"Mommy, promise not to get offended if I tell you something?  Promise?" 
Um, okay. 
"You might become famous someday.  You might be famous for having the most food allergies." 

I found it amusing, not offensive.  And I can see how it would look that way to a child who has spent the last 10 years on a food allergy diagnostic roller coaster, especially when one of them is corn. 

I love it when dinner goes surprisingly well. 
Tonight's plan was to finally make that tuna noodle casserole Penguin was too sick for last night.  (Friday is casserole night; and this week it was going to be Thursday because of rehearsal but everyone got sick.) 
This is a meal that will feed Mr Violets, myself and Penguin.  Bumblebee will eat the noodles with a bit of cheese, if I save the noodles before assembling.  Sometimes.  Other times she makes faces at the dinner table and licks her veggies until her toast is ready.  Yes, she's a bit old for that kind of behavior.  But since it's an improvement and we can see the visual struggle she goes through not to throw a full out tantrum...it's a compromise we live with.  Most of the time.
Anyways.  Back to my story. 
I started with the onion.  Chopped it up and started carmelizing it on the stove.  (I'm not very good at this part...I usually charcoalize bits and soften bits and brown bits.  But I didn't do too bad tonight.)  Then I rinsed out the spinach.  Then I discovered we were out of peas, so I decided that tonight's experiment would be to add peppers. 
Bell peppers are an excellent source of vitamin C, and since the kids both have an exceptionally nasty case of the flu vitamin C sounds like a good plan. 
The water was boiling by now, so I opened the cupboard to pull out the pasta. 
I found spice cake mix for making lunch 'muffins'. 
I found spaghetti. 
I found the Trader Joe's brand rice spaghetti my husband bought by accident and Bumblebee didn't like because it's thinner than Tinkyada and doesn't hold up to overcooking as well. 
I found an extra bottle of grapeseed oil, the mint tea bag I keep up there as protection against food moths and a mysterious curly ribbon. 
Drat. 
Then I remembered telling myself to write "TJ--corkscrew pasta" on the list last time I made pasta.  Before I got distracted by having to play referee and Mr Violet's arrival home. 
Double drat. 
I looked at the softening onions, the casserole dish with spinach and bell peppers and the boiling water.  I furrowed my brow.  I looked at the spaghetti in my hand and thought "But, spaghetti and tuna just sounds...gross.  It's...wrong." 
Then Penguin called out, and I answered. 
"Mommy, if it's not too much trouble, could I have rice and beans for dinner?  I think there's leftovers.  And then you and Bumblebee can have mac and cheese I guess."  (This is a big sacrifice.  Penguin hates when the rest of us have mac and cheese because she can't eat it.  But she's sick, she knows her sister is sick and she wanted to do something nice for her.) 
I looked at the casserole dish again, and let the wheels in my brain turn, vaguely a recipe for savory noodle kugel I once read about.  I assessed my options...and made the spaghetti.  We weren't going to eat it as spaghetti anyways.  Well, I might.  The kids and my husband will continue to hem and haw and choose cereal if we're out of Tinkyada.  (Ironically, they prefer the TJ corkscrews, though.) 
Then I cubed up teensy tiny cubes of cheese.  I didn't feel like grating it. 
I beat 2 eggs.  I probably could have beaten 3, but I was just experimenting at that point.  I really didn't want tuna with spaghetti, I didn't want beans with all those veggies tonight, and I did want a protein. 
I mixed it all together.  Added a ladle full of veggie broth.  Stuffed it in the oven and let it bake for half an hour while I refreshed water bottles, redosed everyone on medecine and started Penguin's leftover rice and beans on the back burner. 

I ended up with a meal that fed 3; just as planned.  It just didn't feed the 3 that I expected it to feed.  And Bumblebee wasn't nearly as thrilled with my concoction as Penguin tends to enjoy regular casserole. 

So it's a definite make again meal.  Maybe next time I'll even try it with an extra egg or two and no cheese.  But, I like the cheese.  It added extra pockets of creamy flavor.  It wasn't a 5 star meal.  It wouldn't earn any acclaim. 
But it was tasty and free of corn, gluten, nuts and dye.  What more can one ask for in a meal?

