Hilary

Taking Care of Business

Spring has sprung. The flowers are stretching their heads up to the sun, the trees are beginning to bud, and the birds have begun to claim my car as their own personal toilet. Everything is coming back to life.

Our yard, which slumbered on through the winter under a thick layer of dun colored leaves, is starting to re-claim its vigor with lush and plentiful shoots. Soon enough, like this week-end, the Hubs will be outside, mower in hand, to trim things down to a more manicured state.

Yes, yard-work is upon us and I, too, cannot escape it. Of course, I’m referring to “yard-work”, landscaping the spaced below, if you know what I mean. If you aren’t sure to what I’m referring, get yourself a best friend, pronto. The weather is going to warm up. Necklines will drop. Sleeves will disappear. Legs will be uncovered to blind one and all with their winter whiteness that rivals only a new fallen snow. Hot on the heels of that, bathing suits will be dragged out and tried on — preferably under some soft lighting — and why not take a pre-emptive strike against that painful chore? Get in the business of welcoming warmer weather! Get a pedicure, get a spray tan, get a wax of some kind.

Once upon a time, I went for a bikini wax. It was in April, about five years ago. Once upon a time,I got an appoint at the spa for a few treatments and I learned a very painful lesson. Never, never, EVER take the last appointment of the day.

Well, I finally finagled a babysitter and an appointment at the local spa for a brow wax and some other touch-ups. Problem was, it was the last appointment of the day because that’s when the sitter was free. Seriously, now that Yia-Yia and Pop-Pop are retired, it’s not like they have stuff to do. Why she couldn’t come before 6:30 is beyond me. I digress. The sitter arrives, I kiss the girls and am out the door, off to the spa.

After I sign up and march on up to the waiting room, I make myself cozy with some filtered lemon water from their refreshment bar. I spy various Tazo tea bags and other goodies, like some Apple Cinnamon NutriGrain bars and figure, “Hey, they’re keeping me waiting,” and filch a few (two).

My aesthetician comes in, greets me and beckons me to follow her into her room where she promptly demands that I drop trou and wrangle myself into some disposable underpants that she has left on the waxing table. She steps out of the room and I proceed to peel the plastic wrap off of these so called underpants. Can we say that calling it two tissues laced over a rubber band would be a more accurate description? Oh, and ol’ girl said that I should lie down, face up, facing the door. God forbid someone burst into the room — Hello!

Fast forward to the waxing process. I’m trying to be social, cause that’s what I do when I’m nervous and some hot wax is headed toward my skin, and I say to the waxer, “I appreciate you squeezing me into your schedule” to which she replies, as she lathers hot wax onto my bikini line,”Oh, well, you’re my last appointment of the day. After this I can go home.” And then she puts all of her 105 pounds behind it and rips off the wax. I mean RIPPED. Every follicle of hair from my head on down was like “WTF?!”

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Now, I’ve been waxed before and I know you don’t want the wax to make a home with your skin, but there is some finesse involved in the whole process. I felt like Steve Carrell and damn near yelled out “KELLY CLARKSON!” All I could think was, never again, never again will I get the last appointment of the day. This chick was on a mission to get home and get her dinner started before Grey’s Anatomy came or something. Wax, rip, wax, rip. Wax, rip, wax, rip. She even had the nerve to look put out when I asked her what I could use in case of in-grown hairs or assorted irritations. She gave me this stuff called, and I kid you not, “Get the Bump Outta Here” — which is basically what she was telling me to do, too (I will be incorporating that phraseology into my vocab as soon as I can; it’s too good to pass up).

All I know is the next time the yard needs some work, we’re going early in the day, first thing, when they’re fresh, pressed and ready to work. Anything other than that. . .it’s too painful to imagine.

IN: ON: April 3, 2013 TAGS: me time, spring, the things you just do, waxing BY: Hilary

Om, nom, nope

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I have a nemesis. Truly, I am thwarted every single Monday when it comes to meal prep. Oh, Meatless Monday, how I dread your arrival! It’s not like I don’t know that Monday is coming. It comes every week, usually after Sunday. After having enjoyed a lovely week-end, getting back onto the hamster wheel of the work week is not appealing. Add to the fact that there is no meat involved?! I’m losing this battle.

