Giddyup

Cubby has been badgering the MiL for about a month now about riding a pony. The MiL, being a regular horse rider herself as well as a woman with a large circle of acquaintances, knows not one, but two people with ponies. So she finally set up a time last night to bring Cubby to a friend's property to ride.

Charlie and I went too, of course. You think Cubby is going to go visit a pony and leave Charlie behind? HAHA NO, said Charlie*. So off we all went after dinner last night in search of adventure in the shape of a small pony.

Ponies don't actually look all that small when you're only four years old, however.

Meet Cheney the Pony.

And I bet they really don't feel that small to a four-year-old when he's perched on top of one, wearing a helmet "just in case you fall!"

Also wearing his sandals with socks under them because I couldn't find his shoes. Appropriate footwear? What's that?

The lady who owns this pony--who is, incidentally, the sister of the MiL's riding instructor and has great-grandchildren she is teaching to ride on this pony--led Cubby around the arena for awhile, instructing him to sit up straight, look right between the pony's ears, and sing.

I think the singing was just to keep him relaxed. In any case, it was pretty funny to watch him very seriously clutching the pommel of the saddle, singing "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star" as he rode around.

"Old Macdonald Had a Farm" might also have been featured.

Cubby seemed to enjoy it, but he was ready to get off after about fifteen minutes. And then, of course, we know what had to happen next.

"Anything you can do, I can do better . . ."

Charlie only sat up there for about thirty seconds before the pony decided she was done and started stomping irritably. So that was the end of the riding.

But there was more fun to be had! While the MiL was in the house having a glass of wine with the pony's owners, the resident dog decided it was time he had a little attention. He was a really good dog.

And Cubby totally lost their game of tug o' war.

Tearing Cubby away from his new best friend Mack the Dog was not without drama (read: enraged screaming), but we did eventually get back in the car to go home to bed. 

Cubby is already asking when he gets to go back. That's kind of up to the MiL. Maybe I should find his shoes before then, though. You think?

* What he actually said is, "Charlie? Pony?" over and over and over ( AND OVER) again. And then again, in case I was so foolish as to think of leaving him behind.

My Meatball Revolution

I really like spaghetti and meatballs. Who doesn't, really? Unfortunately for me and my meatball fondness, I really do NOT like the making of said meatballs. At least, not the standard way of making them: soaking bread crumbs (which I can't use because of the gluten issues in my household) in milk, beating in the eggs, sauteing the minced onions because I can't stand big bits of half-raw onion in my meatballs, forming every meatball individually, browning them all with the accompanying grease splatters, and then the inevitable falling apart in the attempts to turn them in the pan.

And after all that, there's still the chopping and sauteing and simmering to make the tomato sauce that the meatballs go in.

I am far, far too lazy for all of that. Which is why I usually cop out with meat sauce instead. This is inevitably disappointing, because in the end, it's just not a meatball.

Cue inspiration culled from several sources.

First I made the sauce. In the food processor. This idea I think I got from an old Cook's Illustrated recipe for a fresh tomato sauce. In this case, I just combined a big can of whole tomatoes (minus a little juice so it wouldn't be too thin), garlic, onion, basil, oregano, a tiny bit of vinegar, and an even smaller amount of sugar. Liquification--with a few chunks left--followed via machine and there was my sauce.

No chopping, no sauteing, no extra pan.

Next, with the remains of the sauce still coating the food processor, I combined all the meatball ingredients except the meat in the food processor. In my case, that means rice, eggs, garlic, onion, basil, and oregano. Whizzed the shit out of all of that until it was pretty smooth and then mixed it with the meat. The idea for this came from the kibbeh recipe I use, except I elected to keep the meat out of the food processor, mostly because it's a bitch to clean afterwards.

No soaking of crumbs, no mincing and cooking of onions, no beating in eggs with a spoon.

Next I adopted the cooking method from The Pioneer Woman's BBQ Meatballs, which is just to bake the meatballs in the sauce. She says to brown them first on the stove. I say, they're already in the oven and what is a broiler for? So I browned them under the broiler first, drained off some of the resulting liquid, covered them with the sauce* and let them bake away.

No spattering grease, no filth on the stove, no falling apart.

And that was it. One food processor, one Pyrex pan, zero grease splatters, delicious spaghetti and meatballs. My life has been revolutionized. And it only took 34 years.

* Next time I'm going to make more sauce, because after baking with the meatballs for 45 minutes, it had reduced so far there was just barely enough for the spaghetti.

This Might Be It for the Year

I'm sure you've all noticed (humor me) a distinct lack of garden talk this year. That's because there's been a distinct lack of interest by me in the garden this year.

WHAT? Is this the apocalypse? My garden fervor has waned? No exhaustive posts about vegetables? No incessant whining about canning? NO TOMATO CRAZY?

Nope.

I could blame it all on my children--and in fact their tendency to suck all my time and energy is a large part of it--but really it just comes down to the fact that I have not made the garden a priority this year. There are several reasons for this, but one of them is that I feel defeated by it. It's just so big. And so weedy. And I'm so tired all the time. 

