The River Runs Dry

(This overly dramatic, sentimental, and sappy post brought to you courtesy of the James Taylor that keeps playing on my Simon & Garfunkel Pandora station. You're welcome.)

This week marks a milestone in the Showalter household.  Julian has been in our lives for six whole months. (Yay!) But this also means I met my six-month-goal of pumping breast milk for him, thus giving myself permission to stop if Julian still wasn't nursing. That if always looming large in my head and heart. As long as I was still pumping, there was a chance that we might still succeed in breastfeeding. This week I had to accept the inevitable reality that this would not be part of the story of Julian and I.

When I became pregnant breastfeeding wasn't even a question.  OF COURSE I would breastfeed! Why wouldn't I give my baby the best, and save boatloads of money all while bonding with, and nurturing my baby in the process? I had heard it can be hard; harder than we're all led to believe.  But I would overcome any pain or frustration presented to me, and I would succeed! It turns out, you simply cannot force a baby to latch who has no interest at all in the breast. It had almost nothing to do with me and my own determination and everything to do with my little guy's preferences.

I had an image in my mind of what breastfeeding would be like and I longed to know that relationship with a squishy little baby. After struggling with infertility for so many years, I relished the opportunity to share this special bond. I was prepared to nurse anywhere and everywhere and anytime he needed me, and for as long as he needed me.  We were going to share snuggles and smiles and gentle caresses. Instead this is what my journey with breastfeeding looked like:  

A pump and syringes and supplemental nursing systems and nipple shields.  All of it, ultimately, unsuccessful.  

Oh, but the success stories! I read so many stories of women who finally gained success in their sixth or seventh month of trying.  I read stories of adoptive mothers who were able to begin lactating and nursed their babies! If they could do it, without the benefit of pregnancy hormones, surely I could figure out a way to make my baby see that nursing was so much better than that darn bottle. Why could this not be my story?

I know what I would say to another momma.  I would say, "look at your beautiful, healthy, happy baby. He is thriving. You are doing the absolute best for him. Don't be so hard on yourself! You did everything you could do. He loves you regardless. Don't you dare think of yourself as a failure! Your little one is so lucky to have such an awesome mother who cares so much." I would try to love and encourage her into knowing what an amazing momma she is.

So why don't I feel this? Why is this not settling into my soul? 

I can't shake the what-ifs. What if I hadn't allowed the hospital to give Julian formula? (But he was so tiny and he needed to eat, and my milk wasn't in yet.) What if I had put him to my breast every single feeding instead of allowing Brian to feed him during the night sometimes? (But Brian taking turns with me was such a blessed relief in those first sleepy days.) Did I do the mouth exercises with him often enough? Did I try nursing often enough or hard enough? What if I hadn't taken that two week reprieve in trying a few months in? (But we both ended up crying violently every time we tried nursing and the stress was not good for either of us.) What if I had held him differently or controlled my emotions better? What if? What if?

What if once I decided just to pump for Julian, I had pumped more often or taken more supplements so my supply wouldn't have dwindled to practically nothing? (But it became so difficult to pump once he became more active and alert, so often crying the entire time I pumped.) 

What could I have done to prevent this failure? Because that's what this feels like - a failure. I have cried buckets of tear over what might have been.  I cried as I packed away the pumping supplies this week, surrendering to reality.  In the end, it is better for me to use my time being present with my little guy rather than fighting his frustration only to produce a few ounces of breastmilk a day for him. Even now I sit here fighting tears as my breasts leak, like some cruel final gasp at a dream that can't come true. It feels like a betrayal of my body.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the incredible support I received from Brian, who held me while I cried and said all the right things, even as I remained inconsolable.  I have had wonderful support and non-judgmental care from my lactation consultant and the wonderful group of other mothers that meet there. I know this is self-inflicted, all of it exacerbated by the worry that this might be my one and only shot at caring for a baby and wanting it to be perfect.  

Through all of this I have learned to be careful about expectations and judgements - the ones we place on others and the ones we place on ourselves. I have now been around enough mothers that I have just thrown all judgements out the window. Your child wants to breastfeed until they're six? Great! Do it. It's more strange to feed your child milk from a cow than from their own mother. You don't want to breastfeed? You have your reasons and mothering is hard. Choose your battles. You want to co-sleep? How cozy! You want to put your baby in a crib across the house? Hooray for getting sleep and having time where your body is your own for a moment. Cloth diaper or disposable diaper? Baby led weaning or baby food purees from Gerber? We all decide what works best for our family and makes each member healthy and happy.

(Also, don't believe the hype about breastfeeding and pumping helping you lose weight.  I put on 10 pounds in the months after giving birth because providing food for another human being makes you hungry!  Turns out this is common, but nobody talks about it lest breastfeeding seem unappealing. Expectations, people.) 
   
So, today I mourn. I might keep mourning tomorrow.  Maybe I'll mourn this until Julian is 18. Who knows? But it is time to physically lay this down, wipe away my tears, and put this energy and emotion into the next thing.

What, you ask, is the next thing? Tomorrow I turn to something I know darn well that I can do: cooking! My body may not want to produce milk for my baby, but I can sure as split pea soup make this child nutritious and delicious food.  He shall have all the food delights that any baby could ever dream of hating and rejecting.  (Because, you know, kids are kind of jerks.) Here's to the next chapter.  Bon apetit!

About a Birthday Boy

This is the story about a birthday boy who is, at once, both demanding and disturbingly unobservant.


The first part of this story is about Brian's birthday present.  Brian loves to grill, considers it an art form, and makes me much delicious meat.  But the years of hard use have taken their toll on his faithful grill.  Ready to retire the old one, Brian has been eyeing the Big Green Egg variety of grills for a couple of years.  They are cost prohibitive.  Luckily, some new versions of these kamado grills are on the market locally as of this year.  


I had a vision.  Brian would be out of town the three days before his birthday for work.  I would purchase the new grill and have it set up, waiting for him when he arrived.  I couldn't wait for that moment when his eyes would fall upon the new grill, and the recognition of this marvelous thing I had done would light up his face, and he would fall all over me with zealous appreciation.  


