Bug the Builder...Yes, We Can!

It's funny how small things can be pivotal. How many parents have wrestled with their child over math lessons or homework to the tune of the plaintive cry of, "When will I ever need this?" Bug, at the advanced age of...um...eight, has succumbed to this syndrome while doing those quadratic equations the rest of us know as addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. Sigh. At this rate, I expect I'll hear the same from Princess in another month or two...

When his attitude became increasingly truculent, I decided that we needed some practical application and enlisted the services of Tool Guy. And truly, woodworking experience utilizes all of the functional math embodied in most third grade curricula. He obliged me, as he does in most all things.

Amazingly, this child who had heretofore shown no passion for anything other than videos and computer games (I do not count myself among those parents who see a budding Spielburg or Gates in such juvenile passions) developed an immediate affinity for woodworking. Now this is an avocation I'm thrilled to see him sink his teeth into. I'd much rather he wax on to strangers about the kerf of a blade than what level he acquired in even such as Math Blaster.

For his first project, he and Tool Guy settled on a bedside table in my honor, considering that a piano bench overflowing with my audiobooks, earbuds, and other multi-media accoutrement such as accompanies my night-time knitting excursions needs some help. Tool Guy did the ripping, but Bug did the rest. The centerpiece tool to this entire project was a commercial jig--doncha just love all of the lingo? Just wait until I start elaborating on mortises and tenons--which produces a superior assembly, both in strength and ease of execution. Within a surprisingly short period of time, Bug proudly presented me with a night stand that he had designed. Tool Guy assisted in dimensioning, but Bug's rough sketch of what he wanted still graces the wall of Tool Guy's shop. Bug sanded, assembled, stained, and shellacked this table. Amazing.



And when, proud papa that he is, Tool Guy flashed pictures of this table around as if it were Bug's baby pictures, Bug received his first commission to produce some bedroom furniture at some point for one of the mom's in our homeschooling co-op. Tool Guy and Bug were both so buoyant about its success that they decided to write to the jig manufacturer and wax enthusiastic about its merits and applaud them for marketing such a useful and efficient tool that even an eight year old could use to build quality furniture.

The response was surprising. On Thursday evening after trudging in late from a long day of homeschooling co-op, we were greeted at the door by a UPS package. I twitted Tool Guy, Mr. UPS-At-My-Door-Everyday, yet again for yet another internet order from his favorite jig company, but he declared himself innocent. And indeed, he was innocent. This time...don't kid yourself. The package turned out to include a warm letter of thanks for Bug's initial letter and pictures of his project. The letter asked that Bug consider building another project using the tool kit in the package, which was their latest incarnation of Tool Guy's favorite jig, and document the project for them.

The pair were beside themselves with excitement and acceded to my suggestion that we needed a new medicine cabinet for the bathroom and the project began in earnest. Meanwhile, the company PR rep was not idle. Shortly after the cabinet was finished and the last pictures and video clips were sent off to them, we received a phone call from the local paper wanting to schedule an interview with Bug. Heady stuff for an eight year old, no?

In addition to teaching Bug lessons about addition et al, this project has taught him a multitude of other things. Craftsmanship, creativity, a sense of self-confidence, and self-sufficiency. I want my children to learn that they can do whatever they set their minds to and not remain at the mercy of what the market provides. I think it was Bug who, when I was applying make-up one day and commented that I was almost out of a particular cosmetic, responded with, "Guess you'll have to make some more." Heh. But that's really the message that I want them to carry. If they can dream it, they can make it.

They can even make it if someone else dreams it. (Just don't sell it, alright?) One of the banes of Breatharian eating is the expense. Even the commercial preparations that are compliant with the diet are hideously...nay, exorbitantly...dare I say, usuriously expensive. Granny discovered this when she volunteered to underwrite providing the Hobbits with such commercial treats as they could have. She failed to reckon with the rising cost of food and the rising amount of such food that the Hobbits could consume. Quickly she cried, "Uncle!" and agreed to underwrite the ingredient purchases if I would do some cooking dangerously and reverse engineer the treat. It was an immediate hit. It has been requested to be part of our travel package when we do a road trip later this summer.


Grainless Granola Bars

Base "dough"

1/2 cup baking or whole dates
1/2 cup raisins
1/4 cup amaranth
1 T maple syrup
1/4 tsp. salt
1 cup seeds or chopped nuts (pumpkin seed and sunflower seed pictured)

Run ingredients through food processor or blender until blend incorporates into a ball.

