tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46320470102004800582024-03-12T22:39:45.988-05:00Through Fuchsia-Colored GlassesLaurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-11950995446361055792012-04-07T18:59:00.001-05:002012-04-07T19:20:40.584-05:00My New Tattoo!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xFfd5Xmn38bAhh2Hy-lsBtoSmEnuVfi3WuoYedk54ctFcB9U-gmwKrduGPMjkxr77tgXDEnBwlx0Yt70Mjo68tlGkZ_ybHe9VQRr1FqDtHcAQNBJdrINwHPOvX6EPIYnVNnleO4gAWQ/s1600/IMG_1061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xFfd5Xmn38bAhh2Hy-lsBtoSmEnuVfi3WuoYedk54ctFcB9U-gmwKrduGPMjkxr77tgXDEnBwlx0Yt70Mjo68tlGkZ_ybHe9VQRr1FqDtHcAQNBJdrINwHPOvX6EPIYnVNnleO4gAWQ/s320/IMG_1061.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celtic Motherhood Tattoo</td></tr>
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I got a new tattoo! It's actually my fifth one, but the first really visible one. I have one on the top of my foot, but it's pretty easy to hide, if need be. I feel like I've entered a new world of tattoo-having. There's a pretty big difference between having tattoos and no one knowing it and having a tattoo that people will see the majority of the time (especially because I HATE long-sleeves - it's just so hard to eat with sleeves. Or go to the bathroom. Is that weird that I don't like to sit on a toilet while wearing a long-sleeved shirt? I think it's the fear of sleeve-contamination-while-wiping). <br />
<br />
Anyway, it is (supposedly, but even if it isn't accurate, I still love it) a Celtic Motherhood knot. The top heart is me (January), the bottom heart is Husband (and co-creator of the children), the top left circle is Ant (August), and top right is Sweet D (October). There is room to add more children, if/when the occasion arises (punny?). I love it. I've wanted a tattoo to symbolize motherhood since I became a mom, but I've never found an idea I liked before. When I saw this one, I knew it was the right one for me. I found the design online and came up with the idea for the mother/father hearts myself. It's so perfect. You know, unless I divorce Husband and/or get impregnated by someone else. But I'll deal with that conundrum if and when I have to. I'll just make sure I only sleep with people born in November. Problem solved! (Obviously that's in jest... one Scorpio in my life is more than enough.)<br />
<br />
On a side note, I was surprised by how much this one hurt. I either forgot how much they hurt (since it's been six years since my last one), or it hurts a lot more on your wrist than other places (I have one that's around 14" by 8" on my lower back, including over my tail bone - so I'm thinking I'm mis-remembering how much that one actually hurt). Compared to childbirth, it was nothing. But now I have a pretty scar to bear that reminds me of my most favorite people in the world - instead of the "tiger stripes" adorning the rest of my body (of which I'm not embarrassed, but also far from fond of). I put on my tough-girl face, though, and Husband said he couldn't tell I was even slightly uncomfortable. Now if only I could be that tough again through labor in the future (which could take about as long as this tattoo took, since Sweet D took an hour and 45 min)...<br />
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-8043737121420032412012-04-03T10:38:00.000-05:002012-04-03T10:48:22.082-05:00Wait, It's 2012? A Visit From My MuseHi! Oops. What happened to the first three months of this year? I could blame the kids (they always need things, like attention, love, food, etc. Ugh.), or the brief stint in the hospital (suck it, appendix), or the insane landscaping project we've undertaken in the last month of 80+ degree temps every day (actually, that probably is a lot to blame), but I think the biggest reason I haven't been blogging is simply that I've hit some sort of wall of writer's block. I've started a few entries and just can't get past the first sentence. How do you make an appendicitis or 3 yr old's broken collar bone funny? I'm working on it, trust me. When I figure it out (and am visited by the muse of blogs - whoa, that sounds like some sort of horrifying beast; I'm picturing a cross between mermaid Sirens and Jabba the Hutt, gurgling out witticisms while sensually flapping its obese, scaled tail against the rocks, making a blubber-meets-wet-moss slapping sound that I always imagine when I think about fat people having sex (which I try not to think about too often, but it happens, you know)), I'll be sure to update. <br />
<br />
In the meantime, please accept this as my apology. I've been busy and crafty and uninspired. Verbosely uninspired. In other departments, I've been divinely inspired. You want a jar or candle votive dyed pink? I'm on top of it. A knife block painted pink? Done. A pink chalkboard menu planner? Check. And for the explosion of crafts and pink, Pinterest is wholly to blame. But Pinterest is decidedly not cohesive to the distribution of my muse (which is, given the nature of my blogger muse, probably a good thing, or I imagine Pinterest would likely be significantly less popular).<br />
<br />
Anyway, I'll try my hardest to actually start updating. But just be warned, it might include things like updates on landscaping and various pink-laden Pinterest projects. I will do my best to also write humorous anecdotes, though. Regardless, I'm back. For now.<br />
<br />
I'll leave you with this:<br />
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"*Slurp* You should *gurgle* write about *slap, slurp* that time *belch* that funny thing happened *gurgle, slurp*"</div>
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-18006937858389251362011-12-26T14:13:00.002-06:002011-12-26T14:16:34.185-06:00Meal Plan Extravaganza!I know, it's another Monday without a good blog post. I'm sorry. :(<br />
<br />
But! Today I have a somewhat legitimate excuse. I've been meal planning. I meal plan on a fairly regular basis (three weeks a month, usually - the fourth being a week of protest during which, if Husband accidentally forgets that I've over-exerted myself with food preparations recently and asks what we're going to eat, I crumple into a heap of frustrated womanly devastation and either cry or yell, "I DON'T KNOW!" until he just makes us all sandwiches), but this time is different. We're having a billion guests over the next week, and I'm determined not to be caught off-guard this time.<br />
<br />
We have guests on a pretty regular basis. Probably more than normal people, because, being an Army family, we don't get to choose where we live, and, since none of our relatives live at Army posts, we don't ever live near (as in the same town) family. But we do have really awesome parents who visit us all the time. I'd like to pretend it's because we're just so awesome, but I'm sure at least part of it has to do with us being the only ones on either side with little kids. Either way, we have visitors at least once a month (usually more - plus our own road trips to them at least once every 3 months).<br />
<br />
So this week. My mom and step-dad are driving into town (right now! They might even get here while I'm typing this!!), and they'll stay from today (26 Dec) until Wed (28 Dec). Then we have a bit of a break until Friday (30 Dec), when Husband's parents and two younger sisters will be driving up. They're staying until Monday (2 Jan). But, because that's not enough, my dad and step-mom will also be coming over on Sunday (1 Jan) and staying until Mon (2 Jan). Then a good high school friend of mine and her husband will be staying with us Tues night (3 Jan). <br />
<br />
I know I get a few breaks in there, but those days will primarily be used for any food preparations I can do ahead of time. Usually, at least one time during a visit, we end up in that frozen, everybody is hungry, no body has a plan, terrible situation. Like the vultures from "Jungle Book," except about food. No one wants to be the one to have an opinion, so we just sit around until we're starving to death, and someone finally breaks and orders pizza.<br />
<br />
Not this time. I'm coming in to this prepared. Hopefully, I'll feel as dedicated to this plan in a couple days as I do now.<br />
<br />
Without further ado, I give you my Christmas Visits 2011 Meal Plan:<br />
<br />
Mon 12-26 - Dinner - Caprese Baguettes and chips (tomato and buffalo mozzarella with fresh basil on french baguettes)<br />
<br />
Tues 12-27 - Breakfast - Spinach & Bacon Quiche<br />
Late lunch/early Dinner - Pineapple & Brown Sugar Glazed Ham, Bacon & Onion Green Beans, Scalloped Potato & Onion Bake, and Buttery Dinner Rolls<br />
<br />
Wed 12-28 - Jumbo Cinnamon Rolls with Vanilla Icing<br />
<br />
(Our first guests will leave on Wed sometime, so we'll just be scavenging and eating whatever until the next guests arrive. Meanwhile, I plan on doing as much prep and goodie baking as possible in these interim days.)<br />
<br />
Fri 12-30 - Dinner - Creamy Asparagus Soup and French Bread<br />
<br />
Sat 12-31 - Breakfast - Pumpkin Spice Sticky Rolls with Maple Icing<br />
Lunch - Baguette Sandwiches<br />
Dinner - Italian Sausage Lasagna and Buttery Dinner Rolls<br />
<br />
Sun 1-1 - Breakfast - Eggs & Bacon & whatever (I'll be getting myself & kids ready for Church, so if other people want breakfast, they can figure it out - also the standard in our house)<br />
Lunch - order out pizza or chinese<br />
Dinner - Bratwurst and Saurkraut Hoagies with homemade fries<br />
<br />
Mon 1-2 - Breakfast - Tomato & Basil Quiche<br />
<br />
Tues 1-3 - Dinner - Beef Wellington, Buttery Dinner Rolls, and Baked Asparagus<br />
Dessert - Tunnel of Fudge Bundt Cake<br />
<br />
Wed 1-4 - Breakfast - Cherry & White Chocolate Almond Twist Breakfast Bread with Eggs and Bacon<br />
<br />
It should be noted that all breads/rolls listed above will be homemade (duh).<br />
<br />
Also, not to forget the Christmas goodies that I either already have on hand or plan to make over the next couple days:<br />
Sugar Cookies<br />
Snickerdoodles<br />
Russian Tea Cakes<br />
Caramel Popcorn<br />
Eggnog Cookies<br />
Peppermint Bark<br />
Candy Pretzels<br />
Confectioner's Candy<br />
Triple-Chocolate Fudge<br />
Peanut Butter Fudge<br />
<br />
There you have it. It's probably safe to assume I won't have a blog entry for next week, either.<br />
<br />
I hope everyone is enjoying the holidays and has a safe and happy New Year - and please, if you want to get fat, feel free to drop by any time!! :DLaurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-57535362954187776842011-12-05T12:35:00.000-06:002011-12-05T12:42:47.499-06:00The Day I Defiled My Coffee Mug; or, Coffee Mug, Forever Unclean<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I love Thanksgiving. It's probably my favorite day of the year, because it's a day dedicated entirely to cooking and eating my favorite foods. Any meal that requires at least two full days of preparation/cooking is particularly awesome in my world. So when I promised Husband that we could spend Thanksgiving with his family this year, it was a fairly big deal for me. I do love his family, though, and I knew it would be fun, but I was essentially sacrificing the one day a year I get to eat my buttery soaked apple-bread stuffing baked in the juices of a turkey's internal cavities. Simply making it myself and bringing it with us wasn't an option, either, as it not only requires an entire turkey in order to taste perfect, but the Thanksgiving dinner was a two-day, 13.5 total hour drive away. And we would be taking Husband's brand new (to us) Prius, so space was limited. <br />
<br />
Not to mention, Thanksgiving with Husband's family is not a small, intimate affair. "Husband's Family" denotes extended family, not immediate. Astoundingly, it's actually only his mom's family. But she has five siblings, and they are all fairly prolific. We were looking at upwards of a 52-person gathering (give or take some cousins' boyfriends/girlfriends, etc). There would be more than enough dishes that no one would miss my stuffing (except me), and there would be little to no possibility of me forging out space in either kitchen (Aunt Mimi has two!) to make my stuffing myself. So I abandoned the idea of having any of my own traditional foods this year.<br />
<br />
About a week before we were supposed to leave, Husband comes home from work and tells me about some nasty gastrointestinal bug going around this year. He had two soldiers come in with it two days ago, four soldiers yesterday, and an astounding six today, all saying they and their families were "vomiting and shitting uncontrollably." I laughingly said, "wow, make sure you don't bring <i>that</i> one home!"<br />
<br />
Oh, silly, naive Laura. Did you learn nothing from the movie "Scream?" If I hadn't said anything, we would have been fine. That's how movies work. That's science.<br />
<br />
Monday night rolls around, and I get woken up at 1:30am by a hysterical Ant, screaming about how his stomach hurt. I carried him into the kitchen to try and find some medicine for him, when he suddenly started gagging.<br />
<br />
"<a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2011/08/day-i-took-road-trip-to-hell.html">THROW UP IN HERE</a>!!" I yelled as I held him hovering over the kitchen sink. He did!<br />
<br />
... Then he did again.<br />
<br />
Then he slept for 20 minutes and had to again.<br />
<br />
I quickly realized the idea of me running to his room to grab him and running with him to the kitchen to throw up in the sink every 20 minutes was not overly practical. So we found an old ice cream bucket (currently being used for toy storage), and explained how he could just keep it in his bed and throw up in it when he needed to.<br />
<br />
It only took about 6 more times of throwing up every 20 minutes before he figured it out. Now that's what I call a parenting success.<br />
<br />
After about 6 hours of the hysterical screaming followed by bucket-puking every 20 min, it seemed like the worst was finally over.<br />
<br />
But at 7:30, Husband (who was up getting ready for work, so he was tending to the current scream-vomit-fit) came into the room and frantically woke me up.<br />
<br />
"The diarrhea... it started... I... I don't know what to do."<br />
<br />
I don't know why he assumed I would know what to do, any more than he would. I guess because I have a uterus. I picked up the coated pants and took them to a toilet to wash them out. Seeing as how I've never had to deal with an excessive amount of shit in clothing before, I'm not exactly sure how I knew what to do, either. I guess it <i>is</i> because I have a uterus.<br />
<br />
Finally, after that last bout, we got about an hour and a half of sleep. When we woke up, Ant was feeling much better. And aside from two more (controlled) episodes of diarrhea in the morning and one isolated vomiting incident Tues evening, he seemed to be completely over it.<br />
<br />
So the quandary loomed. To road trip, or not to road trip. We were supposed to leave Wednesday afternoon, right after Husband finished a half-day of work. That would be less than 24-hrs after the last vomiting incident. But I had made a promise to Husband...<br />
<br />
We agreed that if Ant made it through the night without incident, we'd go (against the advice of an experienced mom-friend of mine, who has a family rule of "no traveling within 48 hrs of someone being sick"). Of course, Ant had a great night with no bodily fluid interruptions.<br />
<br />
I finished packing and loaded the car while waiting for Husband to get home. As soon as he did, we piled in and took off. At best, this drive would take us no less than 10 hours and require at least two stops to deal with kids, food, diapers, etc. <br />
<br />
We were making good time and everyone was in good spirits when we decided to stop for dinner (our second stop of the trip already) at a Chili's in Springfield, Missouri. We'd just passed the halfway point of the drive, and things were going great.<br />
<br />
Husband and Ant went ahead and got a table while I stayed back to nurse Sweet D and change her diaper. We joined them afterwards, and Sweet D was in the happiest mood. She was playing with everyone, banging (quietly) on the table, making insane-o noises, and generally being hilarious and good-tempered.<br />
<br />
Then they brought our food, set it on the table, and abruptly, Sweet D started making strange noises. I turned to see her vomiting. Everywhere. A LOT. But fortunately, it was all just orange juice and milk. Hardly vomit at all. Except that it was coating everything. The table, the highchair, the floor around her, and, of course, all of her.<br />
<br />
All the parents out there know the feeling that ensued: that moment where something truly disgustingly terrible happens and you freeze. Time stands still as you stare, open-mouthed, at the disaster, and your brain stops working. After a few slow blinks, your brain can usually snap back on and spring you into action. But that moment is quintessential parenthood to me. A huge, embarrassing mess of human excretion, and it's <i>your</i> responsibility.<br />
<br />
I grabbed Vomit-D and ran out, practically knocking the waiter over as I shoved past him, yelling over my shoulder, "sorry about the vomit; we'll give you a big tip!!" Hopefully the 40+% tip Husband left him sufficed.<br />
<br />
Back in the car, I got Sweet D changed into comfy pjs and back in her seat, complete with a bib in an attempt to catch future vomit-attacks (of which there were graciously few). Husband and Ant finished their dinners and brought mine in a carry-out box.<br />
<br />
Husband joked as I opened my food that he wasn't sure if his stomach hurt from eating quickly, being overwhelmed by the public vomiting, or if he was getting sick, too. Suddenly the smell of my favorite Chili's food (Buffalo Ranch Chicken Sandwich) started my stomach turning, too. Surely it was just stress.<br />
<br />
I opted not to eat, regardless. And less than 40 minutes later, I had my answer.<br />
<br />
"Okay, I need you to pull over. Now. Now. NOW!"<br />
<br />
I undid my seat belt and scrambled to lean out of the car, which is wonderfully low to the ground, thank you, Toyota. After a few minutes of puking, I felt a bit better. We drove for another 20 minutes before it happened again. And again. And again.<br />
<br />
Shortly before the sixth time, we passed a State Trooper vehicle that had just finished pulling someone over. "Oh good, he's probably going to meet us the next time I have to throw up."<br />
<br />
Less than a minute later, there I was, seat belt still on, leaning out the side of the car, puking my guts out, when the red and blue lights started flashing behind us. The cop cautiously approached my side and asked if everything was alright. We explained the situation, and he laughed at me. Then he told me we still had at least three hours of driving left to do. And reminded me that the worst roads were yet to come (Northeast Arkansas has some of the most beautiful, winding, hilly roads I've ever seen - with little to no shoulder room).<br />
<br />
The cop, laughing, left me to hang out of the car and feel like death (he did offer to call an ambulance, if I needed one, though). And off we went again. For another 20 minute drive before frantically pulling over.<br />
<br />
It continued like this until we got into Arkansas. With the hilly, winding, forest roads. With no shoulders. When I felt the urge coming on again, I hollered for Husband to pull over. But on two-lane roads with steep drop-offs immediately off the road and sharp turns only 20-feet ahead, there is little to no room to pull over for your wife to vomit out the side of the car. The only option was the intermittent driveways. But they weren't conveniently located every time I had to throw up. And I didn't want to throw up all over the inside of Husband's brand new car. I only had one other option, rolling around by my feet.<br />
<br />
I'm so sorry, my beautiful coffee mug.<br />
<br />
For the rest of the drive, I had to throw up into my coffee mug while Husband frantically searched for a driveway for me to puke on.<br />
<br />
At one point, I sent a text to my friend, professing my dutiful obedience to all her family rules in the future. If only I'd listened to her, I could be at home, throwing up in my own toilet. Not on every driveway between Mammoth Springs and Jonesboro.<br />
<br />
We finally made it to his parents in right around 12.5 hours. The exact same drive only takes his dad about 8 hours. We had to pull over 14 times for me to throw up. But miraculously, the diarrhea held off until we were out of the car. Praise the Lord. (I later learned the same fortune did not grace one of Husband's cousins, who also had the same bug the weekend before Thanksgiving - but he fiance cleaned the car for her, because he's a wonderful man who clearly loves her. I can confidently say, Husband would not have done the same for me.)<br />
<br />
After a terrible night of little to no sleep, and lots of quality time with the toilet, it was suddenly Thanksgiving. And we had about three hours to get ready to drive down to the big family hoopla in Little Rock (another 2.5 hour drive). I decided I shouldn't go. Husband swore I wouldn't be contagious anymore, but the thought of being trapped away from a bed and a bathroom again was enough to make me cry.<br />
<br />
At the last minute, I changed my mind. I'd suffered through the whole drive down here, I didn't want it all to be for nothing when I was already this close. So off we went again. Miraculously, I slept the whole way.<br />
<br />
I was glad to be there, even if I felt pretty miserable. It was wonderful to see everyone again, and the kids definitely had fun. The food all smelled delicious... but I was in no mood to eat. I ended up eating half a piece of pumpkin pie. Not exactly the Thanksgiving meal I'd anticipated. <br />
<br />
Shortly before we left, Sweet D needed her diaper changed. After getting her in a clean diaper, I realized she still smelled funky. Or rather, her clothes did. Because the diarrhea finally caught up with her. And I'd been holding her most of the time. <br /><br />I changed her into warm pjs (again), but the smell was still all over me. Time to go. When you're covered in baby diarrhea, it's usually time to leave the party.<br />
<br />
The rest of the weekend was fabulously uneventful. Husband did a fabulous job driving the entire time there and back, and he (somehow) managed to not ever get sick. The ride home was full of a lot of screaming and being sick of the car, with multiple stops to try and keep us all sane (including short visits with both my mom and my college German professor), but we made it. Sometime after midnight.<br />
<br />
Ant, who never falls asleep in the car, fell asleep for the last 20 minutes of the trip. When the car came to a stop at home, he woke up and started screaming. We couldn't get him to stop. He walked inside, took his shoes up, went upstairs, we brushed his teeth, put him in pjs, got him in bed - all while he screamed like a lunatic. Finally, after 45 minutes, he fell asleep. We still have no idea what he was doing.<br />
<br />
The next morning I unpacked all the bags and started laundry. Our vomit, diarrhea, and germ filled clothes. One load in, I turned the dryer on. It clanged around, smelled like smoke, and stopped working. Great. Now, over a week later, I'm still waiting on the replacement part to come in and the repairman to come back. We made a make-shift room dryer out of extra shower rods in the kids' bathroom, combined with a space heater, the bathroom fan, and a lot of hangers.<br />
<br />
And now, the plan is to head up to South Dakota on Wednesday afternoon for the weekend. Because, evidently, I haven't yet learned that I should give road-tripping a break for a while. Hopefully our clothes all dry before then and Husband doesn't bring home any more terrible germs. Wish us luck.<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-66606180345478561402011-12-03T22:10:00.001-06:002011-12-03T22:29:49.646-06:00Recipe: Red Velvet Cake with Traditional Frosting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This cake is awesome. Especially with the traditional roux-based frosting. I first had red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting and thought it was pretty good. Then I tried it with the traditional frosting and was blown away. There's a reason it's the traditional frosting for this cake - it's the perfect complement to the cake. I usually cut each cake in half long-ways to make a 4-layer cake. That means you have to increase the frosting by about 50% to have enough - but it's worth it. Sorry about this terrible picture - I haven't made this cake since I learned how to take decent pictures of food. Guess that means it's about time to do it again!<br />
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This makes a fairly large cake; probably at least 12 servings.<br />
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Red Velvet Cake:<br />
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Ingredients:<br />
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2 1/2 cups sifted cake flour (sift flour once before measuring, then sift again with the other dry ingredients, as called for in the recipe - if you don't have cake flour (but it's totally worth it, so just buy a box), you can use all-purpose instead, but measure out the 2 1/2 cups, then remove 5 Tbsp from it to get the accurate substitution amount.)<br />
1 tsp baking powder<br />
1 tsp salt<br />
2 Tbsp cocoa powder (unsweetened)<br />
2 oz. red food coloring (I've also just used 1 oz before, and it worked just as well, or close enough)<br />
1/2 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature<br />
1 1/2 cups sugar<br />
1 egg & 2 egg yolks, at room temperature<br />
1 tsp vanilla extract<br />
1 cup buttermilk, at room temperature (if you don't have buttermilk, you can substitute sour milk instead - put 1 Tbsp lemon juice in a measuring cup, then add enough milk to equal 1 cup, total. Stir, then let sit for 5 min = instant "buttermilk.")<br />
1 tsp white vinegar<br />
1 tsp baking soda<br />
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Preheat oven to 350. Butter and flour two 9-inch round cake pans (or three 8-inch rounds). I usually butter the entire inside (bottom & sides), then use a parchment round (or you can cut parchment paper into circles to cover the bottom of the pan), then butter the parchment paper, then flour the entire inside - I know it sounds like a lot more work, but it ensures your cake won't stick!<br />
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Sift together the cake flour, baking powder, and salt into a medium bowl; set aside. In a small bowl, mix food coloring and cocoa powder to form a thin paste without lumps; set aside.<br />
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In a large bowl (bowl of a stand mixer), beat butter and sugar together until light and fluffy, about three minutes. Beat in egg and egg yolks, one at a time, then beat in vanilla and the red cocoa paste, scraping down the bowl with a spatula as you go (watch out, because you're pretty much guaranteed to get red food coloring on at least one thing - I highly recommend wearing an apron!). Add one third of the flour mixture to the butter mixture, beat well, then beat in half of the buttermilk. Beat in another third of flour mixture, then second half of buttermilk. End with the last third of the flour mixture, beat until well combined, making sure to scrape down the bowl with a spatula.<br />
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Make sure you have your cake pans buttered, floured, and nearby. In a small bowl, mix vinegar and baking soda (it will fizz!). Add it to the cake batter and stir well to combine. Working quickly, divide the batter evenly between the cake pans and place them in the preheated oven at 350 degrees. Bake for 25-30 minutes, but check early (20 min or so) - the cake is done when a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. When cakes are finished baking, turn the oven off, crack the door slightly, and let the cakes sit in the oven for about 10 min. This helps keep the tops from sinking.<br />
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Cool the cakes in their pans on a wire rack for 10 minutes, then removed cakes from the pans and let them cool completely. Then I cut them in half long-ways to make 4 cakes.<br />
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Traditional Red Velvet Cake Frosting:<br />
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Ingredients:<br />
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3 Tbsp flour<br />
1 cup vitamin D/whole milk (too runny if you use anything else)<br />
1 cup butter, at room temperature<br />
1 cup sugar<br />
1 tsp vanilla<br />
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Cook flour and milk in a double boiler (or pyrex bowl placed over a pan of simmering water), until thick, stirring constantly. It will get really thick - almost like toothpaste. Cool.<br />
