Candied bacon conversion

I once held Savannah's feet while she was buried, body-deep, in an upright freezer digging for the buy two/get three free bacon special. Long story short:  We REALLY like bacon. You may now, guilt-free, stop reading this submission at this point as it revolves around our love of bacon and, as it turns out, how we will pay ANY price to obtain it.

I always insist on visiting the Connecticut town of Mystic whenever I visit Savannah because a) it was featured in a movie starring Julia Roberts (We once slightly altered a trip route to pass the church included in "Runaway Bride."), b) it has an awesome bookstore, Bank Store Books, where I fawn over their counter display of $50 pens (Today, I test-drove one...I almost said "pilot" for a pen pun...Responding to someone's philosophical writing of "I like fish," I wrote "Me, too." It was a magical experience.) and c) I like to watch the bridge raise and lower.

Last time I visited, I really wanted clam chowder and we accidentally went to the one restaurant in Mystic that didn't serve it. They had a great hot chocolate though so all was forgiven but THIS time, I was intent on the chowder. We scored window seats in the mostly empty restaurant ("To be fair, Mom," Savannah reminded me, "we arrived shortly after 11."), and the menu not only featured my favorite caprese salad but AVOCADO caprese salad! And that wasn't all. "Savannah," I exclaimed, "they have candied bacon here!" She wrinkled her face in response. Oh my. I still had MUCH to teach her.

Chowder. Yummy. Avocado caprese salad. Life-changing. Candied bacon for $12? A BARGAIN! "There are only four strips of bacon there," Savannah, still not completely converted, reported. I watched the brown-sugar syrupy glaze slowly drip off...like the icy condensation sliding down a frosty glass of Pepsi...only hot and sweet. "That's $3 a strip," the mathematician across from me calculated. She reached for one with the reluctance reserved for a home owner reaching for the door knob when a Jehovah's Witness comes a-knockin'. I sat there quietly, letting my bacon do the talking for me. And it had a LOT to say. Savannah ate the first one like the lady she'd been raised to be...carefully cutting it with a knife and bringing a modest-sized piece to her mouth. And then...all bets were off. She ravaged the rest like a half-starved hyena. "How have we not known about this before," she asked, eyeing my share. If only sharing the Gospel were this easy, I pondered. But maybe Savannah and I had been led to this almost-religious moment. Sure, it's not the a dark, mysterious cave that housed the Dead Sea Scrolls. Let's imagine a conversation where you introduce the subject of Jesus to a potentially reluctant listener but THIS TIME, you're armed. "I'd like to tell you about Jesus," you'd begin, "but first, would you like a strip of candied bacon?" BAM! Instant conversion!

The Lumineers: A Seven Hour Journey...Wait! That's Fourteen Hours 'Round-Trip!

 I hadn't seen my eldest daughter since Christmas. "I'm thinking about going to see The Lumineers next week," she told me Sunday on the phone. "I LOVE The Lumineers," I squealed while mouthing the words "Do I love The Lumineers?" to my youngest child who was sitting next to me. "You have three of their songs on your playlist," she whispered back. I nodded. I DO love The Lumineers. Which is why I did the unthinkable for a teacher. I constructed two days worth of sub plans to drive seven hours to see the band I love. Most educators would prefer teaching with typhoid rather than to write sub plans. But I am a HUGE fan.

So I spent six hours constructing meaningful lesson plans (Hello, Saint Patrick's Day Lucky Charms fraction activity!) only to receive a robo-call informing me that I was teetering on the precipice of The Blizzard That Never Was. Schools across the state, even mine, were closed for the next two days. Glory be! Thanks to The Lumineers and media hysteria, I had stumbled onto the mythical one-day work week...in MARCH!!! Statistics show that the majority of self-inflicted pencils-to-the-eye teacher-related work injuries occur in March.

So with a baggie filled with stale marshmallow yellow peep rabbits, a trio of string cheese(s), and two Russel Stover chocolate marshmallow bunnies, I embarked upon my seven hour pilgrimage to Connecticut. ""I'm saving them for when I hit the Massachusetts border," I vowed to my husband as he kissed me good-bye. "Why don't you make Utica (or Ithica or some city that ends with a ~ca sound) your first snack break," he suggested, fearing that I'd set an unrealistic goal. He was right. My snack was gone before I'd made it to the opposite end of our neighboring town of Perry.

Because I only got lost twice this trip, I made it to Savannah's in record time. As a "good" writer, I intentionally used the word "record" in a story about my going to see a band but Savannah thought that this deliberate inclusion was both irrelevant and unnecessary as bands don't use "records" any more. "Everything is digital now, Mom," she sighed. So let me amend my carefully constructed intro: Despite getting lost twice on this trip, I was delighted when my digital clock revealed that I'd still made it in record time. Better?

