Reason Number 57

There are so many reasons why I love George. 

Here is reason number 57.

        

Just Like Mama

Yesterday was a Milo and Mama day, a day when mama's not baking and Milo's not at school and we do something special together. Milo played quietly while I cleaned the kitchen. Okay, the truth is I surfed the Internet while Milo dumped all the Playmobil toys on the floor. All 750 pieces. And then he dumped all of Goldie's doll clothes, 430 outfits.

Whenever he's too quiet I need to check on him.  I know this.

Following Clay's "trust but verify" motto, I found Milo in Goldie's room. He was trying to put on earrings. The sticker kind. In his ear. I repeat, in his ear.

He managed to shove one so far in his ear canal that he complained that it hurt.

Darn. Darn. Darn. I laid him on my bed and looked into his ear and barely saw a twinkly sticky earringy thing.

I called my neighbor, who happens to be an ENT (ear, nose and throat doctor) and she told me I have to bring him in.

And when I asked, in my most doctorly voice, if I could simply put some super glue on a Q-tip and stick it in his ear and get the thing out myself, she ignored me. "It will save all of us time," she said.

Silence.

Fine! I was not happy about driving to the Eastside all for the sake of stupid earlobe sticker. What kind of person doesn't know not to stick things in their ear?

But then I remembered the day my brother Ken and I stuck beads up our noses. (His idea.) I swear they'd still be up there if my mom didn't notice BOTH of us were making strange whistling noises while we breathed and ate Spaghetti O's.

She called my dad, who happens to be a jeweler. He came home and stuck long narrow diamond tweezers up our noses and removed the beads himself.

So, being the good mom I am, I put crying Milo into the car and gave him a pack of sugarless gum and let him eat the whole thing.  (By the way, this is a trick I learned from my friend Margot, who also has three kids. You're only allowed to do this sort of negligent thing if you have three or more kids.)

Milo only cried for a second while my friend fished around in his brain, I mean ear, and pulled out the offending object.

After "surgery" she rewarded our bad behavior, (notice how I take some blame here and say our bad behavior), and let Milo pick a toy from the prize box in the reception area.

So we all know what part two is going to be about don't we? Milo is going to want more gum and toys, so he's most likely going to keep sticking more crap in his ears and nose.

Smart kid. Just like Mama.

Confession

Forgive me father-in-law, for I have sinned. It's been 52 days since my last blog entry.

We've been busy! Busy, busy, busy!  In fact, today was the first day in weeks that we weren't busy.  And by we, I mean Clay and I.

THE KIDS WENT TO SCHOOL!

Yup. It's true. George started 2nd grade and Goldie started Kindergarten.

George claimed "Today was the worst day ever. The chocolate milk wasn't chocolaty enough, recess was too short and I didn't see Goldie enough."

Goldie thought everything was lovely. She wore her rhinestone tutu dress, ate all her lunch and decided she'll go again tomorrow. Thank goodness for that, I have blogging to do.

Poor Carmelo doesn't seem to know what to think of Goldie.

Pies and High Dives

I didn't ask you to read my blog. You came here on your own.

Perhaps this means you're curious about what's happening with us? Or perhaps you are one of my ex-boyfriends. If so, scram! I still love Clay.

Even if it seems like I'm bragging, I'm going to fill you in on the truth, the real nitty-gritty.

And since it's my blog I can talk about myself as much as I want. And my kids. And Clay. And even Grandpa Lala, should I feel so inclined.

Deep breath... OK.

There was another pie contest, this one at the Crossroads farmer's market. I entered a triple berry pie and won first place in the categories of Best Crust and Best Looking. Not me, silly. The pie! (At least I think it was the pie. I can't be sure now that I think about it.)

Anyway, I also baked this now famous pie, which was used in a national publication:

So there you have it. I think I'm getting good at making pies. Too bad I prefer cake.

And George can jump off the high dive. Go George!

Cherry Pie Bake Off

I won't bore my readers with another comeback tale of little' ol' me and my baking competitions.

I'll just tell the tale of the High 5 Pie Cherry Pie Bake Off like how we tell the story of any Jewish holiday around here. (There was a battle. We won. Let's eat.)

So...

There was a pie contest. I entered. I won in the Best Crust category.

The end.

(My pie is the one in the foreground.)

Why I H-A-T-E Mercer Island

Today Milo and I were listening to John Denver on Spotify. I thought he'd love the song Sunshine on My Shoulder, since he calls a guitar a sunshine.

I was happily humming along when I noticed he's sobbing. Then he started crying and saying, "This is a sad song." Then he mutters something about the sunshine in the water. He was really upset because the sunshine (guitar) is in the water. I tried to explain to him that it's the reflection of the real sunshine on the water.

He's not buying it. So I punt and put on The Carpenters. "Rainy Days and Mondays" comes on and now it's my turn to get all emotional.

