Another Holiday Mishap

First of all, as previously stated, we will definitely not be eating Chinese food again any time soon. I now have two reasons to wish we had just stayed home or gone to a movie instead.

The other day Austin and I mixed up some gingerbread dough so we could make our annual gingerbread men, women, reindeer, stars, etc., etc. The dough has to chill, so I placed it outside the back door because the fridge was really full of big pots from my ambitious week of making a different soup almost every night. Anyway, the weather then turned cold, as in below zero type weather. I figured the dough would be fine but did bring it into the fridge once there was room to get it closer to the right temperature to roll out. The dough was covered pretty firmly with plastic wrap but it had a little water on it from being outside. I drained it off and didn't really worry about it.

I had a busy week as usual, so after a day or so in the fridge I finally got some time Saturday night to start rolling out cookies. I moved the boxes of Chinese food that someone had stacked on top of the bowl of dough and pulled it out of the fridge. There was a little more water condensed on top of the plastic wrap so I started to pour it off again. This time the water was brownish, the color of the dough, so I was a little worried that it had gotten under the plastic wrap and made my dough soggy.

Well as soon as I poured the liquid off I could smell it. Chinese food. The box of leftovers had somehow tipped enough to leak onto my gingerbread dough. I was not thrilled.

My dough had been tainted by the remains of our Tiny Spicy Chicken.

What should I do? Should I throw it all out? Could I rinse it off? (Not a good idea I found out. It made the dough mushy.)

Could I cut off the parts that had been compromised?

Well, that's exactly what I did.

Now I'm as squeamish as the next person, and maybe even a little more so than most, so this was not really my favorite option. It's just that the thought of my lovely gingerbread dough being ruined and having to start over was more than I could take. I kept telling myself that ginger was a main ingredient in both the cookies AND the Chinese food so maybe it would be okay after all.

I cut off the obvious parts and went about my business. I kept sniffing around the dough once it was rolled out. If I came to a questionable part, I let Austin take his cookie cutters and have at it. I figured he's a kid and wouldn't notice anything funny as he eats it. So far he hasn't complained and he's eaten LOTS of cookies.

For the finishing touch I made my usual lemon icing to decorate them with. I just put in a lot more lemon flavoring than usual.

I just couldn't bring myself to try any cookies last night, because they all smelled like Chinese food to me by the time I was finished. They do taste pretty good today though.

From now on, I think I'll call them Tiny Spicy Cookies.

(I didn't give any of these cookies to any of the neighbors for obvious reasons, though I did consider - just for a second - taking some to the neighbors with the obnoxious Christmas lights. That wouldn't be very Christian of me though, would it?)

Nothing Kills the Holiday Spirit Like Projectile Vomit All Over Your New Rudolph Slippers

Yes, you read that correctly.

We went to dinner Thursday night to celebrate Morgan and Ally both getting 4.0 grades this last term. Hal and I promised we would do something fun, so we ended up eating dinner in a Chinese restaurant.

The food tasted a little "off" to me, so I mainly ate the one thing that tasted fine.

I sent Ally and Austin home with Hal, since we had driven separately, and Morgan and I hurried and did a little more Christmas shopping. We got home a while later and everything seemed fine.

Later, the girls went to bed and Hal and Austin watched Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer together. After that they started playing with the slippers and chasing each other around. Around 9:30 or so Austin started saying his stomach was hurting.

I asked, as I ALWAYS do when a kid says their stomach hurts, if he thought he might throw up. He didn't think so.

All of a sudden he got frantic, saying "MY STOMACH HURTS!"

Hal started telling him something, like "Get to bed." or some other thing, but I, noticing the urgency in Austin's voice, yelled to Hal to get Austin a pan IMMEDIATELY and to "MOVE THE SLIPPERS!" (I am a very practical mother.)

(I'm sorry if this is too graphic for readers who are squeamish. You might want to stop reading here.)

All of a sudden a stream of vomit, like I've only seen once before in my fifteen plus years of raising children, erupted from his mouth and shot across the dining room and all over and even INSIDE the Rudolph slippers that Austin was holding. It was not a happy moment for any one of us.

It was one of those situations where you just don't even know where to start cleaning things up. Austin himself was pretty clean, seeing as the vomit shot out away from him and ended at the slippers in his outstretched hands. Thankfully none of it seemed to get on the area rug under the table. Mostly it just landed across and to the side of all the bar stools in a pretty straight line. It was kind of like a dragon breathing fire. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself.

Ok, I'll stop with the descriptions now. I'm making myself feel sick all over again.

We got him a pan then, which was a good thing because he made good use of it.

