Adventures in Domestic Divinity: The Widget's Apple-Oatmeal Muffins

One of the most difficult challenges in dealing with The Widget's dietary restrictions is baking breads, muffins, cookies, and the like. While I can at least use yeast, which allows me to actually make real bread (something I was never able to successfully accomplish back when I was doing this for DramaBoy), having to avoid gluten AND rice, soy, corn, and buckwheat makes the task....interesting. There are many fabulous food-sensitivity recipes out there these days, thanks primarily to the other bloggers who have similar issues in their households (check out the links down on the right hand margin), so I don't have to do everything from scratch. However, as I've become more familiar and comfortable with the different Funky Flours I use, I've been able to play around with conventional recipes as well.

I've been wanting to get more fiber into The Widget's diet, because he inherited certain, um, issues from a grandparent that make visits to the toilet another challenge. (Thank God the child likes prune juice. Just sayin'.) I also recently discovered that there IS such a thing as gluten-free oats! Therefore, I am not limited to using quinoa flakes in the place of oats. They generally are a good alternative, but they have a distinctive taste that doesn't work with everything, they are very fine in texture, and I don't like overloading The Widget's system with any one ingredient (which can trigger new sensitivities).

So today I checked some options on the Intarwebz and, praise be to the Google gods, found a simple recipe that I could easily adapt. With no further ado, I present you with:

The Widget's Apple-Oatmeal Muffins*

• 1 cup dry gluten-free rolled oats (Bob's Red Mill makes some that should be readily available at Whole Foods or the like)
• 1 cup almond milk mixed with 1 Tbsp white vinegar (replacing sour milk or buttermilk)
• 1 medium egg
• 1/2 cup brown or white sugar
• 1/3 cup canola oil
• 1/4 cup tapioca starch
• 1/2 cup sorghum flour
• 1/2 cup almond flour/meal (Avoid Bob's Red Mill's almond flour, as it seems to be too heavy for baking. I order mine from nutsonline.com)
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 teaspoon safe baking powder (Be careful if you need to avoid corn and gluten! Hain Pure Foods makes a cornstarch- and gluten-free baking powder)
• 1 cup peeled, finely chopped apples

In a large bowl, combine the oats and almond milk/vinegar and let stand for a few minutes so that the oats absorb some of the liquid. In a separate small bowl, beat the egg and oil together. Add to the oats/milk mixture along with the sugar. Beat well with a wire whisk. Mix together the flour, baking soda, salt and baking powder in a separate bowl, then add to the oat mixture. Mix until all of the dry particles are moistened, using about 20 or 30 strokes by hand--do not over beat! Add the apples and mix in quickly.

Spoon the batter into a dozen lined muffin cups. Bake at 400 degrees for 20-25 minutes. Allow to cool for a few minutes, then remove to a wire rack. Fabulous for a healthy snack or breakfast-on-the-go!

*adapted from Hillbilly Housewife's recipe for Oatmeal Muffins

My Mind is Smushy. Much Like Pumpkin Puree.

I haven't done one of these in ages, but it sounds about right today. Quick takes are about the only kind I have energy or time for, and hang the dangling preposition too.

-1-

My brother, DorkMaster B, turns 25 today. This is impossible, as he is still 8 years old. At most, 9. Of course, there are compensations for his annual flaunting of my increasing decrepitude. He's much more useful than he was--erm, is?--at 8. Not to mention much more fun with which to play games (take that, preposition!). Still. A quarter century? Next thing you know I'll be turning 40 or some such sh*t.

-2-

My Daddy will be spending the weekend with us. The children are all in transports of joy--well, at least the three younger ones. The Padawan is being very cool about it. He is thirteen, after all. I am quite happy about it, and hope that his puns and gentle humor will help shake both me and MTL out of our funks.

-3-

You know what it's like when you know you're partially at fault for something but don't really want to admit it because dammit you also have a bit of your own point, but at the same time if you keep being stubborn about it you'll never come to peace with the person you love most, but at the same time you are miffed that he's being a stubborn--um, something--himself, and mostly you just want to curl up in his arms and forgive and be forgiven but stupid responsibilities like work make it impossible and you know that it's a conversation that needs to be made in person rather than over gchat or email?

Please tell me you do. Because it sucks. Par for the course for October this year, though.

-4-

I am not good at admitting to faults and hypocrisy. I do not like being Wrong about something, dammit.

-5-

I made pumpkin muffins last night, and they were delicious. The Padawan was delighted. The Widget was delighted. I was delighted. I don't know if anyone else is delighted or not, since I have not witnessed them eating any as yet. Here's the recipe (as I made it, properly modified for a Food Sensitive Household, adapted from Allrecipes.com):

• 1 1/2 cups canned pumpkin puree
• 3/4 cup vegetable oil
• 2 cups raw sugar
• 3 eggs
• 1 cup almond flour
• 1 cup sorghum flour
• 1/3 cup tapioca flour/starch
• 3/4 teaspoon baking powder
• 3/4 teaspoon baking soda
• 3/4 teaspoon salt
• 3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 3/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg or allspice
• 3/4 teaspoon ground cloves

Directions

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Line muffin tin with muffin papers.
2. In a large bowl, mix together the pumpkin, oil, sugar, and eggs. Combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves; stir into the pumpkin mixture until well blended. Fill muffin tins.
3. Bake in preheated oven for 30-35 minutes.

