For some, some I know well, you were a pretty tough one. Maybe one of the toughest on recent record.
For others, like us, you were a year of new beginnings and new experiences. Our children are still growing, happy and healthy. Our marriage is strong and secure. I shall chalk you up as a good year. And I shall pray that 2010 is for many what you have been for us.
And as much as I'm looking forward to 2010, I shall ring it in sleeping. Because I'm now 35 years and 6 days old. And this Christmas present is wearing me out.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Shoes continued
Yesterday I picked up Grace's friend W so she could spend the night here at grandma's and they could see each other for a more substantial period of time. When I got here with W they were crazy excited and running around driving me crazy. So I put them to work.
We picked up around the living room. I said something like, "You girls get all the shoes and put them somewhere where people aren't going to trip on them."
This is the result.
FOUR girls need ELEVEN pairs of shoes??
Oh, but wait! I found TWO MORE pairs of shoes later. That makes a total of THIRTEEN pairs of shoes!
And that isn't all of their shoes.
Not.even.close.
Oh my.
We picked up around the living room. I said something like, "You girls get all the shoes and put them somewhere where people aren't going to trip on them."
This is the result.
FOUR girls need ELEVEN pairs of shoes??
Oh, but wait! I found TWO MORE pairs of shoes later. That makes a total of THIRTEEN pairs of shoes!
And that isn't all of their shoes.
Not.even.close.
Oh my.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Shoe shopping
One of Violet's first words was "shhhhooo."
Today we took the girls (seems to be a new tradition) to spend their Christmas money on some new shoes. Last year's shoes were worn nearly to pieces.
This little scene seemed picture worthy. She's a pro.
Never mind that she's not even eighteen months old. And never mind that the nearest mall is nearly 75 miles from her house.
There isn't even a Nordstrom IN Idaho. The closest one to Eastern Idaho might be in Spokane. That's a good five hours away. And she won't be driving in the next decade and a half at least.
Poor kid. I hope this isn't her calling.
No pun intended.
Today we took the girls (seems to be a new tradition) to spend their Christmas money on some new shoes. Last year's shoes were worn nearly to pieces.
This little scene seemed picture worthy. She's a pro.
Never mind that she's not even eighteen months old. And never mind that the nearest mall is nearly 75 miles from her house.
There isn't even a Nordstrom IN Idaho. The closest one to Eastern Idaho might be in Spokane. That's a good five hours away. And she won't be driving in the next decade and a half at least.
Poor kid. I hope this isn't her calling.
No pun intended.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Waffles
We made waffles this last weekend.
Or rather the daddy of the house orchestrated breakfast while I slept in and then I got up and made the syrup and helped set the table. It's how weekends roll around here.
We ate and were cleaning up when I heard "Oh shoot! I forgot the last one!"
I don't know how waffles go at your house, but that's usually how it is here. The last one always looks something like this.
And that brought to mind one of my parenting theories. Raising kids is a lot like making waffles.
The first one is always the experiment. Sometimes it's great, other times the waffle iron is too hot, or not hot enough, or the waffle sticks to it because it's not properly seasoned yet.
The second one is better. And by the third one you are really getting in a groove.
But then things start to slow down. You start running out of batter and people are getting full and the waffle making energy is waning.
So by the time the last one rolls around, the groove is lost. People are starting to think of the rest of the day and beginning to clean up and leave the table.
And that poor little waffle. Many times it is forgotten. It is forgotten until it is over-done. Or sometimes it is forgotten in the waffle iron when it is put away and not discovered until the next waffle meal.
I am that first waffle. And I dare say that I turned out alright. Others might argue with that, but they can go take a flying leap.
All the middle kids I know, well, they are run-of-the-mill middle children. Nothing wrong with them and they do a good job getting the job done.
Those youngest children, well, I think they are a challenge. There's something about them that I don't think anyone can deny. They have to fight for the attention so they won't be forgotten left in the waffle iron. And they do it well. They make us laugh and cry and rage. It's what they do best.
At any rate, enjoy your waffles. Including that last one, even if it's only real use is as a door stop.
Or rather the daddy of the house orchestrated breakfast while I slept in and then I got up and made the syrup and helped set the table. It's how weekends roll around here.
We ate and were cleaning up when I heard "Oh shoot! I forgot the last one!"
I don't know how waffles go at your house, but that's usually how it is here. The last one always looks something like this.
And that brought to mind one of my parenting theories. Raising kids is a lot like making waffles.
The first one is always the experiment. Sometimes it's great, other times the waffle iron is too hot, or not hot enough, or the waffle sticks to it because it's not properly seasoned yet.
The second one is better. And by the third one you are really getting in a groove.
But then things start to slow down. You start running out of batter and people are getting full and the waffle making energy is waning.
So by the time the last one rolls around, the groove is lost. People are starting to think of the rest of the day and beginning to clean up and leave the table.
And that poor little waffle. Many times it is forgotten. It is forgotten until it is over-done. Or sometimes it is forgotten in the waffle iron when it is put away and not discovered until the next waffle meal.
I am that first waffle. And I dare say that I turned out alright. Others might argue with that, but they can go take a flying leap.
All the middle kids I know, well, they are run-of-the-mill middle children. Nothing wrong with them and they do a good job getting the job done.
Those youngest children, well, I think they are a challenge. There's something about them that I don't think anyone can deny. They have to fight for the attention so they won't be forgotten left in the waffle iron. And they do it well. They make us laugh and cry and rage. It's what they do best.
At any rate, enjoy your waffles. Including that last one, even if it's only real use is as a door stop.
Monday, December 21, 2009
A Christmas Miracle
Sometimes having three young children is very interesting.
Very interesting. Kind of like herding cats. None of them seem to understand what I want them to do. And if they do understand, they do the opposite just to spite me.
I'm not a cat person.
But yesterday before church we had a miracle. The girls were all dressed up in their Christmas dresses and very excited. So we decided to try to get a picture.
Back to that herding cats analogy. Ever tried to get a picture of three people? Let alone three young kids? Somebody is always mad or crying or looking the wrong way, or even missing.
Or all of the above.
Kind of like this:
But yesterday before church, we had a miracle. Actually two miracles. Actually, if we are adding exponentially, dozens of miracles!
