Brownie Torte--or Betty "Crack"-er??! You decide!

So I offered to bring a dessert to my friend Shelley's Labor Day cookout--and promptly left town until 2 hours before the party.  After wrestling the 2-year-old terrorist into his crib for a "snap" (short nap, in our busy house!)...I surveyed the pantry for emergency dessert ingredients.

Ah, thank you Betty!  The Triple Chocolate Chunk Brownie mix greeted me with a sly wink, and I knew we would be rockin' some chocolate for the partygoers.

I am a recipe "fixer", never following the directions to the letter.  I'm always adding some applesauce, or popping in some paprika to switch stuff up a bit when I cook or bake.  So imagine my glee when I noticed, Betty had done the switcharoo for me!

Here's what we did:  after following the directions for mixing the brownies, I foil-lined the pan and oiled it before spreading in the batter.  The brownies cooked and cooled perfectly, and I split them into 2 long halves.  I melted some tub chocolate frosting in the microwave for 30 seconds, and spread half the frosting onto one length of brownie.  I stacked the other half on top, poured on the rest of the frosting, and topped with a few chopped up Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.  After chilling it for a half hour, I noticed the frosting had oozed, so I propped strawberries around the torte for a pretty finish.

We sliced and served it to glowing reviews!  Try it at your house, and watch what happens.  I'm thinking about serving another one this week, but maybe I shouldn't.  After all,  us recipe-fixers shouldn't have to resort to a re-torte! 

Cooking Up New Memories

Lots of food for thought this week:

1) Just learned a very dear friend from high school is a famous food writer for a major US newspaper.  Hey, she has a different name now, so I don't feel like a complete loser for not knowing this important tidbit.

2) Just got 1/2 bushel of farm-fresh corn from my local co-op and am learning how to flash

-freeze ears of corn.  Can someone flash-shuck them for me first?

3) Just made my niece's spicy vegetarian black bean & brown rice recipe and it was way good and oh so filling!  Here's a version:

1 can seasoned black beans, undrained

1 can rotel, drained

1 tbsp. chili powder

Cook these on low/medium for 1/2 hour.  Don't boil unless the sauce is very runny.

In the meantime, cook some brown rice, enough to make 4 servings.  When the rice is done, add some Goya Sofrito sauce (spicy tomato cooking base found in ethnic section of grocery)...just a teaspoon or two to make it slightly sticky but not pasty.

Pour beans over rice, add some grated cheddar cheese and/or sour cream...YUMMAHHH!!

After you enjoy these, make sure you're alone for a good portion of the evening and next morning.  You will thank me. 

Constructing a Nickname

Constructing a Nickname

"I'm a dump truck".  My 22-month-old is fascinated with big vehicles that make lots of noise and crush or transport things.  He started taking on traits of his favorite truck, and decided he wants to become one.  He thinks being a dump truck is probably the coolest thing on the planet. 

 Or at least on the construction site.

We found a cartoon book about construction equipment, and since he loves it so much, we craftily decided to save it for "potty time".  He's learning about payloaders, excavators, bulldozers, backhoes, tree spaders and several other big vehicles.  My 9-year-old daughter thinks it's a great incentive to encourage positive bathroom behavior in a budding potty-trainer.  I just think it gives a whole new meaning to taking a dump.

But it got me thinking...if we were all construction vehicles, which would we be?  

The baby calls me a "backhoe" because he said it once and got a chuckle 

out of his Dad.  He's too young to understand double entendre, but he definitely gets the giggles when

he makes grownups laugh. The backhoe comment is always good for a nudge, a wink, a snicker or too whenever he tries it out on someone new.  And it may or may not be appropriate.  I will not divulge.

So if Mom is a backhoe, is Dad a ...frontloader?   The possibilities are interesting, if not immediately apparent.   He might suggest "pile driver" or "jackhammer", but I'd opt for "integrated tool carrier".  Much more cosmopolitan and definitely more appropriate.  Especially if you were familiar with the equipment.  Perhaps "road widener"??

His big sister has always been a "bulldozer". 

 She can plow through a minefield of "no's" to win her way in practically any situation.  It's frustrating for those of us trying to raise her,  but she will definitely push obstacles out of her path as an adult.  For that I say, bring it on, sister!  I pity the poor boss or husband who tries to stand in her way.  Timber!!!

 His other sister is headstrong in her own way, but definitely more diplomatic.   She's more like a 

forklift, helping with little projects, scurrying around and keeping things simple, and in order.  At a projected 6'2" when she's fully grown, she'll also be able to reach really high places, so "forklift" definitely applies.

Alas, older brother is the most laid back of all of us.  I could see him as a cement mixer, churning away, steadily doing his own thing, while the other trucks scamper and scurry.    But I might be overshooting a bit.  The guy is extremely chill.  While the girls clear the path and keep things moving and in order, and the little dump truck does his business, it's quite possible that our oldest son will be the guy holding the sign at the construction site.  I just don't know if he'll go around saying, "I'm a hard hat".  Doesn't have quite the magic, does it?    

