Swinging, Pork, and 70's cooking

Let us please for a moment consider the 1970's...

 

When...

These men were not allowed to adopt children....

THIS family was considered "Normal,"

This man was considered "Sexy"

This woman had the most awesome hair on the planet....

And Crisco along with our friends at Good Housekeeping, published this cook book! (which I purchased at the Once Again Shoppe for the cost of 10 cents)

For the two or three of you who read the drivel I deem post-worthy, you know I am attempting to put forth a more culinary foot in life. This wild do-it-yourself, without the pizzeria, involved sort of cooking is due to my lack of employment, and my enjoyment and delight at being a stay-at-home wife and mother (no offense mom)...

...I miss working a little bit, but at the end of the day, I really want to understand the women who pissed their way along the trail ahead of me.  I want to wear a ruffled apron and understand where they were coming from when Crisco was considered a staple. I WANT to take that step forward, (or is it backward?) and I want to embrace the whole... home-maker thing.  

I was a stay-at-home mom when the kids were little. At the time, with three kids under the age of 4, I didn't wax poetic about the joys of home-making, no... keeping little faces booger free and little bottoms clean was where it was at for me!

But times they have a changed, and the kids are big enough to tie their shoes and wear B cups. So, though I want to cook, as the daughter of a Hamburger Helper mother, who occasionally made goulash, I think I need the additional leadership offered from oh, anywhere else...

Even a 10 cent cookbook published in the 1970's

Hence, The Dinner. Yes, I made a dinner for my family out of the Crisco cook book.

 I chose this recipe and this book primarily because pork has been on sale and I bought a hella lot of it, but also because, there MUST be some truth and joy in presenting a meal from a Home & Garden type do-booky, even if said recipe book more than likely mildewed unused on an actual housewife's shelf for 30+ years.

The Era & the contents of the meal had me thinking of...
 

Because, before the actual swinging event, I bet it was a stone soup sort of deal, and the couples sort of threw in what they had... maybe for pre-coital practice.

And so I made it, and the critics ate it....

Raising Hell & Soda Bread

I grew up being trained with cooking skills that included making hamburger helper, tuna helper, and grilled cheese. So, in my world any culinary ability I've gained, gleaned or invented is a boon, and maybe even a miracle. 

Baking has never really been my forte. My Mother-In-Law can mix flour, salt, and toaster stroodle chunks together to form an impromptu masterpiece which will pop out of the oven looking gourmet and which everyone will want as their birthday cake for the next 10 years.  


My own baking experiments ended when I made an apple pie for Thanksgiving, brought it to her house, and nobody touched it.  After that, I never tried to bake anything that Betty Crocker or Dunkin Hines didn't pre-prepare.  

But times they are a changing, and my newly adopted mindset (to do, try, and think whatever I want) has left me willing to try things because I want to try them, vs trying them to bring pleasure to others, or to make others proud of me.  (Let us not get into a co-dependency discussion here PLEASE.)


So this morning my classy farmer's-wife-friend called and asked, "remember that Irish Soda Bread we had in D.C. at that cool Irish pub?" Well, she had a recipe she'd successfully tried and tested on her family. 

SOOooooo, I grabbed the closest crayola and a big envelope and wrote down her instructions...

4 Cups Flour
1 1/2 Tsp. Salt
1 Tsp. Baking Soda
2 Cups Buttermilk (keep reading to learn how to fudge this ingredient)


~Mix dry ingredients, mix in buttermilk and form a rough ball.

~Plop on floured counter and knead but don't over-knead into a ball.
~Put ball in a greased 8 inch round cake pan (I used a pie tin).
~Cut X on top about an inch deep
~Bake at 375 degrees for 45-50 minutes
~Wrap in damp towel and let cool for recommended 8 hrs. (or less if you can't stand the wait.)

And in between talk about our teens latest girlfriend/boyfriend trials and a quick lesson on how to make faux buttermilk for this recipe;

"Put two tablespoons of vinegar in your measuring cup (she used apple cider, I used white but put in a splash of rot-gut red wine) Then fill it to the two cup mark, let sit for a few minutes."

I made a healthy sized mess in my kitchen and mixed up a batch of bread.   





Cut a big X on top...

