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. :-)