Cooking with L

I do not have an entrepreneurial bone in my body, nor am I an inventor. However, I have a gadget in mind that would really come in handy in the kitchen. Ask yourself: How many minutes do you spend sweating and silently swearing in an effort to cut open a spaghetti squash or a butternut squash, or an acorn squash? It takes all your strength to get a knife into the squash, and then it’s stuck there. It will not cut. So you have to muster up all your strength again to pull the knife back out, which, surprisingly is even harder than getting it in. It must also be admitted that throughout these maneuvers the squash cutter is the very picture of how NOT to be a good scout. Knife safety techniques simply will not get the job done. This perilous in/out struggle must be repeated at least 20 times. It’s enough to make people decide not to bother with squash, which is a crying shame.

And so, my friends, I give you the “kitchen ax”. Sold with the kitchen chopping block, naturally.

Seriously, I’ve thought about this a lot. Sometimes I get B to cut open the squash before he goes to work so that I won’t have to deal with it. I have wished that we had a run-of-the-mill outdoor chore ax that I could cover in plastic wrap and use for this purpose. I have also considered before-and-during my squash-cutting episodes whether there is a way I can get myself to such a height that dropping the squash onto concrete would bust the thing open. I don’t know how high that is…certainly higher than for a comparatively hollow pumpkin. I have even considered opening the garage, backing out the car, and running over the squash to break it open. No joke. I had it all planned: I’d put E in his stroller in the garage so he could watch. Then I’d back the car out and put the squash on a metal pizza pan, with another on the top forming a sort of ramp. I was a bit concerned about the possibility of E being hit in the face with flying raw squash, which I am convinced would be significantly more dangerous than being hit in the face with flying strained squash. So I haven’t tried this yet.


B has just entered the room and I have told him my grand idea.
His first remark: “How is this different from a cleaver?”

[silence]

What’s a cleaver?



After hearing his cleaver pitch, I still believe the ax would do a better job. It sounds like a cleaver (lighter weight and shorter-handled) would get the job done after several hacks. The ax would take care of it in one blow. B is worried about the kitchen counters and floors of the ax wielders. I have promised to use the kitchen ax in the garage.

Thanks for the mammories...

Not really.

To commemorate E’s eight-month birthday, I gave him what he’s been wanting, hoping, begging, asking for and demanding: I weaned him. He is overjoyed. So, I guess I will allow myself to be too. It’s no secret that I hated nursing. After just one week I said that I’d rather go through the natural childbirth again than continue to nurse. (I’m not kidding either. Natural childbirth, though horrendous, is OVER when it’s over. The nursing torture just keeps on coming—every two hours… it never ends… )

Mantra 1: My comfort is of no importance when it comes to what’s best for baby. Were it not so, what kind of a parent would I be? At worst, unfit and incarcerated.

In light of Mantra 1, I, of course, endured.

After two months of this agony, things eased up and I had one enjoyable month, during which I could READ while nursing. I could have gone on like that for months. As it was, I did go on for months, but without the reading and with a new obstacle. See, when E turned three months old, he made it very clear that he was through with nursing. From that time on, he was a terrible eater, taking in very little, or refusing all together, and always putting up a huge fight.

Mantra 2: E’s comfort is not a matter of importance when it comes to what’s best for baby. Were it not so, what kind of a person would he turn out to be? At worst, spoiled and insufferable.

And so, he endured as well.

For several months he ate [drank] very little (though always lots of solids; he thinks he’s a grown up), and I commented to B often that he was obviously NOT into this and I should stop. B followed these complaints up with separate pep talks for E and myself. I have to say that it was more than a little offensive on a personal level when after all the pain and trouble I went through and was still going though to have him completely reject the nursing for an inferior product—one he didn’t even know existed.

So, I now am doing my best to focus on the positive of the entire experience: that it is over. So wonderful. While nursing I often wondered how bottle feeding would be. If you are wondering too, let me tell you, it's at least 500 times better. Will I try nursing ever again? See Mantra 1 and Mantra 2.

Stairway to Heaven

Let me explain.
Out in front of the giant glass pyramid that is the Rock&Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, there is a large courtyard/square. In the center is a raised garden/fountain area. Throughout this entire space there is rock and roll music being piped.

