So you know how I’ve been cooking and haven’t killed anyone yet, or burned anything, or set anything on fire recently?

Well that all came to a crashing halt yesterday.

A flame, smoke filled halt.

See, last night I actually got to hang out with the adults at church as I’ve taken a break from teaching our youth group to attend Financial Peace University.  But my chuch peeps?  They like to eat.  So, I had to bring a dish.  Because we talk about Jesus, money, and eat.

I used to be a WHOLE LOT thinner prior to becomming a Christian.

Anywho, I decided I would try something new to take.  I’m learning and I’ve found that the more I cook/bake, the more I learn, the more I like to do it and so I went through the 5 gazillion recipe books that I have and picked out the S’Mores Mousse Cake.  It looked simple enough and I thought it would be a good thing to make.

I went to the store and got what I needed and then came home to prepare it.  I then realized that I needed a spring form pan.  I don’t have one of those, so I improvised.

Mistake #1.

I got the whole cake together and then went to toast the mini marshmellows as instructed in the cook book.  Place marshmallows 1 inch apart on parchment paper (what’s that, anyway? I used wax paper) making sure they don’t touch and toast on 400 for 6-8 minutes.

I hand placed each of those marshmallows 1 inch apart and put them in the oven.  I never left the kitchen.  I even checked on them a few times to look for golden tops.

After 6 minutes they were golden, however, when I opened the oven to see smoke came billowing out.

I quick grabbed them out of the oven and turned it off, opened the front door, and then when I realized the kitchen was filled with smoke, I yelled out to the boy, “Hey, the kitchen’s filled with smoke, but don’t worry, nothing’s on fire.  I’ve got it under control.”

He just kind of looked at me and went back to tending to the kids.

A few minutes later, he came in and opened some more windows, asked me if I was okay, and when I said, yes, he just chuckled.

So I decided to try these marshmallows again.

Again, I placed each tiny marshmallow on the wax paper lined cookie sheet, one inch apart and put it in the oven.  After three minutes they weren’t toasted, but smoke again came billowing from the oven.

“Crap!” I yelled.  “I did it again.”

The front door was open, so the boy heard me.  He stuck his head in the door and again asked me if I was alright.

“Yes.”  I was mad by this point in time.  And embarrassed.  And feeling defeated.  It didn’t matter that the recipe said the toasted marshmallows would add a nice touch and weren’t really needed.  I mean, come on, how hard could this be.

I left the toasted, but not golden brown mini marshmallows on the counter and went to pick up Matthew.  When I returned, the boy had closed up all the windows and I started making dinner.  We only had to feed the kids so I decided hamburger helper would be easy and they would eat it.

As I’m browning the hamburger, I see a little smoke coming up from the side of the skillet and so I lift it up and as I do, flames come shooting from the burner.

I quick blew them out and moved the skillet to another burner.  Then I went into the living room to speak to the boy.

“Um, we need to clean out that right front burner sometime.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Well, I kinda just set it on fire.  But don’t worry, I put it out.  They were just little flames, I’ve got it under control.”

Again, he chuckled.

As I’m washing up some dishes, Matthew is stirring the meal and he says, “Hey, it looks like smoke,” and no sooner did he say that then a little flame popped up there.

“I wasn’t even over there!” I screamed. “It’s not my fault!”

The boy had fixed the first burner and we moved dinner back there.

My face must’ve shown how I was feeling, defeated in the kitchen and that’s when the boy started laughing and it was gut wrenching.

I did get the kids fed and managed not to burn anything down and I took my s’mores mousse cake to church.  Short of not being able to cut the crust, it was good, or so they tell me.  It had wheat in it, and since I’ve gone back to eating right, I didn’t have any.

J was sitting across from me during the class and just looked at me after he picked it up to eat it with his hands since he couldn’t cut the crust and said, “This is REALLY good, Heather.  You need a hacksaw to eat it, but it’s really good.”

And the boy and all my bestest friends just laughed.

And I did, too.

Because it was funny.

I knew a day like today was coming.  I knew it was just a matter of time.

So tonight, I just put ribs in the crockpot.  I figured I can’t screw those up, however, knowing now that things can erupt in flames when I’m not even there makes me want to jet over there and make sure that the crock pot isn’t on fire. 

More answers to questions coming soon… and the winner of the gift card.  And reviews.  And… well, the holidays are over.  It’s time to get back in to the swing of things.

Bah.

