“The boring stuff”: Old married love in stories for kids

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a sucker for a good story about old married couples. The older I get, the less likely I am to get over this predilection!

As Joanne McPortland cannily pointed out, such books for children are “not common, on purpose, since the original roots of children’s tales are teaching how to survive in a world without the stabilities of home and family.” She’s right, but boy, have things changed. Maybe stories of couples who are stable and still in love are likely to become more common, as the idea of old married love becomes more of a fascinating fantasy, something that has to be learned and striven after, rather than something that is inevitable.

In Caleb and Kate, written and illustrated by William Steig,

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Caleb storms out of the house after a fight, and is turned into a dog. He realizes that the only way he can stay with his wife is to be her pet, so that’s what he does. She grows to love him, but does not realize who he is. His fidelity is rewarded one night when robbers invade the house, and everything is restored, better than before.

A common theme in books about old couples is that they love each other and have a pretty good life, but they certainly wish they had children. It’s a very old story indeed, hearkening back to Abraham and Sarah. Thumbelina, Snow White, The Gingerbread Man, and other traditional fairy tales pick up this theme, where a loving but barren couple finally get the child they longed for — but there’s a catch.

Various children’s books salve the sorrow of childlessness in various ways:

In Millions of Cats, written and illustrated by Wanda Gag,

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the old husband sets off to remedy his wife’s loneliness by searching for a pet cat. He stumbles upon a valley of millions of cats     (My smart-alec kids insist that the one, small, homely cat was not so much a survivor as an all-devourer.)

In The Rainbabies, written by Laura Krauss Melmed and illustrated by Jim LaMarche,

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a sudden rain brings an unexpected gift: a shower of tiny, perfect rainbabies, each small enough to be cradled inside a drop of water. The devoted foster parents care for them and protect them from a dangerous world, but eventually get some unwelcome news — and then a reward. I always found this story a little unsettling, but the outstandingly lovely illustrations make up for a lot!

In One Potato, Two Potato, written by Cynthia DeFelice and illustrated by Andrea U’Ren, 

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the couple has had their children, but they are all grown and moved away. The poverty-stricken husband and wife are entirely devoted to each other, out of affection and necessity, sharing a coat, a blanket, and even a chair because they’re too poor to have enough for both of them. But they long for friendship, beyond what the spouse can provide. In their direst day, digging up the very last potato in the garden, the husband finds a magic pot which gives them everything they need.

My kids think they should have kept the pot, but I think they buried it again for future generations to find, when their need is so strong that they dig deep enough to find it.

Yonder, written by Tony Johnston and illustrated by Lloyd Bloom, 

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is less a story about a specific couple and more a narrative poem about the seasons of the year and the cycles of family life.  Gentle and moving, with plain language and illustrations that glow.

Not a book, but the movie Up is probably my favorite story of an old couple. As internet wags have noted, the first eight minutes of it — which almost wordlessly tell the story of how the couple met as children, how they fell in love, married, built a life together, suffered together and found joy together, and were finally separated at death — is “still a better love story than Twilight.” Heh.

But it’s just the introduction! What blows me away is that the rest of the love story — the rest of the work of the marriage — happens to Carl after his beloved Ellie is dead.

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Carl thinks he is honoring his wife’s memory by pulling off one final, spectacular adventure and bodily dragging their home to the mythical Paradise Falls. In tribute to her, he rejects the old folks’ home and moves his entire house to the land of their dreams, meeting their childhood hero in the process. But in the end, what she really inspired him to do was to allow himself to be carried up and away — away from the static, nostalgic, scrapbook-bound story of his life, even giving up all the last physical reminders he had of their love together.

Because of the kind of person she has helped him become, he can ultimately respond to the people (and creatures) who actually have need of him. The wonderful thing is, in order to be a hero, he does not need to become a new kind of person. His lifelong old-mannish ways are exactly what is called for in the end. As a child, his wife likes his stolid ways (“You’re weird. I like you!”). And because he loves her, he undertakes adventure, which is how he comes to be thrown together with Russell. And finally, as an old man, he finds himself back home again — and how delighted Ellie would have been to see him fathering the boy in his stolid, old-mannish way. As Russell says, “That might sound boring, but I think the boring stuff is the stuff I remember the most.”

It’s an extraordinary book that can make “the boring stuff,” which is the bedrock of married love, into a good story. I heartily recommend all the books (and of course the movie. If you haven’t seen it yet, you must!). Which are your favorites?

***

Movie still from Up (2000) via Pixar Studios

 

What’s for supper? Vol. 34: In which we all die

It was on Tuesday of this week that I first started saying, “Whew, at least it’s finally Friday.”

