Thanks to you, I'm moving up in the world. Thanks to you, this blog has seen enough action to warrant a little something...more.
Thanks to you, dear readers, I am here to announce a new site, where I will blog faithfully for your,
a) entertainment
b) edification
c) entertainment
Please come see me at karenklasiwrites.com
You see, some people are put on this earth to make others feel better about themselves. I am one of those people.
It's a calling, I tell you.
When you fall down, come to me and I will tell you about the time I fell down in the street in front of my house, under the weight of a full-sized upright bass.
When you do something socially awkward, come to me and I will tell you about the time I (accidentally) gave the pastor's (young, unmarried) daughter a bottle of Edible Body Souffle. In a very public setting.
When you ruin dinner and set off your smoke alarm, when you scream your fool head off at your husband/children/dog, when you promise to bake 12 dozen cookies and then forget all about it, when you forget pretty much anything...come to me and I will make you feel better about yourself by sharing my foibles.
It's a calling.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
The Universal Plight of Mothers
I've noticed recently, through poolside conversations, neighborhood conversations, text and email conversations, and conversations in the church kitchen while prepping snacks for Vacation Bible School children, that we who occupy that most blessed station of life known as Motherhood are suffering.
We are suffering as we attempt to establish summertime routines.
We are suffering with children who won't go to bed.
We are suffering with children who won't get up.
We are suffering with households held captive by incessant boredom.
We are suffering with the growing pains (or lack thereof) of young adults, freshly returned from the freedoms of college and now sitting on our couches, jobless, eating all our food with their feet up.
We are suffering with the guilt of raising our voices when we should have remained calm.
We are suffering with the guilt of raising our voices when we should have remained calm.
We are suffering with the guilt of raising our voices when we should have remained calm.
We are suffering with children who do not want to participate in the activities we have selected for their summer fun.
We are suffering with children who want to participate in more activities than our budgets will allow.
We are suffering with children who push and demand and strive for more freedom than we think safe, or wise.
We are suffering with children who, although brought up to reap the benefits of hard work, seem to have been infected with a virulent strain of entitlement.
We are suffering with children who are never, ever full.
We are suffering with days that are too short.
We are suffering with days that never end.
We are suffering because none of this is going how we thought it would go when they were tiny and sweet-smelling, and the world was a bright, hopeful place.
Here's the thing, mothers. We are all in this together. Not a one of us is perfect. No matter what we thought when they were new (or when they were prodigies who could recite the alphabet before age two), no child is perfect.
Perfection is not what we are aiming for, either for ourselves or for our children.
If you're aiming for perfection, stop. Instead, look around you and take comfort in all the other imperfect mothers raising imperfect children. Take comfort in the public meltdowns and sagging pants. Take comfort, but never joy, in the poor manners and wrinkled clothes. Take comfort in the exasperated sighs of your fellow mothers.
And then..
Aim for more love than voice-raising. Aim for more good times than bad. Aim for more positive reinforcement than (absolutely necessary) consequences. Train your children in the way they should go, and even though they chafe and roll their eyes now, know that the knowledge of what is right and good and true will be stored away in their hearts for safe-keeping. (Proverbs 22:6, my interpretation)
*Mothers of young children, listen to me. The best gift you can give yourself (and your children, truly) is to quit caring what other people think of your kids' behavior. The things I most regret involve parenting for someone else's benefit. Parenting for someone else's approval. Parenting in a way that (ridiculously) demanded perfection. If you can let that go now, you will be light years ahead of me and I will rejoice on your behalf.
Since we're all in this together, let's quit judging one another and our offspring. Let's hold each other up in prayer. Let's commiserate when appropriate. Let's encourage. Let's keep our eyes on the prize.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.(Hebrews 12:1-2)
In my humble opinion, the prize is this:
1. Children who know and love and serve the God who knows and loves them.
2. Self-sufficient people who can one day leave us to live happy, healthy, productive lives.
And that's all. There are so many things that I do (or make them do) that don't contribute to these goals. I want to weed out the unnecessary and focus on the prize at hand. I want to run this race. I want to encourage you to run this race, and that's all.
We are suffering as we attempt to establish summertime routines.
We are suffering with children who won't go to bed.
We are suffering with children who won't get up.
We are suffering with households held captive by incessant boredom.
We are suffering with the growing pains (or lack thereof) of young adults, freshly returned from the freedoms of college and now sitting on our couches, jobless, eating all our food with their feet up.
We are suffering with the guilt of raising our voices when we should have remained calm.
We are suffering with the guilt of raising our voices when we should have remained calm.
We are suffering with the guilt of raising our voices when we should have remained calm.
We are suffering with children who do not want to participate in the activities we have selected for their summer fun.
We are suffering with children who want to participate in more activities than our budgets will allow.
We are suffering with children who push and demand and strive for more freedom than we think safe, or wise.
We are suffering with children who, although brought up to reap the benefits of hard work, seem to have been infected with a virulent strain of entitlement.
We are suffering with children who are never, ever full.
We are suffering with days that are too short.
We are suffering with days that never end.
We are suffering because none of this is going how we thought it would go when they were tiny and sweet-smelling, and the world was a bright, hopeful place.
Here's the thing, mothers. We are all in this together. Not a one of us is perfect. No matter what we thought when they were new (or when they were prodigies who could recite the alphabet before age two), no child is perfect.
Perfection is not what we are aiming for, either for ourselves or for our children.
If you're aiming for perfection, stop. Instead, look around you and take comfort in all the other imperfect mothers raising imperfect children. Take comfort in the public meltdowns and sagging pants. Take comfort, but never joy, in the poor manners and wrinkled clothes. Take comfort in the exasperated sighs of your fellow mothers.
And then..
