It was quite likely all but inevitable.  In a house with five sons you might think this would’ve happened long ago, but you would’ve thought wrong.  On Monday, Ty and [...]]]>

I told Ty to look thoughtful. Did he break his brain? What, in heaven's name, is that boy doing with his lips?

It was quite likely all but inevitable.  In a house with five sons you might think this would’ve happened long ago, but you would’ve thought wrong.  On Monday, Ty and one of his brothers were taking turns leaping from the couch (HOW many TIMES have I said don’t DO that?).  Now that’s verboten enough… but here’s where it gets fun.  The non-jumper sat behind the jumper who was crouched like a ski-jumper.  Non-jumper applied swiftly moving feet to jumper’s backside to provide added acceleration as the jumper leapt.  The first round went smoothly as can be;  Crouch, kick the bum, fly, land, accept accolades on an impressive performance from your brothers.  Then it was Ty’s turn.  Ty crouched, jumped, received the boost from the brother behind him, flew through the air and landed square on his wrist.*  Cue pain.

*You may be wondering how all this escaped my notice.  It didn’t.  I was in the kitchen, I heard the first thud, dropped my dinner preparation and was on my way into the room hollering, “Knock it off!” as Ty hit the floor.  Boys can move remarkably quickly when they’re afraid the game will be stopped by Mom.

I knew there was a big problem as soon as Ty hit because that boy does.not.cry.  And well, he won’t like me saying it, but he was crying.  Big time.  It took The Evil Genius forty-five minutes to get home since he was already en route and he hasn’t figured out tesseracting or self-contained flight pods just yet.  By the time he got home, Ty had eaten his dinner (“But MOM!  I have to eat if I’m going to the hospital!”) and his wrist had started looking mighty big and there was a lump where one ought not be.  And my ankles started feeling weak.  Because isn’t it really all about me?  (Sorry, son.  I’m trying to improve.)

Getting his coat on was tricky -and completely mandatory since it was a balmy 12°F outside.  The Evil Genius rigged up a splint (of course he did) and got Ty out to the car and strapped while I grabbed insurance cards and our five-gallon bucket of hand sanitizer.  (I’m kidding, it was really only a half-gallon.  That’s the biggest size I can find locally.)

The Urgent Care department wasn’t exactly hopping (there was just one woman in the waiting room) and Ty was triaged straight into the examination area.  This was greeted with protests from the other woman who had apparently been “…waiting for two hours with a very sore throat!” and insisted on being seen ahead of my child whose arm was dangling (oh dear Lord please help me not look at his dangling arm.  I already can’t feel my feet.*)  The last I heard, she was still complaining loudly as the door closed behind us in the Urgent Care area.

*Unlike my R.N. mother and First Responder father, I have an extremely helpful auto-response to other people’s pain.  I go numb.  Physically.  It starts at the feet and the more I observe pain/bruises/cuts/contusions, etc… the less of myself I feel.  My parents have at times found this to be a hilarious parlor game.  Talk about awful stuff seen at work/on ambulance runs and watch Rebecca dissolve into a puddle of uselessness on the floor.  Har har.  Hilarious when in my misspent youth, but not so useful as a parent.  When Leif fell down the stairs and stood up with a bloody head years ago the most vivid memory I have of the whole thing was vaguely dabbing at his head-wound with a dishrag.  Not a clean one.  Oh boy.

So the kind nurses and doctors iced Ty’s arm and wheeled us toward radiology because that bump on his wrist was growing larger by the moment. (Help!  I can’t feel anything from my knees down!)  Ty, at this point, was cracking jokes with the doctors.  His humour was mainly revolving around the fact that he had uncontrollable gas that was the result of the massive pile of refried beans he had consumed for lunch.  That’s right.  A likely broken arm and my boy was breaking wind in public and joking about it.  I can at least say this; he’s consistent.

The radiologist had me wait outside while she snapped many, many lovely interior pictures of my third born.  I was slumped on my back in a chair and my legs flopping akimbo in the waiting room since I was now without sensation from the waist down. The radiologist popped her head around the corner and motioned for me to join them.  I jumped up, trying to act all casual like that’s just how I always sit in waiting rooms.  She apologized because, “He hadn’t liked her much when she had to twist his arms like this…”  GACK!  My eyes!  They are NUMB!”  When the room stopped twisting I realized she was telling me that there were ‘obvious breaks’  (BREAKS!  Plural! Oh heavenly father.) and ‘less obvious areas of concern’.  She took a few more films and decided that Ty had a fracture in not just his radius, and not just his ulna, but his radius, his ulna AND his humerus.  That’s right.  Because when we do things in our family we do them ALL THE WAY.

And then they said they would send us home.  Now hang on one cotton pickin’ second.  “Home?  With no cast?”  asked I, “You do know I have four other sons, right?”  They said, “Don’t worry, ma’am.  We’ll put a splint on him and you can go see an orthopod in the next day or two.”  DAY OR TWO?  Come on, people.

Well, as it would turn out, they knew what they were doing.  (Go figure.)  The swelling (oh dear, the swelling…) had to subside so they could cast him properly.  And the orthopod was quick to get us in the next morning.