OR double the recipe above, grease and flour three 9x5 inch loaf pans, and bake for 45 minutes to 1 hour. The top of the loaves should spring back when lightly pressed. 

-6-

We keep saying that we're going to save money towards a minivan, and each month somehow there's no money to save. We need to figure this out. I suspect the children. It's always the children.

-7-

I have so much grading to accomplish this next week that I feel like my head is likely to explode and my hands be worn to stubs. My students keep pointing out that if I wouldn't assign work, I wouldn't have grading to do. They have a point.

And if you want to read something more interesting than my fatigued babble, go check out Jen!

(Mis)Adventures in Domestic Divinity (Part One)

(Because the likelihood of there being more than one part is VERY high.)

So I mentioned that I made chicken stock this week, right? It's a fairly simple thing to do, provided one plans ahead to a certain extent. I save the peels and ends of any vegetables and greens I use in my cooking. The outer layers of onion, celery tops, carrot peels, leek greens--even apple peelings, actually--all go into gallon-size Ziploc bags and get stashed away in the freezer. Then when I have a couple of chicken carcasses, I throw it all in the largest heavy pot I have. I add a bay leaf or two, any odds and ends of fresh herbs that might need using--whatever I have on hand. I pour water over the lot, enough to just cover all the bones and scraps, and bring it to a boil. Finally, I turn the heat down to low, pop a lid on the pot, and let it simmer all night.

(You can do the same thing with a turkey carcass or any pork/lamb/beef bones you might have after a large meal. You can even blend them together. That's the lovely thing about the "recipe": it'll work for whatever you have!)

In the morning, I take the pot off the heat, let it cool a bit, and then put it in the fridge to chill. Later I take off the fat, an easy process when it has solidified on top of the liquid, and voila! I have lovely stock which can be canned or used right away.

At least, that's what usually happens.

Here's what you SHOULDN'T do, if you ever decide to try it out:

1. Underestimate the quantity of bones and scraps you have in the pot and overestimate the amount of water you need to pour over it all.

2. Realize you're going to get into trouble when it starts boiling, so pull out another smaller pot and transfer some of the makings into it, adding water to both pots to compensate.

3. Grab the first lid you can find that fits the smaller pot, rejoicing because the pots and pans cupboard has become a chaotic mess ever since KlutzGirl took over putting away dishes.

4. Go to bed believing catastrophe has been averted.

5. Wake up around 3 a.m. from a dream in which something strange is burning. Realize that the smell has not vanished with the dream. Lie in bed for a while trying to get your sleep-addled brain to process what might be going on.

6. Wonder suddenly if the stock might have overflowed or something of the sort.

7. Grab a robe and rush downstairs to check.

8. Walk into a kitchen filled with smoke streaming from the smaller pot. Realize that the lid you grabbed had a steam vent, and as a result all the liquid has boiled away. Open the lid to discover a disgusting mass of charred, reeking remnants of bone, cartilage, and vegetable scraps thisclose to bursting into flames.

9. Spend the next half an hour cleaning up the mess, salvaging the pot, and trying to air out the house. (This will not happen, and the house--and all its inhabitants--will reek for the next 36 hours or so.)

10. Crawl back into bed next to your husband, who has amazingly enough slept through the entire ordeal despite a freakishly sensitive sense of smell. Thank your lucky stars, because he will mock you enough when you tell him in the morning, without adding the extra delight of being woken by the marvelous stench of burning bone in the wee hours of the morning.

NOT THAT I WOULD DO ANYTHING LIKE THAT.

I think my halo is slipping.

Of Food and Family and Fabulousness

I seem to have drifted away from the world of blogging in recent months. I swear to you that it doesn't even enter my mind most days.

This could be, in part, due to the rather alarming number of things for which I am responsible during the course of a day now. I keep looking at my life in astonishment, wondering when I became the SuperWoman that I used to pretend to be back in the Bad Old Days of post-partum depression. The sheer level of logistical planning alone explains why the idea of sitting down and chatting with all my virtual friends doesn't have a chance of occurring.

Today, for example, there is a full day of teaching, after which I shall rush home and cook meat for chili and then rush off for my bi-weekly hour-long tutoring gig, and then I shall battle the horrendous afternoon traffic that turns two-and-a-half miles of driving on one road into a fifteen-minute ordeal so that I can pick up The Widget from daycare. We shall then battle our way home, where he will be shoved off to change clothes while I hurriedly put together the rest of the chili and plop it on the stove to simmer. We shall then rush off to The Widget's new dance class (5:30-6 pm on Thursdays) so that he can learn to shake his booty even more adorably than he did at our wedding (though there may never be anything so adorable as a tux-clad Widget doing the Chicken Dance). Then we can finally return home and collapse in the bosom of my rather large family.

I should confess that when I was planning the menu for this week, I completely forgot that I had tutoring today and would be so rushed. My True Love and I were therefore kerflummoxed about how to feed The Ravening Horde tonight until I realized that I could most likely manage the chili in stages. When I announced my realization to MTL, he (bless him) simply said, Just do what you can without killing yourself.

I think that may become my daily mantra.

Oh! But tonight I also need to pressure can the homemade stock that is chilling in the refrigerator after a long night of simmering into golden glory, and I should probably make some bread or something, since I have nothing to feed The Widget this weekend other than the fabulous and oh-so-simple roast chicken that was our meal last night.