Behold, three children, all cooperative, happy, smiling, looking at the camera, unstained, pressed and proper, well fed, faces washed and hair combed.
TWICE!!!
Merry Christmas!
Very interesting. Kind of like herding cats. None of them seem to understand what I want them to do. And if they do understand, they do the opposite just to spite me.
I'm not a cat person.
But yesterday before church we had a miracle. The girls were all dressed up in their Christmas dresses and very excited. So we decided to try to get a picture.
Back to that herding cats analogy. Ever tried to get a picture of three people? Let alone three young kids? Somebody is always mad or crying or looking the wrong way, or even missing.
Or all of the above.
Kind of like this:
But yesterday before church, we had a miracle. Actually two miracles. Actually, if we are adding exponentially, dozens of miracles!
Behold, three children, all cooperative, happy, smiling, looking at the camera, unstained, pressed and proper, well fed, faces washed and hair combed.
TWICE!!!
Merry Christmas!
Friday, December 18, 2009
Life's perspective
I called one of my friends the other day. She lives several states away and I like to touch bases with her every once in a while. In the course of the conversation she revealed that she and her husband are having trouble. She gave me a few details and I said, "You know, I can totally relate." She seems somewhat shocked saying, "But you and Brent have the perfect marriage!"
I'll admit. We have a great marriage. But it wasn't always this great. There were a few years in the beginning that I call the "transition years." And without going into details, I'll tell you that it was rough. Not liking the person you are married to and in fact being very angry at that person and feeling hurt by that person for days and sometimes weeks at a time is no way to live. No, there was no abuse going on and I was just as much at fault for it all as he was, but it still didn't make it any more fun.
Then the other day I read a blog entry titled "An open letter to perfect mommy" or something like that. The blogger was basically calling another blogger's bluff that she was not in fact the perfect mommy and was just a big fraud. It made me sad to read that because even if I did know who Perfect Mommy is, I would feel for her on many levels.
I'm a pretty private person. Not because I have something to hide, but mostly because the majority of my life is my life and it's nobody else's business. Plus, I'm not a whiner. I'm just not. I hate stating a fact, like I squished my thumb in the car door and it's probably going to fall off, and then having someone go off.
OMG I'M SOOOOOO SORRY! I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WOULD DO IF THAT HAPPENED TO ME! I'D PROBABLY NOT BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF BED FOR A WEEK AND I WOULDN'T STOP CRYING FOR A MONTH AND MY CHILDREN AND HUSBAND WOULD LEAVE ME BECAUSE THEY WERE SO TIRED OF MY BLUBBERING AND CARRYING ON AND I WOULDN'T EVEN NOTICE THEY WERE GONE FOR THREE DAYS! I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU DO IT! I WOULD BE A TOTAL WRECK!
And then I regret even bringing it up. And I'd make a note to myself that you only get happy updates.
Back to my friend and her troubles. I told her a little bit and I think it made her feel better. I know admitting you are having trouble is hard. Really hard. But, I also know from my experiences in life that no matter what you need, if you talk to three people, one of them is bound to be able to help or know someone who is able to help (and hopefully on of them is not the OMG!!!! person). It's an awesome world. And to my friend, you know I love you. Hang in there.
To the rest of you, I'm not perfect mommy. I don't strive to be perfect mommy. But I'm realizing that many of you only know me from my blog or from Facebook or from what I tell you. You aren't here living my life every day. Because you are living your own life. And from my blog, I can see where one might get the impression that it's all happy happy around here.
Truth is, while it's like that much of the time, I get frustrated with my kids, I get frustrated with my husband, I have a giant pile of dirty laundry and the couch is covered in clean and mostly folded laundry. The kitchen floor is usually in need of a good mopping, sometimes I don't clean dinner up until morning, and I don't make my bed. I brush my teeth only once a day and my kids watch too much television. (That's the short list.)
But, for the most part, you aren't going to see my "dirty laundry," and with the exception of my husband's sock drawer, you aren't going to see my clean laundry either.
I was thinking the other day that maybe if I was more whiny I'd get more attention. But then I realized that it certainly wasn't the kind of attention I wanted to draw to myself. That kind of attention only brings drama with it and I get really irritated with drama.
I blog because it's fun for me. It's a record of our triumphs as a family and the fun we have. Yes, we have our share of troubles, some of which I do choose to share with you. We certainly didn't move three times in the last eighteen months just because we thought it would be fun. Sometimes life makes things like that necessary. But we did it and we're in a better place for it. Not that the other one was bad, but sometimes life has a way of fixing perspectives.
I don't think you can appreciate a great marriage unless you've been in one that isn't so great. You can't appreciate a husband who has a decent job until you have had a husband who suddenly finds himself out of work. You can't really appreciate healthy sassy children until someone you know and love, maybe even you, has a child fighting a nasty disease. You can't really appreciate the old house out of town that has more flies and earwigs in it than you care to count until you have lived in a tiny smelly apartment in a scary part of town. Learn from the crappy parts and move on.
I have a friend who is having an incredibly frustrating week. I talked to her today and all I could say was, "Well, nobody has died." And it's true. In that mess, there is still something to be thankful for.
Yes, life has a way of fixing perspectives. It's a funny thing.
I'll admit. We have a great marriage. But it wasn't always this great. There were a few years in the beginning that I call the "transition years." And without going into details, I'll tell you that it was rough. Not liking the person you are married to and in fact being very angry at that person and feeling hurt by that person for days and sometimes weeks at a time is no way to live. No, there was no abuse going on and I was just as much at fault for it all as he was, but it still didn't make it any more fun.
Then the other day I read a blog entry titled "An open letter to perfect mommy" or something like that. The blogger was basically calling another blogger's bluff that she was not in fact the perfect mommy and was just a big fraud. It made me sad to read that because even if I did know who Perfect Mommy is, I would feel for her on many levels.
I'm a pretty private person. Not because I have something to hide, but mostly because the majority of my life is my life and it's nobody else's business. Plus, I'm not a whiner. I'm just not. I hate stating a fact, like I squished my thumb in the car door and it's probably going to fall off, and then having someone go off.
