Monday, June 21, 2010
Mad Isn't Bad
Emerson is distraught. Tears course down her cheeks. Her eyes squinch in misery. Her mouth wrenches open in a plaintive wail. My eardrums burst.
"My life is ruiiiiiiiinnned! Dis is da wors' day EBBER!"
"I'm sorry, but it's too late to play with ZeQuan," I tell her. Again. A fresh set of tears spill. If she keeps this up, I may need to build an ark.
"Why won't you won't let me play wif him?!"
"It's almost dark outside. And he's not even home, Emerson," I remind her, gently.
"Why not?!!!"
"I don't know. I do know that it's late. Go put on your jammies, please."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
(Sigh) She's been like this for 20 minutes now. It is a Meltdown of Epic Proportions. It's not the worst she's ever had, but my sinus infection sure makes it feel like it.
"Go. Now."
It's 8:30. She's been to vacation Bible school, to McDonald's, to her grandmother's, to the library, and now home. There were lots of activities, new and unfamiliar faces, and information about the world that Mommy and Daddy haven't taught her. Some of it might be contradictory. In short, it's been a long, fun-filled, high-energy day. And now she's exhausted.
She runs to her room with a shriek. I know the shriek in my bones. I feel her kick the door like it was my own shins. I am furious at her behavior, but I will the anger back into the Secret Box of Irrational Resentment that lurks in my heart. There it will fester and give root to future guilt trips about all the sacrifices I've made for her, and how long I was in labor. She doesn't need to know it was only about 20 minutes.
"Moooommmm!" she shrieks.
"I'm sorry, but I can't understand you when you talk like that."
"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!" she screams in sheer frustration. I stifle a giggle. I'm a little ashamed to find parts of her wee fury so damn hilarious. But then, when your child is dancing on the tattered remains of your very last nerve, you take your humor where you find it.
She runs back in, eyes blazing, and stands before me. Every cell in her body vibrates with anger. She reminds me of a pro wrestler before a match. All she needs is bad hair, self-tanner, body oil, and a microphone. I inspect her bedtime attire. I shouldn't tell her what I see. I should let it go. But I can't resist seeing her reaction.
"Your nightgown is on backwards."
She yanks open the collar to examine it, then begins keening and trying to yank it off over her head. Problem is, it's a size too small, but she refuses to let us give it to Goodwill. So her head and one arm stay stuck inside, while she hurls her preschool accusations at me.
"I wish I was a grown-up dat mates all my own choices! I wish you nebber tell me what to do! I wish I was a mom, wif a liddle girl, an' ebbry day I let her play wif her friends and do whatebber she want to do!"
I nod in agreement. I remember all those feelings. I say so. She untangles her arm and stops, glaring at me. The nightgown is still stuck on her head, hanging down her back like a red and green plaid flannel wig. It is delicious. I snicker.
That does it. She draws herself up, her 46-inches stretching to 46-and-a-quarter.
"You. NOT. Goeend. Come. To. My... BIRFDAY PARTY!!"
I decide it's time to stop pushing her buttons. One, it's too easy. Two, it's really immature of me. Three, it's not teaching her the right skills. She needs to learn how to manage her emotions when she's upset. And that means starting with helping her to name them.
"Emerson, that feeling you have in your heart right now?"
She stops, her mouth open, and looks at me. She is surprised.
"That feeling is called 'disappointed.' That's how you feel right now. You can't do what you want to do, and you really, really want to. And it makes your heart hurt, and your stomach feel scrunchy."
Her eyebrows shift back on her forehead. In an instant, she transforms from scowling Tasmanian Devil to wide-eyed Pained Preschooler. This is the Emerson I know.
"That's disappointed. And we all feel it. Mommy feels it when she doesn't do well at work. Daddy feels it when he doesn't get to write the story he wanted. And you feel it when you don't get to play with ZeQuan."
Her eyes well up with tears. But there's no wailing this time. Just sadness. She crumples in my lap.
"And that feeling that you don't want to do anything else? That nothing else can make you happy?" she nods, her eyes big, a single tear sliding from her eye into her hair. "That's called 'stubborn.' It's when you close your heart off to every other happy thing, and only want what you want."
"Stubborn," she repeats, thinking about it. I wait. Her eyes return to me. She waits, too. Oh. She must think I have some wisdom, and stuff. All I was trying to get her to do is to be able to name her feelings, and why she feels them, so maybe in the future, she won't spend her time screaming at me.
"Do you want to know how to make those feelings go away?" I ask.
She nods.
"You think of something else that makes you happy, and you do that thing. Then you get a feeling in your heart that is called 'contentment,'" I explain. "When I do badly at work, I snuggle with you. That makes me feel better. When Daddy doesn't get to write his story, he calls a friend and talks about his feelings. That makes him feel better."
"But I only want to play wif ZeQuan," she moans.
"It's not going to happen tonight. You will have to look around you for new things to make you feel happy in your heart again."
She snuggles for a few minutes, then I tell her to go brush her teeth and get her library books. After she shuts off the water, I hear her humming to herself. Then she races into our bedroom, hops up on the bed, and pats her books.
"I feel happy when we read togedder, Mama," she says. She picks a book from the stack and opens it, still humming. I pick up my book and join her in the bed. The book she chooses for me to read is "Zen Shorts," and it just so happens that many of the stories in it deal with letting go of emotions when they're clouding your thinking. It's the perfect bookend to my clumsy attempt at leading her.
"Dis book was too short," she says, frowning, and then brightens. "Less read it again!"
Gladly.
"My life is ruiiiiiiiinnned! Dis is da wors' day EBBER!"
"I'm sorry, but it's too late to play with ZeQuan," I tell her. Again. A fresh set of tears spill. If she keeps this up, I may need to build an ark.
"Why won't you won't let me play wif him?!"
"It's almost dark outside. And he's not even home, Emerson," I remind her, gently.
"Why not?!!!"
"I don't know. I do know that it's late. Go put on your jammies, please."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
(Sigh) She's been like this for 20 minutes now. It is a Meltdown of Epic Proportions. It's not the worst she's ever had, but my sinus infection sure makes it feel like it.
"Go. Now."
It's 8:30. She's been to vacation Bible school, to McDonald's, to her grandmother's, to the library, and now home. There were lots of activities, new and unfamiliar faces, and information about the world that Mommy and Daddy haven't taught her. Some of it might be contradictory. In short, it's been a long, fun-filled, high-energy day. And now she's exhausted.
She runs to her room with a shriek. I know the shriek in my bones. I feel her kick the door like it was my own shins. I am furious at her behavior, but I will the anger back into the Secret Box of Irrational Resentment that lurks in my heart. There it will fester and give root to future guilt trips about all the sacrifices I've made for her, and how long I was in labor. She doesn't need to know it was only about 20 minutes.
"Moooommmm!" she shrieks.
"I'm sorry, but I can't understand you when you talk like that."
"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!" she screams in sheer frustration. I stifle a giggle. I'm a little ashamed to find parts of her wee fury so damn hilarious. But then, when your child is dancing on the tattered remains of your very last nerve, you take your humor where you find it.
She runs back in, eyes blazing, and stands before me. Every cell in her body vibrates with anger. She reminds me of a pro wrestler before a match. All she needs is bad hair, self-tanner, body oil, and a microphone. I inspect her bedtime attire. I shouldn't tell her what I see. I should let it go. But I can't resist seeing her reaction.
"Your nightgown is on backwards."
She yanks open the collar to examine it, then begins keening and trying to yank it off over her head. Problem is, it's a size too small, but she refuses to let us give it to Goodwill. So her head and one arm stay stuck inside, while she hurls her preschool accusations at me.
"I wish I was a grown-up dat mates all my own choices! I wish you nebber tell me what to do! I wish I was a mom, wif a liddle girl, an' ebbry day I let her play wif her friends and do whatebber she want to do!"
I nod in agreement. I remember all those feelings. I say so. She untangles her arm and stops, glaring at me. The nightgown is still stuck on her head, hanging down her back like a red and green plaid flannel wig. It is delicious. I snicker.
That does it. She draws herself up, her 46-inches stretching to 46-and-a-quarter.
"You. NOT. Goeend. Come. To. My... BIRFDAY PARTY!!"
I decide it's time to stop pushing her buttons. One, it's too easy. Two, it's really immature of me. Three, it's not teaching her the right skills. She needs to learn how to manage her emotions when she's upset. And that means starting with helping her to name them.
"Emerson, that feeling you have in your heart right now?"
She stops, her mouth open, and looks at me. She is surprised.
"That feeling is called 'disappointed.' That's how you feel right now. You can't do what you want to do, and you really, really want to. And it makes your heart hurt, and your stomach feel scrunchy."
Her eyebrows shift back on her forehead. In an instant, she transforms from scowling Tasmanian Devil to wide-eyed Pained Preschooler. This is the Emerson I know.
"That's disappointed. And we all feel it. Mommy feels it when she doesn't do well at work. Daddy feels it when he doesn't get to write the story he wanted. And you feel it when you don't get to play with ZeQuan."
Her eyes well up with tears. But there's no wailing this time. Just sadness. She crumples in my lap.
"And that feeling that you don't want to do anything else? That nothing else can make you happy?" she nods, her eyes big, a single tear sliding from her eye into her hair. "That's called 'stubborn.' It's when you close your heart off to every other happy thing, and only want what you want."
"Stubborn," she repeats, thinking about it. I wait. Her eyes return to me. She waits, too. Oh. She must think I have some wisdom, and stuff. All I was trying to get her to do is to be able to name her feelings, and why she feels them, so maybe in the future, she won't spend her time screaming at me.
"Do you want to know how to make those feelings go away?" I ask.
She nods.
"You think of something else that makes you happy, and you do that thing. Then you get a feeling in your heart that is called 'contentment,'" I explain. "When I do badly at work, I snuggle with you. That makes me feel better. When Daddy doesn't get to write his story, he calls a friend and talks about his feelings. That makes him feel better."
"But I only want to play wif ZeQuan," she moans.
"It's not going to happen tonight. You will have to look around you for new things to make you feel happy in your heart again."
She snuggles for a few minutes, then I tell her to go brush her teeth and get her library books. After she shuts off the water, I hear her humming to herself. Then she races into our bedroom, hops up on the bed, and pats her books.
"I feel happy when we read togedder, Mama," she says. She picks a book from the stack and opens it, still humming. I pick up my book and join her in the bed. The book she chooses for me to read is "Zen Shorts," and it just so happens that many of the stories in it deal with letting go of emotions when they're clouding your thinking. It's the perfect bookend to my clumsy attempt at leading her.
"Dis book was too short," she says, frowning, and then brightens. "Less read it again!"
Gladly.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Just Desserts
I'm at Earth Fare, getting Scott his celebratory creme brulee.
"Now, it doesn't have the crust on it," the lady says to me. "Is that okay?"
I stare. "Well, then, it's just pudding, isn't it?"
She blinks back at me. "So do you want me to fire it?"
"Yes, please."
"Okay."
