Austenland

Sorry, Sister Hale, the movie might just be better. I missed Jane's running commentary in her head and the chapters interspersed with old boyfriends, but I think no more than two minutes passed during the duration of the film when I didn't laugh right out loud. Well cast. Well played. Well done. Kudos to three Mormon girls for pulling this one off in a way that is hilarious, and at times risque without sinking to the level of raunchy that passes for the new funny. Here's to Jerusha, Shannon and yes, even you Stephenie. . . as well as the three awesome women I had my girl's night with.

I have got to get one of those I heart Darcy bookbags. 

Wild Abandon

I took my 7 year old on a mommy-son date yesterday. He wanted to go roller skating. It was some hard work and encouragement to get him going, but the pride on his face for having figured out how to do this thing was so wonderful.

I had a blast.

I made several of my own quick turns around the rink, skating especially fast during the 80's music. I probably haven't been on roller skates in 25 years, but I've still got the magic. What a remarkable day of silly forgetting my old-lady self and remembering the girl still inside.

And not a moment's worry about which boy was holding which girl's hand. The joy of getting older!

Because the Tenth Anniversary is the Burrito Anniversary

The trip we took in April was supposed to cover some weeks of gift-giving family holidays: Valentine's Day, Plantboy's birthday in March, Mother's Day, my birthday in May, our anniversary last week and Father's Day. The idea, of course, being that we'd rather do one big cool thing than have a lot of lame-ish smaller presents.

This is such an awesome idea. In theory.

In practice it is a little bit dodgier. I did give everyone something (tiny) for Valentine's Day. As for Plantboy's birthday, well, there was just a shirt. And a CD. During Elder Scott's talk in conference ("I love you, but we can't afford it") Plantboy 'fessed up: Jerry Seinfeld was coming to town just a week after my birthday and he bought tickets nearly two months ahead to surprise me but now he felt guilty because they were expensive and on the credit card and should he try to sell them?

No. He should not. I also pointed out that now I felt guilty about them too instead of just pleasantly surprised. It's a good thing we had nearly two months to get over it, and to pay for them. (The Jerry was fantastic, by the way.)

Our vacation was, of course, wonderful but we did a very poor job of the just stick to one souvenir apiece plan. I hope by now you are starting to get a sense of how exceptionally well-disciplined Mr. Plantboy and I are. We could probably make it on one income if we could both stick to our guns and/or live like hermits.

We almost didn't do anything for my birthday or Mother's Day. Almost. Oh, yeah, the Seinfeld tickets. But they didn't really count, did they? After all, we bought them weeks in advance.
Our anniversary approached; we reminded one another daily that we were not doing anything (else) for it. Besides, the ward was doing a fathers and sons camp out that night. That was all the anniversary present I needed!

Then, Plantboy came home with the news that the Chipotle scheduled to open here in town was on time, and that opening day was our anniversary. Does this not seem like that big of a deal to you? Well, then, clearly, you are not married to Plantboy.

Plantboy lived in Denver when the first few of these restaurants opened in the mid-nineties. One of them was right down the street from the Denver temple where he worked during the summer. It would be pushing it to say they ate there every day, but probably twice a week.

Then he married me, and we spent our first summer in Denver. I was shocked that he'd been previously going out to lunch daily, and buying $5 burritos two or three times week. I insisted on him packing the lunch nearly every day, giving the kitchen pass to go out only once a week or every other week. Then he TOOK me to Chipotle.

I wasn't so harsh about him packing lunch after that. I cautioned moderation, of course; it can't be good for you to eat a 10,000 calorie burrito every day for lunch, but I didn't fault his taste any more. We love everything about Chipotle.

We love the cool design of each store.

We love their corrugated metal decor and Aztec art.

We love their catch slogans and ad campaigns. (All time favorite: Usually When You Roll Something This Good, It's Illegal.)

We love their fresh ingredients, and that you can stuff anything that will fit into a HUGE tortilla and still be charged just $6. (The price has gone up a bit from the old Denver days, and yes, we know that guacamole is extra.) We love the cilantro lime rice so much that we've tried to re-create it here at home for years.

But mostly, oh, mostly, we just love their food.

One of the hardest things to say goodbye to in Texas was the Chipotle they'd built just a year before we left. Did you know that branch gave you and a friend a free meal on your birthday? And firemen and cops were always free. The nearest Chipotle to where we lived in Utah was two hours. TWO HOURS! We love it, but two hours was really pushing it.

The nearest franchise to us until Friday was about a mile from the Portland temple. I suppose it is no secret where we ate each time we went. I have sometimes even wondered a bit about my darling spouse's motivation for attending the temple . . . .

But not anymore. This newest addition to the Chipotle family is just three minutes from Plantboy's office. Yes, I foresee that this could be a bad thing. But it was sure fun on Friday. We came just after they opened and got the free tee shirts being given to the first 100 in the door. We sat near the lady handing out the free stuff and also got a squeezie burrito stress toy, a couple of free meals, free lip guac (read: chapstick), a pen and a couple of coupons for free guac and chips next time we go. She told us that on Thursday, when they'd given out free burritos all day, they had given away over $14,000 in food. (We tried twice to wait, but the line was over 100 people long and it went around the building. In a town primarily populated by vagrants and college students, this should come as no surprise.)

My friend watched my little ones for a couple of hours while Plantboy and I did this silly and fun thing that made us really feel like part of the community. When Plantboy admitted to the promotional-girl that he'd written the company three times to suggest Eugene locations for the burrito-goodness, she saw that we were the true superfans and is going to send us a bunch more coupons and tee-shirts. We will officially be enrolled as Chipotle Ambassadors.

Really.

How am I doing so far?

Gotta Get Me One Them Thar DVR Thingies

Sunday, after Conference, of course, I announced to Plantboy that I was going to watch the Academy of Country Music Awards. My palms broke out in a sweat as I said it, with just a trace of defiance. In typical Plantboy fashion, he just shrugged and said, "Okay."

"You aren't bothered by that?"

"Why should I be bothered?"

"I'm kind of embarrassed to admit that I like country music."

"It's not a revelation; half the presets in the car are on country music."

