on-hand modern

Is there a support group for this?

Yesterday I stood in Target's hair color aisle for who knows how long...

Chocolate or toffee?

Mocha or cinnamon?

Cocoa or espresso? (Okay, seriously, are we talking about hair color here or the menu at Starbucks?)

My poor children. By the time I'd finally made a decision (given the options of brown, brown, and browner, I picked mahogany--it was on sale) Olivia was finishing up her first year of college and Asher was sporting what appeared to be the beginnings of a mustache. Okay, that may be a slight exaggeration, but it was a long time. Certainly long enough for El Tornado to fill an entire shopping cart with various and sundry must-have items from the Health and Beauty section and beyond--hand cream, several hairdryers, peanuts (unsalted), and an industrial-sized carton of assorted Slim Jims. (I have no idea how he hefted that into the cart, by the way. Either he had a well-built accomplice who, for obvious reasons, wishes to remain anonymous, or we've got another Little Hercules on our hands...quick, someone call Oprah!)

(Editor's note: here is where I insert a couple of random pictures of my kids because K says too much text without pictures is intimidating. Plus, I'm kind of excited about experimenting with my new lens.)

Anyway, just in case you were wondering, mahogany proved to be an excellent choice (gray hair(s) begone!) although I'm not sure it was worth all the angst I put into making the decision. Come to think of it, neither was the years-long anxiety attack I had over what color to paint the living room (4 different color swatches on the wall for 3+ years and I finally decided on...white) or the approximately umpteen hours of research I invested in cataloging the pros and cons of pears versus flowers. (When in doubt...get both.)

So I have what doctors call a little bit of a "commitment problem". (Any Chris Farley fans out there? Just a little gratuitous reference to one of the funniest movies of all time.) Tonight that means I'm staring at a bunch of fabric and trying to decide which pieces to use for a little project I have in mind for Olivia. I think I've narrowed it down to some combination of these lovelies:

Any guesses what I'm making?

How about now?

 

In defense of boring

A friend of mine experienced a very personal tragedy this week. Quite honestly, I'm having a hard time sitting down to write, knowing that while I'm going about life as usual, doing everyday things like making breakfast, folding laundry, and rescuing stray toys from the microwave, her entire world is crashing down around her.

It feels, I don't know, disloyal (?) to busy myself with the tasks of the day--loading the dishwasher, organizing closets, kissing a toddler's sore finger. As if today were any other day. When it isn't.

And, yet, I'm reminded of my sister's wise words after a successful battle against breast cancer, followed shortly by her son's shocking diagnosis with leukemia:

"Boring is good."

It occurs to me that my friend would give just about anything right now to be doing the ordinary, mundane things that I'm doing...trimming her son's overgrown hair, wiping jam-covered fingers, refilling the toilet-paper in the bathroom, singing a baby to sleep.

Anything but planning her newborn's memorial service.

And so perhaps the most fitting show of support and solidarity isn't the food I'm making for her family. (Why is it that when something bad happens, our first thought is always food?) Or the hug I gave her at the viewing this morning. But rather my pledge to go on with the day-to-day stuff of life--not as if nothing ever happened, I know my friend's life will never be the same--but as a different (hopefully slightly better) person. One with renewed motivation to find joy in the ordinary, to appreciate more fully life's fleeting moments, to evaluate more deeply what it means to live each day well...

In essence, to see more clearly that boring is good. Very good.

(Back to your regularly scheduled (less rambling/philosophical) posting tomorrow...)

Meanwhile, have some cookie dough:

I am.

There must be a reason...

why my son keeps singing Happy Birthday. To Jesus. I haven't figured it out yet, but I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation. Just as I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation for why he's recently picked up the mysterious habit of muttering (okay, let's be honest, SHOUTING--voice modulation isn't his strong suit), "Two weeks...two days...two weeks...two days..." to no one in particular.

Maybe he knows something I don't...?

Or more likely those are just two more examples of what makes Asher, well, Asher. Here's a picture of him dressed (yes, dressed!) for church last Sunday:

I made these high-waisted trousers at Easter time by tracing another pair of his pants and then adding six inches or so to the inseam. Pretty simple process, except that somehow this method didn't account for that insidious phenomenon known as Ginormous Cloth Diaper Bum. Thankfully, he's since decided that Lightning McQueen "unnies" are his undergarment of choice, so the pants fit much better now.

The fabric is a nice upholstery-weight material handed down to me by my sister who used it in her nursery. It has horses on it. Enough said.

