all i want...

Everybody knows the tune to my new theme song, but I had to add new words this year.

"All I want for Christmas is to wear warm sick...."

Tad is out making a chicken soup-crackers-and-gingerale-run, as well as picking up some new Christmas movies so we can all sit around puking and watching movies and being miserable together. Leidy brought it home. One down, five to go. Maybe we'll all be better in time to party for New Years!!

One can only hope....

candy cane cookies

1 C sugar
2/3 C butter
2 eggs
2 tsp peppermint extract
1 tsp vanilla
3 C unbleached all-purpose flour
2 tsp baking powder
red food color
oven - 350*

1 - Beat sugar and butter in large bowl until creamy. Beat in eggs, vanilla and peppermint extract. Combine flour and baking powder; add to wet ingredients.
2 - Divide dough in half; tint half with red food coloring. Wrap each half in plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 2 hours.
3 - Divide each half into 32-36 pieces. Roll each piece into a 5-inch rope. Twist 1 red and 1 white rope together and shape into candy cane or ring.
4 - Bake on parchment paper at 350* for 8-10 minutes. Cool before removing from pan. Store in airtight container. Both dough and finished cookies freeze very well, up to 3 months.

verbal rorschach testing

My favorite game to play is Scrabble. I played Scrabble once with a bunch of college graduates -friends of my husband's- when we were first married. I was very intimidated and they beat the pants off me. I was so busy trying to put words together that I wasn't paying attention to the strategy behind the word-making. A smaller word might actually fetch more points by looking at every possible placement on the board before deciding. And always try to have a backup when other players take your spot. So I started playing against myself (yes, how lame is that? do tell...) and we have a computer version too, so I've gotten better.

You can always tell when we get down to the Dr. Seuss letters in Scrabble. Or when we have a fistful of vowels. Or consonants. We look at one another and say things like

When it's pretty hot, it's ovenish, right? Or take my friend here, he's somewhat Owenish. And that sign might be a little omenish.
A fish from Jakarta would be an Indofish.
When you simply must make a sound with your car to save the lives of yourself and your passengers, it becomes a needbeep.
If one was to attend a formal angling event, one would need a fishntux.
Is gwiser a word? Oh. Well, do Spanish words count?

Even with all that sillines going on tonight, Bria managed to pull ahead and use all her tiles before we did and won the game. 143-137-133. We were all stunned and proud! She wanted to give up a few times, but we sat and explained how to move her tiles around between turns. Then we showed her to find a small word first, then try to add just one more letter, then try to add another...she figured out the colored sqaures on her own! I am looking forward to another match with her in the near future. *sigh* My baby's growing up!

the overachiever

"You never live up to your potential."
"You are capable of better than this."
"I don't understand why you don't apply yourself more."
"You'll never amount to anything if you continue on like this."

I got the message, mom. Now look what you've done to me. I've been called an over-achiever, but the real thing is, I am just trying to live up to my potential. Seriously. I am SuperGirl, remember?

We have decided to try a new tack on the road to figuring out "What Ails Kate?" I have to clear my schedule through the first of the year to determine if all my illnesses are due to stress. That's right! So many people say to me (and I hear it on a daily basis, mind you), "I don't know how you do it." Well, since I am still sick and have dropped almost 15 pounds this fall, I just might be doing it wrong.

I sat down and made a list of all the times I have taken sick in the past year and they all coincide with events like: the month I went camping every weekend, our vacation to Phoenix for Christmas, the day my parents actually, physically entered my home for the express purpose of eating a Thanksgiving meal for the first time ever, and election day. More recently, I get sick every time I have to be somewhere: a Halloween party, a girl scout meeting, or dinner with friends.

It takes a lot to rattle me, but maybe I reached that point sometime in the spring. I was scheduled for teeball, baseball, softball and girl scout meetings five days a week. And there were two events on two of those five days. I thought my schedule would be easier since we had no fall sports on our calendar, but maybe I just need to back off completely and chill for a while. I have handed over some girl scout duties, I have stopped studying Arabic, I have cancelled Thanksgiving preparation, and we are not going away for Christmas this year. Everything else should be cake. Right? So we'll cross our fingers and hope that I get better.

