I've had this recipe for chocolate doughnuts in my back pocket since last February. Actually, since February 14th to be specific. The day my pancreas and my uterus got into a bit of a feud which ultimately ended with my uterus getting it's ass kicked. And then Peanut Baby was all, "Hi loosers. I'm here." Last year I was planning to spend Valentine's Day making chocolate doughnuts with my kids and then we were going to go "valentining" later that night. By the way, is it just me or has valentining become a thing of the past? My neighbors always seem so confused by the whole ordeal. Anyway, things didn't pan out the way I had planned. It was a bad day. So we're going to try it again this year (if you're one of my neighbors, act surprised, okay?). We gave these bad boys a test run today. And aside from my complete inability to allow my children to freely distribute sprinkles as they wish (I'm a sprinkle nazi - are you surprised?), they turned out pretty darn cute. If I wasn't just coming off a raw food cleansing diet I would most definitely have partaken. The kids, however, have no problem hoovering mass quantities of sugar. Not an issue there. We're having wilted spinach soup tomorrow night for dinner to balance it out. They're so excited.
Tootsie continues to call Valentine's Day, Valentime's Day. It's cute. I don't have it in me to correct her.
I don't know why I just told you that. Twas lame.
Baked Chocolate Doughnuts with Vanilla Glaze
3/4 cup flour
1/4 cup dutch-process cocoa
1/2 cup sugar
1 Tablespoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 egg + 1 egg yolk
1/2 cup milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
4 Tablespoons vegetable oil
1/4 teaspoon lemon juice
Pre-heat oven to 450 degrees and coat a doughnut pan liberally with cooking spray. Stir together flour, cocoa powder, sugar, baking powder and salt in a large bowl. Add the eggs, vanilla, milk, and lemon juice. Stir together for about 1 minute. Add the oil and continue to stir until just combined. Transfer batter to disposable icing bag or ziploc bag with corner cut off. Fill each cavity in pan 2/3 of the way full. Bake 7-9 minutes or until doughnuts spring back when lightly touched. Cool completely before icing.
Or just throw them in this thing. It's WAAAAAAY easier.
Vanilla Icing
1 cup confectioner's sugar
1 Tablespoon milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1/8 teaspoon salt
dash of lemon juice
Dip the top of each doughnut in the icing. Decorate with sprinkles.
Hello blog. Hi. Have you missed me? What? You don't remember who I am? That's okay. I don't really remember you either apparently because it took me THREE tries to type my password in correctly. I'm getting stupider (stupider, stupider, more stupider, why do neither of those seem right?). Anyway, you should know that nothing very exciting has gone on lately. I mean, there was that time a few months back that Tootsie's friend whacked her in the head with his plastic sword which landed us in the ER where it took 4 full-sized adults to hold her down while so she could be stitched up by an extremely pregnant doctor who, judging from the scar on Tootsie's face, was also suffering from the stupids. And, AND, there was that day a few weeks ago when Eliot (the younger shpanky brother) got miffed that his plastic football helmet was all bobbly on his head. And because shrinking the helmet was obviously not an option, his only choice was to increase the circumference of his head. By wearing seven beanies. On his way out the door to school. Oh, and there was that one day that Peanut Baby did this...
And now we have all turned into little marionettes that dance and shimmy according to her demands. She has a hard life that one.
And then the Penn State fiasco. Oh my, that just sucked away like two whole weeks of my life. Two whole weeks where I did nothing but watch the news in complete and utter disbelief. After which I sat my boys down and explained things that no parent ever wants to have to explain to their little boys but thank you Jerry Sandusky now we have no choice.
But then I would just roll a ball to Peanut Baby and all was suddenly right in the world again. Ahh, baby giggles.
So really, nothing very big to report. Well, until today I guess.
Walk with me. Talk with me. Just for a minute.
One time in Junior High, My mom I thought it would be a rewarding experience to try out for the school play, The Wizard of Oz. My audition went well. I was pretty sure I would probably be cast as a munchkin, or an Oz person, or at least a tree or something. Something or someone who made an actual appearance on the stage. So you can imagine my surprise when I found out that I would be playing "Toto's bark". No, I wasn't Toto (although that definitely would have been an upgrade). I was his bark. They actually wanted me to stay after school every day, month after month so I could sit off stage and make barking sounds on command. I probably don't need to mention that I declined the offer. But just in case...I declined the offer.
I tell you this story to make the point that I suck at lots of things. Actually, I suck at most things I attempt. But there's one thing. One thing I kind of kick some serious ass at. Birthday parties.
