The Barefoot Kitchen Witch

Keeping Company

 

I have a little nook where I've set up my sewing stuff recently.  It's just a banquet table that's now nearly covered with a shelving unit left over from an old second-hand computer desk we had a while back, and my sewing machine, containers of yarn and ribbon and needles and other assorted bits and pieces of my stabs at creativity.  There's also, in the corner, a red pillow from our living room that split along the seam and needs to be closed up.  The only problem with that - now - is that Softie and Scratchy have claimed it for their own.

You can see a bit of it at the bottom of the picture above.  Right under Scratchy.  The two kittens (well, catolescents, I guess) have taken turns napping on that pillow so much that it's now mostly gray with fur and dented in the shape of curled-up-cat.

When we got back from our little trip last week, Scratchy, in particular, was insanely glad to see us and has been extra clingy to me ever since.  So when I set up my laptop on the tiny bit of remaning space of the sewing table, he was right there with me. 

 

He's really a sweet cat.  Still doesn't like to be picked up - although of all of us, Alex has the most success at it.  But Scratchy is a very companionable cat. 

He's good company.

Overheard

Julia  "But...don't you want to play with me?"

Alex (after having spent hours playing with her already):  "No."

Julia:  (silence for a bit, and then)  "OH YEAH?  THEN YOU'RE AN IDIOT!"

TWD - Caramel Crunch Bars

 

This week's recipe was selected by Whitney of What's Left on the Table?

You know, I thought I was in good shape.  My kids each had a friend coming over for the afternoon and dinner (and one was sleeping over) on Saturday, so I thought:  Perfect!  I'll make the Caramel Crunch Bars and make ice cream sandwiches out of some of them!  The kids will be thrilled!  Plus I'll have my TWD stuff done WAAAAAAAAAAY ahead of time!  I won't be posting it all on a Wednesday!

Bwahahahahahaha!

Well, I did, in fact, make these on Saturday.  Very easy to put together.  My only changes were to leave out the espresso powder/finely ground instant coffee because I thought I had some but I didn't and I didn't want to go back to the store for just one item.  Annnnnnd...the store I went to didn't have toffee chips, so I bought a bag of mini Heath bars and chopped them up instead.  And darn, we have some left over.  What to do...what to do.....

 

Anyway, I baked them off without a hitch, and once they were completely cooled, I made little ice cream sandwiches out of them.  (My son's friend, when Alex told him I was making ice cream sandwiches, said "You can always buy them."  Um...not in this house, sonny.)  I made half of them with chocolate ice cream, half with vanilla.  Set them in the freezer to chill. 

 

Okay, now, I don't know why there are green reflections on top of these ice cream sandwiches.  NO IDEA.  I didn't see anything green when I shot the pictures.  I don't have anything green hanging there in my kitchen.  I don't get it.

 

They weren't out long enough for moss to grow.  Or mold.  So really, I don't know.

 

But I do know that my son and his friend had NO problem devouring a couple of these little chocolate sandwiches. 

And as for the cookies on their own - yummy.  A combination cookie and candy.  Crispy, crunchy, chocolatey and tofee-ey. 

I think next time I'll search harder for toffee chips, though.  The only thing that seemed off to me was the mix of the bittersweet chocolate layer and the milk chocolate on the Heath bars. 

To see what the other Tuesdays With Dorie members thought of them, go to the TWD site and check out the miles-long blogroll.  That should keep you busy for a year or so!  Oh, and if you want the recipe and don't have the book, Whitney has posted the recipe on her site.

Enjoy!

Where We Went

So the four of us (Bill, kids, me) went up to NH for a part of this past week (school vacation week) so Bill could give his new skiis a good workout.  The kids were booked for all day lessons on two days, which freed us up a bit.

We stayed right in Laconia, near Gunstock Mountain, where the skiing took place. 

And what did I do?

Not a whole heck of a lot, really.  I mostly hung out in the Lodge while Bill and the kids were outside.  I read, I sent IM messages back and forth with my sister, and I met Bill for lunch mid-day both days.  I've never skiied, and I should.  I would like to take a lesson, but this past week I had trouble just finding a shoe I could put my right foot in comfortably, so ski boots weren't on my agenda.

The kids had a great time, and by the afternoon of the first day, Alex was actually riding up the lifts and skiing a couple of small beginner trails with his class.  He continued doing that the second day as well.  Bill skiied with him or behind him a couple of times, too.  Alex said later he could ski all day.  So he's definitely hooked! 

Julia went down a green trail once, with her class.  She was thrilled (this was on the second day) because Alex had gone the day before and she was feeling a little left out, I guess.  But she got to ride up on the lift, just like big people, and snowplow down the shallow incline with the rest of her little group.  She's getting the hang of it.  I watched her in the little beginner practice area and she maneuvered through the little turns very well.  And then, when she was supposed to slow and turn and get back in line to ride the "Wonder Carpet" back to the top, she just...kept going.  Right past me (she didn't notice I was there) and for another oh, twenty feet, until she fell over.

And just stayed there.  She wasn't hurt, or upset, or anything like that.  She was just...hanging out.  So I watched her.  She rolled up into a sitting position...then leaned over and ate some snow.  (That's how the little kids stay nourished through the day, I noticed.  They eat snow.  Must be dusted overnight with vitamins and minerals.)  Then she sat up...then she flopped down and looked at the sky.  She didn't even try to get up; she just moved her little body to various positions, patiently waiting for one of the instructors to come get her.

And then she noticed me. 

"Mama?"

"Hi, Honey."

"Mama!.........Could you help me get up?"

So I went over and picked her up, and while I was doing that, one of her instructors arrived, laughing, and reminded Julia about the whole slow-down-and-and-stop thing they'd been working on. 

Julia waved bye-bye to me and headed back to class.  I watched her a bit more and the next time she did just great, slowing and turning gently and taking her place in line.  And then she fell over.  No problem.  She just waited as one of the instructors came over to help.

After the kids' all-day classes were over Bill and I would meet outside nearby and go pick the kids up together.  The instructors gave us an overview of what they'd done that day and how well the kids had made out.  The first day I almost laughed out loud when Julia's teacher said how well-behaved and sweet Julia had been.  But I guess it's good that Julia saves all her less-desirable behavior for her parents and spares her teachers.

After getting the kids, we'd troop back to the truck and ride home, listening to the high points of the day (Alex saw a porcupine in a tree while riding up the lift!).  Then, back at the hotel, we'd change into bathing suits and go hang out in the pool for a half hour or so.  The pool room also housed a hot tub, which the kids grew to love.  Julia took to it right away, but it took Alex a bit longer to trust that the water wasn't going to burn off any important parts of his anatomy.

Then, after pool and hot tub time, we went out to eat.  All three nights we ate at the same place - Patrick's Pub & Eatery.  Wonderful place - great food - especially their chicken and the Friday night Rotisserie Lamb special.  The employees were all friendly, the beer and wine were good, and the atmosphere was warm and comfortable.  It was close by - right across the street from where we were staying - but that wasn't the only reason we ate there.  We just liked it.  It became "our" place.  If you're in Gilford, NH and need a place to dine, I highly recommend it.

OH - and speaking of food. 

The #1 reason we stayed at B. Mae's?  The waffle breakfast.  Alex LOOOOVVVVVED the waffles there when he and Bill went last year, and in the days leading up to this year's trip, he kept telling us we'd love those waffles.  In fact, he was looking forward more to breakfast than to skiing.  So we were all pumped up for waffles.  

