A Little Whine and Cheese

We all know that once you become a mom (or grandmom), you’re usually stuck buying your own presents and tooting your own birthday horn while your progeny eat the cake you made for your own birthday. So when Kiki’s (aka Grandma) birthday rolled around, I wanted to give her a little birthday surprise. I made her this cake.

Raspberry Truffle Deliciousness

Three layers of dense, rich chocolate cake sandwiched around thick dark chocolate ganache and a homemade rapsberry filling, which are then covered in tangy raspberry buttercream and drizzled with perfect chocolate glaze.

It’s as good as it looks, if I do say so myself. In fact, my sister-in-law called me the next day and after I turned down her proposal of marriage (it wouldn’t have worked out between us), she told me that she had lain awake the night before writing poems about the cake.

You may be wondering why I am torturing you so, teasing you with my self-congratulatory pictures and sumptuous details. It’s mean, I realize. Except that I am going to make this showstopper available for purchase for a limited time.

WHAT??

No joke. I am going to make four of these cakes this month. Which means that after the one I keep for myself (I told you it was good) I’ll have three available for sale.

Imagine walking into your company Christmas party carrying one of these. Or having those pretty pink raspberries smiling up at you from your Christmas table. Or maybe you sitting alone with it in a locked bedroom with a glass of wine and a fork. . .

There’s no special reason I’m selling these. I’m not raising money for a new ten-speed (although I may have to if Mr. Dad can’t fix the car) or quitting my day job. I just kind of wanted to see if we could turn my obsession with baked goods into something we can all enjoy. Instead of me making them and eating them all and having to spend money on new elastic-waist pants, I figured I could share the wealth. It’s a win-win really.

Each cake serves 12,  is priced at $35, and they are first-come, first-served. I’ll give you $5 off if you can tell me my son’s middle name. If you want to buy one, contact me at sarahdsoule AT gmail.com at least 24 hours in advance.

If you live far away or $35 is a little steep for you, and you want to try making this yourself, the directions are here.

You know you want one. . .

p.s. I promise to post a real post this week. Stay tuned. . .

p.p.s. If you’re new at A Little Whine and Cheese and trying to figure it out, welcome. You may want to check out this or this. Or this.

Whine: I got up extra-early today after a not so great night (courtesy of Brother Bear) to make some banana bread to take to Bible Study this morning. Then, just after cracking the eggs that I’d been sure to double-check I had enough of, I realized I had no flour. Zero. Unless you count whole wheat flour. Which I don’t.

Cheese: I got to exact my revenge on the still-sleeping Mr. Dad (the jerk!) and send him off to the grocery. The banana bread somehow got made and sliced in time to be just warm and tasty for my friends. (And I even saved a few pieces for Mr. Dad.)

When I started A Little Whine and Cheese I made a promise to myself. I told myself that I would never be the blogger that was constantly apologizing for gaps in posting. I knew even then in the ‘honeymoon phase’ of the blog that there would be times when life would just be too. . .lifey, and that blogging would have to go to the bottom of the list. I also knew that contant apologizing (which IS a specialty of mine) would just detract from my message of (I don’t actually know what my message is, but I knew it would detract.)

And so I’m not going to apologize.

But I will say it’s been lonely. I’ve missed you guys.

But I’ll tell you the real reason that I decided today was the day to ignore the crunched up cheerios and sticky banana bread pans and write. It’s because of Louanne. Louanne was the RA in my dorm who had the privilege of  helping me ‘transition’ to life 1,000 miles away from my Mom. (Meaning, lots of hugging and crying.) I haven’t seen Louanne in thirteen years and seven kids (three for me, four for her), but she popped up on my Wall today and told me she needed a little Whine and Cheese.  And it was such a good feeling to be wanted. And so I set aside the tasks that have been driving me (crazy) and started writing. The thing that makes me sad, though, is that it shouldn’t take someone else wanting me to write for me to write.

Because the truth is, as much as I miss writing for y’all, I really miss myself.

I’ve been working and pushing and running so hard lately that life just really isn’t that fun anymore. Now instead of saying  ”That sounds fun!” or “When can we start?” when I get an ivitation or opportunity I say “How much is it going to cost?” or “How long is it going to take?” in as put-off and melancholic a manner as possible.