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Cream sugar, butter, and vanilla in the bowl of a stand mixer until as fluffy as possible. Blend cooked mixture with creamed.<br />
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The frosting must stay refrigerated, as it will fall apart at room temperature.<br />
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I increase the recipe by 50% if I slice the cakes long-ways. This is enough to cover the two 9-inch rounds, but not if you have the extra layers in between. It is enough to cover 24 cupcakes, though.<br />
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This recipe also makes great cupcakes - fill liners 3/4ths full and bake for 10-15 min, or until toothpick comes out clean.<br />
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I've also tried red velvet cake balls - they were awesome, but almost too rich. Even for me, and my blood is pretty much made of sugar. In a not-diabetic way.<br />
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And finally, Purple Velvet Cake! I only had gel food coloring, not liquid, so the color didn't come out as richly as I'd hoped. Next time I'll hunt down the liquid stuff and get it right.<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-18818770085033852732011-11-14T14:22:00.001-06:002011-11-14T16:21:35.179-06:00Adventures in Caking: Marshmallow Fondant How-To<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A lot of people have been asking for my fondant recipe/tips, so here's a whole photo blog how-to entry for you. These pictures were taken when I was making fondant for the <a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2011/08/making-of-minion-cake.html">Minion Cake</a>, but I always use the same recipe. Not only does this recipe taste awesome (and it's easy to cut through, especially when the cake is room temperature), but it can be made into tons of flavors, and it can also be bland enough to blend in with the frosting underneath and not drastically affect the flavors of the cake, if you only want to use it for the awesome look you get with it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMC8s9HMQKO-1GOMzgIy5NAIRdnshFEyKgfFoTTN2fc08EF-53_-sGuyDBGzdbIOymbGpa8vz2NnZLabyM4aP41ImpLfaAYthaHtaJtize5h9V46PkiKGymn97gh_JhQ3h1i_RoC5pE3g/s1600/DSCF6303.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMC8s9HMQKO-1GOMzgIy5NAIRdnshFEyKgfFoTTN2fc08EF-53_-sGuyDBGzdbIOymbGpa8vz2NnZLabyM4aP41ImpLfaAYthaHtaJtize5h9V46PkiKGymn97gh_JhQ3h1i_RoC5pE3g/s320/DSCF6303.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
Marshmallow Fondant Recipe:<br />
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16 oz bag of mini marshmallows<br />
2 lb bag of confectioner's sugar (plus more for rolling out)<br />
4 Tbsp water<br />
1 tsp vanilla extract (or any other extract/liquid flavoring)<br />
crisco (for your hands) <br />
gel food coloring, if desired<br />
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First, dump the marshmallows in a big bowl and microwave them on high for 1-1.5 minutes (for my microwave, it's always 1.5 min). The top marshmallows will probably still look whole, but underneath, they'll be melted. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjuB_mT5Rt1Vf-ZIkAGU1CkxznUf6GF75vCDk-g7VOrnlyMB0mDMbnfqjVRU7XSY1N6Kixw2QJNknHaxjSc4qaPPsmn2WFa9vTi-spO8YYKhuQXl6tTpAFeXcE7slY8cysPBVEMJeL-Q/s1600/DSCF6305.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjuB_mT5Rt1Vf-ZIkAGU1CkxznUf6GF75vCDk-g7VOrnlyMB0mDMbnfqjVRU7XSY1N6Kixw2QJNknHaxjSc4qaPPsmn2WFa9vTi-spO8YYKhuQXl6tTpAFeXcE7slY8cysPBVEMJeL-Q/s320/DSCF6305.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfTBZWOqXDlkNJ78Qh2dn0i6OY_LI2S1XsAkcjwvygZp2muLCgM_isL6Dk4FnprucMAPg9ZVj_2jAb3gCc0I0M5w3hM0zFgUyJmIOSauCgdq7FdcEyFG8b1wurnwQixRcmP3Qz2xMM5Oo/s1600/DSCF6306.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfTBZWOqXDlkNJ78Qh2dn0i6OY_LI2S1XsAkcjwvygZp2muLCgM_isL6Dk4FnprucMAPg9ZVj_2jAb3gCc0I0M5w3hM0zFgUyJmIOSauCgdq7FdcEyFG8b1wurnwQixRcmP3Qz2xMM5Oo/s320/DSCF6306.JPG" width="320" /></a>When the marshmallows are heated, add the 4 Tbsp water, and the extract/flavoring you're using (I've done vanilla, almond, root beer, and bacon before, all with great results - but some extracts/concentrates, like root beer, are so dark, they'll tint the fondant. Keep that in mind when choosing your flavoring - if you want to make white or light fondant, you can't use a dark extract. Also, Wilton has several clear extracts available for just this purpose, but I've never had an issue with regularly colored vanilla affecting the white color), If you're coloring the entire batch of fondant one color, it's easiest to add the food coloring at this point. Otherwise, leave it white and you can add coloring to pieces later, as desired.<br />
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And now the fun part. Reserve 1 cup of the sugar and set aside. Then gradually start adding the rest of the confectioner's sugar, stirring until mostly combined after each addition. The mixture will get stickier and stiffer with each addition. Add in all the sugar (except the reserved 1 cup) while the mixture is in the bowl.<br />
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Getting goopy!</div>
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After all the sugar (except the reserved 1 cup) has been added and
mixed in, prepare a place on a clean counter top by sprinkling it with
some of the reserved sugar. The next step is to dump the fondant out
of the bowl and onto the prepared surface to continue to kneed it, but
be warned: it is now a sticky, huge mess. I usually dump it onto my
sugar-coated surface and then prepare my hands. I've found the thing
that works best (for me, at least) is to coat my hands in crisco
(between the fingers, too), and then dip my hands into my container of
confectioner's sugar (not the reserved 1 cup, but my regular container
of it). The sugar then sticks to my hands and is the best way I've
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I just dip my hands into my crisco jar...</div>
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Now, with coated hands, begin to kneed the reserved confectioner's sugar into the fondant ball, adding more as needed to combat the stickiness. Also, make sure you regularly lift the fondant and put more sugar beneath it, or it will stick terribly on the surface you're using. Usually, somewhere in the beginning of this process, I have a freak-out moment when I feel like I MUST have done something wrong this time - the fondant is TOO hard to manage, coating my hands, sticking to the counter, being too goopy, etc. It's best to just try and work through the panic. Chances are, you're doing it right. :) </div>
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Coated hands: don't panic, it's SUPPOSED to be a giant mess!</div>
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Becoming stiffer - turning into actual fondant! </div>
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I frequently have to add slightly more confectioner's sugar than just the 2 lbs called for in the recipe. Continue to kneed and mix the fondant until it becomes smooth and easy to handle. But keep in mind, if you continue to kneed past this smooth point, you'll have to add more sugar to get it smooth again. It's kind of a continuous cycle, so when it first gets to the smooth stage, stop kneeding (but keep in mind you can always add a bit more sugar to get it smooth again if you need to).<br />
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Now flatten the ball slightly, sprinkle a bit of sugar below and on top of it, and wrap it tightly in plastic wrap and put it in the fridge. It need to be refrigerated at least 8 hours, but I always just do it overnight.<br />
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Congrats, you've made fondant! And for the clean up... It works
best to pour a tiny bit of warm to hot water over the sticky mess left
on the counter and let it sit for a bit. The water will help to
dissolve the sugar left on the counter and will make it easier to wipe
up. I then usually have to wipe the counters down with soap and water
at least twice to get them completely clean.<br />
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Super-messy counters<br />
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Now that your fondant has refrigerated overnight, it's almost ready to use. If you need to color it, divide it into the sections to color and let them warm to room temperture, or at least an hour (covered, to keep dust, etc off of them). Whenever you do anything with the fondant, have a good deal of confectioner's sugar on hand, and use it liberally. The best way to keep it from sticking is to use tons of excess sugar. If there's sugar on the fondant when you put it on a cake, don't worry, it can easily be smoothed away, or it will absorb into the fondant while the cake sits in the fridge.<br />
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To cover a cake with fondant, you first need to crumb-coat the cake
with a layer of frosting. Crumb-coating is just putting a layer of
frosting over your cake and smoothing out any crumbs of imperfections
on the cake. You can frost the cake and then use the fondant over it
immediately, but for the best results, you should crumb-coat the cake
the night before and refrigerate it overnight (along with the
fondant). The fondant will stick well to the cool, hardend frosting,
and the cake will stand up to the fondant better if it's chilled and
slightly hardened (you're also less likely to accidentally smoosh the
cake if it's chilled).<br />
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Stacked cake before crumb-coating:</div>
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Crumb-coated cakes, waiting overnight for fondant: </div>
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To fondant a cake, let the fondant warm up slightly (though with marshmallow fondant, if it's at room temperature, it's much more likely to tear and stick), then roll it out on a heavily sugared surface. It helps to flip the fondant several times during the rolling out process and throw extra sugar underneath. Also, make sure you don't knick it with your fingernails, as that will leave infuriating marks in it.<br />
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Roll out a piece that it bigger than the cake you're trying to cover. Using your sugar-coated rolling pin, you can wrap the fondant around itself (very, very loosely), and you can "roll" it back out onto the cake. Begin in the center and smooth the fondant out toward the sides (make sure you don't pull it, as it will tear easily). Fold gently over corners/curves. Once the fondant is in place, you can rub it gently with your hands to get a smooth effect. For the excess around the base of the cake, I use the backside of a butter knife blade (the rounded, not serrated side) to gently "cut" the excess at the edge of the cake. However, even with professional tools, fondant has a tendency to look ragged at the edges, which is why fondant cakes usually have a border at their base (aside from giving the cake a more "completed" look).<br />
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Fondant-covered minions!</div>
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To stick fondant decorations on a fondant-covered cake, use a tiny, tiny bit of water. I dip just the very tip of my finger in a shallow bowl of water and put a dab on the back of the piece I want to adhere, then stick it on. It will basically glue it there. <br />
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For molding fondant, treat it just like modeling clay, but use confectioner's sugar liberally to prevent sticking. I've found the store-bought Wilton brand of fondant is best for things you need to harden very stiffly. Marshmallow fondant WILL harden if left out overnight (or several days), but the Wilton stuff harderns faster and stiffer. <br />
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Also, I leave all my cakes in the fridge, but be warned, marshmallow fondant will "sweat" when removed from the fridge, until it reaches room temperature. It won't affect the cake in anyway, except it gives it a wet look until it's at room temperature. I'm always nervous my cakes will melt if I leave them out (or the fondant will get dirty, or stiffer), so I don't mind the sweating look. If you're opposed to the wet look (which, again, is only temporary - but if you take a cake out at the beginning of a party, expect it to look extra shiny at the party), either leave the cake out entirely, or remove it from the fridge several hours before it's needed.<br />
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I think that's it! Please feel free to ask me any questions about this process, or let me know if I left anything out/didn't make something clear. Good luck, and always keep in mind: fondant can make me more angry than anything (I call it the "fondant rages"), but the joy you then feel after it actually turns out is one of the best feelings in the world. Just keep at it, and, when it doubt, add more sugar. :D<br />
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My sugar-coated kitchen after fondanting the minions:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj5lT4RGchCUE0OgF4is-ng4gklu_wRD73XudKScxytNhchto-BunEd_DIHquD6m32tRSbdmeQqpDc1W12R1dtLlS4VHTtCYitdVEI155zg_8cf4os3E7chEnmh2xGVPWX9gG7KLLIr8U/s1600/DSCF6452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj5lT4RGchCUE0OgF4is-ng4gklu_wRD73XudKScxytNhchto-BunEd_DIHquD6m32tRSbdmeQqpDc1W12R1dtLlS4VHTtCYitdVEI155zg_8cf4os3E7chEnmh2xGVPWX9gG7KLLIr8U/s320/DSCF6452.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-26055248552126948052011-11-14T13:56:00.001-06:002011-11-14T14:19:53.952-06:00Adventures in Caking: The Legend of Zelda<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm pretty much an awesome wife. When Husband said he didn't care what kind of cake I made him for his birthday, I originally planned on just making his favorite coffee-chocolate cake. Then I thought I could put a little fondant Triforce on it (he's loved every Zelda game his entire life). But if I was going to be making fondant anyway, I might as well do something a little more elaborate. Then it turned into a whole, big design. And finally, I decided to try out new recipes.<br />
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Dark chocolate-bacon cake. With maple-bacon frosting. And bacon fondant.<br />
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The cake itself was basically the same recipe as the coffee-chocolate cake, but with bits of bacon mixed in. It's really good, but next time I'll mince the bacon (instead of just chopping it into small pieces), because I didn't really like the noticeable pieces of bacon in the cake. They just get too chewy and weird in a cake.<br />
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But the frosting. A-mazing. For this, I did mince the bacon, because I knew I'd be putting fondant over it, and I didn't want it to make my cake all bumpy (or tear the fondant) with bacon pieces. Personally, I could do without the bacon and just eat the most delicious frosting I've ever tasted in my life, but the saltiness of the bacon added a great flavor. And since Husband wanted bacon, it was perfect.<br />
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For the fondant, I ordered some liquid bacon flavoring and just about 5 drops of it, along side regular vanilla extract. It had a vague hint of bacon, but it was a sweet taste (since it's all marshmallows and sugar, anyway). It was great by itself, but I couldn't really taste it on the cake (I'm also not a big fondant person - I love it for decorating, since I can do so much more with it, but I don't care if it's on the cake or not. Fortunately, the recipe I use tends to blend in pretty seamlessly with the frosting flavors, so it's really not very noticeable at all.)<br />
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Then I miraculously stumbled across a tiny square fondant cutter that I didn't even know I had. That probably saved me about 10 hours of work. All the decorations are fondant (since I'm pretty terrible at piping, but after this cake, I feel like I'm going to need to learn - I think the lettering at the top would have been much better piped, if I were more capable), except the bushes, which are just leftover maple-bacon frosting.<br />
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Husband loved his cake. Then he decided the only thing that would make it cooler would be if I made him a Zelda cake for birthday every year, progressing chronologically through the sequence of Zelda games. This is going to be interesting....<br />
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I think he likes it. :) Also, he's had this shirt for years, but we also got him a Triforce winter hat and a little metal Zelda mint tin for his birthday this year. He's my favorite dork.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-64174763202214966282011-11-14T11:55:00.001-06:002011-11-14T13:41:36.045-06:00Adventures in Caking: Coral Reef Cupcake Cake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I don't have an anecdotal entry for you today (or the last couple weeks - sorry!), so I'm hoping if I offer up two cake entries, you'll forgive me. :) Husband came home two weeks ago, so we've been enjoying some family-togetherness time, and that's probably why I haven't had a chance to write anything. <br />
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When we found out about when Husband was supposed to be coming home, I thought it'd be a really nice idea to invite his family to come up and actually get to come to a redeployment ceremony. Since it was such a short deployment, I knew I wouldn't feel like they were infringing on our family time (like I probably would after a longer deployment). Plus, it turned out to be a gigantic blessing, as we had to wait in this giant gym/hangar on bleachers for over an hour, and the extra sets of hands with the kids helped me not lose my mind.<br />
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We decided kind of last minute to also celebrate Sweet D's birthday the same weekend (just hours after Husband got home), so I figured I wouldn't have the time to make the giant octopus cake I'd originally been planning to make for her. Instead, I chose to make a cupcake cake. Maybe with some little octopuses or something.<br />
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And then I went a bit overboard. Pun totally intended.<br />
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All in all, the cake probably took me between 15-20 hours. It's all
homemade (like usual), half the cupcakes were strawberry, half were
chocolate, and all the little critters were molded (by me!) out of
homemade marshmallow fondant (both almond and vanilla flavored). I had
SO much fun with this cake. I did some menial research on coral reef
creatures (mostly pictures to get a few of the little guys more
accurate - namely things like the top hat, bow ties, and hair bows on
octopuses, right?), ignored the kids a bit, drank some wine and skyped
with a good friend while molding, and all in all really enjoyed the
whole process. It was much more rewarding than other cakes, since I'd
have a finished, adorable little critter in just 10-25 minutes (as
opposed to the full 20+ hrs for a completed larger cake).<br />
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With my little 1-year old girl!</div>
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Left side of the cake </div>
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Right side </div>
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Coral reef views </div>
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Back of the coral reef</div>
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The hermit crab and the squid were my favorite critters </div>
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More critters </div>
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Candle Octopus! </div>
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My sweet birthday girl </div>
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Enjoying the cake! (actually, I think they both only ate fondant)</div>
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And some homecoming photos, too:</div>
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Redeploying soldiers standing in formation at the ceremony</div>
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Ant's in the orange shirt, being held by his Auntie</div>
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When they released the soldiers, Ant turned to me and said,</div>
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"I get my Daddy back now?!" *sob*</div>
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Not the best photo, but we're all together again!!</div>
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<br /></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-49657547332445837832011-10-22T14:08:00.001-05:002011-10-22T14:31:50.768-05:00Recipe: Chocolate Chip Pomegranate Cookies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I love pomegranates. Every Fall/Winter, I get excited when the stores start carrying them again, but I mostly only eat them (the seeds) plain. Fortunately, my kids love to just eat the seeds by the handful, too. I happened to have a whole tupperware full of seeds in my fridge when I stumbled on this recipe in a Parents magazine, so I figured it was some kind of divine intervention. It was. These cookies are amazing. They're like little delicious chocolate chip cookies with bursts of amazing. I changed the recipe slightly (it originally called for dark chocolate chunks, which I don't happen to have on hand right now), and I can't imagine them being any better than they turned out. But the internet is also full of recipes with white chocolate chips (which, as much as I prefer white to other chocolate, I think might be too much), so I'd imagine the flavor of chips is pretty interchangeable. Regardless, I used semi-sweet, and seriously, these cookies are absolutely amazing.<br />
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Edit: Oh, in case you are intimidated by pomegranates, I thought I should include some tips on how to deal with them. They're actually not that difficult, but the red juice does stain everything, so be careful. :) <br />
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Cut the top off the pomegranate about 1/4 - 1/2 inch down. Set this aside. Looking at the insides of the pomegranate, locate the membranes separating the main parts of seeds, and take your knife and make superficial cuts down the sides, about 1/8 inch into the skin of the pomegranate (you don't have to go all the way down, but cut at least a little past the mid-point). Basically, you're making vertical cuts in the skin of the pomegranate wherever there are membranes on the inside.<br />
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Next, get a large bowl of cold water. Take the pomegranate and gently pull it apart at the places where you've made the cuts (it should come apart fairly easily - or at least break into manageable pieces - you don't need perfect wedges, you just need to be able to get at the seeds). Take one piece at a time, put it in the cold water, and gently rub/knock all the seeds off the membranes/skin and into the bowl (this is all done underwater, or just above the surface - this helps prevent red juice from squirting everywhere, and it makes separating the membranes from the seeds easier). Do the same for all the pieces until all your seeds are in the water.<br />
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If there are any extra little pieces of membrane stuck to the seeds, you can gently rub them away - they'll float, and the seeds will all skin. Skim the surface of your water with a spoon or fine mesh strainer to remove any excess floating membranes. Drain the seeds, put them in a plastic container, and keep them in the fridge. They'll last at least a week in the fridge.<br />
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Here's the recipe!!<br />
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Chocolate Chip Pomegranate Cookies:</div>
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1/2 cup butter-flavored crisco & 1 Tbsp water (the original recipe called for unsalted butter, softened, but I pretty much always prefer crisco in cookies. The dough isn't ever as good by itself, but it seems to always make for better baked cookies - then again, I have had issues with cronically flat butter cookies, so I prefer the moistness/puffiness I get with crisco.)</div>
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1/2 cup granulated sugar</div>
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1/4 cup packed dark brown sugar</div>
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1 egg</div>
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1 tsp vanilla</div>
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1 1/3 cup all-purpose flour</div>
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1/2 tsp baking soda</div>
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1/4 tsp salt</div>
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3/4 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips</div>
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1/2 cup pomegranate seeds, patted dry</div>
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Preheat oven to 350. Line cookie sheets with parchment paper and set aside.</div>
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Combine flour, baking soda, and salt in a small bowl.</div>
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In a separate bowl, cream crisco, water, and sugars until light and fluffy. Add egg and vanilla, mixing to combine after each addition.</div>
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Mix in the flour mixture until just combined. Fold in chocolate chips, then very gently fold in seeds (I used a spatula and still smashed a few of them).</div>
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Drop dough by rounded teaspoons onto parchment-lined cookie sheets, 2 inches apart (I think I actually used a 1 1/2 tsp - they came out perfectly cute and small).</div>
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Bake 8-10 minutes or until just slightly light brown (the centers might not appear completely set). Cool on cookie sheets 2 minutes, then remove to cooling racks. Serve warm.</div>
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Store leftovers in the fridge for up to three days. </div>
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Makes about 3 dozen 1 1/2 tsp sized cookies.</div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-52242795736263728702011-10-10T11:15:00.001-05:002011-10-10T11:15:58.295-05:00The Day I Got a Black Eye<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Whoa, it's Monday, and I totally didn't have a blog prepared. So here's a short story from my youth. Hopefully Sweet D will stay asleep long enough for me to get it typed out. <br />
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I've always been a considerate person. I was the middle child, with brothers on either side, and I think that, combined with my anxiety disorder, has made me very sensitive to other people. It also made me terrified of conflict. Mostly because "conflict" with my older brother usually meant fist fights - which weren't so bad in and of themselves (I knew how to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4632047010200480058#editor/target=post;postID=31014390179817687">stick up for myself</a>, at least), but my parents' solution to our fighting was to lock us together in the tiny half bath in the hallway until we could hug for twenty seconds (the arbitrary time limit necessary to reflect forgiveness, love, and a willingness to get along in the future). It was awful. We'd sit there and stew for upwards of 30 minutes, filling the bathroom with an excessive air of loathing until we could finally agree to endure the "hug of freedom" without biting or pulling each other's hair. <br />
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So I (nervously) started Kindergarten. My teacher was Mrs. Sturm. I'll remember her name forever (and not because, when we moved back to South Dakota, I ended up going to high school with her daughter), but because of this incident. There is no warmth in my heart for this woman. <br />
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I was in afternoon Kindergarten, so we got to school right when the older kids were finishing lunch. Everyone was out at recess when we'd get dropped off, and if we got there early, we could run around the school yard for a bit, too, until the bell rang.<br />
