Alive and Kicking

Hi, I'm Shannon. Once upon a time I blogged here, and then I took an entirely unplanned break, and then I started getting e-mails asking me if I had died. So it seemed like I should pop in and put those concerns to rest: I have not died, run away, or otherwise gone crazy (despite Hubs' occasional testimonials to the contrary).

Here's the scoop:

We moved unexpectedly this summer, fulfilling a life-long dream to live in the country. I should explain that by "in the country" I mean "more than four minutes away from a Wal Mart." It's a whopping nine minutes to a Wal Mart, and I think this must be just exactly how Ma Ingalls felt. You city folk just wouldn't understand.

So: New (unexpected) house and new schools, which meant that late summer and early fall were flurries of unpacking and helping everyone ease into all the new-ness. As if that weren't enough, my little tiny baby started kindergarten, which meant that I had no preschooler at home for the first time in 13 years. It was the end of an era. A sticky, playdough-encrusted era.

I realized this meant it was time to get busy on all the stuff I'd been putting off forever. I thought about running for Congress (not really) or going back to medical school (not really on that one, either), but I decided instead to to tackle the mysterious chunk of petrified something-or-other I'd been needing to scrape off the bottom of the breakfast table for a decade (yes, really, on that one).

A funny thing happened, though, as I found myself so necessarily elbow-deep in the business of real life. The part of my life that was, for so long, filled up with Twitter and deadlines and comments and stats and advertising suddenly grew silent…and, to my staggering amazement, I liked it that way. This blog was an important part of my life for so long, and those of you who have read here so faithfully have encouraged me in ways I can't express. So why, I asked myself, was it so easy to step away? I had the sense that for this moment, anyway, I'd simply said all I wanted to say in this space.

And then I wondered if I should blog some big, official announcement, but blogging about not blogging seemed a little trippy, doesn't it? So I'd look at my computer and shrug and–whaddya know–six whole months had passed.

Really, that's the whole story. No big scandal or trauma, just the much-needed realization that my online life had become too consuming and–despite my best efforts–it was keeping me from giving the best part of myself to the people I love most. It was time to change that.  And it's been very, very good. Life is quieter now, or, at least, "quieter". There are, after all, four offspring in the house with a tendency to ride down wooden stairs in laundry baskets.

This all sounds like a "The End." It's not. I don't have any plans to close this blog down, though I can't guarantee any plans to fill it back up, either. Right now I'm content for it to sit here and let me dabble in it occasionally or often or never. (Clearly, I am all about the strategic planning.)

In the meantime, wherever you are, I hope you're well and happy and finding your own little slice of quiet. Or "quiet".

See you around, sweet friends. Thanks for stopping by.

Because Regular Pumpkin Pie Is Just Plain Dull

This a rerun–I originally posted this last Thanksgiving. But a recipe this life-changing deserves a rerun. Enjoy!

I come from a long line of women who do not like to cook.  I hold tightly to
this genetic predisposition to get the heck out of the kitchen as fast
as I can.  It is a fine heritage.(Incidentally, it was once a source of significant stress that I married a man who came from a long line of women who love to cook.  Their family recipes, handed down for generations, involve sifting things, and using thermometers, and grating lemon zest.  My family recipes involve instant pudding.)Truly, though, it is a lovely thing that my favorite family recipes are so simple.  The very best one is the one my grandmother made for Thanksgiving every year.  It is so unbelievably good–but be warned.  Once you eat it, you may never be able to go back to regular pumpkin pie again.

And before we begin, I should point out that the best part of the
deal is the little mini, tart-sized pie-shells.  Usually they are
located in the freezer section.  The day after Thanksgiving, I’d always
go over to my grandmother’s house, and we’d sit on her couch and eat
all the empty pie shells like potato chips.

Clearly, I also have a genetic heritage involving carbohydrates.

1 15-oz can pumpkin
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 tsp salt
1 1/4 tsp cinnamon
3/4 tsp ginger
3/4 tsp nutmeg
1 3.4-oz box instant vanilla pudding
2 cups milk

Blend all ingredients well, using a whisk.  Cover and
refrigerate until chilled.  Prepare small, tart-sized pie shells (both
the frozen pastry variety or the graham cracker variety work well).
Before serving, spoon pumpkin mixture into tart shells.  Top with
whipped topping and serve.

