Champ of Cherries

Cherry pie in winter: a slice of summer on your plate.

If you've never even considered trying your hand at preserving your own food, I hope this example of deliciousness gets you thinking about it. For just a minute or so. You can go back to your 21st Century life after that.

During our recent match with the Polar Vortex (or, what our grandparents would have simply called "The Winter Season") I found myself perusing my collection of digital memories from last summer. You can imagine the draw they had for me.  I ran across these little gems from cherry picking time on Old Mission Peninsula, Michigan (or, what my grandmother called "The Most Beautiful Place on Earth." Actually, I don't know if she called it that, but I do know she loved Old Mission).  The pictures made me make a pie. The pie made me eat it. I do not regret one moment of the experience.

Here's a step-by-step. 

1. Find some cute kids. I happened to have some of my own sitting in the back seat, along with a handsome nephew with an extra dose of personality. 

2. Convince them that picking produce is fun. For children with an overly-enthusiastic gardener for a father, this may be a test of your powers of persuasion. Remind them that they have never tried picking these fruits before.

3. Set them loose in a grove of cherry trees. Do not give them axes. Do not tell them stories about George Washington.

4. Bring the cherries home. 

5. Wash them under running water. Do not use soap.

6. Eat as many as you'd like. Even though they're not "sweet" cherries, we think they're still pretty yummy.

7. Don't eat the pits. Alternatively, don't break your teeth on the pits.

8. Remove the pits from the cherries you don't plan on eating fresh. Say, "This is the pits!" loudly until someone in the room laughs. It may take several tries to get the correct response. Don't give up. For pitting purposes, I recommend that you use one of these: 

http://www.amazon.com/OXO-Grips-Cherry-Pitter-Black/dp/B000NQ925K

Or one of these:

http://www.amazon.com/Leifheit-37200-Cherrymat-Cherrystone-Remover/dp/B001MSYWQW/ref=sr_1_3?s=home-garden&ie=UTF8&qid=1389663873&sr=1-3&keywords=cherry+pitter

The fancy-schmancy one comes with German instructions, so you can feel very frau-like.
9. Place pitted cherries in a plastic zipper-topped bag, gently squeezing to remove as much air as possible before sealing the bag.
10. Using a permanent marker, scribble the date on the bag. Toss it in the freezer and forget about it until January when you might need a reminder that Summer is for Real.
11. Come January (or earlier, if you like) grab the baggie from freezer, scratch off enough frost to determine that it contains cherries. Thaw a tiny bit on the counter or in the fridge. (This means just leave it alone while the relative warmth of your kitchen works its magic on the frozen fruit. In the deep throes of a polar vortex, you may wait a while for your kitchen to be "warm.")
12. Bake cherry-themed dessert of your choice. I recommend pie because it's from heaven. If you think you don't like cherry pie, it's probably because you've never had it made from cherries you picked yourself in the height of summer. It's the real stuff.

 Why aren't you eating real stuff?

P.S. - I don't usually make my own pie crust because I'm not as good at it as the people at Pillsbury. I still feel like a champ; A Pie Eating Champ.
P.P.S. - Leftover fruit pie for breakfast is practically health food. I promise.
P.P.P.S. - My husband thought he didn't like cherry pie, but that's because he doesn't like that stuff that comes in a can. He changed his mind and helped me eat the leftovers for breakfast. It was worth getting up before the kids.

A Girl and Her Cake

I was working on a post about "letting go" but it was boring.

I would much rather talk about cake. Specifically, the Birthday variety.  I have always been a great believer in Birthday cakes, and I believe that really influenced our decision to have so many children.  Just kidding. There was no decision or action taken on our part; the kids just happened. I promise, mom.
Anyway, having a houseful of children tends to ensure that there will always be plenty of birthday cake. Or at least, plenty of anticipation of birthday cake.
That's the problem: anticipation.
I get ideas about birthday cake that are way beyond my skill set, but just under my fluctuating levels of self-confidence.  To make things better, I often involve my children (you know, those Birthday people) in the cake idea session.  Pre-celebration, I don't seem to think anything is out of reach. Yes! I can make a princess-dragon-pirate-rocket birthday cake! Can't everyone?
Post-celebration, I remember why I hate Pinterest and internet moms everywhere.
Post-post-celebration, I just laugh at myself.
A couple of years ago, inspired by the movie Tangled my oldest daughter asked for a "Rapunzel's Tower" cake. Accepting the challenge, I Googled out this idea. Please, by all means, click on the link. What you'll see bears very little resemblance to what we had going on. Homemade frosting doesn't like late summer, I guess.

