The True Story Of My Grandma's Noodles

My paternal Grandma was famous for two things at holiday events. Being drunk out of her skull on Wild Turkey by the time the meal was served, and for bringing "Grandma's Famous Turkey and Noodles".

If you're not from the Midwestern part of America, you might not be familiar with the dish, sometimes served with chicken instead. Some places in the country call it dumplings. But in the middle part of the U.S. we just say turkey and noodles. Chicken or turkey that's been cooked and chopped/shredded/etc and dumped into noodles which are floating in a thickened chicken stock, with lots of salt and pepper.

Really, it's a very "put it in a pot and let it cook" sort of dish.

Not the sort of thing one becomes "famous for"...but I digress.

When I was about 10 or 12, I wanted to learn how to make this dish. It was revered as "homemade" and so I figured my home-economics major Mom could teach me how to make it.

Which she did. We spent hours making the noodles, rolling them and cutting them.

And it was in fact,quite delicious.
I was really disappointed though, because despite mine being quite good and having done all the work to make it so - it just wasn't like Grandma's. In fact, it didn't really LOOK like Grandma's.
It was at that point that Mom explained to me Grandma's secret ingredient to her home-made turkey and noodles.

Reames Egg Noodles. Throw a little flour in the bag as they're partially thawed and shake it up, it makes the noodles irregular shaped, giving them a "homemade" look.

Ugh.

I was the victim of a Holiday Food Fraud.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The True Story Of My Grandma's Noodles

My paternal Grandma was famous for two things at holiday events. Being drunk out of her skull on Wild Turkey by the time the meal was served, and for bringing "Grandma's Famous Turkey and Noodles".

If you're not from the Midwestern part of America, you might not be familiar with the dish, sometimes served with chicken instead. Some places in the country call it dumplings. But in the middle part of the U.S. we just say turkey and noodles. Chicken or turkey that's been cooked and chopped/shredded/etc and dumped into noodles which are floating in a thickened chicken stock, with lots of salt and pepper.

Really, it's a very "put it in a pot and let it cook" sort of dish.

Not the sort of thing one becomes "famous for"...but I digress.

When I was about 10 or 12, I wanted to learn how to make this dish. It was revered as "homemade" and so I figured my home-economics major Mom could teach me how to make it.

Which she did. We spent hours making the noodles, rolling them and cutting them.

And it was in fact,quite delicious.
I was really disappointed though, because despite mine being quite good and having done all the work to make it so - it just wasn't like Grandma's. In fact, it didn't really LOOK like Grandma's.
It was at that point that Mom explained to me Grandma's secret ingredient to her home-made turkey and noodles.

Reames Egg Noodles. Throw a little flour in the bag as they're partially thawed and shake it up, it makes the noodles irregular shaped, giving them a "homemade" look.

Ugh.

I was the victim of a Holiday Food Fraud.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

One Point In The Star

I haven't been writing much recently, mostly because I've got four kids and no time.

But there has been another reason.

I've got a good friend who had surgery a week ago or so, and I'm worried about her.

She's doing various degrees of good and bad and her recovery is taxing her body.

And my mind.

There are people who'd say that she isn't my real friend. Because we've never met in the corporeal sense.

But I'd disagree. When she was well, I'd talk to her every day on the phone. I've got her mother's pie crust recipe. We tell each other our secrets and our dreams. I talk to her more than people I've known twenty years. And she's no less my friend.

She's one of the best friends I've ever had.

I worry, here on the other side of the country, while her best friend in the real world sits vigil with her, and helps her through her recovery. I get messages and calls to let me know how it's going.

And I wait and I worry.

I've been thinking for about four days to address what I need to say about this time she's going through. You might be surprised that this atheist chose these words.

"Wither thou goest, I will go.

And where you lodge, I shall lodge,

And your people shall be my people."

- Ruth - 1:16

Our friends are the family we choose.

Get better Cajsa. I love you.

One Point In The Star

I haven't been writing much recently, mostly because I've got four kids and no time.

But there has been another reason.

I've got a good friend who had surgery a week ago or so, and I'm worried about her.

She's doing various degrees of good and bad and her recovery is taxing her body.

And my mind.

There are people who'd say that she isn't my real friend. Because we've never met in the corporeal sense.

But I'd disagree. When she was well, I'd talk to her every day on the phone. I've got her mother's pie crust recipe. We tell each other our secrets and our dreams. I talk to her more than people I've known twenty years. And she's no less my friend.

