When I was a little girl, we used to eat ham and beans for three or more meals a week.  This was because it was cheap, and we were poor.  (Although, I didn't realize it at the time.)  (My dad worked two or three jobs while putting himself through college and supporting our family.)  Anyway, we ate ham and beans until I just couldn't stand the thought of any more ham or beans ever.

Ever.

But now, it's close to thirty years later, and I am just beginning to look back on my years full of ham and beans with fondness, yea, even...  longing?  Can that be longing, I feel?

On Saturday, I found myself culling the internet for the very best ham and beans recipe I could find, and this is what I chose.  Well, nevermind, I was going to link to it, but then I realized that I had changed it so much from it's original that the poor author would probably not want my version linked with his and forever desecrating it.

Hold on a second.  My tootsies are freezing.  I've got to get a blanket.

Mmm, that's much better.

So, here's how I made my ham and beans.

1. Soaked 1/2 pound of kidney beans overnight in a bunch of water in my cold crock pot.  (I used 1/2 pound instead of a whole pound like all the recipes called for because we always have leftover soup that lasts for days that turn into weeks that turn into months that turn into years, until we finally freeze it.  And then several years later we chop our frozen soup into smaller chunks and feed it to the garbage disposal.  And then we feel guilty over all the food we've wasted when there are starving people right here in our city who could have gotten several meals out of it if only the soup kitchens and food pantries would allow us to bring in our possibly contaminated leftovers instead of demanding only non-perishable items.)

Where was I?  Oh yes, I only used 1/2 pound of beans.  I thought it would be more appropriate considering our soup eating habits.  Ahem.

2. The next morning, I added 1/2 an onion, chopped.  Some basil - no idea how much, uh, maybe a couple teaspoons?, some diced ham slices that I had leftover from another meal (next time I make this, I'll use better ham), approximately one tablespoon of brown sugar, a few shakes of cayenne pepper and some salt and pepper.

3. I turned the crock pot on high and went to church.  (This was an accident.  I meant to turn it on low since we'd be eating the meal for supper.)

4. At lunch time, I returned home from church, noticed the temp on the crock pot and turned it down to low.  Then I tasted the mixture and decided to add another tablespoon of brown sugar and some more cayenne pepper - the rest of the shaker, anyway, which probably added up to 1/4 teaspoon at the most.  Oh yeah, I also added some salt (while Jeremy protested since the taco meat I had made on Friday night was WAY too salty for our taste.  What can I say?  I win some, I lose some.)

This time I won - the soup came out perfectly wonderful, not too salty and not too bland, and the amount of soup worked perfectly for us wanna-be soup-eaters.

I'll definitely make this again.  Maybe next year.
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Mercy just walked up to me out of nowhere and said, "Mama, I don't want an apple."

I just looked at her, not sure where she was going with this, and she just looked back at me.  Finally, she repeated, "Mama, I don't want an apple."

"Okay." I said agreeably, after all, it's not snack time or a meal time.  I wasn't planning on feeding her anything anyway.

"I want...um, hold on, let me think a little," she tapped her finger thoughtfully on her lips three times and gazed up at the ceiling.  "Oh!  Yes!  I've got it!  I want candy."

The whole conversation was so obviously premeditated and staged to look spontaneous that I burst out laughing. 

"Momma!  Stop it."  She said persuasively.  "Stop laughing at me.  I really want candy."

******
I really want to start blogging again, but the writer's block has me locked in it's dirty little paws and won't let me go.  So, if you'll hold on and let me think a little, I'll push a little harder on the keys of this rusty old keyboard and start posting again. 

Happy new year, everybody!
This afternoon, Mercy came up to me while I stood at the sink washing dishes.  "Mommy, Liberty won't let me clean!" she tattled.

Naturally, I assumed she meant to say, "Liberty won't HELP me clean."  The two girls had been working on cleaning their bedroom all. day. long.  So I called into the other room, "Liberty, help your sister clean!"

"But Mom, I'm a goat!" she yelled back.

"Okay...be a goat who cleans," I responded.

