More from Casa Izz…

I sometimes wonder where on earth my children get things. The things they say! I find myself on many occasions just looking at them, shaking my head in disbelief. Not that what they say is bad per se…it’s just odd, especially when it’s coming from their mouths. Take today for example.

I was sitting at the dinner table, minding my own business, and eating my dinner. All of a sudden, Éamon, who happens to sit right next to me, asks rather urgently “Can I have a drink?” Pause for a second here…had this been one of the older children, I would have first corrected them on their poor grammar (a pet peeve of mine) and then said no until they can ask nicely…given it’s Éamon, and he’s not quite 3, I let it go. Just thought I’d put that in there. So he asks his urgent question, then, without giving me a chance to respond, asks again “Can I PLEASE have a drink?”…ahhh! There’s the please! …I turn to look at him, and as I do, he says “If you give me a drink, I give you three dollars!” I was a bit taken aback. Where on earth…? But it was humourous, I must admit, so I get him his drink, set it in front of him, and then hold out my hand. He gets all wide eyed, touches my hand for a second, and then says “I have no moneys!” At this I started to laugh. It was just too darn cute for words. My laughing, of course, gets him going, and we both had a hearty laugh over the events, although I’m fairly certain he had no idea why we were laughing.

This is one of the cool things about kids. Even when you’re having a bad day and things just aren’t looking all that great, they are good for a laugh or two. It’s either something they say, or something they do, or sometimes even something they don’t do. But there it is…you laugh in spite of yourself. And, at least for me, your day brightens immediately, and the woes of the world that you are having to deal with don’t seem nearly as woeful as they had. Maybe that’s why I have so darn many of them. I love to laugh, and they make sure I do on a daily basis.

 

Easy As Pie

Both of my grandmothers were fantastic cooks. One of the joys of my life growing up was having supper at either of their houses because you always knew it was going to be something fabulous. One grandmother’s cooking had a definite Southern flair: pinto beans simmered with a huge slab of salt pork and freshly baked corn bread on the side or country fried chicken complete with “white gravy” and biscuits. Yum! The other grandmother was a whiz at “comfort foods”. Her breaded veal cutlets were to die for, and no one made Macaroni and Cheese like she did. No one. Now that I’m hungry, and have a need to raid the pantry, let’s press on….

Both of my grandmothers are now gone (may they rest in peace), but their legacies live on in my cooking. Many of my recipes came from them, which helps keep all those good memories I had alive…whenever I pull one of those recipes out, I think of them and have a story or two to tell about them to the Izzlets. And while their styles of cooking were vastly different, there was one area of expertise they held in common and that area was PIE. Apple pies with bits of Macintosh apples and just enough sweet and tart to create a delicious balance. Pie crusts so flaky, they’d practically break into a million pieces if you blew on them (neither of them were from Oklahoma though….don’t get it? Oh well. I do…that’s enough to make it funny for ME!). To me, as a child, their pies were the crowning glory of their culinary excellence, and the one thing I always looked forward to learning how to master myself.

The years went by, and I eventually married Mr Izz, and the Izzlets started to accumulate. The first few years of pie making were hard…my crusts just didn’t cut it (if you talk to Mr Izz, he’ll more than gladly tell you all about how many times he’s “saved” my pie crust….but he can start his own blog to tell you because I refuse to). No flakes. Or my fillings weren’t flavourful enough. It was always something. But after much trial and error, and frustration I might add, I had them down pat. Everything as it should be. My pies were sought after for family functions…”You are making the pies, aren’t you?” I had finally come into my own in the art of baking pies. I was a master!….almost. There was one pie I had yet to master, and this “lack of mastery” was like a black spot on my culinary scorecard. It was, at least in my mind, the crème de la crème…the proof positive of total pie genius. It was the Lemon Meringue Pie, and I couldn’t, no matter how closely I followed the recipe, get it right. This probably wouldn’t have been a big deal…not everyone who is an accomplished pie baker can make the perfect Lemon Meringue pie, right? But for me, it was different. My Granny (the “comfort food” grandmother) was the Lemon Meringue Pie QUEEN. Her Lemon Meringue pies were absolutely the best in the world, no exceptions (no, I am not biased). Granny’s Lemon Meringue pies were always perfect…perfect blend of lemony tartness and sugary sweetness; perfectly flaky crust; perfect everything. They were totally yummy (yummy being a culinary term, of course), and I would beg her to make them for me. And she, being the doting grandmother that she was, gladly obliged when she could. Her pies were her crowning glory (in my mind anyway) and so it only made good sense to me that I should recreate them. Perfectly, as hers were perfect. No problem.

