Best Pizza in Town

Big Bill's. Two baskets of garlic knots. Medium pizza with pepperoni and Canadian bacon. Two diet Cokes. One with lime. One without. (That 'without' was a deal breaker in the realm of the generous tip.)

That was our usual.

We ate there every Friday night when I was pregnant with Tyler. I claimed it was Tyler's favorite, in utero. Who can resist a large pregnant woman with serious cravings? Not Robb, I'll tell you that much.

Tyler's first birthday was at Big Bill's. Since it was so naturally in his blood, it seemed appropriate.

We ate there every Sunday after church. Every Sunday.

Leona waited on us. Every Sunday.

Their decor is almost entirely comprised of framed napkins with the doodles, notes, and drawings of their patrons.

I took the boys last night for dinner.

One basket of garlic knots. Medium pepperoni pizza. A diet Coke with lime. Two small lemonades (diluted, please).

'The usual' has changed a bit at our table.

Leona stopped by. She hadn't seen us in a while; she hadn't heard. She didn't know.

I told her. "It was sudden and tragic, Leona. We thought it was the flu."

She was stunned. Everyone is, when they first hear.

She put her hand on mine. "I'm so glad you're here. I'm so glad."

I added to their decor. They hung it up immediately. As in, four minutes after I handed it to Big Bill, the hostess brought me the framed, finished product.

Then, Big Bill himself took my two little boys on a tour.

"Here's your daddy's napkin, boys. You come see it whenever you want."
Big Bill and Leona bought our dinner.

"We hope you'll come back."

Oh, we'll be back.

Beef Stroganoff

Robb was a good cook. He specialized in tasting someone else's best dish, asking for the recipe, tweaking it ever so slightly, and making it his own. Melanie's cheesy sausage toast... Brad's mango salsa... Jen's lasagna... He believed that once you serve something three times with your own alterations, the recipe is now your own.

My personal favorite was his beef stroganoff. Originally his mom's recipe, Robb 'made it his own.' I often teased that I would request it as my very last meal, were I to be executed at midnight.

I ordered the 'mushroom stroganoff' at Noodles & Co. last week... I wasn't really thinking. Suddenly, it was the closest thing I've tasted to Robb's stroganoff brilliance. I wasn't prepared.

These five senses of mine... they hold memories of their own.

Memories with a quick trigger.

Just in case you've ever tried it, and just in case you haven't, I decided to share the recipe.

And it's for real-deal my favorite.

***

Beef Stroganoff

(Number of servings depends on how much you make -easily adjustable.)

Round Steak

Red Cooking Wine

1/2 t garlic powder

salt and pepper

1 pkg. brown gravy mix

2 C sour cream

1/2 t paprika

egg noodles

1 stick butter/margarine

2 tsp parsley

Cut the round steak into bite-sized pieces. (Robb liked to marinade it overnight in red cooking wine.)

Put the round steak into nonstick skillet. Sprinkle garlic powder, salt and pepper to taste over the meat and toss; add enough water to cover the bottom of the pan and keep the meat from sticking. Over medium high heat, cook the meat until it is browned. Put the meat into a crock pot.

About an hour before serving, add the brown gravy mix, 1/2 stick of margarine, paprika, and sour cream. If not to desired consistency, add more wine or sour cream as needed. (Robb's recipe was nice and creamy.) :)

Cook noodles per directions, drain, and then add the other 1/2 stick of margarine; stir until margarine is melted. Add parsley to noodles.

Serve sauce mix over noodles with a side of fresh bread.

***

It's freaking amazing. Enjoy.

On caveat: He would want you to say, "This was Robb's recipe."

A Frosting Debacle

So, here's how it started.

It was the night before Cupcake Day for my little birthday boy. His birthday is on Saturday, and we needed a total of 18 cupcakes (for the collective students and teachers in his Preschool class) for him to take in on the day before. We were out of time for the fresh baked variety, so I asked my mom to pick up a couple dozen at the area megastore.

She called. "Trish? Do you have muffin tins?"

"I do."

"Let's make cupcakes instead."

"Really?"

"I really think it's best. The ones on display are $15 for a dozen, and they're hideously ugly. You'll want to drop them off without your name on them. I'm not kidding. We can't do this."

"Okay. Baking night it is."

I was slightly overwhelmed by the task at hand, but the overwhelming, contagious joy of little bakers quickly took over. They arrived home with big plans, big dreams, with a strong emphasis on blue frosting and sprinkles.

Deal. I'm in, kiddos.

"Everybody go potty and wash hands, and we'll get started."