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One of my first days of Kindergarten (or maybe it was in the middle or the end; I honestly can't remember, but it feels to me like my entire year of Mrs. Sturm was tainted by this moment, so my impression is that it happened early in the year), I got to school early and was playing in the school yard for a few minutes when the bell rang. I knew we weren't supposed to run, so I was walking quickly to get in line (the rest of my class seemed like they were already lined up, and I was terrified I would get in trouble if I didn't get there soon). I remember seeing them all lined up against the brick wall, waiting to walk inside in single file, with Mrs. Sturm at the head of the line. <br />
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All my little Kindergarten daily hopes were swirling around in my head. It was going to be such a good day. We were going to make macaroni necklaces or paper bag shoes or some other kind of magic Kindergarten craft. And mine was going to be perfect. Just the right shapes. In all the right colors.<br />
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Life was an amazing box of crafts, waiting for me to get in that line.<br />
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Then out of no where - everything went black.<br />
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I opened my eyes again to find myself on the ground, next to a big kid. A 5th grader. She was easily twice my size. And she was bawling hysterically, holding her knee.<br />
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My whole body ached slightly, the wind had been knocked out of me, but after a quick self-check, I seemed mostly fine. Except my head. It really hurt. <br />
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But this big, huge, athletic, strong, brave 5th grader next to me was sobbing. The tiny scratch on her knee was starting to bead little red drops of blood. Since I seemed to be okay, and she was clearly not, I did the only thing I could think of to help.<br />
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"Are you okay?" I asked her meekly.<br />
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She looked right in my face - and let loose another wail of wildly over-exaggerated pain. Then a teacher swooped in to help her stand up. Odd that no one was helping me up, seeing as how I was only the size of this girl's leg, but I was tough. I stood up, rubbed my head where it ached, and walked over to my Kindergarten line.<br />
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Oh yeah! Crafts were waiting for me in that line! It was going to be a good day, in spite of this little set back. So a gigantic person tried to run me over. I can get over that! I was clearly more polite (and tougher) than her. I could just shake it off and get on with my life. And back to my fantasies of Kindergarten crafts.<br />
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I got in the back of the line and waited for us to start walking in.<br />
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Then a shadow crossed my face.<br />
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I looked up to see a scowling Mrs. Sturm standing in front of me with her arms on her hips.<br />
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"Are you hurt?" she asked in a voice that clearly implied she was only asking out of a sense of obligation as my teacher.<br />
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"My head -" I started.<br />
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"You know the rules. You're not supposed to run in the school yard.<br />
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That's what happens when you run."<br />
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Those words have haunted me my entire life. "That's what happens when you run." <br />
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But I wasn't running! I was walking quickly! The monstrous, Nordic beast of a 5th grader had been running! I was just trying to get in line when she came out of nowhere and knocked me out flat! Why didn't Mrs. Sturm see the truth?! I would NEVER do something that was against the rules!!<br />
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I tried to protest, but she just ignored me and walked to the front of the line to lead us inside for the day.<br />
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The daily crafts were tainted by my shame. I couldn't believe I'd let Mrs. Sturm down like that. She must have been <i>so</i> disappointed in me. Even though I <i>didn't</i> run, she thought I had. My life was essentially over; a teacher was disappointed in me. I would never be able to outlive this shame.<br />
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As the day wore on, my head began to hurt more and more. I could feel a lump rising right above my eyebrow (hidden conveniently under my stylish bangs), but I didn't dare bring it to Mrs. Sturm's attention - it was my punishment - my cross to bear. <br />
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"That's what happens when you run." <br />
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After an hour or two, we had a routine bathroom break. I got a drink of water from the water fountain, wiped my mouth, and with the excess water, I wiped my forehead, which was throbbing by this point. I must have moved my bangs out of the way right as I walked back into the classroom, because Mrs. Sturm's face contorted as she watched me.<br />
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"Oh no..." the breath escaped her. "Let me see your head." <br />
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I lifted up my bangs, showing that the tiny scratch on my cheek was not the only injury I'd sustained in our head-on collision. <br />
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"Go straight to the nurse's office. Now."<br />
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I ran down the hall to the nurse, where she examined me quickly, handed me an ice pack and said, "well, that's going to be a black eye. You should have come in right away so I could have gotten ice on it sooner."<br />
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More disappointment. More shame. How could I be letting so many people down today? All the macaroni necklaces in the world couldn't get the foul taste of shame and self-loathing out of the back of my throat.<br />
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My eye did turn black, but it wasn't too bad. It healed, as did the Amazon 5th grader's knee, I assume. But the sense of failure at letting my teacher down never did. <br />
<br />
In high school, Mrs. Sturm would often come to sporting events, because her daughter was a cheerleader. I remember watching all my other friends from Kindergarten (who'd gone to the same schools with each other since then - where as I moved away for seven years - to Maryland) rush up to her to say hi. They had such fond memories of her.<br />
<br />
But not me. "That's what happens when you run." You disappoint your teachers. You bring down a great 5th grade Viking of a girl. You get an emotional black eye on your soul that you must bear for all time. <br />
<br />
THAT is what happens when you run.<br />
<br />
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-38487098333223430672011-10-03T08:49:00.000-05:002011-10-03T08:49:00.317-05:00Hilmar Stimmler<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I once knew a man named Hilmar Stimmler. Okay, that wasn't his <i>exact</i> name, but it's only one letter off. I'm just trying to avoid him running across this when he does a google-search for his name, as he is the type of person who likely does a google-search for his name on a bi-weekly basis. In the event you do stumble upon this, Hilmar, like usual with unbeknownst subjects of my blog, I mean no harm or ill-will, it's just that, in knowing you, I obtained a somewhat interesting and/or humorous anecdote I feel my audience would enjoy reading. And also, you were kind of a jerk to me, so I don't really feel too bad if this is unwittingly insulting to you.<br />
<br />
What kind of a bizarre name is Hilmar Stimmler, you ask? It's German. Still kind of on the bizarre side? Yeah, I know. But I also met a guy named Torge (pronounced: Tore-guh), so who knows. Germans, amiright?<br />
<br />
Hilmar Stimmler was my boss. I don't have a very good history with bosses. There was the <a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2010/05/day-i-realized-my-boss-was-serial.html">pathological liar</a> (if you haven't read this one, I highly suggest it; it's one of my personal favorites), the tax-evader (who spent time in prison for tax-fraud shortly after I quit working there), another boss who used to have hysterical fits of womanly insanity, and would sob in her office on bad days, but would forget to wipe off the triangles of mascara from under her eyes, so they served as a form of yield-signs to steer clear of her on her "crying-rage-filled-rampage" days, and one who killed himself while I was working for him (it was a very small business with only 3 employees at the time, so that was... interesting).<br />
<br />
But Hilmar was my boss during my Fulbright year to German. I worked as an English language teaching assistant at a high school in a small-ish town in central Germany, or at least that's what I was <i>supposed</i> to be doing. In reality, I worked as Hilmar's little American bitch. We weren't supposed to teach the classes ourselves (I spent more than a few nights staying up late while trying to frantically put together a lesson plan for the next day after Hilmar's short notice that I was in charge of the lessons for the next day), we weren't supposed to grade papers (I was handed every paper as soon as the students turned them in, so I could "make the language corrections" for Hilmar - he would then ask what grade I felt the papers each deserved), and we weren't supposed to be translation services (Hilmar frequently called me out in front of a classroom full of students to argue with me over the meaning of a word - usually one that differed between American and British English definitions - I'm sorry, but I'm not going to hire a "solicitor" to represent me in court, and just because you had a routine doctor appointment does not mean you went "to hospital" or had "surgery." Learn the language, Brits.)<br />
<br />
Aside from abusing me in a professional setting, Hilmar seemed determined to make my year a memorable one in many other ways, as well. For starters, as a participating teacher in the program, it was his responsibility to find me a place to live in town. Instead of doing that, he offered to let me stay at his apartment until I could find a place to live. He'd only charge me 250<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">€ </span>a month (out of the 703<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">€</span> we earned). That didn't seem like a bad deal, considering he would also be feeding me. Until he went out of town for two weeks and left me alone with his teenage daughter - and no food. I had no choice but to buy food, for myself and the daughter. Then, when I spent a week away from the house (with Tante Rose - my German grandmother-of-sorts), he didn't see it fit to lower my payment for the month at all. I was also confined to three rooms of the house: my bedroom, the kitchen, and the bathroom. According to Hilmar, he preferred if I stayed out of the other rooms. Including the living room, with the TV.<br />
<br />
Okay, so I was over-paying for meager quarters in a semi-hostile environment. It was only for a couple months, right? Not a big deal. <br />
<br />
Until he started walking around the house in his short. Biking shorts. Sometimes hot pink, sometimes teal. Skin-tight. Biking shorts. He <i>did</i> love to bike. But that doesn't excuse subjecting my eyes (or those of his innocent daughter) to such a sight for <i>hours</i> every weekend day. Germans are not necessarily known for their sense of fashion, and Hilmar was more than eager to scald that stereotype forever into my retinas. <br />
<br />
And the Stimmlers were musical. Oh, so very musical.<br />
<br />
Hilmar played the piano. And keyboard. Regularly. He was actually quite talented, but any time you're imprisoned in a small room in a quaint, thin-walled apartment, with no source of noise-creating entertainment (since I wasn't allowed in the TV room), the sounds of another human practicing an instrument ad nauseum can quickly begin to grate your nerves. And his daughter played the clarinet.<br />
<br />
Ah, the clarinet. I will always hate the sound of the clarinet. Not that his daughter wasn't equally as talented as Hilmar the Great, but my older brother played clarinet when we were younger, and the tell-tale squeaking honk sounds of a poorly played clarinet are forever engraved in my mind - in the back of my mind, scratching at my brain like fingernails on a chalkboard. Any time I hear a clarinet, it's like a group of fashionable black women with those mesmerizingly long, blindingly colorful fingernails have gathered to relieve the itches of dozens of chalkboards located at the base of my skull. His daughter could play the clarinet for two hours at a time. Or more. Sometimes more.<br />
<br />
He briefly showed me around town my first week there. But the first day of school, he got up and went in early, so I had to walk there by myself. When I went to apply for my visa, he set out with me in the morning, walked me to the building, and as soon as we were inside (and to the tricky part of actually dealing with people), he had a "meeting," and he had to run off. I learned quickly that he was not the type of person to rely on for help. Or kind words. Or compassion of any sort.<br />
<br />
So the time came (sooner than anticipated) for me to find a place to live. Well, technically, the time came for Hilmar to do his job and find me a place to live. But that wasn't going to happen. <br />
<br />
"Do you think you could possibly help me find an apartment or something where I could live in town?" I asked, after drawing up all the courage I could muster.<br />
<br />
"No. You'll have to do it on your own. What do I know about finding apartments around here?" Oh, gee, Hilmar, I don't know. For starters, you live in an apartment around here. I'd say that's about as knowledgeable as anyone could ever hope to be!<br />
<br />
After interviewing with a dozen renters looking for another roommate in town (and being rejected by all of them, most likely because I would have been leaving in July, and their school-year went through September, so they would have been out a paying roommate for two months, but also quite possibly just because I was an American), I began to get panicky and felt like I'd never find a place to live. But the mother of a student at our school happened to run a dorm (not affiliated with the university in town, although most everyone who lived there was a student at the university), and she had an available room. At the very least, Hilmar was kind enough to drive my belongs and me up to the dorm, so I didn't have to make multiple trips on the town's buses. That was probably the only generous thing he did for me - and he didn't even charge me fare for it!<br />
<br />
Once I escaped the clutches of living with Hilmar, things seemed to get slightly better. I only had to see him at work. On a daily basis. Unless he didn't show up for class that day, which, granted, didn't happen very often, but for an unprepared 22 year old with no actual teaching experience, once would have been more than enough.<br />
<br />
Other times, he would show up, but his lesson plans wouldn't.<br />
<br />
"How about you read from our book today?" he'd ask me, in front of the entire class of 17-18 year olds who also, clearly, had no desire to actually do anything productive that day.<br />
<br />
"You mean like this paragraph?"<br />
<br />
"Sure, start with that. And then keep reading. Until I tell you to stop. They like to hear a real American accent" <br />
<br />
Fifty minutes later, the bell would ring, and my "real American accent" would be starting to crack.<br />
<br />
It should be noted that Hilmar was married to an American woman. However, I never met her. She was living in Florida, teaching there for the year (or longer). She'd decided she'd had enough of living in Germany (or with Hilmar?), as she'd been there nearly 20 years, so she found a job "back home," and moved away. He went to visit her several times (including the two weeks he left me to fend for myself - and take care of his hungry daughter), and she came to visit him, too, over her holidays. Most notably, over Thanksgiving break.<br />
<br />
For whatever reason, we had a long weekend over Thanksgiving. Surely not <i>because</i> of Thanksgiving, as that's an American holiday, but regardless, I spent the day with a couple good friends in the small town of Stendal. We did our best to make a Germanized version of American Thanksgiving, and, all in all, it was a pleasant holiday. <br />
<br />
Back at school on Monday, Hilmar approached me in the teachers' lounge.<br />
<br />
"Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?" he asked, and without waiting for a reply, "We had a very traditional one - with the big turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and everything. Since my wife is American, she went all out and made me a real classic dinner. I didn't even think of inviting you."<br />
<br />
"Uh... yeah. I went over to a friend's..."<br />
<br />
"Oh, good. Because I realize now I probably should have invited you. Oh well!" In spite of that realization, Hilmar didn't see fit to invite me for any of their Christmas celebrations, either.<br />
<br />
Some mornings in the teachers' lounge, he would refuse to acknowledge my existence. I'd say hi or wave, and he'd turn his back as if I weren't there at all. Other mornings, he'd sit down next to me, full of friendly chit-chat and go over our lesson plans for the day. I never knew which Hilmar I was going to encounter on any given day.<br />
<br />
And then there was Spring Break. I knew that I needed/wanted to come home for a few days, because Husband would be graduating from Creighton and was going to be Commissioned in the Army (and our good friends were also getting married that weekend - and, as it turned out, <a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2011/05/day-i-got-married-first-time.html">so were Husband and I</a>). I asked Hilmar if I could have Thurs-Tuesday off, over two months in advance.<br />
<br />
"No. I don't see how that could work." Ahh, he was such a compassionate man.<br />
<br />
I went back to the drawing board. I came up with a plan where I could have as little work on those days as possible - finishing what I could before I left, preparing lesson plans for the days I was gone, etc. A week later, I approached him again and asked a second time, giving him my proposal of how, in spite of being physically gone, I wouldn't actually miss any work. Besides, he'd had me work <i>far</i> more than I was ever supposed to in the first place - I was frequently used as a "guest speaker" in random English classes (read: a free period for the students to accuse me of every American stereotype known to Germans while I tried to negate and/or acknowledge them; yes, many Americans are fat, but so are many Germans; no, not all Americans are rich, and I don't even own a gun, etc), and I wasn't technically ever supposed to teach a class on my own, much less alone in the classroom. <br />
<br />
"I'll think about it, but you're really not supposed to be able to take any days off," he said.<br />
<br />
So I booked my flights anyway. I figured, I'd just call in (very) sick those days. He'd obviously know I was lying, but we were allowed to take sick days.<br />
<br />
Two weeks before my scheduled Spring break, Hilmar approached me.<br />
<br />
"Do you still want those days off? You can have them. I don't see why it'd be a problem. But it's probably too late to get plane tickets now. Or they'd be really expensive, at best." I honestly don't know if he was <i>trying</i> to be malicious, or if he was truly just that oblivious.<br />
<br />
He maintained his "aloof yet unpredictably cruel" demeanor for the rest of my year there. He wrote me a letter of recommendation but refused to let me read it. He asked if I needed help getting my belongings to the train station then told me he already had plans to ride his bike for 12 miles the day I needed to leave town. He made sure I was thanked in the end-of-the-year staff meeting but had a colleague (another teacher I'd worked with throughout the year) give my thank-you speech. <br />
<br />
I'd like to end with some kind of moral or witty quip about Hilmar, but the man honestly baffled me. I don't feel like my life is richer for having known him, yet I also don't feel as if he's caused any permanent damage to my psyche. I generally feel indifferently amused when I think back on that year and the bizarre behavior of a man who can't recall having ever had the hiccups in his life. So I'll end with this:<br />
<br />
I once knew a man named Hilmar Stimmler (or something close enough to that).<br />
<br />
(By the way, sorry for the terrible quality of the picture - I lost the actual copy of it, so all I had to go off of was the little thumbnail version. That's me, before kids (*sigh*), in Hilmar's room with a bottle of champagne on one of the days both he and his daughter were out of town. It was the only time I had friends over at his apartment - so, of course, we snuck into the "forbidden" rooms and snapped some super-fast pictures.)Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-68517150697572276612011-09-26T09:14:00.000-05:002011-09-26T10:12:51.784-05:00The Day(s) I Built a Play Set; or, What Being an Army Wife Means to Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As I've mentioned before, Husband is currently deployed. But, in the grand scheme of deployments, this one is pretty minimal; in fact, it's not technically even going to be considered a deployment. It won't reset his deployment clock, which means we run the (very slight) risk of Army turning around as soon as he gets home, sending him to another unit that needs a PA and deploying him for a full year-long deployment. I seriously doubt that will happen, but it could. The smartest approach to surviving Army life is to always at least be aware of what <i>could</i> happen. We're expecting him to miss Sweet D's first birthday (but not by so much that we won't just postpone her party until he gets home) and another anniversary of ours, but if that's all he misses, we still have very little to complain about.<br />
<br />
This is our first deployment with kids, so it's taken a bit more adjusting for me than the last one. The first week was hard on me. The second week was much easier. By the third week, I began to realize that I could do this for a year, if I had to (which, thankfully, I don't - at least not this time).<br />
<br />
Before he left, we bought a giant play set for the backyard, with the intention that we could get it built relatively quickly, and we'd have a fun and safe place where Ant could burn a lot of energy every day, without me being obligated to take both kids to the park (which is something I don't like doing alone, since I have to hold Sweet D the entire time, so if Ant gets stuck somewhere or slips, I can't just run up and help him with my arms full of baby).<br />
<br />
We picked out an awesome one. A slide, monkey bars, a rock wall, a rope ladder, climbing steps, swings, a tunnel, etc. There were two different building kits to choose from: do-it-yourself, or ready-to-assemble. We're not really that big on DitY type stuff, so we spent the money to get the ready-to-assemble kit. Husband borrowed a friend's pick-up truck, loaded up all the pieces and brought it home. We unloaded it all and moved all the pieces to the backyard, and Husband got working on it right away. We figured we could get most of it built over the weekend, and maybe finish up the rest in the evenings after he got home.<br />
<br />
How foolish we were. Destroyed by our own hubris.<br />
<br />
Ready-to-assemble simply means that <i>most</i> of the wood has already been cut to size. Most. Not all. <i>None</i> of the wood had pre-drilled holes, but <i>all</i> of the wood required them. Add to that more than several pieces of fairly warped wood, and we were looking at a lot more than two days' worth of play set building. Combined with two small, usually screaming and impatient, children, I soon realized the likelihood of the play set ever being finished was dwindling.<br />
<br />
Husband worked on it for several hours the first day. Until all his drill bits were broken. After a run to the hardware store, he got in a few more hours on Sunday, with meager results. I'll admit at that point, knowing he was so close to deploying, I was feeling overcome with frustration and anger. So much for our plan to have the play set finished. Ever.<br />
<br />
After coming home from work, Husband would go out and work on the play set for a couple hours each day. It was coming along, slowly. I helped when I had the chance, but for the most part, I just kept the kids from screaming at him so he could work.<br />
<br />
Then he went to Ft. Sam Houston for training for a week, and I went to South Dakota for a "<a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2011/08/day-i-took-road-trip-to-hell.html">vacation</a>." We got home that weekend, and I decided we had to do as much as we could before he left. We worked for about four hours on Sunday, again until all our drill bits broke and we had to stop. On Monday, we found out he would for sure be deploying that weekend (Labor Day weekend), so he was determined not to spend his last days with us out in the blistering heat, working on the damned play set. I resigned myself to not having the play set while he was gone. <br />
<br />
Thursday morning he got a call that he'd be leaving that night at 1:30am. I was a little frustrated that they'd taken away our last night together, but at least we finally had a time. Four hours later, they called and moved it back 24 hours.<br />
<br />
"That's it," I told him. "We HAVE to do as much as we can to the play set."<br />
<br />
So his last day here, we finished up everything we could. The main structures were up, and the braces for the swing set. It was a wooden frame, but at least I could hang the swings by myself. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.<br />
<br />
The morning after Husband left, both kids took a nap at the same time. Determined to at least get the swings hung, I went out to work on the play set. In less than two hours, I got the swings hung, the slide securely attached, the rope ladder up, and the rock wall parts in place. Over the next couple of days, working on the few occasions the kids both napped at the same time, I managed to build the climbing stairs - which involved cutting the 2x8 boards with a manual saw. I was so proud of myself, I became determined to do as much else as I could.<br />
<br />
I've since attached the telescope (it doesn't actually work, but don't tell Ant that), and the tarp over the top, as well. And I built the monkey bars (which also involved the manual saw, a lot of gigantic bolts, and a good amount of swearing). The monkey bars are not yet attached, however, because they require two 10.5" holes to be dug where the legs will be secured in the ground, allowing the top to be level. I struggled for an hour or so one afternoon with a post-hole digger, a shovel, and a pickaxe, and only made it about 6" in the rock-hard soil.<br />
<br />
I had more than a few friends comment on how I should either wait or find a "man" who could dig the holes for me. Surprisingly, I balked at the idea. At first I didn't know how to explain it, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized, I <i>have</i> to do this myself. As an Army wife and a mother to our little Army brats, I <i>have</i> to finish this play set, and without help.<br />
<br />
"Why?" a friend asked.<br />
<br />
"Because. What if Patrick were killed? I have to know I can build my kids a play set." <br />
<br />
I know it sounds ridiculous, but that's the truth. I have to prove to myself that I'm good enough, and capable enough, to be both their mother and their father. I have to be able to bake them awesome Minion cakes, but I also have to be able to build them big play sets. I have to be twice as patient with them while he's gone, and twice as loving, because I'm both parents right now. When one of us would get fed up with them, the other takes over. They deserve the patience and love of two parents. Whether it's for a day, two months, or 12 months, it doesn't matter. When one parent is away, the one who stays behind has to be good enough to be both.<br />
<br />
