just saying.

This will be the shortest post in the history of ever.

I'm just here to tell you that next week, I have to register Stella for kindergarten.  Honest-to-goodness elementary school.

Please send bottles of wine and a pack of hankies.

That is all.

burning out his fuse up here alone.

This is one of my all time favorite commercials.



This and the Discount Double Check.  Anyway.  Let's talk about song lyrics.

Incorrect song lyrics are never a problem for me.  I know them all.  I sing them flawlessly.  In my head.  We all know people who don't, though.  Right?  I had a friend in college who thought Prince was singing, "Baby, come on back," instead of, "Little Red Corvette." The number of syllables matches.

Recently, M and I were talking about Nebraska and I started singing the Counting Crows song "Omaha".  He looked at me like I'd just grown a third eyeball in the middle of my forehead and asked what I was singing.  When I told him he was like, "Wow.  That makes more sense now...that whole somewhere in middle America thing."

And we laughed about it a bit.

But now, S is playing the incorrect song lyrics game, and she puts the rest of the Earth's population to shame.

I'm going to out myself right now as a questionable parent.  S and I rock out to some Lady Gaga.  I made a mix CD to get myself pumped up before I jumped out of an airplane last year.  It's got some old school hip hip, some Beyonce, some Lady Gaga.  In fact, other than one Will.I.Am song, I don't think there is a single song on there that I should let my daughter listen to, but she butchers the lyrics so horrendously that no one knows what she's singing.  For example:

In "Bad Romance," instead of singing,"Want your bad romance," she says something about, "you right a man's place."  Perhaps she thinks this song is about a woman who is putting a man into his place.  A feminist battle hymn.  That's not what Lady Gaga is saying, but it's what S is saying, and she really likes the "Rah Rah" part.

Also, she told me yesterday when we were listening to "Bad Romance" that she would sing Lady Gaga's parts and I could be the Cushion Lady.  Apparently, that's the part that says, "Walk, Walk Fashion Baby." Millions of people didn't know that she's really talking about a Cushion Lady.

It took me awhile to figure out what she was asking to listen to when she started requesting "Carrot Line," but that's what she thinks they're singing when they say, "Can't read my," in "Poker Face".

Regularly, M and I play a game when we hear her singing.  It's a game in which we try to match sounds and syllables of actual songs to the sounds and syllables that are coming out of her mouth.  It's challenging.

She does, however, have the Avett Brothers' "Hard Worker" down cold.

What about you?  Your kids?  Your spouse? Any hysterically incorrect lyrics in your lives?

sympathy for the devil.

Lord, help me*. Please don't let them kick S out of preschool right before graduation. She'd be devastated, and I don't think there is a GED program for preschoolers.

When I picked S up from preschool earlier, the teacher was recounting a story to another mom. She laughed a little under her breath, pointed at me, and said, "Come over here and listen to this." Apparently, they'd been talking about the devil. The other girl involved, J, was going on and on about how the devil is bad and wants us to do bad things and reciting all the things she's learned in Sunday School. Well, S doesn't go to Sunday School because she's the only child in our church that isn't her baby brother and apparently the Episcopal liturgy is above her pay grade.

I digress...

The point is we don't talk about the devil a lot.

So, as J was talking about how bad the devil is, S spoke up and said, "Yes, but he needs friends, too. He doesn't want to feel left out. It's not nice to hurt people's feelings."

I can't believe they didn't call me to come pick up my little heretic right then and there. Thank you, Walnut Street Preschool, for recognizing that she is a good child. She just doesn't want to hurt the devil's feelings. It's not like they're BFF's.

Somebody stop me. Then pray for us all.

*Also, please don't strike me dead for blasphemy. Because I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to blog about the Lord and the devil in a sort of tongue-in-cheek way. I'll write an extra big check this Sunday.**

**There I go again. Hell in a handbasket.

buttery, cinnamony deliciousness.

Sometimes, I feel the need to back off when it comes to food. I tend to want to do things a bit high falutin'. Not five star or anything, but not Hamburger Helper. I think that's been pretty well documented.

An example of this insanity can be seen in this tidbit of an email I wrote to Scarlet Lily yesterday:

Sometimes, my yuppie moments just make me laugh. M and T both have colds, so I'm doing NOTHING unnecessary in an attempt to keep myself well. Thus, I am having a grand old' time perusing food blogs and one of my Alice Waters books.

Upon reading the following sentence, I rolled my eyes at the absurdity of my life:

An individual pizza with a baked egg makes a great main course for an autumnal weekend lunch.

Who actually writes sentences like that?