I think I’d rather just go in the kitchen and bake.

Until next time…

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So, my NKOTB BFF asked:

mmm..I’m trying to think of something no brainer ish (sure it’s a word) as my brain is kind of mushy. Do you still have the evil looking stove and weren’t you supposed to get a new one or do you just only cook at “the boys” house now?

Funny you should ask about that.

But the answer is, yes.  I still have the evil looking stove.  Not only do I still have the evil looking stove, it still only has 3 working burners and an oven that doesn’t heat to the temperature that you ask it to by turning the dial.

Shortly after talking about purchasing a new stove, one of my best friend’s and I were having lunch and she said that if I could wait until she remodeled her kitchen, that I could buy hers.  I like her stove and it would’ve been cheaper than buying the bare bones model in the store.  After learning that she would be remodeling within four months, I decided that I could wait that long.  It’s been longer than 4 months, but really, it’s not an issue.

I needed a stove to cook on and the Lord provided.  And gave me a boy with it.  :)  Not too shabby of a deal.

To answer the second part of your question, yes, I only cook at the boy’s house now.  In fact, I think it’s been at least two months since I turned the stove on here.

Did I tell you our arrangement?  I cook on Monday and Thursday.  He cooks on Tuesday and Wednesday.  Fridays through Sundays are up in the air.  Sometimes we have enough left overs, or reruns, as he likes to call them, to feed an army, so we eat those up and other times, like this week, we’ve polished off everything so we’re going to have to figure out what to feed ourselves.

We rarely eat out anymore because it’s just too expensive and we’re both poor.  But yeah, we talk about dinners and plan them out and make grocery lists. We’re getting smarter with our planning.  We figured out that we were buying things that we already had at one of the houses.  It’s coming together.

So, since that challenege has been alleviated, we now like to see who can make a meal that all the children will eat or see which meals get the least complaints.

It’s gross, I know.

So there’s that questions… now off to answer some more…

Until next time…

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So I was putting the house back together this afternoon and I was doing really well until I went to move the TV cart.

I broke it.

But I think it was still fixable.  I was supposed to wait for the boy to get here to look at it.

But I thought that I would “help” and unscrew the screws that were on there.  I figured that he could just put new screws in there and bend the brackets back and we’d be back in business.

Except, that while I was waiting and determining how HE could fix it, I decided that it was easy enough for me to fix.

Know where this is going?

I broke the whole darn thing and now I don’t think it’s repairable at all. 

Yup.  I should’ve just waited.

Which is what he’s going to tell me when he walks in the door.

Until next time…

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So here’s what I know is going to happen in 2009…

I’m going to turn 32.

Matthew is going to turn 12.

Samara is going to turn 10.

2009 will be the year that my clan all reached double digits.  And really?  This post wasn’t about that, but I just realized it when I confirmed how old we are all going to be this year.

It’s still not going to be about that, and really, I’m not sure what it’s going to be about, but I felt the urge to open up a blank screen and write.

I rang in the New Year last night with the boy.  Just the boy and I.  His kids crashed about 11, or rather, were forced to crash.  Samara was at a sleepover/birthday party, and Matthew wanted to stay at the New Year’s Eve party at church.  (the boy, his kids and I left at 10:30.)

It was nice.

He asked me if I was going to make any resolutions and I said, “No, I’ll just break them, so why set myself up for failure?”

He laughed.  But that’s the reality.

I do, however, have some goals that I would like to work on this year.  I’d like to drop another 15 pounds and I’d like to make sure that I’m eating right again, like laying off the wheat/gluten entirely.  It’s really hard to do, but I need to.

And I would like to become a better Christian and read the Bible all the way through.  I keep talking about doing that, and get a good start, but I never finish.  Last year I made that resolution, even got a new Bible for my birthday.  I made it through Judges.

But the other day, I picked up a Bible in 90 days.  I’m doing okay, so far, and I have an added incentive.  The boy said he would do it if I did it.  This ought to be good.

So anyway, I really have nothing to say.  There are some good questions over on the Ask Me Anything Post.  I’ll start answering them soon, and you can win a gift certificate for each comment that you leave (doubles are welcome!) as long as there’s a question contained within.

Right now, I have to go and wake up my daughter.  That sleepover?

They never went to sleep.  And she’s got chores to do.

Welcome 2009…

Until next time…

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I’m typing on my son’s ancient computer.  It’s slow.  I almost forgot what my password was to my blog when I logged on. 

