Momnesia

In my eternal quest for frugality - generally speaking, I'd rather do things than have things - I keep a list of "stuff we need." Currently, it consists of end tables for the living room, a rug for the bedroom and a stackable or apartment-sized washer and dryer (or one of those adorable European combo units).

That sounds odd, keeping a list of stuff I need in order to keep from spending money. But that's because I buy almost everything second-hand. We have a $3,000 leather Basset couch that I got for $300. An antique china cabinet that I bought for $100. A wrought iron bed due to Overstock.com's series of crazy mistakes (that also led to them sending me a second identical frame, which now resides at my parents' home). And so on. It takes time, and it takes patience, but like our hunter-gatherer ancestors knew, the hunt and kill are so very satisfying.

One of my dream vacations, I swear, would be a tour of European flea markets. This is the extent of my geekitude. And I am okay with that.

A couple of weekends ago, I went Craigslisting through Atlanta with my dad. I got a lot of stuff we needed. There were heavy things to load in his giant Ford F-150, and a lot of bending and carrying. We ate at the Varsity, and then wound through IKEA before heading home so I could cook them dinner.

Ha. Guess what, guys? After spending all day bending and heaving all over Atlanta, I found a hole in the butt of my pants. A significantly-sized hole. In the BUTT. Of my pants.

Between all of our travels, my dad and I must have passed 5,000 people, and not one of them - including my father, thank you very much - mentioned this hole to me.

Oh, it gets better.

In my rush to get out of Augusta with Emerson the night before, I had forgotten to pack any underwear.

So here I am, inappropriately positioning my behind in front of dozens of people who had a close-up view in their own homes - and then the thousands of people at the Varsity, IKEA, Publix, Walgreen's... oh, god. Oh. My. God. And no one mentioned it.

You may not believe it, but Atlantans are very polite people when they aren't driving. I've had gang members hold open doors for me. Everyone says excuse me. If you are missing the extra 10 cents cash it takes to complete a purchase, you will never have to leave the check-out line, because someone will step in with a dime.

Apparently, their politeness extends to keeping their mouths shut when someone's butt is hanging out of their pants. I flashed so many people, y'all, that I'm surprised they weren't stuffing dollar bills in my g-string. Oh, that's right - I wasn't wearing one!

I immediately called my friend Amber (who likes to be Facebook poked, by the way, please do it now) for some sympathy. Instead, she laughed so hard that she woke her two sleeping babies and pissed off her 13-year-old - until she told said 13-year-old the story, and she laughed so hard she almost fell off her bed. I appreciated her sympathetic ear so much that I texted her a thoughtful thank-you: a photo of my behind, clad in the offending jeans.

I decided to experiment. So I wore the same jeans the next day. All day. And do you know what people said to me? Nothing. Not a single word. When I finally said something to my family, they were surprised. No one had even noticed.

I think we can extrapolate from that - due to the fact that my family will spend hours making fun of a single crumb on your shirt, plus work it into holiday carols at Christmas - that no one in Atlanta saw any part of my bare bottom those two days.

Great.

I'm not sure if I am comforted by that... or if I am disappointed that no one was looking.

I am an enemy of the people.

Are you frightened?

Recently, I found out that I have been cast in with a group of people deemed politically distasteful by a certain individual in the community. I am unworthy. I am verboten. I am even a little dangerous.

Well. Color me surprised. I mean, all this time, I had no idea that I was part of the effort to destroy our great republic.

Let me tell you my goals in life:

1. I want to be a great mom - I mean a SUPER great mom. Not Betty Crocker traditional. I want to be the kind of mom who teaches her child to be independent, to pull herself up by her bootstraps when necessary, to put her brain before her feelings, to value education and integrity, and to enjoy her life. I want to be the kind of mom no mom has ever been because we are mere mortals.

2. I want to be a solid employee. I want to be the kind of person people can trust, and to whom they can turn when they need something. I want to turn out work that is consistent, and that contributes to the progress of the employer I chose specifically because of their contributions to the community. (and, okay, the rad benefits package)

3. I want to make someone laugh every day.

4. I'd like to travel. A lot. Any sponsors?

That's pretty much it. None of those involve destroying the American way of life.
I don't have any lofty goals to win a Pulitzer - or even a Webby. I mean, yeah, everyone likes to be recognized for a job well done. But most professionals go through their careers just doing their jobs and never get to put a certificate or a plaque on their walls. ("Accountant of the Year?" Doesn't exist.) And I don't need to make it to "Saturday Night Live." I just want to bring a smile to someone's face every day.

At no point did I think to myself, "Yes, I'd like to bog down the gears of government with hateful, angry rhetoric and fear-mongering." But the people who have cast me in with a group of Social Untouchables perpetuate just that agenda. Our way, or get out of the way.

