Dog Drama

I had this fear that I wouldn’t have enough material to sustain a blog. 

And then this happened to my dog.

Apparently Turtle got scratched in the eye.  Isn’t that the most pathetic thing you have ever seen?  And yes, that is a real button on her eye.  It’s supposed to keep the stitches in.

I don’t want to be the crazy dog lady that shares all the gross details about the medical procedures that her dogs undergo.  Suffice it to say that Turtle should be fine (except for maybe a bruised ego for having to wear the cone of shame for a week). 

I can’t quite get used to seeing a button sewn onto her eye or feeling the constant scraping of the cone on my legs. I am pretty sure that I am not looking forward to her full recovery as much as she is though.  The cone is a great impediment to life as she knew it.  She keeps getting it snagged on walls as she tries to turn sharp corners and it also gets caught underneath her food bowl and sends food everywhere except where she wants it (in her mouth).  It's really pitiful.  However, she is getting the royal treatment while she is recuperating: pain meds, treats, and  even sleeping in our bed (you would know this is a big deal if you've ever heard her snore).

I needn’t have worried about enough material.

Living in a Veggie Powered Van, Down by the River

            My husband and I like to watch social/cultural documentaries.  We like to broaden our horizons by learning about new things.  The problem is that as they expand our world, they also shrink it. 

            For instance, because of our addiction to documentaries, we no longer

                        *shop at Wal-Mart (Wal-Mart: The High Cost of Low Price)

                        *eat the meat of unhappy animals (Food, Inc.)

                        *drink Budweiser, Coors, or Miller Beer (Beer Wars)

                        *buy food or drinks that contain high fructose corn syrup (King Corn)

                        *want our child to be a North Korean gymnast (A State of Mind)

            OK, we never wanted that last one, but definitely not now.

            Also, currently we are daring each other to be the first person to try out our stack of reusable toilet paper.  No, No. . .thank YOU No Impact Man.

            If we keep up at this pace, before you know it we will have sold our house and moved into a veggie-powered van out in the country somewhere.  If we did, we would have to give up technology (I’d mail my handwritten blog posts to someone with an internet connection).  We would live off the land.  Now that I am imagining it, I’m not sure how successful we would be.

I’ve had a garden for the last two years and I’ve learned some things about myself.  One is that I’m always very excited in April to start planning because it means no more frost and Spring has arrived.  Then, come August, it’s not so thrilling anymore. I get disillusioned with the bugs that eat my broccoli and with weeds that bully their way in despite my layers and layers of mulch.  By this time, when it is unbearably hot and my squash is drooping like a basset hound’s ears and gasping for water, I’ll admit I occasionally pretend it is winter, sit in the house with a blanket, and knit.  My measures of avoidance might not be very helpful if we were farming for our food.

            And, could I really live completely off the land when I’m not even sure what a turnip or a parsnip is?  I’m pretty sure if you can’t drive to the grocery store to get a banana, you have to eat all kinds of weird vegetables people have heard about, but never really remember ever seeing. 

            As further proof, I’ve seen the way my husband is with bugs in the house.  He once made me go get a broom to encourage a fly out of our house.  I can imagine how that might translate to living in a place where bugs are even more prolific. 

            So maybe the veggie powered van life is not really for us.

           

Take heart family and friends, even though we keep attempting to get greener, we’ll probably never reach the far end of the spectrum (though we wave to and high five those who are out there) and don’t worry, when you visit we won’t make you use our reusable toilet paper.

Blanket Wars

            A couple mornings ago I went into my 17 month old son E.’s room to get him up for the day.  When I first saw him, it looked like he was holding his blanket, which had been crocheted with love by one of his grandmas.  I thought it was cute and that maybe he had decided on a “lovey.”  I wasn’t going to comment on how he had picked a rather large blanket that might be difficult to carry around or the fact that I had placed several small stuffed animals in his crib, any one of which would have made a lovely choice for a “lovey.”  And I’m sure I wasn’t partial to them because I had knit them myself. 

