Conversation of Yesterday

Filed under:Heh,It's My Life,Mothering — posted by Anwyn on June 26, 2008 @ 6:20 pm

I’m a mother prone to a little hyperbole. “You took the longest nap in the world!” is a regular comment of mine on the rare occasions when the Bean does nap. Because he’s still battling jet lag, he’s been napping quite a bit this week. He’s always accepted uncritically the idea that whatever we’re talking about at the moment was the [biggest, best, coolest, longest] in the world. Until last night. He looked at me suspiciously and remarked, “Some people take longer ones.”

Sigh.

Conversation of the Day

Filed under:It's My Life,Mothering — posted by Anwyn on June 20, 2008 @ 10:22 pm

Flip. Flop. “Stop wiggling.” Wiggle. Waggle.

This is the sound of a little boy who has traveled all day, whose body thinks it is 9 p.m. while the clock says midnight, who took a nap on the plane so he needs an even later bedtime than usual.

One a.m. Ten p.m. on his internal traveling clock. Just about the time he would be going to sleep at home–“I’m hungry!!!!!” A wail. “I need food!!!”

Mom gives in. They troop downstairs to Grandma’s kitchen. Together they eat whatever happens to be around–some tortilla chips, a pop-tart. Mom idly reads a magazine while they eat. “Is your tummy all full?”

“No, I need something else.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

Mom flips the pages of the magazine, buying time. “Hang on, I’m thinking.”

“Me too. But I’m using my brain.”

***

Caring for Cast-Iron Pans–Seasoning and Mythbusting

Filed under:Food,It's My Life — posted by Anwyn on May 20, 2008 @ 1:30 pm

Almost everywhere I look up information about caring for cast-iron pans, people are hollering at you not to put soap in your pans. They say in the most definite terms that this is extremely undesirable for your pans and will ruin the seasoning. This just isn’t true–I wash my pans with soap after every use, like my mother before me, and our pans are in perfect condition. Dish soap does not destroy the seasoning–it merely removes the layer of grease that you just cooked in, which is the point of washing something to begin with. As long as you oil the pan after every washing, at least for the first few months after the initial seasoning, you will build up a fine layer of season and your pan will last you indefinitely. You should see the way wash-water rolls off my most frequently used pan–the seasoning is almost waterproof at this point.

How do you get it seasoned like that in the first place? Easy: wipe it with a thin layer of lard or shortening (I use lard; I tried liquid vegetable oil the first time and it gummed up and I had to start over) and put it in the oven for an hour. Some people recommend an extremely high oven temp for this (450-500); others say 350 is fine. Both will work, but the key is a thin layer of grease–if the grease pools it will harden into a stubborn little nodule on your pan. Check the pan 20 minutes into the process and again at 40 (these times are for 350 degrees; if you use higher heat, check at shorter intervals), and if there are grease beads standing on it, wipe them away with a paper towel. Then, each time you cook in the pan, wash and thoroughly dry, then set the pan on a burner to heat for a couple minutes, put more lard or shortening in, wipe it all over the pan (again, thinly) and let the pan sit on the burner a couple more minutes, until the grease is very hot and well soaked into the pan. Turn the burner off, wipe pan with paper towel, and let it sit until cool. It’s okay if the pan remains slightly greasy to the touch.

For especially crusty, old, or rusty pans (or to clear off a botched seasoning job): I cleaned all the gunk of the ages off all my heirloom pans by putting them in the oven during a cleaning cycle–put the pans in the oven while cold, then turn on the cleaning cycle and leave them alone until many hours after the cycle is over, so that they cool gradually. Warning–some people say their pans have warped or cracked during this process, but mine withstood the heat and came out clean as a whistle–well, clean under the flaky ashy stuff, the remains of the formerly crusted-on stuff. From there, just wash, dry, and season. If they’re rusty, take some fine-grain sandpaper or a sanding sponge, sand on them for a bit, rub them with your seasoning medium, then wash with soap and dry thoroughly. Repeat sanding, oiling, and washing until rust-free. Then follow seasoning procedure outlined above.