But it wasn’t.

I am not sure if I can fully convey how stupid this week was, but I will try.

When it first began, we had no idea what we were in for. We thought we had a busy week coming up, but nothing we couldn’t manage.

SATURDAY
Tailgate Ham and Swiss Sandwiches (there are a bunch of amazing, thrilling, and infuriating sandwich ideas at this site, Saveur)

These sandwiches were tasty! Mini ham and swiss rolls covered with savory sauce and baked until fabulous. I’m very glad to know this recipe for future parties.

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I think I’ll use way way way less butter next time, though. They more than met Dr. Nick Rivera’s criterion for the kind of food we’re apparently seeking out.

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It’s your window to weight gain!
SUNDAY
Roast chicken with gravy, mashed potatoes, string beans; apple crisp with ice cream

Sunday was supposed to be Lucy’s First Holy Communion and then an afternoon party with a bunch of guests, and I was planning stuffed shells, garlic bread, salad, and a stained glass cake. But she suddenly got violently sick on Saturday night.

Possibly a case of too much damn ham, right? Poor kid. We reluctantly cancelled FHC plans, to be on the safe side, and started rearranging our schedule. We went ahead and did the final shopping and packing for my son, who was off for a week-long nature camp with his class. With the day suddenly free of parties, I relaxed and had a nice, peaceful day cooking with the kids.

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Shortly after this, it became abundantly abundantly abundantly clear that we were dealing with . . .

dun dun dun . . .

Norovirus.

So much vomit. So much vomit.

The rest of the week was an insane amalgam of sick people doing everything backwards (sleeping through the day and wandering around at night, normally hungry people refusing sips of water, normally workaholic people barely able to peels their heads off the pillow) and non-sick people rushing around like maniacs (work, choir practice, interviews, field trips, doctor appointments). There was a lot of pounding on bathroom doors and a lot of, “Well, I told you I had to get in there.”

One kid was sick throughout the weekend, and recuperated on Sunday, so we kept her home from school on Monday. On Tuesday, she was better but we forgot to wake her up, so she missed school. On Wednesday, she was fine, but we forgot to wake her early for a field trip, so she missed school. We kept on sleeping through alarms, because there really hadn’t been any night to speak of. That was the day I went to pick up Corrie from the arms of my almost-dead husband, and didn’t realize Benny had crept into our bed with another werewolf dream, and so I sat on her. So it was like that.

MONDAY
Complete blur. Lots of bowls.

TUESDAY
Hot dogs without buns, grapes, because a few of the children were still able to work their jaws.

WEDNESDAY
Chicken nuggets because the dog expected it.

THURSDAY
Roast chicken thighs, rice, salad. 

By Thursday, I was just so tired of everything being crazy, I got mad, and I was determined to get back into some kind of normal routine, even though I ended up making something like seven trips into town and back, and even though we’re in a diocese that actually has Ascension Thursday on actual Thursday.

But dammit, I roasted those chicken thighs. My husband was feeling almost completely better at this point, but we were so accustomed to feeling terrible that he made a big batch of margaritas in honor of Cinqo de Gringo. Tequila is the one kind of alcohol that makes me do really stupid things, so I usually stay away. Turns out when you’re old and decrepit, having a second large margarita is about as stupid as it gets.

I feel fairly hung over today, but that’s mostly because I ate some of the marshmallow fluff I put in the car as a crowd-calming measure. I had brought the baby and four-year-old along with me on the fifth trip out, because I had left them in the care of my teenage son for the previous jaunt, and when I got back, he screamed, “OH THANK GOODNESS.” (He’s not normally a screamer.) Apparently he had spilled hot chicken grease on his arms, and then on the floor, and I guess he cleaned it up with some baby shirts? And then the baby was crying, so I guess he gave her some rotten ham? The dog ate a bunch of feathers. There was bird seed all over the house, again. Anyway, I elected to bring her with me after that.

FRIDAY

???

Did you know it’s not just in cartoons that your eye starts twitching after a while?

My son should be home from camp today, so we’ll find out whether we sent him off in time to miss the stomach bug, or maybe we didn’t and he infected everyone and we’re the worst people in the world. There’s a formal concert tonight, and another one tomorrow, and Saturday is my son’s birthday, and of course that First Communion party is Sunday.

My husband asked me what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day, which is also Sunday. I feel like the only answer is more tequila. It’s my window.

Dear Priests: This is how to survive Mother’s Day

Dear Father,

I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve said, “Quit telling priests what to do.” You guys are super busy and already working harder than anyone could reasonably expect.

