Later that afternoon, Mason and Ralph climbed off of the bus. Detangling themselves from the sticky hands of kindergartners pawing at their backpacks; they hopped onto the sidewalk and walked a few blocks to Ralph’s house.
“So what do you think we’re supposed to take?” Mason asked, pulling the straps of his backpack down.
“Take where?”
“On our adventure.” Mason looked at him as if he was stupid. How could he think of anything else? Every since Miss Pickles had mentioned it, Mason couldn’t stop thinking about where they might go and what they might do.
“I don’t know.” Ralph squelched his face together so that his eyes disappeared. “Where do you think we’re going?”
“I don’t know.” Mason’s face flushed with excitement and he punched the air. “Isn’t this exciting? We could go anywhere tomorrow! We could go to the ocean or to the arctic. Imagine! What if we went to China or to the mountains of Chile? I mean, we could go anywhere!”
“Don says that it’s illegal to take us outside the school building without parental consent,” Ralph repeated dutifully. “So how can we go to the ocean if it’s illegal?” They turned the corner and trotted down Ralph’s street.
“Ralph, this is an adventure,” Mason scoffed. He ignored the tiny twinge of doubt that tickled the back of his brain. They walked up the driveway and Ralph opened the front door. “We don’t need permission. That’s the whole point.” The smell of cinnamon and spices filled his nostrils as he dropped his backpack in the hallway. Mason inhaled deeply, trying to capture the smell in his lungs for as long as possible. His house smelled like cold wood. Ralph’s house always smelled of joy and freedom.
“Hey Mom?” Ralph called, waddling towards the kitchen. “We’re home!”
“Ach, mein liebe!” Ralph’s mother enveloped both boys into a massive hug, squeezing their faces into her ample cleavage. “Come, sit, eat, eat! Dinner is not for another two hours! You must be starving, yes? Mason, eat! You are sehr thin, ja?”
It was all Mason could do not to giggle. Not only was Ralph’s mother the best cook in town, but she had retained her thick German accent even after 20 years in America. It was even funnier when she talked to customers and bakeries on the phone. Mason plopped down at the table and took an obedient bite of the strudel she placed in front of him.
“Mrs. Anderson?” Mason ventured, letting the sugar and spices dance on his tounge. “Have you ever had an adventure?”
“Ja, ja,” she said, bobbing her head up and down. “I’ve had several adventures.”
“Like what?” Ralph shoved a chocolate éclair in his mouth and gazed up at her. “You never told me about your adventures.”
“It was not for you to know,” Mrs. Anderson teased, her blond curls bouncing around her head. “Why do you ask?”
Ralph opened his mouth, but Mason smacked his arm. “We’re just curious,” he said, smiling wide.
“Well, coming to America to marry your father was a huge adventure,” Mrs. Anderson murmured, waving a dough-covered hand through the air. “Then there was learning English and discovering my passion for baking. Then having you and your sister! You see, mein liebes, adventures aren’t just places. They can be time or experiences too.”
Mason bit down on his strudel, chewing slowly. “Time,” he repeated softly. Ralph shoved a cookie in his mouth and grinned at him, chocolate etched in the lines of his teeth.
The next morning, Mason stared at his closet. He had no idea what to pack. Not only could be going anywhere, but he could be going to any time as well. What if he got sent to the Ice Age or the future? What would he need then?
“Everything,” he muttered, tapping his chin. Grabbing his backpack, he began shoving everything he could get his hands on. Working in a frenzy, he stripped clothes off hangers, shoved his mother’s laptop in his bag, plucked snacks from the pantry and pulled on three pairs of socks. Dressing in a t-shirt and jeans, he pulled a parka over his arms and rubbed sunscreen on his face. He slathered peanut butter and jelly on some bread and filled a thermos full of water. Then he dumped an entire box of crackers in his bag, placed a straw hat swabbed with mosquito netting on his head and picked up a baseball bat.
By the time he had shoved his father’s old compass in one pocket and carefully folded a map of Alabama in his pocket (he had never been to Alabama, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared), he heard the bus roaring down the street.
Dragging his backpack by one strap, he hurried to the bus stop and arrived just as the bus was pulling up. The bus driver cracked the doors open and stared at him.
“What is going on?” she gasped. She stared at his overflowing back pack. “Has the apocalypse come?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. He checked the pocket watch hanging around his neck and beamed. “In thirty minutes, I’m going on an adventure.”
“You’re going somewhere,” the lady muttered, averting her eyes. “Don’t you hit anyone with that bat, or I’ll hit you.” She grumbled as he shoved past her and barreled down the aisle. Ralph peeked over the seat and gasped.
“What is all that?” he asked as Mason shoved his huge backpack next to him. Mason looked over Ralph and raised an eyebrow. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, which was normal enough. However, five pie boxes sat on his lap.
“What’s all that?” Mason pointed. He wiped his forehead, hoping Miss Pickles would know if they were going north or not. This parka was hot.
“Apple pie, mincemeat pie, chocolate pie, mixed berry pie and coconut crème,” Ralph said, pointing to each box. He wrapped his large arms around the boxes protectively. “What? I don’t know where we’re going. Mom wanted to make sure we were prepared.”
“I don’t either!” Mason beamed, forgetting about the pies. He looked at the houses streaming past the bus and felt an exhilarating thrill hum through him. “In just a few minutes, we’ll be on an adventure.”
Ralph gulped and reached for the box with the apple pie.
Twenty minutes later, the bus pulled into the parking lot with a sigh and Mason scrambled out, dragging Ralph and his five pie boxes behind him. They rushed across the parking lot and ran through the school hallways, ignoring the shouts of teachers urging them to slow down.
The classroom was buzzing with excitement. Every child had brought something different to take on the adventure. Don had his Dad’s cell phone and a Blackberry. Beatrice carried a dictionary and book on proper etiquette. One boy carried a hockey stick, another his trombone.
No one was as prepared as Mason. Many girls giggled as he plopped into his seat, his parka poofing out like a marshmallow around him.
"Why are you dressed like that?" Don asked, eyeing the pocket watch around Mason's neck. He glanced over his parka, his hat with mosquito netting and the giant work boots he’d shoved on his feet. "What's that for?"
"In case we have an adventure in the 1800s," Mason said, tapping the watch. "They wore these then. I won't stand out."
"What are you talking about?"
"An adventure can be anywhere or any time," Mason said, the words pouring out of his mouth in an excited burst. "Who knows where or when we'll end up?"
"That's crazy," Don said, his eyes wide. "That's absurd. Why that’s"--
"HELLO DUCKIES!" Miss Pickles bounced into the room. She was wearing a billowing pink dress and carrying a tiny pink bag covered in sequins. Her feet were adorned in polka dotted rain boots and various ribbons poked through her frizzy blond curls. "Are you ready?" She turned to Mason and smiled. "And you are right, dear. Adventures are anywhere and whenever."
"You heard that?" Mason gaped.
"I hear everything." Miss Pickles looked like a satisfied cat.
"That's all you're taking?" Violet asked, a little girl in the third row. She clutched her teddy bear and glared suspiciously. "That's a tiny bag."
"Appearances aren't everything," Miss Pickles said. "I have everything in this bag."
"Like what?" the little girl asked.
With a flourish, Miss Pickles reached in her tiny pink bag and extracted an enormous elephant. The elephant blinked at the children and shook its ears, flapping so fast a gust of wind blew back Mason's hat. The elephant blinked and whirled its trunk in the air.
“Thanks!” Miss Pickles said, patting his head. With a smile, she placed her hand on the elephant’s bottom and stuffed the elephant back into her bag.
"So," she said with a smile. "Shall we get going?"
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Ode to Laundry and How We Love Thee
Ode to Laundry,
and how we love thee.
The smells, the tastes
and even the tasty stains!
Skirts and shorts,
shirts and jeans,
it doesn't matter what's in the laundry,
For we'll chew on anything.
Whether we crawl or prance,
dig or burrow,
there's nothing better on a Friday night
then sniffing some dirty underwear.
We used to piddle on the laundry,
it was so soft and fluffy.
But now we know better,
it's not for peeing--it's for munching.
Oh laundry, how we love thee,
the dirt, the sweat, and leftover cookies.
Oh tasty tasty laundry,
It's our favorite part of cleaning.
Wait--wait, hold on.
What do we have here?
Why, it's the Blond Duck's underwear!
Oh, glorious day,
when we can chew on a pair of panties!
Panties and boxers,
tank tops and shorts,
We Babies of the Pond,
love dirty clothes.
Ode to laundry,
and how we love thee.
For without these messy clothes,
we would have never discovered panties were so tasty.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Miss Pickles is by no means boring
"SOOO!" Miss Pickles bellowed, skipping down the rows and waving her hands in the air. "Tell me, duckies. What have we been studying?" She did a cartwheel in the back of the room and leaped into the air, perching on the filing cabinet like a bird. Mason stared in fascinated awe. He had never seen a adult who was so crazy. In fact, he had never seen an adult do a cartwheel, now that he thought about it. Miss Pickles kicked her feet against the drawers and pointed to a girl waving her arm.
"Tell me, duckie, what are we doing today?" Mason turned and groaned. Beatrice Tucker was standing up. Her smirk was as wide as the flouncy skirts she wore every day. Everyone hated Beatrice. She was your standard teacher's pet who made it her mission to make everyone do lots of homework every night.