I didn't mention that I've transformed into a Domestic Demi-goddess, did I? I know. I'm as astonished as you are. My only real online interaction with the outer world is on Facebook these days, and I keep posting statuses about all the amazing things I have baked/cooked/canned, partly out of a craving for jealous adulation and partly because seeing it in print makes it suddenly real and explains why I'm so exhausted All The Time.

You see, The Widget has inconveniently developed a host of food sensitivities, much like his older brother DramaBoy did at the young age of one. The Widget's are simultaneously less and more inconvenient than DramaBoy's were: on the one hand, he can have eggs and yeast and tomatoes and citrus fruits and canola; on the other, he cannot have corn or millet or buckwheat or legumes. The rest of the inconvenient items on the (long) list is rather similar. No bovine dairy, no soy, no garlic, no rice, among other things. Oddly enough, watermelon and cantaloupe are high on the reactive side, which makes us feel rather guilty about the enormous quantities of watermelon that disappeared down his throat over the course of the hot summer.

The big No-No, however, is gluten, and unlike the other items (which we should be able to reintroduce to his diet after a period of cleansing and rebooting his system), this will likely remain permanent. One of the tests indicated that if he continues to have gluten in his diet, he is likely to develop Celiac Disease and/or another nasty anti-gluten syndrome.

So. Our new reality. Since we have the boys every other week now, I spend every other weekend baking interesting breads and muffins and cookies, all with Funky Flours like sorghum, tapioca, quinoa, almond, and arrowroot. At least I can MAKE real bread: DramaBoy could not have eggs or yeast, so it was impossible to create anything other than fruit breads for him.

We also are making and canning all sorts of things like spaghetti sauce and stock and apple butter and various delicious jams (though to be fair we had started making our own jam before we had The Widget tested).

And the entire family has begun drinking almond and coconut milk rather than dairy, since MTL and The Padawan are lactose-sensitive anyway, and we discovered (to our surprise) that the Silk brand of both is cheaper than Lactaid, and contains less fat, more calcium, and the same or more vitamins than dairy milk. We're also doing much more gluten-free and homemade food in general, since it's simpler to cook for everyone rather than making two separate meals, and we want to start eating more healthily anyway.

So, much to my surprise, we are becoming alarmingly Crunchy, and I am discovering that I actually rather enjoy being domestic. Mind you, it makes all the difference that MTL does some of the work too, and that I have a horde of children who are all assigned chores and responsibilities. Who would have thought that having four children at home would actually be easier than having only two?

Also, we have a wonderful lady who comes and does all the deep cleaning every other week. I may have transformed quite a bit, but I'm perfectly content to leave the toilet-scrubbing and floor-mopping to someone else, thankyouverymuch.

Well, there you are. MTL is thinking of getting a second Xbox at some point so that he can have his own and play games online with his friends and The Padawan (who monopolizes and technically owns the one we have now), and if that happens, I may find myself with time in the evenings to chat with you all in this space while keeping him company.

All my snarky love in the meantime,
Mrs. MTL

Toast Me

I just solved a great domestic engineering mystery.

I figured out where to set the dial on the new toaster.

Now before you scoff (you scoffing scoffers you), keep in mind that this toaster simply had a set of numbers on the dial going from 1 to * (no really, an asterisk, following the 9) with no indication whether 1 was "barely toasted" or "charcoal briquet", and no clue whatsoever what the punctuation was for.

When I took a stab at it yesterday, I set it to 4ish in a wishy-washy middling attempt to determine the proper setting. The resulting toast was....edible, but the "left a little too long over the campfire" sort of edible. There was also an accompanying odor of baking plastic as it toasted, so I suspected that perhaps there was some sort of coating on the interior of the toaster. I elected NOT to scrub it off in the sink.

My intelligence is not purely of a literary nature.

So I set the dial at * and let the toaster toast air, in a crazy guess that perhaps the asterisk was some sort of self-cleaning setting. Correct or not, at least this morning it only emitted the lovely scent of toasting bread rather than burning petroleum-based synthetics. However, I still faced the problem of where to set the dial. Was 9 the highest regular setting, or was 1? I tried 6.

I'm a little confused now. Are there people who ENJOY eating toast that looks like it should be fueling a grill? Because if the resulting blackened bread at level 6 is any indication, level 9 produces filler for charcoal bags.

RIP those two pieces of bread, by the way. I don't like wasting food, but I also didn't really need an emetic this morning.

So I settled on a setting of 2.5, and the toast came out Just Right. Still on the slightly darker side, which makes me wonder what someone who wants light toast is going to do.

And yes, I very much enjoyed my Nutella toast, thank you very much.

With a side of Victory.

I'm Pretty Awesome With Toast, Though

Look, I just don't cook from scratch much these days. Generally speaking, I'm capable of being a damn good cook, but for the last couple of years I've been incredibly reluctant. I'm also far more prone to messing up than I used to be. I even found myself overcooking good old mac 'n' cheese the other day because I wasn't paying close enough attention.

I blame DramaBoy, really, or rather the food sensitivities he had for so long. I had to focus so much on food and what was in it and finding special foods and cooking everything from scratch. It was overwhelming. Couple that with major depression, and I burned out.