Oh, and I almost forgot! How does one sew button holes for suspenders when one does not own a sewing machine with that particular functionality? One gets creative:

Recognize that waistband lining? It's the button placket (did I just make that up?) from the shirt that just keeps on giving...

In which I make (multiple) sacrifices for my husband

No summer would be complete without the requisite pilgrimage to the local amusement park, which is where this family spent last Saturday. Nor would it be a day at the amusement park without the familiar sights, sounds, and smells so universally experienced at such a venue including countless others like it around the world. Not much has changed since the days when I used to go with my family as a kid--the aroma of stale corn dogs mixed with cigarette smoke and human body odor, the torturously long lines in the (rarely-cleaned and always gag-inducing) women's restrooms, and the seemingly endless parade of unfortunate wardrobe choices (2008 = landmark year for unsightly tops, by the way, mainly of the tube- and muffin- variety).

I'm not much for amusement parks, to be honest. Perhaps, in part, due to the recurring nightmare I have of being dragged on the Tidal Wave as a small child (which, in a surprising twist of fate, I have since discovered is based on events that actually happened--no wonder I have issues). Or it could be the day-long "date" I went on the summer after my freshman year of college with the guy who bragged about how many bratwursts he could consume in one sitting, then promptly made his way (with considerably less bravado, I might add) to the nearest men's room from whence he did not emerge until the 11:00 PM closing time. Oh, and let's not forget the time a so-called friend talked me into riding "something tame". Little did I know that the steel drum I boarded was actually a giant centrifuge from which I was lucky to escape with my life. Forget about my dignity. (Stop laughing, K.)

But...we went. And it was fun, actually. We spent most of the day in Camp Snoopy where the lines were short enough that the staff graciously obliged my 2-year-old in his refusal to exit any of the rides. And let the record show that my 5-year-old conquered her fear of the carousel. (She does back-flips on the trampoline and hurls herself off the public pool's 12-foot high-dive, but mechanized horses that bob up and down? Not so much.)

Let's see, other highlights...my sisters will be entertained to know that K's company (our gracious hosts for the day's events) sprung (sprang?) for matching T-shirts this year. And, yes, I wore mine. (Sacrifice Number 1.)

Sacrifice Number 2...

Perhaps the most memorable part of the day was the moment when, not 100 yards from the entrance, K stopped dead in his tracks as he came face to face with his life-long nemesis, that cruel and mythical temptress known to the rest of us as...

Cinnabon.

Sigh. For the record, the last thing either K or I needs prior to an upcoming week-long vacation on a houseboat with his family is a trophy-sized cinnamon roll...so we split one between the four of us, and I must admit it wasn't a bad way to start the day. Still, I could see K wasn't satisfied, and as it became apparent that he was seriously contemplating buying a season pass just for the cinnamon-sugar delights, I knew I had to take drastic measures. So I agreed to make this home-made version:

(Someone else please make these. Preferably one of my shipmates at Lake Powell. We can be doughy together. Heh.)

I've made these (more than) a few times over the years, and, true to their name, they are a dangerously close approximation of the real deal. I do make a few adjustments to the recipe, though.

1. All-purpose flour is fine.
2. So is butter instead of margarine.
3. No bread machine needed. Just dissolve the yeast in the milk, then add sugar, eggs, salt, and butter. Add the flour last and, using an electronic mixer fitted with the hook attachment, mix until the dough is smooth and elastic.
4. Definitely double the frosting recipe.

For what it's worth, the kids and I did at least walk to the store to buy the ingredients we didn't have on hand (eggs). So I feel pretty confident that we earned our dinner. (That's right, I said dinner, not dessert. Yum.)

Mi casita es su casita

Pardon my absence over the last couple of days. (Okay, so no one noticed. Except my mom. Hi, Mom. Yes, I'm fine.) My sister came into town unexpectedly. Funny (?) story...I called her on her cell phone last Wednesday for some sparkling sisterly conversation, during the course of which she just happened to mention she was in the car. On I-80. Mid-way through the first 12-hour leg of a 4-day journey across the country, actually. Oh, and by the way, she would be in town tomorrow and needed a place to spend the night. Or 2. With her husband. Three kids. And her in-laws.

Oooookay.

