A Little Recipe, A Lotta Cute Baby


Happy New Year from our New Year’s Baby, 2003 edition (Miss C.)


Tonight is the first New Year’s Eve that I can recall that we don’t have plans to go out and do something…go to a party or out to dinner. But we’re fine with staying in tonight. The hubby is going to buy “our” champagne that we’ve been drinking since we were in our 20s (Freixenet) and I’m going to dust off our crystal champagne flutes that we received as a wedding gift in 1997. The girls will probably do shots of chocolate milk. I don’t have to go into work until Monday so at some point I may even shower!

Growing up my mother always made black eyed peas for good luck on New Year’s Day. I don’t like plain straight up black eyed peas, but I will eat them if they are disguised as Southern Caviar, or Texas Caviar, or whatever you call it…it’s good stuff. I’ve posted another variation over at Savvy Housewife.

Dixie Caviar Cups (from the December 2008 issue of Southern Living)

  • 1  (15.8-oz.) can black-eyed peas, rinsed and drained
  • 1  cup  frozen whole kernel corn
  • 1  medium-size plum tomato, seeded and finely chopped
  • 1/2  medium-size green bell pepper, finely chopped
  • 1/2  small sweet onion, finely chopped
  • 2  green onions, sliced
  • 1  jalapeño pepper, seeded and minced*
  • 1  garlic clove, minced
  • 1/2  cup  Italian dressing
  • 2  tablespoons  chopped fresh cilantro
  • 30  Belgian endive leaves (about 3 bunches)
  • 1/2  cup  sour cream

Preparation

1. Combine first 9 ingredients in a large zip-top plastic freezer bag. Seal bag, and chill 24 hours; drain.

2. Spoon mixture into a bowl; stir in cilantro. Spoon about 1 rounded Tbsp. mixture into each endive leaf. Dollop with sour cream.

*2 1/4 tsp. finely chopped pickled jalapeño peppers may be substituted.

Makes 15 servings.

So, how are you ringing in the New Year?

Clean Clothes And Innuendos

Fridays are my laundry catch up days and I realized as soon as I started on the second load that we were out of detergent. Then I remembered I had some laundry soap nuts in my swag bag from last weekend’s BlissDom conference. So I got them out, read the instructions, and tossed them into the small cloth bag to be thrown in with the washload.

The hubby called as I was figuring out the soap nuts.

“Hold on I’m trying to get these nuts in the bag.”

What?

“I’m trying to get these soap nuts in the bag.”

What are soap nuts?

“You use them instead of detergent. They’re actually berries from India.”

Later my mom called and I told her I was using soap nuts.

How do you know they’re working? Do they suds up?

“Well, you squeeze them and this white foamy stuff comes out and when that runs out you compost them.”

And that pretty much sums up my Friday. Squeezing nuts all in the name of clean clothes.

Of Beer And Monkey Bars

Dear Underage Assholes:

Look I understand underage drinking. Really I GET IT. I used to do it 20 years ago. I grew up in the boonies, 8 miles from “town,” so when I was a teenager we had field parties. You cruised McDonald’s and the main highway that snaked through town, found your friends, drove out to a dark country field, parked your trucks and cars, cranked up some Hank Jr. or Journey or Beastie Boys on the radio or from your incredible collection of cassette tapes, and you hung out. But you know what? We cleaned up after ourselves. We didn’t scatter empty beer cans and cigarette butts all over a quiet suburban neighborhood park….a park that is heavily trafficked by families with young kids who ask questions like, “Mommy were you a bad teenager?” (A question luckily I can honestly respond no, too, if you don’t count my college years.) We respected the cows’ personal space. Do you hear me? We respected COWS. That’s right. We might have been dabbling in illegal activity, but we didn’t litter. We might have peeled out on a gravel road if we saw Farmer Joe’s lights come on, but we didn’t litter.

So go play homage to Anheuser Bush in someone’s basement or sneak over to a friend’s house when their parents are out of town and scatter empty cans and cigarette butts on your own turf. Not ours.

And if I ever am out past midnight on a weekend, which I’ll admit is highly unlikely since lately I struggle to stay up past 10 o’clock, and see you all up at the park? I’m gonna open the can of mama whoop ass or at least get the hubby to scare you off. He’s got a lot of past experience with beer cans and I’m sure he can tell you where to stick them, I mean dispose of them.

Signed,

An Angry Mom

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