Bitter About Butter
Published December 31, 2010 | I have long lamented on this site and elsewhere that I suck at baking. Cookies, cupcakes, pies – you name it and I’ll find a way to screw it up. I finally figured out the cause of my horrible track record and – at 40 years of age – it took my mommy to point out the error of my ways.
You know those bricks of butter you get at the supermarket? You know how they have the measurement on the wrapper (1/4 cup, 1/2 cup, etc)? Well I’ve always – like, for 30 years – thought that one of those bricks was one cup of butter. Turns out it’s actually two cups
Did you know this? I did not know this. So, if a recipe called for a half cup of butter, I would cut the brick in half and throw it in, thereby adding a full cup of butter. Then I’d wonder why my cookies were so floppy and greasy. The same goes for countless cakes, banana breads and sauces.
I’ve been giving myself killer heartburn for 30 years, people. It’s even worse for the Serb: he revamped his diet and exercise a few years ago after suffering from some disconcerting heart flutters. He’s now in amazing shape and healthier than ever, but he’s convinced I’ve been trying to kill him with cookies.
I'm not a crappy baker; just an idiot.
18 CommentsVacuum-sealed Turkey: A Love Story
Published December 29, 2010 | With the nightmare of Christmas Eve – and the accompanying stench of rotting shrimp – behind us, we lurched into Christmas morning with blurry-eyed anticipation.
Despite staying up until 1:30 a.m. doing laundry, I was woken up at 5:43 a.m. by my fully-recovered-and-completely-hyper son. And even with me handing out the gifts one-by-one to ensure we appreciated the experience, at 6:20 a.m. all presents were unwrapped, leaving my three-year-old to wander amongst the torn paper asking in a forlorn voice, “Where my uddah peasants?
Our families live far away and despite the lovely offers of friends to have us over for Christmas dinner, we decided at the last minute to spend the entire day in our jammies watching Christmas movies and having as stress-free a day as possible.
To that end, I picked up a “Christmas kit” offered by my local supermarket. If you’ve read my Thanksgiving post, you already know why I didn’t even consider cooking a turkey from scratch; besides, the sweet neighbour who cooked that meal went coconuts on us.
Here’s what came in the kit:
Doesn't it just scream "home for the holidays?"
Butternut squash
Mashed potatoes
Stuffing
Gravy
Cranberry sauce
And, the pièce de résistance for me, a vacuum-sealed, half-cooked turkey
The instructions were simple: stick the turkey in the oven for two hours and for the last half hour, add everything else. The results were mixed: my son only ate the mashed potatoes and meat; my husband said the vegetables tasted like warm ass (I’m guessing that’s a negative?) and only had meat with stuffing; and my daughter ate nothing (I suspect this had more to do with the seven Christmas oranges she devoured waiting at the table).
As for me, I was so happy to have a bird that was neither crispy charcoal nor raw chicken sushi (chushi?) that I practically wept with gratitude. And really, if the evening ends without me cleaning up someone’s vomit, I consider it a win for mom’s everywhere.
You can't have Christmas without Lightning McQueen
Nothing Says “Christmas” Like a Bed Full of Barf
Published December 27, 2010 | The night before Christmas started out in such a promising way: we’d just returned from a cool new Korean barbecue place where you grill your own food at the table and come home to a Toblerone fondue. The kids were in their new jammies, had willingly posed for a cheesy in-front-of-the-tree photo and were begging to go to bed so that Santa could do his thing. I should’ve known it was too good to be true.
I was cleaning up the kitchen while my husband wrapped some presents downstairs when my son came stumbling around the corner in tears. My eyes darted to the now-empty plate of cookies and half-drained cup of eggnog on the coffee table beside the tree in our living room, but he was so upset that he didn’t even notice mommy had scarfed Santa’s treats.
“MOMMMMY!” he wailed. “I P-P-P-PUUUUUUKED!”
Did he ever. His new jammies were covered – and I mean shoulder-to-ankle – in barf. I’ve already documented that my son is a horrible puker; it’s like an epileptic exorcism when he’s sick.
Needless to say, his room was a disaster. The entire bed, comforter and pillows were covered in his dinner. Did I mention it’s a queen-size bed? And that we forgot to put his mattress-protector-thingy under the fitted sheet? And that we’d let him cook his own shrimp and mussels at the restaurant? We should’ve been surprised that he wasn’t sick on the car ride home.
