Best Day Ever.

Just in case you are not among the approximately three million people I've already told about this: I'm in the April issue of Skirt! Magazine. I'm tickled pink! Click here to see the article and what I think is a very flattering picture, taken by Molly Harrell. She was so much fun and so is Jenny Maxwell, who picked me for the profile and is the editor of Skirt! Columbia. Jenny blogs for the magazine and I always enjoy reading what she has to say.

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. In case I wasn't clear, I am having the best day ever. Whee!

South Carolina is such a small town.

We're at the beach, three hours from home. But we might as well be home, because we run into the same people, eat the same food and do the same stuff, like exercise, shop, eat and blog. Yesterday, my sister in law and I had lunch at Perrone's with our friend J. from home, who also happened to be at the beach. We went to the gym before lunch, just like home. We ate an early lunch because I had to pick up Baby J, just like home. The only difference was, instead of taking him to the drop-in nursery, I left him with my parents, who just happened to be at the beach last week, too. They follow me everywhere*. But I digress.

Because my whole point was to tell you about the awesomeness that is Perrone's. If you're ever in the Litchfield Beach/Pawley's Island 'hood, you should go there. It would be wrong not to. They have everything a girl like me wants: food, wine, coffee, fancy olive oil, to-go stuff for parties, chocolate. What else is there, really? For our lunch with J., I had the beef carpaccio, and almost died it was so good. The chef used lemon olive oil (which I had to buy, of course) and horseradish and dijon mustard sauce. It was so good I felt sad when I was finished, so sad I almost ordered another one, but I thought that would negate my trip to the gym.


My sister in law ordered the BLTC Salad (bacon, lettuce, tomato and cheddar) with a crab cake on the side. J. ordered curry chicken salad, but when she saw the BLTC, decided to box up the chicken salad and order that. I love a woman who can make a quick decision. According to a sign I saw in a dressing room recently, "The road of life is paved with flat squirrels who couldn't make a decision." Yeah, that. And I'm sure the chicken salad tasted great later.


I liked it so much I had to go back later that day, this time with my husband, for a glass of wine. We ran into my orthodontist and his wife. I haven't seen him in twenty years. He was unimpressed with my diligent use of my retainers. I love that Perrone's pours three wines a day, white, red and pink for ladies European men like my husband, and they're all good.



The pink wine on the left is his. Mine is the lovely white on the right.


We liked that wine so much, we went back the next day for lunch. I had the salad, which is the best low-carb BLT evah and made my husband get the carpaccio, which he wouldn't share. Wine at lunch is okay if you're on vacation.


During lunch, J showed up with her husband and son, because that place is darn good. She pointed out she could have guessed she would love it, because the other patrons all looked like people we'd be friends with (you know, intelligent and mad stylish!) I looked around and it was true. J. also thought the flower arrangement proved Perrone's would be good. Women know these things.

We liked the wine so much, we bought some to drink with dinner. Yeah, we were drinking all day. Wanna' make something of it? Before dinner, we sent my brother and sister in law back to Perrone's for a glass of wine and a few orders of mussels to eat as appetizers. We got both kinds, Thai and regular. They were so awesome, I forgot to take a picture until they were all gone. I also had had quite a bit to drink. This is what the Thai mussels looked like, after we ate them.


During one of our many trips to Perrone's, we ran into a friend of my husband's, a lawyer down at the beach. He had his office party there and told us the after hours wine dinners are legend. I want to go to one real bad. I love the beach!


Namasté, y'all!

* And thank goodness, because otherwise, who would have kept Baby J? And who would have bought my lunch at Bistro 217? Thanks, Mom!

I don't want you to take this the wrong way...

"Now, I don't want you to take this the wrong way..."

"Oh, no!" My mind was racing. "He's going to break up with me. Or tell me I have bad breath. Or tell me he hates my friends. Or there's something in my nose. Ennnhhhh..."

I was wrong, of course. The internet repair dude proceeded to explain to me, in excruciatingly boring and incomprehensible detail, that I was never, ever to move some little box thingy that had to do with the internet. I explained we were only renting the beach house for a week and hadn't touched the mystery thingy. He gave me a world weary look that said he was onto me and all the other saboteurs of the World Wide Internets. I love the internets. Why would I try to kill them?

He held up a little machine, kind of like the one they used in Ghostbusters, that he had used to prove we moved the thingy. He brandished it, insisting it had shown him that "those levels were extremely low, which means somebody [insert raised eyebrows here] moved the blahblahblah." With a physical demonstration, he explained exactly how he had held the fancy machine up to the internet thingy and measured the levels. My husband stood behind him, laughing silently as I tried to defend our family honor. I felt kind of mad at him for not punching or at least threatening the guy. There are times when I'd appreciate a well placed, "I ain't gonna' stand by and let you talk to mah little lady like that."

"Wait," I asked, "Do you mean bump it or actually move it to another room? Because we might have bumped it."

"Blah, blahblahblah...move it to another room...blahblah. Blahblah, blahblahblah. Blah," the repair dude answered. During the lecture, which involved a lot of hand gesturing, I noticed he was wearing a wedding ring. I might have zoned out for at least a minute and a half and it might have occurred to me that his wife probably never argues with him, in a desperate attempt to avoid long speeches like this one. I explained again that I might have bumped it, but hadn't moved it. I was rewarded with another smirk. I'm not above lying, like the time I insisted I had no idea how my cell phone had gotten wet, inside and out (Truth: I let the baby suck on it for about an hour during a long road trip.) But this time I was telling the truth.

I mentioned several times that we were renters and hadn't moved or rigged anything. He did not hear me. He also didn't hear me when I assured him we hadn't added the piece of "store bought" something or other that he thought was obstructing the internets. I wish you could just wave a little flag and call a truce in these situations. I don't have any real need to be right; I just want the car/internet/phone/dishwasher/other high tech thingy fixed. No explanation necessary. But repair people are the new priests. They want a confession. Problem is, they don't offer absolution, only scoffing.

He did manage to fix the elusive internets, for which I'm grateful. And he finally left. I was beginning to think he wanted to stay for a drink and talk about our treachery some more. The last we saw of him, he was in his truck, talking on a cell phone and rolling his eyes, probably telling one of his colleagues about the big, fat liars who tried to kill the internet. Oh well!

Namasté, y'all!

Yay, AnnaBelle! Yay, Pretty Dresses!

I'm at the beach and writing from the lovely Latté Litchfield today. My husband thinks I'm at the gym. Ladies, do not let yourselves go just because you're on vacation. Plus, the gym is a perfect excuse to ditch your husband with all the kids. If I told the truth, that I was going to shop and drink adult beverages, he'd make me take them with me.

