Take small bites…

This evening after the shopping was done, the kids and I stopped by the store’s cafe and purchased Chinese take-out. Usually we eat at a restaurant, but the hour was late, and hey, fourteen bucks for two pints of entrees, two pints of rice, and egg rolls was a deal I couldn’t refuse.

I wish I had. Normally I open the carton and dive in head-first, but tonight I used manners and cut the large chunks of General Tso chicken with my fork. I was horrified at what I saw. Beneath the spicy goodness of the crust, the chicken was raw. Sushi ranks high on my taste buds, but raw poultry? No thanks.

The last time I went to a burger joint (several years ago) I got a sandwich with a bite taken out of it. My mommy taught me to share, but swap spit with an unknown person? I don’t think so.

After these two incidents, I’m considering becoming a vegetarian.

Where did I put my brain?

I’ve had the worst time this week remembering things, including the password to my blog account.

On another note…

When I was a child, I had a mind like a steel trap. Mama learned the hard way never to promise me anything. The words would barely leave her lips and immediately I became a pint-size public service announcement, reminding her several times a day of her obligations.

Several years have past, and things have changed–dramatically.

1. In the mornings I can’t even spell a word as simple as “cat” until I’ve had coffee.

2. People (doctors and school administrators) asking my children’s birth dates sends me into a tailspin, making me feel as if I’m a game show contestant facing the million dollar question. There’s no doubt in my mind that if I reply with the wrong answer, they’ll revoke my parenting license and put my children on layaway until I answer correctly.

3. Yesterday my husband announced he was taking the kids and I out for my birthday. I raced around the house like my tail was on fire, dressing Robert, putting on makeup, and convincing my teen that, yes, it was important to wear deodorant. As we were leaving the house, Seth stopped me. “Are you gonna go like that?” he asked, looking me up and down.

I was furious. How dare he (whose idea of formal wear was a Jets football jersey and jeans) criticize what I was wearing. “I think I look pretty good,” I retorted, .

Seth smirked and shook his head. “You’re going in your underwear?”

My cheeks reddened as I looked down. There I stood in my shoes, socks, shirt, and polka dot panties.

A memory is a terrible thing to lose. )

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i was sent this by my wonderful friend, Magnolia.

The Me Survey

I am: happy (especially when there’s coffee), easy-going, clumsy, a little reserved.

I think: about creating new recipes, and writing

I know: they’ll have all the answers about autism someday

I have: a good life

I wish: times were simpler, as they were when I was a child.

I hate: prejudice and injustice.

I miss: the times when we could sleep with doors unlocked, not worrying about being carjacked in parking lots, knowing our children were safe when they went to school

I fear: a lot of things

I feel: like I’m sometimes in a rut

I hear: David Cook singing “The Time of my Life”.

I smell: the new Emporio Armani perfume (Diamonds) my hubby gave me.

I crave: solitude, chocolate

I search: for answers to unanswerable questions

I wonder: when my children’s book will be published.

I regret: leaving some loose ends untied

I love: my friends, family, life, my profession

I am not: fake.

I believe: in dreams. That you can do anything you put your mind to.

I dance: when the mood strikes me
I sing: when I’m happy or to irritate the kids.

I cry: too little. I have a habit of keeping things to myself.

I don’t always: trust.

I fight: for my children.

I write: when I have a chance

I win: most of the family arguments.

I lose: my sanity when I misplace keys.

I never: give up.

I always: try to be positive

I confuse:my children on a daily basis

I listen: to my gut instincts

I can usually be found: writing.

I am scared: 0f being stalked, again.

I need: to write every day.

I am happy about: my life.

I imagine: what it’ll be like to have grandchildren (many years from now).

Simplier is not always better

My grandmother taught me that in cooking (and in life) simplier is always better. This recipe seems to be an exception. Though it’s lengthy in ingrdients, each flavor compliments each other . I haven’t thought of a name yet. Any suggestions?

