Not sure if this counts for or against me in the Mother of the Year contest.

Just before Christmas, I approached the kids in a blatant attempt to guilt them into giving to the needy to offset our guilt over the obscene amount of stuff they get, even though we know we shouldn't give it to them, but we do anyway , but they're so thankful and sweet we can't help but think it must be OK and we just hope we aren't ruining them for life about donating to those in need. My faux-impromptu chat was viciously calculated to fall just in between the day each boy received a generous check in the mail from my Grandmother and Christmas. The impending arrival of Santa Claus renders my normal children polite, loving and charitable. I explained that TF and I planned to buy a $XX* gift card at Target for a local home for children. After the children willingly agreed to donate a bike they were no longer using, I upped the ante.

"You don't have to, but since y'all just got those generous checks from Grandmother, you might want to consider adding some of that money to the Target card."

The big boy, a veteran of ten lucrative Christmases and eager to impress Santa/Jesus/Mom and Dad/Higher-Power-of-Choice, responded first, his voice dripping with sincerity. We're talking Hallmark Card commercial here.

"I would like to give the whole $50."

A choir of angels sung in the distance as the clouds opened and the sun shone down on the Best Ten-Year-Old Boy Ever. Honestly? My instinct was to tell him no, but I was pretty sure discouraging charitable acts - even if they are a blatant attempt to garner good gift Karma - would not get me any points for "Mother of the Year." And I want that trophy, dammit. It will be the perfect matching bookend to the one I got for "Meanest Mommy Ever."

"That's very generous," I answered, trying to keep the smirk out of my voice, "X-Man, would you like to donate some of your money?"

"Hmmm..." The great mind of a seven-year-old at work. "Nah. Since O. donated so much, they probably have enough."

Was it wrong of me to feel admiration? Does it help my case if you know I controlled myself and didn't fist-bump him for his ingenuity? Of course I didn't. Mother of the Year responded in a calm, non-judgmental way. I do have a Masters in Social Work, you know.

"Well, sweetheart, that's your choice and it really is OK, but they told me some new children are arriving after the holidays and they'll need clothes. Five or ten dollars could buy two or three shirts on clearance for a child who arrives with very little."

"Oh!" He perked up. "Well, I'll give ten dollars."

I was proud of him for choosing the high estimate.

"Wait!" exclaimed the Best Ten-Year-Old Boy Ever. "I didn't know they could get that much stuff for ten dollars. I think I'll give ten, too."

I love the way their minds work, I really do. Most people who raise funds for charity have goals, specific amounts they request from potential donors. If pressed, I was going to suggest five dollars each - so I doubled my goal. Yeah! I'm so good I expect those non-profits will be beating my door down, begging me to come work for them.

I like to lead by example, selflessly giving to others in my everyday life. What follows, dear reader, is my gift to you, a recipe for the snack I devoured while typing this.

Dip Made from Stuff I Saw When I Opened the Fridge

In a bowl, mix the following:

1-3 dollops sour cream

1-3 splashes hot sauce

1-2 spoonfuls of crumbled bacon.

Mix it all together, smuggle it into your room with a box of Harvest Whole Wheats (the hippy version of Triscuits) and eat it before the kids find you. Sharing sucks.

Namasté, y'all!

* I'm not being coy, really. I explained to my children that we shouldn't brag about doing charitable things and I like to attempt to practice what I preach, so I left off the amount. Not that it was all that impressive. And I know I'm breaking my own rule by telling you about it, but this is a blog and blogs are all about broaching forbidden subjects. And it's a good story.

Some people want to be unhappy.

My Grandmother is not one of those people. I was having dinner with her one night after one of O's piano recitals. We were with the children, my parents, my husband, my mother-in-law and maybe a couple of other random relatives. I was telling everyone how excited I was about having both boys stay for a full day of school the next year*. As my Grandmother's eyes lit up, my mother-in-law's face fell.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, very French-ly, "This is 'orrible! Now you will have to prepare two lunches!"