So, I purchased the grill, assembled the sucker myself, and waited for our glorious reunion.  He arrived home and immediately I suggested we let the dog out.  We sat on our patio, mere feet from the new grill.  Me, wildly anticipating the moment he would notice.  


Nothing.  Nada.  The dog did his business and we went inside.  


Fast forward an hour.  I come up with another excuse to head out to the patio.  This time I say, "Oh did you notice my cilantro is coming up now."  He would have to face the grill to take in the cilantro.  He swings his head around, says, "how 'bout that," and goes back to staring at nothing.  


Now at this point I'm wondering if this man is playing games with me.  Nobody can be this obtuse.  I become a bit testy because I'm sure he's toying with me.

Fast forward an hour.  I come up with the idea that my plants need watering and won't he come out with me?  Here's where it gets stupid.  I water my plants, that frankly don't need watering, and I ask him if he would please turn off the water and help me wind the hose up.  Feast your eyes upon where the hose is in relation to the grill.  (You may also notice my cilantro to the left.)


He stood, reeling in hose, staring at the new grill and ABSOLUTELY SAW NOTHING!  I briefly considered going back in the house and suggesting he throw something on the grill.  But I could take this charade for not one minute longer.  He walked away from the grill, and I said something to the effect of, "you're so dense."  I agree, it wasn't nice.  Brian, perplexed, walked back to the hose, thinking I was upset because it was leaking water.  At that point I stood by the grill and all but danced my merry jig next to it.  Basically, I pointed at the grill.  He stole every bit of fun out of that gift.  Let's hope it yields some good meat.


Fast forward 24 hours.  We're sitting in a Mexican restaurant for his birthday dinner when I ask him what birthday dessert he'd like me to make him.  (I knew that family was coming over to surprise him that weekend.)  I listed all the usual suspects, things I'm good at making.  Things any mid-western/Mennonite gal is good at making: pie, cake, cupcakes, brownies, etc. He didn't know.  He claimed it all sounded good.  I told him to just pick something then.  He said he couldn't.  


Then he proclaimed: "I want a molten lava chocolate bundt cake with cherry sauce."


?!?!?!?!?!?!


Where in all tarnation did that come from?  


Or, he said, the other option would be homemade cannolis.  


Are you kidding me?  Do I look like I have a hidden Italian grandmother somewhere who has taught me her secrets.  How about we pick something from the repertoire I have established?


I decided to go with the cake option.  Brian, decidedly, made this concoction up in his head based on other desserts he has partaken of.  But for me the search was on to find something that matched his request.  I love trying new things, however, I'd prefer not to do it for company.  Aww geez.


Luckily, I found a recipe that seemed close to fitting the bill.  The Tunnel of Fudge Cake.  (Some of you may remember the original recipe - it was a 1966 Pillsbury Bake-Off winner.  Ahem, my mother remembered it.)  However, this updated version comes from a fellow Hoosier.  I guess we mid-western ladies really can do it all - fancy or plain.

 Here is the link to Annie's Eats blog where I found the recipe.  


I have to say, Brian requested a real winner.  Perhaps this could be a new birthday tradition I could sink my teeth into.

Hot Pockets

In my last post I alluded to our kitchen project.  Those of you who know me know about the project, and how I nearly lost my marbles during it.  


It really wasn't even a huge project, we didn't remodel anything.  We didn't replace cabinets or counter tops or appliances.  And yet, the inevitable disaster area was present for one ENTIRE month.  For a person who doesn't rest easy when the house is a mess, (not that it never gets messy) this was a living nightmare; a constant source of unease and tension.    


And the food situation!  Oh the humanity!  Somehow I was under the delusion that I would be able to pull food together in a torn-apart kitchen.  But when push came to shove, and I had lessons to teach and painting to finish up, food preparation just wasn't top on my priority list.  So we started dining out.  A LOT.  Enough so, that when I tallied the dollars up that we spent during January and February eating out, I thought I might mistakenly be looking at the bank statements of a Las Vegas high-roller.  Enough that I resigned myself to the fact that we would have to take out a second mortgage on our home to pay it back.  Enough that I briefly passed out and dreamed of a world where we hadn't spent enough to send 30 children to school in Kenya for 14 years. Waking up merely found me once again, facing this cruel reality. 


With the kitchen project still unfinished I realized that we had to find another solution.  Without any usable counter top space, a stove that was sitting precariously in the middle of the kitchen, and less than hygienic conditions, I realized we had only one option.  Microwaveable food.  


I grew up in a home with a thrifty mother who prepared well balanced meals for us.  "Instant" anything was simply not in her menu plan or on her grocery list.  (My poor mom, who lovingly baked us cookies from scratch, all the time had to listen to me whine about how I wanted "store bought" cookies just once in a while.)  As I've matured, this is something I have tried to emulate - cooking from scratch, avoiding overly process foods.  So it was with great shame that Brian and I went foraging for frozen foods that would take only minutes to heat up.


Into our grocery store we went, completely reversing our normal shopping experience.  The items that our eyes normally just skim over were now what we sought.  We loaded into our cart: Deli meats, bread, (so far not so bad), microwaveable Kraft macaroni and cheese cups, three boxes of Little Debbie snack cakes, a bag of frozen burritos, and a family-sized box of Hot Pockets.  And then we hightailed it for the self-check-out counter with great haste lest someone we know, or even strangers, would see our embarrassing bounty.


Now, all of this is not to say that I am opposed to the occasional Hot Pocket or frozen burrito.  I am not such an elitist that I find it impermissible to occasionally partake of such fare.  Life gets busy, things happen.  A frozen burrito can save the day.  It was that our shopping cart was filled up entirely with these culinary delights.  It felt like some sort of guilty pleasure to purchase so many easy options.  


So we went home, filled up on, what became, really boring food, for the next several weeks, and gutted it out.  (Ha!  I didn't even mean to make a pun but it's funny right?)  For those of you with a little spare time, here is a video of comedian Jim Gaffigan talking about Hot Pockets.  (It's a clean clip, other than some talk of poop.)  Every time we grabbed a Hot Pocket out of the freezer, we sang the theme song and thought of this little clip.  Hope you enjoy!