Because I was so excited to see The Lumineers, I just couldn't seem to stop talking. We followed a family through the smoke-filled haze of the casino. "I brought my kid, too," I smiled at their seven-year-old before pausing to point out an animatronic wolf perched on a tall rock for Savannah to enjoy. "Look, Honey! It's ears are moving!" Savannah and the seven-year-old both rolled their eyes.

Savannah found us our seats and I immediately began people-watching. "You look like a gopher," Savannah snapped, "Sit back!" Apparently, she'd forgotten that she hadn't seen me since Christmas. I squinted at the screen by the stage. "Is that a viking," I asked, "or...an angel? Is is a viking-angel?" "Are you serious," Savannah asked before immediately realizing I was. "Mom, it's Cleopatra. Their album-title." Oh. I pulled out my little camera to take a picture. "Mom! Put that away!" she hissed. Again. I was confused. "If you HAVE to take a picture, I'll do it for you with my fancy gizmo high-tech fancy phone." (I MAY have paraphrased a bit there.). "I had no idea that my camera was such an embarrassment to you," I sniffed. "It's not the camera," she mumbled. Maybe I don't like The Lumineers as much as I thought I did.

Oh. I'm just being silly. Of course I do. I began the important process of bonding with those sitting near us. "I love the smell of your hand lotion," I complimented Dressed-Up Girl Next to Me. "Thanks," she smiled, admiring my cute black flats (I'm so glad I didn't wear my winter boots like I'd planned), "Would you like some?" Savannah reached out and grabbed my out-stretched hands. "No, she's fine." After gagging repeatedly while watching Shaved Head Guy With Great Cheek Bones spitting his chaw into a water bottle, I made a list of acceptable containers of which he could spew his nasty mouth brew into...ALL of them NOT CLEAR before drafting a letter to my congressman about outlawing chewing tobacco at all Lumineers concerts. I was then distracted by a man who enjoyed yelling the name "Jenny" into every available lull. I named him "Forest." Guests arriving late disrupted the row ahead of us (Home to Girls Who Asked Me to Take Their Picture And Then, Not

Wanting To Hurt My Feelings, Had It Secretly Re-Taken By An Usher Who Looked Like Professor Slughorn From Harry Potter). "We don't want to inconvenience everyone by crawling over you," Young Man With Glossy Hair, a Salesman's Smile, and Was Working Towards a Degree in the Political Sciences apologized, "Why doesn't everyone just scoot down instead?" Not knowing what else to do...they DID! I watched, delighted, as "Chew-tobacco" lost his spacious leg-room seat to The Rainmaker. "Chewing tobacco kills brain cells and the art of the negotiation," I whispered loudly. Unfortunately, you couldn't hear me over the guy yelling, "Jenny." Enough about the crowd...except for Shrill Drunk Middle-Aged and Inappropriate Woman Behind Us who yelled profoundly inspirational comments during the lead-singer's heartfelt song introductions such as "You don't have to touch to feel" as well as "Put it in me, baby." I was surprised that Wesley didn't immediately drop his microphone to "put IT in her." "Put WHAT in her," Savannah asked, finally feeling feisty, "a hypodermic needle?"

It was an incredible concert! Who doesn't love an accordion?  And a cello! Instead of a mic-drop or smashing his guitar, Wesley broke his tambourine before racing out to sing in the crowd which proves just how down-to-earth, fiscally-responsible, and ecologically-conscious he is. They played ALL three songs on my playlist! And I left, thinking that I might add a few more! "How do we get out of here," I asked, tugging on Savannah's sleeve as we fought the crowd streaming out of the arena. "We turn left at the automatronic wolf," she answered, grabbing my hand. I love The Lumineers.

Amy visits a bar: Pay no attention to the scene BEHIND the red dot

Running evening errands last night, Brad and I were looking for a quaint little diner to enjoy a quick meal. "How's this one look," Brad asked. I nodded. As we walked in, the dining area was empty but...on the other side of the wall, a boisterous crowd of mostly bearded...uhmmm...people were enjoying a late Thursday afternoon, up to their shoulders in suds.

I bellied up to the bar, feeling out of place with my lack of facial hair, and asked about meal service. The friendly bartender whisked us away to a table comfortably situated next to a shockingly pornographic picture on the wall. It was framed which lent it just the right touch of class.

