Your Parents

So my husband and I escaped our hectic lives for a bit over the weekend.  Saturday morning we hit the road and left our rambunctious five year-old behind with my parents.  For about 36 hours we reveled in adult pleasures.  (get yer minds outta the gutters people)  We wandered the city streets and shopped without a wee one asking when we would get candy or toys.  We went into a liquor store and didn't worry about gasps about bringing a kid in (or some little hand knocking glass bottles over).  We watched an entire sporting event from start to finish without having to take 15 bathroom breaks and 10 trips to concessions.  We had dinner and cocktails in a whiskey bar.  With grownups.  We slept-in.  It was glorious. 

Yesterday was supposed to be a return to reality-my day back to work and our son's return to school.  Grandparents are now departed.  Routine is restored.  But the fog rolled in on its little cat feet and parked right over our respective school districts.  Unexpectedly we had an extra day off.  An unplanned for three-day weekend!  What did I spend my day doing, you ask?  Why hearing all about "your parents."  Our son told me not about grandma and grandpa, but called them "your parents" in some formal way.  He told me how my mother (side note, I have never called my mom mother in my life) made him Christmas pancakes for breakfast in the shape of Mickey Mouse-and didn't make him eat a cereal bar.  You know, the breakfast he has chose to eat for the past year or so.  He told me all about my father (aka dad) and his puzzle making abilities.  At one point he said "your parents are the nicest family around.  Nicer than our family.  Nicer than any family I know.  I want to live with them."  Sigh.  Someone was spoiled. 

Not that I begrudge him the weekend of spoiling.  I had weekends with my grandmother where I sat on the kitchen counter while she fried up French toast.  Weekends where we went shopping and lunched.  Sleepovers where we watched Gone With the Wind for the gozillionth time while she rolled her hair.  Long phone conversations from my dorm room to her kitchen.  I may not have said it the same way my son did, but my dad's mother was lovely.  So I get it.  Parents are the ones who have to make you eat gross foods, do your homework, pick up your clothes, clean your playroom, sit in time-out, write apology notes to teachers when you have to clip down, make you come in when it gets dark, and turn of that darn TV.  "Your parents" are the ones who give you extra dessert, make cookies with you and let you lick the spoon, craft until the glue coats their hands and arms, color all afternoon on construction paper, play mysterious games of football where they don't understand the rules you've created, and indulge your every whim. 

I think all three of us needed a weekend of indulgence.  My husband and I needed to have one long date.  Our son needed some serious grandparent play time.  It recharges batteries.  We are now officially headed into the three busiest weeks of the year.  And I am so ready for them.  Thank goodness for my parents, some fog, a whiskey bar, and an excuse to get away.

One Small Step From Preschool, One Giant Leap Toward the Future

Today we took one baby step into kindergarten. It was the "ride the bus to school with your kids and meet the teacher" (or in our case, drive) day. You take in the supplies, get to hang in the classroom a bit, see what the daily routine will be like, and generally relax about sending your baby off into the big, bad world of kindergarten.

Granted, I am not that nervous about it at all. Our boy has attended school in this district for two years. His preschool was taught in the same building as his kindergarten will be in. He rode the same bus he will ride this year. Played on the playground with his preschool class. Ate school lunches. He's Mr. Experience when it comes to the whole school thing. So I'm not going to be the mom who is wiping tears away as my little guy scampers off into the big bad world of kindgarten. (I was that mom two school years ago and it was awful)

What I did think about today was my freshman orientation group from last February. I lead the parent group while the students go into the high school gym with the teachers and administrators. Those parents were just like we were today. Wide-eyed. Scribbling down notes. Asking lots of questions. Wanting to make sure they got this right. I've led more than my fair share of freshman orientations, my very first was only a few weeks shy of little man's birth. Each time the first-time parents say "how did I get here-it all went so fast." That is what I am feeling right now. And I know before I blink, I will be where they sat last February. My husband and I will be sitting in a high school gym or auditorium, listening to the guidance counselor talk credits, state testing, eligibility for athletics, extra curricular activities, ACT testing information and more. We will be scribbling down notes that have nothing to do with volunteering for afternoon snack rotations or class parties, but scheduling and GPAs.

I know it is the cliche of parenting-it all goes so fast. Just when I think I have one stage figured out, we have transitioned into another. I loved babyhood-loved those snuggles. Loved those naps he took with me. I adored toddler years where he squealed happiness about a spoon or paper. Joy oozed from him sun-up to sun-down. At three he began to memorize car makes and models. We ventured into preschool then. I loved discovering his interests as he did. Like watching a sunrise. Four and five have been a slow explosion from small boy into all boy. We don't walk anymore; we run. We don't talk anymore; we shout. We don't sit down anymore; we flop. He loves rock and roll, dinosaurs, Detroit Tigers baseball, all things cars, tractors and construction equipment. He loves books and reading to us. He loves to draw pictures more than he does coloring in pictures. He loves the movie Short Circut. Yes, it all goes so fast, but it is a fun ride. And I am just as anxious as he is to see what is around the bend. The only difference is, I want to linger a moment longer before we get there because I know just how perfect right now is.

 

Kindergarten, here we come!

