A Well-Deserved Gimlet

Do you have "family days" at your house? You know, weekend days where you ask the kids, "Hey, what do you want to do today?" and, barring a spontaneous journey to Mars, try to make that happen?

At our house, this is a dicey proposition. Consider the difference in ages: Awesome Stepkid R. (17), Miss D. (8), Miss M. (4). Do you guys know of an activity that delights a seventeen year old, an eight year old and a four year old equally? If you do, send me the memo, wouldja? Because I got nothin'.

What we usually do is take turns; ASR will pick the activity one weekend, Miss D. the next, and so on. It works okay for us, but often we will have at least one sulky child at said chosen activity, which is a pain in the ass.

A few weekends ago, however, ASR was busy at his mom's house, so Hubs and I asked the girls how they wanted to spend the day. The answer: lunch at our favorite neighborhood pizza joint, mini-golfing and a trip to Borders for a new book each. Sounds manageable, right?

So off we went. Lunch went okay, although it was a bit disjointed because Miss M. thinks it's funny to demand that Mommy take her to the potty every five minutes when we're at a restaurant. Especially once the food comes. Now realize that anywhere else, at any other time, Miss M. acts as if the potty is the Devil's Instrument. But when Mommy's trying to get food down her gullet? The potty rocks.

Mini-golfing seemed like a brilliant idea in the morning, when we looked outside and saw sunshine and blue sky. Ah, the wicked temptress that is Colorado weather. Sure it's sunny, but it's still only 43 degrees out and the wind had kicked up. We froze our cabooses off. Near the end, when everyone was ready to get outta town, more cheating went on than I think has ever been seen in the history of mini-golf.

And then, of course, there was the pee accident in the Checkout Line from Hell at Borders. Cue the wailing and the waterworks.

We arrived home, almost four hours later, drained of energy and in much need of refreshment. The girls sipped mugs of cocoa with marshmallows. Hubs and I felt we deserved something a leeeeetle stronger. Okay, a lot stronger.

What can I say? I think a rocking retro cocktail in the late afternoon is nothing short of brilliant.

Basil-Lime Gimlet
from Sunset Magazine
makes 4

3/4 cup gin (you can use vodka if you prefer)
3/4 cup freshly squeezed lime juice
1/4-1/2 cup basil simple syrup, or to taste
lime and basil for garnish

Basil Simple Syrup

In a saucepan, combine 1 cup water and 3/4 cup sugar. Bring to a boil, stir until sugar dissolves and remove from heat. Add 3 tablespoons chopped fresh basil. Let steep 15 minutes. Strain basil out of syrup. Leftover syrup keeps well in the refrigerator.

Combine the gin, lime juice and basil simple syrup in a pitcher. Add plenty of ice; stir, pour into glasses, enjoy.

Neighbor Friday: Momma Made it Look Easy

Good day, Mates! I'm so proud to bring you words from Jen at Momma Made It Look Easy. She's a funny lady and can tell you a thing or two about life (or horse butts, whichever suits you). Enjoy and have a great weekend!





If you want more Neighborhood Friday fun, click on the button and head on over to Amy at The Never-True Tales!

***

First, I want to thank TKW for letting me guest post today. I can't do herkys or cook like her and I promise that you do not want to see pictures of my food. I mean I whipped up this taco mac and cheese thing this week (because I had no planned dinner and kids to feed) that looked completely disgusting (but tasted super awesome). So on to the post.

I'm so good I'm bad... or wait, is it the other way around...

I love being a mother. Unfortunately I'm not always great at it. Don't get me wrong. I'm good (like most of us). Most of the time I'm mediocre, but sometimes I really rock at it. Like when I make super cute goody bags for my daughter's preschool class... ahead of time (even though I usually just buy those nasty sugar cookies with an inch of frosting on top from the Walmart bakery the night before... or on the way to school) or when I talk to her about falling in love (or she talks to me, whatever). But then sometimes I totally suck. Like today.

Every Wednesday Baby Girl has dance. She takes tap and ballet. I love it. She tolerates it. I mean she loves to dance and the recital is totally her thing, but she really isn't about the whole class structure. I'm hoping she grows out of that. One of the great things about the dance school we use is that the teacher picks her up from daycare and all I have to do is pick her up from the afternoon class.

