The Best Laid Plans....or Baking with Karen

My men were power-washing the deck on Saturday while I was busy making myself look too busy to power-wash the deck.  After all the laundry was folded (Like, seriously, all the laundry on earth.  Like so much laundry that it took the entire showing of Road House, complete with commercial breaks, to finish.), I decided to bake.  I had baked on Friday--a double batch of Sue's Famous Banana Bread--and we were running precariously low on baked goods.

I had been thinking about this recipe.  I actually dreamed about it, so when I couldn't find anything else to make myself look busy, I decided to give it a go.  It looked simple, and so yummy, and I thought it would be a nice finish for the pulled-pork sandwiches/corn-on-the-cob/baked beans/Greek salad I had planned for dinner.

I made it with the apples, like Ree did.  I was excited and hungry from working so hard at looking busy.  While it was baking, something bright caught my eye and I looked over to see a small fire burning on the bottom of my oven.  It went out.  It caught again.  It went out.  And caught again.  I stood there like a dummy.  I came to my senses and placed a baking sheet under the Springform pan (that Judie bought me!) and kicked myself for not remembering that the butter would get hot and melty and leak right out.

After the timer went off, they sat on the counter just a wee bit too long, probably because I was standing under the smoke alarm, waving my oven mitt (seriously, that Judie bought me) until Bubba stepped in and took over.  When I got around to flipping the Springform over, this is what it came out:

Sigh.

This is what Ree's looked like:

Photo by Ree Drummond

Sigh.

And this is what mine looked like:

It's not quite as aesthetically pleasing as Ree's.  This is why, I'm convinced, God gave me boys.  Boys don't care about aesthetics.  Boys care about being fed.  I care about aesthetics, but at this point I'm pretty used to my cooking and wasn't at all surprised with the outcome.

Fortunately, for every bumbled dessert there is a silver lining.  For this one it was:

Bubba and I dug in and polished it off in a flash.  Then we started in on the biscuits, which we ate straight off the plate with our fingers, and then again later with ice cream.

I'll definitely make this again, but here is what I'll do differently:  I'll spray the pan (duh).  I'll cut the apples (or pears, I want to try it with pears) a little bigger.  I'll put a baking sheet under it, not start a fire(s) in the oven, not set off the fire alarm, and flip it onto a plate in a timely manner.

The End.

Really, Truly, Finally Judie's Lasagna

 

Okay, to recap: This is Judie.  We lived across the hall on the fourth floor of a stairwell housing building on an airbase in Germany...that no longer exists.  With her three resident boys and my four, we quickly became fast friends.  The Wonder Hub and I had only been married for six months when we moved in, and I had exactly six months of cooking experience under my belt.  She took pity on my poor, malnourished family and gathered me under her wing.  Over the years our families shared many a meal, most of them cooked by Judie and some of them cooked by me.  Back in those days, when Judie's family came to our house to eat they had to cross the threshold with their own silverware in hand.  It was a bittersweet day when I finally purchased a full set and could comfortably feed more than my family of five.  (Judie was with me when I ordered it, and she was with me on the day we went back to pick it up and I declared I hated it more than any silverware on this earth and then went home with something completely different.)

On special occasions, Judie made her famous lasagna and a salad the Monkey still talks about today.  In one of many displays of mercy on my soul, Judie gave me the recipe when I was faced with hosting a meal for some Very Important Person.  I have made it a hundred thousand times since then, and each time it is called reverently by its proper name.  Judie has given me permission to share it with you, but I do hereby make you promise to always and forever call it by its proper name.  Friends, I give you:

Judie's Lasagna

  It starts like this, with one pound of sweet Italian sausage, cooked low and slow, as they say.

 

You cook it so low, and so slow(ly) that you would be wise to keep a snack handy.  Trust me on this.

When your meat is thoroughly cooked, drain the fat and add to it:

One clove (or two, or three) minced garlic

One 28oz can tomatoes (I have used whole and crushed, with equally happy results.)

One tablespoon whole basil (Okay, so I don't really know what whole basil is, but that's what Judie's recipe says.  I use whatever basil I happen to have.)

Two six ounce cans tomato paste

While that continues cooking, low and slow, boil some water and cook the lasagna noodles according to package directions.  Then mix together in a separate bowl:

Three cups cottage cheese

Two eggs

1/2 cup grated Parmesan or Romano cheese (Use the good stuff.  Trust me.)

Two tablespoons parsley

1/2 teaspoon pepper, and

Set aside one pound grated Mozzarella cheese.  Don't set it so far aside that you forget about it.  Trust me.

