Bible Belt Medicine

           Living in the Land of a Thousand Churches has its advantages and disadvantages.  For example, when disaster strikes, they put all their manpower and resources to helping those affected.  But they can also breed a culture of religious fervor, and even fanaticism.

          I used to buy into the zeal, believed unconditionally in prophecy, faith healing, the Rapture, and many other Christian ideas which I find myself now re-thinking in my more experienced adulthood.  But for those Christians reading this who are sputtering in shock, rest assured, I have neither abandoned God, nor have I lost faith.  It's a healthy part of one's natural and spiritual life to look at things differently, to ask questions, to go looking for something deeper than what you've always taken for granted.

        On a recent road trip with my husband, I saw a billboard advertising a Christian faith conference that had to do with mental health.  For one hopeful moment, I thought how wonderful it was that churches were finally opening hearts and minds to those with mental illness.  And then I saw the byline: How to find Peace Without Pills.

        So close, and yet so far.

       You see, the problem with this angle is a fundamental lack of understanding about mental illness, its causes, symptoms, and treatments.  All of which are widely varied depending on the individual and the diagnosis.  I myself was diagnosed with depression as a kid, and confirmed to be struggling with post-partum depression after both my daughters were born.

        I'm well aware of the stigma that comes from having a mental illness.  It's the reason I went to great lengths to hide it when I was young, and why I make a point to be open and honest about it now.  I stay as well-informed as I can about the science of mental illness, looking at brain scans of depressed individuals next to healthy ones and feeling reassured that this isn't all "in my imagination".  I've learned about chemical imbalances and what factors decide my dopamine levels.

       The worst part of the billboard was that while it had a faint air of compassion, it seemed to imply that those like me just don't have enough faith.  We haven't completed the right Bible study or attended the right church service, or been whacked on the forehead by Benny Hinn.  So as we drove past that well-meaning but very condescending billboard, I muttered the only thing I could think of:

       "Fuck you."  (Don't worry, the girls weren't in the car).

       Yes, that's right, fuck you.

       I have spent years, YEARS first trying to figure out what I was doing wrong to bring this dark cloud over my mind and emotions, and then more time getting treatment until I could claw my way to some semblance of a balanced life.  I have been to doctors who have studied and worked for years to help people like me, while you were praying for magical healing or casting out imaginary demons.

       I'm sorry, but it's just not enough.  Not when you're barely eating and tossing around all night trying to sleep.  Certainly not while you're pregnant and all this is going on.  I prayed my ass off, took herbal supplements, did almost every fool thing I could think of to turn it around.  I thought I was a horrible mother for even thinking about going to a doctor and asking for medication, but being a pregnant, starving insomniac was tearing me apart from the inside.

       Think about it like this:  You wouldn't tell someone with cancer or lymphoma or fibromialgia that their illness was "all in their mind".  You wouldn't look down your nose at them for taking medicine or receiving therapy to help them function normally.

       So why the hell would you smugly suggest all I need is a little faith?

       One of my favorite comedians, Chonda Pierce, told a story once about a sweet old lady with Coke-bottle glasses who came up to her after a show one time.  Chonda also suffers from depression, and also takes medication to help her cope.  So when this well-meaning Christian lady told her she didn't need the pills and just to have faith, Chonda responded by quipping, "Okay, take off your glasses and drive home...Have faith!"

        Having a mental illness is a constant wrestling match with one's own thoughts, making each day a full-on battle to get anything done.  I've avoided returning phone calls for days because I've been afraid of failing projects with those I'm working with.  My mind tries to defeat me before I even begin.

        And because I have a family now, I will pop whatever damn pills I need to help me be the best mom and wife and woman I can be.  I know they don't magically  make my life easier, but they do give me something to fight the darkness with.  A mental battleaxe, if you will.

        I still believe deeply that God can do all things, but He will not do all things for us.  He is not some mystical genie in the sky that grants wishes, but a guiding light and voice in our lives.

        So the next time your church has the idea to help people with mental illness, try and connect them with treatments and services they need as well as pray for them.  Better yet, smile at them, talk with them, get to know them and love them for who they are.

       Treat them like human beings, instead of potential converts to your church.

        And of course, if you ever have questions about what it's like living with depression, or want to know how to get help for yourself or someone else, I'm happy to help.  And if you've read this far, thanks for listening. 

Notes From the Bunker

Lace cookies= Epic Fail

           My mother's day present from my own wonderful mother was four hours of babysitting while I was given free time to do what I wanted.  The condition being that I had to spend at least half of that four hours out of the house.  While it does sound appealing, what I've been secretly craving all week is some hard alone time in my "bunker", aka bedroom. 

           Yes folks, it's an introvert's paradise in here; Netflix, comfy bed, second cup of coffee to be sipped leisurely, my trusty laptop, and blessed solitude.  Outside this room the world may be bustling and hustling, but here everything is damn peaceful and cozy.  This is where I get my spirit back, where I let all the crying, clinging, whining, and yelling slide off into oblivion as the coffee slides down my throat. 

           People always jump to "just get out of the house!" as the perfect solution for exhausted moms, when the truth is, sometimes we just want a little peace and relaxation in our own house.  No kids.  With snacks that we don't have to share.  I love my time away dearly, just spent yesterday afternoon meeting with my fiber arts group and having a ball.  But today, I want to be home, in my socks and yoga pants, no bra, teeth not brushed. 

           Tonight I'm taking my four-year-old to her first play, a local theater production of "Mary Poppins".  There will be lots of primping and fussing later, excited giggles and oohs and aaahs. But for the next couple of hours, it's 100% Mama time.  Now if you'll excuse me, the kiddos have found my hiding spot and I must give them kisses before Grandma whisks them away. 

           Tootles!

The Pinkeye Proposal

          Hello, there it's been awhile. How've you been?

    Me? Oh, just peachy.  Perpetual exhaustion of both body and mind is grueling, but not impossible to live with.  If you know how and when to cut yourself a break, that is.  And I have had to cut myself a lot of those little breaks lately. 

    Self-care seems to be gaining in popularity as a concept that is crucial to a healthy lifestyle.  We moms have known this for ages, as is evident in the old saying "If Momma ain't happy, nobody's happy".  While the 21st-century ideal of Supermom persists, such a ridiculous standard is both unrealistic and potentially harmful.  One can't do it all, take care of home and family, and career, and keep up one's appearance without something slipping through the cracks.  And that "something" is usually Mommy's sanity. 

    So, what's a mom to do in this conundrum?  I've found the answer usually has something to do with a private shower, chocolate consumption, an adult movie or tv show, or some combination of the above.  In the ongoing battle with depression, fighting my own brain daily is already exhausting without adding the cute but wild antics of two small children.  Something's gotta give, and that's okay.