Yes, this is a choice that the Hubs and I made together in an effort to improve out health and well being. I have read the discussions about what meat does to your body, how eliminating animal products and going vegetarian or even vegan can have a crap-ton of positive effects. I’ve got “Forks over Knives” in my Netflix queue. I’ve got friends who are vegetarian, vegan, and paleo, who swear, swear, swear by their respective lifestyles. Sure, I want to be healthy. I want to have the good cholesterol and strong arteries.

I also want to have a plate of steak frites sometimes, too.

I’m almost embarassed at how much I struggle with the lack of meat for JUST ONE DAY. It’s laughable, truly. I won’t starve, though I have been a little crankier than usual come Monday afternoons. I’ll admit it, I eat a lot of red meat. If you are what you eat, then I’m a ribeye with legs.

So, yes, I was willing to step up to the challenge of Meatless Monday, put down my steak knife and A-1 sauce. I know that there are other forms of protein available — cheese, legumes, quinoa, and even fish, since (in my opinion), it’s not meat like Moo-Moo or Bucka-Bucka or Oink-Oink (like my technical terms?). But even when it comes to Blub-Blub, I mean fish, my selections are limited. If I’m out at a seafood restaurant, chances are I’m ordering some kind of shell fish — clams, scallops, shrimp, crab. You’re not going to find me tucking into a plate of mahi-mahi, trout, tilefish or the like. Maybe some orange roughy, if it’s fried, but even then, why waste a meal out on something I could, theoretically, make at home?

Over the course of the last couple of months since we started this, I have stuck to the plan and made other food choices. We’re buying mostly chicken and fish when we’re getting groceries; as a matter of fact, I’m thinking I’m more like a chicken cutlet with legs at this point. Bucka-Bucka!

The past few weeks, when I crack open the freezer Monday afternoons in preparation for Monday night, I reach for some salmon fillets for the Hubs and the girls. Then I reach for the PB&J for myself. Seriously, I’m whipping up some bourbon glazed salmon with rice and a green veg for them, and then slapping together a lunchtime staple served up on a paper plate for myself. Anyone else see a discrepancy here?

Meatless Monday leaps out at me like “Rrrrrraaaarghhh!” and I’m always like, “Whoa! What?! Again?!” We usually have a really nice Sunday dinner and leftovers are involved. I get kind of funky about food left in the fridge too long, though. If there are leftovers, they need to be consumed within one or two days of their original preparation. After that, I swear I start seeing them grow beards and whiskers. So, what happens when you have a standing rib roast for Easter dinner, no one takes any leftovers home with them, there’s a cinder block sized piece of meat in your fridge leftover and you’ve committed to abstaining for meat the following day? Yes, these are first world problems, I know.

Ideally, I’d slice up that meat and we’d have steak fajitas for dinner. Or, I’d lay it over a salad or find some kind of creative way to use the meat before (in my eyes), it started to turn. Just add “weird about leftovers, and perhaps food in general” to my list of quirks. I don’t mind.

I’ve got several girlfriends who are kind enough to just tsk, tsk, tsk, at my foolishness and then send me a stack of meat free recipes. There are pasta dishes, quinoa dishes, dishes heavy on the veggies, all of which look delicious and I would have no problem whipping up — if I got around to planning ahead for them.

Proper prior planning. . .usually I’m pretty good about this. When it comes to Monday meal prep, I just figure if I don’t address it, it’ll go away. And then what happens is PB&J’s all around.

Guess I better stock up on the peanut butter. . .

IN: ON: April 1, 2013 TAGS: food BY: Hilary

With(hold) Your Compliments

I honestly don’t know what to make of this. So, over the week-end, the Hubs and I took the girls to a birthday party. We were greeted by the birthday girls’ mom and shown into the main part of the house where a number of the activities were going on. As we walked in, our hostess mentioned that a mutual friend of ours was here. We hadn’t seen this person in a while and as we approached, she opened her arms to give me a hug. As she did so, she exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, look at you! You’re so skinny, you whore!” and then she flashed me a giant mega-watt smile.

