Tag: food

Snacks (2)

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It is a rare occasion when I arrive home from work and have both the time and the motivation to make a real meal for dinner. I am good at whipping up something quick—spaghetti, chicken parmesan, tacos, etc. But making a full, more complicated dinner takes time and energy that I don’t usually have when I get home from work.

So last week, I planned ahead. I made pasta salad on Sunday for a potluck, and I doubled the recipe so we could have it for dinner on Monday, the most hectic day of our week. Pasta salad, ham, and broccoli—a simple, quick dinner.

As we sat down to eat, C looked at the food. “This is what I had for lunch.”

“This is what I had for a snack,” J piped up.

“You had this for a snack?” I asked. Then I looked at C. “I packed you a sandwich for lunch,” I responded. “You didn’t have pasta salad.”

“Yes I did,” he retorted. “You packed me a snack. I eat lunch when I get home from school.”

“What?” I studied his face. He was serious. “Wait… you eat a full meal when you get home from school?”

“Yeah, Mom. We eat so early at school, that’s just my snack. I eat lunch when I get home.”

“Every day?” I asked him.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Well, that might explain where all the food has been disappearing to….

Brussels Sprouts

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This morning, my youngest almost caught me putting Brussels Sprouts in his lunchbox. Almost. But I snuck them in before he saw me. Yes, you heard that right: Brussels Sprouts in his lunchbox.

This is the point in the school year when I start to get bored with the lunches I pack for my children. Now, I understand that my children are perfectly capable of packing their own lunches. However, they would put it off until the last minute, remember as they are running out the door, grab something from the pantry, and call it lunch. On any given day, such a “lunch” might consist of an entire ‘party size’ bag of chips or a single granola bar. Then, the kids would arrive back at home hungry and cranky, and they would snack their way through the pantry and the refrigerator before dinner, ruining their appetite for real nutrition. Since I don’t want to take my chances, I pack their lunches. Every day.

So last night, I put out the question: What do you want in your lunch that I haven’t been putting in there?

And W, being the smart-alec 14 year old that he is, said (without hesitation), “Brussels Sprouts.”

“Ha!” I chuckled. “What do you really want?”

And I got the typical 14-year-old-kid response: “I don’t know.”

Surprisingly, I actually have Brussels Sprouts in my refrigerator. Last week, there was a story on NPR about the local crop of Brussels Sprouts, the fact that they are in season despite the cooler weather, and how they are actually sweeter after the cold sets in. And I bought some on my next trip to the market.

This morning as I packed lunches, I popped two Brussels Sprouts into a sandwich bag. I was getting ready to draw a smiley face on the bag in Sharpie when I heard the upstairs bathroom door open. I quickly threw the bag into W’s lunchbox, minus a note or smile face. I went about the rest of the breakfast/lunch preparations as if nothing unusual had happened. Because in our house, that really was nothing unusual.

As expected, he didn’t eat the Brussels Sprouts. Instead, he jokingly offered them to a friend, who actually took a bite. From the report I got, I’m pretty sure when W found the bag in his lunchbox, it was good for a mid-day giggle.

The Kitchen

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The tile that hangs over my stove… a perfect image for The Kitchen

“You smell like food,” my daughter told me when I picked her up from practice. It was late for dinnertime, though we hadn’t yet eaten. While she was gone, I had been busily cooking.

“Yes,” I said. “I do smell like food.” I had noticed on my drive to meet her that my clothes had picked up the smell of onions. And maybe a slight cooking (i.e. burning) smell.

“Where did you go?” she asked, disappointed that she might have missed dinner out. Apparently, she was convinced that when someone’s clothes smelled of food, that person had been to a restaurant.

I thought for a second, calculating my reply. “Hmm,” I stalled. “I went to this place called ‘The Kitchen.’ Have you heard of it?” I asked. “They have great food there.”

Despite the fact that I was watching the road in front of me, I could feel the smile spread across her face. “I think I’ve been there. And the food was quite good.”

“There was a bit of an accident today though, which might be why I smell like food. The chicken and dumplings went over…. I haven’t finished cleaning it up yet.”

“Oooo! You made chicken and dumplings?”

“I did. That Kitchen is one of the best places to eat.”

“I love chicken and dumplings!” She was suddenly excited to get home. “So why is it that anytime someone smells like food, it smells like a fast food restaurant?” she asked.

