Commentary from The Babe at dinner tonight:
"Mom? Can I get more broccoli?"
"Yes, dear."
"Where is it?"
"In the fridge."
Child makes a beeline to the fridge. He's already consumed about 3/4 cup of the little trees, one BBQ grilled pork chop, and some potato. He is about to possess the other cup of broccoli that didn't make it to the dinner table.
"Mom?" He says, as he's spooning broccoli out of the container into his mouth "THIS is the best stuff EVER."
"Really?" It's a mix of "Are you possessed?" and "I'm SO STINKIN' GLAD YOU ARE WILLING TO EAT VEGGIES!"
"YEAH. I want you to serve this with pasta and fruit every night. You got that? EVERY NIGHT?"
"UMMMM." I'm going to hate pasta in about four nights if we stick to his plan.
"NO. Wait. I want this in the morning and at lunch AND at dinner. You got that?"
Another "UMMMM."
"This is just the BEST!!!" He's now dancing with his broccoli in its glass bowl. It's utter ecstasy in action. Kind of like Billy Elliott meets Chef Boyardee. Strange, sure. But, in a funky kind of way, its completely embraceable.
My first resolution of the year is also being complimented nicely by his continuing, yet suddenly rabid, desire for all things green and tree-like: that's one less thing I'll have to yell about at the dinner table*.
*If he's eating his veggies, I won't have to constantly repeat "Please eat your broccoli" until I'm blue in the face and beyond the point of patience. Hence, no yelling about neglected vegetables!
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
First Great Quote of '11
Our strikingly polite, kind, sweet neighbor boy, who will undoubtedly go far based on a combination of awesome parenting and good schooling, came over this morning.
This is a blessed morning, in my mind. It is that Monday after a long holiday where everyone has their own agenda and they all compliment one another.
The boys wanted to test out the XBox and actually played together without any whining.
Mike and I laid in bed until a blissfully late hour of the day. I actually served breakfast as brunch, at 11am.
The house is relatively clean because we hosted Christmas with my side of the family over New Year's weekend.
About the only thing that could top this morning would be if someone with HGTV would break down my front door and pack all the Christmas stuff back up while I sat in the kitchen redesigning the backyard with some hunk of an architect and his minions.
But, since that didn't happen, the next best thing was the following, ultra-charming, is-it-or-isn't-it-a-compliment comment from our neighborhood friend/visitor:
"I couldn't find anything to do so I decided to come over here."
I think my heart just melted in a puddle on the floor.
This is a blessed morning, in my mind. It is that Monday after a long holiday where everyone has their own agenda and they all compliment one another.
The boys wanted to test out the XBox and actually played together without any whining.
Mike and I laid in bed until a blissfully late hour of the day. I actually served breakfast as brunch, at 11am.
The house is relatively clean because we hosted Christmas with my side of the family over New Year's weekend.
About the only thing that could top this morning would be if someone with HGTV would break down my front door and pack all the Christmas stuff back up while I sat in the kitchen redesigning the backyard with some hunk of an architect and his minions.
But, since that didn't happen, the next best thing was the following, ultra-charming, is-it-or-isn't-it-a-compliment comment from our neighborhood friend/visitor:
"I couldn't find anything to do so I decided to come over here."
I think my heart just melted in a puddle on the floor.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Paula, Paula, Paula
I like food experts who give me recipes that are accessible, meaning I don't have to try to figure out what foie gras or truffle oil is, where I can buy them, and how I can finance the purchase before I can proceed in making supper.
Paula Deen fits the accessible bill to a T. She is cute, sweet, and has that oh-so-charming accent. And, if I have at least a pound of butter in the house, I know I'm halfway to getting most of her dishes on the dinner table*.
But, were I to attempt a new recipe of hers everyday for say, 30 days, I'd have the makings of "Super Size Me" for Generations X, Y, and Z. Basically, I'd be too big for gastric bypass OR a coffin, but I'd be somewhere in between needing one of the two of those things.
Which leads me to admitting that I enjoyed one of Paula's recipes, courtesy of my lovely sister-in-law, over New Year's Weekend.
I KNOW, to the marrow of my bones, when someone places something ooey-gooey-yummy in front of me and says "It's a Paula Deen recipe", that I am completely, utterly, hosed.
Not only is it going to clog my arteries, give me gas, and make me wish I had some semblance of restraint, but it is also going to be irresistible and whisper my name until I've finished every last bit of it.
