pink cookies & the bakery buttercream

I've had several people request this recipe, so here it is: the greatest sugar cookie recipe known to man. I got the cookie recipe from an Arc of Spokane newsletter about 15 years ago and have been using it ever since.

The frosting recipe was developed by my sister who opened a bakery once upon a time. She no longer owns the bakery, but I managed to memorize the recipe while working for her (on average I mixed, baked and frosted 15-20 dozen sugar cookies each week for a year) and scaled it down to a manageable size.

Pink Cookies

3 cups butter, softened
2 1/2 cups sugar
3 eggs
1/4 tsp. vanilla
7 cups flour
1 1/8 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp salt

Preheat oven to 350*. Cream butter and sugar, add eggs and vanilla and cream again. Stir in the flour, baking soda and salt. The dough will be easier to handle if it is chilled, but it is actually pretty easy to work with if you skip the chill. Roll out to 1/4", cut into desired shapes and bake 10-12 minutes until cookies do not indent when touched and edges are very lightly browned.

The Bakery Butter-cream Frosting

2 cups butter, softened
1 Tbsp. vanilla
1 tsp. almond extract (optional)
1 Tbsp. corn syrup
1/3 c. cream (or almond milk)
2 lb. powdered sugar

Cream butter, extract(s), corn syrup and cream. Slowly stir in powdered sugar until incorporated, then whip to desired consistency. If frosting is too thick, use cream to adjust.

chocolate crinkles

I don't often make chocolate cookies, but when I do, I like to use the recipe for Chocolate Crinkles in my ancient Hershey's "Make it Chocolate!" cookbook. This past week, I tried making them with coconut oil for the first time and they turned out perfectly. We used them to make mini ice-cream sandwiches. :)

Here is the recipe with my adaptations, one of which is skipping the 6 hours of chill time because, in the memorable words of Sweet Brown, "Ain't nobody got time for that!"

Chocolate Crinkles

2 cups sugar
3/4 cup coconut oil
3/4 cup cocoa powder
4 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 1/3 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt

In large mixer bowl combine sugar and oil. Add cocoa; blend well. Beat in eggs and vanilla. Stir in flour, baking powder and salt, blending well. Shape into 1-inch balls. Place 2 inches apart on greased cookie sheet. Bake 12 minutes or until almost no indentation remains when touched.

pretty great

Many of the people I know are doctors and lawyers, bankers, professors, writers, successful businessmen. They live in big houses and drive fancy cars. They travel to interesting, exciting places I've never been.  I admire and respect them; their years of hard work have paid off.

While I am not the type to envy their life and the things I don't have, I sometimes find myself comparing my life in a critical way. I find myself making excuses for who I am and what I do: I'm just a tutor at the school. I majored in Sociology (insert my own eye-roll here). My house is old and small and we live in Payson ( head hung low). I can't afford to travel right now, but maybe someday.

I have no idea why I do this, but today I realized I have to stop. I like my life the way it is. My life is pretty great...

I like being a tutor at the school. I like working part time, being off with my kids and I love not being in charge. I like working with kids who need extra help because I love to see them progress. I make very little in terms of money, but the rewards I receive are many.

I loved studying Sociology. As much as I joke about how worthless it has been, it hasn't been worthless at all. Understanding how people function in groups? Priceless. If I ever have the desire and the resources to go to graduate school, all lined up at once, with no thought about the practicality of my choice, I might choose to study it all over again.

My house is old and small. It's in an old, some-say 'ghetto' neighborhood in a quirky little red-neck town. It often smells strange, like rotting wood and medicine, but it is comfortable and colorful and 'happy' as my kids' friends call it. I often think if we had more money we would buy a different house. One brand new, with lots of rooms and bathrooms to spare. But if I'm honest, we could have bought that house to begin with, but didn't, because I think that house is boring and bland. I like my house because it is a never-ending project, with things to paint and fix and build and improve. What would I do with a brand new house?

While I do hope to travel someday, I have to admit, I don't really like to travel. I blame it on a lack of money or time, or claim I need to be home with the kids, but truly, I like to be home because home is where I like to be. Fixing my house, improving my yard, enjoying my kids while they're here.

I like my life. It's simple but rich. I'm not important or wealthy or exciting at all, but I'm happy, because I am living the life I choose.

