Random things

There were a couple of random things floating around in my brain I wanted to get out.

- It hit 100 degrees according to my car today. It might not have been the first time this year, but it was the first time I noticed it.

- FHE ended abruptly last night when Christopher dumped 1/4 gallon of milk all over my dining room carpet. It's amazing how fast you can go from enjoying your kids to the other end of the spectrum.

-I joined Weight Watchers again. I lost 40 lbs on it, a few years ago, I think before Zach was around. Wish me luck. (I'm really gonna need it)

-Christopher lets me drop him off at the gym without crying anymore. (YAY!) Now my only excuse is that I am too busy cleaning/running errands/surfing the internet in the morning and it's his naptime in the afternoon. hmmmm. I think there is a solution to this problem, I just can't think of what it is... think, think, think.

-Seeing that Christopher is getting bigger, I am starting to consider going back to school again. I have my associates degree and would like to get my Bachelor's, I just don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I might have to do a whole post on this topic. Maybe I can solicit some advice.

Is it a dog or a cat?

Tuesdays are my crazy days with my kids schedules and me being the family chauffeur, so dinner is fairly easy on these days. Today I picked up one of those rotisserie roasted chickens from Sprouts, some carrot sticks and called it good. I had one of those flashbacks to a conversation Madison and I had a couple years ago.

I was at the counter picking at one of those chickens (hopefully with a fork, probably with my fingers) and Madison came in the kitchen-
"Oooooh! What are you eating?"
"Chicken."
"Can I have some?"
"Sure. Pull up a stool."

A few minutes pass, as we are enjoying picking the carcass apart like a couple of vultures, probably having some conversation about who knows what, then she asks me this question-

"So what are we eating? Is it a dog or a cat?"
Me, totally caught off guard-"Uh neither, it's a chicken."
"Well, you know how sometimes dogs and cats get hit by cars and they die?"
(say it really slowly) "Yeeeeessssss?"
"So is this a dog or a cat?"
(It must have looked a lot like road-kill at this point)
"It's a chicken. Just a chicken. Nobody scraped it off the road. They raised it on a chicken farm chopped it's head off and plucked out it's feathers. It's a chicken. It was never anyone's pet."
"Oh. Okay."

I still can't decide what bothered me most, that she thought that I would bring home road kill, someone's pet cat "Fluffy" for that matter, or that she was okay with it. Fine with it. Happy to be eating it.

My most embarassing moment

I was reading my friend Rachel's blog (I don't know how to create a link) earlier today and she was talking about a particular event from her childhood that proved particularly traumatizing, and a forgotten and repressed memory resurfaced for me which could probably be my most embarrassing moment ever. (who knows though? There could be many more repressed memories waiting to resurface unexpectedly at some future date.)

Anyways, the year is 1992, August 12, 1992, to be exact- I have pictures hidden on a top shelf in my closet. If I can get John to help me scan them in, I might post one or more. It was night, so they are kindof dark though. My friend Camille and I decided to go bungee jumping at the 49th street Galleria. We had talked about it for awhile and were totally excited about it. So the day finally came and we signed our wavers, strapped into our harnesses and climbed the (50 ft?) tower to the top platform. Back in the day, that place was quite the teenage hangout, I think at this point in time though, it was unaffectionately referred to as the "puberty palace", but outside there were sand volleyball courts, and I totally remember some really hot shirtless guys playing volleyball at the base of the tower that night. (important info for later).

There's two ways to go- a body harness so you are right side up, or a big strap around your ankles and you are hanging upside down. (they stick a body harness on you as back up anyway.) So being as we were spending a bunch of money for this experience as it was, we decided the only way to go was "by our ankles!" (what can I say? we were daring chicks!) So we climbed to the top, and Camille went first. She screamed and hollered (with excitement) and sounded particularly enthused about the whole thing. When you go by your ankles they tell you to dive off the platform as opposed to just jumping off feet first.

