Mango Pickle

In 2020, we finally got around to watching the eleventh season of Doctor Who, the sixth episode of which, "Demons of the Punjab," centers around the Partition of India in 1947.

Sometimes people ask me about our homeschool curriculum, and I tell them that we use such and such for math (Singapore Math, Beast Academy, Art of Problem Solving, Khan Academy, CTC Math...) and such and such for science (Mr. Q, Science Mom...) and then I about fall apart at social and language studies because the answer of, "Well, we kind of just do whatever suits our fancy..." doesn't entirely sit well with everyone. 

That is to say, in 2020 we watched "Demons of the Punjab" and then fell into a unit on the history of India...as best we could. We watched things like Lagaan and Bride and Prejudice. We read The Night Diary. We read The History of India for Children. We read Mangoes, Mischief, and Tales of Friendship: Stories from India—this particular collection of stories was very impactful for the children.

The main character frequently discussed his love for mango pickle and the kids were anxious to try it. 

But...I dunno...it was the middle of COVID...so we weren't spending time looking for mango pickle, I guess. We were more concerned with acquiring, like, toilet paper and hand sanitizer and things like that. 

I don't remember what research we did on mango pickle, all I know is that it was described in such a tantalizing way that the kids have been thinking about it for the past six years. They've brought it up regularly. We have never been able to satisfy their curiosity...until now. 

Vanil (no-laa)

Vanilla is a word that will always make me a little bit angry. 

When I was in grade five we had individualized spelling lists (I've told this story before) of misspelled words that were pulled from our writing. I tended to write a lot and also wasn't afraid to use words that I wasn't quite sure of the spelling for, so I had some rather tricky words on my spelling list. Or perhaps I simply felt the words were tricky because they were words that I clearly already found to be tricky (having misspelled them in the first place).

I had this one friend who would purposely write as little as possible and very slowly and carefully so as to select only the words which she knew she knew how to spell. In that way she avoided spelling tests in the first place. 

Clever? Perhaps. 

But I couldn't write that way. I wrote furiously, passionately, filling page after page with copious script, using the most lavish words I could think of. I wrote some very purple passages, I'm sure, and I had a spelling list as extensive as my little vocabulary could muster. 

I took risks. I spelled a lot of things wrong. 

Where my friend would write "yummy" I would try out "delicious" or "scrumptious" and...I'd probably leave out an i or something. Onto the list it would go! 

And that's fine. 

I just then had to learn how to spell those words, which, again, was fine. It's not like it's outlandish to have to learn how to properly spell scrumptious. I was fine. 

But I also was forever telling stories about words. 

A walk, a fox, a fallen loaf...

We went for a walk this afternoon, as is our habit. I really needed to be getting ready to head to the dentist, but I wanted to squeeze in one more faux-spring walk before we're hit with a wet and rainy cold front. 

These little daffodils are in for a shock! I'm glad the ones in our yard haven't yet made an appearance.

Bog-standard cookies

This is a cookie that Phoebe made for Rachel. Underneath it all is a bell-shaped gingerbread cookie. On top of it is a whole bunch of leftover birthday icing and some candies (and a goldfish cracker) arranged to look like a landscape of sorts—some earth (with a worm), a stream (with a bridge and fish). 

It. Is. A. Masterpiece.

I can't believe it's not butter!

When we first began the conference tradition of a vegetable tray (back in our Durham days), it felt like a real splurge. But the kids loved it and begged for a vegetable tray every conference after.

And how do you say no to children begging for vegetables?

Our conference spread has...expanded over the years. Charcuterie boards came into vogue and we jumped on the band wagon and now the kids expect one of those every year—meat and cheese and crackers. You can see this year's charcuterie (courtesy of Benjamin) behind this beautiful bowl of hummus (courtesy of Andrew):

Nothing personal

While Rachel and Miriam have been "across the pond," we've been having a fine time here at home.

On Monday morning last week, Zoë came home from swim team practice and immediately began making cookies. She's determined to learn how to bake...and whipped up some delicious oatmeal raisin cookies...while wearing an apron over her still-damp swimming suit. 

Cool pool days and graham crackers

It has been so cold and rainy this week that they even cancelled swim practice for the youngest swimmers on the team yesterday. Zoë suffered through her session until she was told to get out of the pool to warm up before she went hypothermic (reminding me of my youth and being sent to the hot showers in the middle of practice...except that our current pool doesn't have a row of hot showers to retreat to).

This morning I took the kids to practice. 

It was cold and rainy. 

Calamities of various proportions

Nothing untoward happened on Monday...except that several of us got a little too much sun. But Saturday, Sunday, and Tuesday have certainly had their moments of excitement!

