I finally talked Ben into letting me mow the other day.
We have a pretty big yard, so it takes over two hours to get it all mowed. The problem is that Ben usually doesn't allow me to mow because I broke the lawn mower ONE time. Three years ago. The first summer we were married. He still isn't over it. Granted, he did say something along the lines of, "Don't mow over there because there are really big rocks" and I decided to just raise the deck and mow over the really big rocks. It didn't go well. I broke something and he was a little ticked off. If I remember right, it meant a partially mowed yard for a few days, a trip to town and about $50. That did not go over well with my perfectionist, tight-wad husband. I tried to explain to him that riding lawn mowers always break. Its what they do best. They throw belts, they get clogged up, the blades get dull, etc. But somehow he was convinced that this was solely my fault, not the fault of the mower. He's very perceptive. In retrospect, guess it really wasn't the mower's fault that I made the poor decision to just mow over some really big rocks. It was pretty much entirely my fault. But apparently he's decided to forgive me now, three years later.
Also, he's a native of Tucson, AZ, where they don't have grass. He explained to me that when he was growing up they just didn't have that much yard work to do. They had a smaller yard since they lived in a regular neighborhood, and no grass. In fact, I remember the first time I ever went to Tucson with him to meet his family, before we were even officially engaged. Such lovely people! We were helping his mom and dad get ready to have some guests over when I heard Nancy and Phil talking about doing some yard work before everyone came. In confusion and glanced out the window at the dirt yard.
I went to find Ben and whispered, "Your mom and dad are talking about doing yard work. What yard work?" My idea of yard work was pretty intense. You know, raking and burning leaves, hours of mowing and weedeating, etc. Ben looked at me in surprise. "Oh, they'll sprinkle it with water and do some raking." That only added to my confusion. Rake what? And why would you water dirt? I decided to just watch and learn. And I did indeed learn that when you sprinkle a dirt yard with the water hose it keeps the dust down. And dirt looks quite nice when raked.
So you can see why when he first moved to Oklahoma he got the biggest kick out of mowing. It was the cutest thing. He was happy as a lark bouncing around out there on his very first riding lawn mower. When everyone else in the community was complaining about the grass growing he was so excited to mow he was practically watching and wiating for it to get tall enough. He had been sadly deprived of mowing time as a kid. Also, he has an obsession with anything that has an engine, and Oklahoma yard work opened up a whole new world of small engines. Leaf blowers, weed-eaters, tillers, chainsaws...the possibilities were mind boggling. And yes, we now own all of those things, of course. We just don't have a tractor yet. But one day we will. Oh, yes, one day we will.
Back to my story. A couple of days ago Ben was a little stressed because he's got a lot of projects he needs to get done. Put a part on his truck, do the brakes on the four-wheeler, finish the rear-end on the Chevy II, etc. And he wanted to get it all done this week before he gets busy on a new remodel job. And the grass is growing, making our yard look shabby. I know that drives him crazy, so me, being the nice little wife that I am, convinced him that I could mow. I can't work on the Chevy II, I can't do the breaks on the four-wheeler, and I can't go to work for him, but I can mow. Of course he reminded me that maybe I really can't mow because of that one time I broke the lawn mower. Yes, I remember. How could I forget when he reminds every summer when I ask if I can mow? I sweetly reminded him that sometimes the lawn mower breaks when he's using it, but he doesn't ban himself from mowing. he sweetly reminded me that when he mows it doesn't break because of stupid decisions on his part. Its more like natural causes. I suppose its like the difference between getting cancer from smoking and getting cancer just because it happened. But since he was stressed he agreed to let me try this time. Patience was busy filling her red wagon with rocks from the driveway, and Ben was keeping an eye on her while he worked on his truck.
I heaved my pregnant self onto the mower and got started. Very carefully. I did not want to break the mower again. I was so careful that I actually mowed the whole yard with no problems. Well, except that halfway through the project my belly started to feel really wierd. The bouncing my have been a little much. So I tried driving the mower with one hand and wrapping my other arm around my huge belly for support. It was kind of awkward and I probably looked like an idiot, but it helped. Then I started wondering if I was going to send myself into labor early. That would be just great. The longer I mowed and bounced and clutched my belly the more I wondered if I was having contractions or if it was all in my head. There are certain things I obviously won't do while I'm pregnant. Surfing, for example, is probably a bad idea. Luckily there's not a lot of surfing in Oklahoma, so I don't have to worry about that. Also bungee jumping. I would never bungee jump while pregnant. Actually I would never bungee jump while not pregnant because I'm deathly afraid of heights. I'm just saying, pregnant women probably shouldn't bungee jump. But I really didn't think mowing would hurt anything.
I decided to take a break, eat some supper, feed Patience, get a drink, then finish up. I parked the mower and waddled to the carport to collect my child. Ben is a wonderful father, but like most dads, he maybe doesn't watch her quite as carefully as I do. I've never seen her that filthy in her short life. I think she was just sitting in a puddle of grease, rubbing her hands in it, then wiping it on her face and on her clothes. Good thing I put play clothes on her.
Ben was too focused to eat so Patience and I wiped out the leftover hamburgers and I drank about a gallon of water. By that time my belly wasn't feeling quite so wierd anymore, so I cleaned up the kitchen, put Patience back in her puddle of grease, and finished mowing. Very carefully.
That night I showed Ben a big bruise on the inside of my knee from where I was subconciously bracing my leg against the throttle.
"Look. I got an injury while I was mowing for you. Don't you feel loved?"
He grunted. "You shouldn't do that. You might break the throttle off."
I cracked up. Clearly I'm not yet forgiven for breaking the lawn mower three years ago. Now it appears that I'm also not forgiven for successfully mowing the yard. We haven't really talked about it. But I did see him standing in the driveway, hands in pockets, surveying the yard. He came in and said, "Yard looks nice."
Maybe I am forgiven. But we'll see if I'm allowed to mow again!
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
A Weekend in the Life of Me
It started on Friday when I went to the grocery store. I don't like grocery days. I don't like driving half an hour to town, I don't like spending $200 of my husband's hard-earned money on food that disappears like vapor in the air, I don't like sweating, which always happens at Wal-Mart, and I don't like driving half an hour back home to drag all the groceries into the house and put them away.
Oh, and I happen to be five and half months pregnant right now, but I'm already so ridiculously huge that I look like I should be giving birth any day. So when I go out in public, which is mostly Wal-Mart, countless people stop me and say with a smile, "Oh! When are you due?"
"June 26th," I reply.