The only problem with that is that she gets out of dance at 4:00, which is the same time I get off work. Really it isn't a problem. I just leave a few minutes early and I get there right in time to pick her up. I don't even have to deal with the other dance moms (one of which brought a Valentines goody bag for all the kids today, gag).

Normally Jon, my office assistant, reminds me that I need to leave. I get to work and I get busy and I kind of lose focus and I forget what day it is and what time it is and everything slips away from me. He helps me remember. Today he was out sick. And we had surveyors in and I was having to kick everyone out of the office so I could lock the door and then I got a call as I was leaving and sat in the parking lot to finish it and then I called my mom to share some exciting news and I talked to her all the way home and I walked in and David said, "where's Baby Girl?" And I was all, "duh, she's at school..." (he does pick up every afternoon). And he said, "It's WEDNESDAY."

OH.MY.GOD.I.FORGOT.MY.CHILD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I RAN out of the house and RACED to the dance studio to get her. I was THIRTY minutes late. Luckily the dance studio is like two minutes from my house. I parked in the fire lane and ran in to get her. She was patiently sitting and waiting on the bench watching the big girls in the next class. She saw me walk in and yelled, "Momma," and jumped up and ran to me. I looked at the dance teacher and said, "ooops, sorry." She said, "no big deal" and went back to teaching. I'm guessing that I wasn't the first mother to show up late. Go figure.

I apologized profusely and promised her a Happy Meal for dinner. She acted like it really wasn't that big of a thing. And then I did what all smart moms do. I laid the blame on someone else. I said, "Baby Girl I'm so sorry that I was late, but Jon wasn't at work today it is HIS JOB to remind me to come get you and he wasn't there to remind me today. Blame Jon."

She was in the backseat shouting, "Blame Jon! Blame Jon!"

I think we both learned a valuable lesson today. See. I told you I rock.


Jennifer

Read my blogs,
www.mommamadeitlookeasy.blogspot.com
www.momandmommer.blogspot.com


***

Hope you enjoyed the giggle, readers! Thanks for checking in with us this Friday!

Snooping in the Journal of a 2nd grader

Guilty.

I'm a snoop.

And I found this, spelling true to form:

When I Saw You

When I saw you I stared at you and the atraction of light hit us right away it was like a dream that I couldn't remark and now my minds gone Blak and now I have a secret that I could never tell and I hope this feeling comes back. When I saw you I stared at you and the clouds went away the sun came out.


Hoo-Boy.

White Trash Motherlode: Crabmeat Appetizers

The girl with the clean face and the red dress is my sister's childhood friend, Katie. You know that stereotype about redheads and their feisty nature? Katie fit the bill. Many times, with Katie in residence, my sister got into mischief.

There was the time my mother caught them in the backyard, naked as jaybirds, playing "doctor" with a bewildered neighbor boy.

There was the time my mother discovered them, covered head to toe, in her favorite lipstick.

There was the time they sneaked yet again into my mother's room (a forbidden spot after the lipstick incident) and proceeded to pour an entire bottle of Chanel #5 all over Mama's bed.

I also think there's a little tidbit somewhere about a small fire, but my memory's a little rusty on that one.

It's a good thing that Mama and Katie's mother, Sue, were such good friends, because I think Mama was tempted to kill Katie several times.

Katie had a little brother named David--also a redhead--and he, too, was a pistol. His area of expertise was The Public Houdini. I can't count the number of times we'd be out somewhere, like a restaurant or a mall, Mama and Sue chatting away, and suddenly Sue would startle, wild-eyed.

"Where's David?" she would cry in alarm, and always, we kids had no idea.

The most infamous instance of the Public Houdini was at a rustic, Western-themed restaurant. This restaurant, in a show of cowboy gimmicry, kept a live bear on the premises. Before or after dinner, parents could parade their kids outside and lo and behold! There was a live, caged bear! PETA would be all over this shit now, but in the early 70's, I guess there wasn't a thing wrong with keeping a caged bear on restaurant turf.

