It's not a party until...

... your six-year old has diarrhea all over your friend’s bathroom floor.

But that was later in the evening.

Before the diarrhea came the chicken wings.

We begin on Saturday evening, when our family went to eat out at Quaker State and Lube, which is supposed to have the best chicken wings around. Unfortunately, the wings were not up to par. They were overcooked and, for a place that has the word “lube” right there in their name, incredibly dry.

“This is unusual,” John insisted. “They are not up to par.”

“Denny’s wings are better than these,” I said.

Yesterday, we had big Super Bowl plans, and I set our to prove that I could make better chicken wings than the ones that had been served at Quaker State and Lube.  ("They're usually so much better than that," said John.  "They really weren't up to par.")  I was going to follow the traditional Frank’s Red Hot recipe, but John had a better idea. He had read about the “best way to make Buffalo wings” from a guy who writes for Deadspin. I was strongly encouraged to follow said recipe.

The Jamboroo is a weekly Deadspin column written by Drew Magary, whose book The Postmortal I received for Christmas. (Thanks Lisa!) I actually had no idea he was a sports writer, so this was an odd coincidence. Recently, Magary gave 20 rules for having a Super Bowl party, including: You must have a high definition television. Do not mix partisan and nonpartisan guests. Buy a plunger. Mandatory food items: Wings, Nacho Cheese Doritos, Nachos, chips and salsa, chili, guacamole, eight foot long italian sub, cookies, jar of frosting with spoon in it (for me only). Always keep a separate room to stage monkey fights in. Etcetera, etcetera… all very practical suggestions. I would’ve totally have fought him over the jar of frosting with spoon in it. We ignored his no kids rule, however, and found out how very wise he actually was in making these rules. Comes from years of experience, I suppose.

Anyway, the wings. My initial plan had been to use the slow cooker, but the slow cooker was dismissed as “disgusting” and “what are you completely crazy, are you not even from western New York you idiot?” by both a beloved family member and the internet.

I found Magary to be an irreverent chef with a foul mouth. Rachael Ray he is not. Nonetheless, I had great success with his baked chicken wing recipe. Here is a modified version. (I improved it even further- no kidding!):

Buy a club pack of cheapo wings from your local favorite spot to buy club packs. Take (thawed) wings and mix them with olive oil (2-3 TB) and Adobo seasoning ( 2-3 TB; found in the ethnic section, by all the Goya.)

Line a casserole dish with tinfoil, and make sure it is covered with olive oil so the wings don’t stick. You don’t want to lose the skin! You can also line the dish with parchment paper to avoid using extra oil, but the tinfoil makes the wings crispier. Yum.

Bake chicken wings at 400 degrees for 40 minutes, flipping halfway through.
Meanwhile, melt a stick of butter and mix with half of a large bottle of Frank Red Hot, less if you prefer “mild” wings, more if you prefer “hot.”

When wings are done, douse those suckers with the buffalo wing sauce. Stick them back in the oven for another 20-30 minutes, reducing heat to 300 degrees. This allows the sauce to really bake into the wings. You will have plenty of sauce left over for dipping.

Serve with blue cheese dressing and celery. Impress friends and family. Become referred to by all as “the wing lady.”

Ben possibly ate too much junk food. While my girlfriends and I were doing our Superbowl thing, i.e. playing Rummikub and deciding that Madonna looked like person whose chiropractor had told her to take it easy that night, Ben was sampling the chicken wings, the éclair cake, the chips and dip, cheese balls, cupcakes, cookies, etc. Hence, the diarrhea on my poor friend’s bathroom floor.

We took the kids home after that incidence, right before the end of the third period. The three boys were determined to stay awake to see whether or not Tom Brady would fail and take his anger out on his model girlfriend.  2/3rds didn't make it:

Caleb is glad to see the Giants win. 

Today's song is, of course, from Queen.  Sorry Patriots fans. 

I've heard this song dozens of times in my lifetime, but I've never seen  this video.  Holy cow, what is he wearing.  It's audacious, even for a gay man. And there are an alarming number of men without shirts on in the audience. 

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.)

Christmas Reflections

I am frazzled.  I blame Christmas entirely.  I don't think the sweet 7 lb 11 oz baby Jesus would approve of the frenzy that surrounds the celebration of his birth.  I swear I have an ulcer.  Or maybe I've just been eating too much junk food.  Either way, it's not good. 