Know why?

My Mac won’t power up.

When I went to bed last night, it was on.  I left the report that I was working on open, saved, but open, so that when I awoke this morning, I would be able to sit down and finish it and send it off.

But when I awoke this morning, to the smell of hot, fresh, Krispy Kreme doughnuts (thanks to the boy), my computer was off.

“The power must’ve went off last night,” I said.  It happens when the wind picks up and the wind has most definately picked up around here.  To the point where I’m halfway afraid that my large hiney will blow away if I set foot on the porch.

That’s a good way to feel thin, I tell ya.

The boy left to go back to work, and I hit the power button and then when to make my coffee.  Decaf is all I have, but it’s something.

When I came back in the office, the computer was still off.

I hit the power button again and nothing.  I kept hitting it over and over again and nothing.

I checked to make sure that the cords were all plugged in, thinking maybe the cat unplugged it, but they were all secure and everything else plugged into the power cord was working.

Mac is dead and Friday is the earliest that I can it to the shop.

What’s worse?  I have to start over on the report, and because my son only has open office and not excel, I need to get out the craptop.  Which doesn’t want to cooperate today.

And I’m still sick… like I feel like I got run over, I think you can see tread marks on my forehead, sick.

Which means I don’t feel like going to the family New Year’s Eve gathering tonight.  Which means my children are going to be upset with me.

I don’t even feel like playing Rock Band, y’all and that’s all I’ve wanted to do since I purchased it for Matthew for Christmas and we opened it Christmas morning.

That’s saying something.

Anywho, I need to get moving on this report so that I can finish up my day and go back to bed.

And do laundry.

And clean.

And take the Christmas decorations down and the tree so that I can have my living room back.

And deal with my children, of which one of them just looked at me and said, “Mom, why did you have to make him?”

I just want to go back to bed and pray that the start of 2009 is better than the ending of 2008.

Happy New Year!

Until next time..

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Like, I’m kinda glad I had a nephew to post about.

Sure, I have a post compiled in my head of all the things I got for Christmas that I want to share with you, and perhaps I will… but I’m just feeling that holiday hangover already and I’ve not even made it through New Years.

Sad isn’t it?

So here’s the deal.

I want to play another round of Ask Me Anything.

You ask, I answer.

Please?

I’m even willing to pony up a $20 gift card to Amazon.com for one lucky question asker.  I don’t care how many comments that you leave, as long as there’s a question, it’s counted as an entry.  That’s how much I need something to write about.

So, how ’bout it?

Will you play along with me?

I’ll take questions until Friday.  I might start answering them early, but after midnight on Friday, while you can still ask me a question, you won’t be eligible for the gift card.

Let ‘er rip!

Until next time…

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Ok, so my kids have two cousins already on their dad’s side, but none on my side.

In fact, I’m actually shocked that I get to even write that I am an aunt and that my kids have cousins because I never in a million years thought that my brother would have children, but that wife of his, God love her, she deserves to be nominated for Sainthood.

She’s done him a lot of good and she’s birthed me a nephew, much to my father’s joy so that the family name will be carried on.

John Clayton Moore was born this afternoon at 2:33p weighing in at 7 lbs 12 oz and 20.5″ long.  Height runs in my family, so hopefully, he’ll be on the tall side too.

Now here’s where it gets confusing.  John is a family name.  We have John Thomas (my grandfather who’s passed away), John Scott (my father), John Robert (my brother) and now John Clayton (my nephew…duh.)

And those are only the John’s that I can remember.  I think John Clayton is the eight John Moore in the line.  I’m not sure.  I don’t keep up with it all that well, but it’s important to my dad, therefore, I try to keep abreast of the basics.

Living at home with two John Moore’s was not always easy.

As my brother got older and friends would call, those that had hit puberty and had deeper voices would ask for John and we would have to ask if they wanted “Big John” or “Little John” even though “Little John” is  now taller than my father and really not all that little anymore.

Sometime, over the last 10 years my brother went from being “Little John” to “Johnny”.  If we would’ve called him Johnny, we would’ve been shot, but I’m pretty sure his wife has something to do with that, too, however Johnny is what we call him.

So now we have a “Big John”, a “Johnny” and I guess a “Little Johnny”.

Which I love calling him “Little Johnny” because, as I stated earlier, this child will be, I know, the epitome of the Little Johnny jokes.

