Another Gray Hair

Peanut Butter Edisons

The entrepreneurial spirit is alive and well in my son. Actually, he may be more of a haphazard inventor than an entrepreneur. He's really into inventing things, mostly food items. Almost all of them involve peanut butter, which makes sense considering it is the one and only source of protein in his diet. I've become somewhat of a peanut butter Edison myself, although our innovations have different origins. My sons come from a deep creative need whereas mine are born out of a lack of groceries and a burning desire to avoid Wal-Mart at all costs.

Two mornings ago, for example, I prepared a breakfast of fresh strawberries and Peanut Butter Boats, the latter consisting of ½ of a hotdog bun slathered in peanut butter. Yes, I am a genius. And yes, I do plan to copyright the idea. My kids thought they had died and went to heaven. My son went so far as to remove the boat from his plate in a dramatic interpretation of a boat crash, complete with sound effects. It was awesome.

Driven to up the ante on the peanut butter invention competition that has taken over breakfast in my house, my son came up with a radical idea this morning. Here's what he suggest:

Son: Mommy, this morning instead of doing just a Peanut Butter Boat, I have an invention. Let's put Honey Nut Cheerios on the Peanut Butter Boat.

Me: Interesting idea. What will we call it?

Son: A Peanut Butter Boat with Honey Nut Cheerios on it.

We're copyrighting that one too.

A Lunch in the Life

If I could delete food completely from the relationship that I have with my children, my family life would improve dramatically. A single green bean has the power to send myself and my children into a frantic, emotional state. I sigh and do my best to suppress the urge to pull my hair out piece by piece. My son makes horrible faces, preparing his mouth for the entrance of the microscopic bite of green bean by holding his nose with one hand and strategically placing his drink with the other. My daughter repeats the same line over and over like a mantra of disdain, "I don't like that. I don't like that. I don't like that. No! No! No!" or the perennial favorite (and bold-faced lie), "I took two bites Mommy. I took two bites Mommy. I took two bites Mommy" as if this statement has any relevance at all.  This scene lasts for at least twenty minutes every day.  It exhausts me and sends me into a frazzled Mom-state in which I use the television as a tool to remove the children from my presence. I can't take it anymore. Any suggestions? Words of wisdom?  Prescription drugs?

He Likes It! He Really Likes It! Wait… No, Maybe Not

I was forced to be creative with my dinner tonight. I usually work with a plan when it comes to dinner. I know what I'm going to have and I have all of the ingredients for each dish. I lost track of time today. It got late and I ended up with nothing defrosted. I had to improvise. I combined all of my shredded cheeses together, cut up some onions and peppers and combined them with hashbrowns for some surprisingly delicious hashbrown casserole. I defrosted some chicken and made chicken nuggets and I steamed some broccoli. I thought to myself, "Damn. You're a great Mom. You threw together a delicious, kid-friendly meal in no time flat. You go girl!"

Here's the exact response I got from my son after he finished his first bite:

When I first put it in my mouth I liked it just a little bit but when I started doing this (makes dramatic chewing motions with his teeth), it started to taste bad. The taste just got worse and worse until I swallowed it. When I eat the next bite, I'm going to try to take a small one so I don't have to chew much.

It's good to be appreciated.

Faux Potatoes

Whose bright idea was it to create “healthy mashed potatoes?” Isn’t that an oxymoron? Anyone who tells you that, when blended to the right consistency, cauliflower is a dead ringer for good ol’ fashion russets is a liar.

Mashed potatoes are a delicacy that should not be forsaken. They are usually the first sampling of “real food” that babies have the pleasure of tasting. They are a Thanksgiving staple and they can be made an infinite number of ways dependant upon the herbs and spices added, the variety of potato, the presence of skin, texture and the ratio of milk and butter. No matter how you make them, mashed potatoes are magically delicious.

Low-carbers of the world take notice: feel free to eat mashed cauliflower to your hearts’ content, just spare us the diet-speak. You and I both know that no matter how much cream cheese and garlic you throw in the mix, blended cauliflower tastes like cauliflower. God help the poor soul who serves me mashed cauliflower with my Thanksgiving turkey.

Will Work 4 Food

I am a hopelessly flawed mother. I have moments of greatness but they are outnumbered by the poor decisions that I make throughout my days. Take today. I was feeling guilty because, in the 24-hour period that follows our arrival home from any vacation, I morph into a domestic goddess. It is short lived but fabulous. I don an apron (not really—that would be my husband’s fantasy version of this story), crank up the G. Love and clean the hell out of my kitchen. By the time my work is done, the refrigerator is so shiny that you can actually see your reflection in the faux stainless steel finish. The smell of floral-laced cleaning chemicals fills the air. It is a wonderful feeling knowing that, although your children may suffer briefly from inhaling a little bleach, their chances of contracting mad cow disease or e-coli are drastically reduced. Sean and I can rest easy tonight, knowing that our children our germ free. We can address the whole bleach inhalation thing at a later date. Right now I just want to savor the cleanliness.

