I found a perfect use for all those bananas I freeze dried.

I pop ‘em into Brecken’s oatmeal. They melt like wafers, effectively cooling the oatmeal to an edible temperature, and flavoring it to boot.

Enjoy this time-lapse technology:

(actual banana melt time: 40 seconds)

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We went to hang out in New Jersey this weekend. Vanessa and Andrew played host to my family, Mugga, Jenny and Jenny’s fiance, David. Why am I giving you a guest log? I am simply trying to establish that there were many adults in residence. Some might say there were an overwhelming number of adults in residence. Why does this matter? Because when you run into ONE zombie, it can be a little intimidating, but when you happen upon SIX zombies, you tend to lose your shit. Especially if you’re 3 years old. Case in point:

Mugga loves to mess with skin. She likes to massage it, put oils on it, exfoliate it – you name it. If it can be done to skin, Mugga wants to do it. This weekend she brought a clay mask with her. She was very excited to give everyone a facial with this Dead Sea mask.

Sunday morning found us all lounging about the living room watching Whale Wars. Mugga took this opportunity to pounce! She mixed up the clay powder with apple cider vinegar (Pee-u!) and began passionately slathering it all over us. Karis was there, watching me get green goop smeared all over my face, so I didn’t think she’d get freaked out considering she watched the transformation take place. I was wrong.

Karis wandered outside to draw with sidewalk chalk while Mugga continued to apply massive amounts of stinky Dead Sea sludge to every face in the house – except Jesse’s. He was playing with Brecken outside.

When I put on a mask like that, I never really give much thought to what my face looks like to other people. I tend to think in generic terms. My face looks green. So what. Only as I looked at the other masked people around me did I notice that the masks looked a bit eerie. As the clay dried, it left pockets of deeper color on the cheeks. The result was a very zombie-like appearance. Cue Karis, stage left.

Karis came scampering into the living room and stopped abruptly. She took in the six green zombies staring back at her, and screamed in horror. Our attempts to chase after her to soothe her, only served to frighten her more. I yelled for Jesse, knowing he was the only non-zombie looking person around. The poor kid was seriously traumatized. Once we calmed her down and she realized we weren’t interested in snacking on her brains, she went back outside to play with her chalk again.

It wasn’t until later that Jesse pointed out what she had done to her chalk drawing. She had given her chalk people green clay zombie face masks. And that is how I am doing my part to insure job security for therapists of the future. You’re welcome.

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It’s official. Brecken can reach the top of the kitchen table, which means anything left on it is fair game.

Guess which part of the muffin is Brecken’s favorite.

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I’ve had contractors in and out of my house for the past…oh, it seems like FOREVER.

Well, today marks the almost last day of work they will be doing. I say “almost last day” because they will be back. I may start charging them rent.

Pro tip: Here’s a quick equation to help you figure out how long a construction job will actually last.

X(∞/2) =

Where “X” equals the number of days the contractor said it would take.

One of the jobs I asked the handyman to do was re-hang a set of blinds in my bedroom. The blinds have been down for several months, and though I am usually very good at keeping track of these things, I couldn’t seem to find the hardware.

I am very much like a squirrel in that I like to tuck things away in my dresser drawer for safe keeping. As the handyman was out fetching his drill from his truck, it dawned on me that perhaps I put the hardware in my drawer. I opened my drawer and shuffled through the little odds and ends I’ve nestled between my underwear. I found one of the 6 missing pieces. I shuffled through the drawer again in confusion. If ONE was in there, they should ALL be in there. There is method to my madness, and I never would have separated the hardware pieces.

I could hear the handyman coming back up the stairs. I frantically tried to stuff my underwear back into the drawer before he reached the doorway. Like every other woman on the planet, my underwear fits into two categories; “Work” and “Play”.

My “play” underwear consists of the flirty, sexy, silky little numbers that the boys find so appealing. My “work” underwear is a bit more utilitarian. They are 100% cotton fortresses. They are sturdy. If I’m being completely honest with you, some of them have seen the Clinton administration, and they are decidedly not sexy.

Naturally I didn’t want the handyman to witness me scrabbling through my ratty panties. Hell, I didn’t want him seeing my fancy panties either! My pants, my business. I just made it! I slammed the drawer closed just as the handyman came through the door. I was quite pleased with my stealth maneuvering… until Karis called attention to herself from behind my dresser.

“Hey mom, look at my hat!”

Yes, you guessed it. She had donned a pair of my underpants.