But I’ll give one of those imaginary dollars back today, because I’m going to tell you what to do this Sunday. Trust me, it’s for your own good.

This Sunday is, as you no doubt know, Mother’s Day, and a lot of your parishioners are going to expect you to acknowledge it. Also, a lot of your parishioners are going to be mad if you acknowledge it.

A good portion of your congregation feels that the world despises motherhood, and they look to the Church to be the one place where they are appreciated for their sacrifices and their hard work.

Another good portion of your congregation feels that the world only cares about women if they are mothers, and they look to the Church to be the one place where no one despises them for not being mothers.

Some of your parishioners are pregnant, and they’re miserable about it. Some of them desperately wish they were pregnant, and are working hard not to hate their fertile sisters. Some of them look pregnant, but are just fat, and if one more well-meaning priest blesses their unoccupied abdomens, they’re going to sock him in the jaw.

Some of them look pregnant, but they’re the only one who knows that the baby they’re carrying is already dead.

Some of your parishioners are the mothers of children who are already buried, or children whose bodies went straight into the hospital’s incinerator while their mothers wept and bled. Some of your parishioners paid to have their children put there.

Some of your parishioners have been wretched mothers, and they know it. Some of them have been excellent mothers of wretched children, and everyone assumes that wretchedness must be the mother’s fault.

Some of your parishioners hated their mothers. Some of them just lost their beloved mothers yesterday. Some of them never knew their mothers at all.

Some of your parishioners are excellent mothers who pour their heart, soul, mind, and strength into caring for their families, and as soon as they get home from Mass, everyone expects them to get right back to cooking and cleaning and making life easy for everyone else, the same as every other day.

And then, of course, you will have the people who are mad that you mentioned a secular holiday during Mass. And the people who remember how much better it was when Fr. Aloysius was in charge, oh yes, it was much better then. It’s a shame.

So, what’s your plan, Father? Gonna make all the mothers stand up and be acknowledged? You’ll be forcing a lot of women to make a statement they may not want to make. Gonna pass out carnations? Same problem. Gonna make us extend our hands over mothers in blessing? Well, you’re the priest, aren’t you. We would rather keep our hands to ourselves.

The real answer would be for Americans to just calm the hell down about motherhood, and not to expect the Church to cater to their every emotional need. But that’s not where we are right now. It’s a mess, and you’re right in the middle of it. Sorry! But I really do think you can thread the Mother’s Day needle without getting poked if you offer something like the following blessing before the end of Mass:

On this Mother’s Day in May, which is Mary’s month, we remember that our Blessed Mother was honored above every other human being besides Jesus Himself when she was asked by God to bear His Son. We ask God’s blessing on all women, because all women, no matter what their state in life, are specially privileged to bring Christ into the world. Mary is our model in joy and in suffering, in trust and in sorrow. We ask Mary to intercede for our earthly mothers and for all the women who cared for us, and we ask the Holy Spirit to increase our love so that we will always honor the women in our lives. We ask this through Christ Our Lord. 
Amen.

Then scoot out the side door before anyone can yell at you.
Amen.

***

Image of woman who is disappointed in you via Pixabay

Doctrine vs. Discipline: Ascension Thursday when it’s Crazy Go Nuts

Today, I fulfilled my Ascension Thursday tradition and put out a frantic question on Facebook: IS THURSDAY A HDO IN NH OR NOT???

The answer is: Yes, in my diocese it is. All of New Hampshire is the Diocese of Manchester, which is a part of the Ecclesiastical Province of Boston, which, unlike most places in the U.S., has not moved the feast of the Ascension to Sunday. Thursday is a Holy Day of obligation in New Hampshire, and also in Connecticut, Maine, Massachusetts, Nebraska, New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, and Vermont.

Our family’s schedules are crazy go nuts, so I was trying to figure out if I really needed to excuse my kids from a mandatory final dress rehearsal or not, or if we should tell the carpool kid we can’t get her because we’ll be getting to our three schools late because we need to go to the morning Mass, or if I should cancel today’s doctor appointment and have all the kids go into aftercare so I can get to the vigil Mass in a town forty minutes away. I mention this in case you’re wondering why I don’t just say, “I love Jesus, so we’ll go to Mass whether we have to or not.” I do love Jesus, but, see: crazy go nuts.