Well, I'm okay with that. I really am. Some of these people in this group I really liked. A couple of them gave me the creeps. And one of those creeps has been very publicly outed for his predilections.

Yet, the person who deemed me unacceptable has not wavered from supporting Creepy McCreeperson. So, like a former boss who brought a colorful variety of certifiably insane people into his life but chose to think the worst of me (he's awesome, but for a while his judgment of me really hurt), it's quite easy to conclude that I don't need that person's approval.

... Then, again, I'm blogging about it. So maybe I want it anyway.

I'm at my desk, getting some copy ready to post, when a co-worker walks in.

"Hey, Stacey, I - what are you doing?" she interrupts herself.

I follow her gaze to my bowl. "Eating breakfast."

"That's a salad."

"Yeah."

"For breakfast?"

"I... like salad?"

"But... for breakfast?!"

"Yeah."

She stares at me, obviously thinking I am some kind of nutburger. What's so frightening about vegetables in the morning? I happen to know that in China, they often have soup for breakfast. Still, I feel a little like that kid at the middle school lunch table whose mom packed him a love note. Cultural prejudices run deep, and people are weird about vegetables.

"But, look, it has bacon in it...?" I try to defend myself.

"No."

"But -"

"NO."

"Okay..." I set the bowl aside, shaking with laughter. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

She pauses, frowns. "I have no idea," she says, and walks out.

When she is gone, I finish my tasty salad. It is awesome. With or without bacon.

Emmie and I were playing on the couch when she leapt into the air.

"Grandimode!" she yelled, and landed in a fighting stance.

What the heck?

"What... What does 'grandimode' mean, Doodle?" I asked.

"Dat's wut you say when you jumping. GRANDIMODE!" she hollered again.

Long story short, she meant "Geronimo." I swear, there are times when I wonder if she needs a hearing aid... and then I remember how little I listened to my own mother.

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Emmie is suddenly pretty intense about getting ready for school.

"How do I look?" she'll ask.

"Beautiful, as always," I tell her.

The other morning she was especially industrious, putting on her kiddie glitter makeup and spritzing herself with my body spray.

"What's with the fancy, Doodle?"

"I'm tryeend ta attrack boys," she said.

This concerned me. A lot. For one, Emerson will never be allowed to date. Ever. For two, I will kill any boys who come near her. Oh, I want her to have a healthy sexuality and to be comfortable with it, and all. I just don't want her to ever use it.

Yet, in a rare moment of self-restraint, I did not padlock her in a tower.

"Whatcha gonna do with them if you catch them?" I asked, as nonchalantly as one can when plotting where to hide bodies.

Emmie narrowed her eyes, looked off into the distance and growled, "Make dem do stuff for me."

"Oh, right on," I said.

I really have to work on this verbal incontinence.

This is "Christina's World," a 1948 painting by American artist Andrew Wyeth, currently part of New York's Museum of Modern Art collection.

I first came across this painting when I was 7 years old. My mother had a huge art history book, and I liked to lay on the floor and thumb through the pages. I liked this painting very much, because it reminded me of my favorite books, the "Little House" series by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

My father walked past me in the living room one day and saw what I was doing.

"You know why she's sitting there?" he asked. I shook my head. "Because she got run over by a tractor and is waiting for help."

That is my dad, y'all. Always looking for somewhere to insert a joke, even if he has to fabricate it out of thin air... and, in the process, horrify an impressionable and romantic 7-year-old.

Scott is practicing for his concert. This is a super-fun experience for his wife, who lives in a very small house with him. Really.

He's translating some stuff into Italian for his banter - I missed why and I don't really care - and is screwing it all up to comic effect.

"Scott, it's reh-GAT-si," I correct him, like I freaking know. But I know it's not "reegoatzee."

He corrects himself and moves on, getting to some audience participation stuff: "But we're Irish, we don't know how to dance. Will you teach us?" he calls to his imaginary audience.

"Hey, Irish people know how to dance! Hello? Step-dancing?" I call. Clan McGowen unite!

He saunters in, smugly: "Yeah, but that's what Bono said when they went to Europe."

"Yeah... babe, Ireland is in Europe."

I don't think you want to see what he did with his middle finger.

"So, what's up with the cleanse your husband is doing?" I ask a friend.

This friend's husband is a world-class athlete. He eats healthy, exercises religiously and inspires others (but, uh, not me) to get in shape and do crazy stuff like Ironman. Not me. I swam when I was younger and fenced in college. But the former was 100 years ago, and the latter was - well, there might have been a boy involved.

"I don't know. He does crazy stuff all the time - weird diets," she says. "I'm like, 'You, of all people, should know better.'"

"It's probably to do with him being an athlete; pushing the limits of his body," I guess.

"Probably," she muses.

"I just want to push my body up to a bar," I joke.

She laughs: "Yum!"

"I don't want to push my body's limits. I don't want to push it down the street really fast. Master cleanse? No fun. Vodka? Fun in a bottle."

