Posts Tagged ‘valentines day’

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Was not achieved at our household on February 14th.  With two performances (Mom’s and Dad’s) and children focused only on the lollipops in their school Valentine mailboxes, along with Father Time’s uncompromising cracks of the whip, not to mention the Sandman’s early morning work, exacerbated by the pain of having a broken espresso machine, the morning was full of sighs, huffs, pained expressions, and, we’ll call it, amplified voices.  I made waffles from scratch with vanilla paste OUT OF ANGER.  Has anyone ever made homemade waffles out of anger?  I suppose it’s better than smashing the Baby Alive doll, which I have not done, ever, nor do I wish to, though I wouldn’t mind if, by some miracle, the urinating toy would end up in a pile at the local Goodwill.

We also managed to disturb a number of Episcopalians at the church where my husband worked a soloist.  We left mid-service for my two-year-old who announced, out loud in the echoing, cavernous, wood-bedecked sanctuary, “I have to go poo,”  right after she returned from going pee, a need which she also announced, with equal clarity and volume.  When we left the church (the house of God, right?) she asked me, “Is that Daddy’s show?” Wow.  My husband effectively upstaged GOD.  Not bad.  I suppose Daddy is the center of the universe or, perhaps, some religious education for my children is in order.

Needless to say, we survived our ‘shows,’ went to a gymnastics birthday party (your favorite, too?), visited with friends and managed to have some serious fun by the day’s end.  Though despite fourteen days of commitment to love and food and those really hot photos, there was no romance and about $40 worth of champagne went unpoured.  Overall, it was a very good day, though the events of it would make for a lousy sonnet.  Perhaps we’ll reclaim the romance on some fantastic 7th of July, that is, if we are not trying to make up for an unpatriotic Independence Day that may have occurred three days earlier.

And now, at Saving Private Mommy, the Olympic Games can begin.  Four days late.  Thank God for streaming video.

SHAMELESS PLUG AND URGENT PLEA:  If you like this blog, please vote for Saving Private Mommy on Babble.com.  Greta is currently ranked at #94 and is eyeing the Top 50.  After the Top 50, she plans to take over the world and to tell Ahmadinejad to chill out with the nukes already.  And Greta can scowl even better than Hilary Clinton. Please click on this link, go to page 2 and VOTE.  Please tell your family, friends, and estranged acquaintances. Here’s that link again.

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I’m not a fan of clichés since I like to think outside of the box, and I usually bend over backwards to avoid them, but at the end of the day, sometimes clichés get the job done.  Especially if that cliché is a chocolate-covered strawberry on Valentine’s Day.  Now that’s a hackneyed idea that should be embraced, or rather, bitten into, since hugging a strawberry is a waste of time.  To make a long story short, I’ll explain my choice in hopes that you, too, will drink the Koolaid.

Chocolate strawberries are tasty, elegant, and, let’s face it, full of fiber.  They are a lighter option than the brownie sundae, unless you eat twelve of them, like I did at my husband’s work Christmas party.  They do give you that gourmet experience with a very low-fuss preparation process.  I’m going out on a limb here, but I’ll assume that most folks don’t go gangbusters over the idea of crafting those fussy, but tasty, little petit fours.  While you deserve the indulgence, time is money, and who wants the pressure to always be firing on all cylinders when it comes to cooking for a holiday?  I hope you don’t mind that I went over your head and authorized you to make a clichéd, easy, yet gourmet dessert.  I hope you’ll consider finding a spot for these on the table since you already have a lot on your plate whilst your irons are in the fire and your candles are burning at both ends.  Watch out for the tablecloth!

• Melt chocolate chips in a saucepan over medium heat.  Remove from stove when melted.

• Dip in strawberries.  Let cool.  Refrigerate.  And go ahead and count these eggs before they hatch.

• Eat.

So make this very tasty and easy cliché, and save your midnight oil for some other occasion, like hiding your wealth from the IRS at 9 PM on April 14^th, a time when you really need to knock it out of the park.

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I was asked by my editor (Yes, Greta has an editor.  You think I would navigate through saving enlisted mothers across the globe without a pilot?), to write a story about my husband’s and my first date.  I thought for a moment and decided that would be impossible since the details of it have no literary promise whatsoever.  No opportunity for metaphor, theme or even hyperbole.  In fact it wasn’t even a date.  It was an improvised outing that involved a respectable number of sparks, but in a setting that is, well, Denny’s.

Yes, our first date was at Denny’s, back when people still went to Denny’s.  A simpler, more innocent time when we embraced GMOs, and enjoyed the nuanced gooiness of hydrogenated oil.  It was before Food Network taught us that food snobbery is the inalienable privilege of everyone who has cable.