"I AM cleaning!" she yelled back.

"She IS cleaning, Mom," Mercy still standing at my side confirmed.  I looked down at her, puzzled.  If Liberty was cleaning, then what was the tattling all about?

"Liberty won't let ME clean," Mercy reiterated.

"Oh."  Who knew that would ever be something Mercy complained about.  "Liberty!  Let your sister clean!"

"But Mo-om!  I'm a GOAT!"

"So?  Let your sister clean."

"But Mo-o-om!  I'm a goat who BUTTS!  If I see any people, I HAVE to butt them!" Liberty explained to me from her bedroom.

Mercy was nodding vigorously at my side, and my imagination quickly conjured up a picture of Mercy trying to walk into their bedroom and being butted by Liberty who was crawling around the room on her hands and knees with clothing hanging out of her mouth.  I smothered my laughter and tried to find a good solution.

"Uh, be a goat who butts everybody except Mercy."

"Okay!" Liberty happily agreed.

"Okay!" Mercy joyfully copy-catted before heading back to the goat-pen.

And now I'm a zoo-keeper.
1.  Start with a gray and dreary day, but not just any gray and dreary day.  You'll need to select one that is about the fifteenth in a long line of gray and dreary days, and it will also need to be filled with rain.  So much rain that even when it is not actually raining, the ground is still nothing but mush so that small children cannot go outside to expel any excess energy without fear of being sucked down deep into the marshlands disguised as grass.

(Mind you, this post is about three weeks late.  Currently, we've had a string of nothing but blue skies and gorgeousness, and I am SO glad!)

2. In desperation, look around your house for something, ANYTHING for your children to do.  Ask yourself, "What did I do when I was a kid?  What?!"  And then a dormant memory will yawn and stretch.  YES!  Call out to your children, "Girls!  Get your socks on!  I have a surprise for you!"  Your children will be used to fun surprises from you, so they will run to their sock basket in their bedroom with shouts of glee.

Quickly move the dining room table and chairs three feet to the right to create a long strip of floor stretching from the dining room to the kitchen just perfect for sock skating, then run to get your own socks on.

Show the girls how to get a good running start and slide all the way into the stove, then from the back of the line clap, cheer and shout advice while waiting for your next turn.  Laugh ridiculously every time your three-year-old attempts to skate because sock skating is just not her gift.



3. After ten minutes or so, remember that you have bags upon bags of children's clothing to sort through, and now would be the perfect time to drag all those bags into the living room since your children are happily occupied and having lots of fun.
4. Once all the bags are in place, your children will decide that sock skating is not all it's cracked up to be, and they want something else to do.  After running through many, many suggestions that the little whiners veto because they've already done those things in the previous fifteen gray and dreary days, you will need to tell them that they have to come up with their own fun ideas.

5. Ignore the whining that ensues and continue calmly sorting clothing into stacks of winter and summer according to size.

6. When the whining finally subsides, do not think that it might be because your children are up to no good, instead, be thankful that they must have found something fun to do on their own.

7. Realize that peace and quiet never last this long in your house and become suspicious.

8. Upon investigation, find that the entire contents of your nicely folded and organized linen closet are now being used as a dam to prevent entry or exit from the master bedroom.  Stand in silent shock as you survey the scene and wrestle with your emotions while you try to find an appropriate response.  (This is a very important step.  If you leave it out, you may not actually accomplish the losing of your mind which is the first part of our goal today.)



Eventually, determine that the mess has already been made and the linen closet is empty so stopping the activity now would be pointless.  Also, revel in the silence that is still occurring, and decide to say nothing.  Instead,  creep quietly back to your sorting job in the living room.





9.  Interrupt your sorting to break up a fight over the helium balloons from the fair yesterday.  Show your children how to balloon surf instead.


10. Acquiesce to the request to play Cooties, even though you know it will take your three year old a sweet forever to get all those tiny pieces back into the box again when the game is over.  Anything to buy more time and get your sorting job done.





11. In order to facilitate the transition from summer clothing to winter clothing, ask your children to bring everything from their bedroom closet and dump it in a big pile in the living room.


