I never baked a Brie until this past Sunday. I had eaten baked Brie at Christmas parties and on other special occasions, but I had never done one myself. I assumed they cost an outrageous amount of money, and baking one just to learn how seemed rather excessive, like stuffing and roasting a whole turkey just for me.

But then, just a couple weeks ago, I went to my girlfriend Kris’s birthday potluck. As one of her contributions to the meal she had made a baked Brie topped with her homemade pear chutney and some almonds. Once I ate that, I couldn’t stop thinking about Brie.

A few days after the party while on my last spend-what-I-want shopping trip, I took my traditional trek through the deli section where I spied some little rounds of Brie nestled cutely on one of the shelves of the little cheese island. The half-pound rounds were small, perfect for just a couple people, and cost four-and-a-half dollars. Hmmm, I thought. Why not? The expiration date wasn’t till spring—it would be the perfect specialty item to hoard, awaiting the time when I could bear it no long and simply had to consume something exotic.

My plan would’ve worked just fine except that it’s hard to ignore Brie when it’s sitting on the shelf in your refrigerator, because despite the fact that it’s small and dainty and unobtrusive, it has a commanding presence. Come to think of it, anything with a high concentration of cream is virtually impossible to ignore, no matter where you hide it in the fridge.

That’s how I found myself, just a week into our spending freeze (if I can’t make it more than a week without special eats, I’m going to be a basket case after the next couple months) calling up my brother and his wife and inviting them over for a Sunday evening dinner of snacky foods. There would be bean dip and tortilla chips, I promised, as well as fresh bread and Brie. They said they would come.

So on Sunday afternoon I began the ceremonial act of preparing a Brie. I’m not joking when I say it’s a ceremonial act. It is. Try it for yourself if you don’t believe me. There is something pure about a Brie—all that soft white creaminess, molded into a chaste little round, encased in its exquisite downy-soft paper. So unassuming, but yet so complex. Handling such a delicate cheese, I discovered, makes you feel kind of elevated and clean; therefore, it is an appropriate activity for a Sunday afternoon.

First, I removed the cheese from its box and set it in the pie plate. I had to pause in my cheese prepping ritual to call up Kris. “What do I do with this paper stuff that’s all over the cheese? Do I cut it off?” I asked.

“Oh no! It’s all good,” she said. “You can eat the whole thing.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, that’s good,” I said. It certainly couldn’t get much easier, I thought as I hung up the phone.

Second, third, and fourth, I caramelized an onion and mounded it over the cheese, drizzled apricot preserves over the onion, and then baked the Brie. I also toasted a few slivered almonds and sprinkled those over the cheese immediately before serving.

I do not have a picture of the finished Brie in all it’s gooey glory because it was already dark when the cheese was finally ready to eat and I’m afraid of taking pictures at night—that’s something I do not know how to do. Besides, I was stuck with a kind of single-mindedness once the cheese came out of the oven: Cheese is ready; eat cheese now.

I ignored the other foods that we had for supper, opting instead to feast on the ethereal blobs of creamy cheese. I slathered it on my bread, delightedly snatching the bread crusts that my kids rejected (they were shocked, accustomed as they are to the standard rule of You Must Eat Your Crusts Period), using them to scoop up more of the onion-y, nutty cheese. Oh, it was divine! Food for the gods. Blissssss.

The Brie served it’s purpose, albeit a bit prematurely, of numbing the slight sense of deprivation I had been experiencing. For the entire course of that meal and several hours afterwards, I felt spoiled, contented, and filthy rich. A little sad, too, because the cheese was gone. But mostly I felt smug—I had learned that I can, in a snap, turn out something that is simultaneously wickedly delicious and simply divine. And that, my dears, is quite comforting.

Baked Brie
Adapted from recipes I read on Epicurious, as well as from talking with my girlfriend Kris

A small round of Brie, about 8 ounces
one medium onion, quartered and thinly sliced
1 tablespoon butter
salt
2 tablespoons apricot preserves
2 tablespoons slivered almonds, toasted

Remove the Brie from its box and wrapper and set it in a pie plate, indented side up.

In a medium-sized skillet on medium heat, fry the onion with the butter and a sprinkling of salt until the onion is dark golden brown, about 30 minutes. Pile the onions on top of the cheese.

Drizzle the apricot preserves over the onions. (To make thick preserves more drizzle-able, heat them in the microwave for a few seconds.)

Bake the Brie at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes, or until it looks relaxed and a little bubbly. Don’t be alarmed if the cheese oozes out and puddles on the plate—it will all taste good.

Before serving, sprinkle the almonds on top. Eat while still warm.