Ty left the office (where he cracked yet more gas, beans and related jokes and was joined in the tomfoolery by his Nana.) with a spiffy camouflage full-arm cast.  I left feeling a little more fortified since his arm was now protected (although it was a near thing when they removed that sling and I saw his REALLY PUFFY arm.  Oh my poor baby.)   I felt equal to talking loudly to cover up the fact that I was about to fall over every 15 seconds when I looked at his puffy fingers poking out of the cast.  Nana treated us to a fun lunch at Subway (What, Mom?  Do I look peaked to you?  I don’t know what you mean…) and we got home before getting socked by a winter storm.

And Ty?  Well, he’s doing just fine.  He took the news that sledding season is over for him with a reasonable amount of aplomb for an eight year old boy.  He discovered that his cast makes a mighty formidable weapon of intimidation against his brothers. (“I’ll brain ya with THIS if you don’t back off!”)  And he managed to make it a full 43 hours before he was compelled to, just had to, felt an undeniable biological need to wrestle with a brother.

They were happy to oblige.

As for me, it took me twelve hours to type this since I did it from the floor with the keyboard resting on my stomach with completely sensation-free wrists.  If someone could just proof-read this for me…

This is sweet Leif.  He likes to be where I am.  Or where his Dad is.  If I step backward without checking, there’s a better than average chance that I’ll step on him. He’s my right elbow guy (because that’s his preferred location.)

We were confabbing at the grill while I whipped up some hamburgers last week.  [...]]]>

This is sweet Leif.  He likes to be where I am.  Or where his Dad is.  If I step backward without checking, there’s a better than average chance that I’ll step on him. He’s my right elbow guy (because that’s his preferred location.)

We were confabbing at the grill while I whipped up some hamburgers last week.  It was late (because I am a bad, bad mother and we were just getting dinner done at 8:45p.m.) and it was a warm and gusty early September evening.)  Leif pointed at the hazy moon and said, “MOM!  Look at da moon!”  It was simply breathtaking.  The wind was making the trees whistle and the moon was wreathed with mist and haze. I told Leif that it reminded me of one of my favorite poems, ‘The Highwayman’ by Alfred Noyes, and asked if he would like to hear the part that reminded me of the weather that night.  He nodded, happy just to be at my elbow.  I flipped the burgers and started reciting,

“THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.”

I paused and looked at Leif who was staring at me with an expression somewhere between fear and wonderment and bewilderment painted all over his face.

“Leif,” quoth I, “Do you like the poem so far?”  Leif replied, “Is da human coming now?”

“Er, what?” I asked.

“Da humans?  Are dey riding here now?”

“Oh!” I said with realization dawning over me, “No, honey.  What I said was ‘highwayman’ not ‘human’.  And he’s not real.  He’s not coming here.”

“When is he coming here?  Is he coming on a horse?” continued Leif.

“Sweetie, it’s just a poem.  He doesn’t really exist.” I insisted.

“Is his horse purple?” Leif carried on, unconvinced.

“Oh for cryin’ out loud, Leif.  There’s no horse.  And the poem said ‘The road was a winding ribbon over the purple moor…’ not purple horse.  Could you please go get me a plate for these burgers?”

“Sure, Mom.” Leif shouted as he ran back in the house.  As he slammed the door, I heard him yell in voice calculated to wake the nearest neighbors who live a quarter of a mile away, “HEY GUYS!  MOM SAYS DERE’S MORE HUMANS ON PURPLE HORSES RIDING TO DA HOUSE!  AND DEY’RE BRINGING GHOSTS.”

Maybe I should’ve stayed in theater.  Apparently my delivery is excellent… (See Dad and Mom?  Those student loans were not without benefit!)