The choice of Denny’s was not terribly calculated, but came on the heels of his helping me rehearse an aria.  That’s opera talk for song, if you’re not a fan of these things.  (Yes, we met in an opera.  I was the lead and died in his arms.  Now THAT has a print-worthy ring to it with all the necessary romantic imagery, up until the point where I tell you that I came back to life, and that the opera was a comedy and about spiders.  And we performed it at a community college.  Perhaps my editor, whose main duty it is to say, “I like that,” (my fault, not his) should intervene here.  Am I off topic?)

So my date ate Moons Over My Hammy and I probably had a scrambled egg with ketchup (I know) and some Earl Grey tea, a low-calorie, healthy snack for the slender version of myself that inhabited my 20s.  Beyond that, the date was unremarkable, though my husband might tell it a bit differently, and love blossomed over time, after several meals of Cheddar-flavored Hamburger Helper and cheese bread, made by the interesting, handsome, wildish bachelor that was to one day be the father of my children.  Hamburger Helper is surprisingly good, especially when it is made by a man who has really pretty eyes and sings like a bubble gum version of Thomas Hampson and is way more relaxed and impressed with me than Thomas Hampson would ever be.  I met Thomas Hampson at a master class and while he is handsome and can sing with more precise vocal technique than my husband, I could not for the life of me imagine sitting on my couch with him, telling bad jokes and drinking cappuccino.  And he would NEVER read my blog before bed.  It would cut into his reading time devoted to Lord Byron or Ralph Waldo Emerson.  Or Percy Bysshe Shelly.  Who is Percy Bysshe Shelley, anyway?

So I won’t be able to blog about our first date with any effectiveness.  While there may have been a better date with all the trappings of romance, I don’t even remember it.   But the greatest ‘a ha’ moment, when I decided for certain that this man would be the one with whom I would share my life and create three children who would need to be shuttled to and fro the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL, was the Round Table incident.  Again, a poor setting that definitely lacks the romance of, say, a Shakespearean forest or countryside.  If I can find another blog with a prettier story, one involving artfully cooked Ahi decorated in ribbons of wasabi-aioli glaze, French wine, roses and Michael Buble, I will link you (as long as you don’t give that person your Babble vote).

We’re celebrating 14 Days Of Food And Love.  Check back tomorrow for another heart sharped blog about things to eat and squeeze

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Here’s a Brownie recipe for your Valentine’s feast, should you choose an at-home celebration.  This may look like an ordinary brownie, but, well, it’s heart-shaped and it packs a heavyweight punch of buttery, chocolate goodness.  I realize this is more a TGIFriday’s caliber of dessert, but I’ve been busy rehearsing a community theater production and haven’t had the courage or the confidence to take on chocolate truffles, a recipe in my distant past when I worked much harder to impress people.  But here is a brownie, a very good one that is begging to be partnered with a glass of milk or a scoop of vanilla ice cream with a messy splash of chocolate syrup on top.  But as I said, I’m rehearsing a community theater production in a very small town with a small cast in a small theater and a very large director who says it should be like a Broadway opening.  Since he already yelled at me once tonight, I thought it wouldn’t be the best time to bring up that I am about one union card, 30 auditions, 24 pounds, $1600 per week plus living expenses, and at least 29 therapy sessions away from being Broadway ready.  That’s why I opted for the small play in the small town in the small theater with the small cast.  So much for trying to be small.

So, here’s the recipe, and I must confess, I am breaking one of my favorite rules about measuring.  I will ask you to measure because baking is one of those chemically balanced things, kind of like launching a space shuttle, only better.  The misery of measuring, however, is offset by the fact that you can make this sucker in ONE BOWL.  There is hope, there is a god, and there is a chance for me, even with an impending Broadway opening in a theater in a suburb in a shopping center next to Subway for $0 an hour.  In northern California.

• Don’t stress.  This won’t hurt a bit.

• Get a saucepan and put it on the stove.

• Over medium heat, melt one stick of BUTTER and 3 ounces of UNSWEETENED CHOCOLATE.  Keep stirring.

• Once it’s cooled, add 1 cup of SUGAR and 2 EGGS.  Mix it well.  Add a teaspoon of VANILLA EXTRACT.

• In a small bowl, whisk 2/3 cup FLOUR and 1/4 teaspoon BAKING SODA.  (Sorry about the second bowl.  It won’t get dirty.)

• Drop the dry ingredients into the gooey, chocolatey mix that you can’t lick because it’s got raw egg in it.  Mix.

• Pour it in a greased baking pan (8 x 8 or 9 x 9 or a pie pan).  Use BUTTER.  Don’t talk to me about Crisco.  Ah!  Shh!  Put in the oven and let it cook for 30 minutes.  Or less if you like it extra gooey.

Happy V-day to all.  I’m going to bed.  After a glass of sparkling Shiraz with the husband.  It’s not just for celebrating anymore.

We’re celebrating 14 Days of Love and Food!  Check back tomorrow for another heart-shaped blog.

