Attempts at Festivity

Today is our first day of Christmas vacation.  School is closed, the library is closed, and the kids have been guilt-tripping me all year about how we didn't make gingerbread cookies last winter, so today:  Gingerbread cookie day.

They only took three hours to make, are pathetic to behold, and taste like one of my least favorite desserts!

Now, to be fair, I had a certain six-year-old sous chef helping me with the cookies, which explains the three hours and the section of butter wrapper found while cutting out the dough, plus my insistence upon trying a new recipe that includes zesting citrus fruit didn't exactly cut down on the prep time.  

Caedmon likes to use a toothpick to extract every last bit of orange from the zester.  This did not take forever or cause me to age one hundred years while waiting.

Those are the eyes of a kid hopped on the demon gingerbread.  I am, sadly, his dealer.

In other Christmastime news, the little town nearby goes a little crazy over Christmas.  The library I work at is just off Main street in this town, where they plunk a live tree right in the middle of the street,

but also thoughtfully (or perhaps their motivations are more of the legal nature) leave enough space to swerve around it so you can still, you know, drive down Main street.  They also have speakers mounted along Main, and they've been playing Christmas music for the last two weeks.  It is marvelous.

Yep.


We don't put a tree down our house's main thoroughfare- or even have a live tree, for that matter- but we do have a kitchen pig all decked out, and that has to count for something, right?

Just don't talk to Derek about the pig, okay?  He may or may not have said something about what is clearly a CHRISTMAS WREATH resembling a crown of thorns, instead.  Never mind that this is a pig and Jesus was Jewish.

Although I don't remember reading anything about Jews being at odds with pigs doubling as chefs, so it's probably fine.  I mean, our kitchen pig probably keeps kosher, right?  He's not going to cook or serve up his own kind!  Thank goodness pigs aren't known for being savages who will eat absolutely anything, including other pigs.

P.S.  This post did not end up in a place any of us were expecting.  It is not just you.

Eureka!

One of my goals for this summer was to have each kid help me with supper on a regular basis.

Okay, so my original goal went something like this:

Have one of the kids help make supper
every night
one time a week per kid
at some point during the summer, hopefully with some degree of frequency, but let's be realistic, here:  I'll be lucky to have each kid do it once a month.

While I want each of our children to leave this house more or less able to cook without poisoning themselves and any loved ones they may have (side note:  For each of our children, these future loved ones will, according to them, all look very different.  Atticus is very clear that he will be married one day; Caedmon seems to waffle between remaining at home forever over my dead body and living perhaps on his own, perhaps not, as long as gets to go out and do construction work every day, and Adelaide is already naming the many cats she plans on surrounding herself with.  Any which way, I am determined that our children will be capable of making a meal for these companions.), I'm also faced with the fact that any day that our children are "helping" me in the kitchen is a day that can contain little else in it.  The prep work that goes into having our children cook is, currently, enormous.  This is partly because I refuse to cook the recipes found in most "kids cookbooks" because I have a sensitive gag reflex, and partly because if it's mostly me cooking and them doing tiny jobs, I can't seem to hold their interest.  They want to do everything, and this is incredibly time-consuming, but I get it; I don't much care for being patronized, either.

Considering all this, I started our Summer of Cooking Together and Hopefully Not Hating Each Other by the Time It's All Over (SoCTaHNHEObtTIAO for... short?) yesterday with Adelaide.  We had little going on in terms of leaving the house, and as Adelaide is the oldest and most capable of our children, I knew it made it more likely that I would want to stick with this plan for any length of time.  I was afraid if I started with one of the boys the day would end with multiple people not speaking to each other and me with a new tattoo reading something like Chef Boyardee 4 Life or maybe a heart around some ramen noodles.

As it turns out, I am a genius.  Not this kind:

But this kind:

Adelaide did 99% of, well, everything.  She made the meatballs, and the breadcrumbs that go in the meatballs, even though massaging raw beef is not her favorite thing.

She baked shortcakes, and chopped strawberries, and made whipped cream.

Checking for soft peaks, because that is a thing she knows how to do!

What was my 1%?  Dicing an onion to go into the meatballs, because we both agreed that we wanted to eat that night, not two days from now.  Onions are Adelaide's nemesis:  I once saw her take one full hour to finely dice an onion.  We were both in fume- and emotionally-fueled tears by the time she was done. 

When I wasn't spending two minutes chopping, I was sewing new pillow cases for some ugly outdoor pillows I found at a garage sale a full year ago, something I've been meaning to do since last summer.  As it turns out, when I delegate this whole making-supper nonsense to others, I get to do all kinds of fun things!

