Last night I went on a rampage. It had nothing to do with my earlier breakdown. I had been scheming about The Rampage for several days. The There-Is-So-Much-Junk-In-This-House idea had started brewing a couple weeks ago and it had reached a rolling boil. It was high time I attended.

So I did. Mr. Handsome took the girls along with him to Yo-Yo’s evening wrestling class, and on his way out he dropped The Baby Nickel off at my brother’s house. It was just me at home for two-plus, bliss-filled hours. I resisted the urge to sit down and write and instead started pulling brand new garbage bags out of the box and writing on them with permanent marker. I labeled one bag “Gift and Thrift,” another “Trash,” and a third one “To Hold For Later (Maybe).” And then I commenced to dunging out.

I was brutal and savage and brash. I attacked already-dismembered Barbies (I never said I play fair), extra votive holders, falling-apart baskets, generic vases, decades-old (not really) play-dough and all the worthless plastic crap that comes with the commercial variety, an old broken dollhouse, an old broken fire truck, an annoying pusher-popper thingy that I never let the kids play with anyway because it gives me a headache, a blanket, a falling-apart bedspread, books we never look at, a pizza pan that’s been sitting untouched in the bottom of my oven drawer for a good five years, and so on.

I labeled more bags, and then more bags.

I was fearless and brave. I threw out magazines and catalogues and a surfeit of homemade Valentine’s. I threw out broken toys. Then I threw out more broken toys. I even got a little cocky and tossed a bunch of sometimes-still-played-with stuffed animals and dolls.

In the end I reigned victorious. I filled about eight garbage bags—four of garbage, three or four to go to the thrift store, one bag “to hold” (to see if the kids miss any of its contents—I doubt they will), and one big basket hamper (a thoughtful gift, but it didn’t fit in our bathrooms) to return to my mother.

That was just in two hours, folks! Think how much more I could take out in another three or four hours!

And the scary thing is: I only scratched the surface. There are large areas (dresser drawers, the linen closet, games, multiple book shelves, THE ATTIC, etc) I didn’t even touch.

While I love material objects just as much as the next person, I am not a cling-to-things type person. Stuff doesn’t hold emotional sway over me, maybe because I have next to zero memory capacity and can’t remember where anything came from or who gave it to me.

But still, it’s (relatively speaking) hard for me to get rid of stuff. My friend Shannon and I were talking about GROS (Getting Rid Of Stuff) and she said that we all operate from a certain level when it comes to material objects. For example, I’m used to having my house feel a certain level of fullness; if I weeded and dunged-out my way to a more austere level, it would most likely soon fill back up till I reached my comfort zone baseline again. When I think back to all the different houses and apartments I’ve lived in, I can see that this idea holds true. Each place, no matter if it was 400 square feet or 1400 square feet, has been equally full.

When it comes to material possessions, I often think of my sister-in-law Sarah. She and her husband used to live in a 900 square-foot house with five homeschooled children. She told me that she allowed only certain kinds of toys—there was a large matchbox car collection, lots of blocks, and some books and art supplies. I may be missing something, but I think that was pretty much it. Each of the kids had a handful of outfits, and that was it.

(Oooo. Now that I wrote that, I’m suppressing a strong urge to run upstairs and start flinging all the kids’ clothes into garbage bags. My clothes, too. It’s nearly summer—we can all go naked.)

I don’t consider myself to be a packrat, and I don’t think we hoard excessive amounts of stuff (though certain people would BEG to disagree). Our home sports a total of five closets (one linen, one coat, one games and clothes and shoes, one for the kids and one for the grown-ups—none of them are even four feet wide, and not a single one is a walk-in). We have a little skinny basement (mostly for the freezers, canned goods, paint supplies, water heater, and animal food) and an unfinished attic that can be reached by climbing on a chair that’s perched on Yo-Yo’s desk and then by using the door as a toe-hold to boost yourself through the hole in the ceiling. It’s not exactly convenient. (Oh, and there’s a little closet under the stairs for toys.) But even with our limited storage, we manage to store many, many things that we never, ever use.

I have no big goals for getting rid of stuff, but last night’s two hour rampage showed me that I do indeed have way more stuff than I need, want, or use. I’m thinking that I may just continue to dung out—a pair of shoes here, old sheet music there, extra pillowcases and books and craft supplies. As I go, I’ll free up space, shift things around, and make our living space more fully usable.