Getting to the embarrassing part. I am all strapped in. I am standing at the top looking down into the net, and they are telling me to dive off.
"3-2-1-go!"
I am still standing there horror stricken that I have to DIVE HEAD FIRST towards the CONCRETE. Yes there was a net, and a big giant inflatable thing to land into when they finally lower me down after I am done bouncing around by my ankles. But a swan dive? head first? I couldn't wrap my brain around it.
"okay, one more time. 3-2-1-Go!"
Still nothing. I am frozen on the top. I can't move a muscle.
Suddenly I hear them. All the people on the ground. Counting down. As if my panic and terror weren't apparent enough to the guys at the top of the tower with me and my friend who already successfully and jubilantly survived at the bottom, suddenly I hear voices from all over, chanting in the dark. All lights are on me of course, I can't see them, but I KNOW that hot shirtless volleyball playing guys are at least aware of my cowardice at the top whether or not they are counting down with the numerous other people who are
"10-9-8-...3-2-1- JUMP!"
And so I do. I hold my nose and swan dive off the top.
Then to my horror, I hear them as I am bouncing around upside down above the net.
"She plugged her nose!"
Oh yeah. I plugged my nose. I was not jumping into water. and like 50 people saw me. Including the hot shirtless volleyball playing guys. And just to add insult to injury-
"her shoe flew off!"
Cause yeah, I chose to wear my green Birkenstocks (oh yeah, green!) to go bungee jumping, (for whatever reason I thought that would be appropriate footwear both there and daily life in general) and my shoe went flying off while everyone was still laughing at me for plugging my nose. In case you were wondering, the shoe was found, but my pride was totally damaged.

I did go again, a year or two later, right side up that time, but truth be told, I preferred the first time, it was much more fun. Even with all the humiliation.

Fablehaven

Last night Nick and I got the opportunity to go and meet his very favorite author in the whole wide world, Brandon Mull. Because we also went to the school to check out the science fair, we didn't make it to the Barnes and Noble where the book signing was being held until like 7:15. We were there FOREVER. The way B&N does their book signings is they give you a letter of the alphabet and then you can wander the store until your letter is called, and then you line up with the 25 or so other people who have your letter. We were letter N. We didn't get home until after 11:00 pm (and yes it was a school night).

So I know the pictures aren't that great, but I had to use my cell phone because I forgot to replace the memory stick in my camera after the last time I uploaded pictures into my computer. (So mad at myself!)

But we HAD to go and we HAD to stay up that late to meet him, even though B&N offered to just have us leave the books there, and he'd sign them after everyone would go home, but this is Nick's favorite series and his favorite author, and who am I to stand in the way of that just because I want my bed?

But seriously, the books are really good, and I could sing this guys praises not just for his prowess with the pen (or keyboard or whatever). What never ceases to amaze me, (and this was the third book signing he'd done that I'd been to, but only Nick's second, because the first time he did this, Nick had some other conflict with school or scouts or something. Well, that's not counting the time the guy, Brandon Mull, came to my kid's school to talk to them about being a writer, and all that jazz (as well as to promote his own first book). So back to the point, this is his 4th book, and I've seen him 3 times, however I just started reading his books a week or so ago, and am enjoying, but he's just a great guy.

Let me paint a picture. It's 11:00, he's been signing for 4 hours straight, and when we finally get up to the table, he asks us if it's alright if he can take a bite of a cookie he's been dying for, you can see the tiredness on his face, I think this was his 4th book signing in four days (four different cities, 3 different states) and he's looking at doing this again for another 7 or 8 days with only taking Sunday off. (he's LDS) Tomorrow is a big kick-off party in Salt Lake. So it's like 11:00 pm, my guess is that he won't get back to his hotel for a few more hours, he has to catch a flight in the morning to do this again, only on a larger scale, and he still takes the time to stop and talk to my kid, ask Nick about himself, pose for pictures, personalize his book, sign a poster that will hang on the wall next to the other 3 signed posters, and just be totally great about it all. Of course you could argue, that he's making money by doing this, and yes the book tours and going to the schools pretty much launched his career as an author, but it still impresses me how he takes the time to make each kid feel special and that he's genuinely interested in them, and not just how quickly he can sign this stuff and get back to his hotel.

I wouldn't be surprised if Brandon Mull is like some kind of modern day hero to Nick or something. Some super role model (besides his dad) that he looks up to, (which I couldn't be happier in his choice) so despite the fact that Nick is generally grounded in his room, no TV, no friends, no Wii, no computer, NO BOOKS, until he brings up those stinkin' grades, I HAD to take him to get his book signed. Besides, I figure any time I can encourage the love of reading in my kids is time well spent.

The next Mary Lou Retton

This is my little gymnast. She doesn't get it from me. I've never even been able to do a single cartwheel my entire life.

Sparky

See that Sparky shirt? Zach got it for Christmas. He asked for it specifically. Not having grown up here, we're not die-hard fans or anything, although on occasion in the past couple years I have been able to claim to being a student there and hope to graduate from ASU before Nick goes off to college. So we generally cheer the team on, or at the very least are happy to hear when they win (John follows more closely, sports just ain't my thing).

