my guests, it's all for the best

You've probably seen me. Pulling out of the parking lot in my station-wagon. I looked good. Or maybe not. Was my hair pulled up in a sloppy ponytail or did I have just the right look on my face that you thought maybe I was someone famous running errands that are even too banal for an assistant?

Perhaps I had just rolled down my windows and opened up the sunroof and you could hear some poppy-girl anthem charging out of me like a teenager skipping class and proud of it. Maybe it wasn't that. Maybe you noticed my lipgloss or the only pair of shades I haven't lost or sat on.

No? You can't remember if I looked happy and tired at the same time or if I even had the radio on at all? Oh. You were trying to get my attention? To let me know I had left a full half-caff venti latte on the roof of my car...

Well. You obviously don't know me very well. Because I meant to do that.

Supremecakes

Not too long ago, I received a box of Bisquick pancake mix as a gift. With a spatula. And although it was just garnish for a handsome new electric griddle, my house hasn't been the same since.

Sure there were pancakes here and there on "special" mornings like Christmas and random official holidays when the three of us were all home from work or school and felt like the day deserved a ceremonious kickoff. And those times are best because there's no mad-rush for the door and no minute-devouring sock hunts to blame for the pop-tart in the car breakfasts. Pancakes on holidays were where it was. Slow. And syrupy.

But after the box of Bisquick entered our lives, Saturday mornings started feeling a lot like holidays. At first, the "recipe" on the back threw me off. What? I don't just put water in the box and shake until the lumps are gone? Fresh eggs? And yes, there was even a deluxe version of the recipe for those folks celebrating a promotion or hitting the Wednesday night Power Ball number.

"Hold up, ye Goddess of Griddle Cakes. I'm not ready for this," I said standing be-jammied and wonky-haired in the kitchen while the box stared back at me. But it happened. I believe husband had to pry the box from my hands and take the wheel I was so floored (really, a recipe?). He shooed me from the kitchen and was even bold enough to go for the supreme cakes with a bit of vanilla extract in the batter. He measured. He mixed. He made the sacrificial test pancake while the dogs sat at the ready.

Shortcake set the table. I microwaved some ready-bacon (maybe the best invention since the push-up bra) and poured the pulp-free oj and then we waited. Giddy and panting along with the dogs, we all watched as the stack of carb-laden breakfast cakes grew and then made its way to the table. And they were supreme cakes. Thanks to fearless husband. And we devoured them sopped in syrup and butter. And said the five words that changed Saturdays into Supremecake-days,

"Now that wasn't so hard."

And so we eat pancakes. And we don't have to wonder what's for breakfast on Saturdays. Or stand frozen in front of the pantry staring at the inferior Frosted Miniwheats box or the oatmeal packets only fit for insipid Mondays and.... **gasp**...Tuesdays.

There are occasional Saturdays husband and I opt for fried egg sandwiches when the little miss is away with Grandma or her Dad. Those days are good, too. Subdued, safe, savory. We just really really love Supremecake Saturdays. More often than not, it's not just the deliciousness they stand for that we love, but the closeness in the kitchen we crave. Bumping butts and reaching across one another into drawers. Singing made-up songs about pancakes as the clank of dishes and clink of flatware fills the spaces in between sizzling batter and microwave bloops and beeps.

I suppose it's not what you can see going into the recipe, but what gets added to the mix that isn't on the back of the box that makes all the difference.

Thanks, Jens.
Thanks, MJ.

A long post about a spoon.

A few weeks ago, in the midst of a nesting frenzy, I reorganized the utensil drawer. I decided it was a necessity after being refused entry into said drawer during an attempt to retrieve the can opener for a soup-n-sandwich lunch.

Out came the stuffs. The every day type things were in a jumble near the front for obvious reasons and the weird once-in-a-while to what's-this-thing-for items were tangled together in the back.

Clutching one another like survivors of a culinary apocalypse were a cheese grater (it comes grated in the bag these days, folks), a garlic press, a corkscrew (see you in a few months, old pal), and an implement designed for the sole purpose of opening jars. The jar opener might actually be handy if I didn't have a husband for that sort of thing.

