In school, The Kid had a band of unique children for friends.
There was Wrenn, a tall willowy blond, who would’ve given Jane Birkin a run for her money (look her up). Wren busked (performed music in public for donations) by playing the tuba wearing a top hat and long swirling gypsy skirt. I called her my little wood sprite.
Kacie was a middle school friend who named all her food. Not like, “This is asparagus, these are noodles.” Nope. It was more like, “You are a beautiful cupcake. I shall call you Arabella.”
Yup. Then she’d eat it.
There was Andy. Andy’s a good kid, and so is The Kid. But put them together, and some type of chemical reaction occurred that turned the two into middle school miscreants. 
With Andy as accomplice, there was skipping of school, saying they’d be one place, and actually being somewhere else entirely, and all-round, general butt-head-ery. But even though they drove all the involved parental units crazy, they were and are thoroughly good kids.
And Thea. 
The child was a walking exposed nerve. Everything was felt very deeply, and all emotions were heightened, given free rein, and emoted with volume and gusto. There were no mixed messages from Thea. If you ticked her off, you would be informed of it, with no room for misunderstanding or confusion.
She also had a terrific surfeit of energy, of every type. She was an overly caffeinated puppy inside a Red Bull-fueled race horse, wrapped in a rocket ship from the future. Thea was so constantly, so completely wide open, we called her Animal, after the frenetic, demented puppet drummer on The Muppet Show.
While in high school, The Kid, Thea, and a third student James Henry, were chosen to compete on Brain Game, a quiz show on a local TV station.
They studied—everything; the questions came from subjects as varied as Chaucer, the Betty/Veronica love triangle, and osmosis.
Finally, the big day arrived.
We arrived for the taping well before the appointed hour. That left plenty of time to kill, with contenders that were already twitchy with anticipation.
There was a large garden at the station, and we sent them for a walk to hopefully burn off some nervous energy. Soon, The Kid and James Henry came back up, feeling better and less frenetic. Thea, however, stayed a bit longer.
The child was running up and down rows of azalea bushes. She’d disappear as she ran behind the larger shrubs, then she’d pop back again where the plantings were lower.
She resembled a real-life mole in a garden-themed whack-a-mole game.
Then it was time for the big game show. We were shepherded into the studio; parents and teachers in the bleachers, contestants on stage. The host welcomed us, gave us a rundown of how the taping would work, and had a brief chat with each kid to steady their nerves, and get them ready to compete.
*Spoiler alert: our kids won. They blew the other teams out of the water. They almost had a perfect game.
And, they accomplished it with only two members.
Because when the red light came on, and the cameras started to roll, Thea, the girl who never had nothing to say, the girl who was feisty, fierce, and funny, was struck, as if from the hammer of Thor himself, silent and frozen.
For the entire thirty minutes of taping, the child was broken. Then the show was over, and the red light went out. And like an especially loud and profane meteor striking the earth, our scrappy Thea was back in the building.
Thanks for your time.
Many years ago, before food blogs, the explosion of food writing, and even mass usage of the interwebs, I read a column in my local newspaper. It was about onions.
The story began with his daughter coming home on a break. And she immediately dove into the refrigerator. She pulled out a jar of this dark brown marmalade-like substance that was obviously homemade. It intrigued, but was completely unknown.
When she asked him, he informed her it was caramelized onion jam. That it was incredibly easy but took hours to prepare. That it might resemble run of the mill fried onions but it was so, so much more.
Peel the onions, cut them in half and slice into ¼ inch half-moons. Put them all into large, heavy Dutch oven with tightly fitted lid. Pour in oil. Add salt, pepper, and thyme. 
Stir together to coat. Place on stove and turn to 2-3 or medium-low. Cover and cook for about 20 minutes. You’re looking to get all the water out of the onions. Uncover, give it a stir, and take a look. If it’s not ready, recover and cook more, checking every 10 minutes or so.
When the onions are wilted-looking, and swimming in an inch or two of liquid, uncover.
Turn burner up to just over medium (6-ish). Let the pan heat up, then pour in the Marsala. Scrape up browned bits on the pan bottom and cook wine is gone and the jam is a nice deep caramel color. Taste and re-season, if necessary. 
The jam is really good on burgers and grilled cheese. Use as a flavoring in mayo, humus, or salad dressing. Replace regular onions in smothered pork chops or country-style steak. Can you say, French Onion Soup? And I love it on pizza, and a million other things.
One word of caution: a little goes a very long way, don’t go overboard. And this is coming from someone who loves onions. It is possible to use too much—so start light, taste, and add more if needed.
Thanks for your time.
It would be really easy for me to give you the polite, for-company explanation; “Petey worked 7P-7A for so many years, it reset our circadian rhythms.
From the day I was born (in the late afternoon, I might add), mornings and I have had a sincerely adversarial relationship. 1AM is the shank of the evening, and my morning does not comfortably start until at least 12-1PM.