The play set is just a microcosm of the reality - just the physical embodiment of my role as "dad," but if I can do it, by myself, then I'll feel confident that I can do anything else. I can handle a two month, or a nine month, or a fifteen month deployment. I can be strong enough, loving enough, patient enough to be what my kids deserve - and what civilian kids with both parents at home can take for granted. If I can do this, I can truly be an Army wife.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-4354566718024476522011-09-20T12:25:00.002-05:002011-09-20T17:19:33.930-05:00The Night I Invited a Strange Man to Stay Over<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Alright, I feel like this post needs a disclaimer right off the bat. For starters, yes, I realize this was not the smartest thing I've ever done. If at all possible, please try to refrain from scolding me about something that's already happened (and that turned out well). I promise I won't ever do anything like this again. Or, at best, I'll try to be smarter about it (because I really shouldn't promise not to help people - what are you all, heartless monsters? You don't want to help people in need? I'm ashamed of all of you).<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, while I was mopping the front entryway to our house, the doorbell rang. I opened it to see an exceptionally tall young man who explained that he was from Estonia (and was astounded that I knew where Estonia was... which doesn't say much for the other good folk he's encountered on his door-to-door sales experience here in "middle America..."). I tried my best to look frazzled in that "please just leave me alone" way, but he explained that he was selling educational books for children and asked if he could come in for a moment. <br />
<br />
Since he clearly knew my personal kryptonite is educational books for children, I had no choice but to let him come in and fall victim to his sales scheme. <br />
<br />
After talking briefly about Europe (he was excited to hear that I'd lived in Germany for several years on my own), he showed me the books, and Ant (who was supposed to be enjoying "quiet time" in his room, but, in true "quiet time" form was actually hiding behind the couch) immediately grabbed the books and started excitedly exclaiming about every single picture, shape, color, and letter in them. Way to go, kid. He basically painted me into a corner of obligatory parental guilt: I <i>have</i> to buy the books, or he'll probably turn retarded and will likely fail out of pre-school. <br />
<br />
I offered the Estonian something to drink, and while I was getting him some juice, he asked what I do all day. <i>I'll re-mop the front entry way after you leave...</i> I thought, but then I realized, I had the perfect display of "what I do all day" sitting in my fridge - my <a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2011/08/making-of-minion-cake.html">minion cake</a>. He was so impressed, he asked if I could take his picture with the cake and email it to him, exclaiming that his friends absolutely wouldn't believe that it was a homemade cake. Ego boost - another point in his favor for buying the set of educational books. He really was a good salesman.<br />
<br />
He explained that I'd be receiving a postcard in the mail sometime in September with the date he'd personally return to deliver the books. I wrote out a check for half the cost of the 6-book set, and sent him on his way.<br />
<br />
Several weeks later, I received said postcard. I waited around the entire morning on the date he was supposed to arrive, but he never showed up. Fearing my gullible nature had led me into a scam (the check had already been cashed weeks ago), I began to do some research on the company he was working with. Southwestern Advantage. It would seem as if there is a good deal of negative attention toward them on the internet. The more I read, the more sympathy I felt for the tall, friendly Estonian. Was he being taken advantage of by this large, evidently evil corporation? Did he have any money after all the out-of-pocket expenses he's expected to pay, or is he starving and miserable? Has he been assaulted by strangers on his door-to-door adventures, only to find out the company refuses to involve itself in any of the salespeople's legal issues, to include violent assault? Was he on the verge of suicide, driven to depression from the weeks of stress after working 80 hours every week for the entire summer - walking door-to-door in this exceptionally hot Kansas summer? I have to do SOMETHING for him! (Assuming he ever shows up.)<br />
<br />
So, true to my nurturing, motherly nature, I baked cookies.<br />
<br />
He didn't show up the day he was supposed to, and, instead of believing I'd been swindled, I grew increasingly concerned for his well-being. I was convinced he'd run across some psychopath living in central Kansas who was probably holding him hostage somewhere in his basement and torturing him. The poor, naive Estonian. He wasn't raised in America, where we're taught everyone we don't know is a serial rapist/killer who just wants to kidnap us/our children. There's no way he can survive in this cruel, violent world of central Kansas.<br />
<br />
I was outside, working on the (never-ending) play set when the doorbell rang. I ran to answer it, and there he was - the tall Estonian kid, not (visibly) harmed or being held captive, books in arm. He apologized for being a day late and explained that his car had broken down yesterday (gesturing behind him at a very used 1992 piece of rusty metal), and he'd gotten behind in all his deliveries. <br />
<br />
I invited him in so he could show me the books, and then I offered him cookies. And juice.<br />
<br />
And then I started to question him. About the company, about his experiences. I just wanted to make sure he was okay.<br />
<br />
Like some of the voices out there on the internet regarding Southwestern Advantage, he simply said, "it's not for everyone." He explained that yes, he has a lot of out-of-pocket expenses, and he works extremely strenuous hours, but he expected as much. The people who feel used or abused by the company are the ones who don't do the research beforehand and expect the company to do things for them, like find them lodging in their assigned cities. For instance, he was no longer staying with his host family (he was the only one in his group who hadn't finished his deliveries yet), so he didn't have anywhere to stay tonight. He said he'd just start asking people as he dropped books off this afternoon.<br />
<br />
I didn't win the "Good Samaritan Award" six years in a row at three different schools in elementary school for nothing.<br />
<br />
"You can stay here, if you need a place to stay!" I blurted out without really thinking it through.<br />
<br />
He seemed about as surprised as I was. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I only need a clean place on the floor to sleep... and maybe a shower, if that's okay."<br />
<br />
Where has this poor guy been staying that he thinks those are acceptable conditions?!<br />
<br />
"Oh no, I have an entire guest room downstairs - and a full bathroom."<br />
<br />
"But I won't be getting back until late... like after 9pm. Would that be okay with your kids and their bedtime?"<br />
<br />
Sweet D doesn't usually go to sleep until 11, and that's past Ant's bedtime, so I didn't see a problem. We agreed on it, exchanged phone numbers, and he told me there was a chance he'd finish all his deliveries early and not need a place to stay, but if he didn't, he'd be extremely grateful to me. I sent him off with a bag of cookies and a big travel mug full of coffee, feeling good about myself for helping out someone in need.<br />
<br />
I'd like to take a moment to interject here that, if he'd been an American, I more than likely wouldn't have even considered letting him stay here (especially with Husband being gone). I just felt like I had a certain camaraderie with him, as a European, that I couldn't have with an American. It reminded me of so many wonderful Germans I'd met, who would welcome anyone into their home and treat them just like family. I've had some of the most amazing, welcoming, warm experiences in German households with people I barely knew - but I know if I ever end up back there, I could just ring their doorbell, and they'd welcome me back in like a long-lost cousin. It's not something I've ever encountered in America; it's simply a different way of life, and I saw this as my opportunity to "pay it forward" for all the times other Europeans have done it for me.<br />
<br />
Still riding the high of feeling like I've done a really good deed, I talked briefly to Husband online and told him (I'd seriously considered NOT telling him, because I knew his reaction wouldn't be favorable, but I figured he'd trust my judgement). As expected, Husband wasn't thrilled with the idea. I believe his exact words were "no." After some mild convincing that I'm not, in fact, a complete idiot, and I might even be a decent judge of character, he relented and said, "fine, but I'm going to be worried sick until I talk to you tomorrow." Understandable.<br />
<br />
Then I texted my good friend Mouse, who happens to live in the same town as us (one of the main reasons I wanted to move here in the first place). She, like Husband, flipped out.<br />
<br />
Their reactions were starting to wear on me and convince me that maybe I <i>wasn't</i> the best judge of character after all. And maybe I'd just agreed to something that was going to get me raped and all of us killed.<br />
<br />
So my American-raised mind agreed to do something I never in a million years would have before considered. I borrowed Mouse's gun.<br />
<br />
I should probably tell you now how incredibly anti-gun I am. I HATE them. Even the thought of guns makes me feel queasy and my hands start sweating. When I was growing up, we weren't even allowed to point finger guns at each other. There's a chance I've tried to fire a BB gun once or twice, but I even hated that. I can't stomach the thought of guns in my house, ESPECIALLY with small children also in my house. Yes, I am aware that I'm married to a soldier, but he doesn't bring his guns home. I'm not opposed to the idea of guns - I see them as necessary for many things in life. I'm opposed to the idea of ME and guns.<br />
<br />
She came over in late afternoon with this adorable little pink camo gun case and gave me a quick tutorial in how to load and fire the gun. I couldn't bring myself to actually touch it, but I'm a relatively fast learner, so I got the basic gist of it. She told me she felt much better with me having it, I know Husband felt better with me having it, and I have to admit, after the two of them riled me up into thinking I was going to be raped and killed, I felt better having it, too.<br />
<br />
I put the gun on the armoire next to my bed. Then I put my canister of dog mace in easy reach in the living room. I was prepared. The AmURican way.<br />
<br />
Shortly after I got Ant to bed, the Estonian called to make sure it was still okay if he stayed the night. As soon as I heard him on the phone, my fears (mostly) dissipated. I'd gotten so nervous and wound up between Husband and Mouse's concerns, I'd forgotten that I'm not an idiot, and I CAN trust my own instincts. <br />
<br />
Sweet D went to sleep just minutes before the Estonian arrived. I showed him in and showed him the guest room. He was extremely grateful and offered to sleep on the ground, so he wouldn't dirty the sheets. I told him to quit being ridiculous and just sleep in the bed. He was my guest, and I was going to treat him as such. <br />
<br />
He said he'd have to leave around 6am (way before I'd prefer to be awake), so I showed him how to lock the door behind him, and asked if he had breakfast (he showed me this absurdly small breakfast bar). So I took him to the kitchen, got a pot of coffee ready so he could brew fresh coffee, showed him where the poptarts and cereal are, and then asked if he'd eaten dinner. He seemed almost apologetic and said no. I made him a garlic pork sandwich on fresh homemade french bread. Then I got him juice and chips. While I was digging in the pantry for more food to throw at him, he remarked how much I reminded him of his mom. What a fantastic compliment. <br />
<br />
I've always been a motherly figure. I was voted "most likely to have 15 kids" in my high school class. My Fulbright friends used to joke about how they'd be high, and I'd be sober, making sure they all had their mittens on before we went outside in the cold. I guess I'm just a very mother-hen type.<br />
<br />
We talked for a bit about Europe and America and politics and his job, etc. And I remarked about how I likely wouldn't have invited him to stay if he'd been American. He seemed to think it over for a minute, and then he agreed - the whole situation was much more European to him, too. He said he felt comfortable here, like he would have in a typical European home. Not that Americans can't be hospitable or good hosts, but it's simply a different mindset for the majority of people. After I shot down his ridiculous notion of changing the sheets on the bed when he got up in the morning, he thanked me for everything I'd done for him (which really wasn't much of anything), and told me that I shouldn't ever lose my European-trained sense of hospitality. I whole-heartedly agree.<br />
<br />
After sending him to bed, I cleaned up the kitchen and brought the dogs into my room (who, it turns out, are COMPLETELY worthless as guard dogs - they didn't even make a noise when he was up in the morning in the kitchen - but I was wide awake the whole time - and only a little nervous). I didn't sleep very well, waking at every noise and running through my plan of how I'd grab and load the gun if he came anywhere near our rooms (it's hard to get over the ingrained fear - especially in such an unknown situation).<br />
<br />
Of course, everything turned out fine. The Estonian really did just need a place to stay (which I knew was a common problem for the Southwestern salespeople from all the reading I did on the internet about the company), and I'm glad I was able to provide that for him for a night. It's the least I could do after all the wonderful people I've met during my travels who have done the same for me.<br />
<br />
And a final disclaimer, if you believe anything untoward may have happened, then you truly don't know me. I was far too mentally-consumed with the idea of "tonight being the very first time I may kill someone!" to even consider the notion of infidelity.<br />
<br />
Oh, and Estonian - if you read this (I'm friends with him on facebook now!), please don't be offended that I armed myself against you. I am an American, after all. :)Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-6190284795989135452011-09-12T14:41:00.000-05:002011-09-12T14:41:03.361-05:00The Day I Didn't Have a Blog Post<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW9HaVjKYCywE8lPJFdLE7ILkmLhvMrdiAY7sewzKieXn1-tpHX0N2ZK9Qfl7QF80GVBvinjFYhFONu7HLKY8lVUIWVTEP0SOsKc1EVvG3JNpVvI-uxEohnPBMdQYkAXkyLQv2Rmd_R88/s1600/DSCF7784.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW9HaVjKYCywE8lPJFdLE7ILkmLhvMrdiAY7sewzKieXn1-tpHX0N2ZK9Qfl7QF80GVBvinjFYhFONu7HLKY8lVUIWVTEP0SOsKc1EVvG3JNpVvI-uxEohnPBMdQYkAXkyLQv2Rmd_R88/s320/DSCF7784.JPG" width="320" /></a>Okay, so that's been many days. But today is another Monday without a post. I don't really have an excuse, either. Except for the whole Husband deploying and being stuck alone with the Monsters. But that's not even a very legitimate excuse, since the Monsters have been doing surprisingly well.<br />
<br />
Sweet D slept through the night last night. For the first time ever. 10 straight hours. The longest she'd ever slept before was 6 hours, and that only happened 2-3 times. Usually, she sleeps one 4 hr stretch at night, and the rest is anywhere from 20 min - 2 hrs. I, of course, didn't sleep all night, but instead woke up in a panic at 4am, realizing she hadn't gotten up yet, ran frantically in her room expecting to find her dead. I'm hoping we've finally broken the over-tired cycle she's been in, and she'll maybe get on a more regular sleeping routine now. Because that's one thing about babies - if they get too tired, they can't sleep. What is wrong with you, babies?! Sometimes I get so hungry, I feel like I'm going to throw up. But I also have a penchant for throwing up. I throw up more than any non-bulimic person I've ever encountered, so I'm not sure that's the same thing.<br />
<br />
Ant has been handling the deployment fairly well. He's an expert at distraction, which is evidently his coping method of choice. Sometimes I try to talk to him about Daddy being gone, and he abruptly changes the topic to inform me of useful tidbits such as, "lids go on our cups so the chocolate milk doesn't spill." While that IS true, it's not exactly relevant. <br />
<br />
My dryer started making very loud noises a few months ago (but still works fine), and sometimes it makes a noise that sounds like the garage door opening. Ant runs to the top of the stairs and yells out, "Daddy's home!!" but then when I tell him that, no, it was just the dryer, he doesn't seem to care. He just shrugs it off and returns to whatever he was doing. The only times he's really seemed to really be upset about Daddy being gone are times when he's already having a meltdown - then he just throws that in there to make me feel worse. <br />
<br />
One time (thankfully only once, so far), he was on the floor throwing a fit about something else entirely, and I was about to put him in time out, when he yelled out, "Daddy can't ever come home!" Oh jeez, how am I supposed to discipline you now?! So I calmed him down and tried to read him his Daddy Book (a photo book I made for each of the kids with pictures of them and Husband and a little story about how Daddy has to sometimes go away for a long time to keep other soldiers healthy, etc), and then he kicked me, which made disciplining him much easier.<br />
<br />
Another time he told me Daddy "went to Holland to get money for pizza." As you can tell, he has a clear and mature understanding of what's happening. He may have been trying to say "hospital," and just forgot the word, since Daddy sometimes works in a hospital. And I do tell him that Daddy goes to work to earn money for us. Money to buy delicious pizza.<br />
<br />
As for myself, it turns out I'm a surprisingly capable person, and this is like a macrocosm of our normal lives: when Husband is at home during the day (weekends, etc), I become immobilized and usually don't even manage to shower, much less clean or do anything else with any semblance of productivity. But when he goes to work (or to the store on weekends), I'm overcome with a sudden urge to do as many chores as possible while he's gone. Now that he isn't coming home for a few months, my motivation has turned to larger things - cleaning out and organizing the garage, building an entire playset in the backyard (my neighbors have learned that I have a filthy mouth), and I'm slowly becoming obsessed with our weed-filled lawn. I enjoy mowing and weed whacking it. I'm excited for the weather to cool down a bit so I can rent an aerator and plant grass seed. And hopefully some trees. If we had a ton of money sitting around, I'd do all our landscaping plans myself. <br />
<br />
I'm sorry this isn't funny. Literally nothing humorous happened to me all week. I'll try better this week, or at least try to get the motivation to tell another good story from my past. I can't even come up with a short anecdote for you, because The Wiggles are singing loudly at me in the background (the only method I could come up with to keep Sweet D from smashing the keyboard, short of locking her away somewhere), and Anthony Wiggle is wearing some suggestive butterfly costume with tights, and I just can't concentrate. I may have a crush on Anthony Wiggle. There's a chance the kids don't even like this show, but I force them to watch it so I can get lost in his dreamy blue eyes. Oh, I'll tally your bananas, Anthony. Daylight come, indeed.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-44034804687624316112011-09-05T11:12:00.005-05:002011-09-05T13:07:29.789-05:00The Day I Bought a Steam Vac (Today!)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu0nPIxAeL6ldgAPF1IsSd4rPATIY8UqIonSLJ6ANFlcG64lDfOR4Zk6ldKvpWyEcsNRJYh2iKV1x5nLmCGa-FQmGknmOIGiduyLbbIhdm0MHIty_e48j0KaKQ06c1b_3LozAEsDQqEDo/s1600/DSCF7379.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu0nPIxAeL6ldgAPF1IsSd4rPATIY8UqIonSLJ6ANFlcG64lDfOR4Zk6ldKvpWyEcsNRJYh2iKV1x5nLmCGa-FQmGknmOIGiduyLbbIhdm0MHIty_e48j0KaKQ06c1b_3LozAEsDQqEDo/s320/DSCF7379.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5648930585150027682" /></a><br />Ant had been giving us signs that he was ready to start potty training for a while now. He's interested in the potty chairs, excited about "big boy underwear," and he's met all the other milestones the experts recommend (being able to stay dry for a certain amount of time, being able to undress himself, etc). So after Husband deployed (and Ant seemed to show no reaction to Daddy being gone), I decided it would be a good way to pass the time. And what an awesome "present" for Husband to come home to - one kid out of diapers without any work on his part!<div><br /></div><div>We started yesterday. We read all our different books on using the potty, took a tour of the bathroom, including two potty chairs (one on loan to us that looks like a dinosaur!), his potty chart, rewards for going potty, toilet paper, the sink and soap, etc. We were set, and we were both very excited to get this show on the road.</div><div><br /></div><div>How do you start potty training? The "experts" all say to let the kid run around without pants on. They're more aware of what's going on with their down-theres, then, and less likely to confuse underwear as just another form of diaper (which also means less laundry in the form of soiled underwear every time the kid forgets). I knew going in to this that we'd have some accidents, and they'd likely be on the carpet, so I was prepared. I've had two kids, we have two painfully stupid dogs and a cat; I'm certainly accustomed to messes on the carpet, couches, walls, and so on. I bought a brand new bottle of Resolve Pet Stain Remover just the other day.</div><div><br /></div><div>The morning started out with me asking Ant every 2 minutes if he had to pee or poop and reminding him to run to the potty if he felt like he needed to go. I can't even begin to tell you how excited I was the first time he jumped up, ran to the bathroom, and happily exclaimed that he'd peed in the potty. I ran in to see for myself, and, sure enough, he had! Pee, right there, in the dinosaur potty. And some next to the dinosaur potty. ... And some on the rugs. But still! Pee in the potty!!</div><div><br /></div><div>And he kept doing it, too! Pee, in the potty, at least 8 times yesterday. </div><div><br /></div><div>But pooping was another thing entirely. I had a feeling it was going to be more difficult, but the peeing was just going so well. He was playing by himself with his Little People farm toy when I notice he stopped moving for a second... and was in a tell-tale squatting position... I jumped up to grab him, yelling (in my most helpful, polite-but-urgent, mommy voice), "Ant! Do you need to go to the potty to poop?!" Too late. Poop. On the carpet.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's okay, not a big deal. It cleaned up easily (easier than the stupid dogs' poop ever is). We talked about how he didn't get a prize (skittles) for that one, because it was on the carpet, and not in the potty, where it's supposed to be. He was sad, but he understood. Just to show me how well he understood, he proceeded to pee in the potty (and get his skittles). </div><div><br /></div><div>The rest of the day was uneventful (except for one pee incident, on a kitchen chair, because he was too involved with his play-doh to realize he had to pee - in spite of my asking every 2 minutes if he needed to go). More successful pottying, and even some (remarkably small) poops. Gross, I know, but this is the reality of having and raising children, people.</div><div><br /></div><div>The day ended with a minor battle over how to proceed with nighttime potty training. I made the mistake of telling Ant he could come and get me if he needed to pee, and I'd help him take his diaper off. Being the crafty little kid he is, he realized this was the perfect excuse to stay up late - even if it was just staying up to sit on the potty. I let him sit there for 30 minutes (producing nothing) before I cracked and forced him to go to bed, telling him it was okay if he peed in his diaper.</div><div><br /></div><div>He woke me up this morning, bright and early, excited to get back to potty training. It should probably be noted that he thinks a "potty train" is an actual train and something that will be his when he can use the potty correctly. He keeps asking for his potty train, which, to anyone who didn't know what he actually meant, would probably sound very progressive - toddler-led potty training: "I want my POTTY TRAIN!!" It isn't progressive; it's actually just greedy.</div><div><br /></div><div>It would appear that he had peed immediately before waking me up, because his diaper was fully loaded, and he didn't need to pee for the first several hours we were awake, in spite of my incessant asking.</div><div><br /></div><div>He was sitting on the couch with his blankets and a hammer-and-ball toy thing when my phone rang. Seeing a number that started with a bunch of 0's, I got super excited, because I knew it had to be Husband, calling from somewhere "over there." I hadn't talked to him since he left, so I was very eager to hear his voice and regale him with the events of our last few days, specifically our potty training successes thus far.</div><div><br /></div><div>About two minutes into the annoyingly-voice-delayed call, Ant suddenly started screaming. I looked up just in time to see him jump up from where he was sitting on the couch, kick his legs and flail his arms about, and throw himself to the other side of the couch, before dropping to the floor, all while screaming like a lunatic. His toys and blankets got caught up in the action, also springing about on the couch, and Sweet D, standing in front of the couch where Ant had just been sitting, began to hit the couch and yell in excitement.</div><div><br /></div><div>But then I noticed a little something else was involved in the flailing mix. It didn't register at first, because I'd never been witness to anything similar, mostly because I've never spent any remarkable amount of time in monkey houses at the zoo.</div><div><br /></div><div>Shit. It was shit. I don't feel like I need to apologize for using that word in this scenario, because it's truly the only appropriate word to describe the reality. It was horrible, noxious, filthy, diarrhea shit. And it was all over my couch. Then all over Ant. And all over his blankets and toys. Oh God, no, the table. Stop moving, Ant, STOP MOVING! Now my pillows. And the carpet. JUST STOP, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP MOVING. IT'S SHIT; HE SHIT ON THE COUCH; OH MY GOD. And the rug. No... NO, SWEET D, NO!! ... And Sweet D.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was frozen for what seemed like minutes, but was probably only a couple seconds. I yelled to Ant, "did you not know you were going to poop?!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nooooooo!" He wailed. Looking at the diarrhea-poop, I'd guess that was probably true.</div><div><br /></div><div>"GO TO THE BATHROOM AND WAIT FOR ME."</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh yeah, I'm still on the phone to Husband, who is separated from the shit-living room by his security bubble of half the world and a 3-second phone delay. I started trying to explain to him what was happening when I saw Sweet D going for the kill - inches from a giant pile of shit, she had that crazy look in her eyes that only an eager 10-month old can get when she's about to grab something that she instinctively knows is off-limits.</div><div><br /></div><div>"WHAT DO I DO?!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Husband, ever the level-headed rational one suggests, "put Sweet D in the bathroom with Ant and deal with him first, then clean everything else up after he's calmed down."</div><div><br /></div><div>Good plan. Baby to the bathroom. Oh God, the bathroom is also somehow covered in shit. Is more coming out, or is it just splatters of already-coated flailing limbs? HOW DO I EVEN BEGIN TO GET CONTROL OF THIS?!</div><div><br /></div><div>Ant, sitting calmly on his dinosaur potty now, stands up and announces, "I peed in the potty! I get a special treat."</div><div><br /></div><div>Ha.</div><div><br /></div><div>I start trying to wipe Ant off with toilet paper and realize it's just not going to cut it. "Let's go to your room and use some wipes. Oh no, what does Sweet D have? IT'S SHIT. SHE HAS SHIT ON HER HANDS. AND SHE'S PAINTING THE FLOOR WITH IT!! AHHHH, CHILDREN!!!"