The first morning we got up around 7, got dressed and trooped down the hall to the other end of the building where the continental breakfast was set up.  The waffles were make-your-own.  Two waffle irons going  - and a LINE.  Everyone (or mostly everyone) was there to ski, so pretty much everyone was up at the same time, trying to get their waffles before heading to the mountain.  So I made the kids' waffles while Bill got us seats at one of the long, crowded tables and poured juice for the kids and coffee for us.  Then Bill made his waffle and I didn't bother because the line was too long and we needed to get TO THE MOUNTAIN.  I finally had a waffle on our last morning.  It was...well, it was a waffle.  But Alex is insanely enamored of waffles and pancakes, so I can see why it would be a way bigger thrill for him than for me.

And I think that's about it, really.  Now for some pictures.

Oh, and for whatever reason, I didn't take ANY pictures until Thursday.  (We arrived on a Tuesday and left on Friday.)  I think I spent Wednesday alternately being mad at myself for not being able to ski and feeling wistful because even if I wanted to take a lesson, my foot wasn't going to go into a boot.  Wah, wah, wah, poor me.  Annoying.  I got over it.

Snow began to fall - heavily - on Wednesday afternoon and continued overnight and into late the next morning.  It was beautiful to watch - not so great to ski in, according to Bill.  He'd been hoping for a nice, light, fluffy powder, but it was a little too warm and the snow was wetter and heavier than he liked. 

Here's the view from the upper level of the Lodge:

 

(those are reflections of the lights inside the Lodge - not cool shots of alien spacecraft.)

 

I believe a total of 9 inches fell during that afternoon-to-morning time period.

  

The moisture layer is so heavy that you can't even see the higher peaks. 

 

Ah - must be around 10:00 now - here come the kids in their ski classes.  Julia's in that picture above.  Here's a better view....

 

Sorry for the sloppy drawing.  Anyway, Julia's the girl in the foreground - pink jacket, lavender snow pants, and a dark helmet.

 

That's better.  They all get dropped off in that building to the left - Base Camp - and then in groups they head out to the Wonder Carpet area to practice their snowplows (pizza wedges) and turns and so forth.

 

And here's Alex going by...heading back to the lift.  That's him with the red (rented) boots and his arms kind of reaching in each direction. 

 

Here he is - a little later - after going down Misfire (one of the few gentle beginner slopes).

Alex absolutely LOVED skiing.  Loved it.  He didn't want to go home.

 

Oh, and while I'm standing here shooting pictures of Alex, I was also waiting for Julia to appear.  I'd been way up in the lodge when I saw her little group actually head over to the lift.  She was going to ski on an actual trail!!  I grabbed my stuff and raced outside and then stood for oh, it seemed like an hour, waiting for her to appear SOMEWHERE.  I met up with two other moms whose daughters were in the same group, and we're all there squinting up the hill looking for our own pink-clad snow bunnies.

 

No Julia yet, but there goes Alex, back to the lift...

 

Annnnnnd...here's Alex, just coming down Peepsight - one of the steeper beginner trails.  Still no Julia.

 

Yep, there they go, back to the lift again.  He's having a blast.

 

THERE SHE IS!  She made it down Misfire.  Yay!  My big girl!

   

The teachers and kids assemble at the foot of that slope and then head back to the Wonder Carpet area.  So Julia only went down one trail one time, but still, she DID it.  Good for her!

 

Yay, Julia!

Actually, yay both of them.  They had a great time, they learned a lot, and Bill's already talking Olympic trials.  Okay, not really about the Olympics.  Still, it's hard to leave those days or even these pictures and not think (as a non-skier) - My kids are awesome! 

Anyway, that was our trip - the highlights, anyway.  I probably should have taken more pictures, but oh well, I didn't. 

There's always next year.

While We Were Away...

The cats were left to fend for themselves.

Softie, recovering nicely from her surgery a couple of weeks ago, brought down this enormous pink circus horse for all to feast upon. 

Softie, Schmoftie.  I've always known she was the REAL hunter in the group.

 

 

 

 

It's nice to know we can leave town and not have to worry about the pets.

Why Valentine's Day Only Causes Pain

I should have just been happy to give him a card and a small bar of (Godiva) chocolate.  The dark chocolate with raspberry filling.  Yum.  That was plenty, right?

But because it was Valentine's day, it didn't end there.

I have to back up a bit first.

Bill recently bought a pair of skiis, and boots.  And a new waterproof coat.  And base wear.  And socks.  And ski pants.  I think that's everything on the list.  He's become a born-again skiier.  And we all suffer the fallout of his fanatacism.

Anyway, his new skiis arrived a few days ago, and he promptly brought them to the local Ski Market so they could put his bindings on and fit them to his boots, or whatever secret ski club stuff they do.  He got them back on Friday after work, and now he's itching to try them out.

So he and a friend were going to go.  Saturday night.  As in yesterday.  Yes.  Valentine's day.

Now, I'm not really over the top about Valentine's Day.  We exchange cards, maybe some chocolate, but that's about the extent of it.  We stay FAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRR away from restaurants.  It's hard to have a nice quiet just-the-two-of-you meal when you're packed elbow to knee with all the OTHER couples trying to do the same thing.  So we eat at home.  And besides, we can cook pretty well ourselves.

Back to the skiing.  He and his buddy decided not to go skiing Saturday - not because it was Valentine's day - there were other reasons, including the slightly warmer weather we've been having.  So they've made plans to hook up some other time in the future.

Bill still wanted to ski, however.  Soon.  He looked up the conditions locally and discovered that despite the weather, they had been making snow like crazy and had plenty of trails open.  (See that, I don't ski, but I can speak a bit of the language.)  He got the look in his eye.  A rubbing-the-hands together, gleam in his eye, boy-waiting-for-Santa sort of look. 

And I cannot resist a good opportunity to torture a person.  So I feigned hurt and asked "You would go skiing tonight?  Valentine's Day?  And when I'm sick?  Cough cough."  (Big sad puppy eyes.)

He looked torn.  I continued.  Then I stopped.  He might as well go.  It's not like I was all that exciting to be around, mucus-filled as I was (and am.)  He said he'd think about it.

Later on, when I was trying to work on one of the current dolls I've got in the works, he came into the room and announced that he was NOT going skiing that night because it wouldn't be right.  On Valentine's day.  I told him not to let that get in the way of things - I'd even make him a little sign to wear on his jacket "My wife said I could go skiing on Valentine's Day" just so no one would chastise him.  But no.  He wasn't going.  Maybe he'd go the next morning, though.

And that was nice.  I had a warm little feeling inside.  Selfless gestures are way better than flowers, after all. 

So.  Fast forward a few hours.  I was getting dinner started.  Nothing fancy - just comfort food - a double batch of chicken tetrazzini.  (One pan for me, the other for everyone else.  No, not really.)

Bill had gone outside to put some things in the garage.  And as I looked out the window, I felt a resurgence of that warm feeling I'd felt when he gave up an evening of skiing to hang out with his germ-laden wife.  Sweet man.  And I just thought - I'll go give him a hug.  Just a simple Valentine's Day hug.  A simple gesture.  Just because.

So, wearing flip flops, because I don't have slippers and that's what I wear sometimes to keep my feet from feeling cold on the kitchen tile, I opened the back door.

And I opened the storm door with my right hand, stepped out with my right foot, onto the little rubber mat on the top step -

And then, quick as the proverbial wink, the mat slipped across the concrete step, bringing my foot with it, and next thing I knew, my foot was jammed under the iron railing on the other side of the step.

