Deep Fat Frying for the Lenten Fast

Lent started for me with a glass of carrot juice, my penance for Fat Tuesday. And though I couldn't stick with it more than that first day, it seemed fitting that Lent end with the same (besides, I'd bought one of those huge packs at Costco and I had to use it up somehow). I had gone to church for an hour on Saturday morning at 2 a.m. to participate in the prayer vigil there and it seemed quite appropriate to follow up such a meaningful experience with 24 hours of fasting. Planning to fast for a day from food until Easter morning, I had the last of my carrot juice on Saturday mid-day.

            But then Molly said she felt like cooking batter-fried fish and chips for supper. How could I fast when she was doing the cooking, and it was going to be something deep-fat-fried? Besides, fasting to me during this Lent was more about leaving behind judgmentalism and negativism.

            So I went ahead and had the fish, something I don't normally eat, since I'm a vegetarian. But come on. This was deep-fat-fried. And I don't think eating the fish got in the way of my efforts to be nicer. I noticed some positive changes in my attitude when I was out buying the supplies for Molly's cook-a-thon.

            As I negotiated my way through congested parking lots, crowded grocery aisles, and cranky pedestrians, I realized my pursuit of grace over the previous few weeks was paying off. The dialogue in my head—normally scathing—this time wasn't offensive. When the guy in the giant, gleaming SUV cut me off, instead of calling him a stupid idiot, I thought, "Oh, he's in his own world. He wasn't even thinking about me." Really. No kidding. My spontaneous response in that instant was that. Incredible—especially if you knew what my normal tirade would be. I think I've really made some good progress this Lenten season. I've realized all those morons out there who need to be slapped silly aren't really that bad. They're just wrapped up in their own little world of troubles and woes and priorities that don't include using turn signals or thinking about who is next in line when the new register opens. It isn't about me. None of what they do is about me. (Except maybe that time I forgot to keep my dialogue silent and spewed off at that one woman a few weeks ago. What she said actually did have to do with me. But that's just 'cause I drew attention to myself by speaking out loud at her.)

            Maybe this goes to show how neither carrot juice nor deep-fat-fried foods can change one's insides as well as effort and awareness can. And maybe it shows the hope that even people with bad habits can learn to have grace for others, and that it's not all about me.

Burning Cookies for the Kids

I decided to burn a batch of cookies for my kids the other day. They love cookies and I thought it would be a nice thing to do. Of course, it would be nicer to bake rather than burn a batch of cookies, but I'm such a bad cook, I can't really make them without burning them. So the whole thing is more a symbol of love than anything else, since they never can enjoy the cookies as much as know I thought of them and wanted to do something thoughtful for them. It's one of those perfect examples of "it's the thought that counts."

            They come home, they sniff, they smell the ash. "Mom, have you been burning things again?"

            "Yes!" I say. "I thought it would be nice for you to have homemade cookies."

            Yes it would. "Thanks," they say. And go up to their rooms.

            Of course they don't race to the kitchen to grab a couple or three. They know as well as I none of us wants to eat them. It was just a nice gesture I could do for them.

            I've examined and explored my subconscious and my technique to try to figure out why I always burn things when I cook. Is there some subliminal action going on? Am I sabotaging my efforts for some unseen but deep-rooted psychological reason? Or is it simply the fact that I absolutely hate cooking and can't stand to stay in the kitchen longer than it takes to fill my plate before I escape to the dining room to sit and eat my food?

            I've ruined—or more accurately melted—several tea kettles. The last straw was one day after the family came home from playing tennis and came and found me tucked in my office typing away on one of  my books.

            "Mom! What's going on?" they all exclaim in a cacophony of excited voices.

            "I'm writing. It's really going well!"

            "The smoke alarm, Mom! It's screaming. The house is filled with smoke!"

            Oh my. Really?

            So we run upstairs, getting on hands and knees of course when we hit the main floor to keep below the smoke.

            But unnecessary. My husband is there. He's turned off the stove. He's got the fire extinguisher. What used to be the tea kettle is fused in an enamel glob onto the stovetop.

            "I thought I'd have some tea," I say. "Guess I forgot."

            That was when the rule was made I couldn't leave the kitchen once I turn the stove on. All pots from then on were to be watched, boiling or not. How awful. Not banished but fettered to the very place that makes my toenails curl.

            After much (or maybe not so much) self examination, I've discovered the reason everything, including the appliances, burn when I try to cook is that I can't stay around long enough after the heat is turned on to see the project through. The old adage meant to demean and punish is music to my ears: If you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen. Gladly! Besides, we can always go to Mrs. Fields.

Potty Training versus Drivers Training

I've realized that teaching quadruplets to drive is not that different than potting training quadruplets. My hair started turning white then. Well, today, I believe even my eyebrows are going to turn.

            When I decided it was time to start potty training, the kids were two weeks shy of their second birthday. I was tired of changing diapers. I was tired of paying for diapers. I wanted to be free. So I made a plan. We got up one day at the crack of dawn. Actually, it hadn't even cracked yet. It was pitch dark. I wanted to make sure everyone still had on dry pants. I knew each and every one of them had the capacity to stay dry all night. It was just during those morning hours (and Sesame Street) when I was too tired to tend to them right away that their status from dry-all-night converted to oops-I-need-a-diaper-change. So about three hours before Big Bird even woke up, I dragged out of their miniature beds four sleepy, confused toddlers, marched them into the kitchen, told them to down about 3 gallons each of apple juice, then led them into the bathroom. I had four potty chairs. I had books. I had a jar filled to the brim with M&Ms. We were set.

