Cooking 101 :: A Series

I glanced in the backseat and saw her eyes opened. I made a snap decision. I could still get there, get in, and get out before she lost it. I jumped on the opportunity and turned the car towards WalMart.


Unbuckling Sashi from her carseat, I mentally ran through the list of items I needed to complete my meal. All the ingredients awaited me at home with the exception of three things. I strapped Sashi into the cart and dashed into the store. Checking the items in my cart against the mental list, I grabbed what I needed and quickly headed toward home.

On a recent trip to the Bread Co, I stood motionless, staring blankly at the menu above my head. I wanted lunch. I didn't know what lunch I wanted. But I found myself standing in line at my favorite lunch spot, looking vacantly towards the words on the posterboards ahead of me, searching for that one mouth-watering delictible item that would satisfy my mealtime desires for that day. Keri, the friendly cashier, could be heard discussing a sandwich with a fellow indecisive patron beside me. "It comes on the croissant, but I had it on the country wheat, and it was delicious!" she oozed.

Hmm, I thought. Glowing reviews. 'Delicious,' eh? What are we talking about over there? I asked, "What sandwich is that, Keri?" She named the new chicken salad. I tried it minutes later on the traditional croissant. As I bit into the sandwich, I immediately knew. It might be better than my chicken salad. Sooner than I realized at that particular moment, I would indeed find out.

I brought in the bags from the store and quickly readied Sashi for her nap. I piled all the ingredients onto the counter in preparation. Pulling the chicken cooked the night before from the fridge, I smiled at how miserly I was being that day with my finances. No trip to the Bread Co. for me this day! Nope! I held my mental ground and told myself, "NO! I don't need to spend $6 on a sandwich out when I can make a sandwich just as good at home for a fraction of the cost!" Truth be told, it had cost more than the price of the sandwich to bring home the package of croissants, the celery, and the onion from WalMart. But, I reasoned, I'd be using up the aging grapes from my fridge - plus using the leftover chicken from the night before! And I could make more than one sandwich - three meals out of one! Certainly I was saving under those circumstances!

I cut into the precooked chicken. The knife caught slightly on the fleshy portion of the flank. Strange, I thought. That didn't feel right. I sliced the chicken again. With each consecutive cut, my mind grew more and more at ease. This is fine. This will be good. I mixed all the parts with abandon. After-all, this was the recipe for chicken salad that I had perfected. I took it from the Sunday paper and made it expertly mimic the salad at a regional grocer that locals love. Love love love that chicken salad. I piled it high onto my freshly cut croissant. Chips on the side. Positioned prettily on my plate - oh so proud was I for saving my money and not making that routine trip to buy lunch out.

One bite. One bite and I knew.
Bread Co's is better.

One bite. One bite and I knew.
That chicken wasn't cooked.

Three hours. Three hours later I knew.
Bread Co's is better. They cook their chicken.

My free advertisement:
Eat the new chicken salad sandwich at Bread Co. on a croissant with chips on the side.

But if you don't? If you don't, then

my public service announcement:
THOROUGHLY COOK YOUR CHICKEN.

cuz food poisoning really sucks.

A Portrait

I photographed myself today. It sounds sort of strange, actually, but I set up a little photo shoot outside on my deck of me, myself, and I. I set the timer on the camera, propped the camera on a dirty cup left sitting on the coffee table outside, speculated and triangulated the focus, and then I snapped photos of myself. All sort of the same. Small smile. Looking at the lens. Hand on head or under chin but somewhere in the shot. I made myself the subject.


I guess in the internal solitude of myself I focus on me a lot. But by day and by camera angle, most of my attention is elsewhere for most of my life. And that's OK. I love being a mom. But in the midst of being Mom, there ceases to be photos of me. Because I'm always the one taking the pictures.


As I looked at the final product of my afternoon's photo shoot, I began to think about my mom. When I was little, my mom was the prettiest woman in the world. Her gorgeous long fingernails always shined with bright colors of polish. Her skin rivaled Mary Kay Ash with her creamy and smooth complexion. She collected high heeled shoes that I loved to slip my feet into. I lived for the day I could wear those shimmery L'eggs pantyhose and make my legs look just like my mom's.


I sat today and talked with my mom for a little while. I noticed her beautiful blue eyes again. I tried to convince her to start a blog to reveal the stories of motherhood from her point of view. She just smiled her pretty smile.


I printed one of my photos to hang on the wall of my bedroom. I plan to print one of my husband, too, and surround these two with other special photos of us as a couple. And as I looked at my photo, I wondered about my own children. What do they see, when they look at Mom? Am I the most beautiful woman in the world to my children? Am I the hero to them that my mom is to me? I look at my picture, and I see deepening wrinkles. I see a light splatter of freckles. I see the changing face of a woman approaching another birthday.


I see me.

Parenting 101 :: A Series

The call came in just minutes after we returned home from our morning playdate at the park. After the initial greetings, she got straight to the point. "Danny has a bite mark on his arm."

"Oh my, " I said with concern. "I didn't see any spiders where we were sitting."

"It's not a spider bite!" She said, now with a disdainful tone. "It's a human bite!"

I laughed. Not at her youngster's plight. Nor at her. But at my own ignorance.

Suddenly the scene flashed in my mind's eye. My speech delayed two year-old son feverishly signing "Me! Me! Me!" at her son to share a turn as they stood together at the helm of the playground pirate ship. Her son unaware of the frustration building within the toddler at his side. And certainly no desire to share his newfound pirate glory. I looked away. He must have taken that moment to strike.

My misunderstanding of 'a bite' became painfully clear. I apologized profusely.

And never heard from her again.