Aim for more love than voice-raising. Aim for more good times than bad. Aim for more positive reinforcement than (absolutely necessary) consequences. Train your children in the way they should go, and even though they chafe and roll their eyes now, know that the knowledge of what is right and good and true will be stored away in their hearts for safe-keeping. (Proverbs 22:6, my interpretation)
*Mothers of young children, listen to me. The best gift you can give yourself (and your children, truly) is to quit caring what other people think of your kids' behavior. The things I most regret involve parenting for someone else's benefit. Parenting for someone else's approval. Parenting in a way that (ridiculously) demanded perfection. If you can let that go now, you will be light years ahead of me and I will rejoice on your behalf.
Since we're all in this together, let's quit judging one another and our offspring. Let's hold each other up in prayer. Let's commiserate when appropriate. Let's encourage. Let's keep our eyes on the prize.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.(Hebrews 12:1-2)
In my humble opinion, the prize is this:
1. Children who know and love and serve the God who knows and loves them.
2. Self-sufficient people who can one day leave us to live happy, healthy, productive lives.
And that's all. There are so many things that I do (or make them do) that don't contribute to these goals. I want to weed out the unnecessary and focus on the prize at hand. I want to run this race. I want to encourage you to run this race, and that's all.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The Wonder Hub's Big Day
The poor, beleaguered Wonder Hub had the misfortune of celebrating his 40th birthday on Father's Day. If it had been me, I would have either
a) thrown a fit, because having two major holidays on the same day is a rip-off, or
b) declared that it didn't matter, seeing how I celebrate my birthday month,
depending on my mood, the phase of the moon, and the attitudes of resident teenagers.
The WH took it in stride, as he is wont to do.
I tried to extend the celebration and spoil him a wee bit more than usual. On Saturday, we went to the house of some friends for a barbeque. At this barbeque, among kicking Moose's hiney at singing "It's Tricky" on SingStar and other weird things that I will not mention, we sang "Happy Birthday" and made the WH blow out the 4-0 candles on the cheesecake I either
a) worked my fingers to the bone making from scratch, or
b) bought from Costco.
Meanwhile, back at the homestead, our dear friends Robert and Julie were slaving away to assemble the basketball hoop I had purchased for the birthday boy. In addition to hefting and leveling and figuring out just the right location for the imposing structure, Julie ran interference with concerned neighbors and Robert managed to decipher ambiguous directions while allowing his 8-year old son to assist.
The effects of their labors were marvelous. When we turned the corner, there it was, front-and center in the driveway.
"What is THAT?" was the Wonder Hub's astounded response to our collective giggling.
"Happy birthday!" we all cried, as boys tumbled out of the truck and onto our new court, where they played 'til dark.
I'm pretty sure the (all girl house) neighbors are thrilled with the constant thump, thump, thumping. We set off their car alarm twice that first night. I'm probably going to have to do a lot of baking to make up for it, but it will be totally worth it.
Sunday morning I gave the WH a gift certificate for a massage, which we sent him off for after church. After a lazy afternoon of "Burn Notice" reruns and general sloth, we grilled this recipe, steamed rice, pulled this pasta salad out of the fridge, packed it all to the table on the deck, lit some candles and chowed down.
After dinner, we brought out the red raspberry streusel and lit the obligatory trick candles, sang and made the WH blow them out over and over until someone accused him of spitting on the streusel.
When it was all said and done, when he'd opened his gifts from the boys, when the table was cleared and the bellies were full, I smooched him sweetly and said,
"Now you're as old as me. Ha."
a) thrown a fit, because having two major holidays on the same day is a rip-off, or
b) declared that it didn't matter, seeing how I celebrate my birthday month,
depending on my mood, the phase of the moon, and the attitudes of resident teenagers.
The WH took it in stride, as he is wont to do.
I tried to extend the celebration and spoil him a wee bit more than usual. On Saturday, we went to the house of some friends for a barbeque. At this barbeque, among kicking Moose's hiney at singing "It's Tricky" on SingStar and other weird things that I will not mention, we sang "Happy Birthday" and made the WH blow out the 4-0 candles on the cheesecake I either
a) worked my fingers to the bone making from scratch, or
b) bought from Costco.
 | ||
| weird thing I will not mention |
The effects of their labors were marvelous. When we turned the corner, there it was, front-and center in the driveway.
"What is THAT?" was the Wonder Hub's astounded response to our collective giggling.
"Happy birthday!" we all cried, as boys tumbled out of the truck and onto our new court, where they played 'til dark.
I'm pretty sure the (all girl house) neighbors are thrilled with the constant thump, thump, thumping. We set off their car alarm twice that first night. I'm probably going to have to do a lot of baking to make up for it, but it will be totally worth it.
Sunday morning I gave the WH a gift certificate for a massage, which we sent him off for after church. After a lazy afternoon of "Burn Notice" reruns and general sloth, we grilled this recipe, steamed rice, pulled this pasta salad out of the fridge, packed it all to the table on the deck, lit some candles and chowed down.
 |
| kabob photo op |
After dinner, we brought out the red raspberry streusel and lit the obligatory trick candles, sang and made the WH blow them out over and over until someone accused him of spitting on the streusel.
"Now you're as old as me. Ha."
Monday, June 20, 2011
Houseguest
This is Ozzy.
He thinks he owns the place.
Molly lets him believe it, until he messes with her duck.
Friday, June 17, 2011
He's Bringing Sexy Back...
I was leaving the house with car keys, a young adult, and a metal detector. I was sighing repeatedly. And rolling my eyes. The WH, not quite willing to take on the task at hand and feeling (rightfully) guilty about it, asked,
"Is there anything here I can do for you?"
I pointed to four months worth of ironing, rolled my eyes again, and left. When I returned two hours later, this is what I found. The thought that leapt to my mind was..
