Today we were home from church {Reed is a little congested with a sore throat; seems like tons of people in our ward are sick and I didn't want to take any chances since that stuff spreads like wildfire in a family, and very soon everyone is out of commission}, and also, to my dismay, out of milk. {Yesterday I prepared many needful things, but somehow the buying of milk fell off the map}
Not only are we out of milk, we are out of bread. {Another staple of ours} On Friday I made four loaves of whole wheat bread, gave one to my Sarah, and then with the kids made quick work of the other three loaves, finishing off the last few pieces this morning. {That's the problem with homemade bread....it's so good, it's usually gone fast!}
Aaaand because we are at the end of our menu and budget, I have had to be a little creative with meals today. Anyway, I was Old Mother Hubbard, looking in my cupboards, and found a blueberry muffin mix. {Betty Crocker, if you must know} I looked at the back and was disappointed when I read that it called for 3/4 C of milk. I puzzled for a bit about possible substitutions, and then remembered I had sour cream. Surely that could work, right? I substituted the 3/4 C of milk for 3/4 C of sour cream, and added a couple of tablespoons of water. The consistency of the batter was thicker than usual, but it made it SO easy to spoon the portions into the muffin tin, so I didn't mind. I baked them for 16 minutes (425 degrees).
And guess what?
They were delicious. I liked them better than the milk version. They were more dense and had better flavor {richer, slightly tangy, which set off the blueberry flavor beautifully}.
Maybe this is something everyone else already knew and I somehow missed the boat, but I thought I'd share, just in case!
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Love you back
All you dear ones,
that's you, you who read this blog,
thank you.
Every time I post something which has received my utmost effort in writing,
something I am happy about and poured my creative heart into,
and you say how much you loved it
or that you love my writing
or that it brought you comfort or laughter or anything else good
my heart swells and my soul sings
you feed my creative spirit
you dear ones, you who read this blog,
you are the soft landing place for my creative endeavors and the things I need to share
thank you
thank you
thank you
that's you, you who read this blog,
thank you.
Every time I post something which has received my utmost effort in writing,
something I am happy about and poured my creative heart into,
and you say how much you loved it
or that you love my writing
or that it brought you comfort or laughter or anything else good
my heart swells and my soul sings
you feed my creative spirit
you dear ones, you who read this blog,
you are the soft landing place for my creative endeavors and the things I need to share
thank you
thank you
thank you
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Burning the Beans
When Reed was born, my mom came to stay for a few days, offering comfort, advice, and an extra pair of willing arms. In my very-emotional postpartum state (my Unexplainable Crying would hit at about 4:00 every afternoon...), she joined forces with Phill to help me navigate that rocky terrain. It is one of those times when you just need your mother. I hung on her every word; I looked to her with each new unknown.
During her visit, I mentioned that I didn't know how to make chili, and wanted her to help me make some. She was more than willing to help. The day she was to leave, we decided it would be helpful to make the chili to have ahead of time for dinner that night. She got the beans simmering and showed me how to make everything just so; I'm afraid I was too much in turmoil to listen. She was leaving, and it was now solely up to me and Phill to figure out how to be parents (armed with the answers to desperate prayers, of course). She told me, "Just remove them from the heat after I leave."
When Phill left to take her to the airport, I sat down in the cushy armchair in our basement, staring at brand-new Reed as he slept nearby in his pack-n-play. I began to feel a disturbing sense that my anchor had been dislodged, a feeling of Oh No What If He Does Something I Don't Know How To Fix, and began to cry helplessly, as helplessly as my newborn did when awake and hungry. I let every feeling wash over me; my fears, my anxieties, my aching wish that my mother could still be next to me. Then I calmed down, wiped my tears, and resolved to be hopeful.
And then I remembered the beans.
The beans! The beans I was supposed to remove from the heat right after she left! The beans....oh, beans.
I went upstairs and dissolved into a(nother) crying mess when I saw the blackened mess that had adhered to the bottom of the pot. I sobbed over the pot, staring into the smelly mixture and saying, "Stupid beans...stupid, stupid, stupid beans! Who wants chili anyway?!" and then, defeated and purely sad, "Oh, Mom....I burnt the beans." And at my lowest: "How will I take care of a baby if I can't take care of beans?"
Eventually Phill came home and helped me piece myself back together. Eventually my hormones stopped their drowning tides. Eventually I learned to take care of my baby, and beans, too. But at times when I would think of my mom, wondering if I was doing this right, or thinking it might be easier to have her living closer by, I thought of the beans again. How much I missed her. How I forgot about time because the aching was too much.
Today I had parent-teacher conference. I tend to brace myself for this sort of thing, since I often drive home making a mental list of all my inadequacies, and feeling in general unworthy to be a mom. This time wasn't too bad--the areas of concern were my own, and I felt (for once) that his teacher and I are on the same track. We discussed his wandering focus, and how it affects his performance. I quietly pondered ways to help him learn to concentrate, and came up empty-handed....what am I supposed to say? "Reed, let's talk about concentrating." No-go. He is seven.