I had to admit that on this particular evening, my clothes held a scent reminiscent of fast food. It was sort of a burnt onion smell, most likely because my dinner went over on the stove and therefore, didn’t cook in the most conventional manner (well, the part that left the pan, anyway).

However, I’d like to think that when I leave the house smelling of chocolate chip cookies, or pumpkin muffins, or gingerbread, people notice the comforting smell of Kitchen spices. And in that case, they might be inspired to go home and spend time in The Kitchen, too!

 

Life Lessons List

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This post is in response to the Writing 101, Day 2 prompt to write a list. I currently have three teenagers, but I have spent my entire adult life working with teenagers. Hence, my list:

Things I’ve learned from teenagers…

  1. Don’t get bogged down in the present. Just keep pushing on.
  2. Have fun. Laughter and fun are important to fostering a healthy outlook.
  3. It’s okay to be silly sometimes.
  4. It’s okay to be sad sometimes.
  5. Always have food on hand. Good food will bring friends. And you never know when you might be hungry.
  6. Other people will have their opinions. You don’t have to agree with them.
  7. When your “friends” don’t treat you right, move on. It’s better to have a handful of good friends than a crowd of superficial ones.
  8. Being nice is an important skill in getting through life. You may want to say something mean, but sometimes it’s best not to.
  9. Look forward to the future. It is full of promise
  10. Young people have good ideas. Sometimes, they have great ideas. Listen to them. They are the future.

   10½. Did I mention food? It’s always about the food.

Food heist

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One day, out of the blue, my daughter said to me, “I am not going to be a good mother because I would never be able to give up a good sandwich for one of my kids.”

Well then.

Giving up food items started is something I have done on many occasions. I can very distinctly remember summer mornings ten or so years ago when I would get up early and enjoy a moment of quiet reflection with a cup of coffee. Then I would make myself breakfast.

In the summer, one of my favorite breakfasts consists of a bowl of fresh fruit with vanilla yogurt. Usually, I start with watermelon, add strawberries, blueberries, grapes, and sometimes raspberries or peaches, depending on what is in the fridge. When I am done washing and cutting the fruit, and my bowl is an array of bright and fresh color, I add a dollop of yogurt, usually vanilla.

When the children were little, inevitably, just as I sat at the table and pulled up an article on the computer, a little person would appear next to me, jammie-clad and rubbing sleep from its eyes. The child would ponder my breakfast briefly before stating, “That looks good,” or the tougher, “Can I have some?” And my bowl would be usurped, slid across the table to the spot in front of another seat, and the child in question would consume the entire bowl while I created a new breakfast for myself.

While this was a common scene at the breakfast table, over the years, it has not been limited to the morning meal. My children descended from a long line of hunter/gatherers, and they can sniff out a good sandwich from two floors away. Nowadays though, I am more likely to point the kids in the direction of the ingredients than to pass them my own food.

So when my daughter says she doesn’t want to give up a good sandwich, I know where her thought originated. Being on the receiving end of the process is great, but the other end… maybe not.

Even still, I’m pretty sure my daughter will make an excellent mother one day. The truth of the matter is that if the sandwich [fruit bowl, etc.] is good enough, I’m not giving it up, either!

Abandoned

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The other day, I was in the fridge looking for something. (Of course, my “looking for something in the fridge” is very different from my teenagers’ “looking for something in the fridge,” but that’s another story…). As I looked for whatever it was, I spied the same half-consumed bottle of soda that I had seen in there for too long. “Whose soda is this?” I asked to no one in particular, though based on the flavor, I already knew the answer.

“It’s not mine,” W answered. “But I’ll take it.”

I wrinkled my nose, which was still poking around in the fridge. “You’re not going to drink it, are you? It needs to be tossed.”

“I’m not going to drink it. I’m going to use it for something.”

I handed it to him. “Why don’t you dump it?” I suggested. He took it from me, set it on the counter, and walked out of the room.

When my brief foray in the fridge was over, I went back to working on my laptop at the kitchen table. W reappeared in the kitchen and picked up the soda. Plunk, I heard a hard object hit the bottom of the plastic bottle.

I turned from my work, curious. “What did you just do?”

“I put a nail in it,” he replied, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. He screwed the cover on and set the soda back on the counter. I continued to watch him as he came to the table and sat down, returning to the magazine article he was reading.

