Take Heed

We all knew this already. I know we did.

It was always my pledge that "I would never" be a parent that would whip through the golden arches drive thru line. Then you grow up, buy a house, and have a grown up life full of responsibilities, familial commitments and all sorts of scheduled fun.

Life gets busy with good stuff and bad stuff and you get busy busying yourself. Then a Happy Meal started to make perfect occasional sense. Why not!

I always swore that there was a gap in the market for moms: when you're on the run, there's no time to go home and chop a salad, the kids are a disaster and you're not about to take them IN to a restaurant, but you haven't eaten since the ten Cheerios you slurped out of your 3 year old's cereal at 6am, what's a gal to do?!

I'm not a fan, nor will I ever be. But I do see the place of fast food. Moreover, I wish I were smart enough to replace Quarter Pounders with healthy fats, leafy greens, and rainbow-colored side dishes. All served up via a For Your Convenience speedy-serve window. Maybe we would even throw in a "free massage and complimentary babysitting service" coupon to every 10th customer.

I love and believe in the Mommyhood just that much.

We know we're not supposed to eat foods we cannot pronounce; we know we're not supposed to eat Cheetohs and cheesecake and drink Mountain Dew. WE KNOW BETTER, we just don't always do better.

It's human.

My commitment to organic and eco-conscious living is often mocked and I stand firm and back up my more-costly-than-Goldfish-and-McNuggets choices with this:

In 20 years, I can live with myself for having wasted money to buy organic and wasted energy and elbow grease for being chemically-conservative (to say there are zero chemicals in my home is a gross overestimation if not a blatant lie). I cannot, however, live with the risk of making myself or my family chronically or terminally ill with the knowledge and doubt over, "could I have prevented this?"

Let's be real: nothing tastes better on a hungover Sunday morning than a McMuffin and a ketchup-smothered hashbrown.

But it's not that good. 

I wish I had a cool name like Sheridan French.

Alas, I do not. My name is Megan, plain and simple. Not even an "h" to fancify it.

The thing is, though, I do not wish to have Sheridan French's life. I don't know if it was Pinterest, Facebook, or simply blogs in general, but there seems to be a celebri-storm brewing and it is kicking up many Bloggers and thrusting them into some sort of spotlight.

If a piece of footwear/hoisery were to represent my life, this is it.
 Big and cozy, practical,cute and sweet but not especially sexy.
 I'm an enormous pair of wool socks and dammit, that's good enough!

Magazine features. Guest spots on HGTV and The Today Show segments.

They all have blowouts. Immacuately manicured nails. And perfect, fairytale lives full of carb-free diets, shamrock-green lawns rimmed with diamond-topped white picket fences, and CrossFit workouts. Their children never fuss, nap for five hours a day, and they are budding entrepreneuers with Hedge Fund manager husbands of New England bloodlines.

Who are these people?!

I wonder if these are their real lives or their For Show lives. The Internet does make it terribly convenient, if not inviting, to portray one's self in an exaggerated version. Be it towards the OH, God and the Universe Piss on me Everyday direction or the I Poop Daisies and When I Roll Over at 7am to Kiss My Studmuffin Husband, My Breath Smells like Candycanes direction.



Life as a professional ass kisser nanny tells me that, most likely, these are their For Show lives. These are the lives that mask the reality, but the reality is no fun to read about. Piles of dirty laundry, minivans with 119,632 miles on them, and once-a-month sex lives do not celebri-bloggers make.

The Sheridan French Shoe.

It does not stop us real people from longing after imaginary lives. I see these women and so badly want to live their life for a day. Partly because their jewelry sparkles a whole lot more than mine, but mostly because I know that I'm well-equipped to tackle the REAL dirt beneath the glitz. Thereby making the glossy surface that much more enjoyable.



That's God's sense of humor for ya! Just as.... less attractive and sometimes heavier than most.. girls often have to fall back on being abnormally funny, there is always a rub. There is always a tradeoff. We must not have it all.

My comfort will have to be found in knowing that even the Sheridan French's do not have it all. To be me-- Megan, simpleton from Iowa-- will have to do.

Bzz, bzz; Out of the Beehive!

Whatever did happen to people taking care of their own business before digging in other's anyway?

It probably happened somewhere around the time of Facebook and The Real World that we all started to feel compelled to share our personal dilemmas and dysfunction in public ways.

I know, and yes, that is the sound of the kettle calling the pot black in the hypocritical distance.

