Tricks and Treats

We are better prepared for Halloween this year.  The Goob recycled his bedsheet ghost costume and was a finalist in the school costume contest.  The STP bought the candy when it was on sale and hid it safely.  (Because I can not be trusted around chocolate.) 
We grew our own pumpkins.  

I carved bats on my pumpkin.

The STP carved most of a skull on his.  (I carved the left eye while he stopped the flow of blood and bandaged his thumb.)

We have chocolate for trick-or-treaters.
We have a festive and welcoming front porch.


 

We'll leave the light on.

A Scary Moment

It is always scary to let your child do something by themselves for the first time.  Especially true if a knife is involved.  This year the Goob carved his own pumpkin.  I managed to refrain from saying (out loud), "Don't cut yourself." 

 He started by cutting a hole in the top. 

He figured in the size of his design and the size of the SFG pumpkin. What he failed to account for was the size of his hand in relation to the size of the hole in the pumpkin.

I silently watched as he used his critical thinking skills to solve the problem.  The STP suggested he cut a bigger hole, but the Goob recognized the flaw in that plan in that the lid would fall into a bigger hole.  Maybe a long handled spoon will work to remove the seeds and slime.

Too slow and relatively ineffective so he revamps the design to include a bigger mouth through which to remove the seeds. 

The pumpkin still holds tightly to seeds and slime and the Goob ponders his next move.  

The pumpkin ponders the Goob. 

Finally the Goob decides that a hole in the bottom of the pumpkin will solve the problem.  He confidently ASKS HIS MOM to cut the hole.  (Yeah for me.  Yeah for teaching critical thinking skills.  Yeah for being hands off and mouth shut.  Yeah for still being needed.)

There was just a little blood shed at our pumpkin carving this year.  The STP stabbed his thumb with a knife.

No Elk For You

Hunting story after the snow starts:  (Second trip up the mountain) We walked up a hill and down a hill and up a hill and down a hill and up a hill in snow up to our knees.  In a blinding white-out of a snowstorm which made it impossible to see any elk.  The 4-wheeler came up lame and we had to shovel snow drifts up to our shoulders with one and a half shovels to get the truck out of the cabin.  I can't move my arms.

Hunting story after the snow ends:  (Third trip up the mountain) We walked up a hill and up a hill and up a hill and up a hill and up one more hill.  We finally saw some elk.   A herd in the distance just before dark.  A trophy bull running full speed across the road in front of us.  And a couple being field dressed by other hunters.  I thought I was going to die.

The moral of the hunting story appears to be:  Right place, wrong time.

The STP arrived home sick, tired, muddy, hungry, elk-less.   Sore and sorely disappointed. 
On the bright side he did not get eaten by bears, lost in the wilderness, suffer a heart attack, crash the 4-wheeler,  get shot by mistake, shoot anyone by mistake or any of the other morbid scenarios I may have imagined while he was gone.  I'm just glad to have him home.

Parenting,Teaching, and The Bravermans

Parenthood.  (You know my favorite TV show.)  I can relate to the show on so many levels.  Because I have parents.  And I have parented precocious preschoolers and special needs elementary schoolers and awkward middle schoolers and promising high schoolers and young adults of the married and unmarried varieties.  And I have brothers and sisters who have over the years watched and judged my parenting and said to themselves, "MY kids will never..."  right up until they had their own kids. 
I have just about all the ingredients to write my own show. 
Tonight's episode would be about parent-teacher conferences. 
It will be titled "So You're The Goober's Mom".
I spend the first part of the day working, talking to and texting my co-parent about the evening plans.  I debate with myself whether I need to make the effort to go to parent-teacher conferences at all this year.    I would be happy if my co-parent attended Parent-Teachers this year by himself.  (I think that was the deal.  I handled the early years and he gets the teen years.)  At the end of the day, my co-parent doesn't know that parent teacher conferences are this week.  My co-parent ends up in a cabin on the mountain dreaming of elk.  I end up at parent-teacher conferences by myself.  I move down the A-wing with a schedule and a report card in my hand.  Until tonight I do not know what the Goob's teachers look like. The Goob's teachers can not guess whose parent I am.  I suppose if you met the Goob as a high school freshman you would expect his parents to be tall thin blondes.  Ha. Guess again. 
So in 30 minutes I introduce myself to the guidance counselor, the principal, and 5 of the Goob's teachers.  Some of them are not as old or as young or as scary as the Goob led me to believe.   Each of them gently tells me the Goob is a unique person.  And they try to decide if that is in any way related to my parenting.  I try convince them that my co-parent is a tall thin blonde who is extremely talkative and whose native language is sarcasm.  I try to convince them that the Goob got his superior intelligence from me.  I have less than five minutes to make my case before we parents and teachers pass judgment on each other. 
There is no easy way to judge effective parenting.  No report card with percentages to tell how well you are doing.  By the time you figure out one stage (or one child) you have moved on to the next.  Thus my fascination with the Bravermans from TV Land, where all problems are resolved at the end of the hour long episode, and they have that great backyard with the party lights where everyone has dinner together. 
A blog bonus:  The best parenting advice I ever received:  Hug your kids at least twice every day.  I learned that at a seminar in an elementary school auditorium.  The speaker was a policeman.  The subject was how to keep your kids off drugs. 

