing they need. The kind where you move the furniture and unhome the dust bunnies, where you get down on your hands and knees and not only scrub the floors, but the baseboards and maybe work your way up the walls too. After all, what's the point of having floors so shiny, they reflect filthy walls? (We put Monkey in Mother's Day Out twice a week, so I knew in theory this was a possibility.)
Why, oh why, did I wake up feeling so ambitious??
The second we got him home in the afternoon, he did what he does. He opened his bag of gold fish crackers and dumped them all over the floor. Then he crunched them under his shoe before I could get to him. I died a little inside. I didn't want to, I understand he's just doing what babies do at his age. But I did. I died. Just a little.
And it's not just that. It's that no matter what, my family makes messes. Messes that they don't even see. Messes that drive me absolutely bat-crap crazy in that "white padded walls" way. Food particles all over the floor, popcorn kernel pieces ground in-between the sofa cushions, toothpaste spittle on the mirror, dried muck in the bottom of the sink. They see none of this.
I'm doing my best to train them to be better. To do better. To see the filth. I feel like as a mom, it's my job to prepare my kids for life after me. When they graduate high school and go out into the world to find their own way, my boys need to be able to do their own laundry, feed themselves, get from point A to point B, and keep a clean living space. It drives me nuts to see the newest generations absolutely dependent on other people to live their lives. I don't know if it's a shift in priorities, that they just don't care, or if their parents waited on them hand and foot rendering them completely useless to society. My kids won't be like that.
So for today, I'll let the mess stand. I'll make Monkey pick up his toys when he gets up from his nap. I'll make Chunk clean his bathroom when he gets home from school (he's 12, it's good for him). Maybe one day they'll do it all on their own. That's the day I hope for in the future.
My house isn't just messy at this point. It's catastrophic. I'm talking WW4-style destruction.
Don't mistake me. I clean. Not in that spotless, "I'm keeping my house camera-ready at all times just in case Better Homes and Gardens wants to snap a few quick pics at a moment's notice" kind of way. I clean in that, "organized clutter" kind of way. Where if you give me a 30 minute heads up before you "pop" over, I can sweep the crumbs under the couch and give the bathrooms a cursory scrub.
Yesterday I decided to be ambitious. I decided that I would give the floors the thorough scrubbing they need. The kind where you move the furniture and unhome the dust bunnies, where you get down on your hands and knees and not only scrub the floors, but the baseboards and maybe work your way up the walls too. After all, what's the point of having floors so shiny, they reflect filthy walls? (We put Monkey in Mother's Day Out twice a week, so I knew in theory this was a possibility.)
Why, oh why, did I wake up feeling so ambitious??
The second we got him home in the afternoon, he did what he does. He opened his bag of gold fish crackers and dumped them all over the floor. Then he crunched them under his shoe before I could get to him. I died a little inside. I didn't want to, I understand he's just doing what babies do at his age. But I did. I died. Just a little.
And it's not just that. It's that no matter what, my family makes messes. Messes that they don't even see. Messes that drive me absolutely bat-crap crazy in that "white padded walls" way. Food particles all over the floor, popcorn kernel pieces ground in-between the sofa cushions, toothpaste spittle on the mirror, dried muck in the bottom of the sink. They see none of this.
I'm doing my best to train them to be better. To do better. To see the filth. I feel like as a mom, it's my job to prepare my kids for life after me. When they graduate high school and go out into the world to find their own way, my boys need to be able to do their own laundry, feed themselves, get from point A to point B, and keep a clean living space. It drives me nuts to see the newest generations absolutely dependent on other people to live their lives. I don't know if it's a shift in priorities, that they just don't care, or if their parents waited on them hand and foot rendering them completely useless to society. My kids won't be like that.
So for today, I'll let the mess stand. I'll make Monkey pick up his toys when he gets up from his nap. I'll make Chunk clean his bathroom when he gets home from school (he's 12, it's good for him). Maybe one day they'll do it all on their own. That's the day I hope for in the future.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Battle of the Mattress
At least twice a day, a heavy weight match fight takes place in my bedroom. The Terrible Toddler and I go a few rounds in a fight to the finish. There's clawing, screaming, kicking, biting and crying. Sometimes it's me. Sometimes it's him.
