Wednesday, December 30, 2009
I wonder if thinking and then actually writing on my blog will occur.
I wonder if our computer is fixed. (You see, this time I have had an actual, legitimate excuse for not writing!)
I wonder if you knew that 6 years and one day ago (see above for the reason I didn't write this yesterday) I was in labor. It was not an enjoyable experience. As I thought back about it yesterday, I remembered the sweating, the crying, the machine pumping out the epidural medication breaking. Twice. I also remembered the large number of things hooked and taped to various parts of my body.
Side note, oh medical tape--I wonder why hasn't someone invented medical tape that works like a post- it. Stays on when you need it, comes of nicely when you don't, rather than ripping all of your hair off your body. I came for a baby, not a wax!
Anyway, I also wonder if my hands shoving as hard as they could on my stomach in a desperate attempt to push G out from the outside as well as the inside actually helped. Or, was I just trying to force her to follow my timeline? Making her do something this instant when if I had given her another moment or two she would have done it on her own? You all know where this is going. I have a stuborn child. She was (and is) worth every second of pain. I'm finding, however, that if I am calm, she is calm. When I push, she pushes back. So this year my other New Year's Resolution is to chose patience. Patience instead of hustling. Patience instead of yelling. Patience instead of talking through clenched teeth. Patience. I wonder if it will work.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Now, I may be dating myself and some of my fair readers here, but does anyone remember Biore strips?? They were those little band aid sized strips you would moisten, put on your nose and then peel off once they dried. The purpose of the Biore strip was to clear your pores and remove blackheads, but really, who are we kidding? The biggest part of the Biore strip adventure was doing it with friends and then grossing each other out by looking at everyone's nasty, blackheady results. Let's just say my bagless vacuum experience was like a giant Biore strip. Ack! Oh the humanity! I actually sat on that carpet! My children on occasion slept on that carpet! And wow-there was a lot to see in that clear section! I had to clean the suction part three times! It was too much! Yet oddly satisfying. In a creepy sense. I know. I need help. I'm also just ever-so-slightly tempted to wait (and wait and wait) before vacuuming again so I can have the same satisfying experience. At least that's the excuse my sloth side is going with at the moment.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Just hanging out at home, waiting for P to finish his homework, listening to Christmas carols and trying to decide what to make with the leftovers from any of the 4 (!) turkeys we've cooked and frozen in 2 cup servings over the last month. OK, so the first one was because I'm retentive and had to practice cooking a turkey before we hosted Thanksgiving. And the second one was because I didn't really like the first recipe after all. The third was for the real Thanksgiving and the fourth was because, well, turkeys were on sale and I can't resist a sale. Oh how I do love a bargain! And turkeys are cheap this time of year!
Although, I just did some rough math in my head (which is tricky for me, just ask the 15 people who came to my house for Thanksgiving and found only 13 chairs. Whoops! Even with all 15 people in front of me I kept coming up with only 13. But enough about that...) Anywho, I did some rough math and even if the turkey was $.26/lb I'm not totally sure it was a bargain by the time I add in the price of the brine (salt, honey and vegetable broth) and/or the cost of the fresh rosemary and sage that was put in the turkey and/or the price of the gas to run the oven for 3 1/2 hours. Almost forgot to add the cost of the heat when I had to open all the windows and doors (letting the toasty 36 degree F wind blow through the house) to clear the smoke out during the first 30 minutes of searing the skin. I think since those heating costs get put in a different category in my budget we'll just leave that out... Sort of reminds me when MD suggested we could save a ton of money on our grocery bill if we just ate out more. Ha!
Off to check on the homework--have a great day everyone!
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Number of nights they stayed: 4
Number of times they left to go to shopping, to a sporting event or to a bar: 7
Number of times I heard the phrase “No, no, we’ll stay here with the kids—you and MD go out and have fun: 0
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Good news: It happened while MD was still at home with P so he got to clean it up!
Bad news: We had a couple of really bad freezes last week which destroyed a bunch of fruits and vegetables at our CSA (Community Sponsored Agriculture) program, and at other places where we get fresh fruits and veggies.
Good news: The apple orchard needed people to come and get the fruit off the trees (it's fine to eat, but won't last in long term storage) so they let us pick it for free!
Good news: G is quite a good little apple picker.
Bad news: I had almost 50 pounds of apples to deal with TODAY!