All lined up on the kitchen counter was my arsenal of equipment. The order of it made sense to me, but I was one of those girls who used to rotate stuffed animals in the bed as a kid so everyone got a chance to sleep next to me. Yeah. I know. I was pretty popular.

Anyway, some were plastic, some were stainless, but all of them were monochromatic. And quite ugly. I can see why people have drawers for this kind of thing. Black, silver, the one audaciously red corkscrew, and then I saw it. The one beautiful thing in that mangled mess of industrial, hard-edged appliances... the "kool-aid" spoon.

I don't know if everyone has one. I imagine it's not really a staple in the drawers of a swingin' bachelor pad or hoity-toity mansion. But growing up, it was one of the only items in the drawer used on a daily basis at my house. What with the comings and goings of neighborhood kids, lemonade sipping friends, and iced-tea addicted moms there was not a summer day (especially) that the kool-aid spoon didn't see the bottom of the sink basin and the bottom of a pitcher at least one time in an afternoon. This exact spoon stirred sweetness into all of the summers I can remember and here I had been just tossing it in the drawer with the rest of the culinary conscripts.

Among the spatulas and cold and hard icecream scoop, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the kool-aid spoon. Like the stuffed animal near the end of the rotation, I wanted to give it a place where it could shine and be proud of it's significance in our lives. Her significance, I should say. She is yellowish-white with seventies flowers on her handle and beautiful slender slots in her bowl. There's no way kool-aid spoon is a male.

So I gave her a place in the tin of important cooking stuffs directly next to the stove where she can breathe fresh air and bathe in the sunlight of the summers and winters alike. No more will I shut her in the dark with the cold steel and furrowed foam drawer liner that's always squished up in the back. She will be easily accessed and enjoyed by all who lay eyes or hand on her.

And her name will be Crystal. Miss Crystal Light, the blushing beauty of the kitchen utensils and the only one bold enough to wear pink all year around.

Never to be tossed in a garage sale or thrift store donation box, but instead to be inherited by my children and their children's children to stir the powdered refreshments of the future and make memories for generations to come.

(cue epic end-sounding music)

type, fingers, type

Because I can't be bothered with creativity today, I'm going to omit any sort of witty intro to this post and just admit that I had to steal my motivation from my sister-in-law's blog to muster enough gumption to try a post today.

Am I a Beautiful Babe today? Hardly.
I'm sure if I were Angelina Jolie in a $300 flowing summer dress and eighty dollars worth of glowing moisturizer on my cheeks and lips, I'd be tooting a different horn.

The reality of it is that I own three pairs of pants that fit me right now and they all include an ungodly amount of elastic around the waistband. Seriously, my five year old daughter looked at the adjustable elastic belt in my pants and said, "Those are just like mine. For growing."

Well played, young padawan. Well played.

My moisturizer, although tried and true, costs four-fifty a bottle. I apply whatever chapstick, lipbalm, gloss, or sticky stuff in a tube I can find by digging and scraping at the bottom of my purse while I'm driving the little girl to school and voila, I have the au naturale look every Calvin Klein model is sporting on the runway these days. (he still designs clothes, right?)

Don't bother wasting your breath on the "pregnancy glow" crap. I don't have it. I have hair that hasn't seen a drier in weeks and I can hear the cries of neglect from my mascara and eyeliner every time I pass by my makeup bag. If I'm glowing, it's the caffeine.

Which leads me to the second question...Am I a Healthy Her? Well. I walk to the mailbox when I forget to toss the mail key in my purse on the way out the door. I walk to the bench at the playground. And I bend down a hundred times a day to pick up the stuff I drop. Which is pretty much everything.

I drink one to two caffeine drinks a day, but I've cut down considerably and your judgements don't phase me. (Did you know a half-caf latte has less caffeine than a regular cup of coffee?) And I have switched from skim milk to 2% in my lattes. Along with caffeine, I've cut down on my alcohol intake. See, I do care. I only drink one beer a night or a glass of wine every other day instead of my usual two-margarita minimum. (Just kidding, people. I won't even be popping the cork on our vintage bottle of Dom for our anniversary next month.) I'm running on a natural high these days (and the lattes)...