Here - in case you'd like a better visual - this is the rubber mat and our concrete stairs outside the kitchen door.  (Well of course I went and took pictures after the fact.  You'd be surprised if I didn't, wouldn't you?)

 

Next up, the railing, which is just beyond the door in the picture above.

 

And now, a closer view of the danger zone.

 

Okay, back to the story.  My right was jammed under that lower rail.  Not all the way to the ankle - about midway between where the toes attach to the foot and the ankle.  Yeah.  All those skinny little bones.  And no padding.  Ouch.

I stood there on my left foot, clutching my right foot with one hand and hanging onto the door with my other hand.  I couldn't move.  I wanted to cry.  In fact, I could feel tears stinging my eyes.  Peripherally I saw Bill look up from what he was doing.  And I knew what he was thinking.  Something along the lines of "What did she do now?"  Because there are times, I admit, when I'm sort of a bit of a klutz.  I stub a toe or whack an elbow from time to time.  More times than normal, in Bill's opinion.  I don't know about that.  But whatever.  I knew he was figuring something like that had happened.  Something minimal. 

I couldn't say anything.  Or move.  He yelled "Are you okay?"  And I think I squeaked out a "no" because he left the garage and came over.  I whimpered a quick explanation of what had happened, and he helped me hobble into the house.  I made my way into the dining room and peeked at my foot. 

"Do you want some ice?"  Bill called from the kitchen.  I think I said yes.  I don't remember.  I was busy staring at the icky top of my foot.  There was a jagged triangularish purple outline and inside that area, it was white.  I don't know why that grossed me out, but it did.  Made me think of episodes of Man vs Wild when Bear Grylls eats caterpillar or worm guts.  That's just how my brain works.  I stared in morbid fascination at that white icky part and, in a bit of a panic, yelled to Bill "CAN I HAVE THAT ICE, PLEASE?"  And then I thought of the ice pack touching my wounded skin and I felt my skin crawl, so I added "AND A TOWEL???"  As I watched, the middle white part slowly turned purple to match the border.  Oddly enough, it didn't look as creepy to me then.

Oh, and yes, it hurt.  Not as much as what happened to my sister several years ago, of course, but still.  It hurt.

Bill brought the ice pack and a dish towel and I gently draped them on my foot.  The kids were in the room, too, looking concerned.  I said I was fine, I'd just hurt my foot a bit.  I'd be fine. 

Bill asked if I needed anything else.  I asked for my camera. 

Here's my foot, after I'd kept the ice on it a bit.

  

I know.  That little thing?  The flash washes it out a bit.  Try this one.

 

You can sort of see a reddish area surrounding the wound.  I'm guessing that will eventually turn bruisy colors. 

 

While I was sitting there, I noticed that the glass on our china hutch needs cleaning.  But not until I'd take a picture of this:

See it?

 

See them now?  The lips?  Not sure who did that.  I'd suspect Julia, of course, but unless she was on a chair, it's too high for her.  Interesting what you see when you're just sitting.

Anyway, that was all yesterday.  Today my foot still hurts, especially if anything touches the scab area.  And also my left calf feels tight, like a leg cramp almost.  But other than that, I'm okay.

And that's my story.  I blame Valentine's Day.  If it hadn't been V-Day, Bill wouldn't have decided not to go skiing, I wouldn't have felt like hugging him out of the blue like that, - in fact, at that time he probably wouldn't even have been home - and my foot would be fine.  It's an evil holiday.  Evil, I tell ya.

Now I'm going to limp upstairs and make pancakes or french toast for us all for breakfast.

If anything more colorful happens with my foot, I'll be sure to post the pictures.

This Is Not a Valentine's Day-Themed Post. Mostly.

Because my day began at around one in the morning when I woke up.  I've got a yucky cold or something and I woke up dry-mouthed, achy-throated, and just generally achy over all.  I couldn't go back to sleep, so I went downstairs, took a variety of meds, made some tea, and went further downstairs to watch stuff on the food network.

I fell alseep during a Good Eats episode about...oranges?  I think?  I don't know.  I just know that's when I took off my glasses, curled up under some blankets on the couch, and just listened. 

I like to listen to Alton Brown.  I like his voice.  More than that, I like his wit and intelligence.  His shows are kind of like story time.  Story time about food.  Which sounds good to me.

So I snuggled down, eyes closed, and listened to the start of the show - and I was out. 

For three solid hours. 

And then I woke up in the middle (or some section) of a weird, unpleasant, kind of disturbing dream that I couldn't entirely sort out.  I went upstairs to my own bed, thinking I just needed to be sleeping in the right place.  It was a lovely idea, but it didn't work.  I lay there, awake, breathing out of my mouth for a while, then I schlepped back downstairs, made more tea, and searched for something to watch.  Not a whole lot to choose from at that hour.  I was hoping for cooking shows on PBS - seems to me I've seen Lidia Bastianich in the wee hours before.  But not this morning.  I watched the tail end of something on the food network again - one of those recipe for success shows about someone starting a business in the food industry, and then figured that would be it.

But no!

There was something coming on...something educational - there was a little blurb at the bottom of the screen that said teachers could utilize the following program in the classroom...

I stared at the screen through half-closed eyes as the show came on.  Bunch of people sitting at the counter in a diner.  One of them spoke.

And

It was Alton Brown.

I would say I wept with joy, but that would be silly.  But I was definitely joyful, in my own, special, congested way.

This show was about potatoes - yay!  I didn't fall asleep this time around, I just watched and wished I had some russet potatoes on hand because a baked potato sounded really good to me right about then.

After the show, I went (again) back to my own bed and fell into a peaceful, contented sleep.

Now it's morning - true daytime morning.  Kids are up - and in the other room "secretly" making me valentine's day cards.  I already made their day with a book each, a little stuffed animal, a card, and some chocolate. 

And that's about all the effort I intend to put into anything today.

Where The Doll Thing Originated

Over the past, I don't know, weeks, I guess, I showed you a few dolls I made. 

First was this one:

 

And then this one:

 

And, finally, this one:

 

And now I'm working on another one - well, two, actually.  No, thre-  no, I guess it's really four.  Plus a stuffed animal (for Alex - he's fed up with all the girl things and demanded something for himself.)  But I can't show you these yet.  YET.  I will.  Later.  Soon.  At least soon for two of them.

Anyway.  I never had any urge or desire (that I remember) to make dolls.  But when I first started going through all my packed-away stuff, knowing that I wanted to make SOMETHING...I came across this little one:

 

She's about 7 inches in length.  Yellow yarn hair.  Bright red sweater.  And, that's right, no pants.  Or undergarments.  But hey, she's a doll.  She doesn't have to follow any rules.

My grandmother made her.  My mom's mom.  Her name was Emma Jane, and I am named after her, in a diagonal sort of way - Jayne instead of Jane, and no Emma in sight.  I'm also named after my paternal grandmother, kind of.  Her maiden name is my middle name.  If I'd been a firstborn son, I'd have been named after the grandfathers.  But I wasn't, so I'm not.  And this doll conversation probably wouldn't be taking place if I'd been a boy. 

But anyway.

My grandmother made this simple little doll, and knitted or crocheted the sweater, too.  (And Lynne - look, she's got a face!)

 

That's right.  My grandmother wasn't Amish.  She put faces on her dolls.  And look at the neck.  No wonder the doll looks a bit cranky.  There's thread wrapped around her throat, choking a neck into place.  You WILL have a neck, missy.  Don't GIVE me that look!

I don't remember how old I was when she made this, though "very young" comes to mind.  