Yes, I spray-painted a kool-whip container for my base. No, it didn't prevent my tower from collapsing.

 The following year, with greatly lowered expectations, she asked for a simple "pretty cake."  Even that, apparently, is beyond my abilities.  What we had was more than edible, but a bit on the ugly side.

Either my homemade frosting recipe needs some improvement, or I need to make more of it. I feel if I made improvements, I would naturally want to make more of it and thus the spread on the cake wouldn't be so thin.

This year she just made her own cake.  It wouldn't come out of the pan in one piece, so that really simplified the frosting effort. I think we were both happier.  I mean, what eight-year-old doesn't want to make their own birthday cake and get chocolate batter all over the kitchen and repeatedly lick the frosting spatula and decorate with paper umbrellas?  We're talking paradise, people. Childhood paradise, that's what we have going on around here.

 We're not professionals; we're just having fun.  That doesn't require much anticipation or skill.

The Lovely Interruption of Spring

We had a beautiful spring here in Northwest Ohio. It was last week, in case you missed it.

We had some lovely moments together, Spring and I.

Those moments were usually interrupted by children, or laundry or a dog that has discovered the newly plowed field behind our house.

You shake your head. You roll your eyes a little. What is Honour's problem?  Doesn't she know that the loveliest moments of life are found in those interrupting children? In serving her family? In yelling her dog back into her own yard?

Well, yes, Honour knows all that.

Honour even tries to embrace those lovely interruptions.

Don't go packing Honour's case for a guilt trip she doesn't need.

Some botanical specimen outside Honour's dining room window, May 2, 2013

Spring ends quickly. On the calendar, Spring lasts from March 21 until June 21.  But most of that isn't spring.  The first six weeks of that time is merely Winter winding down.  It is muddy,windy, rainy (but only if we don't need precipitation; brown and bare if we do).  Balmy one day, freezing the next.  Too cold for a jacket, too warm for a coat.  Those first six weeks of calendar "Spring" are like the last 30 minutes before a toddler's nap: nothing pleases her; she needs a drink, she needs a snack; she feels hot, she wants a blanket; she's tired but wired; whiny and whimsical in turns, but since she doesn't like taking turns, she's mostly whiny.

Nap time eventually comes, and so does Spring.

For a WHOLE beautiful week - two if you're really special - everything is blossoms and buds.

Exact same specimen, outside the exact same window, May 5.

What do you like better - promising buds or full-blown blossoms?  The anticipation is exhilarating, but the realization of their potential is quite heady too.  It's rather like a theater production, don't you think?

 In all honesty, of the four springs we've lived here, I have never seen this tree quite so luxuriant in blooms.  As you can see by the arrangement of the patio furniture, we just sat around and stared at the pinkness.

Just kidding. Maybe someone sat around the fire-pit in the pre-Spring coolness.  Maybe the dog had a party while we slept. Maybe the tree did a little Shakespeare for the varmints.  Maybe...

It is precisely because she knows the season is fleeting that Honour didn't mind ignoring her children, laundry and dog for a few minutes to just stare at the pretty flowers. Yes, she was contemplating the ephemeral season, but it also took a few minutes for the caffeine to fully awaken her brain to the commotions around her.  [And if you're going to ask how laundry creates a commotion, you're obviously lacking in imagination.] She doesn't mind much of anything in those first few sluggish moments of the morning.

Anyway.
Spring has had her week of loveliness.  The tulips are wrinkled old ladies, well past their prime and missing most of their petals, although none of us have the heart to tell them that.  The daffodils seemed aware of their own decline and, shriveling upon themselves, quietly faded, without the fight of their sisters.  The ornamental and fruit trees exhausted themselves in performance and scattered their own flowers at their feet.  Maybe someone clapped, but none of us heard.
Now it is Summer. 
We our wait for thunder storms and the calender to catch up.

