Smells Like Old

Andrew's birthday was yesterday, (today is Kellie's and I'm behind, so there has been no birthday tribute for her. I'll get to it...), anywho... Andrew wanted nothing more than to go to Market Street Grill for his birthday, so we went. It's a good thing that's all he wanted, and it's also good that we have three paychecks in July, cause holy crap.

We had a great time, just the two of us. Thanks to Joel for the babysitting - you da man.

I have honestly never had better clam chowder in my life. The key to good clam chowder is to make it so you can't tell there are clams in it. Yum.

I had a lot of deep-fried things because I hear that's fat free. I have had calamari before, but it always takes a little pep talk to get me to stick tentacles in my mouth. The shrimp was my fave. Well, after the clam chowder. And the spinach artichoke crab dip.

Over eating gives me some serious gastro-intestinal problems. We had to make three pit-stops on the way home. That's how good it was.

Lessons At The Berry Farm

I have fond memories of berry picking with my mom and siblings every summer. We went to blueberry farms and plucked dozens of pounds of fruit from the heavy branches. Those outings were always one of my favorite parts of summer; I felt peaceful and happy.

Yesterday I took my boys plus Bryan to a local farm to pick strawberries in hopes that they would find the same simple joy in filling buckets that I had found in the task when I was young.

It almost went well.



I hadn't really taken into account that I was making this journey on my own with two one-year-olds, one three-year-old, and two school-age kids who were so anxious to fill their containers that they didn't bother to check that the berries were ripe before they plucked them from the vine. Grrr...



Add to that the babies who were stepping on the plants, taking bites out of green strawberries and then throwing them, and Drew who ... well, he pretty much did the same thing as the babes. There wasn't enough of me to keep up with them.



Then the wind kicked in and began to blow dirt into all of our eyes. My contacts were screaming in rebellion, while tears streamed down my cheeks.



I completely lost my cool and was chewing kids out for wandering off, picking unripe berries, and everything in between. I felt really bad for turning our outing into an unpleasant experience, but I decided to just fill the stinking boxes as fast as I could and get everyone back in the car before my eyes turned all that dirt to mud.



The day was not a total loss. I learned to never take toddlers to a u-pick berry farm without reinforcements, stay home if it's windy, and that no amount of squashed fruit or sticky hands is worth me becoming the uptight mom who rains on the parade. The kids still had fun, and we used those berries to make some killer smoothies.

Customizing Our Own Life

I grew up eating Popeye Eggs.  Andrew had the same fare as a kid, but called it Badged Eggs.  Either way, it's a fried egg in the center of a buttered piece of bread.  So when we make them here at our house with our own family, I never know what to call them.  Today, while standing at the frying pan in deep contemplation over the issue, I told Cameron that we needed to give them a new name.  One that comes from our family.  I asked him what he thought.

Cameron considered for a moment and said, "How about Breggers?"

It was early, so I was confused.  "I like it!  How did you come up with that?"

"Because it's part bread and part egg," he put very simply.

Breggers it is!

Incidentally, Andrew caught me taking this picture and I felt a little embarrassed.  "You think I'm crazy, don't you?", I asked.

"Oh, you're absolutely out of your mind.  That's what I love most about you," was his reply. 

We are perfect for each other, I tell you.

Anyone else reminded of Albert Einstein's definition of insanity?

The other night, Ethan made me pinkie promise that there were no potatoes in the soup I had cooked for dinner. I pinkie promised, pointing out to him that he had offered me his thumb - I wouldn't want to look like I was cheating, now, would I? After we locked pinkies, he reminded me that you can't break a pinkie promise. Yes, I understand the sacred nature of a pinkie promise. I think he's been hanging with too many girls at school.

But the solemn ritual reminded me of the reason Andrew and I no longer force our kids to eat potatoes. Not even a taste. Not a bite.

