Faux Guac

My family are often the recipients of my avant garde flair for experimentation. On the most regular and utilitarian basis, this occurs in my kitchen. I am a proponent of family meals, table dinners, and prepare dinner on a regular basis. Several times a week with some intermittent sandwich nights or something equally as low-key interspersed. It leaves me enough recuperation to keep the cycle in operation. I follow rules, but don't usually follow recipes. Except on the rare event I attempt bread. I have no feeling for it, so it requires that I follow explicit instructions. 

Occasionally I access the blogosphere  to affirm or discount a new idea that has popped in my head. I have to say my successes trump my fails. Still, I never post recipes, and the thought of taking pictures during the cooking/baking process makes me shiver. I appreciate the lovely photo spread cooking demo photography, but there is no way that is going to happen here. Photography is not my forte, neither is the stop & start  of the creative process. Easily apparent to the few of you that endure my iphotography, and its pure lack of aesthetic quality on a regular basis. 

Today at a pre-summer pot-luck lunch with moms and kids,  I realized that I may even have less "fails" than I once thought. Usually my critics are two young boys and a man that has foodie tenets but with a staunch preferential for meat & potato varieties. So naturally when I make anything vegetarian, its not usually met with overwhelming cheers and fist pumps in the air. (I'm not really a vegan gal, although I do have a few vegan recipes up my sleeve.) 

So here is the on-the-fly faux guacamole recipe that my husband and boys rated as an utter fail, but my fellow mom friends lauded as a success: 

Faux Guac
(Spinach-bean dip)  

4-6 cups of fresh spinach
1 can of black beans
1-2 green onions
juice from 1/2 a lime
1-2 tsp of cumin
Salt & Pepper to taste
1 TBSP of chopped cilantro
1/2-1 TBSP of Srirachi (Rooster Sauce) 
1/4 cup of sour cream 

Add spinach, onion, cilantro, lime juice to a food processor. Blend. 
Add black beans, cumin, srirachi sauce, and S&P  to mixture. Blend until smooth. 
Fold in sour cream until the dip lightens to a faux guac color. 
Serve with veggies, meat, or chips. 

 
 

 

My 3 Lil' Piggies That I Love

Nineteen hours or so is what the polls say the average American woman puts into her household cleaning each week. That just depresses the hell out of me. Not because I know its true, oh no, most weeks I'm certain that is low ball figure. The depressing part is that on most given days if you just show up at my house unannounced you are met with what resembles a spinning whirlwind. As fast as I can pick things up, they are displaced in another location. There has to be some scientific law in relation to boys and a clean home. Newtons third law of motion states: 

 Third law: When one body exerts a force on a second body, the second body simultaneously exerts a force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction to that of the first body.

"A force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction." Yup, that sounds about right. Fortunately, I overhear convo's of clusters of mothers at the park in which they express this exact problem. But the validation is short lived. Images of their homes suddenly come flashing to mind, and then the comparisons begin. Motherhood comparisons are a wicked cycle. Never a great idea, yet the inevitability of comparing, is a correlative law of womanhood. I'm not saying it can't be stopped, I'm just saying, that when you are tired, overwhelmed, frumpy, and bummy it is an easy 'go-to,' that is always lurking on the sidelines waiting to pounce on an already degraded self-esteem. 

So back to the housework. Why not just throw in the towel, toss in the bandana, and eliminate the disinfecting? Because that is gross, and dents my sanity and self-esteem more than feelings of perceived inadequacy. It is also a health hazard. Honestly, I'm not kidding. If you clean up the bathroom of young boys, or older boys for that matter, then you are right there with me. I won't post the picture of their bathroom that I sent to a couple "lucky" friends a few weeks back. Ew. 

Recently, I picked out a smashed M&M out of the zipper area of P's pants, a taffy off the fireplace, and a fruit-roll up off a stool. Vacuuming has become a one man search and rescue mission, as I intermittently stoop down to rescue leg and limb of the Star Wars figures. And one of our new playtime favorites is color changing cars in the kitchen sink (aka flood the kitchen.)

