Intricately stacked bottles filled with bright orange liquid wrapped in decorative white labels, much prettier than your standard grocery store shelves. With beautiful well-balanced displays of overpriced kitchen objects and fanciful pantry items with French names and organic ingredients, Williams-Sonoma sucks me in every time. Just like walking around Hobby Lobby gives me the false bravado that I could macramé something, perusing the displays at Williams-Sonoma fills me with the sensation that I could be a great chef.
So, I grab the orange bottle that contains Pumpkin Parmesan Sauce. The artisan label complete with a beautiful sketch of a pumpkin tells me that if I buy this bottle of sauce, my family will enjoy: A celebration of the autumn harvest, our handcrafted pasta sauce makes it easy to savor authentic Italian regional flavors at home.…As convenient as it is delicious, this artisanal sauce makes it easy to whip up a memorable meal. Simply heat the sauce, toss with your favorite pasta and serve.
I turn the bottle over and see the $15.00 price tag and put it back on the shelf only to have my husband snatch it immediately.
“The kids are so not worth a $15.00 bottle of pasta sauce,” I argued.
“Tough. We are trying it,” he replied firmly.
I was glad that I lost the battle and continued to fill our cart with ridiculously overpriced items.
The following evening, I heated the sauce in a pan and brought lobster and crab stuffed ravioli to a gentle boil for a special Sunday night dinner for my kids since their dad was already on an airplane destined for Connecticut. I topped the plump stuffed pasta circles with the slow-roasted pumpkin infused with heavy cream, aged Parmesano-Reggiano cheese, caramelized onions and roasted garlic.
I refrained from stealing a taste until everyone was seated and served. Most of us took a bite simultaneously with only my eleven-year-old son being the holdout and his ravioli were covered in butter instead of the pumpkin sauce.
“Gross,” said the six-year-old boy, who requests salads for lunch and prefers peppermints to chocolates.
“It’s okay,” says the eight-year-old girl, an already wonderful cook who aspires to be a professional chef someday who won’t have to get pseudo-gourmet flavor from a jar.
“I don’t like it,” said my three-year-old.
The kids were right. A mix of pumpkin, Parmesan and vomit stirred with feet covered our pasta. We scraped off the sauce to salvage a few raviolis, but we just mostly devoured our corn and sweet peas.
The remaining pasta was tossed in the trash and along with my trampled desires for a delicious dinner.
At $15.00 for the sauce, $10.00 for the ravioli and $1.75 total for a can of peas and a can of corn, I could have ordered pizza for less money and had happier children.
Showing posts with label domestic life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label domestic life. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Ceiling, Really?
Dear Eldest Son:
Since you like math so much, here are a few facts for you to contemplate. The average width of a toilet seat is 15.7 inches and the average head circumference for an almost twelve-year-old boy is 15 inches; therefore, with 0.7 inches of head room, I would like to know why you can’t manage to get on your knees, hug the toilet real tight and hit the target with your vomit. Out of my four children, only you are not capable of properly aiming your vomit. If your three-year-old brother can hold his own barf bucket steadily during a two-hour minivan excursion, throw up three times, and not get a drop on his clothes or his car seat, how does a sixth grader who completes math problems at a tenth grade level manage to not only miss the toilet completely but hit all four bathroom walls, the bathtub, the floor, the hand towels and the ceiling? The ceiling, really? How did you make your vomit defy gravity?
It was one thing when you were one-year-old, vomited all over yourself, smiled with delightful relief and started screaming once you felt that mushiness of your puke through your sleeper. You were a baby. Even when you were a four-year-old and couldn’t make it to the bathroom on time, I was grossed out, dry-heaving beside you, but I could understand your inability to control your gag reflex. But at as a middle school student, it is time show some self control, boy!
With each passing day as you get closer to the age of twelve, I realize that you are not likely to ever move out. You will never find a college roommate that will tolerate puke on the carpet, and you certainly won’t find a wife willing to aim your head towards the toilet. Dear son, I love you, but I don’t want to be cleaning up your vomit for the rest of my life. You will find a bucket, mop, and Lysol in the bathroom, please use these items accordingly.