Or maybe I’ll just bask in the glory of eight bags in two hours and call it quits. We’ll see.

(Now, if I can just make sure my kids don’t see this blog post. Already I did the unthinkable: I downloaded my pictures while Sweetsie was near and she was on me like a fly on pie, “What’s that, Mama? What’s in those bags? When did you do that, Mama?” I closed the computer, stood up, and changed the subject. It worked, but there’s no guarantee it will work a second time.)

About one year ago: The wizard and my mom.

I had a breakdown this morning.

The kids started fighting with each other right from the get-go. They fussed about school work. They fussed about chores. They fussed about the height of their spoons, for crying out loud! I had to, for the thousandth time, point out the toys and junk and dirty socks that needed to be picked up. Pajamas were strewn over the floor long past the getting-dressed time. Someone had knocked all the coats off the hooks while looking for a particular one and then left them all in a heap. And then when I finally got to the point where I could sit on the sofa with the big kids to do our reading, the littles interrupted me repeatedly. Sweetsie begged to do her school work and then fussed when Nickel got too close, which then, amazingly enough inspired Nickel to get even closer. (DUH, Children, DUH!) Interruptions are normal, but it felt much worse today because I was trying to explain element #39—yttrium—which was a frustrating proposition considering I can’t even pronounce the element, let alone explain it.

So I burst into tears. (Come to think of it, this was maybe before we got to Yttrium. But in any case….) I sat on the sofa and sobbed. I not only cried, I cried to the kids. I told them that I’m tired—tired of telling them to do things that they already know they need to do, tired of thinking up consequences when they don’t listen, tired of them picking on each other, tired of them trying to get by with doing the minimum, tired of them purposefully turning a blind eye to the messes. I informed them, between heaving sobs, that I don’t like spending my days directing, bossing, and meting out consequences. They could do better and we all knew it. I wrapped up my saga with something lame and heartfelt like, “I’M SO TIRED AND I JUST WANT US TO ALL GET ALONG!” Sniff. Hiccup.

The kids were speechless. Sweetsie stared at me, half standing and half sitting, not sure where to go or what to do. Yo-Yo didn’t move a muscle. Miss Beccaboo leaned on me extra hard and then got up to fold a blanket that was laying on the floor. I honked my nose, and then opened up the Bible and read to them about the Ammonites.

The end.

Except not really. While I felt better after my emotional hissy fit, I was still tired. The kids did their work, and we plodded slowly forward through millimeters and Islam, envelope addressing and piano. The littles played and fought and screamed their way around the property, interrupting us every fifteen minutes to bring us a newly laid egg. And then my sister-in-law called to see if I’d meet her at the park. She’d watch the kids, she said, if I wanted to go for a walk. I did. And that helped. A lot.

We all came back to my house and I took my turn watching my niece and two other kids (a mutual friend had joined us) while their mothers went for a walk together, fed everyone lunch, visited with the mamas when they returned, made blondies, and all together felt much more in control of my life, productive, and hopeful. When everyone left, I put my kids in their rooms for rest time and then ate an embarrassing quantity of the still warm, ooey-gooey blondies.

I’m still on tender hooks, but I’m feeling better now. Fresh air, human interaction, blondies, coffee, and rest time make for a pretty powerful picker-me-upper.

And thank goodness for that.

I discovered this recipe several weeks ago and have made them a half-dozen times since then. At least.

They couldn’t be easier, really. I mixed up this latest batch while cleaning up after feeding lunch to seven children and two adults (not counting myself), holding a semi-intelligible conversation (though that may be up for debate), washing two and a half dozen eggs and selling one dozen (though that may have taken place while the blondies were in the oven), feeding the Baby Nickel more and more and more food (I don’t think it’s humanly possible for a child of his size to consume as much food as he did), cutting the heels off the loaves of bread so Sweetsie could gnaw on them (apparently, she was starving), washing dishes, keeping a watch out the windows at the children streaking (not literally) around the property, and double-checking the recipe on line. One would think I would have a breakdown after all that, but I didn’t. All that hubbub only served to make me feel good.

