The Festival Of Deep Fried Foods on Sticks

There isn't anything better than fair time, because the ridiculous new foods and the old favorites are there for mass consumption and enjoyment of all. We like the animals, we like the rides, but really when it all comes down to it, we're there for the festival of EAT.

We ended our day this year with deep fried Milky Way - which is now a staple rather than nouveau, and something different - deep fried Pecan Pie. I give the pecan pie a B, it wasn't completely done, and although it was still good because the pie inside was cooked, it was cold in one small spot.

But still, pecan pie. WIN.

Roasted corn, accompanied by fresh squeezed lemonade - that I suspect to be Country Time - is also a required staple food. I'm a fan of shaking Parmesan cheese on mine.

The twisted fries are good, especially with baco-bits (NOT bacon, bacon's lesser cousin) and cheese food product from a can.  They're like - this hot potato chips. With fake cheese and fake bacon.

The girl was ecstatic at all the "nummy treats" as she calls them and the fun rides she got to do. She had just finished riding a dinosaur in the above picture, so how can that be bad?

The twins loved it too, if they look a little pensive above - it's because we are sitting next to the speak for the Haunted house. SPOOOOOKY noises are blaring right near us, and they are trying to sort out what it is.

Now that we've been to the fair, fall is landing on us hard. Cold drizzly rain, very chilly mornings, all of these things have started with regularity. I'm glad really. Summer was long and hot. I am ready for some cold.
Tweet

The Festival Of Deep Fried Foods on Sticks

There isn't anything better than fair time, because the ridiculous new foods and the old favorites are there for mass consumption and enjoyment of all. We like the animals, we like the rides, but really when it all comes down to it, we're there for the festival of EAT.

We ended our day this year with deep fried Milky Way - which is now a staple rather than nouveau, and something different - deep fried Pecan Pie. I give the pecan pie a B, it wasn't completely done, and although it was still good because the pie inside was cooked, it was cold in one small spot.

But still, pecan pie. WIN.

Roasted corn, accompanied by fresh squeezed lemonade - that I suspect to be Country Time - is also a required staple food. I'm a fan of shaking Parmesan cheese on mine.

The twisted fries are good, especially with baco-bits (NOT bacon, bacon's lesser cousin) and cheese food product from a can.  They're like - this hot potato chips. With fake cheese and fake bacon.

The girl was ecstatic at all the "nummy treats" as she calls them and the fun rides she got to do. She had just finished riding a dinosaur in the above picture, so how can that be bad?

The twins loved it too, if they look a little pensive above - it's because we are sitting next to the speak for the Haunted house. SPOOOOOKY noises are blaring right near us, and they are trying to sort out what it is.

Now that we've been to the fair, fall is landing on us hard. Cold drizzly rain, very chilly mornings, all of these things have started with regularity. I'm glad really. Summer was long and hot. I am ready for some cold.
Tweet

Forcing Art Upon Them

So earlier this summer we had a family day out and as we pulled into a nearby Arts center the groan from the back seat was silent but palpable. Even though we explained it was family day and they had fun things for us to do - still, GROOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAN. It was even suggested, from the peanut gallery, that we drive another 20 minutes south and spend less than an hour at the train museum rather than do this.

After we assured the oldest boy that no, in fact this was our plan for the day, with disappointment cutting the air like a silent but deadly fart, we went inside.

Waddya know? They had stuff for kids to do. We started outside blowing bubbles with lots of different sized and shaped wands and other things, and letting them float through the gardens. There was also a scavenger hunt in the garden, which the oldest boy nailed quickly.

What do you know? We were having fun. 

We went inside to discover what awesome family day stuff they had for us to do and found an exhibit of recycled books as art - books that had been damaged and might've been destroyed but were used to create pretty little vignettes.

We also wandered into a gallery of dresses made of paper, which was pretty amazing. 

But the best thing I think, to the little people was after they did their due diligence of appreciating the art - there was more interactive play stuff!

There was a giant harp to play and fun things to keep my tiny humans occupied for a while, out of the hot Georgia sun.

Not such a bad trade off, for having to look at some art one afternoon.

