Coaxing you all out of the closet

I realized recently that I have been doing this little blogging thing for almost two-and-a-half years now. And you know what? I still love it. It's still fun. It's therapeutic for me, and it's given me a permanent record of my everyday life.

Which, we all know, is extremely exciting, right?

I know Angelina must weep with envy at the fabulousness that is me. Me and my thighs made entirely out of cookie dough.

But I feel like you know me here. You get me. You come back to see what dumb things I've done lately. You laugh at my bad haircuts and roll your eyes when I strut my stuff for the handicapped men at the grocery store. I figure, if you're reading me with any regularity, you must find something here that you like.

And so I have decided that today it is time for me to meet all of you. Because I like you. And I think it's time we became friends.

So here's the deal: Leave me a comment saying hi. Maybe tell me how you found me or when you first started reading. I'm even willing to entertain your hate mail. I guess I'm stupid curious like that. But, please, just say SOMETHING.

Even if you've never said something before. Come of your lurking closet. Just this once. Then you can go back in and I will let you read this blog in peace.

I will then take all the lovely love notes from you, throw them into a proverbial hat, and pick a random winner. The winning comment will receive something from me at some point in the near future. Not sure what, but it will be fabulous.

So, come on. Say hi.

Because sometimes? A girl just needs a little validation from her internet peeps.

Channeling my inner June Cleaver

A few weeks ago, I made a bargain with my friend, Maren. I told her that if she would teach me how to make jam, I would teach her how to make homemade chicken noodle soup.

Gabi has posted about the four-generation family recipe for chicken noodle soup here, which I now consider to be a large portion of Hannah's future dowry. I might have married the Husband for this recipe alone, had I known.

It is the same recipe I faithfully use, and it is truly amazing. My favorite part is actually using half an egg shell to measure the milk for the noodles. Something about that just seems so old-fashioned, so earthy.

What? I can be earthy. I can be old fashioned.

Shut up.

ANYway, I urge you to take advantage of the season, head out, and get yourself some strawberries, sugar, pectin, and jars. Because the joy of taking this:



While remembering to do a little bit of this:

And laughing with someone while they do this:


Will ultimately net you a large batch of this:

Pure, red, sugary heaven.

Which, by the way, I have had to ration. The little (and big) people around here seem to think they can have jam on just about everything. It's killing me how fast we're going through this stuff. I feel like I need to stash it safely away from their grubby mitts and growling stomachs.

I decided to hide the rest in the freezer under the vegetables. We all KNOW the children will never look there.

Neither will the Husband.

So, without further rambling on my part, I give you the recipe:

FREEZER JAM
3 cups mashed berries
5 cups sugar (I know, don't even say it, Robyn)
1 cup water
1 box pectin

Wash and stem the berries. Mash by hand (or in a blender if you're lazy like us). Stir sugar into berries and let sit for 20 minutes.

In the meantime, add pectin to water and stir until dissolved. Bring water and pectin to a boil, and boil for one full minute. Add water and pectin to berry mixture; stir until combined. Pour into clean, dry jam jars, leaving a little head room at the top. Cover with lids. Let jam jars sit on your counter for 24 hours, then store in the freezer.

Or until your piggy little munchkins get a hold of some and practically eat it by the spoonfuls.

Also critical to the success of the recipe is having some warm, soft, homemade bread handy. It helps you ensure that your blood sugar will remain in a constant diabetic state for at least a week straight.

Which any good jam really ought to do.

BYU's most eligible bachelor

A few weeks ago, one of my friends asked me to take senior pictures of her son. I was excited to practice taking pictures on someone willing and capable of sitting happily and smiling for me.

Unlike the people around here who would rather endure the dentist's drill than pose for their mother without the promise of cold, hard cash.

Dustan was a photographer's dream. He endured outfit changes, multiple locations, and more than an hour's worth of smiling at my camera. I think it was worth the effort and wanted to show you a few of my favorites.

Look out, ladies of BYU. This handsome fella is coming your way this fall:

Somehow, I don't remember the boys in my high school being nearly as cute or half as nice as Dustan is.

Grab him now, girls. He'll be going fast.

To my baby on her seventh

Dear Hannah,

I don't suppose you have even noticed that your birthday came and went without a letter from me here. What can I say? Such is the life of the youngest child. Time has gotten away from me the last month or so, but you have been ever present in my mind.


You have changed so much in the last year, little sis. You learned to ride your bike without training wheels. You started first grade, and went to school all. day. long, leaving me home by myself for the first time in 10 years. You began to assert your independence in so many ways.


And you began to pick your own clothes.

I have, for the most part, kept my mouth shut about your choices, even when I cringed as you left the house with brightly colored scarves around your neck and mismatched layered tees adorning your slim body. It was not until parent-teacher conference when your young, hip teacher exclaimed her delight at your keen fashion sense, that I began to wonder if I ought to have you picking out my clothes, too.