Um… well that was interesting. “What’s to stop your brother from drinking that?” I questioned.

He looked up from his magazine. “Huh? Oh right.” He stood up, fetched the masking tape, and ran a small piece around the cap. “There. Now no one will drink it.”

“Really? Because that tape doesn’t look like anyone will even notice it. Why don’t you write a note?”

He sighed a heavy sigh that let me know he thought I was being ridiculous. Humor me, kid, I thought, as he took one of the smallest sticky notes we own and scribbled a hasty message. He stuck the note on the counter by the soda before he glanced at me as if to say, Happy? “Fine,” I told him, though I knew I’d eventually have to tape the note to the bottle.

It’s been several days, and the bottle still sits on the counter. The nail remains inside, doing whatever nails do in soda.

The note has been taped to the bottle, and I know no one is likely to drink it. At least not anyone in my household. But if you happen to be visiting and find part of a soda in the fridge, I wouldn’t suggest you drink it. There’s no telling what kind of mad science might be going on inside….

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Oddities #3

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On Tuesday, I took my children to the airport and put them on a plane to travel to their father’s house for their annual two-week summer visitation. Their flight was scheduled for the middle of the day. Lunch time, to be exact. But for C, who has cashed in his school schedule for the teen sleep-plan, breakfast is often the midday meal. When he got up that morning, he didn’t want to eat.

“I’m not going to buy you a meal at the airport,” I told him in my sternest no nonsense tone. “I don’t have money to pay airport prices. Find something to eat.”

“There’s nothing to eat,” he complained. “I’ve already looked. I’ll just eat when I get there,” he stated. As if that was an option.

“You tell me how hungry you are every time you go to your father’s. You say he doesn’t feed you. You say there’s never any food in the house. And now you say the first thing you’re going to do when you get there is eat lunch?” He stared at me with the blank expression that said he didn’t want to engage—with me or the world. “Eat something, please. We’re going to be late.”

He grabbed a box of cereal and a sandwich bag. “I’ll just take a bag of these,” he said, holding up the box. Fine, I thought. At least it’s better than nothing. He filled the bag, and we were on our way.

He ate a few bits of cereal on the way to the airport. When I stopped fast to avoid the car in front of me, the bag of cereal slid off C’s lap, and the cereal scattered across the floor on the passenger side. He didn’t even try to save it.

“Are you kidding?” I asked.

“What?” he replied, as if he had absolutely no control over the situation. He sat there, looking at me. I raised my eyebrows. “What?” he repeated.

“Seriously? Are you going to pick it up?”

He looked down at the cereal at his feet and sighed. He bent down and pushed it into a pile. “Throw it out the door when you get out,” I instructed. Because clearly, that wasn’t obvious. Some days, I feel like a walking, talking instruction manual.

It started to rain. Hard. I turned the windshield wipers on high and wished they’d go higher. They beat their rhythm as we drove. “Do you want me to drop you off and then park?” I asked over the roar of the rain, the drumming of the wipers.

“Sure,” came three voices in unison. I pulled up in front of the doors by the ticket counters. The kids got out, grabbed their bags from the trunk and stepped onto the sidewalk.

I drove around, pulled into short-term parking, and parked the car. Just as I was turning off the engine, I looked down at the floor of the passenger side. Cereal. It looked like the work of squirrels.

I am sure C would blame it on the rain.

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Baking

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I was making fresh strawberry scones the other morning.

I dumped a small pile of flour on a piece of waxed paper so I could flatten the dough and cut it into scone-sized triangles.

“Is that your bench flour?” C asked.

“My bench flour?” I looked at him, unsure of his reference. “You mean this pile here? Is that what you call it?”

“Yeah. And you save it when you’re done.” I spread the flour with my hand and plopped the dough onto the flour where it (hopefully) wouldn’t stick. I rolled it into a ball, worked it for a minute, then started to spread it out.

“You save it?” I asked, a bit incredulous, knowing what my ‘bench flour’ looks like when I’m done. In fact, as the dough stuck to my hands, I would rub little bits of dough off my fingers and into the ‘bench flour.’

“Why wouldn’t you save it?” C asked. “It’s just flour and little pieces of pie crust.”

“Well, not really….” I thought for a minute. “What if you are making chocolate scones? Then your ‘bench flour’ has little bits of chocolate dough in it. When you roll out your pie crust, it gets chocolate in it.”