My side of the family started to laugh. I, however, knew she wasn't joking. The French love a tragedie, and Maman is about as French as they come. After we finished laughing and making lots of sarcastic remarks about how much more difficult it would be to make not one, but deux sandwiches every day, I tried to explain to Maman**.

"I always try to be like Grandmother," I said. "She always sees the positive. I've never heard her complain."

"Ah!" responded Maman, very French-ly, "This is not possible!"

She looked at my Grandmother in horror. I suspect that Maman thinks that people who don't whine aren't smart. She turned to my Grandmother and asked how it was possible that she never complained. My Grandmother's response was simple. Shrugging her shoulders, she said,

"I guess I just never could think of much to complain about."

And there you have it. She is one happy woman. Her life was not without stress. Shortly after she married, her husband went overseas to fight. Grandmother made the best of it and spent time traveling with her sister. When he came back, they were so excited to be together that they had seven kids. I don't care how much help she had, having seven kids is not always a walk in the park. A walk in a French park, incidentally, would probably be filled with misery: ants, puddles, bad weather, muggers (American, of course) and bad wine.

Anyhow...last night we went to Garibaldi's to celebrate Grandmother's eighty-seventh birthday. Five of her seven children , two of her thirteen grandchildren, one of her four grandsons-in-law and three of her daughters-in-law were there. And we are kind of loud. Our reservation was for six o'clock and, perhaps because of our behavior in years past, we were seated at a long table in the bar. It's my favorite place to sit, because it's where my husband and I sat on our first date. Before the meal, we were milling around and going back and forth to the bar for drinks. I think that's the way Grandmother likes it, because she didn't tell us to sit down and was doing a bit of milling herself. One of the reasons my Grandmother never complains is that she isn't shy about telling people what she wants, and they usually give it to her, because she's so sweet. Sweet, but effective. In a different time, my Grandmother might have been finishing up her second term as President of this country.

After we had been there for a while (maybe two rounds?), two ladies were seated at a table next to ours. They spent quite a bit of time not enjoying themselves, rather deliberately, if you ask me. They kept giving us meaningful, irritated looks. If one of us brushed against one of their chairs and apologized, they would respond, through clenched teeth, with one of those annoying, tight smiles,

"Oh. It's fine."

As we sat down, I decided to do the dumb blonde, nicey-nice thing, which I do quite well when I feel like it. I leaned over and said, with what I believe was a charming smile,

"Sorry about all this! My Grandmother is turning eight-seven today and she has seven children!"

One of those ladies said, lamely, if you ask me,

"Well, I just hope you're sitting now."

Or something like that. I don't remember, because I didn't really care. People like that want to suffer and they want to make everyone else feel bad. I don't like to suffer, so I don't let passive aggression put a damper on my fun. I'm sure they wanted to suffer, too, because if I had been sitting there, I would have asked to move to one of the other available tables. There were quite a few, including some of the booths in the bar area, which are great for chatting. There was an empty table right next to them that would have been more out of the way. Why be miserable when all they had to do was ask the waiter if they could move? Because they want the world to know how horrible everyone is to them. Or maybe they just like spending two hundred dollars on a meal and not enjoying it.

I would bet my last fifty dollars that most of their dinner conversation was about how awful we were. And we weren't, by the way, because we're all incredibly entertaining and good looking. And we never, ever drink too much. Do you believe me? No? Eh, I don't care. I had a blast! More importantly, Grandmother seemed to really enjoy herself. She's the master of ignoring things that are unpleasant, like the sourpusses at the next table. They were wearing sweatshirts, by the way, further proof that they just weren't feeling "fun" to begin with, n'est-ce pas?

Namasté, y'all!

* I was really looking forward to all the child-free time. I loved it so much that we decided to conceive another child. Ha! When he goes to school, will you all make sure we're using proper birth control?

** Yeah, I was being passive aggressive. Wanna' make something of it?

Just Right.