 

Anti-Social Me

I am on the cusp of summer vacation.  The weeks stretch out in front of me like a blank canvas.  I always say that this is the very best part of vacation-the very first evening. It is filled with absolute possibility and the clock has only just started ticking.  It is the Friday night of summer.  Well, technically my first day hasn't quite yet arrived-that will come on Tuesday.  Still, it is so close I can see it.  That has to count for something. 

Everyone here is busy tying up lose ends and talking summer plans-who is going where, what teams their kids are on for summer ball, what pools they'll be frequenting, summer camps, fairs and more.  And the inevitable question keeps coming up "when will we get together?"  While I'm sure in July I'll feel differently, but right now I cringe inwardly whenever I hear this question waft into my ears.  By the time I have crossed through the gauntlet otherwise known as May in school-world, all I want to do for a while is sit at home, read books, watch our son play, go for milkshakes on Tuesday nights, and enjoy some family time.  I want to rise in the morning and take my time with my coffee and blogs.  I want to do yoga before sunset.  I want to have time to do things around the house and plan meals.  I want to garden.  During the day.  I want to read my annual Summer favorite-Prodigal Summer.

What I don't want is to rush around to go and see people.  And I feel like such a wretched bitch saying that out loud.  But even as a little girl I vacillated between social butterfly and hermit.  Taking a week off from friends to spend days inside reading books or making up imaginary play with Barbies and GI Joes.  My batteries are just spent and need some recharging.  I don't think this makes me a bad person, but I can't help but feel guilty because I won't tear myself away from my solitary pursuits at home to be social. 

My husband tells me I'm not as hermit-like as I think-mostly because when he gets home from work I like to go places.  But the key is I like to go places with him and our son.  I am a family hermit.  Wanting only to spend time with them. 

Maybe one day the social butterfly part of me will take over completely and I'll want to fill my calendar with plans.  I'll want to join in with the other moms and chat as our kids play.  But for now I'll be content with me and my boy in the backyard after lunches, with only the birds and butterflies as company. 

Neverending Honeymoons

For most of my young adult life and early 20's I had this idea of what marriage was and what an ideal marriage was supposed to be.  Two distinct things.  Not much in common with the other except that it involved two people, united by the bond of marriage, spending their lives together.  At that point the similarities ended and the roads took 90 degree turns from one another. 

I believed what marriage was, in my vernacular, was a union of two people who, at one time, loved each other like crazy.  But as time wore on they grew and changed.  Typically this change did not involve them growing together but apart.  I saw couples who had groups of friends that were separate from one another.  Couples who spent little time together.  Couples who bickered.  Couples who could put on good face, but when apart did nothing but complain about their other half.  Their marriage had become more of a management proposition and less of a relationship.  I saw very little in my world to indicate that marriage was anything but this.  It was worrisome.

Yet this did not stop my mind from formulating what I believed marriage ought to be.  I don't know when I started to imagine this-sometime in high school I suppose.  But there it was, my ideal marriage.  It had two nameless, faceless individuals in this relationship.  They were romantically in love from the start.  But over time, this love became more-it was woven and shot through with the trials they faced, the tough times, the days that were just too much.  It also was stitched by their laughter and shared jokes.  Patched by common memories, experiences, interests.  Made more vibrant by divergent interests they shared with the other.  Grew larger with children and friends.  This love could mend hurt feelings.  It could be a safe harbor in a storm.  It could be a warm blanket on a cold night.  As the relationship aged, it looked different, but it improved, it grew, stretched, contracted, and accommodated the passage of time.  There was no expectation of perfection in this marriage.  Just love, comfort, and support. 

I never expected to be blessed with such a relationship.  I hadn't seen one like it, so how would I even know how to create one? Yet this weekend, after my husband and I were discussing the notion of the honeymoon I realized something-I do have that ideal.  We are not perfect.  Far from it.  But I don't think either of us expect perfection from each other.  I am messy.  I am neurotic. I am a procrastinator.  I love to start and not finish things.  I can be one hot mess.  But he loves me in spite of my flaws.  And not only does he love me, but together we laugh so hard we cry, we still share private jokes when out at events, we hold hands, we sit smushed up against one another on the couch, and weekend mornings are spent lounging in our bed with our son cracking jokes.  I am one lucky lady.  I don't say it often enough.

My hope is that my stepdaughter and son are lucky enough to have a relationship as full and rich as mine is with their dad.  One that isn't just about the happy days, but shows its best side during the rough patches.  Not just any marriage, but the ideal marriage.  Just like the one I was fortunate to find.

No One Parks Blanche Under the Porch...

It was hot out.  We had every window down in that black Camaro, t-tops off, radio blasting Billie Jean.  I was barely tall enough for my blonde pig-tails to drift out the side of the car as we whipped around the corners.  The red leather seats were sticking to my legs just past my shorts and matched perfectly the polish on my toes.  It was a Saturday with Grandma and all was right with the world.

"I have a convertible you know."

Now, even at seven I was able to discern between truth and story-telling in my family.  It was a skill you needed to survive family holidays, Sunday dinners, or even simple phone calls from a relative.  So my response came as no surprise.

"Yeah, right. I've seen your garage. You have an Olds and this car Grandma. And you can't hide another one anywhere because you can only fit one car in your garage. So there."

"You are wrong girlie.  I have one. You'll see."

"Prove it then. I want to see it when we get to your house."

