For quite awhile, I knew I wanted my girls to take some sort of self-defense class. Last fall, I called a couple martial arts studios, but they only had regular, longer-term martial arts classes. I wanted something quick — just several sessions covering the basic skills. Then this past winter, when I learned that the county parks and rec program hosted a women’s self-defense class — three evening sessions (Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, done) for free — I signed them right up.

The girls loved it. After each class, they’d push back the furniture and demonstrate how to knock a gun out of someone’s hand, or where certain pressure points are located (sending their father crumpling to the floor, much to their delight). The last class, they got to practice all their moves on a cop (who was fully swaddled in protective gear). I saw the videos of them lighting into him, screaming DON’T TOUCH ME. It was slightly unsettling — we are from a peace church tradition, after all — but it also felt deeply right. Girls need to know their power and strength, and that there are times when it’s absolutely okay not to be polite.

Ever since then, they’ve been begging for more classes, so I dug around some more and learned about a six-week kickboxing class at a studio on our end of town. For 120 dollars, a person can take up to five classes a week, and they get a pair of gloves thrown in, too. I agreed to pay fifty dollars for each, and the rest was up to them to cover.

The first class was a trial one, just to see if they liked it. My older son went, too, even though his schedule doesn’t allow him to sign up right now. They all loved everything about it — the intense workout, the coaching, the music.

After her second class, my older daughter came bounding in, her eyes sparkling. “My feet are bleeding!” she announced. “And I felt like I was going to throw up!”

Sure enough, blood was soaking through her socks, and her hands were all battered.

Since then, she’s taken to wrapping her feet prior to lessons (and bandaiding her hands).

So, no more bloody socks.

To wring as much value as possible from their investment, both girls are trying to catch as many classes as they can. They come home exhausted, sore from their push-ups, two-minute planks, squats, and punching bag and paddle work, and absolutely glowing.

Who knew getting your butt whupped would be so much fun?

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (4.2.18), caribbean milk cake, the quotidian (4.3.17), the quotidian (4.4.16), red raspberry pie, sun days, working lunches, warning: this will make your eyes hurt, cup cheese.

Popping in to tell you about a slaw! It has fish sauce in it, so I call it “Asian Slaw.” Blogger Luisa just calls it “Perfect Slaw.” You can call it whatever you like.

The important thing to know is that it’s light and bright with a delightfully rich tang and a fabulous crunch. I’ve thrown it together twice now. It’s therapeutic to make — there’s something energizing about chopping great mountains of green vegetables — and utterly satisfying to eat. It was a revelation served alongside Korean beef, but I also liked it all on its own — just me and a fork and heaping platefuls of slaw.

 Try it.

Asian Slaw
Adapted from Luisa of The Wednesday Chef.

The second time I made this slaw, I discovered I didn’t have any rice wine vinegar so I used apple cider vinegar instead. It was fine, but I prefered the slaw made with the rice wine vinegar.

for the slaw:
1 small to medium head of napa cabbage, thinly sliced
1-2 carrots, julienned
2 stalks celery, thinly sliced
1 cucumber, seeded and julienned
4 scallions, thinly sliced
1 generous handful cilantro, chopped
½ cup salted, roasted peanuts, chopped

for the dressing:
¼ cup rice wine vinegar
2 tablespoons fish sauce
juice of 1 lime
½ teaspoon brown sugar
¼ cup neutral oil

Combine all the vegetables (but not the peanuts) in a large bowl. In a small bowl, whisk together the dressing ingredients, pour over the slaw, and toss lightly to combine. Sprinkle the peanuts on top. Devour.

This same time, years previous: the art of human rights, absorbing the words, the quotidian (3.30.15), babies and boobs, baby love, grape kuchen with lemon glaze.

While my older daughter was in Florida, my younger son took over the chickens and fed the steers and goats most mornings, but all in all the animal tending was pretty minimal — farmers we are not. But now that she’s back, the animals are actually getting cared for again.

She likes to hang out with the steers, hand feeding them and letting them chew on her clothes and maul her arm.

The goats’ hooves were in dire straits — one of them was actually limping — so the other afternoon, she wrestled it onto its back…

and then sat on it.

I watched her clip away for awhile, but when I learned after about five minutes that she was only half done with one hoof, I got bored and went back to the house.

Then yesterday she got a call from a neighbor: Did she want two bottle lambs?

“It’s your project,” I said. “It’s up to you.”

So she hauled an old water trough up to the barn and lined it with hay for their pen, asked my husband to pick up a sack of milk replacer in town, and then drove over to the neighbor’s house after supper to fetch the lambs.

One is super, super tiny — her previous owner called her Teacup — and appears to have a broken leg, so fingers crossed she’ll make it. The other is a good bit more sturdy.

This afternoon when I was home alone (the older kids off snowboarding with their father and the youngers at a waterpark with friends), it was my job to give them their bottles. They both guzzled down their milk, tails a-wagging.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (3.26.18), for-real serious, the day we did everything, the quotidian (3.28.16), seven-minute egg, Good Friday fun, braided bread, cream puffs.