I will make excuses no more.

energy bars

I recently read the Happiness Project, which has inspired me to consciously and actively enhance my happiness. One of the things I am doing is baking more. I love to bake; it makes me happy, but I often get stuck in the rut of making the same old tried and true recipes at the request of my kids and husband.

Obviously this isn't a bad thing; my favorite chocolate chip cookies are still my favorite, even when I am making them for the umpteenth time. But I also like to try new things, so I decided to bake my way through my favorite cook book, The Joy of Cooking. I have been using this cookbook for 20 years and it rarely disappoints. I like the recipes because they are classic, generally call for ingredients I keep in my pantry and have choices built into the recipes.

At the request of my niece, here is one of the recipes I made the other day, and then again today. They were delicious both times.

Energy Bars (Joy of Cooking, page 765)

Preheat oven to 350*F. Grease a 9x9-inch square baking pan lined with foil.

Combine in a medium bowl:
* 1-1/2 cups packed dried fruit (apricots, pitted dates, raisins, figs, cherries, and/or cranberries), coarsely
   chopped
* 1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats
* 3/4 cup all-purpose flour
* 1 cup packed dark brown sugar
* 1/2 cup chopped walnuts, pecans, hazelnuts, almonds
* 1/4 tsp salt (I use salted butter and omit the salt)
* 3/4 tsp ground cinnamon

Add and stir until well blended:  
* 3/4 cup unsalted butter, melted
* 1-1/2 tsp vanilla

Press the mixture into the pan. Bake until top is golden brown, 35-40 minutes. Cool in the pan on a rack. 

The first time I made them, I used dried cherries and pecans. I chopped them all up in my Ninja, which is the best blender I've ever had. I followed the recipe exactly.
 

Today when I made them, I doubled the recipe and baked them in a cookie sheet (jelly-roll pan). I used dried apples, almonds and coconut. I also used wheat flour for a third of the flour. I forgot to melt the butter this time, I only softened it, which I think is why they did not brown as beautifully. Because they were not as thick in the cookie sheet, I decreased the baking time to 25 minutes.

If I make them again, I will probably cut down a bit on the brown sugar and use more whole wheat flour, to make them a little healthier.

diabetes is not my fault

I already posted some of this on facebook, but then realized I have a lot more to say. So here is my original post:

I am so tired of reading things that imply or claim that people with type 2 diabetes become diabetic because they are or were overweight. This is oversimplified and adds blame and shame to an already upsetting and frustrating disease. Perhaps more people should read this fact from the American Diabetic Association...

Fact: Being overweight is a risk factor for developing this disease, but other risk factors such as family history, ethnicity and age also play a role. Unfortunately, too many people disregard the other risk factors for diabetes and think that weight is the only risk factor for type 2 diabetes. Most overweight people never develop type 2 diabetes, and many people with type 2 diabetes are at a normal weight or only moderately overweight.

And here is what I want to add: 

I have never been 'skinny'. Aside from the year I had mono, I have probably never been the correct weight for my height on a chart. But I have been fit and active most of my life. With the exception of a few years while having kids and working multiple jobs, exercising and sports have been a priority for me. And most days I manage to eat right. 

Nevertheless, a few years ago, I went to the doctor complaining of a pain in my side. He listened to my symptoms, then checked my blood glucose levels. My fasting blood sugar level was something like 290 (120 is normal), so he told me I probably had diabetes. I mentioned I had eaten several cookies before bed the night before. He quipped, 'It would take more than a few cookies to get a reading like that.'

A few days later he called my cell. I answered, he asked what I was doing. Odd, I thought. I was driving, I told him, so he asked me to call him back. My heart sank and my stomach knotted up. Cancer is prevalent in my family. Rational or not, it has been a persistent worry.

I called him back the minute I got home, prepared for the worst. He told me I had type 2 diabetes. I was relieved. A little annoyed perhaps, but mostly relieved. I didn't have cancer! 

Diabetes was familiar to me. My dad had diabetes for about 20 years before he died. Many of his siblings had diabetes and lived a long time. My oldest brother developed diabetes around my same age, my younger brother was diagnosed a year or two before me, my mother was diagnosed a year or two before that, and one of my sisters had been 'borderline', like me, for awhile. I had even had gestational diabetes myself, twice. So bring it on!

I started taking Metformin, to help restore the way my body turned food into energy, and read everything I could find on controlling diabetes.

