Amy the Mom

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I have a tendency to over promise, putting myself in unnecessarily high pressure situations.  As well meaning as my ambitions may be, I fail to remember that I only have so many hours in the day and that I don't have the ability to function on less than seven hours of sleep each night.  Around Halloween, I asked Steve if he would like me to make gift baskets filled with homemade baked goods for his clients.  He thought it was a wonderful idea, but cautioned me not to volunteer for the job unless I could really follow through.  I assured him that it would be no problem, I could pull it off in my "free time".

Factors I neglected to consider when making this promise:

• I had never undertaken a project of this scope before
• My job is busiest during the months of November and December
• The recipes I selected were labor intensive and elaborate in their design 

Steve's office manager originally asked for 27 gift baskets.  After the first delivery, Steve requested six more.  I decided to make one loaf of pumpkin bread for each basket, along with eight different cookies, a pouch of mulling spices and some homemade chocolates.  I wanted a range of flavors, and a variety of cookies.  I began making dough and freezing it the weekend after Thanksgiving.  This worked well, but I grossly underestimated how much dough I really needed.  Storage of finished cookies also proved to be a challenge. 

   

I borrowed my mother-in-law's KitchenAid stand mixer so teamed with mine, I had double the mixing power.  My KitchenAid celebrated it's 20th year of service recently without even a moment of trouble.  After two weeks of putting it through an endurance marathon of double batches of cookie dough, it waved a white flag when one of the tines on the wire whisk sheared off.   I gave ol' Faithful a loving pat and ordered a replacement whisk on eBay.  

The last month was a real education for me.  I learned some tough lessons, honed unfamiliar techniques and leaned on my improvisational skills.  Ingredient conservation was critical, so I tried new recipes to prevent waste.  I became addicted to Martha Stewart's website, and incorporated a couple of her "Cookie of the Day" recipes into the basket. If I dare to undertake this Herculean effort next year, I've got pages of notes and a better plan to make the gesture less stressful and more efficient.  Too many nights were spent taking catnaps on the couch after midnight between batches of peppermint meringues drying in the oven.  

  

Here's what made the final cut for inclusion in the baskets:

• Homemade mulling spices in hand ribboned pouches
• Gingersnaps
• Spritz
• Key lime thumbprints
• Peanut blossom cups
• Mexican wedding cookies
• Pecan icebox cookies
• Oreo truffles
• Peppermint meringue kisses

I had intended to only use baskets to hold the treats because of the delicate nature of butter cookies, so around Thanksgiving I began visiting thrift shops and buying baskets that were $3.00 or less.  This ended up being an exercise in frustration.  The random pricing of Goodwill employees and the inconsistent selection prevented me from accumulating enough baskets, so I used gift bags to make up the difference.  Next year, I'll collect baskets year round and store them for later use.  Further complicating my supply issues was the closure of my baker's supply store, Sweet Sensations.   They had a fantastic selection of pastry boxes and bags, cookie cutters in every shape and sanding sugars in every imaginable hue. Michael's and  JoAnn's  were only marginal alternatives.  The plan for 2009 is to locate  a new supplier. 

The grateful feedback I received made the project worthwhile, but the game plan will be tighter next year, and I suspect the project itself will be grander in scope.  I plan on testing recipes earlier in autumn and storing cookie dough starting at Halloween, rather than waiting until Thanksgiving.  The weekend prior to delivery, I will take two vacation days and have four days dedicated to efficient, nonstop baking. 

My apologies to my family for the lack of attention since Thanksgiving, although I think you have all enjoyed the fringe benefits.  To my friends in both real life and the blogging world, I've missed you and will be back in touch now that the holidays are behind us.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to take a nap.  For the next week. 