OMG I'M SOOOOOO SORRY! I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WOULD DO IF THAT HAPPENED TO ME! I'D PROBABLY NOT BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF BED FOR A WEEK AND I WOULDN'T STOP CRYING FOR A MONTH AND MY CHILDREN AND HUSBAND WOULD LEAVE ME BECAUSE THEY WERE SO TIRED OF MY BLUBBERING AND CARRYING ON AND I WOULDN'T EVEN NOTICE THEY WERE GONE FOR THREE DAYS! I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU DO IT! I WOULD BE A TOTAL WRECK!
And then I regret even bringing it up. And I'd make a note to myself that you only get happy updates.
Back to my friend and her troubles. I told her a little bit and I think it made her feel better. I know admitting you are having trouble is hard. Really hard. But, I also know from my experiences in life that no matter what you need, if you talk to three people, one of them is bound to be able to help or know someone who is able to help (and hopefully on of them is not the OMG!!!! person). It's an awesome world. And to my friend, you know I love you. Hang in there.
To the rest of you, I'm not perfect mommy. I don't strive to be perfect mommy. But I'm realizing that many of you only know me from my blog or from Facebook or from what I tell you. You aren't here living my life every day. Because you are living your own life. And from my blog, I can see where one might get the impression that it's all happy happy around here.
Truth is, while it's like that much of the time, I get frustrated with my kids, I get frustrated with my husband, I have a giant pile of dirty laundry and the couch is covered in clean and mostly folded laundry. The kitchen floor is usually in need of a good mopping, sometimes I don't clean dinner up until morning, and I don't make my bed. I brush my teeth only once a day and my kids watch too much television. (That's the short list.)
But, for the most part, you aren't going to see my "dirty laundry," and with the exception of my husband's sock drawer, you aren't going to see my clean laundry either.
I was thinking the other day that maybe if I was more whiny I'd get more attention. But then I realized that it certainly wasn't the kind of attention I wanted to draw to myself. That kind of attention only brings drama with it and I get really irritated with drama.
I blog because it's fun for me. It's a record of our triumphs as a family and the fun we have. Yes, we have our share of troubles, some of which I do choose to share with you. We certainly didn't move three times in the last eighteen months just because we thought it would be fun. Sometimes life makes things like that necessary. But we did it and we're in a better place for it. Not that the other one was bad, but sometimes life has a way of fixing perspectives.
I don't think you can appreciate a great marriage unless you've been in one that isn't so great. You can't appreciate a husband who has a decent job until you have had a husband who suddenly finds himself out of work. You can't really appreciate healthy sassy children until someone you know and love, maybe even you, has a child fighting a nasty disease. You can't really appreciate the old house out of town that has more flies and earwigs in it than you care to count until you have lived in a tiny smelly apartment in a scary part of town. Learn from the crappy parts and move on.
I have a friend who is having an incredibly frustrating week. I talked to her today and all I could say was, "Well, nobody has died." And it's true. In that mess, there is still something to be thankful for.
Yes, life has a way of fixing perspectives. It's a funny thing.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Sometimes, it just all comes together.
Last night I made dinner. That's not an unusual thing. I cook dinner every night. I'm weird that way I guess. But dinner seems pretty important.
And I'm also weird because of the fact that I try to time it so dinner is on the table or close to on the table when the husband walks through the door.
Now last night the menu was enchiladas. Nothing fancy. Just burger, cheese, some taco shells and some tomato sauce with some taco seasoning in it. And some olives.
I have a love/hate relationship with taco shells. The ones I can get at the store are okay. But I don't buy them unless I plan on using them within the next week. They also have a weird texture, don't hold together well, and I don't like them after they are frozen. I guess I'm weird like that, too.
So I usually make my own shells. It takes some time, but it is totally yummy and it takes less time than it would take me to go to the store and buy them, with three kids in tow.
Yesterday I was on the ball. The burger was out and on the thaw before noon. Yes, I was ahead of the game. At about 4:30 I started in on the shells.
Let me tell you something about my children. Every single one of them likes to snitch whatever I'm making, and every single one of them likes to help in the kitchen. A certain grandma taught them to snitch--well before they were able to walk. A certain daddy encourges them to help when he's in the kitchen. I'm okay with both those things, on most occasions.
So I'm making the dough and Violet comes up, hangs on my leg, and yells, "NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!" That's her subtle way of asking for a snitch.
I gave her a piece of the dough and went about my business. Soon I had the dough ready and cut into pieces sitting on our little rolling island.
And then it began.
A chair moves in on the island. "NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
It's the baby who is actually able to move the chair. And she gets on it and starts trying to get her fingers squashed under the rolling pin as she snitches the flour. What is it about flour?
Mom! Can I help?
It's the three-year-old. She's also up on the chair now.
And I begin to muse. I've mused about it before.
There really should be a show about moms and their quest to get dinner on the table every night. Regular moms. Regular food. On a clock.
But the meat is frozen.
And then the kids are lose (aka, the movie is over).
And someone needs their bottom wiped.
Or there is a phone ringing.
And then it boils over.
MOM!! She isn't sharing with me!!
And the bread doesn't rise.
And someone comes in with a mouth that is bleeding. (Yes, that happened last night. I swear I do watch my kids!)
And now it's cooked too long and is too crispy/brown/dry.
And the baby is crabby and just wants to be held.
And through this all there are three little people who don't understand the importance of dinner getting on the table by a certain time. This they don't understand unless dinner is NOT on the table.
Like I'm some sort of miracle worker.
And on I go. Rolling out taco shells while trying not to squish a little snitching finger. Turning shells, stirring burger. Oh, is the oven on? "Mom! Can you button this??"
Phew!
Mom! Can we help?
Yes. Here, cut the olives.
Grace is old enough to have a little knife. Calla gets the pumpkin carving knife. Their instructions--cut them into three pieces. Like this. See?
And now they have a job. And I have a pile of beautiful taco shells. I feel like I'm in the home stretch with just a few more hurdles to get over.
Violet gets to watch me grate the cheese. And of course she's gonna snitch.
All the while I'm praying that they don't cut themselves. I made it through without squishing little snitching fingers. Phew!
And onto the assembly. Calla is happy watching. Violet is busy with the grated cheese. Grace is putting cheese in taco shells. I'm putting meat in them and rolling them up.
