Miss Becca Boo somehow twisted her hair all around a comb.

Mr. Handsome had to de-hair the comb, strand by strand, using a toothpick.

It was very painstaking and we thought it would take hours, but after a few minutes the comb fell free.

I learned, post-event, that Yo-Yo and a friend had climbed out his bedroom window and walked on the metal roof around to my bedroom window, crawled in through my bedroom window, and then walked down the hall and back into Yo-Yo’s room. They said they wanted to surprise the girls. Did I mention that it was raining outside?

This bit of dare-devilry does not really surprise me since Mr. Handsome has told me how he and his brothers used to see who could get from one end of their old country farmhouse to the other without touching the ground and from the outside. The game involved lots of trees and roofs. Could it be that games like that are hardwired into their chromosomal make-up?

Upon waking early one morning, Miss Becca Boo went downstairs and painted her black fingernail with red nail polish. Now we’re not sure what the nail is supposed to look like anymore, so we keep a band-aid on it and pretend everything’s just fine.

Sweetsie, who is learning to wipe herself when she poops, gave the commode an overdose of toilet paper, causing me to throw a minor fit as I retrieved the sodden mass of TP from the (used and non-flushed) toilet. I had to flush the toilet paper down in increments (granted, only two). And then I made Sweetsie agree to call me from now on so I could watch her as she wiped herself.

While I was otherwise occupied in my living room, visiting with some neighbors who had dropped by, Yo-Yo and Miss Becca Boo made ready to repel out of the girls’ bedroom window. They tied a rope to the bedframe, opened the window … and chickened out. (Could it be possible that they have been endowed with a small bit of common sense after all?) Then Yo-Yo went outside and tried to climb up the rope, but didn’t get very far. Or so he said. I, blissfully unaware of my progeny’s escapades, fully enjoyed my pleasant neighborly chat.

Miss Becca Boo’s rest time art projects sometimes get a little out of hand.

While frying up a mess of bacon, I turned from the counter just in time to witness The Baby Nickel cram a large piece of raw bacon into his mouth as fast as he could. I stomped my feet and hollered, unable to do anything because my hands were all bacon-y themselves, and Mr. Handsome swooped down and fished the slimy blubber out of the ornery child’s mouth.

Miss Becca Boo, while poking the fire with the metal poke-y stick (I told her to do so), somehow managed to get it wedged down in the grate. There we were, woodstove door open, pok-y stick stuck, and Mr. Handsome at work. Yo-Yo came to the rescue, and after much maneuvering and spilling of ashes, wiggled it free. Like father, like son.

The kids were playing hide-and-seek. I heard some noises in the bathroom and went to investigate. Miss Becca Boo was standing by the washing machine, cheeks sucked in, trying to keep back a smile. I lifted the lid and there was Yo-Yo Boy. “This is totally not cool, but don’t move. I’m gonna take a picture,” I yelled.

And then The Baby Nickel climbed into the laundry basket,

and was lifted upright by his big sisters.

Sweetsie smears much of her Christmas lip gloss all over her pillowcases, but mostly she just sucks her thumb, listens to music, and roars really loud if anyone looks at her cross-eyed.

When I went in to check on Miss Becca Boo one night, I discovered that she had fallen “asleep” wearing a headlamp.

She must have a deep abiding fear of the dark.

The Baby Nickel is still into cross-dressing.

I’m experimenting with a new bread recipe. This may strike you as rather odd, considering that I already have so many bread recipes that I like. Why in the world would I need another one? I don’t, really. And besides, who said anything about needing a new recipe? Not me, that’s who.

My reasons for this latest experiment are these: I like baking bread and if there is something good out there then I certainly want to have it tucked securely under my belt. And, if it’s not any good, than I’ll chalk it up as a learning experience. I have had lots and lots of learning experiences. It would appear that I am quite the learned gal. However, I also have a bundle of good bread recipes under my belt. So there.

This new recipe (the link was emailed to me by my girlfriend Laurel) is touted as being a Five-Minute Bread. When I read that, Skepticism, that little-bodied, big-headed creature with the buggly eyes who lives somewhere around my spleen, reared its fussy head and took a gander at the computer screen. Ha! This is SO stupid. There is nothing, and I mean NOTHING, fast about good bread. Good bread, QUALITY bread, takes time and energy. It may be easy, yes, but fast? I don’t THINK so.

I stuck my fingers in my ears and continued reading. This was hard to do, considering that it took so long to load each new page of the article (I think there were something like twelve pages), but after the first page, my two feelers, Curiosity on the right and Interest on the left, start to wriggle up out of the top of my scalp, the part right above my worry-creased forehead, and poke around, gently buzzing, and then I just had to continue reading, for their sakes if for nobody else’s.

Hm, could this possibly work? I tapped my tooth with my index finger. There was only one way to find out.

Sucker! Fool!