So I set forth to make my very first Lemon Meringue pie…I had motivation too, for my father in law, who loved Lemon Meringue pie and hadn’t had one made from scratch in years, had asked me to make one with the other pies I was making for a family get together. I was excited! I had perfected my perfectly flaky crust..the lemon filling would be cake…umm….pie…oh, it would be EASY. At least that’s what I thought. I read through Granny’s recipe, gathered up all my ingredients and went to work. I mixed the dry ingredients, then the wet. I squeezed my lemons and grated off the zest. I put the egg whites to the side for the meringue, mixed everything else all together, and tasted. Hmmm…there was something way off. Too much zest, but I really couldn’t get it out now that it was in. Maybe it would mellow as I cooked it. In fact, I was sure it would. Mmmmhmmmm…

The cooking was going to be easy (snort). I just had to wait for it all to thicken. The water in the bottom of the double boiler began to boil, and my lemony mixture started to heat up. I stirred and I stirred, waiting for it to thicken. Then I stirred some more….not long now, I thought. More stirring, more checking, more glancing at the clock to see how long I had been at it. After about an hour (!), I finally came to he conclusion it wasn’t going to thicken, as the watery mixture poured off the spoon. Maybe it will as it cools….although at this point I was pretty sure it wouldn’t. Sure enough, my far too nice father in law was forced to smile and compliment the lemon zest soup with the side of mushy pie crust I placed in front of him apologetically. To this day, I still have no idea what I did wrong, but my fiasco was to the be the first of many more attempts with varying results…all bad. And since a girl can only take so much, I finally swore off them completely. Granny’s legacy would die the death. I was a failure.

Fast forward several years to the present. My 17 year old son expresses interest in baking pies for his dinner night (the child chooses dinner and dessert, and also has to help cook it all). Turns out his favourite pie is, you guessed it, Lemon Meringue, although I have no idea how that happened. It’s not like I had ever made it for him. So he tells me that’s what he wants to make. I just stare at him. “You’re sure??” I ask in a small voice. “Yeah!” he answers all too confidently. No way…I have visions of past failures flash before my eyes. There is no way this can be done. I close my eyes, sigh, and say “Sure, we can do that.” Now I was committed. What have I done??

His dinner night approaches far too quickly, but it’s too late to back out. So, I read through Granny’s recipe…it had been some time since I’d done that…then read through it again, just in case. I then gathered up the ingredients and we went to work. My son squeezed the lemons as I separated the eggs. We mixed everything but the egg whites together and began to cook the whole mixture on the stovetop in a double boiler…it was almost like déja vu. I cringed as he stirred, preparing myself for the worst that I was sure was to come at any moment. After about 20 minutes, he asked “Is this thick enough?” I hesitated, then looked at the spoon in his hand, and surveyed what was in it. I turned the spoon over…and almost all of it stayed on the spoon. Let me reiterate that bit…the mixture stayed on the spoon! I started to get excited and took another spoonful just to see, and got the same result. By this time I as laughing giddily…my son thought I was daft, if the look he gave me was any indication. But it had worked!! We poured the pudding-like mixture into the pie crust…gleefully, at least on my part. As it cooled, we made the meringue, put it onto the pie, put it into the oven to brown, and I am happy to report, it came out PERFECTLY. We had done it! I know that Granny would have proud of me, and I know that I am more than proud to carry on that part of her legacy. Maybe someday my grandchildren will call me the Lemon Meringue Pie Queen.

