Are you familiar with Lenore Skenazy and her blog (and book) called Free-Range Kids?

If you’re not, you should be. She’s awesome, and she’s all about letting kids be kids.

So, with a head nod in Lenore’s general direction, here are some recent shenanigans from my hooligans.

Shenanigan Number One: the vertical swing/trapeze

I’m not quite sure how it works, but it involves ropes and altitude and upper body strength.

Now it’s big sister-in-a-red-sequined-skirt’s turn.

Once she gets up high, little brother grabs the other ropes and sets her a-swinging.

Think I could sell them to the circus?

Shenanigan Number Two: the super-duper wheelie trick

Hook a cable (or pulley or something circular and metallic) to a tree and a rope to the cable and a bike to the rope. While staying on the bike, pull yourself (and subsequently the bike) up with the rope.

Look at the porch to make sure your mom is getting a good shot of your incredible prowess…

and then gratefully lower the bike back down.

Whew!

Shenanigan Number Three: the stunted zip-line

Hook one end of a cable (pulley? something circular and metallic?)-sporting rope to the swing set. Hook the other end to a tree. Climb up so you can reach the cable at the higher end of the rope, jump off, and sail down till your butt runs aground.

Note: No parents supervised these games and no children were injured.

This same time, years previous: a touchy subject: my thoughts on spanking, the donut party: part one (We’re hosting it again in two weeks! Wish us luck, or better yet, come help!)

Each night, about a half hour after falling asleep, I wake up with a violent case of the shivers. One minute I am peacefully slumbering and the next minute my teeth are chattering, I’m curling into a fetal position, scooching my back up against Mr. Handsome, frantically wailing, I’m so cold. I’m so cold. I’msocoldI’msocoldI’msocold!

Sometimes Mr. Handsome wakes up enough to sling an arm over me in a half-hearted attempt to warm me up/shut me up, and other times he just snaps grumpily, Go back to sleep, and turns his back.

I don’t know why I’m telling you this except that it’s a nightly ritual and it’s strange and I have no control over it whatsoever and I find it interesting. (It’s kind of like my itchy nose. Every time I go for a run, my nose starts to itch right at the mile mark. I scratch it vigorously for about a quarter of a mile when it suddenly stops itching. Odd, but true.)

Maybe somebody should do a study on me?

Anyway, now that it’s October and it’s actually getting chilly at night, I expect that my night shivers will worsen. Or maybe they’ll go away all together. Who knows?

In any case, it’s fall, people! We lit our first fire in the wood stove a couple days ago, the garden is almost totally tucked in for the winter, and I’m making all things apple. (I’m attempting to learn how to make The Best Apple Dumplings In The World, so if you have any family secrets, please whisper them in my ear, ‘kay?)

This morning we went to the Mennonite relief sale, watched the auction, lounged about in the sun, and feasted on donuts. When we got home, I ran over to our local greenhouse for some mums that I then potted in preparation for our donut party that will be happening, weather permitting, in a couple weeks. In my corner of the world, fall equals donuts. Lots and lots of donuts.

I’ve been tired lately, not because of the Violent Shivers or the donut overload, but because I’m going to bed too late. Mr. Handsome made me watch a Clint Eastwood shoot-‘em-up movie the other night, and it took me an hour to convince him that it was in our best interest to shut it off and go to sleep. But then we had to finish it last night, and of course the second half is packed with lead and almost zero conversation—so totally non-realistic, but even so, while Clint fired bullets at anything that had two legs, I huddled on the sofa with a blanket over my head and fired questions at Mr. Handsome till he exploded at me.

So there you have it. I’m a pain to sleep with and a pain to watch movies with. That my husband loves me nonetheless is rather miraculous.

I don’t know why I’m rattling on about all this stuff when what I really want to do is tell you about our supper. I made several different dishes this evening, all of which I loved but none of which they (the rest of the family) loved. That is, except for this one. They loved this.

It’s pulled braised beef and it’s simple to make: brown a hunk of meat and toss it in a Dutch oven with onions, barbecue sauce, beef broth and a few other seasonings and bake it to death, after which you shred it to pieces with a couple forks and serve it up on rolls (or with slices of buttered bread) to a bunch of hungry people who will eat it like there is no tomorrow and then gaze upon you with love and admiration shining in their eyes.

Pulled Braised Beef
Adapted (not hardly even) from Julie of Dinner with Julie

The recipe called for four pounds of top round beef roast, so I went to the butcher shop and bought that amount. (The guy had to go to into the back to fetch it and it took him so long that I feared they’d had to start from ground zero with a live cow.) But then this afternoon I stared at the enormous hunk of meat and decided that half that amount would be sufficient for now (and it was). The other half now resides in my freezer, waiting for its braising heyday. Which will probably arrive sooner rather than later…

If you wish, you can do this in a slow cooker instead of an oven. Simply cook it on low for 6-8 hours.

2 pounds eye of round or top round beef roast
1-2 tablespoons canola or olive oil
2 onions, sliced in half and then thinly sliced cross-ways
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 ½ cups barbecue sauce
1 ½ cups beef broth
2 tablespoons grainy mustard
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 tablespoons brown sugar

Heat the oil in a large pan and brown the beef on all sides. Removed the beef and deglaze the pan with some of the broth. Save the liquid.

