This morning we sent away The Child Who Can Not Part With Anything and then the rest of us worked together to pack up, throw away, and clean out.

Also, we caught the Large Animal that was living in the ceiling, except it was a couple of itty-bitty mice, so I’m not sure we actually solved anything.

My husband set two mousetraps up in the ceiling via the light fixture hole. I was sitting in the kitchen when I heard the victory snap-squeak.

Nervous about blind groping, my husband used a combination of flashlight, mirror, and camera with flash to locate the trap. And then, very carefully, he reached up in the hole with his gloved hand, touched the trap, and—

“EEEEK! IT SQUEAKED! IT’S STILL ALIVE! EEEEEEEEEEEE!”

My husband was bouncing around, hands flapping, squealing and shrieking. I doubled over, laughing. The kids gathered to stare.

My older son rolled his eyes at his papa’s shenanigans, put a glove on, reached into the hole, and pulled the trap out. Done.

Later, there was another SNAP and then a thump-thump-thump. The flashlight and mirror revealed a mouse that was most certainly dead. But when my husband touched the trap, the whole trap-and-mouse outfit jumped. From there, the story proceeds exactly as the first with lots of manly squeals and a fearless son to the rescue. 

The kids are in rest time and I’m sitting on the sofa with my feet propped up…except the kids aren’t actually in rest time because my husband decided to keep working upstairs and so now it sounds like a war zone up there. He and the kids are dismantling a loft bed (took up too much room), stripping the beds of linens (“the kids can just sleeping in sleeping bags,” my husband announced as he kicked a pile of blankets down the stairs), and sorting, packing, and trashing. The Child Who Can Not Part With Anything is weeping and wailing (of course), and everyone is bossing everyone else around. Major jolly fun, it sounds like.

But that’s not what I sat down to write about. I sat down to write about cranberry bars.

It’s not like anyone needs anything else sweet, but this has nothing to do with need and everything to do with Making A Note Of Something Important So I’ll Remember It Next Year. Though, come to think of it, last year I made those fabulous fig-anise pinwheels that I said I’d make forever more and then I didn’t make them this year. Not because I didn’t like them—because I do—but because I’m always attracted to The New And Exciting, silly me.

Maybe I’ll never make these cranberry bars again. Or maybe I’ll make them all year round (but not when I’m in Guatemala because I don’t think they have cranberries there). Or maybe you’ll make them and, not being the type to be sucked into culinary fads and hype, you’ll make them till you’re 96 years old and all your teeth have fallen out. In other words, I can’t predict the cookie future. I can only say, “World, I liked these and maybe you will, too.”

There’s nothing fancy about these bars. Just some chopped cranberries between two layers of gently spiced butter dough—half of the dough makes a firm base and the other half makes a nubbly cap. The bars are mostly soft with a bit of crunch, and not too sweet (so you can eat them for breakfast after you finish your oatmeal).

Cranberry Crumble Bars
Adapted from Lisa of Homesick Texan who, in turn, got the recipe from The Smitten Kitchen Cookbook.

Update, December 2015: I made these again, and, while delicious, I think they need more filling. Next time, perhaps double it…?

Update, January 1, 2016: I doubled the filling. My verdict: doubled filling is a little too much. So maybe just increase the amount by a half? (This is getting complicated. Sorry.)

Update, January 2, 2019: I made these with just an extra half recipe of filling. Perfect.

for the dough:
3 cups flour
1 cup sugar
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon each, ground cloves and allspice
2 sticks butter, in chunks
1 egg, beaten

Put all the dry ingredients in a food processor and pulse to blend. Add the butter and process until the mixture is like sand. Add the beaten egg and pulse to combine. The mixture will be quite dry and crumbly.

for the filling:
1 12-ounce bag (3 cups) fresh or frozen cranberries
½ cup sugar
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1 teaspoon orange zest
1½ tablespoons orange juice

Put all ingredients in the (still dirty) food processor and pulse until the berries are finely chopped and everything is well mixed.

To assemble:
Put half of the crumb mixture into a greased 9×13 pan. Spread it out evenly and pat down firmly to make a solid bottom crust. Top with the chopped fruit. Sprinkle the remaining crumbs over the fruit. (I squeezed some of the crumbs with my fingers to make larger clumps.)

Bake the bars at 375 degrees for 30-35 minutes. Cool completely before cutting and serving. Leftovers freeze well.

This same time, years previous: tamales, eggnog, in which I throw my bread on the floor and stomp on it, delight

Next Monday, whether we’re ready or not, we’ll jump into the van and ship out. It’s our own private apocalypse.

The freezers are defrosted and everything is stuffed into the large chest freezer. I’ve made arrangements for my starter baby to live at my brother’s house. Five-sixths of us are done with our typhoid vaccine. The kitchen sink is scoured and most of the windows are washed (thanks, Mom!). The grape arbor is pruned (thanks, Dad!). The ceilings and walls are patch painted. The toilet doesn’t leak anymore. We’ve made arrangements for what to do with our bodies should we die (that was a fun Christmas Eve morning activity). Flip-flops and money belts are purchased.

Crisis happen on a semi-regular basis—the refrigerator died! we can’t find suitable jeans! the insurance company dropped the ball on all the prescription meds!—but we plow through. (We still haven’t caught the Large Animal that is living in the floor of the upstairs.) (Renters, if you’re reading this, panic now.)