 

Dear People With Grown Sons: PLEASE HELP

Many years ago I was the mother of three preschool boys, a fact which sometimes necessitated that I take all three of them to the grocery store. As surely as I sit here typing this, I could guarantee you that each of my boy-laden grocery trips would draw out comments from observers. The comments were usually pretty predictable:

1. "You certainly have your hands full."

2. "So, are you trying for a girl?"

3. [On the occasional good day.] "Your boys are so well-behaved."

4. [On the more typical day.] "Ma'am, did you know that your son is whacking your baby with a package of hot dog buns?"

5. "Wow, I can't imagine your grocery bill when they're all teenagers."

That last one always just made me smile and shrug. Sure, I know growing boys eat a lot, but how bad could it be, really? I mean, they're probably hungry after school, so you fix them a hot dog, right? No big challenge for a frugal-minded shopper. 

Well.

Let's just add this one to the (growing) list of challenges I didn't see coming. Because these sons of mine are bottomless pits of extraordinarily high metabolisms. Kind of like The Very Hungry Caterpillar, except not green. And no cocoon. And I can't put them on a bookshelf when they're done. So, not at all like The Very Hungry Caterpillar actually, except, my stars, they're HUNGRY.

Case in point: my eldest son (who is verrry tall and verrry skinny) can polish off a gallon–a gallon--of whole milk in a day and a half. At this rate, I'm wondering if we should just get a cow. My youngest son (who, at the tender age of eight and a half, is already built like an imposing linebacker) ate an entire jar of pickles the other day. An entire jar. In a day.

We haven't cut out sugar altogether (because really, why would such a life be worth the living?), but I do try to offer them primarily high-protein snacks (eggs, nuts, cheese, peanut butter, etc.) that will sit in their bellies awhile. And yes, they're eating complete and (mostly) healthful meals. No, they're not filling up on sodas or juices. And no, nobody is anywhere in the vicinity of being overweight.

They're just stinkin' hungry.

I'm left standing here holding the proverbial grocery bag, wondering how we're going to afford both college and all the pickles. As the one who has been genetically (and happily, and expensively) appointed to feed them, I'm trying to do it sensibly (and this book is helping). But high-protein foods tend to be more expensive foods, don't they?

This leads me to my point, which is to ask anyone who is reading this, especially anyone who has raised multiple sons without going through grocery-induced bankruptcy, how did you do it? What are the best kind of snacks for growing adolescent boys? (Preferably snacks that are easy and cheap and leap into the dishwasher when done. I'm all about the realistic expectations.) Please share with me any suggestions you may have, and if you know of a dairy and pickle farm for sale.

Barbecue Cupcakes

This post was originally published in September 2008.

Yes, barbecue cupcakes.  The original recipe for this (I believe it came from Taste of Home) was entitled “farmhouse barbecue muffins”.  But in this family, we believe in inserting dessert conceptually wherever we can.  So, they’re barbecue cupakes.

They are delicious and easy.  They’re perfect for a family meal, but they’re also a fun party food.  Here’s the scoop:

Ingredients:
1 lb ground beef, cooked
1 cup bbq sauce or sloppy joe sauce, whichever you prefer
1 can of LAYERED refrigerated biscuits (not the little tiny packages, the bigger one.  I use Grands.)
About 1-2 cups of shredded cheddar cheese

Instructions:
Cook beef, drain, mix with bbq sauce.  Set aside.

Carefully pull apart layers of biscuits, so that each biscuit is now in two pieces, like this:

Roll out layers with a rolling pin, until they make a 10-12″ circle.

Spray the insides of a muffin pan.  Insert one flattened biscuit into each cup, like this:

In each little pastry shell, spoon in about 1 tbsp of beef mixture.  It will look this:

Afterwards, sprinkle cheese on top, because if a recipe doesn’t say “sprinkle cheese on top”, then you should run the other way:

Bake in a 350 oven for 8-12 minutes, take it out, and then you just tell me this isn’t the cutest little thing you’ve ever seen:

Works For Me: Strawberry Pie

Kristen is hosting a themed edition of Works-For-Me Wednesday today, and she's asking if we'd like to share a summer recipe.  Mine is for strawberry pie, and I will happily share the recipe, but I WILL NOT SHARE THE PIE.  If you don't believe me, ask the eight-year-old boy I tackled this afternoon when he approached my fridge.

I made this for a church picnic over the weekend; it makes two, which means I could take one to share and I could keep one at home for my family me.

