I quit reading magazines with celebrities on the covers. They have crappy recipes and there's always a Dr. Oz segment to scare me to death about the latest food warning or antibiotic resistant, mutant virus.
My biggest problem with these magazines is that I cannot stand one more story about how Celebrity Du Jour "balances motherhood, marriage and work." Seriously, these woman doesn't even need to balance their check books! These rags used to inspire me. Yes, I am gullible and wear rose colored glasses. If so and so can raise six kids 6000 miles away on a movie shoot, why can't I? I won't name names but one celebrity in particular just put me over the edge. This poor woman had to keep the "sparkle" in her marriage (her third by the way,) she struggled to keep her family on a gluten free diet (for no particular reason) and just couldn't decide which movie script to choose. Boo hoo!
Before I wised up I envisioned my life this way. My day would go something like this:
Rise at 7 AM, style my hair and apply my make-up. I'd drink the coffee my husband made for me. He'd waited for me for a kiss before he went to the office. By 7:30 AM my three children would join me for breakfast. They'd have made their beds, brushed their teeth and scrubbed their ears and faces. A bus for each child would scoop them up and take them to their schools. During the day my cleaning service would come and scrub my house top to bottom, no charge. While they did I would go out shopping on Main Street. I'd get some fresh fruit and vegetables for the evening meal. I'd buy an adorable hat to go with my dress and heels I wore for the day. After a divine lunch with friends I'd head home and prepare dinner. I'd serve lobster bisque followed by The Barefoot Contessa's Chicken Marsala. A fruit tort would be served for dessert. The children would complete their homework assignments and quarrel over who would get to take the dog out. My husband would arrive home with roses and chocolate that we'd enjoy with a fine Merlot. We'd watch a family movie together after which my children would excuse themselves to go to bed. Teeth are brushed, prayers are said and they snuggle into bed. Mind you they are asleep by 8 PM. Hubby and me snuggle and flirt, have relations and drift off to bed.
What REALLY happens:
I get abruptly woken up at 4 AM by my daughter. She had a nightmare and refused to back to sleep. Neither did I. My son informs me ten minutes before school that he needs a protractor for math. My oldest son still in his underwear with 5 minutes before the bus comes to get him. He cannot find his Devils t-shirt; he has some 15 of them. This one is a Martin Brodeur shirt which he always wears when he has a test. So much for that grade. Being exhausted I neglected to take the dog out. I therefore neglect to take a shower, again, to clean up the poop he couldn't hold in. I throw a pair of jeans over my pajamas and walk my daughter to the bus stop. I wear my sons flip flops, two sizes too big, in the rain. At home I reach for the coffee pot which contains no coffee, just hot water. I forgot the grinds. I chug down a diet Pepsi hoping to wake me out of my coma. I grab the roast from the fridge, smell a foul odor, look at the sell by date. It is two weeks past. Pizza tonight! My husband calls to say he's working late. He can't wait to eat the pot roast. Crap! The boys have hockey practice tonight one hour away. They arrive home at 10 PM and we call climb into our beds by midnight. My daughter, again, in our bed.
Thank you Lord for wine!
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
The Evolution of the White Lie
My 8 year old daughter is afraid of the inoculation she'll
need before she enters the 6th grade....4 years from now.
This is one of a million things she's either afraid of or
obsesses over. OCD (Obsessive Compulsive
Disorder) runs in my family. She's not a
hand washer but rather she gets these crazy thoughts in her head which make her
either nervous or frightened. Her doctor
chalked it up to a childhood phase as well has family history. I got a second opinion and that pediatrician
said the same thing. He thoughtfully
added that my own OCD led me to bring her in for this problem. Never mind bedside manner, this man had no
manners.
I thought back to my own childhood and realized I had many
of the same fears my daughter had. I
used to pole jump into my bed to avoid the alligators that lived
underneath. I was terrified of dogs
having been chased home right out of my shoes one day walking home from
school. It was a Yorkie. I would never go into our basement because it
was built over an ancient Native American burial ground. I learned to breathe under my blankets and
lie still in case a robber came into my room.
I'll be honest; to this day I still freak out when I see a white van
drive by because naturally, all kidnappers drive that specific vehicle.
Back in the day my very practical mother would comfort me
then quickly send me to my room if I didn't quit blubbering about my fear of
tse tse flies. She wasn't very big on
big on making up stories to quell my fears.
Mom was more of a "we don't get volcano eruptions in New Jersey
dear so go play with your toys" type.
There's a wicked thunderstorm happening as a write this and,
you guessed it, the little princess is scared stupid. I guess OCD has evolved into something more
intense these days courtesy of The Walking Dead, Call of Duty Black Ops and
Finding Bigfoot. My daughter has two
teenage older brothers and is subject to this kind of stuff whether she likes
it or not. Even if she isn't witness to
these shows or video games my sons happily discuss them with her and do damn
good re-enactments.
I love my kids and have a special mother-daughter bond with
the girl. I am also a very busy person
with very little patience. When she's
frightened I usually try my mom's old approach but my daughter isn't as easily
convinced or dismissive as I was. So, I
lie.
I truly believe that the little white lie began in the days
of the cavemen when the little cave kids were scared out of their furs from
club wielding neighbors and woolly mammoths.
These people had zero time to deal with their kids' issues; hunting for
dinner, ducking saber tooth tigers and finding unoccupied caves was more of a
priority so they must have lied as well.
"No Junior, fire won't burn you.
Just keep a distance of 20 or more feet."
