Comfort Food At Its Finest!!!!

My sister posted this recipe on her blog that she made up for Cheesy Potato Corn Chowder...

IT IS SOOOO GOOD!

And its easy too which always is a plus for my "hate to cook" personality.

Give it a try and tell me how much you loved it!




Cheesy Potato Corn Chowder

3 TBSP butter
½ med. Onion, diced
1 stalk of celery, diced
3 TBSP flour
salt, to taste (I used a pinch of Kosher salt because, well... I watch way too much Alton Brown)
pepper, to taste
1 can corn with juice
1 can chicken stock
2-3 cups milk, as needed
3 med-large potatoes, diced
2 bay leaves (Didn't use these -- what are they for anyway? You can't eat them.)
2-3 cups cheese (Used parmesean, cheddar and mozerella. Maybe I will try swiss next time.)

Melt butter in large soup pan, add onions and cook about 1 minute or until soft (whichever is less), add celery and cook for another minute or so. Add flour and stir until it’s sticking to celery and onions.Cook another minute or so and then add the juice from the can of corn slowly, stirring with each addition so the flour mixture is smooth. Set corn aside. Add chicken broth, slowly stirring until smooth. Add bay leaves, milk, potatoes and corn.Bring to a boil while stirring soup. Turn heat to low and simmer 20-30 minutes stirring occasionally.Remove from heat, remove bay leaves and stir in cheese until all melted.Yummy served in bread bowls.(Best eaten asap, of course, but does well for leftovers and freezing too.)

Envelope Corners

I always made my bed when I was younger. It was just one of those things we did. If we didn’t, my mom would literally have us called home from school to do it. I remember the morning my brother’s name was announced over the speaker system. He was in a different class so I didn’t get to see his face, but I felt his pain.

“R. W. Your mother would like you to return home to make your bed”

Yikes! Can you imagine anything more embarrassing for a 5th grader? I can’t believe the office staff agreed to do that.

So, R walked home. Made his bed. Then returned. Thankfully I learned a valuable lesson from my older brother. I never, NEVER left the house without making my bed.

And our beds couldn’t just be straightened.

Tight, folded, neat.

It had to be perfect, right down to the envelope corners that my mother painstakingly taught us.

Fold under, fold up, tuck in, fold down.

A bed was not properly made unless the envelope corners were executed perfectly. Afterall, envelope corners kept the sheets in place while you slept, which made it so much easier to make in the morning.

Which we did.

Every morning.

Always.

I stopped making my bed every morning a few years ago. Maybe almost a decade ago. You see, I married a wonderful man who knows nothing of envelope corners. In fact, I was so surprised as a young married girl, to see his siblings beds – none with envelope corners.

I didn’t realize you didn’t HAVE to make beds with envelope corners – or make them at all for that matter.

After a few years of sharing a bed with a sweet, non-envelopian, I gave up. There isn’t a fold invented that could keep my husband from twisting all of the sheets around his warm body, wadding them in a pile at the foot of the bed, then kicking them to the floor – on his side. I have been known to keep spare blankets on the floor by MY side of the bed, just so I have a back up. I have also learned how to wrap my feet around the blankets, so they don’t move when he tugs.

Yesterday, we celebrated our 15th year of marriage. Fifteen wonderful, blanketless nights. And as we drifted off to sleep and Hubby pulled the covers, I thought of envelope corners. I thought how happy I was that I never have to fold another sheet just so. I thought of how happy I was that I have someone to pull the covers away.

And if I had to do it all over again, I would. I would choose this wonderful man as mine even if I knew he would ruin every envelope corner I ever folded.

Happy Anniversary, Sweetie.

Tag Worthy Christmas

Even though this was one of my busiest Christmas Season’s yet, it was also my favorite. Why? So many reasons, but one of them is that it RAINED today. All day. I can’t remember the last Christmas I spent in AZ that it wasn’t hot and sunny. LOVED IT!


In fact, I love the rain so much (1). When the sky clouds over with shadowing billows, I feel a sense of euphoria. An excitement. It was perfect for this Christmas Day.


