I Am A Culinary Shit-Show

I am the queen of self-deprecation. Self titled, yes, but I know myself pretty well. I'll beat you to the punch if there is something that you can rank on me for. Bad haircut? I'll say that I'm just recovering from a Flock of Seagulls moment. Booger in my nose? I'll say I'm packing away some extra protein for later. Food on my shirt? Same deal, just prepping for a snack. By the way, it's kinda impossible to find a shirt in my repetoire that does NOT have some sort of food item on it. This is why I like black.









It goes back a long way, actually. I was told by my biology teacher during a dissection that surgery would probably not be my profession. I'm a jump-in and start cutting and let's see what the hell happens, kinda girl. I used to make sundaes at Ben and Jerry's (like a meth addict running the meth clinic folks, not a good idea) and my boss watched me make one once. I was a flurry of scoop, whipped cream and toppings. There was shit everywhere. Really. There wasn't a dry inch on that counter. But, a beautiful sundae it was! He pulled me aside later and said this:









"Jen. You're a friggin' hurricane out there."









It's true.









I've been on a culinary mission lately too. Mix together my mom-role, my desire to create new and fun gluten free dishes, and my mission to force vegetables down our collective gullets and you've got a recipe for one messy friggin' kitchen. We took the kids to Haymarket in Boston last week and I fell in love with the romance of it. Lush and ripe fruits, hearty, earthy vegetables and surly folks hawking their wares lulled me into an altered state. Sure! I want two big bunches of asparagus even though I can only choke down about two stalks at a go. YES! I want a bag of baby spinach that can feed 4 families with (and will get narsty and funky in 3 days). Absosmurfly I want 12 red onions that I'll toss in January when they're green and not so fun on a Greek salad. OF COURSE I want a carton of figs. Carton. Of figs. Like, from a newton, kind of fig.









I've never eaten a fig that wasn't part of a newton. Have you? I did think about it.









-I'll make something magnificent and fabulous and goat chees-ey. No. I had an experience milking goats years ago and I kinda want to vomit when I smell it. Hands. On Teets. Dirty Goats. You feel me.









-I'll make something with pancetta (an excuse to eat bacon and sound fancy). No. I am not Giada and I don't have cute boobs like her with cute shirts and a show on Food Network. I don't even know if I'm saying pancetta right.




-I'll delight the culinary palates of my household with my OWN version of a Fig Newton.




Yes, yes, that was it. I'll make my own fig newtons! Screw Keebler! Screw TollHouse!









For reals: this is how I think.









To even up the ante I decided I would go all tree-huggery and make it a gluten free fig newton! Jesus! I'm brilliant.









Well, this is what it looked like after the gloves came off (literally and figuratively). Please notice the child-size dough roller. Really. It's from a kid's play cooking kit. It's for 3 year olds. I don't think Giada has one of those.

Suffice to say that at one point, I may have said, "Fudge it!" (but I didn't say that). My 'dough' was not sticking to my cutting board and my gluten-free flour wasn't doing the trick. So there it then was, plopped together like a big ol' hurricane sundae.

For the record, I made some kick-ass fig muffins and cookies. And check my banging apple crisp!

Oh Crap.

Now listen. You really have to have a sense of humor about this, pretty pretty please. Please don't worry that I have body dismorphic disorder. Or think that I'm judging any one else's hind-quarters. Because I really only care about mine.

But I had a horrifying experience the other day, jogging my jog (read: not really jogging at all. It could actually even be considered a hearty walk with a few skips thrown in now and then. An amble, if you will). I had on my Land's End Skorts. Have we talked about these? They are fantastical and comfy and wonderful and forgiving, all in one lycra-infused package of short-dom. They are, howevs, a bit small. Well can you blame me? The next size up were really way too big. So, do I go with a bit tighter or falling off me? Anyway.

I'm doing the jogging thing and I jog (humor me) past a teenage 'help our cheerleading squad!' car wash on the main drag of my town, so naturally I up my pace and pretend as if I do this ALL the time and I'm just prepping for my next 10K run. I start to slow my pace down when I get out of eyesight, and it just happens to be when I'm going by a dealership of some sort. With all windows. That I can see myself in.

No here's some key information before you jump all over me. I was the type of girl who, 30 pounds heavier, didn't really have a problem with cellulite. I was heavy, yes. But I exercised (what the hell, right? unfair, unfair, I call unfair) and was told by a few women that I looked better in a bathing suit than in clothing. I'm not sure what kind of compliment that is (if it's even a compliment) but I was not used to any sort of rippling or puckerage.

The baby-boom came and went and other than my SFAP (stomach from another planet, full zip code and demographical information available at your request) which was created not only from said beautiful baby but my friends, cheese and peanut butter.

Anyway, so I'm running past the window. And I see it. It's horrifying.

It's CIA.

Cellulite In Action.

I was actually tempted to stop running and start rubbing it like crazy, trying to see if that was really what I was looking at. But it was. And although it made me keep up my pace even when the car-washers had packed up and gone, it didn't stop me from a bowl of ice cream later that night.

And some cheese.

And some peanut butter.

Back on the Scene, Like a Sex Machine

Well, sort of. Not really. But I'm definitely back on the scene.

I'm back to work. Work that I get PAID for. In cash money. Don't get me wrong, I love the payment for my other full time work; kisses, giggles and tickle time. But cash works too....

So I'm thrust again into the working world. I forget during my 16 month full time stay at home gig that the logistics are what can be so harrowing. Backpacks for the girls, filled with appropriate changes of clothes, diapers, wipes and hats. Clothing laid out for the next day. That matches (sorry honey). Lunch for oldest with Celiac, snacks too....juice cups filled with desired juice to water ratio, reminder notes for Dad to completely cover the girls with copious amounts of sunscreen and oh...my stuff, too. Thankfully I don't do the drop off duty, Daddy has picked up that role and relishes his time with the girls in the morning to make them super-special-Daddy-breakfasts.

But me? I get to go....to the gym. The gym! A real gym! A gym withOUT the gym daycare lady hunting me down to report that one or both of my girls has: pooped her drawers, threw up, not been able to stop crying and has therefore thrown up, or is simply just NOT interested in letting mom work out for more than 14 minutes. (They would enter the cardio room and all the moms {not just me!} would duck and hide. Seriously. You could see moms all around just tuck their chins down and start to pray...'not me, please don't come for me...').

So, you can see the lusciousness in a gym experience all for myself. IPOD on, tunes a-blasty blast....(ps, have you listened to The Who's Eminence Front lately? Good Lord) and not having to worry about anything. OK, maybe I think for a minute about putting the weights back on the shelf or wiping down my machine.

Or how my posterior looks when I realize I'm stretching in front of a huge wall-sized mirror. (But not really).

I get shower time and dress (and makeup!) time without worrying about the toddler putting her toothbrush in the potty. Or the other toddler trying to 'reorganize' Daddy's shaving kit. I get to wear grown up nice work clothes. The only misstep was when I mistakenly used my mini-Febreze travel bottle for hair spray the other day. My hair didn't stay, but man was I ever fresh.

And you know, unless you've been home for a portion of time, you forget how this really feels. Most of the time when I was working I couldn't wait to get home, take off fancy mcbusiness wear and put on my comfies. I've been in comfies now for 16 months, and I needed me some Ann Taylor, stat.

So I get all purdied up with business shoes and concealer and I talk to grownups. All day! I talk about work stuff, home stuff, just....stuff. Stuff that comes from a part of my brain that was ready for the match strike again, ready to talk the talk and (with business shoes) walk the walk. So it's only part time. But it's my part time. And as soon as I walk out the door, the Mommy hat is on again and I'm humming Pop Goes the Weasel, anxious to get home to my girlies and get on my comfies.