And then I went digging through my pine and cedar chest, where I store some of my stuff from childhood, and I rescued this girl:

 

Her name is Emmy.  She's about oh.....18" long.  (I'm too lazy to go get a tape measure.)  And my grandmother made her, too.  You can see some similarities between her and the doll with the red sweater.  (That's her name:  The Doll With The Red Sweater.)  The blue eyes.  Shock of yellow yarn hair.   Slightly dingy look from too much love.

I love the fabric my grandmother used for the dress - a thin flannel with patterns of cherries on it.  I actually have some of this fabric somewhere.  I've used bits of it in various projects, but I can't use ALL of it up because I...well, I can't.  And that's that.

Emmy, as you can see, also has a face.  Here's a closer look:

 

My grandmother was very creative, very artistic.  She sketched in pencil, charcoal, colored pencil, and those cray-pas oily pastel crayons that I remember using in school.  She painted in watercolor, acrylic and oil.  She sewed, crocheted, knitted and made a few braided rugs.  I'm sure there was more.  She also played piano.

The doll's face is my grandmother's "face."  By that I mean that when she sketched - and when she was a little girl, she sketched whereEVER she could - usually, as they were poor, in the margins of the newspaper.  On scraps of paper.  And THIS is the style of face she drew.  There were, of course, differences in each, but still, there was a basic face style my grandmother had, and when I look at this doll's face, I see endless scraps of paper with similar faces.  You know.  Like you can recognize a Renoir face.  This is an Emma Jane face.

Sigh.

And that's it for my stroll down memory lane today. 

But I wanted to show you where I think this "doll thing" I've got going on right now probably originated. 

And now you know.

Sesame Puffs

 

Bill and I used to cook together a lot BC (before children).  Usually on the weekends, when we had plenty of time, we'd try out a bunch of recipes at a time and make feasts four ourselves.  The leftovers would feed us for the first half of the following work week.

It was fun.  Even (or especially) in the teeny, tiny closet of a kitchen we had in our first home - a little rented cottage with two rooms:  a downstairs and an upstairs.  Oh, yeah, and the bathroom.  With the icky tub that we couldn't rid of previously existing stains (which had formed around those little rubbery feet and other cutesy non-skid shapes you can use instead of a mat.  Yeah.  Real nice.)

Once the kids started showing up, the cooking together thing - at least to that degree - lessened.  Especially when they were very young.  Someone just had to be available for diapers or to keep them entertained or out of the fish tank.  It was just easier for one of us to cook solo.  Which is fine, too.  At least we both like to cook, so it wasn't always and forever me doing it.

But lately we've been drifting back into that cooking together thing.  Kids are big enough to play unsupervised, to use the bathroom unsupervised, and to keep from falling in the fish tank. 

This past Saturday we had one of those cooking evenings.  I was originally only slated to make one of the dishes, but after I finished working on projects in my little sewing area, I ended up overseeing a second dish, and we just hung out in the kitchen, through the prepwork, the cooking, and then after dinner for a while, singing harmonies along with Fleetwood Mac's Rumors CD.

Bill had picked out the menu, and one dish was the Sesame Puffs pictured above.  They were completely different from what we'd imagined.  Both of us were thinking crispy (they're fried), when, in fact, they are more cakey.  They're like old-fashioned doughnuts, really.  Flavored with cardamom and lemon zest, they are subtly sweet with a nutty, toasty sesame crunch on the outside. 

Unfortunately I was too busy slicing phyllo dough (for another dish - I need to re-do that one before I post it - it needs improvement on my part) to take pictures of the process.  In fact, the photos I did take were done this morning of the few we still have. 

Bill hadn't read the little side note thing that said these were actually a dessert, so we just had these along with the other things for dinner, and had his planned dessert FOR dessert. 

But back to the Sesame Puffs.  First of all, I think the name needs to be changed.  They're not - to my way of thinking - Puffs.  They're not puffy at all.  Sure, they puff up a bit when they fry, but still...when I think of something called "puffs" I either think of cheese puffs - light and crispy - or of tissues with lotion for your red, sore nose.  Neither fits.

The recipe comes from a Better Homes and Gardens book called Wok Cuisine:  Oriental to American.  Bill gave me the book for Christmas or my birthday or something waaaaaaaaaaaay back when we were building our collection of Asian cookbooks.  It's funny, though - because it's not thoroughly Japanese, or Thai, or Chinese, and doesn't particularly look Asian, we don't reach for it all that often.  And yet any recipe we've tried has been worth the time and effort. 

Anyway, the recipe can be found on page 109, in the Frying section.  The recipe on the facing page is for "Deep-Fried Pork Cutlets" - which is probably why Bill assumed the Sesame Puffs were savory rather than sweet.

These were simple as anything to make, and I will definitely make them again.  If you feel the need for a bit more sweetness, you could probably dust them with confectioner's sugar, or cinnamon-sugar or - hmmm...this would be interesting...maybe a blend of sugar and a little Chinese 5 spice powder?  Have to try that next time.

Anyway - here's the recipe.

Sesame Puffs

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 T finely shredded lemon peel

1 tsp baking powder

1/4 tsp salt

1/8 tsp ground cardamom

1/4 cup unsalted butter

2/3 cup sugar

2 eggs

oil for frying

1 beaten egg white

1 T water

1/2 cup sesame seeds

1.  In a mixing bowl stir together the flour, lemon peel, baking powder, salt and cardamom.  In a mixing bowl beat the butter with an electric mixer on medium to high speed for 30 seconds.  Add sugar; beat til thoroughly combined.  Add eggs; beat til fluffy.  Stir in the flour mixture.  Turn out onto a lightly floured surface.  Knead for 10 to 12 strokes or till dough clings together.  Roll dough into a log about 1  1/2 inches in diameter.

2.  In a wok or 3-quart saucepan heat 1  1/2 to 2 inches of cooking oil to 365 degrees F.  Meanwhile, cut dough into 1/2 inch slices.  Roll each slice into a ball.  Stir together the egg white and the water.  Roll each ball in the egg white mixture, then in sesame seeds to coat lightly.

3.  Fry balls of dough, a few at a time, in hot oil for 3 to 5 minutes or till golden brown and balls begin to expand and crack, turning once.  Using a wire strainer or slotted spoon, remove balls from hot oil.  Drain on a wok rack or paper towels.  Keep warm in a 300 degree oven while frying remaining balls.  Serve warm.  Makes 8 servings.

That Softie - She's A Funny One

This morning Alex showed up beside my bed at about quarter to four.

"Well, it's two things, Mom," he began in his no-big-rush sort of way.

His covers had all fallen off the bed, and Softie had gotten into the bedroom and was purring around his head and "disturving" him.

In fact, as he was telling me this, I could hear the deafening motor that is Softie-when-happy purring from somewhere near his feet.  She didn't want him out of her sight.

I have no idea why she has latched onto him like that - could be because he's always been very gentle with her (and every animal).  Could be some sort of cross-species crush she has.  Who knows.  But whenever he's in bed, if she has the opportunity to hop up on his bed and march around on his pillow, rubbing up against his head and purring loudly, she grabs it with all 200 claws.

Anyway, I took care of both situations A and B and Alex went back to sleep.  I didn't.  So I've been up since then.  Not doing much - reading a bit of a book, catching up on other blogs - drinking hot cocoa.  Real exciting stuff.