I drew in a big breath, fondly patted Skepticism on the head , and walked over to the kitchen counter where I quickly (but of course) mixed up the water, yeast, salt, and flour (only four ingredients) with a spoon, no kneading necessary—Red Flag Alert! shrieked Skepticism—and then slid the bowl into the fridge where it would sit, slowly developing a sourdough flavor (yeah, right—you’re SUCH a goose) for up to two weeks, or until I decided to bake a loaf.

That was yesterday. Today I decided to bake.

I retrieved the bowl of dough from the fridge, cut off a blob of the bubbly mass, lumped it into a boule-like form, slashed the top, and let it rest at room temperature on a heavily floured and cornmeal-ed board for about 45 minutes. Then I baked it. This is what I pulled out of the oven.

I grinned from ear to ear, but Skepticism, who had wormed around till he was perched on my right hip, harrumphed, lips pursed and eyes all squinty. I cut a piece, ate it, and then fed a bite to Skepticism. Too doughy, he kvetched. Yes, it is a bit doughy, I admitted, but this is the first baking. A little more time in the oven would probably do the trick. My, but the crust is delicious, don’t you think? A mixture of chewy, caramel, and crispy.

There is no sourdough flavor whatsoever. Well now, really! I knew better than to expect that. We mixed up the dough only yesterday. Give it another seven to ten days and it may develop a hint of sourness. Just you hush up.

It’s too salty. Oh, good heavens! Maybe it is, but we can fix that. Hush now!

And then I ate almost the rest of the loaf myself, making lots of smacking noises and not sharing even a crumb with the little stinker. He, naturally, remained diffident, though I couldn’t help but notice he was watching my every move out of the corner of his eye.

The dear little sourpuss; I am rather fond of him.

I would type up the whole recipe for you right now, but Skepticism might have convulsions. And skeptical convulsions in the general area of my spleen aren’t that much fun. So I think I’ll wait till after a couple more baking sessions, after Skepticism’s belly has been stuffed and his whiny voice shushed, before I pass you this potentially doozy-of-a-bread recipe. Of course, if you’re dying of curiosity, you could go check out the link for yourself any old time, day or night.

On second thought, you better look it up at night when your inner skeptic (that is, if you happen to be gifted/cursed with one) is more likely to be taking a snooze.

I bought this lettuce at the farmer’s market on Saturday.

I had dropped by my girlfriend Kris’s house to pick up a gallon of maple syrup, catching her just as she was on her way out the door to go to the farmer’s market to buy lettuce. “The market is open now?” I asked, surprised. I was on my way to the grocery store and lettuce was on my list, but the farmer’s market lettuce would certainly be much tastier. So, back into my car I hopped, and I zipped on downtown where I snatched up four heads of hydroponic lettuce before Kris even arrived on the scene. (I am a kind friend though, so I made sure to leave some lettuce for Kris.)

Back home, I filled a cut-glass bowl with water and situated the head of lettuce in it. This was something that Kris had told me to do; she said she keeps her lettuce like that, in a jar of water on the kitchen table, for as long as two weeks.

Outside everything is brown and droopy, but inside I have a brilliant head of lettuce blooming on my kitchen table, which, in turn, helps me to feel crisp and green. (I suppose it—that green feeling I have—could also be a result of eating the other three heads of lettuce in as many days.)

Yesterday when I plopped a blob of apricot jam into Sweetsie’s bowl of yogurt, this is how it fell.

Sweetsie didn’t notice the special configuration at first glance, but after I pointed it out to her (What do you see? Look at it close now), her face dawned, an enormous smile spreading from ear to ear and wrinkling her nose.

There is something attractive about clean laundry, even when it is in the various stages of being dried and folded.

This should come as no surprise, I suppose. There are plenty of catalogues out there, filled with pictures of fluffy, rolled towels, rows of men’s rugged flannel shirts hanging in rugged closets, and little girls’ stockings dancing on clotheslines, everything color-coordinated and brand-spanking new.

My laundry doesn’t match, nor is it new. It’s certainly not dancing on that drying rack. And it’s not even folded all that neatly. But, and this is important, it is clean. And clean clothes are refreshingly pretty, if for no other reason than because they mean I don’t need to wash laundry for another couple days.

It helps that there is a pink bouquet of flowers, courtesy of the Grand Matriarch, in the background. And, knowing that the laundry is almost done, needing only to be shipped upstairs and delivered to its respective closets and drawers, probably helps to boost its attractive-ability levels.

I bought this little mortar and pestle when I was at a kitchen store once, probably on a whim.

I hardly ever use it, but when I do, it makes me feel profound. Here I was using it to grind up anise seeds for lemon-anise biscotti.

It took a lot of elbow grease, just grinding up that tablespoon of seeds, so by the time I was finished, I felt tired.

What are the spots of pretty in your days?