Good Thing I'm Irish

Average number of emails I receive from my husband: 4

Emails that are about something serious: 0

Emails that include a picture titled "Korean Pregnancy Test": this one

Minutes I laughed: several dozen

Happy Xmas 2011!

You've shopped and you've cooked and cleaned up the crap

you've waited in a long line just to sit on Santa's lap.

You've planned all the meals and decorated a tree

you've sent out the cards, wishing postage was free.

The cookies have been baked, the stockings are full

and the youngest kids are wondering if they only got coal.

And because nothing is perfect, there will still be screams and tears

and that's when you remember...

sometimes vodka is the only way to find Christmas cheer.

Merry Christmas! And if no one else tells you today... the food was great, the gifts were perfect, you obviously worked your ass off, no you don't drink too much, your outfit is amazing and thanks for everything.

Cookie Chaos

It recently occurred to me that while I write about eating, potato chips, drinking and cleaning the kitchen, I never write about actual cooking. Clarification... I have written about cooking, but only in regards to: A) that I don't love to do it; B) I don't spend hours pouring over cookbooks and dreaming about the next magical meal I'm going to whip up; C) that my kids are semi-picky eaters in regards to texture, cheesiness, sauciness, and spiciness; and D) Christmas cookies.

For eleven months out of the year, my cookie baking skills consist of a handy plastic package of pre-made cookie dough purchased in the dairy section. In addition to this being due to the fact that I'm almost always too lazy to haul the stand mixer out and I'm too anal to have the bulky space hog sitting on my counter year round, it's also due to the fact that the only reason I ever make cookies is because my kids want them. And even though my kids want them, they do not need to have five dozen cookies sitting in the house because, inevitably, four dozen of them will go uneaten. For me - having softened butter and creamed the butter and mixed the butter with the dry ingredients and then watched this butter mixture morph into something besides a burnt cookie - chucking those stale little suckers into the garbage can makes me, well, despise baking. And it makes me resentful. And who needs to be resentful about baking when, as parents, we have so many other things to be resentful about?

Anyway, each December, something happens to my brain that I'm sure most psychologists would put into the same classification as Bat Shit Insanity. I start hoarding butter and sugar when it's on sale, dig through recipes and clear a day on my calendar so that I can spend several hours standing in my kitchen.

This year, after several muttered (and a few shouted) obscenities, yards of parchment paper and too may sticks of butter to acknowledge without dry heaving, I ended up with approximately 22 dozen cookies. After Thursday, when I bake the sugar and gingerbread, there will be what is commonly known in the baking world as a fuck ton of cookies. But hey, I have some appreciative friends, a satisfied mailman, a perplexed garbage man and some happy children so, ya know, it was worth it. I guess.

Since I, the non-baker, managed to crank out so many circles of fat without even so much as over-browning one bottom or giving anyone food poisoning, I've decided to share some of my cookie baking tips. If you want to incorporate them into your own holiday baking extravaganza, feel free. If you want me to go burn in a fiery hell because I'm not supposed to talk about anything besides drinking and beating children, I completely understand.

