I’ve been receptive to all sorts of inspiring lately. First there was the elving (still in the works, too), and then there were these:

Candied orange rinds dipped in dark chocolate. (Cue the Hallelujah Chorus.)

My girlfriend (the same one who was present for the Christmas nippy shake-down) is the one responsible for bringing these into my life. She started messing around with orange peels in her kitchen and within a couple days I had purchased myself some oranges, too. I’m such a follower.

They are simple to make, folks. Easy Peasy, A Piece of Cake, and Nothing To It, etc. All you do is blanch some orange rinds, simmer them in simple syrup, dry them out a bit, and then dunk them in chocolate.

When you stop to think about it, it’s just salvaged compost that gets a gussy-up treatment. And when you look at it that way, these decadent little gems suddenly appear thrifty. Downright virtuous. A frugal woman’s dream.

(For the record: I am neither frugal nor thrifty nor virtuous. Proof: I went out and bought oranges just for their hides instead of the other way around—buying oranges for the insides and then scrounging around for a recipe that called for orange rinds because it would be an abomination to throw out so much lovely orange-y-ness.)

Despite all my prattle about it being a simple recipe, my first batch went to the chickens. A recipe I found on the web called for cooking the sugar-water syrup till it reached the soft ball stage and then adding the rinds and simmering them for another hour. The result? Crystallized, crunchy, gross orange rinds. To make matters worse, silly me went ahead and dipped them in chocolate anyway and then decided there was no redemption to be found anywhere and dumped the whole extravagant failure into the slop bucket. (You’d think the chickens might take into consideration all the gourmet fare I feed them and lay me some Cadbury eggs…)

The second batch was much, much better. My friend patiently coached me through the process via the phone wires until I finally had a confection worth eating.

And once I started eating—oh-me-oh—I couldn’t stop!

I am enormously proud of these little delicacies. Gummy, chewy orange-ness with a touch of bite and a kick of dark sweet. They’re good. Three-fourths of my children even like them!

Then I went and gave them all away so now I have to make me some more.

But I think I’ll wait till we get ourselves our Christmas citrus. Wouldn’t want any rinds to go to waste, you know.

Chocolate-Dipped Candied Orange Rinds

I did only four oranges but found I had plenty of simple syrup. Next time I’ll probably do six oranges at one go.

5-6 thick-skinned oranges, rinds of
4 cups white sugar
3 cups water
1 pound good chocolate

Wash the oranges (if you can find organic oranges, go for those) and cut the north and south poles off. Score the oranges into four sections and, using your fingers, gently pry off each section of rind. Slice the rinds into sticks about 1/4-inch wide.

Put the sliced orange rinds into a kettle and cover with cold water. Bring to a boil. Dump the contents of the kettle into a strainer, discarding the water. Rinse off the rinds with cold water. Repeat the blanching process two more times.

Put the water and sugar in a saucepan and bring to a full boil. Add the thrice-blanched orange rinds and return to a boil. Reduce the heat to simmer (a gentle bubble) and allow to cook for 45-60 minutes, or until translucent (the pith loses its whiteness and turns a little more, well, translucent).

Remove the rinds from the syrup (if you wish, you may save the orange-flavored simple syrup to add to hot tea, punch, or alcoholic beverages) and lay the rinds out on a wire rack that is positioned atop a cookie sheet to catch the drips. Let the orange pieces dry by either a) letting them sit at room temperature for a couple days, or b) setting your oven to the “warm” temp and “baking” them for two or three hours. (Lacking patience, I went the “b” route.)

Melt the chocolate in a double boiler and dip each candied orange rind into the chocolate. Scrape off excess chocolate before laying the candies on a wax paper-lined cookie sheet to dry.

Store chocolates in glass jars or tins at room temperature.

This same time, years previous: walnut balls

This is my littlest, my youngest, my seca leche.

Yes, I realize he’s enormous for his four years, but he’s still a baby in my eyes.

Just today when we were watching the episode of I Love Lucy in which Lucy dreams she goes to Scotland where she gets captured by the townsfolk, falls in love with her prison guard (Ricky) who then feeds her to a two-headed dragon (Ethel and Fred), my little baby climbed up into my lap, lower lip a-tremble, wrapped his arms around my neck, and buried his face in my shoulder. I laughed at him. And then I covered his neck and cheeks with a flurry of kisses.

It’s odd how your youngest child, no matter what age, has the sweetest and softest skin but as soon as you have another, fresher babe, the older child’s skin suddenly feels all grown-up, scabby, stinky, and sticky. I remember noticing this when Nickel was born. Rosy little Sweetsie (who was just turning two that month) no longer felt nearly so sweet and tender.

When Yo-Yo was Nickel’s age, he was already the oldest of three. In my eyes, he was a full-grown big kid with no traces of sweet baby soft left on him.