(This does not mean that my children need to act up even more in order for me to maintain my equilibrium. I just want to be clear about that, on the off-chance that you were thinking such utter nonsense. Not that you would ever say such an insensitive thing, of course, even if you did think it. However, if you did say that, I can promise you our relationship would suffer. Especially on days like today when I’m teetering on the brink. On the brink of what, I’m not sure. My eyes are squinched shut ’cause I don’t want to know.)

But about the life-saving blondies. They can be whipped up faster than the mood shifts of a PMSy mother of four (though I’m not PMSy, currently). That’s saying a lot, dearies. All you do is this: melt 7 tablespoons of butter in a bowl (or pan), stir in a cup of sugar, an egg, a teaspoon of vanilla, a pinch of salt, and a cup of flour and YOU ARE DONE. (Of course, you can add all sorts of goodies to the batter, and I consider chocolate chips to be nonnegotiable, but you could leave those out if you’re not feeling up to climbing up on a stool to get to the chocolate that is stashed in the uppermost cabinet above the microwave.) Spread the stiff mixture in a pan, pop it in the oven, and twenty minutes later, grab a hot pad and pull your saving grace from the oven.

Feed the blondies to your children, all except the poor little one who forfeited any potential sweets because he called you a bad name earlier today. You, of course, did not reciprocate, so you eat his share. And then some. (When no one is looking.)

Blondies
Adapted from Deb over at Smitten Kitchen

Deb’s recipe calls for a whole stick of butter, but I found the resulting bars to be too greasy. Cutting back to 7 tablespoons seemed to do the trick.

Some of the add-ins I’ve used include: chopped pecans, chocolate chips, mini-caramel balls, and coconut. See Deb’s post and the subsequent comments for other add-in possibilities—she includes a long list of ideas.

7 tablespoons butter, melted
1 cup brown sugar
1 egg
1 pinch salt (update: a scant ½ teaspoons)
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup flour
½ – 1 cup add-ins (chocolate, nuts, dried fruit, coconut, candy, etc), optional

Stir the ingredients together in the order they are listed. Spread the dough into a greased, 8 x 8-inch pan and bake at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes.

They are quite gooey while warm, but set up considerably after cooling. They freeze well.

Yield: not enough. Make a double batch.

About one year ago: Meatballs, with lemon zest, oregano, and Parmesan.

This morning I got sweaty hot hanging up laundry while standing a foot off the ground on a lingering snow bank in a pair of Mr Handsome’s rubber boots. (I was wearing other clothes, too, but no coat.) As I pinched the clothespins to fasten the towels to the underwear to the shirts, three separate flocks of geese flew above me, heading due North. I felt like kicking up my heels to the tune of their nasal honk-honks.

Which was a good thing because The Baby Nickel was using a hammer in the clubhouse and I had to ‘kick up my heels’ (read, walk/waddle/stomp) the whole way across the back forty to confiscate it. And then to the house because Yo-Yo was hollering about Something Or Other. And then over to the pump to redirect (that’s such a nice way of saying ‘making her quit’) Sweetsie who had decided that two feet of melting snow didn’t provide sufficient moisture for the great, gloppy, squishy outdoors and was filling up the green watering can, and completely disregarding my stern “turn it off right now” commands.

It was a rough day. All four kids decided to cop an attitude. Simultaneously.

Take lunch, for example. Sweetsie coughed without covering her mouth or turning her head. Miss Beccaboo yelled, “COVER YOUR MOUTH WHEN YOU COUGH!” and then drove the point home by coughing in Sweetsie’s general direction without covering her mouth.

“Both of you go sit on the sofas,” I ordered. “Sweetsie, you on the brown and Miss Beccaboo, you’re on the green. Now, practice coughing into your elbow for a bit.” They commenced hacking.

The Baby Nickel looked at me and then coughed, mouth uncovered, all over the table. “Do you want me to go sit on the sofa till I can work it out?” he inquired happily, sliding off his stool before I even had time to answer.

And so it went.

Last night when I was tucking Sweetsie into bed, she said, “Can we have Dutch puff for breakfast tomorrow? We always have granola and oatmeal and baked oatmeal and I’m tired of that stuff!” I studied her, my sulky, blond-headed, thumb-sucking third child, and then said yes.

This afternoon she came into the kitchen where I was preparing to bake a pan of baked oatmeal for tomorrow’s breakfast. “Why do we always have to have this rotten old stuff! I don’t like baked oatmeal! We always have to eat it!”

