Random Thursday

1. I do dumb things.  I forget about them.  I wake at night, struck with the dumbness of what I've done and play them over and over in my mind.

Please tell me I'm not alone.

2. March is the biggest birthday month for me.

I have all the March birthday gifts lined up on my kitchen counter.  Weeks ago, I jokingly made it my goal to mail them before the month's end...

If you have a March birthday and you want to be my friend, we may have to agree to celebrate in August.

3. I've already composed Sunday's Cooking post.  It's very Karen.  Consider yourself warned.

For the record: food is not my life.

4. Charlotte was here yesterday, wearing her Vera Bradley glasses.  She's so pretty, and put-together.  And girly.

I heart her.

I can't help but wonder if she hangs around me for the entertainment value.  I'm generally comfortable being a bumbling wreck, but somehow it seems amplified next to her pretty, girly poise.  I usually have lingering regret for something I say or do during our time together.  I'm such a dork.

Yesterday, I sat on the kitchen floor and painted intake register grates while we chatted.  I have no lingering regret for that, even though I discovered this morning that the grates are painted to the newspapers I had set them on.

I hope the WH doesn't read this.

Yesterday, Charlotte helped me with the Dang Chicken, which I will tell you about in detail on Sunday.  After she left, I realized that I had dealt with the chicken in the kitchen sink and then not followed up with my Super Dooper Kills Raw Chicken Germs spray.  I have lingering regrets about that.  Yuck.

For the record: I cleaned it properly as soon as I realized my error.

Yuck.

Yesterday, when we were talking about what to do with the Dang Chicken, I had to confess that I am out of garlic.  I do have lingering regrets about that.  What kind of a cook runs out of garlic?  I felt like a fraud.

5.  I had a dream last night the Ree Drummond read this blog, took pity on all y'all, brought me to her ranch and set about teaching me how to take a proper photograph.

In the dream I kept pretending I didn't quite get this or that about aperture and bokeh and all those words she uses that might as well be Greek to me (name that play).

Don't tell her, but I totally got the photography lessons.  I was playing dumb so that she'd keep feeding me.

Food is not my life.

No, really.

6. For instance, it is 9:34 and I have yet to eat breakfast.

Well, except for coffee, the breakfast of champions.

And three gulps of the boys' (plumnectarineclementinebananastrawberryflaxseedyogurtalmondmilk) smoothie.

And the scrapings out of an empty peanut butter jar someone put back in the cupboard.

7. You don't realize it, but I left you for six hours.  I'm back!  I went shoe shopping with Charlotte and Jamie.  We went to DSW.

Do you think it's sacrilegious that when I walk into a DSW store the heavens open up, light shines down and I can hear angels singing?

No?

Good.

8. After DSW, where I had spectacular success (those angels weren't singing for nothing, people), we went to Pho 495, which is one of my all-time favorite restaurants.  It's a simple, unassuming place that packs every single one of my most favorite flavors on earth into one bowl of slurpy, sloppy goodness.  Charlotte and Jamie had Vietnamese coffee, but my heart was still kind of pounding from my breakfast (and possibly from the shoe-shopping high), so I passed.

For the record: Vietnamese coffee is one of life's greater joys.

Also for the record: This is the first visit to Pho 495 during which I did not have to do the walk of shame across the long, noisy restaurant to the front desk to ask for a fork.

7. Charlotte introduced me to Pho last year.  I was bowled over at the complexity of the flavors--onion and ginger, star anise and cilantro and fresh leaves of basil, topped off with jalapeno slices and a squeeze of lime--rolling around in my mouth.  I did not know such glory existed on this earth.

I was so excited that I took the Wonder Hub at our first opportunity, wanting to share this new love with my true love.

I was giddy as we tore our basil leaves.  We sprinkled our bean sprouts.  We added jalapeno slices and squeezed our respective limes.  We slurped.  My eyes rolled back into the depths of my skull.

He looked at me, rice noodles hanging out of his mouth, lifted one shoulder and made an "Eh" noise.

I was crushed.

I was crushed, because apparently, food is my life.

Lover of my Soul

Do you know that song?  It goes like this:

Jesus, lover of my soul.....

I'm not sure what comes next.  My brain hears those five words and hovers there, awestruck, while the congregation sings on.

If you saw the state of my soul you would understand why.  It's a dark, cranky place, filled with lots of me, focused on me, generally working toward what is best for me .  That Jesus could love Karen, I get.  He's God. So yeah, okay, I can conceive that He, in all his perfection, can love anyone he chooses.

But to love my soul?  To be the lover of my soul?  That indicates an active, ongoing state of love, the internal workings of which I cannot conceive.  It leaves me awestruck.  It does.

So Molly and I have been strolling the local  neighborhoods this week, attempting to photograph early spring blooms (without being arrested for trespassing) for a post about...well, I guess about what God's creation says about Him. It moves me, and I had hoped to capture it so that you might be moved, too.

(Insert apology for horrible photography skills here.)

 My hyacinth photograph--taken from the edge of someone's lawn while they stared out the front picture window at my sniffy dog and me.

Or, to grasp the point I'm trying to make, click here and check out these hyacinths.

There.  Do you see what I'm getting at?  A bunch of little flowers as a flower.  The creativity of my God knows no bounds.

My daffodil photo, a respectable representation of the message of Hope (yes hope with a capital 'H') sent to us each year in the cold, early spring.

My shamefully bad photo of a magnolia tree.  Awesome tree.  Awesome God. 

The cherry tree.  We're surrounded by them now.  Their beauty draws people to the DC area from the far corners of the earth.  I can't see a cherry tree without thinking of Isaiah 55:8-9.  

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
   neither are your ways my ways,” 

declares the LORD.
“As the heavens are higher than the earth,
   so are my ways higher than your ways
   and my thoughts than your thoughts."

But here is the flower that really gets me.  This is the one that I see and understand that my God is wild.  He cannot be tamed.  He cannot be wrapped up neatly and placed in a little box with a pretty bow.  Just as He is wild, so is His love for me.  He's been pursuing me since I was a child, no matter how far I've run.  His thoughts toward me are intentional, His plans for me good.

The thing I can't get past, the thing that makes my heart jump every time I see the forsythia is this:

If God is wild for me; for cranky, self-absorbed me...

If He is, in fact, the lover of my soul...

Then surely He is wild for you, too.

Surely, He is also the lover of your soul.