We're a good team tonite. And all the while I'm wondering if there is a camera rolling somewhere. Because if there was, I'd be in the running tonite. In spite of the bloody mouth.
All the enchiladas are rolled and in the pan. The sauce, cheese and olives have been placed on top. Oven is heated.
We're on track. Fifteen minutes to go time!
Girls, set the table, please!
I was going to take a picture of the finished product, but somewhere I got distracted. So you'll just have to imagine a pan of beautiful enchiladas. They really were beautiful.
When Brent got home he was glad (as always) to see dinner so close to being done.
Do we have sour cream?
How did I know you were going to ask that? OH! Because you ALWAYS ask that!
I don't think he realizes what it takes to get dinner on the table sometimes. Only people who do it every day with an extra 20 pounds hanging off their leg yelling for a snitch and a couple other "helpers" would understand. But then he put it all in perspective.
Without dinner, there would be no rest of the night.
He's so right.
And I'm also weird because of the fact that I try to time it so dinner is on the table or close to on the table when the husband walks through the door.
Now last night the menu was enchiladas. Nothing fancy. Just burger, cheese, some taco shells and some tomato sauce with some taco seasoning in it. And some olives.
I have a love/hate relationship with taco shells. The ones I can get at the store are okay. But I don't buy them unless I plan on using them within the next week. They also have a weird texture, don't hold together well, and I don't like them after they are frozen. I guess I'm weird like that, too.
So I usually make my own shells. It takes some time, but it is totally yummy and it takes less time than it would take me to go to the store and buy them, with three kids in tow.
Yesterday I was on the ball. The burger was out and on the thaw before noon. Yes, I was ahead of the game. At about 4:30 I started in on the shells.
Let me tell you something about my children. Every single one of them likes to snitch whatever I'm making, and every single one of them likes to help in the kitchen. A certain grandma taught them to snitch--well before they were able to walk. A certain daddy encourges them to help when he's in the kitchen. I'm okay with both those things, on most occasions.
So I'm making the dough and Violet comes up, hangs on my leg, and yells, "NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!" That's her subtle way of asking for a snitch.
I gave her a piece of the dough and went about my business. Soon I had the dough ready and cut into pieces sitting on our little rolling island.
And then it began.
A chair moves in on the island. "NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
It's the baby who is actually able to move the chair. And she gets on it and starts trying to get her fingers squashed under the rolling pin as she snitches the flour. What is it about flour?
Mom! Can I help?
It's the three-year-old. She's also up on the chair now.
And I begin to muse. I've mused about it before.
There really should be a show about moms and their quest to get dinner on the table every night. Regular moms. Regular food. On a clock.
But the meat is frozen.
And then the kids are lose (aka, the movie is over).
And someone needs their bottom wiped.
Or there is a phone ringing.
And then it boils over.
MOM!! She isn't sharing with me!!
And the bread doesn't rise.
And someone comes in with a mouth that is bleeding. (Yes, that happened last night. I swear I do watch my kids!)
And now it's cooked too long and is too crispy/brown/dry.
And the baby is crabby and just wants to be held.
And through this all there are three little people who don't understand the importance of dinner getting on the table by a certain time. This they don't understand unless dinner is NOT on the table.
Like I'm some sort of miracle worker.
And on I go. Rolling out taco shells while trying not to squish a little snitching finger. Turning shells, stirring burger. Oh, is the oven on? "Mom! Can you button this??"
Phew!
Mom! Can we help?
Yes. Here, cut the olives.
Grace is old enough to have a little knife. Calla gets the pumpkin carving knife. Their instructions--cut them into three pieces. Like this. See?
And now they have a job. And I have a pile of beautiful taco shells. I feel like I'm in the home stretch with just a few more hurdles to get over.
Violet gets to watch me grate the cheese. And of course she's gonna snitch.
All the while I'm praying that they don't cut themselves. I made it through without squishing little snitching fingers. Phew!
And onto the assembly. Calla is happy watching. Violet is busy with the grated cheese. Grace is putting cheese in taco shells. I'm putting meat in them and rolling them up.
We're a good team tonite. And all the while I'm wondering if there is a camera rolling somewhere. Because if there was, I'd be in the running tonite. In spite of the bloody mouth.
All the enchiladas are rolled and in the pan. The sauce, cheese and olives have been placed on top. Oven is heated.
We're on track. Fifteen minutes to go time!
Girls, set the table, please!
I was going to take a picture of the finished product, but somewhere I got distracted. So you'll just have to imagine a pan of beautiful enchiladas. They really were beautiful.
When Brent got home he was glad (as always) to see dinner so close to being done.
Do we have sour cream?
How did I know you were going to ask that? OH! Because you ALWAYS ask that!
I don't think he realizes what it takes to get dinner on the table sometimes. Only people who do it every day with an extra 20 pounds hanging off their leg yelling for a snitch and a couple other "helpers" would understand. But then he put it all in perspective.
Without dinner, there would be no rest of the night.
He's so right.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Oh my little Calla!
What's your name?
Heidi
What's your other name?
Donnelly
Okay. Let's call you Hot Mama for short.
Heidi
What's your other name?
Donnelly
Okay. Let's call you Hot Mama for short.
Friday, December 11, 2009
How vulnerable we are
Last week my mom called me. When I asked her how they were doing, she said, "Pretty good considering the conversation we had in the car this morning."
Oh?
It went something like, Look out! Shit! Are you okay??
They were on their way to spend the day running errands and a deer ran full speed into their car, shattering the driver's side window and denting up all the panels on that side of the car. Besides being shaken up, they are no worse for wear and even drove the car the rest of the way into town.
I remember thinking about it and musing that sometimes I think God just needs to remind us how vulnerable we really are.
Last night we had a reminder here are our house. Brent was in the basement stoking the fire for the night and looking around for what we are assuming is a dead mouse somewhere.
All of a sudden he heard a loud WOOSH followed by a roar. He looked at the furnace and the pipe going into the chimney was turning bright red. Then he went outside and there were flames shooting out of the chimney.
Imagine this house in the dark and snow with flames shooting from the chimney.