Karen's blathering on about how rainy days and Mondays get her down and I'm thinking that all this sunshine is killing me. I really wish that it were rainy or cloudy outside so I wouldn't be so hot and there wouldn't be so many flies. It's actually days in the 80s that really get me down. And moreover, I love Mondays. Mondays are when all the kids are back in school. Karen Carpenter, you are full of it! Wait. Is that insensitive? Is it too soon?

So, since Spotify wasn't working for either of us we drove to Mercer Island to pick up George and Goldie at camp. (I'm not sure which pisses me off more: Mercer Island or 80 degree days.)

On Mercer Island I find myself following a giant SUV with a license plate that says SHOPPIN and that gets me THINKIN, why on earth would someone put that on their license plate? Just in case the car behind you was wondering why you're TOOLIN about in your giant SUV? That's very helpful, giant SUV lady.

By the way, my vanity plate is going to say POOPIN.

And all this leads me to the fact that I really dislike excessive sunshine.

...And Mercer Island.

Karen Carpenter is still OK.

Well, she's not OK. In fact, she's very much not OK. But, you know what I mean.

Anyway, THINKIN I should sign off now.

Goldie's Field of Dreams

Because I was bamboozled by my friend Leora, I signed Goldie up to play T-ball team this summer.

The first practice was last week. After school I asked Goldie to change out of her dress, which she wore to preschool graduation, and into something more appropriate for practice.

She came downstairs in the following "ball"gown.

So, I sent her back to put on something more appropriate. She came back in suede boots, terry cloth Daisy Dukes and a cardigan.

"That's more like it," I said.

She had a great time and keeps asking when the next practice is. And I love the batting helmet the coach gave her. At least I did, until Clay asked why she needs a batting helmet for T-ball, since there's no pitching.

Because it looks adorable, obviously.

Anyway, back to Leora, who requested I sign Goldie up for T-ball. She said we could sit on the field chatting about important stuff, like baking, while the girls played. Conveniently, she wasn't at the first practice and I sat by myself.

And she'll miss the second practice because she'll be out of town. I'm on to you, Leora, and your bamboozling ways.

But I do love that pink batting helmet.

Bok Bok!

There is so much going on here that for once I'm speechless.  Our sweet family of five has now become a family of 9.  When Mike left us back in November for NY we had to fill his shoes somehow and we adopted 4 beautiful chickens from our friends Molly and Zack.

Look at them. It's hard not to love them and their fabulous eggs, which have kept me very, very busy this past week.

Porter Bread (with recipe!)

Sometimes I need a break from talking about how stupid (or fabulous) I am and need to focus on other people and how stupid or fabulous they are. Or in this case, why their pets are stupid. (Remember Crazy Person of the Month?  Maybe it's time to bring that feature back.)

Last night Clay and I ran into old friends of ours. They're an amazing couple, who are so busy enjoying life that they haven't had time to get married. And they've been together FOREVER!

As we were catching up, she told me about the movie that was just filmed in her house. It's called The Details and it stars Laura Linney, Ray Liotta, and Toby Maguire (Yes THAT Toby Maguire!)  While the film was being shot, the studio put them up at the very plush Sorrento Hotel. And they were able to come by and hang out on the set during the day. Sounds dreamy, doesn't it?

Like I said, they are interesting and fun.

Here's a less glamorous part of their lives. It involves their dog Porter.

One day Lisa was going to bake a loaf of bread. She left the dough to rise on the kitchen counter and went out to run some errands.

When she returned, she smelled a foul yeasty sort of odor she could't identify. As she walked closer to the kitchen, the smell got stronger and she noticed her bread dough lying in a pile on the floor.

"Darned, Porter. He knocked over the bowl," she thought.

She picked up the dough and realized it was oddly slimy and very stinky. She then realized what had happened.

Porter had jumped on the counter, eaten the dough and was probably as happy as could be until the yeast started to rise. It rose in his tummy until it could rise no more. It then erupted out the top hatch onto the kitchen floor where she found it.

And the really funny part is that she went ahead and baked it and gave it to the noisy, inconsiderate neighbors. And they never found out...

OK. I made that last bit up. But don't you think that would have made the story even better?

Porter Bread... Mmmmmm.

Bad dog! Bad bread! Good story.

This is exactly why we are getting chickens in six days!  Stay tuned to meet the girls and hear Scene Two of Baking with Robin.

He's Just Not That Into You. Or Your Cookies.

ACT ONE: A while back a barista at my favorite coffee shop on Capitol Hill encouraged me to bake cookies for his friend who just opened a coffee shop on Capitol Hill. He apparently had great coffee but no baked goods. "Maybe you could sell them some," he suggested.