I hope she didn't spit in it. Oh, well. It's not my dessert.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Friday, June 18, 2010
It's Time To Get Her a REAL Watch
"Mama!" Emmie runs into the living room. "My ibbissible watch is pointing to sea monkeys! Dat means iss time ta make da SEA MONKEYS!"
"Well, MY invisible watch says it's late, and we're going to make sea monkeys tomorrow," I retort.
She looks at my arm and frowns: "But you not weareend a watch."
"Well, MY invisible watch says it's late, and we're going to make sea monkeys tomorrow," I retort.
She looks at my arm and frowns: "But you not weareend a watch."
Thursday, June 17, 2010
BFBFF
I had the chance to meet a couple of Facebook friends in REAL LIFE recently. "Real life?" What's that? At my last job, I worked so much that I forgot what people looked like face-to-face! So it was quite a shock to run into Sarah Harper Scott and Mary Anne Symms-Schweser for the first time recently (okay, Sarah, I met you back in March, but whatever) and discover that 1) People are pretty nice when you aren't trying to sell them something; and 2) I really like people!
Both of these ladies are whip-smart, funny, opinionated, warm, and full of self-effacing motherhood anecdotes that they're willing to share. Neither of them looks at me like an octopus landed on my head when my "nonsequiterious" stories hop off the tracks and onto the Tangent Express. Heh. Nonsequiterious. I just made a new word. Or a dinosaur.
Q: How many surrealist painters does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Fish.
Yeah. That's how I am. But they don't even blink.
One story really hit home for me. Mary Anne, currently on bed-rest at MCG for the remainder of her second pregnancy, is mom to almost-three-year-old Brooks.
Like any little almost-three-year-old boy, Brooks' favorite thing right now is fire trucks. And one day, during a round of "I love you THIS much," he found a particularly masculine way of expressing his affection for his mom.
"Mama," he declared. "I lub you fire truck."
He loves her as much as he loves fire trucks. I mean, stop and think about that for a second. The excitement and adoration that kids show for fire trucks - and police cars, ambulances, puppies, Santa Claus - is the kind accompanied by squealing, running in circles, and hysterical laughter. We just don't see that kind of behavior (about us, that is) because they're acclimated to having us around. If they ran around screaming and laughing all the time, we'd accidentally-on-purpose shoot them with a tranquilizer gun.
But moms should remember - and I thank Mary Ann for this reminder - that this is how our children see us. Every night, when Mary Ann's husband gathers Brooks to take him home to sleep, while his mom stays at MCG, he whispers, "'member, mama: fire truck." And every morning, he wakes up loving her just as much.
Here's to all the proud fire truck mamas out there. I appreciate so much your strong personalities, your intelligence, and your fierce commitment to your children. When you share your stories, I learn from you. (And blog them. Heh heh.)
Thanks so much! And send Mary Ann some books or something, y'all. She's taking yet another one for the mom team!
Both of these ladies are whip-smart, funny, opinionated, warm, and full of self-effacing motherhood anecdotes that they're willing to share. Neither of them looks at me like an octopus landed on my head when my "nonsequiterious" stories hop off the tracks and onto the Tangent Express. Heh. Nonsequiterious. I just made a new word. Or a dinosaur.
Q: How many surrealist painters does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Fish.
Yeah. That's how I am. But they don't even blink.
One story really hit home for me. Mary Anne, currently on bed-rest at MCG for the remainder of her second pregnancy, is mom to almost-three-year-old Brooks.
Like any little almost-three-year-old boy, Brooks' favorite thing right now is fire trucks. And one day, during a round of "I love you THIS much," he found a particularly masculine way of expressing his affection for his mom.
"Mama," he declared. "I lub you fire truck."
He loves her as much as he loves fire trucks. I mean, stop and think about that for a second. The excitement and adoration that kids show for fire trucks - and police cars, ambulances, puppies, Santa Claus - is the kind accompanied by squealing, running in circles, and hysterical laughter. We just don't see that kind of behavior (about us, that is) because they're acclimated to having us around. If they ran around screaming and laughing all the time, we'd accidentally-on-purpose shoot them with a tranquilizer gun.
But moms should remember - and I thank Mary Ann for this reminder - that this is how our children see us. Every night, when Mary Ann's husband gathers Brooks to take him home to sleep, while his mom stays at MCG, he whispers, "'member, mama: fire truck." And every morning, he wakes up loving her just as much.
Here's to all the proud fire truck mamas out there. I appreciate so much your strong personalities, your intelligence, and your fierce commitment to your children. When you share your stories, I learn from you. (And blog them. Heh heh.)
Thanks so much! And send Mary Ann some books or something, y'all. She's taking yet another one for the mom team!
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The Fastest Insult Known to Man
Hearing a voice, Emmie runs into the kitchen excitedly.
"Oh," she says, upon seeing her father. "I thought there was a guy in here."
"Hey," Scott protests. "I'm a guy! And I'm in here!"
She shrugs. "No."
And trots away.
"Oh," she says, upon seeing her father. "I thought there was a guy in here."
"Hey," Scott protests. "I'm a guy! And I'm in here!"
She shrugs. "No."
And trots away.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Dizzy Gillespie she ain't...
Augusta, GA. - Emmie is trying to blow up some balloons, and having a really hard time of it. Suddenly, the balloon gets the best of her. The air pressure reverses, inflating her cheeks.
She frowns, and slowly removes the balloon from her mouth.
"I fink I pull my cheek muscles," she moaned.
She frowns, and slowly removes the balloon from her mouth.
"I fink I pull my cheek muscles," she moaned.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
I Should Just Stop Talking
Augusta, GA. - Emmie and I had just arrived at the club pool, when we saw a small dead bird on the ground, near the rocks. She gasped, hand over heart, and looked at me with enormous, sad eyes.
"Mama! What happen to da bird?"
"He died, sweetie." I didn't want to talk to her about the violence inherent in the (system) circle of life, so I hope she thinks of it as sudden and painless.
"An' den he go up to Heaven?"
"Hope so." Good enough explanation for me.
She squatted down to look at it: "An' den God frowed him back down to da ground?"
"What? No! Honey, God didn't throw the bird back down. His body stayed here. He soul went to heaven."
"His soul?"
"His spirit. The invisible force that makes us all alive." [facepalm] That sounds suspiciously like "Star Wars." Sorry, kid. Ask me later when I regrow the brain cells I killed in college.
She gasped again and whirled around, looking for something. "Inbizzible? He'd a ghost?!"
"A gho- no, honey. He's..."
And then I realized: I didn't have any idea what to tell her. I know what to tell her about what happens to the body when we die. But I don't have a formed opinion about what happens to the "rest" of us.
Do I believe in a Heaven? And, if I do, do I believe that the soul of a bird goes to Heaven? Do I believe that birds have souls? Because I know that the Presbyterian Church does not believe that animals have souls. I know that the Catholic Church believes that they do. Those are the two major religious influences in my life (mom, Presbyterian; dad, Catholic). Gee, thanks for the direct contradiction, religious upbringing.
All the rest of my knowledge about these things is purely academic. Augustine. Atman. Moksha. Descartes. Rigpa. 13 Principles of Faith. I don't have an emotional attachment to any of these ideals.
The only idea that inspires any sentiment in me is: "God, that does not forget the sparrow, would not forget a good dog like Jack." But that's from the "Little House on the Prairie" books! Is my belief system forged by pop culture?! Am I going to find myself explaining horcruxes to her?
"You know what, Emmie? I don't think I have all the answers to these questions. But I think that what's in our hearts and minds keeps going, even when the body dies, and that's part of what we call the soul. The soul is the real us, and it lives in the body..." she furrowed her brow at me. She was not interested in a meaninful discourse on the subject.
"... and I'm not making sense. But I hope that you figure out what you believe, because no one really knows for sure what happens. Including Mommy."
"I know," she declared.
"You do?"
"Yes. When we die, we don't die. We go to see Jesus. And he gibs us a big hug and sayed, 'Hullo! You in Heaven!" And den ders friends, and da friends mate you not be lonely. An' ebbrybody is happy all da time. An' ders ice cream an' candy... an' swimming!"
"That would be awesome," I said.
And she grinned: "Less go swim!"
"Okay."
We trotted towards the pool - but she suddenly turned and sprinted back to the bird carcass. She crouched down beside it, and before I could shriek at her not to touch it, I heard her whisper gently to it.
"Bye-bye, little birdie. I sorry you die. We see you later."
"Mama! What happen to da bird?"
"He died, sweetie." I didn't want to talk to her about the violence inherent in the (system) circle of life, so I hope she thinks of it as sudden and painless.
"An' den he go up to Heaven?"
"Hope so." Good enough explanation for me.
She squatted down to look at it: "An' den God frowed him back down to da ground?"
"What? No! Honey, God didn't throw the bird back down. His body stayed here. He soul went to heaven."
"His soul?"
"His spirit. The invisible force that makes us all alive." [facepalm] That sounds suspiciously like "Star Wars." Sorry, kid. Ask me later when I regrow the brain cells I killed in college.
She gasped again and whirled around, looking for something. "Inbizzible? He'd a ghost?!"
"A gho- no, honey. He's..."
And then I realized: I didn't have any idea what to tell her. I know what to tell her about what happens to the body when we die. But I don't have a formed opinion about what happens to the "rest" of us.
Do I believe in a Heaven? And, if I do, do I believe that the soul of a bird goes to Heaven? Do I believe that birds have souls? Because I know that the Presbyterian Church does not believe that animals have souls. I know that the Catholic Church believes that they do. Those are the two major religious influences in my life (mom, Presbyterian; dad, Catholic). Gee, thanks for the direct contradiction, religious upbringing.
All the rest of my knowledge about these things is purely academic. Augustine. Atman. Moksha. Descartes. Rigpa. 13 Principles of Faith. I don't have an emotional attachment to any of these ideals.
The only idea that inspires any sentiment in me is: "God, that does not forget the sparrow, would not forget a good dog like Jack." But that's from the "Little House on the Prairie" books! Is my belief system forged by pop culture?! Am I going to find myself explaining horcruxes to her?
"You know what, Emmie? I don't think I have all the answers to these questions. But I think that what's in our hearts and minds keeps going, even when the body dies, and that's part of what we call the soul. The soul is the real us, and it lives in the body..." she furrowed her brow at me. She was not interested in a meaninful discourse on the subject.
"... and I'm not making sense. But I hope that you figure out what you believe, because no one really knows for sure what happens. Including Mommy."
"I know," she declared.
"You do?"
"Yes. When we die, we don't die. We go to see Jesus. And he gibs us a big hug and sayed, 'Hullo! You in Heaven!" And den ders friends, and da friends mate you not be lonely. An' ebbrybody is happy all da time. An' ders ice cream an' candy... an' swimming!"
"That would be awesome," I said.
And she grinned: "Less go swim!"
"Okay."
We trotted towards the pool - but she suddenly turned and sprinted back to the bird carcass. She crouched down beside it, and before I could shriek at her not to touch it, I heard her whisper gently to it.
"Bye-bye, little birdie. I sorry you die. We see you later."
Friday, June 11, 2010
Pray that you don't get hooked!