When Cameron was four and Ethan two, we grew fatigued at trying to persuade them to eat their starchy vegetables. We demanded one bite of mashed potatoes, and the kids fought it for ages. There was screaming and wailing and a veritable flood of tears. Finally, as bedtime approached and threats of having mashed potatoes for breakfast were unleashed, Cameron took a bite of those cursed mashed potatoes and gagged as though it were pig droppings, then threw up all over the table. I considered making him eat the regurgitated potatoes, but was distracted by Ethan vomiting up his own bite. Two plates full of second-hand food. So not only had they not truly eaten their potatoes, but the rest of their dinners came up along with it, and the result was two boys with entirely empty bellies. We growled and sent them to bed.

About six months later, the memory of that night had faded enough that we went for it a second time. There were spuds on the menu again, though in some other form perhaps. Again, we forced one bite. "Just try it!", we pleaded.

We got the same result. Puked up potatoes everywhere.

We don't make them eat potatoes at all anymore. But we do inflict pain upon anyone who makes gagging noises or uses the words 'nasty', 'gross' or 'disgusting' in front of Drew, and so far, Drew likes potatoes.

Sinner

The necessity of a baby gate to block access to the kitchen becomes emergent when you find that all of the cookies you baked yesterday are dumped in a heap on the floor and there is one bite missing from every single one of them.



I wonder who did it.

Sugar High

We are on Christmas candy overload. We always have candy in the house, so it's not really a big deal for my kids - they can take it or leave it. They NEVER binge on it. But for some reason, this week has brought a change in our usual candy consumption.

There are candy canes galore, chocolate Santas, peanut butter cups, Baby Ruths, Strawberry milkshake Whoppers, Sugar Babies, Jolly Ranchers, crystallized pineapple-mango slices, (which we justify as health food per it's containment of fruit), fudge - courtesy of Marcy, Reses Pieces, mint chocolate truffles, peppermint taffy, and one box of Hershey's Pot of Gold. And there is enough of all of it that we are attacking it relentlessly with drooling tongues, and we're not quite making a dent in it.

I am afraid for all of our teeth.

Yesterday morning, as Andrew and I lay in bed fighting the depression that sometimes comes with having to arise before eight o'clock on a morning when we hadn't been to bed until 1:30 a.m., I could hear "someone" drag a chair from the kitchen table to the counter and clamber up to reach the cupboards where a majority of the aforementioned stash is being kept. An internal debate immediately followed. Should I intervene or allow chocolates to be consumed for breakfast? I heard the lid being removed from the Pot of Gold, the cushioned paper cover being tossed aside, and the plastic tray crinkling as little fingers pried a chocolate from it's nest. I whimpered and decided that the damage had been done. "Someone" went back for 2 more chocolates before I finally determined that I had to put an end to it. I went through the remainder of the day strictly monitoring the intake of sweets.

Later, when I peeked in at the Pot of Gold chocolates sitting snugly in their molded seats, I felt so sad for them, because even Drew, who is only two, knew well enough to pass by the dark chocolates and partake of only the milk chocolate. Poor, sad, dark chocolates. They will be left in their pitiful little holes until someone eventually decides that the box should be tossed, dark chocolates having never fulfilled their life's purpose.

The Baby Ruths, however, may be vanquished by lunchtime today.

Kasbah Grill and Terms of Endearment

One of my favorite things to do is try a new restaurant. It's fun to be somewhere new and experiment with different menu choices. This little game backfired on me twice earlier this year.

