Easter Pies

Have you ever found yourself doing something simply because it is a family tradition and thinking, why am I doing this? Or, whoever thought of doing this? I read an anecdote about a family who always asked the butcher to cut off the small end of the ham, which they placed beside the larger portion to cook. When one of the daughters married, her new husband asked her why she cooked ham this way. She replied because it is the best way...my mom always cooked it this way. At the next family gathering, he queried the mother as to why she cooked ham in that manner. She affirmed that it was the best way because her mother had always done it that way. The next time the man saw the grandmother, he remembered to ask her why she cooked hams that way. She laughed and responded that her roasting pan was small and that was the only way the ham would fit!

I love pie, but hate to make piecrust. When I was first married, I was enthralled with the picture of the piecrust in the Betty Crocker cookbook. I have wasted hours of my life trying to make the perfect piecrust. And so I would only make pies for very special occasions or holiday. Since most of the other holidays had their own sweet dishes, pies became THE thing for Easter. A wonderful friend gave me an easy recipe for fresh strawberry pie and together with lemon meringue, they were necessities for our family celebration. We probably have more pictures of the girls stirring and then slicking the bowls of the Easter pie fillings than we have of them dyeing their Easter eggs. We didn't have pie at the end of the meal, because we couldn't properly appreciate it while we were so full. We would wait until just about sunset and then mark the end of another memorable Easter by consuming a huge piece of pie.

One Easter, we were not in the mood for the usual sit-down formality of a meal and so we put the ham and potato salad and rolls in a picnic basket and drove a few miles to the backside of nowhere and picnicked and then flew kites all that windy afternoon. We weren't quite prepared, however, to completely break with tradition and so we got home in time for sunset and the Easter pies.

As the years piled up and our family changed, we opted to make Easter dinner into Easter brunch. The Editor would make an unbelievable number of waffles that we would sometimes eat as we walked from the kitchen to the dining room so they would not be less than piping hot as we consumed them. Busybody taught us to eat fresh strawberries dipped first in sour cream and then in brown sugar, and so we no longer needed the strawberry pie. For several years, there were only adults at these get-togethers and they changed quite a bit to accommodate the composition of the family. Usually, one or more daughters would need to leave to visit the other family that now had share rights and the sunset pie was no longer a whole family observance.

This year it was only me and the Norwegian at home for Easter but I still felt compelled to make an Easter pie. The crust didn't seem so difficult--maybe because there was only need for one. And then, because the Norwegian was gone for the day and I had more time than usual, I happened to take note of the microwave instructions on the box of the lemon pudding and pie filling. I would never have departed from the tried and true stirring-in-a-pan method if we had been having guests for dinner. But, I can give up some points on taste in order to gain convenience and, really, is a husband going to notice? Surprisingly, it was easier! I licked the bowl--myself--trying to determine what made those scraped up bits so delectable to little girls. And now I know!

The celebration is over, the pie is gone, but memories have a way of hanging around. Maybe that's why we start traditions, steadfastly maintain them and pass them on.


Posted by The Editor for Gigi.

Life is not fair

Unfortunately we have always lived within driving distance from the Fair and my ENTIRE family (growing up) always loved to go…me—not so much. One year I had perfect attendance at school and a mother who shall remain an unnamed Gigi went to school and arranged with the principal and teacher for me to miss school one day to go to the Fair (of all places). I only had to do 3x the work to make up for my absence. After she did all this orchestrating I negotiated with unnamed Gigi and convinced her it was in her best interest to let me stay home. Of course I couldn’t actually go to school because that would have been too complicated. No, I had to stay with someone, worrying about the load of homework I was facing and bemoaning the perfect attendance record that was no more.

I guess I just don’t understand the Fair…from start to finish. Why is it called the Fair? I think it should be called the UN-Fair and here’s why: There is nothing “fair” about it. I guess technically the weather is fair, but when it’s in the blazing dog days of summer, rainy would actually be a welcome relief. There is nothing fair about the attendees at the Fair. The Fair seems to draw every walk of life—even some I didn’t know existed. And then you mix these various walks with the hotter than heck weather and you get some not so fair smells, although I have come to categorize these smells as distinctly “Fair” smells. (Not so good.) The other Fair smells, like all that fried food, mingled with the attendees’ aromas is enough to make anyone want to gag. OK, well, I guess not anyone, but ME. It makes me want to gag. (If you would like to recall, I am the un-American girl who cannot eat French Fries, popcorn, hot dogs, or red meat. That’s another story for another day, but fried, processed food—especially the smell of it—is not my forte.) Don’t even get me started on the animal section of the joint! And then you’ve got the carnival rides. The rides seem to be held together with duct tape and safety pins. Yikes! And no matter where you step, the ground is sticky. Nothing makes me want to just come out of my skin like stepping in something sticky, which leads me to the restrooms. The restrooms should be sealed with crime scene tape OR they should pass out biohazard suits at the door. Seriously.