Ephesians 1:4

Psalm 23:6

Jeremiah 29:11

Molly Sue: Diggy's Love

Molly Sue: Part One
Molly Sue: Part Deux

When the Wonder Hub called home, I explained for him Norah's hypothesis.  Having heard my apocalyptic descriptions of the yard, he went right to work.  First, he slept in the same shirt for several nights.  Then, he wore that shirt to the gym.  Yuck.  Next, he sealed it in a ziplock bag and mailed it home, where we waited anxiously for a miracle from on high.

Molly took to that shirt like it was her long-lost love himself.  She took it everywhere. She slept with her nose buried in it at night. She dragged it out of her kennel in the morning. She chased the Monkey around the house with it hanging out of her mouth. It was reminiscent of Linus and his blanket, in an offensively odoriferous kind of way. I mean it really, really smelled bad. And yet, if you had been there, you would have sworn that Molly was in love.

I really don't know if it helped with the digging. The backyard was so far gone that it would taken a team of archaeologists to determine if the holes were pre- or post-Shirt. Truthfully, it didn't matter. The dog was happy.  She had the scent of her Alpha.

And I, I was only a little bit jealous.

What am I Cooking?

I have no idea.

The end.













If only it worked that way.  I went on strike last night.  I looked two separate family members straight in the eye and said, "I'm not cooking.  You can't make me."  I wish I had recorded the looks of bewilderment.  The pathetic looks of bewilderment.  The pathetic, terrified looks of bewilderment.  So pathetic were they that I almost caved.  Instead, I held my ground, poured myself a bowl of cereal, and hid in the corner away from their pathetic, terrified, bewildered stares.

Okay, so two out of four could have cared less.  They overheard, rejoiced silently, and proceeded to stuff their hollow legs with every form of carbohydrate known to man.

Seeing how I am officially out of carbohydrates, I must shop.  In order to shop, I must make a list.  In order to make a list, my brain must wake up and start working.

I can't do it.

The end.

Big fat siiiiiiiiighhhhhhh...

(In no particular order and subject to change based on the barometric pressure, my hormones, and the price of tea in China):

That dang Whole Chicken.  Remember him?  I was perfectly happy to let him sit in the freezer 'til Jesus comes, but he's taking up valuable space.  Rocky told me what to do with him awhile back.  I'll be needing her to walk me through that again...

Whatever you do with the leftovers of the Dang Chicken.  I'll make stock, or broth, or whichever you make with a chicken carcass.  I will not make chicken and noodles, because I made it last week and it was (quite possibly) the worst chicken soup in the history of the world, which meant that I spent the entire week foisting it on (upon?) my unwilling family.  Why was it so bad, you ask?  I know.  I knew as soon as I took the first bite.  It was such a rookie mistake that I'm not willing to publicly own it.  For the record: I think the recipe is lovely and perfect.  You should try it.  Just don't do what I did.

Curried Sweet Potato and Lentil Soup.  I found this recipe in my Prevention magazine.  They had me at curry.  They had me at sweet potato.  They had me at coconut milk.  They had me at soup.  The fact that it is garnished with cilantro is seriously the sweetest topping on the best (cup)cake ever. 

The quiche recipe from Veg Week that I have yet to make.  I can picture it, hot and bubbly and blog-worthy in my Polish pottery ramekins.  I can picture me, steel-faced and unyielding, assuring my people that yes, this is dinner.  I can picture them, too well-trained to complain, yet sullen and silent.  I can picture late-evening kitchen crashing, by people who did not eat enough dinner to get them through the night.  Fun.  The only possible remedy to this is the following (and listen up, because this might be the most wisdom I can ever offer you): I will starve them.  There will be no after-sports snacks.  There will be no post-run pantry free-for-all.  I will make sure they are so desperate for sustenance that my cute little ramekins appear to be turkey legs, or juicy hamburgers, to their pre-and teenaged minds.  Then, they will eat them so fast and so furiously and so thankfully that complaints will not have time to enter their hunger-addled brains.

And I will sit back and laugh silently and revel at my genius.

Homemade pizza.  Topped with whatever inspires me at the moment of creation.  Last week it was pepperoni for the man-children and pesto, mozz and tomatoes for the WH and me.  Salad always goes with pizza, and ours always have fun additions like feta, and Craisins, and pecans to encourage the salad-haters among us.

My BFF's Spicy Dr. Pepper Shredded Pork, with only a little resentment at not having come up with it first.  I'll whip up some coleslaw (from a bag, I'm not Superwoman) and maybe some sweet potato fries to go along with it.

That should be enough, but I can whip up breakfast in a pinch.  I also have the ingredients (minus tomatoes) for a pasta salad, always a hit (since Charlotte told me to use Ken's Steakhouse Lite Northern Italian with Basil and Romano dressing).  This is one where I can throw in broccoli and not get too much flak from the child who thinks he can give me flak just because his grandfather hates broccoli.

When he was six or so, I told him that when he is a grandfather, he won't have to eat broccoli.  He gave an exuberant fist-pump and cried out, "Yessss!"

It was awesome.

The end.

Random Thursday

1. I cannot stand the sound of people chewing.  I would rather listen to fingernails on chalkboards.

I live in a houseful of men.

I covet your prayers.

2. I came over to the computer to write a random thought, got stuck in a conversation about Mark Twain on Facebook and cannot, for the ever-loving life of me, remember my own randomness.

3. Oh.  I remember.  I was watching Stephano sing on American Idol and wondered if I was the only one who saw Joey Tribbiani when he closed his eyes and squished up his eyebrows.

4. I have this issue with grammar.  It haunts me.  It's so bad that I correct my own grammar when I'm talking to God.  I'm pretty sure He knows what I mean, even when when I dangle my participles or misplace my prepositions, but still.  I can't help myself.  Sometimes it's not even bad grammar, but just that perhaps a sentence might be worded in some better way.  When that happens, I play around with it, turning it this way and that until I like the way it sounds.

For the record: I'm quite sure that God appreciates proper grammar, as well as smoothly flowing, well-constructed sentences.

5. I often put up Facebook statuses without thinking.  Shocking.  Last week I was watching the Wonder Hub fold laundry and reached over to the computer to type:

Nothing is sexier than watching a man folding laundry.

More than forty-eight hours later I woke in the middle of the night thinking:

Watching him isn't sexy.  I should have typed, "There is nothing sexier than a man folding laundry."  Why would watching him be sexy?  That doesn't even make sense.  I should go back and change it.  I can't change it now, people have commented and I would lose their comments.  I can't believe I wrote it like that.  How dumb.

