"Just 'Eat' It"

I cannot cook, which is unfortunate.  Because, of all the domestic tasks I want to perform consistently well, this rates at the top of my list.  I come from a line of great cooks...  My maternal grandmother was a culinary queen.  And my paternal Grandma owned and operated a home cookin' restaurant for decades, for cryin' out loud.  She still cooks for family and it is always incredible.  Britt's grandmother was a fantastic cook (they still tell stories of her homemade tamales), and my mom and mother-in-law clearly fell close to the apple trees.  They both are fabulous cooks who make their mothers' meals, their own dishes, AND follow new recipes well.  This is what I call the "Kitchenette Triple Threat" since they can turn out great food regardless of where or what they're working with.

This is not my thing.

You'd think I'd have cooking in my blood but I am really limited to a few standard dishes I make in a pathetic little rotation.

• Mexican Chicken Dip
• Taco Soup
• Baked Pork Chops
• Baked Chicken

(At this point, no one should get too excited...all of these are Crock Pot dishes.  Do they even really count?)

• Taco Casserole
• Baked Spaghetti
• Chicken Pie
• Deli Sandwiches

The highlight of my cooking career has been at Thanksgiving when I've baked my own turkey and made homemade gravy, dressing and sides.  I've managed all of this twice.  We ate like royalty those two days and then it was back to reality.

Tonight, I made meatloaf.  Meatloaf with homemade mashed potatoes, fresh steamed broccoli, corn, and some freshly sliced watermelon.  I don't want to brag, but I do make a pretty mean meatloaf.  Now, I should note out of fairness that it is a very homely looking dish – “Humble Food” - and that is being incredibly generous.  But it tastes good, and really, I think that's what matters most anyway.

So, in honor of this rare occasion that I cook a 'real' meal, I'm going to share the experience with you.  Write this down.  Christmas comes but once a year.  

First, when preparing this meal, I make the meatloaf.  It's basically one pound of ground beef, one egg, salt & pepper, ketchup, Italian seasoning, and bread crumbs all mixed together and pulverized with a potato masher.  I have no idea how much of any of it I put in (other than the meat and single egg) but it usually looks like this:

Mmmmmmmm.

I pat this into a loaf pan and press it down so that it will bake evenly.  (Excuse me while I die laughing...  Who am I kidding?  'Bake evenly'?  I just really don't want it to be pink in the middle.)  This bakes at 350° for about 30 minutes.  I just keep checking it.  When it's done I make the glaze, which means I squirt ketchup all over the top and bake it another 5 minutes.

Check out those fork strokes.  Classic technique.

Next, I prepare the potatoes.  They're cubed and boiled to absolute smithereens.  Personally, I feel potatoes are ready only after they have boiled over and charred your stove top to the point that only Mr. Clean and his Magic Eraser completely undo the damage.  I believe this so resolutely that even Emily will ask, "Mom, did you remember to boil over the potatoes?"  She will grow up believing that's the only way to cook them and her husband will think she's nuts.  It'll all make sense when she explains "That's how my mama did it."  Bless.

They're ready.  Trust me.

After I drain the potatoes I add butter and milk I've heated in the microwave.  (Again, amounts are whatever I think looks right.)  Then I mix/mash them up with my KitchenAid handheld mixer.  (Be impressed.  This is the nicest gadget in my kitchen aside from a KitchenAid ice cream scoop, which I use.  A lot.)

The broccoli is a bit of a wild card for me lately.  I used to have this down to a science: broccoli florets, a half inch of water in the bottom of the pot, a pinch of salt, and a careful eye.  But two weeks ago I had a bit of a broccoli blunder and I'm - quite frankly - surprised the fam was ready to get back on the horse.  Apparently, I salted the broccoli twice.  (Insert dramatic eye roll here.)  I can only guess that's what happened.  In my defense I'm sure I was distracted by, oh, I don't know, a 6 year old and a baby.  Anyway, in addition to twice-salted water, the broccoli steamed a bit longer than is generally preferred.  So when I lifted the lid it wasn't a healthy bright green color and a touch soft.  It was a sickly green color and very limp and sad looking like I'd broken its' little heart, which makes sense since the broccoli tasted like it had been salted AGAIN with the tears of grief and mourning.  Britt and Emily were kind enough to not mention it until after I said, "I can't remember but I may have salted the broccoli twice."  To which Britt replied, "Good God" and Emily just looked at me like I’d told her unicorns aren’t real (which I actually DID have to tell her a few days later and explains how I recognized the look).  I had to endure further ridicule throughout the meal with statements like: 