As we carried out our traditions with our family, I thought of the family my husband and I came from. Each with its own lovable level of dysfunction and creamy core of goodness. Each imprinting its personality on our family. I thought fondly of my parents, who have passed on and wished so much I could talk with my mom or share this laugh with my dad. (2)


I laughed and chatted with my sweet sister about stupid stuff. Stuff that didn’t matter, but made all the difference to talk about. We talked and ate WAY too much toffee. (3)


I listened to my children’s excited conversation at 3, 4 and 5:30 am as I TRIED to sleep and convince them it was too early. (4) I watched them, spontaneously descend the stairs in order of youngest to oldest. Wishing my camera was at the ready to capture this moment afraid to look the other way for fear of missing it. With the dim light coming from the Christmas Tree and smiles on their faces, it was really a tender moment. One I want to remember forever.


I watched my sweet husband. Grateful for a good man to support and protect his family. So glad that we met so many years ago. Remembering years of Christmas’ with him. Happy to say I have spent more Christmases WITH him now than WITHOUT. (5) Looking forward to our 15th year of marriage, almost 20 years since meeting.


We scaled back this Christmas. The gifts we fewer. Wrapping wasn’t as much of a chore. The children seemed more excited to give their gifts than they have in previous years. And J didn’t even mind that I gave him something I bought for me and told him to give it back to me for Christmas. (6)


Most of all it was one of my favorite Christmas’ because I was reminded again about how Heavenly Father loves us. From witnessing a miracle in a friends life to having the opportunity to serve Him, I have been touched again by that Tender Spirit that gives us joy.


I have felt His love for me. I have seen His work.


I love the miraculous story of Jesus’ birth. The simple yet significant event that it was. I love being reminded of that. It is remembering this that makes Christmas so wonderful.
Merry Christmas all!


(PS. I have been tagged by Becky. 6 things you never knew you wanted to know about me. You are tagged if you are wearing slippers, sipping hot cocoa, if you have sung a Christmas Carol today, if you cried when you opened a present, if you stayed in PJs the whole day or if you snatched some candy from your kid’s stocking. Click here for the rules.)

'Tis the Season

This season has been more hectic and chaotic than any other I have ever experienced. Running from one item on my “to do” list to then next. Barely a moment to breathe. Always ten minutes behind.

It is also a beautiful time of year, when the air fills with the smoky flavor of fireplaces burning. The cool, wet weather seems to cleanse the soul and create a longing for hot cocoa.

As I rush from one point to the next, checking things off my list, I find myself making mental notes of things to remember. The sound of a toddler laughing and telling his mommy, "I love you." The older gentleman wearing his Santa hat and ringing the bell in front of the local grocery store. The mist that arises from the ground as cars whir past.

Memories of my childhood also flood my heart and mind. Memories of my mom's homemade apple pie. Memories of my dad's rich tenor voice singing carols just because. Memories of singing around the piano with my brother and sister, reenacting the Nativity. Memories of a warm blanket and loving parents.

I want to savor every moment. Every memory. Every breath of this magical season.
And so, I plunge forward. Keeping my eye on the task, my heart on the moments, my soul on the memories.

This is my favorite time of year. When the world, in spite of the to-do's, somehow stops to remember the little baby in a manger. The one who grew up to be our King. Our Savior. And in spite of personal beliefs or convictions, the world slows. Stores close, families unite, and hope increases. Because of Him. The Prince of Peace.

I want to hold on to that belief. And, though I rush around, savor the priceless nature of this season.

My Sound Vortex

Hubby and I went out the other night to a new seafood restaurant, one we hadn’t tried before. We were seated at a small, wooden table, arm distance from the neighboring table. The concrete floor and domed ceilings made the small restaurant fill with the sound of dozens of conversations. We settled into our own dialog and enjoyed our meal. We were nearly to the end of our meal when hubby cocked his head to one side, looked around and settled on a lady three or four tables over.

“I’m in a sound vortex” he told me.

VORTEX, huh? Really? And assuming he was just kidding around, being silly how he usually is, I continued to eat my crab legs.

“No, really”

He went on to explain that throughout our entire visit, he had been able to hear this ladies voice, coming straight at him as if she were using a megaphone. I looked at who he was pointing to. She was talking, but I couldn’t hear her speaking. She was too far away. I could hear the people close by me, but there was no way hubby was able to hear this person. He was just joking around.
Maybe it was my rolling eyes or sarcastic nod, but he knew I didn’t belive him. After some persistence, he convinced me to trade spots with him. Half expecting him to tell a joke about being gullible, I switched him spots.

All of a sudden, it was as if this lady had a direct speaker into my ear.

I could hear EVERYTHING.