And so on.  It's an illness, I tell you.

I covet your prayers.

6.  I'm the Grammar Police in my family.  I believe it is my sworn duty to teach these people to speak correctly (I've mostly given up on teaching them to chew with their mouths closed.  Scratch that.  I can't.  Give up.  Even though it's surely hopeless.  But someday, I'll be able to show their wives this post and assure them that, for the love of all that is good and holy, I tried.).  A long time back, when someone would use poor grammar my automatic response would be, "No dinner for you!" in the style of Seinfeld's Soup Nazi.  It caught on, and the boys loved nothing more than to catch each other in crimes of grammar so that they could make the declaration.  The best for them was to catch the Wonder Hub.  When they were younger, it was a big thing.

Unfortunately, as tends to happen with brilliant ideas, overuse got the best of it.  It turns out that the Wonder Hub (in possession of a BA in English himself) loves nothing more than to get my goat by purposefully, repeatedly, unremorsefully using atrocious grammar.  Even though he fully knows that

It wounds me.

I covet your prayers.

7. For the record: I do not covet your house, wife, manservant, maidservant, ox, ass, nor any other thing that is yours.

Unless you have a housekeeper.  Then I must confess that I covet her.  Or him.  Or them.

Amen.

Field trip!

I'm slugging coffee, trying to fire up the ol' synapses here to write you a witty and entertaining post.

Or, at the very least, a coherent one.

I went here today, with approximately four thousand very excited seventh-graders:

Newseum exterior

Photo © Sam Kittner/Newseum

I'll confess to you now that I was dreading this field trip like a person dreads having her wisdom teeth removed.  Maybe more, since there is no laughing gas provided to field trip chaperones.

They should do that.

I had actually sworn off field trips after the Magnifying Lens Incident of '10.  I wrote a blog post about it that went something like this:

The Monkey asked me not to come. I was fine with that, seeing how field trips are really not that fun for grown-ups. Then his teacher begged me. She went so far as to say that the trip wouldn't happen if I didn't go and she offered to bake me cookies. You know how I need to be needed (and how I love cookies), so of course I said yes.

Haarg.

(blah blah blah, stuff stuff stuff)

Who gives eleven and twelve year old boys magnifying lenses?

Two attempted fires and one (unrelated) trip to the emergency room later, we single-filed onto the bus and headed back to school.

So yeah. You heard it here first. That was my last field trip

Apparently I am not a woman of my word, because there I was, on the bus with the four thousand screeching pre- and just-teens.

And you know what?

I had a blast.  Really.  No laughing gas required.

Now don't get all excited and think that this is because there is such a monumental difference between 6th and 7th graders.  No.  I attribute the success of this journey to three things, which I will list for you now.  (I know you were worried that I wouldn't list them for you now.)

1. My seat-mate on the bus.  Cindy is a woman I thoroughly enjoy but rarely see.  That rare occasion of our meeting results in hundred-miles-an-hour-say-everything-and-catch-up kind of talking.  Where better to do this than on a bus full of wild banshees?  Okay, so there would be a million better places to do this, but hey, we work with what we're dealt.  It. Was. Wonderful.

2. The Newseum itself.  What a cool place!  We didn't have nearly enough time there, I definitely need to return.  Among the highlights for me:

• The 9/11 Gallery
• The Pulitzer Prize Photographs Gallery
• The Berlin Wall Gallery

3. Being a rebel.
Each chaperone was given a four-page worksheet on which to write three notable things from each gallery.  When questioned, the homeroom teach informed me that no, there wasn't a worksheet for each child (eight in my group), and yes, we were to all work on it together.

Yeah, not so much.

When we returned to school and all the other chaperones were dutifully handing in their homework, I told her I had chosen not to do it.  Her response?

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

Molly Sue: Crotch Dog Extraordinaire

Molly and I just returned from a little walk that took us to Starbucks.  She's still miffed that I didn't get her anything.

I'm surprised she's holding a grudge.  Other than not getting a latte, or a cup full of whipped cream, she did:
a) get to walk with my long-lost friend Teri.
b) train Teri to always let her walk on the left.
c) demonstrate to Teri that she prefers to walk on the sidewalk, even if this means a human is forced onto the grass (not the WH's favorite of Molly's traits).
d) visit with Ursula and her buddy, Bindy, from down the street.
e) stick her nose in the crotch of the two complete strangers who bent down to pet her (not my favorite of Molly's traits).

Molly developed the habit of sticking her nose in people's crotches when the Wonder Hub was in Iraq and I trained her to walk with a Gentle Leader.   My feeling was that if I was going to have a dog, she was going to be a well behaved dog.  And she is.  She really is.  Unfortunately, there are exceptions to every rule, and the crotch-thing is Molly's.  Initially she did it to try and rub off the harness of the Gentle Leader.  Now she does it because of the reaction she receives.  Try to ignore a dog with her nose in your crotch.  I dare you.

I used to get all embarrassed.  I used to explain, in great detail, about the Gentle Leader and the attention-factor while turning red and tripping all over myself to apologize.  I hit a turning point during baseball practice in Alabama when Molly stuck her nose in the crotch of the pre-teen brother of one of the Monkey's friends.  He was outraged and declared, "YOUR DOG JUST MOLESTED ME!"

I did what any sane dog owner would do.  I looked at him blankly and swore I had no idea what he was talking about.  He shook, he sputtered, he walked away.

Now when Molly is doing her thing, I just turn my head and look the other direction.  It works for us.




When we got home from our walk, I asked my girl to do a little photo shoot for me.  It went like this:

Who, me?

Why should I do a photo shoot for you?  You didn't get me a latte.

I'm really very shy, you know.

Okay, already.  Can we be done now?

Forget this.  I'm outta here.

What I'm Cooking: Garbanzo Week

Just kidding.  It's not really Garbanzo Week.  It could be, though.  My lovely neighbors gave me this:

Maybe it's their way of saying, "Quit borrowing eggs, lady!"

I should really share the love with the egg-borrowing.  It's only fair.

They always give me eggs.  I should bake them cookies.
Or give them these:

which almost made me pass out.  When they said, "Whole Cut Up Chicken,"  I guess they weren't kidding.

So.  What I'm cooking...  I was exhausted last night, both from watching the Wonder Hub paint trim and from two workouts designed to, if not create a calorie deficit, at least help make up for eating like a teenager over the weekend.  I struggled mightily with the menu.  My synapses were refusing to fire and I could not think of anything but soup.