Baked at 375 degrees for 48 minutes...
 







and set it out to cool for 6-8 hours (placing a damp cloth on top to cool).




It smells good and it even looks like bread.  

My Jess sis is coming over for a crock pot chicken dinner tonight, my Navy Brother is visiting, and I am looking forward to seeing if everyone enjoys the Irish Soda bread, but mostly I'm just glad I broke loose, got my hands a little dirty and TRIED to bake something. (Even if nobody likes it in the end.) 


It's so easy to decide you are no good at something and to stick with what you are confident you are good at.  (It's also easy to hold a grudge over a 10 year old apple pie that nobody tried.) 


But where is the fun in that? So today it took the kindness of a good friend thinking of me, a simple recipe that tantalized me to my Irish roots, and a healthy dose of disregard for the fear of failure, to remember why RebeccaFlys. And to remind me that the journey is often a lot simpler than I thought it was.


I hope that one loaf will be enough, maybe I should throw together another one with the girls when they get home? 

Best wishes,
RebeccaFlys 

Sew What!

I’ve been crafting. 

For like a week and a half solid.  The skin on my fingertips has worn off.  What this means is that while I’m hunchbacked in a corner, over a sewing machine, my troll family is destructifying the rest of the house.  Also, like the greenhouse effect, my own mess has come back to bite me.

• There is Essentially oiled Buckwheat strewn from one end of the house to the other.
• Scraps of fabric and bitty little pieces have migrated. Even into the refrigerator.
• The only clean glasses we have left are martini.
• The cat got locked in a bedroom all day and I didn’t notice till’ I opened the door.
• I’ve lived in pajamas till’ the kids came home from school for 6 school days.
• Not one telephone handset has been cradled, i.e. 4 dead phones.
• The puppy has resorted to eating paper towels because there’s no TP left to chew.
• My wood floors look like a barn floor.  Even a battery powered swifter won’t cut through it.
• Further proof that I’ve lost it: After listening to Chickadee (age 10) describe how her BFF freezes live mice to feed to her snake, I felt sorry for a white mouse at Petco ($2.75).  Brought her home and put her up in a fish tank we got for Christmas two years ago.  I named her Ruby the Christmas Mouse because of her beady red eyes.

In the midst of all of this I have put up one Christmas tree, hand crafted gifts for DH’s entire extended family, my own Mama, Sissies, Brother’s GF, and Dear Friends.  Even for my Favorite Neighbor who trained me to be a professional housekeeper (if she stopped by today I would tell her we all had H1N1 pig disease and I wouldn’t let her in to see the sty).  And Last Night I stayed up till 4am making something special for my DH.  And I’ve knitted gifts in the Mini-Storage on every trip we’ve taken.

Tonight we are baking chocolate chip cookies for the kids classes and I think we’ll make some sugar cookie dough to chill (if I can wash enough spoons to stir with and find a spatula Brody the Acrobatic Shiba Inu hasn’t chewed up).

This is the first year I haven’t been working full time during the Christmas Season in 6 years.  As I was Googling “get motivated to clean” it hit me, I’m really happy. Even in the midst of all this chaos.  Even in the midst of feeling guilty that my house was cleaner when I worked full time!  As my mom would say, “I’m happy as a pig in S*%$!”

My husband says that we make ourselves happy. “Happiness is something we choose to have, we have to find it for ourselves.”  His MLC has really brought him back to being the guy he was in his 20’s.  I really like that.  His attitude has helped me become more aware of the things that make ME happy (like crafting, and making him a healthy lunch to take to work every night)  Even when I’m tangling with this depression thing, and insecurity about my own impending continuing education.

So, today as I soak the dishes, clean up my own mouse poop, pull the buckwheat clog out of the vacuum cleaner, attempt to locate phone handsets, and consider ways to bribe the children to clean the floor on their hands and knees (hey, my back is still healing!), I’m going to revel in the fact that I’m happy not in spite of these things, but because of them.  This is my crazy life and I’m choosing to embrace my chaos/happiness.

(I will add pics when River Child gives me back my thumb drive. My camera cord went kaput, long story).

Best wishes,

RebeccaFlys     

Bringing home Brodylicious!

I lost my sheltie dog this spring and have been beyond lost myself.

