Soup Is Not A Finger Food

Making it up as I go along

HI! Remember me? I used to blog here until I stopped making time. I miss it. But you didn't come here to read my whining about how I'm just so so so busy with work and the kids and the pets and the house (beating back the squalor!) and whatever else. So instead of that, I wanted to share a post about some stuff I've made lately. some pretty awesome stuff, actually.

LAUNDRY DETERGENT. A cousin of mine swears by making her own - not only for its cleaning ability but also because it's super frugal, costing just pennies per load. And because milk is $4/gallon and a head of iceberg lettuce is $2.69 (?!), we have to pinch pennies wherever we can. So I tried her recipe. OMG. I LOVE IT! It's easy to make and it really works. It's low-sudsing which makes it safe for use in HE machines, and you know exactly what's in it. And did I mention how inexpensive it is?  There are lots of recipes on the internet, some for liquid and some for powder, but I make the liquid.

Be sure you have a CLEAN bucket (buy one new and dedicate it for exclusive use) and something to transfer your finished product into - plastic pitchers, or re-use laundry detergent bottles or milk jugs (a funnel makes transfer easier). Also, after you let it sit overnight, it's kind of like runny Jell-O, so give it a good stir or, even better, jam an immersion blender in there to reliquify it before you transfer it into storage containers. Bonus points if you make clever labels such as "Caroline Ingalls's Pioneer Laundry Soap".

DISHWASHER DETERGENT. I got to thinking, if I can whip up my own laundry detergent, why couldn't I concoct, say, some dishwasher detergent? Turns out, the two main ingredients you need make the laundry detergent  - Borax Powder and Washing Soda - are also the main ingredients in dishwasher soap! So if you're making one, you might as well make the other. Again there are many versions of this posted on the internet, but  check out this recipe. I used FruitFresh for the citric acid. I also saw one recipe that suggested you add a squirt of Dawn liquid, then mix it in, so I did. It smells great, but of course the liquid makes the mixture want to clump up. You can bust the clumps with a fork before adding to the detergent compartment. (I probably won't add the Dawn next time.) So far it seems to work great. And again - it's so... cheap!  Have you priced dishwasher detergent? Especially those pods or tablets? Crazy expensive.

BREAD. I've been making my own bread for ages... people go crazy for homemade bread but really, it's so easy to make. (It's like that commercial from a few years ago, where the mom makes Rice Krispies treats, then splashes flour onto her face so everyone thinks she slaved for hours in the kitchen when in fact she never broke a sweat.)

I came upon this no-knead recipe a few years ago and it's my favorite when I want a crispy crust. Only drawback is, you need to plan ahead so there's plenty of rising time. Also, I would suggest that you not use a Pyrex bowl in that hot of an oven. Have you ever had one of those babies shatter? BAD NEWS. Instead, invest in a cast-iron dutch oven with a lid... watch the department store sales, or try off-price stores such as TJ Maxx or Ross. It's worth having one just for the bread, but you can make all kinds of other things in it too.

A few weeks ago, I discovered this recipe for peasant bread. It's another no-knead recipe, and it can be made in just a couple of hours. Instead of a crisp crust, it comes out softer. It tastes great! This recipe also calls for Pyrex bowls, but the oven isn't as hot for as long as it is for the Rocket Bread recipe. Don't be scared by how long the blog post recipe appears to be; it's super-easy to make.

I don't have the exact cost figures but you can make rolls or bread at home for a fraction of the cost of what you pay retail. And if you ask me, homemade bread is just better.

YOGURT. Seriously. I saw this making the rounds and wondered, could I really make my own yogurt? Turns out you can, in a crock pot. It's ridiculously easy and it tastes really good! And it's got to be less expensive than buying all those little cups of it... and if you aren't buying those, you aren't throwing them away, which is good for the Earth.  You can even strain it to separate out the whey, and you end up with a thick, Greek-style yogurt. YUM.

