AmazonMidwife

(Abby, I couldn't wait until Friday to post this.)

I was hunting through the fridge trying to turn leftovers into a hot lunch and decided to take the leftover mashed potatoes and make potato pancakes. (How hard could it be? The latkes I made for our Hanukkah celebration were the bomb!) So I heated up some olive oil in a pan, and threw a couple of spoons of potatoes in. It was only when I tried to turn the 'pancakes' over that I realized I needed a binding agent and remembered that the latkes had eggs in then. Working on the principle of 'better late than never' (and knowing that the result was not going to be pretty) I stirred up some eggs and poured them directly into the skillet, figuring I could make some kind of hash looking thing. Meanwhile, the Boy followed his nose, looking leerily at the pan. The conversation went something like this:

Boy: Ugh! What's that? I don't think I'll like it.
Me: (stirring in some garlic and salt) It's made from the leftover mashed potatoes. It's like latkes. You'll love it.
Boy: Well, it doesn't look like latkes.
Me: Well, this is a different recipe. It's (grasping wildly at straws).... a British version. Yeah, it's like egg & chips!
Boy: Okay. But do I have to eat the vegetables? (I was warming up some roasted veggies as well...in a separate pan...I'm not that bad a cook!)
Me: Only if you want a cookie for dessert. Otherwise it's fruit.
Girl: (coming in) What is THAT!?
Boy: It's the English version of latkes. Egg & chips, mom says, but not like potato chips. She used the leftover mashed potatoes.
Girl: Oh! Okay!

They're eating it with gusto as I type. I am darning myself to heck for a week for blaming this mess on the British, but otherwise remain unrepentant.

I passed my boards! (and now I'm gonna drink some more champagne!)

...and it's going to be a couple of more months before I post any more entries (unless something strongly compels me). I'm in the process of studying for my national boards ('national' since this state doesn't recognize them yet) which I'll be taking at the end of Oct. But on the bright side, I'll be testing in Monterey, so when I DO post again, there should be great pictures!

I surfed over to Sundays With Stretchy Pants today to read her latest blog entry and was in the middle of leaving a smart-assed remark (my specialty) when the marvelous phrase in the title came tumbling out of my fingertips. Eureka! It seemed to illustrate some ideas that I've been mulling over (we ENFPs and our internal processing; there's all sorts of things percolating in the dark recesses of my subconscious.) I promptly called dibs on it, and hereby lay claim to all rights and privileges thereof. As my friends at The Stranger say, "the internet is a race" and this time I won, 'cause there was no such phrase on Google. (I just checked.) You may use the phrase as long as you credit/link me. (My internal language police made me change the spelling here to reflect a Spanish adverb, but what's an 'L' between friends?)

But I digress. So, the following wasn't supposed to be part of the original vida intelectual, but a few exchanges I just had with the Boy illustrated the concept, and more importantly overcame my writer's inertia. So, I'll save the redux for another time when I have time AND can overcome inertia (aka a blue moon). There's a lengthy set-up, because that's how I write. If you want brevity, go find a paid journalist.

So the Boy is writing some sentences due to an incident last night. Perhaps the sentences themselves will be the best descriptor:

"Spitting at someone is a nasty, gross & violent thing to do. It could cause someone to do something violent and hurtful to me."

I'm sitting here crying happy tears because I just found the opening words for the Girl's long-planned-in-my-mind menarche ceremony.

Now to hope that when the time comes, the Girl will still want one. Right now, the not totally fleshed out event is going to be a weekend-long sleep-over for those that want to, and drop-in for those that don't, with henna, and lots of talking, and communal meals, and lots of laughing, and chocolate, and lots of dancing. She'll invite the women (& girls) whose wisdom she wants to hear, but I am allowed to make suggestions. So far, as long as I come through with the chocolate fountain, she's interested. But, if she decides that she doesn't want this kind of event, at least I can give her this book.

I could wax rhapsodic about this, but we're getting ready to go to the zoo & the Girl is waiting as patiently as she can.