“Honey,” I said, “You can’t have everything you want all the time. I listened to what you said last night and made Dutch puff for breakfast this morning, so I don’t want to hear you complaining now. I don’t want you to be a kid who fusses whenever you don’t get what you want. You need to appreciate what you have and quit the whining.”

“Then why don’t you give me to Shannon!” she retorted. (My friend, mother of Sweetsie’s friend.)

Humph, I thought. Don’t tempt me.

Ponder this: Life is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think.

For much of the morning my kitchen windows were foggy because I was boiling down another four gallons of sap to yield another pint of liquid gold. If you try to tell me I’m not a magician, I won’t believe you.

Mr. Handsome set the alarm for three a.m. Monday morning. He needed to take the two loaves of bread that was busy proofing in the refrigerator out of the refrigerator so that they would be ready to go in the oven first thing in the morning—he wanted to give a loaf to the owners of the house where he’s been working over in WV. I left the house before him that morning to go to an appointment, all four kids in tow. The house was a disaster when we left, but five hours later when I returned, it was spotless, the only thing out of place was a solitary loaf of bread, wrapped in a red-checked cloth, that was sitting on the counter by the stove, forlorn and forgotten.

The peanut butter sandwiches we had for lunch were extra delicious.

There are still huge swatches of snow on the ground, several feet deep in some spots, but there are also huge bare areas. The kids run around in shorts and tee-shirts, sprinting through the drifted snow in their bare feet to get to the trampoline, the clubhouse, the chicken coop, the barn. When they come inside, their fire engine-red toes track water and mud everywhere.

Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo painted their arms and legs with mud—it was their armor, they said—but then they couldn’t wash off at the pump because the water was too cold (and they had to stand in snow to get to it).

This climate is foreign to me. I feel like we’ve been relocated to a different country, maybe Iceland, and like a National Geographic photographer ought to be snapping photos of our exotic existence.

The robins were singing this morning.

I know I’ve been loading you up with carb recipes. Consider it your last chance to indulge before we get inundated with crunchy green things. Before long we’ll all be outside digging in the dirt, and our tastebuds will have shifted from craving stews and hot biscuits to longing for spinach, lettuces, and new peas.

But we’re not quite there yet. We still have a few more weeks left in which to use up all that produce that got put up last growing season. And so we grit our teeth and cook up another bag of frozen green beans, open another jar of canned fruit, thaw another quart of strawberries (to go with the Sweetsie-loathed oatmeal breakfasts).

The following soup recipe does not cause me to grit my teeth, flavor-wise, in any way, but it is, in my mind at least, a winter dish. Hot soup equals frozen ground, no?

However, if you have a few wrinkled, sprouting spuds rolling around in the bottom of the crates down cellar, this recipe is for you. It’s a deeply comforting soup, guaranteed to make you feel like you’re still snuggling at your mother’s breast. Even though the mere thought of simmering and boiling may make your spring-lusting soul cringe, this soup is bound to make you relax, slow down, and take it one muddy day at a time.

On the other hand, it might make you want to get outside right this very minute and sow even more potatoes than you were originally planning on planting.

Creamy Potato Soup with Bacon and Boiled Eggs

5 pounds potatoes, peeled and chopped
2 onions, diced
2 ribs of celery, diced
1 bay leaf
5 cups of water
1 cup cream or half-and-half
12 eggs, hard-boiled
6 pieces of bacon, chopped
2 teaspoons salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
2 cups grated cheese such as Cheddar, Monterey Jack, or Colby

Fry the chopped bacon in a large soup pot till crispy. Remove the bacon pieces and set aside. Drain off all but two tablespoons of the bacon drippings.

Add the onion and celery to the soup pot and saute over medium-high heat for about ten minutes or until they have softened. Add the chopped potatoes, the bay leaf, and the water and simmer till the potatoes are fork tender. Add the salt, pepper, and cream and heat through (do no boil). Remove the bay leaf and taste to correct seasonings.
To serve, ladle the soup into bowls and top each bowl with a diced, boiled egg, some crumbled bacon, and a generous sprinkling of cheese.

About one year ago: my OCD indulgence and a warm winter day. Apparently, what goes around, comes around.