I should mention that my younger sister is only the second of my 7 (yes, 7!) siblings to visit me in my humble abode (hint, hint). The first brought along her own accommodations in the form of a rented RV, the memory of which has provided me with endless hours of entertainment. (I'm sure they've replaced that lamppost at the Plaza by now. Which reminds me, I never did write that scathing email to The Cheesecake Factory about its lack of over-sized vehicle parking...)

Anyway, to say we spent a couple of days in very close quarters would be an understatement...

The Living Room/Family Room/Music Room/Media Room:

The view from the living room right into my (postage stamp-sized) bedroom:

At barely 1,000 square feet, our home is, shall we say...cozy. (Translation: Slightly larger than elf-sized.) Even for the 4 of us. Add an additional 7 people to the mix, and it's downright snug. Still, we made it work. And I don't think anyone minded sleeping 3 to an air-mattress. Or taking shifts in the (one and only full) bathroom.

Okay, maybe they did. But one thing's for sure. My sister and her in-laws are masters at the politically-correct euphemism (a.k.a. Big Fat Liars):

"Your lawn is so...green."

Translation: When was the last time you mowed?

"What a charming neighborhood."

Translation: When was the last time your neighbor mowed?

And my personal favorite:

"Your house is surprisingly spacious."

Translation: Dude, we should have booked a room at the motor lodge.

At least I can count on my 4-year-old nephew to tell it like it really is:

"Wow, this is a really small house."

Ah, youthful honesty.

(Miss you already, sis!)

With apologies to Dr. Seuss...

Green eggs (not to mention ham) = not very appetizing in my book. And so (drumroll, please) the On-Hand Modern Kids' Cooking School presents...

How to Make Perfect Hard-Boiled Eggs

Step 1: Don a fancy apron. (Chef's note: Important. Do not skip this step.)

(Editor's Note: Eat your hearts out, cast of Top Chef. This chef is so good, she can not only tie her own apron, she can do it behind her back!)

Step 2: Hire a competent (or at least willing) soux chef. Yes, that knife is upside-down, but give the kid a break...

He's. Concentrating. So. Hard.

Step 3: Fill a pot with enough water to cover the eggs. Bring water to boil.

Step 4: Set the timer and boil uncovered for 1 minute. Cover, remove from heat, and set the timer again, this time for 13 minutes.

Step 5: Rinse eggs under cold water to cool. (FYI, cold water also helps make peeling the eggs easier.) Peel, rinse, and slice the eggs.

Step 6: Bask in the glory of your perfectly-cooked hard-boiled eggs! (Amuse yourself at length by encouraging your 2-year-old to say "yellow yolks".)

And now a word on controlled substances

K and I don't drink so maybe we thought we were immune? But all it takes is one false step and a cold, hard dose of reality to realize that the category of controlled substances extends far beyond beverages of an intoxicating nature, at least in this house:

Now I'm all for self-expression, but preferably not on on my furniture, and certainly not with permanent marker. (All hail cheap Ikea slipcovers.)

Oh, well, live and learn, right? For the time being, all writing instruments are now kept under strict lock and key, or as close as we can get without buying a liquor cabinet. ("No, really, it's for pens.")

And speaking of pens, I've had a few people ask me how I made the silhouettes for the Father's Day postcards:

Three words:

Photoshop Pen Tool.

I thought about writing a tutorial, but, really, I couldn't do it any better than this one here, which, incidentally, is how I learned. Try it. It's tricky at first, but once you get the hang of it, it will change your life. Seriously.

And for those of you without access to Photoshop, there's the low-tech version. It's not as versatile, but, depending on your purposes, it might be fine. I found good tutorials here and here. A photograph of your subject's profile, some tracing paper, cardstock, glue, and an X-acto knife are all that's needed. (Just remember to put that hard stuff away when you're done, okay?)

To the other fathers in my life...

Happy Dad's Day. Wish you were here to celebrate with us. If you were, you could have had some of this:

Plus, you could have joined us for a celebratory cheer re: the Father's Day surprise Asher left his dad in the toilet. (Gooooo, Asher! With any luck, maybe we won't be needing that packing tape much longer...)

But I digress.

I'll bet you thought that cake was just a cake when, in actuality, it's a metaphor for the circle of life and multi-generational solidarity, meaning 1) strawberries + (real) whipped cream = I am my father's daughter and 2) vanilla + pound cake = my husband is his father's son. Together, we are one big happy family. At serious risk for hypertension and dental caries, I might add. (Good thing my sister's husband is almost a dentist. Gooooo, Randy!)

