Thanksgiving’s Culinary Sweepstakes

Cooking is not one of my better skills.

I mean, I can follow a recipe, sure, just like I can put gas in my car. But I always said, before I had children, that the only reason this house had a kitchen was because it was required by code.

So it is with some dread that I stare into the cranberry stained face of the mega-cooking holiday throw down of Thanksgiving.

Let’s face it. This is not a holiday that brings out the best in the cooking challenged. Take a look at my cooking repertoire these days as a harried mom on the go.

• My specialty these days is mac and cheese. Boil pasta. Add cheese. Done.
• We’ve been celebrating the return of the Hot Dog, previously a banned food, which has regained popularity with the princess of picky eating.
• Broccoli, steamed. It’s the only green the thing the aforementioned princess will eat. So it’s become a staple.
• And I do make a mean pancake. With cinnamon. Available on Sundays ONLY.

Unfortunately my comfort level with this repertoire was challenged when some check out person snuck in a rather large, coupon/cooking magazine into my grocery bag. It had a festive cover and I foolishly started to page through it.

It all looks so good. And easy! It all says it’s EASY in big red letters so you know it’s true. Then it’ll have an ingredient list that goes for two pages. But the pictures look so warm and inviting, I immediately imagine the memories possible with these incredible meals.

Then, coming to my senses by the dinging of the microwave, I recall how wonderful mashed potatoes taste from the box if you add some garlic salt. And Voila! Garlic Potatoes A La Prosapio!

Fortunately I have finally gotten wise enough to know that our Thanksgiving memories will be less about dozens of creative side dishes and more about how many times Daddy had to run to the store for something we SHOULD have right here in the cabinet somewhere.

And how many times the smoke alarm went off.

And how the green beans got buried in overabundance of cream of mushroom soup and look more like anemic earthworms, which is not really helpful when you are trying to make a perfect Thanksgiving memory here.

But it will all make you laugh so hard you almost spew your stuffing.

Instead we’ll be thankful that every year, we manage to get stuffed – with great memories, no matter what’s on the table.

Fly me to the Moon

Vacationing with children, I’ve always said, is not the correct phrase. It’s hazardous cargo shipping.

I was reminded of this when I read recently about a mom who was kicked off a Southwest flight with her unhappy toddler. Seriously. The pilot actually turned the plane around and went back to the gate to kick them off. Talk about a temper tantrum.

The only good part of that story is now she can actually tell the kid that if he isn’t quiet that Southwest Airlines will kick him off the plane – and he’ll believe her.

It reminded me of the time Mireya complained about her ears popping on the plane and swore she’d never fly again. I swore she’d never fly again too.

We’ve all been there. A friend described sitting in the plane with her son when the classic melt down began (fortunately they were airborne and the airline was forced to not throw its own temper tantrum). Tired of traveling and responding to a bit of a sugar rush, he began to crash, ugly.

And refused to sit down as the plane was preparing to land.

Now, at home we all have the tools to deal with this. You can place your child some place secure, walk a safe distance away, and allow the meltdown to run its course. Most importantly, there are no witnesses should you decide to have your own, quiet meltdown with a large bowl of chocolate ice cream and headphones.

On a plane, you are trapped. Along with 200 close, personal friends, who are also trapped and ready to kill you lest you ever consider traveling with your little bundle of raw emotional rage ever again. Not to mention there is very little you can bribe your child with on an airplane. Face it, those little plastic airline wings get you nowhere these days.

My friend ended up apologizing and most of the passengers averted their eyes as they ran for the exits once the plane landed.

We recently returned from a flight and I was struck that I now have children who are of traveling age. We can now go places and I can assure other passengers that they can sit next to us without fear of torture - other than a story about how we used to have 17 mice because we couldn’t figure out which one was a boy mouse.

Which beats the heck out of toddlers with sugar crashes any day.

Next post - useful travel tips from a mom that flies way too much.

Super Mommy!

Usually I’m the one tapped for story telling in the car. But recently I got a real treat.

