Cooking Failures

Author: britaschrager

  • My lawn mower hates me

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    You have all seen them. The people who make mowing the lawn look easy. Those people who are just walking peacefully after their lawn mower in their yard. They are walking at a leisurely speed while barely exerting any effort to push their lawn mower. Some are actually even going fast. They make it look effortless. Some even look like they’re running and some even look like they’re enjoying it! I’ve always seen people like that and thought to myself that mowing a lawn is probably easy. Anybody could do it. Even I could do it!

    I call BS on all these happy people mowing their lawn in an effortless manner. Mowing is not easy. Or maybe I’m just really really bad at it. If you’ve been reading my blog, it’s a very good possibility. I’m naturally bad at cooking so I could very well be naturally bad at mowing a lawn. If that’s even a thing. Maybe no one has been bad at mowing a lawn before. Maybe I invented being bad at lawn mowing.

    Before I got separated, ex-husband just always took care of the lawn. He wanted to. He enjoyed it. Or if he didn’t, I didn’t know. It just seemed like a man kind of thing. It’s a man’s job, I thought. The feminist in me is very disappointed in myself at this thought. All the lawn responsibilities just somehow fell on him so for over 10 years I never even thought of lawn care. It never even crossed my mind. He made it look easy, so I figured it couldn’t be that hard.

    In 2021 my husband moved out and here I was with a big old lawn and no idea how to take care of it. As I said, everybody made it look so easy so I thought it would be no problem at all. I thought it would even be FUN! I could do it. I am a strong, independent, intelligent woman, so mowing the lawn would be a piece of cake, right?

    With my head held high, and walking tall and proud, I march right out to the garage and introduce myself to the lawn mower. I explain to him that we were going to be best friends and from now on I would be hanging out with him. I know he probably really liked my ex, but I am actually way more fun I tell him with a wink. I wheel him out in the grass, and I look at him realizing that I have no idea how to start a lawn mower. I watch a YouTube video, but honestly, I don’t know how anyone learns anything from YouTube videos. People always report that they learn so much from watching YouTube videos, but I just don’t. I can’t concentrate that long. I get bored. But still, I sort of watch one and then I’m ready.

    You just pull that little stringie thing, right? That’s how everybody does it in the movies. Simple simple. So, I pull the string and nothing happens. I talk to the lawn mower nicely and say, “look, I know you and my ex had a great relationship, but it’s just going to be us from now on so let’s make the best of it.”  And I high five his cute little lawn mower side. Then I try again, and I try again, and I try again. I will not be deterred, I think to myself, but the darn thing won’t start. I look up and see my neighbor across the street. I hate asking for help but I’m out of options.

    I walk over there and ask him very nicely if he will teach me how to use my lawn mower. He comes over and he says first of all, I should change out of flip-flops. You’re not supposed to mow your lawn in flip flops?!! I do everything in flip-flops. That doesn’t make any sense, but I’ll listen to him. (A couple weeks later I meet a friend for lunch and I was telling her the story and she told me it’s absolutely fine to mow your yard in the flip flops. Ever since then I always do. I have one pair of lawnmowing flip-flops. My feet are always grass stained and disgusting when I come in that they need a good scrubbing. It’s all worth it to not have to wear real shoes. Anyway, that’s probably too much information so let’s get back to my story.)

    My neighbor shows me how to check the gas. I feel a little silly because I did not know how to check for gas and I didn’t even think of it.  But the mower had gas so that wasn’t the problem. Then he shows me how to push this little button up front. Who knew you had to push a little button? My YouTube video didn’t tell me that. And then he shows me how you pull the string (just like I’d been doing) and it starts right up. That’s easy! I thank him and then I go inside to change out of my flip-flops.

    I come back out and check the gas even though we checked it together and it’s fine, I pump the little button, I pull the string and nothing happens. I pull it again and again and again and finally I have to go back over there and ask my neighbor for more help. It was just that I wasn’t putting enough muscle into pulling the little string. After I learned that, I successfully mowed my lawn for the first time. I thought I was going to die from heat stroke, but I was so proud of myself you would think I had just climbed Mount Everest. And can we talk about how hard it is to turn the lawnmower around?! Why is it so hard to turn?  I struggled while backing up and going forward and backing it up again. It is like I was making a five-point turn after every row.

    That mower is really hard to push, and my yard is a lot bigger than it looks. I remember my ex-husband complaining about it for years and saying we need a ride on mower. I told him he was just being a wimp, and we did not need a ride on mower. I told him our lawn was not that big, and he could easily do it. Well, now I kind of see his point, but I would never admit that and please don’t ever tell him that if you know him. We don’t want men going around thinking they’re right about things. Kidding! I love men. They are right sometimes.

    And that is how my lawnmowing adventure began over four years ago. You would think I would get the hang of it. You would think it would be easier. You would think the lawn mower likes me by now. You would think we are best friends. But for some reason, it’s just gotten harder and harder and harder. There was a point when the lawn mower wouldn’t even start for me. I would go out there ready to tackle the lawn and I would try and try and try to start the lawn mower and then I would just give up and go back inside. When my brother got home, I would tell him that the lawn mower was just not starting, and he’d go out there and start it on the first try. I tried not to take it personally, but it really felt like my lawn mower just didn’t like me. But that doesn’t make sense because everyone likes me! Does my lawnmower not realize how cool I am? I say the same thing about my children. Children and lawnmowers. They really just don’t appreciate us. Someday they will, I am sure.

    I swear that the grass grows six inches in one day around here. Every time I turn around the lawn needs to be mowed again. But also, it rains every day, so the grass is wet. I know they always say, don’t mow wet grass, and I know that, but the grass is always wet because it’s always raining. If I didn’t mow the grass when it is wet I would NEVER be able to mow the grass. I swear the backyard is up to my knees after three days. In this day and age, with all the advanced technology, how has no one invented a lawn mower that can cut wet grass?!? That is what the world really needs. And a few other things too, of course.

    A couple of days ago there was a break in the rain, and I saw neighbors out mowing their lawn with no trouble so I figured I could do it too. Mine was looking pretty bad. If they can do it, I can do it I thought. I went out and checked in with the grass. It seemed dry. It felt dry. It will be fine, I thought.

    But it didn’t work out as I planned. Every minute or two the lawnmower would die because it would get stopped up with wet grass. I would have to flip it over, pull the soggy wet gross grass out with my hands and throw it somewhere.  I would have to give it a little pep talk, wait five minutes, and try again. This went on for about half an hour, and I realized in my mind that I was actually wasting my time but I couldn’t let myself give up. I couldn’t even get a whole row done before it would die. It’s like the definition of two steps forward and one step back.  Except in this case, it could have been one step forward and two steps back.

    Is something wrong with my lawn mower? Am I doing it wrong? Have I been mowing my lawn for four years and I still don’t know how? Why is it so hard to mow a lawn? Does anyone else have these problems or is it only me? I have never seen anyone struggling in their yard like I do.

    Finally I found a trick! If I mow 6 inches, pull back 2 inches and lean it on its back wheels, then the grass sort of flies out from under it, and it doesn’t die. But that’s getting very little done and exerting a lot of energy. My hands are also sore and blistered after mowing that way. But is there any other way? I need to get this lawn mowed because the weather app says it’s going to rain for the next nine days. That’s not a surprise. 

    So I continue with that strategy for a row or two, but then once again it dies, so I clean it out, give it a little pep talk and a pat on the back, wait five minutes, and try to start it again. Every time this happens, it takes me at least four tries before it actually starts. But I get it done.

    I was mowing like this last night in my front yard, and I saw the neighbors across the street sitting in their garage, having a drink and watching their dog and kids play in the front yard. I hope they weren’t watching me. It’s really embarrassing that I’m so bad at mowing a lawn. I hope I gave them a good laugh, but I think probably they just felt really sorry for me.

    My mower is really hard to push. Even though it’s one of those self-propelling ones where you pull in the handle and the front wheels turn. I didn’t figure that out for the first five times I mowed the lawn, and I was really worried I had lost my muscle mass or something. But even with that feature, sometimes I don’t think I’m going to be able to push it. My lawn is lumpy. It’s not one of those perfectly flat lawns. We had trees and bushes that got knocked down from the hurricane and in those spots it’s not completely flat. So sometimes when I get to a lump, no matter how hard I push, the lawn mower doesn’t budge.  I push with all my might but it’s at this point I always worry if this is it, if this is when my lawnmowing career comes to an end. I wonder if I will just have to leave this lawn mower at the bottom of this lump in my front yard forever because it just can’t be moved. But then after pep talks to both me and my lawn mower, and a little extra energy, it goes over the lump. Until the next time. Does anyone else have a lumpy yard or a hard time actually pushing their lawn mower? You can’t even really see the lumps until you get to one with the lawn mower. And I’m a strong woman. I carried my kids up to bed until they were probably eight or nine even. But even my muscles are sometimes no match for lawn mower.

