Housewifely

No school today (thanks, Presidents Washington and Lincoln!), so you know what that means...chore time! Days off like this come so infrequently that they often devolve into catch-up-on-errands free-for-alls. You know, compulsive counter wiping, or cooking, or laundrygasms. That sort of thing.

Want to know a dirty secret? We kinda likes it, Precious. mimi rolls out of the house at 6:45 every day to get to work, so having a day where I can sleep in until about 7 am feels slightly naughty. That’s probably why I spend the rest of the day in a housework frenzy.

Today was not much different. Accomplished: nearly all the laundry, grocery shopping and a Target run, recycling out, locating horizontal surfaces under all that paper, packing school bags for tomorrow, and even making dessert (this never happens on a school day)--Key Lime pie with homemade Nilla Wafer crust, if you must know.

On days like this, I honestly think I can do it all...and then I spot the bulging school bag of papers I’ve been ignoring while all this domestic bliss has been going on. Alas, back on the grind in the morning. June Cleaver called, and she wants her shirtwaist and pearls back.

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Happy Valentine's Day

It’s de rigeur for those of us who write for women to also write something about the girly holiday of Valentine’s Day. Why girly, I hear you ask? Because most of the noise surrounding this day issues from men who are not only expected to show up with roses and dish out major bucks for a romantic dinner á deux, but also being guilted into buying jewelry or making other grandiose gestures to somehow prove their love. On this day, or else the whole love thing just goes down the toilet, apparently.

To which I heartily throw the bullshit flag.

Number one, there’s very little in the cultural noise that lays out what the women are supposed to do for their partners. There aren’t any men swooning over diamonds in those screechy Jared ads (and may I just, as an aside, register my ick over chocolate diamonds in general and those Open Heart-cobra looking pendants in specific?). Nope. The men are supposed to FULFILL THE FANTASY, and woe unto him who grabs the last wilted bouquet from the bucket outside the Publix and has to settle for either the a) overwrought glitter card or b) inappropriately salacious cartoon card because he just remembered he probably ought to do something on the way home. Hope you bought a parka, ’cause it’ll be mighty frosty when you get there.

The time to tell someone you love her (or him--key part of the equation here) is the other 364 days of the year. If that part isn’t coming through loud and clear, all the champagne in the world on February 14 won’t convince you otherwise. I’d rather have my high-quality dark chocolate some other time, like when I’m feeling really awful, than as a token on Valentine’s Day. Bring me flowers just because, not because you think you have to. And cook me dinner on a day when everything’s gone wrong and the thought of one more thing to do is really more than I can handle at the moment.

Tonight, Mr. Man and I will be going out for barbecue. No roses will be harmed in the making of this Valentine’s Day (Mr. Man knows I prefer tulips anyway), and I have a stash of chocolate in reserve. When it comes down to it, the person is the point, not the date. And especially not the geegaws.

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The Bed List

Who would have thought the geeky handyman on The Facts of Life would have turned out this pretty? Although there’s something cosmically unfair about any one human male being this handsome, it would be far worse if all that handsome came in a dumb package--and this one is certainly not dumb. He’s a passionate advocate, a smart businessman, and a clever director (did anyone see Syriana coming after Batman in the infamous nipple suit?). And did I mention he’s handsome?

I’ll have the George, with a side of George, and a bit of George for dessert. And you know what else.

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Kitchen Smackdown, Family Style

Today the church music ministry held its annual cookoff. This year’s twist? Take a firefighter favorite recipe, make it your own, and submit it for judging by actual firefighters. Mama, sis, and yours truly all entered--different categories, as it turns out--and brought home two wins! My mother is an excellent cook, so I was not surprised at all when her version of Low Tide Chicken won first place in the main dish category. I was a little surprised to hear my name called for best side dish, though, considering the number of people who chose the same recipe to fix. Sis didn’t win for the chocolate awesomeness that was her dessert--with hand-whipped cream, no less--but she said if she had won, people would have suspected a fix.

Enjoy this one, but be advised that mimi uses real butter and lots of it.

mimi’s Italian Mac and Cheese

1 pkg. mild Italian sausage, casings removed

8 oz. baby portobella mushrooms, sliced

2 sticks butter

1/4 cup flour

1/2 tsp. salt

1 pint half and half

1 cup milk

1 can cream of mushroom soup

1 can cream of mushroom soup with roasted garlic

1 tbsp. minced garlic

1 tbsp. dried minced onion

1/2 tsp. dried red pepper flakes

Italian seasoning to taste

1 can diced Italian-style tomatoes, drained

1 lb. pasta (I used corkscrews)

2 cups shredded Italian cheese blend

1 cup Italian bread crumbs

Crumble and brown sausage in a large, deep frying pan. Drain and set aside. Sauté mushrooms in a little extra butter until browned; set aside. Wipe out pan. Over medium heat, melt both sticks of butter and make a roux with flour; when smooth, begin adding half and half and milk about a half-cup at a time, stirring after each addition to completely incorporate. Stir in soups until smooth. Add salt, garlic, onion, red pepper flakes, and Italian seasoning; stir and adjust seasonings as desired. Add sausage, mushrooms, and tomatoes; stir to combine and reduce heat to low.