It was the coolest thing ever. It wasn’t just a muffled tone where you can make out the conversation. It was so clear, it was difficult to hear anything else. The dome ceilings made a perfect sound vortex as hubby called it, and there was only that one spot where this phenomenon could be experienced. This was an eavesdroppers dream.

I have been thinking about that experience.

There are so many noises in our lives, in my life. Sometimes, I might be in a good place spiritually, but not the right place. Meaning, I can’t hear what the Lord is trying to tell me, until I move, until I change what I am doing.

Once I changed seats with Hubby, I could hear clearly.

But Hubby could hear clearly the whole time.

Am I ready to hear when the Lord speaks to me through the spirit? Am I ready to make changes necessary so it is HIS voice that comes through to me as if by megaphone? Do I let the noise of life interfere with what I need to be listening to?

It was a fun night, on a date with my hubby. And just another reminder that the Lord knows who I am and knows what lessons I need to learn.

Even in a seafood restaurant.

Who was Murphy anyway? And why is he interfering with my life?

I am not a superstitious person. I will walk under ladder, pet a black cat and laugh at a broken mirror. I roll my eyes at credulous tales foretelling doom or destiny occurring upon a specific event. I don’t keep pet crickets, I don’t toss salt over my shoulder and I actually think carrying around a rabbit’s foot is slightly morbid.

I also consider myself an optimist. I see the cup as half full. I can see good when it is buried in the bad. An impossible task becomes only another challenge to conquer.

But, in spite of all this, I still find myself plagued by Murphy’s Law.

It is not superstition. It is not pessimism.

It just is.

That is a fact.

I first heard about Murphy’s law while I was a seamstress at an alteration shop. My boss, a wonderfully colorful lady, stated as matter-of-factly as if she had said her teeth were located in her mouth, that Murphy’s law was alive and well in the alteration business. If you had 10 items of clothing due on Tuesday and left the shop Monday leaving the last item to do first thing in the morning, the owner of that one unfinished piece would show up at opening to retrieve their item.
Sure enough, every time, it happened like that.

If you promised someone a 10 minute hem, the machine would break, making it take ½ hour.

Every time.

My children and I have decided we need to keep a calendar of when I get the car washed, versus when it rains. In Arizona, we have sun 360 days a year. It seems like I choose to wash my car within 48 hours before any one of those rainy days. Even when weather forecasts predict nothing but sun for days.

When I am running late, I hit stop lights. When we have family pictures, a child shaves off an eyebrow (true story), when I am cooking something to share with someone else, it bombs (let’s talk about burned steak and soggy veggies)

This is the same law that gets chocolate on my children somewhere on the ride to church, leaving their clothes covered in sticky melted mess. This is the law that splashes bleach on my new shirt, convinces my son to spatter black ink all over my new furniture and makes it possible for me to purchase the ONLY defective toy on the shelf.

It is the law that our Construction Crew swore to when remodeling our house (another story for another day). It is the law that our babies embrace, keeping us up all night when we have an early morning and long day ahead. Murphy interferes when I choose the one day to go to the store in grubbies, I will see a long lost friend, from a time when I was more put together.

Yup, Murphy sticks his big nose in all my business.

It isn’t superstition. It just is.

How has Murphy meddled with your life?

A Perfect Christmas

A friend of mine posted a wonderful story she read... it is such a great reminder, I had to link it here.

For those who don't want to click over to read it, here it is from her blog. Thanks Katie!

