Adventure Mom

      Make Up Meatballs There are times in your life (or in your month) when make up relations - I mean, talking, isn't practical. Or your partner won't go there. To the couch, I mean, to talk. That's when you must pull out Make Up Meatballs, especially if watching “The Godfather” on TV has inspired you to cook spaghetti. I won't bore you with reasons behind the need for making up. But lately, it feels like someone's swapped my Pinot Gris for pickle juice. The husband's been equally joyous at my even-temperedness and grace. Rather, he’s less-than- thrilled by my lack of both. As Forrest Gump said, "That's all I have to say about that." I will, however, give you the recipe for Make Up Meatballs (which Pete cooked and I named). They work a treat when served with a steaming tangle of spaghetti, buttery garlic bread and a green salad and broccoli (the last two cleanse the palate between the second round of bread and sauce).  Sauce (adapt...

                        Thanks for the Memories                             The Wedding Video No gift is received in a vacuum (and men, no vacuum is a gift). We get presents while spinning grown-up plates: parent plates, work plates, household plates, spouse-got-laid-off plates. Imagine you’re juggling that kind of crockery, wondering how long before the job comes (or doesn’t); how long before the kids comply (or don’t); how long before you and your spouse climb back aboard the ship-in-the-old harbor… How long before you stop acting, well, um, bitchy. You’re juggling while doing the breakfast, lunch and dinner dance…the dance you didn’t used to do because at least one of you was out slaying dragons each day and the other pretended she was Queen of the House when she wasn't at work while the kids were in school. In the middle of the pas de deux ...

Parting Gifts I ate toast with Deb’s almond butter this morning. And another piece of toast with her pesto.  The top shelf of our fridge is filled with Deb’s condiments, which I requested just before she left. The idea occurred to me because my Air Force friend, Shelby, years ago presented me with a box of bottles before she and her family moved from Spokane to Colorado. Shelby said it was military tradition – the parting gift of mustards, sauces, chutneys and jams. We used the stuff to flavor, season and disguise food for months. With every splash of soy or dash of Tabasco, we thought of the Baslers. Condiments are a sweet-and-sour inheritance from moving mates, a pragmatic solution to the question, ‘Do-I-throw-out-this-half-full-jam?’ Don’t pitch it, pass it on… The night before she and her family left New Zealand to return to Spokane, Deb came by with two boxes of food. Not just ketchup and mustard, but a whole bag of frozen peas, a kilogram of ground beef,...

    Pampered or Punked?      Adventures in Spa Land If you’re looking for unusual spa treatments, you can have a snake massage in Israel, a beer bath in the Czech Republic or a chocolate facial in Pennsylvania (according to this article: http://www.theguardian.com/travel/2012/feb/03/best-weird-spa-treatments ). Or, if you’re in New Zealand’s Bay of Plenty, you can visit Villa Donna Retreat. Let’s start with what Villa Donna is not: it’s not a villa Under the Tuscan Sun. It’s not a resort. It’s not what one might typically associate with a spa.  Villa Donna Retreat, Tauriko, Bay of Plenty Villa Donna consists of a single-story brick house in Tauriko. Just follow the sign set against a bicycle and head for the carport to get inside. My friends Donna (no connection with Villa Donna), Paula and I have driven here via the Mount and Tauranga for a day of pampering, combined with a cooking class. I’d encouraged my fellow runn...

                    To my Preteen Daughter                   Advice from a Former Chubster         Meatballs and Pitches                                 I’m at a networking event. A slap-on-a-nametag-and-a-smile affair, where I belly up to the hors d’oeuvres to crunch away nerves, munch because it’s dinner time and graze because maybe someone will talk to me while I guard the food. I chew and cover my mouth while commending meatballs – “Try one; they’re really good,” or forecasting chicken skewers – “There’s a chance they’ll return…they disappeared pretty fast…”  Suddenly, the action stops for a word from our sponsors. The sponsors are two health-related businesses, trainers offering to help us ‘slim do...

                      Mother’s Day Geisha Start with Soccer It’s noon Saturday, and we’ve just returned home from a morning of kids’ soccer.  I toast cheese sandwiches for my hungry players while Pete dozes in a front room chair. Before I scamper upstairs to write, Fiona (who’s ten) shows me a friend’s business card, asking, “How much is it for a massage, Mommy? That’s what you said you wanted for Mother’s Day.” “No honey,” I say. I don’t want you buying it. It’s too much.” As I climb the stairs, I see eight-year-old Finley though his bedroom window, stuffing string into a homemade Mother’s Day card. I warned my family en route home that since tomorrow is ‘my day,’ I would pick an activity we could do together. Fiona said, “Oh no, not some kind of exercise!” Finley said, “We don’t wanna walk anywhere.” Pete smiled while driving the minivan and said nothing. “I want us to ride our bikes and g...

                   Year of the Ratbag 2014 is the Chinese Year of the Horse. But in our house, it feels more like the Year of the Ratbag. ‘Ratbag’ is Kiwi slang for mischievous child. The first time I recall hearing that term was in church, when our priest referred to kids (possibly his) as ‘ratbags.’ It sounded slanderous, but the longer I’ve lived in New Zealand, the more normal ‘ratbags’ seems – kind of like calling children ‘rugrats,’ in the States. My eight-year-old son, Finley (or Finn-bo, or Finn, or whatever we're calling him these days), is the epitome of ratbag. With his number four clippered hair (courtesy of my husband, his stepdad, Pete), and a gap-toothed grin, he oozes ratbag sensibility. Or lack of sensibility. He’s still not a great sport – trying to make up rules to games that favor him: Finn swiped Pete in the face while they were playing handball in the driveway after Pete told Finley he’d lost the point. F...