You'd think that this would have faded with so much time. It has been two years, after all. Surely I'd have rebounded by now. And in some ways I have. I don't hate being in the kitchen like I did for a while. I find myself quite willing to be part of a cooking team, in fact. But cooking alone and every day? I still dislike it. Strongly.

Nevertheless, when Lauren posted about making Pizza Loaf, a variation on one of the meals I actually loved at boarding school, nostalgia worked its magic. Besides, I thought the recipe looked simple enough.

Ha.

I should have known better. Lauren is one of those women who makes things look easy. I love her, but like my sister, there are times when it's a really good thing I do, because that stupid inferiority complex of mine comes surging to the surface. Just sayin'.

(And I didn't giggle AT ALL over her post the other day confessing that she and her beautiful children are, in fact, human. I'd never do something like that.)

I SWEAR I followed her instructions. But I was all stressed and chaotic and whatnot, like that's anything out of the ordinary, and it took a lot longer than it should have and my pizza loaf was huge and falling apart and had holes where it shouldn't and I forgot the cheese and had to open it back up to put cheese in and it looked like a Huge Mess.

Oy.

I felt like crying. I got crabby with MTL instead, because of course I didn't cook this massive meal for just me and my two kidlets. Oh no, I tried out a completely new recipe involving dough from scratch while cooking for other people in an unfamiliar kitchen. I AM SPECIAL THAT WAY.

I baked the damn thing anyway, and it turned out okay. Just okay, not fabulous, but good enough that I decided that perhaps, with a little tweaking and practice and maybe, oh I don't know, FOCUS, perhaps it would be worth trying again.

In a few months.

Until then, I'm going to practice making mac 'n' cheese.

"It'll Stick to Your Bones": {W}rite of Passage Challenge #2

Okay, so this week's challenge over on {W}rite of Passage is to describe my elementary school lunch using my senses. Thing is, I was (mostly) homeschooled for elementary and my lunches weren't terribly memorable, whereas the meals at boarding school during my middle and high school years have stuck with me (perhaps literally when it comes to some of those meals) ever since. So I'm going to break the rules kinda-sorta and describe a meal in the dining hall at the glorious and now defunct International Christian Academy in Ivory Coast, West Africa. And because I'm a total rebel crazy like that, I'm going to describe my most loathed breakfast rather than lunch. Isn't it fabulous how the nasty memories stay with us the most strongly?

"It'll Stick to Your Bones"

7:00 AM and we were promptly lined up outside the doors, shivering a bit in the chilly 65 degree morning. The elementary kids got to go first, as usual, so I stood silent with the other bleary teens, resentful that we were forced to get out of bed and come to breakfast when it was the worst meal of the day. A few more months and we'd be in the last trimester of our senior year--then we'd be allowed to sleep in and skip breakfast if we wanted!

Finally it was my turn to shuffle through the creaking doors and sidle up to the long tables. It was Monday: oatmeal day. I groaned in my mind. Huge vats sat steaming faintly, hapless students whose turn it was to serve breakfast wielding enormous ladles in repetitious movement. Dip, lift, glop. Dip, lift, glop. I stared glumly at the array of blue plastic bowls already lying in wait. Which one contained the least? I hesitated, then snatched a bowl before Lauren could shove me ahead. I didn't need a tray for my solitary bowl and spoon--the only thing worse than the food was the watery reconstituted milk, lumps of undissolved powder still floating in the greyish scum on top. I wouldn't be taking any. Lauren, of course, loaded her tray with four small plastic cups of the stuff. I shuddered.

Bowl and spoon in hand, I wandered over to our usual table, where other girls from our dorm were already sitting and doctoring their lukewarm cereal. I plunked my bowl down on the table, then sat.

"I just love this stuff," one of the other girls muttered. She lifted her bowl and turned it upside down, demonstrating for the umpteenth time that the glutinous grey mass at the bottom barely quivered, much less succumbed to gravity.  We chuckled wearily. It was an old joke. I quickly reached for the sugar container. I upended the jar and watched as the crystalline stream poured into the scant ladleful of oatmeal at the bottom of the bowl. Once the quantity of sugar nearly matched that of the cereal, I stirred the two vigorously until the contents of the bowl took on a semi-transparency.

I sighed, hesitated, held my breath, and shoveled the syrupy mess into my mouth as quickly as possible. The quasi-dissolved sugar allowed the bland glue of the oatmeal to slide over my tongue rather than cling to my tastebuds, but I still had to force each spoonful down my reluctant throat. One, two, three, four....Done!

I sighed again, in relief this time, and pushed the bowl away. The sickly-sweet taste of my sugar overload would stay with me for a few hours, but that was better than the alternatives. One more Monday breakfast over; one less bowl of oatpaste to consume.

Tids and Bits: They're Adorable. Well, I Think They Are.

There is a locally owned non-franchise pizza place not far from the house that I fell in love with shortly after it opened. Not only does Lucky Duck Pizza have fabulous pizza and salads and whatnot, the owner is awesome. He's super-friendly and cheerful (but not in an annoying way), gets to know his customers, and is Always There, working right alongside his (also friendly and cheerful) employees. The first time I ever went in, shortly after he opened, he told me that if I ever had ANY questions or comments, to please let him know. I hesitated, asked if he really meant it, told him I'm an English teacher, and then let him know he had some grammatical errors on his flyers. Namely, the use of apostrophes to make plurals, which as far as I am concerned is one of the Major Grammatical Sins and drives me nuts. He not only freaked out too and made sure the next set of flyers was corrected, every time I go in he has me look over his flyers and let him know if they're okay!