AnnaBelle, fabulous designer and owner of LaRoque, has a big spread in the paper today. I have two of her dresses and a skirt and love them. Even though I bought off the rack, they fit like they were made for me. I go in there planning to "just look" or maybe buy one of the Hardest Working Bras in town from Kristy, owner of Tullulah. But it seems like every time AnnaBelle manages to talk me into trying one of those dresses on, I can't bring myself to leave it there. You should never walk away from a dress that fits that well. It would be like leaving a puppy at the pound that wouldn't quit giving you that puppy look. She picks the best fabric, including some Liberty prints. Do you remember those? My mother had a Liberty Print blouse with a Peter Pan collar that I loved. It had seafood on it. Well, it wasn't actual seafood, just the uncooked crustaceans that eventually become seafood. It was really cute, I swear, and that fabric felt so light and cool. I might have to get just one little shirt made with a Liberty print fabric, or maybe two, but definitely not more than three.

And having Tullulah in the same building is a bonus. Usually, I have to take things home on approval to see if I have an appropriate undergarment, but Kristy is right there with the best bras in town. Woo! And both of those ladies are a riot. If you hang around long enough, you'll hear some wicked funny stories. Or you can wait for the chick lit novel I plan to write about them. I'll be embellishing the stories a lot, though, so don't go thinking they're (all) true.

Namasté, y'all!

I am so famous.

I have a job now. I'm a freelance writer slash newspaper columnist, kind of like model slash actress, without the hotness and cocaine. If you're into this sort of thing (you, know, stuff about me!), take a look at my first column in this week's Free Times. I'll do one a month, with a recipe, using local food as often as possible. This month's is about filet mignon.

My parents will be so happy, because they were sick of having me tell everyone I was a fitness instructor (which is true) after they paid for all that education. "Writer" sounds pretty clever, n'est-ce pas? My husband is already planning what to wear to the Oscars when I'm nominated for my screenplay. I don't have the heart to tell him I'm not planning on taking him. Or writing a screenplay.

Namasté, y'all!

I guess I'm it...

Hello and thank you, Meagan, who tagged me (and whose blog I love to read)!

Here are the rules:

A. Post the rules at the beginning. Done!

B. Answer the questions about yourself. Wait for it!

C. Tag 5 people and let them know in a comment on their blogs that they have been tagged. Ladies, you're it! Jodi, Brenda, Kelly, Amy, and Kathy (whose blogs I also love to read!)

What Was I Doing 10 Years Ago? This one's easy. I was lying in bed, waiting for O. to be born, reading lots of gossip magazines and watching old television reruns, mostly The Facts of Life and 90210. I was in bed for a few months before he was born, 10 weeks early. Poof! We were magically transformed into parents. It was a very exciting time, even though all I could do was lie in bed, watch television and eat. Now that I have three kids, that sounds really awesome and I look forward to doing it again some day, without the pregnancy.

Snacks I Enjoy: Jalapeño pimento cheese from Rosewood Market on celery sticks, olives, nuts and, on a really rough day, Spicy Thai Kettle Chips. And popcorn. And Manchego cheese with Cotognata. And fresh berries. I can't go more than two hours without food. Oink.

Five Things on my To-Do List Today: 1) Finish this and post it to my blog. 2) Go to the grocery store - done! 3) Ummm...cook dinner. 4) Wonder if the kids' Spring Break might be a little bit shorter next year. 5) Hang out with my sister in law after our kids go to sleep. We're vacationing together.

Things I Would Do if I Became a Billionaire: Build a fancy Dwell-style shed in my backyard with an outdoor fireplace and a room upstairs that I could use as an office. Do some insanely expensive kitchen remodel. Buy a beach house big enough for my whole family, including siblings, parents, friends and whoever else wanted to come. Take a family vacation to Italy. Hire a live-in nanny. Buy this Tracy Reese dress I saw at Mary the other day that I can't stop obsessing about. Set up a healthy retirement account for myself and college funds for the kids. Give each of my siblings money to buy houses. Buy shoes. And more shoes. And a few pocketbooks. I'm very materialistic. I could probably burn through a billion dollars pretty fast.

Three Bad Habits: Losing my temper, not putting things away and being too nice. Ha! That last one was a lie. I drink too much: coffee, diet soda and wine, not necessarily in that order. Also, I'm way too cute. Oops! That was four!

Five Places I Have Lived: My parents' house (in the town where I now live), Andover, Massachusetts for boarding school, Montré, Québec for college, the apartment on Waccamaw Street where I met my husband and the house where I live now. I'd stay there even if I became a billionaire, but I might buy the place behind it, use it as the fanciest guest house ever and add a pool in between. And a tiki hut.

Jobs I Have Had: Coffee shop girl at Adriana's in Five Points, receptionist at my dad's office (almost got fired), language lab attendant, bank teller, data entry person for a bank (believe it or not, this was one of my favorites, because the people I worked with were so nice), waitress, bartender, assistant manager of an underwear store, babysitter, dancer at a gentlemen's club (Joke! That was just to scare my mom. Seriously, I'm way too pale and cranky), customer support for iVillage (hilarious, because I'm clueless about computers, but it might make sense if you've ever written to iVillage for customer support), Pilates instructor (current) and...drumroll...Freelance Writer! If you want me to write something, I'll do it. For money. That makes me a freelance writer, right?

Things People Don’t Know About Me: If it's not on the blog, it's so embarrassing that I'll never tell. Well, maybe I'll tell, but you'll have to bring me a bottle of Sancerre and some cheese. And maybe give me a foot rub while I drink the wine. And I won't put it in writing.

Namasté, y'all!

Oh my.

We went to the All-Local Farmers' Market yesterday*, the first one at Rosewood Market, and it was great, as usual. We got some beef tenderloin to make after the kids go to sleep**. We also picked up some arugula, a ton of fresh eggs, some cranberry walnut challah bread from Heather and some Forsythia from Floral and Hardy Farms. Donna's flowers last forever and I swear they're more colorful than your average flower. But it might just be that I'm all cracked out on local breakfast and coffee when I buy them.

The X-Man had a big day at the market, too. We gave him a dollar for hot chocolate and he came back, cool as a cucumber, hot chocolate in one hand, dollar in the other. Turns out he managed to charm the lady bartender, who's in the third grade at his school. Just last month, he was complaining.

"Unnhh! Why do all the girls at school think I'm so cute?"

I guess he's learned to live with it. His brother, far less willing to sell out, had to cough up the dollar.

Namasté, y'all!

* And I don't know why you missed it. Really, it's getting ridiculous. Best breakfast, best groceries, best flowers, best company. All local. Be at Gervais and Vine in two weeks for the next one or you're an idiot.

** That is not a euphemism for anything. My kids are vegetarians and we're not. Get your mind out of the gutter.

The guy who made my salad is an artist.

Behold! The Chicken Salad Plate!

Did you hear the crying the other night?