The devil's mollusk
My husband grabbed our son and stuck him in the shower while I grabbed Santa’s my eggnog and topped it up with a few ounces of rum. Fortified, I went to work on the dirty bed, lamenting my lack of hazmet suit. Thankfully I had a container of detergent that I’d used in my triathlon days – it gets any smell out of anything – and by Christmas morning he was back to his old self in his newly-laundered jammies.
The silver lining of this fiasco? That my three-year-old daughter had slept in her room for the first time all week. Otherwise, she would’ve been beside him and likely lost in a sea of seafood chunks.
I would do a commercial for these dudes (actually, I think I just did).
17 CommentsIs Google Drunk?
Published December 24, 2010 | People who follow me on Twitter already know that I’m obsessed intrigued by my blog’s stats. There’s a nifty page only I can access that tells me how many visitors I have and what they’re looking at. But the best part, by far, is the list of top Google searches. Every day I check the list of words people have given Google to be brought to my site. You don’t have to be a master statistician to see certain trends emerging:
1) Toilets
Okay, I admit it – when I started this blog I was pre-occupied with getting my three-year-old to use a toilet. I even coined the term Ass Butler to describe my role in the process. But I ask you: can a handful of potty-related posts justify “toilet” being the number one search term for my site every single day since I started blogging? If it’s not toilet, it’s a derivative of some sort – “toilet go karts” (wtf?), “toilette dyan” (fancy!) and “me pooping in my toilet” (really?) are but a few of the gems I’ve come across.
2) Obscure Celebrities
I would never dare to imitate the genius of Michael K on DListed, so I don’t spend a lot of time commenting on famous people. There is a dearth of A-List mentions here, but if you’re searching for Marion Cunningham, Monica Lewinsky or Phyllis Diller, I just may be the site for you (unless you’re looking for pics of them naked, in which case: eww).
3) The Balkans
I’m married to a Serb and this past summer we spent a month visiting friends and family he hadn’t seen in almost 20 years. Of course I blogged the crap out of it and as a result, I’m now the go-to site for people looking into “Don Juan of Serbia,” “what should I pack for Serbia” and “cheap apartment Sarajevo.” And for this, I apologize (And to the person searching for “naked Bosnian mothers party,” how dare you…)
4) Cooking
God help you if you’ve stumbled across my site looking for some kitchen tips, such as “can you make Yorkshire pudding in an electric fry pan.” I’ve massacred countless batches of cookies and swathed a turkey in bacon to disastrous results. The only successful meal I’ve blogged about involved Kraft Dinner and a can of soup.
5) Sexy Times
The main lesson I’ve taken from blogging is this: Google is full of pervs. I didn’t help my cause by blogging early on about naked parties; however these involved my kids, not “hot moms folding laundry” or “hairy bum Lori” (umm…f-you, Google).
6) Cholas
“Zombie Chola,” “Chola eyebrows,” “Fat Cholas,” “Chola hair”…I could go on, but if I do, then the Cholas have won.
7) Tights On Her Arms
I have no clue what this means and obviously neither do the few dozen people who keep Googling it and coming to my site.
8 ) Grandma
I wrote about my 88-year-old web surfing, Skyping, hot-fireman-calendar-adoring Granny last summer. Since then anyone interested in “granny strippers,” “granny getting squished,” “grandma tantrum” or any variation of “hot granny” lands here. For the record, Grandma is not amused.
9) Big Nose
I took great offense to the plethora of “big nose,” big-ass nose,” “model with big nose” and “disease symptoms large nose pits in skin” searches coming to my site until I remembered the blog mentioning my husband’s prominent proboscis. In Serbia it’s a widely held belief that the bigger the nose, the bigger the equipment, so I’m not minding as much these days.
10) Just plain weird
As I depart for a few days of holiday cheer, let me leave you with some of my favourite searches. When I’m feeling blue, I revisit these and remember that no matter how yucky things may appear, at least I’m not the poor schmuck looking these up:
“Woman’s ass grows around toilet”
“Breast-side down gross”
“Caught my husband in my bra”
“Too smutty to mention”
“Best hookers to call”
And my personal all-time fave:
“Got hookers in the backyard mowing my lawn and they ain’t leavin’ til the sprinklers come on”
Merry Christmas to my wonderful Blogosphere buddies and Happy New Year to all of you crazy Google monsters.