     Today, that something giving is my four-year-old daughter's dance class, which she loves tremendously.  She was just diagnosed with pinkeye this morning, and although the doctor said it was clearing up enough for her to attend dance class, I am going to keep her home.  I am too damn exhausted and stressed to even dream of loading both girls plus baggage again today, and really it's the polite thing to do.  Nobody wants their kid near the one whose eye is oozing boogers.

   So I made myself a proposal, that if I muscled out a little more productivity by getting the kid's eye drops and making sure she takes them (stay tuned for highlights from THAT wrestling match), I can cut myself some slack the rest of the day.  And really, this is a very reasonable offer I made myself.  After all, I work full days plus erratic nights getting up with a toddler who is very attached to my breasts. 

    I'm not here to moan about how hard I've got it, because really I'm doing pretty well.  I don't have to obsess over our bank account balance before every shopping trip, all our bills are paid in a timely manner, and our health insurance is royally awesome.  So what's the harm in a pajama day at home, drinking cold coffee and knitting?

     The Supermom cape can go hang itself.

What's Scarier Than Halloween?

            It's the time of year when leaves fall, temperatures drop, and pumpkin everything shows up.  It's also the time when lots of ghosts, goblins, and ghoulies show up in stores, on lawns, and especially on TV.  I don't pay much attention to it anymore, with the exception of planning costumes for myself and my girls, and the occasional trip to the pumpkin patch.

            But lately something strange has been happening, and I feel I have to weigh in.  So far as I can tell, Halloween is the only holiday when some Christians are bent on separating themselves from its traditions and customs.  Most cite the day's pagan origins and say that the celebration of such is akin to devil worship, making every trick 'or treater in a Paw Patrol costume a practitioner of evil.  While I understand the reasons and in no way scoff at anyone's decision to celebrate Halloween or not, the logic is a little hard to follow. 

            Especially when you remember that Easter and Christmas used to be pagan holidays, too. 

           The historical context is simple: Early clergy wanted to draw converts to Christ, so they merged existing pagan celebrations of the spring equinox and winter solstice (Beltane and Yule), with celebrations of Christ's resurrection and birth, respectively.  Which is why we still have Easter bunnies, egg hunts, Christmas trees, and Yule logs.  By the same logic of avoidance, you would have to eschew all these activities as well, because celebrating anything pagan is evil, right?

          "Halloween is evil, but leave the Christ in Christmas!" Right.

           The problem here is not in black and white, but a very fuzzy grey that makes it clear there are far more pressing matters Christians should be addressing.  If God sees into our hearts, then I can't imagine He would get hung up on taking the kids trick 'or treating when one out of three kids in America goes to bed hungry at night.  In fact, I think the Lord cares much more about how we treat each other every day, not on petty details of who dresses up as what. 

          Especially this year, there are far more frightening dangers lurking in our world.  Hunger, war, pain, suffering, and all the darkest and most vile crimes humanity is capable of, all have me much more scared than fake vampire teeth and carved pumpkins.  Only light can penetrate darkness, and the best way to do it is to let our words and actions be filled with love and kindness.  We can't do it by nitpicking at each other over which holidays to celebrate or which day of the week is the real Sabbath. 

           Don't we have better things to tackle? Like the people suffering in silence in our communities, the broken, the hurting, the lost?  Our first mission, our only mission, should be to show such mighty love to these, that no darkness can survive. 

            If you think a bunch of plastic spiders or fake blood is strong enough to defeat the light of love, then you seriously need to re-examine your faith.  And read up on the true history of your favorite holidays before you turn your nose up at others.  Because while you were "educating" everyone on the evils of Halloween, you probably missed an opportunity to really help someone.

Tip # 3- Let Your Kids See You Cry (Really, it's Okay)

                I wish to all that is holy, that people would stop expecting mothers to be perfect all the time.  I wish there were never any condescending smiles and fake sympathy from childless people watching you herd small children through the grocery store, sweaty and bedraggled as they whine and stomp like candy-craving dinosaurs.

                How many of us would come through endless round-the-clock parenting of unreasonable little people unscathed? Not very many, and those who do usually hire help.  I haven't curled my hair or bothered with everyday makeup in years, and I am well aware that my new mom curves fill out these yoga pants more than they used to.  In fact, I am painfully aware of it. Believe me, I would love nothing more than to put myself together and clean house, finding time to cook something homemade and domestically spectacular as a Norman Rockwell painting.  .

               Trying to please everyone is exhausting and heart-breaking.  So in order to survive, we have to let some things go.  Designer fashions, leisurely morning coffee, hair and makeup primping, all have been dropped in favor of making sure my children are fed, clean, and happy.  It's a massive task we've undertaken, preparing the next generation for a world that is horrifyingly broken and scary. 

So why is everyone surprised when we break down and cry once in awhile?

              If you're a mom, you've probably heard such well-meaning but condescending phrases such as "You'll miss all this someday," or "What do you have to be stressed about?", or my personal favorite "Oh, but the time goes by fast!".  Um, no, no it doesn't.  Not when you're in the trenches every single day, no breaks, no days off.  The sleep deprivation alone is enough to break one's spirit, thank you very much.

              And while most of the time we soldier on, putting on our tired smiles when asked if the kids are "keeping us busy", inside we are breaking down.  We want to scream, cry, laugh insanely, and long for a deep, reassuring hug from someone, anyone who sees our struggle.

              When I first became a mom, I was very careful not to cry in front of my daughter.  I would put her down in her crib to scream for a few minutes so I could hide in the laundry room and cry hysterically for 5 minutes.  But then, it became too much to try and keep up a front for my child and husband as well as everyone else.

               So I cried.

               I cried in the car, in the bathroom, while cleaning, fixing dinner, or most often curled up in the fetal position on the couch.  And when my sweet toddler would ask Mommy what was wrong, I would look right at her, smile, and tell her the truth- that Mommy needs to cry once in awhile to feel better, even if she doesn't have an owie.  Nowadays, Evie doesn't get worried and just brings Mommy tissues.

               You see, the act of crying is a release of tension, not a sign of weakness.  It's letting off the extra stress and toxic crud that makes us break down from the inside out.  Don't we always feel better after, more in control?  Of course! Then why should any mom feel ashamed for crying?

               And when our children see that we are not ashamed to cry, that it's a normal, healthy action, they won't be ashamed to do it, either.  Instead, they will learn that it's a perfectly acceptable display of one's feelings, and might even reach out to comfort those they see doing it.  It's at the heart of the most important lesson I could ever teach them:

              Kindness matters.

Deep Fried Therapy (Zucchini and Potato Pancakes)

             The past few days I've bounced back and forth from a state of Zen-like calm and contentment, to a deranged ranting shrew who forgets to brush her teeth or put on deodorant.  Now that I'm finally seeing a therapist to try and resolve some personal issues that manifest in weird physical compulsions, I've become much more mindful of my moods.