The next day I went in, introduced myself as Matty's friend, and handed them a very full jar of warm cookies. The first thing out of the owner's mouth was, "Where'd you bake these?" I got nervous and started talking too much and too quickly and explained that I had baked them at my house and was interested in baking and wanted to sell my baked goods, if they were interested. He looked at me like I was a fool and said, "You can't do that. Health department violation."

Then I got even more nervous and explained that he should try them and if he liked them I could get access to a commercial kitchen. (Big. Fat. Lie.) He looked at me like I was a crazy lady, took the cookies and nodded in agreement when I told him I'd be back for my jar.

The next day I went back for my jar. (I brought Clay with me so they could see that I do have friends.) He recognized me and handed me an empty jar and said nothing. NOTHING! He doesn't say, "Thanks for the cookies." He doesn't call me an asshole. He doesn't comment on my shoes. Or my friend. He says nothing. I gather up my cookie jar and hand him my sad and very dated little business card, which has a bird on it and an AOL email address.

I tried to hold my head high as Clay and I walked out to the car. Once inside, I looked at Clay and said  "He's never going to call." And Clay sadly agreed, "Nope. He's never going to call." And he didn't. END OF ACT ONE

While You Were Out...

You may remember me talking a few years back about a reality show I was going to create. It was the one where husbands got "kidnapped" for a few months and "while they were out", things got "fixed." For example, five-car garages got torn down and beautiful backyards were created in their place or old moldy showers from the 6os were replaced with soaking tubs.

You know. Those kinds of projects.

Today we went to Camano Island where my parents have a house and Clay and I thought of another potential hit reality show. This one is called, "While You Were Out Some Things Got Broken and Smashed and Hauled Away to the Dump."

It's where you hire someone to come into family members' homes and make things disappear that should have disappeared long ago.

I know. It's a tough concept. I'll give you some hypothetical examples to help you visualize.

The following is a vase in the shape of a lady's head. It's never had a plant in it and someone colored her eyes with a ball point pen. Smash!




This is a sea bird wind thingy that, of course, is stored in the guest bathtub. Poof!



This is a ceramic duck. It's squatting on a kitchen shelf amongst the spices and cookbooks. If you flip it over you'll see an address and phone number boldly written with a Mr. Sharpy, which is smart because should it ever go missing, the owner would be able to head to the local precinct and positively ID it. Ka-Pow!



And these are some fabulous fake flowers and ferns from the 80's. They still consider Cindy Lauper a role model. Whack!



How 'bout it? Anyone know someone in Hollywood who can make this show happen?

George's Room is OUR Canvas

Take Two.

George and I are hanging out in the kitchen. He's telling me about his day and I'm making cookies.

Upstairs we hear the lovely sounds of Goldie and Milo playing nicely.

Every few minutes there is a giggle and my heart is happy.

Clay enters the kitchen and asks if I've checked on Milo and Goldie lately.

"No", I reply. "They seem happy. I can hear them upstairs."

Clay, whose motto is trust but verify, goes upstairs and I hear his booming manly voice that he saves for special situations say, "This is NOT okay!"

George and I look at each other and rush upstairs to see what's happening.

Not again...

This time they've emptied my toiletries, the dirty laundry, the clean laundry and almost every drawer in the house onto the floor of George's room.



It's official. I am the worst mom ever.

My Brother's Room is My Canvas

Last night I was upstairs changing sheets and Milo, who wasn't interested in helping me, headed into the bathroom where he decided to unroll the toilet paper. I checked on him a few times and decided I was fine with this project mostly because he was;

A. Letting me get stuff done
B. Staying out of trouble
C. Having such a good time

A few minutes later Clay walked in and put an end to the fun.

When Milo wouldn't stop crying at the loss of his freedom of expression I decided to let him continue. How bad could it get? It's just a roll of toilet paper.

Soon the "project" began to expand:



To George's room:



And in another 10 minutes I found this:



And then this:



And then Milo proclaimed his installation piece finished.

Only later, while downloading photos, did we realize he had also found the camera and documented his achievements.






The good news is that I was able to get the bed made. And to think, Clay wanted to take the toilet paper away. Silly Clay...

Goldie's Report Card

Goldie's school sends out anecdotal reports every few months. It's like a report card, but not as formal.

In her latest report, two comments struck me as entertaining:

"Goldie can often be heard on the 'phone' with a classmate saying, 'First I need to go to the grocery store then I'll be home. Okay honey?'"

And "Goldie is willing to try new activities, but she prefers to do so in a princess dress."

I guess she takes after me, I'm also willing to try new activities, but only in a princess dress.

Good Morning, Sunshine!

And you think you're having a bad hair day?

Happy Birthday, Goldie

Dear Sweet Goldie,

Today you are 5! You've been waiting for this day for months.

Tonight at dinner you asked us if we remembered when you were four. Not only do we remember when you were four, we remember the day you were born. When you came out no one told me if you were a boy or a girl, I had to ask what kind of baby we had.