Then I watch them do the math in their head, do a double-take at my belly, paste another smile on their face and say, "Oh, wow! Do you think you'll last that long?"
How exactly am I supposed to respond to that?
"No, actually I think I will die."
Or, "Probably not. I guess I'll just explode."
Or maybe when they start asking when I'm due I'll just say, "Last month. This durn baby just won't come out!"
I had just loaded all the groceries into the trunk of my super-cool '99 Honda Accord with the broken door handle and the windows that don't work anymore (yes, that was sarcasm), buckled Patience in, given her a plastic baggie of Kix cereal to entertain herself on the way home, and was pulling out of the Wal-Mart parking lot when my phone rang. It was my beloved husband, calling on his lunch break. We chatted cheerfully as I turned towards home. I told him it seemed like we had extra grocery money this week, and he said, "Oh, you should've gotten steaks for tonight!" Ben loves steak. He really would rather I only cook red meat. Every day. Three times a day. Preferably steak. He eats chicken now, but only because I convinced him that it does not make financial sense to eat steak every day. I said, "Well, I just pulled out of the parking lot, and I really don't want to go back in there." He said okay, but I heard the disappointment in his voice. We hung up, I drove a couple of miles, my conscience smote me, and I turned around and went back to Wal-Mart. He's such a sweet wonderful husband, the least I can do is get him some steak. I should've thought of it myself. Parked the car, got out, opened the back door to get Patience, and saw that she had dumped her whole bag of Kix cereal in her lap. She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and said, "Uh-oh, Mom. Mess!" Thank you for pointing that out, Patience. Cleaned it up, sweated my way back into Wal-Mart for the steaks, stood in line at the speedy check-out line which had approximately 49 other people waiting, which oddly enough made it not speedy at all, and was once again on my home to my safe haven in the country.
I got home and unloaded groceries while Patience snoozed in the car. Once I got everything inside the kitchen was a total disaster, so I thought I'd try to bring some peace to my home by lighting my new magnolia scented jar candle on the kitchen table. Candle lit, I wiped the sweat off my upper lip (I've been sweating a lot lately - very unlady-like) and dashed to the bathroom since I have to go like every 30 minutes. Well, there was water pouring from somewhere around the toilet, and the bathroom was flooded. Perfect. I snatched towels out of the cabinet and began mopping up water, then dashed out to the car to get Patience, who was now awake. I dashed back to the bathroom to find more water pouring from wherever it was coming from, and called Ben.
"Hello?" He sounded a little tense. Bad time to call. Well, how was I to know?
"Babe, I have a problem, there's water pouring from the toilet and I don't know what to do."
He sighed. "Well, I can't come home right now, I'm really busy."
My feelings were hurt. And I was still sweating.
"I didn't ask you to come home. I just need to you to tell me what to do." I think I snapped at him a little. I'm blaming the fact that I was standing in water, I was sweating, and Patience was standing in the bathroom doorway pointing and saying, "Uh-oh, Mom. Mess!" She's so helpful. Ben told me how to turn off the water to the toilet, I did it, we said good-bye civilly, and I called our landlord.
Water mostly mopped up, Dennis on his way to check on the toilet, groceries unloaded. Okay. Patience and I head back into the kitchen to put away groceries. I was deeply focused on trying to re-organize the deer meat in the freezer in order to fit the things I had just brought home when I heard Patience panicking. I looked over to see her waving around a gift card that she had caught on fire over the magnolia-scented candle on the table. I had bought the gift card for my cousin's wedding reception/shower that I would be attending the next day (if I survived this one) and brilliantly left it lying on the table next to a lit candle and a 23 month old. I didn't know she was a pyromaniac. Even so, I was in the same room. How did I not see that happening? I was still sweating a lot. Its very distracting. It keeps me from noticing when my child is catching things on fire.
I finally got the groceries put away, the kitchen picked up, the partially burned gift card tucked away with the wedding gift. Luckily it wasn't ruined. I drank a glass of sweet tea and tried to stop sweating.while Dennis looked at the toilet and snaked out the drains. Since things seemed to be somewhat under control, I decided to make a wreath to hang in Patience's room. I had picked up a few silk daisies and ivy at Wal-Mart, so Patience and I sat down at the table to work on it. It turned out nicely, and I went into the laundry room to find something make a loop on the back of the wreath to hang it. I reached for a ball of twine on the shelf, and when I pulled it off, for some strange reason bird seed flew everywhere. I jumped and yelled, because bird seed showering from a ball of twine was somehow not what I expected. Patience was standing in the doorway pointing at the birdseed all over the floor saying, "Uh-oh, Mom. Mess!" I'm glad she knows what a mess is. I just need to tell her that it isn't always necessary to point it out. Closer investigation of the birdseed mystery showed that the mice had chewed a hole in the bag of birdseed sitting on the laundry room counter and had been carrying and stashing birdseed in the middle of the ball of twine on the shelf. Clearly the battle with the mice has not yet been won.
So I cleaned up the birdseed, hung the wreath, and washed the sopping wet towels once Dennis finished with the toilet. I was exhausted. I had sweated a lot. I felt gross and large. Ben did not get the haircut I had promised him that evening but he did get steak for supper, so he was a happy man. That night I showered and afterwards he painted my toenails for me since I can't exactly reach them anymore. He's wonderful.
The next day I got all dolled up for my cousin's wedding reception. I needed to go early to help with the food. I don't have a single dress or skirt or pair of slacks that fit right now, so I've been dressing my maternity jeans up with cute tops and heels. I have this great pair of silver and white snake-skin peep- toe heels. They're horribly uncomfortable. Well, I had them on and I popped into the bathroom to go before I headed over the mountain. When I went to stand up from the toilet I felt something give under my right foot and to my horror the stiletto heel of my shoe had punched straight through the bathroom floor. Guess the floor was a little soft from the flooding. Or I'm even more huge than I realizel right now. Either way, that wasn't good for my self-esteem. That bathroom has some serious issues. Well, there was nothing I could do about it just then, so Patience, my friend Amber and I took off for the wedding reception.
I hadn't seen many of my relatives in several months, and I almost enjoyed the looks of confusion when they saw me and said, "Wait a minute, when are you due?" And here we go again. No, it isn't twins. Yes, I'll make it till June, unless I die or explode. Blah, blah, blah. Oh, actually, I know I'm huge. I'm so huge I made our bathroom floor cavel in today before I left! What do you say to that? Or maybe when people point out to me that I'm getting really big I'll just look down at my belly, let a shocked expression come over my face, and say, "Well, my gosh, would you look at that. I had no idea that was there. Thanks for pointing it out!"