Into the base dough, press 1 cup total of pumpkin, sunflower, sesame seed, walnuts, pecans, or any preferred seed/nut or any combination thereof. Princess is inclined to a pumpkin/sunflower seed combination, while Dog and Bug favor walnut. The seeds/nuts can be pressed into the dough with a fork or scraper, but I decided to let my machines to the muscle and used the dough hook on my Kitchen Aid. When the seeds/nuts are fully incorporated into the base dough, pull off approximately 1-2 T of the mixture and press into the bottom of a muffin form. This amount of ingredients yields about 12 granola bars. Alternatively, press the whole mixture into a pan and slice into bars.



Bug told the reporters, "I like it. And I'm good at it." On such things hinge significant things...a sense of math, a sense of accomplishment, and a sense of direction. And quality time with Dad. Doesn't get much better than that.

Sick As a Dog

I think that Dog is allergic to Sunday nights. If memory serves, it was a Sunday night when he decided that he didn't want to breathe anymore and to turn blue instead. The most recent Sunday night, he decided to complain about pains in his side and even had the audacity to run a temperature of 100.9. I suspected that it was related to the intestinal bug that had been making the community rounds and the rounds in our family as well, but sometimes you can't be too careful. As it happened, the "on call" doctor was our pediatrician, whom I like very much and who sent us to the hospital forthwith.

I'm no stranger to the ER. When I worked as a professional interpreter, I saw more than my share of ERs. San Antonio boasts a large collection of hospitals, from teaching to private and I got to sample all of them. I've learned a few axioms, some of those "universally acknowledged truths."

• ERs are always busy.
  
• ERs are always crowded.
  
• ERs are always understaffed.
  
• ER personnel are always overworked.
  
• The labs are always backlogged.
  
• Any ER visit will entail a minimum of four hours and usually more.

Based on such axiomatic wisdom, I instructed Dog to bring a backpack of what he would deem sufficient material with which to entertain himself. He brought his entire comic book collection. I brought my knitting and the library's play-away copy of Mere Christianity.

The registration desk confirmed that no universal truths had changed since my early retirement. We did eventually get in and he was seen. The doctor ordered a CAT scan and informed us that it would be a long night. See? He knows the axioms, too. Hurdle #1 was the contrast solution that they wanted him to drink. I requested the pharmaceutical insert in the substance to check for corn. It was a couple of hours, but I did get to read the insert, which yielded nothing suspicious. Is it possible that there is a substance made without corn? Not totally satisfied, I gave the go-ahead to drinking the nasty stuff...a whole quart full...sans Kornaid...er...Koolaid, thankyouverymuch. By then, Dog had read through his comic books and I had discovered that the battery to the play-away was good for about one chapter. That was all I would hear from C. S. Lewis for the rest of the adventure. And while I did bring my knitting, I'd left my instructions for turning the heel at home. I determined that I was going to knit even if this sock ended up turning into a thigh-high, dagnabbit. But by then, we had discovered that our room had a television tuned into interesting documentaries on penguins and polar warming. Just Dog's cup of tea.

Meanwhile, I had to svengali the gastrograffin down Dog's throat. A quart of it. All of it. Without the palliative assistance of Koolaid. The wiki stub on the substance says that it tastes "vile" and Dog concurs. Gotta give Dog snaps. He was a trooper. Of course, it did require some negotiations in which figured significant amounts of Endangered Species chocolate and Yummy Earth Lollipops. I had visions of his siblings engineering their very own ER visits on the strength of the perceived payoffs. But he did manage to get the whole quart down. Meanwhile, we dodged another corn bullet when they wanted to give him some tablet tylenol. The nurse registered a certain degree of shock when I said it probably had corn in it. I guess if it doesn't have a shuck on it, then it can't be corn, right? Someday, it will be a universally acknowledged truth that most pharmaceutical binders come from corn.

Hurdle #2 was when the surgeon showed up in the later wee hours to discuss the CAT scan findings. Yes. That would be "surgeon." Seems there was some "thickening" around the appendix and the entire intestinal lining appeared inflamed. The radiologist and the surgeon were a bit conflicted on how to interpret the scan and so wanted to hold him for observation and make a more determined decision around noon on Monday. If the pain subsided and he could keep down a meal, then the surgeon preferred to release him. Sounded like a plan. Meanwhile, he wanted to hook Dog up to an IV. "What's in the solution?" "Oh, just glucose and electrolytes." I shook my head. "No glucose," I insisted. "Corn." He hastened to assure me that there was no corn in it. We locked eyes and I assured him that I'd never yet been able to ferret out a corn-free glucose source. There was a very long pause in which I watched the wheels behind his eyes turning. Not sure exactly what he was weighing...but he counter-offered a solution of just electrolytes. Since I couldn't in all honesty claim to have researched electrolytic formulas, I decided to concede to the compromise.