Once upon a time, I was a vegetarian.  A strict vegetarian. 
I didn't eat red meat, or "white meat", or poultry or fish.  I even swore off eggs and honey and dairy products for a time, in honor of "a cruelty free lifestyle". 
I wasn't judgemental of others choices, or at least...I didn't mean to be.  I thought I accepted them and that any of our teasing was in good natured fun.  But I was proud of my choices, and my ability to wield my choice proudly.  I looked forward to passing this dietary discretion on to my children.  The whole "we choose what we eat, we choose what impact we make on the world, and we choose respect through nutrients" thing that I hadn't completely worked out in my still-maturing mind was important to me; and at one time I identified my conscientious eating as a vegetarian lifestyle. 
I may not have always had an ideal vegetarian lifestyle, and I now realize that pasta roni meals simply aren't nearly as environmentally sound as a few conscientiously harvested scrambled eggs with locally grown veggies.  But I tried. 
Although I still think that cruelty free eating is important, and I'm still on an ethical eating kick...I'm no longer focused on flesh free food.  I'm too busy avoiding gluten, and corn derivatives, and a myriad of other dangers.  When you're corn derivative free...well, your options are remarkably confined.  Add in gluten and dairy to the restrictions and your available proteins are left at...eggs.  Beans.  Nuts.  Throw in digestive disorders...and you start to rethink the whole ethical eating idea. 
As I've stated before, my personal tipping of the scales came when I paused and asked myself "What would Jesus have eaten?"  (I'm not trying to be all high and mighty there, my religious beliefs are certainly convoluted and confusing...but I hang steadfastly to the belief that for me, personally, they are right.  Just as yours are right for you.)  And the answer came to me, quietly but assuredly "Mary made Chicken soup.  'Jewish pennicilin'"  (Again, no offense intended to those websurfers who manage to stumble onto this post from some random web search.)  And so, I sought out safe chicken. 
This has left my family reeling.  I began raising my kids with the "it's better to avoid flesh foods; but we all make our own decisions and we WILL respect others choices" mantra.  They told people they were vegetarian, making their own choices.  And then...then I dropped a landslide as I began sliding into a carnivorous world.  (No, I'm still not eating red meat.  And I'm still keeping it kosher style to the best of my ability.  My half jewish husband isn't very helpful.  His household wasn't kosher.) 
I'm still in the "You choose what you believe" mind set for my kids though; whether we are discussing Santa Clause, the religion they most closely identify with or what to eat for dinner. 
"Meat is bad," my youngest tells me, "You shouldn't eat dead things.  I think it makes them sad.  Would you want someone to eat YOU?" 
And then she glares at me reproachfully.  I try to simply remind her that there is a circle of life on the planet.  And that some animals do get eaten.  Even the Bible condones it, to a degree.  The main thing is to eat anything you choose to eat respectfully.  To choose healthy produce, and whole grains and protein sources. 
She munches on her cheese crackers and continues to glare. 
But my husband, being who he is, purchased bacon.  It's not kosher by any stretch of the imagination.  (except maybe St. Paul) and it's probably not terribly healthy.  Although the bacon purchased is nitrite free. 
He offered some to the kids.  Who eventually accepted. 
I'm not complaining, mind you.  As said...I'm still in the "everyone chooses what to believe" mindset.  And everyone makes their own peace with their choices, so it's fine if the kids want to eat bacon.  I doubt it would be safe for me, even if I could justify consuming pig.  They eat bacon, and I'll even prepare it for them. 
But what boggles my mind is last night's exchange. 
Bumblebee not only wanted bacon...but she didn't want to let Daddy cook it. 
Mommy's bacon is better. 
Now how on earth did an ex vegetarian who still can't bring herself to consume meat from a 4 legged animal ever become the "better" bacon cooker? 
I always say the hardest thing about cooking for food allergies is not getting to taste things to see how they're coming along. 
But apparently, my easy-cheating style of cooking has produced not just an edible bacon...but one that my picky daughter prefers over my (also picky) bacon eating husband's. 
Weird. 