</div><div><br /></div><div>After frantically cleaning Sweet D's hand, we proceeded to clean Ant up in his room (and getting more shit all over everything in there), and then back to the bathroom to have a family bath. I'll never feel clean again. Ant, in typical Ant fashion, starts throwing a fit. No sympathy, into the tub. Thankfully, Sweet D loves water, so she gladly gets in and gets clean. My kids have some sort of psychic ability with each other - if they're only minorly upset, they will, inevitably, always be minorly upset at the same time. They throw fits at the same time, wake up at night at the same time, get hurt at the same time, need attention at the same time. But if something is TRULY wrong (like shit-splosion all over the house, or <a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2011/08/day-i-took-road-trip-to-hell.html">accidentally biting their tongue in half</a>), they have an awesome ability to take turns. I'm so thankful for that.</div><div><br /></div><div>I get the kids cleaned, DIAPERED (both of them), and dressed, then head back out to clean up the shit-covered living room. Meanwhile, the phone system interrupts our call and informs Husband and me that we have 15 more seconds to talk. Great, I'm glad we got a chance to catch up...</div><div><br /></div><div>I used half a bottle of Resolve on the couch, carpet, and rug, and half a container of disinfecting wipes on the table and toys. Blankets go into the washer, my hands get washed 18 times, and I sit down at my computer to get on Amazon and order a steam vac. I've been wanting one since we bought our house, and it seems now is the perfect time to stop putting it off. Because I'm NOT going to sit on that couch again until it's been semi-professionally cleaned.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the meantime, I've decided it's not going to hurt anything if Ant doesn't potty train right now. He's not starting school any time soon, and I hate the idea of having to hunt down bathrooms every single time we go shopping or to the park, etc. Maybe another few months in diapers won't be a bad thing, and I'll be thankful to have the stress off of me. If Husband were going to be gone for a real, full-length deployment, I'd have no choice but to do it myself. But as it is, it seems like waiting 3 months and doing it during his Block Leave, so he can help, is a pretty freaking ingenious idea. After all, I've heard some stories about what a nightmare he was to potty train (whereas I potty trained myself at 18 months). It would seem as if there's some 26 year old karma waiting around to catch up with him.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-20729781260610397712011-09-05T08:58:00.000-05:002011-09-05T08:58:58.063-05:00The Day it Smelled Like Broccoli<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipre2KDhaWttYhKnF2y0sfszV9MX7U4v7xL1pwUMJCM6ZINAd8pWd5IVY5gUTxkOJFqKN-WMEwhtEKyWV5SO3S9Zkv4A3Otlsag0ApLDMaWNkUAGXjSjmyo944DCymX3AvoxhE6ZADutU/s1600/broccoli.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipre2KDhaWttYhKnF2y0sfszV9MX7U4v7xL1pwUMJCM6ZINAd8pWd5IVY5gUTxkOJFqKN-WMEwhtEKyWV5SO3S9Zkv4A3Otlsag0ApLDMaWNkUAGXjSjmyo944DCymX3AvoxhE6ZADutU/s320/broccoli.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5648550679912987058" /></a><br />I always hate writing stories about people who may realize the story is about them (unless they're in my family; then I think they have to just expect and accept it), but sometimes it's hard to pass up a really good anecdote. That being said, names have been changed to protect the (not so) innocent (and if the subject/culprit does ever stumble upon and read this and recognize that the story is about them, no hard feelings - like always, this is just my personal recollection of events; who knows how accurate it really is?)<div><br /></div><div>The summer after my freshman year of high school, I went on one of those everything-has-been-arranged-for-you-including-your-meals group tours of German-speaking Europe. Overall, it was an awesome trip filled with visiting lots of amazing places that I had never heard of and thus did not recognize the significance of our visits to them until years later, at which point I grew frustrated with 15-year old me and my lack of historical knowledge and appreciation. And my drastically limited experience with cinematic artistry, specifically in the form of "The Sound of Music." Salzburg (and a tour of places from the movie) is not overly interesting when you are only vaguely aware that said movie exists. For that one I blame my parents, who never really let us watch any movies (my older brother had ONE nightmare from an episode of Scooby Doo when he was three - consequently, 99% of all television and movies were banned in our house, much to the chagrin of poor Husband, who is left facing the incredibly daunting up-hill battle of making me watch all the "classics" - Ghostbusters, Star Wars, Indiana Jones, among hundreds of others).</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know how these kinds of tours are arranged, but I suspect certain companies (specifically a German version of a fast food chain, called Wienerwald) are slipping money under the table to the tour organization in return for a huge commitment to eating at their restaurants. I think we ate Wienerwald for at least 75% of our meals during the 2.5 week tour. It was not especially good food, and in all the time I've lived in Germany since, I've yet to encounter another Wienerwald. Almost as if the pre-arranged tour was to an alternate German-speaking Europe universe in which all the McDonald's are replaced by Wienerwalds. </div><div><br /></div><div>Regardless, we were not only contractually obligated to consume Wienerwald slop, we were only allowed to eat what they had pre-arranged to serve us. They claimed that, in order to have"that many meals" ready at one time (our group was about 15 people, total), they had to limit our options to "vegetarian" or "generic German meal," but, as defined in our contract, one had to choose whether or not they were vegetarian before embarking on the tour, so our numbers (1 vegetarian, 14 generic German) were sent to all the restaurants weeks in advance of our actually eating there. I suspect they began preparing the food that far in advance, as well. As I learned through my other <a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2010/05/night-i-met-nocturnal-squirrel.html">experiences</a> living in <a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2010/11/day-i-got-bird-flu.html">Germany</a>, many Germans are not necessarily opposed to leaving food out for uncomfortably long periods of time, subjecting it to various contaminants we Americans tend to shy away from consuming.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of our first stops on the tour was Berlin. Shortly after arriving in the city, we were shipped to a large youth hostel-style lodging facility. There we were divided into groups of three to share rooms. Fortunately, I was placed with one of my closest friends at the time (Kay) and another girl from our school. The rooms were minimalistic, though likely not as an attempt at art, and the bathroom was one of the strangest things I'd yet encountered in my life (if you've never been fortunate enough to have utilized a <a href="http://asecular.com/~scott/misc/toilet.htm">German toilet</a>, you truly don't know what you're <a href="http://www.spiegel.de/international/0,1518,406547,00.html">missing out</a> on). Not only was the toilet a classic German "shit shelf" toilet, but the tank was high above it on the wall, made of wood, and had a long pull cord hanging from it to flush, which, when pulled, released a torrent of water (necessary to clean the shelf, most likely) that would literally spray the entire room if the lid weren't held down tightly.</div><div><br /></div><div>After a few minutes exploring the room and the most bizarre bathroom I'd yet encountered in my short, sheltered, sanitized American childhood, we were off to eat our first meal at Wienerwald (whose mascot was a fat golden chicken, if I recall correctly. Most likely because of the abundance of free-range, obese chickens in the vast forests of Vienna. Everything about that statement is accurate.)</div><div><br /></div><div>After we were seated around a long table, the wait staff gruffly brought out our pre-arranged meals (no need for a menu!). The third girl staying in our room (let's call her Sarah) informed our teacher that she had ordered the vegetarian meal, but the restaurant had evidently made a slight oversight. After a brief scuffle with the staff, a revolting mash of over-steamed, soggy vegetables in some weird yellow-ish sauce was dropped in front of the girl. The smell was powerful, which is not an attribute that readily goes with well-prepared food. But Sarah dove right in, pronouncing the food as "great." After fighting to cut off and choke down several bites of my own dry wienerschnitzel, the smell of the vegetarian dish became too much for me, and I forfeited any further attempt at eating. Sarah cleared her plate in record time, however.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our teacher took us on a brief walk around the city following our meal, but since most of us were suffering from our first case of jet leg, she let us go back to the hostel with the warning that we should try our best to stay up until nighttime, in an attempt to adjust our internal clocks to German time. Off we went, to struggle through the next several hours of exhaustion.</div><div><br /></div><div>Back in our room, Sarah asked if either of us had to use the bathroom. She said she wanted to shower and would be in there for a while. In retrospect, I feel she lied to us.</div><div><br /></div><div>After about 20 minutes, a smell started to escape under the door of the bathroom and fill our small hostel room. It was a familiar, powerful smell. Kay and I exchanged looks and laughed. But after another 10 minutes, and it was no longer funny. The smell became all-invasive. It was one of those thick smells; the kind you can <i>feel</i> in the back of your throat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kay and I went over to the giant window in the room and attempted to figure it out. Like German toilets, if you've never encountered a German window, you don't know what you're missing. They have weird, detachable hinges on all sides, and, depending on the direction of the handle, you can change which hinges stay attached and which ones release, enabling the window to open at the top or the side. We managed to figure this out after minimal confusion, and swung the window open wide. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was cold outside, as evenings in June in Berlin so often are (they are typically either way too cold or way too hot - and the lack of air conditioners in the majority of German buildings makes "too cold" the preferred option). The cold air fought a valiant battle with the smell and won. But the room was soon freezing cold.</div><div><br /></div><div>After another 30 minutes in the bathroom, Sarah emerged (with the last of the smell), and remarked at how cold it was in the room. Kay and I, through chattering teeth and blue lips, explained that we were attempting to stay awake until bedtime, and the cold was helping us. We might have also implied we were warm. We hadn't thought through our excuses, but neither of us wanted to make Sarah feel bad about the horrific odor. With the smell finally dissipated, we closed the window and passed blissfully to sleep, giving in to the exhaustion of jet lag.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning, we were herded onto our pre-arranged tour bus and shipped (literally, by ferry) to Potsdam for a pre-arranged tour of Sanssouci (the Hohenzollern's summer palaces) and Cecilienhof (the palace that hosted the Potsdam Conference after WWII). While walking through the gorgeous gardens and paths that lead around the Sanssouci complex, Kay and I found ourselves walking a few paces behind the majority of the group, including Sarah. We were admiring the lavish palaces when, out of nowhere, our noses were again affronted with the same mind-bogglingly offensive smell from the previous night. But this time, we weren't the only ones who noticed it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sarah turned around to us and absent-mindedly remarked, "hmm, that smells <i>just</i> like my broccoli from last night!!"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Also, for anyone interested, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wienerwald_(restaurant)">Wienerwald</a> is slowly disappearing due to bankruptcy in the 80's, which would explain why I saw many more of them in 1998 than in 2004-6.</div><div><br /></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-42974798241249967652011-08-29T11:26:00.009-05:002011-08-29T20:21:39.861-05:00The Day I Took a Road Trip to HellHusband is in this seemly never-ending struggle to deploy (the unit he's currently assigned to has been in Baghdad since October, but he was in PA school until June, so we've been spending the last three months trying to get him over there - with the Army saying, "He'll deploy next week, for sure." Then the next week comes and they realize there's something else they forgot to do to deploy him, so it gets pushed back another week. The whole thing is really annoying. It's not that I <i>want</i> him to deploy, but if he's going to, I just want it to happen so we can move on with our lives and stop living in this "this is our last weekend together" mindset. That's just too exhausting, no matter how much we love the guy.) As part of the pre-deployment process, he had to attend a course at Ft. Sam Houston (in San Antonio - I was so jealous) for medical providers deploying to combat zones (basically a crash-course in how to treat acute war-related injuries). So I figured, if Husband was off playing Army for the week, the kids and I should take the opportunity to visit my dad up in Sioux Falls, South Dakota; we usually make an annual trip up there around this time, and it would help pass the week without Husband (I usually road trip without him, anyway, so it would be "normal" for us).<div>
<br /></div><div>Ant's birthday party (complete with <a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2011/08/making-of-minion-cake.html">Despicable Me Minion Cake</a>) was on a Saturday, and since the most recent move, we're now much closer to my dad (Pop-Pop), so I was able to convince him to come down for the party, wait around on Sunday to help watch the kids while I packed, and then caravan up north with me and help out on the stops (the only thing that make me nervous about road tripping with two little kids - how do you handle stops alone? 10 month old, + almost 3 year old + public bathrooms + two arms = not enough arms). The drive up went well (thanks to Pop-Pop), despite one hysterical fit in Burger King (I'm still not sure why that one happened - also, their guacamole is not very good, which shouldn't have been as surprising to me as it was), and then we were there, in Pop-Pop's completely not baby-proofed house, with a giant pool out back that just begs little boys to sneak out there and run around it in the hopes that they'll slip, and it will get to eat them. Or maybe I'm just paranoid.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>The first day and a half went great, other than the constant need to watch the children, which got old fast (and resulted in me not getting to lounge around reading "A Song of Ice and Fire," as naively planned). Then Wednesday morning happened.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>We woke up early, woke up my younger brother (both of my brothers also came to visit from Arizona), and went to eat breakfast before our planned trip to the <a href="http://www.gpzoo.org/">Sioux Falls Zoo</a> (if you're ever in Sioux Falls for any reason, I suggest going to the zoo - there's also a museum there called the Delbridge Museum. Apparently, some super rich guy in the early 1900's or something had too much money and too many guns, so he went around the world, killing as many animals (including endangered ones) as he could find. Then he had them stuffed, often in comically ferocious poses, and when he died, he donated them all to the city of Sioux Falls.) I was feeding Sweet D, and Ant was eating/playing around on the bar stools in Pop-Pop's kitchen, as he had been since we got there (they're pretty cool saddle-style stools). I heard him slip, followed by the unmistakable *thunk* of hitting his head, and the ubiquitous howl of a constantly-being-injured, usually whiny, almost 3 year old. I turned to scold him (good mother that I am), and froze.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>There was my sweet little boy, climbing back up the stool, crying and howling, with blood literally pouring out of his mouth. My first thought was one of resentment, "why did we spend the last two nightmare years with Husband in PA school if he's not even going to be here when the kid turns into a blood-fountain?!"</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I scooped up the boy, spraying blood all over Pop-Pop's kitchen, carried him to the sink and started trying to locate the source of the blood. "Please don't let it be his teeth," I thought. Through his hysterical screams, I could see all those beautiful little white dots, shining brightly through a flood of red. Okay, it's not the teeth... so what is it? Gums? Tongue?</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Then I saw it. A gigantic flap of tongue, sticking up in the middle of his mouth. It was like two tongues in one, but the second one was smaller and facing the wrong direction. And blood was pouring out from under it. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Panic. Call Husband.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Husband doesn't answer.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Panic.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I looked at my little brother, who was standing in a state of shock with that unmistakable "I'm never having children" look on his face. "We have to go to the ER," I told him. He nodded in celibate-terror agreement.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>In the meantime, Husband left class to call me, I explained the injuries, and he agreed that we should go to the ER. So off we went. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>I'm forever indebted to my younger brother for coming with us and helping with Sweet D. He pushed her in the stroller around the ER parking lot for 30 minutes while I took Ant inside. I don't know how I would have handled both of them myself (well, actually I do, but it would have involved a lot of crying and screaming from all parties, and anyone else in the ER would have been much worse off for it). We got Ant to stick his tongue out (after much coaxing and promises of baby rhinos), and the doctor informed me that it would heal on its own, then sent us away with nothing (which I later learned, via Husband's frustrated outcries, was not the appropriate course of action on the doctor's behalf - she SHOULD have given us a prescription pain killer).</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Back to Pop-Pop's we went, with the world's most pathetic little boy. He couldn't swallow or talk because of the pain, so bloody drool was dripping from his face (for the next two days), and he could only make "uh-huhs" or "uh-uhs" noises to communicate. As I carried my tall-for-his age, drooling, grunting, filthy little boy into Walgreens (and I myself was unshowered and covered with splattered blood) to buy him popsicles and medicine, the disgusted glares of the check-out lady made me realize I looked like an impressive sample of trailer trash, hauling around my clearly mentally retarded, angry (and evidently spoiled and injured) child. The only difference was that I have shame; so I was embarrassed.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>At Pop-Pop's house, he curled up into a ball on my lap, whimpering continuously, and refused to move. We watched a movie until he fell asleep, and I put him down in his bed upstairs. He woke up after an hour or so, screaming hysterically. When I got into the room, he looked at me and pathetically cried (as deciphered through swollen-tongue screams), "you left me, Momma!!" Stab me in the heart.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>The rest of the day wore on with more drooling, whimpering, and grunting. By about 6pm, I realized he hadn't had anything to eat or drink since his two bites of peanut butter bread at 8am, moments before he tried to bite half his tongue off. I called Husband, who proceeded to incite panic in me, telling me if he didn't drink <i>something</i> soon, he was going to get dehydrated. He gave me warning signs for dehydration and told me they'd have to hook him up to an IV if he did dehydrate. Panic. I tried begging and forcing him to drink; neither worked. Then I realized his drool output would be a good indicator of dehydration. And based on the current saturation level of his shirt, I still had nothing to worry about.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>He went to bed the first night still having not consumed anything since 8am. We were all (Ant, Sweet D and I) sleeping in the same room, which, generally speaking, wouldn't be much of an issue. Sweet D still wakes up 2-4 times a night, but Ant is a fairly heavy sleeper. So I was surprised when he woke up screaming hysterically at 2am.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I ran over to him, and he looked up at me, moaned, and proceeded to throw up all over my shirt. Fortunately, he hadn't eaten since 8am, so there wasn't much to throw up (the doctor had warned us that he'd likely throw up because of the amount of blood he swallowed during the blood-fountaining, and it's a basically a rule that 3 year old are only allowed to throw up in the middle of the night or in moving vehicles). I rushed him to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat and pointed to it, telling him, "throw up in here!"</div><div>
<br /></div><div>He gave me a confused look, dropped to the ground, and threw up again, down his shirt and on the floor.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I picked him up and set him on the counter, pointing to the sink and telling him, "throw up in HERE!"</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Again the confused look, followed by more vomit on his shirt, my shirt, the counter, and the floor.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>So I handed him a towel and said, "throw up on here?"</div><div>
<br /></div><div>He was done throwing up.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>We went back to bed where he promptly passed back out. The drama had woken Sweet D, who had woken Pop-Pop, so I retrieved her from him, and nursed her back to sleep. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Fifteen minutes later, Ant was up again, screaming and retching. I ran to him and grabbed the towel, putting it in front of his face.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>He screamed angrily, shoved the towel out of the way, threw himself backwards onto the floor and proceeded to vomit straight up in the air, ensuring the widest coverage of clothing and carpet. I tried to sneak the towel in to catch it, but this only upset him, causing him to roll back and forth as he projected vomit in a 180 degree arc above his head.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>As soon as he was finished, he passed out in bed again. I picked up screaming Sweet D and nursed her back to sleep.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Repeat 15 minutes later, complete with floor-rolling and full-carpet-covering vomit.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>And an hour after that.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>The next morning, I felt like a zombie. Ant still couldn't eat or take pain medicine, but he was finally able to take some sips of water and chocolate milk. He had no recollection of his impressive show of preschooler incoherence the night before. We went to the zoo, played with some friends, went swimming in Pop-Pop's pool, played with Crayola colored bubbles (which stain EVERYTHING within a 50 foot radius of them), and by dinner time, Ant was able to eat some ice cream. Quite a bit of it, actually.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>We were planning on leaving in the morning, so I was praying for a decent night's sleep. I was already nervous about how I was going to handle both kids by myself, and I knew I needed to be well rested so I wouldn't accidentally kill us all. I got us all asleep by 8:30pm, and everything seemed great.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Until midnight, when Ant woke up screaming hysterically. I ran over to him and asked what was wrong (meanwhile, Sweet D woke up and joined the screaming). He refused to open his eyes or quit screaming, but he managed to yell, "GET IT ALL OUT OF MEIN BED!"</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Assuming he was talking about his blankets and toys in his bed, I took them all out. Wrong.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>"PUT THEM BAAACK IN MEIN BEEEED!!!" For some reason, he's German when referring to his possessions.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I put them back, but he kept screaming. After trying another 10 things, I finally lost it. "ANT. STOP SCREAMING AT ME!" It snapped him out of it. He finally opened his eyes, looked right at me, then promptly laid down in bed and zonked out instantly. I picked up screaming Sweet D, nursed her back to sleep, and fell asleep myself. For all of 15 minutes.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Then the screaming started again. Cycle through the process of trying to figure out what he wanted, end up screaming back at him, and he falls asleep instantly without responding. Nurse Sweet D to sleep, sleep for 15 minutes. Screaming. Nurse. 15 minutes of sleep.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>And so on, for the next 6 hours.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>In the morning, I felt like death. There was no way I was going to be able to handle packing, loading the car, and driving 6+ hours back home - including making multiple stops with two incredibly dependent little humans. Practically in tears, I trudged my way through preparing to depart. I loaded the cargo topper on the car, threw the rest in the back, and managed to get the kids ready and into the car. And then I did something I've NEVER done before.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I trick Ant into taking benedryl.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>He HAS constant allergies, and he takes zyrtec every day - but we ran out of his prescription before we left for South Dakota, so he hadn't taken any in the last five days (not that he would have taken it with his giant, swollen tongue, anyway). And we WERE heading back to Kansas, where I knew his allergies would be acting up again. So technically, it wasn't JUST to get him to sleep in the car.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>But mostly it was.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>And it worked.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>But about 40 minutes into our drive, I was passing a pick-up pulling a U-Haul trailer. Since we were in South Dakota, we were going in excess of 80 mph. As I was pulling up along side her, she decided to come into my lane for no apparent reason. It all happened so fast, I didn't get a chance to honk until my left tires were already in the grass in the median. She frantically (at least it appeared frantic to me, but in retrospect, I may have just been interpreting her very large, feathered, 70's hairstyle as "frantic" and her actual implied emotion was something else entirely) pulled her car back and mouthed "sorry." My usual reaction would have been to glare or make choice hand gestures. But after the week I'd had, I just lost it. I had to pull my car over on the shoulder, where I burst into hysterical tears and shook violently for about five minutes.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Like typical self-centered children, neither of my kids reacted in any way to this incredibly uncommon maternal outburst. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Back on the road (we passed the U-Haul lady again, but I didn't realize it until we were well past), we made it all the way to Lincoln, Nebraska without stopping. Then Beatrice, Nebraska (near the NE/KS border). Then into Kansas. Once we passed the state line, I was committed. No amount of screaming from the children or urgent need to urinate was going to keep me from making it home without a pit stop. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>And we made it. Without a single stop. In just 5 hours and 45 minutes. We were finally home, and the nightmare was over. And I didn't even pee in my pants. I just wanted to buy new air fresheners for the car for no reason, not to cover up the smell of urine soaked into the driver's seat.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>(In case you're concerned, Ant is back to his normal self. He can eat and talk again, and he's no longer a drooling, grunting, mentally questionable puddle of whining. Though his tongue does still look pretty gross...) </div><div>
