A River Of Vomit

The hubs and I have never had a Thanksgiving dinner in our own home.  Having family around for the holidays is both a blessing and a curse.  I can't imagine not being with my loved ones for Thanksgiving, but going somewhere else for the feast means never having turkey and trimmings leftovers.

So every stinking year we have to cook our own Thanksgiving turkey, dressing, yams, etc, the day after Thanksgiving so that we can have a turkey sandwich and the very best of all - turkey soup.  The whole thing is a bit of a pain, and not much fun after the real deal has been done, but it's worth it.  

You may not know it, but there are many phases of leftover turkey.  Allow me to expound.

Phase 1 - Roasted turkey, of course. (As in, the whole bird taken in it's virgin form from the oven.)

Phase 2 - Plain old leftover turkey.

Phase 3 - Fried turkey.  Oh, yum.

Phase 4 - Mashed potatoes with turkey gravy.  Just like they used to make in the school cafeteria, minus stray hairs. 

Phase 5 - Turkey sandwiches.  (And for lunch for the next two days as well.)

Phase 6 - Turkey soup.

Phase 7 - Turkey soup with a block of cream cheese melted into it.  It's the culmunation of all things beautiful about Thanksgiving turkey.

So this year we cooked our turkey on the Saturday after Thanksgiving and then skipped phases three through six and went straight for the joyous and fattening cream cheese turkey soup.

Cameron is a huge fan of Phase 7 Turkey.  He drooled all afternoon while smelling the soup simmering on the stove.  And when dinner hit the table he attacked the soup with a vigor usually reserved for delicacies like baskets full of fresh summer strawberries and banana splits (hold the banana).

Not long after dinner Cameron complained of a stomach ache.  I told him he'd probably eaten too much too fast and to just take it easy until he felt better.  About an hour after that I heard him call me from the bathroom.  I was in the middle of a very important task and couldn't personally attend to him.  I figured he needed a toilet paper refill or something.  So I sent Ethan to find out what he wanted.  

The next thing I hear is Ethan screaming, "MOM!!!!" and retreating back down the hallway.

Jumping from my computer chair, I bolted to the hallway and found a river of turkey soup vomit flowing out from under the bathroom door and oozing slowly toward me.  I straddled the river and flung open the bathroom door.  There stood Cameron looking somewhat relieved, but mostly afraid.  As well he should have.

Who stands in a bathroom and pukes on the door instead of in the toilet?  My kid, apparently.

There was so much vomit I honestly couldn't believe Cameron's stomach had held that much liquid.  There were unchewed baby carrots floating on the bathroom floor, and some of the bow-tie noodles I had put in the soup had miraculously gotten underneath the bathroom door and were drifting down the hall - also unchewed.  Good hell, that kid must have really wolfed that soup down.

Andrew and I stood there and tried to figure out how to clean up a mess that size.  We considered the shop vac, but opted for bath towels that we could just toss into the trash afterward.  Two bath towels, six rags, half a roll of paper towels, and one bottle of Lysol later, the bathroom still smelled like Lake Vomit.  

I tried sprinkling baking soda on the floor and all down the hallway to get rid of the smell, but that didn't work either.  The problem is, we have a tile floor in our bathroom, and the bozo who laid it didn't bother to seal the grout, so the vomit just kinda soaked in and set up camp.  

I finally had to call my mom for suggestions, and she said I should try vinegar.  I basically just dumped an entire bottle of the stuff on the floor, and that worked in the end.

I am happy to say that the experience did not kill my love for Cream Cheese Turkey Soup.  I had some for lunch the next day, and it tasted just as divine as it did before I associated it with barf.

Halloween Candy Preference

 My custom fit Halloween mask made by my father using liquid latex, paint, T.P., and paper towels.  Circa 1990.

One year for Halloween my uncle bought really small sized treat bags, blew air into them, tied them with a twistie and passed them out to kids for Halloween.  It was really sad because the bags looked like they were full of candy and the kids thought they'd hit the jackpot.

I love my uncle.

When I was a kid, my parents would take my siblings and me to the ultra-rich neighborhood in Lake Oswego, Oregon to do our trick or treating.  One house used to had out cans of soda, and another had the full size candy-bars.  And those people had no yards to speak of, so the houses were really close together and we could tackle a hundred houses in about an hour.  Suh-weet.

The day after Halloween my sisters and I always used to bring TV trays into our bedroom and each of us would display our spoils like individual sweet shops.  Sometimes we had to double-deck the trays because we'd gotten so much loot the night before.  Once our candy was all displayed, we would take a few of our goods around to each other's stores and barter.  "I'll give you a Blo-Pop for that 3 Musketeers," and so forth.  I suspect our littlest sister got a raw deal being so young and gullible.  More often than not, we tricked her into trading us her Milky Way for three Smarties.  We just had to tell her that three was more than one, and she was getting a bargain.

Sometimes Dad got in on the trading.  None of us liked Mounds or Almond Joy, so if we had any of those we could take them to Dad in exchange for a Reses Peanut Butter Cup.  