THAT is the sexiest thing I have ever seen.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Random Thursday
1. The Wonder Hub and I celebrated our anniversary this week. He brought me flowers and a card. The card was sweet, and thoughtful. And Mahogany.
2. School is officially out tomorrow. For the last month or so, I have been having nightmare-ish dreams in which the boys appear to be zombies. In every dream they are chasing me in that dream sequence slo-mo, and it's terrifying. They march towards me, arms straight out in front as they keep repeating a single word.
Foooooood.
They won't stop chasing me and I'm in a total panic because I can't find enough food to keep them fed. The fridge is bare. I keep chucking empty pasta boxes in their general direction as I flee. Whipping granola bars at their creepy zombie heads only slows them down for seconds. In the dream I'm sure that I will be their short-lived feast if they ever catch me!
Did I mention that school is out tomorrow?
3. Out of the blue yesterday Bubba mentioned the restaurant Buca di Beppo. He was hungry (see above). He likes the sound of Buca di Beppo as it rolls off his tongue. He was hungry. He only vaguely remembers the restaurant, but asked me to tell him the story of the first (and only) time we dined there. It's a gggrreat story.
It was one of the (or possibly the) first official dates the Wonder Hub and I shared. We took the children, as single parents sometimes do, and headed to this family-style Italian restaurant. Things were going swimmingly until the moment the food arrived and one of the children (who will remain nameless as he is now a teenager) crawled under the large booth-style table and gloriously filled his diaper. So glorious was this filling that even in the full, darkened, Italian-scented restaurant, we knew exactly what had transpired. So glorious was this filling that we knew even before he crawled up on the seat with his satisfied grin and his business smeared up the back of his shirt and down the length of his chubby legs.
I was horrified.
The Wonder Date didn't flinch, flagged a waitress and asked her to wrap our food.
"I'll meet you in the car," he said, which was all I needed to grab the stinker and make a run for it.
And did I ever run for it. With malodorous child grasped firmly under his arms and held at the furthest distance possible, with the entire grossed-out population of restaurant staring me down, with dreams of a second date dashed all to heck, I ran right out the door at the back of the large, open dining room...and set off the unbelievably effective alarm system.
4. We haven't eaten at Buca di Beppo since. I can't speak for the WH, but I have zero desire to do so. Come to think of it, I actually have zero desire to eat at any Italian restaurant. I have always chalked this up to my preference for spicy food--Mexican, Indian, Thai--but it's quite possible that the blame rests solely on that (nameless) child.
5. The child who took these photos did it again. Why am I never in the room when the pizza is done? I don't recall a fire or smoke alarm this time, but these things tend to all come together in my brain in one loud and smoky blur.
He took this picture, which I like because you can see the remaining dough in the bowl next to the pizza.
As if.
5. I realized at 8:55 last night that the title of yesterday's blog post is grammatically ambiguous. It makes it look as though I have a theory on both recipes and on Charlotte's Chicken Salad (although, I guess then it should have read My Theories...). I hate it when I do that. It really should read, My Theory On Recipes...and Charlotte's Chicken Salad.
6. I hated that I did it, but I was thankful I discovered it before bed, which prevented me from waking in the night to kick myself over and over when I should have been getting my beauty sleep.
No beauty sleep = cranky Karen.
7. Have you ever heard of Dave Ramsey? He's the Wonder Hub's BFF. Sigh. If Carey responds to this post with a comment that says, "Yes! Tell the Dave Ramsey story!" I will tell you the Dave Ramsey story.
Sigh.
2. School is officially out tomorrow. For the last month or so, I have been having nightmare-ish dreams in which the boys appear to be zombies. In every dream they are chasing me in that dream sequence slo-mo, and it's terrifying. They march towards me, arms straight out in front as they keep repeating a single word.
Foooooood.
They won't stop chasing me and I'm in a total panic because I can't find enough food to keep them fed. The fridge is bare. I keep chucking empty pasta boxes in their general direction as I flee. Whipping granola bars at their creepy zombie heads only slows them down for seconds. In the dream I'm sure that I will be their short-lived feast if they ever catch me!
Did I mention that school is out tomorrow?
3. Out of the blue yesterday Bubba mentioned the restaurant Buca di Beppo. He was hungry (see above). He likes the sound of Buca di Beppo as it rolls off his tongue. He was hungry. He only vaguely remembers the restaurant, but asked me to tell him the story of the first (and only) time we dined there. It's a gggrreat story.
It was one of the (or possibly the) first official dates the Wonder Hub and I shared. We took the children, as single parents sometimes do, and headed to this family-style Italian restaurant. Things were going swimmingly until the moment the food arrived and one of the children (who will remain nameless as he is now a teenager) crawled under the large booth-style table and gloriously filled his diaper. So glorious was this filling that even in the full, darkened, Italian-scented restaurant, we knew exactly what had transpired. So glorious was this filling that we knew even before he crawled up on the seat with his satisfied grin and his business smeared up the back of his shirt and down the length of his chubby legs.
I was horrified.
The Wonder Date didn't flinch, flagged a waitress and asked her to wrap our food.
"I'll meet you in the car," he said, which was all I needed to grab the stinker and make a run for it.
And did I ever run for it. With malodorous child grasped firmly under his arms and held at the furthest distance possible, with the entire grossed-out population of restaurant staring me down, with dreams of a second date dashed all to heck, I ran right out the door at the back of the large, open dining room...and set off the unbelievably effective alarm system.
4. We haven't eaten at Buca di Beppo since. I can't speak for the WH, but I have zero desire to do so. Come to think of it, I actually have zero desire to eat at any Italian restaurant. I have always chalked this up to my preference for spicy food--Mexican, Indian, Thai--but it's quite possible that the blame rests solely on that (nameless) child.