For your entertainment I've listed some of the lies I have
told (and memorized so I don't slip up) my daughter when she's frozen,
petrified with her mouth open in mid-scream:
·
Bees - They won't sting you because they will
die if they do.
·
Fireworks - Actually I have nothing on this
one. I just watch with her from the
house with ear plugs.
·
Her closet - There is no room in there for any
ghosts. Just keep shoving your junk in
there.
·
Needles/Shots - Doctors only use nose spays
these days (thank you Lord for the flu nasal spray.)
·
Cats - The law says that all cats have to have
all of their claws removed. Which leads to
her wondering why they can climb trees to which I answer that they have Velcro
on their paws?
·
Throwing up - Stop eating all of the olives out
the jar and you will be fine.
·
Flying in airplanes - I shut the shades on all
sides and tell her that the plane just drives really fast in the speed lanes.
·
Lightning and thunder - God is bowling and doing
well.
·
Pouring rain - God is crying because his
favorite team lost (always use seasonal team examples.)
I'm not suggesting that this will work for every parent and
I expect some criticism (not the friendly kind) but this is fail safe method to
keep my sanity and keep my daughter out of a straight jacket.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Don't Be Afraid of Hoisin Sauce!
I changed the look of this blog (well, the template choices helped) and added more variety. Today's topic is hoisin sauce. For those intimidated by this product like I was let me give you the all truth, all the facts and every reference under the sun version by Wikipedia:
Hoisin sauce is a Chinese dipping sauce. The word hoisin is a Romanization of the Chinese word for seafood (海鮮) as pronounced in Cantonese
Initially I retched when I saw the word seafood but I read on further hoping this was Wikipedia's first mistake. Sure enough:
Peking-style hoisin sauce ingredients include starches such as sweet potato, wheat or rice, and water, sugar, soybeans, sesame seeds, white distilled vinegar, salt, garlic, red chili peppers, and sometimes preservatives or coloring agents. Traditionally, hoisin sauce is made using toasted mashed soy beans. Despite the literal meaning, hoisin sauce does not contain seafood, nor is it typically used with it.
So Wikipedia has an adorable sense of humor, or is it the Chineses' cruel joke? Anyway, I found a recipe for slow cooker Teriyaki chicken wings. It was one of bunches given to me in a cute little recipe box given to me at my bridal shower a hundred years ago. Incidentally, my slow cooker sat in my attic since that day as well. Until recently I thought it was the same as a pressure cooker. In my mind this translated into a potential shrapnel explosion so there it sat in the box for a hundred years. Speaking of Wikipedia, I researched slow cookers (which are NOT all Crock Pots which is a brand.) It seems there are no documented cases of them becoming pipe bombs. Thank you Wiki for clearing that up for me.
A few weeks ago I decided to cook for my family at least five days out of the week. I am very lazy and get God awful hot in the kitchen so I typically use my slow cooker. Just set it and forget it! I actually own two of them; I use one for dessert OR I make breakfast on the weekends overnight. One is red, one is white and I intend to get a blue mini one.
Slow cooking can get a little boring. I mean how many times can you make chicken soup, pot roast and beef chili? I looked at my recipe card and decided to try it in the slow cooker instead of dealing with a hot oven all day. You see, I'm crazy like that! I figured if the chicken was too gooey and stringy I could always broil it (which I ended up doing.)
I never wrote a recipe blog so don't count on any rhyme or reason for how I put it out there. These are the ingredients; I listed them first so I can get back to the scary hoisin sauce.
Here's the low down on how to actually prepare the dish (I haven't a clue as to the calorie or fat count so you're going to have to calculate for yourself these things for each ingredient.)
1. In mixing bowl, combine brown sugar, soy sauce, hoisin sauce, ginger and garlic powder.
2. Mix well and set aside. (In other words, move the bowl out of the way so you don't knock it over.)
3.Spray inside of slow cooker with cooking spray. (Of course this means PAM.)
4.Place chicken wings in slow cooker. (I dump not place them.)
5.Pour ginger mixture over. (This means the liquid concoction you've just created.)
6.Cover crock pot and cook on high-heat setting for 3-4 hours or low-heat settings for 6-7 hours.
7.Sprinkle teriyaki chicken wings with parsley and sesame seeds. (I omitted these. Get stuck in teeth.)
8. Scoop the wings out, slap them on a broiler pan and cook on low for 15 or so minutes.
I went all out and served Kraft mac and cheese and some corn/asparagus combo courtesy of Birdseye steamers but that's entirely up to you. Oh! Save the sauce left over in the slow cooker and use for dipping the wings (or fingers like my kids did) and freeze the rest for another time.
Enjoy!
Hoisin sauce is a Chinese dipping sauce. The word hoisin is a Romanization of the Chinese word for seafood (海鮮) as pronounced in Cantonese
Initially I retched when I saw the word seafood but I read on further hoping this was Wikipedia's first mistake. Sure enough:
Peking-style hoisin sauce ingredients include starches such as sweet potato, wheat or rice, and water, sugar, soybeans, sesame seeds, white distilled vinegar, salt, garlic, red chili peppers, and sometimes preservatives or coloring agents. Traditionally, hoisin sauce is made using toasted mashed soy beans. Despite the literal meaning, hoisin sauce does not contain seafood, nor is it typically used with it.