Forcing Art Upon Them

So earlier this summer we had a family day out and as we pulled into a nearby Arts center the groan from the back seat was silent but palpable. Even though we explained it was family day and they had fun things for us to do - still, GROOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAN. It was even suggested, from the peanut gallery, that we drive another 20 minutes south and spend less than an hour at the train museum rather than do this.

After we assured the oldest boy that no, in fact this was our plan for the day, with disappointment cutting the air like a silent but deadly fart, we went inside.

Waddya know? They had stuff for kids to do. We started outside blowing bubbles with lots of different sized and shaped wands and other things, and letting them float through the gardens. There was also a scavenger hunt in the garden, which the oldest boy nailed quickly.

What do you know? We were having fun. 

We went inside to discover what awesome family day stuff they had for us to do and found an exhibit of recycled books as art - books that had been damaged and might've been destroyed but were used to create pretty little vignettes.

We also wandered into a gallery of dresses made of paper, which was pretty amazing. 

But the best thing I think, to the little people was after they did their due diligence of appreciating the art - there was more interactive play stuff!

There was a giant harp to play and fun things to keep my tiny humans occupied for a while, out of the hot Georgia sun.

Not such a bad trade off, for having to look at some art one afternoon.

Children With Ninja Stealth

I had one of those moments this morning. Those "Oh my god" and visions of Elizabeth Smart race through your head moments.
I got up, beep beep beep alarm going off, and wandered to the bathroom. Then I threw on some clothes so I wasn't greeting bus drivers in my nightie and wandered to the bedroom directly next to ours where the three boys sleep.
We have a toddler bed which is a fire truck that Miles has adopted again, and a bunk which is a double on the bottom and a twin on the top. On the bottom is Charlie - awake and waiting for me, and on the top is Louis, snoring like an old man.
But - where is Miles?

I walk into the room and he isn't in the firetruck bed. He isn't in the double bed. I turn on my FLASHLIGHT app and look under the bed - he's slept under there before.

He isn't there.

My panic was pretty instant but I start playing out logic in my head. My husband is a night owl and has been in bed less than an hour. The gate we recently installed to our hallway is so noisy and hard to work - there is NO WAY someone got through it without waking me. I wake up every time it's touched, at least I think I do.

Miles could be downstairs, he wanders. Maybe he went downstairs to sleep on the sofa...

I walk into the master bedroom trying to be calm to tell Charlie I was going downstairs....

and there is Miles.

Snuggled into bed with his Daddy, piled under the covers so that I hadn't noticed him when I walked through before.

Ninja skills.  My kids have them.

Tweet

Children With Ninja Stealth

I had one of those moments this morning. Those "Oh my god" and visions of Elizabeth Smart race through your head moments.
I got up, beep beep beep alarm going off, and wandered to the bathroom. Then I threw on some clothes so I wasn't greeting bus drivers in my nightie and wandered to the bedroom directly next to ours where the three boys sleep.
We have a toddler bed which is a fire truck that Miles has adopted again, and a bunk which is a double on the bottom and a twin on the top. On the bottom is Charlie - awake and waiting for me, and on the top is Louis, snoring like an old man.
But - where is Miles?

I walk into the room and he isn't in the firetruck bed. He isn't in the double bed. I turn on my FLASHLIGHT app and look under the bed - he's slept under there before.

He isn't there.

My panic was pretty instant but I start playing out logic in my head. My husband is a night owl and has been in bed less than an hour. The gate we recently installed to our hallway is so noisy and hard to work - there is NO WAY someone got through it without waking me. I wake up every time it's touched, at least I think I do.

Miles could be downstairs, he wanders. Maybe he went downstairs to sleep on the sofa...

I walk into the master bedroom trying to be calm to tell Charlie I was going downstairs....

and there is Miles.

Snuggled into bed with his Daddy, piled under the covers so that I hadn't noticed him when I walked through before.

Ninja skills.  My kids have them.

Tweet

Flatwear Developments

My everyday flatwear is a hand-me-down from my Grandma Drake. She bought it collecting Betty Crocker points off the top of cake boxes and what not, and given the amount of baking she did for the church and the Eastern Star, it's unlikely it took her long.

