On Strike

 “Gah! What now!?!”

By the evening of day five, J was flustered. Ant needed this, K needed that, the washer wouldn’t do its thing, the kitchen was a mess, the trash needed to be taken out, and Sophie had just dumped her food all over the kitchen floor in protest of the new kibble.

I was sitting on the couch, smirking. I was on strike.

K walked on and exclaimed, “The jeans I wanted to wear tomorrow aren’t washed!”

I may or may not have been able to suppress a snicker.

Ant came in and said, “Why won’t Disney XD work on my iPod? Is there something wrong with the wireless?”

Then I started to feel bad, because it was obvious that all of them were out of their realm, and there would be no recovering before bedtime tonight. I slowly, magnanimously, rose from the loveseat and swooped in to fix it all. I had been waiting for the perfect time, and it was now upon me.

***

Last Saturday, on the one weekend a month J has off (and which I like to reserve for fun things, because, seriously? We get one freaking weekend a month) we ended up with laundry list of random crap that needed immediate attention. In nasty weather, no less. By Sunday, this meant that everything that needs to be done for the household (laundry, cleaning, random paperwork, you get the idea) had to be done. If everyone had chipped in that morning, it could have been done easily in a couple of hours.

Instead, I found myself scurrying around doing it all by myself while the guys took Sunday morning to enjoy themselves. This pissed me off so much that I did something I rarely do. I said screw it.

I went on strike. I announced that I was on strike, and would be, indefinitely. They were in charge. Cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping, doctor’s appointments, calls from Ant’s school about random accidents… that was all on them now, and not on me.

J was concerned I would make an actual picket line (he never
wants to be considered a scab), but he didn't need to worry. Creating a
picket line sounded like too much work.  Photo Source

On Monday, K locked himself out of the house after school, and I sat there on the phone at work, asking him what he was going to do about it.

When J forgot to make K’s follow-up doctor’s appointments on Tuesday, I made him call them back.

When Ant didn’t make it to basketball practice, we made cookies instead.

When I didn’t have any clean socks to wear, I stole J’s.

When J listed the handful of things he forgot while he was at the store, I calmly looked back at him, with no offer to help.

And you want to know what I did with all my free time? I wrote. I read. I ordered HBO and watched some TV I’ve wanted to watch for months now. I watched them flounder. I took lots of deep breaths when it came to the state of the kitchen counters, but I was able to hold off.

It’s not that I take some perverse joy in screwing with my family… although I did find this amusing. It’s that I think my guys needed a reminder or two. That I am not the only one in charge of doing this shit. That I do a LOT of the dirty work around here. That it can suck all of your free time and your will to live if you’re left to do everything all by yourself.

Ant was the first one to start being more helpful. Long gone is the whining about feeding the dog and taking out the trash. He also would make me a glass of iced tea at supper, and he made sure the table was set without being asked. J quickly followed with picking up the slack, of course. He’s smart enough to realize that I’m at the end of my rope and supportive enough to play along with my game. K was a harder sell, but even now he’s taking his mountains of miscellaneous crap up to his room right when he gets home, and not dumping it all over the living room and kitchen table.

***

So, on day five, I swooped in and rescued them. All in all, they are good guys, and everyone deserves help when facing insurmountable odds. It took about thirty minutes for me to get it all taken care of, because I’m a pro, but the point was made. I don’t live to serve them, and I can find plenty of fun things to fill my time.

And J watched me with a look of wonder of his face. He best remember that… but, I have my own things to remember, too.

It’s hard for me to let go of things like the laundry, the chores, the to-do list—it was an exercise for me as much as it was for them—because I always use excuses of the things that need to be done to avoid the things I want to do.  Somehow, somewhere, it is ingrained in me that I am both on the front and the last position of defense. No one should feel that way. No one should expect that their role is to play the martyr. It’s not a good feeling. So, for their sake, for my sake, for our family’s sake, I went on strike. And it was fantastic.

Just don’t think that things are going back to business as usual, circa last week, just because I’m calling off the strike for the time being. They’re totally not.

Repeat Week- The Making of Termite, No. 5

Day five of repeat week brings us to Ant, man of the  supernumerary, mocker of older, brooding teenage brothers, food critic and dinnertime score keeper, fish in the water and dancing king. Oh, and how can we ever forget when he was a termite? Or a thug. 

This is not from when he was a termite, FYI.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

The making of Termite, No. 5 

I could have also titled this post, “Less termite, more gangsta rapper.” Seriously. More on that later.

When Ant came home with the speaking role of Termite, #5 for his school’s annual pageant, I was, well, a bit confused. I’m all for keeping the Baby Jesus (or whomever) in church (or your local place of worship) and out of school. I know many people aren’t but, frankly, there’s no need for that in school. You can teach kindness, empathy, caring, etc, without having to involve God in a classroom of 22 diverse second graders.

But termites? Even insects, in general? Okay. It’s something new. I can suspend disbelief and roll with it. I am cool like that.

