Jul 02
What was I thinking when I wasn’t thinking?
Accidental parenting. Apparently this is what I was doing before I discovered I was an overcooker. Who knew that my good intentions were going to come back and haunt me? I thought my valiant efforts to wrap my daughter like a mummy and keep her stain-free was heroic… After all, she might want her own daughter to wear these treasures from K-Mart one day.
I do not know why this tradition was important to me. I was too busy to ponder stuff like that back then. Maybe it had something to do with my mother selling my Barbie dolls when we moved from Illinois to Texas.
Dot to dot.
Going through old storage boxes, I found Marissa’s baby clothes. I squealed, “Look! I found all her baby stuff with no stains!” I proudly waved a yellow bunny dress.
No quicker had I waved this trophy, Marissa ran to our driveway in a gigantic tizzy. Now 14. Tizzy’s are not so cute.
“Mommmm!” She pointed to a teensy orange something on her t-shirt. “Kyle flung the orange juice thinking it was funny and it splattered everywhere. Now it’s ruined. You’re going to have to buy me a new shirt.”
Huh? Buy her a new one? Where did she get that silly idea? Oops! More dot to dots.
(I tell you this. Finding a bunny dress stained with blue chalk and brownies would have probably been more fun than finding one without.)
Jun 22
Parlez-Vous Francais?
Some of the best things I took home from France were not even tangible. They were, and continue to be, the giggles. Perhaps it is because I never wear a dress. Taking me anywhere remotely fancy is at your own risk… I am either going to klutz over a crack in the sidewalk, or bust up laughing over something dumb like smelling a candle and burning my nose hairs.
Ahh… you look handsome. My cousin Pascale tells me to look in ze mirrror. She has just finished doing my make-up with rouge that strippers paint onto their nipples. Ze colorize them. Colorize? Yeah, you know, to make zem pink.
No I don’t know, but French women are beautiful so I am game for trying ze ztuff on my cheeks. Pascale points to ze baztub. Tells me to zet down. She has a needle between her lips with a long string attached to it so I quickly plop. She is zewing my brazierre to my blouze so zat my top stay in place. Yeah?
With Pascale on her knees between my thighs, I tell her about the rain in the Spain but she has no idea what I am saying. Ze rain in Zpain? Whatch you mean? It’s no rain here tonight… we go to St. Tropez not Zpain…
Yeah, well, it might as well have been Spain. Because Pascale’s talented eye for turning even dorks like me into Cinderella’s, was something I brought back to Texas with me. As Pascale would say, I went from being a “duck to a swamp.” Ze zay zat in America? Yeah? No. Ze zay from a duck to a swan. Thanks, cousin. I zwim away now.
Jun 18
Now that I finally have enough brain cells to convert grams to cups, I thought I would share some of my favorite food-finds from France. I will demonstrate other recipes on my webcast in July. But these are blog exclusive. Let me know what you think about these “Mardis Gras” pancakes.
“If you want your wheat to stay free from black rot, you must eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday.” Being the kind of gal who definitely likes her wheat free from rot, (hah!), I definitely had to try these.
1-1/2 cups flour
pinch salt
1 jumbo egg; beaten
3/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup milk (more or less; to batter consistency creamy)
6 teaspoons of unsalted melted butter plus 1/2 teaspoon
1 TBSP rum
This batter does not require making a well with the flour. Just whisk the flour and salt. Then add the beaten egg, sugar and just enough milk to make the batter creamy. Stir in the melted butter and rum. Let set for 20 minutes before cooking. Just before cooking, if the batter looks too thick, then stir in a little more milk. (These are thin pancakes) Lightly grease a hot griddle (over medium heat). Spoon 3 tablespoons of batter per pancake. Cook one minute per side. Dust with powder sugar. Serve with chopped apples and pecans or walnuts. A pinch of cinnamon along the plates rim is a nice touch, too!
Apr 19
“Pull Over!”
One year ago. I hop out of the car. I dash over to my sister Sandra’s window.
“We are eating here!”
I am beyond joyful even though I must admit, losing my father was a jolt. In his honor, I share this page from my private journal because miraculously, his passing was one of the most beautiful gifts I think our family ever received — for it brought us back together.
I point across the sidewalk — amazed. This is the exact spot I was telling Ken and Marissa that I remembered being at with my dad when I was a little girl.
“Oh my Gosh!”
Sandra squeals. “How did you see this from the road?”
Sandra’s husband Don holds the door open as the six of us pile into this quaint Texas-style restaurant located in the heart of Wilmette, Illinois. One by one we step inside without saying a word. We cannot believe we are beaming when only minutes ago we were crying.
Marissa points to the bass fiddle player on stage.
“How - did - you – see – the – bass fiddle – from –the road?”
Marissa whispers into my shoulder while Sandra and I mimick our dad who was playing this imaginary instrument with his fingers the day he ‘came back to life’ at the hospital. He had been in a coma for days, then for an hour he woke up.
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Apr 07
“Why do I do this? Polish my nails at 3 am when I could have worn closed toe shoes?”
Obviously my subconscious brain is worried about sandals because truly, there is no logical reason to polish toes in the middle of the night…..
I thought I had broken this 40-something-hormonal habit- but no, it has apparently returned. Three nights in a row. I am running out of dishes to avoid washing. So last night I gave myself a pedicure. Picture this– I am sitting on the floor with my legs straight in front of me. I have a red wool blanket tented over my shoulders. Our house is always arctic. My toes are numb. They are separated with pink rubber thingys.
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Feb 23
“Wear ‘em and tear ‘em and buy some more…”
My grandmother would sing this diddy whenever I got new shoes but my mom didn’t want me to run outside in them.
Has anyone noticed how mothers mellow when they become grandmothers?
It seems this more laid-back approach recycles in our family once grandkids are born. When my daughter was little, my mother enjoyed taking her for weekends. Inevitably she would call me a couple hours before I was supposed to pick up Marissa. Take her to the doctor, she’d say. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She has a stomach ache. Of course, there was nothing wrong with Marissa. Her stomach ache was the result of happy meals, candy and four trips to the ice cream shop.
Recently I was sifting through storage boxes. While opening one labeled, ‘dolls’, I stumbled across “Baby June”. Immediately, I felt a flashback from 1989. Marissa was four; she had pink sponge curlers dangling from her hair. I was frying bacon when her cute little voice peeped, “Mommmmy! Where’s Baby June?”
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