Watching Movies

Having 2 girls who don't like gore, swearing, or too much action and adventure in a movie...and who still think kissing is gross...makes the whole "snuggle up for a movie" bonding experience that much more difficult.  We ditched the cable in favor of grocery money long, long ago.  (And we don't miss it)  Digitized broadcast channels are often scrambled, and we've found that there's even less on TV for tweens than there was when i was one.
Between this ongoing issue, and the fact that Penguin didn't recognize a Monty Python reference or the phrase "Wax on, Wax off"; we realized that what we really needed to do was reintroduce the kids to some classic movies.  80's style.
The films we were dying to see 20 years ago.
For the most part, Penguin enjoys them more than Bumblebee.  Bumblebee prefers Barbie and Disney classics, and we do pepper our screen time with 12 Dancing Princesses and Bambi and Mickey Mouse.  But one cannot live on animation alone, and there are only so many times one can watch "National Treasure".
However, as much as Penguin enjoys the movies, she can't always remember the names when she wants to watch them again.  Or the names we throw out there simply don't ring a bell and we have to describe a story line. 
"Star Wars" is still as popular as it ever was.  "Monty Python" is unique enough to etch it's title into memory.  But the quirkier, quieter movies are enjoyable...and their titles, not on billboards or previews or commercials to stir the memory, seem to escape her mind.
It's truly enlightening to learn what scenes made a distinct impression on her.  So, a list for your reading pleasure.  In quiz format, in case you want to test your own film savvy.  (unfortunately, the list is restricted to movies we've actually thought about exposing her to in the past few years and the films that made enough of an impression to get discussed)  To find the answers, highlight the area after the '='
a) "The movie about the applesauce" = Baby Boom.  She views it, rightly, as a comedy.  Her memory surrounding the making of the applesauce because the protagonist was bored. 
b)"The funny one about the guy riding a bicycle" = Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  Maybe not 80's.  But I'm glad it was the bicycle scene and not the lengthy discussion about why Sundance was pointing a gun at Etta in her bedroom that made the impression on her.  And if you haven't seen the movie, Sundance IS a good outlaw.) 
c)"The one where the man and the boy are friends and they play in his awesome room" = Big.  Less suitable for kids than I remembered.  But still fun.  And the man is a boy, remember, he turns back at the end?  "Oh, yeah!" (If she says "No, no, no, the other one!" she's thinking of Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium.  Which we own.  And is a really good movie that came out relatively recently) 
d)"The really sad one where the man has to pretend he's a girl and everyone gets mad" = Tootsie.  I'd have thought Tootsie was funny and Butch Cassidy sad, but go figure. 
e)"The one where the man talks to the little girl in Dutch."  You mean Santa Clause?= Miracle on 34th Street.  The original, of course.  
f)"The one where the guy runs through the house, but the house is all torn up but he's worried about the baby and he has to find her before he worries about his stuff." = 3 Men and a Baby.  Okay, so she kind of got that one. 
g)That weird guy sings rock and throws a baby in the air = Labyrinth.  Although I had to point out that they zoom WAY out so you can't see the baby in the air. 
h)The one where there are people walking and they're like playing in a corn field and then they all die or maybe they're angels= Field of Dreams.  (She obviously didn't "get" it.)  Bumblebee listened to her try and describe this movie and said "Penguin, you mean like Mommy?" 
i)The one with the kid who changes his dad's bank account so he has like a million dollars in there= D.A.R.Y.L.  It took awhile to figure that one out.  It wasn't until she remembered that he and his dad played baseball that I could ask the right question "Was he a robot?"  YES!  Oh.  Now I get it. 

Anyways...The perspective is interesting.  And I have to wonder about what other kids get out of these memories.  I find that I, myself, remember movies differently than I view them now.  Both my husband and I are much more aware of sexual content and rough language even when our kids aren't in the room.  We find ourselves saying "I don't remember the language being quite so bad the first time around." 

I thought you'd enjoy the slice of humor from our lives. 

Me:  Bumblebee, you can't live on cereal and crackers forever.
Bumblebee:  I can if I don't get a gluten allergy. 
Penguin:  Mommy, I'm scared that she will!  She eats so much gluten, and if she does, then what WILL she eat? 
Bumblebee:  I'll eat apples the rest of my life. 

At least she's got a plan?

"Mommy," Penguin's voice is hushed, tinged with a note of horror, "Some crayons are made out of...soybeans."
Er.  Um.  Yes, yes, I'd heard about that. 
"But what about kids who are allergic?!?" 
Er...well, depending on how bad their allergy is, their parents have to research the crayons and art supplies, and sometimes provide safe ones for their kids preschool or kindergarten class. 
"Could the kids wear gloves?"
If they're old enough not to eat the crayons, and be trusted to wear them. 
"Thats why they just buy crayons for everybody?"
Yes.  Kindergarteners and preschoolers might not keep their own crayons to themselves.
"What about kids my age?  Would they just bring their own?"
Probably.  Or they could be trusted to wear gloves and not eat the crayons.  I hope. 
She giggles.  Then frowns.  "What about the ones who don't want to look like dorks?" 

