Eat, Read, and Be Mommy

Seriously.  It seems pathetic to me that I’d read multiple books by Eileen Spinelli, thinking hey! another Spinelli writer!, before realizing that she’s actually married to Jerry Spinelli.  Well, then.  Interestingly enough, I think I’ve now read more books by her, although he’s the more famous one (Maniac Magee and Wringer are both Newberys); I reviewed Another Day as Emily not that long ago, but my first exposure to her was The Dancing Pancake, which was delightful.  She has a tendency of dealing with serious topics with enough depth to matter, but giving them positive outcomes in a way that’s comforting to her target audience.  It’s true that not every situation turns out all right; it’s also true that in general, kids in today’s world know that a little too well.  I’m okay, then, with books that are reassuringly warm and cozy.  We need stories of all kinds in this world.

Summerhouse Time is about a girl whose extended family rents a beach house together every August; Sophie loves everything about it, and is eagerly counting down the days until it’s time to leave.  Not surprisingly, however, she finds that not everything is as perfect as she assumes it will be.   The reasons why are more creative than I expected, but everything does wrap up rather neatly.  During the wrapping process, however, Sophie realizes that perhaps even the past is not as perfect as we may remember it.

Spinelli’s blank verse is not as lyrical as, say, Karen Hesse’s, but the medium works well for her in a different way; I enjoyed this one.  If you’re your looking for a read that is short and sweet without being saccharine,  Summerhouse Time is well worth your time.

I’ve been big on using up items in my refrigerator lately (possibly because I DESPERATELY NEED THE SPACE!), and last night the remaining half of a large can of pumpkin puree was my target item.  I contemplated waffles, but I was feeling too lazy to get out the Belgian waffler, which is what the recipes that looked the best needed; I didn’t even contemplate dessert, because I needed a meal idea.  Which is how I ended up slicing up some apples, frying up some cheap-brand sausage that I probably won’t buy again, and making these Pumpkin Streusel Muffins.

Have I mentioned how much I really, really love breakfast for dinner?

Anyway.  My oldest didn’t eat with us last night, so she only tried the leftovers, but my picky middle loved them.  (Take note, folks.  This doesn’t exactly happen very often.)  The boy wasn’t overly enthused, but he didn’t appear to be offended, either.  (It’s hard to tell about food when they’re two.)  As for me?  I enjoyed them more than I thought I would.  The streusel was amazing; I didn’t bother with the glaze, since I was in a hurry and it was dinner, but I didn’t feel the lack.  I used almost half whole wheat flour because–I confess–my upstairs white flour container was almost empty and I was in a hurry, and I seriously couldn’t tell.  The pumpkin and butter and eggs give the muffins a lovely texture that’s almost custard-y, if bread can be such a thing, and of course, anything with pumpkin in it stays moist.  (I have to say, I actually liked them left over even better. Weird, right?)  The reason I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy them had nothing to do with the recipe, really; the problem is that as much as I love cinnamon and nutmeg (I tolerate ginger), and as much as I love fall and everything to do with it, the taste of pumpkin itself is iffy for me.  I tend to prefer it in small doses mixed with lots of dairy fat, and when the flavor is too strong, I have issues.  These did taste kind of pumpkin-y to me fresh out of the oven, but as long as I got streusel in every bite, I was okay with it.  And strangely, the leftovers didn’t taste at all as pumpkin-y.

The verdict, then, is a thumbs up…since I just polished off two more during the course of this post.  Give them a try.  And let me know how they are with the glaze!

Do you LOVE strawberries?  Because I really, really do.  And since my birthday is in July, I’ve been known to request angel food cake with copious amounts of strawberries and whipped cream on top for my birthday cake.  (I’ve also been known to request Rhubarb Custard Cake, which involves copious amounts of cream and general deliciousness.)  My poor oldest also loves strawberries, and this was the third year in a row she asked for that very thing; unfortunately, her birthday is today, and we live in Utah, not California or South America.  This year, however, it finally occurred to me that while fresh strawberries aren’t worth the exorbitant price you’ll pay for them this time of year (I’d pay it for her if I thought they’d actually taste good enough to be worth it!), there is this recipe for Strawberry Sauce that we make for pancakes or waffles from time to time, and I’ve made it with frozen as well as fresh.  I posited that to her, and she was sold!  And so, for her birthday cake, we had angel food cake and strawberry sauce and whipped cream.

