It's Hydroponic!

Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?

With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And absolutely zero help from Ruth Dynamite.


But at least I can plant the seed. Read more....

Blades of Glory Make Soup for the Soul

I got a food processor for Mother's Day and it's changed my life.

In my wildest dreams I never imagined that a food processor could be life-changing - barring some terrible culinary mishap, of course - like chopping off a couple fingers while slicing carrots. That would definitely change one's life. (And how ironic, too, to be rendered fingerless by the very appliance you would then need to slice your carrots.)

Fortunately, I have suffered no such tragedy (y e t) - just the blessing of Possibility that my new food processor represents.

I am feeling the power.

I can slice. I can dice. I can mince, grate, and shred. I can chop til' I drop, and then stand up and chop some more. I can even make dough.

This is an example of the dough I could make.

And I can do all this at the touch of a button, without knives or cutting boards or band-aids, faster than you can say, " Wow! Looks like someone's making a big vat of vegetable soup!"

And faster than you can say, "No really I must be go..." I'll have filled a bowl with steamy hot goodness, chock full of fresh garden vegetables that have been sliced, diced, minced, grated, shredded and chopped to perfection. I'll cut thick slices of the bread I made, still warm from the oven, and put them on a plate.

I'll place the bowl and the plate on the table, pull out a chair, and gesture for you to sit. "Sit," I'll say. "Sit and have some soup."

And together, thanks to my new food processor, we'll sit and have some soup.

Cross-posted on New England Mamas, where everyone is currently sitting and having some soup.

As I Was Saying...

Have you ever been somewhere and overheard someone talking out loud to no one in particular and thinking, "Wow. What an Odd Duck!" before realizing (of course!) that the person was wearing an ear piece?

I appear to be talking to myself out loud in public all the time, but in actuality, I am talking to many different people. The only thing is, the people aren't actually there, per se.

[cough]

For example, the other morning while my son was eating breakfast and we were chatting about yogurt or something, I resumed washing the dishes in the sink and then, while addressing a voice in my head, I angrily whispered, "Shutup!"

I don't tell anyone to "shutup" as a general rule, so my outburst shocked me as much as it did my son - despite its appropriateness to the reckless driver in my head to whom the comment was directed. (You'd say "Shutup!" to a faceless bad guy who nearly ran over your dog, wouldn't you?)

Anyhoo, my confused son immediately turned away from his breakfast and gave me a perplexed look, to which I replied, "Oh no, honey! I wasn't talking to you!"

Seeing as my son was the only other person in the kitchen at the time, I felt compelled to explain.

"I...I was talking to myself - er, the voices in my head."

After a delicate pause and a few incredulous looks, my son and I burst into a prolonged fit of hysterics, interrupted every so often by his mimicking of my outburst with perfect whisper intensity and intonation. "Shutup!"

[ahem]

Carry on.

*********

Calling all Entomologists? There's a new review up over at my other blog today which may be of keen interest to parents of kids in grades 1-5, especially those with a love/hate relationship with insects.

Ode to Stop & Shop from the VIP of Hummus

Surprising and remarkable things always seem to happen to me while patronizing my local, less-than-perfect grocery store.

Oh, I've written about this black sheep of the Stop & Shop family before, a store I continue to visit almost daily despite its shortcomings. You've all read ad nausea about how I "take it where I can get it" from my bagger lady friend. Believe me, her "You look pretty" compliments - regardless of how haphazardly or infrequently dispensed to one and all - keep me lining up with my basket of expired dairy products and wilted broccoli rabe, hoping that maybe, just maybe, today will be the day.

Or maybe, today will be the day that some random person does or says something so nice, so beautiful, it stops me dead in my tracks.

Or maybe, today I will discover that my very favorite brand of hummus is now being carried by the store - the same hummus I publicly declared my love for many moons ago...the only hummus I will eat while watching Marat Safin play tennis (satisfying on so many levels).

Well, friends, today was the day.

While deciding which delicious flavor of Sabra Hummus to buy, I happened to notice a woman with a clipboard checking food product inventory nearby. I started rambling at her immediately.

"I just want you to know how THRILLED I was to see that you are now carrying Sabra Hummus. I LOVE this hummus. I used to drive fifteen minutes down the road simply to buy this hummus from your competitor, but now that you're carrying it I don't have to do that. It's just so creamy and delicious and I am very very very happy. So thank you!"