Having no answer for that, I nodded sheepishly. I'd like to say, in my defense, that in our fair city, there is a dearth of decent music stations. In Utah, I'm all about 101.9 The End--classic alternative with new and interesting music thrown in as well. The DJ's are also hilarious. But here! Where do I begin? The only stations playing any NEW music are the two country stations, the single hard rock station (yes, Metallica is STILL recording music) and the two rap stations. There are at least two awesome 80's/90's stations. Which is probably about 1 1/2 too many. There is another station that plays a mixture of classic rock, raggae music, and any U2 music recorded before 1995. And about 8 Christian Rock stations. We must have the highest Christian music to Christian ratio anywhere in the country. Texas included.

When 8:00 rolled around, the kids all tugged snug in their beds, I turned on the awards. I knew it was off to a bad start when Rascal Flatts was headlining. Plantboy sat on the couch opposite, "You mean you are going to watch with me?" I said, with no small amount of anxiety. Plantboy can be very snarky when he takes a mind to be.

Shrug. "Where else am I going to go?" My turn to shrug. Excellent point. A moment later he said, "Why don't they just take the Twinkies OFF the tour bus?"

"You know, he does kind of look like Beaker."

"From The Muppets?"

"Do you know a lot of other Beakers?"

I immediately checked the TV guide. Discovery Channel was premiering a three-part show called "Who Was Jesus?" that looked very interesting. I flipped over to it, grateful for the back up plan. It turned out that the back up plan actually became the main plan. The ACM's were really only bearable in short bursts and as often as I tuned them in, I couldn't help but FLIP right back to the Discovery Channel. What is it about famous people that when they all get together in one place they just look ridiculous? They get so hyped up and self-important it is laughable. Here are snippets from other moments at my house Sunday night:

Plantboy said, "How old is Reba again?"

"Um . . . like fifty-something."

"She has definitely had some work done."

This was not the first comment about 'having some work done,' nor was Reba anywhere near the oldest woman in the bunch to go under the knife.

Deep into the second hour I said, "Now, what is that on the ground behind Carrie Underwood?"

"All that maroon fabric?"

"Yeah what is . . . IS. THAT. HER. DRESS?"

"There are at least 20 yards of fabric there."

"There is no way she moved in that dress. She walked out there in her undies and a crane had to lift her into it."

"She IS really pretty though."

FLIP.

And speaking of Carrie Underwear, I think she changed clothes almost as many times as Reba did. There were never any shots of her in the audience, except right before she won an award, because she was always back stage changing clothes. Her white halter dress was quite pretty, but she had to do some quick hitching under the armpits during one trip up the stairs because she just about had a wardrobe malfunction. I have to say, I think such a malfunction would have made Kenny Chesney very happy. He was sitting next to her and was quick to offer a lingering hug every time she won an award. I think he was happier about her bare back than even the prospect of winning himself. Too bad for Kenny, hugging Carrie was the only prize he won all night. Maybe the Academy has finally figured out that rum-soaked Jimmy Buffet wannabees are not actually country stars.

She IS pretty. I think this unfortunate photo makes her look a bit like she's going to fly someplace.

At one point the (great) Keith performed. His wife tried to look human as she moved her head in time to the music. She nearly succeeded. Plantboy said, "Did she just smile?"

"Yes, I think she did."

"Does her plastic surgeon allow her to do that?" (And note to Nicole: next time you are out in public with your short hubby, wear flats or something. You look like an Amazon woman.)

Shrug. "This song sounded a little off on the Ellen show the other day; I think they had a bad sound check or something."

"Um . . . it sounds a little off tonight. He is really not hitting those high notes. He sounds like he's been on tour every day for the past year."

"His album came out this week and he's had a bunch of publiicity appearances: maybe it is the strain of all that . . ."

"I think he's drinking again. Ooo. . . there's another botched note."

FLIP.

When this band came on,

Plantboy said, "That is like the worst hat ever."

"Didn't you say that about Toby Keith?"

"Yes."

"What about that guy from Sugarland?"

"It's a toss up. And what is up with the face of that girl from Sugarland. She just looks weird."

"Like she stole all of the facial expressions that Nicole Kidman can't make."

I couldn't bring myself to watch Miranda Lambert, but I found this photo. Though she seems nice and smiley, I can't help but wonder if she's thinking, "Who told that jerk in the band that a mohawk was okay? He'll take all of the attention away from me. Me. ME!"

Billy Ray Cyrus got up to (NOT sing, praise be to the Heavens) announce his daughter and Plantboy had to go get some popcorn at that point. I called out, "You know, I'm not sure his new look IS an upgrade from the the white sneakers and mullet days."

No answer.

And then, Miley Cyrus. Oh. The. Miley. Like a full body dry heave set to music. Whomever is mentoring this girl really needs to give her some advice about the headbanging. Or if she is going to headbang she at least needs a barrette for her unfortunately-lengthed bangs. Is there non one in her life honest enough to tell her that sitting down while raising one arm and clutching at your chest with the other makes you look more like a Solid Gold dancer than a superstar. Of course, her father is the one credited with the mentoring and he gave us the line dance for "Achy Breaky Heart." I don't think he is going to be stifling Miss Montana's creativity any time soon.

Plantboy made it back with the popcorn just in time to miss her; I had been too mesmerized by horror to remember to flip the channel. However, he did not miss the beginning of "Johnny and June" sung by Heidi Newfield. This song is, apparently, about wanting to be in a totally dysfunctional relationship. Which is all the rage right now. (Read: Twilight) I said, "Is that an evening gown? Over jeans?"

"I don't know; but I'm pretty sure she's a transvestite."

FLIP.

This guy won song of the year. It is a song about black and white photos and there was a weird camera trick that made him look like he was black and white during the verses. It was creepy really. He is only 25 even though he looks like a grizzled old man. When you add in the black and white effect it's like watching Merle Haggard star in a remake of The Ring.

Jamie Foxx was asked to present an award. Since there is now a token Black man singing country music, the powers that be decided to actually invite a Black presenter this year. He was funny-ish and then he said, "Times, they be a changin'. There's a black man runnin' this country now! Let's give it up for my man, Barack Obama." There was a smattering of tepid applause, almost as hostile as the response he'd get if he'd called for the audience to take off their cowboy hats. I'm sure Mr. Obama will get over the slight; I think the MPAA voted to carve his face in the moutain behind the Hollywood sign just last week.