And I’m not depressed. I’ve been there before and this isn’t it. Yet.

But the longer I pretend that I only exist to work, to manage, to wrangle then to fall into bed, the closer I’m going to get to that point.

And of course I’m being all melodramatic about it and acting like I never get a break and poor me and SOMEBODY CALL THE WAAAAMBULANCE.

It’s just that I figure it’s easier to give myself permission to be myself and write and think and BE if I’m having some sort of meltdown than to just say that it’s really ok to stop the spinning plates and foster my insides a little bit. ‘Cause what’s coming up out from inside of me right now is no bueno. I’m brittle and dry and about to crack at any moment, which makes for some pretty terrific mothering, if I do say so myself. (PUTONTHESHOES, PUTONTHESHOES, PUTONTHESHOES NOW!!!!!) Not to mention poor Mr. Dad who, God bless him, thankfully is pretty good at dodging the Emoto-Rockets that I keep launching his way.

Me: You don’t think I’m funny.

Mr. Dad: You’re funny on your blog.

Me: What?? I’m hilarious in person. You must not love me.

Mr. Dad: Good night.

(You know, now that I think about it, maybe he deserved that 7AM grocery run.)

You know, all that to say, I am so thankful for Louanne and for all my readers/friends because you give me a good excuse to reacquaint myself . . . with myself.

Me: Why, hello, self.

Me: Hello. Might I say that I found you to be especially humorous today.

Me: Why thank you, self. But did you mean in writing or in person?

Me: Well both, of course.

Me: Ah, it’s good to be back.

Whine:  My wife loves surprises, but her prowess at discovering them prematurely is uncanny.

Cheese:  She auto saved her password to A Little Whine and Cheese so she will be reading this for the first time just like you.

About two weeks ago, we’re ruining the children’s dream house by picking up and cleaning.  She says “Do you have anything for me for Christmas,” to which I try to show her my poker face as I sit on seven-deuce off-suit(the lowest possible hand in Texas-Hold-Em poker), and say “I’m not going to tell you that, why, is there something you want?”  She says, “Well, I’ve been sending you ESP messages.”   Translation:  there is something I really want but I want it to be a surprise so I’m not going to tell you what it is. PANIC, PANIC, PANIC.  I ask “Do I know what it is?”

At that moment my brain is throwing all the memory folders open looking for any clue as to what she could possibly be thinking about.  Then I remember:

About six months ago I got an email from my wife with a link attached.   She said, “if you ever want to get me something sometime here’s a good idea.”  I think: WOW, I am the luckiest guy in the world, she told me what she wanted all I have to do is get online andFOOTBALL SEASON IS HERE COWBOYS, BAYLOR, TCU Etc. And I kinda forgot about it, although I did save the link.

So I go to the link (http://www.belkaidesigns.com/product/fear-to-freedom-necklace) and it’s a cool necklace that raises money for a good cause too. Now, its important that she not know I’m getting this, and she does all the bill paying, and banking so if I buy it wit a credit card she will know, so I call my brother and get his credit card info and order it to send to his house.  YES!! She’ll never know, I thought…

A week later I’m sitting on the couch with her posting my beautiful hand made poker table on Craigslist.  I ask her opinion about it and I hand her the computer and she fixes it.   I had my email open and as she closes the craigslist tab gmail pops up briefly.  She gasps and almost starts crying.  I say “what?”  She says “I saw something I shouldn’t have.”  (Not that I’m tempted, but the chances of me keeping a Tiger Woods-double life are less than getting struck by lightning.)   Of  course she saw the email halfway down the page that confirmed my purchase.  Dang It.

Whine: I don’t do a good job of telling her how important she is to me and my world.

Cheese: She keeps being important anyway.

One thing I love about her is her unquenchable desire to know others better.  Its important because she is married to someone with “the emotional capacities of a teaspoon.”  She draws me out. She makes me a little uncomfortable.  I love that.  Its not just me though.