The first time was when Andrew and I tried an Italian restaurant in Salt Lake City for our anniversary. It was the sort of place where the waiters drape white linen towels over their arms and suggest a delicious wine to accompany what they deem to be excellent lunch choices. Despite our being in Salt Lake City for lunch, our waiter seemed overly surprised at our decline of that wine choice to compliment our entrees. I guess most of the Mormons kept to the Olive Garden down the street. At any rate, when our lunches were brought to us, I watched Andrew's eyes roll back in his head as he moaned his pleasure over his seafood alfredo. (In complete honesty, if there is seafood alfredo on any menu in any restaurant, Andrew will order that. Every time.) I, unfortunately, was left to saw and hack at my chicken marsala, which was so overdone and dry that my steak knife was an unworthy match for it. And now you're going to wonder why I didn't send it back. And I'm going to pretend that it was because we were running late to pick up the kids from school/babysitter's, which would be partially true. But the real reason I didn't send it back was because I do not want to be that woman who looks down her nose at any fare placed in front of her and finds something wrong with it. Because I know that the first time I do that, the sous chef in the back will spit a loogey into my dish and cloak it with a savory brown sauce. But if ever there was a dish that was worthy of rejection, that anniversary lunch of mine was it.

Later that same month was my birthday, and my sister-in-law, Susie, was in town and insisted that Andrew take me out to dinner. I was so exhausted from shopping and what-not that day, that all I wanted to do was go to bed. Alone. But how could we turn down her generous offer of free babysitting? So off we went to Mimi's Cafe. Again, we were experimenting with a new restaurant, and this one happened to boast a southern type fare. It took about 11 hours for the waitress to bring our food, and when it arrived, I realized that the delay had been caused by my chicken cordon bleu, which apparently could not be considered cooked thoroughly until it had been in the oven long enough to heat every ounce of moisture from it, leaving it a brick of dehydrated poultry with a cracked layer of brittle cheese in the middle. Again, I didn't send it back because I was desperate to go home and go to bed. And if I had requested a replacement, we would likely still be there waiting for it.

But last Saturday I got the chance to turn my bad luck around. My sister, Kellie, and I took my mom out for her long over-due birthday date. (She turned thirty-nine back in June...) Mom likes all kinds of ethnic foods, so we decided to take her to the Kasbah Grill in Layton. They specialize in Indian and Mediterranean food. We were glad to have Dad come along because he wasn't allowed out of mom's sight in case he started twitching or forgot how to walk or something. But he's good company, so no complaints. I don't remember what we all ordered, because none of us knew how to pronounce anything on the menu. I believe Dad pointed to his choice, (which made me feel better about my incompetency because as well traveled as he is, I shouldn't have to know how to pronounce anything that he can't.) I ordered the chicken saag. It looked something like this:
Except without rice. It smelled wonderful, and initially tasted like some kind of rose perfume, but after settling on my tongue, tasted absolutely delectable. And spicy! It really was a very good dish, but six bites into it I couldn't taste anything at all anymore. Such a pity. Mom's dish, whatever it was, was slightly better than mine, and Kellie ordered some kind of chicken that came in the form of three giant, red-hot chicken legs. They were good, too. But the winner of best menu choice went to Dad with his selection of some kind of sandwich deal which was wrapped in a pita, but not a pita because Indian people call it something else. (Lay off, I have a bad memory.) It had a wonderful, fresh cucumber taste which revived my taste buds after their saag saga.

When dinner was over, we hit a Blockbuster Video. The experience was a little odd because I haven't been inside a Blockbuster Video in at least eight years. They had a small selection. But they did have the movie we were looking for - Terms of Endearment. Kellie had never seen it before. Shocking, how she can be such a film connoisseur and at the same time, never have experienced the brilliance that is Shirley Maclaine and Jack Nicholson. That has to be one of the best movies of all time.

Even though I spent the next day enduring a mild case of diarrhea that my chicken saag had bestowed upon me, I consider my bad ordering streak to be a thing of the past. It tasted good going down. And maybe every dinner tastes good when it's followed with an 80's classic film and enjoyed with good company.

Flavors of Utah

I spent enough time in Utah during my childhood to know that it was the only place you could find chocolate Twizzlers. Each time we made a trip to visit family here, the To Do List consisted of popping in to say hello to Grandma Erla so she could remind my father what a naughty child he had been and ask him why he had to live so far away, checking out the contents of Grandpa and Grandma McClurg's cookie drawer, playing with cousins at Grandma Kay's house and taking our turn in fetching her elephant sized purse for her, spending a day at Lagoon, hitting the Jade Terrace for ham fried rice and fried shrimp, and eating chocolate licorice.