This is what has worked like a charm for my pans–your mileage may vary.

Amen and Almost Amen

Filed under:It's My Life — posted by Anwyn @ 10:24 am

Mr. Sippican’s Top Ten Things Not to Do to Your House. I agree with all of them except #8 and #10:

10. Blue and Brown.
I’ve lived through this three times now. I’ve ripped all this stuff out twice with customers muttering “What were they thinking?” Powder Blue and Cocoa Brown DO NOT go together under any circumstances, anywhere. Except of course in every room on every show on television.

Chocolate brown and pale blue do go together decently well. Blue/brown overload is a different story.

8. Ceiling fans everywhere.
Do you all really think you live in Casablanca? If I go into another ranch house with a ceiling fan hanging down from a 7 foot 6 inch ceiling, I’m going to go postal. If I can’t stand up in the middle of the room without getting a bruise or a haircut, you’re doing it wrong. There is no stratification of air in a house. Doesn’t happen. You’re screwing a window boxfan sideways to your ceiling. Stop it. Your house has AC anyway. And you live in Wisconsin. Cut it out.

I do have a horrible stratification of air in my house–with a thermostat set to 71 degrees, the downstairs stays borderline cold and the upstairs stays borderline hot (or, in the winter, the downstairs stays borderline toasty and the upstairs stays borderline cold. Which is not so bad since I prefer to sleep with heavy covers). We’re looking at steps to fix this (I got tired of blocking the downstairs air vents with phone books to force more air upstairs), but meanwhile the ceiling fans in the bedrooms are highly efficient comfort-savers. And if you’d get a haircut from one of our ceiling fans, well … sorry, those of us who live here just aren’t that tall.

The morons who built our house with the sucky airflow also put the cooktop in the island, and like Mr. Sippican I hate hate hate it. We don’t even bother having seating on the other side of it.

Mindless Exertions

Filed under:Heh,It's My Life — posted by Anwyn on April 23, 2008 @ 9:54 am

A phrase from Mr. Sippican Cottage has stuck with me: “…skinny from mindless exertions and not work…”

It’s a phrase from one of his “flash fictions,” to be sure … and there’s no saying (at least not by me) how much of his characters’ thought represents author’s voice. But I tell you this: I’m not much in favor of mindless exertions myself, so if you can find me a household chore or some productive work that will strenthen my abdomen muscles, weaker now than at any other time in my life after being stretched over a baby-laden uterus, as well as diminish the soft little pouch of fat thereon, I’d happily do it rather than the Pilates I keep putting off from day to day. That is all.

Extortion Artist

Filed under:Heh,It's My Life — posted by Anwyn on April 18, 2008 @ 1:10 pm

Or, the Downside of a Four-Year-Old’s Ability to Read Fluently.

Or, Friday Mommyblogging: Suck It Up, Rachl Lukis.

Scene: Interior, Honda Civic, day. Mother and four-year-old Son are driving to preschool, a 20ish-minute drive depending on traffic. Mother puts in a CD, a film soundtrack that starts off with a slow Natalie Merchant song.

Son: “I don’t want this song. I want the songs I usually listen to.”

Mother: “Let’s listen to this one for a while.”

Son: “No, I don’t like it!”

Mother: “How can you know you don’t like it unless you listen to it?”

Son: “Give me my paper” (referring to flyer from the local indoor skate-hockey/lacrosse/soccer place where Son has soccer once a week and has had one rollerblading lesson). Mother hands him the sheet.

Son (reading from flyer): “Hockey leagues. Adult programs. Required Equipment: Elbow pads. Knee and shin protection. Cup and jock (males).” Son pauses thoughtfully, thinking back to soccer class, where for scrimmage the kids are divided into Pancakes and Blueberries, Blueberries being distinguished by blue jerseys. “I’ll be the cup. I’ll tell [young teammate] he’ll be the jock.”

Mother (startled out of listening to her music choice): “What?”

Son: “I’m a cup. [Teammate’s] a jock.”

