Frugal Fun

Have you ever been to a car show? My husband adores the lines and lines of assorted pristine cars arranged with their hoods up for his viewing pleasure. I'm not much of a car person, but give me something the kids can do for free fun, and I'm there.

Wind Gap had one today. It was really cute- we were there really, really early and cars were still arriving. Most notably, we got to see the Big Banana Car-deemed street legal just last week. They even let the kids get in and take a picture for free!

Lots of fun, right? I can't believe that used to be a Ford pickup truck, can you? The kids loved, loved, loved it. Since they are driving the Big Banana Car around the world at some point, there's a good chance YOU might be able to see it, where ever you are. You can like them on Facebook, or check out their website for more details.



This is not a sponsored post. I just thought seeing my kids stuffed into a banana was cool.

Cheap Diapers and Wipes Delivered to Your House.

Okay, I just signed up for this diaper service.

It's so cool. And I'm going to tell you right up front that I signed up for Amazon Affiliates, which means they are going to send me presents or money or more children or something if anyone clicks through the links and buys something.

That doesn't mean I'm going to be spamming you with ads, people. I get REALLY good deals on Amazon, partially because I joined Amazon mom.

This is big, people. Diapers. Shipped to your door. Free. For 30 percent off. I just got a case of munchkins from the UPS guy. For $13.39

I did not know that this existed. It's kind of Amazing. You get 15% off for subscribing, and another 15% off for subscribing to the diaper service. So that brings this Pampers Baby Dry Diapers Economy Pack Plus, Size 4, 192 Count to 16 cents a diaper. That's cheaper than the generics at Wegmans with a coupon. (18 cents a diaper)

I told you it was big, didn't I? Oh, yeah, and the shipping's free. And you can change your subscription at any time, no strings attached. You can choose to get diapers once a month, every two months, etc. You don't even have to get a second shipment to cancel.

Okay, so it's beyond big. It's totally huge! Happy Parenting!



Heather (Lovinangels) is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by advertising and linking to Amazon.com

Rich Poor Food

My kids are sitting down to plates of leftovers right now. Steaming, huge plates of reheated lasagna, risotto, leftover veggies sauteed with garlic.

And they are HOUSING them. MissAngelLittleGirl is not really putting down her fork, except to pick up her wine glass, at the tiny bistro table I've set up for them.

Yes. Her wine glass. Because we are not having 'leftovers', we are EXPERIENCING a tour of Italy.

Yes, the popular Olive Garden dish. I've got grape juice in wine glasses, a fab assortment of dishes to sample, and three happy little girls.

Happy little angels= happy Mommy. Oh, and Garfield is showing- you can't have a fancy dinner without a show! And what better show, than a cat that loves lasagna!
I am a parenting genius (and a modest one!) Or, I have far too much time on my hands. But it brings me to another point.

You can do things one of two ways. You can stretch your grocery dollars by eating every bit of leftovers in the fridge....(Awwwww, Mooooooommmmmm, can't we have something else?) Or you can have a little fun with it... You can make a fabulous Vegas Buffet by layering objects under a tablecloth (like boxes or bowls turned upside down to create steps). Place the dishes of food on the steps...and honey, that's art.

You can have scrambled eggs for dinner because you're broke-or you can make a fabulous cheese souffle. The choice is up to you. But the attitude you do it with...that's what the kids reflect.

Oh, and by the way, leftovers usually suck because they get dry. You need to moisten them prior to heating. A bit of milk for lasagna, a bit of broth for risotto, a bit of gravy or broth or even water goes a long way.

Make sure they get heated to 165, and serve it with panache. Your kids won't know what hit them. It's all about the packaging, right?

What are your leftover tips?

Idiot parenting lesson number 1-never leave the chocolate unattended.

I made chocolate chip muffins this morning.

Really good whole grain muffins, with dark chocolate chips dotted all the way through.  This is really the easiest recipe in the history of the world, and I simply sub out whole grain flour for white and toss in some flax seed, so it's not entirely guilt ridden.


There was a HUGE plate leftover for tomorrow's breakfast, right according to plan, sitting on the kitchen table.

Did you see the past tense there? Because right now, my middle child is doing laps around the living room, having bootlegged several muffins at a time into the downstairs bathroom and crouched behind the closed door, eating her bounty while using the step stool/training potty as a table. She's on a sugar coated caffeine high that may not end till three or four in the morning.

She must have eaten four whole muffins, and the rest have been clearly claimed with a series of well placed toddler-sized bite marks.

 *deep sigh*

 I'm not sure who's more scared right now, me, or the dog she's riding like a pony.