"Well," Beatrice began. The class groaned. "In English we were reading Where the Red Fern Grows. In science we were studying chemistry, in math fractions and in history...." The children heard a strange buzzing noise and looked to the back of the room. Miss Pickles had flopped over and was snoring. Her head hung off of one end of the filing cabinet, her feet from another. She looked like an electrocuted Barbie doll.
"Is she alive?" Ralph whispered. He nervously fingered a packet of chips. "If she's dead, do you think we'll get lunch? They wouldn't let us starve, would they?"
"She's simply making a point," Mason whispered. At least, he hoped she was. Miss Pickles was the only interesting thing that had ever happened at O.E. He would have hated it if Beatrice's monotone whine would have killed her.
"...and in P.E. we were studying dodgeball," Beatrice finished her tirade and took a deep breath. Miss Pickles sat up straight, shook her frizzy hair and slid off the filing cabinet.
"Rubbish!" she bellowed.
"Excuse me?" Beatrice blinked and turned pale.
"Brainless blathering!" Miss Pickles shouted, leaping to the front of the room. Mason watched in wonder as she hopped between the desks like they weren't even there. "A ridiculous waste of air! It makes me want to gag and shove a pencil in my eyeball!"
"What does?" Beatrice asked, slowly sitting in her chair. She looked around nervously, her eyes wide.
"All of--this!" Miss Pickles exclaimed, flinging her arms around. She seized a science textbook off a child's desk and thumbed through it. "Boring, stupid, outdated, terrible!" She flung the book in the trash and picked up a math book. "Bogus!"
The class stared at her in a mixture of horror and delight.
"Is she seriously throwing our books away?" Don whispered. "That's state property. I don't think she's allowed"--
"Let me ask you a question!" Mason suddenly realized Miss Pickles was standing in front of his desk. She peered down at him, waving a ruler with ribbons taped to the end in his face. "What's your name?"
"Mason." His cheeks flushed when he realized his voice had cracked. He heard a few girls giggle and slid down in his seat.
"Mason, duckie," Miss Pickles continued. "Do you actually learn anything in school? That you remember?"
"Is that a real question?" The words were out of his mouth before he could even form a thought. Mason clapped a hand over his mouth and stared up at Miss Pickles with wide eyes. Most teachers would have sent him to detention for that.
Instead, Miss Pickles beamed. "Precisely!" she bellowed. "You children have not learned anything! You're bored, you're tired, you're herded in and out like cattle. You know what I think you need?"
"What?" the class chorused. Every child was leaning forward in their seat, their gaze focused on Miss Pickles. Their cheeks were flushed with excitement and their eyes sparkled for the first time since their first day of school.
"An adventure." Miss Pickles smiled broadly as they whispered and murmured to themselves. "An adventure tomorrow. So pack whatever you think you might need."
Mason slowly raised his hand. "Where are we going?" he stuttered. Miss Pickles stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth. Her eyes crinkled at the edges as she smiled.
"No one knows. You don't plan adventures, you find them. That's why it's an adventure, duckie."
A sudden rush of adrenaline flowed through Mason's veins. Don chewed on his tounge as he thought and Ralph tore into his bag of chips, his fingers tapping the desk nervously. As Mason stared into Miss Pickles' wild eyes, he realized she was serious. They were going on an adventure. Instead of memorizing spelling or drawing circles to represent fractions, they were actually going to do something.
He had never been more excited in his life.
"Tell me, duckie, what are we doing today?" Mason turned and groaned. Beatrice Tucker was standing up. Her smirk was as wide as the flouncy skirts she wore every day. Everyone hated Beatrice. She was your standard teacher's pet who made it her mission to make everyone do lots of homework every night.
"Well," Beatrice began. The class groaned. "In English we were reading Where the Red Fern Grows. In science we were studying chemistry, in math fractions and in history...." The children heard a strange buzzing noise and looked to the back of the room. Miss Pickles had flopped over and was snoring. Her head hung off of one end of the filing cabinet, her feet from another. She looked like an electrocuted Barbie doll.
"Is she alive?" Ralph whispered. He nervously fingered a packet of chips. "If she's dead, do you think we'll get lunch? They wouldn't let us starve, would they?"
"She's simply making a point," Mason whispered. At least, he hoped she was. Miss Pickles was the only interesting thing that had ever happened at O.E. He would have hated it if Beatrice's monotone whine would have killed her.
"...and in P.E. we were studying dodgeball," Beatrice finished her tirade and took a deep breath. Miss Pickles sat up straight, shook her frizzy hair and slid off the filing cabinet.
"Rubbish!" she bellowed.
"Excuse me?" Beatrice blinked and turned pale.
"Brainless blathering!" Miss Pickles shouted, leaping to the front of the room. Mason watched in wonder as she hopped between the desks like they weren't even there. "A ridiculous waste of air! It makes me want to gag and shove a pencil in my eyeball!"
"What does?" Beatrice asked, slowly sitting in her chair. She looked around nervously, her eyes wide.
"All of--this!" Miss Pickles exclaimed, flinging her arms around. She seized a science textbook off a child's desk and thumbed through it. "Boring, stupid, outdated, terrible!" She flung the book in the trash and picked up a math book. "Bogus!"
The class stared at her in a mixture of horror and delight.
"Is she seriously throwing our books away?" Don whispered. "That's state property. I don't think she's allowed"--
"Let me ask you a question!" Mason suddenly realized Miss Pickles was standing in front of his desk. She peered down at him, waving a ruler with ribbons taped to the end in his face. "What's your name?"
"Mason." His cheeks flushed when he realized his voice had cracked. He heard a few girls giggle and slid down in his seat.
"Mason, duckie," Miss Pickles continued. "Do you actually learn anything in school? That you remember?"
"Is that a real question?" The words were out of his mouth before he could even form a thought. Mason clapped a hand over his mouth and stared up at Miss Pickles with wide eyes. Most teachers would have sent him to detention for that.
Instead, Miss Pickles beamed. "Precisely!" she bellowed. "You children have not learned anything! You're bored, you're tired, you're herded in and out like cattle. You know what I think you need?"
"What?" the class chorused. Every child was leaning forward in their seat, their gaze focused on Miss Pickles. Their cheeks were flushed with excitement and their eyes sparkled for the first time since their first day of school.
"An adventure." Miss Pickles smiled broadly as they whispered and murmured to themselves. "An adventure tomorrow. So pack whatever you think you might need."
Mason slowly raised his hand. "Where are we going?" he stuttered. Miss Pickles stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth. Her eyes crinkled at the edges as she smiled.
"No one knows. You don't plan adventures, you find them. That's why it's an adventure, duckie."
A sudden rush of adrenaline flowed through Mason's veins. Don chewed on his tounge as he thought and Ralph tore into his bag of chips, his fingers tapping the desk nervously. As Mason stared into Miss Pickles' wild eyes, he realized she was serious. They were going on an adventure. Instead of memorizing spelling or drawing circles to represent fractions, they were actually going to do something.
He had never been more excited in his life.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Miss Pickles
Mason was bored. In fact, he was more than bored. He was miserable. He had been plucked from a life of running outdoors and eating ice cream at nine o'clock at night to being forced to sit in a wooden desk for eight long hours a day. He couldn't move, he couldn't draw and he could barely think. It was either too cold or so hot his forearms stuck to the desk.
Lunch was a joke and recess wasn't much funnier. Parents were so terrified children might actually move that everything fun had been taken away. Most kids just sat in a field and thought about eating a bug. That's how bad it had gotten.
His teacher, Mrs. Sanders, was the definition of boring. She had a long grey face and black hair twisted into a bun. He had only seen her wear long brown or black dresses. She spoke in a monotone and rarely smiled.
Most kids counted themselves lucky if they could stay awake for the whole day.
In fact, it wasn't just the class or the teacher. It was the whole school. Lakesville Elementary was so dull most people called it OE--for Ordinary Elementary.
Until Miss Pickles came.
It had started off as a normal enough day. Mason's mother had herded him onto the school bus and shoved his lunch box at him.
"I've-got-a-meeting-at-six-so-take-the-bus-and-go-over-to-Mrs.-Anderson's," she rattled in one long breath before returning to her cell phone. "Love-ya-bye-be-good-don't-miss-the-bus."
Mason shrugged and climbed aboard the bus. His mother always had meetings. She told him that when he got older he'd appreciate the fact he had a high-powered mother who was one of the best attorneys in the state. The only thing Mason appreciated was that she let him go over to Ralph Anderson's house, one of his best buddies. And Ralph's mom made cookies every day. And pies and cakes and strudels and turnovers and muffins.
Poor Ralph had a bit of a weight problem.
After Mason got to school, he trudged down the grey hallways to his classroom. He placed his backpack under his name on the wall and hung up his coat. Then he pulled out his books and binders and plopped down at his seat.
"I'm going over to your house," he informed Ralph.
"Mom's baking an apple crumble." Ralph licked his lips and rubbed his thick fingers together.
"Why does your mom bake so much?" Their other friend Don had vegetarians and health-freaks for parents. The first time he'd eaten a candy bar he thought he contracted diabetes.
"She wants to open up a baking service," Ralph said, drooling at the idea. "She says I get to be her taste-tester. I can't wait!"
"I bet," Don muttered under his breath. Mason sighed and slumped down at his desk. The clock showed 7:30 a.m.
"Let another boring day begin," Mason muttered. He pulled out a piece of paper and began to doodle on the page.
By the time he had drawn a dog, it was 7:40.
By the time he had drawn a python, it was 7:50.