A Fishy Story

A few weeks ago Brian was away for the weekend repairing a screen in Virginia and I, with a particular and shameful weakness for McDonald's Filet O'Fish meal, decided I should treat myself to this culinary delight.  However, I made the mistake of talking to my sister on the phone and divulging to her my plans.  She shamed me.  She said that if it was a fish sandwich and fries I was desiring that I should simply make it myself, that it would be more delicious and nutritious.  Since I had nothing better to do, and the guilt she had laid upon me was quite immense, I decided to give it a go. 


The first step was purchasing the supplies.  While I try to avoid pre-packaged foods, the ingredients list on the fish fillet box did not seem overly offensive.



I then had to bake my little patties of fishy goodness.



Whilst (I think that word should be used more.  Don't you?) the fish was baking, I whipped out some delightfully tasty tartar sauce, if I do say so myself.

I lovingly placed my fries into a cozy little oil bath.



I then had to tear up a brown paper bag (since I haven't been purchasing paper towels, which would have been much easier in this situation) and spread out my happy fries and sprinkled them with sea salt.



Then I had to steam my buns, because a true Filet O'Fish connoisseur knows that the bun must be steamed for that soft cushiony delightful feeling.



And then it was time to assemble my meal.  Just a tad classier than eating out of a paper bag in a parking lot.

So now you are probably wondering what the verdict was.  (Or how bored I could have possibly been to not only cook this meal, but document the entire process.)  Well...

I should have gone to McDonald's. 

My first mistake was in listening to a woman (my sister) who earlier in the day had prepared six quiches and ten pounds of roasted potatoes for a meeting that would not take place for another week.  She did not discover this gaffe until arriving at the EMPTY meeting location, food in tow.  So, she doesn't even know what day it is and I'm listening to her give me advice about how to make food that is better than a trusted institution.  (Okay, I know that McDonald's is absolutely horrible and I try not to eat there.  It can't stop me from loving their delicious food though.) 

So I gave it a shot.  It didn't take long to prepare.  I'm sure it was better for me.  But my fries were too thick and they got soggy.  And the sandwich lacked a certain je ne sais quoi.  And somehow it just didn't have the delicious irresistability of that Number 9 meal that I adore.

It was probably the absence of plastic and crack-cocaine that is likely in those yummy fries and sumptuous fish sandwich.  Still...

Of Rice and Men

Gosh this blog has turned into such domestic drivel.  I really need to get out more.  Or else I could just start pontificating about political ads or my supposed liberal religious agenda or some such nonsense.  But for now?  This entry is about rice.

A few months ago I cleaned out my pantry and it's always a little shocking to discover things in the pantry that I don't remember buying.  It's kind of fun to find that bonus box of rotini you had no idea was there or that extra jar of mayonnaise - but it also signals to me that I have probably overdone it in the grocery buying department.  First world over-consumption and all.

So I decided to put the brakes on the grocery buying for a while and try to use up the things in my pantry.  This requires an entirely different type of supper-time strategy.  It's like trying to eat more seasonally.  You have to craft a meal around ingredients you're staring at rather than deciding what sounds good to you and then pulling the items together.  (You are saying to yourselves, "duh Lisa, it doesn't take a master chef to figure that gem of kitchen wisdom out.")  But it's such an opposite creative process in my mind.  It's like pulling a McGuyver every meal.  Here is one wilted carrot, a piece of string, a can of cream of celery soup, a handful of Swiss cheese, and some peanut butter.  Now - CREATE! 

Frankly, I'm amazed at the variety of meals I've created with what I have on hand because when I first looked in that pantry I was all, "there is nothing in here to eat!"  And I'm surprised at how much food I clearly had all along, considering how long it's been since I actually went "grocery shopping."  

Now to be fair, I have a freezer full of beef and chicken thanks to my parents.  And I have had a lot of fresh garden produce up to this point along with everything my mother and I canned.  So I know that's a huge advantage right there. (And I really have tried to eat more seasonally this summer along with using things in my pantry - which has been fun.)  I have another huge advantage right now in that I'm not working outside the home.  So I have a lot of extra time and energy to think about how to put my suppers together, although I don't think my suppers are actually taking any more time to prepare than before.  

Here is the list of staples I have been purchasing:
Coffee (for obvious reasons)
Milk (to go with my coffee)
Butter (because life's not worth living without it)
Onions (because nothing's worth eating without them)

I ran out of pasta and potatoes ages ago.  But what I do have is a large bag of rice.  And dear sweet mother Mary, that rice WILL NOT END.  We have had nothing but rice for weeks it seems.  Chicken and rice, curry and rice, hamburger gravy over rice, rice pudding, rice soup, etc... And I feel like I have only put the tiniest dent in that jar of rice.  Every day when Brian gets home for lunch I ask, "well guess what we'll be having for supper tonight?"  I'm trying really hard to be thankful for this rice and its apparent longevity.  But frankly, I am riced out.  

*Update.  I started writing this entry on Saturday and Monday I broke down.  I was laying in bed watching the Today show to wake up when an Olive Garden commercial came on - and I found myself completely overcome with desire for what I saw.  I didn't have any lessons because of fall break and I had received a little money for a funeral I helped at on Sunday and I knew where that time and money was headed.  I went to the grocery store, loaded up on supplies and made an Italian feast for supper.  And maybe it was because of all the rice we have been eating, but Brian and I declared it the best meal I have ever prepared.  I wish I could tell you that the meal did not involve using 2.5 sticks of butter.  But it did.  And it was delicious.  So if the rice has accomplished giving Brian and I a better appreciation for food again, then it has been well worth it.  And if you'd like a super tasty chicken piccata recipe, click on this link.  Bon Appetit!

Bad Flashback

Currently my timer is set for 30 minutes (for my tomatoes in their merry little water bath...yes the tomato canning goes on).  My challenge: write, finish, and post this blog before that timer goes off.

Earlier this summer I decided, at Brian's behest, to bake a batch of monster cookies.  I'm not really much of a monster cookie person, but I love to bake and I love it when others love to eat my baked goods.  I was trying out a new-to-me recipe from my brother-in-law's grandmother that they touted as the best.  After using all the items that can be found in one's kitchen and then going to extraordinary lengths to mix the massive amounts of batter, it was time to bake the crazy things. 

