Golden Cheese Bake

Golden Cheese Bake may not appear on a typical breakfast menu, but that’s what I had for breakfast. I like it; in fact, I like it very much, but I ate it for breakfast because it was a leftover from last night, and the Norwegian does not eat leftovers—especially for breakfast. For over 40 years, that has been one of my commitments to the marriage-- eating all the leftovers. We are like the nursery rhyme couple of Jack Spratt and his wife.

“Jack Spratt could eat no fat, His wife would eat no lean

And so between the two of them, they licked the platter clean.”

There are many breakfast guidelines at our house. The food of preference is oatmeal. (Oatmeal every morning and sometimes again in the evening when nothing else sounds good.) Coffee cake is fine, but not regular cake. Donuts, with the exception of chocolate ones, are ok, but not pies. Bacon is acceptable, but not ham or pork chops. The ideal breakfast would be one that featured a bacon appetizer, a bacon side dish and a bacon main dish. Oh, perhaps, I exaggerate… It would be a bacon appetizer, a bacon side dish and oatmeal. I think if they ever biopsy any part of the Norwegian’s body, his cellular composition will greatly resemble an oatmeal flake. (Did I know these things before we were married? Of course not)

I have, however, in the cause of self-preservation, and with the occasional absence of leftovers, made up my own recipe for oatmeal. Take a cereal bowl and layer, in the order listed, the following ingredients: 2 Tbsp of cooked oatmeal; 2 Tbsp of raisins; 2 Tbsp of brown sugar; 4 Tbsp of applesauce with cinnamon; and, 6 Tbsp of hazelnut flavored coffee creamer. It tastes best if you put your spoon straight down into the mixture and bring up some of each layer in every bite. Note: I have sometimes had the problem that the spoon is only big enough to go down into the first four layers. I am considering revising the recipe to alleviate this problem. The logical thing would seem to be to eliminate the bottom layer. Let me know any variations you may have perfected.

Just in case you do not have any large spoons, here is the recipe for Golden Cheese Bake.

(Oven 350) Combine 2 cups cooked rice, 3 cups shredded carrots, 1½ cups shredded cheese, ½ cup milk, 2 beaten eggs, 2 tablespoons minced onion, 1-teaspoon salt, and 1/4- teaspoon pepper. Pour into greased 1 ½-quart casserole. Sprinkle with 1/2 cup shredded cheese. Bake in moderate oven 50-60 minutes. Makes 6 servings.

Choose a recipe and Enjoy!

Posted by The Editor for Gigi.

Move over, Tylenol!

On Sunday Joy started coughing. It feels like she just got over a cold and now she’s coughing again. She insisted, on Sunday, that she felt fine, that she was NOT getting sick. On Monday, the cough started rattling in her chest, but she was still running around and playing and insisting that she was fine, that she was NOT getting sick. Early Tuesday morning (as in 3 am early) she woke up to go potty—and then it took another hour to go back to sleep because she was coughing and she had a little bit of a fever. On Tuesday when she woke up she was still running a temperature and I could tell by looking at her eyes that she just didn’t feel well. But, of course, she insisted she was NOT sick. I went to work and Gigi took care of her.

When I got home she was playing, quietly, in her room. (Clue #1 that she was sick.) At dinner she picked at her food. (Clue #2.) Then, instead of eating, she laid down on the couch. (Clue # 3). When Gigi chuckled at something cute she said, she got totally offended and left the room. (#4). At bath time, she told me that she did not want to take a bath with Marlo—she would wait for me to finish with Marlo, but she would lie on her bed and “rest her eyes” while she waited. (OK, that was the clincher.)

Before Marlo even got out of the bath Joy was asleep on her bed. She didn’t wake up when I pulled her clothes off and put a little sleep shirt on her. She is hardcore, though—she would not take any Tylenol or anything to help with the fever. And that is what this is about, kind of.

Back up there at clue #2—the picking at the food part, Gigi was trying to get her to eat. And she did eat a little bit. She had a quesadilla, salad, and orange slices on her plate. She ate the orange, had a couple of bites of salad, and drank some lemonade. But then she moved on to clue #3—lying on the couch. This was also when she decided that she was not going to take any Tylenol. I tried to coax her into taking some, then I tried bribing her, but she was pretty firm on her decision, and I decided that forcing the issue might make the situation worse, so I gave up. That’s when what this is about (kinda) took place.

Gigi said, “Would you eat a popsicle?” (I didn’t even know we had any…apparently the Norwegian went and got some yesterday—they were in the freezer.) Joy lethargically said yes, a purple one. So we gave her one and she slowly and dispassionately ate it. And while she ate that grape popsicle, Gigi told this story:

“When Samantha Jean Pocket was born I went to visit the Editor. While I was there the boys, Bubba and Stump, were sick most of the time. And since it was summer and it was hot, I suggested that we give them popsicles—they would cool them down and they would be getting some liquids, too. The Editor’s husband, the Italian, said, “Gigi, popsicles are your solution for all ailments.” I told him that they cool them down, the liquids thing, and that they have less sugar than apple juice even…and so, yes, I do recommend popsicles for sick kids.” Gigi said this with a little laugh and a little shrug of the shoulders.

The whole thing—the popsicles, the story, the laugh, the shoulders was so Gigi—but one part of it reminded me of Grandma. And that was the part where the Italian commented that her solution to all ailments is popsicles. That’s what this is about. No, Grandma did not prescribe popsicles for everything also. But she did have a solution for everything and it was an ointment called Kip. I have no idea where she got it—I’ve never seen it anywhere else but her house, but maybe I’m just not looking in the right places. But that’s not the point. The point is that any bump, bruise, scrape, cut, gash, or splinter could be healed by using kip. It became a family joke—stubbed your toe? Just get some Kip. Fell off your bike and scraped your knee? Just get some Kip. Accidentally cut off your finger while chopping a salad? Just get some Kip. We joked about it, but it was very cute—and (unintentionally) funny. And now popsicles are the new Kip, thanks to Gigi’s insistence that they can cure almost anything..

