Brownies that could cut glass & a zombie apocalypse: An eclectic milestone birthday weekend...

You wouldn't think those things in the title would all be related, would you? But I like to keep things interesting around here, so read on, dear blog reading aficionado! And I have yet another topic to toss into the mix before we get started, because it's Catholic Mom day for me, and this month my piece is on Confirmation patrons:

My Confirmation patron is none other than St. Cecilia, and I would love for you to click on over to read my piece and leave a comment with your very own Confirmation patron. How about your favorite saint with a feast day in November? You can write in with that information too! Let's have a fun comment party over at Catholic Mom.

But in other news, this past weekend was my Henry's birthday. OK. The child is now 10. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?! I remember the day he was born like it was a few months ago.

*sniffle*

I hate how fast time seems to pass when you're an adult. I suppose part of it is the fact that one has so many more responsibilities as you get older. Alas. I guess the moral of this pointless tale of woe is that adulting is hard. Let's move on, shall we?

At any rate, it was a milestone birthday for Henry, and so we wanted to make it nice for him. His actual birthday is the 6th, which was Friday.  And every year we face the age old question of what birthday treat to send in with him to school for their celebration. See, for most normal people this is not at all an issue. Because they are good bakers and/or simply send in a store-bought treats without needlessly fretting about how they're a failure as a mother because they cannot bake. But if you're me? You're both a terrible baker AND you fret over how this makes you a negligent mother. I feel like if I send in something store-bought then everyone will KNOW that I'm a terrible baker. Plus, I see that as symbolic of the fact that I have officially given up: there is no hope for me, I cannot bake. Ever. I am disgrace to my Italian heritage. If I told my mother that I use Pillsbury pie crusts, it'll be like when I once admitted to her that I'd used pasta sauce out of a jar:

"I didn't *raise you like that*!"

That's really what she said. :0 I *can* at least make tomato sauce, sometimes I'm just too lazy to. ;-) I can also make a pretty decent Italian wedding soup. But see, that isn't *baking*. Baking is kryptonite for me.

And so I fretted over cupcakes here, or cookies there, until Mike suggested that we make brownies:

"I am terrible at making brownies."

"Are you sure? We'll just use a boxed mix."

"Yes, even the boxed mixes. I'm awful at making brownies from them. The edges are always overdone and the middle undercooked."

*Mike looks dubious*

"I've made them and they turn out fine."

"Are you volunteering?"

*Tiffany turns on the charming, winning smile*

This works, only because he is my husband.

"Sure. If you can pick up the mix on your way home from work tomorrow, I'll make them Thursday night before play rehearsal."

"Deal."

Isn't he wonderful? And indeed, on Thursday I came home and walked into a kitchen that smelled like chocolate.

"HONEY! You made the brownies!!"

"Of course, I said I would."

Mike is looking super pleased with himself, hoping for Husbandly Extra Credit Points for taking care of something that was causing me so much stress. His effort was indeed noted and rewarded. :-)

"How many brownies did the 2 boxes of mix yield?"

This is another problem that I have with brownies. So many of them turn out like ca-ca that I end up with far too few that are actually edible. And when I try to cut them into neat little squares?

*shudder*

"I'm not sure. I had to put some of them into a round pan. But there are 2 pans worth. I think they turned out well."

"Well, they certainly smell good. Thank you darling!"

It was a real love fest. Between Mike and I (this love affair persists, despite the part of the story I'm about to get to ;-)) and between Mike, I and the brownies. We had dinner, and while we were undergoing the kitchen cleanup, I grabbed a knife and spatula and tried to remove the brownies from the pans. Notice use of the words "tried to" in that sentence, dear reader?

I didn't want to say anything, because Mike was so heroic in his efforts to spare me from further baking humiliation, but I was having the same problem with these brownies that I always do with my own homemade brownies: hard on the edges + too crumbly in the middle = a big ole' mess to get out of the pan. Mike came over while I was using the spatula like the end of a hammer attempting to pry out a nail:

"Everything OK over here?"

"Well. I'm having a bit of a hard time getting the brownies out of the pan."

That was an understatement, but no need to elaborate and make him feel bad. He offered to help, and is soon jamming a knife along the sides and underneath each brownie in an effort to extract it.

"The box instructions say to use 'short, sawing motions' to get them out."

"Why do brownies have to be so bossy?!"

