Cold Spaghetti

1978:

My brother, Skipper (now answering to his true name, Tim) and me.  I’m a little older than Kate is right now in this picture.  Billerica, Massachusetts.

This must be the moment that my parents explained that my brother, being the boy, would be financially supported through college and that I was expected to marry well right out of high school.

1979:

Skip and I with our first big wheels.  I rode mine until all the stickers fell off or faded to white and there were holes in the wheels.  The big wheel Skip is on is different than the Hot Wheels tricycle he rode onto the 4-lane high way in the middle of rush hour traffic while my Dad was painting the house.

That’s my grandfather’s German train set under our tree.  Paul and I have that garland (Filene’s basement special — my Mom worked nights at Filene’s).  My Dad gave the trains to my Uncle, who sold them (d’oh!)  This Christmas, my Dad and brother put together parts of the same train, bought used over the past few months on ebay.

1980:

Still in Billerica!  I was a Strawberry Shortcake girl.  I’ve seen that Strawberry and her buds are back… but taller, thinner, shapelier, and with makeup.  Ugh.

1984:

We’d moved to Summerville, SC, by now — but spent this holiday away from home.  This is at my Grandma Betty’s house in Woodstock, VA.  That’s my cousin Becky in Grandma’s lap.

That’s my cousin Stephen.  The same guy who took Will fishing last September.  Remember the necklace?  That’s an Annie locket.  My hair is actually growing out from an Annie perm.  OH YES, a Little Orphan Annie Perm.

That was all I could find in the attic.

Here are some old photos I had backed up my parents’ computer.

2005:

Mobile, Alabama.

2006:

Mobile, Alabama.

2007:

Mobile, Alabama and New Orleans, LA.

2008:

Mobile, Alabama.

I was thinking of photos from our first year in the house, when Paul stripped the hanging doors before Katrina and re-wired the entire house.  Squeaky made me think of electronics, metals, and the sounds of our old house.

Then I saw this picture of Will, mixed in with those early home-improvement days.

And I thought, “mouse,” which is most definitely a squeaky little thing.

So here’s my first born at 17 months.  Back in the days when he could be called squeaky.

I made turkey this year for Christmas dinner.  Not a full turkey, I know my limits, but a full turkey breast, which I figure is pretty darn good for me, all things considered.  Those ‘all things’ include that I was a vegetarian for 8 years and Paul for 15 — in other words, neither of us are particularly knowledgeable in the preparation of meat.

When I was pregnant with Kate and overseas, I became pretty seriously anemic.  Actually, between you and me, I think I’m still struggling with this whole anemia thing, but that’s another story.  In any case, the iron issue was what brought me back to meat in the first place (it was easier than going out of my way to find soy products in Peru).  But it was at least a year until I got the courage to actually cook meat myself.

Now when I cook meat, I do so almost exclusively with the crockpot.  It’s just hard to screw things up and I feel confident that everything is cooked through without being too dry.  So, naturally, when I considered cooking turkey, I gravitated toward recipes that involve a crock pot.

So we’re talking to my Mom and Paul mentioned my newly found turkey cooking skills.  How DARN GOOD that Christmas turkey from the crock pot was — with the added perks of how great the house smelled all day, that the kids loved it, and how he was just thrilled as can be that we had three more meals of it tucked away in the freezer.  The compliments went right to my head and I threw in how easy it was… cut herbs from the porch, juiced some lemons, marinated everything overnight, and then put it all in the crock pot to cook all day.

My Mother, Goodness Bless Her, picked right up on something.  She quickly called her girlfriends to gain support.  Then with the voices of Two Seasoned Cooks behind her, she reported to me that I committed Serious Culinary Sin.  Apparently, one NEVER cooks poultry in it’s marinade.

?

This is what the recipe* said:

Place turkey, skin side down, in a large leakproof food storage bag or a nonreactive (glass or ceramic) dish. Combine marinade ingredients and pour over turkey, turning to coat all sides. Cover and refrigerate for 4 to 8 hours, or overnight. Place turkey and marinade in the crockot; cover and cook on LOW for 6 to 8 hours, or until tender.