The fragrance of gingerbread always makes me think of Suzie and the year I was going to have a perfect Christmas. During past Christmas seasons, I had always been too busy to create the Christmas traditions I felt would build a lifetime of memories for my family. But that Christmas was going to be different. That year my time was my own, and I meant to make every minute of the holiday season count. I would make handpainted ornaments, home-sewn gifts, beautiful decorations, artistically wrapped packages, and baked goods to fill a freezer. I was baking gingerbread men for the tree the day my nine-year-old daughter brought Suzie home from school.“Mama, this is my new friend, Suzie,” Debbie announced, presenting a rather chubby, cheerful-looking little girl. Suzie reminded me of a California poppy, with her red-gold mop of curly hair and a freckled nose that twitched eagerly as she breathed in the spicy fragrance. I took two warm gingerbread men from a pan and gave them to Suzie and Debbie. Soon the two girls were helping my seven-year-old son, Mark, hang gingerbread men on the tree. (Of course, the cookies never stayed long on the tree. The children and their friends ate all of them every few days, and we replenished the supply weekly. As a result, our house smelled gingery from Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day.)Later, Suzie’s mother telephoned, and in a tired-sounding voice, she asked me to send Suzie home.The Sunday after Thanksgiving, I was still working on my perfect Christmas. I had decided to mail my Christmas cards early, and so I had spread the dining-room table with Christmas cards, address books, stamps, and green- and red-ink pens with which to address the envelopes. I was all set to start when Mark came in.“Mama, we talked in Primary today about helping other people,” he told me. “Our Primary teacher said a lonely lady in our ward needs help.”“Oh? What’s the lady’s name?” I asked, wondering if I had met her.“I can’t remember . . . something long and hard to say,” Mark said, “but Sister Jones wrote it on the blackboard, and I’d remember it if I saw it.”He went to the desk drawer and pulled out the ward list. After a moment he gave a shout of triumph. “Here it is!” he cried. He thrust the page under my nose, and I glanced at the name by his finger before turning back to address my Christmas cards. The name was difficult to pronounce.Mark borrowed my pen and drew a green circle around the name in the ward list before putting it back in the drawer.“I want to go visit that lonely lady and take something to her. Can we make something for her
now?” Mark wanted to know.“Not today, Mark. It’s Sunday, and I don’t bake on Sundays. Besides, this lady doesn’t even know us. Surely she wouldn’t want a visit from strangers,” I explained. “Today we are going to start addressing our Christmas cards. For once I’m going to get our cards mailed before December twenty-third. If you want to help someone, you can help me.”In the days that followed, Mark persisted in reminding me about the lonely lady. Twice he asked to make something for the woman, but both times I was involved in other projects.One Tuesday afternoon Suzie again came home with Debbie. That day I was putting together my specialty: a gingerbread train. Each car carried tempting cargo such as breadsticks, candy canes, and cinnamon bears. Suzie’s eyes sparkled when I gave her a few chocolate-chip cookie wheels to “glue” into place with frosting. She ate one of them.“I wish my Mom made gingerbread trains,” she said. “Last year she made a neat gingerbread house, but this year she said it was too much work.”“It is a lot of work,” I agreed, remembering the year I had been too busy with church and community duties to make my gingerbread train. The children had been very disappointed that year, but not this year. This year everything would be perfect.A week later Debbie came home from school just as I was taking a fresh batch of gingerbread men from the oven.“Too bad Suzie isn’t here,” she said, biting off one cookie foot. “Suzie loves our gingerbread men. She wasn’t in school today, though.”Debbie set down her cookie, suddenly serious. “They said Suzie’s mama took too many pills, and she’s in the hospital. She might die.”“Oh, Debbie, are you sure?” I asked in dismay.Debbie nodded. “Sally Miller told me Sister Miller was at the hospital with Suzie’s mama all night,” she said. Sister Miller was our Relief Society president.“I didn’t know Suzie was a member of the Church,” I said, surprised. “I’ve never seen her at meetings.”“Suzie said they used to come all the time before her dad died,” Debbie said. “He got killed in a car accident this summer.”“Poor Suzie!” I said. “Her poor mother! And I don’t even know her name.”I called Sister Miller to see if I could be of any help in caring for Suzie during the crisis. I also asked for Suzie’s mother’s name. When she told me, it sounded vaguely familiar. I hung up the phone repeating the name when a devastating thought struck me. With a sinking feeling, I took the ward list from the desk drawer and turned some pages. Yes, there it was, circled in green ink — the name of Suzie’s mother, the name of Mark’s lonely lady whom I had never found time to help.Suzie was with us that night when we received word that her mother had died.I asked myself over and over: What if we had gone to visit her when Mark first wanted to? Would it have mattered that we were strangers? Would she have been a little less lonely, a little less desperate? I thought of the tired voice on the telephone, asking me to send Suzie home that first day we made gingerbread.When Suzie went away a week later to live with her grandparents, we gave her our gingerbread train. The bright eyes that had sparkled as she helped make the train had lost some of their glow, but Suzie managed a little smile and a thank-you.A gingerbread train. A very small gift. Too little. Too late. As Suzie took a halfhearted nibble from a breadstick, I saw more than a saddened little girl holding a cookie train. I saw myself with painful clarity: a woman so involved with the things of Christmas that I had lost touch with the very spirit of Christmas, without which there can never be a “perfect Christmas.” I would never again forget.Every holiday season since then, the fragrance of gingerbread reminds me of Suzie . . . and I cry.
(Linda Rire Gundry, Jay A. Parry, Jack M. Lyon,
Best-Loved Christmas Stories of the LDS People, [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book,
2003], p. 413-16.)

