Well, the Universe dealt me a solid today. A year ago, we spent something like 4 large on the big kids teeth because of negligent tooth brushing blah blah cavity blah baby tooth root canal fuck. Today, the kids came home with a One Hundred Per Cent Clean Bill Of Dental Health, so if I wanted to sell them tomorrow to pay for my Christmas bills, I'd have a pretty good chance of fetching a pretty penny for the lot.
Thank god, is all I can say because we have a holy ton of other shit to spend that 4 grand on now.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
scraboonit!
Man! I blew it already! Missed a post last night.
Brief recap:
Last night was awesome. After freaking out all day and having three people tell me that I'm a big fat idiot and not to freak out, I stopped freaking out just in time to really, really enjoy the boy's Winter Garden. It was so beautiful and amazing and perfect. He did get a little squirreley a couple of times, but he was beautiful and amazing and perfect and himself, through and through.
Brief recap:
Last night was awesome. After freaking out all day and having three people tell me that I'm a big fat idiot and not to freak out, I stopped freaking out just in time to really, really enjoy the boy's Winter Garden. It was so beautiful and amazing and perfect. He did get a little squirreley a couple of times, but he was beautiful and amazing and perfect and himself, through and through.
Friday, December 4, 2009
jesus fucking christ and shit
today was an impossibly long fucker of a day and it isn't even over yet.
FUCK ME.
Soon, so soon. As soon as all the kids are asleep, then I can officially drink too much wine and spend too much time dicking around on the interwebs and then collapse into bed to sleep the blissful sleep of a person who will only have to get up and do it all again tomorrow.
FUCK ME.
FUCK ME.
Soon, so soon. As soon as all the kids are asleep, then I can officially drink too much wine and spend too much time dicking around on the interwebs and then collapse into bed to sleep the blissful sleep of a person who will only have to get up and do it all again tomorrow.
FUCK ME.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
porker
On Tuesday we went to the butcher to pick up our half of a hog. When we arrived we were informed that the hams and bacon and hocks were not, in fact, ready yet, but we did manage to leave with the fresh cuts. The first time we bought meat directly from a farmer was a couple of years ago when we bought half of a hog from a local lady who was advertising on Craigslist. It was, hands down, the tastiest pork I'd ever eaten, not to mention the freshest and localest. Next we moved on to local, direct-from-farmer-purchased duck, chicken, and beef, mostly via the farmer's market in Healdsburg. Then last spring we bought a lamb and then a month or so later a goat.
Basically what I'm saying is that I have parts of a lamb, odds and ends off a goat, a couple chickens, duck fat, 5 lbs of ground chuck and the better half of half of a pig in my freezer right now as well as chicken stock, green beans, various dried fruits from the back yard, some tomatoes we were too lazy to do anything with before they rotted on the counter, tomatillos and, like, 7 loaves of zucchini bread. Plus a loaf of fail pound cake. Plus some crappy bacon we got from somewhere that I won't actually let my family eat. Plus ice.
Basically, what I'm really saying, is that our house is probably a really good place to be:
a) in case of the apocalypse
b) if you really like meat
c) if you really like meat.
Tonight we had the first pork chops off the new pig and they were delicious. So...CLEAN tasting, somehow. They were the most brightly flavoured pork chops we've had since the last time we had home-grown pork chops. I made an apple sauce that was served hot on the side with the last of our mystery variety apples, baked treviso radicchio with olive oil, salt and pepper, roasted potatoes with whole garlic cloves and sage...it was all really, really good and almost entirely local; the olive oil, salt and pepper were the only things I could not tell you the origin of. The potatoes were from Preston's farm, the treviso was from a lady at the market and the sage and apples were from the back yard.
The market is over now until next spring and all we have in the yard right now are bitter greens, choys, walnuts and maybe a lemon in a day or two, but we do have Tierra Farms right down the road and I'm sure we'll be giving them plenty of business in the coming months.
Basically what I'm saying is that I have parts of a lamb, odds and ends off a goat, a couple chickens, duck fat, 5 lbs of ground chuck and the better half of half of a pig in my freezer right now as well as chicken stock, green beans, various dried fruits from the back yard, some tomatoes we were too lazy to do anything with before they rotted on the counter, tomatillos and, like, 7 loaves of zucchini bread. Plus a loaf of fail pound cake. Plus some crappy bacon we got from somewhere that I won't actually let my family eat. Plus ice.
Basically, what I'm really saying, is that our house is probably a really good place to be:
a) in case of the apocalypse
b) if you really like meat
c) if you really like meat.