On a rare trip to said restaurant, after the salad course, there was suddenly a "Where's David?" moment. Everyone scattered, hunting for David. He was discovered, standing nose-to-nose with the bear, tormenting the creature with a long stick. Then, between the dessert course and coffee, he vanished again. This time, he hit up the restaurant's quaint little General Store, and came back brandishing 2 giant Havana cigars.

Not surprisingly, Sue was often tired.

Sue held parties only a few times a year, but we were always invited and I always dreaded them. My sister and Katie would pair off and lock themselves in Katie's room; I was stuck with David. I would pound on Katie's door, begging admittance, but they always laughed and yelled, "Get Lost, Pest!"

Sulkily, I played G.I. Joe with David, who wasn't thrilled to be playing with me, either. My mind would race the entire time, imagining all of the awesomeness going on behind that closed door.

The only thing that made these parties bearable was the Crabmeat Appetizer Sue made. I'd wolf so many of these suckers down that I couldn't eat dinner. But Sue didn't mind. She knew that several hours with David was hard, hungry work. If a girl needed her crack snack to weather through, so be it.

Crabmeat Appetizers

1 stick softened butter
1 jar Old English Sharp Cheddar Cheese Spread
1 1/2 teaspoons mayonnaise
1 (7oz.) can crabmeat, drained
1/2 teaspoon garlic salt
6 english muffins, split in half.

Beat butter and cheese spread with a mixer until fluffy. Beat in mayonnaise and garlic salt. Stir in crabmeat.

Spread crab mixture evenly over English muffin halves. Freeze. When ready to serve, remove from freezer and cut each muffin half into 6 pieces. Thaw only a few minutes.

Pop in the oven under the broiler until bubbly and slightly brown.

Guest Post: Momalom

Hi Readers! I am so proud, excited, thrilled...you get the idea...to bring you Sarah from Momalom today!

I'm guest posting with a letter to my hideous, decrepit old body over there today, so Sarah decided to reciprocate with a letter to HER firm little 31 year-old body. Sarah, you whippersnapper. Quit whining, beeyotch. I jest. Sort of.

******

A Letter to My Body in its 31st Year


Dear Body,
In honor of Love It Up and the gushy month of February I was hoping to write you a love letter and send along some roses. But after I read Kitch’s letter to her 40-year-old body I decided to get real. I shall not mince words. It’s not my style, Body, you should know that by now. Let’s be honest, you gave me Mouth and I know how to use it. You do everything you can to protect Mind and must have some sense of what’s going on up there. So here it is:

You’re making me cranky. I can’t look in the mirror these days and I am growing to resent you. I know we’ve been through a lot and I have some blame in that, but maybe if we just air the dirty laundry I will feel better about punishing you in my “no-love letter.” I’m okay with admitting my faults if you are.

I hereby apologize for the following:

The tattoo. I branded you. Yes I did. It’s there; it’s bold; it can’t be hidden. I was young and dumb and didn’t think about your needs and wants at all. I know this. Let’s get over this one together, it’s gonna be a long life.

The drugs. It was a long road for both of us. There were good times and there were bad, but in the end it put us right where we were supposed to be, in the arms of a man I love dearly and an accidental pregnancy that turned my entire life around. Let the past pass and let’s live without shame.

The children. I know you are exhausted and worn thin. Your entire being aches and creaks and cries for rest. I know you cannot feel your feet some days and wonder if you are walking on air. I know that wrestling with the baby through another diaper change seems like reason enough to give up. But you have a weakness and that weakness brought children. I expect you to take a modicum of responsibility for this.

The little things. I don’t take you for a run or get you a massage nearly as often as I should. I know this. I am sorry. I leave red toenail polish to wither and die with no promise to replace it until Spring. I’m sorry. I keep you up late and get you up early. I feed you too much and too little and all the wrong type of foods. I call you names and try to hide you under the sheets. Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

Now let’s move on to you:

For issues regarding Hair, Skin, Ass and Libido, please see details HERE:. And by gosh by golly you best read them carefully.