I wonder if my once-a-year evening to imbibe is coming up soon... I could use it.

Emmie's on restriction for running her mouth in class, like, ALL THE TIME. So she can't watch TV, play the Wii, play on the computer, wear her new princess dress, or play with my makeup.

"But... what can I do?" She asks, eyebrows back on her forehead like a begging dog.

"I'm sure you'll think of something," I answer, trying not to look at her for fear that I'll start laughing.

"Huuuuuuuhhhh..." She sighs, and flops out of the room like a fish with legs.

Shortly, however, she prances back in, carrying a tiny, rainbow-hued spiral notebook.

"I'm goeend ta write in my diary," she announces, airily.

"Oh, that's a wonderful idea," I enthuse. God, anything but Uno. That was $4 well spent, but it's wearing a little thin. Plus, well... she kicks our butts.

"I LUB my diary," she says, daintily setting up her writing area. "Not da kind dat makes poopy. Da kind wif da stories."

*choke * sputter *

"Um... What?" I manage to ask.

"Da story kind. Not da poopy kind."

"I... don't understand...?"

"Of da diary!" She exclaims. "Not da poopy diary! Story diary!"

Oh. Ha. She means "diarrhea." Apparently I didn't explain the difference very well.

An email I received:

Hi Stacey -

I just wanted to let you know that we’re planning to feature your recipe in our April/May issue. It sounds and looks delicious! I’ll be in touch if we have any questions, but thanks again for submitting this recipe (which we also plan to include in our community cookbook).

Best,

Amy Palanjian
Deputy Editor
ReadyMade

Holy crap, you guys! I got this e-mail on the same day I was to cook this recipe on my sweet friend's cooking show on Atlantic Broadband cable. Eileen - best known as Madjon to her fans - hosts the show and asked me to come on and cook after listening to me crow about my creations on Facebook. Mama always said not to brag but, hey, sometimes it's fun and productive! And if Miss Eileen and my 6-year-old think I can cook something, well, I don't need ReadyMade Magazine to validate it.

(Haha, just kidding, ReadyMade... call me any time!)

I've devised this recipe for a far-away friend who does not eat meat. While I am not currently a vegetarian, I did avoid meat for a number of years. So I understand the difficulty in finding new and easy preparations. This isn't necessarily difficult, but it does take almost an hour, with cooking time added in.

Spinach-Leek Pastry
2 leeks (or a mess of green or otherwise mild onions), thinly sliced
1.5 baking potatoes, thinly sliced (can be omitted)
2 cups torn spinach leaves, stems removed
1 8 oz. container of feta cheese, crumbled or cubed
1 cup mozzarella
3 cups milk
2 tbsp minced garlic
1 pkg of puff pastry dough
tbsp flour, and some for dusting
butter, 2 tbsp melted and 2 tbsp just softened
oregano, basil and thyme

Preheat oven to 400. In a large pot or enormous skillet, melt the butter and then saute the garlic, leeks and potatoes with a dash of oregano, basil and thyme, until the potatoes are close to tender.

Dust flour onto a baking pan, and roll out the first pastry sheet. Evenly layer the potato-leek mixture, the torn spinach, feta cheese and mozzarella.

Combine two tbsp butter and 2 tbsp flour in a bowl and mix with a fork until very well combined. In a saucepan (or just reuse the first pot, who cares?), melt the butter mixture. Add the milk. Slowly, whisking constantly, heat the milk through. Bring it to just at a boil for 30 seconds to a minute - whisk! whisk! - and remove from heat. Whisk some more. There should be a nice white sauce.

Pour sauce over vegetables cautiously. You don't want it to run out over the sides of the pastry. It'll be too messy to cook properly. Lay the second pastry on top, crimp the sides down with a fork, and brush with melted butter.

Cover with aluminum foil and pop into the oven for 20 minutes. Remove foil and bake until pastry is cooked through.

Variations: You can really use almost any sauce with this, to give it a different flavor. Italian red sauce, Indian korma, French thyme. Not all sauces cook well inside a pastry, so you might want to think about that before you cook it. You might cook the pastry, and have the sauce for dipping. If you're doing Indian, you'll want to use a much milder cheese than these two listed. And if you're doing French, no cheese at all.

Consider adding mushrooms, watercress, legumes or lentils that have been well-drained, chopped asparagus, or artichoke hearts. You might substitute the potato for parsnips or turnip root. You could substitute the spinach for kale, broccoli rabe, or even cabbage. Whatever you have on hand will probably do.

Instead of making a pie-type pastry, you can also spread the ingredients across each sheet of pastry and then roll it up. In that case, I would find a way to hold it together with toothpicks while it cooks in the oven. But you could also put it in a pie or casserole pan and cook it open faced. In that case, though, I'd wait until the last 10-15 minutes of baking to sprinkle the shredded mozzarella over the top.

