Jolly Ollie

Over the summer Charles injured his toe very badly. He dropped the x-box on it such that the toe swelled to an enormous size, the nail gradually turned black, and then at camp the nail fell off (and you thought this post was going to be about Oliver).

When the kids were all at camp, Charles big toe nail fell off and the news spread like wild fire. There were 5 other classes at camp who had a kid related to the kid who lost his nail. So 6 people got to feel relatively important with the loss of Charles toe nail. A trophy he carried around in his pocket for weeks.

The notoriety didn't go far enough for the psycho member of the family, namely Oliver, who peppered me with questions along the lines of: "How common is it to lose a toe nail? Do very many people lose a toe nail? How badly do you have to hurt the nail in order for it to fall off?" What he was really asking was: "What are my chances, mom, what are my chances?"

Yesterday, Oliver decided to take his scooter out around the neighborhood, shoeless as always. He ended up crashing on some lever, I really don't know the details as I never had enough curiosity to garner them, but suffice it to say he came in proudly with a bloody stump of a big toe. He calmly displayed the toe to me and said with great hope," Do you think the nail will fall off?"

After inspecting it, I informed him it was a mere flesh wound and wished him better luck next time. He was completely crestfallen but my parting "blessing" gave him hope and he bounced back pretty quick. Enough so that he was back on the scooter with the bloody toe stump (still no shoes) in a very short amount of time.

The Things My Kids Say....

My children tell me some of the most shocking things without shame or inhibition of any kind. It's amazing. I would never, ever, ever have told things of the same nature to my parents....or anyone for that matter, had the thoughts crawled across my brain. But at our house, anything is acceptable fodder for conversation with mom, or so it would seem.

When Jonathan was a lot smaller, he was telling me some rather incriminating things and I said,"You know, maybe you should talk to your dad about that," to which Jonathan got very serious and said,"Oh, no, mom, I could never tell dad. He doesn't sin." I laughed hard. I guess that makes me an approachable sinner. I can handle that.

Tonight at dinner--and to give you more of a sense of the moment, I shall offer the seating arrangements. Jon sits at the head of the table, though he's mostly gone these days, so the head of the table is empty. I sit to what would be Jon's right, Vivian next to me, Caroline next to Viv, Jonathan at the foot of the table, and then continuing counter clockwise, Oliver, Gabriel and last Charles who sits directly across from me.

There were a few moments of silence this evening as bowls of chicken, rice and vegetables with a yummy broth were handed round the table. In the silence Gabriel suddenly piped up. "Mom, when I'm 7 my foot will be 12." I had to pause and do what Jonathan calls "processing" and then I realized he was talking shoe size. For Gabriel that was a rather deep thought. "Yes, Gabriel, when you are 7, your foot will probably be 12." He responded," And then I'll need new shoes." "Yes," I confirmed, "Then you will need new shoes." He thought about this. "I will need flip flops." I looked at Gabriel and said, "You brain is a very interesting place. How did you land on flip flops? " Caroline chimed in,"I was thinking about flip flops,too." To which Jonathan said, "that doesn't surprise me."

(This reminds me of when the family was in the suburban together over the weekend. Jon was driving, I was knitting and there was a general sense of noise and chaos. Through the noise I began to focus on what Caroline was saying and I interrupted her. " Caroline, that conversation will stop now. You have said nothing of substance and the sum total of what you are saying is drivel, and frankly none of our business." There was silence for a few moments. Jonathan piped up," Um, mom?" "Yes," I answered. Jonathan cleared his throat, "Just for the record, there was no conversation. Caroline was talking in monologue. I had tuned out a long time ago.")

On to dinner tonight:

"Mom, do you think there are aliens, because I'm really beginning to think it's possible with all these astronomy classes," said Charles. "I mean the universe is just so huge! Anything could be out there." I remained silent as the other children weighed in. "Of course there are aliens," Jonathan offered," Where do you think we got Caroline?"

I decided to bring up blends with Gabriel. "Gabriel, do you remember your new blends?" I asked. He got all excited. Together we said "st, st, stick" and then "gr, gr, green." Oliver decided to pipe up, "br, br, breast. That's an important one, Gabriel." I rolled my eyes.

Charles hit the breast topic like a duck on a june bug. "Did you know that there was once a woman with three breasts?" I was rather intrigued. "Really? Where was the third?" He was ready for that question--"I learned all about it in that book about historical mutants. The third breast was on the side of her leg." You know I asked the obvious question. "Well, did it produce milk?" That was the very question he had hoped I would ask-"Yes, it did. In fact there was a drawing of her nursing her third child with the breast on the side of her leg while nursing her younger twin babies in the regular way."

I had to digest that idea for a moment. "Wow, that'd be a bit of a shock I think to marry someone and not know ahead of time about that sort of thing." But the train of thought was interrupted by Vivian who pulled on my arm." Want to see my lucky freckle?" she said with immense enthusiasm followed by," It has a hair in it" and everyone exploded into laughter and I looked at Vivian wondering where in the world that came from.

The entire conversation devolved from there rather rapidly. I had to bring everyone back to order. "Enough," I said. In the short pause, Boofin-Biddles came up.

Let me explain the origin of Boofin-Biddles. In the book of mutants, there is a wee man whose trunk is of proper size as are his head, hands and feet. But he has no arms or legs. Only hands and feet that come out where his limbs should come out of his trunk. Charles will tuck his arms into his shirt so only his hands are visible, and then pull his shirt over his knees to the floor as he crouches down, and he calls himself Boofin-Biddles when in this attitude. He gallops across the floor and does the most hilarious stunts and such. One day he was doing a Boofin-Biddles demonstration and he lost his balance and was on his side, his hands and feet flailing a bit but he stayed in form. "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up," and he rocked around on the floor in this pose. We were laughing until the tears fell.

So of course at dinner Boofin-Biddles came up, and Charles struck the pose instantly leaping from his chair and landing to the floor crouched low.

Charles also has created his own nonsense language that does have a very particular cadence and consonant arrangement. Gabriel attempted to speak in Guddish, as it is called. Charles corrected him with a stream of perfectly cadenced Guddish that is so nonsensical you can't help but laugh, and when Charles spoke it, it did in fact sound proper, and when Gabriel spoke it, it sounded wrong.

At the end of dinner, after I'd said more than once, "Ok, enough. Have you people no shame? Do you not realize that I don't want to know every thought that crawls through you brain?" Charles said," But why not? Our thoughts are so interesting." You know, he has a point.

After dinner--and we had dinner rather late--I announced it was time for a moonlight walk around the neighborhood. Everyone scattered to get their shoes and walk accoutrements. I walked around making sure pre-dinner chores had been completed. They had not been completed and the sinners stayed behind while the saints took Daisy for a walk.

Four children were left home soberly completing their chores, Jonathan and Oliver came with me. Oliver gleefully grabbed my hand thrilled to be able to hog me for the entire walk. "Mom, right over there the other day I found 2 dead toads," he announced after we'd gone maybe a hundred feet. "But don't worry, I grabbed them quick and put them in my treasure box." I took in the information silently thinking," So that would explain the smell in your room." Another block and Oliver suddenly released my hand, darted right, and then caught back up next to me with a HUGE toad in his hand. "This is a nice one," he said admiring it. I just raised my eyebrows and nodded.

Oliver then piped up again," I'm glad you brought wine cuz now I can smell the yumminess through the whole walk." I did in fact have a glass of wine in hand. When we got home, Oliver wearily departed. He said," I gotta go recharge my batteries," and off he went.

The house is silent, even Daisy is asleep. It's almost tragic to go to bed rather than sit here and enjoy the quiet.

Tonight I Took Daisy for A Walk

If you know anything about a 'coon dog, you know that this is a story of lies because no one can take a 'coon dog on a walk. Or if you have ever heard of such a person, unless you see it with your own eyes, don't believe it.