She thought for a minute. Clearly on how to extend her story to make it more believable I supposed. I twirled my hair around my fingers, tilting back into the summer sunshine.
"I store it under the front porch.  There is a secret door to get it out. I never drive it because it is old and I don't want to ruin it." 

So my seven year-old brain mulled this over. Her porch was elevated.  It did have space under it we couldn't get to.  And it did jut fairly far off the front of the house. Hmmmmmmm...

"What color is it?"

"Well, it is, um, green.  The car is green!"

"Sure. And I want to see it when we get to your house."

After several more minutes of bantering and giggling on my part telling her there was no way she had this supposed convertible, we pulled into the driveway.  Both of our jaws hit the red carpeted floor.  There, parked outside of the one-car garage was a little forest green MG convertible with the top down.  She slowed the Camaro to a stop and we just stared, wordlessly, the only sound was our breathing. 

"NO WAAAAAAAY!!!!"

What had happened was a friend of my grandpa's stopped by.  They hadn't seen him in years-at least 10.  He had just restored the MG and was out driving around on a perfect summer weekend in Ohio.  She truly had no idea this one would be there when we arrived.  That drive around the block of their Firestone Park house was one of the best of my young life.  We joked about her hidden garage right up until the last day I saw her before she passed away.  And we always giggled to tears over it.

Fast forward twenty-six years. I swore I would drive my Subaru Forester, Rosie, to her grave.  But while at the Nissan dealership I spotted a lovely Murano Cabriolet.  Blanche wormed her way into my heart.  By the time I had done the test drive I was smitten. Head-over-heels in love.  She is a rosy-coppery brown.  Her seats are buttery leather.  And as far as convertibles go, she fits our family with room to spare, has a trunk that will carry our luggage to the beach, promises to drive me through the Ohio winters with her all-wheel-drive, and sits up high as my Rosie did.  Blanche is my perfect car. 

We brought her home on St. Patrick's Day-and for Ohio, it was a week of record warmth.  Normally, it wouldn't be until May that you could drop her top.  Yet I spent a week with her rag top back and the wind blowing through our hair.  Someday I'll share the story with my son, of my Grandma's green convertible.  For now though, he is crushing on the very real one parked in our garage.  And she is here to stay.



Meet Blanche, our sassy new addition!



Just Like a Rockstar!

What a weekend! For our boy's birthday each year, we don't buy him a gift that can be wrapped, we get him an "event." A memory as a family.  It started with Nick Jr. Live for his 3rd birthday.  Then last year we did Toy Story 3 on Ice.  This year, we too him to his very first concert.  Over the summer he asked me one day to play the "kiss me or not" song.  I had no idea what he was talking about.  It wasn't until a few days later in my car that I understood-he was singing full volume to this...

Somehow he had memorized the entire song and would sing it as loud as possible whenever he heard it.  It became our summer anthem.  Just the two of us.  I downloaded it to my iPod and we would jam on the porch swing, in the car, or wherever else the day took us.  Then this fall I heard Thompson Square was opening for Lady Antebellum in Detroit.  In February.  The weekend after little man's birthday.  Could it be more perfect? (not to mention Darius Rucker, formally Hootie was in the mix!)  Tickets were purchased and we were headed north for the weekend. 

He was in awe from the moment we entered the arena.  Sadly, the reason for our going, Thompson Square, had to cancel.  A death in the family.  But to little man it mattered none.  The electric guitars, the drums, the red keyboard, the lights, the giant screens...he loved it all.  And I loved watching him.  When Lady A came on stage he leaped out of his seat and wanted a piggy back ride.  For the first few songs of the set we danced together, me stomping my feet and swaying, him clapping his hands and bouncing.  Both of us singing as loud as we could.  I dance like a fool every time I go to a concert-now I have a mini partner in crime.  Sitting there, my husband and I sandwiching our boy with our arms, I knew this was a moment none of us would forget. 

After we got to the car and headed back to the hotel we thought for sure he would be asleep in moments.  Nope.  He proved further he was my boy.  Amped from the music and crowd he wanted to eat his leftover dessert from dinner and run around the "heltel" room.  Just like the little rock star he is.

I love our tradition we have started with him-making memories as gifts for his birthday.  As he gets older we will ask him what he would like most to do as opposed as us choosing.  But the important part is that we will be spending precious time together to celebrate him.  And isn't the gift of time more important than any item we can purchase?



SOTU Fun

Last night was a family holiday of sorts.  You see, I am a political junkie.  Which side of the aisle, I will allow you to draw your own conclusions (as I decided when I started this blog to not get political).  However, I never, ever miss a State of the Union address.  Ever.  Agree or disagree with the current administration, this is our nation and it is an important speech.  And I love all the posturing.  The refusal to applaud.  The sideways glances.  The pregame and post game analysis by the experts.  I simply adore it. 

When I got married to my husband, I not only gained a wonderful spouse, but a stepdaughter who adored the SOTU as much as I did.  (well, so does my husband, but he doesn't appreciate the speech in the same manner as my stepdaughter and I do...you'll see)  I discovered this the very first time we watched together and she was shouting at the television similar things that I was thinking.  And a family tradition was born.  At the time, she was 14.  Now it is nine years later.  She is married and living 600 miles away.  Technology is awesome.  We have a transcript of last night.  Here is some of what transpired...

