World's Best Mexican Flan

Every good recipe has a story behind it. This one is no exception.

I craved flan while pregnant with Phoebe. Crème brûlée could tied me over, but in the back of my head that Mexican flan kept calling to me. Smooth, milky custard with that caramelized sugar coating. Yummy. The problem is that all the flan I could get my hands on was watery, lumpy, bland, and sorely lacking in caramelized sauce. And then I realized what the real problem was - I was craving my grandmother's flan.

That isn't a bad thing. Granny was recognized as our family's best cook. She went on to easily win the title from everyone else who ate her food. Granny loved to cook, and enjoyed trying out new recipes and combinations. Nothing intimidated her. But Granny died in 2005, leaving me quite helpless to get my hands on a piece of her flan. However, her recipes lived on, and I mentioned to my mom a few weeks ago about my desire to find this particular one. Jackpot! My aunt, who carries on the cooking legend, had it and was scheduled for a visit.

Auntie Gail, along with my mom, came over yesterday to keep me company. Gail offered to cook for me! She also told me she brought the recipe, and would make the flan for dessert! Mmmmm... the smells of pot roast bubbling on the stove, laughing with my mom and aunt as the two of them tried to work together... in a kitchen... that wasn't theirs... created a wonderful afternoon. Then it was time to fix the flan.

ROUND 1

My aunt was tenderly caring for the sugar that had to be caramelized in a cast iron pot. No exceptions on the pot. She explained that Granny learned it was the best place to manage the process. So while she stirred and stirred my mom and I were left to put together the custard. We were laughing so hard at my mom's effort to use my can opener that when we finally got around to combining the ingredients we just started dumping everything in sight. Oops. The first can of evaporated milk was fine, but that second was not.

Gail suddenly looked up. "Did you just put both cans in?" We had. And as Murphy's Law would have it we put them in over the 4 eggs, 2 egg yolks, and one can of sweetened condensed milk. The recipe was ruined, as would the mashed potatoes be if we didn't replace their can of evaporated milk. Thankfully my mom already knew she needed to run to the store for bacon (Gail's bacon, onion, and brown sugar green beans were also on the menu). Off she flew, and returned with the replacement cans of milk. We had, fortunately, saved the whipping cream from loss having caught the mistake before adding it.

ROUND 2.

I was nursing Phoebe when my mom returned, but had already diligently prepared the eggs for round two. Gail was left to manage the blender. How hard is it to manage a blender? Don't answer that. All the ingredients were combined into a smooth batter when Gail turned my blender carafe in an effort to release it from the base. The problem is that my carafe doesn't lock onto my base with a turn, it simply sits over the motor. Turning it disassembles the sealing disk from the bottom of the container, and before we knew what happened Gail let out a yelp as custard batter poured from the hole in the bottom of the pitcher. Back to the store -after we cleaned up the gooey mess oozing all over the counter and floor.

ROUND 3.

Again, I carefully prepared the eggs, adding the vanilla so when the cans of milk (along with the carton of heavy whipping cream) arrived we could get right to work. The caramelized sugar coated bowl sat near by, in case the kids tried to ruin, err, touch it again. I was in charge of the blender, so that any mishaps would be directly my fault, rather than just implied. We nearly lost the brew in another blender debacle. The flan has to bake in a water bath, which nearly became a water deluge. And Leah, who scrutinized every stage of production was particularly underfoot when we went to put the whole thing into the oven. My analog clock is breaking, and won't keep an accurate time so half way through baking I realized Gail was using it interchangeably with the digital clock. For a panicked second we thought we lost the whole kit and caboodle due to improper time management. But in the end it came out alive!

KNOCK OUT.

We waited until all the kids were in bed before serving out the flan. Gail, as Granny would do, was stubbornly objective in her self-critique. The sugar and custard could have cooked for 5 minutes less, was the consensus. Hey, if that's the ONLY thing you can come up with after our experience then I think congratulations are in order. I found it to be delectable, smooth, rich and creamy. It only took a year, and my daughter was already 3 months old, but I finally got my piece of flan.

Here is the recipe in case you too decide that only flan will do.

Old Fashioned Flan by Olive Hyler

-1 cup white sugar heated in a cast iron skillet until melted - stirring constantly. Pour into a 2qt round glass baking dish, tilting to coat bottom and sides. Set aside on a hot pad so you don't crack the glass.

Place the following in a blender, and process (not whip) thoroughly

-14 oz can sweet condensed milk

-5 oz can evaporated milk

-1 cup whipping cream

-4 eggs

-2 egg yolks

-1/2 tsp vanilla

Pour into bowl with caramelized sugar. Place bowl into a hot water bath, making sure water level comes at least 3/4 of the way up the bowl. Bake in preheated oven at 325 for 1 and 1/2 hours. If the top is browning to quickly you can cover it with foil (probably not necessary). Remove from oven and bath to allow to cool. When ready to serve loosen the caramel from the sides of the pan with a knife, then place a flat dish over the top, and flip the bowl upside down to release the flan. Pour the excess sauce over the top. Extra can be covered and refrigerated for a delicious treat the following day!

Alone

Christopher has left the building.

My husband is an introvert. This may come as a surprise to some of you who know him. Let me assure you; he does not like groups, he is very uncomfortable chatting with strangers, and social interactions cost him a lot in emotional and spiritual energy. Nope, he would rather a quiet, intimate conversation which happens to pepper large stretches of solitude.

We have seven children.

He married an extrovert (reread everything above, but reverse it).

You can imagine how often he gets quiet, intimate conversations peppering his large stretches of solitude. Ha!