But Nickel’s stinky, rough, nicked-up skin will always feel soft as peaches to me. As the last inhabitant of my womb, he is doomed to be my baby for forevermore and beyond.

And let me tell you, no child was ever better suited for the role. He is a Mama’s Boy like none other, going out of his way to kiss me smack-dab on the lips and brush his eyelashes against my cheeks for bedtime butterfly kisses. He curls up in my lap like a baby, pats my cheeks, and strokes the soft skin under my chin (which drives me nuts because that skin does not need any help getting more pliable and stretchy). In fact, he smothers me with so much hands-on loving (right now he’s laying on the floor playing with my feet, hoisting them up in the air, pulling, pushing, making it nearly impossible to work the keyboard) that at least once a day I find myself on the verge of a panic attack, shrugging him off, gasping for air, and pleading (in good moments) or bellowing (in bad) for him to stop touching me NOW!

Sometimes, in the middle of nothing, he’ll burst forth with a heartfelt “I love you, Mama.” It makes me melt every time.

He has an unabashed zest for life, this child of mine. For example, at our church the kids are sometimes called upon to collect the offering—to just wander the isles and, when an adult flashes cash, to take it and walk it up to the baskets that sit up front. Nickel treats this venture like a full-contact sport, crouching down low, jutting his elbows out, and then zigzagging at top speed towards the prize. When Nickel collects the offering, I feel like I’m sitting in bleachers in a stadium instead of in a sanctuary.

While he has inflicted me with a fair number of head-butts and elbow jabs, more often than not it is Nickel that bears the brunt of his own intensity.

Look at that scratch on his forehead. None of us knows from where it came but it’s big and scabby and makes a pretty loud statement. Which is: I AM A BRUISER. WATCH OUT.

Check out his left eyelid. See how it’s swollen and bluish green? Something happened—again, we’re not sure what—but that mark didn’t materialize out of thin air.

And look at that gnarly thumbnail. It’s the new one, a huge improvement over the old—the one he took a hammer to.

Forgive him his too-small jeans. You can’t tell from the picture, but they are so tight that they give him full-time wedge-y love. Every time he goes to the bathroom, he has to get me to snap them shut. It makes me feel bloated and fat just to look at him.

P.S. This popcorn was made for the purpose of prettying up the tree. But when I went to thread the needles, I realized that I had none and the ones that Miss Beccaboo brought down from her room had such small eyes that they were impossible to thread. Only two needles got successfully threaded, and then I poked the butt end of ones of the needles into my thumb and, a few kernels later, the pointy end pierced my finger. Then I quit.

This same time, years previous: scholarly stuff

I have been inspired to do some elving. It’s all because of Amanda, a (what appears to be) mellow mom of four, an unschooler, a knitter, a maker of many things, a savor-er of the mundane. I read her blog and then find myself doing odd things like spending an hour on the phone trying to find a store that sells empty lip balm containers (homemade peppermint lip balm coming right up!), painting twigs with glitter paint, and emailing a friend to see if she’ll give me knitting lessons.

“Elving” is the word that Amanda uses for the festive Christmas preparations. I love that noun turned verb so much that I had to take it for a spin. After just a couple days of elving (and more to come), I’m pleased to report that, even though I’m the opposite of mellow (and then some), it has taken us all for a pleasant ride. Elving is here to stay! Hooray!

So, without further ado, I present to you—dum, dum, da-DUM—The Elving Chronicles!

Bit O’ Magic Number One: Twigs
They got collected and chopped up.

I turned my sticks sparkly and, as soon as I get a glue gun (and add “Martha” to my middle name), I’ll turn them into little stars for the tree.

The kids took a bundle of sticks into the downstairs bedroom and, with the help of elastic ponytail holders and some gauzy-type stuff, built a little house for baby Jesus and fam (who have yet to make their appearance).

Bit O’ Magic Number Two: Citrus
Oranges, lemons, and limes (and today, red and white grapefruit) got sliced and dried.

Miss Beccaboo and I worked together to tie them with ribbons in preparation for their coming out party on the Christmas tree.

Which brings me to…

Bit O’ Magic Number Three: The Tree
We have a tree! Finally, finally, we got around to finding enough gloves and hats so that the whole family could tromp out in the cold at the same time. After a day of standing naked in front of the window (well, except for briefly featuring our household’s entire toy collection…

…including some plastic fried eggs)

it sports its first glittery coat. (Stages, you know.)

Bit O’ Magic Number Four: Candles
I’m a candle freak under normal circumstances, burning my way through up to a dozen votives on the drearier months, but come December, I go all out.

Nothing less than a forest of glimmering brightness will do, with a few cranberries thrown in for good cheer.

What elving is happening in your neck of the woods?

This same time, years previous: a pragmatic man, cranberry-white chocolate cookies, a mutilated finger, and the procedure