Daisy is a 'coon dog, which means if you were to compare her body parts in terms of effectiveness, her nose would be about the size of the lies told in the 9/11 commission report (notice the lie theme :-). She can smell anything and everything, and she's big, and she's strong. That said, when Daisy is on her leash, you are essentially at the mercy of her good will because she is stronger than you, and her will is a thing to behold. Especially if you come across a small deer or a 'coon in the course of your whiplash style jaunt across the neighborhood.

Today was an especially long day and not because it was filled with many exciting though exhausting events. First, I was awakened before 6 by the chime sound of Daisy's collar. I'm a light sleeper and if anyone or thing is stirring in the night, I know about it immediately. Since I am also the janitor of all Daisy's gastro-intestinal problems or when her nose gets the best of her and she must ransack the garbage can in the kitchen, if I hear the collar too early in the morning signaling Daisy is up and about, I bolt.

So it was this morning. Around 5:30 Daisy was up and about, I hastily got out of my bed, stopped to put on my flip flops and softly called to Daisy in the darkness. She came immediately. I took her out to the backyard and she set to work exhibiting all the lovely symptoms of a full and complete puke fest. Unfortunately for Daisy, Jon had just cut the grass over the weekend, so she had to scrounge a bit to find nice grassy bits to get the job done. I sorrowfully remembered that I had pitied her hound dog eyes last night and given her the remnants of pork roast and gravy. I knew better then, and I knew even better now.

I settled into a folding chair I brought from the sunroom since the teak chairs were soaking wet from the rain, wrapped up in an afghan (incidentally, the afghan my Aunt Ann crocheted for my step-dad a few years before I was even born which made me rather happy--I love things with stories), and enjoyed the sun rise to the sounds of the poor puking, gagging, Daisy.

Daisy got it worked out of her system by the time the sun was up and it was time for me to get the kids and breakfast going. And so the long day was off to a running start. I cleaned out a disgusting clogged toilet (small people who over use toilet paper....sigh), mopped the bathroom floor--(yeah, that's gross when the toilet over flows), taught school, did the radio show, produced 3 meals, did the dishes, took the kids to the park, took out garbage, milled wheat, and stirred up biga and started several batches of bread for tomorrow...yeah, I was tuckered out and needed a walk.

It was after 10 pm and I had my hand on the door knob when the hound dog eyes that had been my downfall the night before were again upon me. Surely I was not going to galavant across the neighborhood and leave my faithful friend behind? I sighed. No, I was not. Instead, I was going to put on her leash (just for show since the security patrol is usually cruising the neighborhood on the lookout for frisky 80 year olds keeping the neighbors up with their high action and rather loud basketball games) and let her drag me around for several blocks.

She was out the door in a flash, sniffing the air with an eager fascination. We made it past 3 houses before the sounds of a cooped up canine or three became very audible. Daisy had to respond in her hoarse hoop for a bark. I was exasperated. "Come on, Daisy, for heaven's sake." Heaven must have heard because Daisy was suddenly silent. I was cautiously pleased and she continued, nose to the ground, meandering along the sidewalk, first one side, then the other, than darting back under a bush, than darting forward sensing something. I soon wished I had worn different foot wear from the flip flops. But in a bit that would be the lesser of my problems.

I will pause here to say that dog owners who walk their dog and leave behind their dog's exhaust for others to step in and otherwise enjoy, should be shot along with their dog at sunrise the next morning. That is my pet-test of pet-peeves. There is a special place in purgatory for you if you leave behind dog poop. I don't even believe in purgatory, but I think hell might be going a bit far. For instance when I weigh Hitler sending all those millions to their deaths and leaving behind dog poop, I'm thinking Hell for Hitler and Purgatory for the Poo Leaver. But currently I'm having a lovely glass of wine, so I might feel differently in the morning. Check back.

Back to the story, we were many more blocks from the house than I could count, I was enjoying a moon that was bursting through breaks in the clouds which were finally clearing up after a fiesty late afternoon rainstorm, and Daisy was maintaining a somewhat predictable cycle of jog, trot, dart, stop, jerk, and pull that could be enjoyed on some sick level. Suddenly, she got that position and I realized I had left home without the poo bag. "Noooo" I mournfully said as Daisy finished up her business. This dog never poops on walks. I mean, NEVER.

I looked around to see if I had been spotted by neighbors on the prowl. All was quiet. I checked for some sort of block identification since I was going to have to trot back, bag in hand, a little while later. When I did get back home, Caroline was sprawled on the sofa reading. "I thought Daisy never left exhaust on walks?" I whined--or maybe sighed is a better word. Caroline affirmed my thinking. "Yeah, mom, she never does unless you forget the bag. It's the strangest thing."

I got a couple bags and headed back out. It was at this time that I was a bit pleased I had to go fetch the exhaust because it gave me an opportunity to wander along in the moonlight at a happy pace unencumbered by a crazy 'coon dog intent on nabbing some furry animal in the midst of a concrete jungle. Mission accomplished a short time later and my guilt relieved. The patrol car lazily moseyed on by, the window down. "Evening," said the patrol man who looked a decade or two past retirement age. I cheerfully said evening back and went on my way. A few silent bicyclists went by and I was back home.

Saturday Morning....Seen One, Seen 'Em All.

I feel rather sorry for the vast majority of Americans who will never know what it is to be in possession of a good many little people, because the interplay is priceless and not reproducible on any satisfactory level.

Being isolated in Austin affords the opportunity to ruminate and enjoy (or otherwise, as the case may be) this aforementioned interplay as our family is always together. (The exception being Jon who is a field sales man and thus on the road much of the time).

Saturday mornings are essentially one and the same. First, it is the one morning in the week where I do not have to get up at any particular time nor do I need to do anything particular. (The joke every Saturday morning is "What time do we have to be at the abortion clinic? Where's the parade this afternoon? and so on and so forth, the scarring memories of my past life as an activist not being that far removed from the memories of my children).

Of course, the laundry must be done (I stain treat and start the loads and Jonathan Jr. takes over from there), and advance planning for whatever Sunday activities/meals are in store, but there is no agenda per say. Since the master bedroom is in the back of the house and more like a bunker than a bedroom having no windows to the outside world, there is no chance of birds singing or sun shining to beckon me forth (sniff, sniff).

However, there are 3 little boys who share the room down the hall, and they are intimately aware of when the sun rises, the lizards are again in play, and it is time for battles to be staged, pillow fights to be launched, and forts to be erected. Next down the hall the girls slumber peacefully and rarely venture forth of their own will, and at the end of the hall is Bomethius, the resident teenager, who needs vast quantities of sleep within his man cave which is littered with books and musical instruments.

Around 7am it begins. Oliver arises--an occurrence that is heralded by the sounds of someone bounding from his bed, pawing at the bathroom door knob, clunk goes the toilet lid, a sound akin to pressure washing, flushing, and then a return to the bedroom which seems to be a path riddled with potholes, large trees, angry and hostile giants, and perhaps some artillery. Oliver, having safely made it back to the bunker, surveys the peacefully slumbering combatants. Gabriel, being the most accessible in his little youth bed against the wall, is his first victim.

His approach is always the same, and will probably give Gabriel life long nightmares that would give Vietnam vets some measure of sympathy. He bounds atop Gabriel in the spirited exhilaration of a Greek god going into battle knowing himself to be immortal. "Let's fight, let's fight" Oliver eagerly cheers while the little Gabriel in a slumbering haze, emerges from blankets wishing himself in the top bunk.

Charles, having heard the ruckus from his top bunk perch, slowly sallies forth, feeling some measure of defensiveness for Gabriel's plight, and some measure of frustration for Oliver's exuberance. The battle is on, three boys embroiled with an energy field that would challenge black holes or Bermuda triangles. In short order screeching turns to laughing, thunks commence on all 4 walls, and one would think that the half dozen offspring are all in the same room.

The parental units are tired. The night before they were able to enjoy the sounds of a massive moth, whose girth would dwarf a humming bird, going through the 12 hour death rattle, flapping against the blinds, the walls, the fan, and so on and so forth. I didn't hear the sounds until nearly 5 am. "Who is there and what do you want," I whispered in the darkness wondering what kid was producing the very bizarre noise. "It is the stupid moth the boys caught yesterday," Jon responded,"or rather didn't catch but herded into our bedroom." I had seen the moth the day before. I supposed it had gone into the sunroom which is connected to the sewing room which is connected to the master bedroom and so made its way to our room. Jon got up and headed to the bathroom, and I decided that if there was any hope for another hour of sleep, I would have to get the moth out.

