Despite my fundamental opposition to food in unnaturally vibrant colours and/or designed to appeal to children, I felt compelled to make something festive for St. Patty’s Day desert. St. Patrick  (Patron Saint of Food Colouring) would have been proud of me. I whipped up a batch of cupcakes that looked like they escaped a gay club on a rave night, topped them with a dab of whipped cream and a sprinkling of marshmallows from a box of Lucky Charms.

Nothing says “Erin go bragh!” like Lucky Charms, people. My Irish ancestors would be SO proud.

The children intimated that the rainbow cakes (which I first heard of last year when my friend Adina made her twins a whole cake in this manner) were the most majestic and awesome thing they’d ever laid eyes on. While they were no culinary masterpiece, they were tasty and very funkadelic.

Having a love in? Trying to convey to your co-workers that your days in the closet are over? On cupcake duty for a birthday at school? Here’s a demo on how to make them yourself:

How To Make Rainbow Cupcakes

CAVEAT EMPTOR: Post cupcake poops may be *brighter and more vivid* then usual.

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I nearly died this morning.

32 years of life flashed before my eyes in a fleeting second.

I was half asleep and hadn’t yet managed to scrape up a cup of coffee. My contact lenses weren’t in, and I wasn’t in a state of mind that would have led me to consider putting on my glasses so that I could actually see. Small people were biting at my ankles with persistent demands for Cheerios and waffles, and in my haste to make them simmer down, I reached out and opened the door… to the pantry.

Pandora’s Pantry.

Davey Jones’ Crap Cupboard.

As soon as I rammed myself up against the door (because the Swiffer Mop  and a rogue My Little Pony were blocking it) an avalanche of construction paper and glitter covered paper plates hurled themselves down from the shelves and onto my head. Puke-esqe finger paintings, misshapen paper mache masks and egg carton caterpillars attacked me from all directions. Macaroni necklaces pelted me with their stoney fury, threatening to snuff me out like a gnat in a vacuum. I shrieked in terror as the cavalcade of crappy pre-school art projects continued to move ever-closer to their bid to be tried for 1st degree murder. I was helpless and unable to move.

It had been a good life, mostly, and if dying with toilet paper roll angels suffocating me was my fate, sobiet.

One of my children had the good sense to locate my husband, and expedite his trip down the stairs to the kitchen to unearth me from the detritus of a years worth of Julia art. I wouldn’t be here right now if Natasha hadn’t bravely taken it upon herself to initiate a search party. Apparently my husband wasn’t ready to collect insurance on me yet either. Instead he looked at me quizzically and asked “Why don’t you throw some of this junk out?”

That’s a actually a really good question, Hoss.

Why don’t I throw out the never ending stream of horrible “art” that the school keeps sending home with my kid? Why do I keep cramming it in the pantry, hoping that it will somehow reconcile itself?

Because the “artist” in question KNOWS what she’s made, and can account for all 20167 of her masterpieces, that’s why.

If I dare to slip one of her esteemed creations into the recycle bin, her spidey senses tingle, and she’ll be rooting around in the trash/recycling bin, locating her prized treasure within minutes. I know this, because from time to time I dare to dream, and try to slide a red and yellow crayon “butterfly” drawing into the bin. Like a 4 foot tall apparition, she *POOF* appears next to me, hands on hips, and screeches “WHY ARE YOU THROWING OUT CINDYBELLA??? SHE’S MY MOST FAVOURITE BUTTERFLY IN THE WORLD! I MADE HER JUST FOR YOU!!!” Sheepishly, I slip the mangled moth drawing back into the pile, and silently curse the wretched school that continues to churn out “art” that they send home with her to pollute my house with frightening frequency.

I have often wanted to slip a note like this into her bag before she goes to school:

Dear Teacher,

Please throw out Julia’s “art” when she is done, or “keep” it safe for her in the “museum.” DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT send it home with her.

If I receive even one more handprint turkey or baby food jar “decoupaged” with white glue and wrapping paper, I’m going to shove it up  your ass.

Flowers and Sunshine,

- Julia E’s Mean Mother

**************

Despite not having actually sent the note, the school is onto me.

I made the vital mistake of letting my guard down when I picked Julia up from school on the last day before spring break.

Teacher: Oh, you’re going to be so pleased! Julia has made you something! You’re going to love it.

Me: “Something” I’ll “love”, eh? Heh, heh. More glitter glue covered yarn stuck to wallpaper samples for me to throw out? Heh, heh.

