Turns out, I needed that bout of fussing. As soon as I wrote that piece, things started looking on the up and up. After what feels like weeks of below-30 weather, we got a balmy day. Cloudy, yes, but almost warm. I did piles of laundry and hung them on the line. Three of the kids went outside (no shoes, even) and played for an extended period of time. Two psychology students from the local university came to play with my little ones. (It’s for a basic developmental psychology class—I let them play with my kids and they give me a break. It’s what I call a win-win situation.) I spent some concentrated time with my older two. I had a nice chitty-chat with my mama. I had a nice chitty-chat with a friend. I made plans to go for a walk and then canceled them in favor of a trip to the library and grocery store. The new Bon Appetit came in the mail and it had a stack of brownies on the cover. Miss Beccaboo came down with a bug and turned into a bug on my living room rug. Maybe it’s not cool to say it, but I kind of like it when my kids come down with a fever and just lay there all lethargic and pathetic-like. They don’t talk, they don’t eat, they don’t fuss, then don’t make messes. Is this taking The Pollyanna Approach too far? Perhaps, but it’s true.

This is where Pioneer Woman and I differ. Up until this point, we are exactly the same, but when it comes to sick children? Not so much. Ree says, and I quote, “…[When you know] that at any given moment, you’d remove any harmful microbe from their body and inject it into yours? That’s when you know you’re a mama.”

Actually, no thanks. I get her point, and I imagine that would be true for me if we were talking about some really serious illness, but for just the common cold? Or a stomach flu? No way, Jose. I much rather it’d be them than me. Little kids handle illness way better than grown-ups. Plus, when I go down, everyone and everything suffers. It’s not cost effective for me to get sick.

Let me just be clear here, serious illnesses are no walk in the park. I’m only talking all nonchalant about non-serious illness. The bad stuff? Heaven forbid. I am not a callous mom. Take this story, for example:

Once Miss Beccaboo had a high fever and couldn’t move her head, and I freaked and tore into the ER. This was back when she was four or five and her temperature was sky-high. Even when the mercury was at the top of the thermometer (!), we still hesitated (I’d made far too many routine-disrupting trips to the doctor only to get the yeah-it’s-probably-just-a-virus verdict), preferring to make several calls to the doctor on call (who didn’t say “come in”). But after a couple days of raging fever, she couldn’t/wouldn’t open her eyes, her body was all stiff-like, and then—horrors of horrors—she failed my touch-your-head-to-your-chest test. (I have several tests to see if an illness is severe: can you stand upright and walk without limping? Yes? Then it’s probably not appendicitis. Can you touch your chin to your chest? Yes? Then it’s probably not meningitis.) That’s when I split for the hospital.

It was a horrible couple hours. The ER doctor, his face tense, hovered. This, his close attention, both terrified and comforted us. White blood counts were soaring. There was a brutal spinal tap. I cried my eyes out in the waiting room, certain she was dying. She lived, obviously, thankfully. It was just (though not “just,” as we learned) a case of pneumonia, one without any of the typical symptoms.

Good heavens. This post has no point. Except to say I’m feeling better. There will be fresh library books to read. I’ll belly dance with renewed vigor. I’ll—

Oh, YES! Now I remember the point. I was going to list off all the ways that my day got better and then culminate with the big highpoint (is that redundant to say “culminate” and “highpoint” in the same sentence?), which is, THE COOKIES I MADE!

(So maybe I was going through chocolate cream pie withdrawal after all?)

After posting my whiny post, I got an email saying that so-and-so was now following me on twitter (not because of my whiny post, I assume). I clicked over to that person’s blog and scrolled down. A picture of peanut butter cookies caught my eye, and the words “This recipe will be my new go-to recipe for when I must. have. cookies. NOW” jumped out at me and smacked me upside the head. I mixed them up right then and there and didn’t even read the rest of that particular post until after I had disappeared three of the gooey, warm, chocolate-y peanut butter cookies.

And then I splatted out this whole post. Sugar makes me prolific. Profound, no. Prolific, yes.

I’ve heard many good things about the flourless peanut butter cookie. While they are quite different from the classic peanut butter cookie (and those cookies certainly do have a place in the cookie choir), these little gems are definitely a keeper. They are like Reese’s Peanut Butter cups that have been turned inside out—mostly sensual peanut butter creaminess with bits of sexy dark chocolate studded throughout.

So now I’ve got a good thing going. I’m on the up and up.

Flourless Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies
Adapted from The Craving Chronicles

1 cup peanut butter
1 egg, beaten
1/4 cup brown sugar
½ cup white sugar
½ teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup chocolate chips

Stir together the first six ingredients. Fold in the chocolate chips. Bake the cookies at 350 degrees for 8-10 minutes. (I put mine on parchment paper, but a greased baking sheet would probably do just fine.) They should still be quite soft and just flecked with bits of brown. Allow them to set up on the baking pan for 5 minutes before transferring them to a cooling rack.

This same time, years previous: random thoughts

So Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo and I went to see The Malcontent. We got to sit on stage, and a shirtless, black leather jean-clad man with rippling muscles got slain right at Miss Beccaboo’s feet. (Though I don’t believe Miss Beccaboo noticed the rippling muscles—that was more my thing. I think she was more concerned about the gigantic sword that was getting waved around right in front of her nose.) To say the least, it was quite entertaining.

