Something to chew over, brought to my attention by Jamie Martin, Simplebites contributor: Rachel DeMille, co-author of Leadership Education, states that if mothers of children over the ages of ten or eleven find themselves still cleaning, they have “missed their promotion.”

Like I’ve said before, my mother is artistic. This past time she visited, she brought me these lemons, in this mug, in this bag.

In the bag were other goodies for the children (and some gummy worms for Mr. Handsome). I think she’s attempting to improve my house, á la the sahib in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s A Little Princess. Each time she comes she brings something for the kids’ (Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo’s) bedrooms. This time there were globe lights to hang under Yo-Yo’s loft, hanging ferns for both Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo’s room (Miss Beccaboo is scared of hers and has to de-hang it every night before going to bed), and a glass bowl and some fish for Miss Beccaboo. The glass bowl is supposed to be a cookie jar and comes with a lid, “so you can still use it after the fish die,” my mother explained pragmatically. Two fish have died so far; my mother’s logic was right on target.

Just for anyhow, I thought you might like to meet my niece. I’ll call her Niecelet.

She’s a wild thang, that girl is.

Not really. She’s actually very quiet and sweet, at least in my house where chaos reigns supreme. But she looks like a wild thang with that hair, so I had to say that.

Out of all of my kids, she has developed a special fondness for Sweetsie. In fact, only Sweetsie is able to console her if ever she wimperith. She’ll have nothing to do with me.

This means that I don’t really ever take care of Niecelet. I say hi to her, and once in a while I scoop her up and shower her tummy with raspberries (maybe this is why she prefers Sweetsie to me?), but for the most part, I don’t see her all that much. She runs free with the pack, and Sweetsie makes sure she doesn’t get trampled. It all works out pretty nicely.

Last Saturday I learned that I was going to be teaching Sunday school the following day. The person who was supposed to teach had emergency surgery and I got nailed with the job of filling in. I wasn’t too upset. I’m pretty good at blowing smoke, and I can rant with the best of them, but still, I felt bad. The guy who was supposed to teach was (is—the surgery didn’t kill him) a college philosophy professor who has an intimidating knack for saying lots of mind-altering things in a short amount of time. So I felt bad because the class was going to gather, all excited to hear this dude spew wisdom but instead it would be me they’d be hearing from. And no matter how much I talk, I ain’t no mind-altering philosopher.

So I bribed them. (I have no scruples.) I decided if I can’t alter their minds with words, then I’ll use sugar.

Actually, I decided to teach on the subject of “sacrifice” and I thought the sweet rolls could be an object lesson: I would sacrifice the pastries to the class … so they would like me. (Bonus points to ya’ll if you can guess my opinions on the bloody matter.)

I had another reason for feeding the sweet rolls to the class: I needed their opinion on a very serious matter. A couple weeks before I had made Ree’s cinnamon rolls and—shiver me timbers—I didn’t like them. They were good and all, but they were so loaded with butter and sugar that they were kind of sleazy. I took to calling them my “slutty buns.”

But I was flummoxed. Everyone else raves about Ree’s cinnamon buns. Were my tastebuds off? Was I an anomaly?

It just so happened that I had a pan of my regular sweet rolls in the freezer, so I decided Sunday school would be the perfect time to get some feedback. My sweet rolls against Ree’s.

I set the pans up on two chairs. I didn’t give the class any background. I simply told them that I needed their feedback and they were to tell me which they liked best, Exhibit A or Exhibit B.

Exhibit A got seven votes and Exhibit B got five. Exhibit A was my standard recipe! I won!!!!

Later that day I forced our dinner guests to sample the two and cast their vote. Once again, my buns triumphed.

Now for the disclaimer. I must be fair and point out that the results might have been different if my tasters came from a cross-section of society and not from a little cluster of dear Mennonite freaks. Most of my tasters were well-acquainted with donuts from the relief sale (from whence cometh my sweet roll recipe), as well as decent yeasted breads and homemade sweets. Yeast and sugar are a part of our heritage. On the other hand, I wonder if people who grew up with Cost-co bakery sweets and packaged honey buns would be more likely to prefer Ree’s version. This is just a supposition.

And note, no one (that I’m aware of) didn’t like either one of the rolls. In that sense, they both won. So go ahead and make yourself some rolls, either mine or Ree’s. Freeze the extras. You never know when you’ll be called upon to teach Sunday school.

Speaking of Sunday school, the philosopher dude, healed and healthy, came to yesterday’s class. It was round two of an explanation on Ludwig Andreas Feuerbach’s projection theory. In a nutshell: when people talk about God, Feuerbach says they are talking about themselves since they have no other reference point for God. It’s the cabbage concept: if cabbages were to have a god, it would be green and leafy. Furthermore, people of faith (any faith) preach that we don’t have it all together but that God does; we say that God is Truth and our lives are the fable. Feuerbach says we have that backwards and that we are the reality and God is the fable.

