Oldies But Goodies... One Last Time

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Cast Iron 
(Originally published 04/18/2011)



I love my cast iron skillet.  It was a hand-me-down from Derek's mom.  I feel that used cast iron cookware is usually better than new because it's already been seasoned, so I don't have to mess with any of that business.  I love to use my skillet for upside-down cakes, cornbread, and elementary home defense.

Perhaps I should explain.

Derek was gone on a business trip last week.  This meant I had to hold down the fort for a few days by myself.  Fortunately, it was warm and beautiful outside, so I let the kids run themselves into exhaustion in the backyard every afternoon.  This gave us all space during the day, and they slept soundly at night.

My nights, however, were a different story.

After I finally get the older two kiddos into bed, I bounce Caedmon around for awhile before laying him down.  Peruse the bookshelves for something to re-read because I haven't been to the library in a while.  Settle into the rocking chair in the living room.  Immerse myself in a favorite story.

Hear strange sounds.  Outside the window.  In the basement.  Upstairs.  In the laundry room.

I concentrate harder on the book and tell myself it's just the house settling.  It is, after all, an old house, and after 111 years on this earth I think she's earned the right to creak a bit.  Even if it does cause minor cardiac episodes in the chest of her owner.

After an hour or so of this, I put down my book, tidy up a bit downstairs.  Load the dishwasher, wipe down the high chair.  Grab the cast iron skillet out of the kitchen cabinet and carry it upstairs with me.

I wash up in the bathroom, change into my pajamas.  Nestle the skillet into Derek's side of the bed.

I really feel at this point that I should explain something.  I don't have a weird skillet fetish.  This piece of cookware just happens to be my weapon of choice- I need something in reaching distance when an intruder takes advantage of Derek's absence and breaks into the house.  We don't have any guns, and knives are out -our children often climb into the bed to wake me up in the morning.  Plus cast iron has a nice, reassuring heft to it.  I need two hands to lift it any higher than shoulder- height, (I had to practice, didn't I?) so it's pretty heavy.

I may or may not have read Fried Green Tomatoes At The Whistle Stop Cafe one too many times.

And seen the movie once or twice.

But I promise, if I ever do whack the boogie man over the head with my skillet, I will not chop him up and serve him to you barbeque-style.

Although I do think Head Country barbeque sauce could make just about anything taste good.  Maybe the secret really is in the sauce.

I did not end up having to use the skillet in a defensive capacity.  Derek returned home, and I returned the pan to the cabinet, where it will stay until I make an apple cake.

Or my husband leaves again.

Oldies But Goodies... Yet Again

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The Joker
(Originally published 05/31/2011)



I am terrible at faking laughter.

It either sounds like I'm forcing a few wheezy chuckles out, or I get too enthusiastic and sound like I'm mocking someone.  This isn't much of an issue in my daily life- I've learned that if I don't think something is funny, I just have to smile politely, even if everyone else is laughing uproariously.

A new problem has arisen.  Adelaide has started telling jokes.  They're not funny.

"Knock, knock."  Just those two words are enough to make my heart sink.  Being her mother, however, it falls under my realm of responsibility to play along.  So I reply, "Who's there?"

"Adelaide."

"Adelaide who?"

"Adelaide Crisler!"

First I try the restrained chuckle:  "Heh heh heh heh heh."

She's not convinced, however.  "Didn't you think that was funny, Mommy?"

"You know, honey, humor is such a subjective thing..."  I try not to lie to her, but I also don't want to hurt her feelings.

So she tries again.  "Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Candle made out of lightning."

"Candle made out of lightning who?"

"Cheese."

"HA HA HA HA HA HA!"  I try to mask my bewilderment by laughing like I've just heard the joke of the century.  What kind of punchline is 'cheese', anyway?

I'm starting to think I've pulled it off, that maybe my fake laughter muscles are getting a little more toned, when Adelaide raises her eyebrows, looks at me sideways, and asks, "Mommy, what are you doing?"