John Rich sang a song called "Shutting Detroit Down." About halfway through it, Plantboy said, "Is this a real song?"

"A real song?"

"Yeah, like on the radio?"

"Yes."

"It sounds like he wrote it in the car on the way over to the show."

I started to explain about how the song made sense from the viewpoint of middle America--country music's demographic, and how it no doubt resonated with a lot of people blah, blah, blah.

"Yeah, but it still sounds like he wrote it like ten minutes ago."

He has a point.

All in all, it was a good time at the ACM's. There were actually some moments that were hard to mock:

For all my dislike of Trace Adkins, he stifled his inner porn star to reasonably pass for a class act when he sang with the Westpoint choir. The song was called, "Til the Last Shot's Fired" and the proceeds from its sales are going to help veterans. He described the song as "haunting." I agree completely, but in a very good way. Not like an I-see-dead-people thing.

Reba's timing was spot on in her joke about Willie Nelson and Michael Phelps starting a band to cover the music of the Doobie Brothers.

Though his belt buckle was absolutely ridiculous, even Plantboy had to admit that he'd never seen a better looking piece of clothing than the jacket Matthey McCounaghey was wearing. His award presentation was really funny in a blue-collar-comedy-tour sort of way.

Martina McBride looked like a Greek goddess in her luscious purple gown. She is getting better with age, I think, and doesn't even look like she's been too worked on. Unfortunately it seems that no one took a picture of said gown and so you'll just have to take my word for it.

Brad Paisley was sitting on a ratty couch somewhere via satellite. At first I thought his being at the undisclosed location was like a Dick Cheney thing: you know, if something terrible happened at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas and all of the country music royalty was wiped out, there would still be someone left to carry on. But no, his wife is due to have a baby any minute and he didn't want to miss it. He was sitting next to a really old tiny guy and at one point said the baby HAD been born and that it was a Benjamin Button kind of a situation. Very funny.

It turns out that Taylor Swift can appear out of thin air (Plantboy: What DOES David Copperfield think he's doing?! He's just waving his arms around. And THAT is the worst hat ever.) The country wunderkind can also play the piano. I really like the song she did, but perhaps she needs to stop listening to Miley's advice about a little bit of head banging improving any number. Even a ballad.

Lady Antebellum sang a great new song called "I Run To You." I think they are quite wonderful and hope to see them start beating the pants of Brooks and Dunn and Sugarland in the coming years for best duo. The only really unfortunate thing was that they were both wearing skinny jeans. He looked, well, gay; and she looked, well, fat.

They are also giving a humanitarian award annually now to honor a singer who has done a lot for charity. After all, charity work is all about getting recognized. The award went to LeAnn Rimes. The following photo makes it look like she was nominated in the most frontless dress category, but not so. Though I think several of the women missed the memo about the discontinuation of the category, because there were a couple of others who were missing the entire center piece from the middle of their tops. I'm just not sure I could ever really get into an event where bras are optional.

The upshot of this ridiculously lengthy (and ridiculous) post is that I could have watched all I cared to see in about 15 minutes. With the DVR, I could have also watched Discovery's three part documentary in about 2 1/2 hours, on any night of the week that I wanted to. That $15 a month investment is starting to look better all the time. With all the time I save I could, I don't know, watch more TV!

A Romantic Dinner IN

I have to admit that the best Valentine's Day I ever had was in the third grade. We did the typical class exchange of the paper valentines in the hokey decorated shoeboxes. This was back in the day before chocolate was marketed by the truckloads in garish shades of pink and purple for purchase at the grocery store. When I was in the third grade, if you got a Valentine with a sucker in it then you were awesome. Anyway, a beautiful boy with black hair and tan skin, presented me with a full-size chocolate bar, the little card AND sucker taped to the back. (This boy's name was Rhett--could anything be more luscious?) It wasn't as if he was a secret crush or anything: he was my true love from the first grade until the end of the fourth. At which point I started growing up. He did not, and never did in all the years I knew him. I've sometimes wondered if he ever did.

I mean, honestly, after enjoying a brief sojourn as the Naked Mole Rat of Mrs. McColley's third grade classroom, what could compare?

The years I actually HAD a boyfriend-like person in my life over VD were almost worse because there is some kind of expectation. February 1992 and February 1998 come most prominently to mind. The latter is somehow all mixed up in my head with the only time I have seen Titanic--I am not certain if I actually saw it that night, but there are a couple of weeks that month with such a blur of embarrassing memories that it is all the same.

Plantboy and I have seldom gone out on Valentine's Day. This wall-flower attitude is for a variety of reasons: VD on a weeknight, availability of babysitting on a day when lots of people go out, finances, and a reluctance to make the day into all that big of a deal. Still, I do like to make an effort to acknowledge the day: I usually make a nice supper, decorate the table, give tiny presents at each plate, etc.

Two weeks ago we went to Olive Garden which has a special dish this month they are calling "Four Cheese Stuffed Mezzaluna." I subbed shrimp for chicken. It was very, very good. Then, last Saturday I got a bee in my bonnet to re-create it. I did; and while I am sure that it would be very easy to tell the difference in a taste test, I am not at all certain that mine would lose a head to head contest. My picture isn't quite as pretty; I need to take my food shots on white plates and white linens in the sunlight. Still, the result is divine and your special someone will think this is even better than a big candy bar.

I have no idea what "Mezzaluna" means, so I will give mine its own name:

Ravioli in Sweet Cream Sauce with Basalmic-glazed Pork Chops

Heat 4 Tbsp high quality olive oil on medium high and add about half a head of garlic (I think I used six or eight medium sized cloves), roughly chopped, into the oil. Stir fry the garlic for about a minute and then add three Tbsp of flour. Sir continuously until flour is dissolved and no longer raw, about a minute. Reduce heat to medium-low. Then add 3/4 cream, 3/4 cup chicken broth and 1/3 cup sparkling apple juice. (I used Martinelli's; you have some choices for this third liquid ingredient--plain apple or white grape juice would be great or even the light syrup from a can of pears. I liked Martinelli's because the rest of the bottle is perfect with supper.)

