Swedish Meatballs in Gravy with Egg Noodles

I often claim my Kraut side, sorta like it's my only side -- but it's not. My maternal grandfather, Doral, was the first generation born here from Sweden. My maternal grandmother is the first generation born here from Germany. And my dad's side is pretty much English -- but after 300 years of marrying and breeding, it's become more of a Americana Heinz 57. . .

Yesterday I spent a lot of time perusing many different authentic Swedish Meatball recipes trying to find the *right* flavor combination of my Great Grandma Sand's recipe. You see, my 1st Generation German-American grandma grew up very, very poor during the Great Depression, one of 16 children (who lived past infancy), none twins. So her experience of German food was nil, to say the least. They were more a bread-with-some-sugar, boiled cabbage and if they were lucky: milk, sort of family. When grandma married my grandfather, Doral, his mother took her under her wing and taught her how to cook Swedish dishes, food her husband would like and that she could now (finally!) afford. So I grew up eating a lot of Swedish food cooked by my German grandmother. One of those were Swedish Meatballs -- and my grandma & I loved 'em. As she got older, she stopped with all the cooking, but would buy the frozen kind, saying she was pretending she was eating the real thing! Ha! 

Every once in a while I get a hankering for those meatballs, and yesterday I had 4lbs of ground meat just itching to be made into something tasty. I looked at different recipes, I tweaked this, changed that, and tasted a couple of meatballs along the way . . . and I NAILED IT! Wooohoooo! They taste like heaven, just like my grandma used to make! It even pleased the Portuguese Man I love so dearly. 

Swedish Meatballs in Gravy with Egg Noodles

Ingredients

MEATBALLS:

1 medium sweet yellow onion, very finely minced

1/4 cup salt-free butter

3 large eggs

3 slices white bread, crust removed

1/2 cup milk (or heavy cream)

2lbs ground meat (make sure 1lb is ground beef, but the other pound of meat can be ground pork and veal, or even buffalo, moose or elk. Combine the 2lb of meat as you like or just use 2 full pounds of ground beef. Ground sirloin is the best, of course)

1 tsp ground black pepper

2 tsp sea salt

2 tsp Nutmeg

1 tsp Cayenne Pepper

1/3 cup minced fresh parsley 

GRAVY:

1/2 cup all purpose flour (plus 1/4 cup more on reserve for more thickening)

4 cups 2 % milk

2 cups beef gravy, like Pioneer Brand or McCormicks, just buy the simple powder mix, prepare while you are working on the meatballs. Or use 2 cups beef broth made from bouillon and add one additional teaspoon bouillon to the broth (so extra-beefy beef broth) -- and plan to add the extra 1/4 cup flour to thicken. If your gravy is too thick from gravy, add a half cup of milk to thin.

2 TBSP Worcestershire Sauce

1 tsp ground black pepper

1 tsp Nutmeg

OPTIONAL: 1/2 pound sliced white or crimini mushrooms

EGG NOODLES:

One large package extra-wide egg noodles

2 TBSP butter

1/3 cup minced parsley


DIRECTIONS

In a medium bowl, place crustless bread slices, pour 1/2 cup milk (cream is an option, an even tastier option, and also works well) over them. Place in fridge for at least an hour. 

In the meantime, super thin mince your sweet onion. DO NOT USE DEHYDRATED ONION FLAKES! So if you have a food processor or chopper, definitely use that for a fine, fine mince. In a very large pan, melt the butter with the onions. If you're saying "oh KC! Why so much butter!?" -- trust me, you need it. You're not just sauteeing the onions until they're clear, you're caramelizing them. The butter allows them to cook longer and brings out the natural sugars, as well incorporates some flavor into the meatballs. So you are going to be caramelizing your onions over medium-high heat for at least five minutes, or until they are a nice golden-brown, and smelling a little sugary and feeling a bit sticky. Remove from heat and let cool a bit, so you don't burn your hands or cook the eggs while prepping your meatballs. 

Like this, a nice golden, caramelized minced onion.  You won't have this much, of course, but I doubled the recipe for my large family.

In a large bowl, lightly whisk your three eggs, add your meat, your spices, your parsley, and your soggy milk-bread that should have been in the fridge and hour or more by now. Add your slightly cooled off onions by scraping down your pan and adding both butter and onions to the bowl. Now combine well. Really well. Use your hands and make a good mince of it. This part is also fun for budding cooks, and kids love making meatballs! Form smallish 1" diameter meatballs, about the size of a small walnut. Turn your onion pan on over medium high heat, and start browning your meatballs in batches -- do not over-crowd the pan! Your meatballs will be easier to turn over and will brown rather than steam in an uncrowded-pan. Once they're a nice toasty brown on most sides -- using a slotted spoon transfer to a large plate lined with paper towels to drain while you finish the next few batches, but be careful to reserve the pan drippings (hence the slotted spoon).  

The meatballs have room to mingle, maybe get a number or two . . .enjoy their drinks with plenty of elbow room.

Once your meatballs are done, start your large pot of salted water to boiling for your egg noodles. Back to the meatball pan: sprinkle your 1/2 cup flour on the pan drippings and whisk around over medium high heat until the flour turns golden and incorporates the drippings. You should basically have a nice ball of golden roux in about 2 minutes. Slowly add milk, half a cup at a time, and moisten the roux over still medium high heat, being sure to incorporate the flour with every addition. You should have a nice thick gravy at the end of the four cups of milk. Slowly add your beef gravy or broth, whisking the whole time, to incorporate the flavor. Add your Worcestershire Sauce, nutmeg and pepper. Bring to a boil and whisk until the sauce is a nice thinnish-gravy with a bit of wiggle room to thicken over the next half hour. If it's way too thin? Sprinkle a little more flour from your reserve over it, bring back to a boil and whisk until it's at a desired thickness. Remember, this is a sauce, not a thick gravy. You want it to spread easily around on it's bed of egg noodles! If you are adding mushrooms, do so now, and turn your heat down to a simmer, Medium-Low.    

Meatball sauce roux. Mmmmmm . . . .

