OK, my little experiment is over…I was fiddling around and ended up spending far too long trying to make a fun new site creat what I wanted. The best way for me to explain it is to just send you there- Wordle. It’s a logarithm that takes your blog URL, or whatever text to give it, and creates a typographic piece of artwork. Words that appear more frequently are larger, you can tweak the font, colors and layout, and it is addictive! Give it a shot… But don’t say I didn’t warn you! You may be surprised which words show up…

In the middle of the rattle-y chest cough and horrid summer cold I’ve managed to contract, some good news came my way this morning…

A new nephew has joined our family. All reports indicate mom and baby are doing well, fingers and toes are all present, and baby is darling. Still awaiting a name; but a baby-day is always a happy day. Welcome, sweet little one.

Image via Flickr

Beanie is having a Dress day. And by that I mean, he is wearing a dress. I give up. He has boxers on underneath the little white dress with yellow cherries on it. The cherries have blue ribbons tying them, and those blue ribbons make it a “boy dress”. That’s my boy.

Actually, there is something so innocent about it; it endears him to me. Soon enough, the day will come when he knows about pressure and fitting in, and he’ll begin to self-edit. I’m glad, while he is young, and my other children are open and sweet enough not to tease him, he feels safe enough to just be who he is. He also has a new pair of these shoes, courtesy of a friend…

You think I’m kidding? Nope. He wears them to church. With the fancy pants. Does that freak you out? Would it freak your husband out? Should I care more than I do? How would you feel if your little boy preferred things like this? And I mean, really, strongly preferred things like this? Would you try and force the more typical “boy” outfits? Or would  you take my tact and just roll with it? Are there pitfalls with either method? What think ye, oh mighty mamas? And you, too, Ray…

Butter is my favorite food group. OK, maybe that’s not true- maybe it’s really cheese, but I’m in the Paula Deen  school of butter philosophy. Everything is better with butter. Lots of butter.

It’s like, midnight thirty, and I can’t sleep. Why? Because I took a NAP today, and my dumb husband let me. What was he thinking? Not only did he let me take a nap, but he FED the kids dinner and put Abby to bed. While I napped. What kind of husband do I have, man. The downside is, I can’t sleep- even a bennedryl isn’t helping, and the monkeys will up bright and early chomping at the bit for me to feed them. See, if I was a good mom, I would use one of the Ree’s recipes and have breakfast casserole all ready. But I’m not. Nor does my husband wear hot chaps to work every day. Sigh…

Serious emotional eating going on here. I have no idea why. Stress? Do I have any stress in my life? Ha! My knee jerk reaction is “no”- seriously, how dumb am I? Pot, meet kettle. So maybe I have some stress. But why oh why do I deal by eating everything carb-y I can lay my glommy little mits on? Oh, look, a vat of sugar! Goody! What can I make? Oh, another pie? Don’t mind if I do, thank you! Oh, look! Some pasta! Mmmmm! Let’s just pick out this ucky green stuff and eat the rest. Mmmmm. It’s the middle of the freakin’ night, and I’m weighing out if I would see anyone I know if I just ran to the grocery store to pick up some frozen TURNOVERS. Crap. What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

Stupid drive-thrus being open all night. You’re not helping me!!

I chew ice. I’ve heard that’s bad, but I really, really enjoy it- and have since I was a girl. Crushed ice, thank you very much. When I was a kid, we had this old table-top ice crusher, where you filled  a hopper with cubes, turned a crank, and the teeth inside chipped and chopped your ice into shrapnel. I loved it. That was before freezer door ice-dispensers; of which, I consider those second only behind hot running water.

If I ever travel back in time, I want to take a tube of mascara. I have the odd, lash-less look of a rabbit, to quote Scarlett O’Hara, without mascara. A prize for anyone who can name who she was talking about when she said that- and goodness knows, if I’m going to time-travel to the antebellum south, I want Scarlett to like me. Or at least not scoff in derision. Although maybe that’s inevitable, since there is no stay on the planet that could cinch my waist to 16 inches. Mercy.

My daydreams are taken up lately with chopping my hair all off. And getting the new Brazilian keratin hair-straightening treatment Jen wrote about. I’m too lazy tonight to make a link, but trust me, it looks good. Three months of silk hair. I haven’t had my hair short since ninth grade. That was a bad year. It was a bad decision to cut all my hair off. Of course, there were not silicon hair smoothers or other goodies for girls with steel wool instead of hair. My hair grew OUT from my head for a good two years before there was enough weight to pull it down again. There are a great deal of pictures where I resemble nothing so much as the Sphinx in silhouette. Maybe I should re-think the cutting, eh?

Who said “Nothing good happens after midnight.”? Was the GBH? Cause maybe they have a point.

Yard sales have been poopy this month. I don’t think there’s been anything good for a few weeks. Today, out with all three kids (cause THAT is a good idea…), I turned down a deadend street. “Crap!” I hollered at the car. Jeffrey pipes up from the back- “MOM! You’re our role model- you can’t say that!” Me, sweating and wresting the giant gas hog that hauls my family, into a seventeen point turn, considers this quite astute an observation and offer “OK, you’re right Jeff, so you and Bean can scream ‘crap’ one time.” “CRAP!” they both immediately bellow, then break into fits of giggles.  Mom of the Year, right here.