Mmmmmm.

In the interest of full disclosure, this sauce is NOT the same as fresh strawberries (and how could it be?).  On the other hand, it’s very tasty.  I understand from my friend Andrea that the same recipe is in the Our Best Bites cookbook, but that it doesn’t call for almond extract.  This is a mistake to me, because I love the almond; on the other hand, if you don’t, you should probably go with the cookbook version.  If you do, well…I suspect that this one’s better.  I make it with Costco frozen strawberries more than I make it with fresh (the fresh tend to go to other things too quickly), and it’s still got quite a nice flavor.  You should try it.

With angel food cake.

And real whipped cream.

Have I mentioned that I bought a Costco-sized box of frozen hashbrowns a while ago?  All of the hashbrown recipes I’ve tried have used some of those hashbrowns–and I have over a third of the box left.  (Possibly closer to half.)  Anyway…

I needed a one-dish, relatively easy dinner last week, since I took the kiddos to Cookie Cutters so the girlies could get haircuts and we didn’t get  home until close to 4.  When I found these Cheesy Bacon Hashbrowns, I decided they would fit the bill; I left the bacon and the hashbrowns out on the counter to thaw while we were gone and then cooked bacon and threw the ingredients together once we got home.  It does use a can of condensed soup, if you’re picky about that sort of thing, but I have to say, I liked it even more than I was hoping to.  I used smoked paprika instead of regular (I like it better), and 1% milk (because that’s what I have), and I thawed frozen hashbrowns (ditto).  I also did about half and half sour cream and plain yogurt, because I refused to open a 16 oz container of sour cream to use 2 oz of it (not when the plain yogurt was open and available, anyway.)  I don’t know that any of the changes made a significant difference, but I liked it.  My oldest liked it as well; my middle did actually eat it herself, albeit with prompting, and the boy dumped it on his tray but ate it more or less unprompted.  All in all, it’s easy and tasty and worth making.  Who could ask for anything more?

(Well, I suppose you could ask for slightly healthier.  But I have found it almost impossible to manage easy, tasty, healthy, and inexpensive all at the same time.  I just hope for 2 or 3 of the four–and vary which ones I’m hoping for!)

Months and months ago, my friend Britt got a copy of Deborah Cohen’s Family Secrets:  Shame & Privacy in Modern Britain for review.  She read it, found it utterly fascinating, and got our library system to purchase a copy (have I mentioned lately that they’re awesome?).  When the copy came in, she put it on hold on my library card–she said it was that good.

I believed her, and I’ve actually been excited to read it for months; on the other hand, three children don’t leave you a lot of concentration for non-fiction, so it took me a while to commit to it.  When I finally did, however, I found that I really couldn’t put it down–it legitimately was that fascinating.  I learned crazy things about the history of the divorce court, marriage counseling, and adoption in Britain, not to mention familial attitudes towards mental disabilities and homosexuality.  (And for the record, I owe the Victorians an apology.  As much as they had problems recognizing women as, you know, actual intelligent beings, they treated the mentally disabled far better than their Edwardian children.  You’d think things would have gotten better and better as time went on; you’d be wrong.)  My least favorite thing about the book was thinking, about every third page–was it like this in America? How can I find out all of this stuff about MY country?  (Sadly, I don’t know that Cohen has plans for a similar look at the US.)