Jack Daniels Sweet Potatoes

This is the week where I flex my culinary muscles and am in my prime.  I love Thanksgiving, maybe a little bit more than Christmas, because it comes without the pressure of gift giving.  Even though this is a quasi cooking blog, I'm letting everyone down with the lack of recipes.  So today's recipe is brought to you by the lovely Cindi Cotes, a hot grandma who, sadly, works for my competitor.  Of course, I'm trying to remedy that problem by recruiting her mercilessly, and eventually I will prevail.   

 

Can you believe she's a grandma?  Neither can I.  She wears skinny jeans, too!  Damn her.

So Cindi is sharing with us her recipe for Jack Daniels Sweet Potatoes.  Take it away, hot grandma!

Okay, so, you don't necessarily need to be a lover of Kentucky Bourbon, however you must not have a huge dislike of the taste or these will all wind up in the garbage.  My kids eat them, and my parents eat them, and up until about four years ago, all they were used to were the brown sugar and marshmallow version of sweet potatoes that I grew up with.  I don't necessarily like to mess with a good thing, but when I found this recipe and knew how much Rick likes his Jack, I figured I couldn't miss.  And I was right...these are on the table every Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Jack's Sweet Potatoes

 

1 C light brown Sugar

2 TBSP Corn starch

1/2 tsp nutmeg

2 tsp salt

1/2 C water

1 TBSP lemon juice

1/3 C Jack Daniels

6 large sweet potatoes, cooked and cubed

 

Combine sugar, nutmeg, salt and cornstarch in a sauce pan.  Stir in water.  Cook until clear and sugar is dissolved.  Stir in lemon juice and Jack. Mixture will be syrupy.

Place potatoes in a buttered casserole.  Pour the Jack Daniels syrup over the top and cover.  Bake for 30 minutes at 375.

 

Remove from oven, uncover, top with marshmallows and place under broiler until marshmallows are browned.

Six years ago today

I'm trying to organize my electronic data, and I found a CD backup from an old hard drive.  Talk about your trips down memory lane.  I was getting a little sniffly looking at old photos and wondered where all the time has gone.

 

My sweet little angels.  I love you three more every day.  I'm relieved when I see your smiles in this picture...it was such a difficult time for me, and I always wonder if I was a good mom back then.  Certainly, I must have done a few things right. 

Ring of Fire

The Christmas Tree Farm
editor's note: My dear husband Steve told me this story on our second date, and I'm pretty sure I fell in love with him right then and there on my couch.  Let the record show, he fell in love with me on date number one.  I just needed a little more convincing.

By the age of 25, Steve had his tile business off to a solid start. He found jobs all over the Midwest, working until he absolutely had to stop for food and sleep.  Sleep was often done in fits and starts on the actual job site.  Contractors would call and Steve would load up his truck at a moment's notice.  It's important to describe the truck at this early point in our tale.  The front half of the truck was a Chevy half ton, with a six cylinder engine.  The rear end was retrofitted with a three quarter ton axle by a mechanic friend of Steve's.  

Steve landed a job in Detroit, and loaded up his makeshift vehicle with the tile needed for the job.  He purchased all the tile in Minneapolis because he had no credit with suppliers in other cities.  The load was substantial, and left the rear of the truck with no spring, the bed riding extremely low.  Steve and his helper, Mike, loaded his jerry rigged pickup with the materials for the job and started off for Detroit.  About 175 miles into their journey, Mike turned to Steve and asked, "What's that sound?"

"What sound?"  Steve shot back with arrogant skepticism and turned up the boombox that was sitting in the back window. 

The truck was climbing a hill and laboring under the weight of the load.  As they crested the hill, the truck began to pick up speed when suddenly "CRASH!"the back end of the truck hit the ground and the left rear wheel quickly rolled past the truck, the rim red hot from the friction.   The weight of the load had actually melted the axle and it snapped in half.  Steve managed to pull the truck over to the side of the road, and he and Mike both leapt out, looking for the tire that had rolled away.  It didn't take them long to find it, a telltale plume of smoke gave away the wheel's location.  This took place in late November, and that autumn had been unseasonably dry.  No early snow had fallen yet, so the roadside weeds and grasses were ripe for combustion.  By the time they reached the wheel, a full fledged brush fire had broken out. 