She's one of the best friends I've ever had.

I worry, here on the other side of the country, while her best friend in the real world sits vigil with her, and helps her through her recovery. I get messages and calls to let me know how it's going.

And I wait and I worry.

I've been thinking for about four days to address what I need to say about this time she's going through. You might be surprised that this atheist chose these words.

"Wither thou goest, I will go.

And where you lodge, I shall lodge,

And your people shall be my people."

- Ruth - 1:16

Our friends are the family we choose.

Get better Cajsa. I love you.

It's A SIGN!

The baby spit up the United States of America on the big boy's pants! IT'S A SIGN! What does it mean?

I guess she is American...

It's A SIGN!

The baby spit up the United States of America on the big boy's pants! IT'S A SIGN! What does it mean?

I guess she is American...

I've Got A Feeling...

...that tonight's gonna be a good night. That tonight's gonna be a good good night...

Guess who got a high chair and it's time to start using a sippy cup? Oh yeah, we're big time.

I think the Black Eyed Peas said it best when they said...

I also realized tonight that although she is our 4th child, she's the only one who got a brand new high chair. The other three all got hand me downs.

We must love her the most.

I've Got A Feeling...

...that tonight's gonna be a good night. That tonight's gonna be a good good night...

Guess who got a high chair and it's time to start using a sippy cup? Oh yeah, we're big time.

I think the Black Eyed Peas said it best when they said...

I also realized tonight that although she is our 4th child, she's the only one who got a brand new high chair. The other three all got hand me downs.

We must love her the most.

So My Kid Is A Dork

At the 8 year old birthday party it was a SPORTS party, organized play held at some fancy sports place for people who drive their kids to be CHAMPIONS or whatever.

They were playing kickball - which seemed innocuous enough to me.

He steps up to the plate when it is his turn, grins at me and shouts "I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WE ARE DOING!"

I shouted back "KICK THE BALL!" thinking - that can't be right. He can't have NO idea what they are doing.

But it was true. He didn't. So he KICKED the ball. And then he just stood there and grinned. At which point they ran over and tagged him out. He giggled and ran back to the dug out.

I strolled over and whispered - "It's like baseball, you run the bases after you kick the ball."

He smiled and says "But I never played baseball."

Sigh. Parenting FAIL.

His second time at the plate, he kicked the ball and ran to first base. But then didn't know to run to second when he could - he went back to the dug out.

I had this supreme moment of frustration that the school system hadn't taught my boy and sort of sports fundamentals, and then anger at myself for the same.

Then I started watching the field.

Kid after kid comes to the plate - and looks up in the stands while their father barks orders. KICK IT HERE! KICK IT THERE! The kids nervously kick the ball. Their parents are barking and pushing them - and we're just playing for grins.

My kid is running around like a lunatic, joyously enthusiastic.

No fucking clue what he is doing.

But he's having a blast. He's talking smack. He's giggling and laughing and just totally throwing himself into whatever it is that he THINKS they are supposed to be doing. And he's infectious. The other kids start goofing with him, and laughing with him - not at him.

They like him.

And I'm kind of glad I haven't been rushing him to sport after sport after sport. Because at the age of 8 he still knows how to play, how to be silly.

Yeah yeah, the boy needs to learn some fundamentals. Can't have him being anti-social. And he needs to learn the value of competition. I'm all for that, don't get me wrong. But, I was kinda glad to see how happy he was out there once I got past freaking out about my 8 year old not knowing how to play kick ball.

I'm going to teach him.

And I'm going to kick his ass.

So My Kid Is A Dork

At the 8 year old birthday party it was a SPORTS party, organized play held at some fancy sports place for people who drive their kids to be CHAMPIONS or whatever.

They were playing kickball - which seemed innocuous enough to me.

He steps up to the plate when it is his turn, grins at me and shouts "I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WE ARE DOING!"

I shouted back "KICK THE BALL!" thinking - that can't be right. He can't have NO idea what they are doing.

But it was true. He didn't. So he KICKED the ball. And then he just stood there and grinned. At which point they ran over and tagged him out. He giggled and ran back to the dug out.

I strolled over and whispered - "It's like baseball, you run the bases after you kick the ball."

He smiled and says "But I never played baseball."

Sigh. Parenting FAIL.

His second time at the plate, he kicked the ball and ran to first base. But then didn't know to run to second when he could - he went back to the dug out.