Tonight we had the first pork chops off the new pig and they were delicious. So...CLEAN tasting, somehow. They were the most brightly flavoured pork chops we've had since the last time we had home-grown pork chops. I made an apple sauce that was served hot on the side with the last of our mystery variety apples, baked treviso radicchio with olive oil, salt and pepper, roasted potatoes with whole garlic cloves and sage...it was all really, really good and almost entirely local; the olive oil, salt and pepper were the only things I could not tell you the origin of. The potatoes were from Preston's farm, the treviso was from a lady at the market and the sage and apples were from the back yard.
The market is over now until next spring and all we have in the yard right now are bitter greens, choys, walnuts and maybe a lemon in a day or two, but we do have Tierra Farms right down the road and I'm sure we'll be giving them plenty of business in the coming months.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
reasons why I am an idiot, number who's keeping track in an unending series
FUCK. Also: SHITASSBITCHFUCK.
There was a misunderstanding this evening, and I hate misunderstandings, especially when they make me feel stupid and embarrassed. See above.
The big one had a parent evening with Special! Live! Guest Speakers!
I thought it started at 8.
Apparently, it started at 7.
It takes me 20 minutes to drive to her school.
There was a sign on her classroom door that said "Knock And Wait Outside".
I waited for 20 minutes in the COLD ASS OUTSIDE. After knocking. Lightly.
After many increasingly embarrassed texts to my Baby Daddy (dood, so stupid, all waiting outside in the cold...do they hate me...why do they not open door...SO FUCKING COLD OMG I'M COMING HOME...) I went the hell home. Where I am now drinking wine and blogging about what a seriously lame lameass I am.
NO ONE MUST EVER KNOW. I crept away all stealth-like, lest someone hear my boots on the pavement outside and look out the window and say, "Hey, isn't that Emily out there skulking around like a moron? Let's heckle her for being too timid to knock with greater force than a cockroach, for verily, she is as such. Ha, ha, a cockroach I say. DORK!"
Thus ends day two. Shit.
There was a misunderstanding this evening, and I hate misunderstandings, especially when they make me feel stupid and embarrassed. See above.
The big one had a parent evening with Special! Live! Guest Speakers!
I thought it started at 8.
Apparently, it started at 7.
It takes me 20 minutes to drive to her school.
There was a sign on her classroom door that said "Knock And Wait Outside".
I waited for 20 minutes in the COLD ASS OUTSIDE. After knocking. Lightly.
After many increasingly embarrassed texts to my Baby Daddy (dood, so stupid, all waiting outside in the cold...do they hate me...why do they not open door...SO FUCKING COLD OMG I'M COMING HOME...) I went the hell home. Where I am now drinking wine and blogging about what a seriously lame lameass I am.
NO ONE MUST EVER KNOW. I crept away all stealth-like, lest someone hear my boots on the pavement outside and look out the window and say, "Hey, isn't that Emily out there skulking around like a moron? Let's heckle her for being too timid to knock with greater force than a cockroach, for verily, she is as such. Ha, ha, a cockroach I say. DORK!"
Thus ends day two. Shit.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
An apple a day
I'm going to try something, and I don't know if it will work, but I'm going to try it anyway.
I'm going to try to come here and pound something out every day until New Year's. I don't know if I'll have the fortitude or interest or even the time to do it, but here goes. No harm in trying.
Today: It is officially time to start thinking about Christmas. I've had my fingers in my ears and my eyes clamped shut singing "lalalalalalalalalala" since Peanut started talking about making gifts for friends and relatives waaaaay back in mid-November (and where does she get this? This coordination and planning ahead? Not from me, that's for damn sure.) but today I finally faced the sweet, sweet music of December and started looking through DIY and craft websites for ideas for things for family and friends this year. Last year we made bath fizzies and candy and cookies. And they were...good...but not spectacular. This year I've got to get better at packaging because you can make the best cookies in the world but if they're all just stuffed in a box or bag and crumbling on themselves they're just not going to be that enjoyable. So: orders of business:
1. Learn to package beautifully.
The next thing is: what will we do this year? I've been intrigued by the thought of doing old-fashioned silhouette portraits of the kids. I love these silhouettes of the cats; the gold frame and teal background really make it.
The other things:
I love to bake and cook and...stuff. But what do people want? I love our membrillo but do people really want quince paste? I love to make truffles and cookies...but I always feel bad giving my kids' teachers little treat boxes because they must get a ton of it and why should I burden them with more baked goods...? Oh, I don't know. New order of things:
1. Relax. December is only a month long. It will be over in 31 days.
2. Oh, my god that's not very much time. Not NEARLY enough time! I don't even know what I'm doing yet...
3. Figure out what to do. Edibles? Fake porcelain? WHAT?
4. Relax. Remember to have fun with it. And the kids. REMEMBER NOT TO HATE THE KIDS.
And, hey. Maybe this year we'll actually get Christmas cards out. Unlike every single other year. The closest we've ever gotten was that year I went out and bought, like, A TON of Christmas cards and then sent out exactly none. Sort of like the birth announcements for the first born. Don't even ask me about the third's baby book. There are some things we just don't speak of.
