Chick Stuff

I'm baking a three-layer birthday cake for my mom today: red velvet, Devil's food and classic yellow. I've come up with the frosting design (didn't have to consult Pinterest), and it's baking now, as I write.

"Is she making these from scratch?" you might be asking. Oh, hell no.

Before Matt left for the office, he said, "Make sure it's moist. Cook it five minutes less than it calls for. Don't forget to add plenty of oil...so it's moist. And water, to make it moist."

Believe it or not, this is Matt's love language for "You're pretty creative, but a great cook you ain't."

{Digression: I finished reading The Help this week, and I've been talking like a 1960s southern, black maid all week. This is not a racist comment, as they are now heroines of mine! I'm gone have to read that book again, I liked it so well.}

My cooking has true moments of beauty, but traditionally, and I blame my English/German heritage on this, it's quite bland. And I don't follow directions. Ever.

My friend Emily writes this wonderful blog, photographing all that she cooks, and it inspires me. She's a stay-at-home mom, too, with THREE kids, and she homeschools one of them. AND she's a great cook. It's really sickening, but I love her.

Part of my problem is planning. I never go in for the kill on this. I made an Italian bake the other night, hurrying through it because I started around 5:00 p.m., and I realized that I'd forgotten to add the red wine, the KEY ingredient. When it came out of the oven, fully cooked and bland as hell, I wondered if I added the wine then, pouring a half-cup or so over cooked pasta, maybe no one would notice. A few minutes later, Matt walked in. I sprinkled a bunch of seasoned pepper on it (my best friend), and called Sam to dinner.

We sat down to eat, and I said, "I tasted it. It's OK." Matt asked, "Is it bland?" I couldn't look him in the eyes, I just nodded.

Sometimes, I like to cloak the truth in a "I made a healthier version than the recipe called for" attempt. I pretend that this works for me.

Matt and Sam are troopers. They know that deep down, cooking isn't really my thing. Just like Chick TV, Chick Lit and, basically, mindless-chick-stuff aren't my things.

Post Script:
The Devil's food looks moist; the red velvet crept out of the pan and made a mess because I think it was too hot; there's classic yellow batter all over the kitchen floor. The phone rang 5 times from the start of this blog to now. If it weren't for my editing job, and need to talk to publicity people, I'd blow up the phone. At least I do not have the E! channel on in the background...

Due For Repair

Spring arrived in a little blue box this week. My crocuses and hyacinths are in full bloom, the days are longer, and Matt is almost tolerable to live with (hee hee).

We've been cooking out, playing outside (Sam is in his fort right now killing bad guys), taking walks, and tonight I'll be firing up the grill and pouring a small wine goblet for my dear husband--who never has to wait on repairmen--to enjoy on the deck.

I'm not sure what it is about us and repairs, and thank God I write from home so I can be here to meet the endless stream of child-abducting vans that are forever parked in our driveway. I called Matt today to tell him that our LG fridge was spewing water. At first, I detected low-grade defeat over the phone, then a growing surge of apoplexy, but then he calmly sighed, saying, "Do you want to call them, or me?"

There is a dark cloud hovering over our appliances, wiring and, soon enough, furnace. It's like a hail storm in the middle of a hurricane, and it never seems to end. These are the things that make marriage fun.

But it's life, and sometimes there's no better answer than a 1997 Martinelli, Jackass Vineyard, Russian River Valley Zinfandel. (Alcohol 16.5% by volume.)

Riding Life's Waves

We're on our last day of vacation in California. We're at Matt's parents now, but we rented a house on Newport Beach this time, so we were mere steps to the ocean. It was a little chilly this time around, but that didn't keep Matt and Sam out of the water, both surfing with their wetsuits on. Sam heard a million times, "Oh he's so cute!" Honestly, he did look pretty darn Matt-like in his suit. I asked Sam yesterday morning if he was going surfing, and he answered, "Yes, Mom, it's what I do, it's my job."

Matt and I ran on the beach a couple of times, and there were a few trips to Perry's Pizza and PJ's Surfriders. Standard issue. I know every nuance of Newport Beach now. : )

Sam told Matt how his job isn't any fun, saying, "Daddy, you don't have any toys or children to play with (well, a few children), just those big rocking chairs."

Matt took Sam and I to see his elementary school in Orange. In California, the kids walk from room to room...outdoors. Their little coat hooks are outdoors. Gotta pee? The bathroom is located outdoors. It's crazy to think that these little kids aren't locked inside some building, wandering the halls like all the little Indiana chillins. I like the concept, but...

The Newport Beach Grammar School is located on the beach! OMG, how much sand those poor teachers must have to sweep up daily. Not to mention all the beach bums that stop and gawk. Oh, no way.

Yesterday was Matt's and my wedding anniversary. It was a very sweet day. I think we hugged and kissed 53 times. He took me to our favorite restaurant, Orange Hill, that looks out over all of Orange County and a sliver of the ocean. I gave him a plastic, red heart that I'd dug out of the sand, to which I'd added a piece of heavy string. It was kind of a joke, but he got it. Our hearts are still strong, and our perspective on what marriage really takes in unflawed. He truly is the best guy, and I'm extremely fortunate. I love my guys so much.