About a year ago, Twizzlers changed the recipe for their chocolate licorice, boasting that it was now made with Hershey's syrup, which was supposed to impress us, but in reality, the licorice was ruined. They took my artificially flavored waxy goodness and turned it into nothing special. Hershey's syrup has robbed me of one of the best things about Utah, and I haven't bought a bag since.

Utah was also the home of a majority of my favorite restaurants. Many of them have gone the way of the once delicious Chocolate Twizzlers. There was Mr. Z's, Jade Terrace, Charlie Chow's, and Schlotzsky's Deli - all of which are out of business, too far away, or began to smell like bathroom. Such a pity. There's nowhere left with good Chinese. Olive Garden is now the only local Italian. And when I really need a sandwich on rye, I have to make it myself. I take comfort that at least we still have Wingers.

The Beehive State is also stocked with caffeine-free Dr. Pepper. I swear it tastes different than regular Dr. Pepper. However, Barq's root beer is made here without caffeine, and it tastes the same. I can't explain it, but that is the truth.

Utah did introduce me to one drink that I can still coax most restaurants to make for me, but if not, then I am capable of doing it at home. The heavenly Chocolate Coke. You may be a fan of Cherry Coke, or Vanilla Coke, but until you've tried a Chocolate Coke, you don't know what you're missing.

So today I thought to myself, "Self, we are having a lovely day. A day that is worthy of a chocolate coke, and we just so happen to have a two liter bottle of Coca-cola in the fridge." So I went to make one, because nothing would go better with a chocolate frosted doughnut than a chocolate laced Coke, right?... but as it so happens, we have no Hershey's syrup. I now find myself in a very strong love-hate relationship with Hershey. He's never there when I need him, but pops up in the most unwelcome places. I suppose I'll have to drink my Coke naked today.

I've Mastered the French, but the German Eludes Me.

Every morning I get up at 6:45 and tip toe into Trent's room to wake him up and hold him for a few minutes until Bryan comes. When Bryan gets here, we all head into the kitchen to make breakfast. Today I decided to try something new. I'm pretty tired of French Toast, pancakes, waffles, and all varieties of eggs. So I got online and found a recipe for German Pancakes. Looked easy enough, so I decided to give it a try.

I don't know if it was because my eggs and milk were colder than room temperature or because I didn't use the right kind of pan, but those things turned out awful! I'd had them once before, years and years ago, so I hope I'm remembering the texture they are supposed to be correctly. Kinda fluffy, bumpy on top... Mine was fluffy/bumpy around the edges, but the middle was like flan. I put the plates in front of Cameron and Ethan and they were appropriately disgusted at the sight of the food. I told them to try it and if they didn't like it then they could have cereal. I didn't even wait for their verdict - I went straight from the table to the cereal cupboard.

Bryan and Trent happily ate the flan pancake because they don't know any better. Try to get Trent to eat scrambled eggs though, and you'll soon see how far an eleven month old can throw a hunk of food.

So it's time to think outside the box when it comes to breakfast. I see tortillas and crumbled bacon in my future.

The longest story in the world with no climax or point.

Friday was the first chance I got to check out the new Winco Foods in West Valley City. I have missed Winco from the minute we crossed the border into Utah with our moving van almost three years ago. In anticipation of my voyage to Food Paradise, I spent Thursday afternoon planning my two-week shopping list and trying to remember the general layout of the average Winco so that I could organize my list by aisle. I was pretty excited. And also dreading it, because the only time slot that I could squeeze my shopping into on Friday was at 10:30 a.m., which meant I had to bring Drew, Trent and Bryan with me. I thought about going by myself late at night, but West Valley is the murder capital of Utah, people. It's the home of the Samoan Mafia. I had to pick Andrew up from work at noon anyhow, and this Wonderland of Groceries is only about five miles from his office, so it didn't make sense to make another trip down later. I thought about keeping Cameron and Ethan out of school to help me, but fear of a solo supermarket trip is a poor reason to let the kids skip school, and they'd already missed Monday. And there was no hope of waiting another day to do the shopping, because we were down to our last Twinkie and if we didn't resupply posthaste then bloody brawls would ensue.