For issues regarding Breasts, Stomach, Thighs, and Energy, please know this: You punished both of us by bearing such large children. How you couldn’t know that a 10-pound baby would deliver irreversible stretch marks is beyond me. How you could think I would ever bounce back from that pregnancy and the subsequent births of two nearly 9-pound babies, I do not know. How you can live with yourself knowing how my breasts have reshaped into no shape at all, and how my ass longs to be admired as the ass it once was, I will never understand. You have punished us both, dear body, and I’m not pleased at all. You cannot blame me for the children; you know your weakness was the sex. You are completely at fault for your need to fulfill Desire.

You plead with me to treat you well—to feed you right and work you out daily. However, I need you to dangle a carrot—the promise of a happier self and a stronger body—because at this point my attempts seem futile. I no longer want to be in battle; I want to believe that you will respond to the work I put in. Genetics tell me different. I see glimpses of Future Body at my local Starbucks and she is not exactly what I have in mind. Can we make a pact to work together?

Please know I do not expect you to become Elasta-Girl. But I do expect you to want to want this as much as I do. I will wake you up early and I will bring Ass to the gym if you can give me a glimmer of hope that Ass will be slipping out of her pants by the end of the month.

I do love you, Body. I will try to treat you better. I want to work hard for you and make our life better. Let’s give this a shot. And let me stress that time is of the essence. I await your reply.

Sincerely,
Sarah

Love Letter to Myself at Age Eleven

Dear Me at Age Eleven,

I love you. I think it's really, really important for me to tell you this because I know that right now you don't think anyone loves you. You are wrong, although it will be quite some time before you realize this.

Yes, you. That awkward girl who's all limbs and no substance, that girl who thinks she's weak and stupid and powerless and ugly. You. I love you. You are loveable. People in your life will meet you and know you and love you, just the way you are. Believe it.

Don't shake your head at me, Missy. Love will happen to you. I know it sounds nuts, but have faith.

I see you there, trembling in front of your neighbor's house. You are worried because the girl who lives there is often cruel to you and yet has offered to walk you to your first day of 5th grade. You have good instincts. Please start listening to them a little harder, because you know that girl is twisted and ugly inside. You can feel it and you have seen it but you will ignore it for a while. You will pretend that she's your friend because you desperately want it to be so. You will suffer for ignoring your instincts. Listen to yourself, even when you think you have nothing to say.

You do have things to say. You are not stupid. True, you are not brilliant at math but the teacher who called you dim last year was old and mean. You will listen so much to the things mean people have to say. If I could turn off your ears for the next few years I would, but since I can't, I just want to tell you that I love your mind. It is often dark and far too critical of you, but that mind is also creative and empathetic and capable of some pretty neat tricks. Believe Mama when she says you have a good brain.

See all that skin you've got? Thicken it. You will bear so much these next few years, but junior high is coming up and honey? You ain't even seen cruelty yet. That skin is like paper, so we have work to do. Do me a favor? Instead of worrying about that stray zit that might pop up on that skin, work on making it hard as adamant.

And as for strong. There's something strong in you that you don't even know you have. Probably because you can't see it and so much right now depends on appearances. It's beating in your chest, Hummingbird, and it's so tough that it's going to amaze you. I love your tough heart--you need a tough one--because people are going to break it sometimes. People you love desperately are not going to love you back, no matter how hard you try. Wishes you make are not going to come true; some of them will, but some whoppers coming up are just gonna whiz right past you, leaving you broken for a while. Friends who promise to love you forever, won't. But that heart, it's got grit. Don't doubt it. It will carry you through.

Okay, I'm done with the hard stuff. But I needed you to know that someone loves you and is watching over you. You feel alone, but you aren't. You just don't have the tools to dig down deep in the mineshaft; you will, though. And there's some treasures waiting for you, if you just have the courage to keep on keepin' on.