Sierra has been telling stories of adventurous dogs an their intrepid trainer (who bear a remarkable resemblance to her dog Dyno and herself, except for their ability to fly) for years. So it’s not surprising that her sister decided to start her own story line.

We were in the car alone, which allowed her to step out on stage on her own. “Do you want to hear a story?”

Relieved that I was not being called on to be imaginative while negotiating traffic I responded with great enthusiasm. “Yes! Yes!”

“Do you want to hear the story about Super Mommy?”

“Definitely. I definitely want to hear about Super Mommy.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. This is the story about how Super Mommy got her powers.”

“Oooo. I need to hear about that. Maybe I can get some super powers.”

“Once upon a time, when Super Mommy was just Mommy she ate a salad that had poison.”

“Oh dear,” I said, a bit worried we were off to a bad start, although at least Mommy was having a healthy last meal. “Poison?” Had there been a little too much in the news about food safety lately?

“Yes. Poison. And the poison gave Mommy her super powers. The fairies put in the poison and that was how she got the power to fly. And that’s just one power!”

“I think you mean potion.”

“No, it was poison.”

I decided against the vocabulary lesson, intrigued by the possibilities of fairies sprinkling flying powder in my Caesar salad. “Okay. What other powers did Super Mommy get?”

She ticked them off on her fingers. “She’s faster than a cheetah. She can hear really good. She can be invisible.”

Yes, but can she find matching socks from the every growing pile of clean but still piled laundry, butter and precisely cut a waffle into precisely one inch squares, sign 17 separate permission slips with tiny typing, AND get the dishes into the dishwasher in two minutes flat so we aren’t late for school otherwise everyone loses their Lone Star Yellow perfect attendance Star and won’t let you forget it until High School if even then?

Super Mommy went on to save the world from evil cats all the way home.

I don’t know about you, but I feel safer knowing she’s out there. Maybe she can come by and help me sort socks.

Amusing photo seen on vacation...

I *knew* that's what they were called.

Halloween left overs

two snow leopards, a banana and judo dog.

Yep. It's a Prosapio Halloween.

A Halloween Prisoner.

Fifth Grade RULES

There is nothing better than being in 5^th grade. Nothing. Nada. Nichts.

First of all, unlike MY fifth grade when I was a kid, Sierra’s fifth grade is top of the elementary food chain. Fifth graders are the final class at the school, literally rising above all others.

Fifth graders get to roam the halls every hour because they change classrooms throughout the day. They have a home room, which is incredibly high school like and therefore really cool.

(Of course last year when we discussed this whole switching teacher thing, Sierra was mortified. More than one teacher? No! Too scary! Now she’s loving it. Turns out only little kids have one teacher. Who knew?)

Fifth graders get JOBS. Really cool jobs like the news team or being on the marshals, which entails working in the office and running school errands. Being a marshal is huge, like getting on the Supreme Court. Which makes me think the principal is channeling Tom Sawyer.

Then there are the Stars. Kids earn stars for three things: grades, behavior, and perfect attendance. Ah, the ever elusive “perfect attendance.”

It’s why Sierra never, ever wants to miss school. This is a marked change from last year’s weekly feigning-illness, clinging-to-door frame approach to school attendance. I thought it was just genetic in our family. Being a sickly child I never had perfect attendance, and Dad… well, let’s just say he considered a great deal of school to be optional.

Sure, I’m glad she’s shooting for the goal, but we have to be realistic around here. First of all there’s the swine flu.

The swine flu protocols at schools these days are such that if your child shows up at the nurses’ office with one of the four symptoms, like “a headache,” they hose them down with disinfectant, wrap them in plastic, sterilize their desks, and call you from a secure line to pick them up in a vacuum chamber.

Okay, it’s not that bad. Probably they skip the sterilization and just wipe down the desk.

And given that my daughters merely have to hear someone sneeze over the phone to become feverish, Sierra’s chances for perfect attendance are nil.

Add to that we foolishly planned a family trip during the school year for various complex reasons.

Little did I know, no one needs a break from fifth grade.

Nobody. Nadien. Niemand.