I love soup.  I could totally do Soup Week, but then you'd have to send out a search party to find my remains.  It would not go over well here.  However, since there was no soup last week, I am feeling free to have Soup Night twice this week.

So.  What I'm cooking...  Did I tell you that I skipped The Dreaded Commissary yesterday?  It was hanging over my head all the livelong day, making me cranky, but I just couldn't make myself go.  I almost skipped it again today, but since there was leftover Vegetable Green Curry and approximately two tablespoons of hummus left in the house, I had no choice.  I did what any reasonable girl would do: I procrastinated.  Then, I procrastinated some more.  Then, I went.

So.  What I'm cooking...
(In no particular order and subject to time, space and my emotional state.)

PW's Homemade Chicken and Noodles
Chicken Noodle Soup was already on the menu, along with open-faced toasted cheese sandwiches on crusty multigrain bread, but I came across this while procrastinating and decided to give it a go.  The chicken parts are simmering, and I have already sauteed and set aside the mirepoix (which I prefer to have sauteed, rather than just chucked in later).  About 20 minutes before the sportsters roll on in, I'll slice the bread and toast it.  Then I will put the toasted pieces on a cookie sheet, cover them with provolone and sharp cheddar, and broil them 'til they're bubbly (or charred, depending on time, space, and my emotional state).

Veggie Pizza, as I'm still trying to squeeze in the last of Mary's recipes from last week.  I will make her crust, and top it with pesto, fresh mozzarella, and tomatoes.  Then, I will make another one with turkey pepperoni, so the youngsters don't touch my pizza.  Okay, so they'll still touch it, but this will hold them off long enough for me to eat my fill.

Mary's Quiche.  Again, wanting to make all the recipes she gave us last week.  Quiche for dinner is fairly common here, but I generally do a Mexican-themed quiche so that the sausage, cheese and salsa detract from the presence of either spinach or broccoli.  I'll let you know how undisguised broccoli goes over.

Chicken enchiladas, to which I will add Mexican rice (like I made it last week) and a salad.  Hopefully, there will be leftovers so that the next night, when I make...

Ms. Wendy's Mexican Chicken Corn Chowder, the leftovers can serve as filler.  Making Ms. Wendy's Chowder will make me a hero.  The boys love Ms. Wendy, and they love her chowder.

I realize that's not really enough meals to get me through the week, but inevitably something like the Five Guys incident, or desperately thrown together waffles, will happen.  I did buy the ingredients for another round of green curry, because the curry paste I bought at the ethnic grocery store apparently seared the taste-buds right off of someone's mouth (more leftovers for me).

In the end, things always work out.

Veg Week: That Korean Dish I can't Pronounce

Bibimbap.

I don't know how to pronounce it, but the Wonder Hub assures me I can tell you I've conquered it.

(Pause for deafening applause.)

Really, we conquered it.  While I chopped and sliced and sauteed like a madwoman, he put together the bulgogi.

I think he drew the short end of that stick, except that he harangued and harassed me throughout the process, which:

made it all worthwhile (for him).
worked toward his ongoing goal of never being asked to help in the kitchen.

I know that sounds harsh, but someday I'll tell you about his infamous Tuna Melts.  Then you'll understand.  You'll sympathize.  You'll give me knowing looks and shake your heads in his direction.  You will.

In the meantime, Bibimap.  Here's what I did:

I watched this video three times.

• I chopped and sliced and julienned.

• I sauteed big batches of yellow squash, baby bok choy, bean sprouts, baby spinach and portabella mushrooms (prepared the way you told me to, Teri, but still not successfully disguised.  Bubba, when told it was the meat of the meal, said, "Yeah. That's a mushroom," and passed it by.) in small quantities of sesame oil and soy sauce.

• I made an enormous mess.

• I drooled over the wonderful smells.

• I put it all together on a plate:

Next time (there will be a next time!) I will:

• Not be out of peanut oil.
• Not put the sauteed bok choy next to the sauteed spinach (My people have aesthetic issues.  No they don't.  I do.)
• Try new and more veggies.
• Find fresh bean sprouts, because I suspect that using canned bean sprouts is shameful.

I had one little coup d'état in this effort.  I found it at the World Market, or whatever that fishy and fascinating all-ethnicities grocery store is.  It was this:

Gochuchang Paste, which added a delicious kick of spice to the sweet, garlic-and-ginger undertones of the WH's bulgogi.

Score!

Greek: 5
Eggplant: 2
Enchiladas: 3.5, or 4
Bibimbap: 4

Veg Week: CONFESSION

I'm afraid there is no easy way to say it.  I spent 50 (eye-poking) minutes on the elliptical trying to dress it up, this thing I need to tell you. 

I spent the day running around Northern Virginia with girlfriends, arriving home in the late afternoon.  I was starving, which was funny, because I had eaten a huge Greek salad at my favorite restaurant for lunch, along with some bruschetta, and then a big latte from an overpriced coffee empire.  I joined the teens mid snack-fest and helped myself to a leftover enchilada.  I sat around and chatted with the boys, the sun shining gloriously through the open windows and lulling me into thinking there were many hours of daylight remaining.  When the WH walked in, we were relaxed and reclining, having nothing but some dirty dishes and a couple of Trader Joe's bags to show for our day.  All was well with the world.  It was the most gorgeous day of the year to date, so when the boys went out to the trampoline, I decided to take Molly on the two-mile loop (Molly Sue, Molly Sue...what are they feeding you?), which turned into the 2.5-mile loop, which would have been fine,

Except that the love of my life had run a 10k over lunch.

The Wonder Hub is much like a cranky toddler when he's hungry.  And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Well, except that he's bigger than a cranky toddler.  And crankier.

I had been thinking about dinner all day.  I was intimidated by the prep required.  I wasn't sure of the cooking sequence.  I was confused about the use of bulgogi in a vegetarian dish. On our walkabout, I had purchased some ingredients for the adventure, including portabella mushrooms, baby bok choy, fresh baby spinach, and yellow squash, but when the Cranky One growled, "When's dinner?" I choked.  After frantically looking the recipe through again, I decided to flip the Bibimbap night for the Green Curry (which I can make in my sleep) night.  I started prepping, but about three minutes in the WH (crankily) declared, "We're going out to eat."

I'm weak.  It's true.  I caved.