So here it is, the pie which all other pies want to be when they grow up:

STRAWBERRY PIE

2 containers fresh strawberries, sliced and washed
2 pie shells (homemade, if you're fancy, store-bought if you're me)
17 oz Sprite or 7-Up
1 pkg strawberry Jell-o
1 1/2 cup sugar
5 tbsp cornstarch

Bake pie crust, set aside to cool.

In a sauce pan, bring Sprite, sugar and cornstarch to a bowl.  Cook over low heat until it thickens (5-10 minutes).

Remove pan from heat.  Stir in Jell-o until dissolved.  Mix in sliced strawberries.  Chill mixture in fridge for 20 minutes.

Remove from fridge and pour into two pie shells.  Cover with saran wrap and chill for at least three hours before serving.

For more great summer recipes, visit Kristen at We Are THAT Family!

Bee-Yoo-tiful

We had three perfectly restful days at Ree's Lodge.  Over the course of our time together, we ate entirely too much food and got way too little sleep. We managed to analyze what is wrong with the State Of Marriage In America, which era of Saturday Night Live was best, what might possibly happen in Iran, and why on earth we wore those clothes in the 1980's.  Sophie, Melanie and I feel so recharged and pampered and well-fed that we briefly considered refusing to leave.  But that would just be bad manners, so we sadly packed up and left yesterday afternoon.

Here are a few of snapshots of all the lovelies:

[First, a disclaimer: Compared to Ree's photos, mine look like they were taken with a cheap camera and by a bad photographer.  Probably because I have a cheap camera and I'm a bad photographer.]

Below, the back deck.  This is where we stood to sing rousing verses of show tunes from the musical Oklahoma.  (Not really.  Okay, really.  But only once):

I'm not sure, but I think this pantry may hold the key to world peace:

Even dirty laundry smells good in here:

The view from the room where I slept:

I would like to report that the reason this guacamole is halfway gone is that I had been sharing it evenly and diplomatically with everyone else and NOT AT ALL because I shoveled half the plate into my mouth so vigorously that my skin has a green tint to it today: 

A scrumptious dinner:

And (*sigh*) cinnamon rolls for breakfast, lightly flavored with coffee:

Signing off now, to go shop for some elastic-waist pants.  

Closeted

I can't help it, I clean closets in June.  Don't be impressed:  In July I'll go back to be being sloppy.  But in June, I get obsessed with organizing and purging my closets within an inch of their atrocious lives.  Maybe I'm inspired by the hearty season of growth I see outdoors.  Maybe I'm inspired by the concussion I received from the glue gun that fell off my daughter's closet shelf onto my skull.

Whatever the reason, I'm a closet-cleaning freak right now.  The biggest one in our house is my daughter's.  Because it's the largest, it's become, as you might expect, a sort of black hole, holding all the stuff for which we don't have another place.  Tackling it has been an enormous job.  I'm not through with it yet, because there's so much in there to see and touch and sort through and remember.

For example, we have my grandfather's stamp collection, which has remained unopened since the last time he worked on it, forty years ago.  I keep thinking we should get it out and catalog it–it was one of my goals for this summer, actually.  I have a lovely mental image going, in which we open it to find that it contains the Holy Grail of stamps, something that would have Sotheby's calling us to set up an auction.  And I would agree, and then I'd hang up the phone, and then I'd turn to find The Stamp in the hands of my four-year-old daughter, just as she licked it and stuck it on the front of her Strawberry Shortcake coloring book.  And so the stamp collection stays on the top shelf:

Here is a basket shaped like the state of Arkansas.  No home should be without one.  I have kept it for 15 years, because you never know when you might have critical need of something like this (grafitti courtesy of a pen-wielding toddler a few years back):

Next stop is a white plastic basket on a middle shelf.  A couple of years ago I got on a pincushion kick.  I made up a little pattern, and they were adorable and easy.  So I sewed a few.  And then I sewed a few more.  And I kept tossing them into a basket in this Black Hole closet, and lo and behold, look what I have:

That's 48 pincushions, my friends.  FORTY-EIGHT.  Every time my husband looks in there he shakes his head and says it's a little bit like that part in Close Encounters where the people went crazy and got obsessed with recreating Devil's Mountain out of mashed potatoes.  I haven't been visiting aliens, of course, but clearly I have been visiting too many craft blogs.

