Fire in the Hole! (Or New Year's Resolutions)

This is not my oven.  I did not, in the middle of a slight emergency, take the time to find my camera and take a picture.  This is a picture from the internet I'm using for illustrative purposes because, according to blogging experts, blog posts should come with at least one picture. 

One seemingly calm evening in early fall, I baked something, which happens every full moon during leap years. I bake in the oven that came with the house and hasn’t been cleaned since we moved into said house. There are bits of charcoal that have gathered on the bottom of the oven which I think lend the foods a nice, smoky flavor, appreciated when baking pizzas but not so much when baking, say, banana bread.

I was baking macaroni and cheese when the fire alarm went off. I opened the oven to find that my charcoal collection had caught on fire, which was an inevitable development, I suppose, but I panicked nonetheless. Here is Caleb’s account of what happened:

“Yeah, my mom screamed really loud and then threw water on it and the next day she went out and bought a fire extinguisher.”

This account was relayed to my babysitter, who had to contend with her own charcoal fire when making frozen pizzas for the kids last week.

“Why didn’t she just clean the oven?” the babysitter asked.

Why didn’t she, indeed. (Fires in the kitchen are actually a somewhat common occurrence in the Jennings’ household.)

This event is indicative of the level of chaos my kids have come to expect in our household.

All this to say that my new year’s resolution is to get my sh@# together. Because setting your house on fire is not being a good parent.

I’m on a new cocktail of meds that will supposedly help to keep me out of the mental ward (ha ha!), but they make me dizzy and forgetful. So, the next month will be about playing around with dosages, etc. Sometimes the cure is worse than the malady, but I guess I’d rather be forgetful than, you know, an inert weirdo.

(Which sounds better?)

Babysitter: So why didn’t your mom just clean the oven?

Caleb: Because she’s an inert weirdo, of course.

OR:

Babysitter:  So why didn't your mom just clean the oven?

Caleb:  She just forgot.  No biggie.  Everyone's okay.

(I thought so.)

New year’s resolutions:

• Don’t obsess over little things

• Hug my kids every day

• Respond with kindness, not impatience and anger

• Let go of those things I have no control over

• Take hold of the things I do have control over

• Be the more loving one

The More Loving One by WH Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total dark sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.

Caution: Disturbing Images Follow

The plural of crocus is "crocuses" OR "croci."  I prefer "croci." 

"Look!  Look at all the croci!" I yelled to the kids.  They whipped their heads around.

"Crocodile?" asked Daniel. 

We were pleased as punch to spot the little purple flowers peeking through dead leaves and shredded napkins.  (I've really got to clear out my flower beds.)

Another sign of spring: 'tis St. Patty's Day- and Caleb's elaborate leprechaun trap failed him yet again. The leprechaun left a note, took a bite out of a couple of jellybeans, and stole all the money Caleb had left out to lure him into the trap.  Caleb was, surprisingly, pleased as punch.

(He doesn't know this, but the leprechaun deposited the dollar coins right back into Caleb's bank.  Leprechauns are not as pernicious as folklore would have you believe.)

Our St. Patty's Day celebration is extended this year.  Tomorrow, John is going to make corned beef and cabbage and participate in the Protestant St. Patrick's Day moratorium on promises made during Lent.  I.e., he will drink a Guinness or two.  I think he made this moratorium up.  To which I say, for shame. 

I hate corned beef and cabbage.  I think that if you cook a meat that is red and it stays red, it should be treated as rancid.  Ick.  And cabbage?  Only acceptable in coleslaw, and then only if presented with minimal mayonnaise, not that soupy atrocity they serve at most diners. 

Have you driven by a field of cabbage during harvest season?  Have you smelled the foul stench? 

However, being a most obliging wife, I did pick up the brisket and cabbage at the supermarket.  I didn't get potatoes because I had some at home. 

This evening, John went to retrieve the potatoes from my insulated vegetable drawer.  He made a horrible face and demanded I come look.

Oh my gosh I've never seen anything more terrifying in my life I thought we were doomed it was awful.

My potatoes had grown extraordinary tentatacles that ripped through their bag threatening our very existence on this earth.  