So I threw the kids in the car, (almost literally-we were on a really tight schedule), at 10:00 on Friday, and sped off towards Salt Lake City. Thanks to Mapquest, I got off on the wrong exit in West Valley. Right then I was so glad that I hadn't gone at night, because I would have been lost in Polynesian Gang territory, and in case you're from another planet and are unaware, those dudes are huge, and with all the facial tattoos and the enormous biceps, just a tad intimidating. Thank Heaven for the Utah grid system, because in spite of being directed off the wrong exit, I was able to find the right streets with no problem.

I saw Winco in the distance before I had even officially arrived, and it felt like going home. I am pathetic, no need to point it out.

Parked the car, grabbed a cart and put the one-year-olds in. Drew opted to walk alongside me, and I was nervous about that. How long until he runs off and I'm chasing him with a cart full of produce and chubby-cheeked babies? But he stuck right with me, and we entered the store and got another cart. I was there to do some serious shopping, and one cart that was half-filled with humans wouldn't cut it. So I pushed the kid cart with one hand and pulled the food cart behind me. First thing I saw when we walked in was a box of Cheese Nips for 98 cents. Heck, yeah! (Just cause it's the murder capital of Utah doesn't mean we start saying the real swear words, ya know.) Nalley Chili for 68 cents a can? Okay! Pears for 68 cents a pound? Hallelujah! Pre-washed bags of leafy greens for less than three dollars? Seriously in love now. Ah, and the whole frozen turkey for 40 cents a pound! I'll take two.

So an hour and a half later I was sweaty from head to hips, (toes remained dry), from pushing 7,000 pounds of amazingly priced groceries and averagely priced diapers all over the six-square mile store. (That right there is the only part of this story that is exaggeration. Except I really was sweaty.) I perfected the art of turning the front cart while pulling the rear; it involved a lot of starting and stopping, because that kind of thing can't be done in one fluid motion without running over yourself. It was similar to a 3 point turn-around. And unlike Utah-folk behind the wheel of automobiles, the Utah-folk steering carts all around me were very courteous and patient with me and my train of food and toddlers. All three kids were perfect angels.

I left the store completely thrilled that I hadn't needed to hand over my firstborn to pay for the goods. But I will never, ever do that again without help. I was exhausted, and it took at least twice as long as it should have. Two weeks from now I'll be picking Andrew up from work and making him push one of the carts through the glorious Winco Foods. And he's excited about it. Truly. No, really.

Eating vs. Gorging

Boys are bottomless pits, we all know it. I've heard it from my mother and sisters-in-law for years, and until about 6 months ago, I had no idea just how true that is. Now that I know first-hand, I'm frightened. Cameron and Ethan are eight and six. How in the world am I going to feed them when they reach their teen years? I may have to discourage sports and tell them that all the cool kids are in the chess club, because if we add strenuous physical activity to the mix, they'll be even more ravenous.

Most of my concern came about yesterday. A while back, it was common for Cameron to come home from school and eat a Popsicle or a banana and be fine until dinner. Yesterday, he came home, threw down his bag, and charged the kitchen. He ate one banana, two slices of toast, one frozen burrito and two pieces of licorice while he waited for the darn microwave the cook the burrito at what he certainly felt was an unfairly slow speed. Had this been just one day, I would have thought that he didn't eat a very good lunch, but this seems to be the new trend.

Ethan was doing his best to keep up with Cameron by pounding down one bologna sandwich, a bowl full of goldfish crackers, and a handful of chocolate animal crackers. Not bad.

So I've done some calculating, and I figure that in eight more years, Cameron will be sixteen, Ethan fourteen, and I'll be working a full time job just to earn the extra $1,000 a month it's going to take to keep them from suffering malnutrition.