"I'm laughing at your joke."

"That's not laughing- that's a weird yelling sound.  You kind of sound like you're hurt."

Perfect.

Oldies But Goodies... Again

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Snips and Snails and Puppy-Dogs' Tails
(originally published 2/22/2011)




I remember reading several articles, before I had children, about how boys and girls are just the same- it's all in how you raise them.  These authors and so-called "experts" contended that if you give your little girls Tonka trucks and your little boys Barbie dolls, they will all display similar behavior and essentially blur the line between the sexes.  I was skeptical but, not having any children of my own, and having grown up in a house where three girls ruled a land of Barbies, ballet shoes, and glitter, I was open to the possibility that what these people said was true.

My daughter does play with trucks.  She uses them to cart her dolls to and from their dance recitals.

My son does play with Barbies.  He hurls their maimed carcasses against the walls and laughs hysterically.

I have decided that there is a distinct possibility that those people are full of malarkey.

Another interesting difference between my son and daughter is this:

Notice the distinct bulge in the pocket region of my son's jeans.  I never had to check Adelaide's pants before I threw them in the washer.  Now, if I don't check every pocket of every pair of Atticus's pants, at the end of a wash cycle, I will remove all the clothes and find the bottom of the washer tub littered with toys, rocks, and other detritus.

I often bring Atticus into the laundry room so I can ask him about the contents of his pockets.  Here's how our conversation went this morning.

Me:  (Holding up the phone) "Hey, Atticus, what's this?"
A:  "Dat's my cell phone."
Me:  (Holding up the penguin)  "And what's this?"
A:  "Dat's a penguin."
Me:  (Holding up the piece from the game Connect Four)  "What's this?"
A:  "Dat's a quarter."
Me:  (Holding up the piece from the game Hi-Ho Cherry-O)  "What's this?"
A:  "That's a apple."
Me:  (Holding up the car)  "What's this?"
A:  "Dat's a car.  A gween car!"
Me:  (Holding up the star)  "And what's this?"
A:  "Dat's a sar!  Here, I wight it fer you."

He then pushes the button on the back that makes it light up.

What I really love about going through the contents of his pockets is how it shows me that even at the age of two, he has a life entirely separate from me.  We spend all day together, but I rarely catch him sneaking things into his pockets.  What, in his mind, qualifies as pocket-worthy material?  Why this rather than that?

I must confess that I'm a little concerned about what I'll be finding in his pockets come spring when we all start spending more time outside.  I did not react well last week when I happened upon a small mound of dead lady bugs' shells in one pair of khakis.

Oldies But Goodies, Part II

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Wanna See A Grown Man Cry?
(Originally Published 03/31/2011)



Tell him you have a new potato soup recipe you're going to try.  You've had it recently when your sister made it, and it was delicious.  Describe to him just how creamy, cheesy, bacony, potato-ey this soup is.  Promise him he'll love it.

Make sure he knows the day you're going to make it so that he can come home good and hungry.  Make sure it looks and smells great when he walks in the door, exactly as you told him it would.

Now instead of making the soup with real bacon, use turkey bacon.  And watch the tears fall fast and thick.

Aw, I'm just kidding.  He didn't really cry.  In fact, in nearly seven years of marriage, I don't think I've ever seen Derek cry.  I believe the closest he's come was right after Adelaide was born.  When I was in the hospital and getting ready to deliver her, he planted himself firmly by my head and turned his face away from the action.  After she arrived and they announced, "It's a girl!" I thought his eyes looked a little overbright.  Mistakenly thinking he was choked up with emotion at the birth of our firstborn, I asked, "So, what do you think?"  He shattered my previous notions when he shook his head and muttered, "I think my peripheral vision is too good."

Poor, traumatized Derek.  All he wanted was to sit in the waiting room, handing out cigars.

Okay, I'm officially off track.  Where was I?

Oh, yes.  Turkey bacon and the red-headed stepchild of potato soups.