I opened the door to the sewing room, turned on the light, and carefully got back to my bed hoping the moth would be attracted to the light. The moth was incapable of being attracted to anything, his remaining energy being saved for wildly careening into walls and furniture, its final hoo-ray for bidding this cruel world farewell. I must confess that it was alarming to observe something so big flailing about, and I cowered under my blankets with a "please God don't let that thing come over by me!" Yes, it is rather shameful. I had the good sense to at least laugh at myself in a valiantly mocking tone. Thankfully, God either answered my prayer or the moth had pity on me. At any rate it landed under the armoire and breathed its last with a final flutter of its broad wing span.

So back to the boys and the Saturday morning ritual. The noise level had reached that point at which the slumbering teenager decided to take action. He burst onto the battle field hissing threats with an aggression that would have floored most transgressors. But this crew was accustomed to such things and merely blinked back with unconcerned amusement, waited for Jonathan to return to his room, and resumed their battle.

Next up, mom had "had enough!" words frequently heard around our place. So I opened the door and hissed that everyone better get back in bed, NOW. Then I got back to my side, pulled the covers over and attempted to return to Zzzz land. The boys know the drill. They merely must reduce the noise level so that mom reaches a point of slumber such that she will not be motivated to re-emerge. So within short order they were back at it. Finally, the last strains of the last movement in the Requiem gave way, the notes Jonathan and I were waiting for.

The King of the Castle had had enough--words he never says but doesn't need to. Jon got out of his bed with the authoritative air that cannot be mimicked- you either have it or you don't, opened the door and bellowed forth a remonstrance that meant certain execution for rebellion to his supreme command. Silence immediately ensued save a little voice belonging to the pint size prima donna who sang a song of her own spontaneous making with complete calm and unconcern for the uproar. The General delivered another bellow and Vivian was taken from the throne of her imagination and sent back to the reality of the life of the other soldiers. Real silence enveloped the fort, Jonathan and I grinned from opposite ends of the hall in the darkness, and slumber was happily resumed.

My apologies for having relayed this tale with regular changes of verb tense. As it is a scene that has happened, is happening and will happen again, it lends itself to a confusing tapestry of tense that would make every grammar teacher shudder and bemoan any hopes of my children gaining an acceptable command of the English vernacular under my tutelage. It is my hope that this person will soon arrive and take over so I can go back to my other world and have my school room exposure happily reigned in.

School Schedule Begins Tomorrow....Really?

I'm not entirely certain where the summer went. I have a few sneaking suspicions but no conclusive data. Tomorrow we begin school schedule and next Monday we start school. I always need a week to acclimate everyone to getting out of bed at 6:30 and getting chores and instrument practice accomplished by 9. Quiet time is 1-3pm--sometimes I creep around quietly after 3 hoping no one will notice and come out of their rooms, the quietness is so nice. :-) It means going to bed early, which clearly I'm not accomplishing tonight.

This week I finish ordering a few last minute school supplies like a full size skeleton and our science curriculum. I'm returning to the once every other month cooking method after three years off. Have dusted off my old notes and menu calendars, compiled a new latest and greatest 60 day plan and have garnered non-aluminum disposable baking pans to finish off the project. We shall use my two small freezers to maximum capacity.

The new chore rotation is up and running, and Caroline has voluntarily decided she will man the dishes dutifully, with Jonathan deciding the pastures in the laundry room are decidedly greener. So as to save myself some stress, I cleared off some shelf space and moved the melamine camp dishes out of the pop-up camper and into the kitchen for use Monday thru Friday. This way I won't have broken dishes as Caroline gets the hang of things. Today at lunch Gabriel saw the camp dishes on the table and said," Oooh, they're so beautiful." And Oliver said,"Does this mean we are leaving to go camping?"

We are getting settled into our new church very nicely. God is so good. I was convinced that I'd be spending months unhappily visiting one church after another, especially after the regular diet of soul food served weekly by our dear Pastor Bright. Of course, God provided. The church we are attending is really a wonderful fit. The children love their Sunday school classes, and Jonathan and I are getting plugged into the music ministry. The church is full of homeschooling mothers and there is a once a week Classical School that meets at the church. The pastor has an excellent sense of humor and enough scars and callousness that he seems quite battle hardened for spiritual warfare--though perhaps it should be better stated battle softened as we become more tender to the piercing Spirit as we struggle through sin and challenges.

This morning's sermon seemed especially appropriate as we all get into disciplined, structured, industrious mode: Heb. 12:4-29 was the text, though we made it only to verse 14. "My son, do not regard lightly the discipline of the Lord, nor be weary when reproved by him. For the Lord disciplines the one He loves, and chastises every son whom he receives.....For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it."

To all you mommies out there taking a deep breath and getting ready to take on a new school year full of challenges, we are more than conquerors! :-) May you always sleep deeply, may your irritating children make you laugh often, and may you never run out of butter when company comes to visit.

~Jenny

Our New Life in Austin

Where are you? What's your house like? What's been going on? When are you going to call? We need an update. Yes, well, to all these questions, I offer the following.

The trip to Austin was mostly uneventful; we left on Saturday morning and arrived in Austin on Sunday evening. Except for the time the pop-up camper began swaying so horribly that the semi-truck and me in Jon's pick-up truck slowed down considerably as we offered up desperate prayers that Jon would get control of the pop-up and thankful prayers that the suburban is a heavy vehicle, or the time I had to sleep on the bathroom floor at the hotel with Daisy so she wouldn't bark, growl or whine every time a hotel guest walked noisily down the hall, or the time we nearly left Charles somewhere....come to think of it, is Charles around here? Other than that, it went about as smoothly as a trip involving 6 kids, an 80lb red boned hound, 2 parents, grandpa, two vehicles, and a camper can go.

We arrived at our new address under the worst of circumstances. Namely because I'd been averaging 3 hours of sleep a night for quite a few nights running, the kids were very hyper having been cooped up in cars for a couple days, and Daisy was exuberantly sniffing and barking at everything. Furthermore, Jon was tense about my opinion of the house I'd never seen, and the home owners still had two cars parked in the driveway and 3 tiny yippee ankle biter dogs hollering their wee heads off in the sunroom. And so we burst upon the house and yard, party of 10.

Amongst wriggling excited humans dashing about, opening and closing doors, I surveyed the new landing pad. The house is odd and dark, with additions, hallways and extra doors here and there disrupting any sort of modern open flow that characterizes today's architecture. The kitchen is so dark that even I have to turn on lights in the middle of the day, and in a comparison of my past kitchen in terms of brightness and size....it's better not to compare. The master bedroom is a very odd sort, where the windows to the outside no longer look outside as an addition was put on--so the windows look into the small addition (now housing my sewing room) and two windows look out of the sewing room into the backyard. The master bath--hilarity will have to suffice as description since my camera battery died and I cannot download pictures until I unpack the box with the battery. I've no doubt the light fixtures and bathroom counters were the most hip in the mid-70's.

I was rather deflated and distressed. And poor Jon was worried sick muttering, " I should have never chosen the house."

Once I had a moment to catch my breath and rally my spirits, I began in earnest to mentally arrange our stuff in the current landscape since the movers and the semi-truck would arrive first thing in the morning and unpack in a whirl wind of activity that might take me weeks to sort out. Jon went to book a hotel for the night which took some doing since I was adamant that Daisy stay with us and not be left at the strange house alone--but he found a great spot after 45 minutes of phone calls--very clean, perfectly arranged, and dog friendly. Best part, it was the least expensive of all the hotels he contacted.

Daisy was a gem that night at the hotel which was good because I needed to sleep in a bed for a good many hours which I did, and we showed up back at the house to find the moving staff ready and waiting on Monday morning.