Augusta, GA. - One of the things I love about living on the South side - besides the inevitable "SouthSIDE" people like to holler (seriously, that never gets old), and the fact that we have our own theme song - is the entrepreneurial spirit evident everywhere you look.
On Saturdays, it's like a Turkish bazaar! On about every corner, there's someone selling their wares to passing traffic. Some of them - like the purse dealer at the corner of 15th and MLK - have a regular spot with regular clientele.
But some pop up only now and then. One of my favorites is Seed Master's Unlimited, at the corner of Lumpkin and Richmond Hill roads. The owner's name is owner Barbara Chaney. Y'all might have seen her booth on Washington Road during Masters Week.
I don't know her story. But I DO know that she makes the most amazing pralines I've ever put in my mouth. She calls the "praylines." I don't know why, except that I pray she'll be there next week, too. Cause I'm gonna need some more real soon.
Chaney may not know much about spelling, but she sure knows desserts. Y'all stop by and try some. You won't regret it!
On Saturdays, it's like a Turkish bazaar! On about every corner, there's someone selling their wares to passing traffic. Some of them - like the purse dealer at the corner of 15th and MLK - have a regular spot with regular clientele.
But some pop up only now and then. One of my favorites is Seed Master's Unlimited, at the corner of Lumpkin and Richmond Hill roads. The owner's name is owner Barbara Chaney. Y'all might have seen her booth on Washington Road during Masters Week.
I don't know her story. But I DO know that she makes the most amazing pralines I've ever put in my mouth. She calls the "praylines." I don't know why, except that I pray she'll be there next week, too. Cause I'm gonna need some more real soon.
Chaney may not know much about spelling, but she sure knows desserts. Y'all stop by and try some. You won't regret it!
That's what happens when Paula Deen blows up
"Mama, why you stabbeend dose botatoes?"
"If you don't poke holes, they'll blow up in the microwave."
"Why don' you want dem to blow up?"
"Why would you want them to blow up?"
"So it would rain botato salad."
"That is a fantastic idea."
"If you don't poke holes, they'll blow up in the microwave."
"Why don' you want dem to blow up?"
"Why would you want them to blow up?"
"So it would rain botato salad."
"That is a fantastic idea."
Iron Chef... Harlem?
Augusta, Ga./Harlem, Ga. - I got us into it. "Anytime you need us," I said to Lee Ann at Red Oak Manor in Harlem about their Iron Chef competition.
It's a beautiful place, run by beautiful people. The food is good, the property gorgeous. And did I mention the awesome people? Lee Ann messaged me. Did I want to compete? Sure!
Then I changed jobs, and promptly forgot about it. The secret ingredient is corn meal, Lee Ann informed us, about a week early. And I promptly forgot about it again.
"This is what we're cooking on Thursday," Scott told me.
"What's Thursday?" I asked, oblivious.
He glared at me. Then he told me the menu he had devised.
"That sounds horrible," I laughed.
He glared some more. I was being an ass.
"I mean, that's gonna be awesome! They're all going down!"
We were late getting there, so we were late getting started. We didn't know we could prep some dishes in advance - like pre-chopping, or mixing a batter. We were way behind, and first-timers against two well-seasoned teams. It was hot as blazes, and I had no idea what we were doing - besides running around and sweating.
In fact, sweating was maybe the only thing we had in common with the other competitors. Even my SHINS were sweating! But the others had done this before, had prepped a little in advance, and - and this is REALLY important - had brought enough food for everyone. LOL!
But we worked it out. Not enough buttermilk? Mix in some eggs. Not enough fish batter flavoring? Create our own with spices from dry storage. Serving spinach and cantaloupe porridge for the soup course?
"Well, you can't fix that," I thought. "Just send it out and move on to the next thing."
Our fellow competitors were so much fun. We shared beer and wine, tried each others' dishes, laughed at our mistakes. And sweated some more.
Scott and I were definitely out-techniqued. They made fresh pico de gallo. Corn fritters from scratch. Pork medallions that melted in your mouth.
"Oh, we so lost already," I crowed, after tasting something melt-in-your-mouth awesome. And I was okay with that. It was a great experience.
We served up fried green tomatoes with a butternut squash-rice-something on top. The aforementioned Soup of Insanity. Fried fish with mango chutney and asparagus.
In the end, his gamble paid off. He won the People's Choice and Judges' awards. And even more of my respect.
He also won himself more time in our own kitchen. But I'll clean up after him. Just as soon as he buys me the industrial dishwasher they have out there!
It's a beautiful place, run by beautiful people. The food is good, the property gorgeous. And did I mention the awesome people? Lee Ann messaged me. Did I want to compete? Sure!
Then I changed jobs, and promptly forgot about it. The secret ingredient is corn meal, Lee Ann informed us, about a week early. And I promptly forgot about it again.
"This is what we're cooking on Thursday," Scott told me.
"What's Thursday?" I asked, oblivious.
He glared at me. Then he told me the menu he had devised.
"That sounds horrible," I laughed.
He glared some more. I was being an ass.
"I mean, that's gonna be awesome! They're all going down!"
We were late getting there, so we were late getting started. We didn't know we could prep some dishes in advance - like pre-chopping, or mixing a batter. We were way behind, and first-timers against two well-seasoned teams. It was hot as blazes, and I had no idea what we were doing - besides running around and sweating.
In fact, sweating was maybe the only thing we had in common with the other competitors. Even my SHINS were sweating! But the others had done this before, had prepped a little in advance, and - and this is REALLY important - had brought enough food for everyone. LOL!
But we worked it out. Not enough buttermilk? Mix in some eggs. Not enough fish batter flavoring? Create our own with spices from dry storage. Serving spinach and cantaloupe porridge for the soup course?
"Well, you can't fix that," I thought. "Just send it out and move on to the next thing."
Our fellow competitors were so much fun. We shared beer and wine, tried each others' dishes, laughed at our mistakes. And sweated some more.
Scott and I were definitely out-techniqued. They made fresh pico de gallo. Corn fritters from scratch. Pork medallions that melted in your mouth.
"Oh, we so lost already," I crowed, after tasting something melt-in-your-mouth awesome. And I was okay with that. It was a great experience.
We served up fried green tomatoes with a butternut squash-rice-something on top. The aforementioned Soup of Insanity. Fried fish with mango chutney and asparagus.
In the end, his gamble paid off. He won the People's Choice and Judges' awards. And even more of my respect.
He also won himself more time in our own kitchen. But I'll clean up after him. Just as soon as he buys me the industrial dishwasher they have out there!
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Found Dog! Please Call!
UPDATE: While we didn't find this sweet older dog's family, despite going door to door in his suspected neighborhood, we did find him a new family, thanks to Commissioner Jerry Brigham and his son and daughter-in-law. One less to go to animal control.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Best Burgers Ever
Augusta, Ga. - This was an experiment, but it was successful.
2 lbs ground turkey
2 med eggs
1/3 cup finely minced fresh onion
1 pkg Ranch dressing mix (Hidden Valley, etc.)
Mix all ingredients together, let sit in fridge for at least 2 hours. Grill to your preferred "doneness," but be aware that turkey does not have as much fat as beef, thus it also has less moisture. So however you like your burger, I suggest you try these one step down. Well done becomes medium well. Medium well becomes medium. Medium becomes medium rare. Medium rare stays where it is - are you insane?! Don't even think about eating rare ground meat mixed with raw eggs - you might as well skip the burger and spread salmonella on a bun.
Anyway... serve on a lightly toasted wheat roll with condiments of your choice - but the burger is really flavorful, so don't cover it up!
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2 lbs ground turkey
2 med eggs
1/3 cup finely minced fresh onion
1 pkg Ranch dressing mix (Hidden Valley, etc.)
Mix all ingredients together, let sit in fridge for at least 2 hours. Grill to your preferred "doneness," but be aware that turkey does not have as much fat as beef, thus it also has less moisture. So however you like your burger, I suggest you try these one step down. Well done becomes medium well. Medium well becomes medium. Medium becomes medium rare. Medium rare stays where it is - are you insane?! Don't even think about eating rare ground meat mixed with raw eggs - you might as well skip the burger and spread salmonella on a bun.
Anyway... serve on a lightly toasted wheat roll with condiments of your choice - but the burger is really flavorful, so don't cover it up!
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Sunday, May 30, 2010
Sunday? Not My Fun Day
Augusta, Ga. - Emmie and I set off on a fun day today. Except... The world rescheduled itself, and no one informed me.
Maxwell Library - AKA The Worst Library in the CSRA - was so closed that they had padlocked the book return. They didn't even want their own books coming in on their holiday weekend.
So we went to the Columbia County Library, usually open 2-5 on Sundays.
Psyche! Closed for Memorial Day weekend.
So we hop over to the Jones Creek pool. Can't go wrong with swimming, right? As we pull up, we see the lifeguards putting away umbrellas and such.
"Um..." I approach tentatively.
"Yeah, we're closing," the lifeguard says.
"Aw, poo!" Emmie explodes, from her car seat. "Dis is da WORST day!"
It could be worse. But it's certainly frustrating!
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Sweetness + Light
Augusta, Ga. - Emmie and I are trying to make banana pancakes. But something is wrong. They're more like unevenly-cooking banana crepes. I think the batter is too thin. They look like crap. I sigh.
"Emmie, I think Mommy made a mistake."
She pats my arm: "Dass okay, Mama. Eben if you mate a mistake, dey're still goeend taste good."
Well, dangit, if that isn't the best attitude!
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Saturday, May 29, 2010
Adjustment Issues
Text to Alice: "Dude. It's SO quiet here!"
Alice: "R u afraid the voices n ur head will get clearer?"
Me: "LOL! NO. Afraid other ppl will hear them, too!
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Alice: "R u afraid the voices n ur head will get clearer?"
Me: "LOL! NO. Afraid other ppl will hear them, too!
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Friday, May 28, 2010
GooGoo for Gaga
Augusta, GA. - “Mamaaaa!” Emmie shrieks as she approaches, her Nona just behind her. “Did you know dat Lady Gaga is REAL?!”
Oh, did I forget to mention Emerson’s new obsession? Yeah. Well. Apparently, Lady Gaga is “da coolest bestest lady in da world.” Gee, thanks. I’ll remember that the next time you ask me for something, Emmie. Like a kidney.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Uh, honey?” I call to Scott, after peeking over Emerson’s shoulder at the YouTube video she has pulled up. “Emerson is watching a video about how to be Lady Gaga…?”
"Yeah. She already told me that she wants to be Lady Gaga when she grows up.”
“Well, who doesn’t?”
“I know, with her money, who wouldn’t?”
I was really thinking about the designer clothes…
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Did you know dat? Did you know dat Lady Gaga is real?” Emmie runs right up in my grill.
“Yes, sweetie, I did know that.”
Her face falls, then brightens.
“But you nebber MEET her!”
“True,” I concede.
“I’m goeend ta meet her. But Nona say she libbs in Californya?” she wrinkles her forehead at me.
“Probably.”
“But why?”
“Cause that’s where famous people live.”