He came in, told me we had a chimney fire, called 911, and was working to get it out. I grabbed all the kids out of their beds, put them in the car, and drove out to the road. By then there were just sparks and an orange glow coming from the chimney.
Our local fire department is a volunteer department. One of our neighbors just up the road is an EMT and was here in less than five minutes.
This was when I remembered to say a prayer.
And then I realized the dog was still in the house. I felt a little bad but was happy I had my three kiddos in the car and out of the house.
I watched through the windows and soon realized that Brent and our neighbor weren't frantically running around. In fact, they seemed to be rather leisurely from the outside.
So I decided it was time to bring the kids back in before they got too cold and any more scared. Grace was doing well, but I didn't want to scare her any more than she already was. We got permission and came in and sat in the living room all bundled in blankets. Calla was back to sleep within 2 minutes. Grace settled in rather quickly, and V just sat and snuggled and asked about her daddy.
The fire trucks got here and we had I think eight firemen in the house.
They doused the fire with a giant fire extinguisher and then took their fancy heat-sensor around to all points of the house checking for hot spots.
At one point they realized they were tracking snow and dirt into the house and apologized. I told them that if that was the worse I had to clean up, that made me happy.
Then it was a waiting game. At one point the chimney measured about 622 degrees. Then it was in the 400s, and finally down to 320ish.
That's when they decided it was okay to go. One of them commented, "You could bake a nice loaf of bread in there." It made me smile.
But before they went, my husband, always thinking, mentioned that I certainly had something to blog about now! And I should get a picture. One of the guys commented, "Sure! We're not camera shy." So, I went and got the camera.
Firefighters are awesome.
We've lived here for only a few short months and already we know about half these guys. Our neighbor who showed up first, one of the guys we go to church with, and the local chiropractor. And another one who said he was one of the guys harvesting the field next door and we were out watching. (Who was watching who there?? I told him I was also the crazy lady standing in the road taking pictures of the combines taking up the whole road.)
After they all left, Brent took the girls up to their room and we turned on the propane heat and brought the space heater up from the basement. Then we sat around for a bit trying to wind down. It could have been so scary.
I'm thankful he was down there and we weren't asleep. I'm thankful for that dead little creature that kept him in the basement searching for it. I'm thankful for a crew of unselfish firefighters who come and took care of us like they actually got paid for it. I'm thankful for simply being tired and having a mess to clean up.
I'm thankful that we only brushed up against our vulnerability rather than being violently jarred by it forever.
We finally crawled into bed about 2am. I told Brent that sometimes we make a pretty good team. He chuckled, "Yup, sometimes we do."
This morning Calla came downstairs and told me she slept all night in her bed. I suspected last night that she didn't actually wake up for the excitement, so I asked her if she remembered me getting her out of bed, putting her in the car and the firefighters in the house. She looked at me blankly and said no.
Then I asked what she dreamed about thinking maybe she dreamed about firefighters. But she just told me she couldn't tell me.
Why?
Because then it wouldn't come true.
My conclusion there is that she's watched way too much Cinderella in her lifetime.
I swept my floor this morning. I got two piles about this big.
Then I mopped. I'll vacuum in a bit, too.
Hug your kids. Kiss your husband. Clean your chimney. Thank a firefighter.
Oh?
It went something like, Look out! Shit! Are you okay??
They were on their way to spend the day running errands and a deer ran full speed into their car, shattering the driver's side window and denting up all the panels on that side of the car. Besides being shaken up, they are no worse for wear and even drove the car the rest of the way into town.
I remember thinking about it and musing that sometimes I think God just needs to remind us how vulnerable we really are.
Last night we had a reminder here are our house. Brent was in the basement stoking the fire for the night and looking around for what we are assuming is a dead mouse somewhere.
All of a sudden he heard a loud WOOSH followed by a roar. He looked at the furnace and the pipe going into the chimney was turning bright red. Then he went outside and there were flames shooting out of the chimney.
Imagine this house in the dark and snow with flames shooting from the chimney.
He came in, told me we had a chimney fire, called 911, and was working to get it out. I grabbed all the kids out of their beds, put them in the car, and drove out to the road. By then there were just sparks and an orange glow coming from the chimney.
Our local fire department is a volunteer department. One of our neighbors just up the road is an EMT and was here in less than five minutes.
This was when I remembered to say a prayer.
And then I realized the dog was still in the house. I felt a little bad but was happy I had my three kiddos in the car and out of the house.
I watched through the windows and soon realized that Brent and our neighbor weren't frantically running around. In fact, they seemed to be rather leisurely from the outside.
So I decided it was time to bring the kids back in before they got too cold and any more scared. Grace was doing well, but I didn't want to scare her any more than she already was. We got permission and came in and sat in the living room all bundled in blankets. Calla was back to sleep within 2 minutes. Grace settled in rather quickly, and V just sat and snuggled and asked about her daddy.
The fire trucks got here and we had I think eight firemen in the house.
They doused the fire with a giant fire extinguisher and then took their fancy heat-sensor around to all points of the house checking for hot spots.
At one point they realized they were tracking snow and dirt into the house and apologized. I told them that if that was the worse I had to clean up, that made me happy.
Then it was a waiting game. At one point the chimney measured about 622 degrees. Then it was in the 400s, and finally down to 320ish.
That's when they decided it was okay to go. One of them commented, "You could bake a nice loaf of bread in there." It made me smile.
But before they went, my husband, always thinking, mentioned that I certainly had something to blog about now! And I should get a picture. One of the guys commented, "Sure! We're not camera shy." So, I went and got the camera.
Firefighters are awesome.
We've lived here for only a few short months and already we know about half these guys. Our neighbor who showed up first, one of the guys we go to church with, and the local chiropractor. And another one who said he was one of the guys harvesting the field next door and we were out watching. (Who was watching who there?? I told him I was also the crazy lady standing in the road taking pictures of the combines taking up the whole road.)
After they all left, Brent took the girls up to their room and we turned on the propane heat and brought the space heater up from the basement. Then we sat around for a bit trying to wind down. It could have been so scary.
I'm thankful he was down there and we weren't asleep. I'm thankful for that dead little creature that kept him in the basement searching for it. I'm thankful for a crew of unselfish firefighters who come and took care of us like they actually got paid for it. I'm thankful for simply being tired and having a mess to clean up.