When your noodles are cooked and drained, start by layering them in a greased 9x13 pan. Listen carefully, because this is crucial: layer them two deep.  In the picture above, there are ten noodles.  

Trust me.

(Also: I never, ever use all the noodles in the package.)

Next, you will use exactly half of the cheese mixture to cover the noodles.

Then, use exactly half the shredded Mozzarella to cover the cheese mixture...which I did not do.  In all the hundred thousand times I have made Judie's Lasagna, I have never forgotten the Mozz layer.  Until now.  Go figure.

Then you will cover your Mozzarella with exactly half of the meat mixture, which you will have used all your willpower to keep from eating straight out of the pan with a spoon.

Then you'll do it all again.

Double-layer noodles.

Second half of cheese mixture.

Second half Mozz.  (Eye roll from me.)

Second half of sauce.  

If I had done this correctly, there would be just barely enough room in the pan for the second half of the sauce.  See that little lip there?  That was the first clue that I had messed it up.  My second clue was the one pound bag of shredded Mozzarella staring at me from where I had set it too far aside.

Whatever.  These things happen.  When they do, you roll with it.  You improvise.  My gut told me that one pound of Mozz on the top of this lasagna would congeal into a one pound brick of Mozz on the top of this lasagna, so I eyeballed it and used less than half.

I sprinkled it on after Judie's Lasagna had baked at 350 for 30 minutes (45 if you've made it ahead and then pulled it out of the fridge) and put it back in the oven for another five.  When I took it out, it looked like this.

It made me sad.

It made me mad.

Then I got over it and dug in.

So there you have it!  Judie's Lasagna.  Please report back to me after you make it for your Very Important People.

The Problem With Being Me

Late last night, weary and sore from a solid day of yard work, I went to write the Judie's Lasagna post for you.  Because I love you that much.  Months ago, I spent hours on the external hard drive, looking for pictures of Judie for this post.  After strolling down memory lane for the better part of an afternoon, I finally found the above photo, which I saved to the desktop for handy access.  I'm certain you'll be shocked to know that last night I couldn't find it.  Anywhere.

Well, except for on the hard drive, which was down in the basement.  I knew it was there.  The problem was that my behind simply refused to get off the couch to go look for it.  I just.couldn't.do it.  Not even for you.

So.  Fast-forward to this morning, just past smoothie-making and kicking kids out the door.  Hot coffee waiting, I ran down and grabbed the hard drive.  I ran out and started the sprinkler.  Having only 30 minutes to write the post, I set the timer for 15 (both for the sprinkler and to keep myself on track).  I settled in and found the Christmas'04 file, where I just knew this photo resided.  And then...

1. I found a sweet, sweet photo of the Wonder Hub and Bubba at Heidelberg Castle and emailed it to the WH to make his day.
2. I found photos of the Monkey wearing a big cheesy grin and the Steelers-colored Christmas hat Ms. Wendy had sewn for him.  I emailed them to make her day.
3. I looked through all of the Christmas Day photos and mourned the loss of the Lego Years, which have been replaced by the Ridiculously Expensive Electronics Years, and, because the boys are weird, the Shoe Years.
4. I found a great photo of the boys being silly on a bridge, Heidelberg Castle in the background.  I set it as the desktop background, replacing one of them being silly at Neuschwanstein Castle.
5. The timer went off. I moved the sprinkler and set the timer for another 15 minutes.
6. I found a photo of me decorating a Sponge Bob cake for Moose's 12th birthday, and posted it on Patty's FB page, because she helped me make that cake (taking over when it was clear that I was operating faaar beyond my own abilities) which absolutely, totally made his day.
7. I looked through photos of the birthday party, which entailed taking nine boys in shin guards to the racquetball courts on base and letting them go for broke in some 12-year-old version of Jungle Soccer.
8. The timer went off again.  I ignored it.
9. I found fourteen ridiculously over (under?) exposed photos of the Monkey at school wearing his pajamas, that enormous cheesy grin, and a hat that said, "Mr. Apple."  
10. I promised myself (once again) to take some photography lessons.
11. I found a photo of Martina and Annika at the Heidelberger Weihnachtsmarkt (Heidelberg Christmas Market), and then one of Annika and Moose, faces grinning through cutouts of Frau and Santa Klaus.  Of course I had to email that to Martina.

And now, dear sweet patient friends, I am out of time.

You still don't know the recipe for Judie's lasagna, but the good news is that now you understand the problem with being me.

Willy-Nilly

1: by compulsion : without choice

2: in a haphazard or spontaneous manner

Yep, that pretty much sums up my week.

The End.

 Okay, not really.  Here's a little assignment for all y'all.  We'll call it:

  FIX THAT GRAMMAR!