Velvet with a seventies-shade of orange with fraying sides.  Worth all 25 pennies I paid, because I knew that stripes fix all manner of sins.

Especially when the fabric costs you under $2 a yard.  I've only been eyeing that fabric for a year, pretty much since I purchased the garage sale pillows.  Good things come to those who wait forever for the deep-discount sales.

Perhaps the best part, however, was how tired Adelaide was by the time she was dishing up food onto everyone's plates, not just because I am a cruel mother who delights in the fatigue of her children (although I am that, from time to time), but because she remarked to her father, 

"I am going to be very angry if I went to all this work and anyone here doesn't like it."

Bold, large print, because hallelujah, our children are capable of learning important life lessons.

Welcome to my skin suit, Adelaide.  I hope you find it to your liking.

Look at that- I'm able to ruin even the likes of Harper Lee.  

Sick Kids Watching Baking Kids

Two out of three Crisler children are home from school today, because Derek and I love them until they are literally sick.  Or something.

Lots of prone bodies and glassy stares in this house.

I am the consummate homebody, but even hermits have to escape their shell from time to time lest they start to say things like, "Wow, that relentless moaning you're doing obviously serves a terrific purpose.  It must be making you feel so much better because you've been doing it for forty straight minutes.  I also don't want to smother you at all."  Then Daughter begins to cry in self-pity, and I lock myself in my room to write a blog post.

I told Adelaide she was an over-achiever when this was her temp.  Unfortunately her sense of humor evaporates when she's sick.

It's not all whiney daughters and sarcastic mothers around here, though; I've been trying to make the best out of being stuck in this house for so many days running.  (Had the temerity to run to Wal-Mart this morning for some essentials.  School nurse called before I could even get out of my vehicle to walk into the store.)  I'm trying to remember that Derek and I don't have to make the tough choice as to which one of us has to miss work, or worry about losing my job because our family has been sick so much.  I'm allowed a small pity party, but only streamers are allowed; absolutely no piñatas.

I've been doing all the things I've put off doing, like making and trying out some new laundry soap-

Okay, so quick side note:  I've used the Duggars' recipe for the past couple years, and although I always added a ton of lemon essential oil, it was never strongly-scented enough for Derek.  I found this new recipe for a powdered soap, and it contains two whole bottles of those scent-boosting crystals, and after using it on ten loads of laundry in the past two days, I've been really pleased.  It's smelly enough for Derek, but not so smelly to give me a headache, which I'm prone to, because my olfactory sense is crap right up until it smells something too floral or perfumey, at which point it morphs into a diva and the head-pounding begins.

-switching out all our flannel bedding for something not quite so sweaty, hemming Caedmon's too-short pants into shorts for summer, then transplanting some of my seedlings that were getting too leggy for their tiny egg carton containers.

"Nice stems."

And then, because we all know what happens when you're all work and no play, the kids and I sat down to watch

and you guys, it is so good.  First of all, you get to see all these frighteningly competent children throw around terms like pâte à choux and watch them make things you've never even attempted, but they're still kids, so they're dropping things and helping each other and happily saying things like, "The ice cream's a little over-churned, but I'm just like, 'I'm eleven years old, I just made ice cream!'" 

The two hosts/judges- Duff Goldman and Valerie Bertinelli- are also quite well-cast, (yes, even Valerie), because they're so, so good with the kids:  Kind and encouraging but also honest when the food isn't what it should be.  There's only one season available on Netflix, and that's only four episodes, which is my sole complaint.  Yes, we tried the show because I thought the kids would enjoy it, but I'd absolutely watch it on my own.  Here's hoping they'll get over this crud in a jiffy and feel inspired to bake me something amazing.  (The only other downside to watching these kinds of shows:  You get real hungry and wonder why you don't have any lemon tartlets or an abundance of gruyère cheese in your house rightthissecond.)

Unexpected Snow Day Adventures

7-8 inches of new snow + high winds + dropping temps = going on our second snow day in a row.  It's served as a nice little break from our regularly scheduled life, but sometimes our children need to be reminded that they are not allowed to go all flying squirrel in the house.  Outside?  Sure.  Whatever.

They've spent large portions of both days outside, and while I sometimes feel a pang that I am not that mom that spends hours outside making snowlumps and snow forts with them, I get over it real quick and get back to my usual routine of setting the trash/ compost bowl/ whatever right outside the door and hollering, "Somebody come take care of this, please!" in their general direction.  Then I hurriedly shrink back in because it is warm in here and cold out there, and that's pretty much all my brain needs to know to make its decision.

