This morning I chopped up Oreo cookies and stirred them into a cookie dough.

I’m not sure what came over me. It was odd. (And not worth repeating.)

I also made homemade Twix bars. (!!!!!) (“!!!!!” means “totally worth repeating.)

The recipe called for Club crackers—a (practically) never purchased junk food—so this, also, was odd.

Normally, cooking with processed food does not rock my boat, but today it did. Perhaps because of the coconut pudding a la Elmer Fudd. (Who is Elmer Fudd anyway? Does he have anything to do with pasty hasty-posting puddings?)

Or perhaps it’s because the natives have taken up squatting in the back forty.

Perhaps it’s because the combination of digging a hole and getting shot with my phallic telephoto lens makes my husband get all frisky-weird. (Yikes. That came out sounding way worse than I intended.)

Perhaps it’s because of the super-high winds that are whipping through our valley, relocating the clubhouse window to the orchard and making our dog’s ears stand on end.

But most likely it’s because I’m feeling guilty about ordering you out to the kitchen to cook up that nice pot of glue-disguised-as-coconut pudding. I need to win you back. The pressure is on, the bar has lowered, and I’m getting all sorts of sleazy, skirt-hiking slutty.

Peanut butter! Waggles some fire-engine red-painted toes.

Chocolate! A flash of slender, fine-turned ankle.

Crispy, buttery crackers! Hike that skirt a leeetle higher and—whoa!—check out that curving, muscular, smoooooth calf!

Caramel! What sumptuous, dimpled thigh, oo-la-la!

But—the skirt falls—that’s it. This is all you’re getting. Even I have limits.

There’s not much to say about these Twix bars except this:

*They taste like Twix bars.
*The caramel part is my favorite.
*I’m also really fond of the peanut butter-chocolate topping.
*They are addictive.
*If you have any problems with self-control, you probably shouldn’t make them.
*If you don’t have problems with self-control, you still probably shouldn’t make them because once you do you will have problems with that self-control that you now no longer have.
*You should make them.

(Please note: my husband gave me the go-ahead to post about these.)

Homemade Twix Bars
Adapted from Hoosier Homemade

48 club crackers (about 1 1/3 sleeves)
2/3 cup peanut butter
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
½ cup butter
3/4 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup white sugar
1/3 cup milk
1 cup graham cracker crumbs

Lay 24 crackers in the bottom of a 9 x 13 baking dish.

In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, combine the butter, sugars, milk, and graham cracker crumbs. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat a bit, and cook for about five minutes, stirring steadily. Pour the caramel over the crackers and immediately lay the remaining crackers on the hot caramel, pressing down a little so they stick together. Chill the pan in the fridge for 30 minutes.

Combine the chocolate chips and peanut butter in a glass bowl and microwave, stirring frequently, till the chips have melted. Spread the chocolate on the top and chill until it sets up.

Cut into bars and store in the refrigerator.

This same time, years previous: dulce de leche coffee, blueberry-cornmeal muffins

Next day confession/update/warning: my husband doesn’t like this pudding and doesn’t understand why I do.

“It’s so starchy,” he said. “I can’t believe you like it.”

“People are going to be so upset. They expect you to have a discerning palate and then you go and give them glue. They’re never going to trust you again.”

“It just goes to show what an integral part of the process I am. You shouldn’t ever post without having me taste the food first.”

“Ha! I know what it tastes like! PASTE!” Hahahahaha! “I’m gonna call you Elmer’s from now on.” Hardy-har-har.

“But the texture is really good.”

In my defense (can I even HAVE a defense after such a brutal raking over the coals?), I like glue. So maybe there is a little too much thickener. Maybe it does need an egg (but then I’ll loose the gorgeous, glorious whiteness), maybe, maybe, maybe…

If only I had another can of coconut milk in my pantry, I could try another round. One thing I do know, I’ll have my husband taste it before I post about it. Pinky promise.