Go for it.  If you're good boys and girls, I promise I will post the recipe tomorrow for Judie's Lasagna.

Random Thursday: Monday Edition

1. I have the library cards from every place I've ever lived. I still know the barcode from my Las Vegas library card, possibly because we moved there in July and didn't get our household goods until late September. We were hot and bored. The boys finished the summer reading program in less than one month. I learned how to work the system and stay online for longer than my allotted 30 minutes.  It was an educational summer.

I owe my current library thirty bucks. Hence the lack of "Karen's Bedside Table" posts. I'll let you know when I work up the nerve to face my librarians and clear my name.

I lieu of public library access, I have been reading Young Adult fiction from the middle school, where I also hold a card and am able to borrow. I love Young Adult fiction, with the exception of vampires and other characters with creepy supernatural powers. Unfortunately, that is excepting quite a lot of literature. If you have pre- and teenaged readers, please monitor what they're reading. Please don't assume it's safe just because they got it at school.

Good YA lit I've recently read:

The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins (You should read this if your teen does. It falls under the "we should chat about this" category of YA lit)

Sunrise over Fallujah, by Walter Dean Myers (Excellent for boys, does contain all the real elements of war.)

Sunset over Fallujah, sent to me by the WH when he was there.

2. For years now, I have told my family members to make sure that nobody ever names a highway, road, or overpass after me. I know these things are meant to be an honor, but seriously, have you ever seen a clean highway, road, or overpass? Noo, thank you. The one exception to this would be the Boulevard Franklin Delano Roosevelt in Luxembourg City, which is Boulevard Roosevelt in its shortened form. I guess you could name that after me, should FDR ever fall out of favor with the Luxembourgers.


No, I'd much prefer to have a library named after me. Or perhaps a bookstore that sells coffee, provided it is not part of an Evil Coffee Empire.

3. I have this watch. It's pretty. It was given to me by someone I love. It has a pink face (which protects it from man-children) and a funky brown watchband. I wear it often. I'm wearing it right now. I glanced at it this morning and noticed that I had forgotten to spring it forward. Daylight Savings began on March 13. When I realized this, I thought, "Oh, well no wonder I'm always late." Then I realized that springing forward made that an invalid argument, as technically, it should make me early. I sat and pondered that for a minute or two. Then I realized I was running late.

4. I used to be Anti-Pink. I refused to wear it. I refused to let my dog wear it. It was borderline ridiculous, but I'm just not very girly and to me, pink is the ultimate Girl Color.

Sometime over the last two years I began to embrace pink. It started in self-defense. Pink cell phone, pink iPod, pink jackets, pink sunglasses. Pink anything a boy might be tempted to borrow, break, or lose, and the pinker the better.

If only food came in pink.

Over time, pink expanded to areas of my life not endangered by boys. It started with a simple pink t-shirt, which, to my great surprise, complimented my pale European complexion. Next came earrings. A pretty fleece. Some funky shoes. Suddenly, I was embracing my girliness, and even rocking it on occasion. Initially, the boys were shocked and disgusted. One called me a traitor. I shrugged. "Don't mess with me, boy. I'm a girl."


6. There are words I never say outloud. Not because they're bad words, but because my tongue cannot pronounce them. Edamame is one. Foliage is another. Friday I added Sudoku to the list. My brain wants to flip the vowels and make it Soduku, or Soduku. Or something like that.

I don't do Sudoku. I blame it on that recessive math gene. Or attention span. Or a wicked combination of the two. Friday, however, I was introduced to Word Sudoku.  I loved it instantly. Go figure.

7. The Wonder Hub and I are substitute Sunday School teachers at our church. We taught 7th graders yesterday. It works like this:

We get the lesson plans, which include scripture, main point of lessons, any secondary lessons, and various ways to broaden and deepen the lesson for the kids.
We read through lesson plans on our own.
We talk about which of the extra activities we will use.
We pray.

From there, as nearly as I can tell, we diverge according to personality, preference, habit. For example: I believe that the lesson is an outline of sorts, from which I am free to deviate in any way I see fit. (read: wing it) I want our time with the kids to be an ongoing conversation, which often means listening to the kids talk about: their newly acquired sunburns, or the really awful and gross thing that happened to them at school, or how they get grounded every single time they take a family road trip, or any of a million other random topics. As you might imagine, that works for me.

The Wonder Hub, on the other hand...