I wonder what it would cost me to get a giant rubber band put around my stomach on the black market? It’s like, I’m too fat for comfort, but not fat enough to be eligible for any medical help. Sometimes, like Cathy Bates in Fried Green Tomatoes, “I wish I could just say ‘what the hell’, and get really fat.” But not really.

For three days, all I have been craving is Eggs Benedict. I don’t have any lemon. Again, wondering who I might run into at the grocery, and if it’s worth the gamble. There is no way I’m changing from my jammies, and it’s too warm to use a cloak. I’m fresh out of cloaks anyway. Much like riding horses and men wearing hats, I wish we still used cloaks. I don’t want to give up my ice or my mascara, though.

Recurring theme tonight? Time travel. Food. One o’clock now… The drive-thrus are calling me… Forth meal. What kind of marketing BS is that? Cause that’s what we Americans need, another meal. Three squares a day isn’t enough, no sireee. Gimme more. On that note, the drive-thru idea is giving some sympathetic indigestion. Whew. Save from a horrible caloric misstep by my own gurgling stomach acid! Woooo-hoo!

I paid Jeffrey a box of Lemonheads for him to let me pluck a wild hair he had growing from his cheek yesterday. I did. Like I said, Mom of the Year. Bringing it to ya.

Most of today has been wasted deliciously spent reading through the archives of my new favorite blog- The Pioneer Woman. Seriously. This woman can write, is talented in a million ways, and her blog is beautiful. Most of you probably already know about her, but I didn’t- she’s my new BFF. Mine and the ten thousand other people that read her- Yes, there is a post with over TEN THOUSAND comments. Bow down.

I made it to 35 years, 9 months and 12 days without ever trying so much as a morsel of Spam. Yesterday, Mo Mommy came over to hang out and while the day away -which we do on a fairly regular basis- and she volunteered to cook dinner for the fam. Spam Sandwiches. Oh, yeah. I kid you not.

You can take the girl out of Alaska, but not the Alaska out of the girl. I hear Spam is quite the popular victuals up in the state that houses ANWR and baby seal galore clubbing… so, to honor my friend (It’s almost as much friend-love as scooping peanut butter into smaller containers- almost…!)….. I tried it. And… Well…while I might not ever try it again- it’s not as horrible as I had feared. Kind of like meat-flavored packing peanuts. If there was nothing left to eat, anywhere, ever again, I would chose Spam over eating my own children.

I might even choose it over marshmallows or jell-o. But that’s a push.

Turns out Stella is not the most exciting pet.  Jeffrey says he goes days now without noticing Stella-turns out things might need to hairy and smelly and/or loud to captivate my children, too. What’s that they say about like attracting like? Yeah. I know. Turns out Stella may be a boy. Meh, we have a trend of accepting a little gender confusion in our house. Stella fits right in.

Watching a sweet, gentle, whisp of a kid for a friend today. He’s an only-child, and I fear by late morning my kids will have him tied to a spit in the backyard, pretending they’re on the Discovery Channel, chanting boom-de-yadda, boom de-yadda…

I’ve given up on my hair completely. Yeah, yeah, I know- the hair challenge was great, but having to wait three hours every morning for it to dry, not touching and chanting backwards in the mirror at midnight to make it look good was just too much. Come on, I’m tired. Sleep is better than good hair. You hear me? Sleep wins! So I cut about 10 inches and it lives in a knot again.

Couldn’t sleep last night, but I found a cache of old design blogs and thus spared the world more midnight ramblings. Lucky you. I have to say, while I like clean lines, it’s just not something I can pull off. Best I can do is a clipped sentence. Mid-century design just makes me wish I held onto all the crap at my grandmas house so I could get rich on e-Bay.

You know it’s bad when your 75 year-old uncle comes over and pulls a lawnmower from the trunk of his Cadillac and mows your yard. Derelict. The yard, not the uncle. Broken-handed hubby couldn’t mow (did I mention the broken bone?), I would be a heap of hives not even a bottle of Bennedryl could help and alas, none of the kids are old enough for power tools yet. *sigh*

On my to-do list: Sew something. Make cherry jam with the remaining metric ton of cherries. Go to the post office. With. Four. Kids. HAHAHAHAHA! Ok, really, nevermind. Get the Bumble bee tuna song out of my head. Somehow.

Return the three Netflix movies I’ve had since June I haven’t even gotten around to watching. Now that’s lazy. They come to my mail box, and I can’t even be bothered to tear open the paper sleeve. Uuuuuuugh. Too hard. Send them back. No, really, it’s just because the TV screen is so glommy with fingerprints and mystery smears I can’t see anything anyway.  When I grow up, I want to be organized.

The kids popped my exercies ball. Yeah, ’cause I used it so much I’m devastated.