I'm thankful that we only brushed up against our vulnerability rather than being violently jarred by it forever.
We finally crawled into bed about 2am. I told Brent that sometimes we make a pretty good team. He chuckled, "Yup, sometimes we do."
This morning Calla came downstairs and told me she slept all night in her bed. I suspected last night that she didn't actually wake up for the excitement, so I asked her if she remembered me getting her out of bed, putting her in the car and the firefighters in the house. She looked at me blankly and said no.
Then I asked what she dreamed about thinking maybe she dreamed about firefighters. But she just told me she couldn't tell me.
Why?
Because then it wouldn't come true.
My conclusion there is that she's watched way too much Cinderella in her lifetime.
I swept my floor this morning. I got two piles about this big.
Then I mopped. I'll vacuum in a bit, too.
Hug your kids. Kiss your husband. Clean your chimney. Thank a firefighter.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Fifteen below zero
But the girl still has to catch the bus.
Fifteen below zero is COLD. Lucky there was no wind today.
It was GORGEOUS outside. This is where the bus came from.
Gorgeous.
These are the Tetons with the sun coming up behind them.
I must love you. Because I tramped across a field in my un-tied boots and fifteen below to get this photo.
I love it here.
Fifteen below zero is COLD. Lucky there was no wind today.
It was GORGEOUS outside. This is where the bus came from.
Gorgeous.
These are the Tetons with the sun coming up behind them.
I must love you. Because I tramped across a field in my un-tied boots and fifteen below to get this photo.
I love it here.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Sourdough carmel cinnamon buns
Yesterday after my massive sourdough post, I was chastised. I guess it was for good reason.
I ended my post with this photo.
My apologies. And if you accept them, you may read on. Because I'm telling you how today I made a failed attempt at them.
But all the same, here's what I started with:
A batch of sourdough dough (haha) that I added a little more sugar to--on its first rise. I also only used a cup and a half of starter. But my starter was pretty wet and later I'll explain what I should have done differently there. Brown sugar, 1/4 cup sugar mixed with some cinnamon, whipping cream, butter, and a 9 x 9 pan.
A note: I start my dough in the late afternoon and then put the rolls together after all the kids are in bed.
The recipe is actually my variation of my mother's sour cream cinnamon rolls.
Put 1/4 cup butter, 1/4 cup brown sugar and 1/2 cup cream in a sauce pan.
Over medium heat, bring to boil and boil and stir until the sugar is dissolved.
Roll your dough into a rectangle.
Check your carmel mixture.
I'm such a carmel junkie.
Butter your dough rectangle and sprinkle it with cinnamon and sugar. My husband isn't a fan of too much cinnamon, so these are cinnamon-lite rolls. But with the carmel, the amount of cinnamon really isn't important.
Roll your rectangle into a looooong roll and pinch the seam.
Pour your carmel into the baking dish.
Cut the long roll into little rolls.
Notice there are a LOT of rolls for that little pan? That was my mistake. I should have just put 9 of them in there, but I decided to do all of them.
Put 9 of the little rolls into the carmel puddle in the baking dish.
Now cover them in plastic and put them in the fridge overnight.
In the morning they'll look like this.
Bake them at 350 degrees for about 30 minutes. They'll be lovely and golden brown and the carmel will be baked into the dough. These aren't quite done. FYI.
I squished too many of them into the pan and then I didn't bake them long enough.
Now the secret to these rolls is to flip them onto foil when they are fresh out of the oven. Then the carmel that wasn't baked into the rolls is all oozy and blankets the rest of the roll.
They should look like this:
They should not look like this:
I actually put these back into the oven, just like this, because they were doughy in the middle.
I think I actually made TWO mistakes. The first one was that my starter was more watery than I anticipated and it made more dough than I wanted to. The second mistake was that I just went ahead and ignored my "too much dough" thought and put it all in the pan anyway.
But remember what I said about that carmel? How it really doesn't' matter? Well, as disappointed as I was in this batch, there were certainly no complaints. And this is my evidence of that.
Yes, I'm a carmel junkie, but I did NOT eat them all.
Have a great weekend!
I ended my post with this photo.
My apologies. And if you accept them, you may read on. Because I'm telling you how today I made a failed attempt at them.
But all the same, here's what I started with:
A batch of sourdough dough (haha) that I added a little more sugar to--on its first rise. I also only used a cup and a half of starter. But my starter was pretty wet and later I'll explain what I should have done differently there. Brown sugar, 1/4 cup sugar mixed with some cinnamon, whipping cream, butter, and a 9 x 9 pan.
A note: I start my dough in the late afternoon and then put the rolls together after all the kids are in bed.
The recipe is actually my variation of my mother's sour cream cinnamon rolls.
Put 1/4 cup butter, 1/4 cup brown sugar and 1/2 cup cream in a sauce pan.
Over medium heat, bring to boil and boil and stir until the sugar is dissolved.
Roll your dough into a rectangle.
Check your carmel mixture.
I'm such a carmel junkie.
Butter your dough rectangle and sprinkle it with cinnamon and sugar. My husband isn't a fan of too much cinnamon, so these are cinnamon-lite rolls. But with the carmel, the amount of cinnamon really isn't important.
Roll your rectangle into a looooong roll and pinch the seam.
Pour your carmel into the baking dish.
Cut the long roll into little rolls.
Notice there are a LOT of rolls for that little pan? That was my mistake. I should have just put 9 of them in there, but I decided to do all of them.
Put 9 of the little rolls into the carmel puddle in the baking dish.
Now cover them in plastic and put them in the fridge overnight.
In the morning they'll look like this.
Bake them at 350 degrees for about 30 minutes. They'll be lovely and golden brown and the carmel will be baked into the dough. These aren't quite done. FYI.
I squished too many of them into the pan and then I didn't bake them long enough.
Now the secret to these rolls is to flip them onto foil when they are fresh out of the oven. Then the carmel that wasn't baked into the rolls is all oozy and blankets the rest of the roll.
They should look like this:
They should not look like this:
I actually put these back into the oven, just like this, because they were doughy in the middle.