Return the meatballs to the pan and gently fold into the sauce. You'll simmer for 20-25 minutes in the sauce until the meatballs are cooked-through and nice and toasty warm, stirring occasionally and gently. Very gently. Kid gloves with this stir, people! The meatballs are quite well held together by the eggs and the bread-milk soak, but when hot will much more easily fall apart. 

Prepare egg noodles as to package directions, then toss with the 2TBSP butter and parsley. Serve Meatballs and sauce on top, with a nice salad and some crusty bread to accompany! 

Enjoy!   
This recipe serves 4-6 people.   

Chedder Ale Soup

I love Fall because I love soup. I'm like a freak for soup. When I heard that a soup could be made from cheddar and ale? I was ON IT. So here we go, my version of a cheddar ale soup . . . which is unbelievably good, and if you should take this to work the next day and heat it up in the office microwave? You'll have people clamoring for the recipe! The smell of this soup alone is divine! Wait until you taste it!

Cheddar Ale Soup



Ingredients:

2-3 Tbsp Butter

4 carrots roughly chopped

6 celery stalks roughly chopped

2 onions roughly chopped

10 cups chicken broth

1 tsp ground pepper

 1.5-2 bottles Dark Ale (but do NOT use Guiness. WAY TOO BITTER)

6 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese (I highly suggest Tillamook in the red brick for this)

1 - 2 tsps Tobasco Sauce, plus more to taste -- serve with soup (A lot of people often substitute other hot sauces for Tobasco, but I highly suggest sticking with the Tobasco. I've tried different hot sauces in here and they just don't have the correct flavor. So if you have to add an extra condiment to the pantry, trust me: it's worth it)

Saltine crackers crushed to sprinkle on top.

Directions:

In a large pot melt butter then add chopped carrot, celery and onion. Saute until onions are translucent and a little brown. Add the chicken broth & combine along with the pepper. Bring to a full rolling boil then turn down to a medium boil for an hour. You want the veggies soft, their flavor incorporated into the broth and the liquid cooked down a 1/4 to a 1/3rd of what you started with -- so you'll have roughly 7 to 8 cups broth. Let cool for an hour or so, (or not, but proceed with caution) then blend in small batches. Return blended liquid to pot. It should be a smooth and slightly thicker consistency. I know the flavors sound very plain, but before you go jazzing it up with herbs or other stuff, remember you want the cheese and the beer to be the top-note flavors. Adding herbs are distracting to the simple beauty of the dish. So start heating your blended soup up back to a soft boil once it's back in the pot.

Now you're going to want to add your beer. Today I am using Alaskan Amber Ale. Be choosy with your beer, you don't want anything too bitter, but you don't want anything watery either. So no Pabst or Budweiser. Add a bottle, let the bubbles subside, stir well, and taste. Need more beer flavor? Add a half a bottle. Stir, taste. Need more beer flavor? Add the rest of the second bottle. Or don't and just drink it. Well that's what I would do, anyway. Turn down the heat. You want a simmer going on here. Not a boil, just a simmer.



Once you have your beer flavoring squared away, and you want it to be beery, you need to taste beer before any hint of vegetable. Or broth. Alright, so next you're going to add to your simmering pot your cheese, a handful at a time. I use a large whisk to make sure the cheese melts and incorporates throughout. Only add more cheese once the previous handful is melted and distributed. Depending on the amount of liquid you might need another cup or two of shredded cheese. You want a nice smooth, not too thick, consistency. Not quite a cream soup, but not watery either. And you want it cheesy. So if it's not cheesy enough tasting, add more. I suggest Tillamook Sharp Cheddar (in the red-wrapped brick). Because frankly nothing tastes as good as Tillamook, and their Sharp Cheddar is brilliant in this soup. Add your Tabasco starting with 1 tsp. Add more if you like, or not, just serve on the side when serving the soup. It's strange how the Tobasco works with this dish -- it doesn't make it spicy at all, unless you add a whole bunch -- but the flavor punch it gives is amazing.



Ladle soup into bowls and add crushed saltines on top. Add a dash of Tobasco for a touch of color and flavor. Serve with more saltines and Tobasco on the side, and of course -- a great beer! And like most soups: it's even better the next day! Enjoy! 

One year ago today . . . I wasn't mourning 9/11, I was dodging a bullet.

One year ago today I was sitting in a level 3 hospital, on the Western outskirts of Oklahoma City, awaiting a surgery that was supposed to "fix" me, relieve my pain, and set me about on a new path of life that might just be better. That's right, a surgery scheduled for 9/11/12 at 11:00AM on the 11th anniversary of America's largest civilian tragedy. . .and that surgery, thanks to God and all the Angels and Saints in Heaven: never happened. And because it never happened? My life has changed so dramatically, and frankly "for the better", that 9/11 has a whole new meaning for me.

You see, I have what's officially diagnosed as "Adolescent-Onset Idiopathic Scoliosis with a Double-Major Curve, 60-Degree Opposing Curvatures of the Thoracic and Lumbar Spine with Resulting Degenerative Disc Disease and Arthritis". That's a mouthful, innit?

This X-ray is a little old. My lumbar spine is even more twisty now. Oh joy.

It's a back-full of excrutiating, constant pain, a literal pain in the ass.

So what happened? Well being a person of faith I call it a "Divine Intervention". For those of you without faith, I'm sure you'd call it a series of very fortunate coincidences. Whatever, let's not split hairs, this isn't a debate of faith. It is a story of my very own little, life-saving miracle, though. . .

A few years ago I started to feel "down". Super down. My back has always hurt, hell, it looks like something from a horror film -- you can imagine how it feels. But my lower back had never hurt like this before. I figured it out in the middle of the night, after realizing I had spent months being awake in the middle of the night, rolling my pelvis around to make my hips pop to relieve some pressure. It was an "aha!" moment: shit, it's my lower back. When you're in constant back pain, new pain doesn't often register.

My children were in a state of dismay, their normally active mom who always found stuff to do with them wasn't doing anything but sitting around playing on the computer or laying around reading books. I was cranky. I was impatient. I was short tempered. Hell, I was MISERABLE.