So he left. Actually he took time to enjoy one of his favorite pastimes - hiking. This week he is off to Inyo National Forest to climb 3 mountains, all of them highest points in their respective counties. It gives him time alone. He needs it! He comes home exhausted, bone weary and blistered, and even a little lonely. But he is also refreshed, more capable of enjoying and appreciating our family, and reconnected with God in a way that 20 feet above sea level fails to do.

I get to stay home with the kids. 20 feet above sea level is just fine for me.

But the alone time is good for me, too. I enjoy the quiet nights, the bed to myself, the dinner "cheats." I often find a project that requires concentrated focus, and throw myself into: repainting a section of the house; organizing that black hole in the laundry room; building some piece of furniture; or simply getting into a mad panic of spring cleaning. His being gone forces me to take on some of these more solitary tasks, because when he is home I would much rather be hanging out chatting than sticking my head in a bucket of ammonia all day.

I thought about what my Alone Project would be this time. I considered a major overhaul of our garage, but that requires the purchase of several shelving units, and we are really trying to cut down on expenses as we prepare for our backyard landscaping. There are still some smaller paint jobs left, however I am thoroughly uninspired for colors, and if I force myself to pick something I know I will end up with wasabi green and mustard yellow stripes distress painted across my hardwood floor. Yikes! I could list so many more "little things" that ought to get my attention, but I decided that my project this time was spending time with my kids.

I am working to really invest, emotionally, in my kids. It is so much easier for me to take care of their physical needs than their emotional ones. So, my Alone Project is to make a priority of hanging out with them. So far I have done puzzles with Leah, listened to 3 of the LONGEST dream sequences I think possible by Bethany, and appreciated a few of Caleb's new tricks on his skateboard. Tomorrow I am taking just Leah shopping with her birthday money. Josiah is getting extra hugs, and stories from me throughout each day. Mary got her hair cut today, and I used a blow-dryer when I was done to make it "fluffy." Finally, I am reading a book that Hannah just finished so we can talk about it when I am done.

I think this year's Alone Project is my best, yet.

A Successful Failure

A successful failure.

NASA coined this phrase for the attempted Apollo 13 lunar mission, which fell woefully short of its original purpose, while still managing to bring the men back to earth safely. I find it particularly apropos for our beach excursion this afternoon. We fell miserably short of the expected outcome, but are home - alive.

Let me begin by stating that this particular season of life has grown difficult of late. Most families have small children for only a few years before moving on to independence. Our family is, 10+ years later, still knee deep in diapers, toddlers, nursings, and children who are in need of constant adult supervision. And don't forget, this isn't punctuated with years of respite due to large splits between siblings. 7 children in 10 years doesn't make for much rest! The hardest part is the desire to, "go and do," with our older children. But making that a reality while still managing, successfully, the needs of the younger children takes more than a little planning. And even then, as today will show, sometimes it simply doesn't work.

Pacific Grove has a wonderful tradition called, The Feast of Lanterns. The last Saturday of July sees the beach in PG loaded with people, entertainers, venders, and pageantry celebrating this 100+ year old custom (why they chose July, when our peninsula is notorious for cold, foggy, dreary days and even colder, foggier and drearier nights is beyond me - but they didn't think it suitable to ask my opinion, so on we go). My family is very connected with the Feast, and its continued success; currently my mom sits on the Board of Directors. We do not usually attend the event because a mere three weeks earlier sees us establishing a beachhead in Monterey, taking in the sun and surf with several other families for July 4th. However, Monterey cancelled fireworks this year, so our children were desperate for a beach experience. Had we discovered the answer key to this test sooner, we would have learned that the two are not interchangeable.

Our first mistake occurred before the actual day even dawned! Hannah and Bethany were invited to be a part of the processional parade for the night's crowning event on the pier. Rehearsal was set for 9am Saturday morning, which created a time-management nightmare. The sensible thing seemed obvious, and we gladly shipped the older girls off to my mom's house for the night. Because of her responsibilities with the event her presence was required first thing in the morning anyway; and she lives just a few minutes from Lover's Point, whereas we are some 10 miles away. What we didn't consider was the loss of my helpers the following morning, when I would need to pack 5 children, 6 years old and younger, along with all the supplies for a day of merry-making into the van, and haul everything to the beach by myself. Christopher was already at the beach, having arrived there before 8am in order to secure a patch of sand for us. I reminded myself that we did this same routine each July 4th, and once I arrived safely at our destination everything always came together. Surely the same would be true for today.

Ha!

So many things were different. Ironically the parking was a thousand times easier, the amenities at the beach far superior, vendors and food options more varied. Unfortunately these things paled when compared to our claustrophobic postage stamp sized plot, and the loss of other families to help in the supervision of our small children. The event touted live entertainment, which we found to be an obnoxiously loud, and unescapable drone. But, we were determined to make the best of it! With Phoebe screaming, and Josiah running amuck, Christopher dutifully slathered each child with sunscreen to prepare for fun in the "sun". During this ritual mistake number two came to light when we realized that Caleb's bathing suit was not packed. I foolishly told him that he could wade in the water with his jeans rolled up like shorts. After all it was cold, and even drizzly. How likely was it that Caleb would actually get in the water? Question: Do I have any sense?

30 minutes later saw Hannah (who chose to forego waiting on me with her bathing suit before dashing into the water in her jeans) scampering off with Josiah; Bethany grabbing Leah and Mary for an introduction to the waves; and Caleb running full throttle towards the surf. I sat down to try and nurse Phoebe, and take at least 3 deep breaths before planning lunch from the supplies I purchased just that morning. Mistake number three wasn't anything we had control over, but when fate is already against you then even the unrelated seems cosmically your fault.

