“I’m a Thief!”

The cards are stacked against me in a certain irritating fashion.  I cleaned the house up the other day. I got it smelling good, AND I even looked okay.  I had showered, done my hair and my make up… what’s more: dinner was cooking.  I was so excited for my husband to come home and see what was going on!  I was like June Cleaver -a rare occasion that isn’t likely to repeat itself until the planets align!

Minutes before he was “supposed” to get home, I got THE text.  I guess I knew it was coming.  I could sorta feel it in the part of my gut that hangs over my pants, childbearing leftovers.

He would be late.

This time, “late” meant 10 pm.  By then, dinner was cold, my make up had been washed off and -let’s face it -I was asleep.  He had Arby’s for dinner, by the way.

Yesterday, I was crazy enough to spend more than several hours preparing a dish that is now baking in my oven.  A breakfast dish.  It’s special.  Want to know why?  It’s one of those “soak overnight” egg dishes and I’ve been dying to try it for months!  It calls for hearty bread, and I wanted to bake some fresh bread to make it with.  I finally made bread yesterday and as I started piecing the recipe together, I noticed something. I didn’t have enough eggs.  Or milk.  That always happens to me.  I seriously plan my menu two weeks at a time, and I still end up frantically driving to my mother’s house in my apron and stealing her soy sauce.  Or her A-1.  And then, to salve my guilt, I leave a note on a napkin, promising to bring them some of whatever food I’m making.

Yesterday, I couldn’t bear to steal anymore.  Not from my mother.  Not this time.  So when my dear Aunt called, I begged two eggs from her.  Of course she obliged because that’s what aunties do.  She told me she would probably be gone when I came to get them but that I could let myself in.

I did.  And guess what?  Next to her fridge is her stove.  On her stove were some STILL ON THE PAN cookies.  And next to her cookies were

cookie dough.

These cookies, it must be mentioned, are of a special sort.  They are the same recipe that my mother uses.  I’ve had a hankering for those cookies for a week now, but I’ve sworn off buying chocolate chips on account of my bank account and health (in that order).  I tried to put on blinders.

I tried with most all of my might.

Then I took a cookie and a pinch of cookie dough.

Correction: I STOLE a cookie and pinch of cookie dough. And as I bit into them, OH what JOY filled my SOUL!  I took her eggs and her cookie and I went out the door.  As I stepped into the crisp evening air, I was hit with a very vivid memory -one I didn’t even know I had.

I remembered racing out of my mother’s kitchen into the crisp autumn evening air, carrying my flute on my shoulder (compliments of the carrying case dad bought for me which I still have and use and love) and stuffing my face with my mother’s freshly baked cookies.  I was on my way to a home football game.  I got into every single one free -I was with the band.

And just like that, the memory was gone.  But for one split second, I felt the wonderful feeling of what it was like to be 15 and have energy and eat my mother’s cookies to my heart’s content with no consequences to my 28″ waist.  That blasted waist line was beautiful! Even when I fed it snickers and Dr. Pepper for lunch, it was beautiful!  I wish I would have known that then…

Funny what one cookie can do to a girl.

My mother’s effect on me is far-reaching.

Don’t blame yourself, Ma, for my thievin’ ways.  That’s the devil’s doing.

Anyway, I came home and finished putting my breakfast dish together.

Three loaves of freshly baked bread.  Eight eggs (two borrowed).  One pound of bacon, cooked.  One pound of sausage, cooked.  This is no ordinary recipe!  This is a special occasion recipe!  I was thinking of having it for Easter breakfast, but I wanted to try it out first.

My kitchen counter looked a wreck when I had finished preparing the dish, but I knew it would all be worth it in the morning.  The thought of serving it to my husband was making me giddy.  He’s always so good at making all of the appropriate appreciative yummy noises.

Aside from coming home late, he informed me that he had to go in early.  The dish has to cook for nearly 2 hours, and in order for me to get him this (what I’m sure is going to be) delicious breakfast dish, I would have had to get up at 3.


Little did I know that I would be up at 3 AM anyway cleaning up something rather less-than-wonderful from my son.

It took an hour to clean up, after which hour I was in no mood to cook anything.  Since I had only rested about three hours, I went back to bed.  Two hours later, my phone’s alarm went off.

I tried to dismiss it, only to find that my track ball won’t scroll down.  I’ve tried everything to fix it.  Everything short of taking the bloody thing apart and running it over with my Jeep Grand Cherokee.  The stupid smart phone won’t let me dismiss my alarm.  It’s been going off faithfully every five minutes since 6:30.  I tried rebooting it, but the stupid smart phone REMEMBERS that it needs to keep waking me up!

So I yanked the battery out, and now I’m up, I’m up.

The egg dish is cooking.

My husband is gone.

My smart phone is stupid.

My kitchen is a wreck.Photobucket

And I am a thief.

(Recipe for the brilliant egg dish is coming up just as soon as it pops out of the oven.  May I suggest you BUY hearty bread instead of making it?)


Over the holiday weekend, the weather was blustery and unkind.  We had planned to spend Saturday in the city getting some much-needed shopping done, but after looking out of the windows and looking at the online weather warnings, we decided to bunk it at home.  It was an experience unlike any other.  We all had NO PLANS, and so we sat at home doing whatever came to mind.  Thanks to the overcast weather and falling snow, I was compelled to break out my Pioneer Woman cookbook and try my hand at her cinnamon rolls -something I’d been dying to do for over a year but had never been brave enough.