The instructions had me using two timers.  The cookies had to bake for 13 minutes and then upon leaving the oven they had to sit on the cookie sheet for an additional five minutes before removing them.  So I constantly had a timer going for five minutes and one going for 13.  I wanted to be productive during the baking because, as I said, there was so much batter I could have a made a king-sized bedspread out of it, and I knew that baking was going to be an all-afternoon affair. 

It started innocently.  I thought to myself, "Oh I bet I could get the bed made before the five-minute timer goes off."  And I'd pad off and do it.  And then I had another eight minutes and so I'd think "huh, I can get the litter boxes scooped before my second timer goes off."  When that was done and I had five minutes remaining so I decided that I could probably water the plants out front before the timer went off. 

And that is when the monster awoke within me.  In those five and eight minute intervals I came up with dozens of tasks with which to challenge myself.  I literally ran from one end of the house to the other.  Sometimes I was running around outside.  My heart would be palpitating wondering if I could possibly accomplish each task before that timer went off.  I found that I was struck with panic at the thought of the timer beating me.  I cleaned out bird feeders, started supper, cleaned the toilet, dusted things, I mean the list could go on and on. 

At the end of that baking spree I was EXHAUSTED, but wow I had accomplished so much!  I decided I should always set a timer.  And then I started to have an uneasy feeling, remembering the panic the timer caused me to experience.  And then the flashbacks began.  Flashbacks to my childhood.  I knew, just knew, that timers had been set for me as a youngster in order for me to accomplish things.  I knew that my mother was the responsible party.

I thought perhaps it had been a fun game she had made up in order to motivate us.  It couldn't possibly be that my saint mother had set timers up for us that we had to beat in order to, well, not be beat?

So I called my mother and asked her if she had set timers for my sister and I when we were little.  She said yes.  I quickly asked her if it was a fun game or something we had to do in order to avoid punishment.  (As in, "You better get that room cleaned up before this timer goes off or else I'm going to......")  She laughed on the phone, and her laughter had a sinister and dark edge to it, and she replied, "Oh no, it was for punishment.  And it worked great.  I don't know why but you kids were so terrified of that timer." 

Mom, it's because I was six and I DIDN'T UNDERSTAND TIME!  Nine minutes could be any length of time and I had no idea how long nine minutes felt!  I barely knew how to count for the love of Pete!  Oh cruel, cruel keeper of the time.  I can just imagine her down in her "ivory kitchen" watching that timer: leisurely thumbing through a magazine and enjoying a soft drink, listening to our panic, our cries for mercy, as she plotted out which punishment she would dole out on her helpless children who just didn't understand how to tell time yet.  Would it be sitting on a chair, receiving the wooden spoon, the fly-swatter, taking a bath, IT COULD BE ANYTHING! 

I have the cold sweats right now knowing that my tomato timer could go off at any second and I might not have yet posted this blog.  And then I will have failed.  Please, parents, use caution when employing the use of the kitchen timer on your children.  Must go now...

P.S.  I made it within the allotted time.  Whew.  And you should also know that those monster cookies made a believer out of me.  They were every bit as good as Karen and Matthew let on.  If you'd like the recipe, let me know. 

Too Much Information

You may think this is too much information and if you are frightened, stop reading at this point.  However, the following sort of amused me.  I will try to be as delicate as I can.

So today I canned tomatoes with my mom.  After most of the tomatoes were in their jars and waiting for their merry little water bath, I asked my mom if I could have some ibuprofen.  She said sure, and as I padded off to the bathroom to procure the tablets she asked, "Do you have a headache?"  I replied "no."

When I returned to the kitchen she said, "You know the Amish say you should never can tomatoes when you are menstruating because your jars won't seal." 

I sort of wish she would have mentioned that before I nearly sabotaged our entire batch of tomatoes. 

For the record, the tomatoes sealed. 

But we may not be out of the woods yet.

When I went to my knitting group (after canning) I mentioned what I had been doing that afternoon.  I didn't, of course, mention the delicate matter mentioned above.  Wouldn't you know, one of the women brought up this old wives' tale.  How have I gone my whole life without being aware of this information?

I wondered to myself if it could be hormonal,  perhaps a chemical that escapes through the pores.  There had to be a scientific explanation for this sage wisdom.  So I researched a little.  Turns out that even though our jars sealed, we are still in danger of those tomatoes spoiling in the jar.  AND, I shouldn't have even walked into the garden today because women who are in their oh-so-special "time of the month" are NOT to be around the crops - ESPECIALLY tomatoes or cucumbers!  And heaven forbid you can the cucumbers during that time because it sounds like all kinds of bad things will happen. 

But you can walk around the cabbage.  It might even be good for the cabbage.

One theory I read is that women back in the day, often with many young children and a demanding husband, had to find ways to take a break.  It's the old Red Tent idea.  They claimed it would spoil the food, ruin the canning process, whatever, and then they were able to take a load off.  I really hope this is the case rather than a fearful male population thinking that women are unclean. 

At any rate, I apologize to my dear mother if we all end up with botulism.

SUCCESS!

I am happy to report that I finally found canned pumpkin!

Wednesday on my lunch break in Nappanee I headed to Martin's (their very fancy grocery store).

They DID NOT have pumpkin.

And when I told the lady at the cash register what I was going through...she absolutely did not care.  She was polite, but she didn't care.

So I went to Rite Choice across the street.  It's a discount grocery so they carry odd items and don't give you a bag.  I walked to the pie filling section and needless to say there was no pumpkin to be found.  I had to walk down a differnet aisle to leave the store...and there, sitting all by itself on a bottom shelf (cue the heavens opening up and the angels singing) WAS A CASE OF CANNED PUMPKIN! 

It took all the willpower I posess not to grab that entire case and walk to the register.  But I didn't.  I very demurely picked up two large cans.

I wanted to tell the gentleman ringing up my purchase about my pumpkin story.  After all, I wanted to share my joy with the world.  But considering the disinterest of the previous cashier, I kept my victory to myself.

But the cupcakes...I shared the cupcakes.  But I made a double batch, so mostly they're just for me.

The Great Pumpkin Crisis

You know how sometimes you just get a hankering for something?  And you just MUST HAVE that something.  Nothing else will do.  No substitutes will satisfy.