You have no idea how much of a thrill it gives me to be ASKED to edit grammar and punctuation by people.

Seriously. I'm a total grammar geek.

So lately when I'm exhausted at the end of the day and need to feed my kids and don't want to default to fast food, Lucky Duck has become my go-to place. They're inexpensive, and two Baby Bellas and a Greek salad will feed all three of us no problem.

My children have also come to love the place, not least because of their reception there. It's where someone knows your name and calls you adorable, people. DramaBoy now insists on carrying the two little pizza boxes out to the car, calling out Who wants a pizza? to everyone and grinning like a little maniac. He's going to be a pizza boy, he informs me. The Widget drags carries the salad, safely ensconced in a plastic bag. And everyone smiles at us. I've even heard a few Awwws.

I'm telling you, my children are labelled "adorable" almost everywhere I go. I say almost because there are the occasional meltdowns in public that wouldn't lead anyone to use that particular adjective, but generally speaking, I'm not just biased when I say my boys are plain old stinkin' crazy C-U-T-E.

*********************************

I have some new best friends. Not of the human sort, but oh how I do love them. You see, I get cold easily, and my hands in particular turn to icicles in minutes. I blame my mother along with Michigan's frigid weather. I've also been worrying about my lack of neutral long-sleeved tops, the sort that can go under other tops or vests or whatnot.

Yesterday as I sat in my gab-fest venting-session Professional Learning Community group meeting, I noticed my girl Casey was wearing an adorable thermal top with cut out thumbs. I nearly squeeed (fortunately stopping myself) and had to ask where she got them. 2 for $20 in the juniors section at J.C. Penney, baby!

Guess where I went after work?

And guess what I'm wearing today?

I got the vest at Penney's too. It is also adorable.

WARM HANDS!!! Squ---er, YAY!

*********************************

My friend Melissa over at Rock and Drool recently joined the online writing community {W}rite-of-Passage, where members practice writing stories and essays on their blogs in response to weekly challenges, then critique each others' work in an effort to encourage and improve good writing. After some consideration, I've decided to join as well. This is a bit of a stretching exercise for me, as I've never been terribly confident in my creative writing abilities. But I do want to improve my writing, as that was a key reason to begin and continue this blog (besides the whole spew-my-angst-into-the-blogiverse thing), so I think this is a good idea for me. So be on the lookout for Writing Challenge entries coming your way. Feel free to critique (CONSTRUCTIVELY--I do have feelings, people) in the comments or in direct emails. Whether or not my entries are adorable or touching or hilarious or awful or boring...well, we'll just have to see.

Gulp.

Seriously, My Mouth Is Watering Just Thinking About Them, People!

So in yesterday's suprisingly optimistic post about Christmas Past and Present (trust me, the optimism caught me off guard too), I mentioned my family's traditional Christmas morning breakfast: Christmas Eggs. And then DeeDee over at Fiddledeedee posted about a $100 Visa gift card giveaway that asked contestants to share a Christmas tradition they are continuing with their own families, and I wrote about Christmas Eggs. And she is also doing a Saturday Stirrings post today, so BOOM! I'm all meme-ing and stuff here. Head over to those two posts if you'd like to enter the contest and/or if you'd like to check out more awesome recipes.

While pigs and pork are relatively common out in Ivory Coast, West Africa (that's where I grew up, if you're new or oblivious), processed pork in the forms of ham and bacon are quite rare. Somehow my father would manage to track some down every year before Christmas: thick, rich, smoky bacon bursting with flavor and all the more delicious for its rarity. He also canned his own tomatoes and tomato sauce from tomatoes grown in his garden behind the house.

So each Christmas morning at some point toward the end of the gifting extravaganza, Dad would go off in to the kitchen and rattle around with muffin tins and eggs and bacon and tomato sauce, and soon we would smell the rich scent of Christmas Eggs. We each got two at breakfast and filled in the cracks with Mom's coffee cake.

Bacon is plentiful in Michigan grocery stores, and my tomato sauce comes out of a bottle or can, but I still carry on this tradition every Christmas. For some reason I simply cannot bring myself to make these eggs any other time of year--it just would not be right! So here you go. Perhaps you'll find yourself adding something new and delicious to your own Christmas breakfast.

Just--if you decide to make it other times during the year, don't let on to me, okay? 

Christmas Eggs

thick-cut bacon*
large eggs
tomato sauce
salt
pepper

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Line the sides of each cup in a muffin tin with bacon. Make sure the ends of the bacon strips overlap. Crack an egg into the center of each cup. Carefully pour a tablespoon or two of tomato sauce on top of each egg. Salt and pepper to taste.

Bake for approximately 15 minutes (don't you love my precision?) until bacon is cooked through and eggs are firm and opaque.

The cooked eggs/bacon should come out of the cups with the help of a large spoon. Serve hot and enjoy!

---------------------------------------
*I have made this successfully using turkey bacon, if you're looking for a lower-fat option. The thicker the cut the better, but you could also double layer if needed. I haven't tried that, so you'd be entering experimental arenas....