Mistake or Sneaky? You Decide.

We have a local shipping store just around the corner from my house. The Shipping Outlet. For those of you in my neighborhood – it is the one right by CiCi’s Pizza.

I have been going here as long as I have lived in this house… and even though I am not in there all the time, after 7 years, the owner there knows me by name. I love that she was always friendly and helpful. She would always weigh the item, set it aside and “take care of it later” so I could get in and out as fast as possible.

Sometimes the UPS prices were a little higher. Sometimes I walked away wondering how something got so expensive to ship. But I felt the personal service made up for it.

Until today.

I took in about 65 Christmas cards to mail. The cards were Christmas Card size, maybe a little bigger. The gal that I have been waited on for 7 years was there and she greeted me as usual. Then she said ALL the cards were oversized. We went through the routine. She weighed them, set them aside, saying she would take care of it later, and said each one would be $0.76.

Nearly $50 later, I drove away feeling like something wasn’t right. It really can’t be that much. So, ignoring the other things I had to do, I drove to the post office.

I asked an attendant there to measure the card. And guess what?

NOT OVERSIZED!

Suddenly, everything became very clear. By setting these things aside, she could affix the right postage after I left. While I was there however, she could tell me an amount that was more than what it really was. Pocketing the difference.

Now, maybe I am horribly wrong, but this gal has been around long enough to know what an oversized envelope was. How many times have I been tricked into paying just a little more for something? I began to remember all the instances she had done this sort of thing. All the times something felt too expensive.

Well, I went back to the Shipping Outlet and got a refund on the difference. She wasn’t happy. I could tell from her comments and body language that she knew she had been caught. I only hope she really mails my Christmas Cards and doesn’t shred them.

From now on, I think I will stick with the Original. The One and Only. USPS.

What do you think? Was she just being sneaky or do you think this was an honest mistake?

A Bowl of Oatmeal

When I was a child, I was greeted almost every morning with a bowl of piping hot oatmeal. On the mornings we didn’t have oatmeal, we would have hot 7-grain cereal or cracked wheat. Every morning it was pretty much the same.

I would try to mask the earthiness of my breakfast with our supply of crystallized honey and Almond Nut Milk (which my mom made from scratch every morning at 5:00 AM). I found that if I took some toast (7-grain, of course), slathered it with butter and honey, then scooped up my cereal with it, I could almost stand the taste. I ate it. I didn’t like it, but I ate it.

On occasion, when my mom would head out of town, my dad would get rebellious and buy some junk, cold cereal – Grape Nuts. Ever eaten that stuff? It’s more like fossilized cardboard!

And then it came time to babysit – oh those families were my salvation. Guess what was in their cupboards? Not oatmeal, that was for sure. There were Cheerios, Golden Grahams, Lucky Charms and if I was really lucky, FRUIT LOOPS.

Oh, give me the cold cereal, baby!

There was no turning back for me. I wanted the good stuff. As soon as I was on my own – no more oatmeal, 7-grain or any other earthy substance for breakfast. I wanted SUGAR. And I got it.

So, I am listening to this story tonight by President Dieter F. Uchtdorf. When he asked children in a less fortunate family what they wanted for Christmas, the boy replied, "a bowl of oatmeal".

I thought, this poor, hungry little boy wanted OATMEAL?!!!?

It struck home with me. Maybe because I never wanted oatmeal in my life.

We had our share of hard times growing up. I suppose our finances were worse than my parents ever let on… but there was always food. There was always a warm blanket. I always had socks and shoes (albeit very worn sometimes).

Then I think about my kids (who I sneak oatmeal to in their cookies), I ask them what they want for Christmas. I get answers like “my own computer” a "Playstation", a "dog" (NEVER AGAIN) – expensive stuff. Never anything like a “slinky” or a “rubiks cube”, I can’t imagine a child hungry enough and desperate enough to wish for oatmeal on Christmas day.

I am comfortable. My wants and needs are met. Thanks to the Good Grace of God and hours of hard work by my husband I always have food. I always am warm enough. I have the clothes I need. I have little toys and gadgets that keep me occupied. I am very blessed.

So who am I to withhold what I have from those who need? Who am I to not give to His children when He has given me all? If there is someone out there, wishing for a bowl of oatmeal this Christmas, how dare I sit in my comfortable home and do nothing.