And there is another problem with food in this house. Andrew battles his weight on a daily basis in hopes of fighting off heart disease and living to teach every one of his grandsons the joy of fishing. So with a family health history that is a bit scary, and not entirely on Andrew's side, when do I start telling my kids when enough is enough? We talk on almost a daily basis about healthy foods and portion sizes, (thus the two hypocritical packages of frozen burritos in the freezer...), but how do I tell the difference between the nutritional needs of growing boys and gluttony?

Over the years, Andrew has become a good sport when it comes to my nagging about food. I have tried to train him to put his snacks in a dish rather than eat potato chips, for example, straight out of the bag. This way he knows exactly how much he's eating. I force him to put fruit and veg on his dinner plate, and then I hide the butter and salt. I quit letting him scoop his own ice cream a while back, and now he is becoming used to what I call the "Norman-size bowl of ice cream". (That's right, I said "Norman", not "normal".) And my husband knows that I do all of these things out of love. I want him to be around until I'm good and wrinkly and ready to go myself.

And not to seem self-righteous, I have to say that I don't do a lot of exercising myself, and I have a sweet tooth. There is always candy in our cupboards and soda pop in our fridge. The kids are allowed to share one soda on Friday nights, but that's about all they get. (Do as I say, not as I do.) And they are used to candy being around, so they don't freak out and try to out-eat each other when they catch sight of it. It's just there. No big deal. They don't have candy every day. (But I do!...when they aren't looking!)

My kids in particular need to learn healthy eating practices while they are young. I'm not concerned so much with the type of food they eat, because we rarely have fried chicken with gravy and cotton candy for breakfast. Not wanting to stunt their growth, however, I am wondering when it's appropriate to reign them in on their quantities of food. Thoughts?

The Down-side of a Good Metabolism

Let's talk about food, shall we? I love to eat. The best time of day for eating is about 5 seconds after all the kids are in bed. It's the first moment of the day when I can completely relax, and relaxing sometimes equals food.

When I was a child, my parents would send my sisters and I to bed and then waste no time in plugging in the hot air popcorn popper and pulling out a bag of Mn'M's and pouring them into a GLASS bowl, so that we could hear them chink-chink-chinking into the dish, and our mouths would water as soon as we could smell the butter melting in the microwave. Oh! the taste of real butter on top of steaming popcorn and sprinkled with salt... We lay there in bed, sure that Mom and Dad did this just to show us how much they despised us and loved nothing more than being pure mean. We whispered to each other that if they couldn't indulge while we were there to share the feast with them, then kinder parents would have at least waited until we were asleep and oblivious to the prepping of goodies before they settled in to watch their grown-up television. But I digress.

I have never had a favorite food, but I sometimes order a dish in a restaurant that I don't really like just because it comes with garlic bread. I am a sucker for a good piece of garlic bread. It can't be mushy - it ought to be crispy and full of flavor to the point that if you ate an entire plate of it, you would die from salt overdose. Other than that, I like just about anything that doesn't contain raisins or coconut, ie; the Devil's Food.

It is a sad day around our house when Drew has committed another atrocity and there is no candy or chocolate to provide comfort after cleaning up whatever disaster has occurred. Chocolate is therapeutic, but I must admit that anything conceived of Mr. Wonka is also uplifting. I never grew out of my appreciation for Nerds or the giant, soft SweetTarts that come in a four pack and, unfortunately, two of the flavors have to be lemon and green. That's right, Green. I'm not actually sure what fruit flavor it is supposed to be, so it is referred to as Green.

While we're on the subject, why do food manufacturers insist on putting undesired flavors in the packages with the good flavors? For example, does anyone ever go for a lime popsicle when there are still Banana and Root Beer to be had? Not in our house. We push and shove and knock each other down to get the Root Beer, and then we let the kids choose from whatever is left. People eat the lime popsicles when the only other snacks available are mushy apples or the cookies that a neighbor brought over which nobody will eat because we have never been inside their house and do not know if the kitchen those cookies were baked in is sanitary. (Or because we have been inside and now know that their cat is allowed to preen himself on top of the kitchen counters.)