The Sad Saga of the Cake That Was Not To Be

I had planned a gorgeous cake, the brainchild of DramaBoy's request from three months ago and a brainstorming session with the ever-creative Joe. It was going to be 3-D, a masterpiece of chocolate cake and frosting and candies, a four-wheeler with cupcake wheels surging up over a rocky hill. I had all the ingredients, I had all the decorations, I had pictures printed and a plan in mind.

And then I got sick.

Enter Plan B, concocted with Joe's help over the phone, he in a deer blind and me huddled beneath the covers of my sickbed. Forget a full-force four-wheeler. Bake a sheet cake and decorate it like an off-roading race track. Run to the store in the morning (granted the antibiotics kicked in) (which they did) and get some Matchbox off-roaders. Cake and bonus gifts all in one swell foop!!

So when I did in fact feel well enough yesterday morning to rise from my bed, shower, run to the store, pick the kidlets up from their (sainted) grandmother, and head into birthday party preparations, I thought perhaps All Would Be Well. DramaBoy exhibited his egg-breaking skills while helping me mix the cake (Look! I didn't get any shells in there! Just the yellow and white stuff!) I popped it in the oven, set the timer, and collapsed on the couch with my boys to recharge my low batteries while watching The Backyardigans. Good times.

Some forty minutes later I took the baked cake and attempted to turn it out on a rack to cool.

It fractured into several pieces, a massive chunk stuck still in the pan.

Alas, sweet cake. What might have been.

So much for Plan B. I've rescued cakes before, but this was beyond the means of frosting and toothpicks.

On to Plan C. I called the boy's father and asked him to pick up a sheet cake at Meijer, one with a minimum of decoration, and bring it with him when he came to the house. The sooner, the better. DramaBoy confirmed my sad tale of caketastrophe when his father heard DB's mournful little voice over the phone saying, Mama! What happened to my cake? Why is it all broken?

Sad times.

The cake arrived with half-an-hour to spare before our first guests arrived. With the help of some licorice, a couple of suckers left over from Halloween, slivers cut from the broken cake, and the well-washed Matchbox cars I had purchased, I came up with something that, while not what I originally desired, Would Do.

The border was already there. 

We were lucky to find anything without all sorts of crap already in the center.

DramaBoy had a great party. He had three little friends over, he received all sorts of fun gifts, and the cake was deemed satisfactory.

This was, of course, the one time he decided NOT to smile.

So Plan C or no, he was happy. And therefore, so was I.

My Tummy, It Is Happy

Sometimes I'm a pretty good cook. I'm also capable of being a pretty good hostess. And in those moments I am even capable of being *gasp* organized.

I know.

It surprises me too.

Nevertheless, it happens. So when a few weeks ago my darling mentee S. suggested we have a lunch group Harvest Potluck today (as in the Friday before Halloween, in case you're clueless--check the calendar!), somehow I was nominated as the official organizer of said lunch.

So I wrote the emails and kept track of who was bringing what and sent out reminders, and yesterday I hauled myself through Walmart (while keeping myself amused by texting Joe) and bought all the ingredients to make my fabulous and very harvesty Pumpkin Turkey Chili.

Before you start gagging, please believe me that this chili is AWESOME. And today even the doubters in my lunch group had to agree. This chili is so GOOD, TeacherMommy! they exclaimed, and they went back for more. Well, they didn't exactly call me TeacherMommy, but I'm not giving away my identity that easily.

(Though I realized while going through some old posts that I did once mention my actual last name. Hmm...)

Anywho, here's some pictures of what we ate (and ate and ate and ate), because I enjoy torturing you with visions of gastronomic delights:

The chili. Best served with cheddar and sour cream.

 

One end of the spread...

 

...and the other.

 

And of course, dessert.

And in case you are now salivating and would like to know how to make this really, really yummy, healthful, and (best of all) easy chili, here's the recipe:

TeacherMommy's Pumpkin Turkey Chili

• 1 tablespoon vegetable oil 
• 1 cup chopped onion 
• 1/2 cup chopped green bell pepper 
• 1/2 cup chopped yellow bell pepper
• 1 clove garlic, minced
• 1 pound ground turkey
• 2-3 cups chicken broth
• 1 (28 ounce) can diced tomatoes with juice
• 2 cups pumpkin puree
• 1 can kidney beans, drained and rinsed
• 1 can corn, drained
• 1 package McCormick’s chili seasoning
• 1 1/2 tablespoons chili powder
• 1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
• 1 dash salt  

Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium heat and saute the onion, green bell pepper, yellow bell pepper, and garlic until tender. Stir in the turkey and cook until evenly brown. Drain. Mix in chicken broth, tomatoes, pumpkin, beans, and corn. Season with seasoning packet, chili powder, pepper, and salt. Reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer 20 minutes. Serve topped with Cheddar cheese and sour cream.

I made twice this amount and served about 12 people with some left over. I cooked it the night before, kept it in the refrigerator overnight, and then heated it back up in a crockpot the next morning. FABULOUS!

To Whom It May Concern

Dear Einstein Bagels Customer Who Was In Line Just Before I Arrived,

Thank you so much for leaving that trail of cloying perfume so thick I had to swim through it. I love breaking out in hives and sneezing fits during my miniscule lunch break. I also very much appreciate that delicate flavor of rotting flowers that now lingers in everything I eat or drink.