I know this because there was a time that my brother looked at me and said, “Mom put the curse on us.  The one in which she said that she hopes our children are three times as bad as we were.  And I see your kids and if your kids are like that, then I’m never having kids.”

Now, in all actuality, if we’re basing this curse solely on how we behaved as children, inside our parents homes, for 18 years, then I think that Johnny (my brother) will be alright.  I was WAY worse than he was and I know that the curse is alive and well within my household.

Her name is Samara.  :D  (But God, do I love that child.)

Anywho, the whole confusing thing with the name?

It all started because I wasn’t sure how to write “Johnny says the baby is fine.  He’s got a cone head and long fingernails.” But I guess that wouldn’t confuse you because Little Johnny can’t talk yet and if it were Big John saying it I would’ve said “My Dad” and so really, all I’ve done is confuse the snot out of me and you.

Mom, Dad, and Baby are doing just fine.  She’s been up for 28 hours straight so I”m sure she’s going to try to sleep, so I’ll call tomorrow.

My mom said that she would send pictures soon.  I will share when I get them. 

After I make sure that I ask my brother’s permission to share.  He’s a police officer and not as “let’s put it all out there on the internet” like I am.

Now, the question is…

When do I get to MEET my nephew?  Sometimes, having a brother that lives 12 hours away sucks.

And just like I said I never thought I would have a niece or nephew?  I never thought I would say that either.

Until next time…

The proud Aunt…

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I got word last week that should everything go well, my sister-in-law would be induced today.  Why, I’m not sure.  She’s not due until January 4th, which worked well for me.

Matthew and I have birthdays in January, their anniversary is in January, the nephew’s birthday would be in January.  And my brother, his wife, and Sam are August babies.  (My wedding anniversary was also in August, not that it matters anymore) But my point is, we kept things simple.  Where as most families have to remember all these dates on the calendar, my mother didn’t.  As long as she kept the months of August and January in the forefront of her mind, she was okay.

Ok, so it was easy for me, the woman who struggles to get gifts and cards out.  It was super simple for me to remember that the day before my birthday was my brother’s anniversary and 9 days after my birthday is Matthew’s birthday.  When August rolled around, my brother celebrates on the 4th, his wife is right after that, and then comes Samara.  When I was married, it was 5 days after Samara’s birthday that my wedding aniversary was celebrated.

November is kinda cool too, because my grandma and my mother are a week apart.  Mom’s cards and gifts are always late and Mamaw’s are always early.

Easy peasy.

Except now, little Johnny is going to be in December.  While I’m thrilled that they are going to get a tax break this year, I’m a little bummed that Johnny won’t be a January baby.  Purely selfish, I know.

It’s how I roll.

However, like I said, my SIL was scheduled to be induced today.  (Again, early, not fair.  I never got an induction appointment until mine were almost ready to hit puberty.)  However, like my children, the thought of an induction scared him out because at 11:45pm her water broke, on it’s own.  Matthew came two days before his scheduled departure date (which was nine days late total) and Samara was born 4 days before her ejection date (which was 7 days late).

I guess just like in real life cooking, I have no reliable timer so they bake a little longer.  Makes sense.  I guess.  Maybe now that I’ve become Betty Crocker, if I do ever decide to have another child, they will come out at least on time.

Another child?  Oh dear…

Let’s get back to the one that I’m patiently waiting on.

So Little Johnny (and I swear this kid is going to be the epitome of all the little Johnny jokes out there) is still waiting.  At 6:30 this morning my brother called my mother to give her an update.  She’d been given and epidural (smart woman) and pitocin to help speed things along.  As of 2 hours ago, still no baby, and poor Liz has been in labor for 12 hours.  I can’t relate to that.  Mine were fairly quick and painless.  Ok, so they weren’t painless, and quick is relative, but compared to other stories that I’ve heard, mine were easy.  My God knows what I can endure and massive, long, pain is not one of them.

Mom and Dad are on thier way and should be there in about two hours.  God bless my mother.  When I said something about making it there to see the baby be born, she simply replied with “I don’t want to intrude on their time.”

I don’t know how it is for boys, but I know that all I wanted was my mother when I was in labor.  Nothing against my husband, he did the best he could, but I wanted my mother.  Period.  And I didn’t have her there for either of them.

But there’s the other part of me that says you’re the grandmother.  You’re allowed to butt in.  Lord knows I plan on it when my children are grown and having babies.  That’s what I’m looking forward to and why I’ve not yet killed my children.