The wedding reception was lovely and the food was delicious, although my shoes were a dreadful mistake. I ended up kicking them off and going barefoot. Barefoot and pregnant. I felt really good about myself (yes, that was sarcasm). As a result the bottoms of my feet were disgusting and black from walking around barefoot at the church fellowship hall. But it was fun to see everyone, Patience was a doll in her little sailor dress, and I had a good time with my friend Amber.
I don't think anything else weird, annoying, dangerous, or funny happened last weekend. I'm so glad today is Monday. How often do you hear that? But goodness, I'm tired from re-hashing the weekend. Patience is asleep right now. I think I'll join her!
**********************
Shortly after I wrote this I dropped my phone in the toilet. Now it won't turn on. What is it with me and that toilet?
Oh, and I happen to be five and half months pregnant right now, but I'm already so ridiculously huge that I look like I should be giving birth any day. So when I go out in public, which is mostly Wal-Mart, countless people stop me and say with a smile, "Oh! When are you due?"
"June 26th," I reply.
Then I watch them do the math in their head, do a double-take at my belly, paste another smile on their face and say, "Oh, wow! Do you think you'll last that long?"
How exactly am I supposed to respond to that?
"No, actually I think I will die."
Or, "Probably not. I guess I'll just explode."
Or maybe when they start asking when I'm due I'll just say, "Last month. This durn baby just won't come out!"
I had just loaded all the groceries into the trunk of my super-cool '99 Honda Accord with the broken door handle and the windows that don't work anymore (yes, that was sarcasm), buckled Patience in, given her a plastic baggie of Kix cereal to entertain herself on the way home, and was pulling out of the Wal-Mart parking lot when my phone rang. It was my beloved husband, calling on his lunch break. We chatted cheerfully as I turned towards home. I told him it seemed like we had extra grocery money this week, and he said, "Oh, you should've gotten steaks for tonight!" Ben loves steak. He really would rather I only cook red meat. Every day. Three times a day. Preferably steak. He eats chicken now, but only because I convinced him that it does not make financial sense to eat steak every day. I said, "Well, I just pulled out of the parking lot, and I really don't want to go back in there." He said okay, but I heard the disappointment in his voice. We hung up, I drove a couple of miles, my conscience smote me, and I turned around and went back to Wal-Mart. He's such a sweet wonderful husband, the least I can do is get him some steak. I should've thought of it myself. Parked the car, got out, opened the back door to get Patience, and saw that she had dumped her whole bag of Kix cereal in her lap. She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and said, "Uh-oh, Mom. Mess!" Thank you for pointing that out, Patience. Cleaned it up, sweated my way back into Wal-Mart for the steaks, stood in line at the speedy check-out line which had approximately 49 other people waiting, which oddly enough made it not speedy at all, and was once again on my home to my safe haven in the country.
I got home and unloaded groceries while Patience snoozed in the car. Once I got everything inside the kitchen was a total disaster, so I thought I'd try to bring some peace to my home by lighting my new magnolia scented jar candle on the kitchen table. Candle lit, I wiped the sweat off my upper lip (I've been sweating a lot lately - very unlady-like) and dashed to the bathroom since I have to go like every 30 minutes. Well, there was water pouring from somewhere around the toilet, and the bathroom was flooded. Perfect. I snatched towels out of the cabinet and began mopping up water, then dashed out to the car to get Patience, who was now awake. I dashed back to the bathroom to find more water pouring from wherever it was coming from, and called Ben.
"Hello?" He sounded a little tense. Bad time to call. Well, how was I to know?
"Babe, I have a problem, there's water pouring from the toilet and I don't know what to do."
He sighed. "Well, I can't come home right now, I'm really busy."
My feelings were hurt. And I was still sweating.
"I didn't ask you to come home. I just need to you to tell me what to do." I think I snapped at him a little. I'm blaming the fact that I was standing in water, I was sweating, and Patience was standing in the bathroom doorway pointing and saying, "Uh-oh, Mom. Mess!" She's so helpful. Ben told me how to turn off the water to the toilet, I did it, we said good-bye civilly, and I called our landlord.
Water mostly mopped up, Dennis on his way to check on the toilet, groceries unloaded. Okay. Patience and I head back into the kitchen to put away groceries. I was deeply focused on trying to re-organize the deer meat in the freezer in order to fit the things I had just brought home when I heard Patience panicking. I looked over to see her waving around a gift card that she had caught on fire over the magnolia-scented candle on the table. I had bought the gift card for my cousin's wedding reception/shower that I would be attending the next day (if I survived this one) and brilliantly left it lying on the table next to a lit candle and a 23 month old. I didn't know she was a pyromaniac. Even so, I was in the same room. How did I not see that happening? I was still sweating a lot. Its very distracting. It keeps me from noticing when my child is catching things on fire.
I finally got the groceries put away, the kitchen picked up, the partially burned gift card tucked away with the wedding gift. Luckily it wasn't ruined. I drank a glass of sweet tea and tried to stop sweating.while Dennis looked at the toilet and snaked out the drains. Since things seemed to be somewhat under control, I decided to make a wreath to hang in Patience's room. I had picked up a few silk daisies and ivy at Wal-Mart, so Patience and I sat down at the table to work on it. It turned out nicely, and I went into the laundry room to find something make a loop on the back of the wreath to hang it. I reached for a ball of twine on the shelf, and when I pulled it off, for some strange reason bird seed flew everywhere. I jumped and yelled, because bird seed showering from a ball of twine was somehow not what I expected. Patience was standing in the doorway pointing at the birdseed all over the floor saying, "Uh-oh, Mom. Mess!" I'm glad she knows what a mess is. I just need to tell her that it isn't always necessary to point it out. Closer investigation of the birdseed mystery showed that the mice had chewed a hole in the bag of birdseed sitting on the laundry room counter and had been carrying and stashing birdseed in the middle of the ball of twine on the shelf. Clearly the battle with the mice has not yet been won.
So I cleaned up the birdseed, hung the wreath, and washed the sopping wet towels once Dennis finished with the toilet. I was exhausted. I had sweated a lot. I felt gross and large. Ben did not get the haircut I had promised him that evening but he did get steak for supper, so he was a happy man. That night I showered and afterwards he painted my toenails for me since I can't exactly reach them anymore. He's wonderful.