Whisk the sauce together and keep over medium-low heat until bubbles break the surface and it becomes thick, stirring often. Stir in 4 oz. Parmesan cheese (I used the shaky kind, but fresh would be fine too.) Add white pepper to taste, or fresh ground black pepper. Taste and observe. If the sauce is too thick (which cream sauces tend to be) and too sweet, add another 1/4 to 1/2 cup chicken broth; if too thick and not sweet enough, add more apple juice, but only a tablespoon or two at a time. If not thick enough, add more cheese and cream.

Sorry the recipe isn't a little bit more exact--I tend to do a lot of things to taste or based on if they look "right." But what is right to you, may not be to me, you know what I mean?

When sauce is just right, turn it down to low, stirring every couple of minutes while you prepare the rest.

Put half a cup of balsamic vinegar with a teaspoon of sugar into a small saucepan over medium heat. Cook until it has a syrupy texture and coats the back of a spoon. Stir often. This takes about 20 minutes; I didn't give it quite enough time, and so it is a little bit runny on my pork chops in the pictures.

Put a pot of water on to boil.

Cook thin pork chops in a large skillet coated with olive oil and a little bit of salt and pepper. When they are browned on both sides they are done. While the pork is cooking, use the other side of the skillet to saute julienne strips of red pepper.

When your water boils, add enough ravioli to serve how many you are cooking for. I used the large ravioli you can buy at Costco, just the cheese variety, though there is a triangular shaped spinach-filled one that would be extremely delicious with this sauce.

Most store-bought ravioli tells you that it is cooked when it floats, so watch it closely. Drain when cooked.

To serve, spoon sauce over cooked ravioli and garnish with red peppers and fresh basil ribbons. Serve pork on the side with a generous drizzling of the reduced balsamic vinegar. We had a crusty sourdough baguette that was perfect for mopping up left over sauce and vinegar.

For dessert, I made custard-sized chocolate lava cakes. Here is the recipe:

5 ounces semi or bittersweet chocolate (I used bittersweet baking bar)

6 TBSP butter

4 eggs

1/2 cup + 2 TBSP sugar

1/2 cup + 2 TBSP flour

Heat oven to 350 degrees and grease 4 custard cups (or a LARGE muffin pan). Melt butter and chocolate in a double boiler, stirring frequently, until smooth. Beat eggs, sugar and flour together. Add butter/chocolate mixture to the egg mixture slowly while stirring. Bake at 350 for 12 minutes. Don't use a tester, the inside should be gooey. Serve hot.

Serve either with ganache (super rich) or cream (really rich). For ganache, warm 1/2 cup of heavy cream until steam rises. Turn off heat, add six ounces semi-sweet chocolate chips and stir until creamy and thick. The cream should be sweetened, but not beaten--it just melts when it touches the cake.

Turn out each cake on a plate on either a bed of cream or ganache. Garnish generously with strawberries or raspberries.

I have no idea what to tell you to do about the dishes; I know that is really the best part of going out. Maybe Significant Other will be so impressed that he will volunteer? After all, there are few things more attractive than a man doing housework. . . Happy Valentine's Day.

We'll Celebrate With a Contest!

I thought for my 200th post we would do something REALLY fun. Last week Nem had people post favorite Christmas movies and then books. A couple of days ago I was going to ask all of you lovely people about favorite Christmas songs and then download the best. Then I thought, "Wait a minute! I don't care what everyone else likes. It's MY iPod!"

So now we are going to play a little guessing game. I downloaded TEN new Christmas songs yesterday. Only two of them are from the same album. Here is how you play: List ten Christmas songs in your comment. The person who most accurately guesses my list (with at least TWO matches) will win the prize.

Free blog visits for the next year.

Kidding. Of course, kidding. If you get the most correct guesses, I will download these ten shiny new songs onto a CD and send them to you. If I am going to get it to you by Christmas, the contest has to end by Saturday morning. (If I don't have your e-mail address, you'll need to give it to me so that I can get your actual address.)

So, ready to play?

Since I don't have a playlist running on the site, I realize that you might need a few hints. Here they are:

1. Martina McBride, Jewel and Harry Connick Jr.' s Christmas albums are already loaded onto my iPod.

2. When I taught school in Utah, I downloaded the livestream for 101.9 The End's Christmas music for my students to listen to while they worked on projects. This radio station is actually one of the things I miss the most about Utah.

3. My top five most played songs are by David Cook, Trisha Yearwood, Kelly Clarkson, Keith Urban and KT Tunstall. Though my Top 25 also includes Garth Brooks, Jann Arden, Madonna, Matchbox 20, Toto, Phil Collins and The Wreckers.

4. All of the songs were easily found through iTunes: I already knew either the artist or the names of the songs I was looking for. It was really easy to find what I wanted under the "Holiday" genre.

5. If you choose anything by Manaheim Steamroller then you are dead to me.

Footloose and Fancy Free. And a Little Sick to my Stomach.

Plantboy is out of town again. Why is it that two nights away from hubby and I revert to bachelorette mode?

He has been gone about 24 hours, and I've accomplished quite a lot--mostly because I threatened to abolish story-time if I wasn't given help to clean up the house RIGHT NOW, LITTLE MISTERS. But I also realize that this 24 hours has been full of wastes as well:

I watched TV until nearly midnight, including the CMA's which would never have flown with Plantboy home. I flipped between that and another show I like, only to miss Keith Urban singing his new song, which was the main reason I was watching the CMA's to begin with. And no, Nem, his shirt was not unbuttoned to his navel even once. Does anyone else think Nicole Kidman isn't so much aging as she is turning into an alien? After the CMA's I spent an hour watching "Sahara," which is actually a pretty good movie, as far as that sort of thing goes. Which is more attractive? Matthew McConaughy without a shirt, or Steve Zahn being hilarious and needing a hat? If you said "Plantboy," you got the right answer.

Having missed The Keith, I then surfed the Internet until 1 a.m. hoping someone had posted footage from the show. No luck.

I read nearly 250 pages to finish my novel: Spindle's End. I love Robin McKinley, but this was a little obtuse for my fantasy-light taste. More along the lines of Rose Daughter than The Blue Sword. (If you've read McKinley, you'll know what I mean. If not, you MUST read Hero and the Crown and The Blue Sword.)

Corn dogs. Two. I ate two corn dogs for "dinner" last night. Even my kids won't eat corn dogs.