 

So it is Friday, I've worked at the house all week. Probably not with the vigilance of say a pre-relative visit, but still, I've made a considerable effort. I have a mountain of unfolded, clean clothes on my bed. Piles of papers and mail, and coloring books on the kitchen table. My office is crammed full of artwork, projects in progress, paperwork, magazines, and frames. The boys playroom is a disaster. My front hallway is littered with Matchbox cars, a dog bone, a pillow, a Thor hammer, books, socks...and yes I picked it up this morning. My kitchen is clean, my counters are disinfected, the dishes are done, the laundry is clean, my bathrooms were cleaned a couple days ago, and there are not crumbs all over the family room carpet. It's times like this that I need to restate a mantra I saw on one of those FB shares: "My house is clean enough to be healthy, but messy enough to be happy."  

So with that sentiment here are a couple of *my tips* to try to outwit the housework forces of nature that are seeking to destroy your sanity:

1. Forget about the grout. I don't know why this has become the subject of so many of my friends frustration, but it has. You are the only one that notices. Seriously, scrubbing the grout with a toothbrush is only going to intensify the OCD, and therefore the frustrations that follow. Inevitably the moment you've wiped off your rubbed-raw hands, someone will spill juice, while another walks in with dirty shoes. Relinquish this one. Sweep and mop your floor if you must, but LET THE GROUT GO. 

2. Unless ironing is your therapy, then LET IT GO. I know I've probably sentenced the man to fashion faux pas hell, but I even gave up on my husbands work shirts. He usually throws over a lab coat anyway. The wrinkle out spray with the hang up method is my new go-to. As for me, I wear iron-ready clothing about as often as I style my hair outside of my classic pin-up girl up-do with a bandana. Once a month date night, and a Sunday here and there I'll break out something iron-worthy from the wardrobe.

3. If all else fails, THEN GO BUY FLOWERS. Choose a bright, cheap bouquet that makes you smile. Go home and clear & clean a table. Place the flowers in a vase, or jar and set them on the table. Put on your blinders to the rest of the house. 
  
 And for me, there is hope on the horizon. My littlest piggy that I love, is a 'helper.' The messes frustrate him too, but he doesn't quite have the skills to keep up with it all. For now, he gives me glimpses of hope for the future, and melts my heart with scenes like this, and reminds me of a poem I once saw in my moms office: 

Sometimes you get discouraged 

because I am so small
And always leave my fingerprints 
on furniture and walls
But everyday I'm growing
I'll be grown up someday
And all those tiny fingerprints 
will surely fade away
So here is a final fingerprint 
Just so you can recall 
Exactly how my hands looked
When I was very small
 

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"Proud Mother"

Yesterday my husband and sons gave me a great gift. A clean house. I don't know if I can express the measure of this gift. Basically, I live with 3 boys, who I affectionately, yet exasperatingly refer to as, "my 3 lil piggies that I love." Hubby task-mastered the bedrooms, and toy-room while I attacked the bathrooms, sans little hands. Yes, allowing me to clean the bathroom uninterrupted top-to-bottom has somehow become a privilege. Play rewards work though, so afterward they took me out on the town. My #rockNrollsoul merged with my #mommaNtheburbs for a memorable Mother's Day dinner out with my boys. On our Texas main-street town there is Bronson Rock,a burgers & beer tribute to the American 'legend' Jim Bronson. (A modern version of the solitary cowboy wandering the American West. Riding a Harley Davidson Sportster in search for soul, on the "Long Lonesome Highway.")

P, Checking out the bike. Z, with his 'rock hard' face.

Patio picnic tables, live rock-n-roll, burgers, black leather & bandana's, and rows & rows of Harley's glittering in the Texas sunshine. It was a #rockNrollsoul dream come true. 

Some how Z fortuitously projected my order earlier in the week while creating my "Mother's Day book" at school. He filled in the blanks on an information page in relation to some of my features and favorites. He stated my favorite food as..."jalapeno burgers." (For the record, it's my favorite burger, but not favorite food.) I felt instantly more young, thin, and fun after reading the rest of his favorable fill-ins: 

While we waited for our meal, I toured the bike lot with my boys. We oo-ed & awed over pin-striping, motors, wheels, and details. A couple bikers, came out from their tables and offered to let my boys sit on their bikes. P utilized his time to carefully examine the aesthetics from the passenger seat vantage point. Unfortunately, we were not offered a chance to test out the aerodynamics. 