This Halloween when deciding what kind of candy to hand out, I opted for things that I like rather than going for what's popular with the kids or what was cheapest.  Because we don't get many trick-or-treaters, and I'm going to have leftovers.  I want them to be good.  

(In case you were wondering, good = Baby Ruth, Butterfinger, and Wonka Fun Dip.  Yes, Fun Dip.  And those are all hidden at the bottom of the candy bowl to be used only if everything else is used up first.)

What goods are you passing out this year?

Mourning My Good Metabolism

Let's talk about food, shall we? I love to eat. The best time of day for eating is about 5 seconds after all the kids are in bed. It's the first moment of the day when I can completely relax, and relaxing sometimes equals food.

When I was a child, my parents would send my sisters and I to bed and then waste no time in plugging in the hot air popcorn popper and pulling out a bag of MnM's.  They always poured the candy into a GLASS bowl so that we could hear them chink-chink-chinking into the dish, and our mouths would water as soon as we could smell the butter melting in the microwave.  Sisters and I would lay there in bed, sure that Mom and Dad did this just to show us how much they despised us.  It was pure mean. We whispered to each other that if they couldn't indulge while we were there to share the feast with them, then kinder parents would have at least waited until we were asleep and oblivious to the prepping of goodies.

Now that I'm the parent, I have to admit that there are foods I won't share with my kids, either. It is a sad day around our house when Drew has committed another atrocity and there is no candy or chocolate to provide comfort after cleaning up whatever disaster has occurred. Chocolate is therapeutic, but I must admit that anything conceived of Mr. Wonka is also uplifting. I never grew out of my appreciation for Nerds, or the giant, soft SweetTarts that come in a four pack, (and, unfortunately, two of the flavors have to be lemon and green. That's right, Green. I'm not actually sure what fruit flavor it is supposed to be, so it is referred to as Green).

While we're on the subject, why do food manufacturers insist on putting undesired flavors in the packages with the good flavors? For example, does anyone ever go for a Lime Popsicle when there are still Banana and Root Beer to be had? Not in our house. We push and shove and knock each other down to get the Root Beer, and then we let the kids choose from whatever is left. 

My mother is a fantastic cook. In my youth she treated me to many fabulous dishes, all of which I loved.  Except for the grilled cheese, which she will burn even if she stands right in front of the stove, spatula in hand, staring, waiting for the perfect moment to flip. It's an unfair curse, really. 

Worse than the grilled cheese though, was the meat loaf. 

I can't tell you how much we dreaded meat loaf when we were kids. The meat loaf itself, was always fine, no complaints. But meat loaf always meant lima beans. Mom put the meat loaf, potato wedges, and lima beans all in an electric frying pan together, and fried it until the meat loaf was done. That meant the potatoes were crisp on the outside and perfectly soft on the inside, but the lima beans were usually blackened. And not in a spicy, Cajun way. They were just black and hard and covered in grease from the meat loaf. We ate them because we were afraid not to, but we hated it. And yes, I can speak for myself and every one of my siblings on that one. Years later, I realized that fried to death and covered in grease is actually the best way to eat a lima bean.

I grew up never having to worry about how much I ate and where on my body it might land. I was blessed with a metabolism that loved to work over-time. 

In high school I weighed around 120 pounds. Then came my early twenties and giving birth to two children. About 2 months after Ethan was born, I settled in at an acceptable 135 pounds. Then came Drew, and exactly 10 months after he was born, I finally got back to that blessed 135, and I got there without exercise or dieting. Patience and time is all it took. (Go ahead and hate me now if you want to, but rest assured, my comeuppance is hurtling towards me with frightening speed.) Exactly one week after I returned to that 135 pound pre-baby weight, I found out I was pregnant with a very unexpected fourth baby. (Curse my body for spontaneously deciding to ovulate again without the aid of medication, and curse myself for being so stupid as to think anovulation is acceptable birth control. Not that we don't love Trent to death.)

So here we are, another ten months after child birth, and I cannot get below 142 pounds. Fine. I can live with 142. What I cannot live with is where those 7 extra pounds decided to set up camp. - Right behind my belly button. Standing naked in front of the mirror is now comically sad. I look like a character from a Dr. Seuss book - dangly arms with a narrow chest which slopes down into a round, protuberant belly, then back into skinny legs. I take comfort that at least I am not as hairy as a Seuss creation.

So if the trend continues; 120's in my teen years, 130's in my twenties and 140's as I creep up on my thirties, then I will weigh 180 pounds by the time I am seventy - but it will all be in my mid-section so that my stomach will enter a room before I do, and may in fact be able to flip light switches up or down of it's own accord if I should happen to turn around too hastily.

And that, Dear Readers, is the plight of me with my super powered metabolism that died off on me after I've lived 29 years.  Twenty-nine years of bad habits that I will now have to break if I ever want to fit back into my jeans.

I am going to have to start exercising. I am going to have to stop eating every time I walk through or past the kitchen. I am going to have to change everything I have taught myself about self control, which so far has only been something that other people have to worry about.