Anyway, there was some back-and-forthing among my Catholic friends around the country, and one of my non-Catholic friends commented:

I ask this in all sincerity as a non-Catholic, so please forgive me if it seems disrespectful. But if it takes a 40-person Facebook discussion, a set of trigonometric tables, and a slide rule to figure out if Ascension Thursday is a Holy Day of Obligation, does it really matter that much to God? I mean, is He going down the list and saying “Sinner! Oh, never mind, she’s in the Diocese of Omaha and it’s Daylight Saving Time”?

A fair question! Here is my answer.

There are some things we are obligated to do because they have intrinsic moral significance, and there are some things we are obligated to do out of obedience. So it’s not a question of God trying to keep up with the rules that the Church has created. It’s a question of whether or not we believe that God has given the Church the authority to define doctrine and to impose discipline.

That’s what we’re talking about here: doctrine vs. discipline.  Everything that the Church obligates us to do falls under one or the other category.

What’s the difference? The classic example illustrating doctrine vs. discipline: the male priesthood vs. the celibate priesthood. The first is doctrine, and has intrinsic moral significance; the second is a discipline, and we’re obligated to follow it out of obedience.

The male priesthood is the doctrine that says only men can be Catholic priests. Doctrine never will be and cannot be changed, because the Church has decreed that there is an unchangeable theological reason for this teaching.  The Church simply does not have the authority to decide that women can be ordained priests, and Catholics have always been obligated to acknowledge that women cannot be priests.

The celibate priesthood, on the other hand, is a matter of discipline: it’s something that the Church can change and, in fact, has changed. So if there was a married priest celebrating Mass, God wouldn’t look at him and say, “Hey! You have a wife? Sinner! Oh, wait, it’s only the year 1 AD. Never mind, you’re fine, bro.” The Church has the authority to change this discipline.

But here’s the key: We are obligated to obey both what the Church teaches as doctrine and what the Church imposes as discipline. The first will never be changed; the second might. Whatever the Church currently imposes as a discipline, we are required to obey that, because we recognize that the Church has authority over us.

So, back to the current question about the Holy Day of Obligation and the scheduling shenanigans. I discovered that tomorrow is a Holy Day of Obligation for us in New Hampshire, so we are obligated to get to Mass if we possibly can. It’s a discipline that the Church has the authority to impose on us, and if I know that this is the case and it’s reasonably possible for us to get there, then we need to get there. Not because God is just cuh-razy about Thursdays and gets mad when people go to choir practice instead, but because God has given the Church the authority to define doctrine and to impose disciplines.

It’s fitting to talk about these things on Ascension Thursday since that was the day that the work of redemption was completed. When Jesus ascended into Heaven, He left behind His Church, having given His Church the ability to define doctrine and to impose disciplines. God is not bound by the Church’s rules. Instead, He has given us the Church as a way of helping us learn to come closer to Him. When we obey the Church in legitimate matters of Faith, then we are obeying God. Which we do because we love Jesus, crazy go nuts or not.

***

Image: photo by Waiting for the Word (license)

Notes from NUT House

So there we were, all throwing up. If that’s too much information for you, just consider: I never even mentioned what else we were all doing, besides throwing up. You’re welcome!

When a stomach bug goes roaring through a big family — a big family, I might add, who’s had “make second toilet operational again” on the to-do list for over a year now — it looks a little something like this:

The first part is all, “Well, well, here we are on a fine spring afternoon. What shall we do with our day?” And then . . . you find out.

So anyway, the baby has not gotten sick. I attribute this to my superior mothering skills, which include letting her eat dirt, letting her eat hot dogs, and letting her eat dog food. I also notice her coat is sleek and shiny and her foot pads are supple.

However, having a healthy baby living amidst the valley of the almost-dead is not necessarily a recipe for domestic happiness. She wants to run around shrieking and hitting people in the face and dancing on the ottoman like a drunken sorority girl, only with less clothing. Normally, we are fine with this, by which I mean we are scared of her and don’t know how to make her stop. But when we’re all sick and enfeebled and our heads are going to fall off if she doesn’t stop shrieeeeeeeeeeeking at us, something must be done.

Using the last working part of my brain, I had a brain wave. I took a milk jug, rinsed it out, cut a hole in the side, and handed it to Ms. Nu Upsilon Tau (head sorority sister at NUT House, ha), along with a bag full of clothespins.

She. Loved. It. If you can’t imagine why, just picture this: You can drop a clothespin in the hole, and it will fall into the jug! You won’t be able to see it anymore! But it made a loud clattering noise, so you know it’s got to be there somewhere! So you stick your hand in the hole in the side, and there is a clothespin in there! And if you take it out, you will have a clothespin! But wait, there’s more. YOU CAN DO THE SAME THING ALL OVER AGAIN!