On Saturday, Grandpa bent over to get something out of the fridge and when he stood up he bumped a shelf with his shoulder and sent a jug of orange juice crashing down to the floor. It split open and went all over the floor. It took two full bath-sized towels to mop it up (and then some). 

I was just glad it wasn't my kids who made the mess. 

On Sunday, Darla went to get a bowl out of the cupboard and the shelf—which was missing one of its pegs—tilted and an entire set of dishes came crashing down. Honestly, I'm a little vague on the details here because I was in the bathroom when I heard the crash. 

My first thought was, "I hope that wasn't my kids!"*

*Technically my first thought was, "I hope no one is hurt!" But that thought quickly passed because there wasn't any associated screaming. So it was clear that something had broken and not someone. So my more permanent thought was, "I hope that wasn't my kids!"

Tales from the garden

My garden has been neglected this spring. 

A very wise mentor of mine recently told me to leave myself room to fail—and I have! I have approximately 72 square feet of failure in the front yard (plus, you know, the rest of the yard)!

Sure, the annuals we planted have been pulling their weight. And little bits of zombified compost have popped up through the soil, reanimated tendrils lurching toward trellises—they're sure to offer us a surprise harvest of sorts. And friend who started too many tomatoes offered me her leggy cast-offs.

So it's all chaos out there, but that's okay because it's a beautiful, wild failure.

*****

The same friend who gave me the tomatoes gave me some clustered mountain mint last year.

When I say friend, you should know that this friend and I met on the Buy Nothing Group and our entire friendship is just...the exchange of plants and advice. And it's mostly me taking because—let's face it—my garden is pathetic and I need all the advice I can get.

She's been trying to increase the number of local plants in her garden—mountain mint being one of them. 

Like most mints, mountain mint is a prolific spreader, but it's less of a problem because the shoots it sends out tend to not root very deeply, so it's controllable. Also, it's native, not invasive. 

That mountain mint took to our hillside like it was coming home after a long day and has spread significantly since I planted it at the end of last summer. And that's fine by me. Bees love it—wasps and butterflies, too. It smells delicious.

"Is it edible?" Rachel wanted to know.

"I don't know," I told her. "Most varieties of mountain mint are, from what I've researched. But some aren't and..."

Long story short, Rachel picked a leaf and ate it. 

And she didn't die. And she didn't get sick. 

The-lone-orphan

By the time I rolled out of bed this morning we'd:

(1) been hit by the atmospheric river, which is apparently a thing—it's still raining

(2) experienced an earthquake, kind of—technically it was in Tennessee

(3) arranged for Rachel to babysit for a friend whose car was totaled earlier in the week, and who wanted to go look for new cars without her twin preschoolers in tow

Busy morning. 

But, Alexander and Zoë had taken Phoebe downstairs, pulled the baby gate (the international symbol for "don't go upstairs," typically used during meetings but also for needed naps), got her breakfast, and then started a game with her using the magnatiles and teddy bear counters.

It was very nice to have a sleep in. 

When I went downstairs the kids rushed over to meet me at the bottom of the stairs, telling me about some "weird pink milk" in the fridge.

"Weird pink milk?" I repeated.

"Yeah! We tasted it and it was disgusting!"

"Well, was it very...old?" I asked.

"No! Come and see! Come and see!"

Lavender/Lilac

Phoebe wanted to make soup for dinner, using some rosemary she picked in the garden. She even got out a pot and put it on the stove with the rosemary in it, but I got out a bigger pot and started dinner in that. We had a head of cauliflower that we hadn't gotten to yet, so I decided on cauliflower soup and even found a recipe for rosemary cauliflower soup...which I loosely followed.

We decided on a whim to add some red cabbage to the soup. Quite a lot, actually. Because one head of cauliflower isn't going to feed a family of seven and we had some red cabbage in the fridge. 

Plus, it was bound to turn the soup a delightful pinkish-purple, which felt very springy, very Easter-y. 

Phoebe was very pleased with the light purple we ended up with after everything was blended together. But then I decided that it could use a little more acidity. So I grabbed a lemon and squeezed it into the pot and...

Dinner on Thursday

Last night we made Hawaiian Haystacks for dinner, something we haven't eaten (I think) since very soon after Karen's death in 2018, when someone in our ward brought it over for dinner. 

I wasn't really sure what to make for dinner...except that we had a fresh pineapple to use...and time was ticking so I decided to just start a pot of rice cooking and then brainstorm about what to have with the rice while it was cooking.

My three ideas were:

1. Something Mexican (we have leftover taco meat in the fridge)
2. Stir fry of sorts
3. Hawaiian Haystacks

I settled on Hawaiian Haystacks because (a) we hadn't had that in so many years that the kids couldn't even recall what it was and (b) we'd had "Ultimate Salad Bar" earlier in the week and had a lot of leftover toppings that also qualify as Hawaiian Haystacks toppings. 