I was starting to loathe the brownies; not only these ones, but all their hard-edged, chewy offspring in bad brownie generations to come. I was hankering to bring Mike over to the dark side with me.

"I think they'll be fine. Oh. Oh dear."

I told you, I hate brownies. And now, Mike does too. ;-) We barely managed to salvage 15 brownies to send in for Henry's class. Poor, scarred-for-life Henry, having to bring in malformed brownies on his 10th birthday. I will say that he seemed delighted with the brownies, because, you know, they're BROWNIES. They're made of chocolate. How could there possibly be a problem with that?! Bless that child.

So, he had his school party on Friday, and we had a family party for him with pizza and wings (we're rather known for that around here. ;-) And we know where to get *the best* ones, because we're freakish and take chicken wings far too seriously in WNY) on Saturday, and he seemed thrilled with the company and his gifts. All went well.

It was a big weekend for Henry for another reason as well: it was his community theater debut. :0 This fall, he and Mike both auditioned for a play and were cast. Our township's community theater was putting on Night of the Living Dead, and Mike is playing the newscaster. Henry was cast as a zombie. :0 There were LOTS of kids in the play, and so despite it being more scary themed, it was a very family-friendly production. Anne and I went to see it for the Sunday matinee, and she wasn't scared at all. We had told her all about what she would be seeing, and how it was all make believe, and she didn't seem fazed in the least. There were at least a dozen other kids in the audience.

And I was *very* impressed! Henry was very in-character, his facial expressions and body movements showing that he was focused on the direction he had received during the rehearsal period. We were super proud of him! He had one of the more prominent zombie roles. *beams* And Mike was adorable as the newscaster:

"Look! It's Da Da!"

Anne was very excited to spot him. :-) My husband has a *very* nice voice, he receives compliments on it all the time. He's a natural for a newscaster role. And can I say how appealing it is to see him all in actor mode up on stage? In fact...well, I'll digress. Let's just say that his Cute Husband Points are through the roof this weekend. ;-)

So, a BIG weekend for Henry! I can't believe I have a child whose age is now in the double digits. This is how it happens, isn't it, with this nefarious aging thing? Next thing you know, Henry will be 50, I'll be 80, and it'll feel like only 15 minutes have elapsed.

*glares*

But I'll probably still be belly dancing, so long as I'm not using a walker or anything, so prepare yourself for those future posts now! :0

How was YOUR weekend, dear reader? Thanksgiving prep underway? Holiday crafting? Write in with all the details. :)

Of dancing in itty bitty spaces & hauntings while drinking a vodka tonic, a lovely autumn weekend...

My very favorite tree in autumn, 2015 edition...

Hello all! The fact that I can be this perky while in the midst of a day that I can only characterize as crappy is a testament to the power of this community. :0 Today is JAMMED with tasky things, none of which are pleasant, but hey, life is good, right?! Right. My worry strategy game plan is still carrying over from two weeks ago. I'm telling you, it works! One thing at a time. Things are going to ease a bit as the week wears on, and especially after this work week is completed.

The weekend, though, was perfectly delightful. We had dancing, scary movie watching, Mass attending, and baking with my bunnies. Bliss. So, let's get started, yes? Grab your tea or coffee and settle in.

Saturday dawned as another dancing day, this time with my troupe. After the anxiety last weekend's performance brought, it was a happy relief to be headed off to dance with my girls. Our gig was at a benefit dinner for a local anti-domestic violence initiative. Well, I should clarify that that's what we *thought* the gig was for. It was actually for the same organization, but for an after party following the benefit dinner. So, instead of performing in some large banquet room, we discovered upon our arrival, that we would be dancing in someone's living room. And there are 7 of us. :0

We had a bit of an ominous feeling when we drove up, right from the outset. We had all piled out, hot pink coverups all aglow, and were frowning at the nearby structures trying to figure out where to go, when we heard a squeal:

"Oh look. It's THE BELLY DANCERS!"

Yep. That's us.

"You guys look AMAZING! Can I take your photo?!"

If she liked our coverups that much, I had high hopes for her opinion of our actual costumes, but the fact remained that an odd vibe was permeating our evening. After taking our picture, our enthusiastic new fan guided us into the party. Or rather, "party." :0

We get inside. Five people are standing around a small table with chips and Halloween candy set atop it in bowls. Importantly, the people were all SUPER nice. Wonderful audience, truly. But, you know. There were *5* of them. WE outnumbered them!