5. The child who took these photos did it again. Why am I never in the room when the pizza is done? I don't recall a fire or smoke alarm this time, but these things tend to all come together in my brain in one loud and smoky blur.
He took this picture, which I like because you can see the remaining dough in the bowl next to the pizza.
Then he took this picture, after eating his initial out of the pie. "Just in case," he said, "you wondered who did it."
5. I realized at 8:55 last night that the title of yesterday's blog post is grammatically ambiguous. It makes it look as though I have a theory on both recipes and on Charlotte's Chicken Salad (although, I guess then it should have read My Theories...). I hate it when I do that. It really should read, My Theory On Recipes...and Charlotte's Chicken Salad.
6. I hated that I did it, but I was thankful I discovered it before bed, which prevented me from waking in the night to kick myself over and over when I should have been getting my beauty sleep.
No beauty sleep = cranky Karen.
7. Have you ever heard of Dave Ramsey? He's the Wonder Hub's BFF. Sigh. If Carey responds to this post with a comment that says, "Yes! Tell the Dave Ramsey story!" I will tell you the Dave Ramsey story.
Sigh.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
My Theory On Recipes and Charlotte's Chicken Salad
As I see it, recipe ownership is good for one generation. For example: let's say I pass on to you my personal recipe for Quinoa Salad.
It's a recipe I created myself, based on a recipe from the back of the EBLY Zartweissen package. Martina and I had this incredibly wonderful salad while visiting her relatives in Hamburg in 2005 (Right, Martina?) and promptly went out and bought boxes of EBLY for ourselves. My family loved it so much that I packed twenty boxes back to American when we left Germany. When that was gone, I started looking for a replacement. I'll save you the details of painful trial-and-error (including telling my friend DeAnn to make it with barley for a huge Fourth of July cookout.Yuck. Sorry, DeAnn!), and wrap it up by saying that after much trial-and-error, I discovered Quinoa to be the perfect substitute.
So. Let's say I pass on to you my personal recipe for Quinoa Salad. Let's say you love it. Let's say you make it for a potluck at church and someone else loves it and asks for the recipe. You happily pass it on, rightfully calling it "Karen's Quinoa Salad."
Get it?
So now your friend has this recipe and she makes it for, say, a baby shower. Let's say the mother-to-be loves it (Duh. It's amazing. Of course she loves it.) and asks your friend for the recipe. If she handles herself properly, your friend will not pass on "Karen's Quinoa Salad," but rather, "Your Quinoa Salad."
Got it?
That is, of course, unless all these friends know me. Or unless we're talking about Judie's Lasagna, which will always and forever honor the name of Judie. In all other cases (except where bound by some weird recipe law), I hereby declare that the duration of recipe ownership does not extend beyond one generation. Karen has declared it, and it is
Good.
With that in mind, allow me to present to you....
Charlotte's Chicken Salad
Which Charlotte got from a major women's magazine, but following the one-generation rule, I pass to you as being Charlotte's very own.
1 (14 1/2 oz) can of low-sodium chicken broth
1 (6 oz) package long grain and wild rice (Uncle Ben's traditional)
2 C shredded cooked chicken
2 celery ribs, thinly sliced
1 green pepper, chopped
1 small purple onion, or to taste
Lemon-Mustard Dressing
Bring chicken broth to a boil, stir in rice and seasonings. Return to boil, cover, reduce heat and simmer 30 minutes or until rice is tender. Cool. Stir together rice, chicken and remaining ingredients. Chill at least 30 minutes.
Lemon-Mustard Dressing
1/4 C olive oil
1/3 C lemon juice, fresh
1 1/2 tsp dry mustard
1/2 tsp pepper
Whisk together and toss with salad.
*Charlotte likes to add Craisins and chopped pecans.
Karen's notes:
I have never made this without having everyone ask for the recipe.
I always add Craisins and chopped pecans (or slivered almonds)
I have made the rice with water and a couple of bouillon cubes.
I have used bottled lemon juice. DON'T.
I have use fresh lime juice.
I have used red bell pepper. Green was better.
I have (accidentally) used the 5-minute rice. DON'T.
I have tossed the salad with the dressing the night before serving. DON'T.
Now go forth, make Charlotte's Chicken Salad and prosper!
It's a recipe I created myself, based on a recipe from the back of the EBLY Zartweissen package. Martina and I had this incredibly wonderful salad while visiting her relatives in Hamburg in 2005 (Right, Martina?) and promptly went out and bought boxes of EBLY for ourselves. My family loved it so much that I packed twenty boxes back to American when we left Germany. When that was gone, I started looking for a replacement. I'll save you the details of painful trial-and-error (including telling my friend DeAnn to make it with barley for a huge Fourth of July cookout.Yuck. Sorry, DeAnn!), and wrap it up by saying that after much trial-and-error, I discovered Quinoa to be the perfect substitute.
So. Let's say I pass on to you my personal recipe for Quinoa Salad. Let's say you love it. Let's say you make it for a potluck at church and someone else loves it and asks for the recipe. You happily pass it on, rightfully calling it "Karen's Quinoa Salad."
Get it?
So now your friend has this recipe and she makes it for, say, a baby shower. Let's say the mother-to-be loves it (Duh. It's amazing. Of course she loves it.) and asks your friend for the recipe. If she handles herself properly, your friend will not pass on "Karen's Quinoa Salad," but rather, "Your Quinoa Salad."
Got it?
That is, of course, unless all these friends know me. Or unless we're talking about Judie's Lasagna, which will always and forever honor the name of Judie. In all other cases (except where bound by some weird recipe law), I hereby declare that the duration of recipe ownership does not extend beyond one generation. Karen has declared it, and it is
Good.
With that in mind, allow me to present to you....
Charlotte's Chicken Salad
Which Charlotte got from a major women's magazine, but following the one-generation rule, I pass to you as being Charlotte's very own.