I like Stell(a)(one). Even if no one else notices he(r)(im) it for days. Her little chirpy noises make me happy. That’s good enough for today. Well, that and maybe a job…

OK, I don’t even normally like pie- something about squishy cooked fruit gives me the yeeshes- but when a neighbor gives you a ton if fresh picked cherries, what are you gonna do? That, and my darling husband adores pie- so I set out to make a cherry pie.

It. Is. Divine. Really, the best pie I’ve ever made. Most cherry pie recipes call for sour cherries, which you usually have to get frozen or canned. Well, going the route of Gourmet, I found a recipe on Epicurious that uses fresh cherries. They have to be firm and preferably not the black Bing’s (too sweet)- and that’s just what I had- firm, tart Washington cherries. Using Martha Stewart’s pitting trick with the icing tip, I pitted my cherries easy peasey. Make this pie. Really. (I changed the recipe from Epicurious a little- I cut back on the sugar, and omitted some shortening and cinnamon, and since my pie is perfect, I don’t feel guilty.)

Pastry:

• 2 1/2 cups all purpose flour
• 2 sticks unsalted butter, cut into cubes
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 5-7 tsp. ice water
• 1 Tbsp sugar

Whirl it all up in your food processor (or use a pastry cutter and do it by hand if you’re old school). Divide dough in half, while still crumbly, and use plastic wrap to press into a disk. Refrigerate, wrapped in plastic, for at least one hour.

Filling:

• 6 cups (or about 2 pounds) pitted, firm, tart cherries
• 3 Tbsp cornstarch
• 1 cup sugar
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract
• whole milk for brushing

Toss cherries in a large bowl with all remaining ingredients except milk. Prepare crust, rolling out bottom of crust, filling with cherry mixture, and rolling out top crust. Trim and crimp per your usual style. Vent top with cut slits or cute cutouts. Brush with milk and top with sprinkled sugar.

Bake pie in a 400 degree oven for 30 minutes, then cover edge with foil or pie shield, and turn down heat to 375 degrees. Bake an additional 45-50 minutes, until crust is golden and center is bubbling. Cool completely before cutting. Serve with vanilla ice cream and roll your eyes at your magnificence.

If you have hardwood floors, run, yes run, to Target and buy this mop. It’s the best mop I’ve ever used, and I’ve gone through a few this year already. My whole main floor is hardwood oak, and I’ve battled with Swiffers and off-brands, and brooms and vacuum attachments and nothing, no nothing, cleaned my floors a quickly, efficiently and thoroughly as this little bad boy.

It has a microfiber cover that can simply be rinsed and wrung out and used over and over. Toss it in the wash when you’re done, and you have a whole new mop next time. It’s not puny and rediculous like the disposable mops, it has a swivel head for getting under and around things, and the head is huge. It made short work of my kitchen which was splattered with jam making shrapnel, cherry pie dribbles and the fluff and fodder of a house swarming with little kids. It’s worth it. Under $20 at Target (but I can’t find it in their online store). Or, you can find it online here, for $28, and that includes two extra microfiber terry heads.

Aside from how difficult things have been lately, there have been some tiny gems too, to light my way. Sometimes, it’s too easy to focus on the drama and overlook the quiet little fires of welcome and love that are always present. If only I can remember to look… Thank you all for your kindness and prayers, for your comments and for the amazing amount of you who emailed me after my last post.

Today, I spent some extra time with my kids. I nuzzled in the warm, sweet curves of Abby’s little neck, fresh from her bath. I let Bean soak until all the water was orange with bathtub crayon and his toes were raisins. I let Jeffrey skip his bath.  I watched some cartoon with the boys, and keyed in on their goofy, budding senses of humor. Each kid got to choose their own lunch, and I played short-order cook; Bean had peanut butter Ritz crackers, Jeffrey had a frozen burrito, and Abby had penne with vegetables.

While the kids played downstairs, I caught one of my all-time favorite movies, Fried Green Tomatoes. I always cry when Ruth dies, and I always wish I had some tomatoes to go cook, too. I do have a frying pan like Sipsey’s…

A neighbor brought over a huge bag of cherries from her tree, and I made a cherry pie. It’s my first one ever.  Many a pie has graced my kitchen and been rolled out by my hands, but never a cherry. Jam is the fate of the remaining sour beauties. Without a cherry-pitter, I turned to Martha Stewart, and she said to use an icing tip to pop the pits out. Worked like a charm, and I made short work of all ten pounds. Well, Abby ate quite a few- they ought to kick in right about church time tomorrow. Oh no.

My quilt group had their annual potluck swim party. It’s such a great group and they share so many tricks, shortcuts and secrets. It’s a goldmine. Many of them have grandchildren and great grandchildren who aren’t interested in hand-arts. So I soak it all up. Only one other woman is not a grandmother- and she has kids in college. Yeah, I hang with the old ladies. I love it.

The house smells like pie. Summer and pie. The windows are open, the night has cooled dramatically, and the babies are all asleep. The curtains flutter in the breeze, and the dryer hums and whirls down the hall, finishing off the last of the laundry, which David surprised me and did today. While I would love (love!) a clothesline, part of me knows what small hands, busy with dirt and berries, would do clean laundry hanging on a line. Someday, I think. Someday.