We stuffed ourselves into a corner and had a quick belly dancer meeting:

"All right, we're scrapping the veil. There's no way that there is enough room."

I should clarify at this juncture that our dance space was, literally, a living room. With furniture and a fireplace and stuff in it. :0

"We'll do the Shaabi. Then Habibi ya Eini and the drum solo. Just squish yourselves in as best you can. Maybe modify your arms like we have to do with our wings a lot."

Translation: you will inadvertently hit each other, hopefully not resulting in loss of an eye. But everyone just pretend that nothing has happened and we never speak of it again. Nothing to see here. Next!

As we were talking, a little boy kept rolling a giant stuffed ottoman through our hallway meeting space, adding to the surreal nature of the moment. He kept calling us "princesses" though, and thus was given a gold star. :)

We quickly got ourselves ready, anxious to get this one over with. And so this was the first performance in which I:

(a) was nearly tripped by a troupemate,

(b) had to dance right up next to an audience member for lack of anywhere else to go, and

(c) was backed directly into a folding table.

Oh, and during the drum we nearly caused a vase to vibrate off of the fireplace mantle and onto the floor. But we made it! After we were done dancing, we packed up our stuff in record time and high tailed it out of there. Right into the pouring rain. But we were in good spirits. It's always an adventure, that is for certain.

After I got back home and got Anne in bed, Mike, Henry and I watched The Haunting, which we had recorded from TCM. Every October, we watch as many scary movies as we possibly can. Some (where appropriate) with Henry, though mostly by ourselves. We really enjoy this tradition each year, complete with complimentary cocktails depending upon the movie. The Haunting just seemed like a free-for-all, so I prepared a vodka tonic with flavored vodka, because why not? And can I just say that if you want to make your house look super duper, extra scary and creepy, design it with lots of turrets and gargoyles in every corner. This will guarantee that, for all of time, people will think that your house is haunted. ;-)

Sunday morning brought our usual 10 am Mass, this time incorporating in a 50th wedding anniversary celebration of our favorite usher and his wife, so sweet! No Children's Liturgy of the Word for some reason, but thankfully Anne seemed pretty content to stay in the pew with us. She was sleepy and kept laying on me, so that helped with behavior management. ;-) After we got back home and finished lunch, she and I embarked on a baking expedition:

My cute little helper...

Our goal? Chocolate cupcakes with fixins' on top to make them look like flying bats. I got the idea from a cooking magazine, because goodness knows I never would have been able to come up with this idea by myself. :0 The cupcake mix was out of a box, so it's not like I can screw that up. Very easily. Mind you, I HAVE done that in the past. There are red velvet incidents of which we will not speak. But *usually* I do fine with baking mixes. So we whipped those up while Mike pre-prepared our dinner of sausage lasagna. Isn't he wonderful?

After the cupcakes cooled, we frosted them and added the bat decor. Ta DA!

Do you see the bats? Kinda?

See, in the magazine they have eyes. But eyes involved icing piping, and Tiffany just doesn't roll like that. :0 Give me a pastry bag and be prepared to be scrubbing icing off of the floor and the upholstery approximately 30 minutes hence. So we forewent the eyes. But they have Hershey Kiss bodies and halved stripe cookies for their wings. See how they're kind of flapping? Kinda sorta?

Anne was thrilled with them, and I was rather proud of them myself. ;-) So it all worked out well.

How was your weekend, dear reader? Do you have any favorite Halloween baking recipes? Do tell!

Adventures with butter on the Feast of St. Joseph...

Good day to you all, and happy feast of St. Joseph! This feast day is very popular here in WNY, likely because of the strong Italian ancestry in this area. I always see advertisements for traditional St. Joseph's Tables beginning in early March, and this year was no exception. In fact, Henry's class (well, the 4th and 5th grade classes combined) are hosting a St. Joseph's Table and we received a note last week about sending items in for it if we would like.

I like!

So, a St. Joseph's Table involves a buffet of food that tradition holds we offer to the less fortunate. There are traditional dishes and decorations, but the way that we honor this feast today is simply to have a large buffet of food in celebration of St. Joseph's feast. Henry's class was in need of fruit, cheese, crackers, desserts, paper plates, napkins, and statuary for the altar. I noted that I would send in chocolate chip cookies, and Henry excitedly gathered his statues of St. Michael, St. Patrick, and St. George to bring in.