Good news: We roasted potatoes and garlic for dinner tonight (they were so, so good!) and figured, since we were roasting the garlic, why not roast all 15 heads we had from the CSA.
Second good news: we now have 93 (oh yes, you know I counted each and every one) roasted cloves of garlic freezing which will be so yummy and handy to use later this fall.
Bad news: I'm not sure my hands will ever smell normal again.
Good news: I got to sleep in today! The four of us went for a walk around campus yesterday, collecting leaves for G's class--it was tender to see P helping G collect them. I got new clothes yesterday! I watched The Proposal with two friends yesterday--fun movie and it was wonderful chatting with them!
Bad news: can't really think of anything for the moment! (Superstitiously knocking on wood right now.)
How are you guys? Is your world seen as good news/bad news? Is the glass half empty or half full? Taking it day by day? Or saying "Bring it!!"? Hope everyone is great!
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Tonight I picked P up for flag football and noticed he was looking a little tired. We got to the van and I offered him a snack, which he refused. Hello spidey-senses, commence tingling now! On the way to practice I said, you seem a little tired, are you feeling OK? A sad "no" was the answer. In classic mom fashion, I pulled out the big guns, the sure-fire way to know if this is a ploy for sympathy or the real thing, "Well, maybe you shouldn't go to football tonight...should I take you home so you can rest instead?" His reply, "I am pretty tired, could you take me home?" Gulp. Totally not the answer I was expecting! This is not a test, I repeat, this is not a test!
So we went home where he fell asleep and all of the errands I had planned to take care of while he was at practice will just wait another day. Three hours later, and he's upstairs still resting quietly. If he starts throwing up, I'm really going to regret the tomato soup I gave him for dinner.
G got a piggy bank over the weekend. It's ceramic, and a lovely shade of blue. Not as lovely as the purple one she picked out first. The last purple one in the store. Did I mention it's ceramic? And the floors of the store are really, really hard? Can you all see where this is going? Oh yes, as she was carefully putting it into the bag it slipped. And crashed. For a brief moment everything in the store went silent. Then the crying began. Finally (and yes I just edited about 10 minutes of crying from this story--hey, it's my story write your own if you want the full details) she pulled herself together and picked a new one. She named it Martha Stewart, despite my suggestion of "Money Penny." Tonight she asked me the following question: "Mom, why is it that I only have coins and no cash?" I suggested she talk with her dad about that, because he seems to have the same complaint.
Finally, I had to tell G that she is not allowed to kiss anyone at school. Boy or girl. Her reply to the new rule, "but I LOVE him sooooo much!!" Pay no attention to the fact that she's 5. Oh my praying friends, say one for me--I'm going to need it!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Then I got a new boss. And while I still loved my job it was maybe only for 2 hours a day--and I hated it the rest of the time. This boss slowly killed the joy I felt. I became super stressed. I became bitter. I pushed that bitterness onto everyone in my workplace. I was a boss of others, and I killed their joy. MD and I created an account at the bank called the “F@#K You Man” account so someday I could shout that and walk out. I would stare at meeting agendas and think to myself I could just write “I quit” on the top and be done with this. Do you have a full sense of my sad, angry, unpleasant self at the time?
But I wasn’t always like this. You see for a little while each day I was happy, because I was obsessed with a popular TV show. I would go home at lunch, watch the recording and feel like that gave me enough surrogate happiness to survive the next 5 hours at work. Then, after dinner I would watch two more episodes which allowed me to actually sleep rather than replay the day’s events over and over, and get more upset about them as the night ticked away. Oh I loved that show. I could quote 95% of the episodes, I cried over relationships that ended on the show, I’d get worried at certain spots (despite knowing how it was going to end). Simply put, I was crazy. I was obsessed. And that’s how I feel about these Twilight books right now. I feel like I’m reading them to escape something, but I can’t figure out what I need to be away from. I’m happy. I like my job. I love my kids. I love MD. I have fun friends, some who are (thankfully) close and others who may be far away but feel like they’re still close. I even love where I live. So what’s the problem? I just don’t know, but I find myself at the end of the day focusing inward, reading a book rather than reaching out or updating my blog thingy. So for now, I’m going to try to find a better balance. I’ll let you know how it goes!
P.S. There seem to be a lot of “I” statements in this post, sorry about that. Obsess much? Obsess much about myself? I think so!
Monday, August 17, 2009
Just caught myself browsing the Costco online book store--in the juvenile section. Oh the humanity! No judging, you hear me?!
