I haven’t been able to post much lately.   I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with Varmint, Critter, and My Captain.  This isn’t easy to do when you have one working leg, and one uncooperative leg.  I don’t walk; I lope.

I’ve been attending championship softball matches, fifth grade activity days, graduation and birthday party preparations.  And I’ve had both hands in each and every one of those activities.  This is normal for me:  I’m usually a ‘mover and a shaker’.  It’s just taking me longer because right now I’m a ‘mover and a loper’.

It’s funny to watch me as I’m trying to hurry these days, because I closely resemble the Hunchback of Notre dame.

Because of the limp.

Not the hump.

In case you were confused.

Last night was our End-Of-Season Softball bonfire potluck.  (It came after not one, but TWO full softball games, which started promptly at 9am and ended at 3pm. We were WHUPPED by the time the bonfire started!)  We had all kinds of yummy deliciousness at this party, from fantastic Deviled Eggs, to barbecued Meatballs, Tomato/Mozzarella salad and Hot Dogs.  And S’mores, of course.

The adults relaxed around the bonfire in the darkening twilight, while the team and their siblings ran around the yard, playing everything from Red Rover to Man Hunt.  They chased Fireflies.  They had a hoola-hoop competition.  They played kickball.  They jumped around on the trampoline.

At one point, our hostess – a true southern belle, transplanted from North Carolina – threw an old, retired wicker chair on the fire.  The reactions were as followed:

My Captain’s Father, Jay:  “I’m moving my chair back!”

Muddy: “Whoa! It’s too early in the party to start throwing furniture in the fire!”

All of the kids: “WOW!  Look at that!!  It’s making the leaves on the Cherry Tree curl!”

My Captain:  Smirked, chuckled, and rolled his eyes.

Me: “Time to get out the marshmallows!”

The crickets were chirping.  The stars were twinkling.  Kids were laughing. It was a warm night, but every now and again a sweet early summer breeze would hit our cheeks.   All was right with the world.

My Captain and I were beat.  He had to get up this morning at 5:00 to go to work, so we stood up to take leave, but several of the kids cried out, “Tell us a ghost story before you leave, Coach Cookie!”

(I should explain that I got the name Coach Cookie this softball season because I brought cookies to games and practices.  I’m afraid I have singlehandedly contributed to the future renal failure of several Tweenie-boppers)

So I began weaving a tale about an old man, three red-eyed dogs, a curse, some mauled horses, and the boulders adjacent to the bonfire area.  It was good.  It was really good.

How do I know this?

Because as we were walking up the hill (or, in my case, Loping up the hill) Varmint asked, “Was that story true, Mom?”

I replied, “Only the scary parts, honey.”

Hey, if you don’t want to be scared, don’t ask for the ghost story.

This was the kind of night that all of those kids (and some of the parents) will be able to look back on and feel warm and fuzzy about.  This is the kind of childhood memory we WANT our kids to have plenty of.  These are the times to be grateful for.

And I am.

Life is a bowl full of cherries!

In this case, they are wee tiny little organic cherries picked off of one of the trees from Grandma Jane’s Orchard by Critter, Varmint, and My Captain.

And they come with pits in them, as all good cherries do.

And since I don’t have anywhere to store it, I don’t have one of those handy-dandy semi-automatic cherry pitting machines.  Which means each and every cherry gets lovingly pitted by yours truly.  At least in this picture it is done by me…..  Because, you know, we have children for a reason…..

Look at that.  The pit is almost bigger than the cherry.  This is going to take a lot of cherries!

After half an hour, and several hand cramps, these are the pits of my labor…and…

This is the fruit of my labor!  Get it?!  Fruit of my labor?  hahhahahahahahahaha!

Sorry.

(Not really.)

This is Xylitol, a naturally occuring sugar alcohol.  I use it instead of sugar, or in addition to sugar.  In this case, I used about half sugar, half xylitol.

Now, here is where I get on my soap box.  People these days want solid, exact amounts in recipes.  I say the world just doesn’t work like that.  ESPECIALLY when it comes to pies or tarts. Why?  Because sometimes you get a sour batch of fruit, and sometimes you don’t.  You’ve got to taste it and experiment, or do what I do, and wing it.