So as I eat this last piece, and it brings me back to Granny’s kitchen, smelling those wondrous smells, I am happy. Happy that I tried again; happy that I can share my memories with my children in such a delicious way. And mostly, I am happy that I had such a grandmother that would take the time to give me some of the best memories of my life. So as I sit here, it’s almost like I am that little girl in my grandmothers kitchen again drinking a cup of tea and having a slice of her famous pie. Thank you, Granny….this one’s for you!

 

As Heard in Casa Izz…..

Catechism 101…Izzlet style!

Me, to the littles: “Does anyone know what the 8th Commandment is?”

Several hands go up (although I’m smart enough to know that not all
of them know the answer)…picking one out of the sea of hands:

Me: “Alright, tell me”

Unnamed Izzlet: “Thou shalt not….ummmmm…..wait! I do know
it…..ummmm….oh YEAH!!! Thou shalt not bear false witness against
thy neighbor’s wife!!!” (with a very pleased look upon their face, I
might add).

So there you have it. You can lie, so long as you don’t lie to your neighbour’s wife. And remember, you heard it here first!

 

Finbar’s Folly

The title of this entry really does sound like it could be the name of an Irish Tune, doesn’t it? Perhaps one day, when I am exceptionally proficient at playing my tin whistle, and adept enough to actually write a tune, I’ll write one and name it “Finbar’s Folly”. Until then, however, I’m thinking I should stick to blogging…which reminds me that I’m supposed to be writing. Onward with today’s random ramblings in written form!

Finbar is five, as of this past January. While not old by anyone’s standards (except perhaps his own), he is still getting bigger by leaps and bounds, much to my chagrin. After all, just yesterday he was still my baby boy. Tempus Fugit…far too quickly for my liking. But even in his five yearness, he has somehow, acquired wisdom in his own, Finny way, in the form of revelations. It is those revelations that I’d like to share, for they really are somewhat humourous.

From the time he was about 2 1/2, Finbar was convinced that he was born in Ireland. Now, mind, I’ve never even been to Ireland, so unless there is something I don’t know, he wasn’t born there. Although, it would make my wish of moving there much more of a reality if his merely saying it made it so. Oh well…

As I was saying, Finbar always thought he was born in Ireland. If someone were to ask him from whence he originally came, he would respond most confidently: “Ireland!!” You may wonder why Fin came to this conclusion, for I admit it is rather odd. Well, let me explain it to you (as if you thought I wouldn’t!!). Quite some time ago, when Finbar was just a wee one, we were visiting friends in New Hampshire. One of those friends is a transplant from Northern Ireland, and the moment she saw Fin, she exclaimed (in my very best Northern Irish accent): “Oh! Doesn’t he have the map of Ireland on his face!!” From that time forward, whenever she saw him, she made sure to remind him of how Irish he looked, and as soon as he was old enough to understand what it meant, he was convinced he was indeed born on the Emerald Isle. He would tell everyone he could find about his self concocted heritage. You can imagine their surprise when I told them, in a hushed tone so I didn’t crush his little spirit, that he was actually born in Ohio. At least the explanation made for humourous small talk.

Unfortunately, the days of Finbar telling people he was born in Ireland are over. Apparently, when he turned 5, he was infused with enough wisdom to realise that he really wasn’t. It’s one of those sad “growing up” tragedies, when certain cutenesses fall by the wayside to be replaced by bigger boy behaviour. I always hate when that happens…it’s almost like the end of a favourite television show. You can reminisce but it’s never like it was.

In the case of Fin, he has indeed moved on, as his fiveishness dictates. He has become a big boy (at least by HIS standards!), which apparently affords little time for such silliness. He very grudgingly states that he was born in Ohio now when pressed, with a certain air of regret. Regret, of course, until his eyes light up and his face breaks into a huge smile…

“But some day I am going to move to Finland, and be the king, because FINland belongs to ME!”