Although I was already running several days a week, I was only running three miles a day. With the help of a running partner, I bumped up to four days a week and ran a 10k (6 miles) within six months. Two months later, I ran my first half-marathon (13.1 miles). I cross-trained with biking and walked on my 'rest' days. 

I became obsessed with counting calories and carbs; myfitnesspal was my new best friend. I had lost ten pounds from my heaviest weight before being diagnosed. With concentrated efforts, I lost nine more and then stopped. I increased my exercise and decreased my calories, but the scale wouldn't move. After the half-marathon, I gained four pounds. I increased my exercise and decreased my calories; the scale didn't move. Winter came and I gained five pounds. No matter what I did, the scale wouldn't move. 

I went back for checkups; my cholesterol was high, my blood pressure was high and my weight was 'overweight' on the chart. The doctor told me I needed to lose weight. My father-in-law (a retired doctor), told me I needed to lose weight. I was angry and upset. 

I read more articles, more blog posts, more study results. The more I read, the more discouraged I got. I started to think having diabetes was my fault. One man claimed to have cured his diabetes by following The Paleo Diet. Another article linked diabetes with Alzheimer's, citing the over-consumption of sugar as the "cause". It would seem, from the majority of literature I read, that I was sick because I was fat. I wasn't doing enough...

Spring came and I lost my winter weight, but I wanted to get back to my lowest point; even more, I wanted to lose enough weight to fit on the doctor's chart. I thought this was the only way to prove to myself that I didn't deserve to have diabetes.

At some point, I went too far. I realized this when I ran 8 miles one morning after eating very little the night before. I had eaten nothing before the run, and only a few Sport Beans during the run. I had started drinking as little as possible too, as a good, long run without water could easily make me two pounds lighter on the scale. Since I typically burn at least 100 calories per mile, it is likely my blood glucose levels were dangerously low. Unfortunately, when my levels are low, my thinking becomes muddled. I didn't eat much after my run, because after noting I had burned about 900 calories on my run, I got this number stuck in my head as the total number of calories I could consume that day. I ate a small snack and took a nap. 

With great difficulty, I dragged myself out of bed a couple hours later. Fortunately I went to a party, where I told a friend and running partner how tired I had been the past week. A dietician, she suggested it could be my diabetes. Light dawned. I hadn't been eating enough. I ate a cupcake. And a cookie. Within fifteen minutes I felt more energetic. I went home and ate whatever came to mind. The difference was incredible!

I stopped tracking calories and maintained the same weight. By chance, I visited a nurse practitioner when my regular doctor called in sick. He told me I wasn't fat. He told me the diabetes wasn't my fault. He told me my cholesterol was high because the sugar in my blood wasn't finding its way into the cells where it belongs. He told me I should take medication for it, but it wasn't imperative now; he would tell me when it was. Later, he told me my blood pressure was too high, despite all the running; another side effect of diabetes that wasn't my fault. I had to start taking medication for it, he said, 'I know you don't want to, but it's time.' He reiterated that I was healthy and fit. That I was doing everything right. That I was not at fault. The relief was so great, I cried. 

I'm still working through my tendency to obsess: to blame myself for the state of my health; to push myself until my body starts to break; to worry my kidneys, my heart, my eyes will fail; that I will abandon my children and spouse. But I am starting to come to terms with my disease. And to accept my body, and appreciate all it can do, even if it doesn't fit on the charts. 

On the up-side, I don't worry much about cancer anymore. Now if I could just get rid of that pain in my side...

jesus is just alright

My brother Mark died when I was 23. He was eight years older than me and most of my memories of him are not fond. I remember him picking on me a lot, teasing me until I cried and, once, picking me up and hanging me over the balcony, telling me he was going to drop me.

He was the master of pestering; the kind of brother who, when you shouted, 'stop bugging me,' would pin you down on the ground and poke your chest with his fingers while saying, 'bug, bug, bug...' 

Being the overly-sensitive type, my response was to yell at him, tattle on him, or burst into tears and run to my room, slamming the door. But I loved him.

When I was little, he ran away from home. In my memory, he was gone a long time before we knew where he was. I remember crying myself to sleep at night, praying a simple prayer, over and over, asking God to please just bring him home.

Eventually he did come back, but he continued to struggle with life, at least in my eyes. He didn't go to church like the rest of the family and lived by a set of standards all his own. Growing up in an LDS home, I had a hard time with the choices he made. I judged him, distrusted him; I kept my distance from him.