My Caramel Nightmares

I like to think of myself as a reasonably accomplished cook. For crying out loud, I made homemade croissants yesterday. Today I will make braciole in the crock pot to serve with pasta and garlic broccoli, homemade bread, and noodles for chicken noodle soup tomorrow.

I'm not a kitchen dunce. I don't require recipes, for the most part, or fancy ingredients, and I can, for the most part, produce some pretty fabulous dishes.

Not caramel. Never caramel.

The method to caramel is so simple, so inexplicably easy, and yet, to date, I've been unable to produce one single, satisfactory pot. It's maddening. I've burned sugar, I've curdled the cream, I've used a pot too small and scraped hard cracked amber sugar off the ceiling. That was eight years ago, and was the final straw. I gave up. Completely and utterly. Along with polenta...caramel remains my Moby Dick.

Until last night. Last night, buoyed by my successful, flaky, buttery croissants, I decided to attempt the fateful recipe once more, in an attempt to have a lovely snack for my dear husband.

I chose a nice, big pot- two quarts for a single cup of caramel sauce, in preparation for the rolling, bubbling, steaming addition of the hot cream to browned sugar. I set all my ingredients in a row, so I wouldn't have to step away from the simmering sugar. I even had the butter cut into uniform little pieces to melt in at the end.

The only mishap occurred when my toddler broke through the barrier I erect whenever I cook something possibly explosive, but I kept her at bay with a well practiced, swinging leg, and ignored her angry chatter as I focused solely on the pot of liquid gold.

My technique- it was flawless. The cream bubbled predictably as I poured it into the hot sugar in small batches off the heat...whisking, whisking, whisking...I added the butter at the end, let it cool...said a prayer of thanks to the gods of the clean ceiling, and swirled the gorgeous mahogany sauce in the pan in admiration.

I did it. I finally managed perfectly smooth, perfectly gorgeous caramel. Knowing pretty well how hot caramel sauce is, I let it cool for fifteen minutes before dipping a tiny spoon in...and...

It was bitter as hell. Possibly burnt tasting. Not really sure what that flavor was, but it was definitely NOT salted caramel. More like... salted burned tires. It was, for lack of a better term, horrible.
 
 I couldn't stop tasting it. I didn't burn it. No sandy, undissolved sugar crystals. The sauce didn't break. There was no explainable reason why this caramel didn't taste like liquid gold.

 Unless you are counting the fact that I evidently melted half a plastic kitchen spoon into the sugar when I was first stirring. The recipe didn't call for freshly melted plastic spoon. In fact, I'm pretty sure it said wooden spoon, but you know, a lot of recipes are fans of the wooden spoon. I've never really found it necessary before. My favorite bread recipe wants to be stirred with a wooden spoon, but I always use my favorite long handled plastic spoon- half of which may very well be in my stomach right now from all of the diagnostic tasting. If only I'd washed the dishes before I tasted the caramel, I could have saved myself probably two hundred calories worth of dips and shudders.

 God, that's horrible.Hope I don't die of plastic poisoning.

Guess I'll try it again today with the wooden spoon.

I honestly didn't know I could still bend like that....

Last night we put a deposit of someone else's money on a new-ish refrigerator. It's a beauty... Much taller than me and wider than a Biggest Loser contestant week one, before Jillian Michaels makes them throw up forty or fifty times. Payment should be completed later today, and it really is a beauty.

 I'm so excited.

 My old refrigerator must sense its impending trip to the landfill, because today, it struck back.

Hard.

As I was preparing our morning meal, and Mr. Lovinangels lunch, I lifted the door, balanced myself on one hand, and pulled it up and open. It's my very own personal door opening ritual- the refrigerator door sits slightly at an angle, with screws of four or five different sizes holding the slab of metal in a precarious position.

The hinge let go as I gently let go of the freezer and reached for the milk. Without warning, the piece of the hinge that was unaided by extra screws let go with a snap, the refrigerator door hit me in the face, and I managed my first back bend  since 1999 in a valiant attempt to keep the door  (and my olives) from hitting the floor and exploding everywhere.

This thing needs to last till Tuesday.

 As I called for help, stretching my back in a way I didn't think possible, everyone BUT the person I needed arrived. First the eleven year old, who stood frozen in horror for what seemed like a year, until I snapped, "go get your dad."

Oh, right.
 And of course he wanted an explanation as to why his morning regime was being disturbed. Long before help of any kind arrived, I managed to lift both myself and the refrigerator door, while blocking two inquisitive toddlers with one flailing leg.