In the meantime, I'm looking for a new series of books to read, since I'm not allowed to volunteer for anything in my free afternoons. It actually sounds quite boring. I've been looking forward to these quiet afternoons for how long now???? Well, maybe I'll get all the laundry caught up or re-arrange the closets or paint the dining room - oh, wait, I'm not supposed to be doing that stuff, either. Damn. Somebody's gonna have to tie me down, you know that right? This is gonna be difficult....

easy part, where?

Wait a minute....wasn't this supposed to be getting easier??

I've been popping out babies for a while now, and I swear everyone was telling me it was "going to get easier" as the kids got older. So why the hell do I find myself needing to go to bed by 10:00 again? And why am I desperately resisting a nap in those calm quiet hours when I have no kids in the house? I am chasing my tail to try to keep up with all their homework. I have so many papers I need to sign for different teachers for different reasons every single night; then my kids end up losing recess time because I can't keep things straight.

From my perspective, things aren't getting easier. I no longer have to change diapers, but I have to wipe down public toilet seats and send everyone through a bio-chamber in restaurants. I don't have to nurse anyone, but I have to find meals that at least 2 people like to eat that can be made in bulk in less than an hour and easily frozen afterwards for quick dinners and Tad's lunches. I don't have to physically dress my kids anymore, but they can't seem to get the clothes that extra 6-12 inches INTO the clothes basket. Nor can they turn them right-side out. At least when I was dressing them, their clothes were washed the right way out! No one is teething (except me - yay for wisdom teeth), but just try to pin Lars down and brush his teeth at night. Go on. I double dog dare you right off the bat. And why, exactly, is it so hard to hang up the jacket that is thrown on the floor UNDERNEATH the jacket hooks? No, it did not fall. It was thrown there!

I find myself longing for the days of footie pajamas (boy were those easy to wash) and rocking chairs. At least I got to sit down on a regular basis back then! Well, now that I think about it, by the time Mileidy was born I was nursing her while alternately fixing dinner, changing diapers and vaccuuming. So I wasn't sitting down then, either.

I guess I'll keep running. At least it gives me an excuse to not join a gym. I'd rather run circles around my family, than run on a machine in a room full of other sweaty people. *yawn* It's almost my bedtime, so I guess I'll go get ready for tomorrow. But first, I think I'll go have a night-cap. Can't do that while preggo and/or nursing!

drinking and driving

I am a careful driver. Anyone who has been in my car on a regular basis will know that already. I drive a minivan packed with kids, for chrissakes. So it stands to reason that I don't change lanes suddenly or drive erratically; dude, I don't even really speed. I mean, we all speed. I just only do it to keep from being run over by the cops.

So on a Saturday night, with my kids in the car, I was driving north on the 695/95 conglomeration. I saw a police car on the shoulder who had pulled someone over. The officer was in the process of getting out of his car, so I decided to change lanes. I often do that if I have the chance; it's actually the law in some states. I needed to change anyway because eventually, I had a left exit coming up. I checked in my mirrors, like I always do. I am not comfortable relying solely on mirrors, so I checked in my blind spot, over my left shoulder, as I always do. I saw exactly three cars, all far enough behind me that I could safely change lanes without surprising them. I turned on my left blinker, as I always do, glanced out my window to the left one more time, and changed lanes.

The next thing I knew, movement on the shoulder caught my eye. There was a car, even with me, driving on the shoulder and all three large black men inside were screaming what I imagine to be vile death threats, similar to rap song lyrics. I was totally caught off guard, but rather than slam on my brakes in the fast lane and let them get in front of me, I kept my pace (I had the cruise control on) and I thought they'd just drop back and get into the lane.