Crap.

*Update:  Since this was written one year ago, I am still at 140 and I have back fat.  Age is the Achilles Heel of a good metabolism.*

Crazy Diet

My poor husband has those crappy genetics that mandate he battle his weight his entire life.

Don't get me wrong - there's some good genetic code in there, too.  I won't go into that though.

It's just sad that he has to go to the gym or hit the pavement every night to keep his waistline below a size forty, and I get to sit on the couch eating a giant bowl of Reese's Puffs cereal while watching Master Chef, and not gain a pound.  (Almost.)

Just watching Master Chef has the potential to make Andrew gain weight.  

Several months back, Andrew decided he needed to be at a respectable weight before we go on our annual salmon pilgrimage to the Pacific NW.  He started out by watching what he ate and working out six nights a week.  

I helped out by baking peanut butter chocolate chip cookies to tempt him with.

After a few weeks, he decided that his plan wasn't drastic enough, so he started to eat rice.  And nothing else.

He ate rice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for two solid weeks before I finally convinced him to eat a banana for breakfast, or an occasional packet of oatmeal.  I honestly thought he was going to get scurvy or something.

And he wasn't even eating brown rice!  He says he doesn't like it.  So white rice, (empty carbs), only.  And it really did work.  He was burning every one of those empty calories, and then some.  He dropped about twenty-five pounds in three weeks.

Finally, I got sick of cooking the rice, (broke my rice cooker lid quite a while ago, so I was doing all of this on the stove top, poor me). I did a little poking around online and found a super easy recipe for refried beans that aren't fried.  Slow cooker all the way.  They are delicious, have almost no fat, and they are actually pretty full of nutrients.  Everything from fiber to protein to magnesium.  

And believe it or not, I convinced Andrew to switch from rice to beans, and now I'm only cooking for him once a week.

I made a fresh batch of beans tonight, and I added in some cheese.  Don't tell Andrew, or he won't eat them.

Snack-ticipation

I grocery shop once every two weeks. I get two weeks worth of meals and snacks, and then I only have to go back when we run out of milk, bread, or fresh fruit. It works pretty well in the sense that it cuts down on food costs when you always know what your options for dinner are; no last minute trips to Dominos for us. Usually. Plus, anytime I step foot into a store, I can't help but buy at least one more thing that what was on my list, so the less often I go, the better.

There is one thing that this system doesn't work so well for. Snacking.

I find that snacking is truly a mood-based activity, and I can't plan ahead for what I'm going to want to eat while I watch Burn Notice with Andrew, or force myself to fold laundry. (Don't you eat snacks and watch movies while you fold laundry?)

This last Friday, while grocery shopping, I tried to anticipate my munching needs a little bit better so that I wouldn't find myself lacking the perfect treat, whatever it was.

I bought a gallon of ice cream, a pound of beef jerky, three large bags of MnM's, two boxes of Cheese Nips, one box of animal crackers, a bag of black licorice, Jolly Ranchers, Tootsie Rolls, cinnamon bears, microwave popcorn, Doritos, two enormous boxes of Poptarts, and a couple bags of baby carrots so I wouldn't look like a jack-ass in the check-out line.

Wouldn't ya know? All I want right now are some Jalepeno Poppers.

The Joys Of Processed Food

Now that I've gotten that weight off my chest, (and thank you, everyone, for your comments), lets get back to the good ol' Organic Enchilada norm. The heavy, life altering, important stuff.

Like Chef Boyardee.

Because everyone was getting sick of PB&J, I opened a can of Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli the other day for my kids to eat for lunch, and eekgads, the smell! I am pretty sure I opened a can of dog food.

Seriously, I wondered if Pedigree and the Chef share the same manufacturing plant and they just switch the labels every other day.

No one ate the ravioli that day, but several chunks of it were flung against the wall in protest.

It got me to thinking about the food we all feed our kids and how we all take such different approaches to it.

I am not a very green person. I turn the water off while I brush my teeth, but I refuse to leave a toilet full of urine waiting for someone to come along with a deuce to make it worth flushing. We flush after every use, thankyouverymuch.

I don't buy organic things, (ironic blog name, huh?), because frankly, I don't give a damn. It's more expensive and I've had doctors tell me that buying organic will extend your life by about two weeks. I'm sure there are doctors out there who would tell me otherwise, but I choose to believe the one who tells me what I want to hear. Don't we all?

Anyway, I've gotten off track.

But before we get back on track, I would like to take a moment to once again state that hormone ridden beef will save your daughters the expense and pain of breast augmentation in later life, and also that it's possible that all the preservatives in our food are the real reason we're all living so much longer than our ancestors. Think about it.

Back to business - I think that a lot of processed food is disgusting from it's fake cheese to it's questionable meat products. But there are a few which I love with every taste bud I've got. Most especially Totino's Pizza Rolls.

They are some kind of delicious; I can eat about twenty of them without thinking a thing of it. That's why my butt jiggles when I walk. Well, I guess it's that plus copious amounts of Dr. Pepper.