That was the sound of grown men crying. Those men, every man who ever went on a date with me and couldn't handle my...ahem...challenging personality, were crying for a good reason. They were crying because, if they'd been brave like my husband, they could have been at my house, eating fried eggplant pizza.

There used to be a restaurant in town, a little Greek place some of you may remember, the Parthenon. They made the most excellent pizza, topped with fried eggplant and black olives. I haven't had one since it closed and I really, really miss that pizza. During Baby J's nap, I decided to fry up an eggplant I had left over from the day before, when I made ratatouille*. I peeled and sliced the eggplant and salted it. You have to salt the eggplant, because it's very high in moisture and will get mushy when you cook it. Lay the slices out and sprinkle them with salt; you can pat them dry after the salt draws the moisture out. While you're waiting, crack a couple of eggs into a bowl and beat them. In another bowl, mix some breadcrumbs with Italian seasoning. You could just use Italian breadcrumbs, but I didn't have any. I liked being able to add extra seasoning, too.

Coat the bottom of a big sauté pan with about an eighth of an inch of oil. I like grapeseed oil because it has a high smoke point and a very mild flavor. Heat the oil while you pat the eggplant slices dry. Dip each slice in egg and drag it through the breadcrumbs before laying it in the pan. By the time the pan is full, you can start flipping the first slices you put in. Use a fork, dummy, because you'll burn the sh*t out of your hand if you don't. Trust me, I know. When the slices are pale brown** on both sides, take them out with a fork and put them on paper towels. Keep frying eggplant until you're finished. Do not sample a piece of the fried eggplant until it cools down. If you are impatient, you will burn the sh*t out of your mouth. For real, yo.

When the baby wakes up from his nap, abandon your project***. Cover the eggplant and set it aside. You'll be using it in a few hours, so don't bother refrigerating it unless you're an uptight freak. When the big kids get home from school, force them to watch the baby while you finish by promising them the best pizza ever. Make them feel guilty by telling them he cried for them while they were at school. Kids are gullible. Take advantage of it.

Once the baby is settled with the big kids, roll out your pizza dough. You can also use a prepared crust or make your own, depending on how slack you are or aren't. I'm partial these days to Trader Joe's**** pizza dough in a bag, but I have to roll it out in a rectangle, because I can't make it be a circle. I was expending far too much energy being mad about that, so rectangle it is.

Spread pizza sauce on the crust. I use the kind in a jar, but feel free to make your own. If you are a lazy housewife like me pride yourself on being efficient and prefer the jar, buy the one without any gross, chemically ingredients from your local fancy mart. Top that with some shredded mozzarella. Guess who buys the pre-shredded kind (hormone and antibiotic free of course!) You can, too. And you're not lazy. If you fried the eggplant during the baby's nap, you can honestly say you've been cooking all day. Lay your lovingly fried slices of eggplant and some sliced black olives on top of the cheese. Sprinkle that with crumbled feta and grated Parmesan. Cook it until it's done.

My kids approved, as did my husband. But that didn't stop him from asking some woman out to lunch in Charleston, where he had to go for work. Incidentally, he did it before and I asked him not to, same woman. My feelings are very hurt. He wants to know what he can do to make it up to me. How about this? Always tell the truth and don't do stuff that you know will hurt my feelings. It's not that hard. Advice to married people: Before you say something, ask yourself if it's true. Before you do something, ask yourself, "Would my spouse be okay with this?" If the answer is usually yes, you should respect it when the answer is no. If the answer is usually no, your spouse is a freak and you should reconsider your choice. How bad is it that the whole thing wouldn't bother me at all if I could see her picture and she was really ugly? Maturity is not one of my virtues.

Namasté, y'all!

* I have to give a shout out to the makers of the film Ratatouille, who managed to turn a dish full of vegetables into a food that all children will eat. Merci!

** I know that pale brown = tan, but food should never, ever be described as tan. Gross!

*** Maybe you are wondering what to do with the unused egg. Here's a thought: spoon some of the leftover ratatouille into the still hot grease and dump the eggs over that. Voilà! Ugliest omelet ever!

**** I'm thinking of organizing a group trip to the closest TJ's, in South Charlotte. Who's in?

Polynesian nerds love my new phone.

"Mom, those Tiki Geeks really love your phone more than the iPhone!"

Sometimes the X-Man pays attention. I just might have said, maybe just a few times, over the last week or so, that "techie geeks" think the LG Voyager is better than the iPhone. They are right. It is and I have one. It is so cool, so stop telling me about your stupid iPhone. I'm so over it. You don't even have qwerty. Techie geeks are smart.

I love my new phone so much, I bought it flowers.

I feel so sorry for you poor, deprived iPhone users.



Namasté, y'all!

Skip this if you don't like cute babies.

Because my baby is cute. I hope I never forget the way he is right this second. Well, right this second, he's taking a nap, which is probably why I feel so affectionate towards him.

• He says " 'mere" when he wants someone to "Come here," which is all the time because he really,really loves us.
  


• He sings "Ah-mo waaaah!" That would be "Elmo's World."


• He says "sauce," like the French, when he wants apple sauce.


• He does the cutest little dance, kind of like a lame chicken dance, one elbow in the air, one foot grounded while the other one pivots.


• He squints his eyes and smiles when he sees a camera.
  


• He loves his brothers and asks for them. All. Day. Long.


• He thinks it's really cool to say "Yader!" instead of "Bye bye." When he has a babysitter and he's trying to show me how sophisticated he is, he waves at me and says, "Yader," smirking like the teenager he'll be.
  


• Anything that can go on his hand like a puppet is called "Hello." This includes, but isn't limited to, actual puppets (both finger and otherwise), socks, napkins and paper bags.


• Speaking of bags, he's vigilant about not leaving his at the nursery. And he likes to carry it himself.


• He makes actual jokes, like holding his fork over his head, grinning maniacally with a gleam in his eye, after we've told him four hundred times to stop stabbing the table with it.


• He has another joke. He calls the boy next door "Wo-Wo" but pretends he doesn't know Wo-Wo's sister's name. He does know her name, but he likes to punish her for being his babysitter. But he laughs with his eyes when he does it.
  

• Predictably, everything is his: toys, food, paper, fire trucks and my stool. The other day, I was sitting on the stool and he stood behind me, waving a plastic knife, threatening, "Mine! Mine!" and trying to push me off of it. So he could climb on it and use his laptop.


• He calls snacks "n'yacks."
  


• He likes it when I put his shoes on, so he can take them off.


• He'll pull out all of the disposable diapers until he finds one with Ernie on it.


• He says, "ewwww" when we change his diaper. Wonder where he got that. Huh.
  


• He likes cookies and once ran into the kitchen chanting, "Tookie! Day-do! Tookie! Day-do!," thanking me in advance for the cookie I was forced to give him.


• He loves music and points to the CD player and says, "Songs!" when he wants to hear some.


• He likes to play ball, "ahh-side."