“Can we go der?”
“Maybe one day.”
“AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” she screams and runs in circles. “An’ I goeend meet LADY GAGAAAAAA!”
Good. Lord.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Is she allowed to watch that?” Nona asks, concern filling her face. A naked back and side-boob are not appropriate television for little girls. By the way, we’re at the country club pool, where naked back and side-boob are everywere.
“Yeah, for now. If she starts asking for Alexander McQueen shoes, though, we’re putting a stop to it.”
“But… they’re in their underwear!”
“You know what underwear is?” I ask.
“What?”
“Bathing suits that are called underwear.”
That didn’t win me any points.
Oh, did I forget to mention Emerson’s new obsession? Yeah. Well. Apparently, Lady Gaga is “da coolest bestest lady in da world.” Gee, thanks. I’ll remember that the next time you ask me for something, Emmie. Like a kidney.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Uh, honey?” I call to Scott, after peeking over Emerson’s shoulder at the YouTube video she has pulled up. “Emerson is watching a video about how to be Lady Gaga…?”
"Yeah. She already told me that she wants to be Lady Gaga when she grows up.”
“Well, who doesn’t?”
“I know, with her money, who wouldn’t?”
I was really thinking about the designer clothes…
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Did you know dat? Did you know dat Lady Gaga is real?” Emmie runs right up in my grill.
“Yes, sweetie, I did know that.”
Her face falls, then brightens.
“But you nebber MEET her!”
“True,” I concede.
“I’m goeend ta meet her. But Nona say she libbs in Californya?” she wrinkles her forehead at me.
“Probably.”
“But why?”
“Cause that’s where famous people live.”
“Can we go der?”
“Maybe one day.”
“AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” she screams and runs in circles. “An’ I goeend meet LADY GAGAAAAAA!”
Good. Lord.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Is she allowed to watch that?” Nona asks, concern filling her face. A naked back and side-boob are not appropriate television for little girls. By the way, we’re at the country club pool, where naked back and side-boob are everywere.
“Yeah, for now. If she starts asking for Alexander McQueen shoes, though, we’re putting a stop to it.”
“But… they’re in their underwear!”
“You know what underwear is?” I ask.
“What?”
“Bathing suits that are called underwear.”
That didn’t win me any points.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wide Open Spaces
This morning, groggy from being kicked all night by my daughter, I slugged down the hall to the administrative assistant's office to ask her a question. But I didn't recognize anyone in the office.
"Have they all been replaced overnight?" I thought.
Nope. I was in the wrong room.
"Uh, hi, can I help you?" one of the ladies said.
"Oh, sure," I faked. "I just wanted to introduce myself and say hello. My office is right down the hall." At least, I hoped it was. I faked a 5 minute conversation with them, just to cover the fact that I was lost.
When I told the admin later, she laughed: "I've done the same thing."
Yay, there are two of us! Now we can form a church!
Then I had an appointment in another building. I had to look at the map online, but I didn't see the department listed. I called the department and asked for directions. Then I drove there, because I didn't know any other way to get there. Then I still couldn't find the building, because Google Maps lies to me, oh, yes, it does.
When I finally got there, 20 minutes late, I laughed and said, "I'm sorry; it's only my third day. I'm still finding my way around."
"Ha!" the office manager said. "I've been here since 1994, and I'm STILL finding my way around."
Three of us! One more, and we have a polo team. We can call ourselves "The Lostaways," and ABC can't do nuthin' now.
I had another appointment right after that, in - you guessed it - yet a third building. Because I didn't know how to get there, I drove from one appointment to the next. And then I found that there was no parking there. I circled the lot, but all the spaces were reserved. The visitor's spaces specifically said, "NO DECAL VEHICLES." It never crossed my mind to simply take mine off the rear view mirror while I went inside.
Finally, I parked in the 15-Minute Pickup/Dropoff Only spot. I prayed that I wouldn't get a ticket. When I told the department manager, she just laughed: "Where else are you gonna park to come in here, if you're not an employee with a reserved spot?" Good point.
My car is going to be a pain here. But I have to do a lot of department and building hopping on an area roughly the size of six city blocks. Walking takes too long between appointments. A bike is too bulky. Skates are too dangerous (I never learned to brake without first slamming into the skating rink wall). Do you think all the cool kids would laugh at me if I got a razor scooter?
If you have any other ideas, let me know!
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Nightmare on Ruby Street
Augusta, Ga. - Emmie begins shrieking from our bedroom, where she landed after a nightmare last night.
"MOOOMMMM! MAMAAAAAA!!"
"Yes, sweetie?"
"I'm stuck! An' I'm skeered! An' I hab a bad dream!"
I untangle her from the blankets and carry her to snuggle on the couch. Girl has morning breath that might set my hair on fire, but I'll risk it.
"Tell me about your dream, Doodle."
"Wull, I dream dat Daddy eat a bad fruit dat mate him die an' den his neck turn into a stick!"
Whoa. That mental image freaks me out, too.
"I'm sorry you had that scary dream. But it wasn't real. Daddy's fine."
"Wull... Where is he?"
"He's out in his car, doing traffic reports."
"Can we call him?"
"Um..."
"PLEEEEAAASSSE!" she shrieks, desperately. Okie-dokie, then.
I call and get Scott on the phone, and he chastises me for calling during one of his reports. Em gets on the phone and wails her dilemma.
"Daddy! Daddy, I dream dat you eat a fruit dats bad an' den - an' DEN - your NECK turn into a STICK! An' den you became EEBIL!"
There is a brief pause while Scott decides whether to laugh or tell her to grow up. He chooses neither, and sympathizes appropriately. Em has a moment of further hysterics, and then takes a deep breath and makes a visible effort to calm herself.
"So I'm jus' checkin' on you," she finishes. "Can you come home?"
Em cannot be satisfied until she sees him, and runs to hug him. He turns to leave again, and she hugs me.
"I'm so happy dat Daddy's neck is not a stick an' he not eebil."
Aren't we all.
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"MOOOMMMM! MAMAAAAAA!!"
"Yes, sweetie?"
"I'm stuck! An' I'm skeered! An' I hab a bad dream!"
I untangle her from the blankets and carry her to snuggle on the couch. Girl has morning breath that might set my hair on fire, but I'll risk it.
"Tell me about your dream, Doodle."
"Wull, I dream dat Daddy eat a bad fruit dat mate him die an' den his neck turn into a stick!"
Whoa. That mental image freaks me out, too.
"I'm sorry you had that scary dream. But it wasn't real. Daddy's fine."
"Wull... Where is he?"
"He's out in his car, doing traffic reports."
"Can we call him?"
"Um..."
"PLEEEEAAASSSE!" she shrieks, desperately. Okie-dokie, then.
I call and get Scott on the phone, and he chastises me for calling during one of his reports. Em gets on the phone and wails her dilemma.
"Daddy! Daddy, I dream dat you eat a fruit dats bad an' den - an' DEN - your NECK turn into a STICK! An' den you became EEBIL!"
There is a brief pause while Scott decides whether to laugh or tell her to grow up. He chooses neither, and sympathizes appropriately. Em has a moment of further hysterics, and then takes a deep breath and makes a visible effort to calm herself.
"So I'm jus' checkin' on you," she finishes. "Can you come home?"
Em cannot be satisfied until she sees him, and runs to hug him. He turns to leave again, and she hugs me.
"I'm so happy dat Daddy's neck is not a stick an' he not eebil."
Aren't we all.
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Monday, May 24, 2010
Ramen for Grown-ups
Augusta, GA - While I'm waiting on my new job to start, I am having fun determining new recipes from common, inexpensive items around the pantry. One if my new favorites combines a famously cheap meal alternative with the free eggs our chickens lay. It's my own skewed version of the many popular "Don" recipes in Japanese restaurants.
Ingredients:
one pkg Ramen noodles, any flavor
one egg
1/2 cup frozen mireaux or other chopped vegetable mixture
one tbsp chopped onion or scallions
1/2 cup frozen, pre-cooked shrimp
In a high-sided skillet or wok, bring the water and spice packet for the Ramen to a boil. Drop in noodles, onion, and frozen ingredients. Stir well. When the Ramen has softened just enough to break its brick shape, crack the egg over the top. After one minute, lower the heat to a simmer. Cover and continue to cook until egg is your desired consistency. Note: You can crack and scramble the egg before adding to the boiling water, but it doesn't look nearly as impressive. Serve with leftover take-out packets of soy sauce on the side - and if you're feeling fancy, lime wedges. Total cook time: 4-6 minutes, depending on how you like your eggs.
Cost:
- Eggs, free (we highly recommend keeping chickens)
- Ramen, 25 cents per pkg
- Mireaux, $1 per 16 oz bag at Kroger (> 25 cents per serving)
- Shrimp, $5 per bag (> $1 per serving)
Alternatives:
- Raman - exchange for soba noodles, Souper Meal, or rice/crystal noodles. Be aware that many of those do not come with a "flavor packet"; other alternative, any long-grain rice.
- Flavor packet - use chicken broth instead of water, and toss in a little ground ginger and chili powder
- Eggs - you can leave them out, or use egg substitute. You can also chop in a hard-boiled egg.
- Shrimp - lord, you can sub almost anything for this, so long as it's pre-cooked. Try chopped chicken, pork or beef; tilapia, salmon or crab; or scour your fridge for those not-quite-enough-for-a-meal leftovers, like pork chops, steak, fried chicken or other.
- Mireaux - any frozen veggies will do, but frozen edamame is one of my favorite substitutes for just about anything
Ingredients:
one pkg Ramen noodles, any flavor
one egg
1/2 cup frozen mireaux or other chopped vegetable mixture
one tbsp chopped onion or scallions
1/2 cup frozen, pre-cooked shrimp
In a high-sided skillet or wok, bring the water and spice packet for the Ramen to a boil. Drop in noodles, onion, and frozen ingredients. Stir well. When the Ramen has softened just enough to break its brick shape, crack the egg over the top. After one minute, lower the heat to a simmer. Cover and continue to cook until egg is your desired consistency. Note: You can crack and scramble the egg before adding to the boiling water, but it doesn't look nearly as impressive. Serve with leftover take-out packets of soy sauce on the side - and if you're feeling fancy, lime wedges. Total cook time: 4-6 minutes, depending on how you like your eggs.
Cost:
- Eggs, free (we highly recommend keeping chickens)
- Ramen, 25 cents per pkg
- Mireaux, $1 per 16 oz bag at Kroger (> 25 cents per serving)
- Shrimp, $5 per bag (> $1 per serving)
Alternatives:
- Raman - exchange for soba noodles, Souper Meal, or rice/crystal noodles. Be aware that many of those do not come with a "flavor packet"; other alternative, any long-grain rice.
- Flavor packet - use chicken broth instead of water, and toss in a little ground ginger and chili powder
- Eggs - you can leave them out, or use egg substitute. You can also chop in a hard-boiled egg.
- Shrimp - lord, you can sub almost anything for this, so long as it's pre-cooked. Try chopped chicken, pork or beef; tilapia, salmon or crab; or scour your fridge for those not-quite-enough-for-a-meal leftovers, like pork chops, steak, fried chicken or other.