I hope, with all my heart that I will find those needing to be comforted. That I will be able to reach out to those in need. That I will have the courage and faith it takes to step forward and say,”let me help you.” I have a lot of work to do to soften my heart, to step outside my comfort zone. It is easy to write about what I need to do to change. But what will I do tomorrow, when I see the elderly man in the wheelchair at Walmart – the one who is always hanging out by the dumpster, looking cold. What will I do?

If the Good Lord shows me who need the figurative bowl of oatmeal… will I choose to act as His Son, our Savior did?

One thing for sure....

I will never look at oatmeal the same.

SO! STINKIN'! MAD!

Let me start by telling you that my children have been blessed to have some wonderful teachers. Teachers who make a difference in their life. Teachers who love them and treat them with respect. We have had some that we don't want to have again, but for the most part, my children have been very blessed.

That being said. Today my son was humiliated in front of his peers by someone who is supposed to protect and teach today's youth. Another teacher, not his own, sent J to the principal for LOANING A DOLLAR to another boy.

J is the ideal child at school. Maybe he doesn't always do his homework, but he is always respectful, kind and helpful. Teachers love him, ask for him in their class. J is also very sensitive. And I hope that never changes. His heart is tender. So being in trouble at school would be heartbreaking.

So the story goes that J and a friend were walking back to class. The friend needed a dollar for something. J said, "Here, I have a dollar" and gave it to the boy. This "teacher" proceeded to yell at J and the boy. When J said it was his money and he was just loaning it to the boy, she told him she didn't believe him. She told J if he didn't start telling the truth, he would have to be sent to a charter school (one for troubled kids) because he couldn't follow rules. She yelled at him in front of other students.

She took the two boys to the principles office and insisted I be called. THE PRINCIPALS OFFICE!!! She was worried about him loaning $1 during this struggling economy! Is she serious???? I told the secretary the same exact thing J had just said. It was his money. He earned it. He could loan it to whoever he wanted to. J was SO upset. I went down to the school to bring him home.

It was all I could do to not march into this woman's classroom. I had to only leave a message. I told her she was not to speak to ANY of my children EVER again. I have an appointment to speak with the principle on Monday.

I mean. Really. Are you serious??? Since when is being generous a crime? What in the world gives this woman the right to humiliate my child? Even if he was doing something horrible, she is an adult and should act like one.

Oh -- she messed with the wrong mama!!!

Incidentally, this is the same "teacher" that humiliated my neighbor's son on more than one occasion. More specifically, she tried to limit his free speech. She has a reputation of humiliating kids.


*** UPDATE***
I went to pick up T from school when it let out and guess who I saw escorting my 6 year old to the office with her arm around him???? YUP. THE teacher.

So, I did what any good mom would do. I created a scene. Not purposefully of course. I mean really, is it my fault my anger turns to tears during confrontations. The principal arrived just as my voice was escalating. We moved our discussion to the office.

The teacher denied saying or doing any of the things J said. Principal took notes. And in the end, I am not sure that any good was done. Still, I can not let this woman think I am going to stand by and let her treat my kids like that.

FINISHED!

Well, it is done. My two hour project I started over a month ago.

Or should I say as done as it can be... there is all that upkeep and that is a different blog for a different day... here are some photos of my finished project.

New shelves from Shelf Reliance (they were at Costco -- I SO love Costco)

Boxed storage and our 72 hour kits -- under the stairs.

Hard to believe this Food Storage Closet used to be a wet bar!

There aren't even crumbs in this cupboard!


The only "pantry" my kitchen has... nice and organized. For today.

I LOVE My Eagle Scout

I couldn't be more proud of S right now. Last night we had his Eagle Court of Honor. This guy has been self - motivated from the moment he entered Boy Scouts. He had hoped to earn his Eagle while he was 12, but missed it by a couple months, earning it just after he turned 13.

S is a good example to his younger brothers and I heard them talking last night about when they get their Eagle.

There are so many people that made this happen. From his leaders to those who helped me set up, we couldn't have done it without you.

His scout leaders push him towards greatness. Sister Scout herself is in our ward and helped him -- and me through every step. She was also down at the church setting up with another Scout Elf friend of mine while I was getting T's foot cast. Sister Scout and her Scout Elf took care of so many loose ends -- even right down to holding my 2 yr old so I could enjoy the program.

S kept saying all the way home, "That was so fun."