But the burgers…  I’ve submitted the burger recipe  that I was preparing to the ‘Build a Better Burger  Contest’ two years in a row.  Two years in a row I’ve heard nothing.  But I’m going to share it with you all this weekend because it’s the best burger I’ve ever had.  And I tell you that ‘BaBB’ made the biggest mistake of their history by rejecting my burger.  I promise you this and I will prove it.  Stay tuned…

~~~~~~~~~~~~

For your next windy, hazy night…

Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)The Highwayman

PART ONE

I

THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain .

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

*           *           *           *           *           *

X

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

With Christmas love,

Rebecca and Val.

TRADITION A Trapp Family Christmas Shouldn’t this year be more spiritual? Good luck!

by: ALOÏSE BUCKLEY HEATH

One of the reasons — I say one of the reasons because I could think of several others if [...]]]> Every year we read this essay at Christmas time and it makes us immeasurably happy.  We wanted to share the joy and hilarity with you…

With Christmas love,

Rebecca and Val.

TRADITION
A Trapp Family Christmas
Shouldn’t this year be more spiritual? Good luck!

by: ALOÏSE BUCKLEY HEATH

 

One of the reasons — I say one of the reasons because I could think of several others if I put my mind to it — that I kept on having babies for years after all my classmates were taking turns being president of the Planned Parenthood Association was that I always thought a big family would be such fun at Christmas. Which who doesn’t, including people like me, who know? I know why Ben Heath, who is tied to me by the bonds of marriage, has the spirit of Christmas around Thanksgiving and the spirit of Ash Wednesday around Christmas. I keep telling him I know. “I know,” I say. “I know. I know. I know.”

 

I know we always get more glitter and glue on the floor than on the candles, and that I never remember to wipe it up until the dining-room carpet (new last January) is permanently (though not uninterestingly, I always think) spangled. I know I look absolutely insane crawling around in the snow for weeks before Christmas, putting candy canes on window sills and then galloping madly off in the dark, jingling sleighbells and shouting, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” I know the newsboy would rather have two dollar bills than a $1.95 flashlight wrapped in green paper and silver ribbon with “MERVYN” spelled out in red Scotch tape. I know no one can eat those Cut ’n’ Bake cookies after the children have decorated them with green sugar and cinnamon hearts (Christmas trees), and then with more cinnamon hearts and melted marshmallow (Santa Clauses), and then with more melted marshmallow and pink crayon (angels). I know it’s un-Gesell and not even altogether Spock to match candid blue eye to candid blue eye with a ten-year-old and say: “But, sweetie, how should I know why Polly’s Santa Claus is really her father? Maybe her father has to be her Santa Claus, poor little thing! Maybe Santa Claus just doesn’t like Polly. Ever think of that?”

 

I also know ten children who aren’t going to see this issue of National Review.

 

I know all that. What I didn’t know till this year was what Ben meant, every Christmastide, when he tossed out, not at all at random, the words “materialistic” and “spiritual.” What I always thought he meant was that it would be materialistic for Alison and Betsey and Jennifer and Timothy to get a Chatty Cathy apiece, but spiritual for them to share one. I mean, that’s what I thought until one afternoon last week.

 

That afternoon they were all in the coat closet (well, they were, that’s all; they like the coat closet) making out their Christmas lists. Pam, who can spell, was helping the ones who can’t write; and Alison, who is magic, was helping the ones who can’t talk. I had my ear at the crack in the door, listening, because I’m still trying to hear one of those childhood conversations whose innocent candor tears at your heartstrings. You’ve read about them, I’m sure.

 

What I heard was my dear little ones calculating how much more each of them would get for Christmas if they didn’t have so many brothers and sisters to share the loot. They itemized, giving reasons for their choice, the siblings they would gladly exchange for a hockey stick or an army bugle or a Barbie doll with a different dress for every single day of the week. From what I could hear through the crack, nobody kept Buckley and Timothy, which is understandable — let’s face it — but not nice.

 

Then and there I decided (yes, again) that there is more to old Ben than meets the eye, and that this Christmas the Heaths would be spiritual. Spiritual also, I mean. At my age you can’t just cut those old materialistic ways right out of your life. And by coincidence I happened to be reading, at the time, a book called Around the Year with the Trapp Family. Actually, I was reading it to find out why the Trapps play the recorder better than we do, a fact which is widely bruited by those who have heard us, though not necessarily the Trapps. It turned out, though, that the Trapp family spends its year not practicing the recorder, as I had hoped, but “Keeping the Feasts and Seasons of the Christian Year,” which is, in fact, the subtitle of the book. We plunged into keeping the Christmas Season of the Christian Year like the Trapps. Some of us (me) plunged more enthusiastically than others (Jim, Pam, John, Priscilla, Buckley, Alison, Betsey, Jennifer, Timothy, Janet, and their father).

 