He fights sleep like it's a fight to the death.
You'd never know that there is a raging Toddler monster inside my sweet, tow-headed baby - especially if you met us in Walmart. And especially if you have grandchildren of your own. He loves Nana's. He flirts mercilessly, shamelessly begging for attention and smiles. And they all coo about how he must be just the absolute sweetest tempered baby on the face of the earth! And they would be wrong.
Our battle begins about 10 minutes before we start attempting the nap. I'm watching him and he glances my way. Our eyes lock across the room. I see it. That look in his eyes that says he's fading.
I have to prepare for his nap. It's never the same from day to day. Not because we do different things. We don't. His willingness to go down fighting never fades. My determination to get a break doesn't either. But we have a routine. The stage has to be set. I try to sneak into my room to start the prep work.
White noise machine on? Check.
TV turned to kids' programming on PBS? Check.
Pillows arranged to keep him in the center of the bed?? For now.
He comes to investigate why my bedroom door is open. He beelines for my jewelry armoire, flinging the doors open. My necklaces jingle as he tangles them together. It's only a temporary distraction.
Next it's his cup. I'm not trying to upset the beast before I have to. But the sound of the fridge opening brings him running. He sees the milk jug. The whining starts. The reaching. The feet stomping. He's attempting to scale the cupboard to reach the counter. He wants his cup. He's not getting it until he's in bed. He throws himself onto the floor, screaming uncontrollably now. He won't walk with me into the bedroom, I have to reach down and pick him up. He's kicking and flailing his arms. A knee batters my kidney. He throat punches me with his fist. He's strong for a 1 year old. It's only getting worse from here.
I lay him on the bed and hand him the milk cup. He sinks back against the pillows and for the moment, all I can hear is the sucking sounds as he downs it. It's only a few short moments of peace, there's only about 5 ounces in there. As soon as the last drop is gone, the cup sails across the room with lightening speed. He's going to be the best quarterback in the NFL with an arm like that. (Or a pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals if Daddy has his way.)
Now, the real battle begins. He smiles because he has a full belly. It's a trap. He wants me to think he's not sleepy. I'm not an amateur. This is not my first Toddler. I lay down next to him. He giggles and climbs on me, bouncing up and down on my stomach (which is killing my previously damaged kidney). He tries crawling backwards to the edge of the bed. He giggles as I pull him back to me. He thinks this is a game. I pull him to me and hold him close. He stretches and pulls away from me. We lock eyes (and horns).
From the outside, I imagine we look like two MMA fighters on the mat - wrapped around each other, one fighter attempting to subdue the other into submission. He's screaming, he's hitting. But I'm not giving up either.
I loosen my grip and he slides off my chest onto the bed. He butts the top of his head into my armpit. I reach around and softly pat him on the bottom. He turns his head and bites the soft inside of my upper arm. He bites hard. He crawls up on my chest again, legs straddling my abdomen, ear against my heart. He cuddles momentarily. Then the spark in his eyes goes off and it's time for Round Two.
We tussle like this for about 20 minutes, going back and forth between him laying on me and laying beside me; crying and silent; violent and sweet. He finally gives up. I can tell by the way his body is rhythmically rising and falling with each breath.
I roll him onto the bed and sit up. I can't go far - can't even leave the bed. He feels it when I do and wakes up. He's not a heavy sleeper. Not like his older brother.
But, for now, it's silent in the house. I never appreciated quiet the way I do now. The absence of sound can be a beautiful thing in the middle of the day. No screeching baby, no barking dog, no phones, no TV. Just the ceiling fan gently circulating air. The white noise machine muffling the noises outside the bedroom. The finally sleeping baby next to me. I won this battle. And I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I win the next one, too.
He fights sleep like it's a fight to the death.