This pile is the contents of three or four plastic bags full of clothing given to us, not the pile the girls created above.


(That is not really what you requested, but this is how they will interpret your request, so you might as well just say it that way in the beginning.) 

As motivation, tell your five year old that she can get the Twister game out when her task is accomplished.


12. After an exhausting game of Twister your children will most likely want a snack to replenish their minisculey depleted energy levels.  Don't fall for this!  They do not need any more energy! 

Instead, feed your pet bunny rabbits a green pepper and the oldest carrots you can find in your refrigerator.  (But make sure your floor is clean.)

13. When your bunnies have been fed, build a fort under the dining room table, hoping that they will stay there and not make any more messes so that you can finish sorting the masses of clothing that have taken over your living room.



14. Cross off "fort under table" from your list of ideas that might keep them busy.  It does not.  Instead, get out the Play Dough Cake-Making Kit from Aunt Jane.  You know, the kit that ONLY comes out when you are at your wit's end because IT MAKES A HUGE MESS AND THE CHILDREN WAIL WHEN THEY HAVE TO CLEAN IT UP.  [And by wail, I mean: the world has come to an end; woe is me for I am undone; accompanied by great gnashing of teeth. (And that's just me!)]   

(I do not have any pictures of this fiasco because I believe it was at precisely this point in the day when my brain exploded inside my head.)

15. Forget it all!  Just plop them in front of a movie and get that sorting done already!

16. Produce a massive amount of tears when your spouse comes home from work.  Make sure you babble like a complete idiot and go into the ugly cry.  (Even though I did not get a picture of it, this is also a very important step.)

17. Breathe into a paper bag and listen from your quiet room while your spouse steps over and around the mess you've created in the living room, enforces clean up the table time with the children and makes supper.  (Because he's a hero.)

18. Venture into the living room after the children are in bed and make it look like this.  Acquire a deep sense of accomplishment.

The bags on the left are to be given away.

The stacks on the right are to go into storage bins downstairs.

Don't forget to make the dining room look beautiful also.



19. Soak in the bathtub until your fingers and toes are all wrinkly.  This is the MOST important step of all, and is very necessary if you want to get your mind back in it's rightful place.

I've been locked out of my blog for a little while.  No idea why, but I'm just glad I'm back!

I suppose this title could have been How A Mother Loses Her Blog Post.  Haha!

Anyway, I'm going to try again with another post.
If I'd thought about it long enough, I would have known.  Gray, steady showers = PJ Day.  Unfortunately, I didn't think about it.  I did, however, get to try out my new all-natural version of microwave popcorn that I pinned to Pinterest last week.  Hooray!  Of course, the health benefits of all-natural popcorn were most likely nullified by the melted butter and cinnamon and sugar with which I doused it.

The girls and I learned all about D-D-D-David the D and his d-d-d-doggy.  We traced an entire page full of D's and d's, colored a dinosaur, and cut out a capital D and turned him into a dog complete with floppy ears and a collar.  After that, we studied clouds: what they're made of, what their names are, and what the various formations indicate weather-wise.  Then we thoroughly inspected the strato nimbus clouds outside (and got really, really wet).  We read books, played Uno, tickled each other crazily, and sang "Happy Birthday" over the phone to "Aunt" Alicia.  I engaged in multiple battles of will with Liberty which I'm not so sure I won, and I broke up several fights between the girls.

With the exception of the cleaning we all did and the clothing we all wore, it came pretty close to being a PJ Day.  Only, I'm worn out, and PJ Days are supposed to be refreshing.

And besides all that, I'm in desperate need of an amazing cup of hot chocolate.  Seriously chocolatey chocolate.  But there is none in the house.

Now I'm off to cuddle up with Jeremy and hopefully get a fresh perspective for tomorrow.