My husband decided to take me looking for the farmer who bred my "working" size shelty 10 years ago. After seeing several shelty breeders (families of menonites), and their pups who were super small for the breed I was ready to give up.

At our last stop we were sent to on a search through a saw mill to see a sheltie they were willing to give away. The dog ended up to be very shy and unwilling to approach us at all. After DH saw a door open to a barn and asked what dogs they had there, we realized we were at what was essentially a small, very clean, puppy mill which was shutting down.

At that point we were offered a 3 year old male and female corgie, another breeding set of small dogs, (and the sheltie if we could catch her). We were in shock. I wanted to save them all, but didn't know what to do. I had no dog kennels and three kids in the mini-storage. I couldn't put an adult dog that had apparently always lived in a cage in my van with my kids.


The "farmer" said he had 2 pups, we could have one. I had NEVER even heard of a shibu inu until one was handed to me. I tried to convince him to give me the male in my arms (who I knew I would NEVER hand back. The little guy was shivering and hiding his face in my armpit) and the female he held. My husband knows me, and is an animal lover too, so he knew I would try to take all the dogs the guy would give me that I thought I could save. (We have a great no-kill shelter and I knew they would help us out.) But the guy got wierd, I put on a good show and walked right out with "my" puppy.

We were given his shot records, his pedigree, and him. I had NO intention to keep him. I wanted another sheltie, but somehow the little bugger grew on me.

I have another mixed breed at home who we adopted from a co-worker of mine, a small jack/german shepherd mix. And after two weeks and a lot of breed research, I decided we might be a good match for the little Shiba. He is so gregarious and sweet, and never slows down (perfect for me to walk with!).

I really wanted another shelty, because, well my BFF was a shelty. And with 10, 12, & 14 year old kids, I know this dog will be my companion as they leave home. My husband works nights, so I like the dogs to sleep with me. Since our other dog lives and breathes for my husband, putting up with me only when his highness is not present, this fella will be my heart. Somehow, when he stuck his little nose into my zip up hoodie, and hid from the barking craziness in that little room full of cages and barking dogs, he gained my protection. Then, as he has charmed my heart, I've grown to really like him for him. I know he may grow up to be far more independant than my sheltie Riley, who was always by my side, and spoke to me without speaking.

I wasn't out searching for this little guy, but here he is! Maybe it was meant to be, because maybe another sheltie would never have measured up to my Riley guy. I entered a photo of my pup in a calendar contest for Shiba Inu pups and won! Our little find is a June Shiba Inu model --->check it out you know you want to!

After our first joyous walk in the creek, I named him Brody, which is Celtic for little muddy place. My pets are like family to me. I didn't realize how lonely I was without Riley until I woke up to a wet nose on my cheek again. It was then that I knew I really love Brody. He's my little dog guy.

Pets can come into your heart and be family if you let them. And Family often finds us when we least expect them and when we most need them.

Welcome Brody,

Best wishes,
RebeccaFlys

Holly Jolly Christmas Count Down

Well, the turkey carcass is in the can and waiting at the curb. MIL showed up at my house, on my first T-Day at home, with her catalogs to gather ideas for her Black Friday Reconnaissance. As my children reveled in commercialism, and Christmas hunting and gathering, rather than the family card game I had planned, I watched a recorded episode of "House" (The one where he threw out the Christmas decorations and threw a Secret Santa, for his staff, that only included his own name.)

House's grinchy cynicism was working it for me. It reminded me of a little bit of Christmas "poetry" I attempted a few years back. Soooo, I went to my Myspace and pulled it off to share with my dear friends (that's anyone willing to suffer through reading the drivel I pour out after consuming large quantities of coffee, wine, and/or vodka.)

Christmas Days

The day's nearly here, the time's nearly come, like last year and last year back past 2001

But something is changing,

The scraggaly crushed mushed up lists are all gone,

covered with dog hair and cheezits and gum.

Instead, in their place, with neat cursive writing,

New letters to Mom & Dad (who was that guy Santa?)

The times are a' changing the children aren't begging

It's now organized, well timed, thought out,

plain old pleading.

And under the tree, (and in Daddy's wallet)

oh the changes we'll see...

From Barbies and airplanes to Wii's and I Pods

From pink fluffy slippers to Aero ensamble

From $2 make-up to spa days and haircuts

It's all enough to make Dad just sick in his gut.