Sometimes I stay at the door long enough to take a picture through the glass.  That's just good parenting.

I assuage any residual guilt with the knowledge that I spent an hour shoveling this morning, then I make hot chocolate for everyone and give myself a sanctimonious little pat on the back.

Today I'm doing an experiment in cookie dough, because Adelaide was making peanut butter cookies yesterday afternoon, but within about a minute of turning on the oven, I smelled a very strong scent of gas, so I turned the oven off and called Derek.  He said to get the heck out of the house and call the energy company, who would send a tech out to inspect everything.  So I called the energy company, and they said to get the heck out of the house, they would send a tech out to inspect everything.  The guy on the phone also said exciting things like, "Do not turn any lights on or off.  Do not open any windows.  If you are on a landline, do not hang up the phone, leave it off its cradle.  We do not want to risk creating any sparks.  Get out now."

I instructed Adelaide to get bundled up as best she could with the winter gear right by the front door, then I went upstairs to rouse both the boys from their naps (see flying squirrel reference above; they had worn themselves out by midafternoon) and hurried them down the stairs.

A few delightful pieces of information:  If Atticus is in the house, he is wearing shorts.  We keep our house at 67 degrees in the winter during the day, and 60 starting at 8:30 every evening, but he still wears shorts.  Yesterday, while Adelaide was making the cookie dough, I was doing laundry, specifically boy laundry, which includes every pair of pants Atticus owns and his snow pants because I like his teacher and don't want her to faint from the scent coming off of them every day at school.  Because of all this, when we got out of the house, Atticus was wearing snow pants that hit about mid-shin over his shorts, along with snow boots and two jackets, because oh, yeah, I was washing all their coats, too.  Ditto the multiple, layered jacket look on Caedmon.  We looked homeless, but I figured it was no big deal, we were just going to go hang out at our small town library for a while 'til either the technician figured out the source of the problem or our house exploded in a giant fireball.

We arrived at the library.  There was a hand-lettered sign informing us it had closed early, I'm guessing due to the weather.  Super.

So we went to Wal-Mart, because at least there we'd fit in, right?  I've heard about that People of Wal-Mart website, and while I doubt it applies to everyone on there, keep in mind that some of those customers may look like that because they've been turned out of their house and had to dress in whatever was immediately by the front door.  It's possible.

So we went to Wal-Mart, got the kids' valentines for school, got a call telling us to come back, there would be no slow suffocation tonight.  All the hallelujahs.

The technician was really nice, but informed me that yes, something is up with our oven, and that we are not allowed to turn it on until we get it looked at.  As of today, we have an appliance repair guy coming out in a week to look at it, because that's the soonest he can get here.  Hence the cookie dough in a crock pot.  I mean, I couldn't let Adelaide's beautiful dough go to waste, could I?

I'm not real sure how it's going to turn out; we could be treating ourselves to peanut butter mush tonight.  Or it could be our new favorite dessert!  Aren't adventures fun?

When You're Stuck Inside

Now that the holidays are more or less over (we have two celebrations to go; one on Saturday and one on Sunday.  While we're looking forward to both, I can't help but think, Just gotta get to Monday, then I'll be freeeee!), it's time for the requisite post on the winter doldrums and cabin fever and snow-cold-blaaaaaargh.

This is the third time I've written this post but it keeps sounding so insufferably whiney I end up delete-delete-deleting in irritation at myself.  I'm trying to turn it from a self indulgent, winter-is-basically-house-arrest monologue to a Hey-we-do-fun-inside-stuff-this-time-of-year reminder.

So.  Fun inside stuff.

We've been playing a lot of games.  Jenga is a family favorite.  Well... it's a favorite of everyone but me.  My nerves can't handle Jenga.  I have to constantly fight the compulsion to lash out wildly at the structure just to end it all and rid my stomach of the horrible tension that exists during Jenga.  Even watching other people play I have to bury my face in my hands and whisper to whomever's unfortunate enough to be sitting next to me to just tell me when it's over.  

That kid up there, though?  I wasn't sure if four years old was old enough to play Jenga, but holy cow.  That kid is a Jenga Master.  His moves don't make any sense.  The tower should topple after most of his moves, but it never does.  I'm expecting his letter from Hogwarts the minute he turns 11, because that is the only explanation to his inexplicable talent.

We've also been playing a lot of Tri-ominos.  Adelaide and I have played the most, simply because she hasn't been in school so we actually have the long stretch of time it takes to complete a game, plus when I play with her I force her to be the score keeper, citing math; you get lots of practice adding and subtracting both positive and negative numbers.  