½ cup brown sugar (packed)

½ cup white sugar

½ cup margarine

1 egg

½ teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 ½ cup flour

1 cup oatmeal

½ teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon soda

1 teaspoon cinnamon

½ teaspoon ground allspice

1 tablespoon orange zest

1/3 cup pecan pieces (toasted)

1/3 cup walnut pieces (toasted)

½ cup dried cranberries

¼ cup semi-sweet chocolate chips

¼ cup white chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350° F.

In a large bowl combine both sugars, margarine, egg, and vanilla. Mix until creamed together.

Add the flour, baking soda, salt, baking powder, cinnamon, and allspice.

Fold in the oatmeal, dried cranberries, semi-sweet chocolate chips, pecans, walnuts, orange zest, and white chocolate chips.

Roll dough into 1-inch balls and place 3 inches apart onto a greased cookie sheet and bake at 350° F for 10-12 minutes, just until lightly golden.

Remove from oven and let cool for 2-3 minutes on the cookie sheet, then transfer cookies to cooling rack.

Makes approximately 3 dozen.

Catching up

Nope, I haven’t vanished like a bad magic act, been kidnapped by a band of swarthy, sweaty, half-naked pirates, or fallen into an abyss.  But this has been the busiest summer I’ve had in a long time.

My house has seen as much business as a Motel 6 (because of friends and family), and  every day has been filled with camps for Seth, and speech therapy sessions for Robert.  My baby is again becoming more vocal, and flourishing under all the extra attention he’s getting.  He’s less aloof, and more apt to initiate play with strange children.

Catering, bake-offs, and cook-offs take up a large chunk of  our time.  The competitions are stressful, but the atmosphere is spectacular.   BBQ smoke fills the air, embedding itself in hair and clothes, but no one seems to mind.  Children play games of horseshoes and bounce in air castles not too far away for parents’ watchful eyes.  As the sun sinks below the horizon, gas lights are turned on, family and friends gather in their respective tents, and reminise until dawn.

And, when I can, I’ve been working on a few of my stories.  My essay “Chasing After Aprons” is in the July issue of Sasee magazine.

Ad how’s your summer?

Save your sanity and your dough

Along with the rising cost of living, there’s something else that’s rising–my blood pressure. Where I live, the housing market is taking a nose dive and good luck trying to buy gas for under four bucks. I remember when gas was under a dollar. Back then I thought that was an expensive price, but now, just to be able to get enough petro to get to town, I have to offer the gas station my first born as a down payment, and sign the receipt with my own blood.

The local supermarkets can’t be left out of the loop. Just to buy a box of cereal, one almost has to take out a second morgage. Four dollar boxes, adorned with bright colors and bold lettering promising complex (but flimsy) toys inside sit on shelves, eye-level with children. I’m sorry, but unless the box jumps into the basket voluntarily and promises to clean my house, there’s no way I’ll pay that price. Instead I buy oatmeal, and deal with my brooding children who claim they’re underprivileged because they have to eat cooked cereal.

Prices do seem overwhelming, but believe it or not, there are still ways to save.

1. Fill up your gas tank either during the early morning hours or late at night. It’s believed the vapors settle in the pump during these times, and you get more gas than vapor in your tank.

2. Light touch. The slower you fill the tank, the more gas and less vapors you’ll have.

3. At the grocery store, take advantage of in-store and manufacturer’s coupons. Just recently, I bought twenty bucks of groceries. Using the in-store and manufacturer’s offers, I paid only $1.86.

4. Befriend your local vegetable stand owner. More often than not, the owner buys directly from the grower, so there’s no middle man prices to be paid by the consumer.

These are just a few ideas. Happy saving!

When the pantry is bare…

One night I found my pantry and fridge more bare than Old Mother Hubbard’s. Due to my running around (doctor’s appointments, graduations, class parties) a trip to the grocery store had been postponed more times than I care to admit.

Oh sure, I had a few things on hand, but my oldest balked at the idea of a roast beef frittata, and he threatened to go on strike if I even thought about handing him a catsup sandwich.