On the drive home, with that un-anchored feeling settling into my chest, I prayed for some sort of inspiration. And I thought to call my mom.
Far away in Boston in that school of brains, she is learning about learning. She is honing her gift for understanding how a person's brain works and tailoring her teaching to fit that need.
I started the white bean turkey chili that Phill loves, and while I cooked, I pressed a few buttons on my phone and felt immense relief at hearing her voice.
"We had parent-teacher conferences today--"
"Oh, sometimes you just have to throw that out the window..."
"Right. I'm okay; I had my shields up."
I minced the garlic and onions while delivering the minutes of my meeting, then asked,
"Mom, how do I help Reed focus?"
"Well, you can ask him some questions that help you figure out where his attention tends to wander."
I added the turkey.
"What questions?"
I added a little bit of broth.
"You could say, 'Reed, when is it fun for you to pay attention? When is it hard to pay attention? What do you like to pay attention to? What helps you pay attention?"
There it was. As always, her approach was so simple, so laid-back, and so direct. The same message I always got from her: You have all the tools to be the kind of mother your children need. You can do this.
We said our goodbyes, I put the lid on the pot, set the timer, and went to sit down and let my thoughts simmer with the chili. I thought about how intelligent she is, and how determined she is to become informed about those things that are foreign to her. I thought about our few homeschooling years together, remembering how arduously she tried to help me focus....and how I didn't really learn to focus until years of her efforts and my own. How I still struggle to narrow my focus, now and then, and how she manages still to bring my eyes back to where they need to be.
And I ached. I wished fiercely and silently that she lived next door, so that I could bring her french fries (she loves them) and talk to her about learning and mothering and maybe laugh until we cry. I even pondered how I could maybe bring her chili sometimes, as a little joke.
The chili.
The timer went off and I hurried to the pot, lifting the lid to enjoy the beautiful dinner I had prepared....and smelled smoke. Before me was a perfect-looking chili, but devoid of liquid, and when I scooped some of it aside, black charred beans--the product of not near-enough broth--greeted me.
I broke out the cereal and milk, and sat at the table with a lump growing in my throat until Reed said, "It's okay, Mom. You're still a great cook."
Some days I burn the beans.
And then some days my mom doesn't seem too far away.
It will all be alright. I can do this. I have all the tools.
Who wants chili anyway?
During her visit, I mentioned that I didn't know how to make chili, and wanted her to help me make some. She was more than willing to help. The day she was to leave, we decided it would be helpful to make the chili to have ahead of time for dinner that night. She got the beans simmering and showed me how to make everything just so; I'm afraid I was too much in turmoil to listen. She was leaving, and it was now solely up to me and Phill to figure out how to be parents (armed with the answers to desperate prayers, of course). She told me, "Just remove them from the heat after I leave."
When Phill left to take her to the airport, I sat down in the cushy armchair in our basement, staring at brand-new Reed as he slept nearby in his pack-n-play. I began to feel a disturbing sense that my anchor had been dislodged, a feeling of Oh No What If He Does Something I Don't Know How To Fix, and began to cry helplessly, as helplessly as my newborn did when awake and hungry. I let every feeling wash over me; my fears, my anxieties, my aching wish that my mother could still be next to me. Then I calmed down, wiped my tears, and resolved to be hopeful.
And then I remembered the beans.
The beans! The beans I was supposed to remove from the heat right after she left! The beans....oh, beans.
I went upstairs and dissolved into a(nother) crying mess when I saw the blackened mess that had adhered to the bottom of the pot. I sobbed over the pot, staring into the smelly mixture and saying, "Stupid beans...stupid, stupid, stupid beans! Who wants chili anyway?!" and then, defeated and purely sad, "Oh, Mom....I burnt the beans." And at my lowest: "How will I take care of a baby if I can't take care of beans?"
Eventually Phill came home and helped me piece myself back together. Eventually my hormones stopped their drowning tides. Eventually I learned to take care of my baby, and beans, too. But at times when I would think of my mom, wondering if I was doing this right, or thinking it might be easier to have her living closer by, I thought of the beans again. How much I missed her. How I forgot about time because the aching was too much.
Today I had parent-teacher conference. I tend to brace myself for this sort of thing, since I often drive home making a mental list of all my inadequacies, and feeling in general unworthy to be a mom. This time wasn't too bad--the areas of concern were my own, and I felt (for once) that his teacher and I are on the same track. We discussed his wandering focus, and how it affects his performance. I quietly pondered ways to help him learn to concentrate, and came up empty-handed....what am I supposed to say? "Reed, let's talk about concentrating." No-go. He is seven.
On the drive home, with that un-anchored feeling settling into my chest, I prayed for some sort of inspiration. And I thought to call my mom.