The following morning, Jedidiah and I climbed into the first coach together, and I had to admit a slight part of me hoped the Green-Cloaked-Lady and her mother would join us.  Instead, Clam’s thin body poked its way into the compartment and sat on my left side.  He was followed quickly by Flam and the plainly dressed maid of Lady Silver.  The maid’s appearance in this coach surprised me greatly, since she ought to be accompanying her mistress.  Instead, she sat down next to Flam whose bodily width crammed Jedidiah into the wall of the coach.  My friend excused himself and moved across the aisle to my right side where he gained an inch or two more for his own shoulders.

Flam immediately reached across the aisle to crush my hand.  “Beauregard Sampson, sir.  Bo for short.  Noticed you at the table last night and this mornin', but never got to introduce myself.  Fine day, ain’t it!”

“Yes, it is, sir.  My name is Matthew Fitzgerald.  Nice to meet you.”

“Now, I already met Jed Simons and Nathaniel Greenwood yesterday.” Bo boomed out, “Rode in the coach all the long day, we did!  Swapped many a tale.  You met them?”

“I met Mr. Simons at the dinner table last night,” I responded, “but Mr. Greenwood and I have not gotten acquainted.”  Nathaniel reached his bony hand toward mine, and we shook much less vigorously than Bo and I had.

“Nice to meet you,” Nathaniel intoned quietly and retracted his hand.

Bo’s mouth opened in a large grin and his wide white teeth divided the thick black mustache above from the full black beard below.  His coffee breath warmed the air.  “This here’s my wife, Mrs. Cecilia Sampson.”  The plainly dressed woman nodded her head and somehow conveyed a calmly approachable friendliness along with a slight touch of regality.

I nodded in return at her and offered a polite, “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Sampson,” all the while grinning inwardly at my incorrect guess that she was Lady Silver’s maid and traveling companion.  Thinking further, I was more than a little amazed that this calm, quiet person would be married to Flamboyant Bo.  I then decided to find out how accurate my guess about Nathaniel’s occupation had been.  I turned to my left and addressed him in a tone that I hoped conveyed nothing beyond polite small-talk, “Mr. Greenwood, are you traveling on business or pleasure?”

“Neither,” he replied, and I had to listen carefully to make out his word.

“Oh?” my upward intonation invited him to fill in the blanks.

His pause made me wonder if he would, but finally he spoke again.  “My father is ill.  I hope that he is alive when I arrive home.”

“Oh.” I felt like a cad. “As do I, Mr. Greenwood.”  I said fervently, then I added, “Where is home for you?”  His clipped syllables and oddly pronounced vowels told me he was not from Alabama, although that is where our coaches had started their journey yesterday.

“Grand Rapids, Michigan.”

Bo broke in, unable, I assume, to contain himself any longer.  “Well, that’s a mighty far distance to be from home!  Cissy and I are travelin’ North as far as Indiana.  Gotta wedding to ‘tend to.  Cissy’s sister’s tyin’ the knot, ain’t that right, Cissy?”

Mrs. Sampson nodded and smiled her gentle smile at him.

“Means an awful lot to my wife to be there for her sister.  So we just said, ‘To heck’ with the plantin’ (Pardon my language, but Cissy’s used to it, and I’m sure you gentlemen don’t mind.) and took off for the weddin’.”

"I see."  While my mind caught the fact that Flam farmed, and apparently had a trusted overseer who could manage his slaves and the planting season without him, I could not picture him as a wealthy plantation owner.  His manners and clothing if nothing else indicated otherwise.  Why, I was more finely dressed, and I was an overseer myself, in a way.  I decided he must have worked his way into owning a farm, and although I like to think of myself as more advanced than this, I found myself fighting down prejudiced thoughts regarding his social status.
"Any o' y'all been fishin' in Indiana?" he addressed the three of us in the bench facing him.  It seemed like a nonsensical question.  Anyone living in Alabama was not likely to have made the three to four week journey to Indiana.  We all indicated we had not.  Bo's expressive face showed eager anticipation, and he began describing in great detail the amount and types of fish to be caught in Indiana based on a letter from apparently a rather verbose relative of his wife's.

I settled into the seat cushion as best I could, enjoying the tales spun for us by our personal travel entertainer and wondering how long his stories could hold out on this journey.
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