There was a farmhouse nearby, and Steve ran toward it, hoping to find a phone and a water source.  As he streaked across the front yard, a large, fierce German Shepherd shot out from under the front porch of the house.  It barked with obvious malice, and took off for Steve, who had reversed direction when the dog made it's presence known and was now running back toward the safety of the truck.  Mike, meanwhile, was literally rolling on the ground laughing at Steve's plight.   Steve cleared the fence just in time to avoid the maw of the Shepherd.

By this time, the brush fire had spread and was rapidly overtaking a Christmas tree farm.  Even though they hadn't personally alerted any of the nearby homeowners, people came running at the sight of flames growing tall in the rural area. 

The fire department was called and Steve watched as the spruce trees meant for yuletide decor went up in smoke.  A police officer pulled Steve aside and asked for his driver's license.  He asked Steve what company carried his auto insurance.  "Well, ahem, it's Fireman's."

The policeman looked up from his report and observed, "Really.  That is ironic."

Seven thousand Christmas trees were lost that day, denied their shot at yuletide decor.  Steve's insurance company was sued for $26,000 in damages to the evergreen farm.  Steve ultimately purchased a used logging truck to finish his trek  to Detroit.  In spite of his mishap, he got the job done.

Miss Wuh-leez

Do you get a lot of the chain emails that threaten financial ruin if you don't forward it to 50 friends within five minutes?  I get them constantly, and from people that really should know better.  Some of these actually contain sweet messages or sentiments, but I'm so put off by the emotional blackmail, that I'm too pissed to appreciate them.  There is one that I've received that always makes me think of someone that probably saved my life several years ago, my former next door neighbor, Louise.  The email is the one that talks about people coming into your life for a reason, or a season, or a lifetime. 

When my ex-husband and I first moved to Minnesota, we lived in the suburb of Apple Valley.  Our move in date was December 12th, and after living in Georgia for the past seven years we were looking forward to a traditional snowy Christmas (fools).  Our hopes were crushed when the temperature climbed to 72 that day.  The movers wore wife beaters and shorts as they unloaded the moving van and joked that this must be Texas, not Minnesota. 

The first night after we moved in, there was a knock at the door around 8 PM.  There was a small half circle window in the top panel of the front door, and I could see a pair of eyes and the top of someone's head peeking in.  I opened the door to find a middle aged couple, who introduced themselves as our next door neighbors, John and Louise.  Louise did almost all the talking as she pushed a white bakery bag full of cookies into my hands.  Quick introductions were made and she encouraged me to come over if I needed anything.  Oddly, even though the residents of this state are known for Minnesota Nice, John and Louise were the only neighbors who came to introduce themselves. 

Fast forward several months, the snow that we were so anxious for is finally melting, and the kids and I are going outside to see what the spring thaw is uncovering in our back yard.  Louise was also outside, doing some early spring cleanup.  She and I began to chat, and we discovered that we'd both lived in Pennsylvania and had done interstate transfers several times before settling in Minnesota.  Louise was the same age as my mother, her oldest daughter was the same age as me, but she had two teenaged children from her second marriage to John.  I found that I really liked her, and was grateful that she was so open and warm.  It had been a long winter of days spent cooped indoors with three children under the age of six, and I was craving a real live conversation with another human being.   To top it off, I knew there was something seriously wrong with my marriage, and I was a big ball of emotional turmoil inside.

In our house, I had a corner kitchen window that looked out over Louise's front sidewalk.  We'd exchange smiles and waves as she let her dog, Coco, out for bathroom breaks.  Occasionally, she'd come to the front door,  and would visit with the kids and me, never staying more than a half hour or so.  I wanted her to stay forever.  She was so generous with compliments, whether it was about the kids or my cooking or a little knick knack that I purchased in my lame attempts at decorating.  My marriage was deteriorating, I was scared shitless, but I confided in no one.  I was the poster child for low self esteem back in those days, and had convinced myself that I was the most worthless human on the planet.   