So I'm glad it's pretty much over.  Somehow, I have to get this house recovered by around 5:00 on New Year's Eve.  I can't believe no one got me a free year of Merry Maids. 

There were some splendid moments.  A few minor miracles. 

For instance, I made enough cookies for a pretty Christmas cookie platter.  I'm sad to say the dog ate a good portion of these when she escaped from her crate the other night, but on Christmas Eve, they were lovely.

Our tanenbaum.  The kids decorated it and this year, I didn't rearrange the ornaments.  That's not entirely true.  I moved all the ones on the bottom up higher so the dog wouldn't eat them.  The dog consuming all Christmas-related things was a major theme of our holiday this year.

On Christmas Eve, Ella cuddles with Justin Bieber.  No, it's not really Justin Bieber.  It's Jacob, my friend Janet's son.  I hope his girlfriend doesn't get too jealous over this picture.  (Note Ella's pink boots.  They were also a definite theme this holiday.)

Our friend Billy reads an "interactive" Christmas story to the kids.  This is Caleb interacting. 

Christmas morning at last!  While reading the story of the birth of Christ from the book of Luke- right before we are about to open present when the kids are so excited they look as though they might pee their pants- John sends the kids a look of irritation.  There's nothing more vexing than having your children behave like children on Christmas morning on Christmas morning.  Sheesh. 

Ella opens the first gift on Christmas morning.  It's the gift of- arting!  WE LOVE ARTING!  Boots are a go.

Here is Caleb.  He has just opened up his Spy Net Video Watch, which records audio, video, and takes pictures.  And this is not creepy or annoying at all. 

Note Caleb's busted lip.  He fell off the top bunk, flat onto his face..  He was "trying to sit on the very, very edge of the bed.  But IT DOESN'T HURT MOM!"  Ben, on the other hand, gasped in pain every time he wiggled his newly loose tooth and nearly had a panic attack when it started bleeding.  These are two very different people.

Yes, I bought my husband a machete for Christmas.  Because I am an awesome wife.  And because I am concerned about the inevitable impending zombie apocalypse.



Benjamin lost his tooth during our Christmas dinner!  His very first tooth!  I am so glad it happened Christmas day and not Christmas Eve.  Santa's PR reps try to keep this information under raps, but you should know that Santa and the Tooth Fairy have an unpleasant history and actually cannot stand one another.  (It stems from the following argument:  who works harder?  TF works all year, but Santa visits every child in one night.  It's a tough call.)  I so did not want a confrontation in the middle of the night. 

December 26th= Christmas #2 at the in-laws!  There were three puppies present.  Three.  Is this the Chinese year of the dog? 

I continue to torture Kiah by dressing her in costumes.  So long as she keeps stealing food and breaking precious memorabilia, I will continue to do so.

Ben relaxes with uncle Richie and aunt Michelle. 

Uncle Scott, Ella's favorite person in the entire world thank you very much, has just placed a crown on Ella's head.  We will ignore the fact that it is crooked because he is a man and doesn't have any children yet. 

Ella does love to get dressed up.  She was wearing a new jumper that morning.  She added layers of new clothes as she opened them.  She received a Tinkerbell costume later in the afternoon which she insisted on putting on immediately.  By the end of the day, she looked like a very fancy homeless person.  (Yes.  She is wearing her pink boots.)

Christmas #3 at my dad's...

John shows off his "beard."  He tries this every year.  Silly, silly man. 

On Christmas morning, I opened my gift from John: a netbook.  Which immediately broke.  My toy broke!  I have to get another one.  I will wait for it under my new sherpa blanket, which makes me very, very happy.  Sherpa blankets make winter much more bearable. 

Daniel asked me to take this picture.  So I did.

And that was our Christmas in a nutshell.  A whirlwind of beloved family members, wrapping paper, and dogs. 

In a half an hour, it is my birthday.  I will be 33.  One year older than Sally of Harry and Sally fame, and the same age as Jesus when he died.  (And yes, my birthday totally gets overshadowed by His, but I don't hold it against Him.)  So, of course, there's much reflection on the things I have not accomplished during my time on earth.  (Jesus: masters carpentry, saves the world.  Holly: masters cookie platters, saves leftovers.) 

Of course, comparing myself to the world's ONLY perfect person is folly.  It's convenient that my birthday falls so close to New Year's: I can make grandiose resolutions once instead of twice during the year.  This year, I resolve to emulate Christ without striving for perfection.  You were striving for perfection?  Really?  I would never ever have guessed that in a million years based on the way your house looks and also your hair. 