 I even managed to reassemble the hinge with one hand, while holding the door in place with other and kicking like a Rockette with one leg, to the amusement of my small children.

 In not the nick of time, my husband arrived, wrapped in a towel and shivering, to save the day.

 My next blog post should be, how to cook dinner without opening a vengeful refrigerator.

Psycho, revisited, in my very own shower.

The baby stayed up till six.

 I should say, I stayed up till six. Six am, when I entered the bed room and told Mr. Lovinangels that it was now his turn to care for the little monster. I ignored her wails as I handed her over- (not the mama, not the mama, NOT THE MAMA) and attempted sleep. It took a little bit, she (and he) fell back asleep before I managed to.

 All things considered, today went fairly well. The baby arose from her four and a half hour sleep fully refreshed and ready to do some damage, and I managed to complete a few household chores without setting up a caffeine IV.

 Four cups isn't too bad, right?

 Until tonight, when it started to catch up to me. MissAngelLittleGirl for some reason seemed determined to make the most noise ever in the history of the world. MissAngelBaby spent most of the evening scaling the table and chattering angrily at me when I removed her. Eventually I determined by my foul mood that bed time was at hand, and dashed upstairs to start a bath for the mud and food covered children.

 And therein, lies tonight's story, which I will tell quickly before rushing into bed myself, hopefully for more than twelve minutes.

 Now, I have about forty five seconds to complete any given task before one of my dear children will do irreparable harm to the other. SO, I literally jumped the gate, ran up the stairs, switched the water on, and ran down to grab jammies out of the little ladies' dressers.

 I almost ran over a three year old, who was clapping with delight at the thought of a warm bubble bath, and stripping down to her undies in the middle of the hallway.

 She'd taken the gate down.
  
The full realization of that didn't dawn on me. I simply barked, "I'm washing the baby first, put your clothes back on." as I ran past her.

She told me that was acceptable. Exact words. That kid is too much.

I'm on a mission for clean towels, and heading back to the bathroom, I realize the gate is down. The baby is halfway up the stairs, sans spotter, and is teetering on the edge of a midpoint step,  squealing.  The kid was laughing her little butt off.

 Post panic attack, baby quickly washed, buffed, lotioned, dried and dressed, and Little Miss hopped into the tub.
I had to use the bathroom. Couldn't wait ONE MORE MINUTE.
Thank God it was in the same room, and she was was just singing her little heart out. I ducked behind the bathtub to the toilet and sat.

 She screamed, and I jumped across the room, shorts around my ankles, heart in my throat, to find my little girl and a good portion of the white walls covered in bright red blood.

She was grinning at me. My barely functional brain struggled to make sense of the happy, bloody child as I searched for a cut.

 No cut. No, she'd bootlegged in a red Crayola bath marker, and in less than eight seconds had done a masterful interpretation of Marion Crane's famed death scene. I KNOW I threw that darned thing out.

 I'm thinking Crayola should pay for therapy.

It's a universal truth.

When you want them to sleep, they remain wide awake, loud, and needing randomly ridiculous amounts of attention.

Granted, I was awake for a whopping seven hours yesterday, and I spent five of those at work, and the other two nursing little monster number three. Evidently, not enough.

She's determined to MAKE ME PAY for my absentee parenting. I'm not allowed to use the restroom. I'm not allowed to wash the dishes, that have multiplied at an alarming rate and are threatening to take over my next door neighbor's back yard. One day of momma being lazy equals roughly seventeen hours worth of back logged dishes. Her eyes, rimmed with red from sheer exhaustion, are defiant. She's staring at me from a precarious perch that involves one leg thrown haphazardly off the side of my wobbly green rocker, the other foot balance precariously on tiny toes while rocking back and forth as hard as she can.

She's squeaking at me like an angry chipmunk.

I've taken up the demeanor of one negotiating the lives of several dozen hostages.

 If I approach her too quickly, surely she will tip forward, and break not only her head, but also the still unmopped floor.

 Well, that game got boring. With lightning quickness and ignoring the laws of gravity, she has literally FLOWN across the room with a loud squeal...and ....there she goes with my blackberry. All I want to do is get a work out in and take a shower to get ready for tonight's open house, but I've had enough alone time according to MissAngelBaby.

She was even kind enough to let me know by breaking TWO Corell dishes in five minutes. The ones that are supposed to be unbreakable. The laws of science mean nothing to an angry toddler.

Yes, my dear child, I'm sorry I went to work last night.  And I'm doubly sorry I took my sniffly, exhausted, cold infested rear to bed yesterday afternoon when I should have been baby worshipping.

 Can I please keep the rest of my china?