"I want a new sister!"

Fed up with migraines, and longer homework assignments, and the tweenager attitude, Bumblebee has decided that she needs a new sister.  She complains.  She whines.  She points out that a new model would be less work all around.  And wouldn't cost a thing, since we're all set for Penguin. 

Unfortunately, she's been informed that a new sister is completely out of the question. 

So she devised a new plan.  She'd like her best friend C to trade places with Penguin.  Penguin likes C's sisters.  C's mom could probably use Penguin's help babysitting.  C does not like her sisters and is too young to babysit. 

Penguin could sleep in the bottom bunk at C's house, and C could sleep in the top bunk here, eliminating the "top bunk is too scary" bedtime battle we have nightly.  (Their bedtime battle is apparently over the fact that the bottom bunk is too boring.)  C would play good games with Bumblebee.  They would go to the same school, together, at the same time.  This would be easier for everyone.  They could share clothes. 
She saves her best argument for last.  "AND, C doesn't even like cheese, so she won't mind not eating any if she's my sister."  (I guess if they switch places, allergies are automatically reallocated?) 

"Hmmm,"  I answer, "But what about gluten?  She might miss crackers, and sunny butter sandwiches." 

Bumblebee freezes.  She cocks her head only for a moment before saying, "Well, she can't have everything you know!  She'll just have to get used to it!" 

And she storms off to sulk in her room.  

Later both kids come running out to inform me that I'm having another baby. 
WHAT?
In 3 years. 
Huh?
It's going to be a girl. 
Blinking eyes really fast.
And, it won't have migraines or food allergies. 
Bumblebee grins. 
I look hopelessly from one face to the other. 
"We asked the magic 8 ball." 
Oh.  Well, of course.  

At least they're on speaking terms again.  And it looks like Penguin can stay. 

Give that girl a gold star

"What?!? I don't get it," Bumblebee was snuggled up in my lap and is now scrunching up her eyebrows at my book.
Don't worry, it's an adult book, but not adult content! I'm reading "The Hundred Year Lie" and have hit the chapter on vitamins. I think I need to refrain from commenting out loud and reading random passages to my husband, at least in the hearing of little ears.

"At the level of molecules seen under an electron microscope, synthetic and natural vitamins may look similar to some chemists, but they don't assimilate the same way in the human body."

The above sentence is a direct quote from the page she's scratching her head over.

"What do they mean?" Bumblebee asks again. Hmm. How do I put that in seven year old speak?

"Well," I try, looking over the preceding paragraphs for guidance, "they take cornstarch and corn sugar and mix it up with chemicals until it looks like vitamin c under the microscope. And that's called synthetic, or fake, vitamin c. They did a study that says even though some synthetic, or fake, vitamins look the same under a microscope, they don't work the way vitamins in our food work."

She sits and thinks for awhile.
"So, they use a bunch of chemicals and make things that look like vitamins and smell like vitamins and taste like vitamins and feel like vitamins and sound like vitamins?"
"Um, yeah, essentially."
"And then they are surprised that they don't work like vitamins?"
"Yup, that's pretty much what that page is saying."
"But don't they know they're still chemicals? They aren't vitamins!"
"I know, but they look like vitamins under a microscope. So the scientists thought they'd be close enough."
"But they aren't."
"No," I acknowledge, "No, they aren't."
"I knew that," she says, "They're still chemicals. Only our food has real vitamins."
I agree with her.
"I'm seven and I'm smarter than a scientist," she ponders, "Maybe I can be a scientist when I grow up."
"That'd be nice," I tell her.
"And I'll draw my studies," she says, as if suddenly a problem is solved and everything has fallen into place.
"Okay," I smile at her. It is her life's ambition to be a "kid" artist so she won't have to grow up.
"Because an artist," she explains, "Is so busy all the time. Everyone wants pictures. Of themselves, and of pretty things. For like their windows, and their fridge, and everything! That's a lot of work. If I'm a scientist, I can still draw fun things and just maybe sell them for money."
Okay. This is priceless.
"And I can just do scientist stuff the rest of the time. Because no one wants anything from scientists. So, they aren't very busy. They just like, write books about their study and stuff. And maybe I'll draw pictures, because I'm good at drawing pictures."

