Another breakfast!?! Two mornings in a row?!? The expectations of my family have gotten well out-of-hand. So there I was, slaving away in the kitchen, adding cantaloupe to my repertoire of pancakes, bacon and eggs...
"Pancake mix," my friend Cathy commented in disgust, "you can't even call that making breakfast." I stared at her in confusion. "What are you talking about," I asked, "how else would you make pancakes?"
"Are you using my fillet knife to cube cantaloupe," Brad asked, wrestling the weapon from my grasp. "Sorry," I retorted, "I left my melon-baller at home." "You wouldn't know a melon-baller if the toothfairy left one labeled for you under your pillow," Cathy said snidely. "Cathy," I said, annoyed, "get out of my blog and enjoy your grilled campfire quiche."
As Brad enjoys what my nephew Talen charmingly refers to as "dippin' eggs" packed between his pancakes, I carefully made sure not to burst too many yolks in my enthusiastic but sloppy flips on the griddle. Placed on the table, I pointed out the sunny-side up eggs to those who wanted them and then watched in horror as Sydney hacked into one and then drizzled gold over our pile of pancakes, bacon and eggs. I pushed my chair back, away from the table. You just don't run into these kinds of problems serving up platefuls of Pop-tarts.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Saturday, May 24, 2014
The sound of fishing
I wasn't quite up for the 5:30 am search for walleye. Nor the 6:30, 7:30 or 8:30 search for walleye. My own eyes were shut tight until well past 9. I staggered down to the store to buy pancake syrup and kind of had breakfast ready when the Mosiman fishing party arrived back at the cabin.
Reinvigorated by a hearty morning meal and a power nap, our family boarded the boat to find us some fish. I realized that I had neglected to pack a hat or suntan lotion. As a 4th grade teacher, this is a BIG problem. If I get a sunburn, my students will fixate on my red face and will be unable to learn for the entire day. MacGyver-style, I ransacked the pontoon boat for a solution. (see picture)
A brewing thunderstorm threatened the success of our fishing experience. After twenty-five years of being married to an avid fisherman, I've picked up some pretty specific skills of my own. Responding immediately to my bouncing bobber, Brad energetically encouraged me to pick up the fishing pole. "Put your right hand here," Brad said, overly-urgently in my opinion. "Your right hand...the right one...right," he shouted. Jeesh, get a grip, man. "Ok, get ready to set your hook...be firm...ready...and..." I set my hook brilliantly but apparently, in the space of the time it took me to admire my brilliant fishing maneuver, my quarry cleverly escaped. "You have to reel," Brad said in disgust, "not just stand there making sound effects." What?!? Oops. Apparently I have developed a habit of providing sound effects for virtually every move I make. I think it dates back to a lesson on punctuation. Period: bip! Exclamation point: Whoo-bip! It morphed into my everyday life. Turning on a light switch: flip! Set a hook: pooh! Lose a fish: sigh. The thunderstorm coaxed us to end this particular session of "The One That Got Away Because I'm Incompetent, part XIV."
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| Another use for a baby wipe |
Reinvigorated by a hearty morning meal and a power nap, our family boarded the boat to find us some fish. I realized that I had neglected to pack a hat or suntan lotion. As a 4th grade teacher, this is a BIG problem. If I get a sunburn, my students will fixate on my red face and will be unable to learn for the entire day. MacGyver-style, I ransacked the pontoon boat for a solution. (see picture)
A brewing thunderstorm threatened the success of our fishing experience. After twenty-five years of being married to an avid fisherman, I've picked up some pretty specific skills of my own. Responding immediately to my bouncing bobber, Brad energetically encouraged me to pick up the fishing pole. "Put your right hand here," Brad said, overly-urgently in my opinion. "Your right hand...the right one...right," he shouted. Jeesh, get a grip, man. "Ok, get ready to set your hook...be firm...ready...and..." I set my hook brilliantly but apparently, in the space of the time it took me to admire my brilliant fishing maneuver, my quarry cleverly escaped. "You have to reel," Brad said in disgust, "not just stand there making sound effects." What?!? Oops. Apparently I have developed a habit of providing sound effects for virtually every move I make. I think it dates back to a lesson on punctuation. Period: bip! Exclamation point: Whoo-bip! It morphed into my everyday life. Turning on a light switch: flip! Set a hook: pooh! Lose a fish: sigh. The thunderstorm coaxed us to end this particular session of "The One That Got Away Because I'm Incompetent, part XIV."