    I listen to books on tape or podcasts while I mow to try to make it more enjoyable. While I was mowing this last time, I was listening to Wild by Cheryl Strayed. She was talking about how difficult, how excruciating, how exhausting it was to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. I said girl, you don’t know anything about difficult and exhausting until you’ve tried to mow this lawn on Province Drive. At that moment, I honestly thought it would be easier to hike the Pacific Crest Trail alone for 100 days than it is to mow this freaking lawn. Looking back, I changed my mind about that but at the moment, that’s honestly how I felt.

    I FINALLY get the front yard mowed although it probably took 20 times longer than it should have.  I sit back with the feeling of accomplishment. Real accomplishment. Probably how Cheryl Strayed felt after completing her 1000-mile hike on the PCT.

    The next morning when I walk out and there are all those clumps of dried grass on my lawn from when I had to stop and clean it out. They have dried and turned brown so quickly. You know those little horse drawn carriage rides downtown? You know how sometimes there are big piles of horse poop on the ground before they clean them? That’s exactly what the dried grass looks like on my lawn. Big piles of horse poop. What do you do with that? I don’t see that on anyone else’s lawn! Am I supposed to shovel them up? And put them where?  In a bag? Do you just leave them? What’s the proper protocol here. What does everybody else do and why don’t I see horse poop looking dried grass clumps on anyone else’s lawn?!? Once again, am I doing this wrong?

    I was thinking about that bag that you put on the back of the lawnmower. I have one, but I’ve never put it on. I don’t really understand how it works. Wouldn’t it get in my way? Am I supposed to be using that? Anyway, I wonder if that is the problem. I should probably google it, but I never do. I just keep doing it this way.

    Why do we do things the hard way? Why are we set in our ways and stuck in our habits that we don’t even Google if there is an easier way. And if there is an easier way, will we actually try it? Does it take more effort to change to an easier way than just keep doing things as you’ve been doing them?

    Is this kind of thing like life? Where you look at Facebook and everything looks so easy for everyone else? Is mowing the lawn like that? Something that people just pretend is easy when really it’s hard as heck? Is this just something that no one talks about? Like how hard parenting is or marriage is? Or doing your hair? Or wearing not flip flops? Or is it only me? Or is it my lawn mower? Is mowing your lawn hard for anyone else?!? If not, just ignore this post and I will keep blaming the lawn mower.

  • Death at a Winery

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    We all have that one friend who talks to everyone, right? The type of person who will just talk to a stranger for 20 minutes about their stubbed toe. I have a friend like that. I can’t take him anywhere without him having conversations with strangers, adding half an hour to our trip. The other day he talked to the woman who worked at Port City Java for 10 minutes about some experience he had buying donuts at the Donut Inn. And there was even a line behind us!

    And don’t even get me started about going out to dinner with him. He spends half of it talking to the server. He has all his normal lines. I can predict what he’s going to say right before he says it. The sweet little server comes over and asks if we have any questions. He laughs and he says, “I have plenty of questions. Pull up a chair. Or did you just mean about the menu?” Then he laughs at how hilarious he is. I swear I think there are servers who see us sit down and then they pay a different server 50 bucks to take the table for them.

    I’m kidding, it’s funny and sort of entertaining. I’m just not that kind of person. If I see someone I know in the grocery store, I will duck my head and turn the other way and hope he/she doesn’t see me. Even if I really like them! I don’t even know why I do it. I guess I just don’t particularly like talking to people.

    Now, if my friend saw someone he knew in the grocery store, he would literally start running, tripping over his own feet, pushing his cart as fast as he can just to talk to some PTA mom or other acquaintance.

    We recently took a little trip to the mountains. We got away for a few days. We walked around little towns and looked in all the quaint shops. Of course, my friend had to talk to every shop owner for 10 minutes about this antique or that antique or some casserole dish that his grandmother had.

    During this trip, we went to some wineries. I love wineries. I do my tasting quickly, I pick my wine, and I go find a peaceful place to sit and drink and enjoy the company of the people I’m with. Obviously, my chatty friend does wineries differently.

    It just so happened that the owner of the winery was the one who was doing our tasting. As you can imagine, my friend had a field day chatting with the owner. He’s really a very friendly and charming guy and people enjoy talking to him. People who enjoy talking to strangers that is. I’m not one of those people. But I just smile and drink the wine. By this point, she knows all about his record collection and his boat that he can’t drive.

    Finally, the tasting is over and I pry him away from the poor owner, who probably has a job to do like running a winery, and we go outside and enjoy our wine.

    We know the winery closes at five so at about 4:55 we finish our wine and collect our glasses to go return them. I can’t wait to get some dinner. I’m starving by now. I send my friend to return the glasses and I go and use the restroom.

    When I come out of the restroom, of course he is talking to the owner and when he sees me, his face lights up and he says ,”the owner just asked if we would like a private tour and see where the wine is made.”

    Ummm….. no.

    His face is beaming with excitement. But my mind goes somewhere else. Why would the owner do that? It is closing time. Doesn’t she want to just kick everybody out so she can clean up and enjoy her evening? Is my friend really that charming and chatty that she wants to spend more time listening to him?

    I got a little suspicious at that point. I do read too many thrillers and watch too much Law & Order, but I was very skeptical about this overly friendly winery owner who wants to take time out of her day, after the winery has closed, to give us a little private tour.

    But of course I don’t say any of that so I just put a big smile on my face and say “ Oh! Wow! That would be amazing! That is so nice of you.”

    She leads us through these heavy wooden doors to this huge dark room full of wine vats. She starts telling us about the room and how it was built by hand and with refurbished wood or something like that. I’m not listening. I’m pretending to listen but looking for the nearest exits. At this point, my friend is talking about how great he is at recycling because he rinses out every single container and lets it dry before he puts it in the recycling. Umm… does the recycling really care if it is dry or not?

    She’s telling us how the temperature stays cool even on hot days. She talks about how her husband ‘s family built it. And of course, my friend is fascinated. He’s asking so many questions and talking about his similar experiences. Although he’s never owned a winery or built a room with big wine vats in it that can stay cool even in hot temperatures, I’m sure he can relate somehow.

    I, on the other hand, am getting more and more suspicious the farther we go into the deep, dark, very large room. This owner could kill us and throw our bodies in one of these wine vats, and we would never be found! Never be found!

    Don’t be silly I tell myself. There’s no way she can get us in those vats I think to myself. She’s not He-Man. She can’t just pick us up and toss us up and over.

    She eventually leads us to a dark winding staircase. There is an awkward looking man at the top who steps aside to let us pass. I wonder if he’s her partner and they’re secretly going to kill us together.

    My friend sees him, and a big old smile fills his face (oblivious that these might be our last few moments on earth) and ask him how his day was. He says, “quitting time, huh?” And then gives him a pat on the back or a high five or something like they have known each other since childhood.

    Now I’m getting even more nervous because I have realized that this is how she’s going to get us in the vats. From here, it will be easy. She will just kick us over the railing, and we’ll fall headfirst into one of those vats down below. They are so perfectly placed below. I can’t imagine they are for anything else. Well, maybe wine.

    I sure hope it’s one that’s filled with wine that we get thrown into. I think it would hurt if it was empty and at least if it was a full one, I can drink all the wine I want before I die there thanks to my friend being overly welcoming and trusting everybody. I give him a look, trying to let him know to stay as far away from the railing as possible, but he just smiles at me and actually leans over the railing taking it all in like it’s the most majestic view in the world.

    The owner then says, as a very special treat, (which she NEVER does she says), she will show us the lab. This is where the chemist works she explains. She takes us into a small room that looks like a high school science lab with beakers, droppers, and microscopes. I’m already scanning the room looking for something I can use as a weapon.

    There is a little room off the to the side. She is very excited about that and says, “Oh, come over here. Come in this room.” I put my shoulder and my head in that room, and she says, “No no, come all the way in this room! It’s soundproofed.”

