I have had no new recipes for you lately. For this, I am sorry. I have tried a few recipes, but they’ve been mediocre to miserable. There was this flourless chocolate cake which turned out dry and crumbly, and this red popcorn which turned out dry and crumbly. (Julie! Julie! Wherefore art thou, my Julie of the stellar ribs and tangy sour cream ice cream? I miss you!)

I made a lemon pasta, too. It was good, fine and tasty, but it was just what it was, a lemon pasta. Nothing earth shattering, so I’m not going to bother you with the details (mostly just cream and lemon, for the curious).

The Baby Nickel turned five. He informs everyone of his new age, and I overheard him announce that now that he’s five, the other kids can kick him and it doesn’t hurt anymore.

He iced his own cake, a banana cake with caramel frosting and some chocolate butter cream to decorate it with (all his choices, not mine). The decorating tube was too bulky for him to wield efficiently, so he resorted to his good old phalanges.

Of course, they had to get licked clean every few seconds. So basically, it was a spit-icing cake.

Yes, you may gag. It was totally disgusting. But you know what? It was his birthday and I never let him play with food with such complete and utter abandonment and he had a blast, germs be damned. (But rest assured, nobody outside of our immediate family got served any of the birthday cake.)

The kids built a block tower and then I let them take my camera upstairs and photograph it, unsupervised.

Trusting them with my camera is what I call “living on the edge.”

A phantom mouse has been living in our kitchen stove. Every night we’d hear it scritch-scratching and I’d whip off my slipper and tip-toe over to stand by the stove, slipper-wielding arm raised high, and though the mouse would scritch and scratch, he never poked his head up. But then one night when my sister-in-law was babysitting the kids, she actually saw the mouse, so we knew it was for real.

And occasionally, the stove still reeked of mouse urine whenever I’d bake.

One evening (when I was at my belly dance class), my husband finally had enough. He yanked the oven out from the wall and proceeded to take it apart. This was no small feat as the oven was welded together in all the wrong places. At one point, he started banging on the stove and yelling at the phantom mouse to get out of there NOW. The kids joined in. The noise was deafening.

The mouse never did show itself, and eventually my kitchen was littered with stove parts—the oven box sitting on the floor, the turd-riddled insulation carefully carried outside and stomped upon (nothing crunched). It was a mess.

I left the house again (a knitting lesson, this time) and when I came home, the stove was back in place, plus it had been mightily improved with a thorough scrub-down, new burner liners, and a working oven light.

But today, while working some math problems with my son, I thought I heard a faint scritch-scritch-scratching…

A couple weeks ago when the oldest two kids were not at home, I let the youngest two trash my kitchen.

They cooked up a feast with ice cubes, butter, leaves, dirt, and salt and pepper.

They used all the shoes in the back hall to make a fort out of the kitchen table.

The measures I’ll take to squeak in a little writing time…

This same time, years previous: foods I never told you about, part two

My aunt tells the story of a woman who went all day wearing two different shoes and didn’t notice it till right before her evening’s speaking engagement. At that point all she could do was laugh merrily and point out the mismatch so that everyone could join in the joke.

That story stuck with me, partly because it’s so incredibly preposterous (what sort of woman could wear two different shoes and never even know it? wouldn’t she feel a difference? could a person truly be so absentminded? so careless?), and partly because it speaks to my skirt-tucked-into-panties, run-in-stockings, zipper-down-holy crap! fear of not being completely put together whenever I venture out into public. So every time I think of that addled woman clomping around in her two different shoes for a whole entire day, I chuckle. That poor dear, tsk, tsk.

Well.

Well…

Yesterday I went to church wearing two different boots, one black, the other brown, and I didn’t even notice my mistake until Sunday school, after the hour-and-a-half-long church service in which I sat in the very front row.

I repeat: I WENT TO CHURCH WEARING TWO DIFFERENT BOOTS AND I SAT IN THE VERY FRONT ROW (to boot).

It wasn’t like I was wearing pants or a long skirt, either, oh no no no. My knee-length poofy skirt stopped a few good inches above the boot tops so my boots, in all their mismatched glory, were 100 percent visible.

And I had no idea. I never even noticed they felt different (which they do—the brown ones are more comfortable than the black).

(This extreme cluelessness brings to mind the bizarre tales of full-term pregnant women pooping out a baby in the toilet and then claiming they had no idea. I always wrote those women off. But now, after yesterday’s mishap, I’m not so sure…)

It wasn’t till Sunday school that I discovered my mistake. Getting ready to seat myself, I happened to glance down at my feet, and— I froze. I sucked air. I let loose a series of half-whimpers, half-shrieks, “I don’t believe—! I’m—! Two different—!”