I glanced over at him midway through yesterday's lesson and noticed that he had a list. It looked like this:

Prayer requests
Pray
Review last week's lesson
Read this week's scripture
Do: Activity One
Read: From Another's Point of View
Discuss
Close in prayer

I laughed. A list for Sunday School! I made a mental note to tease him later, which, make no mistake, I will do. At the same time, though, I realize the beauty of the situation is really that we are opposites. I chat with the kids, he reigns me in. I tell a story, he reigns me in. I encourage randomness, he reigns me in. In the end, we have both built relationships with the children, AND completed the lesson.

Genius, I tell you.

Oh, how I love that man.

Adventure, Finale (For Real!)

On July 31, 2008, I Googled Pastor and Fran.

That's how it all began, folks.  I'm ashamed to admit it, but I lost them.  We had left Germany in July of 2005.  Pastor and Fran retired from Ministry to the Military and left Germany sometime in 2008, and I didn't know where they were.  When I Googled them, I found Sharon's blog, where she had written about a trip she took with Fran to my favorite place on earth for a women's retreat.  Seething with jealousy, I left her a comment explaining briefly who I was and asking if she knew how to get in touch with my beloved P&F.

Sharon emailed me with their whereabouts and contact info, and all was right with the world.

It might have ended there, but it didn't.  We started reading one another's blogs.  Sharon would leave comments on my posts with sweet, encouraging words like:

Oh, never mind.  I just spent an hour (in the middle of the night) looking through ancient blog posts to try and find some of Sharon's sweet, encouraging words.  When I finally found them (after seriously reading through most of 2008) I realized that they are too sweet and too personal to share.  You'll just have to trust me.

So.  Sharon: sweet and encouraging.

And Karen: usually all shades of green jealousy at the brave, daring life and wild adventures Sharon shared.  My sweet and encouraging words were like, "Please tell me your kids fought on this trip," while really, truly hoping they had fought.

Over the years (years!) we shared life through our blogs and through emails. 

• I traveled with her to Ireland, Malawi, Croatia.
• She went with me to pick up a child from school while wearing a (green) facial mask and watched me otherwise generally stumbling through life.
• I tried my hardest not to drop dead with jealousy at her seemingly golden life.  She was doing, physically and spiritually, on her own and with her family, things I only wished I was brave enough to do, and she wrote it all out so beautifully, so poetically, for me to read.

Once, immediately after I posted a request that my bloggirls sign and send me this:

"I ______________, take my responsibility as reader/editor/friend extraordinaire to the Author Known as Karen Klasi.  I will keep this manuscript in my possession, never show it to anyone else, read it with all due diligence, and make any and all suggestions that come to mind, truthfully and with love, for the betterment of this novel.  I will share no part of the manuscript or plot with anyone, and I will return said manuscript to Karen in a timely manner.  Then, I will not be the least bit offended if she chooses not to heed my brilliant suggestions."

Signed______________

I received a letter from Sharon  containing those exact words.

(She is still waiting patiently for that manuscript.)

And then.  Then the icing on the cake.  Then, she did the thing that sealed her title as Perfect Stranger by sending an email that caused me to write the following post:

The Luckiest Girl

Once upon a time, there was a girl who loved pottery from Poland. She loved it so much, in fact, that she traveled there three different times and spent fairly ridiculous (according to her husband) amounts of money on the stuff. She loved it all-- the blues, the yellows, the greens, the oranges and the deep rust reds. It didn't matter the shape or size, she loved it equally and with much enthusiasm. So great was her love that when, in the course of human events, two of her large, beautiful bowls were broken, she cried real tears of loss. She mourned that broken pottery and searched with World Wide Web for someone, anyone who might replace it for her. Two years later, she still had not found this person, and still she felt the loss. It was a tragedy of epic proportions.

And then.

She met, quite by accident, a blog girl. This blog girl had the good fortune to be living in Germany, exploring that universe, and loving every minute of it. Truth be told, the girl kind of hated her (you know, in a why-can't-I-be-you kind of way), but was drawn to reading about her exploits all the same. Over time, they realized that they had many things in common and began to really like each other.

And then.

The blog girl emailed the pottery girl and told her this: We are going to Boleslaweic and will hunt for your broken pottery.

The pottery girl was IN AWE. What kind of a person takes up the hunt for the broken pottery of a girl she's never met? Seriously. I'll ask again. What kind of person does this???

The pottery girl pondered this question long and hard.

And then.

The doorbell rang. As she opened the door, the girl figured out the answer to her question. The kind of person who does this is selfless, loving, compassionate, a little bit crazy, and very much like Jesus.

The End

So now you see, right?  Now you see why this was a meeting of kindred souls, years in the making, and worthy of this telling.  You see why that hug was not the hug of strangers.  You see why we could talk for hours and never be anywhere near out of words.  You see, perhaps, why it was the most natural thing on earth (okay, maybe just on Karen's Earth) to meet immediately after having a chemical peel.  You see, I'm certain, just why I was so thrilled to finally meet this Perfect Stranger.