Please, please, please tell me you have a 13.5 ounce can of coconut milk in your pantry! Wha—? You’re not sure? Well, go check then! I’ll wait.

(I’m waiting, waiting, waiting…)

You do? Yay! Now real quick, scroll down through this post till you get to the recipe (which is for coconut pudding, if you must know) and make it right now. Once the pudding is chilling in the fridge, come back and finish reading.

Back so soon? Of course you are! It’s such an easy pudding, no?

Alright, for the rest of the post now…

Every single person really must have this pudding in her (or his) life. Especially during February, the dreariest time of the year (except for today, which oddly enough is 70 degrees and giddy-gorgeous), ought we have a sweet taste of the tropical. It’s good for the sun-deprived soul.

Of course, if you’re feeling desperate enough you could skip the pudding all together and just sniff suntan lotion. But I think eating is more fun than sniffing, so I’m digging the pudding.

At first, though, I wasn’t too sure. In fact, after my first few tastes, I was convinced it was headed for the chicken pen. It had a pasty-starchy texture, as though the thickener hadn’t really cooked into the pudding. But, I learned, that weird taste was because the pudding was still warm. Once it was chilled, all traces of starchiness completely dissipated, leaving behind billowy mouthful upon billowy mouthful of stunningly silky-smooth pudding.

The smoothness of this pudding can not be expounded upon enough. It’s like satin. Like silk. Glossy and slick, lustrous and sultry.

It’s dazzlingly white, too. Shockingly so (kind of like my legs in February [and May and August and October, etc]). The absence of any color makes me realize how unusual it is to eat white white food. In this pudding there is no golden egg yolk or yellow butter to warmify the colors, nothing whatsoever to mar the brilliant purity.

When topped with some whipped cream, it’s white-on-white, in all the classy, right ways.

Coconut Pudding
(Not much) adapted from Kare of The Hazel Bloom

I can think of all sorts of fun ways to play with this recipe. What about using coconut cream in place of the whipping cream in the recipe and/or using it to sweeten the whipped cream topping? Or how about using milk in place of the water? Or coconut water? Or what about using some rum as flavoring? For topping, perhaps you could sprinkle on some toasted coconut and pecans, almonds, or macadamias? And think of the fruity possibilities! Pineapple! Mango! Kiwi! Lime!

1 ½ cups water, divided
½ cup cornstarch (I used ½ cup therm flo, minus 2 tablespoons)
1 13.5-ounce can coconut milk
½ cup sugar
½ cup heavy whipping cream
½ teaspoon coconut extract
sweetened whipped cream, for topping, optional

In a small bowl, whisk together 1 cup of water with the cornstarch. Set aside.

In a heavy-bottomed kettle, stir together the remaining ½ cup of water, the sugar, whipping cream, and coconut milk. Bring it to a boil and slowly add the cornstarch water, whisking steadily. Cook till bubbly and thick (with the therm flo, this happened immediately and then it began to splutter all over the place), and remove from the heat. Stir in the extract.

Pour the pudding into a bowl and cover with a piece of wax paper (to prevent a skin from forming) and cool to room temperature before covering the whole thing with some plastic wrap and transferring it to the refrigerator to chill the rest of the way.

To serve, spoon the pudding into little dishes and top with sweetened whipped cream.

This same time, years previous: an open letter to Isaiah (yes, the prophet dude), I don’t feel much like writing

*FINISH! I bellow at my slow-eating daughter.

I am! she retorts indignantly. I’m chewing my cud!

*Lunch for four kids: 3 giant cooked potatoes, sliced and fried, with ketchup, a minuscule amount of corn (perhaps 18 kernels per kid), a little pile of green beans, 1 quart of applesauce, 1 roast beef sandwich, divided 4 ways, and leftover tomato soup divided 2 ways and drunk out of a mug.

*I look down in the field and see my little boy squatting in the orchard. Not till he stands up do I see the handsaw in his hands. I scream and holler wildly.

But they’re dead, he insists.

No they’re not! I yell.