The poor woman probably thought I was completely nuts, but she was gracious and even shared with me some insider hummus information.

"We'll be carrying the Luscious Lemon flavor soon, too."

I may have drooled as I thanked her again and wandered off.

About 30-minutes later, after I had unloaded my grocery bags into the car, I looked up and noticed that someone was walking straight toward me at a fast pace.

It was the woman with the insider hummus information.

She handed me this.


It turns out that she really was a Hummus Insider. She represented the company and wanted to give me a VIP coupon that she had in her car. What luck! Such fortune! Who knew???

Call me Ruth Dynamite, VIP of Hummus.

You know, I've been very excited about my town's plans to demolish this little Stop & Shop and build a brand new, bigger version in its place. And as I write, construction of the new building is moving along full speed ahead.

Which leaves me with a lump in my throat. (Or is that an unidentifiable clump from that yogurt I just bought?)

I'm going to miss this stinky little store...where I always feel "pretty" and I never know what I'm going to get (whether it's a kind compliment, a VIP coupon for my favorite food, or a big tub of mold).

Cross-posted at New England Mamas.

Of Killer Squirrels and Bolus Lofting

I have been absent from the blogosphere for a short while, but I have a very good excuse: Killer Squirrels.

I know you're probably thinking, Killer squirrels? Oh God no. Please, not killer squirrels. Say it isn't so!

Sadly, killer squirrels exist, and most people have no idea about the evil that lurks in plain sight right in our own backyards, about the vicious little fur-covered demons who will gnaw off a human leg faster than you can say "Hey! Look at the cute little..."


Strolling through Boston's lovely public garden a few days ago, I had no idea, and my ignorance nearly got me killed.

But thankfully - thankfully - I caught onto their wily ways in about the time it took me to say, "Hey! Look at the...RUN!!! NOW!!!" I guess you could say that my time on tennis courts had prepared me well for that very moment, because it certainly required some fast and fancy footwork for me to beeline it to the Ritz, just in time for high tea.

Take it from me, nothing soothes the soul after a near-squirrel mauling than hot tea and clotted cream, cucumber and caviar-crowned smoked salmon sandwiches, and a multi-tiered tray of fruit tartlettes and other scrumptious, bite-sized desserts.

It's been rather traumatic as you might imagine, but despite my mild case of PTSD (post traumatic squirrel disorder), I am alive and well (fed) and back to the business at hand, which in the past 24-hours has included the following:

• Removing a live tick from the the head of a colleague. (Then encasing it in a tomb of scotch tape with some degree of guilt and tossing it in the trash.)
  
• Re-reading the scholarly review of literature about "Bolus Lofting" (aka poop throwing) sent to me by reader/professor "FM" from NY in response to a previous blog post on the topic. It's fascinating stuff. Here's an excerpt: Tracing back to the Carthaginians and the in­vention of the catapult, a modification named by the Romans during the rule of Augustus, "Voluti Boli," or "Bolus Launcher" is described...Instead of solid missiles that inflicted loss of life and limb and retaliation of like kind, bombardment of fecal matter produced confusion, demoraliza­tion and a significant reduction of aggressiveness.
• Chatting with a nice woman who appeared on my doorstep today, my day off, to talk to me about God, the bible, death, and the end of the world ("It's coming soon, do you know that?").
  
• Thinking about the movie Ironman and wondering if Ironman (played brilliantly by Robert Downey Jr.) would be any match for a bolus lofter.
  
• Marveling at the wondrous sight of my two darling offspring eating waffles this morning with chopsticks.
  

Life is a beautiful thing, people. Don't forget to live it. (Just keep an eye out for the squirrels!)

Dad's Week Off

I have been officially de-throned.

In the span of one short week, my husband has managed to achieve Rock Star status in the eyes of our children. While he's been home on vacation this week and the rest of us Dynamites had work and school, do you think he sat down for a minute and put his feet up? Or got lost on a golf course for hours? Or slept in? Stayed out late?

No. My husband used his vacation for one purpose and one purpose only: to show me up.

On Monday the aroma of chocolate chip pancakes roused my children from slumber. They got out of their beds without being harangued by their mother, dressed themselves without being harangued by their mother, brushed their teeth without being harangued by their mother, and walked like zombies toward the kitchen whereupon they were greeted with warm hugs from their father and a steaming plate of syrupy, chocolatey goodness - a far cry from the eat-whatever-you-can-scrounge-and-hurry-up advice their mother usually dishes out in frantic screams from another part of the house.