    What??? Soundproofed! I’m so scared I nearly pee my pants! Oh gosh, this is it. This is how we’re going down. In a soundproof wine tasting room in the middle of nowhere!

    I look at my friend who has the biggest smile on his face and is just chatting away happily about music and some band he used to travel with and some soundproof recording rooms he’s been in.

    He has no clue that we are about to be murdered by the winery owner. No clue!!! It’s up to me to save our lives! Us women literally have to do everything.

    She explains that they need a soundproof room to taste the wine so they can taste it better. Why does it need to be quiet to taste wine? You don’t taste wine with your ears! It’s definitely an excuse to lock us in a soundproof room. I shoot my friend a terrified, “what the heck are we going to do,” face and he gives me an odd look and ignores it.

    I think back and try to remember all the self-defense moves I learned back in 1999 when I took a woman’s self-defense class before going into the Peace Corps. Elbow on the collarbone was all that I could remember. I start preparing to do the elbow on the collarbone move, if needed. My friend looks at me quickly, and I do an elbow up and point to my collarbone move hoping he will understand that we must do the elbow on the collarbone move together if necessary. One on each collar bone. He looks at me a little confused but then continues chatting away happily to the winery owner.

    I’m getting claustrophobic in this small, soundproofed room and I just know I have to do something fast to save our lives. When the winery owner glances at me, I quickly make the, “I’m watching you” sign that Robert De Niro makes in Meet the Parents. You know the two fingers pointing to my eyes and then out to her.

    I think that scares her. She knows I’m on to her now, so she lets us out of the soundproof room. Huge sigh of relief, but we were still not out of the woods. I wouldn’t even know my way out of here. And those doors looked heavy, and I bet she locked them behind us. I pressed my body against the wall across from the railing as we made our way back to the staircase. Yes, it looks weird, but I was not getting near that railing.

    She tried to let me go first down the stairs but, uh uh! No way! She wanted me to go down first so she can easily kick me down the stairs? I don’t think so, Mrs. Winery Lady. I once again do that, “I’m watching you,” sign and insist she goes first.

    Then, as a special treat, she says as she’s leading us down the stairs, she will show us where they bottle the wine. She once again says she never shows anyone that. Then why? Oh, why? Is she showing us? We are not that cool. We are not that nice. We don’t even know that much about wine. Is it because my friend is so chatty that she finds it endearing? Or is it because my friend is so chatty that she plans to kill him to put the rest of the world out of their misery? And she must kill me too because I’m a witness?

    I’m very aware of my surroundings. I’m watching everything. I’m not even listening as my friend chats about some article he wrote for some magazine about some brewery and how their canning station looked a lot like this bottling one. Blah blah blah, he’s sounding like the teacher from Snoopy to me with no realization we are in imminent danger!

    I must get us out of here and fast. The longer we stay, the more opportunities we have to be murdered, and the more relaxed we feel, the more we will let down out guard. Well, not me. Because I’m onto her.

    I can say I need to use the restroom!  But then she might lead me to a private dark restroom and lock me in while she murders chatty Cathy first.

    Then, I had a brilliant idea.

    “Oh no! I think I left my phone in the restroom in the tasting room.” I exclaimed, with a worried look on my face. “I’m expecting some important work emails. How do I get out of here?”

    The winery owner looks disappointed.

    I start walking quickly in the direction I thought we came from. After a quick scan of the room, I realize I was heading the wrong way. I spy the big heavy doors on the other side, and I walk as fast as I can to them. She must’ve had some secret button in her pocket to unlock them when she realized her plan was foiled because they push right open when I get to them. I look back to make sure my friend was following me because I really wanted to save his life also, but, if it came down to it, I would have to make a tough decision.

    Luckily my friend and the owner were coming out of the door. I went into the restroom knowing I wouldn’t find anything.

    I come out to more chatting, but I quickly cut my friend off and thank the owner politely.

    I drag my friend outside as fast as I can.

    “What in the world was wrong with you in there???” My friend looks at me with a concerned expression.

    “We almost died!” I exclaimed.

    “What?!?!”

    “That winery owner was going to kill us! She was going to murder us! I saved our lives.”

    “Ok….. thank you?”

    Hmmm… I question my behavior just a little at that point when we are out in the sunshine and fresh air. I guess maybe it’s possible she wasn’t going to kill us and was just being polite BUT better safe than sorry and it’s always best to be prepared. The world can be a dangerous place.

    “Geez, I can’t take her ANYWHERE,” my friend whispers to himself as he walks to the car and I can hear the eye roll in his voice.

  • Brownies

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    My sister was visiting from Virginia, and it happened to be my brother’s birthday. We always make a cake on birthdays with candles because everyone needs wishes and candles to blow out on their birthday no matter how old they are.

    We decided on gluten-free brownies. We had the box mix, frosting, and all the ingredients that we need. While I was buying the ingredients, I decided to splurge and buy myself a new 9 x 13 baking pan. I don’t really have one. Every time I make cakes or brownies, which is only on birthdays, so it’s very rare, I just buy one of those little aluminum disposable ones. I know! Gasp! The Earth is crying, but it’s just so cheap and easy. But not this time! I’m going to save the Earth and by myself a pan that I can use every time I make brownies.


    I’ve been making brownies since I was probably 10 years old. We used to make them all the time when we were little as an afternoon snack. My sisters and I would make them, my friend and I would make them. I can make brownies in my sleep.

    So, we get the box, we get the bowl, I pulled the pan out, I look at the top of the box for the ingredients and I just start dumping them in a big bowl. This is how I’ve always made brownies.

    I am mixing them up all proud of myself when my sister actually reads the instructions and then tells me that I’ve done it wrong.

    I tsk tsk her but when I actually read the instructions, it does say that you’re supposed to add ingredients one at a time in a separate order and mixing these two up before you add the third.

    But why? It’s all going to the same place! Why can’t we just mix it all up together the way we want to mix it all up together?
    -me

    Because that’s not what the instructions say.
    -my sister

    But that doesn’t make any sense! They all end up all mixed together in the end, so I don’t know why it matters how we put them in.
    ⁃ me with confidence and authority. I probably even puff my chest out to show how mighty I am when it comes to cooking.

    I don’t know. I didn’t write the instructions, but it’s probably written like that for a reason.
    -my sister

    No, it’s fine. They are just being silly and trying to see if we actually do read the instructions.
    -me

    And obviously you don’t.
    -my sister

    Look! I have two boxes of gluten-free brownies. Why don’t we make them both? Why don’t we make one like this and then one with actually following the instructions and we can see which ones turned out better?
    -me

    Or we can just eat the ones where we follow the instructions because obviously, we are going to mess up the first one if we don’t follow the instructions at all.
    -my sister

    That works! I go on mixing my ingredients and I proudly pull out my new 9 x 13 pan to show her. She reads the directions carefully and says that it actually calls for a 9 x 9 pan.


    Whaaat!?!! What kind of pan is that? This is a normal brownie pan! I bought it specifically for the brownies. We always made brownies in these pans growing up. It will be fine. It’s only 3 inches different.
    -me

    4
    -my sister

    Well, I tell her I don’t really have another pan as I dig through my cabinets, and I pull out a 5 x 9 Pyrex dish.

    This is perfect!
    -me

    Still 4 inches short.
    Do you read instructions at all?
    -my sister

    Of course! But you don’t have to follow them exactly.
    -me

    No wonder you have a cooking failure blog.
    -my sister

    Well, we made the brownies that I messed up and in the pan that was 3 inches short. And somehow, miraculously, my sister dug through my pots and pan cabinet, and I had a 9 x 9 pan! I don’t even know where that came from! I had no idea I had that! I guess I should organize that cabinet sometime.

    So, we followed the instructions perfectly for the second batch, thanks to my sister. But do you know what the funny thing is? The one we messed up, the one we did everything wrong with, turned out to be the better one. The wrong order of the ingredients, the wrong pan size, and it was much better than the one where we followed the directions perfectly. I guess that goes to show that you don’t always have to do things by the book. You don’t always have to follow the directions exactly. You can wing it, you can lose a few inches, you can do things in the wrong order, and it can still come out beautifully.

    So, for all those people who don’t do things exactly right, who don’t do things in exactly the right order, who don’t follow the instructions perfectly even though they really mean to, life can still be beautiful. Things can still come out perfectly. I mean, not every time, as you’ve read from my blog posts, but sometimes, it can just all work out even if you mess it up.