I know, he's not the first to do that stuff. My big kids probably did the same things, but I've already forgotten. I'm insanely jealous of parents who are with it enough to catch this stuff on video. If anyone wants to video my kids, I'll pay top dollar for copies, okay? Maybe that's why people agree to do reality shows. Huh.

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. If you know my baby and want to share other cute things he does, feel free to add them in the comments!

Real Life ER.

Just like the television show, without George Clooney, of course. As the mother of three boys, it's shocking I haven't been there more often, really. That might be because when our emergency room co-pay went up from fifty to a hundred dollars, I told the kids they were allowed one freebie but after that, they'd have to pay. A hundred dollars is a lot of money, yo.

I was relaxing on my bed doing Sudoku puzzles yesterday when Baby J woke up from his nap. At the same moment, O. came inside with our neighbor, an eighth grader who's kind enough to shoot hoops with the kids. The neighbor had his hand pressed to the back of O's head. In the understatement of the year, my sweet son said, with no dramatic inflection, "I'm bleeding, Mom."

"Let me see," I said, expecting a little scratch I could patch with a Band-Aid and a kiss.

The neighbor lowered his hand and...AAAAAGGGHHHH!!!! Blood, literally, poured from my child's head. I freaked. In a very calm and sophisticated way, of course. I grabbed a towel for O. to press against the back of his head so his brain wouldn't fall out, told the neighbor he was keeping the little kids and ran out the door to go to the hospital. I called 911 in the car to inform whoever wanted to know that I would be driving through town, wildly honking my horn and carefully running red lights. And speeding. All of this was thrilling to O., who knows me as a decidedly un-NASCARish driver. The 911 operator wasn't very interested and told me I could pull over and wait for an ambulance. I was halfway to the hospital by then, so I hung up on him. I didn't get pulled. I didn't even see a cop. Why does that only happen when you're breaking the law for a good reason?

We got to the hospital in record time. I am such a good mother that I didn't even take the time to explain how to drive my beloved hybrid car to the valet. The other people in the waiting room got out of their seats to stare, à la Appalachian Emergency Room. The receptionist didn't seem too alarmed, which made me feel better. She was more shocked by the fact that I volunteered a copy of my insurance card and my debit card than she was by the blood streaming from my son's head.

I felt very proud of myself by the time we went back to be seen. It's rare that I'm the sort of mom who's organized and on top of things, but the receptionist made me feel so clever for having my insurance card and being able to pay. Gold Star!

Then the nurse came in and looked at me with pity while I tried really hard to answer all her complicated questions. I got the feeling these were things other mothers knew, or at least had written down somewhere.

"When was his last tetanus shot?"

"Ummm...whenever it was supposed to be?" She decided to throw me an easy one.

"Does he have a regular pediatrician?"

"Yes!" I glowed with pride, sure my answer was correct.

"And who is that?"

Bingo! Another easy one! I even knew her first and last name*.

"Are you employed?"

"No, well yes, well...um, no?"

I teach Pilates once or twice a week. That doesn't seem like a job compared to "nurse," "doctor," or "receptionist." I'm going to start saying "writer." Given my apparent ditziness, I'm sure she wasn't surprised to learn I was unemployed.

"And where did all these come from?"

This was directed at O., who I suddenly noticed had bruises and cuts all over his legs. One by one, he explained them. Some were from football, some from soccer, one from skateboarding and, oddly, "this one is from people kicking me in the ankle." I'll have to ask him about that one. I'm glad they didn't ask me that question, because I had no idea.

"When is the last time your son washed his hair or took a bath? And why are his clothes so dirty?"

Actually, she didn't ask me that, and I'm glad, because I wouldn't have known the answer. He looked fine before we left the house, but looked pretty filthy under the harsh lights of the ER. I also noticed he had yellow paint in his hair, which must have been there for a while, because it looked familiar. When we were alone, I asked how long it had been there. Since January. I'm really glad they didn't ask about the yellow paint and I promise to be more vigilant about his hairwashing habits.

After all those questions and my woefully inadequate answers, I was embarrassed to ask if I could leave him and go to my Yoga class. I missed it, but I did get to go to the gym later. I know you're all relieved to hear that!

And, oh yeah, the patient is doing just fine. All in all, it was a pleasant experience and I know he was looking forward to telling his friends about it (and showing off the stitches), because he couldn't wait to get to school this morning. He was disappointed all the blood came out of his shirt. The people in the ER were so nice**. They even gave us a suture removal kit so we could beg my brother-in-law, a gastroenterologist, to take the stitches out rather than going back to the ER. He'll probably ask what he always asks when people want medical advice,

"Um...I'm not sure I can help. Exactly how far is that from the bottom?"

Ha ha. I hope he'll do it, although I would like to go back to the ER, dressed nicer and with a cleaner child, to prove I'm not a complete flake. Maybe next time...

Namasté, y'all!

* Shameful admission: When I went to the hospital to have Baby J, I gave her name as Dr. "First Name of a Dermatologist I Saw One Time, Five Years Ago" "Correct Last Name." I won't make that mistake again!

** As an aside, we make some alternative health choices. I know a lot of people who make those choices have had bad experiences with doctors, but I want to say that we never have. I know they don't agree with the choices, but they've always been respectful. Advice: If you make weird choices, but are confident (not defensive!) about them, no one will question you. And if you aren't confident about your choices, why on earth did you make them?

How to be The Best Cooker Ever

When my brother was in high school, he informed my parents that, once he was in college, he would live in an apartment and eat nothing but pizza, wings and Chinese food. Thankfully, he came to his senses and eats a more varied and healthier diet. The joys of pizza, wings and Chinese food, however, should not be denied. Before my older children became vegetarians, I was named Best Cooker Ever for serving such dishes as Greek chicken wings, fried rice and Eggplant Mush Pizza. Although they would deny it now, they once wept with joy over a beef tenderloin I made.

Once again, I've been designated Best Cooker Ever. And it was easy. A few days ago, I made crêpes, filled with creamed spinach. And peanut butter and jelly crêpes, by request, for dessert. They're so simple to make that I didn't bat an eye when the kids asked me to try peanut butter and jelly. I'm slack; all I do is add a lot of extra liquid to regular pancake mix, pour it in a buttered crêpe pan, wait until it starts to bubble, dump stuff in it and fold it over like a dang quesa-dillah. Voilà! Crêpes! The next day, I made Pad Thai, which is always a hit. I bought the shrimp for the Pad Thai at Palmetto Seafood Co.