Anyway, I finally got him to the bathroom and into some pajamas and into his little bed on my floor, complete with clean bath mats and a clean pan. Then I had the marvelous task of cleaning up the "surface wash only" slippers. I must say once again, we Fronks are nothing if not thorough, at least when it comes to making messes. It was a most unpleasant task. I went over them again this morning to make sure I didn't miss any spots. I'm still trying to find my can of Lysol to finish the task to my satisfaction.

Friday morning Austin woke up feeling fine, so I'm sure it was the Chinese food.

Next time I think we'll celebrate by going to a movie.

Nothing Says "Holiday Spirit" Like a New Pair of Rudolph Slippers

The kids and I went Christmas shopping Wednesday night.

The shopping ended up being more about the girls trying on a LOT of clothes. Ally has shot up this year and outgrown all her jeans. Austin was not pleased because it took quite a bit of time.

He was bored, so I let him sit in the back of the cart and hold a few things he wanted to look at.

Somehow we ended up coming home with a brand new pair of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer slippers, in an adult size medium. They were $10 and Austin begged and begged for them.

He wanted them so badly in fact, that he shucked off his own snow boots and left them in the aisle, something that I didn't figure out until we were in another section of the store.

Every time I take Austin shopping I vow never to take him again because it is so expensive. It would be cheaper to actually pay a babysitter and our house would have a lot less junk in it, even though I usually only let him buy one thing on any given shopping day. He is pretty good at deciding between two different things which one he wants most and then he will put the other thing back. Usually.

Anyway, back to the slippers, I caved because, even though they are so big (it's the smallest size they had, so I guess he will wear them for a few years), they are awfully cute. I'm kind of a sucker for big animal slippers. We still have the Balto slippers I bought for Morgan when she was 3 or 4 and going through that phase. (Anyone remember Balto?)

Tune in tomorrow for the REST of the story.

The Return of Nutmeg Jim

Nutmeg Jim has been a bit of a slacker this year. He has usually written a note or two by now, or at the very least comes with a note - or bearing gifts - the first time he shows up and this year we have had nothing. Nada, zip, zero, zilch (you get the idea).

In fact, Nutmeg Jim, himself, was MIA for a few days. I looked in all the usual places but he was just not anywhere that I could think to look.

I decided it was time to step up the search and prompt him into some communication since Austin has been a little more on the naughty than nice side so far this year.

Well, a note did show up but there was still no Nutmeg Jim to be found.

Upon further investigation (and a few threats that Santa already knew what had really happened to Nutmeg Jim), we found Nutmeg Jim stuffed under the back of the Christmas tree, face down. Now it is extremely difficult to get behind the tree, I might add, so someone must have gone to a lot of trouble to put him there. I know because I'm the one that had to fish him out.

We found out that he was placed there by Austin, who had the bright idea that if Nutmeg Jim couldn't see him, he couldn't report to Santa that Austin had been naughty. (And this, coming from a kid that doesn't believe that Nutmeg Jim is real in the first place.)

Anyway, peace was restored until Morgan read the note from Nutmeg Jim to the kids. It pretty much said that Santa had a couple of lumps of coal reserved for a few special children and that they'd better shape up in a couple areas.

We'll see if intimidation is the right tactic to use this year.

Only time will tell.

Baby, It's Cold Outside!

I just sent this character out in the -5 degree weather to catch the school bus.

I'm not sure exactly who is he, but he looks pretty cute.

I just hope he comes home with all his digits intact, because frostbite is a definite possibility these days, even if it is only a block to the bus stop.

Another Conversation With Austin

In the car today:

Austin: "Hey mom, you know the light pole at (our next-door-neighbor) Logan's house?"

Me: "Yes."

Austin: "Well, your tongue doesn't stick when you put it on it."

Me: "How do you know?"

Austin: "Because I tried it yesterday."

Me, freaking out because it was WAY below freezing: "Austin, you know that's not a good idea..... Just because people do things in the movies doesn't mean you won't get hurt if you do it..." etc., etc., blah, blah, blah....

Austin, without missing a beat: "Mom when you get old enough to get a job, do you know what you're going to do?"

Me, not really sure which direction this conversation is going to go: "Um, I don't know."

Austin: "Well, I really want you to be the driver on The Polar Express."

Me, relieved: "I'll see what I can do. When I get old enough, that is."

Austin: "Deal."

Kid Logic

Austin: "Mom, why don't you like handicapped people?"

Me: "I do like handicapped people. Why do you think I don't like handicapped people?"

Austin: "Because you never visit them."

Me: "What do you mean I never visit them?" I then start listing all the handicapped people we know and how and when I visit with them, including one person I visited with that day at church.

Austin: "Well, you won't ever park in their spots."



(It's nursing homes that freak me out. I hope he never figures this out or I'll never hear the end of it. At least I hope he doesn't figure it out until I'm old enough to actually be admitted to a nursing home.)

What Can You See From YOUR Kitchen Window?