I have this set, as pictured except I have a grapefruit spoon vs soup spoon - the rest are fork, salad fork, teaspoon, long handled teaspoon, table spoon, and butter knife & make a complete set that my Grandma had intended to take with her and Grandpa to Florida when they retired. They had a lot, somewhere near Ft Myers, which was far enough inland for alligators to eat your dogs but to not see the beach. You can see why they were going to need the grapefruit spoons. Florida, lotsa citrus fruit.

I'm not terribly picky about which utensil I use for what. My mother had the good breeding and manners to make sure I not only can set a table properly but that I actually do in fact know what's what. But, as I've aged, I don't really mind or notice what I'm using. I can use a salad fork or a regular one, or any old spoon to deliver my food. I just rather want it to be clean, and I'm set.

My oldest boy is going through those rites of passage where these distinctions suddenly matter SO MUCH. For instance, we tend to give the wee ones a salad fork for their dinners. He's announced, he's big, he doesn't want a baby fork. Part of me wants to go "IT'S A SALAD FORK YOU CRETIN" but he's my little cretin and I should probably go easy and just teach him the difference, eh?

I'd be more likely to blow this off as "You are being ridiculous use the utensil I give you and be thankful it's not a spork" except that, I remember my own rites of passage - the things that were important to me. Everyone has those things, the things that MARK you as big vs. little.

When I was little, the STANDARD GROCERY STORE was just beyond a field behind my Grandma's house. The two little girls in the adjacent houses to my Grandma's, who played with me because they HAD to from what I can tell, were about 8 years older than me. Maybe six years. IT WAS A LOT AT THE TIME.

They were old enough, when I was not, to take their allowance and walk back to the Standard grocery story and buy candy. They would then stand back beyond where I was allowed to go, and eat their candy, in plain site. I could watch them walk away, and sit at the line of demarcation of my boundaries, waiting desperately for these two horrible little girls to return. Most of the time I'd end up running inside and sobbing, because they were laughing and eating candy just beyond where I could go.

My thing then, was that some day, I was going to be big enough to walk to Standard. I was going to walk there and I was going to get candy and I wasn't going to give them ANY. Every day I got older, I got closer to the day that I just knew my parents would say I was big enough.

Mark you, I was about 5 at the time.

Standard closed, before I was ever old enough for that satisfaction.

But I can promise you this, when I made his stuffed French Toast this morning, I made sure I gave my son a big fork.

Because some things matter more than any rational adult can ever understand.


Tweet

Flatwear Developments

My everyday flatwear is a hand-me-down from my Grandma Drake. She bought it collecting Betty Crocker points off the top of cake boxes and what not, and given the amount of baking she did for the church and the Eastern Star, it's unlikely it took her long.

I have this set, as pictured except I have a grapefruit spoon vs soup spoon - the rest are fork, salad fork, teaspoon, long handled teaspoon, table spoon, and butter knife & make a complete set that my Grandma had intended to take with her and Grandpa to Florida when they retired. They had a lot, somewhere near Ft Myers, which was far enough inland for alligators to eat your dogs but to not see the beach. You can see why they were going to need the grapefruit spoons. Florida, lotsa citrus fruit.

I'm not terribly picky about which utensil I use for what. My mother had the good breeding and manners to make sure I not only can set a table properly but that I actually do in fact know what's what. But, as I've aged, I don't really mind or notice what I'm using. I can use a salad fork or a regular one, or any old spoon to deliver my food. I just rather want it to be clean, and I'm set.

My oldest boy is going through those rites of passage where these distinctions suddenly matter SO MUCH. For instance, we tend to give the wee ones a salad fork for their dinners. He's announced, he's big, he doesn't want a baby fork. Part of me wants to go "IT'S A SALAD FORK YOU CRETIN" but he's my little cretin and I should probably go easy and just teach him the difference, eh?

I'd be more likely to blow this off as "You are being ridiculous use the utensil I give you and be thankful it's not a spork" except that, I remember my own rites of passage - the things that were important to me. Everyone has those things, the things that MARK you as big vs. little.

When I was little, the STANDARD GROCERY STORE was just beyond a field behind my Grandma's house. The two little girls in the adjacent houses to my Grandma's, who played with me because they HAD to from what I can tell, were about 8 years older than me. Maybe six years. IT WAS A LOT AT THE TIME.