Certainly some of the things the Trapp family does at Christmas are not entirely suited to the Heath family. I know. I know. And some — give me that much — I didn’t even try. Like baking the traditional Spekulatius on December 6 (St. Nicholas’s Day), for instance; or the traditional Kletzenbrot on December 21 (St. Thomas’s Day); or even the traditional Lebzelten, Lebkuchen, Spanish Wind, Marzipan, Rum Balls, Nut Busserln, Coconut Busserln, Stangerln, Pfeffernüsse, and Plain Cookies on December 23. Especially since the freezer was bulging with all those still Uncut ’n’ Unbaked rolls of cookie dough. Nor did I consider for more than one mad moment suggesting that all the children take a nap before Midnight Mass and that their father awaken them by initiating a procession from room to room with a lighted candle, singing “Shepherds Up!” (each verse pitched a half-tone higher than the last), though I think it would be lovely, myself. Maybe when Ben is older . . . mellower . . .

 

We did make an Advent Wreath with four red candles, and it was beautiful; but John and Priscilla are Junior Fire Marshals, and though they said it was all right to hang the wreath from the ceiling on four red ribbons, they wouldn’t even discuss letting us light the candles after the wreath was hung. Anyway, I know perfectly well that Ben Heath would light off for the South Seas before he would light the candles, stand under the wreath, read the Gospel for the day, and listen to the children sing: “Ye heavens, dew drop from above and rain ye clouds the Just One . . .” Even if I could get the children to sing it. Are your children giggly?

 

The Trapps say that “Silent Night” should be sung for the first time on Christmas Eve, and I agree with them, and the children agreed with me, which would have been enough to make me abandon the whole idea if I hadn’t been so bemused with good will and all. It wasn’t till I got the notes from Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miano, Mr. Segar, Mrs. Arnold, Miss Billingham, Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Larratt, and Miss Bates that I remembered that the Fourth Form Glee Club Concert, the Grade VII Carol Sing, the Grade VI Christmas Vespers, the Grade III Christmas Play, the Grade II Christmas Chapel, the Grade I Christmas Assembly, the Kindergarten Christmas Program, and the Nursery School Christmas Party (to all of which I have been kindly invited) have three things in common: rehearsals, Heaths, and “Silent Night.” I quite understand, I wrote Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miano, Mr. Segar, Mrs. Arnold, Miss Billingham, Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Larratt, and Miss Bates.

 

I really didn’t see how the Christkindl custom could go wrong, though. I still don’t. In the Trapp family, at the beginning of Advent, everyone writes his name on a piece of paper and the papers are put in a basket, which is passed around as soon as the children have finished singing “Ye heavens, dew drop from above.” Everybody picks a name from the basket, and the pickee, if you follow me, becomes the picker’s secret Christkindl, and the idea is, you do your Christkindl a good turn every day until Christmas without letting him know who you are. It sounds simple, spiritual, and also fun, doesn’t it? And it works out beautifully in the Trapp family. In fact, through Advent until Christmas, the Trapp household resounds with the glad cries of Christkindlen who have found their shoes shined, their dollhouses tidied up, or the table already set the day it was their turn. But there are a few technical problems that I feel you should know about, just in case you plan to be spiritual next Christmas.

 

 

In our house, the first technical problem was Jim. Jim said he was too old for this kind of thing, and I said, what did he mean, too old: Most of the Trapps are older than he is; and he said, not those dumb kids that sang that dumb Do-Re-Mi song aren’t older than he is; and I said, well, if he thought he was too old at 15, what did he think I was?; and he said too old at 42 (never tell your children your age), but anyhow, I won, because after all, I’m the one who has to sign his driver-education permission slip — and also, if I didn’t drive all over New England every Saturday to see the Kingswood JV wrestle, who would? Then the others said, what about Timothy and Janet? Timothy and Janet were too little to do good turns to their Christkindlen, so why should they be anybody else’s Christkindlen? I said, I must say, this didn’t sound very much like the spirit of Christmas to me, and I would take care of the babies’ Christkindlen if everyone was so worried, and let’s draw, for heaven’s sake!

 

So we drew, and five of them drew their own names and Janet ate one, which turned out, after we hit her on the back, to be John. So we made another slip for John (a piece of paper our baby has eaten is distinctive) and we drew again and eight of them drew their own names. I said, maybe it would work out better if I drew a name for each of them, and they said, no sir, not and have you know who everybody’s Christkindl is and comparing what everybody did for their Christkindlen, no sir, Mother, none of that stuff. Jim and Pam said that if they could have paper and pencil and peace and quiet they could probably work it out by mathematical probabilities, but it was getting pretty late, so I called them up by ages, and before Jim drew I took out his name, and before Pam drew I took out her name and put back Jim’s, and so on. (Well, unless I tell you, how will you ever know how to do it?)

 

When we had all drawn (which took far more time to do than to read about, no matter what you’re thinking), everybody opened his little slip of paper “at a given signal.” That’s how the Trapps do it, and that’s how we did it. I said: “Everybody ready? One. Two. Three. Open. Well, pick it up and open it now, Alison! Everybody does not have to fold their paper up again and forget the names they drew. . . . Besides, how could they? . . . Not fold the papers, for heaven’s sake; forget the names! . . . Well, all right . . . all right, I said; we’re starting over. Everybody ready? One. Ready — Alison, anybody would think you were five and a half. Two. Three. Open. ALISON!!”

 