Today was Tootsie's birthday party. Not her actual birthday. Her actual birthday is on December 26th, and anyone born the day after Christmas is destined to be ignored on their birthdays for the rest of their life. Which will inevitably lead to the crushing of their tender inside parts and drive them to seek counseling in their latter years. So far, we've master the art of pretending our daughter's birthday doesn't exist and have started a savings account titled Tootsie's Therapy Fund. It has worked out wonderfully until these past few months over which she has been invited to several birthday parties. Parties. To celebrate ones birthday. Where people come and participate in games and activities and all sorts of splendidness. Tootsie. Discovered. Birthday parties. Which meant that I couldn't be all, tra la la no birthday here continue on your merry way, come the 25th. (what is it with birthday parties these days. I feel like putting up a billboard that says, "dude, I get it, you were born. As were the rest of us."). - (oh wow, that's just WAY too many punctuation marks right there). At any rate, it was time to throw the girl a party. And if you know me at all, you know that I don't throw parties. Like, ever. But on those extremely rare occasions that I have a lapse in judgement and recklessly abandon my party philosophy, I don't just throw a party. I go balls to the wall, bat crap crazy, ocd for weeks before the actual date planning the most perfect of all perfect parties. I can't tell you why I do it. It just happens. Which essentially is why I developed the whole "no throwing parties" rule for myself. That and the fact that I don't like being served with divorce papers. Poor Ryan. Send him flowers.
A few weeks back Tootsie told me that she wanted to have a party where her friends could come and decorate their own cakes. Nine 4 and 5 year olds? Armed with cake and frosting? In my house? No. Haeeeeell no. I tried to persuade her to consider other birthday theme possibilities but it was not to be. A cake decorating birthday party became her reason for eating and drinking and breathing in and out every day. And so it began. And because I'm me, that over-doer that I usually keep locked way deep down inside of myself somehow broke loose (notice how I use the word doer, not achiever - as I really have never actually achieved anything worth mentioning) (wait, I think I was nominated "most likely to become one of Santa's elves" in 7th grade) (or maybe it was "most likely to land the part of Toto's bark" - one can't be certain). But you guys. This party. Was so rad. I have to show you how rad. Because if you happen to have a little girl who happens to have a birthday and you happen to be scouring the internet for party ideas? This is one you might want to consider.
We started off with a tea party. Because hello? Tea parties are awesome.
Tootsie was rather enchanted with the whole ordeal.
We then moved to the kitchen table where the guests were each outfitted with their very own apron hand crafted by myself and the birthday girl. Mostly by myself. Well, until I grew tired of sewing and drove to the nearest Kid2Kid to purchase the final two. Which incedently were only $4.00. Would have been helpful to have known that before I spent an entire week MAKING aprons. Spent rest of the evening sitting in corner sucking thumb and rocking back and forth.
But dang, they looked cute.
And here's where it gets fun. Or scary. Depending on how you look at freaks like me. Okay scary.
I found pastry boxes to put their finished products in and baker's twine to finish it off. Oh, and notice the stickers that say, "thank you for coming, love Tootsie" (my favoritest part for sure). They also got to keep their aprons (gun, head, trigger) and their spatulas (dollar tree - two for a buck - no brainer) (because they were cheap - not because I just put a gun to my head) (i've developed a parenthesis fetish) (are you annoyed yet).
And here's where you can feel free to tell me that I need counseling. This is Tootsie's birthday cake. And because I wasn't quite kookie enough, I made giant cupcakes to serve instead of cake. Purely because I didn't want to cut into the cake. I wish I were kidding.
Really though, sometimes crazy pays off. Look at that kid.
I hate cheesy sentiment. I don't usually do cheesy sentiment. But today, I have to. Sorry in advance.
I remember rubbing my hand over my enormous belly imagining what you would be like. I pictured you as a precious, soft, sleepy, infant. I pictured you as a wide-eyed, sweet, easy going toddler. I pictured you as a passive, un-demanding little girl. Because sugar and spice and everything nice, I had been told. Or maybe because that's what I thought I wanted you to be.
I never pictured you this way.
I never imagined you would be the strong willed, independent, stubborn to the bone child that you are. And for a long time, I didn't understand you. But that was my mistake. I didn't want to have to re-mold myself to make room for your complex personality. I thought you would just fall in line and march to the beat like everybody else. I was so wrong. I was so wrong to think that it was your duty to become my vision for you. I was so wrong to have a vision of what I wanted you to be. Because what you are is so much better. You are a combination of sweet and tough that I have never seen before. You have a strength to your spirit that Genghis Kahn would be envious of. You are smart but not self-rightous. You can read people like a book, and you somehow make room for everyone in that tiny heart of yours. I never see you judge. Ever.
Every day is an opportunity for me to watch you, and learn from you, and be thankful that I was chosen to be your mom.