Mother: “No, honey, that’s gear. Gear, not people. That’s gear you need for playing hockey.”

Son (continuing down flyer): “Pelvic protector (females)–”

Mother: “Here, baby, let’s listen to your songs now. You ready? Do you want your magazine?”

Son: “No, I don’t want my magazine. I want my songs.”

Mother: “All righty! Here you go! No problem. Give me your flyer–(he hands her the paper)–Yay songs!”

Bereavement

Filed under:It's My Life,Sad — posted by Anwyn on March 20, 2008 @ 11:57 pm

My son’s paternal grandfather has passed away. We’ll all be away coping with that for a while. Be well.

Palate Cleanser: Fun with SiteMeter. And Trains. And Sixties Music.

Filed under:Cool,It's My Life,Music — posted by Anwyn on March 19, 2008 @ 10:40 am

This site is visited frequently by somebody from Downingtown, Pennsylvania. I can’t see a place name ending in -town without thinking of this song, “Morningtown Ride,” by The Seekers:

This is one my dad sang when I was a kid, but it didn’t survive into our later repertoire … until I heard my little cousin, three years old, piping it during a camping trip last year. It came back with a vengeance. Doesn’t get much better than a train lullaby … unless maybe it’s a cowboy lullaby.

And speaking of trains, if you didn’t already, check out these beautiful shots of Appalachian railroad scenes. The photographer, Kevin Scanlon, has an exhibition currently running in Grafton, West Virginia.

Via Rick Lee.

Travelproof Snack Administration

Filed under:It's My Life,Jerks,Not Cool — posted by Anwyn on March 6, 2008 @ 7:31 pm

As you may have noticed I haven’t quite settled back into a blogging routine since coming home from my trip. A whirlwind of things to catch up on, a new treadmill to walk on (it feels like cheating, but at least I’m walking every day), etc. etc.

Anne wants to know: Did my snack stash for son and self to eat on the planes pass TSA inspection? Yes, they did, but not until after a conversation that went something like the following. Up front I will stipulate that I brought at least some of this on myself by trying to sneak a sealed bottled water through in my backpack. Naturally, as the bag came off the belt, the kid manning the inspection point (he must have been all of nineteen years old) said he was going to inspect it. He pulled out the water bottle, I feigned ignorance and an apologetic manner, all looked to be well … then a chick who had manned the X-ray monitor when the backpack went through nosed her way behind him and said, “There’s some other stuff you need to check out in there, too.”

Damn it. Now I was actually kind of puzzled–what else could be a problem in there?

Mr. Nineteen began pulling out the plastic bags I use to compartmentalize stuff inside my backpack. He dropped one on the belt–bang–and I looked up quickly. It was the bag containing the Bean’s Leapster. “Easy!” I protested. “That’s electronics.”

He wasn’t apologetic. My blood pressure rose.

Then he started pulling out the snacks–individual portions of sealed pudding, applesauce, and diced pears–and I felt the dread. My son is a grazer who eats more or less when he announces he’s hungry, and I don’t feel comfortable on the 2000-plus-mile airline trips we regularly take without a pack full of little snacks we can mix and match when he chooses. We typically have some dry stuff like goldfish and cashews and cookies, but I rely heavily on those little packs of pears and applesauce–and have never had a single problem taking them through security before. On several trips, in multiple airports, nobody has ever so much as looked in the bag.

Mr. Nineteen: “There’s some liquid in here.”

Me, instantly angry: “That’s not liquid, that’s food.”

Mr. Nineteen, with the pedantry that characterizes the petty powermonger everywhere: “Applesauce counts as a liquid.”

Me, gaping in disbelief: …

My mind immediately jumps ahead to the ounces limit. I’ve never had to deal with it before–I simply don’t take liquid in carryons, aside from when I’m feeling criminal and thirsty and try to get the water through. I thought the limit was four ounces, so I stared at him belligerently.

Me: “That’s less than four ounces–” [reaching for the applesauce to check its amount on the label.]