The next day I got all dolled up for my cousin's wedding reception. I needed to go early to help with the food. I don't have a single dress or skirt or pair of slacks that fit right now, so I've been dressing my maternity jeans up with cute tops and heels. I have this great pair of silver and white snake-skin peep- toe heels. They're horribly uncomfortable. Well, I had them on and I popped into the bathroom to go before I headed over the mountain. When I went to stand up from the toilet I felt something give under my right foot and to my horror the stiletto heel of my shoe had punched straight through the bathroom floor. Guess the floor was a little soft from the flooding. Or I'm even more huge than I realizel right now. Either way, that wasn't good for my self-esteem. That bathroom has some serious issues. Well, there was nothing I could do about it just then, so Patience, my friend Amber and I took off for the wedding reception.
I hadn't seen many of my relatives in several months, and I almost enjoyed the looks of confusion when they saw me and said, "Wait a minute, when are you due?" And here we go again. No, it isn't twins. Yes, I'll make it till June, unless I die or explode. Blah, blah, blah. Oh, actually, I know I'm huge. I'm so huge I made our bathroom floor cavel in today before I left! What do you say to that? Or maybe when people point out to me that I'm getting really big I'll just look down at my belly, let a shocked expression come over my face, and say, "Well, my gosh, would you look at that. I had no idea that was there. Thanks for pointing it out!"
The wedding reception was lovely and the food was delicious, although my shoes were a dreadful mistake. I ended up kicking them off and going barefoot. Barefoot and pregnant. I felt really good about myself (yes, that was sarcasm). As a result the bottoms of my feet were disgusting and black from walking around barefoot at the church fellowship hall. But it was fun to see everyone, Patience was a doll in her little sailor dress, and I had a good time with my friend Amber.
I don't think anything else weird, annoying, dangerous, or funny happened last weekend. I'm so glad today is Monday. How often do you hear that? But goodness, I'm tired from re-hashing the weekend. Patience is asleep right now. I think I'll join her!
**********************
Shortly after I wrote this I dropped my phone in the toilet. Now it won't turn on. What is it with me and that toilet?
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Patience Elizabeth's Big- Girl Room
Yesterday I finally finished moving Patience into her big-girl room. We had to boot her out of the crib to make room for Baby Brother, so the guest room became Patience's big girl room. Its lovely. We painted the walls a sunny yellow and the four-poster bed and dresser creamy white. White sheers drift from the windows and the bed is spread with a pastel tulip quilt I pieced in college. Toys are organized in pastel tubs on a shelf, and babies and stuffed animals peek out from an old cream-colored trunk that served as my hope chest during high school and college. Its the perfect, old-fashioned little girl room. She loves it.
Why does this make me so sad?
I stepped into the small bedroom yesterday (soon to become Baby Brother's room) bare and empty now except for the crib in the corner, still made up with Patience's pink gingham baby bedding. I was surprised when tears sprang into my eyes. I had worked so hard on her new room, saved for it, planned for it, spent my garage sale money on it, agonized over curtain decisions. Now I just found myself wanting to put everything back how it was and make her be a baby in a crib again. And therein lies the cause of my tears. As I looked at her empty baby room I realized suddenly that she will never, ever be a baby on that pink gingham crib sheet again. Babyhood is over, and she'll soon be turning from a toddler with pigtails to a little girl with a mind of her own.
I'm glad to be able to say that I have enjoyed her babyhood to the fullest. I enjoyed dressing her, changing her, bathing her, nursing her. I even relished those nighttime feedings, just Patience and me in the rocking chair, the whole house quiet and the crickets singing.
Now I need to enjoy toddler hood just as much. The snack times, the interest in helping me cook, the busyness of her little feet all over the house, dragging out and making messes. Today I made a point to sit at the table with her and play with Play-Doh for like an hour, even though I secretly hate Play-Doh. But soon she won't want to play with things like that anymore, and I'll be glad I took the time.
I don't want to be one of those parents who hold onto children and tries to keep them younger than they ought to be. I don't want to baby our children or hold them back in any way. I remind myself that my job as a mother is not to raise children but to raise adults. The end result should be mature, responsible adults who contribute to society and to the world and do it all for the glory of God. I can't accomplish that by looking back, only by looking forward and enjoying the here and now.
So bring on more toddler hood, be it Play-Doh, finger paints, or other messy things I dislike. I'll enjoy it to the fullest and cross each bridge as it comes.
Why does this make me so sad?
I stepped into the small bedroom yesterday (soon to become Baby Brother's room) bare and empty now except for the crib in the corner, still made up with Patience's pink gingham baby bedding. I was surprised when tears sprang into my eyes. I had worked so hard on her new room, saved for it, planned for it, spent my garage sale money on it, agonized over curtain decisions. Now I just found myself wanting to put everything back how it was and make her be a baby in a crib again. And therein lies the cause of my tears. As I looked at her empty baby room I realized suddenly that she will never, ever be a baby on that pink gingham crib sheet again. Babyhood is over, and she'll soon be turning from a toddler with pigtails to a little girl with a mind of her own.
I'm glad to be able to say that I have enjoyed her babyhood to the fullest. I enjoyed dressing her, changing her, bathing her, nursing her. I even relished those nighttime feedings, just Patience and me in the rocking chair, the whole house quiet and the crickets singing.
Now I need to enjoy toddler hood just as much. The snack times, the interest in helping me cook, the busyness of her little feet all over the house, dragging out and making messes. Today I made a point to sit at the table with her and play with Play-Doh for like an hour, even though I secretly hate Play-Doh. But soon she won't want to play with things like that anymore, and I'll be glad I took the time.
I don't want to be one of those parents who hold onto children and tries to keep them younger than they ought to be. I don't want to baby our children or hold them back in any way. I remind myself that my job as a mother is not to raise children but to raise adults. The end result should be mature, responsible adults who contribute to society and to the world and do it all for the glory of God. I can't accomplish that by looking back, only by looking forward and enjoying the here and now.
So bring on more toddler hood, be it Play-Doh, finger paints, or other messy things I dislike. I'll enjoy it to the fullest and cross each bridge as it comes.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
The Ancient Crock Pot
A few weeks ago a friend at church asked if I would please be in charge of feeding the Bible Time crew. Bible Time is this thing where we teach a bunch of kids praise songs and Bible verses for an hour or so one day a month. You know, church stuff. Its a cool deal, and since it happens right at lunch time we try to make sure all the workers are fed. My turn to cook!
I decided to make this amazing Italian beef stuff that you put in sub rolls. Easy to do in a crock pot, easy to sever to lots of people. But I needed to borrow a crock pot because mine isn't big enough to cook three beef roasts. I decided to run over to Ada's (see The Great Cake Disaster to learn more about Ada) and borrow hers.
Big mistake.