But back to Softie.  Her tummy wound continues to heal nicely, and she seems totally oblivious to it.  She does all her usual stuff - stalking her monstrous brother (Scratchy is a BIG cat) or staring, unblinking, at the lizard from TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT, hopping up onto the counter by the sink and making little coughing "ack-ack" predatory noises at the birds, scratching the furniture when she can get away with it, and, as mentioned before, snuggling with Alex's head.

Last night before dinner I had been working on some little projects in my tiny corner workshop/sewing area in my bedroom.  (Alex has had enough of me making dolls - he wants a triceratops.  "You need a challenge, Mom.")  I was on my way out of the room for some reason, and there was Softie.  Sitting in this red case/storage thing I got a while back.  I think it's meant for either CDs/DVDs (i'm awfully fond of the back slash this morning, huh?) or videotapes but I think mine has old tee shirts Alex has outgrown in it.  For some future as-yet undetermined project.  Anyway, last night, as I walked by, this is what I saw:

 

To me, that doesn't look at all comfortable.  But what do I know?  I'm not a cat.

Yay, it's Friday

Not that it matters all that much to me which day of the week it is, but at least today there are no after-school obligations for the kids.

Yesterday Julia had a make-up swim class, since she missed Monday's lesson.  We didn't say anything about it when we'd scheduled it.  At that point there was still the possibility that she would be scared to go and would try to find reasons to get out of going.

I told her on the way home from the grocery store yesterday, before we picked up Alex after school. 

And she was fine.  "Okay," she said.  No fear, no tears.  Reconfirming for me that Monday she was genuinely sick, as if the vomiting hadn't done that already.

Anyway, we went to the pool last night, Julia all snug and cozy - and purple - in her new Warm Belly Wetsuit.  Alex has red.  These things are great - no more purple lips or chattering teeth.  Anyway, she went into the water with her teacher, Ms. C, and Alex and I watched from the bleachers.  Well, we watched, and also Alex drew pictures of collections of animals:  Animals from Africa...Dinosaurs...Sea Creatures.  

And Julia did SO well.  It's kind of culture shock for her, especially, in these lessons.  I think I've mentioned that before.  But the main things are 1) the kids don't wear any kind of flotation device during the lessons and 2) they actually are DOING SOMETHING during the whole half hour class.  Before, she was used to casually floating along in the pool with her classmates, maybe swimming, sort of, but nothing really intense or serious or scary.  She would have remained in that same class for another year, probably, because there was no emphasis on progress.  But don't get me started.  Anyway, this time around, she is LEARNING.  And it's not easy.  It's scary.  She's not tall enough to touch bottom with her head above water, so she really needs to keep herself afloat.  And she does.  Last night she swam from the end of the lane to the flags, which is, I think, about ten or fifteen feet.  She floated on her back, and the teacher slowly - talking to her all the time - took her hands away so Julia was floating all on her own.  I watched, remembering that feeling from when I took lessons an eternity ago.  And Julia stayed there, a little purple starfish on the surface of the water, until fear kicked in and she began to sink.  She was scared.  I could see it on her little face - that furrowed brow, the pout, the worried eyes.  But her teacher held her and talked to her and hugged her and worked with her, worked her through it.  It's horrible and wonderful to watch.  After the floating/sinking thing, Ms. C had Julia lie on her back, Ms C's hand under Julia's neck, supporting her.  Then they went up and down half the length of that lane, Ms C counting 1, 2, 3 and then having Julia turn over from her back onto her stomach and swim for another count of 1, 2, 3, and then flip back onto her back and float 1, 2, 3, and then flip back to her stomach again.  Over and over.  So Julia would know HOW to do that herself and NOT just sink down to the bottom in terror. 

And at the end of the class, Julia was all smiles, and I hugged her wet little warm belly'd body and told her how proud I was of her.  She got two stamps on the backs of her hands - they're big on positive reinforcement there - and then we headed back to the locker room, Julia somehow taller than when she'd arrived a half an hour before.

~~~

Let's see, what else....

Well, thank you to the people who have shared their spayed cat/abdominal stitches stories with me in the comments section of this post.  So far Softie is taking it easy (mostly) and her suture wound looks fine.  I check it multiple times a day (much to Softie's growing annoyance) and it is looking pink (not red or bloody) and healthy.  I apparently have strong, rapidly-healing cat stock here.

Funny thing about Softie - I don't know if I've told you about this before - she adores Alex.  It's funny - she's technically Julia's cat, and Scratchy is Alex's.  But really, they're all the family cats.  Of course, cats being cats, they decide where their own individual loyalties lie.  Scratchy, as I've said before, loves me.  I'm not bragging or anything, he just does.  It's obvious.  He is smitten.  And so adorable about it.  If he had opposable thumbs and was allowed outside, he'd probably pick dandelions for me just because.  In the summer, I mean.

But Softie - she loves Alex.  More specifically, she loves Alex's head when it's asleep and on a pillow. 

Last night at some point Julia was out of her bed and in our bed for a little while.  I brought her back to the kids' bedroom, and when I opened the door to go in, out of nowhere, Softie came racing past me, into the room, onto Alex's bed, and to his head, where she paced, purring LOUDLY and rubbing her cheek against his hair.  It's adorable and hysterical. 

I put Julia in her bed, tucked the covers around her, and Softie continued to purr and purr and purr, overjoyed at her luck.  But I had to put an end to her happiness.  Had to (gently because of the stitches) remove her from the bed and from the bedroom and close the door before she could race back in again.  If allowed to stay, she would have woken Alex up with all her loud, insistent affection.  It's only so cute when you're trying to sleep, apparently.  So Alex has asked that we keep the door shut so the cats won't wake him up.  (Scratchy would have joined in the fun, too.  He likes to attack Alex's feet.)

Softie accepted her exile without complaint.  She went back downstairs to sleep wherever she sleeps.  Just waiting, I presume, for the next opportunity to come along.

~~~

And that's it for the moment.  Have to get Alex to school.  Then it's back here for my big exciting project of the day:  I have to clean out the fridge.

Wish me luck.

Her Turn

Softie was spayed on Tuesday of this week. 

So Monday night I had to throw her into the bathroom (where I'd set up a private litterbox for her) and shut the door and leave there so she wouldn't be able to consume any food or water.

Her little mews were heartwrenching.

Scratchy, the sweet, wonderful big lug that he is, spent most of the night outside the bathroom door, lending quiet support.

We dropped her off at the vet's at 8 in the morning and picked her up around quarter to four.  The kids came along.  They love going to the vet.  Probably because nothing bad ever happens to THEM there.

The tech went over the whole post-op care checklist with me; nothing new - we went through this a couple months ago with Scratchy - the only difference, really, being that Scratchy's surgery was a lot less invasive than Softie's.  I know - my husband and any other male out there would cross his legs and disagree with me, but still.  Come on guys.  His incision was WAAAAAAAAAY smaller than Softie's. 

Anyway.  So we brought home little Softie in the carrier.  She was, of course, wearing the same ridiculous "Elizabethan collar" that Scratchy had worn.  Oh, joy.

Well, we got her home, and the kids went downstairs to play.  Old hands at this, they weren't all that interested in watching Softie emerge from her carrier.  It's just as well.  It took her a while.  Instead of trying to come out, she spent her time and energy trying to get that rid of the collar.  I had to keep reaching in and pulling one paw or the other out of the collar...at one point she got the edge of it jammed in her mouth.  And she wouldn't let me pull her out of the carrier, either.  She'd retreat (such as it was) to the opposite end as much as possible.  Maybe she was embarrassed to be seen in such a ridiculous get-up, and didn't want to make her entrance until she'd ripped it off.