I find this comforting, which is kind of odd, considering that so many Christians have been/are/would be deeply bothered by this perspective. I asked Mr. Wise Philosopher why that is so (that I don’t mind the theory) and he said because it explains how there can be so many different views of God.

Ah. He speaks true.

What’s your slant on the matter?

Check out this geek.

I live with him, you know. Almost on a daily basis I get ordered to “look at this one, Mama,” and I nod and smile, tell him that his face will get stuck like that, and even bust up laughing on occasion.

He’s at an awkward stage (and there he will remain for the next six years, poor boy), but this Sunday he read scripture in front of the church like a pro, clearly, slowly, and with poise. Other people said so. I wouldn’t know, seeing as I was so nervous for him (trickle down projection theory) that I could hardly hear what he was saying.

I just noticed that he kept his eyeballs in their sockets. That was good enough for me.

Currently, I’m overloaded with reading material. In an effort to gain control of the situation, I’m going to list out all the books I have just finished, am reading now, are on hold at the library, and/or will be checking out of the library soon.

*Leaving Ruin, by Jeff Berryman
*The Lacuna, by Barbara Kingsolver
*The Good Soldiers, by David Finkel
*The Help, by Kathryn Stockett
*Lit, by Mary Karr
*Final Salute: A Story of Unfinished Lives, by Jim Sheeler

And to the kids:
*Peace Be With You, by Cornelia Lehn,
*The Endless Steppe, by Esther Hautzig
*When You Reach Me, by Rebecca Stead

And you? What’s rocking your literary boat? (One can never have too many suggestions.)

Now, how about we talk movies. Recently seen: You’ve Got Mail (my favorite line is “she makes coffee nervous”), The World’s Most Spectacular Stuntman, Casper, The Chorus Line, Kinky Boots, North Country, Up, Flash of Genius, and Man on Wire, just to name a few.

I need recommendations. My netflix list is woefully short, and I hate selecting movies that haven’t come to me with high recommendations.

And now, for the finale of this long and rambly post, some new-to-me blogs that I enjoy.

Thrift at Home
Flower Patch Farmgirl
100 Memoirs
The Hazel Bloom

Go visit these blogs and pay your respects. They are indeed respect-worthy.

About one year ago: Shoofly Pie

Or, How to Get Your Kitchen Clean on a Leisurely Sunday Afternoon.

1. Collect a bunch of eggs from your chickens and pop them in an incubator.

2. Watch the chickies hatch.

3. Feed the Chicken Littles till they become Chicken Bigs.

4. Kill them.

5. Several months later, pull two of them—now Chicken Chillies—from the freezer and set them on the counter to thaw overnight.
6. The following morning, nestle them in your glass-lidded, sixteen-quart stock pot and boil them till the meat falls off the bones.
7. De-bone the chicken, returning all nonedible parts to the stockpot.
8. Boil the bones till bedtime. Turn off the pot and go to bed.
9. Boil the bones in the morning. Turn off the pot and go to church.
10. Boil the bones after returning from church.
11. Settle the kids for rest time and head into the newly arranged downstairs room to visit (no funny stuff) with your husband.
12. Talk, chaw on Starbursts and Swedish fish, munch on naked pita chips, and talk some more. Contemplate taking a snooze.
13. Suddenly—CRASH! BANG! SIZZLE! CLATTER!
14. Sit bolt upright and then freeze, straining your ears. Say, “Hon, you better check on that,” and then hightail it out of the room after your hubby.
15. Reach the kitchen and screech to a halt. Do NOT enter the kitchen. It is wet and hot, covered in bones and fat.

16. Take a few seconds to be confused. You have never seen this situation before. Disorientation is allowed in cases like these.

17. Your husband says, “The pot exploded.” Absorb this.
18. Note that the lid, after rocketing into the air, landed on the stove top and did not break. Count your lucky stars.
19. Note that the explosion somehow turned on your husband’s cell phone. Also note that there is broth pouring out of the innards of the house phone.
20. Note (there’s a lot to note) that the now broth-coated counter that is usually mounded high with papers was devoid of nearly all paraphernalia (minus the phones) at the moment of explosion. Count your lucky stars again. They are few in number, so this is an easy task.
21. Note that no child/adult was present. There are no burns or injuries. This is a very large, shinning lucky star.