If, like me, you are intrigued about whether to buy something or try to make it yourself, you might want to check out these blog posts, written by Amy Keyishian (who happens to be a Facebook friend of mine), wherein she tackles not only making yogurt (cheaper than buying!), but also whether or not to buy or make your own candy corn (buy!) or pie crust (make; duh!). 

I'm not sure what I'll tackle next. I don't see myself making my own wine - though when I was a kid, a guy used to come collect pears that had dropped from our trees so he could make his own pear wine. And I have friends who brew their own beer, so I can just go drink theirs. I'd love your suggestions - leave 'em in the comments!

Speaking the language

I ALMOST NEVER go to Starbucks. Most times when I do, it’s because someone gave me a gift card. I'll happily spend someone else's $5 on a super-caffeinated beverage; I can’t in good conscience do it with my own heard-earned cash.

Despite my infrequent visits, I usually order the same thing, in the same way. This morning, gift card in hand, three extra minutes to spare, I decided to not walk by Starbucks today. I went in. And this is what happened.

ME: I’d like a triple grande vanilla latte, sugar-free, fat-free.

BARISTA: So, you want a triple grande SKINNY vanilla latte?

ME: Yeah, if that’s what you call it.

BARISTA: If you say “skinny,” they know you want it sugar-free, fat free.

ME: Do I have to say “skinny?”

BARISTA: Well, they’ll know you want it with the skim milk and the sugar-free syrup if you do.

ME: Okay, then, I want one of those. What you said.

BARISTA: [yells to other barista] I need a triple grande SKINNY vanilla latte please! [To me] Would you like anything to eat with that this morning?

ME: No… tryin’ to, you know, keep it SKINNY.

BARISTA: They make me ask.

ME: I ate breakfast at home.

Beware, ye who do not speak the language! For the barista might just correct your choice of words, and then you might go from feeling a teensy bit smug for having remembered to call it a “triple grande” instead of asking for a grande with an extra shot, to feeling like an idiot who doesn’t order her drink like how all the cool kids do it.

This reminds me of the time in 1993 when I ordered a Diet Coke from a street vendor in Paris. Eager to use my French, I said, “Un Coke Diete, s’il vous plait,” to which the vendor replied, “EIGHTY FRANCS.” She knew I didn’t speak the language, even though I tried.

But, meh, who cares. It’s only Starbucks. I think it’s more important to order your cocktail correctly at a bar. Grey Goose martini, extra dry, up, with olives. Por favor.

A remarkable evening

THERE SHOULD BE NO REASON for me to want to capture in writing just another Monday evening at home. I should not feel compelled to write about sitting on the sofa, fire in the fireplace, sports on the TV. Maybe it's like this every night in your house, but last night was different here.

For starters, all five of us were in the room together. Even Ross the Boss, who, at age 14, would rather convene with friends via xBox Live than watch sports with his family, joined us. Even Seth, now 16, who spends many evenings in his room, his thumping subwoofer pounding out the soundtrack to... whatever it is he does in there.

Peezer, of course, is always around. At 7, he is still of the age where he demands our attention, craves our approval. He is happiest when we are interacting with him: Tossing a ball, playing a game, or simply watching whatever it is he does when he says "Mommy! Mommy! Watch this, Mommy!" And I watch and say, "Wow, Peez!" or whatever half-hearted response, and then feel half-guilty about it, knowing that in a few years he mostly won't care what I think.

The teenagers are long since past that stage. I believe they still want the attention and approval, but they'd rather die than show it or - gasp! - say it.

But last night, Seth asked for another foot rub. It all started on Sunday, when he and I had been on the sofa watching football. (We watch a lot of sports in our house, especially during the fall.) His legs were stretched out and he put his feet on my lap. I started to massage them. Without asking. Something new. He's reluctant to hug me, let alone have me touch him for an extended period of time. But he luuuuuuuved the foot massage. The King of Sarcasm turned into a puppy dog. He didn't want me to stop.

His brothers saw how good this made Seth feel and wanted in on the action. Peezer was next. Predictably, he couldn't get beyond the tickle factor. So his was short.