And then there are the buildings. There seem to be endless rows of never-ending buildings filled with displays, exhibits and all kinds of gadgets that work at the Fair, but never seem to have their intended effect at home. There is always too much stuff crammed into these buildings, with too many people shuffling through, all the while the product demonstrators barking at you. Inevitably someone steps on your foot a few or 27 times, elbows you in the back, knocks you over with their brand-new Sham Wow mop handle, or shoves you into the stacks of veggie choppers because they are trying to be one of the first fifty shoppers to get half price on the no-stick omelet/doughnut/stir-fry microwave genie attachment. A couple of hours minutes into this ordeal and I am ready to go home. Unfortunately, we always come in the same car, so there is no escape. I feel trapped in a crowded, noisy stench of all things UN-fair.

Now, add all these things together, along with a family who unreasonably and inexplicably loves to embrace these elements, and you have the recipe for an unhappy BusyBody. I have been fighting this yearly pilgrimage my whole life. Thank the good Lord the Fair only comes once a year.

In an effort to not seem so terrible and mean, I will admit there are a few (and I mean a VERY few) things that keep me from going over the edge on these outings. Number one: I do like to people watch. There is no shortage of material at the fair. Number two: there is one little shop that sells some very tasty fudge. If I can block the idea of vermin running rampant after everyone goes home at night*, I can eat a bite or two. Number three: if you go on a week day, it’s not as crowded and it closes at 10 pm. Thank heaven for small favors. And number four: unnamed Gigi loves the Fair. There is nothing better than watching her be delighted and excited at all of the fried food and the useless gadgets the Fair Folk try to fill you and your bags with. Most of the time I am truly my mother’s daughter…but the “I love the Fair” gene skipped over me. I guess seeing her enjoy it so much makes it tolerable for me.

And I suppose you are wondering why I am talking about it like it still happens—these forced outings to a place I cannot stand? After all, I am a grown adult, no longer required to travel to family activities with the family because I am too young to stay at school/home and fend for myself while the family ventures into the black hole otherwise known as “The Fair.” Well, as luck would have it, I was only granted a very short reprieve from my Fair sentence. I got married, and in one of those not-so-funny twists of fate, Hubs, as it turns out, shares that ridiculous love for the Fair with Gigi. Somehow or another they always manage to conspire to con/trick/bribe me into going. They play dirty and get Joy to beg…and that opens up a whole host of new germ/crowd/fear of carnival rides breaking down issues. Again, thank the good Lord that the Fair only comes once a year!

Oh, the crowds! Oh, the noise! Oh, the sickening smells! Life is definitely NOT fair!

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

*note from The Editor: This is an idea totally established by the original (1973) Charlotte's Web movie, do you remember Templeton's gluttonous night at the fair?

Fair Warning

I love the Fair. Fortunately, we have always lived within a convenient driving distance and so we go to the Fair every year.

Unfortunately, one member of the family who shall only be known as an unnamed Busybody does not love the Fair. She always told me she was sick on the day we were going, as a family, to the Fair. This would be after I had negotiated terms with the schoolteacher and principal to excuse her from that day and promised to do extra homework for the next month to make up for the day she would be gone. She didn’t care about the amount of effort I had expended, she was adamant that she couldn’t go and I would have to then arrange for her to stay with someone because if I sent her to school, their efforts would be in vain, also, and it just became too much of an explaining task So one year, I decided that she had to go no matter what she said. We got to the Fair and got on the shuttle and she started sneezing; while we were purchasing tickets, her eyes started watering; as we walked through the carnival midway, her eyes became red-rimmed and swollen; by the time we got to the real part of the Fair, she took off for the restrooms holding her mouth. Fair restrooms, beach restrooms, park restrooms, restaurant restrooms and, sometimes, school restrooms made her gag even when she wasn’t actively being sick in other ways, and I knew that that day at the Fair was over.