If you have the privilege of knowing her, then you have probably experienced some of this yourself.  She wants to know you.  In a favorite book of mine the main character introduces a “particular friend,”  which describes a relationship that is 1. special and worth mentioning, 2. exceptional, 3.  personal.  I am her “best friend” (sorry 5b) because it implies exclusivity.  You are her particular friends because you are each of the 3 things above.   Some more some less, but she always wants more.  And thats part of why she is loved.

Thanks for reading. she probably wont let me post again, and it wouldn’t be a surprise anyway.

Merry Christmas

Mr. Dad

Whine: My skin hates pool water. My eyes hate pool water. And apparently, from the odd way I couldn’t hear much for about twenty minutes, my ear hates pool water. And, of course, the only thing to do around here is swim.

Cheese: Everybody is VERY hydrated. Pool water counts, right?

In my former life, back in the long-ago era of gainful employment, I taught second grade. At random intervals throughout the school year we would be given the opportunity to take our learning outside the classroom for a field trip. People would usually assume that after being in the classroom day in and day out I’d relish the chance to change things up a little. To that I say HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Twenty-some-odd eight-year-olds running loose in the nicest music venue in the city then being forced to sit in actual seats for an actual performance the WHOLE TIME without pulling anyone’s hair or having to go to the bathroom or falling on the ground without explanation is actually not much of a change. Except if they fall out of their chairs (as they are prone to do) from the balcony, well, you get the idea. So a field trip really did nothing for me except up the ante and wear me out and give the children an even wider space in which to make mayhem.

And so when someone with small children says to me “I need a vacation from my vacation” I know exactly what they mean.

Just gearing up for a morning by the pool that is just out your back door is grueling. Most kids come when you call about as well as a deaf three-legged dog and stay still about as long as a hummingbird on uppers, so you can imagine that trying to coax them into yesterday’s wet swim shirts with the teeny tiny neckholes without pulling a muscle is virtually impossible. Then you spray $10 worth of sunscreen onto each appendage, thus making them expensive and slippery (i.e., even harder to catch) when they decide to run away. Finally, exasperated and exhausted you send each kid the direction of the pool and stack your arms full of PFDs. Life jackets, arm floaties, little rafts with leg holes that took all morning and a few episodes of hyperventilation to inflate. None of which they will wear for more than 90 seconds at a time, and especially not when they jump all kamikaze-like into the deep end when you are not looking.

Then you get to the pool/lake/dry creekbed and the real fun begins. Trying to man all battlestations at once is a little overwhelming, so the seasoned traveler knows this one very important rule. Bring reinforcements. If, for example, your beloved parenting partner cannot join you because he or she is too “busy” because they are “earning a living”, it is advised that you trick a friend or relative into “vacationing” along with you. Younger sisters who don’t yet have kids are preferable, as they have no idea what’s about to hit them and will come along gladly.

Once you and your trusty helper are in the specified body of water you can decide the best way to play it. A man-to-man defense will work so long as your child-adult ratio remains 1:1. Once you are outnumbered, switching to the zone will probably serve you better. One grown up in the deep end, eyes peeled for un-floatied jumpers. And one manning the stairs for Potty Emergencies (and not the pee kind, there’s no sense rushing to the pool restroom for pee since they will be done by the time you get there) or kids submerging deck chairs for their underwater tea parties or almost-five-year olds trying to ride in the baby float and getting their legs stuck in the leg holes.

After a few rounds of Chug The Pool Water alternated with The Swim Burps followed by Let’s Jump!Let’s Jump!Let’s Jump!, your little charges will begin to show signs of Swimming Fatigue. Evidenced primarily by nuclear meltdowns. For example, crying over  the floatie they’ve been ignoring the whole time and now everybody needs all at once. Or extreme drama over getting a drop of pool water splashed into the eye/ear/mouth even though up until that point they’ve been voluntarily drinking the water and splashing it into their own faces. And finally, once your little redhaired swimmer’s arms and legs begin to match her hair, it’s best to get her out, rinse her off and start frying eggs on those shoulders, because swimming makes everybody hungry, doesn’t it?