Knowing him as I do (and realizing that we were all dressed in some version of exercise gear), my gut told me where we were headed.  I knew.  I didn't breath a word against it.  Truthfully, my heart was welling up inside of me, filled with hope.

As he pulled into the parking lot, my mind began composing this post.  It's true.  I started listing my excuses before I'd even committed the crime.  In the end (when my belly was full and my soul was satisfied), I decided to lay out for you the plain truth:

I am a weak, weak woman.

So there.  Here it is, in black and white:  I have failed Veg Week.

 

 And, yes.  It was totally.worth.it.

Veg Week: Enchiladas

He hadn't even put his hiney in the chair when Moose declared, "Dude, those look amazing!"

Dude is my name, fyi.

After the Wonder Hub prayed (including the ritual "God bless the chef," which really means, "Sweet Lord, please let this food be edible!"), I halted everything to grab the camera.

Unfortunately, the teenagers had come in from track practice and proceeded to devour
Yogurt
Tortilla chips with melted cheese
Cold pizza
Chicken sandwiches
Milk

and were not all that hungry when dinner was ready 30 minutes later.  Go figure.  As a result, it was hard to get a read on their acceptance level of this meal.  They both said they like my chicken enchiladas better, but that they would eat this again.

The Monkey came in from back-to-back wrestling and lacrosse practices and would have happily devoured his brother's foot.  Needless to say, he loved them.

The WH liked them, but is still talking about Monday's Greek meal.  He knows it's Veg Week, and I'm afraid that for all of eternity every vegetarian meal will be compared against Greek salad, hummus and tzatziki.  On a scale of five, he rated:
Greek: 5
Eggplant: 2
Enchiladas: 3.5, or 4

I, for one, thought they were awesome.  This is what I did:

• Misread the recipe and put both teaspoons of cumin in the sauce, instead of one in the sauce and one in the filling.  I wish I had added one to the filling, for a total of three.  It would have been great.  Also, in regard to the spinach.  Frozen spinach is a crime against humanity, so I sauteed a bag of baby spinach in a little olive oil and added that to the filling, along with a can of corn instead of frozen.  
• I smashed an avocado on a plate and then squeezed a little lemon juice over it, the way my favorite Guatemalan taught me to do.  Then, I put the avocado plate on my side of the table and shared it only with the WH, the way living with teens has taught me to do.
• I used a can of mild Rotel in the rice, along with a 4oz can of diced green chiles.  Good stuff.
• I dumped the tortilla chips in a bowl (Polish, Rachel!) and said, "Have at it," which is exactly what Moose the Carb Addict wanted to hear.
• We scraped the last couple ounces of salsa out of a jar, because that's all we had.

I give them a FIVE.  They were wonderful.  Because of all the pre-meal snacking, there are actually leftovers for me today.  It just doesn't get any better than that, people.  It's the best of all possible worlds.

In other news, I wrote a blog post yesterday for the women's ministry at my church.  If you like, you can read it here.

Veg Week: Day Two, or They're on to me

This is Martha's photo, not mine.

Two out of three boys commented on the lack of meat in last night's meal.

Nobody called for a "Do Over."  However,

there were ZERO leftovers.

I used smaller, Italian eggplant, in hopes of sweeter flavor (thanks, Char!).

I burned the tar out of some of it, which meant my layers were a bit lacking.  (Cut the eggplant on the generous side of 1/2" thick, trust me.)

I used about a cup of cheese, instead of 1/2 cup, thinking, "You can never have too much cheese."  I was wrong.

The bechamel sauce was wonderful.  Beyond wonderful.  What else can you do with bechamel sauce?

We had another loaf of multi-grain bread and a large green salad with our Eggplant Parmesan.  Man, was it green.  I have yet to go to the commissary this week (picture Calvin making a gagging face), and all I had in the crisper was hearts of Romaine, broccoli, and a green bell pepper.  I added some feta and Craisins, but still, it was pretty lacking aesthetically.  I'm sure the men in my household were greatly bothered.

• The youngest gobbled up eggplant but tarried over his salad.  At age eight he prayed, "Dear Lord Jesus. Thank you for this day and please help them to discover that salad is really bad for you. Amen." The broccoli was the last to go, which I blame on his grandfather.  I half suspect that Molly Sue ate the broccoli, but I'll never know.

Scratch that.  He'll tell me tonight.  He takes after his Auntie Shari, who was nicknamed NBC (for good reason) when we were children.

• The middle ate two helpings but admitted sheepishly that he wasn't all that excited about it.  He never wants to hurt my feelings, sweet boy.  Truthfully, nine times out of ten he's the one I'm cooking for.  His earnest appreciation is all the thanks my (middle child's) heart requires.

• The eldest was pretty frank in his assessment.  "It's got no meat."  However, his mouth was crammed full at the moment he said this, so clearly it wasn't a deal-breaker.

So, yes.  They might be on to the whole Veg Week theme.  And, no.  They were not thrilled with Eggplant Parmesan.  But, heck.  They ate it all and nobody complained.  Sometimes, that's all a girl can hope for.

Next up!: Vegetable Enchiladas.

Veg Week: Day One

 

Let's get the confession out of the way first, okay?  First, this is not the Greek salad we ate last night.  This is a Greek salad I made in August of 2008.  The one I made last night (with the WH's help), on the fly, between a wrestling match and a track meeting, was dumped unceremoniously into a large Tupperware bowl.  It resembled this one, with the exception of the feta, which was plentiful and crumbled.

Second, I feel the need to confess that while I (we) planned and prepared a vegetarian meal, I had a non-veg second-string back-up plan waiting in the wings.  I really didn't believe that the meal, as Mary designed it, would be sufficient to fill post-track and  -wrestling bellies.

So there.  

Now, on to the meal.  

Greek salad, which according to my Greek friend Tinsie, is made from peeled cucumber slices, red onions, green bell pepper, kalamata olives, tomatoes wedges, and sliced (not crumbled) Feta cheese, sprinkled with oregano and drizzled with olive oil. (That was a grammatically weird sentence.)  In Greece, obviously, this is not known as a "Greek salad."  Rather, it is a Rustic Salad (xorˈjatiki saˈlata).

The hummus Mary linked to was seasoned with parsley and lemon juice. I decided to switch it to cilantro and lemon juice, cilantro being the most glorious of all the herbs and perpetually residing in my crisper drawer.  When I went to throw the garbanzos in the food processor, there were no garbanzos to be found in all of creation.  Instead, I dug up a Jillian Michaels recipe I've been wanting to try and made that instead.  FYI: I added an extra clove of garlic and a good bunch of cilantro to the food processor.  Do it.