Our "four hour" journey to Black Lake
Captain's Log-5/24: Seventeen-hundred hours: Accompanied by Chief Navigation Officer, Head Engineer, Pilot and Supply Officer Savannah Mosiman, my vessel departs for Black Lake.
Captain's Log-5/24: Seventeen-hundred hours and three minutes: Brief layover at the school for my forgotten rubber boots. Demerits issued to the Supply Officer.
Captain's Log-5/24: Seventeen-hundred hours and thirty-three minutes: Acquisition of fishing licences at the local Stuff-Mart. As staff was currently occupied in selling a deadly weapon to a questionable-looking character, we had to wait. This turned out to be providential as the Lord clearly wanted me to buy wine coolers, Mounds bars, and three different styles of M & M candies for our fishing trip. Apparently the Lord DID NOT want me to purchase Funyuns, indicating that God loves Brad too. We spent the remainder of our waiting time determining the air mattress we would most want from the three thousand varieties available based on the packaging cover. Girl playing ukulele? No. Couple casually brushing up against each other, admiring a breath-taking vista from the comfort of a tent larger than our living room...no. Man leaning over his double-decker air mattress to pet his black lab? No...animal cruelty. A real man would be snuggling with the dog on the double-decker air mattress. We settled on the realistically-attractive couple who didn't seem entirely sick of one another and had s'more-making material in the background. From there, I was led to a refrigerated cooler located behind the aspiring serial killer waiting to be handed his weapon. Imagine my disappointment to discover that the cooler held, not my much-anticipated refreshing Pepsi, but bait. The Stoffer family stopped by to offer some comfort and encouragement. We noted that, proportionally, the cost of knives increases as the size of the implement grows smaller. A machete is a downright bargain at Stuff-Mart! Our time finally arrived and like lottery winners, we raced forward to receive our licences. Savannah sighed as I immediately engaged in fishing-talk with the masses of people in line behind us. I name-dropped the Salmon-Capital of Upstate New York, Pulaski, mistakenly declared a fondness for Cod which Savannah kindly corrected (embarrassing me in front of my new fishing buddies), and expressed disappointment that my trout-fishing companion would not be fly-fishing because I had planned to segue the conversation over to the movie, "A River Runs Though It." Licences-in-hand, Savannah and I departed after hugging and high-fiving our fishing friends.
Captain's Log-5/24: Nineteen-hundred hours and eight minutes: Received our rations via the Wendy's drive-thru window. My junior Bacon-a-tor didn't have a pickle. Decided that the junior Bacon-a-tor would be a great name for a dinosaur. Co-captain Chlo shared a small Frosty with the Chief Navigator.
Captain's Log-5/24: Nineteen-hundred hours and twelve minutes: Fueling station.
Captain's Log-5/24: Nineteen-hundred hours and sixteen minutes: Open road. As tradition dictates, I immediately launched into Willie Nelson's song, "On the Road Again." Savannah was delighted, as you would imagine. "Like a band of gypsies, we go down the highway..." I harmonized before pausing to say, "Savannah, if you can name the next line, I'll stop." Without hesitating, she chanted, "We're the best of friends." I recovered from my disappointment by popping in the Frozen" cd so she could enjoy singing "Love is an Open Door" with me before I recounted the plot of the movie to her in minute detail. I tried and failed to spread out my consumption of mini-Mounds bars to one-per-every-fifteen-minutes. As she wrestled the last one from the wrapper to hand to me, Savannah asked who manufactured Mounds bars. "Peter-Paul," I said off-handedly, shocking my daughter with my savant-like knowledge of candy. My enthralled reaction to my GPS's sudden switch from daytime-to-nighttime mode, complete with twinkling stars accompanied by my knuckle-clenching ability to take a 25 mile-per-hour exit at 55 prompted Savannah to take over piloting duties.