I kept my marital woes to myself.  I didn't want to share them with my family in Ohio, because I knew that if my husband and I reconciled my family would still cling to the wrongs that I'd shared with them.  I didn't want any unforgiven sins resurfacing at family reunions for the next fifty years, so I clammed up instead and reported to everyone that everything was fine, just fine.  For months, I was miserable and unable to function at any level more than Mommy.  I hadn't yet made any real friends in Minnesota, I felt completely out of place, and didn't know where to turn.  Years later, one of the teachers at my children's school told me that she always worried about me during that time.  She said the stress was etched on my face and she just didn't know how to approach me about it.  In hindsight, it's probably better she didn't since I was terrified, and I'm pretty sure that a conversation asking about my mental well being would have quickly dissolved into an endless crying jag.

In spite of my burgeoning friendship with Louise, I didn't confide in her.  Her family was there to celebrate my children's birthdays, her son babysat the kids on the rare occasion that I went out, and we shared dinners in each other's homes for a year until I realized that I was rapidly approaching a mental breakdown of some sort.  I called Louise and asked if she would mind coming over.  Alex was in school and the twins were occupying themselves in their playroom.   Louise came to the door, and we sat at the kitchen table with a pot of coffee while I told her that the life I was living was about to come to a crashing halt.  I was trembling, and out of breath, and dry mouthed.  She patiently listened, interjecting only with an "uh-huh," " hmm," or "I know how you feel."   She had survived her own difficult first marriage, and was completely empathetic.  She had my back, that woman.  When one of our snooty neighbors suggested to Louise that there was too much crabgrass in our lawn, Louise defended me to the woman and suggested that perhaps she should find better things to worry about.

For the next few months, Louise was by my side, literally.  The kids adored her and John, to them she was "Miss Wuh-leeze" and he was "Mr. John."  With no relatives within 800 miles, Louise and John were the closest thing the kids had to grandparents.  She was there whenever I needed her, always just a phone call away. She understood my desire to keep my family intact, and she let me know that no matter what my decision regarding my marriage, she supported me.  I can't go into all the sordid details of that relationship here.  Suffice to say, it was the darkest point of my life.  My ex and I, after much thought and effort, finally decided to end the marriage.  It was beyond the point of repair. 

Shortly after we made that decision, Louise broke more bad news to me.  She and John were being transferred to Chicago, a move that would return them to the city they loved and nearer their oldest daughter.  I was devastated.  I didn't let on too much, because I knew she was excited but sad to leave the kids and me behind.  I wanted to gather my little ones up and stow away in the moving van as they headed east.   The only bright spot of her move was that the very first listing I had as a real estate agent was her beautiful home.  She and John were patient as I muddled my way through the process.  I was numb the day she moved away and mourned silently for the better part of a month.  I kept looking for her out the window as I did the dishes, and when the doorbell rang, I held out hope that I'd see her eyes peeking over the window.  I was desperately lonely, but her phone calls and emails continued to pull me through the dark times, and Louise celebrated every single one of my victories with me. 

It's been more than eight years since then, and Louise and I still keep in touch.  I visited her in Chicago once, and hope to do so again...maybe I'll do Blogher  this summer and stop in to see her.  She is like my mom version 2.0, and she is a lifetime friend.  I only hope that she knows that I am indebted to her forever, she threw a lifeline to a drowning young woman and I can never fully repay her for that. 

Rerun, Buffalo Chicken Dip

Okay, it's 11 o'clock and I've had a busier Sunday...and by busy, I mean I got sucked in by the exceptional programming from DirectTV.  That being said, this is the recipe that brings the most random people to my little blog-it's the most popular search on my Site Meter.  

Since  first published this, several friends and family members have made it and recieved very vocal approval from their culinary audiences.  My friend Marisha said she'll be making a QUADRUPLE batch for her Christmas party this year.  My little sister Betsy made it last month for a tailgate party and the partygoers tore it up.  This stuff is addictive.  It's so easy to make, go ahead and make that double batch for your holiday party.   