If you happen to see me tomorrow (gulp, today) please remind me that I'm not 13, that I have to work for a living, that Robert Pattenson is really not Edward--not to mention that while he IS dreamy, Edward still is a vampire-not really the kind of guy you want to bring home to mother if you get my drift. Oh, and please nudge me if you catch me sleeping at my desk.
You're all really just too kind!
When I was watching it last night for the first time while MD and P were at a baseball game I had to set a timer so I wouldn't forget that G. was in the shower.
Oh crap, too late...
Thursday, August 13, 2009
I gasped and said, "um, I came to get my dress???" Dad told me MD had taken it downstairs already and then he started pull the door closed a bit. Now wait just a minute. At this point several things were racing through my mind--
- You just scared the dickens out of me.
- WHAT on earth are you doing??
- Has the Alzheimer's set in??--I always thought we'd have more time...
- Has mom banned you from playing your travel Yahtzee game when you're at home??
- You have clearly lost your ever loving mind.
I took in the scene and managed to cough out something like "what are you doing?" And then in the span of those 5 seconds he went from crazy to brilliant... "I'm playing hide and seek with G." Well played, well played indeed.
Now in a normal person's world this would be the end of the story. But such is not the case in my world. Because I then went downstairs to find my 5 year old, the seeker in this game of hide and seek sitting on the couch watching TV with her brother. As soon as I said, "Aren't you supposed to be playing hide and seek with grandpa?" She clapped her hands together, said "Oh yeah!" and jumped off the couch to continue the game.
I think if I hadn't intervened they might still be playing--with one in the closet upstairs and one on the couch downstairs.
Monday, August 10, 2009
In all honesty, I think I planned things very well. The Friday night event started at 7, but since I didn’t want to pay $40 per person for beer I wouldn’t drink and food I’d be too nervous to eat, MD and I showed up at 9:45. Arriving this late had several plusses: the check-in table was closed (surprise, surprise the beer was completely gone by 9), people were all pretty sauced at this point, and everyone had their “executive summaries” of their lives all set, so the awkward pauses were almost non-existent. It was a win-win indeed.
There was something endearing about being with the people I grew up with, grew away from, and have since reconnected (minimally) with via FB, but really haven’t talked to in 15 years. I loved the moment when one of the guys a friend of mine dated back in the day admitted, “I wasn’t very mature about relationships back then.” Well, if it makes you feel better, Josh, I don’t think us driving by your house 50 times a night was very mature either, so let’s call it even. There was also a moment when I said to another guy while waving to his wife, “So how did you…” and before I could finish he said “…how did I get so lucky?” Oh man, those 20 years have served some of us very well.
Naturally there were highlights and lowlights, some were a combination of both—I’ll let you decide:
ð At some point I found myself dabbing Bath and Bodyworks’ “Sweet Pea” antibacterial gel on my wrists since I forgot to pack perfume.
ð For the first time in my life I closed a bar. Seriously. The waiter came over and said “last call” and I thought to myself “I’ve seen this on TV shows and in movies—who knew they really did that??” (Let me take a quick moment and answer that rhetorical question—everyone. Everyone else in the free world knows that waiters and bartenders really do that sort of thing.) Fifteen minutes later the bouncer came over and said, “we’re shutting this thing down” and I got a little giddy.
ð I had so much fun closing the bar Friday night, we did it again Saturday night. Evidently I’m making up for lost time.
ð Someone said I looked hot. (They were drunk, but hey, a compliment is a compliment. They also grabbed my ass later in the evening at which point I said, “OK, we’re all done here” and walked away.)
ð MD received several compliments—we all know if it was his 20 year reunion I would have either been complaining about being left in the hotel room with the kids or I would have had a sour puss face on all night while people I didn’t know reminisced with my husband telling stories about other people I didn’t know. Instead he socialized with friends he knew, chatted with the other spouses, kept me supplied with fresh waters brought cake from the buffet line to everyone at our table, and even stood in as “eye candy” for another friend whose husband was home with the kids.
ð My parents watched P & G—both nights. With very little complaining. As we were leaving on Friday night (at 9:30 PM) they were serving them ice cream sandwiches—not sure how that turned out, maybe the kids fell asleep moments before we hauled ourselves home at 2:30 in the morning.
