I made banana ice cream yesterday, and holy cow, was it a hit. I'd read about it and had a couple friends who made and recommended it, but somehow couldn't manage the complicated process (slicing up a few bananas, freezing them for a couple hours, then sending the frozen chunks through the food processor. It may have taken five entire minutes) until yesterday. The kids and I tried it plain, and while it was good, with a surprising ice creamy consistency despite the fact that the sole ingredient is bananas, we all agreed that what it really needed was chocolate, which I sent down the processor's chute with gusto. Because making completely healthy food unhealthy is evidently a real skill of mine. I'm making another batch tonight, but this time I'm adding chocolate and peanut butter.
Since the weather's been cooler here, I've been forced to dig out my jeans, which led to the unpleasant reminder that last spring I decided to postpone jeans shopping til the fall, because I loathe shopping for jeans. I love wearing them, but I hate how the level of despair rises with each discarded pair in the dressing room. I can pick up a dozen pair out on the sales floor, thinking that they look relatively normal and as if there's at least a bare possibility they'll fit, but once I'm actually attempting to shimmy into them? Puzzlement. Anguish. Gnashing of teeth. Sackcloth begins to sound attractive. Why must it be a modern-day miracle to find a pair of jeans that a) has no machine-made holes, b) allows me to move around without exposing not-to-be-exposed parts of myself, and c) doesn't cost a fortune?
|If you hear sobbing coming from an Iowa fitting room next week, don't worry: It's just me, losing the will to live.|
I think I may have finally cracked Caedmon's chore code. Both Adelaide and Atticus are relatively good at completing their chores quickly and with minimal fuss, but Caedmon? Man. He'd spend more time dragging his feet and voicing how unfair it all was than the time it took to complete the chore itself. The key? A timer (This week, anyway). Caedmon loves to race a timer, so I'll set the microwave timer for, say, two minutes to put clean silverware away, three minutes to take out and dump the compost bowl, etc, and he'll go as fast as he can to finish before the timer beeps. I'm not sure why I didn't think of this earlier; when I'm feeling especially lazy and tempted to let a small task go, I'll time myself to see how long it actually takes to unload the dishwasher, fold some clothes, etc, so that I can berate myself afterwards about how lazy I must be to even be tempted to put something off that only took four minutes to complete anyway. (Hang on, that's not where that was supposed to go...)
Did you not see the first "Bad" point? I HAVE TO GO JEANS SHOPPING NEXT WEEK.
A couple weeks ago we checked out the movie The Hobbit from the library. Not the fancy, modern, quasi-realistic version, but the old 1977 animated version that I remember watching a time or two growing up. That is, I thought I'd watched it a time or two, until I started it for the kids and began to walk away.
As soon as that music came on, I wheeled right around and sat myself down, caught up in a wave of nostalgia so powerful it was as close as I've ever come to actual time travel. I knew almost every word of dialogue, every song, sound effect, all of it, to the extent that I have to think we must have had it on constantly for some period of my childhood. This is strange to me; because I remember so much of my growing-up years so vividly and specifically, it's bewildering when I come across something forgotten.
|You can see why it was a childhood favorite.|
The only downside to my trip down a Hobbit-strewn memory lane was the nightmare it sparked that night, where a Teddy Ruxpin said one after another cruel thing to me, over and over. Upon waking, I couldn't remember what he'd said, why I didn't merely walk away, or what was keeping me from dreaming up a baseball bat to take to his furry demon body, just that my brain had officially ruined one of my childhood toys. Thanks, Brain.
UUUUMMM, I just googled "evil Teddy Ruxpin," you know, for fun, and came across this post: Your Childhood Games and Toys as Horror Movie Posters. Oh, Teddy. I knew it. Or my brain did, anyway.