So we opened our little slips of paper at a given signal (the Trapps said “a” given signal, after all, not which) (what irritates me is that Alison can’t even read!) and everybody learned the name of his secret — secret, mind you — Christkindl. This is another uniformly joyful moment in the Trapp family. At this moment in the Heath family, Jim looked up from his slip, glared at John, and groaned. John looked up from his slip, glared at Jim, and made vomiting noises. Priscilla said: “Oh, Mother, do I have to have that pest?”

 

Buckley said: “Mother, how do you think that makes a poor little boy feel to have everybody in this whole absolute world call him a pest every absolute minute?”

 

Everybody nudged everybody else. “Jim has John. John has Jim. Priscilla has Buckley,” they told each other.

 

The non-readers came running up to find out who their Christkindlen were. “Pam,” I whispered into Betsey’s ear.

 

“Pam,” shrieked Betsey.

 

“Betsey has Pam,” everybody told everybody else.

 

“Tim-Tim, but don’t tell,” I whispered into Jennifer’s ear.

 

She flung her arms around Timothy’s head. “Tim-Tim, I know sumpeen. I know sumpeen, Tim-Tim,” she roared.

 

“Jennifer has Timothy,” everybody told everybody else. The baby ate her paper again, but it was all right this time: I knew whose name she had eaten. I had arranged for us to draw each other, because we’re in love.

 

A few minutes later they thundered upstairs to homework or bed, and even over the rattling of the window panes I heard the negotiations starting. “Well, then, will you trade Priscilla for Alison and a nickel? For Alison and a dime? For me not hiding your shell collection? For me not hitting you in the stomach as hard as I can?”

 

Actually, it didn’t turn out too badly. After a few days of such good turns as reporting that a Christkindl hadn’t done his arithmetic because he was going to copy Georgie’s before school tomorrow (and he just can’t learn anything that way, can he, Mother?), or throwing a Christkindl’s cherished leather jacket into the washing machine (because it was so absolutely filthy he could have got germs from it, Mother), or taking the batteries out of a Christkindl’s flashlight because she reads under the covers after bedtime (and that’s why practically everybody practically constantly goes blind, isn’t it, Mother?), everybody was getting pretty tense, not to mention bloody, until one of them — I haven’t asked which — found a solution: Every Sunday now, they each buy seven penny lollipops, and every night they slip a lollipop under their Christkindl’s pillow. Well, I know that doesn’t sound so terribly spiritual, but it’s better than what they used to do. What they used to do was steal each other’s lollipops.

 

I wouldn’t want anybody to think that my baby and I have sunk to such a mundane relationship, though. We haven’t had to change our routine at all. Every morning Janet allows her Christkindl to rock her a little; and every evening I rock my Christkindl a little.

 

BY REBECCA LINDAMOOD Local Columnist

When I heard shushed giggling after sending the kids up to get in their jammies last night, my suspicious nature assumed the worst.

When I snuck to the top of the stairs and [...]]]> More Record-Eagle fun, for the record.

08/28/2006

Foodie with Family

If it comes on a stick, it has to be good

BY REBECCA LINDAMOOD
Local Columnist

When I heard shushed giggling after sending the kids up to get in their jammies last night, my suspicious nature assumed the worst.

When I snuck to the top of the stairs and saw my 4-year-old with pants on his head rather than his lower extremities and his 6-year-old brother laughing next to him, my concerns heightened. I pulled the 6-year-old into my room for a private confab.

“What were you guys doing in there? ” I asked.

“Just playin’, Mom,” Aidan replied.

“Why were his pants on his head?” I asked.

“I dunno,” he replied.

“What were you doing in there?” I repeated slowly for emphasis.

“Just balancing a hackey sack on his head,” was the final reply.

I gave the canned “Please don’t balance a hackey sack on your brother’s head while he’s not wearing pants” speech and ushered the big guy out of the room and the little guy, Ty, into to the room to continue the interrogation.

“What were you guys doing in there?”

“We were being bad,” was the whispered response.

“What kind of bad?” (YIKES! Was my thought…)

“We were saying bad words…” (Phew…)

“What kind of bad words?”

“My brother said … grimbly.”

“Umm …” (holding back laughter) “Grimbly is not a bad word. What did YOU say?”

“I said stooopid.”

“OK, that is a bad word. Please don’t say that again. Did you say anything else?”

“My brother said crunchy.”

“That’s really not a bad word either and you know that. What did YOU say?”

“I said shut up.”

“Yep, that’s a bad one, too. You know better. I don’t want you to say that again.”

He paused and looked thoughtful and as he was leaving the room said, “OK. Mommy, can I some food on a stick tomorrow since I told the truth?”

I’m not sure why or how he made the leap from wearing pants and hackey sacks on his head while saying verboten words to skewered vittles, but I figured his honesty at least warranted a corn dog. If it’s on a stick, it’s popular in our home. Here are a couple of our standards that are prized for their ease of preparation, thriftiness and ability to be customized in order to please everyone. Oh … and because they’re on sticks.

Homemade Quick Corn Dogs

• 1 11-oz. can refrigerated cornbread twists
• 1 package of eight all-beef hot dogs
• 8 Popsicle sticks, skewers or wooden chopsticks

Preheat oven to 375°. Open the package of cornbread twists and unroll it. Separate into 16 strips. Push the Popsicle sticks about halfway into the hot dogs. Take one strip of cornbread dough and begin wrapping at the base of one end of the hot dog, continuing until strip runs out. If necessary, press another strip to the end and continue wrapping to the end of the hot dog. Pinch off the excess to use on another hotdog. It is not necessary or desirable to completely cover each hot dog with dough. The main goal is to get a nice spiral of cornbread from top to bottom of each frank.