It’s those little gems that make it all worthwile.

 

Question of the Day!

This morning, as I sat at my desk trying to weed out my inbox (my inbox is very reflective of my life in general…it’s very disorganised and needs to be cleaned out), Victoria, who is 6, was sitting next to me playing with one of her dolls. She was singing and having the doll walk around on my desk, and for the most part, ignoring the fact that I was sitting next to her. This was fine with me, because I really did need to get my inbox back to some manageable state.

So there we were, she was singing and playing, and I was weeding and trying to figure out if that email from August really was that important to save or not. All of a sudden, she stops playing and says “Mom?” I stop what I’m doing and look over at her and ask her what she needs.

“Do husbands really do that?” she asks.
“Do what?” I ask in return….I am wondering if she thought I had been paying attention to her while she was playing, and so I was feeling rather guilty that I hadn’t been. She just looks at me for a moments with her eyes wide (a normal expression for her, I might add), which makes me uncomfortable because apparently I was supposed to be paying attention…caught in the act of nonattention yet again! After about 30 seconds, she finally gets more specific:

“Do husbands really throw their wives up in the air?” she innocently asks.

Huh? Where in the WORLD did she come up with that one? I think back from the past few days, wondering if she might have watched something that might give her the idea that husbands just walk around, throwing their wives up into the air. Peter Pan was the last thing, and I don’t think Mr Darling threw Mrs Darling up in the air even once. So scratch that idea. I’m a bit muddled, because since I don’t know where she got such an idea, I have no idea how to answer. Aside from no…which of course is the obvious answer. It’s not like Mr Izz goes around throwing me up in the air on a regular basis (thank God!).

“Ummmm….no, Toria. Husbands don’t do that for real.” I answer, and start to laugh. She begins to laugh with me, and says:

“Ok, I was just wondering!”
“Where did you come up with such a thing?” I ask, but she says she was just kidding and skipped off, presumably in search of some other fun game. So I still have NO idea where she came up with that, but I suppose I’ll have to be content in that. Until then, I’m sure that her dolls will be thrown up into the air on a regular basis, just because she thinks it’s fun. I just hope that when she is old enough to be married, it’s not a stipulation for her future husband. She might be in trouble if that is indeed the case.

 

‘Tis the Season to Have Birthdays…

Fa la la la laaaa…la la la laaaaaaaa!

Yes, my dear readers, it is Birthday Season! You may be familiar with the Christmas season, or the ski season, or maybe even maple sugaring season. Here at Casa Izz, we have what is fondly known as Birthday Season. What exactly does that mean, you might ask. Well, let me tell you all about it…before I have to bake another cake.

As you may have guessed (if you’ve read the “About Me” portion of my blog, and know how many children reside at Casa Izz), we celebrate quite a few birthdays here. You know, because, like, I’m a nice mom and each child has their own special day on their birthday, which means they don’t have to do their daily chores and they get to pick out their dinner and dessert for that evening. The kids tend to think this is pretty cool, and I really don’t mind doing it…most of the time. Please recall the title of this post. Here at Casa Izz, for reasons unbeknownst to anyone but God Himself, more than half of the Izzlets were born in the months of Januray (4 Izzlets) and February (2 Izzlets), which is how the term Birthday Season came into existence. Every time you turn around, there is yet another birthday to celebrate. As I sit down each week to make out the weekly menu, these birthdays must be taken into consideration; the children whose birthdays are coming up within the next week must be quizzed on what they would like for dinner and for their special dessert…one year almost every child decided to have tacos for their birthday dinner, so that year Birthday Season was aptly renamed Taco Season. I still am unable to look at a taco without feeling a little queasy…but back to what I was saying. Everything must be done…presents must be purchased, desserts must be made, birthday child must be given the day off…you see how stressful this can be for someone as disorganised as I am! Especially when you realise that each child likes to be different from the last. No one really wants just cake. Our birthday desserts range from cake to brownie sundaes to cherry pie, etc. Have you ever tried to put 12 candles into milk shakes? It’s not an easy task, let me tell you. But what can I say…I have creative children (they must take after ME! ).