So, here I am pouring some sugar and xylitol in.

And then some cornstarch.

And stirring.

and stirring.

Here is my Harris Teeter brand pre-made pie crust.  GASP!  Hey, it’s quick and yummy.  Don’t be a hater. If I had expendable time, I would make my own crusts.  Guess what I don’t have.   That’s right.

Expendable time.

I am making individual tarts, one for each kid and one for My Captain.  I put a third of the cherries on the crust.  How much, you ask?  A third of what I had.  See?  That is how real life cooks.  You work with what life gives you.  I had so much in the bowl, and I split it as I could.  Tell that to Alton Brown.

Butter.  Salted butter.  Our friend in so many ways, and no doubt what will be the death of me.

And since I’ve come to terms with my inevitable demise, I add plenty.

Then I fold, leaving a hole up top for steam to escape.

All the way around!

And then sugar gets sprinkled generously on top.  And on the counter and the sink and the floor and my shoes.

In it goes to a 450 degree oven for 10 minutes, and then down to 400 for another 40 minutes OR UNTIL THE DANG THING IS READY!  (That was for you, Alton.)

See, I told you I made three!  And aren’t they purty?

Oh lord.  The color is amazing!

I wish I had a camera to do these justice.
I wish I had a camera that had smellovision on it.  Cherry pie smell is second only to apple pie smell.  You can take that to the bank.

Why is my terribly venous hand in this picture?  For perspective, of course.  But, alas, you have no idea how big my hand is, so it really doesn’t help at all, now does it?

To recap:

Cherry tarts are easy.

Wash and Pit your cherries.  Add sugar and cornstarch.  Throw the lot onto a crust.  Dot the pile of goodness with butter.  Bake it, and share it with your friends.

Want to play with it?  Add some lemon zest.  Or add a little orange liquor.  Or add some almond extract.  But heed my words, in this case, simple really is best.

Now….jump in!

We took dinner to Grandma’s for Sunday Dinner last night.  I’d made Kitchen Sink Casserole, which, as you may surmise, has everything in it but the kitchen sink.

And that is a good thing, since my kitchen sink is pretty grody right now.

Anyway, the casserole was yummy.

Critter and I had had a particularly difficult day leading up to dinner, which included unfortunate events like:

Getting yellow paint on the wooden deck because he was curious as to how the spray can worked, and

Getting gravel in the lawn which needed to be picked out by hand, a piece at a time, when he was trying to shotput a bucket of said gravel into the driveway from the front steps, and

Spraying the garden hose all over creation, making mud puddles galore, when he was asked to just fill up the watering can.

Now, I realize that none of these things, or the literally dozens of other similar events, were horrific transgressions, but added up together, he became nothing short of Dennis the Menace.

There was yelling.   I won’t lie to you.  There was copious amounts of yelling.

And then….

I HATE ‘and then’s….

and then he got sassy.

THAT was his only true mistake yesterday.

You don’t sass Mama.

So we upgraded from stage yellow, the ‘yelling’ stage, straight to stage orange, the ‘I’ll be taking that’ stage.

The “I’ll be taking that” stage is where I begin taking toys and privileges from him and putting them away until he re-earns them.  Yesterday afternoon, Critter lost just about everything but his mind.  And I’m not sure on that one.

You get the picture …  it was a rough day.  We were all SO ready for the peace and calm at Grandma’s house.

We got there and ate, letting our heart rates slow, and blood pressures decrease, and then I flopped out on the chaise lounge on Grandma’s screened porch while Critter, Varmint and My Captain went out into Grandma’s Orchard to pick some cherries in the warm late afternoon sunshine.

When the breeze shifted just so, I could hear them laughing; and every now and again I caught a glimpse of running legs or reaching arms from the cherry row.  The peach and apple trees, and the concord grape vines were too much in the way to see clearly.  But there was no doubt they were having a ball.