THIRD GRADE FOLLIES

If I had a therapist, she'd say my obsession with 3rd Graders stems from the fact that I skipped that grade.  Yep-- went for two weeks, took some tests, then bumped right up to 4th.  I missed a lot of basic stuff-- multiplication tables, cursive writing...but never lost my kinship with the kids in grade three.  

Now, four decades later, I'm still thrilled by third graders.  I spend as much time with my daughter's 3rd Grade class as my schedule-- and state stalking laws-- will allow.  I'm not a total weirdo--just a junkie for juvenile behavior.  Let me explain.

Third grade is the first year the public schools make you sit down and shut up.  From Kindergarten through second grade, the teachers are all sweetness and hugs and cookies.  But come the first week of September, third grade year...BAM!  Time for real homework, book reports, long division, science projects....enough to make even the nerdiest learner want to hurl!  Nine-year-olds are still full of wonder and wistfulness and wiggles at this age-- and sitting still for hours at a time is total torture.  Those who maneuver through that madness are finally rewarded, though, with field trips, spelling bees, fun Fridays...and the end-of-year free-for-all known as Field Day.  

I've spent the last 

month inserting myself into all of those photo ops, and have reached the

 conclusion that life doesn't get much better after third grade.

The recent class trip to the NC Museum of Natural Sciences was set up to be a beneficial learning experience about the myriad life forms in the various regions of our beautiful state blah blah blah...

Heck, there was a CHOCOLATE exhibit on the third floor!  Paydirt! 

 I paid the extra admission charges for my kids, and we

scurried for the free samples WHICH WERE NOT TO BE HAD!! (Note to Museum staff: cough up some

 free cocoa.  The children are here to learn, and there's nothing 

"Natural" or "Scientific" about a $9 chocolate frog in the gift shop!) 

 We settled for a math lesson on

 budgeting $6 for three kids. 

 That's all the change I

 could scrape up from the bottom of my purse.  At least the butterfly 

exhibit was free, and fun.  We tried to stand really still to see if the butterflies would mistake

us for statues, but ONE of us couldn't maintain

the pose.  I can't remember which one...

When it comes to real-life drama and suspense, nothing much compares to a third-grade

spelling bee. At my daughter's competition last week, I stole glances at parents who looked

like they were watching their children perform open-heart surgery...then cheered them on as if they were Mine That Bird at the Belmont!  My kid lost on

 "loose" (she heard "lose" and spelled that word flawlessly!)...and the battle

 came down to two boys who volleyed vowels and disputed diphthongs...

until Leeban Ali called his opponent on "establish", then raised him "cooperate" for the whole enchilada.  This Ali floated like a butterfly 

before stinging this Spelling Bee.

The Holy Grail of third grade, however, is the end-of-year Field Day. 

 Scores of parents and teachers put in hundreds of hours planning and executing this mayhem for the whole elementary school, but

the third graders get the best time slot (afternoon), and the most fun per capita (water games!).  

My station was supposed to be a bucket-filling water race, but the other room-mom and I thought of a much better torture:

we made the kids cooperate!  Instead of just racing, they had to work together to make it back to the group...the boys still rushed, but they finessed a little better when they were paired with girls.  Everyone was soaked but satisfied at the finish line.  The other mom and I congratulated ourselves on our little social experiment, complete with gender studies and human behavior modification.

So imagine my horror when I told the kid in the striped shirt to work together with "her"...only to hear the braided head kid retort icily:  "I'm a boy".  

I may not be the only one who needs therapy after all this.

But I must have matured a little since third grade...at least they don't call me a boy when my t-shirt gets wet!

Updates and Odds/Ends

Item 1:  Hair has been styled.  Keep in mind, someone else colored, foiled, heat-set, washed, glazed, re-washed, conditioned, cut and blow-dried this mop earlier today.  I'm wondering how many days I can go without touching it, hoping the "do" will stay "did".  I read that Brooke Shields goes 5 days between shampoos, workouts notwithstanding.  I figure I can at least make it 'til tomorrow night's NC Theatre production of Miss Saigon, where I have to do some volunteer pimping.  If anyone touches my head, they will "miss" Saigon.  I think I just stole NCT's marketing tag line, but it fits.  Deal.

Item 2:  Pacifier Problem Redux

He found the paci drawer!  Baby Everett, the tiny terrorist, has reached that stage where no baby lock, gate or safety device can keep him from his quest to seek, conquer and destroy. Eight days after being weaned from his binky bent, he found the secret stash (all 9 of them!) in a random reconnaissance mission in the kitchen.  He absently popped one in his mouth, with the look of Mike Krzyzewski after a Duke basketball victory...a stonefaced "Duh, you were expecting something different?"!!!  I snagged the whole paci family in one frantic swoop, and threw them en masse into my closet -- behind the only doorknob he has yet to defeat.

He threw a three-year-old tantrum...18 months early!!    I created a diversion, quite possibly involving cash payments, and resolved to pack away the paci's for posterity...in the attic.  Tomorrow.

Item 3:  Still no "help wanted" signs at the Dunkin' Donuts/Baskin Robbins construction site.

That may be due to the absence of window panes, but I find that to be a minor technicality.  Duct tape, people.  