Dad packed their snacks and water bottles, checked their homework, and then leisurely walked them to school. At school day's end, he greeted them at the bus stop with a smile and played outside with them for several hours - badminton, kickball, bikes, scooters - before retreating into the house to make dinner and fold the last of the five loads of laundry he did that day. By the time Mom rolled in the door, the kids - both showered and wearing pajamas - were quietly doing their homework as Dad washed the dinner dishes.

On Tuesday, Earth Day, Dad walked the kids to school after another calm and organized display of parenting skill and finesse. With the grace and aplomb of Mikhail Baryshnikov, he seemingly pirouetted through the motions of rousing and feeding the children, packing backpacks, and checking homework. After singlehandedly stopping global climate change, discovering a plentiful renewable energy source, and ridding the world of plastic, Dad greeted the kids at the bus stop, spent another fun-filled afternoon doing kid-centric activities, cooked dinner, and then waited patiently for Mom to arrive home. After a family dinner, Dad guided the kids through homework and showers and reading and bedtime while Mom wrote a blog and sipped Cabernet.

On Wednesday, when Mom tried to gently rouse the children before school, she was met with harrumphs, snarls, and impatient requests for Dad. "Where's Dad? Dad always wakes us up." Always???

When Mom made an appearance in the kitchen at breakfast time and asked, "Would you like cereal? A bagel? Eggs?" her children quietly mumbled, "Dad usually has breakfast made for us already."

In addition to delighting the children once again in every way, Dad also found the time to end world hunger and restore peace in the Middle East.

On Thursday, the kids crowned Dad Best Dad Ever in the History of Dads, but not before Dad cured the sick, sheltered the homeless, and fixed the economy.

On Friday, world leaders - including the Pope - gathered in Geneva Switzerland and officially declared Dad Divine Lord of Fatherhood, to be addressed from this point forward as His Most Awesome Highness.

It's a real shame that His Most Awesome Highness has to go back to work next week. Yep. A real shame.

Cross-posted on New England Mamas.

Channeling Larry David

I stumbled upon an interview with Larry David the other night on the YES network, a New York City regional cable channel dedicated to broadcasting Yankees baseball games.

I don't subscribe to HBO, so watching Larry David being interviewed by some sycophant on the YES network is as close to Curb Your Enthusiasm as I'm going to get, unless, of course, I'm visiting my parents on Long Island.

My dad can't get enough of the guy, a fellow Brooklyn-raised Jew like himself who says out loud what my father only thinks. My mother knows this, and when Larry David appears on the TV screen, she wags her head in disapproval and mutters something like, "Disgusting."

Witnessing this sort of dynamic is half the fun of visiting my parents.

Anyhow, what I found most refreshing about this interview before a bevy of Yankees fans was Larry David's ability to laugh at himself. Certainly, he has a knack for finding humor in the mundane, for capturing those awkward or embarrassing moments we all experience and hauling them out into the light so we can all laugh and commiserate.

But to me, Larry David's real gift lies in his willingness to haul himself out into the light and encourage others to laugh with him at his own foibles. He can be an insensitive jerk and an impulsive fool, but in sharing these very human weaknesses with the world, he reveals a strength of character that few possess.

Laugh at me. Laugh with me. Just laugh.

I can laugh at my revenge fantasy about pooping on my misogynistic, dog-hating octogenarian "Master Gardener" neighbor's lawn after he made the grievous error six years ago of barking at me to "Keep (my) dog away from the yard!" as I strolled by with my children and dog - as if I would dare curb my dog on his or any neighbor's lawn. I will poop on his lawn yet. In the light of day. While he's pruning his prized English roses.

I can laugh at my appearance - my chicken ankles, my broken nose (Curse that basketball!), my big hair. If the women in that Texas sect wear their hair so high in front in order to be closer to God, then I am practically one with God on humid days. Seriously.

I can laugh at my younger foolish self, like the time I went to the emergency room because I had discovered bumps on my tongue (they were taste buds) or the time I crashed a sailboat (a Sunfish) into a moored yacht while trying to impress a guy. (I think he was impressed that I managed to break the boom of the Sunfish in half.)

But sometimes it's hard to distance yourself from a situation enough to free yourself to laugh. I don't know about you, but when someone misjudges or mistreats me, I just want to poop on their lawn. It's hard to laugh at times like that.

But doggone it, I'm going to try.