There is a veritable plethora of processed food options out there for all of us to indulge in or adamantly abstain from. Please tell me some that you will love forever and those which you will never partake of for fear of adverse reactions.

Please? (Cause I want to know which ones I'm missing and which ones I am correctly avoiding.)

Smells Like Old

Andrew's birthday was yesterday, (today is Kellie's and I'm behind, so there has been no birthday tribute for her. I'll get to it...), anywho... Andrew wanted nothing more than to go to Market Street Grill for his birthday, so we went. It's a good thing that's all he wanted, and it's also good that we have three paychecks in July, cause holy crap.

We had a great time, just the two of us. Thanks to Joel for the babysitting - you da man.

I have honestly never had better clam chowder in my life. The key to good clam chowder is to make it so you can't tell there are clams in it. Yum.

I had a lot of deep-fried things because I hear that's fat free. I have had calamari before, but it always takes a little pep talk to get me to stick tentacles in my mouth. The shrimp was my fave. Well, after the clam chowder. And the spinach artichoke crab dip.

Over eating gives me some serious gastro-intestinal problems. We had to make three pit-stops on the way home. That's how good it was.

Lessons At The Berry Farm

I have fond memories of berry picking with my mom and siblings every summer. We went to blueberry farms and plucked dozens of pounds of fruit from the heavy branches. Those outings were always one of my favorite parts of summer; I felt peaceful and happy.

Yesterday I took my boys plus Bryan to a local farm to pick strawberries in hopes that they would find the same simple joy in filling buckets that I had found in the task when I was young.

It almost went well.



I hadn't really taken into account that I was making this journey on my own with two one-year-olds, one three-year-old, and two school-age kids who were so anxious to fill their containers that they didn't bother to check that the berries were ripe before they plucked them from the vine. Grrr...



Add to that the babies who were stepping on the plants, taking bites out of green strawberries and then throwing them, and Drew who ... well, he pretty much did the same thing as the babes. There wasn't enough of me to keep up with them.



Then the wind kicked in and began to blow dirt into all of our eyes. My contacts were screaming in rebellion, while tears streamed down my cheeks.



I completely lost my cool and was chewing kids out for wandering off, picking unripe berries, and everything in between. I felt really bad for turning our outing into an unpleasant experience, but I decided to just fill the stinking boxes as fast as I could and get everyone back in the car before my eyes turned all that dirt to mud.



The day was not a total loss. I learned to never take toddlers to a u-pick berry farm without reinforcements, stay home if it's windy, and that no amount of squashed fruit or sticky hands is worth me becoming the uptight mom who rains on the parade. The kids still had fun, and we used those berries to make some killer smoothies.

Raisins

You know what's wrong with the world? I mean besides oil spills and health care arguments and nuclear warhead stockpiles?

Trail mix.

You can't get trail mix without raisins. And who decided that raisins were a good thing to put in trail mix anyway? There are a lot of people who don't like them.

This morning I stood in my kitchen picking raisins out of an otherwise delightful mix of chocolate chips, sunflower seeds, cashews, and peanuts. It was tedious. Once I had the nasty raisins out, the mix was truly satisfying and delicious.

So I'm left with no choice but to buy the ingredients for my own tail mix. Separately. What a pain.

But when I'm done - oh, the triumph!

My perfect mix would include chocolate in either the chip form or the MnM form, cashews, a few peanuts, sunflower seeds, (all nuts and seeds salted, of course), maybe a few mini marshmallows - just for fun, and dried cranberries, which are completely different from raisins.

But seeing as gathering all those supplies individually and then mixing them seems like such a bother, I will continue to pick out the raisins from the pre-mixed stuff for now. Lazy wins again.

But the problem of what to do with the raisins remains. It feels wrong to throw them away, but if I pick them out and toss them back in the trail mix then I just have to pick them out again the next time. And as time goes on, the ratio of raisin to good stuff would be heavily tipped.

In a stroke of genius, I found a way to put them to use.



Toss them in the waffles along with a little cinnamon and feed it to Trent, who doesn't know that raisins are the devil's food.

Schools Have It Right - Store Bought Goods Only

A couple of weeks ago I took dinner to a woman at church who had just had a baby. I dropped off the meal, pretended to oogle over the baby for a minute, (because really, when you've seen one week-old baby, you've seen them all), and left.

The other day, this woman brought my dishes back to me along with a heap of cupcakes. Why? It's that cursed unspoken Mormon rule that you cannot return empty dishes. See - I'm not the only one.

So I thanked her for the cupcakes and took them into the kitchen. And then I was presented with a dilemma of incomprehensible paranoia.

What should I do with the cupcakes?

I know that some of you are completely confused right now, so let me explain.

In most circumstances, I can't bring myself to eat food that comes from a kitchen that I don't trust.

Think of the kitchen and chef from which those cupcakes came. How do I know that there were no fingers licked during the frosting process? How do I know that this woman's cat is not allowed on the counters?