Cheesy Buffalo Chicken Dip (courtesy of Frank's Red Hot Sauces.)

8  oz. pkg. cream cheese
1/2  cup blue cheese salad dressing
1/2  cup Frank's® REDHOT® Buffalo Wing Sauce 
1/2  cup crumbled blue cheese or shredded mozzarella cheese (I used shredded Monterey Jack)
2  cups shredded cooked chicken (I used one of the store bought rotisserie chickens, and just picked apart the breast meat.)

DIRECTIONS:

1.  HEAT oven to 350°F. Place cream cheese into deep dish 9-inch pie plate. Microwave 1 min. to soften.
2.  Whisk in salad dressing, Buffalo Wing Sauce and cheese until smooth. Stir in chicken.
3.  BAKE 20 min. or until mixture is heated through; stir. Garnish as desired. Serve with crackers or vegetables.  (I wouldn't dream of serving this with vegetables-stick to crackers, cocktail bread or nachos.)

Waste

A couple of weeks ago, when Steve was out of town, I killed a Saturday putzing around the house and didn't leave to go on my normal errands until eight in the evening.  Despite the hour, I took my time while shopping, browsing with the knowledge that no one was going to be bugging me to come home and wait on them.  Bliss.  I craved Chipotle, and panicked when I realized that I only had a few minutes to get my fajita burrito bowl before they closed.  I walked through the doors four minutes before closing, regretting the time.  I was sure that they would either have all the food put away for the night, or what was left would be substandard.

Wrong.

Every single food bin looked as if it had been recently stocked.  The salsas and guacamole were fresh and heaping full, not discolored in the slightest.  The beans didn't show any sign of dryness, and the meats all looked as if they had just come off the grill.  I looked behind me toward the door as I finished my order and I asked the cashier, "What do you do with all this extra food?"

"We throw it away."

"What?!  That's horrible!"

"We have to.  That's the rule."

I shook my head in incredulity.  There is a homeless shelter for women and children not even one mile down the road from this particular Chipotle outlet.  I would guess that the leftovers of Saturday evening could have easily fed thirty or forty adults.  I was pissed when I learned of the apparent waste of perfectly good food.  I don't know if it's really the "rule" or not at Chipotle, but I'll tell you what, I'm damn sure going to find out.  I know that Panera donates their unsold baked goods to schools and charities, and while I'll concede that guacamole looks scary when it isn't stored properly, that's a problem that can be easily remedied.  This is a company with an entire page on their website devoted to Philanthropy, so I have to believe waste of this scope would interest them.   

Ideas anyone?

August Rush

And this is why I love HBO.  It's a rainy day, and I'm at home sick.  I'm able to explore the hundreds of channels I pay for each month but so rarely get to selfishly indulge.  Last year, I had read a review for "August Rush" and  "Once" that critiqued both movies together.  Somehow, I'd forgotten about "August Rush", so that when I saw "Once", I confused the plotlines.  

This week, I finally got to see "August Rush".  I'm begging you, if you haven't yet seen this movie, sit down with your family and watch it.  Forgive the predictable, suspend your cynicism and logic and treat this film as the fable and fairy tale that it is.  The movie treats the titular character as a bit of an Oliver Twist, with Robin Williams channeling Bono in the role of Fagin.  (If you're like me and the presence of Robin Williams in a movie is enough to make you swear off, don't fret-he's the character you're encouraged to hate here.)  In reality, the main character of this movie is the music.  The film is structured as a symphony, the beautiful ending an allegro performed by the New York Philharmonic, with nods to Van Morrison's "Moondance". 

