So Abe was looking at a Santa scene the other day. Santa sat with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk (as he should).
“Muk! Meema, Muk!” (aka “Milk, mama, milk”)
Then,
“Cookies! Cookies!” (a word he has NO problem pronouncing – not so shocking)
Then, my oh so efficient boy,
“Mookies!”
Why say them separately when they’re meant to be together?
I think he’s on to something. 
Tonight a good friend and I were talking cookbooks, because we like to eat good food, and we like good books, and we like to read good cookbooks, and occasionally cook something from them. Tonight we were talking vegetarian cookbooks: we both tend to cook less on the meaty-death side. For me, it’s sheer lack of forethought: forgot to thaw the fryer chicken, don’t buy chicken breasts at the store cause they’re expensive, don’t have time to brown the ground turkey and drain it, etc. Plus, the mess: if a tomato explodes, it’s just messy; when chicken explodes in my kitchen, that could cause death (nope, not so melodramatic over here).
I do have a few vegetarian/not so meat heavy cookbooks I enjoy.
Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything Vegetarian
366 Delicious Ways to Cook Rice, Beans, and Grains
Jane Brody’s Good Food Cookbook
And when in doubt, I hit VegWeb or Kalyn’s Kitchen or Food Gawker. But with the later, I always get sidetracked with the pretty pictures, generally of the cookies (ooooh).
So I’ve had multiple requests for the eggnog cookies recipe. MULTIPLE. So here it is:
Mrs. Fields Eggnog Cookies
2 1/4 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1 1/4 cups sugar
3/4 cup SALTED butter, room temp (Mrs. Fields calls for this)
1/2 cup eggnog
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 egg yolks
1 tablespoon nutmeg (optional)Preheat oven to 300F.
In a medium bowl combine flour, baking powder, cinnamon and nutmeg; mix well with a wire whisk and set aside.
In a large bowl, cream sugar and butter with an electric mixer. Add eggnog, vanilla and egg yolks and beat at medium speed until smooth. Add the dry ingredients and beat at low speed just until combined.
Drop by rounded teaspoons onto ungreased baking sheets, 1″ apart. Sprinkle lightly with nutmeg or skip this step and sprinkle on the nutmeg after you ice the cookies. Bake for 23-25 minutes or until bottoms turn light brown.
Transfer to cool, flat surface immediately with spatula.
Eggnog Icing
3 C. confectioners’ sugar
1/4 C. softened butter or margarine
1/3 C. commercial eggnog (use as much as you need)In small mixer bowl, beat confectioners’ sugar and butter or margarine until well blended. Gradually beat in eggnog until icing is smooth. Makes about 1 1/2 cups.
And then I heard a friend who made them talking about how she couldn’t make anymore because she didn’t have any yokes. And I said, “Huh?” “You know, the two egg yokes.” “Oh, I didn’t do that: I used one whole egg.”
Likewise:
SO be forewarned: just because you get a recipe from a cookie that I made, it doesn’t mean that I actually *followed* the recipe. It’s more a set of guidelines to give some generous boundaries with wiggle room in between.
And I wonder why my chemical-engineer-father and math-major mother and bio-chem-brother and I don’t see more eye to eye. 
JJ bounded into the car after school yesterday.
“Mama, we played upstairs today! Teacher L did ‘eeny meeny miny mo …. and …. you get to go!’ So M, she was my puzzle partner, I picked her to go because my row got to go, and M and K and I went upstairs! And we played mommy and daddy and I was the daddy and M was the mommy and K was the doggy and A was the cat. And I was driving really fast in a truck and I went ‘wrhhhrhr CRASH!’ and banged myself and had to go in the ambulance to the doctor! And the doctor gave me a bangaid and I felt better, and M drew me a picture and so did K, and A brought me a blanket and M brought me stickers and A turned on a movie and they took care of me and made me feel better because I was the daddy.”
I swear it’s genetic.
Yesterday I noticed Amazon was having a sale on albums: 100 listed for $5. One of those listed: John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together. I love John Denver; I love the Muppets; I like Christmas: I was sold.