I don't. So I can't eat them.

I really, really wanted to because they smelled so good, and this woman is so sweet and kind. But she is an animal lover and I can't talk myself into believing that she washed her hands before she started baking and did not pet any of her feline friends while she worked.

I've been in her house and it seems clean enough, but I've never seen her kitchen. And without a guarantee that the sink was not full of dirty dishes coated in a slimy film of mold, I have to pass on the goodies. And oh, my, gosh - what if she bathes her pets in the kitchen sink? I don't care how much you bleach it afterward, that is just wrong.

If this makes you think that my house is always in a state of pristine cleanliness, you're wrong. In fact, it's not even usually spotless. Most days I would label my kitchen only passably sanitary with the impending threat of surprise inspection from the health department. I usually don't get to the dinner dishes until after breakfast the next day. Shameful, I know.

But you can bet your ass I never bake goodies for neighbor's consumption unless I have just scrubbed all the surfaces with disinfectant and a blow-torch. And you can rest assured that once I begin the cooking process I keep my fingers and my tongue separated, and I will never, ever take a taste of what I'm making off of a spoon and then use that same spoon to continue mixing.

I might furiously scratch the inside of my nose with my index finger and then move along to the next step of the recipe, but come on - sometimes it just itches.

So what to do with those cupcakes?

I decided they would make a lovely temporary decoration. They went on that glass do-hicky that I got from my grandmother.

And I let the kids eat some, because what do they care if the cake is laced with a stray cat hair or two?

An Almost Victory Followed By Embarrassed Shame

Last night we had grilled ham and cheese with tomato and sauteed onion for dinner. Yum, right?

Andrew came home from work and asked me if I wanted his help making dinner, and I replied that yes, I would, but I would do the cooking because his grilled cheese is always soggy.

I have a trophy on my mantle for being the most compassionate wife ever.

Andrew asked me if I was kidding - "There is no way you're better at grilled cheese than me," he said.

Even Ethan chimed in and said, "Dad's are better." He's such a traitor.

"Dad's sandwiches are always soggy and barely toasted!" I had to stand up for myself, because no one else would. "Mine are tons better!"

Andrew told me to have fun burning the sandwiches, he'd be outside playing soccer with Ethan, who giggled as he followed his dad outside.

Well, fine. Game on! I buttered the bread, sauteed those onions until they were perfectly caramelized, sliced the tomato and ham and slapped the bread in a hot pan. Butter was sizzling and I was a watchful chef, being oh-so-careful to grill with perfection so that I could show Andrew that I did not inherit my mother's "burn the grilled cheese every time" gene. When I had a couple of sandwiches just about done, I called everyone in from outside and wasted no time in showing off my superior grilled cheese.


Is it just me, or is that crisp, golden perfection?

I stuck my frying pan right under Andrew's nose and said, "There! See! I am soooooo much better at this than you!" And then I turned out six more perfectly toasted works of art and sat down with everyone else to eat my delicious dinner.

And realized I had forgotten to put the ham on them.

There went my win. Gone.



*Speaking of win - don't forget to enter to win the $40 gift certificate from CSN Stores! Winner will be announced tomorrow!

Top Ten - Good Eats

Have you ever sat on your great-uncle Milford's plastic covered couch and wished for some sort of natural disaster, or death, or anything at all that would get you out of watching reel after reel of slides from his last vacation where half the pictures are of squirrels or brown socks on pasty legs and the other half are blurry images of places you've never been and don't really care about?

I have, except his name wasn't Milford and he wasn't my uncle. Don't worry, I won't do that to you.

Unless you really wanted to see some squirrels.

Like this one, from the White House lawn:


Or this one - he's a Central Park squirrel:


No? You don't care for blurry squirrels? Alright then, we'll move on.

I figured that to make this as painless as possible for you, I'll cover my top ten DC/NY moments, and probably not all at once. Now this list will not include seeing family and not having to change diapers for five and a half days, because I figure we all know that those are very obvious highlights. We'll stick to the events.

So without further ado, I present to you...(in completely random order)...

D.C. / New York Top Ten Moments!

(Today's item is brought to you by the letter C. C is for Calories and Cholesterol.)

Food!

We ate well, and that about covers it. My aunt Heidi's husband, Tim, is a fabulous cook who treated us to dishes that he insisted were easy, but it wasn't like boiling noodles, sticking some milk, butter and cheese powder in it and calling it dinner, so I wasn't buying. I wish I'd thought to take a picture of the food he made. Alas, I did not.

But I did take pictures of food in New York.

I can't decide what restaurant was my favorite because at Bubba Gump's Shrimp Co. I had the best salad in the universe, (and that's no lie), at Lombardi's we ate pizza that will ruin all other pizza for the rest of our lives, (it's a shame, really, but a happy one), and at Carnegie Deli Andrew and I shared a piece of cherry cheesecake that partially blocked one of my arteries in three quick bites. In a good way, of course.



You know, the sandwiches at the Deli aren't too bad, either. If you don't mind eating something bigger than your head.