So anyways, back to the shirt. He asked for a Sparky shirt because of an incident in kindergarten sometime in November or December. He was playing on the kindergarten playground and Sparky showed up and surprised all the kids. And by surprised, I mean totally freaked Zach out. (can you blame him? A larger than life devil shows up at your playground?) so he's totally traumatized, crying, flipping out, the whole nine yards, the teachers are trying to calm him down, but ultimately he ended up in some storage room with Sparky so she could take her head off and they could talk face to face, give high fives, etc. And yeah, the story is is that it's a she, and supposedly she was promoting the women's basketball team, so maybe there's more than one Sparky which makes sense because I would think there are tons of games he would need to be at. But the point is is that Zach got to do what almost nobody else has ever done, and that is see the true identity of an ASU mascot, a closely guarded secret, and so he wanted a Sparky shirt for Christmas. Go Sundevils!

It's about time!

I know, I know... He looks like a totally different kid.

Now if I could just do something about these other two....

but I hate to cut the baby's hair because for like 20 minutes out of the bath, it looks like this.

Stinker!

So Christopher and I are alone in the house, and I am downstairs in the kitchen putting away some dishes, and I suddenly I'm asking myself, "Do I hear running water?" So I run upstairs to my bathroom, and sure enough this is what I find-


So I'm thinking, this is my 4th kid, and I know it's been nearly 4 years since my last child was this age, but I don't remember any of them getting into this much trouble! Is it because when I look at pictures of cute smiling faces, all I can see is the cuteness, and my memories have dulled, or is this one just that much more of a stinker?!? (PS someone once pointed out to me that if you mix up the letters in Kirsten, you get stinker FYI)

24 Hours

That's all the vacuum bought me. 24 hours.

Double Duty

What's up with the vacuum? I'm just so lazy I can't be bothered to put it away? I'm in love with it and bear to be parted from it? I enjoy stubbing my toe on it when I walk into the room? None of these. It is my sanity-saver. It is possibly the only thing keeping me from "25 to life" and my three eldest surviving children from having to visit the State Penn. (Unless I can go for the insanity plea.) HUH?

Last night, my very sweet and precious littlest one figured out how to open the fridge. Dark day indeed for the Berrett household. He was in it no less than a dozen times. He likes to pull stuff out and put it on his bench. At our kitchen table we have 4 chairs and a bench, which lately belongs solely to Christopher so he can use and abuse as he pleases. Mostly it's his buffet table and the place where he empties out my pantry. I debated showing this picture of my pantry because it is a total embarrassment, but with this kid constantly rearranging it, any effort on my part is futile. Oh and he also likes to color on everything, so there are scribbles on the doors, the shelves, and even the canned goods. Also there is a sidewalk just on the other side of the fence in our backyard, that many people use, and it pretty much gives you a perfect view of my pantry and since my children think it is unnatural to keep those doors closed, odds are, you can check it out for yourself without stepping foot in my house.

One day this is what I found waiting for me concerning some of the contents of my pantry. So I live with this on a daily basis, and do my best to deal with it, and take deep breaths, then put the canned goods away, but now his favorite place to play is the fridge! Last night he got into it like a dozen times. I kept finding the sour cream on the bench, the orange juice on the floor, and when I wasn't quick enough filling his sippy (he brought it to me, but I was reading some one's blog,) so he went down stairs, got the milk out of the fridge, (it was almost empty) took the lid off and was walking with it through the living room as I bolted down the stairs because I realized what he was up to. This was after I scolded him, swatted his diapered behind and let him cry for 15 minutes. This morning, I heard the crash of glass on tile, (luckily it wasn't broken) but he was cleaning out my fridge for me again. Sour creams were back on the bench, the egg carton had a big hole in it, and the saran wrap covered glass bowl of past-their-prime-peas from a dinner awhile back was on the floor, peas scattered every where. And I think the milk and orange juice were on the floor again. No harm done this time, the peas needed to be tossed anyway, but what about next time?

This is where the vacuum comes in, and my genius (if I do say so myself) idea. He is totally afraid of the vacuum cleaner! I've never been so happier about it. It's almost comical if you leave the vacuum out and he walks into the room, he stops dead in his tracks, and will almost refuse to even go near it. So it's 5 hours later, and my Hoover (and therefore the fridge) is still untouched. I know this can't go on forever, but I'm hoping for at least a week to figure out another solution. John thinks the poor kid is going to need therapy.