I had this supreme moment of frustration that the school system hadn't taught my boy and sort of sports fundamentals, and then anger at myself for the same.

Then I started watching the field.

Kid after kid comes to the plate - and looks up in the stands while their father barks orders. KICK IT HERE! KICK IT THERE! The kids nervously kick the ball. Their parents are barking and pushing them - and we're just playing for grins.

My kid is running around like a lunatic, joyously enthusiastic.

No fucking clue what he is doing.

But he's having a blast. He's talking smack. He's giggling and laughing and just totally throwing himself into whatever it is that he THINKS they are supposed to be doing. And he's infectious. The other kids start goofing with him, and laughing with him - not at him.

They like him.

And I'm kind of glad I haven't been rushing him to sport after sport after sport. Because at the age of 8 he still knows how to play, how to be silly.

Yeah yeah, the boy needs to learn some fundamentals. Can't have him being anti-social. And he needs to learn the value of competition. I'm all for that, don't get me wrong. But, I was kinda glad to see how happy he was out there once I got past freaking out about my 8 year old not knowing how to play kick ball.

I'm going to teach him.

And I'm going to kick his ass.

To My Husband on His 42nd Birthday

This week has not been kind to us gearing up for my husband's birthday. Our van, the only vehicle that holds us all, was in the shop. We had to brave the Atlanta traffic at rush hour with me crammed in the trunk of our SUV on Friday in order to fetch it.

But prior to that, I got THIS call "Hello this is Jennifer, your child is super sick. Can you come get him at school?" To which I said "Umm,ok which child which school?" When I realized that the child was set to get on the bus in less than 30 minutes, and I was like 45 minutes away. I asked "Umm, can he JUST get on the bus?" to which they said yes when I explained how far away I was.

Then, 30 minutes later they called and said "Umm, the bus driver wouldn't take him because he has a fever."

So I haul ass up across town, to get said sick child. Who is by that point rocking a temp of 103. Then back home, where we have to load up the entire family in the SUV with me in the trunk bit to go fetch the van.

After slogging through Atlanta rush hour to get there, and slogging through Atlanta rush hour to get home, it's past 7pm. And I need to go birthday shopping for the husband.

After diapers and bottles - it's even later.

We run through the electronics store (and I actually do score some pressies) and then to dinner.

Have I mentioned that it's freezing cold in Atlanta suddenly? This is important as the O'Charley's by us didn't seem to realize they needed the heat on. So we all sat and shivered and repeatedly asked if they would PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE Turn on the heat.

Today, his actual birthday, he got up early A.M. to go to a Boy Scout event with #1 Son. And then it's to the festival at #1 Son's school, as the twins are both a bit sick.

He's pulling Daddy duty. On his birthday.

Because that's the guy he is. And I love him so much. Happy Birthday hunny!

To My Husband on His 42nd Birthday

This week has not been kind to us gearing up for my husband's birthday. Our van, the only vehicle that holds us all, was in the shop. We had to brave the Atlanta traffic at rush hour with me crammed in the trunk of our SUV on Friday in order to fetch it.

But prior to that, I got THIS call "Hello this is Jennifer, your child is super sick. Can you come get him at school?" To which I said "Umm,ok which child which school?" When I realized that the child was set to get on the bus in less than 30 minutes, and I was like 45 minutes away. I asked "Umm, can he JUST get on the bus?" to which they said yes when I explained how far away I was.

Then, 30 minutes later they called and said "Umm, the bus driver wouldn't take him because he has a fever."

So I haul ass up across town, to get said sick child. Who is by that point rocking a temp of 103. Then back home, where we have to load up the entire family in the SUV with me in the trunk bit to go fetch the van.

After slogging through Atlanta rush hour to get there, and slogging through Atlanta rush hour to get home, it's past 7pm. And I need to go birthday shopping for the husband.

After diapers and bottles - it's even later.

We run through the electronics store (and I actually do score some pressies) and then to dinner.

Have I mentioned that it's freezing cold in Atlanta suddenly? This is important as the O'Charley's by us didn't seem to realize they needed the heat on. So we all sat and shivered and repeatedly asked if they would PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE Turn on the heat.

Today, his actual birthday, he got up early A.M. to go to a Boy Scout event with #1 Son. And then it's to the festival at #1 Son's school, as the twins are both a bit sick.

He's pulling Daddy duty. On his birthday.

Because that's the guy he is. And I love him so much. Happy Birthday hunny!