Your Loving Mother
Since you like math so much, here are a few facts for you to contemplate. The average width of a toilet seat is 15.7 inches and the average head circumference for an almost twelve-year-old boy is 15 inches; therefore, with 0.7 inches of head room, I would like to know why you can’t manage to get on your knees, hug the toilet real tight and hit the target with your vomit. Out of my four children, only you are not capable of properly aiming your vomit. If your three-year-old brother can hold his own barf bucket steadily during a two-hour minivan excursion, throw up three times, and not get a drop on his clothes or his car seat, how does a sixth grader who completes math problems at a tenth grade level manage to not only miss the toilet completely but hit all four bathroom walls, the bathtub, the floor, the hand towels and the ceiling? The ceiling, really? How did you make your vomit defy gravity?
It was one thing when you were one-year-old, vomited all over yourself, smiled with delightful relief and started screaming once you felt that mushiness of your puke through your sleeper. You were a baby. Even when you were a four-year-old and couldn’t make it to the bathroom on time, I was grossed out, dry-heaving beside you, but I could understand your inability to control your gag reflex. But at as a middle school student, it is time show some self control, boy!
With each passing day as you get closer to the age of twelve, I realize that you are not likely to ever move out. You will never find a college roommate that will tolerate puke on the carpet, and you certainly won’t find a wife willing to aim your head towards the toilet. Dear son, I love you, but I don’t want to be cleaning up your vomit for the rest of my life. You will find a bucket, mop, and Lysol in the bathroom, please use these items accordingly.
Your Loving Mother
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
My Good Deed
“Mom, can we have a snack?" asked my eight-year-old daughter anchored by her three brothers and a set of twin eight-year-old girls from down the street.
I reached into the pantry and grabbed a white box adorned with a small picture of a blonde girl with braids wearing a blue bonnet and a huge smile framed by naturally bright red lips. I reached deep into the slender box and retrieved six brown rectangles decorated with pastel circles and covered with shrink wrap.
“What is it?” said the perplexed brunette.
“A Little Debbie Brownie,” I responded.
“What does that mean?” asked the other perplexed brunette.
“You have never had a Little Debbie? " I inquired.
“No,” said twin number one.
“Really? You have never seen a box like this before. What about these or these?” I asked while holding a box of yellow Twinkies in my left hand and a bag of Oreos in my right hand.
“No,” said twin number two.
This really did not come as much of a surprise since my family lives in a town like Lake Wobegon but better. Here all the children range from well-above average to presidential. My four children are squarely in the middle of the pack in the position of “somewhat exceptional.” Their rankings have possibly been stunted by their extensive exposure to simple sugars, trans fat and hydrogenated oils.
“What does your mom give you as snacks?"
“Grapes and apples. Sometimes she makes his hot chocolate and warm chocolate chip cookies,” said the first twin with the other one nodding in agreement.
“Really. Fruits and homemade cookies. You poor kids," I said with a sympathetic smile. “Enjoy your Little Debbie. When you are done with the brownie, have an Oatmeal Crème Pie. I am sure it is nothing like the cookies your mom makes with rolled oats.”
I reached into the pantry and grabbed a white box adorned with a small picture of a blonde girl with braids wearing a blue bonnet and a huge smile framed by naturally bright red lips. I reached deep into the slender box and retrieved six brown rectangles decorated with pastel circles and covered with shrink wrap.
“What is it?” said the perplexed brunette.
“A Little Debbie Brownie,” I responded.
“What does that mean?” asked the other perplexed brunette.
“You have never had a Little Debbie? " I inquired.
“No,” said twin number one.
“Really? You have never seen a box like this before. What about these or these?” I asked while holding a box of yellow Twinkies in my left hand and a bag of Oreos in my right hand.
“No,” said twin number two.
This really did not come as much of a surprise since my family lives in a town like Lake Wobegon but better. Here all the children range from well-above average to presidential. My four children are squarely in the middle of the pack in the position of “somewhat exceptional.” Their rankings have possibly been stunted by their extensive exposure to simple sugars, trans fat and hydrogenated oils.
“What does your mom give you as snacks?"
“Grapes and apples. Sometimes she makes his hot chocolate and warm chocolate chip cookies,” said the first twin with the other one nodding in agreement.
“Really. Fruits and homemade cookies. You poor kids," I said with a sympathetic smile. “Enjoy your Little Debbie. When you are done with the brownie, have an Oatmeal Crème Pie. I am sure it is nothing like the cookies your mom makes with rolled oats.”
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Advance Planning
Calendar Entry for September 1, 2011: Commission a skilled seamstress to design and sew four cute and original costumes for Halloween 2011.
