Category feminism

A Vow of Cake

Lauren 8 Comments

We had our middle daughter’s 8th birthday party yesterday at noon. And so when 10:17am rolled around and my husband and I were in bed and instead of getting up he pulled the covers over his head I was so, so proud of him. And I then enthusiastically joined him under the covers. It’s like a fort of delayed obligations… I recommend it. (Yes we still have a baby around. We got up at 6:30am with her and then crawled back in bed at 9:30am when she went down for a nap.)

Now, the house had been cleaned, food bought, and the cake baked the night before- we’re not total monsters over here. But what were the first 2 things I did upon finally getting up and getting ready at 10:30am? Winged eyeliner (HEY I’VE NEVER TRIED THIS BEFORE SURE SEEMS LIKE A GOOD TIME FOR IT) and painting my toenails. THIS is what happens when I don’t make a list, for god’s sake.

We got everything done by 11:54am though, so it all worked out.

And I think we can all agree that cake is the worst. Not mine, I make decent cake- I just mean in general.  Icing is gross. And even the best cake is just nuthin’ special. I don’t tie up a lot of pride in my baking- but I made a promise, many many years ago that I would make every one of my children’s birthday cakes. And they get to pick whatever kind of cake they want. Shark cake? plastic sharks on top. Giraffe cake? Plastic giraffes on top. Dolphin cake? You see where I’m going with this, I think. And I have made each and every one and did it with the hand mixer I bought at a Big Lots at 18 before I left for college and that has somehow made it through about a MILLION moves and that I actually don’t think I used, ever, until I started making my kid’s birthday cakes.

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Image by C. Glass… half full? Half empty? if I was that photographer I’d go by my full first name, honestly.

It’s a weird promise to have made, and I made it only to myself- but it absolutely stands in as a symbol of the mom I want to be. It stands in as a succinct version of all of this- rolled up in my head.

  • I promise to be the mom that can make you dinner.
  • and make you laugh and to also make sure your sense of humor is top tier.
  •  to mend your clothes and sew on buttons and who can make curtains if I have to and gives you a clean house to live in.
  • I promise to call you outside to see possums and hawks and birds and snakes. And point out the biggest earthworm I’ve ever seen in my life holy hell that thing is HUGE!
  • I promise to impart upon you a concept of self that is more than to be decorative.
  • But also to let you see that being a feminist badass doesn’t mean having to deny one iota of the nurturing that goes into home cooked dinners or mending or you know. Cake baking.
  • I promise to give you a chore each and every time you say “I’m bored” and that you’ll get to a point where you’ll open your eyes wide in horror after you say it and say “NEVERMIND, NEVERMIND!” and run off to your room to do something creative.
  • I promise to make you play on at least one team in your life.
  • But I also promise to not overbook you because free time is important to kids, and also your father and I like sleeping in on Saturdays.
  • I promise you’ll love reading.
  • And hell no you can’t get a phone!
  • And I promise to sing you a song at night as often as I can and you know what? You’re 10 and 8. I really should just do it EVERY night still, because how much longer will you even let me? But the baby still gets the Silent Night treatment every night.
  • I promise to have National Geographic in the bathroom and that it’s totally cool if you drop them in the bath, I’m just glad you’re reading them. (hasn’t happened yet, but they’re in there for y’all. Ready for whenever you pick one up.)
  • And while I’ll bake your birthday cake, I promise to never get tied up in the Pinterest-y competition between moms and do all the stupid other crap that isn’t for the kid who’s birthday it is, but to show off for the other moms. I’m looking at you, mom who prints labels saying “Caitlin’s Birthday!” for the goddamn water bottles.
  • Also? No goodie bags, ever. Though we did give out whoopee cushions that one memorable time. That was awesome.

And so, I will continue to make birthday cake, every year, three times a year and neither rain nor snow nor heat nor gloom of night will stay this faithful courier from the swift completion of her appointed rounds.