            But, upon closer inspection, I saw that he was not holding the blanket.  The blanket was holding him!  Once upon a time the crocheted holes in the blanket made me feel safe.  I reasoned that if he got it over his head, he would still be able to breathe.  But that day, he did not cover himself with it.  Instead, he had decided to put his hand through a hole as if it were a bracelet and another hole and another and another.   It took me a good while to get them all off. 

            Sometimes I wonder what he is thinking.  Oh, a hole.  I’ll put my hand through.  Oh, a hole…Oh, a hole…My hand is starting to tingle... 

            ? ? ?

            In the interest of not letting him cut off his circulation again, I took the blanket out (sorry Grandma).  I left his other blanket in there, which had also been crocheted (by Grandma’s friend) and had much smaller holes about the size of pennies.

            “Those are too small for him to get his whole hand through,” I thought.  The next morning, I found out, I had been wrong.  The holes were not too small; they could be stretched.  Again, it was wrapped at least seven times around his wrist and left a little red mark.

            “No. More. Holey. Blankets,” I told him.  I will win this.

           

            It was not over yet.  The next morning, something new was dangling from his wrist.  Really E.?  It was a stuffed elephant that had a plastic ring on the end of its tail.  You pull the ring to play music.  He had gotten the ring over his hand and stuck onto his wrist. 

            Final Score:  E.: 1  Mommy: 0

I'm So Sneaky: Hiding Healthy Ingredients in Foods

A little while ago, I made a chocolate pudding with a secret ingredient from Jessica Seinfeld’s book Deceptively Delicious (Yes, apparently Jerry’s wife likes to deceive her husband and kids). 

I was a little wary after I had tried to make guacamole with a secret healthy ingredient (a recipe from a different cookbook) and failed.  I pureed peas and snuck them into the guacamole.  My husband Dave loves guacamole, so I envisioned a scenario in my head that went something like this:

Me: Honey, I made your favorite: Guacamole. 

Dave:  Mmmm.  This is delicious.  You’re awesome.

Me:  You’ll never guess what’s in it.

Dave:  Avocados?

Me:  Well, yes.  And peas!

Dave:  Wow!  I never would have known.  And so delicious, too!

Instead, it went something like this:

            Dave:  Hmmm.  I feel like this guacamole is missing something.

            Me:  No.  I’m sure I put everything in it. 

            Dave:  What about that one spice?

            Me:  Cilantro?  I put that in.

            Dave:  Hmmm.  I still feel like something isn’t quite right.

            Me:  Well, I did add an extra ingredient…peas.

            Dave:  That explains the mushy pea aftertaste. 

            And Dave who usually finishes off the entire bowl abandoned the guacamole to grow mold in our refrigerator until someone (me) admitted defeat and threw it away.

            With that experience in the not-so-distant past, I was hesitant about adding the avocado to the chocolate pudding, but reminded myself that you can’t win if you don’t try. 

            The book said the amount of pudding served 8-10 people, but I just thought the Seinfeld’s must not have large dessert appetites.  I poured generous amounts of warm pudding into two small sundae dishes and delivered it to Dave with an air of satisfaction for my good housewifeliness. (I was letting him watch football and making him dessert). 

            It turned out delicious, almost like eating brownie batter (without the risk of salmonella from raw egg consumption).  Yet, it was heavy and rich.  And, I made a mental note to put the cornstarch (the last ingredient) through a sieve as the balls of white powder detracted somewhat from the tastiness. 

            About a fourth of the way through, Dave left to drink a large glass of milk.  He returned with another large glass of milk and a look of determination.

            “Did I fill the dish too full?” I asked.

            “No.  I can do it,” he said and then let out a long breath to make room.  To his credit, he did finish and also promised to eat the leftovers, albeit “in a few days.  I can’t do that to my body two days in a row,” he said.  Maybe I should have listened to the serving suggestion, but at least I can sleep well knowing I snuck extra nutrients into our chocolate pudding.