By the time he had drawn a dragon rescuing the dog from the python, it was 8:10. The room was buzzing with excitement. Mrs. Sanders was never late. This was phenomenal. It was the most exciting thing that had happened the entire year.
Suddenly, the door flung open. A skinny woman with an explosion of frizzy blond hair leaped into the room. She was dressed entirely in hot pink with staggering heels and pulling a pink wagon that was overflowing with bags. Tiny pink ribbons had been woven into various curls in her hair, making it look like a birthday cake had been dropped on her head. From his desk, Mason could see swimming Pool Noodles, a hula hoop and a pink flamingo peeking out of the wagon. Her glasses shimmered with silver glitter as she turned to them and flung out her arms.
"HELLO DUCKIES!" she bellowed at the top of her lungs. "Kimberly Gertrude Hibiscus Pickles here! Now let's start learning, shall we?"
For the first time in his entire school career, Mason knew he wouldn't be bored.
Lunch was a joke and recess wasn't much funnier. Parents were so terrified children might actually move that everything fun had been taken away. Most kids just sat in a field and thought about eating a bug. That's how bad it had gotten.
His teacher, Mrs. Sanders, was the definition of boring. She had a long grey face and black hair twisted into a bun. He had only seen her wear long brown or black dresses. She spoke in a monotone and rarely smiled.
Most kids counted themselves lucky if they could stay awake for the whole day.
In fact, it wasn't just the class or the teacher. It was the whole school. Lakesville Elementary was so dull most people called it OE--for Ordinary Elementary.
Until Miss Pickles came.
It had started off as a normal enough day. Mason's mother had herded him onto the school bus and shoved his lunch box at him.
"I've-got-a-meeting-at-six-so-take-the-bus-and-go-over-to-Mrs.-Anderson's," she rattled in one long breath before returning to her cell phone. "Love-ya-bye-be-good-don't-miss-the-bus."
Mason shrugged and climbed aboard the bus. His mother always had meetings. She told him that when he got older he'd appreciate the fact he had a high-powered mother who was one of the best attorneys in the state. The only thing Mason appreciated was that she let him go over to Ralph Anderson's house, one of his best buddies. And Ralph's mom made cookies every day. And pies and cakes and strudels and turnovers and muffins.
Poor Ralph had a bit of a weight problem.
After Mason got to school, he trudged down the grey hallways to his classroom. He placed his backpack under his name on the wall and hung up his coat. Then he pulled out his books and binders and plopped down at his seat.
"I'm going over to your house," he informed Ralph.
"Mom's baking an apple crumble." Ralph licked his lips and rubbed his thick fingers together.
"Why does your mom bake so much?" Their other friend Don had vegetarians and health-freaks for parents. The first time he'd eaten a candy bar he thought he contracted diabetes.
"She wants to open up a baking service," Ralph said, drooling at the idea. "She says I get to be her taste-tester. I can't wait!"
"I bet," Don muttered under his breath. Mason sighed and slumped down at his desk. The clock showed 7:30 a.m.
"Let another boring day begin," Mason muttered. He pulled out a piece of paper and began to doodle on the page.
By the time he had drawn a dog, it was 7:40.
By the time he had drawn a python, it was 7:50.
By the time he had drawn a dragon rescuing the dog from the python, it was 8:10. The room was buzzing with excitement. Mrs. Sanders was never late. This was phenomenal. It was the most exciting thing that had happened the entire year.
Suddenly, the door flung open. A skinny woman with an explosion of frizzy blond hair leaped into the room. She was dressed entirely in hot pink with staggering heels and pulling a pink wagon that was overflowing with bags. Tiny pink ribbons had been woven into various curls in her hair, making it look like a birthday cake had been dropped on her head. From his desk, Mason could see swimming Pool Noodles, a hula hoop and a pink flamingo peeking out of the wagon. Her glasses shimmered with silver glitter as she turned to them and flung out her arms.
"HELLO DUCKIES!" she bellowed at the top of her lungs. "Kimberly Gertrude Hibiscus Pickles here! Now let's start learning, shall we?"
For the first time in his entire school career, Mason knew he wouldn't be bored.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Nacho man
Sometimes in the Pond, things are best kept simple.
On those nights when the world's gone mad, when work is dreadful, when your head pounds and your two precious Chihuahuas to wreck havoc on your home, there is only one solution.
Nachos.
And Oatmeal Scotchies.
There's nothing like a big mound of melted cheese, crispy taco shells, tender sirloin and refried beans to make the world right again.
Even if you just make your nachos into tacos like I do. Because it's even yummier.
Normally, these tasty tidbits would be piled high with jalapenos for Ben. However, the Pond is currently experiencing a bit of a jalapeno crisis due to a salmonella scare. With some many Mexican restaurants in the Pond, there's not a jalapeno in sight.
But that's ok. Because you know what cures nachos without jalapenos?
Oatmeal scotchies cooked by your mother and sister and brought to you at the office. It's pure love. Pure butterscotch laced love.
It's the perfect end to a Nacho Day.
For you, Invisible Friends: the family recipe.
The Pikes' Family Oatmeal Scotchies
1 1/4 all purpose flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cup butter or margarine, softened (don't melt)
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
2 large eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract or grated orange peel
3 cups quick/ old fashioned oats
1 2/3 cups (11 oz. package) Nestle butterscotch flavored morsels.
Pre-heat the oven to 375 degrees.
Combine flour, baking soda, cinnamon, and salt in small bowl. Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar, eggs and vanilla extract in large mixer bowl. Gradually beat in flour mixture. Stir in oats and morsels. Drop by rounded teaspoons onto greased baking sheets.
Bake for 7 to 8 minutes for chewy cookies, 8 to 9 minutes for crispy cookies. Cool on baking sheets for two minutes.
Makes about 4 dozen cookies.
Stay tuned tommorow for another whimsical tale!
On those nights when the world's gone mad, when work is dreadful, when your head pounds and your two precious Chihuahuas to wreck havoc on your home, there is only one solution.
Nachos.
And Oatmeal Scotchies.
There's nothing like a big mound of melted cheese, crispy taco shells, tender sirloin and refried beans to make the world right again.
Even if you just make your nachos into tacos like I do. Because it's even yummier.
Normally, these tasty tidbits would be piled high with jalapenos for Ben. However, the Pond is currently experiencing a bit of a jalapeno crisis due to a salmonella scare. With some many Mexican restaurants in the Pond, there's not a jalapeno in sight.
But that's ok. Because you know what cures nachos without jalapenos?
Oatmeal scotchies cooked by your mother and sister and brought to you at the office. It's pure love. Pure butterscotch laced love.
It's the perfect end to a Nacho Day.
For you, Invisible Friends: the family recipe.
The Pikes' Family Oatmeal Scotchies
1 1/4 all purpose flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cup butter or margarine, softened (don't melt)
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
2 large eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract or grated orange peel
3 cups quick/ old fashioned oats
1 2/3 cups (11 oz. package) Nestle butterscotch flavored morsels.
Pre-heat the oven to 375 degrees.
Combine flour, baking soda, cinnamon, and salt in small bowl. Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar, eggs and vanilla extract in large mixer bowl. Gradually beat in flour mixture. Stir in oats and morsels. Drop by rounded teaspoons onto greased baking sheets.
Bake for 7 to 8 minutes for chewy cookies, 8 to 9 minutes for crispy cookies. Cool on baking sheets for two minutes.
Makes about 4 dozen cookies.
Stay tuned tommorow for another whimsical tale!
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
While you were sleeping
The house is dark and quiet in the early hours of the morning. Ben sits at his computer, clicking and pounding the keyboard in the blue glow of his monitor.
From across the house, Bear whines.
The whining turns to whimpers.
The whimpers turn to wuffling.
The wuffling turns to into desperate shrieks and cries of loneliness.
Wuffle.
"What?" Ben hissed, rushing over to the kitchen. He reached over the baby gate and picked up Bear, careful not to disturb a sleeping Bitty. Once Bitty awoke, all hell would break loose.
Bear wuffled in reply.
Ben rolled his eyes and carried Bear back to his computer chair, setting him in his lap as he turned his attention to the moniter. Bear wuffled and flung his head over Ben's arm, staring at the floor. He sighed and whined loudly.
"What?" Ben looked down. Bear pawed at the chair and wuffled. Ben shook his head and turned back to the computer screen. A few moments later, Bear whimpered and whined and tried to launch himself off the chair. Ben caught him and Bear wuffled as his arm dug into his midsection.
"Ok, fine." Ben sat Bear on the floor. He immediately made a beeline to where the Blond Duck lay sleeping. Plopping down next to the bed, he looked up at her and wuffled.
There was no response save for a snore.
Bear pawed at the lifeless hand draped over the edge of the bed and whimpered.
The Blond Duck scowled in her sleep and rolled over. Ben, trying not to giggle, reached down and dropped Bear onto the Blond Duck's face. Overjoyed at being within licking distance of her nose, Bear proceeded to cover the Blond Duck with kisses.
"Go away!" The Blond Duck snarled, flinging her hands over her head. "Ben, stop it! I'm trying to sleep!"
Bear cocked his head and stuck his tongue up her nose. The Blond Duck roared and flopped over, shoving her head under a pillow.
I'll just lay here awhile. Maybe she'll stop snoring soon.
Wuffling to himself, Bear laid down next to the Blond Duck's stomach and cleaned his paws. Ben, who was nearly hysterical as he tried to hold in his giggles, poked the Blond Duck.