We were really blessed with the best moving staff ever. Five guys along with Patty and Dennis, unloaded the truck, and I directed everyone to the right rooms. 28,000 lbs of furnishings, books, and stuff were absorbed by the house in a mere 6 hours. It was remarkable. Then Patty and Dennis bid adieu to the local moving staff, and set to work unpacking; Grandpa, Jon and I assisting that effort.

By Tuesday morning, I had to admire Jon's ability to pick a house that was really very well suited to our "odd" life. The backyard is huge, fenced, with trees, a big shed, and a perfect spot for the trampoline which is up and running. The place is teeming with wild life, and the boys have been catching dozens of snakes, lizards, toads, huge caterpillars, and other assortments which they have to release from captivity nightly. I think all the lizards are tail-less in our yard now.

The three car garage was converted into a one car garage with a big finished off room perfectly suited to homeschooling with built in book shelves and counters, and plenty of room for instruments, books, computer, printer, school supplies, 6 desks, and all else. A little hallway goes from finished garage school room to the small hallway in the house, containing a broom closet, the washer and dryer, and an extra bathroom that everyone forgets we have until the other two are occupied. From there you enter the dinette area which of course has my huge desk, and then the "cozy" kitchen to the right. The kitchen is down right tiny with a set of double ovens from the 70's (which I like very much) that have never been used. They were shocked to be put into play on day 2 of our arrival, and have been turned on at least once a day since.

My kitchen is a tiny contained unit so it is more like a work room which no one can see anyway. Sprouts are in various stages of advance, tupperware rectangles full of sugar, cornmeal and beans are stacked up in one corner with the Berkey water filter, all my electrical appliances line the counters since there's no room in a cabinet, and so on and so forth. Unfortunately, the 4 corners of the small room are essentially unusable because of the way the cabinets were installed. But the very good news is that it has forced me to do what I needed to do a long time ago--purge the kitchen of all things not frequently used and not essential to the daily culinary life of the Hodges family.

The sunroom is housing unpacked boxes, the sewing room doubles as my radio studio and Jon's office when he's working from home, the children's rooms are big enough, and the family room is very large with a high open beamed ceiling and a big brick fireplace. Lots of loaded bookshelves complete the picture. The dining room is the loveliest room in the house with a wide shelf the length of the room under the front windows that holds oil lamps, cake stand, fruit bowl, etc. Bookshelves line two other walls, and the piano is nicely ensconced along the 4th wall. Doors close it off from the kitchen and from the entry way.

Overall I am very pleased with the final product and have congratulated Jon on a job well done. Though we are still unpacking boxes, we are getting ever closer to a routine of music practice, school and play time though we aren't quite there yet.

I've not yet seen a single child in the vast neighborhood except my own. Charles while walking Daisy the other day overheard a neighbor remark to another, "It sure is weird seeing kids around here." We seem to be the odd man out wherever we go, but everyone is fine with that.

One night I went for a jog around midnight and was startled to come upon 4 deer posed in a yard. It really isn't the sort of neighborhood you would find fake deer in the yard but I couldn't believe they were real. They were real all right and having the best time running and playing all over the place. I "ran" into them 3 more times over the next 30 minutes. Very pleasant.

The days are HOT, in the 100's. The nights are very pleasant, mid-70's, and the stars are absolutely divine. We live in south Austin, the farthest you can go and still be within the city limits, which is nice because it puts us farther from the light pollution at night. Most days the suburban sets in the driveway unused, and I'm kept very occupied feeding these people, unpacking, maintaining clean laundry and doing my daily radio show.

Jon is on the road most days, sometimes making an appearance at lunch and home most nights. He loves his job and is ecstatic that he can come "home" rather than stay in hotels as he did for June and July. I like the more leisurely pace of mornings since Jon doesn't have to be out the door as quickly and everyone can have breakfast together after the sun is up.

And that in a nutshell--I guess a rather big nutshell--sums up the Reader's Digest version of the Hodges new life.

Now That I've Seen The Job, I Know I'm Not Qualified

"Mom, when are we going to get there? Mama, may I have a vitamin? Mom, I thought you said I could shave my legs? Mommy, I don't think you fed us lunch. Did you feed us lunch?"

All questions must be submitted in writing. That's my number one rule, followed by, if you decide to acquiesce to this request, make sure it's in German. I can't really read German, but I wouldn't read it if it were in English, so that isn't really the point.

Who are these people and why do they sit at the dining room table three times a day waiting for yet another meal. More importantly, am I ruining their lives? I try to limit asking myself this question to once an hour.

I distinctly remember the first time Jonathan told me his stomach hurt as if I knew what to do about it. I momentarily panicked. Gee, I'm the mom. My mom seemed so knowledgeable when I told her my stomach hurt. But come to think of it, none of her remedies ever worked. So maybe she was pretending... All of this flashed through my mind as I gazed steadily into Jonathan little upturned concerned face. He clearly thought I knew the answer. I remembered....

I remembered being 4 years old and climbing out of mom's blue mustang at the mall. I needed tennis shoes, and I got some that day at Macy's. The shoes had an appliqued Miss Piggy on each shoe. I really thought this was terrific because I could do the most amazing rendition of Miss Piggy karate chopping Kermit the Frog. I was good. At least my entire Kinder Care class thought I was good.

As I pushed the front seat forward in the Mustang and stepped past the seatbelt out the door, my elbow banged on the latch and it hurt. I yelped a bit. Mom said," I'll fix it for you," and then she kissed my elbow.

I thoroughly expected that the pain would be completely gone upon impact between elbow and lips, but to my complete astonishment, nothing happened. I was shocked and speechless. And then I felt very protective of my mother. She could never know that her kisses were broken. So I pretended that it was perfect and instantaneous healing powers she had, stuck my chin in the air, announced "all better" and took her offered hand though my elbow still throbbed. My mom was so convinced of my act that just two days ago when my daughter Vivian hurt her leg, Nana announced that her kisses had the power to heal instantly. It had always worked for Vivian's mama (me). I decided not to tell mom the real version. It was 30 years ago. Why break the magic now?

So back to Jonathan and his stomach. I realized that I needed Bentanite and I was totally unprepared for this moment. In his 3 year old world, he needed to know that his mother knew exactly what remedy a hurting tummy needed, and I gave it my best shot, and wondered if he pretended it worked so that he could protect me from my failures.

Worn down by years of being a self-admitted failure at this journey called motherhood, a 9 year old Charles announced his stomach hurt, and he bent over in half by the sheer pain of it, and looked at me with the look. The look that says, "you know what to do, now share your knowledge."

I shrugged in defeat. "Charles, I have no idea what your problem is. But I can offer suggestions. Sit on the toilet. Have some Bentonite, lay on the sofa doubled over in half until the pain goes away. I have bad news. When you become a mother, no one hands you blue prints. You just sort of muddle through the thing as best you can, and pray to God that He gives your children the strength to endure you."

Charles accepted this answer with amazing maturity. In fact, I think he appreciated my bluntness. And then it occurred to me. He's probably been protecting me from my ineptitude for years as well, and now it's a relief to know he doesn't have to.

You guess the kid....

"Breakfast is ready," his mother called and the troop came into the dining room with the usual accompaniment of knocked chairs, half hearted arguments, clattered noises thrown together softly enough that mom stayed out of it.

It wasn't much, buttered cinnamon toast on a square of waxed paper and a glass of orange juice. He strolled into the kitchen in underwear. "Good grief, where are your clothes? Go put on your clothes," mom rolled her eyes. He ignored her and sat at the table munching his toast and looking around actively for any opportunity to stir up trouble. She didn't really notice being busy with her coffee and book.

Then she remembered, when breakfast was done and the dining room empty, littered with meal debris. "Go get dressed and then get the math flash cards out of my car door and bring them to me." He trotted upstairs enthusiastically, tripping on the third step, swinging round the half landing on the banister, and hopping up the remaining steps two at a time. A few squeals accompanied his progressive trot across the hall from siblings passed along the way and antagonized in the expected hasty, habitual manner. They practically squealed in anticipation of what would come with his approach.