              It definitely goes beyond post-baby hormones when the bottoms of your feet look like raw meat all the time due to incessant skin picking.  I know, a lot of people do these nervous little habits, but not many of them make their feet bleed at least every other day.  So, therapy it is.  And while it does feel good to be actively working on said issues, with it comes the ever-annoying challenge of realizing that my life (and in particular the two small insane people running it), are almost completely out of my control.


             That having been established, we move onto the things I can control, one of them being
dinner.  I try to cook often enough so that we're not subsisting on PBJs and Cheerios all the time, yet not so much that the resulting kitchen mess gets overwhelming.  I also like to save money, so in comes two of my favorite filler veggies- potatoes and zucchini.

             We had a ginormous zucchini given to us by my mother, who'd gotten it from a friend at church.  And I had a hankering for something savory and fried, so....Latkes!  And in my cherished cast-iron skillet, because it had been awhile and I didn't want to neglect the poor dear too long.

The most time-consuming part of this was shredding the zucchini and spuds on a mandoline, but putting on Zootopia for the girls helped keep them happy in the meantime.  Some minced fresh onion and garlic, eggs, flour, salt, pepper, baking powder, and that was that.

By now I was half expecting the girls to take turns doing their usual clingy/whiny routine and drive me up the wall, but they were actually...good!  Angels, even! So, feeling like a happy little Southern mama, I fried up batches of the latkes until they were nice and golden brown, and made enough to eat and save for later.

Comfort food can do wonders, and this borrowed Jewish classic is no exception.  A little sour cream and sprinkled paprika, and I was in Heaven.  Even the three-year-old gobbled hers up with ketchup while the baby careened around in her walker and terrorized our bare feet.

For this exact time, on this exact day, I'm doing alright.  Some days will be better, some worse, but there will always be good food and good company to see me through.  I hope these little golden-fried darlings will make you smile the way they did for me!

Zucchini and Potato Pancakes (Original recipe by Joy Wilson)

Ingredients:

4 TB olive oil (I use vegetable because it has a higher smoking point)
1/4 cup finely diced onion
1 garlic clove, minced
2 cups grated zucchini
2 cups peeled and grated potato
1 tsp salt
2 large eggs
1/3 cup flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
sour cream or creme fraiche for serving
paprika and ground cumin for dusting

1)  Place a medium-sized skillet over medium heat.  Heat 2 TB of oil and add onions.  Cook until translucent, then add garlic and cook for 1 more minute.  Set onions and garlic aside in a small bowl.

2)  Place zucchini and potato with 1/2 tsp of salt in a colander over a medium bowl.  Let it sit for 10 minutes, then press down with a clean towel, squeezing out excess water.

3)  In a medium bowl, whisk eggs.  Whisk in the flour, baking powder, and the rest of the salt.  Add the cooked onion, garlic, potato, and zucchini, and stir together until well combined.

4) Place a rack in the upper third of the oven  and preheat to 200 degrees.  The oven will keep the pancakes warm as they're being cooked in batches.

5) In the medium saute pan you used to cook the onions, heat 2 TB oil over medium heat.  When the oil is heated, drop in the batter by rounded tablespoonfulls.  Flatten gently with a fork.  Cook about 2 minutes or until golden brown around the edges, then flip and cook for another 2 minutes until golden brown.  Place on a plate and keep warm in the oven until ready to serve.

6)  Serve with sour cream or creme fraiche and a dusting of paprika and ground cumin.  These are best served immediately, but can be cooked and kept in an airtight container in the fridge.  Reheat in a lightly greased saute pan the following day.

Beach Day

Sleepyhead on Aisle 6!

         I need a beach day.

         I live in a landlocked state with some gorgeous lakes and rivers and mountains, but I need a beach day.  Nothing fancy or wild, just a lounge chair, bucket of cold drinks, a good book, and bare feet in the sand.

         A lot of moms fantasize about this, because location is key.  Think about it, when was the last time you felt overwhelmed or depressed at the beach? Never, that's what.  Something about an endless stretch of sand and waves invites calm and reflection, and boy could this mama use some.

        Until that day comes, I am doing my best to take little vacations where I can find them.  Drinking coffee while the baby sleeps and the preschooler watches cartoons? Heaven.  Both girls asleep while Daddy and I watch a grownup TV show? Bliss.  Dinner and a movie with no kids in tow? Parent nirvana.

        Yesterday my mom and the girls and I surprised my little sister on her 5-year sober anniversary.  I was exhausted, the baby was holding a low-grade fever from teething, but I was determined to get my butt out of the house and have some fun for a change.  She and her girlfriend have a tropical Hawaiian hand soap that smelled like coconut, fruit, salt water, and I swear sunscreen.  For a blessed minute, I was on a beach baking in the sun with a fruity drink in my hand. 

         And then we went to Chuck E. Cheese.

       I haven't been there since the late 80's, and all I remember is the creepy robot animals in the stage show.  We had a good time, aside from the pervasive smell of cheap cheese and grease.  The games are a LOT more sophisticated than the ones I remember, but it was still fun to see Evie going nuts and making friends with every kid she ran across. 

      You know what they still have there? Skee-ball! I sucked at that as a kid, and I am AWESOME at it now.  I could've done it for hours, feeding token after token into the machine like a slots junkie in Vegas. 

      But eventually the kiddos got tired, and I had to leave my beloved Skee-ball and start the hour and a half drive home.  The first 30 minutes of which were dominated by a screaming tantrum from the little girl pictured above. (Trust me, she wasn't nearly this cute.  I wanted to slap her multiple times across the face.)  In the middle of my exhaustion and frustration, I went numb.  I wanted to pull over, get out of the car, and sit by the side of the highway until things got better. 

     It's not the single meltdown that gets to you when you're a parent.  It's the accumulation of days, weeks, months of it, until finally one just beats you down to nothing.  Hence, my need for a beach day.  No kids, not even my husband, just me, my thoughts, and sandy toes.  But since that would require at least 12 hours of driving, the best I can do for now is hide in the bedroom and confess all this to you. 

     If you're reading this, that is. 

The New Normal

           Hello, dears! It's been an eventful couple of weeks for Team Norris.  Not only is the three-year-old almost fully potty trained, but my favorite railroad hunk managed to get himself a job working in a small yard about 50 miles south of Mena.  This means we've been fortunate to enjoy two relatively smooth weeks of regularly scheduled days. 

           Why is this such a big freaking deal? Because up until now, our "normal" involved calls at any time of the day or night, and a fair bit of anxiety trying to predict the completely randomness of railroad jobs.  The yard job is one of the very few exceptions, and usually these jobs are dominated by guys with more seniority.  However, this smaller yard is a pretty long distance for most of them, and luckily nobody else bid on it.  So instead of middle-of-the-night calls and constantly checking train lists, Jon gets to wake up every morning at the same time, drive to work, and come home in the afternoon or sometimes early evening. 