And whatever you’re drinking, Google, I’d like a barrel of it…
17 CommentsYou Better Watch Out, You Better Not Piss Me Off…
Published December 22, 2010 | Am I the only one dreading Christmas Day? For me, December 25th will be a mixed blessing, one of joy and sorrow. It’s not because the magic of the season is drawing to a close. Nor is it due to the imminent (and inevitable) turkey-cooking-fiasco. I am mourning Christmas morning for one reason: when Mr. Claus heads north, my parental clout heads south.
My kids are disciples of the “he sees you when you’re sleeping” doctrine; probably because I’ve drilled it into them from day one. Since the day after Halloween – right around the time they start forcing Jingle Bells on me – I’ve been playing the Santa-as-Big-Brother (George Orwell, not Julie Chen) card, with fantastic results.
The boy won’t clean his room? No problem. The girl refuses to get dressed? Not a biggie. The boy and girl are scrapping like Colin Firth and Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones’ Diary? Please. Three words from me are all it takes to shut that sh*t down: Santa. Is. Watching.
My seven-year-old son still believes in Santa, but he’s hanging on by a thread (there have been a lot of questions concerning time zones and spatial relations vis-a-vis chimneys). The thought of no Santa is sad for a few reasons, not least of which is that nothing gets my kid in line like the threat idea of Santa knowing his every move.
We saw Santa last weekend* and he played his role to perfection, asking my kids if they’ve been good and putting on an Oscar-worthy performance, thereby bolstering my son’s belief while simultaneously scaring the crap out of my daughter. So really, it was a win-win.
After next weekend, however, I’m back to square one. The. Easter. Bunny. Is. Watching. doesn’t have the same ominous ring to it.
Santa's not just fun and games, son.
* It was so worth it, even with the drama of getting tickets
Deck the Halls with MSG
Published December 20, 2010 | The Christmas Eve tradition of my childhood began the way many things in my life do: with dumb luck and poor planning. As a child, the night before Christmas was just something to get through until the big show the next morning. A token gift could be opened that evening, which only made waiting for present-palooza that much more interminable.
Then one year when I was about eight-years-old, we were out doing errands on Christmas Eve and my mother (most likely in an attempt to avoid another hash meal) suggested that we stop for dinner at a restaurant. And by “restaurant”, I mean McDonald’s.
The golden arches were closed that night (this was back when malls were closed on Sundays…and telephones had cords), so we set out for Chinatown, reasoning that someone had to be feeding heathens such as ourselves who weren’t in church.
Sure enough, the Silver Dragon was packed. We saw some of my Jewish friends from school – and more than a few shifty-eyed WASPs – digging into some noodley goodness. We had such a good time that my family still goes there over thirty years later (zip it with your math). I’ve even transported this Christmas Eve custom to my new home, although it morphed to include sushi or Korean barbecue followed by chocolate fondue.
And that is how, while searching desperately through the cold streets for a warm meal, a tradition was born; not unlike the story of Mary and Joseph looking for a place to birth the Son of God, only with egg rolls.
Nothing says Merry Christmas like Moo Goo Gai Pan
23 CommentsWinter Wonderland My Ass
Published December 17, 2010 | My family is not a snow-loving kind of family, which is ironic considering that we live in Canada (one of the warmer parts of Canada, but still: brrr). I grew up with the Canadian Rockies in my backyard and took full advantage of it: I can ski, skate and pack a snowball that could take out a tail light. Since marrying the Serb – on a tropical island no less – I’ve adopted his warm-weather ways and cultivated a family of wintery wimps.
When the Serb landed in Canada fifteen years ago it was one of the coldest days on record. He’d grown up with much milder weather and when he stepped off the plane in Calgary, he thought he was going to die (no, literally: he could not fathom how his body could function under such dire conditions). At that moment he vowed to wear not one, but two pairs of long johns from October through March, which he did for five years…even under a suit.
The Serb relaxed a bit when we moved to balmy Toronto, but still hauls out his thermal undies the second he spots frost. The only winter sport he’ll participate in with a modicum of enthusiasm is tobogganing, and that’s only if hot chocolate and a warm bath are guaranteed to follow.