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Cousin Rico from Napoleon Dynamite fixed my basement plumbing today.

That sounds dirty.

He adjusted my pipes.

Oh, come on! He literally attached the sink to the drain.

AND he caulked it too.

I said he CAULKED it.

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I was feeling cocky yesterday. I thought we were moving past Hork Fest ‘10, and I decided to run a few errands. Silly non-psychic me didn’t know she’d be awakened at 1:30AM to Karis shrieking in horror at having vomited all over her bed again. Rinse. Repeat.

So, as I was adventuring yesterday I stopped by my local Asian food market. I was told they carried my much sought after freeze dried onions.

I enjoy going to this particular market. The produce is always amazingly fresh. People mill around in the packed aisles and don’t move out of your way, or seem even remotely apologetic. I like that because I don’t feel rushed to move aside for someone. I just go with it.

Looking for something specific in a market that you are unfamiliar with is quite challenging when no one speaks your language, and most of the packages are written in characters not even remotely related to your native alphabet. I never found my beloved onions. I DID find this little gem!

I was working my way down the chip aisle when I saw a young man struggling to choose between two packages of chips. He ended up going for these in lou of the shrimp flavored chips. I was so taken with (grossed out by) this package, that I HAD to buy it and bring it home. What do octopus flavored chips taste like? I dunno, but I’ll know when I try one.

I am always bummed out by the interesting looking things at the Asian market that are so processed that there is no way in hell they can possibly be good for you. (i.e. Fried gluten.)  Yeah, there’s definitely a cultural difference, but when it’s all said and done, my Asian market shopping counter-parts seem to eat just as disgustingly as my fellow American market shoppers. Soda and artificial sweeteners are equally bad for you, no matter what language they sport on their packaging. (Although, I must admit the packaging makes it sound nicer: “Is made of fantastic mixture of soft custard with fresh egg and lovely sweet custard cream.” Admit it – you want one!)

I guess the sheer variety of junk food just surprises me because I associate Asian cuisine with fresh vegetables and whole grains. (And before you all flood my in-box with email telling me that Korea isn’t like The Last Samurai, I KNOW. I also know Japan isn’t Korea, so you can save yourself writing THAT email too.)

As I was standing in line to pay, I noticed that of the 4 people in my line, and the people to either side of me in the next lanes over, I was the only person that didn’t have at least one package of raw chicken feet. They look very pale and confused without a chicken attached to them. There isn’t any meat on them to speak of, so I have to ask. What on earth does one do with chicken feet? Do they add flavor to broths? Kids! Dinner! I made your favorite – chicken feet broth. Do you eat them? Are they crunchy, like bread sticks?

Hey, I’m game to try ‘em. They might go well with my octo-chips. Someone send me a recipe, and I’ll feature it.

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February is my least favorite month. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because February is always so damn cold and dreary. Maybe it’s because February tries so hard to be different with its floating leap day. I don’t know when my disgust of February started, but I do know that I am starting to see a pattern developing. Ponder this: Yesterday I could have told you that the last time Karis threw a puke party was February 15, 2009. Did you notice how I specified “yesterday”?

I am about to tell you way too much information. The following story contains almost every bodily excretion possible. Read further at your own risk – no one will blame you if you turn around now and leave.

Around 5 o’clock this morning Karis came into my room and said, “Mama, my stomach hurts.”

I immediately went in to denial mode and said, “Want to come snuggle?” She wiggled in to bed beside me, and a record breaking 30 seconds later, she began vomiting all over me, my bed, and my dignity.

I rushed her into the bathroom and tried to aim her over the toilet. My uterus decided this seemed like a perfect time to start hemorrhaging, and when my uterus decides something, there is no changing its mind. Here’s the part where I officially start to give you way too much information. In a valiant attempt at saving my brand new, comfy pajama bottoms, I steadied Karis with one hand and whipped my pants down with the other. I couldn’t reach a towel or toilet paper, so I hung my ass over the side of the tub and called Jesse over for vomit aiming duty so I could clean myself up. (Isn’t that a beautiful mental image? I realize that by disclosing this particular story to you, you may never look at me the same way again.)

Just as Jesse comes over, Karis looks up at me and gasps. “Ah! Mama, you’re bleeding!”

“I’m okay,” I assured her, “Let’s both get cleaned up!”

