• Thoughts

    1. I’m having thoughts. They’re non-important, most of them, but they rattle around in my head, trying to get out. I don’t even know what they are. I just know that they make a mighty big commotion up there in my noggin and it’s frightfully hard to ignore them.

    2. I’m eating pretzels. At one of the houses where Mr. Handsome is working, the woman cleaned out her cupboards and passed off some extra bags of pretzels to him. We’re grateful for them—snack food in a time of snack-drought.

    3. Is something wrong with me because I love to sing “Why Can’t a Woman Be More Like a Man” from My Fair Lady? Higgins makes me laugh every time I hear his puzzled, sardonic voice.

    Women are irrational, that’s all there is to that!
    Their heads are full of cotton, hay, and rags!
    They’re nothing but exasperating, irritating,
    vacillating, calculating, agitating,
    Maddening and infuriating hags!

    The nerve! I know I should probably get all red in the face and rant and rave, but I don’t. I just grin and hum along. (Miss Beccaboo and Yo-Yo get mad, though. “But he’s not nice or friendly! He’s lying!”)

    Why can’t a woman be more like a man?
    Men are so honest, so thoroughly square;
    Eternally noble, historic’ly fair;
    Who, when you win, will always give your back a pat.
    Well, why can’t a woman be like that?

    That I’m not incensed is probably proof that there is something deeply wrong with me, though I’m not sure what. Anyway, I don’t really want to think about it. I’m a woman, after all.

    Why is thinking something women never do?
    Why is logic never even tried?
    Straight’ning up their hair is all they ever do.
    Why don’t they straighten up the mess that’s inside?

    4. This song is running through my head because today my kids were listening to the movie soundtrack. We watched the movie several months ago, and for weeks afterwards they marched around singing, “Oh-ho-ho, Henry Higgins! Oh-ho-ho, Henry Higgins! Just! You! Wait!” Some days they practice dropping their H-s, too.

    5. Speaking of media indoctrination, have you seen the movie Up? Well, there are these talking dogs in it and they are mean and vicious, but if they’re chasing somebody and that person points off in another direction and yells “SQUIRREL!” they immediately forget what they were doing and run off after the imaginary squirrel. That was background. My point is this: The other night Miss Beccaboo was having fever dreams and Yo-Yo had a wicked, wicked nightmare (Mr. Handsome had to flat-out tackle him to get him to stop shrieking), and so three o’clock found us all sitting in Yo-Yo’s room, rather dazed and not sure of what to do. Suddenly, Mr. Handsome yelled “SQUIRREL!” and pointed. We all busted up laughing, thankful for the much-needed distraction. From now on, that’s going to be our family code-word for “shift focus.”

    6. SQUIRREL! Just kidding.

    7. Really, though, I’d like to yell SQUIRREL! at this stomach bug that’s taking over our family. It started with the Baby Nickel and is slowly moving it’s way up, slaying all the kids, in order. It’s a smart little bugger, I tell you. And it’s pretty clear who the next victim will be. That’s why I’d like to yell SQUIRREL!

    8. I made up my seed order list. Most of my gardening pals have already ordered their seeds or started their little plants, but me? I’m contented in my cozy-warm house, drinking my coffee, baking cakes, and doing bookish stuff with my kiddies. The mere thought of digging in the dirt and hauling in baskets of produce to process makes me feel almost ill. But then I read something in which the writer used the phrase “green grass,” and it hit me: green grass. Bare feet, long days, sun-warmed, juicy tomatoes, open windows, mulch, dirt, and aching muscles. And so I cheerfully poured over my seed catalogue and made up my list. Six months from now when I’m moaning and groaning, remind me I said this.

    9. I had curried lentils and naan for breakfast. I was planning on making it for lunch, but then I realized that there was no law that said that I had to wait till lunchtime to eat lentils, and so I put the freshly cooked oatmeal into the fridge and feasted on the spicy lentils. I felt feisty, like I belonged to the Nutritionally Elite. It was quite the little rush.