Teacher: *face falls* Well, she is really looking forward to giving it to you.

Me:  Thanks for the heads up. I guess I need to practice my feigned enthusiasm.

Teacher: *horror stricken look on face as she processes the fact that she HAS found THE shittiest mother on earth*

Some of my fellow Mommy Olympians have cracked, and told me that they just wing out Junior’s lopsided ashtrays, and feel no remorse. “The minute he isn’t looking…BAM…right into the garbage!”

Other peers of mine  have told me they have dump-truck sized storage boxes that they lob all of their kids’ Louvre quality offerings into, and then sit down with them at the end of the year and pick out several of the best ones to keep to take with them to Berkley to decorate their dorms with.

One of the more ambitious Mommy-types confided that she photographs every. single. handicraft. that her progeny drag home,  uploads them onto the computer, prints the photos,and makes them into scrapbooks. Then she disposes of the original horror. All of the memories, none of the mess, she glows. This sounds rather utopian to me, being that I am a person who has not printed off a single photo in over five years, much less had the burning lust to put together a scrapbook. It smacks of extra work and organization, which are two things I have neither the inclination nor desire to entertain.

Until then, my pantry – which is a place designed to hold cans of green beans and never-closed boxes of cereal – will continue to harbour the deadly and dangerous Works du Julia. Sure, I will never be able to actively use it to host the case-lot mushroom soup I buy, or stash illicit chocolate bars in, but it’s a better alternative to having to explain to my kid that she makes crappy art.

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Every so often, I meander through the plethora of kooky parenting message boards that seem to dominate  the interwebz. My reasons for poking around in places I don’t really belong are usually nefarious, and mainly involve seeking out examples of badly named infants for the purposes of mockery, or seeking documented examples of willful ignorance/completely batshit insane parenting practices. These parenting boards, in all of their various incarnations, always have at least one frequent flier that seems to have escaped the set of Toddlers & Tiaras. These are usually women that desperately wanted a daughter, but gave birth to babies with penises over and over again. Finally, after 3 or 4 boys, they managed to coerce their husband into trying one last time, and squeeze out that darling pink bundle they’ve been praying for. After years of dressing little people in shirts festooned with trains and footballs, they finally get to indulge in hardcore ruffles and puffed sleeves. Wearing only colors of a hue that unicorns might shit, these living dollies are swathed from tip to toe in bubble gum pink and sport hair bows that are roughly the same size as Lithuania. All day. Every day.

In the typical style of illiterate internet denizens everywhere, the neurotic pink mommies always fill the boards with endless posts like this:

“maddicyn-belle is such a PrinCes$ Lol! she real likes two dress like a ballyrinA an luvs it wen i brush her hare! LOL for real! she gets sad wen i dont put hr hare inna fancy bow. wat can I do rofmlamo!! she is my tiny queen!!!111!!!”

Back that train up, Patsy Ramsey.

Your daughter ASKS you to brush her hair? She LIKES having her hair styled?

I call bullshit, you liar.

You see, I have two daughters.

Both of whom have hair.

Long hair. Straight hair. Fine hair.

Hair that needs to be pulled back or put up lest it become snarled into an unholy, evil, sadistic ball of knots.

Every morning – before we can get on with our mundane daily lives – it is my job as The One Who Is Mean and Hates Kids, to brush and style their hair.

Before I even take the brush to their heads, they scream like pteradactyls going through a wood chipper. Have you heard the sound effects in the background of dinosaur movies? Those are my kids.

Once I begin to comb out the night’s collection of snot crusts in bangs and knots at the base of the neck, they begin to flail and hurl themselves towards the floors, in a psychotic attempt to escape the hell torture of grooming. This usually leads to the brush in my hand staying up in the air, but being ensnared in their locks, and nearly ripping it out of their skulls. They begin to cry and whimper, beg and plead. “I HATE HAVING MY HAIR BRUSHED! I NEVER WANT IT BRUSHED AGAIN! WHY DO I HAVE TO HAVE MY HAIR BRUSHED? NOBODY ELSE HAS TO HAVE THEIR HAIR BRUSHED!”

Then, as I do every morning, I advise them that the solution to their problem is to have it all shaved off…like a boy.

“NOO! I DON’T WANT TO SHAVE MY HAIR! *SOB* I WANT LONG HAIR! I JUST DON’T WANNA BRUSH IT EVER AGAIN!!!”