ð Another person at the reunion was taking orders for the bar, I asked for water, the person next to me asked for water and we both looked at each other after she left and said, I don’t think we’re actually going to get waters. Well what do you know? The person came back with a horrible concoction and said, “quit your complaining we’re drinking this!” I took a sip and felt the delicate tissues in my throat instantly dissolve. We all wanted to know what it was, but she said we had to drink it first. (What are we in high school?) I took another sip, and noticed my drink benefactor was looking the other way so I tossed most of it over my shoulder and onto the grass. She seemed please to notice the bulk of my drink was gone, and everyone else had dutifully drank theirs so she told us what she had bought. It was a magical, delightful combo of Rock Star and a shot of tequila. Yes friends you read that correctly—Rock Star energy drink and our old pal tequila. Because what I want at 1:30 in the morning is to be drunk AND wide awake. Of course my other friends busted me for pouring out the drink, I got hassled, “that was $40 worth of shots” and I felt I had to reply, “yeah, but I asked for water.” Why do people do that? Let’s be clear—I’m happy to be around people who are drinking, I just don’t like the taste and I really don’t like how I feel after drinking, so I choose not to. Me not drinking is in no way a judgment or reflection on someone else’s decision to drink. However, others seem think if you’re not drinking either A. you’re not having any fun or B. they need to pressure you into drinking. It’s a mystery, and even after 17 years (Oh, OK, 23 years) of being around peers who drink I still haven’t figured it out.
So there you have it folks. I’m sure there are other things I have already mind-bleached away, but you can consider yourselves all caught up for a bit.
Friday, July 24, 2009
While I was visiting my sister we went blueberry picking. I don’t think I can accurately describe how delightful it was. Quite frankly if you had told me 10 years ago that I would be super excited about standing in a field, picking berries, knowing that they hadn’t been sprayed which meant the kids could eat them right off the bush, I would have thought you were crazy. Yet there I was, picking the largest, most delicious blueberries I’ve ever seen, with a ridiculous grin on my face and exclaiming the whole time, “I can’t believe how great this is!” (Disclaimer—I am well aware it was enjoyable because I wasn’t trying to support my family with my pickings, and I knew I could quit at any time.) The weather was lovely, the kids were bribed with a piece of gum for every pint container they filled, and each berry seemed juicier than the last. I can’t believe the satisfaction I had eating something I had brought from the bush to my home to my plate. Every time I offered the berries as a snack I practically shouted (OK, I probably did shout a few times) “Would you like some blueberries, THAT I PICKED WITH MY VERY OWN HANDS?!”
Then we went to my sister’s house and had some delicious cherry jam. Jam, that she canned herself. Hold on a minute. My sister is way more Martha Stewart-esqe than I, but really—canning? Canning always struck me as a huge mystery. Something only grandmothers knew how to do. And here she was, with her Ball jars and cherry jam. Well, you don’t have to be a math wizard to put 2 plus 2 together. After my first slice of jam soaked bread I was figuring out a way to talk her into making jam with blueberries—blueberries I PICKED WITH MY VERY OWN HANDS! Thankfully it didn’t take much convincing.
Now, let’s say you’ve got some blueberry jam (homemade or otherwise) and you’re wondering what to put it on. Might I suggest you check out this book: Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day http://www.artisanbreadinfive.com/. It has changed my life. Well, I might exaggerate a bit, but it has changed my kitchen. This is seriously good bread peeps. And once you get the hang of it, it is really fast. They aren’t kidding about the no kneading part either—I don’t even bother with getting out my fancy Kitchen Aid mixer with dough hook attachment (too heavy). Nope, a wooden spoon is all I use. This weekend I whipped up a batch just before lunch. It was ready at dinner, we rolled it out, slapped it on the grill and made pizzas. Pizza topped with tomatoes and basil from the organic farm--good grief, what a hippie I sound like. I feel I must tell you (and I have no shame in telling you) that P’s pizza had pepperoni, salami and Canadian bacon on it—we’re not that much of a hippie household here! It was so, so good.