Well, eventually she did emerge, with the stupid collar still on.  And she stumbled drunkenly around the house, shaking her head and pawing at the plastic annoyance.

 

She hated it.  Not just a "This thing's a pain!  Oh well, I'll eat some food"  kind of hate.  No.  It was a fiery, raging, angry red "DEATH TO ELIZABETHAN COLLARS EVERYWHERE!!!!" kind of animosity.

 

That's all she did - grabbed at it with her front paws, trying to rip it off her body, rolling and flipping around across the floor. 

   

And the thing is - she got it off.  And once she did, she calmed right down.

But, mindful of the post-op instructions to keep that thing on so she wouldn't lick her wound and rip out the stitches and spill her innards all over the floor, I caught her (carefully) and slipped the collar back over her head and tied the gauze snugly but not too tight. 

Immediately she was back to staggering around, bumping into things.  She managed to get herself caged in between the four legs of a dining room chair and there she sat for a little while, looking around and getting her bearings.  And no doubt plotting her next escape.

She had a tough time figuring out how to eat with that thing on.  At one point she looked up and flipped cat food in the air, startling herself.  Not a good time.

Of course, the worst part for her was my fault.  I was roasting chicken at a high temperature (crispy skin, less moisture loss) and when I opened the oven door at one point to check on it, our ultra sensitive smoke alarm went off.  Softie had been sitting in the dining room at that point, and when the alarm began so shriek, she basically leaped into the air in five directions at once and raced around the main floor in a circle or two and then vanished.

I was busy grabbing a chair to climb onto so I could take the battery out of the alarm and shut the hideous thing off, so I didn't see where she'd gone.  I checked all around the nearby rooms, under and behind furniture, but no cat.  I called down to the kids to see if she'd gone down there, but no, they hadn't seen her.  So I sent Alex and Julia upstairs to search the bedrooms and the bathroom up there.

They went up, spent oh, thirty seconds doing who knows what, and came down to report that they couldn't find her.  Uh-huh.  Thanks, kids.

I shut off the not-yet-boiling pasta water and went upstairs myself.  The light was on in the kids' bedroom, so I knew where they had looked, if you can call it that.  But I noticed Scratchy sitting on the floor beside the bed in my room, and I knew.  I peeked under the bed and sure enough, there she was.  Huddled between some under-the-bed storage containers, there she crouched, stupid collar still on, her eyes wide.  "It's okay," I crooned, and left her in peace.  I shut the bathroom door and the kids' bedroom door and went back downstairs.

Some time later Softie appeared again, minus the collar.  I found it by the bed, put it back on her, and went back to making dinner.  She crept around the edges of the rooms, waiting for some other horrible noise to sound.  And then, a bit later, she had the collar off again.

This was going to be a fun recuperation, I could tell.

 

 

 

 

In the end, she won.  The collar has stayed off.  Short of strangling her with the gauze strip, I can't see how we're going to keep the thing on.  So I am monitoring her suture wound multiple times a day, and so far, it's just fine.  I think she's far less stressed without the collar, and less stress is good for us all.

At the moment, she is on the table where the lizard tank sits, staring at a cricket that the lizard hasn't eaten yet.  Her tail is lashing from side to side in a predatorial frenzy.

She's just fine.

TWD (Slacker Style) - World Peace Cookies

 

That's what's left.  Or, rather, that's what was left this morning when I took the pictures.

 

I think there are about 8 or 9 of them left in this picture.  There are fewer now.  I sent three off with Alex for a snack at school.  He also had one after breakfast.  I'm weak.  And I had two a little while ago.  Or three.

 

Intensely chocolatey, kind of shortbread-like in texture, and with little bits and pieces of chopped chocolate throughout...these cookies deserve a far better post than my puny offering today.

But it's all I've got this time around.  Yesterday got away from me and I completely forgot to write the post.  Not just didn't do it - I forgot. 

I baked them, but no pictures, and then no post.

As I said, these cookies, Dorie's World Peace Cookies, chosen by Jessica of cookbookhabit, deserve far more than just my few words and my pathetic pictures. 

So go check out all the other TWD members and their posts.  And then go to Jessica's site and get the recipe (or buy the book and get the recipe that way!) - and bake these cookies.

World Peace,  indeed.

I know I'm feeling pretty loving toward the rest of the world right about now.

Trust

It was on Monday.

Bill was at work, Alex was at school.  Julia and I had an assortment of errands to run. 

First we went to Staples, one of my very favorite stores in the whole wide world.  I love office supplies. 

I had to get just a few things.  Julia asked if she could get a package of post-it notes and since she'd been almost very good in the store, I said okay.  Don't want to crush the office supply spirit in my daughter, of course.  She picked out bright pink (of course) for herself, and asked if we could get orange ones for Alex.  I said yes - I'm always happy when they want to get something for the other one. 

A bit later we went to this little shop that sells swimming gear to get Warm Belly suits for the kids.  They're taking swimming lessons at a different place now (we quit the Y - did I write about all that?  In a nutshell, we were tired of the lack of real instruction.  Too much playing around or down time, not enough actually swimming.  The new place is amazing.  One-on-one instruction and the kids are swimming or doing SOMETHING the whole time.  It's a bit of a change for Julia, especially - in this class she is challenged more, and she's having a hard time with it.  But at the same time, she loves her teacher.  So the class is chlorine and tears and hugs, over and over.  But she is learning so much more.) and the pool, I don't know, is maybe colder then the one at the Y.  Anyway, both kids' teeth chatter, and Julia's teacher suggested these suits for the kids.  She wears one herself.  So that's what Julia and I were doing on Monday morning.  Because I am a procrastinator, and their next swim class was that evening and I still hadn't bought the things yet.

We got there and picked out a purple one for Julia and red for Alex.  (The only orange one there was too small.)  They have adjustable velcro straps over the shoulders, so as Alex's genetically pre-disposed to tallness little torso grows taller, we can adjust the suit.  Julia.  Well, she's at the small end of her suit size, so she'll probably have the same one til she's twenty.

Anyway, that was the morning.  We came home and I went upstairs to work on some projects in my little work are in my bedroom.  Julia sat on the bed and tortured played with one of the cats, and eventually she crawled into the bed and, after thrashing around a bit, fell asleep. 

Woo hoo!  Uninterrupted time for me! 

She slept for an hour and a half - then I had to wake her up so we could go pick up Alex at school.  I brushed the tangle of hair from her face and kissed her, and when she woke up she immediately started crying and said her tummy didn't feel good. 

I kissed her forehead and her cheeks, and she felt hot, but she'd also been fully dressed under all the bed covers.  She was a little sweaty, too, but again, that could be from being too hot all that time.  I uncovered her and quizzed her about her not feeling well.  Did she think she was going to throw up?  Did she need to go potty?  Was she hungry?  She hadn't had lunch, really.  Just a little snack that she didn't finish.  She said she wasn't hungry. 

She kept crying, too.  I got her into her boots and coat, hat and mittens, and into the car.  She was quiet (a sure sign something was off) and whimpery and sad.  We got Alex, came home, and I brought Julia upstairs to take her temperature.

Of course, the battery had died in the digital thermometer.  So I'm kissing her head, feeling her torso, trying to decide if she truly feels HOT or if she's just over warm from crying, or what.  I attempted to take her temp the old fashioned way with a glass thermometer under her tongue, but I was too worried she'd chomp down on the glass, swallow mercury and shards, and go insane while her insides slowly shredded, that I took the thing out after only a minute.  Inconclusive.  I don't think she even kept it under her tongue.  I know I didn't like doing that as a kid either.