So Wikipedia has an adorable sense of humor, or is it the Chineses' cruel joke? Anyway, I found a recipe for slow cooker Teriyaki chicken wings. It was one of bunches given to me in a cute little recipe box given to me at my bridal shower a hundred years ago. Incidentally, my slow cooker sat in my attic since that day as well. Until recently I thought it was the same as a pressure cooker. In my mind this translated into a potential shrapnel explosion so there it sat in the box for a hundred years. Speaking of Wikipedia, I researched slow cookers (which are NOT all Crock Pots which is a brand.) It seems there are no documented cases of them becoming pipe bombs. Thank you Wiki for clearing that up for me.
A few weeks ago I decided to cook for my family at least five days out of the week. I am very lazy and get God awful hot in the kitchen so I typically use my slow cooker. Just set it and forget it! I actually own two of them; I use one for dessert OR I make breakfast on the weekends overnight. One is red, one is white and I intend to get a blue mini one.
Slow cooking can get a little boring. I mean how many times can you make chicken soup, pot roast and beef chili? I looked at my recipe card and decided to try it in the slow cooker instead of dealing with a hot oven all day. You see, I'm crazy like that! I figured if the chicken was too gooey and stringy I could always broil it (which I ended up doing.)
I never wrote a recipe blog so don't count on any rhyme or reason for how I put it out there. These are the ingredients; I listed them first so I can get back to the scary hoisin sauce.
- 3 pounds(1,45 kg)chicken wings with wing tips removed, halved (Just buy Tyson, no fuss.)
- 1½ cups brown sugar (How come you taste soooo good?)
- 1 cup soy sauce (One cup is basically the entire bottle.)
- 2 tablespoons hoisin sauce (What the Hell is this and who in the world has this handy?)
- 1 teaspoon ground ginger (Watch your fingers when grating it. Fresh is better.)
- 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder (I was going to use fresh but I have no patience to chop it.)
- 1 tablespoon chopped parsley (I decided to grow my own instead of paying $3.99 for a bunch.)
- 1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds (You'll have better luck finding duck feet than these.)
Here's the low down on how to actually prepare the dish (I haven't a clue as to the calorie or fat count so you're going to have to calculate for yourself these things for each ingredient.)
1. In mixing bowl, combine brown sugar, soy sauce, hoisin sauce, ginger and garlic powder.
2. Mix well and set aside. (In other words, move the bowl out of the way so you don't knock it over.)
3.Spray inside of slow cooker with cooking spray. (Of course this means PAM.)
4.Place chicken wings in slow cooker. (I dump not place them.)
5.Pour ginger mixture over. (This means the liquid concoction you've just created.)
6.Cover crock pot and cook on high-heat setting for 3-4 hours or low-heat settings for 6-7 hours.
7.Sprinkle teriyaki chicken wings with parsley and sesame seeds. (I omitted these. Get stuck in teeth.)
8. Scoop the wings out, slap them on a broiler pan and cook on low for 15 or so minutes.
I went all out and served Kraft mac and cheese and some corn/asparagus combo courtesy of Birdseye steamers but that's entirely up to you. Oh! Save the sauce left over in the slow cooker and use for dipping the wings (or fingers like my kids did) and freeze the rest for another time.
Enjoy!
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Signs of the Apocolypse
I'm pretty confident that the Mayans screwed up. December 21st 2012 came and went and I'm still making mortgages payments and doing laundry.
I can't say whether they made an honest mistake or if they were in it for the money selling "The End is Near" t-shirts. My kind soul gives them the benefit of the doubt. Back in the day a nasty thunderstorm could have scared the average Mayan that the they were all going to die. If they made it until the 21st century that would have given up the whole idea in the 1960's. If society could live through the Beatles' break-up, a war and women without bras nothing much else could kill it.
I do think the Apocalypse (what a pain the ass to spell) will come in the next five years though. It's not my theory, it's my husband's.
Let me explain. Lately I've been acting very "domesticated" if you will. Seventeen years ago I didn't even know what a crock pot was. Bread crumbs came from 4-C and Windex cleaned EVERYTHING from mirrors to toilets. I'm not sure what brought this on but I've become a modern day Betty Crocker.
As of last week I was unemployed outside of my home. Any woman with children works 24/7 365 days a year has what I call a "round trip" job. May I tip my hat to those moms who work outside the home AND are also on call all day everyday! I actually pursued a part-time job courtesy of my sons' hockey tuition and my daughter's gymnastics meets. I thought I might give up being a princess for a while. I have a second interview lined up for a medical office and a have substitute teaching gig; I spend days actually being productive...that is cash-wise.
Being backward ass that I am I now decide to re-start my knitting and crochet obsession. I suddenly get the urge to make handmade pajama bottoms for all three kids. Why go out and buy them? I clip coupons like a madwoman and refuse to buy what I can make myself ie. bread crumbs. My slumping banana become loaves of banana bread in every imaginable variety and I've got out on limb and started canning food! I ran out and bought a boat load of mason jars and started an herb garden in my kitchen. You see, in theory I should have been doing this stuff during the 13 years I didn't have a part-time job. My brain works in weird ways and I am such a late bloomer. I enjoy working a few hours out of the house; my B.A. is not a total waste and I can buy my shoes from Zappos instead of Sears nowadays.
Yes, despite the perks of earning extra income, I second guess my decision to go back to work. I committed to it and that's that. I can basically work when I want to so I made time for all things Martha Stewart on the days I have off. Seriously though, there's nothing wrong with doing both.
After a weekend of curtain making and sock knitting combined with a boeuf bourguignon dinner made with homegrown parsley for decoration my husband stopped checking my head for a fever; instead, he made sure my will was up to date and in the safe box. After dessert, Sicilian cheesecake with blueberry topping, he forgot all about the will and went on NOAA's website convinced a tractor trailer sized meteor was flailing toward the earth, particularly aimed at our home.