Not wanting to make my bed again, I slept on top of my covers with a blanket over the top. But only on half the bed. The other half is covered with junk from the emptied furniture I was supposed to spend some time refinishing today. Oh, and I took a nap.

Pizza. Homemadish, but still pizza.

After a morning of errands, I put on my flannel PJ bottoms for comfort during the housework; I also wore these for my nap. The Jedi Master getting home from school woke me up. The first words out of his mouth were, "Are you STILL in your pajamas?" I was a little defensive.

Dr. Pepper. Ooo! That reminds me--the other 20 ounces are still out in the car.

Chocolate. Of course. It's only 9:30, west coast time. Who wants to come hang out?

Grocery Shopping

With Suburban Hippie just back from England and Desmama in Peru, I think I better post about something really down-to-earth so I stop sitting here wishing I was somewhere else.


My sister-in-law and I once figured that you touch your groceries about five times (At my grocery store I bag my own, so add one to the tally) before they make it to your cupboard. Then you eat them all up in a few days and have to go back to the store. She was lamenting how much she hated the grocery store as we spoke. In fact, I've had similar conversations with almost every woman I know, particularly if they regularly take their children grocery shopping.


And, I admit, I've had my moments of grocery store hate as well: especially if it is 5:30 in the evening and you have to run to pick up a couple of ingredients with three kids and it is WalMart and it would have been faster to walk from home than to find a place to park in their ten acre lot and there is not an employee in the entire store who can help you.


During our first year of marriage, grocery shopping was always a pain. I never had the ingredients on hand that I needed and I always thought Plantboy bought more produce than we could eat. Though we both enjoyed cooking, the prospect of preparing something new and interesting each evening was daunting. Plantboy probably had more time to cook than I did, but I just felt so obligated to take care of all duties domestic.


Finally after about 18 months of this, and many evenings of going out to dinner just two days after grocery shopping, we worked out a system. It was less of a "light bulb" moment then a "duh- why-didn't-we-think-of-this-before" moment. Each week we make a menu. I then make my grocery list for the week from my menu and shop accordingly. For the last several months, I've mostly been shopping on Friday mornings after I do my paper route. Though I have to contend with armies of stock boys, I don't have to worry about other shoppers or my children. I'm home by seven a.m.


And. I. Love. It.


I love organizing and checking off my list and thinking of all the possibilities for that fresh food. I love watching my regular checker run all of my groceries across the scanner, estimating to within a couple of dollars how much I have spent. I love having a fridge full of yummy ingredients just waiting to be turned into something fabulous. I love the security of cupboards that won't hold anymore. I love the expression on my husband's face when I have made an incredible dinner. I love watching my kids eat everything on their plates, when they actually do. I love experimenting with new ingredients and recipes.


For me, food preparation is my favorite domestic responsibility. It is a perfect blend of creativity with structure, splurging with economy, indulgence with necessity--not unlike my whole personality.


Tonight's menu is a little bit nicer than normal: the missionaries are coming for dinner. I know that we are told over and over again how the missionaries are just happy to eat, sign up to have them and just serve whatever, it isn't meant to be a burden etc. But my experience has shown me that there is something to be said for going to a family that treats you like the most treasured company in town. It compensates for a lot of doors slammed in your face and thousands of miles away from your family. Besides, I'm not just feeding the missionaries, I'm teaching my sons that there is no greater calling.


So here it is:


Three Pepper Pasta
Broiled chicken breasts
Red, green, yellow, orange and purple peppers (okay, five pepper pasta) lightly sauteed with
Baby carrots, garden green beans and zucchini
Halved cherry tomatoes (also from the garden)
Whole wheat penne pasta
All tossed together with homemade pine-nut pesto with basil from the garden and balsamic vinegar


Caesar Salad with Newman's Own Creamy Caesar (is there any other dressing worth eating?)


French Bread with pesto or garlicky balsamic vinegar or marinara sauce for dipping. If I'm really ambitious and have time I may go for bruschetta.


Red Velvet Cake for dessert. The link is not exactly my recipe, but it is very close. Cream cheese frosting is often prescribed for this cake, but it does nothing for it. Chocolate is equally atrocious. (Nor does it work all that well with fruit, especially the raspberries with the tiny insects in them that I was served at Book Group last week, but that is another story.) I've never actually made this cake--my mother used to make it every year for my birthday and it is my favorite. The last time I had this cake (just last week), it was so mediocre that I had to call mum for the recipe and find the first excuse I could to make dessert. I think it would be fun to make it blue or purple instead of red . . . .



Anyway, the food will be fantastic, you are all, of course, invited. Especially if you do dishes. Dishes and ironing are in a two-way tie for Most Hated Domestic Task.

Not For Everyone

I took my first subscription to The New Yorker for a class when I was in my second year of college. Each week we were required to read the magazine cover to cover, summarize the content of the major articles, create a vocabulary list of words we were unfamiliar with and write a 2-5 page response paper based on something from the publication. In addition, we were two turn in two short human interest essays throughout the quarter and our final was a long piece--our own TNY-style article. The class was rigorous. (Can you say hyperbole?)

As much as the content was invigorating, challenging and exciting, the best part about it was that I began a friendship with the professor. A year later I was part of an honor society that hosted a dinner for our "Top Profs." She was the one I selected, an invitation which cemented our friendship for good. We began corresponding to one another: hers was the first letter I received when I arrived at our mission office in Australia. Some years later, her children started an honors scholarship in her name (she is the second from the left below), and though I was unable to make it to the dinner honoring her, my essay was one that was read as she was introduced.

You couldn't ask for a better correspondent. She is interested and prompt. Her letters are always sincere, packed with meaning and provocative. We have grown close over the years; including many personal visits during the two years we lived in Logan, where she is a long-time resident. Plantboy was actually her gardener for several weeks last year. After learning so much about him through our letters, she was so delighted to finally meet him and he saw in a moment why my friendship with her has meant so much.

So why this long tribute-post today when I really owe my dear friend a letter? Recently my TNY subscription lapsed, a thing my prof always chides me for. This common link gives us much to discuss and analyze. Admittedly, there have been times I've renewed it more out of wanting to please her than my own real desire: the magazine comes to often for me to keep up with properly, is often offensive (at least in part), makes no apology for its pretensions, and is liberal enough to make even my hair stand on end at times. (When it came with my forwarded mail while I was living with my parents it was almost the equivalent of allowing pornography in the house, from my dad's perspective.)