    10. It’s late. I wanted to tell you about the cake I have been eating all the live-long day. (So I lied—I don’t really belong to the Nutritionally Elite.) It’s inspired me to haul firewood—if I haul a bunch of wood than I can justify eating another piece of cake. It’s a good cake (but a weak theory). I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. Good night.

    About one year ago: Ode to the Titty Fairy. Grab a hankie and brace yourself. It’s a doozy.

  • Movie night

    Nearly every weekend we stuff our three-year-old into snuggly pajamas, sit him down on the sofa, push a plastic box of popcorn in his hands, and then flicker animated images in front of his innocent face.


    He doesn’t fight us on this. In fact, he begs to do it. He looks forward to these parent-approved sessions of terror and trauma.


    I say “terror and trauma” because almost as soon as the movie’s plot is revealed, the lower lip starts to tremble and the tears start to eek out around the edges.


    In case you didn’t realize it, almost every movie (Up, Finding Nemo, The Incredibles, Hoodwinked!, Monsters, Inc.) is built around the theme of getting lost (big kids and adults see it as “going on an adventure”) and then trying to find the way home.


    The Baby Nickel takes these “getting lost” adventures very seriously. He worries and cries up until the end when the joyful reunion (that we have foretold) occurs. He asks, over and over again in a voice wobbly with tears, “How will they get home? How can they do it?”


    We hug him tight, explain how it will end, and ask him if he wants to come into another room with us, all to no avail.


    He remains glued to the screen all the while he is coming unglued internally.


    It’s enough to break a mother’s heart.


    But not enough to cancel movie night.

    About one year ago: Gripping the pages

  • Pink cupcakes, in no particular order

    Cookie Baker Lynn gave me a sweet little award, but sadly, I don’t know enough computer mechanics to fetch the box of pink cupcakes and post it here. But that’s okay; I’ve learned to function despite my limitations. I can still play the game.

    I don’t usually play games (board, pass-the-recipe, or otherwise), but for some reason this one caught my attention. I think it’s because after I get through telling you about some of my favorite things (hum along now: raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens/crisp apple strudel and warm woolen mittens) (I think I garbled those lyrics), I get to tell you about some of my favorite blogs—blogs that make me smile and think and be a better person (not necessary all at the same time). Then those tagged people can, if they chose, follow suit, and in this way we waltz Maria-style through the blogosphere.

    So here we go. My ten favorite things, in no particular order:


    1. Mr. Handsome’s smile. It’s dashing and lights up the room and he’s kind of stingy about flashing it which makes it all the more special (though I think it would still be special if he chose to beam me with it all day long).

    2. The UPS truck.


    3. My baby’s cheek-pats and lip-smooshing kisses (when they aren’t overdone).

    4. The relief that comes after finishing dread jobs, such as window washing, sorting kids’ clothes, and wet mopping the floors.

    5. Homebound dates with Mr. Handsome—when the kids go elsewhere and we have the house all to ourselves and can do projects, watch movies, and eat what we want, when we want.

    6. A good read-aloud.

    7. Going on walks with my sister-in-law.

    8. Good ol’ Mennonite four-part singing. For a joint Christmas service, the masterful song-leader had us sing the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel’s Messiah and suddenly all those ordinary people sounded so glorious that I thought they must’ve sprouted wing buds underneath their suit jackets and polyester blouses. Mr. Song Leader was a blast to watch, raising his hands in the air, fingers fluttering, to make us hold the notes extra long, and eyeballing certain people so they’d slide their voices up to the tippy, tippy, tippy-top of the scale.

    9. Getting comments on this little blog.

    10. Food.

    And now, for the fun part: bloggy friends who inspire, encourage, and delight me. Again, in no particular order.