I was on I-20, headed to Atlanta, when my cell phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey..." says a male baritone.

"Hey," I reply. I don't recognize the voice.

"I, uh, I know I haven't called you in a while, but I was wondering if maybe we could get together tomorrow and kick it like old times," he said. I definitely have no idea who this is.

"Well, I'm on the road to Atlanta right now. Where are you?" I ask.

"... Who dis?!" he asks.

"Who dis?" I laugh.

"Um, I think I have the wrong number."

Yes, I think you do.

Imagine my surprise when I found a bag of frozen Ahi at Sam's Club. "No way this is going to be worth $12," I thought. And then I bought it anyway.

The bag yielded six tuna steaks almost two inches thick and about the size of the palm of my hand. They were individually sealed and they thawed to a bright pink-red. They were lovely and surprisingly delicious!

I thought about how to use what I already had in my kitchen, and got to work.

Ahi with marinated cucumbers

4 Ahi steaks
3/4 cup low-sodium soy sauce
3/4 sesame oil (don't substitute, please; you won't get the same flavor)
1/2 cup lime juice
2 tsp garlic paste or minced garlic
lemon-pepper

A note: always treat the Ahi gently.

Lay the Ahi in a single layer in plastic storage container with an airtight lid or in a self-sealing food storage bag big enough to hold all of them. Whisk together the wet ingredients in a separate bowl, then pour 2/3 of it over the tuna. Make sure each piece is well coated. Seal container. Let sit for 15 minutes at room temperature, then pop it in the fridge until it's time to cook.

Slice a cucumber to whatever thickness you desire and put them in an airtight bowl or self-sealing food storage bag. Pour the remaining marinade over the cucumber, stir or shake to make sure all slices are well covered. Seal the container and pop it into the fridge.

You can let the tuna and cucumber marinate all day, but don't give it less than 30 minutes.

To cook the tuna, heat 2 tbsp of sesame oil in a non-stick pan on medium to medium-high, depending on what kind of stove you have. Gas stoves tend to cook faster, and have higher temperatures. We have a smooth-top stove, and it cooks a little lower. So I put mine on medium-high.

Lay the tuna steaks in the pan, and sear until the pale color of the cooked fish is 1/4 to 1/2-inch thick, about 3 minutes. Turn. You should see a nice sear on the outside of the fish. If not, up the heat a notch. Cook the same way on this side.

Ahi is meant to be served medium-rare. If that is not to your choosing, then cook it a little slower on lower heat, so the outside doesn't burn before the inside is cooked to your liking.

Give the top of the tuna a light dusting of lemon pepper when you're ready to serve. Arrange slices of marinated cucumber on the side. Voila!

Optional: Okay, if you don't have sesame oil, use some unflavored oil, like canola. Then sprinkle liberally with sesame seeds before serving. Or, you can skip the oil altogether and use rice-wine vinegar. In that case, though, go light on the lime juice. The dish will be much tangier, and less balanced, but still very good.

Stir-fried green beans (haricot vert if you're nasty)
2 tbsp sesame oil
2 tbsp garlic paste or minced garlic
1/2 cup chicken stock
1 lb. fresh green beans, ends trimmed
1/4 of a sweet onion, very thinly sliced
1/4 cup low-sodium soy sauce

Heat the sesame oil on medium in a large skillet or wok. Saute garlic and onion until onion turns translucent. Add in green beans and saute until they begin to sear. Add in soy sauce and chicken stock, and cook until tender-crisp. Optional: sprinkle beans with sesame seeds before serving.

I re-purposed some leftover fried rice from Chinese delivery by tossing it in the green bean pan when I was done, and adding a 1/4 cup of chicken stock. I stir-fried it until the stock had disappeared and the rice was heated through.

To keep the calorie and carb count down, skip the fried rice. Or substitute boiled brown rice, or try some of the black rice that's available out there. I love black rice. It's nutty, has a great chewy texture, and it's full of fiber.

I am watching some show on TV with Emmie, and the character's father laments his relationship with his daughter.

"You know, you want to tell them how much you love them, but not too much and not too little," he says. "Too much, and it looses its value. Too little, and they question your feelings."

I look at Em. She is busy drawing on herself... awesome. I tell her a billion times a day how much I love her. I want her to feel like she's wrapped in a blanket of adoration. When she looks back on her childhood, I want her to say the same thing that Russell Joel Brown once told me when I interviewed him for a story about local celebrities' favorite Christmas gifts. He said, "I had a really beautiful childhood. I wish every child could have a childhood like mine."

Of course, once she turns 17, she'll probably dye her blonde hair black, start wearing a dog collar and begin lamenting her bourgeois parents. This is why we have a convent all picked out for her.