"Mommy? Um, Mommy? Could you come here?"

I found Tyler standing in his bedroom, fully clothed, with poop dripping out of the inside of his pant leg. Into his socks and shoes. An accident, if you will.

I picked him up and carried him, stiff as a statue, to the bathroom, where we began cleanup. Intensive.

I put his underwear in the toilet, to rinse it out, just as he flushed the toilet.

And down went Diego, in one fell swoop.

Tyler burst into tears, over his beloved underwear, very clearly gone. I mean, gone. I was near tears, because, quite frankly, I haven't the first idea about plumbing and I had no idea what repercussions could come of this.

Meanwhile, Tucker called from the other bathroom, "Hey, Mommy? I have a problem in here!"

Turns out, in the midst of the blockage at our end of the hallway, his toilet became clogged. Seriously? I need this?

I became a plunging wild woman. I ran from bathroom to bathroom, plunging with all my might.

The boys trailed back and forth after me. "Mommy? Did the water go down? Did the water go down? Can we make cupcakes yet? How about now? Where do you think Diego is? Can we make cupcakes? How about now?"

Oh, for crying out loud.

Things went down. All of it. I'll spare you the details, except to say that I wasn't exactly ecologically friendly. I just kept flushing. Keep the water moving folks. No time for things to stop and settle in.

And now, the moment we've all been waiting for: let's make some cupcakes.

We made the cupcakes from a mix, because I know my high altitude limits. We opted for homemade frosting, because it's so easy and so delicious... unless one realizes too late that she is nearly out of powdered sugar. Oh, right. That.

And officially out of blue food coloring. Oh, right. That.

A quick and frantic perusal of the pantry delivered one canister of Pillsbury cream cheese frosting (which I may or may not have been saving for a night of desperation, when I may or may not have devoured it in one setting with a spoon). A strong soapbox of persuasion brought Tyler to change his mind of the choice of color, and we went with green.

Whew. Carry on.

I'm not going to go so far as to say that baked goods are a point of pride for me, but I will say that I like a presentation. If I choose not to buy, then I want it to be clear why I chose to make them instead. I need pretty. I just do.

And in the most inopportune moment, my Pampered Chef Easy Accent Decorator let me down. A small, hairline fracture in the little doo-dah ring turned out to cause mass destruction.

No joke.

I was squeezing pretty ribbons of frosting onto the cupcakes, all while it poured out from another crevasse faster than I could keep up.

Frosting. Everywhere.

Tyler was a little troubled.

I have texture issues, remember.

All the while, little boys were sneaking finger licks.

"Hey. Stop licking. Go wash your hands. That spoon is dirty now, Tuck. Get a new one. Hey. No fingers in the frosting. Hey. Hey. Wash your hands. Tyler, the spoon is in your hair. Get a new one."

Oh, for crying out loud.

Mom, the voice of wisdom said, "Perhaps we could just frost these with a knife? The old fashioned way?"

Oh, hells no. I will not be defeated. Pretty ribbons of frosting, you will submit to my authority in your life.

"Do we freaking have 18 yet? We need 18. For the love of all things frosted, do we have 18??"

We had 16. I whipped out two more blessed little greens lovelies with sprinkles.

Done. Complete with sprinkles.

And we'll hide the ugly ones. Of which there were plenty. (After all, a family needs some to delight in at home, after birthday hours are complete.)

Just as we finished, Tyler said, "Hey, Mommy? My water won't go down to the ocean."

Um, what?

Turns out, he had run to the bathroom in between sprinkles, and the toilet wouldn't flush.

Again with the mad woman plunging.

In the end, he took a lovely collection of frosted, sprinkled cupcakes to school this morning. We did it.

And the only thing clogged this morning was the bath tub, which I think operates on an entirely different set of pipes. I'm on the fence about this: optimistic that Diego didn't cause a problem, or pessimistic that the bath tub presents entirely another.

Anyway... cupcake anyone?

It's almost Tyler's birthday, you know.

Of All Things Edible

Sometimes, you just have to forsake symmetry.

Appetizing

For reasons beyond me, Robb taught the boys that Hershey kisses are also known as Horse Poop.

So, now I have two boys who ask, "May I please have the cookie with horse poop on it?"

(I live in a frat house.)

"Foam Art"

So... as if atmosphere, music, aesthetics, and most delightful company weren't entirely enough,

then they go and add this to the top of my mocha:

I mean, honestly. I'm hooked.

When Mommy Makes Cookies...

Everyone investigates.

Self Serve Snacks

Tucker ate all the grapes today. All of them.