I can't say whether they made an honest mistake or if they were in it for the money selling "The End is Near" t-shirts. My kind soul gives them the benefit of the doubt. Back in the day a nasty thunderstorm could have scared the average Mayan that the they were all going to die. If they made it until the 21st century that would have given up the whole idea in the 1960's. If society could live through the Beatles' break-up, a war and women without bras nothing much else could kill it.
I do think the Apocalypse (what a pain the ass to spell) will come in the next five years though. It's not my theory, it's my husband's.
Let me explain. Lately I've been acting very "domesticated" if you will. Seventeen years ago I didn't even know what a crock pot was. Bread crumbs came from 4-C and Windex cleaned EVERYTHING from mirrors to toilets. I'm not sure what brought this on but I've become a modern day Betty Crocker.
As of last week I was unemployed outside of my home. Any woman with children works 24/7 365 days a year has what I call a "round trip" job. May I tip my hat to those moms who work outside the home AND are also on call all day everyday! I actually pursued a part-time job courtesy of my sons' hockey tuition and my daughter's gymnastics meets. I thought I might give up being a princess for a while. I have a second interview lined up for a medical office and a have substitute teaching gig; I spend days actually being productive...that is cash-wise.
Being backward ass that I am I now decide to re-start my knitting and crochet obsession. I suddenly get the urge to make handmade pajama bottoms for all three kids. Why go out and buy them? I clip coupons like a madwoman and refuse to buy what I can make myself ie. bread crumbs. My slumping banana become loaves of banana bread in every imaginable variety and I've got out on limb and started canning food! I ran out and bought a boat load of mason jars and started an herb garden in my kitchen. You see, in theory I should have been doing this stuff during the 13 years I didn't have a part-time job. My brain works in weird ways and I am such a late bloomer. I enjoy working a few hours out of the house; my B.A. is not a total waste and I can buy my shoes from Zappos instead of Sears nowadays.
Yes, despite the perks of earning extra income, I second guess my decision to go back to work. I committed to it and that's that. I can basically work when I want to so I made time for all things Martha Stewart on the days I have off. Seriously though, there's nothing wrong with doing both.
After a weekend of curtain making and sock knitting combined with a boeuf bourguignon dinner made with homegrown parsley for decoration my husband stopped checking my head for a fever; instead, he made sure my will was up to date and in the safe box. After dessert, Sicilian cheesecake with blueberry topping, he forgot all about the will and went on NOAA's website convinced a tractor trailer sized meteor was flailing toward the earth, particularly aimed at our home.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
So Your Son is a Rocket Scientist...
Did you know that Beyonce's baby girl is reading at 13 months old? Try this on for size; Giselle Bunchen's kid was potty trained at 6 months old!
If you believe this you will also believe that my son arrived through the birth canal examining cells through an electron microscope. I don't know exactly why some parents feel the need to exaggerate their children's accomplishments. Personally I think it's to compensate for their own shortcomings or self-consciousness. Maybe it's because Beyonce's poor daughter takes after Jay-Z or because Tom Brady is really balding. Who knows. I do know that this nonsense is alive in well among everyday people.
I can't think of any mom or dad who hasn't been "one-upped" by some pretentious parent on the playground. I have. If I tell someone by son was sleeping through the night as three months old their kid was doing it at one week old. My daughter won an award for selling the most Girl Scout cookies. There's always the mom who brags that her daughter bakes her own cookies and gives them away to charities. That, ladies and gentlemen is being "one upped." Swell isn't it?
One Uppmanship is a trend that seems to get worse as the glorified children get older. No doubt some aging parents will claim that their kid is Albert Einstein to some fellow dementia patient is Shady Pines Retired Home. It just in their blood.
There is a way to deal with these delusional people. It's probably best to just ignore them and change the subject. While this is polite it won't stop the parents' behavior. My method is very effective at stifling these people. It won't make you very popular on the block or on the playground (at least among the One Upper cliques) but it's a fail safe way to relieve yourself from the aggravation of listening to daily dose of bull%$#@ at the bus stop. Here's a few examples. Feel free to tailor these answers to fit your particular grandiose parent experience.
My child always has straight A's in school.
Did you forget gym counts as a subject? Trust me, I've seen your kid run. Forrest Gump in leg braces and a full body cast could run better.
My kids are in bed by 7:30 PM every night.
I doubt it. His bedroom faces mine and I can clearly watch Family Guy with him if I open my shades. Occasionally I'm treated to Late Night with David Letterman.
My kids never plays video games.
I can tell you he does in fact play them. I can also tell you he's on XBOX Live. Only your child would use his real name as his screen ID. By the way, he's up to level 5 warrior in Call of Duty World at War.
My kids do not eat any candy or sugar.
You may have forgotten that I'm the class mother in our kids' classrooms. He makes a Skittles and Kool Aid cocktail every Valentine's and Halloween Day. Nice try though.
My son never gets sick.
Unless you don't consider projectile vomiting a malaise I'd think twice. The entire town knows if your kid barfed in school before the parents do. Stomach viruses are treated like the bubonic plague around here. I'm fairly certain it was your son's name I overheard in ShopRite by the Lysol aisle.
My daughter is already studying to be a doctor.
I see. So your daughter is currently enrolled in The University of Milton Bradley and has completed her residency in the Game of Operation. Well done!