Offering you a hosing-down,
An Allergy-Prone Fellow Customer

****************************

Dear Myself,

You really need to start remembering your lunch. This is going to get really expensive. I'll have to start starving you if you keep this up.

Forgetfully yours,
Me

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Dear Students,

Last year every English teacher notified you about the summer homework. Some of us were even nice enough to hand out hard copies of the summer homework. We then posted PDF files of all the summer homework on the school website. The principal sent out postcards reminding parents and students about the summer homework. There was also a reminder at registration, where you were required to sign a sheet that you were, in fact, aware of the summer homework.

You had to read a novel or two. You had to fill out a few grammar worksheets. That was it. We didn't even make you write a paper over the summer because we were tired of the crap students kept turning in the first day of school, which just depressed us.

Showing up to class and telling me that you didn't know anything about the summer homework, were unable to access it/print it out/get to a library/lift a single finger/use a single braincell the entire summer, or that you just plain forgot...

...will simply be received with a raised eyebrow, a Well that's too bad, and a big fat zero to start out the year.

Congratulations on your failure,
Ms. TeacherMommy

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Dear Delicious Apple Butter,

Why are you so yummy? Why can't I resist you? Why do you keep sending forth your spicy siren call from the refrigerator that makes my tastebuds leap in ecstatic joy? Why am I seriously considering buying an automatic apple peeler and food processor so that I can make more of you with ease? Why have you driven me insane?

Thinking longingly of you from work,
Your Salivating Slave

I Didn't Fall Down a Rabbit Hole. I Promise.

Have I disappeared off the face of the earth? Have I sunk into a black hole? Have I been so mesmerized by the beauty that is the photo shoot my dear friend Claire just took of me that I cannot tear my eyes away from Picasa?

The answer, no doubt to your great relief, is No.

Although those photos rock. I usually hate photos of myself. That's why that one of me with pink hair stuck around for so long--it's one of the few taken of me that I actually liked. Now that I think of it, I think it was also taken by Claire.

Goodbye, punk TeacherMommy. It was fun.

That settles it. She's now my official photographer. If I could afford it, I'd hire her to follow me around and take fabulous photos of me so I can feel, you know, Hawt.

I feel so pretty.

Enough of the overweening modesty. I'm sure you're dying to know what's been going on the last few days. So I'll give you a little synopsis:

Saturday: Woke up way too early in order to drive out to Claire's, go to breakfast, and then do the photoshoot at the park. I did one of her too. We had both decided it was high time we got some decent photos taken for Facebook and blogs and such.

Then I drove out to the house and met up with He Who Was and the kidlets. We drove out to the Renaissance Festival, where the kidlets' days were made complete by seeing knights jousting and eating apple dumplings. I looked longingly at the wonderful costumes and dreamed of the day I might be able to afford one. I also decided I really need to go back sans kidlets sometime so I can shop properly and enjoy some of the shows other than the joust. Finally I went home and collapsed.

Sunday: Picked up the kids who were miraculously already dressed by He Who Was and took them to church, where DramaBoy charmed everyone in the sanctuary by his cute antics before he left for Sunday School. We then drove back down to Detroit to pick up their uncle and get changed into play clothes, and we all drove out to Erwin's Orchards. We picked an entire bushel of apples and four pounds of raspberries. Well, I did. My brother mostly corralled the kidlets, which led him to comment, Now I understand why you wanted me to come along. He didn't have to be so snarky about it.

Also, I don't know why I obsess over obtaining so much fruit. It's a sickness.

So Sunday night I spent THREE HOURS (no exaggeration here) coring, peeling, and chopping apples in order to make Apple Butter. Which was AMAZING. I just let it cook all night in the crockpot. Here's the recipe, as I did it:

All-Day/Night Apple Butter

About three million 1/3 to 1/2 bushel of apples, cored, peeled, and chopped fine
2 1/2 cups sugar
3 teaspoons cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ginger
1/4 teaspoon salt

Stir sugar and spices into chopped apples. Pack firmly into crockpot, filling it completely.

Cook on High setting for one hour. Turn crockpot to Low and cook for 7-8 hours, stirring occasionally (I cooked this overnight with very little stirring and it did fine). Remove lid and cook for one more hour. Whisk or puree. Enjoy!

This stores and freezes well in freezer jars/tupperware. If you prefer your apple butter a little sweeter, add more sugar--I prefer slightly tart, spicy apple butter.

I will say, though, that if I were to do this again, I think it would be worth purchasing one of those automatic apple peelers and a food processor. The preparation was ridiculous. The product is heavenly.

Monday: Spent the morning making raspberry empanadas the easy way, using premade pie crust (you know, the rolled up frozen kind?) DramaBoy had been begging for "Raspberry Pie" since he heard we were going to pick raspberries. They were okay, but I underestimated the amount of sugar I needed to put in the raspberry filling. I ate more than the kidlets did, since I like tart stuff. I still have two pounds of raspberries left. I may just freeze them.

Then I drove the kids out to the Detroit Yacht Club to see their Grandpa and Grandma and Auntie and Daddy. We ate yummy food their grandpa grilled, then took refuge on the boat when it started raining. Finally we gave up on the weather permitting a sail and just went home. I did laundry and painted my nails and went to bed earlier than usual.

Why?

Because I had to wake up at five ay-em this morning to get myself and the kidlets ready in time to get to work.

That's right, folks!

School is back in session.