Alas, you live too far away for us to realistically express our love through warm homemade baked goods, so we will have to make do with a far less tasty but equally heart-felt (and much more postage-friendly) alternative. Here's a preview of the first installment in a series of 15...

Original Fill-in-the-Blank Father's Day Postcards:

Oh, and the recipe for bridging any generation gap, courtesy of K's mother. (Gooooo, cholesterol!)

Grandma K's Vanilla Pound Cake:

• 1 cup butter, softened (room temperature)
• 1⁄2 cup shortening
• 3 cups sugar
• 5 eggs (room temperature)
• 3 cups flour
• 1⁄2 tsp. baking powder
• 1⁄2 tsp. salt
• 1 cup milk (room temperature)
• 1 tablespoon vanilla   

Combine butter, shortening, and sugar until very light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Now mix in flour, baking powder, and salt alternately with milk, stirring until smooth. Add vanilla. Pour into a large greased and floured tube pan and bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour and 20 minutes or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 5 minutes in pan before turning out. Cool.

To the father of my children...

Have I thanked you lately? Last night, you came home early. You helped put our children to bed. You brought take-out (which we blissfully ate *alone*) and 2 of my favorite movies, of which I managed to view a whopping 35 minutes before I passed out. (Sorry.) Then you got up at 3:30 this morning to attend to the after-effects of a diaper failure, and by failure I mean, not in its ability to hold, but in its ability to withstand the skillful hands of a persistent (and sopping wet) 2-year-old. Enter creative use of packing tape #231...

I know I complain more than I should about all the hours you put in at work. But I really do appreciate the sacrifices you make to ensure that this family always has food on the table (not to mention an adequate supply of packing tape). The kids appreciate your efforts too, even if one is mostly oblivious and the other is only just beginning to understand the concepts of work and money. ("Daddy makes money? But I thought he made airplanes!")

You've been walking in from work like a zombie lately, so you probably haven't noticed I've spent the last several evenings working on your Father's Day gift. No, it isn't anything a) tasteless, b) scandalous, or c) revealing, like you requested. But I hope you like it anyway.

Father's Day is a tricky thing, unlike your birthday a couple months ago, which was a no-brainer. I asked Olivia what we should get you and without skipping a beat, she rattled off the following:

1. A new movie
2. A magazine "to read in the bathroom"
3. Beef jerky

Clearly, she knows her father well. And I think we celebrated your 30th in style. But Father's Day--that's different. Somehow, no matter how much I know you want me to simplify, I just can't bring myself to mark the day with: "You're a great dad...I appreciate you...here's some beef jerky."

And so here's a sneak peek at what the kids and I have been working on to express our true feelings for you:

I know you didn't get much sleep last night, but can you decode the secret message?

Yours...

c

Listen! Do you smell something?

A classic line from a classic Bill Murray movie. Before the lure of the Academy and his transformation into a "serious actor". (Boring.)

This post has nothing to do with Bill Murray, by the way. That line is just what came to mind during one of those rare moments with my son when he was actually sitting still, not emitting any high-pitched sound effects, while still remaining conscious:

He's learning his colors and can consistently tell the difference between red and orange, which means he's one step ahead of his father already. (Woot!)

I heart these Stockmar block crayons which double as both a coloring instrument and a stacking toy. They also have the added advantage of being practically indestructible, which is saying something in this house. In addition, they come in a metal tin with a picture of a horse on the front, of which Asher is most enamored. ("Neeeeeeigh!" Yeah, the moratorium on sound effects didn't last long...)

And speaking of stacking toys, here's a picture of Liv using dominoes to practice place value:

I'm not sure what my expectations were for this summer. I had initially planned on taking a break from homeschooling, but it seems that school and home life have effectively merged for us. Which is exactly the point, I guess...? We'll keep it casual, though. Plenty of hours logged at the pool already this summer...

Meanwhile, Liv's increasing interest in the culinary arts means we've been having a sort of mini Cooking Camp. So far, she's learned to make scrambled eggs and bean and cheese quesadillas. With her newly-acquired cheese-grating and can-opening skills, I think she's ready to tackle this on-hand ingredient wonder:

Easy Kids' Pasta (serves 4):

• Chicken broth (2 cans)
• Orzo pasta (about 1/2 cup)
• Dried basil (to taste)
• Cannellini beans (1 can)
• Frozen corn (a few handfuls)
• Frozen peas (a few handfuls)
• Parmesan cheese (to taste)

Now if she could just learn to do the grocery shopping too...heh.