A similar recipe is here, too.

My Mother has never really recovered from the trauma of realizing that I make far superior chocolate chip cookies**, so I take her critique with a grain of salt.

But she is my Mom*** and has our best interests in mind.  (By ‘best interests’ I mean more than maintaining that my children only eat meals that she prepares.)  So, I appeal to the experts of the internet: is the recipe above one for good turkey, or gastro-intestinal illness?

—-

* I should note that I deviated from the recipe considerably, as I always do.  (I fear that I do not follow directions well.)  I added broth.  I wouldn’t know a dry wine from a glass of water, so I used the only bottle of wine in the house (it was a chardonnay, which I assume is a white wine because it wasn’t red colored).  I used more wine than the recipe called for, as well as more herbs.  I added salt (a lot, because I know you’re suppose to have a lot of salt in a brine) and peppercorns, also because I hear they are popular when you cook turkey.  I didn’t have Dijon mustard in the house (I think mustard is foul) so I used a dried mustard powder that I have on hand because it works good with several tofu dishes we cook.   I have no idea if any of what I have done matters in whether or not what I served was deadly.

** Yes.  I make one seriously awesome chocolate chip cookie.

*** In all seriousness, my Mother is an excellent, Excellent(!) cook.

2 was more difficult than 1.  3 was more difficult than 2.  4 was difficult, but a lot like 3, so we got used to handling it.  5?  5 may be the worst yet.

Will was really really rough today.  REALLY ROUGH.

He called me a bad name and had some time to think in his room.  Paul explained that he needed to write an apology letter to me and Santa.  He stared one, cried tears of remorse, and turned into the perfect lovey guy… even going with Paul to The Bead Shop to make me a present with his jewelry buddy, Ms. Georgia.

Then something happened and all the magic was gone.  He was back in his room.

This time, he got right to work on his apologies.  He finished the first (above) and moved on to a second and then a third.  Maybe he needed the time to work through some stuff.

We were beginning to think that everything was going to be okay.

Then Paul discovered that some of his thank you landed on his bed.  We were dumbfounded.

When I asked Will why he wrote on the bed, huge alligator tears began to roll down his cheeks.  “I don’t know,” he said, and I knew he was telling the truth.  He had no idea why he did it, why the irrestible urge came over him, and what made him carry through with it.  Maybe it’s similar to why I cannot resist singing along to the song “Word Up” whenever I hear it, irregardless of the situation (but really, who can resist that?) and Paul’s inability to resist making terrible puns in the most serious of conversations (“what should our wedding song be?” “how about What’ll You Do for Money, Honey?”)  Some things just can’t be refused.

I didn’t know whether to laugh, be angry, or just give him a hug.  I sort of felt like doing all three.

So we settled for him eating dinner.  When he was done, he sassed Paul and we were back to square one.  Again.  Then, after bathtime and a good cry, he was back to being extra sweet.  He brought me his third and final apology letter and read it over with me.  He promised that he was going to work “on a good attitude.”

So he went to bed.  He fell asleep in a second, which makes me think he was tired and worry that maybe that his ear isn’t healing so well?

Kate, on the other hand, was perfectly adorable all day.  Running around the house calling out “Santa is coming!  Santa is coming!”  Then, at bed time, was so worked up that when we explained that she had to go to sleep or Santa couldn’t visit, she gave us her classic pout and declared that she “didn’t want Santa at my house.”  The ying and yang of parenting: one child must always be driving the parent crazy.

Still, Santa decided to show.  With some big surprises.  This year, Santa was more than just Mom, too, but we’ll talk about that after the big reveal in the morning…

It was in the mid 60s last night and very humid, chilly and a bit damp, but otherwise a perfect night for a walk in City Park.  I’m embarrassed to admit that this was our first ever visit to Celebration in the Oaks.

Paul was a good sport pushing the kids in the Beamer stroller, while I wandered around with my tripod.  Yup, bad-ass me, with my camera and tripod… with the camera set to a high ISO the whole damn time.  So much for bad-ass.