Tonight, I scored again. The boys and I went back to Palmetto this afternoon. I need to gush for a minute. I love that place. They can always tell me what it is I want. I explained how I wanted to make the fish tonight and they suggested flounder, which was, as the British say so well, spot on. They also sold me the exact amount I needed, based on me telling them who all was coming to dinner. I bought two flounder, which they cleaned and filleted for me while the boys and I sipped ice cold sodas (Diet Coke for me, regular for them, because I like to be the Nicest Mommy in the World once in a while) and waited on our to-go order of fried frog legs. Apparently, their pescetarianism has expanded to include amphibianerianism. They also enjoyed watching the live crawdads crawl all over each other. Lucius Moultrie, the proprietor, is well known as the fish fry master of House Majority Whip Jim Clyburn's annual shindig. That's only once a year, far too long to wait, so I recommend stopping by once in a while for a to-go meal. There are too many choices to list here, but I assure you that they're all good. And fried. The smell of that place, fresh fish combined with fried, fills me with joy. I let the boys eat the frog legs in the car, because they need to be eaten hot. The X-Man paused.

"Wait, let me see if I can still sing. Mwaaaaaahhh-la-la-laaaaaa!," he warbled, doing his impression of an opera singer. "Good. I don't have a frog in my throat."

Ha! Is that kid sharp or what? But I digress. Here's what I did with the fish:

Pan-fried Fish, Best Cooker Ever Style

Soak your fish fillets in a bath of milk and beaten eggs for at least 30 minutes. The milk will mellow the taste of the fish.

In a food processor, mix a handful of nuts (I used pecans), an entire bunch of fresh parsley and a little salt and pepper. It should look like a very dry pesto. Dump that onto a large plate.

Heat some butter and oil (choose one that has a pretty high smoke point, like grapeseed oil) in a large pan.

Take a piece of fish, dredge it in the parsley and nut mixture and lay it in the pan. Put as many pieces in the pan as you can without overlapping. You can press more pesto on top of the fish if you like. Cook it for a few minutes, until the edges are white, and flip it, cooking for a few more minutes just until the fish turns opaque all the way through. Slap it on a plate and eat it.

I served it with roasted fingerling potatoes and a mâche salad. We had crêpes for dessert, inspired by the begging of small children and some Brazilian honey we sampled and bought today. It was begging to be drizzled on a crêpe, this "Creamy, Raw Honey, Infused with Chocolate." Yup. I also added chopped pecans. Of all the crêpes we've eaten this week, these were the best.

Namasté, y'all!

Wait...it's really not my fault.

I just remembered, long before I accidentally introduced "coinkydink", the X-Man latched on to "easy peasy lemon squeezie," which he got from school, so there. He must be predisposed to nerdiness. I triggered it, but I didn't cause it. Hooray!

I got "easy peasy lemon squeezie" from him, not the other way around. I never used that phrase before he taught it to me. Oh wait, maybe I'm predisposed to nerdiness, too, which means...doh!

Oops.

"That could be a coinkydink."

"Do you mean catastrophe?"

"Yeah, but I just like the way coinkydink sounds."

The X-Man is a nerd and it's totally my fault. Never mind that he knew "coinkydink" wasn't even the right word to describe Baby J standing on the very edge of the kitchen table with his shirt covering his eyes. He likes one of the nerdiest words in the Universe and will use it in place of any long word that starts with a "c." And it's all my fault. I said it once, just once, as a joke, and he was on it like white on rice. He owns that word. Maybe he'll make it cool. I sure hope so. It would be quite the coinkydink if my one time use of that word launched his career in trendsetting. Oops, just used it again.

If nerdiness were genetic, there wouldn't be much my kids could do to change their fate. My husband, by the way, is cool, but my total and complete lack of coolness cancels that out. Sadly, I'm cooler now than I've ever been in my life. That is how uncool I've been. But children don't turn out like their parents. Republicans beget Democrats, tom boys beget girly girls, athletes beget clods. And I should know, because I'm the Democrat, girly girl clod child of an athlete and a tom boy, both Republicans, of course. They made the dire mistake of teaching us how to make thoughtful decisions about our political views instead of cramming their own down our throats. Bet they're sorry now!

There are times when it breaks your heart to realize your children have so little in common with you. One of my friends, a staunch Democrat much like me and my husband, is sure that his son will rebel by becoming a hard-core, right wing conservative. He's probably right, because teenagers have a way of knowing exactly how to push buttons. Often, though, it's just a stage and they come to their senses.

There are other times when you're thrilled to see that your child didn't inherit some awful personality trait from you. My children aren't shy. I was, painfully. I still am, but I pretend I'm not, which helps. When O. was a toddler, first hitting the park circuit, I was terrified that he wouldn't be able to talk to the other kids, because it's all about me, right? I went to the park armed with all kinds of advice and coping techniques*, totally unnecessary. That kid will talk to anyone, anywhere. I love it.

I don't feel guilty about the not so hot aspects of my kids' personalities and I don't take credit for all the good things about them, because they have nothing to do with me. I'm just happy that I have funny kids who I like most of the time. I do feel a tiny bit guilty about "coinkydink" though...

Namasté, y'all!

* There was one piece of advice I really liked, even though I didn't need it at the time. I have to share, just in case you're interested. When parents get to the park with kids and the kid wants to play with kids who are already there, the parent will say,

"Ask if you can play with them."

Bad, bad advice. Tell the kid to just go join the game. Think about it. Kids can leave other kids out, especially if the opportunity is handed to them, and asking to play just seems so...desperate. Do you like grownups who repeatedly ask if they can come hang out with you and your friends? Or do you like the ones who just belly up next to you at the bar and order a drink? And tell jokes. And, more importantly, laugh at your jokes. Teach your kid how to tell a few jokes and do a realistic courtesy laugh in response to other kids' jokes. He'll be the most popular guy at the park.

Whoa.

I've been the victim of a Jedi Mind Trick.

I used to have a cell phone. It wasn't a particularly nice cell phone, but it worked. Baby J believes that it belongs to him. He points to it and says, "Mine." If I don't relinquish it immediately, he gets testy.

"My. Phone."

And he doesn't even call anybody. He just chews on it, which (just so you know) causes it not to work for a few days. Usually it dries out and works fine, but now it seems to be permanently damaged. That's cool, though, because I have the perfect excuse to get the LG Voyager (or Voya-jhay, as we say en France), which I want real bad. Baby J will not be allowed to touch it, ever.

This morning, I cleaned up for the house cleaners and got Baby J ready for the holding cell for babies educational wonderland known as the drop-in nursery. As I walked out the door, I checked to see if I had my phone. Alas, I did not. It should have been easy to find, because I had removed most of the clutter in preparation for the house cleaners. Nope, couldn't find it.

I made it an hour and a half before I had to go home and ransack the house. It's not like anyone really needs to get in touch with me, but sometimes I just have to tell people stuff. Right then. I looked all over, retracing my steps. No phone. Finally, I looked in the last place I remembered putting anything, Baby J's toy crate. It was right there of course, because it's "His. Phone." That sneaky little Jedi!

Namasté, y'all!