             It's been a metaphorical acid trip, getting onto a routine that most families take for granted.  We get to have dinner together every night, spend time with our girls, and *GASP* actually PLAN fun stuff for his days off! 

             You have to understand, until now, even birthdays and holidays were up in the air.  We were in a state of constant readiness and flexibility, and it can get damn frustrating.  But now? I can actually plan my day out, plan dinners for the week, and rest easy knowing that the man I love will be pulling into the driveway before the sun goes down.  Usually with an ecstatic three-year-old bombarding the door to get a hug from Daddy. 

              It's been an interesting experiment, shifting our sense of "normal" to this 9-5 life.  But, praise God, I can already see a positive difference.  We're both still tired all the time, of course, but now we don't get as stressed or snippy with each other.  We can plan the future a little bit more, because there's no guesswork as to whether or not he'll be bumped off a board.  And those two days off? Oh, baby, is it gooood!

               We've been at the mercy of the railroad for so long, that I almost don't know what to do with this blessing of Normal.  Enjoy it, I suppose, even though it may not be permanent.  Many railroad families still struggle with the odd hours and long separation, and not all of them can take the strain.  In fact, this whole thing feels almost too easy compared to the old frantic pace. 

                My point is, it's given me more of those precious moments of genuine happiness.  Moments where I'm not pining after who I used to be, or things I'd rather be doing, but really savoring the sights and sounds of my growing family.  I still have tough days, and most mornings I'm still the walking dead. 

                But at least I know he'll be home.

Watch Out For Flying Mortars

              Today has been one of the roughest I've faced in a long time.  After only about 2, maybe 3 hours of scattered sleep last night, I slept nearly all morning.  That is, while being woken every couple of hours to feed an infant.  It was like a perfect storm of exhaustion, stress, and no way to change the fact that my husband's work had kept him tied up for almost 2 full days with me running point on the house and kids. 

               I haven't had kid-free time in awhile.  More than a week since I've been in my garden alone, even for half an hour.  My quick 10-minute trips out there to water and scan for problems don't count.  And I can feel the strain, my obsessive mind taking over telling me that if I don't move my ass and get ground prepared soon, I will lose those beautiful tomato and pepper plants in the greenhouse.  Having been planning this shit since before Christmas, it frustrates me to no end to think that my work might be for nothing. 

               Now, I've already eaten some decent salad and used herbs out of the garden this year, but it's far from over.  In fact, the main event is just getting underway.  But I'm very limited in my time and ability to knuckle down and really bust sod when two small people are constantly needing me every moment.  No, literally.  Every.  Single.  Moment.  Every.  Day.

              I keep sacrificing over and over because I think it's the right thing to do, but now the stakes are getting high.  After Jon got back from errands with McDonald's for me (which I ate at 3pm, because I hadn't had a chance to get away from the baby long enough to eat yet.), I couldn't stop crying.  I was crying nonstop and trying to eat my cold french fries and double cheeseburger, all the while mad at myself because I knew he has to go back to work.

               The best way I can describe one of these days is a violent inner battle.  Not all cute like Inside Out, but with blood and guts spraying in the wind, bullets whizzing past, and mortars flying around. 

                I told my husband this was going to be my new code phrase for a hard depression battle-

"The mortars are flying."  

            Dear readers, depression is REAL.  And it is a BITCH to deal with when people are counting on you.  All you want to do is hole up and hide somewhere, eat and do whatever you have to in order to feel like a human being again and not a piece of trash.  I know I usually try to end on a more positive note, but I do not have the mental capacity or the energy today.

            So hopefully the next time I post something, it will be a little more happy.  Probably a good recipe, or cute pictures of my kids, or tips on how to save money with one income and multiple kids.  Something useful.  But for now, I need this space to be in my own head, to fight the battle until I feel I can continue for awhile longer. 

            Until then, I hope you can forgive my somber tone. 

Human Boppy Pillow

Butter king lettuce, garnet rose lettuce, and nasturtium from the garden.

           It's probably some complex algorithm, but lately things have a tendency to pop up in my Facebook feed right when I need them.  Recently it was a list entitled "19 Reasons Why I Can't Possibly Lose the Baby Weight Right Now" (http://mom.me/baby/30202-reasons-i-cant-possibly-lose-baby-weight-right-now/) 

Another gorgeous salad shot!

           Some were funny, others deeper, but the one that stuck with me was #2 "My spare tire provides a nice cushion for the baby, like a human Boppy pillow".  Much as I hate my fat pouch, it does seem to fit perfectly when Katie and I get our snuggle on.  Which is often.  Insomnia still wreaks havoc on me some nights, and she makes a wonderful human teddy bear.  Anyway, the point is that having the weight on is okay for now, but sooner or later, it'll have to go.

           To that end, I'm cranking out as many veggies and fresh herbs as possible in this year's garden, and I'm proud to say that my first real salad harvest was beautiful AND delicious.  And I didn't even come close to stripping the lettuce plants bare!  Just took a few leaves from each, and before I knew it, I had me a basket full.  The nasturtiums weren't quite established enough for me to pick more than a few leaves, but I couldn't resist their unique peppery taste. 

 

        And what could be better for a fresh, home-grown salad than a homemade dressing to go on it? A few weeks ago, Jon and I stopped at a specialty olive oil and vinegar store in Hot Springs, where they infuse different flavors into the oil.  We bought a little bottle of blood orange oil to try, and I used maybe a teaspoon in a third of a cup of regular EVOO.  A little red wine vinegar, dijon mustard, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and WHOA NELLY.  It was light, delicious, with a taste of cirtus that blooms on the tongue a half second into a bite.  Forget ranch, forget thousand island, it would be sacrilege to do anything more.

As for the main course, I had a few sirloin pork chops I'd bought that day, and decided to keep it simple.  A little salt and pepper, then I dipped them in egg and breaded them in panko crumbs before frying 'em up in vegetable oil.  When they turned a nice golden brown, I put them on a cookie sheet and finished them in the oven for 10-15 minutes.  You could get them cooked through in the skillet, but the breading would be dark, almost burnt.  Hence, the oven.

As for a side, I immediately thought we needed potatoes, but I was sick of the ordinary mash.  Plus, this was supposed to be a slightly healthier meal celebrating my awesome home-grown salad, so sweet potatoes were the key.  Of course, I did put a generous amount of butter and cinnamon in there, but that's beside the point. *wink wink*

Not to tease, but I usually make a cream gravy with fresh sage to go over the chops.  With so much going on, there wasn't a need this time, but I promise to try and include it in the future.  Even without gravy, this turned out to be a delicious Southern-inspired meal that my Texas-born husband and mother-in-law heartily approved of.  Not bad for a Yankee from New Hampshire, am I right?