So what to do?  She felt on the warm side to me, and she doesn't usually wake up crying like that.  Swim class was in about an hour.  Should she stay or should she go?

She felt warm, and she just didn't seem right to me.

So I called and cancelled her lesson.  Bill could bring Alex, and I'd stay home.

About a half hour before the class, Bill called - he was nearly home, should he just go straight to the pool and meet us there?  I told him no, come home, Julia's sick.

He said "Oh." and in that word I heard a boatload of doubt and suspicion.

The previous swim class had been a hard one on Julia.  She was basically taken outside her comfort zone, and she was scared to go back.  Of course, nothing bad was going to happen to her.  Her teacher is fabulous - has Julia do a little something new - face all the way in the water, or swimming about three feet on her own - and then lots of hugs and "I'm so proud of you!" and then maybe something less scary, like swimming using the pool noodle or floating on her back.  So like I said earlier - chlorine and tears and hugs.  

She was a mixture of scared and proud, and wasn't all that excited to go back.  But we'd kept being supportive and encouraging and we told her Miss C would NEVER let anything bad happen to her.  It might be scary at times, but that was part of learning to swim.  And if you face your fears, and work through them, you'll be all the better for it.  (Of course, it doesn't work on trips to the dentist, but that's just me.)

She hadn't said anything earlier about being scared of her swim class - in fact she was VERY thrilled about her new purple Warm Belly suit (which she insisted on calling a wet suit) that day.

But.

So Bill's voice in my ear on the phone allowed some doubt to start working on me.  Julia genuinely seemed sick.  The whole waking up from the nap crying part was so unusual for her....but.

What if?  

It's not like she's never been sneaky.  She's four.  It's part of being a kid.

But she'd felt warm.  Her cheeks were flushed.

I went downstairs to where she was lying on the couch, watching tv.

I asked how she was feeling.

"Not good."

"Julia, did you say you were sick so you wouldn't have to go to swim class?"

She didn't answer.  Just snuggled under the blanket.

"Julia, are you REALLY sick, or did you SAY you were sick so you wouldn't have to go to class?"

She started crying.

"Julia?  Are you REALLY sick?"

"I don't want to go to swim class!"

Grrrr.

"Do you feel sick?"

"I don't wanna go to swim class!"  She was crying and not looking at me.

"Julia, DO YOU FEEL SICK?"

"I just don't want to go to SWIM CLASS!"

"Are you saying you feel sick because you don't want to go to swim class???!!!"  I was getting angry.  Trying to be sure she understood the question and appalled that I'd been duped.

She nodded.  Crying.

"Julia, you lied to me.  I know you're scared to go, but you can't pretend to be sick just because you don't want to do something."  (oh, really?  since when?)

She cried more.  "I don't want to go!"

"Do you feel sick?"

She shook her head.

I swallowed all the yelling that was welling up inside me.

"You can stay down here, then, and you'll go to bed right after dinner.  If you say your sick, you're going to be treated like you're sick."

I went upstairs.

I was furious.  At her for faking it SO WELL.  At me for falling for it, and at Bill for figuring it out so fast when he wasn't even here.

He got home and I filled him in and he nodded like he wasn't the least bit surprised.  I found myself defending my blindness - her warm cheeks, her sweaty head, no lunch, the crying.  I was more annoyed about being fooled than I was about Julia's deception.  I ALWAYS know when they're hiding something.  "How did you know, Mom?"  "Because I'm a Mom.  I just know."

Til now.

Bill took Alex to class, and I tried, unsuccessfully, to convey to him that I didn't want him to tell Julia's teacher of her recent confession.  Because, truth be told, I didn't want to look like an idiot Mom who can't read her kid. 

Dammit.

I made dinner.  Fish tacos.  Easy to do when you use frozen fish sticks.  I was too grumpy to be more creative than that.

Julia seemed to perk up a bit while Alex and Bill were at the pool, so I squashed that quickly and efficiently.

"Julia, do you understand what a lie is?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"...I don't know."

"A lie is when you tell something that isn't true.  Like when you said you didn't feel good but you really just didn't want to go to swim class.  That was a lie.  When you tell lies, it makes it hard for people to trust you.  To believe what you tell them other times.  I'm really not happy about this, Julia."

"I'm sorry." 

Bill and Alex got home - Alex did really well and got two lollipops for his efforts.  He'd eaten one in the car and was finishing up the next one as he came in the door.  Bill was full of praise for him.  He also told me Julia's teacher had suggested a make-up lesson - maybe Thursday?  I said fine.  Call her.  I was still wallowing in grumpiness and feeling like a fool.  Of course I was overreacting, but I was too busy DOING it to notice.

Bill thought I was annoyed about the make-up lesson.  No.  I was just frustrated because DIDN'T HE UNDERSTAND HOW ANGRY I WAS THAT MY FOUR-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER PUT ONE OVER ON ME SO WELL.  She SEEMED SICK. 

I don't like to be wrong.  I know.  Get over yourself, Jayne.  But honestly.  She really seemed sick.

Anyway, we sat down to dinner.  Alex told me I could win a cooking contest (because fish sticks wrapped in soft tacos are so innovative and tasty, apparently) and Julia didn't want anything to eat.  Just maybe some cheese on a taco.  I fixed that for her, but she just sat and cried.  And cried.

Something in me let go, and all the annoyance evaporated.  She really felt bad about her story.  Time to stop being the dispenser of morals and just give the girl a hug.  So I did.  Several.  She sat in her chair and I sat beside her in mine, and I just hugged her while she cried.

She finally stopped, but she still didn't feel like eating, so I told her to go ahead back downstairs and I'd sit with her in a few minutes.  She went back to watching Sponge Bob or whatever was on, and I ate dinner.

After the plates were cleared, Bill gave Alex a guitar lesson and I went downstairs.

Julia looked so tiny on the couch, all wrapped up in green blankets, her small, sad face on the pillow.

"Would you like me to lie down with you?"  I asked.

She nodded. 

I slid under the blankets beside her and gave her a kiss on the head, then turned to watch the cartoon.

And then Julia made some little noise and threw up.  Not much.  I kind of thought it was some kind of burp with benefits, but she suddently had this "OH NO" look on her face and before I could say anything, she REALLY threw up, on me, the blankets, herself.  Just liquid, but still.

She started crying.  Again.  I shot questions and orders at her:  "Do you think you're going to throw up again?  Upstairs!  Run!  To the bathroom!  Hurry!"  I ran along behind her, a Border Collie, nipping at her heels.  pleasedon'tthrowuponthestairspleasedon'tthrowuponthestairs...

She made it to the bathroom and I flipped up the lid and the seat and told her to just stay there, just in case.  I ran back downstairs and grabbed the wet blankets and tossed them in the washing machine, then went back upstairs in time for Julia to retch again - productively - a couple more times.

She was really sick.

And I have to admit - I was glad.  Not glad she was vomiting.  That's no fun for any of us. 

But I was glad she had been telling me the truth.  I thought back to my earlier interrogation - trying to figure out if she felt sick really, or if she was trying to get out of swim class.  And the answer was now fuzzier.  Less clear.  She felt sick AND she didn't want to go?  She felt sick AND SO she didn't want to go?  She felt sick BECAUSE she didn't want to go?  Who knows?  And what does it matter, at this point.

I cleaned up Julia's face and the couch, put new blankets and towels all around.  Bill brought in a bucket for her, just in case.  But she seemed a lot better.  No more crying.  She was perkier - more like her usual self.

