Short on Shoes

Fromage

The Luau, 2008

The Fiesta, 2009

Some things remain the same no matter how old you get. 

My little brother will always make me laugh, no matter how much we age.

And for this I am grateful.

10-4, over and out, good buddy.

It's Another Tequila Sunrise...and Another Christmas Eve

Here we are again, the night before Christmas.  Christmas Eve is always special at our house, as it is in so many homes, but probably for different reasons.  We don't do anything extravagant, no opening gifts, no caroling, no lavish feasts.  We have the normal pre-Christmas excitement, last minute feverish wrapping, and easy meals.  The kids are always impossible to get to bed, always finding a myriad of excuses to stay awake.  While the obvious reasons for the kids to be in bed on Christmas Eve before we are still apply, The Irishman and I have a tradition in which the kids are not allowed to participate.  Ok, everyone, minds out of the gutter.  Geez.

Let me set the scene for you.  The year was 1990.  I was in school and had just recently returned to St. Louis.  My mother and her friends had been trying for months to set me up with this guy they knew, but we had resisted their matchmaking attempts thus far.  I thought he was too old, and he thought I was too young.  I had been taking a particularly trying Chemistry course that year, and as it turned out, this guy had a degree in Chemistry.  I needed help, and this guy knew Chemistry.  I made the call and arranged to meet this Chemistry Guru.  We met a couple times for tutoring, I studied hard, and ended up acing the final and the class.

I was lounging around in the late afternoon of Christmas Eve when I received a phone call from the Chemistry Guru.  He and his brother had some errands to run, and wanted to know if I wanted to come along.  It seemed a little odd, as I'd not heard from him since our last tutoring session.  And I'd wondered why I'd come to mind to help run errands.  But, I thought, I have nothing better to do, why not.

They picked me up around 7 in his little black Mustang convertible and off we went into the night.  We ran here and there, dropping off gifts and picking up others, all the while making calls on his latest gadget, the bag phone.  I met several members of their ginormous family and when we finally finished with the errands and had dropped off the brother (number eight in the line-up, and my age) we went back to the Chemistry Guru's apartment.  We watched a movie, talked a bit and he took me back to my house.  No big deal.  But we were having fun, good conversation.  I asked if he wanted to come in, and he did.  It was so late, so very late, but we watched more movies.  There had been no advances, nothing suggesting we were doing anything more than having a good time as friends.  Finally, around 6 a.m., the movie we had been watching ended, and he decided he should probably go home.  I walked him to the door and he kissed me twice, both times pretty much on the cheek.  

I was exhausted, but had to be at a family gathering in just a few short hours.  I grabbed a couple hours of sleep (remember those days when you could exist on just a couple hours of sleep?  seems like eons ago), and then headed out.  I was in my Aunt Gina's kitchen, talking to my mom and Aunt Marje, telling them about my night and what had ensued.  The question of the day was not who got what for Christmas or the plans for the rest of the day, but what exactly did those two "kisses" mean?  Were they supposed to be platonic kisses?  Or were they meant to be first-date gentlemanly kisses?  The story was passed around my own ginormous family, and there didn't seem to be a consensus, one way or the other.

The day after Christmas, I got my answer.  Eighteen years later, I know for sure that those kisses were definitely not platonic.

So every year, on Christmas Eve, after the kids have gone to bed, we put in the same movie we watched that night so long ago, Tequila Sunrise.

One more anniversary to note, one year ago to the day, my boys finally shaved for the first time.  Granted, they had to be threatened with receiving no presents on Christmas if they woke up with dirty fuzz on their face, but they did it.  I should mention that this rule is still in effect.

 

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Time to Make the Cookies....

Remember the Dunkin' Donuts commercial with the guy who had to get up in the middle of the night to make the donuts?  That's how it's been around our house lately.  Except we've been making cookies.

On a side note, don't you just love Dunkin' Donuts?  Or maybe you can't really appreciate them until they're not accessible.  The closest Dunkin' Donuts is 45 minutes away.  I miss them terribly.  One year for Mother's Day, the sainted Irishman got up early and made the 90 minute round trip, just so I could have my two favorite donuts.  That was a good year.  But I digress.