Jonathon Rhys-Myers and Keri Russell play the starcrossed musician lovers Louis and Lyla, who are torn apart, but not before they've discreetly consummated their love and created a baby who is a  savant that hears music everywhere from birth.  The baby grows to become Evan, aka August Rush, played brilliantly and earnestly by Freddie Highmore.  Very few child actors impress me in film, they're too often guilty of overacting or wooden performances.  Highmore is adept at bringing the audience along for his musical discovery and journey. 

In the interest of full disclosure, this movie divided our house.  The males could not help but point out every single improbable event that occurred in the film.  The females were too busy weeping to effectively dismiss the charges.  So I repeat, this is a movie about magic.  It is supposed to be illogical and dreamy.  Go with the flow, and enjoy the music.  I hope you'll thank me.

Martha Moments

This is not a blog that will provide you with regular housekeeping tips.  If I tried to pull that off, my friends would call bullshit and I'd be exposed as a poseur.  I have admitted in the past to be an unashamed fan of Martha Stewart.  Very few none of her tips ever make it into my daily routine- save one.  I love to slip into a freshly made bed each night.  Even though I'm a bit of a procrastinator with my household duties, I am fastidious with my bed.  I clean the sheets at least once a week and I press the pillowcases and top sheet using a fragrant linen spray after each laundering. 

 

I get all of my linen sprays from TJ Maxx or  Marshall's.  For years, I used lavendar spray exclusively, until I stumbled across my new favorite-Egyptian Cotton from San Franciso Soap Company .

 
I'm not sure how to accurately describe this fragrance, but it's light and fresh and instantly soothing.  Taking the time to press the pillowcases and top sheet also makes for an extra comfortable sleep.  My iGoogle home page had a Tip of the Day from Miss Martha last week that advised readers to take the extra couple minutes to make their bed each morning, because it encourages you to keep your entire bedroom clean.  I'm going to concur with the domestic diva.  It's a lot harder to overlook piles of laundry when your bed is sweet smelling and crisply made.  

I also use the linen spray on bathroom towels and as a post vacuum carpet freshener.  I spray it on my vacuum filters and use it as a quick deodorizer if company shows up unexpectedly.  You can order it off the website or find it at the retailers mentioned above. 

Michael Crichton

I was crushed to hear of Michael Crichton's passing today.  I had no idea he had been stricken with cancer, and then read-with no surprise-that his illness was kept private.  He was a man of extraordinary good sense and class, and his books and essays reflected that.

I've read just about every book Crichton had written, and was a huge fan.  I was sucked in by The Andromeda Strain when I was in eighth grade, unable to put the book down for the two days it took me to read it.  I stuck it in textbooks and read it with stealth during class.  Because she was a nurse, my mother nudged me towards his Five Patients next, followed by A Case of Need. 

 

I was fascinated at how many lives this man led, he had seemingly packed six extraordinary lifetimes into one.  In his book Travels, Crichton gives us an autobiographical glimpse into that life which included Harvard Medical School and ultimate disillusionment with the practice of medicine, his extreme travel pursuits, and his career as a moviemaker.

When I was nine months pregnant with Alex, I went to see Jurassic Parkwith my husband and inlaws.  I went into labor the next morning and gave birth the following day.  I loved that movie, even though it wasn't a very close adaptation of the novel.  It brought together one of my favorite directors and best loved writers and resulted in one of my most cherished films.  In spite of it's blockbuster success and magnificent special effects, it's the story that captures me and the pitch perfect wonder on the actors' faces when they first encounter the dinosaurs that puts a lump in my throat.  It's a wonderful cautionary tale about the arrogance of human intrusion into nature. 

That scene exemplifies everything that I love about movies.

Michael Crichton's website is experiencing understandably high traffic this evening, but I would urge you to become familiar with some of his essays, a medium that I think best suited his writing style.  One of my favorite of his essays is an almost twenty year old selection originally published in Redbook magazine.  I find it a fitting  and timeless message, especially poignant given our current economic climate.  The website restricts republishing without permission, so I encourage you to hit refresh until you can access the busy webpage.  The essay is Happiness, and it originally appeared in Redbook in 1991.