Unidentified Frying Objects

In the co-op basket we sometimes get things that we don't usually eat.  Like artichokes.  And sometimes we get things we can't even identify.  This week we got winter root vegetables.  Like sweet potatoes.  And long large white carrot-like roots which happen to be parsnips.  I thought I had a recipe for a parsnip casserole, but it turns out it called for rutabegas.  I am still quite happy about this because 1.  I remembered I had the recipe.  2.  I found the recipe.  3.  It reminded me of the wonderful neighbor from our years in the little house in the big woods.   She wrote the recipe down for me in 1988.  I have never made it. 
Luckily Real Simple and BHG both have recipes in the November issues which use parsnips, and on the Today show today they roasted some parsnips on the food segment.  I don't think I have enough parsnips. 
Here is an additional recipe I found online.  I might try it out on the Goob.

Honey It's Parsnips

1 1/2 lb parsnips, peeled and diagonally sliced into 1/2" pieces
3/4 c. water
1/2 ts. salt
2 Tb. butter
1 Tb. honey
1/4 c. orange juice
1 ts. orange peel; grated

In a saucepan, cook parsnips in water and slat over medium heat until fork tender, about 10 minutes.  Drain and remove from pan.  In same pan heat butter, honey, juice and orange peel together; toss with parsnips and a little salt, if desired.  Serve hot.

Hunting Stories

Hunting stories, when they see nothing to shoot at, are not the most exciting sagas. 
"Then we walked up a hill and down a hill and up a hill and down a hill..."  
But just for the record I made some beef stew to send along with the STP.  (Just saying that makes me feel like such a good hunting wife.)  And the STP raved about how good it was. 
So it seems I have found my cooking niche:  Burly men who have spent the day walking up a hill and down a hill in the wilderness and who arrive back at camp after dark with no other choice but my cooking. 
It's nice to be appreciated.

Taking the Choke out of Artichoke

Artichokes.  Just the name is less than appetizing.  I've eaten artichoke dip, but never just an artichoke.  Until last week when I steamed two artichokes.  Just because I got them in the  co-op basket.  I followed the directions.  And the Goob and I agreed that eating an artichoke is a lot like eating a crab.  You have to remove the spiny parts.  And steam them.  And tear them apart with your bare hands.  And you season them to make them palatable. And you pile up the inedible parts.  And there are precious few edible parts in comparison to the pile of inedible parts.  You don't eat the gilly/hairy parts.  (In the artichoke the hairy part is called the choke. You have to remove the choke to get to the heart which is the most edible part.) 
Knowing how to eat a crab and an artichoke will come in handy if the new Uncle M buys a beach house and invites us to spend a week. Or if we are desperate for a butter delivery system.  Or if either the Goob and I are ever marooned on an island with a volleyball.  Which is how we suppose someone discovered that crabs and artichokes could be eaten in the first place. 
Tomorrow we get another basket of fruits and vegetables.  Otra dia. Otra adventura.

Ms Brenda's Productive Day Off

Today I had a day off.  And the STP was hunting on the mountain.  And the Goob slept until noon. 
So I made myself a list.  And I did everything on the list that I wanted to.  There were some things I should have done, but I didn't even put them on the list.  And there were two things that I put on the list that I knew from the beginning I was going to do last, if at all.  And I never got to them.  The STP will not be surprised when he gets home and sees they are not done.  He must know by now that I am never going to (1)iron his shirts or (2)clean off the dining room table.  But I cleaned out the SFG and the flower boxes and I made the STP a gluten free apple cake.  And I have another table.  So I think I am golden today.  It was such a beautiful fall day I thought I would share it with you.

Here are three pots I bought at a yard sale early this morning.  I planted something in each of them.

These are the carrots that are the last thing harvested from the SFG.  Obviously I planted a medley of carrots, some of which were pink and some of which were short and stubby.  Something I was unaware of because carrots, as you may know, grow under the ground.  I posed the carrots on the washer, because I also did several loads of laundry today and my washer, although very functional, is not particularly photogenic in and of itself.

These are the sunflowers that I cut down from along the front fence.  I left the heads in the birdbath for the squirrels to eat. (And because they just looked good there.)

This is the current arrangement by the front door.  Today I added the seed heads from my coneflowers.  They look better than this picture gives them credit. 

So I know by now you wish you really could have been here to share my day.  Because it was the kind of day where you could drink apple cider with me and eat apple cake with a fork right from the pan warm from the oven.  It was a great fall day.  But I missed you.

More MOTB Musings

My favorite MOTB quote:

"Mom, this is so not the time to be yourself."