The Hubs had been waylaid into a conversation with the birthday girl’s grandfather and simulatneously trying to keep Vivi from gouging out the old man’s eyeballs. He says given those circumstances, he didn’t hear our friend say that, even though he was standing right at my elbow.

I heard it for damn sure, and was thoroughly taken aback because, I’ve never been called “whore” before, in all seriousness or in jest. I was stunned that she said that, especially after having been called a “skinny bitch” just a few weeks ago. I mean, I know I’ve been amping up my work-outs, but I didn’t think it warrants this kind of feedback! It was surprising and off-putting, coupled with the fact that she followed it up with a big ass smile. The smile was the gesticular eqvuivalent of saying “Bless your heart”. It’s a Southern mannerism, saying “bless your heart” whereby you can get away with saying some downright nasty things about someone so long as you add that key phrase somewhere in the mix (i.e. Oh, Mary Sue’s little girl looks like she hit every branch falling out of the ugly tree, bless her heart!).

I had done quite a bit of reading recently about Mommy Wars and the ways in which we as women pull eachother down, crabs in a bucket style. Why do we think we’re doing eachother a favor by complimenting one another in such a backhanded fashion? It’s so two-faced and back stabby. Personally, I’d rather you just keep it to yourself. I appreciate someone complimenting me on how I look; that’s nice, but let me have the compliment in it’s entirety. Don’t tell me I look good, and then diffuse or downplay the good feeling I’m bound to get by calling me a whore as a followup. The take away of the exchange is not that it’s good to see me, or even that I look skinny (thank you very much), but that I’m a whore (for looking skinny in comparison to you).

Think of it from this perspective. What if I was naturally a Rachel Zoe or Nicole Richie size? Then, the next time you saw me, I was looking healthy, more Christina Hendricks-esque. I don’t think anyone would say, “Oh my God! Look at you! You’re so curvy, you whore!”

Sounds ridiculous, right? So don’t do it.

I guess it goes back to my expectations of other people. I don’t behave in a certain way and I expect other people to behave the way I do. It’s not that difficult. I’m not Mother Teresa or Ghandi, so I think my behaviors are pretty attainable. I mean, if you boil it down, it’s all about the golden rule. If someone looks good, then I’ll tell them so and leave it at that. I don’t need to undercut the positivity. I have a problem with using “bitch”, “whore”, “skank” or even “cunt in jest. Whore is kind of strong, you know? And yes, I understand about reclaiming the word to take the explosiveness out of it, but I’m not buying that. I’m hard pressed to think of an example where dudes do this to one another. I mean you might know of some guy that is always calling someone a “douchebag” or a “ball sack” or whatever guys call eachother, but it’s never in the context that women choose to express themselves.

I’ve never heard a guy compliment a guy on the way he looks, so maybe right there lies the difference. But even still, imagine two male contestants on Top Chef complimenting eachother.

Hey Joel, that chilean sea bass with bacon foam was delicious, you douche-bag!
C’mon, Michael! Your roasted corn and saffron sea scallops were righteous, you f-cking nut sack!

I kind of laughed a little to myself just then because it sounds SO outrageous!

Going back to the mommy war part of it, I think it’s no longer the mothers who work outside of the home versus the mothers who work inside the home. It’s now the stay at home moms versus other stay at home mom’s. It’s about the mom’s competing against one another about who’s taken the most Pilates and barre classes. Who spends the most time in the gym, who gives their kids the most unique, non-traditional, gender neutral name, and has the most pairs of Tory Burch shoes. All of the things that make these women caricatures are being held up as some kind of brass ring to strive for and yet, I don’t remember signing up for that contest. Hell, I didn’t even know there was a contest. I’m not trying to be about that.

It’s hard enough being a woman,
and a wife,
and a mother.

It can be very lonely and isolating. When I make friends, I don’ t want the kind that call me a whore because they think we’re in competition for some grand prize. I’m not competing against you or anyone else. I’m just trying to get to the end of the day. . .