The gifts are all smaller

The wrapping is less

But not all is changing....

We don't love them less

and I in my Martini and Dad in his cups

Will pay January's bills with the usual stress.

and look forward to next Christmas

with the usual fuss.

Yessssss, I'm something of a Grinch. I guess the thing is, Christmas in "my day" was different. Life really was a little simpler. We stayed kids a little longer than our own will I think... We ideolized Laura Ingles Wilder, not ICarly (no mom and dad at home) or Hanna Montana (lying to the world). Our video games didn't save. You had to commit to beating Mario Brothers, I mean COMMIT. I remember my mom shutting it off after my Sis and I beat the game through and were part way through the second, harder version that came after. I still don't know why she did that (after we had played for 18 hrs straight) I mean we were SHARING after all.

In our time, boys had to put some effort into locating, reading and replacing dad's Playboys before being caught like miniature 007's, and girls had to secure and skim mom's romance novels always prepared with a good excuse if caught "I really liked her haircut on the cover, it's so pretty I thought Fantastic Sam's could copy it on me." Now kids just Google "big boobs" or "Cosmo sex stories" or "celebrity crotch shot images" and bam, there they are. And hell, my 10 year old knows how to clear the history on the computer.

We would air pop pop corn and RUN to watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Raindeer and other select holiday favorites which we had carefully noted on the calendar in order to be certain we would not miss them. My kids DVR what they want to see and they didn't know what an air-popper was until recently (I'll save that for another blog).

Methinks things are now too easy sometimes.

This Christmas, as I cringe at the impersonal gifts we spend hundreds of dollars on for our kids, and wish I could still pick out dollies and race cars, I will imagine them as parents. With any luck, technology will one day stump my little angels as they try to raise their own little angels. It's only fair. Oh, and I won't imagine them as the intensely cool parent I myself have turned out to be, but more along the lines of the goofy parent my own mom was... is.

And maybe I'll download some Little House Christmas Episodes to share with them.

The Christmas Countdown is on. Isn't that link so cool? Just click that and whammo, you are whisked away to a site that counts you down. Fantastic, I know.

Best wishes,

RebeccaFlys

Blood is Thicker Than Water?

There has come a time in my life where I’m looking around at the people who are family, and the people who I choose to call family and thinking it all over.

An ounce of blood is worth more than a pound of friendship. ~Spanish Proverb

They say blood is thicker than water. I see that, I would do anything for my sisters and brothers, be they full siblings or half. I would also do anything for Navy Guy, my chosen brother. He came into our lives and has been the best family anyone could ask for.

There's an awful lot of blood around that water is thicker than. ~Mignon McLaughlin

How do these people, best friends, children of people our parents once dated, sisters of boys we once dated who now live 3000 miles away, or sisters of friends we knew in high school, become family? And how is it that the people we choose as family can often warm our hearts so much more than people who are tied to us by blood or marriage? Well we often just plain like them more. At the same time they are often the people who care the most for you when they don’t owe you anything.

I’ve learned our place in a family, and the traditions we hold dear, should not be dependant on who we are married to. We can love people like family because we’ve married into them, we can leap gung-ho into their traditions forgoing building our own, but we need to know we’ve left ourselves open to losing that if our marriage falters.

Where are we when we are left out? Well, we’re at our best friend’s brother’s house roasting marshmallows and oogling his wife's beautiful hand made Jewelry (take a look WOW!), playing Rock Band with someone who has become a brother/uncle, chatting endlessly with an old co-worker, hanging out with cousins and aunts and an uncle we always wished we had spent more time with. We’re wondering how 15 years can mean so little so suddenly and amazed at the people who still consider us family.

Building a life no one can take away from you will protect you in a storm. I’m thinking about that today, the day before Thanksgiving. A Thanksgiving with a family I almost lost after Summer Implosion 2009. And I think, after all of the sadness thinking about how what I lost, though I didn’t lose it in the end, I’m ready to build my own traditions, in my own home, with my children, my husband if he so chooses, and anyone who wants to be a part of my family.

It’s my turn to singe the turkey and forget the squash is still in the oven until everyone’s finished their pie.