There are happy-dance times, too. Like when I posted on Facebook that we needed a dog kennel and within five minutes we had one. Like when we combed through stores for hours in search of plain jeans for my non-trendy preteen and came up empty and then, within the next couple days, found a variety of perfect jeans, shorts, and capris from just one thrift store run and several friends’ houses. Like when the refrigerator’s thermostat stopped working so we had to plug and unplug the refrigerator to regulate it but then it died anyway but then my husband gave it CPR and it came back to life, ginormous sigh of relief. Like when a multitude of generous people loaned/gifted us a huge variety of backpacks and suitcases. Like when my order of books arrived at the door in all their glorious fresh-smelling newness.

Our family is an emotional smorgasbord. My husband is in denial. I am achy-sad and a bit in awe that this is actually happening. One child is excited, two are a bit sad (one is worried about the giant hornets and the other one explains the torn feeling perfectly: I really want to go but I don’t), and the last one (guess which) is suffering from headaches, stomachaches, nightmares, and lack of appetite—at the mere mention of “packing,” she crawls under the covers and hides.

Next Sunday during the worship service, there will be a commissioning service for us. I intend to cry bucket of tears. I will begin crying when the prelude starts and I will not stop crying until the benediction is over. (I’m undecided about whether or not I’ll cry during Sunday school and the potluck.) If you plan to attend, wear your wading boots.

This same time, years previous: giant sausage and leek quiche, Christmas 2010, windows at dusk-time, spaghetti carbonara, marmalade-glazed ham, for my walls, Christmas 2008, chopped locks, one step above lazy, tomatoey potatoes and green beans, hats

During our Christmas Eve service, I was focused intently on singing Angels We Have Heard on High when suddenly a little boy and his even littler sister started walking up to the front of the church. They were dressed up like Mary and Joseph, and their arms were extended in front of them like forklifts, their baby brother stretched across their arms.The big brother was responsible for the head; the big sister for the butt and legs.

Surprised, I half gasped-half laughed, and my eyes involuntarily welled with tears. And then, without even realizing I was doing it, I glanced behind them, looking for a wise man bearing a ham à la the Herdmans. And then, when I realized what I was doing, I really did laugh.

The mini Joseph and Mary tumbled their fat-cheeked, kicking brother into the wooden manger and stood guard over him, taking turns shoving his pacifier back in his mouth, while angels, shepherds, and a baby sheep (who was munching on a piece from her cotton ball-studded hat) gathered around them to stare into the manger.

That little scene may have been the highlight of my entire Christmas.

It snowed for Christmas!

Actually, it snowed the day before Christmas, but the white stuff lingered. There was enough snow on the ground for one Christmas morning sledding party before it melted away into nothingness. And then the next day we woke up to more snow, glory be!

The kids realize that they won’t be seeing one flake of snow for quite a few months and so they’ve made it their personal responsibility to play in it as much as possible.

The downstairs of our house is littered with boots and coats and gloves in varying degrees of sogginess. The upstairs is littered with huge pieces of luggage.

It’s a lot to wade through.

We’ve had a nice Christmas, but it hasn’t been easy. We are in the final days of packing. Our family is stressed and tired and anxious.

Up until now, I’ve been super excited. And I still am, lots of times. But now the excitement is tempered by a thick, choking sadness: the Goodbyes are coming. (If that sounds ominous, that’s because it feels ominous.)

Of course, I’m really, really, really glad I have people to say goodbye, too. I’m glad I’m sad to leave them because it means they matter, right? RIGHT! And we’ll get through the Goodbyes, and we’ll all be okay.

But still, being sad isn’t very much fun.

***

Things We Did to Celebrate Even Though I Wasn’t Really Into It

We delivered toffee and peppermint bark to the neighbors. It was snowing (yay), so my pretty little labels got spotchy. Oh well.

Santa came.

Nobody left any cookies out for him, so he ate had to raid the kitchen for some clementines. Also, he got so frustrated trying to cram the gifts into the poorly-made stockings (the insides of which are filled with loose yarn that snags on everything) that one of his buttons popped off his suit. 

The kids ate enough sugar to last them for a very long time.

For Christmas dinner, my husband made his much-loved ham.

I made a pot of potatoes in cream. I hadn’t made them for a long time, and the kids went wild. In fact, they were so busy eating the potatoes that the ham got neglected.

Also, I made hot buttered rolls. They may have been my favorite part of the meal.

In fact, these rolls don’t actually belong under the title of “not really into it” since I really was into them. (I was probably into them a little too much, groan.)

Today, we ate (fought over) the leftover rolls for lunch. We stuffed them with cold ham, grainy mustard, and cheese.

Hot Buttered Rolls

Adapted from the Mennonite Community Cookbook

½ cup warm water

1 tablespoon yeast

2 cups milk

6 tablespoons butter, divided

5 tablespoons sugar

2 1/4 teaspoons salt

1 egg, beaten

1 cup whole wheat flour

4-5 cups bread flour

crunchy salt, optional

In a small bowl, stir the yeast into the warm water and set aside.

Scald the milk. Add 4 tablespoons of butter and let sit until melted.

In a large bowl, stir together the sugar, whole wheat flour, yeast, and milk (taking care that it’s not so hot that it will kill the yeast). Let rest for 10 minutes.

Stir in the egg, salt, and remaining flour. Knead the dough till satiny smooth. Sprinkle the bottom of the still-dirty mixing bowl with flour and plop the dough into it. Sprinkle the top with flour, cover with a cloth, and let rise until doubled.

Divide the dough into 24 pieces and shape into rolls. Place the rolls in two buttered 9×13 pans. Cover with a cloth and let rise until nearly doubled. Bake the rolls at 400 degrees for 15-20 minutes.

Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter and brush over the hot-from-the-oven rolls. Sprinkle with crunchy salt, if desired. Serve warm.

This same time, years previous: flat, marshmallows, the big snow, power paranoia, and turkey in a wash basket, bacon-jalapeno cheese ball