Enter "French Cream".
Sounds exotic, creamy and fattening, YES? Sounds like it should belong on cake or pie or waffles, doesn't it?
But, wait! This is a horse of a troubling color. A shyster. A man disguised as a woman imitating a man. It's a fruit dip. Which, for me, is WAY worse than the cream being connected to a piece of double chocolate cake or a Belgian waffle.
Why, you ask? Because it starts with fruit. The stuff of Adam and Eve. The bastion of good sugar and tummy-filling fiber. One of the few things on Weight Watchers that has little or no points. Fruit is basically like eating for free!
But, when you add Paula to the equation, little bites of fruit become lethal.
"French Cream", it turns out, is a delightful concoction of cream cheese, LOTS of sugar, too much whipping cream, and a little lemon and pineapple juice.
It is remarkably light tasting, especially before you are privy to the recipe. Literally, pre-Goggle look-up, I was all "DUDE! I could eat my weight in apple strips with this dip as the wing man."
The recipe though? Caused my wing man to eject and fall crashing to Earth in a bloody heap of shame.
So tomorrow I have the unenviable task of killing the extra two cups of dip that remain in my refrigerator. I'm not sure if I'll use the "scalding hot water straight in the container" move or the "three points for making it into the garbage can" trick or the "one for me, one for you" act, where I put one tablespoon in the sink and one in my mouth, in an attempt to calm that voice screaming "There are children in poor countries that would give anything for a taste of French Cream".
Whatever I choose to do, Lady Paula is out the door in the morning.
Sadly, my body's souvenir of her time with me, those oh-so-attractive bumps and dimples and lumps, will be with me for many, many, many moons to come.
*I just want to run to her kitchen and scream "USE ME!!!" every time I see her on TV.
Paula Deen fits the accessible bill to a T. She is cute, sweet, and has that oh-so-charming accent. And, if I have at least a pound of butter in the house, I know I'm halfway to getting most of her dishes on the dinner table*.
But, were I to attempt a new recipe of hers everyday for say, 30 days, I'd have the makings of "Super Size Me" for Generations X, Y, and Z. Basically, I'd be too big for gastric bypass OR a coffin, but I'd be somewhere in between needing one of the two of those things.
Which leads me to admitting that I enjoyed one of Paula's recipes, courtesy of my lovely sister-in-law, over New Year's Weekend.
I KNOW, to the marrow of my bones, when someone places something ooey-gooey-yummy in front of me and says "It's a Paula Deen recipe", that I am completely, utterly, hosed.
Not only is it going to clog my arteries, give me gas, and make me wish I had some semblance of restraint, but it is also going to be irresistible and whisper my name until I've finished every last bit of it.
Enter "French Cream".
Sounds exotic, creamy and fattening, YES? Sounds like it should belong on cake or pie or waffles, doesn't it?
But, wait! This is a horse of a troubling color. A shyster. A man disguised as a woman imitating a man. It's a fruit dip. Which, for me, is WAY worse than the cream being connected to a piece of double chocolate cake or a Belgian waffle.
Why, you ask? Because it starts with fruit. The stuff of Adam and Eve. The bastion of good sugar and tummy-filling fiber. One of the few things on Weight Watchers that has little or no points. Fruit is basically like eating for free!
But, when you add Paula to the equation, little bites of fruit become lethal.
"French Cream", it turns out, is a delightful concoction of cream cheese, LOTS of sugar, too much whipping cream, and a little lemon and pineapple juice.
It is remarkably light tasting, especially before you are privy to the recipe. Literally, pre-Goggle look-up, I was all "DUDE! I could eat my weight in apple strips with this dip as the wing man."
The recipe though? Caused my wing man to eject and fall crashing to Earth in a bloody heap of shame.
So tomorrow I have the unenviable task of killing the extra two cups of dip that remain in my refrigerator. I'm not sure if I'll use the "scalding hot water straight in the container" move or the "three points for making it into the garbage can" trick or the "one for me, one for you" act, where I put one tablespoon in the sink and one in my mouth, in an attempt to calm that voice screaming "There are children in poor countries that would give anything for a taste of French Cream".
Whatever I choose to do, Lady Paula is out the door in the morning.
Sadly, my body's souvenir of her time with me, those oh-so-attractive bumps and dimples and lumps, will be with me for many, many, many moons to come.
*I just want to run to her kitchen and scream "USE ME!!!" every time I see her on TV.
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