I really wanted to be with them.  I’d been in ‘enforcement’ mode all day and longed to be in ‘playtime’ mode. Besides, Critter and I needed to do some re-bonding. But my dingdang knee makes it impossible to navigate the orchard by foot these days.  (The knee surgery is in two weeks. And that is two weeks too far off, if you ask me.)

They eventually came back with full bags of cherries, eyes shining, grinning ear to ear.  Grandma Jane was content to sit back and watch her brood be happy….but I wanted to be a part of it!  Especially after our horrendous day.  They told me I could make cherry tarts for them, and that would make up for not being able to run in the orchard.

Gee, thanks!

(Well, of course I did, and they were delicious, but that is for another post!)

Later on, back home, I laid down in Critter’s bed to help send him off to sleep.

He turned on his side; his little back and shoulders curled away from me.

I wrapped an arm around him anyways, and listened to the Lullaby music I’ve played for the kids since they were babes.  I could see the stars twinkling in the window.  One of the cats jumped onto the foot of the bed and laid down, purring.  The clocked ticked.

I felt his little body slowly relax.

I whispered in his ear that I loved him.

He mumbled, “Yeah, right.”

Apparently he was still peeved about the day.

I know better than to argue with my Critter when he is holding a grudge.  So I began kissing his whole face until he giggled “Ok! Ok!  I love you too!”

Hey, I’m not proud.  I’ll take an “I love you, too” even if it is given under duress!

It’s better than a home made fresh Cherry Tart, I promise you.

I took Varmint and Critter to the pool yesterday.  And we were lucky enough to have Varmint’s friend Amber and her family join us.  It’s always so much more fun with friends.

I realized pretty early on that the snacks we’d brought would not be sufficient, so I asked Amber’s mom, Michelle, to hold the fort while I zipped over to the nearby CVS for more sustenance.   (It’s fairly well-known that I’m an innate nurturer, but few people know I’m also a pretty good hunter-gatherer.)

Before I left, I realized that I had no cover up for my bathing suit.   But the bathing suit I had on was a swim dress and I told myself it might pass for clothes.  Still, I felt a little uncomfortable shopping in what felt like a nightgown.  But this is the cross a mother has to bear….we sacrifice for our children!  If I have to go get a bag o’ munchies in my underwear, so be it.  I love my kids!  I had no choice.

I pulled in, parked, saw only a couple of cars, and figured I was home free.  I would zip  in like a commando, grab some high-fructose corn syrup, high-dose fat, and sodium, and be on my way before you can say ‘Occluded Artery’.   And the best part of it was there would be few, if any, witnesses of me in my bathing suit.

I grabbed what I needed and hurried on over to the check out counter by the door….I was in luck!  Only one person in front of me.  I got behind him, and waited.

and waited.

and waited.

This customer was having issues with his visa card.  Of course he was.  How could it go any other way?

Then a group of no less than four people walked in. The door is right next to the check out counter, so they couldn’t miss me.  I averted my eyes.  Nothing to see here, folks.

I heard one of the girls snicker.

The customer in front of me decided to try a different card.  Holy. Stinkin. Moley!  I started tapping my foot, and pondered what the consequences would be if I just slapped my money on the counter and ran.

Then a couple came in.  Elderly.  In their Sunday Best.  The woman in the couple looked at me with disapproval.  I averted my eyes, again.  I felt like I’d just offended ‘Aunt B.’ and wanted to sink into the floor.  I felt naked, clothed only in my bag of Cheetos and sunblock.

The customer in front of me finally finished and moved on.  I sighed in relief and put my goods on the counter but the guy at the register looked at me for a moment longer than necessary, as if to say, “Really?”  I averted my eyes, again, again, swiped my visa card, and got out of there fast, fast, fast.

Like, quickly.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I got back to the pool because I could relax amongst all the other people walking around in their skivvies.  I was once again amongst my kind.  And now, in fact, I was the hero bearing goodies and munchies.

Why is it, I wonder that it’s socially accepted to be walking around half-naked in one place, and a block away it’s taboo?  What a ridiculous concept.

But you can bet your bottom dollar that next time I’ll have a cover up on.  Or bring more snacks in the first place. Or both.