RE-REPOSTED SHAMELESS PROMOTION AND RED ALERT:  If you like this blog, please vote for Saving Private Mommy on Babble.com.  Enough votes could make Greta go viral.  She’s always wanted to be a virus.  Go to Babble’s website and click ‘alphabetical’ just above the names of the nominated sites.  You’ll find Saving Private Mommy on or around page 9. Greta thanks you for your support!  That link, if you missed the first 2 times, is right here.  Oh thank you, oh thank you!  Here it is again.  And again.  One last time.  Bye!

Just in case you forgot.

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I was killing time between two different ballet lesson drop-off times for my two ballerina daughters, and I took a drive on a long windy road along the water and into the hills.  This road is very familiar to me, though I haven’t driven it much since my teens.  It used to be the indirect route to the roving high school keg parties, which would flee one scene after another in a sort of unfriendly game of hide and seek with police, except that we never got to be ‘it.’

On some days, my friend and I, in behavior typical of 17-year-old girls, would take the long road to hills to go house hunting.  Yes, we were precocious.  We selected our dream homes, which we were to live in with our dream guys, in our dream world of some dream dimension in existence.  I remember particularly the one with the turrets and the storybook-style stonework.  We agreed that was the one on which we, with our imaginary princes, both wanted to close escrow.  My friend would surely have outbid me because she was much prettier and her dad worked in the stock market, back when the stock market was a cozier place to be.  Ahhh, the innocent 80’s.

She said, “Oh my god, Snow White would live there with her seven dwarfs.”  Perhaps she liked Disney more than I did or she is way kinkier than she came off, but I was content to live with one prince, not seven, hopefully a man of at least an average height.

It was funny to revisit the spot, this time with one five-year-old ballerina and the frustrated almost three-year-old who wears her leotard, tights, and chiffon skirt, in hopes that one day, by some miracle in adult logic and rule-making, she’ll be permitted to attend class.  It was interesting how vividly I remembered my old dream world, years later, alongside my wide-awake world.  And then it occurred to me.

I should have spent LESS TIME DREAMING and more time trying to tackle the misery that is algebra.  That’s right. I could have become, I don’t know, an engineer, and, engineered things.  Or a surgeon and cut things.  And taken things out and put plastic things in.  But I was busy shopping for homes, when I could have been developing the skills that help you buy them.  So now I can’t do math or get a realtor to waste more than four nanoseconds of their Sunday afternoon with me.

I do, however, have a prince, just one, and I must say that he holds his own against the imaginary one, whose traits, now that I look back, were very non-descript.  In fact, the only thing I really remember about him is that we lived in that castle, with the turrets and the stonework.  And, for the record, my husband is a way better dancer than any of Snow White’s or Cinderella’s or Sleeping Beauty’s cheesy, overly white boyfriends.  I only wish that the castle we afforded ourselves weren’t so 1/18 the size of everyone else’s and not so very orange in color.  Though it’s a brave design choice and contrasts with the rolling green hills nicely.  Oh, the missteps of youth!

But then, my revelation had a revelation.  If I were good at algebra, I would actually have to DO algebra.  And that would be bad.  Now, I have the freedom to not do algebra all day long!  No algebra!  No algebra!  None for me, ha!  Can my chemist friends say the same?  Neeeeeooooooo!  As soon as a chemist chooses to befriend me, I will confirm this.

So they have nice houses.  But they have to suck up the tortures of a + b + xy/z = your mother’s maiden name.  Every.  Day.  Of.  Their.  Lives.  Who needs square footage when you’ve got an open floor plan in your brain?  My mind is a cavernous haven of algebra-free nothingness!  You can take your b and shove it up your a.  And I will sit here in 1,086 square feet of living space and think about my favorite adjectives.  Location, location, location!  (I know those were nouns.  That was a real estate joke.)

So I’ll keep my prince and my math ineptitude and appreciate the simple joys of not being well-rounded, a rarity in the academic world these days.  Can the economic principles of supply and demand magically come into play here?  Can my price go up for sucking at math?   In any case, I will reflect on a childhood where I perfected fantasy and delusion, and in retrospect, realize that the time was well spent.

We’re celebrating 14 Days of Love and Food!  Check back tomorrow for another heart-shaped blog.

REPOSTED SHAMELESS PROMOTION AND RED ALERT:  If you like this blog, please vote for Saving Private Mommy on Babble.com.  Enough votes could make Greta go viral.  She’s always wanted to be a virus.  Go to Babble’s website and click ‘alphabetical’ just above the names of the nominated sites.  You’ll find Saving Private Mommy on or around page 9. Greta thanks you for your support!  That link, if you missed the first 2 times, is right here.  Oh thank you, oh thank you!  Here it is again.  And again.  One last time.  Bye!

Just in case you forgot.

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