(just so I don't confuse you...I color coded our transcript with me in the black and her in the blue...fun times)

Jill's eggplant dress...love it.
She is sitting with Mark Kelly.  In an equally handsome eggplant tie.
Love. Her. (we are talking about Gabby)
And her husband looks so cute when he looks at her...
Michelle looks awesome! Love the bling:)
She is so way better looking than Calista Gingrich. Calista looks like a snowy owl.
With bad botox.
Hahahaha. Snowy Owl.

Grrrrr...Jack is out of bed upstairs and I don't want to get off my butt to go yell at him.  So he gets to roam free for now. #SOTUGetOutOfJailFreeCard
If the GOP gets up without Boehner's permission he will laser them with his jaundiced eyes.
Hahaha
He is such a petulant child.
Petulant. Yes he is.
Oh you meant Jack!
No I meant Boehner!
Jack is an angel!

That's the worst being right there with the camera on all the time.
What if you had a poky booger?
Or an inner ear itch?
I think Biden does have fleas
Or between the boob itch?
Or dandruff?
Or what if you sneezed really loud?
Or farted.
Or if the guy next to you had a silent but deadly.
Hahaha...butt noises at SOTU
Or if POTUS had a butt noise!

And saving the best for last...which doesn't have anything to do with SOTU, but me not being able to control auto-correct...

Side note: auto correct on iPad now acknowledges my fowl language.  Even Fixes it when I misspell it.
Thank you Steve Jobs.
Damn. Foul.  Grrrrrrrrrrr.
I didn't mean BIRD language!!!!!
Cluck cluck.
Fowl language!!!

There's more...something about Obamatron, a cattle prod, and a midget, but it doesn't really make sense unless you read it alongside the SOTU.  Basically, we should be hired by CNN to live tweet the entire speech.  It would be like Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin on New Year's Eve, only much funnier.  And censored. 

Tomorrow, back to regular programming readers.  I promise no politickin, no language, and no multi-colored posts.  And no FOWL words!

Holy Holidays

Holy as in-IWasSoStressedIThrewThingsAndYelledForNoGoodReasonAndAmOnlyNowStartingToComeDownOffMyCrazyLadyPlace

Here is what the last seven days looked like for me...

Baby sister arrived home from a semester in Florence, Italy so I threw her a welcome home dinner-Thanksgiving style.  Only I have never cooked a turkey in my life, and to make matters worse, the butcher didn't get the two turkey breasts in until the last possible second.  Heads were about to roll.  But alls well that ended well.  She arrived home 40 some minutes late, the turkey breasts were delicious, food was consumed, wine was drank, and we went to bed with full tummies...except our boy Jack because...

He was getting his tonsils and adenoids out in the morning! We were up bright and early the next day for our trip to the surgery center.  Our boy was chipper and happy until post-surgery when he was, well, angry and on meds.  He wanted his IV out.  He wanted to get his clothes on.  He wanted to GO HOME.  He wanted nothing to do with Popsicles (he hates em) or jello, or juice.  He was one pissed off little dude.  Of course I would be too.  A cup of juice later and a few pain meds and we were packed up and headed home.  Problem was, he was pain-free enough that the whole "resting in bed" was not on his agenda.  Even if it was on ours.  We had a party the very next day.  So I spent a good portion of my day yelling at poor boy to just "lay down so you don't bleed out" instead of cooking as I had planned.  By the time I got down to making the dough for the doughnuts and the homemade marshmallows I was aching from head to toe, near tears, and snapping at my poor husband.  And it was 1am.  And we had to give our boy medicine every few hours.  Fun times.

Then it was time to party.  All was going smoothly.  I was mainlining coffee like no one's business.  The prime rib my husband makes was in the oven on time and causing strangers to stand in line out front with plates and knives.  Potatoes were cut and in water.  Drinks were mixed and on stand-by.  The cheese tray was beautiful and sitting at the ready on our new bar.  So I took a shower.  Because it was time and I wanted to be pretty for our guests.  But my blow dryer decided this would be a golden opportunity to stop functioning completely.  Without warning.  And thus began my descent into madness.  I became a raging Medusa.  I screamed.  I threw the blow dryer.  I threw its components.  I slammed drawers, doors, brushes, trash cans and anything else that came into view.  I yelled at my poor husband.  And then it happened.  I slammed the bathroom door, turned and flew like Bambi onto the bathroom floor.  My knee still looks like it swallowed a golf ball.  Luckily this snapped me out of my rage (into tears of pain) long enough to become resourceful and thank my lucky stars I'd purchased a straightening iron the previous day.  Hair was fixed just in time for our guests to arrive.  Clark Family Christmas went off without a hitch.  Prime Rib was consumed in obscene amounts.  Whiskey sours were downed by the adults.  Then mulled cider with homemade fried doughnuts.  Children and adults opened gifts with squeals of delight.  I felt the warm embrace of family and sighed many deep sighs.

Now it is Thursday...five days post-rush.  I am just now starting to feel human again.  Just now starting to feel like I can stop pulling my hair out at the roots.  Sidenote-if I did that, I wouldn't need a blow dryer though!  I am still a bit snappy, but it is easing each day.  Our boy is healing remarkably well from his surgery.  We are sleeping through the nights again.  I am looking forward to Christmas Eve when we cook up a delicious gourmet meal for the three of us, drive to see the luminaria in New Rochester, sing holiday songs in the car, open a few gifts by firelight, watch a holiday movie and have homemade hot cocoa.  It is just what my soul needs.  A perfect, delicious, quiet night with my two favorite boys.  Christmas couldn't bring me a better gift.