Ant had no trouble in memorizing his lines or making it to rehearsal or knowing where he was supposed to be. We even worked on expressing emotion on stage while keeping your lines straight. I think he might actually be a natural on the stage—but of course; I can’t make my judgment until he’s actually up there.

I, on the other hand, had immense trouble with the costume. I even had help, and several someones pumping me full of termite ideas. It was a no go.

Even better—after struggling with the costume for awhile, I finally got the bright idea to call the music teacher and get her input on the costume-making. Calling her sooner would have saved me a lot of grief.

Why, do you ask? Did she have termite costumes at the ready? No. It was because the teacher was not really looking for termite costumes. She was looking for something else, completely.

Teacher: Well, since they are the bad boys of the bug world, I was hoping we could, um, reflect that in their costume. Perhaps with black clothes, and sunglasses, and gold chains…
Me: Gold chains?
Teacher: Yes! I know some of the parents are making wings, but I would like the termites to dress darkly, and look like bad boys—you know, like rappers.
Me: Rappers?
Teacher: Yes.
Me: As in, thugs?
Teacher: Yes. Now keep in mind, they end up getting invited at the end and all…

I lost my words then, as I struggled to take all of those stereotypes and wrap them into one, and so there is no reason to relay the rest of the conversation. Plus, I’ve already given a huge part of the plotline away… I did find my words later on though, when I called everyone who was in the know about the termite costume, and expressed my confusion to them.

Favorite response: So, you’re the fairy gangsta mother?

That one’s timeless. I feel the need to sign my Christmas cards with that tagline.

Long story short—it became about making a thug with wings, and not about making a termite. While much more manageable, wing-making is still a bit above my pay-grade. It took a lot of time, contemplation, cursing, chocolate, and some Egyptians Pharaohs to get the job done, as witnessed here.

As for the performance, you’re just going to have to wait for that post!

A Cooking Post: It Only Took Me Three Years to Figure This Out

Yeah, I made lasagna!

One of the best things about my husband is that he knows how to make a sauce. Actually, he knows how to make many sauces, and gravies (which I don’t eat on general principle) and glazes, and dressings, and stocks, and the like. It’s made him very popular with all the friends I’ve forced him to feed throughout the years.

The best sauce in his repertoire, in my mind, is the alfredo sauce. I’m a huge sucker for the alfredo sauce.

Learning how to make this was almost an insurmountable task for me. It’s difficult to learn how to make things from J. There’s the fact that he never measures anything (so all amounts below should be followed with a dash and the ending “ish”). There’s also the fact that if you start to screw up the sauce, he’s likely to push you away from the stove and then take over.

In the best-intentioned way, of course. I love you, honey!

Shhh: he’s a kitchen hog. Don’t tell him I said that.

The great thing about the alfredo sauce is that it can be multi-purposed for several dishes. By learning one thing, I’ve been able to learn how to make many different meals! Some of my all-time favorites are white pizza (see the firstpost in this series for discussions of pizza), alfredo (of course) with Italian sausage, mushrooms, and spinach (we don’t eat broccoli in this house), and mac and cheese with bacon and artichoke hearts.

Fortunately for you, he’s willing to let me share this sucker with you.

A note of caution: in this household we have a policy. I’m kind of crunchy when it comes to cooking. I am removing the vast majority of fast food from our lives (not that we ate much of it to begin with), and we use real food (as opposed to processed food) as much as possible. So, if you have issues with real butter and massive carbs, be forewarned. I, actually, have problems with eating sand, and wood, and chemicals. I’d much rather enjoy butter and sugar and the “bad for you” things. Because they are actual food, and not synthetic food. Related: they lack ammonia.

White sauce:

In a medium sauce pan, melt about 4 tablespoons butter and add about 2-3 cloves of garlic (pressed or minced). Once you can really smell the garlic and the butter is completely melted (but before it starts to sizzle) add 3 to 4 tablespoons of flour. Apparently, this is called making a roux, but other than the name, I know relatively little about it. You want the flour to soak up the butter, but no to the point of being stiff.

Once the roux is a light brown, you’ll add a medium sized carton of heavy cream (not the little baby ones like the milk cartons in elementary school, and not the big ½ gallon one, but the one in between). Turn down the heat, so you don’t scorch it as it heats up. Also, stir. And stir. Like, a lot. You want to avoid scorching and you want to incorporate the roux. You’ll know that it’s ready for cheese when it’s 1) hot, and 2) thickening up to the point where you can run the spoon through it and see a bit of the bottom of the pan before the sauce fills in the void again.

Don’t you love my descriptions?

Once the sauce has warmed and thickened, add your cheese- white Italian cheese for alfredo (it melts better than parmesan), gorgonzola for an awesome sauce over gnocchi, extra-sharp Cheddar for mac and cheese. You’ll want to add about a cup.