A short time later he was out the door to retrieve the flash cards. He burst back into the house, tripped and fell scattering flash cards all over. His mother rolled her eyes and went back to her book. He collected himself and his cards. She accepted the cards silently and looked him over. His collar was tucked under the shirt, the buttons crookedly joined, his eyes were bright and his grin was broad.

"How do you manage to put your shirt on like this everyday?" She asked while fixing it, and then started on the flash cards. He enthusiastically fired out the answers only occasionally pausing to search for the right answer. At the end he spontaneously threw his arms around his mother nearly upsetting the coffee cup. " I love you!" he said exuberantly and planted a damp kiss on her cheek.

And you wonder why he's her favorite.

Mom, have you lost your mind?

This afternoon right after my radio show I was devouring a luscious huge piece of cake loaded with chunks of fresh fruit, iced with whipped cream with lots of sliced almonds happily patted into the side. Caroline stood in the middle of the kitchen and watched me in total disbelief.

"Mom, have you lost your mind? Your going to get fat!" She said, continuing with the dropped jaw look of amazement.

"I know. But ya' know, every now and then, it is totally worth it," and I continued shoveling the cake into my mouth with total caloric abandon, happily and loudly ogling over the yumminess.

"Huh," Caroline shrugged," I guess this means you're totally stressed out...or....I dunno what else it could be."

At this, I had to laugh, hard. Us girls really get it, don't we? ;-)

Oliver, need I say more?

Oliver is a pain, to put it frankly. When I'm really old, senile, wearing depends and have well outlived my welcome amongst the land of the living much less amongst my half dozen offspring, I'm going to move in with Oliver and then hang on for dear life like a Duracell battery. I'll drool on my clothes, spill chocolate milk, leave my teeth soaking in his water glass in the bathroom, and just be about as annoying as can possibly be stood to make up for every waking minute of every day of his existence since he learned to walk. Yup. There's no curse along the lines of," When you grow up, I hope you have 6 children just like you," oh, no, not me. My curse goes like this," I hope that when I'm old and annoying, I get to live with you for at least a decade to make up for the eternity with you that right now seems to be."

As you can well imagine, Oliver is the odd man out. In a family of nerds, he is the athletic, bursting with energy, no, I do not want to go to Fernbank for my birthday, yes, I do think Chuck E. Cheese is the greatest place ever, sort of kid. And his calling, or at least what he feels his calling to be, is to annoy the heck out of everyone around him in every possible way all day every day.

Occasionally, when I have had enough of this 7 year old blessing, I send him to his room and inform him that he is not to come out until specifically called. This is how the scene plays out.

Gabriel and Vivian will be playing nicely. Oliver joins in and irritates them to the extent that a fight breaks out immediately. After the umphteenth time I say,"Oliver, go to your room." Oliver trots happily to his room and stands at the door patiently waiting. (The patience he has waiting to antagonize someone or catch a lizard is impressive). Eventually, Gabriel and Vivian will walk down the hall in route to the girls' room which is toy laden. As they walk by, Oliver will say," I get to stay in my room all by myself and play with all my toys all by myself, and you guys don't even get to come in."

Immediately, Vivian demands to be allowed the joy of being in Oliver's room (which he shares with Charles). Oliver continues," Gabriel is a baby so he can't come in. Babies stay in Jonathan's room." Gabriel immediately demands entry and insists with a very whiney, baby voice that he is not a baby, he is a big boy. Within minutes Vivian and Gabriel are crying and angry with jealousy that Oliver gets to be in his room alone. The massive grin across Oliver's face says it all.

It is at this point that the brain dead mother mentioned at the beginning of this sad epistle remembers to add the final part of the command," Oliver, go to your room, SHUT THE DOOR, and stay there until I call you." Of course, he then stands patiently at the window in the hopes that a sibling will walk past outside, at which time he immediately opens the window and brags that he gets to be in his room, all alone, hogging all the toys.

Oliver is my one child whom I know will make it in life. The question is, will the rest of the world make it.

The Bitterness of Disappointment

Last night after the offspring were in the mode that I appreciate them best and all their really great aspects come out in the fullest glory- namely, when they are sleeping- I was making the rounds inspecting rooms, were towels properly hung, chores properly executed, etc. As I progressed through the house, my frustration mounted. In fact, my frustration mounted to the extent that I was almost ready to rip the sleeping perpetuators from their beds and have them re-do the assignments. But upon further reflection, after a highly frustrating day, I decided that this was not in the best interests of any of us. So I left them to their sweet slumber.

This morning I was moving around the kitchen rapidly bringing breakfast together, grinding coffee beans, filling the water filter, pouring orange juice, and reflecting. Pancakes was on the menu. The children were in joyful anticipation of pancakes. I had a small saucepan full of simmering water on a burner awaiting the right moment for a few eggs to be lowered in for exactly 4 minutes 35 seconds (they are at their perfect peak of soft boiled-ness)--these for Jon when I thought of something. I could save myself a heap of trouble and offer a valuable lesson if I just filled the saucepan and made everyone soft boiled eggs for breakfast.

I filled the pot, set the timer, hastily gathered egg cups and set them around the dining room table, and loaded the toaster oven with english muffins. Gabriel and Oliver emerged first and I turned to find them right behind me breathing in the air a bit worried and wondering why the cast iron griddles were not perched atop the stove.

"Mom, I thought we were having pancakes?" Oliver said his concern mounting.

"Yes, we were going to have pancakes. But I changed the menu and now you are having soft boiled eggs and toast."

Crestfallen does not do justice to the sorrowful feelings that welled up in Oliver. He reflected on this somberly and Gabriel immediately went into the thumb sucking fetal position, which I routed him out of and forcefully pushed him in the emotional direction of something a bit more manly for a nearly 6 year old boy.

Oliver looked at me feeling betrayed. "Mom, why no pancakes?" Ah, yes, this was the little instructional moment I was waiting for.

"That feels pretty bad doesn't it, when someone tells you they are going to do something and they don't, or they claim to have done something and they haven't? Makes you kinda mad, doesn't it?" I asked.

Oliver nodded waiting for the explanation. "Yesterday all of you children told me and lead me to believe that you had done your chores, properly gathered your music books for lessons, properly checked off your practice charts, hung towels, cleaned rooms, and all else, and what did I continue to discover all day long and into the night?" There was a long pregnant pause, but Oliver finally mumbled out the words with the look on his face that said - BUSTED- "We didn't do any of it."

I looked at him gravely and said," Then feel the disappointment of this moment and today when mom asks if you've completed your chores and properly practiced remember that when you claim something that isn't true, I'm very disappointed and frustrated just as you are in this moment."

Oliver sorrowfully left the kitchen considering that.

Within 15 minutes everyone was gathered around the table. The news had spread, and the crestfallen half dozen surveyed brown soft boiled eggs perched on white porcelain egg cups and a small plate stacked high with toast. I rather enjoyed the moment but not for long, because within a short period of time everyone was happily finishing off their eggs, asking for seconds and saying," This is really great, mom."

Jon got up from the table to head to work and paused to whisper, "Might I suggest, my love, that you make cornmeal mush for breakfast next time you wish to disappoint the children."

Yeah, so much for my little lesson. :-)

5 more corks....

We finally had a dinner party Saturday night, as in May 1st. I say finally because back before we became freedom crazed activists, we had dinner parties with great regularity. Jon helped set the table and I put the camera on a side table in the dining room to get some photos (where unfortunately it stayed; not a single picture garnered...rats), and then a menu was contrived with some home made items and some Trader Joes' ready to go items. It is unusual for me not to bite off a good deal more than I can chew, but every now and then I decide to get crazy and be realistic.

