I have a bunch of unfinished agenda banging around in my head. Unfortunately, my disorganization manifested itself in a confusing and splat-like presentation of this morning’s Sunday school lesson. This is the curse of an out-loud thinker—if I don’t get a chance to extensively process my material with a bunch of people prior to presenting, I’m just a crazy person spouting gibberish. Mercifully, the class members gently shut me down, and now, after listening to them work on the issue for 45 minutes I know exactly (more or less) what I would say were I to ever teach that lesson again.

But I digress. The unfinished blog agenda is what I’m to be talking about.

Marshmallows
I made another batch and rolled them in toasted coconut and then drizzled and/or dipped them in chocolate.

I liked them, but I prefer the plain marshmallows. I’m not a huge marshmallow freak—I don’t like to eat them just for the sake of eating them—so most of my marshmallows get set afloat a steaming cup of hot chocolate. And anyway, who wants bits of toasted coconut floating in their hot cocoa? Not me!

We’ve taken to roasting them in the fireplace. Divine.

I mentioned that using a 9×13 pan yielded super-thick marshmallows. So the next time around I did them in a jelly roll pan, but those were too puny-thin for my liking. The third time I made them I divided them between a 9×13 and a 9×9 and they were better. But I still kind of like the huge square ones best.

We’ve had marshmallows sitting around in jars on the counter for a couple weeks now and they’re showing no signs of going bad. So as best as I can tell, these keep indefinitely.

Unschooling Experiment
Our one week of unschooling has stretched into one month … and beyond. I have no desire to go back to the way things were. I’m curious to see if this unschooling period is just that, a period, or whether or not it will be sustainable for the long haul. Stay tuned.

Cards
Teaching my kids to play cards was one of my more brilliant moves.

Now they play cards, Uno in particular, which grants me some much-needed reprieve at various intervals throughout the day.

Etsy

As with any baby, it changes as it grows. Over the past few weeks we have learned that:

a. pounding coins is really hard work
b. Yo-Yo has trouble seeing the big picture (we knew that before, but still…)
c. Yo-Yo does not possess the wherewithal or attention to detail that is required to make jewelry
d. I enjoy making jewelry
e. there is a market
f. running a business makes for an excellent math curriculum

Christmas Citrus
These dried oranges, grapefruits, lemons, and limes really boosted our tree’s pretty factor.

The sparkle sticks, however, have yet to be glued into twiggy stars. Maybe by next year…

I made another batch of chocolate-dipped candied orange rinds. I used six oranges and still had plenty of syrup. It yielded about three pints of chocolate sticks.

I used the leftover orange syrup in my simple granola recipe. (I omit the granulated sugar and add 1 3/4 cups of orange simple syrup in place of the water.) It adds a very subtle orange flavor to the granola. And it makes me think that some orange zest would be a swell addition to the French Chocolate Granola. Chocolate, coconut, almonds, and orange zest—how could it go wrong?

Article
Remember that article that I mentioned? The one that got accepted? Well, it’s out in the January-February issue of Home Education Magazine. The author’s copy came in the mail. I opened it at the dinner table and did a honkin’ big happy dance, war whoops and all, right in front of my wide-eyed young’uns and bemused husband.

Miss Beccaboo was shocked, absolutely shocked, to see a picture of herself in a glossy magazine. Later she confided, “I wish you would’ve told me about it ahead of time so you could’ve gotten a better picture of me.” I told her that I chose that picture because it was beautiful. That was all the assurance she needed—she scampered off, pacified.

This same time, years previous: maybe not a true confession

Seeing as it’s the last day of the year I suppose I should do a recap of my favorite books or blogs, recall my best memories or the things I learned, or itemize the ways in which my body has aged. Or maybe I should tell you all the things I plan to do differently in the upcoming year.

But I don’t wanna. It’s not that I’m not introspective because I am (or can be). It’s because I don’t like anything to dictate when I ought to do something. In other words, if I want to tell my mom I love her and think she’s awesome, I’ll do it, and not just because it’s Mother’s Day. (Hey Mom! I love you and think you’re awesome!) If I want to tell the pastor I appreciate her, I’ll make her a loaf of bread and write a note, but it might not be during the scheduled pastor-appreciation month. If I want to roast a turkey, I’ll do it, though it just might not be on November’s Fourth Thursday.

This makes me sound contrary and rebellious, which I’m not. (I don’t think.) I just like to do things when they are meaningful to me. Perhaps it would do me good to be more introspective at the appropriate times. Maybe if I let myself (forced myself) to follow the customs I would get more out of life. Maybe it would be a good discipline.

On the other hand, my kids discipline me on a regular basis. I’ve been subject to their demands/needs/wants for so long that I crave autonomy. (That I was this way pre-motherhood is something I’m choosing not to dwell on right now.)

Anyway, I assumed that for New Year’s this year we would have a nice supper of leftover Christmas Eve cheeses and crackers, and then we’d all go to bed. But then I read this invigorating post by Aimee over at Simple Bites and started thinking that I might like to throw a party. It even occurred to me that we could keep it a secret from the kids—tell guests to arrive at 9 after the kids are in bed and then have our very own, adult-only shindig. (My mother thought the idea absurd.)

But then I asked Mr. Handsome what he thought about having a bunch of friends over. He was nonplused. “It’d be so much work,” he said.

“True, but after we have people over, you always feel great about it,” I pushed.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said, sighing heavily. “Go ahead and do what you want.”

“I’m not doing it if you’re not on board,” I retorted.