- Mireaux - any frozen veggies will do, but frozen edamame is one of my favorite substitutes for just about anything
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Poolside
I love how little girly-girls run - all tip-toes and fleetness in their steps, like a baby bird whose wings don't quite lift them off the ground.
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Back Seat Doodle
Augusta, Ga. - We're decked out in classic swimming attire, including EarthFare shopping bag (because I couldn't find the tote bag), old bath towels (because I couldn't find the beach towels), and matching candy necklaces (because - hello, candy).
We've just hit Bobby Jones Expressway to go to Nona and Opa's house and swim in the pool.
"Mama?" Em squints out the window. "Are you sure you goeend da right way?"
I start. She's five, y'all, and I am mildly insulted that she would question me on this 30-minute trip that we've made hundreds on times.
"Uh, yeah, Sacagewea, I am."
She gives me the death stare. She doesn't know what I just called her, but she knows it was sarcasm. I can't help it. Her ignorance is the only thing that keeps me from letting her go off to work each morning while I enroll myself in Pre-K.
"Mama..." She sighs. "Do you breenemered da trip to buy da curtains?"
Holy. Dog. Bones.
See, I was trying to get to IKEA in Atlanta. But I couldn't quite get there amongst the one-way streets and the suddenly-we're-on-I-85-what-happened? I circled within sight of the big blue building helplessly, while a carload of exhausted children waited with almost inhuman patience. It took forever for us to get to the dang store. They all got ice creams cones for their awesomeness.
"Um. Yeah. I remember."
"Dats wut I'm talkin' about."
"Okay, good point. But I'm sure about this direction."
I hear her heave a world-weary sigh: "If you say so, mama."
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We've just hit Bobby Jones Expressway to go to Nona and Opa's house and swim in the pool.
"Mama?" Em squints out the window. "Are you sure you goeend da right way?"
I start. She's five, y'all, and I am mildly insulted that she would question me on this 30-minute trip that we've made hundreds on times.
"Uh, yeah, Sacagewea, I am."
She gives me the death stare. She doesn't know what I just called her, but she knows it was sarcasm. I can't help it. Her ignorance is the only thing that keeps me from letting her go off to work each morning while I enroll myself in Pre-K.
"Mama..." She sighs. "Do you breenemered da trip to buy da curtains?"
Holy. Dog. Bones.
See, I was trying to get to IKEA in Atlanta. But I couldn't quite get there amongst the one-way streets and the suddenly-we're-on-I-85-what-happened? I circled within sight of the big blue building helplessly, while a carload of exhausted children waited with almost inhuman patience. It took forever for us to get to the dang store. They all got ice creams cones for their awesomeness.
"Um. Yeah. I remember."
"Dats wut I'm talkin' about."
"Okay, good point. But I'm sure about this direction."
I hear her heave a world-weary sigh: "If you say so, mama."
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Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Simple Pleasures...
Augusta, Ga. - Emmie is eating a cheese sandwich. It's her New Favorite Thing to Eat. This time, Scott put a bit too much mayo on the bread. I put just enough to add moisture. He loves the taste. It seems Emmie does, too...
"Dis stuff is SO good!" she says, chewing with her eyes closed in pleasure. "I lite dis white stuff. Daddy's da bes' cooker!"
Meanwhile, my roast chicken and lemon-garlic asparagus go ignored on the counter. LOL!
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Monday, May 17, 2010
Sh*t My Dad Does
AUGUSTA, GA. - My dad had a spell with low blood sugar last Thursday that put him in the hospital. If my sister hadn't realized something was wrong, or hadn't called 911, he wouldn't be here right now. He's a 69-year-old diabetic golf fanatic Braves fan and doting grandfather, and he has a lot of years to live. But he's having trouble managing his diabetes.
After being released from the hospital, he argued every instruction he was given (as expected), but generally is giving it his best shot. I bought him a new blood monitor and the equipment to go along with it, and put together a kit about the size of a paperback novel. It holds emergency glucose pills, Glucerna bars, his blood monitor, alcohol swabs, extra lancets, his blood tracking booklet, a pen, and the vast instruction book that goes along with his monitor. If you see him without it, slap some sense into him.
I lectured my parents on the difference between whole grains and whole wheat, on avoiding white foods like bread, potatoes, and pasta, and on adjusting food intake to his blood sugar readings. High blood sugar = low carb. Low blood sugar = healthy carbs. They got it, although they needed their baby girl lecturing them like they need holes in their heads.
My sister is the one who gets to take care of them, because she lives in Conyers. I live two hours away, and that was an awfully long two hours when I drove it last Thursday. I thought something was amiss with the space-time continuum.
I got there 10 minutes before visiting hours ended, and dragged poor Emmie through the hospital at breakneck speed to see him before they kicked us out. We were there for an hour, and no one asked us to leave. They were very kind.
But two things struck me while I was there: Augusta's hospitals are awesome; and my parents are getting older. They'll need more help from me in the future.
How did that make me feel, you might ask? It made me feel great, actually! I'm looking forward to doing everything I can to help them the way they helped me.It will be an honor and a privilege to care for them, in whatever capacity they will allow.
Of course, my sister is the one frog-legging it through their house's crawl space in a haz-mat suit to check the moisture levels and put down tarp where necessary. And she's the one who took him to the doctor, where Daddy threw a magazine at her head when she dared question if he was cleared to play golf tomorrow. I wish I'd been there. To film it. And post it on Facebook.
This is gonna be fun!
After being released from the hospital, he argued every instruction he was given (as expected), but generally is giving it his best shot. I bought him a new blood monitor and the equipment to go along with it, and put together a kit about the size of a paperback novel. It holds emergency glucose pills, Glucerna bars, his blood monitor, alcohol swabs, extra lancets, his blood tracking booklet, a pen, and the vast instruction book that goes along with his monitor. If you see him without it, slap some sense into him.
I lectured my parents on the difference between whole grains and whole wheat, on avoiding white foods like bread, potatoes, and pasta, and on adjusting food intake to his blood sugar readings. High blood sugar = low carb. Low blood sugar = healthy carbs. They got it, although they needed their baby girl lecturing them like they need holes in their heads.
My sister is the one who gets to take care of them, because she lives in Conyers. I live two hours away, and that was an awfully long two hours when I drove it last Thursday. I thought something was amiss with the space-time continuum.
I got there 10 minutes before visiting hours ended, and dragged poor Emmie through the hospital at breakneck speed to see him before they kicked us out. We were there for an hour, and no one asked us to leave. They were very kind.
But two things struck me while I was there: Augusta's hospitals are awesome; and my parents are getting older. They'll need more help from me in the future.
How did that make me feel, you might ask? It made me feel great, actually! I'm looking forward to doing everything I can to help them the way they helped me.It will be an honor and a privilege to care for them, in whatever capacity they will allow.
Of course, my sister is the one frog-legging it through their house's crawl space in a haz-mat suit to check the moisture levels and put down tarp where necessary. And she's the one who took him to the doctor, where Daddy threw a magazine at her head when she dared question if he was cleared to play golf tomorrow. I wish I'd been there. To film it. And post it on Facebook.
This is gonna be fun!
Friday, May 14, 2010
An Ode to Hearing Aids
Atlanta, Ga. - I'm peering out my parents' front door at the work being done to their house by a local exterminator. Termites. Yech.
I see a guy tromping down the sidewalk.
"Hey, mom? There's a dude coming to the door."
"What?"
"There's a guy coming down the sidewalk."
"There's a - what did you say?"
"There's a dude comin' down the sidewalk."
"Drilling my sidewalk? What on earth -?!" She leaps off the sofa.
"No! Mom! There's a DUDE - a MAN - coming DOWN the SIDEwalk!"
"Oh. Well." She sits back down. "Wait - but what are they drilling?"
"No, they're not drilling anything, mom."
"Then what are you talking about?"
"I have no idea."
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I see a guy tromping down the sidewalk.
"Hey, mom? There's a dude coming to the door."
"What?"
"There's a guy coming down the sidewalk."
"There's a - what did you say?"
"There's a dude comin' down the sidewalk."
"Drilling my sidewalk? What on earth -?!" She leaps off the sofa.
"No! Mom! There's a DUDE - a MAN - coming DOWN the SIDEwalk!"
"Oh. Well." She sits back down. "Wait - but what are they drilling?"
"No, they're not drilling anything, mom."
"Then what are you talking about?"
"I have no idea."
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Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Well, I Know ONE Thing and That's -
Augusta, GA. - Scott picks up a book I received. It's called, "100 Essential Things You Didn't Know You Didn't Know," by John D. Barrow.
"That's not the same John Barrow, is it?" he looks at me askance.
"Can't be. He doesn't know a hundred things."
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Monday, May 10, 2010
Emerson Had a Little Lamb
Emmie is singing in the bathroom:
"Emerson had a little lamb
Little lamb
Little lamb
Emerson had a little lamb
An' den she bringed it home
Bringed it home
Bringed it home
Emerson had a little lamb
An' den she bringed it hooooommmmmmeeee!"
Psh! She wishes.
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Sunday, May 09, 2010
Mother's Day FAIL
Augusta, Ga. - I'm reading the news when Em comes pounding into the office.
"Mama? Can I play wif you iPod?"
"No, ma'am," I said, sternly.
"Why not?"
Hmm... uh... crap. I have no idea.
"Actually, I don't remember, Emmie. Why did I take it away from you?"
"I don't know."
"Really? Cause there must have been a reason."
"Uh... oh! Cause I not clean up my room."
"Have you cleaned up your room?"
"Wull... no."
"Then you can't play with the iPod."
"Aw, man!"
"Mama? Can I play wif you iPod?"
"No, ma'am," I said, sternly.
"Why not?"
Hmm... uh... crap. I have no idea.
"Actually, I don't remember, Emmie. Why did I take it away from you?"
"I don't know."
"Really? Cause there must have been a reason."
"Uh... oh! Cause I not clean up my room."
"Have you cleaned up your room?"
"Wull... no."
"Then you can't play with the iPod."
"Aw, man!"
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Happy Mother's Day!
Augusta, Ga. - Emmie and I are watching TV, when Scott walks in.
"Tomorrow is Mudder's Day," Emmie reports, brightly.
"Yes, it is," Scott nods.
"An' I don' knowd what Daddy goeend ta gib you," she says.
Scott freezes: "NO. You DON'T."
"I thought we were just going to dinner," I ask, with surprise. Please don't let him give me another penis lamp.
"We are."
I look at Emmie, who is trying to be invisible.
"Emmieee," I coo. "Did Daddy get Mommy a present?"
She grins, uncertainly, and shrugs her shoulders: "I dunno."
"That's right," Scott says.
"Doodlebug, if I gave you five dollars, would you tell me?"
"Yeth!" She answers, definitively.
"Hey!" Scott starts, while I crack up laughing.
"If Daddy gave you TEN dollars," would you keep the secret?" I ask her.
"Uh-huh!" She says, happily. Ethics for sale.