Dog was a model patient through all of this. The pokes, and prods, and swills, and sticks. While he was gagging down the gastrograffin and being impaled with needles, he would cheekily remind me with a weak grin about the payoff and make attempts to renegotiate for better terms. Irrepressible, that lad. The prospect of surgery did make his composure wobble a bit, but he hung tough.

Hurdle #3 was The Meal. Tool Guy, in one of our update phone calls, reminded me that this was the same hospital whose definition of "gluten-free menu" consisted of...soup broth. Yes, period. And apparently, bringing in outside food, irrespective of its nutritional value, was Not Done. He spoke from personal experience. I had plenty of hours in which to carefully craft a polite, but immovable "suggestion" about what Dog would be eating prior to release. Props to the surgeon, though. He didn't hesitate a second when I mentioned bringing in food that was Breatharian compliant. Maybe the nurse had transmitted my answer to her query about what his corn reaction looked like: "An Alien pops out of his chest and devours everyone in the room." No problem. Bring his own food.

At noon that morning, after being up for thirty-six hours, I happy-danced my way to the grocery store to pick up some Hormel Natural Choice roast beef, which is the only deli meat I've found on the face of the Shire that doesn't have corn. (The rest of their meats have corn-based starter culture.) Dog inhaled the pack without tasting...his appetite being the surgeon's leading indicator that this wasn't appendicitis. Dog was actually rather reluctant to go home, having, at this point, gotten plugged in to the Playstation on the pediatric ward. We were sent home with directions to make a follow up appointment in a week. The lagnappe--the "something extra"--to the whole experience is that Dog came home reaction-free, something I would have deemed impossible.

As I went home, I had visions of bone broth dancing through my head. That is...those brain cells that weren't committed to the concept of unconsciousness for an unspecified amount of time. Fortunately, I keep copious amounts of this broth always on hand and have plenty to enjoy my latest incarnation:

Hot and Sour Soup

I make a big batch, so tweak your proportions accordingly.

2 quarts bone broth
3 T tapioca starch
4 eggs (optional)
1/4 tsp cayenne or hot pepper
1 T wheat-free tamari or fish sauce (I use my big batch broth for this, which I salt after making, so I use tamari here very sparingly. If you don't salt your broth base, then you may want to tweak the tamari/fish sauce contribution upward.)
5 T rice or cane vinegar

Reserve 1/2 cup lukewarm broth before pouring remaining 2 quarts into medium-sized stock pot. Bring soup to a rolling boil and add pepper, tamari or fish sauce, and vinegar. In reserved broth, stir the tapioca starch until completely dissolved, watching for any remaining lumps. Pour into the actively boiling broth and stir until soup becomes transluscent. Scramble eggs and slowly pour into still boiling soup, stirring constantly to produce a stringy consistency to the cooking eggs. (Allowing eggs to settle will create clumping.) Serve hot.

I have to say I was deeply impressed with the integrity of the surgeon. I've heard a lesser-known axiom that doctors do what they do best. Surgeons, being of a surgical specialty, are more prone to operate. Well, this is one who is an exception to that rule, if there is indeed one. It took a lot of...pardon the pun...guts for him to challenge the dissenting opinions of two other doctors and delay operation. Malpractice standards fly in the face of this decision as well, since a doctor is more likely to be adjudicated as liable when not doing something rather than doing the wrong thing. It is argued that a doctor who does the wrong thing at least tried. Doing nothing is more easily determined to be negligence. Let's hear it for those who stand by the courage of their convictions. They are still among us.

Bone broth is a wonderful intestinal restorative. Hot and Sour Soup has been my constant breakfast-lunch-dinner-snack companion for quite a few months now and I've seen huge improvements in my ability to digest starches. I'd love to claim that it wards off appendicitis, but that might strain credulity. The follow-up visit declared Dog to be fully recovered. No appendicitis. Couldn't wheedle the doctor into crediting the broth, though. Darn.

Not For Commercial Use

Another pusher sleeve on my food processor snapped. Let's see. That makes how many? Four in seven years? The bowl got replaced once and I think I've replaced the lid, as well. The most annoying breakages are the plastic widgey bits that trigger the safety releases. (And with my track record, I need all of the safety measures they can dream up!) I can't blame all of the wear on the plastic, though. I ended up replacing the all-purpose blade along with the pusher sleeve. That's Number 3 for that type of blade. This one had stress fractures at the rivets. How did that happen? I'm on my third slicing blade, too. Hey, ten potatoes sliced two ways once a week puts some wear on a surface. The teeth on these instruments of mass destruction have been visibly worn down. I suppose that it's only fair to put the old ones out to pasture. And this is just my Cuisinart.