My old 10D rocks, but at 800 ISO, can get a little grainy.  Oh, well, at least I had the tripod.

There was a laser light show (a little lame, but the kids loved the Rudolph song), dancing lights through the landscaped botanical gardens, a lighted telling of A Cajun Twas the Night Before Christmas, live dancers and singers, hot chocolate and hot dogs, and kiddie rides all decked out for the holidays.

Our favorite area was the Train Garden.  Miniature homes and historic buildings of New Orleans, laid out among streetcar and train tracks.  WAY COOL.

Here’s the Vieux Carre, below:

Here’s the train, comin’ by…

Isn’t it cool?  It was WAY cooler in person, too.  Each building was fascinating in detail and expression and the accompanying literature was interesting and insightful.  Little tidbits of local history.

Kate and Paul check out one of the lighted toys.  I can neither confirm nor deny Kate’s attempt to ride the horse while my eye was lost behind the camera.  We went through Storyland… quickly… as things got busy fast.  We came in at opening, but made the mistake of not running a line straight to the train ride and carousel.  We’ll get those later?  Maybe next year?

It’s just not Christmas without this story:

Words, in case you want to follow along:

Cajun Night Before Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas an’ all t’ru de house,
Dey don’t a ting pass Not even a mouse.
De chirren been nezzle good snug on de flo’,
An’ Mama pass de pepper t’ru de crack on de do’.

De Mama in de fireplace done roas’ up de ham,
Sit up de gumbo an’ make de bake yam.
Den out on de by-you dey got such a clatter,
Make soun’ like old Boudreau done fall off his ladder.

I run like a rabbit to got to de do’,
Trip over de dorg an’ fall on de flo’.
As I look out de do’in de light o’ de moon,
I t’ink, “Mahn, you crazy or got ol’ too soon.”

Cux dere on de by-you w’en I stretch ma’neck stiff,
Dere’s eight alligator a pullin’ de skiff.
An’ a little fat drover wit’ a long pole-ing stick,
I know r’at away got to be ole St.Nick.

Mo’ fas’er an’ fas’er de’ gator dey came
He whistle an’ holler an’ call dem by name:
“Ha, Gaston! Ha, Tiboy! Ha, Pierre an’ Alcee’!
Gee, Ninette! Gee, Suzette! Celeste an’Renee’!

To de top o’ de porch to de top o’ de wall,
Make crawl, alligator, an’ be sho’ you don’ fall.”
Like Tante Flo’s cat t’ru de treetop he fly,
W’en de big ole houn’ dorg come a run hisse’s by.

Like dat up de porch dem ole ‘gator clim!
Wit’ de skiff full o’ toy an’ St. Nicklus behin’.
Den on top de porch roof it soun’ like de hail,
W’en all dem big gator, done sot down dey tail.

Den down de chimney I yell wit’ a bam,
An’ St.Nicklus fall an’ sit on de yam.
“Sacre!” he axclaim, “Ma pant got a hole
I done sot ma’se’f on dem red hot coal.”

He got on his foots an’ jump like de cat
Out to de flo’ where he lan’ wit’ a SPLAT!
He was dress in musk-rat from his head to his foot,
An’ his clothes is all dirty wit’ ashes an’ soot.

A sack full o’ playt’ing he t’row on his back,
He look like a burglar an’ dass fo’ a fack.
His eyes how dey shine his dimple, how merry!
Maybe he been drink de wine from de blackberry.

His cheek was like a rose his nose a cherry,
On secon’ t’ought maybe he lap up de sherry.
Wit’ snow-white chin whisker an’ quiverin’ belly,
He shook w’en he laugh like de stromberry jelly!

But a wink in his eye an’ a shook o’ his head,
Make my confi-dence dat I don’t got to be scared.
He don’ do no talkin’ gone strit to hi work,
Put a playt’ing in sock an’ den turn wit’ a jerk.

He put bot’ his han’ dere on top o’ his head,
Cas’ an eye on de chimney an’ den he done said:
“Wit’ all o’ dat fire an’ dem burnin’ hot flame,
Me I ain’ goin’ back by de way dat I came.”

