When it comes to gifts, Mr. Handsome is about impossible to shop for. He has distinct tastes, but he never lets on what they are. Me, on the other hand, I outline everything in detail, frequently mention my wish list, and even go so far as to grill the kids to make sure they understand everything.

But Saturday was Mr. Handsome’s birthday, not mine. His birthday is sandwiched between mine and Yo-Yo’s—mine 14 days before and Yo-Yo’s 14 days after. In this house, fall is otherwise known as Birthday Season.

Even though I knew I’d get nowhere, I still tried to pry some information out of the man. “What do you want for your birthday?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, hon. You’ve got to be a little more helpful than that. Do you want time alone to work on the barn? For us to go on a family outing? A certain tool?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “The kids could clean the barn, I guess.” And after a reflective pause he added, “Just don’t spend too much money. We don’t have much left after buying that camera of yours.”

So it wasn’t much to go on, but still, it was something. This is what we came up with.

1. Little Notes

I sat down with each of the kids and asked them what they liked best about their papa. The three older kids then wrote the notes in their best handwriting, and all of kids decorated the bits of paper.

They worked on them a little bit each day for a week and ended up with a grand total of about 20 notes.

Saturday morning, the Birthday Boy had to stay in bed while the kids scurried around the house (and upstairs and out to the barn and down to the basement) taping the notes in all the places Mr. Handsome was likely to go: on the back of the toilet, on his deodorant, on the steering wheel of his truck, on the air compressor, etc.

Then they waited for him at the bottom of the stairs…

and followed him around to watch him find the notes.

“Hey, guys,” I whispered to them. “Just act normal. Pretend you don’t know anything about the notes.”

But my kids don’t know how to act normal. The continued to employ the Cluster Method.

Mr. Handsome would read each note…

and them look at them and smile.

He told us later that it was his favorite thing about the whole day.

2. The Human Package

After breakfast, Mr. Handsome was ordered to the sofa. The rest of us relocated to the basement where I draped a sheet over the kids, stuck a push broom in Miss Beccaboo’s hand and smacked a ribbon on Yo-Yo’s head. They shuffle-footed into the house and stood before Mr. Handsome. And waited.

“I think you have to unwrap it,” I suggested pointedly to Mr. Handsome.

He pulled off the blanket to reveal three giggling kids and one theatrical boy who read from a scroll that sported a bunch of hieroglyphics, the gist of which was: we will clean the barn for you.

So they did … for about thirty minutes. Then they gave up.

It was a nice gesture, though.

3. The Birthday Supper

He mentioned that he’d like meat for supper, perhaps spaghetti with sausage. So I made a huge pot of sauce with fat Italian sausages, loose sausage with onions, and meatballs. It was a veritable meat orgy.

And I didn’t cook any vegetables to go with the meal. Mr. Handsome eats his vegetables like a champ (not to mention a bunch of other weird creations), but they just aren’t his thing. I counted the green-free meal as one of my gifts.

4. Birthday Presents

The kids gave him their gifts: “spicy” (cinnamon) gum, “spicy” (barbecue) chips, Pringles, and a gift certificate to a bagel shop.

Yo-Yo played him a song on the piano.

Though it wasn’t actually a song. He just played chords while reading a poem about getting older, bald heads, and middle age spread. (Ever since some people did a reading at church while piano music was playing in the background, Yo-Yo has been big into playing chords while reading scriptures or poetry.)

Then I gave Mr. Handsome my gift, an assortment of frozen food, all prepackaged and ready for his lunches. There were:

*pepperoni rolls (Recipe forthcoming, once I get it perfected. Sorry, Mr. Handsome. I gave you 16 unperfected pepperoni rolls. Plus, I forgot to take off the plastic wrapper thingamajiggy. Plus, I ate one of them so you really have only 15. Hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.)
*containers of fruit salad
*bags of gorp
*molasses crinkles

Oh yes, and two pounds of precooked bacon strips since he is such a bacon freak.

(My one, non-food gift was a year’s subscription to Newsweek.)

5. The Tussle

Then the kids jumped on their papa.

They tickled him.

They knocked the lamp over.

And they drug him away.

It was an unplanned attack, but it may become a tradition. You know, a show-us-your-stuff test to see how decrepit you’ve become (or not become).

However, I think he’s pretty much guaranteed to get his butt whupped from here on out, regardless of his strength. The kids are gaining on him and there’s nothing he can do about that. Especially once The Baby Nickel gets a couple years older and a couple pounds heavier. Then there is no hope for Mr. Handsome whatsoever. The Baby Nickel moves like a wrecking ball.