            About nine months, a lot of frustration, trial & error, M&Ms, and mishaps later, they were all potty trained. Mostly. Kind of.

            Today, around the crack of dawn, I woke my kids up. It was time for drivers training. Big Bird is no longer a close companion. Their drink of choice is no longer apple juice (but the 3 gallons is about right). But I am still tired. And I still long to be free. So it's time they learn to drive. The kids are still sleepy. When I talk at them (sounding no doubt like the adults in Charlie Brown cartoons: wah, wah, wahwahwah wah, wah, wah), they look confused. Like potty chairs, we have four cars.

As similar as the two experiences are, there are indeed differences. They didn't need seatbelts back then, though that would have helped that one day they all switched potties when I wasn't looking and I didn't know who'd filled the one potty or who should get the M&M. The fact that the potty chairs stayed in one place as we used them was lost on me. Oh, the security I took for granted. The ease. Those little stationary plastic chairs were so much safer than 2,000 pounds of steel propelled down a highway with the force of several hundred horsepower, They just sat there—except that period of time when, no matter what I said, Spencer kept dumping the potty buckets onto the floor because he wanted to help keep the potties clean. And even though I had to buy all those potty chairs, it was a lot cheaper to maintain and use them (and no insurance was necessary). Though one friend's husband wondered how we plumped the bathroom for four more potties. Obviously, he wasn't around when his wife potty trained their children.

Oh, and there is one difference most important of all: this time, I’m saving the M&Ms for myself!

Fat Tuesday

Yesterday was Fat Tuesday, for those who observe the holiday. I did my part to promote it: I had a Tuesday, and I ate like I wanted to be fat. Now today I'm paying for it, not only with physical woes but with psychological guilt. For wanting to lose ten pounds, I sure didn't behave like it yesterday. So today I'm drinking carrot juice. It's my penance, my punishment. It sure doesn't taste as good as the Chips Ahoys I nabbed on the way home last night. Why does it take six weeks and a Pope's discipline to lose the three pounds it took one trip to the grocery store to gain?

            A few nights ago I dreamt I'd gained, oh, probably, hundreds of pounds over night. I was getting dressed in the morning and it was like trying to put doll clothes on. That was the same dream in which I found under many layers of pajamas that I was still wearing a t-shirt I had put on in junior high. Trippy. I shouldn't eat junk food. It makes me not only feel guilty but have stress dreams. Can you imagine the shape the shirt would be in?

            Since Lent starts today, I guess I should give the occasion an equal amount of effort as I did Fat Tuesday. Though with it lasting forty-plus days, I can't promise I can keep up the same gusto the entire time that I demonstrated keeping Fat Tuesday. So I'll go with the carrot juice today, try to stay away from all things Keebler tomorrow, try to sleep well, and be sure to change my t-shirt. 

Writer's Block

I’m so excited about my current novel. I’ve absolutely loved the research. I can’t wait to have my protagonist’s life unfold before my eyes. I see the scenes in my head, I envision the release of its publication, I feel the pen in my hand and the smile on my face as I do a book signing.
But for some reason I just can’t sit down and write the thing. I was even COOKING this morning instead of writing. And I HATE cooking. Everyone I know knows I hate cooking. Even my milkman knows and I’ve never met him. It just oozes out of me: "I HATE COOKING!" I wonder if finding myself standing over my frying pan sautéing the eggplant I just had to pluck from my garden this morning is any indication that I have some kind of writer’s block. Yesterday I tried to write, and suddenly I felt my toenails growing. I just HAD to go trim them right NOW. Then of course, the polish was chipping and that just couldn’t be left alone.
In a few minutes I am meeting one of my sisters for lunch. I will have successfully flittered away another morning of my best creative time to eggs plants, personal grooming, and moving around my stereo components (something I didn’t mention before, but it had to be done). I hope when I get home from lunch I won’t need a nap too badly.
But then, maybe lying down will help me visualize writing the novel just a little bit better.

So I woke up this morning with a revelation. I had to start my blog. I’d gotten books from the library on it a while back. Obviously that didn’t help, if I just now got the revelation.

I could start by giving my idea on solving the world’s problems, but then after that, what more would there be to say? I’ll have to save that for nearer the end of this sudden blog phase. Hopefully that won’t be next week.

I will tell about myself instead, as a kind of introduction. I have four nearly-16-year-olds who need their driver licenses. 14 years ago when I was potty training my quadruplets, strangers in the grocery store would ask, “My, what are you going to do when they all start driving?” I blew them off then. I was too busy looking for the nearest bathroom. But now it is upon us. But they can’t drive yet because my husband lost his job a year ago. And I haven’t sold any of my novels yet, so we don’t have any money. Part-time magazine editors don’t make much money. 16-year-old quadruplets cost money. Especially when they start driving. The insurance, the permits, the driving school, the new fender, the new fender, the new fender, the new fender, the Valium.

Meanwhile, we get more together time in the car as I chauffer them around. Which is great, if I’m speaking to them. If I’m upset, like two days ago when the new job offered my husband was withdrawn, then I don’t feel much like asking them how their day’s been. I’m just trying not to melt down and crash through a fence or into a light post. Because we don’t have money for the new fender.

But today is a new day. I’m fine. I’m speaking again. They can tell me how their day is going. We’ll find out together. Today is Saturday, chore day. We sleep in. We hang out. We clean the house. And I start my blog.