I have no idea where they came from. I figure they must have been one of the three cars behind me. But they must have been going so fast that from the time I put my blinker on to the time I actually changed lanes, they had caught up. And I damn near ran them off the road. They dropped back, went around me, and caught up again. At this point the interstate widened from two lanes to five and I was still in the far left "exit only" lane. They were still screaming at me and I tried to ignore them. It's kind of hard to apologize to someone when you're going 70 mph in the dark. And I really was sorry! I felt awful.

Then it hit me. Literally. They were throwing things out of their car and hitting me. Unbelieveable! I had a plan. If they decided to follow me and act out their revenge even further, I planned to drive directly to the police station and not go anywhere near my house. Luckily for me, they exited at the 95 north split. I did not really want to have to drive to the police station.

When I got home, I checked to see if there was any damage to my van. It was fine, but for one thing: it reeked of beer. They were driving drunk and had the audacity to be angry at me for safely and legally changing lanes. It's one of those things where, if I had it to do over again, I wish the cops had seen me run them off the road. I might have gotten a ticket, but they would have been arrested for drunk driving and the interstate would have been a little bit safer that night.

betty crocker day

Hearty Chicken and Wild Rice Soup

1 (10 oz) can cream of chicken soup
2 C chicken broth (or 2 C water, 2 tsp. chicken bouillion)
2 C water (some reserved from green beans)
1-2 cans green beans
1 C sliced carrots
1Tbs minced onion (more or less to taste)
1Tbs minced garlic (more or less to taste)
1/2 tsp thyme
1-1/2 pounds cubed chicken
1 (6oz) pkg long grain wild rice mix
1 can evaproated milk

1) Combine soup, broth, water, spice packet from rice mix, onion, garlic, thyme and pepper (to taste) in slow cooker.
2) Add carrots, green beans and chicken.
3) Cover and cook on high 4-5 hours, low 6-7 hours.
4) Taste and add more seasoning, if necessary. Add long grain rice mix and evap milk 1 hour before serving. (If you add them any earlier, the milk will break down and the rice will be really mushy.)
5) Stir in more water for a thinner soup, or add mashed potato flakes for a thicker stew.


Honey Oatmeal Bread

1 C warm water
1 Tbs oil
1/4 C honey
1 tsp salt
1/2 C oatmeal (quick or regular)
2-1/4 C bread flour
1 tsp active dry yeast

Combine in order given in the bread machine mixing pan. Select the Basic cycle and Light Crust. I've never made regular bread without a bread machine, so if you don't have one, my advice is go get one. (tee-heee!)


Peanut Butter Fingers

1/2 C sugar
1/2 C brown sugar
1/2 C (1 stick) butter
1 egg
1/3 C peanut butter (chunky or smooth)
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp HOT water
1/2 tsp vanilla
1 C flour
1 C oatmeal

1) Cream butter and sugars. Add egg, peanut butter, and salt. Blend well.
2) Dissolve baking soda in the hot water. Add with vanilla to the mixing bowl. Add flour and oatmeal, mixing well.
3) Spread evenly into greased 9x13 pan. Bake at 350* for 25 minutes. (For dark or glass pans, reduce temp to 325*.)

Topping

2-4 Tbl evaporated milk
1/2 C powdered sugar
1/4 C creamy peanut butter
1 C semisweet chocolate chips

1) Blend the first three ingredients until creamy and smooth.
2) Sprinkle chocolate chips onto HOT cake as soon as it comes out of the oven. When the chips have a shiny appearance, drizzle the peanut butter icing over the hot cake and melting chips.
3) Swirl the peanut butter icing and chips together with an offset spatula or butter knife. Cool completely in pan before cutting into "fingers".

it's all about the self-esteem

Life is about growing, changing, trying new things. Learning doesn't stop at the classroom door. Right, right. So I'm taking a class. It's not an ordinary class; it's a dance class. I do a little homework ahead of time. Find out what to wear, a little of what to expect. Read bios about the instructors. I leave my wedding ring at home, for safety reasons. I'm thinking ahead. I'm prepared. I can do this, right?