In spite of the fact that we cannot enjoy the outing as a complete family, I still love the Fair. One of the things that is high on my list is that every food there is fried. Yum. (Remember, I’m from the South; the Norwegian is not.) My very favorite things at the Fair, though, are the commercial buildings. I am fascinated by the wide variety of new innovations that have hit the market since the preceding year; I am amazed that these products are exactly what I have been thinking I need in my life. And I am totally in awe of the expertise of the people doing the demos. I stand and make eye contact in encouragement and watch and smile at their sales pitch and, oh too often, I buy the razzle-dazzle product. In the long months between the Fairs, I am a fan of infomercials. Although I don’t impulse buy them as I do at the Fair, I head straight to the As Seen On TV section of the store, and take a little longer to consider the product before I buy it. I just never take into account that I will have to store this item somewhere in my home and I will have to learn to use it with the same expertise as those showing it in order for it to be a timesaving convenience for me. Whereas, those people have received intense training before being put on the job, and then practice their training for many hours each day, I only need that convenience occasionally.

One of the things that I purchased is a Sav-Time-Every-Laundry Day clothes folder. This is a really good item. I have seen it used in department stores, a lot. So that, when careless people mess up the stack of clothes, they can refold them on the folder contraption and that item will exactly match the rest of the stack. That is exactly what I want here at home. It doesn’t work on towels, however, because then they don’t fit in the linen closet shelves. I think in the department stores, they make the shelves to fit the folded clothes. Really, now that I think about it, the only things I can use the folder on are the Norwegian’s undershirts. I do have to decide how many shirts needing folding justify getting the folder out, using it and putting it away. Four? Ten? Maybe I should wait until all of his undershirts are dirty and do one huge load, get out the folder and complete the job all at once. When the folder was newly home from the Fair, I think I tried that method, but sometimes forgot and then he would have to wait for laundry. He doesn’t notice whether or not or how things are folded, but he does notice clean. I don’t mean recycled clean—as when you put an item in the dryer with a fabric sheet, pull it out triumphantly fifteen minutes later, and say,” there you go”—I mean clean, clean.

I don’t pay a lot of attention to the things that sit around in the house because I know why I bought them and I know that at some time or other, they will be very useful: Useful to the ultimate level that those demo people promised. Sometimes the grandkids get a little confused. “What is this, Gigi?” “That’s a bread slicer.” “Can I use it?” “No.” “Why?” “Because I buy bread that is already sliced.” “Are you going to make bread, Gigi?” “I don’t think so. Not today. Maybe another day.” “So, can I use the bread slicer?” “No.” “Why?” “Because you might cut yourself.” “No, I won’t.” “Look, Gigi’s going to put the bread slicer up here on the top shelf where we don’t have to think about it—with the sushi maker, the ostrich feather fan duster, the star shaped ice cube maker, and other assorted things, and we’ll talk about this when I visit you in college. I will even lend you my roll-up suitcase that you lay all the clothes out flat and then roll it up so they don’t have to be folded and get wrinkled.” “Can I see it now, Gigi?” “ No.” “ Why? “ “Because I don’t really know where it is—probably on a shelf that’s too high for us to reach…. But if you stop asking questions, maybe I’ll take you to the Fair with me this year.”

Posted by The Editor for Gigi.

Keep love in your heart

I am a huge, huge advocate for reading to your children. OK, so I was a 1st/2nd grade teacher and that makes me a little biased, I guess. I taught in a not-so-nice area of Los Angeles and English was the second language of most of my students. They started out at a disadvantage and it made teaching more of a challenge. Experts say that you should spend something like 2000 hours of “on the lap” reading for your children to develop the pre-reading skills they need to start school. Advertisements promote 20 minutes a day. I say, the more time your kids will sit and listen, the more you should read to them.

I have read to both of my girls, from before they were even born. Every night includes a bedtime story. Every day we try to read something else together, and because I have gotten them used to this, it’s usually a lot more. Joy has her own library card, and Marlo is due to get her own pretty soon. We enjoy our weekly trips to the library. Joy knows the librarians and loves to see “Miss Amy” and “Miss Susie” when we go. They know the girls by name and seem to be as excited to see the girls as they are them. They participate in the summer reading program and go to many of the extra activities, like story hour, arts and crafts, and family night. Getting the books is quite an experience…

I have a big bag from Michael’s Craft Store. I like to do crafts when I have more than one spare moment to myself. This bag is no longer a craft bag, though. It has been commissioned for our library books. We are allowed to check out 25 at one time. This means 24 for the girls and one for me. We walk into the children’s room and they head straight for the shelves. Marlo isn’t very particular. A few board books and a few with pretty pictures and she’s good to go. Joy is just starting to read some sight words, but even so, she is still a little more selective. Anything with wolves, princesses, or frogs really appeals to her. Anything with writing that is too little is out. Anything with a recipe to try out is in. She is amazingly good at finding exactly what she wants. My job is to keep Marlo from pulling every book off the shelves while running behind Joy and catching her selections in the Michael’s bag. Every once in a while we get a dud and we vow never to waste our time on that book again. But almost every trip we find a new favorite.