I was.

You know what happens when you strive for perfection?  You realize how utterly insufficient you are.  You become overwhelmed.  Then paralyzed.  And small hills become the Himalayas.  And you dream of perfection without actually accomplishing... anything at all.  And you become depressed and despondent and numb. 

Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead,  I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.

Philippians 3:13-14

I am looking forward to year 33.  Pressing on! 

Merry Christmas!  I hope you have had a peaceful and blessed holiday.

He Leaves Belts Places

John and I do not argue in a healthy way. Which is probably my fault. He accuses me of taking a jujitsu approach when receiving criticism. If John, for instance, implies that the house is messy or that I should put my keys away so I can find them the next day, I retort with something like “YOU LEAVE BELTS PLACES!!!” Because he does. He never puts his belts away. He comes home, takes off his stupid belt, and leaves it in a place that is not his closet.

It is hard to keep a clean house when your husband leaves belts places. Also socks, shoes, and other work-attire accoutrements.

Last evening, we enjoyed a raucous night out with my sister Mary and her husband, whom I will refer to as Nate, because that is his name. We went off to a really wonderful Mediterranean restaurant in the city, Eros, which is behind and to the left of the Little Theatre. Not 2 Vine. Go beyond 2 Vine.

Lest this turns into a restaurant review site, I will just say the following: if you happen to have the chance to go out with friends or your significant other and you choose The Olive Garden instead of Eros or Scotland Yard or DaVinci’s, I think you are making a colossal mistake. I guarantee that the food is better, the service more personable, the atmosphere distinctive, and the wait nonexistent at Eros. And the price is comparable.

The Olive Garden is prosaic.

I ordered a cucumber melon soup followed by an entrée of Mousaka with sautéed vegetables, which I ordered simply because I got the opportunity to say Mousaka out loud. Mousaka. What a great word! The soup was refreshing. Mary tried it and agreed it was refreshing.

John ordered a bottle of red wine which he and Nathan enjoyed. This is one of those restaurants where the waiter presents the wine, pours a little bit so you can swirl it and sniff it, and then waits while you taste and approve it. If you are knowledgeable about wine, you can make informative and arrogant sounding comments about the bouquet, and about whether the wine is fruity or dry or whatever. This is what my husband said when presented with the bottle:

“Look! There are monkeys on the label!” I can’t take him anywhere. And he leaves belts places.

(I don’t drink; I am still a recovering alcoholic.)

After eating, John wanted to show Nate and Mary his office at The Firm. I should now mention that my dad also works at The Firm, though in a different department than John. I should probably also mention that on our way to The Firm, I suggested we go up to my dad’s office and “do something to it.” I was vague on the what. I had this idea that since we were all hankering for dessert, we might eat all of his M&Ms, which he keeps in a container at his desk. But when we got there, there were no M&Ms, so we vandalized the place instead. By vandalize I mean we flipped some pictures upside down. By “we” I mean John and Nathan, who worked while I wrung my hands and fretted about the consequences of such an action. Mary sat grimly and supervised.

I’m not sure that this is going to go over well this morning. I expect a phone call at any time. I might add that my dad and stepmom were watching my kids while we were doing this, so the guilt is somewhat compounded. 

I'm admitting all of this first thing because I have a very hard time keeping secrets.  Not important secrets.  Let's just say I would make a very bad poker player.  Big, personal, secrets?  I'm like Al Gore's locked box.  Your secrets are very safe with me.  And with my twelve closest friends.

John, who is by nature a loquacious being, becomes even more long-winded after a couple of glasses of wine. He has a tendency to give whole seminars on subjects of interest to him: a lengthy history lesson on the Smiley Face murders, perhaps, or a philosophical diatribe against people who don’t take responsibility for their actions.

Last evening, we were all set to watch at episode of Arrested Development before Mary and Nathan disappeared into the fog (because this is what we do), when we were awarded a long, impassioned speech from John.

Which may have led to an argument between me and John. Which I think I won, because we did end up watching some Bluth family hilarity.

So last night, I crawled into bed, feeling a little contrite, when I saw a long, fat belt, sprawled out on my side of the bed like a python. John lay there, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Unjust retribution!!!

I then I found a long, skinny belt, coiled beneath my pillow like a black mamba.

He leaves belts places. And it drives me nuts.