And my life was starting to fall down around me. My house looked like shit. My spouse dug in his heels and refused to pick up my slack. Refused to help at all, really. He was angry all the time. Apparently he didn't mean that part about "in sickness and in health" he said in his vows. That made me angry. Of course it did. Some resentment I could accept. That'd be natural. This wasn't some "resentment" -- my marriage became all-out war from his side, begging and pleading for some understanding, a bit of attention, a picking up of slack and some kindness, on mine. I warned him he was crossing a line of no-return for me. I explained I knew that he was sorely incapable of showing love on even his best days, and I didn't resent that -- as that would be like having anger towards a leopard for having spots. However, and this is important -- "you need to do something, stop ignoring me, stop ignoring this problem, HELP ME get help for this, be my friend, please, just HELP ME, help me with the kids, help me with the house, please . . ." 

And all this time I had been trying to find medical help. I went to one pain "specialist" who wanted to do surgical nerve blocks on my lower spine. I said "aren't you curious at all, as a doctor, as to WHY I am all-of-a-sudden hurting this badly?". "No, we'll just try this."  Right but the pain is so bad, I can't even walk, can you give me something other than these nerve blocks? "Nope.". My family doctor was intermittently prescribing Percocet and other pain killers as he could, but as the whole country is on a serious opiate pain killer crack-down, he could only prescribe very little. That's not his fault.

I eventually, on the advice of the National Scoiosis Foundation went to Dr. Michael Wright, an orthopedic surgeon *supposedly* specializing in adult scoliosis. I should have KNOWN this was a very bad choice the first five minutes of my first appointment. His PA told me to ignore everything my previous neurosurgeon told me, as "whatever, neurosurgeons think they know everything, they're all so arrogant" which I should have heard as "RUN! RUN AWAY FAST!".

He ordered MRI's. We finally found out what the problem was, the source of the pain. ALL of my lumbar spine discs had died into flat little black pancakes, or were very close to death. No blood flow. No springy-cushy stuff. Just the nerves serving my whole entire lower body being ground between my twisted verterbre.  The PA seemed a little mad. Like he was angry I was telling the truth about how much pain I was in, and here was the evidence, and that just pissed him OFF for some reason. And here I am, kinda wondering why he was so mad and then being all obvious and saying: "Oh GREAT! Now we KNOW! Now can you treat my pain please?"

"Nope. But I'll send you to a pain specialist."

6 months later, countless phone calls . . . nothing. No referral. No appointment for a pain specialist. Pain grew to the point where I literally could not walk more than twenty-thirty steps at a time. I was begged to be seen again. Dr. Wright, who by the way, has the personality of a rock-star-Tom-Cruise-Olympian-Gold-Medalist-Quarterback-Surgeon. His head is so big they have extra wide doors in his practice, and I'm sure it has NOTHING to do with wheelchairs, it's just so he can fit his huge head through them to grace us plebians with his presence. You may think I am confusing "ego" with "personality" but this guy has no personality, he runs on pure ego, all the time. I swear I heard him say "I AM THE GOD OF ALL SURGEONS NOW BOW TO ME, OH YOU ARE BOWING BECAUSE YOU'RE IN PAIN, BUT I WILL FIX THAT! AS THE GOD OF ALL SURGEONS! BWAHAHAHAHA!" but I think he really just said "Oh I am going to fix that." I had no choice but to wait.

I met Pedro last sumer, online. In a private facebook group that was based on art and humor. We became fast friends. We talked about movies, watched movies at the same time and then reviewed them with each other. We talked about our kids. About life (and my lack of one). He messaged me often to ask how I was doing, or how I was feeling. I reached out to him. He says he still feels guilty he didn't do more to help me then. "Just being my friend was help-enough," I reply. It was all in due-time. I KNEW what he was worth, and I planned to pursue it if I made it out of this crap alive. But up until last fall, we were completely platonic. Pedro is fussy. I like fussy. I also like not being a deceptive or dishonest wife, so I did not betray my own vows. I just waited.

And by the end of that (last) summer I was not only thinking about suicide everyday, it was like every moment of every single day. I couldn't walk, I couldn't take the pain, my spouse hated me, my eldest was out of patience or concern . . but Pippi and my boys would hang out with me in my room. Keep me company while playing video games and stuff. And yet I just wished for death. I prayed for it. Just to be out of this pain and to quit making those I love suffer, too. I kept a smile on my public face as best I could. I didn't want to spread my misery on others.

Here's what I tried to keep presenting to the world. 

Here is the daily reality of how I lived. I just found this photo now, I didn't even know it existed. Pippi playing in my room, on Photo Booth. Me, in my usual place, unable to move much. Good Lord that's hard to even look at.

 My children were the only things that I lived for. I knew a girl whose mother committed suicide. I wouldn't wish that on anyone's children, certainly not my own. I just waited.

Dash's little popsicle face, hanging out with me in my room.

So a week before this magic-surgery that was supposed to deliver me from pain (the surgery was supposed to be a full lumbar spine discectomy & fusion the first day, where they would remove the discs then use bone from my pelvis to fuse the lumbar spine together, followed by another surgery days later where they would flip me over- open me neck to pelvis, use titanium rods to brace my lumbar spine to my thoracic spine and attempt to straighten the curves a bit) I went for my pre-op physical.

This is what WOULD have happened last year. If I had survived. NOT my spine, just an example.

I learned I had a heart attack sometime in the recent past (Wait. Wut?). But what I didn't learn, until 9/11/12 an hour after the scheduled start time of that surgery? I had a raging kidney infection. You see, for some reason, there was a mix up with my cell phone bill and our phones were turned off. I didn't turn them on until the night before the surgery -- because I didn't realize it -- so out of communication was I with the rest of the world. Dr. Wright's office left messages, to pick up antibiotics, and to have it treated or they wouldn't be able to perform the surgery. I didn't get the messages. They never called my house. The pharmacy called to tell me to pick up my antibiotics. They too left messages. And for the first time ever: they never called my house.