You'd never know that there is a raging Toddler monster inside my sweet, tow-headed baby - especially if you met us in Walmart. And especially if you have grandchildren of your own. He loves Nana's. He flirts mercilessly, shamelessly begging for attention and smiles. And they all coo about how he must be just the absolute sweetest tempered baby on the face of the earth! And they would be wrong.
Our battle begins about 10 minutes before we start attempting the nap. I'm watching him and he glances my way. Our eyes lock across the room. I see it. That look in his eyes that says he's fading.
I have to prepare for his nap. It's never the same from day to day. Not because we do different things. We don't. His willingness to go down fighting never fades. My determination to get a break doesn't either. But we have a routine. The stage has to be set. I try to sneak into my room to start the prep work.
White noise machine on? Check.
TV turned to kids' programming on PBS? Check.
Pillows arranged to keep him in the center of the bed?? For now.
He comes to investigate why my bedroom door is open. He beelines for my jewelry armoire, flinging the doors open. My necklaces jingle as he tangles them together. It's only a temporary distraction.
Next it's his cup. I'm not trying to upset the beast before I have to. But the sound of the fridge opening brings him running. He sees the milk jug. The whining starts. The reaching. The feet stomping. He's attempting to scale the cupboard to reach the counter. He wants his cup. He's not getting it until he's in bed. He throws himself onto the floor, screaming uncontrollably now. He won't walk with me into the bedroom, I have to reach down and pick him up. He's kicking and flailing his arms. A knee batters my kidney. He throat punches me with his fist. He's strong for a 1 year old. It's only getting worse from here.
I lay him on the bed and hand him the milk cup. He sinks back against the pillows and for the moment, all I can hear is the sucking sounds as he downs it. It's only a few short moments of peace, there's only about 5 ounces in there. As soon as the last drop is gone, the cup sails across the room with lightening speed. He's going to be the best quarterback in the NFL with an arm like that. (Or a pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals if Daddy has his way.)
Now, the real battle begins. He smiles because he has a full belly. It's a trap. He wants me to think he's not sleepy. I'm not an amateur. This is not my first Toddler. I lay down next to him. He giggles and climbs on me, bouncing up and down on my stomach (which is killing my previously damaged kidney). He tries crawling backwards to the edge of the bed. He giggles as I pull him back to me. He thinks this is a game. I pull him to me and hold him close. He stretches and pulls away from me. We lock eyes (and horns).
From the outside, I imagine we look like two MMA fighters on the mat - wrapped around each other, one fighter attempting to subdue the other into submission. He's screaming, he's hitting. But I'm not giving up either.
I loosen my grip and he slides off my chest onto the bed. He butts the top of his head into my armpit. I reach around and softly pat him on the bottom. He turns his head and bites the soft inside of my upper arm. He bites hard. He crawls up on my chest again, legs straddling my abdomen, ear against my heart. He cuddles momentarily. Then the spark in his eyes goes off and it's time for Round Two.
We tussle like this for about 20 minutes, going back and forth between him laying on me and laying beside me; crying and silent; violent and sweet. He finally gives up. I can tell by the way his body is rhythmically rising and falling with each breath.
I roll him onto the bed and sit up. I can't go far - can't even leave the bed. He feels it when I do and wakes up. He's not a heavy sleeper. Not like his older brother.
But, for now, it's silent in the house. I never appreciated quiet the way I do now. The absence of sound can be a beautiful thing in the middle of the day. No screeching baby, no barking dog, no phones, no TV. Just the ceiling fan gently circulating air. The white noise machine muffling the noises outside the bedroom. The finally sleeping baby next to me. I won this battle. And I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I win the next one, too.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Welcome to my not-so-humble abode...
The floors are sticky. The furniture is coated in pet hair. The rug rats are on the loose and judging by the look in their eyes, they're not taking prisoners.
It's my home, sweet asylum.
You're welcome to come in and visit.
We're snarky, sarcastic, and sometimes rude. But we're real.
It's my home, sweet asylum.
You're welcome to come in and visit.
We're snarky, sarcastic, and sometimes rude. But we're real.
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