Love (and you'd better believe it),
Your 40-year-old-self

ps: Now that the big stuff is covered, can I mention a few little details?
~Quit trying to feather the hair. It will never work for you.
~Powder-blue suede vest and skirt? Kick Mama for that one.
~Yes, you will be forced to be Herbie Schroeder's square dance partner again in gym this year. And the next. But then it will be over and Herbie's four year Reign of Terror shall cease. It's the price you pay for those gazelle legs. Which you are totally gonna love later, promise.
~And as long as we're on the subject, don't worry about boys. They aren't even going to notice you until you are 20, and won't ask for any pound of flesh until you are 22. Yeah. Seriously. You will be left alone that long. So tell Daddy to chill.

xoxo

***This is part of Love It Up at the awesomeness that is Momalom. Visit them soon!

Neighborhood Friday: But Then I Had Kids

Hola! I am so thrilled to be bringing you the wit and words of Liz at But Then I Had Kids! She's got a little ditty that's perfect for happy hour, so grab your favorite beverage and spend some time with us!

And after Liz has cheered you up, pour another drink and head over to Amy at The Never-True Tales, where I'm sharing something a bit darker today. Or don't. I won't hold it against you.

Maybe just stay in the Miami sun, drinking wine with Liz...that's where I certainly want to be! She's a firecracker!


****



Further evidence that mommyhood sucks the COOL right out of you...

A few months ago, Hubby and I had babysitting. Babysitting always means cocktails. A lot of them. So 5 1/2 hours and 3 wine bottles later (What? We were on the beach. It was hot. We were thirsty. Really thirsty.), we ended up on South Beach. We head over to THE pizza place...this place is synonymous with South Beach, clubbing, and the IT scene. Now you have to understand, this is not a chic place, really...more like a greasy, noisy, crowded hole in the wall with a gazillion delicious pizzas you order from behind a glass case and then stand around and try not to tip over in your drunken exhaustion as you thank the heavens that this place exists and wonder how in the world a place this greasy can mass produce pizza this good.

So we're standing in line and I am not even caring that we are finishing our night up at 8:30 while the South Beach-ites around us are just starting to ponder which uber-chic club they will go to before ending up right back at the same pizza spot. I am feeling pretty happy...the kind of happy you can only get with a bottle (or three) of wine, a day on the beach, and uninterrupted time with Hubby. This is when I get the uncontrollable urge to pee.

I saunter on down the long dark passageway of patrons and pizzas towards the bathroom. I yank on the handle, but nothing happens. I read the blurry sign on the door. Yep. Ladies Restroom. I pull again. Nothing. Within my drunken near-stupor, I notice an intimidating-looking brass contraption at the top of the door. I cannot for the life of me figure out what in the world that is or how it functions, but I know, with every passing second that I must get into that bathroom. Turning over to the end of the pizza counter, I spot an employee...picture: toothless trucker/homeless guy who happens to run a ridiculously lucrative pizza joint in South Beach. Yeah. I can't figure it out either. But there he was, raspy voiced and greasier than the linoleum.

"Hi!" I bubble over to him. "How do I get into the bathroom?"

Without even looking over at me, he grumbles, "Ya' gotta put a coin in."

I blink.

"A coin? What do you mean? Do you have a key or something?"

Unable to be bothered by the likes of perky, confused, sloshed li'l old me, he shoves a gold circle into my hand. "Here," he grunts.

"What's this?"

"A token." Still grumbling. Still not looking at me.

"A token?"

"Yeah, a token."

I look down into my palm. I blink rapidly. Confused. I stand there, frozen, my alcohol-saturated brain trying to make some sense. Then, suddenly, it dawns on me. My face lights up.

"Ooooooh!" I squeal, smiling. "You mean like at Chuck E. Cheese?!?"

Raspy-greasy-can't-be-bothered-pizza-guy finally looks at me. Now it's his turn to blink rapidly and look confused. After a long pause, he responds: "Sorta."

I skip merrily to the bathroom, token in hand.

****

Now didn't that put a smile on your face? Thanks, Liz, for being my neighbor today. You can drink wine at my house any time!

Guest Post: TKW's Dad Attempts a Recipe

Hi Lovely Readers! My very own Daddy-O is back in da house today! So grab a Coca-Cola and settle on in for my Dad's first EVER recipe!


ps: Daddy, sorry for the cartoon, but I couldn't resist. It's your reward for raising willful, outrageous daughters :) Love you, mistah.