Somewhere in recent history the word “homemade” transformed in meaning from being too poor to shop at Walmart to being the symbol of sincere, tenderly devout maternal love. Mothers, who know how to drive a sewing machine and wield a needle and thread, appear to love their children more than I do. Whether or not, these mothers actually care for their children more than I care for mine is far from my chief concern. Perception and impressions are everything, and using my credit card with love is no longer making the right impression.
Just like all my delicious cookies and cakes that come from a slightly above average baker in town, I must find a competent but not too fantastic seamstress or no one believe that I conceived and constructed the festive attire, unless I have a contingency plan.
Calendar Entry for July 17, 2011: Post to blog. “Just started a sewing class at the recreation center. The instructor says, I am the most skilled novice that she has ever encountered. In fact, she speculates that I might be a descendant of Betsy Ross.”
No need to actually enroll in the class. Problem solved.
Somewhere in recent history the word “homemade” transformed in meaning from being too poor to shop at Walmart to being the symbol of sincere, tenderly devout maternal love. Mothers, who know how to drive a sewing machine and wield a needle and thread, appear to love their children more than I do. Whether or not, these mothers actually care for their children more than I care for mine is far from my chief concern. Perception and impressions are everything, and using my credit card with love is no longer making the right impression.
Just like all my delicious cookies and cakes that come from a slightly above average baker in town, I must find a competent but not too fantastic seamstress or no one believe that I conceived and constructed the festive attire, unless I have a contingency plan.
Calendar Entry for July 17, 2011: Post to blog. “Just started a sewing class at the recreation center. The instructor says, I am the most skilled novice that she has ever encountered. In fact, she speculates that I might be a descendant of Betsy Ross.”
No need to actually enroll in the class. Problem solved.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Home Economics Is a Relevant Class: Who Knew?
Cream cheese lasagna, tasty but runny. Tortellini with mushrooms and cream sauce, my husband’s favorite but the Worcestershire possibly sours the milk during the baking process giving it a bizarre consistency; green chicken chili enchiladas, bombed with my in-laws; red enchiladas, stick to the pan; spaghetti pie, no idea that pasta could transform into something so foreign. I have not one meal that looks perfect and tastes great every time. I do not have classic meal that I can give to new moms, take to potlucks and serve to company. My cooking is for personal use only.
Why didn't the Ghost of Future Domestic Dilemmas come visit me in 1990 when I was seventeen and screwing around in home economics class, improperly handling a sewing machine and sloppily making microwavable desserts? If I could have had a glimpse of my domestic future, I would have saw myself practicing a cherry cheesecake six times before taking it to a Super Bowl Party; bringing a chocolate pie to a party where it melted immediately upon making contact with plates; burning Easter dinner leaving us with Spaghetti-Os as an alternative meal; and, checking out books in September to work on Christmas cookies months before the annual holiday cookie exchange. A glance into my hapless culinary fate would have resulted in less babbling about my future as a career woman with no kids, no husband and more time learning how to make a roux and homemade pie crust. A little less time on Feminism, Queer Theory and Post-Colonialism in the 1990s might have meant that I could bake brownies with cooked centers and chocolate chip cookie that do not have black smoke emanating from the bottom.
So if you need to know how to bake ziti, poach an egg, or seer chicken, don’t ask me. But if you need to know about Deleuze and Guattari’s Theory of Minor Literature, Judith Butler’s view of performativity or Helene Cixous’ assertion for a feminine language, I am your woman.
Why didn't the Ghost of Future Domestic Dilemmas come visit me in 1990 when I was seventeen and screwing around in home economics class, improperly handling a sewing machine and sloppily making microwavable desserts? If I could have had a glimpse of my domestic future, I would have saw myself practicing a cherry cheesecake six times before taking it to a Super Bowl Party; bringing a chocolate pie to a party where it melted immediately upon making contact with plates; burning Easter dinner leaving us with Spaghetti-Os as an alternative meal; and, checking out books in September to work on Christmas cookies months before the annual holiday cookie exchange. A glance into my hapless culinary fate would have resulted in less babbling about my future as a career woman with no kids, no husband and more time learning how to make a roux and homemade pie crust. A little less time on Feminism, Queer Theory and Post-Colonialism in the 1990s might have meant that I could bake brownies with cooked centers and chocolate chip cookie that do not have black smoke emanating from the bottom.
So if you need to know how to bake ziti, poach an egg, or seer chicken, don’t ask me. But if you need to know about Deleuze and Guattari’s Theory of Minor Literature, Judith Butler’s view of performativity or Helene Cixous’ assertion for a feminine language, I am your woman.
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