The Big Reveal

Several months ago, I read an interesting post on The Nester's blog. The notion of making your own bedroom rival one you'd enjoy at a Bed & Breakfast instantly inspired me. I contemplated focusing the bedroom on us as a couple and threw out my previous idea of plastering our walls with photos of our children.

(see the lamp I scored at a recent garage sale?

It's gorgeous hand blown glass and looks lovely on our tablescape!)

I think all the hours of watching design shows, poring over websites, and polling you all have culminated in a beautiful 'master suite' (as they say on HGTV). This was the first room in our house that I have honest-to-goodness accessorized from top to bottom - and tonite, after hanging the curtains, Hubby turned to me and whispered those three coveted words:

It looks nice.

I nearly swooned when he even noted that my future plans to purchase a mahogany bamboo shade for the window would, "Draw in all the chocolate colors you have." {Spoken like a true convert (who's completely ~ OK, halfly ~ given in to his wife's incessant demands to un-college-dormroom-ize our home)}.

(before)

(after)

(half-way before --- I'd tried an old comforter set before purchasing the new one...)

(after)

The Final Picture:

I'm in Love~I'm in Love~I'm in Love...

C'mon! You can hear the song, can'tcha?!

Remember the boring old drab yucky bedroom I showed you, like, last week or something? And remember the treasure I sort of started telling you about, like, last week or something? And remember how I insisted my husband give me a bedroom makeover for my birthday after reading this post from The Nester??

Remember?!

Well, I'm in love with my bedroom. For like the first time. EVER!!!
And sometime in the next few days (or so) I am going to reveal it to you! (I just have a few more dozen yards of fabric [or so] to purchase before it's close enough to being done to show you all!)

SO, stay tuned!!!

(Oh, and just to let you in on a little bit of the secret - I chose the bed set that you all recommended!!! Yay! Internet support ROCKS!)

Will You Cry

There are times when life flies by me so expressly it feels like I'm on the Monorail at Disney. Sometimes I allow it to fly by like this because stopping to smell the roses actually causes a piercing of my heart so strong and so severe that it strips my breath from my chest. Stopping causes me to realize that one day - too soon from now - this jaunty smile, where the corners turn up in just that way, will be affixed upon a grown man staring lovingly into the eyes of his beautiful bride instead of at his zealous mama bent on snapping Easter morning pictures.


And one day, this serious young man (with those amazing freckles)



will no longer desire to wear these cartoon underoos.



When T was little little I would lay down with him nightly to recap the adventures of that day. We would praise God for the glorious blessings and look forward to the following day with great anticipation. We reminisce even today about those moments together just a few short years ago.


One day, I hope to look back on my life with tears because I miss the times we once spent - not look back with tears because I missed the times we didn't spend.

I think it's time to climb back up the steps of that bunkbed.


Care to join me in unwrapping your Tuesday?

Marathon Man

I interrupt my story of bargain shopping to bring you this story:

The Story of a Marathon Runner

We returned from Nashville this afternoon (thus the reason for no posts lately). I hadn't made it clear to yah'll here on the blawg (notice my newly enhanced southern drahwel?) that JT and I were puttin' a few miles under our feet here in the last few days. Specifically, we took on about 15 pounds of water apiece last Sunday whilst running 13.1 miles in the pouring rain in our own fair city. We both set new personal records for our half marathon pace, though I'd hoped for just a little better numbers on my part. I knew six days later I'd have my chance to improve my time - since I'd be running another 13.1 miles on the streets of Nashville (one year after our first half, documented here).

(here in StL, cold and wet after a decent 13.1)

Yesterday in Nashville, I ran my second half marathon in six days. I recovered fairly well through the week from muscle aches, purple toes, and blisters. I went into the race feeling strong. I passed my pace team - twice. But about miles 6-8 I began to realize it was getting hot. Very hot. And it wasn't just me. It was Nashville. In the end, I only shaved 10 minutes off last year's time. And I'm OK with that. (There's always next year, right?)

(here in Nashville pre-race with my in-laws; my MIL's kajillionth half - she's a pro! My FIL's first @59!)

Now, here's the real story of the day! My husband is now a marathon runner. In case you didn't know, a marathon is 26.2 miles. Twenty-six point two miles. Of running. On streets. And JT ran it. He finished. And at the end of the race, the temperature in Nashville was 90 degrees. (about 30 degrees hotter than a decent running temp!)


I had the distinct privilege of watching marathoners cross the finish line for my first time yesterday. Men and women who made a decision to do something few of us ever will do to and with our bodies. They set a goal and went about accomplishing that task. One. Step. At. A. Time. I saw broken spirits. Within sight of the resolution of their efforts. I saw triumph. I saw mothers and fathers lift their babies across the fence holding spectators back and proceed to carry those little miracles across the finish line with them. I saw a woman fall on the concrete at my feet from intense, excruciating cramps in her toes. Other marathoners stopped to aid her in pushing her feet forcefully toward her nose to counteract the cramping. I saw a man lift his two sons over the fence to accompany him to the finish. Before he could manage another step, he vomited. His young son patted Daddy on the back, took his hand and helped him up to finish his race. Another, aided by the cheers of the crowd, began running only to stop again, walking to the finish. Finishing as strong as he could summon. In the heat. Searing, burning heat.

And, just as we were beginning to worry. Starting to fear that the heat had grown too strong, too much to bear. Just as the concern began to overcome us and force us to run along the sidelines to find him, to catch a glimpse of a green jersey. Right then, my mother-in-law and I saw him. We saw JT with a determined look. A strong stride. A man who had on that day become a marathon runner. Round the corner. Eye his family. Renew his strength. And cross the line. Tears ran down my face from relief. From happiness. From pride.

My marathon man.

(He looks good, doesn't he?!)