It’s just how I’m built. I worked 7A-3P in a hospital lab for a year. People told me that after a while, I’d get used to it and become a morning person. I hated and dreaded every single day of it.
Luckily, Petey has a matching loose screw. We actually take turns getting up early (for us); first with our child, and now with our dog.
Breakfast for dinner, though, I have no problem naming. Heck, I love breakfast for dinner so much, I’d happily call it Fred.
So, here are a few tips and methods that will make your breakfast for dinner a treat, and not a penance.
2.) Hash browns; melt butter in a skillet, then toss shredded potatoes and onions in butter to coat. Cook in a flat cake, flip when browned, and cook on the other side. At a stove-top setting of 3.5-4, they should take about 15-20 minutes to cook.
4.) If you take nothing else from this epistle, clean up as you go along. Breakfast can make a mess of your kitchen. Keep your counters cleared and wiped. Throw food waste in the compost or trash can right away, not the sink—that stops the quick rinsing and washing up that will save your sanity. Get your prep work done and cleaned up before cooking anything. Set your table and have beverages and condiments ready. If you use a dishwasher, have it empty and ready to receive the oncoming storm.
So, call it breakfast for dinner, call it Fred, call it Agent Colson, just don’t forget to call me when it’s on the menu.
When I was five, I learned the meaning of the phrase, “heathen savages”.
Finally, we were led into the engine bay. Our guide spread his arms wide and told us, “Go ahead, kids. Look around. Have some fun!”
That was pretty much the entire kindergarten class of Lad-N-Lassie that day.
I grew up visiting the base, running around giant hangers, and climbing in and around huge flying machines.
Next to it was a compact metal circular staircase. In caper movies, or films with a big escape scene they all have one thing on common. The need for a distraction. Something to draw the eye and engage the concentration.
Two classmates were stuck in one giant rubber boot having a slap fight. A couple of kids were doing what looked like swing dancing on the roof of a truck. One girl had found the horn and I think was attempting to play “The Girl from Ipanema” on it. One boy, named Prairie, had taken off his shirt and was sitting on the floor whacking two helmets like bongo drums. The teachers and chaperones were dividing their time between running after some children and begging others to get down.
Keeping one eye on the chaos, I sidled over to the steps and started up, thinking as hard as I could, “I’m invisible, you can’t see me, I’m invisible…”
My feet hit the ground about the time the adults registered my trip. I was the first and last kid to make the journey that day. With the assistance of the rest of the fireman, us kindergarten cats were herded out and onto the bus for the drive back to school.
Thanks for your time.
But, this meant there was one parent who could be called to the base in an emergency with no idea when he would return home. Because of this, my mother was a stay-at-home mom./easy-chocolate-oatmeal-no-bake-cookies-3058522-hero-01-5c19116e46e0fb000129552f.jpg)
Simple, cheap, tasty things from stuff we usually had in the house, like bread pudding, popsicles from Jell-O, preacher cookies, and cream puffs. One of our favorites was her wacky cake that she topped with fudge frosting.
One awesome thing about my mom: she believes it’s perfectly acceptable to have pie, cake, or even rice crispy treats for breakfast (See? Awesome.). Occasionally Mom would splurge on a specific store-bought treat for weekend breakfast.
Recently I stumbled upon a vanilla version of my mother’s wacky cake. Adding cinnamon makes it more similar to those orange rolls. Last fall I went to Fearrington Village farmer’s market and met Nathan Simons, who with his wife Audrey, creates silky, flavored nut butters. My favorite is their hazelnut/orange. Which reminds me of those canned orange rolls, but in the very best, most delicious way.
Find Simons Says Nut Butters at 
1 & 1/2 cups + 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 & 1/2 cups sugar
The Kid will tell anybody who asks, Grampa’s a superhero. The Kid’s not far off. If you know someone who served their country in the Coast Guard or another branch, say thanks. Or better yet, give them a piece of this cake.
Thanks for your time.
You know, when it came to spouses, I think I got pretty lucky.
I am not one to ‘take it out’ on people or animals who are at hand, but in no way responsible for my pique. I only hurl my stinging invectives toward the situational catalyst.
But Petey and I are around each other most of the time, so he gets the most exposure to my displeasure, despite the fact that the true object of my ire is in the TV box, or the telephone, or doesn’t even actually exist, and I’m just bellowing into the void. My vociferous proclamations still roll over him and then recede, like some cranky ocean tide.
The government announced the other day that the progress they’d made to keep kids nicotine-free has completely been erased—by vaping.
And now they’re airing commercials in which adult smokers talk about how they switched from cigarettes to vaping, and ain’t life grand? I guess it’s better because…they can do it at church or sitting on the nice sofa?