I wish I hadn't. I wish I had known then what I know now about people who are different from me: that they are almost always amazing in a way I can't see. I wish I had spent more time listening to the stories he told me, actually hearing the things he said. I wish I could have appreciated him for who he was and loved him unconditionally.

When I came home after spending a year and a half on a mission in Montreal, I happened to take a trip with my parents and Mark and my brother Paul. It was probably the first time I had a real conversation with Mark. He was working on a little island in Alaska at the time and was home on a mandatory break. He had several more weeks off and we tentatively planned for him to visit me at school, where maybe we would go camping together. I was looking forward to it, but we never had the chance.

The last time I saw Mark, he picked me up at the airport on a layover in Seattle and took me to Pike Street Market. He waited patiently while I looked at almost every silver ring at every jewelry stand, trying to find one that was just right. I don't remember what we talked about, I just remember we had a good time.

I don't often think about Mark anymore. It has been almost 20 years since he died. Today, as I was driving alone in the car, Jesus is Just Alright came on the radio. It is the song he suggested I use as a musical number for my missionary farewell. :)

I sang along, by myself, to every word as tears streamed down my face. I so wish I could know Mark now, as an older and wiser me. I think we would be great friends...

zucchini apocalypse

Forget about a Zombie Apocalypse. I think we are in more danger of zucchini taking over the world. So if you are one of those gardeners who habitually plants too much zucchini: STOP!

While zucchini is good for you and astonishingly easy to grow, and while there are thousands of recipes to help you use up your overzealous crop, even the most health-conscious, zucchini-eating, faux-apple-pie-baking folk around get sick of zucchini. So here are my simple steps to avoid a Zucchini Apocalypse:

Step 1: Plant less. It's simple math: one zucchini seed + sunshine + soil + water = a bazillion zucchini. Or at least enough to feed a family of four, freeze some for winter and share a few with your friends. So just plant one plant. Or, if you are a pessimist like me, plant two, three, or even four seeds (just in case) but thin them as they come up and start to thrive.

I know it's hard, but you can do it; I did. Here is my garden. There is only one zucchini plant growing in this mess and we have had plenty of zucchini for several weeks in a row.

Step 2: Harvest them young. The longer you let them grow, the bigger they get, but bigger zucchini is not better zucchini; it's just more zucchini. I like to pick mine when they are about 8-10 inches long, or about the length of a butter-knife. They are perfect for roasting, grilling, sauteing or baking. If you miss picking one for a day or two, the big ones (below-left) are great for shredding and freezing. I freeze mine in regular, sandwich-sized zip-lock bags and use them to make zucchini bread in the winter. Here is my favorite zucchini bread recipe, although I usually omit the orange zest (because I never have it) and add a little coconut.

Step 3: Compost the excess. There is no need to push unwanted zucchini on family, friends or neighbors; no need to break into a person's car, as the legend goes, or bring baskets full of zucchini to give away at church. Chances are, if you have a spectacular zucchini crop, so does everyone else. So toss your extra, unwanted zucchini straight into the compost pile. Think of it as super cheap fertilizer for next year. :)

jack the bear

This morning I asked Max to feed the cat. For emphasis I added, "fast, like Jack the Bear." Which made me wonder (again) where it came from and what it means.

I know I got it from my dad. He used it often in sentences like this: 'I told old so-and-so I'd stop by and look at that truck, but I'll be fast like Jack the Bear.' Ironically, this usually meant we were about to spend a lot of time waiting in the car while he picked up a part, dropped something off, or helped someone out.

Until I left home, I never thought to ask what it meant. The meaning was clear enough and I thought it was just another one of his colloquialisms, like The Dairy Kink (Dairy Queen), pass the moke, Joke (please pass the milk), back when I was a little girl (a long time ago) or, this is better than hammered horse-pucky (this tastes really good).

It wasn't until I started using it with my kids, who would stare at me and ask "Who's Jack the Bear?" that I realized I didn't know. And then, this morning, I finally thought to google it. I wasn't really expecting to find anything, but it turns out that Jack the Bear is a racing term, meaning the car is moving at optimum efficiency or running flat-out.