Happy Holidays readers.  I hope yours are filled with the best of memories, family and friends.

Nesting

Ha! Gotcha with that one, didn't I? No, we are not having a baby.  (not even in the cards for us, so don't ask...babies definitely are NOT us)  However, five years after moving into our home, we are putting some finishing touches on the place.  Again.  This time it is the main living room and our brand spankin new basement family room.  Whoooooo-boy do I ever love to remodel too!

We seem to always be in some state of flux and planning.  This is fine by me.  I love to plot, plan, conceive, and carry out.  It is fun.  I love to decorate.  To redesign a space.  Of course, it is expensive, so I don't get to do this often.  But we (or should I say, my husband) have been working on the basement project since right after we moved into our home five years ago.  He built the walls, he designed the floor plan, he pulled the wires, placed insulation, installed duct work, put in boxes for outlets and switches, wired for sound and cable, hung lights, painted, laid flooring, trimmed, hung doors, even sprayed part of the ceiling black.  He has shopped and priced, and compared products to the ends of this earth. He found a floor model fireplace that is stunning (at half the cost of the actual unit) and installed it himself (with the help of his brothers).  He tiled around the fireplace to make it look straight from an arts and crafts home.  He brought home a butcher block from a school cafeteria that had closed that will be the top of our bar's counter/workspace soon.  We even found two amazing love seats that feel like butter and look like an old school catcher's mitt.  At 2/3 the cost (outlet shopping).  The basement living space is stunning.  And I don't want to leave it.  Ever.  We aren't completely finished.  The bar area needs cupboards and counter tops.  A sink and an actual bar.  It needs shelves too.  Oh and a  refrigerator and dishwasher.  Eventually, when we replenish the coffers we will finish the bathroom-it is a "men's" bathroom, if you catch my drift.  But that is down the road. 

What I'm most thrilled about is we now have a true family room downstairs.  One that we can flop on the couch, flip on a movie (in 3D!!), snuggle in front of the fire, and enjoy the evening.  Our son has a full-fledged playroom he loves and can stretch his legs in.  And upstairs we have a living room that won't feel so cramped anymore-acting as entertainment space, playroom, family room and more.  Our house has grown in such a lovely way.  I promise I'll post some photographs soon...once our new furniture has arrived, and the project is nearer completion.  Maybe with some holiday decor added too!  Oh, the next few months are going to be so much fun!  You know, nesting and all!

3285

3285 days ago I went on a date.

It was a date that changed my entire life.

In the 3285 days to follow this has happened...

We got married on the most perfect Ohio July day ever to exist.  Seriously, 75 degrees in July.  Look it up, I am pretty certain it has only happened once.

Those were awesome. Even if one of the dark ones were crushed into my dress. 

I became a stepmom.  Or as she so affectionately calls me...a steppenmommy.  It is pretty awesome.

We only did this to her once. And she was only minorly scarred. Scout's honor.

I graduated from graduate school, we made a baby, built a house, and my steppendaughter graduated from high school.  All in the same year. (oh, and my husband and I both started new jobs that year too...because we are anything if not underachievers!)

Baby boy...bad photo, but when you're 5 seconds post-birth, cell phone is the best you can do!

Steppendaughter went off to college and baby boy started sitting upright.

Did I mention he was part turtle too?

Steppendaughter graduated from college.

Baby boy did NOT want to have his photo taken. Notice new family member...he will make a reappearance...

My baby sister graduated from high school.

He's still camera adverse. And I won't crop out baby sister's boyfriend. Because I'm mean like that.

We grew a garden that is pretty and pretty awesome.

This is the garden in baby stage, year one. Now it has lovely lavender, sweet pea vines, and loads of veggies!

I got orange curtains in our master bedroom.  This is monumental in my life

Not only are they orange and awesome, but my husband picked them out. Beat. That.

Our boy got a "big house." Not to be confused with jail.

His 'big' house

Our boy started pre-school.  Like, on the bus and all day and stuff.

Yes, I did cry.  Because he is so big!

We had us another wedding.  It was beautiful and perfect like the first.  Only in the winter on a sunny and snowy day. Thanks Ohio for being awesome.

My little family grew again!

Holy heck...has it been nine years?  Nine years of building a little family.  Building a life together that has taken us 3285 days to get to this very place where I sit writing you on this blog.  Nine years ago I fell head over heels in love with a man who I adore still.  The man I knew would be a great dad, because he already was one.  The man who gives the best hugs, who is the anchor to my wildly adrift ship, who cooks me the best comfort foods on my worst days.  He is the love of my life.  Happy first date anniversary sweetie...I couldn't love you more!

Our Story

This week marks the end of ABC's All My Children.  I've passively watched a few interviews, read a few articles, and monitored the tail end of this dynasty with interest.  You see, AMC is my story. 

Quick question, how many of you (show of hands) had a grandma who watched at least one soap opera and called it "her story"?

Raises hand.  High.