I was getting Tyler dressed to start his day, and Tucker helped himself into the refrigerator, into the Tupperware, and into the grapes.

All of them.

When it was too quiet, I called, "Tuck, what are you doing?"

"What? Me? Oh, I'm just eating strawberries."

No. You're eating grapes. All of them.

(This is perhaps not a big deal. I can't decide if I will make a rule about snacking independently. But big deal or not, it's a new degree of independence that I didn't invite this morning. And I'm all out of grapes.)

The Next Day...

Robb is home for about four hours, in between business trips. (Okay, 48 hours. But it is fleeting.)


On our family playdate to McDonalds tonight, he said, "By the way, I moved my chair this morning to retrieve a coaster that someone had thrown under there. The whole corner is covered in oats."


I'm not surprised. That episode will stay with us for a long time.

I can smile about It now. A Little.

So, yesterday.

I was gathering things for a morning at the park, packing a picnic lunch and making one quick phone call. While I was on my cell for less than two minutes (honestly, no more), Tyler snatched a canister of oats from the pantry, poured them all over the living room carpet, and enticed Tucker to join him in the smear campaign.

Oats. Everywhere.

I am sorry to tell you: I became boisterously angry. I screamed. I stomped my feet. I showed maternal wrath they had never seen before. I put on quite a display.

But first, I took pictures. Because even in a rage, I know a good blog post when I see one.

They don't look particularly amused, do they?

That's because they are afraid for their lives and our family as they know it.

In this next picture, you can see the pervasiveness of it all... on the floor, in the carpet, on and in my coffee table. (And you may also notice the canister of chow mein noodles sitting on the coffee table. That was their next plan of attack, had I been on the phone for another 15 seconds.)

Oats are like confetti. It's nearly impossible to clean it all up.

Those teeny bits seem to multiply in the cleaning process.

Just for perspective, look at this picture.

We're not talking about a small pile; we're talking about lots and lots of Quaker's finest.

I felt like I was airing a commercial for our vacuum cleaner, as I swept it all away. 'And look! The Boss can scoop up cups and cups of oats, even mashed into thick carpet! And if you call now, we'll add a bottle of valium and a book on parenting. For just nine easy payments, this too can be yours."

We were a half hour late for our park play date, and when we finally arrived, I realized our menu for three consisted of an apple, a ZipLoc of Sunchips, and two rice cakes.

Sorry, guys. Hope you filled up on your brunch of dry oats while you had your chance. Mommy left the rest of your lunch at home with her remaining portions of patience and grace.

The boys ran themselves crazy at the park, which was the best thing for all of us. Tyler didn't even make it to the van before naptime hit.

And I didn't try to fight him on it. I let him fall asleep, and his brother followed suit shortly after I buckled him in his carseat. I carried them to their beds, and then I crashed into mine. Naptime all around. We all earned it, for very different reasons.

There is a deep, deep exhaustion that comes from such a day. And it lasts a long, long time.

If you'll excuse me... I have to go run my vacuum again.

Breakfast Date

My lucky ducks went on a Saturday morning breakfast date with Grandma and Poppa today.

Everyone talked about the pancakes for the rest of the day:

a happy face with eyes, nose, and "bannas."

As the story goes, when this masterpiece arrived at the table,

Tucker said, "Oh,Grandma! Take a picture!"

Tomorrow's fruit bars with a side of Rice Krispies won't have quite the same charm.

Even with their snaps, crackles, and pops.

Lunch Date?

Don't you wish you could have lunch with this little boy?
Or at least clean up after him??

Yogurt in the hair. My favorite.

As I grabbed my camera, I said aloud,

"I'm not sure what I'm reinforcing, but I have to take a picture."

My very wise friend said,

"You're reinforcing fun and learning and messes that can be cleaned up."

Yes, I am.

We have a lot of that at our house.

In All Their Monstrosity.

I decided to bake Monster Cookies with two boys, during a stay-at-home morning.

(Have you ever made Monster Cookies? They are so aptly named not for their size, but for their sheer magnitude. This is the most monstrous recipe in the history of ovens, and it could easily feed all of Santa's elves and a multitude of heavenly hosts. A friend of mine found that this recipe fed 75 people at a family reunion... it's a doozy. Delicious, and so well worth it, but my goodness. Settle in.)

Before we go any further with this story, I have to give you the recipe. Since you just might like to give them a try, and since you just have to read this recipe to enjoy the spirit of the experience.

Monster Cookies

12 eggs (Yes, 12.)

