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.