The menu: Appetizer: scallops on the half shell with a pesto garlic sauce (absolutely divine- you get them in the freezer section at TJ's for $2.99 a dozen), 3 layer hummus, smoked salmon (with all the proper accoutrements: dill, cream cheese, lemon wedges, minced red onion, capers....mmm, I love capers) and an array of flatbreads. 1st course, lobster bisque. I do make a scallop bisque that is very labor intensive since the stock is made from simmering fish heads and other things for hours prior to bringing together the final product, but I just accepted that this wasn't going to happen. This lobster bisque comes ready made from Costco's deli section. TJ's was out. I did get it and it may be worth using again. But I would recommend a splash of sherry, adding chunks of freshly steamed lobster, and garnishing with minced chives. Also, serving up Tobasco alongside the soup does have its merits. 2nd course, beef bourguignon with a demi-glace style reduction sauce, asparagus, pan roasted cherry tomatoes with parsley, and these adorable fingerling potatoes I roasted with olive oil, kosher salt and fresh minced rosemary, and then sourdough french bread with extra virgin olive oil and fresh cracked pepper. A word about the beef bourguigon- the recipe is from Julia Child's first cookbook and has a complicated browning method. It is TOTALLY worth it. The final sauce is really...words quite fail me here, but thinking about it, smelling the amazing aroma and the deep dark fragrant look of the sauce...trust me on this. Follow the directions.

There's still 2 more courses to go though perhaps you are beginning to wonder where anyone could possibly pack more food. I didn't consider the portions to be Golden Corral sized, and I had no problem eating everything and then snacking until 2 am on the leftovers there after. :-) Three people decided to forgo the salad course which came next.

I made a salad with smoked trout, bibb lettuce, finely grated pecorino cheese, red onion that had marinated in a balsamic vinaigrette, and just toasted broken pecans...yummy, yummy, yummy. I'm so glad there are leftovers for today--though you never bring the salad together until right before serving, and chilled salad plates are a nice touch.

Final course, I was thinking I would make the chocolate mousse recipe in the Silver Palate Cookbook. It is an excellent mousse, and an old standby in my kitchen repertoire. However, desiring to read the aforementioned Plato (in the preceding blog post) on Friday night instead of producing chocolate mousse, I resigned myself to purchasing a ready made chocolate ganache cake from TJ's- meaning Trader Joe's, but I'd imagine that to be obvious. You can get the cake in the freezer section. It is FABULOUS! I'm a big TJ's fan, by the way, because they are committed to no-GMO's in their products, and it's the only store from which I buy processed or prepared foods without worry, besides the fact that as long as you stay away from the cheese, meat and wine section, everything is very reasonably priced. Unfortunately, I never stay away from the cheese, meat or wine section (2 buck chuck is quite good, and we just discovered Green Fin, a $3.99 white table wine which was excellent with the bisque so there are inexpensive wines).

So what's with the 5 corks title? I'm saving all my wine corks so I can put together a cork wreath--a slightly cheesy do it yourself kitchen decor item which I have some bizarre need to produce. So I added 5 more corks to my collection last night.

Yes, I have a headache. Why do you ask?

Video Crazed Sons........

We have a firm rule in our house--well, it's "mom's" rule actually, though Jon thinks it's a good idea. Namely, absolutely no movies, television or video games except on Saturday. The exception to the rule is when someone is genuinely ill. Then that person may watch videos and if that person is Vivian, Gabriel can watch, too, since Vivian is his daily playmate. But on with the story.

Last weekend I was up very early Saturday morning with Vivian and walked past the music room in route to the kitchen. I was astonished to see 4 kids sitting indian style around the glowing box in rapt attention--it was 5am! Later in the day, we discovered that everyone had gotten up at 4 in order to hit the video games. Good grief.

This past Friday evening we had a chat with the offspring and decided that the time you get up Saturday morning to play video games is the same time you go to bed Saturday night. This was of some concern to Oliver and Charles. I offered them a modicum of moderation, that it was more a general guideline than a hard fast rule.

Later that night long after the kidlets were in bed, Jon and I were going upstairs to our room when Oliver came down the hall frantically. "I can't see my clock," he said panicked," I don't know what time it is, I need a clock." I was startled by this bizarre request probably because my brain was absorbed by another topic, namely Socrates' trial and Plato's account of the event, but Jon realized immediately what his problem was. "Oliver, it is not even midnight. Go to bed and get up when the sun comes up. You don't need to play video games until the sun is up." Oliver, who wasn't even entirely awake, was able to produce a look of defeat, and Jon escorted him back to his bed- the bottom bunk in his and Charles' bedroom.

You know you're worried when.....

This morning I took my caboose to the doctor. The circumstances surrounding this visit are a few levels below desirable. To be perfectly honest the only way I can explain the general fog in which my mind is consumed or diluted is to admit that I'm consumed with worry but am still in the denial stages of simply telling myself and others that God is in control and everything is going to be fine separating from the anxiety without really dealing with it.

Some hours later today I picked up the two middle boys, Charles and Oliver, from school and then went to Costco to pick up a prescription for the aforementioned caboose and to get some passport photos.

I walked into Costco and made a beeline for the pharmacy only to discover that if there is only a single attendant in the pharmacy, that person takes a lunch break for a period of 30 minutes sometime between the hours of 11:30 and 2:30 shutting down the entire department. This was irritating since I wanted to hurry. But I decided that surely getting the passport photos would kill some time and we could wander a bit in the book section.

I went to the photo counter, stated my need, and then was directed as to where to position myself, to look ahead without smiling and the helpful attendant snapped the photo and declared it good enough. She then questioned me as to whether I desired more than 2 photos. I responded that I wanted as many as are necessary in procuring one's passport and she confirmed that 2 was the correct number. She then walked back around the counter so as to be situated behind the counter near the register, and she anticipated that I, too, would walk around the counter on the outside by the register. I turned, took the hands of both boys and simply walked away having forgotten entirely that I did anything having to do with photography or passports. The only thing in my mind was needing to get to the pharmacy department, hoping the attendant had returned, and wondering if the caboose was still asleep in "her" chair with the sitter, or was she awake, crying and wanting me. In fact, it never entered my mind again until another store and 30 minutes later when Jon called on my cell and asked if I had gotten my photos. It took a minute for the brain webs to clear from my cob but as the haze came into focus I realized that I had come very close to accomplishing this feat and would now have to go back to the counter and try again. But I needed to get back home so it would have to wait until tomorrow.

I believe that when I go back to the photography counter and attempt to explain my act of lunacy the word that will best describe me will be.....sheepish.

According to the Chore Instructional....

In general I do not enjoy offering vocal instruction to my offspring, especially in a repetitive fashion. I got around this problem by typing up a chore instructional which offers step by step instruction on everything from brushing one's teeth to the proper manner in which the dining room table is to be cleared. Along with the instructional is a very detailed chore chart to be checked and executed daily, and along with this is a spread sheet on the computer where allowance tallies are kept on a daily, weekly, monthly and yearly basis. Penalties and fines are properly recorded daily based on performance and payments are made in silver. This is life as a Hodges child.

The chore instructional is kept in a looseleaf folder on a desk in the kitchen so that one may quickly reference their particular chore to freshen up on processes.

The other day the three middle boys were showering in the hall bath and Jon rapped on the door to ask what in the world was taking so long, and why weren't they getting out. The response came from Charles: "Dad, according to the chore instructional, all of us must remain in the bathtub until everyone has finished bathing. We are waiting for Gabriel to finish rinsing off."

I was tucking Vivian into bed down the hall and beamed. Jon ducked his head into Vivvie's bedroom and said, "Did you hear that? Chore instructional." I grinned widely. "That child must belong to his mother."

Weekend means yummy food.....

If I were childless....well, I'd probably be a very dreadful driven attorney who had little time for much else beyond early mornings and late nights at the office, gaining my greatest joy in obliterating every possible opponent in the courtroom. But in my other world, if I were childless, I'd spend my time conquering every possible culinary hurdle, taking copious notes, and keeping a huge garden and small goat farm in order to have fabulously fresh ingredients. In the winter I'd dabble in knitting and sewing in between throwing together fragrant bubbling stews and kneading whole wheat loaves of happiness.

Since I have six little people who claim that I'm their mother, and they are so darling in their only little absurd oddities unique to each one, I have a joke of a garden, a knitting bag with several projects that I manfully tackle 20 minutes at a stretch, and a kitchen strewn with cookbooks and various cooking devices that I make use of as I can, the products of which are devoured with a shocking rapidity.