4 cups sugar

4 cups brown sugar

1 lb butter

3 lb peanut butter

8 tsp soda

1 tsp salt

1 tbsp vanilla

1 tbsp corn syrup

18 cups oatmeal

1 lb M & M's

1 lb chocolate chips

Mix all together in a huge bowl or container. Bake at 350 for 9 minutes, with more or less time if you like them chewier or crispier.

When you're measuring ingredients by the pound or in double digits, you know you're in for some big money. Perhaps I should have halved the recipe. Or, you know, maybe I should have gone with the Pillsbury pull-aparts. But, that's beside the point. I did it. We did it.

I started with the biggest bowl I have, certainly large enough to have bathed my children when they were newborn. We cracked egg after egg after egg...

And we took turns stirring.

Except this is what happened every time it was Tucker's turn to stir.

We're working on that.

Although the recipe is in itself very simple (you can't get easier than 'dump it all together'), it does get tricky in the counting. 18 cups of oatmeal? We went with multiples of three, and then we stirred and stirred. And it's no easy task to see that 8 teaspoons of baking soda are dispersed evenly and equally into three pounds of peanut butter. No lumps. And make sure everyone gets a turn. And don't lose count.

It's quite a job for the most patient multitasker. And it is indeed a workout for the baker with crazy upper body strength. (I am not she.)

Tuck lost interest a bit, and he decided to practice his rendition of Little Drummer boy, one of my personal favorites, for so many reasons. (Please don't miss the sarcasm in that sentence.)

As I added more and more ingredients, he had more and more 'drums.' Soon, I had a one-man band. That's quite a serenade.

It was a really beautiful mess, once we added those red and green bits of heaven.

There was a moment of spilled M & M's, and my children scrambled so fast to scoop them up and stuff them into their mouths. I could read their thoughts: Mom will put the kybosh on this when she realizes we have unlimited amounts of chocolate. We better get it while the gettin's good. Moments later: kybosh. They know me well.

Two hours later, we were still mixing ingredients and stirring, stirring, stirring. Not a single cookie sheet in the oven, nothing to show for our efforts. (But we were having fun. And they were taking turns. They were learning, and nobody was angry. They didn't even mind that they couldn't eat that which I had promised them. It was so very succesful, except in the edible round of the judging.)

Our stay-at-home morning was not designed to be a stay-at-home day, and we had a lunch date to run off to. So, I heaved that mammoth bowl of cookie dough (which takes up an entire shelf) into the fridge. And we checked it off our list. Sort of. We made cookies... but not quite. Almost. We did a lot toward their existence. I mean, a lot.

I baked many batches during naptime, and they each enjoyed a cookie and cold milk later in the day. And I got two sweet, sticky kisses, some chocolate fingerprints to track around the house, and some happy, thankful snackers.

Meanwhile, I have been baking more batches at every slow moment when the oven is not otherwise occupied, and still, more than half of the cookie dough remains. I am running out of Tupperware in which to store these baked wonders, and I'm going to start freezing them soon.

I think we're set with cookies for a good while. Perhaps Tucker can share them with his kindergarten class on his birthday. (In two years.)

Anybody want a cookie? I have some. And for the record, they're delicious.

Pajama Chefs

It was fun. It was busy.

There were sprinkles and frosting in places I had never imagined.

On the walls, on the sliding glass door,

on the letter X from the Fridge Phonics,

all throughout the living room carpet,

and someone graciously gave the dog a butter knife covered with yellow frosting.

After I swept with the broom,

the vacuum,

the dry Swiffer,

the wet Swiffer,

and the dry Swiffer once more,

there are still sprinkles on the floor.

But sometimes, you just have to make a mess.

By The Dozen

I made two dozen cupcakes last night. They are of the carrot cake variety, with the creamiest, most decadent cream cheese frosting one can buy in a canister.

(For as much as I do not like butter cream frosting, I dearly love cream cheese frosting. Sweet nectar. It's possible that my husband found me sucking it straight from the pastry bag at one point in our marriage... just earlier this year. Possible.)

They are beautiful.

I have shared some, I may share more, but I may eat every last one of them. I just may. And I dare anyone to raise an eyebrow at my decision.

Wisdom says to freeze some, but I just can't. What if I need one, right now, and it's frozen? So instead, I have a LOT of cupcakes, right here at my disposal.

And I'm not even sorry.

Operation Cookie

I do not advise eating these cookies. They are pretty, and the morning project was fun for all of us. But I'm pretty sure they are only suitable for the little hands that made them.

(I know where those little hands have been.)