The Tzatziki was Costco's finest.  I had planned to make it myself, but Monday is our craziest day and I have recently become The Kind of Girl Who Knows Her Limitations.  It's a fine kind of girl to be.

Add to this gourmet spread one loaf of crusty multigrain bread (also from Costco) and you've got a feast, my friends.

A feast which magically, mysteriously, marvelously filled two out of three* young stomachs, and which happily filled those of two adults.  The Wonder Hub declared it a "Do Over," which loosely translated means, "Yeah, I would eat this again."

So there you have it.  Veg Week: Day One.  Success!!

*The third young stomach was nowhere to be found at dinner and probably filled himself on taquitos, chips and salsa at home group.

What I'm Cooking: Menu by Guest Blogger Mary Dene

I can't stop smiling.  And laughing.  This is going to be awesome.  I asked my incredibly cool friend, Mary Dene, to be my guest blogger.  She's an amazing cook, and she's become a vegetarian since we were stationed together in Germany.  I asked her to tell us how she arrived at such a monumental decision, and then to make this week's menu for my family.  The Wonder Hub is, thankfully (in addition to being a good sport), the kind of man who really just wants to be fed.  The boys have the palates of full-grown world-travelers, and will eat darn near anything.  Just the same, I think I'll let the menu play itself out without cluing them in on its theme.  

It should be fun, come along for the ride!

 “Are you, really? Oh wow, I could never do that. I could never give up meat. You’re a better person than I am.”   I hear that E-V-E-R-Y week – every single week.  So why did I give up meat after 45 years? Two very simple reasons and 1 scapegoat: 1) It started out as a continuous case of painful acid reflux and an outbreak of hives every day. 2) I became brave enough to own what I was eating. Where did the animal come from? How was it raised? What was it fed? Is it leaving a HUGE carbon footprint? So now my philosophy is, “If I eat it, I will own it.”  The scapegoat was that I had always been looking for a reason to become a vegetarian. In my heart of hearts, it never felt right eating the muscle tissue of another animal.

Reason #1: My sister, the nurse, kept pushing me to go to the doc and get a prescription for acid reflux. She said, “I’m on Nexium, Dad’s on it, Mom was on it. It’s just hereditary. You’ll feel so much better.” My crunchy granola mind said, “Try a natural approach first.” Plus, I didn’t want to take medication everyday for the rest of my life. I thought I was too young for that, plus the image of Mom and Dad’s 28 slot pill box was too vivid. So, the first to go was dairy. Not hard. I’d given it up for Lent before. Presto – acid reflux GONE. Now I know why my parents said I was such a crier as a baby. Lactose intolerant. Case closed, sort of. (I now eat dairy is small quantities and not every day from organically AND humanely raised cows only.)

Here’s the scapegoat: Hives still haunted me. All around my middle and covering my thighs, every single night those hives would pop up. I would take a Benadryl, fall asleep scratching, only to wake up with an antihistamine hangover. No way to live. OK Mary, enter scapegoat. Finally, a reason to try and eliminate meat. Why meat? It was as good as any. During this period of abstaining from dairy and meat, my husband was deployed to Qatar. One night after I’d put the children to bed, I stumbled upon “Watch it Now” on Netflix. Enter Reason #2. One of the choices was Food Inc. I watched and was appalled and sickened. That did it. Total convert.

Is it hard sometimes? Yes. Have I faltered? Yes. Thanksgiving turkey and NC barbeque are the biggest temptresses. My remedy is akin to AA when I feel extremely weak. Instead of regular meetings, I re-watch the videos/movies on why I made my choice, and that’s enough of a moral kick in the pants to set me straight.  Also, my mantra at times of weakness is, “I’m eating the misery and suffering of others.” In my heart of hearts, I know it’s the right thing and I can live with myself again.  And the final nail in the coffin is, ‘According to a 2006 report by the Livestock, Environment And Development Initiative, the livestock industry is one of the largest contributors to environmental degradation worldwide, and modern practices of raising animals for food contributes on a "massive scale" to air and water pollution, land degradation, climate change, and loss of biodiversity.’  -Livestock's Long Shadow - Environmental Issues and Options is a United Nations report, released by the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations on 29 November 2006. Do I want to have a finger in that pie? No.

The result of all of this is peace of mind. I feel good inside and out. Can you do it? Yes.

I cook a lot of ethnic foods. Italian, Greek, Korean, etc. If I have a theme, it’s easiest for me. Here’s a typical week’s menu:

MONDAY:  Greek – Hummus (Moosewood Cookbook), Tzatziki (Barefoot Contessa), Greek Salad and Pita Bread. http://www.invinciblemuffin.org/recipes/condiments/hummus_moosewood.html

http://www.barefootcontessa.com/recipes.aspx?RecipeID=597&S=0

TUESDAY: Italian – Eggplant Parmesan (Martha Stewart), Herb Mix Salad with Gorgonzola and homemade balsamic vinaigrette, baguette (http://www.marthastewart.com/recipe/lighter-eggplant-parmesan?backto=true&backtourl=/photogallery/quick-meatless-recipes#slide_1)

WEDNESDAY: Mexican – Vegetable Enchiladas (Martha Stewart), Spanish Rice (Zatarain’s brand), homemade Guacamole and Salsa. (http://www.marthastewart.com/recipe/vegetable-enchiladas)

THURSDAY: Korean – Bibimbap and side dishes called Banchan (http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/boy-meets-grill/bibimbap-recipe/index.html) We live in Korea, so the access to ingredients for this dish is unlimited. However, make it your own.

FRIDAY: Thai - Kitchen Sink Vegetable Green Curry over a mixture of brown and Jasmine Rice http://www.atasteofthai.com/index.php?page=recipe&id=380

This is when I empty my vegetable drawer at the end of the week and throw in a can of drained garbanzo beans. I do not add the fish sauce, of course.

SATURDAY It’s Family Movie Night: Homemade Veggie Pizza.  I top our pizzas with Smart Sausages® Italian Style by Lightlife

(http://familyfun.go.com/recipes/processor-pizza-dough-684623/) I’ve used this recipe for years. It’s absolutely foolproof.