And so you slide the PFDs onto your arms, grab a screaming swimmer with each hand and coax them into their dry clothes and naptime beds so they can get a head start on NOT SLEEPING. And you can get a head start on IGNORING THEM while you MAKE DINNER with the stovetop that refuses to heat up for twenty mintues then gets blazing-hot and scorches your grilled cheese/chicken breast/pancakes. And also the oven that seems like perhaps it was intended for foods that need to heat slowly at a low temperature, so it is less like an oven and more like a giant crock pot with a door, meaning you should have started dinner at 4:30 that morning. But what can you do? It’s Budget Travel at it’s best.

And so it’s a late, late dinner anticipated by ravenous little people who are biding their time by playing drums on their baby brother’s head and climbing on the dinner table all while your sister aka traveling companion looks on in abject horror wondering how on earth wild chimpanzees took over her nieces’ bodies. You finally win The Battle of the Stove and then sit down at the table they just climbed off of. Your little angel takes one look at the bounty they are about to receive and says (write this down, it’s a good one): “I wish we were at home so we could go to a fancy restaurant.”

At that moment you choose to laugh. Hysterically. Or maniacally. And then you begin to relax as you silently pray the prayer that you are now sure your parents prayed over you for years and years. “Please Lord, let their children do unto them as they have done unto me. Amen.”

Below you will find the ubiquitous Summer Vacation Photos. Just be glad I’m not inviting you over for dessert and setting up my slide projector.

She reminds me of Whiplash, the bad guy from Iron Man 2. Stay out of her way. Seriously.

My Future's So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades. Upside Down.

Armed and Dangerous

A Little Eye Candy for the Ladies

Whine: Michelle beat me to the recycled post punch.

Cheese: If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then she should feel extremely flattered. I’m full-on copying you, sister.

Two quick notes before I dust off an old post:

1)I recently received a box of Danish Wedding Cookies for my birthday, so those little white gems have been on my mind lately (and therefore make this post totally relevant).

2)This post was written before I met the Non-Danish Man of my sweet dreams.

Read on…

For as long as I can recall, I have had an inexplicable affinity for Danish Wedding Cookies (DWC). I have a vivid childhood memory of pilfering one of those gloriously pink boxes from the pantry and sneaking it into my parent’s bedroom, where I then hid behind the door and greedily demolished the entire box.

At some point in my early adulthood, I realized that I seriously needed intervention from DWC if I was to avoid an upgrade to the Women’s Clothing Department (WCD). I began to limit my purchases to only the most special of occasions, or ordinary occasions that otherwise warranted special treatment (i.e. PMS). This has seemed to work quite well for me over the past decade. Thus far I have been able to exercise a fair degree of purchasing restraint with the understanding, of course, that any box procured will be promptly devoured.

A few years back I decided that, when my time came to marry, I would celebrate in the style of a Danish wedding. Now, mind you, I have no idea what a traditional Danish wedding entails, nor do I truly care. But come that day, rest assured those confectionary wonders will be lavish in attendance.

Last week I was doing some routine grocery shopping and made a cursory run down the cereal/cookie/cracker aisle. As the Keebler Elves called out to me from the top shelf (in manner of Sirens), it occurred to me that I had not enjoyed a DWC in months. Not ever having been the sort to deny myself for any length of time, I decided to pick up a box. In the checkout line I noticed a thin film of dust coating the package. Not thinking much of it, I went forward with my purchase and anticipated tearing into the cookies later that evening.

Amazingly, I showed more restraint than thought possible and waited a full day to open the box. To my incredible dismay, it was the stalest lot of cookies I had ever encountered. The expiration date was 2 months past due. Now, I don’t know what the typical shelf life is on a box of preservatives, but I have a feeling that for something to actually be past its expiration date, its production was probably somewhere in the Medieval era. This didn’t discourage me in the least.

After eating a handful of cookies of questionable quality, I came to my senses and threw them away. I was walking to the dumpster with the trash bag when, in a moment of George Castanza weakness, I re-opened the bag and ate a few farewell cookies. I am a sick person.