So instead of crying, your husband will eat more than one bowl of this ugly cousin to your sister's real potato soup.  Because he is, in fact, a good husband.

To make up for the soup, push back your nightly walk and bake a batch of your delicious peanut butter cookies.

Go for your evening constitutional.  Walk four miles instead of your usual three because you ate no less than a dozen of those warm, delectable cookies.

Return home.  Thank your husband for staying home with the kids so you could get some fresh air and strengthen your often tenuous hold on sanity.

The next day, cook up the rest of that false bacon for your children.  Then vow never to allow that abomination into the house again.

Oldies But Goodies

I've decided that I'm not going to write any new posts this week, in part because it's looking to be a super busy week, and because I just don't feel like it.  I thought about talking about how it's hot outside and the lazy days of summer and blah blah blah, but I'm going to go ahead and give you all (say it with me, now: y'all) the benefit of the doubt and assume you're smart enough not to fall for all that.  Because the truth is, I just don't have much interesting to say right now.

Now, before you get your panties in a bunch, let me tell you that I will be posting some older posts, perhaps ones you've missed.  I'll try to put a new one on here every day, so if anything, at least the posts will be more frequent than usual.

See you in a week!





Note To Self 
(originally published 09/15/2011)



Dear Kristy,

I know how much you love to save money.

No, really.  I do.

Sometimes, however, there have to be limits.  One of those limits exists within the realm of buying shoes for your children.  I know you hate overpaying for clothing, and you often feel that children's shoes are overpriced.  I know that you will search many different stores trying to find a pair that will be reasonably priced, yet do not look like something you would find in Quasimodo's wardrobe.

I know that when you find that pair, you will be delighted to have found something cute and somewhat inexpensive.  What you should do then, is go ahead and purchase that pair of shoes, but here's the kicker (pun intended):  Buy it in the correct size.

Don't stare thoughtfully at the shoes and think to yourself, You know, I could save even more money if I bought these suckers a size bigger.  And let's be honest here, your children are heavy on the Crisler genes, which means they're growing and jumping sizes faster than you can keep up.  That next size is only slightly too big right now, and she'll have grown into them in a couple months. 

I know that the bigger size won't bother your daughter, for whom you are buying these shoes.  She'll just be delighted with the abundance of silver sequins and pink canvas.  She won't care that they're just a tad too big, just enough to have some extra room out past her toes.

She won't think about the fact that along with her fast-growing Crisler genes, she has also inherited a healthy dose of your extreme- klutziness genes.

I'm trying to give you a fair warning, here, self:  If you do buy those roomier shoes, expect a call the very next morning from the school nurse, reporting that your daughter was found by a teacher, huddled against a locker in the hallway, crying, face covered in blood.  A mere thirty minutes after donning those sparkly bargains for the first time, the she'll-grow-into-them toes of her shoes will cause her to trip on the industrial carpet lining the hallway to her classroom, she'll fall flat onto her face, and split her lip.  A kindly teacher will escort her to the nurse's office, who will clean her up and calm her down.

Then, when the nurse is walking her back to classroom, Adelaide will trip again.  The nurse will discover it's because her shoes are too big.  She'll have your daughter change into her PE shoes (which fit perfectly).  Then she'll call you to let you know about her little incident, and to let you know that it was really all your fault for being such a cheapskate.  (The nurse will never actually say that.  Your conscience is more than capable of throwing that little barb.)

So please, buy footwear in the right size.  Don't make your daughter pay for your mistake with her blood.

Feeling a Little Dramatic Today,

Kristy

P.S.  Oh, and for crying out loud, teach your daughter to tie her shoes already.  You'd have a lot more shoe options if you weren't limited to velcro and straps.





Update:  It only took Adelaide two months to grow into that dangerous pair of shoes- which means it's almost time to buy her some new ones.  But I still haven't taught her how to tie her shoes.  You'd think I'd learn.