Far away in Boston in that school of brains, she is learning about learning. She is honing her gift for understanding how a person's brain works and tailoring her teaching to fit that need.
I started the white bean turkey chili that Phill loves, and while I cooked, I pressed a few buttons on my phone and felt immense relief at hearing her voice.
"We had parent-teacher conferences today--"
"Oh, sometimes you just have to throw that out the window..."
"Right. I'm okay; I had my shields up."
I minced the garlic and onions while delivering the minutes of my meeting, then asked,
"Mom, how do I help Reed focus?"
"Well, you can ask him some questions that help you figure out where his attention tends to wander."
I added the turkey.
"What questions?"
I added a little bit of broth.
"You could say, 'Reed, when is it fun for you to pay attention? When is it hard to pay attention? What do you like to pay attention to? What helps you pay attention?"
There it was. As always, her approach was so simple, so laid-back, and so direct. The same message I always got from her: You have all the tools to be the kind of mother your children need. You can do this.
We said our goodbyes, I put the lid on the pot, set the timer, and went to sit down and let my thoughts simmer with the chili. I thought about how intelligent she is, and how determined she is to become informed about those things that are foreign to her. I thought about our few homeschooling years together, remembering how arduously she tried to help me focus....and how I didn't really learn to focus until years of her efforts and my own. How I still struggle to narrow my focus, now and then, and how she manages still to bring my eyes back to where they need to be.
And I ached. I wished fiercely and silently that she lived next door, so that I could bring her french fries (she loves them) and talk to her about learning and mothering and maybe laugh until we cry. I even pondered how I could maybe bring her chili sometimes, as a little joke.
The chili.
The timer went off and I hurried to the pot, lifting the lid to enjoy the beautiful dinner I had prepared....and smelled smoke. Before me was a perfect-looking chili, but devoid of liquid, and when I scooped some of it aside, black charred beans--the product of not near-enough broth--greeted me.
I broke out the cereal and milk, and sat at the table with a lump growing in my throat until Reed said, "It's okay, Mom. You're still a great cook."
Some days I burn the beans.
And then some days my mom doesn't seem too far away.
It will all be alright. I can do this. I have all the tools.
Who wants chili anyway?
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Again, words that are not my own
I've been reading this book called If You Want to Write (because as you may know, I really, really love to write, and one day would love it if some of my words were made into a book and then published...). The whole thing is quotable, but I had to share one part in particular because it made me so happy (and I like to make you guys happy.)
"Everybody is original, if he tells the truth, if he speaks from himself. But it must be from his true self and not from the self he thinks he should be...no individual is exactly like any other individual...no two identical persons have ever existed. Consequently, if you speak or write from yourself you cannot help being original. So remember these two things: you are talented and you are original. Be sure of that."
"Everybody is original, if he tells the truth, if he speaks from himself. But it must be from his true self and not from the self he thinks he should be...no individual is exactly like any other individual...no two identical persons have ever existed. Consequently, if you speak or write from yourself you cannot help being original. So remember these two things: you are talented and you are original. Be sure of that."
Something weird this way came....
(Possibly the worst post title ever?)
Something really weird happened this morning.
I woke up at 7:41, 19 minutes before my alarm was set to go off, and I didn't feel like I was going to die! (When usually I hit the snooze until it is 8:32.)
Not only did I feel actually refreshed and well-rested (what on EARTH?), I actually thought that I could manage to fit in a little bit of exercise before feeding the kids and getting Reed to school....
and even MORE weird? I did. I DID exercise. In the morning. Before everything else needed to happen.
It was nothing short of miraculous, and quite honestly, I can only see this as 1% the result of my recently increased efforts (trying to be better about keeping the house clean, organizing, going to bed at a normal hour, etc.) and 99% heaven smiling down on me.
It had to have been divine intervention, because this doesn't often happen to me.
But it was awesome, really awesome, and it made my day.
(For something that's ALSO awesome and might just make YOUR day, go see what The DI Denizen did with her kitchen!)
Something really weird happened this morning.
I woke up at 7:41, 19 minutes before my alarm was set to go off, and I didn't feel like I was going to die! (When usually I hit the snooze until it is 8:32.)
Not only did I feel actually refreshed and well-rested (what on EARTH?), I actually thought that I could manage to fit in a little bit of exercise before feeding the kids and getting Reed to school....
and even MORE weird? I did. I DID exercise. In the morning. Before everything else needed to happen.
It was nothing short of miraculous, and quite honestly, I can only see this as 1% the result of my recently increased efforts (trying to be better about keeping the house clean, organizing, going to bed at a normal hour, etc.) and 99% heaven smiling down on me.
It had to have been divine intervention, because this doesn't often happen to me.
But it was awesome, really awesome, and it made my day.
(For something that's ALSO awesome and might just make YOUR day, go see what The DI Denizen did with her kitchen!)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)