A Joyful Noise…and other sounds

I was defiantly scornful of the snow that fell all day today.  In my head I kept thinking, “Fine, whatever snow.  You and I both know that Spring and Summer will come.  And then where will you be?  Nothing but a vague unpleasant memory.  So rage all you want.  Cover up my Day Lilies whose leaves are just starting to emerge.  Plaster yourself on my driveway and sidewalk.  Bury the soccer ball sitting on my front lawn  Give me your worst.  But frankly, you’ve lost your edge.”  It’s almost over.  I will survive!  (picture me, standing on my front porch, grasping my flip-flops and shaking them at the cloudy sky)

On this, her sixth anniversary of life, let it be known the April loves to:

Snowboard.  As long as it is on her Dads’ board, holding his hands.

Rock the fairy princess look with her little sis.

Create.  Magformers and Legos get an enthusiastic two thumbs up.

Be six.  We love you April!

To those of you who read this post, please do not take offense at my next words.  This is about me, not you.  That said, I will tell my tale.  To me, there have always been two very different kinds of cooks.  There are the “Martha Stewarts” who make almost everything from scratch, and it is delicious.  And everybody hates them.  But we all love to be invited to their house for dinner.   Then there the “Betty Crocker from the Box-ers” who utilize all the wonderful pre-made, pre-packaged groceries our modern world has to offer.  There are some who move back and forth between the two camps.  While I don’t classify myself as an exclusive “Martha Stewart” I try to make as much as I can from scratch without driving myself completely bonkers.  One such item I took great pride in was my brownies.  I learned how to make brownies at a very young age.  And, except for a few unfortunate incidents (forgetting the eggs, cooking on broil) I was a fairly accomplished brownie maker.  When I got married, I wasn’t a great cook.  I wasn’t even a good cook.  But I could make brownies!  Even if the dinner was awful, I wasn’t worried, because dessert would be delicious.  Then something happened.  Maybe it was the elevation.  Maybe it was the many different ovens I cooked in from 2002-2007, but time after time after time, my brownies were a failure.    They were edible, but not great.  Which almost seems worse than totally ruined, because I  couldn’t throw them away, but no one would eat them and they would just sit there, constantly reminding me of my non-success.  It was awful, and I refused to believe that I couldn’t make good brownies.  So I kept on trying.  I tried more flour.  Less flour.  I melted the butter then mixed in cocoa before adding other ingredients.  I tried baking it for longer.  For shorter.  I tried substituting brown sugar for regular sugar.  I tried honey.  Applesauce!  The result of all my efforts were mediocre brownies at best.  I couldn’t get it right.  I was at a cross-roads.  Do I keep on trying, or do I cross to the other side?  For a woman whose mother makes most everything from scratch, it was a decision fraught with anxiety.   The other day, when I was making dinner for myself and another family, I wanted to make brownies for dessert.  But I couldn’t make brownies anymore!  And if I did I certainly couldn’t give them away to people I consider my friends.  I was at the grocery store and I saw Betty Crocker brownie mix for .99 cents.  Eyes downcast, feeling the disapproval of two generations of From-Scratch brownie makers upon my head, I bought two packages.  I took them home and made them.  I threw away the packages before Kim got home.  After dinner he had one.  “Good brownies!”  he gushed.  I punched him in the face.  Not really.  But oh, Betty, why does a store- bought, pre-packaged, preservative-laden concoction such as yours taste so much better than my made-from-the-heart, mixed-with-love batter?  I don’t know.  But I give up.  Betty’s brownies are better than mine, and I think after nearly eight years of trying, it’s time to let go and move on.  You win Betty.  Curse you!

I need a box.  A big box.  And I need it now!  It’s a difficult problem because while I need a bigger box for my baby chicks, I also need one that fits in my laundry room, which is comparable in size to the Smart Car.  What to do?  I had no idea they would grow as fast as they are.  And while their rapid growth rate presents some dilemmas, it’s also been amazing to see them act like, well like chickens.  They peck!  They scratch at the floor and look for food!  They perch!  It’s just their food container which sits roughly four inches off the ground,  but still!  It’s amazing to me that in spite of the lack of an adult chicken to show them what to do, they still manage to figure out how to behave like proper domestic poultry.