I suppose I could knuckle down and get on a gluten-free diet kick, or Slimfasts, or Weight Watchers or something like that.  But honestly? I barely remember to brush my teeth and take my medication most days, let alone count carbs and calories.  Besides, it seems kind of silly to diet while breastfeeding.  I mean, come on, I have to feed a BABY with those calories! The baby wants chocolate, not me!  Seriously, we moms are too hard on ourselves when it comes to weight.  But once in awhile, we can still indulge a little without feeling too terribly guilty.  So get yourself a little Southern comfort food, and throw away the bathroom scale.  Life's too short to spend it sucking down diet drinks and nibbling kale. 

Sorry for the lack of a measured recipe, by the way.  This is one of those meals I've done so many times, I don't measure anymore.  But if you have questions or comments, give me a shout on the comments section.  It's been too darn quiet around here anyway.

Bread, Part Two

          I almost forgot about the post I made awhile back about bread.  With the weather getting warm, I haven't been as inclined to fire up the oven as I am when it's cold outside.  But there was a portion of dough in the fridge, and Evie was at her grandma's for the afternoon, so I decided it was time for fresh bread with dinner.

          This is also the time of year when my late father-in-law is on my mind a lot.  Mike was a wonderfully kind, loving guy who always seemed to be smiling or laughing about something.  He was also one of those few individuals I've mentioned who radiate Christ's love like a holy wood stove.  He also died in the spring of 2012, a week before I discovered I was pregnant.  Every time I see spring flowers, I remember the way I first saw them after Mike had passed; fresh, saturated with color and scent, and so damn beautiful it was like they didn't know he was gone.

This was one of Mike's favorite Bread songs, and it's still one of ours.  I always feel like crying a little when I hear it.  Not a painful cry, but a good refreshing one.  I really would give anything to have Mike back in our lives, but until we do meet again, there's the comforting power of music.  And good food. 

Chicken piccatta, minus the capers, with fresh oregano.

The second half of bread making is as easy as the first, using the method I started outlining in the first Bread post.  This one picks up where that one left off, after the initial counter rise once the dough has had some time to chill out in the fridge.

It's not essential that the dough be cold, but it is a lot easier to handle and shape that way.  So first you pull the dough container out, sprinkle flour liberally on top, and dust your own hands with some flour as well.  Then, for a medium-sized loaf, you take out a grapefruit-sized hunk of dough (if it's stretchy
and hard to tear, just cut it with scissors).  



Here's the tricky step, called cloaking.  You hold the dough in one hand, then use your other to gently sweep the doughy surface out and under, from the top on down.  Rotate the ball a quarter turn, then do it again.  You repeat this for about 30-45 seconds, then rest the loaf on a prepped pizza peel.  I use cornmeal on mine, but you can use flour if you like.  The main idea is to have enough on the peel to keep the loaf from sticking when you go to slide it off.

 Once you've got the loaf shaped and on the peel, it needs to proof, which is just a fancy word for rising.  While it's rising, go ahead and heat the oven up to 450 degrees Fahrenheit, with two racks inside; Top one for the baking stone, bottom for a broiler pan or similar metal pan. 

After about 30 minutes, the dough will be ready to bake.  Dust the top liberally with flour, then slash it with a serrated knife.  You can do a simple cross cut, or a tic-tac-toe pattern or scallop it, it doesn't have to be fancy.  Then, get a cup of water ready nearby.  First, slide the loaf off the peel and onto the hot stone (this takes practice-believe me!), then dump the cup of water into the hot pan and quickly close the oven door.  The pan will hiss and steam, but you want that.  Steam helps the crust to form. 


 Set the timer for 30 minutes, and watch the magic! After 30 minutes, check the loaf by thumping the crust.  If it sounds kind of hollow, it's done.  If not, let it go another 5-10 minutes.  It's always better to overbake and get the crust a little more brown than to be chewing on a doughy, half-gooey bread. 

When it's finished, take it out with the peel (again, this takes practice!), and put it on a rack to cool. Then grab a bread knife and some butter and honey, and Cut.  That.  Sucker.  Open.  I promise you'll never eat store bread the same way again, ever.  That, and this will make your house smell amazing. 

This is the regular white artisan bread, but there are hundreds of variations involving different types of flour, herbs, nuts, you name it.  For more information from the Artisan Bread in 5 website, click here:Artisan Bread in 5 Minutes a Day

The best part, is that homemade bread is good with just about anything you can think of.  Soups, salads, roasts, pasta, or even by itself.  We've spent many an evening making passes through the kitchen to snag another slice of jam-covered goodness! 

When things are going well, or poorly, or only so-so, bread is a wonderful constant.  It not only fuels us, but keeps us grounded to the earth, our family, our foundations of life.  As a kid, I always imagined the manna from heaven must be sweet like cake, but I think it was probably more like this.  You'll have to decide for yourself.

Much love from the kitchen!

Simple Gifts

          I was going to post something else tonight.  I was going to post about the usual family stuff, along with photos and a recipe for the panko-breaded pork chops I made for dinner.  And I will, another time.  But my heart is pulling me in another direction, towards a man and a particular brand of faith in God that has influenced my spirituality since childhood.

         Let me back up and explain.  After my mother left my father when I was six, we lived with my aunt and uncle and five cousins for a year before moving into a tiny 1-bedroom apartment in Milford, New Hampshire.  We'd been attending a couple of churches before then, and now started going to First Baptist Church there in Milford.  It was different from the Baptist churches I've been to in the South, closer to the roots of American Christianity.  A little more "old school".  It didn't sport fancy screens to display worship lyrics, or even really have a worship band.  It had a grand, beautiful pipe organ that reached all the way to the ceiling, wooden pews with long, dusty-smelling cushions, and a giant teddy bear of a man for a pastor.

           Especially from a kid's perspective, Pastor Miller was huge and dignified, almost stern looking.  My sister Mandi told our mom she couldn't invite him to dinner because he was too big to fit through the door.  But the first time I ever heard him laugh put those preconceived ideas to shame.  He didn't laugh; he boomed with a deep, rich laughter that almost matched his singing voice.  He'd once served in the Marines, and sang in their choir.  So every Sunday, you could hear his opera-worthy voice accompanying the joyful tones of the pipe organ in worship.  He was also a police officer, and would always smile and wave from his patrol car when we saw him in town.

            Like pretty much everyone at that church, Pastor Miller never failed to give me and my sister big bear hugs at church.  As a child of divorced parents, I savored every single one, because I knew without question that this man loved and accepted our family, regardless of where we'd come from.  He wasn't a man who flaunted his clergy status, but went about his ministry with a simple brand of love and kindness that I'm still chasing to this day.