Having said this, however, when my few weeks passed without an issue, I genuinely missed it. I missed its familiarity. I missed turning the pages when I take a bath. I missed its provocative way of making me take a hard look at the world. I missed its biographies of people who, for good or ill, shape the world we live in. I even missed its dense critiques of new Broadway shows that I'll never see but often wish to. I mostly missed that inner dialogue in my head that I carry on with my professor. Hers is the voice that reminds me to think before I form an opinion; to understand before I judge.

And then my renewal issue showed up yesterday and I spent a happy hour this afternoon drinking cold grape juice and reading, forgetting for a few moments that this week has been primarily composed of dishes and laundry. I have linked it here and everything is posted on-line. I like the print form (bathtub and bedtime reading), but if you have some time today, get off the blogs and read about conservative Christians working harder on making consensus in the political arena, a personal history about a Black girl growing up in a racially divided Pennsylvania, a biography of the man whose money is driving the rejection of a separate Palestinian state, the medical musings of Dr. Gwande, or a short story by the brilliant Alice Munro. Some weeks I peruse and recycle within a few minutes. However, this week's issue, in my mind, represents the best writing in American journalism today.

Vindicated! (Or Just Vindictive?)

You know how in movies, the girl always gets to really confront her idiot ex and make him look like a fool. This is so the opposite of real life. Most relationships end quietly and if you hear about them again it is okay, or if you never hear about them again it is okay. Other relationships end badly, and usually you hear about that awful person becoming enormously successful. Or you know nothing, which might be worse. Anyway, I heard something this morning about somebody I used to date. Okay, I'll be honest, somebody I nearly married.

I won't repeat it. As triumphant as I feel, I know that I shouldn't because I'm really over all that and spelling it out here will just be too sour grapes for my very mature self. . .

But still.

I'm glad to know that ultimately my character judgment was entirely on and that he is struggling with all the things that I knew would be a struggle had I married him.

After a decade of wondering, today I finally see that it wasn't me. It was him.

Okay, I'm done. Any more will just be vindictive, and then I'll feel yucky instead of euphoric.

On Summertime Movies, of Which I Always See Too Many

Plantboy and I kind of have a standing rule about movies: if it will be just as meaningful on the small screen, for goodness sake, don't pay $8 apiece to see it when you can Redbox it for a dollar if you are a little bit patient. This is because (a) we are cheap and (b) date nights are limited. What it really means is that I haven't seen a chic flick (aka, movies with good acting, characterization, and getting acquainted before sleeping together) in the theatre since roughly, hmmmm, the Clinton administration.

In fairness to Plantboy, I DO like action-adventure movies, though I put my foot down to PG-13 comedies staring Jack Black or Adam Sandler. This is a fair trade-off, I think, for the allergic reaction he always fakes when I say "Jane Austen" or "Masterpiece Theatre" or even "period piece."

But we both have a deep and abiding love for movies based on comic books. Granted, some of these are better than others, and I haven't seen all of them. Since Tim Burton's Batman (4th of July weekend, the summer after 8th grade), the best of these have been X-Men I, Batman Begins and Spiderman II. The worst list has to include Daredevil, Catwoman, and Fantastic Four.

Yes, they are formulaic. Yes, they can be a little bit creepy. Yes, you have to suspend all belief for two or more hours to lose yourself in such film-making.

And, yes, I love them. There is nobody in this forum from my college days (pity), but I will admit that for several years I hung a poster of the Fox cartoon Batman on my wall. Holding out for my own hero I suppose. I guess we all need a little bit of guilty pleasure in our lives.















But last night, I think I may have just seen the best of the lot. Ironman is pretty much awesome.
And though everyone is saying it right now, Robert Downey Junior is really great in this role. He takes a bad rap because he was such a crackhead in the late 90's, but some of his earlier stuff is not bad. (His performance in Heart and Souls is particularly good.)

My friends and I were all pretty much in love with him in junior high/high school. He isn't such a hottie now--he's looks like he's been around the block a few too many times, and he has those same fakey white veneers that every Hollywood star pays way too much money for, but this movie is just great.



Except for one thing. He never kisses Pepper Potts. Which is just lame. Who can resist the intelligent, red-headed, freckly Gwenyth? Or does she resist him? Either way, huge mistake.

Words I Hate and a Few Pet Peeves While I'm At It

Its my blog and I'll whine if I want to . . . .

Words I hate:

Uranus--Yesterday my kids were watching a Blue's Clues all about planets. Steve is singing, "Saturn's got those icy rings and Uranus spins on it side." Nice. They can hold a whole forum that bumps Pluto from planet status and they can't even rename one.

Crap and Sucks--You know, these two have become so common it is hardly even worth bringing them up. Growing up, I'd have been in trouble for either of these, especially the second. They slipped fairly regularly into my vocabulary during college and stayed firmly planted there until I had kids. Suddenly I began thinking, how nice are these words popping out of a 2 year old's mouth? (I mean, other than the first time, which would probably be funny.) I'd rather hear an occasional damn or hell than these two.

Omygosh--I never thought much about this expression until my six year old began using it about ten times a day. I've realized that I'm using this expression a plethora of times every day myself. What am I, a valley girl? Like omyheck.

Forward--Why such a tame word with such a nice message? When I was in elementary school, I made it to the district spelling bee. They said there would be no homonyms and then gave me the word "forward" which I spelled f-o-r-e-w-o-r-d. Excuse me for being a third grader who thinks outside the box! Could they have really made this mistake? Maybe it is my memory that is mistaken.

Blog and all variations to change its part of speech--It sounds like you are puking. And okay, I have to admit that blogging is often little more than word spew. I read some blogs that are almost incoherent; as if someone really has just strung together a bunch of random words. Are they being cute or clever? Am I missing some kind of joke?

Gay--Not in the sense that it describes two homosexual men; I mean you have to have a word to call things, right? But in the sense that teenage boys this word, "Dude, that is so gay." Whatever the thing is they don't approve of, it is gay.

Okay, on to the pet peeves.