And now you've met her, too!

Adventure, Finale

As I raced to meet the perfect stranger, I begged for more mercy.

Two words, people: Gas.Light.

Through the LORD’s mercies we are not consumed,

Because His compassions fail not.  

They are new every morning;

Great is Your faithfulness.  

Lamentations 3:22-23

I flew past a gas station and decided that while begging for mercy was a time-honored ritual for me, passing a perfectly good gas station was just plain stupid.  I stopped.  I remembered back in high school when we would pool the change dug from three or four pockets and cruise all night.  I put in $20 and ended up with less than five gallons.  I rolled my eyes.

I raced down (up?) King Street-- face sweating, heart pounding--and cruised right by her.  I was more than 30 minutes late, and yet there sat the perfect stranger-- legs crossed and book open-- on a shady bench in front of Alexandria Cupcake.  Exactly where I had asked her to meet me.

I drove to my Never Fails, Always Find A Parking Spot parking lot, where there were no parking spots.  I turned around and headed back towards her.  When I got stopped at a light just two store down from her bench, I opened the window and (like a total dummy) hollered at a perfect stranger.

Sharon!  I'll be right there!

I'm such a dork.  After fumbling with coins for the meter and wondering if perhaps I should have glanced at my face, I made my way to her.

We hugged.  It was not the hug of strangers.  It was the hug of women who hold a piece of one another's hearts, even though they have never before laid eyes on each other's faces.

We crossed the street and entered my favorite Thai restaurant.  (Someone is going to comment and say, "Hey! You just took ME to that restaurant!")  News flash: I only take people I love to this restaurant.

We sat downstairs and talked for something like 2.5 hours without pausing, without breathing, without coming anywhere near saying everything we wanted to say.  Realizing our time was drawing short, we headed back across the street to Alexandria Cupcake.  (Someone is going to comment and say, "Hey! You just took ME to Alexandria Cupcake!")  News Flash: If I take you to Alexandria Cupcake, eat a darn cupcake!

We both had the coconut cupcake.  I always have the coconut cupcake.  The coconut cupcake completes me.  It is the only coconut cupcake I have found in which both the cake and the frosting are actually coconut.  Glorious.  I forced myself to slow down and while Sharon nibbled I managed to stretch the experience to four whole bites.

Our time was up.  It was more than up.  I was late.  If I couldn't get back in the HOV lanes (which close to single-passenger cars at 3pm), I would never, ever get home.  I would likely die of old age on the interstate, sandwiched between four hundred million other southbound single-passenger cars.

We asked the girl behind the cupcake counter to take our picture and immediately three customers walked in.  While we waited, we started one last topic of conversation, for which I have the greatest regret at not being able to finish.

We had photos taken.  Sharon looked like the incredibly sweet human being that she is.  I looked like a dork with a red face.

The End.




Just kidding.

Tomorrow I'll tell you all about why this meeting of perfect strangers was the coolest thing since coconut cupcakes.

Unaccompanied Minors

This is a blog post from Thursday, July 17, 2008.  Please don't me mad at me.  If I had even one more thing on my plate today, I swear to you my head would spontaneously combust.  I'll do my best to finish the Adventure story tomorrow.


Love,
Karen

 My camera sat on the counter next to the note, displaying the following picture..

Adventure, Part II

Let me start off by saying that as a result of the problems Blogger has experienced over the last few days, Thursdays Random Thursday post is MIA.  I'm surprised at how much that bothers me.  I think it's a sign that I'm far too attached to the silly words I write for you. 

So.  Back to the big adventure.

I stepped into the office, took a deep breath and walked through a chock-full waiting room to the receptionist's desk.  I smiled, handed her my Groupon printout, and confessed that I was late.  Seeing how I had rescheduled this appointment two other times, I was ready for whatever she threw at me.  Fortunately (or not) she said I could still be seen, handed me a raft of disclaimer forms, and pointed me back in the direction of the waiting room.

I sat in one of two empty chairs and was immediately joined by a pretty woman holding an icepack to her face.

I was terrified.  An icepack?  This is why I kept rescheduling.  I kept glancing at her out of the corner of my eye as she calmly moved the icepack from one flushed area of skin to another.  When she caught me staring, she took it as an invite to let loose a flood of chatter, all the while moving the icepack gently around her face.