And finally check it out:
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Even 15 years after it happened, I could still hear the fear of the moment as the story was being retold. As my boss was describing this to me I could feel myself getting more and more pale and starting to sweat a bit. (I do NOT handle blood well). Luckily, they were her baby teeth, and after lots and lots of orthodontic care (we’re talking years here people) her mouth recovered and today she has a lovely set of front teeth. It is stories like these that always make me catch my breath. How your life can change in the blink of an eye. How one minute you can be having dinner with friends and the next covered in the blood of your child. Trying to keep it together, reminding yourself to breathe because she needs you to be calm. Trying to think, “This could be worse, we’re OK, we’ll be OK.” Saying these things to soothe your child in a voice that is just a bit off. A bit too forceful, too convincing, a voice that so clearly shouts “WE ARE NOT OK” despite the avalanche of “we’re OK, you’re OK” statements tumbling out of your mouth. It’s too much to think about sometimes.
So this was Wednesday. Thursday the boys headed off to Cub Scout camp and the girls when to Seattle to visit friends and family. Thursday night I told G and her cousins she had 6 minutes before shower time (no, not 3 minutes, not 5 minutes, 6.—It was 8:54 and I like my math to be easy.) I sat back down while chatting with my sister when the following was shouted to me: “N just pushed G off the trampoline and she fell and now her mouth is bleeding and she’s crying!!” And then the wailing began. I ran outside to see my girl flat out on the concrete, blood pouring from her mouth, hands scratched from trying to break her fall, screaming and crying and panicking. At first all I could think of was Jenny’s mouth with a gaping hole where five teeth should have been. Then I remembered it could be worse, was she moving?? Then rage at the cousin who pushed her. And “wow, that’s a lot of blood.” All of this flashed through my mind in the seconds it took me to cross the deck and get to her. (All of the mommy guilt came later.)
She was moving around so I breathed a sigh of relief that her bones and/or her spine weren’t broken, and took her inside to see where she was hurt. A quick assessment of her mouth at least let me know she still had her teeth, but the mouth was also the source of the blood. She had somehow split her bottom gum right between two teeth. And it was bleeding. Heavily. Down her shirt, on her pants, into the white, white sink in the bathroom where we tried to get her to rinse her mouth out. On the paper towels we used to try to stop the bleeding. On the ice pack we tried to use to stop the bleeding. On the popsicle we tried after the ice pack didn’t work. On her hands as she fought me while I tried to shove my hand into her mouth to apply pressure to make. it. stop. Did I mention the whole not good with blood? My voice kept saying “we’re OK” while my mind was waiting to be convinced it was true. All the while she was crying. First just cries of pain, then cries of “IIIIIIIIII. waaaaa--nnnnnnnnt. daaaaaaaa----dddddd--ddddddy.” He was all I wanted also. MD is calm in a crisis, MD knows what to do, MD doesn’t get weak in the knees or turn white when blood is visible. But MD was 6 hours away. So I kept it together. I held her, I washed the blood off her hands so it wouldn’t upset her every time she looked down. I called the pediatrician with one hand while soothing with the other. I got her to open her mouth and applied the pressure to finally, thankfully, make the bleeding stop. Then I carried her upstairs and read to her until she went to sleep in my arms.
While I was reading to her, my brain turned on me. “You should have been watching more closely.” “She shouldn’t have been out there with the bigger kids.” “You only let her on the trampoline because you didn’t want to listen to the ‘…but everyone else is allowed to play on it.’” And while those statements have some merit, I also realize that guilt is a part of my personal parenting make-up. It’s in my DNA as a mother. However, just as I can’t turn off the worry, I also can’t make my kids live in a bubble. (Knowing me I’d be worried that the bubble was made with plastic containing BPA. Or how would we ever be able to recycle that much plastic?) So instead I focused on the fact that we were OK. Shaken up? Certainly. But OK. Then I had a little moment when I realized I had remained calm for the most part. And that I didn’t pass out at the sight of the blood. And the next thing I remember was waking up 10 hours later wearing the same clothes as the night before.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
So the deadline came and went, and I figured I was off the hook. Sure, I had already bought a new dress, but I can wear it to some other event. Maybe my dear, dear MD will need to take me out to my favorite restaurant. Or maybe I could sit in the living room wearing it while reading the next Twilight book. (Don’t be jealous of my crazy, busy life!) Then today, of all things, the committee sent a note that they had extended the deadline until next week! Really? What are these people trying to do to me? Not to mention I received a separate email today from another former classmate who is organizing a rouge reunion for the people who don’t want to pay the ridiculous reunion fees. At the same restaurant. On the same night. At the same time. Again, really? I don’t think I have the cojones (who knew that was how you spell cojones?) to pull that off. So, despite the $80 per person fee for drinks on Friday and dinner on Saturday it seems like I’m back to square one--wanting (slightly) to go, but not really willing to put up the cash or effort to actually get my stuff together to attend. Kind of reminds me of the way I felt when it came right down to deciding if I would change my name or not when I got married…
On to other items:
Last night while enjoying cherries (picked by our own hands from our lovely friends’ tree) P said “I have an indigenous way to slice these to get the pit out.” I followed with, “indigenous?” at which point he realized he had used the wrong word. MD said “do you know what indigenous means?” P’s reply was a sigh, followed by “hard working?” “Um no, I think that’s “diligent” you’re thinking of.” P, “no I meant indignant.” Well that might be how you’re feeling at this point, but still not what you’re going for.