SUNDAY: Quiche (I usually add whatever vegetables I’m in the mood for), Salad and Baguette  (http://www.marthastewart.com/recipe/crustless-broccoli-cheddar-quiches?backto=true&backtourl=/photogallery/quick-meatless-recipes#slide_12) I use soy milk instead of half and half.

This is just a small fraction of the things I cook, but it is imperative that our family sit down every night together and eat. 95% of the time it happens.  I also discovered this weekly download on Huffington Post. It’s really fun to pick a topic and hear what everyone has to say. 

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/11/05/huffpost-family-dinner-do_n_779622.html

Paint Week: By the Numbers

(for Susan)

 Before/After

Five
days to paint five rooms and one stairway, plus trim and baseboards


90/10
percentage work done by the WH/Me

Three

trips to Lowe's/Home Depot


Four
gallons of primer


Three-point-five
gallons of ceiling paint


Four
gallons of Belle Grove Buff (so far)

Fuel

Four
lunch dates in painting clothes

One
lunch date in non-painting clothes ... to celebrate


Four
paint shirts,

Two
of those accidental

Just Two
cuss words ... used multiple times

Only One!
fight

17 million
ways to procrastinate

Wednesday's Post: It's All About Me

There is an idea that has been rolling around in my head, daily gathering momentum and growing in size.  I wanted to share it with you.

I've lately been struck with the difference between serving others and serving myself, and even more specifically, the difference between wanting/needing/demanding gratitude for the things I do for others, and the biblical proclamation that I should be doing everything (yes, everything) as though I am doing it for God.

The proclamation, which I believe I have known from childhood, is Colossians 3:23-24:

²³Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, ²⁴ since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving. 

I have quoted this verse to children in regard to chores and schoolwork.  It was manipulative, really, and not at all successful.  I have treated this information as if it were for others--specifically, for me to hand out to others--instead of what it truly is.

What is it?

Truly, it is a call to freedom.  My heart gets all wadded up and crabby when my people don't appreciate their hot breakfasts or rides to school/sports/social events.  I'm doing this for them, don't they appreciate me?

When I do it for the Lord Christ, for Jesus, there is no room for crabbiness.  Really, there is no room for me.  If it's all about Him, if I'm all about serving Him, then every gesture is made beautiful, and significant.  If no one here on earth appreciates it, or heck, even notices it, well who cares?

This is big for me.  I think perhaps that I come from a long line of martyrs.  You know...women who have sacrificed all for the good of their selfish, thankless offspring.  I (being one of those selfish, thankless offspring) mean no disrespect.  I see myself falling into their habits as faithfully as I bake my mother's banana bread recipe, as often as I jokingly shake my fist at my husband, identical to the way my grandmother shook hers at my grandfather.  These things happen.  

But what IF.

What if I dragged myself out of bed to whip up smoothies and sack lunches, not for the thanks of sleepy, silent teenagers, but rather for the glory of God?  What if, when my feelings are out of whack over this or that, I choose to offer up my acts of service to the Lord Christ instead of to man (or men, or boys)?  How freeing should it be to know that my every little thing is being noted and tallied and counted towards my inheritance?  How awesome to hear that "Well done, good and faithful servant" echoing backward through infinite time, from the moment of my arrival in heaven, to now.

And bottom line: how altered might my family be, were I to live that verse instead of handing it out like so much trivial dogma?

Random Thursday

1. I hardly ever know what day of the week it is.

I like it that way.  Who needs to be tied down to named days?  Who needs that pressure?

2. I do know Sundays, because it's the only day I bother with full-on make-up.

I kind of don't recognize myself with full-on make-up.  I feel like I'm playing dress-up, or like I'm faking it.

Faking it is perhaps not the best way to feel when you're going to church.

At some point every Sunday I go into the ladies' room, where I realize that I've got on the wrong color foundation and look like a mime, or that I've only put eyeliner on one eye.  As I do this every single Sunday, it might be time to concede that I'm just not meant to be girly.

3. I have a very girly friend.  I love her dearly.  She takes me shopping and tries her best to make me respectable.  She once took me into a Vera Bradley store, where I seriously thought I was going to have an epileptic seizure. 

4. I have been attending twice-weekly wrestling matches, and I'm sad to report that my old, high-school era bleachers phobia lives on.  Walking up and down bleachers and feeling like everyone is looking at my hiney and waiting for me to trip is horrible.  I dread it so much that I truck right on up to the highest row, sit against the wall, and refuse to move until the meet is over and everyone else is leaving, too. 

I really need to remember to go to these things dehydrated.

5. I love Ree Drummond, but my husband's butt would kick her husband's butt any day.  Bring it, Ree.

6. I saw the president of my fan club this morning, on the two-mile loop.  He was headed towards us, and I was singing, "If I had a million Mollys..."  He slowed down as he passed us, and he was smiling.

I love sharing my gifts with the world.

7. Bubba and I have been working on a rendition of "Hallelujah."  He taught himself (with the help of everyone's favorite tutor, Youtube) to play it on the guitar.  The addition of our voices is....priceless.

I'm all about "Make a joyful noise." 

If I can figure out how, he said he would be willing to put a sound clip here for your listening pleasure.

8. The Wonder Hub is on leave this week, and was able to go to a wrestling match with me.  We walked in, alllll the way across the gym, and up to my spot against the wall.  We had to leave early to make it to the next kid's thing, so I steeled myself and followed the WH down the bleachers after the 114lb. match.  As we were walking across the parking lot, my beloved laughed and said, "You still have that Chiquita Banana sticker on your butt!"

Seriously.

Molly Sue, Part Deux

(Part 1 is here!)

So...the Wonder Hub left for Iraq. 

As much as I hate to admit I am not my sweet girl's first love, there is no denying that the Wonder Hub is her Alpha Dog.  She was confused when he left.  She was distraught when he didn't return.  She started digging holes in the backyard, like maybe he had gone to China and any hope of reunion rested solely on her ability to Get.To.Him

  Miss Diggy Dog, Circa Dec. 2006

And off to China she went.  Nothing could deter Diggy from her goal.  Soon, the small backyard of our rented Las Vegas home resembled the abandoned field where I practiced softball as a child, and soon after that, the Marianas Trench.  Nothing could be done to console my girl.  Nothing could sway her.  Nothing could alter her single-minded determination.

After losing all hope of seeing our rental deposit, I shared my dilemma with Norah the dog trainer.  She told me to get Molly's Alpha Dog to send one of his funky t-shirts back from Iraq. She promised that Diggy wouldn't if she could sleep with the scent of her pack leader. 