I think that's a great idea.
I tell her that I hope she also remembers to think things through.

"Well, duh. I'm not going to forget that chemicals are NOT vitamins, even if I make them look like vitamins in a microscope." She tells me disparagingly.

That's my girl.
If anyone can take on the world and win, it's Bumblebee in righteous whirlwind mode.

((There was more to the conversation, and I may have gotten some of the wording slightly wrong. But I guarantee the heart of the matter is captured here.))

Scene from the bedroom...

Penguin's at rehearsal. Bumblebee is quietly coloring in her room. Occasionally I hear her low voice, speaking quietly to our next door neighbor through the window.

I'm folding laundry.

Suddenly I hear a thunk, a screech, and a wild cry that does not belong to my child. I pause.
Bumblebees voice shouts "I'm sorry, okay,"
Another voice screeches "You hit me, you hit me, you hit me, it hurts!"

I drop the laundry.

Bumblebee is sitting wide eyed on her bed.
Neighbor child is standing outside the window, clutching her head with both hands and screeching "Bumblebee hit me, it hurts, it hurts!"

The window is intact.

So is the screen.
A quick investigation reveals no way for me to quickly or effectively reach injured neighbor child.

I look from one to the other, raise an eyebrow, sit back on my heels and ask Bumblebee what exactly happened.

"The stepstool I was coloring on flipped over and hit the window," she says, looking me right in the eye, "Apparently it hit Ms neighbor."

I look at the still-keening neighbor child.
"Um, Neighbor, Hon? Are you okay?" I ask through the screen.

"No, I was just sitting here playing and she hit me on purpose! It hurts so bad!" she wails.
"Okay," I say, still studying the intact screen and window frame, "Whose in charge today? Your sister? Do you need us to bring you an ice pack, or do you have one in the fridge?"

Suddenly the sobs stop. Her hands slowly drop away from her head. Wheels turn behind those eyes, but I have no idea what she's thinking.
"Um, I'm okay," she says, sniffing back the remnants of tears.

I study her for a moment.
"If you just got hit in the head with a stepstool, we should tell another adult about it," I tell her, imagining goose egg lumps and concussions. The stepstool is a nice, sturdy wooden one. "Do you need me to come explain what happened to whoever's in charge?"

The child is 6. I've seen the tag teams trade places. I hear voices speak to her on a regular basis. I know there's an adult over there somewhere.

Eyes widen. Head shakes quickly.

"No, that's okay. I'm okay. She did hit me, but um, I'm okay now. It didn't really hurt."

I give both girls another Look. Neighbor girl forces a nervous laugh. There are tear stains on her cheeks.

"How did she hit you in the head with a step stool without breaking the window?" I ask in exasperation.
"I don't know!" Bumblebee wails, "Stop yelling at me!"
"On purpose!" neighbor girl says, and flounces off.

Bumblebee flops down on the pillows and sobs broken heartedly.
Okay.

Those two are up to something. I just can't figure out what, exactly.
But I'm buying Bumblebee a cheap plastic lapdesk, just in case.

Sick (?) Kids

The day started out like any other. The kids grumbling after staying up late reading and giggling. Mom and Dad grumbling because we stayed up late saying "Okay, girls, get some rest."
Penguin has missed a few days of school, and was feeling better. The plan was to push her to just give it a try. She hasn't been running a fever, which is the gold standard, you're-a-bad-parent-who-is-spreading-pandemic-flu criteria for staying home.
"I know, I can make it, I think I'm okay. I just don't really feel good."
"Fine. We can take your temperature,"
"That sounds fair,"
"...and then you are getting up from under that blanket, brushing your hair and putting socks on. Got it? Good."
3 minutes later, I'm staring a silver line that hits 102*
"Really? Really? But I don't feel that...but I'm so cold!"
Right. Cold. Fever. Go back to bed, kiddo. And Bumblebee, get UP! You're going to be late!
"Why is my sister laying down? Isn't she going to be late?"
She's running a fever. Now for the last time, get up! Get dressed! No more dilly dallying, how many times did I have to come in and tell you to settle down and sleep last night?
"But, she doesn't have to go to school? That's not fair! She always stays home. My head hurts, my throat hurts a lot and I still have to go to school this week. It's not fair!"
I hesitate, blanket still in my hand. She did mention a headache yesterday. And her eyes are a little glassy.
"Um, wait a second. Your head still hurts? Your throat hurts?"
She's getting dressed, now.
"Yes, and you still make me go to school! You don't love me, you only love Penguin!"
I have a sinking feeling something isn't quite right here.
"Should we take your temperature?"
Pause.
"Okay." Shrug. "But it won't be a fever and you're still going to make me go to school and it isn't fair!" She flops resignedly on the bed, dramatically throwing an arm over her eyes as she waits for the thermometer to do it's stuff.
A few minutes later I'm wondering if there's something wrong with our thermometer. It reads 100*
"Really? Really, really? I have a fever?" She takes a moment to process. Then breaks out in a huge grin.
And sits straight up in bed. "No school!" she squeals.

