Mmmm…yorkshire pudding

I think there’s something dead under my oven.

Pregnancy has lent me its supersonic sense of smell. When combined with apparently never-ending morning sickness, this is not a good thing. I’ve banned Kevin from making corned beef hash as every time he does, I throw up. One day last week I came downstairs for a snack and the cat must have just had a poop because the smell sent me diving towards the kitchen sink.

Every time I’m in the kitchen I smell something. For a while I thought it was the cat box which is round the corner in the pantry. But I smell it even after it’s just been cleaned. In the last couple of days my nose has narrowed it down to something in the kitchen itself, possibly underneath the stove or the fridge.

So today I looked. Or at least tried. I hope we don’t get a blackout any time soon because I have no idea where a flashlight is in this house. I know we have at least one. But where? You got me.

But I lay on the kitchen floor (which I really should scrub thoroughly one of these months) and looked under the stove. I saw an outline. Ew. A mouse? I gingerly probed with a flattened cardboard box while Duncan was occupied in the living room. Dust bunny. Then I investigated further. No flashlight, perhaps, but my cell phone’s flash illuminated a little. Not enough. There were lots of odd shapes under there. Could it be a dead body? Who knows. The smell continues.

However, I think maybe the morning sickness is getting better. I cooked tonight. Really cooked.

One of the few things I loved about family life growing up in England (or at least kinda enjoyed) was Sunday dinner. There was always a roast animal of some kind, roast potatoes, a veggie that I could probably choke down and, if we got really lucky or it was Christmas, yorkshire puddings. And gravy. (Got to have the gravy.)

I know Duncan isn’t old enough to appreciate it yet, and Kevin is asleep Sunday afternoon/evening as he’s working nights, but I want my Sunday dinner tradition back. Maybe not every Sunday, though that would be nice. Maybe when the kids are older. And Kevin has a normal-hours job. But I thought I’d give it a try today.

So – roast beef (which can be sliced and hopefully eaten in sandwiches), roast red potatoes (skins still on), brussel sprouts picked fresh from the garden, gravy, and yorkshire puddings. I also made some butternut squash but forgot to eat it.

Mmmm…yorkshire pudding smothered in gravy.

Duncan was totally not into it, ate a little potato, a bite of beef, handed me his yorkshire pudding and was done. Then he fed himself a jar of baby food carrots and allowed me to feed him half a banana.

I loved it, though. I’m not one of those “eat to live” people who only eats because they have to. At least not usually. I know I have an emotional connection with food and I work to keep it from being an unhealthy one. I think it’s good when that connection brings real pleasure. Like tonight.

And maybe it’s a sign that my stomach is getting back to normal and will stop punishing me with thoughts of dead rodents under the stove. Bleh!

Weight Watchers should give points for sex

There are 2 reasons Weight Watchers works for me:

1. I’m forced to be aware of what I eat and assign a value (points) to it.

2. I’m encouraged to exercise because the activity points I earn let me eat more.

I did WW once before – on my PDA with a program a downloaded for free (which WW forced the developer to take off line). This time I’m paying for it and using their online version. Which is pretty decent and does let you look up points for any number of foods and activities.

Except sex.

It’s not listed. Housecleaning is. Hoeing the garden is. As are ax chopping, dancing the twist or lambada, barn cleaning, fencing, hunting (isn’t that mostly sitting in a tree stand and waiting for deer?), paddle ball, snorkeling, hand sawing, treading water and washing the car. But not sex. In any of its euphemisms.

It’s exercise. It should earn me more food points.

As should being a mum. Can I count hauling a 25-lb baby around as weight lifting? Or playing with him on the floor as wrestling? (I wonder if that’s even listed…yes, competition wrestling is on the list.) I can tell you that after a few trips up and down the stairs holding onto a squirmy baby, my heart rate is elevated.

In any case, I seem to be squarely back on the weight watching, point tracking, activity checking wagon. I was very tempted to stay off the diet after my few days of garbage plate and carrot cake eating fun. But, even though some guy in a van whistled at me yesterday while we were on our walk, there’s still a bit more jiggle in the trunk than I’m happy with. Almost there. Might as well go all the way.

Surviving my first garbage plate

Until Saturday, I had been in Rochester for 5 1/2 years and I had never eaten a garbage plate. I was fine with that.

However my best friend from childhood, Robyn, who was visiting from Montreal was not. She’s been here a few times. Never had the local “delicacy.” Thought it was time to try it out. Plus she’s in training for master’s swimming so she’s burning a trillion calories a minute just breathing (unlike my Weight Watchers self).

Since she was in it for the full experience, no substitions would do. That meant Nick Tahou’s. However, Duncan’s schedule and other people’s dinner schedules often don’t jive so we sent Kevin for takeout.

He came back with 3 styrofoam containers (because it’s not like we could have shared) dripping with grease. As I was taking them out of the bag I thought maybe the hot grease had eaten through the styrofoam. But no, it was just so full that it seeped out the side.