All I had to do was make some chicken gravy and cut up a pineapple...and a bunch of vegetables. 

Often the gravy is made from a can of cream of chicken soup, but we don't usually have that stocked in our pantry, so I had made it from scratch, which really is not so difficult except that Phoebe wanted to help. She pulled out every single stool in our house and set them all up in the kitchen, forming an obstacle course of sorts (but allowing her to reach any given counter surface...as well as leaving a few in the middle of the kitchen floor to trip over). Then she demanded that she help and help and help.

"Phoebe," I sighed, wish that Andrew was home to be cooking with her instead of...me...having to do it. "I am not as confident about cooking as Daddy is, so I'm not as confident about allowing you to help. This is a step that Mommy has to do on her own, okay? You can have a turn stirring soon..."

So I browned the onions and I blended the water and flour and I made the base of the gravy and then I added the milk, whisked things together briefly, and handed Phoebe the whisk. 

"Finally!" she growl exasperatedly. "I tan tuut!"

YOYO*...oh, no.

Our dishwasher broke this week (because...why not?). 

Was I grateful for that dishwasher? Immensely. 

Was it my favourite dishwasher in the world? Not remotely. 

So when we got an estimate for how much it would cost to fix it versus how much it would cost to simply get a new machine...guess what we went with. 

Is that environmentally friendly? I honestly don't think so. 

Do I know why manufacturers make machines that aren't easily repairable? Absolutely not.

I mean, I understand that it ultimately means more money for them, but it really feels like it would be better for everybody if these things were simply...easy to repair. 

*****

We're about a month into the semester and things are heating up. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday is once again an absolute marathon. 

The dishwasher broke on Monday—and for once not after I had touched it last (both the stove and the washing machine died after I touched them last but the dishwasher is not on me!). 

On Tuesday (my long day on campus), Andrew ordered pizza for dinner.

On Wednesday we had leftovers.

On Thursday we had leftovers.

On Friday our new dishwasher was delivered and installed and...we had leftovers.

O Tupperware, O Tupperware...

There's this meme setup that goes "if I ever won the lottery, I wouldn't tell anyone...but there would be signs," and the accompanying picture is...whatever the sign would be. 

I feel like this is my kitchen right now, only it's "if my marriage was approaching two decades, I wouldn't tell anyone [or would tell everyone]...but there would be signs." And this would be the accompanying image:

It's a spatula/flipper (as opposed to a spatula/scraper; we tend to clarify at our house because I grew up calling both these things "spatulas" and didn't everybody? Apparently not) that we've had for nearly two decades now. The handle was melted at one point. And a couple inches of it broke off a few years ago. But we kept it around because we liked it. 

We've accumulated several others over the years, but this spatula was different.

This was a good spatula. It was the spatula, if you know what I mean. 

There are other spatulas and then there is the spatula.

It's rather met its demise now, I think. 

I'm sure a new favourite will surface, but for now we're keenly feelings its loss.

*****

We were gifted some take'n'toss Tupperware for our wedding.

Jack-o-Lantern Carving

Halloween morning got a little rough at our house, with me losing my temper because I have so much to do, so many balls to juggle, and some of us (who shall remain anonymous) have been difficult to motivate to complete their schoolwork. It was...a frustrating morning...and Halloween, too, so I'm sure that contributed to the general chaos of the day. 

Also, a neighbour was having some trees removed in their yard so we were hearing chainsaws all day and...I should have been aware of how that was affecting me so I could have put earplugs in or something (too much ambient noise tends to make me really tense), but I didn't. Instead I just lost my temper in a huge way.

See this pumpkin? That's a little bit how our morning felt.

Math and Brownies

Alexander was so excited to start his Beast Academy (math) training online this year. I ordered the workbooks for him last year because I wanted him to work on his handwriting skills. But this year I signed him up for the online platform so I could—more or less—take something off my plate.

*****

We had a linger longer on Sunday, which Zoë baked brownies for. 

She left a rather threatening note for Rachel in the kitchen, informing her that Zoë was going to be the one to bake brownies for the linger longer and—importantly—she did not need Rachel's help with that task.

So Zoë baked some brownies. And they were fairly popular. 

When I was in line at the dessert table, a couple of women in the ward were like, "And what came from your house? 'Cuz I know I want a slice of that!"

I explained that the brownies came from our house, but that Zoë had claimed baking rights and had kicked Rachel out of the kitchen. The ladies were hoping for some of Rachel's sugar cookies that she's made for a couple of youth activities lately.