This same time, years previous: anticipating the mothballs, potential

I can’t get anything done for this black box that’s glued to my eyeball. This new toy of mine gets more face time than my children and my honey combined. I obsessively adjust its sexy dials and push its cute buttons (in the most gentle and loving way possible). I caress it. I sigh blissfully, beaming joy into the cosmos, and I think many, many happy, sappy thoughts.

I snap shots fast. I snap them slow. The schlick of the shutter gives me a head rush. It’s addictive.

Some of you mentioned that my new baby makes you feel a tad bit jealous.

Well, you know what? This might sound odd and completely impossible, but when it comes to this camera, I’m jealous of me.

It’s bad manners to go on and on about a new toy, so I’ll try to restrain myself. It’ll be hard—no, nigh near impossible is more like it—but I’ll try. Manners make the world go round.

And I don’t want to be cast off our spinning planet into outer space.

(For more reasons than one. I don’t think Canon Rebels work real well in outer space.)

Mr. Handsome decided to take a nap this afternoon. It was the perfect opportunity to study perspective à la Rebel. (I told you minding my manners would be impossible.)

Big gigantic feet.

Who in the world wears shoes while sleeping? That is, like, the most uncomfortable nap ever!

Sweet face dreaming sweet dreams…

Side angle of honkin’ big shoe-clad feet…

Side angle of the napper…

Oops. Okay, honey. I get the point. I’ll leave you alone now.

It’s one week and one day until lThe Donut Party of 2010. Crunch time is upon us. We’ve been sprucing up the outdoors, cutting down ratty shrubs and trees, tilling the garden under, pressure washing the house. Even Mother Nature got on board and gave us several days of rain so that we could have some green to go with our donuts. (A crispy brown summer segueing into a desolate cold winter would’ve been too much for me to bear. I so needed this green reprieve.)

What’s left to accomplish? Well, there’s the window washing, deep cleaning, setting up, grocery shopping, hauling and transporting, and finishing touches of pretty. Then, of course, there are the demands of regular life (homeschooling, meal prep, laundry, and exercise) plus some special extras (overnight company, an almost-whole-day belly dance workshop, and church meetings).

Even though it’s all manageable, I feel mighty stressed about the whole thing. Stressed as in I’ll-probably-get-a-fever-blister stressed. Why can’t I just chill and go with the flow? Why do I allow myself to go through the angst when I know right now that everything will get done and we’ll have a great time? I wish my anxiety had a switch that I could flip to “off.”

Instead, I just flip out.

It’s a mind game, I know, and pity for me, I almost always lose when it comes to mind games.

The kids built another fort, this time using fence posts and old tarps.

They first set up camp in the garden but once they realized that their fort had a longer life expectancy if it were relocated to the field, they tore down, piled everything in the wagon, and moved West.

Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo have slept in it for the last couple nights.

They love it out there in the wild. (Yo-Yo claimed that a chipmunk ran back and forth on his tummy this morning.) It’s where they belong.

Yesterday the kids rediscovered the glories of mud.

Yo-Yo filled a five-gallon bucket with clay and turned it over to The Baby Nickel.

Yo-Yo also dug himself a hole…

and then laid in it.

It just occurred to me that I didn’t have Yo-Yo take a shower last night. Clearly, I wasn’t thinking.

I keep finding mud everywhere—the shower curtains, the floor, on the little plastic dishes they borrowed, etc.

I also keep finding my butter knives in the oddest places—like on the rocks in the flower garden.

I have a new pie crust recipe.

You: Are you KIDDING, Jennifer? You already have, like, 17 pastry recipes on this blog and you are talking about ANOTHER one now? What is WRONG with you? You can only eat so much pie, you know.

Me: Whatever.

It’s really rich, this pastry is. It’s so rich, in fact, that even if the pie filling doesn’t bubble over, the oven still smokes because the crust itself bubbles and froths and drips droplets of grease onto the oven floor. It’s my kind of crust.

It has both lard and butter, then an egg, too, for good measure. It mixes up right quick in a food processor, though the machine is not necessary—you can do it easily enough with your phalanges.

I think I’m finally getting good at not over-mixing the pastry. Look at those nice big globs of fat. Yum-yum.

I made a double batch of pastry today since it’s Mr. Handsome’s birthday and he prefers pie to cake. I made an apple pie and a red raspberry-rhubarb pie (with some blueberries thrown in to bulk it up), and I think I’ll mix up a batch of sour cream ice cream to serve alongside even though the birthday boy won’t be able to have any. Stomach problems, you know. It’s what happens when you start getting old.

Pie Pastry, with lard and egg
Adapted from Julie of Dinner With Julie

Put a cookie sheet on the bottom rack of the oven to catch the crust drips.

Also, this makes a killer quiche crust. And pastry crackers!