Still, I have hope. I want to act on that, not fear. And my affection for her isn't dutiful. It's spontaneous and true. When she snuggles in the bed with me at night, I'm overjoyed to find room that doesn't exist in the bed and kiss her head while she snores gently.

Still, I wonder...

"Emmie, do I tell you that I love you too much, or too little, or the right amount?"

She crinkles her forehead, as she puts another petal on the flower she's drawing on her arm. After a moment's thought, she shakes her head.

"Ummmm... Too much," she says, and then grins up at me. "But iss jus' da right amount for me."

Emmie comes up to me with a deck of cards: "Pick a card, any card," she says.

I pull out the Jack of clubs.

She reshuffles the deck. I watch intently. She has seen the card, but if she can just find it again, I'll be impressed.

She tilts her head and squints her eyes: "Iiiiiisss this your card?"

It is the five of hearts.

"No, sweetie."

She frowns. Ponders the deck. Pulls one.

"Iiiiiiissss this your card?"

It is the King of spades.

"No, darling."

"Hmmm..." she says. Thinks. Pulls another.

"Iiiiiiisss this your card?"

It is not my card. None of the next five are my card. Nor are the next 10.

"I'm doing magic," she tells me, confident and undeterred.

"I can see that. You made my card disappear."

It is good she doesn't get my joke. I like he persistence, her assurance. She has no idea how to do this trick, but she knows she can. She just keeps trying. Sometimes I worry that she'll lack confidence or determination. But then I remember how much of it she was born with, naturally.

I always think back to when she was an infant, crawling on the hardwood floors in our old apartment on the Hill. Whenever she came to an inanimate obstacle, she refused to crawl around it. In a show of genetic solidarity with both her father and me, she just put her head down and pushed her way through. I once watched her roll the office chair, with her head, all the way across the living room.

She often hung on to the dog's tail or collar, and let Scrabble drag her around while she belly-laughed and I chased them both, trying to catch them, panicked that she would fall and hit her head. Which, of course, she did several times. She'd cry - and then get back up again.

But when there was no 11-pound beast of burden to ferry her to her next destination, she crawled with such determination that I knew she was going to be trouble. If she came to Scrabble lounging in a patch of sunlight in her path, she would bellow, "MOOB, RARA!" And he did, every time.

She was 13-months old.

We're having dinner "wif da ninja chefs," as Emmie refers to the folks at any hibachi or sushi restaurant.

"Okay, do you want your rice dinner with chicken, shrimp, steak, or salmon?" I ask her.

"Um, mama? Can I hab sum octopus?"

"Yes, we just handed him our sushi order. Now we have to tell him which rice dinner you want: chicken, shrimp, steak, or salmon?"

"Um, when is our food goeend ta come?"

"When. We. Give. Them. Our. Order. Do you want chicken, shrimp, steak, or salmon?"

"Oh, I want rice."

(Sigh)

"Yes. It comes with rice. But what do you want WITH it?"

"Can I hab octopus?"

(Grrrrrr...)

Emmie has been rejecting vegetables lately. If they don't come from "da ninja chef," as she calls hibachi cooks, or doused in cheese, she pretty much wants to pick all vegetables out of her food. She will eat mushrooms, olives, sweet potatoes, corn, baby peas, some seasoned beans, and Wife Saver's green beans. Everything else is a food fight.

I think I found success when I devised a plan to use up a pound of baby carrots. Emmie ate her portion, then stole most of mine, then went into the kitchen, got the bowl of carrots, brought it to the table and ate the rest of them.

Cactus Juice Carrots

1/2 pound of baby carrots, sliced lengthwise
1/2 cup low-cal/low-fat butter substitute
1/4 cup of Agave nectar* (find it near honey in the grocery store)
2 tbsp Splenda, to help it thicken (or maybe you can use cornstarch? I don't know)

Fill pot with just enough water to cover the carrots by an inch. Bring to a boil. Throw in carrots and boil until just barely tender. Drain and set aside.

Melt butter in same pot. Add Agave and Splenda, and stir well. Allow mixture to reduce on medium to med-high heat until it is a brownish color and slightly thickened. Return carrots to the pot and cook over medium-low for five minutes, stirring often to coat. Serve quickly, and stay out of Emmie's way.

* I started using agave a couple of months ago after my sister suggested it. We were buying a lot of honey, while trying to stay away from high-sugar foods. At it turns out, I wasn't doing that so well. Agave has a glycemic value of 27; honey, 83 and sugar, 92. Emmie fell in love with it after I started calling it "cactus juice."

This is what Chicago will look like after the zombie apocalypse. Mother Nature is giving you a sneak peek - take notes!

Emmie was disappointed that Santa didn't bring her a dang Barbie scooter this year. I had to no idea that would be THE gift she wanted this year, since she already has two bikes (one with training wheels, one for when she grows a pair), so a scooter seemed completely unnecessary.