Carefully wrapped inside this bag is a bowl my dad bought as a gift for his mother 30 years ago, from a little antique shop in Connecticut.  The shop owner told him it was 700 years old, from Persia; who knows if that was accurate, but certainly it was very old and very beautiful.  After my grandmother died, my dad gave it to me, and I hung it proudly in my house.  But do you know what happens when you hang a 700-year-old Persian plate in a house that contains three little boys under the age of five?  You get this:

No, it can't be glued back together.  It's not like any other plate I've ever seen before (being, you know, a medieval artifact and all), and it won't hold glue like a typical plate.  So it sits in this closet, carefully wrapped up, until the day I can properly locate a Thirteenth-Century-Persian-Plate Fixer.  Know anyone?

Here's the last thing I'll show you (and my apologies for all the randomness; I'm hoping the public shame will prompt me to throw something away, finally):

(Incidentally, if you were a Southern bride between 1990 and 2000 then I suspect you know exactly where that box came from–anyone want to take a stab?)

That box stores what is left of my cassette tape collection from high school.  We don't even own a cassette player anymore; there is no need for me to keep this box.

And yet.

How can I possibly throw away this…

<p

and this…

and (this is getting embarrassing) this…

and this…

(That tape was a very important part of my emotional 1987 experience, helping me to process profound crises such as the Cold War and geometry.)

That's why I'm overwhelmed–every time I sit down to tackle this closet project, I find myself facing hard decisions about valuable Persian artifacts and bad '80's pop music.  It makes me frustrated and exhausted and, strangely, inclined to tease my bangs.

I Am Tired, and Here Are Five Reasons Why

Firstly, it's because it's May, that jolly month of singing bluebirds, budding trees, and 48 bazillion end-of-year school events all squished into four short weeks.  I am moving so fast that I think I may have actually bumped into myself in the garage this afternoon. 

Secondly, ever true to my tendency to tackle ridiculously large projects all at the same time, I decided to start the FlyLady system this month.  (If you don't know about FlyLady, you'll just have to click over and see–suffice it to say that it is a wonderful system which will ultimately make my life much easier, but today?  I'm just as overwhelmed as I can be.)  To make matters more complicated, what started as a momentary flash of frustration over my inability to find the cough syrup has launched into a huge, existential crisis about how I manage my time and stuff and home and family, and I'm trying really hard to break some old habits.  I'm thinking the first habit I should break would be launching existential crises during the month of May.

Thirdly, my firstborn son did something Very Grown Up this past weekend–something wonderful and right and something that required a significant amount of Letting Go on my part.  And remember how I've told you before that parenting older kids gets easier than it is in those difficult preschool days?

I take it back.

It's not easier.

When they hand you that baby in the hospital, you have a vague sense of the sleepless nights ahead, and the temper tantrums that may loom in the next couple of years.  What you cannot prepare yourself for is the reality of letting go, that it is not something that happens overnight when they leave for college–it happens in tiny, exhilirating, difficult, glorious small steps.  They don't tell you that you will get whiplash from jumping from profound fear to profound pride all in the same milisecond.  They don't tell you that it is possible to hold your breath for an entire weekend. 

And when you hold your breath for an entire weekend, it turns out you're tired at the end of it.  Thrilled and happy and proud and wiser, but wiped out beyond words.

Fourthly, as long as I'm dishing out the parental angst, I watched my sweet little daughter dance in her first recital this weekend, on a giantic stage in a massive auditorium.  My girl was confident, sparkly and beautiful, even if she did perform the first half of her routine facing sideways, toward the wings.  Attemping to send telepathic messages to a tap-dancing four year old ("Face front, baby! Face front!") is exhausting.

Fifthly…well, there's not a fifth reason, actually, except that it bears repeating that it's May, and I am tired.

Here's lookin' at June, and a nice long nap.

Works For Me: Cleaning Pots

I recently scorched a big soup pot so badly I almost threw it out.  Even after soaking overnight, the crusty gunk wouldn't budge.  I tossed the question out to my friends on Twitter, and I received several good tips.  Many people said they use spray-on oven cleaner, which wasn't especially helpful, since it assumes there has ever been a single moment in my life in which I have cleaned an oven (I haven't.  My general oven-cleaning philosophy is that you should just gunk it up really well for five or six years and then move).

I pulled together a few of the pot-cleaning tips and tried my own method, filling the pan with about two inches of water and a generous amount of dishwashing liquid mixed in.  Then I brought the soap and water mixture it to a boil on the stove top, and would you believe that with only a few scrubs, the gunk came right off?  I've since tried it several times, with the same results every time.  Works for me!