Each week day during her "off season" (grandma was an avid golfer in the summer months) you were not permitted to contact grandma between the hours of 1:00-2:00.  No phone was answered.  No knock on the door was acknowledged.  No life seemed to emit from the house, save for the glow of the TV.  Then, promptly at 2:00 she resumed her activities.  Without fail.  I started watching her story with her around the time that Tad and Dixie became an item.  When Tad stole Dixie from Adam.  I watched it in the summer so I could update her during her golfing season.  I would watch on the weekdays, she would golf.  On Friday nights she would pick me up, we would grab an Italo's pizza or Barberton Chicken, eat on the front porch while doing our toes, and I'd fill her in on the week's events.  Pretty steamy stuff for an eleven year-old.  After dinner it was time for some Golden Girls, 20/20 and for her to set her hair in curlers and Dippity-Do.  Oh, and a giant shared bowl of buttered pecan ice cream.

All through my college years I knew if I desperately needed to talk to my grandma, I could call her at 12:55 because she would answer and she would be home.  She had to be, because her story was about to start.  Of course, I would be scolded for calling so close...usually with a sharp "Jen! For crying in a bucket!  I'll call you back in an hour and five minutes! (click)"  Then she would.  Like clockwork.  I would watch our story from so many miles away, eating a bowl of buttered pecan ice cream, painting my toes, and waiting for her to call.  It tied me to her. 

Grandma has been gone for nine years now.  We miss her every day.  But somehow there are still pieces of her in my life all the time.  Phrases I utter.  Monarch butterflies that float through my days.  A blanket that still smells like her house.  And for these nine years, there has been Erica Caine, Adam Chandler, Tad Martin, and Dixie Martin (I think she's Martin again...).  I suppose it is time for the world to make way for the new, but the eleven year-old me will miss this connection.  Even if I don't watch our story any more.  Even if she's been gone for nine years.  At least I'll always have buttered pecan ice cream to soothe and heal.  And pedicures.  Always pedicures.

Life as a School Family

I know I've told you many times what my day job is (school counselor) so I'm finding myself this time of year back to "school" again.  But I am part of a school family.  My husband is a school administrator.  Our son is entering his final year of pre-school.  I grew up the daughter of an educator.  I don't know what life is like off the school calendar.  Summertime is when we recharge our batteries to face yet another year of nothing but go-go-go.  My job is filled with crazy-busy days, but I am lucky that I get to leave it at work most of the time.  Well, except when there is a crisis.  Don't get me started on those days. 

Because I'm married to a school administrator our evenings and weekends are filled with events.  Sporting events-football, volleyball, cross country meets, basketball, wrestling tournaments, baseball, softball, and track.  Then there are the concerts, awards ceremonies, pageants, and plays.  And of course dinners that are late for meetings and committees.  It is just part of the cycle of this crazy life.  But the benefits of it are innumerable.  Our son attends school in the same district where my husband works.  He is growing up in the same way I did.  The school buildings are his playground.  We swing by in the evenings to check on progress of various building maintenance projects, and he gets to climb stairwells in the dim evening light, run empty hallways, yell into an empty gymnasium to hear his echo, stand at the edge of an empty football field and imagine what it will look like when it is filled with action.  We attend school functions and he feels as though the faculty is an extension of his family.  I remember that same feeling at his age whenever I set foot in my dad's buildings.  The older students were like older, cooler siblings to me.  The teachers, custodians, bus drivers, secretaries, and cooks like aunts and uncles to me.  It was a giant, safe nest outside of our home.  I loved it.  I can see that same feeling on our son's face. 

Last night at open house, one of the counselors asked Jack if he lived at school.  His immediate response was "yes."  We all laughed and watched as he skipped around the hallway.  But I knew immediately what he meant.  That school feels just as much like home as our house does to him.  And that makes me happy. 

Welcome back to school everyone!  Sharpen your pencils, grab your boxes of crayons, have ready your scissors and glue.  It is going to be a fantastic year!

Teamwork

Shhhhh....we're napping

From where I sit, I have a perfect view of a robin's nest.  It is tucked into the space between the soffiting and the downspout just outside our front door on our porch.  Usually robin nests are neat, well-kept affairs with nary a straw out of place.  This nest looks as though Pig Pen built it.  Strings blow in the wind.  Straw whisps out of it onto our porch.  It is a regular hot mess.  We were certain it was unstable, unable to support young life, and therefore didn't monitor it closely.  Yet, that momma bird sat watch.  She squawked at us whenever we dared set foot on our own porch.  She tucked in new twigs, string, and straw as her home blew apart.  And one day, I hear the faint yet familiar tweets of baby birds.  You cannot see them from a standing position, as the nest is quite high.  However, sitting here at my desk, you can see those little heads and beaks peek over the edge, straining for the offered food.  


What strikes me as lovely is the teamwork between dad and mom.  I didn't see much of him as she sat sentry during the gestation period.  But now, he works his tailfeathers off.  He flies to and fro, fetching the plumpest of worms (yes, they're plump...I can see em!) for his momma and babies.  He hands them off to her, and she feeds them to the babies.  Then she fluffs herself back out, settles down over those tiny heads, and waits for the next delivery (to come again in mere minutes). It is a rare occasion that both are absent from the nest.  Then all of the downy heads peek up, as if to say "Hey! It's cold out here! Bring back the blanket!"  