Every time we went to a gift-opening extravaganza - as our extended family is ridiculously generous, there were several - she would lean over and whisper, "But, Mama, I diddin get a skooder." So her disappointment - masked by the good manners we had practiced - revealed itself to me.

Geez, Santa. How are you so lame?

Then - lo! The angel of the lord revealed to me the very same scooter she wanted on sale for half-price at just $15. Her birthday is just one month after Christmas. So I bought it and asked Scott to hide it in the storage shed. Instead, he put it in the coat closet.

"She'll find it there," I said.
"No, she won't. She never goes in there."
"She will! It's Murphy's Law!"
"Trust me."

I'll give you one guess as to who is right, and who is dead.

"MAMAAAAAAA!" Emmie careened into my room. "I godda SKOOODER!"

Man... I knew it!

"Santa Claus DID bringed it! He jus' HIDE it from me!" she shrieked, while I stood speechless.

"Dat Santa Claus..." she put her hands on her hips and shook her curls. "He so silly."

Emmie and I like to cook together, and one morning we decided to make a savory breakfast pastry. It was good! Au Bon Pan's got nuthin' on us. She enjoyed cooking breakfast so much that she wanted to cook something else, so I used more pastry dough to make mini apple turnovers.

Breakfast Turnover

1 can crescent rolls - or one sheet puff pastry
1-2 eggs, scrambled
Shredded cheddar cheese
low-cal butter substitute
melted low-cal butter substitute

Spray Baker's Joy on a cookie sheet, and lay out the crescent rolls. If using puff pastry, roll out one sheet, and cut into equal-sized triangles. Don't ask me how to do that; I can't cut anything equally sized.

Lightly spread a tad of butter in the middle of the triangle. Spoon egg onto butter in the middle of the widest part, sprinkle cheese over eggs, then fold triangle. There's a technique to make them pretty, which consists of folding the longest point up to the edge and pinching that edge closed, then folding the remaining triangle point over to the same corner, and pinching the remaining open sections closed. But so long as everything is in the dough and no sides are open, you're good. Brush melted butter over top, sprinkle top with sea salt and pepper, and bake at 375 degrees for 10-13 minutes.

Variation: Endless. Try adding sausage, pepperoni, hot dogs, chicken, spinach, onion, peppers, tomato, feta cheese... whatever floats your boat.

Mini Turnovers

1 can crescent rolls - or one sheet puff pastry
1 green apple, diced
Splenda, cinnamon, ginger (or pumpkin pie spice)
low-cal butter substitute
melted low-cal butter substitute
sugar

Spray Baker's Joy on a cookie sheet, and lay out the crescent rolls. If using puff pastry, roll out one sheet, and cut into equal-sized triangles. Don't ask me how to do that; I can't cut anything equally sized.

In a bowl, combine apple, Splenda, and spices, to taste. Make sure the apple is well-coated. Lightly spread a tad of butter in the middle of each pastry triangle. Spoon apple mixture into the middle of the widest part of the pastry. Fold over as above, brush with melted butter, and sprinkle lightly with Splenda. Bake at 375 degrees for 10-13 minutes. Serve with a scoop of low-sugar ice cream.

Variations: Sub apples for diced peaches or cherries.  

Emmie left my bedroom to go to the bathroom... and returned 47 seconds later to fling her body onto the bed. I was busy reading a travel story in the New York Times, so I hardly glanced up at her mini-tantrum.

"MeenameenaMeenameenaMEENAmeena!" she whined, and flailed her arms.

Um, okay...

"What's up, Doodle?"

"BeeemaneemabmeeemaneemaBEEENAMEENA!" she shrieked.

"Yeah... I don't know what that means."

"I. NEED. TO GO. TO DA BAFROOM!"

"Okay. So, what's stopping you?"

"It's daaaaaaark!"

She's developed a fairly paralyzing fear of the dark lately. I don't want to make the fear too convenient, so I don't jump whenever she freaks out. Plus, I was really enjoying that story.

"Okay, give me a minute to finish this article."

And then I promptly forgot that she even existed.

Ten minutes later, as I finish the story, I look up to see her watching me, patiently. Mentally, I am still navigating the high steppes of the Andes and am overcome with wanderlust.

"Hey, Doodle, if you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?" I ask.

"To da bafroom - like, right now," she deadpans.

She knew I'd forgotten about her. She was reminding me, with wry humor and laser-like precision, that she was being dutifully patient. I laugh so hard I almost throw up.

"Come on, Doodle." I pick up my sweet girl and carry her to the bathroom.

She kisses my cheek: "Fanks, Mom."

"You're welcome."

Scott and I ended a discussion a little while ago, and I can see him getting all twisted up in his mind about the subject.

"Hey, are you getting all stressed about this?" I ask.

"No, I'm just doing the man thing. I'm defragging. I'm dumping the old files in my brain," he says.

