Rising to the Brussels sprouts challenge

This is what happens when my kids say to me (in the produce aisle): "Mom, what are those little cabbage-looking things?"

Really, they should know better. They've lived with me their entire lives. They should know that, before they know what hit them, those little cabbage-looking things will end up in our shopping cart. And they should also know that, before they can say "Ewwww," those little cabbage-looking things will be on their dinner plates. Because I will not back down from a challenge. They should know.

True to form, I met this challenge. Without further ado, my kids eating Brussels sprouts:

They loved them.

Evan had four helpings. Four. I had to tell him to leave some for the rest of us. Even Jensen (who was initially pretty sure I was trying to poison him) had, like, two and a half servings. I'm guessing it didn't hurt that I braised them in bacon fat and apple cider and garlic and thyme, but I figured I only had one chance to make a first impression. You do what you gotta do. The fact remains: my kids love Brussels sprouts.

Ladies and gentlemen, my work here is done. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a little economic crisis that needs to be addressed, and then some heads need to be screwed on straight in Congress. And if I have some extra time, I may zip on over to the Middle East.

I'll be home in time for dinner.

Do NOT put this inside a dead bird

I heard a rumor that Thanksgiving is approaching. Which seems pretty ridiculous, you know, because I could have sworn that it's still September. Early October at the latest. But, I looked at the calendar and it's true: Thanksgiving is next week. Insanity, I tell you.

Guess I'd better get thinking about food.

Interestingly, for someone who loves to cook and for a holiday completely centered around an enormous meal, I really don't like Thanksgiving dinner. It's all so geriatric cafeteria. Turkey? Bleh. Don't even get me started on gravy: it's slop. Cranberry sauce? Sweet potatoes with marshmallows? Are you joking?! But: I really like green bean casserole, the kind with cream of mushroom soup and those divine french-fried onions. And stuffing. I. love. stuffing.

In truth, I'm a food snob, kinda. I'm fully committed to things like fresh herbs and unsalted butter and homemade marinara and mincing my own garlic. Stuff like that. But my favorite stuffing is a far cry from any of that. It is comfort food. And it is heavenly.

The stuffing we make is a recipe from my Grandma Klages, a Depression-era German farmwife extraordinaire. Actually, the recipe came from one of her friends, I think. We make, like, quadruple recipes because it's so scrumptious. (Frequently I only eat this and the Green Bean Delight.) And you will notice that it does not call for real butter. Nope. It calls for "oleo," which is how my grandmother referred to margarine. Actually, the full name was "oleomargarine." Old School, man. Anyway, despite my uppity food ways, I have never used butter in this recipe.

Please also note that this stuffing does not get stuffed into a bird. That is a repulsive practice, as far as I'm concerned. (Seriously: shoving mushy bread up a dead bird's butt?! Who thought of this?) I actually physically gagged the first time I had stuffing that had actually been cooked inside a carcass: so goopy, so funky, so... ugh. Technically, I guess, this is "dressing" rather than "stuffing." Stuff, if you must. But you do so at your own risk. I will not stuff, and will stubbornly continue to call this "stuffing."

And a final note: it's a pretty loose recipe. I think most of the measurements are just estimates that have been written down over the years. It has not been refined in a test kitchen or written according to formula. You just kind of make it however seems right.

So here it is:
The Best Stuffing That Was Never Stuffed
1 package breadcrumbs (8 oz)
2 stalks celery, chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
1 stick oleo
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pepper
4 cups chicken broth (in my experience, it needs more so it doesn't get dry)
1 cup milk
2 eggs
Poultry seasoning, or sage (it doesn't say how much. Maybe a teaspoon? More?)

Cook oleo, celery, and onion. Add salt, pepper, and poultry seasoning. Mix with breadcrumbs. Mix broth, milk, and eggs together. Stir into bread mixture. Bake in a 9x13 pan at 350 degrees for about an hour.

Now I must go find a turkey, I suppose. I still can't believe Thanksgiving is next week. Seriously, I'm so lucky I don't live in Canada, because if I'd had to be ready for Thanksgiving a month ago, I'd have been completely hosed.

[Oh, and I'm contributing this to Mr. Lady's call for Thanksgiving recipes at Whiskey in My Sippy Cup, which was one of the very first blogs I ever started reading and it is awesome. Seriously, I'm a complete blogging amateur and am totally unworthy of putting anything up there, but I'm just gonna suck it up and do it. (And she does live in Canada, by the way.)]

When creme brulee goes bad

Having survived Halloween and CNN's totally stupid holographic coverage of the election, I can get back to writing about significant, news-worthy issues. Like vomit.

I cannot stand throw-up. It makes me limp and quivery. With division of labor, I'm the poop-parent, and Jeff's the puke-parent. He takes care of any mess that comes out the top end, and I take care of the bottom-end disasters.

Most of the time.

Sunday night, we were safely tucked into bed and I was peacefully not having nightmares about Sarah Palin being our president, but was awakened by the creepy feeling that someone was watching me.

Jensen was hovering over me. "Mom, my stomach hurts." Great. Evan had been throwing up (so. many. times.) for 24 hours, so this only made sense. And with a silent, decisive nod, he clapped his hand over his mouth, turned and bolted into our bathroom. Then, just as abruptly, he stopped running. And I heard a loud splat.

Jeff (who had also awakened by now) yelled, "Run!!!" So Jensen recommenced running to our toilet to finish the job.

Jeff took him upstairs to clean up, and I just lay in bed and waited for Jeff to return and clean up the carnage. But he didn't come back. For ages.