When all the skewered dogs are wrapped, space them evenly on a cooling rack on top of a cookie sheet and bake for 16-18 minutes or until golden brown and sizzling hot. Serve with mustard, ketchup, hot sauce or other dip of your choice.

Note: For a meatless alternative, use vegetarian dogs, increase oven temperature to 400° and lower baking time to 10 minutes.

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Oh the fun of this next recipe. Embellish the dipped brownies with whatever suits your fancy. I like toffee baking bits or chopped peanuts. My kids like rainbow sprinkles. You can substitute any flavor baking chips for the chocolate chips. Use your imagination and go wild.

Brownies-On-A-Stick

• 1 package family size brownie mix, batter prepared according to the cake-style instructions
• 1 c. chocolate chips
• 1 T. vegetable shortening
• Assorted chopped nuts, sprinkles, candies, etc…
• Nonstick cooking spray

Preheat oven to 350°. Line a 9-by-13-inch baking pan with parchment paper or foil that extends over the edges of the pan. This makes extraction of the baked brownies in one piece a snap. Spray the foil or parchment paper lightly with nonstick cooking spray. Pour brownie batter into prepared pan and bake according to package instructions. Allow brownies to cool completely in the pan. When brownies are room temperature, place pan into the freezer for 30 minutes. Extract brownies from pan by lifting parchment paper or foil away from edges and out of the pan.

Lay brownies with the paper facing up on a cutting board. Remove paper and cut brownies into 24 equal sized rectangles (four rows width-wise and six rows lengthwise). Gently insert Popsicle sticks halfway into the end of each brownie bar and place on a wax paper-lined tray. Put tray back in freezer while preparing the chocolate topping.

In a microwave-safe bowl, combine chocolate chips and shortening. Microwave on high one minute and stir. Return bowl to microwave and heat in 15-second increments until the mixture is completely smooth when stirred. Working with one at a time, grip the stick and dunk the top half of the chilled brownie bar into the chocolate mixture. Allow the excess to drip off, place back on tray and sprinkle with the toppings you prefer. Place tray in fridge until chocolate topping has hardened. Leftovers can be kept tightly wrapped in fridge for up to a week or in the freezer for up to a month.

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While on the subject of brownies and my 4-year-old, the other day he came walking into the room performing a maneuver that I can only describe as scrubbing his tongue with a sweat sock. When I asked him why he had a sock in his mouth, he responded disdainfully, “To get da dirt out of my mouf.”

It was obvious that he was neither joking nor lying when I peered in his mouth and saw terra firma packed in his rear molars. I asked why he had dirt in his mouth. He looked at me and said in a tone that made clear he was explaining what should have been obvious, “Muh-ommm, I fought it was a piece of brownie dat fell on da floor and dried. You know I wuv brownies.”

Because the dry brownie mixes in the store go on sale nearly weekly, we have brownies frequently. There is an almost infinite number of ways to customize a brownie mix using some common but delicious add-ins and some easy methods. You can make them as fancy or as simple as your taste dictates. Here is one of our all-time favorites. It can either be prepared in the pan or in individual dessert cups for a mouth-watering showstopper of a dessert.

Mocha Toffee Cloud Nine Brownies

• 1 3-oz package instant chocolate pudding
• 1 3-oz package instant vanilla pudding
• 1&1/3 c. cold milk
• 4 t. instant coffee dissolved in 1 T. hot tap water
• 2 c. frozen whipped topping, thawed (or 2 c. whipped cream)
• 1 c. chocolate-covered toffee bits (or 6-8 Heath Bars, smashed)
• 1 family-size brownie mix, prepared cake-style (with extra egg) in a 9-by-13-inch pan and completely cooled.

In a bowl, mix the first four ingredients with a whisk until smooth. Using a spatula, fold in the whipped topping until thoroughly combined. Spread the pudding mixture over the cool brownies. Sprinkle the toffee bits evenly over the top. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 2 hours before serving. Keep leftovers tightly wrapped in fridge.

Read Rebecca’s past columns here

I have a long-standing tradition of overdoing it.

Which “it”? Basically anything that can be overdone.

I try to carry too many groceries at once. I am [...]]]> I think I got more mail after this column than any other I’ve ever written…

Foodie with Family

Comic relief offers diversion in busy lives

By Rebecca Lindamood
Local columnist

Read Rebecca’s past columns here

I have a long-standing tradition of overdoing it.

Which “it”? Basically anything that can be overdone.

I try to carry too many groceries at once. I am homeschooling, trying to grow a home baking business, raising five boys, trying to be a supportive wife, trying to move from the home where we’ve lived for 10 years into a home we have to retrofit for septic, electric and plumbing systems. Oh — and occasionally, I try to fit in a cup of tea, too.

My life may be crazy, but if I didn’t try to cram in so much at once, I’d miss out on the funny stuff. For example:

Two weeks ago I made well-child appointments with the pediatrician for all five kids at once. I knew that my husband would be unavailable to come with me, but I scheduled it anyway.