Mr. Nineteen, jerking the applesauce out of my reach: “PLEASE don’t touch the items in the inspection area.”

Blood pressure soaring. Me, decidedly snapping now: “It’s MY STUFF. THIS IS RIDICULOUS. It’s under four ounces.”

Mr. Nineteen, smugly: “It’s three-point-eight.”

Me: …

Mr. Nineteen: “The limit is three-point-four.”

I’m screwed now and I know it. That doesn’t halt the belligerence. Now I just want him to be done, quickly, and get his disgusting mitts off MY STUFF.

Me: “A little consistency would be nice. They didn’t stop me for this stuff on the way out. There’s liquid in the pears too, so if you’re going to throw it all out let’s get on with it–” [side trip to recover straying four-year-old.]

Mr. Nineteen, impassively picking up a pudding and beginning to discourse on it: “I think this might be over the limit too.”

Me, staring incredulously, as any moroncretin can see the containers are roughly the same size: “But you don’t know.”

Mr. Nineteen: “Since it’s not printed on the label, I have to use my judgment.”

Me: . o O (Does your vaunted judgment enable you to process the idea that these items are factory sealed for the eating pleasure of a four-year-old, that I currently am in possession of a four-year-old, things of this nature?)

Me: “Fine, if you’re going to throw them away, you’d better get the pears, too, they’re packed in liquid, let’s get on with this–” [reaching for the pears.]

Mr. Nineteen, practically having a conniption: “PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH THE ITEMS IN THE INSPECTION AREA.”

Me, completely snapped off at the base: “IT’S MY STUFF. THIS IS GETTING OUT OF HAND, DON’T YOU THINK?”

(Bear in mind not many of the words I actually said to him bore any relation to the words I was thinking inside my head.)

Mr. Nineteen: “SUPERVISOR.”

Supervisor, a laid-back middle-aged guy, ambled over. Mr. Nineteen fussily began to show him the snacks in turn. Supervisor passed them all with a wave of his hand. “Sure, she’s got the little guy there. Sure, those are fine. Yeah, she can take those.”

Me, attempting to gather up my things from the dorkwad I seriously want to throw to the floor at this point (and I could’ve done it, too, but then somebody would’ve had to bail me out of jail and my friend in that city was at work and who would’ve looked after four-year-old?…): “Thank you. No, I’ll do this. I’ll put them back in. GIVE THEM TO ME [he didn’t]. Sorry for the unpleasantness [I wasn’t] but I’ve never had a problem before. And I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to touch things [nor do I care, IT’S MY STUFF, ASSHOLES] because I’VE NEVER BEEN INSPECTED BEFORE [slight untruth; I’ve never been harangued over contraband before but I have had the bag opened and its contents rifled].”

Mr. Nineteen, attempting to make it seem as though he hadn’t called over Supervisor just to get me in more trouble: “I just called him over to see if these snacks could go through.” Suuure you did, punk. You were bound and determined to do everything in your power to let me keep my son’s food, weren’t you? Riiiight, sport, keep telling yourself that. I doubt Supervisor was fooled either.

You know, I actually do feel guilty when I show them my temper, because I know they’re doing their jobs. Many of them do it in the most offensive way possible, however, and it just makes me boil. How hard is it, really, to say the following words: “Sorry, ma’am, it’s one of the rules that you’re not to touch this stuff when we have it out for inspection; can you tell me what you’re trying to show me?”

A little tact. And did I mention the consistency? Multiple airports, no problem. This day, because one X-ray chick got her panties in a wad, big problem. Either enforce the rules or don’t. Make me understand what is and is not okay for me to carry for my son to eat, before I leave home and my only option is to enrich the convenience stores around the gates. Sheesh.

How the Other Half Lives

Filed under:Blogging,It's My Life — posted by Anwyn on March 4, 2008 @ 10:06 am

I’m back from my trip, up early due to the time change, actually getting a few things done before 10 a.m., which is nice. Back with fresh grievances against the TSA (did you know that sealed, in-their-original-individually-sized-containers applesauce and chocolate pudding, aka my son’s food during all-day travel ordeals, are liquid and gel, respectively? I didn’t, despite having taken these items on numerous flights before without incident. I do now), back to the usual routine … just back.