Once the cheese is melted into the sauce, turn off the heat and you’re done. You’ll need to serve it almost immediately, or it will start to separate. So, mix it into your cooked pasta, fold it into the makings for mac and cheese, or slather it on that pizza crust.

Nom, nom, nom, nom...

For mac and cheese, I add cooked and crumbled bacon, artichoke hearts, and mix thoroughly. Then I place it all in a greased 9x13 baking dish, add the other cup of Cheddar cheese, and top with Italian bread crumbs. Then I bake that puppy on 350 for about 20 to 30 minutes (until there is a nice crust, and I can’t take the smell without eating it any longer).

So, there you go! Never buy jarred alfredo sauce again! Also, if you try this recipe out, come back and comment to tell me how it went.

A Cooking Post from the Unlikeliest of Sources

There's recipe below, I promise. Sorta.

Since J received his promotion, I’ve found myself in the worst position. J is working more hours, and this means that I’m in charge of dinner. I hate cooking. I married J because he can cook, and likes cooking, and for the past dozen years has done almost all of the cooking.  Now I’m cooking.  

I’ve been posting my lamentations on Facebook about this situation. It’s become increasingly obvious (thanks to my children and friends) that I’ve somehow picked up a knack for this shit, despite my best efforts not to. It used to be that I only had to deal with dinner once or twice a week, and I could usually get away with bringing home Chipotle or making it snack night (read: hummus, cheese, and pitas) or sandwich night (I make a killer sandwich, as long as you don’t want mayonnaise, which I refuse to touch). No longer.

Now J is the one who cooks only once or twice per week. And thanks to Pinterest, I now have an arsenal of recipes to try. I like food, and especially pictures of yummy food. Except, on Pinterest, those pictures are usually linked to recipes.

Plus, I am afraid of fast food. Don’t get me wrong; I love fast food. It’s tasty, even if it is horrible for you.  I would put that Supersize Me documentary to the test if I didn’t have a phobia of eating sand in my hamburger. So, real food that someone (me) I know cooks is in, and fast food is out.

Then I had an idea. Not a Drunk Kitchen idea (that is one freaking awesome idea) but an idea where someone—with little interest in cooking and even less skill—writes about cooking for others who also despise cooking and have little-to-no-skills in the kitchen. There’s been enough Julia Childs and Pioneer Woman to go around. Let’s hear from someone who just wants to get that shit over with each night. Coming home from a hard day of work to deal with the kids’ homework and laundry is bad enough. Preparing dinner and then eating dinner and then cleaning up dinner is the last thing this girl wants to do.

Enough nattering on; let’s get this first recipe over with.

My favorite food is pizza. I could eat pizza twice a week, every week. Except I fear fast food pizza (see the mention of non-food items in my food, above). And most frozen pizzas. Which means I have to cook the pizza.

So here’s a recipe for you to try—and make your own. The great thing about pizza is that you can put whatever you want (or have) on it, once you’ve got the basics down, and the basics are simple. For the pizza pictured here, I put J’s homemade sauce on it, as well as beef, sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms, kalamata olives, spinach and mozzarella.

And I made Ant cook the sausage. The rest was leftovers from the refrigerator.

Step one: Get a pan like this. Seriously. Stone cookware is your friend. I’ve used the shit out of this pan for years, and it gets the job done right every time. Everyone needs to invest in this pan. You cannot screw up food in this pan, and I’ve tried.  I strongly suggest that you spread two teaspoonfuls of cornmeal to the pan before moving on to the crust. It tastes yummy and it keeps the crust from sticking.

Step two: The crust. So, you can make your own crust, or you can buy crust. I buy crust. If you want to make yours, then get on the Pinterest. There are some good wheat crust recipes on there. Using the pan above, I like to buy the Pillsbury pizza crust in the can (near the biscuits and cinnamon rolls), and for this recipe, you’ll need two—one roll on each half. This has added benefits: speed, since you won’t have to make it or roll it out; thickness, since the guys like a thicker crust; and potential for stuffed crust—sticking string cheese in the crust around the edges of the pan and then wrapping the crust tightly around it.

Step three: Toppings. The sky’s the limit here folks. You can make it easy (store bought sauce, pepperoni, and mega-cheese), you can make it unique (chicken bacon artichoke alfredo) or you can take this opportunity to hide vegetables from your kids (my preferred route). Put whatever you want on the pizza.

Step four: Stick that puppy in the pre-heated oven (425) for 20-25 minutes. Drink a beer. Watch a sitcom.

Step five: Cut and Eat. Be happy in the fact that you have less dishes than usual to clean up afterwards. Marvel at the fact that your kids met the daily recommended servings of vegetables for once.

See how easy that was? Yeah—that’s the only way I function in the kitchen. I have lots of other recipes like this one to share, so I’m going to start posting some of them. And I think I might be able to convince J to share some of his recipes, too (for people who have skills in the kitchen)—although the pasta sauce might be off limits. I’ll try—for you. You can thank me in Starbuck’s gift cards.