Now, chocolate chip cookies. I should bake them, right? But you all know what my baking skills are like. Unfortunately, my half Italian heritage has not translated to anything remotely resembling otherworldly baking skills. Every time my very Italian grandmother brings her infamous chocolate ball cookies to Christmas Eve dinner I eye them enviously before consuming a half dozen of them. But at any rate, I'm a decent cook, but baker? Not so much. I'm not too proud to buy store-bought baked goods (and everyone in my family breathes a collective sigh of relief) but I refuse to do that before I even TRY. See, I *wait* for the smoking cupcakes to come out of the oven before heading to Wegman's. So here we have Baking Attempt #367:

"Does this butter look '*just* colder than room temperature'? Maybe I should try putting my thumb print on it to test it like Betty Crocker says."

*Mike eyes me uneasily*

"I don't think we need to touch the butter. It's been sitting out for a short bit, I think it looks fine."

"Ok. Would you cream it while I mix up the dry ingredients?"

"What does it mean to cream it?"

"I have no idea, I was hoping you knew."

:0

This is what we're dealing with here, people. Our Italian mothers would disown us if they overhead this conversation.

I will say that the cookies turned out pretty well. I mixed and creamed everything per instructions, and even chilled the batter before putting it on the cookie sheets per a tip in the recipe. I made the cookies small since I wanted the batter to go as far as possible given the number of kids, and I took them out of the oven a hair *before* my instinct, meaning they didn't burn.

#winning

The kids (and Mike ;-))were bummed that I didn't let them eat any of them last night, since I wanted to send as many in to school as possible. But I had them all tucked into a Ziploc container and ready to go this morning, all perfect-like. I'm looking forward to hearing how everything goes. I received an email from Henry's teacher thanking those that sent in food and noting how excited the kids were. I'm excited too. :)

Also, the NCAA Tournament begins today! I studiously have my bracket completed, though I'm sure I'll lose, like usual. :0 Regardless, I will say that it is very fun to have a bracket and root for specific teams. Go Bulls!

How are you all spending the feast of St. Joseph?

A sword wielding kind of night

So, my big hafla this past Saturday. It went well. :) I was nervous because I had many more people than usual attending to see me dance, and you know, you really don't want to screw up and make a fool of yourself. I like to keep those humility-inducing occasions to an absolute minimum.

The day started off fairly hectic with a trip to see the twins (so cute! I would *still* be kissing their faces if they were here) and then an attempt to straighten the house and bake red velvet cupcakes for Anne's birthday party the following day. Well.

I shouldn't be allowed to bake, let me tell you. Cooking I'm good at, but baking? Even making something out of a box appears to be just too much for me to handle. As evidenced by my work product every.single.time. I mean, *every* time! What is it with me? Do I not have the baking gene? I don't know, but it ain't pretty.

I read the box carefully (snort!). I painstakingly measure out one and a quarter cups of water. Next comes the vegetable oil. My brain tells me that the box just said to add one and a third cups of oil. "Gee, that sounds like an awful lot of vegetable oil," I say to myself as I fill up a measuring cup and dump it in.

People, let this be a lesson to you; learn from my baking mistakes so that you too do not have to suffer from bad cupcakes:

WHEN YOU HEAR THAT LITTLE VOICE OF DOUBT IN THE BACK OF YOUR MIND, LISTEN TO IT.

Did Tiffany listen to the voice? SHE DID NOT. The instant the oil hit the mix I knew something was wrong. I carefully pick the box back up and examine it. It did NOT say to add one and a third cups of oil. It said to add *one third of a cup*.

Yeah, that's a big difference.

I had only put in one cup at that point but seriously gentle reader, THAT'S STILL A LOT OF OIL.

I panic. In a lucid interval, I realize that the oil has not absorbed into the mix, so I can dump some of it out. Said dumping is undertaken. I eliminate much of the oil, but I don't get all of it, and the mix does need *some* oil, so I leave the rest. I'm feeling anxious about continuing on, but going to the store to get another mix is just not a possibility given the schedule I have for Saturday. Mike is on a Cub Scouts hike with Hank, and poor Anne has been abandoned in front of the t.v. watching Dora so that I can bake and hear myself think at the same time. After my baking attempt, I have tons of dance preparation to do and I just don't need this complication.