This first red flag should have popped up in my brain when she cheerfully opened the door and handed me her crock pot. It was the oldest crock pot I had ever seen. Probably one of the first ones ever made. The second red flag should have popped up when she said, "It should work. I recently rewired it."
What? Who rewires their ancient crock pot? Well, Ada of course.
So I took it home, and that evening after I cleaned up the supper dishes and put Patience to be I divided up my three roasts, put them in crock pots with the italian dressing and beef stew seasoning mix, turned on the crock pots to let them slow cook for 10 hours, and went to bed.
I woke up at 12:30 am. That's not unusual for me. I have trouble sleeping. Probably because I'm a crazy person whose mind won't relax. Anyway, I decided to check the meat. The meat in my fancy-dancy-less-than-four-years-old-digital crock pot: bubbling away, smelling delicious. The meat in Ada's beater: raw as it was when I put it in several hours earlier. Probably because the crock pot is not working. This is an interesting problem. I need this meat to cook because I am solely responsible to feed 25 people lunch in a matter of hours. I cranked up Ada's crock pot in hopes that, I don't know, I didn't turn the knob far enough and went back to bed. After laying there wide awake and worrying for thirty minutes, I got back up. Crock pot still not working. I drummed my fingers on the counter and contemplated my options. Call someone to take over the lunch for me? Nope. That's not the Sarah Netherton way. Get another crock pot after midnight? Sure, I'll just run down to the store and get one. Oh wait, it would take the rest of the dadgum night to drive into town and back and then the meat wouldn't have time to cook.
I finally devised a plan. I dipped a lot of the juice out of my good crock pot and crammed all the meat into it. It was the only way. I went back to bed praying that the meat would cook all the way and the crock pot wouldn't explode all over the kitchen or something bizarre like that.
Next morning I was up and at 'em bright and early, deeply concerned about the condition of my meat, my crock pot, and my kitchen at large. What I found was mostly good. The meat had cooked, the crock pot had not exploded. The only negative was some greasy leakage on the kitchen counter from an over-filled crock pot.
I bounced back into the bedroom to find Patience running a fever again. She'd had fever off and on for a few days, but I was hoping she was over it. Of course she wasn't. The problem was that I had to go to the church early. Due to my improvised plan, I had to get to the church kitchen, bust out another working crock pot (our church has lots) shred the meat, divide it and put half in the other crock pot, add all the bell pepper, onion, and pepperoncinis, and let it cook for another hour. The original plan was to have all this done at home, but no, things don't work out that easily for me. Of course it had to get all complicated.
So, what to do with a sick toddler, an overfull pot of greasy meat, and 25 people wanting their lunch? The clock was ticking.
Benjamin to the rescue! Oh, the joys of having a self-employed husband! He offered to just stay home with Patience so I could go early, get it done, and get home. He's the best husband on the planet. I love him more than the breath in my chest. Anyway, I left the two of them snuggled up on the couch together, loaded all my Italian-beef-sub-roll-related plunder, and sped down the highway, slopping greasy juice all over the floorboard of my car. Luckily I kind of figured that would happen, so I had planned ahead and put down a towel.
The lunch got made, it was huge success, everyone raved about it, many asked for the recipe, and I just realized that I haven't given it to anyone yet. Totally forgot.
After I cleaned up the lunch, I went home, loved on my husband, took care of my sick baby, and vowed to never, ever feed lunch to 25 people or borrow a crock pot again.
**************************
I decided to make this amazing Italian beef stuff that you put in sub rolls. Easy to do in a crock pot, easy to sever to lots of people. But I needed to borrow a crock pot because mine isn't big enough to cook three beef roasts. I decided to run over to Ada's (see The Great Cake Disaster to learn more about Ada) and borrow hers.
Big mistake.
This first red flag should have popped up in my brain when she cheerfully opened the door and handed me her crock pot. It was the oldest crock pot I had ever seen. Probably one of the first ones ever made. The second red flag should have popped up when she said, "It should work. I recently rewired it."
What? Who rewires their ancient crock pot? Well, Ada of course.
So I took it home, and that evening after I cleaned up the supper dishes and put Patience to be I divided up my three roasts, put them in crock pots with the italian dressing and beef stew seasoning mix, turned on the crock pots to let them slow cook for 10 hours, and went to bed.
I woke up at 12:30 am. That's not unusual for me. I have trouble sleeping. Probably because I'm a crazy person whose mind won't relax. Anyway, I decided to check the meat. The meat in my fancy-dancy-less-than-four-years-old-digital crock pot: bubbling away, smelling delicious. The meat in Ada's beater: raw as it was when I put it in several hours earlier. Probably because the crock pot is not working. This is an interesting problem. I need this meat to cook because I am solely responsible to feed 25 people lunch in a matter of hours. I cranked up Ada's crock pot in hopes that, I don't know, I didn't turn the knob far enough and went back to bed. After laying there wide awake and worrying for thirty minutes, I got back up. Crock pot still not working. I drummed my fingers on the counter and contemplated my options. Call someone to take over the lunch for me? Nope. That's not the Sarah Netherton way. Get another crock pot after midnight? Sure, I'll just run down to the store and get one. Oh wait, it would take the rest of the dadgum night to drive into town and back and then the meat wouldn't have time to cook.
I finally devised a plan. I dipped a lot of the juice out of my good crock pot and crammed all the meat into it. It was the only way. I went back to bed praying that the meat would cook all the way and the crock pot wouldn't explode all over the kitchen or something bizarre like that.
Next morning I was up and at 'em bright and early, deeply concerned about the condition of my meat, my crock pot, and my kitchen at large. What I found was mostly good. The meat had cooked, the crock pot had not exploded. The only negative was some greasy leakage on the kitchen counter from an over-filled crock pot.
I bounced back into the bedroom to find Patience running a fever again. She'd had fever off and on for a few days, but I was hoping she was over it. Of course she wasn't. The problem was that I had to go to the church early. Due to my improvised plan, I had to get to the church kitchen, bust out another working crock pot (our church has lots) shred the meat, divide it and put half in the other crock pot, add all the bell pepper, onion, and pepperoncinis, and let it cook for another hour. The original plan was to have all this done at home, but no, things don't work out that easily for me. Of course it had to get all complicated.
So, what to do with a sick toddler, an overfull pot of greasy meat, and 25 people wanting their lunch? The clock was ticking.
Benjamin to the rescue! Oh, the joys of having a self-employed husband! He offered to just stay home with Patience so I could go early, get it done, and get home. He's the best husband on the planet. I love him more than the breath in my chest. Anyway, I left the two of them snuggled up on the couch together, loaded all my Italian-beef-sub-roll-related plunder, and sped down the highway, slopping greasy juice all over the floorboard of my car. Luckily I kind of figured that would happen, so I had planned ahead and put down a towel.