 I had one better than the ride though. After the bikes, a fellow mother of boys shared her Harley Davidson vest emblem honoring her Marine. Her son is a fallen member of the Marine Corps. She held the grace of a "Proud Mother" with more than her patch. She shared a warmth that superseded the "Sons of Anarchy" stereotype, although I'm pretty sure she'd cut you if you messed with her kids. I'd do the same for my children. This Mother's Day I honor her and all other military mother's who support our nation with their lives.

I too am a proud mother. I have two wonderful boys. A friend of mine coined the phrase, "her boys are her busiest blessings." I echo this sentiment. This morning my wonderful boys served me a frenzied breakfast in bed. It was complete with tackles and tears. But served with love and a sesame seed bagel, with 2-year-old nibbles off it and finger poked shmear. My 6-year-old squeezed me 2 oz of fresh juice from one orange. Then I was presented with lovely-lady-like gifts. A long white vintage maxi skirt from Lulu's Unique Shop and a wooden chain necklace from a Dallas artisan at Hale House Vintage Living. (To my hubby's glad appreciation, I had previously purchased both and handed them over to him on Saturday.) Good wife? Maybe. Proud mother? Definitely. 

My Mom...

My 6-year old has a great sense of humor. He is still in the process of figuring out appropriate timing, appropriate subject matter, and appropriate settings. But he's 6, and even if he doesn't always hit the mark for the adults, he usually can get a laugh out of his peers. I'll give him props though, because he's learning. And more often than not, he nails it even for the adults. Especially when I am the scapegoat.

Case in point, last week when we went to the dentist for our cleaning. Z & I were both scheduled for the same time slot. Which meant he was in the room next to mine. I heard intermittent chatting, but since it's the dentist, he was verbally restrained for a while. Until all of the sudden, I hear the loud declaration of "My Mom doesn't brush her teeth. She only brushes her teeth on Sundays." I was getting tartar chiseled off my upper teeth at the moment that I burst out laughing. Along with everyone else in earshot. Both the dentist, and Z's hygienist promptly came over to us still laughing, to see if we heard his take on my so-called apathetic personal hygiene.Thankfully I didn't have any cavities, so my neglect wasn't called into question. 

I must say, my infractions, are steadily stacking against me. On a recent Sunday, I was stopped in the hallway at church by his Sunday School teacher. The week previously I had stayed home with the coughing 2-year-old and Z and his Dad had attended together. She told me that last week he had announced that, "My Mom is at home sleeping. She sleeps ALL day on Sunday." In all honesty, I had probably slept in that morning until 9am. From time-to-time Johnathan and I try to trade "a sleep in day" on the weekends. And because a sick 2-year-old doesn't sleep well during the night, and there were a couple days compiled with some deprivation on my sleep schedule, it may have even been until 9:30am. Come to think of it, I may have even had the audacity to read for 20 minutes when I woke, before I emerged into the house over-run by my 3 boys after their several hours awake. Though, I recall, while they were at church, I didn't take a nap, I restored order. 

But he cracks me up, and I laugh freely. Even if the perspective painted by my 6-year-old is that even though I "sleep ALL day on Sunday", at least that is the day I brush my teeth. 

My spirit is about 2-years-old

Body, mind, heart, and spirit. These four entities comprise the elemental cornerstones of an individual traversing the human condition. I was told this week that as adults we are each about 2-years-old in the sense of spiritual maturity. I agreed, I was already there, and had the metaphor to back it up. 

This revelatory example occurred at our local library. I bribed my 2-year-old with "computer time" in order to allow me the "privilege" of taking 3 minutes to select a book for myself without complete chaos ensuing.

The library has child size mouses which fit the hands of a toddler. The only problem is today's toddlers have already learned how to navigate an iPhone, or a tablet, and so the concept of using a mouse is ludicrous to them. Frustrating beyond belief. He kept looking at me as if I were purposefully torturing him with the primitive technicalities of a mouse. And as anyone with a 2-year-old realizes you cannot "help" them. Oh no, it doesn't matter that it took multiple attempts on my part to transition him from the home screen in which NOTHING was happening, to a simplistic beginner screen where bubbles were rising with letters in them. No matter that this was just the introductory screen to the game. He was insistent that I let him do it himself. So...I stepped back. And had my own realization. This was totally the play-out that God and I have on a frequent basis. I'm sure he regularly throws his hands up in exasperation, and says, "Fine. Do it your way. Have fun with your boring bubbles, and when you figure you want something a little more complex and meaningful? Give me a call."