Real Adults Don't Buy Fast Food Breakfast with Dirty Coins

Confession: Despite the fact that I have local and organic produce delivered to my door every week, I occasionally patronize a nearby fast food drive-through for a quick breakfast. I purchase this breakfast with the coins living in the console of my car.

This morning was one of those mornings. I barely had time to put on pants and I definitely did not have time for breakfast. So I found myself in the drive-through. Now I know that there is virtually nothing good about fast food, but here's what I like--it is right on the way to work. It is fast. It is cheap. Aaaaand there is a surprisingly attractive man (okay boy, well, at least 19 or 20, at least) working the window. Kookookachoo Mrs. Robinson. I am happily married. I do not entertain any notions of a tryst with a young fast food worker. But I would rather have a cute boy give me my breakfast than say, a not-so-cute boy.

So I paid for my breakfast sandwich with console coins, per usual. I don't think I've mentioned that I also store old toe and fingernail clippings in this console. I like to pick at my nails. And I don't like to litter. So I put the nail pieces in the console with the intention of throwing them away when I get home. This never happens.

I hand cute drive-through boy my change. I watch him look down at the coins and then he cringes with mild horror, repulsion, or maybe disgust. Because of course I paid cute boy with old quarters and a big, nasty toenail. Why wouldn't I do that? So I laugh maniacally and speed away. What else would I do? Are you kidding me? What is wrong with me? When do I become a calm and collected adult? When does that happen?

Mabel, Mabel, Strong and Able, Get Your Damn Paws Off the Table

This fine specimen is Mabel. Big JAR brought her home in a pretty transparent attempt to distract me from Project Pregnancy 2007-2009. (An entirely different, slightly manic story.) It worked. One month later I was rewarded with two lines on the stick. Thanks Mabel. (I am convinced that baby Mabel's need for constant maternal attention inspired my left ovary to drop the genetic perfection that is baby JAR.)

Mabel is a special girl. She appears moderately delayed, but beneath her slack-jawed surface is a dog with, well, probably average intelligence. Her very existence revolves around her never-ending search for the Labrador Holy Trinity: kibble, attention, and shit to chew on. 

Kibble: We are responsible pet owners and of course supply Mabel with two meals a day, on schedule even, with gentle reminders from Mabel. The veterinarian recommended that we skip the dog bowl and just throw her food all over the floor. This slows her down (slightly) and prevents the very real risk of aspiration, or kibble in the lungs.

Attention: This is a little tricky with a baby. The first six months of baby JAR's life were tough on Mabel. Desperate for any attention, positive or negative, Mabel upped the frequency and intensity of her behaviors. She dumped the kitchen garbage can and dragged the contents around the house. She ate my new Flip camera containing precious video of newborn JAR. She ripped up receiving blankets. She eliminated all over the floor. She ran away. Several times. In turn, I consistently provided her with crazynosleepoverwhelmeddon'tyoudareputanythingelseonmyplate new mom screaming. I called her the chocolate devil and threatened to give her to the next person I saw walking down the street. Lucky for her, we live on a very quiet culdesac.

Shit to chew on: To date, Mabel has chewed (and consequently destroyed)... 2 fans, 1 alarm clock, 3 cell phones, 1 Flip camera, 2 baseball hats, 3 pajama pants, 2 receiving blankets, 1 bottle warmer, 1 dishwasher basket, 1 package double-stuffed Oreos, 2 packages uncooked whole wheat noodles, 4 dining room chairs, 1 glass Christmas ornament, 1 USB drive, 1 down comforter, 1 drain pipe, 1 box of organic rice cereal, 2 dog beds, and many, many books, magazines, and piles of cat poop.

This phone lasted less than a week.

 So, Mabel, queen of my heart, you make crazy better than most. And that's what I like about you. 

 

One Snow Day, Four Sticks of Butter

Today is a snow day. This is a joyous occasion for the entire family, as none of us are required to go anywhere now. Al Roker does not frequently predict snow in our neck of the woods, so this is an exciting holiday, requiring extended local news coverage. They (my local news station) put a camera and a very excited newscaster in a 4-wheel drive SUV. Every few minutes they document his treacherous journey across our snowy streets. I've been on the edge of my seat watching him drive up and down an icy hill. Live! In real time! A hill with compact snow and ice! Will he make it? I almost peed my pants with excitement.

The view outside my front window.