Friday night I introduced the little people to whole artichokes prepared and served with hollandaise according to the mandates of Julia Child.

Saturday night I whipped up a delightful thai dish entitled noodles and greens, which certainly doesn't sound inspiring. The rice noodles were a little intimidating since the asian noodle is the bastard child of all pasta known to our Western palates--a title my asian friends would probably take umbrage at. Perhaps they feel that we have bastardized the noodle. But the soaking of dry rice noodles, and then frying them in a very hot wok in rounds forming a sticky gelatinous mass is not really for the faint of heart. Then stirring up a strange dark brew of fermented soybean paste, fish sauce, and rice vinegar with a few other random items not found at your nearby publix....well, I thought perhaps it would be rejected by my tribe. The condiment recommended for the dish (and thai cuisine is laden with wonderful palate stretching condiments that really shames the American idea of a condiment chiefly being some sort of substance including tomatoes and corn syrup) was a mixture of cider vinegar with a bit of raw cane sugar and plenty of fresh sliced hungarian wax peppers. It was a huge hit. (Recipe is from the wonderful cook book Hot Sour Salty Sweet).

Sunday morning I brought out Baking with Julia and made the Sunny Side Up Pastries. By fixing the pastry cream the night before, using frozen ready made puff pastry and canned apricots, it didn't take long to assemble them. The family gathered around the counter to watch the production and then around the oven to watch the magic of "puff" pastry. That was pretty much the most amazing concoction ever to grace our breakfast table. I did restrain myself to a single bite since my metabolism has been forever ruined by the process of reproduction, and what a bite! They were scarfed up...all 17 pastries in record time. I did make soft boiled eggs to go with it for the few who were interested. (If you are interested, egg cups can be found at World Market).

Sunday afternoon Jon grilled boneless skinless chicken thighs I had marinated overnight in rosemary, garlic, lemon juice and fresh lemon slices, kosher salt, cracked pepper and extra virgin olive oil. I made a simple salad and then potatoes that were really....what shall I say...it is tragic that I've only now discovered this preparation technique at 34. You pare the potatoes into an olive shape 2 1/2" long and no more than 1 1/4" wide, and then cook them in olive oil and butter (only enough so they don't stick) keeping the heat at a sizzle that doesn't brown the butter. Part of the time with the lid on, part with it off. The details were very exact, and for once I decided to be a good girl and follow them exactly. It is a french preparation not at all like the American fries or southern fried potatoes. We had a sauvignon blanc with dinner (though I will confess to two black and tans consumed during the process of creating dinner) which paired beeyewtifully. I think the only way to have made it better would have been to eat outside.

Dessert? Well, I was gonna make chocolate mousse, but it was either make the mousse Saturday or get some laundry done, and I dunno....but I have a thing about clean underwear.

So tonight suffice it to say, it was only frozen fruit pops, though I've settled in with spiced chai and shortbread. I'm thinking popovers and poached eggs for breakfast tomorrow.

To the Zoo....

The boys (as in the two middle boys) were off from school today, so I decided to take everyone to the zoo. Vivian had looked a little down and out at the breakfast table with a runny nose, and I gave her some allergy medicine. She seemed excited about the trip and after stopping by for Christa's kids, we were off to the races.

The area around Grant park is very lovely and the day was gorgeous. We had no problem finding a parking place in the shade and then began the rather long trek to the zoo entrance with some minor setbacks, going back for my sunglasses, did we lock the door, why is Oliver covered in ants, and so on and so forth.

We passed by someone who was settled comfortably into an old lawn chair with an amplifier set up to a mic'd harmonica with a synthesizer like jazz blues sort of beat. Kind of like karaoke for harmonica instead of vocals. This guy was a lot of things and musician was not in the top 100. He nodded enthusiastically to our troupe and continued with his harmonica. Caroline said hello and then crowded in closer to me and quietly said," That guy sounds terrible! I really feel sorry for him. It would be so embarrassing to play in public and sound like that."

Oliver was busy acting very strange because Julianna was with us, whom Oliver adores. I did notice that Oliver delights in irritating Julianna's older brother Caleb. I think this is chiefly because Caleb is very conscientious about rules and spends quite a bit of brain time referring himself mentally and those around him verbally back to adages and codes applicable to every possible scenario. Oliver likes rules in so far as he can break them. Thus it was that Oliver spent his time chiefly being shocking and Caleb spent his time gratifying Oliver by being shocked. I intervened at some point much to the joy of poor Caleb and travel buddies were reassigned accordingly.

There were more people at the zoo than I prefer, but not so many as to make it unbearable. The moms sounded like moms. We deteriorate into a rapid fire recording of the same instructions over and over again for two decades once we bring forth the first edition of new life. I reflected for a few minutes on this tragedy as I sat quietly on a bench taking in the scene before me. Varied children employed in even more varied antics and moms going through the same dreary commands akin to a shooting range. "Where is your travel buddy? Don't look through your bag. Pay attention. Are you listening to me? Keep up. Hands to yourself. Stay with your travel buddy." The repetition was grossly tedious and brought me more in tune with my similar behavior. Once upon a time I wandered through the zoo and thought about the animals, habitats, read the little blurbs, studied the map, enjoyed the foliage and considered a ride on the train or the merry go round. Now I'm consumed with bathroom locations, water fountains, hand washing, repetitive head counts, sack lunches, and commanding the structured orderly advance of the progeny through the grounds and so on and so forth.

Vivian was becoming increasingly weak as the morning progressed and I decided that I was going to have to rent a stroller--something I have never done anywhere in 13 years of varied states of reproduction. I went up to the booth, made the request, handed over my card, and then discovered its $8 to rent a stroller! I looked at the attendant in amazement and said, "Good grief, I could buy a stroller for twice that" which is when I bent over to Vivian and asked,"are you sure its worth $8 not to walk?" She looked at me with large worried eyes and looked bad enough that even I decided that it wasn't an option. We got the stroller and she settled in relieved.

The birds and elephants were active and everything else was sound asleep except the rhinoceros who was merely standing center stage in the viewing area making it exceedingly evident that the rhinoceros was most decidedly a "he." You can imagine the sorts of comments this inspired from the people under the age of 10. Fortunately just about the time I thought I was going to have to pry everyone's eyes off the rhinoceros or more accurately his "he" parts in order to take in any more of the zoo, a giraffe was nice enough to trot some yards behind the rhinoceros bringing a welcome distraction and I took the opportunity to exit my flock stage left.

At this point the humans had reached a stage of whining for drinks and lunch that I called for a vote. All in favor of remaining on the trail and continuing with the tour of the animals? A lone yea compliments of Charles. Everyone else? An exuberant chorus of yea's to go back to the car, air conditioning, water bottles, lunch and the book on CD we are currently listening to, namely Book the Tenth in the Series of Unfortunate Events.

A word about the Series of Unfortunate Events: The story is coming together with a continuity amongst the series that leads one to finally realize that this series is more similar to the Star Wars trilogy or Lord of the Rings than the typical kid literature fiction series where each book is a beginning and end unto itself and the "series" is such because the characters remain the same in consecutively numbered volumes. It is also a terribly depressing and dreadful story line where only tedious and horrible things happen of the sort that even I could not have imagined which is saying something since my imagination is a well stretched fertile landscape for all sorts of unpleasant possibilities.

Vivian's fever had escalated to a point past the IQ of most Georgia state legislators by this time and I was beginning to grow concerned. It was for the best that the majority voted us off the black asphalt trail and back to the comforts of home.

Speaking of the comforts of home, I have had my attention re-directed to Julia Child's books on French cooking. I went through this series during the first year or so of marriage being employed in the art of ironing a good deal more than I would wish for and having the happy diversion of library videos and books--Julia's cooking shows and accompanying books being one of my choices. At that time, the ingredients for any recipe were well beyond my reach, but methods and techniques firmly rooted in my mind and became incorporated into my general culinary style.