1 (14 1/2 oz) can of low-sodium chicken broth
1 (6 oz) package long grain and wild rice (Uncle Ben's traditional)
2 C shredded cooked chicken
2 celery ribs, thinly sliced
1 green pepper, chopped
1 small purple onion, or to taste
Lemon-Mustard Dressing
Bring chicken broth to a boil, stir in rice and seasonings. Return to boil, cover, reduce heat and simmer 30 minutes or until rice is tender. Cool. Stir together rice, chicken and remaining ingredients. Chill at least 30 minutes.
Lemon-Mustard Dressing
1/4 C olive oil
1/3 C lemon juice, fresh
1 1/2 tsp dry mustard
1/2 tsp pepper
Whisk together and toss with salad.
*Charlotte likes to add Craisins and chopped pecans.
Karen's notes:
I have never made this without having everyone ask for the recipe.
I always add Craisins and chopped pecans (or slivered almonds)
I have made the rice with water and a couple of bouillon cubes.
I have used bottled lemon juice. DON'T.
I have use fresh lime juice.
I have used red bell pepper. Green was better.
I have (accidentally) used the 5-minute rice. DON'T.
I have tossed the salad with the dressing the night before serving. DON'T.
Now go forth, make Charlotte's Chicken Salad and prosper!
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
M. Pryor to the Rescue!
If you only knew how sweet this young lady is...to be at my beck and call, to provide you with the photos I was having too much fun to take, to take them with skills far beyond my feeble set...
She's a doll, I tell you. A doll. Without further adieu, here is the Big Party (minus the partiers, because that's what sits right with my soul). Drum roll.......
Let's not forget the Party Dog, who was likely fed pulled pork by every single guest in attendance.
Did you say pulled pork?
This was taken late in the party, after most of the guests had cried Uncle! and gone home, bellies packed with Scott's Big Time Barbeque, macaroni and cheese, coleslaw, Bobbi's (famous!) beans, brownies, cookies, cake and key lime pie. I watched our intrepid photographer snap my girl's photo, pause to make an adjustment on her camera, snap a photo, pause, snap, pause, snap, and all the while Molly held this pose.
It was amazing. Such a huge difference from the attitude I get during her photo shoots!
I guess she did it for the love of her photographer. I don't know who took this, but I feel the stirrings of jealousy as I look at it!
So there you have it, folks. The boy has graduated. We lauded his efforts and celebrated accordingly. Now that it has been properly recorded, it's time to recover.
She's a doll, I tell you. A doll. Without further adieu, here is the Big Party (minus the partiers, because that's what sits right with my soul). Drum roll.......
Let's not forget the Party Dog, who was likely fed pulled pork by every single guest in attendance.
Did you say pulled pork?
This was taken late in the party, after most of the guests had cried Uncle! and gone home, bellies packed with Scott's Big Time Barbeque, macaroni and cheese, coleslaw, Bobbi's (famous!) beans, brownies, cookies, cake and key lime pie. I watched our intrepid photographer snap my girl's photo, pause to make an adjustment on her camera, snap a photo, pause, snap, pause, snap, and all the while Molly held this pose.
It was amazing. Such a huge difference from the attitude I get during her photo shoots!
I guess she did it for the love of her photographer. I don't know who took this, but I feel the stirrings of jealousy as I look at it!
 |
| Awww |
So there you have it, folks. The boy has graduated. We lauded his efforts and celebrated accordingly. Now that it has been properly recorded, it's time to recover.
The End.
Monday, June 13, 2011
See?
See the graduates far off in the distance? That's when I started choking up.
See them marching in? That's when I was dying, both figuratively and literally. My heart was so full, so proud, so amazed that this day had come that it almost couldn't keep its own beat. Also, it was so hot and miserably humid sitting on those metal bleachers, I think I lost six pounds of water weight before it was all over. We were blessed with a light breeze at one point during the ceremony. I (along with every other person in the stands) raised my arms just slightly from my body in an attempt to catch an underarm breeze. Unfortunately, I discovered I needed to put them right back down...and that's all I'm going to say about that.
See that? THAT is my nemesis. THAT is the beginning of Paint Week. After three grueling weeks of mulching and rocking and power washing and staining and planting and cultivating a beautiful outdoor oasis for the party, THAT is The Thing That Didn't Get Done.
And THAT, my friends, is how we roll.
See these? These are the flowers we placed on the decorated tables outside, along with smaller mason jars filled with sand, shells from our week a the beach, and candles. This is the last photo I took on Saturday, which means that I did not capture a single other detail about the big party.
I did ask the fabulously talented M. Pryor to be my official photographer, though, so we'll just have to wait to see things through her eyes.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Random Thursday: Graduation Week Edition
1. Recent text message conversation with a teenager:
(transcribed verbatim)
me: Are you going to need a ride home?
boy: yes ma'am
me: Let me know when you're 15 minutes out, okay?
boy: ok homie
me: Peace out.
boy: your a old woman dont ever say peace out please
me: Whatev homeslice. For shizzle.
boy: silence.
2. In the not-so-distant past, I applied to the Blogher network. I would very much like to be a part of this network of women bloggers, and have been working towards that goal since I started writing for all y'all. In response to my application, I received a very nice email from them, which began with the words:
"We love your blog!"
(Insert me smiling.)
As a result of this, my business manager (aka the Wonder Hub) and I have decided that it makes sense to move from blogger to a .com website, and to pay someone to make that website look pretty. (An endeavor for which I am completely lacking in both skill and patience). Over the next three or four months, that will happen. My question for you is this:
Which do you prefer?
karenwrites.com
karenklasiwrites.com
And hey? Thank you. This wouldn't be happening without you.
3. My fingernails are too long. I can't feel the keys on the pads of my fingers. I can't think, even randomly.
Be right back.