And what kind of yuppie jerk wad buys the nonsense and reads it multiple times?

Oh, wait. I'm the yuppie jerk wad in question.

Despite that exchange yesterday...despite the fact that I patted out some goat cheese rounds and started marinating them in fresh herbs for tonight's Baked Goat Cheese salad...I knew M wasn't feeling well, and I wanted something simple for supper, and I had planned on having blueberry pancakes, but T had eaten all the blueberries, so I made Baked Cinnamon Roll Pancakes.

Image from Big Red Kitchen.

Fancy they were not. Not in the least. Delicious they were. Yes indeed. Cinnamon and butter and brown sugar all baked into gooey fabulousness in a pancake then coated in maple glaze. The family happily gave their stamps of approval. And they were probably silently grateful that I didn't try to feed them the Shaved Asparagus and Parmesan salad I was eyeing in that Alice Waters book.

bouchons au thon

I did it. I made Molly's bouchons au thon yesterday. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that her writing made me want to make them. When I looked at the ingredient list, there was nothing about them that I wanted to eat. However, I'd bought a can of tuna, and I wasn't about to be deterred.

Yesterday afternoon, I got to work. It took about nine seconds for me to start seriously questioning myself. I believe nine seconds is exactly how long it takes to open a can of tuna. Thus, nine seconds until the smell of canned tuna wafts into your life.

I pressed on. I added the grated cheese. I added the finely diced onion. I added some drained Greek yogurt (like you can buy creme fraiche in Dickson...please). I added parsley and salt and pepper. I added eggs. And I thought maybe, just maybe this wasn't so bad. Then I realized that I forgot to add the tomato paste. And, bam, we crossed into uncharted territory. The batter looked positively revolting. Like really, really chunky thousand island dressing. And it still smelled like tuna. Tuna and tomatoes and Gruyere.

What, that doesn't sound appealing to you either?

Still, I boldly forged ahead.

The entire time they were baking, I kept making myself think of something other than the smell. When they were finished baking, I kept making myself think of something other than how they looked. I questioned my sanity multiple times. Why on Earth did I think I would enjoy something that literally translates into tuna corks?

After they cooled a bit, I decided I was going to have to try one to see if I would have to order pizza. I picked one up from the cooling rack. I smelled it. I looked at it. I gagged a little. I ordered pizza online.

However...

When L came to pick up S, I made some faces at them and talked about them and decided I really did owe it to Molly to try. We're close personal friends, you know. So I cut a little wedge from one and ate it. And you know what? It wasn't bad. Not anywhere near as bad as the canned tuna smell or the baked thousand island appearance. In fact, they were almost good. They were intriguing. A strange texture that I can't actually compare to anything really. Somewhere in the neighborhood of a frittata. Just the same, I loaded those suckers up and sent them home with L, and S apparently liked them quite a bit.

Now I've been thinking about them all day, wondering if I gave up too soon. Who knows? What I do know is that I doubt I'll muster the courage to give bouchons au thon a second try because even if I'm intrigued, I don't think I can stomach the eau de canned tuna again.

dinner with my peeps.

Friday night, I had the girls over. We had champagne cocktails and wine and an entire meal that would've been handily endorsed by the Dairy Council of America. Ashley brought a bleu cheese and bacon dip that I would've eaten with a spoon if I'd been alone. Holly brought salad with crack pecans and blueberries and bleu cheese. I made macaroni and cheese and slow roasted tomatoes. Andrea brought roasted broccoli. Then we had Tiramisu Cake.

The evening was not unfabulous.

Image thieved from Dara.

Honestly, everything was pretty awesome, but I'm especially here to tell you about the macaroni and cheese. It was perfection. Really. I'd make it again today if I wouldn't weigh a thousand pounds if I kept eating it. I used Deb's version of Martha's Macaroni and Cheese, and I used extra sharp white cheddar and Romano cheeses and the cheapest white sandwich bread I could find for the topping. Just thinking about it right now is making my mouth water. I'm telling you: you will never want to eat another version of mac and cheese again...and this is coming from a woman who swears by Creamy Rigatoni with Gruyere and Brie.

Image thieved from Dara.

Also, the Tiramisu cake. It was good, don't get me wrong, but the sponge cakes dried up so badly overnight that the leftovers were inedible, and that's just sad. It needed a little tweaking or a more significant dousing of coffee syrup. It didn't matter much, though, because the filling and the chunks of dark chocolate and the frosting were so good that I could've died happy whilst eating it.