By that point I was willing to try anything.  I had just signed a lease in Alabama (on a house with a really big backyard), swearing that my dog was the best-behaved hound on earth. I had little choice but to follow Norah's advice.  Had she told me to sleep with Molly in the Trench under the light of a full moon while wearing my wedding dress, I promise you, I would have done it.

To be continued...

What I'm cooking: Paint Week

We found our Virginia home during a one-week, spring break trip from our home in Alabama.  We rolled back into the VA the last week of June, boarded Molly with a local vet, set up camp for ourselves at a local military base, signed (four thousand times) on the dotted line, and painted for a week straight.

Let me be clear on this, because it's important: The Wonder Hub did not paint.  My amazing, self-sacrificing, endlessly hilarious, bad-ass Russian missionary friend, Kim (dubbed Kim Possible by the Monkey), and I painted.  We painted until we were delirious and then we painted some more.  We painted the entire house, save the upstairs hallway and three bathrooms.

Did I mention this is my first house?

Since that time, which is approximately 2.5 years, the Wonder Hub and I have painted two bathrooms, and re-painted one small family room and kitchen.  The Wonder Hub himself has painted parts of the basement.  Grudgingly.  The Wonder Hub is not a fan of painting.

So.  This week we are re-painting the front entry, the living and dining rooms, and the upper stairway.  We are painting for the first time the upstairs hallway (glory, hallelujah).  The WH has taken a week of leave in which to make this magic happen.

It should be really, really fun.

So, what does this have to do with this week's menu?  Seriously, if you have to ask that question, you are not in charge of cooking for your household.  My house is already turned upside-down, crabby words have already been spoken, mud is being applied to nail holes as I type.

As such, I have made this week's menu as simple as possible.  It looks like this (in no particular order):

• Judie's Lasagna, already put together and waiting in the fridge, with frozen garlic bread and a salad.
• Simple Sesame Noodles, made with whole wheat (thin) spaghetti, chicken and nothing else.  I will make a double batch and call the scallions and cilantro vegetables.
• Rani's Spicy Sausage Potato Soup, made with healthy(er) chicken sausage and kale.  The first run-through with this recipe was a HUGE hit.  I'll ask Rani if I can share it with you.
• Potato Leek Soup, because, a) I bought four pounds of bacon on Saturday and, b) my sister-in-law mentioned on Facebook that she had cooked with leeks for the first time, and now I can't stop thinking of them.  We loooooooove leeks.  
• Spicy Pulled Pork, from Ree Drummond's cookbook.  Always a hit.  On tortillas with whatever fixins I can manage.

Ree and me!

 Happy week, all!  Your prayers for the peace of my household are greatly appreciated.  Your showing up at my door, paintbrush in hand, might be appreciated even more!

Judie's Lasanga

I'm supposed to be at physical therapy right now.  I think I'm going to play my 72 hours late card..

So, in order to write a proper Judie's Lasagna post, I needed to stroll down memory lane via 5,000 old photos on the hard drive.  The things I do for you people.

I found this:

That's my Aged P (also known as Mel), me, and my mommy at Bernkastel, Germany.  I miss her so.

I found this, which I think was the kindergarten dental hygiene play.

 

Yay!  Dental hygiene!

After I laughed for half an hour, I found this:

Partnach-Klamm, Garmisch, Germany



..and this

London, baby! (trip with Martina in March, 2003)

The London photo (which I think I scanned from one of Martina's) made me step away from the hard drive and look through a photo album Martina made me.  Martina is that amazingly wonderful kind of friend that every girl should have.  The photo album is a record of every time our families got together during the three years we lived in Germany.  It also has one of the photos of Judy that I was looking for...

But for the life of me, I cannot find a picture of Judy on the hard drive.  We lived across the hall from each other for two years.  We ate together regularly.  We rarely closed our doors.  We spent a week together in Mallorca...

Clearly, I cannot write this post until I find those photos. 

Random Thursday

1.  Get this.  I have started using the What I'm Cooking posts to remind myself exactly what I'm supposed to be cooking throughout the week.  It's genius!  Or sad.

I started a cooking confessional post for last week, titled it Cooking Confessional: What the Heck did I Cook?, sat there trying to remember what I'd cooked, when I'd cooked it, and how it turned out.  After about five minutes I decided that you guys didn't really care, and gave up.

2.  I can't type if my fingernails are too long.  It's true.  And not only can I not type, but if the pads of my fingers can't touch the keys, I can't even think of what to type.

It's kind of a bummer, because I have decent nails (I love that they're shaped like my mom's) that grow quickly enough  that I have to cut them once a week.

It's not that big of a bummer, because I don't really take care of them the way I should (nor do I intend to start), and cutting them is so much easier than making and remembering to keep nail appointments.

3. I love coconut.  I dream of coconut cupcakes.  I love Almond Joy creamer.  I adore macaroons.  I once tried to make some.  Once.  I didn't beat the egg whites enough and ended up with a cookie sheet full of glued-on, charred coconut. 

I should try that again.

4. I have never had a Krispy Kreme donut.

To me, donuts aren't worth the calories.  They have no power over me.  I walk by them every Sunday at church, stick out my tongue, and keep on walking. 

Coconut cupcakes, on the other hand...

5. I went to physical therapy 40 minutes late last Wednesday, but I thought I was only 10 minutes late, which isn't technically late (for me).

I went to physical therapy 72 hours early last Friday, so it's more than a wash.  Now I can pretty much be 40 minutes late to physical therapy for...ever.

6. Yes, I know I'm a dork.  Thank you for asking.

7.  I laugh when people talk about winning the lottery.  God would never let me win the lottery.  I know that God knows that millions would ruin me.  He would never let me win.  He loves me too much.

8. I will be putting on a bathing suit in exactly 45 days.  I wish God cared as much about this as He does the lottery thing.  I could stand a little miracle-action in the bathing suit department.

The Wonder Hub and I are working on our beach bods for each other.  Which is, if you think about it, as it should be.

It's good that I can dream about coconut cupcakes, as there are clearly none in my immediate future.

9. Molly and I were walking our two-mile loop Tuesday.  I was singing to her- something like, "Molly, Molly Crockett.  Queen of the wild frontier!" when I realized there was an iPod-less jogger following close behind.  We saw him again yesterday, on our three-mile loop. 

I think I have the beginnings of a fan club.