"Miranda, there's a puppy in here for you!" The Blond Duck's sleeping face burst into a smile. She rolled over with her arms outstretched, crushing Bear as she pawed for the puppy in her dreams. Ben scooped a wufffling Bear out from under her stomach and retreated from the room as she began to snore again.
This morning, as I got ready for work, Ben said, "Bear was crying last night."
"Is he ok?" I asked, immediately racing for the kitchen.
"He's fine," Ben continued as he followed me. "I let him in the bed with you last night and you nearly crushed him."
"I what?" I stared at him.
"He was licking your face and you were flailing around and snapping and snarling at him," Ben said, clearly enjoying my foul mood at night.
"What was I doing?" I asked. I never said I was intelligent in the mornings.
"Sleeping," Ben replied.
"I never woke up?" I asked.
Ben shook his head gleefully.
I just wanted to snuggle. And wuffle.
So Invisible Friends, I have a warning for you: If you ever catch me sleeping, do not lick my nose or offer me a puppy. I can't guarantee the outcome.
And I obviously won't be able to hear your wuffles of distress.
And yes. This is a true story.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Lay all your love on me
Sliding around the corner of the kitchen, I glanced to the left and the right. Tiptoeing across the carpet, I eyed the hallways and ducked my head into the bedrooms. I peeked into the empty garage and checked to make sure the front door was locked. Satisfied I was alone, I stepped around the Babies frolicking on the carpet and turned on the stereo.
The electronic beats hummed through the air as I wiggled my hips. The Babies stared up at me in horror as a terrifying sound tore from my throat.
"Don't go wasting all your emotion! Lay all your love on me!" I warbled. The Babies fled under the couch in panic. "Don't go sharing your devotion! Lay all your love on me!"
Oh no. She's dancing again.
I slid across the carpet, whisking the remote off the coffee table and holding it to my lips. As I stepped to the side in a jazz step, I stared coyly at the couch pillows.
"It was like shooting a sitting duck," I shrieked in my best diva voice. "A little small talk and baby I was stuck." The Babies barked in protest. I twirled across the living room and kicked up my heels as I howled into the remote. "I still don't know what you've done with me. A grown up woman shouldn't fall so easily."
Really. Stop. This isn't cute at all. I'm cute. You're ridiculous.
The Babies whimpered and crawled further under the sofa as I hit my knees and serenaded a picture frame.
"I feel a kind of fear when I don't have you near," I warbled. "Unsatisfied, I skip my pride, I beg you dear..."
Leaping to my feet, I began to do a mix of the Russian dance from the Nutcracker and the can-can.
"Don't go wasting your emotion," I panted as I kicked my invisible scuba flippers into the air. "Lay all your love on me!"
As I twirled and screeched like a cat with it's tail caught in a chair, I began to imagine myself onstage. The carpet turned into wooden planks and my bare feet twirled in jazz shoes. The Babies blinked up at me from the front row as a captivating audience held it's breath.
"Don't go sharing your devotion!" I sang in a voice that could break a million hearts. "Lay all your love on me!"
Suddenly, the front door sprang open and Ben rushed inside. "Darling, what's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing." I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow. "I was dancing."
"Oh good," Ben said, sighing with relief. "I pulled up and heard this horrible noise. It sounded like someone was dying."
I knew there was a reason one should never combine the Mama Mia movie with a few too many Nilla Wafers.
But it's ok.
Bear still loves me. No matter how badly I warble.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Land of the Flowered Bed tries to Beat the Heat
"Drat!" Pumble bellowed. He pounded his hands on the keyboard and glared at the paper computer screen. "I missed it!"
"Missed what?" Hairy looked up from his crossword puzzle.
"I missed Grace's Beat the Heat contest," Pumble wailed.
"Who's Grace?" Hairy asked, confused.
"A Southern Grace," Pumble shouted. "From the blog? She held the Beat the Heat event?"
Hairy stared at him blankly. Pumble sighed and waved his hand. "Never mind," he huffed. "The point is I had a brilliant entry and I missed the deadline."
"If we had a real computer instead of a cardboard box monitor and egg carton for a keyboard, maybe you'd be able to keep up with your deadlines," Cookies mumbled.
"Yea, I'll get right on that," Pumble shot back. He cupped his head in his hands and moaned. "Now the world will never know my brilliance! I'm doomed! Dooommmmed!"
The seals rolled their eyes. Miss Moose McKinley tried not to smile. "Pumble, why don't you just make your recipe anyway?" she suggested. "You won't win, but at least you'll get to share it with everybody." Pumble leaped to his feet and beamed.
"That's a great idea!" he cried. "I've got to start right away!" Mumbling to himself, he waddled as fast as his feet would carry him to the kitchen.
Cookies rolled his eyes. "He gets worked up over the dumbest things."
"You get worked up over Shark Week on the Discovery Channel," Miss Moose McKinley shot back. Cookies scowled as Hairy and the seals laughed.
Hours later, Pumble emerged from the kitchen breathless. He was covered in splatters of flour and chocolate and several unidentifiable stains.
"I've done it!" he cried. "I've created my masterpiece! Come see!"
Curious, all the creatures rushed to the kitchen.
There, they saw this.
"What is it?" Cookies asked bluntly.
"You moron!" Pumble snorted. "They're ice cream wafer pizzas!"
Everyone stared at him blankly.
"That's it?" the first duck from the Spa asked.
"That's your brilliant idea?" the second one asked.
"I like the pink sprinkles," the third duck said with a smile. "They're quite cheerful."
"A three year old could have made that," Cookies said with a sneer.
Pumble huffed and shook his spoon at them. "You're all idiots!" he cried. "The mark of genius is to create a simple recipe into a exquisite work of art. What we have here is a simple base of vanilla and chocolate ice cream topped with hot fudge, tiny curls of flowers, fairy dust and crushed dragonfly wings, with a dollop of pure sunflower honey."
"It's sprinkles," Cookies said flatly.
"Dragonfly wings and fairy dust!" Pumble bellowed.
"Sprinkles!" Cookies argued.
"Did you curl the flowers? I didn't think so!" Pumble roared.
"Well, I think it's lovely," Hairy interjected, pushing himself between them. The seals squeaked in approval.
"They are very cute," Miss Moose McKinley said, reaching her hand towards the plate. "May I have one?"
"No!" Pumble howled. "Until Grace sees them, no one can touch them."
"But they'll melt," Hairy reminded him. "And all your work will be ruined."
"Don't worry," Pumble said, smiling widely. "I have a special way of preserving them. Now shoo! Shoo!" He waited until all the animals had trickled out of the kitchen. He stuck his head out the doorway, looking toward the left, then the right. When he was sure no one was looking, he reached out and grabbed one of the ice cream wafer pizzas.
"Oh yes," Pumble mumbled as he shoved a second creation in his mouth. "They'll be very safe in here." He rubbed his belly and belched, a satisfied smile on his face.
It was a wonderful way to beat the heat.
"Missed what?" Hairy looked up from his crossword puzzle.
"I missed Grace's Beat the Heat contest," Pumble wailed.
"Who's Grace?" Hairy asked, confused.
"A Southern Grace," Pumble shouted. "From the blog? She held the Beat the Heat event?"
Hairy stared at him blankly. Pumble sighed and waved his hand. "Never mind," he huffed. "The point is I had a brilliant entry and I missed the deadline."
"If we had a real computer instead of a cardboard box monitor and egg carton for a keyboard, maybe you'd be able to keep up with your deadlines," Cookies mumbled.
"Yea, I'll get right on that," Pumble shot back. He cupped his head in his hands and moaned. "Now the world will never know my brilliance! I'm doomed! Dooommmmed!"
The seals rolled their eyes. Miss Moose McKinley tried not to smile. "Pumble, why don't you just make your recipe anyway?" she suggested. "You won't win, but at least you'll get to share it with everybody." Pumble leaped to his feet and beamed.
"That's a great idea!" he cried. "I've got to start right away!" Mumbling to himself, he waddled as fast as his feet would carry him to the kitchen.
Cookies rolled his eyes. "He gets worked up over the dumbest things."
"You get worked up over Shark Week on the Discovery Channel," Miss Moose McKinley shot back. Cookies scowled as Hairy and the seals laughed.
Hours later, Pumble emerged from the kitchen breathless. He was covered in splatters of flour and chocolate and several unidentifiable stains.
"I've done it!" he cried. "I've created my masterpiece! Come see!"
Curious, all the creatures rushed to the kitchen.
There, they saw this.
"What is it?" Cookies asked bluntly.
"You moron!" Pumble snorted. "They're ice cream wafer pizzas!"
Everyone stared at him blankly.
"That's it?" the first duck from the Spa asked.
"That's your brilliant idea?" the second one asked.
"I like the pink sprinkles," the third duck said with a smile. "They're quite cheerful."
"A three year old could have made that," Cookies said with a sneer.
Pumble huffed and shook his spoon at them. "You're all idiots!" he cried. "The mark of genius is to create a simple recipe into a exquisite work of art. What we have here is a simple base of vanilla and chocolate ice cream topped with hot fudge, tiny curls of flowers, fairy dust and crushed dragonfly wings, with a dollop of pure sunflower honey."
"It's sprinkles," Cookies said flatly.
"Dragonfly wings and fairy dust!" Pumble bellowed.
"Sprinkles!" Cookies argued.
"Did you curl the flowers? I didn't think so!" Pumble roared.