    So, here’s to getting things wrong. Here’s to trying your best. Here’s to miracles from messes every once in a while.

  • There is a Hamster in My Closet

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    Our dog recently passed away. It’s heartbreaking to watch your kids so upset and you will do anything to alleviate the smallest bit of heartache for them, so when my son asked for a hamster, what did we do? Against all better judgement, we ran out and got him a hamster… and all the accessories… and the largest cage around, because my sweet son was worried the cheaper cage would not be big enough. This didn’t seem like the time to point out that it’s called a hamster cage, so, obviously it’s big enough for a hamster. We got a rat cage instead. Why do rats need more room? Because of their tail?

    Oh, hamster memories. Hamsters are not my friend. This is not our first hamster. We’ve had three. The first was named Sammy G and, if I remember correctly, I think I forgot to feed him… and he died… and my oldest son found him. He was so traumatized he had to stay home from school that day. I really thought I fed him, but maybe I didn’t. Maybe he didn’t like my cooking either.

    A couple years later, my youngest wanted a hamster for his birthday. As you’ve come to realize, I cannot say no to my kids, so we went out and we got him a hamster. He named him Cupcake. Cupcake was a sweet little guy, and he would let the kids hold him and kiss him. The boys loved Cupcake, and they played with him all the time. I think they played a little too rough with him because it got to the point where Cupcake just turned grumpy. He didn’t want to be held or even touched. Those sweet little boys still tried though but he had developed a bad hamster attitude.

    There was a little latch that opened on the top of Cupcake’s cage, and I constantly reminded the kids to make sure it was closed all the way. Well, I’m sure you can guess what happened.

    One morning I sent the boys off to school, and I went about my morning chores, which did involve feeding the hamster. See? I can learn from my mistakes. Sometimes. Well, the latch was not closed, and the hamster was gone. (insert Brita’s worried face here)

    At this point, we had two dogs in our house and one cat. Two dogs that love to chase and eat little critters like a hamster. One was a hunting dog and the other a pit bull. I was sure there was no way that Cupcake could have survived being free in that house. I imagined my sweet little doggies swallowing him whole. I was so sad about Cupcake and felt like a failure of a hamster mom. Again!

    Of course I searched the whole house thoroughly while calling his name loudly. Did I honestly think that would help? He’ll be hiding somewhere and when he heard his name he would come bounding out and jump into my arms? Desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess.

    After I searched the house, I sat each one of the pets down and questioned them. They all swore up and down and on my life that they had not seen Cupcake and had absolutely not eaten Cupcake. I kind of believed the cat because, if it was her, there would’ve been a body somewhere. Unless she had been in cahoots with one of the dogs. She kills it, he eats it, so I will never know what they were up to. Anyway, they all were very convincing, so I really had no further leads at this point.

    I completely freaked out, I called my then husband at work, and I told him we had to find a replacement. I told him we could not tell the kids that the hamster is missing and most likely eaten by one of their beloved other pets. We would have to call or go to every pet store in all of Wilmington and find a Russian dwarf hamster that looked just like Cupcake.

    You would think I would’ve learned my lesson with the pet beta fish the boys had. It kept dying and I didn’t have the heart to teach them about death yet, so we kept replacing that beta fish. Sometimes it was a slightly different color, slightly different size, but we told the boys that the food we gave him was magic, color-changing food. I think that’s actually what it’s called, but I don’t think it really changes the color that much, but the boys believed it. They had the only beta fish in the world that lived for 10 years. And even at the end, we didn’t have the heart to tell them, so we said he was at the fish hospital. Then he ended up staying there for a few more years.

    But back to Cupcake. Since we obviously did not learn our lesson, or I obviously did not learn my lesson (my then husband was not completely on board with any of these shenanigans, but he went along), I started calling pet stores. Do you know how impossibly hard it is to find a Russian dwarf hamster in Wilmington that looks exactly like Cupcake?!? First of all, we need more pet stores in Wilmington, and second of all, they all need to stock up on Russian dwarf hamsters. After hours and hours, we found one Russian dwarf hamster.

    He was half the size of Cupcake, and he had a mellow temperament, which was the opposite of Cupcake, but, beggars can’t be choosers, right? I put him in Cupcake’s cage, and then just acted like everything was normal. Whistling happily as I swept the floor and stuff.

    There was definitely some questioning.

    “Is Cupcake OK?”

    “Cupcake looks smaller.”

    “Cupcake is nice, now.”

    Those were some of the comments from my confused children, but I just brushed them all off.

     I said, “It’s fine, it’s fine. He’s lost a little weight. He’s been working out. He joined a hamster gym. Also, I had a big talk with him and he decided that life is too short to be grumpy, so he decided to be nice now.”

    They were a little skeptical, but I did a good job of convincing them and life went on as normal. Whew! I thought to myself as a high fived myself. You sure got away with that one! (sounds like famous last words, right?)

    72 hours later, I was putting my youngest son to bed. We read books in his bed together and then I would stay with him in his bed until he fell asleep. We picked our books out, and I was standing next to his bed about to get in when I felt something run over my foot! I nearly screamed but kept my composure because I didn’t want to scare my son. I was worried it was a cockroach or something like that, but I looked down and sure enough, there is original Cupcake! Looking fat and healthy and running right across the floor.

    How in the heck did he survive? He got upstairs and over to the opposite side of the house!?! He was gone 72 hours, without food or water! I acted all normal, but I watched him scurry into the corner of the room behind a dresser and a few paintings that we had been meaning to hang up.

    Of course, I couldn’t mention anything to my son, so I lay in bed with him with my eyes wide open fixed on that corner trying to make sure Cupcake didn’t escape. It seemed like that night it took him forever to fall asleep. When he finally did, I tiptoed out of the room and got a container for cupcake. I crawled back in the room with my phone flashlight and slithered around on the floor on my belly between the paintings and behind the dresser until I finally caught Cupcake!

    I immediately gave Cupcake some food, and that little hamster water bottle. I had to hold it upside down into the container because there was nowhere to attach it to the sides. Please drink, little guy. I can’t sit here all night, holding the water bottle in your container.

    I couldn’t believe that he had survived 72 hours without food or water and with predators lurking. I pictured it like he was in a video game, trying to avoid the vicious dogs and cat. I didn’t know what to do with him, so I hid him in my closet and shut the door.

    I immediately woke up my then husband.

    “Quick! Get up! I need your help!”

    I shook him awake.

    “What? What?”
    He pounces out of bed all ready to fight a burglar.

    “Come here! I’m here!”
    I dragged him to my closet and I open it.

    “There is a hamster in my closet!”
    -me

    OK.
    -then husband

    There is a hamster in my closet!!!
    -me harsher whisper

    Yes, I see that.
    -then husband

    There’s a hamster in my closet! A hamster in my closet!
    -me again with more urgency in my loud whisper

    You’ve said that.
    -then husband

    It’s Cupcake! He’s alive.
    -me

    Great!
    -then husband

    Not great! Now we have two hamsters!
    -me with desperation in my voice

    OK, not great. I’m going back to bed.
    -then husband

    What?!? No! You can’t go back to bed. There is a hamster in my closet!
    -me

    I am aware of that. But it’s four in the morning. I’m going to bed.
    -then husband

    How can you sleep when there’s a hamster in my closet?
    -me

    I can sleep just fine.
    -then husband

    Well, I can’t sleep with a hamster in my closet!
    -me

    Well, then put him in my closet.
    -then husband

    (Why do we ask men for help and advice?)

    But then there will be a hamster in your closet.
    -me

    I don’t know what to tell you. It’s the middle of the night. I have to work tomorrow. What good is it going to do if we both just sit up because there’s a hamster in your closet? How does that solve anything? I’m going to bed.
    -then husband

    I started to cry.

    Of course I was appalled! How could he sleep at a time like this? Rude!

    Looking back now it makes sense that there was really nothing to be done about it at four in the morning, but at that moment, I had to solve the hamster in my closet problem.

    I paced the floor thinking…

    Should I replace Original Cupcake? No, the boys will be even more confused that Cupcake got fat and turned mean overnight.

    Can you return a hamster?

    Can you return the wrong hamster?