To which I reply, “Then make sure you LEAVE THESE FRENCH BRAIDS IN SO IT DOESN’T GET KNOTS IN IT, OKAY?”

Then I proceed with the 30 minute ordeal of braiding it out of their face. When we’re done, I move on to the other kid.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

When cross examining my friends, it seems their daughters demonstrate similar reactions to hair brushing and grooming. None of us produced a little girl who actively seeks out a date with a round brush and blow drier.

Strange Pink Mommies, it’s time to come clean. Either your child has recently undergone a DIY frontal lobotomy and can’t fight you, or they do fight you, and your nutty ass gets off lying to invisible internet strangers.

Bite me.

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Ingredients

• 1/2 package ground beef
• 2 orange peppers
• one cup Basmati rice
• half a white onion
• 3 cloves of garlic
• heaping tablespoon tomato paste
• small amount of dried Ancho chilies
• splash of white wine
• chicken bouillon cube
• tablespoon of olive oil
• some salsa
• Mexican shredded cheese

Method

In a deep saute pan I sweat the diced onions in oil, added thinly sliced chilies and minced garlic then the wine splash, ground beef and tomato paste, slowly and deliberately and in that order until browned and incorporated and moist. In a pot of salted, boiling water I dunked the peppers until they were bright orange, about three minutes, cut off their tops and popped out the remaining seeds. I cooked rice with a few drops of oil and a cube of bouillon then combined about half with the beef mixture. I filled the peppers, oiled inside, and placed them in a Dutch oven with an inch of water in the bottom. At the last minute I impulsively added a spoonful of store-bought salsa to the top of each pepper, a handful of cheese and popped them in the the oven at 350 for 50 minutes, and when they were done they were glorious.

We do not have the luxury of shopping daily for fine ingredients. We source the best vegetables and meat available (often from Costco) and try to MacGyver interesting dinners all week. For now the focus is on simplicity, layering flavor and mastering the basics, which is both very pleasing and methodical. If some day stuffed peppers become a fixture on our family dinner schedule we will fondly recall that they were born of necessity during the Mexico adventure early in our marriage.

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Every single element was perfect. But was the whole greater than the sum of its parts? Last night at 7:17, with the assistance of a glass of Soave, I constructed a peerless tower of power: Behold and revere Poached Eggs Camemparagus on Garlic Toast!

Here’s how it went down:

Ingredients

• 2 thick slices of rustic bread
• 1 tablespoon of olive oil
• 2 eggs
• 6 asparagus spears
• Camembert, sliced lengthwise from the wedge
• 1 garlic clove
• white vinegar
• salt and pepper

Method

I brushed the bread and asparagus with olive oil and toasted/roasted it all on a baking sheet in the oven on low, about 15 minutes. I removed the vegetables and turned over the bread, rubbed it with garlic and laid on the cheese. Meanwhile I brought to a boil (in 2 saucepans) water with a shot of vinegar. When the Camembert looked just about gooey I turned off the oven and dropped my eggs. After 3 full minutes I plated the melty toasts and placed 3 asparagus stalks on each then topped with a frothy but firm whirl of eggy delight.

The asparagus was nutty, fruity and toothsome. The Camembert had achieved at-one-ment with the home-baked bread and one egg in particular was so lovely, with a viscous orange yolk cradled in angelic white it should have gone to the Smithsonian or the Vatican. We closed our eyes as we ate and experienced every flavor but in the end weren’t sure that it was right. Perhaps a different vegetable, spinach or mushrooms maybe and a less assertive cheese, like provolone or raclette? We’re on to something here, I can feel it. The poached egg and I are kindred spirits and we will meet again. As for last night dinner was redeemed but this dish has not yet been beatified.

photo credit Malcolm
recipe adapted from Real Simple

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We live about an hour away from anything you would want to eat after dark with one divine exception: La Pinata. The only very minor unfortunate fact about this al fresco dining option is that Progreso happens to smell like sewage 87% of the time. On the plus side, there’s tequila. We’ve finally learned our lesson when it comes to the old Don Julio bait and switch and are resigned to ordering El Jimador or whatever the mesero cares to serve. This is our place, the only one where we’re regulars. We were even in a print ad for them when we first arrived. La Pinata serves Mexican food, not Yucatecan and is probably only slightly better than average. But it’s cute, with Equipales furniture, diminutive palm trees and sweet-faced waiters, tin stars, ceramic figurines and videos projected on the wall. They’re trying, which is more than I can say for most restaurants at the beach.

