Isn’t he (she? it?) beautiful? I feel so warm towards her (or him, or it) that I think I ought to give him (or her, or it) a name. (Help me here. Do cameras have a sex?) How about TS for Time Sucker? Or MS for Money Sucker?

Okay, so maybe not. I’m bad with names. Perhaps I’ll just call the thing my (precious! pretty! darling! honey pie! sugar cakes! snookums!) Canon Rebel and be done with it.

I ordered this beaut several weeks ago, but religion conspired against me to keep me waiting.

Or you could say it was trying to teach me something. Like, say, patience.

It didn’t work.

I tried tracking my baby for days even before it left the store, just in case elves were afoot.

There were no elves. Or at least no non-Jewish elves.

The camera finally left the store on Monday morning. I watched the computer screen anxiously as it came closer and closer. And then yesterday it left a town about 45 minutes from here, at 4:41 in the morning and didn’t show up till late afternoon. I was beside myself. What was that UPS driver doing? Taking a siesta? Visiting a lady friend? Watching a matinee? Swinging by Walmart for some clean socks? Taking the scenic route?

Was there an accident?

Were there mechanical difficulties?

Did the truck fall into a black hole?

I couldn’t focus worth squat all afternoon. I emptied my in-box. I belly danced. I stood at the window and talked on the phone, my eyes on the road all the while.

“I feel used,” my friend said. “As soon as that truck comes, you’re going to hang up on me. And you’re not really listening to anything I say anyway.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “I’m using you. But I hear you. I really do. Keep talking. Entertain me. Ple-e-e-ease?”

Faithful friend she is, she talked for as long as she could, but then Life conspired against me (am I sounding paranoid enough yet?) and she had to go.

Mr. Handsome came home, laughed at me, and then joined me at the window for a bit.

Finally everyone went outside, the house was quiet, and I decided to place a quick order with a grocery co-op, and wouldn’t you know, while I was rattling off order numbers for tortilla chips and Provolone and olive oil, the beautiful brown truck backed into our driveway.

After all that watching and waiting, I wasn’t even there to greet it. Oh, the irony!

The kids took turns lugging the box in, and then they all snuggled up close to me and my box, waiting and watching to see what it was that could make their mama act so silly.

Miss Beccaboo grabbed the old camera and snapped pictures of the chaos and I didn’t even yell at her to be careful because, hey, it’s now been reduced to the role of Old Beater Camera and I don’t really care about it anymore!

I ripped tape. Mr. Handsome tried to grab the new camera.

I slapped his fingers. He tried again. I gave him the hairy eyeball.

He gave up and went outside, taking most of the kids with him. I was left to read and experiment.

Soon as I got my lens attached and the memory card in, I went outside.

I wandered around the yard, poking my black box at plants and kids, dirt, my toes, and anything else that caught my fancy.

The kids were zipping around the yard on the mower. (Notice, Yo-Yo has filched my red shoes.)

Then I ordered them all to get on the trampoline.

One of my hopes is to be able to take non-blurry action photos. It worked! (Though I still have much to learn, of course.)

This picture of Miss Beccaboo jumping off the swing is super blurry, but her ballet pose was too good not to share.

By suppertime (which I didn’t cook, by the way—I told everyone ahead of time that I was not cooking supper as I fully planned to be otherwise occupied—we reheated some pulled beef, made buttered toast, opened a jar of applesauce, and called it good) I was positively giddy.

And then this morning at some ungodly hour, my foggy brain surfaced just enough for the memory of the camera to come swimming into focus and I mumbled, “I have my new camera!” Then I rolled over and sunk back into la-la land.

Funny thing was, when I finally did wake up for real, I was so tickled with my new toy that I still felt like I was la-la land.

I love it when dreams come true.

This same time, years previous: pear butterscotch pie, a fundamental lapse in judgment

I was the only one in my family who liked this soup, so I’m not going to tell you you’ll love it when I know good and well that some of you won’t. I’ll let you make that call.

As for me (but not my household), I adored it.

That my family is not on board with me regarding this soup is cause for deep mourning. Their foolishness grieves me.

The soup is among the simplest of simple, just a sprinkling of cornmeal and a flurry of beet greens stirred into a chicken broth base. Comforting, nourishing, and earthy, it’s the perfect cold-weather and fight-the-flu soup.

You can use other greens in place of the beet greens—in fact, the original recipe called for baby spinach—but my mom had just given us several bags of garden goodness, among which were a passel of beets that I topped and roasted, but before tossing the greens to the chickens, I fished out the prettiest leaves, roughly chopped them up and then set them aside for the soup.

(Believe me, the soup was much easier to make than that sentence was to write. Stringing all those words together has plum tuckered me out. I only have short sentences left it me now. Watch…)

Incorporating beet greens into a soup made me feel cultured.

And edified.

Beet greens are edifying.

My family resists my efforts to edify them.

I love ‘em anyway.

I can do that since I’m so edified, see.

Rustic Cornmeal Soup with Beet Greens
Adapted from the October 2010 issue of Bon Appetit

Knowing that my family would most likely revolt, I cut the recipe in half, and, minus a couple small bowlfuls that the rest of them managed to choke down under my watchful eye, I ate the whole pot myself. (And then I pigged out on pulled beef.)

I think crumbled bacon might be a nice addition. And perhaps a chopped boiled egg? I also think the soup is perfect as is. You decide.

3 ½ cups chicken (or vegetable) broth
6 tablespoons coarse cornmeal
1 ½ tablespoons flour
1 ½ tablespoons butter
1 clove garlic, minced
coarse salt
black pepper
4 ounces red beet greens, roughly chopped

Bring the broth to simmer in a small saucepan. In a larger saucepan set over medium-high heat, stir together the cornmeal and flour and slowly whisk in a cup of the hot broth. Add the garlic and butter and sprinkle with some salt. Slowly add the remaining broth, whisking all the while so that the mixture stays creamy smooth. Simmer on low heat, stirring frequently, for about 20 minutes. Stir in the greens and simmer another 5 minutes. Season and serve.

Yield: 3 servings

This same time, years previous: Donuts!!! Sweet Rolls!!!

Are you familiar with Lenore Skenazy and her blog (and book) called Free-Range Kids?

If you’re not, you should be. She’s awesome, and she’s all about letting kids be kids.

So, with a head nod in Lenore’s general direction, here are some recent shenanigans from my hooligans.

Shenanigan Number One: the vertical swing/trapeze

I’m not quite sure how it works, but it involves ropes and altitude and upper body strength.

Now it’s big sister-in-a-red-sequined-skirt’s turn.

Once she gets up high, little brother grabs the other ropes and sets her a-swinging.

Think I could sell them to the circus?

Shenanigan Number Two: the super-duper wheelie trick

Hook a cable (or pulley or something circular and metallic) to a tree and a rope to the cable and a bike to the rope. While staying on the bike, pull yourself (and subsequently the bike) up with the rope.

Look at the porch to make sure your mom is getting a good shot of your incredible prowess…

and then gratefully lower the bike back down.

Whew!

Shenanigan Number Three: the stunted zip-line

Hook one end of a cable (pulley? something circular and metallic?)-sporting rope to the swing set. Hook the other end to a tree. Climb up so you can reach the cable at the higher end of the rope, jump off, and sail down till your butt runs aground.

Note: No parents supervised these games and no children were injured.

This same time, years previous: a touchy subject: my thoughts on spanking, the donut party: part one (We’re hosting it again in two weeks! Wish us luck, or better yet, come help!)