I should have taken pictures. I didn’t. I apologize. Kevin took some with his phone while he was there, but we haven’t figure out how to get them off without paying Verizon 25 cents a photo.

In any case, I ate it. Or most of it. I clearly didn’t have enough beer before hand (Duncan was already asleep at this point, hence the need for takeout) because I was told I looked “disgusted” as I dug in. I thought it needed more salt and way less raw onion. But as I was eating it, it somehow became midly addicting and I wanted to eat more even as my body begged me not to.

For more info, see a 2004 insider article, a page which includes a link to the nutritional info of a garbage plate (don’t go there…wish I didn’t), the RocWiki entry and how to eat a garbage plate (the amount of ketchup they suggest sounds about right).

After a couple of days to digest, I can say I survived. And I’m back on Weight Watchers.

I can’t stop eating Girl Scout cookies

There, I said it. It’s true. I can’t stop eating them.

I bought another box last week from the guy at work who’s selling them for his daughter.

It was his last box. They’re trefoils (shortbread).

They will not last long.

My mum’s going to call me now and tell me to stop eating them, that they’re bad for me and no wonder I haven’t lost any more weight.

One of my coworkers told me today that I’m really slimming down. Instead of arguing and refusing the compliment, as people are wont to do, I just said, “Thanks,” and kept the details to myself.

And then ate more cookies.

Hazel’s new toy – baby Duncan

I’m still full of turkey and sweet potato casserole. But I could use another slice of lemon meringue pie.

Thanksgiving was good.

Duncan got to meet his cousin, Hazel. She’s just over 2 months older than him, so she can do lots of cool things he hasn’t mastered yet. Like grab. And roll over. And “crawl” backwards on the floor.

This is a photo of their first meeting. Really, they liked each other and got along great. They’re both pretty mellow, fun babies. I just thought this photo, with Duncan appearing to try and get away and Hazel appearing to be doing a gimme-that-baby-toy, is quite funny.

And, of course, of the two babies, who was bigger? Hazel outweighed Duncan by a couple of ounces at birth. But at 4 months, he’s outweighing her by a few pounds. Go figure. I swear I’m not feeding him growth hormones.

No Thanksgiving celebration with babies would be complete without posing the babies next to the turkey. Apparently, this was also done with Kevin’s cousin Tim 20-something years ago. His Nanna insisted.

We thought putting the babies in a roasting pan next to the turkey would be a nice touch, but, alas, there were no spare pans big enough. So sitting on the counter top, side-by-side with the turkey had to suffice.

In the shot after this one, Duncan reached over (a trick learned from Hazel in just one afternoon) and grabbed for the turkey, managing to smear yummy juices all over his hand.

It was a fun time. The babies were enjoyed by all. As was the turkey. And on Friday we had pie for breakfast.

The holiday after next

I’m not ready to celebrate Christmas.

I’m ready for Thanksgiving. Well, not even. Just in my head I’m ready to eat turkey and sweet potatoe casserole. I hope there’s sweet potato casserole. I love that stuff. With the crunchy, sweet stuff on top. Mmmm.

Duncan likes sweet potatoes too. So far he’s devoured his way through 3 jars of applesauce, a jar of sweet potatoes and a jar of sweet potatoes and apples. Along with rice and oat cereal. We tried chicken for a couple of days, but I don’t think that felt too good after it went down.

So. Christmas. Another round of cards to write, sign, stamp and mail. I don’t know if I can take any more card sending this year. I still have a few thank you cards to send. (To those people I owe baby gift thank you cards to – THANK YOU. I’m getting to them, honest, and we love what you sent. You’re very kind and generous and we’re blessed to know you and/or be related to you. I mean that. I’m just exhausted working and being a mummy and student ministering and making plans for the future. I will get to them. Maybe with the Christmas cards…)

I just don’t feel up for it this year. The shopping. The crowds. The organization. Usually I come up with some kind of hand crafted goody for people – soap, gingerbread men, fudge, jam, crocheted slippers and hats, knitted furry scarves.

I’d like to do it again this year. But I don’t know what to make. It needs to be fairly easy and not to expensive or time consuming. Maybe fudge. Anyone for Christmas fudge? I guess I shouldn’t give the secret away on the blog on what I’m making this year (if anything).

If you don’t get any, er…just presume I didn’t make any…

So I’m not ready to shop yet, or write my Christmas letter, or buy and send Christmas cards or any of that. We’re not doing a Christmas tree or putting up any lights this year. I know, I know, we have a baby now. Aren’t we obligated to go overboard just for his benefit? Nope. Rather, now that we have a baby, I have better things to do with my limited “free” time (free only in that no one is paying me to do work during that time). And he’ll be 5 months old. He doesn’t care. He won’t remember. And I really don’t want him growing up with Christmas as a big deal.

