Egggggggggcellent!

There are many, many reasons why I love my husband, but this just might be the shiny one at the top of the pile:

The man can make an omelette! Just look!

I’m too impatient for the omelette-making trade. I’d much rather spend my time making banana-blueberry cakes with crumbly oatmeal toping. My breakfasts, aside from the occasional quiche, take the lower, less artful road of the commingled, jumbled, disheveled scrambled-eggs-with-cheese-and-vegetable-bits.

My, but it DOES sound like a delicacy when I put it just that way!

Often, I delude myself into believing that I can make an omelette. I start out just fine…I can add eggs to a pan like nobody’s business. Then, my downfall: I add the cheese and fresh vegetables, the aromatic bliss clouding my senses. I hurriedly reach for the spatula, racing to fold my enticing egg sandwich. Sadly, it is always too early to fold. The omelette is ruined. I make short work of the semi-set eggs, leading them the way of the scrambled-eggs-with-cheese-and-vegetable-bits dish that I’ve mastered so well.

The Great Cakes

Saturday night, it was imperative to me that I bake a cake. I was driven&#8212possessed by my desire to prove my baking prowess, tame my inner sweet tooth. I would not be preparing this cake from a box. The time of reckoning had arrived.

I found a recipe from one of my healthy cookbooks&#8212a banana-blueberry cake with crumbly oatmeal topping. My goodness, if that doesn’t cry out and dare you to bake than NOTHING will! Step one was completed. My homemade, non boxed cake now had a name.

As I recall, the hour had grown late. Miles, fussy in his hunger, required dinner before my ingredients-run to the grocery store. We dined noisily on our lasagna, purring our contentment. The joy invested in our meal depleted our energy bank, and we lay on the couch, watching The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.

When finally we departed, the temperature had dropped markedly, the cold rain drizzled. We stayed the course. The omen was lost on us. The cake must be made, it must be made that night.

We went to the nearest grocery store. Unfortunately, that store had not regrouped from its Thanksgiving pie-maker’s rush, and they were out of brown sugar. No. Brown. Sugar. Even more importantly, no brown sugar alternatives!

I was ready to abandon my mission. I had failed. I was a sorry excuse for a non-boxed cake baker. Dejected, we checked out with our incomplete list, trudging outside…outside into the rain, into the cold. It was no better than I deserved.

I hung my head low, choking back the tears. I forced visions of fuzzy kittens to chase away my cake ineptitude. Looking up, I discover that Miles has driven us to another grocery store. He would not allow me to fail, he would see that this cake was prepared.

Success! We found our ingredients! Yaaaaay ingredients! What is a cake without ingredients?&#8212Air! Now air, while having its advantages, isn’t quite the nirvana that is a fine, non-boxed cake.

. . .

Baking is fun! Banana cake batter is tasty! Blueberries make banana batter purple! I now have an affinity for eating all things purple!

Seriously though, it turned out better than I imagined, and definitely better than Miles had imagined. I called him over to taste a portion, and he arrived with that adorably irritating clothespin clamped over his nose. I will make banana-blueberry cake all the time! I will make it and make it until we’re sick of eating it! I will make it as long as there are bananas and blueberries to be found!

I have found my gift!&#8212my calling! I am a blueberry-banana cake baker! I shall go forth, spreading the banana-blueberriness unto all the world!

Hanging by a thread…

In the warehouse, playing catch with the nerf football:

We’re on fire. Boy, we’ve caught the ball, what? 6, maybe 7, times in a row? Gahhhhhh-ley!&#8212NFL, here we come! I toss the ball. It spirals, drops low. It’s zooming toward Miles at about mid-shin. He squats low, his baseball days gearing him for the catch.

A foreign sound pierces the air. Miles stares dumbstruck, the football hurtling his face.

I remain perfectly unaware that anything out of the ordinary has occurred. I’m used to Miles not catching footballs (maybe not as much as he is used to MY not catching footballs, but that’s neither here nor there), after all.

I see his expression&#8212a study of awe, and not a little vexation. “Hon, I uh….feel a draft.”

I think we should do an exposé on the matter…perhaps “Khakis: They’re not all that they seam.” Or, “Khakis: The final front-tear.”

Miles is deeply disturbed. I think it will be a good while before he wears pants again.

It’s a Wonderful Laptop

Friday afternoon our absent Dine Wilmington sales person dropped into our office. He returned this wonderful laptop, and I guess kinda apologized for not doing better yet. The real funny part is that he had never touched this laptop! We didn’t have a computer at the house for all this time, and it was just sitting in his trunk! SOME PEOPLE!!!! Shiesh…

On another note, Laura made a YUMMY cake tonight 🙂 Maybe she’ll post details about it! I was in heaven…or would have been if she had let me eat the whole thing all at once like I wanted to.

This Spud’s For You.

We had day-after-Thanksgiving dinner at my mother-in-law’s house today. This woman can COOK. I was diving into a baked sweet potato when I heard her dismayed gasp, “you eat THE SKIN!?”

An organ at the neighboring church groaned “duh-duh-duuuuuuuuuuuuhm.”

*silence*

“Y-yes…” I answered meekly, a subtle question mark materializing at the end of the syllable.

She shook her head at me. Shook. Her. Head. She was so taken aback; you’d think I was gnawing on tree bark. I aim to please. Between the bark skin consumption and passing on the butter, it’s a wonder I haven’t forfeited my membership in the family! I’m grateful for small favors and small flavors!