Every night is seemingly the end of a chapter. As I take your angelic face in my hands and kiss you on the head, I think to myself that I can't imagine my life without you, and that I can't wait to meet you new in the morning.
When I look at you, somehow I know that I've known you longer than just 5 years. Maybe much longer. But I also know that this life is yours to live. It's yours to make with it what you will. And believe me my girl, there is nothing tying you down.
Get this. Last week in church my dad took a moment to stand up and "thank" someone (we'll call her Miss Shniderman). Apparently at that very moment, something happened to the nerves that connect his mouth to his brain and he said, "I'd really like to SPANK Miss Shniderman". At first I was all, habbada whobadda wha??? But then I remembered this picture from our trip to Lake Powell in July and realized that the pieces totally fit.
And then I realized that I hadn't yet taken the time to complete my annual Lake Powell post that often times provides a golden opportunity for me to embarrass the pants off the people in my family.
My motto? Opportunities shall not be squandered. And so I will proceed with caution.
HA! You believed that last sentence?
Suckaaaa!
This was sort of just the theme this year. You know. Act like a total douche whenever possible.
Par for the course.
There was also however, copious amounts of cute.
COPIOUS. AMOUNTS.
And of course more douchi-ness.
I don't know why we can't just use the water tramp like normal people. And for the record, no small children were hurt in this attempt to land inside the overturned trampoline. Just the ego of the guy who totally missed.
I have no explanation for this one.
The little dudes managed to save their grandma from certain death atop the treacherous sandstone.
See? Am cute. Iz fun to wear teeny weenie bikiniz.
Operation scrub pits was a nightly ritual. I suspect that operation kill sister in law will be in full swing very soon. Bwaaaahaaahaha!
My dad's dance moves are seemingly genetic.
My future grandchildren...I pity them.
The captain and the first mate. I rather adore these two.
There are people in my family who aren't going to speak to me for a REALLY REALLY long time after they read this. I sacrificed my level of like-ability to provide my internetz with an accurate depiction of our annual Powell extravaganza. Because, Blog.
Peanut Baybee is growing old. Every night when I put her to bed I get that panicky feeling that reminds me just how quickly she will change. Already I can hardly remember that floppy little heap of sleep she used to be. Now she weighs 12 pounds and even sort of has chubby thighs. Let me say that again, CHUBBY THIGHS! I pinch them and squish them and nibble on them occasionally. And today? She shocked the hell out of herself by rolling over for the first time. I've never thought much of that milestone before but for some reason this time I was all, biggest smartest most genius baybee alive! Even though she's 6 months and should have most definitely perfected that trick by now. Whatevs. She's brilliant.
One fine morning a few months ago, Ryan and I woke up, gazed directly into each others crustie-encircled eyes, and realized that in only a matter of weeks our romantic morning ritual would be replaced with "Mawwwwm, Daaaaad, Tootsie just took the spoon out of my cereal and licked iiiiiit". At which point a screaming thrashing brawl would ensue. The way we saw it, we had two options. Find someone to smuggle in a 3 month supply of Valium to keep us from chucking our children out a very high window, or sign our them up for any and every summer camp available. We went with option #2. For the past 4 weeks they have been adhering to a rigorous schedule that was planned out in excruciating detail by your truly. And as a result they are still living. By the way, if you have children and you actually look forward to summer? You are not human. Either that or you're a really crappy liar.
Our 10 year old just finished a week long guitar camp. Originally I signed him up purely to buy he and his brother some time apart from each other. But when I picked him up after the first day and he was all, "MOM. GUITAR. DRUMS. SWEEEEEEET!" That was all I could understand really, what with the flailing arms and girlie squeals. My immediate reaction was that of excitement on his behalf. After all, this is my kid who has learned the painful way that so far, he's just not cut out for sports. 5 days later, however, I realized what all the hoopla was about. Enter mini mosh-pit, black skinny jeans, and inappropriate song that included the words fire and desire... ACK! He's TEN!!!!
Don't get me wrong here. It was very cool to see my kid up there rockin' the crap out of that guitar. But you guys, again with the age appropriate concept, HE'S ONLY TEN! I had no idea this was what we had signed up for when we decided on guitar camp. And now? Now he want's to actually take lessons at this particular guitar school. I'm losing sleep over this. What would you do? While I feel compelled to allow my kids to be themselves and develop their talents, I can't help but worry that this is just too much too soon. But on the flip side, I've always told them that I will trust them until they give me a reason not to. Am I invoking a punishment before a crime has even been committed by saying no to this? I'm starting to think that we really had something good going with the throwing them out the window plan. Why do things seem so much more complicated and intense than when I was 10. Life was so much easier when we could just peg our pants, throw in a banana clip and head to Hardee's for a hamburger. Yes you did!!!
