Through His Stomach

For several years now I have speculated on what, specifically, our children's love languages might be.  Words of Affirmation?  Physical Touch?  Maybe Acts of Service?


I think I got at least one of Atticus's locked down, finally:  Food.  His love language is Food.


Never mind that this is not one of the love languages identified in the eponymous book.  I am telling you:  food is how this boy knows he is loved.

He hasn't exactly been subtle about it.  When his teacher gave each student the prompt, "I love my mom because..." his answer wasn't "she tells me she loves me every day," "she doesn't crawl away when I drape my sick and fevered limbs over her," or even "my shoulders were as big as my head at birth which made the delivery process even more of an unforgettable experience for my sainted mother."

No, his answer was, "Because she cooks for me," accompanied by an illustration of, yes, me cooking, done in Crayolas.  That's right, this isn't something I puzzled out after eons of observation and heart-to-heart conversations with our son.  He made this as clear as possible for me, reinforcing the idea by asking me every day after school, "Are we having something hot for supper tonight?  Can we have something hot?"  This might sound like a rabid affinity for Cajun or other deliciously spicy food, but all it means to him is he does NOT appreciate it when I say we're fending for ourselves tonight and he can help himself to yogurt or a sandwich or whatever.  Adelaide and Caedmon love those days.  Atticus decidedly does not.


He was certainly excited today when his sister decided to make a pie to celebrate Pi Day,

but what really got him going what the fact that I was making a new recipe tonight for supper.

Now, normally any announcement of new recipes is met with groaning on the part of our children, seasoned with a judicious amount of tearing the hair from their own scalps.  It doesn't matter how many times I reason, "All your favorites dishes were once new recipes," they act like I am trying to poison them when something unfamiliar is on the table (to be fair, there have been times when I thought poisoning might be preferable to the crap I've ended up with after all that work).

For some reason, however, the sound of BBQ Chicken, Apple, Bacon, and Cheddar Quesadillas was perfectly suited to his 8-year-old palate.  He was so excited.  So pumped.

This excitement soon turned to anxiety however, which became obvious as he began to haunt the kitchen while I was crumbling the bacon, dicing the apple, shredding the cheddar.  He started asking, repeatedly, "Wait, if you don't like this, are you going to make it again?  Mom?  What if you don't like it?  Will you make it again?  What if I like it, but you don't?  What if everyone likes it, but you don't?  Does that mean you won't make it again?  Mom?  Does it?"

The explanation for his agitation is this:  I won't make food I don't like.  There have been times in the past when I made a new dish, one or two of the members of our family enjoyed it, but I did not.  This means we are not having it again, unless someone else wants to make it, in which case, be my guest.

To Atticus's immense relief, I loved the new quesadillas.  So did Derek.  So did Atticus.  Adelaide and Caedmon tried it, but ended up opting for their standard chicken and cheese quesadillas, because they have boring baby taste buds.  I did not say this to their faces.

Luckily for all of us, it's spring break, so it's easier for me to make sure I've made something "hot" most nights. This includes a new recipe for beef stew with homemade bread here in a couple days, because if it's going to snow during spring break, I am at least going to get soup out of the deal.

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.  

Calling a Vegetable a Vegetable

Last weekend I made a new recipe.  I'd come across it weeks ago via that Tasty thingamajig- you know, the high-speed videos of dishes being prepared that your mean, mean friends purposely share on social media at the times when you're absolutely starving?  That.

This was a relatively healthy meal, and it looked so good, and simple, and I was just sure that our whole family would find it ever so delicious, and also?  I am a schmuck.

That in itself isn't exactly news, so I'll be more specific:  I am a schmuck who is repeatedly taken in by claims like, "This healthy thing tastes exactly like that other not-so-healthy-but-oh-so-tasty thing!  Pinky swear!"  Then I have the gall to be astonished when cauliflower doesn't taste like fried rice.  Of course it doesn't taste like fried rice; it's cauliflower!  

I knew things were going awry when I was cooking the not-rice in the pan and it smelled like cauliflower.  I thought that perhaps the cauliflower would stop smelling so much like cauliflower as it neared the end of the cooking process, or maybe once I added the eggs and the soy sauce.  I mean, yes, the post was titled "Cauliflower Fried Rice," but the guy says, "Oh-ho, yes!" after scooping up a forkful of the False Rice.  I made the mistake of believing "Oh-ho, yes!" meant "My taste buds are enjoying this!" or even just "This doesn't taste like a bowlful of cauliflower!" because, as we've established, I am a chump.

I'm fine with healthy foods as long as they're marketed as the honest, healthy food they are.  I love spaghetti squash, but I'm not going to tell you it tastes like spaghetti, because it doesn't, because it's not.  It's not pasta.  It's a vegetable, and that is okay.