Captain's Log-5/24: Twenty-one-hundred hours and twenty-six minutes: Puppy pitstop. Pillowed between two parked rigs, Savannah and I walked the dogs in the rain. Certain that we would be taken, I swung my flashlight from side-to-side like a metronome.
Captain's Log-5/24: Twenty-two hundred hours and sixteen minutes: Inspired by my friend Cathy to actually make an effort to prepare a meal or two rather than just relying on Brad to catch the fish, fillet the fish, cook the fish, and clean up the dishes after we'd eaten the fish, we stopped at a late-night gas station to pick up the forgotten pancake syrup and issue another set of demerits to the Supply Officer. The girls on duty and I had a good laugh about my thinking about buying a half-a-pint of $10 maple syrup that has been sitting on their shelf since well-before either of them had been employed.
Captain's Log-5/24: Twenty-two hundred hours and thirty-one minutes: Successful arrival to Black Lake. Waiting in a tall glass of water on the table, the fragrant aroma of lush lilacs greeted us as we entered our cabin. Let the adventure begin!
Captain's Log-5/24: Seventeen-hundred hours and three minutes: Brief layover at the school for my forgotten rubber boots. Demerits issued to the Supply Officer.
Captain's Log-5/24: Seventeen-hundred hours and thirty-three minutes: Acquisition of fishing licences at the local Stuff-Mart. As staff was currently occupied in selling a deadly weapon to a questionable-looking character, we had to wait. This turned out to be providential as the Lord clearly wanted me to buy wine coolers, Mounds bars, and three different styles of M & M candies for our fishing trip. Apparently the Lord DID NOT want me to purchase Funyuns, indicating that God loves Brad too. We spent the remainder of our waiting time determining the air mattress we would most want from the three thousand varieties available based on the packaging cover. Girl playing ukulele? No. Couple casually brushing up against each other, admiring a breath-taking vista from the comfort of a tent larger than our living room...no. Man leaning over his double-decker air mattress to pet his black lab? No...animal cruelty. A real man would be snuggling with the dog on the double-decker air mattress. We settled on the realistically-attractive couple who didn't seem entirely sick of one another and had s'more-making material in the background. From there, I was led to a refrigerated cooler located behind the aspiring serial killer waiting to be handed his weapon. Imagine my disappointment to discover that the cooler held, not my much-anticipated refreshing Pepsi, but bait. The Stoffer family stopped by to offer some comfort and encouragement. We noted that, proportionally, the cost of knives increases as the size of the implement grows smaller. A machete is a downright bargain at Stuff-Mart! Our time finally arrived and like lottery winners, we raced forward to receive our licences. Savannah sighed as I immediately engaged in fishing-talk with the masses of people in line behind us. I name-dropped the Salmon-Capital of Upstate New York, Pulaski, mistakenly declared a fondness for Cod which Savannah kindly corrected (embarrassing me in front of my new fishing buddies), and expressed disappointment that my trout-fishing companion would not be fly-fishing because I had planned to segue the conversation over to the movie, "A River Runs Though It." Licences-in-hand, Savannah and I departed after hugging and high-fiving our fishing friends.
Captain's Log-5/24: Nineteen-hundred hours and eight minutes: Received our rations via the Wendy's drive-thru window. My junior Bacon-a-tor didn't have a pickle. Decided that the junior Bacon-a-tor would be a great name for a dinosaur. Co-captain Chlo shared a small Frosty with the Chief Navigator.
Captain's Log-5/24: Nineteen-hundred hours and twelve minutes: Fueling station.