He looks all sweet and innocent, but my daily mantra is " Terrific twos, not terrible twos. Terrific twos, not terrible twos." (I'm trying to keep a positive attitude- failing miserably, but trying) And aren't these Crocs the cutest things? I'm not a Spongebob fan, but I love the shoes.(just thought I'd share)

Treading Water

Ever get that feeling like you are swimming up stream? That as hard as you might try you never seem to get ahead or even catch up? And some days, at best, you are barely keeping your head above water? I wonder why? (The first picture is Christopher and it was taken yesterday. The other pcitures are a bit older, but still relevant)

too much food?

I was just glancing at the list of my last few entries, and I seem to be focusing quite a bit on food these days. That certainly says something I think, but what? I'll try to come up with something non-food related, but I've still got some pictures in my phone waiting to be uploaded (downloaded? I can never figure out the correct terminology) to the computer from our little excursion to Chick-Fil-A last week. Can we say "obsessive"?

Mexican Food

One of the many perks of living in Arizona is the plethora of good places to get some Mexican food. We have our favorites (bean dip!) but are always on the lookout for other places.

That being said, John travels alot. We are even starting a post card collection of all the places he goes to. This week he is in North Carolina. Boston, California, and St. Louis are some of his regular spots to hit, but it could really be anywhere. He almost got to go to London this week, and there's a good possibility he will get to go to Germany. (I have told him he better bring back good presents or I am changing the locks.)

What cracks me up though is his continual search for good Mexican food outside of the Southwest. I keep telling him that he needs to "eat local" and try to stay within his "area food zone", and pick from there, but he keeps trying to find good Mexican. (stubborn?) One time when he was in CANADA he ordered fajitas and was honestly surprised they weren't close. Well, maybe close, in theory. There was rice (some kind of herbed rice pilaf), and chicken (lemon chicken), and "salsa" which he swears was just ketchup. Minus the "salsa" I am sure it would have been good if he had ordered lemon chicken with rice pilaf, but not when what you are craving is some good fajitas. One time when our family was in Texas, we went out to a Mexican restaurant we were assured was "Mexican" and not "Tex-Mex". (liars!) When it comes to Mexican food I am pretty picky, and I prefer a red sauce to a green sauce, but unless the menu specifies, I ask. So this time I say to the waiter,

"What color is your enchilada sauce, red or green?"

"Neither", he says. "It's brown."

"Brown?"

"It's gravy."

"You put gravy on the enchiladas?"

"Yes. It's traditional. That's how they do it in Mexico."

So I will be the last person to say that I am an expert on Mexican food. I will even admit to never having been south of the border. However, (and feel free to correct me if I am just an ignorant, arrogant, judgmental prat) but isn't putting gravy on every thing more of a Texan thing? I've eaten piles of enchiladas and never had gravy. I got the fajitas that night I think- although I keep thinking that maybe I should have tried it. When in Rome right? I might have at the very least developed a new love of gravy, or more material for this blog.

Tonight John thought he was safe going to some place with the word "southwest" in the title. He said it was okay, except it had no "kick" and the salsa was just chopped pico de gallo. He showed the waiter his AZ driver's license and asked if they had any real salsa. (cause they might have special salsa reserved in the back for people from Arizona?-just kidding John! ) What's a good ethnic North Carolinian food? I've never been. It's kind of in the south. B-B-Q? Fried chicken maybe? (sigh) He should just come home and take me out for some real Mexican.

How it all began...

So I make caramels. It's my thing. It's my claim to fame. I've even won a couple blue ribbons at the Arizona State Fair. I generally don't brag so much, but since I've been known to sell them, I'm making an exception. That's not really what this post is about though, it's just background information.