We’ll go to Grandma’s. It can be a big deal there. But not at home. That way I can put off thinking about it for as long as possible. Preferably until sometime in mid-December. You know, right when the Christmas season SHOULD start. Not before Thanksgiving.

Now pass me some turkey and sweet potato casserole.

Starting solids

Yes, you read the headline right. Something other than breast milk passed the lips of my sweet little baby today.

The not taking the bottle saga update goes like this – after a few more days of unsuccessful bottle feeding, I called his pediatrician. I made an appointment for this afternoon, wanting to come to a happy resolution for my hungry baby and hoping that, one day, I won’t have to drive to wherever he is at lunch every day to feed him. (Well, the real hope is that we’ll be hanging out together and this will be a big non-issue, but for now at least…)

Of course, today, the day that I finally decide we need professional help, is the day he decides he’ll drink 4 oz from the bottle at lunch time. I figured I’d give it a go when he woke up from his nap. It’s a nipple just like his pacifier, a slightly faster flow than I tried before, and he’s with his mummy and happy after a nap. And it worked. But we went to the doctor anyway.

Once there, the physician’s assistant agreed with my hope, and plan, that if I can get him comfortable taking the bottle from me, then he’ll come to accept it from other people when I’m not around. Like he used to. She also suggested that we start him on rice cereal. At least that way his sitter will have something else to feed him if/while he rejects the bottle.

So I tried it this evening — after he woke up from another nap. He liked it. He smiled, smacked his lips a bit, wiggled his tongue around. He probably dribbled more of the entire tablespoonful of breastmilk thickened with a teaspoon of organic, whole grain cereal down his bib than he swallowed, but it seemed to go quite well. It can hardly be called a solid food when it’s a dribbly runny mess, but… it’s more solid than liquid, I suppose.

Now, I know he’s only 3 months old. I thought I’d breastfeed exclusively until 6 months. I really did. But he’s a hungry little 18-pound chomper. And it feels like the right thing to do. So I’m going to go with my mother-instinct and give it a try. Even though I’m afraid he’ll somehow have a terrible reaction to it and give me a huge poop blow out tonight! I don’t really think he will, but… you never know. I’m sure he’ll be fine and we’ll try a little more tomorrow.

No matter how you feel about when and how to introduce solid foods, the real shame is that I didn’t get any photos of cereal dribbling down his chin as he sat in his high chair. I will.

I did, however, get a photo of him at bath time. He’s graduated to the big bathtub (rather than the kitchen sink) as he was actually outgrowing the sink. Here’s a not-quite-naked photo, edited to preserve his baby dignity.

Strawberry jam

I’ve been quite productive today – even with somene’s feet jammed in my ribs.

It’s my church’s annual yard sale today (29 Vick Park A, between Park and East avenues, all day today and tomorrow) so I showed up at 8:30 a.m. to volunteer and with a couple of boxes of stuff that we can stand not to have in the house/attic anymore.

They told me I looked tired and unwell and that I should go home, that they had enough people helping and didn’t need me. And I was. So I did. Nothing serious (the looking unwellness) – I just hadn’t put any makeup on and people always think I’m ill-looking in my natural state. Or really tired. And I am a bit.

Kevin started a new job which requires him to get up at 3:45 a.m. Which means I also wake up at 3:45 a.m., make one of my several nightly bathroom trips, make sure he’s really up and awake and not going back to sleep, then go into the other bedroom to continue my slumber.

I guess in a way it’s like practice for when Duncan is here – there’ll likely be quite a few getting-up-in-the-nights and having to function and do things then going back to sleep. Fortunately, I go back to sleep easily.

So between that and growing a new human life that is taking up more and more room in my abdominal cavity, I am a bit worn out.

So what better time to stand up for 3 hours and make strawberry jam? (that links goes to the recipe I used)

I don’t think any of them read the blog too often, so I can probably safely divulge this – the jam is for thank you gifts for the folks banding together to throw our baby showers. We had one in early May and another next weekend. Several people are involved in each one, so I needed multiple gifts that were inexpensive and easy to get/make. I thought I’d make candles, but gave up after 2 of them. (You can only make 1 candle at a time with the kit I have and it was taking at least an hour per candle, then you have to let it cool and harden before you can make another one, which means candle per day, which translated into forever making candles and having wax all over the kitchen.)

Jam = 2-3 hours of hulling and smashing strawberries, spilling sugar, making a jammy mess, dropping jars trying to get them out of the post-jam water bath and burning myself with hot water. But now it’s done. And I have 124 oz of yummy strawberry jam. Most of which I’ll give away (Yes, Mum, you get a jar next weekend, too.)

I was going to take pictures. I meant to. I really did. But I kept forgetting to get the camera on my pee-breaks and didn’t want to make an extra trip up the stairs. So, instead, I can only offer the jam jar label.