Then, Ross. He LOVED it! So I rubbed and rubbed some more. Peezer wanted another go at it. I said, "No, Ross hasn't let me touch him for this long in many years; I'm not done yet." Ross just smiled.

And, we talked. I made observations about their feet. Seth, poor kid, has feet like mine: Wide and calloused. There are probably bunions in his future. (Sorry, Seth.) Ross's are narrow and straight, like my sister's. My mom used to take her to a special shoe store to get shoes that fit what the shoe guy called her "aristocratic feet." I think Peezer's are more like Seth's than like Ross's.

We also talked about Homecoming, which is coming up in a couple of weeks. This is the first year Seth has wanted to go, and it's Ross's first year in high school. Seth is going with a big co-ed group of friends and has nothing dressy he could wear, so we were trying to plan a shopping trip. Ross put himself out there last week and asked some girl with a thoughtful, clever Big Ask. She said yes at the moment, but found him at the end of the day and reneged privately. "Was she at least nice about it?" I asked, fighting every urge to unleash my protective Mama Bear. "Yeah, she was," Ross said then. Last night, he says he was only a little bit disappointed, and hasn't decided yet whether he'll go to the dance or not. If he goes, he, too, needs new clothes. But I told him he may not sequester himself in the basement and play xBox that whole evening.

Maybe in your house, this is just another weekday night, but in mine, it was different. I've been joking lately that the teenagers are trying to kill me with their antics. They can be so moody and sarcastic. Selfish. And just downright mean to their little brother. I assure them daily that I don't live to make their lives miserable; they seem unconvinced.

But last night, I saw the other side of what sometimes feels like a giant parenting abyss. Maybe we are connecting with them; we just haven't been witnessing the fruit of our efforts. Last night, they set aside the snark and sarcasm. The big boys went easy on their little brother. They let me touch them. And they opened up and we talked.

And this? This is how I picture it. This is how I want it.

It was just so, so nice.

This post isn't for you, friends - it's for me. I'm coming back to read this one the next time I have to say no. The next time a teenager attempts to twist my words and provokes my ire during what should be a "normal" conversation. The next time one rolls his eyes at me to convey impatience and disgust. The next time one forgets to call or fails a test in school or demands, "Where are all the towels??" or leaves yet another mess of empty soda cans and potato chip bags on the family room table.

Last night seems unremarkable on its surface, but to me, it was worth remembering.

 

Drama in the Bleacher Seats

THE SCENE: Friday night high school football game, somewhere in the Maryland suburbs. It's a perfect late summer evening - clear, warm. The atmosphere is electric: It's a big rivalry game, so the stands are packed. We arrived just as the first quarter began, so we watched the first half from field level.

At halftime, I decided I wanted to see the marching band from up in the stands. My friend and I thought we'd wait till people left the stands at halftime, then sneak up and grab a quick seat. Kind of like in the parking lot at work, when people leave for lunch and you can get a closer spot once they go. It's open seating, so we figured empty seats were fair game.

We attempted to sneak onto the end of the second row bleacher. Woman next to us says, "These seats are reserved," and pushes her string bag towards us.

"Oh, we just want to watch the band," we said.

"My husband will be back in a moment, this is HIS seat."

"I just really wanted to see the band," I repeated. "Someone should have told me how we could have purchased reserved seats," I muttered.

"Go over there," she says, with exasperation, pointing down the bleacher to... someone else's seat, presumably. So we squeeze by her to the next opening.

"These seats are reserved," says the lady. "My kids went down for refreshments."

"Oh, that's OK," we repeated, "We just wanted to see the halftime show, then we'll leave, we promise."

She was a bit more forgiving. "It's like church on Christmas Eve," we said - "Scoot on down, make room for another butt. Right?"

"Right, she said, with half a smile. We watched the halftime show. It was nice. The nicer woman's boys returned. I had a chat with one of them about how cool marching band is.

Then we got up to go. "Thanks for letting us watch the band from your seats," we said to the lady on our right.

"You're welcome," she said.