Anyway, I was making some the other day, and it takes awhile. This is when I really wish I had a gas stove, because it seems to take forever to get the caramel up to 242 degrees (in my opinion the perfect temperature for the perfect firmness) Even at our other house when I had an old coil stove, I think it went faster. This stove is a flat-top and I swear I am standing there stirring, FOREVER. Loads of times I have my headphones on, or I have a book to read, but I forgot both yesterday, and I was alone in a quiet house (older kids at school, Christopher asleep) with only my brain to keep me company. This is what I was thinking about:

I was remembering way back when, before John and I were married. I swear he fell in love with me the moment he tasted my mother's caramel. (I hadn't the foggiest clue how to make them at that time.) But I get ahead of myself. I should start with some background info. When my Grandmother got a divorce and moved to Utah to be closer to her girls who went to BYU, she lived up in the avenues in Salt Lake next to this lady who made caramels. I hear the original recipe actually called for paraffin wax. My grandmother modified the recipe, made them her own and taught her daughters, who in turn taught their daughters. Back before I knew how, my mother would occasionally make them, and I kid you not, nobody in our house really cared. Sure, we liked them okay, but they weren't chocolate. We are all die-hard chocoholics. The caramels would go stale before we'd eat them. Mostly she just gave them away to appreciative souls. However, rarely did anyone else get anything made out of chocolate, it was always eaten before she could give it away. My BFF since jr. High, Jamie, however was a huge fan of my mom's caramels. My mom would make her her own batch for her birthday for several years, and made sure she got some whenever she had extras.

Fast forward a couple of years. I am away at college, Weber State University, and I am working at this store called Media Play. I started off as the music department lead, then ended up head cashier. John worked there too, that's how we met. He started in the backroom, then ended up being the hardlines (computer software and video games- go figure) department lead. (assistant manager) The customer service desk where I worked was right next to his department so over the course of a year we became pretty good friends. Rumor has it that it was love at first sight for him (I was a babe), but I went out with other guys and obsessed about other guys and he and I were "just friends". But I enjoyed talking to him. He was easy to be with. There got to be a point that I was happy to see him even if it meant I'd have someone to "hang out with" on really boring nights. I talked ALOT. Once I even remember thinking (while my mouth was working) that "if I ran out of stuff to say, it's gonna get real awkward around here, real quick." Obviously I never did.

So one day, as we are talking, I reached into my apron (we wore aprons- red for cashiers, blue for music and hardlines, green for books, etc., but they had big pockets on the front, and mine was always stashed with crap. Pens, money, etc.) So I reach in and feel something I don't recognize and I pull out a couple of caramels. I guess my mom had sent some up to college for me and I brought them to work, and had forgotten. I just kindof say, "Want a caramel?" and hand one to him. He makes some comment about them being amazing or something, and I say "If you tell my mom that, she'll make you a whole batch of your own." End of story? No way. A few days later, I get a phone call from my mom, saying she found a note taped to the front door from a guy named "John". I just about flipped out. Are you kidding me? He actually went looking for caramels? I guess that was just an excuse to "stir some dirt" and get me to really sit up and pay attention. It worked- So remember I live away at college and have for a couple of years? My parents had never met John, he'd never been to my parents house, I grew up in a suburb of Salt Lake, and this is up in Ogden. Not terribly far away, but far enough that those worlds DID NOT collide. And Remember that I talked ALOT? Well apparently he had been taking notes. Stuff I didn't even remember saying. The name of my Elementary school. The canal by my house with the hundreds of ducks that live there year round because people feed them year round, etc. So he enlists the help of another co-worker to sneak into the office and check out my personnel file and get my address, and on his day off he decides to pay a visit to my mother. She wasn't home, so he left the note. Yeah, kindof stalker-esque, but it got my attention. We were married less than a year later.

We are obviously not at a loss for caramel eaters in this house. They don't go stale sitting on this counter.

Channeling Elvis

For dinner tonight most of us had chicken tacos, but I caved and gave in to Zach's requests. Some nights the kid goes hungry because he won't eat what I fixed, and then other nights I don't care a whole lot. It mostly depends on how much effort I put into dinner. More work= you eat what I fix, less work=whatever, I don't care. Zach has a pretty limited repertoire of what he will eat, I think his 5 food groups are peanut butter, chicken nuggets, corn dogs, fruit, and ketchup (he eats more of that than everyone else in the house put together- I believe I mentioned him trying it on a pancake a month or so ago?) So tonight Zach's request was a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Where he got that idea from, I don't know, we are pretty much pb&j people around here. We don't even use honey. Truth be told, peanut butter and jelly are STAPLES. Priorities in the food storage arena. But peanut butter and banana? ew gross! wasn't that Elvis's favorite sandwich? I think I heard that somewhere.
This picture was taken like 3 years ago. It's a picture of Zach hugging a can of peanut butter- yeah, he loves it that much. If I remember correctly, I just caught him walking around with it and had to document the whole obsession.