I have never ordered anything but the burritas arrachera, and I swear I never will. It’s basically a grilled skirt steak quesadilla – nothing fancy, always good. Just good. Not stunning or astonishing and epic. Satisfying and Consistent, which sounds like code for “good personality” but counts for a lot down here. The dollop of guacamole is citrus-y fresh. The frijoles charros are chock full of meaty tidbits. The staff is at your service. Their pastor is servicable, the salsas you will not be writing home about. I could take or leave their tortas. But I always want to go back. If you are ever way out on Calle 31 in the Yucalpeten end of Progreso, Yucatan, Mexico feeling hungry after 7 pm this is the place to go. Trust me. While you are standing up gathering your purse and hat, sucking on your Starlite mint, a little wobbly from the well tequila you will say to yourself, “well, that was nice. I feel full and content.” And you wouldn’t wish for anything to be different. At La Pinata for some ineffable reason, everything is right with the world.

And when we came home I checked on the dough, which had filled our largest bowl to the brim with yeasty goodness. I heated the le creuset and sprinkled in a little cornmeal and cut the batch in half. Forty minutes later the wonderful scent of bread wafted through our house. The loaf turned out crusty, airy and fantastic and though we were stuffed we had to have just a crust spread with Danish butter. I should ruin dinner more often. Stay tuned tomorrow when I try once again attempt to perch a perfectly poached egg atop bread smeared with warm, runny Camembert reinforced with grilled asparagus spears.

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When I was a child, I was a judgemental and snotty little punk.

At some point in time, I had incubated and hatched  the notion that kids with glasses were either:

a)mentally handicapped

b) unloved, unwanted, socially inept losers

c) lesser people, in a lower caste

The worst fate that could befall a kid, I believed, was to be forced into wearing pink, plastic-y, octagon/giant frames, with tinted lenses (girls) OR gargantuan, gold metal rimmed, tinted, aviator style monstrosities (boys.) One glimpse of a potential team-mate or competitor with tinted lenses, and I would recoil and keep a distance. My impulse was to push Little Mr. Four-Eyes down, and run like hell. However, I always refrained from doing so (because I’m not TOTALLY sociopathic, you know.)

Yes, I was a judgemental child, and I’m sure that karma is biting my ass (hard) as an adult because of this.

Eventually, a horrible Tom Cruise movie would be inflicted upon the world, which put one of these little mutants front and centre. I would always feel agitated when someone would point to the little four-eyed, lisping brat on Jerry McGuire and coo “Awwww! He’s so cute! he looks so SMART!” In my mind, I was thinking “Nooo. Creepy! CREEPY! The only thing missing is amber tint. Show him the money to fix that. Yikes!”

Time marches on as time is apt to do, and I eventually went on too push out  two gorgeous, perfect, blindingly  intelligent daughters. *cough*

Every few months, we would attend the required “Well Baby” check ups at our public health facility, where the baby would be weighed, immunized and screened for early childhood intervention in speech, dental, hearing and vision. My daughters tested slightly ahead of their peer group for most things, and never had an issue turn up in these screenings or at regular doctor’s appointments. The government encourages proactive screening beyond these assessments, and has benchmark ages where they advise parents to ensure their child has: seen a dentist, an audiologist, an optometrist before the age of two. These appointments (and any subsequent follow-ups( are subsidized for all children in the province, so there isn’t a reason not to go.  I took my kids to the dentist. To the audiologist. It was all good, just as I had expected. Since neither of them had expressed any problems with vision, I didn’t bother with the eye doctor until way after the 2 year mark that is the preferred first visit. Being that the oldest was 4, and the youngest was 2, I decided to get it over and done with so I could check it off and wipe my hands.

The two year old was hunky dory. No problems, no worries. Just as I expected.

The four year old? Not so much.

The initial appointment indicated that there were some alarming concerns with her sight. However, they assured me that what they were seeing was possibly a growth spurt related problem, and may well resolve itself in a few months. I felt relieved to have dodged the bullet. Clearly, my child who was reading, writing and drawing and never expressed a problem, didn’t need glasses! They booked us in to come back in six months. I mostly forgot about it. The sand in the hourglass trickled away, and we were back for a re-assessment.

It went on. And on. And on. And on.

By the end of it, they advised me that Julia would be needing glasses and that I needed to come back for another appointment so they could determine her prescription.

This got my hackles up. I could feel my jaw clenching.