4. Mel emailed last night. He makes me laugh. His email, with subject line:
Parchment paper!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
contained this very short message:
I did not tell you to put the pizza (and parchment paper) on the lowest rack!
I laughed then. I'm laughing now. So my dearest father won't sue me for defamation of character, please let me clarify.
Waaay back in 2007, in another iteration of my life, I wanted to learn how to make biscotti. Being who I am, it was an adventure that included (parchment paper and) an oven fire. As I was telling Mel--my tutor in all things baking-- he insisted that parchment paper could not catch on fire. As proof, I sent him the following photos:
So.
5. We're having a little party here this weekend. You may have heard. In 48 hours we will have a high school graduate, and the party will be ON.
As you can well imagine, I'm deep in the throes of mixed emotions.
...and that's all I'm going to say about that.
6. This party, rockin' party that it shall be, could not, would not happen without the help of my local girlfriends. I would name their names, but I'm terrified I'll forget someone. Instead, please hear me publicly, loudly tell them
THANK YOU!!!!
7. I'm in week three of the Beth Moore Bible study titled, Living Beyond Yourself: Exploring the Fruit of the Spirit. This is the fourth Beth Moore study I've done, and by far the deepest. I love. It. I love digging in my Bible, flipping back and forth and learning exactly what God has to say about the role of the Holy Spirit in my life. It's deep. I'm finding that my understanding of the Holy Spirit has been shallow and immature, and in some cases, just plain wrong.
Did I mention that I'm loving this? If you have the opportunity to gather with other women and study the Word, please do. There is nothing like it.
Today's homework was on the kind of love called Agape. If you were raised in a church-going family, surely you've heard of agape love. Agape is most often defined by what it is not: it is not Eros love (named after the Greek god Eros, and generally meaning "longing and desire."). It is not Philos love, which is the love of blood relatives for one another (often called "brotherly love.").
Beth walked me through I Corinthians 13, often called the "Love Chapter," to help me better understand what Agape is and is not. In I Corinthians 13, every single use of the word "love" (or "charity," depending on version) is translated from the Greek word "agape."
So. Let's be clear.
Love is:
Patient
Kind
Enduring
Protective
Trusting
Hopeful
Persevering
Love is not:
Envious
Boastful
Proud
Rude
Self-seeking
Easily angered
Grudge-holding
And here is the kicker:
Love never fails.
Agape never fails.
I can't help but think that Love sounds an awful lot like my God.
(transcribed verbatim)
me: Are you going to need a ride home?
boy: yes ma'am
me: Let me know when you're 15 minutes out, okay?
boy: ok homie
me: Peace out.
boy: your a old woman dont ever say peace out please
me: Whatev homeslice. For shizzle.
boy: silence.
2. In the not-so-distant past, I applied to the Blogher network. I would very much like to be a part of this network of women bloggers, and have been working towards that goal since I started writing for all y'all. In response to my application, I received a very nice email from them, which began with the words:
"We love your blog!"
(Insert me smiling.)
As a result of this, my business manager (aka the Wonder Hub) and I have decided that it makes sense to move from blogger to a .com website, and to pay someone to make that website look pretty. (An endeavor for which I am completely lacking in both skill and patience). Over the next three or four months, that will happen. My question for you is this:
Which do you prefer?
karenwrites.com
karenklasiwrites.com
And hey? Thank you. This wouldn't be happening without you.
3. My fingernails are too long. I can't feel the keys on the pads of my fingers. I can't think, even randomly.
Be right back.
4. Mel emailed last night. He makes me laugh. His email, with subject line:
Parchment paper!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
contained this very short message:
I did not tell you to put the pizza (and parchment paper) on the lowest rack!
I laughed then. I'm laughing now. So my dearest father won't sue me for defamation of character, please let me clarify.
Waaay back in 2007, in another iteration of my life, I wanted to learn how to make biscotti. Being who I am, it was an adventure that included (parchment paper and) an oven fire. As I was telling Mel--my tutor in all things baking-- he insisted that parchment paper could not catch on fire. As proof, I sent him the following photos:
So.
- It is a FACT that Mel (incorrectly) told me that parchment paper cannot catch fire.
- It is also a FACT that he taught me the parchment paper-pizza paddle trick for baking pizza.
- HOWEVER, please know that it was Ree Drummond who suggested placing pizza on the bottom rack so that the cheese (the good stuff, real mozzarella) will not burn in the 500 degree oven.
5. We're having a little party here this weekend. You may have heard. In 48 hours we will have a high school graduate, and the party will be ON.
As you can well imagine, I'm deep in the throes of mixed emotions.
...and that's all I'm going to say about that.
6. This party, rockin' party that it shall be, could not, would not happen without the help of my local girlfriends. I would name their names, but I'm terrified I'll forget someone. Instead, please hear me publicly, loudly tell them
THANK YOU!!!!
7. I'm in week three of the Beth Moore Bible study titled, Living Beyond Yourself: Exploring the Fruit of the Spirit. This is the fourth Beth Moore study I've done, and by far the deepest. I love. It. I love digging in my Bible, flipping back and forth and learning exactly what God has to say about the role of the Holy Spirit in my life. It's deep. I'm finding that my understanding of the Holy Spirit has been shallow and immature, and in some cases, just plain wrong.
Did I mention that I'm loving this? If you have the opportunity to gather with other women and study the Word, please do. There is nothing like it.
Today's homework was on the kind of love called Agape. If you were raised in a church-going family, surely you've heard of agape love. Agape is most often defined by what it is not: it is not Eros love (named after the Greek god Eros, and generally meaning "longing and desire."). It is not Philos love, which is the love of blood relatives for one another (often called "brotherly love.").
Beth walked me through I Corinthians 13, often called the "Love Chapter," to help me better understand what Agape is and is not. In I Corinthians 13, every single use of the word "love" (or "charity," depending on version) is translated from the Greek word "agape."