A couple of days ago we were at a water park and G threw a giant fit about wearing a life jacket. She finally came around and put the jacket on and told me she wanted it to be “nice and tight, because that’s the way it works best to keep me safe. And safe is good!” I sighed, kissed her forehead and said (in my best you’re testing every ounce of patience I have voice) “I love you.” And what was her reply? Keep in mind, this is the child who must give me a “basket of hugs and a basket of kisses and a huge basket of sticky so they can stay with you” every night before bed, and then blows me kisses over the covers and asks if I caught each one of them. So anyway, I said “I love you” and her singsong reply was, “and I love safety!!”
I’ll be out picking blueberries and away from the internets for a few days, so have a great weekend everyone! (Or just you HB, the only person reading this!)
Should I attend the organized reunion? The rouge reunion? Feel free to sound off.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Now, onto my random thoughts for today…many years ago I worked with a guy named Mike. Mike was a great guy, a world traveler and taught me that many problems in our office could be solved with a confident voice and a red pen. His theory was that if people heard the confidence in your voice they would either: 1. Know you could solve the problem (using the red pen) so they would stop arguing with you, or 2. Know that they couldn’t make you change your mind so they would stop arguing with you. Clearly the critical piece of this puzzle is that people would stop arguing with you. Once Mike let me in on this secret I was in business and I’ve been thankful to him ever since.
Unfortunately, another secret Mike let me in on was the fact that as a teenager growing up in Iowa he worked on a chicken farm. And I don’t mean a picturesque, red barn, one John Deere tractor, family farm kind of chicken farm. I mean a giant warehouse full of hormone/antibiotic-filled chickens (here’s the part where I frown disapprovingly, yet also have to admit to buying this kind of chicken all the time from the grocery store). Anyway, Mike used to work at the chicken farm and told me that one of his jobs was to collect the old, dying chickens. The ones that had stopped laying eggs and/or were too sick to live much longer.--I’m sure in my naïve mind I thought the story could end happily there. Perhaps they’d get to live on a real farm somewhere as a thank you for all the eggs they had produced? Nope, not so much. Mike let me know that he collected these chickens to be sold to companies to be used in chicken noodle soup. The next time I had chicken noodle soup, I closely examined the “pieces of real chicken!” in it and felt a little queasy. Why is it we can just happily munch our food without giving a second thought until we’re face to face with the actual reality of what it takes to get it on our plate?
And I don’t just mean meat. As teenager I spent a summer working from 7 pm to 7 am 6 days a week at the local pea processing plant. Peas would come in on giant trucks from the fields and if they weren’t timed properly, a line of trucks would form where the peas would be off-loaded into the factory. Some of the trucks would have to wait more than an hour to be unloaded. In 104 degree heat. Needless to say those peas weren’t lookin’ so good by the time they got to us. Do you know what they would be used for? Baby food. Because it all would get blended together. Of course there were other times when the peas would be sent back for a second cleaning because things like small rodent bits were found in the batch. I don’t eat frozen or canned peas anymore. There are times when I’m not sure if I should marvel at the efficiency of the American food system or be horrified by it.
Part of me wants to ask you all what’s your worst food job/experience so I’ll know what else to watch out for, but the other part of me would rather bury my head in the sand. Luckily, I think there’s only about 2 people reading this and they know I have a weak stomach and know that I don’t think I could take one more thing to be worried about regarding our food or its impact on the environment, or big business or anything else! So instead I’ll just ask what was your worst job? I know there are some good ones out there!
“Gosh April, this was a random blog” you might be thinking to yourself, and you’d be right! All I have to say is that I had canned chicken noodle soup for lunch today, picked out all of the chicken before I warmed it up, thought about Mike and wanted to share. Who knows what might inspire the next post?!