            He spoke the same words of welcome and benediction nearly every Sunday, but always with the same intonation of goodwill to the people he was praying over.  I distinctly remember one funeral service he performed, the father of my best friend Shana.  He was a Hindu from Ghana who'd converted to Christianity and then died of kidney failure.  I wasn't sure what to think of his relatives who'd come to mourn; they were mostly Hindu, and a couple of them liked to wail really loudly as part of that mourning.  Pastor Miller offered a communion service that day, as always saying that we were free to partake or free not to.  But here's the thing; he always said it with a gentleness of spirit that said you were welcome regardless of whether or not you took it.

           He was so warm and understanding that day, that the memory has become a gift in my heart.  I've only met a precious few examples in my life of genuine Christlike love, and only one or two of those have been pastors.  If you've ever met these people, you've seen this pure, unfettered love and compassion pouring from them like spring water.  To Pastor Miller, it wasn't the formal trappings and rituals of a church that mattered, or how many people he converted, or even how much got put in the collection plate.  To him, it was people who mattered.  And he was so like Christ in that respect, that I find myself wishing I'd paid closer attention to what he said from the pulpit.

           I hadn't seen or spoken to Pastor Miller in 16 years, but when I heard he'd died today, I still felt like crying.  Even though he's home with the Lord now, I feel bad for the people still here on earth that they don't get to hear his belly laugh or know the profound words of love, mercy, and grace he gave to the people around him.  Hopefully he can read this from Heaven, and know that I'm thankful for the love he showed us and the spiritual wisdom he imparted.

             Now I have a feeling I'll spend the rest of my adult life trying feebly to do the same.

Hello, Tornado Season, Goodbye Sanity

         Springtime in Arkansas can get, shall we say, "eventful".  I'm not talking about trees and flowers blooming, or fishing, or Easter egg hunts, or any of the typical springtime activities.  Nope, now is usually the time of year I start keeping a pair of shoes and a flashlight beside the bed in case we are woken by that magical siren less than a block from our house. 

          You see, tornado watches and warnings are standard here in western Arkansas.  The moisture and warming air make for perfect tornado conditions, though we really only worry if the sky turns a pea-soup green.  I never used to fear tornado weather, until I had kids.  Now I picture a twister ripping the roof off our house and debris flying everywhere while we huddle in the bathroom. 

           It doesn't help that we are now in full-on potty training mode with our 3-year-old daughter.  So far, she's done very well with only a few accidents here and there, but we're not out of the woods yet.  So in addition to dealing with a toddler wandering out of her room 10 times after lights out debating if she has to pee or not, I have the extra delight of trying to settle a 4-month-old infant down to sleep.  And by "sleep", I mean stay still and quiet long enough to grab a bite to eat, a shower, or *GASP* some time alone!

           While these struggles are pretty standard for parents, it can be bedlam for a railroad family like ours.  Case in point: Jon was recently called to Shreveport on a trip, which typically lasts 2 days before he comes home.  He was stuck in the hotel down there for 3 days, gone for 4 total.  That meant 4 days mostly alone with a potty training toddler and a clingy baby obsessed with my breasts.  Easter Sunday we were sitting in a pew with my mother, stepfather, and mother-in-law, and everyone was so happy and joyful.

           Except me.

           Don't get me wrong, I tried to put on my best happy face and hide the fact that I was a depressed, exhausted mess.  And deep down, I was truly happy and grateful for the Resurrection and the knowledge that Christ chose us, chose people like me.  But I just wasn't feeling the ambient cheerfulness of all the brightly colored flowers and Easter clothes around me.  I was on my battleground, trying feebly not to let the depression win.

           You have to understand, thanks to medication I'm okay most days.  Life is still bonkers, but I can handle the bonkers with a much more level head than I would without the medicine.  But some days, when Jon is far from home and there's no end in sight, I get pretty damn lonely without my partner, my teammate.  There's no doubt I would not be able to hack it as a military wife, not without a close web of other military wives around me.

           Now that Jon is home, I'm a little better but still being a neurotic little ball of nerves.  Today we agreed that once he got home from his rules testing, I would have uninterrupted mommy time.  But even while trying to relax, my little hyperactive June Cleaver brain is so busy obsessing over chores that need doing, I can't enjoy it.  Not even a little.  Instead, all I can think about is how disgusting the bathroom is, the clean laundry in the living room waiting to be folded, and how all that has to be done before the girls' play date tomorrow afternoon. 

           Fun, huh? 

          No wonder I've been shedding my hair like a Saint Bernard lately.  Not much left to do but polish off my hard cider and loaf around a bit more.  But if you hear a little mouse getting up at midnight to scrub the toilet...don't check on it.

Tip # 2- Find Your Happy Place

           Remember the movie Finding Nemo, where the terrifying little girl taps on the fish tank and the little starfish tells herself, "Find a happy place! Find a happy place!"?  Oh, how many days do I feel like that poor little starfish stuck in a glass box getting tortured repeatedly by small children!

           Before writing this, I was convinced my one and only happy place was my garden, but that's not entirely true.  The happy place is a state of mind, reached through things like the garden, and writing, and consuming obscene amounts of baked goods.  In the wee hours of the morning, the happy place is snuggling the baby on my chest while I burp her, fuzzy warm head nestled under my chin.  Sometimes it's my kitchen, particularly when I'm joined by my husband and the girls and we're all in a relatively good mood. 

           There's certain times when I've been in such moments and taken a step back in my own head, looking upon the scene and realizing it's one of those I'd thought about way back in my single days.  Just being present in the moment with my family has brought me tremendous joy.  Of course, it also brings me tremendous stress when Mommy is due for some alone time.  That comes with the package of Mommyhood.  But to be present in the moment, it means letting go of preconceived ideas, or worries over how your hair and clothes look, or the never-ending list of chores in your head. 

          It's about not worrying over the mess when you're baking with your kid and the two of you wind up getting flour everywhere.  It's piling on the couch watching Tom and Jerry cartoons while the baby drools on your arm and the older child insists on taking pictures of you with her toy camera.  It's reading stories for the hell of it, not just at bedtime. 

          I understand so well how important it is to have Mommy time, to have something to do that doesn't involve snotty noses and poopy butts.  But I'm finding more and more that the key to the happy place is to relax and enjoy the ride sometimes.  In fact, it's part of why I named this blog.  Just by doing our best to do right by our families, we've already won.  So whether it's snuggle time, movie night, a private bubble bath, or a coffee-fueled shopping trip, find your happy place and visit often.

Dirt Won't Hurt!

I doubt many of these will actually make it to the kitchen.