"Hey, hon," dh says from the doorway, as he tries to hide a smile, "I think I'm going to go ahead and just head in to work now. Um, have fun." Thanks.
He better not be working too late tonight.

2 hours later, both kids are up, and I hear the violin being practiced for the first time in...oh, ages. A year, I think. It probably needs to be tuned. And I don't even want to know what they did to all the stuff that used to be piled on top of it. (Wasn't it at the back of the hall closet?) But for now, I'm going back to bed. I've got a bit of a cold.
I just hope the house is still here when I wake up.

Overheard from the yard:

"I'm tired of playing at your house. We can only play outside. Your mom spies on us. The snails crawl on us. The sun shines on us. I want to play at my house. Where we can go anywhere and do anything we want. And nobody will even care."

Any guesses as to why they're in MY yard?

Penguin: "Mommy, where's the Taj Mahal?"
Me "Um, India, I'm pretty sure."
Penguin: "Yeah, that sounds right. It's where they bury people, right?"
Me "I thought it was more of a Cathedral."
Penguin: "Whatever. It's one of those grave thingys."

Apparently she was trying to describe the Sistene Chapel to her sister. It's like the Taj Mahal. You know, a Grave Thingy.

We don't get out enough.

Lunch time woes

Back to school time is fast approaching. We're squeezing in the last few activities of summer, picking up back to school shopping lists and trying to create a lunchtime plan. The one child who can eat hot lunch, won't. And Mr. Violets needs a bag lunch, too.

Luckily, this time of year there is no shortage of articles available for inspiration. I found in my inbox earlier an ezine from Family Fun that included the recipe for a cream cheese and strawberry sandwich. I described it to my picky Bumblebee, asking if she thought it might be something worth trying. (She said Maybe. Yay!)

Penguin piped up with "I'd rather have cream cheese and tomato roll up."
"Oh," I asked, mentally making a note, "Would you eat that in a lunch?"
"No," she answered, "I tried it once and it tasted horrible."

"Well, it sounds good..." she said in response to my look, "I should have liked it."

Slow Food

There was a time prior to the allergy diagnosis when we ate "normal" processed foods, and yearned for something more. A return to "old" cooking. I quickly learned that this meant different things to my husband and I.

One year, I wanted to do something special for his birthday. I was still trying to wrack my brain when he commented idly how much he missed butterscotch pudding.

Pudding?

Yes, pudding. But not just any pudding. Not the little plastic cups that you get at the store, and not the instant boxes. Real pudding. Old fashioned pudding. His eyes closed as he broke into a fond reminiscence...He conjured for me an image of his mother, with a frilly apron, slaving for hours over a hot stove, stirring a pot full of bubbling butterscotch pudding. She'd always have to make a double batch, and there were never leftovers.

The next time I saw his mom I asked about her recipe. She was vague. Pudding is pudding. She suggested I just buy some and tell him it was homemade.

Undaunted, I called her. I asked again, seeking specifics. Again, she was vague. It was a long time ago, she said, you don't want to go through all that trouble. Its all the same anyways.

But the trouble was going to be part of the gift. This confirmed to me it was real, old fashioned pudding she used to make. The good stuff I'd read about pioneer day books. I perused cookbooks. I looked online. Finally, I found something that looked promising. I carefully gauged the grocery bill that week to allow for real butter and actual cream. I measured, poured, and pot-watched. I stirred until my shoulders screamed for mercy. I entreated the toddler to entertain the baby. I almost cried when bits of scrambled egg appeared, but quickly grabbed a sieve and scooped most of them out.

At last, we proudly, albeit nervously, presented the concoction to my surprised husband. Who took a bite, and tried to conceal his disappointment. Shrugged and while I can't remember everything he said, I do remember one sentence. "Maybe she used a different brand. We could call her and ask."