So. Let's be clear.
Love is:
Patient
Kind
Enduring
Protective
Trusting
Hopeful
Persevering
Love is not:
Envious
Boastful
Proud
Rude
Self-seeking
Easily angered
Grudge-holding
And here is the kicker:
Love never fails.
Agape never fails.
I can't help but think that Love sounds an awful lot like my God.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Why I'm Not A Food Blogger, Part 6,654
So. Summer swim team begins right after Memorial Day. For some reason generally related to tourism, our public schools do not finish until the middle of June. June! That gives us three weeks of afternoon/evening swim practice before the summer schedule kicks in. That is to say...
Children come home from school and eat until I make them stop eating.
Children eat a healthy meal-sized snack before biking to 6:30pm swim practice.
Children come home from swim practice ravenous and eat the combined total of their previous two feedings.
That is to say...
They eat a lot of food.
I needed you to know.
(I don't know why.)
On Thursday of last week, I decided to make the boys a pre-swim pizza.
- I topped Ree's crust (the one I make every week of my life), with jarred sauce and pepperoni.
- Using my pizza paddle, I slid parchment paper and pizza onto the lowest rack of the 500 degree oven, just like Mel taught me.
- I set the timer for 10 minutes and settled in to chat with Jennifer, who had stopped for a visit.
- Boys in bathing suits hovered in the general vicinity of the oven.
- Life was good.
Exactly nine minutes later, all heck broke loose.
- The phone rang at exactly the moment the fire alarm went off.
- I answered what turned out to be a business call, tucked the phone between ear and shoulder and waved my oven mitt wildly at the screaming alarm.
- The oven timer went off mid-explanation, adding to the cacophony.
- I opened the oven to find that the remnants of my last baking escapade had (once again) caught fire, igniting the parchment paper (which Mel says cannot happen, but which I have proven time and time again, can.).
- With phone still tucked and alarm still screaming, I removed pizza with pizza paddle, tossed oven mitt to Bubba, and raced out the door to the relative quiet of the backyard.
By the time I returned, the pizza was gone, the children were gone, Jennifer was heading out, and I got on with my life. I forgot all about the incident until I was downloading Molly's most recent photo shoot and saw these...
By all accounts, it was excellent (and apparently reminiscent of a wood-fired pizza, go figure.).
I have requests for a repeat performance.
Which is all well and good, but the point (here it is!) is this:
My (now favorite) child recognized that this was a blog-worthy event and acted accordingly. His response when I thanked him for taking the pictures?
"I knew you would want them. I figured I could either wait for you to get off the phone or take them myself and eat the pizza."
Monday, June 6, 2011
Weeks Like This
Weeks like this, I'm a whirling dervish.
Weeks like this, I go to the commissary without a list and then stand in the aisle searching my empty head for inspiration.
Weeks like this, I decide to make three different kinds of enchiladas, curry chicken with veggies and rice, a big pasta salad, and a big Greek salad....and let everyone go for broke until there is no more food.
Weeks like this, we need to eat out by Wednesday.
Weeks like this, I have three lists going at any given time.
Weeks like this, I have sore muscles and an aching back.
Weeks like this, I think mulch is a swear word, weeds are from the devil, and whoever decided that windows should be clean should be shot.
Weeks like this, I'm on a first-name basis with the mulch guy and the rock chick.
Weeks like this, I wake up at 2:30am in a panic and race downstairs to look for a form that I'm just sure was supposed to be returned to school ages ago.
Weeks like this, I find the form at 2:45 and realize that I have until August 2012 to return it.
Weeks like this, I give up trying to sleep by 5:30am, roll out of bed and make a pot of coffee before doing my Bible study.
Weeks like this, some time in the Word gives me the peace that passes understanding, and then...
I remember that the graduate doesn't care about mulch, weeds, or clean windows.
I remember that the graduation and the graduation party will happen, whether I conquer my lists or not.
I remember that I have a veritable host of girlfriends who have offered their loving aid, and that every last one of them will sweat and serve and support and sacrifice to make sure I succeed. (They're that awesome.)
I remember that I'm ridiculously blessed, and
the rest is just frosting on the (graduation) cake.
Happy Graduation Week!
Friday, June 3, 2011
Doing Good*: Operation Care Drop
And God is able to bless you abundantly, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.
II Corinthians 9:8
In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.
But someone will say, “You have faith; I have deeds.”
Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by my deeds.
James 2: 17-18**
Let me begin by asking you a question. Are you weary of the war(s) America is fighting overseas?
Believe me, so are the men and women fighting them. The "Prayer List" in my local paper mentions a young man who has just left for his third year-long tour in five years. My brain can't even fathom what that might be like.
Lately, especially with natural disasters abounding both home and abroad, it seems that the battles being fought--and the people fighting them--are largely ignored.
Lately, especially with natural disasters abounding both home and abroad, it seems that the battles being fought--and the people fighting them--are largely ignored.
Here is our chance to change that.
A trio of businesses--IBC Bank, H-E-B (grocery) stores, and Operation Interdependence®--is teaming together for the fourth annual “Operation Care Drop,” which supplies our nation’s soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines with comforts from home while they are deployed.
The Operation Care Drop website offers you donation locations (for all y'all Texans and Okies), an opportunity to contribute financially in a secure online way (for anyone interested), a comprehensive list of approved care package items, and most importantly, a way to reach out with your words. Please take a few minutes and write a letter (have your kids write letters, too!) of support and encouragement to: Dear Servicemember.
Address your envelopes to:
The Operation Care Drop website offers you donation locations (for all y'all Texans and Okies), an opportunity to contribute financially in a secure online way (for anyone interested), a comprehensive list of approved care package items, and most importantly, a way to reach out with your words. Please take a few minutes and write a letter (have your kids write letters, too!) of support and encouragement to: Dear Servicemember.