I thought to myself “These bloody quacks are going to try selling me $500 in eyewear so that she can count birds on trees far away! Screw them! My kid doesn’t need to be the class pariah so they can turn a profit!”

I snapped at the doctor “What exactly does she need these things for? If this is minor distance correction, I’m not proceeding. She’s FOUR! This is ridiculous!”

The optometrist rifled through a drawer and brought out some lenses, and snapped them on to a pair of heavy duty glasses.

“Mrs. Everitt, if you put these on, you can see exactly what your daughter sees when she looks around.”

I snatched them, and tossed them on.

Water.

It was like seeing the world through the bottom of a glass of water.

My child couldn’t see a damn thing.

Not near. Not far.

I had never noticed. Not once.

I burst into tears, because if anyone deserved a kick in the clam and the title of “Shittiest Parent, EVER” it was me.

The optometrist assured me that my child had probably NEVER seen anything clearly, and had learned to strain and focus to see things.

Oh! That’s EVEN BETTER. Now I was NEGLIGENT on top of being an asshole. The day just kept getting better!

So.

What do you think my priority was?

“Oh God! She’s not going to need massive coke bottle glasses with tint like Bubbles from Trailer Park Boys, IS SHE? IS SHE??” I choked out to the doctor, as snot ran down my face. (I’m fairly certain that this is where I secured my reservation in Hell, by the way.)

“Well, they will be a little bit magnifying, because the prescription does that, but glasses have come a long way, and she can get a really cool pair that are not huge. Tint is optional.”

I went home weeping. Shallow, horrible thoughts ran through my head…

“My kid is going to get beat up at school because she looks like Bubbles from Trailer Park Boys….*sob*”

“People are going to think my kid is…retarded….*sob*”

“Julia is going to end up being a fat,  single cat lady in pink bedazzeld track-suits, who lives in my basement, and will never find a husband…*sob*”

I mourned. I grieved. I lamented. I bitched. I cursed. I shook my fist at God.

Julia, on the other hand, was hot to trot for glasses, and totally gung ho.

And so, after another two appointments, we came home with a pair of over-priced, Disney Princess themed glasses in a tiny pink case.

Her glasses are funky, verging on trendy, and are navy blue. Not pink.

I declined the offending tint.

After borrowing a mantra from a mommy friend of mine “ON YOUR FACE OR IN THE CASE!”, we eventually became accustomed to Julia’s eye-wear, and it has not been destroyed or lost.

To date, she has not been shunned at school or on the soccer field. Most people tell her how much they love her spectacles. That she looks smart.

As for my hell-bound ass, old prejudices have melted away.

Finally, I can honestly say to another mother “Gosh, he looks CUTE in his glasses!” and actually mean it.

Maybe I’ll get a reprieve from eternal damnation after all?

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Ingredients

• broccoli
• italian sausage
• penne pasta
• olive oil
• garlic
• dry white wine

Method

In a sautee pan brown three sausage links in olive oil; meanwhile steam broccoli and boil pasta (separately) until al dente. Drain pasta but reserve a ladle or so for sauce. Remove sausage from heat, let cool then slice into rounds.  Add three cloves of thinly sliced garlic and half a cup of wine to the pan. In the empty pasta pot heat a little olive oil then combine all ingredients slowly and on low. Take a walk around your house or outside if it is not too cold. Return to the stove. Incorporate a  blend of shredded Italian cheeses and serve immediately.

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Ingredients

• one whole chicken
• one head of garlic
• one white onion
• a quarter cup of extra dry vermouth
• a quarter cup of Dijon mustard
• a quarter cup of olive oil
• sea salt and white pepper

Method

Rinse and pat dry the bird, salt and pepper its inside. Plug up one end with some of the chopped onion and proceed to fill the cavity with the peeled whole garlic cloves and vermouth. Cram more onion in the other end and distribute the rest around the roasting pan. Whisk olive oil into mustard and season with white pepper. Finger paint the chicken with the mixture, then go wash your hands. Sprinkle a little salt over everything, which could include vegetables such as carrots and celery and roast in a preheated oven at 400 degrees Farenheit for 1 hour and 45 minutes. The juices run clear when completely cooked, though ideally you have a meat thermometer, which I do not. Always rest your chicken before carving.

When I pulled it from the oven it looked golden brown but contorted; it took more moments than I care to admit to realize my mistake. I am pleased to report it was so succulent, flavorful and well-cooked, I just might flip my chicken again. This proved to be a happy aberration, one that resulted in a fatty, fragrant dinner.

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