This is why I have been somewhat missing in action as of late. I have no time to write…whenever I try, I have to wrap a present or bake a dessert or bread chicken filets. There is always something. Hmm…isn’t that always my excuse?

An older priest once said that birthdays should not be celebrated. Now, before you get all bent out of shape over that, listen to his reasoning. It was his contention that children had no right to their birthday for it was their mother that did all the work to bring them into the world to begin with. Therefore, it should be the mother’s celebration rather than the child’s. That seems perfectly logical to me. I’d be up for 11 birthday celebrations; 11 days off (which is 11 more than I get now), 11 days of catering to ME (again, which is 11 more than I usually get). Sounds utterly perfect, don’t you think? But, of course, there is no way the Izzlets would allow such a thing. They love to celebrate the day they were born, and really, so do I. It’s not that hectic. Besides, my birthday is in March. I’ll get them all back then (insert evil, maniacal laughter…..). 

 

How We Influence Our Children

Mr Izz is doing his psych rotation this semester in nursing school. Whenever we have a dinnertime discussion, we have learned over the past few weeks that anything we say can and will be used against us…psyco-analytically anyway. In lieu of this, we’ve kind of learned to keep our mouths shut to a certain extent. But of course with this crew, you can’t help but let something out that Mr Izz can (and will) use to bombard us with his newly found psychobabble. I’m beginning to think we should replace our dining room table with a couch. Either that or a new liquor cabinet. But anyway…why am I telling you this? There really is no reason…while Mr Izz loves to entertain us with his ramblings (much in the same way that I like to entertain you with mine), the topic of this posting really has nothing to do with his new interest. I just told you about that because I thought it was interesting enough to write about. But enough is enough…onward to the meat and potatoes!

While this isn’t about Mr Izz’s obsessive behaviour (HA! She should learn to self-analyse), it is about how something he does on a regular basis has a bearing on how the children act in their play. I think all children do this, but today’s example was particularly humourous.

This afternoon I was busy trying to get warm…it’s cold outside which means it’s cold in the house (at least in my opinion), and getting warm is a huge deal and takes up quite a bit of my time. It means I stand in front of the wood stove until it feels like my sweater is about to catch fire. So, as I stood there, I was watching the littles play whatever it was they were playing. Éamon in particular was piquing my interest for he kept picking up a basket with a longer handle on it and a book of some sort. He then would mutter something to himself and walk over to the door, and then walk away muttering something else. I would call his behaviour strange, but he is only 2, so it was more amusing than anything. But it was also perplexing, for I had no idea why he kept doing it. So I asked him what he was doing.

“Éamon, what are you doing?” I asked. He answered, but at that point, his response was more babble than real words. So after a minute or two, when he was walking back to the door, I asked him again….this time standing in front of him in the hopes of understanding him when he spoke in his Éamon-ese again. This time he said: “I go a sool”. Hmmm….interesting.

“What are you doing, Éamon?”
“I go a SOOL!” he said again, a bit more emphatically. I looked over at Katherine, hoping for a translation of some sort, when it came to me.

“Éamon, are you going to SCHOOL?”

“Yes, I go a SOOL!” and with that, he again picked up his basket and book, and proceeded to the door as if to go out. At this point, I was shaking with laughter. While Mr Izz doesn’t take a basket to work (a tisket, a tasket…), he does take a rather large messenger bag that has a long strap so he can sling it over his shoulder. He also quite often has a stray book in his hand as he dashes out he door. The only thing that was missing in Éamon’s paternal imitation was a travel mug of coffee. I do know that imitating their parents is a common occurrence with children, so I didn’t find his behaviour to be particularly odd. I just thought it was really funny that he, in his little imagination, found that to be like Dad, he had to “go to school”. Mr Izz is always going to school, it seems. Apparently this has made quite an impression upon Éamon…even more than I had thought.