Huh. Maybe I'll google hammered horse-pucky...

begin, the rest is easy

I am usually a believer in the phrase, 'Begin, the rest is easy.' I tend to whisper it to myself as a kind of mantra and with almost everything I have done, it has been true. But this summer I started painting the outrageously neglected trim on my old brick home, and I have learned a thing or two.

Or five:

1. When painting the trim on an old home, beginning does not make the rest easy. Rather, beginning means you have to finish, which is the worst possible thing you can imagine once you begin.

2. Painting the trim is not so bad. It's the scraping and caulking that takes so blasted long.

3. Although painting the trim on the exterior of your home will require a lot of paint, do not be tempted to buy the five gallon bucket. Five gallon buckets are surprisingly heavy and the lid is a total pain; unless you are a weight-lifter, you are likely to end up with a great deal of paint pouring down the side of the bucket while struggling to get it back on the ground.

4. Unlike paint buckets, when it comes to ladders, bigger is best. But even the largest, heaviest ladder you own may not be tall enough to reach the highest points of the house, meaning your husband will offer to climb up on the roof to paint them and, while he's up there, put himself in great danger of breaking his neck, or worse - getting white paint where it does not belong.

5. Hauling and maneuvering such a beast of a ladder is likely to make your arms and shoulders ache, although those sore muscles will go nicely with the kink in your neck from tilting your head back, the cramp in your hand from holding a brush for long periods of time, and the raging headache caused by all of the above and, possibly, the fumes from a paint/primer combination powerful enough to make the old wood look good. 

I wish I were writing this in retrospect, but in fact I have only just begun. I hope the rest will be easy.

he may not seem like a superstar

Abby is amazing and everyone notices. She is pretty, talented, smart, outgoing, friendly. We recently timed her to see how long she could go without smiling: not long. Dave's mom has always said she has a star hanging over her head.

Max is more reserved; he won't speak unless he has something to say. He is sensitive and caring but doesn't like people to notice him. He is funny (in the comedic way) with excellent timing and clever wit, but for a long time he got upset when he made people laugh. He avoids shirts and hats with slogans or logos that might spark a conversation with a stranger, or require him to explain his interests and tastes.

Max is talented and smart, just as much as Abby is, but in a different way; a way that is easy to overlook. But every once in awhile, we catch a glimpse of his star, not hanging over his head, like Abby's, but shining out from inside of him.

Like the first time we convinced him to practice his cello in our presence - many weeks after he started orchestra. None of us were prepared for how beautiful he would sound and it wasn't until the last concert of the year that we realized he was playing first chair; he never mentioned it.

When applying for an English class next year, which required a writing sample, I had him pull up a story he's been working on for at least a year or two. It was long - chapters and chapters and chapters long - but I found myself wanting to read the whole thing. As I am not a youth fiction fan, that's impressive!

Today he is supposed to teach a lesson in his church class. When he woke up I offered to read through the lesson, so I could give him some help if he needs it. His reply was something like, 'No, I already know what I need to do,' and then he opened the manual and asked me to type up some word strips to put on the board.

Outwardly, he may not seem like a superstar. But to those who know him best, Max is amazing too.

for better or worse

For a variety of reasons, Dave and I didn't dance at our wedding, and, neither of us being very romantic, we didn't have one song that we considered "ours." This wasn't really a problem of any kind, but we had a surprising number of people ask us what "our song" was, so we chose one at random: Silly Love Song  by Paul McCartney & Wings.

Admittedly cheesy, it's fun to sing and has the words "love song" and "I love you" right in it. No beating around the bush, nothing implied; it just tells it how it is. We started singing it to each other often enough that it actually became our song.

But even better than the song itself is the tradition it inspired. Over the past (almost) 18 years we have been married, we have collected more cheesy love songs; the cheesier the better. With the invention of facebook, youtube and rdio, it's become easier to find them and listen to them, and now Dave has a play list full of cheesy love songs.

There is no rhyme or reason to how we gather them. Sometimes they just pop into our heads, other times we hear them somewhere. Yesterday I woke up thinking of this one: Loving You is Easy 'Cause You're Beautiful by Minnie Riperton. And, last summer, Dave called me "Lady" for some reason, which added both Lady by Styx and Lady by Little River Band to the list.