From The Wedding Date

With thanks to my girls for letting me be me.

Mother Of The Bride

I have a few thoughts on being the mother of the bride.  This past weekend was my third time to be the MOTB.  (One good thing about having three daughters is that I got three chances to try and get it right.)  But it's something I hope never to do again.  The STP has officiated a lot of weddings over the years.  Some have lasted 25 years.  Some lasted less than 6 months.  I'm hoping these three are of the long lasting variety.  The STP had this to say at the rehearsal about the MOTB:  Last one in, first one out.  (I guess pastors have those little sayings to help them remember things.  Along the lines of Spring ahead and Fall back.) 
This week the STP told me I could not text Princess Amidala while she was on her honeymoon.  That was, of course, after he caught me texting her.  (In all fairness, I just texted to see if it was alright for me to text her.)  The STP overruled me and I have been abiding by his silly male sensible advice.  But I just want to say that it is not fair. Do I want the Prince formerly known as boyfriend  new husband  Raving Raven  He-Who-Does-Not-Even-Have-Blog-Name to think he can have her all to himself?  I do not.  Do I like it, even a little bit, that when something wonderful happens she will tell him first and not even think to call me?  I do not. Do I want to have to think twice before I send her a text? I do not.
I know it is good.  I know it makes for a healthy relationship.  I know I have to mind my own business.  I know my role has changed and that I really don't want it any other way.  But I do not have to like being the first one out.

Things Get a Little Batty in Dodge City

This is my front porch.  I grew those pumpkins in the SFG.  And I have mums the size of flamingos. (And yes, the flamingo is wearing cowboy boots.)  It all looks peaceful enough, but wait... there's more.

Because I have three bats on my front porch.  I found them on the Bridge Bust over the Susquehanna River, and I do not regret my purchase.  (I only regret that I did not have adequate funds nor room in my carry-on to purchase a dozen more.) 

They would like to fly free, but I have them tied somewhat securely with fishing line.  So they are forced to spend the day fluttering about a very small area, waiting for nightfall, dreaming of freedom, and making passersby green with envy.  Where did she get those bats?  Why don't I have any bats?  (Am I prepared to deal with that?  Oh, yes, I am. )

  Because at nightfall, when the street lights in Dodge City come on, the real magic happens.

And the fluttering bats cast fluttering bat shadows on the front door.

Lets just sit here on the porch swing on this beautiful fall evening and admire the genius of this.

Cute Couple

 These two just got married.

See.  The sign says so. 

The Winner

There was a lot of (primarily) good natured ribbing and a few bets on the outcome of the Steelers/Ravens game on Sunday, which happened to take place during the wedding of a big Ravens fan and a significantly more petite Steelers fan. 
In the end, Ravens won.  And we gave them due homage. 
And now the 'New Uncle M' can always say that the last time the Ravens beat the Steelers was on his wedding day. 

And while we are 'showing our panties' let's just go on record and say who we are all fans of:

Who Knows When?

I'm pretty sure our family will continue to grow, but this is the end of the sons-in-law. I have to take a lot of the responsibility for this bunch, but as far as the in-laws go, I can say to my girls what they say to me about their dad: 

You picked 'em.

Her Mother and I?

Rehearsal was on Friday morning.  The ceremony is this afternoon.  That may be just too much time between the practice and the performance.  Not that I will forget what I am to do.  (Because I can forget what I am doing in just a matter of minutes.)  But that it gives me too much time to think about things.  At the rehearsal the STP practiced giving the bride away.  And when the officiant asked, "Who gives this woman...?"  it was like that commercial and what I heard was, "Who gives this baby...?"  And before I could wrap my mind around it, the STP rehearsed his one line.  The one we've been preparing for for 23 years.  And he just spoke up in his outside voice and declared, "Her mother and I." 
I don't think so.  What made him think that after 30 years of marriage he could presume to speak for me.  I mean, when someone asks me what the STP would like to drink, do I say iced tea, no lemon?  No, I say you'd better check with him.  So I think he should have said, "You'd better check with her mother."  Because I am not sure I want to give this one away.  In fact, I think I want the other two back. 
So pray for me today.   Because I have to walk up the aisle, and take part in a unity cermony, and watch the STP give our baby girl away.  And when the officiant gets to the part about 'speak now or forever hold your peace' and he asks if anyone objects I just might blurt out, "Her father and I."

Wedding Eve

Spent the day with our little family today.  Four kids, two in-laws, two grandkids, one adopted almost a daughter.  Slept in, strolled part way across the bridge for the local Bridge Bust festival, finished last minute wedding decorations, went out to eat, and took a family picture along the Susquehanna (because who knows when we will all be together again).  We will of course all be together tomorrow and we will be adding one more in-law to the family.  It is encouraging to see how comfortable we have become with each other since the current in-laws came into the family three years ago.  Hopeful that the new acquisition will be smoothly assimilated as well.