Scott pulls out his wallet and hands her a $20. Crap, where did he get a $20? I don't have anything but the spare change in the console of my car.
"There," he commands. "Put this in your money box, and keep your mouth shut."
She grabs the bill and races out of the room, while I chuckle and Scott throws me a (lovingly) obscene gesture.
Then she trots back in, with a satisfied smirk: "Daddy buyed you a necklath wif a flower on it."
HAR! Chili hits the floor as I burst into belly laughs. Scott stands incredulous. Emmie hangs onto me as I cackle.
"You bring me that money back!" Scott orders in disbelief.
She runs to return it while I slowly reach a point where I can breathe again.
"Baby, you were supposed to keep the secret," I laugh.
"But I wanted to tell you."
"But Daddy paid you not to tell."
She shrugs: "Wull, I gibbed it back."
"Whatever. I'm going to bed," Scott grumps, and shuts the bedroom door.
"But, Mama? I didn't tell you da shape or da colors," Emmie protests. In her mind, the description was vague enough because it didn't paint a mental picture.
Shoot. I can't resist: "What color is it?"
"I not telleend you."
"Okay."
We snuggle for a moment as I, still grinning and chuckling, stroke her hair. She lifts her head and smirks at me: "But I know where it ith."
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"Tomorrow is Mudder's Day," Emmie reports, brightly.
"Yes, it is," Scott nods.
"An' I don' knowd what Daddy goeend ta gib you," she says.
Scott freezes: "NO. You DON'T."
"I thought we were just going to dinner," I ask, with surprise. Please don't let him give me another penis lamp.
"We are."
I look at Emmie, who is trying to be invisible.
"Emmieee," I coo. "Did Daddy get Mommy a present?"
She grins, uncertainly, and shrugs her shoulders: "I dunno."
"That's right," Scott says.
"Doodlebug, if I gave you five dollars, would you tell me?"
"Yeth!" She answers, definitively.
"Hey!" Scott starts, while I crack up laughing.
"If Daddy gave you TEN dollars," would you keep the secret?" I ask her.
"Uh-huh!" She says, happily. Ethics for sale.
Scott pulls out his wallet and hands her a $20. Crap, where did he get a $20? I don't have anything but the spare change in the console of my car.
"There," he commands. "Put this in your money box, and keep your mouth shut."
She grabs the bill and races out of the room, while I chuckle and Scott throws me a (lovingly) obscene gesture.
Then she trots back in, with a satisfied smirk: "Daddy buyed you a necklath wif a flower on it."
HAR! Chili hits the floor as I burst into belly laughs. Scott stands incredulous. Emmie hangs onto me as I cackle.
"You bring me that money back!" Scott orders in disbelief.
She runs to return it while I slowly reach a point where I can breathe again.
"Baby, you were supposed to keep the secret," I laugh.
"But I wanted to tell you."
"But Daddy paid you not to tell."
She shrugs: "Wull, I gibbed it back."
"Whatever. I'm going to bed," Scott grumps, and shuts the bedroom door.
"But, Mama? I didn't tell you da shape or da colors," Emmie protests. In her mind, the description was vague enough because it didn't paint a mental picture.
Shoot. I can't resist: "What color is it?"
"I not telleend you."
"Okay."
We snuggle for a moment as I, still grinning and chuckling, stroke her hair. She lifts her head and smirks at me: "But I know where it ith."
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Thursday, May 06, 2010
Manners: Sometimes She Has Them
Augusta, Ga. - We're at P.F. Chang's and Emmie is using her wiles to get what she wants.
"Danks for dat dessert," she tells the server. "An' I like your cooking berry mush."
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Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Are We There Yet?
Augusta, Ga - We're careening down Riverwatch Parkway with the rest of the afternoon commuters.
"Where are we going?" Emmie asks.
"To get some dinner."
"Where are we going?"
"... To get some dinner."
"Where are we going?"
"Emmie, I just TOLD you. We're going-"
"NO! I just sing a DORA song!"
Oh.
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"Where are we going?" Emmie asks.
"To get some dinner."
"Where are we going?"
"... To get some dinner."
"Where are we going?"
"Emmie, I just TOLD you. We're going-"
"NO! I just sing a DORA song!"
Oh.
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Monday, May 03, 2010
It IS Easy... To Smell Her
Augusta, Ga. - Emerson has gotten ready for bed, dressing in a pull-up and her favorite shirt.
"Emmie, I thought you wanted to wear that Yo Gabba Gabba shirt to school tomorrow."
"I - well, I DO. But I'm goeend thleep in it, too," she lisps through her one-missing and one-loose toothed mouth.
"Sweetie, you can't wear it to sleep and -"
"Yeth! Lithen! I can wear it to thleep in, and DEN, when I wake up, I just leeb it on! Theee? Ith EATHY, Mama! An' den I can thleep in it AGAIN, an' den wear it to thchool AGAIN!"
And then I'll be able to locate her with my eyes closed. By "thmell" alone.
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"Emmie, I thought you wanted to wear that Yo Gabba Gabba shirt to school tomorrow."
"I - well, I DO. But I'm goeend thleep in it, too," she lisps through her one-missing and one-loose toothed mouth.
"Sweetie, you can't wear it to sleep and -"
"Yeth! Lithen! I can wear it to thleep in, and DEN, when I wake up, I just leeb it on! Theee? Ith EATHY, Mama! An' den I can thleep in it AGAIN, an' den wear it to thchool AGAIN!"
And then I'll be able to locate her with my eyes closed. By "thmell" alone.
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Let That Be a Lesson...
Augusta, Ga. - Emerson and her cousin, Jackson, are playing in the back yard at my parents' house.
When I pop out to check on them, I see they are digging worms out of the gardening soil... and chopping them up.
"Hey!" I exclaim, louder than I intended. They both jump. Oops.
"Sorry. What are you two doing?"
"We choppeend da worms! Loot!" Emmie points to the three small, independently squirming pieces of what used to be one respectably-sized nightcrawler. This is not cool.
"Are you planning on eating those worms?" I ask. They look at each other in confusion and shake their heads.
"Okay. I know that they're gross, but these worms are living animals. If we don't plan on eating them, we don't kill them."
Jackson pipes up, worriedly: "Are you gonna make us eat 'em?"
"No," I grin. "You didn't know this rule. But now you do, right? Now please put the worms back in the dirt and find something else to do."
"Okay!" They agree, enthusiastically, and I leave them to it.
But as I close the sliding glass door, I hear Jackson talking to Emmie: "Don't tell her about the roly pollies."
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When I pop out to check on them, I see they are digging worms out of the gardening soil... and chopping them up.
"Hey!" I exclaim, louder than I intended. They both jump. Oops.
"Sorry. What are you two doing?"
"We choppeend da worms! Loot!" Emmie points to the three small, independently squirming pieces of what used to be one respectably-sized nightcrawler. This is not cool.
"Are you planning on eating those worms?" I ask. They look at each other in confusion and shake their heads.
"Okay. I know that they're gross, but these worms are living animals. If we don't plan on eating them, we don't kill them."
Jackson pipes up, worriedly: "Are you gonna make us eat 'em?"
"No," I grin. "You didn't know this rule. But now you do, right? Now please put the worms back in the dirt and find something else to do."
"Okay!" They agree, enthusiastically, and I leave them to it.
But as I close the sliding glass door, I hear Jackson talking to Emmie: "Don't tell her about the roly pollies."
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Sunday, May 02, 2010
Critical Thinking: FAIL
Augusta, Ga. - I'm driving down Gordon Highway, gossiping on the phone with a girlfriend. Just as I'm about to merge lanes, a big white F-150 muscles in and cuts me off.
"Hey! Get off your cell phone, you big jerk!" I exclaim.
Amber bursts into laughter: "Umm... Aren't YOU on YOUR cell phone?"
"Yeah, but I'm not driving like it," I grouse.
"Whatever,"she guffaws. "That was the funniest thing you've ever said!"
Oh, shut your pie hole.
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"Hey! Get off your cell phone, you big jerk!" I exclaim.
Amber bursts into laughter: "Umm... Aren't YOU on YOUR cell phone?"
"Yeah, but I'm not driving like it," I grouse.
"Whatever,"she guffaws. "That was the funniest thing you've ever said!"
Oh, shut your pie hole.
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Saturday, May 01, 2010
Subtlety: Not Her Strong Suit
"Loot, Mama! Ders a ISLAND!"
"Oooh, maybe it's a TREASURE island," I say.
"Nooo," she shakes her head. "Ders no X der."
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Sunday, April 25, 2010
Super Mom!
Augusta, Ga. - I spent yesterday getting my butt kicked by a virus, so I'm making up for it today.
I have completed:
- The grocery shopping
- A load of dishes
- A cherry pie w/ lattice top crust
- A pot of chili
- A pot of spaghetti sauce
- A pot of curry sauce
- Dressing a chicken for roasting
- Directing Emmie in cleaning windows and baseboards, and organizing the giant pile of movies and video games that had accumulated on the floor by the television
- Cleaning the bathroom
- Cleaning the leather couch and ottoman
- Put down Febreze powder and vaccuumed the floors
- Dusted all reachable surfaces
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Friday, April 23, 2010
As Seen on TV - A Tribute to Doing it Wrong
Augusta, Ga. - I make a lot of mistakes. But on days when they seem to pile up until I can't see the people around me, I can still say that I'm not an incompetent as these infomercial stars.
Smell That? It's Not Just Sarcasm
Augusta, Ga - In raising her to never accept the status quo, I forgot that the first status she'd test is the one at home.
"Emmie, you need a bath before school. Let's go, chica."
"But! But! Daddee say I not hab to take a baff."
"I can smell your bootie from over here!" I tease. "Daddy said that because he didn't smell you."
"Oh, yeah? Do he not hab a nose, mama?"
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Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Living My Life by the National Television Standards Committee
Augusta, Ga. - Emmie is in the bath, but even that does not stop her from conversing with the entire neighborhood. And, as usual, she carries on a stimulating conversation, indeed...
"MAMA!" She hollers.
"Yes, Doodle?" I call.
"Lithen, carefully," she commands, lisping through her missing tooth. "Whenebber you see a T. Rex, you gotta stop."
(snicker...)
"Okay, good to know."
"Yeth! Iss BERRY important! So the T.Rex won't see you. When a T.Rex tries to see you, a T.Rex is very huge. But Phineas and Ferb said DON'T. MOVE. A. BIT. Den he won't eat you."
"Okay, well, if cartoon characters say it, it must be true."
"Das wut I'm telleend you."
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"MAMA!" She hollers.
"Yes, Doodle?" I call.
"Lithen, carefully," she commands, lisping through her missing tooth. "Whenebber you see a T. Rex, you gotta stop."
(snicker...)
"Okay, good to know."
"Yeth! Iss BERRY important! So the T.Rex won't see you. When a T.Rex tries to see you, a T.Rex is very huge. But Phineas and Ferb said DON'T. MOVE. A. BIT. Den he won't eat you."
"Okay, well, if cartoon characters say it, it must be true."
"Das wut I'm telleend you."