And thank you for a house full of people I love. Amen. ~Ward Elliot Hour

Best wishes,
RebeccaFlys

Compassionate Living

One of my dear friends lost her father not too long ago.

He was a lovely man. I am sorry for her.

I am also very jealous that she had such a thing as a loving father for all of these years. My father died in the line of duty as a fireman when I was two. My sister was born just a few weeks later. I spent so many years thinking my father was burned and died because of his wounds. I really don't know almost anything about him.

Seeing my husband be a dad to our kids has healed me quite a bit. His fatherhood has given me a glimpse of what might have been had my dad survived.

Back to my friend, I feel so bad that she is sad, and continues to be at every occasion that passes with out him, but she is so lucky to have had him at all, that it blows my mind.

I'm really not the one to lean on in these situations. It's hard to be supportive when you're whole body is rejecting the topic all together.

The lesson I remember from this is a simple one, don't complain about your kids to a woman who can't have any, don't tell your best friend that your mother is driving you crazy if she has lost hers. Never ever wish away something someone else wishes they had.

This is a compassionate way to live, and taking that moment to think before you speak allows you to be more compassionate to your friends and family. Hopefully I'm able to remember that as I blog and hopefully we can all remember this as the holiday season commences....

Best wishes,

RebeccaFlys

Slander, Blow Jobs, and promises

So, my *DH is a little goofy about me blogging.

He likes to pop in and look at what I’m working on. As for me, since reading The Five Languages of Love I stop what I’m doing and give him the love, after taking our self tests, I know we are both physical. It’s so nice to get into the habit of hugging and acknowledging your spouse when they address you. I had no idea. Thanks to my little *IC.

I’ve never made it a habit to keep things just between my DH and I. I have no good excuse for why I discuss my problems with him with others other than that I’m a chick who overanalyzes and likes feedback. This bad habit has made him somewhat nervous about my public blog attempt, which of course he saw when I posted a link in my Facebook…

Post His Mid-Life-Crisis me is trying to be reassuring and recognize that even though he is a big strong guy with strong opinions, that doesn’t mean he is impervious to my words, and it doesn’t mean he doesn’t hurt when I turn them into daggers or darts or when I spew and vent like a chick to whomever will listen. I don’t want to be that girl anymore, even if I don’t get the feedback from him I’d like.

So I got up from the puter’ and huggled him tonight and sweetly promised “If I blog about you I will tell you and you can see it before I post it” to which he replied, “You have to or I could sue you.” He was smiling or he might have been clocked by my coffee mug (the closest heavy item I had at hand).

“Sue me for what? Blow jobs every night? Because everything I have is yours!” I mean honestly, you know?

DH likes to start the wife-fire, because he thinks I’m cute fired up. At the worst point in our 15 year relationship-marriage, I was a screaming and a shouting, and with my hair on ends and my arms flung out wide, I asked “is there a single thing you like about me??? A single single SINGLE thing?” to which he replied coyly, “you’re feisty.”

So he said, “I could sue you for slander.” Then he went out and finished frying the pork chops. He makes me nuts. Honestly, there is not another man I have less in common with in the whole wide world. The only thing we agree on is living room furniture and not letting our teenage daughter out of our sight. The things we do have in common are private and can’t be posted publicly.

We went to a marriage councilor this week, purpose; learn to communicate better. The guy asked me, “why are you with DH?” Now we’ve been through a whole lotta stress and hell over the years my DH and I, especially during summer implosion 2009, but there was only one answer to that, “because I love him.”

I hope he doesn’t sue me for slander…. (o;

Best wishes,

RebeccaFlys

*DH: Dear Husband

*IC: Individual councillor

Anxiety & Panic, a bane.

After our house fire, I had my first panic attack. You would think the actual fire would have caused me to panic, but it didn't. It wasn't until weeks later the whole thing closed down on me. Post traumatic stress. Fabulous. They blame it on my father the fallen fireman, but I'm not sure that was it, I think it was realizing I wouldn't graduate college because I had three kids under the age of 5 and we were suddenly homeless.

Since then it seems that I always find myself with things to fix. They are never small things, but the sort of things you ruminate upon and worry over and regret for years because of all the could have beens.

