First Snowball

This is eventually not about cancer, if you can get that far.

Last night, in what I can only assume was the universe trying to make nice, our area was gifted with first snowfall of the season. I seriously heart snow. But snow, even first of the season on my actual birthday, does not trump moms with brain tumors. Denied.

In the one-thing-I-have-to-get-done-today-or-I-will-go-mad errand, we dropped by the Cracker's old preschool, to drop off...wait for it, wait for it...our contribution for a family who was with us there last year, who has the most beautiful and sweet 6.5 year old twin boys you will ever meet, who just lost their father to cancer. Good times.

While there Ollie and I were invited to join them for a snack of snow one of the teachers had collected early this morning. Armed with a big ice cream scoop they were dishing out the most perfect snowballs of "ice cream" and dusting them with cocoa powder. Ollie, of course, passed on the toppings, but was delighted nonetheless. Turns out snow is totally something she digs, and she doesn't dig much in the way of food these days. Finally, fed up with the tiny bites at a snail's pace I was offering off of a spoon, she lurched forward and grabbed the snowball out of the bowl with her own two little hands. For a good solid minute and a half she chomped away as happy as could be, a squirrel with her nut. But then she abruptly stopped, took a few seconds to reassess, and produced one of her blood curdling screams. I couldn't stop laughing as I tried to pry it out of her hands while she looked up at me through the rage with eyes that said "It's not the snowball that's the problem, it's that my hands are really fucking cold."

And then we all laughed some more. My Ollie, seven months and three weeks old, the ability to do and think independently, but not always at the same time.

F is For...

Since August I have baked, from scratch, and sent in no less than 5 separate recipes on 5 separate occasions. I could have purchased Walmart bakery crap like the majority of the other parents, but I didn't. Nope, not once. And I even liked doing it.

Last week the Cracker's teacher sent home a family project: "prepare a recipe of bread" that represents your culture to be sent in and shared with the class Turkey Day style. (The kids are making butter -- I sent it heavy whipping cream for that already.) Discuss with your student ahead of time why this bread is important to your heritage, do a little write-up, and make sure your student is prepared to present it to the class.

I'm sorry, but did you just ask me to bake bread? Do you know how much I find active dry yeast a royal pain in the ass? Culture? Heritage? The same week as Thanksgiving? Seriously?

My mom suggested Swedish Limpa bread, which I have made, but it's a Biotch.

My dad suggested I go out and buy a loaf of Wonder Bread. Because, yeah, we're white. (Tee hee hee! Dad!)

Have I mentioned the altitude? That I live a mile above sea level and I assume that all sea-level recipes will fail the first time around because they always do? That standard tweaks need recipe specific tweaking? That every Texan who has ever visited the metro area has a "I went to New Mexico and got altitude sickness from hiking a quarter mile" story? That edible won't happen on the first try? That I'd have to try, like, more than once?

Someone finally suggested (San Francisco) Sourdough: I think it was J, and I think he was joking, but I took it and ran. I ran all the way to the store and bought a loaf of not San Francisco, not generic either, but "Swiss" Sourdough, whatever the fuck that is, sliced for sandwiches by a machine and obviously not homemade.

Now for the write-up = J's problem. He has the Cracker write "Sourdough bread is from San Francisco and so is my mom." Done! J doesn't even remind him to write his name. Grrrr. So I help add that it makes us think of fog and goes nicely with clam chowder, blah blah blah.

F is for FAIL.



























Proof I bake! (And a super cute picture of O-Mo as well.)

Letters Home From School

From the Cracker's teacher:

"If you are sending something in your child's lunch that requires cooking in a microwave, please note that we only have time to heat things up that take a minute or less. We cannot cook noodles or other meals. We can only heat them."

Noodles? Other meals??? WTF are people sending? Hot Pockets?

Recycle, Reuse, Renew!

Sometimes I think I'm rather clever. Sometimes I crack myself up. This is totally one of those times.



















Amidst a sea of McCain minivans in the pickup line at our (public) school (that has uniforms...gah) (that refuses to teach evolution, even though it means they lose government funding...double gah) I brand this my own crazy politico version of Intelligent Design.

Localese

My first trip to Walmart in a year.

"Hi. Do you know what aisle I can find antibacterial moist towelettes?"
"Huh?"
"Little antibacterial wipes? They come individually packaged, maybe 20 in a little box."
"Eh?"
"Similar idea as Purell, but in a little wipe?"
"Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."
Grr....
"Like they give you in a restraunt after you eat ribs for cleaning up."
"Oh! Right this way!"

Funny how that doesn't narrow it down

"Hey Mom, can we go to that place again today?"
"What place?"
"That place blah blah blah blah blah."
"Huh? What was it called?"
"I don't bremember, but blah blah blah. Oh! And we got rockstar parking!"

My dear child, we live in New Mexico. Unless you're at Walmart, Flying Star, or a carniceria, rockstar parking just isn't a big wup.