Back to Basics

I've been reading a lot lately about hormone imbalances. The fact that I am sobbing and thinking very dark thoughts every month in advance of my cycle led me to this conclusion. The only problem was: how did my hormones get out of balance, anyway? Turns out that estrogen dominance is pretty common, and estrogens are formed by contact with plastics (among other things). Plastic? How much plastic could I actually have in my life? Taking a look around, I see the answer is: quite a lot. Everything is encased in plastic, from fruit to meat to lemonade and milk. I make my kids' lunches and wrap them in? You guessed it: plastic. My baby drinks his milk from? A plastic sippy cup.

So, alright, plastics are bad, and they are ubiquitous. How am I supposed to live without them? Which got me to thinking. I am 39 years old. I have been on this planet during the plastic revolution, but I also remember another way of living. My mom used to cook every day. And even though Snak-Pak puddings were invented, and I dearly wanted one in my lunch, we didn't get them because they were too expensive. Lunch consisted of a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper, a couple of lemon cookies, and an apple. We used to get milk delivered by a milkman in a cute little truck in containers like this:

My mom used to go to the butcher store and get meat, and it came in a little package like this:

Although, trying to get the butcher to not wrap it all in plastic when he's done will gain you a few sideways looks.

The other night I was cleaning up after dinner, and I realized that everything that I had prepared usually gets put into my Smart-Spin Storage containers for leftovers. My mom didn't have these. What did we put leftovers in back in the day?

Oh, right, a glass bowl! Genius! It even comes with its own little glass cover.

So now I am reacquainting myself with my glassware. I am putting the plastic cups in storage for a little while, to see if we can live without them. I am going to try to buy my food actually fresh, organic as much as fiscally possible, and prepare it from scratch.

Wow, it seems like I've seen this lifestyle before. Yep, it was my mom's.

Yes, I'm one of THOSE parents

I swore it wouldn't happen. I have read the magazine articles about parents who get overly involved in their childrens' sporting events. Some shout profanity, some get into physical altercations, some are even banned from the field.

And until this year, I was a little smug. I watched my kids' games with enthusiasm, but never crossed the line to "Parent-Zilla" mode. Then my son got good at baseball.

I have two kids-one who is a decent outfielder, who makes good catches and occasionally hits the ball. My other son, though, is very good at baseball. He can pitch, catch, play any of the infield positions, and bat with strength consistently. It has been so much fun watching him this year that he sucked me in.

Yesterday's game was the clincher. It was a playoff game for our city league. Nick pitched the first five innings, and held the runs to three. A relief pitcher came in, and we went down by four runs. The next at-bat, the boys evened up the score. By the final at-bat, the opposing pitcher gave up a run, and walked two kids onto base. The final inning, the bases were loaded, and all we needed to win was one run. The little boy who was our final batter is not known for being a powerhouse. I don't think he's gotten a hit all year. With a full count, the pitcher lost control of the ball, hitting him, and walking in our final run. Never have I been so happy to have a kid hit by a ball.

The place went wild! Kids were cheering, crying, jumping all around. I was ringing my cow bell as hard as I could, and my pulse was racing. The adrenaline and norepinephrine were pulsing through my body.

And that's my story. I am now a fan-atic. I can't handle much more of this.

I still feel a little catecholemine-depleted today.

Pork-It's What's for Dinner

At least last night, anyway. I've found that with the belt-tightening that living in 2009 requires, I have been revisiting the recipes of my childhood. Thankfully, I was raised by a post-Depression era housewife who could feed up to 11 people every night armed with little more than a pound of hamburger, a sharp paring knife, and a swipe of red lipstick.

This recipe, though, has slightly different ingredients: pork chops, bread crumbs, eggs, and cream of mushroom soup.

You start by dipping the chops into an egg wash, then dipping them in bread crumbs, then placing them in a hot frying pan with a little veggie oil. Fry them until they look like this:

When they're nice and brown, mix together one can of cream of mushroom soup and 1/2 can of milk until it's smooth, and pour over the chops.

Simmer it at medium/low heat for about 45 minutes, then eat with a pile of mashed potatoes and a side of applesauce. Yum.

Drama Queen

We have been working on sprucing up the front of the house lately. Or, I should say, Tim has been working on that-I tend to be content sipping wine on the deck and occasionally (read: daily) watering his little darlings.

Generally, I don't have feelings about the members of our garden, but one specimen has garnered my attention: Miss Hydrangea. She is a drama queen of the highest order. While everyone else in the garden manages to work with the water amounts they are given, this little chippy just flails around and moans quietly, eventually giving up, until she looks like this:

So, like the good human companion that I am, I fell for it: I dumped water on Miss Hydrangea IMMEDIATELY. No one else in the garden got anything, just her, because it was an emergency. Not an hour and a half later, this is how she looked:

The little liar. I know she's smiling smugly on the inside.