When I finally awake from my domestic goddess hypnotic state, I realize, Oh yeah, I’ve got some kids. Those kids might need me to acknowledge their existence sometime today. I’ve got a great idea! Let’s all cook something together. The kids will love it. I’m making vegetarian lasagna. Yum. It’s every kid’s dream dish. I try to get the kids to smash up the tofu with me. No dice. My son doesn’t want to get his hands dirty and my daughter is too busy spraying her “cleaner” (a spray bottle filled with water) on everything. So, I crack an egg open and let my son dump it into the bowl. I add the spinach, the tofu and spices and tell him to stir. No dice. My hands were freshly washed when I grabbed the spoon and I got a few water droplets on the handle. He won’t touch it. What a prima donna. My next step is layering the lasagna. This, the kids love. They place the noodles gently along the bottom of the pan and fight over who gets to do what. I try to referee, making them take turns. I usually enjoy cooking but this is work. Both my kids have to stand on chairs to reach the counter so I can hardly reach anything and I am crammed between my daughter’s chair and the stove. The space available for me, the actual cook, is about one square foot. I pour my first glass of wine of the evening.

I decide that I don’t need to feel guilty. I just spent an entire week at the beach with these mongrels. I should be able to cook in peace. I send them into the living room and shut the door (ah, the benefits of living in an older home—there’s a door between every room). I drink my wine slowly, crank up Ben Harper and wait for the lasagna to cook. When it comes to cooking assistance, I’m making up a new house rule: if you’re going to help make it, you’ve got to eat it. This should cut down drastically the presence of my little su-chefs.

Possessed Appliances

Our microwave looks like something from prehistoric times. It has no digital display, no buttons and is adorned with two old school knobs, one to choose power setting and the other to select the number of minutes. It’s a real gem and was bought, surprisingly, about three months ago. Our old microwave was fairly modern in comparison but it started exhibiting poltergeist behavior of late: turning on randomly, continuing to cook when the door was open (NOT good) and making odd noises when it was in use. I don’t deal well with possessed appliances and I told my husband that it had to be replaced immediately.

It was close to Christmas when our microwave broke so our replacement budget was tight. I had little hope that we would be able to find a microwave for under $50. We made our trek to Wal-Mart and, low and behold, the very first microwave on the shelf (made by the illustrious and well-known small appliance company, Galanz) was a whopping $34.99. We debated between the Galanz model and the GE but the GE was $55.99 and we could hardly justify spending an additional $20 when it was not absolutely necessary. So, we purchased the Galanz. I was quite skeptical of this machine with its 1985 knobs and bizarre name. I filed it under reliability next to the Broksonic VCR that we bought for $22.00 when our old one died. It has, however, survived two and a half months in our household with nary an issue and makes for a humorous conversation piece.

The night of my son’s slumber party, Camden (age 4) ran into the kitchen while I was cooking popcorn and said, “Wow. What is that?” I told him it was a microwave. He replied, “Where are the buttons?” I explained that it had knobs instead of buttons. Awestruck, he paused for a minute and yelled, “Hey guys. Come see this microwave. It’s really cool.” Within seconds there were three kids staring in wonder at my microwave saying things like, “wow” and “cool.” That $34.99 turned out to be money well spent. My house is like a fun factory when popcorn is cooking.

Martha Freakin' Stewart

I really enjoy cooking but I’ve been uninspired for some time now. I tend to run through the same 5-6 recipes over and over again and listening to my son tell me, “I don’t like this. This food is yucky. I won’t eat it;” consistently has taken it’s toll. Plus, my husband is such a fast, mindless eater that he finishes his plate in 3 minutes flat and then looks up at me as if to say, “Where’s the rest?” I shoot him a look and he immediately covers his tracks by saying, “It was really good honey. Thanks.” The damage is done, though. He is much more about quantity than quality, which is proven beyond a shadow of a doubt by his adoration of Ramen noodles. Who eats that crap? It is such a waste of calories.

Dieting with my husband has given new life to my love of cooking. In the past, I have tried my best to diet while also trying to serve an enjoyable dinner to my family. These two things have been mutually exclusive (at least in my mind) for quite some time. With the advent of a dieting partner, though, things have changed.

I have suddenly made the transition from a culinarily challenged housewife to Martha freakin’ Stewart. I have tried three new recipes this week, which is a small miracle for me. I made Hummus on Monday. The recipe called for tahini (sesame seed paste), which I searched for at three local grocery stores to no avail so I actually made some of my own (I heart my food processor). On Wednesday, I made a yummy chicken casserole. This is a rarity for me as I am not a casserole person. I prefer that all of my food items exist separately on the plate. If you’d like to give me nightmares for a week, just serve me up a slice of shepherd’s pie. Yuck. Shepherd’s pie, squash, and ham salad were the primary reasons that I dreaded going to my Grandma’s dinner table as a child (she made up for it at breakfast when she served up Sugar Smacks. Yum!). Finally, last night, I made some lo-cal chicken quesadillas. My poor husband was done with his portion in less than 45 seconds and never took his eyes off of his food. I think his Gandhi diet is starting to backfire. It was just a matter of time.