"I had the chemical peel.  Is that what you're here for?  Are you Anglo?  Yeah, I'm Cuban.  It's going to be worse for you.  My face is on fire.  You're going to be so red when they're done.  Have you done this before?  No?  I do this all the time.  I'm 41, but people always think I'm in my 20s.  I also do Botox.  You really need to Botox.  Those lines around your eyes?  My doctor could totally get rid of those.  You really need to Botox.  Just make sure you see a doctor.  The first time I did it, the guy had no idea what he was doing and my face was frozen for months.  I had no facial expression.  At all.  You really need to Botox.  I just do it three times a year.  I do facials every week.  I do the chemical peel in between the Botox, which I fly to Florida for.  What people don't realize is that you have to give your face a break from the Botox, or your muscles atrophy.  My doctor is so good.  He keeps me looking natural, not like those women who can't even smile.  It's also really important to hydrate.  I can tell you're dehydrated.  You really need to hydrate."

I was helpless.  Thankfully, a sliding door opened and my name was called.  Still in shock, I followed a very young, very wrinkle-free girl to a stark white room that contained nothing, save a dental office chair and a barren black counter that ran the length of the room. 

I sat in the chair.  The girl appeared by my side with a small plastic cup containing about two ounces of a clear liquid.  She used a square of gauze to apply it to my face as we chatted about the horrors of Northern VA traffic.  After about 15 seconds my face started warming up.  After another 15 seconds it was on fire.  Another 15 seconds and she was done, and it was all I could do not to cry.  My nose was dripping.  My eyes were tearing.  I hopped around like I had to use the bathroom.  The girl handed me an icepack, emphasizing that it was but a gracious loan, and sent me back to the waiting room.

The Cuban was gone.

I hopped around the packed waiting room while pressing the icepack to my forehead, my left cheek, my right cheek, my chin, my forehead, and so on.  I glanced at the clock on the wall.

Crap.  I was supposed to be at Alexandria Cupcake, meeting the perfect stranger.  Right. Now.

If my face looked anything at all like it felt, I was the stupidest person on the face of the planet.  After three minutes of icepack rotation, I handed it to the receptionist and raced to the car...

where I did not look in the mirror.

Adventure, Part I

After a flurry of planning, mapping, conversing by phone with a person whose voice struck me as surprisingly soft-spoken, and generally running around like a maniac, I headed north on I-95 at 9:30am, both nervous and hopeful.  One quick appointment and then off to meet a perfect stranger for lunch.

I knew I was in trouble when I rounded the corner of the HOV on-ramp and saw brake lights stretching off into Kingdom Come.  I sighed and braked.  For once in my life I'd actually built some extra time into my schedule.  Everything was going to be fine.  I inched along, watching cars in the regular northbound lanes fly past, and thought about how long I'd waited for this day.

Since July 31, 2008, to be precise.

I started getting nervous.  What if our meeting didn't go according to plan?  What if the perfect stranger couldn't find the meeting place?  What if we weren't the people we had represented ourselves to be?  What if, ACK, we didn't have anything to say to one another?

Just as the traffic started picking up, my gas light went on.

Good grief, I thought.  Of all the times to be out of gas...  There was nothing I could do.  I was, quite literally, stuck in the HOV lanes.  Surrounded by the stop-and-go traffic, trapped by the cement walls that define the lanes, absolutely, completely, stuck.

I did as I always do when forced out on the perilous roads of Northern Virginia.  I begged God for mercy.

Please get me to this appointment on time.  Please don't let me run out of gas.  Please, please let this meeting go well.

I crept along, sweating and miserable.  The clock ticked, and ticked, and ticked, and the minute hand pushed right on past my appointed time at the exact moment I realized there was no Exit 5 off-ramp from the HOV lanes.  I was finally going the speed limit as I gave Exit 5 a little wave and continued on to the Pentagon.

I gave the WH a little wave as I sped through the Pentagon parking lot, wove around aimlessly and back out to I-395 Southbound, thankful for the minor miracle that got me there without incident and without running out of gas.

I hit the King St. exit and raced toward my destination.  I passed it somehow, and swung around in a crazy move that would have stressed Fran out.  I passed it again, reversed again and finally arrived at my destination.

Thirty minutes late.

How To Feed A Family Of Five On Seventy Bucks

First: Rebel and refuse to go to the commissary on Mother's Day.

Second: Use all the eggs, cheese, peppers, and onions to make breakfast burritos, and give them to your people three minutes before you walk out the door to small group Monday night.

Hope that whomever brought snacks to small group was divinely inspired to bring much, many, mucho snacks.

Third: Make the Spicy Grilled Fish Tacos that you didn't make last week.  Watch the children turn their noses up at grilled fish, avocado spread, and Southwest Slaw.  Force-feed them one taco each (plus seconds for the most skeptical) before letting them fill themselves on tortilla chips and salsa.