So, am I the Queen of the World? Yes. I may be tipping the scales and exercising my right to be ugly in public, but I'm having a baby in a few short months. And although seventy-five percent of my current wardrobe is a spandex blend, my husband comes home from work every day and picks up the stuff I dropped and didn't have the energy to bend over and get. He's happy to stir the stuff in the pan, so I can take the umpteenth pee of the day without risking a culinary catastrophe and he can tell just by looking at me that I would feel so much better if he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me on the head at any given moment.

I'm pregnant. I'm not perfect. But I am, in the simplest words, a happy person. And I'll take that and hope for at least the same for the future. For now, I'll take the good days with the "eh" days and if I have to start looking thirty... so. be. it. It's the new twenty, right?

Tuh-day.

7:30 am - Cover head with pillow while the Mr. showers and gets ready for work. Sleeping in today while the ladybug's dad brings her to school. Sweet.

8:40 am- Emerge from pillow cave to kiss Mr. adios and let the little dog back under the covers.

8:40- 10:30 am- pretend to sleep since actual sleep is out of the question.

10:35am- bagel with cream cheese and hard boiled egg with salt. skip the olive "sprinkles" on the bagel just in case it all doesn't stay down. it's not worth the effort of chopping the olives if i'm just going to flush 'em in ten minutes anyway, right?

11:00am- weigh myself (!) , shower, gag over the toilet/brush teeth, maternity pants it up and pink striped tank top feels me sassy. a little makeup and i'm a pretty hot pregnant chick. not too bad.

11:45am- Convince ladybug that lunch will be more exciting than five more minutes on the school playground.

11:46am- Think of something "fun" for lunch.

12:00 noon- Settle for tacos and a cheese quesadilla from Tijuana Flats and play up the temporary tatoo that comes with the kid's meal...oooh funnnn.

1:00pm- Wander around Target trying to remember what was on the list left on the counter at home. Contents of cart: lint shaver, birthday card, dvd, christmas gift for aunt j, and some brownie doo-dads for tomorrow's dance christmas party.

1:15pm- Peel myself up off the floor at the register...$107? Was my lint shaver made of gold??

2:00-3:30pm- Decorate Christmas tree, hang stockings from Ikea shelf, clean mystery goo from certain ornaments, spend wayy too long "shaving" the tree skirt.

3:30pm- Snack time. Use two for you, five for me technique for serving peanutbutter sandwich crackers. I'm bigger, that's why.

4:00pm- Check email, facebook, myspace, friends' blogs...realize people actually come to this blog every now and then.

4:15pm- Stare at blank blog post page waiting for inspiration.

4:18pm- Cadence flings pink paint into my hair and on the computer screen from her all too close easel.

4:19pm- Move easel two feet from desk. Leave paint in hair. I need an updated look anyway.

present time: Feeling sorry for anyone who read this far. I promise next post will be more creative.

Setting Records

If being pregnant is cool, consider me Miles Davis. Never mind the fact that my electric toothbrush makes me gag and I actually had a whole ten minutes of sleep between trips to the bathroom to pee last night. My nipples feel like chewed-up bubble gum and all of my bras give me what my friends and I are referring to as "quad-boob". (That's extra boob popping out of the bra that holds the normal boob.)

I did set a record last night at work for most-food-eaten-during-one-shift. Adam marveled at my two pound Pita Pit delight.
Adam: Did you tell them you were pregnant or something?
Me: No, now give me some elbow room this isn't gonna be pretty.

Pita was at 8. Sabrett's Sausage with extra mustard was at ten. Adam was nice enough to go to the corner and get it for me so I didn't look like a porker to all three of the people sitting at the bar. Pretty girls don't eat sausages AND pitas.

I felt full. Satisfied, more like it. What the hell, I felt good. Especially after unsnapping my jeans. So why did I agree to a slice of cheese pizza at one a.m? Because I'm pregnant! And food is delicious. And I can eat pizza, pita, AND sausages if I want to!

Don't judge me lest ye be judged. And so on.

peace and sausage grease,
Mrs. G

Don't Judge Me or My Condiments

I only eat chicken nuggets because it's faux-pas to eat ranch dressing with a spoon. This fact applies to most things I dip. French fries and onion rings are mere vessels for the ketchup/hot sauce/honey mustard. I can't lie. Even crackers and chips would be horrified to know their only purpose is to get hummus and onion dip into my face.

I am not proud of myself. Not at all.