My mother is a fantastic cook. Anything but grilled cheese, which she will burn, even if she stands right in front of the stove, spatula in hand, staring, waiting for the perfect moment to flip. It's an unfair curse, really. Experimentation is her true forte. She makes a French roast with red cabbage that I can't even explain justly. And pork chops with homemade mango salsa, and Latkes, and just about anything you can imagine. Aside from that, I dare you to find someone who can make a more beautiful, flaky and simply delicious pie crust. You can't. Don't bother. But the meat loaf. I can't tell you how much we dreaded meat loaf when we were kids. The meat loaf itself, was always fine, no complaints. But meat loaf always meant lima beans. Mom used an electric frying pan, put the meat loaf, potato wedges and lima beans all in the pan together and fried it until the meat loaf was done, which meant the potatoes were crisp on the outside and perfectly soft on the inside, but the lima beans were usually blackened. And not in a spicy, Cajun way. They were just black and hard and covered in grease from the meat loaf. We ate them because we were afraid not to, but we hated it. And yes, I can speak for myself and every one of my siblings on that one. Years later, I realized that fried to death and covered in grease is actually the best way to eat a lima bean.

My family is not unique in it's love of food. Every holiday we have our standard favorites that can make or break the buffet spread, but so does everyone else. I had to teach my husband that Crab Dip on Christmas Eve is just that - a dip. Not a side dish. He knows that now, but it doesn't stop him from scooping it by the spoonful onto his plate and then throwing a cracker on top to make it look legitimate.

I grew up never having to worry about how much I ate and where on my body it might land. I was blessed with a metabolism that loved to work over-time. In high school I wore pants 2 sizes too big for me just to make sure they were long enough for my 5 foot 10 and a quarter inch frame. I weighed around 120 pounds. Then came my early twenties and giving birth to two children. About 2 months after Ethan was born, I settled in at an acceptable 135 pounds. Then came Drew, and exactly 10 months after he was born, I finally got back to that blessed 135, and I got there without exercise or dieting. Patience and time is all it took. (Go ahead and hate me now if you want to, but rest assured, my comeuppance is hurtling towards me with frightening speed.) Exactly one week after I returned to that 135 pound pre-baby weight, I found out I was pregnant with a very unexpected fourth baby. (Curse my body for spontaneously deciding to ovulate again without the aid of medication, and curse myself for being so stupid as to think anovulation is acceptable birth control. Not that we don't love Trent to death.)

So here we are, another ten months after child birth, and I cannot get below 142 pounds. Fine. I can live with 142. What I cannot live with is where those 7 extra pounds, plus the last few ounces of breast tissue I had that shrunk into oblivion decided to set up camp. Right behind my belly button. Standing naked in front of the mirror is now comically sad. I look like a character from a Dr. Suess book - dangly arms with a narrow chest which slopes down into a round, protuberant belly, then back into skinny legs. I take comfort that at least I am not as hairy as a Suess creation.

So if the trend continues; 120's in my teen years, 130's in my twenties and 140's as I creep up on my thirties, then I will weigh 180 pounds by the time I am seventy, but it will all be in my mid-section so that my stomach enters a room before I do and may in fact be able to flip light switches up or down of it's own accord if I should happen to turn around too hastily.

And that, Dear Readers, is the plight of me with my super powered metabolism that died off on me after I've lived 29 years and packed them full of bad habits that I will now have to break if I ever want to fit back into my jeans. I have, count them, one..two..three..four..five..six..seven..eight..nine..ten..ELVEN pairs of jeans, and I can only manage to squeeze myself into three of them and retain my ability to walk while slightly bending my knees.

I am going to have to start exercising. I am going to have to stop eating every time I walk through or past the kitchen. I am going to have to change everything I have taught myself about self control, (which so far has only been something that other people have to worry about.)