. . .and keep the top button of my pants buttoned.

IN: ON: March 27, 2013 TAGS: self-esteem, sharing, working out BY: Hilary

Facebook, Friends, and Feeling (Not So) Good

I was reading the latest issue of Real Simple magazine the other day. No, it wasn’t while I was snuggled under a plush cashmere throw with a piping hot cup of coffee while Mo, Co and Vivo frolicked in the snow. It was while I was trying to slap together a PB&J for myself, while making “Meatless Monday” (how I loathe it) dinner for the kids and convince them that they were old enough to eat salmon. Yes, that was their excuse, “We’re not old enough to eat this kind of fish.” I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there were legal ramificaitons involved in the consumption of certain types of seafood among the elementary school set.

Anyway, I had the magazine propped open against the paper towel holder, and the page fell open to an article entitled “Feel Better Already”. Saints be praised! The Universe has spoken loud and clear. Eagerly, I flipped ahead with peanut buttery hands. In short, the article was a list of 21 tips and small changes that you can follow to put an upswing in your well-being.

A few suggestions, such as “Smile, even if you don’t feel like it” and “Snack on dark chocolate!”, I’d heard of and already put into practice (hello, sea salt and dark chocolate. I’ll see you this evening). Some of the tips didn’t really apply to me, like using your daily commute as a mini break or getting rid of your dust-ruffle (you’ve got some freeloading dust mites just whooping up in that thing), since I’ve got neither of those. And there were the tips that I could probably do if I remembered to put it on the to-do list. There was talk of vitamins and microexercise, taking a hike, using epsom salts. The one tip that reached off the page and tweaked the end of my nose was number 9: “Get some perspective on Facebook.”

Do tell. . .

Basically, Facebook can make you feel like crap. Most people have pretty large networks of friends. Each time your newsfeed burbles up with photos said friends lounging on a white sandy beach, or your Zumba instructor knocking off numbers 1, 7 and 12 off of your bucket list, it’s like a paper cut to your self-esteem. Your brother’s exgirlfriend just got a job promotion? Paper cut. Your tenth grade lab partner moved to Paris? Paper cut.

We spend time on Facebook, but the more we see others doing or having, we then look at ourselves and start tallying up what we’re not doing, what we aren’t having. Imagine the amount of time you spend on Facebook times the number of times your newsfeed coughs up another happily-ever-after status update. I’m no math whiz, so I’ll just say paper cut. Paper cut. Paper cut.

Ironically, I got this image from a webpage about Facebook Statuses

I gave up Facebook for Lent. I deactivated my account and deleted the app from my phone. When I told the Hubs that was what I planned to give up, he was all, “Really?! For Lent? You know that’s like 40 days, right?” I knew that I was teetering on a Facebook addiction when even Mo expressed disbelief at my choice. I had asked her what she was giving up for Lent or rahter, what best practice she would adopt, when she tried to put one over on me by asking what I planned to do. “I gave up Facebook,” I told her. “No way!” came her response. “Like forever?!”

That’s problematic.

I’ll admit it. I was ~~wasting~~ spending way too much time doing the voyeuristic thing. Sure, I was catching up with friends, admiring photos, but then I’d check my watch and realize, “Oof! I should get off this thing — -in like 10 more minutes.” Dilney Goncalves, PhD., an assistant professor of marketing at IE Business School and the study leader quoted in the Real Simple article was saying:

“It’s natural to compare our lives with those of others, but people tend to post disproportionately positive updates and neglect the not-so-glamorous aspects of their lives on Facebook.”

Well sure, who wants to see the plain, ugly truth? When you see those drama filled Facebook updates like, “Wondering if it’s all worth it,” and “Gonna need more than prayers,” called vaguebooking, do you really want to know the unpleasant stuff that’s sure to follow? Do you want people to know you have unpleasant stuff? There are drama updates sprinkled in the mix because we all have unpleasant stuff that come into our lives. Some of us choose not to show it. Some of us choose to hide it behind status updates and photos so ridiculously perfect they make a shimmering rainbows or a galloping unicorn seem like day old, stir fried doo-doo.