It got me thinking of other peanut butter combinations today. Don't ask me why. My mom likes peanut butter and dill pickles (it's a tie which one I hate more - dill pickles or bananas- can't decide, both gross) However my personal favorite is the miniature marshmallow version of the fluffer nutter. (Marshmallow fluff and peanut butter) Sometimes my mom would let me have that in my school lunch- I felt like I was getting away with murder! Marshmallows in a sandwich? It didn't get any better than that. Thinking logically about it though, I am sure it is no worse than honey or jam. Maybe jam is slightly better but still loaded with sugar. On occasion I like to dip apple slices in peanut butter, admittedly I got that from a Blue's Clues episode a few years ago. After hundreds of hours of air time, a thing or two is gonna sink in and stick with me, it's inevitable.

Coincidentally Nick was telling me how he tried a jalapeno dipped in peanut butter today at school and he thought it was horrible. I can't figure out what would posses him to try it out in the first place? He gets points for being adventuresome, but I think he was surprised it didn't taste good. I am one of those people who can't handle her food touching on her plate unless they are obviously complimentary (beans and rice, turkey and mashed potatoes) and fruit salad, jell-o, etc., totally gets it's own plate.

FYI- he only ate half his sandwich. Maybe he didn't like it that much.

Don't Bug Me!

Yeah that title is pretty lame-o, sad really, but creativity can be a handicap for me. Anyways, there I am this morning minding my own business, chatting away on the phone to my husband who happens to be in Boston (again) on a business trip. Our bug guy Burt was outside doing his monthly thing to keep all the little pesky creatures away and he knocks on the back door. He proceeds to point out all the Africanized bees flying around a tree just on the other side of the fence (or so he supposes, but he's been in this industry for years and years, decades probably, so I'm gonna take his word on it). I guess this colony had set up camp in a sprinkler box only a foot or two away from my yard. He was totally mortified that I had been letting my kids play in the back yard, and he proceeded to tell me of local news reports of dogs being killed and people in the hospital because of bee attacks. I am a faithful un-watcher of the news, (meaning I religiously avoid it) so this was news to me. I called the association, because thank heavens, the bees decided to take up residence on their side of the fence and not mine, and they sent a guy out in full bee gear to deal with it. I kinda felt cool. I felt powerful. One phone call from me and there was a guy driving his truck into the green belt and he was all decked out head to toe in his bee-proof suit spraying poison and killing all those little buggers.

By the way I took those shots from the safety of my kitchen with my sliding glass door firmly shut and locked. I'm actually surprised the pictures are so clear without some big slobbery smear in the middle, but then again, I took the pictures at my eye-level, and all the slobbery smears are from my ankle-biters who (generally) confine their messes to waist level or lower.

In a somewhat related topic that I am only posting about because it was pretty cool, this was a picture I took a few years ago at our last house. Hundreds, if not thousands, of bees made a pit stop in our front yard for a few hours. This picture shows a solid swarm of bees hanging from this tree right by our front yard. (the brown thing in the middle of the picture- the picture totally doesn't do it justice, and FYI we were pretty freaked out.) Our bug guy back then was gonna come back at night and kill them all, I guess that's the best time to do it, they just sleep and don't even fight back. But they were gone by then. It was pretty impressive.

Brownies

In keeping with my "if I want to eat it, I have to make it" rule, I decided to make brownies for dessert last night. They weren't from scratch or anything, they were from a box which feels like cheating, but they were on sale the other day so I picked up a couple boxes, and besides I didn't specify in the rules whether or not they had to be "from scratch". I'll think on that. I did however sprinkle Heath toffee bits on the top. Those little bits o' heaven are one of my favorite things to bake with these days, but I can only find them at Wal-Mart. It was actually a spur of the moment decision so I actually took the brownies out of the oven, sprinkled about half the package on the top, then stuck it back in. I think next time I might just mix up the whole package in the batter.

So you might be wondering what happened to the edges. I confess, that was me. That's one of my "things". I love the edges. They are irresistible to me. They call to me. After I sent the kids to bed, I snuck back into the kitchen and ate all the edges. Wrong on so many levels, I know. For starters, I know better than to be eating brownies at 9:00 at night. And 10:00. And 11:00. (I tried to control myself, but I was lacking in the will-power department last night). Also, I waited until they were in bed, because I was afraid I would have to share. Afraid that they might figure out that are missing out on the best part. And I am totally un-apologetic in my edge eating. This morning Nick pointed it out that "somebody ate all the edges last night" I told him it was the brownie fairies. I don't think he believed me.