"Well, I think it's lovely," Hairy interjected, pushing himself between them. The seals squeaked in approval.
"They are very cute," Miss Moose McKinley said, reaching her hand towards the plate. "May I have one?"
"No!" Pumble howled. "Until Grace sees them, no one can touch them."
"But they'll melt," Hairy reminded him. "And all your work will be ruined."
"Don't worry," Pumble said, smiling widely. "I have a special way of preserving them. Now shoo! Shoo!" He waited until all the animals had trickled out of the kitchen. He stuck his head out the doorway, looking toward the left, then the right. When he was sure no one was looking, he reached out and grabbed one of the ice cream wafer pizzas.
"Oh yes," Pumble mumbled as he shoved a second creation in his mouth. "They'll be very safe in here." He rubbed his belly and belched, a satisfied smile on his face.
It was a wonderful way to beat the heat.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
The Second Six Things
I think most of my Invisible Friends have figured out there are a lot more than six quirky things about me. There's thousands upon millions upon trillions of weird, terrifying and questionable things about me.
And thanks to Marie, you'll get to. (I'm sorry about not linking back but I simply can't seem to figure it out. It is beyond me how ya'll get a name and there's a link there. It simply befuddles me.)
Moving on, Marie tagged me for six quirky things about me. Because, really Invisible Friends, isn't it always about me?
1) My fingernails are so long and thin if you press them up to the pages of a book, you can read a letter of the text perfectly. They look like little crescents of rice paper. I spent a lot of time in school doodling around with my fingernails and a book, let me tell you. Homework got a lot more interesting.
2) My college dorm room was done entirely in leopard print. So was my car. I had leopard print car seats, steering wheel cover, trash can, even ribbons tied around the seats. In my dorm room, it was everywhere--bedspread, pillows, Christmas stockings, chair, decorations....
My roommate had lavender and eyelet lace curtains.
We didn't get along.
3) Even though I'll be 24 in September, I still wear a tiara every year on my birthday. I wear it everywhere--the office, the gym, restaurants, shops, even cleaning the bathroom. Then I drag my birthday out for four days. One time I manged to drag it out from a Thursday to a Tuesday. That was a good year.
I'll quit when I'm 80.
4) Now that you all know how mature I am, I think it'd be a good time to tell you that you can't keep me out of a good dance hall. I can two step and waltz with the best of them.
But I really shine when the chicken dance is playing. " I don't want to be a chicken, I don't want to be a duck"....wait a minute...I'll just wiggle my butt!
5) It took me a little while, but I ate this entire rib.
Ok fine, I didn't eat that rib. It was just the restaurant's motto.
I ate four little ones instead.
Have I told you how much I love barbecue?
6) I hate weddings. I loved my wedding, but I generally despise other people's weddings. Now I love being married, and I think the whole vows thing is sweet, but I hate weddings. I chalk this up to the fact I went to a wedding-obsessed college where if you didn't have ten bridesmaids and a $5000 cake you were a dreadful human being doomed to a dreadful existence. I didn't even want to get married when I was a freshmen in college. In fact, I was so sick of weddings my senior year I wrote a 350 page book about it. There were a lot of reasons why I hated weddings (I was a maid of honor to a bridezilla, they were everywhere, that's all my parents talked about...) but I think the real issue I have with modern weddings is the obsession about consumerism. They don't want to get married. They want a party that's all about them.
Then I met Ben. And we got married.
So now, while I'll attend weddings, I only go for one real reason.
To make Ben dance.
And thanks to Marie, you'll get to. (I'm sorry about not linking back but I simply can't seem to figure it out. It is beyond me how ya'll get a name and there's a link there. It simply befuddles me.)
Moving on, Marie tagged me for six quirky things about me. Because, really Invisible Friends, isn't it always about me?
1) My fingernails are so long and thin if you press them up to the pages of a book, you can read a letter of the text perfectly. They look like little crescents of rice paper. I spent a lot of time in school doodling around with my fingernails and a book, let me tell you. Homework got a lot more interesting.
2) My college dorm room was done entirely in leopard print. So was my car. I had leopard print car seats, steering wheel cover, trash can, even ribbons tied around the seats. In my dorm room, it was everywhere--bedspread, pillows, Christmas stockings, chair, decorations....
My roommate had lavender and eyelet lace curtains.
We didn't get along.
3) Even though I'll be 24 in September, I still wear a tiara every year on my birthday. I wear it everywhere--the office, the gym, restaurants, shops, even cleaning the bathroom. Then I drag my birthday out for four days. One time I manged to drag it out from a Thursday to a Tuesday. That was a good year.
I'll quit when I'm 80.
4) Now that you all know how mature I am, I think it'd be a good time to tell you that you can't keep me out of a good dance hall. I can two step and waltz with the best of them.
But I really shine when the chicken dance is playing. " I don't want to be a chicken, I don't want to be a duck"....wait a minute...I'll just wiggle my butt!
5) It took me a little while, but I ate this entire rib.
Ok fine, I didn't eat that rib. It was just the restaurant's motto.I ate four little ones instead.
Have I told you how much I love barbecue?
6) I hate weddings. I loved my wedding, but I generally despise other people's weddings. Now I love being married, and I think the whole vows thing is sweet, but I hate weddings. I chalk this up to the fact I went to a wedding-obsessed college where if you didn't have ten bridesmaids and a $5000 cake you were a dreadful human being doomed to a dreadful existence. I didn't even want to get married when I was a freshmen in college. In fact, I was so sick of weddings my senior year I wrote a 350 page book about it. There were a lot of reasons why I hated weddings (I was a maid of honor to a bridezilla, they were everywhere, that's all my parents talked about...) but I think the real issue I have with modern weddings is the obsession about consumerism. They don't want to get married. They want a party that's all about them.
Then I met Ben. And we got married.
So now, while I'll attend weddings, I only go for one real reason.
To make Ben dance.
Friday, August 08, 2008
Driving
At the Dallas Car Show
It happens at night, when the world's gone dark.
The streets are empty and the lights are green. The only light is from the glare of the streetlights as we screech around corners and race down the asphalt, past the glow of houses and neon signs.
It's when we're driving.
It's when the music is loud and the cool night air blows through the car, swirling around our heads and smelling of freedom.
It happens when my pulse thumps in my throat as he looks at me with that certain grin. His eyes twinkle and his foot slams to the floor. And we go driving.
I prop my feet on the dashboard and let my hips wiggle in the seat. He just grins and guns it, whipping around the corner as I laugh. He turns the dial louder and I yell the words along, shaking my shoulders and letting the beat flow through my chest. It doesn't matter how many times I've heard the song, it feels brand new again.
Then the neon signs switch to open fields, miles of barbed wire and tall grass. Out here, the roads are smooth and open. The music is accompanied by the roar of the wind in our ears and the rumble of the engine under my feet. Ben's eyes are bright and his face is pinched with an intense glee. For a brief moment, we are flying.
As we weave through neighborhoods, I let my mind wonder as my lips mouth the words to the music. I think about how cars have defined our relationship. Our first kiss was outside his truck freshman year of college. We spent hours driving when we couldn't go anywhere else because of dorm rules and a conservative college town. We talked about our life, our hopes, our dreams and our fears as we covered the road from Austin to Shreveport to San Antonio to Waco and back again. We got engaged in a car. We planned our wedding in a car. We even introduced the Babies to car travel.
And then the music fades, and he lowers the dial so it gently pulses through the night. The wind eases into a soft breeze and the wheels slow to a gentle glide.
We turn on our street and pull into the driveway. My pulse returns to normal and the feeling of freedom has been whisked with one of normalcy.
It only happens in the black of night, when the stars glitter and the streets are quiet.
It happens when the music screams with joy and the wheels squeal on asphalt.
It happens when we're driving.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
There's an elephant in the oven
Callie peeked her head out around the corner of her grandmother's kitchen. It had been months since she had seen the candy creatures. In fact, she often wondered if it was all a dream. After all, it wasn't like things just disappeared into thin air.
"It must have been a dream," she whispered to herself. She rubbed her arms to rub away the goosebumps, wishing she didn't feel the curling in her belly. It was a subtle reminder that maybe, just maybe, the animals would come back some day...
A small bell buzzed, reminding Callie of her work. Tying on the pink apron her grandmother had sewn for her, she bustled to the play kitchen her grandfather had built for her. In the corner of her grandmother's dining room, he had built her a small model stove, refrigerator and cabinet with a real sink. She even had her own minuscule dining table right next to her grandmother's. After Callie had set off the smoke alarm and nearly given her grandmother a heart attack, it was the only oven she was allowed to cook in when no one was around.
Sliding potholders over her petite hands, she opened the wooden oven door and extracted an old cast iron pan.
"HELLO!" a shrill voice cried. Callie was so surprised she tripped and fell back on her rear end. Her wrist bent and spilled the contents of the pan all over her stomach. A baby blue elephant, pink hippo and carmel giraffe bounced on her belly.
"Now you've done it!" the giraffe shouted, his neck bobbing awkwardly as his four feet flailed in every direction. "You've terrified her!"
"I was just saying hello!" the elephant cried in a wounded tone. "She hasn't seen us in awhile. I thought she'd be happy to see us!" Callie heard a gentle roar and gasped as a pink bubble floated away from the elephant's trunk. It popped against her finger and she sniffed it.
"It's bubblegum!" she cried in delight.