It was a science experiment gone most awry. 

There was screaming and flapping of arms. 

And then I was made to go to the supermarket to get more of this awful tuberous vegetable.  Which seemed unjust.

And tonight as I sit here, thoroughly traumatized, where is the husband?

Off at a couch burning.  Which is how they celebrate St. Patrick's Day in Ireland.  (Well- the Protestants, anyway.  The Catholics have a moratorium on couch burnings during Lent.)

Happy St. Patrick's Day. 

(The following pictures are not for children or people with heart conditions.)

Leftovers

Perhaps even more amusing than Daniel catapulting his peas across the kitchen is the conversation between John and Caleb. They are discussing whether or not all scientists are nerds. How much studying of science DOES make one a "nerd?" These are perplexing questions. I'm so proud my son has thought to ask them.

Caleb is the only child, by the way, who will eat turkey. Ella won't even eat apple pie, which is making me wonder if perhaps she was conceived when we were in Canada, because she doesn't seem American.

I really hate dinner time.

A Dinner Effort

I am celebrating the onset of cool fall water by shaking things up a little in our household... wait for it... I am making dinner. I mean, actually preparing a home-cooked meal instead of sticking something frozen in the microwave or ordering a pizza from Mark’s.

Since dinner generally goes so poorly, I am loathe to put any effort into making something fancy- and I admit my definition of fancy may differ greatly from yours. Dinner generally ends in tears and mass consumption of the yogurt I keep stocked in the fridge for these numerous occasions. I usually stop crying by the kids' bedtime and they, at least, get calcium and protein from the yogurt.

Making a meal means following some sort of recipe that uses mysterious words like “dredge” and “braise” and “simmer.” However, if other people can do this, why not me?

I am inspired by my fellow blogger friend who writes the charming Life in A-Town. She shared her lack of housekeeping and culinary skills recently, and as I read her piece, An A-Town First: Recipe- For a Clean House and a Home-cooked Meal, I thought to myself, I could have written this verbatim. Especially the shoving of papers into random closets pre-guest arrival. There was one exception: I rarely cook for visitors, we almost always order pizza or grab subs from Wegmans, because I have a fear of poisoning somebody. But gosh, that cheesy casserole thing she forewent for the yummy stew? Sounds delectable. This may or may not be a hint for a dinner invite.

There are several things to think about when I cook dinner.

1) Will anyone eat this?

I have actually begun a list of home-cooked meals all four of the children will eat. So far, this includes homemade macaroni and cheese and baked ham. That’s it. And I actually don’t even bake the ham. It is pre-cooked and I just, well, microwave it and serve some mashed potatoes on the side. (I just thought of something! I could put ham IN the macaroni and cheese!! Wunderbar!)

Last week, I made my signature spaghetti and meatballs. Caleb ate them. Ella not only refused them, but threw her meatballs AND her bread roll. Daniel refused the entire thing as well, though he happily devoured his roll and the one that Ella threw in his general direction. Ben ate the noodles. He pretty much refuses to eat any meat product. This may account for his pallor.

2) Do I have sufficient ingredients to make this food?

I needed vegetable oil to brown some beef in. I couldn’t find it. It took me a while to remember I had moved it to the high, far corner of the pantry, where the twins couldn’t see or reach it. They had an annoying habit of pulling it out of the pantry and bringing it to me, whining, “Juice? Juice?”

3) There are other questions I must ask myself, like:

How long are onions good for in the fridge? Do bouillon cubes expire? Can I substitute tomato paste for tomato sauce? Where are my swimming goggles?

Swimming goggles are an absolute necessity for me when dealing with onions. There is no other way to not have watery, burning eyes for the rest of the night. I’ve tried everything else Martha Stewart has suggested. I came up with the swimming goggles on my own. Sometimes, I have moments of absolute brilliance.

The following is a lovely fall recipe and one of my favorites from my childhood. My mom occasionally still makes me a birthday dinner, and when she does, I request this. It is yummy. It also works well in the slow-cooker. For sides, I recommend any kind of frozen veggie that can be unthawed about seven minutes before you’re ready to eat. Or bread from the store. Or nothing-tell the kids to suck it up.