Cheater

So I have this continual dilemma before me- continue to pursue my fantasy career as a pastry chef or be skinny? It's kinda hard to choose. And the irony of it all is that when I can't eat it, that's when I want to make it the most. Suddenly I am (again) addicted to the Food Network, and this time around I have found food blogs which chronicle other people's adventures in their kitchen. Very addictive. It's almost more than one person can take. But then whenever I have taken a vacation from dieting, the need to bake and what not is not so prevalent. It's kind of like fry sauce. When I am in Utah I eat more fry sauce (and hence more fries) because I can't get good fry sauce in Arizona, but when we had an Iceberg here, I rarely went.

So here's the deal I made with myself- because I can't I want to more, then I feel deprived and I feel like all those recipes are just rotting on the shelf, and I get cranky about it, and I want to learn and grow and be creative in the way that I choose, and I can't because my jeans are too tight, so, I decided that I CAN. I can eat whatever dessert I want as long as I made it. Of course, that doesn't mean ALL of it. I need to practice some restraint. I may not make up a batch of brownies and then eat them all while the kids are at school. I may not eat half a raspberry pie all by myself and I may not sit on the couch and watch the Food Network, and eat cookie dough straight from the mixing bowl. How this will work out over the next few months, I don't know, maybe since I have permission from myself, I won't crave stuff so much, or maybe I will balloon up because I gave in to all my creative impulses.

This also applies to ice-cream. I have an ice-cream maker that hasn't seen much use in the past couple years, but I started salivating thinking of all the kinds of ice-cream I could play around with. I could make caramelly pralines and cream. I could make chocolate and crush up Snicker's bars just like Cold Stone. I could attempt to make a good cinnamon ice-cream just like Farr's in Utah. And by cinnamon I mean like cinnamon bears and red-hots and hot tamales. Not like the cinnamon ice-cream that fried ice-cream is generally made out of. Oh how I craved that when I was pregnant with Nick. So what i was craving last weekend was mint chocolate chip. But alas, that would be breaking my first rule because nobody else in my house would probably eat it. They might taste it, but I'd end up eating it all. Probably in one maybe two sittings, depending on my will-power that day. So I made root beer ice cream. That was John's request. That is his favorite flavor. And Zach is always begging for root beer floats and we are always missing one if not both of the ingredients for a root beer float. Sure, why not? I say. Maybe my craving will pass. The ice cream turned out good enough. I will probably use more extract next time, but the kids loved it.

Here's the problem. My ice cream maker got this teeny little crack in it, and it started leaking while I was mixing the ice cream. Not into the ice cream, just onto my counter. Sadly though I had to retire it to the big black garbage can. RIP. I'm in the market for another one, but I need to consult Alton Brown on the properties of what makes the perfect one.

So here's where the cheating comes in. I bought myself a little pint of Haagen Dazs mint chip at the grocery store the other day. I guess that craving never went away. And it bothers me it wasn't green. I guess their dedication to quality involves not using food coloring. I still wish it was green. But don't tell John. I had to hide it in the back of the freezer so I wouldn't have to listen to him say "Did you make that?". He's trying to be supportive. It's my goal and challenge for myself after all.

About that picture- That is written on the wall in my kitchen. It confused my kids so I had to clarify for them. I told them it could mean a number of different things. I told them that some cooks like to substitute healthier things into their food and change the recipe so it has less calories/and or fat. Some cooks like to sneak things into food, like spinach in their brownies. And some people are just lousy cooks. Of course then there are the cooks who are none of the above, but are a lot more dedicated to their stairmaster than I ever could be (but am working on), or worse yet, there are those with the enviable metabolisms and can cook whatever they want, however they want, and still look fabulous.

Get out of jail free

So Nick is a straight A student. At least at heart he is. He is so smart, and he loves school and learning. There isn't a subject he isn't interested in, except maybe spelling, but he gets that from his dad. He reads probably more than I do, wants to be a scientist when he grows up, would rather visit Washington DC than Disneyworld, can't wait to take a foreign language, and he thinks Shakespeare and poetry and square roots are pretty awesome. So why oh why then is my straight A student's grades closer to straight F's than A's? I'm not really asking, because the answer lies in a million different places, but the point is, there are days when we as parents are fit to be tied. Questioning, talking, yelling, screaming, lecturing, threatening, promising the world, grounding, you name it, we've done it. Some days I am so ready to sell him to the gypsies, and then he goes and says stuff like this:

Yesterday John and I were discussing summer plans. On the top of the list were the swimming lessons. Oh how I hate the swimming lessons. This year we want to get Nick onto a swim team (I generally don't think about it until too late). That's not so bad, except I like to sleep in in the summer and getting up at 6:00 or earlier is not my cup of tea. But I can let the other kids sleep or watch TV while I drop Nick off, and at least I don't have to stick around. It's the sticking around part that I hate the most. It's miserably hot and boring, and this year I will have a two year old with me. Past experience has taught me that two year olds at swim lessons are impossible. They want to be in the water playing and splashing or running around and getting lost, and they don't understand why they can't. My only other option is to take one of those parent-tot classes and get in with him, but I hate that option as well. It might feel cooler, but that means getting in a swimsuit, and swimsuits are not my friends. Nick's listening to this discussion and he interjects at this point with

"Well mom, if your swimsuits are too big for you cause you're so skinny, you should just go buy yourself another one."

I told him he was my favorite child. I guess that means I have to keep him for now. (just kidding, Nick, I love you!- but please, oh please, bring up those grades!)

This was Christopher last year whenever we went swimming. He HATED it. I'm guessing this year will be opposite, cause he likes to play in bath tubs, but since I'm the world's worst gambler, this just might be the face I will have to look at while I force him to get in the pool with me.The girl can actually swim, but I think another year of lessons wouldn't hurt.

Here's Nick trying to play with Christopher, but he wasn't having any of that.

Zach is lost without a floaty. He finally got over some of his anxieties about drowning last summer to make some progress, but I still foresee at least a few years of swim lessons in his future.

How babies are made

So I know I seem to post alot about Zach, but he just cracks us up. Today was no exception.

I don't know if there is something in the water or whatever, but there seems to be a lot of baby making going on out there. Anyways, I was helping out at Zach's school, and I had got to chat with his teacher today and she told me how she was pregnant (which totally makes three for three of my kid's teachers this year). I mentioned it to Zach on the way home, and this was more or less the conversation-

"Guess what! Your teacher is pregnant! She is gonna have a baby!"
"She has a baby in her stomach?"
"yes she does! Isn't that exciting?"
"How did it get in there? Did she eat it?"
"Um, no, it just grew there."
"It just grew there?" (can you hear the skepticism in his voice?)
(me sweating) "Yep."
"Oh, okay." (whew!)

I probably wouldn't have posted that, but then a few hours later Zach made this out-of-the-blue statement to John.

"It takes a lot of science to make a baby. And math."

We didn't inquire further.

Sprouts

There's a Sprouts around the corner from my house. It's my new favorite store. Not so much for what I can buy there, which is part of it, but how it makes me feel. It's a farmers market type of store lots of fresh produce, and my very favorite bread and even chocolate covered gummy bears for John (but who are we kidding? I can eat my fair share of those little wonders as well.) But getting back to how it makes me feel. It makes me feel all healthy and green.

I wish I could draw a picture, that would explain things better, but if I were to drive there, It would probably take 5-10 minutes, including loading kids in the car, unloading kids from the car, making the two left hand turns it takes to get into the parking lot, etc. But if I walked, it only takes 7 minutes (at a leisurely pace, I timed it) though not including strapping Christopher into the stroller. There's a sidewalk that takes you straight to the front door, and I don't even have to cross any streets. It's a lovely walk on days like yesterday. (and today for that matter, but I went yesterday and was pondering all this in my 15 total round trip minutes of walking that it took me to pick up some fresh bread, milk and strawberries.) Here's the list of things that made me feel so good that I came up with yesterday-

- Perfect 68 degree weather

-cloudless skies

-slight cool breeze

-birds chirping

-happy baby (he loves stroller rides)

-15 minutes of exercise

-buying healthy things for my family

-using my re-usable green bag instead of getting plastic

-recycling the plastic bags from all the other stores

-not using the gas it would have taken in my Suburban (Yukon XL, but same thing really)

-bonus- I can send Nick there when I need a last minute ingredient. No driver's license required.

Also there's a Subway just across the parking lot. So for lunch I could totally spend the extra two minutes and go pick up a sandwich. It makes me feel all Jared-like. Except I think I am sure he walked more than 10 minutes each way to get his subway sandwich and lose all that weight. Still....

Of course like all perfect things, I know this will have to come to an end. In a month, the situation won't be so idyllic, and the only breeze I will welcome will be from the comfort of my air-conditioned gas guzzling car.