"Now you've done it," the pink hippo scolded. "You upset his stomach again. You know he blows bubblegum bubbles when he's upset." The giraffe glared at her and tried to stand, lurching to the side as he stepped in Callie's belly button. Callie giggled and the giraffe bounced helplessly.
"I was just pointing out facts," he snarled. "Would someone help me up?" Callie helped him to his feet. She stared at the three creatures sitting on his stomach.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "Are you all made of candy?"
"Yup," the pink hippo said.
"How can you talk?" the little girl asked.
"We're not quite sure," the blue elephant hiccuped, another pink bubble popping from his trunk. "We're not quite sure how we got here either. One minute we were making snow angels in the Cool Whip Mountains, now we're here."
"I was just getting the hang of it," the giraffe grumbled.
"What are you going to do here?" Callie asked. The animals looked at her in confusion.
"What is there to do?" the elephant asked.
"Well, we could play games or watch a movie or have lunch..."
"Lunch!" the elephant cried, belching another bubble from his trunk. "I'd love some lunch!"
"What would you like?" Callie asked, her brow creased in confusion. She had never made lunch for candy animals before.
"I'd like sugarplum tarts please," the elephant said, blowing a stream of pink bubbles.
"I'd like a cotton candy sandwich please," the pink hippo said.
"Do you have any butterscotch leaves and honey?" the giraffe asked.
"I can check," Callie said, scribbling the orders down on the menu pad her grandpa had put on her fridge.
"Thank you so much," he said. Callie carefully put the animals on her dining room table and set about making their lunch. She plucked some butterscotch leaves from the bowl of fresh fruit on the counter, whipped up some sugarplum tarts and smeared cotton candy on two sugar crisp cookies. She placed each lunch on one of her pretty white and pink china plates and served fruit punch in matching cups. The animals wolfed down their lunch as if they hadn't eaten in years.
"Delicious!" the elephant cried, blowing a bubble so big it lifted him off the table.
"This is the best sandwich I've ever had!" the hippo cried.
Even the giraffe smiled and sighed in bliss. "Heavenly," he whispered, chewing his leaves slowly.
Callie beamed as the animals climbed back in her cast iron pan. "Will you come back?" she asked as she slid the pan in the oven.
"Definitely," the elephant belched.
"And we'll bring friends!" the hippo bellowed.
"But not too many," the giraffe added. "I don't want them to all know how wonderful of a cook you are. They'll eat all our food!"
"Until then, dear friends!" Callie said. She shut the oven door firmly and turned as her grandmother walked in the room.
"What are you doing dear?" her grandmother asked. Callie beamed.
"Just talking to some friends."
"It must have been a dream," she whispered to herself. She rubbed her arms to rub away the goosebumps, wishing she didn't feel the curling in her belly. It was a subtle reminder that maybe, just maybe, the animals would come back some day...
A small bell buzzed, reminding Callie of her work. Tying on the pink apron her grandmother had sewn for her, she bustled to the play kitchen her grandfather had built for her. In the corner of her grandmother's dining room, he had built her a small model stove, refrigerator and cabinet with a real sink. She even had her own minuscule dining table right next to her grandmother's. After Callie had set off the smoke alarm and nearly given her grandmother a heart attack, it was the only oven she was allowed to cook in when no one was around.
Sliding potholders over her petite hands, she opened the wooden oven door and extracted an old cast iron pan.
"HELLO!" a shrill voice cried. Callie was so surprised she tripped and fell back on her rear end. Her wrist bent and spilled the contents of the pan all over her stomach. A baby blue elephant, pink hippo and carmel giraffe bounced on her belly.
"Now you've done it!" the giraffe shouted, his neck bobbing awkwardly as his four feet flailed in every direction. "You've terrified her!"
"I was just saying hello!" the elephant cried in a wounded tone. "She hasn't seen us in awhile. I thought she'd be happy to see us!" Callie heard a gentle roar and gasped as a pink bubble floated away from the elephant's trunk. It popped against her finger and she sniffed it.
"It's bubblegum!" she cried in delight.
"Now you've done it," the pink hippo scolded. "You upset his stomach again. You know he blows bubblegum bubbles when he's upset." The giraffe glared at her and tried to stand, lurching to the side as he stepped in Callie's belly button. Callie giggled and the giraffe bounced helplessly.
"I was just pointing out facts," he snarled. "Would someone help me up?" Callie helped him to his feet. She stared at the three creatures sitting on his stomach.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "Are you all made of candy?"
"Yup," the pink hippo said.
"How can you talk?" the little girl asked.
"We're not quite sure," the blue elephant hiccuped, another pink bubble popping from his trunk. "We're not quite sure how we got here either. One minute we were making snow angels in the Cool Whip Mountains, now we're here."
"I was just getting the hang of it," the giraffe grumbled.
"What are you going to do here?" Callie asked. The animals looked at her in confusion.
"What is there to do?" the elephant asked.
"Well, we could play games or watch a movie or have lunch..."
"Lunch!" the elephant cried, belching another bubble from his trunk. "I'd love some lunch!"
"What would you like?" Callie asked, her brow creased in confusion. She had never made lunch for candy animals before.
"I'd like sugarplum tarts please," the elephant said, blowing a stream of pink bubbles.
"I'd like a cotton candy sandwich please," the pink hippo said.
"Do you have any butterscotch leaves and honey?" the giraffe asked.
"I can check," Callie said, scribbling the orders down on the menu pad her grandpa had put on her fridge.
"Thank you so much," he said. Callie carefully put the animals on her dining room table and set about making their lunch. She plucked some butterscotch leaves from the bowl of fresh fruit on the counter, whipped up some sugarplum tarts and smeared cotton candy on two sugar crisp cookies. She placed each lunch on one of her pretty white and pink china plates and served fruit punch in matching cups. The animals wolfed down their lunch as if they hadn't eaten in years.
"Delicious!" the elephant cried, blowing a bubble so big it lifted him off the table.
"This is the best sandwich I've ever had!" the hippo cried.
Even the giraffe smiled and sighed in bliss. "Heavenly," he whispered, chewing his leaves slowly.
Callie beamed as the animals climbed back in her cast iron pan. "Will you come back?" she asked as she slid the pan in the oven.
"Definitely," the elephant belched.
"And we'll bring friends!" the hippo bellowed.
"But not too many," the giraffe added. "I don't want them to all know how wonderful of a cook you are. They'll eat all our food!"
"Until then, dear friends!" Callie said. She shut the oven door firmly and turned as her grandmother walked in the room.
"What are you doing dear?" her grandmother asked. Callie beamed.
"Just talking to some friends."
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
The GLUG wants a cookie
I was late again. I was always late in the mornings. Dashing out the door, I patted the Babies' heads and jabbed my finger into the alarm keypad. Flinging my stuff into the car, the engine roared and I barreled down the driveway. My mind was racing with things I neglected to do as I twisted and turned through my neighborhood. Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I stared hazily out at the highway stretching out in front of me.
"HELLO!"
It took every ounce of strength not to slam on my brakes. I glared at the insect beaming at me through the windshield. The GLUG (Ginormous Lime-Green Unusual Gnat) was back.
"I almost had a wreck because of you," I snarled.
"Then you should have been paying attention instead of daydreaming," he shot back. I narrowed my eyes as he entwined his arms around the windshield wipers. "Do you have any tasty leaves?"
"Not that I would give to you," I said. "Why are you talking to me? Don't you want to go talk to Ben? You like him better."
"He's busy," the GLUG explained. "I need your help."
"What?" I snapped. The GLUG took a deep breath and stuck out his chest, preparing himself for a monumental announcement.
"I want to BAKE!" he bellowed. "I want to create! I want to inspire!"
"What are you talking about?" I asked, bewildered. "You just wanted some tasty leaves a second ago."
"This is all your fault!" he howled, pointing a tiny green arm at me. "I was happy with leaves until you came along. Now I can think about is cookies and cakes and pies....I love pie..."
"I do too." We both gazed off into the distance, drooling as we dreamed of pie.
"Anyway, now all I want to do is bake," the GLUG moaned. "Do you know how disgraceful it is for an insect to want to bake? I'm the Ginormous Lime-Green Unusual Gnat! People look up to me!"
"Why is baking bad?" I asked. He raised an eyebrow and smirked.
"Have you ever seen a dish for baked leaf cookies?" he asked. Shaking my head, I sighed. He had a point.
"How is this my fault?" I asked, serving around a coke can in the road. "And can you move? I can't see anything."
"HOW DARE you insinuate I'm fat!" the GLUG screeched. "I'm not the one who crushes ants whenever she walks!"
"That's because you fly!" I argued back.
"This is your fault," the GLUG hissed, shaking his tiny green fist at me. "I was happily annoying Ben when I stumbled across your blog one day. Then I discovered all these glorious people with food everywhere! There were cookies and cakes and pies...you think Marie would marry me?"
I looked at his eager green face. "You could try."
"Anyway, now all I think about is food!" the GLUG howled, clutching his face and sliding down the windshield in a dramatic puddle of green. "I want to cook, I want to knead--I even want whip egg whites!"
I snorted. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. "This isn't funny."
"Why don't you just bake in the Land of the Flowered Bed?" I asked. The GLUG stared at me as if I was a moron.
"Don't you think Pumble would eat it all?" he asked. "Plus, I want to create new leaf dishes. Pumble hates anything healthy."
"You've got a point," I muttered. I weaved down the road as the GLUG flopped on my windshield, sighing and clamping his hand to his forehead.
"I've got it!" I cried, nearly running into a railing.
