My search for software has revealed no usable disks. The Greatest left this morning to go out of town for three days. I wonder if he hid them to keep me from inadvertently breaking his newly-fixed machine. I'll show him. During nap time I'll just download what I need from the internet.
In the meantime I hate to let my quiet blogging time go unused when I've got so much to blog about. Being pictureless I will tell a tale of biscotti.
My Secret Pal sent me a message asking if I would mind if she baked something to go in my next package. Obviously she has never shared a meal with me. Obviously she has seen pictures of me and thinks I actually watch what I eat. Obviously she has mistaken me for someone else. I love food. I love food. I love food. There are very few things I won't eat. And I eat in quantities that can be considered obscene sometimes. I love the smells, and textures, and colors of food. I love the temperatures and tastes of different foods. I love cold creamy ice cream, and warm crumbly brownies. I love steamed broccoli that is still slightly crunchy. I love deep fried pickles, and tea with honey. I have yet to meet a baked good I didn't love. So would I mind my SP baking for me. Hell no, bring it on.
My SP warned me that what she was making was a little "adult" and the children might not like it. I immediately think dirty when something is classified as "adult", I can't help it. I giggle at farts too. Now I was pretty sure she wasn't sending an erotic cake so I was intrigued. When I think baked goods, I think cookies, and cakes, and brownies, all very kid friendly, and things I consider to be staples of childhood. Aside from an erotic cake, I have no idea what an adult baked good would be.
Then my SP sent me a message that my package would take a few more days while she soaked the cranberries in brandy. Whoo-hoo. Brandy! I am a basic baker, like I said, cookies, cakes, brownies. Nothing in my repetoire includes brandy soaked cranberries. I could not wait to see what it was.
Long story short this mystery adult baked good was Cranberry Cashew Biscotti. But it should be called Ecstacy. I offered to share some for breakfast with The Greatest who informed me that he did not eat cranberries. I took my first bite and was immediately pleased that I would not have to share with him. I needed it all for myself. It was so good.
Enter the children, stage left.
Being my children, wonderful though they may be, they completely lack the ability to see me eat something and not demand a piece for themselves. Evidently this love-of-all-baked-goods gene that I carry in my dna has passed to them. It is a grand love dating back to a time before time, but at that moment I wish it had ended with me. They each got a tiny piece and turned feral in their desire to get more. They turned on each other and on me, the hand that feeds.
To avoid future carnage, and having to share, the biscotti was immediately stored in the highest cabinet in the house, where it would take two chairs, three phone books, and a see-n-say to reach. I hoped that by the time they got to the second phone book I would realize why they were being so quiet and could intervene to save the biscotti.
So having established that the biscotti must be eaten in secret or shared I resorted to eating it at night, in the dark, after the children had been put to bed. It was so good. I can not impress upon you how good this was. Not better than sex, but as close as anything I've even known.
Yesterday was a very turbulent day for me. By mid-afternoon I needed a break. Being a stay-at-home mom means breaks are a dreamy memory from a past life. You never really get them. But I had a plan. I turned the tv to noggin. Usually it is glued to NBC soap operas at that time of day (what can I say, I've invested over half my life in these people, I can't abandon them now), and having forbidden noggin got their attention. I made a cup of hot chocolate, so far so good. I grabbed the final piece of biscotti, the children haven't so much as blinked yet, for fear of missing these contraband cartoons. I snuck upstairs to the bathroom with the lock that works. SCORE. With a sigh of contentment and complete peace I sank to the floor to enjoy my snack. Two bites later I hear
"you in there Mommy?"
"where Mommy go?"
"Pork Chop, we can't find Mommy"
They continued in a similar vein for the duration of my snack. Yet their search did not diminish my pleasure because a) the door was locked, and b) atleast I knew exactly where they were and what they were doing and c) what they were doing didn't involve two kitchen chairs, three phone books and a see-n-say. Complete Zen.
This must be how Bird felt the morning we lost her. Meaty came to me because he couldn't find her and he wanted to play. Being the good Mom I am I jumped right off the couch to search, and by jumped right off the couch I mean, I sent Pork Chop to look. Pork Chop returned to report that she couldn't find her either. The Greatest and I exchanged looks and began to search the closets. We called her name and searched the house. No Bird. We called louder and looked again. No Bird. At this point I'm feeling quite panicked. All the doors were still locked from the inside, so she couldn't have gotten out of the house. We search again. I decide to look under my bed. There isn't a lot of room under my bed, and if she's in there, she's probably stuck. I got down and look and to my surprise I see her, not under the bed, but under the computer desk, hidden by the chair.
I rush over and there she lays, sucking her two fingers on her left hand, her right in her belly button, her zen position.
"What are you doing?"
Out pop the fingers. "I hiding." Back the fingers go.
She was the picture of happiness. Hiding.
That was me yesterday. Me and my biscotti. We're hiding.