We use Facebook as an escape. It’s a time suck. It’s a way to pass some minutes waiting at the doctor’s office, for the movie to start or the light to change. We’re looking for something to zip us away from what’s in front of us, if only for a few seconds. The grass is always greener, right? But when it rains, it falls on both sides of the fence.

Easter is this coming Sunday and with it comes the end of Lent. Throughout the last 40 days, I’ve learned that I can indeed survive without Facebook. There are a crap-ton of other social media outlets on which to waste time and stay connected with people. Will I get back on? I don’t know. In order to spread the word about my writing and my photography, I may have to. Facebook is everywhere, and if I want my name and my brand to be everywhere, well. . .

Check out this article by Dilney Goncalves about why you shouldn’t have more than 34 Facebook friends. If you un-friend me after reading it, I’ll understand.

IN: ON: March 26, 2013 TAGS: self-esteem, sharing, waxing BY: Hilary

Wednesday

I’ve been splitting my time between writing, taking pictures, and building a new website. These are all tasks which require me to use different parts of my brain in different ways. It’s a miracle that I am still coherent enough to form these sentences right now.

Web designing is not for the faint of heart. I have learned so much in such a short period time, but it’s been a straight up “pump and dump” kind of thing. Remember back in school when you’d learn about something that you were confident you’d never use again? You retained it long enough to pass the test or the class or write the paper. Seriously, how often are you asked how to prove congruent parts of congruent triangles are congruent? Or when was the last time someone asked you the Vice Presidents for Grover Cleveland, Millard Fillmore, and Chester A. Arthur? SN: The answer there would be Adali Stevenson and Thomas A. Hendricks for Cleveland, and none for Fillmore or Arthur who were both Veeps that assumed the presidency upon the assassination of their respective presidents. As for me, I didn’t really pay attention on how to draw perspective in art class.


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Remember those? Ugh, I couldn’t even make a straight line with the ruler, let alone get a house or a series of buildings to populate the page. It’s hard to pump and dump artistic skill, but I passed art class, so I must have clung onto something and spit it back out on the paper.

These days, I’m pumping my head full of info about how to build a webpage. I’ve been all up on my domain hosting site, using the domain name system, making sure my Internet protocol is accurately describing the server where my page will be. I’ve learned html to make things centered, bold, italicized and forwarded to my email account. I’ve learned just enough to get somethings done, but if I don’t keep it up, the minute I turn my attention to something else, anything else, it’ll just slide right out of my head like water through a sieve.

I can remember doing something like this before. When I built my first website for my photography, I scoured the chat room and help centers for information. I really wanted something short and to the point, concise answer, not long drawn out explanation. I want to do X, tell me in five sentences or less how to do it. I leaned heavily on tech support; I’m sure they hated to see my name pop up in the online chats. The website got built. It wasn’t super fancy, but it was steps above just the name and an “Under Construction” icon. Once the business started proving itself, I wanted to make some changes to our web presence. I had totally forgotten how to do it. I ended up cutting and pasting pages of code into a Word document and saving it so that if I completely broke the webpage, I could just cut and paste it back to normal. Which is pretty much what I did.

I’ve taken sole ownership of the business. I want a different look to my web presence. Ideally, I want to farm the whole thing out to someone I can talk to, face to face, and show my sketches and plans. I have pages of notes that I’ve taken on what I want my splash page to look like, how I want my galleries displayed and my blog integrated. I’ve visited numerous hosting sites and template sites. I’m pulling from all different directions to create this framework on which to hang my creativity.

Oh, and I must remember to actually create something.

I’m a minimalist; I don’t want music or multi-colored pages. I want to keep it simple so that you can focus on why you’re visiting my site: for my writing and for my pictures. Conveying that on a website is trickier that you’d imagine.