So he run out de do’ an, he clim’ to de roof,
He ain’ no fool, him for to make one more goof.
He jump in his skiff an’ crack his big whip,
De’ gator move down, An don’ make one slip.

An’ I hear him shout loud as a splashin’ he go,
“Merry Christmas to all ’til I saw you some mo’!”

And just in case you need some more Cajun inspiration this holiday:

Happy Christmas Eve!

Dear Santa,

When you visit us this year, could you bring something to help me gain the patience I need to deal with my kids non-stop for the next two weeks?  I admit I’ve made some dumb moves (agreeing to teach last minute, for one) that have me thinking about all the other things I’m suppose to be doing… which means that I’m frustrated and not focused on being a Mom right now.  With Paul still working his 18 jobs around the clock and the house in complete chaos, I’m just not in a good place, you know?   Could you bring something to chill that out a little bit?

Oh, and I’m totally cool with pharmaceuticals, if that’s the way you want to go.

Just looking for that Christmas high,

me

—

This post is a Monday Mission. This week’s Mission is to write a post in the style of a letter to Santa.

Will came home from school to find my sketching supplies out with evidence that I had been using them.  He was curious and paused to look, then ran in the back to change clothes and work on the house with Paul — the call of power tools.

Then, 5 minutes later, he’s back inside.

“Mommy?”

“Will, dinner is going to be soon, so no snacks.”

“No, Mommy.  I don’t want a snack.  I want to draw.”

“What?”

“Draw.  Like you.”

Behold, internets.  I give you, MY SON.

What was that, you ask?  That sound?

It was the sound of my heart, breaking into eight thousand pieces a hundred times over.

Gris-Grits tagged me and ’cause it gets me all blushy and bashful, I’m totally going to do it again.  The rules are the same, but as I mentioned last time, I’m terribly unreliable when it comes to things like RULES.  It’s one of many things I’m unreliable about, actually.  Here are some more…

1. I cannot be trusted to put shoes away, ever.  Particularly before bedtime, which means that someone who is stumbling through the dark to find the bathroom is likely to encounter shoes.  Be warned.

2. Recipes are very hard for me to follow.  It’s not that I CAN’T follow directions, it’s just that it is an incredible bore.  Paul disagrees.  He likens my meddling with recipes to a dog marking it’s scent on every passing lamp-post.  Lovely man, my Paul.

3. I cannot be trusted to keep my mouth shut.  Ever.  About anything.  It’s one of my charms.

4. I bit through my tongue when I fell off a sit-and-spin at age 5.  My tongue had a hole for years from the bite and still has a visible cut.  The fall happened because I wasn’t listening and was standing on the toy.  I show Will the injury as a warning of what happens when Children Don’t Listen.

5. Doctors wondered if I would have a thumb nail after I slammed my left hand in a door (also at age 5).  Surgeons re-attached my thumb and a few months later, a new nail grew in.  Today, there is no visible evidence of any injury, so I do not have the physical evidence required to use it as cautionary tale to my children.

6. I would give it all up to tour with The Supremes.

—-

UPDATE: Lisa noted that I didn’t tag anyone.  So I tagged her, bashfully.  Anyone else new to Cold Spaghetti??  Please play and link here so I can find you!

For some of us, we were up — literally.  Too bad he’s not up there admiring the view.  He had a great helper, though, which sped things along.

Wait, helper… where is that helper?  Helper?  HELPER?

Oh, there he is.  Hi Helper.

Say, Helper, can you…

…wait, where are you going?  Helper?  WILL?

Um… what are you doing, Will?  Dad really needs you to… Will?  WILL?

Koosh ball?  Tennis racket?  Where did you… oh, nevermind, where… WHAT are you doing?

WHY ARE YOU GIVING YOUR SISTER A TENNIS RACKET?  And so close to where Mommy has ridiculously hung the video camera!?

Oh.  I get it.  You’re not helping Daddy anymore.  You’re working for someone else.  Sorry, Paul.

Miraculously, though, Paul finished the roof of the outbuilding and returned the roller this morning.  One little step done…!