And so I pawed through the fridge and found ingredients to concoct this tasty and comforting recipe.

These are the ingredients I had on hand to make this tasty and comforting dish.

Chicken With Pear Sauce

• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 4 boneless skinless chicken breast (thawed)
• 4 teaspoons cinnamon (divided)
• 4 fresh pear (peeled, cored and cut into chunks, reserve the pear cores)
• 1 cup chicken broth
• 1 teaspoon ground allspice
• 1/2 tablespoon sugar
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1/3 cup raisins
• 1 tablespoon asiago cheese

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit.

2. In a large skillet, warm the oil over medium-high heat.

3. Sprinkle both sides of the chicken breasts with half of cinnamon. Add the breasts to the skillet and cook for about 5 minutes on each side or until browned; transfer to a plate and set aside.

4. Remove as much flesh as possible from each one of the cores. Place in a microwave safe bowl (2 cup capacity) along with chicken broth. Microwave for 2 ½ minutes on high. Set aside.

5. Put chopped pears, cinnamon, salt, allspice, sugar and broth/pear liquid into a food processor. Process until the mixture is of applesauce-like consistency. Stir in the raisins.

6. Place chicken breasts into a lightly greased, 2 quart capacity casserole dish. Cover with the pear mixture. Sprinkle the top with 1 tablespoon of Asiago cheese. Bake uncovered at 325 for 35 minutes. Serve over a bed of steamed white rice.

On my soapbox

The nationwide events in the past month has left me shaking my head.

When I began telling people Robert was autistic, I knew there’d be consequences, and there has been.  Individuals I’ve known for years have stopped emailing, stopped calling.  Some have given the excuse that they feel uncomfortable, they don’t know what to say.  I can understand that, but let’s be honest, I haven’t changed.  If anything, this has made me stronger, more determined not to let this destroy my child, and my family.

I can understand their fear.  But they need to understand that: 1.) Autism is NOT MENTAL ILLNESS, it’s a MEDICAL disorder.   2.)  It’s not a death sentence for the affected child and it’s not contagious.

Recently, it made national news when a teacher and her class voted a student out of the classroom.  I can understand using peer pressure to “straighten out” the rowdy child, but in my opinion the actions of the teacher was inexcusable.  The child was five years old and autistic.  By having the class vote the child out, the teacher was making it seem okay to ostracize someone because of their disability.

I don’t usually use this blog to rant, but I’m exhausted emotionally.  I’m tired of being in public and people making rude comments when Robert sings out spontaneously.  I’m fed up with people asking “What did you do during your pregnancy to cause this?”

I didn’t do anything wrong.  I’m not a drug user, not an alcoholic, took my prenatal vitamins and ate healthy.

I’ve been down the road of self-blame, and after a very thorough self cross-examination, I know it’s not my fault.

We forgive crooked politicians, robbers who’ve “gone straight” and many other immoral acts, but yet a large part of  society deems it okay to ostracize children who are thought to be different.

I wish someone would explain the logic in this.

Love conquers all

No. That’s not a Siberian Husky doing a Poodle impersonation. It’s our dog Blue recovering from his surgery.

Two weeks ago, Blue walked Seth to the bus as he normally does, but this time as he was crossing the road to come home, a speeding car hit him, smashing his femur through the pelvis and destroying the right hip socket.

Thankfully Seth was already gone, but the neighbor boy saw the whole thing and told my son at school. The car hadn’t stopped or even tried to keep from hitting the dog.

Long story short…

The dog was taken to the vet, and Blue’s doc gave us the grim options: surgery or putting him down. All that day I contemplated the options and considered the quality of life he’d have even after the surgery. Blue was more than just a dog. He was a pillow when my preschooler fell asleep on the patio, a guardian when we went out in public, an ear when I needed someone to talk to, my walking partner who romped at my feet, dancing beneath the stars with me every night. But most importantly, he was a member of the family.