It was "Wing Night." The crowd showed its displeasure at my lack of conformity when I instead ordered egg salad. "You know," I told my husband, unable to peel my eyes away from the mounted picture beside me, "You ruined any chance of my becoming a bar-fly." Oh my goodness! DO NOT look that term up in Urban Dictionary! I thought it just meant a nice girl that occasionally visits a friendly neighborhood pub or two. "How's that," Brad asked, enjoying his Reuben which was apparently deemed acceptable by the Old Testament prophets gathered around the well. "We married so young," I explained (in a somewhat accusatory manner), "the only place you ever took me was TJ Cinnamons or sometimes Hotdog-on-a-Stick."

"Let's play darts," I said, clapping my hands in excitement over this very bar-like thing to do. "Let's wait until our friends are done," Brad answered nodding at the open men's room door where the waiting patron was live-streaming with the current resident. As we waited, a man removed himself from his stool (ironically NOT related to the bathroom story) and approached us. "Hi. I'm Digger." I glanced at Brad. Do I make up a cool nickname for myself? Would my husband provide one for me? Would I be his "old lady" which is WAY not cool now that I'm actually approaching 50? Brad extended a hand and introduced himself. Oh, I thought to myself in relief (ironically NOT related to the bathroom story), like church. Digger, a bearded entrepreneur, apparently had a trunk full of baseball hats with his catch phrase that didn't make any sense emblazoned across the front. He also had a face full of ketchup that thankfully distracted me from the smutty picture next to me. We said we'd consider a purchase later (I sincerely regret not having snapped one up now) and Digger returned to his stool.

Brad indulged me in a game of darts. Turns out that I'm as good at playing darts as I am about going to bars. I aimed enthusiastically (and unsuccessfully) at the center target and trash-talked my husband as he hugged the outer rims. As the game drew to a close, I suddenly took note of the numbers that seemed randomly assigned around the edge. Oh. Game over. We paid our bill, drumming our fingers to Lynyrd Skinner's "Simple Man" as a picture of Johnny Cash graced the register from which the bartender drew our change. Americana. Just like Norman Rockwell. If he'd ever painted porn.

Up the creek without...WATER? Or ELECTRICITY?

 My husband called.

During school hours.

This is a rare occurrence that causes my heart to quicken and my pulse to race. Not necessarily with love. There's trouble in them thar hills (My one and only tribute to Laurel and Hardy, by the way).

"The water pump is broken," he reported.

I paused to consider the implications of this.

"No water," he prompted.

Still I reflected...obviously my showering schedule was going to be interrupted but I was well-stocked up on baby wipes.

I could hear Brad sigh on his end of the phone. He does that a lot. "No toilet," he said.

I gasped and almost dropped the phone. My 4th graders looked at me fearfully."Don't worry, cherubs," I reassured them, "the Mosimans are just out of water."

"How will you make Kool-Aid," one well-meaning student asked with grave concern. Brad was done with this conversation. Obviously, I was of little-to-no-help in solving this problem (Obviously. I'm actually surprised he called me in the first place. I'm not even sure I could LOCATE the water pump).

While Brad set into motion the necessary procedures in fixing a broken water pump, I was busy staying as late as possible at work to maintain a close proximity to a flush-able receptacle. I intentionally began to dehydrate myself.

When I did finally arrive home, I suddenly realized that cooking a meal was futile. Darn it all. Brad offered to pick up a pizza. We Mosimans really know how to rough it.

Brad took advantage of Nature's Restroom but Sydney and I dreaded the dark and rain more than the idea of pouring a pail of water into our potty. But Brad Mosiman, Survivalist and self-appointed Latrine Officer, placed a moratorium on excessive bucket use to reflect his hoarding of two 5 gallon containers of treated "emergency water" that have sat, unused, in my basement for the last decade. It was their time to shine.

Like flipping on the light switch during a power failure, my muscle memory refused to allow me to forego the automatic flushing of the toilet so I taped the handle in place so as to thwart "2 am Amy."

Meanwhile, Brad lay sleepless, envisioning ingenious ways to collect workable water. Using the dehumidifier, he filled up the dog's dish, crooning to Chlo that the water quality rivaled that of Perrier. Using the reservoir of the Keurig, he brushed his teeth. My husband truly needs a television survival show dedicated to him. I simply slunk off to school to secretly brush my teeth there.

Brad called me after school.

I paused hopefully before answering.

"The power is out," he reported.

I'm NOT going home.