Fourth: Break down on Wednesday and head to the commissary, with $72 and a challenge.  Buy:

• The ingredients for Judie's Lasagne (this is the week I reveal her recipe!)
• Three Red Baron pizzas (with coupons) and one box of Pepperidge Farms Texas Toast (to go with the head of Romaine sitting at home in the crisper).
• A big arse package of boneless, skinless chicken breasts, with which to make:
• Ree's salad, also not made last week, additional ingredients also in crisper.
• More chicken pesto pasta, which was a huge hit last week.
• Baked beans to go with the bbq chicken and asparagus the WH will grill tonight (also not cooked last week).
• No, I have no idea what we actually ate last week.  Don't even ask.
• Almond milk, bananas, and a pineapple for morning smoothies.
• Shredded cheese and refried beans and tortillas for after-school snacks.
• Eggs, because you can only borrow so many from the neighbors.
• Bread, because someone is about to grow and is taking two sandwiches each day in his lunch.
• Q-tips, because, seriously.  I can't live without q-tips, and some people around here single-handedly produce more earwax than all the ears in China.
• One Sweet and Salty Peanut Balance bar, because I thought I was going to drop dead while shopping.

Grand total: $72.52
Not breaking the budget: Priceless

Fingernails, Milestones, And Things That Make Me Twitch

1. I didn't write a blog post for you yesterday because my fingernails were too long.

I know I've told you before that not only can I not type when my fingernails are too long, but seriously, I cannot even think of what to write when the pads of my fingers aren't touching the computer keys.  It's like I possess some weird synapse that won't fire without the feel of the keys.  Or something.

Anyway, I just hacked them off with a toenail clipper, which was the only thing I could find.  I predict it will be Thursday before I get around to filing them.  I also predict several injuries will take place between now and then.

2. This here blog thing went over 6,000 hits yesterday, thanks to the lovely and talented M. Pryor and her candid collage of Miss Molly watching the Monkey kick hiney at lacrosse (GO BROSKIS!).  I really hope this budding photographer will provide us with more of her work in the future.

Thank you for reading my blog.

I love you.

3. There are many things that make me twitch, and I'm pretty sure that list is gaining momentum as I age.  At the top of the list is bad grammar, as you well know.  Another item on the list is incorrect Bible references.  Not that I am such an expert on the Bible.  Truly, I'm just a babe in arms there.  But when something, say the President's character in the movie Independence Day, says something like, "We are experiencing what the Bible refers to as Armageddon..." I really want to set him straight.  So much so that his incorrect reference rings in my head throughout the movie and kind of ruins the whole deal for me.  I wanted so badly to take him aside and ask him where exactly the Bible talks about aliens invading earth for its natural resources.  Or where it talks about Will Smith saving the day.  No, I think the Bible is pretty clear on Armageddon, and Chevy Chase's redneck relative from Vacation is not a key player.

Yes, I know this is not normal.  But it rattles around in my head and, therefore, I share it with you.

Thank you for reading my blog.

I love you.

So.  In closing I will share with you yet another sign from the village of Ocracoke and its grammar-and-spelling challenged population.

Happy Mother's Day from Molly Sue!

Collage courtesy of the very talented M. Pryor

Snack Drawer, Friday

For My Girlfriends

I have a couple of girlfriends.

I have a couple hundred girlfriends.

It's true.

They lift me up.  They feed my soul.  They laugh with me.  They laugh at me.  They set me straight.  They speak encouragement into my life.  They cry with me.  They agree, or disagree, and they do it honestly.  They want to spend time with me.  They want to spend time with me.  With me.  With little 'ol me.  With cranky, head-in-the-clouds, two-steps-behind, dropping balls everywhere, half put-together ME.

They love me.

The value of this treasure cannot be written in any known numerical format.  It's all I can do to humbly scratch it out here in a weak attempt to make you understand.  Search the whole world over and gather to yourself every shiny object under heaven, and still you could not equal its worth.  The Hope Diamond, set free from its confines and shining in the sun for all to see is nothing compared to the rare beauty of these women.  The degree of excellence found in their hearts is higher than that of any dreamed Camelot, greater than any armor-clad shining equestrian prince, more profound than any philosopher's dream, of greater worth than the fairest fortune known to man.

And I love them so.

A few brief thoughts on the death of Osama bin Laden

Yesterday was a whirlwind of emotion for our country.  We celebrated victory over evil, we mourned those unjustly taken from us, we were grateful to the men who got the job done.