I did worry that the kids might be getting bogged down with all the language—it was a little slower and less humorous than some plays. I had trouble keeping straight which duke was which. Plus, two and a half hours (with just a 15 minute intermission) is a long time to sit on hard stools on best behavior, but the overflowing booze-ums, surprise resurrections, and Michael Jackson impersonation did a fine job of keeping them fixated. Back home, over hot chocolate, cookies, and cinnamon toast, we retold the tale to Papa, and Miss Beccaboo begged to be allowed to go back the very next night. No, I said, but we will definitely be going back. For sure, and again and again and again, amen.

In other news, I made corn tortillas. I don’t usually like to make corn tortillas because there is no way I can make them like the Nicaraguans do. I got spoiled on Nicaraguan tortillas and nothing else stands a chance against them.

And in case you didn’t know, Nicaraguan tortillas are different from Guatemalan tortillas which are different from Salvadoran tortillas which are different from— You get the point. And Nicaraguan tortillas from the countryside are different from Nicaraguan tortillas from the city. It can be confusing.

In the northern reaches of Nicaragua where Mr. Handsome and I built our home (out of mud and with our bare hands, might I add), the tortillas were gigantic. They were the size of dinner plates, and thick. Never made from the prepacked maseca flour, these tortillas came directly from a pot of field corn that had been simmered with lime (or ash) and then washed most meticulously with water drawn up from the well. (And we, we of the Kitchen Aids and electric coffee grinders and food processors, we dare to complain that cooking takes a lot of time. Ha! Of all the baldy nerve!)

The corn was ground down (by hand) and then egg-size portions of masa were broken off and laid on—um, I’m not sure what, come to think of it. A piece of wax paper comes to mind, but where did they get wax paper? Anyway, the dough was laid on something and then the one hand started smack-smacking the dough and the other hand guided the edges and, with a quick flick, turned the paper a fraction. Smack-smack, ffipt. Smack-smack, ffipt. Gradually the tortilla got bigger and bigger. A pause to wet the hands, a gentle turn-over of the tortilla, and then the smack-smack, ffipt, smack-smack, ffipt would resume. Several free-hand whacks to finish it up, and the tortilla was ready for the hot comal, or a piece of broken tin, depending on the economic status.

While living with families, we ate those tortillas morning, noon, and night. In the early morning we’d wake up to the sound of the women aggressively palmeando-ing (Spanglish alert!) out the day’s bread. Sometimes they made them twice a day, and other times we just ate the reheated leftovers for the later meals. The dogs got the stale ‘tillas.

I learned to love those country tortillas—the smokey flavor, the almost-crispy outside, the tender-creamy insides, the profound corny-ness. I loved to dip my fingers in the salt bag (in those parts, the salt was quite wet and came in little bags) and smear my tortilla with the sandy grains. I loved to scoop up my red beans and bits of scrambled egg with the thick tortillas, washing down each bite with a swig of sugary coffee. I loved to eat my tortillas with a generous slice of cuajada, the local salty soft cheese. Basically, any way you looked at it, I loved to eat those tortillas.

So anyway, I’ve taken to making myself corn tortillas. They’re different from the Nicaraguan tortillas (no smokey fire flavor, no fresh lime-simmered field corn), and they’re quite different from bought corn tortillas (not thin, not uniform). Plus, they’re not dinner-plate huge.

These tortillas are made from maseca flour, with a bit of salt for flavor and baking soda for heft (though no heft is actually visible, so I don’t know if it’s really worth it to crack open the tin of baking soda that sits perilously high atop a tin of cornstarch that sits atop a tin of cocoa powder) (what? that’s not how everyone organizes their spice cabinet?), and I pat them out kind of like the Nicaraguan women but without the smack-smack, ffipt sound since I lack the necessary coordination, training, and confidence.

However, my humble tortillas are thick, crispy on the outside and a creamy on the inside. Hot from the comal, and with some salt spread on top, I take a bite and chew meditatively. If I shut my eyes, I can almost smell the wood smoke, feel the dirt floor underneath my sandal-ed feet, and hear the smack-smack-smacking sound of a Nicaraguan country morning.

(Oh, darn it. Now I’ve gone and made myself all melancholy.)

Corn Tortillas

It’s imperative that this dough be wet enough. It should feel like play dough. Add more water whenever you feel like it, and wet your hands frequently.

2 cups maseca flour
1/4 teaspoons salt
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/4 cups hot water

Stir together the dry ingredients. Mix in the hot water. Using one hand, knead the dough while it’s still in the bowl, adding more water as necessary.

Break off bits of dough of whatever size you choose—ping-pong, golf ball, egg—and shape it into a disk. Set the disk on a piece of wax paper and, using one hand as the smacker and the other hand as the guide, smack-pat your masa into the desired shape and thickness, rotating the wax paper and tortilla as you go.

Peel the tortilla off the paper and lay it on a hot skillet, comal, or pan. Let it cook for a minute or two, until the underside is flecked with black-brown spots. Flip and cook on the other side. Stack the finished tortillas in a thick towel. They will keep each other warm and stay soft till it’s time to eat.

Yield: 8-12 tortillas

Serve these with beans and rice, scrambled eggs, or hunks of braised beef. Use them to make quesadillas or a tortilla-enchilada pie.

Tortilla-Enchilada Pie
Lightly fry the finished tortillas, dip them in enchilada sauce, and arrange them in the bottom of a giant pie pan. Top the tortillas with a filling made from sour cream, cheese, green onions, cumin, cayenne, chicken, beans, etc. Finish off the pie with another layer of sauce-dipped tortillas and sprinkle the whole thing with more cheese before baking.

Serve with a flurry of fresh cilantro, and pass the sour cream and salsa.

This same time, years previous: my ten favorite things, capturing the moment, baked Brie, movie night (i.e. how I traumatize my kids)