Doesn't matter if you're a veteran gardener or just starting out, late winter is prime time for the condition known as Spring Fever.  Symptoms include poring over seed and plant catalogs and pining away for the colorful beauties that you're sure would make your yard look like a magazine cover.  Personally, I like to hoard seed packets like other women hoard shoes.  I'm not that interested in stilettos or wedge sandals, but get glassy-eyed over heirloom tomatoes and flowers. 

Rosemary by the garden gate. 

Every year I do my best to plan carefully, as my raised beds have limited space and the greenhouse will get unbearably hot around May.  The grow boxes are a wonderful solution to the limited shelf space and variable greenhouse conditions.  I know the temperature will stay consistent, and the seeds will get plenty of light. 

Still, there's plenty of room to stay flexible.  For example, the baby lettuces I've transplanted in the greenhouse are already looking a tad wilted.  They're tender little things, and hate too much heat.  So unless there's a freak ice storm coming, they may have to go into a raised bed faster than expected. 

Gotta love Arkansas weather.

I really shouldn't complain, knowing that some folks up North won't be able to put things out for another month, and even then it's a big gamble.  I've grown collards and kale over the winter in the past, never really worrying about them succumbing to the cold or snow.  The snow melts off after a day, anyway.  And one ice storm a season won't kill my year-round residents.

With Jon being home a few days this time, it's refreshing to get out in the light and fresh air.  It's even exhilarating, with a cold drink on hand and Credence Clearwater Revival blasting on my outdoor speaker. 

Tulips starting to peek out of their mulch blanket.

Mostly, it feels damn good to be doing something creative and constructive that doesn't involve wiping someone's butt.  I love my girls, but being cooped up with them in the house the past two months was starting to get to me.  I don't mind having babies in winter, but it does make for some serious cabin fever.

So I brought Evie out with me once she got up from her nap.  Even wearing play clothes, it took awhile to convince her that it was okay to get dirt and water on them.  She then proceeded to snitch my tools for the very important task of digging for worms, before helping me sow radishes and sugar snap peas.

Growing things in the garden was one huge tradition I couldn't wait to pass onto my kids.  Even living in an apartment building with only four to eight square feet of dirt, my mom always made sure we had something planted.  In fact, my sister and I used to hunt nightcrawlers there and sell them for bait to an older neighbor of ours.  It was one of those spaces, no matter how small, that are very evocative of childhood for me.  And when I got married and started having kids, I made the same vow:

No matter where we live, or how rich or poor we are, we will grow things. 

And so, the greenhouse and grow boxes are full of good things waiting to happen.  Mistakes will be made, like they are every year, and wonderful discoveries will be made.  The best part, is that this time around, I get to see them through my daughter's awestruck eyes.

Tip # 1- You Don't Have to Like Being a Mom

            I'm feeling particularly maternal and content this evening, after a good time at homeschool co-op and a relatively peaceful afternoon and toddler bedtime.  I try and savor the feeling, because it tends not to last very long.  And for those of us on this crazy mommy journey, it's sometimes the only payment we get for our labors.

            I'm even drinking a cup of motherhood tea; an herbal blend of fenugreek, fennel, coriander, anise, and blessed thistle that's supposed to help you lactate more.  Since starting my birth control a few weeks ago, I've noticed a significant drop in the amount of extra milk I'm able to pump.  And though I still make enough to feed my cute little beastie, Mama sure does like having extra milk in the fridge so she can get out once in awhile.

           Before Jon left on his last work trip, I confessed something that had been bothering me all day.  As usually happens when I clam up and don't confide in him, I started getting snappy with the three-year-old and was nearly in tears for turning into the Mommy Monster again.  I told him this, and he said it bugged him the entire trip:

Some days, I really don't like being a mom.

          You'll notice I didn't throw in the towel and say I didn't want to be a mom anymore.  Nope, whether we admit it or not, we don't like being moms all the time.  In fact, some days it downright sucks.  You've got very unreasonable small people demanding constant care and attention, all the while trying to juggle a home, husband, job, activities, and Lord only knows what else.  Add that to the sheer, skull-breaking exhaustion and sleep deprivation, and you've got a recipe for a mental breakdown.

          It took me awhile to learn that this feeling is normal, that it's okay to not like motherhood all the time.  It's okay to silently scream and curse in my own head when I feel like giving up and shoving my little darlings in daycare.  It's okay to give myself a break and not have a guilt party to add to the jaw-numbing depression I'm already battling with.

          It's okay to not like it.

          It's okay to not be great at it.

     Just so long as you do it the best you can, even if that best means PB and J's for dinner and letting the kids watch Frozen so you can go have a cry in privacy.  It's okay to beat the pillows and bitterly wish, just for a moment, that you could do anything else.  It's okay to let the house go a little so you can cuddle your baby through a colic episode, or let your toddler pick out mismatched clothes.

     We all have those days, and my God, I'm amazed at how strong we are.  When people talk about the family unit being the foundation of our country, I think they really mean mothers.  We are the rock and cornerstone of our families, even on our weakest days.  So long as we rely on God, and especially one another for help, we can learn to like and even love being moms.

Promise Made, Promise Kept

       I can't remember which book this post title is from, but I distinctly remember this phrase appearing several times whenever a promise was fulfilled.  One chilling scene was when one character finally got his vengeance and said it while running his enemy through with a sword.

       There's a long history of broken promises in my life, so I'm very careful not to make one unless I can keep it.  Christians always like the story of God putting a rainbow in the sky as a promise to Noah, but my favorite of God's promises are the ones that pop up in the spring.  Namely, seeds and bulbs.

     Every year, like so many gardeners with the winter blues, I start poring over seed catalogs with starry eyes and dreaming up ideas for spring.  Since my greenhouse is still too cold to keep seedlings in, that usually means crowding a sunny window with seed trays.  Some of those babies make it, but mostly they grow long stems and shrivel mysteriously.  I recently discovered that this is caused by seeds being too far from the light source, and growing "leggy" to reach it.

Big, fat DUH moment.

So I needed a cheap solution.  Something that would allow me to get a light source close to the seed trays.  Some gardeners have grow closets with racks and shelves rigged with lighting, but Mama doesn't have that kind of time or money.  So I found an alternative, one that has worked beautifully and didn't break my wallet.

I found a tutorial on YouTube from another blogger on how to make a grow box with a plastic storage tote, aluminum foil, and a clamp light. (Full list of supplies are below with instructions.)  And oh, baby, was it easy!

It's been about ten days since I planted the seed tray, and within three or four days I saw sprouts.  In
fact, as of this post, most of them are ready to be transplanted.  For that, I bought a bigger tote to hold a bigger pot tray so the babies could still have their light.  Y'all, I'm pumped.  Even more so than usual this time of year, because now it looks like I might actually have a good shot of success at growing things like lettuce and cabbage and cauliflower before the summer heat fries them.