Item 4:  Sleep deprivation revisits.  With hubby back on the road, I find 500 things to do once the kids go to sleep, but I mostly end up gazing at the bag of Nestle's chocolate chips,  

counting the days until the end of Lent and the rekindling of my romance with sugar.  I surf,  I straighten, and I stare at the mountain of clean clothes I refuse to fold.  Isn't that why the laundry room has a door?

Item 5: The baby is rediscovering his overnight vocal prowess, with an uncanny ability to repeat the word "mama" more times than I would ever care to count.  

He screams it, sobs it, hollers it, barks it, blubbers it, moans it, then eventually whispers it as I stand just outside his door, peeking in with my good eye.  

The baby books say to allow this behavior, but it only works in our house when daddy is gone. Daddy would have reintroduced the pacifier by now.  

I catch a glimpse in the mirror as I stagger toward the stairs.  Deep, dark undereye circles.  But some damn nice hair.....

Hooray for Harris Teeter!

    The "Teet" is tops on my grocery list--

Not for the super selection of fresh produce, the scrumptious samples (DO shop hungry in this store!) and the killer deli...

Not even for the made-to-order pizzas that you can pick up on your way home from work or carpool.

No, this goes WAY beyond the food-- MY Harris Teeter is loaded with customer servers-- so much so that I will now pass two other grocery stores to shop at this den of do-gooders!

Let me rewind about six months, to my son's first birthday.  While guests started arriving for his party, I was dumpster-diving in my garage, trying to locate my Harris Teeter receipt.  I had shopped there earlier in the day, and used my debit card to get $40 cash back from my purchase.   In my rush to beat the partygoers, I forgot to snag the cash.   One of the early guests tried to sell me something (doesn't that always happen at your parties??!) and when I saw my empty wallet I realized my shopping slip-up-- hence the dumpster-dig.

In the birthday brouhaha, I lost track of my quest, and added that to my list of bad mommy moves.    I mourned for the lost lattes that $40 could have purchased, but I figured it was some kind of sign to stay out of Starbucks.

Fast-forward to March 23...more than 6 months after MY mistake.  I casually mentioned my bonehead move to the cashier, Angela, and she told me to take my concerns to Cheryl in accounting.  More than that, she called Cheryl over to the register, and I sheepishly sold her my story.  She skipped-- really! -- to her office, and moments later returned with a computer printout.  She informed me that, indeed, a register had come up $41.37 "over" that very September day.  She paged Paul, the store manager, who didn't even blink before signing off on my refund! 

Cheryl walked back to the office and presented me with two beautiful, crisp $20 bills, and didn't once ask to draw blood or even see my driver's license!  I love that woman!

So now, my joy is overshadowed with the realization that Harris Teeter is completing construction on another of its grocery stores RIGHT OUTSIDE MY NEIGHBORHOOD (same shopping center as the soon-to-open Dunkin' Donuts/Baskin Robbins den of delight!).  Question is-- do I pass this one to get to the good one, or will my new best friends Cheryl and Paul be okay with me cheating on them with their more-convenient cousin?

I'll have to check, next time I'm cashing in at the Teet!!

Footloose in Church

Tap...tap...giggle...

Tap...twist...giggle...

That was the soundtrack to today's 10:45am Mass at my church.  A little boy in the row ahead of me, probably age 4, was playing footsie with me under his chair.  He was face down on the floor, coloring quietly, and tapping his foot into mine.  

His poor young mother, probably 33, with firm Michelle Obama arms and sculpted cheekbones, tried fervently to get him to pay attention to the service, but his feet would have none of it.

Tap...slide...giggle...

I smiled inwardly, thinking about how stressed I was at that woman's age...with 2 young children, a busy career, a traveling husband.   I, like her, desperately wanted people to think my kids were well-behaved.   I didn't invent it, but I elevated the "mom church whisper" to Oscar-winning drama heights.  My older daughter felt the threat of a lightning strike everytime she crossed into a sanctuary!  But did the kids behave?  Ah, well...occasionally.

Tap...stomp...giggle...

The priest was talking about Nicodemus, the questioning prophet, and my mind wandered to the questions my kids would ask in church:  "How big is God?"..."Will the Communion wine make me drunk?"..."Did someone just do GAS?!"  

The young mom was still trying to settle her silly son, but he was having too much fun with his secret game to obey for very long.

Tap...wiggle...giggle...

The priest started talking about Psalm 137:  "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion".  He reminded us that we all get a little misty when we think of the "good old days".  The days when our children were young and silly and impetuous and questioning and full of wonder.  I thought about my older son, still trying to decide what he wants to study in college.  My older daughter, about to leave high school and start a whole new college adventure in Florida, also crossed my mind.  I prayed for them.   My younger daughter, well-mannered and sitting beside me in church, sang from her hymnal.  I squeezed her hand.  And I chuckled, thinking about my rowdy baby-dude at home with his dad, tearing up the playroom yet again and sneaking cookies when no one's looking.  I thanked God for them all.

Tap...press...smile...

Only that time it was me, signaling to my little crayon buddy that his "good old days" are still ahead...as long as he keeps remembering to play footsie.