My son always eats his vegetables. He love Brussel sprouts especially.
I've been meaning to ask you. Why does your dog produce green poop? He's a flatulent little critter too isn't he?
I'm generally a very friendly and genuine person. I like to socialize, swap parenting stories and make new friends. I can, however, sense a one upper a mile away. I know this because I live on a block with a whole gaggle of them. If someone tells me that little Johnny is being scouted for the New York Mets while he plays T-ball they won't get very far with me. They might as well introduce themselves at the King and Queen of Monaco. After three kids and thirteen years of parenting I'm fed up with this kind of nonsense. Please, I'm so happy to hear that your son or daughter received an A on every book report. More power to them. Prepare yourself though, for a good, old-fashioned tongue lashing if you tell me your ten year old is fluent in Latin!
If you believe this you will also believe that my son arrived through the birth canal examining cells through an electron microscope. I don't know exactly why some parents feel the need to exaggerate their children's accomplishments. Personally I think it's to compensate for their own shortcomings or self-consciousness. Maybe it's because Beyonce's poor daughter takes after Jay-Z or because Tom Brady is really balding. Who knows. I do know that this nonsense is alive in well among everyday people.
I can't think of any mom or dad who hasn't been "one-upped" by some pretentious parent on the playground. I have. If I tell someone by son was sleeping through the night as three months old their kid was doing it at one week old. My daughter won an award for selling the most Girl Scout cookies. There's always the mom who brags that her daughter bakes her own cookies and gives them away to charities. That, ladies and gentlemen is being "one upped." Swell isn't it?
One Uppmanship is a trend that seems to get worse as the glorified children get older. No doubt some aging parents will claim that their kid is Albert Einstein to some fellow dementia patient is Shady Pines Retired Home. It just in their blood.
There is a way to deal with these delusional people. It's probably best to just ignore them and change the subject. While this is polite it won't stop the parents' behavior. My method is very effective at stifling these people. It won't make you very popular on the block or on the playground (at least among the One Upper cliques) but it's a fail safe way to relieve yourself from the aggravation of listening to daily dose of bull%$#@ at the bus stop. Here's a few examples. Feel free to tailor these answers to fit your particular grandiose parent experience.
My child always has straight A's in school.
Did you forget gym counts as a subject? Trust me, I've seen your kid run. Forrest Gump in leg braces and a full body cast could run better.
My kids are in bed by 7:30 PM every night.
I doubt it. His bedroom faces mine and I can clearly watch Family Guy with him if I open my shades. Occasionally I'm treated to Late Night with David Letterman.
My kids never plays video games.
I can tell you he does in fact play them. I can also tell you he's on XBOX Live. Only your child would use his real name as his screen ID. By the way, he's up to level 5 warrior in Call of Duty World at War.
My kids do not eat any candy or sugar.
You may have forgotten that I'm the class mother in our kids' classrooms. He makes a Skittles and Kool Aid cocktail every Valentine's and Halloween Day. Nice try though.
My son never gets sick.
Unless you don't consider projectile vomiting a malaise I'd think twice. The entire town knows if your kid barfed in school before the parents do. Stomach viruses are treated like the bubonic plague around here. I'm fairly certain it was your son's name I overheard in ShopRite by the Lysol aisle.
My daughter is already studying to be a doctor.
I see. So your daughter is currently enrolled in The University of Milton Bradley and has completed her residency in the Game of Operation. Well done!
My son always eats his vegetables. He love Brussel sprouts especially.
I've been meaning to ask you. Why does your dog produce green poop? He's a flatulent little critter too isn't he?
I'm generally a very friendly and genuine person. I like to socialize, swap parenting stories and make new friends. I can, however, sense a one upper a mile away. I know this because I live on a block with a whole gaggle of them. If someone tells me that little Johnny is being scouted for the New York Mets while he plays T-ball they won't get very far with me. They might as well introduce themselves at the King and Queen of Monaco. After three kids and thirteen years of parenting I'm fed up with this kind of nonsense. Please, I'm so happy to hear that your son or daughter received an A on every book report. More power to them. Prepare yourself though, for a good, old-fashioned tongue lashing if you tell me your ten year old is fluent in Latin!
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Make the Pierogies Already!!!
In case you were wondering, this is the official Merriam-Webster definition of a pierogi:
Pierogi
pie·ro·gi
Pierogi
pie·ro·gi
noun \pə-ˈrō-gē, pi-\
pluralpie·ro·gialsopie·ro·gies
A case of dough filled with a savory filling (as of meat, cheese, or vegetables) and cooked by boiling and then pan frying
For the record it's a Polish word and no Polish cook in their right mind would fill this "case" with meat. In my family tradition we use pot cheese (not the illegal kind,) potato or sauerkraut.
I've probably eaten over a thousand pierogies over the years. They were always homemade. My mother's ancestors were from Poland; they would spit on Mrs. T's knock-offs today. Every one I consumed came from some Polish church somewhere in New Jersey. They were hand made by little old ladies wearing babushkas. I always pictured a kind of assembly line of Polish women shouting over each other, swapping Pope stories and rolling endless yards of dough. I want to thank each and every one of these women because I have never eaten a bad pierogi. They were the Polish Galloping Gourmets in the basements of churches a.k.a kitchens.
I have never made pierogies in my entire half Polish life. In the Polish heritage this is a mortal sin. There's a secret Polish slogan few outsiders know of: "If your Polish and you know make the pierogies." I've about run out of excuses for making them myself. Now I'm not about to join the secret society of "The Women of the Basement" but I think my Grandmothers of the past would let me slide if I used my own kitchen.