I am not prepared. I actually arrive a bit late; honestly it really was the traffic. So the instructor has already begun when I have to sneak through the back of the class to find my own space. That in itself is a bit difficult because it seems almost everyone is stationed along the back wall. Right where I want to be. Where no one can see how badly I dance. But the purpose of taking a class is to become better at something, to acheive or master a skill in the process of learning. Boy, do I need help in here.

The lights are dimmed. Lenny Kravitz's cover of "American Woman" pulses through the room. I feel so out of place. I also feel like the oldest woman in the room. Someone who shouldn't be there, even though the dance company touts that this class is for all women of all ages and all shapes. I see my friend across the room and giggle nervously at her as she follows the instructions from the teacher.

"That's right ladies, play a little now and stand up nice and slow. The only way to stand up in this class is with your feet apart and your tushie in the air. Show 'em what you've got. Trace yourself out here and play with your hair a little. Show 'em your moneymaker. Sexy strut around your pole. Now let's have a smack and I want to hear it, ladies. Nice. We're going to do some stretches now to warm up and then well start learning some spins. Everyone stand on the right side, get a good grip on your pole and lean out. Let gravity do the work; you should feel the pull all along your ribcage..."

That's right, I said pole. I went to pole dancing class. It was a unique experience and a killer workout. I have a new and profound respect for the women who do this kind of work 8-12 hours a day. They certainly do earn their money. For 24 hours afterwards, I am in excruciating pain from the muscle strain of learning the proper way to jump, as well as the Catch Spin, Fireman Spin, Pike Spin, and a "Showcase." I have several bruises and contact burns on my ankles and shins from spinning improperly. But I've got that Fireman Spin down pat! I was doing all this barefoot. Some of my more experienced classmates were taking their instruction wearing six-inch platform heels or those huge black patent leather boots. Talk about coordination!

The thing I would like to change about this experience is that I would like to actually be able to dance afterwards. You know, hold a rhythm and feel confident about my *ahem* moves. I have to say, I will most likely go back. Next time I'll wear something a little more form fitting so I don't look as frumpy. My abs are feeling better and the pain in my arms is getting less noticable. I haven't taken Tylenol all day today! I just hope I can find a class going on while the kids are in school.

so sad

I have taken to studying outside on my front porch. It is wide, airy and relatively quiet. And I can keep an eye on the neighborhood, Nosy Nancy that I am. While reading the days of the week aloud in Arabic this beautiful afternoon, a woman came into my front yard to speak to me. She was concerned about a man who had approached her young daughter on this very street and wanted to know if I knew who it might be so she could check it out.

This had apparently happened during the 5 minutes it took me to make a cup of coffee and come back outside. An older gentleman had been standing in his front yard and asked this girl to come into his house to listen to his machine for him. She apologized and refused, then headed straight home. What a level-headed girl. That mother should be proud. After hearing this chain of events, I knew exactly who it was and I was immediately saddened, knowing that the old man meant no harm and most likely did need help. I reassured the mother that I would check it out for her and get back to her.

The 80+ year old man who lives two doors down is one of the sweetest old men alive. His wife was taken to the hospital two, maybe three days ago. I was curious if he was stopping passers-by for conversation because he was lonely or if he genuinely needed help. So I got neighborly and paid him a visit. He is very hard of hearing, so when he didn't answer the front door, I walked around to the back. He was sitting on his porch, watching the birds in the back yard, as I often see him doing this time of day. I asked him if there was anything he needed and he jumped up (as well as an 80 year-old man can) and grinned at me, leading me into his sunroom.

"Why yes! How? How did you know that I was needing your help? Thank you so very much for coming down here. I can't hear my message machine." He tapped his gnarled old finger on a yellow tablet of paper and said, "Could you please write down that message? I missed the call and I can't hardly hear anymore and my wife is in the hospital and can't do my hearing for me."

It wasn't the call he was waiting for, but he was glad to get the message nonetheless. It was from someone else calling to check in on him.

They will be moving soon. They just sold their house to move to a care facility close to one of their sons' families. As many times as I've seen an ambulance parked out there, I am glad they will be under close watch soon.