I had asked Brother Vocal to sing the National Anthem, which he did beautifully. But I forgot to arrange for someone to lead and play the closing song. Thankfully, he stepped up and took care of that for us.

S's uncle gave presented the award to him. Another uncle gave him the Eagle Challenge. His scoutmaster, who S presented his Mentor Pin to, gave him the Eagle Charge and Reaffirmation.

I can hardly believe it...

Remember two posts ago? You know... after 13 years of being a mom and no broken bones, we finally have our first broken bone.

Tonight we have our second!

T fell off the kitchen chair of all things, twisted his foot just right and Viola! Broken.

We have to follow up with an Orthopedic Doctor but the Urgent Care doctor was sure one and maybe two bones broke.

R is jealous because T has to keep TOTALLY off of his foot until we get the right cast for his foot. Which means no school.

When I get home from the Urgent Care, I check on B who has been waking up on and off. She is congested and sounding horrible! Where did that come from?

I am just trying to figure out how I am going to pull off S's Eagle Court of Honor tomorrow in between trips to doctors and toting a sick 2 yr old and 6 yr old who can't even WALK!

Oh yeah, and can any one tell me why there is CHEWED UP HAM on my CEILING????

And, just when I am feeling really sorry for myself, I open the fridge and I noticed that Hubby got me my favorite drink (Simply Lemonade). And there it sat, a little reminder that someone loves me... and that someone is wonderful!!!

Teppanyaki Style

Ever eaten at a teppanyaki restaurant? You know – Japanese cuisine cooked right in front of you on your table?
We go to a teppanyaki place every few months on our weekly date… good food, great sushi. But there are some parts to teppanyaki I wish I could avoid.

Let’s talk about the chef swinging the knives around. If you haven’t ever seen a teppanyaki chef, it is really quite fascinating – at least the first time. Really, do they all tell the SAME jokes?

The chef, the knives, the food. All dance in one movement for the enjoyment of the guests. But I can’t help worrying about these sharp knives swinging, twirling around in the air… Is that really safe? Have they done a background check on this guy?

Next are the tables themselves. You sit at a table with about 6 -8 other people. Usually strangers. There is something about sitting with people at dinner time that encourages conversation. And while that is fine when you are in a friendly mood, what is the proper etiquette here? We once chatted with our dining neighbors and when their sushi was brought to them, they offered us some. Hmmm. What do you do? Do you accept the sushi from the total stranger (providing you like sushi to begin with) or do you politely refuse?

We had another opportunity to chat with some dining neighbors. This time, we were the ones with the sushi. The gal we were talking to even commented on how beautiful it was. And yet, I just didn’t feel like offering it to her. Not that I wouldn’t mind – just a little awkward. As we were finishing our plate of sushi… I noticed our dining companion wasn’t talking any more with us. In fact, didn’t talk with us the rest of the time. Do you think she wanted the sushi? Or did I have sea weed in my teeth? Did we just commit a major teppanyaki foux pas? Were we supposed to offer our sushi as our previous dining companions had?

It is a very distressing social situation for me. What to do?

Finally, is it really a good idea to bring your children to such a place? We did once. That trip ended with burning food landing on my son’s face. They felt so bad, they gave him free ice cream. Of course, since it was Green Tea ice cream, he couldn’t eat it. But aside from the dangers of flying, flaming food and twirling knives, do I really want my children thinking it is fun to play with fire and throw knives in the air? I have learned what their imaginations can do just with a harmless magic trick… do I really want to expose them to Teppanyaki?

In spite of all this, it is still fun to try. If you haven’t, give it a shot. You don’t have to get sushi if that scares you more than the flying knives. But as long as you are living dangerously you might as well.

It was bound to happen...

As a mother with four boys, I knew it was only a matter of time before one of them broke a bone of some sort.

Really, I am pretty surprised we went this long.

And, of all my children, R is definately the most likely to break something. He was doing stunts on his brothers bed when he fell off and landed on his arm.

This happened yesterday. Our Sunday's are becoming quite dangerous.

Thankfully, this buckle fracture was so minor we didn't have to get a cast, only a splint. For four weeks.

True to Murphey's Law, we got a call (only hours after getting his arm splinted) offering him a photoshoot for Bounce U... with a free Bounce U party in exchange. Stuff like that NEVER happens. R would have LOVED it! And of course I would have loved showing off my adorable son...

Looks like gymnastics will be on hold for a while.