We've been feverishly baking on nights that we don't have basketball practice, Christmas programs, or carpool. 

This is something my grandmother did for as long as I can remember.  Every year, she'd start baking in early November, freezing batches and batches of the family's favorite cookies in Folger's coffee cans.  When we would go to visit, we'd sneak downstairs and grab some frozen cookies and bring them back upstairs to thaw out in a non-conspicuous spot.  Mimi always knew what we were doing, and never cared.   When Christmas grew near, she'd start dispatching her cookies by the dozens, in cute, festive containers.  I'll never forget the first Christmas that I was deemed adult enough to receive my very own container of cookies.  I didn't have to share with anyone!  They were all mine (I did have to share with The Irishman).

I've always wanted to be just like Mimi in this respect.  However, I've never been able to find the time required to bake, bake, bake.  This year was different, though.  And bake I did.

With the same mixer Mimi used every year.

And the same freezer that held all of those Folger's cans (picture not included, as the freezer's in the basement, and as previously discussed, I try very hard not to venture into that denizen of horror).

The best thing about this large endeavor is that I never once had to bake alone.  I was always accompanied by at least one helper, and sometimes as many as three.  We measured and mixed and scooped, dancing to funky Christmas tunes all the while. 

We made:

Lime Melt-aways and

 

Browned Butter Brown Sugar Shorties and

 

Jacques Torres Chocolate Chip Cookies and

 

Chocolate Crinkles and

 

Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies and

 

Yankee Noodle Dandy's and

 

Chewy Chocolate Ginger Cookies and

 

Rocky Ledge Bars and

 

Absolutely Deep Dark Chocolate Fudge Cookies and....

 

That's all.

Problem is, I don't know who to give all these cookies to now.  The Irishman and I have both taken some to work and we've given some to the kid's teachers.  From past experience with Mimi's cookies, sending them via mail, etc.  doesn't work out very well.  There were years that we snacked on crumbs for a month, trying to glean the Mimi cookie experience.

One more little wrinkle - we've become very possessive of these cookies.  We're certainly not going to eat even a quarter of the cookies that we've baked.  So what's the problem?  Is it a question of cookie worthiness?  I'm not sure.  But we WILL figure out some way to let go of them, because they are NOT staying here.

I've always wanted to own a bakery.  No fancy wedding cakes, or frou frou desserts.  But real baked goods that people don't have time to make anymore, or for those that don't have a doting grandmother that bakes for two months prior to some big event for them.  Cookies and breads and normal cakes and pies.  That's what I'd do.  Unfortunately, you have to get up before the butt crack of dawn to run a bakery like that.  And I am definitely NOT the Dunkin' Donuts guy.

And one more thing.  I'm dreaming in Spanish now.  It's a surprise to me too.  Wonder what that means?  Hay Caramba!

 

While You Were Sleeping

It's been a long time, I know.  Things here have been CR-AZY!  Let me try to catch you up, and then I'll really try hard to get back to normal posting status. 

A couple weeks ago, before the Arctic weather took hold of my sleep little town, on a lovely Saturday afternoon, the boys and I were waiting patiently for The Boo to be dropped off after a sleepover.  I was sitting in the front room, and caught a glimpse of red out of the corner of my eye.  I looked out the window and what did I see?  But a pudgy, short Santa, walking towards me (not really towards me, but I liked the rhyme).  I thought it was a fig-newton of my imagination, but when I looked twice, he was still there.  He was just wandering around in the middle of the street, occasionally waving at cars that passed by, with what looked like a mother in tow.  He meandered over to the Bed and Breakfast, sat on the stone wall, and flopped backwards.  He lay there on his back, kicking his little legs in the air.  It was at this point that I decided I couldn't resist this drama.  "Sous Chef!  Sous Chef!" I called.  I handed The Sous Chef the camera, pointed at Santa and said, "Go!  Be your sneaky self!"  He ran out the door, and disappeared before my eyes.  I watched out the window as the Santa's mom coerced him into several poses and took pictures, while the Sous Chef was nowhere in sight.  As Santa was waddling back to his sleigh (which turned out to be a red minivan), I saw The Sous Chef walking casual-as-could-be down the sidewalk, no sign of the camera.  Santa mounted his sleigh and promptly ripped off all his holiday garb, and off they flew.  Later that day, after single-handedly executing a family of vermin I might add, the kids and I were running errands and ended up at the pharmacy.  While waiting in line, I looked to my left, and wonder upon wonders, there was Santa, disguised as a little boy, stuffing his face full of candy while his mother printed out pictures.