Finally, because I couldn't stand the stench anymore, I ventured into the bathroom to survey the damage. Jensen had puked creme brulee from Jeff's birthday dinner all over the place. Floor, toilet, walls, bathtub, door: everywhere.

Holy hell.

Creme brulee: heavy cream, egg yolks, sugar. (Definitely not for those with weak coronary-artery constitutions. But sooo good.) It was like cleaning up an oil slick (thankfully, there were no waterfowl in our bathroom, because it would have been an enormous pain to get them cleaned up). I used an entire roll of paper towels, and a lot of chemicals (I had to use something to cut the fat), but I got it done. I weakly made my way into the laundry room, where, to my happy surprise, a mountain of stinking bed linens awaited me. Gawd.

When Jeff had gone upstairs to help Jensen clean up, he found Evan in a dead sleep, entirely encrusted in dried vomit. He had thrown up in his sleep. And then Jensen threw up again. So I was forced to wash out two beds' worth of disgusting sheets. I cannot describe the depth of my disappointment. Between the bathroom and the chunky sheets, it took an hour and a half to clean up.

We threw open the windows, scrubbed grout, and cleaned floors multiple times. After about 36 hours, the nose-hair-singeing, lingering reek of vomit no longer permeated the air and our bathroom floor was no longer slippery and greasy. And while I'm tempted to say we've emerged from the puke-ocalypse, I really don't want to jinx anything.

And I think it's safe to say it'll be a while before I eat creme brulee again.

Chicken Popeye: a taste sensation

You know how it is. We all work so hard to be the best parents we can be. And then one of our little darlings shoots it all in the ass, without batting so much as an adorable eyelash.

Food is kind of my mommy thing. Preparing it, that is. I work hard to make most of our meals from scratch, to make sure the kids get healthy, yummy food. For some reason I feel like it's important that the kids understand that food does not (necessarily) come out of a box from the freezer case. Just a thing I have. I don't know why.

However, I'm not above dishing up some deee-lish Kraft mac-n-cheese. Or a frozen pizza. Jensen is particularly fond of anything (anything!) made with cream of mushroom soup. Hamburger Helper was rejected across the board, though. In any case, there is definitely a time and a place for artificial flavor and preservatives.

Last night, for instance.

Jeff was on-call for 48 of the past 72 hours, meaning he had to stay at the hospital (he kindly provides anesthesia to people who are having surgery, or having babies, or having colonoscopies). The kids and I held down the fort. It was a fun weekend, but by dinnertime last night, I'd had it. It's just really hard to whip up a meal with two cabin-feverish big boys (it rained a lot this weekend) and a yelling baby. So, into the freezer I foraged.

Mmmmm. Chicken pot pies. The kids marveled at them-- it was their first experience with this delicacy. It's a pie... for dinner!

They raved. They gobbled. They wiped them out in about two minutes flat.

Jensen: "Mom, can we have these for dinner every night? Can I have another? This is the best meal ever!"

Evan: "Mommy, these are too good. I want them tomorrow day. I love Chicken Popeye!!!"

Hmmm. Kinda makes a two-hour lasagna seem superfluous, doesn't it?

Moo.

To begin: I need help!!! If you were at Mom and Dad's party, and if you have digital pictures of said celebration, please e-mail them to me. When I get some, I'll write a post about it. If I get enough, maybe I'll do a Flickr slideshow. (If I'm smart enough to figure it out.) I have a special interest in a photo of Evan and Georgia boogyin' the night away, as that's going to get its own dedicated post. Thanks! And, with the Big Boys being gone, I'm not sure what to write today. (Believe me, you do not care about the boring crap I did today.) So I'm posting something I wrote a couple of weeks ago. Enjoy!

We are not vegetarians.

If you want proof, come on over and take a look in our deep freeze. It is full-to-the-top with the cow we recently purchased.

We named him Bo.

To be precise, we purchased a portion of a recently-butchered cow.

Here's how it went down (and it struck me as being kind of like a drug deal): a couple of months ago, my BIL hooked us up with a co-worker who deals in beef (and wholesale autos, if you're interested). She was going to have a black angus ready for slaughter in late July. Did we want in? Yeah, we wanted in.

Last week she called. Bo was ready. So I met her in an empty school parking lot (and this is the point in CSI: Miami where an expensive car with tinted windows would come careening through the parking lot and spray us with bullets, but that fortunately did not happen). We transferred 160-plus pounds of freshly frozen beef from the trunk of her car to my minivan. I gave her a check. That was it.

For the sake of perspective, we eat a lot of vegetarian meals. More than most other meat-eaters I know. Tofu is a staple around here. Babies love mashed tofu. The big kids love it so much that I have to buy two pounds for a meal now. They love it almost as much as Kraft Mac & Cheese.

I was vegetarian for a while (never vegan, though). It was fine. Meat's just never been indispensable to me. Nor has it been the crux of any great moral conundrum. I've read "My Year of Meat." I've considered many of the arguments, from health and ethical standpoints. And I've decided my concerns belong elsewhere. I absolutely respect those who have decided otherwise.

Anyhoo, we're hardly meat-dependent. But Jeff loves steak. And lamb. Jensen is not so fond of any meat with texture. His preferred animal proteins come in the form of hot dogs, hamburger, or fish sticks (his opinion is that the more processed the meat, the better). Evan will (or won't) eat whatever's on his plate.

But you wouldn't know that we're not strict carnivores based on the 35 pounds of ground beef in our freezer. Not to mention the steaks, roasts, and ribs. It's going to take a concerted effort to eat all of this meat.

So, if you're in the neighborhood, come on over for a barbeque.

Oh, and, Bo? Thanks for giving your all.