The bright side is that I came to this realization after we had already made our trip to Washington and eaten like there was no tomorrow. So please enjoy these pictures of people eating that I took while we were away. (I was determined to find a way to post pictures of our trip without actually writing about it, and what do you know? I've done it twice now. I'm sure there will be more!)


ALMOST all the kids eating Tacos in a Bowl at Susie and Nate's house. Wouldn't I love a table this big?


The Kamahaku Family at Mo's. Aren't they beautiful?


Andrew in food heaven. He had been dreaming of Mo's halibut fish n' chips for weeks, and I think all of us enjoyed them more than we should have. I find myself even now, wishing that I had eaten them more slowly.


How come Susie gets to look cute when she eats? Hmm. Anyway, she's eating Cherry Delight which I believe was made especially for Andrew since he is Sandy's favorite child. (He isn't really the favorite, I'm sure, but Sandy does love making her youngest son feel special!)


Cameron and Jayden eating the ice cream that Todd and Andrea brought for all the kids. I don't think that my kids ate a vegetable all week.


Trent apparently loves potato salad. The more dill pickle, the better!

Happy Birthday America!

When your weekend starts out with souvlaki with rice and a pita at Greek Souvlaki, it can't possibly turn bad. YUM!


All the fam plus one awesome Grandpa went to Greek Souvlaki for dinner on Friday night before heading over to the Oquirrh Mountain Temple open house.


The temple was beautiful, as they all are. We were a little disappointed in the lack of reverence from the people around us. It almost didn't feel like being in a temple at all. Everyone talking in regular voices, kids running around unsupervised and climbing on the furniture, touching all the walls... But outside looking in was pretty spectacular.


Then on Sturday, we headed over to the Layton City 4th of July Parade. I have to say that it was a huge disapointment, aside from the excellent specimens of Utah Hair that I was able to capture. It is a dying art, (thankfully), but once in a while, it is a real treat to get to see a reminder of the good ol' days. Unfortunately, my camera batteries died literally as I tried to focus on the bunch of ladies riding the float for the Salon on Main... It was tragic timing, as I was anxious to document the phenomenon in it's finest before they are all extinct. But, these examples will have to do. We call this one "the skunk":


And this one doesn't have a name, but I think it spawns from the need to look like you have it all together at all times. A simple ponytail would just be shameful, so we have to dress it up with poof, a headband, and some dramatic bangs. I'm not really sure how you get that "swollen head" effect in the back? The whole thing just makes me wonder "why??" But I enjoy seeing it, nevertheless.


After lunch at Red Robin, then some down time, followed by a barbecue in our backyard, we headed three blocks from my house to see the Kaysville City fireworks. So convenient to be able to walk and not have to mess with parking and traffic. Here's Dad waiting for the show to start. He was thrilled!


Matt and Kellie are always thrilled though! Especially when you have ice pops made by mom with real strawberries and pinneapple. The whole day was filled with yummy stuff!


Ethan chilled with Boomer while we waited for dark. Ethan has grown up so much. Such a shame.


Mom and Drew playing frisbee and trying not to hit stuffy old lady in the head with the frisbee for the 10th time. (They didn't really, but the lady seemed to think that 'hitting' her consisted of the frisbee coming within five feet of her. Good times!)


Trent slept until dark, then he loved up the fireworks show. He was dancing like a crazy person in my arms! It was all I could do to hold on to him.


Wha-hoo the show! Always impressed with how expertly the fireworks are choreographed with the music. At one point they lost sound, had to start the song over, but when they started up the fireworks again, they hadn't missed a beat and everything was right on cue. Someone has a very cool job.


After the show, we walked back here to our house and the tiny guys crashed on Papa.


All in all, it was a great weekend. And it's not done yet! Andrew has Mondays off, so we get to do yard work tomorrow! So excited. On a closing note...does anyone see anything very, very wrong with this flag? Andrew sure did. :) Hope you all had a happy weekend!