While sauce is simmering, preheat oven to 325°. Cook pasta according to package directions; drain and place in a 9x13 baking dish. Pour the sauce over the pasta and mix evenly. Cover with cheese and top with bread crumbs. Bake for 15-20 minutes or until cheese is melted and casserole is bubbly.

WARNING: This is a very effective butter-to-hip delivery system, so try not to hurt yourself!

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How Not to Write a Novel

Thanks to agent Kristin Nelson for this gem! Actually, I don’t mind that insanity abounds like this--makes actual writers like me look like we know what we’re doing!

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The Evergreen Sweetness of the Magnolia Mother

Over at a far more serious website, the Wall Street Journal has posted an opinion piece entitled “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior” by Amy Chua, the Yale Law professor whose paen to Chinese-style parenting, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, has set off a depth charge of angst among the mom population. Chua posits that Western moms are far too permissive and don’t demand enough of their darling offspring, and that’s why parents who are hardcore (think Louis Gossett Jr. in An Officer and a Gentleman or R. Lee Ermey in Full Metal Jacket hardcore) are much better and raise more successful kids. Take that, lazy Westerners.

To be fair, Chua claims that the red-flag title of the WSJ piece was not her idea, and that her book, while detailing her strenuous and exacting parenting methods, does so amidst large doses of self-deprecation. She knows she’s a stereotype (and is producing two über-stereotpyical Asian daughters to boot), but she’s planted that flag and is willing to die for the ideals it represents.

To which this Southern mama says, “Bless her heart.”

There has to be more to motherhood than turning your home into a battle zone of three- and four-hour instrument practices (piano or violin only!), homework drills, screaming, and tension. And I think Southern mothers have figured out how to do that. Children don’t need a Tiger Mother; they need a Magnolia Mother.

The Southern magnolia grandiflora is an amazing tree. Its strong wood can be harvested for building and furniture making, The light citronella fragrance of its blossoms is lovely and does a nice job repelling mosquitoes. It’s an evergreen, and its glossy emerald leaves provide shade in the summer and decor throughout the year. The blossoms have long been a symbol for beauty and grace. These trees live hundreds of years and glorify whatever plot of ground they happen to be planted in. Kinda like Southern mamas.

Magnolia moms don’t scream and threaten because it’s tacky. They’re demanding, but not abusive. A magnolia mom loves to applaud at music recitals and is happy whether her seedling is a bass guitar hero or a baritone enthusiast. Her arms are wide and sheltering. She’s strong, with deep roots, and is beautiful even through the hurricane-force winds of life. She can be bruised, but not broken. Her children learn the strengths of patience, grace, and permanence in her shade and grow toward the sun and blossom when they find their own ground to sprout in.

The best advice on life I ever received was a simple phrase from my own magnolia mama, “Remember who you are.” No screaming, no threats, just a gentle reminder that my behavior and accomplishments were a reflection of not only myself, but the family who raised me.

I’m proud to come from magnolia groves as rich as the ones who produced my mother and father. Tigers may be fascinating to look at, but there’s a reason they shouldn’t be turned loose in the general population. They aren’t safe. Magnolias, on the other hand, always make you feel at home.

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Trickle, Trickle

Remember that old Woody Allen quip, “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans”? We’re living that at Chez mimi right now. Here we are, all excited about the new year, ready to remake our entire financial and creative selves, when we realize that there’s water on the floor of our den. Not much water, but enough. We can’t find the source. The sinks aren’t leaking. The cabinets are dry. It’s not raining. As Florida residents, we know what that means...the two most dreaded words in home ownership: slab leak.

Out comes a plumber to check. Sure enough, it’s a slab leak, probably underneath the den floor. But where under the floor? Right at the door where we get the puddle? Closer to the kitchen? By the fireplace? Anywhere we finally find it, we’re screwed because a slab leak means ripping up the floor. A slab leak in our case, when you remember that we already had a leak between the meter and the house this year, means the five most dreaded words in home ownership: time to repipe the house.

Five weeks’ worth of scampering in and out of the house to turn the water off and Laura Ingalls Wilder-ing as we brush our teeth (We have a pitcher and a basin! How quaint!), the nice plumbers are here. It sounds like giant mutant squirrels have taken over our attic and they’re dragging in moose-sized kill. We’ve cleared out every sink cabinet in the house. Soon the drywall will be Swiss cheese. Two days of this, mind you, and then we have to cough up a check for $3200 (which explains the five weeks’ worth of scampering in and out).

This hurts. But at least this weekend I’ll be able to take a full-powered HOT shower and get ice out of the fridge. Deep yoga breaths...

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