Sunday Reading

Like Cooking, but with Kids!

There are a ridiculous number of people in the world who believe that children should help in with the cooking.

Seriously, I remember being a kid and making Christmas cookies with my mom. I remember it well because there was this really odd shape of cookie cutter and I had no idea what it was, kind of a lumpy thing, and I liked using it to cut shapes out of the dough, and then I would eat the dough. My mother flipped out a bit, then chased us all from the kitchen so she could actually put some cookies in the oven, and so we would die from eating raw eggs. (by the way, the cookie cutter was a camel. I never understood what a camel had to do with Christmas, but that's because I was a heathen and camels didn't pull the sleigh.)

I've tried to get my kids interested in cooking. The books say you can... the many many cookbooks for children, most with large sections that say "GET MOMMY TO HELP YOU CUT THE CARROTS!" Made for children who are dumb enough to eat radishes just because they are peeled and placed on a plate in the shape of someone's hair. My kids are too smart for that, people. Put fruit on a pancake and guess what? It's still fruit. Only now it's ruined the pancake.

Anyway, I have my moments where I try to let the kids help. "You can get a four year old to tear the lettuce!" it says, larger-than-life smile implied in the tone of the font.

So a couple of years ago, in some strange moment of weakness, I purchased a monster cook book. It has things like mummy meatloaf and potato skins disguised as yeti claws. But it also has a few gross desserts. I let the boys each pick an item to make. Andy chose something called "Trifle With Death."

Before pouring in the lime jello, the vanilla pudding, or the marshmallows, the first step is to tear up a sponge cake. I figured if I four year old could tear lettuce, my three kids could tear up a sponge cake.

"Is this piece big enough?" Nick asked, holding up a crumb the size of a raisin.
"It says one inch pieces," I said.
blank looks.
"A little bigger, like this," I said, holding up a piece about the size of a large grape.
"Is this big enough?" Nick asked, holding up a crumb the size of a raisin.
"No," I said.
"Like this? Like this? IS this good?" as all three boys needed me to approve every single pinched morsel of squashed sponge cake that went into the dish.

It was slightly insane.

The boys ate half the marshmallows. They were really impressed with the jello. And the pudding, which was stirred for about three seconds before the boys gave up.

The concoction is now in the fridge until tomorrow, when we get to sprinkle the top with crushed oreos and gummy worms. And gummy eyeballs, if we can find them before then. I'm afraid, and already feeling slightly ill.

The Dark

Maybe it's because it's been raining the last couple of days, but it's been dark.

Yes, overcast and rainy, but not just that.

When my alarm goes off in the morning, it looks like the middle of the night. It's still dark out.

When I leave work, before 5pm, the sky is already darker, the sun already going down.

Day are shorter.

Nights are longer.

I'm just commenting: It's hard to get out of bed. Harder. Than before.