We arrived at the doctor’s nearly on time, piled and pushed our way into the front door and were quickly shown into our exam room. The nurse came in with little cups and asked the boys to give her “samples.” The eldest boys went to the restrooms while I had a heart-to-heart with my 5-year-old. I asked him if he knew what he had to do. He did. I wondered whether he could go by himself or whether he wanted me to come with him. He puffed himself up and informed me that he knew how to “go in a cup.”

His brothers returned and I saw him down to the restroom. I went back to the other boys. After what seemed a reasonable amount of time, I returned to the bathroom door and asked, “You OK in there?” He responded, “Not doing so great Momma, can you come in?”

I opened the door and beheld a styrofoam cup on the floor in front of the toilet, my 5-year-old standing about three feet from it with his trousers around his ankles and an ever-growing puddle in the cup’s general area. I suggested he pick the cup up and try it that way while I was cleaning up the puddle. His eyes brightened, he got a huge smile on his face and he said, “Oh! That’s great! I thought that was cheating. This will be much easier!”

We finished off the appointments, did a week’s worth of grocery shopping, used the kids’ Book-It certificates to eat lunch at Pizza Hut, dropped something off at a friend’s house and then went home to a crockpot busily filling my house with great smells.

Mercifully, when I overdo it in the food category, the results are usually pleasing. The recipes below make quite a bit, but they’re so good.

Cuban Style Crockpot Meat

• 1&1/2 lbs. boneless, center cut pork chops
• 1&1/2 lbs. boneless, skinless chicken breasts
• 1/4 c. cider vinegar
• 1/2 c. packed brown sugar
• 1 t. dried oregano
• 2 cloves garlic, pressed or minced
• 1 onion, peeled and chopped
• 2 T. olive oil
• Juice of one lime
• 1 8-oz. can tomato sauce
• 1/4 c. prepared yellow mustard
• 2 T. hot sauce
• 2 T. brown sugar, packed
• Coarse black pepper to taste

Combine first nine ingredients in crockpot. Cover and cook on low eight hours or until fork tender. Remove meat to a large bowl, cover lightly with foil and whisk remaining ingredients in the crockpot with the cooking juices. Shred the meats with two forks and return to the crockpot, cover and cook on high until bubbly (about 15 minutes.) Serve with steamed rice and fresh fruit salsa.

The following is a staple in our house.

FMC Mango Salsa

• 1 seeded and chopped jalapeno pepper
• 1 chopped red onion
• 1 navel orange, peeled with a knife to remove pith, cut into quarters and then thinly sliced
• 2 mangos, peeled, pitted and chopped roughly
• 1 can black beans, drained and rinsed
• 1 clove garlic, pressed or minced
• Juice of one lime
• Coarse salt to taste
• Coarse black pepper to taste
• 1/4 c. cilantro, chopped, optional

Toss together all ingredients lightly and serve immediately. Store leftovers tightly covered in the fridge. This is best eaten the day it is made but it’s not bad as leftovers.

Pepperoni and Cheese Bread

• 2 ¼ t. instant yeast
• 2 T. sugar
• 1&1/4 c. warm water (100° to 110°)
• 1 T. butter, cut into small pieces
• 3 c. all-purpose or bread flour
• 1 t. dry mustard
• 1/2 t. salt
• 1/8 t. ground red pepper
• 2 garlic cloves, minced
• 1 c. your favorite shredded cheese
• 3/4 c. chopped pepperoni (about 3 oz.)

Put first nine ingredients into bread machine in order recommended by manufacturer. If your machine has a fruit and nut bread setting, use it. Otherwise, during the second kneading (or when your machine does its add-in beep), add the pepperoni and cheese. When bread is done, turn out onto a rack and cool completely. Cut into thick slices and then into strips. Serve as is or toasted with pizza sauce.

The kids have been working [...]]]> I have been neglecting you lately, folks.  I recognize it.  We’ve been manically doing construction on the house trying to better winterize it.  The batten and paint are nearly done.  We completed one upstairs bedroom and finally moved our beds upstairs!  The den is on it’s way to becoming an actual den. 

The kids have been working on a project in between schooling, helping around the yard, planning birthday feasts*, and being wild children.  *It’s also party season around here!  All five boys’ birthdays fall -starting tomorrow- in a 3 month span along with Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s.  To say we’re in the busy season is a vast understatement.  They’re not-so-enthusiastically embarking on their annual forced toy sorting.  Unlike most sane humans who do spring cleaning, I do fall cleaning.  The way I figure it is that we’re about to be cooped up in the house for a few months while snow and ice flies and the roads become progressively more impassible.  I’ll be darned if I’m going into house arrest with a filthy, chaotic house.  After five pregnancies I have this nesting thing down pat!

The kids have informed me that I’ve sounded like a Gunny lately:

“Are you slacking?  We don’t slack around here.  Slacking is for when you die.”

“God gave you legs.  Let me see you use ‘em, boy!”

“You call THAT done?”

“I expect this to be cleared out by the time I get back in this room.  Can I get a ‘Yes, Ma’am?’”

 

The kids have been doing their best to do as little as possible.  We are, as you might say, at odds in our motivation.

There hasn’t been a great deal of innovative cooking going on lately.  We’ve been relying on old favorites; haystack dinners, frito pies, stuffed pumpkins, more haystack dinners and grilled burgers have been the fare found on our table lately.  There is nothing wrong with that.  At least we have some old reliables on which we can lean.

And in the spirit of not neglecting my beloved Foodie With Family friends any more, I’m throwing you something most of you have probably not seen before.  For the next couple weeks, while I complete my psychotic fall cleaning, I’ll put up a classic ‘Foodie With Family’ column that ran in the Record-Eagle. 