Pizza Night

I used to use my bread machine a lot. When we lived in Buffalo, we would load up the machine in the evening, set the timer, and wake up to the smell of bread baking. Which is the best smell in the entire world. Period.

Today I unearthed the thing to make pizza dough. Ben was adamant about helping me make pizza. I loaded the machine with water, olive oil, salt, sugar, flour, and yeast, and put it on the dough setting.

3 1/2 hours later, I went to retrieve my dough only to find that I had accidentally made a rather tasteless and extremely dense bread.

I am still completely flummoxed. (We ordered pizza for the kids and my sister, Joyce, who babysat as John and I ventured off on our biannual date night.)

We are adventurers who ventured off into the coolish evening without a particular destination in mind. We drove down Park Ave and were turned off by the crowds of people who were jam-packed into trendy bistros, so we turned and headed downtown. John took me to a pub on St. Paul that was quiet and cozy. We parked in an empty parking lot at the end of the street and walked into Scotland Yard, which was surprisingly calm for a Saturday night. Too calm, I think.

The restaurant specializes in Wood Fire pizzas, but they also have sandwiches and an array of appetizers and nightly specials. I chose the eggplant parmesan sandwich special, which was delectable. John had a pizza. The service was outstanding. The pub has a classic, old-world interior. It would be the perfect spot to watch the World Cup, though you may have to cheer for the English. There’s also a pool table and darts and so on and so forth. It’s within walking distance of Water Street Music Hall and is open for lunch starting this Monday. You should probably go there. I’ll meet you for lunch if you pay.

If you do go, I would not park at the empty lot at the end of the street. Though it has no signs that indicate parking is not allowed, a meathead in a white SUV told us we were lucky we showed up when we did because our car was about to get towed. This was after the meathead parked his car diagonally, the car’s butt about three inches from the front of our van. He did this while looking at us as we were walking to our van. His parking job perplexed me becausewe were in a large parking lot and there were plenty of other spots. I was giving him the evil eye when he opened his big meatball mouth.

“Yeah. You can’t park here. This is a private lot. We all park diagonally here, so I know when someone parks like you did (in the lines) that you don’t belong. And when you park like that (in the lines) it messes up our delivery system.”

“Sorry. We won’t park here again.”

“Yeah, well, we tow a lot of cars like yours who park who think they can get free parking. You’re in the city. You should always expect to pay for parking in the city.”

“Sorry to inconvenience you.”

“This is a private lot. You can’t just park in a private lot.”

So there you have it. Always expect to pay for parking in the city. Unless, of course, you park in a parking garage during the evening or weekend if there is not an event going on. Then parking is free. Ya jerk.

(I don’t get out much, so when someone is not only rude, but aggressive and intrusive of my van’s personal space, I get very bent out of shape. I spent the rest of the evening thinking of things I should have said to him. Like: So, Meathead, where are the signs that say we shouldn’t park here? Hmmmm? That would’ve showed him. He would’ve been all like… ummm…. And I would've been like... Yeah. I thought so.)

Other than that, it was a lovely evening. When John and I are finally alone together, we have deep deep conversation. It would blow your mind the deep stuff we talk about. Here are some exclusive snippets:

John: I really like the smell of babies’ heads. I think it’s because they’re the only part of a baby’s body that doesn’t smell like sour milk, puke, or poop. We should get jobs in the church nursery so I can smell some babies’ heads.

(As we pass by a group of people sitting outside a restaurant on Park Ave)

Holly: Look at all of the beautiful people in the world.

John: What? No. They’re not beautiful.

Holly: They are! Look at them!

John: No. It’s the cheerleader effect. Whenever you look at a group of nicely dressed people all together, they look good. Look at them individually.

Holly: (pause) Oh my gosh... they're hideous!

John: Told you.


(After Meathead leaves…)

John: Why are you holding that key up in the air?

Holly: We’re going to key that guy’s car.

John: That’s probably not a good idea.

Holly: I would feel a lot better about all of this if we keyed that guy’s car.

As an end-note, since this has been a blog post about, among other things, pizza, I encourage you to check out The Rochester NY Pizza Blog. Run by one “Pizza Guy,” it provides reviews about all of the best- and worst- pizza eateries in the greater Rochester area. I hope he will check out Scotland Yard. Though I hear he’s not always a fan of wood fire pizza. (Josh- don’t read his first review of Checker Flag. Read the second review. You will feel better.)

Did I end up keying the Meathead's vehicle? Maybe. Just maybe.

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.