As for a basic summary of the book, well–it explores the history of familial secrecy and privacy, and how the two concepts have developed and interacted in Britain from the Victorian age until now.  I hadn’t ever thought about the fundamental differences between secrecy and privacy until reading this book, but considering the current legal debates about the invasion of privacy, it was past time to start.  On the next-to-last page, Cohen posits that “in the twenty-first century, privacy is not the ability to hide but the right to tell without cost.”  Consider that, if you will.

Anyway.  I realize that not everyone is going to find this book irresistibly fascinating (although part of me feels that everyone really should.)  If, however, you enjoy non-fiction and/or cultural history, please give it a try.  I’ll bet it hooks you as well.

And my fellow English Major geeks will appreciate the tidy paraphrasing of Hamlet in the very last line.

I just finished Hana’s Suitcase, by Karen Levine, and it was definitely the sort of book meant to inspire mixed emotions.  It serves quite nicely as an introduction to the Holocaust for young readers–indeed, I will probably hand it over to my oldest in the next year or so–and that’s always a mixed experience.  On the one hand, books about individual experiences during the Holocaust  imply that someone survived to tell his or her story; on the other hand, any such book has to acknowledge that many, many others didn’t.  This one was no exception.  It interweaves the story of a Czech family that shrinks as the war progresses with the story of a woman in Japan determined to teach the children of her country about the Holocaust and its lessons for the world.  Fumiko Ishioka asked for whatever Holocaust artifacts that the European memorials could spare; it was from Auschwitz that she received a suitcase belonging to Hana Brady.  Finding that the children who saw it were fascinated by it, she set out to discover all she could about Hana’s life.  What she found makes for a historical mystery that requires a number of small miracles to solve.

My only problem with this book didn’t reflect on the book at all.  It was meant for a mid- to late elementary school audience, and that sort of non-fiction tends to be written very simply, especially when one has to tread the line between being informative and being age-appropriate.  I’ve read quite a few Holocaust memoirs, however, and so the simplicity of the writing made it a bit harder for me to focus.  I think, though, that it works well for its intended audience.  It’s one I’ll be giving my children to read when they’re old enough to deal with the story involved.

I’ve been a fan of Elizabeth Enright for a while now; she’s written a Newbery Medal winner, a Newbery Honor book, and a lovely quartet of books about a family that I finished reading rather recently.  Our (truly awesome) library system only has the quartet, the Newbery winners, and the sequel to the Honor book, but I did manage to order The Sea Is All Around through inter-library loan.  And I enjoyed it.  It’s about a 10-year-old orphan who moves from Iowa and one aunt to Pokenick Island (Nantucket, in real life) and another; she arrives as winter is setting in. Such a seasonal choice makes the setting one of wind and cold and cloud, but this worked for me.  (I don’t particularly like the sun unless it’s under 65 degrees.)  Enright successfully enlivens such a scene with detailed descriptions of the local flora.  (That sentence makes this review sound really academic, but how else do you convey the fact that her books all mention plants/trees/fungi galore?  I’ve rather enjoyed googling the names to see pictures of what she’s talking about.  My late Aunt Eileen–a botanist and the reason for my middle’s middle name–would be proud.)

Anyway.  The book doesn’t delve into the emotional territory of ‘an orphan passed from relative to relative,’ but that’s not surprising for something written in 1940.  It is, however, an enjoyable tale of a girl learning to love a place entirely different from the Iowa she’s used to. Unfortunately, it’s also out of print.  Since I don’t expect anyone to drop $45-$95 on a book solely on my recommendation, I’m linking to Enright’s Newbery Honor book instead.  Gone-Away Lake tells a story that you long to take part in; a pair of siblings discover an abandoned lakeside resort while on vacation and it becomes a sort of summer playground for them.  The sequel (Return to Gone-Away) takes the story exactly where you hope it will go, which makes this pair of books a delightful present for middle-elementary girls.  (Maybe boys.   But definitely girls.)  In fact, I’m pondering it as a Christmas gift for my almost-eight-year-old.  (Who also has a birthday in about 9 days.  Maybe I should get right on that…)