I’m pumping information into a system that’s already overloaded. I need an external hardrive for my brain. There’s no reason why I should still be able to quote whole scenes from the “Cosby Show” and yet, can’t string together simple code so that my welcome on my homepage is in 16 point underlined font. Some nights find me sitting at the table, surrounded by papers, folders, power cords, and camera pieces. For as much as I love order and everything in it’s proper place, I don’t feel like I’m in the thick of it unless I’m covered in the paraphernalia that goes along with it. It’s those times that I want to just stick my hands through the screen and physically manipulate pieces of text and images and all the rest of it so it flows the way I want. Instead of trying to find a photo-illustrator, a web designer, a graphic artist, and the money with which to do it all, I want to hold my notes up to the screen and have them be absorbed.

Hmmm. . . I haven’t tried that yet and I did just get this SnowLeopard OS upgrade. . .

IN: ON: March 20, 2013 TAGS: photography BY: Hilary

Monday, Monday

The littlest biscuit is down for a nap. She has been for quite a while now. I’m creeping up against the time when I need to wake her up so that she can have a balanced lunch before we go get the big girls and the “just-five-more-minutes” plea bargaining I do with myself when I’ve finally hit my stride with whatever I’m doing. Guess which way I’m leaning.

And with that, I’ve hit a brick wall on the writing.

So, I’m off to read some other blogs and hope inspiration strikes. Seeing as how I started writing this at 1:30pm and it’s now 8:24pm, I don’t think I’ve gotten over the wall. Or through it. Or under it. Or around it.

I’m kind of slumped up against it at this point.

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Hey, at least I’m not beating my head against it. It’s the small victories.

IN: ON: March 19, 2013 BY: Hilary

recipes

Recipe Friday: A Twofer

Something is going with me that I just can’t a handle on things. There are a lot of things that have gotten started (loading the dishwasher, folding the laundry, defrosting dinner), but just haven’t been completed. I really want to blame that literal time suck that is Daylight Savings, but it’s been close a week now, so I know the problem lies squarely with me.

When I have a few minutes to think about it, usually, if I can remember to shut the door behind me in the bathroom, I realize, there just aren’t enough hours in the day. Period. Well, and I’ve got a vicious circle of demanding wee ones that are always in need of a wiped nose, wiped bottom, snack, or some variation on a theme. Once I get one squared away and turn my attention to the next one, another one is coming up with a request. You ever see those street hustlers with the three cups and the ball telling you “Keep your eye on the ball, keep your eye on the ball,” as they do some Cirque du Soleil type tricks with the cups? Yeah, I’m the ball; the kids are the cups.

Even when I was no longer laid up in bed with the cast and crutches, I still feel like I had a better grasp of my time and to-do list. My system hasn’t changed; our routines are pretty much the same. I don’t know where things have gotten off kilter. I kinda want to lay it at V’s chubby little baby feet; she’s crawling now, which means, I actually have to stay on top of the housecleaning because EVERY.THING is going right into her mouth. She and I have this constant battle. I put her down so I can use both of my hands to — oh, I don’t know — tie my shoes — and she’s beelined to the fridge, running her fat fingers underneath to unearth some kind of who knows what. I see her, make a grab, but she’s got her fingers in her mouth. Up she comes on my hip, where I pin her arms in my armpit with one hand, while doing a fishing expedition in her mouth with my other. Ugh, she hates it, I hate it. Her head is whipping back and forth and I actually put words to the movements, as in “no, no, no!” Plus her little teeth are coming in, so I’ve got a ring of baby bites on my index finger. If I had them inked in, it would be a pretty sweet tattoo.

Come to think of it, I spend quite a bit of time doing the put down, pick up routine. There’s a lot of repetition at home, which is probably why I don’t feel as though I’m making any forward progress on other things. Oh, and the amount of time I spend in the car. Whoa. The sad part is, I’m not really even going anywhere! The hubs and I were talking about commutes the other day; his is 90 minutes, one way. A carpool run for me is about 45, but given the myriad of other things going on between drop off and pick up, I, too am in the car about 3 hours every day.