Our chickens arrived today.  All fifteen were alive and well, plus one extra!  Introducing:

Becky, Koo-Koo doodle doo, Peanut, Kelly, Maddie, Tiana, Princess, Cici, Shinny, Shanae, Shaunae, Shelly, Bonnie, Sparky, Connie, Honey.  Koo-Koo doodle doo and Peanut are the boys, with the marks on their heads.  April and Janey named them.   I think, after a while, they just started thinking of people they knew.  They also told me they knew which one Becky was because she was the one who was laying down.

The chicks have now begun their journey from Missouri and are traveling in style, riding in a box that looks something like this.  I stopped by IFA today to pick up a heat lamp and some pine shavings.  Essential items when assembling a brooder.  What is a brooder you say?  Well, here is a lesson in chicken-raising vocabulary:

Brooder, broo-dur (n):  The thing you put the baby chickens in when you bring them home, basically a glorified cardboard box

Pullet, puh-lut (n): Female baby chick,

Cockerel, kok-rul(n):  Male baby chick

Mash, mash (n):  The stuff you feed them

Pine Shavings, pyn shà-veengs(n):  The stuff they poop on

Heat lamp, heet lamp (n): the thing that keeps them warm

Water, wah-tur(n):  The stuff they drink

Amazing right?  Water?  Whoduh thunk?

Our trip to Moab stemmed the tide of madness that was sweeping over our family.  We all got to escape to a (slightly) warmer climate, the kids got to explore  the slickrock and we finally visited Delicate Arch for the first time in all of our lives.  So, I give this trip two enthusiastic thumbs-up.  Fine family fun!

partial-group photo on the slickrock (Dawson Charlynn Tonya, Janey, April, Kirt, Kassidy, Andre, Kian)

April and I in the “hideout” the kids discovered.

Kim and Kirt carrying the wee ones to Delicate Arch.  Kian gets the toughest kid award.  It was a 3 mile round-trip hike and he walked for a lot of it.  That’s a long way for a kid who just turned 3!

I have always wondered if Delicate Arch was overrated and really worth the trip to see.  I even joked about it on last year’s Moab post.  I was wrong.  It was totally worth the trip and anybody who has the means and the time should visit Arches Natl. Park and hike to Delicate Arch.  It’s amazing, which is a word that is overused, but it totally fits.  Majestic would be another one.  I can’t believe I waited this long to see it when it was always just a few hours away.  In case you can’t tell, that’s us, waving from under the arch.

It’s just a few hours until we depart for Moab for the long weekend.  It’s been a little iffy about whether we are going to go for sure, but as of today, our children’s health was no worse than it was yesterday, if not better.  It has been a cough/mucous/fever/sore throat/earache/vomit  fest for the past 6 days and I feel fairly confident that if we didn’t go somewhere this weekend we would all go stark raving mad.  Mad, I say.  Mad!  Hee, hee hee!  Oh no.  I’m already there.  It really must be time for a vacation.

We had a very fun day celebrating Eli’s 2nd birthday, complete with guitar cake.  Eli’s opinion of my cake-decorating skills is rather low.  When I showed him the cake and asked him what it was he said “I don’t know”.  Talk about a blow to the ego!  This coming from the child who eats, sleeps and breathes all things guitar.  Here is Eli at a glance on this, the anniversary of his birth.

Favorite toy:  His guitar, followed distantly by his choo-choo train

Favorite thing to do:  Play guitar

Favorite Song:  currently it is  ‘Jammin’ by Bob Marley, ‘Island in the Sun’ by Weezer coming in at a close second

Favorite Food:  anything sweet that I don’t want him to have

I suppose they all have to leave home sometime.  In Eli’s opinion, that time was two days before his second birthday.  He asked for his coat, hat and boots.  Then he picked up the guitar and walked out the door.  His last words were “Bye Mom!” and he was walking off down the sidewalk.  I guess all a kid really needs is his guitar and the open road.  Good luck buddy.