While I really appreciate the people that take the time to read and respond, there are times it feels safe to share here and times that it feels quite invasive. I'm volunteering the information and I understand that. But people also need to recognize what's an appropriate comment and when is a good time to shut their pie hole, if you will.

Which brings me to a reader email from yesterday inquiring about my personal finances and the monetary agreement between Chris and myself.
You wouldn't ask a husband and wife who pays for what I don't imagine, but I suppose the lack of a martial title makes certain individuals feel it acceptable to wonder.

Chris and Chris's income are of no ones concern. He doesn't write here because, unlike my big mouth and hot headed self, he is very quiet with his life. Call it Ying and yang or opposites attracting or whatever you please.

As far as myself, I would never talk numbers. A molecular physicist I am not, but I also know a hot pink cheetah in an antiques shop when it runs by. To respond to the passive aggressive inquiry: I am not a babysitter and I do not make twelve dolla an hour. Chris does not pay for me, nor do my parents.

I also do not whore myself out for side monies to husbands whose wives are frigid and away at Core Power more often than not.

Enough said.

More importantly, I work hard always and work extra when necessary. I clip coupons, save when I want something major and sacrifice in other areas to snag things like new appliances or another month with my longtime personal trainer.

The female friendly LearnVest is a daily read. I also watch my Pennies on Mint and sink extras into investments with a low minimum requirement.

My parents are also financial wizards.

Most importantly, I live with zero debt.

After blowing myself out of the water with a five figure balance on my first credit card six years ago, I paid it off, shut it down and have somehow lived to tell about it. It's a humble principal that evades  many: if I can't pay for it in full, up front, I don't buy it. Mostly because I don't but also because I can't. My purse contains a checkbook and a wallet comprised of cash, a check card, a Dunn Bros gift card, a library card and my Barnes and Noble membership. Plus thirteen shades of lipgloss, a few diapers and a rogue Cheerio or ten.

I am not wealthy but my life is rich. If all else fails, I try to remember the advice of some of the smartest and most successful financial minds I've ever known or worked for: if you make ten million dollars but your spending is  comparable, you're still broke.

The fastest way to get rich is to live like you're not.

Ah, common sense. Such a lost art.

Ahoy!

Its hard to believe that we started the kitchen facelift a mere month ago. Perhaps even four score and seven days. Whatever that means.
Minus the luscious Hale Navy paint, we started with this monstrosity only because the living room paint choice was failing on a painful level. We figured change the appliances, toss some paint up and call it done.
Then came the discovery that 1950's cabinet construction is a wee different than today's; there would be no new frig without sawing down an upper cabinet and repairing the leftovers.
We are still working on that portion of the program. Call it a demolition intermission of sorts.
But half of the shiny new appliances are in and boy, does a little paint and a hunk of stainless transform things in a hurry.
An electrician friend has become the fourth member of our family this week: hanging out late, rewiring, reworking, and redoing the icky boob lights and homemade electrical circuits that threatened the safety of our shelter.
Twas an unexpected expense to say the least.
Thank God all those HGTV and DIY network episodes prepared me to leave a separate budget for those special monetary surprises.
It's a work in progress of course, but I'm reveling in the joy of our blossoming home. And life. I feel really, really good things coming our way. The house is booming with good spirit and enthusiasm: after a very tough year and a half, it feels good to feel good and to feel good about feeling good.
We are thankful, grateful, and oh so giddy about what's to come. The energy is so bountiful that we are sending good vibes and air kisses to you all as well.

Outside the Tollhouse

It's no secret that I cannot bake. A five course tasting menu for thirty I could prepare- with one hand tied behind my back, eyes blurred over with searing smoke, and recipe printed in Swedish.

I would kill that shit.

But a chocolate chip cookie I cannot bake. I have tried half a dozen recipes over the past year: I have tried chilling the dough prior to cooking, preheating the oven more adequately, using new soda or powder, mixing less, using a wooden spoon rather than the mixer etc etc. There have been recipes that came out too thin, too caramelized (I couldn't remember if I had added white sugar or not, so I added more. Turns out, sugar had been put in the bowl to begin with), too crunchy, and just plain bad.

No one knows why. I mostly think it is God slapping my wrist away from the cookie jar and saying NO, MEGAN, AWAY FROM THE BAKED GOODS.

My heart so longs to bake though and Chris' sweet tooth is about one "I f*cked it up" recipe away from losing all faith in me. So I'm moving away from cookies because a TART, my friends, I can do.