HOLIDAY COOKIE BAKING WITH

THE MEAN MOM

IN WICH COCKTAILS ARE CONSUMED

AND NO BURNS ARE SUSTAINED

• Buy and use parchment paper. I buy mine at Costco because you get several football field lengths for not that much money. Use it on every pan, even the ones that claim to be nonstick because then not only will your cookies look better in the end, but you won't have to wash any pans.
• Another bonus of parchment paper: you can just slide the whole paper off of the pan, directly onto the cooling rack. No more trying to wedge a spatula under a too-warm cookie, resulting in a destroyed/deformed cookie.
• For those of you that own Silpat/silicone baking mats, do what I did and STOP USING THEM. They are a pain in the ass to wash, no pan ever created fits them exactly without either wasted space and/or the mat lopping over the edges and did I mention that they're a pain in the ass?
• If you don't have a palm tree in your yard and can't wear shorts year round, the fastest way to cool the cookie sheets between batches is to put them outside.
• I use the insulated cookie sheets, but have also used the edgeless non-insulated kind. It really is a matter of preference and keep in mind that cookies baked on the non-insulated sheets will have browner edges and bottoms. Also, I am convinced that the burn-rate is much higher for the non-insulated.
• This may sound a lot like Martha and for that I apologize, but I never make drop cookies without a spring-lever scoop. It's like a mini ice cream scoop and it makes plopping that lump of dough so much easier. Plus, all your cookies will be the same size and if you're anal like me, you get a little bit neurotic if all your cookies aren't the same size.
• Unless you happen to own 25 cooling racks, cover a giant flat surface with freezer paper, waxy side down. Then, once your cookies have cooled on the parchment paper, move them to the freezer paper to finish setting (especially important when making the always-popular peanut butter/Hershey's Kiss cookies). The waxy surface will prevent any grease/butter/fat from soaking through to the table.
• Don't frost the sugar cookies too soon before Christmas because storing them is a pain in the ass.
• This is common sense, but if you need to chill some dough for three hours, make that dough first and then move it to a different bowl to chill so that your mixer bowl is free to make something else. Otherwise you'll just spend those three hours sitting around, during which you may start cocktailing, which will result in some really interesting cookies and probably a few burns (no, I'm not talking about the cookies). Since I am still staring at a scar from a Thanksgiving mishap, I am very much against charred flesh.
• If you see the peppermint candy cane Hershey's Kisses, buy two bags. They sell out fast. And if you aren't able to find them, then you won't be able to make these:

Candy Cane Kiss Cookies

1/2 c. butter-flavored shortening

1/2 c. butter, softened

1 c. brown sugar

1 c. white sugar

2 eggs

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla

1 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. baking soda

1/2 tsp. salt

2 1/2 c. flower, spooned and leveled

1/4 c. + 2 Tbsp. unsweetened cocoa powder

1 - 12 oz. bag dark chocolate chips

a bag of Hershey's Candy Cane Kisses, unwrapped (duh)

Preheat oven to 350

Cream together butter, shortening, brown sugar and white sugar for 1-2 minutes on medium-high speed or until light and fluffy, aka the stuff is stuck together enough that it stops flying out of the mixer bowl. Add the eggs (one at a time) and vanilla. Meanwhile, in a separate bowl, use a whisk to combine the baking powder, baking soda, salt, flour and cocoa powder. Add to the butter/sugar glop and mix until combined. At this point, if you're like me and don't like chocolate, try not to gag. Mix in the chocolate chips.

Refrigerate dough for 30-60 minutes. Make a drink.

Drop the dough by the tablespoonful onto an ungreased baking sheet, aka parchment paper lined cookie sheet. Bake until just set, but centers are still soft, about 9 minutes. Remove from oven without burning yourself and allow to cool for 1-2 minutes. Use a metal spatula to move cookies to cooling rack, or, since you were super smart and used the parchment paper, simply slide the entire piece of paper to the cooling rack and then put the cookie sheet outside to cool. Top each cookie with a candy cane thing.

This is critical, allow to cool completely. Those Kisses take longer than an 82 year old man to harden. After the cookie part seems like you can pick it up without it breaking, you can carefully move it from the cooling rack to the paper covered table, but try not to bump the Kiss. Unless you're like my kid who intentionally bumps it and then says "oops this one is wrecked guess I better just eat it."

Serve the cookies. Make another drink.

And happy holidays.

Culturally Clueless

Hi, my name is Jody. After being adopted and then spending the first few years of my life in the giant metropolis of Wadena, I grew up in Forest Lake, Minnesota. I like cheeseburgers, Irish pubs, Belgian beer, reubens, some seafood, bacon, pizza and pretty much anything that involves potatoes. I do not like Greek food, uncooked meat, chocolate, large quantities of condiments and anything that involves the cooking terms "reduction" or "foam."

And although, technically speaking, I am from South Korea, I hate - as in loathe, despise, detest, abhor, recoil and run away from - Korean food. (except for maybe those beef things on a stick that are saturated in some sort of super sweet sticky sauce stuff. I mean, I've never actually consumed one, but at least the smell doesn't make me want to hurl.) I also don't speak Korean, don't know the names of any major Korean streets, am not familiar with the type of currency used in the country and couldn't give you the names of any political leaders.