***
The Nine Basic Food Groups

The Kitchen Witch (my lovely daughter) has some wonderful posts with beautiful pictures of food and rather complex recipes. However, most of them look like they came out of Paris and are completely undecipherable and beyond comprehension to someone born in the 30’s. Looking back on those wonderful years, TKW’s Dad remembers Nine Basic Food Groups. They are:

1. Pot Roast (with potatoes, carrots, onions and lots of gravy)
2. Hamburgers
3. Hot Dogs (Chicago Style)
4. Fried Chicken (alas, now forsaken for Costco Rotisserie Chicken for health reasons)
5. Fruit (mostly canned but fresh in season – Chicago’s summer)
6. Vegetables (mostly canned but fresh in Chicago’s summer)
7. Salad (mostly iceberg lettuce with French dressing, but sometimes Jello)
8. Potatoes (American fried, French fried, creamed or mashed)
9. Pie (always apple or cherry except for Thanksgiving)

I see nothing wrong with this list? I have no idea why TKW gagged when she saw it?

The true star of the list, however, is item #3.

To fully appreciate my favorite food (and following recipe), you have to understand that I grew up in a Western suburb of Chicago. I had an uncle who was a sportswriter for the now defunct Chicago Daily News. As his lucky nephew, I got tickets to lots of sporting events--and I certainly wasn't shy about asking for them. And every year, so began the Rite of Spring.

Many people believe the Rite of Spring is a piece of music by Igor Stravinsky. Idiots.

TKW’s Dad knows better. Growing up, the Rite of Spring was the un-official holiday of the year. The home opener of the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley Field.

The one day of the year when the Cubbies were undefeated and tied for the National League Championship.

And what does one do when you go to Wrigley?

Before entering the ballpark, you must, absolutely must walk up to one of the cart vendors and purchase a couple of Chicago style hot dogs, a Coca-Cola, and enjoy a truly gourmet and healthmark lunch.

Why do I say healthmark? Well, while the Chicago style hot dog was initially created during the 1893 Chicago Exposition and World Fair, it really became famous during the great depression years of the 30’s. Back then, you could get a hot dog with "salad" on the top for only a nickel, and money was really tight.

See? Hot Dog+Salad=Healthmark.

A Chicago Dog is a thing of beauty, as you can see. A better meal doesn't exist.



But if you don't have the good luck to live in the Windy City, I give you this recipe.


Ingredients:

1. Vienna All-Beef Hot Dog (no cheating!)
2. Sweet neon green relish (Vienna Chicago Style preferred)
3. Mustard (Yellow! No Dijon! Dijon is sacrilege)
4. The Pickle (I like Claussen’s, or from the Puckered Pickle Company)
5. Onion (chopped white)
6. Tomato
7. Sport Peppers (these are essential, folks!)
8. Celery Salt (any brand will do...see how flexible I am?)
9. Poppyseed Bun (These are a bitch to find. Vienna makes them, but you may have to bribe a bakery to make them for you).


Now that you have the ingredients, all you have to do is properly prepare them.

Chicago Style Hot Dogs can be either grilled, boiled or steamed. However, any purist prefers them steamed. Place the dogs in a Dutch oven fitted with a steamer rack. Add a small amount of water to the Dutch oven(you don’t want liquid bubbling onto your dogs!) Bring the water to a boil, reduce heat to low, and cover tightly.

Steam 5 – 7 minutes or until Hot Dogs are heated through. Just heat them through; don't cook the heck out of them!

To steam the buns, stack them on top of the dogs in the last two minutes of cooking.

Place the dog in the bun and very carefully follow these most important steps.

~ Dress the dog, not the bun! The goal is to evenly distribute the toppings so you taste each ingredient in every bite. In this order:

1. Yellow Mustard – squirted directly on the dog, in zig-zag pattern, one end to the other.
2. Neon Green Relish – generous amount
3. Fresh Chopped Onions – to your taste
4. Two Tomato Wedges – placed along the crevice between the top of the bun and the Hot Dog
5. Pickle Spear – placed in the crevice between the bottom of the bun and the Hot Dog
6. Two Sport Peppers – Traditional and necessary for a real Chicago Dog.
7. Celery Salt – Sprinkle a dash over the Dog.
8. ENJOY!