And Daddy said, "We have a Goldie."

Happy Birthday to our favorite 5 year old.

Love,
Mama and Daddy

P.S.- Did you know your hand smells if you wipe off your feet? (Which is what you asked me the other day. And, yes, I did know this.)

It's For The Children

Many years ago I attended a baby shower for a co-worker. My boss at the time asked me to bring a cake and I excitedly baked a chocolate cake with caramel frosting.

Another co-worker brought a cake from Larry's Market and when she walked in all the ladies swooned. (By the way, Larry's Market WAS a fancy grocery store in Washington that went out of business. I believe it went out of business because their cakes weren't any good and they contained wax and hydrogenated oil.)

Nonetheless, my boss, who lived on Mercer Island (and we all know how I feel about Mercer Island), didn't even cut my cake! Instead she went on and on about the beautiful Larry's Market cake and "forgot" to cut mine resulting in me bringing it home. Whole. From Mercer Island back again to Capitol Hill.

I wasn't mad or hurt or even bothered by it. I was, however, confused.

Fast forward to last night.

Clay and I attended a fundraising auction for a school in Africa and the organizer of the event asked me to bake something for the dessert dash. (A dessert dash is when you and your table companions pledge a donation and the table with the highest total bid has the first chance to choose a dessert; then second highest, and so on.)

I baked a chocolate layer cake with a peppermint butter cream frosting and crushed peppermint candies on top. My dear friend Leora helped me with the frosting and the decorating. She used to own a bakery! (A bakery that was French and a whole lot better than Larry's Market. Her bakery also went out of business, but that's a whole different story that involves three babies and an ice cream maker.)

When the dessert dash started I was very interested in seeing who was going to select my cake and how much they were going to pay for it, so I watched carefully.

I happily spied a cute lady in high-top Converse make a furious "dash" for my cake. And then I noticed it was my old co-worker, Emily! Her table paid a whopping $550 for my cake. $550 that goes to The Children, but still... Sometimes it isn't about The Children, it's about Me and My Cake!

She was at the aforementioned baby shower years ago. She opted out of my cake back then but paid for it last night.

If I didn't like that lady so much I'd claim a sweet victory.

Milo's Haiku

I like garbage trucks.
I don't like cottage cheese-y.
Hear them roar and stink.

Bet You Can't Eat That

Spending the weekend at the Washington Coast in January: no TV, no fancy-pants restaurants, no computers, no work-related worries for 48 hours. Just the parents and the kids together, exploring the empty beach and occasionally retreating to the warmth and shelter of the rented house.

In the house for the night, too late to go outside, too early to go to sleep, one of the kids issued a mild-sounding challenge, "They say that it's impossible to eat a teaspoon of cinnamon in 60 seconds." I don't know who "they" are but I immediately thought that they were wrong. How hard could it be? After all, sometimes my cinnamon toast has too much cinnamon but the kids always manage to eat it. Plus, 60 seconds. That's an eternity.

My youngest was the first to accept the challenge. We grabbed a container of cinnamon and carefully measured one level teaspoon. OMG. A teaspoon is not very much. Her older brother checked his watch and said "Go!" She tipped the spoon's contents into her mouth. And for about 15 seconds, I thought to myself, "Self, it looks like she'll have no problem." At the 20-second mark, she sputtered briefly, emitting a tiny poof of cinnamon, followed almost immediately by a hoarse cough and a huge exhalation of the spice. A rust-colored cloud erupted from her mouth, blanketing the room with a fine, sweet and hot-smelling powder, a bit like somebody had unwrapped a snicker doodle air freshener. She ran to the kitchen sink. Rinsed. And repeated.

I was next. I measured and poured the cinnamon into my mouth. For 15 seconds it sat on my tongue. Not so bad! Then, without warning, it was as if all of the moisture in my mouth evaporated. Gone. My salivary glands were the unwitting victims of a heinous robbery committed by the silica gel gang. My mouth felt like a dessert, arid, hot, parched. I couldn't conceive of any way to work up enough spit to wash down the cinnamon. Ever. After 45 seconds, I stood and lunged toward the kitchen in search of a receptacle and a glass of water.

But at the last moment (second: 55), I had a change of heart. I figured, "What's the worst that can happen," and I rolled the pile of cinnamon into a lumpy hill of spice and pushed it to the back of my mouth with my tongue. Then, on the verge of gagging, I swallowed it.

You can do it, too, but make your kids go first.


This was written by our babysitter/friend Anthony. As a requirement for babysitting, I made him write a blogpost.

It's good, huh?

Street Foodies

I can't get away from food and people who make food and love food and write about food and sell food.

I'm surrounded by them and I'm starting to feel left out.

Is it just me? Are my obsessions getting the best of me? Am I becoming paranoid?

I don't think so. Here's a picture from today while Clay and I were walking to the store.