The lunch got made, it was huge success, everyone raved about it, many asked for the recipe, and I just realized that I haven't given it to anyone yet. Totally forgot.
After I cleaned up the lunch, I went home, loved on my husband, took care of my sick baby, and vowed to never, ever feed lunch to 25 people or borrow a crock pot again.
**************************
All Day Italian Beef Sandwiches
From the kitchen of Nancy, my sweet mother-in-law
3-4 pound beef roast
1 package beef stew seasoning mix
1/2 bottle Italian dressing
1 small jar pepperoncini
1 white onion, sliced
2 green bell peppers, sliced
Sandwich rolls
Spray inside of crock pot with Pam. Try to use a working crock pot. Place roast inside and coat with seasoning mix. Pour Italian dressing over roast, add enough water to just cover roast. Cook on low for 10 hours or until roast easily falls apart. I think sometimes it can be 7 or 8 hours. Slice onion and peppers, refrigerate for later. When roast is done, remove from crock pot, shred with two forks, and place back in crock pot. Add onion, peppers, and pepperoncini. Cook on high for 1 hour, or until peppers and onions are tender. Lightly toast sandwich rolls in oven, spread with mayo, top with Italian beef mixture, and ENJOY! It could be good to melt some cheese on top, too. Everything is better with cheese. My mouth is watering just thinking about this. Its one of Ben's all-time favorites. I think he hugs and kisses me even more than usual when I make this!
Monday, March 5, 2012
Hickory Dickory Dock...
Our house is old. Cute, but old. Its a 1950's farmhouse, and what usually comes with 1950s farmhouses? Gleaming wood floors? Yes. Mold in the bathroom? Yes. Very small bedrooms making it impossible to ever have a King size bed even if we wanted one? Yes. Mice running rampant? Absolutely!
I've been waging war on the mice in this house ever since we lived here. Three and a half years, to be exact. And I can't win. It doesn't matter how many we trap, there are always more. One night I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom and a mouse just wandered in. We looked at each other for a minute, then he wandered back out. Seriously. I often see them leaving the kitchen when I get up to pack Ben's lunch and make his breakfast in the morning. A few months ago I made sugar cookies and left them on a platter covered in saran wrap on the kitchen counter. The next morning I was appalled to see that one of the cookies had been neatly removed from the platter, set on the counter, and the edges all shaved off. And one morning a wasted a half a dozen eggs because when I poured them into my black iron skillet that had been neatly set on the stove the night before dozens of mouse droppings floated to the surface. GROSS ME OUT. I hate mice with a passion. They make my house feel unclean no matter how much I scrub, and they are ruining my life.
But the other night was the last straw. We came home from church on a Sunday night and Ben got on the Internet while I put Patience to bed. He's researching paintball right now. Its his new thing. And we're both having fun with the Internet because we haven't had the luxury until just a few weeks ago. Anyway, Ben was still up obsessing over paintball when I was ready to go to bed, so I snuggled in, expecting him to come to bed any minute. Two hours later I woke up, saw that it was past midnight, and stumbled into the bathroom. I didn't turn on the light because it shines right across the hall into Patience's room. Then I stumbled into the living room to find my husband still obsessing over paintball. Squinting at the light, I mumbled something about stop-obsessing-over-paintball-and-come-to-bed-its-after-midnight-you-have-to-go-to-work-in-the-morning-you're-being-ridiculous. I might have been a little grumpy. I went back to bed.
A few minutes later I heard Ben go in the bathroom and turn on the light. I suppose he needs to see to aim. I'm glad I'm a girl. Then he crept into the bedroom, leaned over the bed, laid a hand on my shoulder and whispered, "Babe?"
I turned over. "What?" I snapped. I might have still been a little grumpy.
"Um," he whispered, "there's a mouse drowned in the toilet."
I sat up in bed. "So you came in here to tell me that I just peed on a dead mouse and didn't know it? That's disgusting! Why do you even want to tell me that?"
"Well," he said, "I wonder if it was on the toilet seat when you went in and you scared it into the toilet."
I began to feel that he was enjoying this too much.
"So now you're telling me that I peed on a mouse that was possibly still alive and in the process of drowning? That's even better! Thanks! I'll never be able to pee in the dark again!"
I flopped back into bed and tried very hard not to think about what had just transpired while I heard Ben fishing the dead mouse out of the toilet. I do think he enjoyed that whole scenario more than he should have.
Since then, I have determined to get a cat. And I always turn on the light when I go to the bathroom at night. I don't even care if I wake Patience up.
**********************
Later, after I complained to my family about the army of mice taking over my house, my little brother Isaac told me he had seen an interesting way to trap mice on TV. He said to mix some cornmeal in some water in a bucket and set it on the floor. I said that sounded way too easy, but what the heck, cornmeal is cheap. I tried it that very night, and lo and behold, the next morning there was a mouse drowned in the bucket. Easiest way to trap mice ever. I was ecstatic that it worked. Actually, I felt a little afraid of myself when I experienced such glee at seeing the dead mouse in the bucket on the kitchen floor. I might have looked a little crazy as I stood there in my bathrobe, shaking my fist and shouting, "BRING IT ON, MICE! I HAVE A NEW WEAPON!!!"
I've been waging war on the mice in this house ever since we lived here. Three and a half years, to be exact. And I can't win. It doesn't matter how many we trap, there are always more. One night I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom and a mouse just wandered in. We looked at each other for a minute, then he wandered back out. Seriously. I often see them leaving the kitchen when I get up to pack Ben's lunch and make his breakfast in the morning. A few months ago I made sugar cookies and left them on a platter covered in saran wrap on the kitchen counter. The next morning I was appalled to see that one of the cookies had been neatly removed from the platter, set on the counter, and the edges all shaved off. And one morning a wasted a half a dozen eggs because when I poured them into my black iron skillet that had been neatly set on the stove the night before dozens of mouse droppings floated to the surface. GROSS ME OUT. I hate mice with a passion. They make my house feel unclean no matter how much I scrub, and they are ruining my life.