You've been trying to do that for a long time now anyway.


Hannah, of all the people in our family, you are probably the best sport. You are constantly dragged to baseball games or tae kwan do matches. You are outnumbered when it comes to movie picks, and are frequently forced to endure the war and action movies favored by your brothers. Week after week, and movie after movie, you cheerfully grab a coloring book and open it onto your lap - not wanting to be left out of the fun. It is your happy willingness to join in their games that melts my heart, even though I know you yearn for more girly companions a lot of the time.


The other day I was in the kitchen doing some baking. You had been helping me, and continued to keep me company with your chatter, even when the baking was through. I was washing the dishes, and I looked behind me to see you wiping the bar down with a wet towel. A smile on my face turned to a huge grin when I watched you grab the broom and start sweeping. You did this without any prompt on my part. It was such a big girl thing to do - to notice what needed to be done, and just do it.

I have no doubt this experience will never be repeated by your brothers, however.


All through our cleaning, you talked and talked, never once wanting to be anywhere else but by my side, and for a brief moment, I had a glimpse of what will be.

Of what has become, really.

No longer are you just the baby on the counter waiting to lick the spoon. Suddenly, and without warning, you have became my ally and companion in the kitchen. You have become my friend.

And sweets, I can't think of anything that I want more.

I love you deeper than you will ever know. There's a special place in my heart reserved solely for you.

You, the little baby who was sent to us quite on purpose when we were not looking. Tell me, what did we ever do without you?



I love you forever, little Chica.

♥Mama

A happy ending for our DMV fairy tale

I thought you all would like to know the end of the pretend, made up, and hypothetical story from yesterday.

Ahem.

Flash back to our fictional, imaginary heroine, who is beautiful, has flawless skin, and long, luxurious hair. She is so thin that models come seeking her advice on weight loss, and her mailbox is constantly full of love notes from the chiseled perfection that is Daniel Craig.

Admittedly, I might have gotten carried away with that last bit.

ANYway, upon noticing the smoking chimney staring her down, she immediately threw her car into reverse and drove around the block like the chicken that she is. After about ten minutes, she went back to the DMV with her husband's forged signature, and stood in what was now a very long line.

She, whoever she may be, is definitely not as brave as some of you fine people who would willingly forge their husband's signature while staring down the chain-smoking psychos of the DMV.

But our heroine was able to successfully register her new vehicle and is thrilled to finally have license plates.

She is mourning the loss of a gazillion billion dollars from her bank account, however.

And I feel certain that our heroine would choose to drown her sorrows in a diet coke from Sonic and a mini twix bar.

Who can waste calories on a Twinkie anyway? Especially with that delicious Daniel Craig just lying around . . .

The end.

Hypothetical fun on a Monday morning

Let's just say you get a new car. And, because you are not excited about handing over a gazillion billion dollars in sales tax to your local DMV, you wait until the last possible second to go in and register that car.

And let's just say, for imagination's sake, that upon entering the DMV, you gleefully notice there is no line. You eagerly hand over your 9,548 sheets of papers required by the local DMV.

All appears to be going well until the local DMV worker notices that your husband's signature is missing on one of the forms. You curse silently because you know that your husband is out of town for the week.

In this completely fictional situation, you would probably smile, take your piles of forms, and head out to your car. Because you are such a good person, you would then FedEx the documents to your husband's hotel, where he would sign his own name, and promptly FedEx them back the next day.

But let's just say, for argument's sake, that you are really good at signing your husband's name. So good, in fact, that he, himself, is unable to tell the difference between his own signature and your version.

Given this fact, hypothetically, you might wait out in your car, mentally allowing the ten minutes it would take for you to drive home and obtain the signature from your husband. You know, if he were actually there. You might decide to pass the time by calling your sister-in-law for a chat.

And let's just say that while you are sitting in the car chatting, not driving home for a signature from a husband who is not there, you look up to see the DMV worker who just helped you, coming out for his smoke break. He takes a few long, cancer-riddled puffs, looks your way, and notices you sitting there in your car.

Oh, frick.

In this type of alleged, hypothetical situation, do you:

a) Sit there in defiance and go back into the DMV with the signature magically obtained?

b) Give up, and go seek comfort in a Costco-sized box of Twinkies?

c) Drive around the parking lot like a coward before returning with the signature magically obtained?

d) Drive away and throw your shoe at the DMV door in protest, all while yelling obscenities and curses?

What would you do in this alleged situation, my friends?

Disclaimer: I'm not saying this was me or anyone I know. Definitely not me this morning. I have been sitting here at my desk, calmly thinking of solutions to potential problems such as this one.

I'm a problem solver, people. It's what I do.