    It’s fine, it’s fine, I told myself. I will just give away a hamster. There’s got to be somebody out there who wants a free hamster. I will just hop on Facebook and all the other pages I’m on and offer a free hamster. It will be great. When I wake up in the morning, there will be tons of replies of people who want this hamster. I could bring it to them when the boys are at school and the problem will be solved. I patted myself on the back for being such a genius and went to bed.

    Do you want to know how many replies I had when I woke up the next morning from people wanting a free hamster? None! Zero! Not one!

    That cannot be right. I thought my Messenger would just be flooded. Is my Facebook working? I’ll give it a couple more hours. I did post in the middle of the night and people are just waking up now and checking their Facebook so I’m sure by the afternoon there will be a list a mile long of people just begging for this free hamster. I will just have to keep him alive in my closet until then.

    I kept peeking my head in the closet when the boys weren’t looking.

    “Are you doing OK? Are you hungry? Do you want me to hold that little upside-down water bottle in there again for you for five minutes? Can I get you anything else? Hey- maybe you should write a book about surviving 72 hours with the predators in the Nicol house! Something to think about while you wait. Just hang on! I’m going to find you the best little hamster home ever!” (I think I even blew him a little kiss to show him how serious I was)

    Well, nobody wanted a free hamster. Unbelievable, right? So, after many tumultuous back-and-forth conversations with myself, I decided that I just needed to own up to what I did and tell the boys the truth. After all, won’t they just be thrilled that Cupcake is not dead? And super proud of his survival skills. We can get him on some reality survival show or something.

    “So you lied to us?” my oldest asked.

    “Well, that’s a bit of a harsh word… Something like that…. Sort of along those lines…. but I only did it because I didn’t want you guys to be sad if Cupcake was dead. But he’s not dead! Yay!” (Hands up in the air to convey my excitement, hoping it will rub off on them)

    “But, it is not OK to lie. Mommy should not have done that. Everyone makes mistakes. She will do better next time she kills a pet of yours.” OK, I only said that last part in my mind. Not out loud.

    But now, I told them they could each have a hamster. Cupcake would go back to my youngest and my oldest can have this new hamster which he immediately named Tyrone. Perfect! Cupcake and Tyrone. Maybe they will be best friends! Can two hamsters go in the same cage? Of course they can. There’s more than one hamster in those cages at the pet store, but just to be sure we called the pet store to ask.

    We were told that most likely they can get along, but sometimes hamsters just don’t get along with each other. The best thing to do was put them both in an empty bathtub together and see how they get along. Well, this sounds cute, doesn’t it?

    It wasn’t. The boys and I put these two little hamsters in the bathtub with smiles on our faces expecting some brotherly love stuff to go on. Well, it was like WW-whatever fighting (I can never remember the letters) where literally they just get completely beaten up. Cupcake went at sweet little Tyrone like he was a rabid dog who hadn’t eaten in weeks. I was literally scared to put my hand in there because I was sure I would lose a few fingers. Personally, I would’ve let them just fight to the death to save my fingers. I know it sounds cruel, but I’m really going to need those in life.

    BUT I had two innocent little boys standing next to me with eyes wide literally screaming in fear (I think I was screaming too) so I did what all good moms would do and risked my fingers and hands for my children. That might be the bravest thing I have ever done. I reached in and grabbed little Tyrone out of the bathtub. All three of us sat on the bathroom floor crying, inspecting Tyrone for injuries. It must’ve been my quick reaction, but somehow he survived unscathed. Physically. Not sure what emotional damage was caused.

    “Well! Looks like we get to go to the pet store and buy another hamster cage!”

    The boys were thrilled and had to buy every single hamster accessory, so I walked out of there after dropping $300. That is what I get for lying to my kids.

    Now I have to keep two hamsters alive and change their stinky cages regularly. Did I tell you that I never wanted hamsters? And actually, I think I’m allergic to them.

  • My Biggest Fan

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    There are plenty who pretend to like my cooking. Well, not plenty, maybe one. My brother. I can’t really tell if he pretends to like it, or if he has no taste buds. Either way, there is only one who really likes my cooking. LOVES my cooking. My biggest fan. No matter what I’m making he sits right by me, tail wagging, drool dripping out of his mouth, encouraging me the whole way. I ask him, “Does this look right?” He wags his tail faster and drools harder in response. These are my babies helping me cook.

    My other dog likes my cooking too, but she will sniff it first, she will daintily lick it, she will chew it slowly. But my biggest fan, he’ll gobble it in one bite. I don’t even think he chews it. I don’t even think he smells it. He thinks it is THAT good. He is my biggest cheerleader, my ego booster, my garbage disposal. He is my biggest fan. But my biggest fan is gone. He died today and I think I might just have to give up cooking once and for all. No one will ever love my cooking like he did.

    He was the most disobedient dog you have ever met. He would not listen to a thing you said. With a name like Boss, what did we expect? Boss, go pee! Nothing! Boss, come here! Nothing! Boss, please stay on the dog sheet and off the pillow.  I would wake up the next morning to this…

    We would often tell him he’s not the boss, but he would just give us a look and say, “it’s my name”. He had no ears. They had been clipped lower than anyone had ever seen before. The joke was, he would do a little ear swipe, and say, “I have no ears. I can’t hear you,” with a little dog shrug. Some people might get frustrated with his lack of obedience and his bad listening skills, but we just accepted him for him. Boss the bad listener. That would make a great children’s book.

    He had hip and joint issues from abuse when he was little, and he was such a klutzy dog. He walked with a little limp and always had trouble with stairs and things like getting in the car. One time I built a little garden in the backyard and put chicken wire around. I was sure that it would keep him out of the garden. He couldn’t step over the chicken wire. The next day, though, there he is, inside my garden sleeping on the peppers. We got a bigger, more sturdy fence and put it around. I was sure he could not get over this one. Sure enough, the next day he is in my garden, sitting on my basil.

    My brother asked “is this when we get a bigger fence?” And I said, “no, this is when we give up and let Boss win. If he wants to be in the garden so badly that he will scale fences with his bad hips, we will let him. We are going to kill the plants anyway so now at least we can blame him.” I’m sure you’re not shocked, but the garden did not make it. Of course it was the dog’s fault. Wait – Is that terrible? Blaming a dog when he’ just died? I take it back. Killing gardens has always been my thing. I take full responsibility. He was probably helping by eating all the weeds. My little gardener. I can’t find a picture of him sitting in the garden but here he is helping us make it.


    He was the most beautiful dog ever. Everybody loved him. The sweet little neighbor girl would drop everything when she saw him. She would hop off her bike or her scooter, leave her toys and run to Boss. She would wrap her little body around him and kiss him all over his face. I can still hear her cute little voice saying, “Oh, I love you, Boss.” He would smile wide, loving all the attention.


    He loved everyone. He would walk right up to anyone and let them pet him. He would also get in any car! One time we were walking at this lake by our house and there was a car with the door open because the owner was loading kayaks. Boss jumped right into the open car before we could stop him. He sat down happily on the seat. “Well, I don’t mind if I do! I love car rides,” he said. The owner was shocked and not happy at all. We apologized profusely as we dragged him out of her car. “He is friendly,” we kept saying, like that makes a difference. This woman does not want a random pit-bull in her car even if he is friendly.

    Boss seemed confused. What?!? If you see an open door, take it! When the opportunity arises, jump on it. Or in, in this case. Wise Boss words to live by. I mean unless you are a kid. Don’t get into a stranger’s car if you are a kid. Or if you are an adult even. Ok, maybe not the best Boss advice at all.

    People would stop us on the street and comment on him. Much to the chagrin of our other dog, Leia, who always got ignored. She didn’t mind though. She was happy to give Boss the glory. Maybe she’ll write a book. It’ll be called Living in Boss’ shadow.

    Boss was a bully. A beautiful and sweet bully. He would steal Leia’s toys, treats, food right from her and she would happily let him. She would do anything for Boss. She loved him and he loved her. Even though he pretended he didn’t. He would eye roll at her excessive barking at every person, butterfly or bird that passed our house.

    When we first got Boss he would get up and run to Leia when she would bark out the front window.

    “What?!? What is it?!?? Is everything ok?!? Do you need my muscles?!?!” Boss would ask all worried but ready to save the day.

    “I saw a leaf!” Leia would respond, all proud of herself. Boss would sigh and go back to his spot on the couch. He learned quickly and when Leia would bark, he would lift his head, give me a look, roll his eyes, and go back to sleep. We left Leia to protect the house herself from squirrels, lizards and neighborhood children.

    Leia is not great with other dogs and we always tell her we never thought she’d have a friend. But she had a friend. A best friend. She had a Boss. I’m not sure how she’ll live without him. I’m not sure how any of us will.


    Car rides were his favorite things. He’s an old frail dog but if you said the words car ride he would run into things and knock them over like a bull in a China shop. Or a kid in a mosh pit. He was so excited. We all learned to brace ourselves. Leia especially ducked and moved out of his way. I learned this lesson the hard way when Boss accidentally headbutted me in his excitement and gave me a fat lip.

    He loved to stick his head out the window, his little lip flap flapping in the wind. A look of pure happiness on his face. Dog drool smudging up the car window. I will never wash the drool off my car window. We always said we wished the whole world could be as happy as Boss with his head out the car window. The world would be a much better place if people found joy in small things like sticking their heads out the window. Oh, and pup cups. That guy loved a pup cup.

    He helped me with dishes every night by licking each one clean. He was meticulous about doing the dishes. He takes his job very seriously. Such a big helper. If you like a clean dog slobbery plate. I secretly cleaned them after him when he wasn’t looking but please don’t tell him that. He loves being a helper.

    He would definitely let you know what he wanted. If there was pizza on top of the oven, he would sit right next to the oven, all tall and proud, looking up at the pizza and then back at me, and repeatedly humph until you noticed him. He’d make a little “humph” sound when he wanted your attention. He would do that with treats too. Sit right by the counter where the treats are and humph until you gave him one.

    He would communicate in an almost human-like way. While we sat and ate our dinner, he would lay on the floor and howl and whine and ask for food. It was a back-and-forth conversation. We would tell him that he must wait patiently, and then he would howl at us. We would tell him that we know he wants tacos, but he must wait until we finish ours, and then he would howl back at us. It was a little annoying but also hilarious and now we miss it. Dinners are too quiet. “Don’t eat it all,” he would say. “I just HAVE to have some.”

    At the end of the meals, we make a little plate for him and Leia. He would devour it in two minutes, give me a wink over his shoulder and say, “Delicious! You did it again, mom. You are the BEST cook ever.” And then he would go and eat Leia’s plate. And she would step aside and let him.

    I’ve never loved a dog like I loved Boss. They say there is no love greater than a child and their dog/pet. I disagree and think adult dog love is much stronger. Maybe because as adults we know how hard it is to find true unconditional love.

    Live your life like Boss. Forget the rules. Forget listening to others. Just do what makes you happy. Overcome obstacles to lay on peppers. Find the sunshine. Stick your head out the window every now and then. Humph until you get noticed. And get in a stranger’s car when the opportunity arises. Well, maybe not that one.

  • The Wine Lady

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    I love wine. I’ve always loved wine. I mean, everyone loves wine I know, but probably not as much as I do. We moved to North Carolina in 2013 and the thing I knew I would miss the most were the wineries in Virginia.

    Before we moved here, I said we have to look and see if there are any wineries in Wilmington or we cannot move. We Googled and there was one! Right in the middle of Wilmington, North Carolina! How lucky! Ok, we can move there. We decided to go there as soon as we moved here and it ended up being a wine shop in the middle of a strip mall. That isn’t a winery. Boo!

    I know for those local people there’s Duplin Winery but that muscadine wine has a very distinct taste and it’s just not for me. Blah! No offense to anyone who likes that stuff. As you will find out by the time you get to the end of this post, I am not quite the wine connoisseur that you would expect, so that muscadine wine could be good and I don’t even know it.

    Virginia has the most beautiful wineries ever. I definitely recommend going. People go for the wine of course, but it’s more than that. People go for the experience. People go for the atmosphere. The tasting rooms are like great big cozy living rooms where you can just hang out with your friends. There are board games and pretty views and sometimes even a roaring fire if it’s chilly outside. There’s usually large outdoor areas with tables and chairs where you can hang out and enjoy the view. Back in the day your kids could run wild and climb trees. They could bring soccer balls and accidentally hit people in the face or spill wine and occasionally break glasses and no one minded. They would apologize and laugh at it all. We were all one big winery family. Even the strangers. These days, most vineyards that allow kids allow only “well-behaved kids.” What exactly is a “well-behaved kid?” Is there such a thing? I can only speak from experience with my kids so I say no, but maybe they do exist.

    I love the the feeling that thoughts of wineries give me. I call it my winery feeling. A day spent in the sunshine with family and friends. The crisp air, the kids running around and playing, the sound of laughter. Oh and eating cheese. After wine, cheese would be my second favorite food. If you consider wine food. I do. It makes a good dinner sometimes when my cooking is a big failure, which, if you’ve been reading this blog, you know that it often is. “Oh well, it’s fine, I will just have wine for dinner,” I say with a shrug. (of course I don’t feed my kids wine for dinner when it’s a failure. They just starve. Kidding! Doritos work just fine for dinner in those instances.)

    Some wineries also have pizza places attached to them and even breweries. Even cabins! Everything you need! You could practically live there! I have such fond memories of days spent with families and friends, and just a feeling of acceptance and camaraderie and slowing down. And the beauty can literally take your breath away. How can you not feel calm and at peace while looking at something so beautiful?

    I’ve always wanted to open my own winery. I wanted to create that space for people to feel how wineries have always made me feel. I wanted everyone to feel that winery feeling that I get.

    I wanted to be that winery owner who is behind the bar doing tastings and just chatting with all the customers about how she bought the winery and built it from the ground up. The one sharing her wisdom and her love and knowledge of the wines. I picture myself strolling through the rows of my vineyard every evening after I close the winery. I would talk to the grapes and I would encourage them. “ I see you, girl! You’re looking nice and plump tonight! You’ve got this!” Haven’t you heard that plants grow better when you speak to them? I’m sure that grapes do, too.

    In my imaginary vineyard, I would stomp all the grapes with my bare feet I Love Lucy style. Can you imagine how good that would feel?!? Of course I would wear a flowy white dress, and I would hold it up to my knees while I stomped around a big bin full of grapes. My head would be thrown back in laughter and I’d be listening to music from Dar Williams. I mean I HAVE to be better at owning a winery than I am at feeding my family, right?

    But here’s the thing. After all the wineries that I have gone to, after all the hours spent listening to wine experts explain how each wine is aged in oak or stainless steel and all the hints of blackberries, and fermentation, after all the wine I have drank, I STILL know nothing about wine. Except I like it. And it all kind of tastes the same. I know! Big GASP from all the real wine people reading this.

    I know I would have to be knowledgeable while I pour the wine and tell my guests about it. I know I need to say things like this has been aged in oak for six months and you can taste hints of strawberries and pomegranate in it. Or maybe I’ll just make stuff up when I pour wine and see if anybody notices.

    I will say things like

    “This wine has been aged in some kind of barrel for some amount of time and there might be hints of dog hair in there. Cheers!”

    Or maybe, “This one has hints of cat dander. We have stray cats on the vineyard that come to visit. My mom brought them with her in her purse and just left them.”

    Or something like, “This wine was aged in my bathtub because I ran out of those barrel thingies. There might be some toilet germs from when I flush the toilet and probably some bathroom cleaner from when I cleaned the bathtub to make the wine. And I had some leftover strawberries and blueberries from dinner last week so I threw them in there. I also had some leftover lettuce so I figured that would taste good. Why not give it a try? Why not? Has anyone ever put vegetables in wine? They put them in smoothies now. What’s so special about fruit? We are all about inclusion at this vineyard.”

    You never know, people might like it. Maybe they won’t come for the wine. Maybe they will come for the experience, the atmosphere, and my charming personality. Oh! Maybe they can bring their own wine? Maybe it will be the first BYOW winery. Bring your own wine winery. I might be onto something.

    Or maybe I should give up on the winery-owning dream. And my cooking dream too. That’s fine. I have plenty of other dreams. I have to be good at something, right? I’ll keep trying.

  • Pesto Problems

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    “Let’s make Pesto,” my brother said.  Pesto… what exactly is Pesto? Basil, right? It’s one of those things I never think about, never order at restaurants, or have ever even thought about making. I know it’s green stuff that goes on pasta and it tastes good, so I said sure. We had a rare night without my kids at home so we could make whatever we wanted. I think the plan was my brother wanted to cook for me, but, since you know what a great chef I am, I just had to take over. I probably should’ve just left it alone and let the kid cook for me.

    Well, it’s a partnership, so we decided to do it together. He pulled up a recipe on his phone and we went to the grocery store together. He was naming off the ingredients and I was getting them off the shelves and putting them in the cart. We got some pine nuts, (which took us forever to find because they are not by the nuts. How does that make sense?  It has the word NUTS in the name!) garlic, lemon juice, Parmesan cheese, soy milk? I’m just getting whatever he is reading off the recipe. He mentions something about pesto, and I said that must be where the pasta sauces are because I’ve seen it there. There were a bunch of pesto pasta sauces in jars, and I told him that is not what we’re looking for because we are making our own. Then I see a little jar of clumpy looking pesto stuff and I tell him this must what we need to make the pesto. Then we also found some arugula because the recipe calls for arugula. Looking back, I should’ve noticed the recipe didn’t call for any basil and even I know that basil is the main ingredient in pesto. I thought that was the stuff in the jar maybe? But my brother was reading the recipe, and I was just following what he said. I swear I did not hear him say basil at all so I’m not sure this is entirely my fault. I am half deaf though, but we will ignore that fact.

    So we go home, and we start following the recipe. We put some pine nuts and lemon juice and garlic and pesto stuff in the food processor. We follow the recipe and add some soy milk to make it creamy. Then we mix it all in with the pasta. Throw in some parmesan cheese. I think we added way too much soy milk because it looks like soup at this point. I thought it said two cups, but it must have been wrong. I’m sure the recipe was written wrong. Typo probably. You can barely see the pasta under the green pool of liquid. It is a very pretty light green color though so at least I have something pretty to look at.

    It’s fine, it’s fine, I say. I will just pour out some of this liquid and then it will be perfect. I drain some into the sink and then continued mixing, but it still was just a watery goopy mess. The parmesan has also melted in a very gooey way.  Is pesto supposed to be so watery? Oh, we forgot the arugula! Like adding arugula into the watery goopy mess will help anything but you never know. It’s worth a try.

    So I add the arugula and it’s still a liquidly light green mess with arugula leaves floating in it. This looks great, I declare with a smile on my face.   I think we did it right. I spoon it onto plates. I know full well that neither one of us will admit it’s awful. We will just eat it and say it tastes good. So it will be a success even if it isn’t. There isn’t a kid judge here who will wrinkle his nose and make a gagging face while spitting my hard work onto his plate.

    As I am walking towards the table with the plates in my hand, I stop and glance at that little jar of pesto stuff. I pick it up and look closely at it. Pesto? Did we just use pesto to make pesto? I think we did. We just used delicious ready-made pesto to make soy milk pesto flavored soup? How could we have spent all that time making pesto out of pesto and had it come out looking nothing like pesto????  

    So we boil more noodles, and we use the actual pesto from the jar to put on our pasta. It is delicious. I consider it a success. A successful pesto meal. Even if we didn’t make it ourselves. Maybe we’ll try again next time. Or just buy ready-made pesto since it’s so delicious and easy.

    We can’t throw out food though, so we save the soup pesto mess we made and put it in the fridge. We will probably eat it later. Maybe. Or just look at it. It is a beautiful color after all.

  • The Bird Lady

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    I know this is a blog about cooking failures, and don’t worry, there are plenty more cooking failures for you all but today can we just talk about birds and birdfeeders? It’s a bit of a success story if you read until the end.

    My mom is one of those crazy bird ladies, in addition to being a crazy cat lady, she has probably at least 7 to 9 birdfeeders in her yard. She has them all hooked up to little pulley systems where she can lower them down to fill it, and then use a pulley to string it back up and hook it with little carabiner clips. It’s really a very complicated system and I don’t even know how she did it. Maybe she’s a secret scientist. Or an inventor. She’s been like this for I don’t know how many years. Every time I go over there, I just think of how much work it is and how much money she spends on birdseed. Never had my heart leapt for joy at the sight of a bird.

    She’s the type of bird person who gets so excited when she sees a (insert your favorite bird here) that you would think she had won the lottery! She has a little app on her phone that recognizes bird calls and last time she visited, she came in from my deck and said, “Oh my goodness! I just heard 38 different kinds of birds in your backyard,” like it was the greatest thing to ever happen in history. (Eye roll) Don’t get me wrong, birds are cute and all but they don’t do it for me. They all sort of look the same. I know, I know, all the real birders are gasping in astonishment and disapproval. I can’t help it, I like what I like. And it’s not birds. I will stop and oooh and ahhh at every dog that passes but birds…. They have never made me stop in my tracks.

    BUT THEN I turned 50.

    Four days before my 50th birthday i was sitting on my couch reading and then I glanced out the window and saw a bird hanging out in my tree. Just an average bird but I immediately stopped what I was doing to stare at the bird. What an incredible creature, I thought. Look at those tiny feet! I had never seen anything cuter! And how soft do those feathers look? If I was a bird I would happily just snuggle with myself and not need this silly stuffed Snoopy I sleep with every night.

    Then, with a desire that I can’t even remember the last time I felt, I NEEDED a bird feeder. Needed one. Like my life depended on it. I hopped on Amazon right away.

    So I ordered a bird feeder. I could hardly wait for it to come. I checked Amazon every 5 minutes it seemed to see when it would be delivered. I was like a kid on Christmas Eve! I could hardly sleep from the excitement of it all. I was going to be a bird lady! A real bird lady! Should I add that to my resume?

    Finally, my bird feeder came. I ripped open the box and admired my beautiful new birdfeeder. I pictured all the little birds with full bellies after hanging out at my birdfeeder. I pictured them telling all their friends and then I would have the best yard ever for birdfeeder parties. Well, other than my mother’s, but she lives 350 miles away. I rushed outside to hang up my new birdfeeder!

    And then I realize that I have no birdseed. Of course, I know you need birdseed to fill your birdfeeder, but I was so wrapped up in the joy of being a bird lady that I forgot to buy birdseed! Where can I get birdseed? Do they have a birdseed store? After some research, I found out they have birdseed at my local Food Lion so I ran out to buy some. And that 10 pound bag lasted about five hours. How in the heck does that much birdseed disappear so quickly? Aren’t birds little? How can they eat 10 pounds of birdseed in five hours? So I ran out to buy some more. And now I just order it with every grocery order. And sometimes I order it on Amazon in between grocery shops.

    But geez, those birds love my cooking! They swarm around my birdfeeder. There are these big black guys who hog all the food and there are tiny little birds standing off to the side, waiting patiently for their turn. So then I decided, well, of course I need another bird feeder for those little birds. I will just very politely tell the big birds and that pesky squirrel that this new birdfeeder is not for them. So I ordered another birdfeeder. And then I ordered another birdfeeder. I absolutely did not need another birdfeeder, but I couldn’t even control my fingers when I went to Amazon and started scrolling bird feeders. Do you know that they have solar ones and at night they light up all cute and pretty so that the birds can find their way to their food when it’s dark outside? Do you know they have stained glass birdfeeders? Who ever thought a birdfeeder could be pretty? It was Like this compulsion, I just couldn’t control my fingers. I did show some self-control, though, and stopped at three birdfeeders. For now.

    Who knew I would have to take a third job to feed all the neighborhood birds? Kidding! Kind of. But it’s totally worth it because as I mentioned in the beginning, this is a blog about cooking and these neighborhood birds love my cooking. They just love my cooking! They eat it all and then they’re just waiting every morning for more of my cooking. Maybe I should’ve been a bird mom. Or maybe I should try feeding my kids birdseed.

  • The Summer I Could Cook

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    About seven years ago, my brother graduated from high school. He lived in Florida and he needed a little change of scenery for the summer. He wanted to get away and get his thoughts together and try to figure out what he was doing with his life. That’s the big question all 18-year-olds have. So, we decided he would come stay with me for the summer. I had a friend who owned an electric company and was looking for workers, so I got him a summer job. The plan was he would come for the summer and then go back to Florida and most likely go to community college there.

    Honestly, I do not remember what I fed my kids before my brother came to stay with me, but it must have been something, right? I mean they are still alive. It might’ve been those Purdue chicken nuggets. They are technically not frozen. They are sort of fresh and refrigerated so they seemed healthier to me. I was also pretty good at making Kraft mac & cheese, and really good at making those Bob Evans microwave mashed potatoes. I think I also excelled at toasting a piece of bread, then putting a slice of super processed American cheese on it and cutting it up in little squares. I think I did try to throw in a piece of fruit and some frozen peas sometimes. It must’ve been something like that.

    But that summer, when my brother was here, I was going to pretend I could cook. Just for the summer. I could fake it for three months. I was excited because I always wanted to be one of those people who cook. Even a fake person who could cook. Maybe after three months of pretending I might really turn into one of those people who can cook. Spoiler alert, I didn’t. But I really did a great job of faking it. Kind of.

    I must first share that my brother has never really had a home-cooked meal. He probably has once or twice when he went to friends’ houses but as far as his own house and growing up, he never had a home-cooked meal. They went out for every single meal. Going out to a restaurant was the norm for him and he was actually quite sick of it.  I already had that going for me because first, he had no idea what a home-cooked meal was or what it was really supposed to taste like so that definitely worked to my advantage. I’m not saying my food would be better than a restaurant but maybe it comes with different expectations. This is not a restaurant! Lower your expectations!

    Another advantage I had was that he liked everything. Everything.  I made lemon chicken that summer that was so sour it made everyone’s face pucker when they tried it.  But not my brother, he ate it and said it was good.  Hey- maybe he doesn’t like everything… Maybe he was just being polite.

    Every meal was so stressful because I had to act like it was simple for me. Faking who you are every day is exhausting.  I had to act like I was easily whipping everything together like Martha Stewart when really I was sweating bullets, trying not to be intimidated by the meat, and just praying that the meal came out edible. I was up late Googling recipes and then reading them over and over and over memorizing them so it would look effortless when I made them. I was also hoping that during this experiment I would find something that my kids would like. That didn’t happen. But the summer went on and I became good at faking I was a person who can cook and I think my brother actually believed me.  Or he’s good at faking it too.

    Time flies as it often does and finally, it was mid-August. My brother was good company, and the kids loved him. I would miss my brother very much BUT I also was a little relieved to be able to go back to being the woman who cannot cook. After much discussion though, it was decided that my brother would not return back to Florida. He would stay here and work and go to the local community college.

    I called my mom to share the news with her, and I was crying hysterically when I told her. She replied, “You love Lucas! You love having him there! Why in the world are you crying?”

    I said, between sniffles and sobs, “Now I’m going to have to pretend to cook forever!”

    But I didn’t. I came clean and told my brother I cannot cook.  Maybe he knew?  I like to think not because I faked it so well.  He didn’t care about my cooking, and I saw that it was silly to try to be something I am not to impress someone.  Yes, I know that is a lesson I should have learned 20 years ago.

    Now, six years since that summer, my brother and I are a cooking failure team.  We have our own little failure club.  Of course, anyone is welcome to join but no one does.  Does anyone really want to be a failure?  He’s my little sous chef and we cook our failures together. We hold our breath in anticipation, watching my kids take the first bite.  After three bites they declare they don’t like it, go back upstairs to play video games, and my brother and I high five and shrug.  We’ll try again tomorrow we say. You can’t win them all.  Or any in this case.

  • The bread maker that was going to change my life



    When my son was diagnosed with celiac, I was devastated!! I love bread! Oh wait- it’s not about me. I was devastated for him I mean. He loves bread. A life without bread? Is there anything worse? No little Hawaiian rolls at Thanksgiving?!? I think I actually cried thinking about that.

    My brother and I eat gluten free when my son is around but every once in a while, when he’s not, we eat gluten and we feel like we are in heaven. Over and over again we just keep saying between bites and even during bites, “Gluten is SO good.”

    It will be fine, I thought. There are so many different brands and kinds of gluten free bread that there has to be one kind, just ONE kind that tastes like bread. Nope. Not one.

    I bought gluten-free bread after gluten-free bread after gluten-free bread trying to find one that tasted like bread. I should’ve thought ahead and made videos of my kid’s face after tasting each one. And then made one of those little fast forward videos kids make these days with all his faces. That would be hilarious! But I didn’t think of it and don’t know how to do it but I’m sure you can imagine his face after eating each one. If not, buy yourself some gluten free bread and look at yourself in the mirror as you eat it.

    I went to every grocery store in Wilmington. Every grocery store! Even those fancy ones that I don’t usually go to, and bought every single brand of bread just hoping that my kid would eat one of them and not make one of those faces that looks like he’s going to throw up. No success.

    It’s fine, I told him. Who needs bread when there are so many other delicious foods? Then I would drop him off at school and run right to Bagel King. I’d eat my egg and cheese on a gluten-full bagel in my car with sunglasses and a baseball cap so no one will recognize. I felt like I was doing something illegal. The sunglasses and baseball hat helped ease my guilt. The bagel was the best thing I had ever eaten.

    I joined a couple of Facebook celiac groups which were not very helpful because I think they were for people who can actually cook. One helpful thing was everyone suggested making your own bread. They raved about their homemade bread. Apparently, you can buy a bread maker with a gluten-free setting?!? What?!!? That’s amazing. Sounds simple, right? You just put all your ingredients in, press the start button, press the gluten-free setting and bam! Delicious gluten-free bread. This was going to be PERFECT!

    So I bought a bread maker with a gluten-free setting, and I bought all the ingredients for gluten-free bread. Some ingredients were weird and hard to find but I’m an expert at Wilmington’s grocery stores now so it was fine.

    My brother and I were ready to make bread! We were positive! We are optimistic! We were going to make such great bread that it would be the only thing we would have for dinner. Just bread tonight because it’s so delicious. We would eat it with butter that would just melt on the warm bread. It would fill us up and we would just sit around the table and talk about how great I am at making gluten-free bread and comment on how it tastes just like regular bread. Actually, better than regular bread, but all due to my cooking. We would start having just gluten free bread for every meal. Makes my cooking adventures easier. Don’t worry, I would throw a vegetable on the side of the plate every now and then. (which my kid won’t eat)

    So we set out to make this gluten-free bread with the most positive attitude there is. How could we fail? You put the ingredients in, and you press a button!

    I carefully read the manual for the bread maker. A little friendly reminder said, “please be aware that using the gluten-free setting will not take the gluten out of bread. Really, bread maker?  I was feeling really confident at that point.

    We carefully measured everything. We followed the directions perfectly. We put in the wet ingredients, then put in the dry ingredients, then I made a little hole with my finger and put in the yeast. I switched it on the gluten free setting and pressed start. It all went so well.

    Until…… I look down on the counter, turned to my brother, and said, “Uh Oh! I think this was supposed to go in the bottom of the bread pan before we added all the ingredients.” and I held up that little metal spinner thing that was most definitely supposed to go in the bottom of the bread pan to mix it.

    Will it work without it?  Maybe… Should I leave it? No, of course not!  That is what mixes the bread.  Somehow, we needed to get this little metal spinning thing into the bottom of the bread pan quickly!

    It’s fine, it’s fine, I said to my brother.  I told him that I would just reach in with both hands and separate the ingredients quickly while he reaches in with the little spinner thing and sticks it down there where it goes. It will be just fine.

    So I stick both my hands in the middle of the bread maker and pull it to the sides and tell my brother to stick that little spinner thing in. But of course, it’s a little tricky to do when you can’t see so it takes him a few tries, but he finally gets it! We take our hands out and everything kind of goes back to normal. Kind of.  We are both standing there with our hands covered in bread mix. and I say, I’m sure we’ll be just fine. I’m sure we didn’t mess anything up with that whole dry ingredients first, wet ingredients second, make a little hole for the yeast thing. How important can that be? Apparently, very important.

    So that turned out to be a disaster. Of course, it was due to our little mishap and the next time would be much better.

    Except, it wasn’t. It was supposed to be “cake batter consistency” but ours was more like water consistency for some reason.

    Next try was hard as a rock.

    Next try was wet and soggy inside although the outside looked great!  That loaf really fooled us!

    Next try had a hole in the side.  How does that even happen?

    Next try just tasted gross.

    My optimism faded with each failed attempt.

    Do you think the bread maker is defective? And it’s not my fault?  Should I send it back for a new one?

    It was time to face the truth and accept defeat.  The bread maker was NOT going to change my life.

    So, I put the bread maker away for a while, and bought gluten free bread hoping my kid’s tastes would change over time.  They haven’t so I think it’s time to bring that bread maker out and try again.  Things could be different this time. Miracles can happen. Wish me luck