Rachel is a phenomenal baker.

Freudian slips: Dishwashing edition (and a cake story for dessert)

We were finishing up dinner this evening...relatively late...because we had things like swimming and music lessons...and we were reminding the kids about their "dinner jobs." One child is in charge of clearing the table, one child is in charge of doing the dishes, one child is in charge of tidying up the floors, and one child is in charge of taking care of the cat (and garbage, if needed). Alexander helps out here and there or helps keep Phoebe entertained and out of the way. 

It sounds like a well-oiled machine, doesn't it? 

After all, we're pretty experienced parents now. We have systems and things like that...

Alas, systems are always better in theory than they are in practice (at least from our experience), so it really works like a rusty, piece-of-junk machine. 

But it's working (I guess), so that's all that matters.

Particularly Pungent Pineapple

Andrew made chicken tikka masala for dinner. It was delicious but was a little spicier than he intended, the little kids suffered through a few bites of the sauce, but mostly ate plain rice and naan. Spicy bites were alternated with bites of fresh pineapple, to quell some of the heat. 

Everything was fine and dandy until I looked over at Phoebe and noticed her lips were bleeding. 

"Phoebe!" I said. "Why are your lips bleeding?!"

I dabbed them off with a napkin, trying to remember if she'd tried to get down at some point and bumped her face on the table or something. Because why would she be bleeding?

And then Benjamin said something, so I turned to look at him and his lips were bleeding.

"Benjamin!" I said. "Your mouth is bleeding, too!"

"Wait, what?" he asked, wiping his mouth with his napkin. 

"He's bleeding, too?!!" Andrew asked.

We started frantically scanning faces: "Alexander's mouth is bleeding, too!" Andrew announced.

"Is mine?" cried Zoë, who hadn't really touched much of her dinner.

Zoë was fine. 

"My mouth burns a little, but I think it's fine," Rachel said. 

Same answer for me and Miriam, both.

Andrew volunteered to be the constant for our study. "I didn't have any pineapple," he said, which launched a long discussion of which fruit he'd prefer in any given pair of fruits because he doesn't often choose to eat pineapple, apparently. 

And with good reason!!

Now, we already knew about bromelaine in pineapples, and have often joked that it's a fruit that you have to digest before it digests you, but we have never had one quite as pungent as this one!

There were a few panicky moments where we weren't sure why everyone was suddenly bleeding, but it only took us a few minutes to clue in to what was wrong. Still—so weird!

Cooking up some colloids

This morning we made a couple of gallons of chocolate milk for the youth to consume after their temple trip this evening. Evidently buying milk at Costco (because it's much cheaper there than other places) and some Nesquik powder is more cost effective than buying ready-made gallons of chocolate milk. It just requires a little bit of preparation. 

So Andrew had Miriam dump a gallon of milk into a big mixing bowl and add 262 grams of powder (equivalent to 1 cup or so) and give it a few rounds with the immersion blender before pouring it back into the milk jug. This last step required Andrew's assistance because a gallon of chocolate milk sloshing around in a bowl was a little heavy and precarious for Miriam or I to handle.

(I, like, tweaked my back the other day. I could hardly move at all yesterday—was on the brink of tears for most of the day because it was so painful—but woke up feeling a bit better this morning...but not able to handle a sloshing gallon of chocolate milk).

Andrew poured the milk while I held the funnel. 

"I dunno," I said as I observed how full the jug was getting and how much milk was still left to pour in it. "Does the volume of milk increase when you add the powder?"

"Nah," Andrew said. "It just dissolves."

"Sure," I said. "But...does it though? Like, it just doesn't seem like this jug is going to hold all of this..."

"But if it dissolves then it doesn't add to the volume, right?"

"Are you sure about that? I just still don't think it's going fit..."

"Oh, it'll fit," he said confidently, dumping the rest of the milk into the funnel. 

On a scale of one to ten...

I will write about our evening out soon! In the meantime, while we have all tested "negative" from COVID-19 and have been improving, we have not been having a fun time at our house. For whatever reason, both Andrew and I developed a post-COVID cough, and it's a doozy. It's possible Zoë and Phoebe have the same cough, but theirs isn't as bad. This cough is seriously no fun. 

And it's not like I didn't have a cough when I was sick with COVID. Because I did! 

I coughed so hard—I kid you not!—I pulled a muscle in my back (or something...must be getting old). I could hardly bend or twist and coughing was so painful! But I got over that cough. And my nose stopped being stuffy. And my back started to feel better. And I tested negative for COVID...and then I developed another nasty—and very productive (medically speaking)—cough. 

I am so tired of coughing. 

But I didn't start writing to complain...at least...not about coughing.