Woodchuck Dinner Prep

If meal preparations start with going to the barn to bring in a deer haunch, you are 100% a woodchuck. There is no "might be" about it.

At least I didn't have to skin it myself. We should always be grateful for small mercies.

The Unsung Heroes

This morning as I was sitting in the living room enjoying my coffee, the blissful quiet that comes from sleeping children, and the Christmas lights, the snow plow went by on the road. And I thought, for the 20th time, "Man, those are some impressive plow guys."*

They really are. The plowing in this township is incredibly diligent and prompt. Our tiny, very unpopulated street here is plowed much more promptly than the busy main road we lived on at Blackrock. I suppose it's because there's just so much snow here that the plowing is a regular thing and scheduled for accordingly. But I tell you what: I really, really appreciate it.

In fact, it occurred to me that it would not be amiss to bring some kind of holiday treat to the town barn where the plow guys are based. They do at least as much for quality of life here as the mail lady or the dump lady, both of whom will be receiving a loaf of homemade bread or a jar of jelly as a Christmas gift.

What do you think the plow guys would like? Probably a day off, but I can't give them that.

* In the interest of fairness, I suppose there could be plow women too, but it's unlikely.

Weather Watch

One thing about moving to the Canadian border is that after about December 1 (or, uh, maybe even before that), traveling any distance becomes a game of chance. Winter weather is Weather with a capital "W."

I've noticed already that we always get at least the amount of snow predicted for our location, and often more right here where our house is. It's usually colder and windier than the national weather site forecast, because the closest official weather station is actually 13 miles away, off this plateau we live on. And this is a place with severe weather.

Whenever I know I have to go somewhere, even just to the large village 25 miles away to get the kids to the pediatrician, as I did on Monday, I start checking the weather as soon as I can. In the case of my pediatrician's appointment, that meant the first forecast I saw for that day, ten days out, was 5-8 inches of snow with ice pellets.

Swell.

The forecast changed the closer the day came, though, until eventually it said 1-3 inches. No ice pellets mentioned. Okay, I thought, I can deal with 50 miles roundtrip in 1-3 inches of snow.

Except almost all the 3 inches--which ended up being more like 4 inches--fell in the morning just before and during my drive. And the plow hadn't gotten to our road yet. So when I left, I was driving on unplowed roads for the first five miles, and then on a road that had been plowed, but still had a significant amount of snow and slush on it. And it was still snowing.

The drive home was better. But I figure this is the way it is here. Things are not cancelled because of snow, unless it's a real doozy, so I'd better get used to it.

But when people are flying to Montreal specifically to come to visit us in December--as my parents are today for the boys' triple baptism on Sunday--the weather assumes even more importance. Most of their stay is just going to be really cold. Much as my Arizona-accustomed parents aren't looking forward to the 17-degree high temperature tomorrow, I'm sure the 3-5 inches of snow forecasted for Monday is even more unappealing to them.

I don't think it's enough to cancel their flight out on Tuesday morning, though it might make the drive to the airport a little more exciting than they want.

I think it's clear they really love their grandsons.

We just booked tickets to fly out of Montreal ourselves in February for a trip to Tucson. There could be a blizzard. There could be a foot of snow. There could be nothing at all. Oh the excitement of anticipation! Fingers crossed, because it's all you can do when faced with winter travel in the north country.

Location, Location, Location

Hey, you know the best way to be instantly in the Christmas mood? Live on an actual Christmas tree farm. Then, when you're ready to get a Christmas tree, you can just walk 100 yards down the road and cut one.

Snow for ambiance is also pretty much guaranteed.

Of course, you still have to lie down in the snow to cut the tree.

And by "you," I mean "A."

There are also plenty of branches to cut when you decide you're going to be all crafty and make a wreath, forgetting you are not actually crafty and will inevitably give up on the wreath and go with a rustic decorative . . . something.

And by "you," I mean "I."

But then, if you've made good choices in life, your husband will notice your despondency over the wreath fail and will take the frame and make a wreath for you.

And by "your husband," I mean "my husband," because I definitely made a good life choice there.

Yup, Christmas is fun on a Christmas tree farm. Especially since we don't have to do any of the actual work on the farm.

Hello Again, Croup. I Haven't Missed You.

Cubby had it first. Then Jack went down a few days ago.

Last night Charlie succumbed, waking up screaming and barking that awful croup cough, panicked because he couldn't breathe. I took him outside to look at the moon*, because cooler, damp air is helpful with croup. Then he sat on my lap in the kitchen and breathed in the steam from a hot mug of water, taking sips of cold water occasionally before he eventually decided he could sleep again.

This happened twice, once at 1 a.m. and again at 4:45 a.m.