Well for me that something tonight was a pumpkin cupcake - a beautiful pumpkin cupcake slathered with mountains of cream cheese frosting. 

It didn't begin this way, my obsession.  No it began as just a notion.  I needed to stop at the store on the way home from knitting at the church to pick up some milk.  I had sort of been craving said cupcake so I told Brian that since I had to stop at the store I'd pick up some canned pumpkin.  Nothing too serious at this point.  I wouldn't have stopped at the store just for the canned pumpkin after all.  But as I neared the store I began visualizing my cupcake, still warm from the oven and dripping with frosting, and I could almost taste it.  I found that I was driving a little faster, hastening towards the object of my desire. 

I stopped at the "little" Owens (grocery store by my house) to pick up my items.  I went to the baking aisle, no canned pumpkin.  Odd.  I went to the "canned fruit" aisle.  No pumpkin.  Seriously?  Back to the baking aisle, I must have just missed it.  Nope.  Back to canned fruits.  Rinse and repeat about three times.  Finally, irritated but not surprised (the "little" Owens is, well, smaller and therefore doesn't carry everything I need all the time) I decide it truly isn't there.  I wonder to myself if it's seasonal...but I notice they have boat loads of canned cranberry sauce and gel and chutney, and seriouly if anything is seasonal that should be it!  I briefly wait in line to ask the check-out clerk if they have it and I'm just not seeing it.  But the line was too long so I decide to pay for my items at the U-scan and run to Marsh for the pumpkin.  Already I had an unhealthy need for the pumpkin.

I go to Marsh, a large grocery store in town that I find sells a lot of interesting and oddball items along with the regular stuff.  They'll have the pumpkin for sure.  I find the pie fillings and NO CANNED PUMPKIN.  I see the place it should be on the shelf, three rows of it with the price tags on the shelf telling me this is where it belonged.  I stand in awed shock.  How can this be?  This is getting stupid ridiculous. 

Determined not to be bested by canned pumpkin, and convinced that my cupcake is going to taste that much better, I decide to drive all the way across town to the "big" Owens.  I frankly, think it is the best grocery store in town.  They will not let me down.  I phone Brian to tell him where I'm headed and warn him that if big Owens does not have the pumpkin someone is going to have to pay.  I don't know who, but they'll pay big.  I hit the baking aisle with confidence only to be greeted by a sign that reads, "We're sorry.  We are currently out of canned pumpkin."  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Is there some pumpkin crisis going on that I didn't know about?  Was there a hurricane that hit a large pumpkin crop thus rendering this pumpkin shortage?  Have the pumpkin crops of this world been struck by blight or pumpkin rot?  Are the local schools studying the merits of the pumpkin and every child in Warsaw has simultaneously decided to make a school project out of canned pumpkin?  Is it Korean Thanksgiving right now and the entire population of Koreans in the region is celebrating but have adopted the American tradition of pumpkin pie?  I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT'S HAPPENING!

I looked at the boxes of cake mixes for a minute, thinking I could just bake something else and it would be just as good and I would forget I ever wanted a pumpkin cupcake.  Right?  But I just didn't have it in me.  I called Brian on the way home and squeezed out in a pained voice, "it's not good - I can't talk about it," and hung up the phone.  Oh the humanity!

So, in the end, I did not have a pumpkin cupcake.  I was bested - defeated if you will.  My mom and I talked today about planting a garden together (because I do not have fertile soil in which to sew seeds) and she said I should think about what I'd like to plant.  I'll tell you Mom.  I'll tell you right now that we need to dedicate a large portion of your yard to a pumpkin patch so that I never have to go through this devastation again.  Noone should ever have to live without pumpkin.  And I'd like to see to it that noone does.

Update on Life

The Olympics are WAY done and still I have not gotten back into the swing of blogging.  But I'm going to blame my blog-laziness on them.  Stupid Olympics. 

BUT, here is a picture of my Olympic hat.  (Never mind how scary Brian may look...he is attempting to look happy for me.)  You may have seen this hat on the US Olympians in the opening ceremonies as well as on certain athletes while standing around in the snow.  Me and my knitting friends spotted the hat immediately and decided we MUST learn how to knit it.  Thankfully, our local yarn store owner went to town creating a chart and voila! the hat is mine.  It involved me tying yarn to my kitchen mixer and attempting to create twisted cord for the tassles, which I must say worked swimmingly.  However, the yarn shop owner rejected them (claiming they were too tight) and made me twist tassles by hand in her store.  How humiliating.  And my moose are dimply.  I am not happy about that.  I'll just have to make another one so that Brian and I can match.  :)

In March we hosted a mystery supper for our church youth group.  If you have never been to one you must.  They are tons of fun.  Or maybe you should host one but if you do, you may want to hire extra help.  Here is the menu just to give you an idea of what it entails.

Welcome to our Mystery Dinner. Dinner will consist of three courses. For each course please select 6 items from the menu below. Place the numbers that correspond to the items you've selected, in the spaces next to the letters below. No duplicates allowed! You will be served only those items selected for each course.


Among the items you are to select are such items as your utensils, beverages, and your napkin. You must make all of your course selections before the meal begins and turn this form into your maitre de.

We hope you enjoy your meal (if you can figure out what you are ordering). Good luck!

MYSTERY MENU

1. The fourth item required to summon Captain Planet

2. Racial Harmony

3. Poultry’s Sin

4. A tricky Situation

5. The Cat’s Meow

6. Prison Enemy

7. Immature Biscuit

8. Early Hodgepodge

9. Warm Snuggles

10. Dangerous to Cut

11. Particle Maintenance

12. Yellow Surfboard

13. Fork

14. Sleepy relative

15. Forest river

16. Tot’s Money Maker

17. Ebony’s Embrace

18. Beatles Favorite Crop

And here is what we served (not in the order of the menu above):

Deviled egg, cheese, pickle, napkin, lasagna, tossed salad, garlic bread, lemonade, fork, spoon, toothpick, knife, brownie cheesecake, cream of broccoli soup, hershey kiss, and strawberries.