Thank you, Tartlette, for the blogging deliciousness you provide.

Chocolate Truffle Tarts:
Makes eight 4-inch tarts

Note: There are many gluten free flours out there that would work with this crust and I just used what I had available in the pantry. Here is a list of gluten free flours from which you can get inspired to try your own concoctions. For a non gf crust, use 1 1/4 cup all purpose flour instead of the 3 gf flours

For the chocolate crust: (adapted from Shauna's pie crust recipe)
1 stick (113gr) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup (60gr) unsifted powdered sugar
3 egg yolks
pinch of salt
1 cup (160gr) white rice flour
1/4 cup (30gr) amaranth flour (you could use sorghum flour)
1/4 (40gr) potato starch
1/4 cup (20gr) unsweetened cocoa powder


For the chocolate truffle filling:
8 ounces (240gr) bittersweet chocolate
12 tablespoons (170gr) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/4 (50gr)cup sugar
1/4 cup (60ml) strong brewed coffee
4 large eggs

For the chocolate ganache:
4 ounces (120gr) bittersweet chocolate
1/3 cup heavy whipping cream
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature

Prepare the crust:
In a mixer, whip together the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Add the egg yolks and pinch of salt and mix until incorporated. Add the three different flours and cocoa pwder and mix briefly. Dump the whole mixture onto a lightly floured (use more rice flour) board and gather the dough into a smooth ball. Do not work the dough while in the mixer or it will toughen it up. Flatten the dough into a disk, wrap it in plastic wrap and refrigerate for an hour.
Preheat oven to 350F and position a rack in the center. Place eight tart rings on a parchment lined baking sheet and set aside.
When the dough is nice and cold, roll it out on a lightly floured board or in between two sheets of plastic. Cut out eight 6-inch-rounds into the dough and fit them into eight 4-inch tart rings. If the dough tears while you roll or/and transfer into the rings, just patch it with your fingertips. Line the dough with pieces of parchment paper, fill with pie weights or dy beans and par bake for 10 minutes. Remove the weights and parchment paper. Keep the oven at 350F.

Prepare the filling:
Place the chocolate in a medium bowland set aside. In a medium saucepan set over medium heat, bring the butter, sugar, and coffee together to a boil over medium. Pour the mixture over the chocolate and leave it undisturbed for 2-3 minutes. Gently whisk until smooth. Add the eggs, one at a time whisking quickly until the mixture is smooth. Divide the batter evenly among the tart shells and bake for 10 minutes.
Let cool completely.

Prepare the chocolate ganache:
Place the chocolate in a medium bowl and set aside. In a medium saucepan set over medium heat, bring the heavy cream to a gentle boil. Pour it over the chocolate and let sit for 2-3 minutes. Whisk until smooth and incorporate the butter at the same time until the ganache is completely smooth. Divide evenly on top of the tarts and smooth out with an offset spatula. Refrigerate until ready to eat.

I will take two. And probably not share with anyone, either. Anything with ganache and you can count me IN! Bon appetite, tart lovers and peace out, pain in the ass chocolate chip cookies!

Pining for a Pinning Freeze

While I quickly grew to love Pinterest almost a year ago, I am quickly finding myself signing in, flipping through, and giving the site a big ole "X" to close in a matter of minutes.

Pinterest has become the new Facebook: cool en utero, a snooze-fest-a-palooza in global inclusion.

The pins are no longer fresh: everyone is repinning everyone's pins. How many candybars can we jam into one dessert? Or just exactly how many WHITE ON WHITE PLUS STAINLESS kitchens can we stomach? Everyone is copying everyone that's copying everyone else.

Ya dig?

That's not new though- I started to feel the redundant nature of Pinterest settling into my swollen Carpal Tunnel Knuckles weeks ago. What has really tipped me off is finding that almost HALF of the nine-or-so blogs that I regularly read are now featuring pins. IE: find a pin that everyone has pinned, perform a quickie right click, and paste it on a New Post page; write a quick blurb and call it a blog.

Kill me, okay. JUST KILL ME if this is how lazy we have all become. Our Express Yourself domains and Free Speech platforms have become another Originality Bypass strait towards Genericville. Population: Most of Everyone These Days.

Color me annoyed. Actually, don't. Because everyone likes to act indignite and annoyed and perturbed by privilege and life these days. Better yet, color me Refusing to Participate in The Lazy, Pajamification of the American Mindset.