<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0vZIC4i3VM5KTfjeT2eUuJgv5yWZ9cshol8sY1KN26m-32GdY8JoX1ongcEm1OxcU3Tm1QpYP88NehgaH1PbCsbf8WKcNNDQTqL6Sx8_Ig3CJEsMdecEgVmm5Wg-GpbhVYUtiHqjQf8/s320/DSCF6993.JPG" /></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-32557439785129540142011-08-28T21:59:00.016-05:002011-11-18T11:49:19.275-06:00Adventures in Caking: The Making of the Minion Cake<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMiR2LoqOQfSwwbv0bfQnWD78BXUaLUisFVQR8VyWhVOhFknSn9_9wk8kRK9TJjsz9ACrjppTdgUaDf80pelz0GhoFF5rx4acH9euwot-sqg4yVvyLgvWikNx_EWdFXCMMAkJ_6uMZ7FQ/s1600/DSCF6494.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114884158079986" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMiR2LoqOQfSwwbv0bfQnWD78BXUaLUisFVQR8VyWhVOhFknSn9_9wk8kRK9TJjsz9ACrjppTdgUaDf80pelz0GhoFF5rx4acH9euwot-sqg4yVvyLgvWikNx_EWdFXCMMAkJ_6uMZ7FQ/s400/DSCF6494.JPG" style="float: left; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; width: 400px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Minion Cake!!</td></tr>
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My son just turned three. We had a party for him, and some family and friends came over to help us celebrate. They were all pretty blown away by the cake I made for him, but the truth is, even if it had just been me, my husband, and the kids, I would have made the same cake. I got one comment from someone who said my kids are the luckiest kids in the world (to get awesome cakes on their birthdays, etc). It's such a sweet thought, but my first reaction was, "why? I did this cake for <i>me.</i>" I guess I should just not tell the kids that, and they can live their lives in ignorant bliss, believing their mom would "sacrifice" an entire week of her time to bake them ridiculous birthday cakes (yes, I foresee this becoming a tradition in our house - hopefully I'll be able to live up to each cake wish!). <br />
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Several people asked me how I made the cake, so I thought the easiest way to share was a photo blog entry (also, I know this doesn't count as a "real" entry, so please forgive me - I SWEAR I'll work harder at updating regularly - I'm just waiting for my life to settle down for a second - please forgive me, loyal fans (i.e. Joe)). </div>
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Without further ado, here is how the Minion Cake came to be:</div>
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First, I tinted and sculpted the little features out of Wilton (store-bought) fondant. I also use Wilton coloring for all my cake decorating. It's easy to work with and cleans up well (even if it looks like it will stain your counters forever - so far, it's always wiped up clean for me). I use the store-bought fondant for the external features because it hardens quicker and sturdier than my homemade marshmallow fondant. But tinting it is a mess. Anything with black food coloring is a mess.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpI46Lg6ULXuQaug6fdYaSZ2qmep7AqpEROFnhCG8dw5qABIGGRA4jg3RYNs4YrRX6mmCYPnjGoqyrC8lSoZbpnjmBshAMbwYdqftjcw5_0CTmMaVeb4P4m23Xty7TyOr4auZ0tOd_UZg/s1600/DSCF6224.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114754569843858" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpI46Lg6ULXuQaug6fdYaSZ2qmep7AqpEROFnhCG8dw5qABIGGRA4jg3RYNs4YrRX6mmCYPnjGoqyrC8lSoZbpnjmBshAMbwYdqftjcw5_0CTmMaVeb4P4m23Xty7TyOr4auZ0tOd_UZg/s320/DSCF6224.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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I made the goggles out of the Wilton fondant, cut into strips (with a ruler and pizza cutter), and let them harden around soda cans. Then I molded the eyes to fit inside them, added pupils and eyelids. After the eyes set for a few hours, I turned them over and shoved toothpicks in them (so I could put them on the cake later). I let all this stuff harden for about 5 days. It gets hard overnight, but I had too much to do, and it was nice to get it done so early and not have to worry about it again. After they'd hardened for a couple days, I sprayed the goggles with edible silver spray. It didn't seem to have any affect on their texture or hardness, which was a concern I had after reading other people's reviews of it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUE69kp-27J5oXaZevakXokaeAQKb8qQtB-8Plbf5-qfXN5lZ8e0J0JVwDlYt2nL7jB-fS0luLhvRSOVW6uuTl5Hfk2mj8Q7LOvvLWJ58G2FrA8L1u2UljxYBtMa2gxCpi6fqIvdpXotU/s1600/DSCF6232.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114678390257026" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUE69kp-27J5oXaZevakXokaeAQKb8qQtB-8Plbf5-qfXN5lZ8e0J0JVwDlYt2nL7jB-fS0luLhvRSOVW6uuTl5Hfk2mj8Q7LOvvLWJ58G2FrA8L1u2UljxYBtMa2gxCpi6fqIvdpXotU/s320/DSCF6232.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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The "3" candle, gripped in a little minion hand, waiting for the cake to exist.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjedzGCKgR-vCWDcO16FzvcDB4L3GLRRdYDT4cwWybO50cysjL7tfZdz1RSTk760v_0CEfp18nCZRugLaAJtWx8PVzs7WTzbHP8unoAUqzPQSCk0_fsYRnktZAd283iXLPInoahT2N5hLQ/s1600/DSCF6233.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114671863803650" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjedzGCKgR-vCWDcO16FzvcDB4L3GLRRdYDT4cwWybO50cysjL7tfZdz1RSTk760v_0CEfp18nCZRugLaAJtWx8PVzs7WTzbHP8unoAUqzPQSCk0_fsYRnktZAd283iXLPInoahT2N5hLQ/s320/DSCF6233.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
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I baked the cakes that would become the minions about 5 days in advance, too, and froze them. I used 6" round pans and the Wilton sports ball pan.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ZGfNSDp4oMB-tW8c7L_HsbUL4588lXkrWBoIKWHzS8NqT96CSDgpcfq8iQssm5kBzFCg_lECTo7nd7CbTww0-Tyfr5Q0tjE_MKzNAR3fgpO35v4GsQfKyKkQPcjvFEHmc3f_mPiMn04/s1600/DSCF6298.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114666750216578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ZGfNSDp4oMB-tW8c7L_HsbUL4588lXkrWBoIKWHzS8NqT96CSDgpcfq8iQssm5kBzFCg_lECTo7nd7CbTww0-Tyfr5Q0tjE_MKzNAR3fgpO35v4GsQfKyKkQPcjvFEHmc3f_mPiMn04/s320/DSCF6298.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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Four days before the party, I made all my homemade fondant. Three batches. Fondant is very messy. I plan on making a photo blog with my fondant recipe and tips. I'll try to do that in the near future. :)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDffnRK4MzV-3dmMdsqfOokPYTD21zTEfxLzOpjKCBvyJs8-CD3aZLQCdkV71JL1vMzxvS_KLlYbBoXqWmJQnV7zezStunNuQ9MAgMPNiBUEZ4RA906epNqn9k7z9pPD6qMx-_IE4vZ9o/s1600/DSCF6299.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114663552741890" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDffnRK4MzV-3dmMdsqfOokPYTD21zTEfxLzOpjKCBvyJs8-CD3aZLQCdkV71JL1vMzxvS_KLlYbBoXqWmJQnV7zezStunNuQ9MAgMPNiBUEZ4RA906epNqn9k7z9pPD6qMx-_IE4vZ9o/s320/DSCF6299.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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Scraping yellow pre-fondant out of the bowl. It's hard work!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWHZ2Zble9vjH4w8OhDNHnOjRK4wMs0AehlBXOBunXIJBJ_GzBCx9oNBlo1f3izm-gVrQx_VWFiJDg-TLTefywWxGOU12cNE6iW0PzU4_jA2vyGg5nRae7_KcsxlbA6gIYXFyA-pBgFo/s1600/DSCF6321.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114661447849154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWHZ2Zble9vjH4w8OhDNHnOjRK4wMs0AehlBXOBunXIJBJ_GzBCx9oNBlo1f3izm-gVrQx_VWFiJDg-TLTefywWxGOU12cNE6iW0PzU4_jA2vyGg5nRae7_KcsxlbA6gIYXFyA-pBgFo/s320/DSCF6321.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left; width: 240px;" /></a>
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All my little features, sitting out to dry. The hair and arms were made with (store-bought) gum paste. It's the first time I've ever used gum paste. The only difference I really saw was that it was harder to get the lines out of it than it is to get a smooth surface with fondant. It worked nicely for the hair, and it weighs less, but otherwise, it seemed almost more difficult to work with. Maybe if I knew how to make all those fancy flowers, I'd have more of a purpose for gum paste.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTec_IwHSOc1Jy1tG3DlSKe5o5SdYPkY7TXe6tf6cJcFkpXMivKHYHVhpE0QEMtGX-hWUgJ4cgGVDP_88bZZwd5kdg4q-_Bzo5dndbddNMXcDBLDn2geOeYhNGVo1UkuGBBfptJGMjtsY/s1600/DSCF6427.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114424955957282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTec_IwHSOc1Jy1tG3DlSKe5o5SdYPkY7TXe6tf6cJcFkpXMivKHYHVhpE0QEMtGX-hWUgJ4cgGVDP_88bZZwd5kdg4q-_Bzo5dndbddNMXcDBLDn2geOeYhNGVo1UkuGBBfptJGMjtsY/s320/DSCF6427.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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The base cake, crumb-coated and chilling in the fridge overnight before it gets fondant. It was cream soda cake with root beer frosting (and eventually, root beer fondant).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwYAykp6TzHtEy8qZliVSkNwbImKjBwxP7DQ72xRspw__BDEe-Hv6ALX7Rnd8aACHkTFUQ1e_OE1xZttb9UVrOzvIpIeRlA3ZqeRMOJoPXproqv5kuJyyGNlrOgm089_ssPQ7UtF-NH5A/s1600/DSCF6429.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114421242410210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwYAykp6TzHtEy8qZliVSkNwbImKjBwxP7DQ72xRspw__BDEe-Hv6ALX7Rnd8aACHkTFUQ1e_OE1xZttb9UVrOzvIpIeRlA3ZqeRMOJoPXproqv5kuJyyGNlrOgm089_ssPQ7UtF-NH5A/s320/DSCF6429.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>The smaller minion - I crumb coated him with strawberry frosting (he was lemon cake), then carved his mouth out of the frosting. Also, he was two 6" round cakes and a half of the Wilton sports ball pan. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij4OxRaOAPSj6CELMFgpbx5QLOJZpIuhxg5KHVUc_l58Ig97HRPjjqlmzU4ox_Q9pR31Z4TTYOhnH1bGm55wQaL94pxleBoOjdP1yvHSQ6__6LHrkTC2trDfPA5n4IZCPfEEf5UeKNY-g/s1600/DSCF6431.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114414165609954" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij4OxRaOAPSj6CELMFgpbx5QLOJZpIuhxg5KHVUc_l58Ig97HRPjjqlmzU4ox_Q9pR31Z4TTYOhnH1bGm55wQaL94pxleBoOjdP1yvHSQ6__6LHrkTC2trDfPA5n4IZCPfEEf5UeKNY-g/s320/DSCF6431.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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Stacking the taller minion. I used bubble tea straws as supports to keep the cakes from sliding off each other. He was chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHZJSulUZqlSbELluyE1s3hMXx9eHwPketwxiPIAa5qy3gI3lebu8SUNRJYeLr5YDKta5JgV6BOSqkwo8WyWtiCbUSZYtgSq3xfoZZ6YFI-Xn-VYMsn29Xj71QwEHodoxrzwGSwwDlQSQ/s1600/DSCF6432.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114412370690018" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHZJSulUZqlSbELluyE1s3hMXx9eHwPketwxiPIAa5qy3gI3lebu8SUNRJYeLr5YDKta5JgV6BOSqkwo8WyWtiCbUSZYtgSq3xfoZZ6YFI-Xn-VYMsn29Xj71QwEHodoxrzwGSwwDlQSQ/s320/DSCF6432.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
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All three cakes, crumb-coated and chilling overnight before they get fondant!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNe7ELWYDYX3Ck2tANJeQejSFpn8sZy7A8Hm-djUvIRNEFVpw31BXqNKv-TDEHVxDuCwUaz8RFJ-ympf03V2xIJsKgkyTll4J-pJUE36QavP0Q4tJl9vFo-pY1qPY_phWt39szOATwCU/s1600/DSCF6434.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114411644949106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNe7ELWYDYX3Ck2tANJeQejSFpn8sZy7A8Hm-djUvIRNEFVpw31BXqNKv-TDEHVxDuCwUaz8RFJ-ympf03V2xIJsKgkyTll4J-pJUE36QavP0Q4tJl9vFo-pY1qPY_phWt39szOATwCU/s320/DSCF6434.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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Fondant on the little minion! His mouth is just another piece of fondant that I cut to fit, then I molded little fondant teeth.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxIx-Q-S_7uOoM1Nbz8l-hWgyhX31f6OJbT9SzH-0TGZN7Utc2-HSoFXjvadSeQXO9PORATTRZHvIsQwC8SYMyiIfBc8a2YrgP1yFfysN2WaVADuBNQfWReNwkVbAJtA1WL7PO8rztW0U/s1600/DSCF6435.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114187405638418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxIx-Q-S_7uOoM1Nbz8l-hWgyhX31f6OJbT9SzH-0TGZN7Utc2-HSoFXjvadSeQXO9PORATTRZHvIsQwC8SYMyiIfBc8a2YrgP1yFfysN2WaVADuBNQfWReNwkVbAJtA1WL7PO8rztW0U/s320/DSCF6435.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
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The fondant-covered base cake. The rivets are just fondant balls (a lot of fondant on this thing). But the root beer flavoring worked GREAT in the fondant. I actually liked it more than normal vanilla. The only issue was that root beer concentrate is very dark - it would only work for a fondant that was being colored a darker color, or something that could easily incorporate the brown of the flavoring.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLLb6g3IQIhUcnPeBolmzddwCIbF4e_nfqR8E9gaMcvCfCEfBo79htNfc7fk1fd_8aGzBD3cC-GUKV8tD_NbfLWGVRPaWJ2ggiuX-1UvKpKwnERzSmIXvOhOoisQ2CPbeatsIvalA8WMs/s1600/DSCF6439.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114182569613442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLLb6g3IQIhUcnPeBolmzddwCIbF4e_nfqR8E9gaMcvCfCEfBo79htNfc7fk1fd_8aGzBD3cC-GUKV8tD_NbfLWGVRPaWJ2ggiuX-1UvKpKwnERzSmIXvOhOoisQ2CPbeatsIvalA8WMs/s320/DSCF6439.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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Taller minion with fondant and hair. His lip is just a small, rolled piece of fondant, stuck in with a tooth pick. Then I covered the whole thing with the yellow fondant and used the back of a paring knife to draw the mouth lines.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5rSjNSWSByPCf68Cb_L8BTcX-KsSdqqm91AaWk8drzo0VSkfMH5z0Bza_bFth6G9w6TCz65Z2bkXnuDMCOWruX3wTjo5oucQYZbBWsfSZcmsmRmy7pacXXJa5FxpwSzSuUuJxH1JYJp0/s1600/DSCF6441.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114179012729490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5rSjNSWSByPCf68Cb_L8BTcX-KsSdqqm91AaWk8drzo0VSkfMH5z0Bza_bFth6G9w6TCz65Z2bkXnuDMCOWruX3wTjo5oucQYZbBWsfSZcmsmRmy7pacXXJa5FxpwSzSuUuJxH1JYJp0/s320/DSCF6441.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
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Blind, naked minions in my fridge.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6XFWVab74s-S8npGLJWA19WBDINCsdByC4-2ciSuXMdZrTYL5lccymoeU35mSV47Vb1Fo4hhPjgTFBEZKfXs9VKjOmqDEGHgIrGUdOgf12OOByglzwNoUr-c4BffGvqcgaeTRykkGj8U/s1600/DSCF6444.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114174291404882" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6XFWVab74s-S8npGLJWA19WBDINCsdByC4-2ciSuXMdZrTYL5lccymoeU35mSV47Vb1Fo4hhPjgTFBEZKfXs9VKjOmqDEGHgIrGUdOgf12OOByglzwNoUr-c4BffGvqcgaeTRykkGj8U/s320/DSCF6444.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left; width: 320px;" /></a></div>
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Overalls! Again, just rolled out fondant, cut with a pizza cutter and ruler.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdb-fD5fi5mkcUKpuYp4MEAT6s2RCvqy7pjb9miFK894s6uOyja-AFW1Rzua6sEz7siN7zgPMz3BZLxaOm8uPjZU1IsM2RcAQRez0QP8GE0zBn43gar3fqqU3jfTSYNnNlRFgqQvM56Q/s1600/DSCF6446.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646114174616841090" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdb-fD5fi5mkcUKpuYp4MEAT6s2RCvqy7pjb9miFK894s6uOyja-AFW1Rzua6sEz7siN7zgPMz3BZLxaOm8uPjZU1IsM2RcAQRez0QP8GE0zBn43gar3fqqU3jfTSYNnNlRFgqQvM56Q/s320/DSCF6446.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
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He looks like an idiot farm boy or something.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwFcTD2c4YCq6kwXO-JG45ovUIs7s7ljgUlrZI1mLvUPNM_ZAn6cU3aJtQAbh_PnfPRCNWRchBfz5wgASrFyq9fJ7KjBuLOM4n6_jO2QgDMaHAfW4zksrzfDait8uq5YSF3g1n5WfWFvg/s1600/DSCF6447.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113966457861154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwFcTD2c4YCq6kwXO-JG45ovUIs7s7ljgUlrZI1mLvUPNM_ZAn6cU3aJtQAbh_PnfPRCNWRchBfz5wgASrFyq9fJ7KjBuLOM4n6_jO2QgDMaHAfW4zksrzfDait8uq5YSF3g1n5WfWFvg/s320/DSCF6447.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
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The "stitching" on the overalls was one of my favorite features of them - it was done with a tracing wheel (like the thing used in sewing).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjS9sP9w3lGjge517rnSZ_MSyfowu9N8-Ewz8odSdRzWvgw_YNAZGlpBsJi8dE9xd_IC8lg_y5zU357J5_dO38xsN-NEjA0cu6tk_f3RTc7Ctpsa9-LrPM96D6PM9Y3K98Uo7uoQlUdQ/s1600/DSCF6448.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113961120132610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjS9sP9w3lGjge517rnSZ_MSyfowu9N8-Ewz8odSdRzWvgw_YNAZGlpBsJi8dE9xd_IC8lg_y5zU357J5_dO38xsN-NEjA0cu6tk_f3RTc7Ctpsa9-LrPM96D6PM9Y3K98Uo7uoQlUdQ/s320/DSCF6448.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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My kitchen was a giant mess of confectioner's sugar. But the Boy is getting excited about his cake!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyviiGV-2fu4mbEiuLitd45R2BQH9PDhlHBsNUqFa3GWOzgECOPRE5efdHL4a7PQDkf4raP6XzGogfUVybmQ_CGCnaLYburkWBMcnPCgZI45pn3OCXaR1M5sf-j5g30OYs9pxhN36qEIE/s1600/DSCF6450.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113954692233746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyviiGV-2fu4mbEiuLitd45R2BQH9PDhlHBsNUqFa3GWOzgECOPRE5efdHL4a7PQDkf4raP6XzGogfUVybmQ_CGCnaLYburkWBMcnPCgZI45pn3OCXaR1M5sf-j5g30OYs9pxhN36qEIE/s320/DSCF6450.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
The "G" symbol was cut out of a rolled out piece of gum paste.</div>
<div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6fDBITYeaPWdd7KI9qTKLdLkSUpkeTfezIjq1YeENYfLJ6FXYmXBQWxNccUBh8o9rR0KYLxZvskS2DzwbqgRv1Qy609K_DzHXnkdANDo5jyvPC_DOM9_UcAjt14fmNgqxDbI_0iSSQo/s1600/DSCF6453.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113951444422370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6fDBITYeaPWdd7KI9qTKLdLkSUpkeTfezIjq1YeENYfLJ6FXYmXBQWxNccUBh8o9rR0KYLxZvskS2DzwbqgRv1Qy609K_DzHXnkdANDo5jyvPC_DOM9_UcAjt14fmNgqxDbI_0iSSQo/s320/DSCF6453.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
Big minion's "G" symbol.</div>
<div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4k8ZClcVVNQv34m7C8O-aETnpm4CCrSR-X8k1ZdFLkc5sO536jMIRaMTc8EsvceITgmjUy1EUQZKrLBPSLue_kQn1YHgLBo1d_e2nIPmQ8Nw3KAx7MSQd5hHW3CY4J1zsKvq0jUMAuiM/s1600/DSCF6454.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113950413753378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4k8ZClcVVNQv34m7C8O-aETnpm4CCrSR-X8k1ZdFLkc5sO536jMIRaMTc8EsvceITgmjUy1EUQZKrLBPSLue_kQn1YHgLBo1d_e2nIPmQ8Nw3KAx7MSQd5hHW3CY4J1zsKvq0jUMAuiM/s320/DSCF6454.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
And one on the cake, for good measure.</div>
<div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDed6uAXE9VZix2bT0ohnhA1Z2BunBptOv_VE70HziXXLgyLpTSDh-nbBkOA0yIJSKgd8Oo1ivIGW0OQgk2eLSg7J6GJ0vdubxVfLIa92y47ThFnVj5QsV651XtC5CEDNkNKTOb930kvE/s1600/DSCF6455.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113705499663602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDed6uAXE9VZix2bT0ohnhA1Z2BunBptOv_VE70HziXXLgyLpTSDh-nbBkOA0yIJSKgd8Oo1ivIGW0OQgk2eLSg7J6GJ0vdubxVfLIa92y47ThFnVj5QsV651XtC5CEDNkNKTOb930kvE/s320/DSCF6455.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
Sightless minions in my fridge!</div>
<div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicvNNPQ6mJGcIYHypZcutuShXz7f0_fUNGwonf5b2Dg_0b5GY58ILu0EXgMdOFetbLmk1jvBYMkkIxyRIUtFOcoKZuhAcmBZxxivbFsY4HxJnw-Jd2TEogTpy06naaVrqwYHI6DUzkN18/s1600/DSCF6459.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113705944345506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicvNNPQ6mJGcIYHypZcutuShXz7f0_fUNGwonf5b2Dg_0b5GY58ILu0EXgMdOFetbLmk1jvBYMkkIxyRIUtFOcoKZuhAcmBZxxivbFsY4HxJnw-Jd2TEogTpy06naaVrqwYHI6DUzkN18/s320/DSCF6459.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
The completed cake.</div>
<div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO6K6xh1laJpYnOBDUWsJtMPuQRjB0rLKurCg-uriotEWqPU3Qyd_XmeEU4uIKyoM3N-9FMa5drlQ5dHsnVTXGKa9_YefC-ggWp3YPNn6Jx95b6CdL2TxflWdzlHe-actSXUxtnLfZ3-4/s1600/DSCF6495.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113696243318322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO6K6xh1laJpYnOBDUWsJtMPuQRjB0rLKurCg-uriotEWqPU3Qyd_XmeEU4uIKyoM3N-9FMa5drlQ5dHsnVTXGKa9_YefC-ggWp3YPNn6Jx95b6CdL2TxflWdzlHe-actSXUxtnLfZ3-4/s320/DSCF6495.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
A lot of screw-ups with the fondant on the back (and a minor incident with the taller minion's goggles, because I didn't take into account how rounded his head would be - oops!). But I definitely learned from this time, and my fondant work will be better on the next cake. :D</div>
<div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Ug5qlqRBlCntOcHrIBfX1xkyUbZLQkO-a3emnHll1B9WF2EI6_lyipsvof6CJ0zRAol8AuGj4xBLY4ZyqKV1OBKMuZRx9ltCjpO1R3H8vVYCYw2Hxa8rh0MhsdeYdiQJC2c6INCL4aA/s1600/DSCF6502.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113694365366626" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Ug5qlqRBlCntOcHrIBfX1xkyUbZLQkO-a3emnHll1B9WF2EI6_lyipsvof6CJ0zRAol8AuGj4xBLY4ZyqKV1OBKMuZRx9ltCjpO1R3H8vVYCYw2Hxa8rh0MhsdeYdiQJC2c6INCL4aA/s320/DSCF6502.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
Husband made fun of me for my attention to detail, but I think little things like the hinges on the sides of the goggles are what make the cake work.</div>
<div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxAHPlHus_N6R9MlTLM9cGIe9qX6qCOogsmE_mi72H-3SJnLmdPowoMJxso4Ii2a6cutO0gDDkMdpnVSdLw34YrgkEpBDTojouCoebBlP3MbUhyhQLSfZr9RUXPrzUuIS9yEqb7WBfr4o/s1600/DSCF6507.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113691783484434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxAHPlHus_N6R9MlTLM9cGIe9qX6qCOogsmE_mi72H-3SJnLmdPowoMJxso4Ii2a6cutO0gDDkMdpnVSdLw34YrgkEpBDTojouCoebBlP3MbUhyhQLSfZr9RUXPrzUuIS9yEqb7WBfr4o/s320/DSCF6507.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
It's kind of sad to think that my little boy probably won't even remember this cake. Hopefully I'll just keep learning and making cooler and cooler cakes that he can remember more easily as he gets older. </div>
<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE9m5jak-WzWFZUuLYgNAfqzGYLpr8fWjnasSl-rbcRhm3aOMD0GO33_Ycj0UCGONd7FXr2uBRr8JUp9GCTRaFyA5zw3zvWdSxd_EBkBNk9_GlSAUrtueWLRbX7-on885XCmsvjUjsOqc/s1600/DSCF6511.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113404439279426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE9m5jak-WzWFZUuLYgNAfqzGYLpr8fWjnasSl-rbcRhm3aOMD0GO33_Ycj0UCGONd7FXr2uBRr8JUp9GCTRaFyA5zw3zvWdSxd_EBkBNk9_GlSAUrtueWLRbX7-on885XCmsvjUjsOqc/s320/DSCF6511.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
My sweet little minions. I got very emotionally attached to this cake.</div>
<div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibDE4sZjvHzO7MZVAZHqs_siGeOdaDNJnliOyX5DFQLQapAzMT7xIIFch0wC4Hyf7xMO1rqQfmBv9ccFfY73EIg5hZxc-szifFqDeiAUFJeFcLbU-JJgxOXjz1xGPDA1-9h1nwM788YkM/s1600/DSCF6516.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113400144462194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibDE4sZjvHzO7MZVAZHqs_siGeOdaDNJnliOyX5DFQLQapAzMT7xIIFch0wC4Hyf7xMO1rqQfmBv9ccFfY73EIg5hZxc-szifFqDeiAUFJeFcLbU-JJgxOXjz1xGPDA1-9h1nwM788YkM/s320/DSCF6516.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
Sitting in my fridge, smiling at me!</div>
<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1jaOrPVcS3B3obnAgX9LvRwhmUQkBnMsWleyKkjXUHBbtzP8EAVRKiqu1i0OgFTCY5hZKcdVO2kR7BzcTLdXThBanJlfCnPj5goiK3EtbIX1WRhRzKioPNtV-KRtczExRaf-Ru31HBs/s1600/DSCF6589.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113396514562562" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1jaOrPVcS3B3obnAgX9LvRwhmUQkBnMsWleyKkjXUHBbtzP8EAVRKiqu1i0OgFTCY5hZKcdVO2kR7BzcTLdXThBanJlfCnPj5goiK3EtbIX1WRhRzKioPNtV-KRtczExRaf-Ru31HBs/s320/DSCF6589.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
A fair likeness, if I do say so myself!</div>
<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0mbxee4BOcIeg62lUl-s6kuWUq0MuREQrdywglHanE0dgueljxW6U5-vivz9BLeHoFBFpZHD3ao4CzxhyvzGor2nviURhG3xjBWdz5qRrY9NxV3g0cdOASZHOy2iNBpjieLTqCjWfJw/s1600/DSCF6604.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113392646479938" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0mbxee4BOcIeg62lUl-s6kuWUq0MuREQrdywglHanE0dgueljxW6U5-vivz9BLeHoFBFpZHD3ao4CzxhyvzGor2nviURhG3xjBWdz5qRrY9NxV3g0cdOASZHOy2iNBpjieLTqCjWfJw/s320/DSCF6604.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
He WAS happy about the cake...</div>
<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1yE6J1JkhfLc5IxpzJlskJMAbOPR6YPiJ1d_e9syV4Kv3pK-RFAz1Eds-ThCcDvRXh2F5bYUMScdfXl1vl-I69i-QVEsPkXNC03nuHTVRxM9Y6XYA5wA5HCTXcfmnxte5YyR0xgkMJU/s1600/DSCF6613.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646113378835735282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1yE6J1JkhfLc5IxpzJlskJMAbOPR6YPiJ1d_e9syV4Kv3pK-RFAz1Eds-ThCcDvRXh2F5bYUMScdfXl1vl-I69i-QVEsPkXNC03nuHTVRxM9Y6XYA5wA5HCTXcfmnxte5YyR0xgkMJU/s320/DSCF6613.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
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<div>
Tasting the fondant!</div>
<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgie7Zuaevd59JgcbD4Q0vZT9Cl2MgIJ7tWv4toiQUFC6YM5pl3EEYe6FM0BVzqBmaeVDbaG2XQTsZ6NQtGGg3u5C_F-e9gxcEFHlCsUBBvJ0I2TDXKw9y_xXRqZXN0UOvPNww8TCt6iWw/s1600/DSCF6621.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646112888492020178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgie7Zuaevd59JgcbD4Q0vZT9Cl2MgIJ7tWv4toiQUFC6YM5pl3EEYe6FM0BVzqBmaeVDbaG2XQTsZ6NQtGGg3u5C_F-e9gxcEFHlCsUBBvJ0I2TDXKw9y_xXRqZXN0UOvPNww8TCt6iWw/s320/DSCF6621.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVqrpnEuFr7HRqIaAo5e06ITERby3k4bZg6q6I4prvBhaH7Kisqq0i9ReRUxglzilN4-09f-I5uZaZijhfAfSm-Txv_PxGYfB0F69U6AIQdC9fhVz-RXfdi6BYs89pqDWIVQaC5latNGY/s1600/DSCF6629.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646112883390460194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVqrpnEuFr7HRqIaAo5e06ITERby3k4bZg6q6I4prvBhaH7Kisqq0i9ReRUxglzilN4-09f-I5uZaZijhfAfSm-Txv_PxGYfB0F69U6AIQdC9fhVz-RXfdi6BYs89pqDWIVQaC5latNGY/s320/DSCF6629.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
The inside of the chocolate minion - you can see the layers and the bubble tea straws used for supports. I also had both minions on their own round cake boards, sitting on top of the base cake, with supports going through the base cake (the minions each weighed quite a bit and I was concerned they would crush the base cake).</div>
<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh81r3gjGvzX1d4aq7L5hni1-5aIN0eeGCVfQWtFHFtRYOQxB4Llt2rqR4HNrh9H9bUSWKp02aWl9z2yekcN7Dzy48ZFbodv0DvkgenFpcD9pndTNRt_vR5dhfT6iQchaEj_WB5TsKUycQ/s1600/DSCF6632.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646112879491529666" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh81r3gjGvzX1d4aq7L5hni1-5aIN0eeGCVfQWtFHFtRYOQxB4Llt2rqR4HNrh9H9bUSWKp02aWl9z2yekcN7Dzy48ZFbodv0DvkgenFpcD9pndTNRt_vR5dhfT6iQchaEj_WB5TsKUycQ/s320/DSCF6632.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
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<div>
The inner workings of a minion cake.</div>
<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1c9ZFHjNa7rC8i7l1cE1lbo39ilSHmeIi0v4057o1WIr12fgvsYfzqjXsnOyVjz-cGN_Kag8UTQO4vQbkMuXuRczzyUn7wQ8x4Mx7D5UqJXwdtj9gSnz0O_utnH8IvbUMRaMPVpeWN6A/s1600/DSCF6642.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646112873301791522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1c9ZFHjNa7rC8i7l1cE1lbo39ilSHmeIi0v4057o1WIr12fgvsYfzqjXsnOyVjz-cGN_Kag8UTQO4vQbkMuXuRczzyUn7wQ8x4Mx7D5UqJXwdtj9gSnz0O_utnH8IvbUMRaMPVpeWN6A/s320/DSCF6642.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
</div>
<div>
Losing a goggle...</div>
<div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSdmc3vGmf2FF6ZTAex_RZlR4sxJuMe1UgpyItblPR7S13jPIQGeOzOU8Ru78FhjEqT_TtVOUd4dGxVH3d0YlQcF5rmW-mvxiLo3YZKV3wIbWfbkpB28zDLXgd-vflFct30wPiXJsMzM/s1600/DSCF6651.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646112870705157794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSdmc3vGmf2FF6ZTAex_RZlR4sxJuMe1UgpyItblPR7S13jPIQGeOzOU8Ru78FhjEqT_TtVOUd4dGxVH3d0YlQcF5rmW-mvxiLo3YZKV3wIbWfbkpB28zDLXgd-vflFct30wPiXJsMzM/s320/DSCF6651.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Happy Birthday to my favorite Big Boy!!</div>
<div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinuXsKaUUVTD5YQilVO09JVC54sqL44VLHMtwehxnhgVnppMkX1Duz2X9N7v5A-MWP0lGdRhpZ9B4A3quqMB3CIwKv50ykQOwaJXfTsNoDPIXU6JcJLFvygYoeP9khUs7_i6Ez5se7dXM/s1600/DSC_0808.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646112517482338722" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinuXsKaUUVTD5YQilVO09JVC54sqL44VLHMtwehxnhgVnppMkX1Duz2X9N7v5A-MWP0lGdRhpZ9B4A3quqMB3CIwKv50ykQOwaJXfTsNoDPIXU6JcJLFvygYoeP9khUs7_i6Ez5se7dXM/s400/DSC_0808.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 268px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>
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<div>
Also, check out my cake's page on Coolest-Birthday-Cake's website!