Captain's Log-5/24: Nineteen-hundred hours and sixteen minutes: Open road. As tradition dictates, I immediately launched into Willie Nelson's song, "On the Road Again." Savannah was delighted, as you would imagine. "Like a band of gypsies, we go down the highway..." I harmonized before pausing to say, "Savannah, if you can name the next line, I'll stop." Without hesitating, she chanted, "We're the best of friends." I recovered from my disappointment by popping in the Frozen" cd so she could enjoy singing "Love is an Open Door" with me before I recounted the plot of the movie to her in minute detail. I tried and failed to spread out my consumption of mini-Mounds bars to one-per-every-fifteen-minutes. As she wrestled the last one from the wrapper to hand to me, Savannah asked who manufactured Mounds bars. "Peter-Paul," I said off-handedly, shocking my daughter with my savant-like knowledge of candy. My enthralled reaction to my GPS's sudden switch from daytime-to-nighttime mode, complete with twinkling stars accompanied by my knuckle-clenching ability to take a 25 mile-per-hour exit at 55 prompted Savannah to take over piloting duties.
Captain's Log-5/24: Twenty-one-hundred hours and twenty-six minutes: Puppy pitstop. Pillowed between two parked rigs, Savannah and I walked the dogs in the rain. Certain that we would be taken, I swung my flashlight from side-to-side like a metronome.
Captain's Log-5/24: Twenty-two hundred hours and sixteen minutes: Inspired by my friend Cathy to actually make an effort to prepare a meal or two rather than just relying on Brad to catch the fish, fillet the fish, cook the fish, and clean up the dishes after we'd eaten the fish, we stopped at a late-night gas station to pick up the forgotten pancake syrup and issue another set of demerits to the Supply Officer. The girls on duty and I had a good laugh about my thinking about buying a half-a-pint of $10 maple syrup that has been sitting on their shelf since well-before either of them had been employed.
 |
| Breakfast made! |
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| The Co-Captain, longing for the sea |
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
A Skittles Sabotage
Despite consistent training given since childhood; administered first by lovingly concerned parents and then taken over by an astutely aware spouse, it looks as though my inevitable demise will lead to my inability to say "no" to snacks. So there I was, after school, wrestling my half-dead plant out the door so Brad could nurse it back to health when, like a gift from God, I spotted a small storage container a quarter-filled with Skittles perched precariously on the push-bar that I was bumping open with my butt. Now, mind you, Skittles are not normally my go-to snack selection but when the Lord places a rainbow of flavors directly in your path, you don't turn your back on it. Remember Noah.
Happily clutching my container of candy, I managed to fold myself and my dead plant into Savannah's cluttered clown car. Definitely a child of Amy Mosiman, Savannah showed equal parts delight about the Skittles ("Red is my favorite.") and obtaining a storage container with a lid that fits.
My sugar-induced euphoria wore off on the ride home as I realized that a crazed maniac with a penchant for forty-four year-old women who haven't consumed fresh fruit in over four months might cast out a little bait to lure me, ET-style, into danger. I considered this possibility as I finished the last of the green Skittles. Was I a target? Of course. After all, I have a lot to offer. A distinctive duck-like walk that drives men insane. The hard-to-find "papple" (pear/apple combo) form that is quite the attention-getter. A crooked smile that resulted from an intentional decision to NOT wear my retainer after years of painful braces bondage. Who wouldn't want that? Obviously I'm a little hurt that my axe murderer didn't care enough to do bit more research on my ideal snacking preferences. A Russell Stover marshmallow bunny could go a long way to luring me into the windowless van. Remind me to tell you how, years ago, before I had developed my distinctive "papple" shape, Brad thwarted a kidnapping attempt at a truck stop by a nice man who complimented my capacity to consume the super-gigundo Slurpee and then invited me out to see his "rig." One must be ever-vigilant.
Happily clutching my container of candy, I managed to fold myself and my dead plant into Savannah's cluttered clown car. Definitely a child of Amy Mosiman, Savannah showed equal parts delight about the Skittles ("Red is my favorite.") and obtaining a storage container with a lid that fits.