We had our backs against a 5 foot high retaining wall, created to provide a large landing in the staircase down to the beach. Christopher was the first to notice water spilling over the wall some 6 feet to our left. We looked at the campers up on the landing, to see if perhaps one of them had tipped over a gallon or two of water. What we saw was a 3 inch wide pvc drain spout at the base of a service closet set into a higher retaining wall where the staircase actually began its descent. It was gushing water... and showed no signs of stopping.

The first few minutes gave us a slight chuckle. People had created a patchwork quilt out of the beach by 2pm Friday afternoon. Even at 1pm on Saturday most of these individual placemats were still unoccupied. The idea of someone showing up, over 24 hours later, to find their blanket soaking wet caught at us. They had cheated the game, even though the rules were in their favor - sometimes the rules are wrong. But this pause only lasted a short spell, as the water continued to fill every indentation of the sand, and creep ever closer to our towels. Christopher began digging a channel down the beach towards the sea. The water kept coming. Soon others further down began frantically pulling their blankets and chairs to the side, joining Christopher to train the water away from their belongings. We continued our own struggle to keep the water at bay, but even with the impromptu help of a friendly onlooker our already tiny beachhead shrank.

Just about the time Public Works showed up, opening the closet and unleashing a heretofore damned flood, Leah came back to camp carried by a total stranger. She was drenched from head to toe. The kind woman, wearing jeans and a tshirt, was soaked from her neck down. Leah had somehow divested herself of Bethany, and waded into the ocean alone. The woman had saved her from drowning! Crying, shivering, and scared Leah wanted nothing more than to cuddle with me, but I was still trying to nurse Phoebe, who wasn't taking to the great outdoors as a suitable cafe. Wrapping a towel around her we scanned the horizon to make sure all other Randalls were safe.

Caleb was frolicking in the waves, soaked in his jeans.

Hannah was holding Josiah, and taking him into the water in her jeans.

Mary was standing a little too close to the surf for our comfort.

And Bethany... where was Bethany?

Christopher spotted her on a rock outcropping, stranded because of the rising tide, and panicking. Her fear translated to instant action, and my husband immediately threw himself, chest deep, into the water to rescue her. After saving her, and another little girl, he returned to our spot just as Public Works shut off the water. Dripping wet and fully clothed down to his leather work boots (his crocs were still in his backpack) he reached into his pocket with a sinking expression on his face, and pulled out his brand new cell phone. Mistake number... who knows: Jumping into water with your cell phone.

We made the decision to go home. But, like Apollo 13, deciding to go home, and actually getting there are two different things.

Packing everything up in soaking wet clothes is almost as fun as packing everything up only an hour after unpacking. We got the joy of both! Christopher couldn't find where I parked the van, and wandered along Ocean View Blvd. nearly a half-mile, wet, barefoot and against traffic before realizing it. We almost lost Bethany's fleece jacket, causing us to wade through all the clothes four times. Once the younger kids were in the van Leah split a brand-new bag of oyster crackers in half, spilling the entire contents on the floor, and causing Josiah to wail in frustration over his lost snack. Phoebe began crying for the meal she refused while at the beach. We had to move the van from our loading position half way through the job in order to let a city vehicle pass. Christopher inadvertently ripped off a piece of edging for the glove compartment when I dropped him at his car, and a bottle of water, which was not closed properly, leaked out during our ride home. Our last mistake was forgetting the camera, so there are no pictures of our two-hour adventure.

So, where was the success? Is it that we made it home, with everyone alive? That's part of it, for sure! I can tell you now that it was no small feat to maneuver the obstacle course of packing, loading, managing, and ultimately driving 5 of our 7 children home, while also making sure that the two children remaining had enough clothing, money, and instruction to last another 8 hours at the beach. However, I think the greater success was in the realization that we weren't really fighting against the cosmos. Satan wants to steal our joy at every turn! No, I don't think it was a mistake for us to choose home, rather than fighting it out on Lover's Point. Too many factors came together to create an impossible-to-deal-with-and-have-fun environment that badly needed curtailing. Leaving was the sensible solution. But then to be faced with the drama that occurred only after that decision was made brought us to the edge of ourselves. Here was where the real success happened. Sitting in the van before driving home we prayed, recognizing the desire to lose our patience, and give in to the mounting frustration. And again, after arriving home, reminding ourselves that the only things lost were time, money, and convenience. Nothing we couldn't live without.

A successful failure. Yes, indeed.

non sequitur

I posted under this title before. However, when you live in a house brimming full of illiterate miniature people non sequiturs are par for the course. So, I decided to make this a permanent fixture on Letters. These classics are from Leah while eating chicken noodle soup this afternoon.

Wow, this is so good I wish we had smaller bowls!

This juice is so good I can't even taste it! If you can't taste it then you have taste buds on your tongue.

Rambo Pets

I know I have mentioned before the vast difference between girl play and boy play, but I heard the following pass between my daughters and son, which was worthy of note.

Location: Playroom interior scattered with Littlest Pet Shop and Legos

Time: Afternoon

Players: Leah, Mary, Caleb

Mary: Leah, come to my beauty shop. It is soooo pretty.

Leah: Oh, Mary! My hair needs to be brushed.

Mary: Okay, pretend my hair is already done, and I have a ribbon.

Leah: Your pet is so beautiful, Mary. That ribbon looks beautiful.

Mary: Thanks (tossing her Littlest Pet Shop pet's plastic hair).

Caleb: Then pretend that the ribbon turns into a sword! And then a dragon comes to eat you, and I have to kill the dragon. (He begins to slaughter the make-believe dragon with a Lego Knight, hacking the Littlest Pet Shop pets while he is at it.)

Mary: NOOOOO! Caleb, my ribbon is beautiful! I don't need a dragon.

Leah: CALEB! We're getting our hair done.

