The happy family

Saw this and thought of all of our friends with children.

 

Fortunately the cat can be left home alone, although Katie still has to clean up after her.

If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you even tried.

My husband has a lot of virtues, but he is possessed of a particular attribute that leaves me in the dust.

Husby does not swear.  

No cursing in traffic, no expletives when he stubs his toe, no creative conjugations when the Yankees biff it at bat. {It is a trait which I emulate, with variable levels of success.} Something that makes his restraint even more impressive? The man grew up on a farm. Not just any farm....a dairy farm. A place populated by those terminally vacuous creatures known as cattle.  I've been told that their native stupidity could drive the pope himself to salty exclamations, so I regard Husby's restraint as a real mark of character. {Yes dear, you ARE a character.}

As a matter of fact, about the worst, most inflammatory thing I've heard come from Bart's sweet lips is a phrase handed down from his overall-wearing, land-tilling, ranch-working grandfather. A phrase that was historically only pulled out for dire occasions like when a cow got loose and was out tromping the grain. Or when that vital, elusive part for the hay stacker broke ~ again. A phrase that in Bart's farming family means serious business is at hand:

 "GAISH BLAST"

{It rhymes with nothing, but think the word "eye", sandwiched between a gutteral "g" and the finality  of a swishy set of consonants, "sh". Top it off with a good solid, self-explanatory "blast". Gaish blast. Or however the heck it's spelled.} 

So when something is terribly wrong in our house, if the Husby is involved you can rest assured that your ears and your sensibilities will not be assaulted. {Unfortunately, I can give no such guarantee.}

***

Little did I know that there was a gaish blast in store last weekend as I planned Valentine's Day dessert.  Having recently completed a weekend culinary class in pies and tarts, I thought I'd show Husby my hot new skills with a sexy, silky, made-from-scratch lemon tart. 

Unsuspecting fool that I was, I separated eggs and zested lemons with visions of Martha-worthy confections in my head. 

Innocently baked off a gorgeous pate-sucree tart shell and whisked up fresh lemon curd with a song in my heart. 

Whipped meringue to soft peaks and popped the assembled loveliness into the oven with a smile on my sappy face. 

And when my prize came out, looking all golden and whippy and fluff-laden, the evil pixies of humidity and capricious egg whites wreaked havoc. 

The mountain of meringue sat there looking pretty for about two minutes. 

And then it seeped. 

And it liquefied. 

And it slid all around the surface of my gorgeous from-scratch lemon curd like a blasted speed skater. 

As I progressed from blotting the moisture with paper towels...
...to spooning off the syrupy goo...
...to viciously flinging the meringue layer of my stupid Valentine's Day failure down the sink, a process percolated:  

My pastry-chef-wannabe pride macerated in its own juices. 

All the carefully cultivated from-scratch vanity deflated like the cursed egg whites. 

And although the gravity of the situation surely merited such an expression, the simmering thoughts in my head DID NOT include any variation of "Gaish Blast". 

Oh, no...nothing so pure as that. 

So, I am no kind of baking blogger this week. 

No tack-sharp pictures of my culinary triumph on its fancy footed presentation plate. {see post title}

No rave reviews of the fabulous new technique/tool/taste sensation that you simply must try. 

None of that stuff.

Just the following notes:

1)  I confess that I wish I were a little more like Husby in restraining my tongue. {I do believe I blistered the countertops with the monologue/diatribe that escaped as I was ferociously flipping the garbage-disposal switch. It is a Vesuvial moment when my precious baking goes awry.}

2)   It occurs to me that some of the mantras which make me tick may be less than healthy. {again, see post title}

3)  I have a renewed appreciation for my farm boy and his appetite. While I sulked at what was left of the tart, the blessed spouse demolished almost all of remaining 10-inch-diameter tart shell and its lemon-curd contents over the following 24-hour period. If I went to the trouble to make it, that sweet man would eat swill. {Come to think of it, I have and he did.} 

It makes a girl feel like something's right with the world to know that her man will eat her cooking, even if it is seasoned with something a little stronger than "Gaish Blast". Now, that's a Valentine's principle I can get behind.


p.s. Although I'm referencing this a bit late, I found a noteworthy web offering: One of Bon Appetit's writers did an article that's equal parts practical and hysterical  on why folks should stay in for Valentine's Day. It's worth a gander.