Of course, there’ll be a birthday meal post tomorrow or Saturday.  Leif has requested quite the meal, including an ice cream cake, sticky chicky bones, PB&Js, peanut butter balls, peanut butter spoons, strawberry pie, pumpkin cinnamon rolls with ‘lots and lots of icing.  Drippy icing, please, Mommy!’, and a few other various and sundry items.  I’ll at least pass along the recipes and photos for the ice cream cake and the sticky chicky bones.

In the meantime…

07/10/2006

Foodie with the Family

A quick pizza meal at the end of a crazy day

 

BY REBECCA LINDAMOOD
Local columnist

 

Last week my husband had to travel out of town on business.

 

One of our dogs needed a rabies vaccine to be registered in time to avoid a town citation and ticket. Through a combination of poor planning on my part and a packed schedule on the vet’s part, it fell to me to accomplish the task while my dearest was away.

 

To further complicate matters, it had to be done with all the kids in attendance, as we all had severe head colds and I had no desire to share the virus with friends. So, armed with a bottle of hand sanitizer and two pockets jammed full of tissues, I marched — nose dripping — into the veterinarian’s office.

 

With the baby in an infant backpack, the 2-year-old being pushed in his stroller by his “I-can-do-it-myself” 4-year-old brother, the 6-year-old fighting me for the dog’s leash and the 8-year-old dabbing at his ruby red nose, we spilled into the vet’s office. Exuding viral spores with every step, I approached the receptionist and announced our arrival.

 

I was made aware of the presence of my biggest little man at my elbow when he cleared his throat and asked the receptionist, pencil poised on heretofore hidden notebook, “Excuse me, ma’am. May I ask you a couple questions?” (We had been doing a unit study on journalism for the past week. He decided to try out his chops a bit.)

 

The receptionist was game and ‘big guy’ asked, “What is the strangest pet you’ve ever had in here?” (Not a bad question, kiddo!)

 

The receptionist paused, looked thoughtful, and answered, “I suppose that would have to be the bearded dragon we had in here last week.” That hooked him — but the receptionist ushered us through the door toward the exam room before Liam could ask another question.

 

Our 44-pound bratwurst-with-legs that is a beagle consented to being pulled by his leash into the exam area. He passed the 15 minutes spent waiting for the vet by wrapping himself and his tether around my legs first in one direction and then in the other.

 

The little men passed the time in various productive ways: Ty laid on his back on the animal exam table with his feet up in the air saying, “Just relaxin’ Mom “¦ I’m awful tired.” Aidan ran his mouth along the length of the exam table and back. “But MOM! My mouth is closed so germs can’t get in!” Leif practiced his Houdini impersonation by repeatedly loosing himself from his stroller restraints. Mercifully, baby Rowan was an angel. And Liam, well, he planned his follow-up questions.

 

Our doctor arrived and began her examination of our pooch while Liam began his examination of the doctor.

 

“I understand you had a bearded dragon in here last week. What was wrong with it?”

 

The vet responded, “Well, I don’t see the exotic pets, so I don’t know.”

 

Checking his notepad, Liam asked, “Well, what color was the bearded dragon?”

 

Patiently, the doc answered, “I’m not quite sure since I didn’t examine it.”

 

After again consulting his notes, he asked, undeterred, “Did the bearded dragon get any shots?”

 

The vet answered rather shortly, “I don’t know.” I interceded.

 

“Son,” said I, “she didn’t see the bearded dragon. Perhaps you should rethink your questions.” He paused, nodded and turned back to the vet. “Okay. So, what would you feed a bearded dragon?”

 

Hours later — dog tired (forgive the pun) and significantly lighter in the wallet — I found the mini Edward R. Murrow’s notebook while clearing out the van and got a glimpse into the wondrous mind of an 8-year-old boy. In each of the spaces after his written questions, where the vet had answered him with “I don’t know” he had written, “It’s a mystery!”

 

The upshot is that I didn’t spend much time on dinner that night. Breakfast pizzas are great for just such an occasion. They can take advantage of leftover breakfast bacon and fried potatoes.

 

You can make your own pre-baked pizza shells for those crazy nights or you can buy them when you find them on sale. Either way, keep a couple stashed in your freezer for the nights when it’s all you can do to remember to eat.

 

Breakfast Pizza

• 1 prepared thin pizza crust
• 3 T. extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 T. butter
• 8 large eggs
• 1 (10-oz.) package frozen chopped spinach, cooked and squeezed dry
• 1/2 c. finely chopped onion, or more to taste
• 1/2 to 1 c. crispy cooked crumbled bacon or ham
• Leftover fried potatoes or hash browns
• Kosher salt
• Freshly ground black pepper
• 1/2 c. shredded cheddar

 

Preheat the oven to 450°.

 

Brush the pizza crust on both sides with 1 T. olive oil. Place crust directly onto the middle rack of the oven and bake for eight to 10 minutes.

 

While the crust is cooking, break the eggs into a bowl and whisk them well, seasoning them with salt and pepper. Add the remaining 2 T. olive oil to a 10-inch skillet and heat over medium heat. Add the onions and cook until translucent, about four minutes. Add the dry spinach, breaking up the pieces, and heat through, about two minutes. Remove onions and spinach to a plate, turn the heat down to low and add the butter. Pour the egg mixture into the pan. Gently stir the eggs until they are just set and still moist, about three to four minutes.

 

Spread the scrambled eggs evenly over the baked pizza crust and top with the spinach and onions, the hash browns, the bacon and the cheese. Return to the oven until the cheese is melted and lightly browned, about 1 minute. Cut into wedges and serve hot.

 

Does this mean we’re brilliant?

We’d like to pass the award along to some folks who make us hungry every time we visit: