Heptadecagon

We love bananas, but we're not always good about eating them before they turn brown. So, I'm always on the lookout for good banana recipes. I found one I'm pleased with, and I'm happy to share it. I found the original recipe at Simply Recipes , but here it is, just in case you're too lazy to take yourself over there. This recipe is for cookies. I'm sure you could place the dough in a sheet pan and make it into bar cookies. The banana flavor isn't overwhelming and the cookie is light and airy. Enjoy! Ingredients: 1/2 cup unsalted butter, room temperature (or softened in the microwave) 1 cup sugar 1 egg, room temperature 1 cup mashed bananas (about 2 ½ large bananas) 1 teaspoon baking soda 2 cups flour pinch salt 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon 1/2 teaspoon ground mace or nutmeg 1/2 teaspoon ground cloves 1 cup chocolate chips (walnuts or pecans or whatever else you might think of)   Steps:

We had a non-traditional Thanksgiving this year. That's a topic I'll tackle in a later post, but I will say this: I'm glad we went the non-traditional route because I have no confidence in my oven's ability to work. Who wants a turkey that's only partially cooked? Not us. You can call me a skeptic, but I'll call myself realistic. You can call me pessimistic, I'll still call myself realistic. And just to shut you up, I'll tell you that the oven, once again, emitted the F10 error yesterday. Yes, that's right. In the middle of baking some frozen pizza, the bells and whistles rang. And you know what I did...jumped on that phone and made yet another repair appointment. Which means we will have the lovely repair people come out one more time to check my oven. This time, it will be to replace the temperature sensor. What's after that? I'm not sure. We could keep this dance up...they replace parts, I use the oven, the error rings, I call them b

Conversation as we put up the Christmas tree: Talia: Are we heading out for Black Friday? Me: No. Aaron: Is that the day we can't eat meat? Me: No.

One thought for this Thanksgiving Day (as shared from DulyPosted.com):

The kids have been home for a couple of days. With that thought in mind, I might have something to say about spending most of my time with the kids. I don't. Except that it would be nice if I had vacation days at the same time they do. That only happens over Christmas (we all have the two weeks off then), so I'm just grateful the girls are old enough to watch everyone else. I can go to work. They can stay home. All's right with the world. So what do I have to say today? I have a question. About the American Express card. Every once in a while, Tim receives an application for the card in the mail. I don't get those same invitations, presumably because I don't make enough money to warrant owning their card. Who knows. Here's my question: What's so special about the card? Why should Tim want to apply for one? Most places I visit don't even take American Express, so again, what's so special about the card? Does anyone out there have one? Do you get m

Danger, Will Robinson! This post is not for the young. Or those who might be easily offended by pop culture references. Or by those who are simply prudish. Don't say I didn't warn you. The twins are voracious readers who read just about anything we allow them to read. About a year ago, they said, "Can we read Looking for Alaska ?" Since I enjoyed that book (and you know about my obsession with John Green), I said they could. And then I remembered the Crest Complete Incident . If you're not sure what that incident might be, Google "Crest Complete Looking for Alaska" and you'll see what I mean. Was it my proudest moment, allowing my girls to read about oral sex? No, it was not. But in classic John Green style, much of what he said was completely lost on them. (Not that he's a bad writer. Clearly, I'm his biggest fan. But the man writes scenes in such a way that sometimes, the innocent are spared exactly what he's talking about.) In fact,

A few days ago, I read an article about the value of a blog. (I can't find the article right now, but when I do, I'll link to it.) Put VALUE and MY BLOG into one sentence, and I have to laugh. Why? Because I've never thought about what value my blog has. I write because I want to write, I want to practice writing, I want to share thoughts and stories with the few people willing to read them. And, I want to remember certain moments in our lives. But does this blog have value? I'm not sure. And do I care? Furthermore, should I care? I probably should, but at this time in my life, I don't have extra minutes to worry about whether or not my blog has value. So, I won't. (Although the topic might be a great one to return to someday.)

Years ago now, I discovered the poet, Rumi. I found him in what I thought was a very unlikely place: between the pages of a book categorized as Juvenile Fiction. Since that time, I often find myself Googling his sayings, because just one look at them can inspire me to write. In my quest to find something the other day, I found the beautiful quote below. And thankfully,  I know exactly where to use it. I want to see you. Know your voice. Recognize you when you first come 'round the corner. Sense your scent when I come into a room you've just left. Know the lift of your heel, the glide of your foot. Become familiar with the way you purse your lips then let them part, just the slightest bit, when I lean in to your space and kiss you. I want to know the joy of how you whisper "more”

This story is becoming tiresome and predictable. And yet I report it. I just have to, because some day, I could see this segment of my life as part of a bad sitcom. Yes, yes I can. Mr. Repairman showed up Wednesday afternoon. Third afternoon for repair--third different repairman. Him: You've got the parts the company sent? Me: Yes. Here they are. Him: Great. Me: If you need something, I'll be in the dining room with the dog. Not that I can help you fix this or anything... Him: [Laughs] Thanks. Shadow and I retreated to the dining room, where I promptly sat down to read a book. I listened to the small racket in the kitchen, and when I heard a beep, I knew he'd replaced the control panel. Sure enough, a few minutes later, the man called for me to tell me he was done. Him: So that's it. Let me check that the oven works. Me: Okay, well, let's just say that I use the oven, and I get the error again. Him: You shouldn't. I replaced the control panel. Me:

Can that be right? Can we possibly be at ten of these posts? Somehow, time has marched on and left me behind. Ten? Excuse me for moment as I rub my eyes and come to grips with that number. Okay, thank you. I'm done marveling at how many weeks can pass so quickly. Yesterday, I received this email from an old colleague at University of Michigan. It read: Chris: I proposed your name as an alumna I'd like to see featured in this year's newsletter. I should have written sooner to ask if you'd be willing to write a short paragraph about what you've been up to in the last umpteen years but I didn't. So, are you interested and would you be willing? Two thoughts popped into my head the moment I finished reading the email. 1. I missed the person who wrote the email and I wished I'd have kept in better contact with her. (If you're reading this, A, perhaps we can try to catch up.) 2. What would the Physiology department have to say about me? I've had th

The twins are good math students, but they are sloppy math students. Yes, I can say that. I'm their mother, and I'm not saying anything that they don't already know. Because of that sloppiness, they make mistake after mistake, and seldom take the time to fix them. Both girls usually know what they are supposed to do with a math question. Execution of that question is, well, what I question. Therefore, the girls (along with a few friends) have been heading in to school early on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays to spend some time with their math teacher. They enjoy the early morning time with her, and have found it beneficial. I, too, have found the time to be helping. Their confidence in their ability to do math has grown. Yesterday when I came home from bringing Aaron and Melina to piano and singing lessons, Zoe confronted me in the kitchen. "Mom, I have to tell you something," she said. The look in her eyes told me much of what I needed to know: they hel

Over at HuffPost Parents , Oren Miller (stay at home dad and blogger) does a nice job of telling us what he knows . Miller has Stage 4 lung cancer, which means that he most likely doesn't have long to live. He's written a beautiful, compelling, from-the-heart post that reminds us to live in the moment because those moments can be cut short or even taken away. We need to be reminded of that fact. Often . And since you're all my friends, I'm taking it upon myself to remind you. You KNOW what I'm going to say, right? (I guess I don't need to say it then.) Well I will anyway. Do not wait until dire circumstances arise to live your life the way you want to. (I'm not saying that Miller did that.) You need to take up the bucket list before it becomes a bucket list. (I'm not only predictable...I'm repetitive. I'm CERTAIN I've said this all before.) Kiss your partner in the rain if you so desire. Play with your children instead of doing the

As much as I try to put most lunch items into reusable containers, there are a few times that I need to use conveniences like aluminum foil. A few hours ago, as I prepared lunches for the day, that was the case. Aaron's lunch box was almost full, and the piece of banana bread wouldn't fit if I put it into a container. So I reached for the foil. I'm not a big believer in brand names, so the foil we currently have in the drawer came from Shnucks . If you've never had the pleasure of visiting a Shnucks, don't cry. It's no different than any other grocery store chain, really. But they're found west of Indianapolis and east of Kansas City, so maybe you've never encountered one before. Why do I have foil from this place? Because we attended a family reunion in Columbia, Illinois (another place you might not be familiar with), and our kids wanted to make hats on the drive home. Yes, you read that right. The kids wanted to make hats out of aluminum foil. So

The girls and I shopped today for a few items, including boots and a dress for me. I'm not a big shopper. In fact, I hate shopping, but that discussion is for another post. As I slid the dress over my head and smoothed the fabric down, I thought to myself, Yes, this could work . However, I wasn't convinced. Until Talia piped up, "Mom, from the back you look like a teenager." That comment sealed the deal...what forty-something mother doesn't want to look younger than she is? And I think that the store should hire my girls.

I blocked out the hours of 1-5 p.m. on Wednesday so the repair man could come check out the oven. Again. I only hoped that it was not the same repair man. When the van pulled up to the house and an unfamiliar face opened the driver's side door, I pumped my fist in the air. Him: So you're having trouble with your oven again? Me: Yes. I used it, and the temperature reached 400 degrees, stayed there for about 10 minutes, and then, the oven beeped with the F10 error. Him: Oh. F10. That's a control panel error. Me: Really? A control panel error? F10 means control panel error. Him: Yes. Me: So the other guy didn't have a clue what he was talking about, did he? Him: [Laughs.] I can't say that... Me: No, you can't, but I can. In the end, the repair man stayed for two minutes. He checked my receipt and verified that I had purchased a protective agreement (and thank goodness I had, for apparently the control panel repair will be costly). He didn't have those

Shadow waits by the back door when he needs to go outside. He doesn't bark or whine to let me know that his bladder is full. He simply rests there, without making a sound, until someone (namely me) notices him. If the urge to go is overwhelming, he might say something: a small groan or moan that means, "Hey, I'm waiting. Please come open the door." He's the only being in this house that doesn't demand something from me. To be able to claim that spot on my list is a huge thing, although he doesn't know it. Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Shadow. He turned ten over the summer, which means we've had him for seven years. (He arrived the summer before Melina did, and I can't imagine not having either of those two stars in my life.) Turning ten also means that he's getting older and won't be with us all that much longer: the average lifespan of a Golden Retriever is 11 years, although they can live to be between 12 and 15 years, if

Happy Wednesday to you all! This day (despite the gloom) is an especially great day because I do not have to teach! Instead, I will be meeting up with a writing friend to discuss some pages of our current works-in-progress. The joy that courses through me right now...it feels great. I also wanted to say that I miss all of you. (And when I say you, I mean all six of you. Thanks again for reading.) I wanted to stay away from the blog so that I could concentrate on the important things in my life--the kids especially. But the last few weeks have taught me that I can't stay away. I have too many stories I want to tell and my kids love to read them. Plus, I'm still not running, so why, oh why did I take away the writing? My body requires therapy in some form, and if I can't get it via running, I at least need to grab it via writing. You know what that means, right? That I'm coming back. Maybe not every day, but most every day. So get ready for some real drivel.

A few weeks ago, the oven I purchased in September, 2013, beeped at me. ERR F10 flashed on the screen as the wail continued. The noise bothered me, so I ran down the basement steps and switched off the circuit breaker. Then, I performed a Google search. ERR F10 corresponds to runaway oven temperature , or in other words, the sensor in my oven needed help. Because I'm busy, I didn't call the repair place right away. I waited for the event to happen again--which it did. Twice within one week? I knew I had to call. The repair man arrived at my house last week. Here's how the conversation went down: Him: What error did it show? Me: F10, I believe. Him: Are you sure? I don't think there is an F10. It should be a number under ten. Me: Hmmm. Let me check my computer. I might have saved the search I performed. I went over to my computer and brought up the screen where I had found the information. Sure enough, in this Kenmore model, an error of F10 existed. I informed

She never cared about being Cinderella. She knew that story was exactly that--a story, a tale, a bunch of drivel gathered together for little girls who could imagine nothing better for themselves than a dashing prince who came in and saved the day. She didn't have time for crap like that. (At least that's what she told herself. Every day seemed easier to take when you didn't expect someone to come rescue you.) Instead, the story of Pinocchio held her fascination. Perhaps it had to do with the number of hours she spent each day, feeling like nothing more than a wooden puppet herself. She couldn't be sure. But every time the Disney movie came into theaters for yet another special showing, she scraped together the money to go see it. Even to this day, the most popular song from the movie sent her backwards in time. Drying dishes one evening, she heard the familiar tune, the first notes of "When You Wish Upon a Star," trickling through the radio. Tears welled up

What does this wish list say about me? Salad spinner Vacuum Chicago Manual of Style Say what you will, but those are my top three choices of what I'd like to find in my stocking this year. Only the first two need to be new. (Hint, hint.)

The email popped up in my inbox at 10:22 a.m. yesterday, although I wasn't there to read it. It said: Hello Christine- This is your email to confirm the details of your free XYZ Basic Sperm Bank account. The following is the account information you registered with: ----------------------------- First Name: Christine Last Name: DXXXXX Email: c*******@gmail.com User Name: XXXXXX## Password: XXXXXX ----------------------------- Please confirm that all of the above is correct by clicking the button below and also please save this information for your records. I laughed out loud. First off, my name is Christin a (emphasis on the a at the end, of course), and secondly, I asked my husband to get a vasectomy! At this point in time, I have no need for a sperm bank. Right? And could this possibly be a phishing scheme? I wasn't sure, so I went on to read the rest of the email: Choosing a donor that's right for you can seem confusing, even overw

Melina is the proud owner of a pink, frothy canopy that hangs over her bed. I thought when it arrived that the fuchsia bows added just the right touch. After all, the more embellishments, the better. (Eyeroll.) Anyway, the pink concoction hangs over her bed, and clearly is for decorative purposes. Meaning, you really don't do much with it at all, besides marvel at its loveliness and in my case, wonder how in the world your daughter came to be so frilly and feminine. (It's all good, just different.) And normally, because the canopy simply hangs from the ceiling, it's not involved in any part of our daily lives, with the exception of bed time--when I wrestle with each of its extensions and attempt to place them around the bed in a satisfactory manner for Melina. But early last evening, I got a shout from Aaron. Aaron: Mom! Me: Yes? Aaron: Mom? I need you! Me: What do you need? Aaron: Mom! I need you to come here. Usually, I ask the kids to come to me if I'm in

If you know anything about me, you know I'm not a fan of moving our clocks forward and backward. I'm a creature of habit, and messing with those habits wreaks havoc with my system. In fact, today one might call me an ornery witch (or something worse) because I'm so tired, despite the fact that I was in bed, with the lights out, at 8:20 p.m. last night. (Yes, you read that right. Aaron and I went to bed at the same time.) But there's nothing I can really do to help myself except to adjust. And it might take me a while to do that. So I'm glad I'm not posting much these days. Because my posts will tend toward whining, and I just can't have that. It's sunny here today. I'm going to focus on that fact, add some extra caffeine to my cup of coffee, and find myself a good book to bring to bed with me tonight. (Although I won't be reading it, because I'll have drifted off...)

It's been ten years since they placed a puckered, pale Aaron onto my chest. I remember that warm fall night for many reasons. Some silly: Tim forgot the camera, but the hospital was so close to our house that there was time for him to head home and get it--I could hold off on pushing. And some not: I had hoped to deliver naturally, which didn't happen. (Vaginal, yes. Without drugs, no.) I remember asking the hospital staff for food almost seconds after Aaron came into this world, and having the doctor ask me how I could be thinking of food. Well, lady, I just worked very hard, wouldn't you say? Of course, I'm hungry. I remember the nurse, Carol Caroll (yes, that was her name), leaning close to my ear and whispering that she'd find me something to put into my stomach. That small meal of canned tomato soup was the best I'd ever eaten, I have to say. But what I remember most of all is that I was nervous. About having a baby boy to look after when I'd had no