This miracle of physics kept her busy for a blessed twelve minutes, and she didn’t even try to murder us when we suggested to her that she might want to play with it again later in the day. Babies are insane. Thank God.

If more than 24 hours goes by and you don’t hear from me again, please send more clothespins.

***

image by Loadmaster (David R. Tribble) Creative Commons

How to enjoy the circus when you are a circus

Last week, I mentioned that we went to the circus with all the kids, and I said, “We learned how to deal with a crisis as a family long before we learned how to have big, exciting, fun days together, oddly enough; but we’re definitely there now.”
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A reader asked if I could say more about this. I can always say more about everything!
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When something terrible is happening, it’s of course terrible, but also kind of simple: it’s very easy to see that you have to be the best person you can be until you get through it. And if you feel terrible, at least it’s not confusing: you feel terrible because things are terrible. Not fun, but not complicated.
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But happy days are complicated, somehow. When we mix in all kinds of personalities and all kind of expectations, not to mention all ages, there are an awful lot of moving parts to coordinate before you can have anything resembling fun.
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Here are the things we’ve learned over the years. Some of these are specific to big families, but some would apply to any outing with people you more or less love:
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Some basic, practical tips:
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Bring a change of clothes or two for the youngest, squirtiest kids. Bring more diapers than you think you’ll need. Bring baby wipes even if you don’t have a baby. Bring some plastic bags to contain whatever it is you don’t want to smell all the way home.
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Plan to spend more money than you planned, and plan ahead of time to be okay with that. Have cash.
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Check the weather report. Double check the directions. Find out if there will be parking. Make sure the event is where and when and what you think it will be, so there are no nasty surprises.
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Make sure what kids know what to do if they get lost. We tell them: find a police officer or someone who looks like a nice mother with kids. When you first realize you’re lost, stay where you are; we will find you. Do not leave the building.
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Take pics of kids on your phone, or at least write down what they are wearing. Write your cell number on their wrists if you like. Make sure they know what your names are (not Mama and Daddy!).
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Little legs get tired. There’s no shame in dragging the stroller out of storage if it’s going to be a long day.
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Pack more food than you think you need. The kids may very well be too excited to eat when it’s meal time, and they’ll be legitimately hungry later.
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But logistics are really the easy part to manage. The thing that can really make the difference is the attitudes of the people involved. Here are some questions we’ve learned to answer:
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What if we go to all this trouble and expense and not everyone has fun? 
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Maybe they won’t. Oh, well. If someone wants to pout or sulk or be too cool to enjoy themselves, don’t get mad or fall all over yourself trying to ratchet up the fun until everyone is joyful whether they want to be or not. Just stick with the plan and don’t let one crab drag the whole family down. This is one of the liberating revelations of large family life: 75% successful is pretty darn successful.
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What if one of the adults has unreasonable anxieties?  Accommodate them! A cheerful day begins with calm parents, so it’s okay to say, “Hey, this day is going to take a lot out of us, physically, emotionally, and financially. Let’s figure out how to make it as easy as possible.”  So, my husband tends to cater to my fears about the kids getting lost, and people running out of food. He doesn’t think these things are likely to happen, but he knows I’ll feel better if we’re prepared for them, and if I’m feeling calmer, the kids can relax and have fun.
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What if such-and-such a bad thing will happen, just like it did the last three times? It helps so much for the adults talk about past experiences ahead of time, and to figure out what your main goal is this time, and how to achieve that. Is your goal to give the kids a new experience that they may or may not appreciate until they’re older? Is it to have an immediately enjoyable pleasant day together as a family? Is it for one of the parents to relive some happy time of their own childhood? Is it just to punch an experience card? These are all legitimate wishes, so focus on what to do to make that specific thing happen.
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What if they beg for a bunch of expensive crapola? We told the kids ahead of time, “Look, there are going to be lots of things for sale. We’re not going to buy any of it. We’re going here to see the show.” Most of the kids cheerfully accepted this, because it’s what we always say. (It’s not a moral issue. I would have liked to buy them cotton candy and elephant cups, but not at $12 a pop times ten kids.)
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The four-year-old was the only one who still kept on asking to buy stuff, and I just kept calmly responding, “No, we already said that we weren’t going to be buying anything.” She is four, and easily dazzled, so I was expecting this. Slightly annoying, but not unbearable or a sign that we’ve somehow raised her wrong. She eventually stopped asking. Okay, she stopped asking when I told her that if she put a cork in it, I would get her ice cream on the way home.
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Which leads to my next point ….
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We just went to a freaking circus, so why are they crying? Probably because they’re exhausted, overwhelmed, and feeling a tiny bit let down because the amazing thing they were looking forward to is now over. We want the day to end a good day well, so we often reserve a minor treat for after the big event. In this case, we stopped at McDonald’s and everyone got a frozen whatever with whipped cream.
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What if we discover that (horror!) our children have character flaws? Fix it later. Do not try to teach huge life lessons, make course corrections, or make a dramatic statements when you’re supposed to be having fun. If you discover, while you’re out, that your kids need to work on manners, or aren’t grateful enough, or are too attached to material goods or something, just deal with the immediate situation at hand and get back to the scheduled event as soon as possible. You can have a talk or dish out punishments or reorganize your kids’ life tomorrow, when you’re not in public and when everyone isn’t all worked up.
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What if I’m not having a super amount of fun myself? Before we left, I gave myself a stern talking-to: You are forty-one years old. You have been to the circus before. If you have a bad seat or have to miss part of the show, you can deal with it! (I find that if I speak to myself in the second person, I listen. Stupid, but it works.) If they need to go to the bathroom more times than can possibly be biologically necessary, I will take them. And I did. I’m very proud of myself. I had a nice big g-and-t when I got home, and I did not share it with anyone, because I’m an adult, and those are the adult perks.
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How can I be sure I capture the day perfectly with my camera? Management solved this problem for me: they said no iPads, and that’s where my camera is. I was happy that my husband had a camera, and that he took a few awesome pictures. But if I had brought one myself, I know I’d have photo anxiety and miss half the show stressing out about documenting our happiness. I saw a bunch of people watching their phones record six glowing motorcycles zip around inside a steel globe, even though the actual glowing motorcycles were right in front of them! Crazy, man.
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In general, when we’re doing something special, I’m in favor of taking a few pics of happy faces to make a record of the day, and then putting the camera down. This is especially true if you’re going somewhere famous. Unless you’re a professional photographer on assignment, you’ll be much more grateful later if you take pictures of people, not things.
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***