Several years ago, roughly the second Sunday in May, I called my Mom. I think my intention was to wish her a happy Mother's Day but somehow I ended up crying to her on the phone about how much I hated Mother's Day (which is bad news in an of itself because I'm a really ugly crier. I mean REALLY ugly). I told her how depressing it was to have to listen to stories of one supermom after another in church. I told her that I wished my kids could go this one day without fighting. Just this ONE. I went on an on about how whoever came up with Mother's Day couldn't have been a mother herself because it is without a doubt the most exasperating day of the year. To my everlasting shame I said all of this. To my mom. On Mother's Day. Because apparently everything is always about me. I dub myself the valedictorian of selfish pricks. But my mom listened and even acted like she felt my imaginary pain. And then she said something that has stuck with me ever since. She told me that one time on Mother's Day when she was a young mother herself, she called her mom complaining about the very same thing. Her mom listened patiently and then replied, "I guess I've always thought of Mother's Day as an opportunity to honor my own mother". If I could have simply erased myself from existence at that moment I probably would have. I still can't believe that I went so many years thinking that somehow Mother's Day was a time for my kids and my husband to walk around like creepy little mc-creepersons patching up my insecurities. I vowed that from then on I would take my sweet grandmother's advice. Mother's day would be about honoring my mother. And maybe about getting some pretty flowers or a necklace or a new dust buster. But... whatever. Hello? Honey? Are you reading this???
Best grandma? Peanut Baby votes yes.
My mom isn't only my mom. She's my friend. Even when my life has the balance of an egg on a countertop, she doesn't judge. She listens. She advises only when warranted but reminds me that I'm the one who has to navigate my way through this life. And when that previously mentioned egg ends up on the floor in a giant goopy mess, she helps me think of all the reasons why it's not the end of the world. Then she stays up all night worrying about me. Because that weird thing that causes mothers to feel their children's pain never really goes away.
I get a knot in my chest when I watch her with her grandchildren. She simply has a way with them. No song and dance necessary. She sees qualities in them that sometimes we as their parents seem to overlook. I love how much she loves them and embraces their uniqueness. She's always been able to see beauty in thing that other people don't take the time to notice. She's totally that person that would go to an animal shelter and take home the dog that was missing a leg, an ear, and 1/2 it's tongue. Or the dog who sleeps in a buzzy chair and wants to procreate with a stuffed lama. Oh wait...she already has that dog. See? Unique. It's her thing.
My mom is strong and she's wise. She values her role as a mother. And she knows how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop (not really, but that sentence just flowed well). She accepts me for who I am and encourages me to become the person I want to be (she's hoping the person I want to become doesn't have a blog). She tells me frequently that she thinks I'm a good mother. And even though I beg to differ, there's no greater compliment I could receive from her.
Happy Mother's Day to the woman who has dealt with me for 32 long years. Hang in there, I'll grow up eventually. Maybe. Probably not.
Right when we start feeling all sunshiney about peanut baby's progress she goes totally a-wall on us.
Look at those eyes and the redness therein. And that was before the spinal tap. SPINAL. TAP. There was also a cat scan, a catheter, an IV, an EKG, leg x-rays, and blood tests. 10 hours at Primary Children's Hospital, and you wanna know what they found? Get ready, because I'm not sure you're gonna be able to handle the horror of what I'm about to tell you. They found...a scratch on her cornea. I wish I were kidding. I'm going to be paying off medical bills for the rest of my life because peanut baby went all Freddy Krueger on herself with her hangnail. The only redeeming aspect of the day was that every time the doctor came in to examine her he'd go (in the most ridiculous voice imaginable), "who's a wittoe baby bug" like 17 times fast. The "baby bug" wasn't amused.
And to balance out my belly aching I am now going to R.A.V.E about peanut baby's blessing day. Actually mostly just about her dress
the dress
peanut baby in the dress
darling husband holding peanut baby in the dress
darling husband holding peanut baby in the dress while sitting next to irritated wife who still has post-pregnancy chipmunk cheeks and an apparent vacuum growing out of the top of her head
the cake pops
The day was great. The dress was my favorite part. The cake pops were a close second. That is all.
*My 9 year old son just walked into my room and said, "hey mom, I got laid". It was either Trojan or Hawaiian day at school today.
Tootsie: Mom, I wanna go outside Me: Okay great. Put on a coat. Tootsie: I don't need a coat. Me: Yes you do. Tootsie: No I don't. Me: Toots, you'll freeze your butt off if you don't wear a coat. Tootsie: (as she saunters out the door with no coat and no shoes) No I won't. My butt never falls off.
I can't win my way out of a paper bag with this kid.