So I was pissed last 9/11. Beyond pissed. Upset beyond belief. Even angrier to look over and see my spouse so engrossed in whatever paperback he was reading he hadn't even bothered to look up or hear what was happening. Dr. Wright explained that the infection could kill me. I could only hear "and I'm still not treating your pain". So we left the surgery center and all I could do was bawl at this senseless life of unending, mind blowing: pain. I really believed, truly believed that the surgery would help. Turns out I was wrong. . .

Dead wrong.

And had I gone through with it? Even WITHOUT that kidney infection? I probably, most-likely, would have died this day, last year.

So what happened after 9/11? My spouse had popped-off on Dr. Wright's surgery scheduler, and so I was fired as his patient. That's so funny to me, even to this day. Thank you Lord for that -- best "firing" I ever had in my life! Oh and apparently me being angry over not having my pain treated was offensive. Oh so soz, Surgeon God, I did not mean to emote in your presence or dare suggest you are doing your surgeon-God stuff incorrectly.

My dad bought my ticket to Oregon, I packed one suitcase, told my spouse that when I left I would never return to him, and boarded a plane. To my entire new life. I was finally done waiting. That was October 5th, 2012. I moved in with my sister, an amazing woman and an amazing nurse, and we set about finally getting me treated. I stopped with the wanting-to-die crap. I really, really wanted to live.

So at the end of October -- I did see a VERY GOOD spine specialist and orthopedic surgeon in Southern Oregon (who did his residency under one of the nation's top experts in adult scoliosis, but for realsy this time), my sister tagging along and asking all the right questions. Here's what we learned: 

*The surgery that was scheduled for 9/11/12 was NEVER meant to relieve pain. It wouldn't. It would make my life so much more full of pain, I'd wish I had died.

*The surgery has an extremely high fatality rate. Should never be performed outside a level 1 trauma unit hospital with one full time pulminary and cardioligist on call, 24 hours a day.





*The surgery should only be done as a last resort on people whose scoliosis has suddenly started to curve rapidly and whose lungs/other vital organs are being crushed and will die if the spine's curving is not stopped.

*That not having the surgery meant I most likely dodged a bullet, and that I must have someone looking out for me, because NOT having the surgery was the luckiest windfall of my lifetime.

*And yes, of course I'll send you to a pain specialist -- right away! You shouldn't be made to suffer like this. I can't believe you suffered for as long as you have.

As for Dr. Wright in OKC? It seems I'm not the only one to have these views --as you can see for yourself by the first review left here. My heart and prayers go out to the woman who suffered this at his hands. I'm sorry you didn't have a kidney infection or some other sort of thing that would have spared you this suffering. I'm glad you found help elsewhere. I did, too.

So as it happens, I was fianlly treated. I have quality of life. I can walk. I can do stuff with my kids, whom are all with me now. I finally convinced Pedro to take a chance on me late last October, and by December he had decided to leave Massachuesettes and join me on the West Coast. He arrived January 1st. With the help of my friend Serena, whom provided us a place to live for a good 6 months, we were able to start a new life together, along with our children, here in the outskirts of Spokane. Sure it was fast, but I waited enough in this lifetime, and I wasn't ABOUT to let a good thing pass by.

So here it is September 11th, a day of mourning for the majority of this country, and I am over-whelmingly filled with the gratitude of not dying myself on 9/11/12 just one short year ago today. Of not only being alive, but being fully alive, and happy, and grateful and above all -- so very blessed! AND MY PAIN IS FINALLY UNDER CONTROL! Sure, I still hurt and I have physical limitations, but I can cook dinner and go grocery shopping and do laundry and PLAY WITH MY KIDS.


I'll return to Southern Oregon at some point this fall for my yearly spine check-up and X-ray. I think I am going to hug that doctor when I see him.

And if you suffer chronic pain? Keep going. Keep fighting. There are specialists and doctors out there who WILL treat you. Don't give up. Just don't give up!

I know this was long, so thanks for reading.

Tryptophobia: how NPR TROLLED me, and everyone like me. (If you have a fear of clowns . . . be warned)

So yesterday I was sitting at my desk, scrolling through my facebook feed when this happened. . .

"HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD!! (which I mean totally respectfully because I am Catholic and I have some serious mad love for the Blessed Virgin) OH MY GAWWWWD!" <proceed to weeping, gasping, making sounds like Tim Roth dying in Reservoir Dogs, or if you're unfamiliar, trying to get the last bit of dish soap out of a bottle of Dawn, forcing my eyes downward and tripping over my own chair trying to get away from my computer monitor>

Why would I all-of-a-sudden freak-out, scream, cry and lose any similarity to composure?

Because some genius at NPR is a complete and total beef flap.

Like millions of people, I have NPR in my feeds.

Like thousands of people, I suffer from Tryptophobia. Which, if you're unfamiliar with the term means: I have a fear of holes. Not holes-in-the-ground (unless they're numerous and closely spaced). But holes, grouped together, and if those holes contain smaller things inside them? It's even worse for me. From what I understand there's varying degrees of Tryptophobia, where some people just don't like to see groups of holes together, and will divert their eyes or feel uncomfortable. From the very brief glance I got of text -- it's up to 15% of people who experience discomfort at these images.

Not I . . . oh not I. I have such an intense visceral reaction to "holes" that I will freak out. I'll cry. Just start crying. Loudly. Wailing would be more accurate. I grab my head and close my eyes and just put Joan Crawford to shame with the d-r-a-m-a. True story.

So what happened with NPR? They posted a story about tryptophobia and I kid you not, posted a picture of a lotus pod (read: plant pod full of holes) to demonstrate what sort of things us tryptophobes can't handle looking at.

REALLY NPR?

REALLY?????

Who the hell thought this was a good idea? If you're going to post a story -- that hey, sounded good until I saw the graphic -- because it totally PERTAINS TO ME AND OTHERS LIKE ME? Could you NOT post the very thing we really freak out about? Do you post pictures of spiders when writing about Arachnaphobes? Who in the hell decides on images to be used in articles when dealing with phobias? Pennywise the Clown?