My sugar-induced euphoria wore off on the ride home as I realized that a crazed maniac with a penchant for forty-four year-old women who haven't consumed fresh fruit in over four months might cast out a little bait to lure me, ET-style, into danger. I considered this possibility as I finished the last of the green Skittles. Was I a target? Of course. After all, I have a lot to offer. A distinctive duck-like walk that drives men insane. The hard-to-find "papple" (pear/apple combo) form that is quite the attention-getter. A crooked smile that resulted from an intentional decision to NOT wear my retainer after years of painful braces bondage. Who wouldn't want that? Obviously I'm a little hurt that my axe murderer didn't care enough to do bit more research on my ideal snacking preferences. A Russell Stover marshmallow bunny could go a long way to luring me into the windowless van. Remind me to tell you how, years ago, before I had developed my distinctive "papple" shape, Brad thwarted a kidnapping attempt at a truck stop by a nice man who complimented my capacity to consume the super-gigundo Slurpee and then invited me out to see his "rig." One must be ever-vigilant.
Monday, May 19, 2014
An administrative intervention: Code-name: Candy crackdown
Why would I think that nine-year-olds are capable of following step-by-step sequential directions when I, myself, have proven, time and time again, that I am unable to successfully complete the complicated multi-step instructions involved in producing a tasty Toaster Strudel? I have no one to blame but myself but I insisted on blaming the children. At the height of complete madness, I stood in the middle of my classroom observing my carefully-planned trio of science centers go to wreck and ruin, stopping to scream, "I'll be right back," before storming across the hallway to throw myself repeatedly at the Pepsi machine. Grasping my temporary pacifier, I waded back into the land of scientific self-discovery to count down the minutes to lunch.
Sensing that the sanity of one of his teachers was in peril, my administrator visited, immediately spotting the two candy bars within easy reach. "A two-Snicker-bar-day, Mrs. Mosiman," he asked in a calm, soothing voice, edging closer to my desk. I snarled. "Mrs. Mosiman," he said slowly, "put...down ...the ...Snicker...bar." He made a lunge and managed to grab one out of my grasp. "There is no problem so great or any situation so stressful that it warrants your polluting yourself with preservatives." I watched, mortified as he attempted to give my candy bar away to another teacher walking down the hallway. To my relief, she mercifully declined his generous offer. To my horror, she later returned to retrieve it when her own day imploded. There is no problem so great or any situation so stressful that it can't be made slightly better by a Snickers bar. Or two. As the school day drew to a close, my principal popped in to check my progress. He didn't say much as he watched me double-fist two fun-sized Mounds bars. I explained the nutritional benefits of dark chocolate and coconut. I half-heartedly offered him one and, to save me from myself, he accepted. Talk about taking one for the team.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
The love of teaching runs through my very veins
I had overlooked the recent warm weather wardrobe warning. So there I was, bare calves stretched out under the school day sun, waiting for the arrival of the 3:10 bus. "Mrs. Mosiman," one sweet lamb said, pointing, "You have writing on your leg." Four students scrambled over to investigate the hieroglyphic message spelled out in delicate blue veins. Reluctantly embracing this teachable moment, we located the lower case letters "m", "l" and "r." Sadly, there were no workable vowels so we were unable to actually construct words. The forecast for tomorrow? Long pants and knee-high socks...forever.
Monday, May 12, 2014
The Mosiman marriage needs mediation: Weigh in now!
All right...help me out here. The marital battle has been raging for days and we need mediation. So, in the style of the Ladies' Home Journal's series Can this marriage be saved, allow me to present both sides in an equitably unbiased manner so that you can clearly see that I am a loving, selfless spouse whose only thought is of being partnered with her beloved in this world and beyond.