And that's all she wrote.  More later, if my eyes stop crossing with fatigue. Besides, I still have to pick up the kidlets and head home.

And holy crap, I just realized I totally missed my therapy session! Dang it. That's what happens when I actually WORK and stay after school doing all sorts of prep stuff!

Guess I should have been lazy instead.

Just a Teaser. Don't Hate Me.

Tomorrow I'm having several dear friends over for a Girls Only Dinner, something I haven't ever done before. I can't think why. I plan on doing it quite regularly, because I have friends who can't come tomorrow, and I think it's unlikely I'd be able to get all of them together at once! I suppose that can be my ultimate goal.

At any rate, I will be busy busy busy tomorrow with tutoring and a brunch date with another girlfriend and shopping and cooking and all that jazz. So I'm unlikely to get out a post unless there's a miraculous lull in it all.

For the benefit of all of you who can't attend (and to whet the appetites of those who can), here's the menu I have planned:

• My famous Maple Salmon (hey, I'm famous for making it, not for creating the recipe!)
• Cranberry-Pear Tossed Salad
• asparagus
• Dark Molten Chocolate Cakes with fresh-picked raspberries (I took the boys to pick them today at Erwin's Orchards and managed to pick a basket full despite the boys. They probably ate their own body weight in berries. Good thing I didn't have to weigh them before and after like I did the basket.)

Eat your hearts out, peoples. And try out the recipes yourselves. You just might discover a new favorite.

Marinara Totally Counts As A Vegetable, Right?

I think, but I may be wrong, that I introduced Beth and Heidi via my global Mommyblog review posts. Could be wrong. Am I wrong, you beautiful ladies? You see, they have Burkina Faso in common. I have West Africa in common with them as well, but slightly south--I grew up in Cote d'Ivoire, the country just below.

Anywho, they now comment on each other's posts and chat back and forth and now they're both doing Taciturn Tuesdays, which of course makes me just blitheringly jealous because I'm petty like that. They should, of course, both be commenting nonstop on my blog and loving me best.

Sometimes I can be very small minded.

Moving on, and hoping that perhaps by joining them in Taciturn Tuesday this time around I can feel like part of the club, here's my little contribution to the day (Though yeah, I'm not so good at the Taciturn part. Sue me. I'm wordy.):

Today I picked the boys up from daycare and we went to their Grandma's (my m-i-l) to spend some time together. We were going to go to a playground, but first, because we were hungry, we went to Big Boy's. We're crazy adventurous like that.

It should be noted that normally The Widget operates much like a vacuum cleaner with any foodstuffs placed before, behind, beside, and above him, including the clogging and resultant need for icky clearing-out-of-hose/mouth that comes from stuffing too much into a small space. DramaBoy, on the other hand, will happily munch on snacks all day but tends to turn up his nose at most "real" food. Dinner is a time for him to live up to his nickname.

Turns out that the last time he went to BB with Grandma, he had the spaghetti. And the Hot Fudge Ice Cream Brownie dessert. And thus it was with much emphasis that he informed the waitress (a former student of mine, by the way) that he was going to have the basketti! The kid's meal basketti! And The Widget will have the kid's meal chicken! At the top of his lungs.

Hey, she got the order right.

Little did I know that I should have been feeding this boy spaghetti all along. He scarfed it down, getting only a mild amount of marinara sauce all over his mouth/hands/shirt/jeans. And then he shared the HFICB dessert with his Grandma. Well, I was required to eat the four (4!) maraschino cherries off the top because, as he reminded us, Mama, you have to eat the cherries because they're red and they have lots of red food dye and I can't eat the red food dye because it will make me itchy!

The sacrifices I make for my children.

(The Widget and I ate plain brownies because he's lactose intolerant and I'm picky about ice cream. When I say he ate a brownie, I mean he got huge amounts of sticky chocolate crumbs all over himself/his seat/the table/the floor and required an emergency visit to the restroom. If I'd had any cash on me I would have left about $10 as an apology to the poor busboy who had to clean up after us.)

Oh, the taciturn part? Here you go. Grandma ate about six bites of the MONSTROUS dessert the waitress brought (I think she was charmed by DramaBoy and went a little overboard), and DramaBoy ate...

and ate....

and posed for a silly picture on my request...

and ate some more...

and posed for another silly picture on his demand...

and left this as the (relatively) tiny remainder of what he had begun. Note the sneaking finger to grab a last bit of whipped cream.

Spaghetti, ice cream, and brownies. That totally counts as a balanced meal, right?

Grace in Small Things #5: Because Eric Says I Should

Grumble, grumble. Fine.

1. Junk food provided by students, out of bribery and kindness. Who needs lunch when you have Doritos?

2. Getting to watch Much Ado About Nothing, which is actually fun, and getting paid for it.

3. Talking about babies and poop in class, therefore getting to gross out students and make them laugh. (You know, rather than actually teach anything.) And therefore being told I should teach Sex Ed because I am straightforward and don't lie and have funny stories that nevertheless teach them something about Real Life. And that teen pregnancies would probably drop due to the poop stories alone.

4. Getting a sinfully delicious recipe for Icebox Cake. MommyTime is evil. Oh, and getting to make Her Bad Mother's day by linking her to the recipe!

5. Knowing I get to cuddle kidlets and see my brother today, and that my parents will be arriving home tonight after two weeks away.