I’m forever fussing about the chaos, the noise, the activity, the filth, the intensity of the goings-on in my home. You’re aware of that, right? Go ahead and admit it—you’ve been reading this blog, hand over your mouth, gasping at the dangerous antics of my progeny, and wagging your finger at what a negligent slacker of a parent that I am. Yes?

But let me share with you a secret: approximately once every three months, everything, all the bits and pieces of my immoderate and insane life, comes together. This coming together probably has less to do with me and more to do with some cosmic force of nature, such as the stars lining up in some precise mathematical formation. And then when that happens, all the world smiles at us and everything is perfect and happy and peaceful—good karma, peace on earth, yin and yang, etc. Granted, the reprieve only lasts for about ten minutes, but let’s not knock it, okay?

Yesterday we had one of these moments. It was the first day of a new routine with a new rule: If the kids get all their morning chores done by 8:30, they get a candy corn. Yep, just a candy corn. But it’s a powerful candy corn, mind you, stronger than me, the loud-mouthed nag that I am, because it inspires them to make their beds, straighten their rooms, brush their teeth, comb their hair, bring in the firewood, empty the compost, feed the animals, pick up the shoes, and take their medicine, all without saying nary a word. Amazing stuff, candy corn.

However, I am a smart mama, thank you very much, and when I realized the power of the common candy corn, I promptly harnessed it, like any good environmentalist.

So yesterday morning at 8:30, I doled out the corn, one kernel per child, and then commenced to read to Yo-Yo and Becca Boo for the next hour and ten minutes at which point they took a fifteen minute break to fly Yo-Yo’s brand new, remote-controlled helicopter than he bought with his own money. Once the allotted play time was up, I assigned each child a task. And—KA-BOOM!—that’s when It Happened. The pressure changed, the air lightened, and I heard angels singing. I glanced about and realized my life was perfect, just perfect.

Now, let me ask you: What does a smart mama do at a moment like that? She grabs her camera and documents the moment, yes indeed, that’s what she does.

First, here is The Baby Nickel hanging up the socks, undies, and rags on the drying rack.

He was pleased as punch to have been given such an important task, and he took me very seriously when I reminded him to shake out the clothing.

So shake he did.

Second, here is Sweetsie washing the dishes.

She’s young enough to still swell up with pride when I tell her it’s time to do the dishes, but she’s old enough to mask her Proud Puff with a steady stream of whining.

And she’s still young enough to play when she washes the dishes (come to think of it, none of my other children have outgrown that phase yet).

Third, here is Miss Becca Boo scrubbing the shower.

She likes to pull the shower curtain closed so she can splash water all around.

When she does that I cringe inside, but I don’t say anything as long as the job is done to my satisfaction.

And finally, here is Yo-Yo hard at work doing his independent studies, the little helicopter by his side.

In the course of these photos he yelled at me, dropped his pencil on the floor, got up to look out the window (he mistook the cat for a skunk), and caressed the helicopter repeatedly.

(There is a chance that the good moment was more a result of the new toy and less a result of the stars’ alignment…)

Are you listening closely? Can you hear the angels?

Shortly thereafter things deteriorated somewhat. The Baby Nickel dumped plant dirt all over the rug in the quiet room and on the floor in the hallway. The kids got cranky because they were hungry. Later on Sweetsie smashed a book into Nickel’s eye, transforming it into a purple-swollen-and-red-gashed, fancy-looking peeper.

BUT! The angels did sing. We can pull it off and give the illusion that we are The Ideal Homeschool Family Complete With Well-Trained and Hardworking Children. So what if it doesn’t happen but four times a year? So what if we fall apart afterwards? The moment did happen, and whether it was due to my lucky stars or the candy corn or the helicopter is irrelevant. It happened, and that’s what matters.

Hallelujah!

A couple years ago I read a post (January 24, 2007) on Cindy’s blog that was titled “I Don’t Want Anything.” I was intrigued, challenged, and inspired, all at the same time.

Not want anything? Now that was a novel idea! I have always known that I don’t really need anything, but to take it one step farther and say I don’t want anything? Could that possibly be true? Could I make it be true?

I pondered the matter for about five seconds and then I got up from my desk, marched over to the table where Mr. Handsome was reading the paper, pressed my stomach up against the table, and slapped my hand over his paper so he would have to look at me. When he finally looked up, clearly irritated (I’m notorious for bothering him when he sits down to read the paper), I calmly stated, “I don’t want anything.”

He looked at me, blankly.

Speaking softly and enunciating each word to the best of my mush-mouth ability, I said, “I bet I can go longer without spending money than you can, because,” and I smiled tauntingly, “I don’t want anything.”