I think I actually made TWO mistakes. The first one was that my starter was more watery than I anticipated and it made more dough than I wanted to. The second mistake was that I just went ahead and ignored my "too much dough" thought and put it all in the pan anyway.
But remember what I said about that carmel? How it really doesn't' matter? Well, as disappointed as I was in this batch, there were certainly no complaints. And this is my evidence of that.
Yes, I'm a carmel junkie, but I did NOT eat them all.
Have a great weekend!
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Giant sourdough instructions post!
Seems my sourdough adventures are catching. And I've been sharing some starter with some of you. And some of you who have my starter have come to me with questions.
I'll be honest. I don't know all the answers. (My husband already knows that, but don't tell my kids or my brothers.) But I have been having fun and I have yet to make a loaf that is not edible. I've come close, but with some butter, it's always been edible.
First, you need starter. I made mine. It was a process, but now it is lovely and active and I have consistent success with it. (And if you want some, all you have to do is ask!)
Making sourdough isn't all that different than making yeast bread. You still make a dough, knead it, let it rise, punch it, let it rise again, and bake it. If you've made bread before, you'll see the difference. But it's super easy and super forgiving. In fact, yesterday was the first time I actually measured anything. I'm more of a dumper I guess.
This recipe makes two loaves of bread. It's best to start the day before. But the day before you need a grand total of less than 5 minutes and a cup to a cup and a half of starter.
I store mine in a good old fashioned canning jar with plastic wrap covering it. I've read several different places that sourdough doesn't like metal and plastic containers make me crazy, so a glass canning jar it is.
In a glass container, place two cups of flour--just plain ole' white flour--and pour in two cups of water. Just plain ole' tap water. Not super cold, but not hot. Something around room temperature.
Add your starter.
Stir well.
Cover it with a piece of plastic wrap and then go about the rest of your day while it sits happily on your counter. This is your "sponge" and you are now "proofing" it.
Yes, "proofing" is an alcohol term, but it's much the same process and I'll come back to alcohol in a moment.
In a few hours your sponge will look like this.
All nice and bubbly. It might smell yeasty, too.
In a few more hours it will probably look like this.
The top layer of liquid is called hooch. This is a good healthy layer of hooch. You can pour it off or mix it in. But basically it's alcohol created by the little yeasty pets in your starter. Hooch will also tell you about the health of your starter. If it starts to turns brown or grey, your starter is bad. I haven't had that problem.
You can proof your sponge for several days if you'd like. The longer it proofs, the more sour it gets.
When you are ready to make bread (I start in the morning), stir your sponge well and set aside a portion of it--a cup to a cup and a half. If you don't, you'll be sad.
Again, before you begin to mix your bread, make sure that you have a visual like this:
Or you won't have any starter for your next sourdough adventure.
Put a piece of plastic wrap over your reserve and put it in the fridge.
A note about starter: the more you use it, the more active it is. Make sure you feed it (proof it) at least once a week to keep it happy and healthy. If you need to feed it and don't plan to make bread, you can add 1/2 cup flour and 1/2 cup water and it'll be fine.
Also, if you want to "build" your starter so you are making more loaves of bread at a time, take a few days and add your flour and water each day without baking bread until you get the amount you want.
Now you may proceed.
Pour the remaining sponge, about 3 cups, into a mixing bowl and add 3 tablespoons of oil (I use olive), 1 1/2 teaspoons salt, and 1-3 tablespoons of sugar, brown sugar or molasses. The more sugar I add, the heavier my bread is. I like to go for about 2 tablespoons, but this particular batch got a little heavy on the molasses.
Mix well.
Notice that I use my mixer. And the bowl is metal. The metal here doesn't seem to affect the sourdough, but it's only in there for about ten minutes.
Now you will start adding your flour. On this particular batch, I just used white flour. Generic white flour. But I've had really good success with wheat as well. Generally I go about half and half when I use wheat. And sometimes I toss in a few tablespoons of flax seed.
Anyway, add 4-5 cups of flour about a half a cup at a time. The final amount depends on how liquid your starter was and the flour itself.
It will eventually begin to look like this.
At this point I switch from the paddle to the dough hook and begin to knead the bread, still adding flour about 1/8-1/4 cup at a time.
The goal is to knead for about 10 minutes and end up with a good stiff dough that is still sticky but not gooey. See how it clears the sides? That's usually a pretty good sign.
After about 10 minutes, I find a glass bowl that is at least twice the size of my hunk-o-dough and drizzle some olive oil in it.
Swoosh it around to grease the majority of the bowl (I use my fingers and then rub the rest of the oil in like lotion because olive oil makes my hands feel so nice) and drop your dough in. Flip it over so the top is oiled and won't dry out.
Cover it with plastic and let it rise for a few hours.
Ideally it should rise in a warm spot. The top of your dryer if your dryer is going, on your stove top if your oven is on, or simply switch your oven on for a minute, switch it off and then place your dough in there to do its business.
In an hour or three, it should look something like this.
Now you will punch it down, knead it a few times, and it will look something like this.
Since this recipe makes two loaves, I have two loaf pans ready to go. By ready to go, I mean that I sprayed them with some vegetable spray. But, if you don't have loaf pans, you can just shape the loaves and put them on a cookie sheet.
Then I cut the dough in half . . .
Shape it into loaves . . .
Cover them (with the same piece of plastic wrap just because it seems like the responsible thing to do).
And let them alone until they double in size.
While they are doubling in size, I will tell you about my loaf pans. They are old. And well seasoned. And they belonged to my great grandma. I have fond memories of walking into her house when I was younger and smelling fresh bread. And her signature treat for us was a slice of her bread with butter and brown sugar. The other day I told Grace about that and she lit up. I'll have to actually let her have some here pretty soon.
Hey! Look!
These two beauties are ready for the oven.
Now I preheat my oven to 350 degrees. When it's done heating, I put both loaves in and set the timer for 30 minutes.
And in 30 minutes, I have these two beauties. My general test to see if they are done is to tap the top with my fingernail and listen for a hollow sound. I really try not to over-cook them because that makes them really dry.
Slide them out of the pans. Butter the tops.
Let them cool a little bit, mostly because you don't want to burn yourself when you cut them.
And then you get to reap your reward!