The best recipes don't try to get too fancy. I hate it when people mock standards, like deviled eggs, trying to make them fancy by adding caviar or truffle oil. Unless it tastes really good, then it's okay. But fancy for the sake of fancy is just lame.

The Best of Vietnamese and Thai Cooking, by Mai Pham of the Lemon Grass Restaurant, is one of my all-time favorite cookbooks. I found it one night when, possessed by a sudden and urgent desire to learn to make Pad Thai (and a suspicion I could make it for a lot less than I paid for it in a restaurant), I drove to a book store, parked myself on the floor in the Asian cooking section and read a few Pad Thai recipes until I found one that looked right. I knew I had met The One when I saw it included, without shame, six tablespoons of ketchup. If someone is willing to use ketchup and admit it, they obviously care more about taste than...anything. Which reminds me...I once "hung out" with this guy who made the best second best spaghetti*. His secret was a large squirt of French's Yellow Mustard in the sauce. Who knew? Mai Pham's Pad Thai rules, but the two recipes from that book I use most often are the Vietnamese Salad Rolls and the Ginger Noodle Salad, which I highly recommend for potlucks**.

So, I was going to give you my recipe for Sake-infused deviled eggs topped with a Caviar, roasted red pepper and aged truffle*** oil coulis, but I don't have a recipe for that, so you're getting my friend Lisa's pimento cheese recipe, a recent Bunco snack. It was just right.

Lisa's Just Right Pimento Cheese

8 ounces sharp cheddar, shredded

8 ounces extra sharp cheddar, shredded

1 small jar of pimentos, drained

2/3 to 1 cup Hellman's mayonnaise (I have to give a shout-out to my favorite here - Duke's! I am, however, mature enough to share the love with Hellman's.)

dash cayenne pepper

1-2 tablespoons olive juice

Mix. Chill. Eat.

She claims the olive juice is the secret and I believe her, because it was really good. And I do have a brief PSA:

Please serve your party dips with celery (not just crackers) for those of us who like to maintain the illusion that we eat low-carb. Lisa had celery and so should you!

Namasté, y'all!

* Technically, the best spaghetti recipe is my Nana's. And I ain't talking yer fancy "may-ri-nay-rah" sauce or nothing like that, y'all. I'm talking spaghetti sauce like Donna Reed used to make. Your kids will love it. Here it is (is it odd to put a recipe in a footnote? Whatevah!)

3/4 lb. ground meat. You can use any kind of meat you like. Beef is the original, but I've used turkey and Boca Crumbles.

1 medium onion, chopped

1 large can (28 oz.) tomatoes, slightly chopped. I get the ones that are already chopped, but if you want to feel like you're doing something, feel free to buy the can of whole tomatoes and chop them.

1 can tomato purée, paste, soup, and sauce - any size. This may sound random, and it is. For several years, I left out the can of tomato soup, because my mom left out the comma between paste and soup, so I thought she just meant paste. And it tasted the same. I think the addition of the phrase "any size" proves that all you need is a random assortment of canned tomato products here.

1 small jar stuffed olives, chopped. In case you didn't guess, she means the ones stuffed with pimentos, nothing fancy like blue cheese or almonds. And I have no idea how big a small jar is. This recipe was written in olden times, when there were less choices, which I believe was a good thing.

1 teaspoon salt. Only the finest of salt, harvested from the Dead Sea, bien sûr. Kidding.

1/2 teaspoon pepper.

1/4 teaspoon sugar.

1 tablespoon Italian Seasoning. Yup.

Separate and brown meat. Add onion, cooking 'til soft. Add other ingredients. Cook several hours, stirring and scraping bottom occasionally. Low heat. Freezes well.

Those were my Mom's words in italics. The only suggestion I have is that, if you have one vegetarian in the house, you can mix all ingredients except the onions and protein-of-choice in a pot to start. Then, brown the meat and onion in one pan. Brown another onion in a separate pan and add the vegetable protein. Scoop out enough of the "other ingredients" to go with the veggie mix. Add the meat to the remaining sauce. Was that clear? I hope so, because I'm tired and have had two super-size glasses of wine. I have a very low tolerance.