"What?" The GLUG flung himself against the window, his eyes wide with glee.
"Have Ben teach you!" I said triumphantly. "He's cooks and you like him better than me."
"Can he bake?" The GLUG asked suspiciously.
"Like a dream." I fluttered my eyelashes and smiled. The GLUG leaped off my windshield and cheered.
"Then it's settled! Ben will teach me how to bake and I'll be the best Ginormous Lime Green Unusual Gnat baker in the land!" He flew into the air towards where Ben worked, his little green feet twitching with excitement. I couldn't help but laugh.
I had a feeling I'd be eating a lot of baked leaves.
"HELLO!"
It took every ounce of strength not to slam on my brakes. I glared at the insect beaming at me through the windshield. The GLUG (Ginormous Lime-Green Unusual Gnat) was back.
"I almost had a wreck because of you," I snarled.
"Then you should have been paying attention instead of daydreaming," he shot back. I narrowed my eyes as he entwined his arms around the windshield wipers. "Do you have any tasty leaves?"
"Not that I would give to you," I said. "Why are you talking to me? Don't you want to go talk to Ben? You like him better."
"He's busy," the GLUG explained. "I need your help."
"What?" I snapped. The GLUG took a deep breath and stuck out his chest, preparing himself for a monumental announcement.
"I want to BAKE!" he bellowed. "I want to create! I want to inspire!"
"What are you talking about?" I asked, bewildered. "You just wanted some tasty leaves a second ago."
"This is all your fault!" he howled, pointing a tiny green arm at me. "I was happy with leaves until you came along. Now I can think about is cookies and cakes and pies....I love pie..."
"I do too." We both gazed off into the distance, drooling as we dreamed of pie.
"Anyway, now all I want to do is bake," the GLUG moaned. "Do you know how disgraceful it is for an insect to want to bake? I'm the Ginormous Lime-Green Unusual Gnat! People look up to me!"
"Why is baking bad?" I asked. He raised an eyebrow and smirked.
"Have you ever seen a dish for baked leaf cookies?" he asked. Shaking my head, I sighed. He had a point.
"How is this my fault?" I asked, serving around a coke can in the road. "And can you move? I can't see anything."
"HOW DARE you insinuate I'm fat!" the GLUG screeched. "I'm not the one who crushes ants whenever she walks!"
"That's because you fly!" I argued back.
"This is your fault," the GLUG hissed, shaking his tiny green fist at me. "I was happily annoying Ben when I stumbled across your blog one day. Then I discovered all these glorious people with food everywhere! There were cookies and cakes and pies...you think Marie would marry me?"
I looked at his eager green face. "You could try."
"Anyway, now all I think about is food!" the GLUG howled, clutching his face and sliding down the windshield in a dramatic puddle of green. "I want to cook, I want to knead--I even want whip egg whites!"
I snorted. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. "This isn't funny."
"Why don't you just bake in the Land of the Flowered Bed?" I asked. The GLUG stared at me as if I was a moron.
"Don't you think Pumble would eat it all?" he asked. "Plus, I want to create new leaf dishes. Pumble hates anything healthy."
"You've got a point," I muttered. I weaved down the road as the GLUG flopped on my windshield, sighing and clamping his hand to his forehead.
"I've got it!" I cried, nearly running into a railing.
"What?" The GLUG flung himself against the window, his eyes wide with glee.
"Have Ben teach you!" I said triumphantly. "He's cooks and you like him better than me."
"Can he bake?" The GLUG asked suspiciously.
"Like a dream." I fluttered my eyelashes and smiled. The GLUG leaped off my windshield and cheered.
"Then it's settled! Ben will teach me how to bake and I'll be the best Ginormous Lime Green Unusual Gnat baker in the land!" He flew into the air towards where Ben worked, his little green feet twitching with excitement. I couldn't help but laugh.
I had a feeling I'd be eating a lot of baked leaves.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
So Meaty*
I am a carnivore. I love meat. I adore meat. If it's barbecued, fried, smoked, grilled or broiled, I'll scarf it down before it hits my plate. If it's beef, chicken, fish or even pork, it's bound to be sliding down my gullet before you can identify it. Especially beef ribs. Or brisket. Or fried chicken. Or bacon cheeseburgers. Or halibut, which became my new favorite fish from Alaska.
Did I mention I got married at a barbecue restaurant? And ate ribs in my white lacy wedding dress? Don't worry. I stuffed a napkin in my boobs before tearing into it.
So this Sunday, after driving back from Austin, my husband did the most wonderful thing a husband could do.
He fixed me meat pocket pies.
Not only did he cook, but he insisted I sit on the couch and ponder over the mysteries of Kimora Lee Simmons while the Babies curled up in my lap.
I knew there was a reason I married him.
First, he took the ground beef and sprinkled a package of taco seasoning over it. He added rice, poured in some cholula sauce and poured in the amount of water for both the rice and seasoning. Then he let it simmer while he started on the dough.
Then, he followed Alton Brown's recipe for pocket pies to create the dough. By this point, the Babies were drooling on my leg. I was drooling on their heads waiting in anticipation.
He rolled out little circles of dough on parchment paper, then slathered each one in egg wash and stuffed the meat and rice mixture inside. Then he shoved them in the oven at 350 degrees for thirty minutes.
Now, I know what you're thinking. I can see the thoughts spinning around your brains. Why beef and rice? Why not beef and potatoes and veggies in broth or chicken pot pie or beef and pepperoni in tomato sauce or sausage?
You see, Ben had a dream.
As a child in Louisiana, Ben grew up eating deep fried meat pies stuffed with meat and rice and all sorts of Cajun things. And while these pies weren't deep fried, they were enough to bring a huge smile to a face and a tear to his eye.
He was so delighted with his success that he took me out for peanut butter ice cream. What a guy. No man can compete with meat pies and peanut butter ice cream, ladies. The man has stolen my heart.
However, let's not forget the most important thing. Ben recreated a nostalgic dream of childhood in our humble little kitchen.
And that, Invisible Friends, is a beautiful thing. Almost as beautiful as a meat pie.
*(Did you get the Talk Soup reference?)
Did I mention I got married at a barbecue restaurant? And ate ribs in my white lacy wedding dress? Don't worry. I stuffed a napkin in my boobs before tearing into it.
So this Sunday, after driving back from Austin, my husband did the most wonderful thing a husband could do.
He fixed me meat pocket pies.
Not only did he cook, but he insisted I sit on the couch and ponder over the mysteries of Kimora Lee Simmons while the Babies curled up in my lap.
I knew there was a reason I married him.
First, he took the ground beef and sprinkled a package of taco seasoning over it. He added rice, poured in some cholula sauce and poured in the amount of water for both the rice and seasoning. Then he let it simmer while he started on the dough.
Then, he followed Alton Brown's recipe for pocket pies to create the dough. By this point, the Babies were drooling on my leg. I was drooling on their heads waiting in anticipation.
He rolled out little circles of dough on parchment paper, then slathered each one in egg wash and stuffed the meat and rice mixture inside. Then he shoved them in the oven at 350 degrees for thirty minutes.
Now, I know what you're thinking. I can see the thoughts spinning around your brains. Why beef and rice? Why not beef and potatoes and veggies in broth or chicken pot pie or beef and pepperoni in tomato sauce or sausage?
You see, Ben had a dream.
As a child in Louisiana, Ben grew up eating deep fried meat pies stuffed with meat and rice and all sorts of Cajun things. And while these pies weren't deep fried, they were enough to bring a huge smile to a face and a tear to his eye.
He was so delighted with his success that he took me out for peanut butter ice cream. What a guy. No man can compete with meat pies and peanut butter ice cream, ladies. The man has stolen my heart.
However, let's not forget the most important thing. Ben recreated a nostalgic dream of childhood in our humble little kitchen.
And that, Invisible Friends, is a beautiful thing. Almost as beautiful as a meat pie.
*(Did you get the Talk Soup reference?)
Monday, August 04, 2008
One percent
It had gotten to a point to where I didn't feel the heat anymore. It beat down on my head and shoulders. Sweat ran down my back, clinging to my shirt and soaking the waistband of my skirt. It even trickled down the backs of my knees and elbows, weaving through my scalp like a car in a race. But I didn't notice. My mind was racing. My fingers were wiggling as if they were plucking the ideas from my mind and arranging them neatly in the air.
"You know what they say?" I looked up and smiled, pausing on my walk to let the butterfly land on my shoulder.
"What do they say?"
"They say that inspiration is one percent great ideas and..."
"99 percent perspiration," I finished. "How did you know I was thinking?"
"You get that goofy look on your face." The butterfly teased me by brushing his wing against my cheek. "I just wanted to remind you that your ideas, as brilliant as they may be, are nothing without work."
"I have no problem working," I grumbled defensively. "I just always run out of time. If only I could quit my job..."
"There will always be obstacles," the butterfly said, tiptoeing down my arm. My hairs stood on end, though my skin was blazing. "There will always be time problems. It's how you work with those obstacles that is important."
I rolled my eyes, knowing he was right. We walked in silence for awhile. The butterfly climbed up my arm and perched on my shoulder.
"But you are on the right track," he murmured.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You're doing what makes you happy for that reason alone," the butterfly explained. "You're not longer trying to prove something to someone. You've finally given up your pride in favor of following your own path."
"But I'm still insecure," I mumbled, my cheeks flushed from both the heat and shame. "I still worry that no one will like my stuff, that I'm really not as good as I think I am. Sometimes I think I'll have hardrive on hardrive of stories with no one to read them."