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And there you have it. I expect that, by the time we have grandchildren, we’ll have forgotten it all, and will be helpless, querulous pushovers who can’t get through a half-hour at the playground without falling apart. But today is not that day!

What’s for supper? Vol. 33: Bumpkins gonna bump

SATURDAY
Hamburgers, probably chips and salad. Long time ago.

Friday we went to the CIRCUS and got home late, and Saturday we had a birthday party in the afternoon and a new trampoline to assemble and shopping and cleaning and First Communion Workshop and a bunch of other stuff, haircuts, new jobs, oh boy. By the time it was dinner halfway through this Weekend of All The Things, the only meal I could think of was hamburgers.

It was a wonderful weekend! We learned how to deal with a crisis as a family long before we learned how to have big, exciting, fun days together, oddly enough; but we’re definitely there now.

Here is the birthday girl:

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***

SUNDAY
Vermont Turkey Sandwiches; Potato Puffs; Corn on the cob

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Sandwich of the Week, week 2! We attempted to recreate the delicious sandwiches we had at a restaurant the other week.

Smoked turkey, lettuce, tomato, bacon, cheddar cheese, and green apple slices on ciabatta. This we could recall. But what was that dressing? We spent a good week returning again and again to the conundrum of the mysterious dressing. It had some sweetness, but a bit of an edge, too, and we both felt that we had tasted this particular balance of flavors before, but we couldn’t think in what context. Was it camembert and Vidalia onion? Was there buttermilk involved? We just couldn’t place it.

So we looked it up.

And.

It was honey mustard.

C’est si exotique! Honey . . . and mustard. All together, in one place! We had to travel north all the way to central New Hampshire to have this unusual culinary experience. Someday, when I get the nerve, I hope to sample some authentic South American cuisine. I’ve heard good things about — and forgive me if I get the spelling wrong. These foreign names make my head whirl — Taco Bell. But I don’t want to shock my palate too much.

We gotta get out more.

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MONDAY
Pizza

I made four pizzas in the morning and instructed the kids to cook three of them while I was on the radio in the evening. To make pizza, I stretch the dough over the edge of the pans and let it stay there, and then I roll it back to make a raised crust before I put it in the oven. I did this with two of the pizzas, but forgot to finish the third. So when they pulled the third pizza out of the oven, this is what they got:

[img attachment=”100883″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”image1″ /]

A baked crust that was trying to devour the pan. So of course we had to turn the pizza over to get a picture. So of course when we put it right side up again, half of it had flipped over there and remained dangling like a cheesy sunburst of incompetence:

[img attachment=”100884″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”image1 (1)” /]

And that was Monday.