I'm going to try to come here and pound something out every day until New Year's. I don't know if I'll have the fortitude or interest or even the time to do it, but here goes. No harm in trying.
Today: It is officially time to start thinking about Christmas. I've had my fingers in my ears and my eyes clamped shut singing "lalalalalalalalalala" since Peanut started talking about making gifts for friends and relatives waaaaay back in mid-November (and where does she get this? This coordination and planning ahead? Not from me, that's for damn sure.) but today I finally faced the sweet, sweet music of December and started looking through DIY and craft websites for ideas for things for family and friends this year. Last year we made bath fizzies and candy and cookies. And they were...good...but not spectacular. This year I've got to get better at packaging because you can make the best cookies in the world but if they're all just stuffed in a box or bag and crumbling on themselves they're just not going to be that enjoyable. So: orders of business:
1. Learn to package beautifully.
The next thing is: what will we do this year? I've been intrigued by the thought of doing old-fashioned silhouette portraits of the kids. I love these silhouettes of the cats; the gold frame and teal background really make it.
The other things:
I love to bake and cook and...stuff. But what do people want? I love our membrillo but do people really want quince paste? I love to make truffles and cookies...but I always feel bad giving my kids' teachers little treat boxes because they must get a ton of it and why should I burden them with more baked goods...? Oh, I don't know. New order of things:
1. Relax. December is only a month long. It will be over in 31 days.
2. Oh, my god that's not very much time. Not NEARLY enough time! I don't even know what I'm doing yet...
3. Figure out what to do. Edibles? Fake porcelain? WHAT?
4. Relax. Remember to have fun with it. And the kids. REMEMBER NOT TO HATE THE KIDS.
And, hey. Maybe this year we'll actually get Christmas cards out. Unlike every single other year. The closest we've ever gotten was that year I went out and bought, like, A TON of Christmas cards and then sent out exactly none. Sort of like the birth announcements for the first born. Don't even ask me about the third's baby book. There are some things we just don't speak of.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Thanksgiving
So. We had Thanksgiving. Days ago. I can hardly remember it now...what was it? Oh, yes.
It was Delicious. Also: Fabulous and Lovely and Warming and All Of The Things You Would Want From A Thanksgiving.
When I was a child Thanksgiving was hands-down my favourite holiday. There was none of the stress of Christmas, because even as a child Christmas is stressful: am I showing enough gratitude for this gift I'm not sure I want? Does anyone like the silly things I could afford to buy for them at the dollar store? Thanksgiving was only and completely about coming together, crowding around a table or stretching out throughout the living room, and eating the beautiful food everyone had made. I remember sitting in my Granny's kitchen smelling the wonderful smells of Thanksgiving and then later, in the evening, loading up my plate and staking a claim in a spot I'd never otherwise be allowed to eat in: maybe the stairs or the couch or balancing the plate on my knees and eating until I could only roll upstairs to bed and fall into a deep, deep, food coma. My Granny died when I was nine and Thanksgiving wasn't quite the same after, but it was always good. We always did it at our house instead of hers from then on and it always had the same smells: orange and sweet and rich. My dad cooked the turkey on his Weber barbeque and my mom did most of the rest in the oven. Sometimes aunts or uncles brought rolls or pies or green bean casseroles or appetizers and the meal was never, ever fancy but it was always too much and always the best thing I'd eaten since last Thanksgiving.
Now, we sometimes do it at our house, my grown-up mother-house, the house I live in and cook in daily. I love to bicker with my husband about the right way to do the turkey, which sides to do and how to do them. He always wins with the turkey; I always win with everything else. The kids love knowing what to expect from Thanksgiving dinner and I love to make the dishes we make only once a year: cranberry sauce (up to three kinds), sweet potato gratin or casserole or whatever, turkey (because, really, I don't care for turkey: it's only an excuse to make gravy), gravy, usually with giblets when we're at home, pumpkin pie. These aren't things we eat normally and it feels so festive to have them all cooking at once, the house filling with smells we haven't smelled since last year, all coming together.