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<a href="http://www.coolest-birthday-cakes.com/coolest-despicable-me-birthday-cake-6.html">http://www.coolest-birthday-cakes.com/coolest-despicable-me-birthday-cake-6.html</a></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-90517672768967588472011-05-02T10:26:00.003-05:002011-05-02T10:26:00.072-05:00The Day I Got Married (The First Time)<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOx208C2hXVqpXk1geXV57szjpGOmH0bUtcfEc6p2NTSuOE89XngyxzayUNh9m6bp2zFNPTYxKWsAYIK1PHqNAngzkynKsy_UkRF7LxjmlV-xhUR4oUQ9mnJfu4kVDF1VHXnKhpvGsVV8/s1600/u-haul+trailer.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 144px; height: 89px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOx208C2hXVqpXk1geXV57szjpGOmH0bUtcfEc6p2NTSuOE89XngyxzayUNh9m6bp2zFNPTYxKWsAYIK1PHqNAngzkynKsy_UkRF7LxjmlV-xhUR4oUQ9mnJfu4kVDF1VHXnKhpvGsVV8/s200/u-haul+trailer.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599919902704360722" /></a>In the Spring of my Fulbright year in Germany, I flew home for a whirlwind weekend of necessary insanity. Husband was going to be commissioned in the US Army, then he was graduating, and two of our very best friends were getting married, and we were the maid-of-honor and best man. <div><br /></div><div>Because Husband was about to join the Army, and my Fulbright scholarship was coming to an end (along with my health insurance through it), we'd discussed having a quick, private courthouse ceremony to get legally married. Even though our parents were all going to be in town, we didn't want them there, because we were really only doing it for the legal status for the Army (a very common occurance with military folk). I figured, if our parents were there, when the pressure of planning and following through with a real, church ceremony started to build up, we'd be able to shrug our shoulders and say, "everyone already saw us get 'married,' so we don't need to do it again." I had no idea at the time how right I was with that assumption - especially when we were told just 7 weeks in advance that Husband would be deploying for a year - three months earlier than the wedding date for which I'd already sent out save-the-dates. But that's another wedding and another story.<div><br /></div><div>I flew out of Germany on Thursday and made it in to Omaha about two hours before my friend (Mouse)'s bachelorette party. We went bar-hopping in the Old Market of Omaha, met up with the bachelor party, and generally had a good time, staying out until the middle of the night.<div><br /></div><div>The next morning, we all had to get up extra early to be on time for the university's Army ROTC Commissioning ceremony. Husband and Mouse (among others) were commissioned, we took lots of fancy photos of all the brand new 2nd Lieutenants, and then we all went out to brunch together. </div><div><br /></div><div>After brunch, we drove over to Husband's dorm to pack up all his stuff. He had rented a U-Haul trailer that they attached to the back of his dad's SUV. We basically threw all his stuff into garbage bags and threw them in the U-Haul. After he was cleared out of the dorm, we went to the hotel we'd be staying in for the next few days (his parents, the bride and groom, and their parents, and all our other family were all staying there, too). His dad asked the manager of the hotel if it would be okay to leave the U-Haul trailer in one of the parking spots in the back of the hotel's lot for the duration of our stay. The manager said it wouldn't be a problem, so we parked the U-Haul and left it there, only checking on it every time we drove in and out of the parking lot.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning, we all got up bright and early to go to the university's graduation ceremony, where Husband and Mouse both graduated. Afterwards, we went to the Henry Doorly Zoo in Omaha (one of the best in the country) to waste some time before the wedding rehearsal that evening. The wedding rehearsal and rehearsal dinner went smoothly without any issues.</div></div></div><div><br /></div><div>We had to get up extra early on Sunday morning to get ready for the wedding. The girls got all prettied up, we headed to the church, and everything went as planned. Our friends got married, we all piled in a limo, took a billion more pictures, then went to the wedding reception (conveniently at the hotel where we were all staying), and partied until well after midnight.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning, we slept in, then got ready to head to the county courthouse. Husband did a great job planning everything - he'd set up an appointment for us at 4:15pm with a judge, and he had all the paperwork we needed (fortunately, Nebraska does not have blood test or waiting period requirements). So we drove down to the courthouse, filled out all the forms, showed proper form of ID, and waited for our appointment. Our best friends who had just gotten married the day before weren't able to come down to be our witnesses, so we called in our back-ups - who were working out at the university gym at the time, and came down in their workout clothes (they also ended up being our back-ups at our church wedding, 5 months later - they are exceptionally useful people!). </div><div><br /></div><div>It was a very informal, quick ceremony (I <i>was</i> wearing a white skirt, at the very least). We didn't exchange rings; I didn't legally change my name. But it was still very sweet and brought a tear to my eye (it also kept me from getting any sense of "cold feet" before the real ceremony - no point in running away if you already have to get a divorce to leave the guy). The whole thing took about 15 minutes. </div><div><br /></div><div>After thanking our witnesses and dismissing them so they could return to their workout, we went back down to the clerk's office, turned in our paperwork signed by Judge Schwartz (who married us), got all the proper signatures and stamps of approval, and then we were officially married. Not really the most romantic procedure.</div><div><br /></div><div>We met his parents for an early dinner, then headed back to the hotel. We went up to our room, and less than a minute after we got in, Husband's dad came by, frantically pounding on the door.</div><div><br /></div><div>"The U-Haul is gone," he told us. Husband ran out to the parking lot to verify that the U-Haul was, indeed, completely vanished from the spot it had been sitting in for the last three days.</div><div><br /></div><div>Omaha is not exactly the safest town in the country, so our first thought was that it was stolen (evidently, this is a rather common occurrence - people steal the entire thing and drive it somewhere less obvious so they have more time to break the lock off and steal everything inside). We went to the hotel's front desk and asked if they'd seen anyone drive off with it, or if they'd called U-Haul and had it removed. </div><div><br /></div><div>The person working the desk had no idea what was happening and called a manager to deal with us. It was the same manager that Husband's dad had initially talked to when he verified it would be okay to leave the U-Haul in the parking lot. We told him it was now missing.</div><div><br /></div><div>"How can that be? We wouldn't have called U-Haul to have it towed. Especially since it was only there for three days. It must have been stolen."</div><div><br /></div><div>We called the police, who came to the hotel to take our statement and file a report. The officer asked the manager if they had security tapes of their parking lot (they did not - their system was, unfortunately, broken at the time), and again verified that the hotel did not call U-Haul to report an abandoned trailer. The manager confirmed that no one had called - HE would have been the one to report it abandoned, and he certainly didn't, since he had spoken with Husband's dad himself.</div><div><br /></div><div>The officer told us it was most likely stolen, and, even if they found it, all of Husband's worldly possessions would be gone. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was overcome with a terrible feeling of guilt and dread. At his commissioning ceremony, his favorite professor had given Husband a pair of Lieutenant rank bars he had worn during the Vietnam War. While packing Husband's dorm room, I'd put the rank bars (at his direction) in one of the bags. Then that bag was put in the U-Haul. And now the U-Haul was gone. With the incredibly sentimental, meaningful Lieutenant bars. And Husband's rare acoustic guitar made from a now-endangered species wood. And all his clothes, cds, dvds, books, etc.</div><div><br /></div><div>Through tears, I confessed this dreadful news to Husband. His reaction was beyond sad. I could see his soul being crushed with the weight of this loss. My first wifely duty, and I had failed miserably. We'd been married less than four hours at this point, and I'd already crushed his very life-essence.</div><div><br /></div><div>The police officer suggested we drive around the neighborhood, scanning the area for the trailer. He said thieves oftentimes just drive them around the corner and out of immediate sight. At least finding the empty trailer would give us some sense of closure. He also suggested driving to the near-by U-Haul lots to see if, by chance, the trailer <i>had</i> been picked up by them. Unfortunately, it was now getting fairly late in the evening, and the U-Haul stores had all closed for the night.</div><div><br /></div><div>Husband and I got into the car with his dad to drive around while his mom and sisters drove the other car so we could canvass the area. After driving around for about 30 minutes, the sense of dread growing steadily with each U-Haul-less street we passed, we decided to hunt down the local U-Haul storage facilities to see if we could possibly see the trailer on their lots, so we didn't have to wait until they opened in the morning to call.</div><div><br /></div><div>This was before anyone (of us, at least) had GPS, so we had to rely on calling 411 to get an address, then driving around trying to find said address. After another 30 minutes or so, we found the U-Haul location. From the main parking lot, we could see their entire storage lot. They only had two of the same size trailers as our missing one, and neither of them had the right picture on the side (a giant marlin jumping out of the water). Dejectedly, we drove off, heading back toward the hotel.</div><div><br /></div><div>Husband's mom called us at that point and asked if we'd checked at the U-Haul store. After confirming that we had, she asked if it was the one at a different location, further away from the hotel. Husband's dad asked if we wanted to drive by that store and look. Our first reaction was to just return to the hotel and get some sleep (I had to fly back to Germany first thing in the morning), but we decided, since we were already out, we might as well go look.</div><div><br /></div><div>The second U-Haul location was much larger than the first we'd found. We pulled in to their public lot and began trying to scan the private lot for our trailer. The lot was much larger, and we couldn't see all the trailers. </div><div><br /></div><div>But then. There it was. Behind two other, bigger trailers. That giant, blue fish, majestically adorning the side of the orange and white trailer. His giant, unblinking eye bored a hole through my chest.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I SEE IT!!" I shouted as Husband's dad slammed on the breaks.</div><div><br /></div><div>We all leapt out of the car and ran up to the security fence. "There it is!" I shouted, pointing between the other trailers.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I can't see the ID number on the side," Husband replied, negatively.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course there are more than one U-Haul trailer that size with a marlin on the side. Of course this one wasn't ours. After all, it was behind other trailers, as if it had been there for a while. And the hotel manager had told us repeatedly that he hadn't called U-Haul for it to be picked up. It couldn't be ours. I could feel the hope draining out of me once again.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I just had this feeling.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Let's jump the fence and go check the number," I said, meaning, "Husband, go jump the fence and check the number."</div><div><br /></div><div>He looked sadly at me, "I just got commissioned... I don't want to get arrested for trespassing and ruin my career before it starts."</div><div><br /></div><div>And there it was. My opportunity to redeem myself. To prove I could be a good wife. I'll commit minor misdemeanors for you. And learn to cook someday. Totally.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'LL DO IT!!" I shouted, and before they could stop me, I was clamoring over the fence.</div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't until my feet hit the pavement on the other side that it dawned on me that the lot might have security cameras, or, much, much worse, guard dogs.</div><div><br /></div><div>I glanced around and didn't see or hear Cujo, so I bolted for it. I ran up to the suspected trailer, and there it was, to the lower left of the jumping marlin: Husband's trailer's ID number. </div><div><br /></div><div>This was Husband's trailer. I found it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am the best wife. Ever.</div><div><br /></div><div>I started shouting excitedly and ran back to Husband and his dad, who were waiting patiently (legally) on the other side of the fence. I practically flew to the top of the fence.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then I got stuck.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'd turned my foot the wrong way, and found myself stuck on top of the fence. It was a chain-link fence (thankfully with no barbed wire), and the top was finished in the little twisted spikes of a traditional chain-link fence. As I tried to balance myself on top of one of the spikes to get my foot unstuck and readjust to a position from which I could properly dismount, I felt myself slip ever so slightly.</div><div><br /></div><div>And that's when the fence took advantage of me. On my wedding night. Before my husband.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh my God, Husband. The fence... It <i>raped</i> me!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Husband and his dad, being the heroic gentlemen they are, immediately jumped into action - by laughing heartily at my struggle. After they calmed themselves, they proceeded to help me down. I quickly regained my composure, tried to hide the fact that I'd just screamed "fence-rape" in front of my father-in-law, and we started celebrating the finding of the U-Haul - lock intact. I later learned that my father-in-law informed Husband that I "was a keeper" because of this incident - not my bravery and willingness to break the law on Husband's behalf, but my unintentional wit in the face of intimate crisis.</div><div><br /></div><div>We got back in the car, and I examined my injuries - just a small scratch on the inside of my leg. And the memory of it's cold, steel fingers that would last a lifetime. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the drive back to the hotel, Husband and his dad's excitement and joy turned to anger and confusion as it dawned on us that the only way the U-Haul could be safely behind that rapefence was if the hotel manager had called and had it reported as abandoned.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once back at the hotel, Husband's dad went on a rampage. He explained that we'd found the trailer at the U-Haul location. The manager suggested U-Haul had seen the trailer and picked it up themselves.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning, Husband's dad called U-Haul to figure things out. They informed him that the manager of the hotel <i>had</i> called them and reported it abandoned. They said they would never just start picking up trailers off of private parking lots (like the hotel's). </div><div><br /></div><div>Husband's dad went on a rampage. The manager refused to speak to him, but told the hotel clerk to only charge him for one night in the hotel. </div><div><br /></div><div>They dropped me off at the airport, then went to get the U-Haul from the store. Everything was still safe and secure in the trailer. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was definitely not how I ever imagined my wedding day would be (or really, any day of my life - who ever anticipates being forcibly taken by a chain-link fence?), but I think it was a good trial for us. Every marriage should start out with a crisis on the first day. It's good to learn right whether or not you're willing to break the law for your spouse. At the very least, I know I won't be asking Husband to be my get-away driver as long as he's still in the Army.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkMXxs_2Sup15ZC0rT34Yd5beOBFi1omienEDLFaIGFqMlMASwRB3fE-Qcnvo_x2Zhsv3WVFeotH1xxw-WAWQRTmDkkqZWj41o9fNKNU_ZT_XUcoM5NZ2oIj-RQo9QmAMtraylbqdr1_g/s320/courthouse+wedding.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599939265297823010" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 233px; " /></span></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-29179913155554682642011-04-25T11:11:00.004-05:002011-04-25T11:38:40.574-05:00The Day I Didn't Go to Nerd Camp<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD6PC-sQuy1vPYiU8qITk-70T1PEb_yZedluTOsuZXzuUl9x0SQSedT_y_zCMDZXZu4Rz_k3LWNQHslFM22EI6xL-vG240eT6GUikQhesz0cfU5OBdCCfgQA7lTj2c3e6b19qk924JCDY/s1600/peppermint-candy.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD6PC-sQuy1vPYiU8qITk-70T1PEb_yZedluTOsuZXzuUl9x0SQSedT_y_zCMDZXZu4Rz_k3LWNQHslFM22EI6xL-vG240eT6GUikQhesz0cfU5OBdCCfgQA7lTj2c3e6b19qk924JCDY/s200/peppermint-candy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599561525585478770" /></a><br />I'm sorry to announce that I don't have a real entry for today. We spent the weekend driving 4 hrs to visit Husband's family for two days, then driving back, in the middle of a storm, in the Ozarks, in the dark, and our GPS tried to murder us (<a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2010/04/my-gps-is-vindictively-trying-to-kill.html">again</a>) by sending us on crazy, non-existent back-roads. Also, my computer died, so I didn't get a chance to write anything while we were there visiting. I'm on Husband's computer now, and a new power adapter has been ordered. Hopefully that will solve the problem (but since the battery died over a month ago, I can't tell if it's the computer or the power adapter that is the current issue).<div><br /></div><div>So here's a quick anecdote from my youth (I apologize in advance for its lack of hilarity).</div><div><br /></div><div>In 7th grade, we had to do some kind of week-long standardized testing thing. Turns out, the tests thought I was fairly smart. We lived just outside Baltimore at the time, and Johns Hopkins University did some kind of summer program for nerds, and I had met the nerdquirements and received a congratulatory letter of nerdiness and an invitation to attend Nerd Camp. They recruited based on the standardized tests, and the winning nerds were selected to spend a week or so at the University, being nerds (this is only my assumption, since we ended up moving half-way through my 7th grade year, so I didn't get to go to Nerd Camp).</div><div><br /></div><div>A week or so after receiving my Nerdvitation, I went to see a movie in the theater with some friends. I have no recollection of what the movie was, except that it was boring, and none of us were interested in watching it, so we were goofing off, instead. (In retrospect, I realize now that <i>we</i> were those infuriatingly annoying pre-teens I dislike so much, at the movies, disrupting the show for everyone else. For the other 10 people in the audience that day, you have my heartfelt apologies.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Someone had peppermint candies, and they handed me one. I dropped it on the floor (still in its wrapper), bent down to get it, and completely forgot that seats in movie theaters fold up when not in use. I went to sit back in my seat and missed it completely, falling onto the sticky, stale popcorn-infested floor. Everyone laughed. (Well, everyone in our group. I imagine the rest of the audience was growing increasingly more frustrated with our disruptions.)</div><div><br /></div><div>As we were leaving the theater, I was joking around with one of the other girls and talking in a stupid voice (as I am frequently wont to do). Little did I know, a middle-aged couple in front of us could hear me, and had seen my display of intelligence as I fell on the floor of the theater earlier.</div><div><br /></div><div>The man leaned over to his wife and said in a not-quite-hushed-enough voice, "I feel sorry for the mentally retarded girl." The wife nodded, knowingly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Take <i>that</i>, Johns Hopkins.</div><div><br /></div><div>This incident has stuck with me for years. I think it's been good for my sense of self-awareness. It's hard to become too full of oneself when you know in the back of your mind that your public persona can so easily be mistaken as mentally handicapped.</div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-25913863018509335532011-04-19T09:00:00.003-05:002011-04-19T09:30:47.944-05:00Recipe: Thai-Style Tofu Curry<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9kInhEawMbP9-soIFVGcow6ceNp5XhCIsT1FOR3eyQKthLAfGTheg-NIYJwWmFGdDgwqUhAF2X4vD4ipx_PdK-zMtZXjEvdDGc2YsoXo5iGz9EyRAo2nA1CQZtYPUQrUXHi20vwHAl8c/s1600/tofu+curry.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9kInhEawMbP9-soIFVGcow6ceNp5XhCIsT1FOR3eyQKthLAfGTheg-NIYJwWmFGdDgwqUhAF2X4vD4ipx_PdK-zMtZXjEvdDGc2YsoXo5iGz9EyRAo2nA1CQZtYPUQrUXHi20vwHAl8c/s200/tofu+curry.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597294980148286962" /></a>When I lived in Germany, one of my favorite things to eat (aside from actual German food, which I love, the awesome pizza everyone over there can make but no one in the US can seem to even come close to replicating, and the mounds of Caprese salad I devoured) was Thai-style tofu curry. Several years ago I attempted to make it myself with disastrous outcomes. So I was terrified to try again last night, out of fear that it would, again, be disgusting, and my dreams of tasting that delicious meal would forever be dashed. I started working off a recipe online, but it didn't seem exactly right. I improvised a bit, and I'm not entirely sure this is exactly what I did, but hopefully it'll be close enough that I'll be able to replicate it again in the future. Probably on a weekly basis, because it was <i>awesome</i>. Probably not as good as what you could get in Germany, and certainly not authentic Thai, but still pretty great for homemade, in a white, Midwestern girl's kitchen.<div><br /></div><div>Thai-Style Tofu Curry:</div><div><br /></div><div>2-4 Tbsp canola oil</div><div>1 (12 oz) package of extra-firm tofu, drained and cubed</div><div>1 tsp salt</div><div><br /></div><div>1 Tbsp butter or margarine (I used dairy-free "butter" and it worked fine)</div><div>1 small onion, chopped</div><div>6 cloves garlic, minced</div><div>2 cups coconut milk </div><div>2 cups water (you could easily use 3 cups coconut milk and 1 cup water - I just happened to only have 2 cups of coconut milk on hand (I make it myself), so I used water to make up the extra liquid I needed. Maybe you could even use 4 cups of coconut milk? I might have to try that next time. But you can easily add more water if it doesn't look like enough liquid after you throw in all the other ingredients)</div><div>2-5 Tbsp curry powder (I started with about 3 Tbsp, then just shook a bunch more in. Probably 4-5 Tbsp total)</div><div>1 tsp salt (or more, to taste - I thought it definitely needed more after cooking - but some ground sea salt on top after dishing it up was perfect)</div><div>1/2 tsp ground black pepper</div><div>1 tsp cayenne pepper, or to taste (optional)</div><div>1/2 tsp chili powder, or to taste (optional)</div><div>1/4 - 1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro</div><div>2 green bell peppers, chopped</div><div>8-12 oz mushrooms, sliced (I used 12 oz)</div><div>8 oz (or so) chopped cauliflower florets </div><div><br /></div><div>2-3 cups cooked Thai jasmine rice</div><div><br /></div><div>Directions:</div><div><br /></div><div>Drain and dice tofu - I put it in a paper towel-lined colander for an hour or so to try and drain out as much liquid as I could - the more water in it, the more it's going to splatter and pop while cooking and burn your arms.</div><div><br /></div><div>In a large skillet (or wok), heat canola oil over medium heat. Add tofu cubes, sprinkle over the 1 tsp of salt, and fry, stirring occasionally, until golden on all sides. Remove from the pan onto paper towels to drain, and set aside (it can wait for a while like this, so don't worry about time).</div><div><br /></div><div>In the same large skillet, melt the butter or margarine over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic, and cook until tender, about 5 min. Stir in the coconut milk, water, curry powder, salt, peppers, chili powder, and cilantro. Add the tofu, bell peppers, mushrooms, and cauliflower (at this point, assess how much liquid there is - it should be enough to look kind of like soup, but not so much that it covers all the ingredients - if it doesn't look like enough liquid, add more water 1/2 cup at a time). Heat to boiling, then reduce heat to a simmer. Taste to test ingredients, and add more curry powder, chili powder, or peppers, to desired spice level (the measurements I listed were perfect for me, but Husband added about another 1 tsp cayenne pepper to his, and some crushed red pepper, because he's kind of insane about spicy foods). Cover and simmer for about 15 min, then uncover and continue to simmer another 10-15 min. Times aren't specific on this, because it's not really going to hurt it to simmer a bit longer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Serve over cooked Thai jasmine rice. And, like I mentioned before, I added some ground sea salt on top just before eating, and it made it the perfect flavor for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Serves probably something like 4-6.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sorry everything is so inaccurate on this one. That's what you get when it's actually my own recipe, and I've only made it once. :D Enjoy!!</div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-74113393073546571432011-04-18T10:37:00.004-05:002011-04-18T13:52:28.283-05:00The Day I Was Left Out<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqwrmZAB89ZxwINClvS5hHKlJLIsYmPNCVdB7PVPNYVOutber5OyIYn-iXoKqaySlCqtR6esv05rVRZSL9zWxEQRpIC0SsQWCl0VaO7gYsepOkT6qkVYZeRvTQUNcMMjy9t9NyTKpFBHw/s1600/bird+beads.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 75px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqwrmZAB89ZxwINClvS5hHKlJLIsYmPNCVdB7PVPNYVOutber5OyIYn-iXoKqaySlCqtR6esv05rVRZSL9zWxEQRpIC0SsQWCl0VaO7gYsepOkT6qkVYZeRvTQUNcMMjy9t9NyTKpFBHw/s200/bird+beads.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596998417791661442" /></a><br />As hard as it may be to believe, I used to be a shy kid. It was probably a combination of the anxiety disorder and our family move from South Dakota to Maryland when I was seven years old. I went from a small Catholic school with about 20 kids in each grade to a massive public school with several hundred kids in each grade. It was somewhat overwhelming, and I basically just shut down. Thinking back on second and third grades, I honestly can't remember having friends. My brain, which is clearly trying to shield my fragile third-grade psyche from the devastation of reality is telling me, "of course you had friends!" but I can't, for the life of me, actually name a single one. Looks like that protective wall of false memories has done its job!<div><br /></div><div>As a side note, I would like to mention that I "won" the Good Citizenship Award (like the consolation prize of boring, polite children - "Congratulations, you are the least disagreeable person in our class!") every year from Kindergarten through 5th grade. So I might not have had friends for a couple years, but at least they didn't all completely hate me. Right? (Shh, it's okay, Third-Grade Laura. Of course they liked you! How could they not like you? You ... had such long, straight hair! And ... you smiled quietly a lot! *Stifles self-esteem with false memories*)</div><div><br /></div><div>Regardless, the point is that I did not have good friends in my third grade class. One incident in particular stands out as evidence that I was, in fact, an outcast (albeit, a friendly, polite, possibly easily forgettable one).</div><div><br /></div><div>Although the school itself was large, we were assigned a "homeroom," which was our actual class, and in third grade, as far as I remember, no one switched for any classes (advanced math and language arts classes didn't start till 4th grade, I believe). So I'd been in the same "portable" classroom with the same 30 or so kids for at least 6 months at the time of this incident (our student body size had outgrown the actual school, so they set up about a dozen portable, temporary buildings outside the main building, on school grounds, to accommodate the excess children. We were only supposed to be there for a few months, but we ended up staying there the entire year.) </div><div><br /></div><div>One Spring day, one of the "popular" (used as liberally as possible to refer to a third-grader) girls passed out invitations to her birthday party to every girl in class, except three of us. I don't know if her mom didn't make her invite all the girls, or if she chose not to give three of us invitations, but the selection process was as cruel as it was swift. One moment, we were returning from recess and settling in our seats, and the next, the Chosen Girls were tittering excitedly, as the rejects tried to not only discover what we were missing out on, but how we could have possibly fallen from the good graces of the beautiful, popular, Jessica.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've always assumed I wasn't invited because I was shy and quiet. Boring people don't make the best party guests. One of the other girls not invited, Rachel, was also incredibly shy and boring. However, Rachel had a twin sister, Alexis, who was also in our class. And Alexis was invited. Rachel was, understandably, much more devastated about her exclusion than I was. We must learn at a young age the cruelty of other women.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was the third uninvited girl, though, that made the true sting of the shunning felt. Katie. Poor Katie. Literally, Katie was from a lower-class family. I always felt very sorry for her, as all her clothes were old and worn, she often smelled funky, and the other kids were heartless in their teasing of her. Then again, she didn't help her case much by being one of those strange kids. You know the type. The awkward, weird ones who run up to the popular kids and start talking gibberish at them, because they're oblivious to the social hierarchy of school-aged cliques. They're the type who make the other nerd kids cringe, since we know we'll be associated with them, vicariously, simply for being nerds ourselves, even though we don't want anything to do with their type, either. They're giving us all a bad name.</div><div><br /></div><div>But then Katie committed the single worst-imaginable in-school offense. She pooped her pants. In class. I don't know the circumstances, except that I was sitting next to her and can confirm that, in spite of her denials of the other children's harsh accusations, she did, in fact, poop in her pants. (Bizarrely, I was also sitting next to a boy in 4th grade who peed his pants. Maybe I have some terrible affect on people in my immediate vicinity, causing them to lose control of their bodily functions. But he had asked the teacher for permission to go to the bathroom, and she denied it. After several minutes, he asked again more urgently, and she again denied it. I, personally, think she should have gotten in serious trouble for making the poor guy sit there till he peed his pants, but, as far as I know, nothing ever happened to her.)