Here is a list of Joy’s favorite books, in case you are looking for a good read with your kids. Keep in mind she’s 4 so your older kids might not appreciate them so much, but they will probably be a hit with the younger crowd. (This is a small sample because I don’t want to take up all the space on the internet!)

Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown
Guess How Much I Love You by Sam McBratney
Oh, My Baby Little One by Kathi Appelt
Hillside Lullaby by Hope Vestergaard
Frannie B. Krannie There’s a Bird in your Hair by Harriet Lerner
Gunnywolf by A. Delaney
Betsy who Cried Wolf by Gail Carson Levine
Miss Nelson is Missing by Harry Allard
Tumble Me Tumbily by Karen Baicker
Hello Lulu/Happy Birthday, Lulu by Caroline Uff Walker

And now, there is a new one. Last night we reached into our bag and pulled out “Keep Love in Your Heart, Little One” by Giles Andreae. I didn’t even know it was in there—I’ve never even heard of it before. If there ever was a book that tugs at your heartstrings, it’s this one. We all loved it so much that I think we are going to have to buy it—it’s a keeper.

Whatever your kids are into, find them books about that. Be enthusiastic. Use different voices for different characters. Talk about the different parts of the book. Show them the copyright symbol and tell them that’s the book’s birthday—they love to know if the book is older or younger than they are! Make time to read to them everyday—it’s that important. Not only does it help them in school (up until 4th grade they learn to read, after that they read to learn),but it also helps to develop their imaginations, gives them something to do rather than watch TV or play video games (which actually inhibits their imagination), and it helps to build their vocabulary. It’s never too late to start reading with your kids. And it’s good for you, too—you get to spend some quality time with some of the most important people in your life.

Happy reading and remember…keep love in your heart!


Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Now I lay me down to sleep

Hubs and I are in real estate. Not such a good profession to be in these days, but thankfully, it is getting busier for us. (The last two years have been really bad.) Anyway, I go in to the office 3 days a week. Gigi watches Joy and Marlo for me. (I have trouble trusting anyone else…they haven’t yet approved of another babysitter…Gigi is the ultimate MOM, but they even give her a run for her money.) But I digress…

Working three days a week means that I need to be super organized and super prepared. And I was…in my former life—the one Hubs (sometimes) nostalgically refers to as ‘BK’. (That means ‘Before Kids’.) These days, organized and prepared? Not so much. I try, I really do, but some days it is just out of my reach. (My high school friends swear I am the energizer bunny. I think my battery needs to be recharged!)

By the time we get home from work on those 3 days of the week it is past time to make dinner. It either has to be something I have prepared ahead of time or thrown in the crock pot or (as a last resort) something I have picked up on the way home. We eat and then it’s “Tubby Time!”

We go upstairs and do the whole bath routine. Then we do the bedtime routine. First Marlo: I nurse her, read her a story (usually “Guess How Much I Love You”), sing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”, say a prayer, LOTS of hugs and kisses, then I put her down in her crib, tuck her in and say goodnight. She goes to sleep on her own, usually within 10 minutes.

Joy is next: negotiate how many stories we are going to read, rub lavender oil on her feet, lie down beside her, read the story, go potty one last time if necessary, tuck her in, say her prayers, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, chat, chat, chat, chat, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, chat, chat, chat, chat, and so on, until she falls asleep. But back to the prayer…

Joy says the “Now I lay me down to sleep” prayer and then I say an original one for her. It starts out thanking God for the day she had, her activities, her family and friends…then we ask for God to watch her through the night, to protect her, to help her to have sweet dreams and sleep soundly, to hold her in the palm of His hand…then I thank Him for choosing her for me. On good nights she sleepily kisses me after the prayer, says something sweet and funny like, “That was a good one, Mommy” or “Good job, Mom, I think He heard that” and then she goes to sleep. But lately…

Lately she has been saying, “No, Mommy, we need three prayers tonight!” and when I ask, she tells me, “Mom, we need to pray for Marilyn’s family. They are sad and miss her because she’s far away in Heaven.” And so we do, (around the lump in my throat) because it seems so much more authentic when we pray about it together, than when I just pray about it by myself.

And I do pray about Marilyn’s family, everyday. I am just touched and proud that Joy thought to remember Marilyn’s family, too.