Right now? I'm hiding. From everything that's good in my life and every spinning whirling thought I have in my head. I can't remember a time when things didn't worry me and my head wasn't full of gyrating concerns. I've cleaned the bathroom and it's spotless. I'm thinking of who I would want to raise my children if I were gone. There are enough ghosts in my past to make worry about that. I hope everyone feels this way, because if not, I must be crazy and I work so hard at making things orderly that I would rather die than be crazy.

"Anxiety is the space between the 'now' and the 'then'" ~Richard Abell

Earlier, after I cleaned the bathroom, when I felt like a panic attack was coming on, I got in the closet because scrubbing the shower and the toilet didn't help. I like that closed up muffled feel of being encased. It helps. It probably makes me crazy but it helps. One can breathe in a closet, with all those walls everywhere.

I'm lucky. I've been loved. By my mother and sisters and brother. By friends. And by the boy and men I've loved in return. I wonder who I would have been if I'd never let them in. Why is it that men shape women's lives to such an extent? Why is it that they come in and have the ability to alter our courses so inexorably? Please appreciate the subtle hint at pregnancy, it's intentional. I would like to say that I influenced them right back just as strongly, but that's not true. They walked away unscathed, even when their time on earth was through. And me, I'm freaking out in my bathroom.

There are days, when I'm driving my mini-van, heading out to work or to buy toilet paper or cat food, and I feel like *HSBFOD is sitting in the passenger seat, amused by how grown up I've gotten. I can feel him smiling. The girl in me belongs to this boy-man who never really grew up, and who took the course of my life and choked it into what it became. Stupid boy, sitting there smiling at me. I knew he loved me, even when he did what he did. It haunts me, wondering if maybe as he realized no one was going to save him, he might have looked up at the sunlight slanting through the water and thought of me and our baby and wished he had stayed true. He could be alive today if he had.

I need to shower and get dressed. And I do. It's a holiday and my family is chomping at the bit to get to grandma's house. My mind is not on the job though. It's circling around and bringing me back to places I wish I could fix.

When my husband comes to see if I’m ready, and smiles his little smile at me that says “aren’t you pretty,” I roll my hair into a twist, clip it up and I’m ready. Living life well is about learning how to focus on our blessings. Being married to someone who can calm you with a smile is a blessing.

For those of you who have anxiety or panic attacks, breathe. Breathe. BREATHE. This too shall pass. Focus on something positive and be strong.

*HSBFOD: high school boyfriend father of daughter

Who is Rebecca Flys

I'm THAT girl.
The sweet one.
You know who I mean, the girl in high school who was nice to everybody. Never smoked pot. Helped the old lady up the road re-plant her gladiolas.
And never knew how good she looked in spandex bike shorts and a tank top.

I was the girl next door.

Till' I got caught up with a boy who drove, a black Firebird. The exact same model as the original KITT. Call it what you will, but we were bad in our day.

Isn't life funny.

Sooooo, I in 1994 graduated high school 2 months pregnant. My daughter is 14 now and I'm 33. My husband (her step-father) is just getting over a mid-life crisis, I'm raising 10, 12, & 14 year old kids, and a new Shiba Inu puppy who is tearing up roll after roll of good brand TP, I'm on unemployment, and Lexapro, and according to my adorable little henna painted therapist, who just resigned, I'm in a major depression.

Surgeon General's Warning: Broken Hearts do NOT cause death, only temporary serious injury.

I'm brutally honest, emotionally charged, border-line raunchy and at this time, very angry. As I strap on my push up bra and head out to buy the weeks groceries in my brand new thong, low cut jeans, and high heeled black ankle boots, with my chocolate glazed high lights gleaming (it was HIS mid-life crisis but here I am), It occurs to me I have something to say. Me, the good girl whose mother burned her bras and made hamburger helper for dinner but raised a drug free, knits her own scarves and makes pie crust from scratch daughter, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY.

So, What is a good broken Step-Ford wife who has lost her mojo to do? Well, it IS 2009. And I'm no Irma Bambach. Starting a blog sounds like a good plan. I have things on my mind. Thoughts I'd like to throw out there in the general anti-verse. Bear with me. Roll with me. Attempt to maintain your dignity while controlling your fiery inner fury and I'll be your partner.

Best wishes,
Rebecca Flys