Hahahaha Got YA! How you like dem holes, kids? Love forevers and for realsy, NPR.

(My sincerest apologies if anyone that has a clown-phobia ended up here. I mean sincerely. I'm not a dick like that.)

So I sorta made it back to the desk -- only half my butt on the chair in case I needed to book and run again -- while diverting my eyes. I was trying to get a comment in to them about what a dick-move that was. So it probably looked like "ohmy gawd why would you dothat? tThis made me cry, and I cant even look up. WHY DID YOU DO THIS? Take that graphic down!".  Then I somehow shared it and tagged my friend who has the opposite of tryptophobia -- she has tryptophillia, an intense like of holes closely spaced. I did it with a book held in front of my monitor anywhere near the image. I shared it partly because she gets a weird delight out of holes being spaced together, and partly because I knew she would find it hilarious that NPR trolled me so hard. And she did. Yeah. Hardy - har - har. But she also felt bad, because she cares a lot about me, and doesn't ever send me pictures of holes.

I was hoping that by today the image would be gone, or being a news organization that exists due to philanthropy, they would kindly "hide" the image. Like a philanthropist that cares about humanity would do. They could easily offer people who don't have Tryptophobia a button to click -- to see what freaks us out -- like they do on other news outlets that hide disturbing images. Which, when I think about it, must seem like a really dumb thing to freak out about.

But I do. Oh I do.  

It's seriously no joke, and can be dangerous if I happen to be driving and come up behind a semi hauling large pipes. All stacked up and holey-like. It's not funny really, because I start that annoying crying and wailing business which isn't safe whilst driving.

And it's weird what will set us Tryptophobes off  -- stuff people who don't have it would never think of. I mean, you can understand people that have Arachnaphobia seeing a spider and screaming and running, right? Or people with a fear of clowns staying the hell away from circuses. But wait until you have a Tryptophobe make Easy Mac in your microwave. When they open the lid and see tons of tiny holey noodles standing on-end like little soldiers-of-hole-y-terror -- and all of a sudden they're screaming and crying and earning their Oscar for Best Actress in the Category of Totally Freakish Phobias -- it'll totally catch a normal person off-guard. 

That's right. I have lost my shit over single-serving microwave mac & cheese snacks for my kids.  

Clowns? THIS is the face of terror, folks. This right here. 

So anyway, I'm bummed about NPR. Because what I gathered from the title of the story was that it might be due to some sort of venomous bite people had in their past. I really want to know. When I went back today to check, nervously, shakily, I saw that the image was even bigger (thank you so much God in Heaven above that it slowly loaded from the top so I didn't have to see the actual image), so I had to close my eyes and beg my 12-year-old-son to close the page. . .

Just making sure you can see the details, all the holey and filled details of those tubular terrors, our Tryptophobes! You're welcome! Love forevers and for realsies, your friends at NPR!

I know the first time I experienced Tryptophobia. I was five years old. I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember my reaction (including the blood curdling scream that made my dad swerve off the freeway in a spray of rocks and brake dust -- and probably would have given him a heart attack if he wasn't a healthy, young man). I remember it all VERY WELL. Because it was like I felt the "snap" in my brain when that dam broke lose. When I was seriously forever changed by looking at a cluster of holes. However, IF it was caused by perhaps a spider bite or something equally ridiculous, I might feel better about myself and this dumb phobia.

Because the day I admit that a cooked canister of Easy Mac can utterly upset my life, like I am doing right now -- well it's embarrassing -- and I would sure feel better if I knew why. I'm sure it can't be "fixed", but just knowing that it might be biological instead of psychological, well I think it might make me feel a little better about it.
 


And if you guys could do me a solid and tell me a basic synopsis of what the article actually says, what the toxin actually is that causes it, or even a c&p of the article sans-images -- I would be eternally grateful.

So grateful I'll try not to post a picture of Pennywise ever again!!! 

OH and NPR? I don't forgive you. That was a very uncool thing to do to your devoted fans and listeners.  Especially when your story title suggests that up to 15% of humans have a problem with Tryptophobia. That was very irresponsible of you. Please, take the images down. It's not funny, it's really horrible.

What is a "Twat Waffle"?

I guess I got some 'splainin to do . . . since a lot of people have been directed over here to my little corner of teh interwebz. The question has been posed quite a bit over the last 24 hours: "what exactly is a "twat waffle?".

Well, basically, a "Twat Waffle" is an extremely intelligent, opinionated, sassy, sarcastic, humorous, FRIEND. Thankfully I have a lot of these Twat Waffles in my life. I'm like totally blessed with an abundance of Twat Waffles. Or "Butt Waffles" when I'm on a Christian or Censor y-type website.

A couple of my Butt Waffles have actually asked me to will them the official & exclusive use of the term "Butt Waffle" when I die. See how epic that term is? They want it when I die.

I tend to take ridiculous words and run them together so they sort of look like an insult but are really just terms of endearment for really cool people. Because that's how I roll.

My own forever-nickname is "Bitch Wax". I'm not even sure how it came about, but I know it sourced out of my bestie Kristina, in the fog of a Black-Martini-induced giggle fest. Pre-kids. I think it was Hollywood. Could have been Vegas. Might have been Reno. Probably Reno. Bitch Wax just totally sounds "Reno" doesn't it?

The Bitch Waxes in Reno. In a bathroom mirror selfie. With an actual camera and not a phone. This photo should be in the Smithsonian or something.

So yeah, I call people names that do not make any sense because I love them. It's like a hug. A big ole-squeezy-hug-of-nonsense. Because we're on the internet most of the time now, and I can't hug you in real life: I'll hug you with silly names. If I call you a ridiculous name, it means I LIKE you. A LOT. I care enough to string random words together just for you. . .

Some of my other well used monikers for people I love are:

Diaper Sniffer (reserved for the parents of very young children)

Granny Slammer (I typically call my guy friends with wives younger than them)

Nipple Nugget (anyone being ridiculous)

Throat Holster (that one is rare because it does actually toe-the-line of a real insult)

I could go on, but you get the point . . .