Our son (aka Pepe the Cuban Love Child) was conceived near Havana and the island vibes are in his blood: at seven-years-old he’s already certified as a junior scuba diver and was scouted by a swim team; he regularly enjoys hour-long baths wearing his goggles; and although he’s been known to trip when standing still, in the water he has the grace of a dancer. He’s not a fan of skating and is contemplating skiing only because his current crush is a mad demon on the slopes.
While my son runs around the house in shorts all year, my three-year-old daughter forgoes clothing all together. We had our first snowfall this week and after glancing out the window, she asked, “When’s Spring coming?” and then demanded that I take her to our local beach.
I certainly don’t mean to perpetuate any oh-you’re-from-Canada-do-you-live-in-an-igloo stereotypes. Winter isn’t that long here and our summers are fantastically hot. The whole snow thing just doesn’t do it for me: I’m confident that I’d feel the same if I lived in Colorado, or even northern California.
The only consolation is our upcoming trip to Mexico in March – if they have hippie schools down there, we just may burn the thermals, sell our barely-worn skates and strip down.
Yup.
22 CommentsThe Secret to Great Hash*
Published December 15, 2010 | I scour online recipes looking for dinner ideas because, baking calamities aside, I really enjoy cooking and have been told by people other than my husband that I’m pretty good at it.
There have been some scrumptious successes (my rib sauce recipe is in a time capsule) and disgusting defeats (the words “warm”, “apple” and “salad” cause the Serb to weep uncontrollably). But nothing in recent memory has tickled my family’s fancy quite like my mom’s recipe for hash.
Hash is something I grew up with in the 70’s, along with SPAM and tuna casserole. I remember my mom making it often, but I never craved it (unlike her banana cream pie – I would consider selling one of my kids for a piece of that Dream Whip-covered goodness).
My mom made hash during her last trip out here and my family lost their minds for it. So now, in the spirit of giving – and who doesn’t love a meal that can be made in under ten minutes for less than ten dollars? – I now present to you: Hash.
The ingredients are deceptively simple:
Notice the bottle of wine in the background.
The method is equally effortless: cook noodles, then add cheese packet, but no milk; brown meat, then add soup; mix it all together with a bit of milk, squirt some organic ketchup on top (cuz I’m all fancy n’ sh*t); put it on the table and watch your family turn into a pack of feral dogs trying to get the biggest helping.
I almost lost a finger taking this.
Despite the misleading name and unsavoury presentation, this stuff is like crack to my family (turns out this is a drug post after all):
I know what you’re thinking: Nigella Lawson must be sh*tting herself.
To accompany this homage to 1978, may I suggest a side salad of iceberg lettuce with Thousand Island dressing and a can of creamed corn? Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go set the mood with some Captain & Tennille…
*My sincere apologies to those drug users who’ve landed here expecting helpful hookah tips…although this is pretty great if you have the munchies.
To Cut or Not to Cut
Published December 13, 2010 | In Mommyland, the debate between natural childbirth, epidurals and c-sections can get more heated than Team Edward versus Team-the-other-dude. Despite having only two children, I experienced all three alternatives and let me tell you, there’s something to be said for all of them.
My inner hippie is fairly well hidden, but for my first pregnancy I had very strong ideas of what I wanted. Since I was too late to get a home birth with a midwife (you have to speed dial them within moments of conception and it took me a month to accept the fact that I was actually knocked up), I decided to go with a doula at the hospital. I drew up a birth plan that many women have – no drugs whatsoever, breastfeed immediately, minimal medical intervention, etc.
I gained roughly 4,000 pounds and my doctor repeatedly warned me that I would be having a big baby. I assured her that the creative visualization exercises from the natural childbirth preparation classes at my yoga centre had prepared me well. My doctor simply nodded and left me to my delusions.
When I finally went into labour, I vowed to remain at home with the doula for as long as possible, which turned out to be four days. Any sane woman would’ve capitulated to the Pitocin, but I decided to go for the castor oil, spicy nachos and Raspberry Red Leaf Tea instead. The only thing I had to show for my efforts was raging heartburn. By the time we pulled up to the hospital on day four, I was exhausted and only six centimetres dilated (note to non-preggos: that is sucky progress).
I immediately went all Shirley MacLaine circa Terms of Endearment on the nurses, demanding pain relief for myself. This is where I thought my natural childbirth experience would end, but no: the epidurals (they gave me two) only worked on half of my elephantine body.