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TUESDAY
Sausage, Mushroom, and Cheese Omelettes; Oven Roasted Potatoes; Salad

When you’re poor for a long time and then you stop being poor, it takes a while for all of your expectations to level off. I have finally stopped feeling guilty for buying avocados when it’s not even my birthday, but it only just now occurred to me that, yes, oh yes, I can have a two-burner griddle that costs $12. I don’t have to keep wishing and hoping and crossing my fingers that someone will leave one by the side of the road. I can just put it in my cart.

So, with my new griddle and my wonderful T-fal sautée pan, I cooked made-to-order omelettes for 12 13 (okay, yes, I cook special eggs for the dog because he’s my special guy) in under 15 minutes, rather than 40 minutes.

By the time I sat down to eat my food

[img attachment=”100885″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”FullSizeRender (2)” /]

I wasn’t too shattered and footsore to care what it tasted like. Amazing! Money isn’t everything, but it is definitely something.

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WEDNESDAY
Hot dogs; Beans; Chips

The kids made this. I think I drove about 400 miles on Wednesday, all in about a twenty-mile radius.

***

THURSDAY
Halmonee Chicken; Spicy Almond String Beans; Rice

Here’s the chicken recipe from my friend Elizabeth:

Put chicken thighs in a pot in a single layer. Pour this sauce over it so the chicken is covered halfway up:

equal parts soy sauce and apple juice
a squirt of honey
a dash of sesame oil
lots of garlic

Boil on about medium heat, but a good steady rolling boil for about 45 min, turning periodically. If you’re cooking with skin on, it will be loose enough to pluck off with tongs about halfway through.

I actually forgot the garlic — a phrase I never thought I’d utter — but it tasted great. Very flavorful, super easy. The key is to keep the chicken in a single layer (I used three pans).

[img attachment=”100886″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”FullSizeRender (3)” /]

Just about everyone liked it!

I happened to have almonds in the house (I bought them to decorate the birthday cake but forgot), so I found this recipe for “tangy almond garlic string beans.” After I found the ginger under the trampoline (no, it doesn’t grow there. The kids just put it under the trampoline, for reasons) it was pretty easy to throw this together. I cooked the string beans and prepped the ingredients in the morning, and finished cooking it in the evening. Really zippy and flavorful. Definitely going into the permanent collection. A nice meal all around.

[img attachment=”100887″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”IMG_8266″ /]

Even if I did have to eat mine in (sigh) the van.

[img attachment=”100888″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”IMG_8268″ /]

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FRIDAY
Penne with jarred sauce; salad

Oh, I forgot: when the kids asked what was for dinner on Saturday, I said, “Nice sandwiches, potato puffs, and corn on the cob.”
And my son says, “What on a cob?”
Because so many things come on cobs. Oatmeal on a cob; venison on a cob; fluffernutter sandwiches on a cob. How was he to know?

And he wasn’t even trying to drive me crazy. It just happens naturally.

This boastful pun game is so odd, I can’t even.

Thursday! Game day! My brother-in-law Bill Herreid came up with this game of boastful puns  or punful boasts. Either way, you’ve been warned.

Here are Bill’s punny boasts:

I’m so hip your grandfather broke me.
I’m so quality, I’m just an accident of something’s essence.
I’m so classy, half the freshmen dropped me.
I’m so out of sight Berkley thinks I don’t exist.
I excel so much, I have a spreadsheet of the birthmarks on my left big toe.
I’m so incredible, you can’t even believe this statement.
I’m so macho I’m covered in cheese.
I’m so complex Oedipus’ mom wants to marry me.

***

My brother Joey:

I’m so strong, you can smell me from a mile away!

 I’m so mean, there are as many people meaner than me as there are people less mean than me!
 I’m so rich that if you ate me you’d get gout.
 I’m so fine I’d fall through a mosquito net.
I’m so fit I’ve got apoplexy!
I’m such a stud you’ll forget to find me when hanging a picture.
I’m so butch, I’ve got blood all over me and my hands smell like sausages.
I’m so tough that when people order me, they say “Well done.”

***

Fr. Denis Lemieux (not technically a relative, to our sorrow):

I’m so dope I’m still illegal in Colorado.
I’m so ill I can’t get out of bed.
I’m so legit I am actually really, really boring.

 

***

My sister Abby Tardiff:

I’m so articulate even my little toes have three joints.

 I’m so rad I have 101 ergs per gram.
I’ve got so much swag that I sleep until noon because the sun can’t shine through my windows.
I’m so smooth that physics textbooks use me when they want to ignore friction.
***

My brother Izzy:

I’m so real I don’t include √(-1).
I’m so loaded I’m about to go off.
I’m so jacked I was reported by OSHA.
I’m so interesting the problem is compounding.
I’m so humorous they had to bleed me.
I’m so buff I shimmer.