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Monday, April 19, 2010
On Maternity Clothes, as I Await My New Niece or Nephew
Augusta, Ga. - My sister-in-law, Allie, is in labor RIGHT THIS MINUTE. Emerson is beside herself: "I'm so ett-CITED, Mama! My very own cousin!" she said this morning.
Actually, Emmie has two other cousins of her very own, but they have always been older than her. And they're boys. Smelly, dirty boys. :-)
Allie was the most patient pregnant woman you ever saw - and maybe the most adorable. I don't know where she found her maternity clothes (certainly not on the clearance rack at Target, like I did), but she always looked great. She's not a trendy, spendy kind of woman. She always looked professional. But if she'd wanted to flaunt it, I could see her in this tank top or this dress.
I came across them on a site called Kiki's Fashions. And then I spent an hour looking at clothes that I would wear now, and I'm not even pregnant. They have cute, trendy maternity clothes, a total break from the sailor suits and muumuus that we're usually forced into once we have a bun in the oven. But even without the word "maternity" stuck out in front of the phrase like a giant hood ornament, their clothes are adorable. And they're super reasonable. Kicky party dresses for around $30. Summery, short-sleeved blouses for about $20. Cute, NON-MOM JEANS for between $20-$30.
If you buy something from them, use the code "blogfriends" for a 20% off coupon.
Actually, Emmie has two other cousins of her very own, but they have always been older than her. And they're boys. Smelly, dirty boys. :-)
Allie was the most patient pregnant woman you ever saw - and maybe the most adorable. I don't know where she found her maternity clothes (certainly not on the clearance rack at Target, like I did), but she always looked great. She's not a trendy, spendy kind of woman. She always looked professional. But if she'd wanted to flaunt it, I could see her in this tank top or this dress.
I came across them on a site called Kiki's Fashions. And then I spent an hour looking at clothes that I would wear now, and I'm not even pregnant. They have cute, trendy maternity clothes, a total break from the sailor suits and muumuus that we're usually forced into once we have a bun in the oven. But even without the word "maternity" stuck out in front of the phrase like a giant hood ornament, their clothes are adorable. And they're super reasonable. Kicky party dresses for around $30. Summery, short-sleeved blouses for about $20. Cute, NON-MOM JEANS for between $20-$30.
If you buy something from them, use the code "blogfriends" for a 20% off coupon.
Friday, April 16, 2010
I Always Have a Ball With Puns
Augusta, Ga. -
Me: "Hey, what does a hot dog run at the GreenJackets Baseball Game?"
Rep: "I think about $3? $3.50? I'm not 100% positive?"
Me: "That's okay. I was just looking for a ballpark number."
Do you think he hears that a lot? Maybe that's good. I don't wanna come at him out of left field... Oh! Somebody stop me!
Me: "Hey, what does a hot dog run at the GreenJackets Baseball Game?"
Rep: "I think about $3? $3.50? I'm not 100% positive?"
Me: "That's okay. I was just looking for a ballpark number."
Do you think he hears that a lot? Maybe that's good. I don't wanna come at him out of left field... Oh! Somebody stop me!
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Mediterranean Roast Chicken
Augusta, Ga. - So I developed this recipe for our family. I hope you like it. Total prep time: About 10 minutes, if you don't count the brining process. And since it's a passive process, I really don't. Cooking time: 45-60 minutes.
Ingredients
Preparation and Cooking
1. Trim the chicken if needed, and remove the little package of gross that they include with it, in case someone is literally starving and has some weird intention of eating the gizzard, which is the part of the chicken that digests things. Rinse the chicken well, and then place into a large pot and cover it with water. Shake about a 1/4-1/3 cup of sea salt into the water. Cover, and place in the refrigerator overnight.
Note: This would also work with a chicken that has been cut up already, or a package of leg quarters, but the flavoring process will be a tiny bit more difficult as you'll have to work with each piece of chicken. Also, whole chickens are cheaper.
2. When you're ready to get dinner started, drain the pot, remove the chicken, and pat dry. Start the oven, to temp out at 350. Then, gently, but firmly, slide your hands between the skin and the meat, all the way down into the legs, in order to create room for the spice mixture to set into the meat.
Note: Rubbing spices or flavoring into the skin of poultry before baking doesn't flavor anything but the skin.
3. Stir together about a 1/4 cup of olive oil with almost as much Zahtar. It's a mild, thyme-and-seseme based mixture. Add about a 1/2 tsp of powdered garlic and a liberal dose of sea salt and black pepper. You should have a runny, pastey kind of mixture. If it freaks you out, add a little more olive oil.
Note: You can use butter for this, too, but it's not as authentic and gives it a completely different flavor. Still... butter. Yum.
4. Rub the olive oil mixture under the skin of the bird, massaging into the meat - and, again, getting down into the legs, too. If you have any remaining mixture, reserve it for the veggies. You should be taking the skin off your chicken for healthier eating.
Note: This is totally gross the first time you do it. But I don't care what anyone says: basting is a waste of time. Baste not, waste not! This is how you get the most flavorful roast poultry.
5. Quarter the onion and place inside the chicken's body cavity. Chop the potatoes and carrots into slightly-larger-than-bite-sized pieces. Arrange the chicken in a roasting pan, on top of the rack, and dump the carrots and potatoes in around it. Pour the remaining Zahtar over the veggies, or just drizzle them with olive oil, sea salt (or seasoning salt), and black pepper. Cover with foil and bake for 30 minutes. Remove the foil, turn veggies, do not replace foil, and continue baking until juice runs clear when thighs and drumsticks are pricked with a fork or knife.
6. Remove from oven. Let sit for 10 minutes so that juices will distribute. Remove veggies from pan, and add to a serving platter. Carve chicken, remove skin from pieces, and douse liberally with fresh-squeezed lemon juice.
Note: You can mix the lemon juice in with the olive oil mixture before rubbing it into the chicken, but I don't think you get the full flavor. I like waiting until after the chicken is on the serving platter to add the lemon.
7. Serve and enjoy! Try pairing it with a microwavable whole-grain side dish, like Kashi's 7 whole-grain rice pilaf, flavored with Moroccan curry. It's easy, healthy, and goes well with these flavors!
Ingredients
- One whole chicken, fresh or completely thawed
- extra virgin olive oil
- two-three lemons
- 1/4 cup Zahtar spice mix (available locally at Aladdin's Grocery on Columbia Rd)
- powdered garlic
- black pepper
- sea salt
- onion
- potatoes
- carrots
Preparation and Cooking
1. Trim the chicken if needed, and remove the little package of gross that they include with it, in case someone is literally starving and has some weird intention of eating the gizzard, which is the part of the chicken that digests things. Rinse the chicken well, and then place into a large pot and cover it with water. Shake about a 1/4-1/3 cup of sea salt into the water. Cover, and place in the refrigerator overnight.
Note: This would also work with a chicken that has been cut up already, or a package of leg quarters, but the flavoring process will be a tiny bit more difficult as you'll have to work with each piece of chicken. Also, whole chickens are cheaper.
2. When you're ready to get dinner started, drain the pot, remove the chicken, and pat dry. Start the oven, to temp out at 350. Then, gently, but firmly, slide your hands between the skin and the meat, all the way down into the legs, in order to create room for the spice mixture to set into the meat.
Note: Rubbing spices or flavoring into the skin of poultry before baking doesn't flavor anything but the skin.
3. Stir together about a 1/4 cup of olive oil with almost as much Zahtar. It's a mild, thyme-and-seseme based mixture. Add about a 1/2 tsp of powdered garlic and a liberal dose of sea salt and black pepper. You should have a runny, pastey kind of mixture. If it freaks you out, add a little more olive oil.
Note: You can use butter for this, too, but it's not as authentic and gives it a completely different flavor. Still... butter. Yum.
4. Rub the olive oil mixture under the skin of the bird, massaging into the meat - and, again, getting down into the legs, too. If you have any remaining mixture, reserve it for the veggies. You should be taking the skin off your chicken for healthier eating.
Note: This is totally gross the first time you do it. But I don't care what anyone says: basting is a waste of time. Baste not, waste not! This is how you get the most flavorful roast poultry.
5. Quarter the onion and place inside the chicken's body cavity. Chop the potatoes and carrots into slightly-larger-than-bite-sized pieces. Arrange the chicken in a roasting pan, on top of the rack, and dump the carrots and potatoes in around it. Pour the remaining Zahtar over the veggies, or just drizzle them with olive oil, sea salt (or seasoning salt), and black pepper. Cover with foil and bake for 30 minutes. Remove the foil, turn veggies, do not replace foil, and continue baking until juice runs clear when thighs and drumsticks are pricked with a fork or knife.
6. Remove from oven. Let sit for 10 minutes so that juices will distribute. Remove veggies from pan, and add to a serving platter. Carve chicken, remove skin from pieces, and douse liberally with fresh-squeezed lemon juice.
Note: You can mix the lemon juice in with the olive oil mixture before rubbing it into the chicken, but I don't think you get the full flavor. I like waiting until after the chicken is on the serving platter to add the lemon.
7. Serve and enjoy! Try pairing it with a microwavable whole-grain side dish, like Kashi's 7 whole-grain rice pilaf, flavored with Moroccan curry. It's easy, healthy, and goes well with these flavors!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Out of Time
Augusta, Ga. - Emmie has acquired a SpongeBob watch from a kids meal. At her request, I set the time and hand it back to her.
"There. Now you'll always know what time it is."
"Danks! What do it say?"
I haven't even begun to teach her how to tell time yet. I'm no fool. This way, bedtime is whenever I say it is.
"It says 1:31," I answer.
"Ohhh..."
Just then, it switches to 1:32.
"So, what time is it?"
She frowns at her watch, then at the chicken nuggets in front of her. Her face brightens: "Iss LUNCH time!"
Gotta give her that one.
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"There. Now you'll always know what time it is."
"Danks! What do it say?"
I haven't even begun to teach her how to tell time yet. I'm no fool. This way, bedtime is whenever I say it is.
"It says 1:31," I answer.
"Ohhh..."
Just then, it switches to 1:32.
"So, what time is it?"
She frowns at her watch, then at the chicken nuggets in front of her. Her face brightens: "Iss LUNCH time!"
Gotta give her that one.
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Saturday, April 10, 2010
Just Give Me the One Thing, Okay?
Augusta. Ga. - Emmie's learning to read, so she's really into guessing the letters that start each word. She also likes for me to spell out words for her to practice writing on her portable drawing board.
We're doing this in the car when she requests "restaurant" and "people." I spell them out, and then she frowns.
"Der's not a O in 'people,'" she says.
"I know it doesn't sound like it, the way we pronounce it, but there's an O right after the E," I say, amused.
She considers this for a nanosecond before disagreeing.
"I sorry, mama, but... Das not da troof."
She is so sure of herself - and I am so gullible - that for a moment I rethink it. Wait - what am I doing? I'm the 198-something spelling bee champion of C.J. Hicks Elementary!
"Dude," I start - because that's how all the classy moms address their children these days - "I know how to do one thing above average, and that's spell. Everything else... I'm pretty much just faking it. So can you listen to me on this one thing, please?"