So thanks for stopping by. I'm guessing you are here because you care enough to be an honorary Twat Waffle. Hopefully you'll stick around and be a full-time Twat Waffle! I love my Twat Waffles!

Sincerely, with much love and yours forever,

Bitch Wax

AND IN THE INTEREST OF FULL DISCLOSURE -- because I try my damnedest to be honest and not be a plagiarizing panty-pincher. . . I didn't even come up with all these phrases on my own  . . . I have a Profanity Generator:

(Butt Waffle was mine prior to obtaining the Generator, but I did get Twat Waffle from the book. Bitch Wax is totally ours, though, as is many other ridiculous names I come up with on the spur-of-the-moment. This is like a pocket thesaurus for my own ridiculous personality.)

So if you like a snappy and quirky comeback? Buy this book. It's awesome.

FYI (if you're a self-righteous mom who writes blog-posts to condemn and slut-shame teenage girls)

Hi there Mrs. Hall! I've been going through my own social media page this morning, and it seems you are an over-night internet sensation! A celebrity of the week. Some might even say you OWN the internet today. Congratulations!

Some of the posts I have seen in regard to your blog post are fully supportive and agree with your opinion.  Most of the opinions I've seen are very critical, because you see, the level of double standard you "went to" in order to get your point across is simply mind-blowing. Want to punch my monitor: mind blowing. 

It seems the biggest hoopla surrounding your "advice" to teenage girls was the fact you posted pictures of your teenage sons, half naked, on a beach: IN THE EXACT SAME POST.

I saw your comment response, that you were just blown-away by the response of people saying "but but but, wait a minute, you're shaming girls and yet flaunting boys. Do you NOT SEE what's wrong with that?". Because you honestly don't see what's wrong with that. I'm going to give you some insight, if you'll allow me. So take my hand . . . let me explain WHY what you did was wrong, as the Christian mother of not one, but TWO teenage girls. . . 


You see, there's nothing wrong with kids, even teenage kids, in bathing suits. Be they at pools, at lakes, at rivers or at beaches.  More importantly: there's nothing wrong with teenage GIRLS in bathing suits in any of the above-mentioned places. However -- and this is the most important part of my post -- so please pay attention right NOW:

TEENAGE GIRLS ARE BEING TOLD, WITH INCREASED FREQUENCY, TO COVER UP. TO STAY COVERED UP. BECAUSE THEIR BUDDING AND BLOSSOMING BODIES ARE TEMPTING NOT ONLY TO BOYS BUT TO GROWN MEN. THEY ARE BEING TAUGHT, TIME AND TIME AGAIN: THAT IT'S ALL THEIR FAULT. AND IF THEY DON'T SHOW SOME HUMILITY AND WEAR ONLY CONSERVATIVE DRESS THEY'LL DESERVE ALL THE BAD THINGS THEY GET LIKE AN OGLING OR EVEN POSSIBLY: RAPE.

You see, I have been in a hot-headed mood since last year's 8th grade school-sponsored "pool party" where ALL the girls were told to wear shirts over their bathing suits or they couldn't swim. The boys could go shirtless, of course. But not the girls.  Despite wearing bathing suits under the shirts. I didn't learn about this until AFTER the party. Why? Because my girls knew I would speak up -- and they didn't want me to. They just wanted to swim. . .

And you know what sticks with me to this day? Not one parent, one teacher, or one school administrator thought to say: "Why don't we tell the boys, and the male school employees not to objectify and sexualize our girls instead of demanding the girls cover up the very things which they cannot help but be: and that is growing, beautiful GIRLS?"

My beautiful girls. I can post my gorgeous children in their bathing suits, too. See how I am?

Because we live in a world of ridiculous girl-blaming rape culture. Of "slut shaming". Where more often than not, even the media will portray the victims of rape as the instigators. The ones to blame. If she wouldn't have been standing there all being a girl and stuff, that would have never happened to her. 

Do you realize that the only people that can stop that sort of outlook, that sort of view of the females of our society: is the parents of boys? That's YOU Mrs. Hall. And that's ME, too.
 
Instead, you have flauntingly condescended the female teenage friends of your sons. You perpetuated the exact culture that really needs to end. You have taught and demanded from your boys a fantastic double standard. "Oh that girl is clearly a little slut, we have to unfriend her!". Did it even ONCE occur to you to ask your boys to find out what might be bothering the girl that compelled her to post a picture that may or may not be crying out for something? Did you ask your boys if that girl had been bullied at school today? No, what you did say to the girls was, and I quote:

"And now – big bummer – we have to block your posts. Because, the reason we have these (sometimes awkward) family conversations around the table is that we care about our sons, just as we know your parents care about you."

I love your use of italics on the "your parents care about you". You see, I'm like the reigning queen of sarcasm. I LOVE the use of italics to get my one-two-punch across. However, this made me want to punch my monitor. Why?

Because you not only don't know what's going on in those girls' personal lives, you blamed the parents right out the gate. You know what's even more tragic? You didn't take a teachable moment in raising your sons to love, respect and revere girls or women. It would have been so simple to ask your boys if they knew if a certain girl might be hurting. Having family problems. Being bullied at school. NOPE. "No sirree Mister! We're going to unfriend that ho-bag right now! She's just way too much slut for my precious little angels! Let's get rid of her! The ONLY problem that girl has is too much whore going on!"

How do you know that little girl wasn't called fat or ugly at school today? How do you know that this girl's parents might be caring for an aging or ill parent or family member? How do you know that one of her parents aren't dying themselves? How do you know ANYTHING at all about these girls when you have taught your sons intolerance? A disturbing lack of understanding? Compassion? Care?

You know what I want my SONS to ask a girl who posts a provocative photo on the web? "Is everything alright with you? You know I'm your friend and I'm here for you.". That's all. Nothing more. No shaming. No judging. Just some actual concern.