That was pretty much the end of the discussion. Because when it came down to it, I didn’t really want to up the ante on our relaxed week any more than he did. And it was clear that my husband was having some much needed alone time in his barn and really didn’t need to have me put a wrench in it. To top it off, I’m rather fond of full nights of sleep. All boring reasons, but true.

In any case, party or no, tonight you need eggnog.

Yes, you do. Don’t even try to argue with me.

I made eggnog for the first time ever on Christmas eve and it was a huge hit. We’re going for round two tonight.

I must confess that weird drinks make me a little queasy, and I’ve always considered eggnog to be on the weird side. Raw egg, ugh—gag me with a Volkswagen. I developed this aversion when I was living in Central America and got served some pretty wicked concoctions, cornmeal drinks and such. On one particular occasion when we were out in the Guatemalan bush, I ungratefully poured my hostess’s prized offering through the cracks in the wooden floorboards when no one was looking. Then I had to ignore my husband’s horrified expression while acting like it was a total coincidence that the family pigs (which were—oh darn!—sheltered under the house) were having a heyday directly under my butt.

You will not want to dump this drink in between the floorboards or anywhere else but down your throat. I promise.

Lots of eggnog recipes call for raw eggs and whipped egg whites, and while I’ve never actually tried them (and in all probability would probably like them) (I just said “probable” two times in one phrase—that’s bad), I think I’ll stick with this moderate, but oh-so-creamy-and-delicious, cooked-egg version. Basically, it’s just like the mix for homemade ice cream, but with more milk than cream. The spices make the tongue dance, and the rum (my favorite) takes it to higher heights.

I made the mix again this morning (it’s chilling in the fridge) and Mr. Handsome and I will be sipping it tonight while sitting in front of the fire, our eyes propped open with toothpicks. Happy New Year!

Eggnog
Adapted from Simply Recipes

Set three of the egg whites aside and use them to make marshmallows to go with the hot chocolate that some people might prefer.

This recipe is plenty rich. I think it’d be good with just three cups of whole raw milk or with half-and-half in place of the cream (which I did today on my second go-round).

Also, I want to try this recipe as an ice cream. For that I’d swap the cream and milk proportions.

Good liquors for spiking: brandy, bourbon, rum (my favorite), and Kahlua.

Also, I read a comment somewhere that suggested using this mix in a latte. I’m eager to try it—half coffee, half eggnog, with some Kahlua thrown in for extra yums.

4 egg yolks
2 cups milk
1 cup cream
½ cup sugar
2 whole cloves
pinch of cinnamon
1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg, plus more for garnish dust
1 teaspoon vanilla
liquor of your choice

Beat the yolks till creamy and fluffy. Add the sugar and beat some more.

Put the milk/cream, cloves, and cinnamon in a saucepan and heat it up till nice and hot, but not boiling.

Temper the eggs with the hot milk by slowly adding about a cup of the hot milk to the egg mixture while whisking steadily. Pour the tempered eggs into the saucepan and continue to heat on medium-high heat till slightly thickened. Again, do not boil. Strain the mixture and set it aside to cool. After an hour, add the nutmeg and vanilla and transfer to the refrigerator.

Serve the chilled eggnog in mugs, a light flurry of nutmeg for garnish and bottles of liquor on hand for spiking.

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

Mr. Handsome is home all week and the calendar is completely blank. In fact, I went ahead and put up the January page since there was nothing to look at on December’s. Life is so slow that I don’t even look at the calendar (except for this morning when I made the switch), I read in the middle of the day, and I let the dirty dishes (from our supper of leftovers because I’m not cooking all that much) wait till the morning. We’re one step above lazy and bored. We are completely relaxed. If someone were to come lift and let go of our collective family arm, it would fall with a thud.

This level of relaxed is rare. I’ve learned that my body lets down in proportion to the amount of vacation time allotted. For regular weekends, there’s Friday’s huge sigh of relief, Saturday’s jobs and errands, and Sunday’s snooze-y-ness. But then there’s the gearing back up for the week. This time though, we relaxed for Christmas and then on Sunday night I found myself relaxing even more. This deeper relaxation is one I rarely feel. Normalcy is maintained, but at a much-reduced rate.

Mr. Handsome hasn’t had an entire week off since…since…well, maybe not since we bought this house five years ago and he worked round the clock to fix it up. But that doesn’t really count since he was out here at this place and I was back in town at the old place with three little kids and a lovely case of morning sickness. Plus, he was so stressed that he could hardly sleep. He looked right rough. We were most definitely not relaxed.

It’s not that my husband never takes off. He does. He stays home for a day or two here and there and comes home early or goes in late as the need arises (a huge perk of being self-employed), but normally when he takes off any notable length of time it’s because we’re going somewhere to visit people or someone’s coming to visit us. For him to have a week (plus Christmas Eve Day, too!) to just be at home with us is unheard of. We eat our meals together and he cleans the toilet (in his own way) (which is way better than my way) and we fight over our—I mean, my—book. And then we go to bed early because we’re old farts underneath our youthful demeanor.

He is working this week, but it’s here. By 6:30 this morning, he was dressed and in his coveralls, heading out to the barn where he’s building The Stairway To Heaven. And in his spare moments he runs around the house with drywall tape and a tray of spackle, fixing our pockmarked walls.

I suggested that perhaps the girls and I could go to Barnes and Noble some evening for coffee and he said sure (extended time in his barn puts him in very pleasant spirits) but then I (so far) ended up never saying anything to the girls because I don’t want to put on my going-out clothes.

So maybe I am lazy after all.

I might be getting a little bored, too. But just—yawn—a little.

This same time, years previous: tomatoey potatoes and green beans,