Caleb: Yeah, but you are going to fall into a boiling pot of army bullets and die, and I have to grab you with my axe so that I can kill the dragon. (Again, he proceeds to slam the girls' pets with his Lego man, slashing wildly at the air.)

Leah: Caleb, I already got saved from the bullets. I'm getting my hair done.

Mary: My ribbon saved me from the dragon.

Caleb continued the good fight for several more minutes before finally realizing that hairspray and ribbons can defeat anything.

Tuesday's Tip

I am mixing my Tuesday's Tip with a real incident occurring in my family this past week. Josiah fell off a picnic table at a park, and landed -face first- below on the asphalt. Ouch! The left side of his face has several abrasions, his eye is swollen, and will undoubtably shift through several stages of coloring before the whole mess is healed. In short, he was badly hurt.

I was not there.

I send the kids on a walk each morning around our cul-de-sac, and this particular morning Bethany asked if she could take Josiah, Leah, Mary and Caleb across the street to the playground. I thought it a fine idea, and sent them on their way with my blessing. The kids know my rules about being outside of our street - even inside out street. They may not talk with strangers (we took the time to introduce them to everyone on our street), never go into someone's car or house, and if there are people milling around by where they are playing they must leave. Other than that, Hannah and Bethany are allowed free-range of our neighborhood so long as they can hear my train whistle calling them home. Caleb has to ask before he leaves our street, but he is usually granted permission when the mood strikes him for adventure. The littler ones can be out in the front with an older sister for supervision. Such was the circumstance surrounding Josiah's fall.

However, even when Josiah was brought back to the house, oozing from his entire cheek, the thought never came to me that I should be more stringent in my supervision requirements. Why not? Two things:

-Childhood is a messy adventure at times

-God really does watch over all of us

Josiah could have gotten the exact same injury if I had been at the park. He didn't even need to be at the park to get it! Our own home is full of potential wound-causing items, such as floors and walls. I can't watch every child for every second of the day. I don't think I should. I don't think it is my job to smooth every road, monitor every corner, assess every situation, circumstance, trial, inconvenience, struggle, or decision to determine whether my child can succeed at it, or not. I think my job is to regulate, with wisdom and love, those events he is exposed to so that I minimize lasting harm as much as possible, but not eliminate potential discomfort for it's own sake. The reality of serious harm in comparison with the fearfulness we instill in our children when our boundaries are too tight is out of proportion.

I would rather a few extra scrapes with independence than a perfect exterior, and a brain as fragile as an egg. So today's Tuesday Tip is:

Back Off.

Experience and Diaper Bags

I had a glorious first diaper bag. It was navy blue with a mini print of white polka dots designed, presumably, to keep you from ever getting your diaper bag confused with something cute and adorable, like your child. But, if you set aside this slight blunder, the thing was the cadillac of bags. It had pockets for its pockets! Included with the bag were removable pads, pouches for wet or soiled clothes, leashes, lassos, and lanyards for attaching your keys - individually. It weighed 10 pounds, empty, and could easily double as luggage in case you needed to fly to China.

I remember spending time researching the options for diaper bags, and taking no small pains in picking out the perfect specimen that would house all my baby's most precious ointments, "just in case" items, clothing, toys, spare room, and of course, diapers. I distinctly recall making the rather bold decision that I wasn't going to get something that looked, "babyish." After all, it isn't the baby that carries the thing everywhere. 10 years, 7 children, 14 car seats, 6 strollers, 3 infant swings, 5 high chairs, 4 bouncy seats, innumerable pacifies, 3 cribs, and 9 diaper bags later I think I have finally figured out something:

You don't cease to be a woman when you become a mother.

I was recently experiencing the now-familiar quandary of which diaper bag to chose when this great truth hurdled its way into my mind. Suddenly, amid the now cute patterns and fashion-rich hues of the diaper bag aisle at Babies R Us, I thought, "I don't need, nor do I want something that can fit a small arsenal of baby accoutrements. I mean seriously, how often am I caught unexpectedly on a deserted island requiring the: 3 layers of extra clothing (I had years when the kids outgrew those extra outfits before they ever got worn); 1 bottle each of Tylenol, Simethicone, Children's Motrin, and Benedryl; teething tablets and colic tablets; 2 thermometers for anal and auxiliary readings; containers and jars of diaper rash ointment, Neosporan, lotion, sunscreen, baby powder, and baby oil; at least 5 diapers and a container of wipes. And to top it off," I thought, "I am tired of looking like a bag lady - even a smartly outfitted bag lady."

Some new possibilities began to percolate in my head, but I couldn't trust my own sleep-deprived brain to make right on what I thought possible. I called in for reinforcements.

It took my girlfriend and me roughly 2 days, with a combined total of 6 hours, and 5 stores before the vision was realized. But I am proud to say that I do not own another diaper bag! No, indeed I even went smaller on a new mini-purse. I chose to put the necessities of my life into a darling periwinkle and brown leather, zippered purse not much bigger than a clutch but with a short arm-strap. And for the diapers required by my 2 children still wearing them I purchased a new Vera Bradley in a splashing bold print of vivid blues and soft browns. It is even smaller than my old Vera Bradley bag I had been using for a purse! It holds a couple diapers of each size, one extra sleeper for Phoebe, small bottle of lotion, travel wipes container, and my little plastic pouch of necessary sundries. That's it.

Together, the two pair beautifully. I am maintaining my womanhood with a purse that shouts, "I carry lipstick only!" And my diaper bag is darling in a sophisticated kind of way, with the added bonus that it simply won't fit the kitchen sink.

As a post-script to this lesson, I do still have my lovely diaper bag backpack which can easily hold a genuine store of baby items for those times when we really might be stranded on that desert island. After all, I am not just a woman, I am also a mom.