I sent the link to the Hubby who makes all our music purchases, to which he promptly downloaded it. At dinnertime he hooked up the Ipod to the stereo to enjoy the vocal stylings, and then commented, “I got a lot of comments at work about this.”
“Huh?”
“Apparently it changed one of my coworker’s “you might like” list to be all Muppets. He didn’t seem to like that.”
Hubby also sent the link onto a friend who promptly told him it was horrible. “The Muppets, or John Denver?”
“Both.”
“Dren may not like you anymore.”
My father used to own every John Denver record known to man. I remember going to a concert in Boise when I was a small tyke. Everyone was so happy, singing along. My folks had the Rocky Mountain Holiday record, which Hubby got for me (record – unopened) for my birthday the year we were dating. Every time we’re in the car, my kids ask for “The Muppet Cast, please” which got us through quite a few CSA pickup runs. And every morning for the past two weeks I’ve woken up with some song from The Muppet Christmas Carol stuck in my head.
Perhaps it’s because muppets are funny with little to no cares about daily life. Perhaps it’s because they remind me of a simpler time. Perhaps it’s because their songs are irritatingly catchy. At any way, it’s a time of Christmas, but christmas with felt-based created creatures around here. And if you can’t handle it, then I bang you on the head as only Monster can bang with his drum sticks, but with love, of course.
Tonight at Book Group, we did not discuss a book; we watched “Lars and the Real Girl” and ate cookies. A dear woman I knew passed away this evening, and a scene in the movie seemed so relevant (minus the fact that the girl in the movie was made out of plastic, but hey: it’s symbolic):
Sewing Circle Lady 3 – Hazel: Well that’s how life is, Lars.
Mrs. Gruner: Everything at once.
Sewing Circle Lady 2 – Sally: We brought casseroles.
Lars Lindstrom: Thank you.
Lars Lindstrom: [Lars looks around the sewing circle. The three ladies are knitting and doing needlepoint] Um, is there something I should be doing right now?
Mrs. Gruner: No, dear. You eat.
Sewing Circle Lady 2 – Sally: We came over to sit.
Sewing Circle Lady 3 – Hazel: That’s what people do when tragedy strikes.
Sewing Circle Lady 2 – Sally: They come over, and sit.
Someone commented on how that’s not done a lot anymore. Maybe we should do more of that – just coming over, and sitting.
[Conversation from this afternoon.]
“What did you do?!!”
“Huh?”
“The toilet.”
“It’s white.”
“I know! How did you do that?”
“I read a blogger’s adventure on how she cleaned her toilets. She lives in New Mexico and has all this hard water build up and *nothing* would remove it, so she resorted to using a pumice stone. And I thought, ‘Ah ha! Good idea! I should do that!’ And never got around to it. Until just now.”
“So it doesn’t damage the toilet?”
“But I don’t *care.* …. What are you doing? Are you googling if it hurts the toilet?”
“I’m looking up porceline toilet pumice stone. Oh, it’s spelled porcel*ain* – interesting.”
“And?”
“And it looks like it’s okay. You’re supposed to wet the stone.”
“Yep.”
“Don gloves.”
“Meh.”
“Scrub gently to remove stains, not to hard as to scratch.”
“Sure.”
“Flush to admire your work.”
“Multiple times.”
“And touch up any places you missed.”
“Check. By the way, why does one care if a thing that deposits (we’ll use the word ‘excrement’ rather than the more graphic descriptors spoken – my parents do read this blog) is ‘damaged’?”
“Uh, well, it could get scratched, and then residue buildup occurs, and …”
Blank stare.
“Right. Well, it sure is white! Nice work!”
I fell asleep last night.
A Friday night.
Before 9:15pm.
In bed.
While watching NCIS.
On a computer.
‘Nuff said.