This is a serious issue, folks.  Which side of the fence are you on?  On the one hand, I do appreciate the concentrated taste you get with a glaze; on the other hand, if I’m serving something with rice, I want sauce for the rice.  In the case of these Polynesian Meatballs, that’s why I opted to err on the saucy side.  I ended up one-and-a-thirding the meatball recipe (yes, I know that’s a made-up term, but it’s what I did; I wanted to use two pounds even of ground beef) and doubling the sauce, although there still wasn’t nearly as much sauce for the rice as I might have preferred.  All in all, though, I like these meatballs.  They are on the sweeter side of sweet and sour, and the meatballs themselves have a nice flavor.  They would have more, of course, if I had the patience to actually brown them in the pan the way it calls for.  I know that adds flavor, and it’d be nice to have that flavor, but at some point, cooking with a two-year-old underfoot who no longer naps forces you to cut some corners.  (I’d love to see some of the Food Network chefs cook in some of my real-life conditions.)  Instead, I stick them on a cookie sheet and broil them for 5-7 minutes, shake the pan to roll most of them over, and do it again.  The simmering in the sauce ensures that they’re always fully cooked, and my kids can learn the flavor difference when they’re old enough to either help or stay safely away from the heat.

Life’s all about compromise, right?

I have made two 9 by 13 desserts this weekend; in fact, one of my glass 9 by 13 pans is currently in the (running) dishwasher, while the other is soaking in the sink.  Of the two desserts, however, only one was worth sharing.  Sadly, the caramel apple poke cake, while it wanted to be really delicious, was simply–fine.  Okay.  Not a hardship to eat, but nothing to write home about.  (I’ve come to the conclusion that nothing really compares to apple pie or apple crisp.  This is not the first cake/bar I’ve tried with apples in it, and they’re never as good as you want them to be.)  The brownies I made for my hubby’s Halloween potluck at work, however–those are worth mentioning.  This recipe for Ooey-Gooey Peanut Butter-Chocolate Brownies from Our Best Bites–the blog, although it may be in their cookbook as well–is a lovely choice for a potluck, because it’s one of the few brownie recipes I’ve ever made that definitively tastes better cooled.  (Trust me on this.  Our Best Bites warns you to wait; I made them a few years ago and tried them hot anyway.  It’s not worth it, folks.  They’re perfectly fine hot, but so is a brownie mix.  These have so much more flavor at room temperature.)  The batter is thick and sticky, it’s true, but it’s still based on a cake mix, so it’s simple to throw together.  The layer of sweetened condensed milk and Marshmallow Fluff–I will NEVER live in Utah long enough to stop calling it that–is also sticky, but perfectly lovely with those peanut butter chips.  My hubby is better at spreading sticky layers than I am, so I recruited him to help this time, but I did it myself the first time I made them.  It’s a a little annoying, but not prohibitively.  The hardest part will be smelling them and waiting for them to cool before trying them, which is why they were perfect for a potluck–since I had to wait anyway, it was nice to know the waiting was worth it!  The point is, you should make these.  Soon.

You know you want to.

I was reading random articles that people had shared on Facebook yesterday, which led me to more random articles (this is how this works), which is where I found an article entitled “I Feel Cheated by My C-Sections.”  It was an interesting article, and more thought-provoking than I’d expected; it ended in a way that told me the author knew what was most important in life and appreciated it accordingly; and yet it left me wanting to respond nonetheless.  (Not just me, apparently–I didn’t read any of the comments, but boy howdy, there were a lot of them.)  After all, I have a hard time not weighing in when I feel like I’ve got something relevant to say, and in this case, I do.  You see, I’ve done both.

