There are seven kids running around outside: big boys on rollerblades, carrying sharp sticks, little girls and boys (some with lice, some without; I’m keeping my fingers crossed) drawing on the porch (on paper, I hope). I’m inside, sufficiently pumped on sugar and caffeine. There is no need to procrastinate further. It’s time to write.

I was a little surprised that none of you commented on this one line in the lousy post: 26. Send the older two lice-free children on a three-mile bike ride to visit their daddy’s job site. I thought at least someone would spy it and shoot me an incredulous “WHAT???”

I got feedback from a fair number of you regarding my question as to whether or not it is appropriate to allow the older kids to go on adult-free bike rides. Some of you were quite wary, others only so-so. (Just yesterday I got a letter from my mother-in-law in which she chronicled her children’s biking mishaps. Someone rode a bike into sister Sarah’s leg. Little Mr. Handsome got an elbow-full of gravel while riding on a country road. Sarah (what’s up with her, huh?) got some clothing caught in the spokes and flipped head over heels. But the best one was a trike accident. “Tom was riding down the front lawn with a nail in his mouth. The trike fell over and the nail went [I think] into the roof of Tom’s mouth.”)

None of you said “Go for it.” So naturally, that’s what I did. Because I’m ornery like that.

While I am by no means a hardcore biker, I’m no stranger to bikes. When I was a babe, I rode in a little plastic seat behind my mom’s billowing blouses, and by the time I was nine-years-old, or thereabouts, I was riding the three miles down country roads to my friend’s house. My town friends and I would peddle all over our little neighborhood and to the secluded (pervert alert!) public school where we’d play in the dark, spooky woods for hours on end. And then my family moved to West Virginia where bear prints were found in the swamp by the end of our driveway and my mother had to walk me out to the bus stop every morning because I was petrified. Different things are scary to different people.

I tend to find myself on the more carefree side of the parenting fence. I hesitate to say no to risky (reasonably so) endeavors for fear that my children will end up feeling scared or unsure of themselves. I’d much rather teach them how to be safe, drill them, act out scenarios, put safeguards in place, and then empower them to (in this case) peddle free.

We are very candid with our children about the dangers of country-road riding. In these matters, I try to emulate Amy Tan’s mother, who, when warning Amy about the dangers of crossing the street, said, “You don’t look, you get smash flat like sand dab.”

I don’t know what a sand dab is, though I have a feeling it resembles Flat Stanley (now there’s another thing to worry about—bulletin boards), so I don’t say that exactly, but I did read to them the newspaper obituary about the community kid who wrecked his four-wheeler and died. And I told them, my adrenaline still pumping hours after the event, about sitting in my van at an intersection in town and watching our good (adult) friend nearly get hit by a car while making a left-hand turn on his bike.

For the most part, Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo have been pretty well endowed with common sense. (Except for the time when they found a wallet at a park and then attempted to stop cars to see if it belonged to the drivers. We have since thoroughly discussed the inappropriateness of stopping strangers in cars.) When I drilled them on bike etiquette right before they took off on their three-mile ride, they listened very closely, eyes wide. Nerves sharpen the senses. (Did you know that the best stuntmen are the ones who are deeply terrified? We learned that from the video The World’s Most Spectacular Stuntman.) We discussed dogs, staying together, not talking while riding, and keeping their heads up. That’s my Amy Tan’s mother-like mantra, “KEEP YOUR HEADS UP OR THEY WILL GET SQUASHED LIKE PUMPKINS.” I don’t usually say the pumpkin part, but they know.

I’m still not to the point of letting my kids joy-peddle around the neighborhood, but I’m thinking our next step might be to teach them a three or four mile loop, clock it, take them on a couple practice runs, and then let them ride that when they get the itch to burn off some energy.

Till then, they just run around the yard with sticks.

About one year ago: Going to work.

But I’m not going to let that stop me from writing.

Hm, let’s see. What to talk about?

(Jiggle knee. Sip coffee. Look out window. Pick teeth. Scratch head.)

For the next month, I have two-day, free shipping from Amazon. This is dangerous. And scary. And exhilarating. What should I buy? Hmmm? I’m hoping to order all school books for next year. Or maybe for the next ten years. After which we’ll need to reinstate the spending freeze for the next six months to compensate. Moderation is not my strong suit.

Mr. Handsome finally broke his spending fast yesterday. I broke it long ago with lemons and goat cheese, but he was determined to go forever. (Snort-HA!) He bought two bags of day-old bagels. The Baby Nickel was so psyched for “donuts” that he was running laps around the table and bouncing off the walls.

While I was puttsing in the garden last night, I discovered that the baby potato plants are covered with puddles of orange eggs, so I abandoned the radishes to crawl down the row squish-squishing the evil babes with my fingers.

The feet of the Potato Bug Smoosher. Be very afraid, ye yucky bugs.

And now for some kiddisms.