</div><div><br /></div><div>So here we were, lumped in the same group of social-rejects with a girl who pooped her pants. In the unrelentingly cruel world of elementary school social politics, evidently, being shy is just as critical a faux pas as defecating on oneself. </div><div><br /></div><div>The party was on a Saturday, and the following Monday, I showed up for school, relieved because this traumatic exclusion was now behind us. Oh, how naive was I.</div><div><br /></div><div>As the other girls in class filtered in and took their seats, not only were they excitedly talking about what an incredible time they'd had at Jessica's Birthday Party (or, as it became known, JBP; it <i>was</i> the social event of the YEAR), but each of them seemed to have donned a new necklace, and they were giddily comparing and showing them off to each other. How could it be that they all coincidentally bought strikingly similar necklaces over the weekend without any form of retail coordination?</div><div><br /></div><div>I sat perfectly still in my desk, trying to eavesdrop to catch some sort of idea as to the origin of these necklaces. Then I began to notice - each necklace had a set of perfectly adorable beads in the shape of birds. All different colors, strung together amid classic, small necklace beads that brought out the shine and ideal form of each avian creation. Never had I longed for something more than to have my own bird-bead necklace. The minuteness of their beaks struck a chord in my third-grade being, calling out to me with undying desire. </div><div><br /></div><div>All at once, the glistening birds and the snippets of eager over-the-weekend gossip combined in my brain and it dawned on me: the girls had all made these wearable works of art at JBP. And I also deduced that they had made a vow to wear them every day for the duration of the school year.</div><div><br /></div><div>I could feel my will to live shattering about me as I looked down at my desk, pretending to go over my completed homework from the weekend in an attempt to hide my devastation. My life would never be complete. My soul felt crushed inside my bare-necked body.</div><div><br /></div><div>Over the next few weeks, fewer and fewer girls still wore their bird necklaces every day, but envy continued to flutter in my heart every time I caught a glimpse of one. Eventually, third grade drew to a close, I was awarded my certificate of "Good Citizenshipness," and I spent the summer recovering from the painful social blows I'd been dealt.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then fourth grade started. And who was in my class (besides the guy next to me who peed in his pants on the first day)? None other than Jessica. THE Jessica, of JBP infamy.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I adopted a new life-approach to friends and being social. I got loud. I tried talking to people and laughing and various other tactics of basic human interaction (besides polite smiling, which I, clearly, had a monopoly on). Lo and behold, my new plan worked. As luck (or intricate planning and methodical social-ladder-climbing) would have it, after just a few weeks of fourth grade, I had befriended the one and only Jessica.</div><div><br /></div><div>After playing together at nearly every recess, eventually the time came when she was obligated to invite me over to play at her house (although, I have to admit, I doubt I would have even tried to be friends with her if I didn't think there was a possibility that I could wriggle my way into her confidences, be invited to her house, and somehow manage to acquire my own bird necklace). My mom dropped me off, and we played normal fourth-grade girl things. After Barbies in her room, we walked around the neighborhood to spy on a boy in our grade who lived down the street. Then we came back to her house, had a snack, and she asked what else I wanted to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ever aware of the rules of etiquette, I politely said, "I don't know, what do you want to do?" while skirting the obvious: make bird necklaces.</div><div><br /></div><div>She suggested we play Twister. </div><div><br /></div><div>Obligingly, I went downstairs with her to get out the Twister game, in spite of the cloud of anxiety closing in around me. I hate games of all kinds. It's not a fear of losing; it's more terror that I'll do something wrong. I'm not sure why it flares up so strongly when it comes to games, but I've always hated every single kind of game there is. They all fill me with overpowering anxiety (I actually can't play or even watch most video games; I get too anxious). Not exactly a two-player game, I was relieved when we found a small plastic bin sitting next to the Twister box.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What's this?" I said, pointing to the box, already knowing in my heart what it was.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, those are my beads," she said casually. Then, with a stroke of psychic ingenuity, "do you want to make necklaces?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, sure, I guess." I could barely contain the excitement that tried to burst through face. Play cool, Laura. She'll suspect something if you start screaming about bird beads!</div><div><br /></div><div>We opened the bin to discover small squares of neatly separated beads. Reds, yellows, blues, greens, some little dice beads... but no birds. No. F---ing. Birds.</div><div><br /></div><div>I started stringing together random colors in no particular order. What's the point, if not to tie down a bird bead through the little hole that ran through its heart to forever tether it to my neck (and soul)?</div><div><br /></div><div>Jessica was rambling about something. I couldn't concentrate on her tedium. I was too consumed with the twice-dashed hopes of a young, recently socially-revived fourth-grade girl.</div><div><br /></div><div>I dug my fingers into the red beads again and stopped suddenly. There she was. Hidden among the scarlets, maroon, and fire engine reds. My very own bird bead. Left over, abandoned for nearly a year after the great fete that was JBP, the one remaining, glorious bird bead.</div><div><br /></div><div>"You've come to me, Sasha," I whispered under my breath.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Did you say something?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh, no," I contemplated stealing Sasha and sliding her secretively into my pocket. But what would Jessica think when I wore the necklace to school and she recognized the rogue, rosey bird, fluttering gently between my collarbones, perfectly flattering my non-existent bust-line?</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hey, I found this little bird bead. Could I use it?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Haha, sure!" Jessica said, barely acknowledging the significance of this forever flightless symbol of my restoration of hope in humanity. "I got those last year for my Birthday Party, haha. I thought we'd used them all. We all made bird necklaces, haha. But I guess you can make one now, too! Haha!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Laugh it up, Bitch. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't stay friends with Jessica after fourth grade (we were in different fifth grade homerooms, which is practically the same thing as moving to different countries, learning different languages, and being forbidden by our parents to associate with one another, or else). But I believe the bird necklace is still in my closet at my dad's house. I'll have to remember to get it the next time I visit him. I guess the old saying holds true: Make new friends, but keep the old (except Jessica); some are silver, and some... are birds.</div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-68608944036513970382011-04-15T18:48:00.003-05:002011-04-15T19:19:31.915-05:00Recipe: Genoese Fish Soup<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpp0TrP4ANujv9PgJzef5uiB4vRbFvrWeiiM5ESr4rY9IiEssHNDFl7b324DSbjouzv65PGHhs3itRNndmbtyUZT9Wkc74gGjo1V46kOIkdPkCnfMtPkt28b5WSFXKf5cvzrjkj77r7Y/s1600/DSCF8370.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpp0TrP4ANujv9PgJzef5uiB4vRbFvrWeiiM5ESr4rY9IiEssHNDFl7b324DSbjouzv65PGHhs3itRNndmbtyUZT9Wkc74gGjo1V46kOIkdPkCnfMtPkt28b5WSFXKf5cvzrjkj77r7Y/s200/DSCF8370.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595963039552643714" /></a><br />This is a seriously awesome soup. I used to think I didn't like fish, but I could eat this soup every day for the rest of my life and be happy. Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but it was astoundingly good. It is from my most favorite soup cookbook ever. As far as I know, the book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Soup-Bowl-Sumi-Glsss/dp/1405495537/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1284495838&sr=1-2">Soup Bowl</a>, is out of print, but there are still plenty of used copies for sale on Amazon.com. Out of the two dozen (at least) soups we've tried from this book, I think we've only not loved three of them. If you cook at all, you need this book. (There, does that justify sharing their recipe on my blog? I did make some minor adjustments, and, like always, the actual text is my own words.)<div><br /></div><div>Genoese Fish Soup (like as in "from Genoa, Italy"):</div><div><br /></div><div>2 Tbsp butter</div><div>1 onion, chopped</div><div>1 clove garlic, finely chopped</div><div>2 oz rindless bacon, fried and diced</div><div>2 celery stalks, chopped</div><div>14oz canned, chopped tomatoes (I think the cans actually come in 14.5 oz - also, you could easily substitute in 3-4 peeled, diced fresh tomatoes)</div><div>2/3 cup dry white wine (I use vermouth)</div><div>3+ generous cups fish stock (I used vegetable stock)</div><div>4 fresh basil leaves, torn into pieces</div><div>2 Tbsp chopped, fresh parsley leaves, divided</div><div>1 lb whitefish fillets (I used cod), skinned and chopped</div><div>4+ oz cooked, peeled shrimp, tails removed</div><div>salt and pepper to taste</div><div><br /></div><div>Fry up some bacon.</div><div><br /></div><div>Melt the butter in a stockpot over medium-low heat. Add the onion and garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, over low heat for about 5 minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Add the fried bacon and celery and cook, stirring frequently, for another 2 or so minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Add the tomatoes (undrained), wine, stock, basil, and 1 Tbsp of the parsley, and season with salt and pepper to taste. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat, and simmer uncovered for about 10 minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Add the fish and cook (on the same simmering temp) for at least 5 minutes, or until all the pieces are opaque. Add the shrimp and heat through, for about another 3 minutes (I then turned the heat to low and let it cook for a little bit longer while I got the table ready, etc). Ladle into bowls and sprinkle with the remaining parsley.</div><div><br /></div><div>Serves 4</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-9735478255591807092011-04-11T10:49:00.003-05:002011-04-11T11:07:31.240-05:00The Day I Got Engaged<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJLno4DaSS3f3i8iwOks7z3JhIB_LPuL5USy_31muOUuDA0gMsK4bcvLp7-NLJd1_Sr4qMeYCSJkaTlwnFTrj_2mhRTubDMqRWzaL7VgR0vL_TWCzKFiFdopB4Jql_qdbTaGb23K05dgU/s1600/Rings.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJLno4DaSS3f3i8iwOks7z3JhIB_LPuL5USy_31muOUuDA0gMsK4bcvLp7-NLJd1_Sr4qMeYCSJkaTlwnFTrj_2mhRTubDMqRWzaL7VgR0vL_TWCzKFiFdopB4Jql_qdbTaGb23K05dgU/s200/Rings.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594358287387513122" /></a><br />I love super romantic engagement stories. I tear up every time I see an engagement on TV, even if it's not overly thoughtful or romantic. Like most women, I guess I'm just a sucker for love. So that's why I wanted to share my own engagement story. Get ready to be disappointed by your own stories - if they don't involve pedophilia, dirt, the f-word, and Kentucky, you ain't got nothin' on us.<div><br /></div><div>At the end of my senior year of college, Husband (then Boyfriend) and I were exclusively dating, but neither of us were overly convinced of the long-term sustainability of our relationship. I had recently been awarded a Fulbright scholarship and would be leaving in early September to spend a year in Germany. Our initial reaction was to end the relationship, since we were sure we'd never last (or want to last) a year away from each other.</div><div><br /></div><div>Husband still had another year of college left (although he is older than me, he didn't join ROTC until his Sophomore year, so he had to do a fifth year of college in order to meet all of the ROTC requirements to commission on time with his graduation), and the summer before the last year of ROTC is full of Army-training-goodness. Because of this, we would only have about three weeks in August to actually spend with each other before I left for Germany. So we basically decided to spend the last couple weeks of May together, to enjoy each others' company while we could.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, those fateful weeks made us realize we actually did, in fact, like each other, we both had the same goals in life, and we turned out to be surprisingly compatible.<br /><div><br /></div><div>In early June, Husband left for the Army's Leader Development and Assessment Course (LDAC) in Ft. Lewis, WA (it's basically a giant test of everything they're supposed to learn in ROTC - then they're ranked on their performance, and this ranking helps the Army assign them to their branches, decide which jobs they should have, and determine their first duty station after graduation/commissioning). Because he wasn't allowed to use phones or the internet, I wrote him letters almost every day (how old fashioned and romantic!). As soon as he finished the LDAC course, he was flown to Ft. Campbell, KY to do a Cadet Troop Leader Training course (CTLT) with an aviation unit there.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>He called from the airport in Kentucky and told me, since he was staying in a hotel for the entire CTLT course, I could come and spend the three weeks there with him. Like a young person in love (and without a job), I jumped in the car an hour later and drove 13.5 hours straight, from South Dakota to Ft. Campbell.</div><div><br /></div><div>Over the course of the LDAC letters, we'd basically decided we wanted to get married. It really only seemed logical. Kentucky would be a test to see if we were sure. We talked about marriage, divorce, children, religion, etc, and discovered we shared almost all of the same ideologies and philosophies, and, let's face it, we could tolerate each other better than any of the other people we'd dated. Isn't that the ultimate test of marriage-compatibility? We can spend exponentially more time in a small room together before wanting to bash each other's heads in than with anyone else we'd ever met. True love at it's finest.</div><div><br /></div><div>So we went ring shopping. We picked out a ring together, he ordered it, and they said they'd call when it was in. Then we went about our daily CTLT lives - Husband went to work every morning, I wasted time until he was finished for the day, and we spent the evenings going out for dinner and hanging out with the other cadets doing CTLT at Ft. Campbell. </div><div><br /></div><div>One day toward the end of the course, Husband suggested we go to the nearby town to stop by the mall, get some dinner, and maybe go see a movie. He picked a teppanyaki-style restaurant (where they cook the food on the big griddle in front of you at your table), and we got relatively dressed up.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have to admit, I suspected something. I knew he'd bought the ring and was waiting for it to be delivered to the store, and I had a pretty good idea that he was going to ask me to marry him while we were still in Kentucky. What better place than a super-romantic, fancy dinner? I'd always loved the idea of being proposed to in a restaurant, with all the other customers looking on and clapping for us as I wiped tears out of my eyes and happily said, "yes, of course I'll marry you!!" Sort of like a miniature version of our 15 minutes of fame. The restaurant would probably even give us a free dessert so we could feed bites to each other and solidify the public image of our undying love for each other.</div><div><br /></div><div>The waitress who came to take our drink order asked if we were there for a special occasion. I glanced nervously at Husband, who also seemed exceptionally anxious. "No, just here for dinner," he told her. He was obviously trying to build up the suspense - waiting for the perfect moment to get down on one knee and ask me to make him the happiest man in the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>We ordered our food, and the chef prepared it. I'd never been at one of those types of restaurants before, but I was almost too nervous to really enjoy the show the chef was putting on. I could almost feel the ring burning in Husband's pocket. Waiting for its big debut. </div><div><br /></div><div>We ate our food and finished our drinks. Still nothing from Husband. Okay, he must be waiting till we're about to leave. </div><div><br /></div><div>The waitress came by with the check and Husband paid. </div><div><br /></div><div>Wait, what? Why are we leaving? What about my fancy-restaurant, romantic proposal? All these people are just sitting here, waiting to clap and be excited for us! They all <i>want</i> to look at us and exclaim about what an adorable, young, clearly-in-love couple we are! Their dinners will end so anticlimactically!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING, HUSBAND?!</div><div><br /></div><div>We walked out into the parking lot, and Husband suggested we start to walk toward the movie theater in the mall, even though we had about an hour and a half to waste until our movie started. I was starting to feel stupid for having expected a proposal. He was probably wondering why I was acting so strange and nervous. But I couldn't shake the feeling that he was acting strangely, too.</div><div><br /></div><div>The mall parking lot was in some state of being re-done. The current stage seemed to be "torn up, covered in dirt, and not tended to in over a year." As we started the trek across the dirt-covered, cracked cement lot, the sun finished setting, and the street lights came on, illuminating the mostly-vacant, kind of creepy area on the backside of the mall. I could feel myself getting more and more agitated and irritated with Husband. I felt so stupid; I'd been convinced he was going to ask me at the restaurant. What a disappointment. How could I have so completely misread the situation?</div><div><br /></div><div>As we walked along, Husband noticed a group of scantily-clad teenage girls walking in front of us across the dirt lot. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Don't look at those girls," I told him, letting the irritation take over. </div><div><br /></div><div>"But look at what they're wearing. Pretty hot."</div><div><br /></div><div>"They're like 14 years old! That's disgusting."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Mmm, underage girls... that's the best."</div><div><br /></div><div>I knew he was joking, but I was so emotionally strung out after the last hour and a half of bitter disappointment, I just let the frustration take over.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Seriously, if you're going to act like that, I'm not even going to walk with you," I said as I walked faster to get away from him.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Aww, come on, Laura, I'm sorry. Come back here and hold my hand."</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, I'm serious. I'm not in the mood. Walk by yourself, or go ask those <i>children</i> to walk with you, if you're so interested in them," and I stomped further away from him.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Please, Laura? What could I do to get you to come back and hold my hand?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nothing. I'm done."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nothing? Not even this?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I turned around to see him, down on one knee, in the dirt and weeds of the torn up cement parking lot, holding up a little ring box and smiling at me from ear to ear.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Are you f---ing kidding me?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, that's right. That is word-for-word what I said in response to my proposal. The epitome of romance.</div><div><br /></div><div>I walked back to him, and he actually asked me to marry him. I, evidently, said yes. It wasn't how I ever imagined it would be, but I honestly couldn't fathom my proposal being any different than it was. At the very least, it was a microcosm of our relationship. No matter how much Husband can piss me off, he can always make me laugh again. That was almost six years ago, and I still haven't tried to bash his head in. </div><div><br /></div><div>(It should also be noted that, while reading over this before I publish it, I teared up. Guess it is kind of romantic in its own, weird way. I love you, Husband!)</div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4632047010200480058.post-89082925701104354812011-04-04T09:18:00.001-05:002011-04-04T09:47:19.441-05:00The Day I Flew Air FranceAfter the harrowing experience of <a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2010/12/day-i-flew-air-india.html">flying Air India</a>, I'm fairly sure the only way I convinced myself to ever step foot on a plane again was the simple fact that I needed to, eventually, go home. Countless very drunken nights in Berlin over the course of nearly a year of living and "studying" there probably didn't hurt to numb my memories of how awful cramped plane cabins can be when full of the scent of Indian airplane food, disgruntled Chinese stewardesses in saris, and gigantic Nigerian princes. But regardless, the time had come for me to once again brave air travel to return to my homeland.<div><br /></div><div>Because this was the second half of our round-trip flight for the study abroad year, it was also booked through Air France. After saying many tearful good-byes to my absolutely wonderful German family (the ones who lived in the <a href="http://throughfuchsiacoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2010/05/night-i-met-nocturnal-squirrel.html">communist block housing</a>), and the German guy I was dating at the time, I sadly made my way to the boarding area, only to discover that one of my classmates from the study abroad program would be flying home with me. Not just with me, but in the seat next to me. We hadn't exactly gotten along; he was part of the group of students who thought studying and learning German was for nerds, and I was most certainly the teacher's adoring pet (it's not like it was my fault I spent most nights out getting drunk with Germans and practicing my language so I could speak it significantly better than other people in our group). We gave each other courteous nods, and I sat down on the other side of the waiting area, trying to pretend like I wasn't crying.</div><div><br /></div><div>After what seemed like an agonizingly long time, we finally got to board the plane. My classmate (whose name I've honestly forgotten - let's call him Nick, because I'm fairly sure it was some variant of a generic male nickname) boarded a few minutes after me and slowly made his way to his seat, immediately next to mine. Courteous nods again as I stifled back more tears. We both put on our headphones and continued to ignore each other while the cabin slowly filled with other passengers and the plane took to the air.</div><div><br /></div><div>About an hour and a half into the flight, after they had started whatever in-flight movie we were effectively forced to watch in the small screens in the back of every seat, the flight dramatically left the realm of "standard, boring over-seas flight" and decided to try a different angle for our in-flight experience: terror.</div><div><br /></div><div>The seat-belt signs had been turned off, and flight attendants and various passengers were "free to walk around the cabin," but, like the obedient passengers we'd all be trained to be, the majority of us were still in our seats with our belts fastened.</div><div><br /></div><div>Out of no where, we hear an incredibly loud boom, then deafening quiet, and the plane seemed to fall. It didn't start to nose-dive, like one would expect if it were going to crash, but instead, it felt as if it suddenly dropped about 100 ft straight down. And then it just simply kept flying.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then the "fasten seat-belt" light dinged back on.</div><div><br /></div><div>To this day, I'm still fairly impressed at how well the passengers reacted. Most of us stayed frozen, clutching our arm rests and gazing around wide-eyed at each other. A few people let out startled screams when the plane dropped, but, overall, no one, at least no one near me, panicked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Except the flight attendants. </div><div><br /></div><div>They were all prim and extremely proper, perfectly skinny, meticulously manicured French women and gay French men. And suddenly, after the plane stabilized, they seemed to turn into bolts of white shirt, navy pants, and styled hair, zipping up and down the aisles, rapidly shooting out bursts of urgent sounding French to each other. They looked like a panicked flock of odd, yet proper birds - like doves with a crocodile thrown into their nest.</div><div><br /></div><div>The sight of the clearly distressed stewardesses began to unnerve the majority of the passengers (over half of whom were American, and, based on future events, didn't speak a word of French, like me), but the fear didn't really set in until the pilot spoke to us over the loud speaker:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Uhhhh.... jemapanesajumouisxtjeaux. Uhhhh.... letimejioux. Uhhh... siseauis."</div><div><br /></div><div>Those of us who didn't speak French held our breath, waiting for the translation.</div><div><br /></div><div>The seconds ticked by. Then, the audible 'click' of the speaker turning off.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing else.</div><div><br /></div><div>I turned to Nick, who had also turned off his ipod and taken off his headphones, and I simply said, "what the hell was that?"</div><div><br /></div><div>He shrugged, looking about as terrified as I felt, and daringly stuck his hand into the aisle to stop one of the stewardess-doves in might squawk. He asked her what the pilot just said, and what that loud explosion was. She fluttered his hand away with her wing, trilled something in French, and flew away, down the aisle. </div><div><br /></div><div>Looking around, I noticed other passengers trying to catch the stewardess-doves, also to no avail. Evidently, in a crisis situation, Air France had trained its employees to revert to only speaking French, to sprout wings, and to flitter about, so as to ensure any non-French speaking passengers will be the first to die, from lack of instruction or situational understanding.</div><div><br /></div><div>After what seemed like an agonizing eternity of confusion, trapped in a small, possibly unstable plane cabin with a bunch of worthless, panicking birds, someone finally managed to gain control of the loud-speaker and explain what had happened in English. It was not, however, the pilot (who had previously used the loud-speaker to greet the passengers in English at the beginning of the flight).</div><div><br /></div><div>The voice told us simply that, "one of the engines has exploded," and we would be returning to Paris. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our in-flight movie had been stopped, and instead, the flight map, with the little airplane and red line showing the completed route, had taken its place. Based on the map, we were somewhere over the UK - we could have easily landed in Glasgow or London and been safely on the ground and out of this potential death-trap in a matter of no more than 30 minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div>But instead, we watched in confusion as the plane flew past all of these possible savior airports, and made its way back toward the English Channel. Where it continued to fly in circles for approximately an hour and a half. If we hadn't been so terrified, the red line showing the path of our plane on the flight map would have been rather comical - it tracked all the circles we were making in a big squiggle, right over the water.</div><div><br /></div><div>The stewardess-birds continued to ignore our pleas to speak English, and they refused people's pleas for beverages - even water. If someone tried to get up to go to the bathroom, they would swarm the poor passenger, squawking wildly and flapping their wings until the passenger gave up and retreated back to his seat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, we heard through other passengers that the plane had to waste fuel before it could land. Being a large airplane on the beginning of an over-seas flight, the tanks were still very full of fuel, and, evidently, it was risky to try and land the plane with that much flammable gas and only three engines. So we remained trapped in plane, making slow squiggles over the English Channel, for nearly two hours before we could safely land back in Paris.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once we landed (with no further incident), we were ushered into a waiting area of the Charles De Gaulle and told a new plane was being prepared for us, and we would be able to re-board soon. Nearly four hours later, the plane was finally ready. This one managed to fly us all the way to Cincinnati without incident.</div><div><br /></div><div>Along the way, through this whole ordeal, Nick and I actually began to talk and discovered that we didn't actually hate each other. At least not enough to not be able to put our differences aside and both entertain and joke with each other through the terror of getting on another plane.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the time we landed in Cincinnati, it was well after 1am. The second leg of our flight, from Cincinnati to Omaha, had left around 8pm. Together, Nick and I made our way through Customs and to the desk the airport had set up specifically for our flight - because the delay was mechanical, Air France was footing the bill to put every single passenger up in a hotel overnight. Nick and I took a shuttle to the hotel we were assigned and planned to meet each other in the lobby to get some food together, after checking in to our rooms. However, the hotel restaurant had long since closed, and the only thing open was the hotel bar and dance club (don't all hotels have a bar and dance club? In northern Kentucky, they do). </div><div><br /></div><div>Since we had both turned 21 in Germany, this was our first time to legally buy alcohol in the States. We decided to make a celebration of it, and used all our meal vouchers on alcohol. We had to ask the bartender to ID us. Other patrons of the bar (surprisingly, not people staying in the hotel - this bar was so "popular," the locals actually frequented it) soon caught on to our "delayed 21st birthday party," and several of them bought us drinks. Nick and I even tore up the classy dance floor a little.</div><div><br /></div><div>Early the next morning (after having retired to our separate quarters - no "hanky panky" was involved, despite what Husband may think), we met in the lobby again, took the shuttle to the airport, and caught our flight to Omaha, laughing and joking with each other the entire time. We landed in Omaha and walked off the plane together. Nothing like a near-death experience to bond two people together.</div><div><br /></div><div>That is, until we walked past the security check point and saw our friends and family again. We both turned our own ways and never spoke another word to each other. </div><div><br /></div><div>But no matter what happens in this life, we'll always have Air France, Nick. Or John. Or Tom. Or whatever your name was... </div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01544217586585953445noreply@blogger.com0