I giggled manically.

“I might cry,” I squeaked. “Or maybe I’ll laugh?”

“They say people only look at other people from the thigh up,” one kind soul offered. Another woman untucked her feet from under her chair to double check her shoes. (They matched.) Everyone smiled and chuckled, but then the discussion turned to other things (clearly, they did not comprehend the enormity of the situation), and I was left sitting there in my two different boots, attempting to exude a sense of calm.

However, it’s pretty darn near impossible to pretend you posses any semblance of equanimity when you’re wearing two different boots.

So every now and then when a huge smile threatened to split my face, I’d duck my head and shake it ruefully from side to side, all my insides—my very veins—jiggling with an overwhelming attack of the giggles.

It wasn’t until we were in the car and half-way home that I pointed out my miss-booted feet to my husband and kids. They howled, and John struggled to keep the car on the road and study my feet at the same time. I hoisted them up on the dashboard to make it easier for him.

Mom and Dad had arrived at our house for lunch before we got home, so, “Shhh,” I told the kids. “Don’t say anything and let’s see if Grandmommy notices.” (I knew Dad wouldn’t. He’s notorious for not noticing haircuts, gaudy earrings, and painted fingernails.)

I sashayed into the house, brown heel-black heel clicking on the tile floor, and hugged Dad and Mom. “You like my outfit?” I asked Mom. She admired my skirt, one she had scavenged for me from a thrift store, and turned back to the table where she was assembling platters of meats and cheeses for our sandwich feast. The kids and I exchanged glances. Mom smiled away, oblivious. And then my younger daughter piped up, “Did you see her boots?”

Mom turned around again and looked. She double-taked. She gaped. And then, and then! The gut-wrenching, foot-stomping laughter completely overtook. We roared and wailed, sobbing with hilarity, ricocheting off door frames and tables, hanging on to each other, rocking and shaking, our shoulders hunched, breathless, eyes brimfilled up with tears.

Of all people, I knew my mom—a woman who leaves the chicken out of the chicken noodle soup, who sits on her glasses and smashes them flat, who boils kettles of water dry—I knew she would get the humor. I was not disappointed.

So now my aunt’s story has been replaced with a new one, the story of one crazy-addled woman who wore two different, knee-high boots to church one Sunday. The poor dear, tsk, tsk.

The end.

This same time, years previous: a meaty lesson, foods I’ve never told you about, physics lesson (it’s horrifically windy again today—what is it with this time of year?), slow thinking

I pick at my kids constantly.

Go blow your nose. No, that’s not good enough. Here, let me help.

Your head stinks. Did you use shampoo when you washed your hair? What—? You KNOW soap does not count as shampoo. If you don’t do a better job from now on, I’ll have to wash your hair for you every time you get a bath.

Get your elbows off the table.

Hold your fork right.

Chew with your mouth closed.

Put your knee down at the table. For crying out loud, child, SIT ON YOUR BUTT. Those cheeks are meant to KISS the chair!

Unbutton the top button of that blouse. It makes you look uptight when your shirt is buttoned all the way up to your chin.

Close your mouth. It makes you look dull when you leave it hanging open like that.

Sit up straight.

Give me your hand. Oooo, yuck! Your nails are gross! Fetch the clippers.

Don’t stretch your shirt out with your knee.

Don’t sing so loud.

Don’t BREATHE so loud.

Don’t rock the chair like that.

DO NOT INTERRUPT ME WHEN I’M READING TO YOU!

Your breath stinks. Did you brush your teeth yet this morning? Really? Well perhaps you better do it again.

And so on.

But the tables are turning. My kids are beginning to pick back.

The other week, I sat beside my eldest daughter during church. She tapped me on the arm and when I looked over at her, she gestured to her chin and made a swiping motion, mouthing something about a hair. I swiped at my face, freeing a hair that was stuck to my lip gloss. We smiled at each other.

But she kept staring at me—I could feel her eyes burning holes into the side of my face—so I glanced down again. This time she pressed her lips together tightly, signaling that I ought to follow suit. Apparently, I was gaping stupidly. We giggled, and I whispered at her to stop staring at me and pay attention to the sermon.

Some people might think this picking back is rude, disrespectful of elders and all that. But not me. I find it oddly comforting. My kids’ ability to observe and point out my flaws (the older two are becoming quite perspicacious) shows that they’re judging me by the measuring stick I have handed them. When I look at it that way, their critiques feel downright complimentary!

(And in case you were wondering: no, she did not wear her homemade wire specs to church.)

This same time, years previous: life, interrupted, potato gnocchi, mocha pudding cake