1. Miss Beccaboo likes to pretend she has claws.

She tapes these finger thingies to her toes and hobbles around.

She has to take them off when she does dishes because she doesn’t want them to get wet.

And I thought those fake fingernails must be a pain….

2. She also twists her arms together in a backwards pretzel shape, fingers intertwined, and then states dryly, “I’m letting my brains talk for a little while.” Apparently a friend told her that when you cross your arms like so, the left and right sides of the brain can converse. Maybe she’s deficient in brain equilibrium?

3. Which reminds me. The other day she said, “I used to be a good thinker, but I’m not anymore.” I’m not sure why she said that, and it actually sounds kind of pathetic now that I’ve written it. She probably just did a number of dumb things in quick succession. Getting in trouble repeatedly will make you feel like a not-so good thinker. That’s how I feel when I flop cakes and talk without thinking.

Or blog without thinking.

4. One day, out of the blue, The Baby Nickel said, “Mom, your hands are different.” I asked, “How do you know?” and he replied, “I smelled them. They smell like a new mom.”

I don’t know what that means.

5. Yo-Yo asked me, “What are statistics?” I tried to explain and failed, plus I kept mutilating the pronunciation, so I finally resorted to a round-about answer, “It’s what your uncle is studying in school.”

Yo-Yo quipped, “What? Can’t he say it yet?”

About one year ago: Baked Macaroni and Cheese

My computer is giving me fits. It’s been giving me fits for several weeks now, but yesterday it threw a gigantic hissy fit and now it no longer allows me to upload pictures or save any word documents.

All I have left (besides my family, house, and photo albums) is the internet, for which I am truly grateful. I can email and post, research and read to my heart’s content, but I can’t post any new photos that I take. That means no new recipes.

But no matter. I have lots of old recipes that I’ve photographed and have been meaning to tell you about. We’ll work on those for now, okay? The new computer that we ordered last night should be here in a couple weeks. In the meantime, I’ve got some roasted rhubarb for you.

I’ve made roasted/stewed rhubarb before, but I didn’t really like it all that much. I’m not a cooked fruit sort of gal. Fruit cooked in a pastry, yes. Fresh, yes. But just the hot saucy fruit? Not so much.

This recipe changed that, at least in relation to rhubarb. I made it twice, in quick succession, and then I ate so much of it that I got sores in my mouth. At which point I went cold turkey. My mouth has now healed and I’m ready to dig in with my spoon again. But this time I’ll be a little more moderate.

The recipe couldn’t be easier: a couple pounds of rhubarb, a half-cup of white wine and the same of sugar, and a vanilla bean, split in half. I found it to be an excessive quantity of vanilla (not because it didn’t taste good, but because vanilla beans are so darn expensive), so I recommend using half a bean. Even that will provide you with plenty of vanilla flavoring and lots of dainty black specks throughout. (Whatever you do, do not throw out that vanilla bean when you’re done with it. Rinse it off, dry it well, and then grind it up in your food processor with some sugar to make vanilla-flecked sugar. Or simply stick it in a canister of sugar and let it do its magic, no loud motors involved.)

The second time I made this recipe, I served it with skillet cornbread and vanilla ice cream. The paring was delicious, if I do say so myself. And I do. Nubbly, buttery, slightly-sweet cornbread, tangy-tart rhubarb, and creamy-cool ice cream, oh my!

I used this cornbread recipe, but I baked it in an eight-inch cast iron skillet which improved the texture considerably. Simply preheat the skillet in the oven, add a tablespoon of butter and swish it around, making sure to coat the sides. Add the batter and return the skillet to the oven to bake for 20-30 minutes (or longer, if you forget to turn the oven back on after removing an earlier batch of baking). It’s a 100-percent whole grain recipe (my mother’s jaw about hit the floor when I told her there was no white flour in it), what with the cup of cornmeal and a cup of whole wheat pastry flour, both freshly ground.

Do I sound annoyingly holy? I’m not. I’m addicted to Swedish fish.

So there.

Roasted Rhubarb
Adapted from Molly’s blog Orangette

Molly says that red rhubarb is best for eye appeal, and I agree. However, the variety I have in the garden is mostly green with some red thrown in, and I deal just fine. Though I am hoping to get some starts of ruby rhubarb sometime soon. Anyone have some to share?

2 pounds rhubarb, washed, trimmed, and cut into two-inch pieces
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup white wine
1/2 vanilla bean, split in half

Put the rhubarb in a Dutch oven. Add the rest of the ingredients and stir gently. Bake, uncovered, at 350 degrees for about thirty minutes, or until the rhubarb is tender. You may need to stir it once or twice, but don’t overdo it. Otherwise it shreds and mushes and loses some of that all-important eye appeal.

Serve plain, with whipped cream or vanilla (or strawberry) ice cream, alongside cake (or not), hot or cold.

About one year ago: Pounding the pulpit