Combine the remaining ingredients in a Dutch oven, nestle the browned beef down in, and pour the deglazing liquid over top. Make sure that the saucy liquid comes halfway up the meat.

Tightly lid the pan and bake at 300 degrees for 4-6 hours. The meat will be tender and the juices will have reduced and thickened. Using two forks, shred the beef. Serve on rolls.

Yield: enough for 8-12 sandwiches, depending on how full you stuff them

This same time, years previous: serious parenting, comparisons, elaboration on comparisons

1. I don’t have anything to say.

2. There. Now that I got that off my chest maybe I’ll come up with something to talk about.

Um…

Um…

3. Oh yes. Let me tell you about Mr. Handsome’s odd behavior. I better start at the beginning.

Mr. Handsome works with a guy named Tim. Tim is young; Tim is bald. Tim likes my cooking; Tim is cool.

Tim’s wife was pregnant with their first baby up until this Monday when her water broke. (Well, she didn’t have her baby right then and there—it wasn’t actually until the next day that the baby got borned, but you know what I mean, right?)

Anyway, Tim and Mr. Handsome were at work when Tim got the call, and Mr. Handsome later reported that Tim, a normally measured, careful worker went all wonky, banging things around, rushing, and jittery as all get out. Mr. Handsome dropped Tim off at the end of the work day and then came home and told me all about it.

And then he told me all about it again a few minutes later.

And then he set about worrying that Tim’s wife would end up with a c-section because she was being induced.

And then he ranted against inducements and medicine in general, and (loudly and angrily) mourned our culture’s dis-empowering view of childbirth. (He didn’t say it like that exactly—he doesn’t use words like “dis-empowering” in his regular, ranty old speech.)

He wouldn’t shut up about the baby. His enthusiasm was sweet and cute.

And really, really odd.

First thing the next morning, he-who-does-not-care-about-email made a beeline for the computer. There was an email. Tim had a baby girl and there had been no c-section. Mr. Handsome relaxed a bit. And smiled.

And then the next evening, over our supper of leftovers, he announced that he had stopped by Tim’s house on the way home from work. He said—and this is my husband we’re talking about, a man who (unsuccessfully) put his foot down after two kids, a man who is not inclined towards lovey-dovey-ness of any sort—this man said,

“That baby was so cute! She had a whole bunch of hair and was so pretty, and she just laid there. It was enough to make me want another baby! What do you say, kids. Should we get another one of those?”

The kids stared.

I stared.

Mr. Handsome continued gushing like a geyser.

“And Tim and Virginia, they were glowing. I mean, when Tim walked across the room”—and Mr. Handsome walked his fingers across the table top to demonstrate—“his feet never touched the ground! And Virginia was sitting on the couch but there was this whole cushion of air under her. It was amazing!”

Never before had I heard Mr. Handsome talk like so. Not about our babies, and certainly not about anyone else’s babies. I still can’t make heads or tails out of it.

And I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I might never be able to do so.

4. And no, that story was not a roundabout way of telling you I’m pregnant.

5. Yesterday I made an apple pie and dumped the flour all over the floor.

6. Today I made apple dumplings and I didn’t dump any flour.

7. But I feel kind of dumpy nonetheless.

8. I’ve been rather uninspired in the kitchen. No obsessions, no fancy/weird/new dishes brewing. I’ve been feeding my family things like Farmer Boy Pancakes, spaghetti and meatballs, roast chicken, sloppy joes, meat and cheese sandwiches, and baked oatmeal. They’re thrilled and I’m bored.

9. Mr. Handsome is figuring out that he’s lactose intolerant. He’s been cutting back on dairy, switching from regular milk to lactose-free milk to soy milk. He feels much better off dairy, but I’m not 100 percent sure it’s really the problem.

See. he has a habit of imagining ailments and illnesses with wild abandon. He says things like, “I didn’t sleep well last night. It must’ve been the popcorn I had before bed.” Or, “I didn’t sleep well last night. It must’ve been the ice cream I had at supper.” Or, “I didn’t sleep well last night. It must’ve been because I was hungry when I went to bed.” So I don’t pay him much mind.

(In fact, when he told me he thought he had cancer ten years ago, I laughed. So he went to a doctor shortly thereafter and then promptly had surgery because he did indeed have cancer. Let me tell you, he’s milked that attachment injury for all that it’s worth—and then some. But still, I don’t listen to him. I’m a cold-hearted woman.)

Regarding the milk problem, I’ve set up an appointment for him with an allergist. I want to know exactly (more or less) what I’m up against before I revolutionize our diet.

To sum everything up, our diet is kind of in limbo and that puts a damper on my kitchen puttsing.

10. And I’m anxious about my new camera. I ordered it last week, but when I placed my order I learned that the company was on holiday because of Sukkot. (Apparently they’re Jewish.) I keep hoping that maybe they’ll just send out the camera anyhow. I mean, my order was pretty straightforward so maybe it will just kind of happen to get mailed…somehow. Every time the UPS or Fed Ex truck go by, my heart starts to race and I suffer shortness of breath. Then when neither truck stops, I get all morose and sit on the couch thinking how much fun it would be if the camera would just materialize on my lap right now.

This same time, years previous: Peposo (beef with black pepper and red wine)