My first child was born vaginally, albeit via what some of my nurses called a “vaginal c-section.”  Thankfully, my epidural kept me numb through the hour’s worth of stitching that entailed, but I was so trembly and tired (and emotionally overwhelmed) afterward that when my husband gave our daughter to me to hold, I was too worried my arms would give out and I would drop her to enjoy the experience.  (My doctor actually noticed and suggested my hubby take her back; I imagine years of delivering babies made him an expert at recognizing my level of exhaustion.)  I stayed numb enough throughout the night, but by 6:30 the next morning the pain was bad enough that I could not physically remain on my bed.  I got up and lay on my stomach across the bed, my shoulders hanging over the other side; it took me an embarrassingly long time to think to ring for help. The nurse who came into my room took one look at my chart and said, “All they’ve given you is MOTRIN?  Oh, honey, we have MUCH better things for you than Motrin.”  Every other nurse who came into my room from then until I went home winced visibly when she looked at my chart.  (I heard the phrase ‘oh, honey, you’re going to be in a LOT of pain’ multiple times.)  I took 2 Percocet every four hours for days, which enabled me to function at a “shuffling like an old man” level.  The pain was exacerbated by exhaustion and an insatiable thirst, which I realized only afterward was partially due to blood loss.  (The first thing the delivery nurse said when I was ready to go and she returned with the doctor was “WOW, there’s a lot of blood here.”)  Healing properly took a long time; there were all kinds of painful and embarrassing consequences involved in that much tearing, and on the day my oldest turned 9 months old, I remember wondering how you conceived a second child if the pain of having the first was still affecting that part of your life 9 months later.

Flash forward two years later:  my second child was born via c-section, after my new doctor (my old one had retired from delivering babies and recommended me to one of his partners) told me he was on the fence about recommending I have a c-section based on my chart.  My bone structure, he said, was narrow enough that my babies would always be forced out at a bad angle, and if I tore that much again, there could be very unpleasant permanent consequences (think Depends in your twenties).  At the thought of a c-section, I felt peace at the thought of physically having a second child for the very first time; when I actually had the c-section, I thought about all of the warnings about it being a major surgery and the recovery time involved and just shook my head.  Because I did not know you could feel that good after having a baby.  I could walk.  I could function.  I felt alive.

Now, I’m well aware that my experience with my oldest is really more of a worst case scenario; I also know that a c-section IS real surgery.  It does involve recovery time.  (And from what one of my sisters-in-law experienced, that recovery time is much, much worse if you’ve been in labor and tried to deliver vaginally before having to have the c-section.)  And I confess, since my hubby’s four sisters have delivered vaginally, but his two brothers’ wives have both had all c-sections, I did have a vague desire to prove myself in that regard; I wanted to be able to do what so many other women do simply because I don’t like feeling like so many others can do something that I’m not capable of.  Once I’d had the two experiences, however, I realized how little it actually mattered to me.  I don’t find the act of childbirth itself empowering; as my sister pointed out to me once, the women in our family don’t exactly suffer from a lack of empowerment.  I respect that people do, you understand.  I just don’t.  When I was pregnant with that first baby, we had a car with working ac and a car without; either vehicle got me to where I wanted to go. If, however, I was dressed up and going somewhere where I needed to look presentable, the car without ac was never going to be a desirable choice.  I love my three children and I am grateful to have them; I would not, however, go through that first vaginal birth again for any price.  I wasn’t capable of bonding time immediately afterward, and the physical ordeal contributed to a part-partum depression that lasted for weeks.

What’s my point in all this?  To the women who treasures her children, knowing that they are what matters, but still feels slightly cheated by her c-sections, I say–DON’T.  There is no guarantee that traditional childbirth will be any of the things you have wondered about; the disconnect and the delay can be worse, not better.  I know how hard it is to wonder when you haven’t experienced both–for Pete’s sake, I took the SAT when my college of choice didn’t require it just so I didn’t miss out on what everyone else in my senior class was doing.  (Also so that we could compare scores.  In a friendly and bonding way, but still.  I grew up in Ivy League land.)  I also, however, know that in this case, everyone’s experience is different.  There is no ‘club of ‘real’ women,’ but simply a club of mothers–adoptive, foster, natural, young, old, in-between.  I’m so glad you know that that’s what matters.