You see that look on Kate's face? I think that's called love.





I don't eat shrimp. As Heidi put it, they are too anatomical for my liking. But this salad made me a believer!



And receiving honorable mention, we have the hot dog. Best eaten on the steps of The Met. Always wanted to do that. (Check!)


Tomorrow we'll have highlights of The Three Shockers, as I have decided to call them.

And now, I'm going to bed.

Before ten.

I'm so excited about it, I might not be able to sleep!

Gettin' Comfy

I have a sis in law who loves Applebee's. It seems that she and her husband go to that restaurant whenever they go out, (I'm sure they really don't), and over the years I have spent a collective hour of my life telling my husband how boring and unadventurous that is! Why do I care, right? I don't really. But I don't like Applebee's, so maybe I just don't understand.

Every time I try a new restaurant I think of this particular sis in law and wonder if she's still eating good in the neighborhood or if she's found a new favorite. I know - I'm so much cooler than her. (That was sarcasm, and I'm getting to my point.)

So this last Saturday was date night and Andrew and I had planned on a bike ride along a trail we've never ridden before and a picnic somewhere along the way. I was looking forward to it and even hit a couple of bike shops looking for a cute basket to carry our dinner in.

As the day wore on I became more and more exhausted and irritable, just because the week was winding down and I had had my fill of just about everything. When Andrew got home from work I had to admit that the last thing I wanted to do was go on a bike ride, get sweaty, and eat a cold dinner in a mosquito infested prairie. And I was grumpy about it. I seriously needed some down time to just relax.

So where did we end up? At the only place that I felt like going to. The restaurant that is my favorite when I'm craving a casual atmosphere and unpretentious food. My fallback. We went to Wingers. And it was good.

While I was sitting there in the booth, sipping my chocolate Coke, (not gross, by the way - I know you just made a face), I was thinking of my sis in law and her Applebee's habit, and then I understood it. Sometimes you just need to go where you want to go because you're comfortable there and it makes you happy.

We can be creative on our next date.

What are some of your favorite things to do for date night?

Andrew is always unimpressed when I take pictures of him eating.

Adventures In Weight Loss

You know what happens when you starve your body of the caffeine that it has become accustomed to? You get headaches. The kind that make you crave a dark room void of sound. Since I made the decision to knock a few pounds off my weight, I have consumed only one and a half cans of soda. That's it. And my head is not a fan of the new regime.

But, Andrew and I are really working together well on this goal, so the soda deprivation isn't going to get me. Here are some tricks that we are finding come in very handy:

1. Chew A LOT. Chew, chew, chew, chew, chew until you are only half done with your Subway sandwich and you've taken so much time just chewing that the meat has begun to turn green, and then you won't want to finish it. That and your jaw will get really tired and you won't be able to chew anymore, so no more food.

2. Eating spicy food makes your mouth burn so badly that you won't be able to tell that that diet soda tastes like garbage juice.

3. Keep lots of fresh veggies in the fridge, and buy the expensive organic kind so that you won't let them go to waste. Eat them instead of the Orange Dreamsicles that you bought for the kids.

4. This is a good one if you have kids. Clean out your car. All the petrified chicken nuggets and stale french fries you find under the seats will turn you off to food for a good hour or two.

5. Find someone who will nag and guilt you relentlessly. You reach for the bag of MnM's and someone behind you makes a Moo-ing sound - you're not going to eat that chocolate. Do the same for them in return. I tell Andrew exactly how much food he can put on his plate and I ignore him when he mutters, "Don't tell me my business, Devil Woman." Teamwork is great!

Why bother with exercise? Just use common sense!

Does Flexing My Bum While I Type Count As Exercise?

There are only seventeen days until I leave for my anniversary trip back east, and because I have a limited wardrobe to take with me, I have to go on a little crash diet.  Right at this moment, I would have to grease my butt and thighs to get into my one truly fabulous pair of pants. 

I have never dieted before, IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, but I figure that after three decades (almost) and four babies, I shouldn't feel bad about having to start now.  Some of you might be thinking that I don't need to lose any weight, and I have to tell you that while I might not weigh much, every ounce of me is flubber.  So unless you've seen me naked, you don't get to tell me I'm thin enough.  And believe me, if my pants were more forgiving, I wouldn't even bother.

This morning I plopped on the bed and looked at Andrew as he zipped up his pants, (only slightly sucking in), and said, "We are leaving in just a little over two weeks.  Want to starve with me between now and then?"  

"Sure," he said.  And then he informed me that he planned to lose five pounds by Monday.

"That's only two days!" I said.  

"It's just water weight," he scoffed.  

Men have all the luck.  Not only will he hardly have to work to drop those five pounds, but he won't have to bleed from any orifices while he does it.  I, on the other hand, will have to skip that therapeutic milkshake, not even look at the leftover Easter candy in the cupboard, exercise, (gasp!), and suffer the pains and fatigues of Aunt Flo's visit at the same time.  And in two days, while Andrew is standing on the scale, gloating over his loss of five pounds, I will be exactly eight ounces lighter than I am today, and if I'm lucky none of that will have come from what's left of my boobs.  