Brian and I were so in control leading up to this event.  We went to the store on Tuesday evening and then spent the whole night prepping our food.  We were in such good shape that when we got home on Wednesday evening we sort of paced around for awhile waiting to put the food in the oven or to assemble things.  We became totally arrogant with our advanced preparation thinking it was going to be a breeze.  And then the 12 people present turned in their menus and HOLY COW! I felt like we began a sprint that did not end for 1.5 hours.  We totally underestimated how much work it would be to assemble everyone's plates.  And people were hungry and grumbly and Brian and I were frantically trying to decode menus and put plates together.  We also underestimated how many plates we would need.  Brian was washing dishes as we went.  I cannot describe the chaos that went on in that kitchen on that night.  You would weep and scream if you knew the horrors.  (Notice the blanket hanging over the kitchen doorway so the horrors could not be witnessed.)  But I think it was successful...I think the youth had fun but frankly I simply didn't have time to check in on that.

This is an "after" picture.  I don't know if you can see how dazed and shell-shocked I am from the experience.  Also notice that I am sitting on the floor.  When I mentioned sitting on the couch to rest my weary bones there were immediately 11 teenagers on the couch. The kids were awesome though.  I would do it again in a heartbeat.


I went to another wonderful show at the Morris with my theater going friend Heather.  We saw "Rain" a Beatles tribute show.  It was like going to the best sing along imaginable.  Nothing but fun.  And the show was done in a clever way so that you could sort of imagine what it would have been like to see the Beatles in each stage of their run together.  (i.e. the Ed Sullivan set, the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band era and look, etc.)  However, there were several people in the audience taking pictures on phones and other cameras  and Heather and I were like, ummm, you do realize that's not really the Beatles up there right? 

On the way back to Heather's house we realized how very animated we can get in our conversations when Heather glanced to her left at a stoplight and saw a young man hanging out his window mimicking our gesticulations.  Our conversation had been about the Olympics.  We are both very passionate, what can I say?

That about brings us up to the present.  This past weekend was Easter and what a great weekend it turned out to be.  My parents returned home from Texas on Wednesday night.  My sister and her family came to spend the weekend with us which is always so much fun.  Our good friends Dan and Felicia and Colin came and had a bonfire with us Saturday night.  Dan and Felicia came to church on Sunday and joined my family for dinner and it was just such a fun and awesome weekend!  Made so much better by Kevin's neverending stream of joke telling all weekend.  Therefore, I end this blog with my favorite Kevin joke of the weekend.

Two peanuts were walking down the street.
And one was a-salted.

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner!

Friday Brian and I went grocery shopping.  We didn't intend to.  We had two things on our list: creamer and toothpaste.  200 dollars later, we exited the store.  We only took in one shopping bag with us.  (The bag boy asked if it had been our intention to fit everything into that one bag.  Smart*&@.)  But it was SO LONG overdue.  We'd been scraping by on stale crackers and moldy cheese.  (Maybe it wasn't quite that dire.)  But we were tending towards eating out way too much again because there just wasn't much in the house to work with.  So we stocked up in order to nip it in the bud. 

I came up with this plan of eating chicken wings and watching the Olympics for our Friday night entertainment.  And of course, I didn't want to buy pre-made chicken wings (virtually the same as eating out plus all the bogus preservatives and fillers).  I resolved to make my own.  And I did.  And they tasted AMAZING!  I fried them myself.  I made my own Buffalo wing sauce AND I made my own ranch dressing.  I turned all Betty Crocker and crap.

Saturday morning Brian and I got up and the conversation that ensued went something like this.

Brian: "Do you remember those AWESOME wings you made last night?  They were so delicious." 

Lisa: Blushing with pride but trying to be humble "Well I did fry them in peanut oil.  Peanut oil makes everything delicious." 

Brian:  "It didn't hurt that we covered them in butter then." 

Lisa:  "Ooh.  There was a whole stick of butter in that sauce wasn't there?  So we fried the chicken in peanut oil and then covered them in butter?!?!?!?!"

Brian: "And then we dipped them in a cup of mayonnaise."  The ranch dressing contained much mayo.

Then there was an exchange of horrified looks followed by crazed laughter. 

Brian:  "I guess we better go work out today, huh?"

So we probably would have been better off going to McDonald's and eating three Big Mac's with extra special sauce. 

But those wings tasted MIGHTY fine!

Accidental Trendsetter

I was listening to NPR yesterday (it's so annoying to hear that isn't it?) on my way home from Goshen and "Talk of the Nation" was dealing with the new trend of being recession savvy. The terms being bandied about were "recession chic" and "recessionista." Leave it to our country to turn something bad, like the current economy, into a trendy bandwagon to jump on.

The show was sparked by an article by Kelly Marages of the Washington Post entitled, "I'm Not Buying Recession Chic." She begins the article talking about how people who brown-bagged their lunch in corporate America were, until recently, considered weird and dowdy. And now, "these days, it's precisely parading that plastic container around the office at midday that shows that you're resourceful, that you're rolling with the times, that you're cool in a do-it-yourself recession-y kind of way." Oh dear.

Topics of the conversation included how all the morning talk shows are jumping on this theme and providing ideas on their shows for saving money in this economic wilderness. For instance, people have been stunned that they can rewash plastic bags and reuse them. Imagine that. Or that they can *gasp* cook at home. Lay-away has now come back into vogue. The guests on the show yesterday made a point of saying that those that need to be frugal with their money, and that always have, ALREADY KNOW ABOUT THIS STUFF AND DO IT! The wealthy now love to talk about how they are making changes because of the dreadful economy. High end restaurants are now offering $150 tasting plates, down from the usual $300. Many argued that it is precisely the wealthy who need to be spending money right now. It is their job to fuel the economy. I don't know if I completely agree, but if their motivation is to be "recession chic" and not responsible, then they should probably go ahead and keep spending.

And then it occurred to me. Oh my word. I accidentally became a "recessionista" without knowing it. The "Great February Dine-In" could be interpreted as me becoming "recession chic." Oh geez!

I'm sorry economy! I can't help you right now. I understand you're going through a rough time but I'm not wealthy and I've been dining out as if I am. You are on your own. I'm not leaving you hanging like this to be "cool." It's merely coincidence that my analysis of personal finances coincides with this new, and very strange, trend. Please don't hold it against me. I'll try to help you in other ways.