 It's hard not to notice that the whole "selfie revolution" has swept the world of teenage girls and this is how, right now, they express themselves. You'd have to have your head in the sand if you haven't noticed, even if you don't have kids! And maybe some parents don't notice -- not because they don't care, but maybe because they are doing everything they can in their own lives to stay afloat? But who are you to judge if they care, or if they don't? Maybe mom is raising kids on her own and working two jobs? See . . . instead of teaching compassion, or teaching about the ills of assumptions . . . you taught your boys to be intolerant of dem slut-girls. Because I am sure your precious boys never do anything wrong when they are stressed, or hurt, or upset. They would nevah take suggestive selfies, of course, they know better. But they're boys, so that may not just be attributed to your stellar parenting. However, I would bet a donut and a cup of coffee your boys have at least one bathroom mirror selfie on their pages -- somewhere. . .    

Coolest selfie EVAH.

So let's break this down, shall we?

• You've shamed all girls that have taken a ridiculous selfie and posted it on the web. For like all time. You didn't think "oh that little girl could probably use a hug" -- you posted that they're all worthless sluts whose parents obviously don't care for them and now they can't be friends with your sons.

• You've taught your sons to be intolerant of women, of their weaknesses, their cries for help, or  how not to offer even just a little kindness. Because if they don't behave like upstanding moral Christian girls 100% of the time, they're not worth the gum on the bottom of your son's shoe. Ever. No second chances. No nothing. Tell me, did you really make it through all those angsty, teenage years without making a single mistake? Because that's so impressive. I can't think of another reason why else you would tell your sons that women can't be allowed to make bad choices or mistakes as teenagers -- unless you, yourself, came through adolescence absolutely crystal-clean! Because clearly these girls personal problems, and possibly their own crisis should NOT matter to your boys. I mean you got through your teenage years crystal, right? The ONLY thing that matters is that your sons can't "unsee those pictures". You know, I keep checking Costco, and I'm sorry to report they don't seem to have economy sizes of Brain-Bleach in stock. Big bummer! You'll have to tell your sons what I tell my kids! "Deal with it". Poor babies.  

• You've shamed girls for dressing provocatively then in the same exact moment in internet-time posted half-naked pictures of your sons and husband frolicking around being anything BUT modest. And you just can't understand WHY that bothers anyone. Especially us mothers of teenage girls. Because boys and men don't have to be modest! Our girls better cover up though -- lest they tempt yours sons or husbands -- the little sluts! Big bummer-- we have to unfriend you!

 
NOW do you see what's wrong with what you posted?  NOW DO YOU SEE WHY WE WANT TO PUNCH OUR MONITORS? Now do you see how you are personally perpetuating the girl-blaming-rape-culture in how you are raising your own sons? Now do you understand the very uncharitable and sincerely un-Christian stance of intolerance and judging you have propagated not only within your own family, but upon tons of teenage girls AND THEIR PARENTS? 

Now, do you see?  

The definition of "Twat Waffle" explained here: http://twatwaffles.blogspot.com/2013/09/what-is-twat-waffle.html

***Post-note: There's something really bothering me, about Mrs. Hall and her original blog. It bothers me as a mother of teenage girls and a boy on the cusp of his teens. WHY didn't you contact these girls PARENTS when you saw pictures "so provocative" you made your sons' unfriend and block them? Because, honestly, if I were unaware that one of my children had posted something inappropriate? I would surely appreciate a head's up. Because that's a caring thing to do. For the child in question and everyone involved.  I just don't understand how you jumped from demanding your sons' unfriend these girls, to blatant "slut shaming" on the internet, with no word what-so-ever to parents that can actually do something positive about this.

Post update #2:

I would like to take a moment and apologize for my own assumptions about the emotions or reasons behind the photographs, or selfies, that Mrs. Hall found objectionable. Because I didn't see the pictures. None of us did. We don't know how “slutty” or “inappropriate” they actually were. We can't draw our own conclusions on factual evidence. We just have her (harsh) words for it.

Please let me explain my thought-process and HOW I drew my own conclusions, and they were only meant to be used as examples while addressing Mrs. Hall:

1. One thing Pedro and I have noticed with our own selfie-taker (only one of the girls is an obsessed selfie-taker) is that there is a DIRECT COALITION between stress in her life -- be it cruel words from other girls, to a heartbreak from a boy, to not enough attention at home, especially from her dad, because he's working a lot – and the numbers of selfies she posts in various media outlets. When we see selfies start going up in numbers? We start asking questions, and giving hugs, and finding out what's bothering her. Because something is typically bothering her and this is her way of expressing it. And sometimes she just needs to hear that she is cute (she's gorgeous, actually), and lovable, and important, and missed, and needed. So this is OUR EXPERIENCE within our own family. Not every girl is our daughters, and our daughters are not every girl. I am fully aware of that. I apologize if that offended you.
2. As people have been pointing out, this is a time in ALL teenager's lives that they're trying on their-new-to-them sexuality. They are testing the waters. They're curious as to what others find attractive, or sexy, or alluring. Again, this is totally normal. Again, that could be what Mrs. Hall found objectionable. Again, none of us know.
   I don't want to assume that the girls in her sons' internet-world were trying on their sexuality or expressing pain. I wanted to point out that they aren't sluts no-matter-their-motive. I wanted to point out that she did a huge disservice to her boys by dismissing these girls out-of-hand to her boys, and demanding her boys do the same, without even stopping to think, or ponder “why” the photos were being posted. Because maybe one of those girls WAS hurting. And maybe one WAS just trying to be cute. And even more likely, one took a selfie in the privacy of her room, in her pajamas, with no thoughts of sex or appropriateness AT ALL, never thinking some judgy-woman would be looking at it with a critical-stink-eye and deeming her a ho-bag unworthy of her half-dressed sons. Which is kind of sad, really, because I'm guessing here, that the Hall Boys' dance cards (i.e. smart-phone-text-message-app in modern day speak) are going to be pretty empty of pretty, smart, cute girls that *gasp!* wear pajamas to bed! We, personally, would not allow our daughters any where NEAR that woman – which automatically places her sons on the “do not date” list. Because we believe in second chances. And we believe in forgiving mistakes. And we believe in teaching compassion and forgiveness in our children. And we believe that girls are just as important as boys, and that their worth is dependent on themselves, not what boys, or what boys' mothers think of them.