So, says I to myself when we arrive, “I think it would be a great idea to run up to that raised garden/fountain area and jump up on it and dance.”

So, I did. T saw and liked my idea and joined me soon after.

We danced and danced and danced. I enjoyed myself immensely, and after several minutes of dancing I had to pause, doubled over from laughter in an effort to keep from peeing my pants. My parents were in hysterics too. B was…well he was…I’m sure he was around here somewhere… Oh, THERE he is; watching from a safe, hopefully un-related looking distance at the corner of the garden/fountain area; looking uncomfortable.

After several minutes of dancing, we convinced my parents to join us. (B’s cover was somewhat blown when they chased him down to give him the camera.)

I reflected on this event a few days later as we drove home from the Denver airport. I’m not known for “freestyle” dancing. I would be the first to call myself inhibited. Not only would I vehemently refuse to participate/perform such a feat 99% of the time, if forced (like, say, under threat of guillotine), I probably wouldn’t know what to DO. No moves would come to me. But on this day, it seemed a great idea and I knew intuitively what to do. It was the right time and the right place, and it felt great.

So, as I reflected on this event, I wondered why such nirvana is so rare and foreign to me, and how I could ever again find myself so moved and able to get-on-up-und-boogie. I asked B how he had felt about the whole thing. He replied: “When you first got up there, I was kind of embarrassed, but then I thought, ‘hey, she’s having a good time.’” Poor, inhibited B.

I won’t quit my day job. I will frame these photos.

The Good Word

How many fast food chains can you name? How many can you drive to in your mind? With soft serve and French fries near the very top of my favorite food list, you can bet I am familiar with the names and routes to several of these establishments (although other than the soft serve and the French fries, I know little to nothing about the rest of their offerings).

Recently we received a mailer that included a stellar coupon deal offered at one of these restaurants. So, I saved it. “Just in cases.” B also saw the mailer while waiting to get his tire fixed at the shop; he snagged it and then we had two! We still had no idea if/when we would use the coupons, but as the expiration date approached, I asked if he were up for a fast food frenzy. We decided on a date and looked forward to it more than I’d like to admit.

When the date arrived, after B got home and we fed baby, we giddily headed out the door. “Do you know where we’re going?” B asked. “Yes, I know there’s one at [insert address].”

We arrive and pretend not to know each other (only one coupon per customer). I step up first, since B appears to be feigning interest in the menu. I hand the kid my coupon and say, “I’d like this.” He takes it, looks at it, and replies, “This is Carl’s Jr.”

Total confusion ensues. I take the demonstrative “this” to refer to the establishment that I am patroning. So I take the coupon back and am totally confused because it too says Carl’s Jr. So what’s the problem. I even ask him. He informs me that I am at Jack in the Box.

I really couldn’t believe it. I had never realized that there are two restaurants out there—Jack in the Box AND Carl’s Jr. Never having eaten at either one, they just sort of blended together. I stepped out of line, broke our cover and told B the astonishing news. Neither one of us could think of a Carl’s Jr. location, or another Jack in the Box for that matter. We just don’t go there. Although, I CAN take you to several McDonads, Wendy’s, Burger Kings, Dairy Queens, Sonics, Subways, and Taco Bells—even if I’ve never eaten at the specific location. Weird that I somehow still see some of them.

So, we called T from Jack in the Box to get her to boot up her lappy and tell us where in CS there is a Carl’s Jr. Apparently there are ten of them. Imagine my supreeze when she tells me the address of the nearest one: the corner of the intersection that I turn at to go to Walmart and the post office. This can't be right. Easily this is one of the most often traveled corners for me.

We drive there, all the while with me wondering how a Carl’s Jr. could be there. But there, it was.

I feel both proud and embarrassed when I think about this experience. But more than that, I feel utterly grateful to have stumbled upon this GEM. Carl’s Jr., despite the weak name, is the BEST fast food place I’ve ever eaten at. I LOVE IT. Please, find them, get to know them. Do not let this chain go unnoticed and die. It’s the only fast food you will ever need.