Colonial America Days: A leech by any other name would still be locked out in the rain

Ahhh...the innocence of Colonial Days. "I would have loved to live in this period," my friend Tyler remarked as we strolled through a cluster of 4th grade colonial village "businesses." "Go talk to the barber," I suggested, "I bet you'll change your mind real quick." Judging from his facial reaction later, I guessed that Tyler had learned how a colonial barber not only trimmed a few errant hairs but also yanked teeth without the use of anesthesia and would happily perform surgery without an accompanying degree or shot of laughing gas.

My apothecaries were also prepared to horrify customers. "Would you like to hold a leech," they asked visitors. The leeches. Hmmm....(fade to black for back-flash transition)...

Research and construction of our 4th grade Colonial America village trades were conducted over a grueling two and a half week period. At no other time in the school year would you ever hear a teacher yell, "So-and-So...stop stabbing What's-His-Face with your knife" or "Do not throw horseshoes at your friends" or "Please aim the whale harpoon at the target, not Lil' Suzie Q" or even "Put down the gun!" yet I found myself screaming these cute little catch-phrases thousands of times per day. Please note that all listed items were constructed out of cardboard. Speaking of screaming, I also found myself screaming for other reasons. "Mrs. Mosiman, can you hot-glue my anvil," one sweet little cherub asked as I was busy duct-taping a boat together. "Sure," I said, absent-mindedly reaching behind to grab it. Yeah...you guessed it. Room 24 froze as I sat there, wide-eyed, with a glue-gun stuck to my palm. "Freeze," the whaler yelled, a seasoned veteran of being on the receiving end of my pained wrath when a student tries to talk to me when I should instead be on my way to the hospital, "give her a minute!" I took a deep breath and peeled the glue gun off my developing blisters. Not missing a beat, the blacksmith said, "Right here" and pointed to the perfect spot for hot glue on his anvil.

The day before, my wigmaker and I were valiantly trying to balance a hair-piece in her window. "If you opened up the stapler, I think you'd have a better angle," she suggested. I was doubtful (and a little scarred...oops, I mean scared) but...okay. Yup...pieced right up under my thumbnail. Room 24 watched in silent wonder as their teacher began to hemorrhage before their very eyes. It occurs to me that a vital lesson before beginning Colonial America might be emergency first aid treatment. I trimmed windows, cut out Dutch doors, carved roof peaks, and yes...built a boat. And my blood christened every single structure. It wasn't a matter of IF Mrs. Mosiman would cut herself...it was a matter of WHEN Mrs. Mosiman would cut herself.

Following our dress rehearsal, we returned victoriously to Room 24. "You are going to free-write for fifteen minutes about how well your presentation went, what improvements can be made for tomorrow, and include your favorite/least favorite parts of our program," I instructed. I actually didn't care about ANY of that at the moment. I just needed them to be quiet for fifteen minutes so I could finish my nervous break-down in peace.

I really did enjoy reading them later, though. I learned that MOST of the students loved dancing the "Virginia Reel" and was shocked to learn that one of them secretly hated it but was a trooper and hid his negative feelings. Poor guy had to dance the thing over twenty times! Many students stated that their favorite part was working with others. Most wrote that the freedom to create was their favorite part. But one guy's favorite part was quite surprising. "I liked when we got to go outside," he wrote. Wait...WHAT!?!?

I had asked my husband to get a synthetic leech from his fishing tackle box but he had worked late the night before and I didn't want to trouble him again over something so relatively insignificant. I left for work the next morning...leech-less. An hour later, he called and said he'd left a bag on leeches on the windshield of my Titan. (Who needs flowers? Not this girl!)  "Field-trip," I announced. So fifteen 4th graders AND their teacher, dressed in Colonial America garb, walked around the bus loop, leaving one short-sleeved student to man the door...so we wouldn't be locked out...toward my truck. "Stay to the left," I directed, silently cursing my habit of parking so far away from the door. "Mrs. Mosiman...it's starting to rain," a budding meteorologist informed me. "Thank you, Captain Obvious," I muttered, veering into the grass to avoid a parking lot moat. Three boys thought that was an optional choice and sailed on through. "Is this your truck," they asked as I plucked the bait off my windshield. Kids were now kicking my tires like potential buyers. "What year is it," one client asked. "Mrs. Mosiman," another astute scholar inquired helpfully, squinting through the veil of rain, "wasn't She-Who-Mans-the-Door suppose to be waiting INSIDE?" We all stopped searching for rust on Mrs. Mosiman's truck and looked. Yup. There she was...in the middle of the sidewalk...shielding her eyes from the rain and looking at us. And yes...now we were locked out. THAT was one student's favorite part of the 4th grade Colonial days. A walking tour of the school's bus loop concluding with a visit to my truck. In the rain. So much for two and a half WEEKS of collaborative learning. Sigh.