Sense

Tonight, Christopher asked Mary whether she had taken her allergy pill. She said, "yes" but in such a way as to warrant questioning. When pressed further she stuck her tongue out, as if this would prove something, and again stated that she had taken it. Meanwhile, Caleb decided to add his opinion to the matter.

She didn't take it.

Son, how do you know? Were you there?

Nope.

Did you see her take it, or see that she didn't take it?

Nope.

Then what makes you so sure?

I sensed it.

*As it turns out, he was right.

Crown of Splendor

My family and I recently ate at Costco for pizza. While sitting amongst the gawkers a sweet family mentioned how blessed we were to be given our children. We readily agreed! Leah picked up on our exchange (be not deceived into thinking that children don't have ears, which hear), and asked us when we were receiving our blessing. It led to a wonderful impromptu lesson of heaven, and the crowns we would receive for our sacrifice, and service to the Lord while here on earth. Leah was intrigued, and wanted to hear more. As I was relaying further the important truths we receive from scripture pertaining to heaven Caleb chimed in with his usual bluster of self-proclaimed wisdom.

Oh, I already know I have two jewels waiting for me.

*puzzled* Two jewels, Caleb? What are you talking about?

You know, for my crown. Yeah, I already got two.

Really? How did you do that?

Oh, that time I saved those two bugs. I could have squished them, but instead I let them crawl away. God is definitely going to give me two jewels for THAT. I might even get more.

After stating this obvious fact he went back to eating while nodding his head in agreement with his own declaration of reward-based merit. Meanwhile, Leah was taking this all in as points to ponder. I could already see her mind working out what insect she too might save from certain disaster (often by her own hand) in order to catch up with her illustrious older brother.

The heaven discussion was forgotten, and we went back to being a normal family eating pizza at Costco.

Cook Pigger

Today Leah was sketching on her magna-doodle when Daddy came home for lunch. She was eager to show him her masterpiece, and went immediately to his side.

Here, Daddy, look.

What is this sweetie?

It's my picture.

Oh. (Sometimes that explanation isn't quite enough, and you have to ask more specific questions in order to understand what exactly you are looking at, and whether you should be amazed, afraid, awed, or pleased.) What exactly is it?

Here I chimed in with: It's a pig.

A pig? Oh, I see. Nice pig, Leah. Is this its crew cut? (For indeed the forward facing pig face, made by two concentric circles and a couple of nostril-sized dots in the smaller one, had a rather strange gathering of short lines coming straight out of the top of its head.)

No, that's a cooker hat.

Ahhh, you mean a toke.

Uh huh. (This was said with the degree of enthusiasm given to choosing what fragrance of bug spray you are going to buy to rid your home of that ant infestation.)

And what is this down here? (Christopher was pointing to a comparatively tiny box upon which the forward facing, crew cut/toke wearing piglet was sitting).

Uh, that's just the oven. It's getting cooked.

The pig?

Yeah. It is a cook pigger.

Tuesday's Tip

Divide and Conquer... the electronic chargers, that is.

Between me and my husband there are some 7 portable electronic devices requiring charging. We were forever losing the adapter, searching for the plug, misplacing the specialized tip, ad nauseam. I finally realized that the answer was as simple as a few ziplock baggies, and a basket.

I use the quart size, because they are more durable than the standard sandwich bag, and withstand the abuse of being stuffed, tossed, and then shaken free of their contents again, and again. Also, the quart size has the white strip for labeling. I use a permanent marker to write clearly what apparatus goes with the cord, place them each in their own baggies, then throw them into my basket.

Now when I want to charge something I just grab the bag (tangle-free) from the basket, and take out the cord. You can even set the charging electronic on top of its bag so that when you are done all you need do is unplug it, put the cord directly into the baggy, and drop it back in the basket. Presto - ready for the next use!

Tuesday's Tip

Invest in People.

What do King Tut and John D. Rockefeller have in common? When they died they left everything behind. Everything. Not an ounce of gold left Tut's tomb until it was discovered some 4000 years later. He wasn't spending it in the "afterlife." When someone asked Rockefeller's accountant how much he left behind when he died the answer was, "He left it all." All.

Working your fingers to the bone in order to leave it all behind doesn't sound like much fun to me. But knowing that I could die at any moment, and that I am at peace about the relationships I have with my loved ones brings far greater joy than a bank account with 7 zeros - shoot even a consistent two zeros!

I am not recommending that you don't work hard, invest wisely, save some for that rainy day. No, being a good steward of the resources God has seen fit to bless you with is important. But really, the stuff is just stuff. It is not going to do you an ounce of good when you have left this earth. And, frankly, I think most of it is not very good even while you are here! It just makes you feel tied down, imprisoned at times, and certainly responsible for its management, upkeep, repair, and use.

No thanks.

I want to spend my time with my kids, not researching who is going to fix my antique nick-knack collection. I want to hang out with my hubby, not worry about my investments in the stock market. Sure, I want to have enough money to pay my bills, maybe spend a little extra on a nice meal once in a while; but I don't think that hoarding money, collecting a bunch of stuff, or killing time resolving who will get what in my 500 page last will and testament will make me happier... really. I don't think it will make you happier, either.

10,000

Leah has added a new dimension to her plan (read this blog if you are unfamiliar with Leah's plan). She now asks how long it will be before she is __insert any age from 12 to 64 here__. Christopher does the math in his head, spits out her answer, and with great satisfaction Leah proceeds to bed. However, the fascination with age has gone beyond the plan, and a few days ago she and I had the following conversation.

Mama, how many years until you are 33?

I am already older than 33. I am 35.

Hmm. How many years until I am 33?

29.

Can you help me count to 29?

Sure.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, and 29.

How many days is that?

(Why does Christopher never get these questions?)