They were old enough, when I was not, to take their allowance and walk back to the Standard grocery story and buy candy. They would then stand back beyond where I was allowed to go, and eat their candy, in plain site. I could watch them walk away, and sit at the line of demarcation of my boundaries, waiting desperately for these two horrible little girls to return. Most of the time I'd end up running inside and sobbing, because they were laughing and eating candy just beyond where I could go.

My thing then, was that some day, I was going to be big enough to walk to Standard. I was going to walk there and I was going to get candy and I wasn't going to give them ANY. Every day I got older, I got closer to the day that I just knew my parents would say I was big enough.

Mark you, I was about 5 at the time.

Standard closed, before I was ever old enough for that satisfaction.

But I can promise you this, when I made his stuffed French Toast this morning, I made sure I gave my son a big fork.

Because some things matter more than any rational adult can ever understand.


Tweet

Here Mommy, Now You Wear This Snake

Girls are weird. My daughter said these words to me yesterday as she wrapped a toy snake around me like a feather boa. They're far weirder than boys I've decided. I'm pretty girly and girls baffle me.

I wore Hello Kitty barrettes to an executive meeting the other day. I don't think that makes me a WOMAN CHILD but rather it simply means that by the rules of post feminism I can be whomever I want. I'm 43. I'm NOT OLD.

I am, though, exactly old enough to remember that there used to be a place on forms that asked when your last menstrual cycle was, when you were applying for a job. They weren't allowed to ASK you any more. That was illegal. But it was still on the forms in some places, a reminder that your mother's life was different from yours in ways that were unfathomable.

And now I have a daughter.

She has a purse in which she puts pieces from a train and matchbox cars. She likes books and dolls and playing with toy kitchens.



She will never live in a world where those forms exist. She isn't being raised to think of girl toys and boy toys, they're just toys. My own mother raised me like this, she was very forward thinking. I'm just the norm.

She's also tough. She's strong willed, outspoken, raging through the terrible twos as she discovers that no, in fact every thing is NOT Hers no matter how much she sobs. She is me born 40 years later. But she's also her own person in so many ways it's overwhelming. She's like her brother in her empathy and kindness. This morning as I pinned my sweaty hair up out of my face she put her hand on my hip and looked up and said "Oh you're beautiful Mommy."

Despite the lessons she is learning of the TERRIBLE TWOS and despite the crazy words I hear being spouted by the Fundies by their never ending war on female rights, I look at this amazing girl and I think, she was born at such a lucky time.


Perhaps I am an optimist. But I do think, that despite all the things I teach her that everything is not hers, quite the opposite is true.

She's got the whole world. And she can do anything.

Here Mommy, Now You Wear This Snake

Girls are weird. My daughter said these words to me yesterday as she wrapped a toy snake around me like a feather boa. They're far weirder than boys I've decided. I'm pretty girly and girls baffle me.

I wore Hello Kitty barrettes to an executive meeting the other day. I don't think that makes me a WOMAN CHILD but rather it simply means that by the rules of post feminism I can be whomever I want. I'm 43. I'm NOT OLD.

I am, though, exactly old enough to remember that there used to be a place on forms that asked when your last menstrual cycle was, when you were applying for a job. They weren't allowed to ASK you any more. That was illegal. But it was still on the forms in some places, a reminder that your mother's life was different from yours in ways that were unfathomable.

And now I have a daughter.

She has a purse in which she puts pieces from a train and matchbox cars. She likes books and dolls and playing with toy kitchens.



She will never live in a world where those forms exist. She isn't being raised to think of girl toys and boy toys, they're just toys. My own mother raised me like this, she was very forward thinking. I'm just the norm.

She's also tough. She's strong willed, outspoken, raging through the terrible twos as she discovers that no, in fact every thing is NOT Hers no matter how much she sobs. She is me born 40 years later. But she's also her own person in so many ways it's overwhelming. She's like her brother in her empathy and kindness. This morning as I pinned my sweaty hair up out of my face she put her hand on my hip and looked up and said "Oh you're beautiful Mommy."

Despite the lessons she is learning of the TERRIBLE TWOS and despite the crazy words I hear being spouted by the Fundies by their never ending war on female rights, I look at this amazing girl and I think, she was born at such a lucky time.


Perhaps I am an optimist. But I do think, that despite all the things I teach her that everything is not hers, quite the opposite is true.

She's got the whole world. And she can do anything.