I don’t care for cinnamon rolls.  They always look so inviting and wonderful, but when you bite into them? dry.  All anticipation comes crashing down, no matter how much you microwave it (the roll.  not the anticipation).

These rolls were different.  They were moist and soft and absolutely delicious.  The only problem was: the recipe made exactly 51 cinnamon rolls.  It used up every single pan in my house that was somewhat cinnamon-roll friendly.Photobucket

Now let me take you back…

Last week, we had a Valentine’s Party for preschool.  The kids wanted a pink butterfly cake, and I was going to bake sugar cookies for them to decorate.  But I got sick the weekend before the party.  I bagged the sugar cookie idea.  I bagged the butterfly cake idea.  Instead, we had cake mix cookies (made out of strawberry cake mix) and we decorated them as if they were sugar cookies.  I made a batch of frosting, and the kids had a blast.

I made the frosting in my favorite stainless-steel bowl.  My husband’s grandmother gave it to me as a bridal shower gift, and I treasure it.  It has a ring on the side of the bowl, and no matter where I’ve lived, I’ve always kept that beautiful bowl hanging on my wall in very close range to my cooking area.  My husband used to use it for popcorn.  It didn’t bode well with me.

“Are you telling me I’m not allowed to use that bowl for popcorn?” He asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “It’s mine.”

“You mean it’s … ours,” he said.

“No.” I shook my head, “It’s mine.  Your grandma gave it to me as a bridal shower gift and I use it all the time and when it’s not hanging in it’s spot I get cranky.”

It’s not characteristic of me to impose rules on my husband, so when I do he generally takes the hint that I’m not to be trifled with.  Besides, the rules I do give generally have to do with kitchen duties and really there’s only two rules.

#1) Don’t use my mixing bowl.

#2) If you’re going to interfere while I cook by telling me I need to measure ingredients, I will unkindly escort you out of my kitchen.

Anyway, the kids didn’t use all of the frosting.  I covered it tightly with Cling-Wrap (material of the gods!) and put it in the fridge.  The next night, I was exhausted.  We did scriptures and prayers with the kids, and Trent went right to sleep.  Lacy did not.  I put “The Princess Bride” on her TV to help her drift off, about 2 hours later, she woke me up.  Her movie was over.

I stumbled out of bed and started it again, mumbling at her to go to sleep.  I should’ve just turned the dang movie off, but who thinks straight in the middle of the night?  Later on in the night (I’m not sure how much later because I’m too blind to see the clock and too tired to put my glasses on), she was by my bedside again.

“Can I have some juice?” She asked.

“Yeah,” I mumbled and promptly fell back asleep.  I was awakened again by a noise coming from the kitchen.

clink, clink, clink…

I’d heard that sound before.  My foggy middle-of-the-night brain registered that it was the sound of my prized mixing bowl -the ring it hangs from hitting the side of the bowl.

clink, clink, clink…. SLAM

My eyes popped open.  My brain began registering facts more quickly: mixing bowl, frosting, fridge door slamming… LACY.  I squinted in the darkness to see the silhouette of my daughter, clinking as she went, pat-pat-pattering into her room with a big bowl of frosting.

“Lacy!” I hissed, so as not to wake up her dad, “NO!  What are you doing?”

“Can I have some juice?” She asked, innocently handing over the bowl of frosting.

She got her juice.

Now back to the cinnamon rolls: what do you do with 51 cinnamon rolls?  A few days before, my husband had expressed a sincere concern for my health -er, lack of health, I should say.  Something’s amiss with my blood sugar, I think.  In any case, my 25 year-old body acts more like a 55 year old body at times.  Given that we’d both like for me to bear children again someday, I need to take better care of my body.  Read: I need to give away cinnamon rolls so I won’t eat them.

We took a pan to grandma.  We took a pan to my folks.  We took a pan to my brother.  We divided up individual rolls to this person and that person, saving only 2 pans for ourselves: one small pan and one larger pan for our Sunday breakfast and after-church snack.

Saturday night, I covered the big pan in tin foil and I nestled up to watch “My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend” with my husband (a good movie, by the way, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it.  Word to the wise: only watch it once.  If you watch it more than that, Alyssa Milano’s mouth may start to grate on your nerves).  From the kitchen, I heard the rusting of tin foil.  I ignored it, hoping it would go away.  I didn’t.  It got worse.  Soon the rustling sound gave way to a tearing sound.  At that point, I sat up to go stop the tearing but I was too late.  My son came bolting out of the kitchen, holding a big pan of cinnamon rolls at a 45 degree angle over his head.  He clutched the pan in a small space where the tin foil had been ripped away.

The best part?  He didn’t take his eyes off of his parents as he b-lined it for the sanctuary of his bedroom.  Honestly, I’ve never seen the kid run so fast on his tip-toes.  Maybe he thought if he held the pan up high enough, we wouldn’t be able to reach it.  He was wrong.  And as I took the pan out of his hands, he WAILED loudly so as to let all nations, kindreds, tongues and people know that HE HAD BEEN WRONGED.

It probably wasn’t in the interest of good parenting to give him a roll, but I did.

It was in the interest of my sanity, and that counts for something.

Now that you’ve read through the entirety of this post, I have to say: I feed my children.  I feed my children well.  I don’t know why they hoard sweets in their room, but I suspect it’s because they’re on the normal side.