Given my track record, I probably rate very poorly as a Polish woman. I realize that the burden is left on my shoulders to keep this culinary tradition rolling. My sister married the Italian guy so she's in charge of all things pasta and calamari. My husband is three quarters Polish and a long suffering one at that. Never once have a made a traditional dish for dinner. After seventeen years of marriage I think it's high time I caved in an threw a kielbasa on the grill.
I was always more in tune with the Italian in me. I mean, I lived with the last name Pagnetti for 27 years. My father's name is Tomaso Gaetano for goodness sake. I'll eat pasta out of the box if necessary and swoon to the sound of a man speaking the language. I'd stand there smiling and batting my eyes even if he was telling me "hey lady, you make me sick so quit staring at me and get lost." I studied Italian in college and for as queasy I can get, I have a weird fascination those mummies from Pompeii. I'm going to try and be a good little Polish girl going forward. I pretty sure my Italian Grandfathers won't mind. Even they loved pierogies.
I intend to complete the tasks that my Polish family faithfully did decades before me, at least once. Number one, my husband will probably buy me a diamond ring after he regains consciousness and number two and more importantly my babcie (that's grandmothers) will get off my back when I see them in Heaven.
I've already beaten making the pierogies to death. Nothing more needs to be said about that endeavor.
I mentioned kielbasa. We Americans like to call it Polish sausage. I know Jimmy Dean does for sure. I've successfully avoid eating this "meat" if you will for 45 years. What I mean is, I've never willingly put a morsel of it in my mouth. I can't be certain but my mom or grandmother may have slipped some pieces of it into my applesauce when I was little. I detest the look, smell and taste of this Polish favorite. What's even worse is the aftershocks that occur when one has fully digested it. I'd rather inhale corpse. This Easter I think I'll surprise my family and toss this tube of nitrates into the oven. I'll be wearing a respirator; I'll get a pass because I'll decorate it with the colors of the Polish flag.
It seems the Polish are big on sausage. As is kielbasa weren't bad enough they invented the "kishka." This cute little word translates to blood and barley. Both are stuffed into a pig's intestines. I have to admit that I do like the aroma of it. I've even gotten as far as cutting into it on my plate. I stop there since in my mind I am seeing an eviscerated intestinal sac. I imagine it tastes pretty good but I can't see myself eating what to me looks like undigested food in a newly lacerated bowel. Luckily I can prepare one. It's just a matter of finding a good Polish butcher and figuring out what holiday it's suited for. The Polish are very particular about matching meals and celebrations.
I do know that mushroom soup is a requirement for Christmas Eve, For some reason my family is not allowed to eat meat. I despise all seafood so I sit and starve until the soup and the pierogies are finally served. My only sustenance until then is a slice or two of dry rye bread. I do like the soup. It's an acquired taste for sure. There's barley in it as well which for me is just as good as pasta so I eat it up. Preparing mushroom soup is kind of like Fermat's Last Theorem. it took over 300 years to solve and has more incorrect proofs than any other math problem. This soup takes over three days to make and and requires more attempts to get it right than any other recipe. I want to out do my ancestors so I'll begin the process by hiking in the forests of Warsaw to dig up these exotic mushrooms.
Here's a funny little word, "golabki". "Golabki" pronounced literally into English sounds like "gwumpkies." Polish is such a funny language. Consonant sounds that aren't contained anywhere in the actual letters worm their way into words hence "golabki" magically becomes "gwumpkies." Gwumpkies are golabki go figure. If I could just get past cracking up when I hear this word I think I can manage to cook what is simply stuffed cabbage. Real meat is used here. It requires some ground beef, some rice, cabbage and tomato sauce. Did I mention that the Polish people are fond of the sausage theme? If it's not a long Superman "S" shaped kielbasa or kishka they makes mini-replicas. The gwumpkies are filled with the meat and rice and rolled into little cabbage leaf tubes. I would get Polish points from my ancestors because I already love to eat gwumpkies as much I love to prepare them. These little gems also represent all of the major government food groups. Bonus!
Come this Easter weekend I'm going to collectively blow my family's mind. I'll make everyone of these dishes. I'll start with the worst, the kielbasa and reward my efforts with pierogies for dessert. I know I'll have a homemade custom babushka waiting me when I get to the Polish section of Heaven.
I've probably eaten over a thousand pierogies over the years. They were always homemade. My mother's ancestors were from Poland; they would spit on Mrs. T's knock-offs today. Every one I consumed came from some Polish church somewhere in New Jersey. They were hand made by little old ladies wearing babushkas. I always pictured a kind of assembly line of Polish women shouting over each other, swapping Pope stories and rolling endless yards of dough. I want to thank each and every one of these women because I have never eaten a bad pierogi. They were the Polish Galloping Gourmets in the basements of churches a.k.a kitchens.
I have never made pierogies in my entire half Polish life. In the Polish heritage this is a mortal sin. There's a secret Polish slogan few outsiders know of: "If your Polish and you know make the pierogies." I've about run out of excuses for making them myself. Now I'm not about to join the secret society of "The Women of the Basement" but I think my Grandmothers of the past would let me slide if I used my own kitchen.
Given my track record, I probably rate very poorly as a Polish woman. I realize that the burden is left on my shoulders to keep this culinary tradition rolling. My sister married the Italian guy so she's in charge of all things pasta and calamari. My husband is three quarters Polish and a long suffering one at that. Never once have a made a traditional dish for dinner. After seventeen years of marriage I think it's high time I caved in an threw a kielbasa on the grill.