Braised Cheddar Beef Cubes

2 1/2 lbs of stew beef, cut up
¼ cup of flour
¼ tsp pepper
1 tsp salt
3 T. oil
2 bouillon cubes
1 onion, chopped
½ tsp celery seed
¾ cup water
15 oz tomato sauce
2 T brown sugar
4 oz grated cheddar
8 oz fresh mushrooms, halved

Dredge beef in flour, salt, pepper. Brown and pair off excess oil. Add bouillon cubes, onion, celery seed, and water. Cover, cook slowly 1-1 1/2 hours. Add tomato sauce and sugar- cook 20 minutes or until beef is tender. Add cheese and mushrooms. Cook 10 minutes. Serve over rice or noodles.

Postscript:

Dinner did not go well. Don’t let this deter you from making his recipe. Normal children like it. Here were the opinions of my four:

Caleb: “I kind of like it.” He ate three bites and declared he was finished.
Ben: “I’m going to choke!” He spit his first and only bite into his milk.
Daniel: “No! No no no no no!” He flat out refused.
Ella: “Cheese! Cheese!” Though she had a hankering for a slice of American processed cheese food, she did eat several bites! A great success for Ella. I rewarded her with cheese.

Where the devil is my dinnertime sleeping pillow?

This is what happens to little girls who refuse to take their naps. Don't feel sorry for her. Really. Feel sorry for her extremely tired mama who wanted to take a nap right then too, but had to pick up all of the food on the floor, do the dishes, fold laundry, wipe down the counters and the table, give baths, clean up all the sand that fell out of people's pants, tuck kids into bed, wipe Ben's butt after he pooped (why is his poop schedule now ten minutes after he goes to bed no matter what time he goes to bed????), finish my own dinner, and watch a movie with my husband.

Do. Not. Feel. Sorry. For. Her.

(The movie was so cute, btw. I forget the title. It had Paul Rudd in it and the girl who used to be Jim's girlfriend on The Office. John says she has an adam's apple but I think she's pretty.)

God and Politics

I hate dinner time. Hate it hate it hate it. If you haven’t seen the video I posted, which features a not-that-uncommon dinner scenario at the Jennings’ household, you should probably check it out. Especially if you’re looking into birth control. Heck, show it to your teenage kids. It will scare the living doo-doo out of them.

Dinner always starts out rough. Friends and family, especially our non-Christian friends, are always incredibly amused by the fact that our older boys fight over who gets to say the mealtime prayer. It’s gotten to the point where I have to keep track of who said it last. If Caleb says the prayer at breakfast, then Ben says it at lunch, Caleb says it again at dinner, which means that Ben gets to say the prayer twice the next day. It’s absolutely ridiculous. I would just say the prayer myself, but I might end up praying that God turns my children into mutes, which probably isn’t a good thing to petition God for.

The prayer itself is pretty basic. In fact, the boys don’t waver in their address to the Lord Almighty at all. It goes like this:

Dear God. Thank you for this day. Help us to get a good sleep. Bless this food to our bodies. Help G__ the Bear to get better. Amen.

(G__ the Bear is really just G__. He is John’s best friend from college, and is currently tussling with cancer. We attribute all of the success of his treatments directly to the many prayers the boys have offered up on his behalf.) Why G__ the Bear? Before his chemo treatments, G__ had a sizeable beard (think Civil War general) that made him appear, well, bear-like to the boys.

I have no idea how sleeping got incorporated into the mealtime prayer. Whatever.

Things go downhill from there. Sometime I will tell the extremely sad and somewhat horrific story of the night I served Tilapia.

Caleb, a budding Christian fundamentalist wack-a-doo, is that kid in Sunday School who raises his hand after every question and answers… “Jesus?”

He is also (and this may seem odd) an ardent fan of Barack Obama. He voted for him in his elementary school’s presidential election. He gets giddy if he sees the president on television or on the cover of a magazine. He is a bit star-struck, the same way he is about Spikes, the mascot of the Rochester Red Wings baseball team.

He is, I believe, a little flummoxed that his own father voted for the other guy. Here is a conversation they had earlier this evening:

Caleb: Why didn’t you vote for Barack Obama?

