Posts Tagged ‘Cooking’

Cooking Something (anything!) Up

So apparently Mark thinks Brian doesn’t know how to cook.

Me (trying to lure Mark to help with dinner):  “Come on, kid, I’ll show you how to make pesto.”

Mark:  “Why?”

Me:  “Someday you will need to feed yourself.”

Mark:  “I already know how to make ramen.”

Me:  “You might want to eat something besides ramen.”

Mark:  “I LIKE ramen.”

Me:  “Fine.  But someday you may want to impress a girl, and we love guys who cook.”

Mark:  “Then why doesn’t Dad know how?”

Since I’m leaving Friday and will be gone for a week, Mark’s belief in his father’s inability to navigate the kitchen has moved from a curiosity to a source of grave concern.


Mark:  “I think we should go to the grocery store.”

Me:  “Why?”

Mark:  “We need some frozen dinners.”

Me:  “Why?”

Mark:  “So I can eat while you’re gone.”

Me:  “Dad can cook.”

Mark:  “I think it would be a good idea to have some frozen dinners.”


Mark:  “I think we should go to the grocery store and get some frozen dinners.”


Mark decides to stay silent but is obviously skeptical.


[We are at the grocery store filling a prescription]

Mark:  “While we are here, I think we should get some frozen dinners.”

Me:  “You know, I have successfully left children alone with your father and none of them died of starvation.”

Mark:  “I DON’T WANT TO DIE AND I DON’T WANT TO EAT RAMEN FOR A WHOLE WEEK.  Can we PLEASE get some frozen dinners?”

Sly Sam Strikes Again

Sam doesn’t often get zingers in on his siblings.  But when he does, they’re subtly hilarious.

So Kate was cooking herself scrambled eggs for breakfast.  Apparently she dropped a hair on the burner, because the house filled with the stench of burning hair.  Sam comes out of his room.

Sam:  “What stinks?”

Me:  “That’s what hair smells like when it burns.  Kate must have got a hair on the burner.”

Sam comes over and inspects Kate, frowning sympathetically.  “Leaned too close and singed your mustache, huh?”

Why Vikings Were Tough to Convert

St. Patrick’s day is also Mark’s birthday, which is why he scored Patrick as a bonus middle name.  So he was extra-squirrelly at church this past Sunday.

He races into the sanctuary and plops down in the first pew, the one without anything between you and the choir.  Just as I make it to the sanctuary door I hear the Pastor trying to do announcements and Mark bellowing at her:  “Don’t forget!  It’s my BIRTHDAY today!”

Then there was the Children’s Sermon…

Pastor:  “St. Patrick was not Irish.  He was captured by Irish pirates and taken to Ireland, where he was treated as a slave and had to work very hard.  Later he escaped, but he heard God telling him to return to Ireland and preach the gospel.  Would you want to go back to where you’d been held captive?”

Mark:  “YES.”

Pastor:  “Why?”

Mark:  “To get REVENGE.”

I’ve mentioned before that Mark seems to have the natural make-up of a Viking…it’s probably no accident that Scandinavia converted hundreds of years after the rest of Europe.



Christmas Dinner

So a couple days before Christmas, Brian brought Kate home from Girl Scouts.  The other kids had already eaten dinner so Kate had her supper alone with me and her dad.  Apparently, she misheard “pot roast” when I fixed her plate.  After she’d finished, she asked politely, “May I have more cockroach, please?”

Good parents would have clued her in to the misapprehension.  Unfortunately for her, she got us.  We shared a glance over her head.

“Certainly,” Brian said smoothly.  “You can certainly have more cockroach.”

“There should be plenty,” I said.  “I cooked a 3 pound cockroach.”

So if Kate comes to your house and coos over your delicious cockroach dinner…it’s not her fault, really.


Oh my children, if your mother gets up early on Saturday morning the day before Mother’s Day and makes you a special breakfast cake in a kickin’-cool castle-shaped bundt pan, it is not a good idea for three of the four of you to wail, “Eww!  I don’t like it!  Can I have something else?  What IS it?”

For one thing, the more-astute teenager, concerned about his siblings’ continued existence, can only shove in so much.  And he lies badly.

Although to be fair, “Yum!  Mom, this is great!”, probably NEVER sounds persuasive coming out of a teenager’s mouth.

Wash Twice

So the local food season has started up again.  Last week was the first of our CSA.  Mostly greens show up in the box for the first few weeks.  This time, it was a bag of spinach, a bag of arugula, and another bag of random lettuce.

Note to self:  wash it well.

Yesterday I made a gardenburger sandwich with some of the spinach (which I had washed, but apparently not thoroughly enough).  About three bites from the end, I looked down at some spinach that had fallen out onto my hand–and there was about 1/3 of a daddy-long legs.

After I finished brushing my teeth, I resolved to wash all the local, farm-fresh greens, complete with authentic local PA dirt and bugs, TWICE.

How Sarcasm is Passed Down to the Next Generation

So we’re having dessert…

Mark already has his bowl of jello and cool whip.

I fix another bowl.

Mark:  “Is that Kate’s jello?”

Kate, however, is not done with dinner, so no jello for her yet.

Me:  “Actually, it’s mine.”  It’d been a long day and I was feeling grumpy about the surveillance so I added snarkily,  “Is that okay with you?”

Mark pauses to consider.  “Yes.”  He looks at Sam.  “Is it okay with you?”

Sam (baffled–he understood the original sarcasm but like the rest of us, has no clue whether Mark is one-upping it or being serious):  “Um…okay.”

Mark nods.  “Dad?  Is that okay with you?”

Brian (chortling over his pot roast):  “Yes.”

Me (not quite ready to give up):  “Fine!  I’m so glad.”


Last year, I accidentally bought 80 pounds of apples during the end-of-season ‘yard sale’ of our CSA.  [just in case you are, like I was, unsure what a ‘bushel’ versus a ‘peck’  means, here it is:  a peck is roughly 5-6 lbs, a bushel, 20.]

Hence the inadvertent 80 lbs of apples last fall.  I put them in the coldest closet in the house and made apple cake, apple pie, and applesauce until almost Christmas.

Apparently some members of our household thought that worked out pretty well, because there were broad hints — and when those didn’t work, outright suggestions — made last week to the effect of, wasn’t it about time to buy this year’s cartload of apples?

Allrighty.  But I got smarter and only bought about 40 pounds.  Which should yield PLENTY of apple pie, thank you.

The absolutely best part of this year’s apple haul is that one of the breeds is Northern Spy.  How cool is that?

The Braeburns are fabulous, with their slightly exotic name.  The Jonathans are especially huge this year, and hence, Sam’s favorite.  The Jonagolds have a tinge of mutant appeal going on, some sort of mix of Golden Delicious and Jonathan.  The Honeycrisps have been playing hard to get, always sold out at the regular Farmers’ Market before I get there, so I was glad to get them through the CSA yard sale.

But I’m going to eat lunch soon, and I know very well I’ll be reaching for the 007 apple.  It’s crisp, tart, and it makes me feel suave.


[I sneeze]

Mark:  Are you tick, Mom?

Me:  No, I just sneezed.

Mark:  I’m tick.

Me:  Oh?

Mark:  I have a fever.

Me:  Oh?

Mark:  The problem why I am tick is I ate too much food.

Me:  Oh?

Mark:  Food you gave me.

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