Jack woke up crying and coughing at 6:15 a.m. He sat with me until 6:30 a.m., at which point I had to dump him in bed with A. and go get Cubby up for school. Waking Cubby up also woke Charlie up.

Cubby was whining and crying that he didn't want to go to school. (He's not sick anymore. Just grumpy.)

Charlie refused to go back to sleep and instead collapsed on the mat at the bottom of the stairs, wailing that he couldn't come upstairs.

Jack was crying in the bed with A., who is now also sick with a cold.

So, at 6:30 a.m. I was running the shower in the bathroom to make it steamy for Charlie--at which point I hauled him upstairs and sat him in there with a mug of hot honey water--forcing Cubby to get dressed and putting out his breakfast, packing Cubby's lunch, and making hot tea for Jack and A.

The three contagious amigos.

Keep your fingers crossed for me that I don't come down with something, okay? Someone has to keep this snotty ship from sinking.

* In my pajamas, which meant I was outside in a t-shirt and shorts, barefoot in the 38-degree night with half-frozen rain coming down. Motherhood literally pushes you out of your comfort zone with some regularity.

Spilled Milk

I have to remind myself nearly daily that there's no use crying over spilled milk. Or, more accurately, there's no use yelling over spilled milk. My children are unconcerned about spilled milk and unlikely to shed any tears over it, but I am very irritated by spilled milk and must stop myself from berating the kids when they spill it.

The reason it's so irritating is that milk is surprisingly difficult to clean up properly. The large puddle must be mopped up, and then the area has to be wiped with a wet cloth to prevent a disgusting sticky spot. In addition, when milk falls from a table it spatters for an incredible distance. I've found milk spatters up to five feet from the actual spot the cup hit the floor. 

Plus, the milk is usually in an inconvenient spot like underneath the table or chairs, necessitating hands and knees scrubbing and the likelihood of whacking my head in the process.

The best--or worst, perhaps I should say--was this morning, though, when Charlie was putting the full cup of milk he had requested and refused to drink into the refrigerator for later.* He somehow caught it on the edge of the refrigerator shelf or something and spilled the entire cup on the floor directly in front of the refrigerator, which meant half of it spread under the refrigerator.

Deep breath (after my involuntary, "Charlie! COME ON."). No use yelling over spilled milk, no use yelling over spilled milk . . .

On the up side, pulling the refrigerator out to clean up allowed me to wipe down that side of the counter next to the stove where things fall in the unreachable crack between the refrigerator and the cabinet. 

I also had the opportunity to note once again that our landlady is either an excellent housekeeper in general or did a really bang-up job of cleaning before we moved in. It was by far the least-scary refrigerator moving I've ever had to do. Mostly dusty back there.

And now all clean. Thanks to the milk. Silver linings, keeping on the sunny side, and Pollyanna-ing all over the place here.

* The small cups of milk cluttering the refrigerator when the kids don't finish drinking them are another irritant of milk, but wasting it would be worse.

Also Thankful for This

Hello, my lovelies! Is everyone jumping right back into work/school/whatever everyday drudgery awaited you after the holiday?

Yeah, me too. I did three loads of laundry yesterday, re-stocked the very bare refrigerator, and am currently home with all three children, as Cubby's cough this morning convinced his tender-hearted father that he should stay home from school.

I was going to send him. Lucky for Cubby he has such a nice dad.

Anyway.

I am here to tell you of a felicitous food accident that occurred during the MiL's many Thanksgiving food preparations. She made three different pies: one pumpkin, one apple, and one chocolate. The filling for the chocolate pie was a very easy recipe for a kind of chocolate mousse called pots de creme. The recipe--an old one from A.'s grandmother--involves simply blending together chocolate chips, sugar, vanilla, hot milk, and an egg, and then chilling it to set.

I happened to be in the kitchen when the MiL was pouring this chocolate mixture into the pie shell and she had just a little bit left over. I helpfully found a ramekin for her to pour the extra into.

My Thanksgiving labors were very strenuous, yes*.

Then I saw four small circular pieces of pie dough that the MiL had cut with a biscuit cutter from her extra dough and baked along with one of the pies.

The MiL mentioned that she thought the boys might like to have those as a treat.

They probably would have, but they never got the chance, because I saw those little circles of flaky pastry, and I saw the ramekin of liquid chocolate.

It was just inevitable that I dipped that pie dough directly into the chocolate and ate it standing there in the kitchen. Jack was in the kitchen with me, so he got to have a piece, but otherwise? All me. And the best thing I ate on Thanksgiving.

How about you? What was the best thing you ate last Thursday?

* Okay, I also made some mashed sweet potatoes, but those are so easy they don't really count. Certainly nothing like making three pies all from scratch.