Wow, let me think. It is about 10,000.

Can you help me count to that?

If I could insert a comic book picture right here it would show me, staring straight at the viewer, eyes the size of saucers while my nearly 5 year old daughter looks at me with an innocent, and completely trusting expression.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6...

How am I?

How are you?

How are you doing with a new little one?

Has it been easy having seven?

These are all common questions I get on a daily basis - or at least any time I run an errand, go to church, pick something up at the store, step outside my door, answer my phone... basically get out of bed. The question is common enough, but the answer has a few more twists to it. Each of the following variations are true, in their own right, but each one focuses on a slightly different perspective beginning with an eagle-eye view, and spiraling all the way in to macro zoom.

Answer #1 - Total Stranger

I am doing great! Phoebe is such a blessing, we can't imagine our lives without her. The kids adore her, and it is so precious to watch them bond. Having seven doesn't seem that much different from having six. We already had the van, so throwing another car seat (which we already owned) into the mix, and setting the moses basket up really wasn't that big of a deal. It really does get easier as you go.

Answer #2 - Acquaintance

I am doing well. Phoebe sleeps great, so I really can't complain! Sure, she has some fussiness that we are trying to get to the root of, but I am confident we will figure it out before we send her off to college! *chuckle* The kids are a tremendous help, and without them adding her would definitely be harder.

Answer #3 - Friend

I am hanging in there. Phoebe is smiling, which makes all the discontentment easier to bear. She can be such a doll, and she smells so good. I am still amazed that God gave us another little one. I know we don't deserve her, but sometimes I wish the Lord didn't trust us quite so much. I am definitely getting older, and while my age and experience lend perspective that give me tools to cope with midnight feeds, and unexplained crying, I do find myself much more tired than every before. I wouldn't trade Phoebe for the world, but the transition of bringing her home has probably been one of our roughest to date.

Answer #4 - Prayer Partners/Spouse

I am really struggling. I just can't seem to get my feet under me! I have these sweeping highs, and dropping lows that render me incapable of normal thought. I think I might have post-partum depression. The restrictive diet for Phoebe's sensitivities has just about sent me through the roof! I can't bear the idea of weaning, and don't believe it is what God would have me do, but I certainly can not reconcile how this is supposed to be a, "light and easy burden." I feel like I am just treading water from one day, sometimes one moment, to the next. Will it ever even out, and seem doable to me?

Answer #5 - God

Please help me! I can't do this. I am falling apart. I don't know why you think I can handle 7 children, with all the weight of responsibility that comes along with them. I am so afraid of failing you... failing them. I know that your grace is sufficient, but I can't seem to find the way that your grace takes care of the dishes, while the baby screams, the toddler wails, the kids ask a million questions, the phone rings, and there is a knock at the door! Help me, God!

So if I seem a bit perplexed the next time you ask how I am doing it is because I am trying to sift through all the above answers to find the suitable one for the occasion. It isn't that I am lying, because all 5 answers are true! I am: great; overwhelmed; incredibly blessed; feeling the burden of of responsibility; irritable; in awe of how well the other children have taken to their new sister; falling in love with Phoebe; wondering when we will be out of this particular season with its specialized demands; confident in my motherhood; enjoying this newborn stage; missing Josiah as my baby; tired of whining, crying, wailing, and whimpering; certain that my frailty is nothing new to my Lord who sees me, and has compassion upon me.

How are you?

"Get Out Of Jail Free" Card

Summer has arrived! For our family not a lot changes with this announcement. Of course we get longer days, but our mild weather offers very few significant changes. Yes, we see friends for play dates and attend camps, but homeschooling practically year-round keeps us set on a routine regardless of whether it is November or July. We have too many little people requiring naps for our family to be utterly footloose, and fancy-free. But still, the graduation and advancement ceremonies of countless schools, both public and private, marks the arrival of our:

Get Out Of Jail Free card.

California has a wonderful set of educational laws which govern how those in this state may operate a home school. The bottom line is that we register with the State Department of Education as individual private schools, filing the same paperwork as Robert Louis Stevenson, York, Santa Catalina and the like. This frees me from the state mandated public school requirements, and satisfies my adherence to the compulsory attendance laws. However, because home education continues to be vastly misunderstood by the mainstream there is the need to manage protocol in such a way that we raise as few questions as possible for those with, "helpful" motives. School officials seeing my children out during "class" hours might become suspect of my sincere methodologies. The idea that I can teach math at, say 6pm, just as easily as 10am doesn't altogether register with these educational gurus. Hence the need for my family to stay undercover during the school year. This presents a problem.

Because schooling through tutorial based academics (small student to teacher ratios) presents far superior results with the added bonus of taking far less time (remember, I don't have 25+ students to manage before I can even get to the lesson on hand) our schooling lasts for under 2 hours each day. Ideally this should mean I could run to Target during the morning, and avoid evening crowds. But I can't regularly take my big kids with me because of the possible suspicions raised. And my size family doesn't exactly fly under the radar! Neither can I leave my not-yet-big-enough kids home regularly because of the image this might expose us to.

So we are stuck. Until Summer!

I plan to load all the kids into the van this very day and make a Costco run - in the middle of the afternoon.

Tuesday's Tip

Invest in SOS pads.

I grew up with these little gems, using them for stainless steel, glass, and chrome. They cleaned beautifully. My mom also taught me to use it on our enamel stove top to really get those tough burnt on tidbits removed. I recently rediscovered this versatile tool, and realized I should never have let it go.