I love that the entryway of our home is guarded by the home of a small robin family.  I get they are not guarding our home, but maybe it is a sign that we have made such a lovely home here in the plains of Northwest Ohio, these robins cannot help but nestle in and build their family right along with us.  It is a nice notion, right?

Easter Paska

As promised, here is the recipe and story for my family's favorite bread-Easter Paska Bread.  This is a traditional Ukrainian Easter bread that I grew up eating each spring.  My grandma would bring a few freshly baked loaves home for consumption around Easter Sunday-from the Ukrainian Church bake sale.  I have vivid memories of devouring warm, soft slices of this sweet eggy bread studded with white raisins.  She was liberal with the butter and it would melt in little pools all over the top.  Comfort food at its finest.  This is a bread that goes perfectly with an Easter ham or just a cup of morning coffee.


After grandma passed away eight years ago, our family traditions were one of the ways remained connected to her.  While she wasn't ever a cook, and hadn't ever taught me how to bake those scrumptious loaves, I wanted to ensure they weren't missing from our Easter table.  Luckily, I found a Ukrainian Church cookbook in her pantry while cleaning out the house.  It contained so many of the traditional recipes that we love so dearly.


This bread is easy to make.  I say this because before I attempted it, my experience with yeast breads was zero.  I had no clue what I was doing, and turned out two beautiful loaves.  Over the past eight years, I've made notes, changes, and alterations to the recipe to better work the dough and make it more to our liking.  We have even used it at Christmas for the best bread pudding you have ever eaten.  Trust me, this bread is so yummy, you'll want it year-round, not just on Easter Sunday.  But for me, whenever I bake it, the smell wafting from my oven smells just like springtime.  And grandma's house.

Like I said, the recipe has been well-loved! (don't worry about translating this one, I'll give you a clean copy below)

Lay out your supplies BEFORE starting. There aren't many elements to this bread, so make sure you have the highest quality ones you can find. And use whole milk. It makes the bread so much better. 

You will start with the yeast going into your mixing bowl.  After making the bread once, I started using our stand mixer with the dough hook.  Much better this way, than using the old fashioned method of elbow grease and a wooden spoon.  I think I dislocated my arm in that process.  As you can see in the photos, I put the 2 packets of yeast into the bowl with the 1/4 cup of warm (110 degree) water, and after I'm done with the following steps, it has "bloomed" nicely and has little bubbles telling me it is ready to go!


While the yeast is "blooming" you will be scalding your milk in a sauce pan.  Basically, you have your milk over low to medium-low heat until small bubbles form.  Whatever happens, DO NOT LET IT BOIL! Get it to around 110 degrees.  This makes your yeast happy.  At the same time, or before scalding your milk (whichever is easiest for you) take your 4oz of butter, chop it up into smaller pieces, put it into a bowl with your 3/4 cup of sugar and 2 teaspoon of salt.  This saves mucho time later.  When the milk has properly scalded, you'll put it into the bowl with your butter/salt/sugar and mix until the butter is melted.  Set this aside to cool to lukewarm.  

Butter/Sugar/Salt

Add scalded milk and make some bubbles with whisk. Then cool your jets. 

Now I sift my heart out.  Sifted flour creates better, happier, softer baked goods.  At least that is what Ina Garten says, and she is brilliant.  Into a very large bowl, sift 8 cups of all-purpose flour.  I use every last morsel of it, and then some.  And I make a holy mess doing this.  

Pre Sifting

Post Sifting

Only a part of my mess. I can't get my sifting under control.

Now, break your three eggs into a separate bowl.  Your milk mixture should have cooled at this point, and will be egg-ready.  Beat the living daylights out of your eggs.  I should mention at this point that I prefer extra-large eggs.  Especially in a bread like this that features their flavor profile so prominently.  And make sure, for goodness sake, that they're at room temperature before using them.  

Add your milk/butter/sugar/salt mixture, and your eggs to your yeast in the mixing bowl.  Blend well.  See, pretty yellow color below.  

Now comes the fun, messy, sticky part.  Adding the flour.  Ready? Set. Go!

Here you see some of the flour added...about half is in at this point. 

Now most of the flour is in...look at that mixer go!

The dough is now "workable"

The recipe states to add enough flour to make a "soft dough."  This isn't specific enough for me.  I want to know exactly how much to add.  Sorry to disappoint you, because I can't honestly tell you the answer to this problem. Sometimes I don't quite use all 8 cups, and sometimes I use almost 10!  You don't want liquid, that is for sure.  I use the dough hook action as a guide.  If it is pulling the dough away from the sides, without it sticking, I know I've got it good to go.  This is a very sticky bread dough, but it should form together rather well, and NOT RUN.  At this point, let it rise in a warm spot, covered for a half-an-hour. (I have my oven running and set it near the convection fan)

Poof! The dough is risen!

Ready for some fun now? The raisins get to join in the party now.  The dough is risen once, and we knead in the raisins.  Each time I've made Paska my family tells me there are not enough raisins in the bread.  The recipe calls for 1/4 cup of them.  This makes two loaves of bread.  For you math geniuses out there, that comes to a measly 1/8 cup per loaf.  I've increased the "raisin count" to the entire bag.  Yep.  You read that correctly.  One full bag of white raisins.  That is how much I love my family.  I know I couldn't cram one single more raisin in there...you'll see why.