Maybe though, it is all the talk of the economy that scared me into taking a closer look at our spending. If it is, isn't that a good thing? I don't know. But I hope that all of you don't take me as trying to be "recession chic." I'm just not really chic at all.



P.S. I will not be washing out plastic bags and reusing them. They never dry and they always seem greasy no matter what. I decided long ago (after my mother washed and reused every plastic bag that came across her path) that I simply must draw the line there. Ha! Take that recessionistas!

The Great February Dine-In

The Great February Dine-In went off without a hitch. I really expected it to be impossible or at the very least, mind-bogglingly difficult. It actually wasn't at all. Just goes to show if I look at something as a challenge and stick a catchy name on it I can make it happen. Currently it is March 9 and I have not dined out since February 1.

The weird thing is, not only was it not difficult...it was easy and sort of transformational. I figured it was going to be a huge challenge and so to set myself up for success, I planned ahead. I came up with a list of menu options and then went grocery shopping to supply the items for most of the items on my list. The fact that I had ideas seems to be what made the difference. I feel so much more relaxed and in control of my schedule. Even though I have been cooking a whole bunch more...I feel less rushed and stressed. It has been so strange. Really, really strange.

And here is the real kicker. I sat down last weekend to crunch some numbers. I knew what Brian and I had spent in January on dining-out and that the number for February would be, well, zero. However I fully expected to have increased my spending on groceries from January to February to compensate for the lack of meals spent dining-out. But that was not the case. In fact I spent $110 less on groceries in February. That BLOWS MY MIND! The key here seems to be the advanced planning. Even when I was cooking in past months I was coming up with something to prepare and then sending my faithful husband to the store for me because I didn't have everything I needed. Each of those trips cost between $17 and $35. Simply not running to the store all the time is a cure for overspending. (Especially if said faithful husband picks up a few extra things every time he runs to the store...primarily pork. He has an irresistible urge to buy pork.)

So now, I find that I am turning into my mother: going to the store for staples and staples only, no funny-business. Brian is not enjoying this new grocery shopping personality I have embraced. He accused me at the grocery store of always getting to buy luxury items that I want but not any of his luxury items. He whined when we didn't go down the snack aisle. I said we didn't need snacks. Then later, standing by the sandwich meats, flipping through coupons, I casually mentioned that we had a coupon for Doritos. Brian immediately, and with all the seriousness of a military Sergeant, proclaimed, "I'm on it," and darted off to the snack aisle before I could even blink. I guess I'll have to find a happy medium in this new endeavor of mine. And while the "Great Dine-In" is officially over, I feel like I learned a lot, changed my perspective, and gained so much more than money.

February Challenges

Brian and I recently took on a couple of challenges. The first challenge came out of a conversation in our Sunday school class that ended with several of the couples in the class committing to observe "Meatless Mondays." Brian has been really fussy about it. He gets the point. But he doesn't like it.

Now, I am not a vegetarian and I don't even want to become one. I respect the vegetarian lifestyle a lot but I believe meat, in moderation, is a healthy and important part of a diet. (Also, I'm afraid that if we all stopped eating meat at once there would be a bunch of feral pigs and cows and I would walk into my back yard and find stray pigs rooting around there.) However, we Americans have taken something healthy and natural and turned it into an all-you-can-eat extravaganza. One person in our class had heard a report that many rural Chinese are only able to eat meat on holidays. Many have moved to the cities where they can earn more and consequently can now eat meat once or twice a week. Once or twice a week!!! Americans can easily eat meat three times a day! Bacon at breakfast, cold-meat sandwich at lunch, and meatloaf at supper. No problem.

Another person in our class had heard a report that if each person in the middle class in China would increase their pork intake by 10 pounds per year (roughly one pork chop a month) they would starve the rest of the world. This is due primarily to the grain that it would take to feed the pigs and the farmland lost for growing the grain and hosting the pigs. Now, I don't know if this report is totally accurate but still, we thought, in the converse, what could happen if Americans ate 10 pounds less of meat each year? Would we help? So some of us have decided to give it a try with Meatless Mondays. This is mainly to raise our own awareness, to keep us thinking about the rest of the world and to fight the American seduction of over-consumption. And it should be a health benefit to cut a little meat from our diets. So far, I have not eaten meat on a Monday in 2009.

The second challenge came through me taking a hard look at our finances and nearly suffering a coronary when I saw how much we spend dining out. I was trying to figure out where we could save some money. "If we get a different phone plan maybe we can save $20 a month or if we up our deductible on the car insurance we can save $15 a month...OR IF WE NEVER WENT OUT TO EAT WE COULD BUY A NEW CAR EVERY MONTH!" Okay, it might not be that extreme but it was ugly. So I have deemed this challenge "The Great February Dine-In." (You may be realizing that I do much better with lifestyle changes if I view them as a challenge and give them a catchy name.) It is an attempt to see if we feel any major difference in our finances if we don't eat out at all. I'm hoping by the end of the month I'll have excess cash to throw on the bed and roll around in. We tend to spend a lot because of being busy. "We have a meeting at the church tonight...let's run through the drive-through on the way." Or if I get home late from teaching piano lessons and am too tired to cook, we order pizza. We fritter away a lot this way. So, I'm attempting to plan ahead a little better and adjust my food desires.

We really do love to go out to eat. We love to try new restaurants and visit favorites and we really try to support locally owned restaurants around here. But so much of the food we were eating, we didn't even really enjoy. It was junk that tasted bad that we ate because we're busy. The good news is that we really love to cook. And we cook at home a lot, it was just shocking to see how much we don't cook at home.

So far so good. Until Brian came home last week with an email he had printed out from work. Da-Lite's sister company in the Netherlands was sending over some employees to tour the plant and build rapport with the Warsaw employees. To build rapport, they scheduled two meals for Brian to attend with them at the two nicest restaurants in Warsaw! So during The Great February-Dine In, Brian was able to go to two of my favorite restaurants, Cerulean and Noa Noa, for free. (We go to Noa Noa on our anniversary or very special occasions, it is our favorite restaurant in the world probably.) Needless to say, my bitterness was great. So last night was Meatless Monday (which Brian totally didn't observe) and I didn't really feel like doing a bunch of cooking for myself. So I made some deviled eggs for my main dish. Turns out, deviled eggs don't really make a great main dish. And they turned on me during the night and, long story short, it ended with me curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor at 2 in the morning. Not good. Tonight my supper was equally sad: Vienna sausage I found tucked in the corner of my pantry that someone had given us two Christmases ago, some stale crackers, and a few olives. It's 11:00 p.m. and I'm feeling okay. Let's keep our fingers crossed.