But the story doesn’t quite stop there. As I had mentioned, he would pick up his book and basket, and walk to the door to “go a sool”, but as soon as he got to the door, he would immediately walk away muttering something. I thought that perhaps it had to do with forgetting keys or something, but no. As I carefully listened to him in his play, I found that he was combining two very common things that his parents do…the first one being his father going to school. The second one was far more hysterically funny in my opinion, for it was something I do on a regular basis these days. As he walked over to the door as if to walk out, he immediately turned around and said: “Iss too cowd out dere” which translates to “It’s too cold out there” for anyone not fluent in Éamon-ese. When I walk out the door on any given day as of late, that is the first thing that comes out of my mouth. For Éamon, the freezing temperatures outside were enough for him to call it day, and forgo school altogether (at least until he decided to give it another try a few minutes later). It seems he has his father’s thirst for knowledge, but also his mother’s aversion to the cold…and the “mom” in him won out. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, but I do know I totally understand. How can anyone learn anything when it’s so cold? I’ll bet that Mr Izz can find something Freudian in that statement…but since I don’t want to know, I’m not going to ask him.

Éamon’s playing today made me think quite a bit about how our children learn from us, and how, because of that, we need to be very careful in what we do and say. Any of us that have used more “colourful” language in front of our children know that they pick it up much more quickly than if it we’d used something a bit more subtle. This also holds true in the way we behave around our children. If we behave in a good way, that is what our children will emulate. If we behave badly, then that is what our children will choose to imitate. Not that what happened today was even remotely bad…it was very funny and quite innocent. But our children really are like sponges, and they pick up so many things from us that we aren’t even aware of…some good, some bad. These characteristics will help to shape their personalities and future behaviours. Because of this, we must take care to surround our children with only those things that we want shaping their actions. This isn’t always easy…I know I’ve done and said things that the littler ones of the house picked up that I’d rather not have them picking up. But I try, as we all should.

There’s my story for today, and a bit of advice to go along. Free of charge, I might add. Call it an early Christmas present.

 

Superman Slept Here

The last few weeks or so have been crazy. You see, we’ve had visitors coming and going, and going and coming almost as if I were running a country Inn or fancy hotel (without seeing the profits of said ventures, of course). Everyday, someone new happens into the family, and everyday their appearance is wholly unexpected. Maybe I should start asking if they intend to pay for their lodgings…

The whole phenomenon seemed to begin sometime around International Talk Like a Pirate Day (arrrrr….!). For days after, we had various pirates visiting…some with eyepatches, others with peglegs…sitting down at the dinner table like they lived here without even asking permission. And the weird thing was no one seemed to care too much (except for me, apparently), for no one said a word or seemed to even take a bit of notice. Furthermore, our already overcrowded dinner table was still only as overcrowded as it is usually, despite the daily additions. Strange…

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the pirates made their way back to the harbour and out to sea, and along with them went the constant “Arrrr matey”s and forceful requests for me to “swab the deck.” I must admit I was a bit relieved. Attempting to entertain a band of buccaneers isn’t always an easy task. You never seem to have enough rum to appease them, and your larger kitchen knives seem to disappear, only to resurface between the teeth of a particularly large picaroon. But even as their appearances dwindled to nothing, our adventures were far from over.