I was always more in tune with the Italian in me. I mean, I lived with the last name Pagnetti for 27 years. My father's name is Tomaso Gaetano for goodness sake. I'll eat pasta out of the box if necessary and swoon to the sound of a man speaking the language. I'd stand there smiling and batting my eyes even if he was telling me "hey lady, you make me sick so quit staring at me and get lost." I studied Italian in college and for as queasy I can get, I have a weird fascination those mummies from Pompeii. I'm going to try and be a good little Polish girl going forward. I pretty sure my Italian Grandfathers won't mind. Even they loved pierogies.
I intend to complete the tasks that my Polish family faithfully did decades before me, at least once. Number one, my husband will probably buy me a diamond ring after he regains consciousness and number two and more importantly my babcie (that's grandmothers) will get off my back when I see them in Heaven.
I've already beaten making the pierogies to death. Nothing more needs to be said about that endeavor.
I mentioned kielbasa. We Americans like to call it Polish sausage. I know Jimmy Dean does for sure. I've successfully avoid eating this "meat" if you will for 45 years. What I mean is, I've never willingly put a morsel of it in my mouth. I can't be certain but my mom or grandmother may have slipped some pieces of it into my applesauce when I was little. I detest the look, smell and taste of this Polish favorite. What's even worse is the aftershocks that occur when one has fully digested it. I'd rather inhale corpse. This Easter I think I'll surprise my family and toss this tube of nitrates into the oven. I'll be wearing a respirator; I'll get a pass because I'll decorate it with the colors of the Polish flag.
It seems the Polish are big on sausage. As is kielbasa weren't bad enough they invented the "kishka." This cute little word translates to blood and barley. Both are stuffed into a pig's intestines. I have to admit that I do like the aroma of it. I've even gotten as far as cutting into it on my plate. I stop there since in my mind I am seeing an eviscerated intestinal sac. I imagine it tastes pretty good but I can't see myself eating what to me looks like undigested food in a newly lacerated bowel. Luckily I can prepare one. It's just a matter of finding a good Polish butcher and figuring out what holiday it's suited for. The Polish are very particular about matching meals and celebrations.
I do know that mushroom soup is a requirement for Christmas Eve, For some reason my family is not allowed to eat meat. I despise all seafood so I sit and starve until the soup and the pierogies are finally served. My only sustenance until then is a slice or two of dry rye bread. I do like the soup. It's an acquired taste for sure. There's barley in it as well which for me is just as good as pasta so I eat it up. Preparing mushroom soup is kind of like Fermat's Last Theorem. it took over 300 years to solve and has more incorrect proofs than any other math problem. This soup takes over three days to make and and requires more attempts to get it right than any other recipe. I want to out do my ancestors so I'll begin the process by hiking in the forests of Warsaw to dig up these exotic mushrooms.
Here's a funny little word, "golabki". "Golabki" pronounced literally into English sounds like "gwumpkies." Polish is such a funny language. Consonant sounds that aren't contained anywhere in the actual letters worm their way into words hence "golabki" magically becomes "gwumpkies." Gwumpkies are golabki go figure. If I could just get past cracking up when I hear this word I think I can manage to cook what is simply stuffed cabbage. Real meat is used here. It requires some ground beef, some rice, cabbage and tomato sauce. Did I mention that the Polish people are fond of the sausage theme? If it's not a long Superman "S" shaped kielbasa or kishka they makes mini-replicas. The gwumpkies are filled with the meat and rice and rolled into little cabbage leaf tubes. I would get Polish points from my ancestors because I already love to eat gwumpkies as much I love to prepare them. These little gems also represent all of the major government food groups. Bonus!
Come this Easter weekend I'm going to collectively blow my family's mind. I'll make everyone of these dishes. I'll start with the worst, the kielbasa and reward my efforts with pierogies for dessert. I know I'll have a homemade custom babushka waiting me when I get to the Polish section of Heaven.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Maiden Name, Maiden Name...Where Are You?
I am the victim of identity theft, the Institution of Marriage style.
I always wanted to get married and have kids. Quite frankly, I never thought I would considering I was called Four Eyes, Too Tall Jones and Beanpole up until I was about 20. Seventeen years and three kids later, here I am happily married. What more could a girl ask for then a diamond engagement ring and wedding band? Who wouldn't want double indemnity for a spouse who croaks on the job? How cool is it that I never have to mow the lawn, cook on the grill or change the oil in a car?
Seriously, I'm just teasing. I wouldn't trade my life for anything. I love my husband and my kids. I will never have to be alone. Having said all that, I thought I'd share my biggest regret about being married. I should never had taken my husband's last name. I admit at the time I couldn't wait to be Mrs. Poltz. I guess the engagement ring and wedding band weren't enough to show the world I was legitimately hitched. I needed the new name to slap my old tormentors in the face!
To begin with, my maiden name was the same initial as my married name. So much for monogramming new bath towels. I'm even denied that pleasure of intitaling bad tests scores differently. It even irritates me that my signature is off. Pagnetti just rolled off the pen. Poltz always screws me up because I never perfected the letter Z in penmanship class.
Being called Mrs. Anything ages me 25 years. Not only that, I never got used to my new name. I spent more of my life as a Pagnetti than a Poltz. Sorry Charlie, 27 years of life as a Pagnetti trumps Mrs. Poltz for Pete's sake. I often read to my daughter's second grade class. I can honestly say I still look around for some lady name Mrs. Poltz when they ask questions. Who is this old woman you speak of?