I realize that most men, Danish or otherwise, are not attracted to women who eat cookies out of garbage cans (even remarkably clean garbage cans). Therefore, my Danish wedding may be a good ways off. Interestingly, I recently discovered that Mexican wedding cookies bear a remarkable resemblance (in both shape and taste) to their Danish counterparts. This opens up a whole new world of wedding possibilities.

Carrie (aka cdub), when she is not dumpster diving for her dessert, serves up hot coffee and lattes in her role as barista extrodinare. Beware if you find yourself in her drive-thru (DT) — you may end up as fodder for her blog: www.peopleofstarbucks.wordpress.com. Carrie also keeps the laughs coming with her self-designed line of snarky greeting cards (yes, those are REAL family pictures).

Whine: I forgot how little nursing mothers accomplish. Trapped forever in my little angel’s three-hour loop of feed,burp,feed,change,feed,burp,get overtired and scream,sleep,start again. Where exactly does my lunch break fit in?

Cheese: If I ever did get to eat lunch, I would burn off those calories in a heartbeat. Being conceirge to a starving newborn has its perks, I guess.

There are some new readers coming around, so I figured a quick introduction of the major players here at A Little Whine and Cheese might be in order. I was going to do the intro then write a really funny post for those of you for whom this is old news, but, well, you read my whine, so this is all you’re going to get. At least there are some cute pictures to look at. (And if you’re just craving more info, like I’m sure you are, just click the highlighted links to my archives to read further on each character.)

Mommy: That’s me. Thirty-three year old “retired” school teacher. Decided to start blogging as a way to prove that it’s them and not me that are crazy, but spend most of my time discussing the bathroom habits of my family members. Mother to a brood of semi-domesticated raccoons, er, children. Married for almost ten years to Mr. Dad, the consummate Texas dude.

Mr. Dad: My best bud. Plays the role of sane and stable one (read: immovable like granite) in the house, as opposed to mine as the dynamic and energetic one (read: volatile and exhausting). He likes sports so much, I’ve formed a Sports Widows Support Group. Will also be the first to tell you very proudly that Texas is the only state in the union that was once it’s own country. (I told you he was a Texas dude.)

The awkwardly-shot self-portrait.

Big Sis: My VERY curious four-and-a-half year old. This child is crazy as all get out. Enjoys “inventing” things at the expense of my carpet, counters and couch cushions. Rarely plays with toys as they are designed, finding that today’s toy companies are completely lame and without imagination.

Before she put the basket on her head and named it her "Mind-in-ator"

Lil’ Sis: My fiesty little two-year-old. Alternately sweet/sensitive/tender and opinionated/independent/dramatic, we are entirely out of our league with her. She spends a lot of time following Big Sis around and trying to smother Brother Bear with snot-laced kisses.

Before she systematically emptied each and every egg into her mouth.

Brother Bear: The boy. Three weeks old today. Very sweet, but seems to think that awake=hungry=feed me now, lady. I find his exceedingly long legs a lot more tolerable now that he is not stretching them inside my belly.

Lost in thought. Probably thinking of how to get more food.

That’s the family in a NUTshell. If you’re new around here, thanks for stopping by, feel free to leave a comment, I’ll be around the blogging block to visit you (hungry baby permitting). And if you’re one of those who’s read me for a while or known me since birth (hi, mom!), thanks for reading a bunch of stuff you already know. Well, that’s all for now, I gotta go burn some more calories.

Whine: I am still working on getting the hang of getting anywhere with all three children. It is that much more difficult when one of your children ties herself to her brother’s carseat with a red ribbon (that had up until that point served as a leash for her newfound pet dinosaur.)

Cheese: I am now faux-famous. Back when I had lots and lots of free time (you know, back when I only had two little wild things to keep track of) I submitted some video of myself to be used as a promo for The Ultimate Blog Party over at 5minutesformom.com (see sidebar). And although the footage of me is short, it is humiliating long enough to illustrate why my acting career never took off. I really, really hate myself on video, which is why after ten years I still haven’t worked up the nerve to watch my wedding video. So it makes total sense that I would ask Mr. Dad to film me 9+ months pregnant then send it to a complete stranger to put on her highly-trafficked website. Total sense.