Brand? Brand? Brand of what? Vanilla? Did she use real scotch? (I'd opted against that recipe) This had become a vendetta for me. I wanted to get it right. Was it the bit of egg that scrambled? WHAT?!?

He gave me a funny look.
Later his mom confirmed that "old fashioned" pudding was the famous J-brand...it comes in a box. (Eventually the enormity of my cooking fiasco was also made clear to my beloved husband, and he apologized for not being more grateful. He'd never fathomed the possibility that one could make pudding out of brown sugar, eggs and cream; let alone that it could take any more time or effort than baking muffins, which I did regularly.)

I think of this story with a chuckle whenever the concept of cooking from scratch is brought up. Because it seems that every generation over the past 100 years has it's own new idea of fast food, and it's own brand of nostalgic "from scratch" cooking. First those lucky town ladies who could waltz into the corner butcher shop for steak, or veal or chicken parts rather than keeping and slaughtering their own. Then the canned soup revelution. As soon as freezers became a household staple, there were TV dinners. And we've progressed.

My daughter pleaded for a cookbook at the last school bookfair, and when I leafed through it we found that not one of the recipes called for any fresh ingredients. They were all branded products. A woman at a Girl Scout meeting asked about our food allergies, and mentioned that while it seems hard for kids it also doesn't seem like a very big lifestyle change. She makes everything from scratch.

Of course I was interested...But very quickly learned that "from scratch" means using prepackaged ingredients along with some fresh herbs and prepackaged spice mixes to create a new dish. My vision was fresh baked bread, dicing veggies, and canning fruit. I suppose the dicing veggie part was accurate. She was offended that I consider sliced bread "packaged". Let alone her canned tomatoes.

Scratch cooking is a lost art. People don't know what a rhubarb is, much less what to do with one. Do you cook radishes? Are onions supposed to be this papery? How do you carve a Turkey? And what is this weird packet inside it? The term "cooking from scratch" has come a long way in the past hundred years ago. In fact, a hundred years ago, I doubt the term even existed.

There was a point in time when cooking a meal meant beginning with the decision of which chicken was next to slaughter. Meal planning was automatic. You went to your pantry, you put together what was there. There were signature dishes, of course, but as authors who try to create period style recipe books tell us, the expected results may vary significantly from today's standards.

My peers look with trepidation at an artichoke. My husband asks if he can toss the parsnips, assuming some carrots have gone bad. A woman in the store complains about the dirt left clinging to a potato, which makes me laugh. With a corn allergy, I look for dirt on my produce. Dirt means it's real. It's fresh. It hasn't been polished with corn derived wax, or rinsed with special germ fighting corny solution. Corn allergy has resurrected an understanding of "scratch".

It's also brought about an appreciation of simple food. Pasta with oil and a few veggies is delicious, elegant, and easy. Bread is a luxury, not a daily right. Rice is versatile. It goes well with beans, or eggs, or veggies or soup. And it's easy...rinse, glance through for stones (Which are hard on the teeth, but gluten, corn and casein free) and cook. Eggs are the ultimate fast food. If you want to enhance a vegetable, roast it with onions. The scent of caramelized onion will improve any meal and spark almost anyone's appetite.

I'm still struggling to come to terms with using meat, too. I can see the beauty in the simplicity. A roast chicken, a vegetable, a starch and you're done. However, there's a huge hole in my meal planning history that never included meat to begin with. I was raised vegetarian in the Seven Talents post-seventies granola era. Grains were high priority, although our doctors encouraged a heavy hand with the cheese. Until recently, we were encouraged to simply combine grains well. Eat a variety of supermarket and restaurant offerings. Too much thinking is discouraged. Look for an explosion of flavors, pour mixes and boxes together. Voila! A taste sensation.

Even the medical community, who is supposed to be supporting the slow food revolution, is slow to accept the movement. "And try to cut back on the fast food," the pediatrician always admonishes as we leave the office. I give him a withering look, but our lifestyle, our real, honest to goodness eating at home every night lifestyle, is beyond comprehension.

However, I'm still struggling to master the art of June Cleaver style cooking, and balance the pyramid.