Alec Baldwin (and anything else from his gene pool, though the brothers aren't worth a mention)--With the possible exception of Hunt for Red October and some narration work in the Thomas the Tank Engine movies, this guy just bugs me. If you have boys who like trains you have no doubt seen Thomas and the Magic Railroad. If not, click on the link. I don't think any more discussion into Alec Baldwin will be necessary.

The Little Mermaid--She dresses like a slut, acts like a brat, attracts stupid men and sells her soul to the sea witch. The consequences of all this? She GETS EVERYTHING SHE WANTS. I love the way Disney helps to teach family values.

Rachael Ray's man hands--Have you ever seen her mix ground meat by hand? Enough said.

Wal-Mart--I will admit that this store is an occassional necessary evil, but I hate in on principal. I will not go into the diatribe here. I'm sure this could be a post all on its own.

Toby Keith--"We'll put a boot up your *** its the American way." Charming.

Flip-flops and chicken hair at church--The flip flops because of what that GA said about beach attire being taboo at a church a couple of conferences ago, and the chicken hair . . . .wait, what do I mean by chicken hair. You know, the pony tail only incomplete pulled through that stands on end--sometimes very strategically. C'mon, people, it is church! Get out of bed 15 minutes earlier and DO something with that mop. Is sloppy the new semi-formal?

Shirts-that-look-like-lingerie-over-a-sucking-tight-top-so-I'm-modest--Maybe this one explains itself? Regardless of the modesty shirt underneath, this look is still reallly suggestive. And it really isn't even that cute. When mothers let their daughters dress this way (again, especially to church!) I just want to know WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?????

You may have noticed, that as I've worn on here I'm getting grouchier. So to end on a happy note:

Words I love--joy, peace, lover, chocolate, date, onamotapeia, grace, teacher, felicity, zap, goofy, hokey, salubrious, plethora, zing, twerp, doofus, zygomatic process, gastrocnemius, salamander, ocean . . . . there are a lot.

Indulgences (or what is the opposite of a pet peeve?)--Chocolate, pictures of my kids, Keith Urban, blogging, cooking, baby-doll shirts, curls, flavored lip gloss, eye makeup, reading on a rainy day, fresh paint on my walls and toes . . . .there are a lot of these too.

My Inner Diva

Okay, so we got moved and checked out. Here is a shout out to karatemommy for helping watch my kiddos today while I ran some errands in Logan after the checkout. Even Captain Tootypants was an angel baby for her. I'm quickly learning that an hour of alone time for a mother of three is a great gift.

But this afternoon I'm not thinking about any of that. The reason being that all three of my kids fell asleep in the car, so I turned the radio up and flipped through the channels like a mad woman, stopping only on sing-a-long songs.

This is one of my favorite vices, and has been for some time: I love to sing out loud in my car to the radio. If you were to drive by me when I was alone in my car, you'd see me really belting it out. (As did the missionaries in Texas once; it was embarrassing because Plantboy was the WML at the time and the missionaries were at our house at least once a week. It wasn't like I'd never see them again. They just smiled and waved.)

But I digress . . . .

What I want to do here is give you the top ten songs (in no real order) I'd drive 8 times around the block for, just to hear every note. I've even included my favorite line from each. These are songs I know every word to; time or distance doesn't seem to strip their magic for me. And when I get my IPod (I'm saving my pennies), these are some of the first that I will download:

1. Total Eclipse of the Heart (Bonnie Tyler) "Every now and then I know there's no one in the universe as magic and wondrous as you."
2. I Need a Hero (Bonnie Tyler) "Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?"
3. It Matters to Me (Faith Hill) "Tell me how far it is, how you can love like this, cause I'm not sure I can."
4. Its All Coming Back to Me Now (Celine Dion) "The flesh and the fantasy all coming back to me now."
5. Bad (U2) "If I could throw this lifeless life line to the wind and leave this hollow place."
6. Like a Prayer (Madonna) "I hear you call my name and it feels like home."
7. Against All Odds (Phil Collins) "But to wait for you, well that's all I can do, and its a chance I've got to face"
8. Once in a Lifetime (Keith Urban) "Well the first one's born and a brother comes along and he's got your smile"
9. The Search (Survivor) "Then I look into your eyes, I can see forever, the search is over, you were with me all the while"
10. Faithfully (Journey) "Wondering where I am, lost without you"
11. Insensitive (Lisa Loeb) Any line from the whole song!
12. As I Lay Me Down (Sophie B. Hawkins) "I want to meet you, barefoot, barely breathing."
13. Forever Young (Alphaville) Again, take your pick.
14. Falling Out Of Love (Reba) "Ain't it funny how his voice cracks, when you're saying goodbye?"
15. Meet Me In Montana (Dan Seals and yes, Marie Osmond) "I want to see the mountains in your eyes."

Wait, did I say TEN songs? Okay, well there are 15. I couldn't really choose, and there are others too. Each of these songs is like a little gift when they show up at odd times on the radio. I wonder if when they do get downloaded to the IPod they will lose some of the magic?

There Are Scarier Things Than Monsters

This blog is going to be a book review. And lengthy. That will probably put most of you off right there. But it is my blog, darn it, I guess it can be whatever I want it to be! My book club this month read "Twilight" by Stephenie Meyer. Now, just 4 days after our meeting, the sequel "New Moon" has likewise spread like wildfire among our group.

Both books are page turners, to say the least.

Meyer's plot is clever and fresh with a young protagonist--all of these things make for excellent popular reading. Or even good critical reading. She has certainly created a formula here that will no doubt carry her easily through the rest of the series; there are five books planned.

Now, here is where we move from book review to personal musing. (Again--my blog, my rules.) Maybe if I had read the sequel yesterday when it was sunny I wouldn't feel quite the way I do. Instead I read it today when it rained all and the snow has begun tonight. It is a good setting in which to read dark stories about werewolves and vampires.

Through both books I keep feeling this mild disturbance tugging at the fringes of my mind. I have been unsure about my disturbance until I neared the end of the second volume. Now, I have begun to put a finger on my trepidation and hope that by writing some of my thoughts I will get even closer to my faint distaste.

Despite the deeply romantic element in these stories (a thing that usually gets me sailing on cloud nine for days after I read such a novel), I do not find myself with a good feeling at the end of them. There is something so obsessive about the love the two protagonists share for one another that it is almost destructive. The Romeo and Juliet allegory in the second tome became almost unbearable. And while Bella, our brave and impulsive heroine, isn't so naive that she doesn't draw this comparison herself, there is a faint sense that she prefers the Romeo and Juliet story above all others, despite its idiotic and unneccessary ending. (No disrespect meant to Bill--I think he meant to point out Romeo and his Juliet for their foolishness.)