So please accept my apologies. I was doing my own shaming, because I felt someone really needed to kick her off her throne of self-righteousness built on the backs of what she clearly deems the unworthiness of teenage girls. And thank you so much for taking time out of your busy days to read what I had to say.

I just don't know what to do with myself. A tale of the first day of school, and the last day of full-time motherhood.

I'm alone at home, without a child, for the first time in FIFTEEN YEARS!

I just don't know what to do with myself.

No kids shows. No demands for breakfast, 2nd breakfast, 3rd breakfast (because apparently I'm raising Hobbit children) and snack. No nagging to pick clothes off bathroom floors. No nagging to wash hands or brush teeth or saying "get your hands out of your pants". No more quiet inquiries of "I just want to hug you, mom" or "can you read me this story?". No more three hour discussions on the geography of Middle Earth, and just how powerful Gandalf is. . .

. . . and I just want to cry. All day. Like a baby. Because I miss my babies. And yet, I am so excited for Dashiell, as he enters the big-boy world of kindergarten, and lunch lines, and school buses, and 8 hours, 5 days a week, away from home, making his own big-boy-way in the big-boy-world.

The other four kids started school last week. Since Washington state has implemented day-long kindergarten state-wide this year, all kindergarten students started today. It was done so that parents could meet the teachers and introduce their 5 year olds to the classroom prior to the mad rush of the first day of school. We met his teacher last Friday. Lovely lady, that was seemingly impressed -- and entertained -- with Dashiell. His vocabulary. His ability to read his name and other basic words. His knowledge of letters and numbers. His extensive knowledge of Middle Earth (and thank goodness she knows her Tolkien or all this knowledge might be lost on her). How broccoli is only 2nd to marshmallows on his list of favorite foods, and that mushrooms taste like Rivendale. That he doesn't like getting haircuts. That I am one proud mom to have such a delightfully entertaining, animated, and intelligent son.

And so the excitement has really been building for Dash since Friday. Who had done some preschool last year in Oklahoma, and who REALLY enjoys going to school. We've been so excited, we've been counting sleeps! And once the school clothes were being set out last night by Pedro, it really kicked in . . . with kisses and cuddling me and more kisses and his little body just trembling with elation. He crawled in next to me in my bed, and began to implore "can I sleep with you tonight, mom? Just one last night before I'm a big boy going to school and have to sleep in my own big boy bed forever?". So I had him ask Pedro, and Pedro agreed because it's really hard to turn down such an excited Dash . . . and he made himself a bed on the couch so that Dash could be the "baby" just one last night. I counted my blessings in all the good I have in my life, and set about trying to get Dash to calm down. Because he twitched, and trembled, and kicked his little legs and begged me to tickle his back and to cuddle him and . . . and . . . and . . . finally fell asleep. In my arms. It probably won't be the last time, but it felt like it last night. So I held him, and I breathed in the scent of little man (he still has that underlying baby-smell of sweet mother's milk and Johnson's baby shampoo. Well, when he doesn't smell like dirt, peanut butter and Frito feet) that's rapidly changing into big-boy-scents and big-boy-size faster than I can keep track of. 

Dreaming of air-bows and Power Rangers, I'm sure.

Six-thirty came quick enough, and I really had to work to get the little man up. A few gentle nudges, some firmer shakes, and finally "don't forget -- it's your first day of school!" sent him flying out of bed. He dressed quickly. He brushed his teeth thoroughly. He met Shane's teasing and big brother torture with giggles and a few friendly punches. He only gave Eden half a fight when it came time to "do his hair up handsome".

"You aren't trying to make me look like Edward, are you?"

The whole time he would take little breaks, and stop what he was doing to come hug and kiss me. The big kids gave advice about the cafeteria lunch lines. They gave him a white plum from our orchard to take to his teacher. Pippi sneaked a Despicable Me toy into his backpack. We all checked and double checked that he had all his school supplies. And when it was time to head out to the road for the bus, he lead the charge. Until he saw me come outside behind them and then he stopped, turned, and ran back just to give me one more kiss goodbye. 

I walked with him to the road (our driveway end IS the bus stop), despite my Eden's protestations of just how UNCOOL it is to have her mother out there (I can out eye-roll her, by the way), and gave up the argument when I pointed out to her there is NO WAY I am missing the opportunity to see my last baby off to his first day of school.  And yes, I WILL be taking thousands of pictures. Duh.

So I got hugged and squeezed and kissed only about a hundred more times. I got a ton of hamming it up for my camera. Eden also shared in the kisses and the hugs and even some hand-holding. Someone had to help him hold in all that excitement! 

The bus finally arrived. . . where he was naturally elected the first of the clan to clamber aboard . . . and he introduced himself quite exuberantly to the driver.

 "Hi! I'm Dash!"

He was seated in the front, with all the other kindergartners. He could see me through the bus doors -- where he waved from his bus seat with practically his whole body -- and I wondered just how much he wanted to hop off the bus to give me one more kiss and hug goodbye. I held it together, my heart bursting with pride and with just a small touch of sorrow. Because this is it. This is the last time I'll send one of my babies off to their first day of kindergarten. Their very first day of school. These beautiful, bright children who have not, across-the-board, brought home "red slips" or disappointing grades. Whom I receive praise and delight about from their teachers, collectively, all these years. Beautiful, intelligent, wonderful children. And SO MANY children! Watching them all line up to board the school bus took my breath away! Yes, my hands are full. But my hands are not nearly as full as my heart.

 (Left-to-Right: Pippi, Crysta, Eden, Shane and Dash) 

As I turned to walk back to the house, the acidic burn of bus exhaust in my nose, I began to weep. Because this is it. The house is so quite. It's just Pedro talking in his sleep and the ever present drone of the wasps outside my office window. And my sniffling, of course.

I just don't know what to do with myself. . .

But be so terribly happy and excited for Dash, and just so dang proud of them all.