We debated, in our hearts and with each other.  Were we happy or were we sad?  Did we rejoice over the death of an evil man, or mourn the loss of a life?  Did we somehow have a hard-earned right to celebrate or did celebrating reduce us to the level of those who have celebrated the loss of American life?

At one point during the day I remarked to the Wonder Hub that I believed the Israelites had rejoiced when David killed Goliath.  Didn't that set a precedent for rejoicing over the death of bin Laden?  He sent me to the verses in question, in I Samuel 17, where I found no rejoicing.

What I found was this:

⁴⁵ David said to the Philistine, “You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come against you in the name of the LORD Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied. ⁴⁶ This day the LORD will deliver you into my hands, and I’ll strike you down and cut off your head. This very day I will give the carcasses of the Philistine army to the birds and the wild animals, and the whole world will know that there is a God in Israel. ⁴⁷ All those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that the LORD saves; for the battle is the LORD’s, and he will give all of you into our hands.”

and then, when Goliath was dead, this:

^51bWhen the Philistines saw that their hero was dead, they turned and ran. ⁵² Then the men of Israel and Judah surged forward with a shout and pursued the Philistines to the entrance of Gath and to the gates of Ekron. Their dead were strewn along the Shaaraim road to Gath and Ekron.

David fought under the mighty power of Yahweh (LORD in the Old Testament is translated from the Hebrew word Yahweh, which is the name God gave Moses when he told him "I Am.").  David won the battle under the mighty power of Yahweh. David gave credit to no one but Yahweh.

When Goliath was dead, did the Israelites stop to party in the streets?  No.  With a shout, they surged forward and finished the job at hand.

I think we, as a nation, would do well to learn from David.  The battle is, and always has been, the LORD's.

Snack Drawer, Monday

What I'm Cooking: Birthday Week

Come Tuesday, I will be living:

a) in a house with four males
b) in a house where three out of four males are teenagers
c) in a house with one other female

That female will not stop asking me for walks on the beach.

Those males will not stop asking me for food.

Therefore, this week I will be cooking (in no particular order and with the possible exception of a birthday dinner at a restaurant of the birthday boy's choosing (I'm guessing IHOP)):

Spicy grilled fish tacos.  I was looking for an interesting recipe for bbq grilled chicken and found this instead.  I will not use nasty, bottom-feeding Tilapia, but otherwise I plan to follow the recipe exactly.
Some kind of bbq chicken.  Somewhere back in the dark recesses of my mind (way back, way dark) there is a great bbq chicken recipe.  I think it involves marinating the chicken in Dr. Pepper.  Or maybe not.  I'll get back to you on that.  Whatever it ends up being, it will go great with baked beans and gloriously grilled cilantro and lime sweet potato fries.  I could tell you that I'll make a green salad to round things out, but chances are, I won't.
Chili.  Not because it's chili season, but because my friend Tamara came for a visit and brought me a packet of Cincinnati Chili mix, and because I can serve it over spaghetti ("Two Way"), or over spaghetti and topped with grated cheese ("Three Way") and it will fill cavernous stomachs and hollow limbs.

 

Tam and I made this last night.

And this.  

And then one more that I forgot to photograph.

A PW salad.  Last week was a doozy of a week.  I returned from the beach on Sunday, took the in-laws to the airport on Monday, laid like broccoli on Tuesday, taught sixth and eighth graders on Wednesday and second graders on Thursday, house-hunted with Tam on Friday and Saturday and died on Sunday.  I did not make a menu and I did not go to the commissary.  With the exception of this, I don't even remember what we ate.  Fortunately, it was so good and so well received that Tam and I made it again on Friday night.  When I went back to peruse the recipe, I noticed that Ree had posted another salad, which I will make at some point this week.

I'm not sure why I felt the need to tell you all of that, but I did.

Pasta.  With pesto and some form of protein.  I probably shouldn't tell you that it will be chicken, because this is becoming a(nother) chicken-heavy week, but truly, it will likely be chicken.

That's how I roll.

To shake things up, I will serve this will roasted vegetables (zucchini/yellow squash/red onion/asparagus) and a big, crusty loaf of bread.
Nachos. Back in high school, my friend Gina made the most spectacular nachos.  We, with our hummingbird metabolisms, would regularly chow down on enormous plates smothered with every delicious thing imaginable, never once pausing to wonder if our jeans would fit in the morning.  I once told her via Facebook that I had attempted to recreate them and was surprised to see the number of responses indicating she is remembered by many for her nachos.

All this time I thought she made them just for me.


That, dear friends, is it.  I realize that another day is wedged into the week somewhere, but things happen, and I rarely need seven meals in a seven day period.

I hope your week is as lovely as mine is going to be!