Elle Casey

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted here.  I’ve been blogging elsewhere and, well, moving to another country.  But this article about McDonalds ran across my screen and I just couldn’t resist my urge to comment.

The Center for Science in the Public Interest said that the plastic promotions lure children into McDonald’s restaurants where they are then likely to order food that is too high in calories, fat and salt.

I agree.  So here’s my solution McDonalds.  Or Center for Science in the Public Interest:  Serve Happy Meals with homework inside.  Or a list of chores.  That will keep my kids from ordering one, I can tell you that!

No Comments | In: Craziness, Family, Kids, Restaurants | | #

I turned a new age today.  No more details – I’ll let you live with the fantasy that I’m 28 and viciously beautiful with a perfect hourglass figure.

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My mom made me a birthday cake even though I said I wasn’t going to celebrate until my husband returned home.  When I first saw it on the counter I disregarded it, almost like I didn’t even register that this was a birthday cake.  I think my subconscious knew before I really knew – Mom and her recipe tweaking had struck again.

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She used to make these angel food confections for my birthdays that had this fluffy whipped cream pink topping made from strawberry jello mix.  The cake would have multi-colored sprinkles baked into the batter, making it look like a party favor had exploded inside.  They were gorgeous and delicious, round and pink.

—

This cake was round.  And it was pink, yes.  But something was wrong with the frosting.  It looked sad, depressed even…sliding down the cake to lay in piles on the plate below.  The strawberries that had been mixed into the frosting looked like they’d been in a bar fight.

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After dinner we cut into the cake.  Interesting.  The first thing I noticed was that there was something keeping the knife from cutting through.  A two-handed grip was used and proved successful in dividing up the pieces amongst the diners.  The second thing I noticed was that the sprinkles inside had all joined together in one spot, about midway through the cake, like survivors clinging together on a sinking ship.

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The entire top layer of the cake was not the fluffy, white, angel food I remembered from years past.  In its place was about a three quarter inch layer of white gummy bear material.  Did my mother put gummy bears in the cake, you ask?  No, she did not.  Did my mother use gelatin in my cake you ask?  No, she did not.  Rather, because she could not find her angel food pan, she used a silicon rubber pan to bake the cake instead.

—

Who’da thought that the type of pan used would turn out to be so critical?  Apparently, an angel food pan allows the fluffy cake to rise to its full height, and it is designed to cool in an upside down position to make sure the cake doesn’t fall or compact down onto itself.  For future reference, a compacted angel food cake, is a lot like a large, white, somewhat grainy, gummy bear.

—

Everyone liked their Gummy Bearish Cake, and truth be told, only one piece now remains.  Thanks for the birthday memories Mom!  (email me for the recipe)

1 Comment | In: Family | | #

Me:  “Mom, I’m going to have to blog about you tonight.”

Mom: “Yeah, I know.  Go ahead.”

My mother is a great sport.  Obviously I’ve inherited that gene from her, because I keep eating her food.  As my mom tells it, she used to be a great cook.  I do seem to remember a pretty nice chicken casserole she made when we were kids, although it was never the same recipe twice.  The three things that remained constants were (1) chicken, (2) croutons on the top, and (3) something green floating inside it because Mom says healthy dishes have something green in them.

I also remember our favorite dish as kids – we called it “Barf Chicken”.  She baked chicken breasts with red wine and parmesan cheese.  The smell is what inspired the naming of this dish.

My mom’s problem is not that she’s a bad cook.  It’s that she feels as though every recipe (ever written) could do with a bit of tweaking on her part.  As if it’s just shy of perfect the way it’s written, but she’s going to make it better either with additions, deletions or substitutions.  The fact that most recipes have made it through pretty strenuous tests and edits before they made it to paper is lost on my mom.

I could dedicate an entire blog to her kitchen creations/manglings, but instead I’ll just stick with this post for this week’s fare.  Last week I had a tough time.  My father-in-law was very ill, my husband was out of town caring for him, and I was busy with work and kids.  Mom was kind enough to come to my house and start dinner for me and the kids one night.  I walked in to see her pouring a bag of shredded cheese into a pot of water.