- "Would you like some broccoli with your salt?";
- "The fly,” (that had come in with us earlier), “must've tasted the broccoli and died.  I'm pretty sure I saw x's over his eyes;" and, 
- "If your salt isn't salty enough just add some broccoli."

WHATever.

The final component of the meal – the corn - is actually the hardest part, since I have to be super careful to not cut my finger while I open the can.

In all, I think it was a success.  The meatloaf never slices so it ends up looking like a red ground beef mound but remember, we agreed the taste is more important.  And it really doesn’t matter anyway because we all end up adding more ‘glaze’.

Thaaaaaaaaat's better.  (Right?)

So.  Wise and/or Biblical parallel to this story?

 

Mark 14:8 – “She hath done what she could.”

Tomorrow night: Papa Murphy’s.

"Listen to Your Heart"

There are some stories you tell and some you don't.  This is one I'm telling because 1) its funny; 2) I'm not proud; 3) I have an earache, and; 4) its funny.  I need to laugh today and there's a lesson here, so I'm sharing in hopes that we both find a moment of hilarity and clarity in the telling of this tale...

Ten years ago while Britt was still in law school and we lived in Watkinsville (about 15 minutes from the University of Georgia), I worked full-time in Athens at a real estate firm.  At the time, I was in a supportive role to the daily clerical operations of the office.  My 'office' was a cozy little cubical off of the 'Workroom', which was the hub in the huge company comprised of 100+ agents and 12-15 support staff.  We housed all of our active and closed files here, as well as all supplies and resources.  I was in charge of managing most of it.  The reason why this is important is because my day was spent working, interacting, and chatting in this large room full of activity.  Everyone in the entire business had business in that room.  While a great deal of actual real estate happened in that space, we also enjoyed conversation.  All kinds of people discussed all kinds of things.

One day, one of the agents (I honestly don't remember who) was talking about a 'natural remedy' for ear wax removal, which sounded intriguing.

[Disclaimer: If you're grossed out already you should stop reading now.] 

Because I was young and green and stupid I thought, "Hey, that sounds interesting!  I should try that!"

[Disclaimer: If you're still reading, congratulations!  I'm about to tell you the story about the time I almost burned down my house.]

This 'remedy', as it were, was Ear Candling.  If you're familiar you know that these were not-so-long ago debunked as an effective (and SAFE) method for removing ear wax.  Ear candles were hollow foot-long candles made of beeswax.  They had the circumference at the far end of a quarter.  The tapered end went in your ear, and once lit, would draw up and out all excess wax.  Because I was young and green and stupid, I bought into the idea and thought I should get me summa those.  And so I did.

A store downtown sold these miraculous fire hazards and so during my lunch break not long after I struck out to buy a set.  Imagine, if you will, Suzanne Sugarbaker walking into a hippie herb shop, and you'll have a pretty good idea of what this part of the story looked like.  I love downtown Athens - it will always hold a special place in my heart - but I had no real business being in this particular store.  I remember walking towards the back trying to look like I knew what I was doing and feeling slightly lightheaded.  I wondered with innocence what those colorful glass bulbs could possibly be used for.  Maybe they were oil lamps?

Anyway, I was SO excited to get home that day and try out these things.  Never one to pass up a beauty trick (why I thought this qualified I'll never know), I was sure this was going to help rid me of all extra and unwanted ear wax.  It's not like I had an issue here.  I just probably wanted an excuse to buy something new and do something foolish.  (I have a boring testimony but I've done my fair share of dumb stuff.)