It’s funny living in a small town. This evening while trying to catch up with my family who was hightailing it to the car due to some not-so-controlled-behavior at a downtown holiday event, I passed the local jewelry shop. Peering in, I was hoping to spy one of my neighbors/JJ’s classmate’s mama. Instead, I saw a friend from church/book group/the Dee. She opened the door and pronounced,
“Apparently you’ve been recruited to make soup.”
“Ah, sure! I love to make soup!”
“For the gathering for next week: do you have any soups you are known for?”
Which I do. But it’s not so much my recipe as the highest-rated soup recipe on the Cooking Light website, because when in doubt, go for the lots-of-stars/lots-of-comments recipes. And add garlic: mmm, garlic.
Then my friend went on to question whether it would be okay to have store-bought bread (yes: it’s just a vehicle for the yummy soups) and talked about making her black bean vegetarian soup that she made last night, except it had kidney beans, and she threw in ground beef, and then was appalled that her family thought it was chili. Because it wasn’t: it was her black bean (but really kidney bean) vegetarian with ground beef soup. Duh.
If I lived in a big town, I would probably not have that conversation on a cold December Friday night in a jewelry store.
I’ve always been an avid reader. I remember making the trek all the way across town to the Boise Public Library(!) to check out a slew of books. My eyes were often bigger than my available time, and I’d come to the checkout counter, barely able to carry the stack. I remember one specific time that Mom made me Put.Books.Back (GASP: the Horror!): it was like saying that I had too many friends and I must reject some. The pain was excruciating. Obviously. Which could explain why I check out PILES of books currently. Because I’m spiteful like that. 
I also remember in grade school aching to graduate to the big kids section of the library. The books were separated/segregated into picture books/easy readers and the Big Kid Books known as Juvenile Fiction. Finally one day I told the librarian that I wanted to check out a book from that area of the library: these other books were too pedestrian. She made me get a book (Moby Dick, I believe) and read out loud to her to prove that I could handle it. Psh: easy challenge. I remember her being a little surprised (obviously she didn’t recognize my literary genius as my parents and aunt had, which added to my humble nature) and finally allowing me access, meaning I could check out ANYTHING. Sweet Freedom!
Yes, I’m a geek. And I’m still a geek. But I can’t decide if I’m a getting-smarter geek or a dumbing-down geek. Geekdom can either make you a better, stronger person, or it can create an obsessive, non-communicative lump.
Lately, I can’t read “good” literature. I’ve checked out the latest Barbara Kingsolver, Nick Hornby, Anne Rice, Margaret Atwood, and countless other “recommended” “top pick of the year” “masterpiece” reads. And I can’t read them. My mind goes blank, my eyes cross, and I realize I’m simply turning pages to turn pages: and when I have so few moments of silence that I can do something I want to do without the demands of the Little People Nation, turning pages for closure isn’t one of them.
What am I enjoying reading? Young Adult Books. I’ve worked in the Young Adult section of a library, and let me tell you, YA is really where it’s at. Yes, there’s gunk, but there’s also a lot of truth there. Lately I’ve enjoyed “The Hunger Games” and it’s sequel, “Graceling” and it’s prequel, Septimus Heap, and many other reads aimed at preteens/teens/those who don’t use semi-colons (do as I say; not as I do). I can’t decide if I enjoy it because it’s simple and my sleep-deprived brain can comprehend it, because it’s entertaining and exciting in non-adult, non-refined ways, or because it speaks truth where adult read either allude to it or avoid it altogether.
A friend recently introduced her daughter to the young adult section of the library, and she was fairly horrified: “I wanted to go back downstairs to the nice, happy children’s section!” Another friend mentioned she’d rather have her daughter read “Twilight” than “The Hunger Games” (which deals with kids killing kids for national entertainment’s sake). But oh, I say there’s room to read both. There’s truth, it’s ugly, and teens would rather look at the ugly and explore it rather than adults who’ve been banged up by the truth too much and prefer to run away or stick their heads in the sand.
So it may be as I age that I continue to read the YAs, or it may be that my reading level has peaked, and you’ll soon see me checking out Frog and Toad under guise that it’s “for the kids”.