In today's world, it stinks that an old man must sit alone and wait for someone to guess he needs help because there aren't any real "neighbors" anymore. It stinks that when he does venture out to seek help, he is immediately suspicioned of harming children. It stinks that I hadn't thought to go check on him before now. In my neighborhood, where the young families are slowly moving in as the older couples move out to care facilities, we ought to take it upon ourselves to check on our elders. After all, it's only neighborly.

midnight blue

the shadow passes black across my face again
the melancholy rises from within.
don't i have anything someone else wants?
with all this in my hands, i sit here by myself.
i'd hoped to find someone here to meet me
a stranger looking to be friends;
a friend with laughter or passion on their lips;
and here i am with hot tears on my cheeks

alone.

again.

you can't fake pound cake

Strawberry Pound Cake

4 large eggs, room temperature, slightly beaten
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 1/ 2cups unbleached flour
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened (NOT margarine)
1 1/4 cups white sugar

1. Preheat oven to 325*. Coat the inside of a 9x5-inch loaf pan with shortening and dust it with flour, knocking out excess flour.
2. Combine eggs and vanilla in a small bowl and lightly beat. Combine flour, baking powder, and salt in a medium mixing bowl.
3. Combine butter and 1 1/4 C sugar in a large mixing bowl and cream with electric mixture on medium-high speed until fluffy, about three minutes, scraping down the sides of the bowl once or twice.
4. Add the egg mixture and combine thoroughly, scraping the sides of the bowl.
5. Turn the mixer to low and add the flour mixture 1/2 cup at a time, scraping the flour down after each addition. After the last addition, beat on medium speed for 30 seconds.
6. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top with a rubber spatula. Bake the cake until it is golden and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, about 1 hour and 15 minutes. Let the cake cool in the pan for about 5 minute, invert it onto a wire rack, then turn right-side up to cool completely.

This pound cake will keep at room temperature (wrapped in plastic) for up to 3 days or refrigerated up to one week.

Strawberry Sauce

6 cups strawberries, hulled and quartered
1/4 cup white sugar

1. Combine the strawberries and sugar (more or less to taste, depending on how tart the berries are)
2. Let the mixture stand for about 15 minutes, stirring once or twice, until the sugar dissolves.

Slice the cake into thick slices (you should get 10 slices from the loaf). Spoon the strawberry sauce atop and heap with whipped cream.

Pound Cake Secrets:

* You can use other summer fruit available: blueberries, raspberries, peeled and thinly sliced peaches, plums, apricots or even mangoes instead of strawberries.
* Room temperature eggs blend better and result in fluffier baked goods.
* Butter makes a better pound cake than margarine.
* The pound cake will be richer if you add the ingredients in little portions and blend them thoroughly.
* The top will be a better shape if you flatten the batter before baking.
* If you don't have a cooling rack, take one of the racks out of your oven before you heat it up to help the air circulate around the cake as it cools.
* Do not wrap the cake too tightly in plastic or seal the lid completely on a plastic container or it will "sweat" and get soggy.

tears of a clown

My 9-year-old has this problem: I instruct my oldest child to go to bed, usually at a reasonable hour. Less than one hour after she's sent to bed, she appears at the door to my room, on the verge of tears. The tears are brought on by various things and this has been happening since she was 6. Not every night anymore, but tonight takes the cake.

The waterworks begin with the phrase, "I was getting into bed and I tripped over something under my bed." (I looked at her feet at this point to determine injury; none there.) "And I noticed my trombone," she sobs, "and I remembered that I have not practiced once since school let out." We are in full-on wail at this point. I am laughing hysterically at her, knowing that I am hurting her feelings, but completely unable to stop. "I came up here now," she continues through her tears, "to see if we can somehow manage to fit practice into my schedule because I get so busy, I know I'm going to forget..." Tears are streaming down my own face now.
"Busy doing WHAT???" I'm laughing. "Squeeze trombone practice in between forcing you to put on clean clothes every morning and brushing your teeth? After I stuff food down your gullet or after you lounge on the couch playing Nintendo or watching a movie? Or perhaps sometime between playing in the pool and grousing about picking dirty clothes up off of the floor surrounding your laundry basket? Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

Oooh, but she is mad at me now. She flounced out of the room crying down the stairs and all I could do was turn to Tad and start laughing all over again.