MY SIDE (also known as the right side): Although I detest gardening, I am aware that, eventually, I will be forced, against my will, to push up daisies. Before I go on, please allow me to apologize for the ridiculous number of commas in that sentence. So even though this event is at least fifty years in the future, I want to be prepared. I have a playlist ready, recipes organized, and instructions for my final remains. Cremated, my ashes will be mixed with Brad's (who, grief-stricken, will follow me in death within an hour's span) and my daughters will climb to the highest law-abiding point of Letchworth State Park to sprinkle us over the high falls where we will be caught up in the gentle rapids of the Genesee to cascade majestically over all three waterfalls. Beautiful, right?
Brad's brief rebuttal to Amy: "First of all, you know that I'm not overly fond of heights." (He volunteered for the Airborne Unit during his army enlistment). "Second, I have always discouraged your frolicking about on the highest law-abiding point of Letchworth State Park. It's not safe and I would prefer to not have to pay fines or bail any of my immediate family members out of jail."
BRAD'S SIDE: I don't want anything fancy. The girls can just have my remains put in a Folgers can and I want them to bury me somewhere that has special meaning for them.
Amy's astonished insight: I KNOW, RIGHT!?!? Did you catch that? Mr. Coffee plans to percolate for eternity WITHOUT his missus. Hurt and upset, I just want to kick him right in the can!
Brad, butting in: You're missing the whole point! You have been telling me, for the past ten years, what is going to happen to my remains without once asking my opinion or considering what I might want.
So, what's worse? Dragging Brad, against his will, over the rail and into the raging water or being denied the right to be ground into the ground with a bunch of coffee grounds?
MY SIDE (also known as the right side): Although I detest gardening, I am aware that, eventually, I will be forced, against my will, to push up daisies. Before I go on, please allow me to apologize for the ridiculous number of commas in that sentence. So even though this event is at least fifty years in the future, I want to be prepared. I have a playlist ready, recipes organized, and instructions for my final remains. Cremated, my ashes will be mixed with Brad's (who, grief-stricken, will follow me in death within an hour's span) and my daughters will climb to the highest law-abiding point of Letchworth State Park to sprinkle us over the high falls where we will be caught up in the gentle rapids of the Genesee to cascade majestically over all three waterfalls. Beautiful, right?
Brad's brief rebuttal to Amy: "First of all, you know that I'm not overly fond of heights." (He volunteered for the Airborne Unit during his army enlistment). "Second, I have always discouraged your frolicking about on the highest law-abiding point of Letchworth State Park. It's not safe and I would prefer to not have to pay fines or bail any of my immediate family members out of jail."
BRAD'S SIDE: I don't want anything fancy. The girls can just have my remains put in a Folgers can and I want them to bury me somewhere that has special meaning for them.
Amy's astonished insight: I KNOW, RIGHT!?!? Did you catch that? Mr. Coffee plans to percolate for eternity WITHOUT his missus. Hurt and upset, I just want to kick him right in the can!
Brad, butting in: You're missing the whole point! You have been telling me, for the past ten years, what is going to happen to my remains without once asking my opinion or considering what I might want.
So, what's worse? Dragging Brad, against his will, over the rail and into the raging water or being denied the right to be ground into the ground with a bunch of coffee grounds?
Friday, May 2, 2014
When did "Salad Day" become a holiday?
An enthusiastic pixie of a person, our friend Kathy loves to promote community-building so this week was highlighted with "Salad Day" in the elementary. For no reason that I can really pinpoint, I mostly ignored this eating exercise until "Salad Day" suddenly appeared. Alright, I confess. I can actually make up a ton of lame excuses why I didn't want to participate:
1. I didn't want to over-load on carbs. It was "Elephant Week" in my classroom and each student made their own pachyderm-shaped biscuit treat.
2. To celebrate the end of "Testing Week," we held a Hot Dog Soup & Pepsi party. The planning of this complicated event overshadowed everything else (except for test review, of course...wink, wink).