Last year it was only the five of us here because we were sick and couldn't travel for the holiday. We still made everything we had come to expect, and at a hefty price; it's expensive to do the whole shebang, especially with a heritage bird. This year we were able to join the rest of my family in what has become the new tradition: Thanksgiving dinner at my Grandpa's house in Pebble Beach. After my Granny died, my Grandpa married a lovely woman who graciously opened her beautiful home to his motley crew of children and grandchildren and now great grandchildren for holidays and vacations and various other get-togethers. They have a wonderful home overlooking the Pacific Ocean and it is the greatest treat to visit and have a meal. This year the duties of the meal were divided so judiciously throughout the family, everyone thought they were getting off easy. We were to make mashed potatoes, a salad, cranberry relish. My mom made stuffing, cranberry sauce and pie. My brother's girlfriend made rolls and pie. My aunt made green bean casserole. Her husband, my uncle, barbequed the turkey. My grandmother supplied drinks and appetizers. Nothing was fancy. Everything was delicious.
Now it's been over for several days. We had a lovely weekend in Monterey visiting with family, lamenting the ones who couldn't join us. I don't know who will host next year; probably it will be us with Kelsey's family joining us. It doesn't matter. Nothing will take the place of the first Thanksgivings of my memory at the house my Granny made. Nothing will be like the Thanksgivings at Pebble Beach with ocean views and 50's swank. Nothing will be like the year we made it for ourselves, sick as we might have been. Nothing will be like it is in the future. And yet it will all be defined by the sameness and our love of tradition, whatever shape it takes.
It was Delicious. Also: Fabulous and Lovely and Warming and All Of The Things You Would Want From A Thanksgiving.
When I was a child Thanksgiving was hands-down my favourite holiday. There was none of the stress of Christmas, because even as a child Christmas is stressful: am I showing enough gratitude for this gift I'm not sure I want? Does anyone like the silly things I could afford to buy for them at the dollar store? Thanksgiving was only and completely about coming together, crowding around a table or stretching out throughout the living room, and eating the beautiful food everyone had made. I remember sitting in my Granny's kitchen smelling the wonderful smells of Thanksgiving and then later, in the evening, loading up my plate and staking a claim in a spot I'd never otherwise be allowed to eat in: maybe the stairs or the couch or balancing the plate on my knees and eating until I could only roll upstairs to bed and fall into a deep, deep, food coma. My Granny died when I was nine and Thanksgiving wasn't quite the same after, but it was always good. We always did it at our house instead of hers from then on and it always had the same smells: orange and sweet and rich. My dad cooked the turkey on his Weber barbeque and my mom did most of the rest in the oven. Sometimes aunts or uncles brought rolls or pies or green bean casseroles or appetizers and the meal was never, ever fancy but it was always too much and always the best thing I'd eaten since last Thanksgiving.
Now, we sometimes do it at our house, my grown-up mother-house, the house I live in and cook in daily. I love to bicker with my husband about the right way to do the turkey, which sides to do and how to do them. He always wins with the turkey; I always win with everything else. The kids love knowing what to expect from Thanksgiving dinner and I love to make the dishes we make only once a year: cranberry sauce (up to three kinds), sweet potato gratin or casserole or whatever, turkey (because, really, I don't care for turkey: it's only an excuse to make gravy), gravy, usually with giblets when we're at home, pumpkin pie. These aren't things we eat normally and it feels so festive to have them all cooking at once, the house filling with smells we haven't smelled since last year, all coming together.
Last year it was only the five of us here because we were sick and couldn't travel for the holiday. We still made everything we had come to expect, and at a hefty price; it's expensive to do the whole shebang, especially with a heritage bird. This year we were able to join the rest of my family in what has become the new tradition: Thanksgiving dinner at my Grandpa's house in Pebble Beach. After my Granny died, my Grandpa married a lovely woman who graciously opened her beautiful home to his motley crew of children and grandchildren and now great grandchildren for holidays and vacations and various other get-togethers. They have a wonderful home overlooking the Pacific Ocean and it is the greatest treat to visit and have a meal. This year the duties of the meal were divided so judiciously throughout the family, everyone thought they were getting off easy. We were to make mashed potatoes, a salad, cranberry relish. My mom made stuffing, cranberry sauce and pie. My brother's girlfriend made rolls and pie. My aunt made green bean casserole. Her husband, my uncle, barbequed the turkey. My grandmother supplied drinks and appetizers. Nothing was fancy. Everything was delicious.
Now it's been over for several days. We had a lovely weekend in Monterey visiting with family, lamenting the ones who couldn't join us. I don't know who will host next year; probably it will be us with Kelsey's family joining us. It doesn't matter. Nothing will take the place of the first Thanksgivings of my memory at the house my Granny made. Nothing will be like the Thanksgivings at Pebble Beach with ocean views and 50's swank. Nothing will be like the year we made it for ourselves, sick as we might have been. Nothing will be like it is in the future. And yet it will all be defined by the sameness and our love of tradition, whatever shape it takes.
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