These may not be the most romantic love songs, and some of them are just down right annoying. But they are "ours" and we love them, for better or worse. Just like we love each other.

liar, liar, pants on fire

I tried some clothes on this afternoon at T.J.Maxx, a task I loathe. Not only do I hate realizing I'm still fat, despite the hours I spend running each week, but I hate how the floor is nasty and the doors only cover the mid-section of my body, so that a really tall person could walk down the aisle and see me in my underwear.

The only really good part about entering a dressing room, for me, is the fact that most people seem to forget that only their mid-sections are covered by those stingy little doors, so everything they say is clearly heard by everyone around them. Since eavesdropping on strangers is a favorite pastime of mine, this scenario has high entertainment value and in a dressing room they can't see me, so I don't have to avert my eyes or pretend I'm not listening.

This was the conversation I overheard today. It is one-sided because the woman was talking on her cell phone...

"Yes, I'm on my way. The traffic is AWFUL! Oh, I know. I'm on my way. There is just SO much traffic and DETOURS everywhere! Well, I'm trying... I'll be there soon... I'm on my way..."

Liar, liar, pants on fire. The college students are gone now; there were hardly any cars on the road. And she was in there another ten minutes. :)

hope in his eyes

My schedule is all messed up at work right now, due to all the end of year stuff, so I haven't been reading with my students as much. The other day, one of the first-graders I read with saw me walk into the room and a big smile spread across his face. He pulled off his headphones and with hope in his eyes he asked, "Is it my turn today?"

Oh, that sweet little boy! There is nothing like a small child to remind you how important you are in life.

is this my favorite actor?

If you ask my kids what my favorite color is, they will tell you I don't have one, because I like all the colors. And I don't have a favorite food, because I don't want the other foods to feel bad. The same goes for movies, books, songs, bands, and the like. I told them this when they were little because the question, "What is your favorite...blah, blah, blah" often came up.

In truth, I don't really like all the colors in the world, and I know foods don't have feelings, so I don't lose sleep over that. In truth, I don't have favorites because I just can't decide. How can I choose only one book to love? Or only one dessert? There are so many variables at any given time, I can't commit.

For me, this has never been a problem. Aside from taking a bit longer to choose from a menu, I think I have managed to live a rich life. For my husband however, my not having favorites must have been a bit of a bane; at some point in the last 18 years, he started assigning me favorite things.

I'm not really sure how he decides, but it is fun to guess what my "favorites" are. For example, when he buys ice cream and I say, "What kind did you get?" and he says, "Your favorite," it's like a game to guess which flavor it is. And, since my memory is bad, it's a game every time. Right now my "favorite" is Orange Cream, which I do really like, unlike a former "favorite," Butter Pecan, which I don't like at all.

I also have "favorite" actors and actresses, which can either be people I do enjoy, like Johnny Depp, or people I don't, like Helen Hunt, who annoys me almost to death. For awhile my "favorite" actor was Greg Kinear (?) but most recently it is Hugh...Jackman. (I just had to check with Max.)  And once, at the beginning of a show, I leaned over to Abby and said, "Is this my favorite actor?" to which she replied, "Yes."

the great funeral potato famine

Tomorrow is Easter, so I am planning a dinner full of feast-y foods, including some standard Mormon-Mom dishes, like "Raspberry Delight" and "Funeral Potatoes." This is a treat around here since, although I am both Mormon and a mom, I am socially deviant and only make jello once or twice a year. I also typically avoid making dishes that have all my allotted daily calories in one serving, except on special occasions.

For those of you who have never heard of "Funeral Potatoes," take heart; they are not as morbid as they sound. They are simply some version of sliced, diced, grated or cubed potatoes mixed with a bit of onion, butter, cream of chicken soup, sour cream and grated cheese. If a person is extra fancy, they might add some crushed cornflakes on top.

Some people call them other things, like "Nauvoo Potatoes" or "Potato Casserole," but I call them "Funeral Potatoes" because in our church, when someone dies, it is tradition for the local church members to provide a meal for the family following the funeral. Most often, the church provides the meat and local members are asked to bring salads, desserts, rolls, and potatoes. And when someone you care about has lost someone they love, plain old potatoes just don't seem right.

But Funeral Potatoes are obviously very rich, so I only make them for funerals and feasts. Unfortunately, so does everyone else; late last night I sent Dave to the store to buy some frozen diced potatoes (by far the best way to go!) but they were out of stock. A store employee confirmed the potato supply was completely wiped out. None in the freezer case, none in the back.