I righted myself at the speed of light, and as Jesse stripped Karis down for a shower, I stripped the vomit soaked sheets off our bed. As Jesse washed chunks out of Karis’s hair, I washed chunks out of our carpet. We were a team! A vomit cleaning duo. As I was putting fresh sheets on the bed while Jesse dried Karis off, I was counting every one of my blessings that I wasn’t a single mother. Mad respect for all you single parents out there!!!

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.

.

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Oh. Did you think the story was over? Not at all. If today were a movie, the part you just read would be the opening credits.

I failed to set up this scene. I never mentioned the fact that the day before, a contractor had removed most of the drywall and insulation from the outer facing wall of our bedroom. The beams were still soaking wet from our ice dam adventure, so we have to leave the walls open for a few days, with a noisy fan blowing on them.

I also failed to mention that we had flooring contractors scheduled to come later that day to replace our living room carpet and put hard wood in our basement.

I made a little bed for Karis on our floor. She happily snuggled in to it and went to sleep. I tried to go back to sleep too, but my mind was racing, going over all the stuff I had to move to get ready for the flooring people. Karis puked three more times throughout the morning, and at the happy hour of 8:00AM the phone rang. It was the flooring guys, telling me they’d be there in 30 minutes. THREE HOURS EARLY.

Long about this time Jesse started turning green and ashy. “I don’t feel so great…” He moaned. Sigh. The happy half of the vomit cleaning duo was about to become a single mother to two sick kids AND a sick man-baby. I rumaged in my mental closet and pulled out my Super Woman cape. It wasn’t even dusty! I gave it a good shake, put it on, and went to face the day.

I am way too tired to go in to much detail about the twelve hours between 9:00AM and 9:00PM, just know this: There was much running up and down stairs, vomiting, pants pooping, baby crying, contractor arguing, snot wiping, moaning, cramping, cleaning cleaning cleaning, AND to add insult to injury, I tweaked my left quadricep and could barely walk for several hours.

Just as I put the kids to sleep, Jesse asked me to run to the store for some Ginger Ale to help settle his stomach. He had spent the day horking into the toilet bowl loudly enough to alarm passing motorists. He was feeble and exhausted, having nearly blacked out from one of his vomiting bouts. He never does the whole vomiting thing half way. Once he gets going, there’s no stopping him. Add to that his annoying refusal of all medical advice and you have …well, you have Jesse – I’m too tired to come up with anything clever.

I dragged myself to the grocery store. I stumbled in through the automatic doors and schlepped towards the bananas. That’s when it happened. That’s when I split in two. One minute I was Super Woman, searching out just the right bunch of bananas, and the next thing I knew, I was staring at my weaker self standing beside me.

She was crying. crying right there between the bananas and the green seedless grapes. She looked at me, weary and defeated. She took a step toward me, as if she wanted a hug, or some form of support. I lurched backwards, pulling my cape out from under her battered shoe. I gave her a stern look, as if to say, we don’t have time for this! and I left her. I left her standing there in the produce section, tears of exhaustion streaming down her cheeks, smelling of dried vomit and despair.

She’ll find her way home, I’m sure. She’ll probably join me in the shower, as the hot water pounds against the back of my aching neck. I’ll give her a hug. An unspoken sorry for abandoning you. I’ll let her cry, even. But just in the shower – that’s it!

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When I lived in New York I fell madly in love with a brand of freeze dried red onions. I know, it sounds gross, but oh how I loved those freeze dried onions!

I have looked for them everywhere since, all to no avail. Online searches only turn up the apple version of the snack, and only for wholesalers.

Last week I was inspired to make them myself. How hard could it be? I researched freeze drying online and found page after page of easy instructions on how to freeze dry fruits and veggies at home. I was a little skeptical, but if it worked, I would be the happiest freeze dried onion eater on the planet.

To freeze dry fruits and veggies at home you’ll need the following:

• A cooler
• dry ice
• thinly sliced fruit and veggies
• freezer bags
• a small cookie sheet or bread pan (optional)

First slice your fruits and veggies and put them in a freezer bag. Try to leave as little air in the bag as possible.

Then layer the bags in the cooler – dry ice/ fruit bag/ dry ice / fruit bag/ dry ice. Be sure to top every thing off with dry ice. CAUTION: Never touch dry ice with your bare hands! It’s something like -70ºF which can do serious damage to tissue. This should go without saying, but also NEVER swallow dry ice.

Leave the cooler closed for 30 minutes. Then check the fruit/veggies every 5 minutes thereafter until they are completely frozen solid. Store them in your freezer.