3. I'm protesting greens until they figure out a way to include a Snickers bar as a salad garnish.
4. Did I mention the word "salad?"
So there it was..."Salad Day." Teachers were positively spinning with excitement. Saddened, I hastened to the middle school to eat lunch with colleagues who wouldn't be able to fathom the green goodness that was my world this week. But later in the day, during my planning time, I passed through the elementary faculty room to glimpse good food still adorning the tables. "No," I said stoic-ly, "I didn't contribute." But the lure was just too great and I scooped up a bowl of fruit salad smothered in Cool-Whip (not generic!) and slunk from the room. Friend and salad-eater, Deb May caught me red-handed...oops, make that "green-handed." She responded to my profusive apology by chasing me down the hallway with her container of Waldorf-style Salad, insisting I try it. "No, I couldn't," I cried, as she spooned the concoction into my bowl. I took a bite and sighed. Heaven. Suddenly, I began sifting through Deb's salad. "Wait...are there pieces of Snicker bars in here?" I love "Salad Day."
1. I didn't want to over-load on carbs. It was "Elephant Week" in my classroom and each student made their own pachyderm-shaped biscuit treat.2. To celebrate the end of "Testing Week," we held a Hot Dog Soup & Pepsi party. The planning of this complicated event overshadowed everything else (except for test review, of course...wink, wink).
3. I'm protesting greens until they figure out a way to include a Snickers bar as a salad garnish.
4. Did I mention the word "salad?"
So there it was..."Salad Day." Teachers were positively spinning with excitement. Saddened, I hastened to the middle school to eat lunch with colleagues who wouldn't be able to fathom the green goodness that was my world this week. But later in the day, during my planning time, I passed through the elementary faculty room to glimpse good food still adorning the tables. "No," I said stoic-ly, "I didn't contribute." But the lure was just too great and I scooped up a bowl of fruit salad smothered in Cool-Whip (not generic!) and slunk from the room. Friend and salad-eater, Deb May caught me red-handed...oops, make that "green-handed." She responded to my profusive apology by chasing me down the hallway with her container of Waldorf-style Salad, insisting I try it. "No, I couldn't," I cried, as she spooned the concoction into my bowl. I took a bite and sighed. Heaven. Suddenly, I began sifting through Deb's salad. "Wait...are there pieces of Snicker bars in here?" I love "Salad Day."
Thursday, May 1, 2014
An egg-cellent day (for most of us)
Vindicated! I DID NOT single-handedly wipe out an entire generation of baby chickens! Today's candling revealed that 25 of my 30 incubated eggs are viable. This, despite my not reading the very important instruction manual until two days AFTER installation. This, despite me polluting my poor babies's porous eggs with permanent marker. This, despite my only flipping those little ovarian omelettes half the required number of times per day. Next year, should the Cooperative Extension be silly enough to let me do this again, I will be the most responsible and effective chick mommy ever.
Our illuminating ultrasound was astonishing as our embryonic expert, Chris placed each egg on a kind of lava lamp base. We gazed upon each flickering light of life as a miracle. We celebrated creation. We were grateful for our small and insignificant role in this wonder. Then two of our eggs embarked on a 4th grade classroom tour and only one returned. One of the four classrooms would be forever changed as their world (and my egg) came crashing in on them. "I see an eye," squealed one student as the entire class unanimously took a pledge against poultry. "I'll never eat chicken again," vowed another, shielding her own eyes from the unflinching gaze on the floor. "You're telling me that you'll never eat chicken wings again," a more stout-hearted student challenged. Eggs...heart-breaking...ground-breaking...earth-shattering...eye-opening.
Our illuminating ultrasound was astonishing as our embryonic expert, Chris placed each egg on a kind of lava lamp base. We gazed upon each flickering light of life as a miracle. We celebrated creation. We were grateful for our small and insignificant role in this wonder. Then two of our eggs embarked on a 4th grade classroom tour and only one returned. One of the four classrooms would be forever changed as their world (and my egg) came crashing in on them. "I see an eye," squealed one student as the entire class unanimously took a pledge against poultry. "I'll never eat chicken again," vowed another, shielding her own eyes from the unflinching gaze on the floor. "You're telling me that you'll never eat chicken wings again," a more stout-hearted student challenged. Eggs...heart-breaking...ground-breaking...earth-shattering...eye-opening.
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