Dave promised he will check some other stores this morning, but I am worried we will have no luck. We might be experiencing the great funeral potato famine of 2012...

i am at the cinema

Last weekend we went to see the Hunger Games. Since Dave had already suffered through it once with Max, I took the kids by myself. This rarely happens. I am a strong, independent, resourceful woman, but there are certain things I prefer to avoid. Like movie crowds. And mice. And drains clogged with hair. So when I go to a movie, I go with Dave. He buys the tickets, and the overpriced drinks and I find a seat with the kids.

This time, without my brave knight, Abby offered to buy the drinks. Unfortunately, they were out of the flavors she ordered, and she ended up with two Pepsi Slurpees instead. But Max doesn't drink caffeine and as I'm diabetic, a giant sugary Slurpee is not my friend, so there we sat with an extra $4 Slurpee when Dave texted me to see how I was holding up.

The cheapskate in me hatched a brilliant plan: Dave could come get the Slurpee and drink it at home; Abby would walk it out to him when he arrived. They both agreed, and when the time came, Abby decided to take the popcorn out for a butter refill. When she left, I pictured her traipsing around the parking lot with a giant Slurpee in one hand and a bucket of popcorn in the other, and I laughed out loud; loud enough to catch Max's attention.

Right after that, my sister called. Since I didn't want to start a conversation just minutes before the show, I used an automated message option that comes up on my phone. Trying to act quickly, I saw one that said, "I am at the cinema." Not quite the words I would normally use, but close enough. I selected that option and sent the text. Laughing again, I showed Max what I sent. He laughed but said nothing more.

Until Abby came back. Then Max described to Abby what had occurred while she was gone:

"Abby, Mom laughed like this, 'Ah, hahahaha' (putting a hand to his chest) and then sent a text saying 'I am at the cinema.'" Apparently this was an extremely funny thing, because they both took it up and have been at it all week; every time I laugh out loud, they put their hands to their chests and say, "Ah, hahahaha, I am at the cinema."

And, when I texted Abby "good night" the other night, this was her reply:

I am at the cinema.

Which made me laugh out loud, of course, "Ah, hahahaha..."

far too little love

Tonight we went to a drum line competition. If you've never been to one, you should go. It's sort of like watching interpretive dance, except the dancers are lugging around drums. And it's pretty cool that even the kids who don't look exactly right, or dress exactly right, or don't (in some cases) shower regularly can be included. Or so I thought.

After watching five or six other drum lines, some acting like marionettes, others wearing capes, a tiny little drum line took it's place for the final act. There were five of them, including at least one adult and one small child, each dressed as a character from the Wizard of Oz. The two teenagers were siblings, and judging from their similar bear-like body type, I'm pretty sure one of the adults was their mom.

As I watched them set up, my heart broke a little; they looked so small and forlorn. After looking up their tiny little town, and realizing they came from a reservation five hours away, my heart broke a little more.

And then they played. Quietly. Carefully. Stiffly. The arrangement wasn't hard. But it was obvious they had worked on this show. Probably just as hard as the rest of the bands, possibly even more.

But no one seemed to care.

I don't think more than a couple people cheered them on during the show, not even when the bear-like girl, in ruby-red slippers and a Dorothy dress, did a two measure solo on the snares. They had cheered for everyone else who soloed, but not for her. A few people laughed while they put on their show. Most people talked - really loud. So loud, you could hardly hear them play.

And that's when I wanted to cry.

What would it cost us to cheer that band on? To stand up and really cheer them on. What would it give them to hear a crowd roar, in response to their own great efforts? What could we give them to take back to their town, to encourage them all to carry on?

Unfortunately, we gave them nothing. They won no award. Their names were not called. No paper, or plaque went home with that band. Whatever they got, they got from themselves, and I am ashamed. Those kids didn't choose to be born where they are. They didn't choose to be awkwardly large. They have spirits and hearts and hopes just like ours, but so many more limitations.

By the time I got home, I was actually in tears. I'm in tears as I write this now. There is too much selfishness and greed in our hearts, and far too little love. I point my finger at no one alone, except for maybe myself. Because I know how often I put myself first; I know I could give so much more. I could. I can. I must. I must give more.

winnie the pooh energies

The other day I noticed a link on facebook for a free "beauty profiling" course. Since I always need to be a little more beautiful, I decided to check it out. True to it's word, it is free, and it's fairly interesting. The lady teaching the course is an MRET, which, according to my Google search, either means she is some kind of molecular water activator, a "mandatory renewable energy target," or she is a Master Energy Therapist, with an additional special, but unspecified, skill beginning with an "R."