"... if you say so, Mom."
Gee. Thanks.
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We're doing this in the car when she requests "restaurant" and "people." I spell them out, and then she frowns.
"Der's not a O in 'people,'" she says.
"I know it doesn't sound like it, the way we pronounce it, but there's an O right after the E," I say, amused.
She considers this for a nanosecond before disagreeing.
"I sorry, mama, but... Das not da troof."
She is so sure of herself - and I am so gullible - that for a moment I rethink it. Wait - what am I doing? I'm the 198-something spelling bee champion of C.J. Hicks Elementary!
"Dude," I start - because that's how all the classy moms address their children these days - "I know how to do one thing above average, and that's spell. Everything else... I'm pretty much just faking it. So can you listen to me on this one thing, please?"
"... if you say so, Mom."
Gee. Thanks.
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Thursday, April 08, 2010
Advice, please
Augusta, Ga. - Emmie and I are in the middle of a showing of "How to Train Your Dragon," when she turns to me.
"Mama?" she manages in the World's Loudest Whisper. "Where do Jesus lib?"
Uh-oh...
I'll admit it: I'm utterly unprepared for religious questions from my child
- primarily because I still have so many myself. How do I explain to her that Jesus died? Or do I try to explain the concept of a soul? Or do I fall back on generally accepted but utterly inadequate cultural shorthand?
She's five, I reason. She's not looking for me to give her the nature of the universe in a compact pill with an easy-swallow coating (or maybe she is?). She believes in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and that "Play Fair" and "Share" were two of the ten commandments. I think she's just looking for pieces of a puzzle that looks a lot like a map of the hierarchy of parenting. In short, what every kid wants is the location and general job description of Who's in Charge.
"Well, where do YOU think he lives?" I counter, using my well-worn technique for simultaneously deflecting a question and learning more about my daughter.
"MOOOooom..." she rolled her eyes so hard I could hear them rattle around in her skull.
(sigh)
"I don't know," I acquiesce. Because it's the most honest answer I can give her. And because I think kids also need to hear that phrase from their parents, as much as they need spiritual guidance.
"You DO know, mama!" she tells me. "Jesus libs in your heart."
I suppose I did assume a rather literal intent in her question, like maybe she wanted his mailing address to make sure he filled out his Census form. But questions like that throw me into a panic. What should I have done? What kinds of questions do your kids ask that stump you? What answers would you have liked to hear from your parents?
I want to guide her to feel a connection with mankind, the planet, the universe. What's the best way to do that?
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"Mama?" she manages in the World's Loudest Whisper. "Where do Jesus lib?"
Uh-oh...
I'll admit it: I'm utterly unprepared for religious questions from my child
- primarily because I still have so many myself. How do I explain to her that Jesus died? Or do I try to explain the concept of a soul? Or do I fall back on generally accepted but utterly inadequate cultural shorthand? She's five, I reason. She's not looking for me to give her the nature of the universe in a compact pill with an easy-swallow coating (or maybe she is?). She believes in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and that "Play Fair" and "Share" were two of the ten commandments. I think she's just looking for pieces of a puzzle that looks a lot like a map of the hierarchy of parenting. In short, what every kid wants is the location and general job description of Who's in Charge.
"Well, where do YOU think he lives?" I counter, using my well-worn technique for simultaneously deflecting a question and learning more about my daughter.
"MOOOooom..." she rolled her eyes so hard I could hear them rattle around in her skull.
(sigh)
"I don't know," I acquiesce. Because it's the most honest answer I can give her. And because I think kids also need to hear that phrase from their parents, as much as they need spiritual guidance.
"You DO know, mama!" she tells me. "Jesus libs in your heart."
I suppose I did assume a rather literal intent in her question, like maybe she wanted his mailing address to make sure he filled out his Census form. But questions like that throw me into a panic. What should I have done? What kinds of questions do your kids ask that stump you? What answers would you have liked to hear from your parents?
I want to guide her to feel a connection with mankind, the planet, the universe. What's the best way to do that?
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A Poem By Emerson
Augusta, Ga - We're sitting in my mom's recliner at my parents' house.
"Mama?" Emmie says. "Did you know dat some fings take change?"
I've raised this girl for five years, and I suspect something is on her mind.
"What do you mean, Doodle?" I ask.
"Wull, like wood is trees. An' moms are gran'mas," she explains. "Do you seee?"
"So, some things are different?" I ask.
"Yeth! Like kids are big kids. An' big kids are grown-ups. Fings change a lot. But all da change doesn't matter. It doesn't matter when fings change."
"Why not?"
"Because da people are da same people. An' dey lub you."
And that's something to remember.
Of course, this also the girl who thinks that "Boo" is pronounced "Moo."
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Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Sh!! My Dad Says? Try Sh!! My Sister Says
Augusta, Ga. - Kelli and I are making conversation in the car on the way to Helen.
"Did you see 'Zombieland?'" she asks.
"Yeah, that movie cracked me up."
"I liked it, but it scared me," she says.
"What scared you?" I asked. It made me laugh... until the clown.
"Um, maybe the fact that there were ZOMBIES in it?!"
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"Did you see 'Zombieland?'" she asks.
"Yeah, that movie cracked me up."
"I liked it, but it scared me," she says.
"What scared you?" I asked. It made me laugh... until the clown.
"Um, maybe the fact that there were ZOMBIES in it?!"
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Observations
Augusta, Ga. - We're driving through Milstead, the old mill town in Rockdale County.
"Wow," Emmie says. "Dis a lubblee place where old houses lib."
If that isn't right on the money...
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"Wow," Emmie says. "Dis a lubblee place where old houses lib."
If that isn't right on the money...
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If Men are from Mars, and Women from Pluto, Children are from Uranus
Augusta, Ga. - We're in the Wal-Mart bathroom in Conyers, Ga. It's not a pretty place to be. I'd like to spend as little time as possible in here, but Emmie's taking her sweet time.
"Emmie, what's going on in that stall?" I ask.
"Um... I love you!"
Cover me. I'm going in.
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Monday, April 05, 2010
Next Time, Not So Much DHEA for "Brain Development"
Augusta, Ga. - I'm trying to get Emerson to bed before dawn so that we can get up and take a day trip to Helen tomorrow. She is understandably resistant, surrounded - as she is - by relatives just WAITING to play with her. I should charge money for this, Jeez. Nonetheless, I try to explain it to her.
"So we go to dah mountain tomorrow wif Jacob an' Jackson an' Aunt Jessica?" she asks.
"Right. And I want you to get plenty of sleep so we can have a good time."
"So... You want me to go to sleep so dat I can wate up? Dat not mate sense to me, mama."
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"So we go to dah mountain tomorrow wif Jacob an' Jackson an' Aunt Jessica?" she asks.
"Right. And I want you to get plenty of sleep so we can have a good time."
"So... You want me to go to sleep so dat I can wate up? Dat not mate sense to me, mama."
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Sunday, April 04, 2010
Waiting...
Augusta, Ga. - My sister, Kelli, and I are having a "don'tcha hate it when" conversation.
"I - ooh! I know!" she says, as we lounge on the bed. "How about the new 'who' when people mean 'what'?"
"I don't know that one," I admit.
"Yeah, like someone called the restaurant to ask what was on the menu that night. I was rattling off the specials: 'lobster and polenta sticks,' and he goes 'who?'"
"What?!" I laugh.
"Exactly. And I didn't know what he meant. Who? I wasn't talking about anyone. So it was all 'Who's on First,' with him saying 'Who?' and me saying 'What?'"
I'm laughing so hard right now. I know the challenges of customer service.
"So finally, I go through the specials one more time, I get to the lobster-polenta sticks, and again he goes, 'Who?' I was like, 'That's MISTER Lobster-Polenta Sticks to you, sir.'"
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Where I Get My Dorky Sense of Humor
Augusta, Ga. - We're sitting around on the front porch, watching the kids run around the yard and ride bikes after Easter dinner.
"Lord, the carpenter bees are going crazy this year," mama noted, as they dive-bombed our heads.
"Tell 'em to head over to my house and build me a back deck," I joked.
"I thought those were bumble bees," said my sister, Kelli.
"No, they're looking for a place to drill under the eaves. We'll find little piles of shavings later," mom said.
"Do they sting?" Kelli asked.
"No," mama said. "But they drive me nuts with all that hammering."
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"Lord, the carpenter bees are going crazy this year," mama noted, as they dive-bombed our heads.
"Tell 'em to head over to my house and build me a back deck," I joked.
"I thought those were bumble bees," said my sister, Kelli.
"No, they're looking for a place to drill under the eaves. We'll find little piles of shavings later," mom said.
"Do they sting?" Kelli asked.
"No," mama said. "But they drive me nuts with all that hammering."
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Friday, April 02, 2010
Blood Pressure
Augusta, Ga. - Erin and I are giving donating at Shepeard Community Blood Center. She's done with her blood donation, and I'm waiting for my plasma to finish.
"Your blood is darker than mine," she notes.
"Yes, like a fine wine," I joke.
"I have kind of a headache," she says, as she examines the Rube Goldberg machine-looking contraption that processes the plasma donations.
"Me, too."
"Well, I guess so. You got all your guts in this machine!"
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"Your blood is darker than mine," she notes.
"Yes, like a fine wine," I joke.
"I have kind of a headache," she says, as she examines the Rube Goldberg machine-looking contraption that processes the plasma donations.
"Me, too."
"Well, I guess so. You got all your guts in this machine!"
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Thursday, April 01, 2010
The Food Was Great! The Service...
Augusta, Ga. - A new restaurant on Washington Rd has great food - Indian, Chinese, Pakistani, American, and Middle Eastern, all under one roof. And the creamy chicken with olives is to die.
But the service is a little over-attentive. After at least 10 table checks by our server - not to mention several from the rest of the serving team, I feeling a little frazzled. Every story someone tried to tell went unfinished. Not to mention that they couldn't answer our questions about the food.
Still, at the end of our meal, I gave it one more try and asked the server what the chicken-and-olive dish was called.
"Um... where'd you get it?" She asked.
I couldn't resist, and pointed out the window at the doughnut shop. "Next door," I answered.
I'll be back to eat there when I return from vacation. The food - channa masala, kebabs, naan, lentil soup, and some other stuff I didn't get to try - was really good. But I think I'll specify with the server how frequently she need check on me. And I'll just Google my questions later.
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But the service is a little over-attentive. After at least 10 table checks by our server - not to mention several from the rest of the serving team, I feeling a little frazzled. Every story someone tried to tell went unfinished. Not to mention that they couldn't answer our questions about the food.
Still, at the end of our meal, I gave it one more try and asked the server what the chicken-and-olive dish was called.
"Um... where'd you get it?" She asked.
I couldn't resist, and pointed out the window at the doughnut shop. "Next door," I answered.
I'll be back to eat there when I return from vacation. The food - channa masala, kebabs, naan, lentil soup, and some other stuff I didn't get to try - was really good. But I think I'll specify with the server how frequently she need check on me. And I'll just Google my questions later.
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