In a frenzied call to my sister, she suggests scraping the mix and making the cake from scratch. It's not a bad suggestion, but I know I'm not up to the task. If the mix fails Plan B is to go to the bakery and buy a cake. I continue on with the mix and pray for the best.

As I talk to Shauna'h, I try to spoon the mix into the cupcake wraps. Right, it was runny. Far too runny to be normal. I contemplate crying, but instead do the mature thing and just messily continuing spooning the mix in while swearing at it. I stick the cupcakes into the oven.

They puff up quickly. That seemed abnormal but then again I was really feeling paranoid by that point. As they finish I really thought I was going to have to run to the bakery, but an inserted toothpick comes out clean, much to my shock. I let them cool and notice that they are all greasy on  their little cake cup bottoms.

Much sighing commences. I'll preview for you the birthday party post which will appear tomorrow by saying that they were deemed safe to consume, but frosting them resulted in pulled up cupcake bits everywhere and just an overall odd look about them. My next text to my sister:

"Your mission, should you choose to accept it: get everybody drunk so that they don't notice the cupcakes. Go!"

Ok, so back to dancing. I was nervous. I packed up 3 costumes, all my assorted dance junk, practiced all my numbers, and told myself that I was excited and ready to dance like I may never belly dance again. I'm not making that up, I *really* told myself that. Out loud. In the car on the way to the studio. Yes, I was talking to myself. Desperate times call for desperate measures.  I was already shaky enough from the cupcake debacle.

I arrive, drop off some hummus at the potluck table, and suit up. I'm nervous. Really nervous. We had a group number first, in the new gold costumes. It went fine, but my veil got caught on my top and resulted in a yank followed by a rhinestone rocketing off my chest at an alarming speed and into the audience. Oh, and I couldn't get my veil tied around my hips at the requisite moment, but I'm happy to report that I did not panic. I refolded and reapproached and it did tie nanoseconds before I had to turn around. Then when I had to *untie* it for the dramatic finale it gave me a hard time coming untied. Have I mentioned that I frequently hate my veil? He and I do not get along as well as Sword and I do.

Anyway, dramatic finale. The audience was kind of quiet, that happens a lot when we dance with canes. Perhaps people are scared. :) Other group numbers followed, and then our group had another piece. That one went really well aside from a bad traffic pattern at the very beginning. Then it was time for the solos.

Oh sigh.

I'm always nervous when I solo, but I was especially nervous on Saturday because of The Sword Factor. And when I get nervous, my palms get sweaty and I get a little shaky. I think we can all agree that:

Sweat + Shaky = Not a Good Combination When You're Going to Wield and Try to Belly Dance with a Sword Balanced on Your Head.

I'll spare you the nausea-inducing lead up details. Suffice it to say I was feeling uneasy. But I had prepared, what more could I do?

Claire placed my sword. I was introduced. My music started. I strut out.

The beginning was really good. I had a little sword lead up process that worked really well. When I picked the sword up, I balanced it on my arm to carry it up to the audience.

Really hard to see, but that's what I was doing. :) Mike, my photographer, was sitting toward the back.

I balanced it on my hand a bit, and generally swirled it around while I danced prior to balancing it on my head. Then the big moment arrived.

I lifted it to my head. Everybody is staring at me. This is the moment that I remember from the restaurant that made my heart stop, but this time I was prepared for it. I placed the sword and I *knew* that I was going to feel that it was unsteady. I gave it one more nudge to "screw it in" for good measure and took my hands off of it. It stayed on.

:)

I knew that would happen, but it's still quite nerve wracking, as you can imagine. People applauded, which made me happy. I danced, and I knew that I was nervous, and you know, I was dancing with a sword on my head, so it's not like I could go crazy. I traveled a little, dipped down (one of my favorite sword tricks) and generally tried to call to mind movements that fit with the music. It went well. I spun at the end, which earned me more happy applause. I didn't spin at the restaurant because I was just too nervous, so I felt really good to have gotten back on that horse.

Soon enough, the music ended and I struck my final pose. I always feel like my practicing goes better than my performing because my performance nerves diminish my dance ability a bit. But every time I perform that gets better and better. And I felt good about the performance. It was definitely worlds better than my sword dance at the restaurant, and I got lots of very nice compliments from the audience after the show. They loved Sword as much as I do. I even had someone ask if they could take a picture of me with it.

I felt glowy and happy. :)