My cheeks hurt!

grocery shopping at its finest

I spend an inordinate amount of time preparing for grocery shopping. Now, before you think I've jumped off the deep end, I'd like to give a little history on the whys and wherefores of my grocery habits.

I like American food; that is, food that is served somewhere in America. When we were stationed in England, it was difficult to find certain kinds of foods. Chocolate chips, for example, were sold in 54 gram packages. 54 grams isn't even 1/2 cup. I would need to buy their whole supply of chocolate chips and then clear out the store in the neighboring town to make one batch of cookies. Condensed soup in England contained no flavor. None whatsoever. Minestrone, Vegetable Beef Stock, Leeks and Cabbage all tasted like watered-down water. And so on. We lived 2 hours away from the nearest decent Commissary and that trip was a pain in the butt. So I learned to make a large list and buy in bulk, thereby making fewer 2-hour trips to the Commissary in Never-neverland.

To make this list I would have to plan out meals for 2-3 weeks and buy all the supplies needed for that entire time - or do without. It became a science. I knew where on the paper to write "eggs," because it isn't in the same aisle as the "breakfast cereal," no-no. And then there were the coupons. So yes, it has become an ingrained ritual.

Back in America, I shouldn't have to do that anymore. But, how many times did I stand with all the cupboard doors open and the fridge in shambles muttering, "I can't believe I have seven half-meals here. I have spaghetti but no sauce; I have hamburgers but no buns; canned tuna but no mayo..." You get the picture. So I went back to The Plan. Here, it takes a slightly different turn. I spend between $5-600 per month on groceries for a family of 6 and I am not ashamed to admit that. However, I pinch pennies and still buy in bulk, resulting in running to several stores to get the best deals.

I hate shopping with four kids. The biggest basket I can find (with the big plastic bus on the front) will seat three of them. Inevitably, some lady with a five-year-old walking next to the basket holding one jug of milk has the only one in the store. I no longer shoot daggers at those women. I just let my monkeys jump on her basket and say in my syrupy sweet voice, "Oh, sorry, I couldn't find a big basket like your big empty basket there, so my kids are going nuts. Excuse my circus - coming through."

So I head to the store, list in hand, with four kids in tow. My eldest is in charge of the list and - miracle of miracles - I got the big basket! No running down the aisles! No knocking boxes on the floor! No hanging off the side of the cart! Usually I have to re-arrange seating because of hitting and squishing and touching, but all is remarkably quiet on that front. I breeze through the store halfway done in record time when I notice the dialogue. So I pretend to look at the oatmeal and really pay attention to their words.

My youngest daughter, not yet four years old, is hanging out of the plastic bus (not really yelling because that would have gotten my attention much sooner), "Mayday-mayday! Cease fire! There are children aboard! I repeat, cease fire! Abort abort abort abort!!!!"

The elderly people who were looking at Corn Flakes are now looking at me like I'm insane. The boys are repeating their baby sister's litany, punctuated with whistling bombs and close-range shrapnel. I only have the frozen food left. We need to get out of this store. Now.

There are just some things you can't make up.

OK OK OK i'm UP!!!

I have been woken up over the years by many different things. I have had cold, snowy dog noses poked under the blankets. I have had little brothers and little children jumping on my bed. The various and sundry wails of babyhood: I'm hungry, I'm bored, change me, I'm scared. I have had several kinds of alarm clocks, from the annoying klaxons and dj's to my current mellow pond of frogs. I can completely wake up and get vertical and be in motion in record time upon hearing either of the phrases, "I'm gonna barf," or "I barfed."

But they all paled to misty memories when I woke up today to feel something on may face. In my muzzy morning clumisiness, I actually squashed the spider TO MY FACE.

I'm going to go take a shower.