When we bought our home there were no useable appliances, requiring us to invest in a brand new ones. I was really excited when we found a gas stove with a continuous grate, and a 5th middle burner. I knew, with our large family, filling the range with bubbling pots was a reality I needed to address. Sure enough we started using our new stove the minute it was installed. I cook breakfast (oatmeal), often lunch (mac and cheese, soup), and dinner on top of that appliance, so you can imagine how often it needs cleaning. Just about every evening I take the grates off, and wipe down the gleaming white enamel. Occasionally something gets stuck, and needs a little more elbow grease. I had gotten in the habit of using a green scrubby for my stainless dishes, and then polishing them with Bar Keeper's Friend. This was working well for my dishes, but what I didn't realize was that it didn't have quite the umph necessary for a good clean on my stovetop.

About 6 weeks after using my stove I noticed a chip in the enamel next to one of the burners. I was sick! What on earth could have caused this? And what was I going to do about it? Earlier that day I had been spraying white gloss enamel into my medicine cabinets for a clean finish. I had some left over, and grabbed it for the job. After cleaning the stove for superior adhesion, I taped off the burner and gave a few short bursts to cover the nick. Sure enough, in no time flat, the chip was covered and my beautiful white stove was returned to me, sans blemish. I was so proud of my ingenuity.

However, I had second thoughts about my rather rash decision to use the spray-paint enamel I had on hand when I needed to blast the burner for a high boil a few days later. I worried that the paint would burn, and rightly so because after my pasta was done I had a glob the color of roasted marshmallows along the side of the burner. Now, instead of a small nick I had a brown spot roughly the size of a quarter. But I knew what to do! I was now convicted of my folly for not thinking through the specialized tasks of the stovetop, but I would not repeat my mistake. I went to The Home Depot for appliance enamel touch up paint. Sure enough, they had a whole variety of colors to match today's common finishes. However, proudly displayed on the label of every brand was a warning that the paint was not intended for use on the top of stoves where exposure to heat was certain. Thankfully a worker told me about a specialty store that sold wood-burning stoves, and parts. They also had touch-up paints which might be more specifically designed for heat-resistance. I made a mental note to get over to the stove store, and in the meantime I continued cleaning my stove with my green scrubby.

Well, several other projects, a baby, and 4 months of life later I still had not gotten over to the stove store. But last night I was using an SOS pad (which my mother purchased, since I didn't have any on hand) when I realized that my stove was in need of a thorough cleaning. I started working the pad over the top, noticing with pleasure how quickly the little spots of burnt on dinner disappeared. As I raced it along the surface where the nick was covered by burned spray-paint I saw that some of the "patch" was lifted! Perhaps I could scrub away the old paint, leaving just the original nick. Ironically I now wished all I had was that small nick, instead of that glob of brown adorning my beautiful stove all these months. I ran the SOS pad across it again, this time with a little more elbow grease. It appeared to be working on more of my patch. Now I was inspired and I got to really working, putting all my effort into that 2 inch square piece of steel wool. After several minutes the glob was noticeably smaller, and after several more minutes it seemed that I would be successful in getting back to the original nick!

Then the unthinkable happened.

I began to see the original nick surfacing under the burned on spray paint I was working so hard to remove. "Just a few more moments," I thought. But suddenly the brown paint was gone, and so was the nick! I blinked in astonishment. I ran my hand over the perfectly smooth, chip-free surface. What? 

There was no nick. I had spray painted over a small piece of burnt on food which my green scrubby could not loosen, but which my SOS pad had not only cleaned, but perfectly removed the spray paint covering it! The moral of of this week's Tuesday's Tip is:

Use SOS scrub pads BEFORE you paint over it.

Wisdom

James 1:5 says, "If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him." I need that truth in my life, right now.

Phoebe has a sensitive tummy. That's polite for saying she fusses... after every feeding, in between feedings, before feedings, and occasionally even during them! She screamed almost the entire car-ride home from the hospital as a newborn. That's saying quite a bit considering it takes 45 minutes to travel from the hospital to my home! It wasn't long after that when the idea that she might be allergic to milk surfaced. I greatly reduced my own consumption of milk, and finally switched to a non-dairy formula for the supplementing I need to do. Sure enough, the very next nursing saw her dramatically improved. Great! Problem solved. Or so I thought.

But Phoebe continues to be more fussy than any of my other newborns. She just can't be totally content outside of being held. And she is even persnickety about how she is held, preferring those positions more closely related to burping than snuggling. Also, her sleep is interrupted more often than I think necessary. And finally topping everything is that niggling mother's intuition telling me that something just isn't right. After all, I have completely removed dairy, chocolate, most eggs, citrus, and many spices from my diet along with using a dairy-free formula for any supplements, and she still is not guaranteed to be a happy baby after a feeding.

Yesterday I decided it was time for another switch in formulas, as well as a severely restrictive diet for me. I hauled myself to the pharmacy for a thimble sized can of formula costing the better part of Christopher's yearly salary when my eye caught something on the shelf. Here is where the truth of James 1:5 started to play a major role. Previous to the, "I spy with my little eye" game I was playing in the aisle of Walgreens I had asked God to lend me insight, and wisdom for Phoebe's feeding dilemma. I asked others to pray on my behalf. I was fully convinced of God's understand of Phoebe's need, and knew that he could communicate that to me if I was willing to be still, and listen.

So there I stood, listening. Rather than just grab the brand I was prepared to purchase I lingered, reading the other options for GI sensitivities. I don't know when you last went formula shopping, but if you think finding a bathing suit is hard work you ain't seen nothing! Overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of options, I noticed one brand which was dairy based, but lactose free. I suddenly remembered that Hannah was highly allergic to soy as an infant, and during our formula trials with her we had switched to a soy-based brand with disastrous results. Hmmm... could Phoebe be allergic to soy, but also lactose intolerant making both the original dairy based formula, and the soy based alternative we were currently using equally unappealing to her little tummy? I also noticed the price tag for the lactose-free was less than half the cost of the hypoallergenic brand I was already holding. Could God be opening my eyes to see this option in order to provide health to Phoebe, peace to me, and a little extra change to my pocketbook all in one fell swoop? Knowing that God was still good even if the lactose-free was a flop, I purchased both brands and headed home.