But the other night was the last straw. We came home from church on a Sunday night and Ben got on the Internet while I put Patience to bed. He's researching paintball right now. Its his new thing. And we're both having fun with the Internet because we haven't had the luxury until just a few weeks ago. Anyway, Ben was still up obsessing over paintball when I was ready to go to bed, so I snuggled in, expecting him to come to bed any minute. Two hours later I woke up, saw that it was past midnight, and stumbled into the bathroom. I didn't turn on the light because it shines right across the hall into Patience's room. Then I stumbled into the living room to find my husband still obsessing over paintball. Squinting at the light, I mumbled something about stop-obsessing-over-paintball-and-come-to-bed-its-after-midnight-you-have-to-go-to-work-in-the-morning-you're-being-ridiculous. I might have been a little grumpy. I went back to bed.
A few minutes later I heard Ben go in the bathroom and turn on the light. I suppose he needs to see to aim. I'm glad I'm a girl. Then he crept into the bedroom, leaned over the bed, laid a hand on my shoulder and whispered, "Babe?"
I turned over. "What?" I snapped. I might have still been a little grumpy.
"Um," he whispered, "there's a mouse drowned in the toilet."
I sat up in bed. "So you came in here to tell me that I just peed on a dead mouse and didn't know it? That's disgusting! Why do you even want to tell me that?"
"Well," he said, "I wonder if it was on the toilet seat when you went in and you scared it into the toilet."
I began to feel that he was enjoying this too much.
"So now you're telling me that I peed on a mouse that was possibly still alive and in the process of drowning? That's even better! Thanks! I'll never be able to pee in the dark again!"
I flopped back into bed and tried very hard not to think about what had just transpired while I heard Ben fishing the dead mouse out of the toilet. I do think he enjoyed that whole scenario more than he should have.
Since then, I have determined to get a cat. And I always turn on the light when I go to the bathroom at night. I don't even care if I wake Patience up.
**********************
Later, after I complained to my family about the army of mice taking over my house, my little brother Isaac told me he had seen an interesting way to trap mice on TV. He said to mix some cornmeal in some water in a bucket and set it on the floor. I said that sounded way too easy, but what the heck, cornmeal is cheap. I tried it that very night, and lo and behold, the next morning there was a mouse drowned in the bucket. Easiest way to trap mice ever. I was ecstatic that it worked. Actually, I felt a little afraid of myself when I experienced such glee at seeing the dead mouse in the bucket on the kitchen floor. I might have looked a little crazy as I stood there in my bathrobe, shaking my fist and shouting, "BRING IT ON, MICE! I HAVE A NEW WEAPON!!!"
Saturday, March 3, 2012
The Great Cake Disaster
So the other day my friend April called to remind me about the Octavia-Smithville Volunteer Fire Department Cakewalk. Wow, that was a mouthful. She didn't really say it like that. I just wanted to be thorough. She actually said something like, "Hey, can you bring a cake and some beans to the cakewalk on Saturday?" Ben is on the fire department, so I have wifely duties when it comes to these types of fundraisers. Of course I said yes. I like to bake anyway. Whip up a couple of cakes on a Saturday morning? Sure! No big deal, right?
Well.
This morning I get all set up in my sunny yellow and green kitchen to whack together a couple of strawberry cakes from an old family recipe. I chose strawberry cakes because for some unknown reason I have a huge bag of frozen strawberries in the freezer that I am never, ever going to use. I'm not even sure where it came from. So, Patience and I are happily licking pink cake batter off the spatula, putting on a pot of beans, enjoying the spring sunshine streaming through the green gingham curtains at the window. I slide the cakes in the oven, set the timer, and promptly forget about them for 25 minutes while I do dishes and pick up toys. When the timer goes off 25 minutes later and I open the door to remove my cakes, I am surprised to find partially baked pink batter in the pans and a lukewarm oven. The pilot must have gone out. Happens all the time. No big deal. I know how to light a pilot.
So I drag the racks out of the oven, take out the tray, and cheerfully hold a lighter to the pilot while holding down the knob, just like the directions on the inside of the oven door say. Only it won't light. I try again. Still no luck. Okay, so I call Dennis, our landlord who lives down the road. For some reason that I don't understand he isn't dressed yet at 11 a.m., but whatever. I'm not going to judge. He promises to come as soon as he can, and in the meantime I pray that my cakes will not be ruined, stir the beans, and make Patience a sandwich.
Dennis finally comes, and after trying to light the pilot he tells me the thermocouple is toast. I have to have a new one. The good news is that they only cost about five dollars and can be found at most hardware stores. The bad news is that there is no hardware store. I thank Dennis, give him the rent check, and stand at the kitchen counter pondering how to finish the cakes while the beans boil over and Patience rubs mayonnaise in her hair and squeezes all the juice out of her pickle slices. I just love it when she does that.
Okay, my genius mind quickly devises a plan. I call my one and only neighbor, Ada Gray, a widow who is usually willing to help me out in a pinch. Now, Ada is not your typical widow lady. She doesn't make cookies, she doesn't wear aprons, she doesn't go to the hair dresser and she doesn't go to church or attend community events. She spends her time cutting up wood with her chainsaw, shooting at stray dogs from her front porch, and watching NASCAR. I'm serious. And she only tolerates children if they are well behaved. Lucky for me she seems to put Patience in the well behaved category, which is why I am able to call and ask her for favors. We love Ada. She's hilarious.
So I call and ask if I can bring my unfinished cakes over and bake them in her oven. Of course she says yes, so I now turn to the problem of getting Patience, the cakes, the glaze for the cakes (has to go on while they're hot) and myself over to Ada's house. It isn't far, but driving would be fastest.
Wait, can't take the car because Ben took it to town today. Okay, I'll take the truck.
Nope, can't take the truck because its still hooked to the trailer which is loaded with shingles. I'd like to see me back the 25 foot flatbed trailer down the driveway with a manual transmission Dodge dually one-ton. Not. Happening.
Okie dokie then, so our other vehicle option (other than the four-wheeler - I didn't see that going well either) is the red wagon. So I wipe the mayonnaise off Patience's face and mostly out of her hair and cram her in one end of the wagon, load a canvas bag with cakes, etc., shove it in next to Patience (who, by the way, thinks this is really fun), command her not to touch ANYTHING, and start bumping down the dirt driveway to Ada's house. The sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the daffodils are waving along the fence row, and a brisk walk will do me good. These are the things I'm telling myself in order to not get mad. It worked.
I wish Ada didn't live up a hill. After dragging my pregnant self and the loaded wagon up go her front door, I could barely breath. There's no reason for that. I don't care how pregnant I am, I ought to be able to pull a wagon up a little hill without falling apart. Its getting ridiculous.