I've decided to travel this path again, only this time, actually execute the recipes and march forward through the volumes with a boldness and determination that would make Julia proud. I think what would make her even more proud, however, would be the knowledge that my half dozen little people are now coming along on my culinary journey with me.

And so it was that tonight having begun the vegetable section, we indulged in whole artichokes with hollandaise. The children surveyed the vegetable with suspicious skepticism but after a careful demonstration of how to eat the artichoke, everyone went about it first manfully and than with a happy relish, licking their lips and complimenting me on a job well done.

I also made up a wheel of brie wrapped in puffed pastry after being topped with a generous handful of sliced almonds and a liberal sprinkling of finely chopped parsley. I'm not sure the fat content of dinner between the hollandaise and the brie was less than a Whopper and fries, but it sure tasted divine. I, unfortunately, did not get to indulge in the brie as I'm on a very strict no diary regiment in the hopes of coming out of this sinusitis stupor before the age of 40.

Puff pastry is an excellent stand by for any number of rushed culinary needs in the life of the harried housewife....or even the spoiled, pampered housewife, really. I wonder that I don't use it more often.....

Ain't Nobody Do Me Like Jesus....

Yessirree, that was a hymn we sang in church on Sunday morning. This is where East meets West and you realize that yup, there is a lingo/cultural difference amongst the pale and dark brethren. I was amazed at the amount of solemn composure exhibited by Jon and me standing there in church singing along with the congregation. Had Walt been there, it would have been over. We would have laughed until the tears came down as we gasped in great convulsive attempts at gaining oxygen.

Tonight for dinner I made bruschetta with the garlic chunks slowly braised (shall I say) in a bath of extra virgin olive oil, then I added chunks of fresh tomatoes and plenty of fresh basil. I brushed big slices of sourdough french bread with more olive oil and grilled them. That along with some crudites, hummus, and dolmas was dinner. Oh, yeah, I made some soft boiled eggs just for good measure. They are delightful served in little egg cups. And brewed some tea. I like using the Irish breakfast tea, though you mustn't chill it until you pour it over the ice to serve because it clouds when chilled (in case you wondered).

I'm still in sinusitis recovery which is to say that I'm completely miserable, I'm making vain attempts at not moving much or talking much because my head aches intensely without pause, and my children trounce on nerves I didn't even know I had. So tonight at dinner I told everyone not to speak to me and for heaven's sake, don't ask me any questions. Silence spread out until between bites the kids began espousing their total joy in their dinner. I do tend to like silence very much, but if there must be conversation at dinner amongst six humans that have the brain capacity of Georgia legislators, that's the kind of commentary I like to hear. I was practically cheerful by the end of dinner.

After dinner we went for a walk. Our children are really quite obnoxious with the way they nonchalantly tromp through people's yards and make loud comments. Oliver and Charles were making comments loudly along the lines of "Man, look at that really bad paint job," and "is this where the fat kid lives?" and "what kind of dumb scooter is that?" Jon and I were making efforts at plugging this course of conversation with hissed threats under our breath- "What is your problem? Stop being judgmental, it's none of your business, stop making comments, get off their grass, stay on the sidewalk," and so on and so forth.

About this time we were walking past a particularly interesting yard where it looked like the owner had spread out rather haphazardly on unprepared bald rocky red clay about 100 sq. ft. of sod which he then failed to water. Jon and I immediately made eye contact which said,"Nice yard" with our particular brand of sarcasm, and then of course we had to bust out laughing. "Honey," I said between gulps for air," All I can say as I reflect on the bad manners of our offspring is the apple doesn't fall far from the tree" which is when Jon brought up the Sunday hymn in response,"and ain't nobody do me like Jesus." Ah, yes, the comic relief of our daily existence.

In other news, Vivian started violin lessons today. Her enthusiasm definitely outweighs her talent, but she ought to catch on fast enough. After hours of lessons, we went to the library and stocked up on more Lemony Snickets books on CD, numbers 5, 10, 11 and 12. We are glad to be back in the miserable lives of the Baudelaire children while driving in the car. It certainly reduces the number of fights which break out in the third row seats.

Jon buzzed the boys heads tonight. Only Oliver and Gabriel's heads actually. Jonathan and Charles would need years of counseling if he buzzed their heads. We figure we've already given them enough reasons to need counseling. : ) Oh, no, word on the street is that Charles is getting a buzz after all. Um, yeah. With his goober teeth and square head, I'll be sure to take lots of pictures for his future girlfriend.

Vivian, The Caboose

Vivian is a very interesting caboose. She finds her brothers to be equal combatants or welcome friends--roles that interchange easily and quickly. She has become shockingly adept at catching lizards, a thing she does so casually that one wonders, even Jon and I who are accustomed to seeing this, if the lizard is plastic or real. She languidly allows the lizard to dangle off her fingers or scoot up her arm and across her back with a nonchalance that is, what shall I say, captivating.

She's turning 4 on May 2nd and she's very enthusiastic about being 4. It means starting kindergarten in the fall and starting violin lessons. It means a big fluffy pink cake (a pink azalea cake is what it is called in the 1950 Betty Crocker cookbook). She still wears pull-ups, something which is highly disconcerting to her mother, who believes that Vivian grasps intellectually the art of being toilet trained, and that her anatomy has been properly "fixed" such that she is physically capable of the art of being toilet trained, which leaves one to assume that Vivian intentionally refuses to abandon the pull-ups because she loves the array of princess prints the pull-ups offer. This is highly annoying.

Ta Da...I'm back, for the maybe two people who care....

I've discovered the most delightful book on bread baking. Not that I don't have lots of bread baking cookbooks, because I do. An embarrassing amount actually. Embarrassing in that once I discovered No need to Knead, I pretty much quit using the others. Why explore the wonderful world of bread baking when you can stir up fabulous, unfailing foccacia in mere minutes, and so on and so forth. There's also a dill pickle recipe in the book which is absolutely divine. Really. I'll never buy another Claussen....how does one spell that?

However, I decided that in my latest and greatest pursuit in pure wholesome ingredients, I would start buying wheat berries in 60 pound buckets and attach a massive hand operated grain mill (the burrs are 5 inches across- and yes, that does make my heart go pitter patter) to the dining room wall. I realize that this sounds slightly deranged. All right, very deranged, but really once you've had whole wheat bread made with freshly milled wheat--you'll be hugely disappointed and decide that white and unhealthy flour is the only way for you. It creates a heavy, dense, bitter loaf, more akin to an unfulfilled housewife 10 years after the last chick has left the nest than something upon which to spread room temperature impeccably fresh butter.

But that disappointment will only last until you open the pages of a heaven sent, divinely inspired volume titled Peter Reinhart's Whole Grain Breads. Peter writes like a scientist, a bread baking enthusiast and an ardent lover of flour, yeast, and properly developed gluten strands. As I breathlessly turned the pages, he described precisely my defeats and failures surrounded by recipes and techniques developed using the white powdery substance sold under the name Gold Medal at the local grocery. And then he gave me hope with exact formulas, precise measurements in weight not just cups or tablespoons, and the assurance that even in the home kitchen, I could achieve magnificent loaves of bread from freshly milled grain.

And so I began, undaunted by a lengthy instructional stretching over a number of pages necessary to achieve that single loaf. Amongst the labor of Jon, Jonathan Jr., Caroline and myself, we produced the necessary milled flour, and I stirred up my biga and soaker accordingly. 48 hours later, there emerged from the oven and very promising fragrant loaf of golden happiness. I resisted the urge to slice into the hot loaf and we waited for it to cool completely. Ah, the flavor was AMAZING!

I doubled the recipe, taped the basic instructions to a cabinet door in the kitchen and began churning out two loaves a day with a biga and soaker in constant development. I discovered after a week that running the wheat mill was causing my arms to bulk up and my dresses were getting a bit tight in the arms--so that job has been relegated to Jon and Jonathan Jr.

The half dozen children who claim me as mother love this bread. It would be interesting to see how they would react if someone fed them bologna sandwiches on white bread. Gross. I cringe at the thought. :-)