The Mother Plagiarizer

Please note, this post is completely lifted from the pages of my oldest son's school journal, spelling and grammar mistakes included.  I require that my children write every {school} day.  I was thinking about making the same requirement of myself, but I wondered if writing would become too much of a chore, like dishes and laundry and cooking and sweeping and teaching and running and showering and... I have too many requirements that I'm failing already.  Let's just keep it the way it is.

UPDATE
You know what they say about March. March comes in like a lion a goes out like a lamb. In 21 day ginger will be two and 15 more days until her birthday party. She is going to share it with our cousin, Login, and speaking of Login she is going to be a big sister in July.
I was sick yesterday and the day before that, so I didn't write in you Journal though I'm still not 100% today. More like 95%.

I ask you, what kind of mother makes her son do school work when he's only 95%?  
Login, whose real name is something very close, is indeed going to be a big sister in July. Her mother announced it on her photography blog, so I guess it's alright for WPaul to announce it in his Journal. Yay for cousins!

My Valentine Babies

Happy Valentine's Day!

My little Valentines had a party two days ago. For the first time in five years, I did not obsess over worry stress out spend any time creating an amazing valentine box for anyone.

I think it may have been a major break through.

I was headed into a craft store to pick up a few pink and red supplies when I saw a display of "memory boxes" on clearance.  Shoe-box size. Colorful. Pretty. Varied designs. Cheap.  It was an easy decision.

Ruffer Valentine Boxes, 2013 Version

I still feel a little guilty about these boxes.  It felt like a selfish choice. Easy decisions often feel selfish, don't they?  I think a big part of me missed taking an old shoe box and crafting a Valentine monster. But another, equally big, part of me didn't mind having a little extra time in my day.  (Honour Math: 1 big part + 1 big parts + various little parts + chocolate = 1 guilt-wracked mother.)  Plus, they are cute boxes.  

One of my boys felt like his wasn't personal enough.

He printed off pictures of Angry Birds and glued them to his box. Perhaps his feelings about Valentine's Day are more fully expressed now?

 Ginger had a relapse of an illness we've been sharing around here, so her older brothers and sisters helped me throw glitter and glue candy down to the pictures she didn't color.

When she was feeling better, and fortified by a heart-shaped sucker she ripped off of someone's valentine, she inspected their handiwork and declared it acceptable.  At least, I think that's what she was declaring.  She's always declaring something, but usually her pronunciation is difficult to interpret.

These were my favorite of our home-made valentines. I love variety of colors and the preschooler signature. When Willa was lagging behind in production, her older sister very kindly helped her finish and the owls became more uniform in their appearance.  The crazy-quilt application holds a certain charm for me.

 Of course, their creator holds a certain charm for me too.

 Norah's Valentine's were "store bought" but she very carefully wrote names and attached lollipops.  I think tiny cards are precious.  In fact, if I ever start sending mail on a regular basis, I might exclusively use tiny envelopes. I wonder if the USPS will mind?

Isn't she dear?  She tries to be so grown up, and with two little sisters hanging around, I sometimes think she is.  But then I see a picture of her, or listen to a voice mail message she's left me and I remember that she is still a very, very little girl. That's good, because I'm keeping her home with me forever. I hope we stop arguing about her hair soon.

 These are Sammy's messages of affection.  The girls got pencils, the boys got football cards.
 

And Sam, apparently, got a touch of memory loss.  Why are we giving valentines away?

Weston's cards pretty much were the same as Sammy's.  There's only so much you can do with a girly-holiday like Valentine's Day that doesn't seem, well, girly.

Weston is a little tired of pictures.
And maybe you are too.
So you'll be happy that I don't have a picture of my true Valentine and the card he gave to me.
I will also spare you a picture of our muddy yard.  All our snow has melted (so there, Boston) and we now can see all the random bits of garbage that Dolly the Wonder Dog has pilfered from the trash and left half-chewed across our winter grass.
February without snow is not my favorite.
Thank goodness for {cute} boxes with chocolate to cheer us up.