2 1/4 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
½ cup butter, cold, and cut into chunks
½ cup lard, cold
1 egg, beaten
2 teaspoons vinegar
some cold water

Put the flour and salt in the food processor and pulse once. Add the fat and pulse briefly, just until the large pieces are broken up.

Put the beaten egg into a half-cup measure. Add the vinegar. Top it off with cold water. Add the liquids to the flour and fat and pulse several times until it starts to come together but is still crumbly-dry in spots.

Dump the whole mess out on the table and gently, with as little touching as possible, draw the shaggy dough together into one ball. Divide the dough in half, shape each half into disks, and wrap with plastic wrap. Chill in the fridge for a couple hours (or days) before rolling out for a pie, or bag and freeze for a pie down the road.

Yield: one double-crust pie, or two single-crust pies

This same time, years previous: green soup with ginger, happy pappy-style cornbread. Look at that! Serve these two together and you have a right fine meal to fill your little tummy wummy.

Isn’t he (she? it?) beautiful? I feel so warm towards her (or him, or it) that I think I ought to give him (or her, or it) a name. (Help me here. Do cameras have a sex?) How about TS for Time Sucker? Or MS for Money Sucker?

Okay, so maybe not. I’m bad with names. Perhaps I’ll just call the thing my (precious! pretty! darling! honey pie! sugar cakes! snookums!) Canon Rebel and be done with it.

I ordered this beaut several weeks ago, but religion conspired against me to keep me waiting.

Or you could say it was trying to teach me something. Like, say, patience.

It didn’t work.

I tried tracking my baby for days even before it left the store, just in case elves were afoot.

There were no elves. Or at least no non-Jewish elves.

The camera finally left the store on Monday morning. I watched the computer screen anxiously as it came closer and closer. And then yesterday it left a town about 45 minutes from here, at 4:41 in the morning and didn’t show up till late afternoon. I was beside myself. What was that UPS driver doing? Taking a siesta? Visiting a lady friend? Watching a matinee? Swinging by Walmart for some clean socks? Taking the scenic route?

Was there an accident?

Were there mechanical difficulties?

Did the truck fall into a black hole?

I couldn’t focus worth squat all afternoon. I emptied my in-box. I belly danced. I stood at the window and talked on the phone, my eyes on the road all the while.

“I feel used,” my friend said. “As soon as that truck comes, you’re going to hang up on me. And you’re not really listening to anything I say anyway.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “I’m using you. But I hear you. I really do. Keep talking. Entertain me. Ple-e-e-ease?”

Faithful friend she is, she talked for as long as she could, but then Life conspired against me (am I sounding paranoid enough yet?) and she had to go.

Mr. Handsome came home, laughed at me, and then joined me at the window for a bit.

Finally everyone went outside, the house was quiet, and I decided to place a quick order with a grocery co-op, and wouldn’t you know, while I was rattling off order numbers for tortilla chips and Provolone and olive oil, the beautiful brown truck backed into our driveway.

After all that watching and waiting, I wasn’t even there to greet it. Oh, the irony!

The kids took turns lugging the box in, and then they all snuggled up close to me and my box, waiting and watching to see what it was that could make their mama act so silly.

Miss Beccaboo grabbed the old camera and snapped pictures of the chaos and I didn’t even yell at her to be careful because, hey, it’s now been reduced to the role of Old Beater Camera and I don’t really care about it anymore!

I ripped tape. Mr. Handsome tried to grab the new camera.

I slapped his fingers. He tried again. I gave him the hairy eyeball.

He gave up and went outside, taking most of the kids with him. I was left to read and experiment.

Soon as I got my lens attached and the memory card in, I went outside.

I wandered around the yard, poking my black box at plants and kids, dirt, my toes, and anything else that caught my fancy.

The kids were zipping around the yard on the mower. (Notice, Yo-Yo has filched my red shoes.)

Then I ordered them all to get on the trampoline.

One of my hopes is to be able to take non-blurry action photos. It worked! (Though I still have much to learn, of course.)

This picture of Miss Beccaboo jumping off the swing is super blurry, but her ballet pose was too good not to share.

By suppertime (which I didn’t cook, by the way—I told everyone ahead of time that I was not cooking supper as I fully planned to be otherwise occupied—we reheated some pulled beef, made buttered toast, opened a jar of applesauce, and called it good) I was positively giddy.

And then this morning at some ungodly hour, my foggy brain surfaced just enough for the memory of the camera to come swimming into focus and I mumbled, “I have my new camera!” Then I rolled over and sunk back into la-la land.

Funny thing was, when I finally did wake up for real, I was so tickled with my new toy that I still felt like I was la-la land.

I love it when dreams come true.

This same time, years previous: pear butterscotch pie, a fundamental lapse in judgment