Monday, September 30, 2013

The saga of the pita bread

About two weeks ago I made a batch of falafel dough. You know what goes really well with falafel dough? Pita bread.

Last Tuesday I threw together some dough before I headed out with Sylvia to her last day of kindy. We were late (in part thanks to the dough, but mostly thanks to the slowness of walking with my kids. I ran, trying to push my kids to go faster and it still took 50 minutes. Walking only takes 40 if you don't stop). Paul and I had a lovely day hanging out with each other and with friends and then we picked up Sylvia. Within 30 minutes of getting home Paul broke an egg on the back porch, I made a mess spraying it off, Sylvia broke two more eggs into a measuring cup (she wanted to make a cake), Paul poured those eggs into the pita dough (apparently it looked like cake batter in need of eggs), and then, when I sent the kids to clean themselves up, they dumped most of a bottle of hand soap out to clean the bathtub.


Somehow, their costumes from that morning were fitting.

Wednesday I moved on. I'm not one to waste, so I used the eggy pita dough to make cinnamon rolls. I'm not sure that was quite the right precedent to set.

Anyway, we had something else for dinner that night.

Thursday we also had something else for dinner.

Likewise, Friday.

(Can you tell I was uninspired with cooking last week?)

Saturday I attempted pita again. This time the kids decided the dough should become focaccia so they added all of my olive oil, all my sesame oil, and most of my balsamic vinegar to the bowl with the dough in it.

I know, yum.

I rinsed off as much of the fragrant brown liquid as I could, then threw the dough in a pan and let it rise overnight. The kids had their focaccia for breakfast Sunday morning, and seemed to quite like the stuff.

Sunday, I again assembled pita dough, though this time I got the kids to help me put it together so they'd feel invested in its success. To cut a long story short, that worked. We had pita. The kids didn't so much eat it as slather it with tzaziki and pick at it, but I finally made pita bread.

I count this as a success.

Saturday, September 21, 2013

First day of spring

This morning Sylvia woke up at 5:15.

I didn't want to be awake (who does at that hour?) but I had to smile when I heard her crowing, "It's the first day of spring!"

We had a party with a few of Derrick's work friends. Now that they're all gone we have a fridge full of tasty (pseudo) Mexican food and beer. I know what to do with all the food, but not what to do with the beer (since none of us don't drink the stuff). I'd say have another party, but I suspect the problem might multiply...

I got my first mosquito bite of the season.

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Aussie Father's day

Other childrens' cards bear a carefully sloppy greeting,
  Or a rocket ship trailing a rainbow flame
    Or strategically random buttons.

Our children understand randomness is stochastic
  A propelant jet isn't rainbow hued
    And one can not be carefully sloppy.

One must be deliberate.

Our kids cut and glue and color with their typical wildness
Their enthusiasm shows in their jagged cuts and crooked stickers,
In the stray tape
In the coloring that is more bald than color.

They hunch over their Frankenstein creation willing it to monstrous life
Proud, happy, innocent of the ugliness.

The card they hand you is, generously,
And impressively garish given the harmoniousness of the starting materials.

They are aesthetically handicapped, you see.

They don't have a mother who guides them into straight lines and golden ratios
  Or who insists they color from edge to edge or coordinate their colors.
     (As if I can coordinate colors)

They have a mother who watches.

Happy Father's day from your aesthetically immature offspring.