So I don't know where these challenges will take me. I'm sure we'll be back to dining out, we just enjoy it too much. But maybe we'll make dining out really count rather than being a second rate convenience meal. And maybe we'll learn a few lessons about our over-consumption habits along the way.

Well, I had sort of a dry spell with blogging for several weeks and now I’ve got the itch again. But after my “serious” blog yesterday I feel like I should lighten up the situation. Here are some madcap adventures and ponderings for October.

Beginning: October begins with a crazy Monday night trip to Chicago on the train to see the fabulous Ani DiFranco in concert. Heather, Sara, and I left South Bend at 4:00 p.m., ate supper in downtown Chicago, went to the concert, rode the train back, and I walked in my door at something like 4:00 a.m. Along with my sad tookus that I dragged in the door, was the realization that a 31 year old should probably give up pulling all-nighters.

Pondering: Why do men spit? I don’t understand this need to spit. I have asked Brian why he spits and he gave me some song and dance about how he thinks he produces too much saliva. And I’m like, NO YOU DON’T! You don’t sit on the couch watching a movie and all of sudden have to jump up and run to the sink because you can no longer control the drool that is leaking out of the corners of your mouth because you can’t possibly swallow all the saliva your body is producing. And men sometimes spit before using the, umm…facilities, I’ve discovered. I have never entered the bathroom and thought, “ahhh, I’ll just spit in the turlet here before I do my business.” Where does this come from?

Haunted Doings: As a child I was not allowed to celebrate Halloween. As an adult I have fully embraced it, minus all the satanic associations. I love handing out candy to children (it builds community), I love being scared, I love watching spooky movies, I think I would love dressing up again. So, Brian and I hauled, along with Dan and Felicia, all around Northern Indiana to some haunted productions. First we hit the Warsaw Haunted Hospital. Huge DUD! Not scary. Stupid. So we drove to Cherubusco to a haunted school in the middle of rural Indiana. There I confronted my claustrophobia and battled gravity. It was the coolest place. We then drove south to the Silver Lake Haunted woods. You may ask yourself if it is fun to be attacked in a corn field by masked men in the dark. And the answer would be a resounding YES! Bring it on! A corn maze in the dark with people jumping out at you and then a spooky walk through a spooky wood – superb, just superb.

Fondue: We threw our first fondue party. We did a practice run several days before the actual event. We invited our friend Colin over as a guinea pig. He was such a good sport. I learned not to show the cheese any fear. It can smell it, and then you wind up with a glop of cheese laying in a pool of oil mocking you. But, along with the help of my 1970’s age-of-Aquarius fondue cookbook, Brian and I threw a successful party. Cheese and bread, meat and veggies in batter and oil, and then chocolate and fruit. Our house smelled like peanut oil for days (i.e. like the fried food at the fair). Made me hugely hungry at all moments. Thankfully, nobody at the party passed a large painful cheeseball the next day, nor did they suffer from salmonella. I now would like to don some swanky 70’s wear and fondue all the time.

Ending: Well October is going to end with another trip to Chicago. You might never guess where I’ll be going. My dear friend Heather is a huge Madonna fan. So, we’re hauling to our second Madonna concert on Sunday. It should be interesting at the very least. The material girl just keeps going.

Oh and I guess there’s still Halloween (or "the big dance") itself left. I’ll have to let you know how it turns out.

Sick Husband

So Brian was home sick yesterday (a Monday). We had a church picnic on Sunday and he possibly ate some gamy potato salad or a deviled egg gone wrong. Who knows. He felt all urpy and miserable.

So I tried to convince him that he needed to poo or vomit - or both - in order to rid himself of the taint, whatever it may be. Finally on Monday, while I was at a funeral, he made himself throw up. He did not feel better. And he had thrown up, which is not really anybody's favorite thing to do. He was very derisive of my advice.

I was getting kind of worried. I went tubing with some friends. (It was a beautiful day...don't judge me.)

THEN, I made a spinach salad for dinner. A really good one with hard boiled eggs, bacon, cheese, tomatoes, and onions. Yum! Brian was hungry, a good sign, so he topped his with honey mustard and ate the salad up.

He immediately threw up.

But then he felt so much better. The sparkle was back in his eyes. He went to work today and is fine.

I cleansed him of his sickness with my spinach salad.

I'm so proud.

To Everyone who Rejected My Pizza

(Original Myspace Post Date: June 23, 2007)

Friday night Brian and I decided to enjoy a quiet night at home. Instead of going out to eat, we began working on home-made pizza. Mmmm....my favorite. It takes a long time but it's so much fun and I even have a special pizza making song that Brian and I sing together while working. (I know that sounds dorky, but I actually have quite a few "special" songs I sing around the house.)

1. Dan calls. They're not doing anything. I say, "come on over, we're making pizza!" Naw, he can't come over. He has to mow his grampa's lawn. Sounds like a lame excuse to me.
2. We call Brian's parents to chat about something. I yell at Brian, "tell them to come over for supper. We're making pizza!" I don't even think they entertained the notion. We clearly said it wouldn't be ready for at least two hours giving them plenty of time to get here. Rejection. (To their credit, they live two hours from our house. Still, how often do I invite them for supper?)
3. My mom calls. I say, "Come on over. We're making pizza!" She says thanks, but they're just too tired. I'M OFFERING TO GIVE THEM SUPPER! So I tell her that she is now the third person to reject our pizza. My own mother who bore me from her loins! She turns to my dad and says, "Lisa asked if we want to come over for pizza." I here his low, gruff, voice in the background go, "NOOO000ooo," as if I had asked if they wanted to join us at a Metallica concert. Thus making four people to reject my pizza. (Fine, to their credit, they had just arrived home from Minnesota about a half hour before calling.)

So Brian and I ate our pizza...alone. And it was really good! But am I hurt? Well, just a little.