Later, when we were rehashing things, Bill wondered if maybe she'd cried so hard she made herself throw up.  After all, she seemed SO much better immediately after....

Possible, yes, but I didn't think so.  Too much lag time in between the crying jag and the race to the bathroom. 

And I told him I'd had a couple times when I'd maybe eaten something that didn't sit well with me, and I spent several hours just not feeling right, and then, finally, I'd run my own race to a bathroom, and afterward, I felt completely fine.  Like nothing had happened.

So it was certainly possible - or probable - that Julia ate something in the morning that made her feel sick when she woke up from her nap.  She'd spent several hours feeling lousy, and then, finally, got rid of it and felt better.

And I had second guessed myself.  I'd doubted my own intuition, my motherly radar, and I'd believed the worst of Julia.  Believed that she wasn't really sick; that she was faking it and lying to me.  And that she'd been successful.

And I was wrong about that.  I was right the first time. 

And she hadn't lied.

Trust.

I need to remember to trust my own Mommy gut instincts.  And Julia's gut, too, apparently.

Trust. 

I should not have been so quick to doubt. 

To doubt myself or Julia.  Myself, especially.

Lesson learned.

Chocolate Angel Food Cake for Dad's Birthday, 2009

For this year's birthday cake, Dad requested angel food cake, and, to be honest, I cringed.  I don't really like it.  I'm not head over heels in love with cake to begin with, except as a creative medium (haha), and there's just something...well, icky - to me...about angel food cake.  But - that's what he wanted, so that's what he would get.  I asked if there were any other flavors he'd like incorporated in the overall dessert, and he said chocolate and orange.  Okay, well that's a great combination, so I had something to work with.

For the recipe I consulted the Cake Bible.  As in Rose Levy Beranbaum's The Cake Bible.  THE Cake Bible.  I remember wanting this book SO MUCH a long time ago.  I'd go to the book store and just look at the pages, in awe.  (I don't know why I didn't just buy the book...it's not like I was broke at the time of my awestruck page staring.  Maybe I felt unworthy.)  Anyway, at some point I decided to be a grown-up, and I bought it.  I also have, by this point in time, added The Pie and Pastry Bible and The Bread Bible to the shelf.  Ooh.  I'm really a grown-up now.

Anyway, I looked up angel food cake and lo and behold, Ms. Berenbaum had a recipe for Chocolate Lover's Angel Food Cake right there on pages 160-162.

    "I find white angel food overpoweringly sweet but cocoa does wonders to temper the sweetness in this version." 

Perfect!  Two out of the three criteria for the birthday cake were out of the way.  Now for something orange.

I thought an orange curd would go nicely with the cake.  Lucky for me, there's a curd recipe in The Cake Bible with instructions for lemon, lime OR orange curd variations.  Bingo!

I was all set.

Now, if you look past my whining, angel food cake is actually kind of interesting to make.  There's not a smidge of fat in the recipe, for one thing, and this recipe uses a whopping 16 egg whites.  (Ten of the yolks ended up in the curd, too.  Curd + angel food = Meant To Be.  (Sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me today.)  Another interesting thing about angel food cakes is that you don't grease the pan, and to cool the cake, you prop it upside-down on a bottle or something and let it cool that way.  It's a bit nerve-wracking if you've never done it before - you keep waiting for the cake to fall out onto the counter in big airy blobs.  But it doesn't.

An angel food cake is basically a souffle - the whipped whites provide structure, and as they heat up, the air in all the little bubbles expands, resulting in a glorious puffed up golden-brown creation.  As souffles do, this will collapse in on itself after it comes out of the oven, and part of the purpose of cooling it upside-down is to prevent too much collapse from taking place.

Shall we get to the cake now?  Good idea.

You'll need the following:

1/4 cup plus 1 T unsweetened cocoa powder

1/4 cup boiling water

2 tsp vanilla

1  3/4 cups sugar

1 cup of sifted cake flour

1/4 tsp salt

16 large egg whites

2 tsp cream of tartar

*  When you're separating eggs, you need to be absolutely scrupulous about making sure none of the yolk gets into the whites.  The best way to do this is to crack the eggs and separate them in one cup or bowl, and if the yolk breaks while still in contact with the white, DON'T USE THAT WHITE.  Cook it up and make a sandwich out of it or something, but don't put it with the other yolk-free whites.  The "good" whites can go in a second bowl, once you've determined that they are clean.ee

Why this obsessiveness?  The fat in the yolk will prevent the whites from whipping properly, and if you're going to go to all the trouble of cracking 16 eggs to make a cake, you certainly don't want to risk yolky sabotage.  You'll also, in the same spirit, want to be sure your bowl and whip are fat-free, too.

Okay.  Once you've got everything assembled, including a 10 " two-piece tube pan - UNgreased, remember - you can get going on the cake.

Per Ms. Beranbaum:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

    In a medium bowl combine the cocoa and boiling water and whisk until smooth.  Whisk in vanilla.

    In another medium bowl combine 3/4 cup sugar, the flour, and salt and whisk to blend.

    In a large mixing bowl beat the egg whites until frothy, add the cream of tartar, and beat until soft peaks form when the beater is raised. 

Gradually beat in the remaining 1 cup sugar, beating until very stiff peaks form when the beater is raised slowly.  Remove 1 heaping cup of egg whites and place it onto the cocoa mixture.

 

    Dust the flour mixture over the remaining whites, 1/4 cup at a time, and fold in quickly but gently.  It is not necessary to incorporate every speck until the last addition.  The ideal implement was designed in England especially for this type of cake, but a large balloon wire whisk or slotted skimmer also works well.

    Whisk together the egg white and cocoa mixture and fold into the batter until uniform. 

 

 

 

Pour into the tube pan (the batter will come to 3/4" from the top), run a small metal spatula or knife through the batter to prevent air pockets, and bake for 40 minutes or until a cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean and the cake springs back when lightly pressed.  (The center will rise above the pan while baking and sink slightly when done.  The surface will have deep cracks like a souffle.)

    Invert the pan, placing the tube opening over the neck of a soda or wine bottle to suspend it well above the counter, and cool the cake completely in the pan (this takes about 1  1/2 hours.)

 

(It's also a good idea to test your bottle and angel food pan compatability BEFORE you need to do this.  Otherwise you'll be looking around frantically for something that FITS, not like the wine bottle you THOUGHT would fit, and finally your husband will run downstairs and find an empty liter-size beer bottle for you which, thank goodness, will fit great.)

    Loosen the sides with a long metal spatula and remove the center core of the pan.  Dislodge the bottom and center core with a metal spatula or thin, sharp knife.  (A wire cake tester works well around the core.  To keep the sides attractive, press the spatula against the sides of the pan and avoid any up-and-down motion.) 

 

(As you can see, it's also possible to opt NOT to keep the sides attractive.  That's the route I chose.  Kind of looks like my son's hair when he gets out of bed in the morning.  Except his is lighter.)

Invert onto a serving plate.  Wrap airtight.

 

To decorate, all I did (besides trim - and eat - the shaggy bits around the edges) was melt some bittersweet chocolate and drizzle it over the cake.  If I'd thought about it smarter, I'd have made a ganache, which would have been softer than the hardened drizzle.

I also made an orange curd to serve alongside the cake.  That recipe will be posted separately.

The cake was a hit, even with me, the non-lover of Angel Food Cake.  The cocoa powder does wonders for the icky sweetness, in my book.  And in Rose Levy Beranbaum's book, too, obviously.