Whatever she is, her beauty profiling system is based on the concept of four energies: air, water, earth and fire. Her theory is that everyone has each of these elements inherent in them, but we all lead with one dominant energy. This energy expresses itself in our body language, facial features, speech patterns, personality and behavior. It affects our likes and dislikes and determines how we approach the world, as well as our relationships with others.

Her course really is interesting and I do hope it will make me more beautiful! But as I have soaked in everything she has to say, I think her energy profiling system is simpatico with the one Dave and I have been using for years, based on Winnie the Pooh. You can see here how well they mesh:

Air = Tigger: bubbly, light, full of life, likes to have loads of fun. (Abby, Dave)
Water = Pooh: relaxed, smooth, steady, flowing, wants everything and everyone at peace. (Dave, Max)
Earth = Kanga: solid, calm, wise, independently knows what to do and how to do it best. (Me)
Fire = Rabbit: pushy, bossy, gets in and gets things done, always working on something. (Abby, Max, Me)

Maybe our system isn't quite as advanced, and I can't say it will improve your beauty in any way, but try it; it's fun and doesn't involve any lengthy videos...unless you've never seen Winnie the Pooh.

a recess lady

I have a great job. I work with kids who need a little extra help reading, at a fantastic school, just a couple miles from my home. I work three hours a day, from nine to noon, which is a perfect shift for my current life.

Most days I have no complaints, except for a few about recess duty. It gets especially bad in the winter...

Last week we got hit with a big snow storm, leaving at least four inches of snow on the ground, which translates to snowbanks about 4 feet high on the playground.  I hate these snow banks.  They take forever to melt, and cause a myriad of problems: cold hands, wet pants, bloody noses, missing teeth, fights, and long recesses spent reminding the kids to "be careful" (yeah, right).   

I could elaborate here on how annoying it is that the snow removal people pile the snow up into these banks right on the edge of the blacktop so as to create a hard, gravelly landing pad at the end of a solid mound of ice, but they have obviously never had to spend an entire recess trying to keep hundreds of kids between the ages 6 and 12 "safe" while sliding down an ice-mound before, so it's probably a moot point. 

So I will skip ahead to how bothersome it is to watch kids wearing shorts and t-shirts sliding on the ice. I know sometimes it isn't worth a fight, but honestly, when the weather app says "27, feels like 12" it might be a good day for a coat, or at least pants.

Throwing snow is strictly prohibited on the playground, but the prohibition of snowballs reminds me a lot of The Prohibition of alcohol; it's only really off-limits when someone is watching. Also like alcohol, irresponsible use of snow tends to lead to a lot of problems. Several weeks ago, someone came and told me another kid had thrown snow at him. In an attempt to talk to the guilty party and remind him of the rule, he started screaming at me that he hates school and smacked me upside the head. Of course I felt this was somehow all my fault. 

My final woe is this: although it is super amazing and fun to build a giant snowball, or -man, or -fort, not all the recess ladies in the world can keep other kids from tearing it apart.  Even if I am asked by a hundred different kids who I really, really like, I cannot guarantee it will be there when you come back out. It's a sad truth in life: "If you build it, [they] will come [to knock that sucker down]."

So chin up, and carry on. Your life could always be worse. You could be a recess lady. ;)

more

The other day, I stumbled across an album of my first few years with Dave. At the end was a pile of letters we had sent to each other, just before our wedding, while living in different towns. Before tucking them away for another who-knows-how-long, I took the time to read them. I was a little disappointed. The letters seem so shallow to me now. So empty and void of...something.

At first, this made me sad. I've often thought of those years as the time we loved each other most. When everything was blissful, uncomplicated, new. But now I realize the way I loved Dave back then is like a beautiful, brand-new book. One with a nice, shiny cover, pages clean and bright. But no words.

The way I love Dave now is like an old book. The cover is smudged and worn. Some pages are dog-eared, some wrinkled from tears. Some chapters we cling to, others we'd like to forget. But our book is still bound and the words are filling up fast.

The way I love Dave now is...more. Rarely blissful, seldom uncomplicated, never new. But more.