John: I didn’t think he was the best candidate.

Caleb: You voted for McCain?

John: Yup.

Caleb: You thought he was the best guy?

John: I didn’t think he was the best guy. The re-animated corpse of Ronald Reagan would have been better than McCain. But I thought he was better than the other guy.

---pause… Caleb is thinking…pause---

Caleb: God is the best guy.

John: Well, God can’t be president. He isn’t a natural born citizen of the United States.

And I end it there. And now you know that this is a blog you can turn to for your daily dose of religion and politics.

Purgatory

I'm a protestant Christian and therefore do not believe in purgatory. In fact, I don't even know the true definition of purgatory and am too lazy to look it up. I'm going to be COMPLETELY sacreligious and tell you what I imagine it to be like: some place where you are waiting, uncomfortably, though not in physical pain, to be admitted into heaven.

I imagine purgatory is different for different people. For my husband, purgatory would probably be some place where he was forced to listen to Enya while sorting cherries. For me, it would either be having to suffer through a lifetime of dinners with my four children, or the following:

Wandering the floors of a hospital with Benjamin, the twins, and a broken stroller. On Wednesday, I had a surreal experience at Rochester General. Ella had an appointment with her urologist. We arrived ON TIME. I had Ben and Daniel in tow, as well. I put the twins in the double stroller which, I should tell you, has a broken wheel. The wheel is no longer attached, per se, to the stroller. It can, however, be briefly maneuvered into place where it will stay for very short periods of time until it pops off. Then I have to stop the stroller, give it a good kick back into place, and continue. In the meantime, every person I pass feels the need to tell me my wheel is about to fall off. I feel like a boob telling them, "I know... I'm just making due because I'd rather push a broken stroller through the hospital than let my toddlers walk. They're BAD walkers." By "bad" I mean they tend to walk in circles so that it feels like I have two giggling satellites orbitting me. This is pretty much the way my life is like at home, too. Giggling, orbitting, drooling satellites.

We made it to the doctor's office where we were informed that we were supposed to be at radiology. I missed this somehow. It was probably my fault, but I'm blaming them. I did NOT receive the memo.

Radiology is a horrible place. The last time Ella had her kidneys and bladder x-rayed, they literally stuck her in a tube where she could not move so that they could get accurate pictures. She was only a few weeks old at the time, and I could not believe I was actually ALLOWING some person to stick the baby girl I had so longed for in a plastic tube.

From Ella's doctor's office, radiology happens to be on the complete opposite end of the hospital. To give you some perspective, Rochester General has two separate parking garages: one next to the building we were at, and one next to radiology. I dutifully pushed my sad stroller back into the elevator we had just arrived on. The twins munched on pretzels as Ben pushed the emergency button. A voice came suddenly from above (this happens a lot in purgatory) and I quickly yelled, "my kid did it! It was an accident! Everything's good here... how are you?"

Except for stopping several times to fix the stroller and taking a brief respite at the hospital oasis (i.e. the water fountain), our journey was fairly uneventful. We arrived outside radiology where a large man with a shaved head, a tattoo of a fire-breathing dragon, and a Yankee's baseball jersey sat on a bench packing his cigarettes. Ben looked at him, narrowed his eyes and said, "the Yankees are stupid." At that moment, the wheel to the stroller popped off and landed at the man's feet. He stared at me. "I'm so sorry," I whispered. I grabbed the wheel and then Ben and somehow we all made it through the door and into the waiting room without getting shot.

Now I would have procured babysitting for the boys if I had realized I was going to have to hold my daughter down while people I have never met before stuck a catheter into her urethra. Really. Hearing Ella scream like she's dying while she looks at me plaintively is not a picnic. Ben and Daniel sat outside the room with the nicest nurse in the world drawing pictures of Jedis and wavy lines, respectively.

After the x-rays were taken, we were supposed to head back to the urologist's office to discuss the results. I felt we could discuss them just fine on the phone and took my kids and my broken stroller and headed for the parking garage... on the other side of the hospital. On our way out a woman in hospital garb chased after us... "Miss! Miss!" I stopped and turned around. "Your wheel is about to fall off!"