Phoebe's first feed using the new formula went off without a hitch. She actually sat contentedly in her swing for over an hour simply watching, then slept well during her nap. For the remainder of the day she ate well, showed no signs of gastrointestinal upset, and generally made her father and me happy as punch! I am on day 2, and still showing no signs of the irritability previously accompanying so many of her feedings. Yippee!

God really will give me relevant wisdom for my life's needs.

Tuesday's Tip

Get up in the morning.

This probably seems overly simplistic to one, perhaps like yourself, who is thinking, "Why Trisha, you state the obvious." But I am learning that this little tip might just save my life. At least it will save my sanity.

A few mornings ago I allowed myself the sweet indulgence of sleeping until my children awoke. But forbidden fruit soon turns rotten, and within 3 minutes I was paralyzed with no less than 26 natural disasters on my hands.

Josiah needed changing.

Phoebe was crying, and hungry.

Leah needed her thumbguards (we are now using them for her) cut off.

Mary was squawking about going potty.

Phoebe was crying.

Bethany was asking me if she could watch a movie.

Caleb was tearing around the house looking for a wrestling match.

Oatmeal needed cooking.

Grain needed milling for bread, if we were going to eat lunch.

Phoebe was still crying.

Josiah needed to eat, but it was at least 10 minutes before the oatmeal was done cooking.

Hannah was asleep even though three of her siblings had already given her a wake-up call.

And I needed my chai.

I have no idea how I managed the morning, but somehow I made oatmeal, got bread to baking, nursed Phoebe while feeding Josiah, and even managed to get my chai. It all got done, but it wasn't pretty. So I learned this Tuesday's Tip for myself:

Wake up before your household. It allows you to manage your day so much better. You never quite recover from a beginning the likes of which I experienced the other morning. And the 30 minutes of sleep was not worth it!

Princess Barbie Wrestling

Our son, Caleb, is ALL boy. That means he likes to throw balls, shoot guns, and wrestle his daddy. In fact, the latter is such a pleasant pastime for him that he literally counts down the days for the annual Barbarian Wrestling Night, hosted at our church each year for dads, and their sons to show their stuff. Last year he waited 10 whole days before asking about the following year's date.

The girls are equally excited for Caleb to go on this, "all man" adventure. His antics are notorious around our home, and usually include one, or more, of his sisters being mortally wounded in the act. Take Leah's plaintive cry last week, "Mama! Caleb hit me in the brain. I'm not going to survive." Needless to say, our daughters are ever eager for their brother to leave them alone!

Quiet reading, dolls, tea parties, and ballerina movies are the chosen pastimes of the girls. So it was with some surprise when, last night, Leah and Mary initiated wrestling with Daddy. But it wasn't the fact of wrestling that was so humorous, it was the manner in which they wrestled.

Princess Barbie Wrestling.

Where Caleb careens his whole body, cannon ball style, onto his father's retreating backside, Leah gently skips towards Daddy's awaiting arms with a menacing grimace on her face. Caleb flings himself, no holds barred, across his father's chest, but Mary delicately flicks at Daddy's hands, squealing with terror. Caleb thrusts feet, throws arms, and engages with his whole being, while Hannah laughs hysterically at the first touch to her body. Bethany just breaks down in tears the moment her eyelash bends the wrong way.

Yep, God definitely made boys and girls differently.

Itsy Bitsy Spider

We sat down with our 6 children on the eve of delivering babe #7, and asked them for suggestions for a girl's name. We were already set on Luke, but we were at a quandary for a girl's name that everyone liked. So our table discussion the night before my planned cesarean was focused on pink.

Several options given included Dorcas, Tabitha, Rebekah, Jubilee, and some more colorful options like, Ravioli. Then Mary came forward with what she concluded to be a shoe-in...

Itsy Bitsy Spider.

After laughing ourselves silly we tried to explain that we were serious about our request. We really wanted their opinions since we were stumped. But we only got the same list as before - mostly names which the kids had heard us discuss, ad nauseam, and which we still could not agree. So I left for the hospital the following morning a little nervous about the delivery, and without a single clue as to what we would call a girl should we deliver one.

My delivery went incredibly well! I can not thank those who prayed on my behalf enough for their faithfulness in interceding for me. The anesthesiologist was an "old friend," having worked at the hospital where several of my older children were born, and was actually in attendance for 2 of my previous births. He is noted, by most on the peninsula, to be one of the best in his field. He was perfectly willing to allow Christopher into the OR during my spinal administration. And while I am recognizably a "difficult stick", Dr. Arakaki did a beautiful job of limiting my discomfort to as little as possible. The delivery itself was fairly straight-forward, with very few complications, and it wasn't long before our obstetrician was telling Christopher to prepare himself for the announcement of birth, and gender.

"Oh my goodness, honey! It's a girl! We have another girl!"

We were both speechless, and not just a little emotional about our newest addition arriving in perfect pinkness to match her gender. At 7lbs, 1/2 ounce and 20 inches long she was our smallest baby, but her tiny features were absolute perfection, topped with swirls of dark hair. The pediatrician asked us what her name was...

We didn't know. We looked at one another in blank surprise that somehow we had arrived at this moment, and still were without a name. The answer suddenly became clear. 

Itsy Bitsy Spider. 

And so she was (for over 24 hours) until Christopher realized, with certainty, that we held in our arms, Phoebe. He was right. It fit her beautifully.

Phoebe Grace.