I’m fascinated by how people do what they do. How does Minerva juggle a 40-hour workweek, husband, kids, and house? Or what about Juliet and her house filled with biological, adopted, and foster kids, and all the resulting emotional issues—how does she handle all the intensity? And how in the blessed world does Ethel manage to take care of her own small children plus other people’s even smaller children and not go absolutely raving mad herself?

I wonder about these things. A lot.

I know people wonder the same thing about me. In fact, I get the How-Do-You-Do-It Question all the time. Actually, people don’t ask it that way—they usually say, I don’t see how you do it. And then they shake their heads like I’m a 1000 piece puzzle that’s missing six pieces—in other words, I’m complicated and impossible to put together.

(Funny Story, inspired because I typed “missing pieces” and it brought to mind the expression “missing screws”—used in sentences such as, “that person is sure missin’ some screws.” The story is this: At our going-away party at the end of our three-year term in Nicaragua, our team was making a candle for us to take with us. Each person came to the party with a small token of what we meant to them, the plan being to layer the small items in the mold along with the candle wax. I don’t remember any of the tokens, sweet though they were, except for one man’s, a good friend of Mr. Handsome’s and a fellow carpenter, someone who totally understood and shared in my husband’s frustration in finding suitable supplies to work with out in the Nicaraguan boonies. This friend had brought a little screw as his token, and as he held it up to the group before laying it in the candle, he said to my husband, “May you find good screws wherever you go!” Raucous laughter ensued and follow-up comments were made, but I’ll stop here.)

I may be complicated, and I might not be put together, but I’m not impossible (though Mr. Handsome may take issue with that last part). However, I can see why some people might be confused. I homeschool my kids, talk on the phone, cook from scratch, garden, mediate (or squash) sibling squabbles, read books, do laundry, attend church council meetings (because I am chair of youth council, not just for the heck of it), tend my blog, make sourdough, lounge around, go for walks/runs, go to church, scrub toilets, micro-manage four children, eat bonbons (I mean, chocolates), do the grocery shopping, can and freeze, and watch movies.

One thing my mom always says when I verbalize my puzzlements about other people’s lifestyle is, “Well, what isn’t she doing?” Here’s what I’m not doing. I don’t mow the yard, watch TV, feed the animals, listen to the radio, have an out-of-the-home job, make (too many) idle trips to town, sort the recycling, put storage items in the attic, draw/sing/dance/play a musical instrument, change the oil in the van, go anywhere, clean house all that much, take care of the chickens, sew, do remodeling projects, play with my children, fix things, earn money, recover furniture, clean the back hall, have company over (much), make my bed, baby my house plants, haul firewood, sleep in, travel, and dust the broccoli plants. And most important of all, other people assist and enable me in my productivity. I have friends and family who step in and help out with the kids on occasion, and Mr. Handsome is a whirling dervish when it comes to work of any sort—he busts his tail doing housework and parenting stuff (not too mention all the outside work, too) in the evenings.

So there you have it. The six irksome puzzle pieces are no longer missing. Now you know how I do what I do and you have no more questions. That’s good.

There’s a problem, though: I still don’t know how you do it (or don’t do it). If you feel so inclined, please fill me in.

About One Year Ago: A Milestone. We have been diaper-bag-less for one whole year. Amazing.

Mr. Handsome turned 36 on Friday.

Doesn’t he look thrilled about it?

Oh wait. He’s falling asleep now. The excitement must be too much for him.

He hates having his picture taken. I begged him to hold still for these shots and so what did he do? He made a series of annoying faces! I had to threaten to clobber him. Then I called him some bad names. And then he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. The nerve of him! At least then he was still.

Look at those massive hands of his.

Worker hands, I call them. Rough, calloused, and capable, there’s nothing soft about them. I’ve always claimed they were my favorite thing about him, appearance-wise.

Oh, looky. Now he’s gone and put his hood up.