Even if I introduce myself as Lisa, some people ignore me and reply using Mrs. Poltz. I'm still Lisa damn it! Did I mention that no one can pronounce my last name? I get everything from Mrs. Plots, Pulse, and Poles. It wouldn't surprise me if some genius called me Mrs. Pol Pot!
Since being married I've been selected to Jury Duty about six times. While I have my dear children as an excuse to dodge it, to this day it means weeks of arguing and threats from the Kings of Jury Duty. I'm lucky enough to get TWO notices each time. One for Lisa Pagnetti and one for Lisa Poltz. Seventeen years ago I happily went about the business of changing my name on everything from my Social Security Card to my subscription to TV Guide. As a newlywed I was under the assumption than all of these people would delighted at my new role as a wife. Instead it seemed they didn't give a rat's arse. It only meant more aggravation and paperwork. I feel their pain today. I can talk to the courts until my face turns blue. They refuse to believe that I am only ONE person. You'd think a simple phone call would clear this all up. Oh contraire, it takes contempt of court threats and endless written affidavits form yours truly. Connect the dots people! Have a look see at the Social Security Number!
Even if I wanted to, I couldn't hyphenate my name. It doesn't sound right. Take John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald and Sarah Jessica Parker for examples. They roll nicely off the tongue. Lisa Pagnetti-Poltz sounds like a dreaded disease or syndrome. The Non-Hopkins Lymphoma of last names.
As Mick Jagger would say "you can't always get what you want." As for me, "if I try some time, I might find I get nowhere." What's done is done. With my luck if I change back to my maiden name I'll get FOUR Jury Duty notices. My college loan debts would suddenly show unpaid and my first name would get fouled up. Trust me there are endless ways to muck up "Lisa." Take my boss of eight years for example, She christened me Liza. I don't care if she was Canadian. There's no mistaking The Mona Lisa with Liza Minelli.
Sincerely yours,
Liza Pagnetti-I Have no Pulse-Poltz
I always wanted to get married and have kids. Quite frankly, I never thought I would considering I was called Four Eyes, Too Tall Jones and Beanpole up until I was about 20. Seventeen years and three kids later, here I am happily married. What more could a girl ask for then a diamond engagement ring and wedding band? Who wouldn't want double indemnity for a spouse who croaks on the job? How cool is it that I never have to mow the lawn, cook on the grill or change the oil in a car?
Seriously, I'm just teasing. I wouldn't trade my life for anything. I love my husband and my kids. I will never have to be alone. Having said all that, I thought I'd share my biggest regret about being married. I should never had taken my husband's last name. I admit at the time I couldn't wait to be Mrs. Poltz. I guess the engagement ring and wedding band weren't enough to show the world I was legitimately hitched. I needed the new name to slap my old tormentors in the face!
To begin with, my maiden name was the same initial as my married name. So much for monogramming new bath towels. I'm even denied that pleasure of intitaling bad tests scores differently. It even irritates me that my signature is off. Pagnetti just rolled off the pen. Poltz always screws me up because I never perfected the letter Z in penmanship class.
Being called Mrs. Anything ages me 25 years. Not only that, I never got used to my new name. I spent more of my life as a Pagnetti than a Poltz. Sorry Charlie, 27 years of life as a Pagnetti trumps Mrs. Poltz for Pete's sake. I often read to my daughter's second grade class. I can honestly say I still look around for some lady name Mrs. Poltz when they ask questions. Who is this old woman you speak of?
Even if I introduce myself as Lisa, some people ignore me and reply using Mrs. Poltz. I'm still Lisa damn it! Did I mention that no one can pronounce my last name? I get everything from Mrs. Plots, Pulse, and Poles. It wouldn't surprise me if some genius called me Mrs. Pol Pot!
Since being married I've been selected to Jury Duty about six times. While I have my dear children as an excuse to dodge it, to this day it means weeks of arguing and threats from the Kings of Jury Duty. I'm lucky enough to get TWO notices each time. One for Lisa Pagnetti and one for Lisa Poltz. Seventeen years ago I happily went about the business of changing my name on everything from my Social Security Card to my subscription to TV Guide. As a newlywed I was under the assumption than all of these people would delighted at my new role as a wife. Instead it seemed they didn't give a rat's arse. It only meant more aggravation and paperwork. I feel their pain today. I can talk to the courts until my face turns blue. They refuse to believe that I am only ONE person. You'd think a simple phone call would clear this all up. Oh contraire, it takes contempt of court threats and endless written affidavits form yours truly. Connect the dots people! Have a look see at the Social Security Number!
Even if I wanted to, I couldn't hyphenate my name. It doesn't sound right. Take John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald and Sarah Jessica Parker for examples. They roll nicely off the tongue. Lisa Pagnetti-Poltz sounds like a dreaded disease or syndrome. The Non-Hopkins Lymphoma of last names.
As Mick Jagger would say "you can't always get what you want." As for me, "if I try some time, I might find I get nowhere." What's done is done. With my luck if I change back to my maiden name I'll get FOUR Jury Duty notices. My college loan debts would suddenly show unpaid and my first name would get fouled up. Trust me there are endless ways to muck up "Lisa." Take my boss of eight years for example, She christened me Liza. I don't care if she was Canadian. There's no mistaking The Mona Lisa with Liza Minelli.
Sincerely yours,
Liza Pagnetti-I Have no Pulse-Poltz
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