22. Whimper.
23. Moan.
24. Giggle.
25. When your husband says, “Where is the camera?” go fetch it, for he almost never suggests that you take pictures.
26. After splashing through the greasy broth to capture the chaos from different angles, snatch some dirty towels from the laundry, fill up buckets with hot water, step out of your Sunday skirt, and start scrubbing the floors in your blouse and panties.
27. Ignore your husband when he tries to make you nervous by rapping his knuckles on the door frame.
28. Mix copious amounts of hot water and soap with the oily broth and slip-slide your way around the kitchen, scooping up bones and fatty skin as you go.
29. When the worst has been cleaned up, get the kids up from rest time, pop them in the car, and drive them into town. (Don’t forget to step into the tub to wash up your feet and put your skirt back on first.) Drop them off at a birthday party and head to a café to write, drink coffee, and eat a strawberry scone. This allows you to gain perspective and gives your husband space to finish cleaning up the kitchen (which includes taking the top off the stove to mop up the large pool of broth that has collected there, as well as taking apart the phone to try—to no avail—to fix the answering machine).
30. Return home and sigh happily over the spotless kitchen.
31. Listen as your husband solemnly accounts for the cost of this particular pot of broth: a new answering machine and a new cell phone. Ouch.
32. Make a mental note to never, ever, ever boil broth without first cracking the lid.
33. Unless you are desperate to clean your kitchen. If you are desperate to clean your kitchen, then this is definitely the way to go. It produces an element of … pressure.
34. But there are easier ways, ways that don’t kill your answering machine, cell phone, and your Sunday afternoon in one fell swoop.

About one year ago: Sticking my neck out. Speaking of butchering chickens…

Some people tap out coherent, meaningful, witty blog posts in thirty minutes flat, but me? I ponder, handwrite, think, procrastinate, take pictures, write more, type, backspace, procrastinate, edit, write, twiddle my thumbs, edit, and post. And edit again.

Why do I do this? I ask myself this question frequently, but especially on days when writing feels like I’m scrip-scraping my nails down a blackboard. On those days I host mega-pity parties, complete with dunce caps and boo-horns. You’re wasting your time, I tell myself. No one cares. Your voice is just one among millions, cluttering up the airwaves. Just shut up and go thin the radishes. At least you can eat radishes.

Who is this blog for anyway? I write it, but you read it. The line between us can get pretty blurry sometimes. Who comes first? You or me? Me or you?

The answer is “me,” of course. (The answer is always “me.”) But I write for you, too.

However, I write for me first. I have to. I started this blog for me, and no matter how big (or not big) this blog gets, it’s still for me.

Sometimes I think I would like to be famous. I imagine crowds of people flocking to fawn over me, peppering me with questions, stroking my ego, telling me I’m Something Special. If that were the case, I imagine, my heart would continually beat out the I-just-got-a-compliment happy-rush pitter-patter and my cheeks would be forever rosy, the blush of the humble star.

My imagination embarrasses me sometimes.

The other week I listened to a music group get interviewed on NPR. The group had been singing together for many years and had only just recently made it to The Big Time. The interviewer asked them if they ever thought about what it would’ve been like if they had made it big back when they first started out. One guy said that, yes, he thinks about it, and he believes it would’ve changed their group considerably. We’ve had to work really hard, all the time, he said. Young singers who come out of the starting box and go straight to the top, they don’t fully appreciate all they have gained. We, on the other hand, savored every little success. Each one was a gift that made us so over-the-top happy. We wouldn’t have enjoyed them or even noticed them if we had been instant successes.

I’m fairly certain I’m never going to be famous. I don’t have the potential for it, nor do I think I actually want to be famous, all daydreaming to the contrary. But ever since I heard that interview I’ve been noticing how much I really do appreciate all the little happy moments (or sweet “successes”) that come to me through this blog (or in any part of my life, though this is my only consistent public presence, if you don’t count sitting on the front row of church every Sunday). This past week has been full of little hugs—sweet emails, phone calls, notes in the comments, and verbal recipe compliments. Each one makes my insides feel like champagne, bubbly and fizzy-sweet.

But good feelings only last for a few moments, maybe a day, tops. Then the euphoria wears off and I’m back to the grind, tap-tap-tapping, editing, thinking, and posting it all into the great void of nothingness. Most days there aren’t many (if any) comments, no I-love-your-food compliments, no emails, no phone calls. It’s just me doing my thing. Period.

And you know what? That’s okay! I realize my hand is forced in this matter (sour grapes, perhaps), but when it comes down to it, this strict regimen of fingertip tap-dance is something I enjoy. It’s my outlet, my discipline, my love. For all my griping and hair-pulling, I do enjoy the process, tedious though it may be.

I’m not sure what the point of sharing this is. I run the risk of sounding vain (I can be) and self-seeking (I am). I think what I’m trying to say is this: the internet is weird. It twists together the personal and public in some grotesque and awkward ways. The gift of instant feedback is also a curse. It turns writing, a thoughtful, ponderous process (for me), into a ping-pong game—I write, you talk; ping-pong, ping-ing, pong-ong. In many ways, this fast give-and-take trivializes the writing process. There’s too much, too fast, too often.

The challenge for me is to practice my art, yet keep my integrity; to write for myself, yet hold my audience in front of me; to say what I need to say, yet limit myself from writing too much. Because the internet is a void that could eat me alive.

I’m just keeping it honest, folks. That’s all. The internet whips my butt some days, and other days it puts me on cloud nine. It’s a struggle, keeping my feet on steady ground.

It’s a good thing there are some radishes out there in the garden that need to be thinned.