Question of the Day

If you had five minutes to yourself (and by “to yourself” I mean in a room with the door locked while the heathens bang on it and holler) would you:

        a) take a really fast shower?

        b) eat half a bag of potato chips and wash it down with a few gulps of diet coke?

        c) ignore your hunger and lack of hygeine and watch a nostalgic 80s music video on youtube? (Of course it’s the Beastie Boys, what else could it be? )

        d) take a catnap while sitting in the dentist’s chair waiting for your x-rays to come back?

        e) write a quick thank you note for the cute baby clothes you received the other day?

Don’t worry, just choose the one you like best. There isn’t a wrong answer. Well, that’s not true. E is definitely a wrong answer. Very wrong. If that’s how your’e spending your five minutes, I’ve got a few baskets of laundry that need folding.

As a Mommy, most of the time I get is begged, borrowed or stolen. And it usually comes in five minute increments (or less, usually less). Today I put the baby in the bed, locked the bathroom door — ignoring the distressed cries of my newborn, who by the sound of him hadn’t eaten for days – and took a shower. You know, they say babies can smell their mothers from up to 20 feet away. So I got in the shower, hoping that if I scrubbed hard enough he wouldn’t be able to locate me for a few minutes. Like that worked. But at least I was clean.Well, cleanish, it was a five minute shower after all.

But now that I can officially claim three dependents on my tax return, I’m starting to figure out that if I need something just for myself, I’m probably going to have to either get very clever or use force. Like the time that I was pregnant and starving and in need of snack lest there be bloodshed, and as soon as I busted that cheese out of the fridge, the vultures (who had just had a snack) swooped in and started begging. So I locked myself in my bedroom until I ate every last bite. And then there was the time that I wanted to actually finish a phone conversation that I had started, but the “ambient noise” of the yelling and screaming had grown too loud to form a coherent thought. So I locked myself in my bedroom until I finished the conversation. As many times as I’ve employed that trick and had two pairs of little fists objecting, I’m surprised the door is still in tact.

And as often as I’ve had to fight for my right to change out of the dirty clothes I’ve been wearing in public all day or the right to use my computer without having to pull up Elmo videos, I’ve learned that those are not the only battles I need to fight.

I fight for a few minutes here and there with Mr. Dad. To catch up on the lastest in his sports obsession or to watch the redbox movie we’ve had so long we should’ve just bought it in the first place. To make sure we still remember what the other one looks like and that we are still capable of carrying on a thoughtful conversation that is not punctuated by rounds of E-I-E-I-O or requests for more juice. Because if I don’t have my partner at my side, I’m going to be one frantic mommy.

I fight for time to be myself. To read books without pictures and pray longer prayers than “Please, Lord, get me through the next ten minutes without killing anyone.” To think deep thoughts. And to write, usually not quite as deep thoughts, but generally coherent ones I hope. Because if I don’t remember who I am, then I’m kind of missing the point, aren’t I?

And I fight for friendship. I fly to exotic locales to celebrate my friends’ happy moments.  I allow widespread destruction so I can answer the phone. I sit on the computer longer than I should, looking at pictures of babies and weddings and cakes made and blog posts written so I can feel like I’m still a part of the lives of the people I care about, even if I am locked in my house more hours than I’m not. Because when I’m with my friends (in person or in cyberspace) then I know I’m not crazy. Or at least not alone.

As you can see from the video at the top, we Mommies are a harried bunch. And depending on how long it’s been since we last showered, we are often a hairy bunch. Which is why two lovely ladies invented 5minutesformom.com. It’s a place for moms to go for just a few minutes of connection, ideas, and fun. And this week there’s a party over there with lots of us mommies fighting for our rights. So stop by and spend five minutes there. Because when your occupation is Chief Domestic Officer, five minutes is all you’re going to get.

PS

If you’re here from UPB’10, welcome to A Little Whine and Cheese. Please leave a comment so I know you stopped by and I can return the favor.

PPS

I finally drank the kool-aid. After years of resisting the tremendous pressure, I have caved and created a twitter account. So if you’re the follow-y type, you can find me at www.twitter.com/littlewhine. I’ll try to be amusing, I promise.