Address your envelopes to:
KGBTexas
Attn: IBC
1919 Oakwell Farms Pkwy., Ste. 100
San Antonio, TX 78218
Your letters will be added to care packages and delivered to more than 40,000 deployed men and women.
Listen to me. Anyone can give money, and I hope you do. Anyone can grab a few extra groceries and toiletry items, and I hope you do. It takes a special person to reach across the miles and touch someone with their words. Use your powers for good, people. I know you have it in you.
And hey. From me? Thanks.
*Doing Good: I would be remiss (and probably sleepless tonight) if I didn't take this opportunity to point out a little grammatical fact. In this instance good is a noun, the definition of which (according to my nemesis, Dictionary.com) is: excellence or merit; kindness: to do good. Please don't confuse "good" with "well." The definition of well (adverb) is: in a good or satisfactory manner: Business is going well. When you ask your children how his test, or her day- or heaven help- his date went, you are hereby morally obligated to correct them if they say, "Good." If you ask them how they are and they say, "I'm good," you must respond by saying something sarcastic like, "What are you good at/for?" or "Mother Teresa was good, did you feed the poor today?"
Thank you. Heed my advice and you are truly doing good.
Thank you. Heed my advice and you are truly doing good.
** I was hesitant to add this verse, fearing that you would think me judgmental or preachy (in areas other than grammar). I strive to be neither (in areas other than grammar). The fact is that this verse has weighed heavily on my heart lately. I share it as something directed at myself and encourage you to figure out what to do with it for your self.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
FIX THAT GRAMMAR!
Mel and I had a good discussion on this, because he is of the opinion that the apostrophe's font (See, Terry! The font belongs to the apostrophe, which gets the apostrophe to designate its ownership of the font. It's really not that difficult!) is different from that of the word "AUTO," and actually matches the font of the word "TERRY." Therefore, he claims, the placement of the apostrophe in the word "AUTO" is a joke. Mel thinks somebody made a funny, as it were.
Har. Har.
I respectfully disagree. I think that Terry's grammar is so blessedly poor that not even the hint of matching fonts helped him to place the apostrophe correctly.
I'm sorry, Terry. I don't mean to be unkind. It's just that you're killing. me.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Thoughts on my Military Spouse Friends as They Prepare to Move
The other day as I was going about my daily business, something profound occurred to me. It happened like this:- Driving down the street, child in tow (child probably anxious to be dropped off somewhere). A block away from home I notice a friend with her dog. We pull over and chat for a minute or two.
- Same drive, in McDonald's drive-thru getting questionably sustaining sustenance for child in tow. Molly (in the back seat) starts whining. We can't, for the life of us, figure out why. As the car ahead of us pulls away, we realize that it holds her walking buddy, Sharik the Bulldog.
- Same drive, pulling into the parking lot of my local grocery store. I notice one of my very favorite Starbucks employees (who has since moved on) coming out of Starbucks. I pull over to chat for a minute or two.
- Exit car and go into local grocery store where I find not just one, but two friends, with which I stop to chat for a minute or two.
- Driving home from store, same day, seriously, Molly and I wave at two more dog-walking friends. For the record: we do not pull over to chat.
As I'm pulling into the driveway, it hits me. This place--this neighborhood and the people who fill it--have become my home. If this were like any of our previous tours of duty, I would likely be arriving to a house filled with boxes. I would likely be packing. I would likely be preparing to pull up roots and move on. I'm not, but if this were like any of our previous tours of duty, I would be:
- Juggling end-of-school-year activities/concerts/award ceremonies/celebrations with trying to find summer activities from a distance for children who will enter a new life with no friendship save that of each other.
- Researching school districts and commuting distances and camps and sports and available medical care.
- Scheduling complete strangers to come into my house to handle and pack (and sometimes break) every physical thing that makes this life mine.
- Signing a mortgage or a lease on a home I may never have laid eyes on.
- Planning travel, by car or plane, for people and animals, to my new life.
- Detaching emotionally, out of necessity, from the friends/neighbors/teachers/coaches/church members/confidants of the last three years.
- Feeling fear and trepidation and excitement at the adventure that awaits.
The hard part comes when you find yourself in an empty house with lonely children and no possible remedy. The hard part is when you are aching with loneliness yourself, but still putting on a brave face for them. The hard part is making friends...again. Putting yourself out there...again. Finding a woman who shares your interests, your values, and whose kids your kids like and whose husband your husband likes. Talking yourself into having the energy required to build new relationships. Finding the proper venues for your children to build healthy relationships. Finding your way around..and then finding the shortcuts all the locals know. Finding a hairdresser, for Pete's sake. Finding a church. Finding a church that fits every member of your family. Not comparing every church to the one you just left, and not comparing every church person to the church people you just left, who have suddenly become perfect, even though they annoyed you just last month. Plugging in, even though it is easier to remain distant. Knowing that life, your old life, is marching on without you, while you sit in this foreign land, lonely.
Not all of these things always happen, but a good percentage of the time a good percentage of them do. Sometimes it's easier, sometimes there is a person with whom you immediately click who can help you find your way. Sometimes, though, you are an island. And women, the military spouses of whom I speak, are islands supporting the full weight of their families. Sometimes we do it well, others not so much. The fact is, and remains, that we do it. Over and over again, we do it.
So. What do I want you to take away from this little lesson? Please, please take this:
Reach out when you can. Help and guide and befriend. Gather their children and make them feel welcome (this is the biggest gift you can offer). Send them off with love, and never truly let them go. Always, always keep them in your prayers.
I thank my God upon every remembrance of you, always in every prayer of mine making request for you all with joy... Phillipians 1:3-4
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