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KnappKnotes (Yummy Chowder Recipe!) 221. Amanda (better self-portraits) 222. Buzzings of a Queen Bee! (The Best Baby Sleep Book Around!) 223. JessieLeigh (Questions for the Pediatrician) 224. Sandra*storing, clipping, and categorizing coupons 225. Nikke (kids saving money) 226. Camian Academy (TV Shows from iTunes) 227. American Girl 228. Jennifer (diaper pail) 229. MrsScotsman (priceline.com) 230. Aubrey (better broccoli) 231. Sarah 232. Samantha (ABC pretzels) 233. BeyondJustMom (next time, do this) 234. Katie (my cleaning schedule) 235. Donnetta (4 meals in 2 hours) 236. Maria @ Thrifty Ways and Ideas – Thrifty Use for Plastic Bag 237. Amy @ Cheeky Cocoa Beans (craft idea) 238. Mikki -Cool Tool 239. Runningamuck (So Long Birthday Cakes!!) 240. Julie Stiles Mills (Don\'t File Paper. Revisited & Modified.) 241. Audra Krell (Truth) 242. Jennifer, Snapshot (Managing Menstural Cycles) 243. Amber (crock pot cooking) 244. 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I Cannot Believe I Am About To Say This

I promise, this is the last post I will ever write that has anything to do with rodents, at least until the next time I feel the need to write about rodents.

Here's the good news: the smell is lessening.  Thank you for all your funny and encouraging and otherwise grotesque feedback.  The open containers of coffee grounds have helped, and I think the 18-degree weather hasn't hurt, either.  Though that does make me wonder if we might get to reacquaint ourselves with our malodorous friend when the weather warms up.

Clark, that's the gift that keeps giving the who-o-o-o-o-ole year.

I think I managed to keep my cool pretty well during the original mouse fiasco.  But now that I know there's a dead one in the wall?  I'm not keeping my cool.  In fact, I'm going a little crazy.  Remember that short story by Edgar Allan Poe, where the creepy murderer buries the heart under the floor boards but he can still hear it beating?

(By the way, if you're new here, hi, I'm Shannon, and I don't normally blog about murderers and beating hearts under floor boards, and please will you come back sometime?)

Yes, well, I'm not hearing any beating hearts, but I'm finding myself living with an acute awareness of the dead mouse in my wall.  Even with the smell going away, the idea haunts me.  I have determined that, so help me, there will be no more mice in this house, ever.

And for the first time, I have entertained the notion of getting a cat.  This is significant for two reasons:

1.  I really hate cats.  Truly.  I'm sorry if you're a cat person, and I'm sure you're perfectly lovely, but your pet alarms me.  I am not especially fond of humans who put on airs of superiority, and I absolutely cannot abide it in an animal.  And of course, I'm sure your sweet cat is the exception, but I can tell you that I have never met a cat who did not look down his furry little nose at me.  And wouldn't it be unethical to get a pet that I have no intention of ever liking?

2.  My ten-year-old son and I are both violently allergic to cats.  Our faces get all puffy and red, and our throats itch, and we sneeze like crazy.  I wonder, would daily allergy pills be enough to combat the intense allergy?  Right now, I'd consider wearing a chain of Claritin around my neck everyday, if it meant no mice.

I decided to do a little research, just to find out what my options are.  I am not pleased.

First of all, Wikipedia tells me that "some allergy sufferers find relief in periodic injection therapy designed to stimulate the body's natural immune responses to the cat allergen." 

I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday, y'all.  They're talking about SHOTS.

Plan B was to Google "hypoallergenic cats".

And may God have mercy on us, because they are making cats in laboratories.  They have been bred not to trigger allergies, and Time Magazine listed them as one of the "Best Inventions of 2006".  (A cat is an invention?  Sounds like the premise of an M. Night Shyamalan movie to me.)  Furthermore, these cats cost $4,000–that's FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS–and there is over a one-year waiting list.  I just shake my head.

One last option was to check into "hairless cats" (did you know there is such a thing?) and Wikipedia showed me this, which was all I needed to see, thank you:

Bless its heart, it looks so unhappy, but I suspect you would too, if you looked just like Gollum.  While I'm sure it's a sweet little thing, I can tell you that I would not be able to sleep with that in my house. 

So I'm back to square one, wondering if there's even any possibility for us to get a cat.  I once again throw myself on your mercy for advice, if you've dealt with this.  Is it possible for a cat allergy to be managed?  Are there types of breeds that are less irritating to allergies (in particular, breeds that don't require a down payment or look like a lizard) ? 

Internet, I'm all ears.  (Not as "all ears" as Gollum-Cat, but still all ears.)