Suitcase Fight

I'm not sure why I started the fight. I was looking forward to a whole weekend of Yoga, one of those workshops that Yoga nerds like me crave. But I had to start a fight, maybe because I felt just a tiny bit guilty for leaving A. with the kids while I went to stretch and breathe and think about myself for hours on end. Or maybe it was hormones. Seriously.

I packed the suitcase, taking all of my favorite outfits. I'm not sure what kind of fabulous social events I was planning. Do women who leave their families behind immediately start partying* like rock stars? I live in a small town. Where was I planning on doing all of this rocking out? I took a bathing suit, too, because I knew I wasn't leaving for good and I thought I might as well find a hotel with a nice indoor pool. Even in all my righteous anger, I was thinking about inviting my girlfriends and having a little ladies' night around the pool at some hotel. Fun!

The thing is, my engagement ring and my watch are the only two really nice pieces of jewelry I have. And they were both gifts from my husband. He gave me the watch for our tenth anniversary after I insisted suggested, perhaps not so gently, that after three children and ten years, a nice watch might make a nice gift. Anyhow, they kind of pull my outfits together and it would be tacky to wear them if I abandoned my family, n'est-ce pas?

Also, I couldn't think of a nice hotel in town with an indoor pool. The only one I know is the Marriott and their pool is so un-fabulous. There is absolutely no way I could entertain there. I need a pool like this one, at the Westin in Charlotte, but that's too far for my friends to drive, unless they wanted to abandon their families, too. And that would take way too much advance planning.

The Suitcase Fight is spur of the moment, which is what makes it so exciting. And far less likely to result in an actual separation. When you have three children, you can't just walk away. The only time you should really leave a marriage with little to no advance planning is if your spouse is dangerous. And if your spouse is dangerous, you really should take the children, and they will totally cramp your style.

I put my suitcase in the car** and drove away from the curb. And I drove a little bit more. And I went to breakfast, a block from our house. And I pondered how I was going to kill the time until the Yoga workshop started. I wondered if the Yoga people would be able to sense my dark and stormy aura. Much like the criminal who thinks he can beat the lie detector, I thought it might be fun to pick a really annoying Yoga person and ask them what my aura looked like and try really hard to think really good thoughts so I could fool them.

My breakfast was terrible and I started to worry about what I would eat, living in a hotel. I would really miss my kitchen because, as my children like to say, I am "the best cooker ever." Speaking of the children, mine are really cute and it wouldn't be so nice to leave them with a nincompoop like my husband. And, if I did, he might realize how easy I have it and the slacker lifestyle I've worked so hard to create would end. I decided that, rather than abandoning my family and staying in a less than perfect hotel, I would call our acupuncturist first thing Monday morning and get him to give me some acupuncture and happy Chinese herbs.

So I called A. and told him I was coming home, after Yoga of course. I had some time in between the morning and afternoon sessions, so I went home and unpacked my suitcase then. Lucky for me, no one was there so it wasn't embarrassing. I also felt like brushing my teeth, because I had eaten lunch. I think it's against Yoga rules to practice with bad breath.

By the way, what set me off was the scary condition of the boys' bedroom. No matter how often I help them de-clutter, the stuff comes back. And I got mad at A. for not caring as much as I do about the clutter. The problem has been solved, though. We promised the boys lava lamps***, as soon as they finish weeding through and organizing their stuff. They're working hard and really looking forward to the stylish lava lamps. Just tonight, the X-Man told me,

"I just know we're getting those lava lamps, because we're almost done cleaning up and re-cluttering!"

"Don't you mean de-cluttering?"

"Yeah! Whatever!"

Sigh.

Namasté, y'all!

* I can't help it. I have to say that, as a rule, I hate using nouns as verbs, but I made an exception in this case, as "party like a rock star" is a well known phrase. Bless me, for I have sinned, in using bad grammar and in torturing my husband.

** Actually, I put it in A's car, because my car had Baby J's car seat in it and I was being far too dramatic to take the time to transfer the seat. A. should have known I wasn't leaving for good, because he knows how much I love my car.

*** Which we already have, thanks to our friend Bob, who in an effort to de-clutter his own home, gave them to us for his birthday. Thank you, Bob! It takes a village, yo!

Awwwww...

Whenever Baby J sees a bottle or glass of wine, he says,

"Nice!"

This is humiliating. Kind of like when our friend's child pointed to his pre-school teacher's can of Diet Coke and said,

"Beer."

Or when another child pointed to a huge Budweiser display in the grocery store and yelled (at the top of his little lungs, of course),

"Daddy's juice!"

We are so fancy and so are our friends.

Namasté, y'all!

Who's a bigger liar?

Those fifty three year olds who write to "gentlemen's" magazines about the wild and crazy things that have happened to them (in public, with beautiful women) or the thirteen year old girls who write to magazines about their most embarrassing moments? All of those stories are equally implausible and, even more annoying, not even good stories. If you're telling a lie, at least it should be interesting. Or funny.

To the fifty three year old:

No, you did not do the horizontal (or vertical, as the case may be) monkey dance with that stewardess.

And, no, she certainly did not stare at you for the whole flight, before beckoning you to the galley with her sparkly, manicured nail.

And she was too wearing underpants, not that you would know.

And, no, you were not sitting in first class, working on a presentation for your big meeting in L.A. In fact, chances are good that you're marginally employed, if at all.

And, I know you didn't claim this, but you certainly implied it, you are in no way, by any stretch of the imagination, handsome. Not a chance.

And, seriously, couldn't you have done better than that story? It was so boringly obvious.

To the thirteen year old girl:

Yes, you probably do have a crush on that boy in your math class. All thirteen year old girls have a crush on someone. I remember it well. Although I didn't go on an actual date until college, I did go on imaginary dates. Constantly.

That boy, however, is probably not "the cutest guy in your whole school." Or, maybe he is, but trust me, he's not that cute. Study hard and go to a good college. That's where the really cute ones are.

And no, he was not looking at you "flirtatiously" as you walked out of the bathroom. Thirteen year old boys don't look at you flirtatiously, they stare off into space. If you happen to be in that space, it may appear that they are staring at you. But not flirtatiously. That was a lie, wasn't it?

And, heck no, you did not wink at him. You were way too chicken. Ba-baaaaahck!

And, finally, no, you didn't suddenly realize that your skirt was tucked into the back of your tights, underwear or panty hose (does anyone even wear panty hose any more? I'm so out of touch.) No one makes that mistake, unless they are really, really drunk. Were you drunk? Do you really want to put that out there, albeit anonymously, in a national publication? Probably not. Just put it on Facebook, like all the other kids your age.