Thankfully, after everyone had eaten all the steak out of their cauliflower bowls- which Derek manfully polished off, because he will eat pretty much anything if I have cooked it and has since the day we married, because he has the wisdom of Solomon- husband then made the most divine grilled cheese sandwiches I have ever tasted in my entire life.  Now, the man is a superior grilled-cheese-maker (a specific brand of Italian bread + thinly sliced deli Provolone + butter + garlic salt + a dash of Derek), but I think it was the contrast between cauliflower and cheesy, salty, buttery goodness that did it.

The remainder of the Cauliflower Fried Rice was unceremoniously dumped in the trash that evening, but I'm thinking I should've stashed some in the fridge to taste before each meal.  Imagine how good Ranch-Style Chicken would be after a little cauliflower, oh, or chocolate chip cookies!  Our kids are going to love this new family mandate!  I know exactly how they'll react to the news.

A List for Monday

• I miss a bunch of things about the traditional Lutheran church I grew up attending, but this time of year, it's probably the advent wreath that I miss the most.  Unless, of course, it's the hymns; at the church we're a part of now, it's apparently against, well, their religion to sing christmas carols the way they've been sung for hundreds of years, oh no, they have to be tweaked and revamped and messed with until everyone is struggling to sing along even though we all know all the words.  Not that this bothers me.  Everyone knows I am very flexible and easy to work with.

ANYWAY.  

Somehow it never occurred to me that I could have an advent wreath of my very own right in our house, heck, smack dab in the middle of our kitchen table, if I wanted.  Which I did.

Our children evidently wanted to give you a good idea of how things normally look around these parts.  But also note the advent wreath!

I found the box of advent candles at a garage sale a few years ago, which is the moment that made me pause and say to myself, "I'm pretty sure the Lutheran police aren't going to come to our house and smite me if I use these outside of a church," and fifty cents later they were all mine.  There's no doubt they languished in that box for years before I adopted them; the pink candle is maybe 1% pink now and 99% white.  The wreath is one that I found at Goodwill years ago for $1 and then stashed in a cabinet, sure that I'd use it someday.  Its day finally arrived, after I'd made it a little more naked, of course, as is befitting an advent wreath.  Or something.

The carnage

• The mother of one of Caedmon's preschool classmates spent some time talking to the class about their family's celebration of Hanukkah, which made a big impression on our son.  We hadn't yet reached home afterward when he began brandishing a small object at me, informing me that "This is a Hanukker!" to which my response was, "Do you mean 'dreidel'?"  He acknowledged that yes, it was a dreidel, then asked why we didn't celebrate Hanukkah.  A series of questions and answers followed, ending in Caedmon gasping and saying, "Does that mean Max is one of God's chosen people?!"  I confirmed that he was, and our Cade was in awe.  Easily one of the best parts of my week.

• Those caramelized stars from the previous post are made by pouring the molten sugar into metal cookie cutters placed on a cookie sheet covered in aluminum foil.  I greased both the foil and the inside of the cookie cutters with cooking spray.  You let the sugar cool and harden for a couple hours on the sheet, then gently tap the shapes out of the cookie cutters.  

Lists, Glorious Lists

• Atticus and I were baking together recently (boy loves to bake and cook and do anything remotely related to food prep, so I've been putting him to work and calling it education), and we were examining one of the measuring spoons.  I explained that "1 tsp" means "1 teaspoon," but he also wanted to know what all the other words on the spoon said.  "Well, 'Tailormade' must be the name of the company that makes this spoon, and 'China' is the country where it's made," I said.  He mulled that over for a few seconds, then rather firmly told me, "China is in hell."  I did my best to explain basic world geography and where China exists on the globe in relation to us, but I'm not sure he believed me.  Maybe because I was laughing the entire time.  

• I'm thinking of converting our laundry room into a laundry/operating room- you know, with scalpels and super bright lights and flattering face masks?  This isn't just a random whim on my part (this time); Adelaide has gotten... I don't know, six?  Seven?  Call it seven splinters over the past several months, and I don't mean tiny little slivers of wood in her fingers, I mean small twigs that the school nurse has to call and tell me about because she tried to extricate it at school but was afraid to do too much, especially given the fact that that one was in her belly (I know, okay?  I don't know what that child is doing at school), where the skin is pretty sensitive.  I spent twenty minutes digging one out of her heel Saturday evening that was around a quarter inch long and way thicker than the needle I was having to use to peel all the skin away just to get to it.  After sterilizing a needle and tweezers and rigging a Black and Decker heavy duty flashlight to shine just right and laying her down rather awkwardly on a bench so I could get at her foot, I decided I just need an OR right on site.  Because Adelaide didn't find the whole thing traumatic enough.  (But I got that sucker out!)

• I'm going to a cookie exchange in a few weeks.  I've used my two favorite cookie recipes at the last couple exchanges and am hunting for a new one to take- right now I have it narrowed down to Kitchen Sink Cookies (which I've made for a couple different crowds, all with excellent reviews) or Brown Butter Salted Caramel Snickerdoodles (which I've never made but sound divine).  Or should I do something completely different?  Do any of you have a cookie recipe that's the bomb diggity?  Care to share?

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.

Cast Iron

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.