Well, Ada kindly invited us into her kitchen where she had the oven pre-heated for me. Patience behaved herself, thank goodness, so hopefully we didn't get on Ada's nerves too badly. Finished the cakes, finished the glaze, glazed the cakes, traipsed home, put Patience down for a nap, stirred the beans, and here I am. And I just noticed that I have a big streak of pink batter on the front of my shirt. Right on the boob. Awesome. It kind of blends in with the lavender and white striped t-shirt I'm wearing. Maybe I just won't change and no one will notice at the cakewalk tonight. Or maybe they will notice and I just won't care. That's what I'm leaning towards.
So this evening I'll swing by Ada's and get the cakes, which are cooling on her kitchen table. Hopefully Ben will be home by then because I am not, I repeat, AM NOT, taking the red wagon to the cakewalk tonight. Its way too far. I would never make it.
But I suppose we could try the four-wheeler...
*****************************
Well.
This morning I get all set up in my sunny yellow and green kitchen to whack together a couple of strawberry cakes from an old family recipe. I chose strawberry cakes because for some unknown reason I have a huge bag of frozen strawberries in the freezer that I am never, ever going to use. I'm not even sure where it came from. So, Patience and I are happily licking pink cake batter off the spatula, putting on a pot of beans, enjoying the spring sunshine streaming through the green gingham curtains at the window. I slide the cakes in the oven, set the timer, and promptly forget about them for 25 minutes while I do dishes and pick up toys. When the timer goes off 25 minutes later and I open the door to remove my cakes, I am surprised to find partially baked pink batter in the pans and a lukewarm oven. The pilot must have gone out. Happens all the time. No big deal. I know how to light a pilot.
So I drag the racks out of the oven, take out the tray, and cheerfully hold a lighter to the pilot while holding down the knob, just like the directions on the inside of the oven door say. Only it won't light. I try again. Still no luck. Okay, so I call Dennis, our landlord who lives down the road. For some reason that I don't understand he isn't dressed yet at 11 a.m., but whatever. I'm not going to judge. He promises to come as soon as he can, and in the meantime I pray that my cakes will not be ruined, stir the beans, and make Patience a sandwich.
Dennis finally comes, and after trying to light the pilot he tells me the thermocouple is toast. I have to have a new one. The good news is that they only cost about five dollars and can be found at most hardware stores. The bad news is that there is no hardware store. I thank Dennis, give him the rent check, and stand at the kitchen counter pondering how to finish the cakes while the beans boil over and Patience rubs mayonnaise in her hair and squeezes all the juice out of her pickle slices. I just love it when she does that.
Okay, my genius mind quickly devises a plan. I call my one and only neighbor, Ada Gray, a widow who is usually willing to help me out in a pinch. Now, Ada is not your typical widow lady. She doesn't make cookies, she doesn't wear aprons, she doesn't go to the hair dresser and she doesn't go to church or attend community events. She spends her time cutting up wood with her chainsaw, shooting at stray dogs from her front porch, and watching NASCAR. I'm serious. And she only tolerates children if they are well behaved. Lucky for me she seems to put Patience in the well behaved category, which is why I am able to call and ask her for favors. We love Ada. She's hilarious.
So I call and ask if I can bring my unfinished cakes over and bake them in her oven. Of course she says yes, so I now turn to the problem of getting Patience, the cakes, the glaze for the cakes (has to go on while they're hot) and myself over to Ada's house. It isn't far, but driving would be fastest.
Wait, can't take the car because Ben took it to town today. Okay, I'll take the truck.
Nope, can't take the truck because its still hooked to the trailer which is loaded with shingles. I'd like to see me back the 25 foot flatbed trailer down the driveway with a manual transmission Dodge dually one-ton. Not. Happening.
Okie dokie then, so our other vehicle option (other than the four-wheeler - I didn't see that going well either) is the red wagon. So I wipe the mayonnaise off Patience's face and mostly out of her hair and cram her in one end of the wagon, load a canvas bag with cakes, etc., shove it in next to Patience (who, by the way, thinks this is really fun), command her not to touch ANYTHING, and start bumping down the dirt driveway to Ada's house. The sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the daffodils are waving along the fence row, and a brisk walk will do me good. These are the things I'm telling myself in order to not get mad. It worked.
I wish Ada didn't live up a hill. After dragging my pregnant self and the loaded wagon up go her front door, I could barely breath. There's no reason for that. I don't care how pregnant I am, I ought to be able to pull a wagon up a little hill without falling apart. Its getting ridiculous.
Well, Ada kindly invited us into her kitchen where she had the oven pre-heated for me. Patience behaved herself, thank goodness, so hopefully we didn't get on Ada's nerves too badly. Finished the cakes, finished the glaze, glazed the cakes, traipsed home, put Patience down for a nap, stirred the beans, and here I am. And I just noticed that I have a big streak of pink batter on the front of my shirt. Right on the boob. Awesome. It kind of blends in with the lavender and white striped t-shirt I'm wearing. Maybe I just won't change and no one will notice at the cakewalk tonight. Or maybe they will notice and I just won't care. That's what I'm leaning towards.
So this evening I'll swing by Ada's and get the cakes, which are cooling on her kitchen table. Hopefully Ben will be home by then because I am not, I repeat, AM NOT, taking the red wagon to the cakewalk tonight. Its way too far. I would never make it.
But I suppose we could try the four-wheeler...
*****************************
Grandma Trammell's Strawberry Cake
1 white cake mix
1 small package strawberry jello mix
1/3 cup water
4 eggs
2 cups sliced strawberries, fresh or frozen
2/3 cup oil
Glaze
1 pound powdered sugar
1 stick butter
1 cup sliced strawberries, fresh or frozen
Mix together the white cake mix, jello mix, water, eggs, and oil until smooth. Add the sliced strawberries, stir it up, and pour it into a greased 9x13 baking dish. Bake at 350 for 25 - 30 minutes, or until cake tests done.
Don't start the glaze until just a few minutes before you take the cake out of the oven because you're supposed to pour it on while the cake and glaze are both hot. To make the glaze, just melt the butter in a small saucepan, add the strawberries and powdered sugar, and mix it all up until its smooth.
Pour it over the top of the hot cake. Sometimes I even like to poke holes in the cake with a fork so some of that sweet, sticky deliciousness soaks in.
I've thought about making some whipped cream with a cup of whipping cream and a dollop of powdered sugar. It would be fun to add a few drops of red food coloring to make it pink, too. Spread it over the top of the cooled cake, and I bet it would be amazing.
The last time I made this cake I took it to my brother's house where we were having a family get together and my dad ate about a quarter of the cake right out of the pan before we even ate supper. I told him he might as well just put his face in it. He has no self control when it comes to sweets. And neither will you when you make this cake. Enjoy!
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