One full bag of white raisins (used for their softer, sweeter texture/flavor).  This is how much I love my family. 

Take your dough, spread it out on a floured surface.  Sprinkle liberally with raisins.  Fold over, knead.  Spread flat again.  Sprinkle more raisins.  Repeat until the entire bag is worked into the dough. 

I love my family so much that I cram into the dough, and entire bag of white raisins.  When you knead it, they jump out of the dough.  See em? I just poke those suckers right back in, so they will meet their fate in a 325 degree oven anyhow.  

Divide into two equally sized loaves.  You can bake in any type/size pan you like.  I prefer one fancy for Easter Sunday, and one more "rustic" for us to rip into while it is still hot.  Once in greased pans, allow to rise until double in size. (time varies...just keep an eye on them...and keep em warm!)

Doubled! Ready to bake...almost.

I brush those bad boys with an egg wash so they're purty when they are baked. 

Bake your loaves in a 325 degree oven for 40-45 minutes.  They should sound hollow when tapped/thumped.  Cool on wire racks.  Eat at least one as soon as you can touch them.  Mmmmmmmm. 

Don't you wish you had smell-o-vision.  Or monitor? Which is it?

See those raisins? Those mean love. Deep love for my family!

Hope you enjoy some Paska bread soon! It makes up two huge loaves, one for you to eat, and one for you to share (or not).  It is absolutely delicious and comforting.  I may have to make more this weekend just because I edited these photographs and they look so yummy!


Easter Paska Bread


2 cups whole milk
3/4 cups sugar
2 tsp. salt
4 oz unsalted butter
2 packets dry yeast dissolved in 1/4 cup warm (110 degree) water)
3 extra large eggs (well beaten)
7-8 cups flour
1/4 cup white raisins (only if you're stingy)


Scald milk.  Into large bowl add scalded milk, sugar, salt, and butter.  Add to yeast mixture, stir until well blended.  Add eggs, stir enough flour to make soft dough (until dough workable).  Cover and set aside for half an hour.  Turn onto a lightly floured surface.  Knead until smooth, adding flour as needed.  This is when you will add raisins to dough.


Grease two pans (in any shape you want).  Divide dough in half and place each half in pan.  


Let rise-double in size. Brush with egg wash. Bake in preheated oven at 325 degrees-40 to 45 minutes.  Cool on wire racks.

Easter and Food

I love holidays, if you hadn't already figured that out by reading so far.  I love them for all the family fun we always manage to have.  I love them for all the goofy pictures that get taken.  I love them for the traditions that get played out each and every year, sometimes without us noticing we're making traditions until they're set into stone.  


Easter was always a big deal for us when we were kids.  Not like Christmas big deal.  It was different in its own fantastic way.  My grandma took me shopping weeks in advance to pick out a special extra-dressy dress to wear to church.  I would (of course) choose something with tons of lace and frill.  Usually requiring one of those slips that had crinoline on them (that look like a Tu-Tu).  We would get white gloves, fancy tights, "tappy" shoes in white patent leather, a matching purse, and...wait for it...a hat.  With a bow on it.  Man, I loved those hats.  Do little girls even wear hats for Easter any more?  On Palm Sunday, my grandpa would go to church at the Ukrainian Catholic Church so he could bring home pussy willow branches for us.  Those are distributed, rather than palms, because that is what was readily available in that area of the world.  One spring, we put ours in a vase of water until it sprouted roots.  That tree stands at the front corner of my parents' house to this day.  During Easter Week, we would procure perohi, paska bread, ham, kielbasa, and other delicious foods to devour on Sunday.  I have vivid memories of that feast.  The throwing off Lenten restrictions and literally eating until I can't hold another bite of food.  Some of those foods are my absolute favorite-the potato and cheese perohi, the paska bread, the smoked kielbasa.  When my grandma passed away, one of the thoughts that came to my mind was how to maintain some of our food traditions each spring.  As we cleaned out her house, I stumbled across a cookbook from one of the local Ukrainian Churches.  In it are a few recipes for perohi and paska bread.  So began an adventure...


I had no idea what I was in for.  My grandma was not a cook.  Beyond Velveeta Shells and Cheese or Mozzarella Sticks, she stuck to carry-out.  I once asked her to teach me to make perohi and she told me she'd forgotten how.  Our traditional Easter foods were bought from the Ukrainian Church ladies.  Homemade, yes...just not by us.  Well, that spring, eight years ago I spent hours, upon hours in our kitchen.  Rolling out sheets of potato pasta dough.  Forming scads of filling in my hands.  Boiling pots of water.  Frying up onions.  The next day I tried my hand at making bread.  No idea how to do it, but making the attempt.  The perohi and paska bread were a hit.  Now, eight years later, I have it down to a science.  I won't be spending an entire week in my kitchen.  I have a pasta machine to roll the dough.  I'll  make the fillings in advance.  I'll use my stand mixer to knead bread dough.  I'll slice onions ahead of time.  And on Easter Sunday I'll arrive at my parents with over 100 perohi in hand, two loaves of sweet and delicious paska bread.  No hat anymore, but plenty of food, family, and fun.  


So, what are your Easter traditions?  Any delicious food beyond the expected ham?  Let us know!