Derek and I played last night, but I'm not sure when he'll be willing to play with me again.  Something about what I call a victory laugh but he referred to as a cackle.

Derek busted out his trap set for a couple days, and everyone got to take a spin on that.

Click to embiggen and see Cade's tongue sticking out the same way Derek's often does when he's drumming.

I was out for a run when he set it up, but could hear it when I was still almost a block away from the house.  It's... well, it's loud.  I don't know how Derek's parents don't have permanent hearing loss from years of his teenage drumming.  

There's the tongue again.

We did make everyone wear ear plugs.  No need to give them a legitimate reason not to listen to me.

Derek got some practice time in, too, which was tons more fun to listen to, because he doesn't suck.  Not that our children suck.  (Yes, they do.)  I'm sure if any of them choose the drums as their instrument (heaven help me), they'll improve.  

Baking is another great indoor activity, and will help you meet those winter weight gain goals.

Adelaide and I made that apple pie up there on Christmas Eve.  I have to say, if you have an eight-year-old sous chef, everything is so much easier.  She can assemble all your ingredients, mix up the filling while you make and roll out the crust, then falsely lead everyone to believe you're some kind of Martha Stewart by shaping extra dough into whimsical shapes for the top.  If you can get your six-year-old to misbehave on December 23rd, so much the better; he can spend the following day doing heaps of extra chores and your house will be unnaturally clean for your holiday.  

Throw in some books, Legos, and jigsaw puzzles, and you have our winter.  Crislers Gone Wild.  

Mother Extraordinaire

While I've done a fair(ish) job of getting to most of the things I wanted to do this Christmas season, there are a few that I've either had to bump to the Next Christmas list (for the third or fourth year in a row) or get done today.  Because I don't know if you were aware of this, but tomorrow is Christmas Eve, making today Christmas Eve Eve.

This means certain things aren't going to get done today that probably should have been done weeks ago.  The floors aren't going to be cleaned.  Certain family members won't be bathed.  I'm counting on the scent of brown sugar and molasses to overpower any other slightly less desirable smells.  Now aren't you sad you aren't coming to our house for Christmas?

I had promised the children weeks ago we'd make gingerbread houses before Christmas.  Don't kid yourself:  I'm not talking about those amazing creations some families are capable of making that feature tinted hard candy for windows and something else creative for roof shingles and the tears of the mother who stayed up half the night to make it all happen.  These things aren't even going to be three-dimensional, because when it comes to baking, gravity is not my friend.  Actually, when it comes to most things gravity is not my friend, as my heavily scarred knees can attest.

Anyway.

When we woke up this morning, I told our children we would be making the gingerbread houses sometime that morning- probably mid-morning.  Before long that got pushed back to late morning.  But definitely before lunch!  Or, you know, maybe not- how about after lunch, pre-naps?

It is now naptime.  The cookies have not been made.

Our kiddos are really good sports about this kind of thing, probably because it happens to them all.the.time.  I once read an article that said something like, "The only consistent trait studies have been able to identify among the very old (those reaching an age of 100+ years) is the ability to accept change well, to roll with the punches."  I like to think I am instilling this trait in our children by constantly pushing back or flat-out changing plans on them.  It's a handy excuse, anyway.

I thought I actually had my act together today.  I had found the recipe I wanted to use in one of our cookbooks.  (Check!)  I had found the frosting recipe I wanted for piping.  (Way to go, me!)  I had even checked beforehand to make sure we had all the proper ingredients.  (Astonishing!)

But when looking over the recipe for gingerbread cookies this morning, I found that it didn't contain a single drop of molasses, and gingerbread cookies without molasses are dead to me.  I was able to find a suitable recipe online- with molasses, thankyouverymuch- but the dough needed to be chilled for at least three hours before rolling out and baking.  Children, prepare to roll with the punches!  (I realize this isn't that big of a deal, okay?  "Boohoo, I don't get to decorate and eat delicious Christmas cookies exactly when promised, but instead have to wait an extra six hours to do so!"  It's a classic first-world problem.  But just think:  If I always had my act together our kids might actually begin to expect life to constantly go their way.  We can't have that, now, can we?)

At this point, I have the dough prepared and chilling in the refrigerator, the frosting made, separated, and dyed different colors, and the dishes from all this is done.  Honestly, I hardly recognize myself.

I think I'll take this opportunity to bathe the eldest of our smelly children and cut her hair.

Which I meant to do a full ten months ago.