Egg Nests

February 4, 2012 · 1 comment

We have a tradition of sorts, around these parts.  That is: come weekend mornings, we ditch our boring weekday breakfast routine of oatmeal or yogurt and indulge in something far more caloric.  And tasty, too.  This morning, we woke to found that someone had finished off the milk with chocolate chip cookies last night, so waffles or pancakes or muffins were out.  Instead, I whipped up a twist on a recipe I saw on a food network show recently.  Egg nests.  They were easy as could be, with very light clean-up (which is always a plus!).

Egg Nests

Ingredients:
4-5 organic russet potatoes
4 T. unsalted butter, melted
6 eggs
sliced or grated cheese (we used Swiss, but provolone, Gruyere, or cheddar would be tasty, too)

Directions:
Preheat the oven to 350°.  Spray six ramekins with cooking spray.  Set aside.

Peel potatoes and then use the grate blade of your food processor to shred them (think traditional hash browns).  Gather grated potatoes in a clean dish towel or cheesecloth and wring the liquid out.  Transfer them to a large bowl and stir in the melted butter.  Season well with salt, pepper (and maybe a dash of garlic powder if you’re adventurous).  Press the grated potatoes evenly into the prepared ramekins, being sure the potatoes go up the sides and a thin layer and covers the bottom. Bake until the top edges turn light golden brown and the potatoes are cooked through, about 35 to 40 minutes.

Remove the potatoes from the oven and gently crack an egg into each cup. Bake until the egg whites set but the yolk remains runny, about 6 to 8 minutes.

Remove from the oven and set the oven to broil. Top the eggs with grated cheese. Broil until cheese melts.  We served ours with warmed green salsa.  Yum!

SOURCE: Food Network

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don’t you wish your grandma was cute like mine?

February 2, 2012 · 9 comments

At the beginning of the month my Grams drove up from her winter home in Yuma to celebrate Kennedy’s birthday with us.  While she was here, she caught a little glimpse of my interactions with Cassidy.  Or, in other words,  Cassidy’s general refusal to listen.  Always trying to help, Grams pulled Cassidy aside and told her that instead of disobeying, she should politely say, “yes, Mom,” when she is asked to do something.  Come bedtime that evening, I told Cass to go get her pajamas on and brush her teeth.  Almost instantly Cass started in on the feet dragging and whining I’ve come to expect, but Gram would have none of it.

“Cassidy,” she said, “what did I tell you to say when Mom asks you to do something?”

Knowing she’d been caught, Cassidy offered up a sheepish, “yes, Mom,” before turning on her heels and heading down the hall.

Not able to produce a response like that on my own, I promptly begged Grams to stay the whole weekend.  The month.  Forever, even.  But alas, her visit came to an end in the blink of an eye.  Still, I clung tightly to the novelty of Grams’ method for as long as it lasted.

Which, as it turned out, wasn’t long.

But just as the effect was wearing off, lo and behold Cassidy received an envelope in the mail.  Inside?

Tee hee.

Isn’t Grams the cutest thing ever?

I think so, too.

And yes, I’m totally keeping that little Mickey says card in my back pocket.

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the behavior contract: in depth

February 1, 2012 · 4 comments

Last week, after I posted the behavior contract, a very keen reader noticed and pointed out that the words I penned back in 2007 suspiciously skirted the topics of sex and dating.  While that may seem like a heinous oversight, rest assured that it wasn’t.  While I omitted that stuff from the ink, I certainly didn’t omit it from the discussion.  I will gladly tell you my reasoning, but first I have to give you a hint of background about the day that set this whole thing in motion.

Without going into detail, let me just say that on that day, I found something that shot like an arrow through my heart.  I read words that instantly grieved me because how could so treasured a child see herself without value?  {I apologize for the vagueness.  It’s necessary.}

And so, with the precipice of high school looming, I set out to drive home a message so important that missing it could make all the difference in the world.

Don’t mistake me for a moron; I knew full well that the existence of such a contract would not really bind anybody to anything.  What is was to do, though, was explain–in no uncertain terms–my expectations.  Too many times in this parenthood I’ve been handed the excuse of not knowing.  With my expectations listed and signed off on, the not knowing becomes a much tougher sell.

Still, in spite of having voiced squirm-worthy sex’ish words all the days leading up to this one, putting them on paper was a step I wasn’t willing to take.  Partly because I felt that by writing them down and making them off-limits, I was somehow posing a dare.  And that was the last thing I wanted to do.

When we sat across the table from one another, reading over this contract, there was much discussion.  Unlike the heart-to-hearts we’d had before, this one was far more formal.  Quite purposefully.  I’d meant for it to feel very business-like.  If the truths of my heart poured out in the past had fallen on forgetful ears, perhaps this signing on the dotted line would stick.

I wanted the words–the expectations on that paper–to convey a message.  That is: you matter.  The choices you make today will shape tomorrow.  Your choices matter.  You will have a curfew; you will contribute; you will be respectful.  You matter.  If the going gets tough I will not look the other way; I will press harder.  You matter.  I will not give up on you because you matter.  I expect a lot from you and I know you can rise to the occasion.  You matter more than you’ll ever know.

I hoped that that truth would permeate and that, in turn, she would value herself enough to make responsible choices with boys based on self-worth rather than a directive on some piece of paper her mom made her sign.  We talked then–and talk still-about what I expect of her in the dating department, but it’s easily one of the slipperiest slopes I’ve ever had to parent down.  On one hand I want her to know that sex isn’t okay right now, but on the other hand I need her to know that if she chooses otherwise, she can come to me, without repercussion.  How can you convey both without sending a mixed message?

I don’t know the answer to that.  All I know is that I’m doing my best.

Parenting has been hard since that very first contraction.  Seasons of hard.  The physical exhaustion slowly gives way to a weary one, and second-guessing comes battering like a downed tree at the heavy door of perseverance.  All I know for sure is that while I could be better, I’m doing my best.

I’ve got an eighth grader waiting in the wings; the behavior contract is about to make a second appearance.  With revisions, of course.  Because when you know better, you do better.

I can only hope–and pray without end–that my best is good enough.

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the behavior contract

Lemon Cranberry Bundt Cake

the things I wish I’d known

when we go flying