Years ago there’s been another dog in my life, a white German Shepherd named Snowflake. She accompanied me on all my horseback rides and was a willing participant in all my teenaged adventures. She loved my mom and dad, but her heart was mine. Quite honestly, she had mine too. When she died, I swore I’d never love another dog like I did her. I didn’t, until we got Blue.

The fact he too had left paw prints all over my heart ticked me off. I cried all that day and night.

By dawn I’d made the decision. His quality of life wouldn’t be good. It’d be selfish to keep him alive. No one ate breakfast. We sat around, staring at the clock, waiting for the vet’s office to open so we could say our last goodbyes. All the way to the office I prayed for a miracle, something to prove my thinking wrong.

We were amazed when we walked to the kennel and Blue stood up and walked over to the door. The answer to my prayer.

We had the surgery done and the vet was amazed when three days later, my dog stood up and walked toward me in the kennel.  Normally, after such a surgery, a dog lays on their side for a solid week.  I wasn’t surprised.  Huskies are known to be survivors.  But more importantly, it’s the bond we have  that won’t let him  hive up.   Soon we’ll be taking  walks again, dancing in the moonlight, just he and I.

All I Ever Wanted Was a Dog

Names have been changed to protect the not so innocent.

When I was a teenager, I had my life planned out. I’d drive a sports car, be a vet, and own my own horse racing stable. I never planned to be a mother.

Mama thought differently. “Embrace motherhood,” she’d say, ‘it’s your destiny and it’s so rewarding.”

I disagreed. I didn’t believe waking up all hours of the night and wearing a permanent badge of spit-up made me a candidate for a Nobel Peace Prize. And I never saw game show contestants elated over a year’s supply of dirty diapers.

If given the choice, I’d have chosen a puppy over a kid any day. Dogs didn’t need to be burped after every meal (ever try to throw a Doberman over your shoulder?), dressed in fancy clothes (I tried that once and my Husky ran off wearing my undies), and could be put outside when they were unruly.

Children were just noisy small people who got their way by throwing fits in public. I tried that once when I was twenty-one and a posh, member’s only club denied me access. The only thing I gained by screaming and rolling around on the ground was dirty clothes and a brief stint in the back of a patrol car.

I married when I was twenty-two. One by one, my childhood dreams disappeared. I drove a Nissan Sentra, my job was at a local clothing store, and the closest thing I got to a racetrack was watching local children ride the plastic horses outside the Kroger supermarket.

After only a month of marriage, I felt empty and unsettled. There had to be more to life than scrubbing toilets and yelling at TV talk show hosts. I asked my husband Joe for a puppy, believing that would fill the void. Something must have been lost in translation because three months later I was pregnant and still dogless.

I didn’t radiate beauty like most soon to be mothers. Morning sickness left me feeling like road kill, and the toilet and I became best friends.

Month by month, I watched, horrified, as my size seven body began to resemble a cow’s. By the third trimester, I’d given up on ever seeing my feet again. For all I knew, they’d run away (in protest of the weight gain) and I was left to traipse around on two aching nubs.

Finally, the day arrived when our precious son, Travis was born. His arm wavering like an overcooked noodle, he reached out his tiny hand, touching my cheek and my heart. I blinked back tears as I stared at the bubble gum-pink colored bundle cradled in my arms. He looked like ET’s cousin, but I adored him. Kids weren’t so bad after all.

Eight years after Travis was born, I again felt unsettled and empty, and again I asked Joe for a puppy. Nine months later, I had my second son, Cameron.

Cameron is a preschooler now and some of his greatest joys are chasing cars and trying to eat kibble spilled on supermarket floors. At least this time I got a little closer to getting what I asked for.

Woot!

This past weekend (Sunday) I competed in the bake-off at the Buda Country Fair (home to the Weiner Dog Races) and got this:

Now, the reason I’m doing a happy dance is because I baked two bundt cakes, a couple batches of cookies (that’s what won me second), and two loaves of bread in this, all the day before the contest. (Remember I said my oven was broken?)

And they say you can’t bake in a roaster oven. I guess desperation will make you do strange things. Bwahaha!!!