The MiL did most of the planting in the spring. Then the deer and rabbits showed up and razed the joint. They more or less totally destroyed the tomatoes. And the beets. They've taken nibbles of everything in there, even the peppers.

They sheared off the top layer of leaves on the long row of Dragon Tongue beans I did manage to plant, but they did not actually destroy them. It's a testament to this variety that even with extensive deer damage, they're still producing frightening numbers of beans.

Because I didn't plant enough cucumbers for anything more than fresh eating--and I don't care enough to go buy a bushel of pickling cucumbers for pickles--I decided to make some Dilly Beans.

A summer without some kind of pickle would be a sad summer indeed.

Those four and a half pints of Dilly Beans are most probably going to be the sum total of my canning for this year. I can live with that. 

Though I sure do miss having my own canned tomatoes in the winter.

To Quote the Ultrasound Technician . . .

"Oh, Kristin. I'm afraid you're doomed to be very outnumbered."

It's a boy.

A House Divided

Tomorrow I go to the doctor for my 20-week check-up. This means two things: 1) I'm halfway through this pregnancy, and 2) This is the big sex reveal ultrasound appointment.

Upon being questioned, Cubby says he wants a sister. He already has a brother, he says. Now he wants a sister. Logical enough, I suppose.

Charlie states a preference for a brother. He can't talk well enough to say why he wants a brother. And there is, of course, the likelihood that he has no idea what I'm talking about and is pursuing his own conversational path. That happens a lot.

The MiL hopes for a girl.

A. kind of hopes for another boy. He hasn't much experience with little girls, and he loves his boys so much, I think he can't imagine even having a girl.

So we have two votes for a girl and two votes for a boy. That leaves me as the tie-breaker. Which is no help, since I honestly don't care one way or the other (no, really and for real honestly--I am not secretly harboring desperate hopes for a daughter, promise).

Like all of it matters one bit, right? This kid is already one way or the other (or some mysterious third option that I probably don't want to consider at this moment), so all we can do is wait for the image to come up on the screen. And hope we don't have one of those irritatingly coy babies who refuses to exhibit at the big moment.

Stay tuned.

This Should Probably Embarrass Me

The next village over from us boasts a small supermarket. Very small--kind of like a miniature supermarket. I go there a lot because it's much easier to drive ten minutes and deal with their limited selection than drive the extra fifteen minutes into the Small City to go to a regulation-sized supermarket. This small market has most of what I need, anyway, and they have a surprisingly good meat department.

They also have a whole refrigerated room devoted solely to beer.

That probably tells you a lot about the demographic served by this market. And the fact that this beer room is one of my sons' favorite places ever probably tells you a lot about my kids.

The way the beer room is laid out is with shelves around the perimeter and boxes in an island in the center. So there's an aisle that runs around the circumference of the room. The room is about 10 feet by 24 feet, which makes it a perfect refrigerated running track for children. Formed by beer.

My kids will not go to that store without going into the beer room. And then they literally run laps, with Charlie shrieking "BEE-AH!" the entire time, beside himself with joy.

As I said, it should probably embarrass me, but I must admit I find the whole thing so amusing that I don't try to rein them in at all. Unless there's another person who wants to come in, of course, but so far that hasn't happened.

Good thing. I'd hate to deprive them of their exercise routine.

Halloween in July

Charlie and I were hanging out on the lawn yesterday afternoon watching the traffic go by while Cubby foraged for green beans in the garden*. At least, I thought that was what he was doing; turns out, he was foraging for something else.

He came running up to me with "an enormous squash!" he found. It was really more like a small pumpkin from a volunteer vine that came up over by the sheep shed. And it was most certainly not done growing. But since it was a volunteer and most likely not edible anyway, I didn't care that much. Besides, Cubby had plans for that pumpkin. "We can make a jack-o-lantern, Mommy!"

One nice thing about Cubby: He is never lacking in enthusiasm. And even if I am sometimes (always) lacking, I can fake it.

So we made a jack-o-lantern.

 Scooping out the guts with a smile.

I prefer to think of my pumpkin carving style as "classic" rather than "boring and crappy."

While I was inside putting the large, serrated knife safely out of reach of Charlie, Cubby got to work with his pocket knife and a leaf.

"I made a jack-o-leaf!"

Oh, that clever Cubby.

We still haven't illuminated it yet, since it doesn't get dark until 9 p.m. and my children are not awake at 9 p.m. Hell, I'm barely awake at 9 p.m. I suppose I could light it in the morning, since it's still mostly dark at 5:15 when Charlie wakes up, but somehow I'm lacking in festive Halloween cheer at that hour in the morning.

No matter. The making of it was the fun part, anyway. And there are more pumpkins where that one came from. Assuming I can keep Cubby the Stealth Harvester from picking them all before October. No promises.

* The one reason above all others I must always grow vegetables: My kids will eat ANYTHING if they can pick it straight from the plant and shove it right in their mouths. But if I dare try to serve them a cooked version of the very food they ate half a pound of in a raw and unwashed state? It's suddenly anathema. Weird little creatures, those kids.