"What?"

"We actually have bigger brains than you do," Scott said,

"Pfft! Keep dreaming!" I scoff.

"But we do less with our big brains."

"Oh, okay, that sounds about right."

Email from former boss: Are you looking for an automatic compression hose, by any chance? If you're not, you have a weird former fan who likes sending you metal hoses through the mail. :) We have it if you are looking for it.

Reply from me: DUDE! I've been looking for that! I must have put in the wrong shipping address. Did you also get my chainsaw?

FB: No. But we have your cement mixer here. :)

Seriously, someone mailed me a package of things resembling the item below - and I have no idea why.


What am I supposed to do with these? And why does the sender think I would know? And why would my former boss think that I was being serious? Because she totally thought I had ordered me some hoses.

Mostly disturbingly, why would she not worry about someone putting a chainsaw in my hands? That's just betraying the public safety, right there. The only way it could get more dangerous is if they gave me a chainsaw and then let me drive.

I don't know what disturbs me more: the intricate questions Emmie asks me about the Harry Potter universe, indicating a great depth of thought on the subject... or the fact that I know all the answers.

Amber, to her 23-month-old: "Evie, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
Evie: "Evie be a dolphin... COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!"

Emmie's birthday is coming up. She's turning 6, despite the fact that I long ago banned her from getting any older than 4.

Her theme is Pirates & Princesses - which is the same theme she chose for her third birthday. And last year's birthday. And somehow she never remembers.

I needed invitations for her ballet class, and I stopped by a drugstore during lunch on the day I needed them. Nothing. So I called Scott and he went by the store for me. Sweet of him.

At the school, I opened the bag of invitations to fill them out during her class. I found three packages of invitations, none alike, none along the theme.

The first: Powerpuff Girls. Well, okay; I'm down with that.
The second: ... Clown trains? I'm still trying to figure out that one.

The third was a beautiful pink ballgown with a bit of tulle on it. How pretty and perfect for little ballerinas, I thought, and opened it to fill in the blanks. "You're invited to a bridal shower!" it said. Sigh...

I swear that men screw up little tasks like this just so we won't ask them to do them anymore. News flash, honey: I'm not giving in that easily!

I had lunch with a woman I don't get to see that often, due to the insanity of our lives. Over Mexican, we talked relationships and such.

"So how's your ex doing?" I asked.

"Well... he died," G.W. answered.

I. Am. An. A-hole.

"I am so sorry," I said, desperate for a way to rewind the last 30 seconds and choose an entirely different line of questioning.


"I'm actually still having a hard time with it," she said.

What do you say to someone in that situation? The correct answer is: nothing. You should take their hand, nod sympathetically, and remain silent.

That is not what I did. I did what I always do: I made a joke.

"Did you kill him?" I asked.

Oh, god. I am an f-ing moron.

Luckily, she threw her head back and laughed.

"That's not a bad question," she laughed.

Hey, someone as wrong as I am. Maybe we can share a handbasket on our way down.

Emmie and I are working on her homework. She just has to read her sight words to me, but I always make her do a little more.

"Can you tell me what each word means, Doodle?" I ask.

"Yeth! Dis is 'liddle,' like when you're a liddle kid, an' not a grown-up. You're smaller. An' dis is 'hat,' like a clothes fing dat you wear on your head," she explains.

"Very good! Now this one is tricky to explain. Can you tell me what it means?"

"Oh, dat's easy squeasy," she says. "Dat's da word 'are.' An' it means like when you're captain of a pirate ship, and you say 'ARE MATIES!"

When I finished laughing, I decided it was a good time to start on homonyms.

We had about two pounds of venison stew meat in the freezer, and I didn't know what to do with it. "Make stew," Scott said. Well, yes, thanks. I'd never have come up with that on my own.

But I don't really like beef stew, which is where he was going with that. So I decided to try Bouef Bourguignon, even if I can't spell it and have no idea what it's supposed to taste like.

But I was not going to be defeated by a freezer bag of meat. Unless, you know, someone hit me in the head with it. Then... ouch.

So I found a recipe that seemed reasonable, and bought the couple of ingredients we were missing (everything except onions and stew meat) and set to work. I vowed to create the perfect dish... so long as it wasn't too much work, or anything. And, as it turns out, it was kind of a pain just to put together.

1. I don't have a Dutch oven. It's on my list of Things I Really Should Own, but I don't. I just used our largest pot instead. 
2. I didn't read the recipe right and cooked twice the amount of bacon I needed. Oops.
3. Unsalted butter...? You're joking, right? Never gonna happen. Only serious bakers keep that on hand in the fridge.
4. There is no such thing as frozen whole onions. The author made that junk up. I thought, briefly, about buying a pound of jarred cocktail onions, but that would just require enough vodka to go with it. Skip it. So I chopped a pound of yellow onion instead.