“Umm, whacha makin’, Mom?”

“Broccoli Cheese Soup!”

“Wow, awesome.  Are you using a recipe?” fear slipping into my voice…

“Yep.”

About a half hour later, Mom is standing at the stove, and I hear, “Well, shit.”

“What’s up, Mom?  Something wrong?”

“Well, this stuff doesn’t look right.  I don’t know what the hell I did wrong.”

“Did you follow the recipe?”

“Well, kinda.”  Well kinda.  Yeah.  I should have known something was up.

“What did you change from the recipe directions, Mom?”

“Well, nothing really.  It’s just that the recipe called for Velveeta cheese and I substituted a different cheese.  I hate Velveeta cheese.”

“What kind of cheese did you use?”  I mean, how bad can it be?  Cheddar?

“Non-fat cheese.”

Alas.  My mom did not understand that broccoli cheese soup is creamy and cheesy because of ALL THE FAT in the cheese and only Velveeta, that disgusting manufactured transfat frankenstein of a cheese, will melt into a soup-like construct.

The plasticky non-fat orange stuff (I refuse to call it cheese anymore) had clung in clumps to the broccoli and the water, which was still the consistency of water, had turned bright orange.

Voila!  Broccoli Cheese Clump Soup! (email me for the recipe)

No Comments | In: Family | | #

My husband and I are the lucky parents of two children involved in Pop Warner football.  If you’ve never had the “pleasure” of this experience, let me briefly enlighten you:  1) expect to pay at least twice the amount of money they first indicate you will have to pay.  We are at about $500 per kid now with uniforms, practice uniforms, equipment, etc. This does not include all the snacks and drinks I will “voluntarily” provide to the team when it’s my turn; 2) the paperwork that must be completed is quite extensive, so plan on taking some vacation days from work to get it done; 3) you will be forced to pay $100 for these retaurant discount cards, which you can re-sell if you can find anyone stupid enough to buy one (which you likely will not).  This is the league “fundraiser” which is quite diabolical on Pop Warner’s part, because they get the money up front (your kid can’t play until you “donate”) and they don’t have to worry about the crappy product they need to schlep; 4) you are forced to “donate” at least four hours of your time doing something for the team or the league (again, your kids can’t play if you don’t sign the contract); 5) you, your players’ siblings, and the grandparents have to pay to enter your kids’ games because apparently the hundreds of dollars we already paid do not cover the cost of referees (who make a bucket load of dough based on the admissions I’ve seen coming into these games); 6) expect to sit for at least 3 hours for every game, one hour pre-game and 2 hours for the game…add some extra time for coaches who love to hear themselves talk after the game (read: all of them); 7) keep in mind that this can be extra, super fun if your kid is one who is not related to a coach and therefore ends up riding the bench the whole game (except for special teams of course!).  Add to this the chance for crappy weather, fire ants and mosquitos, and you’ve got yourself one hell of a treat!

Now that you have an overview of the system, and therefore a basis for my bitterness, I can move on to the subject at hand.  Because I have two kids at different ages (one cheerleader and one football player), we of course have different game schedules.  We have 3 schedules in fact.  Yes, I know, the math is not working for you.  Let me explain…my daughter as a cheerleader has to cheer for two teams.  There were so many kids in this one league they split them in two.  So one week she cheers for one team and the other week she cheers for the other.  This means we have the added treat of negotiating an additional game schedule onto our calendars. Her games are around 1pm and my son’s games are around 7pm.  This essentially means that our Saturdays are shot.  We have to get to the field at 12:30, watch cheering (the same 5 cheers over and over and over and over….) until 3:00.  We pack up our camping gear (chairs, umbrellas, blankets, cooler) and are outta there by 3:15.  Then we have to leave our house at 5:15 for an away game to get to our son’s field by 5:45 for a 7:00 game.  Yes, this coach likes to be extra prepared and he does love his pre-game motivational speeches.  It’s a good thing my kids are so damn cute.