I am hoping that when Joy wakes up she will feel better, the cough will be gone and the fever will have faded away. If not I will try to get her to take some Tylenol, or perhaps I’ll just give her a popsicle. (I might try to use some Kip, but I don’t know where to find it!)

Ah, wouldn’t it be nice if popsicles and Kip could heal all of life’s hurts!

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Moment of Bliss Report

To the editor: Holidays create a problem in my life: Not during the time of preparation for them nor in the actual celebration of them, but in putting them away. As I write this, my house is still full of Valentine mementos. They may not be so timely right now, but did remind me to respond to your request for feedback on our moment of bliss.

I had thought I might never have grandkids because I was much closer to 60 than I was to 50 when the first one was born. As soon as I was getting somewhat accustomed to my new role, four more came quickly to join us in our play and to teach me the lessons of a grandmother. I feel that my life must be joined to theirs in a very unique way since they dilly-dallied so long about showing up: We just have to make up the lost time.

For seven years, the first grandson has known his place in my heart and, I feel sure, he fully reciprocates. He says, “I love you most, Gigi”. I understand. He doesn’t mean that he has more love for me than anyone else; I am not alone at the top of his love list. He means that he loves me at the ultimate level: It isn’t possible to increase that love. (I taught him that phrase, and so I can interpret its meaning to you.) He is such a little schmoozer and I know he tells that to his mom, all of his aunts, and his cousins, maybe to certain friends and possibly his teacher, but in that moment, for both of us, it is our heartfelt heart song.

His Christmas Day birthday made him five. Even so, the second grandson does not talk so much and he sometimes leaves us guessing as to what and why and when he does things. Maybe because he doesn’t talk that much and thinks he needs to maximize his words, he is sometimes, unintentionally I hope, blunt. He looks so angelic, but is such a little boy, boy that it makes me laugh to hear the things he says. After Christmas, he realized that there were a few more things he wanted, and started to work on the problem with me. In his haste, he blurted out, “Why did you get me this, Gigi? I don’t even like it.” His big, blue eyes looked at me and I could see the cogs turning in his mind as he put an (unexpectedly delightful) addendum to his statement, “but I love you, Gigi.” Momentary oopsie: momentous correction.

The oldest granddaughter is very verbal: It is her gift; her charm; her essence. Not being that far along in her fourth year, though, her very busyness and ability to craft excuses, sometimes leads to unexpected outcomes. One day ice cream dripped while she explained the plot of a movie; there was a picture that needed to be immediately painted and there was no time to put on the painting shirt, and she scientifically tested the hypothesis that the faster you pump the hand soap the farther it will squirt. All of these necessitated more than one change of clothing and when Busybody got home from work, she had to put out yet another change. But she then let me (the partner in the misdemeanor?) take over the actual task. I try to hurry the process and so I talk about how pretty the clean outfit is and how nice she’ll look when (I mean If) we ever get her into it. And then I say, “Hey, look, even your unders match. Your Mommy takes such good care of you. Aren’t we glad we have her?’’ Without thinking or hesitation, she replies, “Oh, yes. I think in Heaven she’s going to win the prize for Mommies.” In response to that moment, I suddenly can treasure the dribbles and drabs of the day.

The second granddaughter is well established in her terrific two’s. In repose, she looks like a blue-eyed, golden-curls doll cast in porcelain. During activity, she looks like a cabbage patch kid cast in durable plastic. With two older brothers, she can return klonks with gusto and deliver bonks as she boldly attacks from behind. The way she views herself, however, is more in keeping with my first description. No matter what her attire, she drapes everything beautiful around her neck or wrist or ankle, sticks gorgeous accessories in her disheveled hair and puts together extravagant outfits. Before breakfast, she puts on her best (that means frilliest) tutu with her pajama top, diaper, two stretchy headbands for necklaces and a peacock feather to wave around (after it fell out of her hair) and starts to whirl herself around the room while executing the high kicks, the backward leg movements, the air jumps of the ballerina she has become. She says, “Look, Grams” (the only grandchild who does not call me, Gigi. ???)wanting to display her unique dancing abilities. The editor pauses in her momly activities and starts to sing Angelina Ballerina and claps out the lively rhythm. We enjoy an impromptu recital. ScoobyDoo comes on the television and the moment dissipates. The actual moment, that is; the remembered moment will always be there.

At still under a year and a half, the Little Bits granddaughter doesn’t talk; she communicates. I arrive to share the day and she sees me from the next room. First, she squints and puts on her mad face. (To scare off a possible intruder?) Then she bends slowly from the waist with her hands on her hips as though to gain the advantage of another perspective. She jerks her head in a little double-take as she recognizes me, lets out a shriek of joy and runs toward me. I start to bend down to scoop her up for a hug and kiss of welcome, but as she comes almost within reach, she makes a perfect U-ey, and, without breaking stride, takes a couple more laps around the house, all the while, shrieking her thrill of recognition, being able to run and being in control. Hugs and kisses have to be kept for the times when life slows down; such as, when I leave; when she is tired; when she doesn’t feel good, or when she deems the time is appropriate. In our own way, we each savor the moment, before we seize the day.

It seems my moments of bliss come in multiples of five and I love each one the most.

Posted by The Editor for Gigi.