I made twice-baked potatoes for dinner tonight. I know: not terribly interesting. But I enjoyed the debate (in my own head) over whether the de-gooping of potatoes was more like surgery or making a dug-out canoe. This time around (I don't think I blogged about last time around--but it was stressful), I used a grapefruit spoon to scoop out the innards, and let me just say, that was probably the smartest thing I did all day. Snide comments can be kept to yourself. Anyway, one day, the Man will get home from work and we'll sit down and eat those lovely things. In the meantime, I have to sit back and wonder if pork chops are jinxed in our family, since the last time I cooked them he was stuck at work late too. And I overcooked them trying to keep them hot. And they died. So I guess this is my second try on pork chops too. Maybe I should be more worried about this meal than I am right now.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
I hate sick. Especially when it's not really sick, it's just "allergied" or "unexplainable sore throat" or "grossness". It makes me want to curl up in the recliner and never get out ever (EVER) again. And so, in between laundry and cleaning the house and taking care of Littles and making home-made pizza and having friends over for lunch...that's what I've done today. When the Man got home I moved to the couch so that we could sit next to each other and work on our computers and hate the "not really sick" together. He's great for commiseration.
This blog post is not about having something to write, it's just about writing. Because I felt the need. I have some editing work I could be doing, but that would interfere with the wallowing. And the writing. Because editing is not really writing, now is it? Though most of the time I suppose in my case, those who can't (or are too lazy to) write, edit. It makes me feel useful. And on that note, I'm going to go put myself to good use, pull up that file, and edit that darn cover letter like my life depends on it.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
An azure domed afternoon.
Sun patterned applause on your face,
The expectant quiet of a quilt on the thick grass,
Which curves over the hill like a bow
Across the violin's bridge.
Lazy clouds make trills and turns in your eyes
As you lie on your back looking up
At the sky, long-fingered hands in your mouth,
Corners tipped up,
Baby plump cheeks flushed red in the sunlight.
And the world laughs back
A day that could float
Right off a cello's strings...
Just you and me
And the wind which shivers through the trees
(The young leaves play the variations
To the theme).
Your tiny tongue peeps out between your lips,
And you wave your arms
As you conduct the orchestra of today.
But this is no black tie affair.
You gurgle as if you know something I don't.
In truth you do;
You're young enough to know more than I.
You have grasped the melody
Of that spring afternoon
When all I hear now
Is the beauty of
Sunday, June 13, 2010
All happiness depends on a leisurely breakfast.
My French press and I have become good friends as of late. With the Man at work most mornings (including this one), it's a bit ridiculous to make a entire pot, especially when I don't even have time to drink more than a small cup. Luckily for me, my French press is a miniature, so I fill it up the whole way, pour a full cup of coffee and feel like I'm drinking more than I really am, which makes me a happy woman. Finding decaf Cafe Bustelo really saved my life with this pregnancy and period of breast-feeding. It's unbelievable how much less whining I do now that I have coffee that actually tastes like coffee and not some knock-off sludge. In fact, Cafe Bustelo should be paying me for how often I promote their coffee.
I think I've begun using baking as a creative outlet (see Cinnamon Bread post...). While this may be good for my sanity, I'm not so sure it's a positive for my waistline. Friday I decided to make a batch of cinnamon rolls from scratch with the help of my trusty sidekick, Debbie "The Debs" Shhhkibeckery (names have been changed for the protection of the innocent). We used the Cinnabon cinnamon roll recipe my sister used to make at the dorm in high school. They were amazing beyond belief. When the Man got home, he inspected the cinnamon rolls and then asked me accusingly (and with much disappointment) why I'd put raisins in them. I explained that the dark globs he had mistaken for raisins were in fact luscious oozings of cinnamon sugar. That's when he got really excited. Leftovers comprised breakfast this morning. Along with Cafe Bustelo. Naturally. See photographic evidence above.
I'm a believer in breakfast. Not because it is necessarily the healthy start to my day that I require (I doubt the amount of sugar I ingested into my system this morning qualifies as healthy), but because it makes me happy. And why not start the day right, eh?
Friday, June 11, 2010
Last night I bought what is officially referred to as a "self-help" book. I didn't realize that it was a self-help book when I put it on my reading list for the week, and I didn't plan on buying it either (especially when I found out that it was a self-help book), but the library was closed last night so I ended up browsing at Borders, coffee in hand and no diaper bag in sight (the Man is trying to institute a baby-free night for my sanity--what a good husband!). I thought I'd pick up a copy of The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles just to flip through it and see if I really did want to read it. A friend of mine has been referencing it in his facebook statuses, and the quotations he included intrigued me.
So there I was, at Borders, curled up in one of their black leather chairs with my coffee and my journal and The War of Art, while the portly old gentleman across from me snoozed while pretending to read the newspaper. And before I knew it I was 30 odd pages in and franticly scribbling quotes in my journal, and I knew that this book was going home with me, and that the next morning I would wake up and "fight the good fight." And I did.
Instead of waiting for Littles to wake me up this morning, I got up when the Man did and took care of business so that by the time Little Dude went down for his first nap, I could go straight to spending time with God and writing. And I have. I had to sit down and look myself in the face last night (this book has that kind of effect on you) and realize that I was giving in to what Steven Pressfield terms as "Resistance" and losing out on the goodness that God has to offer me if I would just use the gifts he's given me (the second part is me, not necessarily Pressfield). I know I'm supposed to be writing, but I do everything but write. It's the same situation in the other important areas of my life. Pressfield writes, "Rule of thumb: The more important a call or action is to our soul's evolution, the more Resistance we will feel toward pursuing it." And it's true! I can think about how I spend my time during the day, and it takes me the longest to get to the things that are the most important.
I'm two-thirds of the way through the book, and while I caution that it must be read with discernment, I've got to say...Pressfield has really kicked me in the butt. I guess we'll see where I go from there. As Pressfield says, "The warrior and the artist live by the same code of necessity, which dictates that the battle must be fought anew every day." So tomorrow, when the battle starts again, will I stay home and hide or go out to meet the enemy?
Friday, June 4, 2010
With 52 minutes to go, I have finally celebrated National Donut Day.
Last year, due to an unexpected happening (the Man was stuck at work), I was unable to fulfill my longing for donuts on this most propitious of days, the first Friday of June, and I almost thought today was going to be just a tragic repeat. But thanks to Aunt C's handy car and a nearby Valero gas station, I was able to achieve my dream of celebrating what could be the best day of the year. 1.5 donuts later (and a couple left in the box), I feel the need to blog.
May I just wax eloquent about the donut for a moment? I must say that any breakfast pastry that can sit for hours in an ill-lit, tepidly muggy gas station and still taste as good as that donut just did deserves an award. Not to mention that any breakfast pastry that can be cooked in a metal combat helmet over an open fire during WW1 deserves a medal for bravery in the face of extremely hot oil. The donut is pretty much perfection. Certainly, it can be ruined. Too greasy, too heavy, too soggy... But when done well, there is no breakfast pastry that comes close (except possibly cheese danish, but that's another blog in and of itself). A perfect donut is, well, really, it almost deprives me of words. Then again, I think I've got it:
A perfect donut is fried happiness.
Special Thanks To: Aunt C for the use of her car and being my partner in gluttony, my oldest and extremely helpful sister for reminding me of the joy we celebrate, and my loving husband for challenging me to achieve my dreams, even (and especially) if they involve donuts.