Of course Mr. Handsome rose to the challenge. We drew up the rules:

Non-acceptable expenditures:
*Tools, building materials, etc.
*Entertainment: eating out, movies, plays, childcare
*Clothing
*Certain groceries: no cereal, fresh fruits/veggies, ice cream, meats, gourmet and soft cheeses, snack foods, sodas, candy, alcohol, rice, beans, pastas (maybe)

Acceptable expenditures:
*Standard bills, household items such as laundry detergent, tampons, toilet paper, and medical costs
*Gas and travel: we didn’t usually go anywhere anyway, and on the off-chance that we decided to go visit my family, we would go.
*The advance fees for certain activities for the children, such as camp, a local wilderness activity, etc.
*Birthdays would proceed as normal.
*Certain groceries: standard grains and flours, sugar, oil, carrots, celery, onions, garlic, milk, butter, eggs, basic cheeses and spices
*Garden seeds

Mr. Handsome kept saying things like, “This is so funny,” and “You always spend more money than me,” and “What are you, crazy?” and “I can’t believe you are doing this to yourself.”

I think we made it several weeks, maybe even four, before, eh-hem, Mr. Handsome lost the bet. He had ordered some hardware for the kids’ swing set. “But it was for the kids!” he argued in a last ditch effort to absolve himself.

“It was money,” I said. “Period. I won.”

The next year we planned ahead for the game, making sure we were fairly well outfitted for our spending drought. The kids had enough clothes, Mr. Handsome had some ideas for projects to work on (and the supplies necessary to complete them), and I had my stash of chocolate. We made it for about two months, maybe a bit more, before, eh-hem again, Mr. Handsome lost. I cannot, though, remember the losing purchase—was it the solar panel do-hickey for the chicken fence? Anyway, whatever it was, I won. Again.

A week and a half ago, on January 12, we started the bet once more. It’s not really a bet, my sister-in-law pointed out. There are no stakes, so to speak. Unless you include our honor and integrity. Those stakes are compelling enough to make us stand up straight and do our best. See, whoever spends money first is the loser and the winner, well, the winner has right to flaunt her favorable position, most likely by doing a little skippy dance and chanting something loving and kind such as “You’re a loser! A loser! Nana-nana-boo-boo!” And then the loser gets mad and sulky and declares that the rules weren’t fair in the first place and this is a stupid, stupid game. So maybe it is a bet after all?

At first glance you might think the purpose of the game is to save money, and while that is Mr. Handsome’s goal, it is certainly not mine. When I read Cindy’s post I realized that I spend an inordinate amount of time buying things, thinking about and making lists of the things I want to buy next, and finagling childcare so I can go buy those things. What if I didn’t want anything? What if it was pointless to spend time thinking about spending money because I couldn’t spend money? Wouldn’t that free up an awful lot of space in my head and time in my day?

Whenever I make the trip into town I’m forever racking my brain, attempting to remember if there is anything, anything that I need to pick up. It is the prudent thing to do, you know, optimizing a town trip. So I’ll be driving by Dollar General and I’ll think, “Do I need another hairbrush?” Or going past the bagel shop, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have bagels for breakfast tomorrow?” Or on my way by the thrift store, “Do I have time for a quick run-through, just to see if there are any good deals?”

But what would it be like to drive through town and not need to stop for anything because I didn’t need, didn’t want, anything? If I wasn’t allowed to stop for anything, then I would have more time to think, to look about me at the trees and the oncoming cars, to listen to NPR (or Calvin and the Chipmunks, heaven help me), or to yell more energetically at the kids when they start spitting fireballs at each other.

Anyways, I’m always fussing about how I have so much stuff on hand. A fast from spending would force me to use up what I have, and maybe, just maybe, become a little bit inventive. What about all those unlabeled boxes up in the attic? I bet I could find all sorts of treasures up there if I needed something—kids’ clothing, old lamps, dishes. Of course, there’s the trusty downtown library for good reads, movies, and music. And, if I got desperate for chocolate, I could always barter.

So, in a nutshell, the real purpose of the bet is to take a rest from idle consumerism.

The hardest thing for me, by far, is the restrictions on my grocery shopping. I love buying novelty foods and cooking new dishes. I get bored with beans, potatoes, and bread. I miss the convenience of fresh greens, fruit, cereal, and snack foods. It’s crazy, I know. I have so much food in this house…

I must confess, I did do a little pre-bet shopping. But it was just a wee bit. I bought a small round of Brie cheese, a few boxes of basic cereals, some more chocolate chips (and a couple bars of chocolate that, get this, Mr. Handsome seems to think he has the right to consume—what ails the man?), a couple bags of pretzels and some tortilla chips, that lettuce from the farmer’s market, a lot of pasta, some lemons and grapefruit, and some nuts.

So, that’s the game. We’ll see who wins. (And even if Mr. Handsome wins this round, I will still have won two out of the three games, so that makes me the overall you-know-what.)

In the meantime, we will rest … while we crave cereals, save money, and try to remember that we don’t want anything.