It's not easy feeling bleh

I think we're dealing with a stomach bug, here.
Of course, on top of 2 months of my feeling like a truck managed to yank out my intestines, run over them a few times, and shove them back in, I'm a little concerned. Is it a bug? Is it something they ate as in food poisoning? Is it something they ate as in allergy? Is it something else? Maybe it's just stress? (I'll stress myself into an attack if I keep this up.) At least it means the floors and laundry are being forcibly kept up with.

Luckily Penguin seems to be doing better. But Bumblebee isn't feeling so hot today. And she was supposed to go to a very important birthday party.

She tells me it isn't fair. I agree.
She wants to know why she always gets sick. I tell her she's my healthy one.
She says she's never going to tell me when she throws up again. I say that's fine, except that she still probably wouldn't have fun at the party.
She thinks they shouldn't have planned it for today. "Didn't they KNOW I'd be sick?"

Sorry hon. We just aren't psychic.
She feels bleh. She's not hungry. And when she does eat, she feels bleh some more.
I tell her there are good things about being sick. Getting snuggles. (She gets those anyways.) Lazing around the house. (We do that when Penguin has a migraine. Duh.) You can watch as much TV as you want. (She doesn't want to.) Er, you can play Peggle, or WII. (She doesn't want to.) Board games? (No, that's not a party.) And you can have as many popsicles as you want. (Really? Really, really?)

For a moment, I think I've struck the silver lining. Her face shines. She's happy. I start to get up and go about my business. A little arm stops me.

Her face is grouchy again.

"That's not fun," I'm informed.
Why?
"It means I'm sick!!!"
Oh, right. Sorry!

My daughter's a hero; or...It's okay to break into your own house.

Sometimes in parenthood; you find yourself encouraging the strangest behavior.

Today was one of those times. We finally arrived home from school; laden down with backpacks, undelivered girl scout cookies and a science fair backboard. While balancing these items in my arms and hollering for the girls to please lock the car when they finally manage to get themselves extracted...I realized that the gate simply wasn't going to open.

I pushed. I prodded. I jiggled the chain. The chain was loose. In fact; it was only attached to my end of the pulley. Which meant, the 6 foot fence was locked up tight.

What to do?

I did what any good parent would do. I sent my 10 year old up there to investigate. She willingly climbed the wall next to the gate, and then balked. It's a long ways down.

But, there was no choice. I was not in climbing clothes. She's young, she's spry, and she was going to do it. I called encouraging remarks and walked along the wall with my hand out to steady her (my side was cement, the other side was grass and clover.) I tried to get her to let herself down onto one of the lawnchairs, but it was a no go. She would have jumped into the raised bed (filled with bermuda grass) but someone (probably me) left a garden claw sticking up out of it.

Finally she managed to maneuver herself down along the other side of the fence, repeating "I'm scared, I'm scared, I'm scared" as her sister repeated the same refrain...but adding in "We're going to get in trouble!"

The men at the gas station nearby were amused. Or confused. I'm not sure which.

My exasperated "You're allowed to break into your own house!" was met with chuckles.

And then she was down, and manipulated the latch, and we were in.

"I'm a hero!" she proclaimed.

Yup. She's a hero. And I'm proud to say very unlikely to ever embark in a career of criminal activity.

"Make new friends, but keep the old; One is silver and the other gold..."

Youngest has started Daisy scouts, and the campfire favorite is stuck in my head.
"Does that mean that new friends are better than old friends?" One child asks.
"No," I reply, explaining that it's important to keep in touch with special friends but it's also important to play with lots of different people.
My oldest pipes up, informing me that silver is ever so much better than gold.
I agree that silver is pretty, and she rolls her eyes in a way that only tweenage girls can master. "Moooom, it's BETTER than gold. People do CRAZY things for gold. I wouldn't want Gold."

That girl. I love her but I worry about her. This is the same child who, when asked if she would like to be an actress when she grows up, thought very carefully on the subject and then said yes. She'd enjoy being an actress very much if "they" promised not to pay her any money.

Pardon?

That's right. Well, she amended, they might be able to pay her like 1 or 2 dollars. Or maybe enough to adopt a dolphin. But not a lot. She definitely doesn't want to be a millionaire. That sounds like too much responsibility.

Youngest on the other hand would like to have more holidays like St. Patricks Day and Easter, when she might find a few coins hidden specifically for her to find. She very seriously tells me that she needs more money, but chores are way too hard for someone whose only 6.

So am I doing something wrong? Or something right?
The hardest part about parenting is that I might never know...Unless they tell me in 20 or 30 years.