"No you don't." I stared at the butterfly. His wings opened and closed slowly.
"What?" I said, startled.
"No, you don't," he repeated. "You don't think that at all."
I gaped at him and he sighed. "Your insecurities think that, not you," he explained. "Because even while thoughts may run through your brain at midnight and whisper your writing is juvenile, your stories cliche and your books are full of plot holes and crummy text, you don't believe it. You may think it during weak moments, but you know it's not true. And that's what is important. You finally have gained the confidence to go your own way. A maverick, if you will."
I snorted. "Me? A maverick?"
The butterfly looked at me wryly. "What other 23-year-old girl talks to butterflies and writes stories about boys looking for wings? Most girls your age would be trying to get a job or become a reality show star."
I smiled. "Do you really think I have what it takes?"
The butterfly lifted off my shoulder and fluttered to my nose. The tip of his wing touched mine briefly, a delicate kiss of reassurance. And with a wink and a smile, he was gone. I was left to stare at the clouds as they floated across the pale blue sky. With a smile, I went inside.
I have 99 percent more work to do.
"You know what they say?" I looked up and smiled, pausing on my walk to let the butterfly land on my shoulder.
"What do they say?"
"They say that inspiration is one percent great ideas and..."
"99 percent perspiration," I finished. "How did you know I was thinking?"
"You get that goofy look on your face." The butterfly teased me by brushing his wing against my cheek. "I just wanted to remind you that your ideas, as brilliant as they may be, are nothing without work."
"I have no problem working," I grumbled defensively. "I just always run out of time. If only I could quit my job..."
"There will always be obstacles," the butterfly said, tiptoeing down my arm. My hairs stood on end, though my skin was blazing. "There will always be time problems. It's how you work with those obstacles that is important."
I rolled my eyes, knowing he was right. We walked in silence for awhile. The butterfly climbed up my arm and perched on my shoulder.
"But you are on the right track," he murmured.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You're doing what makes you happy for that reason alone," the butterfly explained. "You're not longer trying to prove something to someone. You've finally given up your pride in favor of following your own path."
"But I'm still insecure," I mumbled, my cheeks flushed from both the heat and shame. "I still worry that no one will like my stuff, that I'm really not as good as I think I am. Sometimes I think I'll have hardrive on hardrive of stories with no one to read them."
"No you don't." I stared at the butterfly. His wings opened and closed slowly.
"What?" I said, startled.
"No, you don't," he repeated. "You don't think that at all."
I gaped at him and he sighed. "Your insecurities think that, not you," he explained. "Because even while thoughts may run through your brain at midnight and whisper your writing is juvenile, your stories cliche and your books are full of plot holes and crummy text, you don't believe it. You may think it during weak moments, but you know it's not true. And that's what is important. You finally have gained the confidence to go your own way. A maverick, if you will."
I snorted. "Me? A maverick?"
The butterfly looked at me wryly. "What other 23-year-old girl talks to butterflies and writes stories about boys looking for wings? Most girls your age would be trying to get a job or become a reality show star."
I smiled. "Do you really think I have what it takes?"
The butterfly lifted off my shoulder and fluttered to my nose. The tip of his wing touched mine briefly, a delicate kiss of reassurance. And with a wink and a smile, he was gone. I was left to stare at the clouds as they floated across the pale blue sky. With a smile, I went inside.
I have 99 percent more work to do.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Adventures in the Pond
This weekend was all about adventures. First, I went to Fredericksburg for an adventure with my buddy Emma. Normally, she has to listen to me whine and rant through e-mail. This time, she had to listen to me whine and rant as I dragged her up and down Main Street.
After wolfing down a bacon cheeseburger for lunch, we walked up and down the shops for a few hours. Around 1:30 p.m., we decided we'd find the pie shop and sit for awhile and chat.
That was harder than it sounded.
First, we walked past the edge of the "tourist area of town" to 501 Main Street. We found ourselves at 545 Main Street. There was no pie shop, only a hotel and dollar store. When we popped into the hotel, the lady gave us a pitying look.
"Oh, the pie company is on the other side of town," the woman informed us. "All the way past the courthouse and four or five blocks past the park. Good luck!"
It was about a two to three mile walk. Now, some of you big city folks may be scoffing at this. I would normally scoff about now too. But in 100 degree heat on concrete in the blazing sun with tourists and a pair of aching feet, this wasn't good news.
But we were determined. It was all for the pie.
We threaded through the tourists, plowed past the shops and past the courthouse. No pie shop.
Three blocks later, we had passed the Pioneer Museum and a coffee shop. No pie shop.
Two blocks later, we had passed a Jeep dealership. No pie shop.
By this point, poor Emma's dying. She has a injured toe and uncomfortable platform shoes. Her boots were not made for walking.
"I can't make it," she gasped, clinging to my arm. "We've got to do this."
I panted and flung my sweat-soaked hair out of my face. "We've got to, Emma! Think of the pie!"
"The pie," she repeated weakly. "The pie!"
Determined to eat the pie we'd driven an hour to sample, we trudged another two blocks. Emma looked down at her blistered red feet.
"We'll have to stop at the jucerie," she groaned. "I can't"--
"Emma, we're saved!" I cried dramatically. Sure enough, a pale sign advertising Fredericksburg Pie Company glinted through a tree. Emma's feet recovered enough to dash down the sidewalk, plop into a chair and order a huge slice of peanut butter cup pie and glass of water. I ordered apple. Yes, I know I obsessed over eating peanut butter pie, but it had a lot of chocolate in it. I'm allergic to chocolate.
I don't think this was a bad substitute.
Now, this was no normal apple pie. It had a crust on top that tasted like a snickerdoodle-pie hybrid and shortbread crust.
It was awesome.
Meanwhile, even Emma's feet could agree with this.
Least to say, we were happy. When I got home, I was still floating on apple pie bliss.
The next morning, we drove up to Austin. It was time for the Babies to have an adventure.
They were not amused.
The Babies have long thought they were the only dogs in the universe. I'm seriously convinced that they think Ace and Arthur in Shreveport are figments of their imagination. So not only are they being withheld in a wagon, they are in the wagon with another dog.
Bitty is really not amused. I think if Princess had been there she would have had a nervous breakdown.
As you can see, the Pond is full of fun adventures. Pie, bacon cheeseburgers and wagon rides around the yard. Don't worry--I haven't forgotten your pocket pies. They're coming tomorrow or Tuesday.
I think my adventure was much tastier. Anyone want to go with me next weekend? They've got coconut creme....
After wolfing down a bacon cheeseburger for lunch, we walked up and down the shops for a few hours. Around 1:30 p.m., we decided we'd find the pie shop and sit for awhile and chat.
That was harder than it sounded.
First, we walked past the edge of the "tourist area of town" to 501 Main Street. We found ourselves at 545 Main Street. There was no pie shop, only a hotel and dollar store. When we popped into the hotel, the lady gave us a pitying look.
"Oh, the pie company is on the other side of town," the woman informed us. "All the way past the courthouse and four or five blocks past the park. Good luck!"
It was about a two to three mile walk. Now, some of you big city folks may be scoffing at this. I would normally scoff about now too. But in 100 degree heat on concrete in the blazing sun with tourists and a pair of aching feet, this wasn't good news.
But we were determined. It was all for the pie.
We threaded through the tourists, plowed past the shops and past the courthouse. No pie shop.
Three blocks later, we had passed the Pioneer Museum and a coffee shop. No pie shop.
Two blocks later, we had passed a Jeep dealership. No pie shop.
By this point, poor Emma's dying. She has a injured toe and uncomfortable platform shoes. Her boots were not made for walking.
"I can't make it," she gasped, clinging to my arm. "We've got to do this."
I panted and flung my sweat-soaked hair out of my face. "We've got to, Emma! Think of the pie!"
"The pie," she repeated weakly. "The pie!"
Determined to eat the pie we'd driven an hour to sample, we trudged another two blocks. Emma looked down at her blistered red feet.
"We'll have to stop at the jucerie," she groaned. "I can't"--
"Emma, we're saved!" I cried dramatically. Sure enough, a pale sign advertising Fredericksburg Pie Company glinted through a tree. Emma's feet recovered enough to dash down the sidewalk, plop into a chair and order a huge slice of peanut butter cup pie and glass of water. I ordered apple. Yes, I know I obsessed over eating peanut butter pie, but it had a lot of chocolate in it. I'm allergic to chocolate.
I don't think this was a bad substitute.
Now, this was no normal apple pie. It had a crust on top that tasted like a snickerdoodle-pie hybrid and shortbread crust.
It was awesome.
Meanwhile, even Emma's feet could agree with this.
Least to say, we were happy. When I got home, I was still floating on apple pie bliss.
The next morning, we drove up to Austin. It was time for the Babies to have an adventure.
They were not amused.
The Babies have long thought they were the only dogs in the universe. I'm seriously convinced that they think Ace and Arthur in Shreveport are figments of their imagination. So not only are they being withheld in a wagon, they are in the wagon with another dog.
Bitty is really not amused. I think if Princess had been there she would have had a nervous breakdown.
As you can see, the Pond is full of fun adventures. Pie, bacon cheeseburgers and wagon rides around the yard. Don't worry--I haven't forgotten your pocket pies. They're coming tomorrow or Tuesday.
I think my adventure was much tastier. Anyone want to go with me next weekend? They've got coconut creme....
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