They’re green inside, he pleasantly informs me.

Yes! I know! I say.

I was just cutting them up like Grandaddy and Papa did, he explains.

So this year, our fruit trees (just one apple, I think) (I hope) got twice-pruned.

*The kids are asleep and my husband and I are sitting in the living room, he on the chair, me on the sofa, going over our budget yet again. (An eraser is very helpful tool in getting the numbers to add up.) We’ll do it again tonight, and then the next night and the next. See, we’re taking a Dave Ramsey class and we’re learning a whole bunch of useful stuff. Like get rid of credit cards (I think it’s happening), and spend all your money on paper before you spend a penny, and name every single penny because otherwise it will float away. I wish I had learned all this 20 years ago. That my kids will know this—the ins and outs of managing money—by the time they leave our house is a small consolation.

*My tummy is angry at you, Mama, my little girl grumps. It’s hungry.

*It’s midmorning and I sneak two slivers of flourless chocolate cake ‘cause my breakfast oatmeal just wasn’t exciting enough. The cake is actually pretty good when it’s heated up and drowned in whipped cream.

*I’m getting more creative with money. I like to wrap it around my waist. Like so, it gives a whole new meaning to the term “money belt.”

Or around my wrist, thickly.

Or I can drape it loosely around my neck…

Or not so loosely, choker fashion.

(With this chain, the analogies are never ending.)

*I’m sitting on the sofa while my oldest son drills away on the piano. I knit and call out instructions. He works extra hard when I stay with him the whole time, egging him on every minute. Bonus: my scarf will soon be done.

*Some friends take all four of the kids to a basketball game. Each ticket can be redeemed for an ice cream cone at the local (wonderful) ice cream shop, so when in town for my dance class, I get the ice cream in cups to go and take it home for our dessert. But one of the children has to forgo, due to some name-calling earlier in the day. The theatrical sobbing is deafening, but once the ordeal is over, I’m glad I stuck it out. And I’m pretty sure that child will have a better behaved tongue (for a few weeks, at least).

*I am in my belly dance class. The instructor is teaching us how to do inner hip circles while walking forwards and backwards. In other words, our hips are making a circle parallel to the ground while our legs move up and down. I have to shut my eyes and chant to myself to stay balanced and in rhythm. It’s crazy-hard, and I know I must look ridiculous, but I don’t care. It’s fun.

*When I’m in town, I bump into a friend—ouch! (ha, ha)—who encourages me to come to a local sporting event. I can’t tonight, I say, I need to be with the children. A little later in the conversation, my evening plans come up again, but this time I elaborate: we have some reading to do. Oh, school work, she replies knowingly. No, I correct, just reading for fun. And then I wonder, do other people not prioritize fun reading?

I love our book-filled evenings. For awhile there I was reading everything—first a bunch of chapters from Little House and then a sizeable hunk of reading to the older two (from Little Women and now Jane Eyre). Thing was, my voice was giving out (I read for 1-2 hours throughout the day, as well), so now I join the kids on the sofa, my knitting in hand, while my husband reads the Little House books. Then I do part two of the evening reading. My throat is grateful for the change.

*Commentors are complimentary about my Sunday skirt, and I am flattered, so I post a full(er) body shot of me in my duds.

*We host a potluck dinner for my Sunday school class and one of the members brings a 24-ounce box of smoked salmon just for us. The kids are beside themselves with glee. Cutting into the foil, the next evening, is a Special Family Occasion. I fork bits into birdy mouths and they squawk for more (all but the youngest daughter who spits hers in the trash, silly girl). I make a cream cheese-salmon mixture to go on buttered sourdough toasts, but the kids prefer to eat it straight up. Fearing all 24 ounces will get gobbled up in one sitting, I squirrel a portion away in the fridge. I have my sights on a salmon-cucumber-dill-sour cream pasta salad.

This same time, years previous: odd ends, creamed chicken with cheese biscuits, cleaning up bad attitudes, tortilla pie