And the only other promise I’ve made myself that I have never ever once wavered on? No more tequila. Super committed to both. Make kids’ birthday cakes and no more tequila.

Words to live by.

The Concept of Free Time/ Ode to a Young Family

Lauren 3 Comments

My husband and I had some neighbors over the other day, both retired, and at one point they asked me- “You’re so busy! When do you get free time?”

Now, we were cooking and doing some minor kitchen cleaning afterwards, juggling a mildly fussy baby (we would find out less than eight hours and a fairly sleepless night later that she had an ear infection) and 2 well behaved but energetic older girls… music on, dog wandering around, etc. The question took me aback a bit- I didn’t even know how to answer! Is there an answer? Because this life- I don’t see any of that as not free time! It’s busy but not exhausting. Full but not taxing. Requires pretty constant effort, but not draining. And yet it was so foreign to them they were close to being shocked by the noise and pace of it. (and we’re not a pot banging, child screeching crew, mind you.)

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I don’t know. I guess it’s because I work in an empty house all day by myself and travel and have all the free time I could want in the hotel rooms in the evenings… and I hate it. All I want is to get back to the bustle here. Free time isn’t exactly fun time- give me my four favorite people in the world all in one spot, existing together- I’d never want for more.

Sure. I don’t paint much these days, but I could if I wanted to without causing hard feelings. Or write. I conveniently use the general humm and cadence of the household to complain I can’t exercise… but I could if I wanted to. (Do. Not.)

And I guess, there are definitely days where I’m not keeping up. (Is running behind considered exercise?) The laundry never seems like I get in front of it. And the floor, well I think I wrote a blog post about it the last time the floor was mopped (before Christmas 2016, if memory serves).

And while I certainly don’t need their sympathy for the busy young (ha!) couple down the street… the husband and I will take our kind neighbors up on it; because they’re offering to let us step out for a date night soon. And if memory serves the last one of those we had was around my birthday in August. Unless you count the other ones, that is. The date nights that were every  other night after that. And mornings. And afternoons… and I wouldn’t trade a one of them for all the open hours in the day.

The Best Italian Wedding Soup Recipe Ever

Lauren

You know, the only soup I’ve ever had at a wedding has been Menudo, but I dig the concept. And I forget exactly where I first read about Italian Wedding Soup, but I do remember why it piqued my interest. The article I was reading was written by some mother who mentioned this soup was her daughter’s favorite and the prepackaged brand she bought was discontinued and she didn’t know what she was going to do. DIDN’T KNOW WHAT SHE WAS GOING TO DO. Sheesh. That reminds me of stories about people getting trapped on escalators because they stop moving or people who are locked out of their car because their key fob batteries died. Are we that helpless, humanity? Make the soup yourself, that’s what you’re going to do.

The mix of beef and chicken broth adds depth to the soup and means you’re getting beef, pork, and chicken in this meal. Making it like a Turduckin… in no way whatsoever. And maybe double the meatballs and freeze them after you brown them- that’d be a nice jump on the next batch of soup or you could finish cooking them and toss them in pasta for a quickie meal down the road. Also? Some people drizzle beaten egg in this for egg streamers like in Egg Drop Soup. I like my eggs in birthday cake, so I don’t do that.

Prep Time: 45 minutes
Refrigerate meatballs for 1 hour prior to cooking
Cooking Tine: 45 minutes

For Meatballs:
Not exact science here- mix ratios till the meatballs stick together. For this soup the smaller you can get the meatballs the better; I aim for large blueberry sized, myself but usually end up at gumball sized.