Lileks says he doesn’t know anybody who can eat a box of saltines before they go bad. At Chez Anwyn, soup is consumed is vast quantities that mow through a box of saltines in far less than a month. Plus the fact that one of the Bean’s favorite dishes is egg salad on a cracker.

Anne’s daughter Lily wants for her spring break … to stay home. Well, I guess we’ll be doing the same thing since we just took a week’s vacation when it wasn’t actually spring break.

And Rachel Lucas (surprise, surprise, surPRISE!) hates “MommyBloggers.” You mean, like, telling the story about how when I viewed Sunny’s campaign video, my son requested repeated (and I do mean REPEATED) viewings of its predecessor, “Sunny Pesters Digger,” and then proceeded to act it out with me:

Son: “I’m Sunny. You’re Digger.”

Me: “Okay.”

Son: “I will bark at you, and you growl.”

Me: “Okay.”

Son: “Ruff. Ruff. I’m pestering you, Digger!!”

Me: “Growl.”

There you go, Rachel, that one’s on the house. MommyBlogging comes at a premium around here. Son sends his love … for Sunny and Digger.

Posting May Be Light(er)

Filed under:Blogging,It's My Life — posted by Anwyn on February 21, 2008 @ 7:45 am

Taking the Bean to see his grandparents for a week or so. Be good.

Karma: Don’t Screw with the Post Office

Filed under:Heh,It's My Life,Not Cool — posted by Anwyn on February 19, 2008 @ 12:04 pm

Remember the rant about my central post office (might I add, my annex post office in my grocery store is nothing but sweetness and light–they give my son cheerful and exciting stamps on his hand whenever I take him in! Nevermind that the ink is likely meant strictly for paper use and thus runs all over if he so much as waves his hand in the breeze or, God forbid, touches his shirt! Nevermind that, because we are speaking nice about the post office today, lest we be visited by More Wrath of the Post Office Deity)? In the two weeks following that rant, the following three things occurred:

**A package mailed to me on Tuesday, February 5, the same day as the rant, took two weeks to get here from St. Louis. Two weeks! And though the ship method was one of the less expensive ones, it still wasn’t cheap or anything like it.

**A birthday card mailed to my mother three days before her birthday, containing cash in a denomination I wouldn’t normally send through the mail, took a week and a half to get to her. The cash was intact, though. I consider it kind of a warning shot across the bow (Straighten out your mouth or next time we’ll take your mother’s birthday money, unnerstand?).

**A credit card bill, mailed more or less a week before it was due, returned to me the day after it was due–sheared in half. I kid you not, it looked like somebody simply picked it up in both hands and r-i-p-p-e-d right down the middle. This abomination (but only the one half–invoice, check, and all) was placed into an outer envelope with a letter wrapped around in bland bureaucrese–“We are sorry for the damage to your mail … yadda yadda.” Next time we’ll burn the whole bill and you’ll never know it was lost until the late fee shows up on your credit account, got it?

And did I mention how much I used to enjoy the post office in my small, friendly hometown? They’re great, hardly any lines and helpful people eager to handle your package with the utmost in delicacy, even if they charge the same heinous rates as the big surly post office here–talking nice about the post office today, see?

All of which leads me to the Quote of the Day, from my friend Aughey who sent me the two-week package: “The shipping was ridiculous considering how long it took to get there. I think I could have strapped it on the back of a horse and slapped its butt and it would have gotten there sooner.”

Quote of the Day

Filed under:Heh,It's My Life — posted by Anwyn on February 7, 2008 @ 2:53 pm

Or, Memo to George Lucas on Another Symmetrically Designed Female Hairstyle Featuring Oddly Shaped Monuments Over the Ears.

Son, lifting a handful of hair on each side of my face up until they look like pointy wings or scythe blades: “You look like Yoda!”


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image: detail of installation by Bronwyn Lace