A few days after the exit of the pirates, in walked in the Superheroes. I thought the pirates were weird…these guys were way worse. At the most inopportune times, Superman would fly through my kitchen or Spiderman would swing through the living room. And the main topic of conversation seemed to always revolve around who was more “super strong” or who had the coolest powers (“NO! Web slinging is by far the best!!” “No way!! Heat Vision is way cooler!”). And you know, I really thought they would have been much taller than 3 ft. something. Anyway…

The Superheroes ate with us, watched movies with us, played football with us. It’s really funny how well they fit in despite their super human powers…almost like they’d always been part of the family. But they too had to go on their merry way at last…off to fight crime in some distant city, more than likely named something like Metropolis or something similar. Now that they’re gone, however, I find myself missing their super human antics. And the little secrets I found out about them as well…they were well worth the fly bys. Never once did they allow their secret identities be known (and I never was able to guess, despite my constant efforts), but here and there they did slip up, and I was able to find out a few key things about them because of it. For example, Superman gets extremely cranky by 1pm and really has to take a nap (you know…so does Éamon. Small world!). So, everyday like clockwork, he would crawl into my bed, with a cup of milk, and fall fast aslepp until about 3, when he woke up expecting a snack (hmmmm….Éamon does that too. I wonder…). I even have a picture to prove it, just don’t tell him that I’ve shown it to you all. He may not like that and I’ll have to call Spiderman and have him come to prove who really is the “super strongest”. You know…he really does look familiar in this picture…like I really should know who he is….

 

Where’s the Beef?

Egads…I never in a million years thought I’d ever entitle a post with that lovely little ’80s flashback. I hated it then, and still do now. But if you can muddle though my post, you’ll see it’s very appropriate.

My week has been off…well, actually, the whole month of September was off, and it seems to be creeping into my October as well. I’m hopeful that since it’s only the 3rd of October, that things will calm down in time to save the month from offness, but we’ll see. At this rate it won’t, but then of course I’m not the eternal optimist I’d like to be. You see, an optimist would have said that it will absolutely get better…I’d like to say I’m merely a realist rather than a dreamy, rose-coloured glasses idealistic optimist, but in reality, I’m just a pessimist trying to disguise herself as a realist. But I’m working on it…and I’m sure that I’ll achieve optimistic perfection at some point. Not convincing? Oh well…at least I tried.

So my month…it’s off. Has been for a while, but not in a totally horrible way. Just off as in I can’t get all the things I need to get done in as timely of a manner as I’d like. The one example that seems to shine forth like a beacon on this issue is grocery shopping. Now, I’m not going to pretend that grocery shopping is something I like to do. Actually, I abhor it. I wish that I could just wiggle my nose like Samantha on Bewitched and just have all the groceries appear so I can put them away without setting foot in a grocery store. But as I lack the necessary nose wiggle, to the grocery store I go for my weekly escapade into the mundane. Now, I usually like to do this on the same day each week…it’s easier to accept the mundane when you know it’s coming at the same time and in the same place each and every time you venture into it. But because my week/month has been off, the day I end up going tends to vary from week to week. So while I would have liked to have it all done on Monday, today ended up being my day to do the grocery shopping. Yay.

It all went off without a hitch…I took Terrence with me (and I could tell that he was exceptionally enthusiastic about the sheer prospect, let alone about the task itself), and we wheeled our cart up one aisle and down the other, collecting those things that we needed along the way. The only time we hit a snag was when I forgot to go down the first aisle (hey…it’s laid out totally weird. Sure, I shop there weekly, and should remember the layout of the darn place, but that first aisle is shorter than the rest. Anyone would have made the mistake of missing it), and then couldn’t find the dry beans and Ramen Noodles. I went down aisle #2 3 times looking for them, but of course couldn’t find them until Terrence “found” aisle #1. Of course, he found it humourous. I didn’t. Oops…I hope Mr Izz doesn’t see that part…I’ll never hear the end of how I “lost aisle #1″.

We gathered up what was on the list quickly…after the losing of aisle #1 anyway…went through the check out, packed everything into the car, and headed home. Upon reaching the door, the kids heard I was home and came running out to help bring in the bags (aren’t they wonderful?). As they brought in, I unpacked and started to put away. And with the help of a couple of Izzlets, we got all of the groceries put away quickly and somewhat efficiently. I plopped down into a chair and let out a huge sigh…the grocery shopping was done for the week. Thank goodness!