And I really hate what was done to Jacob. Since the beginning of the last book, I have loved this character. His connection with the earth and his vibrant humanity (even with his werewolf nature) have been a very bright spot in two otherwise very dark books. I think Mike's line in the second book when he tells Bella that "Girls are cruel," just about sums up a big part of this story for me. Some have complained that Bella is weak . . . well, Bella is human for sure. But she is frightening simply for the power she wields over any man who ends up remotely connected to her life.

Now, on a more personal note, another reason to find Meyer's stories somehow out of jive with what I can relate to. Many years ago I was engaged to a man I loved with everything in me. We were compatible in many ways and I was HIGHLY attracted to him. In my whole life I don't think I've met anyone with quite as much charm. I had a wedding dress and we set a date. (This week would be our ninth anniversary, actually.) I'd begun seeing photographers. And then he began dating somebody else--or did he just want to first and that was the reason we broke up? It doesn't matter at all now. Except for one thing: he left a gaping hole in me that Bella is so fond of bringing up in "New Moon." (The way she brings up having her breath taken away in the first; oh, and don't forget that she says "crap" about 20 times in the last 50 pages of the book. Not your most clever expression. Blood sucking vampires? More like holy s**t! Meyer doesn't shy away from the occassional damn or hell, which make some sense for these characters, but if the beautiful Bella pops out with "crap" one more time then I am going to start wondering what anyone can possibly see in her. But I digrees.)

Anyway, after this abrupt breakup, I did the zombie thing. My grades were impeccable that quarter. I went through the motions of every part of my life, knowing that if I for one minute gave into that aching explosion in my heart the hurt would overwhelm me until it crushed me. My friends and family spent months not daring to look me right in the eye for fear they would shatter the tremulous control I had on my life, or fear that I would start to cry and they would have to somehow find the right words to say--an impossible task. I know that I am not the only person this has happened to. Probably most everyone lives through something like this once.

Then, the healing started, even when I wasn't sure I wanted it to. Even when I knew that if he walked back into my life at any point during that time I would shatter to pieces all over again. I forgot his voice and his walk. I threw away 18 months worth of letters from him, willing the memories away. I recognized our relationship for how difficult and unhealthy it had actually been and I came to gradually accept that there might be a different path forward from the one I had expected.

And I learned the most powerful lesson of all: I was stronger than a broken heart. And while it would be a VERY long time (I even still dream about him some time) before I could let go of that last shred of memory and re-collect all the pieces of my heart, I knew that I would make it. I also came to see that what I really wanted to become was a happy, stable person all by myself. I never again wanted to depend completely on another person to fill my days with color. It is not fair to expect another person to complete every wish fulfillment; after all, I cannot do that for anyone else either.

Whew. Cathartic to get that all out. What I am saying is this--why are Bella and Edward so special that the loss of their love never heals? Why couldn't Bella have loved Jacob? Why couldn't Juliet have found a great measure of contentment as Paris' wife? At least then she would have lived! I want Isabella and Juliet and every woman to know the joy that comes from being in charge of their own lives.

Don't get me wrong--I think men are great. I love my husband dearly and we grow closer all the time. He is wonderful. But he is not a replacement for me. And any human heart can heal if we want it to be so and give it enough time. Maybe Bella is less human than Edward thinks she is . . . .

Still, the third installment comes sometime this summer and I am sure I will read it. *Sigh* I love a romance as well as the next girl, however twisted it may be. I guess I am as exactly as human the next 17 year old girl. Which, as Desmama said of "Twilight," that it painfully points out how much of that girl never left!

A Word of Advice . . .

I just finished 3 Hostess Zingers. The raspberry ones with the coconut. If for any reason you ever feel compelled to do this, please reevaluate your taste. Upon evaluation, if your mind is unchanged, at the very least find two friends to share with.

Although I'm sure the pepperoni pizza pocket I started this repast with is not helping the gut-bomb I am now experiencing either.

I must admit . . .

Okay, I just have to say it. I love the television show L O S T. What started as a mild curiosity about 18 months ago has just about turned into a full blown obsession. I haven't started visiting fan sites yet or anything too strange, but I feel compelled to send this message out into the void and say "What is your fettish?"

I've had others. In high school it was Batman. I watched the cartoons every afternoon on FOX when I got home. I was really into shoes for a while, but shoes are expensive. For a few years it was CSI that I never missed an episode of, but then it just got too creepy. There is the nearly constant urge to write and read that wans at times but never fully leaves me. Chocolate, of course, is nearly impossible to resist. When buying something new, my first thought is always, "Does it come in blue?"

So, come on bloggers! Share, share.

No Kids for a Day

Funny, isn't it, how easy it is to revert to the life you once knew? I will be without my kids until Saturday evening. You know all those projects you want to get to, but never can? I'm deep cleaning my house and organizing my piles of too much stuff. I rented a chic flick and went out for pizza. Tonight I think I will take a hike and/or go to the temple. I might even go tanning (as long as we are sharing guilty pleasures, that is one of mine).

I'm really supposed to be getting ready to go back to school in a few days, and I suppose I am a little bit, but the freedom to stay up late, and then in turn sleep late is so rare that I can't stop myself from taking advantage of it.

I know that in a day or so I will begin to miss their happy little faces with a sharp ache, but I'm only on day three and I'm not quite there yet. I suppose I should say something self-deprecating here like, "I guess I'm a bad mother." But I don't think I am. I'd like to think that I am typical.

So to all you mothers out there: if you are between little ones (i.e. no nursing infants) find somebody you trust to take the kids for overnight--husband, mother, sister, best friend--and take an overnight trip all by yourself. Shop at the most expensive mall you can find and treat yourself to a wonderful dinner, spend the night at one of those overnight scrapbook lodges with your friends, go to the ballet or a play, sit at a coffee shop all day with a huge hot chocolate and book. Or, send hubby and the kidlets on an overnight trip and then do all those house projects you never can get to. Maybe if we take a little time for ourselves occasionally we will be better mothers on the other end.