When I see someone sitting near me that I have no idea who they are or where they're from or where they live, I have never ever considered striking up a conversation with the opening line of "So, what is your background? What is your culture? Do you eat the native food? Can you speak the language?" So maybe this may come across as being overly sensitive but seriously, why is it that, in this diverse generation when there are ASIANS EVERYWHERE, some people feel the need to strike up this kind of conversation with me? And why can't they immediately figure out that maybe they should just shut the fuck up and go sit far, far away from me and maybe ask that other dude why he's wearing lederhosen?

I am accustomed to always getting mistaken for someone else (coincidentally, it's always an Asian girl that they swear looks just like me), but there are some times when I kind of get caught off guard. Like when that one dude asked me if my daughter could sing in Chinese, or if my boys are good at math, and hey I MUST know a great recipe for Asian lettuce wraps and, while I was grocery shopping, "do I know where the egg roll wrappers are?" One guy actually said "Hey, let me guess where you're from because I've spent some time overseas and am pretty good at telling you guys apart now. So, hmmm, you're... Japanese!"

Yesterday, though, was one of the most bizarre conversations I've ever had to tolerate and since I admit that I was kind of rude in answering this moron's whole "where are you from" line of questioning, all I can say is... DUDE, SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Setting: The health club, where I am trying to get Zoe switched from school clothes/shoes to tennis clothes/shoes in a matter of minutes. Moron piped up when Zoe was sitting on the floor, digging through her tennis bag for her water bottle and shoes.

Moron: I just have to ask, where are you from?

Me: Forest Lake

Moron: No, like, where are you from? Culturally?

Me: Forest Lake, but currently in the suburb of Maple Grove

Moron: No, like, where are you fffrrrruuuuuuum.

Me: (trying not to laugh) Oh you mean where I'm fffrrrruuuuuum. Well, that would be South Korea.

Moron: HAH! I knew it! I knew you weren't Chinese! I knew it was Korean! See, I spent a few years over there, working and such, and I thought you looked like them, and then I saw how your daughter was sitting and that told me that for SURE she was from Korea because that's how little Korean girls sit.

Me: (blink blink blinkety blink) Oh, that's weird. Seriously, super weird. But anyway, Zoe is a halfsie. She's half Korean, but her other half is a mishmash of a bunch of non-Asian countries and a generous sprinkling of geek. But that's neat, that Korean girls sit. On the floor.

Moron: So, can we talk?

Me: Isn't that what we're doing?

Moron: No, I mean, can we talk? In Korean?

Me: You can talk, but if it's okay I'll just reply with things like "Hola, margarita, por favor."

Moron: You don't speak Korean? But you're from Korea?

Me: Well, yeah, but there's this really funky new thing called 'adoption' and stuff, and, um, seriously? Is really happening?

Moron: Do you remember that cool place on the river...

Me: Dude, I know no landmarks. Except the spoon on the cherry sculpture.

Moron: Oh, where's that?

Me: Downtown Minneapolis.

Moron: Oh I see. So what area of South Korea are you from?

Me: That area where they were abandoning babies in the early 70's.

Moron: Hmm, yeah, I wasn't there in the 70's. I was there in the early 90's. For work. I worked there for a few years.

Me: Super neat.

Moron: Yes, it was. I'm so surprised that you don't speak the language. Well, it's been nice talking with you!

Me: Definitely interesting.

I am not shitting you. This conversation is almost word for word. I wish I would've recorded it.

Where are your shoes?

Today is Wednesday which, for me, means that I'm periodically checking the computer and waiting for one of my kid's tennis tournament draws to be posted. I don't remember the last time I've experienced a Wednesday without having to go through this suspense, but I'm guessing it was maybe two weeks ago, when the tournament director was really on top of things and posted the draws on Tuesday afternoon instead of making us all wait until Wednesday.

These draws tell me several things:

1. Who my kid will be playing;
2. The time that I'll have to get up, aka ass-crack of dawn;
3. Whose parents I will have to tolerate for three days;
4. If I will have to pack our cooler with breakfast, lunch, dinner or my all time favorite, a combination of all three; and
5. The amount of time I'll have between matches to drive to ______ to purchase ______ for the sum of $____. This is infinitely irritating because ______ should have been packed in the tennis bag but was forgotten at home, even though I reminded someone _____ times to CHECK YOUR BAG AND MAKE SURE YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU NEED!