Sister/Mouse Help

I know this will shock no one, but my house is dirty. All of it.
This morning I felt like I was on the verge of a Housekeeping-Mothering-Christian Living Crisis.  I don't believe a clean house is a measure of one's Spirituality, but - for me - being surrounded by clutter and chaos is unnerving. It is hard to be a nice mother when my house is dirty. Being a nice mother is sort of a hallmark of following Jesus, isn't it?  I mean, if you are a mother. Non-mothers should be nice in their life calling, I guess.
Anyway. Verge of crisis.
I called my sister Amy to see if she could help me infuse my situation with humor and defuse my ever-shrinking temper.
She listened.
She sympathized.
She posted this video on my Facebook page.

I handed my phone to GBaby so she could watch it while I fixed her lunch.

Her siblings (well, the three that weren't laying on the couch all sick) crowded around her.

And I promptly stopped fixing lunch and grabbed my camera.

Because they are so cute. People that cute don't really need to eat, right?

I love her little hands. They may be almost two years old, but they're still baby hands to me.

This video clip was just what I needed. It felt so nice to have my sister acknowledge my good heart and over-worked status as family drudge.
I am obviously Cinderella.
I even have mice in my house.
Maybe if I started leaving little suits of clothing for them instead of traps they would be my friends.
Then they could sew pretty dresses in the attic while I'm busy fetching food for and cleaning up after my family.
I'd rather have them run the vacuum, but that might be more than their little mouse arms can handle.
Also, I wonder if they can be trained to sing in deeper voices.  I don't know if I can take much more squeakiness.

Winter Thoughts

There is a difference between dormant and dead.
There may be no green stems, no unfurling leaves, no stretching out towards the sun, no fruit-bearing.
But that doesn't mean there is no life.

Even seeds aren't dead. (Well, unless you roast and salt them. Then they're just food. And food should mostly be dead.)
They are just sleeping.
Waiting.

Trying to maintain color out of season is unnatural. (Everyone has a great-aunt or two whose hair color attests to this fact.)
And a waste of photosynthesis.
And a waste of transpiration. (Yes. I do know what transpiration is. Do you?)
Color out of season is draining on a plant.

Maybe your brightness is past. Maybe your fruit has shriveled on its stem.
(OK. The fact that I just typed that shriveled fruit sentence makes me laugh on the inside [LOitI]. The fact that I am leaving it ensures that my mother will call me tomorrow and revisit our conversation about sharing too much information [TMI] publicly.)
(The fact that I am making fun of over-used acronyms makes me hope my sister Amy reads this and appreciates it.)
(The fact that I used the word publicly makes me miss my sister Isabel.)
(The fact that I just alluded to a couple of inside jokes makes me wince.)

Be patient.
You are not dead yet.
Maybe it is just winter.
The long sleepy time for gardens.
The perfect time to recharge your mind.

(I did not place this banana sticker on her head. I merely took a picture of it.)
Also the perfect time to cozy up with a cup of hot chocolate.

(She was trying to be Downton Abbey-ish - her words. I did not have the heart to tell her that ripped jeans were not early twentieth century, but late. I appreciated the attitude and the effort to sit up straight on the edge of her chair.)

Or enjoy a bit of silliness.

Or indulge in a bit of over-reaching introspection and wordiness. (The pictures made me do it.)

Winter Backyard Wonderland

I couldn't handle another round of indoor tag today, so I insisted that our Physically Educating segment take place in the snow.   The only problem was that I made this declaration in GNotSuchABaby's presence.  She was not going to be left out again.

Very serious about this first expedition into snow play.

There's lots to do, even if there isn't enough snow for a fort, snow people, or sled pulling.

Digging in the ice left by a dripping garden hose.  We prepare well for winter.

Since this is his favorite cat, I'd hate to see him playing with the ones he doesn't like so much.

I made them all group together for a picture.

Immediately after enjoying a nice healthy scarf snack, Weston returned to frozen gardening. Sam turned to Norah with an enticing, "Let's pretend we're Americans fighting Germans in World War 2!"

She was all over that idea.
I am raising my children right. (I hope.) Of course, when I was growing up, we pretended that we were oppressed Jews running away and hiding from Germans, not fighting.  I can't decide which role play is better, but there is no doubt that snow enhances both situations.
The little sisters were left to fend for them{bundled-up}selves.  When I saw the protective way that Willa was guiding Ginger around the yard, my icy heart cracked with warm feelings of good cheer.

Were there ever such adorable sisters? I mean, since my sisters and I grew up?