Something I've learned about French cooks is that they want you to brown everything separately, on all sides, and then recombine it. That must be the real secret to legendary French cooking. It's not "hard" so much as it is "a big pain in the butt."

Obviously, I resented the recipe from the moment I set out to make it. So it went like this:

• Brown too much bacon. Ooh, snacks!
• Brown the venison and mushrooms together, crowding the pieces against all advice, all the while kicking myself for not draining the bacon grease first and just using the 50-years-seasoned cast iron skillet for what it is.
• Cook the baby carrots (no chopping! Yay!) with the chopped yellow onion and the garlic. Wander off, distracted by Facebook exchange. Rush back in when I smell something burning.
• Pick out burned carrot and then stare at the subsequent instructions with astonishment: They want me to set it on fire? Ponder idea for a couple of minutes, remember that I like my eyebrows, and skip it. There's an entire bottle of wine in this. Cognac is just greedy. 
• Chuck the meats and mushrooms back in, pour in the wine and broth. 
• Crap. It's not enough beef broth. Add about three cups of chicken broth. Wonder if Julia Child is shaking her spatula at me from heaven.
• Add everything else, start to put it in the oven. Realize that the plastic handles on this piece of crap pot are going to melt off in there. Back onto the stove to simmer it goes.
• Oh, no. I forgot the focaccia that I put in the oven an hour ago. Wow. That's some toasty foccacia... well, whatever. It's meant for dipping anyway, so I crunch it into slices with my giant, awesomely sharp carving knife.
• Stew simmers on the stove for about 30 minutes, about an hour less than recommended. Is it enough time to fully combine the wine, broth, spices and solid ingredients? I don't know. But it's a killer stew.

I realize that Julia Child and others are a revelation for a lot of people with her instructions on how to properly brown meat (dry it first) and not crowding the mushrooms and such. And that's great, if you're a Trappist monk with nothing else to do. But I did it The Way of the Bumbling Fool and it turned out beautifully.

So I guess the lesson here is that while technique is important, and I certainly understand the importance of a proper browning, there is flexibility in almost everything. It just depends on knowing where you can bend the rules.

And that's why I don't bake. But that's a story for another time.

About five years ago, Scott brought home a copy of an Eddie Murphy movie called "Daddy Day Care." It appealed to him because he was a stay-at-home dad while finishing his degree.

And it was kind of cute. Laid-off guy finds joy in life with munchkins. Hijinks galore.

About mid-film, there's a scene with a band playing at a fundraiser. I found myself singing the chorus repeatedly, and grew irritated. "Stupid marketing people," I thought. "Always with the catchy songs inside movies just to sell more products!"



Ha ha... well, as most of you already know, it's actually quite a famous song that I had somehow, previously, never heard. Stupid.

Emerson has spent a lot of time at her grandparents' homes this holiday season, and it won't happen again; I missed her too much! No, I'm kidding. She can go back (I'll just go with her so I won't wander around the house, aimlessly flapping my arms and wondering who'll play Uno with me).

She has a wonderful time with them because her grandmothers never tells her no and she can have all the crap food she wants - as grandparents are supposed to do. But it causes some small issues...

"Mama, can I hab a treat?"

"No, sweetie. You just had a treat at McDonald's with your grandparents."

"BUT, Moooooommmm!" she whines, winding up for a fit by flailing her arms and marching her feet.

I lean into her face: "Oh, I don't think so, young lady. Now, you've had a wonderful time at your grandparents, and I'm very happy about that. You are very lucky to have grandparents who love you so much. But just because they never tell you no doesn't mean you can expect that at home. Mommy's job is to tell you no when there is a rule, because the rules are here for good reason."

Her mouth snapped shut, and her eyes dropped. "Yes, ma'am."

I dropped into a squat in front of her and rubbed her back. "Hey..."

She looked up at me with big, sad, puppy dog eyes: "Mama, you hurt my feelings."

"Remember that mommy and daddy make the rules here, okay, darling? And they don't change. You may not have a treat because treats are full of sugar. They are unhealthy to have too frequently, and they help cause cavities."

She nods sadly, and we hug and "mooch." Then she is distracted by toys and all is right again.

When Emmie was first born, I had this deranged idea that parenting was a family thing; that whatever rules Scott and I made in our home for our daughter should thusly be carried out by the rest of the family. And everyone indulged me - for about a year. Then they stopped with the charade and did whatever the heck they wanted to.

I've slowly come to realize that their job is to spoil her. My job is to keep her in line. And it doesn't have to be a battle. It can be a benefit. She gets to experience a kind of vacation when she's with them. Their lenience builds a relationship on mutual enjoyment, rather than structure and security and constant worry for her future. And while she's with them, I know she's happy, having fun, and enjoying the social and emotional benefits of a multigenerational influence.

But I'm going to send an extra toothbrush with her next time, just in case.