**Email Me for my ever so slightly easier version of this recipe. Just put "noodle salad" in the subject line. I can't guarantee I'll send the instructions right away, but I must admit I felt very professional when I asked that you "put 'noodle salad' in the subject line." Like I get so many emails from my blog that I need to sort them. Ahem.

*** Gah! I swear I'm not a food snob, but I do think correct terms matter. For example, I cringe when someone calls Cava or Prosecco "Champagne." I don't cringe so you would notice, by the way. I'm pretty sure only my husband can see the ever-so-slight shudder, because he knows me so well. Wow. I just digressed in my own footnote. And all I'm drinking is a very average California Chardonnay. Yikes. Here is the point of this footnote: I'm referring to actual truffles - mushroom-type - not some kind of fancy chocolate. And I have no idea why I feel the need to defend a recipe that does not exist and that I wouldn't make or eat in a million years if it did exist. I have had a very long day, okay? It started with a trip to the mall to see Santa. Do you forgive me now? If you're interested in an excellent explanation of truffles, well written and peppered with subtle humor, click here. That article made me want to try to cook with truffles, even though I had dismissed them as being elitist and boring.

Best Coconut Cake Ever

Okey-doke. Half a bottle (shared with A!) of the charmingly cheap Cristalino later, here's the recipe, with notes.

(My Paternal Grandmother's) Coconut Cake

Use 8" pans. I used 9" pans, on account of I just plumb didn't have 8" pans, but I wanted you to know the truth.

Cook one box of Duncan Heinz [sic]* yellow butter cake mix according to the directions. If you're checking this recipe on your Blackberry and you're at the store, make sure you have three eggs, a stick of butter and some Crisco, because the box calls for them.

Cool the cakes thoroughly. When cool, slice layers in half. Makes 4. I have to thank Grandmother here for doing the math: slicing two things in half does, in fact, make four. And I also want to say that, when she told me about the recipe, she told me that my Grandfather was the one with the idea to slice the layers in two, because it's better that way. He's been dead for only a few years and this struck me as really sweet. Yeah, I'm sentimental sometimes, and my Grandmother is one of my favorite people in the world, so there. As far as I can tell, she and my Grandfather had one of the best marriages in the world too, so I try to take notes.

Filling

8 ounces sour cream

1.5 cups sugar

4 packages frozen coconut (6 ounces) thawed (save 1/2 package for icing) Okay. This is embarrassing. I actually had no idea you could buy frozen coconut. Considering my love for frozen broccoli, you would think I would have known. Frozen coconut is the best thing ever. It isn't sweetened and you don't even have to go to the Fancy Mart to get it. It's right there next to the Cool Whip. Wow. You can teach a thirty four year old dog (almost seven in dog years!) new tricks.

1 teaspoon almond extract

Put Filling between three layers.

Ice fourth layer and whole cake with Extra Large tub Cool Whip and rest of coconut. Reserve a little coconut for top.

Keep refrigerated. Let sit overnight.

Now, I'm at the "sit overnight" stage, so I can't swear it'll turn out all right, but I think it's all good, except for one thing. I bought the Cool Whip in the frozen section and beat it with a fork to thaw it. I think it would've been prettier if I'd let it thaw in the fridge overnight before icing or if I'd just bought it thawed. I'm a Cool Whip novice. What can I say? And, as an aside, why does it gross me out when my mom freezes vegetable soup or spaghetti sauce in a used Cool Whip container? Used lime sherbet containers don't bother me in the least. Can't explain it.

Namasté, y'all!


*Tiny mistakes run in Dad's family. He insists on calling U-Haul "U_haul-Its." I don't even care any more. I gave up. And there's a restaurant in town that he calls "Tara's," which is fine, but the name of the restaurant is "Terra." It's a great place to eat, but let's chat about that another time, mmm'k?