1.5 lbs. ground pork
1 egg
2 tbsp. milk
4 Tbsp. grated Parmesan cheese
1 clove garlic, pressed through garlic press
½ tsp. salt
Pepper to taste (around 1/3 tsp.)
¼ finely chopped onion

For Soup:
2 Tbsp. olive oil
4 cups chicken broth
2 cups beef broth
2 cups thinly sliced kale
1 cup cooked Israeli couscous (orzo or other small pasta as a sub)
2/3 cup finely chopped carrot

Garnish with grated Parmesan

Mix ground pork, egg, milk, grated Parmesan, onion, garlic, salt and pepper together well in a large bowl until evenly mixed. Form into small meatballs, place on a cookie sheet and refrigerate for an hour. (This keeps them from falling apart when you brown them)

Heat olive oil over medium high heat in large pot. Add meatballs in batches (don’t crowd the pot or else they steam and don’t brown) turning regularly to brown all sides. Remove to a clean bowl or platter. Or plate. Just not the contaminated with raw pork bowl you used earlier is what I’m saying. Once all meatballs are browned and removed from pot add chopped carrots and cook for 3-4 minutes. Add broth, scraping the bottom to loosen the browned bits (they add mucho flavor) and add kale. Simmer for 30 minutes

In a separate pot cook the Israeli couscous or small pasta. Set aside (Yes. I know. Israeli couscous in Italian soup? That’s the Diaspora for you.) Tradition calls for a small, round pasta I’ve never ever found in stores anywhere, but Israeli couscous looks awfully similar to my eye, and was conveniently in my pantry already. Any small pasta will do though, orzo, stars, etc. Just cook it separately or it will suck up too much of the broth as it cooks. Also store it separately or it’ll get mushy and ruin any leftovers.

For the last 15 minutes of cooking add the browned meatballs back to the soup and continue to simmer.

Fluff the Israeli couscous or drain the pasta then add desired amount to individual bowls. Ladle in soup and top with more grated Parmesan cheese. Enjoy!

A Poem. Lovelier than a Tree.

Lauren

Object

I object

To being an object.

 

 

Fat lot of good it’ll do me, though.

 

(Oh man. Not the poem-ing type over here… but this wouldn’t stop rolling through my head a few weeks ago when the whole Grabby-Hands McShittySteaks video came out. I totally forgot I wrote it down, but just stumbled across it in my drafts folder. Figured I’d share.)

 

Also? Your poem sucked, Joyce Kilmer. Totally sucked. You’re what’s wrong with the world, honestly. You and Grabby-Hands McGildedRot.

 

Recovery Day

Lauren 3 Comments

So. I just had my tubes tied yesterday… again. Which may I just say, hurts a hell of a lot more than they let on. To be totally honest, I didn’t have my tubes tied this time as much as I had them totally taken out (failed clips and all). “Look at me, I’m so svelte, I just lost 3 oz!” #pleasenomorefuckingbabies

Here are my pets- moral support and enthusiastic participants in a full day in bed next to me. Psst. One of you slackers go pick up that sock.

And I took NO painkillers with codeine this time. I did last time and I felt AWFUL for 3 days. I’m only taking Motrin this time (did after this last birth too) and I feel awesome. What the hell, doctors? Does codeine even work? Or does it just make you high? Is that the point? Because I hate it and it worked way worse for pain control and kept me up at night. #straightarrowstickinthemud

Anyhoo- maybe I’ll catch up on blogging. Or maybe I’ll just drink coffee and eat pineapple. And try not to keep seeing that the scars on my stomach now look like an upside down Sid the sloth from Ice Age. Ugh. Try unseeing that for the rest of your life… #I’mmyownRorchachetest

#whatthehellIhatehashtagswhyamIusingthem

 

The Feminine Mis-Speak

Lauren 1 Comment

I am a TOTAL feminist. I am a totally bad feminist.

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I roll my eyes at pink camo and most pink clothing. Yet I totally SAY everyone can/should/ nay, MUST wear whatever the hell they want. So which is it? That indulging in pink overload is a personal choice or an example of someone blindly throwing themselves into cultural expectations of gender identity and handing their decision making abilities over to the patriarchy? Gah. You damn hypocrite, me.

I am a TOTAL feminist. I am a totally bad feminist.

I’m working on it…