My Kitchen Aid mixer is starting to show the mileage, too. The lovely plastic coating on the beater paddle is worn off around the tip and the metal underneath is showing wear, too. Don't ask me about my balloon whip. Just don't. I'm telling Tool Guy that it ran away from home. Oh, hush. I think he believes me...

Then there are the Oster hand blenders. Yes. Plural. I know that a $30 hand blender probably isn't going to be an heirloom piece of equipment that will grace Princess or Bug's kitchen. I know that. But I do, Breatharian, expect it to last longer than six weeks. The first one that I blew through could have been a fluke. I could have snagged something that stripped out the plastic gears in the shaft. But there's no reason that the simple drag and torque from mere coconut milk should similarly strip out the plastic gears and crack the shaft housing. In two other blenders. No way. I think I'm going to donate my kitchen to Consumer Reports.

I've worn out a K-tec grain mill and its daughter has come to live with us. I realized the magnitude of what I'm doing when I bought a Retsel Mill-rite, thinking that this would be the best and last grain mill I would ever buy. Until I read the paperwork that said they estimated that the average home use would be an hour a week. (Insert derisive snort.) Anything beyond that would be considered commercial use. I've determined that anything that bears the label "not for commercial use" doesn't belong in my kitchen. So I guess it is official. I run a commercial kitchen. Lucky that Tool Guy inspects kitchens for a living. Got that base covered. At least.

I'm glad my food processor is back up to speed now. Although walnuts are tettering on the brink of successful reintroduction, we're not quite there yet. And even if we were, the current climate for nut butters isn't encouraging. Food integrity continues to be compromised. A recent discussion about Nutella raised a craving in me and started the creative juices looking for a replacement. It is for this kind of job that I forgive my Retsel for the fastidious limitations and "not for commercial use" injunctions.

"Seed-ella"

2 cups sunflower seeds or similarly mild-tasting seed
1 cup (or sufficient to make smooth) of rice bran or other oil
1/2 tsp. salt or to taste
1-2 T maple syrup or favorite sweetener to taste
2 tsp. cocoa powder or to taste

Run seeds through food processor or mill to render into a smooth paste. The Retsel Millrite does a very credible job of making this...much better than the food processor, which tends to yield a less smooth product. Put this paste into the food processor or blender and add remaining ingredients until well incorporated.

Dog viewed it suspiciously, but after I'd told him to take a bite, "because it's horrible," he quirked an eyebrow at me and bit. And hasn't stopped biting. Sin on a Spoon is still at the top of the favorites list, but this Seedella has SOS's crown wobbling. Absolutely decadent.

My stove gallantly chugs along. But it has needed a few tweaks along the way. The heat from the amount of cooking that I do has degraded the wire coating and resulted in a few of my electronic ignition wires shorting out. I disconnected the shorted ones and am waiting until all four are gone before I call a repair specialist to replace the whole harness. You already know about the gumbo fountain and I refuse to discuss the oven fire. Categorically. Let's suffice it to say that I am now intimately acquainted with all of my stove's ways.When I say "cookin' dangerously," it isn't always an expression of hyperbole. I may not be the Iron Chef...but I'm definitely nominating myself as the Asbestos Chef.

I Am Not My Stuff

Are you thinged out yet? I know I am. When one has five people in a New England bungalow, one has to be judicious about possessions. I'm reminded of the Genii in Aladdin. You know. The blue one? "Phenomenal cosmic powers! Itty-bitty living space..." Our house? Phenomenal back yard. Genii-sized living space.

Teaching stewardship is one of the big challenges of parenting. Every parent wants to give each child everything their hearts desire. Saying no is hard. Saying no to your children is even harder than saying no to yourself sometimes. I remember when Dog was a wee tyke of four years old and a particular toy in Target caught his attention. Shark Park. The ultimate little boy race car awesome track fantasy. He hankered after it with all of the fervor reserved for Ralphie in A Christmas Story. Every time we went to the mall (and in San Antonio, the heat and even Genii-er sized living space there made mall trips frequent!), he would visit Shark Park and lovingly stroke the box. Partings were sweet sorrow. He may have actually hugged it once or twice.

The Christmas after we moved to Little House in the Big Woods, we bought Shark Park for Dog. I believe that I can probably count on one hand the number of times that it was played with. After he got older and was able to articulate what was going on inside his head more, he admitted to me that he expected it to do things that it wasn't capable of doing. I suppose every child of the television era, and--if Ralphie's Little Orphan Annie decoder ring is any indication--even before television, has succumbed to the fairy dust of advertising that somehow makes a toy appear to do impossible things.