Like shoes, for example. Shoes are a good thing to have when you're playing tennis. So I've heard.

At the end of July, we experienced a week of tennis that will be forever known as the Barely Controlled Week of Chaos in Which My Family Was Spread Across the Midwest. This week involved Zach flying to Kalamazoo, MI for one national tournament, my husband and I driving Charlie and one of his friends to Omaha for a different national tournament, and Zoe and the dog staying home with my holy-shit-what-did-we-get-ourselves-into-this-time parents. As you can imagine, planning and packing and preparing for a week like this required a little bit of forethought (AND THREW ME INTO CONTROL FREAK BLISS!) and I'm happy to say that nothing was forgotten (HOLY SHIT I TOTALLY KICKED ASS!) Or, clarification, nothing that I was responsible for was forgotten. (BECAUSE, LIKE I SAID, I KICKED ASS!)

The night before we were leaving, while I was triple checking my lists and piling bags up by the door, I gave both boys their lists and told them several times to check their tennis bags, make sure everything is in there and oh yeah, make sure everything is in there. Charlie was all yeah yeah, got it, it's all there, oh wait I need to grab my shoes, hey cool this is what it feels like to have ADHD because I CAN'T FOCUS ON ANYTHING BECAUSE I'M SO FREAKING EXCITED and oh yeah, I was about to grab my sho -------

The drive to Omaha; uneventful. Zach's flight to Kalamazoo; uneventful. The parents staying with the dog and girl; bark barkity bark growl hey old man don't fucking move from that chair bark bark.

After we arrived in Omaha (which is chock full of stoplights that are mostly red) and checked into our swanky hotel, we headed to the courts for tourney registration (here's your t-shirt and bag of shit), parent meeting (don't be a bunch of assholes and embarrass your kids) and a brief practice session. Oh, and did I mention that Omaha in July, in addition to smelling a little like manure, is also hot? Like, hot. And a little humid. But mostly just really, really fucking hot. So after schlepping stuff from the car and listening to some nutrition lady drone on and on about the importance of hydration, I had a pretty good filmy glaze accumulating on every surface of my body and that glaze did not put me in the mood to hear these words: "What did you do with my shoes?"

Let me repeat, in case you missed it the first time because I sure as hell did when I first heard it: What. Did you do. With. My. Shoes.

First of all, what? The fuck? Why would I do anything with your shoes, CHILD!? And did I not nag you 38 times less than 24 hours ago to get your shit together, including your shoes?

Sure enough, there were no shoes. After pulling everything out of that tennis bag that is just slightly smaller than the trunk of most sedans, no court shoes were discovered. What I did discover, however, is that my forehead can sweat A LOT and I can gnash my teeth and mutter swear words so that they're only audible to a certain individual and when that individual hears that gnashing and swearing, their forehead also starts to sweat.

I wiped the sweat off my hands so that I could text my parents to see if there were, in fact, a pair of blue Adidas court shoes sitting in the back closet, just waiting to be shoved into a tennis bag. And while I knew that the answer was going to be yes, I didn't need to receive the text that I did: "We'll have to check later. We're at your brother's house right now, eating burgers and swimming." Okay, then, thanks a lot, hope you get a sunburn.

At that moment, I was kind of at a loss as to what I should do. Obviously I needed to get the kid some shoes because there was no way in hell I was going to default him from five days of matches, but I also needed to make him suffer in some way. Putting thumbtacks into the soles of the new shoes seemed a bit extreme, as did breaking off his thumbs. And that's when, as my kid stood at the fence and watched all of his friends on the courts, I started hearing the most wonderful sounds: Why aren't you hitting, Charlie? (I forgot my shoes). What? You forgot your shoes? At home? (Yes. At home.) How could you forget your shoes? (I dunno.) Ha ha! Did you really forget to bring your shoes? (Yes, I did.) Man, your mom must be mad! (Yes, she is.) Why isn't Charlie hitting? Dude, he forgot his shoes!