As this is TKW’s Dad’s first attempt ever at recipe writing, I must give full credit to two websites that do a much better job with far better information. They are www.hotdogchicagostyle.com and www.viennabeef.com.

There are many Chicago websites with reviews of hot dog restaurants, but I still prefer the Vienna Beef street vendors. On the West side there still is Parky’s on Harlem Avenue in Forest Park which has been in business for at least 50 plus years.

Unfortunately, the various health departments have vastly limited, if not done away with most of the outdoor hot dog wagons and carts, even at O’Hare International Airport (those jerks!) Some of the bars at O’Hare serve them, but they’re not nearly as good.

Fortunately, in Denver we have Mustard’s Last Stand, Chicago on Colfax Avenue and Woody’s in Littleton.

Because if TKW's dad ever has to make them for himself, he's in a world of hurt.

****

There you are, folks! Can you tell that these are words of a hot dog Purist? Daddy-O, thanks for giving my readers this *healthy* recipe, complete with assembly instructions! You are the best, Wallet Man!

SMAM Round-Up and Don't Fear the Fish!

Hello to February! And you know what that means, right? Bye-bye to Shrink-My-Ass-Month!!

Sorta.

Since there's a really good reason why I don't step on a scale, and haven't for years, I will tell you that I don't know if I lost any weight this month. And no, I refuse to examine my ass in a mirror. I remember vividly the trauma of the last Booty Scrutiny.

But I will say that my pants are a little looser. I no longer feel like a keilbasa stuffed into its casing when I slide on the jeans. So I'm good.

As for Hubs? He looks awesome! He looked great anyways, but he's worked hard this month with the exercise (something I wasn't nearly as motivated to do) and let me tell you--my man is smoking!

And still not satisfied. Sigh.

So, until we leave for vacation in March, he is still on a modified le regime. Modified in that I will no longer be cooking strictly SMAM-type recipes. But I will try to keep things relatively healthy around here.

So February is Half-Assed Month, I guess?

Anyways, on with the show! And I hope you'll stick around, because I've got some yummy things planned for us. Plus, another upcoming Guest Post from TKW's Daddy-O--something you know you don't want to miss, so tune in on Wednesday!

*****

I'm sure a lot of you have fond memories of favorite foods from childhood. You know, those dishes that, when you heard the answer to "Ma, what's for dinner?" made you do a secret little herky in your heart and think "Yes!"

Personally, my favorites varied from year to year, but there were always certain dishes that I'd start yearning for, dreaming about, and then pester Mama relentlessly for.

To her credit, Mama always laughed and said, "I like requests." I feel like that, too. Requests make things easy on the cook because the "What's for Dinner?" conundrum is already solved.

Ambrosia over at Making The Moments Count emailed me a week or two ago, requesting a recipe for fish. You see, Ambrosia fears the fish.





She thinks she hates it, is pretty sure she might gag if she sees it and she is hesitant to cook it. But she's a brave girl, because she told me that she really wants to make fish. She wants to like it. She knows it's good for her and thinks she might be ready to give fish a second chance.

I think this recipe might be the ticket she's looking for, for several reasons.

First off, this recipe uses halibut. Halibut is an awesome fish to serve to fish-phobes, because it doesn't have any yucky bones or skin on it and it's got a clean, mild, very un-fishy flavor. Consider halibut the Gateway Fish.

Second, the fish is coated in crispy crumbs and then quickly pan fried. Put a crispy coating on any kind of protein and you're ahead of the game. Just ask chicken nuggets.

Third, there's yummy little sauce to finish things off and add a little zip. It makes things a little more interesting and is yet close enough to old Tartar sauce that it shouldn't seem scary. Although if you hate cilantro, feel free to use regular Tartar sauce.

And finally? It's one of the most beloved staff favorites from Cooking Light magazine. This recipe received the magazine's highest rating, and that's got to count for something!