 

Fast-forward to Thanksgiving.  We stayed home this year, and my Dad, step-mother, sister, and The Big D came to visit.  Here's The Big D with "Fire Tiger," although I really tried to urge him to change his name to Gustav. 

 

The Irishman was asleep before 1:30.  That monitor sure is a cozy headrest!

 

I brined the turkey this year, something I've not done before.  It's a little unwieldy, a little messy, but brining is the way to go for me from here on out.  The turkey was fabulous, and really, I don't like turkey.  The Irishman and The Sous Chef made an incredible gravy, we made the traditional cranberry sauce, which no one likes but eats because of tradition, and had chocolate butter pie and pumpkin caramel cheesecake.  It was so good to spend time with our family, and the time for them to go came way too soon.  Later that night, The Irishman and Bubba, because they are crazy, left to begin Christmas shopping.  The stores here opened at 12:00 a.m.  They got home in time to wake me up for work, and then crashed.  The Irishman went to work around 10:30, and Bubba didn't get up until noon, although that's been known to happen even when he's not pulled an all-nighter.

 

In other news, The Irishman and I actually had a date.  We banned the kids from making any plans on this particular Friday, which had special significance.  That Friday was the opening of Twilight.  I had pre-ordered the tickets to make sure they weren't swooped up by the teenage masses and told The Irishman the rest of the night was up to him.  We ate dinner at The Hereford House (not the one that burned down, clearly) at what would be considered Happy Hour for most.  I didn't want to be late and was worried there would be lines.  We arrived 45 minutes prior to the movie, and the line was ridiculous.  I couldn't imagine that so many people would be able to fit in on theater.  The movie was fair, following the general theme of the book, and really, who wouldn't fall for a vampire that looked like Robert Pattinson?  Just be sure to wrap yourself in a few extra blankets and you'll never know that his body is the temperature of most sub-zero refrigerators.  I was very proud of myself for making it through the movie without giving the evil eye to the young girl behind us that squealed every time a cute boy showed up on screen.  Yes, I'm growing up.

 

Nana arrived the day after Thanksgiving, and on Saturday we braved the snow and nastiness to head out to Bob Jones Shoes, because a visit from Nana would not be complete without making that trip.  We walked away saddened and empty-handed, which is unexplainable.  We even had a great parking spot, which is always a sign that we will hit shoe-gold!  We motored on to Target Boutique, in search of a fan to ease The Sous Chef's sleep in the sauna that is his room.  Yet again, our search was fruitless.  Apparently no one needs fans in the winter.  Silly me.  We decided to cut our losses and go home.  We did walk down the street later to The Christmas store, where Nana bought us each an ornament of our choosing.  Please to notice the shoes on my little elf below.  The shoes clinched the deal.

 

The weeknights have been filled with studying and basketball practices and snuggling up when the furnace can't figure out what it wants to do (although for some reason, my kids insist on wearing summer attire at home, no matter if it's 20 below outside).  There's our new few-ton (that's the way we say it here) that is broken.  Nebraska Furniture Mart will be replacing it on Wednesday.

 

And here's The Boo, in what looks like the most uncomfortable position ever, finishing up her homework.  Let's just pretend those socks look as white as the pure driven snow, k?  I'll feel better that way.

 