Punishment and suffering... check.

And now is when I shamelessly promote my iPhone. Thank you, iPhone, for promptly giving me the name, address and phone number of the nearest pro shop that sold court shoes in my kid's size. Thank you for providing a map so that I could drive directly to said pro shop which, conveniently, was just a few miles away. Thank you, also, for multitasking and allowing me to receive a text from my husband while I was searching for the nearest bar, a text that said "Just tell Charlie it's no big deal. I'll just drive the five hours back to Maple Grove and get his shoes for him." I love being married to a smart ass. A smart ass who also has an iPhone.

Once the shoes were bought (bonus: there was a coupon for this pro shop in the bag of shit that we received at registration) and on my kid's feet, he played his ass off, won a bunch of matches, had way too much fun and was forced to listen to me tell this story to anyone who said "Hey, Charlie got new shoes!"

When Zach heard about what had happened in Omaha, his reaction was exactly as I expected: Holy crap, mom must've been ticked. So you'd think that after watching his brother writhe with discomfort every time we left for a lesson or match and I'd say "Hey, does everyone have their shoes" with just a little less than a crap ton of sarcasm, he'd be super responsible about his own bag and always make sure he had his shit together. I mean, you'd think that, but you'd be wrong.

Over Labor Day weekend, both of the boys played in a tournament at the University of MN. Most of the matches started on Saturday, but Zach ended up with a Friday night match. As usual, I made sure to have the cooler packed (including a flask because it was, after all, a Friday night) and Zach was to have made sure that his bag was packed.

Well before it was time to leave, I found the giant child, sitting on a bench near our back door. Street shoes on, bag on his back, phone in his hand, brain half-way out of his head. I said "Hey, you know we aren't leaving for, like, at least 20 minutes" and he said "Ya, well, ya. K. I'll jus' wait." Since he ready with so much time to spare, I started patting myself on the back while thinking holy shit, man. This is kick ass! He is fired up to win this match! Chalk one up for me cuz all that nagging is paying off!

We drove half-an-hour, dealt with some traffic, found a parking spot amidst all the U-Hauls and Suburbans that were covering the U of M campus (it was move-in weekend) and walked to the tennis center. Just as we got to the door, Zach put his bag down, unzipped it and started channeling his brother: Where are my shoes?

Oh, ha ha hooo ha! That's a good one! Two times in one summer?! No way! Stop it! Seriously, STOP FUCKING WITH ME! Because you know if you were to have really forgot your shoes I would potentially HAVE TO KILL YOU!

1. Yes, he really did forget his shoes.
2. No, I didn't really kill him.
3. I need a bigger flask.

I quickly reviewed my options:

1. Default him from a match that he was sure to win, and be out the $55 tourney registration fee;
2. Drive home, in traffic, to get the shoes, which would probably result in him defaulting because he'd end up being late for his match;
3. Drive to a pro shop that was approximately 10 miles away, plunk down $110 for another pair of shoes, which would look really great sitting next to the other new pair of shoes that were already in the closet at home; or
4. Kill him, then go to the bar.

I know some of you are thinking I should have went with Option #1 (or even #4), but that approach wasn't going to happen. He knew I was mad (as indicated by the flailing arms, spinning head and the chants of "I'M SOOO MAD!"), he felt like a moron, and his dad had pulled out the most scathing of disciplinary words: he said his first and last name.

After spending a few extra seconds glaring at my kid who was wishing he had put his invisibility cloak in his bag, I decided to go with Option #3, stormed out the door and started quickly walking down the sidewalk to the car that was parked in the ramp in the spot that I had pre-paid $10 for. And that's when I remembered that maybe I wouldn't have to drive anywhere because they sold shoes at the U of M's tennis desk! I could just give them $110 in addition to the $55 registration fee that they already had! So, ya know, whoopee for me!

(For future reference: If you ever have the opportunity to throw a shoebox at your kid while he's bent over and tying the shoes that were just in said box, do it. It's really, very cathartic.)

Since then, several more tournaments have been played and several more lessons have been attended and I'm happy to report that so far, no more shoes have been forgotten. Now, if only I could say the same thing about the hats and water bottles.