I was the Victor/Victoria of birthing women – one half suffered the heat of a thousand white-hot suns while the other flopped there like a beached Beluga. The verdict of drugs vs. natural? It didn’t matter, because once the baby started coming out, I felt e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.
The c-section with my daughter was a completely different experience. We showed up at the hospital at an appointed time, the Anaesthesiologist had me safely numb within minutes, a barrier was erected where my midsection used to be and 15 minutes later the doctor pulled a baby from behind it, like a magic trick.
The bonus for me was the extra time in the hospital – as the seasoned mother of a toddler, I knew what kind of chaos awaited me at home. The downside? Stomach muscles are but a distant memory. My muffin top has become an extra-large cheese Danish.
I’ve often compared a natural birth versus c-section to an elaborate church wedding versus eloping in Vegas: there’s a lot more drama and excitement with the former, but there’s also something to be said for the quickie alternative. Now if they could figure out a drive-thru option, I just might be convinced to do it again.
This is my actual pregnant belly. At about 4 months.
28 CommentsI Think I’ve Been Hexed
Published December 10, 2010 | Since the psycho-smack-down last week I’ve only caught a few glimpses of my nutty neighbour, but the craziest things happen to us every time we do see her and I’m left with only one logical conclusion: she’s put a curse on us.
It started with the workers who finished our renos without her lunacy assistance. Our kitchen sink has made a gurgling sound when it drains for the last couple of years (did I mention we suck at home repairs?) and the reno dudes offered to fix it at the end of the job. According to them, the pipes weren’t properly installed and we were missing some curvy part that was essential.
That morning my husband saw M ducking into her garage. That afternoon the dudes re-did our pipes. That evening we put the dishwasher on and the pipes under our sink burst, spewing water like a fire hydrant. Yesterday a proper plumber came and $500 later, we now have a sink that works (turns out we should’ve simply snaked it…whatever that means…).
As for myself, M and I had studiously ignored each other the day before my grosstastic ear infection started* and again last night when I took out the garbage. Returning to the kitchen, I realized that I’d misplaced the cookie orders for the hippie school fundraiser. Without these orders, we would be left the following day with hundreds of boxes of quickly defrosting cookie dough and no clue where it should go.
I tore the house apart looking (to no avail) before finally collapsing beside my husband. In the middle of the night my three-year-old woke up and came into our bed complaining of a sore ear, but she kept forgetting which one hurt, so I chalked it up to her needing some cuddles.
My husband’s stomach was a bit upset so I gave him some TUMS and left him to sleep with our daughter while I joined my seven-year-old in his room (does anyone else play musical beds?).
In the dead of night I was woken by the screams of my son. In a stupor I leapt out of bed and headed for the door… or what would’ve been the door in my bedroom. In my son’s room, it was the wall I headed for, tripping over something and going face-first into the closed closet door. I belly-crawled like a wounded soldier down the hallway and felt frantically for my son in the darkness of my bedroom.
“Mommy – what you doing?!” my daughter screeched. Crap. I’d shaken her awake. I dragged my son, still wailing, to his room and climbed into bed with him. He’d had a nightmare, woken up, and his sister had taken all of the covers. He was inconsolable.
I could hear my daughter freaking out in the other room and moments later my husband threw her in the bed beside me.
“I’ve been sick all night,” he croaked. “I haven’t slept at all. You have to take her.”
I now had an arm wrapped around each sniffly kid. Good news: they both fell asleep almost instantly. Bad news: I was trapped like a horizontal scarecrow. Over the next two hours, my arms turned progressively more numb, then moved on to pins and needles, then went completely limp. I finally eased my way out about ten minutes before they both woke up.
The next day, I found the order forms in the garage, babied my sick husband, dealt with the plumber, organized the cookies and came home to make dinner for the family before realizing we’d run out of laundry detergent (nobody has clean undies), and night time pull-ups for my daughter. About halfway through dinner, I realized I was getting sick, too. I’m now in the throes of the worst flu of my life – my eyelashes ache.
I’m doing this post in the hopes that anyone out there who knows voodoo can reverse this mother f’ing hex. Alternatively, if you’re driving by and have a spare bottle of Tide, I’d appreciate a loaner…
Me, this very moment.
* For those of you on the edge of your seat, the sadistic doctor sucked all sorts of debris out of my ear and it barely hurt…I now have a bit of a crush on him, actually…
13 Comments
Blog Design Goddess