Now, I made herbed focaccia yesterday afternoon and homemade tomato sauce, and there is a hunk of fresh mozzarella in the fridge, so I'm going to spend the afternoon daydreaming about paninis for supper. And tomorrow night, we're going to give Molly's bouchons au thon a whirl. I love my life. Everyday and twice on Sundays.

one.

I've got several blog posts floating around in my cranium these days, but first things first. Like, first birthdays. Here are some photos.

It's official.

With Grandma.

Loving presents.

Downtime with Dad.

S playing Corn Hole.

SR in action.

Girls Gone Wild? Sometime I'll tell you about their campfire.

Cake boss.

evidence.

For today, here are just a couple of pictures of the kiddos. I realize there have been zero photographs lately, and I didn't want you to think they'd disappeared and I was making up all the stories about them in an elaborate conspiracy. I know you were all thinking that.

This photo turned out super grainy, but you can clearly see that when S and A get together, there is no shortage of personality. Even when making cookies.

S, being gorgeous. It's her thing.

T, with treasure.

Kids in a wagon.

eats.

I mentioned some time ago that I have a goal to try 1000 new recipes. It's a lifelong goal. I decided you probably needed to know about some of the successful recent dinner attempts.

Here goes.

• Orangette's Tomato Sauce with Onion and Butter. This is nice and simple, but it didn't really sing to me. When I blended it, there was a small fry headbutting my legs and I didn't blend it enough for fear of some errant tomato sauce leaping out of the pan and landing on his face and somehow ruining his perfect visage ala The Phantom of the Opera. I'm sure you understand. It made a ton, though, so I'm going to reblend it tonight before we try it again.

• Skinny's Thai Peanut Noodles with Chicken. We ate these last night. They were very good. Emphasis on the very good. I'm eagerly awaiting lunchtime so I can hoover the leftovers. Alas, S had a deconstructed version (noodles tossed in sauce in a bowl, accompanied by a pile of chicken and a pile of red peppers). That kid wears me out.

• Skinny's Asian Lettuce Cups. These were also good. T gobbled up the turkey mixture, but S wouldn't eat it because she couldn't separate with scallions from the meat and that was no good for her. She's a brat like that sometimes. I ate leftovers on a whole wheat tortilla for lunch yesterday, and it wasn't bad, but the lettuce wrap was better because the textures were a better combination.

• Deb's Scrambled Egg Toast. This isn't so much a recipe as a combination I wouldn't have thought of on my own. The combo of goat cheese with eggs and chives is divine. Add some crusty bread and stick a fork in me. I never want to eat eggs another way again. Ever. Really.

So that's what we've been eating lately. What about you? Any new deliciousness on your plates?

it's a bird, it's a plane.

S has a bizarre fascination with cemeteries. She always talks about them when we pass them. Always. The girl is full of questions. Perhaps she's more intrigued than her friends because her Grandpa passed away last Spring. Maybe it's just how she's wired. That could well be the case because the child comes up with random BIG questions often.

Anyway.

Sunday, M and S drove past a cemetery, and she was asking him about his mother and during the course of the conversation he told her that God has a plan for us all. Then this happened.

S: But, Daddy, when do I get to ride on the plane?

M: What are you talking about? What plane?

S: You said, "God has a plane for us all."

M: No, baby. Not a plane. A plan. God has a plan for us all.

S: Oh.

Every time I think about it, I laugh and want to squeeze the cuteness out of her.

For the record, our very soon-to-be one-year-old is also hysterical. His new favorite game? Chewing up his food, taking it out of his mouth, and watching me squirm as he tries to wipe it into my mouth. It's a riot 'round here. A riot, I tell you.

you know you should.

I liked this post over at Small Notebook this morning.

The backstory: the blogger lost her camera and only good karma apparently got it back to her because it wasn't labeled with her name or number. The post is a call to action: do all the random things that you probably know you should do to save yourself a monster headache in the future.

I, for one, have never even thought about labeling my camera with my phone number, but it doesn't seem like a bad idea at all now that I'm thinking about it. She also mentions hiding a house key somewhere and actually learning her husband's phone number. Luckily, I've already done those two. (Disclaimer: Mr. Ouiser took care of the house key. I'm not entirely sure I know where the hidden lockbox is or what the combination is, but luckily I memorized his phone number, so I can just call him or my brother who has a spare key to our house and is always good with a damsel...or a sister...in distress.)

Now that I'm thinking about it, I know that there are at least a handful of things that I often tell myself I should do, but I haven't done them, and I don't remember what they are, and I'll remember as soon as it bites me on the backside.

What about you? What random task would you suggest to help yourself out of a jam in the future?