Martha Stewart is a new celebrity judge on Food Network’s Chopped. There are three segments in which dishes created by participants are eaten and evaluated. No matter what the food is, no matter what course, Martha eat with chopsticks. And now, another judge, Iron Chef Jeffrey Zakarian has joined her in this straight-up affectation.
I’m sure they feel they have a perfectly rational reason. Maybe they’re trying to limit calories. Maybe it’s their way to pick through the dish and taste separate components. Don’t care.
To Bridget, Carmen, and any other robo-calling wenches who want to help lower my credit card interest rates; I will find you. When you least expect me, and are feeling quite proud of your scamming, computer-generated selves, I will find you.
Thanks for your time.
My mother would be convinced that the veggies were burnt and should be discarded. This would result in my father running over to Food Lion to acquire more microwavable veggies as the family sits around the dinner table and Mom frets about everything getting cold and dried out.
If her baked macaroni and cheese has brown spots on the top, it’s burned. If rolls go beyond the lightest of caramel-color, they’re burned. And if veggies get a barely perceptible touch of char, they’re burned and ruined.
The Maillard (my-yard) reaction is when amino acids and sugars mix with heat and to a certain extent, pressure, making those delicious, delicious brown markings on food.
Due to exposure to my mom’s brown food aversion, and my own, near-certifiable level of impatience, I came exceedingly late to the brown food fan club.
All you need is a metal pan (a cast iron is best here) that’s screaming hot and a little oil. Dry both sides of the meat, put the thinnest coats of oil on it, then season both sides. Place the pieces in the pan without crowding them, which will steam them, rather than sear. They should be no closer than ½ inch. And the more contact meat makes to hot surface, the more of it will be brown.
Brown veggies though, are my newest obsession.
When the cauliflower was heated through, I uncovered the pan and turned it up to about 6. There was a little water in the skillet from the veg which I wanted to cook off. This is where I had the happy accident.
When I got back to it, it had developed beautiful browning. In the past, I never cooked vegetables until they picked up color. But, instead of deciding it was burned and discarding it, I just flipped it to expose another part to the pan.
You can do this with both frozen and fresh. But it must be a harder veg, like broccoli, cauliflower, or carrots. A more tender veggie like peas, will turn gray. So cook them gently, then roll them in brown butter. They’ll pick up the maillard flavor without going all elementary school cafeteria food on you.
And, not burnt.
John Mayer, serial dater and troubadour for romantically challenged thirty-somethings sang, “Your body is a wonderland”.
It starts at puberty.
When I was in junior high, they’d separate the class by sex, then show the girls films and pass out pamphlets about “Becoming A Woman”. According to them, once mature there are lots of flowers, swelling violin music, and for some reason, horseback riding.
Even Walt Disney Studios got in on it with the Citizen Kane of female reproduction, “The Story of Menstruation”. Sadly, it didn’t include a scene of Minnie sending Mickey out to the Walgreens for supplies, chocolate, and Midol.
But, once Aunt Flo actually showed up, we realized what a messy, bloated, crampy pig in a poke we’d yearned for. And as a bonus, we’d get to experience it twelve times a year for the next forty years.
Pregnancy brain is really a thing. I once left my car running and in gear when I got out at the dry cleaners. How I didn’t run myself over and make the business a drive-through is anybody’s guess./cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/61401577/The_Predator_Movie_5K_q2.0.jpg)
Then, there was the clicking. For weeks, I heard an odd sound coming from my belly, like the monster from the movie, “Predator”, but slower and muffled. I just assumed auditory hallucinations were another part of the gestational swag bag.
Early on, I experienced a sleepiness of an industrial-strength. I’d be reading or watching TV, when suddenly it would be 90 minutes later because I had fallen asleep as suddenly as a toddler passes out into their lunch.
There are random physical curveballs served up by growing a human, as well. I had a hair inside my nose grow backward. It eventually showed up on the outside. Then I couldn’t breathe through my schnoz, but I could smell anything anywhere that might turn my stomach—at one point I’m pretty sure I smelled a fish fry on Noah’s ark.
This is a voyage planned by a psychopathic travel agent from hell. Without my glasses, I can’t see myself in the mirror—which makes mascara a vision-risking adventure. A magnifying mirror works, but the suddenly enlarged, dilapidated visage staring back shocks and horrifies. My joints sound like I’m smuggling a box of broken glass. 
The mood swings and the hot flashes are a charming two-fer. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been buttered and set ablaze. If at that point, a human male informs me that it’s all in my head and I should ignore it, I suddenly experience strong desire. A desire to snap said human like a dry twig and use the resulting pieces to toast marshmallows and weenies on the raging camp fire that’s my left thigh. 
It’s not all tragedy and cold French fries, though. I’m anticipating the happy day I discard the last tattered fragment of restraint controlling my tongue.
Thanks for your time.
bull city mom 