So, being the dutiful mother I am, and recovering sports-neglectful-mom that I have been in the past, I printed out the various game schedules and magnetized them to our refrigerator so we wouldn’t miss a single moment of Pop Warner bliss.  To avoid confusion, I even wrote my kids’ names at the top of the corresponding schedules.  My son was standing at the fridge yesterday and he says in this 13 year old, condescending, humored tone, “Mom, you’re such a spaz.  You put the wrong schedule up here.  Duh.” I ignored the tone (rather than tackle him and give him a good rug burn on his forehead which is probably what he deserved, disrespectful little turd that he is), and responded, “Oh no I didn’t.”

“Oh yes you did Mom, wanna bet?”  We’ve had many a betting incident in our house, and so I thought my son had learned his lesson.  Basically we’ve tried to drive home the points that 1) gambling is unhealthy, 2) gambling causes you to lose all your dog washing money, and 3) gambling causes fights between siblings that piss The Parents off, so is generally not worth it, even if you win.  He forgot those points I guess.  

“Sure,” I responded, “how much do you want to bet?” I was laying my weblike trap for his hapless soul, and he was too young and blinded by his rightness to see it being woven around him.

“A hundred bucks!”  he responded, with glee in his devilish eyes.  He was probably already spending the money he was dreaming of fleecing from his retarded mother on Skittles and games for his Nintendo DS.

After ascertaining that he didn’t have $100, we settled on a bet for $20.  I gave him a few chances to back out of the bet so that I would be able to go to sleep without guilt and of course to make the winning that much more glorious.

He grabbed the schedules off the fridge and yelled, “AH HA!!! See!!  J-P-W??  I DON’T PLAY FOR JUPITER PEE WEE!!!!!!  DUH!!!!!!  YOU’VE GOT THE WRONG TOWN AND THE WRONG LEAGUE, LOSER!!! NOW PAY UP!!!”  I responded by smiling.  All cool like, without a trace of fear.  This worried him.  His smile got less bright and his manner less jubilant.  (I can be really scary when I do that look.)  ”What?” he said, with trepidation.  ”Why are you smiling like that?”

“Take a look at the top of that page, son, and tell me what you see.”  He looked at the sheet and then across his face I saw confusion, followed shortly by sheepishness.  I continued, “Do you see something written at the top of that page in BOLD, BLACK handwriting?  Your sister’s name perhaps?  The girl that cheers for JUNIOR-PEE-WEE??”  I paused for effect.  ”Now take a look at the last sheet.  The one that has your name at the top of it.  Isn’t that your correct schedule?”

“Yeah,” he responded, already letting the bitterness sink in to his gut, “but that was confusing you know.  I can’t really be to blame for not getting that.”  What he didn’t get was that he was holding his sister’s schedules in his hand.  His schedules were under it. 

“Yeah, whatever, hand over my twenty bucks LOSER.  And next time, pay attention when I try to warn you and give you chances to back out of a bet with me.”

My son handed over his hard earned cash and tried to pout for a few minutes, but even he couldn’t deny the sheer awesomeness of my power.  He had to laugh at himself for being so quick to label me stupid and clueless.  Our history has shown that I will gladly admit when I’m stupid and clueless, it’s generally a situation of which I am well aware and am happy to report to whomever will listen.  When I act cocky, I have good reason.  

So all’s well that ends well.  I got money to buy my favorite popcorn and some goobers for movie night, and my son got a very valuable lesson.  Don’t gamble with money you want to use for video games, and don’t mess with Mom, especially when she’s being nice and smiling too much.  Parents: eight thousand nine hundred and twenty one, Kids: ZIP!

No Comments | In: Family, Kids | tags: betting, cheerleading, football, gambling, Kids, Pop Warner. | #

I love my mom, despite her quirks.  Maybe because of her quirks.  Speaking of quirks, she’s got one that provides endless entertainment for me, my husband, my siblings, and our kids.  It’s this total hang-up she has over trying to make extremely unhealthy food items somehow, at least a little bit, nutritious. She’s been doing this since I was a baby, so I’m quite sure this is an aspect of her personality that is not going to change. If she gets Alzheimers it’ll probably be the last part of her memory to go; it’s that deep seated.