Here's what I get to see:

(I'll have to just describe it since a photo really doesn't even begin to capture the full effect.)

I'm looking out my kitchen window through my back yard, as I often do, while I'm fixing or cleaning up dinner. For some strange reason, my eyes always seem to focus in on one particular neighbor's lights. The house is on the corner, through the block, but it is the only thing I can seem to see because it is so (hmm, what would be a polite term for obnoxious?) obvious.

I see some lights. Lots of lights. Lots and lots of blue and silver lights, blinking off and on in some weird sort of random pattern that makes no sense whatsoever.

(Actually, now that I look at it, it isn't so many lights, just how they are flashing.)

It almost looks like the mother ship has landed. I've never seen anything like it.

(Beam me up, Scotty. And then bring me back when Christmas is over.)

Now I feel guilty for being mean. I'll have to make them some raisin cookies to make up for it.

Yam Tacos?

You may have had one if you've eaten here lately.

Really. But you may not have known it.

My kids are terrible when it comes to eating vegetables so when the cookbook came out a while ago about how to sneak vegetables into other food I was all over it.

Well, this year for Thanksgiving I was assigned to bring the yams, which is a whole other discussion.

Shall we get sidetracked for a moment and discuss it?

My husband's family assigned me to do the yams a long time ago when I was first married. It was a good assignment for a newly married couple with no kids.

Two years later, when we ate with Hal's family again, my sister-in-law, Monica, was assigned the yams. I made some stupid comment like, "Just make sure you don't put any gross stuff like marshmallows in them." (I like my yams relatively healthier so I mash them like potatoes with just salt and pepper, a little butter, milk and some garlic salt.)

Well, I could tell by Monica's and my mother-in-law's reactions that that was not the right thing to say. There were marshmallows galore that year and everyone seemed very happy.

Now, whenever I am assigned the yams, as I was again this year, I have the dilemma of what to do. And I always solve it by doing both kinds.

This year I must have been feeling a little passive aggressive so all I did for the candied yams was dump some canned yams into a baking pan and cover semi-liberally with marshmallows. I heated those until the marshmallows browned. I also made my mashed yams and got quite a few compliments on both kinds. (Do you think people feel obligated to compliment you on YAMS? It doesn't really seem like it to me, so maybe the candied ones really were ok.)

Anyway, I had made a huge container of the mashed yams so I brought quite a few of them home. And this is when I realized that even I don't love to just sit and eat a dish of yams. (There are never any other leftovers for us to take home on Hal's side. It is a HUGE family. Lots of grandkids.)

So, of course being the good little homemaker that I am, I couldn't just waste the yams. I started thinking about what I could put them in.

The first meal I made was chicken and dumplings. I made it as usual (meaning like the last time I made it, which was roughly five years ago). Then I added a few huge spoonfuls of yams. They swirled around and blended right in. It even tasted good. I couldn't find my regular dumpling recipe that I got from my friend Patty, so I pulled out the Betty Crocker cookbook. I used their recipe and doubled it because it said it only made six dumplings and my family loves dumplings - at least I was sure they would - and then added some thyme and pepper to the recipe.

Well I'll tell you, by the time the massive dumplings were done, the dish should have been called "Dumplings with a trace amount of chicken and veggies and very little liquid". Don't get me wrong, the kids and Hal liked the dumplings but I honestly cannot figure out where in the world the chicken and veggies went. They certainly weren't embedded in the gigantic dumplings. I know because I checked.

Next I made tacos, which is Hal's favorite meal. He would eat them every week, no problem, if I would remember to make them.

Well, I still had the problem of all these vitamin-rich yams and what to do with them, so I threw some into the meat and bean mixture and it tasted pretty darn good, if I do say so myself. A little sweet, but I masked the taste with a little more taco seasoning. I really did think they were pretty tasty. Even better than usual in my opinion. Nobody said anything so I don't think they had any idea. I might have to try this again someday.

For the last of the yams I tried my luck with chili, since the tacos were so successful. This was not as good. You could see there was a strange texture and color to the chili. I had to confess on that one, which made everyone pretty reluctant to eat much of it, even though it tasted fine.

So, you win some and you lose some. But all in all I think I was pretty successful at using up the yams.

Tacos anyone?

So It's a Cultural Thing?

One day, a few years ago, I was talking to my mom about something that had to do with housekeeping, I can't remember exactly what it was. She made the comment, "We're Swedish, we only change our sheets twice a year." (Her dad is a full-blooded Swede.)

Ok, so let's get this straight: My mom is only half Swedish, so she would only be able to get away with changing the sheets four times a year. I, on the other hand, am just a quarter Swedish, so do you think I could get away with changing them only eight times a year?

That's less than once a month.

(Yeah, I don't think so either.)