But Shark Park was a deal...a steal, actually. Because I can't tell you how much mileage I've gotten out of that Shark Park toy, though it wasn't the kind of mileage the manufacturer envisioned. Bug was old enough during the Shark Park debut to remember it, so every time someone falls madly in love with a marketing concept, we talk about Shark Park. We've completely dissected the dynamics, nuances, and strategies of Corporate Advertising and the Hobbits are now not ignorant of Its devises.

Princess wasn't around for Shark Park and so I was thankful when some teaching opportunities arose for her. One morning during Children's Church, she was perched on the edge of her chair with a rod-straight back (I swear I don't teach her these things!) and listening intently. The lesson title caught my attention and pretty soon, I was listening intently, too. The title was "I Am Not My Stuff." I started taking notes. It went like this:

• I am not my stuff
  
• My stuff is not my stuff (I Tim. 6:17)
  
• My stuff is your stuff
  
• If I make my stuff His stuff and your stuff, then I get the good stuff (I Tim. 6:19)

I like it when I hear other people talking about not being defined by the things we possess. It helps hold me accountable. When the drawers start getting too full, I start asking, "Do I own this or does it own me?" We all have our toys.

I'm not swayed by fashion lures, but kitchen equipment can turn my head. I have to be careful since I drool over kitchen appliances with all of the passion others reserve for Prada or Manolo Blahnik. I have to be honest, though...the closest I've come to Prada or such are the pages of Meg Cabot's work. I had to google these up to find out what the rave was. And Monolo Blahnik? This has to be the contemporary version of foot binding. And all for the low, low price of $1000 per pair! Not.

But I do like how having a few (just a few!) key appliances can make work easier. Like making bread. Like focaccia. Tool Guy has been fantasizing about focaccia ever since we picked up an artisan loaf at a local farmers market almost eight years ago. It was the first and last time I'd ever eaten it. That first year we were here, we kept talking about going back and getting more. Never did, though. And then the food pyramid collapsed.

When I discovered Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day, I stumbled across the focaccia recipe and squee-ed the house down. Tool Guy made me promise to make it soon. Well, Breatharian, it is now soon.

Focaccia (inspired by Jeff Hertzberg/Francis Zoe)

1/4 cup olive oil
2 eggs
2 cups sourdough starter
1/2 tsp. salt
2 t guar gum
2 T potato starch
2 T tapioca starch
3 T sliced black olives
1/2 onion, sliced
*Rosemary oil (prep at least a week ahead of time)

Measure in all wet ingredients and mix. While slowly stirring, mix in the dry ingredients, starting with the guar gum. "Knead" for five minutes. The dough should make a wet, slapping sound when the paddle runs through it, but the consistency shouldn't be thinner than toothpaste. Stirring slowly, add the black olives until incorporated.

Line pizza pan, cookie sheet, or other baking surface with baking parchment and spread dough rather thinly over the surface, approximately a 1/2 inch thick. Allow to rise in the refrigerator overnight or for two hours on the counter before baking.

While oven is preheating to 425*, slice 1/2 an onion and brown the slices in a skillet until the desired done-ness. Before placing in the heated oven, drizzle *rosemary oil over the top of the bread. Too much onion and/or too much oil will prevent the bread from browning properly.

Bake for 20-30 minutes or until brown on top.

*Rosemary Oil

Jeff and Francis' recipe suggests sprinkling rosemary over the surface of the bread. Well. This bread has to feed three Hobbits who would view the presence of twigs scattered on the surface of their bread with deepest suspicion, if not outright mutiny. They have raised no fool. So about a week before making this bread, I took a bunch (how's that for quantitative specificity?) of rosemary, crammed it in a jar, and covered it with olive oil. Sealing it with a Tilia vacuum sealer will expedite the extraction process. The result was an olive oil rich in rosemary with none of the sensory objections that twigs would provoke.

This bread was so absolutely delicious that Tool Guy reached for a share and narrowly withdrew his hand with his fingers intact. So there you go, Breatharian. Artisan focaccia. Can you get any lazier than that? Only if you're wearing Monolos, lounging them on the desktop, while filing your french manicure. Here. Have a Godiva chocolate.

Princess is taking her turn at bat with a Barbie Fashion head that she was bequeathed. After she'd had it for two days and one night of bad dreams over it, she readily agreed to Freecycle it to a special needs child who would enjoy it. Her parting injunction to the mother picking it up was, "They lied. It doesn't make a flower pony tail." And so the inoculation goes...