Britt was home, and thank God for it.  At that point he was nonplussed with the whole thing.  I changed clothes, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and ripped open the stapled ziplocked bag.  (I probably should have been concerned about the packaging, but I believed this to be legit, so, you know.)

The instructions said I should poke a hole in the center of a paper plate, which would serve as a shield of sorts.  Red flag, much?  We didn't have *paper* plates but we did have *styrofoam* plates.  Same difference.  Never mind the flammable Styrofoam – every bit of that was a good idea.  I poked the hole and threaded the candle through.  Next, I needed to lie on my side.  Placing the tapered end in into my ear, I was to "create a seal", which basically meant I needed to shove it far enough into my ear that sound would be muffled.  Remember this.  Finally, I had to slide the plate all the way down so that it rested on the side of my head.  To catch the ashes.  Remember this, too.  

So, we had high vaulted ceilings and knowing I was going to have to lie there until the candle BURNED DOWN TO THE PLATE, I thought I should cut on the ceiling fan.  To cool myself.  ‘Cause, you know, if you’re going to set the side of your head on fire you may as well not suffer.

At some point, lying there, I realized I wasn't physically able to light the open end of the candle myself so I just waited.  And sure enough, in walked my unsuspecting husband.  It was at this point that I uttered those three fateful redneck words that I never thought I'd say and have not said since...:

"Here.  Light this."

I think - bless his heart - that he thought this whole thing would look ridiculous but be harmless in the long run.  And so he did.  He did light it.  And he walked into the other room while I lay there hoping the heat was sucking up every crumb of unneeded auditory membrane.

Eventually, a few minutes later, I realized he was standing over me, horrified, mouthing something.  I probably just looked up with some doofus grin because I COULDN'T HEAR HIM.  He was pointing at my head and then frantically cut off the ceiling fan.  I started to protest that he was ruining the experience and in the act dislodged the candle seal, causing the ashes on the plate to sprinkle off.  Apparently the fan had contributed to a huge flame furiously burning inches from my head.  The oxygen had caused the candle to burn muuuuch faster than I had expected, and the flame was super high.

Needless to say, I only candled one ear that night.  It worked but it really wasn't worth it.  The wax came out but it was gross and it made my ear ache and almost burned down our house.  When I asked Britt tonight if he remembered THAT night, he looked at me like I was nuts and said, "Yes.  How could I forget.  As long as I live you won't do it again.  That was harrowing."

This makes me laugh, and I need that tonight.  I really DO have an earache but more than that, I have a heart ache.  Tomorrow morning I return to part-time work and my sweet Reagan will be going into childcare.  While this job and situation are so fantastic and I am so grateful, it's uncharted water for me.  I'm trying to hear clearly the voice in my heart and not confuse it with the one in my head.  My head is saying a lot, but my heart whispers Isaiah 41:10 - "Don’t be afraid, for I am with you.  Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God.  I will strengthen you and help you.  I will hold you up with my victorious right hand."

At some point, there will be another post about motherhood.  About working inside and outside of the home FOR the home.  If you’re a mommy, regardless of where you work, you’re working and you get it.  The struggle is real.  I’ll only be a few hundred feet from my sweet girl during my abbreviated work day (which is at our wonderful church, by the way), and I’ll get to visit her and nurse her and cuddle her and love on her.  It’s ideal, and a blessing and I’m grateful.  I am.

It will be so hard tomorrow to start this transition into a new motherhood experience, but I know I have a loving husband, a darling 6 year old who prayed specifically for mommy “to not be worried or sad tomorrow”, and precious friends and family around me that are supportive.  I’m not the first mommy to do this, and I won’t be the last.  So I’m going to try and listen through the ear ache and wax to that still small voice that can be heard in the quiet of my heart.  The Lord will help me.  I don’t have to be worried and I certainly don’t need to be afraid.  And Reagan will be okay.  

As long as she doesn’t grow up any tomorrow, I’ll be okay, too.

I mean.