"Thanks," we said to the exasperated mom and her husband, who had returned to "his" seat, and threw them extra smiles. (I like being super nice to people who'd rather be hostile. It disarms them, makes them uncomfortable.)

As I passed Husband, he looked up at me and said, "Are you going to go find your OWN seats now, instead of taking some kids' seat?"

"Uh, we were just here to watch the band, and we're leaving now. But these really aren't 'reserved' seats..."

"Sure they are," He said. "But you're an adult, you should know that, right?"

I couldn't believe it. He was sitting, so I leaned down and a little closer to his face, and smiled. "Are you giving me a hard time?"

"Yeah, I am," he replied.

"Really??"

"Yeah."

"DUDE... Relax," I said. "Chill out. Jeez."

It's an understatement to say this exchange was disheartening. It's like, hey, sorry you got here late, but screw you, these are MY SEATS now and I'm going to stick my elbows out and save them and tough luck to the rest of you.

Obviously, these folks have never been to a game at Beaver Stadium, where you get your butt's width of bleacher and THAT. IS. ALL. There is zero elbow room. People come, you scoot over. Of course, those bleacher seats actually are reserved. They are numbered. Not so in our high school's stands. I get that they were saving seats for family members at halftime, but we were clear about wanting to be there only to see the band and we made good on our promise.

Who does this guy think he is, anyway? Is he the one who cuts into traffic at the last possible minute before the turn-only lane ends? Or road-rages when he perceives a vehicular slight? Or uses the express lane even though he has more than 10 items? Or waits until he gets to the drive-thru teller to endorse his checks? Or won't give up his seat on Metro for a pregnant passenger?

Next time, maybe I'll get there early and try "saving" my own bleacher seats. Perhaps my bleachermates will be able to teach me the unwritten etiquette concerning these so-called reserved seats. And maybe one of them will be able to help me understand why a fan of our high school football team, someone with whom I probably have a lot in common (he lives in the same zip code, shops where I do, drives on the same roads, has kids in the same schools) would have felt it necessary to pick a fight with a fellow middle-aged football fan during what should have been a fun Friday night.

After all, we were all there to root for the football team. Remember that? This happened at a football game. Which our team won, by the way. But the joy of the victory was certainly tempered by my experience in the stands.

So: What would you have done?

DIY Dryer Repair Part II

YESTERDAY, I wrote this post about how we disassembled our fancy clothes dryer in an attempt to replace the heating element. Because I'm a dryer diagnostic expert, and that's what I decided needed to be replaced. Read Part I, up through the cliffhanger ending, then see below to find out how the saga continues:

10:10 a.m. – Meg resumes work. Reinstalls lint trap, tries to remember what comes next.

10:15 – reassemble the #$%^&! door switch – the one that took hours to disassemble – in about 1 minute.

10:49 – Dryer is mostly put back together, plugged in, and… WE HAVE HEAT!! We also have a few extra screws, despite our careful cataloging system during disassembly.

Reattaching the bottom front panel will be a 2-person job, and I can’t quite see where those screws go, but otherwise, it's back together. I turned it on and... WE HAVE HEAT! So I throw a load of sheets into the washer, then put them into the dryer, and... we have heat, but the drum isn't turning. Which means the belt is slipping or the drum wasn't put back correctly. Which means we have more work to do.

12:30 p.m. Hang sheets on line to dry.

4:05 p.m. We agree to walk away from it, since today's a holiday, and give it one more try this week before we call in a pro. So, friends, keep your fingers crossed for us, will you please?

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: I can’t overstate how much lint was inside the dryer cabinet (outside the drum), as well as packed down inside the lint trip and the tube where the exhaust exits the dryer. This is a small portion of what we cleaned out:

I also pulled compacted chunks of the stuff out of the vent tube that goes from the dryer to the outside. People, we only took on this dryer repair in order to save money – not because we have any aptitude or enthusiasm for home repairs. But now that I’ve seen what lurks inside, I will be checking the lint filter area and back tube on a regular basis. Because you know what they say about improper dryer venting causing house fires.