Needing to wind down from the real-life drama on my television, I decided to divert my attention to my Gourmet Cookbook. I found recipes for blueberry muffins, chili, skillet cornbread, and brownies. So I cooked each one. All told I used four sticks of butter today. Impressive.

A quick word about the Gourmet Cookbook. I love it. I worship it. I literally read it for pleasure. I also read it to baby JAR. He loves to hear the descriptions of each dish. Seriously. He laughs and shrieks. Here's the intro for Jellied Borscht. "Staggeringly simple and good, this is a perfect starter, or even a light lunch, on a sultry day. And it's beautiful too, served in cool white soup plates." Baby JAR is frantically waving his little plastic spoon in the air. "Bababababeets!" he screams. Now I'm not crazy about beets, but I want some jellied borscht when I read that. Immediately.

So I took the Gourmet recipe for blueberry muffins and turned it into a coffee cake because pouring the batter into individual muffin tins sounded tedious. It was delicious. Warm, moist and crumbly with juicy berries and a sweet streusel topping. I threw some bacon and eggs in the pan and family breakfast was on.  

Blueberry Muffins (or cake)

From the Gourmet Cookbook, edited by Ruth Reichl

Batter:

6 tablespoons butter

1/3 cup whole milk

1 large egg

1 large egg yolk

3/4 teaspoon vanilla

1 1/2 cups flour

3/4 sugar

1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

3/4 teaspoon salt

2 cups blueberries

Topping:

3 tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces

1/2 cup flour

3 1/2 tablespoons sugar

Melt the butter over the stove. Remove from heat and add the milk, egg and yolk, and vanilla. Combine the dry ingredients in a separate bowl. Add the melted butter mixture and stir just until combined. Then lovingly fold in the blueberries. No need to crush the little dears. And the batter is done. So easy! Pour it into muffin tins (if you wish) or a 9-inch round cake pan. 

Combine all of the ingredients for the topping in a bowl and mix together with your fingers until crumbly. Sprinkle this on top of the batter. 

Bake at 375 degrees for 18 to 20 minutes for muffins or for about 35 minutes for cake. It's done when it's beautifully golden and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. 

I recommend this warm and tasty treat while wearing thick socks on a day free from responsibility (i.e. work).

Baby's First House of Hazards

Baby JAR's current obsession is electrical outlets. He loves unplugging every appliance he can reach. It never fails to delight him when the lamp shuts off as he pulls the plug. He is also hell bent on plugging everything back in. This is the part that causes me the most angst. I watch those chubby little fingers pressed against the prongs as he attempts to jam it into a live connection of 125 volts. Jesus help us.

Between the two bookshelves is an electrical outlet

He has plenty of toys. Educational toys. Toys that develop color and shape recognition, fine and gross motor skills, imaginary play, and speech and language. So why is my little Einstein kicking his feet with joy as he sucks on a 3-prong type B plug?

Inspired by baby JAR's thrill seeking behavior, I have decided to invent the ultimate baby toy. I will call it "Baby's First House of Hazards." It will be a playhouse teeming with faux hazards for baby to explore. There will be electrical sockets and plugs galore (no live connections of course), a fireplace that never gets hot, bookshelves full of lightweight books perfect for throwing to the ground, and expensive-looking electronics covered in buttons and lights. Of course, this toy will only be effective if introduced properly. Parents must attempt to limit baby's access with a gate or verbal warnings. Every time baby crawls to the playhouse, parents should say something ridiculous like, "No, no baby. Ouchies!" This is guaranteed to increase the appeal and longevity of the toy.

It goes without saying that I will create accessory packages for Baby's First House of Hazards. They will be available for purchase by age/development level. For instance, the toddler package will have a blank wall and several tubes of lipstick.  

Dogs in Trousers

This little paragraph goes out to my most loyal (and pretty much only) reader.

Picture a dapper Jack Russell Terrier trotting down a London sidewalk. It is early evening on a brisk fall day. The light from the street lamps cast his shadow on the side of a brick building. He is short of stature and tri-colored. No collar because he is above demeaning practices such as ownership. He wears a tweed coat and matching trousers. A monocle (purely for show, as his vision is superior) is tucked into his breast pocket. His head is bare. A deerstalker cap would be an excessive homage to Wishbone, who, frankly speaking, is a little bitch. This particular terrier would rather sip three fingers of bourbon than read to a small child. Tonight he is meeting his beloved at the ballet.