Fast forward to about 3pm when I need to start dinner. I had put the dried beans (you know, the ones from aisle #1) in to simmer as soon as I got home, so they were merrily bubbling away as I gathered up a few onions to chop up for the chili I was making for dinner tonight. I chopped, and cried….they were pretty strong onions…and put them in to sauté in my big, huge chili pot. That’s when I discovered that the ground beef I had taken out for the chili was missing. I looked on the table; I looked on the counter; I checked in the refrigerator and the freezer just to see if it had inadvertently been placed in either of those areas. Nothing. Ok…it looked like dinner was a no go for tonight (pessimism, I know…but it seemed to be pretty realistic to me. No ground beef, no chili. No chili, no dinner. Logical, don’t you think?). I was stressing big time, having the kids search the toy box and the toilet for the missing ground beef that one of the littles must have taken for some evil purpose…yes, I really was convinced. So Mr Izz gets in on the insanity and tries to get to the bottom of it in truly logical fashion. He asks where the ground beef was when we last saw it…it had been on the table. Was it on the table when we were unpacking the groceries? Ummmmm……maaayyyyyyyybe, I say, as I take Terrence aside and tell him to look in the pantry (you see, by this time I was fairly certain were the ground beef was, but I didn’t want Mr Izz to see how foolish I was, so I did this all on the sly). Next thing we know, Terrence, being the incredibly smart son that he is (ahem), comes out of the pantry with the 3 pounds of ground beef in his possession. “I wonder how it got there?” I innocently ask, looking sideways at Mr Izz, who just shook his head and went back to the office to study. So what happened? Some well intended child (or even perhaps me…I really couldn’t tell you at this point) put the ground beef into the pantry because I had said to put all of the food away in the pantry. This, of course, must have meant the ground beef, for it too is food. The “Case of the Missing Ground Beef” had been solved…and none too soon either. I had to get the rest of dinner going or else it was going to be late!

So there you have it. I’m no longer asking where the beef is, thank goodness. The chili is almost done, and the kids are more than ready to have their supper. And I’m vowing to not be so scattered as to lose 3 pounds of ground beef in the pantry every again. Of course it will work too…my optimistic outlook will ensure that (snort).

 

If You Give a Mom a Muffin

Someone sent this through an email list I am on…actually the only email list I’m on…and I thought it was funny enough to put on the blog. It’s a different spin on the If You Give A Mouse a Cookie book by Laura Joffe Numeroff: .
This one, as the title indicates, is about a mom rather than the proverbial mouse in Ms. Numeroff’s book, but it’s perfect. Whether you have 2 kids or my 11, I think you might get a chuckle out of this.

If you give a mom a muffin She’ll want a strong cup of coffee to go with it, She’ll make herself some.

Her three-year-old will spill the coffee She’ll wipe it up.

While wiping the floor she’ll find dirty socks. She’ll remember she has to do laundry.

When she puts the laundry in the washer, she’ll trip over boots and bump into the box of Goodwill items. Bumping into the Goodwill items will remind her that she has to get these boxes out of her basement and into the car.

When she puts the boxes in the car, she’ll find a bag of groceries and this will remind her she has to cook dinner. She will get out the chicken defrosting in the fridge. She’ll look for her cookbook, “101 Things To Do With Chicken”

The cookbook will be sitting under a pile of mail. She will see the Netflix movie she’s meant to send back and the phone bill, which is due tomorrow.

The checkbook will be in her purse that is being dumped out by her one-year-old. As she bends down to rescue her purse, she’ll smell something funny. She’ll change the baby’s diaper.

While she is throwing away the diaper and searching for the hand sanitizer, the phone will ring. Her three-year-old will answer and hang up. She’ll remember she wants to call a friend – not for coffee, but for a very strong drink.

Thinking of drinking will remind her that she was going to have a cup of coffee in order to stay awake for the rest of the day. And chances are…. If she finds her cup of coffee (which she has to reheat by now), Her children will have eaten the muffin that goes with it.