    Life in Transition: Sarah is Mr. Handsome’s older sister. He adores her and makes it no secret that he wishes I were more like her—adventurous, relaxed, and a self-starter. Sarah is the type of person who paints the living room of her mother’s house with a two-year-old and six-month-old twins underfoot—and laughs about it. She has been known to travel cross-country with five kids by herself … multiple times. (She reports that earplugs and graham crackers play a key role.) She’s one of the most accepting, least presumptuous people I know. After being with her for a few days, I find that I lighten up more, start new projects, and spend more time with my children. She doesn’t update her blog that often, but when she does, I’m inspired.

    Jumping Off the Food Chain One Box at a Time: Mavis, otherwise known (by me, in my head) as The Dot-Dot-Dot Lady, daily pours out the details of her high-energy existence. She’s forever setting new challenges for herself (walk-a-thon, grow 2000 pounds of vegetables, figure out more ways to annoy her husband), and has an unhealthy obsession with formal wear. I love her.

    Breed ‘Em and Weep: Jennifer writes candidly and humorously (often at the same time) of her divorce and bipolar illness. An exceptional word craftswoman, she inspires me with her writing and brutal honesty.

    ThyHandHathProvided: This is one of the few friends I call when I can’t take life anymore. She is sweet and gentle, but take note—there is nothing wishy-washy about her. Her blog is full of recipes, glimpses into their life as a homeschool family, tales from the garden and chicken butcherings, and right now she’s doing a spiffy giveaway. Even though we live only six miles from each other, our paths rarely cross, but this past Monday she invited me out to coffee (her treat) and we talked for four hours straight. Mr. Handsome called at 11:00 to find out where I was. Since I said I’d be home between 9 and 9:30, he had a right to be worried. When I got home I apologized and then lit into him, “You mean you waited a whole hour and a half before calling to see if I was okay?!” He grinned sheepishly, but quickly switched back to being the martyr: “I just sat in the chair, watching the road, waiting for the police to drive in…” Okay, okay! I’ll call next time!

    Subsistence Pattern: Mr. H (another Mr. H!) and his wife work year-round, growing all the food they need. They’re forever trying new foods, or variations of the old standbys, and are currently storing oodles of potted plants in their basement—they bring up different pots at different times, give the plants good light for several days, and then pick the leaves to make incredible salads.

    The Home Grown Journal: Mama Pea lives in the boonies with the wolves … and her husband. She quilts and grows things and lines her make-up drawer with bright red paper to elevate her mood. You need to do things like that when you live in brr-Minnesota.

    Seven Spoons: Tara takes beautiful pictures, writes well, and gave me my new favorite popcorn recipe for which I am eternally grateful. (Though snorting cayenne pepper is not a good idea. I accidentally did that last night when I was fixing the popcorn to go with our shoot-‘em-up movie, and then immediately started batting at my nose with the back of my hand, like a dog, I realized, so I added a couple snorts and head shakes for good measure and then busted up laughing.)

    Clover Lane: Sarah, a mother of five, is a crafty, industrious, thoughtful, insightful, opinionated woman living in a big white house on a clover lane somewhere. Half the time (okay, not quite that often) I don’t even agree with what she says, but I love that she thinks and writes about more than, oh, I don’t know, sniffing cayenne powder.

    Dinner with Julie: I knew it was time to switch from lurker status to follower status when I kept clicking on her site to see if she had written anything lately. This is one of those ladies that blows my mind with all her productivity. She’s gifted, too, with both words and food. And lately she’s become more vulnerable than ever before.

    Paprikahead: Rosanna writes sparingly, beautifully, about the food she creates, foods that (sometimes) take a long time to make because she employs old-fashioned methods. She has a cookbook coming out soon, so keep your eyes peeled.

    That’s ten, folks, so my job is done. Go on and visit my friends and then please do introduce me to yours. I got five hours sleep last night, it’s sleeting, and the kids are hacking their lungs out—I could use a cheery diversion.

    About one year ago: Baked Brie