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body

Bubba's Birthday Story

Have you wondered about my children's names? Bubba, Stump, and Samantha Jeanpocket? Obviously, they are nicknames but maybe you are curious about why those names, and maybe you aren't, but I'm going to tell you anyway. Long before there were any kids, we (I) used to talk about baby names. I brought up all those I used to list on the MASH game (remember Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House)? See these links for a refresher: http://www.espin.com/mash-game.php http://mashgame.com/ http://www.bored.com/playmash/

The Italian didn't like any of them, even though we weren't even pregnant yet, we would fuss over the names, like "that's horrible" or "no! you have to admit, that's a good one!" The discussions would then degenerate into the Italian telling me he had his heart set on Bubba and Stump in counterpoint to my Esme and Gibraltar. Finally we agreed that he could name the boys and I would name the girls (first names only and the other spouse would choose the middle names). But, I warned him, if he settled on Bubba and Stump, his daughter would go through life carrying the Samantha Jeanpocket moniker. The children actually have great names that we both like, but in virtual reality, it's amusing to me to use Bubba, Stump, and SJP. But, I digress, this post is about the day Bubba was born, seven (short) years ago.

The story I tell him every year goes like this:

On the day you were born, I woke up early, very early. Daddy was already getting ready for work and I was afraid he had left.

I called downstairs, "Daddy, daddy! Today is the day the baby is coming."

But, he didn't hear me. So I called again, louder this time, "Daddy, daddy! Today is the day the baby is coming!"

But, he still didn't hear me so I yelled really, really loud: "DADDY! DADDY! TODAY IS THE DAY THE BABY IS COMING!"

And, that time he heard me and came running upstairs. "Are you sure?" he asked. I said, "Yes, I am positive." He said, "OK, let me call work and tell them." So he did and then I ate a bowl of Cheerios, called Gigi to tell here that today was the day and we got our stuff and got in the truck and drove to the hospital.

At the hospital, we waited and waited and waited some more. Gigi and The Norwegian came to wait with us and we waited all day. Finally, you arrived. They wrapped you up and put a little hat on your head and placed you near my heart and you looked up at me and we looked at each other and I smiled and said, "Oh my baby, you are finally here!"

Then you went with daddy to get your first bath and later they brought you to me and we snuggled and cuddled all night. You were so sweet and you kept stretching your arms and legs, a little further each time to see how far they could go. You picked your head up to look around and all the relatives and friends came to meet you.

We left the hospital together with Daddy and Gigi on a cold and gray January day. When we got home, we walked you through the house and said, "This is your home and we are so glad you are with us." We still are.

Happy Birthday, sweetheart.

Posted by The Editor

Stumps's Birthday Story

One of our family traditions is that I tell each child the story of their birth on their birthday. Obviously, it does not have all the details, but they love to hear it over and over and over. This is the stuff their legends are made of. And this is the story for Stump, who turned five on Christmas Day this year:


The night before you were born, the house was full of family for Christmas Eve celebrations. About 8 o’clock, I got really sleepy and my sister said, “You’d better take a nap because that baby might be coming soon.” I really couldn’t keep my eyes open so I went to lie down and when I woke up, everyone was leaving to go home, except Gigi and The Norwegian.

We all went to sleep and about 2 o’clock in the morning, I got up and woke Daddy up to tell him it was time to go to the hospital because our baby was coming. I also woke up Gigi to tell her that we were leaving. I peeked into Bubba’s room to whisper “Merry Christmas” and then we got in the big truck and drove to the hospital. We waited and waited. Your aunts came to wait with us and we waited some more. Finally, at dinnertime, you arrived and they put you in my arms and I said “Oh, my sweet baby, here you are.”

Then you went with Daddy to get your little hat and shirt and I went to my room where they brought me a little boxed Christmas dinner -- I was starving--and then they brought you to me. All the relatives and Daddy went home to finish Christmas and get some rest too. We were alone in the room and it was very quiet that Christmas night. I made a little nest for you in the pillows beside me and we snuggled and slept but you wouldn’t open your eyes and look at me. I got up and turned out all the lights and opened the curtains a crack for a little bit of light. THEN, you opened one eye and then the other to peek at me and I said, “Oh, my sweet baby, there you are.”

The next day, lots of relatives came to visit and Gigi and The Norwegian brought Bubba to meet you. He wasn’t yet two and was more interested in the buttons on the bed than the tiny baby in my arms. The day after that, Daddy took us home in the big truck and it was a cold and gray day but in the driveway was a bundle of bags with balloons welcoming you home. Our neighbor had brought presents for you and Bubba: books, blankets, and clothes. Inside our warm house, the Christmas decorations were still sparkling and Gigi and The Norwegian and Bubba were there to welcome you home.


Posted by The Editor.