Another way to freeze dry stuff is to put a layer of dry ice in the bottom of a cooler and place thinly sliced fruits or veggies on top of the ice in a tray or bread pan. This way actually seemed to work a little better. Simply transfer the fruits and veggies to a freezer bag when they’re frozen solid. Supposedly they will keep in your freezer indefinitely.

Sadly, my onions did not end up turning out like the onions I have been pining for. When unfrozen they were basically just rubbery, raw onions. Not sexy.

If anyone knows how to make them crispy let me know!

The bananas, on the other hand, have been a great hit.

We didn’t let all that dry ice go to waste. We made a witch potion!!

Dry ice from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

CAUTION: Again, never touch dry ice with your bare hands, and carefully monitor children near dry ice – be sure they don’t touch it or swallow it.

Tune in next week, when I’ll let my kids play with fire and venomous snakes!

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I had never been to Colonial Williamsburg before, but I had just finished the latest book in the most amazing series ever written, and it took place partly in Williamsburg during the American revolution. Naturally I was delighted to visit last weekend at the kind invitation from Vanessa and Andrew.

The kids loved it. We wandered through neatly kept backyards, and peeked in windows. (All encouraged! We weren’t being creepy.)

One of my favorite findings was the 18th century greenhouses. If I had a garden, and let’s face it – the ability to keep any form of plant life alive, then I would most definitely employ these cute glass bell jars.

We toured the church. There were three sweet old ladies inside acting as docents. Each one of them told us about the different areas of the church, and how George Washington and Thomas Jefferson would have sat in different places at different times in their careers. I guess that’s important information, because, like I said, they told us three times. “We toured the church” is a little misleading. That makes it sound like the church was some vast expanse of holy building, complete with catacombs and the like. It’s actually just one rather small room. Small, but a whole lot of important butts sat in those pews!

This tomb rests just outside the entrance to the church. I don’t know why anyone would want a tomb so close to the very busy entrance of a church. They’re keepin’ it real. Are you having a good day? Did my sermon cheer you up? So glad to hear it! Watch that you don’t trip over the tragic young mother and baby that died in childbirth on your way out!

Also near the church? The stocks. I’m seriously considering commissioning a child sized installment for my basement.

I’m not usually a clutter lover, but I couldn’t help but want to take home all the different little pottery sets. They weren’t even really my taste, but it was all I could do not to buy a china cabinet for the sole purpose of housing little ceramic dishes that we’d never use. I settled for taking a bunch of boring pictures of them.

Then of course we all donned the customary colonial hats. I don’t think you’re allowed to leave without getting at least one member of your party to wear a bonnet. Extra points for a mob cap.

England is known for having notoriously bad food, but I gotta say that Mother England’s expatriate colonists sure knew how to cook! We wandered in to the bakery and my olfactory senses died and went to heaven. Imagine every good baking smell you’ve ever smelled all whirling around in one small room.

We ended our evening with dinner at a tavern. Vanessa and Jesse couldn’t leave without drinking beer from a ceramic mug.

We were struck by the sweetness of the home churned butter that came with our dinner rolls. We kept asking each other to “pass the sweet sweet butter”. It turns out they add honey to it. Yum. As if we needed more reasons to love butter.

I ordered the stew. I can’t remember its official name, Gloucester stew? I dunno. What it should be called is “orgasm for your tongue stew” because it was the tastiest stew I have ever eaten in my life.

As we ate our delicious dinner in the dark, candle lit tavern, our discussion turned to old ghost stories, and marveling about how rebels must have sat in that very room, participating in debates about the coming revolution. Then I went to the bathroom and noticed a series of pictures in the hall depicting the excavation of the tavern’s foundation, and the building of the replica tavern (the one I was standing in) in the late 1950’s. Buzz kill. My old apartment in Hollywood was older than this tavern. Yes, that made it lose a little of the magic for me, but it was still a very realistically built replica.

All in all we had a wonderful time. Thanks again to Vanessa and Andrew for inviting us! And thank you Andrew for being Brecken’s personal protector and pack mule for a majority of our stay. He loves you like I love chocolate – and we all know how much mama loves her chocolate!

For more pictures of our adventures in Williamsburg click here.

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Today is Angela’s birthday. She is an amazing woman, mother, wife, daughter, grandmother, sister, aunt, teacher, chef, housekeeper, gardener, table dancer, sculpter, musician, organizer, dreamer, poet, and friend. Also, I bet she’s great in bed. AND – she’s a lady through and through, so she will be mortified when she reads that “great in bed” comment.

I love you Angela. You make it all look easy.

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