In attempt to start off well, today I drank four glasses of water, (Hello, did you fully appreciate that statement?), only drank one can of soda, and stopped short of eating that second burrito at lunch.  They were small burritos, and these are all big steps for me.

I would love to be at my pre-Drew weight before we leave, so I'm going to tell you exactly what that is and that way feel accountable and maybe actually see it happen.  I want to be at 135 pounds, and in spite of my best efforts, I seem to have gained two pounds today, so I need to shed seven pounds by my birthday.  Then I won't have to put a can of Crisco in my suitcase.  That's possible, right?

Yeah, We're Foodies.

I have long felt that there is no better pairing than brownies with cherry pie filling.  I once met someone who baked the pie filling right into the brownies, and that was some gourmet stuff right there, but I don't know the specifics of how to do that, so I just dump the cherries on top, viola!  

So the other day I baked gummy bears into some brownies because I heard about doing that somewhere, and boy was it weird.  Sucked the chocolate flavor right out and replaced it with fruity, chewy...  It was really just not that great.  

But that concoction prompted Cameron to pester me for days about trying brownies with MnM's in them.  Much better idea.  So yesterday we took a trip to 7-11 and I let Cameron and Ethan each pick a candy to put in the brownies we were planning to make in the afternoon.  Cameron got the MnM's that he had been dying to try in the mix and Ethan, unfortunately, picked Nerds.  I desperately wanted to influence him to make another choice, but where's the fun in that?  

I'll tell you this; the MnM's weren't to die for, but the Nerds were disgusting.  Ethan said he thought they were both good.  I could tell he was lying.

The homemade ice cream sandwiches I made for Easter were quite delish, though.  And what I learned through all of this is that I really need a better camera.

A SUCKER FOR "THE BEST HALIBUT IN THE UNIVERSE!"

Andrew and I like to shake things up sometimes and try new restaurants when we do get the chance to eat out.  Often we have bad experiences with this, but the times when we discover a gem make it all worth it.  Last night was not one of those times.

I was having a self-pity day as I had been cooped up in the house for too long and was jealous of Andrew's multiple outings during his day off.  Granted, some of them were just piddly little errands, but at least he was more than a mile from home.  So I sulked and moped until he had had enough and told me to get the kids ready and we'd go get something for dinner.  We all had different places in mind, so the four of us who could write put our dining picks on slips of paper and we let Drew pick one of them out of a bowl.  Andrew's choice won.  Ethan pouted.  I rushed to put on make-up and forgot to blend my eyeshadow which resulted in many odd looks and one inquiry as to whether I had a black eye.  

Andrew's pick was a local drive-in type establishment that we had never visited before.  Andrew had been wanting to try it because a week ago they advertised on their sign that they had "THE BEST HALIBUT IN THE UNIVERSE!"  He is so gullible.  We live nine hundred and fifty miles from an ocean and he actually has hope that this diner might be the fix he's been looking for since we last ate at Mo's in Cannon Beach, Oregon six months ago.  (See below for sample of the real deal.)  This place specializes in ice cream treats, so I had doubts about it's real, non-lickable food potential.

Best ever halibut - find it at Mo's.  Not Pace's.

I reminded Andrew in the car on the way there that if he chewed his food really well and ate slowly, he at least might feel full after his meal of "fish" and "chips", if not nessesarily satisfied.  That halibut was destined to be tiny little morsels of something only masquerading as halibut.  Unfortunately I was right.  His three little fish nuggets arrived in their cardboard tray and he looked at them so sadly and said, "I don't think this is going to be the best halibut in the universe."  Poor Andrew with his naive optimism.  

We won't go there again because none of our food was better than staying home and eating a PB&J.  Maybe if we had just stuck to Sundaes we wouldn't have been disappointed.  And to think - we could have gone to Wingers if Drew had picked my paper slip.  

Today I found Urbanspoon, a great site for dining reviews.  Just choose your city and type your restaurant in the search bar.  You can vote your opinion of the restaurant and read reviews.  It's the best site I've seen yet for critiquing food!

Customizing Our Own Life

I grew up eating Popeye Eggs. Andrew had the same fare as a kid, but called it Badged Eggs. Either way, it's a fried egg in the center of a buttered piece of bread. So when we make them here at our house with our own family, I never know what to call them. Today, while standing at the frying pan in deep contemplation over the issue, I told Cameron that we needed to give them a new name. One that comes from our family. I asked him what he thought.

Cameron considered for a moment and said, "How about Breggers?"

It was early, so I was confused. "I like it! How did you come up with that?"

"Because it's part bread and part egg," he put very simply.

Breggers it is!

Incidentally, Andrew caught me taking this picture and I felt a little embarrassed. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?", I asked.

"Oh, you're absolutely out of your mind. That's what I love most about you," was his reply.

We are perfect for each other, I tell you.