Oh come on, you know I’m not alone in my thinking on that.

So, here I sit, working, listening to my children play Rock Band and waiting for my mother to give me the call that John Clayton Moore is here.

And then?  I’ll call my brother and welcome him to the ranks of parenthood.

I’m anxious to see if my brother and I will now have a common ground to stand on.  Babies are wonderful for mending relationships. 

Until next time…

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I have a confession to make.

Somewhere, somehow, sometime in the last few months, I have gone from the “I-avoid-the-kitchen-at-all-costs” woman to the “Can’t-keep-me-out-of-the-kitchen” woman.  It’s like Betty Crocker has invaded my body.

Seriously.

It’s scary.  REAL scary.  I mean, I met this man and from day one told him that I didn’t cook, clean, or do dishes.  I needed him to know that I was not this happy little housewife longing to find a husband to dote over.  I needed him to know that and I told him that just like the BFF told me to.  I met him in the prime of football season in which Burger King knows us by name and several times I offered to handle dinner, which required me to hit the drive through.  The first few times, it was expensive, but I eventually figured out how to feed six through the drive thru for $13.18.

Gotta love the value menu and kids who are happy with chicken nuggets.  There was minimal whining over the lack of a toy.  I’m sure if I thought ahead, I could’ve scrounged up the 15,000 of them that are strewn about the back of my car and none of them would’ve been any wiser.

But seriously though, this is what I did.

And then, something happened.  I’m not sure what it was but I suggested that we were eating out way too much.  It’s a struggle getting kids all over the place and coordinating and we found ourselves, both, suggesting that we grab something on the run.  It’s expensive.  And while I appreciate the fact that the boy would willingly pay for all of us to eat, I have severe issues with him paying all the time, for all three of us, and his crew.

Six mouths are alot to feed.

A few nights, I made dinner.  I made a meatloaf that none of the kids complained about.  I made mac and cheese one night.  That was a hit as well.  And the first night of basketball, as we’re shoving corndogs in the kids’ mouths at 8 pm, we realized that we needed a system.

I suggested that we take turns cooking.  Me.  Heather.  The woman who doesn’t cook, clean, or do dishes.  Yeah.

My nights are Monday and Thursday.  He takes Tuesday and Wednesday.  We have a set dinner time.  It works out well.  I make up the meal the night before and put it in his fridge and when he gets home from work, he puts it in the oven.  By the time I finish working and gather up the kids and head over there, dinner’s on the table and we eat and then run the kids all over to what ever activities they have.

Friday and the weekends are leftovers.

But in addition to my twice a week cooking (of which I clean up afterward AND do dishes) I have begun to bake.  Like I can’t get enough and can’t stay out of the kitchen, bake.  I guess it’s because I’ve been cooking and not killing anyone, setting off smoke dectectors, and having children make what I eat that has spawned this new confidence in the kitchen.

Jo-Lynne posted a recipie for Peanut Butter Balls and I didn’t think twice.  Monday night I made up the dough and stuck it in the fridge and got the rest of what I needed at the store Monday night.

Tuesday night, I picked up his kids since he had to work late and we made the peanut butter balls.  We then made 4 dozen peanut buttter blossoms.  Wednesday, the kids, all four of them and I, made a pumpkin log, 3 dozen gingerbread men, 3 dozen sugar cookies — with sprinkles, a pumpkin cheesecake, and 2 pumpkin pies.  This was before I made up the breakfast casserole for Christmas morning.  I was in the kitchen ALL DAY LONG.  I left long enough to go to church.

And then Christmas Day, I made all the stuff for dinner minus the turkey and the mashed potatoes.  (Ok, and the gravy.  That came from a jar.)  We flew around that kitchen, he and I, quite impressively, and it’s a very small kitchen.  Not once did we run into one another, step on toes, get in each other’s way, or anything.  All of this while his parents sat at the table and watched.

No pressure or anything, right?  Um, yeah.

And we pulled it off.

We made enough for a small army.  We have so much left over and so tonight, I have to ask…

Do you have any great recipes for leftover turkey?  It’s my night Monday and we have ALOT of food left over.

And tomorrow?  I’ll be making another pumpkin roll, because the kids asked me to make another one.  Apparently, they loved it.

It’s downright scary…

And on the subject of scary… sometime I’ll have to tell you about the counted cross stitch stockings…

Until next time..

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