In any event, I’m trying to figure out how to delegate some responsibilities so that things get done around here. On trash days, I’ve started paying the girls a dollar to drag the trash bins up the driveway, back to the shed. We’re working on having them wipe out the sink in their shared bathroom with Clorox wipes after each use, because having to take a flathead screwdriver to some crusted up toothpaste is not fun. After the laundry has been done, I stack it up on my bed and call them in to collect their stuff. Clearing the table after meals is something I have to remind them to do every.single.time. they. eat – but, I’m confident that they’re going to remember on their own one day. Hopefully, it’ll come before they go off to college.

The girls have really wanted to help in the kitchen when I’m making breakfast or dinner. The workspace in my kitchen is not conducive to many cooks, even if I wanted anyone in there with me. I’m not saying that the kitchen is my domain, I’m just saying, I’ve got a flow and I like to be in there, flowing, if you will, on my own. Plus, I don’t want any little fingers getting burned, chopped, or grated, if you feel me. But, they are desperate to be in the kitchen and help me.

I wrestle with it because, like I said, I like my kitchen a certain way. I know several folks who know what I’m talking about. Another part of me thinks that if I don’t foster the interest in cooking, then they’ll never learn about volume, conversions, and why you should never use a liquid measuring cup for dry ingredients! I can’t wait for them to get to Home Ec. Do they even have Home Ec anymore?

So, I started off small. During the holidays, I’ll set them up at the kitchen table with cookie dough, sprinkles, and all manner of decorating paraphernalia Sometimes, I’ll let the babysitter take one for the team and enlist her aid in having the girls make cupcakes or brownies. My parents and my in-laws love having little hands help out, so rest assured that there’s always some kind of culinary explosion going on.

The other day, Co got her High Five magazine in the mail and found a recipe for a Spring Time Salad. The child would only eat snacks if you let her, starts hopping form foot to foot, begging to make this. I gently reminded her that the recipe included vegetables, in particular, asparagus. She was not to be deterred. So, during the next shopping order, I got her ingredients. There’s a pot-luck at church every Wednesday during Lent and there is a dearth of vegetable offerings. I suggested to Co that we bring her salad to the pot-luck. Wednesday rolled around and we got cooking.

Yeah, I made this!

Mo, in her ever present quest for fairness, wanted to make something to bring to the communal table as well. I peeped into the fridge, casting about for something, anything that we could throw together and call it good. I introduce you to Cabbage and Broccoli Slaw!

Ta-da!

They were so proud of themselves, they almost toppled over one another bringing it to the community table in the Fellowship Hall! And while we made our way around the table, dropping biscuits and chicken, green beans and rice onto our plates, we noticed that their salads were getting scooped up, too. Just not by Mo and Co. In classic kiddo fashion, my girls bypassed their own handiwork and went straight for the bread (they get it from their father!).

Well, I sampled the vegetables and they were delightful! I even had seconds. Trust me, there’s no shame in my pot-luck game and as one of my fellow parishoners said, “That’s the trouble with pot-lucks. You try your luck on what’s in the pot!”

Happy Friday, y’all!

Springtime Asparagus Salad courtesy of High Five Magazine

1 pound asparagus

2 hard-boiled eggs

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

2 tbs. lemon juice

Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

1. Snap the woody ends off the asparagus. Steam for seven minutes. Drain and rinse in cold water; Set aside.

2. Using an egg slicer, slice the hard boiled eggs. If you don’t have an egg slicer, chop the eggs.

3. In a small bowl, whisk together the lemon juice and olive oil.

4. Place the sliced/chopped egg atop the asparagus. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Drizzle with olive oil and lemon juice. Serve and enjoy!

Cabbage and Broccoli Slaw

2 cups red and green cabbage

1 cup shredded carrot

1 cup broccoli florets (no stems)

1/2 bottle of Stonewall Kitchen New Englad Coleslaw Dressing

1. Place all ingredients in a large bowl.

2. Mix well and place in refrigerator to chill at least 1 hour prior to serving.

3. Serve and enjoy!

IN: recipes ON: March 15, 2013 TAGS: activities, baking, cooking, food, my girls, om nom nom, pinterest, recipes BY: Hilary

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