Recently I was reminded of this habit my mom has of trying to make unhealthy things healthy when I bit into one of her “healthy” bran muffins.  Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever looked at a recipe for a really good, moist, sweet bran muffin, but if you have, you know that they are anything but healthy.  In exchange for some fiber, you must accept that you are going to be required to eat about a half a cup of sugar and half a stick of butter and oil in each muffin. Seriously, that muffin is going from your lips to the hanging fat on the back of your arms or the new butt plateau you’ve been growing since you hit age 37. There’s not much to recommend a bran muffin from my cardiologist’s perspective.

But my mom thinks she has found a way to change all that.  ”Bran muffins for all!” she says.  There’s no reason why bran muffins can’t be healthy, healthy, healthy!  

Au contraire, Mother, there is a reason, and you have soundly proved that to me this day. From her lips, to my fingers, to your eyes, this is how it went:  

MOM:  ”See, I was making these bran muffins, and I decided that there was much too much oil and butter and sugar; so what I did was use flax seed oil instead of the butter and oil.  And then I realized that I had soaked the bran but forgot to put it in the mix, so by the time I put it in my mixture, it wasn’t acting right [this should have been a warning sign to my mom, but she regularly ignores those], so I decided to add some extra things in the mixture to buff it up a bit [she 'buffs up' mixes every time she bakes or cooks, usually with something green because she tells me green=healthy].  I think they turned out pretty healthy, if I do say so myself.”

She brought a muffin to me at work (she works across the hall from me in another office), and I was starving because I hadn’t eaten any breakfast.  I was typing away at the computer, as I bit into the muffin, not paying attention to what I was eating.  As I was chewing, I lost my focus on my work.  My mouth came across some weird textures as they floated across my tongue and teeth. And I noticed that this particular muffin was not sweet and moist, but dry and…dry.  What?  Did she forget the sugar? And what the hell is that crunchy thing?  I pulled the muffin away from my face to take a good look at it, to see if maybe it had been wrapped in paper. I was thinking that maybe I had eaten the paper wrapping around the muffin or something.  But there was no paper.

So I’m chewing and looking at the exposed insides of this muffin that had some suspicious red and green things suspended in its cooked batter.  What is going on here?  I emailed my mother:  ”What the hell did you do to this poor bran muffin?  Next  time you decide to make muffins with chunks of copy paper inside them, warn me first!”

She emailed me back:  ”You ungrateful brat.  Next time I’m not sharing my heawfy muffins with you, and I’m going to eat them all myself.”  Her reference to “heawfy” is to a time when I was a single mom with two babies (ages 2 and 4), living with her because I was as poor as dirt and couldn’t afford a place of my own.  While we lived there with her she cooked up all these tweaked recipes, with green things in every single one of them, of course.  She made these godawful cookies (that had a lot of nerve going by the moniker ‘cookie’ I’ll tell you) that tasted like cardboard (flax seeds, pumpkin seeds, bran flour, fake sweetener, flax oil…you get the idea), and my little babies ate those things right up.  ”Weeeeee!  Gwamma’s makin’ heawfy cookies for us!!!! Yaaaayyyyyyy!!! I yuv heawfy cookies, we yuv heawfy coooookies!!”  It’s all my damn kids’ fault. They encouraged this craziness, and now we’re all stuck with it.  Thanks a lot piglets.

That bran muffin I had been tricked into eating had pumpkin seeds, flax seeds, and I’m pretty sure spit balls in it.  It’s true, I was an ungrateful brat not appreciating having my heawfy breakfast hand delivered to my desk, but my colon thanked my mom. And truth be told, I’m going to continue to eat every single heawfy thing she delivers to my desk in the morning because she’s my mom, and I love her.  And while her efforts maybe a bit misguided, they are done from the heart, and that’s all that matters.

So, if you’re reading, thanks for the heawfy bran muffin Mom.  Next time though, can you add some sugar to the mix?  Please?

1 Comment | In: Family, Women | tags: Bran muffins, healthy, mom, nutrition, Work. | #