“That’s half the fun,” C replied, mischief creeping into his tone. “It’s like a treasure hunt. ‘What will I find in my bench flour today? Oh look! A whole blueberry!!’”

“That’s gross,” I stated, but I laughed in response. “I think I’ll throw out my bench flour. Thanks.” Funny or not, there will be no “treasure” traveling between my baked goods.

But from here on, every time I eat something from a bakery, I will wish there were some things I did not know.

Settings

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One of my least favorite chores is buying groceries. I don’t really know why it’s my least favorite, other than it takes time out of my schedule; I have to physically touch every object I buy multiple times (way too many, in my book); and it’s EXPENSIVE (and getting even more so by the second). Nowadays, I tend to get groceries on my way home from work, which delays my arrival home AND our family dinner.

When my children were younger, we all went to the grocery store together much more often than we do now. Occasionally, when I had only a few items and I was feeling particularly adventurous, we would use the “self-scan” registers. One time, when C was about 10 or 11, he ran ahead of me into the self-scan lane, and hit the button on the screen indicating that we wanted our checkout experience to be in Spanish. Um… what?

First of all, it is important to understand that throughout junior high, high school and college, I took French. Back then, we didn’t have exposure to foreign languages before we hit 7th grade, and at that point, we had to choose our career language—the language we would take through high school. Nobody ever switched. Thus, I know English and French (and a little bit of Greek from a two-month exchange trip back in the dark ages). No Spanish. None.

I stared at the screen with no idea what to do. How do you fix the language setting when you can’t understand the language in which the machine is prompting you? Ugh! Out of frustration, I moved to another register and let that one time out and reset itself. And I made a mental note not to let C beat me to the self-scan registers anymore.

Yesterday, a new laptop arrived in the mail for C. He was in the living room running through the set up procedures, and I could hear him reading the options aloud. “Set language….” And BAM! Just like that, I was transported back to that day in the supermarket. I could see the sly smile he gave me that day, just like it happened yesterday.

“Set it to Spanish, C!” I called to the living room. “Just like you used to do to me in the grocery store!”

He snickered. “Yeah. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Yes, I thought, my own sly smile brightening my face. It would be kinda fun, wouldn’t it?

Nothing Good

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One day this week, my daughter came downstairs for breakfast. She opened the fridge and looked inside. She stood there just a moment too long, surveying. She sighed, “There’s nothing good in here.” No, there is never anything good to eat in my house.

This is one thing I dread about school letting out for the summer. My children will check the refrigerator, the cabinet, wherever, sigh and declare, “There’s nothing good to eat.” In an hour or so, they will come back to stare into the fridge and repeat the process. They don’t seem to notice that I have not left the house and no one has entered. “There’s nothing good to eat,” is a complaint I hear daily.

Last night, I made a batch of blueberry muffins—a dozen muffins in all. I got up this morning to make lunches and get the kids out the door. By the time I sat down for breakfast, the muffins were gone.

Monday afternoon, I came home from an errand to find C, who had just arrived from school, sitting at the kitchen table downing a rather large bowl of pasta salad. Actually, it was the “Family Sized” bowl, and I know this because we were going to have it for dinner.

“What are you doing?” I asked, trying to temper my accusatory tone into curiosity. I didn’t want him to think that I was accusing him of doing something wrong when he had made a relatively healthy snack choice.

“Mom!” he nearly yelled, immediately defensive that I should walk in and catch him eating, of all things. “I eat four meals a day! My school lunch is at 10:30. You can’t even call that lunch.”

“So this is one of your meals?” I questioned.

“Yeah. This is my lunch!” Well, it’s good to know my pasta salad wasn’t merely a snack, I suppose.

And during the warmer weather—like now—I try to keep some cut up fruit in the fridge. I cut up an average of two whole watermelons a week. I cut it into bite-sized pieces and put it in a bowl, so it will be cold and delicious and ready to eat. Every time I think I might snack on some watermelon, I go into the fridge and it’s not there. The empty bowl sits in the sink with only a bit of pink juice remaining in the bottom. One of the teens in the house has consumed the contents of said bowl, though he or she blames another. “I only ate some of it. C ate the rest!” or “J ate the last piece….”

Come to think of it, I’m beginning to understand why my kids say, “There is nothing good to eat!” I can’t find anything, either….