What does this—his dislike of being photographed—say about him? That he’s shy? Embarrassed? Insecure? Evasive? Aloof? Impatient? Or maybe he’s distrustful of cameras, believing that they somehow allow the photographer to see his inner soul. Which I can see just fine, no camera necessary. I thought he already knew that.

Despite his apparent imperturbable, cool, and diffident demeanor, Mr. Handsome is gifted in The Art of Agitated Running Commentary (TAARC). Here is just a small sampling of what that means. (The background is that the Baby Nickel flamboyantly and generously took a purple marker to our brown carpet.)

Mr. Handsome, upon discovering the latest artwork: “WHAT?! [Sharp intake of breath.] What happened to the rug? [Huffy-mad expulsion of air from lungs.] I have kids and they mess everything up! [Exasperated sigh, and calmer.] You know, I go into people’s houses and they have clean painted walls and no holes in their furniture. [Defeated sigh of resignation.] Someday when we’re eighty years old and smell like mothballs, we’ll have that, honey.”

Only forty-four more years to go. You’re almost halfway there, sweetie pie.

About One Year Ago: Apple Pie.

After my chard spell this spring when I ate it till it was coming out my ears, I pretty much went cold turkey on the stuff. I totally ignored it for the months of July, August, and September and let it do its own thing out there in the garden, which entailed growing small, fresh leaves in the stalk centers while the large outside leaves turned brown and developed holes. It’s not very exciting, the life of chard.

I don’t know what happened last week, but all of a sudden it hit me: I needed to eat chard, lots and lots of chard. I had it for supper one night, a big ol’ pile of it stirred around in a kettle with a bit of butter and some tempero and then topped with grated Gruyère. Food for the gods, that’s what it was; it made my heart sing. I had the same thing again for lunch the next day, but for supper I got creative and put it into a soup with fresh ginger.

I wasn’t actually planning on making that soup, at least not right then. I had my heart set on a big pot of lentil sausage soup, but when I added the package of bulk sausage to the kettle of chopped onions and garlic, I discovered the meat was bad, so sad. After chucking the pot’s contents and taking a couple minutes to adjust to the idea of supper without lentil sausage soup, I recalled the green soup recipe I had read about on Heidi’s blog. I had already bought the ingredients for it when I went to town earlier that week, so it would be only a simple matter of thawing the chicken broth, chopping the veggies, and simmering the soup. Simple enough, I figured.

I could not have been more thrilled with the results. The greens were tender-soft, the ginger gave the soup a sweet bite, the soft chunks of sweet potato added color and heft, and the broth whispered soothing, calming words to the low-grade cold I had been battling. I hoarded the leftovers, not wanting to share a drop with anyone else, which was a relief on their part, I might add, seeing as no one else in the house cared for the soup. Even so, I still felt possessive.

Green Soup with Ginger
Adapted from 101 Cookbooks

Heidi said that pureeing the soup was an option, so I tried it with a small portion. Mr. Handsome and the kids liked it better that way, but I much preferred it in its un-blended form, the veggies floating free, the textures and colors all distinguishable and, in my opinion, the better to be savored. However, if you don’t care for the texture of cooked greens, then I suggest you puree it. But taste it before you blend it up—you may be surprised.

Replace the chicken broth with vegetable for a vegetarian soup.

1 large onion, minced fine
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 large bunch of chard, chopped (leaves washed and the bigger stalks removed)
8 ounces spinach, fresh or frozen, roughly chopped
3 tablespoons of minced fresh ginger
4 cups chicken broth
2 medium-sized sweet potatoes, peeled and cubed (fairly small)
1 teaspoon salt
black pepper
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

Caramelize the onion in the olive oil—this will take about thirty minutes.

While the onion is caramelizing, put the broth, greens, ginger, potato chunks, and salt in a soup pot, bring it to a boil and then reduce the heat. Allow the soup to simmer, covered, for about 30 minutes, until the vegetables are quite tender. If desired, thin the soup with some water. Add the caramelized onion, and black pepper and, if needed, more salt (I used another half teaspoon). Stir in the lemon juice and serve.

About One Year Ago: A little story involving both cornbread and money.