The ingredients:
3 cups sourdough starter
3 tablespoons oil
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1-3 tablespoons sugar, brown sugar or molasses
4-5 cups flour
Yield: 2 loaves
I'll be honest. I don't know all the answers. (My husband already knows that, but don't tell my kids or my brothers.) But I have been having fun and I have yet to make a loaf that is not edible. I've come close, but with some butter, it's always been edible.
First, you need starter. I made mine. It was a process, but now it is lovely and active and I have consistent success with it. (And if you want some, all you have to do is ask!)
Making sourdough isn't all that different than making yeast bread. You still make a dough, knead it, let it rise, punch it, let it rise again, and bake it. If you've made bread before, you'll see the difference. But it's super easy and super forgiving. In fact, yesterday was the first time I actually measured anything. I'm more of a dumper I guess.
This recipe makes two loaves of bread. It's best to start the day before. But the day before you need a grand total of less than 5 minutes and a cup to a cup and a half of starter.
I store mine in a good old fashioned canning jar with plastic wrap covering it. I've read several different places that sourdough doesn't like metal and plastic containers make me crazy, so a glass canning jar it is.
In a glass container, place two cups of flour--just plain ole' white flour--and pour in two cups of water. Just plain ole' tap water. Not super cold, but not hot. Something around room temperature.
Add your starter.
Stir well.
Cover it with a piece of plastic wrap and then go about the rest of your day while it sits happily on your counter. This is your "sponge" and you are now "proofing" it.
Yes, "proofing" is an alcohol term, but it's much the same process and I'll come back to alcohol in a moment.
In a few hours your sponge will look like this.
All nice and bubbly. It might smell yeasty, too.
In a few more hours it will probably look like this.
The top layer of liquid is called hooch. This is a good healthy layer of hooch. You can pour it off or mix it in. But basically it's alcohol created by the little yeasty pets in your starter. Hooch will also tell you about the health of your starter. If it starts to turns brown or grey, your starter is bad. I haven't had that problem.
You can proof your sponge for several days if you'd like. The longer it proofs, the more sour it gets.
When you are ready to make bread (I start in the morning), stir your sponge well and set aside a portion of it--a cup to a cup and a half. If you don't, you'll be sad.
Again, before you begin to mix your bread, make sure that you have a visual like this:
Or you won't have any starter for your next sourdough adventure.
Put a piece of plastic wrap over your reserve and put it in the fridge.
A note about starter: the more you use it, the more active it is. Make sure you feed it (proof it) at least once a week to keep it happy and healthy. If you need to feed it and don't plan to make bread, you can add 1/2 cup flour and 1/2 cup water and it'll be fine.
Also, if you want to "build" your starter so you are making more loaves of bread at a time, take a few days and add your flour and water each day without baking bread until you get the amount you want.
Now you may proceed.
Pour the remaining sponge, about 3 cups, into a mixing bowl and add 3 tablespoons of oil (I use olive), 1 1/2 teaspoons salt, and 1-3 tablespoons of sugar, brown sugar or molasses. The more sugar I add, the heavier my bread is. I like to go for about 2 tablespoons, but this particular batch got a little heavy on the molasses.
Mix well.
Notice that I use my mixer. And the bowl is metal. The metal here doesn't seem to affect the sourdough, but it's only in there for about ten minutes.
Now you will start adding your flour. On this particular batch, I just used white flour. Generic white flour. But I've had really good success with wheat as well. Generally I go about half and half when I use wheat. And sometimes I toss in a few tablespoons of flax seed.
Anyway, add 4-5 cups of flour about a half a cup at a time. The final amount depends on how liquid your starter was and the flour itself.
It will eventually begin to look like this.
At this point I switch from the paddle to the dough hook and begin to knead the bread, still adding flour about 1/8-1/4 cup at a time.
The goal is to knead for about 10 minutes and end up with a good stiff dough that is still sticky but not gooey. See how it clears the sides? That's usually a pretty good sign.
After about 10 minutes, I find a glass bowl that is at least twice the size of my hunk-o-dough and drizzle some olive oil in it.
Swoosh it around to grease the majority of the bowl (I use my fingers and then rub the rest of the oil in like lotion because olive oil makes my hands feel so nice) and drop your dough in. Flip it over so the top is oiled and won't dry out.
Cover it with plastic and let it rise for a few hours.
Ideally it should rise in a warm spot. The top of your dryer if your dryer is going, on your stove top if your oven is on, or simply switch your oven on for a minute, switch it off and then place your dough in there to do its business.
In an hour or three, it should look something like this.
Now you will punch it down, knead it a few times, and it will look something like this.
Since this recipe makes two loaves, I have two loaf pans ready to go. By ready to go, I mean that I sprayed them with some vegetable spray. But, if you don't have loaf pans, you can just shape the loaves and put them on a cookie sheet.
Then I cut the dough in half . . .
Shape it into loaves . . .
Cover them (with the same piece of plastic wrap just because it seems like the responsible thing to do).
And let them alone until they double in size.
While they are doubling in size, I will tell you about my loaf pans. They are old. And well seasoned. And they belonged to my great grandma. I have fond memories of walking into her house when I was younger and smelling fresh bread. And her signature treat for us was a slice of her bread with butter and brown sugar. The other day I told Grace about that and she lit up. I'll have to actually let her have some here pretty soon.
Hey! Look!
These two beauties are ready for the oven.
Now I preheat my oven to 350 degrees. When it's done heating, I put both loaves in and set the timer for 30 minutes.
And in 30 minutes, I have these two beauties. My general test to see if they are done is to tap the top with my fingernail and listen for a hollow sound. I really try not to over-cook them because that makes them really dry.
Slide them out of the pans. Butter the tops.
Let them cool a little bit, mostly because you don't want to burn yourself when you cut them.
And then you get to reap your reward!
The ingredients:
3 cups sourdough starter
3 tablespoons oil
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1-3 tablespoons sugar, brown sugar or molasses
4-5 cups flour
Yield: 2 loaves
Don't limit yourself to JUST bread. We make pancakes, biscuits, and these beauties:
Sourdough cinnamon carmel buns. They didn't last long. I ought to make another batch tonight.
Happy Baking!!
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