Tuesday night at 10:00 p.m., Bubba informed me that he was supposed to attend the football award ceremony thing at school on Wednesday.  The Irishman took my car to be fixed Wednesday morning (the seat warmer was ba-roke!), so he picked me up from work.  I dropped him back off at work, arrived home late with kids, and waited for Bubba.  He got home and we left precisely two minutes later to make it to The Boo's basketball practice.  We left basketball practice early, and drove forty minutes to Bubba's school, with not a minute to spare.  The organizers of the ceremony foolishly gave the freshmen their numbers first (all 117 of them).  See the man to the far left of the picture?  When Bubba got to the stage, he said "Nice shoes" to him.  He was supposed to be wearing his school shoes.  I wanted to tell him "Listen, Buster!  It's been so crazy in our world that we're lucky to be here with our underwear on in the inside of our clothes!"  Although his enormous feet really do nothing to help him out, do they?  After the freshmen received their numbers, Bubba headed up the stairs and out the door.  This after "Buster" had practically begged everyone to stay for the whole thing.  I felt so guilty, but I squeezed past the other people in my row, and off we ran.  It was late!  These kids had homework and we hadn't eaten yet.  We buzzed through McD's and gobbled our food down in the car, while I drove in silent bliss with a warm bum.

 

Last night was Christmas on the River here in our little town.  We attend every year, and it's so convenient because we just walk down the street to the entertainment.  It was so cold last night that we decided not to spend the whole three hours outside, but make our way downtown 15 minutes before the fireworks started.  The Christmas on the River fireworks show is the most spectacular display that I've ever seen.  It's choreographed to music and is traditionally fifteen to twenty minutes worth of non-stop fireworks.  Forty-five minutes before the festival ended, we heard the first shot go off.  Crap!!!!!  I'm not sure we've ever moved so fast.  We threw on coats, pulled up hoods, and flew out the door, looking like criminals running down the street.  We made it with plenty of time left of course, we can cover the measly 5 blocks pretty quickly. 

 

After the show was over, we were thankful we hadn't gone down any sooner.  The cold, even for the ten minutes we were there, was enough to make us all cranky. 

 

We ran back home, almost as quickly as we ran downtown, to be greeted by our newly decorated house.  Thank you Irishman!  It's lovely!

 

This morning, soccer at 7:30.  A.M. that is.  It was gross.

 

But we made it, and The Boo played hard, and her team won. 

 

Two basketball games to go today, and then we get to relax. 

On a quick side-note, I didn't see Short on Shoes here, so that's a nice little happy moment for me.  Hopefully, normal blog activity should be returning to normal around here.  Unless I have more of the "Listen, Buster" days.  All bets are off if I come across another one of those. 

I'll Take Apples for $20.00, Alex

The Answer is:  Make Pie, Brown Betty, Muffins, Applesauce, Apple-caramel bars.

Ding, Ding, Ding!

The Question is:  What do you do with a gazillion pounds of apples you picked in an orchard overflowing with nature's bounty?

We try to go apple picking every year, but the last few years, our attempts have been fruitless.

Ha!  I kill myself!

We've either been too late for the season, or there was a drought in the apple orchard, or someone had a game, or I had to do my nails.

But this year, not only did we make it in time, we arrived at the very beginning of the season.  The day was beautiful, warm but not hot, a gentle breeze, and a bright sun.

 

We've never been able to pick the apples from the trees by standing up or stooping.  We've always had to use a picker.   One year, when the kids were tiny, they were so tired, and it was so cold that we drove through the orchard with the picker stuck out the sunroof and got our apples that way.  Yep, we're crazy like that.

   

It took us no time at all to fill up the bag that cost a mere $20.00.

And this time, we could afford to be choosy about our apples.  Many were sampled along the way, just to make sure we were picking from the right trees.

Yes, even I was forced to sample the goods, even though I'm not a lover of apples.   

After the bag had been filled to overflowing, we wandered over to the animals, just like always.  The horses were fenced in, and after touching it, both Bubba and The Sous Chef realized they probably shouldn't lean against the fence.  It was a shocking experience. 

And again, I kill myself.  It's Thursday.  My sense of humor is warped by the end of the week.

  We also had to visit the the chickens, or "Salmonella," as the Sous Chef calls them.

After the requisite drop of the whole bag of apples, we hopped the next tractor ride back to the entrance.

We visited the little country store, looking for trinkets and caramel dip.  The store was quite sparse for this time of year.  Apparently, the owners are selling the business.  The Irishman had a brief vision of owning an apple orchard until being reminded of drought, insects, and other Acts of God.

We'll stick to picking, thank you very much!  From the ground, with a picker, or in a car (I could wax rhapsodic Dr. Seuss-style here, but I think I'll spare you that one).

Now all we have to do is figure out what to do with the 15 pounds of apples we have left.