For my Catholic friends

Seen on Modestia's blog

This is slightly irreverent. But then, so am I.

Sisters...sisters...

I am the oldest of three silly, opinionated, sassy girls. When we all lived under the same roof, it felt a little like a henhouse. {Pecking here, cackling there...you know. All the hazards of estrogen overload.} Nobody is capable of pushing your internal buttons like a sister. After all, we install the buttons. 

Case in point: 

When Sister #3 was learning to write, she would frequently leave us little sticky notes. The notes on one particular day had been peppered with little hearts and scrawls of "I love Mom", or "I {heart} Katie".  After a run-in which invoked the wrath of Smallest Sis, however, here is what Sister #2 got:

Kirsten's love note ~ photographed January 2010

But now that I only make it back for an occasional visit, the henhouse is kind of fun. 

{Pedicures here, dress-swapping there...you know. All the benefits of sisters on good behavior.} 

Sisters 2 and 3, Pebble Creek ski lift ~ January 2010, by Katie

It's not exactly amazing that it took me 20-ish years to get over the shock of being usurped from my throne as The Only Child...honestly, that little squirt known as Sister #2 stole my thunder in a big way.  But now she is heading off on an adventure where the thunder will be her own. This week, my kid sister heads to the Czech Republic to study, teach, and give service for the next year and a half.  Sister #3 will step into The Only Child shoes, and we'll all adjust. 

But here's hoping that we all get to hit the slopes again together before too long. Our special brand of sisterly craziness is just too good not to be tapped.

{Besides...as I grow up a little more, I find I "lice" my sisters even more.}

Lunch at Pebble Creek ~ January 2010, by Kirsten

Country roads, take me home

Winter in these northwesterly stomping grounds has left me a bit befuddled. 

I've spent most of my life living in and near high mountain ranges. I am accustomed to winter days that are cold, crisp, snowy, and **here's the clincher**  sunny. 

As evidenced by the view out the airplane window, however, something has come between me and that lovely orb in the sky: an iron-clad layer of cloud cover.   

Flying out of Portland ~ January 2010, by Katie

So I fled the overcast forecast this past weekend and wandered back to my hometown for a visit. 

It wasn't until I stepped off the plane in Idaho this weekend that I realized just how much this waterlogged gal has missed the crayola colors of a mackerel sky. 

{Yes, the sky really was that blue.}

Altocumulus front outside of Boise, ID ~ January 2010, by Katie

I was so taken with glimpses of sunshine, I didn't really care whether I was coming or going; I added a solid hour to the drive trying to catch an extended taste of my home state.

Mountain Home, ID exit ~ January 2010, by Katie

 I've recently realized a particular trait that is ingrained in my personality... not that this tendency is new, rather, it is a new awareness. I rediscover this characteristic every time I wend my way home: 

It is that I dearly love a slice of solitude. Especially if that solitude is cradled in a wide-open space. Idaho is thick with such spots. You may see something desolate and exposed in all that sagebrush. I see stark beauty and the space for a soul to run wild and not be hemmed in. Room for the sun to shine.

Kuna, ID ~ January 2010, by Katie

There is something that is simultaneously worn down at the heels, yet tenacious about the people and places of my home state. 

Kuna, ID ~ January 2010, by Katie

And it's always good to find the welcoming committee on the home doorstep. 

I love visits home. 

Greta the Keeshond ~ January 2010, by Katie

The view from the mat

I left town for the weekend. A little solo traveling. Left my husby and my fur-child home alone together. {Which is its very own story for another time.} Suffice it to say, the furry resident of our household was a bit put out that the belly-rub-providing-resident of our household was absent for several whole days, and I was taken to task.

Please excuse the crummy photos, as the focus was less on the camera and more on the yoga tonight.  

 I had to make a few accommodations during twisting chair pose this evening...

Sallie Cat ~ Feb 2010

My view during downward dog looked something like this...

Maybe she was protesting the whole "dog" concept.

Sallie Cat ~ Feb 2010

And my form got a slight tweak in reverse warrior pose...

{this is her "smiling face". It makes me happy.}

Sallie Cat ~ Feb 2010

It's always nice to come home to a little welcoming committee. 

I'd post Bart's belly rub photos too, but I think I'd get in trouble for that particular breach of etiquette.