And, thirteen year old girl, don't feel bad. Every thirteen year old girl wants to have silly stories like that to tell. And cute boys to like. And every thirteen year old girl exaggerates. I once had a major crush on a boy, not that he knew, because I never talked to him. I mean, he and I hung out a lot, in my head, exchanging witty and flirtatious banter, but I wasn't ready to actually talk to him. Then, on our class trip, he sat with some other girl on the bus, a girl who could actually speak to members of the opposite sex. I spent the trip listening to Whitney Houston sing All At Once on my Sony Walkman, on a tape I had recorded from the vinyl album I owned, and trying not to cry. I had made the tape by playing the album on my Fisher-Price record player and holding up the microphone of my parent's old tape recorder. The sound quality was fairly awful, which suited my melancholy mood. The recording method made Whitney sound a little bit like Billie Holiday. You want to know the most pathetic part? I might be exaggerating, because one's brain has a self-protective way of blocking these things out, but I think I made the tape while envisioning listening to it with the cute boy, who would fall madly in love with me on our class trip. Yikes.

Oh, fifty three year old guy? You, sir, are pathetic. Did you think I would have kind words for you, as I did for thirteen year old girl? Nope. She has her whole life in front of her. She can get better and her shyness is actually saving her from the embarrassment of teenage romantic entanglements. You, sir, don't have that kind of time. Depressing, isn't it?

Namasté, y'all!

Never fear, Billy Paul. Amy Winehouse has got your back. I think.

The thing I hate about having children is I can't rock out in the car anymore. I'm not exactly opera material (or even Karaoke), but I sound pretty good if the real music drowns out my voice. Rocking out in a moving car is my only option, because the neighbors complained when I tried it at home. As long as I keep moving, nobody has to listen for too long. My taste in music is questionable, according to my husband. He doesn't get the theme, though. As long as I can sing along, I like it. I do a great Kanye West, by the way.

This afternoon, we were listening to Me and Mrs. Jones, sunroof open, windows down. I was in rare form. And O. just had to tell me something. The more I'm rocking out, the more likely it is that one of my children will have to tell me something. Very important. Right now! Dutiful mother that I am, I ignore them as long as possible and, when I can't take it anymore, I turn down the music and groan,

"Whaaaaaaat?"

The answer varies, and it's never interesting. That's the thing about children. Most of what they have to say is very, very boring. I love them, with all my heart, but I just don't really care if Patrick (not, incidentally, one of my children) got a new soccer ball. That is so boring! In this case, O. wanted to tell me that Baby J was rocking out to Me and Mr. Jones, which I have to admit was pretty darn cute. But then they started telling me boring stuff again, so I turned the music back up. Unfortunately, I had lost my momentum and couldn't get back into the groove.

Until the next song on my iPod started. And I was Paula Abdul.

"Lost, in a dream, I don't know Which! Way! To! Turn!"

And along came Neneh Cherry, still hanging in a buffalo stance, whatever the heck that is. Next up, Save Tonight. I'll award ten Schrute Bucks to the first person who can tell me why those two songs are together on my iPod.

Then Amy Winehouse came on, Me and Mr. Jones. I've looked up the lyrics to that song and I still have no idea what they mean, but I like to think that Amy is consoling that poor cuckold, Mr. Jones. So Mrs. Jones and Billy Paul can be free to indulge their thing, which is, frankly, much too strong to let go now.

Namasté, y'all!

Buttermilk Week 2008: Closing Remarks

Ladies and gentlemen, as Buttermilk Week 2008 comes to a close, I look back on it fondly, as I hope you all do! There were ups and downs, but overall I think we shared a lot of successes! Many new things were tried! Many friendships were made! Much buttermilk was consumed! I consider each and every one of you a friend and I look forward to seeing you all at next year's "Office Escape 2009!" Plenty of funtivities will be planned and a good time will be had by all! Whether they like it or not! Your end of the year bonuses depend on it! Those of you who were unable to have a good time this week need to learn more about about being part of a team! May I remind you that there is no "I" in "team"! !!! !!!

Ahem. I'm so glad I don't have to work in an office and participate in group activities and listen to boring, poorly written speeches by my boss. And, by the way, there may not be an "I" in "team," but the letters can be rearranged to form two important words. Those words are "at" and "me," as in "Everyone is looking AT ME, because I am so special!" So there. I hate catchphrases. They're so lame.

Seriously, though, the buttermilk is almost gone. I used some of it in a broccoli, spinach, Cheddar and Parmesan quiche that's in the oven right now. It was great in the cauliflower and Gruyère quiche we had a few days ago and I have high hopes for the one in the oven. I also made a vinegar pie (I swear they're good!) with buttermilk a few days ago, but I didn't love it enough to give out the recipe. I did, however, love it enough to eat most of it. I promise to tinker with it and come up with a better version.

I have about a cup left of the buttermilk, which happens to be cultured. Cultured buttermilk is made by adding lactic acid to milk. Lactic acid is also known as...drumroll...ALPHA HYDROXY ACID! Yup, ladies, the stuff that can cost a fortune and makes your dry, winter skin soft and smooth for summer. Cleopatra was supposed to have bathed in sour milk to keep her skin soft. Sour milk, you say? Otherwise known as...buttermilk! I plan to take the rest of the buttermilk and dump it in my bath. All I need is a Star Magazine to read while I soak. I think I'll light an orange scented candle, because according to aromatherapists, citrus scents can alleviate depression and stress, as common as dry skin in the winter*. Plus, the combination of orange and milk will smell like one of those orange creamsicles, and those are awesome. Yeah!

Namasté, y'all!

* That is not a fact. I made it up.

It would seem that I am a hag and didn't know it.

"Hi, Xenobia*," said the goofy jerk at the dry cleaner's.

I'm not Xenobia, which he realized, but not quickly enough to save my ego. He felt compelled to tell me how much I looked like his friend Xenobia, who happens to be the sister of a local public figure, who happens to be nearly seventy years old and looks like a man. He thought I was old enough to have a sister who's older than my parents...and looks like a man. I haven't seen Xenobia, but I have seen her sister and, while I'm not the prettiest person alive, I really don't think I look that bad. Or that old. Or that mannish, damnit. What a jerk.

Not that I care too much about my looks. Well, no more than any woman. Some days, I wish I was smarter or more employed, and others, I just wish I was prettier and had better clothes. But I digress. When I was in college, grunge ruled and we made a point of not being pretty. I didn't shave my legs** and I wore combat boots with granny dresses and mini skirts, when I wasn't wearing overalls and a tank top. Messy hair wrapped up in a rubber band ruled and I at least pretended not to wear makeup. My girlfriends and I wanted to prove that we didn't have to go out of our way to make ourselves attractive to men (oh, the folly of youth!) The whole look was supposed to scream, "NOT SEXY!"

Which is why I felt mildly annoyed at a local bar the other night (Hint: The name is kind of like "Aerial Platter," but not.) The waitresses there were rocking my college look, but all wrong. They had the ugly plaid mini skirts and boots, but they had added tons of makeup, hair gel and, in several cases, fake boobs. It seemed so hypocritical, tarting up grunge that way. Of course, I didn't really care. I'm not so old that I don't know that every generation will do their own thing, fashion wise. And I was probably a teensy bit jealous of the fake boobs; I'm not that brave, but it sure would be nice to have those.