Cornflake-Crusted Halibut with Chile-Cilantro Aioli
from Cooking Light Magazine
serves 4

Aioli:
2 tablespoons minced fresh cilantro
3 tablespoons reduced-fat or fat-free mayonnaise
1 serrano or jalapeno chile, seeded and minced
1 garlic clove, minced

Fish:
1 cup lowfat or fat-free milk
1 large egg white, lightly beaten
2 cups cornflakes, finely crushed (I used Total)
1/4 cup all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
dash cayenne pepper (optional)
2 tablespoons olive oil
4 (6-ounce) halibut fillets*
4 lemon wedges

To prepare aioli, combine cilantro, mayonnaise, serrano, and minced garlic. Stir well.

To prepare fish, combine milk and egg white in a shallow dish, stirring well with a whisk. Combine cornflakes, flour, salt and pepper in another shallow dish.

Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Dip fish in milk mixture, and then dredge in cornflake mixture. Add the fish to pan, and cook 4 minutes on one side. Flip fish and cook 4 more minutes, or until fish flakes easily when tested with a fork.

Serve with a lemon wedge and aioli on the side.

* If, like me, you can't find decent halibut on market day, substitute any mild white fish, like cod or snapper.

We enjoyed this fish! The girls even ate it, but dipped in ketchup. They wanted NO part of that freaky looking aioli. But they won't eat tartar sauce, either, so that wasn't a shocker.

Ambrosia, I've got a couple more recipes coming up for you, so if this one doesn't float your boat, no worries. There's hope for fish yet.

Shrink-My-Ass-Month: Miss D.'s Smoothie

If you don't know the story of Miss D.'s incredibly fussy eating habits, I would encourage you to go here.

We're improving, teeny baby steps at a time, here at Chez T. Miss D. and Miss M. are still incredibly fussy eaters, but they're getting better at trying new things and definitely are showing interest in cooking. We're spending some lovely time together in the kitchen every week, and I cherish that.

The other day, as I was fixing breakfast, Miss D. said, "Hey Mama, do you think I could make my very own smoothie?"

This from the mouth of a girl who's never allowed a smoothie to pass her lips.

"Sure," I said, trying very hard not to show even a sliver of excitement, because parental excitement is a guaranteed Buzzkill.

"I have several recipes for smoothies; I'll find them for you."

"No, Mama. I don't want to make it that way. I want to invent my very own smoothie," she said.

Hoo-boy. This from the mouth of a girl who has no idea what ingredients go into a smoothie.

My mind started to race a little. I had visions of Froot-Loop-Sour-Apple-Gogurt-Peanut-Butter Smoothie dancing in my head.

"Okay," I said. Hey, what the Hell.

"Awesome!" she shouted, bolting out of her seat and doing a pint-sized version of the Yummy Dance. "I'm going to concoct my recipe!" Concoct my recipe?
Where does she get this stuff?

Pen and paper in hand, she returned to the kitchen.

"Hmmm," she said, tapping her pencil. "What kind shall I make?" Shall? Has she been sneaking down to the basement while I'm watching The Tudors again?


"I think we'll need raspberries. And strawberries."

Solid start. Nothing Gag-Tackular there.

"And maybe a teeeeeensy drop of lemon," she added. It's official: the child is from Mars.

"And sugar, of course."

"Not too much, and maybe honey would be better," I said. Big Mouth.

"Okay." Pause. "What else will we need, Mama?"

"Something liquid, so you can suck it through a straw," I said. "Milk would be good."

So it was settled. Off I went to the store. And noticed that fresh raspberries were 6 bucks for a tiny little carton. Screw that! Frozen berries, here we come.

My little chef impressed me. And she was quite proud of her little concoction.

"Look, Mama," she said. "I'm gonna be a good cooker like you!"



Well, she's on her way.


Miss D.'s Smoothie
serves 2 kiddos

2/3 cup frozen raspberries (unsweetened and still frozen)
2/3 cup frozen strawberries (unsweetened and still frozen)
2 cups lowfat milk
3-4 tablespoons honey
a tiny squeeze of lemon

Place all ingredients in a blender and whiz until smooth, adding more milk if necessary. Taste for sweetness; add more if necessary. Enjoy.