***

And my contributions:

I’m so cutting edge that, ever since we met, you’re better by half.

 I’m so fly, I’m being eaten by a spider as we speak.
I’m so random, lemur chandelier towards;
I’m so flush with cash, I found a dead goldfish in my wallet.
 I’m so sincere, you can’t hold a candle to me.
***In the words of Mark Shea: I’M NOT SORRY! I’M NOT SORRY!
All right, you terrible people who should be working.  Lay it on me. I’m soliciting your comments so shamelessly, I got picked up by the vice squad.

The How-To Book of the Mass is a great gift to Catholics

We’ve started Michael Dubruiel’s The How-To Book of the Mass: Everything You Need to Know, But No One Ever Taught You (OSV, revised 2007), and I couldn’t be more pleased. My older kids are certainly quiet and respectful at Mass, but I would love for them to be more engaged, and I think this book will be transformative — not only for them, but for me and my husband, too. Let’s face it, we have some gaps in our educations, too.

Read the rest at the Register.

This is why all American mothers are crazy

Because we are driving them crazy.

This woman, Chrissy Teigen, had a baby ten days ago. She is famous — I guess she is a model or something — so when she went out to dinner with her husband, John Legend (?), lots of people took pictures of her.

So then this happened:

You just had a baby stay at home

Dumb. No normal woman would want to leave her baby so soon

Years of infertility struggle finally had a baby and peaces out after a week

Maybe it’s just rich people but I have two children, I had them at a young age also. I don’t think I let anyone watch my child without me til a month or two.

That spotlight pull be strong. One week. Who wants to leave a one week old baby to go to a bar?

And so on. These are comments on social media, in response to a woman who committed the outrageous and vile act of . . . going out to dinner with her husband. She didn’t fly off to Antigua and leave her baby in a box on the floor at the airport. She didn’t accidentally forget her at the hospital. She didn’t turn the kid over to the first maternal-looking dog she could find so as to lead a “Babies Bore Me” rally at the local Bad Mother Sodality.

She just. Went out. To dinner. And then presumably went back home and hung out with her baby, as women do.

My friend Laura Broussard, who has a knack for getting to the point, said:

America: where we shred you for going on a two-hour dinner date at a week postpartum but give no sh*ts if you have to go back to work 40 hours a week at a week postpartum.

Seriously. It’s a couple hours. A healthy nine-day old baby is probably sleeping at this time. If my healthy nine-day old is sleeping well and my friend called and said, “Can I pick you up and take you out for calzones down the street before you start trying to lose the baby weight?” I would say OK JUST LET ME FIND MY DRY SHAMPOO. (Because ain’t no paparazzi care about my look while I’m grubbing at Rotolo’s.)

Leave. Mothers. Alone. Stop picking picking picking at them. You want to know why American mothers are all crazy? This is why they’re all crazy. Because there’s nothing they can do that won’t get them yelled at by strangers. If you think that doesn’t make people crazy, then try it some time — and add in all the normal hormones and stresses and insecurities of motherhood.

I invite you to carry a baby for nine months, give birth, and spend a scant week healing up and dealing with the exhaustion and wackiness that every mother deals with, and find it in yourself to shrug off criticism — yes, even if you’re a rich mom, even if you’re a mom with lots of help, even if you’re a mom who can fit into slinky pants right away, and even if you’re a mom who is married to someone named John Legend. This is the stuff that makes people crazy, and there is no way to avoid it.

Teigen dealt with the criticism with humor and grace. I didn’t do as well when I had just given birth and decided to get back to work after a short time, because I could do it sitting down, and because we needed the money. As soon as I said something people didn’t like, I got a rousing chorus of “YOU’RE A BAD MOTHER TO BE WORKING.” Not that they wanted to help pay my mortgage, or anything.  Not that they had anything good to say about WIC, or mandatory maternity leave laws. It was enough that I was a woman who had publicly admitted to giving birth. Suddenly, any misstep I made could be magnified by a thousand because [fill in the blank] isn’t supposed to be how mothers act. 

How about we let the lady eat? Or at least stop using motherhood as another stick to beat women over the head with. And yes, I’m speaking to women at least as much as I am to men.

First person to say, “Hey, fatherhood is hard, too!” gets a hundred lashes with a pair of maternity compression hose.

***

Angry Mob photo by Hans Splinter via Flickr (Creative Commons)