I did want to tell them that they didn't have to try so hard. It's true what your mother said, by the way,

"Just be yourself and you'll have plenty of friends! But put on a little lipstick. You look washed out."

Every time I tried too hard to be something I wasn't, I ended up with a boyfriend or friends I didn't really like. I don't blame them, either, because I made every effort to seem like I was their sort of person. "Be yourself." "Remember who you are." "Act natural." However you want to put it, your mother was right. She was right about the lipstick, too. You do look washed out, just a little.

At the end of my grunge phase, when I was headed into my garish lipstick and high heels phase***, I went on a camping trip with a bunch of people, including a boy I liked. I'm so not a camper and one of the best things about my husband is that, like me, he will only camp at a Westin or some place even nicer. I love him. And I love the Westin. Anyhow, at some point during the trip, Outdoorsy Boy caught me surreptitiously putting on lipstick, just like my mama taught me. He was merciless, ignoring my protests that the color was called "Twig," hardly a color at all, and was made by MAC and had never been tested on animals. He was nice enough, but all wrong for me and I should have known it right then. Be yourself, and you'll end up with someone who's just right for you. Try and be someone else and you'll end up with their boyfriend, who, no matter how attractive, you do not want. But put on a little lipstick. It really will brighten up your whole face.

Namasté, y'all!

* Name has been changed because I live in a small town.

** Correction, I experimented with not shaving my legs. That counts, right?

*** Which I'm still in, by the way.

Most Hi-Class Tuna Casserole

Did you grow up in the seventies? Did you love your mom's cooking? Do you want to impress your friends? Have I got a recipe for you. This is not your mother's tuna casserole. This is hi-class, super fancy, sophisticated tuna casserole. I hate things that are so fancy that they don't taste good. I'm all for fancy, but in the end, you have to eat the thing, so it should taste good. I also like cooking appetizers, because my kids will eat anything, as long as it looks like party food. If I wrap it in nori or phyllo dough and arrange it on a tray with parsley, they'll eat it. Even better if they can eat it with a toothpick. If I put crap on a cracker, with a garnish, they'd eat it.

Tuna Casserole Triangles

In a bowl, mix the following:

• 2 small cans of tuna, drained.
• 1 heaping cup shredded cheddar cheese.
• a heaping 1/4 cup mayonnaise.
• 1/4 cup buttermilk.
• 1/2 cup slivered almonds.
• 1 cup frozen broccoli florets. Chop up the big pieces, but you don't have to go nuts about it.
• A spoonful of mustard.
• A few shakes of salt.
• A few shakes of pepper.

When you mix it all together, it should look like this:


Now for the fancy part. Earlier in the day, you have gone to the store to get frozen phyllo dough. And, though it was frozen when you bought it, you have put it in the fridge to thaw. Get it out now. If you are a young woman raised in the Orthodox Church (Greek or otherwise), you know good and well how to work with phyllo. If you are not that young woman, never fear. It just takes practice.

Pour some olive oil in a bowl and get out your pastry brush. Lay out one sheet of pastry on the counter and slice it into five pieces, slicing the short way. I suggest using a pizza cutter. In fact, I suggest using a Zyliss pizza cutter, because it is so awesome*. The sliced sheet of dough will look like this:


Brush the strips with olive oil. Hold the end of each strip lightly and brush from your fingers up to the top. Don't be shy with the olive oil**. Put a dollop of the tuna mixture at the end of one strip, about an inch from the top, like this:


Fold a corner over, like this:


And keep folding, like a flag, until you have a little triangle. Don't try to fold it too tight, because the paper will tear or it will explode in the oven, which would be fun, but a b***h to clean. Repeat the process until all of the mixture is gone. Put the triangles on a greased baking sheet. You should have about twenty, but you could easily double (or triple! or quadruple!) this recipe for a party or for leftovers to freeze (more on that later).


Brush the top of each pastry with more olive oil. Put them in a 350° oven for about 25 minutes or until they're golden brown.

As promised, here are the directions for leftovers. These will freeze really well. After wrapping them, but before brushing with the final coat of olive oil, put them in a freezer safe container between sheets of waxed paper. When you're ready to cook them, take them out, put them on a greased baking sheet and brush them with olive oil. Cook them at 350° for 45 minutes or so. Don't thaw before cooking; they'll get soggy. Here's a cooked one:


According to my children, I'm the best cooker ever. So there.

By the way, for those of you who follow these sorts of things, the buttermilk is almost gone!

Namasté, y'all!


* And, I've said it before and I'll say it again, probably more than once, you can buy it at Mary and Martha's, one of my favorite kitchen stores in town. Here's the pizza slicer:


** That's what she said. Ha!

What's the deal with those psychotic birds?

I was going to sleep in this morning which, in my pathetic world, means sleeping until about 9 am. I hate psychotic birds. I can sleep through the sound of my children and husband talking; I do it all the time. I have to, because they think nothing of approaching me while I'm in a dead sleep and starting a conversation, in a really loud boy voice.

"TODAY I WANT TO PLAY SOCCER AND GO OUT TO LUNCH. DO YOU KNOW WHERE MY BLUE SHIRT IS? AND MY LEGO HELICOPTER THAT I JUST MADE? MY TOE HURTS."

That's the husband. The kid's morning chats are even more inane. Question: Do they notice that my eyes are closed, I'm lying in my bed under the covers and the room is very, very dark? Answer: No, they do not. Or maybe they just don't care. When they start conversations like that, my eyes snap open, or clench closed, depending on how delusional I am that day about going back to sleep. My heart starts racing and I feel like Queen Latifah in that movie she's in with Steve Martin where they hook up on the internet and she gets out of prison and goes to stay with him and he startles her and she bolts up in bed and starts punching the air and makes really funny noises. Have you seen that movie? It's a terrible movie, but that scene is hilarious, well at least that one moment in that scene. And I totally understand how she felt. Well played, Latifah.

So, this morning as I was ignoring my family and waiting for the moment they would all leave the house so I could really sleep, the birds started going nuts. According to some study, boy birds try to out-sing their buddies just to be louder. Girl birds get loud when they're alone, but can hear other birds nearby. Much like lady humans, lady birds just want to hang out with someone. Also like their human counterparts, boy birds just want to be the loudest. I'm just happy to know that the birds weren't plotting to kill me and my little family. Have you seen that movie?

In other news, I measured the X-Man this morning after he came into the kitchen looking really tall. It's amazing how kids can do that. I think they really do grow overnight. I stood him up against the back of the laundry room door, where we record their heights sporadically, and found that he had grown five or six inches over the last year and a half or, as he said,"as much as my face when I was a baby."

Namsté, y'all.