If you've got a few bucks to spare and a half hour to put this thing together, it's highly worth it.  I'd like to give a big thank-you to Gary Pilarchik at The Rusted Garden for posting the how-to and making it idiot-proof for people like me. He's got a very informative, active

 blog worth checking out

And with that, here's the materials list and directions:

Materials
 1 18-20 gallon plastic tote
 duct tape
 aluminum foil  
 1 light bulb, 100 watt CFL (1600 lumens, 5000 kelvin)
1 8.5" clamp light
1 12' household extension cord, if needed

Directions
1) Tear off vertical panels of aluminum foil deep enough to cover the insides of the tote.  Tape them in place with the reflective side facing toward the middle.

2) Cut a square hole in the middle of the lid big enough to fit the cord and top of the clamp light through.  Then, cut a line to the side as long as the clamp itself, and a smaller line perpendicular to that. (The following video demonstrates it in better detail)

 3) Carefully screw in the bulb, plug the light into the extension cord, and turn it on to make sure it's working.  Then turn it off, and insert the clamp light underneath the lid, fitting the clamp onto the small line cut.  

Thanks, Gary!

UPDATE: Since I started this draft, not only have my little seedlings flourished, but I've made a bigger version of this box to fit a flat of 4" pots with transplants in them.  Here's how they turned out!

 

My Kryptonite

Ugh........

Mornings are not my strong suit. Never have been.

I wish I could be one of those bright-eyed morning people who accomplish everything by noon and quietly breeze through the rest of the day with an easy confidence.  But I'm not.

Despite ongoing sinus congestion and now a cough, Katie Beth slept alright between feedings last night.  It was Mama who tossed and turned from 3am until 7am until Daddy took the baby and sent her back to bed.

All superheroes have a weakness; mornings are mine.

I guess I got into the habit in college theater, and it suited my night owl persona.  Tech rehearsal till midnight? Sure! Strike a set and load out at 2am? No problem! Biology lab at 8am on a Wednesday? I'm the walking dead.  The problem with this habit is that toddlers and babies are largely morning people.  Very happy, hyper morning people who need sippy cups, diaper changes, and activity and need it all RIGHT NOW.

The only things keeping me conscious right now are coffee and writing, and the only person keeping me sane is my wonderful husband who lets me sleep whenever possible.  He officially starts back to work this weekend, and I'm seriously considering tying him up in the laundry room so he can't leave.  Not all wives are so lucky to have a man who does so much without their asking, and this guy has been invaluable the past couple of months.

So while Lissa the wonderful cleaning lady organizes the master bedroom and digs through my closet, I am sitting here trying to stay awake until the baby wakes up for her next feeding.  A good part of last night was spent thinking about that and being embarrassed at the thought of her tidying my messes.  But maybe it's enough for now that I work on the mess inside my head first, so that I can be there for Jon and the kids.  Maybe I'm not a lazy slob, but a sleep-deprived and depressed mother struggling to survive these early days. 

I so wish society would relax its expectations of new moms and more of us would seek help.  Most of the time, our own insecurities cripple us like kryptonite does Superman, and we become victims of our own criticism.  This blog was founded to fight that mentality of trying to be perfect all the time, so it doesn't do me any good to lament my lack of energy and productivity lately. 

Instead, I think I'll try and count the things I can do; change diapers, feed the baby, rock her to sleep, read stories with Evie, drink coffee, write, throw laundry in. 

I think that's more than enough to earn my Superman cape, right?

A New Beginning

Some time ago, I posted photos of three old recipe boxes jam-packed with recipes that my dad had given me at our last visit a year and a half ago.  They were recipes written and used by him, my Nana, and my Grampie over many years, and now all this time later, I'm finally getting around to testing them out. 

Since I had a rocky relationship with them most of my life, the ongoing project of cataloging and testing these recipes are a way for me to both heal and forge a new beginning.  And for the first experiment, I chose a recipe that promised to be both easy and comforting; Hawaiian Cake.

The card is written out in what is likely Grampie's neat handwriting, since my dad and I both have a hand that looks like a kindergartener's scratchings.  It's not nearly as aged or spattered as some of the others, which leads me to think it was only used once or twice.  Maybe one of these days I'll ask if they remember it. 

Anyway, I normally prefer to make cakes from scratch.  Something about building it up in layers of
creamed butter and sugar, flour, and other goodies makes me feel like an artist layering paint on canvas.  For me, making cake from a box mix is the equivalent of a paint-by-numbers kit.  But since sleep deprivation has me in a death-grip lately, I settled for the compromise. 

And in my haste to get the thing in the oven, I spattered pineapple juice everywhere when I went to open the can of crushed pineapple.  Compared to the mess I have to clean when the baby fills her diaper, though, it was small potatoes.  And I managed to get the juice drained out like the instructions said.

From then on, it was a simple dump and mix operation.  I could have fired up the electric beaters or used my stand mixer, but I needed to take my frustrations out on the batter.  So my pastry fork and I went to town, and in the greased and floured pan it went.

 I had to bake it a bit longer than 20 minutes.  In fact, I almost had to double the baking time trying to get the middle to set up.  But it did, and I set the cake out to cool for the next day. 

This next part I missed, because my husband graciously did it while I slept like a hibernating bear in the next room.  We were at my mother-in-law's getting ready for her birthday dinner while our cleaning lady was organizing the kitchen at our place. 

So Jon graciously let me sleep, and used electric beaters to blend the milk, pineapple bits, pudding mix, and cream cheese.  After spreading it over the cake, we both realized there wasn't going to be enough room to spread the Cool Whip on top.  So we opted to dollop each individual piece instead, then sprinkle with nuts. 

The final verdict was a big two thumbs up.  Icebox cakes are more of a summer thing, so this recipe will probably get an encore around Memorial Day or the Fourth of July.  Preferably with some barbecue, corn on the cob, and a frosty pitcher of margaritas.  Until then, if you need a mini vacation or a cake off the beaten path, here it is:

Hawaiian Cake

Ingredients

1 pkg. yellow cake mix
1 8 oz can crushed pineapple
2 eggs
1 8oz pkg. cream cheese
1 small pkg. instant vanilla pudding mix
1 cup milk
1 carton Cool Whip
flaked coconut 
chopped walnuts

Directions
1)  Drain the pineapple.  Add water to the juice to make 1 1/2 cups of liquid.
2)  Add the liquid to the cake mix with the eggs.  Beat well.
3)  Pour the batter into a greased and floured 9x13 cake pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes or until the middle of the cake sets (use the toothpick test).  Allow to cool.
4)  Combine cream cheese, milk, pudding mix, and pineapple and mix well.  Spread the mixture over the top of the cooled cake.  
5)  Top with Cool Whip, then sprinkle with coconut and chopped nuts.  Refrigerate.