SHOULD'VE INCLUDED A TWINKIE FOR BARTERING PURPOSES

I make my husband's lunch every day, and every day he comes home from work and tells me that my sandwiches are awesome.  I know better than to take that statement at face value because he's a really smart guy.  He knows that if he compliments me there is a higher chance that I will continue to make those sandwiches for him so that he doesn't have to dig into the mayo himself.

I usually throw in some fresh fruit, (meticulously sliced and sectioned grapefruit on the days when I am particularly pleased with him), some trail mix type stuff which mostly consists of dried fruit, and, of course, two cans of Diet Mt. Dew.  Well yesterday I looked at all that junk and worried that there was too much fruit.  Not that there is really such a thing, but an entire sack full of the same kind of flavors could get boring.  So I looked through the cupboards for something for his salty palate.  Eyes landing on the giant tub of multi-colored Goldfish Crackers, I tossed a handful of them in with his dried fruit.

When Andrew got home from work last night he grabbed me in a bear hug and laughed as he told me that if I ever put Goldfish in his lunch again he would kill me, and that he's not a three-year-old, you know.  Awww...poor baby must have gotten teased by the other boys at work who's wives don't care enough about them to make them anything at all and just stick them with a pot pie from the frozen food section.  Andrew didn't realize that they were just jealous.

So today I packed his usual things, asked him if he wanted wraps instead of sandwiches, (he did not), asked him if he wanted his sandwiches cut on the diagonal because it's more fun that way, (he did - like a three-year-old, I might add), and then I tossed in a baggie full of goldfish, cinnamon graham crackers and gummy worms.

I know that, deep down, he'll really appreciate it!

MAKING MYSELF HUNGRY

When I was a kid, one of my favorite meals was fried chicken. I don't remember what went with it, but our dinners had standard side dishes that never changed.

With ham fried rice we ate fruit.

With meat loaf we had fried lima beans and potatoes.

With stroganoff casserole we had canned pickled beets and bread and butter.

And so on.

I'm sure that my amnesia as to what went with the fried chicken is due to the fact that I was so fixated on the chicken that nothing else mattered. All of my fried chicken experiences came before my mother converted to the dark side by eliminating extra fat from our diets. About the time I turned thirteen Mom began to remove the skin from the chicken before she cooked it, she rinsed the ground beef before she mixed it with anything, she sneaked in ground turkey where she could, and by the time I had gotten married, she had eliminated red meat almost entirely. (There was a time when nature made her anemic and she stocked the fridge with steaks to gnaw on when she felt a little weak, but that's a thing of the past.) My father has never been a fan of the red meat boycott, but after his cardiologist declared his arteries "as clean as the day he got them", he might think to be grateful for her Nazi guarding of his diet.

Now that I think about it, there were plenty of nights growing up when our dinner possessed no meat at all. Or poultry, or fish. It was normal for us to have vegetarian meals. Now that I am responsible for the meal planning in my own home, I find myself doing the same thing. Not unwise to go meatless sometimes.

Anyway, back to the chicken. When fried chicken was on the menu in my childhood home, Mom would coat the chicken in flour, salt, and pepper, and place it in a shallow pool of hot oil in her electric frying pan. It would sizzle and pop and generally make the house smell like heaven for an hour or so until it was perfectly browned.

My favorite cut was the thigh per it's nice, flat layer of skin. The skin was the best part. And just typing that now makes me physically ill, but truth will out. I always pulled the crispy, glistening, salty skin from the meat and set it on the side of my plate, saving it to eat last. And boy, was it delicious. Crunchy bite, by crunchy bite, I devoured that chicken skin and then licked my greasy lips and sat wondering if anyone would notice if I peeled the skin off of the rest of the meat and just ate that.

These days, I can't believe that I loved that stuff. It is skin! I ate skin like it was a delicacy, and I am completely grossed out by it. When I see my arm with goosebumps or have to prep a turkey for roasting, I can't help but think of eating a deep fried version of myself.

About six months ago, I was confronted with a bag of pork rinds and I debated and thought, and eventually put one in my mouth, knowing that when I loved them as a child I had no idea that it was essentially fried pig skin. It was vile to feel the pork rind coating my tongue in a layer of grease and little bubbles popping in my mouth. I managed to swallow it without heaving, and I will never do that to myself again.

In my adult life, I have attempted to make fried chicken exactly three times, and failed miserably on each occasion. I imagine that's for the best.

So what's on the menu tonight? Sweet and sour pork. My all-time favorite. (see recipe below)

1 1/2 lbs. pork, cubed
1 can pineapple chunks
1/4 C. brown sugar
2 Tbls. cornstarch
1/4 C. vinegar
3 Tbls. soy sauce
1 green pepper, sliced thin
1 onion, sliced thin

Brown meat.

Add 1/2 C. water and simmer on low until meat is tender (about 20 minutes).

While meat is browning, drain pineapple juice into bowl and add sugar, corn starch, vinegar, soy sauce and a little salt to taste.

Stir sauce into meat and cook until thick. Add vegetables and pineapple just before serving.

You know it sounds good!