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9:21 pm

on October 17, 2008

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Harry's home.

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How are we doing this?

So how are we going to do this? The way I see it, there's some different types out there: 1. I just want to be with these people while they do this thing. That's cool. We're glad you're here. 2. I want to do some of this, but not all of it. Also great. Just do what you want, but tell us about it, ok? 3. I just want to do what you tell me to do. I get you. It's HARD to be in charge all the damned time . 4. You're not the boss of me but sure, I'll do this thing with you but Imma do it my own way. Yeah, me too. Excepting I started this so it is my own way. (But there's that bit about needing a pal, so thanks, Patty.) 5. I don't want another book. I'll never make all that stuff anyway. Dude, I know. It's another THING in your house. So just go check out the website and make those recipes, but tell us about it, ok? 6. How about I just watch the show? Good idea. It's on Netflix . I should probably watch it again. Phew. Hopefully you're one...

Reading, sharing and visitors

Pete reminded me that we should let folks know about visitors. I'm blaming the woozy drops (which stop in 40 minutes) for not remembering that people like to visit babies. I wonder how long I can use those as an excuse before switching over to the standard mommy brain. Harry and Suzy met yesterday afternoon. He has already promised Pete to take good care of her forever and explained to Jack that he must be nice to his baby sister. He's also most concerned about his legos, as 'she could choke on them'. (A thinly veiled disguise for not being interested in sharing his legos, in my opinion.) Are you surprised that I pointed out that this is why it's important to put your legos away? He insisted on singing 'Good Night Sweetheart' to her and promised that he would read his Sam and Mat books to her. (I think I haven't managed to tell you that Harry has successfully started reading over the past 2 weeks.) Anyway, Suzy's visitor list is pretty short - just ...

Buttermilk-Marinated Roast Chicken, Page 340

I grew up in a full house with two parents, two sisters, two brothers, plus me. I am still amazed to this day that my Mother, a depression era girl who was the smallest and most nimble of her large family so of course she was the one to crawl into the root cellar under her parent’s house to fetch the canned goods and salted meats, could feed a family of seven with one chicken. Sure, there was copious amounts of corn, noodles, and real vanilla ice cream for dessert, but that chicken...baked in a cast iron skillet in the oven with some salt and pepper, perfectly cooked, stripped clean from it’s carcass, every shred of meat evenly distributed to all at the table, with one exception. In his quiet way that scared many until they realized he was a gentle giant, my Dad would sigh under his breath, “I’ll just have a wing.” That was the signal to hand over the biggest chunk of meat to the head of the table and find some leftover lunch meat to stick in your face. But...

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